IN THE WEB.
While Bertie—happy, lucky Bertie—was standing at the altar with his darling Ethel's hand in his, Howard Murpoint, Esq., and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe were driving through up the avenue to Coombe Lodge.
Howard Murpoint's luck had never deserted him since he had entered the drawing-room of the Park on that night of the dinner party. Everything had been smooth sailing.
He had conquered, so to speak, the whole world. He was rich, influential; he held the happiness, the fate of many in his hands; his brain was full of plots and schemes for his own advancement and others' ruin and discomfiture. Never, since the world began to wag, had the Evil One found a cleverer and more sympathetic servant, for Howard Murpoint, the gentleman, the member of parliament, the influential capitalist, was merciless, avaricious, cunning, and—superstitious. Yes, clever as he was, strong as he was, this was his weakness. He believed in luck; he was superstitious, and he felt a presentiment that the first stroke of bad luck would be the beginning of something more dreadful.
But to-day, as he dropped from his horse, which a groom had sprung forward to hold, he felt no presentiment, and the calm, cool smile which he threw to the nervous Mr. Wilhelm Smythe was one of supreme confidence.
"Be calm, my dear fellow," he whispered, as they were ushered into the drawing-room by the obsequious servant. "You will be the husband of Lady Ethel, and I shall win that twenty thousand pounds before a month has passed."
As he spoke Lady Lackland entered.
Shaking hands with the two, she said, with a troubled look upon her face:
"Did you meet Fitz and Ethel? They have gone for a ride, and should have gone your way."
"No," said the captain, with a smile. "We lost that pleasure."
Mr. Smythe sighed.
"No," he said. "I wish we had, but—but I'm almost glad, for it gives me an opportunity, Lady Lackland, for putting my request. I have come down with my friend—he has indeed been a friend to me—to ask you to persuade Lady Ethel to name an early day for our—our wedding——"
At that moment the door opened and the earl entered.
His face was dark as night, and his lips working with some emotion; he held a letter in his hand, and when he saw the two men he, by a great effort, set his lips with a rigid smile and tried to conceal the letter with a hasty movement.
"Something has happened!" exclaimed the countess.
"Not to Lady Ethel!" almost shrieked Mr. Smythe.
The earl smiled with despair.
"Read that!" he cried, thrusting the letter into the countess' hands.
She read it aloud, with a puzzled air at first which rapidly gave place to a shriek of despair and rage.
"My Dear Father: By the time this reaches you Ethel and I shall be at Wivlehurst. Bertie Fairfax goes with us with a special license in his pocket, and he and Ethel will be married, all well, to-day.
"Forgive me my share in the affair, and remember that it is the first time since their birth that your children have dared to show that they have wills and hearts of their own! Your affectionate son,
"Fitz."
There was a moment's silence, which was broken by a hoarse cry of disappointment and misery.
It came from Smythe.
With an oath he sprang at the captain and seized him by the throat.
"You villain! You've tricked me! You planned all this, you scoundrel! You did! You did! You have sold me, but I'll sell you! I'll have the money, or your infernal life!"
The captain struggled and fought to free himself from his dupe's grasp, but he could not, and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, nerved and goaded to madness, pushed the earl and his servants aside and dragged Mr. Murpoint into the hall.
"Now," he hissed in his ear, "get out your check-book and write me a check for twenty thousand pounds, or I'll kill you! I'll do worse; I'll publish the story and the bet in every club in London! d'ye hear? you thought to get the better of me, to play the idiot and hold me up to ridicule, but you shan't! you shan't! I'll have the money, the money, or I'll crush you!"
"Silence!" hissed the captain, glancing round at the astonished group of guests and servants. "Come outside," and he in turn half dragged and half led the unfortunate man into the courtyard.
"I'll give you the check to-morrow."
"Now, now! this moment, or I'll split all!" cried Smythe, and with an oath he darted his hand in the captain's face.
Howard Murpoint's eyes grew dark, but he was as pale as death. Fear ran in his heart, for he saw that his first ill-luck had set in.
"Confound you!" he cried, "you shall have it! I'll give you a hundred thousand pounds to be rid of such a madman," and with a shaking hand he took a check from his book and filled it in.
