The earl's face grew more fixed, but he did not move a muscle or show the slightest anger or surprise at the captain's knowledge of his embarrassments.
"Do not be afraid, my lord," said the schemer, in his softest voice; "the secret is safe with me. I shall not tell any one that Lackland Hall is mortgaged to the neck; that there is a lien on every other house your lordship holds; that there is a bill of sale upon the furniture, and that Lady Lackland's diamonds are at the jewelers, being repaired. I shall not tell all this because it is not to my interest to do so."
The earl sat stroking his mustache and looking straight before him.
"You do indeed speak plainly, Mr. Murpoint," he said, "and, while I will not endeavor to disprove or deny your assertions, I must at least confess that they startle me. Granting, merely for argument's sake, that I am er – er – somewhat embarrassed, I cannot see how it can be to your interest to help me."
There was a pause.
Presently a couple – a handsome man and a beautiful woman – passed them as they promenaded after the dance.
"What a couple they make. My ward is beautiful and well-bred, my lord, and Lord Boisdale and she are good friends."
The earl scrutinized the sleek, serene face of the speaker with acute anxiety.
"I see," he said, "I see. You are right, you are right, Mr. Murpoint; they would make a handsome and suitable pair. It is a capital idea."
"Which requires capital," said Howard Murpoint.
The earl flushed.
"Your ward is wealthy – "
"And your son must needs be noble, my lord," continued the captain. "A match between them is a thing to be desired."
"You would give your consent?" said the earl, almost feverishly.
The captain smiled.
"Let us talk of something else," he said. "It is a shame to dispose of the young things without their consent."
Then suddenly he said:
"Did you hear that the prime minister had spoken of my scheme for negotiating with the Swedish mines with much favor?"
"Yes," said the earl, not understanding why the conversation had been so rapidly changed.
"A friend told me that I deserved a baronetcy for it, hah! hah!" and he laughed softly. "Fancy plain Howard Murpoint made Captain Sir Howard Murpoint, Bart., M. P.!"
"I see!" said the earl as a sudden light began to burst in upon him. "Let me follow your excellent example, Mr. Murpoint, and speak plainly. Do I understand that you will give your consent and bring about a marriage between my son, Lord Boisdale, and your ward if I obtain for you through my influence the baronetage which seems to cause you so much amusement?"
"My dear lord!" exclaimed the schemer, with a deprecating smile, "that is indeed speaking plainly. I am very grateful for your good intentions, very, but if I am anything, my lord, I am disinterested. From my boyhood I have worked for others; I am working for others now. It is enough for me that I can see my ward – my dearest friend's daughter! – happy. Be assured that if I thought a marriage between her and the admirable Lord Boisdale would tend to increase that happiness I would use every influence I possessed to bring about such a match, which would do us so much honor and would, I hope, be beneficial to the interests of your noble house."
The earl held out his hand and his cold, icy eyes glittered.
"You are a clever man, Mr. Murpoint, and a generous one. England is blessed indeed in the possession of such men as you! I am honored by your confidence – and – ahem – I think you really deserve the baronetcy!"
"You are very good to say so," smiled the captain, with a cunning light in his dark eyes.
"Shall I," he said, as the earl took up his crush hat and prepared to depart – "shall I have the pleasure of adding your name to the list of directors of the Penwain Mining Company?"
"Certainly, certainly, I shall be delighted," said the earl; "I will go on to the club, I think," and after shaking hands warmly he departed.
Howard Murpoint leaned back in his chair, and watched the tall form of his latest dupe disappear amid the crowd.
"Snared at last," he muttered. "Did I speak too plainly? No; I think not. I have committed myself to nothing. Shall I get the baronetcy? I think so; if not, let the Earl of Lacklands beware. I have him in a cleft stick."
At that moment Bertie and Ethel approached. As they entered the corridor, Mr. Murpoint rose with a scowl and passed out.
"Those two," he murmured; "they must be disposed of before long. She thinks, poor girl, that Fate will prove kind and give her to the arms of Master Bertie. Lady Boisdale, I am your Fate, and have other intentions respecting you."
Bertie and Ethel entered as the curtain fell over the doorway through which they had passed.
"I thought papa and Mr. Murpoint were here," said Ethel.
"They are not far off, I dare say," said Bertie. "Will you not rest a while?"
"How warm it is," said Ethel, leaning forward and fanning herself. "Every one looks hot excepting dear Violet. See where she goes, pale and unruffled as usual. Dear Violet!" and she sighed.
