The saloons were crowded by the best of the land, eligible parties were in abundance, and Mr. Bertie Fairfax, handsome, sweet-natured and lovable though he was, found himself somewhat out in the cold.
It was not an unusual position for him, and on other occasions he had laughed good-naturedly in the smoking-room of his club, saying that there had been too many iron pitchers going down the stream for such a fragile, unsatisfactory delf affair as himself to hope for success.
But to-night it was different.
He wanted to dance with Lady Ethel Boisdale; why he could scarcely have told.
She was very beautiful; but he had seen faces far more lovely even than hers; she was very graceful, tall and full of a sweet, proud dignity, but Bertie Fairfax had seen some of the ladies of the Papal court, and remembered their faces.
She was, as it happened, just the realization of the young fellow's ideal, and—yet it must be written—he was already half in love with her.
Round her, forming a sort of bodyguard or watchdog, continually hovered in majestic grace the Countess of Lackland, her mamma.
Bertie was aware that her ladyship knew all about him, and that it was utterly vain to hope that he might be allowed to fill a vacant line in the Lady Ethel's little dancing programme.
He watched her dancing for some time, watched her as she spun round in two waltzes with Leicester Dodson for her partner, then the disappointed Bertie made his way out on to the corridor and leaned against the balustrade, gnawing his tawny mustache and trying to make up his mind to go to his club.
Just then, as he had almost decided, Leicester Dodson came out, hot and flushed, but with his usual grave reserve about his mouth and eyes.
"Ah! Bert!" he said. "Taking a cooler; you're wisein your generation. They ought to keep a weighing machine outside in the lobbies, so that a man could see how much he'd fined down after each dance. I've lost pounds since the Lancers. It's hotter than a siesta hour in Madrid. You look cool."
"I don't feel particularly hot. I haven't been dancing. I feel like the skeleton at the feast; I think I shall carry my bones to the club. Will you come?"
"I'm engaged for another turn with Lady Ethel Boisdale," said Leicester Dodson, leaning over the balustrade and skillfully concealing a yawn.
"Lucky dog," said Bertie, enviously.
"Eh?" said Leicester. "By the way, you said she'd half promised you a dance; you don't mean to say you haven't called for payment, Bert; she's the best-looking woman in the room, and the most sensible——"
"Too sensible to dance with Mr. Fairfax, or her mamma has had all her training trouble for nothing," said Bertie.
"Nonsense! She's looking this way; go and ask her, man. I'll wait until the waltz is over, then we'll go on to the club, for, between you and me and that hideous statue, which is all out of drawing, by the way, I have had pretty well enough; and you seem, to judge by your face, to have had a great deal too much."
Bertie, without a word left his friend, fought his way through the crowd, and, after some maneuvering, gained Lady Ethel's side.
"Have you saved me that dance which you half promised me this morning?" he said.
Lady Ethel turned—she did not know that he was so near—and a smile, bright, but transient, passed across her face.
"There is one dance—it is only a quadrille," she said; "all the waltzes are gone."
"I am grateful for the quadrille only, and do not deserve that," he said.
"I thought you had gone," said Ethel. "My brother was looking for you just now, and I told him that I had seen you go out."
"I was in the corridor cooling," said Bertie Fairfax.
"Is it cool there?" she asked; "I thought it could not be cool anywhere to-night."
Then Lord Fitz came up, his simple face all flushed with the heat and the last dance.
"Hello, Bert, I've been looking for you. I say——"
"You must tell me when the dance is over," said Bertie, "there is no time."
And he led his partner to her place in a set.
A quadrille has the advantage over its more popular sister, the waltz; it allows of conversation.
Bertie could talk well; he had always something light and pleasant to say, and he had a musical voice in which to say it.
He was generally too indolent to talk much, but neither his natural laziness nor the heat seemed to weigh upon him to-night, and he talked about this matter and on that until Ethel, who was not only beautiful but cultivated, was delighted.
Too delighted, perhaps, for my Lady Lackland, from her place of espionage in a corner, put up her eyeglass and scanned her daughter's rapt and sometimes smiling face with something that was not altogether a pleased expression.
"Who is that good-looking young fellow with whom Ethel's dancing?" she asked of the dowager Lady Barnwell, a noted scandalmonger, and an authority on every one's position and eligibilities.
"That is young Fairfax. Handsome, is he not? Pity he's so poor."
"Poor, is he?" said the countess, grimly.
"Oh, yes, dreadfully. Works for his living—a writer, artist, or something of that sort. Really, I don't know exactly. He is in the Temple. Very amusing companion, evidently. Lady Ethel looks charmed with her partner."
"Yes," said Lady Lackland, coldly, in her heart of hearts she determined that her daughter should receive a lecture upon the imprudence of wasting a dance upon such doubtful and dangerous men as Bertie Fairfax.
Meanwhile, Ethel was enjoying herself, and when Bertie, whose handsome face was beaming with quiet satisfaction and pleasure, softly suggested that they should try the corridor, Lady Ethel, after a moment's hesitation,on the score of prudence, replied with an affirmative, and they sought the lobby.
Here there were a seat for the lady and a leaning-post for Mr. Fairfax, and the conversation which had been interrupted was taken up again.
Bertie was in the midst of an eloquent defense of a favorite artist, of whom Lady Ethel did not quite approve, when Lord Fitz again appeared.
"What an eel you are, Bert! I've been everywhere for you. I say, we're going down to Coombe Lodge; it's so beastly hot up here in town, and we're going to make a little summer picnic party; you know, just a nice number. Cecil Carlton, Leonard Waltham and his sister, and two or three more. My sister is going, ain't you, Ethel? Will you come?"
"Thanks," said Bertie, with something like a flush, and certainly a sparkle in his light eyes. "But I am booked to Leicester Dodson."
"Oh, yes, the Cedars; what a bore for us. Never mind, the Lodge isn't far off, and, if you go down, we shall all be together."
"Yes," said Bertie, glancing at the fair face beneath him, which was turned, with a quiet look of interest, to her brother; "yes. When do you go?"
"Next week, if Ethel can get herself away from this sort of thing."
"I shall be very glad to go," said Ethel; "I am longing for the green trees and a little country air."
"It's done, then; all the odds taken," said simple Lord Fitz.
At that moment came up Ethel's next partner.
Bertie relinquished her, with a smothered sigh. He knew that he should not see her again that night, for her programme was full.
"We may meet in a country lane next week," he said, softly.
