Volume Two—Chapter Nineteen.Peace and Sympathy.“And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night—”“No, no, dearest,” she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; “the past cannot be recalled.”“Only this little revelation,” he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, “then the past shall be as dead with us. One night—since that night—I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand—a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always—I cannot tell you how—your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out.”“Father!”“My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live.”She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.“I am so old and broken,” he said musingly; “so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but—I know nothing. I cannot work.”“But I can, father,” she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. “I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go.”“Where, my child?” he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. “What work would you do—you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?”“As a teacher—a governess,” she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.“No, no,” he said excitedly; “that would mean separation; and Claire,” he whispered, “I am so weak—so broken—that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone—no, no, no, I dare not be left alone.”“Hush, dear!” she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. “I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now.”“No, no.” He whispered the words. “I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it—I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then.”“Till then, father?”“Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?”“Father, I am your child.”“Yes, yes,” he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. “I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more.”Claire sighed.“Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well.”She did not reply, and he went on excitedly:“Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too—so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent.”“Mrs Pontardent, father?”“Yes, my dear, yes. Among so few, we must not be choosers. Remember old Hobson, you know. I know nothing against her but her tables. They gamble high; but where do they not? She has arranged for an evening, and I have promised her to go and take the management, and help her to receive her visitors—and—er—and—”“She has asked you to bring me?”“Yes. How did you know?”“I could read it in your eyes, father,” said Claire. “Oh, it is impossible.”“I will not press you, my child; but it is almost life to me, and it would be giving us a stepping-stone to recover our lost ground.”“Do you wish me to go, father?”“If—if—you would not mind very much, my dear,” he said hesitatingly. “It would be helping me.”He kissed her hand and left her to her own thoughts. The tears flowed for a while, and then, with a sigh, Claire rose with a look of resignation on her countenance, as if she accepted her fate.
“And I thought that there would be no more rest and comfort here, my child. Claire, one night—”
“No, no, dearest,” she cried, as she laid her soft white hand upon his lips; “the past cannot be recalled.”
“Only this little revelation,” he said, as he kissed the soft hand and held it to his cheek, “then the past shall be as dead with us. One night—since that night—I said to myself that I could bear no more, and I locked myself in my room; but something seemed to stay my hand—a something seemed to bid me live on, even in my pitiful, degraded state; and always—I cannot tell you how—your face seemed to be before my eyes. I tried to put it from me, but it was there. I fought against it, for I was enraged with you one minute, trembling with dread of what I dare not see the next; but still your face seemed to be there, my child, and I said at last that I would live it down or face it, if the dread time that haunts me always, as if lying in my path, should at last leap out.”
“Father!”
“My child! There, there; we do not know how much we can bear until the burden is laid upon us; and now let us cleave together like soldiers in the battle of life. Claire, child, we must live.”
She sat holding his hand in hers, with her brow knit, and a far-off look in her eyes.
“I am so old and broken,” he said musingly; “so helpless. For so many years my miserable energies have been bent solely to this pitiful life, or I would say let us leave here at once, and go where we are not known, to live in some simple fashion; but—I know nothing. I cannot work.”
“But I can, father,” she said, with a look of elation in her eyes. “I am young and strong, and I will work for you as you have worked for me. Let us go.”
“Where, my child?” he said, as he kissed her hand tenderly. “What work would you do—you, so beautiful, so unfit for the rough toil of life?”
“As a teacher—a governess,” she cried; but he shook his head, and began to tremble and draw her closer to him.
“No, no,” he said excitedly; “that would mean separation; and Claire,” he whispered, “I am so weak—so broken—that I must have your young spirit to sustain me. I cannot live without you. Left alone—no, no, no, I dare not be left alone.”
“Hush, dear!” she said, laying her cheek upon his shoulder, and drawing him to her breast, to soothe the agony of dread from which he suffered. “I will not leave you, then, father, I will be your help and stay. Nothing shall separate us now.”
“No, no.” He whispered the words. “I could not live without you, Claire, and I dare not die. My miserable, useless life may prove useful yet. Yes, my child, I feel it—I know it. My work is not yet done. Claire, my course is marked out for me; we must stay here till then.”
“Till then, father?”
“Yes; and live it down. Yes, I am wanted here. You will help me?”
“Father, I am your child.”
“Yes, yes,” he cried, resuming his old flippant air so suddenly that Claire, who did not realise the reaction that had set in, gazed at him tremblingly. “I shall live it down as of old. We must begin again, my dear, and those miserable, brainless butterflies will soon forget, and come to me for my help and introductions. We must not leave here, and the old fees will come once more.”
Claire sighed.
“Yes, child, it would have been a happier life to have gone; but it is braver to stay. Let your sweet face show in its dignity how lightly you treat all slander and scandal. Some day, after all, you shall marry well.”
She did not reply, and he went on excitedly:
“Now let me see what friends we have left. The Barclays stand firm as rocks. Those Deans, too—so vulgar, but quite as friendly as before. Mrs Pontardent.”
“Mrs Pontardent, father?”
“Yes, my dear, yes. Among so few, we must not be choosers. Remember old Hobson, you know. I know nothing against her but her tables. They gamble high; but where do they not? She has arranged for an evening, and I have promised her to go and take the management, and help her to receive her visitors—and—er—and—”
“She has asked you to bring me?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I could read it in your eyes, father,” said Claire. “Oh, it is impossible.”
“I will not press you, my child; but it is almost life to me, and it would be giving us a stepping-stone to recover our lost ground.”
“Do you wish me to go, father?”
“If—if—you would not mind very much, my dear,” he said hesitatingly. “It would be helping me.”
He kissed her hand and left her to her own thoughts. The tears flowed for a while, and then, with a sigh, Claire rose with a look of resignation on her countenance, as if she accepted her fate.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty.Private Instructions.“Look here, Bell,” said Major Rockley, as he stood in his quarters, with his regimental servant before him; “you were drunk again last night?”“Yes, sir.”“Then you are not ashamed of it?”“Yes, sir, very much ashamed of it. It’s my weakness, sir.”“Weakness, you scoundrel? It’s your blackguardly conduct. You have been under arrest so many times for this disgraceful behaviour, and I have such a black list against you, that if I lay it before Colonel Lascelles he will have you flogged.”“But you won’t do that, sir.”“Yes, I will, you scoundrel. No: I’ll give you another chance.”“Thank you, sir; I was sure you would,” said the young man, flushing slightly, and with a strange look in his face.“By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?”“Two o’clock, sir.”“With whom had he been?”“Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt’s, I think.”“Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?”“Yes, sir.”“Then I’m going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me.”“Yes, sir.”“If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report.”“Thankye, sir.”“I cannot—at least I do not wish to—be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you.”“Yes, sir.”“Go directly then, to Moggridge’s, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince’s Road to-night at—say eleven—no; half-past ten.”“Yes, sir.”“Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?”“Yes, sir.”“There’s—well, to be plain with you—a lady in the case.”“I see, sir.”“And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?”“Quite, sir.”“There’s a sovereign for you. No: you’ll get drunk if I give it you now. I’ll give you five when I come back.”“Very good, sir.”“And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start.”“I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince’s Road?”“You’ll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent’s.”Major Rockley’s regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering “Scoundrel!” between his teeth. “I wonder who the lady is?”“I wouldn’t change places with you, my fine fellow,” he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:“I’ve left my cigar-case. Join you directly.”He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:“Where are you going, Bell?”“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”“No; not going.”“Isn’t she going?”“No.”“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”“But are you sure she’s coming?”“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”“Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I’ve no change.”“You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What’s the matter with your lip?”“My lip, sir?”“Yes; it’s bleeding.”“Cracked, sir.”“Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens—the gloves?”“No, no: eights,” cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.“This is being a soldier,” he muttered. “The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can’t move, they’ll shoot me. But no, it can’t be. She’s too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there.”He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.“Very private, you know.”“Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here’s half-a-crown for you to get a glass.”“Thank ye.”James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master’s valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.“Just one glass,” he said. “That’s all.”James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks—two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel’s.The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge’s, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and—a glass of ale.There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent’s gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.“What do you want then?”“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”“Who’s going now?”“Major Rockley, sir.”“The deuce! Alone?”“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”“Who?”“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”“Thank ye, Moggridge. What’ll you take?”“Well, sir, champagne’s a thing as don’t often come in my way, and—”“Come along,” said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge’s desires were satisfied.“Not a bolt!” said Barclay to himself. “Who’s the woman? Well, I don’t want him to go. If he goes off he won’t meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?”He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.
“Look here, Bell,” said Major Rockley, as he stood in his quarters, with his regimental servant before him; “you were drunk again last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you are not ashamed of it?”
“Yes, sir, very much ashamed of it. It’s my weakness, sir.”
“Weakness, you scoundrel? It’s your blackguardly conduct. You have been under arrest so many times for this disgraceful behaviour, and I have such a black list against you, that if I lay it before Colonel Lascelles he will have you flogged.”
“But you won’t do that, sir.”
“Yes, I will, you scoundrel. No: I’ll give you another chance.”
“Thank you, sir; I was sure you would,” said the young man, flushing slightly, and with a strange look in his face.
“By the way, what time did Mr Denville come back to his quarters?”
“Two o’clock, sir.”
“With whom had he been?”
“Sir Matthew Bray, sir. Lady Drelincourt’s, I think.”
“Humph! Now, look here; can I trust you, Bell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I’m going to give you a delicate bit of business to do for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you do it well, I shall give you a clean slate to begin again, and wipe off that last report.”
“Thankye, sir.”
“I cannot—at least I do not wish to—be seen in the business preparations, so I trust to you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go directly then, to Moggridge’s, and arrange for a post-chaise and four to be at Prince’s Road to-night at—say eleven—no; half-past ten.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pick good fast horses. Pack a light valise with a change; put my pistols in the pockets of the carriage, and you will be there ready to see me off. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s—well, to be plain with you—a lady in the case.”
“I see, sir.”
“And, mind this; after we have started, you stay behind, and if there is any inquiry directly after, you volunteer information, and say we have taken the London Road. You understand?”
“Quite, sir.”
“There’s a sovereign for you. No: you’ll get drunk if I give it you now. I’ll give you five when I come back.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And mind, if I am wanted, I am unwell in bed. I want a good start.”
“I see, sir. You may depend on me. But what house, sir, in Prince’s Road?”
