FORGING THE LINKS.
Never had I experienced such excitement. The scene was beyond my wildest thoughts, though I confess that I had expected the captain to prove to be the heir to some property. But to find him a British peer—this man who had been my friend and comrade for so many months—it fairly took my breath away!
Yet there could be no doubt that Captain Rudstone and Osmund Maiden were one and the same, and with sincere and heartfelt pleasure I offered him my congratulations. Macdonald followed my example, but Flora held aloof, and had nothing to say.
“Thank you, my dear Carew,” the captain cried heartily, as he clasped my hand. “I dare say this is a big surprise to all of you. But if it is quite true—I am the prodigal son come into his own again, and I can assure you I am glad of it.”
“The story is not complete yet,” suggested the law clerk. “With your permission, my lord—”
“You have it, sir,” interrupted the captain. “Give these gentlemen a full explanation. It will come most fittingly from you.”
“The narrative is a very brief one,” commenced Christopher Burley, turning to us. “It starts properly in the year 1787. At that time Hugh Cecil Maiden, third Earl of Heathermere, was a widower with three sons, by name Reginald, Bertie, and Osmund. The latter was the youngest son and was not a favorite with his father, if I may take the liberty of saying as much. One day he quarreled bitterly with the old earl and vowed that he would leave home and begin a new life in another country. That vow he kept. He was scarcely twenty years of age then, but he sailed from England for the Canadas with a small sum of money in his pocket. And in all the years that followed nothing was heard of him.
“I now pass over a long period. In the year 1814 the eldest son Reginald died; he left a wife but no issue. Three months later the second son was thrown and killed while hunting. In consequence of this double shock the old earl was stricken with paralysis. He lingered for months speechless and helpless, and early in the following year he, too, died. Having no blood relatives—save the missing younger son—the title was threatened with extinction. The estate, of course, went into Chancery.”
As the law clerk paused for a moment there flashed into my mind an incident that had happened long before at Fort York—the sudden agitation exhibited by Captain Rudstone while reading a copy of the London Times, and the paragraph I had subsequently found relating to the Earl of Heathermere. It was all clear to me now.
“There is but little more to tell,” resumed Christopher Barley. “The disappearance of Osmund Maiden in 1787 was not generally known, but it came to the knowledge of my employers, Parchmont & Tolliver. They determined to take the matter up on speculation, and accordingly they sent me out to the Canadas to search for the missing heir, or for his issue in case he had married and died, and I trust you will remember, my lord, that they incurred very heavy expenses on a slim chance of success.”
“There are several things I should like to ask you,” replied Macdonald. “I infer from your own statement that you were aware months ago of the death of your father and brothers, and of the fact that Mr. Burley was in Canada seeking for you?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And yet you kept silence—you did not reveal your identity?”
“Yes. I had a reason, as I mentioned before.”
“It must have been a very important one!”
“My lord, I agree with Mr. Macdonald,” broke in the law clerk. “Looking at it from a legal standpoint, I feel that an explanation should be forthcoming.”
“You shall have it in the presence of these gentlemen,” declared the captain. “There is nothing now to prevent me from speaking openly, though I must admit that the story is not one I like to tell. To be brief, I was under the impression that I had killed a man, and that a charge of murder rested against me. The affair happened in Montreal in February of 1788, a few months after I landed in Canada. I was in a gambling den with a companion, and another man at our table, with whom I was playing cards, deliberately cheated. When I accused him of it he reached for his pistol, and to save my life I fired first. I saw him fall, shot in the chest. Then some one put out the light, and in the confusion that followed I managed to escape. Before morning I was a fugitive from Montreal, heading for the wilderness.”
The captain paused a moment, his head bowed in an attitude of sorrow.
“That, gentlemen, is the reason why I hid my identity all these years—during more recent months,” he continued. “I preferred to lose title and riches rather than bring shame and dishonor on one of England’s proudest names—not to speak of the danger of arrest and conviction.”
“Who was the man you shot?” the factor demanded eagerly. “His name—quick!”
“He was a Frenchman—Henri Salvat.”
“Ah, I thought so!” cried Macdonald. “He did not die—he recovered from the wound. And as he did not know your name, you were not suspected of the deed, I was in Montreal shortly afterward, and heard of the affair.”
“And I learned the truth but a few weeks ago—when I was coming down country,” Captain Rudstone replied huskily. “I met an old trapper who had been in Montreal at the time, and by adroit questioning I drew from him what you have just told me. I need not say what a relief it was. I determined at once to find Mr. Burley and reveal all. Does the explanation satisfy you?”
“You were certainly justified in keeping silence,” Macdonald answered. “The reason was sound. But there is one little point I would like to have cleared; Why, when you believed yourself a fugitive from justice, did you use your real name at Fort Garry?”
