Some quiet evenings are more productive of matter for reflection and afterthought than many more exciting and apparently eventful ones. How little there is to talk over a ball! One quadrille is like another and one partner very much like another. Most ballrooms are hot, most partners are unsuitable. But how often a quiet evening with a few friends in a country house is the beginning of some great matter—the mustard seed whence springs the shadowing tree, the bend of the stream which changes its whole course!
So it was with several of the members of Mrs. Dodson's quiet, little dinner.
Five of them at least returned to rest that night very thoughtful.
The captain, when he had reached the little boudoir, or dressing-room, of his luxurious suite, cast off as if it were a mask the careless smile of simple amiability and showed in his countenance some of the subtle working of his brain.
As he walked to the window and looked out upon the scene bathed in the moonlight, his face grave and frowning with deep thought, he looked a very different person to the easy-going gentleman of fortune which he had appeared in the drawing-room a few minutes before.
"Soh!" he muttered, "the room has been closed since John Mildmay's death, and never been opened; the dust must lie thick there. Haunted, too! Did she see anything, or was it only a sentimental girl's fancy? Violet is not sentimental, and is scarcely the girl to be led away by a weak fancy, either. The cry and the start were too natural in their suddenness and reluctance to be affected. Strange! I don't believe in ghosts, but if I did I would believe that Violet Mildmay saw one then.
"The haunted room lies near this—in what direction? Let me see," and he closed his eyes and worked out a mental calculation. "It must lie at the end of my bedroom,for that is in the part of the building nearest the ruins. If I were a nervous man, I might feel qualmish about the near proximity of the haunted chamber. As it is, as I am a man who has to make his fortune, that chamber, with its uncanny character, is a godsend; it is a slice of luck I little looked for, another card in a hand which was not a bad one at any time.
"But I must not overlook my opponents. I play as one against many. First, Leicester Dodson; he is not to be lightly held. His handsome face and long legs carry a brain with them that may be a fitting match for mine. He has coolness and confidence, has Mr. Leicester Dodson, and he is smitten with Mistress Violet. They were close together to-night, in amiable confidence, her hand fell upon his arm. I have known a man's heart fall before one look of such a woman as Violet before now. And the boy, my young Lord Boisdale, is half inclined to lose his wits over the girl's fair face and grace—but he doesn't count. Some men are born fools, and this is one. He is of use, though. I must play one against the other. His sister, too, Lady Ethel, is no fool, and Mr. Bertie Fairfax thinks her an angel. There should be some cards to play there!
"Let me think, let me think. There are the materials of a nice little game of cross-purposes, if I can but manage it. Come in!"
He broke off abruptly as a knock at the door disturbed his cogitations.
Mr. Jem entered with his master's dressing-gown.
The captain threw off his coat, and donned the capacious garment in silence which Jem did not think proper to break.
At last the captain roused from his reverie and turned his attention to his follower.
"Where have you been?"
"Down in the village, captain," said Jem Starling, with a wink. "There's a wery nice little and pretty little creetur in cherry ribbons wot draws a good glass of ale."
The captain nodded, absently.
"Don't be seen there too often, and keep your mouth shut."
"Trust me," said Jem, clicking his tongue against hischeek, with a knowing air. "This old soldier is a very remarkable old soldier, and he's like the parrot—he don't talk much, but he thinks the more."
"You may think as much as you like," said the captain, "but be as moderate in your thinking as your talking, my friend. You had a bad habit, when I knew you in former days, of lifting that elbow of yours too often," and the captain went through the pantomime of a man raising a glass to his lips. "One slip in that direction means ruin, remember, ruin for you as well as me. But, there, I have no wish to worry you. Amuse yourself as you like, so that you keep your mouth shut."
"I amuse myself," said Jem. "There's quite a little game going on down below, which I'm mighty interested in. It's like one o' them Chinese puzzles, little pieces of wood you put together, you know. Lor', you might 'a' lived down Whitechapel in Larry's thieves' kitchen and not see more signs and mysterious nods and winks as you do down here—down here in this little village, which I thought was inhabited by perfect infants. Why, a man has to keep his eyes open every minute to catch all the signs which one simple-looking chap of a fisherman gives to another."
"What do you mean?" asked the captain, absently, and with evident inattention. "What signs should these men have? what mystery? There, I'm tired, go to bed. By the way, there's a sovereign for you."
And he threw one of the coins which he had won that evening on the table.
Jem, who was beginning to understand his master's moods, picked up the donation with a touch of the forehead, and, with a gruff, "Good-night, captain," departed, muttering to himself:
"He's working, he is; he's begun the game, or my name's not Jem. Ah! he's a deep 'un, is the captain!"
In another room of the Park Violet was inclined to be thoughtful, and for some time her maid brushed the long tresses of her mistress' bright hair with inward surprise at her silence, and at last ventured to intrude upon it by the commencement of the little gossip to which Violet was rather partial, so long as it was confined to innocent chat and did not diverge to scandal and tittle-tattle.
So Marie ventured to remark that there were a great many servants at Coombe Lodge, and that the people were very glad that the Lacklands had come down; but they seemed quite as pleased that Mr. Leicester had come, too.
Mr. Leicester's name seemed to rouse her mistress from her reverie, and she looked up, with her bright, clear gaze.
"What did you say about Mr. Leicester Dodson?"
"I said, miss, that the people in the village and the servants up at the Cedars were very glad that Mr. Leicester had come down again, for, though he's so very stern and grave-looking, he seems to be very kind, and everybody gives him a good name. And he's so liberal, miss! He gives a sovereign where others look hard at shillings. Only the last time he was down, miss, he went into Will Sanderson's cottage and sat and talked with little Jemmie, Willie Sanderson's brother, you know, miss, little lame Willie; and he sat and asked questions about his not being able to walk, and then he got up with a start, and in his thoughtful way, which almost makes you think you've done something wrong; but there comes down one o' them little inwalid chairs from London, and Willie says his brother is as well again now that he can be wheeled about. Of course, it came from Mr. Leicester, though when Willie went up to thank him, he sent word down that he was to have a glass of wine, and not to wait. And they say—the servants, you know—miss, that Mr. Leicester is so kind to Mrs. Dodson, and speaks to her quite soft, and when she was ill with the rheumatics he carried her up and downstairs; and so no wonder they likes him; though I did hear the cook say that Mr. Leicester was very particular about the made dishes, and that when he is angry it's something fearful, he's so stern, and what you might call overpowering, miss."
