IT is the morning that immediately precedes Sir Richard's fete-day, and all at the Abbey are as busy as a hive of bees. Mrs Welsh is engaged in incessant warfare with a “professed cook” of the male sex, who has been imported from town with an army of myrmidons clad in white aprons and head-pieces; and Mr Roberts carries the key of the cellar about his person as religiously as though it were an amulet, exceedingly regretting that the person who has undertaken to purvey the cold collation to the tenantry does not also furnish the wine. For three shillings or three shillings and sixpence the bottle, he argues, as good a sherry as they have any right to taste might be set before Farmer Beeves and that sort and yet we are about to give them the old “West India,” as stood old Sir Robert sixty shillings a dozen a quarter of a century ago; nay, even four dozen of cobweb-bed port, the age of which is absolutely unknown, have been set aside for the after-dinner tickling of those rough palates, which would as lief or liever (thinks Mr Roberts) have gin and whisky-punch. The gentle folks, to be sure, dine with them, but you never catchthem(Mr E. has observed) doing much in the way of drink at a three o'clock dinner in a marquee. There is to be dancing in the said tent, which has been boarded for that purpose, later in the evening; and a ball will take place at the Abbey likewise, to which all the “county” has been invited, and perhaps a little more.
It was a difficult matter even for Sir Richard, who had a specialty for such solemn follies, to decide exactly what were “county families” and what were not, and where the imaginary line that divided the ball-room from the marquee was to be laid down. The social difference between the person of the least importance that had theentréeof the former, and the person of the greatest importance who was consigned to the latter was, of course, infinitesimally small, and the decision involved all the difficulties with which the theologians afflict themselves concerning the future position of the indifferently Good and the tolerably Bad.
What had Mr Jones, M.E.C.S. of Dalwynch, done that he should be admitted into Paradise, while the crystal bar was obstinately interposed against the entrance of Mr Jones, M.B.C.S., from the capital of Wheatshire? Nothing of himself, was the baronet's stern decree; but it could be proved beyond cavil that the former was remotely related to the Davey Joneses of Locker Hall, a family of immense antiquity, and distinguished in our naval annals; whereas the latter had no higher connection to boast of than Thomas Jones, J.P. of Allworthy Court (himself only admitted to the higher sphere by reason of a fortunate marriage), and was therefore, as it were, predestined to sit below the salt.
There were, however, some exceptions even to this Draconian system. Dr Haldane, for instance, was importuned with an earnestness that Sir Richard would never have used to any peer of the realm, to honour this occasion with his presence, and break through his stubborn resolve not to set foot within Mirk Abbey; but the old man, although greatly moved, declined the invitation. Madame de Castellan, too, notwithstanding she was such a new-comer to the county, was called upon at Belcomb by Sir Richard in person, and though she was not well enough to see him, expressed herself by letter as hugely gratified by the object of his visit; albeit at the same time she gave him to understand that all festivities were just now distasteful to her, and indeed that she had not the strength for them. “As for his Coming of Age,” added the old Frenchwoman, “she was not at all sure that such an event was a subject of congratulation, though, if it had been his marriage-day, then indeed she might have come, if it were only to make his young bride jealous.” Besides these two refusals, there were scarcely any. The popularity of the Lisgard family, and the gorgeous scale of the promised entertainment—the engagement of the Coldstream band was ascertained beyond a doubt, and there was a whisper afloat concerning fireworks, and even that the ornamental water was to be illuminated—combined to attract not only everybody who was anybody, but a still vaster throng of nobodies at all. Every inhabitant of Mirk, from the grandparents to the babes in arms, for instance, were invited to take their fill of beef and beer, if their digestion permitted of it, and if not, there was plenty of rich plum-pudding; for besides the marquee, half the Park had been put under canvas, in order to make the festivities as much as possible independent of the weather, and presented the appearance of a miniature camp, which would be still more the case upon the morrow, when the scene was enlivened by the uniforms of the “Lisgard's Own,” as some of the “yellows” had wickedly christened the Mirk Volunteer Corps.
