THE LOCKET.
It was rather a large party at Coombe Lodge.
There were the Wilsons, the Gileses and several of the county families.
Lord Lackland had been expected, but business kept him in town, and Lord Fitz was at the head of the table.
Next him was an old dowager, but within speaking distance sat Violet, and Lord Fitz's frank face was turned toward her all dinner time.
Ethel and Bertie were separated, as they had expected to be, but Bertie could see the pale, low forehead just above an epergne, and was fain to be content.
Leicester sat with Ethel, and for a while was grave and taciturn; but suddenly he saw Violet look over toward Fitz with a smile and a nod of significant meaning, and in an instant Leicester's jealousy arose, and he brightened up. The nod was only one of affirmation that the day was fine, and Violet, with such a sweet face, could not help looking enticing, but jealousy casts a green shade over everything great and small, and Leicester grew sibilant and fascinating too, murmuring:
"Let her flirt with her boy-lord. I could show the proud, vain girl that there are other women worthy attention beside herself."
And so Ethel was overwhelmed with his attention, his conversation and his wit.
Violet, glancing down the table, saw the pair laughing and talking in that strain, she, misunderstanding, resolved to join in the battle.
When Lord Fitz came with the other gentlemen to the dining-room, it was to find a seat reserved for him beside Violet and her smile of welcome to greet him.
Fitz and she sang together and laughed and talked together the whole evening, and when Mrs. Mildmay's carriage was announced Leicester noticed bitterly that it was Lord Fitz who escorted Violet, while the captain had charge of Mrs. Mildmay.
As usual the captain was in the best of spirits; the homeward journey was as enjoyable for Mrs. Mildmay as the evening which had preceded it.
Violet was asleep, or feigning it, in the corner, so that the captain had Mrs. Mildmay to himself.
"That is an old-fashioned locket," he said, motioning to one, which was suspended by a chain to Mrs. Mildmay's neck.
"Yes," she said, with a sigh; "my brother gave me that when I was a little girl. A very long time ago that, Captain Murpoint!"
"Not very, indeed!" said the captain, with subdued gallantry. "It contains his portrait, I suppose?"
"No, I am sorry to say that it does not. I have no miniature of poor John," she replied, with a sigh. "I would give anything for one painted while he was alive."
"Would you?" said the captain, with a curious earnestness. "Then I think—I hope you are nearer obtaining your desire than you imagine."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mildmay; "how so?—Violet, we have awakened you?"
"No, auntie," said Violet, whose eyes had opened and whose face was pale with earnestness and painful interest.
"Some years ago," said the captain, leaning forward and addressing both ladies, but keeping his eyes upon Violet's face, "my dear friend promised that he would have his portrait painted in water-colors so that I might wear it. At that time we were staying at Calcutta. In the market-place there was a wonderful miniature painter—he may be there still, in all probability he is—and dear John commissioned him to paint his portrait. He sat for it two or three times, and the man finished it."
"Was it a good—a truthful portrait?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"A wonderful portrait," said the captain. "It was John Mildmay, living and breathing in a miniature, so to speak. He gave it to me on my birthday. I kept it, I wore it on my watch chain for years, until we started for our home voyage. Then he took it from me."
"Why did he do that?" asked Violet, in a faint voice.
"It was in a locket," said the captain, "in a double locket. The space opposite was empty, and my dear friend took the trinket from me, saying that there should be another portrait in it—one fitting to face his. Can you guess whose, my dear madam?"
Mrs. Mildmay glanced at Violet, who had sunk back into her seat.
"Yes," said the captain, expressing a deep tenderness with his voice, "it was hers—his dearly loved child's." And he drew out his pocket handkerchief and hid his eyes for a moment. "I gave him the locket reluctantly, I admit; for I was loth to part with it for so long a time as that required for his voyage home and back again. But I gave it to him, for I was anxious to possess the other portrait, that I might have the face my dear friend loved better than his life next his own."
He paused and sighed deeply.
"From the first moment of my parting with the locket I have regretted it."
"Regretted it—why?" asked Mrs. Mildmay, in a low voice.
"Because, my dear madam, I never saw it again."