“You’ll see, blockhead. The one that is lighted up. Mrs Pontardent’s.”
Major Rockley’s regimental servant saluted, turned upon his heel, and went out muttering “Scoundrel!” between his teeth. “I wonder who the lady is?”
“I wouldn’t change places with you, my fine fellow,” he muttered, as he went across the parade ground; and, turning a corner, he came suddenly upon Sir Harry Payne, Sir Matthew Bray, and the new cornet, who flushed scarlet, as he saw the dragoon.
James Bell saluted, and was passing, but Sir Harry Payne stopped him, and Cornet Denville said hastily:
“I’ve left my cigar-case. Join you directly.”
He went away quickly, and Sir Harry Payne said:
“Where are you going, Bell?”
“Major’s washerwoman, sir,” said the dragoon promptly.
“Then you can call at River’s for me. Half a dozen pairs of white kid gloves. He knows my size. Shall he get you some, Matt?”
“No; not going.”
“Isn’t she going?”
“No.”
“Never mind; you’d better come. Denville’s pretty sister will be there.”
“Phew! Will she?” said Sir Matthew, whistling. “I say, mind what you’re about. There may be a row.”
“Not there. I shan’t notice her; and if I did, Denville’s all right. We’re the best of friends now.”
“But are you sure she’s coming?”
“Pontardent told me herself. She came round the old man.”
“Then I will come. Order me some gloves, Harry. I’ve no change.”
“You never do have any. Here! Tell them to send half a dozen pairs for Sir Matthew, and put them down to me. What’s the matter with your lip?”
“My lip, sir?”
“Yes; it’s bleeding.”
“Cracked, sir.”
“Yes: fevered. Drink too much. That will do. Nines, or tens—the gloves?”
“No, no: eights,” cried Sir Matthew; and the dragoon went on out of the barrack gates, with his face growing grey.
“This is being a soldier,” he muttered. “The scoundrel! If I thrash him till he can’t move, they’ll shoot me. But no, it can’t be. She’s too good a girl. Impossible. Besides, I shall be there.”
He went straight to the livery-stable keeper, and arranged for the best four horses he had, and gave the man a hint.
“Very private, you know.”
“Right, my lad. I know what the Major is. Here’s half-a-crown for you to get a glass.”
“Thank ye.”
James Bell pocketed the coin, and went off back to pack his master’s valise, and load the case of pistols ready to take to the chaise in the evening, after which he went to have one half-pint of ale, for he was suffering from a severe sensation of thirst, one that he often felt come on.
“Just one glass,” he said. “That’s all.”
James Bell partook of his one glass, but it was not all. Then he went back to see to the horses in his charge in a stable near the barracks—two belonging to the Major, and one of the Colonel’s.
The helper was there, and as the extra work would fall to his share that night, there was an excuse for giving him a glass of ale, of which he partook, nothing loth.
The message of Sir Harry Payne had been given, the clothes were packed up, the pistols ready. Yes, every thing had been done; and at last, when it was getting dark, James Bell, looking very stern and determined, and with a tendency to walk extremely straight, as if he were aiming at something right ahead, went off to Moggridge’s, placed the packed valise under the seat of the post-chaise, the pistols in the pockets, and then had a chat with the postboys, and—a glass of ale.
There was an hour yet to the time, so he strolled to the end of the yard, and thought he would just go as far as the stables to see if the helper had properly bedded down the horses; and this proving to be the case, and a shilling still remaining unspent of that half-crown, the dragoon suggested that a pot of the best ale should be fetched, and that they should drink it before he went.
The helper was worthy of his title, and fetched the ale, and then, one seated on a truss of straw, the other upon the corn-bin, the two men finished the ale between them, and just at the time that James Bell should have been at Mrs Pontardent’s gate, he was fast asleep in the stable.
That afternoon Mr Barclay was busy with his partner, when a visitor was announced, and as it was probably a call relating to money matters, Mrs Barclay left the room.
“Oh, it’s you, Moggridge,” said Barclay gruffly. “You don’t want money, I’m sure.”
“Thank ye, no, Mr Barclay, sir,” said the visitor, a closely shaven, sharp-faced man, with bow legs. “Things is moving, sir. I’m doing tidy;” and he went on chewing a piece of clover hay, which he had between his lips.
“What do you want then?”
“Well, you know what you said, sir, after the Hon. Tom Badgley went off that night, and dodged the sheriff’s officers; and you know what I promised you.”
“Who’s going now?”
“Major Rockley, sir.”
“The deuce! Alone?”
“No, sir. I think there’s a lady in the case.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know, sir. Take up at Mrs Pontardent’s party; half arter ten.”
“Thank ye, Moggridge. What’ll you take?”
“Well, sir, champagne’s a thing as don’t often come in my way, and—”
“Come along,” said Barclay, and Mr Moggridge’s desires were satisfied.
“Not a bolt!” said Barclay to himself. “Who’s the woman? Well, I don’t want him to go. If he goes off he won’t meet my bill. He must be stopped, but how?”
He stood thinking for a few minutes, and then sat down and wrote a letter which he took out, and picking a boy from the idlers on the cliff, sent it to its destination.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty One.A Walk and a Drive.Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.“Why?”The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”“To-night’s battle?”“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.“What have I done?” she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.“Done! What do you mean?”“Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?”“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I was only speaking lightly.”“Why should you speak lightly to me?” she said. “We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us.”“Why, what a sentimental view you take of things,” he said. “We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat.”“Yes,” she said sadly, “we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but—”She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:“I shall see you to-night, of course?”“No; I thought you were going to a party.”“Yes, but you will be there?”“No,” he said gravely; “I am not going.”“Not going!” she cried. “Why, you were asked.”“How do you know?”She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.“Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?”“Yes, and you will go?”“No,” he said; “I declined. Why was I asked—do you know?”She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.“Don’t—don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I—I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there.”“You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?”She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.“Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he said. “I hate to see a woman cry. I can’t bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this.”“You ought to be grateful,” she cried passionately. “The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley—oh, Mr Linnell—Richard—for heaven’s sake forgive me. What have I said—what have I done?”In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies’ heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora’s presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies’ reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora’s arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.“What is it?” he cried sharply. “Are you hurt?”“No,” she said softly. “Don’t move. How brave you are!”He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.“I was afraid you were hurt,” he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard—dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love—my love!”“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There—there—you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.“Miss Dean—Miss Dean—pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you—you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that—”“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”“You must hear me,” he said; “and forgive my awkwardness for speaking as I do. You know my story so well: have I not always been steadfast to that love?”She sobbed violently and tried to snatch away her hand, but he held it firmly.“I have always tried to be to you as a friend. Heaven knows I would not have wounded you like this.”“Yes,” she sobbed bitterly, “Heaven knows.”“Why did you stab me with those cruel words?” he cried resentfully.“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was mad. It makes me mad to see you go on worshipping her as you do. Does she make you love and hate her too, as she does me?”“Hush—hush!” he said quickly. “I want to like and respect you, Cora Dean.”“Like! Respect!” she cried, with a flash of her former rage. “Why have I degraded myself like this?”“Do you not trust me?” he said gently, as he looked in her eyes. “Do you think I should be such a despicable coward as ever to whisper word of this to a soul? Come,” he said, with a frank smile, “we have both been unfortunate. Let us be friends.”“Friends?” she cried. “No; a woman never forgives a slight like this. Do you think I could?”“Yes,” he said, after a few moments’ pause. “You hate me, and are bitter against me now; but when you have grown calm you will respect me, I am sure. Cora,” he cried, with an outburst as excited as her own, “there is no such thing as love or truth on earth. I—Bah! What am I saying?” he cried, checking himself. “Come, we are friends. Let me help you to your place again.”He offered his hand once more, but she struck it aside, and went to the ponies’ heads while he tried to forestall her, but had to catch at the side of the chaise to save himself a fall.Her anger was gone on the instant as she saw his face contract with pain, and in a moment she was by his side.“It is my turn to triumph,” she said in a deep, low tone. “Richard Linnell, you must trust to the woman you despise I shall have to drive you home.”He tried to master the pain, but he could not; and, with a deprecating smile, he had to confess his weakness, and accept a seat back to Saltinville, for it was impossible to walk.It was a triumph, Cora Dean saw, as she sat up proud and stately beside him; and she felt her heart glow as they reached the town, and scores of promenaders noted him seated by her side; but it was not a pleasant drive home, all the same.
Richard Linnell found a good deal of relief in his restless state of mind in taking long country walks, telling himself that he got away from his thoughts; but, on the contrary, he thought the more, and enjoyed his misery as some young men do whose love affairs go crooked.
He was about nine miles away from Saltinville on the day of Mrs Pontardent’s party, and rapidly increasing the distance, when he suddenly became aware of the sound of wheels behind in the road, and looking round as he gave place to the driver, he found that Cora Dean was checking her ponies.
“Confound her! she has followed me,” he said to himself, as she drew up by his side, quite alone, for the little seat generally occupied by the boy-groom was turned over and closed.
“This is unexpected, Mr Linnell,” she said, holding out her gloved hand. “I thought you were at home.”
“I felt sure you were,” he said, smiling.
“Why?”
The question was accompanied by a half resentful, half tender look, the first intended, the latter not.
“I expected that you would be busy with hair-dressers and dressmakers, preparing for to-night’s battle.”
“To-night’s battle?”
“Yes,” he said, in a bantering, reckless way that was new to him, “the battle with the beaux whom you are going to slay.”
He felt as if he could have bitten his tongue off the next moment, as he saw the look of pain she gave him.
“What have I done?” she said in a soft, low, half-passionate tone.
“Done! What do you mean?”
“Why do you take pleasure in laughing at me and mocking me?”
“Oh, nonsense!” he cried. “I was only speaking lightly.”
“Why should you speak lightly to me?” she said. “We have lived in the same house now for over a year, and, instead of being neighbours and friends, there always seems to be a great gap between us.”
“Why, what a sentimental view you take of things,” he said. “We shake hands when we meet. We smile at one another, and nod and chat.”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “we shake hands, we smile at each other, we nod and chat, but—”
She stopped and seemed to try and command herself; and, to his great relief, she spoke lightly as she said:
“I shall see you to-night, of course?”
“No; I thought you were going to a party.”
“Yes, but you will be there?”
“No,” he said gravely; “I am not going.”