“Simply because there was no alternative,” said the captain. “The first person I met when I entered Fort Garry in April of 1788 was a man who had known me as Osmund Maiden in Quebec a few months before; so I had to leave the trunk in that name. At the time, of course, no word of the affair at Montreal had reached the fort—I came here by rapid marches. But fearing that the clew might be followed up, I abandoned my intention of going north, and went south instead, ultimately crossing the border into the United States. I remained there for twelve years.”
“And afterward, Captain Rudstone, I think you visited England—your native land?” Flora exclaimed at this point. “At least, I have heard you say so.”
The captain gave her a sharp glance, and I fancied I read a hidden menace in his eyes. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“You are quite right, Miss Hatherton; I did say so,” he replied. “I had earned some money in the States and in 1801 I sailed for England. I lodged in London for some months, avoiding all who might have known me; then I crossed to the Continent, where I lived for six years in various towns. In 1807, older and much changed, I ventured back to the Canadas. I need not speak of my record from that time. I joined the Canadian Volunteers, and subsequently entered the service of the Hudson Bay Company, in which I rose to a position of trust. I may say that I have not been in Montreal since 1788.”
“I beg your pardon, captain—I mean, my lord,” said Flora, with a pretty blush. “It was presumptuous of me to question you.”
The law clerk shouldered the trunk and marched from the room. The rest of us followed, and the factor closed and locked the door.
That same evening, feeling restless, I left the house to take a stroll in the fort inclosure. It was a relief to be away from the red-hot stove and from the chatter of my companions.
I was in low spirits, I confess—which was one reason why I had come out. Flora had been unlike herself at supper, very quiet and thoughtful—a rare thing for her—and I had not seen her since she left the table. I feared that she was feeling ill, and, of course, lover-like, I evolved all sorts of dread possibilities from this. I had in mind, besides, another and more vague cause of anxiety, which was as yet too intangible to grasp.
For an hour I must have tramped here and there about the inclosure.
At last, wretched and miserable, I returned to the factor’s house. I entered the sitting room and was glad to find it empty and dark. I lighted a lamp, and coaxed up the dying embers of the fire with fresh wood. I was in no mood for sleep, and for a long time I sat by the stove, smoking pipe after pipe of strong tobacco, and staring gloomily at the flames.
When a distant clock struck twelve I roused from my stupor. I felt in better spirits, for I had reasoned myself into the belief that Flora still loved me, and that her strange actions sprang from another cause. I blew out the lamp and, lest I should waken any of the sleepers in the house, I took off my boots and carried them in one hand.
I went softly upstairs in the darkness, and threaded a long, narrow hall. Two-thirds of the way along this I passed the door of Flora’s room, and I was careful not to disturb her by the slightest sound. At the end of the hall a window admitted the silvery glow of the moon, and here a cross passage turned to the right. Twenty feet away a thin bar of light shone from a room that I knew was Captain Rudstone’s, and beyond that lay some empty apartments. My own room was one of the first. I slipped into it, put my boots on the floor and began to grope for a light.
But before I could find the candle I was startled to hear footsteps—very faint, but unmistakable—approaching without. I crept noiselessly to the door and looked down the passage. Good Heavens! did my eyes deceive me? Did I actually see a ghost—an apparition?
But a ghost in black? Impossible! Now I beheld more clearly. A woman, gliding on slippered feet, was coming toward me. The moonbeams shone on the long cloak of fur that enveloped her from head to foot—on the loosened hair and silver-hued face. And it was the face of Flora Hatherton!
For an instant the hot blood rushed to my brain; I felt a sharp pang at my heart. Then I stepped suddenly out—out into the flood of moonlight—and confronted her. She gave a little scream, and choked it as quickly on her lips.
“Denzil!” she gasped.
“Flora!” I said sternly. “What does this mean?”
“Hush!” she whispered. “We shall be heard! You—you said you would trust me. Is this keeping your word?”
“Where have you been?” I demanded hoarsely.
“I will tell you—again. Oh, be merciful, be patient!”
I saw that Captain Rudstone’s light had vanished. A madness sprang up in my breast.
“Where have you been?” I repeated. “Speak, for God’s sake! Only two rooms are occupied on this passage—mine and—and his.”
I would have given my life to recall the hot words when I saw the horror, the pitiful look of agony that shone from Flora’s eyes.
“Denzil, can you think that—that?” she asked. “Do you believe that I have come from his room? Oh, merciful Heaven! that is too much! Say that I have not read your thoughts aright!”
“Forgive, darling!” I whispered. “God help me, I knew not what I said! No, no, I will never believe that! Flora, my wife——”
“I am trying you cruelly,” she interrupted. “But I am innocent—my heart is all yours! Trust me, dearest, to the end. And now go—go! Think what it will mean to be found here together!”
With that she slipped by me, passed quickly to the end of the passage, and vanished from sight. I reeled like a drunken man into my room, closed the door noiselessly, and threw myself on the bed.