CHAPTER XLIII. — SIR LIONEL AND HIS “KEEPER”
Sir Lionel, who had come to this place with the face that indicated a mind at peace, thus found himself suddenly confronted by a grim phantom, the aspect of which struck terror to his heart. That phantom was drawn up from a past which he usually did not care to remember. Now, however, he could not forget it. There was one by his side to remind him of it always—one who had become his guard, his jailer—in fact, his keeper—a word which signifies better than any other the attitude which was assumed by Lady Dudleigh. For the feeling which Sir Lionel had toward her was precisely like that which the lunatic has toward his keeper, the feeling that this one is watching night and day, and never relaxes the terrible stare of those vigilant eyes. There are those who on being thus watched would grow mad; and Sir Lionel had this in addition to his other terrors—this climax of them all, that upon him there was always the maddening glare of his “keeper's” eyes. Terrible eyes were they to him, most terrible—eyes which he dared not encounter. They were the eyes of his wife—a woman most injured; and her gaze reminded him always of a past full of horror. That gaze he could not encounter. He knew without looking at it what it meant. He felt it on him. There were times when it made his flesh crawl, nor could he venture to face it.
A few days of this reduced him to a state of abject misery. He began to fear that he was really growing mad. In that case he would be a fit subject for a “keeper.” He longed with unutterable longing to throw off this terrible restraint; but he could not and dared not. That woman, that “keeper,” wielded over him a power which he knew and felt, and dared not defy. It was the power that arises from the knowledge of secrets of life and death, and her knowledge placed his life in her hands.
This woman was inflexible and inexorable. She had suffered so much that she had no pity for his present sufferings. These seemed trivial to her. She showed a grand, strong, self-sufficient nature, which made her his superior, and put her above the reach of any influences that he might bring. He could remember the time when she was a fair and gentle young girl, with her will all subject to his; then a loving bride with no thought apart from him; but now years of suffering and self-discipline had transformed her to this, and she came back to him an inexorable Fate, an avenging Nemesis.
Yet Sir Lionel did not give up all hope. He could not drive her away. He could not fly away from her, for her watch was too vigilant; but he hoped for some chance of secret flight in which, if he once escaped, he might find his way to the Continent. With something of that cunning which characterizes the insane, and which, perhaps, is born of the presence of a “keeper,” Sir Lionel watched his opportunity, and one day nearly succeeded in effecting his desire.
That day Lady Dudleigh was in her brother's room. Sir Lionel had waited for this, and had made his preparations. When she had been gone for a few minutes, he stole softly out of his room, passed stealthily down the back stairs of the inn, and going out of the back-door, reached the rear of the house. Here there was a yard, and a gate that led out to a road at the end of the house. A carriage had been in waiting here for about an hour. Sir Lionel hurried across the yard, passed through the gate, and looked for the carriage.
He took one glance, and then a deep oath escaped him.
In the carriage was Lady Dudleigh.
How she could have detected his flight he could not imagine, nor did he now care. She had detected it, and had followed at once to circumvent him. She must have gone down the front stairs, out of the front-door, and reached the carriage before him. And there she was! Those hateful eyes were fixed on him—he felt the horrid stare—he cowered beneath it. He walked toward her.
“I thought I would go out too,” said she.
Sir Lionel said not a word. He felt too much ashamed to turn back now, and was too politic to allow her to see any open signs that he was in full flight; so he quietly got into the carriage, and took his seat by her side.
Whipping up the horses, he drove them at a headlong rate of speed out through the streets into the country. His whole soul was full of mad fury. Rage and disappointment together excited his brain to madness; and the fierce rush of the impetuous steeds was in accordance with the excitement of his mind. At length the horses themselves grew fatigued, and slackened their pace. Sir Lionel still tried to urge them forward, but in vain, and at last he flung down the whip with a curse.
“I'll not stand this any longer!” he cried, vehemently, addressing his “keeper,” but not looking at her.
“What?” said she.
“This style of being dogged and tracked and watched.”
“You allude to me, I suppose,” said Lady Dudleigh. “At any rate, you must allow that it is better to be tracked, as you call it, by me, than by the officers of the law.”
“I don't care,” growled Sir Lionel, gathering courage. “I'll not stand this style of thing any longer. I'll not let them have it all their own way.”
“I don't see what you can do,” said Lady Dudleigh, quietly.
“Do!” cried Sir Lionel, in a still more violent tone—“do! I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll fight it out.”
“Fight!”
“Yes,” cried Sir Lionel, with an oath. “Every one of you—every one. Every one without a single exception. Oh, you needn't think that I'm afraid. I've thought it all over. You're all under my power. Yes—ha, ha, ha! that's it. I've said it, and I say what I mean. You thought that I was under your power. Your power! Ha, ha, ha! That's good. Why, you're all under mine—every one of you.”
Sir Lionel spoke wildly and vehemently, in that tone of feverish excitement which marks a madman. It may have been the influence of his “keeper,” or it may have been the dawnings of actual insanity.
As for Lady Dudleigh, she did not lose one particle of her cold-bloodedness. She simply said, in the same tone,
“How?”
