By some strange course of reasoning or feeling, he had grown to connect the captain with every mishap of his life.
What were he and his friend doing thus early at Lackland house?
Casting from him the dim foreboding which had fallen upon him at the sight of Howard Murpoint and Mr. Smythe, Bertie hurried to the park.
It was the unfashionable hour—at eleven the Upper Ten are either in bed or just thinking of breakfast—and the Row was nearly empty.
Bertie did not meet with much difficulty in finding his quarry, for they were galloping up and down the tan in the height of enjoyment.
Ethel saw Bertie first, and exclaimed:
"Fitz, there is Bert—Mr. Fairfax."
"What, Bert out of his den as early as this! Hello, old fellow," he exclaimed, as Bert came up, "what's the matter? Temple burned down?"
"No," said Bert, "not that I am aware of."
Then he took off his hat as Ethel rode up.
"I've come out for a run," he said, the happiness and delight within him showing itself in his eyes, "and I thought perhaps I should find you here."
"Do you want me?" said Fitz, rather puzzled, for there was something in Bertie's face that looked momentous.
"No, I don't want you," said Bertie; "I wanted a word with your sister."
Fitz looked puzzled still, but nodded to Ethel.
"Do you hear that, Eth? He wants to speak to you."
Ethel steered her horse near the rails, and Bertie went up and patted it.
Now that he had the opportunity he did not know what to say, or rather he was loath to say it before Fitz; he would rather have had Ethel alone, and, besides, his news was so precious that he clung to it and hugged it.
"Fitz," he said, "do you mind lending me your nag? It isn't far to walk home."
"Eh?" said Fitz, "what do you mean? I say, what's up? Something between you and Eth, I'll bet a pound. Yes, here you are, old fellow, here's the nag. Don't you two get up to mischief."
He got off in a moment, like the good-natured fellow that he was, and Bertie sprang into the saddle.
"You're a good fellow, Fitz," he said, gratefully.
"Just so," said Fitz, "that's what every man says; but, I say, I don't know whether it's the right thing. What will the earl and countess say? They're mighty particular, you know."
"I'll be responsible," said Bertie, laughing. "Good-by, old fellow; you are a good fellow, too."
Fitz nodded smilingly, and trotted off.
The two lovers, left thus, sat still, Ethel blushing and trembling, Bertie flushed and excited.
"Shall we have a gallop?" he said, and accordingly Ethel, without a word, put her horse into a run.
They rode to the end of the Row, then Bertie said:
"Don't you think it is very impudent of me to borrow your brother's horse and capture you?"
Ethel smiled faintly.
"Oh, my darling!" he burst out, triumphantly, delightedly, "you are mine! I have seen the earl this morning and he has given you to me."
They rode side by side, Bertie speaking of all his hopes and plans, she listening and drinking in the music of his voice.
Somehow or other they found themselves out of theRow and away to a secluded road, where there were no spectators.
Then Bertie took possession of the hand, and while he murmured soft, sweet words, as lovers can and will, he performed a feat of equestrianism which would have made him a worthy candidate for a circus, for with reckless daring he bent forward and actually snatched a kiss from the blushing but forgiving Ethel.
Then they rode home, happy, glowing, at peace with all the world, and as madly in love as any young couple in England.
"We shall meet to-night," said Bertie, "at Mrs. Mildmay's?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "to-night," and, though it was then one o'clock, "to-night" seemed as far off to her as the week after next.
Bertie left the horse at the Lacklands' stables and walked home to his chambers.
As he sat down at his table, his man entered with a letter.
Bertie glanced at the envelope and tore it open. It was stamped with the Lackland crest. It contained a short note, which Bertie had no sooner read than he turned as pale as the paper and staggered back into his chair like a man mortally wounded.
Before we glance over his shoulder and ascertain the contents of the letter which had so affected him let us return to Mr. Howard Murpoint and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe as they stand on the doorstep of Lackland House.
When the servant opened the door Mr. Murpoint inquired for Lord Lackland, and was soon, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, ushered into the earl's presence.
When they entered the room Howard Murpoint introduced Mr. Smythe to the earl and then proceeded to business.
He said that Mr. Smythe had been anxious to see the earl, as one of the directors of a certain mining company, to ask a few questions.
The earl admitted that he was on the board of directors and answered the questions, or rather the captain answered them for him.
Then Mr. Smythe announced his intention of becoming a director, and incidentally mentioned that he would, if there was any occasion for it, purchase the mine.
This made the earl stare, as the captain had intended that it should; and when Mr. Smythe rose to take his leave, Lackland's adieu was a great deal more cordial than his greeting.
When the rich Mr. Smythe had gone the captain eyed his dupe warily.
"A nice young fellow," he said.
"Very," said the earl. "A good business man, I have no doubt."
"Immensely rich," said the captain—"immensely. I wonder if the countess would oblige me by sending him a card for her next ball? I should take it as a personal favor."
The earl stroked his mustache.
"I am sure the countess would only be too delighted," he said. "But are you sure that Mr. Smythe would care to come?"
"I am certain that he would," said the captain. "Indeed, he was speaking of it only this morning. Poor fellow, he has become infatuated with the beauty of Lady Boisdale!"
The earl was almost guilty of a start.
"Indeed!" he said. "I am sure we are very much flattered by Mr. Smythe's preference. It is a pity we did not know him. Unfortunately there is no chance of his wishes being fulfilled. I have this morning promised the hand of Ethel to Mr. Fairfax."
"To Mr. Fairfax!" echoed the captain, with as much polite astonishment and disgust in his voice as if the earl had said "His Satanic Majesty." "To Mr. Fairfax!"
"Yes," said the earl. "Mr. Fairfax called here this morning, just before you came, and pressed his suit so earnestly that I yielded and gave my consent—a very reluctant consent, I must confess."
"Write a letter to him recalling your consent."
"Impossible," said the earl.
"Why so?" inquired Mr. Murpoint.
"My word has been given and if I were to break it Ishould be cut by every man in London. I dared not show my face in a single club."
"It is very unfortunate," said the captain, coolly, "more unfortunate than you can imagine, for I have not told you all."
"All?" inquired the earl. "What else is there to tell?"
"Mr. Smythe is a determined man," said the captain, quietly, "and he assured me this morning that if he did not get your consent to his suit he should go to extremities."