“Not going!” she cried. “Why, you were asked.”
“How do you know?”
She turned crimson, and avoided his searching look.
“Did Mrs Pontardent tell you?”
“Yes, and you will go?”
“No,” he said; “I declined. Why was I asked—do you know?”
She darted an appealing look at him; and the haughty, self-assertive woman seemed to be completely changed.
“Don’t—don’t be angry with me,” she said. “I—I thought it would be so pleasant if you were going to be there.”
“You never asked that woman to invite me, Miss Dean?”
She did not speak, but her face began to work, her hands dropped in her lap, her head drooped upon her chest, and she wept bitterly.
“Oh, Miss Dean, for heaven’s sake don’t do that,” he said. “I hate to see a woman cry. I can’t bear it. Pray forgive me if I spoke harshly. I could not help feeling annoyed that you should have done this.”
“You ought to be grateful,” she cried passionately. “The woman you love so dearly will be there with gay Major Rockley—oh, Mr Linnell—Richard—for heaven’s sake forgive me. What have I said—what have I done?”
In her alarm at the start he gave, and at his ghastly face, she let fall the reins and caught at his arm, when the ponies, feeling their heads free, dashed off; but this brought Linnell back to the present, and with one bound he reached the rein, hung on to it, and was dragged along for a few yards, turning the ponies’ heads towards a steep bank by the side of the narrow unfrequented road. The result would have been that he would have been crushed between the chaise and the bank, but for Cora’s presence of mind in seizing the other rein and dragging at it with all her might.
As it was, he received a violent kick which turned him sick and faint, and when he came to, the ponies’ reins were secured to a tree in the hedge, and he was lying upon the grass, with Cora’s arm supporting his head, and her frightened face bending over him.
“What is it?” he cried sharply. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she said softly. “Don’t move. How brave you are!”
He looked at her wonderingly, and then flushing once more, he recalled the whole scene, and what led to it.
“I was afraid you were hurt,” he said, trying to rise; but the giddy feeling came back, and he sank down again.
“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard—dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love—my love!”
“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There—there—you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”
He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.
“Miss Dean—Miss Dean—pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you—you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”
He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.
“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.
“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”
“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that—”
“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”
“You must hear me,” he said; “and forgive my awkwardness for speaking as I do. You know my story so well: have I not always been steadfast to that love?”
She sobbed violently and tried to snatch away her hand, but he held it firmly.
“I have always tried to be to you as a friend. Heaven knows I would not have wounded you like this.”
“Yes,” she sobbed bitterly, “Heaven knows.”
“Why did you stab me with those cruel words?” he cried resentfully.
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I was mad. It makes me mad to see you go on worshipping her as you do. Does she make you love and hate her too, as she does me?”
“Hush—hush!” he said quickly. “I want to like and respect you, Cora Dean.”
“Like! Respect!” she cried, with a flash of her former rage. “Why have I degraded myself like this?”
“Do you not trust me?” he said gently, as he looked in her eyes. “Do you think I should be such a despicable coward as ever to whisper word of this to a soul? Come,” he said, with a frank smile, “we have both been unfortunate. Let us be friends.”
“Friends?” she cried. “No; a woman never forgives a slight like this. Do you think I could?”
“Yes,” he said, after a few moments’ pause. “You hate me, and are bitter against me now; but when you have grown calm you will respect me, I am sure. Cora,” he cried, with an outburst as excited as her own, “there is no such thing as love or truth on earth. I—Bah! What am I saying?” he cried, checking himself. “Come, we are friends. Let me help you to your place again.”
He offered his hand once more, but she struck it aside, and went to the ponies’ heads while he tried to forestall her, but had to catch at the side of the chaise to save himself a fall.
Her anger was gone on the instant as she saw his face contract with pain, and in a moment she was by his side.
“It is my turn to triumph,” she said in a deep, low tone. “Richard Linnell, you must trust to the woman you despise I shall have to drive you home.”
He tried to master the pain, but he could not; and, with a deprecating smile, he had to confess his weakness, and accept a seat back to Saltinville, for it was impossible to walk.
It was a triumph, Cora Dean saw, as she sat up proud and stately beside him; and she felt her heart glow as they reached the town, and scores of promenaders noted him seated by her side; but it was not a pleasant drive home, all the same.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Two.Linnell Changes his Mind.“Getting cured then, Dick?” said Colonel Mellersh grimly, as Richard limped into the room after finding a note in his own place, which his father said had been brought by a boy.“Cured? Look, I am quite lame. One of Miss Dean’s ponies kicked me; but it will only be a bruise.”“Humph! How convenient!” said the Colonel, with a grim look.“Don’t laugh at me,” said Linnell quickly. “I could not help myself.”“That’s what we all say when we fall victims to fascination.”“Mellersh, pray stop this banter. You refused Mrs Pontardent’s invitation for yourself and me?”“I did.”“I want you to ask her pardon, and get the invitations for us. I must get there to-night.”“Because Miss Cora Dean, your beautiful charioteer, will be there?”“No!” fiercely.“Why, then, most impressionable youth?”“Because—must I tell you?”“Yes, if you wish me to act,” said the Colonel sternly.“Because Claire Denville will be there.”“Good heavens! that old fop is never going to take that girl?”“He is.”“Pooh! What am I saying?” cried the Colonel, half laughingly. “Well, what of it? Why do you want to go?”“Look.”Linnell held out the note he had found in his room, and Mellersh read it.“Rockley—post-horses—for the London Road. Who sent this, Dick?”“I don’t know.”“It may be a trick.”“Who would trick me like that? And what for?”Mellersh remained silent for a few minutes, and then he said gravely:“Well, Dick, suppose it is so. Surely you are going to awake from this madness now?”“What do you mean?”“What does this letter mean? It is plain enough. Constant sapping has carried the fortress, and the lady has consented.”“Don’t talk like that, Mellersh. For heaven’s sake, don’t take that cynical tone.”“Why not, madman? I have heard tell that women often say no when they mean yes. A lady we know must have meant yes. Hang it, boy, what more proof do you want that the woman is unworthy of your love?”“None,” said Linnell bitterly; “none, but I love her all the same.”“Nonsense! Be a man.”“I am a man,” cried Linnell furiously, “too much of a man to see the woman I love suffer for her weakness when I can stretch out a hand to save her. That hand I can stretch out, and I will. Now, will you help me?”“To the death, Dick. I abhor your folly, but there is so much true chivalry in it that I’ll help you with all my heart.”“I knew you would,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Write at once and get the invitations.”“Pish!” said Mellersh contemptuously. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have only to walk in at Madame Pontardent’s door with any friend I like to take. Ah, I wonder how many hundred pounds I have won in that house!”Linnell was walking up and down the room when the strains of music heard across the hall ceased; and directly after old Mr Linnell’s pleasant, grave head was thrust into the room.“Another letter for you, Dick, my son. Just come.”He held it out, nodded to both, and went back to his room, when the violin was heard again.“Strange hand,” said Richard, opening it quickly.“Good God!”“What’s the matter?” cried Richard, as he heard his friend’s exclamation—saw his start.“What has Miss Clode to say to you?” said Mellersh huskily.“Miss Clode? This is not from Miss Clode. Look—no, I cannot show you,” cried Richard excitedly. “Yes, I will; I keep nothing from you.”Mellersh glanced at the note which had been delivered by hand. It was anonymous, and only contained these words:“If Mr Richard Linnell wishes for further proof of the unworthiness of a certain lady, let him visit Mrs Pontardent’s to-night.”“That cannot be from Miss Clode,” said Richard, as he saw his friend’s face resume its cynical calm.“Possibly not. Of course not. Why should she write to you? Well, Dick, we’ll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?”“Act according to circumstances. At any rate stop this wretched business.”“Good,” said Mellersh. “I’m with you, Dick; but if it comes to a meeting this time, let me take the initiative. I should like to stand in front of Rockley some morning. The man irritates me, and I am in his debt.”“What, money?”“No; I want to pay back a few insults thrown at me over the tables now and then.”
“Getting cured then, Dick?” said Colonel Mellersh grimly, as Richard limped into the room after finding a note in his own place, which his father said had been brought by a boy.
“Cured? Look, I am quite lame. One of Miss Dean’s ponies kicked me; but it will only be a bruise.”
“Humph! How convenient!” said the Colonel, with a grim look.
“Don’t laugh at me,” said Linnell quickly. “I could not help myself.”
“That’s what we all say when we fall victims to fascination.”
“Mellersh, pray stop this banter. You refused Mrs Pontardent’s invitation for yourself and me?”
“I did.”
“I want you to ask her pardon, and get the invitations for us. I must get there to-night.”
“Because Miss Cora Dean, your beautiful charioteer, will be there?”
“No!” fiercely.
“Why, then, most impressionable youth?”
“Because—must I tell you?”
“Yes, if you wish me to act,” said the Colonel sternly.
“Because Claire Denville will be there.”
“Good heavens! that old fop is never going to take that girl?”
“He is.”
“Pooh! What am I saying?” cried the Colonel, half laughingly. “Well, what of it? Why do you want to go?”
“Look.”
Linnell held out the note he had found in his room, and Mellersh read it.
“Rockley—post-horses—for the London Road. Who sent this, Dick?”
“I don’t know.”
“It may be a trick.”
“Who would trick me like that? And what for?”
Mellersh remained silent for a few minutes, and then he said gravely:
“Well, Dick, suppose it is so. Surely you are going to awake from this madness now?”
“What do you mean?”
“What does this letter mean? It is plain enough. Constant sapping has carried the fortress, and the lady has consented.”
“Don’t talk like that, Mellersh. For heaven’s sake, don’t take that cynical tone.”
“Why not, madman? I have heard tell that women often say no when they mean yes. A lady we know must have meant yes. Hang it, boy, what more proof do you want that the woman is unworthy of your love?”
“None,” said Linnell bitterly; “none, but I love her all the same.”
“Nonsense! Be a man.”
“I am a man,” cried Linnell furiously, “too much of a man to see the woman I love suffer for her weakness when I can stretch out a hand to save her. That hand I can stretch out, and I will. Now, will you help me?”
“To the death, Dick. I abhor your folly, but there is so much true chivalry in it that I’ll help you with all my heart.”
“I knew you would,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Write at once and get the invitations.”