Bertie's eyes followed Violet as she passed, leaning upon Lord Boisdale's arm.
"Do you think Miss Mildmay is ill or unhappy?" he asked, in a low, grave voice.
"I cannot say. I do not think her ill, and I would like to say that she is unhappy. I think she scarcely knows herself the exact state of her own feelings. See how dreamy and yet serene she looks; she is not thin either, and yet – oh, how terrible a puzzle is life – how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable."
Bertie looked up at her.
"Not to you – you are happy, Lady Boisdale. What should you know of the temptations, the sorrows, the failures of life."
Ethel smiled.
"I may retort," she said, "in kind. What failures can the celebrated and popular Mr. Fairfax know?"
"The greatest failure a man can experience," said Bertie, leaning forward. "The failure of a hope, that at the best never deserved the word! Lady Boisdale, if you could read my heart at this moment you would see how bitter life is to me, how hollow the mockery of success which has fallen to me! Once I would have welcomed it, longed for it. Now it is as bitter Dead-Sea fruit which crumbles to dust beneath my touch. Once – nay, listen, I implore you to listen," for Ethel had half risen, pale and confused. "Once," he continued, very pale and earnest, and with a sad music in his voice. "When I was young enough to cherish such daring ambitions I dreamed that I could make a place for myself in this great struggling, writhing world, a place high enough to satisfy my ambition and feed my hope. I hoped to reach that place and to seat another there beside me, rather let me say, upon the throne itself while I knelt at the feet. This was a boy's dream, Lady Boisdale, and like most dreams only the bitterness of its unreality is left to me. I have made a place for myself, but it is empty and desolate. A desolate and bitter mockery because I dare not, I dare not hope that she whom I would have for my queen will ever deign to fill it. Lady Boisdale, could you see me as I really am, solitary, alone in the great world, bereft of my dearly-loved friend, bereft of my hope, you would pity me. Others might laugh me to scorn for a presumptuous idiot, but you, whose gentle heart I know so well, would pity me."
He took her hand as he spoke, his voice trembled.
A tear fell on the hand which held hers.
He looked up and saw that she was weeping.
In an instant his reserve, his determination to go no further was broken down.
He drew the hand to his lips and, looking up at her averted face, passionately said, in a voice trembling with love and supplication:
"Lady Boisdale – Ethel! you know for whom my heart has thirsted, you know why to me the world is bitter and life a mockery! It is because I love you – I love you, Ethel, and I have not dared to hope. If you can forgive me my presumption. If you can – if you can love me – oh, Ethel, you know I have loved so long and hopelessly. Forgive me if I have forgotten the gulf which yawns between us. Why should I not?" he exclaimed, suddenly and passionately. "Is it a crime to love a noble woman, because she is an earl's daughter? Hearts are not given to the rich and mighty alone. The peasant revels in the power to love, and I – I who kneel at your feet pleading for your pardon, feel that I have not sinned against Heaven or man, but have simply obeyed the pure impulse of my soul in daring to love you. Ethel, Ethel, you too condemn me!"
And with a tone of despair and reproach, he half rose.
"No! no!" cried Ethel, turning to him and laying her white, trembling hand upon his arm. "No, no. Condemn you! I love you!"
CHAPTER XXIV
A TRYING INTERVIEW
So Bertie had declared love, and won an acknowledgment from Ethel that his love was returned.
"Ethel," he said, and the name sounded wonderfully sweet as he dwelt upon it with loving tenderness, "Ethel, I must go to the earl and ask for my pearl of price. Shall I go to-morrow?"
Ethel turned pale and sighed.
"To-morrow?" she said. "Yes, must it be so soon?"
"Yes," he said, quietly and gravely, "the world will say that I should have asked him first; but we cannot always control our hearts, they will have their way sometimes, and mine has been under bolt and bar so long – so long."
"So long?" she murmured, blushing and turning away from him.
"Almost from the day when I first saw you – do you remember the time? Poor Leicester was alive then, and I poured all my hopes and fears into his ears. Ethel, I thought it hard that I should be debarred from hope; you were an earl's daughter – as you are now – and I was penniless, struggling, unknown."
"But it is all altered now," breathed Ethel, pressing his hand. "You are famous, and – and not poor."
Ethel rose, intoxicated with her new born happiness, to meet Lady Lackland, who was seen approaching.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax," said the countess, eying him suspiciously with a cold smile. "How good of you to take care of Lady Boisdale. I suppose you have been cooling yourselves. Ethel, my dear, the carriage is waiting; I don't know where your papa is."