“How? Ha, ha! Do you think I'm going to tell you? That's my secret. But stop. Yes; I don't care. I'd just as soon tell as not. You can't escape, not one of you, unless you all fly at once to the Continent, or to America, or, better yet, back to Botany Bay. There you'll be safe. Fly! fly! fly! or else,” he suddenly added, in a gloomy tone, “you'll all die on the gallows! every one of you, on the gallows! Ha, ha, ha! swinging on the gallows! the beautiful gallows!”
Lady Dudleigh disregarded the wildness of his tone, or perhaps she chose to take advantage of it, thinking that in his excitement he might disclose his thoughts the more unguardedly.
“You can do nothing,” she said.
“Can't I, though?” retorted Sir Lionel.
“You wait. First, there's Dalton.”
“What can you do with him?”
“Arrest him,” said Sir Lionel. “What is he? An outlaw! An escaped convict! He lives under an assumed name. He must go back to Botany Bay—that is, if he isn't hanged. And then there's that pale-faced devil of a daughter with her terrible eyes.” He paused.
“What can you do to her?”
“Her! Arrest her too,” cried Sir Lionel. “She murdered my boy—my son—my Leon. She must be hanged. You shall not save her by this trick. No! she must be hanged, like her cursed father.”
A shudder passed through Lady Dudleigh.
Sir Lionel did not notice it. He was too much taken up with his own vengeful thoughts.
“Yes,” said he, “and there's that scoundrel Reginald.”
“Reginald!” cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern voice. “Why do you mention him?”
“Oh, he's one of the same gang,” cried Sir Lionel. “He's playing their game. He is siding against his father, as he always did, and with his brother's murderers. He shall not escape. I will avenge Leon's death on all of you; and as for him, he shall suffer!”
It was with a strong effort that Lady Dudleigh restrained herself. But she succeeded in doing so, and said, simply, as before,
“How?”
“Arrest him!” cried Sir Lionel. “Arrest him too. He is guilty of perjury; and if he doesn't hang for it, he'll go back again to Botany Bay with that scoundrel with whom he sides against me—his own father—and against his brother.”
“Are there any more?” asked Lady Dudleigh, as Sir Lionel ended.
“More! Yes,” he said.
“Who?”
“You!” shouted Sir Lionel, with a voice of indescribable hate and ferocity. He turned as he spoke, and stared at her. His wild eyes, however, met the calm, cold, steady glance of those of his “keeper,” and they fell before it. He seized the whip and began to lash the horses, crying as he did so, “You! yes, you! you! most of all!”
“What can you do to me?” asked Lady Dudleigh.
“You? Arrest you.”
“What have I done?”
“You? You have done every thing. You have aided and abetted the escape of an outlaw. You have assisted him in his nefarious occupation of Dalton Hall. You have aided and abetted him in the imprisonment of Dalton's brat. You have aided and abetted him in the murder of my boy Leon. You have—”
“Stop!” cried Lady Dudleigh, in a stern, commanding voice. “You have been a villain always, but you have never been so outspoken. Who are you? Do you know what happened ten years ago?”
“What?” asked Sir Lionel. “Do you mean Dalton's forgery, and his assassination of that—that banker fellow?”
Lady Dudleigh smiled grimly.
“I am glad that you said that,” said she. “You remove my last scruple. My brother's wrongs have well-nigh maddened me; but I have hesitated to bear witness against my husband, and the father of my children. I shall remember this, and it will sustain me when I bear my witness against you in a court of law.”
“Me?” said Sir Lionel. “Me? Witness against me? You can not. No one will believe you.”
“It will not be only your wife,” said she, “though that will be something, but your own self, with your own hand.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what you know very well—your letter which you wrote to Frederick, inclosing your forged check.”
“I never forged a check, and I never wrote a letter inclosing one!” cried Sir Lionel. “Dalton forged that letter himself, if there is such a letter. He was an accomplished forger, and has suffered for it.”
“The letter is your own,” said Lady Dudleigh, “and I can swear to it.”
“No one will believe you,” cried Sir Lionel. “You shall be arrested for perjury.”
Lady Dudleigh gave another grim smile, and then she added, “There is that Maltese cross. You forget that.”
“What Maltese cross?” said Sir Lionel. “I never had one. That wasn't mine; it was Dalton's.”
“But I can swear in a court of law,” said Lady Dudleigh, “that this Maltese cross was yours, and that it was given to you by me as a birthday gift.”
“No one will believe you!” cried Sir Lionel; “no one will believe you!”
“Why not? Will they refuse the oath of Lady Dudleigh?”
“I can show them that you are insane,” said Sir Lionel, with a chuckle at the idea, which seemed to him like a sudden inspiration.
“You will not be able to show that Reginald is insane,” said she.
“Reginald?”
“Yes, Reginald,” repeated Lady Dudleigh. “Reginald knows that Maltese cross, and knows when I gave it to you. He too will be ready to swear to that in a court of law whenever I tell him that he may do so.
“Reginald?” said Sir Lionel, in a gloomy voice. “Why, he was—a child then.”
“He was sixteen years old,” said Lady Dudleigh.
This mention of Reginald seemed to crush Sir Lionel. He was silent for a long time. Evidently he had not been prepared for this in his plans for what he called a “fight.” He sat in moody silence therefore. Once or twice he stole a furtive glance at her, and threw upon her a look which she did not see. It was a look full of hate and malignancy, while at the same time there was an expression of satisfaction in his face, as though he had conceived some new plan, which he intended to keep a secret all to himself.