THE SERPENT'S STING.
It is not to be supposed that Captain Howard Murpoint had deserted his post of observation at this critical time on a matter of no moment. The captain had commenced to play his game in earnest, and that he might be able to throw down one of his trump cards he had declared his intention of riding on the chestnut to the market town of Tenby.
Had he even been aware that Mr. Leicester would carry out his yachting intentions on that day it is probable that he would still have kept to his plan, for the captain was a firm believer in the proverb, "Delays are dangerous," and once assured that a step was necessary never hesitated about taking it.
Consequently after breakfast, he mounted the chestnut and rode off, waving his white, well-gloved hand to the ladies, and smiling with the serenity of a mind at ease and a heart innocent of guile.
When he had got beyond the village, the smile disappeared, and the chestnut felt the whip, in which the captain tied three good hard knots, across its sleek sides.
He was in a hurry, and he soon impressed it upon the horse, who tore into Tenby all on fire with surprise and anger at its novel treatment.
The captain stabled his steed, drank a glass of ale at the "Royal George", and then strolled through the town.
It was an old-fashioned place, but there were some good shops, among them an apparently well-stocked stationer's.
To this the captain directed his steps, and, sauntering in, purchased some paper and envelopes, also some ink and pens and pencils, and seemed inclined to purchase anything to which the shopman—an obliging fellow—called his attention.
"Have you any parchment? I am going to make a list of goods—curiosities, and such like—to send over seas, and I am afraid that paper might be destroyed," he explained.
"Oh, parchment is the thing, sair," said the man, and he took a roll of the same from a drawer.
"There is some, sir," said he, "but it is rather faded. The fact is we are not often asked for it, and this has been in the house for some time. If it is of any use to you I will charge you less than the usual price for it."
The captain turned it over indifferently, and separated the sheets with his finger.
"No," he said, "I think paper will do." Then he raised his eyes to a shelf behind the shopkeeper's head and said, suddenly: "Is that sealing wax up there? I think I'll have some."
The man reached a ladder and climbed up for it.
While his back was turned Captain Murpoint skillfully abstracted a sheet of parchment from the heap and slid it into his pocket, coughing the while to cover the sound of the crisp rustle, and flinging his umbrella down upon the remainder so as to account for the sound if his cough had not covered it.
The shopman descended quite unsuspiciously, however, and the captain, having added the sealing wax and some red tape to his purchases, took his leave, refusing all the obliging stationer's offers to send the parcel home, and carrying it in his hand.
From the High Street he then made a slight divergence to one of the smaller thoroughfares, and paused before a small general shop which displayed in its little window a sample of some of its varied stock.
He purchased several small articles and then inquired in the most natural manner for a flour dredger.
"I do not know what it is," he added, with a smile, as the good woman looked rather surprised; "but I have been commissioned to purchase one for a lady."
"Certainly, sir," said the woman; and she produced a flour dredger.
The captain examined it with a smile.
"I suppose it is all right," he said, and he had it packed up with his other purchases.
With a sigh of absolute relief, for, though the incident was seemingly trivial, he had effected a good deal in obtaining a sheet of parchment and a flour dredger without attracting attention, he returned to the "Royal George", and sat down to a nice light luncheon.
Then ordering his horse, he mounted again.
On his way home, a very little distance from his route, lay Coombe Lodge. The captain was a gallant gentleman, and he thought it would only be a delicate piece of attention if he called to inquire after Lady Lackland's health.
After earnest inquiries after her ladyship's headache the captain gave an amusing and highly colored account of his trip to Tenby, introducing and inventing half a dozen little serio-comic incidents, which, though they did not occur, highly amused the countess.
"I am sorry Ethel and Fitz are out," she said as the captain rose to go. "I suppose, however, you did not expect to find them at home?"
She smiled interrogatively.
"No," he said, "I was not aware——"
"Indeed!" said the countess. "Did you not know that they were going yachting with Mr. Leicester Dodson and Mrs. Mildmay?"
The captain certainly did not know it, and shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
"No, indeed," he said. "Ah, my dear Lady Lackland, these very young people are so impulsive! They arranged their little pleasure trip after I had started this morning, seeing that the weather was fine—though," he added, glancing at the window, "I think we may have a storm."
Lady Lackland looked at him thoughtfully.
She thought him a man worth conciliation, and perhaps of confidence.
"Mrs. Mildmay has gone," she said. "Mr. Dodson rode over this morning and fetched Fitz and Ethel."
