"No, I don't want you," said Bertie; "I wanted a word with your sister."
Fitz looked puzzled still, but nodded to Ethel.
"Do you hear that, Eth? He wants to speak to you."
Ethel steered her horse near the rails, and Bertie went up and patted it.
Now that he had the opportunity he did not know what to say, or rather he was loath to say it before Fitz; he would rather have had Ethel alone, and, besides, his news was so precious that he clung to it and hugged it.
"Fitz," he said, "do you mind lending me your nag? It isn't far to walk home."
"Eh?" said Fitz, "what do you mean? I say, what's up? Something between you and Eth, I'll bet a pound. Yes, here you are, old fellow, here's the nag. Don't you two get up to mischief."
He got off in a moment, like the good-natured fellow that he was, and Bertie sprang into the saddle.
"You're a good fellow, Fitz," he said, gratefully.
"Just so," said Fitz, "that's what every man says; but, I say, I don't know whether it's the right thing. What will the earl and countess say? They're mighty particular, you know."
"I'll be responsible," said Bertie, laughing. "Good-by, old fellow; you are a good fellow, too."
Fitz nodded smilingly, and trotted off.
The two lovers, left thus, sat still, Ethel blushing and trembling, Bertie flushed and excited.
"Shall we have a gallop?" he said, and accordingly Ethel, without a word, put her horse into a run.
They rode to the end of the Row, then Bertie said:
"Don't you think it is very impudent of me to borrow your brother's horse and capture you?"
Ethel smiled faintly.
"Oh, my darling!" he burst out, triumphantly, delightedly, "you are mine! I have seen the earl this morning and he has given you to me."
They rode side by side, Bertie speaking of all his hopes and plans, she listening and drinking in the music of his voice.
Somehow or other they found themselves out of the Row and away to a secluded road, where there were no spectators.
Then Bertie took possession of the hand, and while he murmured soft, sweet words, as lovers can and will, he performed a feat of equestrianism which would have made him a worthy candidate for a circus, for with reckless daring he bent forward and actually snatched a kiss from the blushing but forgiving Ethel.
Then they rode home, happy, glowing, at peace with all the world, and as madly in love as any young couple in England.
"We shall meet to-night," said Bertie, "at Mrs. Mildmay's?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "to-night," and, though it was then one o'clock, "to-night" seemed as far off to her as the week after next.
Bertie left the horse at the Lacklands' stables and walked home to his chambers.
As he sat down at his table, his man entered with a letter.
Bertie glanced at the envelope and tore it open. It was stamped with the Lackland crest. It contained a short note, which Bertie had no sooner read than he turned as pale as the paper and staggered back into his chair like a man mortally wounded.
Before we glance over his shoulder and ascertain the contents of the letter which had so affected him let us return to Mr. Howard Murpoint and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe as they stand on the doorstep of Lackland House.
When the servant opened the door Mr. Murpoint inquired for Lord Lackland, and was soon, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, ushered into the earl's presence.
When they entered the room Howard Murpoint introduced Mr. Smythe to the earl and then proceeded to business.
He said that Mr. Smythe had been anxious to see the earl, as one of the directors of a certain mining company, to ask a few questions.
The earl admitted that he was on the board of directors and answered the questions, or rather the captain answered them for him.
Then Mr. Smythe announced his intention of becoming a director, and incidentally mentioned that he would, if there was any occasion for it, purchase the mine.
This made the earl stare, as the captain had intended that it should; and when Mr. Smythe rose to take his leave, Lackland's adieu was a great deal more cordial than his greeting.
When the rich Mr. Smythe had gone the captain eyed his dupe warily.
"A nice young fellow," he said.
"Very," said the earl. "A good business man, I have no doubt."
"Immensely rich," said the captain – "immensely. I wonder if the countess would oblige me by sending him a card for her next ball? I should take it as a personal favor."
The earl stroked his mustache.
"I am sure the countess would only be too delighted," he said. "But are you sure that Mr. Smythe would care to come?"
"I am certain that he would," said the captain. "Indeed, he was speaking of it only this morning. Poor fellow, he has become infatuated with the beauty of Lady Boisdale!"
The earl was almost guilty of a start.
"Indeed!" he said. "I am sure we are very much flattered by Mr. Smythe's preference. It is a pity we did not know him. Unfortunately there is no chance of his wishes being fulfilled. I have this morning promised the hand of Ethel to Mr. Fairfax."