Altogether, there was every reason for Sir Richard's being in the best of spirits. Master Walter, too, secretly conscious of having been a much worse boy than he was known to be, and feeling that he had met better luck, if not than he deserved, certainly than he could reasonably have expected, was in high feather; he was deeply grateful to his mother that she had abstained from reproaching him with the contents of the letter written by Mr Abrahams, the settlement of whose claim she had taken upon herself; and he well knew that the most welcome way in which he could shew his gratitude would be taking part with a good grace in his brother's triumphal entrance upon his twenty-first birthday. Rose, who had obtained her ends, as well as full substantial forgiveness (which was all she cared for) for the means employed, and foresaw the prostration of half the young men of the county at her pretty feet upon the morrow, was in excellent humour with herself, and therefore with the world. As for Letty, it is unnecessary to say more than that she felt a measureless content in the society of Mr Arthur Haldane, who passed all his days just now up at the Abbey, having placed his valuable services entirely at the disposal of Lady Lisgard, and generally found his duties led him into the vicinity of her Ladyship's daughter. His taste for table decoration and floral devices, though newly developed, was really, Letty affirmed, of a very high order, and as she was perpetually appealing to it, there can be no doubt that she believed what she said. All at Mirk Abbey, in short, were, or seemed to be, in a state of pleasurable excitement and joyous expectation, save its unhappy mistress. In vain, Sir Richard tried to persuade himself that she was only suffering from a feeling of responsibility—apprehensive lest anything should go wrong in the arrangements of the all-important morrow; in vain, Master Walter endeavoured to pacify his own mind with the thought, that although a part of his mother's anxieties might have been caused by his own misdoings, all trace of them would disappear so soon as she should discover that his intention of divorcing himself from the turf, as well as all other kinds of gambling, was as sincere as it really was. Letty did not attempt to gloss over the fact, that her mother looked both ill and wretched, but rather reproached herself that though this was the case she could not help feeling happy in the company of her lover. Perhaps it was the contrast to the festive air worn by all around her that made my Lady's face look so pinched and woeful; but certainly, as the fête-day approached, her cheeks grew more and more pallid, and her eyes sank in deepening hollows.
On the morning in question, the postbag, through some delay on the railway, did not arrive until the family were at breakfast; my Lady, with her scarcely touched dry-toast before her, watched Sir Richard open it, and distribute the contents with an anxiety she could not conceal.
“There is nothing for you, dearest mother,” said he, in answer to her inquiring looks.
“Who, then, is that for?” returned she, pointing to an unappropriated letter he had placed at his left hand.
“Only a note for Forest, which I daresay will keep till we have left the table,” said he smiling; “although, if you had your way, I know she would be attended to before everybody. It has the Coveton post-mark, and doubtless comes from old Jacob.”
“Who is ill,” said my Lady rising. “I do not see why Mary's correspondence should be delayed more than that of any one else. I have finished my breakfast, and will take it to her at once.”
When she had left the room, Sir Richard remarked with asperity, that his mother's kindness really rendered her a slave to “that woman Forest.”
“That is so,” assented Master Walter; “and I have of late observed that her spirits are always at the lowest when she has been having a confab with Mary. Is it possible, I wonder, that being balked of that fellow Derrick, Mistress Forest can have taken up with any new-fangled religious notions—I have heard of old maids doing such things—which are making her miserable, and my mother too?”
“For shame, Walter!” cried Letty. “Do you suppose mamma is capable of any such folly?”
“I don't believe for a moment that she is a victim to any delusion herself,” explained Walter; “but she sympathises with everybody she has a liking for, and the society of any such morbid person would be very bad for her. Between ourselves, I don't think that Madame de Castellan coming here has done her any good. That's a precious queer old woman, you may depend upon it. Not only did she decline to permit old Rachel and her husband to continue to sleep at Belcomb, which, considering its loneliness, one would have thought she would have been glad to do, instead of their occupying the lodge a quarter of a mile away; but it is said that she absolutely dismissed her French maid the day after her arrival, and therefore lives entirely alone!”
“No wonder, then, she was so uncommonly anxious to get Mary,” observed the baronet; “and I am sure I wish she may, for my mother's sake. I have no doubt they are now both closeted together over that old dotard's letter from Coveton. As if there was not enough for my poor dear mother to do and think of just now, without bothering herself with her waiting-maid's father's rheumatism.”
Sir Richard was right: my Lady and her confidential servant were at that very moment in the boudoir perusing with locked doors old Jacob's letter. From it Lady Lisgard gathered what had happened at Coveton as certainly as though the writer had been aware of it all, and written expressly to inform his daughter.
“He has found it out,” said she with a ghastly look. “He had that fit, as your father calls it, at the moment when he learned for the first time that the girl who came ashore alive and myself are one and the same. Poor Ralph, poor Ralph!”
“Dearest Mistress, I think it is Poor You who are most to be pitied. Great Heaven, he will be here to-night, or to-morrow at latest! To-morrow—in the midst of all the merry-making about Sir Richard.”
“Yes, Sir Richard!” exclaimed my Lady bitterly. “The poor bastard that thinks he is a baronet! But let him come, let him come, I say.” My Lady rose from her seat with clenched fingers and flashing eyes. “I will defend my children with my life—nay, more, with my honour. If I perjure myself to save them from shame and ruin, will not God pardon me? Who is there to witness against them save this man alone? And is not my word—my oath—as good as his?” She stepped to the little bookcase that ran round the room; and from the corner of it, half-hidden by the framework, took down a dusty volume—one of a long series, but the remainder of which were in the library. It was theAnnual Registerfor the year 1832. Under the head of “Shipping Intelligence,” where the tersest but most pregnant of all summaries is always to be found—the deaths of hundreds of poor souls, the misery of thousands of survivors, and the sudden extinction of a myriad human hopes, all recorded in a single sentence—was written: “In the storm of the 14th September, the emigrant vessel,North Star, foundered off the South Headland with all hands on board—supposed to have sprung a leak.” Then a few weeks later, the following paragraph: “From theNorth Star, emigrant ship, supposed to have been lost on the night of the 14th of last month, with all hands on board, there came on shore at Coveton, lashed to a spar, a solitary survivor, a young woman. Although much exhausted and bruised, she had received no vital injury, and her recovery is said to be assured. Her case excites much interest in the locality in question.”
