It will be well to relieve at once the anxiety which the reader must feel—unless I have altogether failed to interest him—in the fate of my hero, Stanislas McKay.
He was not drowned when, through the fiendish intervention of Mrs. Wilders, he fell from the deck of theArcadia, and was, as it seemed, swallowed up in the all-devouring sea.
He went under, it is true, but only for a moment, and, coming once more to the surface, by a few strong strokes swam to a drifting spar. To this he clung desperately, hoping against hope that he might yet be picked up from the yacht. Unhappily for him, the waves ran so high that the boat under Trejago's guidance failed to catch sight of him, and, as weknow, returned presently to theArcadia, after a fruitless errand, as was thought.
Very shortly the yacht and the half-submerged man parted company. The former was steered for the open sea; the latter drifted and tossed helplessly to and fro, growing hourly weaker and more and more benumbed, but always hanging on with convulsive tenacity to the friendly timber that buoyed him up, and was his last frail chance of life.
All night long he was in the water, and when day dawned it seemed all over with him, so overpowering was his despair. Consciousness had quite abandoned him, and he was almost at the last gasp when he was seen and picked up by a passing steamship, theBurlington Castle.
"Where am I?" he asked, faintly, on coming to himself. He was in a snug cot, in a small but cosy cabin.
"Where you'd never have been but for the smartness of our look-out man," said a steward at his bedside. "Cast away, I suppose, in the gale?"
"No: washed overboard," replied McKay, "last evening."
"Thunder! and in the water all those hours! But what was your craft? Who and what are you?"
"I was on board the yachtArcadia. My name is Stanislas McKay. I am an officer of the Royal Picts—aide-de-camp to General Wilders. Where am I?" he repeated.
"You'll learn that fast enough; with friends, anyhow. Doctor said you weren't to talk. But just drink this, while I tell the captain you've come to. He hasn't had sight of you yet; we hauled you aboard while it was his watch below."
Five minutes more and the captain, a jolly English tar, red in face and round in figure, came down, with a loud voice and cheering manner, to welcome his treasure-trove.
"Well, my hearty, so this is how I find you, eh? Soused in brine. Why, I hear they had to hang you up by the heels to let the water run out of your mouth. Come, Stanny, my boy, this won't do."
"Uncle Barto!"
"The same: master of the steamshipBurlington Castle, deep in deals—timbers for huts—and other sundries, now lying in Balaclava, waiting to be discharged. But, my dearest lad, you've had a narrow squeak. Tell me, how did it happen, and when?"
"I fell overboard, and I've been all night in the water: that's all."
He did not choose as yet to make public his suspicions as to the real origin of his nearly fatal accident.
"I always said you had nine lives, Stanny, only don't go using them up like this. There's not a tom-cat could stand it."
"Were you out in the gale, uncle?"
"Ay; and weathered it. At dawn, after the first puff, I knew we'd have a twister, so I got up steam andregularly worked against it. Made a good offing that way, and when the storm abated came back here. We were close in when we picked you up on a log."
"It was a providential escape," said Stanislas, thankfully. "I thought it was all over with me."
"We'll set you up in no time, never fear. But tell more about yourself. Jove! you are a fine chap, Stanny. Why, you'll die a general yet, if the Russians'll let you off a little longer, and you're not wanted for the House of Peers."
"What do you mean, uncle?"
"Why, of course, you haven't heard. There's trouble among your fine relations. Lord Essendine has lost all his sons."
"All?"
"Yes; all. Hugo was killed, as you know; Anastasius died at Scutari; and Lord Lydstone, two days later, was found dead in the streets of Stamboul."
"Dead? How? What did he die of, uncle?"
"A stab in the heart. He was murdered."
"And I—"
He understood now the cause of the foul blow struck at him, and the base attempt to get him also out of the way.
"You are now next heir to the peerage, in spite of all they may say. But you'll find my lord civil enough soon. He'll be wanting you to go straight home."
"And leave the army? Not while there's fighting to be done, Uncle Barto. I may not be much good asI am, but I'll do all I can, trust me. I ought to be getting on shore and back to the front."
"My doctor will have a word to say to that. He won't let you be moved till you're well and strong."
But on the second day McKay, thanks to kindly care and plenty of nourishment, was able to leave his cot, and on the third morning he was determined to return to his duty.
"I won't baulk you, Stanny," said his uncle; "good soldiers, like good sailors, never turn their backs on their work. But mind, this ship is your home whenever and wherever you like to come on board; and if you want anything you have only to ask for it, d'ye hear?"
McKay promised readily to draw upon his uncle when needful, and then, his horse being still at Balaclava, he once more got into the saddle and rode up to camp.
The journey prepared him a little for what he found. All the way from Balaclava his horse struggled knee-deep in mud: a very quagmire of black, sticky slush. Yet this was the great highway—the only road between the base of supply and an army engaged eight miles distant in an arduous siege. Along it the whole of the food, ammunition, and material had to be carried on pony-back, or in a few ponderous carts drawn by gaunt, over-worked teams, which too often left their wheels fast-caught in the mire.
At the front—it had been raining in torrents forhours—the mud was thicker, blacker, and more tenacious. Tents stood in pools of water; their occupants, harassed by trench duty, lay shivering within, half-starved and wet.
McKay made his way at once to the colonel and reported his return.
"Oh! so you've thought fit to come back," said Colonel Blythe, rather grumpily. Since war and sickness had decimated his battalion he looked upon every absentee, from whatever cause, right or wrong, as a recreant deserter.
"I was with my general, sir," expostulated Stanislas.
"The general has no need of an aide-de-camp now.Wewant every man that can stand upright in his boots. I have given up the command of the brigade myself so as to look the better after my men."
McKay accepted the reproof without a murmur, and only said—
"Well, sir, I am here now, and ready to do whatever I may be called upon. I feel my first duty is to my own colonel and my own corps."
"Do you mean that, young fellow?" said the colonel, thawing a little.
"Certainly, sir."
"Because they want to inveigle you away—on the staff. Lord Raglan has sent to inquire for you."
