"I am very sorry; but the rooms are so crowded," she said, in her sweet, gentle voice.
The tears sprang into Leicester's eye, his heart leaped as if it would spring from his body, his arms were half extended; but, with another smile, Violet had passed on.
Then a great and terrible feeling of loneliness and desertion came upon him, and he crept back into a corridor all dazed and dreamy.
Round him were the promenaders, about him the exquisite music floating through the perfumed air, the voices of the guests; about all the serene, soft, falsely sweet tones of the villainous schemer; and within him the consciousness that Violet – the woman he loved best in all the world – was near him!
CHAPTER XXVI
A PARDONABLE TREACHERY
For the first few moments Bertie's sensations on reading Lord Lackland's letter were anything but distinct, then gradually, as he realized the blow which the earl's duplicity had dealt him, indignation predominated.
He had been basely deceived and betrayed, and his betrayal was rendered all the more bitter by the foretaste which he had been allowed to have of his happiness.
He wandered listlessly down to his club.
In the smoking-room, to which he repaired, he found Fitz extended at full length, sipping a brandy and soda.
He determined on the spur of the moment to confide in him.
"Hello, Bert," said Fitz. "What have you done with my nag?"
"Taken him to the stable," said Bert. "I suppose you half feared that I had bolted?"
"No," said Fitz. "What is in the wind? No mischief, I hope."
"Fitz," said Bertie, seating himself beside the good-natured Fitz, "I'm in great trouble."
"No!" exclaimed Fitz. "I thought that nothing ever troubled you, Bert."
"Something does now," said Bertie, gravely. "It's about Lady Boisdale – Ethel."
Fitz shook his head gravely.
"I was half afraid there was something on there, Bert, between you and Eth. I've noticed it for some time, and I thought perhaps you'd speak. I wish you had, because I could have told you that there was no chance for you."
Bertie colored.
"No," said Fitz, heartily. "Nothing would give me greater pleasure; but it can't be, Bert. Look here, one secret is as good as another. There's nobody listening, is there? I'll tell you something," and he sighed deeply. "Eth and I are as much slaves as any nigger going. We can't marry where we like, and we can't do as we like. People think because I'm the eldest son and she's the daughter of the Earl of Lackland that we can do just as we like. Bert, it's a mistake. We're tied hand and foot. We must marry money. Why?" And he looked sadly at Bertie, who stared in astonishment. "Why? Because we haven't a single penny ourselves. We Lacklands are as poor as church mice. There isn't an inch of land, there isn't a brick of stone that isn't mortgaged, and we young ones, Eth and I, must bring it all right again by marrying money. She'll have to marry some retired tea-dealer, and I – well, I know where I'd marry, and marry money, too; but I can't. The angel – for she is an angel, Bert – is too great, too grand, too good for me. You know, Bert, that there is no man under the sun I'd like to call brother more than I would you, but it can't be. Take a cigar and some liquor and give it up as a bad job, for it can't be. Eth would never marry you without the earl's consent, and he never will give it."
"But," said Bertie, "he has given it."
"What?" said Fitz, with surprised astonishment.
"Given it and taken it away again. Read that," said Bertie, and he handed the earl's letter to Fitz.
Fitz read it, and his eyes opened their widest.
"But – but," he said, "do you mean to say that the earl gave his consent to your marrying Ethel – don't be offended, old fellow, I know you are worthy of her if any one is – without striking a bargain?"
"N – no," said Bertie, as the earl's words concerning the private fortune of Ethel recurred to his mind. "No, he informed me, very unnecessarily, that Ethel's fortune would be retained or forfeited."
"What!" exclaimed Fitz, springing up, with angry astonishment. "Do you mean to tell me that her money is gone? that she is robbed with the rest of us?"
"I tell you nothing but what I heard," said Bertie, calmly.
"It is gone," said Fitz, white with passion, "of course it is gone! Idiot that I was to think he would spare that when he has taken all else! He has spent – squandered the poor girl's fortune, and then sells her, bargains her away to the first comer. It is shameful. It is unendurable; and, by Heaven, I will not endure it!"
"The bargain is off," said Bertie, bitterly. "You forget that the earl has thought better of it. He has recalled his consent."
"Yes, because he has received a higher bid! I know him!" said Fitz, sternly. "He would sell her to the highest bidder as if she were a horse or a piece of furniture. When did this occur?"
"This morning," said Bertie, and then he placed Fitz in possession of such of the facts as he himself was cognizant of.
"I see it all," said Fitz, pulling at his yellow beard in a frenzy. "That Howard Murpoint has been at the bottom of it. But have you noticed how thick the earl and he have been lately? I begin to hate that fellow. Do you remember the old time down there at Penruddie, when he was a regular bore?"