The “solitary survivor!” continued my Lady thoughtfully. “Who is there to gainsay it, save this man?”
“Your own heart, dearest mistress,” answered the waiting-maid solemnly. “That would not permit you to deny him, even if your conscience would. Could you meet him to-morrow face to face”——
“No, no,” exclaimed my Lady shuddering; “I never could. I was mad to think of such a thing—so mad, that I trust the wickedness of the thought may be forgiven.—I am to drive into Dalwynch this afternoon about—what was it, Mary?”
“About your watch, which ought to have come home last evening, my Lady.”
“Yes, my watch. There is not any time to lose.”
“Indeed not, dear mistress: not an hour, I should say, if I were in your place. I tremble to look out of window, lest I should see him coming yonder over the Windmill Hill.”
“Yes, fixed as fate, and furious with her who has deceived him. Poor fellow, who can blame him? I can see him now.”
“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed the waiting-maid, fleeing to the window. “Haste, haste away, or there will be murder done!”
“He is not there,” returned my Lady in a low, calm voice, “but I see him all the same. Pallid with scorn, yet bent on avenging himself. Resolved to claim his wife at any hazard, even in spite of herself. It will be terrible that he should be here in any case; but if he found me here, as you say, there might be murder done. Not that I fear for myself, God knows: I am too wretched for that.”
“Oh, my Lady, had you not better start at once?”
“No, Mary; I must go first to Dr Haldane's, since the time has come. But if, in the meantime, this—this unhappy man should arrive, be sure you send the carriage for me at once to the doctor's house. I can escape him that way for certain. Perhaps, then, I may never cross this threshold any more—never clasp my dear ones in my arms and call them mine again—never say: 'My own Walter—Richard—Letty.' How can I bear to think upon it! Don't cry, Mary, for you seeIdo not. You know what to do in case he comes; the carriage to Dr Haldane's instantly: and afterwards—we have settled that long ago.”
“I shall forget nothing, dearest mistress. If I live, all will be done that you have resolved upon.”
“Dear Mary, trusty friend, may Heaven reward you.”
My Lady had her bonnet on by this time, but lifted up her veil to kiss her faithful servant. “If by God's gracious will, somehow or other this misery should after all have no evil end, Mary, how happy we shall be! How we shall talk of this with our arms round one another's necks! There is a friend, says the Scripture, which sticketh closer than a brother; but I have found a servant better even than such a friend. Good-bye, dear; if it should chance to be 'Good-bye.' Don't weep, don't speak. See that my path is clear, that I meet no one——Great Heaven, what is that knocking? Can he be come already?”
“No, dearest, no,” sobbed the poor waiting-maid. “They are putting up the triumphal archway, that is all.”
She left the room to see that there was nobody in the passage, or on the back-stairs, by which her mistress was about to leave the house.
“The triumphal archway,” muttered my Lady with tearless aching eyes. “I would to Heaven they were putting the nails into my coffin instead.”
MY Lady returned to the Abbey at the usual luncheon-hour, and partook of that meal (if sitting at the table can be called so doing) with the rest of the party; while Mary Forest kept watch at the boudoir window, with her mistress's opera-glasses in her hand, scanning the Windmill Hill.
There was no likelihood of Derrick's coming for hours yet, since he had not arrived already by the same train that had brought old Jacob's letter; but there was just a possibility of this. However, he did not come. The unfrequented road, which on the morrow would be thronged with the vehicles of Sir Richard's guests, had not a single passenger. It was one of the two ways we have spoken of leading to Dalwynch, and the shorter in point of distance, although not of time, because of the winding hill; but Derrick, coming from the direction of Coveton (not by the Dalwynch line, but another railway), could approach Mirk by no other route.
Immediately after luncheon, the carriage drew up at the door.
“I will not offer to go with you, dearest mother,” said Letty, “because there is so much to do at home, and the more because you will be absent yourself. But you will come back as soon as you can—there's a darling!—won't you? Nothing goes on as it should at the Abbey without you.”
“Yes, dear Letty! I will come back as soon as I can.”
My Lady cast a wistful look at her three children. She would have given a thousand pounds to have thrown her arms around their necks, and wept her fill; but such an indulgence might have cost them and her far more than that, or anything which money could estimate. What if her strength should fail her—if she should “break down,” as the saying is, at this supremest moment? She could only trust herself to nod and smile.