"I have no desire to go, sir," said McKay, simply; although his face flushed red at the compliment implied by the Commander-in-Chief's message.
"It seems he was pleased with the way you rallied those Frenchmen, and he has heard you are a good linguist, and he wants to put you on the staff."
"I had much rather stay with the regiment, sir," said McKay.
"Are you quite sure? You must not stand in your own light. This is a fine chance for you to get on in the service." The colonel's voice had become very friendly.
"I know where my true duty lies, sir; I owe everything to you and to the regiment. I should not hesitate to refuse an appointment on the general staff if it were offered me now." McKay did not add that his future prospects were now materially changed, and that it was no longer of supreme importance to him to rise in his profession.
"Give me your hand, my boy," said Colonel Blythe, visibly touched at McKay's disinterestedness. "You are proving your gratitude in a way I shall never forget. But let us talk business. You know I want you as adjutant."
"I shall be only too proud to act, sir."
"I must have a good staff about me. We are in great straits; the regiment will go from bad to worse. There are barely 200 'duty' men now, and it will soon be a mere skeleton, unless we can take good care of the rest."
"Yes, sir," said McKay, feeling constrained to say something.
"They are suffering—we all are, but the men most of all—from exposure, cold, want of proper clothing, and, above all, from want of proper food. This is what I wish to remedy. They are dying of dysentery, fever, cholera—I don't know what."
"The doctor, sir?"
"Can do nothing. He has few drugs; but, as he says, that would hardly matter if the men could have warmth and nourishment."
"Something might be done, sir, with system; the quartermaster—"
"You are right. Let us consult him. Hyde is still acting, and he has already proved himself a shrewd, hard-headed old soldier."
Quartermaster-sergeant Hyde—for he had accepted the grade, although unwillingly—came and stood "at attention" before his superiors.
"As to food, sir," he said, "the men might be provided with hot coffee, and, I think, hot soup, on coming off duty. I am only doubtful as to the sufficiency of fuel."
"There is any quantity of drift-wood just now—wreckage—floating in Balaclava Harbour," suggested McKay.
"We must have it sir, somehow," said Hyde, eagerly. "But can we get it up to the front?"
"We'll lay an embargo on all the baggage-animals in camp. Take the whole lot down to Balaclava, and lay hands on every scrap of timber."
"As to clothing, sir, an uncle of mine has come up with a heavily-laden ship—hutting-timbers mostly, but he may have some spare blankets, sailors' pea-jackets, jerseys, and so forth."
"And boots, long boots or short—all kinds will be acceptable. Get anything and everything that is warm. I'll pay out of my own pocket sooner than not have them. When can you start, Hyde?"
"Now, sir, if that will suit Mr. McKay, and I can have the horses."
The matter was speedily arranged, and in the early afternoon our hero and Hyde were jogging back to Balaclava, at the head of a string of animals led and ridden by a small selected fatigue-party of regimental batmen and grooms.
It was the first occasion on which the two friends had conversed freely together for months.
McKay had most to tell. He spoke first of the offer to go on the headquarter-staff which he had refused. Then of the strange accidents by which he had become heir presumptive to the earldom of Essendine. Last of all, of the narrow escape he had of his life.
Hyde pressed him on this point.
"You fell overboard—lost your balance, eh? Entirely your own doing? Mrs. Wilders did not help you at all?"
"How on earth, Hyde, did you guess that? I never hinted at such a thing."
"I know her—do not look surprised—I know her,and have done so intimately for years. There is nothing she would stick at if she saw her advantage therefrom. You were in her way; she sought to remove you, as, no doubt, she, or some one acting for her, had removed Lord Lydstone, and—and—for all I know, ever so many more."
"Can she be such a fiendish wretch?"
"She is a demon, Stanislas McKay. Beware how you cross her path. But let her also take heed how she tries to injure you again. She will have to do with me then."
"Why, Hyde! what extraordinary language is this? What do you know of Mrs. Wilders? What can you mean?"
"Some day you shall hear everything, but not now. It is too long a story. Besides, here we are at Balaclava. Do you know where your uncle's ship lies?"
"What! back again so soon, Stanny," was Captain Faulks's greeting as McKay stepped on board theBurlington Castle. "I am right glad to see you. Is that a friend of yours?" pointing to Hyde. "He is welcome too. What brings you to Balaclava?"
McKay explained in a few words the errand on which they had come.
"Drift-wood—is that what you're after? All right, my hearties, I can help you to what you want. My crew is standing idle, and I will send the second officer out with them in the boats. They can land it for you, and load up your horses."
Before the afternoon Hyde started for the camp with a plentiful supply of fuel, intending to return nextmorning to take up any other supplies that could be secured. McKay tackled his uncle on this subject that same evening.
"Blankets? Yes, my boy, you shall have all we can spare, and I daresay we can fit you out with a few dozen jerseys, and perhaps some seamen's boots."
"We want all the warm clothing we can get," said McKay. "The men are being frozen to death."
"I tell you what: there were five cases of sheepskin-jackets I brought up—greggos, I think they call them—what those Tartar chaps wear in Bulgaria.'"
"The very thing! Let's have them, uncle."
"I wish you could, lad; but they are landed and gone into the store."
"The commissariat store? I'll go after them in the morning."
"It'll trouble you to get them. He is a hard nut, that commissariat officer, as you'll see."
Mr. Dawber, the gentleman in question, was a middle-aged officer of long standing, who had been brought up in the strictest notions of professional routine. He had regulations on the brain. He was a slave to red tape, and was prepared to die rather than diverge from the narrow grooves in which he had been trained.
The store over which he presided was in a state of indescribable chaos. It could not be arranged as he had seen stores all his life, so he did nothing to it at all.
When McKay arrived early next day, Mr. Dawberwas being interviewed by a doctor from a hospital-ship. The discussion had already grown rather serious.
"I tell you my patients are dying of cold," said the doctor. "I must have the stoves."
"It is quite impossible," replied Mr. Dawber, "without a requisition properly signed."
"By whom?"