Violet's hands clasped tightly, and he went on more quickly:
"No; I see what you dread, but I am not going to harrow your hearts by recalling that great sorrow. No; John returned to me at Madras, and before the first hour had passed I asked him for my treasure. With a look of dismay and a laugh of annoyance he told me that he had forgotten it."
"Forgotten it!" said Mrs. Mildmay, deeply interested.
"Yes, that he had left it at home, at Mildmay Park. I asked him to write for it; but he laughingly assured me that no one could find it."
"Did he not remember where he had put it?" asked Mrs. Mildmay. "For I do hope we shall find it."
"No, he had not forgotten where he had put it, but he assured me that he had placed it where no hand but his could find it."
"And where was that?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"In the secret drawer of his writing bureau," replied the captain, in a low voice.
There was a long pause of deep silence.
"He had placed it there," continued the captain, sinking back and looking at Violet with half-closed eyes, "he had placed it there on the day of his arrival in England, and was so taken up with one thing and the other that he had forgotten it. He promised me that he would, on his next visit to England, have the portrait of Violet painted, and bring the locket out to me. But man proposes and Providence disposes. Heaven willed it that he should never see England again."
Violet's hands clasped, and her face grew deadly white.
Oh! how she longed for that miniature.
Captain Murpoint had never hit upon a more brilliant device for gaining his end than that which he determined upon as the lever by which his plot should be raised.
"He never reached England, and I never saw him or the locket again," he resumed, in a low voice. "He, my best—ay, dearest friend, lies at the bottom of the sea, and his portrait is buried in the secret drawer of the old bureau."
"Hush!" said Mrs. Mildmay, as a low, suppressed cry of agony came from Violet's corner.
"You say it is—it is like my father?" she said, "and that he placed it there?"
The captain inclined his head.
"Then—then," she breathed, painfully, "the room must be opened. I—I said," she added, with a shudder, "that it never should be! But if the portrait—his portrait—is there, it must be, for I must have it! I must have it!"
"It is an old bureau," said the captain. "For he assured me that his own hands placed it there. But wait until you are stronger."
"No," said Violet, "I am strong enough. I must have it at once—to-morrow!"
Jem Starling had been commanded to refrain from strong drink and to remain sober, and he had kept sober up to the day upon which the captain, with a slight lapse from his usual foresight, discharged him.
On that day he had aired his grievance among the fishermen, who sympathized with him, and, of course, had aired it in the public house.
There were plenty to stand treat, and Jem had drunk heavily.
At ten o'clock he emerged from the "Blue Lion", leaning upon Willie Sanderson's arm—or rather, supported by it—in that state which might be described as desperately intoxicated.
A small crowd of fishermen were round him, and they were all more or less hilarious or excited.
"Hold up!" said Willie to Jem, who was staggering about upon the big young fisherman's arm. "Hold up!"
"Here," said one of the others, the carrier, old Nat, coming forward, "I'll give you a hand with him. We'll take him down to my cottage and let him sleep there to-night. He's had a rare skinful."
Then he turned to the others and said:
"Willie and me 'ull take care of this chap. You get home quickly. There's work to do to-morrow, you know," he added, significantly.
The boys returned a hearty "Ay, ay," and, after an exchange of mutual and noisy adieus, turned down to their cottages by the beach.
Nat and Willie went straight on down the village street, at the end of which, and a little retired from the road, Nat's cottage lay.
As they passed down the street, with Jem rolling and shouting and singing between them, he saw a gentleman in the starlight, coming along the slope toward them.
It was Leicester, who, disgusted and dissatisfied, had turned out for a walk. He saw the group of three, and was about to pass on without recognizing them, but Willie's figure, stalwart and huge, was too well known to pass unrecognized, and Leicester, with his usual kindness, said, gravely:
"Late to-night, Willie! Good-night."
This was just what the two men dreaded. At the sound of the voice which he hated above all, the drunken man started and threw up his head.
"Who's that?" he snarled, hoarsely, staring before him with thick and bloodshot eyes. "Who's that? That's his voice, I'll swear."
"Come on," said Nat, giving him an angry jerk, "come on, and don't make a fool of yourself, Starling."