The whole party went out to the front door to see her off. The two young ladies standing on the hall steps with their arms round one another's waists (although I much doubt if they had grown to be the friends that they once were); Master Walter kissing his white hand to her with all the grace and fondness of a lover; Sir Richard handing her into the carriage with stately but affectionate courtesy. “The lower road—to Lever's the watchmaker's in High Street,” said he to the coachman, “and don't spare the horses.” Then, as the carriage drove away, he observed to the others: “What a strange freak it is of mamma to be going to Dalwynch at such a time as this about her watch. However, she ought to be back by five o'clock at latest.”
The carriage did return even before that hour; but it did not contain my Lady. It only brought back a letter from her, which the footman was instructed to place at once in the hands of her elder son. The man, however, had some difficulty in finding Sir Richard, who was superintending some finishing-touches that were being given to the interior of the marquee—the arrangement of certain flags over the place he was to occupy on the morrow. Sir Richard tore open the note, fearing he knew not what; then uttered a tremendous oath. His people stared, for unlike some “young masters,” the baronet scarcely ever misbehaved himself in that way. “Where did you leave my Lady, sirrah?” inquired he roughly of the footman.
“At the railway station, Sir Richard. Her Ladyship took the train for town.”
“Where is Miss Letty? Walter—Walter,” cried the baronet, “come here.”
“Hollo, what is it?” answered the captain, a little sulkily, for he was engaged in setting up an emblem composed of various weapons of war at the other end of the marquée; and pretty Polly, the gatekeeper's daughter, was handing him up certain highly-polished swords, and he was playfully accusing her of using them in transit as mirrors. “You haven't found out a mistake in the almanac, and that you came of age the day before yesterday, have you?”
“Worse than that,” returned poor Sir Richard simply. “Read that, man. What, in Heaven's name, are we to do now?”
“Let us go in and see Letty,” said Walter gravely, after he had read the note. “Perhaps she knows something about it; and if not, you may take your oath that Mary Forest does.”
“Doyou, Walter? Don't trifle with me,” said the baronet earnestly; “if any business respecting yourself has taken my mother away, I conjure you to tell me all.”
“No, Richard. I give you my word that I know of no reason for this extraordinary conduct. It is true that that letter from Moss Abrahams gave her some annoyance, but that matter was settled long ago. I am as surprised and dumbfounded as yourself.”
“Dearest Richard!”—here he again perused my Lady's note—“urgent necessity compels me to leave home for a time. You will have the explanation on the 15th. That there may be many, many happy returns of to-morrow to you, dear boy, is the heartfelt prayer of your loving Mother.”—“How extraordinarily strange! Whenisthe 15th? Let's see.”
“The day after to-morrow,” rejoined Sir Richard gloomily. “What will tomorrow be without our mother? Good Heaven, how dreadful is all this! Is it possible, think you, to put the people off?”
“Utterly out of the question, Richard; we should require five hundred messengers.”
They were walking on the lawn, and had now arrived at one of the open windows of the great ball-room, a splendid apartment, although the highly-decorated pink ceiling had been likened by a pert young architect (who wanted to persuade the baronet to let him pull down the Abbey, and build another one) to the ornaments on a twelfth-cake. Mrs Walter, Letty, and Arthur Haldane were all very busy here, but the last two not so entirely occupied with the work in hand as to be unaware of one another's presence. At another time, Sir Richard would have been annoyed at seeing them so close together, and obviously so well pleased with the propinquity, but now he was really glad to meet with the young barrister, for whose judgment he had a great respect.
“Letty—Arthur,” cried he, “read this. Do either of you know, can either of you guess, what on earth it means?”
“Mamma not to be here to-morrow!” ejaculated the former, when she had read the note. “I can scarcely believe my eyes.” But at the same time there came into her mind that vague but saddening talk which her mother had held with her but lately, when my Lady had said her malady was not one the doctors could cure. Arthur read the note twice over, not so much to master its contents, perhaps, as to frame his own reply to what had been asked of him.
“I certainly do not know,” said he, “what can have taken your dear mother at such a time as this. We may be sure, however, it is no mere freak of fancy, but that it is done for what she believes to be your good.”
“Ourgood!” broke forth Sir Richard impatiently. “How can it be for good that I should be placed to-morrow in a position the most embarrassing that can be conceived? What am I to say when people ask me 'Where is your mother?' Imagine what they will think of her absence on such an occasion, the most important”——
“Let us rather imagine, Richard,” interrupted Letty, laying her hand upon his arm, “what our dear mother must be suffering at this moment. As Arthur says, it can be no trivial matter that takes her thus suddenly away from us; and although she may have over-estimated its urgency, we may be sure that it is her anxiety for others—that is, for us—which has caused her to do so. Mamma is incapable of a selfish action.”
“I am not speaking for myself alone, Letty,” returned the baronet hotly.