"We may," she said, with a smile that parted her lips bewitchingly, and then she was called away.
Bertie looked after her, then slowly descended the broad stairs, got his crush hat and strolled into the open street.
"That's the most sensible thing you've done for the last two hours," said Leicester Dodson's voice, behindhim. "I'll follow your example," and he took out his cigar case. "Here, my man," he added, as his neat brougham drove up.
"Let us walk," said Bertie.
And they started slowly for the club.
It was very hot there, however, and the pair were soon in Leicester's chambers, which were in the same inn and only one floor below Bertie's.
Leicester Dodson was a wealthy man, and quite able to afford luxurious apartments in the Albany, or at Meurice's, but he preferred a quiet set of chambers near those of his fast friend, Bertie.
He did not work in them, but he read a great deal, and he enjoyed half an hour now and then spent in watching his hard-working friend.
He would sit in Bertie's armchair, with his legs extended before him, watching Bertie engaged on some article or poem or drawing, and, as he watched, would almost wish that he also had to work for his living.
So Mr. Leicester was somewhat of a philosopher and a cynic, as Bertie had said, and at times found life rather wearisome.
To-night he drew himself a chair—Bertie was extended upon an ancient, but comfortable, sofa, and, lighting a fresh cigar, rang for claret and ice.
"Dreadfully hot, Bert. What on earth makes us hang about this horrible town, in this terrible weather? Fancy staying in London when all the green fields are holding out their hands and shouting, 'Come, and roll on us'! Fashion is a wonderful thing—so are you. Why on earth don't you speak? I never knew you so silent for so many minutes together, in my life. Are you asleep?"
"No," said Bertie. "Push the claret across the table with the poker, will you? When did you say you were going down to the Cedars, Les?"
"When you like," said Leicester Dodson, coloring slightly and turning his face away from his companion. "To-morrow, if you like; I was going to say I wish I'd never left it, but I came up this week because——"
"Because what?" asked Bertie, as he stopped.
"Because," said Leicester Dodson, looking hard at thefire, in his grave, sedate way, "discretion is the better part of valor."
"What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed Bertie Fairfax. "You never mean to tell me you were afraid of a man?"
"No," said Leicester, with his cynical smile; "of a woman. There, don't ask me any more. I am not going to make a fool of myself, Bert, but while we're on the subject, I'll say that it would never do for either of us to do that."
"No," said Bertie Fairfax, with an unusual bitterness. "We can never marry, Les. You, because you are too——"
"Selfish," interrupted Mr. Dodson, placidly.
"And I, because I am too poor——"
"You will be rich enough some day, you clever dog," said Mr. Dodson, sententiously.
"Yes, when I'm an old man, gray-headed and bent double. Never mind."
"I won't. Don't you, either," said Leicester; "and now for the Cedars. Suppose we say the end of the week?"
"Yes, that will do," said Bertie. "The Lacklands—at least, some of them—are going down to Coombe Lodge next week."
"Oh," said Leicester, significantly, glancing at the frank, pleasant face of his friend.
"Yes," retorted Bertie, "and the Mildmays are still at the Park, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Leicester, shrugging his shoulders with an air of indifference he was far from feeling. "So that we shall be all together—like moths round a candle," he added, cynically, as Bertie rose, with a yawn, to mount to his own chambers.
Yes, all together, and near the meshes of that web which a skillful, cunning spider was weaving for them.
Captain Murpoint had laid his delicate web ready for his flies.
Captain Howard Murpoint had not exaggerated his powers of pleasing when making that important communication and revelation to his accomplice, Jem, under the Portland cliffs.
He had not been in possession of the marvelously comfortable suite of rooms at Mildmay Park many days before young and old, mistress and servants, were ready to pronounce the captain a most agreeable man, and his servant, Jem, a most amusing and obliging fellow.
The morning after his arrival the captain came down to breakfast elegantly attired in a loose velvet shooting-coat, which set off his strong, well-made figure to advantage.
His smooth face was set with a pleasant smile, and his voice was toned to a half-affectionate interest as he shook hands with Mrs. Mildmay.
"I hope you slept well, Captain Murpoint?" she murmured.
The captain declared that he had never slept better, and that his quarters were all that could be wished.
"Violet is not down yet," said Mrs. Mildmay. "She is late, but we were rather later than usual last night, and, I dare say, the excitement of your arrival made her feel tired. Ah, there she is."
And Violet entered at the moment, and came up to give her aunt the morning kiss.
Then she turned to the captain, and once again his bold, watchful eyes shrank for a moment before the clear, calm gaze of her pure ones.
His salutation was a finished piece of acting, so reverential, so paternally affectionate, and so respectful.
Violet shook hands with him, and tripped to her seat.
"And did the ghosts annoy you?" she asked, as the captain spoke of his night's rest.
"No; they were considerate to their guest. Perhaps when we are more familiar they may be more troublesome.You have had a good night's sleep, 'tis evident," he continued, glancing admiringly at her fair, fresh, blooming face.
"I always sleep well," said Violet, simply. "Neither ghosts nor indigestion disturb me."
"I thought perhaps that our little party had tired you, my dear," said Mrs. Mildmay.
"No, aunt," replied Violet. "It was a very pleasant one," she added, musingly.
"Very, the pleasantest I have participated in for some time," said the captain, with some truth. "I must congratulate you upon having some really agreeable neighbors. The vicar was a most delightful man, and Mr. and Mrs. Giles are most amiable."
"And what did you think of the Dodsons?" asked Mrs. Mildmay, with a half sigh.
"Most agreeable people," replied the captain. "So original and unaffected. The young fellow pleased me exceedingly," and he glanced at Violet, under his dark brows.
"They are quite new friends—acquaintances," said Mrs. Mildmay. "Last night was the first time we have had the pleasure of their company.
"Indeed!" said the captain, with interest. "Newcomers, I suppose?"
"No; they have been here some time," answered Mrs. Mildmay. "They live in the large, red house, the Cedars; perhaps you did not notice it? You can see it from the dining-room windows. They are friends of Violet's making and—and though very agreeable people, still——"
"Still, they are—tallow chandlers," put in Violet, wickedly, "and aunt cannot forgive them."
Captain Murpoint smiled a peculiar smile of conciliation for both the ladies.
"Tallow chandlers," he said, "can be very agreeable people; but I understand your aunt's prejudice, my dear Miss Mildmay——"
"And I cannot," said Violet, with quiet gravity. "My father," and her voice lowered softly, "must have bought tallow when he traded with Russia, as I have heard, and I cannot see much difference between buying it in the first instance and melting it in the second."