"Shall I ever forget it?" said Bertie, softly.
"Oh, no! poor Leicester!" said Fitz. "Well, we said there was more in the captain, as he called himself then, than appeared at first sight; and now look at him! He's the heart and soul and the whole machinery of the Mildmays, his name is good on 'Change for any amount, and now – now he has taken an interest in us. Bert, there's mischief brewing, mark me if there ain't. Who is this Mr. Smythe you saw with him this morning?"
"A millionaire, one of his city friends, a nob and an idiot," said Bertie, calmly.
"Then that's the fellow Ethel will be sold to," said Fitz, with calm despair.
"No," said Bertie, rising, white and passionate. "I'd shoot him first."
"Shoot him and be hung?" said Fitz, groaning. "You can't prevent it. Howard Murpoint is cleverer than us all, and if he has set his heart upon Ethel's being sacrificed to this Smythe fellow, why, sacrificed she'll be."
"I will help it," said Bertie. "I do not believe that Ethel will ever consent."
"She will," said Fitz. "I'll tell you why. They'll represent that if she marries the fellow, she'll save the family; and Ethel has such straight ideas of duty that she'll consent to sacrifice herself."
"Never!" said Bertie. "I would sooner see her in her grave. I would sooner tear her from them by force."
"I'll tell you what," said Fitz. "You'd better get her away by cunning."
Bertie thought for a moment.
"My honor – "
"Bids you do it," said Fitz. "She will sacrifice herself for a mistaken idea of duty. Nothing will save her unless – " He hesitated.
Bertie's blood raced through his veins.
"Fitz," he said, "give me your consent, and I will do it. You know how I love her. You have been more of a parent to her than her father. Say you consent, and I will snatch her from their clutches."
"I consent," said Fitz, "with all my heart, and I should think you less than the man you are if you didn't."
"I am thinking of her," said Bertie, rising and walking to the window. "Will she ever forgive me?"
"Try her," said Fitz, rising and walking toward him. "Try her. She loves you, Bert, I know, and – What's the matter?"
"Look here, quick!" exclaimed Bertie, who had started suddenly. "Look there – among the crowd now crossing the road! Isn't that the very figure and walk of poor Les? Heavens above! How like. It sent every nerve of me thrilling," and he sank into a chair, staring out of the window still.
"I didn't see him," said Fitz. "Poor fellow! you were great friends. Was it anything like him in the face?"
"No – too old," said Bertie, with a sigh. "Poor Les! Poor Les!"
Then he fell to walking the room, and drank his soda and brandy like one parched with thirst.
That night Ethel was taken to Coombe Lodge, and Bertie, who had called at Grosvenor Square, was told that the family had left town.
Meanwhile Fitz remained, and the conversation he had with Bertie had nerved him to courage.
They say that one marriage makes nine, by example, and Fitz, seeing that Bertie had been brave enough to declare his love, determined to do so also.
That night there was another conversazione at Lady Merivale's, and Fitz knew that the Mildmays would be guests.
He had an invitation, and he determined to go, though such things were not in his way, hoping to find an opportunity of declaring his long love for Violet.
The night was hot, and Fitz felt burning uneasiness and fear, for he feared Violet as much as he loved her.
He knew within his heart of hearts that she was too good for him, and yet he could not deny himself the pleasure or pain of putting the matter to the test.
Lady Merivale's rooms were not too crowded. Her ladyship had mercifully asked no more than her rooms would hold, and Fitz, as he entered rather early in the evening, could see that the Mildmays party had not arrived.
"Just my luck," he murmured. "Of course, now I've plucked up courage, she won't come. Serve me right. I know she's far too precious for me."
He sauntered to a corner and sat down beside an Italian, who had a series of sketches to show and tried to get poor Fitz to speak to him.
But the Italian only knew "Yes" and "No" in English, and Fitz only knew "Macaroni" in Italian, so thus the conversation did not afford much amusement to either party.
Presently, as the rooms grew fuller, a tall gentleman with white hair and wearing spectacles approached the two, and, bowing to the Italian, asked permission to see the sketches.
He spoke in Spanish, a language as strange to Fitz as Italian, so after a few minutes, Fitz rose and left the Italian and Spaniard together.
The Spaniard looked up wistfully.
"Do you know that gentleman?" he asked.
"No," said the Italian.
"I do," said a stranger who stood near, and who was none other than the club newsmonger, Tommy Gossip. "That is Lord Boisdale, eldest son of Lord Lackland. He's engaged – or going to be – to Miss Violet Mildmay."