"Oh," said Violet, with her sweet little laugh, "throws the dishes at the butler's head, I suppose you think, Marie?"
"Oh, no, miss, but has the cook up, and talks to him so cold and sternlike, like he talked to Bill Summers, who threw down the horse he was so fond of. But, notwithstanding that way of his, he's very kind to all the servants,and any of 'em would do anything for him. They like Mr. Fairfax, too, miss, and he, I heard 'em say, was an artist or an author, or something clever, miss, in London, and he lives with Mr. Leicester, in the same house, and him and Lord Fitz Boisdale are all great friends. And they do say, miss, though, of course, I can't tell whether it's true, that Mr. Leicester is courting Lady Ethel. Did I hurt you, miss?" she broke off, suspending her operations with the hair brush, for Violet had turned round her head rather suddenly.
"No," said Violet, quietly. "What do you say, that Mr. Leicester is in love with Lady Ethel Boisdale?"
"Well, miss, they say so, and it certainly do look like it, if all accounts be true, for Mr. Leicester's man says that his master is at all the balls andsoiréesand dinners at the Earl of Lackland's, and that he only came down here so suddenlike because Lady Lackland and Lord Fitz and Lady Ethel were coming down to Coombe Lodge."
"That will do," said Violet, "I will go to bed now."
And Marie braided the heavy mass of hair into thick, silken plaits, rattling on meanwhile with a laughable account of Mr. Starling's sayings and doings in the servants' hall, to which he seemed, by Marie's account, quite an acquisition. Violet smiled with her usual enjoyment of the humorous, of which she had a quick perception, and Marie left her still smiling.
But when the talkative little maid had closed the door behind her, light-hearted Violet felt rather lonely.
Her aunt slept in the next suite of rooms, and by touching a small bell, she could summon her, or by opening a door and passing through a little anteroom she could reach her, but Violet was not nervous or timid, and after a little wrestling with the feeling she conquered it.
But she could not altogether dismiss the small incidents of the evening from her mind.
Had she really seen the White Nun, or had fancy deceived her?
That was a question she could not answer satisfactorily.
Then another one presented itself for consideration. Was Mr. Leicester Dodson a suitor for Lady Ethel's hand?
That also was a question which she could not answer.
It was true he had gone up to town suddenly, and it was true that he had been present at a ball at which Lady Ethel was also present. It was also a singular coincidence that he should return so suddenly to Penruddie at the time of the Lacklands' visit to Coombe Lodge.
"Well, if it was so," thought Violet, humming the air of a song which Captain Murpoint had sung, "it was nothing whatever to do with her."
Then she thought of his manner by the stile that evening—of its quiet sense of power and protection; of the grasp of his firm, strong hand on her trembling arm, of—well, of every word he had spoken, of every gesture he had used, of that act of kindness toward Jemmie Sanderson.
"I wish I were a little sleepier," she said, at last.
But though she went to bed sleep would not come to her sweet, deep eyes, which Mr. Leicester so much admired, and they were wide open watching the moonlight as it fell upon the wall for some time.
Had they possessed the power of looking through the wall they might have seen Mr. Leicester's tall, stalwart figure where he leaned against the garden gate, smoking his before-bed cigar, and ruminating, as wakeful as herself.
As for Lady Ethel, she, too, was thoughtful; but that was nothing unusual for her. But when Lord Fitz himself, who was generally extremely talkative, leaned back in profound silence for at least the time occupied in traversing two of the six miles to Coombe Lodge, Ethel felt rather surprised.
"How quiet you are, Fitz!" she said.
"Eh! am I?" he replied, rousing. "I was thinking. I say, Ethel, what do you think of the Mildmays?"
"I haven't thought very much about them," said Lady Ethel, and indeed she had not. "I think Violet Mildmay is very pretty."
"Isn't she!" exclaimed Lord Fitz, eagerly. "I think her the nicest girl I've seen. She's what you call a 'bluestocking,' isn't she? One of the 'merry and wise sort,' eh, Ethel?"
"Yes, I liked what I have seen of her very much. I am glad we have met."
"Yes, so am I," said Lord Fitz. "I say, I heard Bertie and Leicester arranging a riding party; do you know if Miss Mildmay is coming?"
"I believe so," said Ethel; "yes, I am sure she is."
"Then," said his lordship, "I think I shall go."
"Of course you will, to take care of me," said Ethel, smiling.
There was a short pause, then Lord Fitz roused again with the sudden question:
"Ethel, do you think the Mildmays are well tiled in?"
"Tiled in, you inscrutable boy, what can you mean?" asked Ethel, with laughing bewilderment.
"Tiled in, well off, rich, you know, and all that."
"I should think so," said Lady Ethel, thoughtfully. "They have a very beautiful place and I have heard that her father was a merchant. Oh, yes, I should think she was rich."
Lord Fitz gave a sigh of relief.
"I'm glad of that," he said.
Ethel laughed.
"Why should you be glad?" she said, looking at him curiously.
"Oh, never mind," said Lord Fitz, rather embarrassed. "So her father was a merchant. All those merchant fellows get rich. Look at Leicester's father, he's as rich as Crœsus. I wish my governor was a merchant."
"He would be very much obliged to you for the compliment," said Lady Ethel, with a smile. "For my part I am satisfied with an earldom."
"Oh!" said Lord Fitz, and as he drew a long sigh he murmured inaudibly: "So should I if it had a lot of money with it."
