His first thought was to proceed at once to the Towers and challenge Lord Wentworth to mortal combat. His second to strive and prevent their union by subtle and well-laid schemes. Second thoughts are best. If he fought the Earl, one of them would certainly fall. Supposing he did! His life was now hateful. He did not care—it might be relief! But then that would not prevent Ellen's being united to his foe. She would forget him—be happy—be loved—be rich—the thought was hell!
Again, supposing he killed his antagonist—she would perhaps die of grief—die cursing him! that would be sweet revenge, but she would not be his any the more; he loved her still, despite his vow: he must possess her, or die! For his second thoughts, if he could prevent their union,—if he could so manage that the Earl married another,—if he could get Ellen to forget, to cease to admire him,—the vanishing spark of love might yet be fanned bright and glowing as it was of yore; she might yet love him again,—she might yet be his bride—his own, his beautiful Ellen! Yes, this was his plan, and she was once more beloved—his vow of endless hatred forgotten! But how was he to effect his purpose? His plot was good, how was it to be carried out? He knew the noble family, but could not presume on his acquaintance. He was a friend of the Captain's, and a bright thought struck him. He would enlist the Captain on his side! He knew him to be a bad man—a deist, or the next thing to it—a hard drinker—a bold blasphemer—'game,' as he said, for anything, however wild.
The last thing in the world the Captain would like was his brother's marriage, as he had contracted vast debts on the presumption of his succeeding to the coronet; but the difficulty was how he could make the plot palatable to this bad man, for unless he was to benefit he knew very well the Captain would first "see him and his plans at the devil!" And one like this, where neither woman nor gold fell to his share, he would never enter into. Could he get some hold over the Captain—something that compromised his liberty, or life—he might have a chance, was his next thought. He knew there was many a crime that could be laid at his door, but woe to the rash fool who dared to do so. There was not such a duellist in the kingdom, and the Captain would call his accuser out and kill him. No, this would never do, and L'Estrange determined to seek sager advice than his own; he therefore resolved to go at once to a strange character who lived near Brighton, William Stacy, or as he was more commonly known—"Dare Devil Bill."
Bill Stacy lived in a lonely house situated between Brighton and Shoreham, and there practised all sorts of illicit trades. Rumour reported Bill to have been a pirate in his younger days, but if any one wished his legacy of six feet of earth, he had only to inquire from Bill the antecedents of his mysterious life. Old Stacy had a reputed daughter named Antonia, quite a belle in the Spanish way. She had an arch, gipsy look in her large black eye; and her jetty hair, white teeth, and the damask colour which tinged her olive cheek made her quite irresistible. Many an eye had paid the homage of speechless admiration to the dark-eyed beauty, many a heartache had she caused to the dashing young officers of the 7th, but few had the hardiness to do more than glance at her face for fear of her father, the old dragon who guarded her bower, and since the day Bill had nigh murdered a young Viscount who had dared kiss her hand, her admirers stood afar off, nor tempted another volley of his ire.
Perhaps my readers may wonder how L'Estrange had become acquainted with such a wild, bad character as Bill. It is enough to say for the present that he had become acquainted, and that a peculiar tie seemed to exist between them. In fact, old Stacy had told L'Estrange as much as to lead him to suppose he, and he only, could unravel some of the mystery that clung to his early life. But he knew Bill's desperate character too well to pry into any of his secrets, and, since he had been threatened with strangulation for once trying to sift matters, thought it best to allow the old sinner to take his own time. Stacy supplied him, in common with others, with tobacco and spirits never christened in a custom-house, duty-free,—indeed he made no secret of his trade, and it was thought the excise officers winked at these illegal practices, and the old man made it worth their while to hold their information secret. Late as it was—now past midnight—L'Estrange prepared to look up this villain, generally easiest found at his own hour of darkness. He therefore ordered his servant to saddle a horse, and accompany him to within a short distance of the smuggler's nest. Pat Malony, his orderly, proceeded to do so, wondering what his master was up to at such a late hour. In those days the discipline of the cavalry was less rigorous than now, and L'Estrange passed unchallenged through the gates, and proceeded at a slow trot along the frozen road westward towards Hove, which he passed, and then quickened his pace till he came within a mile of the Nest, as Stacy's house was called. Here he dismounted, ordered Pat to take care of his horse, and wait till he came back again. Pat lit his pipe, inwardly cursing the freak that left him a sentinel on such a night, and wondering "what the divil dacent folk wanted at this hour of night in a place, if report said true, anything but honest!" Meanwhile L'Estrange ran downwards to the shore over a wild bleak common, till he came to a low-roofed, evil-looking house. A light burning in one window showed the inmates were awake, and with a full heart he approached the lonely dwelling. As he neared the door, he thought he heard laughter and loud talking once or twice; however, undeterred by this not unusual noise, he stood in another moment before the door, and with his riding whip's handle made three or four masonic taps. A loud, hoarse oath was the answer, and he heard footsteps approaching the door from the inside. While he is waiting for admission, we must again take the licence all novel writers are allowed, and shift the scene once more to the Towers. The reason for this interruption will, we hope, be sufficiently explained by the next chapter.
CHAPTER VII.
"There waiter Dick, with bacchanalian lays,
Shall win his heart, and have his drunken praise."
Cooper.
The party at the Towers broke up with the usual precipitancy that characterized the Earl's movements. He himself, accompanied by his sisters, travelled at once to London, where the young ladies were to spend a few weeks with a friend, whilst their brother proceeded to his Court duties at the Pavilion, Brighton. Arranmore had preceded them on his way to the South of Ireland by some days; he hastened thither to prepare his mansion for its future mistress, Lady Edith, soon to be the Marchioness of Arranmore. Frank had received an order to join the 60th, his regiment, then at Southampton, on the point of embarkation for Corfu, the favourite station in the Ionian Isles. We have now only the Captain to dispose of, who, finding the Towers uncommonly dull, set off with Sir Richard to rejoin the 7th at Brighton, and travelled at express speed in a post chaise and four, arriving at the barracks on the very evening L'Estrange was grieving over his misfortunes. The Captain's return was hailed with joy by the whole of his fellow officers, who were a very fast set at best, and too much delighted by the Captain's entertainments not to welcome him back with glee. Even the Colonel, Sir Harry Maynard, a hale, jolly-looking fellow, with white hair and ruddy face, looked forward with joy to De Vere's suppers, where the best wines were drunk and the merriest songs sung. True to his character, the Captain celebrated his arrival by a grand dinner, to which Sir Harry was himself invited, and did full justice to the wines. After this feast the Captain and half a dozen others went to the theatre, which the Prince Regent honoured with his presence that night, and stayed through the first play—a comedy—after which he proposed an adjournment to a neighbouring public-house, which was joyfully acceded to, for the Captain was merriest when over the social glass.
"Well, De Vere," said Major Forster, "and how went jolly Christmas up in the North?"