"Extremities! what do you mean?"
"Simply this: that he will buy up the mortgages and the numerous bills which you have given, and come down on you like a hawk. He is a most determined young man. He will sell Lackland Hall and everything you possess, as sure as you stand there."
"He cannot," said the earl, with a smile. "I can make arrangements with my creditors. I can purchase the bills, raise the money, pay off the debts."
"I am afraid not," said the captain. "Because, you see, the bills are all in my hands."
"Your hands?" exclaimed Lord Lackland.
"Yes, mine," answered the captain, softly and with the sweetest smile. "It is very unfortunate! I promised this worthy young man that I would use my influence with your lordship to gain your consent. I gave my word of honor, and if I were to break it I should be cut by every man in London and should not be able to enter a single club."
As he used the earl's own words, and smiled his soft, deadly smile, the earl sank into a chair and gasped for breath.
"Are you a man or a fiend?" he breathed.
"I am simply a man of business," said Mr. Murpoint, "and a man of my word."
"What am I to do? I am in your power!"
"Write a letter to this Mr. Fairfax and tell him that you cannot consent, that you rescind the promise you gave this morning."
The captain stood over him, quite the master of the situation, and dictated.
"Dear Sir: I regret that circumstances have occurred which compel me, on consideration, to recall the consent which I reluctantly gave you this morning. I must beg of you to believe that I am obliged by the force of circumstances to rescind that promise, and that I am strengthened in my resolution to refuse you the hand of my daughter by the countess, who is strongly opposed to any engagement taking place between you. If you have already seen Lady Boisdale, and acquainted her with your hopes and wishes, I must beg that you will, by writing, inform her that all engagements between you must cease, and that you are compelled in honor to refrain from prosecuting your suit. With regret I have arrived at this decision, and sign myself most sincerely your well-wisher,Lackland."P.S.—It would be as well, perhaps, if you could make arrangements to leave London for a time. If it should be inconvenient to you to do so, I will remove Lady Boisdale to one of my places in the country."
"Dear Sir: I regret that circumstances have occurred which compel me, on consideration, to recall the consent which I reluctantly gave you this morning. I must beg of you to believe that I am obliged by the force of circumstances to rescind that promise, and that I am strengthened in my resolution to refuse you the hand of my daughter by the countess, who is strongly opposed to any engagement taking place between you. If you have already seen Lady Boisdale, and acquainted her with your hopes and wishes, I must beg that you will, by writing, inform her that all engagements between you must cease, and that you are compelled in honor to refrain from prosecuting your suit. With regret I have arrived at this decision, and sign myself most sincerely your well-wisher,Lackland.
"P.S.—It would be as well, perhaps, if you could make arrangements to leave London for a time. If it should be inconvenient to you to do so, I will remove Lady Boisdale to one of my places in the country."
This letter was written and signed by the earl.
It was carried by a servant to the Temple, and it was read by our friend, Bertie, as we have seen.
Its effect upon him was beyond all description.
Leicester had not much to complain of on the score of treatment from the captain and crew of the smuggler.
He went about his work silently, and with a certain dignity which repelled any advances on the part of his companions.
A year and some months passed wearily enough for Leicester, who hoped day by day for opportunity of escape.
But none presented itself, and at last he had almost determined to fling himself overboard, when the captain came one day to where he stood in the forecastle, and addressed him thus, in his Yankee drawl:
"Stranger, I guess we understand each other by this time?"
"I hope we do," said Leicester, moodily. "I am hoping that this accursed vessel will wreck some day," said Leicester, "and then——"
"And then what?" asked the captain.
"Then I may stand a chance," said Leicester, fiercely.
"So," said the Yankee, "that's the game, is it? Here!" and he called to two or three of the crew. "Clap this chap into irons."
The men came forward reluctantly, and Leicester, after a fierce struggle, was forced down upon the deck and heavily ironed.
Then he was hoisted and dragged to the mast, and lashed there, an example and a warning to all others who might be inclined to be "obstreperous," as the captain said.
All this time the schooner was making to get clear of the Channel, which they hoped to reach before dawn on the morrow.
The crew, already favorably impressed by Leicester's conduct and his uncomplaining capability, were much aggrieved at this treatment.
The Yankee skipper appeared to take no notice of the complaints for some time, but when the dissatisfaction arrived at that point when the men declared they would not work the vessel while Leicester was tied up the captain, with an oath, drew his revolver.
"Who says I mayn't do what I like on my own vessel?" he roared. "If there's one o' you as wants an inch o' lead let him stand out!"
One man, a weather-beaten little fellow whose face Leicester seemed to have remembered as having seen before he was carried on board, stepped forward and, with a savage sort of courage, stared the captain in the face.
"Wal, Stumpy," he said, "what have you got to say?"
"Why, this 'ere," said the courageous little fellow, "that it ain't the square thing to keep a man as does his duty and ain't shown no cheek skewered on the masthead."
The captain lowered his revolver.
"If you've all o' ye set your minds upon having this yertarnation mighty gentleman a darncin' round agin, let him darnce."
Here the men set up a shout, and Stumpy leaped forward and commenced knocking Leicester's irons off.
With a malicious spite the Yankee set Leicester—almost exhausted as he was—and Stumpy, his advocate, to the hardest tasks.
In spite of all efforts to keep the vessel from going coastward the schooner gradually but surely drifted toward a line of reefs, and the strain was so great on the rudder that the Yankee issued an order for bracing it.
Of course Stumpy and Leicester were told off, and without a moment's hesitation they seized the necessary ropes and commenced the perilous task.
Leicester expected every moment that he and his comrade in danger would be blown or buffeted overboard, and so kept a keen lookout for Stumpy and grasped a spar, upon which he knelt, with the determination of an already drowning man.
The result showed that his fears were well grounded.
Suddenly he missed from his side the small but courageous form of his comrade.
Stumpy had succumbed to the latest billow.
With a shout of "A man overboard!" he hung over the side and peered into the heaving deep.
Grasping the spar in both hands Leicester rose to his full height, and, amid a roar of warning and excitement from the crew, leaped into the sea.
The drowning man was very nearly finished by Leicester's well meant effort at rescue, for the spar just missed his head by a foot.
As it was, however, he seized it with a convulsive grasp, and the two men were once more together.