“Pish!” said Mellersh contemptuously. “Don’t trouble yourself, my boy. I have only to walk in at Madame Pontardent’s door with any friend I like to take. Ah, I wonder how many hundred pounds I have won in that house!”
Linnell was walking up and down the room when the strains of music heard across the hall ceased; and directly after old Mr Linnell’s pleasant, grave head was thrust into the room.
“Another letter for you, Dick, my son. Just come.”
He held it out, nodded to both, and went back to his room, when the violin was heard again.
“Strange hand,” said Richard, opening it quickly.
“Good God!”
“What’s the matter?” cried Richard, as he heard his friend’s exclamation—saw his start.
“What has Miss Clode to say to you?” said Mellersh huskily.
“Miss Clode? This is not from Miss Clode. Look—no, I cannot show you,” cried Richard excitedly. “Yes, I will; I keep nothing from you.”
Mellersh glanced at the note which had been delivered by hand. It was anonymous, and only contained these words:
“If Mr Richard Linnell wishes for further proof of the unworthiness of a certain lady, let him visit Mrs Pontardent’s to-night.”
“That cannot be from Miss Clode,” said Richard, as he saw his friend’s face resume its cynical calm.
“Possibly not. Of course not. Why should she write to you? Well, Dick, we’ll go and see the affair to-night; but what do you mean to do?”
“Act according to circumstances. At any rate stop this wretched business.”
“Good,” said Mellersh. “I’m with you, Dick; but if it comes to a meeting this time, let me take the initiative. I should like to stand in front of Rockley some morning. The man irritates me, and I am in his debt.”
“What, money?”
“No; I want to pay back a few insults thrown at me over the tables now and then.”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Three.An Exacting Guest.Mrs Pontardent was a lady of a class who prospered well in the days when George the Third was king, and fashionable men considered it the correct thing to ruin themselves at cards wherever the tables were opened for the purpose. If you go to an auction sale now, in out-of-the-way places, there are sure to be card-tables in the catalogue; but if you furnish newly, your eyes rarely light upon green baize-lined tables exhibited for sale.There were several at Mrs Pontardent’s handsomely-furnished detached house in Prince’s Road, where it stood back in fairly extensive grounds. In fact, it was, after Lord Carboro’s, one of the best houses close to Saltinville.There were plenty of carriages waiting about in the road that night—so many along by the garden wall that Major Rockley found it necessary to alter his plans, for a post-chaise and four was likely to attract attention, and its postboys might be the objects of a good deal of ribald jest if they were close up with the servants of the private carriages.To meet this difficulty, not being able to find his servant, he went round himself to the livery-stables, feed the postboys, and gave them instructions to wait in the back lane close by the door in the wall at the north side of the garden.That door was only unlocked when the gardener was receiving fresh soil, plants or pots, or found it necessary to go out for a quiet refresher in the heat of the day; but after an interview and the offer of a golden key, the gardener thought it possible that the door might be left open that night.Mrs Pontardent lived in style, and her rooms deserved the title of saloons, draped as they were with amber satin, and bright with wax candles, whose light was reflected from many girandoles.The drawing-room windows opened on to a well-kept lawn; there were bosky walks; a terrace from which the glittering sea was visible; and in the saloons and about the garden a large and brilliant company was assembled.The Barclays were there, for Barclay was everybody’s banker, and a necessity. The Deans arrived early, and Cora looked handsomer than ever. In fact, the officers of the dragoon regiment, as they saw her go up and speak to Claire, declared that they were the most perfect blonde and brunette that the world had ever seen. But then Mrs Pontardent’s wines were excellent, and it was acknowledged that it was a guest’s own fault if he did not have enough.Tea, coffee, ices, and sandwiches at various buffets were spread as a matter of course, but the servants who waited there had a light time compared with that of the butler and his aid.The Master of the Ceremonies had arrived early with his daughter, whom Mrs Pontardent kissed affectionately, and called “My dear child,” and then her father was obliged to leave her, as he had so many duties to perform, receiving guests and introducing them to the hostess as if it were a royal ball; getting couples ready for the dances that went on to the strains of a string band in a very languid way, and finding places for elderly ladies at the card-tables, as opportunity served.As soon as she could, Claire found a refuge by the side of Mrs Barclay; but her hand was much sought after by dancers brought up from time to time by her father, and every time she trembled lest one of those present should offer himself as a partner.But, though Major Rockley was there, and had spoken to her gravely once, and bowed on two other occasions as he passed her, he had made no other advance; and when Richard Linnell arrived he did not attempt to speak, but passed her arm-in-arm with Colonel Mellersh, bowing coldly, and giving her one stern, severe look that made her draw her breath once with a catch, and then feel a glow of resentment.Cora came and sat down once by her side, to be by turns loving and spiteful, as if her temper was not under command; but they were soon separated, for Cora’s hand was also much sought after for the various dances.The evening was less trying than Claire had anticipated. She had come prepared to meet with several slights from the ladies present, but, somehow, the only one who openly treated her with discourtesy was Lady Drelincourt, who gave her the cut direct in a most offensive way, as she passed on Morton Denville’s arm.That was the unkindest act of all, for the boy had seen her, and was about to nod and smile, forgetful in the elation produced by several glasses of wine, of the cause of offence between them; but, taking his cue from the lady on his arm, he drew himself up stiffly and passed on.The tears rose to Claire’s eyes, but she mastered her emotion, as she saw Major Rockley on the other side of the room, keenly observant of all that had passed; and to hide her grief she went on talking to the gentleman who had just solicited her hand for the next dance.Richard Linnell passed her soon afterwards with Cora upon his arm, and a jealous pang shot through her; but it passed away, and she resigned herself to her position, as if she had suffered so many pangs of late that her senses were growing blunted, and suffering was becoming easier to her.Morton Denville was dismissed soon after in favour of Sir Matthew Bray; and, in his boy-like excitement, looked elated one moment as the half-fledged officer of dragoons, annoyed and self-conscious the next, as he kept seeing his father bowing and mincing about the rooms, or caught sight of his sister, whom he shunned.It was a miserable evening, he thought, and he wished he had not come.Then he wondered whether he looked well, for he fancied that the Adjutant had smiled at him.A minute later he was thinking that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and this enjoyment he found in a glass of Mrs Pontardent’s champagne.The dancing went on; so did the flirting in the saloons and in the garden, which was brilliant in front of the windows, deliciously dark and love-inspiring down the shady walks, for there the strains of the band came in a sweetly subdued murmur that the young officers declared was intoxicating, a charge that was misapplied.The play grew higher as the night wore on, the conversation and laughter louder, the dancing more spirited, and the party was at its height when Mrs Pontardent, in obedience to an oft-repeated look from Major Rockley, walked up to him slowly, and took his arm.“My dear Major: what a look!” she said banteringly. “You met the handsome youth, and you shot him. After that you ought to be friends, whereas I saw you exchange a look with poor Mr Linnell that was only excelled by the one you gave Colonel Mellersh.”“Damn Colonel Mellersh!” said Rockley savagely.“By all means,” said the lady mockingly; “but not in my presence, please.”“Don’t talk twaddle,” exclaimed Rockley, as they passed out of the drawing-room window and across the lawn.It so happened that Cora Dean had been dancing with a handsome young resident of the place, and, after the dance, he had begged her to take a stroll with him out in the grounds.“No, no,” she said, amused by the impression made upon his susceptible nature; “that means taking cold.”“I assure you, no,” he exclaimed rather thickly. “It’s warm and delightful outside. Just one walk round.”She was about to decline, when she caught Richard Linnell’s eyes fixed upon her and her companion, and, urged by a feeling of coquetry, and a desire to try and move him to speak to her, if it were only to reproach, she took the offered arm, and, throwing a lace scarf over her head, allowed her partner to lead where he would, and that was naturally down one of the darkest grass alleys of the grounds.“Do you know, Miss Dean,” he began thickly, “I never saw a girl in all my life who—”“Can we see the sea from the grounds here?” said Cora.“Yes; lovely view,” he said. “Down here;” and he led her farther from the house. “There, you can see the sea from here, but who would wish to see the sea when he could gaze into the lovely eyes of the most—”“Is not that an arbour?” said Cora, as they stood now in one of the darkest parts of the garden.“Yes. Let’s sit down and have a talk, and—”“Will you lead the way?” said Cora.“Yes; give me your hand—eh—why—what dooce! She’s given me the slip. Oh, ’pon my soul, I’ll pay her for that.”He started back towards the house, passing close by Cora, who had merely stepped behind a laurustinus, and who now went in the other direction, along a grass path at the back of the lawn.Her white satin slippers made not the slightest sound, and she was about to walk straight across the lawn and out into the light, when a low, deep murmur reached her ear, and she recognised the voice.“Major Rockley,” she said to herself. “Who is he with?”Her jealous heart at once whispered “Claire!”“If I could but bring Richard face to face with them now!” she thought, “he would turn to me after all.”She hesitated, for the thought of the act being dishonourable struck her; but in her mental state, and with her defective education, she was not disposed to yield to fine notions of social honour; and, with her heart beating fast, she hurried softly along the grass, to find herself well within hearing of the speakers.The words she heard were not those of love, for they were uttered more in anger. It was at times quite a quarrel changing to the tone of ordinary conversation.Cora glanced behind her, to see the brightly lit-up house and hear the strains of music and the sounds of laughter and lively remark, while, by contrast with the glow in that direction, the bushes amid which she stood and into which she peered seemed to be the more obscure.There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice said quickly:“No, no; I cannot. You must not ask me, indeed.”A curious feeling of disappointment came over Cora, for her plan was crushed on the instant. What were other people’s love affairs to her?She was turning away with disgust, when the deep voice of the Major said quickly, and in a menacing way which rooted the listener to the spot:“But I say you shall. One word from me, and you might have to leave Saltinville for good. I mean for your own good.”“Oh, Rockley!”“I don’t care; you make me mad. Here have I done you endless little services, helped you to live in the style you do; and the first little favour I ask of you, I am met with a flat refusal.”“I don’t like to refuse you, but the girl is—”“Well, you know what the girl is. Hang it all, Pont, should I ask you if it were not as I say—unless it were that rich heiress I am to carry off some day.”“And the sooner the better.”“Yes, yes; but time’s going. It’s now eleven, and I must strike while the iron’s hot.”“But, Rockley—”“More opposition? What the devil do you mean?”“I don’t like to be mixed up with such an affair.”“You will not be mixed up with it. No one will know but our two selves.”“My conscience goes against such a trap.”“Your conscience!” he hissed angrily.“Well, and do you suppose I have none? The girl is too good. I like her. It is a shame, Rockley.”Cora Dean’s heart beat as if it would suffocate her, while her mouth felt dry and her hands moist. She could hardly have moved to save her life. She knew what it was, she felt sure. It was a plot against Claire, and if it were—Cora Dean did not finish her thought, but listened as Rockley spoke again.