There was a crush in the street, and while Bertie, bareheaded, was placing the ladies in the carriage the earl and Lord Fitz came up.
Mr. Murpoint was with them, serene and self-composed as usual, though the crush and confusion were bewildering.
"Here you are!" said the earl. "We were just going to look for you. Fitz has been seeing the Mildmays to their brougham."
Howard Murpoint closed the door as the two gentlemen entered the carriage and stood with his dark eyes, half closed, fixed upon Ethel.
Then the carriage was on the move, and Bertie and Howard Murpoint stood looking after it.
Howard Murpoint regarded Bertie with a smile.
"You do not fear influenza," he said, nodding at the other's bare head.
"Eh? Oh, no," said Bertie. "I'll get my hat now, though."
And with a cool nod he strode into the hall again.
Howard Murpoint turned to make his way to his own brougham, and in doing so nearly knocked down a gentleman who was standing near him.
"Ha, Smythe," he exclaimed, "you here?"
"Eh? Yes," said the man, a short, nervous-looking creature, with fair, insipid face and timid, restless eyes. "Yes; just passing on my way to the club and – and stopped to look in."
"Club!" said Howard Murpoint. "Better come home and coffee with me."
And he linked his arm within that of his acquaintance.
Wilhelm Smythe, for that was the name, or rather improved name – it had been William Smith – of the stranger, was the son of a retired tea merchant.
His father had left him an enormous amount of property and a very small amount of brains.
The captain – or rather Howard Murpoint, as he preferred to be called, had met him at a club some few months previously and had found out all about him.
He had won the good opinion of the half-cunning simpleton, who thought Howard Murpoint the nicest and most disinterested of friends.
All the way home Howard Murpoint gave a glowing description of the ball, to which, of course, Wilhelm Smythe had received no invitation, and the poor fellow was in agonies of envy.
"Delightful!" he exclaimed. "And she was there, for I saw her."
"Whom?" asked the captain.
"Can you ask me?" sighed Mr. Smythe, "when you know that I am madly in love with her."
The captain smiled.
"'Pon my word, I've heard nothing," he said, encouragingly.
"Why, all the fellows have been chaffing me," said the simpleton.
"And who is the lady?" asked the captain.
They were ascending the stairs to the smoking-room as the question was asked, and Mr. Smythe flung himself into the most comfortable lounge of the great man's luxurious sanctum ere he answered.
"Don't you know? Can't you guess?"
"Not an idea," said the captain, handing him the cigars. "Come, who is she?"
The little fellow sighed, and replied, with due solemnity:
"Lady Boisdale!"
The captain's eyes flashed. He had wanted a tool! Here was one, ready made to his hand.
"Come," said the captain, pushing the bottle, and eying his dupe keenly, "if you have set your heart upon marrying Lady Ethel Boisdale I think I can help you."
"You can!" exclaimed the young fellow.
"I can, and I will," said the captain, quietly, "on one condition – that you will never mention that you are indebted to me for your success."
"I promise that," said Mr. Smythe, eagerly; "and you really will – "
"Do my best to recommend you to the earl and his peerless daughter, and, what is more, I will venture to bet you something, that I succeed."
"Eh?" said Mr. Smythe, scarcely catching the idea.
Then suddenly he saw what Mr. Howard Murpoint meant.
"I see!" he said. "I'll bet you – you a – a – five thousand."
The captain raised his eyebrows.
"I never bet," he said, "unless the stake is worth something. If I am to enter it in my book it must be twenty thousand."
Mr. Smythe hesitated – only for a moment.
"Twenty thousand be it," he said. "If I marry Lady Ethel I pay you twenty thousand, and if I don't – "
"I pay you," said Mr. Murpoint, softly. "It's a wager."
And he held out his long, clawlike, white hand.
Mr. Smythe rose, clasped it eagerly, and, after a fervent and excited "Good-night," took his departure.
It was morning, bright, beaming morning, by that time, and Mr. Murpoint had too many great matters on hand to allow of his retiring to rest.
Instead he stepped into a cold bath which was ready for him in an adjoining room, and, dressing himself in his business suit of dark Oxford mixture with an imposing white waistcoat, made his way to his office in Pall Mall.
Seating himself in his chair in his own private room he touched a small bell.
In answer to the summons there entered a tall, thin and cadaverous-looking man with a small dispatch case.
"Good-morning, Ridgett," said Mr. Murpoint.