For a few moments the ship was lost to them.
They were pitched up and down, backward and forward, the rain cutting their faces, and the cold numbing their hands.
Then it was that Leicester hit upon a means of securing them to the spar.
The rope which had been fastened to his waist still hung there, and he managed, by dint of sheer force, to drag it up, and drop it over the spar once or twice, ateach turn passing it round the armpit of Stumpy or himself.
By this means they were completely entangled, and in a rough fashion lashed to the long piece of wood in which all their hopes of life rested.
Dawn broke at last, and the storm subsided; but long before then they were half unconscious and wholly numbed.
When Leicester came to, he found himself lying on his back, and the weather-beaten face of Stumpy over him.
He smiled, and the man groaned back in reply; but for quite an hour no words were spoken.
At the end of that time, when they had almost recovered from the exhaustion, Leicester struggled to his feet and approached Stumpy, who was sitting, hugging his knees, at a little distance on the beach.
"Come," he said. "We are safe, thank Heaven! Cheer up! We must move on."
The man rose and looked at him, but although he nodded his head in assent he made no allusion to their late peril or made any attempt to thank his preserver.
They scrambled up the beach for some little distance, then Stumpy stopped.
"It's no use of my going any farther, sir; I can't indeed."
Leicester, fully appreciating the "sir," by which the man addressed him, stared in astonishment.
"Why not, man? We must go on! Why should you be afraid to go on? This is Ireland, you say. Do you fear anything from the people on the coast? Ah, I forgot!" he added, as the remembrance of his comrade's occupation flashed on him. "You fear the coastguard!"
"That's it," said Stumpy. "I should be in quod in half an hour."
"But how should they know you?" asked Leicester. "You need not proclaim yourself."
"No need for that, sir," said Stumpy, with a grin. "Look here," and he pulled up the bottom of his trousers and showed Leicester a mark branded upon his leg.
Leicester colored in spite of himself.
"You are a convict!" he said.
"That's it, sir; I am," said Stumpy, "and, what's more,I haven't served my time. That's the mark of the chain-gang, and it will never come out. The first thing the guard will ask will be 'Show us your leg, mate,' and then where am I?"
Leicester thought for a moment deeply.
"All right," he said. "I've hit upon it. You get into that cave there, and I'll hasten up and hunt out some people. I can get some provisions, and will not be here until dark. We can creep away then and gain one of the towns."
So without waiting for any more objections or refusals, he hurried up the beach.
Stumpy crawled into the cave as he had been directed, and fell to nursing his knees, muttering:
"And to think as a gentleman should act like this to a hinfamous rogue like me! If I'd a known what he was like, if I wouldn't a spiked that villainous skipper and led a mutiny!"
In a short time he heard voices, and peeping out, saw Leicester coming down the beach accompanied by a crowd of people.
Stumpy at once concluded that Leicester had thought better of his generous offer to stand by him, and had sold him to the coastguard.
Therefore he kept in the cave until Leicester crawled in to him, and cried out, laughingly:
"Here's a pretty Irishman!" pointing to a peasant in a blue blouse and with an unmistakably French countenance. "Why, man, this isn't Ireland at all! We're on the coast of France!"
Stumpy's relief of mind at Leicester's intelligence that they were cast ashore in France instead of Ireland was intense, and he fell to and ate heartily of the food which Leicester had brought, but not until he had seen Leicester himself hard at work in a similar way.
The French peasants hung round them while they ate the bread and meat, and then were for taking them into the village to be examined by the notary.
But Leicester, after a moment's conference with Stumpy, told the simple people that he and his companion were very tired, and that they would prefer to rest a while before presenting themselves for examination.
The peasants, with true French politeness, immediately left them.
"Now," said Leicester, as the blue blouse disappeared round the corner, "we must give those good people the slip, I suppose. Do you speak French?"
Stumpy shook his head.
"The only furrin language I knows, guv-nor, is a bit o' Spanish."
"Spanish!" said Leicester. "The very thing. I know enough of it to pass muster in a society where it is seldom spoken. Stumpy, I see it all. I must be a Spanish artist, a musician, and you—if you don't mind playing second fiddle—shall be my servant."
Then he decided to tell Stumpy his story; and a wronged man never had a more sympathetic listener.
When it grew dark the two stole along the beach, and entered a village some miles farther along the coast than that against which they had been cast up.
Leicester had a little money with him sewn in his canvas belt, and Stumpy, having received his wages on the day of the storm, was similarly supplied.
By dint of great economy and carefulness they reached Paris uninterfered with, and here Leicester, without loss of time, commenced to put his plans into execution.
At a broker's shop he purchased a capital wig of white, or rather iron-gray hair, invested in a pair of broad-rimmed spectacles at an optician's, and purchased at a ready-made tailor's a suit befitting an elderly foreigner of modest means.
Stumpy was accommodated with decent clothes, his long black locks well oiled and combed, and a small pair of gold rings set in his ears.
After waiting about a week in Paris to accustom themselves to their disguises the two sham Spaniards crossed to England.
Leicester took tickets, second class, for himself and Stumpy to Penruddie.
They arrived at night, and boldly determined to put their disguises to the test.
Leicester marched slowly down to the "Blue Lion", Stumpy walking at his side and carrying a small valise.
"Can we have something to eat and to drink?" asked Stumpy, in broken English.
Martha nodded irritably and waved her hand toward the parlor.
The two entered.
Leicester looked round the room and seated himself in a distant corner.
A thrill of indignation ran through him as the door opened and Job entered, and he could scarcely refrain from springing at the wily little rogue and securing him at once.
But he was slightly mollified by observing on Job's face, as on that of all the others, a peculiar look of dissatisfaction and discontent.
Job eyed him and Stumpy with suspicious glances, and nodding to the others, took his old seat, calling as he did so for some ale.
Presently Job rose to light his pipe, and instead of reseating himself in his old place dropped into a chair near Leicester.
"Come far, sir?" he said, opening up a conversation.
Leicester raised his eyebrows and shook his head, waving his hand toward Stumpy, who interpreted the sentence, and replied, in broken English:
"No, not far; from London."
Then he commenced to talk of fine houses and big fees, and somehow drew from Job the story of the murder of Starling and the fact that most of the people concerned in the tragedy had gone away.