"To Mr. Fairfax!" echoed the captain, with as much polite astonishment and disgust in his voice as if the earl had said "His Satanic Majesty." "To Mr. Fairfax!"
"Yes," said the earl. "Mr. Fairfax called here this morning, just before you came, and pressed his suit so earnestly that I yielded and gave my consent – a very reluctant consent, I must confess."
"Write a letter to him recalling your consent."
"Impossible," said the earl.
"Why so?" inquired Mr. Murpoint.
"My word has been given and if I were to break it I should be cut by every man in London. I dared not show my face in a single club."
"It is very unfortunate," said the captain, coolly, "more unfortunate than you can imagine, for I have not told you all."
"All?" inquired the earl. "What else is there to tell?"
"Mr. Smythe is a determined man," said the captain, quietly, "and he assured me this morning that if he did not get your consent to his suit he should go to extremities."
"Extremities! what do you mean?"
"Simply this: that he will buy up the mortgages and the numerous bills which you have given, and come down on you like a hawk. He is a most determined young man. He will sell Lackland Hall and everything you possess, as sure as you stand there."
"He cannot," said the earl, with a smile. "I can make arrangements with my creditors. I can purchase the bills, raise the money, pay off the debts."
"I am afraid not," said the captain. "Because, you see, the bills are all in my hands."
"Your hands?" exclaimed Lord Lackland.
"Yes, mine," answered the captain, softly and with the sweetest smile. "It is very unfortunate! I promised this worthy young man that I would use my influence with your lordship to gain your consent. I gave my word of honor, and if I were to break it I should be cut by every man in London and should not be able to enter a single club."
As he used the earl's own words, and smiled his soft, deadly smile, the earl sank into a chair and gasped for breath.
"Are you a man or a fiend?" he breathed.
"I am simply a man of business," said Mr. Murpoint, "and a man of my word."
"What am I to do? I am in your power!"
"Write a letter to this Mr. Fairfax and tell him that you cannot consent, that you rescind the promise you gave this morning."
The captain stood over him, quite the master of the situation, and dictated.
"Dear Sir: I regret that circumstances have occurred which compel me, on consideration, to recall the consent which I reluctantly gave you this morning. I must beg of you to believe that I am obliged by the force of circumstances to rescind that promise, and that I am strengthened in my resolution to refuse you the hand of my daughter by the countess, who is strongly opposed to any engagement taking place between you. If you have already seen Lady Boisdale, and acquainted her with your hopes and wishes, I must beg that you will, by writing, inform her that all engagements between you must cease, and that you are compelled in honor to refrain from prosecuting your suit. With regret I have arrived at this decision, and sign myself most sincerely your well-wisher, Lackland.
"P.S. – It would be as well, perhaps, if you could make arrangements to leave London for a time. If it should be inconvenient to you to do so, I will remove Lady Boisdale to one of my places in the country."
This letter was written and signed by the earl.
It was carried by a servant to the Temple, and it was read by our friend, Bertie, as we have seen.
Its effect upon him was beyond all description.
CHAPTER XXV
"MAN OVERBOARD."
Leicester had not much to complain of on the score of treatment from the captain and crew of the smuggler.
He went about his work silently, and with a certain dignity which repelled any advances on the part of his companions.
A year and some months passed wearily enough for Leicester, who hoped day by day for opportunity of escape.
But none presented itself, and at last he had almost determined to fling himself overboard, when the captain came one day to where he stood in the forecastle, and addressed him thus, in his Yankee drawl:
"Stranger, I guess we understand each other by this time?"
"I hope we do," said Leicester, moodily. "I am hoping that this accursed vessel will wreck some day," said Leicester, "and then – "
"And then what?" asked the captain.
"Then I may stand a chance," said Leicester, fiercely.
"So," said the Yankee, "that's the game, is it? Here!" and he called to two or three of the crew. "Clap this chap into irons."
The men came forward reluctantly, and Leicester, after a fierce struggle, was forced down upon the deck and heavily ironed.
Then he was hoisted and dragged to the mast, and lashed there, an example and a warning to all others who might be inclined to be "obstreperous," as the captain said.
All this time the schooner was making to get clear of the Channel, which they hoped to reach before dawn on the morrow.