"Oh!" said the captain, significantly. "Very impulsive young man, my dear lady; very excellent, clever young man, but impulsive. He has been badly brought up, in a selfish circle, and I am afraid has acquired a considerable amount of willfulness, and—shall I add, fickleness?"
"What do you mean?" asked Lady Lackland, with soft abruptness. "Do you think Mr. Leicester is obstinate and a flirt?"
"The very word, my dear lady," said the captain, softly, as he sank into the seat beside her. "I am very interested in Mr. Leicester," he continued, swinging his hat gently and looking up into the countess' face under his deeply penciled eyebrows. "Very. I could tell you why—perhaps you can guess. To be candid, my dear Lady Lackland, as I told you the other evening, I am poor John Mildmay's oldest friend. I was to have been his daughter's legal guardian; and though his sudden death prevented him bequeathing her welfare to my care I still feel for her the affection and anxiety of a father. Ah, how can I do otherwise when by her every look and gesture, by her every smile and tone she reminds me of my dear lost friend?"
Lady Lackland, whose eyes had been averted, sought his face with a mild but astute look of inquiry.
"One cannot suppose for one minute," continued the captain, "that a man of the world like Leicester Dodson can entertain any serious intention of making a proposal to Violet. No, my dear lady; men of his class strike at higher game." He paused, and did not fail to notice the sudden drooping of the wily countess' eyelids. "They, or their fathers, have made money by trade, and with that money they desire—nay, they look to purchase rank. It is their ambition. They have it instilled into them with the food of their infancy; they look forward to it as the final goal of their endeavors. Yes, Leicester Dodson intends to marry rank, and," he continued, in a lower voice and with a subtle significance, "and will do so if some foolish flirtation does not act as a stumbling-block."
The countess raised her face languidly.
She understood the captain, and she began to see that he was on her side.
He meant by his delicate confidence to warn her that if the flirtation between Leicester Dodson, the millionaire's son, and Violet Mildmay, the merchant's daughter, were not stopped, the countess would lose the aforesaid Leicester and his money bags for her daughter, Lady Ethel.
The captain continued:
"I may describe the position of Violet as very similar, yet with a difference. She, my dear lady, though I, so biased and partial, should not give it utterance perhaps, is a most charming and lovable girl; but she is simple—simple in the extreme, unsophisticated. She would be the first to be led away and deceived into thinking a foolish flirtation, a midsummer day's flirtation, a serious love affair and a binding engagement. Now I am sure that must not be. No, she is reserved and intended for a different and may I say a happier and more suitable fate? By the way, did you say that Mr. Leicester Dodson came over himself this morning?"
"Yes," said the countess.
The captain smoothed his hat.
"I hope you will not think the less of him for what I have said, my dear lady."
"Oh, no!" said Lady Lackland, "not in any way. Besides, you have not said much," she added, "only that he is somewhat of a flirt."
"And that you have noticed yourself?" said the captain, with ill-concealed eagerness—"you who have so many better opportunities of observing him in the society which you so much adorn."
"Yes," said Lady Lackland, "I think perhaps that he is a flirt. He would be a very eligible young man if he were a little more steadfast; but one cannot put old heads on young shoulders, Captain Murpoint."
"No, no," said the captain. And with a delicate emphasis he shook hands and took his leave, repeating to himself Lady Lackland's reply as he went. It was not a very important one; but we shall see how by deftly twisting and turning it Captain Murpoint effected a great deal with it.
As the captain rode home the storm gathered and broke upon him.
The wind nearly blew him from his horse and the rain saturated him.
At the Park he found the servants in a state of confusion and alarm, and learned that the ladies had not yet come home.
Without dismounting he galloped down the steep hill to the beach, which presented a picturesque scene enough, but a sufficiently significant one.
Just within reach of the spray stood a small crowd composed of the fishermen and their wives and children and the principal part of the village.
Lower down, and seemingly in the foremost waves themselves, were Willie Sanderson and two or three of his mates, vainly endeavoring to launch one of the boats.
By their side, in close and agitated conversation with Mr. Starling, was Jemmie, Sanderson's lame brother.
The captain spurred his horse across the stones and shouted, loud enough to be heard above the roar of the waves:
"Has the yacht come in?"
Willie Sanderson shook his head, and significantly pointed seaward.
Jem Starling came up and touched his hat and, bellowing hoarsely in the captain's ear, said:
"No, she ain't come in, sir, and these chaps be all in a regular state about her. They say——"
But the captain was too anxious as to the situation to receive anything second-hand, and beckoned imperiously to Willie Sanderson, who came up to him.