"That's a rum fellow, that captain," said Lord Fitz, after a pause.
"In what way?" asked Ethel. "He seemed very ordinary, very amusing, too."
"Oh, yes, he's amusing enough," assented Lord Fitz. "But I'm half inclined to think he's deuced sharp. He can play whist like a book, and picked up the coin like old Hawksey at the club. But I say, Eth, you're pretty sharp,sharper than I am, and did you notice the rum look of the captain's eyes? They seemed to be watching everybody and everything, and when he caught you looking at him they shifted down the table, and he was sure to make one of those funny speeches of his, as if he didn't want you to think he'd noticed you looking at him. And every time he lifted his wineglass he looked over the top all down the table."
"No, I didn't notice all that," replied Ethel. "You are getting quite a student of human nature and manners, Fitz."
"Oh," said Fitz, nodding his curly head decisively. "You were too much taken up with Mr. Bert. I saw you, Miss Sly Boots, laughing and whispering."
"For shame, Fitz!" retorted Ethel, blushing in the darkness. "Whispering to a stranger?"
"Well, and what then?" said Lord Fitz. "And I don't wonder at any one being taken up with Bert. He knows more stories than any man in all the clubs in London, and he can tell 'em better, too. Pity he's so poor, Ethel. Poor old Bert!"
Lady Ethel looked straight before her.
"He ought to have been a merchant or a tea grocer, or something of that sort," said Lord Fitz. "That's the way to make money."
By this time, or very shortly afterward, the carriage rolled up to the door of Coombe Lodge.
Ethel, who had not spoken since Lord Fitz's assertion that Bertie should have been a tea grocer, went straight up to Lady Lackland's room, where her mother was waiting for her.
Lord Fitz sauntered off to the billiard room, where he lighted a huge cigar and, with half-closed eyes, tried to decide upon the color of Violet's.
"I'm glad she's rich," he muttered, "very glad!"
Lady Lackland had been prevented from accompanying Fitz and Ethel by one of a series of headaches produced by the last balls of the past season, and she was now quite anxious to hear a full account of the party.
Ethel gave her a list of the guests.
Lady Lackland, who was lying on a couch, raised herhead with a grave look of displeasure as Ethel mentioned Bertie Fairfax's name.
"Mr. Fairfax there?" she said. "You did not tell me he was to be there, Ethel."
"Did I not, mamma?" said Ethel, calmly. "I had forgotten it, perhaps, or did not think his expected presence of sufficient consequence. Yes, he was there."
"And this Miss Mildmay? I remember Mrs. Mildmay—quite adistinguélooking woman. Is her niece like her?"
"She is very pretty and well bred," said Ethel.
Her ladyship mused coldly, eying her daughter at intervals while she sat looking through the window at the moon.
"And how did the Dodsons seem? Do you like them?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "very much. It was a very pleasant party, mamma; and we have arranged another, a riding party this time. I may go, I suppose?"
"Y—es," said Lady Lackland, "if Fitz goes with you—oh, yes, certainly. Mr. Leicester Dodson goes, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "we are all going, all the young ones. Shall I stay any longer? I make your head ache more by talking."
"No, don't stay any longer," said Lady Lackland, coldly. "Before you go you will please draw that writing table near to me?"
Ethel did so, kissed her mother, who returned the warm pressure of her soft, sweet lips by a cold touch with her own, and left the room.
Lady Lackland drew the table to a convenient position, and without rising wrote a note to the earl, who was still in London.
"Tell me by return," she wrote, "who and what these Dodsons are, whether they are really as rich as they are supposed to be and if I am right in letting Ethel see so much of the son. She and Fitz dined at their place, the Cedars, this evening, and met a Miss Mildmay, Violet Mildmay, the merchant John Mildmay's daughter. I believe he left an immense fortune behind him, but I am not certain, and perhaps you can ascertain. I have not seen Fitz, but Ethel says the girl is very pretty and well bred.I am sorry to say that odious Mr. Fairfax was there also; he is staying at the Cedars."
Poor Bertie!
It happened that Mr. Starling was rather late in arriving at the "Blue Lion" on the evening following that of the dinner party at the Cedars.
He had been sent over to the nearest market town on some errand of his master's and had not returned until after the servants' dinner, which meal he had partaken of "warmed up," a state and condition which he declared to the cook was enough to drive a parson swearing.
Altogether Jem was not in the brightest of moods when he entered the hospitable doors of the "Blue Lion", and it did not help to disperse the gloom to find that the parlor door was locked. The room was not empty, for he could hear the hum of voices inside talking in a hushed sort of undertone.
There was no one in the bar, and Mr. Starling, rendered by his early training and the influence of circumstances suspicious by anything out of the common, crept back on tiptoe into the street, and peeped through the crack of the window which was formed by the uplifting of the curtain.
There he saw that the usual number of the gentlemen was reinforced by a little old man, whom he seemed to recollect as having seen somewhere before.
He commenced whistling "Villikins and His Dinah," and re-entered the bar.
His quick ears detected the unslipping of the bolt, and he pushed open the door without any difficulty.
All the men had suddenly assumed an air of the usual indifference and sleepiness, and responded to his cheerful salutation after their various kinds.
"Bring me a pint of the very best, Miss Polly," said Mr. Starling, sinking into his seat, and eying from under his frowning eyelids the strange little man.
"A nice night for salamanders, mates."
"Yes," said Willie Sanderson, "it's mighty hot."
"No fish?" asked Jem.
"No," was the response.
"But we expect a shoal over to-night," said the little man, with an almost imperceptible glance around the room.
"Ay," said the others, in a chorus. "We may do something to-night."
"And a very pleasant little trip, too," said Mr. Starling, nodding all round over his pewter pot. "I quite envy you, and I don't mind volunteering if so be as I shouldn't be in the way."
A slight but unmistakable expression of dismay shot for one instant on his manly face, then Willie Sanderson laughed slowly.