The man bowed, and took from his portfolio a number of papers.
The captain went over them with a quick scrutiny and issued his instructions.
"You will proceed in this case, Mr. Ridgett," he said, throwing one letter over.
"Yes, sir. The woman is a widow, and very poor, and suffers from an incurable complaint."
"The office has nothing to do with that," said Mr. Murpoint. "We did not kill the husband, and we did not undertake to cure her complaint. She came into our hands of her own accord, and we simply demand the fees due us. You will proceed without delay. Have you bought up the L debts yet?"
"Not all, sir," was the reply. "You instructed me to wait further commands."
"Wait no longer," said Mr. Murpoint, "but get as many of the Lackland bills together as you can. You understand?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Ridgett.
And, dismissed by a nod, he took his departure.
Scarcely had he gone when the small and weather-beaten face of the smuggler entered the room.
Job, who had often paid visits to the captain at various places, but never at the office, was awed for a moment by the grand furniture and piles of papers and documents.
"Mornin', captain – "
"Have you brought the account?" said Mr. Murpoint.
Job nodded, and produced a greasy bag, which he placed on the polished table.
The captain turned out the contents of the bag, and commenced counting the heap of gold and silver.
Then he examined an account which was made out on a dirty piece of paper Job had handed to him, looking up at last with a dark frown.
"How is this?" he said, in a low, stern voice. "There is some mistake. Here is only a third of the profits – there should be a half."
"There bean't no mistake, capt – sir," said Job, with an emphatic nod. "They've sent all they means to send, and a hard job I had to get that. The boys say that they don't see the justice like of one man – gentleman or no gentleman – taking half the swag when they've worked for the whole of it."
"Oh, they don't?" said Mr. Murpoint, with a soft smile. "Tell them that unless I have the remainder of the money by this time next week, and a fair half for the future, paid to the very day, I will peach upon the lot of them. Not a man shall escape me. The police shall know how the great smuggling trade is done and who does it. You tell them, will you, with my compliments?"
"I'll tell them," said Job, quietly.
"Any news from sea?"
"About Maester Leicester?" asked Job, looking at the ground with a sudden change of manner.
"Hush, no names," said Mr. Murpoint, cautiously.
"No, no news," replied Job. "He's dead by this time, p'r'aps."
"All the better," said Mr. Murpoint. "Dead or alive, he's safe."
"Ay," said Job, and, touching his forehead, he departed.
The captain leaned back in his chair and gave himself up to thought.
"Leicester Dodson is dead, or buried alive. Violet's money is in my hands; the earl and all his clan are in my power; I am master of thousands, some say millions; and the world calls me one of its greatest men. Who says that honesty is the best policy?"
And as he concluded with the momentous question, he laughed with the keenest enjoyment and insolence.
Bertie was very happy that night as he sat in his solitary chambers and smoked his favorite pipe.
All the weary, hopeless months gone by since first he had seen and loved sweet Ethel Boisdale seemed to have vanished like dark spirits before the joy of that night.
He had told her that he loved, and had won the sweet confession from her lips that she loved him in return.
How bright seemed the world to him – how full of hope and enjoyment!
His dull, book-lined rooms assumed a new aspect under his happy eyes and all at once appeared comfortable quarters, full of pleasant peace and quiet.
But in the morning, after a night of happy, glorious dreams, came the stern reality.
He dressed himself with unusual care, and surveyed himself in the glass.
Would the earl, proud Lord Lackland, accept him as a son-in-law?
He dared not answer his own query, but whiled away the early hours by pacing to and fro, doing a little work, smoking at intervals and thinking always.
As the clock struck eleven he took up his hat and started on his momentous business.
While he was on his way to the Lackland mansion in Grosvenor Square the earl himself was seated in the breakfast-room munching his toast and sipping his coffee.
Lady Lackland was seated at the table.
Fitz and Ethel were out in the park at their morning gallop.
"Extraordinary thing," said Lady Lackland, in answer to a remark of the earl's, "I cannot understand it. The man has done so much, made so much money and obtained such wonderful power that he makes one afraid. I always said he was clever. I could see it the first moment I saw him. Do you remember the conversation I had with him the day of the thunder storm? It seemed almost as if he knew the codicil would be found. And he has actually consented to Fitz's engagement with Violet Mildmay. More, he has promised in an indefinite, cautious sort of way to advance the match. A wonderful man. I hope he will succeed; we want money, we must have it."
