Volume Three—Chapter Eight.
The Fallen Star.
“There, I think everything is in train,” said Sir John, as he and his brother sat together over a final cigar before retiring for the night, for Glynne and the friends staying in the house had gone to their rooms, and the brothers were at last alone.
“Yes, Jack, all seems ready for action.”
“Except you, Jem.”
“I?—I’m ready.”
“No; you ought to have had a new suit, Jem.”
“No; I said I would not,” cried the major; “and I’ve kept to that, and that alone. I’ve given way in everything else. Let me alone there.”
“All right; all right. I say no more. Change the subject, Jem; we won’t have words to-night. Glynne looks lovely; doesn’t she?”
“Fit bride for a god,” said the major. “Bless her!”
“Amen. Calm, satisfied and happy in her choice.”
“H’m.”
The major coughed a little.
“She does, Jem,” cried Sir John hastily. “Everybody said so to-night. I should have liked that little lassie, Lucy Alleyne, to have been asked to be a bridesmaid though; but after what has passed it was as well not.”
“Yes,” said the major gruffly, “just as well not.”
“Pretty girl that Marjorie Emlin. Best looking bridesmaid we shall have.”
“Humph! yes. Can’t say I like her, Jack.”
“Prejudiced? old man.”
“Perhaps so; but those white-faced red-haired girls always have a foxey look to me. There, there, I’ve done, and I’ll play cavalier to her to-morrow if I get the chance.”
“That you will, Jem, I know. Trust you soldiers for that. Sad dogs. Why, Jem, old chap, I never said anything to you before,” chuckled Sir John, “but ’pon my soul, I thought once you were going to make play and get married before Glynne.”
The major moved uneasily in his chair, and suppressed a sigh.
“Nice little girl, Jem,” continued Sir John. “I liked her myself; but only a woman. There were rumours about her. You didn’t hear, I suppose?”
“Yes, I did,” said the major, biting hard at his cigar.
“Well, no wonder. It was enough to make the best girl in the world a little wild. Shut up in that dreary house by herself, for you can’t call it anything else.”
“Yes; dull life for a young girl,” assented the major, “Never heard—er—er—who it was?”
“I? Wouldn’t listen to the confounded scandal. Some damned chatter about her getting up at daylight to go and meet a man. Did you?”
“Hah!” said the major, drawing a deep breath; “I wouldn’t hear.”
“Right, Jem, right. By the way, I think we’ve got every one here who ought to come, and we’ll make the day go off with a swing, old fellow. Is there any fellow I ought to have asked on Miss Emlin’s account?”
“No,” said the major grimly; “you’ve got him for another purpose.”
“Eh? What do you mean?”
“She wanted Rolph herself.”
“Impossible! Why, the girl’s devotedly attached to Glynne, affectionate in the extreme. See what a beautiful diamond bracelet she has given her.”
“Yes, that kind of girl always is. It’s a way they have of showing their spite.”
“Nonsense! Who told you that rubbish?”
“The young lady’s aunt—Rob’s mother.”
“The deuce!”
“But she was quite right. She said such an union was better avoided, and that her niece had long ago acquiesced in the wisdom of the arrangement. There, my cigar’s nearly out, and I’m ready for bed.”
“Don’t hurry. I was thinking again of how well Glynne looked when she said good-night.”
“Lovely,” said the major, with a sigh.
“Rolph, too,” cried Sir John enthusiastically, and as if he had wound himself up to make the best of everything. “By George, what a specimen of a man and a soldier he looked when he went to-night. Isn’t he grand, Jem? Wouldn’t you have liked to have three or four hundred such fellows in the Indian war?”
“Yes; in the ranks,” said the major.
“Jem!”
“All right. He’s a grand specimen of humanity, and as he says hard as a brick.”
“Sorry to lose her, poor darling; but glad now when it’s over, and all this mob of company gone. Have another cigar?”