"It is very strange," he said, "very! A murder is not what you would call common in England? What did you do with ze Mastro Leicester; hang him up by ze neck?"
"No," said the man, shaking his head. "He died without that. He fell over the cliff with the chap he'd done for, and so the country was saved the trouble of that."
Leicester sat like a man in a dream, but gave no outward sign that the story had affected him.
Stumpy, thinking that he had pumped quite enough for the present requested Polly to bring cigars for himself and his master, and leaned back with an air of enjoyment.
After a few words with Leicester, who was knownas Signor Edgardo, Stumpy asked if they could have a bed.
Martha answered shortly and decisively:
"No! I haven't got any beds to spare."
Stumpy inquired where he could get one.
"Here, Will," said the talkative fisherman, shaking Willie Sanderson, who had been asleep. "Can't you let this gentleman and his man have a couple of beds?"
Willie rubbed his eyes and nodded.
"I dare say," he said, staring about him.
Then the signor rose, bowed all round, and took his leave, followed by Stumpy, with Willie Sanderson to lead the way.
Slowly they tramped down to the Sandersons' cottage.
Willie opened the door and beckoned to the visitors to enter.
As they entered the small sanded room a lad rose from a chair and hobbled forward on a crutch.
He was a frail boy with a pale, intellectual, and mournful face.
Willie nodded to him.
"Jamie, these gentlemen want a bed; show 'em upstairs to the best room."
The lad took the candle and hobbled up the stairs.
At the stairhead he stopped and looked hard at Leicester, who turned his face slightly and adjusted his spectacles.
Stumpy, who had been warned to be careful, took the candle and thanked the lad.
Then the two Spaniards entered the room.
Leicester lay on the bed for an hour, without moving—plotting, planning; and Stumpy, after a prolonged entreaty that he would undress and get some rest, desisted and sat down patiently to wait until his master and preserver, and hero—for Stumpy considered Leicester to be everything that was courageous and noble and good—should choose to move.
Leicester rose at last full of self-reproach.
"I had forgotten you," he said. "You should have got to bed. Come, let us get some sleep. You want it badly enough."
As he spoke, and commenced undressing, their candle sputtered and went out.
Leicester took no notice, and Stumpy, after a moment's grumbling at having to undress in the dark, was just getting into one of the beds—there were two in the room—when Leicester said:
"Hush! Listen!"
Stumpy listened, and heard a noise of crying and sobbing in the next room.
He stared at Leicester and shook his head.
"It's that young lad we saw downstairs," he said. "Listen! Some one's giving him a beating."
"No," said Leicester, in the same low voice, "there's no other voice or noise in the room. What can be the matter?"
Stumpy looked up at the ceiling.
It was an old cottage, and the partition between the rooms was in some places worn through; light came between these chinks, and supplied Stumpy with an idea.
Without a word he bent down close against the wall and, in silence, motioned Leicester to get on his back.
This Leicester for some time declined to do; but as the sobbing broke out again his curiosity overcame him, and he stepped lightly on to Stumpy's back and then supported himself by clinging to one of the rough beams.
Having gained a position, he peered through one of the holes.
He was looking down into a small room, poorly furnished.
On the bed, in an attitude of abandon, sat the boy, Jamie. His face was hidden in his hands, but his whole figure shook and quivered as he murmured, loud enough for Leicester to hear:
"This is the night he died! The very night! What makes me think of him so? It must be 'cause he was good to me—and he was good to me! He was like no one else! And now he's dead—shamefully murdered and slandered. Oh, Mr. Leicester, Mr. Leicester, if you could only come to life again and prove your innocence! It is false! You did not murder him—you couldn't; and yet——"
Then he stopped suddenly, shuddered, and looked round the room fearfully.
Then he drew himself painfully from the bed and to a box lying in the corner of the room, opened it, and, with another shudder, took something from it.
This something he held in his hand and stared at with an evident horror of fascination.
In his anxiety to see what the article was, Leicester nearly lost his balance, and made a slight noise.
The lad started, and the something dropped with a clash to the floor, revealing itself to be a large clasp-knife.
Leicester could scarcely believe his eyes.
Was the lad mad? or had he committed murder? Why did he sit and shudder over a clasp-knife which he kept hidden in his bedroom?
He got down and motioned Stumpy to his place.
Stumpy was just in time to see the knife hidden away, and on receiving a full account of all Leicester had seen was equally puzzled about it.
"It's very rum!" he said, shaking his head. "There's been some foul work somewhere, sir, take my word for it. What's that youngster got that knife for? It's no common one, or he wouldn't carry on like that over it. All the more reason, all this is, that we should keep dark and play a waiting game."
Then, with respectful earnestness, he implored Leicester to take some rest, and Leicester, to humor the man, who, however much a convict, had served him honestly, yielded.
On the morrow both men were up at sunrise.
Stumpy went down to the beach, and smoked a cigarette Spanish fashion among the fishermen, to whom he chatted and listened with the greatest liveliness.
He could not, however, learn anything and returned rather disappointed.
Not so Leicester, who entered the room looking as white and stern as a ghost, and who laid a soiled sheet of paper upon the table.
"Look at that!" he said. "Stumpy, look at it!"
"Where did you get it, sir?"
"I took it from an old wall at the end of the village," said Leicester, pacing up and down.
Stumpy read it.
It was the handbill offering a hundred pounds reward for the apprehension of Leicester Dodson, charged with the willful murder of James Starling.
No sooner had Stumpy read it than he grew alarmed.
"Some of 'em don't think you're dead," he said; "and this here's a dangerous place. That wig might blow off in the wind, and then where would you be? No, no, London's the place for us! We shan't get any more out of this yet a while, and if we stop here somebody will get suspicious. That bill's enough to make the dullest chap in England sharp. A hundred pounds!"
Leicester was not loth to leave Penruddie.
The place was hateful to him now that all he loved were in London, so the next morning they paid their bill and went up to the great city.
Very changed did Leicester seem as he passed familiar places, and remembered that he must not enter them. Stranger still, he saw some familiar faces, and they passed him and did not recognize him.
In a political paper he read news which astounded him.
The city article was nearly full of one name, and that—Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P.
Leicester could not believe his eyes, and it was some time before he could realize that the villain who had entrapped and betrayed him was a man of great wealth, influence and power.
He determined to see him in his triumph and set about a way of doing it.