"There is a difference," said the captain, softly. "But,putting the question aside, I thought the Dodsons extremely nice people, and Mr. Leicester Dodson a well-informed person."
Violet looked at her plate. She did not echo the captain's praise or qualify it, so one could not tell whether she thought Mr. Leicester clever or not.
"Violet made their acquaintance in quite a romantic fashion," said Mrs. Mildmay, harping upon the subject, and she proceeded to recount the adventure of the parasol upon the cliffs.
While they were talking, Violet, who was facing the window which overlooked the lawn, saw the tall, graceful figure of Leicester Dodson sauntering up the path toward the house, in the indolent way which distinguished him.
"There is Mr. Dodson," she said. "I'll tap at the window; he may as well come in this way as walk up to the front."
And so she tapped.
Mr. Leicester looked over the whole of the house, as usual, before settling upon the right window, then, when he did, he lifted his hat, with a grave smile that was also a very pleased one, and came across the lawn.
"Will you consent to make such an undignified entry?" said Violet.
"Yes," said Mr. Leicester, and, stooping, stepped into the room. "I'm afraid I'm too early," he said, shaking hands with Mrs. Mildmay and the captain. "But I thought if I left it till the middle of the day it would be too hot, and if I left it till the evening it would be too near dinner, and that after dinner——"
"We should be all asleep," said Violet, quietly.
"Exactly," assented Mr. Leicester, gravely.
"We are very glad to see you at any time," said Mrs. Mildmay. "And I think it is very kind of you to take the trouble on such a warm day, to come and see Violet's dog; poor fellow! we cannot think what ails his leg."
"We shall perhaps be able to find out," said Mr. Leicester.
"Will you take a cup of coffee?" asked Violet.
"Yes, I will, please," he said. "Coffee is a good antidote to the heat, is it not, Captain Murpoint?"
"Yes," said the captain, who had taken the opportunity to scrutinize the young man's face during the exchange of remarks; "yes, with a little curry powder added. We used to take it with chillies every morning at Madras."
Mr. Leicester sipped his coffee and chatted in his grave way; then, when the coffee had disappeared, Violet rose to conduct him to the stables.
When they reached the stables, where Violet was welcomed by many a groom and stable-help with smiles and hat-touchings, the great mastiff Leo came limping out of his kennel, baying and throwing up its head, with mingled pain and pleasure.
"Poor old fellow," said Violet. "See, isn't it a pity? He is very fierce," she added, as the dog eyed the stranger with suspicious, threatening aspect.
"I'm not afraid of a dog," said Mr. Leicester, quietly, and without hesitation he knelt down and stroked the thick, smooth neck. The dog growled and put its paws on his shoulder.
"Oh, please be careful!" said Violet, apprehensively. "Quiet, Leo! Quiet, sir."
Mr. Dodson, however, did not seem at all nervous and, with a grave, "Poor old man!" took hold of the bad foot and examined it.
"There's a thorn in this foot, or there was, and it is festering. I prescribe a poultice," he said.
"Oh, dear me! who is to put it on?" said Violet.
"I will," said Mr. Leicester, "if you will be kind enough to order some warm water and linseed."
Violet, without any further fuss, sent one of the grooms for the required articles, and Mr. Leicester seated himself on the top of the kennel and talked to the dog until they came.
Then he mixed the poultice, applied it, and washed his hands, all with the same self-composed gravity which half amused Violet and half awed her.
This Mr. Leicester, whom she had once almost despised for being the son of a tallow melter was gradually winning her respect and setting her thinking.
"How kind of you," she said. "I am really very grateful. But I am ashamed that you should have had so much trouble."
"Not at all. I am very fond of dogs," said Mr. Leicester, and the speech, though it seemed ungracious, was pleasantly spoken.
"If you are fond of horses, come and see my ponies," said Violet, in her frank way, and they turned to the stables.
"They are a pretty pair; they'd go well in tandem," said Mr. Leicester, thoughtfully.
"Would they?" said Violet, eagerly. "How I should like to drive them. Is it difficult?"
"No," said Mr. Leicester, "not at all, when you have acquired the knack. If you will allow me, I will show you how to drive the ponies tandem."
"Thank you so much," said Violet, gratefully; "but are you sure that it will not bore you? I know gentlemen dislike being bored."
"No, it will give me great pleasure," he said, simply. "When will you take the first lesson?"
"Oh, you shall say the time."
"This afternoon, at five?"
"Yes," said Violet; "I shall be delighted! Oh, I forgot!" she added, quickly, and with an unmistakable air of disappointment. "I am to drive Captain Murpoint over to the village, and perhaps he would not care to risk his neck."
Captain Murpoint came from the house at that moment to answer the question.
"Will you be present at a little equestrian experiment, Captain Murpoint?" asked Mr. Leicester.
The captain smiled.
"Are you going to ride three of Miss Mildmay's horses a-row?" he said, with his smooth smile.
"No; Mr. Dodson has been kind enough to offer to teach me how to drive tandem," said Violet.
"I shall be only too delighted to make a spectator."
"Will you come into the house again?" she asked, as Mr. Leicester raised his hat and paused at the walk leading to the gate.
"No thank you," he said. "I am going down to the village for my mother. Good-morning. Good-morning, Captain Murpoint." And he sauntered off.
They repaired to the drawing-room, that being the coolestpart of the house, and there the captain was most attentive. The conversation got on to the topic of music, and Violet turned over her new songs, and at last, in answer to a question whether he sang or not, the captain offered to sing.
He seated himself at the piano, struck a few chords, and commenced a barcarole in so sweet and yet powerful a voice that Violet was charmed.
The music drew Mrs. Mildmay into the room from another part of the house, and the morning, which Violet had feared would be extremely dull, promised to pass away most pleasantly.
While he was singing, Violet heard her door open.
She was standing at the piano, and she did not turn her head, but raised her eyes to a mirror which hung over the instrument, and which reflected the whole of the room.
As she did so, she saw that the door was opened by the captain's servant, and her gaze was riveted by the picture which the mirror showed her.
The man, thinking himself unobserved was standing, with the door handle in his hand, with such an expression of infinite mockery and sardonic amusement on his evil face that Violet felt herself fascinated and strangely impressed by it.
Suddenly the captain raised his eyes, and she knew by the look of mingled anger, alarm, and suspicion which displaced the smile upon his face that he was conscious of her fixed attention upon the mirror.