"It's not my place, sir, to teach you the regulations, but if you refer to page 347, paragraph 6, you will find that no demands can be complied with unless they have been through the commanding officer of the troops, the senior surgeon, the principal medical officer, the senior commissariat officer, the brigadier, and the general of division. Bring me a requisition duly completed, and you shall have the stoves."
"But it is monstrous: preposterous! There is not time. It would take a week to get these signatures, and I tell you my men are dying."
"I can't help that; you must proceed according to rule."
"It's little short of murder!" said the doctor, now furious.
"And what can I do for you?" said Mr. Dawber, ignoring this remark, and turning to another applicant, a quartermaster of the Guards.
"I have come for six bags of coffee."
"Where is your requisition?"
The quartermaster produced a large sheet of foolscap, covered with printing and ruled lines, a mass of figures, and intricate calculations.
Mr. Dawber seized it, and proceeded to verify the totals, which took him half-an-hour.
"This column is incorrectly cast; in fact, the form is very carelessly filled in. But you shall have the coffee—if we can find it."
Further long delay followed, during which Mr. Dawber and his assistant rummaged the heterogeneous contents of his overcrowded store, and at last he produced five bags, saying—
"You will have to do with this."
"But it is green coffee," said the quartermaster, protesting. "How are we to roast it?"
"That's not my business. The coffee is always issued in the green berry. You will find that it preserves its aroma better when roasted just before use."
"We should have to burn our tent-poles or musket-stocks to cook it," said the quartermaster. "That stuff's no use to me," and he went away grumbling, leaving the bags behind him.
McKay followed him out of the store.
"You won't take the coffee, then?"
"Certainly not. I wish I had the people here that sent out such stuff."
"May I have it?"
"If you like. It's all one to me."
"Give me the requisition, then."
Armed with this important document, he returned, and accosted Mr. Dawber.
"He has changed his mind about the coffee. Youcan give it to me; I will see that he gets it. Here is the requisition."
The commissariat officer was only too pleased to get rid of the bags according to form.
McKay next attacked him about thegreggos. Despairing, after all he had heard, of getting them by fair means, he resolved to try a stratagem.
"You received yesterday, I believe, a consignment from theBurlington Castle?"
"Quite so. There are the chests, still unpacked. I have not the least idea what's inside."
"You have the bill of lading, I suppose?"
"Certainly."
"May I look at it? I come from theBurlington Castle, and the captain thinks he was wrong to have sent you the cases without passing the bill of lading through the commissariat officer at headquarters."
"I believe he is right. Here is the bill; it has not Mr. Fielder's signature. This is most irregular. What shall I do?"
"You had better give me back the bill of lading and the cases until the proper formalities have been observed."
"You are perfectly right, my dear sir, and I am extremely obliged to you for your suggestion."
A few minutes later McKay had possession of the cases. With the help of some of his uncle's crew he moved them back to the seaside, where he waited until Hyde's arrival from the front. Then they loaded upthegreggoson the baggage-animals, and returned to camp in triumph.
From that day the men of the Royal Picts were fairly well off. Their condition was not exactly comfortable, but they suffered far less than the bulk of their comrades in the Crimea.
Their sheepskin-jackets were not very military in appearance, but they were warm, and their heavy seamen's boots kept out the wet. They had a sufficiency of food, too, served hot, and prepared with rough-and-ready skill, under the superintendence of Hyde.
He had struck up a great friendship with a Frenchman, one of the Voltigeurs, in a neighbouring camp, who, in return for occasional nips of sound brandy, brought straight from theBurlington Castle, freely imparted the whole of his culinary knowledge to the quartermaster of the Royal Picts.
"He is a first-class cook," said Hyde to his friend McKay, "and was trained, he tells me, in one of the best kitchens in Paris. He could make soup, I believe, out of an old shoe."
"I can't think how you get the materials for the men's meals. That stew yesterday was never made out of the ration-biscuit and salt pork. There was fresh meat in it. Where did you get it?"
Old Hyde winked gravely.
"If I were to tell you it would get about, and the men would not touch it."
"You can trust me. Out with it."
"There's lots of fresh meat to be got in the camp by those who know where to look for it. Anatole"—this was his French friend—"put me up to it."
"I don't understand, Hyde. What do you mean?"
"I mean that her Majesty's Royal Picts have been feeding upon horseflesh. And very excellent meat, too, full of nourishment when it is not too thin. That is my chief difficulty with what I get."
"It's only prejudice, I suppose," said McKay, laughing; "but it will be as well, I think, to keep your secret."
But horseflesh was better than no meat, and the men of the Royal Picts throve well and kept their strength upon Hyde's soups and savoury stews. Thanks to the care bestowed upon them, the regiment kept up its numbers in a marvellous way—it even returned more men for duty than corps which had just arrived, and the difference between it and others in the camp-grounds close by was so marked that Lord Raglan came over and complimented Blythe upon the condition of his command.
"I can't tell how you manage, Blythe," said his lordship; "I wish we had a few more regiments like the Picts."
"It is all system, my lord, and I have reason, I think, to be proud of ours—that and an excellent regimental staff. I have a capital quartermaster and a first-rate adjutant."
"I should like to see them," said Lord Raglan.
McKay and Hyde were brought forward and presented to the Commander-in-Chief.
"Mr. McKay, I know your name. You behaved admirably at Inkerman. I have just had a letter, too, about you from England."
"About me, my lord?" said Stanislas, astonished.
"Yes, from Lord Essendine, your cousin. And, to oblige him, no less than on your own account, I must renew my offer of an appointment on the headquarter staff."
McKay looked at the colonel and shook his head.
"You are very good, my lord, but I prefer to stay with my regiment."
"Colonel Blythe, you really must spare him to me," said Lord Raglan. "We want him, and more of his stamp."
"Your wishes are law, my lord. I should prefer to keep Mr. McKay, but I will not stand in his way if he desires to go. I shall not miss him so much now that everything is in good working order."