The crew, already favorably impressed by Leicester's conduct and his uncomplaining capability, were much aggrieved at this treatment.
The Yankee skipper appeared to take no notice of the complaints for some time, but when the dissatisfaction arrived at that point when the men declared they would not work the vessel while Leicester was tied up the captain, with an oath, drew his revolver.
"Who says I mayn't do what I like on my own vessel?" he roared. "If there's one o' you as wants an inch o' lead let him stand out!"
One man, a weather-beaten little fellow whose face Leicester seemed to have remembered as having seen before he was carried on board, stepped forward and, with a savage sort of courage, stared the captain in the face.
"Wal, Stumpy," he said, "what have you got to say?"
"Why, this 'ere," said the courageous little fellow, "that it ain't the square thing to keep a man as does his duty and ain't shown no cheek skewered on the masthead."
The captain lowered his revolver.
"If you've all o' ye set your minds upon having this yer tarnation mighty gentleman a darncin' round agin, let him darnce."
Here the men set up a shout, and Stumpy leaped forward and commenced knocking Leicester's irons off.
With a malicious spite the Yankee set Leicester – almost exhausted as he was – and Stumpy, his advocate, to the hardest tasks.
In spite of all efforts to keep the vessel from going coastward the schooner gradually but surely drifted toward a line of reefs, and the strain was so great on the rudder that the Yankee issued an order for bracing it.
Of course Stumpy and Leicester were told off, and without a moment's hesitation they seized the necessary ropes and commenced the perilous task.
Leicester expected every moment that he and his comrade in danger would be blown or buffeted overboard, and so kept a keen lookout for Stumpy and grasped a spar, upon which he knelt, with the determination of an already drowning man.
The result showed that his fears were well grounded.
Suddenly he missed from his side the small but courageous form of his comrade.
Stumpy had succumbed to the latest billow.
With a shout of "A man overboard!" he hung over the side and peered into the heaving deep.
Grasping the spar in both hands Leicester rose to his full height, and, amid a roar of warning and excitement from the crew, leaped into the sea.
The drowning man was very nearly finished by Leicester's well meant effort at rescue, for the spar just missed his head by a foot.
As it was, however, he seized it with a convulsive grasp, and the two men were once more together.
For a few moments the ship was lost to them.
They were pitched up and down, backward and forward, the rain cutting their faces, and the cold numbing their hands.
Then it was that Leicester hit upon a means of securing them to the spar.
The rope which had been fastened to his waist still hung there, and he managed, by dint of sheer force, to drag it up, and drop it over the spar once or twice, at each turn passing it round the armpit of Stumpy or himself.
By this means they were completely entangled, and in a rough fashion lashed to the long piece of wood in which all their hopes of life rested.
Dawn broke at last, and the storm subsided; but long before then they were half unconscious and wholly numbed.
When Leicester came to, he found himself lying on his back, and the weather-beaten face of Stumpy over him.
He smiled, and the man groaned back in reply; but for quite an hour no words were spoken.
At the end of that time, when they had almost recovered from the exhaustion, Leicester struggled to his feet and approached Stumpy, who was sitting, hugging his knees, at a little distance on the beach.
"Come," he said. "We are safe, thank Heaven! Cheer up! We must move on."
The man rose and looked at him, but although he nodded his head in assent he made no allusion to their late peril or made any attempt to thank his preserver.
They scrambled up the beach for some little distance, then Stumpy stopped.
"It's no use of my going any farther, sir; I can't indeed."
Leicester, fully appreciating the "sir," by which the man addressed him, stared in astonishment.
"Why not, man? We must go on! Why should you be afraid to go on? This is Ireland, you say. Do you fear anything from the people on the coast? Ah, I forgot!" he added, as the remembrance of his comrade's occupation flashed on him. "You fear the coastguard!"
"That's it," said Stumpy. "I should be in quod in half an hour."
"But how should they know you?" asked Leicester. "You need not proclaim yourself."
"No need for that, sir," said Stumpy, with a grin. "Look here," and he pulled up the bottom of his trousers and showed Leicester a mark branded upon his leg.
Leicester colored in spite of himself.
"You are a convict!" he said.
"That's it, sir; I am," said Stumpy, "and, what's more, I haven't served my time. That's the mark of the chain-gang, and it will never come out. The first thing the guard will ask will be 'Show us your leg, mate,' and then where am I?"