The Spaniard bowed, smiled and departed.
At that moment Violet entered on the arm of Howard Murpoint.
The Spaniard saw Lord Fitz approach and take her from Mr. Murpoint and frowned.
"Is it true?" he murmured to himself. "Is she going to marry him? Has she forgotten me?"
Then he sighed and sauntered off with a melancholy smile to a retired alcove.
He was not in the humor for the gay and talkative crowd, and wanted a little quiet.
He sank down in a cool corner of the velvet lounge and fixed his dark eyes upon the floor.
"Why did I come back?" he mused. "They think me dead; they have forgotten me – they have ceased to mourn for me, and others have stepped into my place. I had better leave the world which knows me no more, and try for a new life in some new land. I see the best and fairest – she whom I loved – has no thought, no faith that lasts more than twelve months. I see that the rogue flourishes. I am disgusted with the world, and I will leave it. That poor fellow, the escaped convict, has more gratitude and affection and faithfulness than all the rest put together. We will go together – he and I, outcasts – and see the world no more."
He half rose in his bitterness as if to carry out his threat at once and leave the world, but at that moment two persons entered the alcove.
They were Fitz and Violet.
Fitz led Violet to a seat, then, murmuring something about the draught, let down a heavy curtain before the couch on which sat the melancholy Spaniard.
Thus the muser was cut off from the others, a listener, and made a spy much against his will.
Before he could move to make known his presence Fitz spoke, and his tone, more than his words, transfixed the listener to the spot.
"Miss Mildmay," said Fitz, plumping into his task with a nervous precipitance, "I am so glad I can see you alone for a few minutes."
"Yes?" said Violet, looking up with a dreamy, calmly serene gaze, which had nothing of embarrassment and, therefore, nothing of love in it.
"Yes," said Fitz; "I have been longing for this opportunity for some time. Miss Mildmay, I am a bad hand at speaking what I mean, but you know I mean all I say. You know that, though I'm a poor, good-for-nothing wretch who oughtn't to be allowed to breathe the same air with one so good and clever as you, but you know that I love you – "
Violet's face grew pale and very sad and mournful.
She raised her hand to stop him, but Fitz had made the plunge, and now, like all nervous people, was reckless.
"Don't stop me, Miss Mildmay; let me go on and say my say. I've kept it within my bosom so long that I feel bursting with it. I love you with all my heart, and no man, let him be as clever as he may, can do more; and if I'm not worthy of you – which I am not – I am sure no one else is. Violet, look at me a little more kindly, you look so pale and sorrowful. Can – cannot you love me – only a little – just enough to say that you will be my wife?"
Violet turned her pale, sad face to him.
"Lord Boisdale – I – how can I answer you? You know that I have no love to give. It was thrown with all my hopes in the sea; that sea which breaks beneath those awful cliffs at Penruddie. You see I can speak calmly. I can look back at that dreadful past bravely and without shame! I am not ashamed to say that I have no heart for anything but the memory of a vanished past."
There was a slight stir behind the curtain, but the speaker did not notice it.
"But," said Fitz, "you will not spend your life in utter mourning, you will not sacrifice your own happiness and my life to such a shadow as that memory – "
"It is no shadow to me," said Violet, softly, sadly, her voice dreamily distinct and low, her eyes fixed as if gazing upon something very far off. "Oh, no! I see it all, day and night, I hear his last words – the man I loved – with the roar of the sea upon the shore. I see that past life of mine ever, day and night, and I am wedded to it. You see," she said with a start, and evidently arousing from her reverie, and remembering, "that it is useless to ask me for love. You would not have me without, Lord Boisdale?"
"I would," said Fitz, his eyes filled with tears. "Violet, dear Violet, you need some one to watch over and guard you – you need some one who could and would devote his life to recalling the smile and the sunlight to yours. I am willing, I am anxious. Confide in me, Violet; trust yourself to me. My love asks for nothing at your hands but yourself and the right to guard you. Oh, Violet, I have loved you so long – I – I would have died for you."
"Do not speak of death!" said Violet, with a shudder and a hurried gesture of entreaty. "I cannot bear that! I will have no one speak of dying for me! I believe – the dread clings to me – that he – Leicester – came to harm through me. No, no; no one shall die for me!"
And she half rose, wild and pale.
"Be calm, dear Violet," implored Fitz. "See how wild, how frightened you have become. Confess now that you need some strong right arm to protect you, to save you from the terrible state into which you have fallen! Violet, I do not ask you to love me, I only ask that you will promise to try. Have pity on me! You have a little, you say, but remember how I have been hoping for so long, and say that you will promise to try and love me."