There was at that time a club in London to which foreigners were admitted who could give a reference.
Leicester went there and gave the name of his father, who was well known as a merchant.
At this club, in the smoking-room, he in a feigned voice conversed with several men and learned enough to astound him.
Carefully he led up to the great name, and inquired if Howard Murpoint lived in London.
"Oh, yes," said his informant, "he has two large houses,and another place down in the south—a wonderful man. There is a dinnerconversazioneon at his place to-night."
"Indeed!" said Leicester, who felt that he would give all he possessed to be a guest.
"Yes," said the gentleman. "A sort of gathering of the lions, you know. Open house. I have a card—two in fact, one for a friend who has discovered a new slab in Assyria. He ought to be here by now."
Just then a servant brought a letter for the gentleman.
"Hem!—can't come; just like that sort of man! I don't know whether you care for this sort of thing, but if you do there is his card."
Leicester thanked his generous acquaintance gratefully, and they dined together on the understanding that they should drop in at Howard Murpoint's house afterward.
Leicester could scarcely eat or restrain his excitement, but by an effort he managed to conceal it and assume a certain amount of indifference.
About nine o'clock they started for theirconversazione.
Howard Murpoint's house was magnificently lighted up and a crowd of servants were massed in the hall to receive the guests.
"Heaps of people here to-night," said Leicester's useful friend. "I'm afraid you won't thank me."
"I am anxious to see the great man," said Leicester, "and would go through a greater crush than this."
"Well, he's a great man and worth seeing," said the friend, as they entered the grandsalon.
Leicester looked around in astonishment at the assembled crowd of people of the very best sort, the guests of Howard Murpoint.
Where had the money come from?
He left his friend a few minutes after they had entered, and made his way toward the orchestra, where a splendid band was playing.
There, in the midst of a group of lords and ladies, he heard a smooth, serene voice he remembered only too well.
He turned suddenly and came face to face with Howard Murpoint.
For a moment he forgot that he was disguised, for the moment his face flushed, his hand clinched, his lip curledwith scorn and contempt, but the next, as Howard Murpoint's eyes met his smilingly and unconsciously, he remembered all, and stepped aside.
In doing so he pressed rather heavily against a lady. With a low and hurried "Pardon me!" he turned and looked upon Violet Mildmay!
This time it was the blood left his cheek, and he staggered.
Violet thought that her long train had inconvenienced the tall old gentleman.
"I am very sorry; but the rooms are so crowded," she said, in her sweet, gentle voice.
The tears sprang into Leicester's eye, his heart leaped as if it would spring from his body, his arms were half extended; but, with another smile, Violet had passed on.
Then a great and terrible feeling of loneliness and desertion came upon him, and he crept back into a corridor all dazed and dreamy.
Round him were the promenaders, about him the exquisite music floating through the perfumed air, the voices of the guests; about all the serene, soft, falsely sweet tones of the villainous schemer; and within him the consciousness that Violet—the woman he loved best in all the world—was near him!
For the first few moments Bertie's sensations on reading Lord Lackland's letter were anything but distinct, then gradually, as he realized the blow which the earl's duplicity had dealt him, indignation predominated.
He had been basely deceived and betrayed, and his betrayal was rendered all the more bitter by the foretaste which he had been allowed to have of his happiness.
He wandered listlessly down to his club.
In the smoking-room, to which he repaired, he found Fitz extended at full length, sipping a brandy and soda.
He determined on the spur of the moment to confide in him.
"Hello, Bert," said Fitz. "What have you done with my nag?"
"Taken him to the stable," said Bert. "I suppose you half feared that I had bolted?"
"No," said Fitz. "What is in the wind? No mischief, I hope."
"Fitz," said Bertie, seating himself beside the good-natured Fitz, "I'm in great trouble."
"No!" exclaimed Fitz. "I thought that nothing ever troubled you, Bert."
"Something does now," said Bertie, gravely. "It's about Lady Boisdale—Ethel."
Fitz shook his head gravely.
"I was half afraid there was something on there, Bert, between you and Eth. I've noticed it for some time, and I thought perhaps you'd speak. I wish you had, because I could have told you that there was no chance for you."
Bertie colored.
"No," said Fitz, heartily. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure; but it can't be, Bert. Look here, one secret is as good as another. There's nobody listening, is there? I'll tell you something," and he sighed deeply. "Eth and I are as much slaves as any nigger going. We can't marry where we like, and we can't do as we like. People think because I'm the eldest son and she's the daughter of the Earl of Lackland that we can do just as we like. Bert, it's a mistake. We're tied hand and foot. We must marry money. Why?" And he looked sadly at Bertie, who stared in astonishment. "Why? Because we haven't a single penny ourselves. We Lacklands are as poor as church mice. There isn't an inch of land, there isn't a brick of stone that isn't mortgaged, and we young ones, Eth and I, must bring it all right again by marrying money. She'll have to marry some retired tea-dealer, and I—well, I know where I'd marry, and marry money, too; but I can't. The angel—for she is an angel, Bert—is too great, too grand, too good for me. You know, Bert, that there is no man under the sun I'd like to call brother more than I would you, but it can't be. Take a cigar and some liquor and give it up as a bad job, for it can't be. Eth would never marry you without the earl's consent, and he never will give it."
"But," said Bertie, "he has given it."
"What?" said Fitz, with surprised astonishment.
"Given it and taken it away again. Read that," said Bertie, and he handed the earl's letter to Fitz.
Fitz read it, and his eyes opened their widest.
"But—but," he said, "do you mean to say that the earl gave his consent to your marrying Ethel—don't be offended, old fellow, I know you are worthy of her if any one is—without striking a bargain?"
"N—no," said Bertie, as the earl's words concerning the private fortune of Ethel recurred to his mind. "No, he informed me, very unnecessarily, that Ethel's fortune would be retained or forfeited."
"What!" exclaimed Fitz, springing up, with angry astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me that her money is gone? that she is robbed with the rest of us?"
"I tell you nothing but what I heard," said Bertie, calmly.
"It is gone," said Fitz, white with passion, "of course it is gone! Idiot that I was to think he would spare that when he has taken all else! He has spent—squandered the poor girl's fortune, and then sells her, bargains her away to the first comer. It is shameful. It is unendurable; and, by Heaven, I will not endure it!"