Leicester thought for a moment deeply.
"All right," he said. "I've hit upon it. You get into that cave there, and I'll hasten up and hunt out some people. I can get some provisions, and will not be here until dark. We can creep away then and gain one of the towns."
So without waiting for any more objections or refusals, he hurried up the beach.
Stumpy crawled into the cave as he had been directed, and fell to nursing his knees, muttering:
"And to think as a gentleman should act like this to a hinfamous rogue like me! If I'd a known what he was like, if I wouldn't a spiked that villainous skipper and led a mutiny!"
In a short time he heard voices, and peeping out, saw Leicester coming down the beach accompanied by a crowd of people.
Stumpy at once concluded that Leicester had thought better of his generous offer to stand by him, and had sold him to the coastguard.
Therefore he kept in the cave until Leicester crawled in to him, and cried out, laughingly:
"Here's a pretty Irishman!" pointing to a peasant in a blue blouse and with an unmistakably French countenance. "Why, man, this isn't Ireland at all! We're on the coast of France!"
Stumpy's relief of mind at Leicester's intelligence that they were cast ashore in France instead of Ireland was intense, and he fell to and ate heartily of the food which Leicester had brought, but not until he had seen Leicester himself hard at work in a similar way.
The French peasants hung round them while they ate the bread and meat, and then were for taking them into the village to be examined by the notary.
But Leicester, after a moment's conference with Stumpy, told the simple people that he and his companion were very tired, and that they would prefer to rest a while before presenting themselves for examination.
The peasants, with true French politeness, immediately left them.
"Now," said Leicester, as the blue blouse disappeared round the corner, "we must give those good people the slip, I suppose. Do you speak French?"
Stumpy shook his head.
"The only furrin language I knows, guv-nor, is a bit o' Spanish."
"Spanish!" said Leicester. "The very thing. I know enough of it to pass muster in a society where it is seldom spoken. Stumpy, I see it all. I must be a Spanish artist, a musician, and you – if you don't mind playing second fiddle – shall be my servant."
Then he decided to tell Stumpy his story; and a wronged man never had a more sympathetic listener.
When it grew dark the two stole along the beach, and entered a village some miles farther along the coast than that against which they had been cast up.
Leicester had a little money with him sewn in his canvas belt, and Stumpy, having received his wages on the day of the storm, was similarly supplied.
By dint of great economy and carefulness they reached Paris uninterfered with, and here Leicester, without loss of time, commenced to put his plans into execution.
At a broker's shop he purchased a capital wig of white, or rather iron-gray hair, invested in a pair of broad-rimmed spectacles at an optician's, and purchased at a ready-made tailor's a suit befitting an elderly foreigner of modest means.
Stumpy was accommodated with decent clothes, his long black locks well oiled and combed, and a small pair of gold rings set in his ears.
After waiting about a week in Paris to accustom themselves to their disguises the two sham Spaniards crossed to England.
Leicester took tickets, second class, for himself and Stumpy to Penruddie.
They arrived at night, and boldly determined to put their disguises to the test.
Leicester marched slowly down to the "Blue Lion", Stumpy walking at his side and carrying a small valise.
"Can we have something to eat and to drink?" asked Stumpy, in broken English.
Martha nodded irritably and waved her hand toward the parlor.
The two entered.
Leicester looked round the room and seated himself in a distant corner.
A thrill of indignation ran through him as the door opened and Job entered, and he could scarcely refrain from springing at the wily little rogue and securing him at once.
But he was slightly mollified by observing on Job's face, as on that of all the others, a peculiar look of dissatisfaction and discontent.
Job eyed him and Stumpy with suspicious glances, and nodding to the others, took his old seat, calling as he did so for some ale.
Presently Job rose to light his pipe, and instead of reseating himself in his old place dropped into a chair near Leicester.
"Come far, sir?" he said, opening up a conversation.
Leicester raised his eyebrows and shook his head, waving his hand toward Stumpy, who interpreted the sentence, and replied, in broken English:
"No, not far; from London."
Then he commenced to talk of fine houses and big fees, and somehow drew from Job the story of the murder of Starling and the fact that most of the people concerned in the tragedy had gone away.
"It is very strange," he said, "very! A murder is not what you would call common in England? What did you do with ze Mastro Leicester; hang him up by ze neck?"