"Better be in bed, mate. We might have it rough, for all the wind's so dead now, and if you ain't a first-rate sailor the smell of the fish—if we get's any—might disagree with ye."
"Ay," said the little man. "Better stay in bed."
"Well, perhaps you're right," said Jem, thinking to himself that they were all mighty considerate on his behalf. "Yes, perhaps you're right. I like 'em when they are cooked, though, and I'll just look down in the morning and see if you've had a take."
"Do," said Willie, shortly, and then started another topic. But though many others followed, and Mr. Starling was quite as amusing as usual, the company did not seem to be in the mood for conversation or laughter, and Jem noticed that every man seemed to be watching or listening.
Once the door opened rather suddenly, and the little man rose with an ill attempt at indifference, but only Polly entered with some tobacco, and the little man sat down again.
Presently the door opened again, and Martha Pettingall entered.
She wore her yellow bandana, and as she looked round the room Jem, who while lighting his pipe was watching her closely, saw her raise her hand and scratch her ear.
He looked round the room covertly to see for whom the sign was intended, and was not surprised to see the little man lift his hand with a natural air and scratch his ear.
"Well, boys, what do you say, shall we be starting?" And as he spoke he went to the window and pushed the curtain aside to look out at the night.
As he did so Jem, who was watching under his eyelids with the most lynx-like intention, saw a streak of light cleave the sky seawards.
The old man dropped the curtain again immediately, but Mr. Starling's eyes were sharp ones, and he had seen the light distinctly enough to know that it was not a natural phenomenon.
"Well, come along, boys," said Willie Sanderson, and, hastily tossing down the remains of their potations, the boys rose and trudged out, giving Martha Pettingall and Polly a cheery "good-night" as they passed.
Jem sat for a little while in deep thought. Then he sauntered out.
Outside he paused and looked up at the sky, then scratched his head, and instead of turning homeward he bent his steps toward the beach.
The tide was coming in; it was a fine night, and Jem could see every ripple upon the smiling, playful ocean.
There, far out now, were the fishing boats, looking like magnified walnut shells as they rose and fell on the light swell.
He waited until the boats were lost to sight, then climbed up the beach again.
As he passed through the street he peeped into the "Blue Lion".
There was no one in the bar, and he was about to peep in when he saw a light pierce the chink in the cellar flap.
He stooped and knelt down, and was rewarded, not with a sight of Polly or Martha, but of the little old man, peering on his knees into what seemed to Jem like the mouth of a well.
"Hello," he thought, "here's the old chap playing larks with old Grunty-grump's beer," and he was about to run into the bar with the information.
But before he could get up from his knees another figure, no other than Martha Pettingall, entered the cellar, and, far from expressing alarm or indignation at the old man's presence, commenced talking with him in a low, confidential tone.
Jem would have given one of his large eyes to have heard that conversation, or for a peep into that hole over which it was held.
But the pair spoke in a faint whisper, and Jem could not catch a word.
Presently the man dropped the lid of the well, spread some sawdust over it, and, taking up the candle from a cask, lighted Martha up the steps, following himself immediately after.
Jem got up, gave vent to a noiseless whistle, and, having had his curiosity sharpened to a most ravening edge, determined to play spy a little longer.
Accordingly he drew back into the shadow of the house, chose a tree as ambush, and kept a sharp watch both upon cellar and door.
The light did not appear in the former, and for some time the latter was not moved, but at last Jem heard voices in the bar, and presently Martha opened the door.
She stood for a few moments looking up and down the empty street, then re-entered.
"What they call reckonorriting," muttered Jem. "Now I bet the old chap'll come out."
And so it proved.
The little old man did come out, and set off at a sharp trot up the hill.
"Well, I'm blest; that must be funny fishin' up a mountain," said Jem to himself. "He's in a mighty hurry, too. But what's my move? Do I dog him or wait here a bit longer and see what the old woman will be up to? If I sets off arter him he's safe to see me; you could see a brass farden at two miles in this light. No, I'll stop here."
And he did, but was rather disgusted at his fortune when about half an hour afterward Martha came out, banged the shutters to, and shut up the house for the night.
"The performance is hover," said Jem, coming out of his ambush, "and a werry pretty play it's been, only, as the chap said at the Hitalian hopera, it 'ud be all the better if I knowed what it means, which jigger me if I do."
And with a shake of the head Jem hurried his steps homeward.
He looked about him as he went, but nothing more suspicious occurred than the flitting of a rabbit across the road, at which Mr. Starling flung a stone, and as he paused within sight of the Park he wiped the perspiration from his bottle-shaped head, and sighed.
"Where's that chap gone to?" he asked himself. "Got a sweetheart up in the house, I dare say. I'll ask the cook; he knows everybody, and will put me right about these 'ere goings on at the "Blue Lion"."
Somewhat cheered by that resolution he trudged on again, looking at the house, which even to his unpoetical eyes looked beautiful in the moonlight.
Then he glanced at the sky, in which a few black clouds were gathering.
"All in the dark d'rectly," he muttered.
And as he spoke the moon was obscured.
He turned his eyes up toward it, then was about to lower them, when they saw something which caused him to start, to stop and to stare.
By this time he was near that part of the Park called the "ruins."
Right before him was the façade with the oriel window.
All the way up the hill, when not thinking of the "Blue Lion" and its mysterious frequenters, he had been thinking over the various ghost stories in connection with the Park, and now, just at the moment when the moon was obscured, and he was thinking of one of the latest he had heard, he saw something white pass across the window.
He stared and waited breathlessly.
"I'll take my oath I saw it," he muttered. "It's gone, and I mayn't see it again. But I saw it, I swear! Ah!"
The sharp, smothered exclamation was caused by absolute fear.
It had come again.
There, so plain and distinct that he could see every fold in the white robe, was the White Nun!
Jem's face turned pale and his teeth shook.
He had a sensation as of cold water being quietly poured down his back, and his mouth felt dry and hot.