He finished the song abruptly, turned his head, and saw Jem Starling, whose face instantly resumed its usual snug demureness.
"Well, James?"
"A letter, captain," said James, "marked 'immediate.'"
The captain took it.
Jem left the room.
"Pray, do not mind us," said Mrs. Mildmay, and, with a bow, the captain took out his letter, which he had thrust into his pocket.
He was almost on the point of returning into the hiding place, for at a glance he saw that it was only a sham one—an old envelope sealed up.
However, with his usual quickness, he decided to openit, and, accordingly, made a slight fuss with the seal, and, taking out a piece of paper, read:
"The pleece inspector's cum down to-day."
Captain Murpoint smiled.
"Business, my dear madam; business men always mark their letters 'immediate,'" and he thrust the letter into his pocket, and commenced talking as if the matter were of no moment.
Violet played a little, and practiced some new song, and Mrs. Mildmay ventured to pass through the French window into the garden, the captain accompanying her.
It was after they had left the room that Violet, happening to glance at the carpet, saw a scrap of paper by her side.
It was the captain's note.
"'The pleece inspector's cum down to-day,'" she said; "why, where can this have come from?"
For the moment she thought that it must be the letter which the captain had received, but the scrap of paper had so little of the appearance of a missive that had come through the post, and the information seemed to have still less connection with the captain, that she dismissed the idea.
"Strange," she said, and, with a laugh, she put the piece of paper in her pocket.
The captain had pulled it from his with his pocket handkerchief.
Five o'clock came, and with it Leicester Dodson.
It had been very warm out all day; it was warm still, but Mr. Dodson did not look at all distressed, and his velvet lounging jacket hung loosely and comfortably upon his strong, muscular frame.
"Have you courage enough to face the weather?" he said, putting his head through the window frame, "or do you give in?"
"No," said Violet, laughing; "on the contrary, I feelquite brave. I will not keep you long. Will you take a seat while I get my hat?"
He entered, sauntered to a chair, and dropped into it, prepared to wait the three-quarters of an hour which ladies usually require for donning hat and cape.
But Violet was quick and impulsive in all her actions, and before ten minutes had passed he heard her voice on the stairs again, speaking to a servant.
Before she entered the room, however, the door opened, and Captain Murpoint came in.
"Oh, here you are, Mr. Dodson," he said. "Can you tell me at what time the post goes out?"
"Six o'clock," said Leicester.
"So soon?" returned the captain. "I am afraid I shall be compelled to deprive myself of the pleasure of accompanying you. I have some rather important letters to write, and shall barely have time to get through them."
"I am sorry for that," said Leicester Dodson, quietly telling a polite falsehood, for he was in reality rather glad than otherwise, and looked forward with no little satisfaction to atête-à-têtewith Violet.
"So am I," said the captain, and, as he spoke, he looked round about the room, as if searching for something.
"Lost anything?" asked the other, in his slow, indolent way.
"Y—es," said Captain Murpoint, "a letter. I have dropped it from my pocket, and I fancied I should see it in this room."
At that moment the door opened and Violet entered.
The captain ceased his hunt immediately, and, murmuring softly, "It's of no consequence," turned to Violet and told her that he should be compelled to remain at home.
"I am sorry," said Violet, echoing Leicester's words, and with as little truth.
And she passed out onto the lawn.
"I don't know whether James has harnessed the ponies properly," she said, doubtfully, as the groom appeared, leading up the pretty pair tandem fashion.
"No, he hasn't," said Leicester, after examining them.
And he quietly explained to the man how the operation should be performed.
Then he handed Violet into the little toy phaeton, and took the reins.
At first the ponies, unused to their novel positions and quite fresh after two days' rest, showed signs of rebellion, and started first to one side, then the other, and at last the leader ventured to attempt the feat of walking on his hind legs.
But Mr. Leicester's iron hand drew him to earth again, and, with a touch of the long whip, hinted to him that a very different driver than Miss Violet sat behind him.
After a few minutes they settled down more quietly, and, as the feathery phaeton was rattled down the well-kept road to the village, Violet's face flushed and her eyes sparkled with pleasure.
"How delightful!" she exclaimed; "and how easy it looks!"
"Come and try," said Mr. Leicester, and he pulled the ponies up until he had changed seats with her.
Then Violet found that tandem-driving was one of those feats which look easier to perform than they really are. Her hold on the reins was not tight enough; the artful little creatures knew her gentle touch, and the leader commenced his old trick, and, in spite of all Violet's skill, insisted upon turning round, as if he meant to enter the carriage and take a ride himself.
Mr. Leicester smiled, and Violet pouted.
"Hold the reins tighter," he said, "and give Master Dot—or Spot? which is it?—a clean, little cut on the left side."
She did so, and Master Dot immediately spun round to the right.
Then Mr. Leicester showed her how to keep him straight by whipping him on the right, and Violet managed to drive him straight for some little distance until they came to a sharp corner.
"Now, take care," said Mr. Leicester; but his warning came too late.
Dot cut the corner rather close, Spot, of course, cut it closer, and the phaeton would have been over, and its contents spilled like eggs, had not Mr. Dodson's hand closed on the small ones of Violet, and tugged the leader round.
For the second time Violet learned how hard and firm that hand was, and involuntarily she uttered a little, sharp cry of pain.
"I am so sorry!" said Leicester, and his voice, naturally so cold and grave, grew wonderfully gentle and anxious. "I did not mean to hurt you."
"No, no; it's nothing," Violet said, coloring with shame at her weakness. "I am really very grateful. You did not hurt me. May I keep the reins a little longer? I don't deserve to after such a silly mistake."
"Yes," he said, "there is a bit of straight road now."
He seemed so genuinely kind that Violet could not refrain from thanking him again.
"You are very good-natured, Mr. Dodson," she said. "I might have thought you proud if I had judged by first impressions."
"Why?" he asked.
"Why?" she repeated. "Are you sure that I shall not offend you?"
"Quite," he said, with a short laugh. "Pray, go on."
"Well, then, if you remember how abruptly you turned away from me that morning when you so foolishly and recklessly, but so heroically, risked your life for my paltry sunshade? You actually refused to shake hands," and she laughed, "and turned away with the cut direct."
He laughed, and looked up at her with a half-amused smile.