Mrs Pontardent was a lady of a class who prospered well in the days when George the Third was king, and fashionable men considered it the correct thing to ruin themselves at cards wherever the tables were opened for the purpose. If you go to an auction sale now, in out-of-the-way places, there are sure to be card-tables in the catalogue; but if you furnish newly, your eyes rarely light upon green baize-lined tables exhibited for sale.
There were several at Mrs Pontardent’s handsomely-furnished detached house in Prince’s Road, where it stood back in fairly extensive grounds. In fact, it was, after Lord Carboro’s, one of the best houses close to Saltinville.
There were plenty of carriages waiting about in the road that night—so many along by the garden wall that Major Rockley found it necessary to alter his plans, for a post-chaise and four was likely to attract attention, and its postboys might be the objects of a good deal of ribald jest if they were close up with the servants of the private carriages.
To meet this difficulty, not being able to find his servant, he went round himself to the livery-stables, feed the postboys, and gave them instructions to wait in the back lane close by the door in the wall at the north side of the garden.
That door was only unlocked when the gardener was receiving fresh soil, plants or pots, or found it necessary to go out for a quiet refresher in the heat of the day; but after an interview and the offer of a golden key, the gardener thought it possible that the door might be left open that night.
Mrs Pontardent lived in style, and her rooms deserved the title of saloons, draped as they were with amber satin, and bright with wax candles, whose light was reflected from many girandoles.
The drawing-room windows opened on to a well-kept lawn; there were bosky walks; a terrace from which the glittering sea was visible; and in the saloons and about the garden a large and brilliant company was assembled.
The Barclays were there, for Barclay was everybody’s banker, and a necessity. The Deans arrived early, and Cora looked handsomer than ever. In fact, the officers of the dragoon regiment, as they saw her go up and speak to Claire, declared that they were the most perfect blonde and brunette that the world had ever seen. But then Mrs Pontardent’s wines were excellent, and it was acknowledged that it was a guest’s own fault if he did not have enough.
Tea, coffee, ices, and sandwiches at various buffets were spread as a matter of course, but the servants who waited there had a light time compared with that of the butler and his aid.
The Master of the Ceremonies had arrived early with his daughter, whom Mrs Pontardent kissed affectionately, and called “My dear child,” and then her father was obliged to leave her, as he had so many duties to perform, receiving guests and introducing them to the hostess as if it were a royal ball; getting couples ready for the dances that went on to the strains of a string band in a very languid way, and finding places for elderly ladies at the card-tables, as opportunity served.
As soon as she could, Claire found a refuge by the side of Mrs Barclay; but her hand was much sought after by dancers brought up from time to time by her father, and every time she trembled lest one of those present should offer himself as a partner.
But, though Major Rockley was there, and had spoken to her gravely once, and bowed on two other occasions as he passed her, he had made no other advance; and when Richard Linnell arrived he did not attempt to speak, but passed her arm-in-arm with Colonel Mellersh, bowing coldly, and giving her one stern, severe look that made her draw her breath once with a catch, and then feel a glow of resentment.
Cora came and sat down once by her side, to be by turns loving and spiteful, as if her temper was not under command; but they were soon separated, for Cora’s hand was also much sought after for the various dances.
The evening was less trying than Claire had anticipated. She had come prepared to meet with several slights from the ladies present, but, somehow, the only one who openly treated her with discourtesy was Lady Drelincourt, who gave her the cut direct in a most offensive way, as she passed on Morton Denville’s arm.
That was the unkindest act of all, for the boy had seen her, and was about to nod and smile, forgetful in the elation produced by several glasses of wine, of the cause of offence between them; but, taking his cue from the lady on his arm, he drew himself up stiffly and passed on.
The tears rose to Claire’s eyes, but she mastered her emotion, as she saw Major Rockley on the other side of the room, keenly observant of all that had passed; and to hide her grief she went on talking to the gentleman who had just solicited her hand for the next dance.
Richard Linnell passed her soon afterwards with Cora upon his arm, and a jealous pang shot through her; but it passed away, and she resigned herself to her position, as if she had suffered so many pangs of late that her senses were growing blunted, and suffering was becoming easier to her.
Morton Denville was dismissed soon after in favour of Sir Matthew Bray; and, in his boy-like excitement, looked elated one moment as the half-fledged officer of dragoons, annoyed and self-conscious the next, as he kept seeing his father bowing and mincing about the rooms, or caught sight of his sister, whom he shunned.
It was a miserable evening, he thought, and he wished he had not come.
Then he wondered whether he looked well, for he fancied that the Adjutant had smiled at him.
A minute later he was thinking that he was thoroughly enjoying himself, and this enjoyment he found in a glass of Mrs Pontardent’s champagne.
The dancing went on; so did the flirting in the saloons and in the garden, which was brilliant in front of the windows, deliciously dark and love-inspiring down the shady walks, for there the strains of the band came in a sweetly subdued murmur that the young officers declared was intoxicating, a charge that was misapplied.
The play grew higher as the night wore on, the conversation and laughter louder, the dancing more spirited, and the party was at its height when Mrs Pontardent, in obedience to an oft-repeated look from Major Rockley, walked up to him slowly, and took his arm.
“My dear Major: what a look!” she said banteringly. “You met the handsome youth, and you shot him. After that you ought to be friends, whereas I saw you exchange a look with poor Mr Linnell that was only excelled by the one you gave Colonel Mellersh.”
“Damn Colonel Mellersh!” said Rockley savagely.
“By all means,” said the lady mockingly; “but not in my presence, please.”
“Don’t talk twaddle,” exclaimed Rockley, as they passed out of the drawing-room window and across the lawn.
It so happened that Cora Dean had been dancing with a handsome young resident of the place, and, after the dance, he had begged her to take a stroll with him out in the grounds.
“No, no,” she said, amused by the impression made upon his susceptible nature; “that means taking cold.”
“I assure you, no,” he exclaimed rather thickly. “It’s warm and delightful outside. Just one walk round.”
She was about to decline, when she caught Richard Linnell’s eyes fixed upon her and her companion, and, urged by a feeling of coquetry, and a desire to try and move him to speak to her, if it were only to reproach, she took the offered arm, and, throwing a lace scarf over her head, allowed her partner to lead where he would, and that was naturally down one of the darkest grass alleys of the grounds.
“Do you know, Miss Dean,” he began thickly, “I never saw a girl in all my life who—”
“Can we see the sea from the grounds here?” said Cora.
“Yes; lovely view,” he said. “Down here;” and he led her farther from the house. “There, you can see the sea from here, but who would wish to see the sea when he could gaze into the lovely eyes of the most—”
“Is not that an arbour?” said Cora, as they stood now in one of the darkest parts of the garden.
“Yes. Let’s sit down and have a talk, and—”
“Will you lead the way?” said Cora.
“Yes; give me your hand—eh—why—what dooce! She’s given me the slip. Oh, ’pon my soul, I’ll pay her for that.”
He started back towards the house, passing close by Cora, who had merely stepped behind a laurustinus, and who now went in the other direction, along a grass path at the back of the lawn.
Her white satin slippers made not the slightest sound, and she was about to walk straight across the lawn and out into the light, when a low, deep murmur reached her ear, and she recognised the voice.
“Major Rockley,” she said to herself. “Who is he with?”
Her jealous heart at once whispered “Claire!”
“If I could but bring Richard face to face with them now!” she thought, “he would turn to me after all.”
She hesitated, for the thought of the act being dishonourable struck her; but in her mental state, and with her defective education, she was not disposed to yield to fine notions of social honour; and, with her heart beating fast, she hurried softly along the grass, to find herself well within hearing of the speakers.
The words she heard were not those of love, for they were uttered more in anger. It was at times quite a quarrel changing to the tone of ordinary conversation.
Cora glanced behind her, to see the brightly lit-up house and hear the strains of music and the sounds of laughter and lively remark, while, by contrast with the glow in that direction, the bushes amid which she stood and into which she peered seemed to be the more obscure.
There was a pause, and then a woman’s voice said quickly:
“No, no; I cannot. You must not ask me, indeed.”
A curious feeling of disappointment came over Cora, for her plan was crushed on the instant. What were other people’s love affairs to her?
She was turning away with disgust, when the deep voice of the Major said quickly, and in a menacing way which rooted the listener to the spot:
“But I say you shall. One word from me, and you might have to leave Saltinville for good. I mean for your own good.”
“Oh, Rockley!”
“I don’t care; you make me mad. Here have I done you endless little services, helped you to live in the style you do; and the first little favour I ask of you, I am met with a flat refusal.”
“I don’t like to refuse you, but the girl is—”
“Well, you know what the girl is. Hang it all, Pont, should I ask you if it were not as I say—unless it were that rich heiress I am to carry off some day.”
“And the sooner the better.”
“Yes, yes; but time’s going. It’s now eleven, and I must strike while the iron’s hot.”
“But, Rockley—”
“More opposition? What the devil do you mean?”
“I don’t like to be mixed up with such an affair.”
“You will not be mixed up with it. No one will know but our two selves.”
“My conscience goes against such a trap.”
“Your conscience!” he hissed angrily.
“Well, and do you suppose I have none? The girl is too good. I like her. It is a shame, Rockley.”
Cora Dean’s heart beat as if it would suffocate her, while her mouth felt dry and her hands moist. She could hardly have moved to save her life. She knew what it was, she felt sure. It was a plot against Claire, and if it were—
Cora Dean did not finish her thought, but listened as Rockley spoke again.