McKay was disposed still to protest, but Lord Raglan cut him short by saying—
"Come over to headquarters to-morrow, and report yourself to General Airey. As for you, my fine fellow," Lord Raglan went on, turning to Hyde, "you are still a non-commissioned officer, I see."
"Yes, my lord, I am only acting-quartermaster."
"Well, I shall recommend you for a commission at once."
"I do not want promotion, my lord," replied Hyde.
"He has refused it several times," added Blythe.
"That's all nonsense! He must take it; it's for the good of the service. I shall send forward your name," and, so saying, Lord Raglan rode off.
Stanislas took up his duties at headquarters next day. He was attached to the quartermaster-general's department, and was at once closely examined as to his capabilities and qualifications by his new chief, General Airey, a man of extraordinarily quick perception, and a shrewd judge of character.
"You speak French? Fluently? Let's see," and the general changed the conversation to that language. "That's all right. What else? Italian? German? Russian?—"
"Yes, sir, Russian."
"You ought to be very useful to us. But you will have to work hard, Mr. McKay, very hard. There are no drones here."
McKay soon found that out. From daybreak to midnight everyone at headquarters slaved incessantly. Horses stood ready saddled in the stables, and officers came and went at all hours. Men needed to possess iron constitution and indomitable energy to meet the demands upon their strength.
"Lord Raglan wants somebody to go at once to Kamiesch," said General Airey, coming out one morning to the room in which his staff-assistants worked and waited for special instructions. There was no one there but McKay, and he had that instant returned from Balaclava. "Have you been out this morning,Mr. McKay? Yes? Well, it can't be helped; you must go again."
"I am only too ready, sir."
"That's right. Lord Raglan does not spare himself, neither must you."
"I know, sir. How disgraceful it is that he should be attacked by the London newspapers and accused of doing nothing at all!"
"Yes, indeed! Why, he was writing by candle-light at six o'clock this morning, and after breakfast he saw us all, the heads of departments and three divisional generals. Since then he has been writing without intermission. By-and-by he will ride through the camp, seeing into everything with his own eyes."
"His lordship is indefatigable: it is the least we can do to follow his example," said McKay, as he hurried away.
This was one of many such conversations between our hero and his new chief. By degrees the quartermaster-general came to value the common-sense opinion of this practical young soldier, and to discuss with him unreservedly the more pressing needs of the hour.
There was as yet no improvement in the state of the Crimean army; on the contrary, as winter advanced, it deteriorated, pursued still by perverse ill-luck. The weather was terribly inclement, alternating between extremes. Heavy snowstorms and hard frosts were followed by thaws and drenching rains. The difficulties of transport continued supreme. Roads, mere spongysloughs of despond, were nearly impassable, and the waste of baggage-animals was so great that soon few would remain.
To replace them with fresh supplies became of paramount importance.
"We must draw upon neighbouring countries," said General Airey, talking it over one day with McKay. "It ought to have been done sooner. But better now than not at all. I will send to the Levant, to Constantinople, Italy—"
"Spain," suggested McKay.
"To be sure! What do you suppose we could get from Spain?"
"Thousands of mules and plenty of horses."
"It is worth thinking of, although the distance is great," replied the quartermaster-general. "I will speak to Lord Raglan at once on the subject. By-the-way, I think you know Spanish?"
"Yes," said McKay, "fairly well."
"Then you had better get ready to start. If any one goes, I will send you."
This was tantamount to an order. General Airey's advice was certain to be taken by Lord Raglan.
Next morning McKay started for Gibraltar, specially accredited to the Governor of the fortress, and with full powers to buy and forward baggage-animals as expeditiously as possible.
McKay travelled as far as Constantinople in one of the man-of-war despatch-boats used for the postal service. There he changed into a transport homeward bound, and proceeded on his voyage without delay.
But half-an-hour at Constantinople was enough to gain tidings of theArcadiaand her passengers.
The yacht, he learnt, had left only a week or two before. It had lingered a couple of months at the Golden Horn, during which time General Wilders lay between life and death.
Mortification at last set in, and then all hope was gone. The general died, and was buried at Scutari, after which Mrs. Wilders, still utilising theArcadia, started for England.
The yacht, a fast sailer, made good progress, and was already at anchor in Gibraltar Bay on the morning that McKay arrived.
"Shall I go on board and tax her with her misdeeds?" McKay asked himself. "No; she can wait. I have more pressing and more pleasant business on hand."
His first visit was to the Convent. "You shall have every assistance from us," said the Governor, Sir Thomas Drummond. "But what do you propose to do, and how can I help?"
"My object, sir, is to collect all the animals I can in the shortest possible time. I propose, first, to set the purchase going here—under your auspices, if you agree—then visit Alicante, Valencia, Barcelona, and ship off all I can secure."
"An excellent plan. Well, you shall have my hearty co-operation. If there is anything else—"
An aide-de-camp came in at this moment and whispered a few words in his general's ear.
"What! on shore? Here in the Convent, too? Poor soul! of course we will see her. Let some one tell Lady Drummond. Forgive me, Mr. McKay: a lady has just called whom I am bound by every principle of courtesy, consideration, and compassion to see at once. Perhaps you will return later?"
McKay bowed and passed out into the antechamber. On the threshold he met Mrs. Wilders face to face.
"You—!" she gasped out, but instantly checked the exclamation of chagrin and dismay that rose to her lips.
"You hardly expected to see me, perhaps; but I was miraculously saved."
McKay spoke slowly, and the delay gave Mrs. Wilders time to collect herself.
"I am most thankful. It has lifted a load off my mind. I feared you were lost."
"Yes; the sea seldom gives up its prey. But enough about myself. You are going in to see the general, I think; do not let me detain you."
"I shall be very pleased to see you on board the yacht."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wilders; I am sure you will. But to me such a visit would be very painful. My last recollections of theArcadiaare not too agreeable."
"Of course not. You were so devoted to my poor dear husband."
Mrs. Wilders would not acknowledge his meaning.
"But I shall see you again before I leave, I trust."