"I did, did I?" he said. "Come, I will be candid. I had judged you, not by first impressions, but by hearsay. The unkind things said of one always get repeated—one's friends always see to that. And I have heard some of the mighty civil things your aunt, and perhaps you had said of tallow chandlers in general, and ourselves and the Cedars in particular."
Violet crimsoned, and whipped Dot almost angrily for very shame.
"And," he exclaimed, laughing again, "I thought when you told me your name, 'Well, she shan't be compelled to know me because I picked up her sunshade,' and so I took myself off with all humility."
"Some one's darling sin is the pride that apes humility," answered Violet, with an arch smile.
"Exactly," said Mr. Leicester, "I did not choose that the acquaintanceship should be one of my commencing. If you chose to look down with contempt upon tallow melters——"
Violet stopped him, with a look almost of pain.
"You are unjust," she said, in a low voice. "And you forget that I never thought less of you for what you were. You are not a tallow melter—and—and—oh, I do not know what to say, save that I am not guilty of the meanness you lay to my charge."
"Forgive me," he said, gently and earnestly. "I was only half serious. I did not think so really. But," he added, laughing, "it is a fact that we made our money from tallow, and there's no getting over it. Ah! here is Captain Murpoint," he broke off, as the captain's tall and powerful figure stepped out on to the path beside the drive.
So sudden was his appearance, seeming to grow out of her thoughts, as it were, that Violet, who was by no means a nervous or sentimental young lady, half started, and certainly paled.
In starting, she tugged the reins.
Dot and Spot took the jerk as an excuse for a little freshness, and started off, with their heads down viciously.
Leicester, who had noticed her start, and the sudden pallor, caught hold of her hand, and soon pulled the sprightly ponies into a trot again.
But Violet's hands and his had met once more, and the contact had produced a strange thrill, which was as wonderful as that feeling which they had been speaking of, but it was certainly not one of antipathy.
Leicester stepped out, handed Violet to the steps; then, after patting the ponies, held out his hand.
"Will you not come in?" said Violet.
"No, thank you. It is nearly dinner time. I hope you are not tired."
"No," said Violet, giving him her hand, which he kept while she finished speaking. "No, and I am very much obliged. Good-by."
"Good-by," he said, and perhaps unconsciously he pressed her little hand as he released it.
Then he turned, and Violet, watching him, saw himstand for a moment to exchange a good-day with Captain Murpoint, then stride on.
It was nearly dinner time, as he had said, and he sauntered up to his room, and put himself into the hands of his valet with his usual indolence.
Then he came down to dinner, and ate it with rather more than his usual gravity, talking little, save to his mother, to whom he was always the perfection of knightly courtesy.
Once only he seemed cold, and that was when she said, "Leicester, we have been talking of returning the Mildmays' dinner party. What day would you like me to ask them?" for she always consulted her darling son on every matter, important or trifling.
"I do not care," he said; "I am going to town to-morrow, and I may not return for a week or two. You might ask them next week."
"Going to town," said Mrs. Dodson, ruefully. "Why my dear Leicester, you said you would stay a month with us!"
"I must go to-morrow, mother," he said, and she knew that it was useless to contend against the fiat when pronounced in that calm, cold tone.
After dinner he strolled out on to the cliffs and lit a cigar.
"Yes," he muttered, looking at the sea, lying like a great opal in the low sunset. "I will go to town; I am better there out of mischief. She is very pretty—beautiful, I think, if any woman's face did deserve the word; and there is something about her—is it her voice, or her look, or that swift turn of the head?—which moves me as never voice or look or gesture of woman moved me yet. She is a beautiful, bewitching snare, and, as I have no desire to be snared, as I am too selfish, too cynical, too philosophical to make any woman happy, I will fly. Yes, I will go to town before the danger grows greater." And, as to resolve and perform were nearly one with Mr. Leicester Dodson, to town he went, and Violet saw his dogcart rattling down to Burfield from her bedroom window.
He went to town, but, as we have seen, he could not be happy, contented, or even satisfied, and before the fortnighthad passed, he was on his way back to Penruddie, with Bertie Fairfax accompanying him.
Fate stands at the crossroads of life and beckons with inexorable finger, and man, though he strive against the stern command and struggles to avoid that particular path up which the great fate beckons him, must yield at last and walk on to his happiness or his doom.
Fate beckons you, Leicester Dodson, and, though you proudly set your face against its decree, you cannot avoid the inevitable.
The captain, as he opened his bedroom window, saw Mr. Leicester Dodson's departure, and was rather surprised.
Captain Murpoint was too shrewd an observer of human nature not to have noticed Mr. Leicester's evident partiality for Miss Violet's society, and, although it would seem to be antagonistic to the captain's plans that the young man should be hanging about the house, yet, in reality, he was quite willing that Violet's attention should be absorbed by handsome Mr. Leicester, or any one else, so that it was drawn for the present from Captain Murpoint.
He could not understand Mr. Leicester's sudden flight, and Mr. Starling, when interrogated, could not very much enlighten him.
Jem or "Starling," as the captain now called him, entered his master's bedroom with the water for the bath, and found the captain still in bed, but with his head resting on one strong hand, and his face turned dreamily to the window.
Starling grunted his morning salutation, and the captain nodded.
"Go to the window," he said, "and tell me if that young Dodson's dogcart has come back; if I have calculated correctly, it has just had about time enough to get to the station and back."
"Here it comes, captain."
"Without Mr. Leicester?"
"Without Mr. Leicester," replied Starling.
"Then he has gone to town," said the captain, springing out of bed and stretching himself thoughtfully. "Gone to town! What the deuce has he gone to town for?"
"That's what everybody wants to know," said Jem, from the next room, where he was spreading out the towels and pouring the water into the bath.
"Did you make friends with the people in the servants' hall at the Cedars?" asked the captain.
"I did, captain, obedient to your commands," said Jem with a wink. "And a very nice, genteel lot o' people they are, though I prefer the hall here, if there's any choice. Oh, yes, I walked up last night, permiscous like, and when they knew as I was your man they made me welcome, drawed me some of the best October and would 'a' opened a bottle of Madery, but I wouldn't hear on it—I allus was so modest. I had a cut of duck and a helpin' o' some sort o' cream with a long, furrin name——"
"Tush! I don't want to know what you had to eat and drink," interrupted the captain. "What did you hear?"