"The bargain is off," said Bertie, bitterly. "You forget that the earl has thought better of it. He has recalled his consent."
"Yes, because he has received a higher bid! I know him!" said Fitz, sternly. "He would sell her to the highest bidder as if she were a horse or a piece of furniture. When did this occur?"
"This morning," said Bertie, and then he placed Fitz in possession of such of the facts as he himself was cognizant of.
"I see it all," said Fitz, pulling at his yellow beard in a frenzy. "That Howard Murpoint has been at the bottom of it. But have you noticed how thick the earl and he have been lately? I begin to hate that fellow. Do you remember the old time down there at Penruddie, when he was a regular bore?"
"Shall I ever forget it?" said Bertie, softly.
"Oh, no! poor Leicester!" said Fitz. "Well, we saidthere was more in the captain, as he called himself then, than appeared at first sight; and now look at him! He's the heart and soul and the whole machinery of the Mildmays, his name is good on 'Change for any amount, and now—now he has taken an interest in us. Bert, there's mischief brewing, mark me if there ain't. Who is this Mr. Smythe you saw with him this morning?"
"A millionaire, one of his city friends, a nob and an idiot," said Bertie, calmly.
"Then that's the fellow Ethel will be sold to," said Fitz, with calm despair.
"No," said Bertie, rising, white and passionate. "I'd shoot him first."
"Shoot him and be hung?" said Fitz, groaning. "You can't prevent it. Howard Murpoint is cleverer than us all, and if he has set his heart upon Ethel's being sacrificed to this Smythe fellow, why, sacrificed she'll be."
"I will help it," said Bertie. "I do not believe that Ethel will ever consent."
"She will," said Fitz. "I'll tell you why. They'll represent that if she marries the fellow, she'll save the family; and Ethel has such straight ideas of duty that she'll consent to sacrifice herself."
"Never!" said Bertie. "I would sooner see her in her grave. I would sooner tear her from them by force."
"I'll tell you what," said Fitz. "You'd better get her away by cunning."
Bertie thought for a moment.
"My honor——"
"Bids you do it," said Fitz. "She will sacrifice herself for a mistaken idea of duty. Nothing will save her unless——" He hesitated.
Bertie's blood raced through his veins.
"Fitz," he said, "give me your consent, and I will do it. You know how I love her. You have been more of a parent to her than her father. Say you consent, and I will snatch her from their clutches."
"I consent," said Fitz, "with all my heart, and I should think you less than the man you are if you didn't."
"I am thinking of her," said Bertie, rising and walking to the window. "Will she ever forgive me?"
"Try her," said Fitz, rising and walking toward him."Try her. She loves you, Bert, I know, and——What's the matter?"
"Look here, quick!" exclaimed Bertie, who had started suddenly. "Look there—among the crowd now crossing the road! Isn't that the very figure and walk of poor Les? Heavens above! How like. It sent every nerve of me thrilling," and he sank into a chair, staring out of the window still.
"I didn't see him," said Fitz. "Poor fellow! you were great friends. Was it anything like him in the face?"
"No—too old," said Bertie, with a sigh. "Poor Les! Poor Les!"
Then he fell to walking the room, and drank his soda and brandy like one parched with thirst.
That night Ethel was taken to Coombe Lodge, and Bertie, who had called at Grosvenor Square, was told that the family had left town.
Meanwhile Fitz remained, and the conversation he had with Bertie had nerved him to courage.
They say that one marriage makes nine, by example, and Fitz, seeing that Bertie had been brave enough to declare his love, determined to do so also.
That night there was anotherconversazioneat Lady Merivale's, and Fitz knew that the Mildmays would be guests.
He had an invitation, and he determined to go, though such things were not in his way, hoping to find an opportunity of declaring his long love for Violet.
The night was hot, and Fitz felt burning uneasiness and fear, for he feared Violet as much as he loved her.
He knew within his heart of hearts that she was too good for him, and yet he could not deny himself the pleasure or pain of putting the matter to the test.
Lady Merivale's rooms were not too crowded. Her ladyship had mercifully asked no more than her rooms would hold, and Fitz, as he entered rather early in the evening, could see that the Mildmays party had not arrived.
"Just my luck," he murmured. "Of course, now I've plucked up courage, she won't come. Serve me right. I know she's far too precious for me."
He sauntered to a corner and sat down beside an Italian,who had a series of sketches to show and tried to get poor Fitz to speak to him.
But the Italian only knew "Yes" and "No" in English, and Fitz only knew "Macaroni" in Italian, so thus the conversation did not afford much amusement to either party.
Presently, as the rooms grew fuller, a tall gentleman with white hair and wearing spectacles approached the two, and, bowing to the Italian, asked permission to see the sketches.
He spoke in Spanish, a language as strange to Fitz as Italian, so after a few minutes, Fitz rose and left the Italian and Spaniard together.
The Spaniard looked up wistfully.
"Do you know that gentleman?" he asked.
"No," said the Italian.
"I do," said a stranger who stood near, and who was none other than the club newsmonger, Tommy Gossip. "That is Lord Boisdale, eldest son of Lord Lackland. He's engaged—or going to be—to Miss Violet Mildmay."
The Spaniard bowed, smiled and departed.
At that moment Violet entered on the arm of Howard Murpoint.
The Spaniard saw Lord Fitz approach and take her from Mr. Murpoint and frowned.
"Is it true?" he murmured to himself. "Is she going to marry him? Has she forgotten me?"
Then he sighed and sauntered off with a melancholy smile to a retired alcove.
He was not in the humor for the gay and talkative crowd, and wanted a little quiet.
He sank down in a cool corner of the velvet lounge and fixed his dark eyes upon the floor.
"Why did I come back?" he mused. "They think me dead; they have forgotten me—they have ceased to mourn for me, and others have stepped into my place. I had better leave the world which knows me no more, and try for a new life in some new land. I see the best and fairest—she whom I loved—has no thought, no faith that lasts more than twelve months. I see that the rogue flourishes. I am disgusted with the world, and I will leave it. That poor fellow, the escaped convict, has moregratitude and affection and faithfulness than all the rest put together. We will go together—he and I, outcasts—and see the world no more."
He half rose in his bitterness as if to carry out his threat at once and leave the world, but at that moment two persons entered the alcove.
They were Fitz and Violet.