Mr. Smythe snatched it from his hand, glanced at it with bloodshot eyes, and leaped upon his horse, which he had shouted for as he came into the yard.
The captain looked round, and murmuring something like:
"He's mad, not safe! I must follow him!" called for his own horse and rode off likewise.
His face was a study for a picture of the fiend, disappointed and checkmated.
"Married!" he muttered, hoarsely. "Married! I have been tricked—tricked! And I have given him bills in full for twenty thousand pounds. I'll stop the check!" And with an oath he drove his spurs into the horse's sides and urged it on.
The animal reared and tore forward. He spurred it again and again, and reached the station in time to see the train, which was bearing Mr. Smythe to town, steam away from the platform. It was his first failure, and his bold, bad heart misgave him.
The next train did not start for three hours, and after a few moments' reflection the schemer turned his horse's head toward Penruddie.
"I'll give the rogues a look up!" he muttered, with an angry scowl. "They showed some disposition to rebel. I'll cow them!"
He reached Penruddie, and the first thing he noticed was a group of men lounging at the door of the "Blue Lion".
They glanced up at him as he pulled up and scowled, but not one raised his hand to his cap, or gave him good-morning.
The captain's face grew dark, and his voice was harsh and stern as he said:
"Can any of you men tell me where the carrier, Job, is to be found?"
One man jerked his finger over his head toward the house, and at that moment Job, hearing his name spoken, came out.
His dark eyes twinkled savagely as he saw the captain, but he touched his hat and came toward the horse.
"I hope I see you well, sir," he said, "and that the young and old lady be well."
"All well," said the captain. "Send some one to take the horse to the stable; I want a word with you, Job, aside."
Job nodded, beckoned to a man to take the horse, then followed the captain into the parlor.
"Now," said the captain, "I have come down to put my threat into execution. I am going to punish you, my friend, and all the rascals with you. Where is the money? Where is the share I was to have regularly of the profits out of your precious trade? Where are they, I ask?"
"There ain't any, captain," said Job, sullenly. "The men won't work; they say if you want all the profit, you may do the work, and take the risk yourself. 'Sides, they're cantankerous, captain, about another matter."
"What else?"
"They wants to know what's done with Maester Leicester."
"What!" sneered the captain. "Actually sentimental, are they? They want to know what's become of that idiot? I can tell you, and I'd have told you six months ago if I'd thought it would have interested you! He's gone where all such as he should go—out of the world! He's dead, rotting at the bottom of the sea!"
"Fetch Sanderson," said the captain, after a moment's pause, and with the air of a slave owner to a slave.
Job stepped out and returned with Willie, who had been among those standing outside.
Job had evidently told him that Leicester was dead, for Willie's face was cool, as well as sullen.
"Sanderson," said the captain, "you are a good fellow and no fool, or I am much mistaken. What does this mean with the men? Do they refuse to run the cargoes?"
"We do," said Willie, sullenly.
The captain took up his hat.
"Then I'll waste no more time. I'll give them a week to think about it, and then—well, if you don't be in jail every mother's son of you, it will be no fault of mine."
He went out as he spoke, glared savagely at the men at the door, and mounting his horse, rode off.
That night he returned to town, and, although clerks and secretaries, detectives and spies, his servants and tools, were waiting to see him, he would see none, but went straight to his own room, which was double-locked and guarded.
After a slight rest, during which he slept the peaceful sleep of an innocent child, he dressed himself with scrupulous care, and went down to the Mildmays' house.
"Was Miss Mildmay up yet?" he asked.
The servant took him to Violet's drawing-room, where Violet sat, a letter in her hand, and a thoughtful and pained, yet glad, expression on her face.
She rose as he entered.
"I am so glad you have come," she said, wearily, but with a smile. "I have just had a letter," and she held up the open envelope.
"And I have some news," he said, "or I would not have intruded so early.
"Perhaps you know it," he added, with grave face. "Lady Ethel Boisdale and Mr. Fairfax have eloped."
"Yes," said Violet, with a sigh. "It is all so sudden and—and what is strange, Lord Boisdale has accompanied them."