The ghost stood motionless with its back to the window,and a horror seized upon Jem that it might perhaps turn, see him, and—and—he did not know what else to dread!
The horror was not ill-founded.
The ghost turned.
Jem saw the hideous white, bleached skull-face, and as the gleaming eyes seemed to pierce him through he fell on the ground, stricken by that nameless horror before which the strongest man must succumb.
How long he lay there he did not know.
When he feigned consciousness he found himself covered with dust, fearfully cold, but with no tangible injury.
He rose, shuddered, and striking the dust from his clothes with a shaking, uncertain hand walked slowly on, averting his eyes from the dreadful window.
"Shall I tell the captain what I've seen?" he thought. "No, he'll swear at me, and say I was drunk, and I should think I was, only I know it 'ud take more than three pints o' beer to knock me silly. Ugh! I shan't get the sight o' that thing's face and eyes out o' my head till I'm as dead as she was. This is a rum, unearthly sort o' place, this is, and if summat uncommon queer and nasty don't happen afore long I'm a Dutchman."
The morning which had been fixed upon for the riding party was as fine as the many which had preceded it, and there was, as a slice of luck, a fresh breeze blowing from the sea that glittered beyond the cliffs.
Leicester had given his friend Bertie the choice of his stables, and Bertie had selected a rakish-looking chestnut mare, because, as he said, it winked at him as he entered.
"Humor should be encouraged in a horse," he said, with a laugh. "I'll ride this comic old lady."
"And I," said Leicester, "will give the Black Knight a spin."
The Black Knight was a tall, black hunter, a special favorite of Leicester's, and a good but somewhat willful horse.
"I'm afraid the ladies will be burned up," said Mrs. Dodson. "Won't you have a white scarf over your neck, Mr. Fairfax? I can't persuade Leicester, but perhaps you will be more prudent."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Dodson," said Bertie. "I am rather anxious to get tanned, to tell you the truth, but I'm sorry Leicester won't wear one, because if he gets any darker he'll be as black as his horse."
And with that parting sally the light-hearted young fellow rode off after his friend.
When he reached the Park, Violet was standing in her habit on the lawn, with Leo making frantic dashes at her and altogether in insane delight.
"Isn't it hot?" said Violet, as they bent over her hand. "I'm afraid Lady Ethel will not have the courage to venture; the least fastidious might fear for their complexions this morning."
"Then you are not fastidious at all?" said Leicester.
"No, not at all," said Violet. "Besides, my blue veil will protect me. Ah, here's Captain Murpoint. He is going to ride my dear old Ned. Look at him; isn't he a noble fellow?"
"Who? the captain, or Ned?" said Leicester.
"Oh both," said Violet, with an arch smile.
And certainly the term would not have been altogether ill chosen; the captain did look well on horseback, and he sat on the old horse as if he had grown to his back.
"And here is another favorite," said Bertie, as the groom brought round a pretty white Arabian.
Leicester approached and held his hand, and when Violet placed her small foot in it, lifted her on to the saddle with that ease which is only acquired by practice.
For some time they rode all together, and the conversation was partly general, mutual inquiries after healths and remarks upon the weather filling up the first two miles.
Then the captain and Mr. Fairfax got into a conversation upon the merits of Bengal cheroots as weighed against Manilas, and Leicester and Violet were left to their own devices.
In due course they reached Coombe Lodge.
"Now for the proof of Lady Ethel's courage," saidCaptain Murpoint. "Here is Lord Fitz," he added, as his lordship came round from the stables dressed in a light summer tweed, which set off his slight, boyish figure to advantage.
"Well, does Lady Ethel shrink from the ordeal?" said Leicester, as they shook hands.
"No," he said, "she is getting ready. My mother is in the drawing-room."
But while he spoke Lady Lackland came on to the steps, and, with her parasol raised, walked carefully toward them.
She shook hands most graciously with the captain, and insisted upon kissing Violet, which caress Violet met with her usual gentle smile and blush. Indeed, her ladyship was gracious to the whole party, even including Mr. Fairfax, who modestly kept in the background until the other salutations were made—his frank, handsome face rather overshadowed by the knowledge that he was not a welcome sight to the countess.
Ethel appeared the next moment, and welcomed the party with grace and gentleness, and after the usual gossip, the captain helped her to mount.
"Are—a—all ready?" said Lord Fitz.
"No, wait a moment," said the countess. "My dear, will you come and dine with us to-morrow, and forgive so informal an invitation? I will drive over to the Park and call upon Mrs. Mildmay this afternoon, and upon Mrs. Dodson. You, gentlemen, will honor us?" and with an amiable good-by she bade them start.
Although the great lady had been very gracious and smiled her sweetest, all the young people felt an indescribable sense of relief when they had got clear of the great iron gates, and the formal avenue. Ethel, who always seemed quieter and more reserved in her parent's presence, broke into a merry laugh which almost matched that of Violet's, who was telling her some anecdote concerning Leo, who trotted by her side with his great tongue out and his faithful eyes turned up to her with a look of admiring devotion.
"And now for the cliffs," said the captain, raising his white hand toward the sea. "I long for a breath of saltair. Mr. Fairfax, shall we put the horses to a little spurt? Mr. Leicester and my lord, you will look after the ladies?"
And so, much to Mr. Bertie's annoyance, he divided the party.
"How beautiful the sea looks," Violet said.
"Yes, the cloth of the field of gold with the jewel side uppermost," said Leicester. "But you can get a better view of it from that promontory yonder. Will you come?"
"Yes," said Violet. "Will you, Lady Boisdale?"
"No," murmured Ethel, in a low voice. "Not if you call me Lady Boisdale, but I will go anywhere with you if you will call me Ethel."
"I will call you Ethel if you call me Violet."
"That I will," said Ethel, and the bargain was struck.
On the way homeward Captain Murpoint did a little expert maneuvering.
The captain, with infinite art, engaged Mr. Leicester in conversation, and, by dint of stopping every now and then to ask questions concerning, or to dilate upon, the beauty of the scenery, kept Leicester back while Lord Fitz and Violet went on in front.
