THE EARL'S SECRET.
We must return for a while to the kidnaped Leicester.
Gagged and completely powerless, he was hurried along by his captors, through the ruins and down, by a circuitous path, terribly narrow and steep, to the beach.
Though his mouth was gagged, he could still see and hear, and when they had reached the beach he saw the starlike signal which had often puzzled him and heard the sound of muffled oars.
Presently, amidst a dead silence, he was lifted into a boat, which instantly put about toward the open sea.
After some little time he saw the spars of a small schooner looming in the distance.
The boat reached it.
He was lifted from the boat and carried on deck.
There he was instantly surrounded by a crew of desperate and ferocious-looking sailors, half of them Lascars, a few Spanish, and one or two Englishmen.
Job, who had remained on deck, drew aside with the captain, and, after a few minutes' rapid conversation with him, returned to where Leicester lay.
"I am going, Maester Leicester," he said, gravely, and almost sadly. "I be sorry to leave ye like this, but ye wouldn't come to terms and there was naught else to do. I'd advise ye to give in like a wise gentleman; no harm'll come to yer if yer keeps quiet. Good-by, Maester Leicester. I be sorry, mortal sorry, and I'd give a sight of money if it was any one else as we'd had to play the trick on."
So saying, he turned and dropped over into the boat, which instantly rowed away.
Immediately afterward the order was given to crowd all canvas and put the ship about.
While it was being executed the captain of the motley crew strode up to Leicester and unbound his hands and removed the gag.
Leicester sprang to his feet.
"Stranger," he said, with that nasal twang which proclaimed the Yankee, "I guess we'd better understand each other. I'm captain of this yere vessel, and what I say I mean; and no gentleman, whether he's an etarnal Britisher or a free man born under the Stars and Stripes can mean more. You've been consigned to my charge under peculiar circumstances. I'm to take care of you, keep yer safe and sound, and drop you soft as a kitten at a sartain place. Them's my instructions, and them's my intentions."
"I will offer no resistance to this villainous oppression," said Leicester, "on the condition that I am not kept in confinement and am allowed to mingle with and assist your crew."
The Yankee thought a moment and nodded.
"That's fair," he said. "And I agree, with this yere stipulation, that you comes no nonsense with my men, none of yer pitching yarns or tempting to a mutiny."
Leicester smiled bitterly as he glanced at the villainous countenance of the crew.
"I give you that promise," he said.
Leicester took off his coat, waistcoat, boots and stockings and quietly joined the crew at their task of setting the sails.
It was his wisest course of action, for had he been left idle and fettered with nothing to do but to think and dwell upon his position he must have gone mad.
It is a beautiful spring morning, and the London season is, like the time of year, just at its greenest and most verdant state.
This afternoon the Lady's Mile in the park is tolerably full, and the loungers against the railings especially numerous.
At the corner, near the old elm, leans little Tommy Gossip; everybody knows Tommy, and, what is worse, Tommy knows everybody and everything.
"Who's that, my dear boy?" says Tommy, as a green chariot dashes by, in which are seated a stout elderly lady and a companion; "that's the Duchess of St. Clare," and he lifts his hat. "She's the queen of fashion, my boy, and can make or mar a reputation with a word. Jingo! how she paints! Ha!" And here Tommy Gossip brightens up into a state of mild excitement. "Here she is!"
"Who?" asked the lad at his side.
"Who? Why the beauty of the day, the new belle, the Ice Queen, as Madam White called her. By St. George, she grows more beautiful every day—and more pale."
And as he spoke he raised his hat, with an emphasis of reverence and eagerness, to an open carriage which slowly passed by.
In the carriage were seated three ladies.
Two of them were old, but one was superbly beautiful, with a beauty that was not only captivating but absorbing in its expression of pensive, resigned and dignified repose.
"There she goes! Look at the men. There's not a head covered, and there's not a heart, my boy, that would not jump out of its shoes at a smile from her. Who is she? Why she is the beauty and the belle and the mystery of London. Her name is Mildmay, Violet Mildmay. One of the old ladies with her is her aunt, Mrs. Mildmay. The other is a Mrs. Dodson—a relation of the family, some say, others a mother of that singular fellow, Leicester Dodson, Bertie Fairfax's sworn friend, who cut his throat down at some outlandish watering-place. Look, you see those two gentlemen, those riding toward us on horseback? That is Howard Murpoint, Esq."