"My stay here is very short. I am only on a special mission, and I must return to the Crimea without delay. But we shall certainly meet again some day, Mrs. Wilders; you may rely on that."
There was meaning, menace even, in this last speech, and it gave Mrs. Wilders food for serious thought.
McKay did not pause to say more. He was too eager to go elsewhere.
His first visit, as in duty bound, had been to reporthis arrival and set on foot the business that had brought him. His second was to see sweet Mariquita, the girl of his choice.
They had exchanged several letters. His had been brief, hurried accounts of his doings, assuring her of his safety after every action and of his unalterable affection; hers were the artless outpourings of a warm, passionate nature tortured by ever-present heartrending anxiety for the man she loved best in the world. There had been no time to warn her of his visit to Gibraltar, and his appearance was entirely unexpected there.
Things were much the same at the cigar-shop. McKay walked boldly in and found La Zandunga, as usual, behind the counter, but alone. She got up, and, not recognising him, bowed obsequiously. Officers were rare visitors in Bombardier Lane and McKay's staff-uniform inspired respect.
"You are welcome, sir. In what can we serve you? Our tobacco is greatly esteemed. We import our cigars—the finest—direct from La Havanna; our cigarettes are made in the house."
"You do not seem to remember me," said McKay, quietly. "I hope Mariquita is well?"
"Heaven protect me! It is the Sergeant—"
"Lieutenant, you mean."
"An officer! already! You have been fortunate, sir." La Zandunga spoke without cordiality and was evidently hesitating how to receive him. "What brings you here?"
"I want to see Mariquita." The old crone stared at him with stony disapproval. "I have but just arrived from the Crimea to buy horses and mules for the army."
"Many?" Her manner instantly changed. This was business for her husband, who dealt much in horseflesh.
"Thousands."
"Won't you be seated, sir? Let me take your hat. Mariqui—ta!" she cried, with remarkable volubility. The guest was clearly entitled to be treated with honour.
Mariquita entered hastily, expecting to be chidden, then paused shyly, seeing who was there.
"Shamefaced, come; don't you know this gentleman?" said her aunt, encouragingly. "Entertain him, little one, while I fetch your uncle."
"What does it mean?" asked Mariquita, in amazement, as soon as she could release herself from her lover's embrace. "You here, Stanislas: my aunt approving! Am I mad or asleep?"
"Neither, dearest. She sees a chance of profit out of me—that's all. I will not baulk her. She deserves it for leaving us alone," and he would have taken her again into his arms.
"No, no! Enough, Stanislas!" said the sweet girl, blushing a rosy red. "Sit there and be quiet. Tell me of yourself: why you are here. The war, then, isover? The Holy Saints be praised! How I hated that war!"
"Do not say that, love! It has been the making of me."
"Nothing would compensate me for all that I have suffered these last few months."
"But I have gained my promotion and much more. I can offer you now a far higher position. You will be a lady, a great lady, some day!"
"It matters little, my Stanislas, so long as I am with you. I would have been content to share your lot, however humble, anywhere."
This was her simple, unquestioning faith. Her love filled all her being. She belonged, heart and soul, to this man.
"You will not leave me again, Stanislas?" she went on, with tender insistence.
"My sweet, I must go back. My duty is there, in the Crimea, with my comrades—with the army of my Queen."
"But if anything should happen to you—they may hurt you, kill you!"
"Darling, there is no fear. Be brave."
"Oh, Stanislas! Suppose I should lose you—life would be an utter blank after that; I have no one in the world but you."
McKay was greatly touched by this proof of her deep-seated affection.
"It is only for a little while longer, my sweetest girl! Be patient and hopeful to the end. By-and-by we shall come together, never to part again."
"I am weak, foolish—too loving, perhaps. But, Stanislas, I cannot bear to part with you. Let me go too!"
"Dearest, that is quite impossible."
"If I was only near you—"
"What! you—a tender woman—in that wild land, amidst all its dangers and trials!"
"I should fear nothing if it was for you, Stanislas. I would give you my life; I would lay it down freely for you."
He could find no words to thank her for such un-selfish devotion, but he pressed her to his heart again and again.
He still held Mariquita's hand, and was soothing her with many endearing expressions, when La Zandunga, accompanied by Tio Pedro, returned.
The lovers flew apart, abashed at being surprised.
McKay expected nothing less than coarse abuse, but no honey could be sweeter than the old people's accents and words.
"Do not mind us," said La Zandunga, coaxingly.
"A pair of turtle-doves," said Tio Pedro: "bashful and timid as birds."
"Sit down, good sir," went on the old woman: "you can see Mariquita again. Let us talk first of this business."
"You want horses, I believe?" said Tio Pedro. "I can get you any number. What price will you pay?"
"What they are worth."
"And a little more, which we will divide between ourselves," added the old man, with a knowing wink.
"That's not the way with British officers," said McKay, sternly.
"It's the way with ours in Spain."
"That may be. However, I will take five hundred from you, at twenty pounds apiece, if they are delivered within three days."
Tio Pedro got up and walked towards the door.
"I go to fetch them. I am the key of Southern Spain. When I will, every stable-door shall be unlocked. You shall have the horses, and more, if you choose, in the stated time."
"One moment, Señor Pedro; I want something else from you, and you, señora."
They looked at him with well-disguised astonishment.
"I have long loved your niece; will you give her to me in marriage?"
"Oh! sir, it is too great an honour for our house. We—she—are all unworthy. But if you insist, and are prepared to take her as she is, dowerless, uncultured, with only her natural gifts, she is yours."
"I want only herself. I have sufficient means for both. They may still be modest, but I have good prospects—the very best. Some day I shall inherit a great fortune."
"Oh! sir, you overwhelm us. We can make you no sufficient return for your great condescension. Only command us, and we will faithfully execute your wishes."
"My only desire is that you should treat Mariquita well. Take every care of her until I can return. It will not be long, I trust, before this war is ended, and then I will make her my wife."
McKay's last words were overheard by a man who at this moment entered the shop.
It was Benito, who advanced with flaming face and fierce, angry eyes towards the group at the counter.