"Do you think there is any danger?" asked the captain, in a voice slightly tremulous.
Willie Sanderson shook his head gravely.
"Can't say exactly, sir. All depends upon where she be. I knows as the skipper said they were to sail south and tack round. If so be they have, why then they're close agin' the North Reef by now, and——"
"Well, well?" asked the captain, with feverish eagerness.
"Well, then, may Heaven help 'em!" said Willie, solemnly.
The captain's white, strong hand clutched the reins tightly, and his thin lips compressed with restrained emotion.
If the yacht were on the North Reef she would be wrecked, and in all probability Violet, her aunt, and Leicester Dodson, Fitz and Lady Ethel would be drowned.
All the eventualities, the results, and the personal consequences of such a fatality rushed through the captain's brain, and Jem, who was standing by the horse's head, watching his master, saw a gleam of fiendish joy flash across the pale, masterful face. Perhaps the captain knew that he had seen it, for the next instant his face had assumed a look of alarm and anxiety, and, with a burst of excitement not altogether feigned, he flung himself from the saddle, shouting:
"Launch the boat! We must go to her. Who volunteers?"
The men looked out to sea, then shook their heads.
"No boat could live in this, sir," shouted Willie Sanderson, "and if she could, by the time we'd got to the North Reef, the storm would be over. Lookee now, it's clearing off a bit to northward."
The storm abated and passed off as rapidly as it had gathered and broken, and the wet crowd, about an hour afterward, had the extreme pleasure of descrying a white speck on the horizon, which soon grew to be the familiar form of the Petrel.
She sailed in, with all her canvas crowded, looking as unconcerned as a swan on a lake after an April shower, and the crowd burst into a cheer of mingled excitement and admiration.
But the captain had determined that there should be a little display of emotion, and therefore when the Petrel ran into the little rude harbor he hurried forward and sprang on to her deck, his two hands outstretched to grasp Violet and Mrs. Mildmay with his face pale and grateful.
With soft but emphatic gratitude and anxiety he went from one to the other of the ladies, while Leicester, in command of the vessel, was seeing that all was made secure.
When he was free he turned to where Fitz and Bertie were assisting the ladies to alight and eyed the captain with a calm, keen scrutiny.
"Alarmed, were you, Captain Murpoint?" he said, in his grand, clear voice. "What would you have been if you had been fated to be with us?" and a slight sneer curled his lip.
"Not so much alarmed or so anxious," said the captain, with a smile that was a finished piece of calm reproach. "For I should at least have had the satisfaction of sharing in the danger of my friends."
Leicester smiled grimly and stooped to lend Violet his hand over the gangway.
"A poor satisfaction, captain. There was not much danger, or if there was it did not last long. The Petrel will see out many a worse summer gale than this. But I am sorry," he added, addressing Mrs. Mildmay with a much more eager tone in his voice, "I am so sorry you should have been so alarmed and made so uncomfortable! And—ah, here is the carriage," he said. And he ran up the beach as the carriage Jem had ordered drove up to the parade.
He held the door as Mrs. Mildmay and Violet entered, but though his dark eyes sought hers Violet's made him no return, and her "good-by" was as dreamy and indistinct as her gaze.
Leicester returned to the Petrel to assist Lady Ethel, in a state of mind not enviable.
"I'll drive you home, Lady Ethel, if you are too tired," he said, "but if you are not my mother will be delighted beyond measure to make you comfortable. What do you say, Fitz? Will you take refuge with us for to-night? I'll ride over to Coombe Lodge and set Lady Lackland's fears at rest."
Now Fitz was very willing to stay so near Violet Mildmay, and Ethel was not unwilling, though she demurred.
But Leicester's strong will decided for them, and it followed that they were on their way to the Cedars while he was galloping toward Coombe Lodge to apprise Lady Lackland of her children's safety and their whereabouts, also to order a box of clothes, which Ethel declared was positively necessary.
The captain's attention continued during the journey home and even to the door of the ladies' rooms, for he insisted that they should take precautions against colds, and in his quiet, unassuming way saw that their comforts were attended to.
So it followed that Violet's maid was waiting with hot water, a fire fit to roast an ox, and an amount of commiseration altogether too much for Violet's patience.
The first thing she did was to throw up the window and lean out upon her white, well-rounded arms, the next, after inhaling a long breath of the storm-freshened air, was to request Marie to suppress the fire as quickly as possible and throw out the hot water.