“I did not accuse you of doing so, Richard. What I mean is this, that however much you may feel this misfortune, mamma has to bear the burden of its cause—whatever that may be—alone. She is thinking at this moment of the alarm and sorrow she has excited here, and we maybe sure is feeling for us at least as much as we feel for ourselves; and in addition to that, she has this trouble to bear, at even the nature of which we cannot guess.”
Sir Richard frowned, and did not reply; but Arthur unobserved stole Letty's hand, and pressed it, in token of his loving approval. “And who is the person who is to give us the explanation on the 15th, think you?” said Walter. “I'll wager—or at least I would do so, if I hadn't given up betting—that Mistress Forest can tell us if she would.”
“Then let us send for her at once,” cried Sir Richard hastily; “anything is better than this suspense.”
When the servant called for this purpose had been despatched: “I do not presume,” said Arthur gravely, “to dictate what is your duty; but if the case were mine, Sir Richard, and my mother had expressly stated that her motives would be explained at a certain date, I should hardly like to extract them beforehand from her confidential servant. Forgive me, for I know I am addressing one who is himself a man of the most scrupulous honour.”
The baronet bit his lip. “I don't know, I'm sure, Haldane. It is true, since my mother has gone to town, that nothing we can do can bring her back in time for——But at all events there can be no harm in asking how long she is likely to be away.—Ah, here is Mistress Forest. We want to hear about my Lady, Mary. She has gone to London, it seems, and we are not to know why until the day after to-morrow. Now, we are not going to ask you her reasons.”
“Thank you, Sir Richard,” said Mistress Forest, her puckered eyes looking really grateful.
“But what we do desire is, that you will tell us how long she will be away.”
“I am sure I can't tell, sir; Heaven knows I wish. I could,” answered the waiting-maid fervently. “She sent a big box over to Dalwynch by the carrier yesterday: that's all I know about it.”
“Then she herself is not going to give us the explanation in person, you think?” said the baronet gloomily.
“No, Sir Richard: not in person; at least, I believe not. Somebody else is going to do that for her.”
“And you know who that will be?” returned the young man sternly.
“I think—at least; yes, I know, sir; but it's not me,” added the waiting-maid hastily. “I hope I know my place better than that. But my Lady bade me say nothing about it, and, with all respect, wild horses should not tear it from me.”
Here Mistress Forest, who had always entertained considerable terror of her austere young master, could not forbear casting a beseeching glance towards Arthur Haldane.
“We already know from Mr Haldane's own lips,” observed Sir Richard with emphasis, and looking in the same direction, “that he is not in possession of the secret of my Lady's departure.”
“I certainly said as much,” returned Arthur haughtily; and with that, either because he was really annoyed, or did not wish to be further questioned, he stepped out upon the lawn, and walked away.
“All this is very unsatisfactory, and strange, and bad,” said the baronet, after a considerable pause. “But nothing is to be got, it seems, by asking questions. We must do then the best we can for to-morrow without my mother—you Letty, assisted by Mrs Walter here, must do the honours of the Abbey in her place—and I wish to Heaven,” added he, as he turned upon his heel, “that the day was well over.”
“What a nice agreeable temper Richard has, when anything goes wrong,” observed Walter, twirling his moustaches. “I'm hanged if I don't think it's that which has driven my mother away from home. She naturally enough concludes he will be unbearable when he becomes the master.”
“Fie, fie, Walter!” said Letty. “I think it is much more that she can no longer bear to listen to the cruel things she hears her two sons say of one another. She has spoken to me of it more than once of late with tears in her eyes.”
“Well, Sir Richardhasa bad temper, Letty, there's no doubt about that,” observed Mrs Walter, striking in in defence of her husband.
“Yes; yet there are many things worse than that, Rose, and mamma has been accustomed to Richard all his life; but she has had trouble upon trouble for the last six months,as I am sure you cannot deny, and it is likely in the state of health to which I know she is reduced, that she feels herself totally unequal to the part she would be expected to play to-morrow.”
“I think Mr Haldane knows more of the matter than he chooses to say,” observed Rose, at once carrying the war into the enemy's camp.
“I don't think you quite understand him,” returned Letty, executing the same strategic movement; “anything like duplicity is altogether foreign to his character.”
“He looks simple enough certainly,” remarked Rose quietly. “But I noticed that when Sir Richard asked him whether he knew, or couldguesswhat had taken Lady Lisgard from home, he confined himself to replying that he did not know.”