"What is this—and your promise to me? The girl is mine; you gave her to me months ago."
"Our promise was conditional on Mariquita's consent," said La Zandunga, with clever evasion. "That you have never been able to obtain."
"I should have secured it in time but for this scoundrel who has come between me and my affianced bride. He'll have to settle with me, whoever he is," and so saying, Benito came closer to McKay, whom hitherto he had not recognised. "The Englishman!" he cried, starting back.
"Very much at your service," replied McKay, shortly. "I am not afraid of your threats. I think I can hold my own with you as I have done before."
"We shall see," and with a muttered execration, full of hatred and malice, he rushed from the place.
When, an hour or two later, Mrs. Wilders hunted him up at the Redhot Shell Ramp, she found him in amood fit for any desperate deed. But, with native cunning, he pretended to show reluctance when she asked him for his help.
"Who is it you hate? An Englishman? Any one on the Rock?" he said. "And what do you want done? I have no wish to bring myself within reach of the English law."
"It is an English officer. He is here just now, but will presently return to the Crimea."
"What is his name?" asked Benito, eagerly, his black heart inflamed with a wild hope of revenge.
"McKay—Stanislas McKay, of the Royal Picts."
It was his name! A fierce, baleful light gleamed in Benito's dark eyes; he clenched his fists and set his teeth fast.
"You know him?" said Mrs. Wilders, readily interpreting these signs of hate.
"I should like to kill him!" hissed Benito.
"Do so, and claim your own reward."
"But how? When? Where?"
"That is for you to settle. Watch him, stick to him, dog his footsteps, follow him wherever he goes. Some day he must give you a chance."
"Leave it to me. The moment will come when I shall sheathe my knife in his heart."
"I think I can trust you. Only do it well, and never let me see him again."
TheArcadiawent direct from Gibraltar to Southampton, where Mrs. Wilders left it and returned to London.
It was necessary for her to review her position and look things in the face. Her circumstances were undoubtedly straitened since her husband's death. She had her pension as the widow of a general officer—but this was a mere pittance at best—and the interest of the small private fortune settled, at the time of the marriage, on her and her children, should she have any. Her income from both these sources amounted to barely £300 a year—far too meagre an amount according to her present ideas, burdened as she was, moreover, with the care and education of a child.
But how was she to increase it? The reversion ofthe great Wilders estates still eluded her grasp; they might never come her way, whatever lengths she might go to secure them.
"Lord Essendine ought to do something for me," she told herself, as soon as she was settled in town. "It was not fair to keep the existence of this hateful young man secret; my boy suffers by it, poor little orphan! Surely I can make a good case of this to his lordship; and, after all, the child comes next."
She wrote accordingly to the family lawyers, Messrs. Burt and Benham, asking for an interview, and within a day or two saw the senior partner, Mr. Burt.
He was blandly sympathetic, but distant.
"Allow me to offer my deep condolence, madam; but as this is, I presume, a business visit, may I ask—"
"I am left in great distress. I wish to appeal to Lord Essendine."
"On what grounds?"
"My infant son is the next heir."
"Nay; surely you know—there is another before him?"
"Before my boy! Who? What can you mean? Impossible! I have never heard a syllable of this. I shall contest it."
It suited her to deny all knowledge, thinking it strengthened her position.
"That would be quite useless. The claims of the next heir are perfectly sound."
"It is sheer robbery! It is scandalous, outrageous! I will go and see Lord Essendine myself."
"Pardon me, madam; I fear that is out of the question. He is in Scotland, living in retirement. Lady Essendine's health has failed greatly under recent afflictions."
"He must and shall know how I am situated."
"You may trust me to tell him, madam, at once; and, although I have no right to pledge his lordship, I think I can safely say that he will meet you in a liberal spirit."
So it proved. Lord Essendine, after a short interval, wrote himself to Mrs. Wilders a civil, courtly letter, in which he promised her a handsome allowance, with a substantial sum in cash down to furnish a house and make herself a home.
Although still bitterly dissatisfied with her lot, she was now not only fortified against indigence, but could count on a life of comfort and ease. She established herself in a snug villa down Brompton way—a small house with a pretty garden, of the kind now fast disappearing from what was then a near suburb of the town. It was well mounted; she kept several servants, a neat brougham, and an excellent cook.
There she prepared to wait events, trusting that Russian bullet or Benito's Spanish knife might yet rid her of the one obstacle that still stood between her son and the inheritance of great wealth.
It was with a distinct annoyance, then, while leadingthis tranquil but luxurious life, that her man-servant brought in a card one afternoon, bearing the name of Hobson, and said, "The gentleman hopes you will be able to see him at once."
"How did you find me out?" she asked, angrily, when her visitor—the same Mr. Hobson we saw at Constantinople—was introduced.
"Ah! How do I find everything and everybody out? That's my affair—my business, I may say."
"And what do you want?" went on Mrs. Wilders, in the same key.
"First of all, to condole with you on the loss of so many near relatives. I missed you at Constantinople after Lord Lydstone's sad and dreadful death."
Mrs. Wilders shuddered in spite of herself.
"You suffer remorse?" he said, mockingly.
She made a gesture of protest.
"Sorrow, I should say. Yet you benefited greatly."
"On the contrary, not at all. Another life still intervenes."
"Another! and you knew nothing of it! Impossible!"
"It is too true. I am as far as ever from the accomplishment of my hopes."
"Who is this unknown interloper?"
"An English officer, at present serving in the Crimea. His name is McKay: Stanislas McKay."
"The name is familiar; the Christian name is suggestive. Do you know whether he is of Polish origin?"
"Yes, I have heard so. His father was once in the Russian army."
"It is the same, then. There can be no doubt of it. And you would like to see him out of the way? I might help you, perhaps."
"How? I have my own agents at work."
"He is in the Crimea, you say?"
"Yes, or will be within a few weeks."
"If we could inveigle him into the Russian lines he would be shot or hanged as a traitor. He is a Russian subject in arms against his Czar."
"It would be difficult, I fear, to get him into Russian hands."