"Not much," he said, laying out the captain's ready-brushed morning suit. "I heard that Mr. Leicester was going up to London this morning, quite sudden like—and he ain't one of your impulse gents, neither. His man didn't know what was up, and depended to stop here for another month at the least. There wasn't anything awkward between the old people and the young 'un, neither, for the butler—which is a more high and mighty swell, in a bigger shirt front, than our chap—he heard Mr. Dodson beg o' Mr. Leicester to stop. But, no, he said he'd go, and gone he has, sure enough."
"And now you can go," said the captain. "Stay! did you find that piece of paper which I told you to look for in the drawing room?"
"No, captain, and I looked everywhere."
"Idiot!" said the captain, between his teeth, "let that be a warning to you never to put your clumsy paw to paper again. How do I know who may have picked that up, with its cursed, telltale sentence?"
"I beg pardon," said Jem, humbly, "but I thought Iwas doing right. This 'ere inspector was a man from London, and he might have spotted either of us——"
"Enough," said the captain, with a displeased frown.
"You were right to be cautious, and to give me warning, but you should have taken a better way in which to do it. Your grinning face and that stupid business of the letter were enough to arouse the suspicions of a child. Has the inspector gone?"
"Yes, captain," said Jem, "went last night. Found everythink satisfactory; the force in fine condition, and the reserve able and active. He! he!"
"What are you laughing at?" said the captain.
"There's only one policeman—bar the coastguard, which don't count—in the place," grinned Jem.
"Only one policeman—and the coastguard!" mused the captain.
Then he muttered, "All the better," and, dismissing his faithful servant, he prepared for his bath.
For a week Violet felt very dull, and the captain, who watched her closely behind his well-assumed simplicity and carelessness, found that all his amusing stories, songs and little pieces of acting failed to amuse her, and he was not surprised to hear Mrs. Mildmay say at breakfast one morning:
"My dear Violet, you want change of scene. You look tired, my child. If we can persuade Captain Murpoint to accompany us, we will go up to town for a week or two."
The captain bowed.
"I must be taking my flight soon, my dear madam. I have made a long stay."
Violet looked up with one of her frank, open glances.
"You will not go yet!" she said. "You will make this your home, Captain Murpoint, as you would have done if my father were master here."
The captain's eyes moistened, and his voice trembled with emotion as he bowed over to her in his courtly way.
"My dear Miss Mildmay," he said, in a low voice, "I express my gratitude for your generous, warm-hearted welcome, and, though I cannot consent to make the Park my home, I will stay a little longer, for I must confess that I am loath to go."
"Stay as long as you can—forever!" said Violet, inher impulsive way. "You are my father's best friend, and mine, therefore."
"Do not let me be a drag on any of your plans," said the captain, earnestly. "I am an old campaigner, and can make myself comfortable anywhere. This is a charming place, but if Mrs. Mildmay would like a change, pray, pray do not let me be a hindrance."
"There is plenty of room over and over again for you in Park Place," said Violet, smiling. "So you will be no hindrance, Captain Murpoint. But I do not know that auntie really means to go to town—do you, auntie?"
"Well, my dear——" said Mrs. Mildmay, with hesitating indecision.
"At least," laughed Violet, "you will wait a week to think over it. You and Captain Murpoint can sit in council while I take a drive. I am going to try Dot and Spot in tandem," and she ran from the room.
"Be careful, my dear!" Mrs. Mildmay called after her, and the girl's light laugh rang back in loving mockery.
But something occurred within the next half hour which put the projected journey to London on the shelf for a while.
As Dot and Spot were trotting down the steep road, in very high spirits and showing signs of rebellion, Violet saw two gentlemen walking slowly up the hill.
Her attention was so much absorbed by the ponies that she did not bestow more than a glance upon them at first, and it was not until she had got considerably nearer to them that she recognized in one Mr. Leicester Dodson.
Impulsive, as usual, she on the instant determined to change places with that gentleman in the matter of pride, and show him that she also could be inconsistent, therefore, when she came on a level with the gentlemen, she merely responded to the uplifting of Mr. Leicester's deerstalker by a cool, little nod, and whipped up Dot into a sharper trot.
Leicester, who had pulled up expecting a little parley, colored slightly, and to Bertie Fairfax's enthusiastic exclamation, "I say, Les, what a beautiful creature," replied, rather coldly:
"Do you think so? That is Miss Violet Mildmay."
Bertie glanced up at Leicester's face, and whistled, comically.
"By Jove! she gave you the cut direct, Les."
"I am sure, I don't know," said Mr. Leicester, with the most provoking gravity. "She did, most likely, if you say so, Bertie—you, who are so well versed in woman's wiles and smiles."
"Hem!" laughed Bertie, "you haven't made much impression in that quarter, Les, and—Hello!" he broke off, "those blessed ponies have started round, and here they come, neck or nothing! By Heaven! they'll be over that wall, trap and all, if she don't pull them in directly!"
Leicester turned round sharply, and, without a word, set off running across the road.
"Keep tight hold of the reins!" he cried, in his deep, musical voice, as the two ponies came dashing along, with their wicked, little heads thrown back and the tiny, toy phaeton swinging and rocking behind them. "Keep a tight hand on the reins, and don't be frightened," he added, as he glanced at Violet's face, which was pale, but set fast and firm with determination and courage.
She nodded slightly to show him that she heard and would obey, and he saw the tiny, little hands close fast upon the reins.
The next instant he made a spring at the pony with such force that the little animal was nearly knocked over, and dragged him to a standstill.
Snap went one of the traces, and up went Master Spot, but a round smack on the head from Leicester's hand quieted him, and then Leicester turned, with a smile, to Violet.
"You haven't acquired the art yet," he said, nodding laughingly. "I am afraid you do not use the whip enough."
Violet bit her lip with vexation for a moment in silence, then burst into a merry laugh, which had not a particle of fear in it.
"Tiresome little beast!" she said, "he would turn round! I did whip him, indeed, I did! But he was so obstinate, and so—and so—I thought I would let him go!"
Mr. Leicester smiled incredulously, and Violet, understanding the smile, laughed again.
"Well, I really do believe I could have pulled him in if I had tried a little harder!"
"Then you will not forgive me for interfering," he said.
Violet's smile changed immediately, and her beautiful eyes grew grave.
"I am only jesting," she said, in a low voice. "I know how kind you have been, and what you saved me from," and she glanced at the low wall, significantly.
"You must not try tandem alone just yet," he said.
At that moment, which was rather an awkward one, Bertie Fairfax came up, and Leicester hastened to introduce him.
Violet bowed to the fair-haired Bertie and, after a glance of examination, felt that she liked him.