“No; past twelve, and I want to get a good night’s rest before this comes off. Good-night, Jack! God bless you, lad! Happiness for our darling shall be my prayer to-night.”
Sir John started from his seat, and caught his brother’s hands. His lips moved, but no words came for some moments, and a couple of tears trickled slowly down his cheeks.
“Thank you, Jem,” he said at last hoarsely, and the brothers separated without another word.
The butler came yawning into the little office-study to put out the lamp, and half-an-hour later the house, full as it was of relatives and wedding guests, was silent as the grave.
The clock over the stables chimed the quarters and struck the hours, while everyone slept soundly except Marjorie Emlin, who lay motionless, thinking of the coming day, and burnt up as if by a fever.
Only a few hours now and her last hope gone, and as she lay there a curious jangling sound as of the wedding bells being rung derisively by demons seemed to drive her mad.
A few hours before she had been hanging about Glynne, smiling and talking of the happy days to come, and of how dear and good and brave a fellow Rob was, and how they must both try now to wean him from his love of athletic sports, till Glynne grew weary and frowned a little, seeking her father’s society as much as attention to the friends staying in the house would allow.
Then came the good-night of all, and silence fell upon the house.
Major Day slept soundly enough, but his dreams were troubled. Lucy Alleyne had a good deal to do with them, and he lay confused, and fighting hard to go after her, and bring her back, for she was getting into a bad habit of eloping every morning at daybreak, a habit which he felt ought to be stopped, but it was impossible he felt to bring it to an end.
He was in the height of his trouble and perspiring freely when the object of Lucy’s affections seized him roughly by the shoulder and shook him.
“Jem, Jem, wake up, man; wake up!”
The major started up in bed, and the light confused him, but he made out that his brother was there half dressed holding a bell glass flat candlestick over him.
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t know. Slip on your dressing-gown. Someone ill, I’m afraid.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the major, hurrying on trousers and dressing-gown in prompt military fashion, while his brother explained.
“I was fast asleep and awoke by a cry. A few moments after it came again, and I slipped on some things, got a light, and came out into the corridor.”
“Fancy.”
“No, I’m sure of it. Ready?”
“Nearly.”
“Let’s go and see then. I don’t like to be prowling about the house alone in the night.”
“Why?” said the major gruffly. “Because it’s your own?”
“Don’t banter. I feel sure that the cry came from Miss Emlin’s room.”
“Well, why not ring for the maids?”
“Because I consider it to be my duty to see if anything is the matter first. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.”
Sir John led the way out into the corridor, and the brothers listened with their shadows thrown grotesquely on the walls; but all was perfectly silent, and the major looked enquiringly at his brother.
“Well,” he said; “isn’t it a pity to disturb the house?”
“Come this way.”
Sir John led the way to one of the doors, stopped listening a few moments, and then knocked softly.
No answer, and he knocked again.
“Yes,” came in a quick musical voice; “who is there?”
“I, my dear,” said Sir John. “Don’t be alarmed. I thought I heard a cry come from your room. Are you quite well?”
“Oh, yes, thank you. I must have cried out in my sleep then. I’m afraid I do sometimes.”
“Thank you, my child. Sorry to have disturbed you. Good-night, my dear.”
“Good-night, Sir John.”
“Humph! Satisfied?” said the major gruffly.
“No, come along.”
Sir John tapped at another door, but the inmate of the room made no reply.
“Hang it all. Jack, don’t rouse up all the house,” whispered the major. “There’s nothing the matter, or someone else would have heard it.”
Just at that moment the deep baying of a dog was heard from the yard, followed by a long, low howl.
“There is something the matter,” cried Sir John, “or the dog wouldn’t make that noise. Here, let’s wake Glynne, and let her go round and see who’s ill.”
“No, no, don’t do that, man,” cried the major.
But his brother was already at his child’s door, where he knocked sharply.
“Glynne, Glynne, my dear.”
A low smothered cry, coming as if from a distance, was the response, and the dog’s baying recommenced.