"Some stratagem might accomplish it. You have agents at work, you say, in the Crimea?"
"They can go there."
"Put me in communication with them, and leave it all to me."
"You will place me under another onerous obligation, Hippolyte."
"No, thanks. I am about to ask a favour in return. You can help me, I think."
"Yes? Command me."
"You have many acquaintances in London; your late husband's friends were military men. I want a little information at times."
Mrs. Wilders looked at him curiously.
"Why don't you call things by their right names? You would like to employ me as a spy—is that what you mean?"
"Well, if you like to put it so, yes. I suppose I can count upon you?"
"I am sorry not to be able to oblige you, but I am afraid I must say no."
"You are growing squeamish, Cyprienne, in your old age. To think of your having scruples!"
"I despise your sneers. It does not suit me to do what you wish, that's all; it would be unsafe."
"What have you to lose?"
"All this." She waved her hand round the prettily-furnished room. "Lord Essendine has been very kind to me, and if there were any suspicions—if any rumour got about that I was employed by or for you—he would certainly withdraw the income he gives me."
Mr. Hobson laughed quietly.
"You have given yourself away, as they say in America; you have put yourself in my hands, Cyprienne. I insist now upon your doing what I wish."
"You shall not browbeat me!" She rose from her seat, with indignation in her face. "Leave me, or I will call the servants."
"I shall go straight to Lord Essendine, then, and tell him all I know. How would you like that? How about your allowance, and the protection of that greatfamily? Don't you know, foolish woman, that you are absolutely and completely in my power?"
Mrs. Wilders made no reply. Her face was a study; many emotions struggled for mastery—fear, sullen obstinacy, and impotent rage.
"Come, be more reasonable," went on Mr. Hobson, "Our partnership is of long standing; it cannot easily be dissolved; certainly not now. After all, what is it I ask you? A few questions put adroitly to the right person, an occasional visit to some official friend; to keep your eyes and ears open, and be always on the watch. Surely, there is no great trouble, no danger, in that?"
"If you will have it so, I suppose I must agree. But where and how am I to begin?"
"I leave it all to you, my dear madam; you are much more at home in this great town than I am. I can only indicate the lines on which you should proceed."
"How shall I communicate with you?"
"Only by word of mouth. When you have anything to say, write to me—there is my address"—he pointed to his card—"Duke Street, St. James's. Write just three lines, asking me to lunch, nothing more; I shall understand."
"And about this hated McKay?"
"Let me know when he returns to the Crimea. We shall be able to hit upon a plan then. But it willrequire some thought, and a reckless, unscrupulous tool."
"I know the very man. He is devoted to my interests, and a bitter enemy of McKay's."
"We shall succeed then, never fear," and with these words Mr. Hobson took his leave.
Since we left him at Gibraltar McKay had led a busy life. The "Horse Purchase" was in full swing upon the north front, where, in a short space of time, many hundreds of animals were picketed ready for shipment to the East. Having set this part of his enterprise on foot, he had proceeded to the Spanish ports on the Eastern coast and repeated the process.
Alicante was the great centre of his operations on this side, and there, by means of dealers and contractors, he speedily collected a large supply of mules. They were kept in the bull-ring and the grounds adjoining, a little way out of the town. A number of native muleteers were engaged to look after them, and McKay succeeded in giving the whole body of men and mules some sort of military organisation.
They were a rough lot, these local muleteers, the scum and riff-raff of Valencia—black-muzzled, dark-skinned mongrels, half Moors, half Spaniards, lawless, turbulent, and quarrelsome.
Fights were frequent amongst them—sanguinary struggles, in which the murderous native knife played a prominent part, and both antagonists were often stabbed and slashed to death.
The local authorities looked askance at this gathering of rascaldom, and gave them a wide berth. But McKay went fearlessly amongst his reprobate followers, administering a rough-and-ready sort of discipline, and keeping them as far as possible within bounds.
It was his custom to pay a nightly visit to his charge. He went through the lines, saw that the night-patrols were on the alert, and the rest of the men quiet.
Repeatedly the overseers next him in authority cautioned him against venturing out of the town so late.
"There are evil people about," said his head man, a worthy "scorpion," whom he had brought with him from Gibraltar. "Your worship would do better to stay at home at night."
"What have I to fear?" replied McKay, stoutly. "I have my revolver; I can take care of myself."
They evidently did not think so, for it became the rule for a couple of them to escort him back to town without his knowledge.
They followed at a little distance behind him, carrying lanterns, and keeping him always in sight.
One night McKay discovered their kind intentions, and civilly, but firmly, put an end to the practice.
Next night he was attacked on his way back to the hotel. A man rushed out on him from a dark corner, and made a blow at his breast with a knife. It missed him, although his coat was cut through.
A short encounter followed. McKay was stronger than his assailant, whom he speedily disarmed; but he was not so active. The fellow managed to slip through his fingers and run; all that McKay could do was to send three shots after him, fired quickly from his revolver, and without good aim.
"Scoundrel! he has got clear away," said McKay, as he put up his weapon. "Who was it, I wonder? Not one of my own men; and yet I seemed to know him. If I did not think he was still at Gibraltar, I should say it was that miscreant Benito. I shall have to get him hanged, or he will do for me one of these days."
The pistol-shots attracted no particular attention in this deserted, dead-alive Spanish town, and McKay got back to his hotel without challenge or inquiry.
A day or two later, as the organisation of his mule-train was now complete, and transports were already arriving to embark their four-footed freight, he returned to Gibraltar, meaning to go on to the Crimea without delay.
Of course he went to Bombardier Lane, where he was received by the old people like a favourite son.
Mariquita, blushing and diffident, was scarcely able to realise that her Stanislas was now at liberty to make love to her, openly and without question.
The time, however, for their tender intercourse was all too short. McKay expected hourly the steamer that was to take him eastward, and his heart ached at the prospect of parting. As for Mariquita, she had alternated between blithe joyousness and plaintive, despairing sorrow.
"I shall never see you again, Stanislas," she went on repeating, when the last mood was on her.