"We must," said the earl. "It is a singular thing that we have not been ruined long before this. I feared that the bills would have been called in long ago, but I seem to have heard very little of them lately."
"Perhaps your creditors think that Fitz will marry well and are waiting till you should get some money."
"Perhaps so," said the earl, coolly. "I wish Ethel were as well disposed of."
Lady Lackland sighed.
"Ethel is my great trouble," she said. "She is beautiful enough to make a really great match, but there is no doing anything with her; she is as cold as ice to all of them, and I am powerless."
"Hem!" said the earl, and he shifted in his chair to get more comfortable. "There is one little difficulty about Ethel which you seem to forget; perhaps you do not know it."
"What is that?" asked the countess.
"That her private fortune has long since been swallowed up."
Lady Lackland looked grave.
"And if she marries, her husband will want it – at least, ask for it. If he should, where is it to come from?"
He put the question quite calmly, and Lady Lackland sighed.
"Nobody was ever so poor as we are – "
"Or spent more money," said the earl, comfortably. "Ethel is a difficult question; a big marriage would bring questions, questions would bring awkward answers. I have spent her fortune, and I cannot replace it."
At that moment, while the countess sat with a look of annoyance and distress, silent and dismayed, a servant entered with a card.
The earl glanced at it, and handed it to the countess.
"Bertie Fairfax!" she breathed.
"Show Mr. Fairfax into the library," said the earl.
Then, when the servant had withdrawn, he smiled over his cup quite calmly and unmoved.
"Bertie Fairfax," said the countess, with a frown.
"What is to be done? Of course he comes to ask for Ethel."
"Not having seen him, I cannot say."
"What shall you say if he does?"
"It all depends," said the earl, wiping his mustache. "I may have to order him to leave the house, or I may – "
"Be careful!" said the countess.
The earl smiled coldly, and left the room.
Bertie rose as the earl entered.
"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfax," he said, fixing his cold, steely eyes on Bertie's face, and holding out a cold, impassive hand.
"Good-morning, my lord," said Bertie, who had determined to remain self-possessed and unembarrassed, whatever might be the issue of the interview, or, however the question might go. "Good-morning. I am afraid I am rather early, but I have come on a matter in which impatience is permissible."
"Pray sit down," said the earl, seating himself as he spoke in a hard, straight-backed chair, and looking as straight as the chair itself. "Nothing has happened, I hope."
"Nothing of harm, I hope," said Bertie, gravely. "I have come, my lord, to ask you for the hand of Lady Boisdale."
The earl raised his eyebrows, assuming a surprise which, of course, he did not feel.
"I had thought it best to declare my purpose and put my request as plainly and as straightforwardly as I could. I do not undervalue the prize which I pray for at your hands, my lord, and I am humbly conscious that I am not worthy to receive it from you. I can only plead that I love her with all my heart and that I have loved her for years. But, a few months ago, I should have deemed my request presumptuous to the extent of madness, but now, although I am not one whit more worthy of her, I am, perhaps, in the eyes of the world a little less presumptuous."
The earl listened with an unmoved countenance, as if he were listening to some passage from a book which in no way concerned him.
"May I ask, Mr. Fairfax," he said, "if you have made Lady Boisdale acquainted with the state of your feelings?"
Bertie flushed the slightest in the world.
"I regret to say that I have, my lord. No one can regret it more than I do. I know that I should have come to you first, and have gained permission to place myself at your daughter's feet. But the depth of my devotion must plead for me; may I hope that it will? We are all, the best of us, the slaves of impulse. There are times when the heart asserts itself and enslaves the will, which, perhaps for years, has bidden its voice be silent, as mine has done."
The earl bowed.
"May I ask," he said, "in what way Lady Ethel received your advances?"
"I found that, for once, true love had won its best return."
"She consented, do you mean?"
Bertie bowed.
"Then, doubtless, Mr. Fairfax," said the earl, as softly as ever, "you were kind enough to place her in possession of facts of which I am in ignorance?"
Bertie did not understand, and looked as if he did not.
"In such matters as this," said the earl, "it is best, as you say, to speak with candor. I refer to your position in the world, and your ability to keep Lady Boisdale in the society which, all my friends tell me, she so greatly adorns."
Bertie bowed.
"My lord, I should have shamed her by any such allusion, and lost all hope of winning her heart. To you I may say that I am not poor in the eyes of many, though I may seem poor indeed to one of your lordship's position and wealth."
The earl winced inwardly, but showed nothing of it outwardly.