"No," said the man, shaking his head. "He died without that. He fell over the cliff with the chap he'd done for, and so the country was saved the trouble of that."
Leicester sat like a man in a dream, but gave no outward sign that the story had affected him.
Stumpy, thinking that he had pumped quite enough for the present requested Polly to bring cigars for himself and his master, and leaned back with an air of enjoyment.
After a few words with Leicester, who was known as Signor Edgardo, Stumpy asked if they could have a bed.
Martha answered shortly and decisively:
"No! I haven't got any beds to spare."
Stumpy inquired where he could get one.
"Here, Will," said the talkative fisherman, shaking Willie Sanderson, who had been asleep. "Can't you let this gentleman and his man have a couple of beds?"
Willie rubbed his eyes and nodded.
"I dare say," he said, staring about him.
Then the signor rose, bowed all round, and took his leave, followed by Stumpy, with Willie Sanderson to lead the way.
Slowly they tramped down to the Sandersons' cottage.
Willie opened the door and beckoned to the visitors to enter.
As they entered the small sanded room a lad rose from a chair and hobbled forward on a crutch.
He was a frail boy with a pale, intellectual, and mournful face.
Willie nodded to him.
"Jamie, these gentlemen want a bed; show 'em upstairs to the best room."
The lad took the candle and hobbled up the stairs.
At the stairhead he stopped and looked hard at Leicester, who turned his face slightly and adjusted his spectacles.
Stumpy, who had been warned to be careful, took the candle and thanked the lad.
Then the two Spaniards entered the room.
Leicester lay on the bed for an hour, without moving – plotting, planning; and Stumpy, after a prolonged entreaty that he would undress and get some rest, desisted and sat down patiently to wait until his master and preserver, and hero – for Stumpy considered Leicester to be everything that was courageous and noble and good – should choose to move.
Leicester rose at last full of self-reproach.
"I had forgotten you," he said. "You should have got to bed. Come, let us get some sleep. You want it badly enough."
As he spoke, and commenced undressing, their candle sputtered and went out.
Leicester took no notice, and Stumpy, after a moment's grumbling at having to undress in the dark, was just getting into one of the beds – there were two in the room – when Leicester said:
"Hush! Listen!"
Stumpy listened, and heard a noise of crying and sobbing in the next room.
He stared at Leicester and shook his head.
"It's that young lad we saw downstairs," he said. "Listen! Some one's giving him a beating."
"No," said Leicester, in the same low voice, "there's no other voice or noise in the room. What can be the matter?"
Stumpy looked up at the ceiling.
It was an old cottage, and the partition between the rooms was in some places worn through; light came between these chinks, and supplied Stumpy with an idea.
Without a word he bent down close against the wall and, in silence, motioned Leicester to get on his back.
This Leicester for some time declined to do; but as the sobbing broke out again his curiosity overcame him, and he stepped lightly on to Stumpy's back and then supported himself by clinging to one of the rough beams.
Having gained a position, he peered through one of the holes.
He was looking down into a small room, poorly furnished.
On the bed, in an attitude of abandon, sat the boy, Jamie. His face was hidden in his hands, but his whole figure shook and quivered as he murmured, loud enough for Leicester to hear:
"This is the night he died! The very night! What makes me think of him so? It must be 'cause he was good to me – and he was good to me! He was like no one else! And now he's dead – shamefully murdered and slandered. Oh, Mr. Leicester, Mr. Leicester, if you could only come to life again and prove your innocence! It is false! You did not murder him – you couldn't; and yet – "
Then he stopped suddenly, shuddered, and looked round the room fearfully.
Then he drew himself painfully from the bed and to a box lying in the corner of the room, opened it, and, with another shudder, took something from it.
This something he held in his hand and stared at with an evident horror of fascination.
In his anxiety to see what the article was, Leicester nearly lost his balance, and made a slight noise.
The lad started, and the something dropped with a clash to the floor, revealing itself to be a large clasp-knife.
Leicester could scarcely believe his eyes.
Was the lad mad? or had he committed murder? Why did he sit and shudder over a clasp-knife which he kept hidden in his bedroom?
He got down and motioned Stumpy to his place.
Stumpy was just in time to see the knife hidden away, and on receiving a full account of all Leicester had seen was equally puzzled about it.