"It is strange and most dishonorable," said Howard Murpoint. "For Mr. Fairfax to forget or ignore honesty is one thing; but for Lord Fitz Boisdale to lend himself to an underhanded and dishonorable course is quite another. Lackland is in the deepest grief; Lord Lackland is stricken down with affliction, and, of course, my dear Violet, you will show your disapproval of the scandalous affair by withdrawing your friendship from both parties."
Violet, who had listened with shamed and pained attention, flushed deeply.
"Do you know," she said, slowly, "that Lord Fitz asked me to be his wife?"
The captain did know it, but he professed complete ignorance, and grew deadly pale and haggard. Violet rose with alarm, but he stopped her from calling out for assistance by grasping her arm.
"Do not call—give me time. Oh, Violet! Violet!" he groaned, hiding his face in his hands.
Violet gazed at him with her deep, mournful eyes opened to their utmost. At present she did not understand his elaborate acting.
"How have I pained you?" she murmured. "Do you not like Lord Boisdale?"
"Do you love him?" he retorted, suddenly, gazing searchingly and with quivering lips into her face. "Answer me, I implore you, dear, dear Violet! Do you love him? If you say yes; if you tell me that you have given your heart to him, I will say no more; I will leave you—leave England, and I will pray that you may be happy! Answer me, oh, answer me!"
Violet trembled and looked troubled.
"I do not understand," she murmured, hurriedly. "Why should you leave England? Why should you leave me?"
"Answer me first," he replied, brokenly, and with fearful earnestness, partly real, partly feigned.
"I will answer, and truthfully," said Violet, with low intensity. "I do not love him; you know that my love is buried forever, and that I have no heart to give. My hand would have been his, all unworthy of its acceptance as it is, but—but—for this."
"I forbid it! I forbid it!" cried the captain, grasping her arm. "You shall not marry him, Violet, if you do not love him. I would rather see you in your grave than the wife of Fitz Boisdale! Oh, Violet, forgive me this wildness, but you do not, you cannot, know the state of my heart. Violet, I love you!" he added, rapidly, in answer to the look of deep and profound amazement upon Violet's beautiful face. "I love you, and have loved you since I first saw you—do not turn from me! I am not worthy of you, but at least I love you for yourself alone. Can he—can that foolish boy say that? I am rich, he is poor. His family is ruined, and he seeks in a marriage with you but the means wherewith to rebuild his crushed fortunes. Do not speak!" he continued, eagerly, leading her to a sofa, and leaning over her where she sat, silent, motionless, as if under a spell. "I know it to be true, for I have heard him own it. I have heard the earl speculate on it; the very money-lenders are waiting for it, that they may seize upon the wealth which you will bring him!"
"It is false!" said Violet, starting to her feet. "It cannot be true!"
"It is; see here," he replied, rapidly, and with lessened yet telling earnestness he reasoned and convinced her.
Then she sank upon the couch and covered her face with her hands, sobbing violently.
"Are all men base and vile?" she cried. "Oh, where can I turn to find the true and the real? Where, where?"
"Here!" exclaimed Howard Murpoint, touching his breast, and speaking in a soft, soothing, almost paternal tenderness. "Here is succor and safety, dear Violet. I do not ask you to love me; that I cannot expect, until I have proved, ere long, my undying devotion to you! I do not ask you anything else but the right to protect you from the worthless adventurer and mercenary rogue. Oh, Violet, if you could but know that it was his—your dear father's—last wish that we should be united. He would, had he lived, pleaded for me more eagerly than I can dare plead for myself. Will you not listen to his voice, which, though dead, speaks through me, and be mine? Come to me, Violet, my own, my darling! Let me be protector, worshiper, husband!"
Violet struggled to rise, but he had knelt, in his eagerness, on her dress. She felt faint, swooning, charmed, and thoroughly overcome. She dropped, and fell back.
"Say 'yes'—say you will be mine—say you will let me guide and protect you!" he whispered, tenderly.
Violet, driven to bay, confused, bewildered, overcome, placed her cold, trembling hand in his, and the captain knew that at last he had won the great stake for which he had been so long playing.
Do not blame her, gentle reader. What could she do?—helpless, deceived, overwhelmed as she was. To her, since Leicester's death, all men were the same. This man had been kind, and had been, in a sense, her guardian and protector. It was natural, considering the fearful, deadly power of his will, that she should fall a helpless prey to his wicked wiles.