"I shan't," said Jem, with an oath. "I will stop and look at him. I'm a dog, I am, but a dog can look at a king—ah, and bite, too. D'ye hear that?" he shouted out to Leicester, who had walked on with the greatest indifference. That same indifference seemed to madden the miserable Jem, and, by a sudden jerk, whose very unexpectedness gave it greater force, he wrenched himself away from his keepers and sprang down the path after Leicester.
Leicester heard him coming, and turned round ready to receive him.
With a snarl Jem sprang at him.
Leicester raised his hand and knocked him down.
The next instant Willie and Nat were down upon him and holding him down where he lay struggling and blaspheming, shouting out oaths and threats.
"You ain't hurt, Mr. Leicester?" asked Willie.
"No," said Leicester. "He has not touched me. There is no harm done, if he has received none."
"Not he," growled Willie, "the fool's drunk."
"So I see," said Leicester. "I am not likely to resent the conduct of a drunken man, but I must and I will defend myself against any attack he may make or any annoyances he may give when he is sober."
"Ay, ay," said Willie. "That is right enough."
"Perhaps you will give him to understand that when he is capable of understanding anything," said Leicester.
"Ay, ay, I will," said Willie.
"Good-night," said Leicester.
"Good-night, Maester Leicester," said the two men, or rather shouted it, for they had to make themselves heard above the mad ravings of their companion.
Leicester, calm and unconcerned, gravely walked on.
The two men exchanged glances as they looked at the dark mark of the last blow upon the drunken man's face and grinned appreciatingly.
Nat, the carrier's cottage was but a little distance from the spot, and they succeeded in getting Jem to bed without farther disturbance of her majesty's peace.
In the morning it was soon over the village that there had been another scene between Mr. Leicester and Jem Starling, and when the man appeared at the "Blue Lion" about noon they expected to hear a second edition of the dreadful threats which had broken the stillness of the preceding night.
But Jem came in silently, with the dark bruise upon his face, and sullenly kept that silence.
And so the day passed, and the little incident had before night sunk into insignificance.
But it was doomed to bear bitter fruit, and that before many weeks should pass.
"I have been thinking," said the captain, as he entered the breakfast-room on the same morning, "that this is the very day for a ride. It is not so hot and there is a delicious little breeze."
Violet looked up with an indifferent smile.
"A very good idea," said Mrs. Mildmay. "Violet, you look quite pale again this morning. I think a ride would do you good."
"I did not sleep very well last night," said Violet, flushing for a moment as she thought how many hours she had heard the clock strike, and how full those waking hours were of one individual. "And I think it would be the wisest thing this morning."
The horses were brought round, and Violet, having donned her habit, was mounted.
"Shall we try the downs?" said the captain, and, Violet acquiescing, the steeds were turned thitherward.
Violet felt trite, as she looked, and the captain endeavored to rouse her.
In consequence of those endeavors and the fresh breeze conjointly the color returned to the beautiful girl's face and the wonted light to her eye.
And it was looking thus joyous and happy that Leicester, grim and unhappy, mounted upon his black horse, met her.
"An unexpected meeting. I did not think to have the pleasure of an encounter with you this morning, Miss Mildmay," he said.
"There need be no battle though you have," she retorted, with a smile, carefully misunderstanding his words.
"We'll proclaim a truce, then," he said. "May I turn my horse's head?"
"Oh, certainly," said Violet, and he turned the Knight and shook hands with the captain, who eyed the pair keenly behind his pleasant, frank smile.
"Beautiful day," said Leicester. "Quite a relief this breeze. Are you going far?"
"Only for a gallop," said Violet, whose heart was beating fast and rapidly melting under the grave and almost reproachful gaze of his dark eyes.
After all, might there not be some mistake about him and Ethel Boisdale? Oh, at that moment how she longed that there might be!
"I was going over to Tenby," said Leicester.
"A pretty town," said the captain, smiling to himself as he recalled his visit and his purchases. "I passed through it a short time since, and I thought of going again soon. I want to find a solicitor."
"A solicitor," said Leicester. "I am going to see mine this morning. Can I recommend him?"
"Why will not dear old Mr. Thaxton do?" said Violet. "He is our solicitor."
"He lives in London, does he not?" asked the captain, who did not want any solicitor, and who had been merely fishing to ascertain who the Mildmay solicitor was and where he resided.