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Four.Too Late.“How long has the fair Pontardent taken to the nursing up of scruples?”“Do you suppose a woman is all evil?” was the retort. “You men make us bad enough, but you cannot kill all the good. I say it is a shame.”“A shame!” said Rockley derisively. “Ha, ha, ha! What a woman you are! You don’t know what has taken place. I tell you this; she is mine. All she wants is the excuse and opportunity that she finds to-night with me. The old man watches her like a hawk.”“Is this really so, Rockley?”“On my honour. I should not have done what I have if she were not willing. I’ve a chaise and four waiting outside the lower gate behind here.”“You have?”“It has been there this half hour, and we are only waiting for our opportunity. Now then, will you help me?”“Well,” said Mrs Pontardent hesitating, “if it is that—”“It is like that, I tell you; but she wants it to appear that she had no hand in it, to keep up the fiction. You see?”“Yes,” said the woman, rather hoarsely; “but I don’t like it, Rockley.”“Friends or enemies?—one word?” he said sternly.“Friends,” she said quickly. “What am I to do?”“Go back at once, and get hold of young Denville. He’s half-tipsy somewhere.”“Yes.”“Tell him he has shamefully neglected his sister, and that he is to take her out in the garden for a walk straight down the broad grass path, and beg her pardon.”“But—”“Not a word. Do what I say. The boy will obey you like a sheep dog.”“And then?”“What then? That is all.”“But, Rockley, no violence.”“Bah! Rubbish! Do as I bid you. I shall push the boy into a bush; that’s all.”There was a dead silence.“Must I do this, Rockley?”“Yes, you must. Go at once. You shall not be mixed in the affair at all. No one can blame you, for the boy is too tipsy to recollect anything to-morrow. Now go.”There was a rustle of a dress, and Cora had just time to draw out of sight as Mrs Pontardent passed her.Cora heard her voice as she went by. It was almost like a sigh, but the words were articulate, and they were:“God forgive me! It is too bad.”What to do?Cora stood motionless, her pulses beating furiously, and the blood surging to her brain, and seeming to keep her from thinking out some plan.Major Rockley—the cruel, insolent libertine—had a post-chaise waiting; by a trick Claire was to be got out, and down the broad walk, led like a sheep to the slaughter by her weak, half-tipsy brother, and then carried off. The plan seemed to Cora devilish in its cunning, and the flush of her ardent blood intoxicated her with a strange feeling of excitement—a wild kind of joy.It was all for her. Claire away—carried off, or eloped with Rockley, Richard Linnell would rage for a week, and then forget her. Poor fellow! How he had struggled to hide that limp, and how handsome he looked. How she loved him—her idol—who had saved her life. He would be hers now, hers alone, and there would be no handsome, sweet-voiced rival in the way to win him to think always of her soft, grey, loving eyes—so gentle, so appealing in their gaze, that they seemed to be looking out of the darkness at her now.Yes, there they were so firm and true—so softly appealing, and yet so full of womanly dignity that, as she hated her, so at the same time she loved.“And in perhaps half an hour she would be away—on the road to London—in the Major’s arms.”“And Richard Linnell will be free to love me, and me alone?”She said it aloud, and then tore at her throat, for a thought came that made the blood surge up and nearly suffocate her.“Why, he would curse me if he knew, and loathe me to his dying day.”She took a few hasty steps forward, and then staggered and stopped short.“I must have been mad!” she panted. “Am I so bad as that?”She hurried towards the house, and narrowly missed her late partner as she reached one of the windows.Thank heaven! she was not too late. There sat Claire where she had left her. No: it was some other lady.She hurried in as quickly as she could without exciting notice.Where was Claire?She went from room to room, but she was not visible.Where was Richard Linnell?Nowhere to be seen.If she could find Colonel Mellersh, or Mr Barclay—but no; there was not a soul she knew, and from different parts of the room men were approaching her, evidently to ask her to dance.She escaped into another saloon, and there was Denville.She took a few steps towards him, but he hurried away as if to attend to a call from their hostess, who was smiling at the end of the room. The next moment Cora saw her take the arm of the Master of the Ceremonies and go through a farther door.Impossible to speak to him now. It was as if Mrs Pontardent had divined the reason of her coming, and was fighting against her with all her might.Another gentleman approached, but she shrank away nervously, expecting each moment to see again her companion of the dark walk.All at once, to her great joy, she caught sight of Mrs Barclay, looking in colour like a full-blown cabbage-rose, and exhaling scent.She hurried up to the plump pink dame, to be saluted with:“Ah, my dear, how handsome you do look to-night!”“Where’s Claire Denville?” cried Cora huskily.“Claire, my dear? Oh, she was with me ever so long, but she has just gone down the grounds.”A spasm seemed to shoot through Cora Dean as she said to herself: “Too late!”
“How long has the fair Pontardent taken to the nursing up of scruples?”
“Do you suppose a woman is all evil?” was the retort. “You men make us bad enough, but you cannot kill all the good. I say it is a shame.”
“A shame!” said Rockley derisively. “Ha, ha, ha! What a woman you are! You don’t know what has taken place. I tell you this; she is mine. All she wants is the excuse and opportunity that she finds to-night with me. The old man watches her like a hawk.”
“Is this really so, Rockley?”
“On my honour. I should not have done what I have if she were not willing. I’ve a chaise and four waiting outside the lower gate behind here.”
“You have?”
“It has been there this half hour, and we are only waiting for our opportunity. Now then, will you help me?”
“Well,” said Mrs Pontardent hesitating, “if it is that—”
“It is like that, I tell you; but she wants it to appear that she had no hand in it, to keep up the fiction. You see?”
“Yes,” said the woman, rather hoarsely; “but I don’t like it, Rockley.”
“Friends or enemies?—one word?” he said sternly.
“Friends,” she said quickly. “What am I to do?”
“Go back at once, and get hold of young Denville. He’s half-tipsy somewhere.”
“Yes.”
“Tell him he has shamefully neglected his sister, and that he is to take her out in the garden for a walk straight down the broad grass path, and beg her pardon.”
“But—”
“Not a word. Do what I say. The boy will obey you like a sheep dog.”
“And then?”
“What then? That is all.”
“But, Rockley, no violence.”
“Bah! Rubbish! Do as I bid you. I shall push the boy into a bush; that’s all.”
There was a dead silence.
“Must I do this, Rockley?”
“Yes, you must. Go at once. You shall not be mixed in the affair at all. No one can blame you, for the boy is too tipsy to recollect anything to-morrow. Now go.”
There was a rustle of a dress, and Cora had just time to draw out of sight as Mrs Pontardent passed her.
Cora heard her voice as she went by. It was almost like a sigh, but the words were articulate, and they were:
“God forgive me! It is too bad.”
What to do?
Cora stood motionless, her pulses beating furiously, and the blood surging to her brain, and seeming to keep her from thinking out some plan.
Major Rockley—the cruel, insolent libertine—had a post-chaise waiting; by a trick Claire was to be got out, and down the broad walk, led like a sheep to the slaughter by her weak, half-tipsy brother, and then carried off. The plan seemed to Cora devilish in its cunning, and the flush of her ardent blood intoxicated her with a strange feeling of excitement—a wild kind of joy.
It was all for her. Claire away—carried off, or eloped with Rockley, Richard Linnell would rage for a week, and then forget her. Poor fellow! How he had struggled to hide that limp, and how handsome he looked. How she loved him—her idol—who had saved her life. He would be hers now, hers alone, and there would be no handsome, sweet-voiced rival in the way to win him to think always of her soft, grey, loving eyes—so gentle, so appealing in their gaze, that they seemed to be looking out of the darkness at her now.
Yes, there they were so firm and true—so softly appealing, and yet so full of womanly dignity that, as she hated her, so at the same time she loved.
“And in perhaps half an hour she would be away—on the road to London—in the Major’s arms.”
“And Richard Linnell will be free to love me, and me alone?”
She said it aloud, and then tore at her throat, for a thought came that made the blood surge up and nearly suffocate her.
“Why, he would curse me if he knew, and loathe me to his dying day.”
She took a few hasty steps forward, and then staggered and stopped short.
“I must have been mad!” she panted. “Am I so bad as that?”
She hurried towards the house, and narrowly missed her late partner as she reached one of the windows.
Thank heaven! she was not too late. There sat Claire where she had left her. No: it was some other lady.
She hurried in as quickly as she could without exciting notice.
Where was Claire?
She went from room to room, but she was not visible.
Where was Richard Linnell?
Nowhere to be seen.
If she could find Colonel Mellersh, or Mr Barclay—but no; there was not a soul she knew, and from different parts of the room men were approaching her, evidently to ask her to dance.
She escaped into another saloon, and there was Denville.
She took a few steps towards him, but he hurried away as if to attend to a call from their hostess, who was smiling at the end of the room. The next moment Cora saw her take the arm of the Master of the Ceremonies and go through a farther door.
Impossible to speak to him now. It was as if Mrs Pontardent had divined the reason of her coming, and was fighting against her with all her might.
Another gentleman approached, but she shrank away nervously, expecting each moment to see again her companion of the dark walk.
All at once, to her great joy, she caught sight of Mrs Barclay, looking in colour like a full-blown cabbage-rose, and exhaling scent.
She hurried up to the plump pink dame, to be saluted with:
“Ah, my dear, how handsome you do look to-night!”
“Where’s Claire Denville?” cried Cora huskily.
“Claire, my dear? Oh, she was with me ever so long, but she has just gone down the grounds.”
A spasm seemed to shoot through Cora Dean as she said to herself: “Too late!”