"Which," said the boy, "the old one?"
"No, the young one; the old gentleman is Mr. Dodson, poor Leicester Dodson's father. No, the young one; watch his face, my lad, for it is the face of a great man. That man can command millions. He is chairman of the great Confederated Credit Company, and director of half a hundred companies besides."
At that moment, while Mr. Gossip was running on to the delight of the lad, a tall, golden-haired man came slowly by.
Tommy Gossip caught his arm as he passed.
"Hello, Bert, back again! Dine with us at the Theseus to-night?"
"I can't, I'm busy," said our old friend. "I'm very sorry. Ah, there is Miss Mildmay," and, dragging himself from the gossip he made his way to the carriage.
Barely two years had elapsed since the time of that tragedy in the little watering-place of Penruddie, and wonderful changes have come about.
Captain Howard Murpoint, no longer known as captain, but as Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P., is, or is supposed to be, one of the great capitalists of the day.
How he has made his money and found his position is a mystery and a marvel.
And what of Violet? Has she forgotten her love-passion? Has she forgotten her ill-fated lover?
Look at her face, and see if it is the face of a woman that forgets.
None know how much she remembers, how much of the past she still clings to.
To no one, not even to Mrs. Dodson, whom she loves as a daughter loves her mother, does she ever mention that familiar name.
"Leicester" may be graven on her heart, but it never passes her lips.
We shall see her to-night, for there is a ball, the first of the season, at the Duchess of St. Clare's, at which she will be present, in company with the élite, including Bertie Fairfax.
Bertie Fairfax, the favorite of the club and the drawing-room. Still the handsome Apollo Belvedere, but not quite the light-hearted, free, laughing fellow as of old.
He is a celebrated man, an author of great repute, whom men point out to their sons as a modern genius, and to procure whom at their balls and dinners women will do much.
Bertie was fond of a dinner once and loved a ball, but it seems now as if "man delighted him not, nor woman either," at least not women.
He will always go to a ball or a dinner if he is sure that Lady Ethel Lackland will be present.
For the rest, he spends his life, writing hard, in those very set of chambers which his dear friend Leicester shared with him, and which his spirit still visits.
There is to be a crowd at Clare House to-night, and Bertie will see Ethel—perhaps speak to her.
As he leans against the Mildmay's carriage he tells Violet that he will be there, and he knows by the gentle smile with which she looks down at him that she knows why.
"I am so glad," she says. "Will you look out for me? Lady Boisdale will not be there till eleven."
There is indeed a crowd at Clare House. The huge staircases are one great crush, the saloons a scene of warfare.
To dance is almost impossible, save to those young and ardent votaries of Terpsichore who are willing to whirl in the mazy waltz reckless of their own dresses and other people's toes.
Still, however, there is breathing and moving room in some of the corridors, and thither many have taken refuge.
Violet dances, and she sings, and laughs sometimes, but not as she did of old.
The earl and Howard Murpoint were alone in a corner.
"A great crush," said the earl, stroking his white mustache. "The young people seem to be enjoying themselves, which brings me to the remark that you ought to be classed with the juveniles, Mr. Murpoint."
And he looked at the capitalist with a cold smile.
"I am not very old, certainly," said Howard Murpoint. "Some would call me very young."
"For so successful a man," put in the earl, with another smile.
The successful man bowed.
"I have had my fair share of fortune," said Howard Murpoint, "but perhaps, like Sempronius, I have done more than deserve success—worked for it. That reminds me, my lord, that you have not yet made up your mind to join us in the new Penwain mines."
He glanced at the earl as he spoke, then looked away to the ballroom with a careless air.
"Eh—hem!" said the earl, "you wish my name to appear on the list of directors."
"Exactly," said Mr. Howard Murpoint. "An earl pleases, and—pardon me, my lord—soothes the monetary public, as you are aware."
The earl frowned, if a slight contraction of the eyebrows can be called a frown.
"I am already on the board of several of your companies, Mr. Murpoint, at your request."
"Certainly at my request, my lord; but you have not undertaken any responsibility, and I trust, have found your reward."
"Eh? Yes," said the earl. "To put it plainly, I have received certain shares as an equivalent for the use of my name, and they have paid tolerably well."