"Yes," said Violet. "But of course he can come down at an hour's notice. He does come down sometimes. I do not know what for, but to see to things, I suppose. A lawyer is a necessary evil."
"Rather hard upon the legal profession," said Leicester, with a smile. "I thought of being a lawyer myself once," he added.
"And why were you not?" said Violet, trying to speak with coquettish indifference.
"Too lazy," he said. "My new trade will suit me best, I think."
"Your new trade!" said Violet, leaning forward and stroking her horse, "and may I inquire what that may be?"
"Oh, yes," said Leicester. "There is no patent connected with it. I am going to turn traveler—not commercial traveler, for that, I am afraid, I have not head enough—but traveler and explorer. I am suddenly filled with a vast longing to see what Central Africa is like."
"You might do worse," said the captain. "But you can certainly do better; don't you think so, Miss Violet?"
Now, if he had let her alone, Violet would have broken down.
Tears had already formed in her sweet, truthful eyes.
But his question was, what he had intended it should be, an appeal to her pride, and, summoning all her presence of mind, she choked back the tears and said bravely, with a little smile:
"Mr. Leicester is the best judge of that. I think there is a great charm in novelty, and even Africa is not too far off to go in search of it."
She longed to pour out her whole mind, to accuse him of his inconsistency, but his next remark awoke a fresh thrill of feeling within her.
"May I ask a favor, Miss Mildmay?" he said. "I would not have spoken of my trip but for that."
"A favor?" she said. "What is it?"
The reply sounded cruelly ungracious, but she could not trust herself to many words.
"My mother will feel lonely when I have started—though only for a time, perhaps—would you, in the kindness of your heart, and out of that womanly charity which is the glory of your sex, take in the Cedars sometimes in your walks and drives?"
Violet's face paled.
"I will, gladly, and for my own sake," she said. "If you go," she added.
He did not notice the addition.
"I am very grateful," he said, "very; and of her gratitude I need not assure you. Penruddie is a dull place, and dullness is bad for more than the 'weed on Lethe's wharf.'"
"Not so dull as the Lacklands are at the Lodge," said the captain, with a pleasant smile.
Violet flushed, simply because Leicester's grave, dark eyes were suddenly turned upon her face with an earnest gaze.
"No," she stammered, confused by her own meaningless flush.
But he did not think it meaningless.
He pulled up the Knight with an iron hand, and in a grim, hard voice said:
"I am afraid I must deny myself the pleasure of a longer chat; I am expected at home. Good-morning."
Violet gave him her hand.
He was too excited and mad to feel that it trembled.
He turned the horse, dug the spurs into it almost savagely and tore on.
"It's too true," he muttered, between his teeth, "that blush told all. Lord Fitz has won, and I have lost. Well, so be it. Africa at least will be constant, if only in death."
For some little time the captain and Violet rode on in silence.
As for him, he could have burst into a fit of wild and triumphant laughter, for he had won the day once more, and turned what would have been a glorious, joyous triumph for Leicester into a complete defeat.
That question and that wily remark had done the deed, and once more he had widened the gulf of jealousy and misunderstanding which yawned between John Mildmay's daughter and Leicester Dodson.
As they neared home, and after a little rambling conversation, he remarked, casually:
"I have been thinking, and I have concluded to wait until Mr. Thaxton comes down before I go into my little business matter. It is only a small, trivial affair about some money which I think ought to be due to me, and it can easily wait."
"Yes," said Violet, absently.
She was thinking of other than the captain's words, and his voice—smooth, silky and musical—fell on her ears like the plash, plash of a distant waterfall to a weary, heartsick traveler.
But his next words aroused her.
"And it has occurred to me," continued, in a graver tone, "that if you intend opening the deserted study, it would be as well to have the lawyer with us."
Violet paled, and the agitation which always came over her when her father's death or the study was alluded to showed itself.
"Why?" she said.
"Well," said the captain, softly, "only because it is usual. There may be valuables—or papers."
"I see," she breathed. "It shall be so. I will write——"
"Or allow me," said the captain, "we will fix a day; and Mr. Thaxton shall come down."