Fitz led Violet to a seat, then, murmuring something about the draught, let down a heavy curtain before the couch on which sat the melancholy Spaniard.
Thus the muser was cut off from the others, a listener, and made a spy much against his will.
Before he could move to make known his presence Fitz spoke, and his tone, more than his words, transfixed the listener to the spot.
"Miss Mildmay," said Fitz, plumping into his task with a nervous precipitance, "I am so glad I can see you alone for a few minutes."
"Yes?" said Violet, looking up with a dreamy, calmly serene gaze, which had nothing of embarrassment and, therefore, nothing of love in it.
"Yes," said Fitz; "I have been longing for this opportunity for some time. Miss Mildmay, I am a bad hand at speaking what I mean, but you know I mean all I say. You know that, though I'm a poor, good-for-nothing wretch who oughtn't to be allowed to breathe the same air with one so good and clever as you, but you know that I love you——"
Violet's face grew pale and very sad and mournful.
She raised her hand to stop him, but Fitz had made the plunge, and now, like all nervous people, was reckless.
"Don't stop me, Miss Mildmay; let me go on and say my say. I've kept it within my bosom so long that I feel bursting with it. I love you with all my heart, and no man, let him be as clever as he may, can do more; and if I'm not worthy of you—which I am not—I am sure no one else is. Violet, look at me a little more kindly, you look so pale and sorrowful. Can—cannot you love me—only a little—just enough to say that you will be my wife?"
Violet turned her pale, sad face to him.
"Lord Boisdale—I—how can I answer you? Youknow that I have no love to give. It was thrown with all my hopes in the sea; that sea which breaks beneath those awful cliffs at Penruddie. You see I can speak calmly. I can look back at that dreadful past bravely and without shame! I am not ashamed to say that I have no heart for anything but the memory of a vanished past."
There was a slight stir behind the curtain, but the speaker did not notice it.
"But," said Fitz, "you will not spend your life in utter mourning, you will not sacrifice your own happiness and my life to such a shadow as that memory——"
"It is no shadow to me," said Violet, softly, sadly, her voice dreamily distinct and low, her eyes fixed as if gazing upon something very far off. "Oh, no! I see it all, day and night, I hear his last words—the man I loved—with the roar of the sea upon the shore. I see that past life of mine ever, day and night, and I am wedded to it. You see," she said with a start, and evidently arousing from her reverie, and remembering, "that it is useless to ask me for love. You would not have me without, Lord Boisdale?"
"I would," said Fitz, his eyes filled with tears. "Violet, dear Violet, you need some one to watch over and guard you—you need some one who could and would devote his life to recalling the smile and the sunlight to yours. I am willing, I am anxious. Confide in me, Violet; trust yourself to me. My love asks for nothing at your hands but yourself and the right to guard you. Oh, Violet, I have loved you so long—I—I would have died for you."
"Do not speak of death!" said Violet, with a shudder and a hurried gesture of entreaty. "I cannot bear that! I will have no one speak of dying for me! I believe—the dread clings to me—that he—Leicester—came to harm through me. No, no; no one shall die for me!"
And she half rose, wild and pale.
"Be calm, dear Violet," implored Fitz. "See how wild, how frightened you have become. Confess now that you need some strong right arm to protect you, to save you from the terrible state into which you have fallen! Violet, I do not ask you to love me, I only ask that you will promise to try. Have pity on me! You have a little,you say, but remember how I have been hoping for so long, and say that you will promise to try and love me."
Violet closed her eyes, and seemed lost in thought, then she opened them and smiled sadly.
"I have been thinking of all you say, dear Lord Boisdale," she said. "I am grateful, very, very grateful. I know how good, how true you are, and I would implore you to give that noble love to some one more deserving of it, but that I feel it would be an insult to do so. I know I am weak—perhaps that I am wicked. Oh, that I knew what was right!" she broke off wildly and with clasped hands.
"Say yes," pleaded Fitz. "You cannot trust yourself to any one who can understand you or love you better."
"Give me time, time," pleaded Violet. "I must have time to think."
"A week?" said Fitz.
"No, no; a month—a month!" said Violet, in a low, constrained voice.
"Well," sighed Fitz, "a month, if you will have it so long. Say a month. It's a very long time, but——" and he sighed again. "Well, a month! Try to say yes, dear Violet."
"I will," breathed Violet. "I will try to do what is right. I ought not to sacrifice you if—if you love me as you say. I am weak and feeble and selfish, but I will do what is right."
Then Fitz rose and looked down upon her, pale and struggling with her weakness.
"I will leave you now," he said. "I am sure you are tired and—and excited."
And he raised her hand to his lips.
But before he could kiss it the curtain was pushed aside and the tall, white-haired Spaniard came before them.
Fitz dropped Violet's hand with a nervous start.
Violet herself rose to her feet and stared wildly, but the Spaniard paused only for one moment, then, fixing his dark eyes upon her face, bowed low, murmured gravely "Pardon, señora," and vanished as noiselessly as he had appeared.
Violet, seated on a footstool at her aunt's feet, told herall that night, and Mrs. Mildmay, as in duty bound, informed Howard Murpoint.
In some way, before night fell, the world had got at it, and the clubs were rumoring that Lord Fitz Boisdale was engaged to Miss Mildmay.
In a few days a rumor still more exciting and relishing was produced, to the effect that Lord Lackland had accepted the wealthy millionaire, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, as suitor for the hand of Lady Ethel Boisdale.
Bertie, at his club, heard the rumor, and dashed off in search of Fitz.
He found him seated moodily and dreamily in an easy-chair at the smoking-room of his favorite haunt.
"Ha, Fitz," he exclaimed, "is it true?"
"What?" said Fitz, flushing. "What have you heard? Don't say it's too good to be true; don't cast me down, old fellow; you don't know how my heart is set upon it!" he exclaimed, thinking that Bertie alluded to the understanding between Violet and him.
"What do you mean?"
"What do you?" asked Fitz.
"Why, this—this—false report that—that Ethel is to be married to that odious fellow, that miserable young money-bag?"
"I can't say I've heard," said Fitz, frowning earnestly. "If I thought that there was anything in it, I'd go for my big whip and thrash him!"
At that moment a waiter put a letter into his hand.
He opened it, and his face grew red with indignation.