Marie picked off the coals daintily and walked away. Directly she had gone Violet slipped the bolt on the door and dropped down upon the bed with a long-drawn sigh.
"'My darling! my darling!' Did he say that to me or was I dreaming? Oh, no, he never could have said it. I must have been dreaming, I did nearly faint, and so I must have fancied that he said so. He could not; it is not possible. He has never been anything else but grave and courteous, he would not forget himself in a moment; his is not the kind of nature—no, no, it is absurd!" And she sighed and smiled.
"I cannot think what is coming to me lately. I am all fancies and dreams and nonsensical imaginings. First I fancy I see a villain in my father's oldest friend, then I fancy I see a ghost in the old tower, and now, the maddest thing of all, I fancy I hear a grave, well-bred gentleman like Leicester Dodson address me as 'his darling!' Oh, it is absurd!"
A dinner—partly fresh and partly a rechauffé of the ruined one—was served up, and the captain did his best to raise the spirits of the ladies.
Mrs. Mildmay, whose very ignorance of nautical matters had preserved her from alarm, was very cheerful and praised the yacht and all pertaining to it with liberal amiability, and, as for the storm, why, if Violet did not take cold, which after her warm bath she would not be likely to, it only added a zest to the trip.
Violet smiled with grave amusement, and did not think fit to enlighten her aunt as to the fate of the hot water, and the captain chimed in as usual from his leaning post outside the veranda, where he smoked a cigar of an evening within speaking distance of the ladies inside.
"I called at Coombe Lodge this morning," he said, with a pause which he filled up with his cigar.
Violet, who lay on a couch, had closed her eyes, but the captain saw that she was not asleep.
"And how is Lady Lackland?" asked Mrs. Mildmay.
"Better I found her, I am glad to say, much better. The earl had not come down yet; parliamentary duties kept him in town I suppose. Pity, a great pity. The peasant in his cot, beneath the blue sky and on the heather-covered hill, is to be envied by an earl in London this weather. By the way," he continued, glancing at Violet and speaking in a low tone as if he were anxious not to awake her, "I heard of rather a damaging trait in Leicester's character."
"Indeed!" said Mrs. Mildmay, very much interested, and looking up from her knitting.
"Yes; Lady Lackland knows more of him than we do, of course; she sees him at balls and concerts, at friends' houses and parties. Mr. Leicester Dodson, so I hear, is a terrible flirt."
"Oh, dear me, I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Mildmay, shaking her head over her knitting and entirely unconscious of the sudden pallor which had fallen upon the motionless face opposite her and which the captain had quickly noted.
"Yes, not very dreadful, is it? It is not fair to accuse the young fellow—as nice a young fellow as ever lived!—behind his back, but I do hear two or three stories of broken hearts and scattered vows—but nothing very tangible. But be sure Lady Lackland would not have mentioned it if she had not some grounds for regretting it."
"Regretting it?" said Mrs. Mildmay, who could never see through hints and inuendoes and always required things to be as plain as plate-glass.
"Don't you see, my dear madam," said the captain, lowering his voice to a musical pitch, which was as distinct as a trumpet call to the ears of the motionless girl, "don't you see that the young fellow is really in love with Lady Ethel and that he would win her but for Lady Lackland's doubt of his steadiness. A flirt, my dear madam, is to be evaded by every prudent mother and every sensible girl——"
Violet rose, white and statuesque.
"I was nearly asleep," she said, looking round the room with a sad, stupefied look in her eyes of dumb pain, like some one roused to a sense of a lifelong misery. "I—I am very tired, aunt, and I think I shall go to bed."
The captain was by her side, ringing for her candle, in a moment, and she smiled—yes, smiled at him as he pressed her hand and murmured a good-night.
Brave Violet! what did that smile cost her?
She had heard every word, and every word rang in her ears and stabbed at her breast when she laid her head on her pillow.
While Violet was lying awake and burning with mortification and a wounded heart Jemmie Sanderson was down on his knees beside his straw pallet in the policeman's cot thanking Heaven for the safe return of his benefactor and greatly worshiped Leicester. He loved Leicester with a love that passed all calculation. He had stood unnoticed in the crowd, close to the ladies and gentlemen, when they had landed and, unseen by Leicester, he had stood close behind him, weeping his childish heart out with happy tears of joy and gratitude.
So the two, woman and boy, were at the same time enduring widely different feelings for the same man.
Life is full of strange contradictions.