Letty made no answer, but applied herself with heightened colour to the occupation in which her brothers had interrupted her. Walter smiled sardonically, thinking of certain female savages he had been reading of that morning in some paper in theField, aproposof rifle-grooves, who were expert in propelling poisoned darts from blow-pipes; then catching sight of his handsome face in one of the mirrors with which the ball-room was wainscoted, he nodded, as though he recognised some friend he was constantly in the habit of meeting, yet was always glad to see, and sauntered out. At first, he made mechanically for the marquee, but stopping himself, not as it seemed without some contention in his own mind, he turned his steps to some other part of the Park. “No,” said he to himself gaily, “I will be a good boy. It is true, I have had devilish hard lines lately, but then it was partly deserved. How, the poor mother has had just as hard, and has not deserved them a bit. I will do nothing that can cause her trouble now—not even run the risk of a bit of harmless flirtation, for there alwaysisa risk about that, somehow. I wonder whether Letty was right about her going away; I'm sure I can't help Richard quarrelling with me—hewilldo it. And then there was that matter of Moss Abraham's—upon my life it must have been very trying to the dear old lady. And then there was my affair with Rose—humph! Well, I'm very sorry, Heaven knows, if my conduct has in any way contributed to such a catastrophe; but it's something, my dear mother, let me tell you, when your troubles are of that sort that youcanrun away from them. What an infernal fool I have made of myself in every way!”
OLD Jacob Forest had made a well-grounded complaint when he cried out with such vehemence that that fellow Derrick had actually left the front door open, and the Guard-ship and his rheumatism more exposed to the rigour of the elements even than usual; but to do his visitor justice, this rudeness was not committed with intention; Ralph knew not what he was doing; he was out of his mind with fury and despair.
“Damn her!” screamed he, plucking the little bunch of violets from where he had placed them so tenderly but an hour before; “so she was false, too, like the rest of them. She had no more heart in her than a woman of stone; and I have been worshipping her all my life, just as a savage worships his idol. No wonder I took to that young son of hers—how like! how like!—and like, too, in his selfish soul! Why, I was calling yonder Sea a while ago a cruel smiling traitress—because in her wrath I thought that she had swallowed this woman up. But the sea is honest enough compared to her. She puts up painted panes to my memory, does she, with the money of the very man she has married! Hypocrite! Wonton! Liar! She has held converse with me, knowing who I was, across that man's very grave, and let me pour my heart out before her, drop by drop, when she might have stanched it with a word. Howcouldshe do it? Howdaredshe do it?—she that is a God-fearing woman, forsooth! But I suppose that all is fair against a castaway. Let her look to it now, though. Ralph Gavestone is not a man, as I told her then, to be crossed with impunity—far less to be cajoled, betrayed, insulted, Wronged! Richard Lisgard, too!—Sir Richard, as the bastard calls himself!—yourhour of bitterness is drawing nigh too, and I will not spare you. There is no memory now of the beloved Dead to stay my hand; there is the knowledge of the treacherous living to make the blow all the surer and the more fatal. Love—nay, even the impress of where I thought love had lain within me, but it was not so—is cancelled out, and Mercy with it. Friendship—bah, I have found out what that is worth! There is nothing left me, nothing in the world, now, except Revenge! Lord it, Sir Richard, for yet a few hours more, among your truckling neighbours, your fawning tenants, for your time is short indeed. They may be your humble and obedient servants still, but what will they think of you, what will they say of you, behind your back, when they come to learn who you are? If your mother has the right to rule at Mirk, then I will rule there too: and you shall serve; and if not—then she is my wife still, and leaves you for me. There will be a downfall for your pride! Lady Lisgard of Mirk Abbey to be claimed by a 'drunken brawler'—do you suppose that I forget such words as those—and forced to be once more plain Lucy Gavestone, for the wife of a vagabond like me has scarcely the right to be termed 'madam.' The law will give her to me: there is no doubt of that. The righteous Law, which is to be always upheld—remember that, my game-preserving friend—no matter what hardships it may entail upon individuals, or even what injustice it may commit in exceptional cases. How sweet it is to remember such words of wisdom, against which, in my ignorance, I was wont to fight tooth and nail. You will not forbid me the Abbey, I suppose, when I come thither to claim my wife. To-morrow, or next day at furthest, will introduce you to your stepfather; for I have made up my mind to acknowledge you, just as though you had been born in lawful wedlock.”
Breathing forth these cruel threats, and feeding upon their fulfilment in his mind, Ralph Derrick lay awake for hours in his chamber at theRoyal Marine, and had hardly fallen asleep when the omnibus started for the morning train. The horn, and noise of the wheels aroused him, and he leaped up out of bed with an oath, because he knew that he had missed that, his earliest opportunity, of getting to Mirk. However, having rung his bell, he learned from the waiter that it would be quite possible yet, by taking a carriage and four horses, to reach the junction before the Coveton train, which, besides, had to wait there for the mid-day mail. “Of course,” said the waiter, rubbing his hands, and speaking with a hesitation induced by the contemplation of Ralph's scanty kit, “it will be a very considerable expense, and perhaps”——
“Curse the expense, and you too!” ejaculated the whilom gold-digger in his old flaming manner. “Here's a ten-pound note; and let my bill be settled and the horses put to within five minutes.”
“But your breakfast, sir?”
“A glass of brandy and a piece of bread: that's all I want; quick, quick!”