"Very well, I think," said Howard Murpoint, with quiet and smiling emphasis.
"Tolerably well," resumed the earl, as if he had not been interrupted. "But as you seem to attach so much importance to my—the fact of my name appearing on the list of the Penwain Mine Company, it has occurred to me that—ahem!—it may be worth more than I receive for it. I speak plainly."
"I am honored by your candor," said Howard Murpoint, with a crafty smile. "You have forgotten, while enumerating the equivalents received, some slight service which I have been enabled to render you."
"Loans, my dear sir," said the earl, "loans; which, of course, I shall pay. Merely loans."
It was Mr. Murpoint's turn to "ahem!"
"My dear lord," he said, in his sweetest voice, "we men of business know a great deal more than most people give us credit for knowing. One little bird—pray don't think I wished him to whisper secrets—came to me one day and whispered your name and that of a certain well-known money-lender."
The earl's face grew more fixed, but he did not move a muscle or show the slightest anger or surprise at the captain's knowledge of his embarrassments.
"Do not be afraid, my lord," said the schemer, in his softest voice; "the secret is safe with me. I shall not tell any one that Lackland Hall is mortgaged to the neck; that there is a lien on every other house your lordship holds; that there is a bill of sale upon the furniture, and that Lady Lackland's diamonds are at the jewelers, being repaired. I shall not tell all this because it is not to my interest to do so."
The earl sat stroking his mustache and looking straight before him.
"You do indeed speak plainly, Mr. Murpoint," he said, "and, while I will not endeavor to disprove or deny your assertions, I must at least confess that they startle me. Granting, merely for argument's sake, that I am er—er—somewhat embarrassed, I cannot see how it can be to your interest to help me."
There was a pause.
Presently a couple—a handsome man and a beautiful woman—passed them as they promenaded after the dance.
"What a couple they make. My ward is beautiful and well-bred, my lord, and Lord Boisdale and she are good friends."
The earl scrutinized the sleek, serene face of the speaker with acute anxiety.
"I see," he said, "I see. You are right, you are right, Mr. Murpoint; they would make a handsome and suitable pair. It is a capital idea."
"Which requires capital," said Howard Murpoint.
The earl flushed.
"Your ward is wealthy——"
"And your son must needs be noble, my lord," continued the captain. "A match between them is a thing to be desired."
"You would give your consent?" said the earl, almost feverishly.
The captain smiled.
"Let us talk of something else," he said. "It is a shame to dispose of the young things without their consent."
Then suddenly he said:
"Did you hear that the prime minister had spoken of my scheme for negotiating with the Swedish mines with much favor?"
"Yes," said the earl, not understanding why the conversation had been so rapidly changed.
"A friend told me that I deserved a baronetcy for it, hah! hah!" and he laughed softly. "Fancy plain Howard Murpoint made Captain Sir Howard Murpoint, Bart., M. P.!"
"I see!" said the earl as a sudden light began to burst in upon him. "Let me follow your excellent example, Mr. Murpoint, and speak plainly. Do I understand that you will give your consent and bring about a marriage between my son, Lord Boisdale, and your ward if I obtain for you through my influence the baronetage which seems to cause you so much amusement?"
"My dear lord!" exclaimed the schemer, with a deprecating smile, "that is indeed speaking plainly. I am very grateful for your good intentions, very, but if I am anything, my lord, I am disinterested. From my boyhood I have worked for others; I am working for others now. It is enough for me that I can see my ward—my dearest friend's daughter!—happy. Be assured that if I thought a marriage between her and the admirable Lord Boisdale would tend to increase that happiness I would use every influence I possessed to bring about such a match, which would do us so much honor and would, I hope, be beneficial to the interests of your noble house."
The earl held out his hand and his cold, icy eyes glittered.
"You are a clever man, Mr. Murpoint, and a generous one. England is blessed indeed in the possession of such men as you! I am honored by your confidence—and—ahem—I think you really deserve the baronetcy!"
"You are very good to say so," smiled the captain, with a cunning light in his dark eyes.
"Shall I," he said, as the earl took up his crush hat and prepared to depart—"shall I have the pleasure of adding your name to the list of directors of the Penwain Mining Company?"
"Certainly, certainly, I shall be delighted," said the earl; "I will go on to the club, I think," and after shaking hands warmly he departed.