Then he proposed that they should wait for the remainder of the party, and, when it came up, with the same tact he drew Bertie away from Lady Ethel, and compelled Leicester to escort her.
So he made two of our heroes intensely savage, but gained his point.
When they all came together for the parting Lord Fitz looked particularly happy and flustered; his boyish face was all smiles, and his yellow, flaxen hair was blown across his forehead like a donkey's twist.
"Jolly ride we've had," he said, looking round, "especially the ride home. It doesn't seem so hot."
"No," said Violet, who also looked particularly happy; "I have enjoyed it."
So had they all, they declared, and they parted at the crossroads amid laughter and with wishes for another expedition.
But when Bertie and Leicester turned up the road which led to the Cedars, a dissatisfied, disappointed expressionseemed to settle upon both their faces, even on jovial, light-hearted Bertie's.
The countess was as good as her word, and called at the Park and the Cedars with her invitation.
Mrs. Mildmay received her with her usual good-breeding, which covered a considerable amount of satisfaction, and accepted her invitation for herself and Violet.
At the Cedars, where she was received with a little more ceremony, she was quite as gracious, and entertained Mrs. Dodson with an account of the various admirable qualities of Ethel. There was no end to be gained by praising Lord Fitz, so the wily mother said nothing about him.
That evening the Lackland skeleton kept very discreetly in its cupboard, and no one, looking at the magnificent rooms and appointments, would ever have guessed that there was a skeleton at all there.
There were the evidences of wealth everywhere, spacious saloons and snug anterooms, splendid furniture in the best taste, magnificent plate, noiseless and well-liveried servants; and over and above all that nameless tone of rank and high breeding.
The Mildmays were late.
Leicester, who had enough confidence and cool determination to perform many acts which would seem impossible to smaller minds, had, in the drawing-room before dinner, determined upon escorting Violet in to dinner, and his intention was so palpable that Lady Lackland bowed to it, but she so maneuvered that Ethel should be seated on his other side, and that Bertie Fairfax should be separated from them by three others.
The dinner was not nearly so successful a one as that which Mr. Dodson had given.
Lady Lackland was particularly gracious, and talked to all in turns. The captain also exerted himself, but Leicester was either silent or devoted himself to the ladies on either side, and the rest of the company followed in the wake of any conversation like timid sheep.
It was not until the ladies had left the room that Bertie roused himself to be amusing.
The gentlemen got all together, and passed the Lacklandport about with alacrity, for now they felt that they were free to please themselves, and would not be disposed of by Lady Lackland like a set of children at a form round a table.
Bertie and the captain made Leicester and Lord Fitz laugh, and Mr. Dodson drank the port for half an hour, then went into the drawing-room.
Two pairs of eyes were raised with something like a welcome: Ethel's and Violet's.
The two girls were seated very close together, talking in a low voice. Violet was telling Ethel the ghost story, and Ethel was trying to convince her that she was the victim of a delusion.
As the gentlemen entered Violet said, quickly and with a slight flush:
"Hush! do not let us talk about it any more."
"Why?" said Ethel.
"Because," said Violet, with her usual candor and openness. "I promised Mr. Leicester Dodson I would try and forget it."
Leicester dropped into the vacant seat beside Violet without any hesitation.
Bertie, taking courage from Leicester, sauntered up to Lady Ethel, and the two pairs were now very comfortable and happy. But their delight was of short duration.
The captain, as he entered, had passed the quartet on the sofa and had stroked his mustache to hide the evil, malicious smile which crossed his face.
Then he went up to Lady Lackland, and in his soft tones laid himself out to please her.
He praised in a delicate, well-bred way the beauty and grace of Ethel, the cleverness and horsemanship of Lord Fitz, and when her ladyship, who had been rather suspicious of him at first, was beginning to think him rather nice and distinguished, he glided from Fitz and Ethel to Violet and Leicester.
"Miss Mildmay," he said, after a sigh, "is, as you are, my lady, no doubt aware, the daughter of my dearest friend! Poor John! he consigned his darling to my care, and I am sorely tempted to take upon myself the post of guardian in the literal sense of the word. I wouldpray for no other task than that of watching over and protecting her. She is all soul, my dear countess, all soul, as simple, as innocent, as single minded as a child. Just the nature to be misled by seeming heroism, to fancy all sorts of wild, improbable things, to be deceived in matters of the heart. Look at her now. Have you ever seen a more absorbed and trustful face than that turned up to Mr. Leicester Dodson?"
Lady Lackland did not require to be directed. All the while the captain had been running on in his smooth way she had been watching the pair and Ethel and Bertie beside them, and she felt as if she could have dragged Mr. Fairfax away and thrust Leicester in his place while she pushed Fitz beside the ingenuous Violet.
"Mr. Leicester, too, if he will permit me to say so," continued the captain, "is one of those disinterested men who follow the bent of their passing fancy without thought or reflection. Immensely rich, my dear madam, immensely! He should marry rank. Rank is what he wants—so does Violet. It would never do for Violet to marry one of her own class—never! Poor John would rise from his grave to forbid it. Hundreds of times he has said to me 'Howard, my girl must be a countess!' Poor John!"
Lady Lackland sighed sympathetically, and her voice was less cold than it had been hitherto toward the captain when she said:
"She is beautiful and well bred enough for any rank."
The captain bowed.
"Did I hear that Lord Fitz sang?" he said, softly. "If so, I wish we could induce him to sing a duet with Violet."
"I'll try," said Lady Lackland, instantly acting on the hint, and she went over to Violet.
"Miss Mildmay, will you sing a duet with my son? Please do; we are dying for a little music."
Violet, ever ready to give pleasure, rose and laid down her fan.
Lord Fitz, who had vainly been trying to interest Mr. Dodson in the next likelihoods for the coming race meetings, came forward with a blush of pleasure, and LadyLackland had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Fitz and Violet at the piano.