The waiter departed at full speed—his anxiety to execute Derrick's orders being at least equalled by his desire to communicate them to his mistress and the chambermaids. They were only accustomed at theRoyal Marineto the Newly Married, who were rarely in a hurry, and never broke their fast upon brandy and bread; and to these Ralph certainly afforded a lively contrast.
The four horses carried him along at a great rate, and the old-fashioned carriage swung from side to side down every hill, so that if motion could have soothed his perturbed spirit, on the principle of like to like, it should have grown calmer with every mile. But fast as he sped, his thoughts flew on before him—and in them he was already at Mirk Abbey, denunciating, exposing, Avenging, until physical inaction became intolerable, and thrusting his head and shoulders out at the window, he bade the astonished post-boys pull up, and let him out, for that he would have no more of such travel. Then once more he pursued his way on foot, and had walked two-score of miles before he put up for the night, at one of the same inns at which he had stopped upon his way down to Coveton.
But exercise, even in this violent degree, could now no longer avail him. He was still consumed with bitterness and anger, and the desire of vengeance. He could not sleep; and he had lost all appetite for food. He drank, as he had never drunk since he was in Cariboo; glass after glass of raw spirits, to the wonder of his tolerably well-seasoned host, who looked to have him for quite a permanent guest, overtaken, as it seemed must come to pass, by delirium tremens. Brandy, however, could now affect him nothing; except perhaps that it added fuel to his rage. On the third day, he grew impatient of his slow progress, and took the train upon a line of rails that brought him within a dozen miles of Mirk. As soon as he got out at the station, he inquired for a vehicle to take him to his journey's end.
“You wish to go to Mirk Abbey, do you not, sir?” said the porter respectfully (for Ralph always travelled first class).
“That's my business, and not yours,” retorted Derrick angrily, but without surprise; for it seemed to him natural enough that the purpose which was consuming his whole being should be recognised in his external features.
“Nay, sir; I meant no harm. It is not business, but pleasure, that is taking all the world to Mirk to-day. Everything here that has four wheels, and even that has two, has been already engaged; but if you don't mind waiting an hour or so, there will be a return-fly.”
But, with a contemptuous oath, Ralph had already resumed his journey on foot, looking neither to left nor right, but keeping his eyes steadfastly fixed on the wind-mill, he could even now see afar off, and which he knew crowned Mirkland Hill. The afternoon was already far spent, and by the time he reached the spot in question the dusk had already deepened into dark. On one side of the road lay the white gate and little hedge belonging to Belcomb; on the other, the great Windmill, with its dilapidated wall still unrepaired, and over which a young man was leaning and looking towards the valley with longing eyes. Ralph followed the direction of his gaze, and perceived the noble outlines of Mirk Abbey “picked out” in lines of many-coloured flame—its every window aglow with light, and the shadowy Park itself islanded with two large shining spots, which old experience taught him at once were walls of canvas well lit up within.
“What is going on there?” asked he of the miller, for such the young man's dress proclaimed him to he.
“Why, victuals and drink, to be sure,” replied the lad, in a tone that bespeaks a grievance; “and music and pretty girls to dance to it, and fireworks, and I don't know what all. And here am I, the only young man in the parish that is not to enjoy himself at it: just because Master Hathaway happens to have a pressing order in hand, I am to keep the mill going all to-night. I don't say I wishes it to rain—for that would spoil everybody's sport—but if the wind would be so good as to fall, and stop the mill, why, I wouldn't whistle to try and set it agoing again.”
“Yes, by the by,” said Ralph, “I heard something at the station about some goings-on at Mirk, but I didn't take much heed. What is it, lad? And why are they all so gay down yonder at the Abbey?”
“Why, it's Sir Richard coming of age, to be sure,” answered the lad. “You must hail from a darned long way off, not to know that; and yet I seem to know your face. Why, you're Mr Derrick, ain't you, as used to lodge at the Lisgard Arms? I thought so. Well, you'll find nobody there now, for Steve has been taken into favour again—thanks to my Lady, I believe—and is up at the Park with the rest; and they won't letyouinto the grounds, you know; so you might just as well stop here, and have a chat with a poor fellow as”——
Striking his stick with violence against the ground, Ralph strode away down the hill. This, then, was the very time for him to come upon the inmates of Mirk Abbey, while they were holding their heads highest, and to cast them down to the very dust. If his determination had needed strength, if the sharpness of his revenge had wanted an edge, both had been supplied by the careless words of the miller's boy. Before the night was out, not only that lad, but all the parish, nay, all the County, should learn that he, Ralph Derrick, could not only be no longer forbidden to enter the Lisgards' doors, but would perhaps even rule within them as the husband of my Lady herself.