"Is it sympathy or antipathy?" murmured Leicester, who was near her.
Violet flushed slightly. "Neither," she retorted, in as low a voice.
"The trace is broken," said Bertie. "You cannot drive the little beggar any farther, Miss Mildmay."
"No," said Leicester, who seemed to have forgotten the ponies. "I will cut the connection, and divide the little rascals. You can then drive Master Spot home, and I can put Dot in my pocket."
Violet laughed.
"Really, it is a shame to give you so much trouble," she said. "Can you not tie him to a post? I can send Tom down for him!"
"It is no trouble," said Leicester politely. "And, what is more, we were coming up to the Park. My mother and father have driven over to pay you a visit; my friend and I were to accompany them, but we preferred walking, and arranged to meet them."
"I hope I shall get home before they have gone," said Violet. "At least, you will let me take one of you up?"
But they both declined, and Violet started, leaving Leicester and Bertie to follow with the rebellious Dot.
"Well," said Leicester, with his half cynical smile, as Bertie Fairfax looked after the disappearing phaeton. "I know you are dying to pronounce your opinion."
"I like her," said Bertie. "I think she's the most beautiful girl I've seen—bar one," he added,sotto voce,"and I like the candid, fearless look of her face. Those violet, velvet eyes, too."
"Nonsense, they're brown," said Leicester, but, although his voice was mocking, Bertie knew that his praises had pleased his friend.
"You evidently think as much of her yourself,mon ami," he said, significantly, "or you wouldn't drag that little beggar a mile and a half in a midsummer sun! Leicester's reformed! The bear is tamed!"
"Pshaw!" said Leicester. "Can't a man do a civil thing once in a way but all you young puppies must yelp at him?"
"Young!" retorted Bertie. "I like that, old Methuselah! Why, hang it, I'm older than you, if I haven't such a grim mug."
Leicester laughed.
"Then you've more years than sense, Bertie; so hold your tongue, and come on. I'd give a shilling for a bottle of Bass. If this little beggar were a hand smaller we'd tie his legs, sling him across your walking-stick, and carry him home in triumph like a dead rabbit."
In due course they appeared at the Park, very dusty and rather hot. Mrs. Mildmay was greatly alarmed and distressed at the idea of their walking such a distance in such weather, but it was the captain who so cleverly suggested that a little refreshment might be acceptable.
Mr. Leicester eyed him for the first time with something like amiability.
"I am thirsty, I'll admit," he said, with his curt smile.
Mrs. Mildmay rang the bell.
"Some claret, and hock, and some seltzer water."
Violet, whose eyes were quick, saw a quiet twinkle in Mr. Fairfax's eyes, and said, with a laugh:
"Perhaps you would prefer something else, Mr. Fairfax?"
"No, not I," said wicked Bertie; "but Leicester here has acquired a most degraded taste for bitter beer."
And as Mr. Leicester did not take the trouble to deny the imputation, Violet added, "and some bottles of ale."
The servant brought them, and while the gentlemen—including the captain, who said that he really could not resist the temptation—discussed them, Mrs. Dodson delivered herself of the purport of her visit.
Would Mrs. and Miss Mildmay and the captain come over to the Cedars and eat a friendly dinner with them on the morrow?
Mrs. Mildmay glanced interrogatively at Violet. Violet looked up, smilingly, and accepted.
"I shall be delighted, for my part," she said, "if it is really to be a very friendly, unceremonious evening."
The captain and Mrs. Mildmay echoed, and Mrs. Dodson looked pleased.
"It will be very quiet," she said. "We did expect Lord and Lady Boisdale from Coombe Lodge; but it is not certain whether they have come yet; if they have they have promised to join us."
"I am so glad!" said Mrs. Mildmay, who was secretly quite surprised that the Dodsons should be on dining terms with the Lackland family. "I like Lady Lackland so much. I met them very often in town. Violet does not know them; they have not been to Coombe Lodge since she left school."
"Then you will come, and I hope we shall see them," said Mrs. Dodson, rising. "Seven o'clock. Have you gentlemen finished your ale, and do you mean to ride back?"
"I'll walk, please," said Leicester, rising.
"Then you must rest a little longer, I think," said Mrs. Mildmay.
So it happened that Mr. and Mrs. Dodson were escorted to their carriage and started off, and that Leicester and Bertie spent the afternoon resting in Violet's drawing-room and conservatory, and that, while Bertie was absorbed in conversation with the captain, Leicester was left to exchange notes and opinions with Violet.
Perhaps it did not seem so dull to Miss Mildmay that afternoon, and perhaps Mr. Leicester was not altogetherunhappy, stretching his long legs among her ferns and flowers.
At seven o'clock on the following evening the Park carriage dashed up to the door of the Cedars, and the guests alighted.
"Fancy calling upon 'those people, the tallow chandlers,' auntie," whispered Violet, wickedly, as they were ushered through the immense hall to the magnificent drawing-room.
"Hush, my dear! they will hear you," murmured Mrs. Mildmay, warningly, as Mrs. Dodson came forward to greet them.
But Violet was shaking hands with Mr. Leicester and Mr. Fairfax, the latter looking particularly handsome and yellow-haired in his evening dress.
"The Boisdales have not come yet," said Mr. Dodson; "but they are coming."
"And here they are," said Leicester, as another carriage, not quite so well appointed as the wealthy Mildmays', dashed up.
Violet looked toward the door, with some curiosity, which was transformed to pleased interest as Lady Ethel entered.
Violet, whose likes and dislikes were most sudden, and oftentimes unaccountable, liked Ethel at first sight.
The two girls bowed first, and then shook hands. There was no doubting Violet's open, kindly eyes on Ethel's part, and Ethel's gentle, quiet smile on Violet's.
"This is my brother, Fitz," she said, as Violet made room for her on the sofa, and Violet looked up and saw good-natured, simple Lord Boisdale standing looking down at her with his boyish grin.
Violet felt herself superior to him immediately, and bowed quite condescendingly, as she would to a schoolboy. Lord Fitz felt—well, he never could tell how he felt at their first meeting, though he tried to often afterward.
"What a pretty place this is!" said Ethel. "I am so sorry we have not known more of it. It is the prettiest drive possible up the cliff."
"And that house with the green, old buildings on thehill," said Lord Boisdale, "is quite a treat. I wonder who owns it?"
"Miss Violet Mildmay," said Mr. Fairfax, who was standing near, quite silent, for a wonder, and looking out of the corner of his frank, blue eyes at Ethel.