"I have an income of two thousand pounds a year, and I trust that I may be able before long to own with gratitude that it is doubled. It is not a large sum, my lord."
"I may conclude that the sum you mention is the whole – in fact, that you are not prepared to make any settlement?"
"All that I have shall be hers," said Bertie. "The richest man in England can do no more."
"No settlement!" said the earl, coldly. "Under the circumstances, you would not, therefore, expect a fortune with her?"
Bertie crimsoned.
"Your lordship forgets," he said, with quiet dignity, "that I came to ask for your daughter and not for your money."
The earl showed no displeasure at the stern retort, but took it simply as an assent, and nodded.
"Mr. Fairfax, to be candid, as we have been all through, Lady Lackland and I have had higher hopes for Ethel, much higher. It is true that you are famous, and that you are well descended; the Fairfaxes run with ourselves, I think. It is usual – nay, it is the duty of a father to endeavor to place his daughter in a higher station than the one which she inherits from him. If I ignore that duty and consent to give up that hope, I trust I shall be pardoned if I make one suggestion."
"My lord, I am in your hands," said Bertie, with simple dignity and earnestness.
"And that is that you will give me, both of you, a formal quittal of any fortune or estate that may be due to her. I simply suggest it as a fair and honorable thing. You may be aware, or you may not, that Lady Ethel has some small fortune of her own; under the circumstances I must make the condition that should I give my consent you will agree to let the money remain in the estate, vested, so to speak, in the family."
Bertie smiled.
"As I said before, my lord, I ask only for Ethel. What money she may have is at her own disposal. I don't wish to touch one penny of it, directly or indirectly."
"My dear Mr. Fairfax, do not let us continue this branch of our subject, then," said the earl, with a smile that was intended to be cordial, but was more like a stray sunbeam on an October morning. "I will confess that I merely put the question to test you, not that I doubted your honor, but – well, well, you are young, she is young, and I am obliged to guard both of you. But, there, if you still feel confident that you can make her happy, and that you can take her for herself alone, my dear Fairfax, I give her to you, and with her my most hearty blessing."
Bertie gasped with astonishment.
To him, knowing nothing of Ethel's fortune which the earl had appropriated, his consent to Ethel's betrothal was simply astonishing.
He had expected to be repulsed, refused.
The tears sprang to his eyes, his gentle nature was filled with gratitude.
"My lord," he said, grasping the cold hand, "I cannot thank you; thanks for such a gift were idle and vain. Only one who has waited for years, hoping against hope until the heart was sick, can tell what I feel now. My lord, if you will pardon me I will take my leave."
"Good-by, my dear boy," said the earl, "good-by; you will find Ethel in the park. Heaven bless you!"
Bertie found himself outside – how he scarcely knew – bathed in delight and satisfaction.
Where should he find Ethel? Every moment he was away from her now seemed an insane delay.
Where – As he hurried to make his way to the Park there came around the corner, smiling and serene as usual, Mr. Howard Murpoint.
A short gentleman leaned upon his arm.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax, how d'ye do?" said the captain, with a sunny smile of friendly greeting. "What a delightful morning. Allow me to introduce my friend – Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, Mr. Bertie Fairfax."
Bertie shook hands with the captain, and bowed slightly to his friend, then with a nod hurried on.
He turned at the corner in time to see the captain and his friend standing on the doorsteps of the Lackland house, and as he saw an indefinable and intangible shadow crept over him and chilled him.
By some strange course of reasoning or feeling, he had grown to connect the captain with every mishap of his life.
What were he and his friend doing thus early at Lackland house?
Casting from him the dim foreboding which had fallen upon him at the sight of Howard Murpoint and Mr. Smythe, Bertie hurried to the park.
It was the unfashionable hour – at eleven the Upper Ten are either in bed or just thinking of breakfast – and the Row was nearly empty.
Bertie did not meet with much difficulty in finding his quarry, for they were galloping up and down the tan in the height of enjoyment.
Ethel saw Bertie first, and exclaimed:
"Fitz, there is Bert – Mr. Fairfax."
"What, Bert out of his den as early as this! Hello, old fellow," he exclaimed, as Bert came up, "what's the matter? Temple burned down?"
"No," said Bert, "not that I am aware of."
Then he took off his hat as Ethel rode up.
"I've come out for a run," he said, the happiness and delight within him showing itself in his eyes, "and I thought perhaps I should find you here."
"Do you want me?" said Fitz, rather puzzled, for there was something in Bertie's face that looked momentous.