Then the captain went up to Bertie and in his pleasantest manner said:
"Mr. Fairfax, there is a sketch here you ought to see. I have never seen such color and tint in so simple an effect."
Bertie looked up at him as if he could have pitched him out of the window, but he rose and with as good a grace as he could assume went with the artistic captain to inspect the sketch.
Leicester and Ethel were left alone, and they fell to talking of violets.
The song ended, and there were the usual thanks and requests for more.
Violet turned to Ethel and Leicester with a smile.
"Enjoyed it, did you?" she said, echoing his words. "How can you say so? I heard you talking the whole while!"
"Yes," said Fitz, who was radiant and eager to sing another in the same company, "it was too bad, and there's no escaping Mr. Leicester's voice."
"Thank you," said Leicester. "No one would wish to escape yours. Sing another, pray."
"Do you not sing, Mr. Leicester?" said Lady Lackland. "No? Mrs. Dodson, perhaps. Ethel, if Miss Mildmay is too hot, will you sing?"
Ethel rose obediently, and Leicester, in duty bound, led her to the piano.
So by clever maneuvering the countess had secured another ten minutes of happiness for Lord Fitz.
The song ended, Leicester stayed a little while at the piano, and then, after talking a few moments with Lady Lackland, strode back to Violet.
But Lord Fitz seemed to have taken possession of her, and Leicester sank back on the lounge in profound silence.
At last Mrs. Dodson dropped her fan. Fitz sprang across the room to pick it up, and Leicester regained his seat.
"It is very warm," said Violet.
"Come on to the terrace," said Leicester, with greatcoolness; "Lady Ethel is going, I think. Yes, there is Captain Murpoint opening the door."
Violet put her hand upon his arm, and Leicester took her out.
"How beautiful!" she said. "I wish all the nights were moonlight."
"We cannot see the moonlight here; it is ruined and marred by the light from the room. Let us move a few feet lower down."
Violet allowed him to take her out of the glare of the room.
"We cannot see the sea," she said. "We have the advantage over the Lacklands, the only one I expect, for they are mighty people, are they not?"
"Very," said Leicester, coolly. "With one disadvantage."
"Pray what is that?" said Violet.
"That the great age of the blood has turned the heads of the family to stone."
"Oh, how can you say so?" said Violet. "Lady Lackland seems quite kind."
"The moon appears quite near," said Leicester, significantly. "But don't let us quarrel over Lady Lackland's temperature; I was going to ask you if you would persuade Mrs. Mildmay to try a little yachting."
Violet was about to reply when a smooth voice, the low, hateful one of Captain Murpoint, said behind them:
"Miss Mildmay, I am the reluctant censor. This night is dangerous after a warm room, and your aunt has commissioned me to break into a pleasanttête-à-têteand carry you from the probability of cold."
Violet smiled, and was about to put her hand upon his arm, but Leicester, whose face had set with that hard, cold look which some of his friends had seen when he was about to punish insolence or was suppressing his feelings by a great effort, took her hand and laid it on his own arm.
"Allow me to take you to Mrs. Mildmay and offer my excuses, Miss Mildmay," he said.
And as he passed the captain he looked him full in the face with the cold, icy stare.
The captain met the look of contemptuous suspicionand defiance with the sweetest smile, which lingered upon his face until the pair had quite passed, then it deepened to a grin, and the wreathed lips muttered:
"Soh! Now comes the tug of war. My lord, the grand duke, King Leicester means fighting. So be it. Howard, my boy, you have had a nice little rest, now set to work!"
Up to this time the captain had been making holiday. He had been resting after his exertions for his country in the stone quarries at Portland, enjoying a little quiet repose amid the luxuries and beauties of the Park. But while he had been reposing he had not allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security.
He was fully aware that the position which he occupied at Penruddie was intangible and untenable.
He was, though John Mildmay's oldest and best-loved friend, only a visitor at the Park, and a guest of Mrs. Mildmay.
But the captain had determined from the first to change the position from that of a guest on sufferance to one of power and possession.
Captain Murpoint, as he leaned back in the carriage returning to the Park, watched from between his half-closed lids the thoughtful, pensive face of the girl who was usually so light-hearted, careless, and talkative.
"Is she in love with him?" he asked himself. "What a pity it is one cannot pick the secret chamber of a woman's heart as he picks a doorlock! I hope she may be; love is blind for all but the adored one, and Miss Violet's eyes will have no regard for me in my little game while they are fixed on the brave and stoical Leicester."
Poor Violet, it was not until some time afterward that she knew how cunning a spider was the considerate and well-bred Howard Murpoint.
Both the ladies were tired when they reached home, and ascended to their rooms, to which Captain Murpointinsisted upon carrying their silver candlesticks. Then, when he had heard the key turned in their respective chambers, he glided off to his own.
On the sofa sat Jem fast asleep, his head on his arm, and his thick, muscular hands—which still above the wrists bore the marks of the gang-chain—clinched at his side.
The captain looked down upon him, and then laid his white hand—which also, under the broad wristband, bore the telltale mark—upon Jem's shoulder.
Jem started up with an exclamation and an expression of fear so palpable that Captain Murpoint looked at him with some attention.
"Asleep, man," he said, rallying him in a soft, mocking voice. "You have been asleep for some weeks, my friend. It is time you, and I also, woke up. There is work to do."
"I'm glad of it," said Jem, with an oath and with a transient gleam of interest.
"Jem, you used to be able to climb. I have seen you cling to the cliffs like a bat, with your eyebrows. Have you lost that art?"
Jem shook his head.
"No," he said. "I'm pretty strong in this arm and I ain't lost my cheek, captain. They used to call me the monkey, and p'r'aps I deserved it."
"Then I think we'll test your power to-night," said the captain. "Can you get down to the stable?"
"Yes," said Jem, with a frown, "if it wasn't for the dog. He's a beast, and we hates each other like poison!"