"Nonsense! I have come out harmless so far; I shall do so to the end. The Russians can't hurt me."
"But you have other enemies, dearest—pitiless, vindictive, and implacable."
"Whom do you mean? Benito?"
"You know without my telling you. He has shown his enmity, then? How? Oh, Stanislas! be on your guard against that black-hearted man."
Should he tell her of his suspicions that it was Benito who had attacked him at Alicante? No; it would only aggravate her fears. But he tried, nevertheless, to verify these suspicions without letting Mariquita know the secret.
"Is Benito at Gibraltar?" he asked, quietly,
"We have not seen him for weeks. Since—since—you know, my life!—since you came to our house hehas kept away. But I heard my uncle say that he had left the Rock to buy mules. He was going, I believe, to Alicante. Did you see him there?"
"I saw many ruffians of his stamp, but I did not distinguish our friend."
"You must never let him come near you, Stanislas. Remember what I say. He is treacherous, truculent—a very fiend."
"If he comes across my path I will put my heel upon him like a toad. But let us talk of something more pleasant—of you—of our future life. Shall you like to live in England, and never see the sun?"
"You will be my sun, Stanislas."
"Then you will have to learn English."
"It will be easy enough if you teach me."
"Some day you will be a great lady—one of the greatest in London, perhaps. You'll have a grand house, carriages, magnificent dresses, diamonds—"
"I only want you," she said, as she nestled closer to his side.
It was sad that stern duty should put an end to these pretty love passages, but the moment of separation arrived inexorably, and, after a sad, passionate leave-taking, McKay tore himself away.
Mariquita for days was inconsolable. She brooded constantly in a corner, weeping silent tears, utterly absorbed in her grief. They considerately left her alone. Since she had become the affianced wife of a man of McKay's rank and position, both the termagantaunt and cross-grained uncle had treated her with unbounded respect. They would not allow her to be vexed or worried by any one, least of all by Benito, who, as soon as the English officer was out of the way, again began to haunt the house.
It was about her that they were having high words a day or two after McKay's departure.
Mariquita overheard them.
"You shall not see her, I tell you!" said La Zandunga, with shrill determination. "The sweet child is sad and sick at heart."
"She has broken mine, as you have your word to me. I shall never be happy more."
He spoke as though he was in great distress, and his grief, if false, was certainly well feigned.
"Bah!" said old Pedro. "No man ever died of unrequited love. There are as good fish in the sea."
"I wanted this one," said Benito, in deep dejection. "No matter; I am going away. There is a fine chance yonder, and I may perhaps forget her."
"Where, then?" asked the old woman.
"In the Crimea. I start to-morrow."
"Go, in Heaven's keeping," said Tio Pedro.
"And never let us see you again," added La Zandunga, whose sentiments towards Benito had undergone an entire change in the last few months.
"May I not see her to say good-bye?"
"No, you would only agitate her."
"Do not be so cruel. I implore you to let me speak to her."
"Be off!" said the old woman, angrily. "You are importunate and ill-bred."
"I will not go; I will see her first."
"Put him out, Pedro; by force, if he will not go quietly."
Tio Pedro rose rather reluctantly and advanced towards Benito.
"Hands off!" cried the young man, savagely striking at Pedro.
"What! You dare!" said the other furiously. "I am not too old to deal with such a stripling. Begone, I say, quicker than that!" and Tio Pedro pushed Benito towards the door.
There was a struggle, but it was of short duration. Within a few seconds Benito was ejected into the street.
By-and-by, when the coast was clear, and Mariquita felt safe from the intrusion of the man she loathed, she came out into the shop.
By this time the place was quiet. Tio Pedro had gone off to a neighbouring wine-shop to exaggerate his recent prowess, and La Zandunga sat alone behind the counter.
"Where is Benito? Has he gone?" asked Mariquita, nervously.
"Yes. Did he frighten my sweet bird?" said heraunt, soothing her. "He is an indecent, ill-mannered rogue, and we shall be well rid of him."
"Well rid of him? He really leaves us, then? For the Crimea?"
"You have guessed it. Yes. He thinks there is a chance of finding fortune there."
Was that his only reason? Mariquita put her hand upon her heart, which had almost ceased beating. She was sick with apprehension. Did not Benito's departure forebode evil for her lover?
Just then her eye fell upon a piece of crumpled paper lying on the floor—part of a letter, it seemed. Almost mechanically—with no special intention at least—she stooped to pick it up.
"What have you got there?" asked her aunt.
"A letter."
"It must be Benito's; he probably dropped it in the scuffle. Do you know that he dared to raise his hand against my worthy husband?"
"If it is Benito's I have no desire to touch it," said Mariquita, disdainfully.
"Throw it into the yard, then," said her aunt.
Mariquita accordingly went to the back door and out into the garden, round which she walked listlessly, once or twice, forgetting what she held in her hand.
Then she looked at it in an aimless, absent way, and began to read some of the words.
The letter was in Spanish, written in a female hand. It said—
"Wait till he goes back to the Crimea, then follow him instantly. On arrival at Balaclava go at once to the Maltese baker whose shop is at the head of the bay near Kadikoi; he will give you employment. This will explain and cover your presence in the camp. You will visit all parts of it, selling bread. You must hang about the English headquarters; he is most often there; and remember that he is the sole object of your errand. You must know at all times where he is and what he is doing.
"Further instructions will reach you through the baker in the Crimea. Obey them to the letter, and you will receive a double reward. Money to any amount shall be yours, and you will have had your revenge upon the man who has robbed you of your love."
After reading this carefully there was no doubt in Mariquita's mind that Benito's mission was directed against McKay. Her first thought was the urgency of the danger that threatened her lover; the second, an eager desire to put him on his guard. But how was she to do this? By letter? There was no time. By a trusty messenger? But whom could she send? There was no one from whom she could seek advice or assistance save the old people; and in her heart, notwithstanding their present extreme civility, she mistrusted both.
She was sorely puzzled what to do, but yet resolved to save her lover somehow, even at the risk of her own life.