Violet closed her eyes, and seemed lost in thought, then she opened them and smiled sadly.
"I have been thinking of all you say, dear Lord Boisdale," she said. "I am grateful, very, very grateful. I know how good, how true you are, and I would implore you to give that noble love to some one more deserving of it, but that I feel it would be an insult to do so. I know I am weak – perhaps that I am wicked. Oh, that I knew what was right!" she broke off wildly and with clasped hands.
"Say yes," pleaded Fitz. "You cannot trust yourself to any one who can understand you or love you better."
"Give me time, time," pleaded Violet. "I must have time to think."
"A week?" said Fitz.
"No, no; a month – a month!" said Violet, in a low, constrained voice.
"Well," sighed Fitz, "a month, if you will have it so long. Say a month. It's a very long time, but – " and he sighed again. "Well, a month! Try to say yes, dear Violet."
"I will," breathed Violet. "I will try to do what is right. I ought not to sacrifice you if – if you love me as you say. I am weak and feeble and selfish, but I will do what is right."
Then Fitz rose and looked down upon her, pale and struggling with her weakness.
"I will leave you now," he said. "I am sure you are tired and – and excited."
And he raised her hand to his lips.
But before he could kiss it the curtain was pushed aside and the tall, white-haired Spaniard came before them.
Fitz dropped Violet's hand with a nervous start.
Violet herself rose to her feet and stared wildly, but the Spaniard paused only for one moment, then, fixing his dark eyes upon her face, bowed low, murmured gravely "Pardon, señora," and vanished as noiselessly as he had appeared.
Violet, seated on a footstool at her aunt's feet, told her all that night, and Mrs. Mildmay, as in duty bound, informed Howard Murpoint.
In some way, before night fell, the world had got at it, and the clubs were rumoring that Lord Fitz Boisdale was engaged to Miss Mildmay.
In a few days a rumor still more exciting and relishing was produced, to the effect that Lord Lackland had accepted the wealthy millionaire, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, as suitor for the hand of Lady Ethel Boisdale.
Bertie, at his club, heard the rumor, and dashed off in search of Fitz.
He found him seated moodily and dreamily in an easy-chair at the smoking-room of his favorite haunt.
"Ha, Fitz," he exclaimed, "is it true?"
"What?" said Fitz, flushing. "What have you heard? Don't say it's too good to be true; don't cast me down, old fellow; you don't know how my heart is set upon it!" he exclaimed, thinking that Bertie alluded to the understanding between Violet and him.
"What do you mean?"
"What do you?" asked Fitz.
"Why, this – this – false report that – that Ethel is to be married to that odious fellow, that miserable young money-bag?"
"I can't say I've heard," said Fitz, frowning earnestly. "If I thought that there was anything in it, I'd go for my big whip and thrash him!"
At that moment a waiter put a letter into his hand.
He opened it, and his face grew red with indignation.
"Read it," he said, and thrust it into Bertie's hand.
It was an intimation from the earl that Mr. Wilhelm Smythe had proposed and been accepted.
Bertie, in his passion, could not speak a word.
Fitz tore the letter into a hundred pieces, and threw the fragments into the grate.
"Cheer up! But," he said, "he shall no more have her than those pieces shall come together again. We'll show them that right is stronger than might in this case."
Bertie clasped his hand.
"You will come down with me?" he said.
"I will, and will put our plot into execution; no time must be lost."
"I'll go to-night," said Fitz. "You stay here and wait till I telegraph. I'll put it carefully so that nothing happens. I'll telegraph that 'wheat has gone up.' Then you'll know that you're to come down."
The two talked together for a few moments excitedly and eagerly, then Fitz went off, calling to a servant to saddle a horse at once.
He started that night for Coombe Lodge, and appeared there the following morning as fresh and as light-hearted as usual, but with the determination to stand by his friend and save his sister at all costs.
Ethel was not up when he arrived, and she entered the breakfast-room without any expectation of seeing him.
"Fitz!" she exclaimed, the warm blood rushing to her face as she sprang to him.
He held her in his arms, but would not show any emotion.
"Hello, Eth!" he said, "why you've gone pale again! where's that summer rose? I've heard the news – don't tell me any more – I'll congratulate Mr. Smythe when I see him."
Her face went paler, and her eyes filled with tears.
She crossed her hands upon her breast.
"I have done right, Fitz, have I not?" she said. "The earl has told me all – how poor we are, and how necessary it is that you and I should sacrifice ourselves for the house. You will not sacrifice yourself, though, Fitz, will you? There need be no occasion. You will give your hand where you give your heart. Dear Violet."