"Yes," said Violet, "soon. I meant to have the room opened to-day, but I will wait if you think it better."
"Oh, yes, I think it better to have the lawyer with us," said the captain, "and I will write to him."
So the captain wrote that evening to Mr. Thaxton, requesting him to be kind enough to come down to Mildmay Park as soon as he could conveniently do so, as Miss Mildmay wished to see him on a matter of business.
All the evening he was as good-tempered and as amusing as usual, and there was not a shadow upon his face when he wished the unsuspecting women good-night, though already in anticipation he was tasting the horror of an ordeal which he had determined to go through.
As usual, he waited until all was quiet, then he lit his cigar and with an outwardly calm bearing smoked it and enjoyed it.
When it was finished and after another term of listening, he took a cloak and muffled himself up.
It was an old-fashioned riding-cloak, and he could pull it over his head and face and still leave a greater part of his legs covered.
In the pocket he slipped the dark lantern.
Then from his bureau he took his revolver and a short, deadly life-preserver, the thong of which he tied round his wrist.
Thus armed, he smiled with a serene feeling of security, and, as an additional fillip to his courage, he tossed off a glass of brandy.
It was his intention to leave the house, and here a question arose for him which was the better means of egress.
He decided upon that which he had used formerly, and with practiced dexterity he fastened his rope, leaped on the sill and rapidly descended.
Cautiously, and looking round him with vigilant eyes, he entered the dark cloisters; and, feeling his way, crept on tiptoe to the trunk on which Leicester had surprised him three mornings since.
In a few moments he was groping on again, and at last reached what seemed to be his destination, a doorway protected from observation by a pillar, up which had grown a thick mass of ivy.
From that point he commanded a view of the whole of the chapel and of the window of the deserted room.
With a slight sigh of satisfaction he seated himself upon a stone and, revolver in hand, waited and watched.
How long he could have withstood the influence of that dreadful place and time it is impossible to say, but as the clock chimed the quarter to one his nerves, strung to their farthest, received a shock which dispelled all memories of the past, all hopes and guilty ambitions for the future.
Before him in the darkness and up in the deserted room was the blue light, dimly burning.
A shudder crept through his frame.
His hand grasped the revolver, his gaze was chained to that window.
The light grew more intense, slowly was transformed as he had seen it before, and there, plain and distinct, at the window stood the horrible, fearful White Nun!
For a while the figure remained motionless at the window, then it turned and he knew instinctively that it was coming in the direction of the oriel window.
If so it would in a few minutes be above him. He waited, and his eyes turned to the window.
For a moment he lost consciousness, the next, by a strong effort, he regained something of his old dare-devil courage, and he bit his lip to keep himself awake as the horrible figure approached with floating motion toward him.
Its face was turned from him as it came, but a bird flew out of the ivy with a wild shriek of terror, and the skull face and gleaming eyes followed the bird's flight.
More horrible still, it welcomed it with a dry, hollow laugh, which chilled the watcher to the immortal soul.
Slowly it neared where he stood.
It was opposite.
Then it turned its head, and at that moment, calling up all the courage which he possessed, the captain sprang, with a hoarse, gutteral shriek in his dry, hot throat, upon the figure.
Instantly the light disappeared.
He felt to his astonishment, even in his terror, his hands grasp something firm, and then he knew that the ghost's boney hands were round his neck.
But the reckless courage born from very despair filled him, and he exerted his tremendous strength as if he was using it against a human being.
He clasped the figure in his muscular arms and threw his whole weight upon it, forcing it gradually but surely.
Inch by inch, the figure gave way; the floor was reached, the captain with a cry of mad excitement forced it backward upon the stone, then raised his life-preserver and aimed a deadly blow at the skull face.
Then there arose a shout of warning and an oath from the white, skinless lips, and a man's voice came through them hoarsely and panting:
"Hold hard, I give in!"
The captain staggered back with petrifying astonishment.
The next moment he had hurled the figure to the ground, had planted his knees upon its chest, and, leveling his revolver at its head, hissed out:
"Move an inch, speak a word, and I will shoot you like a dog."
Then with the other hand he tore off the skull mask, flung it aside and glared down with a smile of triumph and malice upon the weather-beaten face of Willie Sanderson!