Howard Murpoint leaned back in his chair, and watched the tall form of his latest dupe disappear amid the crowd.
"Snared at last," he muttered. "Did I speak too plainly? No; I think not. I have committed myself to nothing. Shall I get the baronetcy? I think so; if not, let the Earl of Lacklands beware. I have him in a cleft stick."
At that moment Bertie and Ethel approached. As they entered the corridor, Mr. Murpoint rose with a scowl and passed out.
"Those two," he murmured; "they must be disposed of before long. She thinks, poor girl, that Fate will prove kind and give her to the arms of Master Bertie. Lady Boisdale, I am your Fate, and have other intentions respecting you."
Bertie and Ethel entered as the curtain fell over the doorway through which they had passed.
"I thought papa and Mr. Murpoint were here," said Ethel.
"They are not far off, I dare say," said Bertie. "Will you not rest a while?"
"How warm it is," said Ethel, leaning forward and fanning herself. "Every one looks hot excepting dear Violet. See where she goes, pale and unruffled as usual. Dear Violet!" and she sighed.
Bertie's eyes followed Violet as she passed, leaning upon Lord Boisdale's arm.
"Do you think Miss Mildmay is ill or unhappy?" he asked, in a low, grave voice.
"I cannot say. I do not think her ill, and I would like to say that she is unhappy. I think she scarcely knows herself the exact state of her own feelings. See how dreamy and yet serene she looks; she is not thin either, and yet—oh, how terrible a puzzle is life—how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable."
Bertie looked up at her.
"Not to you—you are happy, Lady Boisdale. What should you know of the temptations, the sorrows, the failures of life."
Ethel smiled.
"I may retort," she said, "in kind. What failures can the celebrated and popular Mr. Fairfax know?"
"The greatest failure a man can experience," said Bertie, leaning forward. "The failure of a hope, that at the best never deserved the word! Lady Boisdale, if you could read my heart at this moment you would see how bitter life is to me, how hollow the mockery of success which has fallen to me! Once I would have welcomed it, longed for it. Now it is as bitter Dead-Sea fruit which crumbles to dust beneath my touch. Once—nay, listen, I implore you to listen," for Ethel had half risen, pale and confused. "Once," he continued, very pale and earnest, and with a sad music in his voice. "When I was young enough to cherish such daring ambitions I dreamed that I could make a place for myself in this great struggling, writhing world, a place high enough to satisfy my ambition and feed my hope. I hoped to reach that place and to seat another there beside me, rather let me say, upon the throne itself while I knelt at the feet. This was a boy's dream, Lady Boisdale, and like most dreams only the bitterness of its unreality is left to me. I have made a place for myself, but it is empty and desolate. A desolate and bitter mockery because I dare not, I dare not hope that she whom I would have for my queen will ever deign to fill it. Lady Boisdale, could you see me as I really am, solitary, alone in the great world, bereft of my dearly-loved friend, bereft of my hope, you would pity me. Others might laugh me to scorn for a presumptuous idiot, but you, whose gentle heart I know so well, would pity me."
He took her hand as he spoke, his voice trembled.
A tear fell on the hand which held hers.
He looked up and saw that she was weeping.
In an instant his reserve, his determination to go no further was broken down.
He drew the hand to his lips and, looking up at her averted face, passionately said, in a voice trembling with love and supplication:
"Lady Boisdale—Ethel! you know for whom my heart has thirsted, you know why to me the world is bitter and life a mockery! It is because I love you—I love you, Ethel, and I have not dared to hope. If you can forgive me my presumption. If you can—if you can love me—oh, Ethel, you know I have loved so long and hopelessly. Forgive me if I have forgotten the gulf which yawns between us. Why should I not?" he exclaimed, suddenly and passionately. "Is it a crime to love a noble woman, because she is an earl's daughter? Hearts are not given to the rich and mighty alone. The peasant revels in the power to love, and I—I who kneel at your feet pleading for your pardon, feel that I have not sinned against Heaven or man, but have simply obeyed the pure impulse of my soul in daring to love you. Ethel, Ethel, you too condemn me!"
And with a tone of despair and reproach, he half rose.
"No! no!" cried Ethel, turning to him and laying her white, trembling hand upon his arm. "No, no. Condemn you! I love you!"