The village, as he had been forewarned, was as deserted as Auburn itself, and the inn fast closed. But the iron gates of the Abbey were flung back, as though to welcome all comers, and the rheumatic lodge-keeper and his wife had betaken themselves with their pretty daughter to the festive scene within. So Ralph strode, undenied, up the long dense avenue, made darker by the glancing lights at the far end, like some embodiment of Misfortune, about to paralyse Youth and Hope with a word. The fairylike splendours of the scene before him seemed to him like a house of painted cards, which, at his finger-touch, should collapse in utter ruin; his frown should silence all those melodies that jarred so on his reluctant ears; that merriment should be turned into wailing, or still better, into scornful laughter. The scene of pride should be made a place of shame.
Noone of all the crowd of holiday-makers seemed to take notice of his presence, though he carried with him, from spot to spot, the only scowling face that was to be seen among them. He stood at the opening of the great marquee, and watched the dancers; his evil eye scanned each gay couple as they whirled before him, but settled upon none whom it had come to wither. Sir Richard and his brother had inaugurated the proceedings there by taking part in a few dances, but had then withdrawn themselves to the ball-room within. In the second tent, reserved for the humblest class of guests, the mirth was already growing somewhat uproarious; but there was one among the company, who, though he took two glasses for other folk's one, looked as sober as an undertaker; and Derrick came behind this man and plucked his arm.
“Steve,” said he, “I want a word with you. Come out with me, and leave these capering idiots.”
The landlord of theLisgard Armsdid not even make a pretence of being glad to recognise his late lodger: he had been received, as Hathaway's lad had stated, into favour at the Abbey once more, through the intercession of my Lady, but he was still upon his good-behaviour, and it excessively annoyed him to see the original cause of Sir Richard's displeasure with himself once more at Mirk, and intruding where he was least welcome. However, the two withdrew together apart from the crowd.
“What is it, Derrick? I think it is foolish of you venturing here. I am sorry to say that I have promised not to receive you again at my inn. I did not dream of your coming back, or else I would never have done so.”
“Don't trouble yourself about that, Steve. If I stay at Mirk at all, it will be here, at the Abbey.”
“At the Abbey! You have been drinking, Derrick. Now, take my advice, and be off; at all events, for the present. To-day, when everybody is being entertained by Sir-Richard, folks would resent any insult put upon the family, I can promise you—it's the worst day you could possibly have selected to force your way in here.”
“No, Steve, the best day—the only day. I would have given ten thousand pounds, I tell you, rather than have missed it, or have arrived to-morrow instead.”
“I am glad you are so rich, man,” returned Steve drily, “for it is the impression down here that you lost all your money upon that French horse at the Derby; poor Master Walter, too, you led him into a pretty mess, it seems.”
“Curse Master Walter!” ejaculated Derrick angrily. “He's a mean skunk, if ever there was one.”
“People don't think so hereabouts, Mr Derrick; and I should recommend you not to express your opinion quite so loudly. If any of these volunteers heard you speaking of their captain in that way, you would not escape with a whole skin.”
“That's my look-out,” answered Derrick roughly. “I want you to tell me where I can find Sir Richard. I have particular business with him; something for his private ear.
“It isn't about my Lady, is it?” inquired the other eagerly.
“Yes, it is. How came you to think of that? Eh?”
“How could I be off on it, man? Is she not the uppermost thought of everybody here? Do you really bring any news of her? And, look you, if it's bad news, don't tell it. I don't like that ugly look of yours, Mr Derrick. If you have done any harm to my Lady, I, for one, will help to wring your neck round.”
“Do you mean to say she is not here?” gasped Ralph, without heeding his last words.
“Of course not; didn't you know that? She's gone away, all of a sudden. Sir Richard quite broke down when he alluded to it in his speech. He said that urgent business had compelled her to be in London; but Roberts told me that the family themselves have no idea why she took herself off”——
“Ah, but they do though,” exclaimed Derrick scornfully. “AndIknow, too, or I'm much mistaken. She's tryingthatdodge on, is she? Not at home, eh? And she supposes that I shall leave my card, and go away like any other well-conducted visitor. She'll find me an acquaintance whom it is not so easy to drop, I fancy. So my Lady has fled, has she?” continued he. “Hadn't the pluck to blazon it out, eh? She won't, however, have flown very far from her young chicks, I reckon. And, perhaps, it's just as well that I should cut the comb of this young bantam, Sir Richard, while his mother's out of the way; not that I feel an ounce of pity for her, either.”
“You'll feel a horsewhip about your shoulders, Ralph Derrick, before you're a quarter of an hour older, or else I'm much mistaken,” observed Steve ruefully. “I'll have nothing more to say to you, and that's a fact. You are not only drunk, but stark mad. I never heard a fellow go on with such a farrago of rubbish. Look here, if you'll come home with me at once, you shall have as much brandy as you can drink; but you shan't kick up a row here. See, one of the ball-room windows is wide open, and Sir Richard himself, for all you know, may—— Confound the fellow, it will be only kindness to tell Styles, the policeman, to take him up.”
Derrick had burst away from Steve, and was running across the lawn to the very place where the Lisgard family had discussed their mother's departure upon the preceding evening.