"It's very rum!" he said, shaking his head. "There's been some foul work somewhere, sir, take my word for it. What's that youngster got that knife for? It's no common one, or he wouldn't carry on like that over it. All the more reason, all this is, that we should keep dark and play a waiting game."
Then, with respectful earnestness, he implored Leicester to take some rest, and Leicester, to humor the man, who, however much a convict, had served him honestly, yielded.
On the morrow both men were up at sunrise.
Stumpy went down to the beach, and smoked a cigarette Spanish fashion among the fishermen, to whom he chatted and listened with the greatest liveliness.
He could not, however, learn anything and returned rather disappointed.
Not so Leicester, who entered the room looking as white and stern as a ghost, and who laid a soiled sheet of paper upon the table.
"Look at that!" he said. "Stumpy, look at it!"
"Where did you get it, sir?"
"I took it from an old wall at the end of the village," said Leicester, pacing up and down.
Stumpy read it.
It was the handbill offering a hundred pounds reward for the apprehension of Leicester Dodson, charged with the willful murder of James Starling.
No sooner had Stumpy read it than he grew alarmed.
"Some of 'em don't think you're dead," he said; "and this here's a dangerous place. That wig might blow off in the wind, and then where would you be? No, no, London's the place for us! We shan't get any more out of this yet a while, and if we stop here somebody will get suspicious. That bill's enough to make the dullest chap in England sharp. A hundred pounds!"
Leicester was not loth to leave Penruddie.
The place was hateful to him now that all he loved were in London, so the next morning they paid their bill and went up to the great city.
Very changed did Leicester seem as he passed familiar places, and remembered that he must not enter them. Stranger still, he saw some familiar faces, and they passed him and did not recognize him.
In a political paper he read news which astounded him.
The city article was nearly full of one name, and that – Howard Murpoint, Esq., M. P.
Leicester could not believe his eyes, and it was some time before he could realize that the villain who had entrapped and betrayed him was a man of great wealth, influence and power.
He determined to see him in his triumph and set about a way of doing it.
There was at that time a club in London to which foreigners were admitted who could give a reference.
Leicester went there and gave the name of his father, who was well known as a merchant.
At this club, in the smoking-room, he in a feigned voice conversed with several men and learned enough to astound him.
Carefully he led up to the great name, and inquired if Howard Murpoint lived in London.
"Oh, yes," said his informant, "he has two large houses, and another place down in the south – a wonderful man. There is a dinner conversazione on at his place to-night."
"Indeed!" said Leicester, who felt that he would give all he possessed to be a guest.
"Yes," said the gentleman. "A sort of gathering of the lions, you know. Open house. I have a card – two in fact, one for a friend who has discovered a new slab in Assyria. He ought to be here by now."
Just then a servant brought a letter for the gentleman.
"Hem! – can't come; just like that sort of man! I don't know whether you care for this sort of thing, but if you do there is his card."
Leicester thanked his generous acquaintance gratefully, and they dined together on the understanding that they should drop in at Howard Murpoint's house afterward.
Leicester could scarcely eat or restrain his excitement, but by an effort he managed to conceal it and assume a certain amount of indifference.
About nine o'clock they started for their conversazione.
Howard Murpoint's house was magnificently lighted up and a crowd of servants were massed in the hall to receive the guests.
"Heaps of people here to-night," said Leicester's useful friend. "I'm afraid you won't thank me."
"I am anxious to see the great man," said Leicester, "and would go through a greater crush than this."
"Well, he's a great man and worth seeing," said the friend, as they entered the grand salon.
Leicester looked around in astonishment at the assembled crowd of people of the very best sort, the guests of Howard Murpoint.
Where had the money come from?
He left his friend a few minutes after they had entered, and made his way toward the orchestra, where a splendid band was playing.
There, in the midst of a group of lords and ladies, he heard a smooth, serene voice he remembered only too well.
He turned suddenly and came face to face with Howard Murpoint.
For a moment he forgot that he was disguised, for the moment his face flushed, his hand clinched, his lip curled with scorn and contempt, but the next, as Howard Murpoint's eyes met his smilingly and unconsciously, he remembered all, and stepped aside.
In doing so he pressed rather heavily against a lady. With a low and hurried "Pardon me!" he turned and looked upon Violet Mildmay!
This time it was the blood left his cheek, and he staggered.
Violet thought that her long train had inconvenienced the tall old gentleman.