Volume Two—Chapter Twenty Five.Mellersh is Convinced.“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh, as he sought Linnell out, after a stroll round the rooms in search of Cora Dean, “how long are you going to keep yourself on the gridiron?”“I don’t understand you.”“Then I shall not try to explain.”“Have you seen anything?”“N-no.”“Don’t hesitate, man; you have?”“No, Dick, no. Of course, I’ve seen a certain young lady, and I’ve seen Rockley hanging about.”“Well, that proves nothing, does it?”“My dear Dick, why should I waste my breath on a man in your condition?”“My condition, you wretched old cynic? You never knew what it was to love.”“Wrong. I have loved, and I am in love now.”“You? You?”“Yes, my boy, and with a woman who cares for somebody else; but I don’t go stalking about like a tragedy hero, and rolling my eyes and cursing the whole world. If I cannot have the moon, I shall not cry for it.”“Hist! There goes Rockley.”“Well, let him go.”Richard Linnell made no reply, but quietly followed the Major.“I mustn’t let them meet without me there,” thought Mellersh. “The scoundrel might hit him badly next time.”He strode off after Richard Linnell, but missed him, and it was quite half an hour before they met again.“I have been about the gate,” said Richard hoarsely. “There is no post-chaise there.”“Then it is a hoax.”“No; I cannot think that it is. Rockley is yonder, and he is watching about in a curious, restless way that means something.”“Where is he?”“Over there by the saloon window.”“Oh, my dear Dick, I am hungry for a good hand at whist, and to win a little Philistine gold, and here you keep me hanging about after you, looking for a mare’s nest.”“I can’t stop,” said Linnell. “Where shall I find you if I want you?”“Here, on this seat, under this bush, smoking a cigar. No; I’ll stick by you, my lad.”They went off together, and, going straight up to the window pointed out by Linnell, found that Rockley was not there.“I left him there, I’ll swear,” said Linnell savagely. “No, don’t let us separate; I may want you.”“Quite right; and I may want you,” replied Mellersh.They walked hastily round, looking in at window after window, but there was no sign of Rockley. The throng of guests were dancing, playing, or conversing, and the scene was very brilliant; but the tall, dark officer of the dragoons was the only one of his party that they could not see.“Mellersh,” exclaimed Linnell suddenly, “with all my watchfulness, I seem to have failed.”“Why do you say that?”“Claire!”“Claire? Why, I saw her seated on that rout-chair five minutes ago.”“Yes; but she has gone.”“Quick, then—down to the gate! We must see them there.”“Unless they have passed through,” said Linnell, with a groan. “I ought not to have left the entrance.”“Don’t talk,” said Mellersh, almost savagely now, he seemed so moved from his ordinary calm. “I don’t want to think you are right, Dick, but I begin to be suspicious at last.”They hurried down to the gate, where a knot of servants were chatting, the lights from the carriage-lamps glistening in polished panels and windows, and throwing up the gay liveries of the belaced footmen waiting.“Has any one passed through here lately?” said Mellersh sharply.“No, sir,” was chorused.“Not a lady and gentleman?”“No, sir—yes, about half an hour ago Colonel Lascelles and the doctor at the barracks went out together.”“But no lady and gentleman separately or together?”“No, sir.”“No carriage?”“No, sir,” said the footman who had acted as spokesman.“Only wish they would,” grumbled a coachman from his box close by the gate.“We are in time,” said Mellersh, and Linnell breathed more freely as he took up a position in the shade of a great clump of evergreens just inside the gate.“Have you any plan?” said Mellersh, after a few minutes’ waiting, during which time the servants, gathered in a knot, were at first quiet, as if resenting the presence of the two gentlemen. Then their conversation began again, and the watchers were forgotten.“Plan? Yes,” said Linnell. “I shall take her from him, and not leave her until she is in her father’s care.”“Humph! That means mischief, Dick.”“Yes; for him, Mellersh. I shall end by killing that man.”Mellersh was silent, and the minutes glided by.“I can’t bear this,” said Linnell at last. “I feel as if there is something wrong—that he has succeeded in getting her away. Mellersh! man! why don’t you speak? Here, come this way.”Mellersh followed as his companion walked to the gate.“Is there a servant of Mrs Pontardent’s here?”“Yes, sir,” said a man holding a lantern, “I am.”“Is there any other entrance to these grounds?”“No, sir,” said the man sharply, and Linnell’s heart beat with joy. “Leastwise, sir, only the garden gate.”“Garden gate?”“Yes, sir; at the bottom of the broad walk.”“Here—which way?”“Right up through the grounds, sir; or along outside here, till you come to the lane that goes round by the back. But it’s always kept locked.”“Stop here, Mellersh, while I go round and see,” whispered Linnell. “If I shout, come to me.”“Yes; go on. It is not likely.”They went outside together, past the wondering group of servants, and then separating, Linnell was starting off when Mellersh ran to him.“No blows, Dick,” he whispered, “Be content with separating them.”Linnell nodded, and was starting again when a man ran up out of the darkness, and caught Mellersh hastily by the arm.“Seen a post-chaise about here, sir?”“Post-chaise, my man?”“Yes, sir—four horses—was to have been waiting hereabouts. Lower down. Haven’t heard one pass?”“No,” said Linnell quickly; “but what post-chaise? Whose? Speak man!”“Who are you?” said the man roughly.“Never mind who I am,” cried Linnell. “Tell me who was that post-chaise waiting for?”The man shook him off with an oath, and was starting again on his search, when about fifty yards away there was the tramp of horses, the rattle and bump of wheels; and then, as by one consent, the three men ran towards the spot, they caught a faint glimpse of a yellow chaise turning into the main road; then there was the cracking of the postboys’ whips, and away it went over the hard road at a canter.“Too late!” groaned the man, as he ran on, closely followed by Linnell and Mellersh.“Too late!” groaned Linnell; but he ran on, passing the man, who raced after him, though, and for about a quarter of a mile they kept almost together, till, panting with breathlessness and despair, and feeling the utter hopelessness of overtaking the chaise on foot, Linnell turned fiercely on the runner and grasped him by the throat.“You scoundrel!” he panted. “You knew of this. Who’s in that chaise?”“Curse you! don’t stop me. Can’t you see I’m too late?” cried the man savagely.“Linnell! Are you mad?” cried Mellersh, coming up.“Linnell!—are you Linnell?—Richard Linnell?” panted the man, ceasing his struggles.“Yes. Who are you?”“Don’t waste time, man,” groaned the other. “We must stop them at any cost. Did you see them go? Who is it Major Rockley has got there?”“A lady we know,” said Mellersh quickly. “Who are you?”“The drunken fool and idiot who wanted to stop it,” groaned Bell. “Here, Linnell,” he said, “what are you going to do?”“The man’s drunk, and fooling us, Mellersh,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Quick! Into the town and let’s get a post-chaise. They are certain to take the London Road.”“No,” cried Bell excitedly; “he would make for Weymouth. Tell me this, though, gentlemen,” he cried, clinging to Linnell’s arm. “I am drunk, but I know what I am saying. For God’s sake, speak: is it Claire Denville?”“Who are you?” cried Mellersh sharply. “Stand off, or I’ll knock you down. It is the Major’s man, Dick, and he’s keeping us back to gain time. I didn’t know him at first.”“No: I swear I’m not,” cried the dragoon, in a voice so full of anguish, that they felt his words were true. “Tell me, is it Miss Denville?”“Yes.”“Curse him! I’ll have his life,” cried the man savagely. “This way, quick!”“What are you going to do?” cried Linnell, as Bell set off at a sharp run towards the main street of the town.“Come with me and see.”“No: I shall get a post-chaise and four.”“And give them an hour’s start,” cried the dragoon. “Horses, man, horses.”“Where can we get them quickly?”“In Major Rockley’s stable, curse him!” was the reply.In five minutes they were at the stable, and the dragoon threw open the door.“Can you saddle a horse?” he panted, as they entered the place, dimly lit by a tallow candle in a swinging horn lantern.“Yes—yes,” was the reply.“Quick then. Everything’s ready.”Each ran to a horse, the head-stalls were cast loose, and the order of the well-appointed stable stood them in such good stead that, everything being at hand, in five minutes the three horses were saddled and bridled, and being led out, champing their bits.“We’ve no spurs. Where are the whips?”“They want no whips,” cried the dragoon excitedly; “a shake of the rein and a touch of the heel. They’re chargers, gentlemen. Can you ride, Mr Linnell?”“Yes,” was the answer; and as it was given Linnell’s foot was painfully raised to the stirrup.He stopped though, and laid his hand upon the dragoon’s shoulder.“The London Road?” he said, looking him full in the eyes.“The Weymouth Road, I tell you.”Another half minute and they were mounted and clattering down the lane to turn into the main street, up which the three sleek creatures pressed, hanging close together, and snorting, and rattling their bits as they increased their stride.“Steady—steady—a carriage,” cried Mellersh; and they opened out to ride on either side of a chariot with flashing lamps, and as they passed they had a glimpse of Lady Drelincourt being escorted home from the party by Sir Matthew Bray.“Steady!” cried Mellersh again, as they came in sight of the cluster of lamps and carriages by Mrs Pontardent’s gates; and but for his insistance there would have been a collision, for another carriage came out and passed them, the wheel just brushing Linnell’s leg in the road narrowed by a string of carriages drawn up to the path.“Now we’re clear,” said Mellersh; and they cantered by the wall, past the lane in which the chaise had been waiting, past a few more houses and the ragged outskirts, always mounting, and then bearing off to the left as the way curved, till there it lay, the broad chalk western road, open, hard, and ready to ring to their horses’ beating hoofs.“Now then, forward!” cried the dragoon hoarsely.“At a trot!” shouted Mellersh.“No, no; gallop!” roared the dragoon, and his horse darted ahead.“Halt!” shouted Mellersh in a ringing voice, for he had not forgotten old field-practice; and the three horses stopped short.“Listen!” he continued, in a voice of authority; “they’ve half an hour’s start nearly, and we shall not overtake them this stage. We must not blow our horses at the beginning. A steady trot for the first few miles, and then forward at a canter. It will be a long race.”“Right, sir,” cried the dragoon. “He’s right, Mr Linnell. Take the lead, sir; my head’s on fire.”“Forward!” cried the Colonel; and away they went through the dark night, but with the chalky road making their way clear.After a mile or two the rapid swinging trot of the chargers grew into a regular military canter, and that, by an imperceptible change, into a rapid gallop that was now kept up, for the excitement of the chase told upon Mellersh, and his ideas of prudence as to husbanding the horses’ powers were swept away as if by the keen wind that dashed by their ears.“I ought to check him,” said Mellersh, as he toned down his excitement for the minute; and then—“No, I cannot, for I must take that scoundrel by the throat.”
“Well, Dick,” said Mellersh, as he sought Linnell out, after a stroll round the rooms in search of Cora Dean, “how long are you going to keep yourself on the gridiron?”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Then I shall not try to explain.”
“Have you seen anything?”
“N-no.”
“Don’t hesitate, man; you have?”
“No, Dick, no. Of course, I’ve seen a certain young lady, and I’ve seen Rockley hanging about.”
“Well, that proves nothing, does it?”
“My dear Dick, why should I waste my breath on a man in your condition?”
“My condition, you wretched old cynic? You never knew what it was to love.”
“Wrong. I have loved, and I am in love now.”
“You? You?”