"Eh? Eh? I beg your pardon," said Lord Fitz, coloring.
"You have done nothing to need it," said Violet. "I am quite grateful to you for admiring what I love."
"Well, it is pretty," said Lord Fitz. "By Jove! prettier than this," he added, in a loud whisper, which was fortunately drowned by the announcement of dinner.
Mr. Dodson took in Lady Ethel, Lord Fitz followed up with Mrs. Mildmay, and Violet found herself upon Bertie Fairfax's arm, but Leicester Dodson sat near her at dinner, and, being at home, found it his duty to talk.
It was a pleasant dinner, exquisitely cooked and served by discreet, attentive and noiseless servants.
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room the gentlemen seemed to miss them, and after a very little wine was consumed they followed them.
Somebody proposed whist to Mr. Dodson presently. The captain said it was a good idea, and simple-minded Fitz, Mr. Dodson and Bertie and the captain sat down, just for a rubber, while the ladies gave them a little music.
Leicester could play a good hand at any game of cards, and was fond of whist, but he found himself at Violet's side, by the piano.
The captain was induced to sing, and the audience dropped into silence, for when Captain Murpoint pleased he could still conversation most effectively, and never did he sing more effectively than he did then.
When the carriage came up the party was quite loath to break up.
Coombe Lodge was within such an easy drive, and the Park so near, that, as Mr. Dodson said, they were like a family party.
It was a lovely moonlight night, and Leicester proposed that, if they insisted upon going, they should send the carriages on at a slow pace and walk themselves part of the way.
They started and sauntered on, the moonlight pouring down upon them its soft, placid, fitful light, and bathing sea and land, cliff and hollow, in a silver stream.
The party soon broke up into groups. Fitz and Leicester with Violet, Bertie and Ethel with Mrs. Mildmay, and the captain and Mr. and Mrs. Dodson.
It was certainly a tempting night, and the young people seemed to quietly revel in it. Twice the Lackland carriage was sent on; but at last Ethel decided that they had better get in, and, much to Bertie's inward grief, Fitz consented.
"The day after to-morrow, then," he said, as he closed the carriage door. "You will not forget that as you forgot me."
"No," said Ethel laughing, but with a slight flush, "I will not forget, and I hope we shall all have a nice ride. Good-night."
Bertie bent over her hand and held it until he was in danger of the wheels. Then Leicester declared that he would go on as far as the Park and return with a cigar.
"You may light it now," said Violet, "if you like. I do not mind."
Leicester was very grateful and lit it.
By some means the captain attracted Bertie's attention as they neared the Park, and so, calling him away, left Leicester and Violet alone.
They did not seem to notice it, however, and stopped to look at the ruins of the old abbey clinging to the new house.
"Beautiful!" said Leicester. "Bertie has been in ecstasies over this; he is an author and an artist, you know."
"I like him," said Violet, in her decisive way.
"So do I," said Leicester. "He is my best friend. My rooms and his in the Temple adjoin."
"Do they?" said Violet. "How strange it sounds: 'In the Temple.' What do you do in chambers?"
"He works hard. I—smoke, drink, read, think, and watch him working."
Violet laughed.
"It must be very nice," she said, softly. "Look!" she said, suddenly; "that is the ghost's window."
"That long oriel window?" said Leicester. "You promised to tell me about your pet ghost."
"Don't joke about it," she said, with a short laugh. "Ask the fishermen about it. No man, woman or child would pass that tower after dark."
"What sort of ghost is it?" asked Leicester, with extreme levity. He did not believe in the supernatural.
"Have you never heard the legend?" said Violet. "It is a strange one."
"Tell it me here; it is a fine opportunity, and proper surroundings. Is it a man or a woman?"
"A nun," said Violet, "in white robes, with a skull's face and two gleaming eyes. My old nurse had seen it three times. And after each appearance something dreadful or unfortunate happened either at the Park or at the village. Once the old farm took fire and was burned down, the second time one of the Godolphins, who were then living at the Abbey, was drowned in the bay, and the third time a child fell off the cliff."
"The people of Penruddie should insure their lives after the ghost appears," said Leicester laughing.
"You laugh; but is it not strange?" said Violet gravely. "And, what is more strange to my mind, all the descriptions of the apparition by the different persons who have seen it tally exactly. All say it is a woman in white robes, with a skull's face and gleaming eyes, and that it carries a strange, shaded light, which throws a fearful, dim glare for some distance. Is it not awful?"
Leicester smiled.
"Not very," he said. "I have seen better at Drury Lane. And does your ghost confine herself to that lower and oriel window or does she perambulate?"
"Yes, she has been seen at that small window on the right, you see, which the ivy half covers."
"I see," he said, "and what room is that?"
"A room in the old abbey, which was left standing by my father's directions," said Violet, in a low voice. "He used it as a sort of study or reading-room, and when he died it was closed up."
"It is empty, then?" said Leicester.
"No; we would have nothing removed. There is all the old furniture as it used to be when he lived. It usedto be left undisturbed while he was absent on his voyages, and it is undisturbed now."
"It is a room for a ghost," said Leicester.
Violet nodded.
"Yes," she said. "Look, the moon is obscured. How dark it is. Ah! what is that?" she broke off, with a scared, dry voice, clutching Leicester's arm.
"What—where?" he asked, quickly, and laying his hand upon hers.
"There—in the room! at the window!" she breathed. "It has gone!"
"What?" he asked, still keeping the hand, which she seemed too frightened to remove.
"I—I—scarcely know," she said, brokenly, and with a shudder, which Leicester felt. "A something white, with a light, at that little window."
"Oh, are you sure?" he asked, doubtfully, anxious to convince her that it was mere fancy. "Remember, we have just been talking about the ghost."
"No, no; it was not fancy," she said. "I saw it plainly enough. I was not thinking of it as I spoke, and I saw it when the moon got behind the cloud. It was in my father's room."
At that moment she started again. A voice so close behind her that it seemed to spring from the ground said: "Miss Mildmay, where are you? Oh, here you are!"
And Captain Murpoint came up.
"How interested you look! What are you talking about?"
"Ghosts," said Leicester, fixing his dark, scrutinizing eyes upon him. "Did you not hear Miss Mildmay call out?"
"No," said the captain, innocently, "I only just came up."
But he had been close beside them for some minutes, and had not only heard Violet's low cry of terror, but the whole of the conversation.