Honest Fitz turned his face aside to conceal his emotion.
"No, Eth," he said, "that will be all right."
Then, to avert suspicion, he rattled away to the countess, as she came in, in his old style, and actually spoke of Mr. Smythe in a friendly way.
It cost him something to be deceitful, but he did it, and succeeded in blinding them all.
The next day he was particular in his attentions to the ladies, and allowed himself to be inveigled into a game of croquet – a game he detested.
In the afternoon he went into the servants' hall and nodded to Ethel's maid.
She came out into the garden, and a conversation took place between her and Fitz, which was concluded by Fitz dropping some gold into her hand.
That evening he was more merry than ever, and not even a letter from Mr. Smythe, saying that he should be down the day following, depressed his spirits.
That night, when the countess and Ethel were seated in the drawing-room, the former gloating over the approaching wedding, the latter inwardly shrinking from and shuddering at it, Fitz rode over to Tenby and telegraphed the few significant words:
"Wheat has gone up."
The following morning broke finely.
"What time is Mr. Smythe to arrive?" asked Fitz, cheerfully.
Ethel flushed, and bent her eyes to her plate.
"He will be here before dinner," said the countess.
"See that the horses are sent for him," said the earl from behind his paper.
"All right, I'll see to that," said Fitz. "Meanwhile, just to spend time, suppose you and I have a gallop, Eth?"
Ethel thanked him with her eyes.
"Then go and get your habit on at once," said Fitz.
On the staircase Mary, the maid, met her crying.
"If you please, my lady, my brother's broken his leg, and – and – and can I go home at once?"
"Certainly," said Ethel, softly. "I am sorry, Mary. You must not wait for anything. Fitz," she called down, "can you let Mary have the brougham?"
"Yes," said Fitz. "What does she want it for?"
Then when the sobbing handmaid told him all, he said, like the kind fellow he was:
"Yes, and tell William to put the pair of grays in for you. They'll take you to the station fast enough to catch the train."
Mary went off gratefully, and Fitz and Ethel soon afterward mounted and started for their ride.
"I wouldn't heat him too much," said Fitz, who seemed to be saving his horse, to Ethel.
"We are not going far, are we?" asked Ethel.
"Oh, not if you like, though I think we had better take the opportunity. We may not have many more rides together, Eth."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Let us have a long ride, Fitz, then," she said.
They rode on, Fitz saving his horse and showing no disposition to turn.
At last Ethel said:
"Don't you think we had better turn, Fitz? We shall not be in time."
"Let us go as far as that signpost," said Fitz. "Then – "
"We shall not be in time for – for Mr. Smythe," said Ethel, forcing herself to say the hateful word.
"Oh, yes, we shall, I think," said Fitz, with a twinkle in his eyes. "Hello, here's my horse gone lame!"
"Where?" said Ethel, but Fitz had jumped off.
"What shall we do?" said he, "he's dreadfully lame; I've noticed it for some miles, but said nothing. I can't ride him back, and you can't go alone."
"What shall we do? Where is a post town?" said Ethel.
"I don't know," said Fitz. "Here's a carriage!" and he pulled out his watch as he spoke, muttering, "Punctual, by Jove!"
Then he called to the coachman:
"Can you tell us the nearest post town? We want horses or something."
"I'm going that way, sir," said the man. "My young fellow will take your horses on, and you can get inside."
Fitz, without giving Ethel time to consent, hurried her in and jumped in himself.
"Drive on, my man," he said. "We are in a hurry."
"Fitz," said Ethel, who had been looking out of the window, "do you know anything of this man? He is taking the horses in another direction."
"No," said Fitz, but was spared any other falsehoods by the approach of another carriage which pulled up, as did theirs.
The door of the other carriage opened, and there ran across the road a slim young lady who rushed toward Ethel.
"Mary!" exclaimed Ethel.
"Jump in," cried Fitz, hurrying the maid in.
At the same moment some one mounted the box of their carriage, a heavy weight was thrown upon the top and away they started.
"What does it all mean, Fitz?" asked Ethel, looking half frightened. "Where are we going?"
"We are going to Penwhiffen – to that place where there is the pretty church," said Fitz.
"Church!" said Ethel, "and Mary! – and – Oh, Fitz! who is that on the box going with us?"
"That is the luggage," said Fitz, with a twinkle in his eyes. "The luggage and Mr. Bertie Fairfax. The cat's out of the bag, Ethel, my pretty one! We're running away with you! Bertie's got the special license in his pocket, and Mr. Smythe will have his journey to Coombe Lodge for nothing."
Then as Ethel burst into a flood of tears he caught her to him and gave her a hearty pat on the back.