“Yes, my boy, and with a woman who cares for somebody else; but I don’t go stalking about like a tragedy hero, and rolling my eyes and cursing the whole world. If I cannot have the moon, I shall not cry for it.”
“Hist! There goes Rockley.”
“Well, let him go.”
Richard Linnell made no reply, but quietly followed the Major.
“I mustn’t let them meet without me there,” thought Mellersh. “The scoundrel might hit him badly next time.”
He strode off after Richard Linnell, but missed him, and it was quite half an hour before they met again.
“I have been about the gate,” said Richard hoarsely. “There is no post-chaise there.”
“Then it is a hoax.”
“No; I cannot think that it is. Rockley is yonder, and he is watching about in a curious, restless way that means something.”
“Where is he?”
“Over there by the saloon window.”
“Oh, my dear Dick, I am hungry for a good hand at whist, and to win a little Philistine gold, and here you keep me hanging about after you, looking for a mare’s nest.”
“I can’t stop,” said Linnell. “Where shall I find you if I want you?”
“Here, on this seat, under this bush, smoking a cigar. No; I’ll stick by you, my lad.”
They went off together, and, going straight up to the window pointed out by Linnell, found that Rockley was not there.
“I left him there, I’ll swear,” said Linnell savagely. “No, don’t let us separate; I may want you.”
“Quite right; and I may want you,” replied Mellersh.
They walked hastily round, looking in at window after window, but there was no sign of Rockley. The throng of guests were dancing, playing, or conversing, and the scene was very brilliant; but the tall, dark officer of the dragoons was the only one of his party that they could not see.
“Mellersh,” exclaimed Linnell suddenly, “with all my watchfulness, I seem to have failed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Claire!”
“Claire? Why, I saw her seated on that rout-chair five minutes ago.”
“Yes; but she has gone.”
“Quick, then—down to the gate! We must see them there.”
“Unless they have passed through,” said Linnell, with a groan. “I ought not to have left the entrance.”
“Don’t talk,” said Mellersh, almost savagely now, he seemed so moved from his ordinary calm. “I don’t want to think you are right, Dick, but I begin to be suspicious at last.”
They hurried down to the gate, where a knot of servants were chatting, the lights from the carriage-lamps glistening in polished panels and windows, and throwing up the gay liveries of the belaced footmen waiting.
“Has any one passed through here lately?” said Mellersh sharply.
“No, sir,” was chorused.
“Not a lady and gentleman?”
“No, sir—yes, about half an hour ago Colonel Lascelles and the doctor at the barracks went out together.”
“But no lady and gentleman separately or together?”
“No, sir.”
“No carriage?”
“No, sir,” said the footman who had acted as spokesman.
“Only wish they would,” grumbled a coachman from his box close by the gate.
“We are in time,” said Mellersh, and Linnell breathed more freely as he took up a position in the shade of a great clump of evergreens just inside the gate.
“Have you any plan?” said Mellersh, after a few minutes’ waiting, during which time the servants, gathered in a knot, were at first quiet, as if resenting the presence of the two gentlemen. Then their conversation began again, and the watchers were forgotten.
“Plan? Yes,” said Linnell. “I shall take her from him, and not leave her until she is in her father’s care.”
“Humph! That means mischief, Dick.”
“Yes; for him, Mellersh. I shall end by killing that man.”
Mellersh was silent, and the minutes glided by.
“I can’t bear this,” said Linnell at last. “I feel as if there is something wrong—that he has succeeded in getting her away. Mellersh! man! why don’t you speak? Here, come this way.”
Mellersh followed as his companion walked to the gate.
“Is there a servant of Mrs Pontardent’s here?”
“Yes, sir,” said a man holding a lantern, “I am.”
“Is there any other entrance to these grounds?”
“No, sir,” said the man sharply, and Linnell’s heart beat with joy. “Leastwise, sir, only the garden gate.”
“Garden gate?”
“Yes, sir; at the bottom of the broad walk.”
“Here—which way?”
“Right up through the grounds, sir; or along outside here, till you come to the lane that goes round by the back. But it’s always kept locked.”
“Stop here, Mellersh, while I go round and see,” whispered Linnell. “If I shout, come to me.”
“Yes; go on. It is not likely.”
They went outside together, past the wondering group of servants, and then separating, Linnell was starting off when Mellersh ran to him.
“No blows, Dick,” he whispered, “Be content with separating them.”
Linnell nodded, and was starting again when a man ran up out of the darkness, and caught Mellersh hastily by the arm.
“Seen a post-chaise about here, sir?”
“Post-chaise, my man?”
“Yes, sir—four horses—was to have been waiting hereabouts. Lower down. Haven’t heard one pass?”
“No,” said Linnell quickly; “but what post-chaise? Whose? Speak man!”
“Who are you?” said the man roughly.
“Never mind who I am,” cried Linnell. “Tell me who was that post-chaise waiting for?”
The man shook him off with an oath, and was starting again on his search, when about fifty yards away there was the tramp of horses, the rattle and bump of wheels; and then, as by one consent, the three men ran towards the spot, they caught a faint glimpse of a yellow chaise turning into the main road; then there was the cracking of the postboys’ whips, and away it went over the hard road at a canter.
“Too late!” groaned the man, as he ran on, closely followed by Linnell and Mellersh.
“Too late!” groaned Linnell; but he ran on, passing the man, who raced after him, though, and for about a quarter of a mile they kept almost together, till, panting with breathlessness and despair, and feeling the utter hopelessness of overtaking the chaise on foot, Linnell turned fiercely on the runner and grasped him by the throat.
“You scoundrel!” he panted. “You knew of this. Who’s in that chaise?”
“Curse you! don’t stop me. Can’t you see I’m too late?” cried the man savagely.
“Linnell! Are you mad?” cried Mellersh, coming up.
“Linnell!—are you Linnell?—Richard Linnell?” panted the man, ceasing his struggles.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Don’t waste time, man,” groaned the other. “We must stop them at any cost. Did you see them go? Who is it Major Rockley has got there?”
“A lady we know,” said Mellersh quickly. “Who are you?”
“The drunken fool and idiot who wanted to stop it,” groaned Bell. “Here, Linnell,” he said, “what are you going to do?”
“The man’s drunk, and fooling us, Mellersh,” cried Linnell excitedly. “Quick! Into the town and let’s get a post-chaise. They are certain to take the London Road.”
“No,” cried Bell excitedly; “he would make for Weymouth. Tell me this, though, gentlemen,” he cried, clinging to Linnell’s arm. “I am drunk, but I know what I am saying. For God’s sake, speak: is it Claire Denville?”
“Who are you?” cried Mellersh sharply. “Stand off, or I’ll knock you down. It is the Major’s man, Dick, and he’s keeping us back to gain time. I didn’t know him at first.”
“No: I swear I’m not,” cried the dragoon, in a voice so full of anguish, that they felt his words were true. “Tell me, is it Miss Denville?”
“Yes.”
“Curse him! I’ll have his life,” cried the man savagely. “This way, quick!”
“What are you going to do?” cried Linnell, as Bell set off at a sharp run towards the main street of the town.
“Come with me and see.”
“No: I shall get a post-chaise and four.”
“And give them an hour’s start,” cried the dragoon. “Horses, man, horses.”
“Where can we get them quickly?”
“In Major Rockley’s stable, curse him!” was the reply.
In five minutes they were at the stable, and the dragoon threw open the door.
“Can you saddle a horse?” he panted, as they entered the place, dimly lit by a tallow candle in a swinging horn lantern.
“Yes—yes,” was the reply.
“Quick then. Everything’s ready.”
Each ran to a horse, the head-stalls were cast loose, and the order of the well-appointed stable stood them in such good stead that, everything being at hand, in five minutes the three horses were saddled and bridled, and being led out, champing their bits.
“We’ve no spurs. Where are the whips?”
“They want no whips,” cried the dragoon excitedly; “a shake of the rein and a touch of the heel. They’re chargers, gentlemen. Can you ride, Mr Linnell?”
“Yes,” was the answer; and as it was given Linnell’s foot was painfully raised to the stirrup.
He stopped though, and laid his hand upon the dragoon’s shoulder.
“The London Road?” he said, looking him full in the eyes.
“The Weymouth Road, I tell you.”
Another half minute and they were mounted and clattering down the lane to turn into the main street, up which the three sleek creatures pressed, hanging close together, and snorting, and rattling their bits as they increased their stride.
“Steady—steady—a carriage,” cried Mellersh; and they opened out to ride on either side of a chariot with flashing lamps, and as they passed they had a glimpse of Lady Drelincourt being escorted home from the party by Sir Matthew Bray.
“Steady!” cried Mellersh again, as they came in sight of the cluster of lamps and carriages by Mrs Pontardent’s gates; and but for his insistance there would have been a collision, for another carriage came out and passed them, the wheel just brushing Linnell’s leg in the road narrowed by a string of carriages drawn up to the path.
“Now we’re clear,” said Mellersh; and they cantered by the wall, past the lane in which the chaise had been waiting, past a few more houses and the ragged outskirts, always mounting, and then bearing off to the left as the way curved, till there it lay, the broad chalk western road, open, hard, and ready to ring to their horses’ beating hoofs.
“Now then, forward!” cried the dragoon hoarsely.
“At a trot!” shouted Mellersh.
“No, no; gallop!” roared the dragoon, and his horse darted ahead.
“Halt!” shouted Mellersh in a ringing voice, for he had not forgotten old field-practice; and the three horses stopped short.
“Listen!” he continued, in a voice of authority; “they’ve half an hour’s start nearly, and we shall not overtake them this stage. We must not blow our horses at the beginning. A steady trot for the first few miles, and then forward at a canter. It will be a long race.”
“Right, sir,” cried the dragoon. “He’s right, Mr Linnell. Take the lead, sir; my head’s on fire.”
“Forward!” cried the Colonel; and away they went through the dark night, but with the chalky road making their way clear.
After a mile or two the rapid swinging trot of the chargers grew into a regular military canter, and that, by an imperceptible change, into a rapid gallop that was now kept up, for the excitement of the chase told upon Mellersh, and his ideas of prudence as to husbanding the horses’ powers were swept away as if by the keen wind that dashed by their ears.
“I ought to check him,” said Mellersh, as he toned down his excitement for the minute; and then—“No, I cannot, for I must take that scoundrel by the throat.”