"Read it," he said, and thrust it into Bertie's hand.
It was an intimation from the earl that Mr. Wilhelm Smythe had proposed and been accepted.
Bertie, in his passion, could not speak a word.
Fitz tore the letter into a hundred pieces, and threw the fragments into the grate.
"Cheer up! But," he said, "he shall no more have her than those pieces shall come together again. We'll show them that right is stronger than might in this case."
Bertie clasped his hand.
"You will come down with me?" he said.
"I will, and will put our plot into execution; no time must be lost."
"I'll go to-night," said Fitz. "You stay here and wait till I telegraph. I'll put it carefully so that nothing happens. I'll telegraph that 'wheat has gone up.' Then you'll know that you're to come down."
The two talked together for a few moments excitedly and eagerly, then Fitz went off, calling to a servant to saddle a horse at once.
He started that night for Coombe Lodge, and appeared there the following morning as fresh and as light-hearted as usual, but with the determination to stand by his friend and save his sister at all costs.
Ethel was not up when he arrived, and she entered the breakfast-room without any expectation of seeing him.
"Fitz!" she exclaimed, the warm blood rushing to her face as she sprang to him.
He held her in his arms, but would not show any emotion.
"Hello, Eth!" he said, "why you've gone pale again! where's that summer rose? I've heard the news—don't tell me any more—I'll congratulate Mr. Smythe when I see him."
Her face went paler, and her eyes filled with tears.
She crossed her hands upon her breast.
"I have done right, Fitz, have I not?" she said. "The earl has told me all—how poor we are, and how necessary it is that you and I should sacrifice ourselves for the house. You will not sacrifice yourself, though, Fitz, will you? There need be no occasion. You will give your hand where you give your heart. Dear Violet."
Honest Fitz turned his face aside to conceal his emotion.
"No, Eth," he said, "that will be all right."
Then, to avert suspicion, he rattled away to the countess, as she came in, in his old style, and actually spoke of Mr. Smythe in a friendly way.
It cost him something to be deceitful, but he did it, and succeeded in blinding them all.
The next day he was particular in his attentions to the ladies, and allowed himself to be inveigled into a game of croquet—a game he detested.
In the afternoon he went into the servants' hall and nodded to Ethel's maid.
She came out into the garden, and a conversation took place between her and Fitz, which was concluded by Fitz dropping some gold into her hand.
That evening he was more merry than ever, and not even a letter from Mr. Smythe, saying that he should be down the day following, depressed his spirits.
That night, when the countess and Ethel were seated in the drawing-room, the former gloating over the approaching wedding, the latter inwardly shrinking from and shuddering at it, Fitz rode over to Tenby and telegraphed the few significant words:
"Wheat has gone up."
The following morning broke finely.
"What time is Mr. Smythe to arrive?" asked Fitz, cheerfully.
Ethel flushed, and bent her eyes to her plate.
"He will be here before dinner," said the countess.
"See that the horses are sent for him," said the earl from behind his paper.
"All right, I'll see to that," said Fitz. "Meanwhile, just to spend time, suppose you and I have a gallop, Eth?"
Ethel thanked him with her eyes.
"Then go and get your habit on at once," said Fitz.
On the staircase Mary, the maid, met her crying.
"If you please, my lady, my brother's broken his leg, and—and—and can I go home at once?"
"Certainly," said Ethel, softly. "I am sorry, Mary. You must not wait for anything. Fitz," she called down, "can you let Mary have the brougham?"
"Yes," said Fitz. "What does she want it for?"
Then when the sobbing handmaid told him all, he said, like the kind fellow he was:
"Yes, and tell William to put the pair of grays in for you. They'll take you to the station fast enough to catch the train."
Mary went off gratefully, and Fitz and Ethel soon afterward mounted and started for their ride.
"I wouldn't heat him too much," said Fitz, who seemed to be saving his horse, to Ethel.
"We are not going far, are we?" asked Ethel.
"Oh, not if you like, though I think we had better takethe opportunity. We may not have many more rides together, Eth."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Let us have a long ride, Fitz, then," she said.
They rode on, Fitz saving his horse and showing no disposition to turn.
At last Ethel said:
"Don't you think we had better turn, Fitz? We shall not be in time."
"Let us go as far as that signpost," said Fitz. "Then——"
"We shall not be in time for—for Mr. Smythe," said Ethel, forcing herself to say the hateful word.
"Oh, yes, we shall, I think," said Fitz, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Hello, here's my horse gone lame!"
"Where?" said Ethel, but Fitz had jumped off.
"What shall we do?" said he, "he's dreadfully lame; I've noticed it for some miles, but said nothing. I can't ride him back, and you can't go alone."
"What shall we do? Where is a post town?" said Ethel.
"I don't know," said Fitz. "Here's a carriage!" and he pulled out his watch as he spoke, muttering, "Punctual, by Jove!"
Then he called to the coachman:
"Can you tell us the nearest post town? We want horses or something."
"I'm going that way, sir," said the man. "My young fellow will take your horses on, and you can get inside."
Fitz, without giving Ethel time to consent, hurried her in and jumped in himself.
"Drive on, my man," he said. "We are in a hurry."
"Fitz," said Ethel, who had been looking out of the window, "do you know anything of this man? He is taking the horses in another direction."
"No," said Fitz, but was spared any other falsehoods by the approach of another carriage which pulled up, as did theirs.
The door of the other carriage opened, and there ran across the road a slim young lady who rushed toward Ethel.
"Mary!" exclaimed Ethel.
"Jump in," cried Fitz, hurrying the maid in.
At the same moment some one mounted the box of their carriage, a heavy weight was thrown upon the top and away they started.
"What does it all mean, Fitz?" asked Ethel, looking half frightened. "Where are we going?"
"We are going to Penwhiffen—to that place where there is the pretty church," said Fitz.
"Church!" said Ethel, "and Mary!—and——Oh, Fitz! who is that on the box going with us?"
"That is the luggage," said Fitz, with a twinkle in his eyes. "The luggage and Mr. Bertie Fairfax. The cat's out of the bag, Ethel, my pretty one! We're running away with you! Bertie's got the special license in his pocket, and Mr. Smythe will have his journey to Coombe Lodge for nothing."
Then as Ethel burst into a flood of tears he caught her to him and gave her a hearty pat on the back.