The world knew nothing of the scar on his leg which the convict gang-chain had left there; of the perjury which his brain had plotted, or the vile murder his hands had wrought.
These and other crimes the world knew nothing of, but he knew, and though he strove to forget he could not. In the dead of the night, or perhaps in the gray dawn when he had thrown himself upon the bed to woo sleep after a day of willful pleasure or a night of dancing and fashion, sleep would come, but bring bad dreams with it.
He dreamed he was in the prison cell; toiling in the hot sun under the Portland cliff, with the horrid chain galling at his leg. Then visions of the haunted chapel at Penruddie crowded his brain; and one night he started up, cold with horror, from a vision of Jem, mangled and ghastly, standing beside his bed pointing to a red, gaping wound. Then, too, in those dreadful waking hours, when sleep would not come, fear took its place, and he moved in an agony of dread, fancying that his secret was known, that the detectives were on his track and that the gallows was looming before him.
But in the morning these disquieting visions always fled and breakfast time found the great man serene, placid, watchful and smiling, ready to do battle with the world and conquer it.
Preparations for the wedding were proceeding, hastened by the great man's commands and purse.
It was to be a grand wedding, much against Violet's wish, and the fashionable world was on tiptoe of expectation. For it was known that Mr. Murpoint was to be made a baronet and that he would take one of the largest mansions in Belgravia and commence a series of entertainments immediately after the happy couple returned from the wedding tour.
Violet's dress was ordered, the bridesmaids chosen, and the tour arranged before Fitz had returned to town from the execution of his little plot with Bertie and Ethel. He called for his letters at his club, and thrust them in his pocket unread; he noticed that men looked rather strangely and almost commiseratingly at him, and wondered what was the matter. Without much loss of time he called at Mrs. Mildmay's and asked for Violet.
Violet was upstairs in her own room, alone and musing, when the maid came to tell her that Lord Boisdale was in the drawing-room.
"Lord Boisdale!" repeated poor Violet, turning pale. "Did he ask for me?"
"Yes, miss," said the maid. "Particularly for you."