"That's natural," smiled the captain. "Nevertheless you must get down, Jem. Reach me two or three pairs of those thick shooting stockings from that drawer."
Jem wonderingly obeyed.
"Now then, put two pair on over your shoes."
"Now creep down," said the captain, "and bring me a coil of rope from the large stable. I saw it there yesterday, hung above the corn bin. Here's a key. It fits it, for I tried it. There's a lantern, too, I shall want—a dark one. You'll find one in one of the stables, for I saw the groom trimming it."
Jem, whose spirits seemed to rise at the prospect ofcongenial employment, was about to start, but paused, and with a little hesitation said:
"But suppose I'm nabbed, captain? Rather awkward to be cotched in muffled boots shuffling round the stables."
The captain thought for a moment, then drew off a ring and handed it to him.
"If any one turns up go down on your hands and knees and say you are looking for my ring which I lost to-day. While they are looking on or helping, pick it up. That will avert all suspicion."
"'Pon my soul, it's wonderful; that's what it is!" said Jem, with ecstatic admiration of the captain's cleverness, and he departed.
After the lapse of half an hour the captain's quick ears caught the dull, muffled sound of the stockinged feet, and he sprang up as Jem entered with the coil of rope and the lantern.
"You alarmed no one?" said the captain.
"Not a soul," said Jem, with great triumph.
"Then you may keep the ring," said the captain, and he stopped Jem's thanks by adding:
"Now for the gymnastics. Next to this room," and he touched the wall with his white forefinger, "there is an empty room which has been closed, screwed up, for years. I want to find a way of getting into that room on the quiet. I want to creep in there one night and out of it like a ghost——Why, what in the name of Jupiter is the matter with you?" he broke off to exclaim, for Jem's face had got as white as the supernatural phenomenon he, the captain, wished to imitate, and his eyes were fixed with horror and disquietude. "What's the matter with you, you idiot?"
"Captain, I'd climb the cliff, or walk a hundred miles, or—or—anything you'd ask me, but I can't go near that room! I've seen—there, never mind what I have seen! I won't go near it, and that's flat!"
The captain rose and walked to his bureau, from the drawer of which he took a neat little revolver.
Then, as if Jem had offered no objection he continued, in a smooth voice:
"I want you, Jem, to drop from this window onto the ivy beneath and to climb up to the window of the emptyroom. I will hold the one end of the rope, the other you shall tie round your waist. When you get to the window—which has no shutters—you will throw the light from the lantern all round the room and ascertain in what direction the door lies, what furniture the room contains, and its condition. In fact you shall give me a complete description of it. Do you go?"
"No," said Jem, with an oath. "I know what I've seen, and don't go interfering where a human being shouldn't. I don't go, captain."
The captain took out his watch and chain and dropped them on the floor.
"Very good," he said, raising the revolver with calm but suppressed passion, "this is the only thing I have asked you to do in return for all I have done for you. You cur, I saved you from the chain-gang. I have fed you, clothed you, made a man of you, and like an overfed dog you turn, do you? Move a step"—for Jem, stung by the truth in the taunt, had with a scowl advanced a step—"move an inch and I'll shoot you without further parley! I'll shoot you as it is," he continued, taking accurate aim.
"If you dare to disobey me, I'll shoot you and summon the house to hear me tell you attacked me for my watch. The watch lies there, where it fell during our struggle; my ring, which you stole from my finger while I slept, is in your pocket; you are muffled like a burglar, and you have burglarious instruments in your hands. You see, Jem, you die, shot through the head, and everybody believes I shot you in self-defense."
Jem gradually grew white with mingled awe and fear.
He flung his hand down upon the table with an oath.
"I'll do it," he swore. "You're worse than a ghost, captain; you're worse than the very fiend himself. Sometimes I do believe you are him. I'll do it; I can't stand agin you, it's no use; ghost or no ghost I must cave in. Ring, watch, these 'ere stockings on—s'welp me, you planned it all!"
The captain smiled, but instead of retort uncoiled the rope, and by a gesture bade his tool fasten it round his waist. Then he oiled the window sashes so that the window might go up easily, lit the lantern, and after along, breathless pause of listening motioned to Jem to let himself down.
With intense interest, which was perfectly hidden under a calm, almost indifferent bearing, the captain watched his accomplice, as Jem, with monkeyish agility, dropped onto the thick boles of the ivy and clung to the stems as they in turn clung to the old walls.
Then he saw him rise hand over hand toward the window.
He gained the broad window ledge and, summoning all his doglike courage, dashed the cold perspiration from his brow and turned the light of the lantern full into the empty haunted room.
There was, however, nothing supernatural or ghostly to be seen.
It was an ordinary sized room, smaller than most of the modern rooms in the Park, and furnished in the style of a study or library.
There was a large old-fashioned bureau, an iron safe, half a dozen heavy, leather-backed, oak chairs and some shelves loaded with books.
A waste-paper basket stood under the table, and on the blotting paper upon the desk were some papers, as if they had been left by some one who intended returning within half an hour.
Upon all, table, desk, chairs, bureau, safe, lay the dust scattered by the hand of time, half an inch thick.
Jem took in all the details and then turned to descend.
In another moment the captain held out his hand and helped him into the room.
Jem, at first sullenly, but presently with some interest, described the room.
The captain asked question after question, all the while drawing on a piece of paper. At last when he had got all the information which Jem could possibly give he held out the piece of paper.
"Is that like it?" he said, with a smile.
Jem stared.
"It's the very room!" he exclaimed, wonder struck. "The furniture ain't quite like, but every bit on it shows in the proper place, and, s'welp me, captain, you must be Old Nick!"
"Perhaps," said the captain, with a smile. "And now you may go to bed."
Jem, without further parley, slipped off the rope and the stockings, and, still in a maze of fear, cunning, and admiration, departed.
The captain lit another cigar, and sat smiling at his paper until the dawn crept up from the east.
"When rogues lie awake," says an old proverb, "let honest men beware!"