CHAPTER XI
THE LITTLE OLD MAN
It happened that Mr. Starling was rather late in arriving at the "Blue Lion" on the evening following that of the dinner party at the Cedars.
He had been sent over to the nearest market town on some errand of his master's and had not returned until after the servants' dinner, which meal he had partaken of "warmed up," a state and condition which he declared to the cook was enough to drive a parson swearing.
Altogether Jem was not in the brightest of moods when he entered the hospitable doors of the "Blue Lion", and it did not help to disperse the gloom to find that the parlor door was locked. The room was not empty, for he could hear the hum of voices inside talking in a hushed sort of undertone.
There was no one in the bar, and Mr. Starling, rendered by his early training and the influence of circumstances suspicious by anything out of the common, crept back on tiptoe into the street, and peeped through the crack of the window which was formed by the uplifting of the curtain.
There he saw that the usual number of the gentlemen was reinforced by a little old man, whom he seemed to recollect as having seen somewhere before.
He commenced whistling "Villikins and His Dinah," and re-entered the bar.
His quick ears detected the unslipping of the bolt, and he pushed open the door without any difficulty.
All the men had suddenly assumed an air of the usual indifference and sleepiness, and responded to his cheerful salutation after their various kinds.
"Bring me a pint of the very best, Miss Polly," said Mr. Starling, sinking into his seat, and eying from under his frowning eyelids the strange little man.
"A nice night for salamanders, mates."
"Yes," said Willie Sanderson, "it's mighty hot."
"No fish?" asked Jem.
"No," was the response.
"But we expect a shoal over to-night," said the little man, with an almost imperceptible glance around the room.
"Ay," said the others, in a chorus. "We may do something to-night."
"And a very pleasant little trip, too," said Mr. Starling, nodding all round over his pewter pot. "I quite envy you, and I don't mind volunteering if so be as I shouldn't be in the way."
A slight but unmistakable expression of dismay shot for one instant on his manly face, then Willie Sanderson laughed slowly.
"Better be in bed, mate. We might have it rough, for all the wind's so dead now, and if you ain't a first-rate sailor the smell of the fish – if we get's any – might disagree with ye."
"Ay," said the little man. "Better stay in bed."
"Well, perhaps you're right," said Jem, thinking to himself that they were all mighty considerate on his behalf. "Yes, perhaps you're right. I like 'em when they are cooked, though, and I'll just look down in the morning and see if you've had a take."
"Do," said Willie, shortly, and then started another topic. But though many others followed, and Mr. Starling was quite as amusing as usual, the company did not seem to be in the mood for conversation or laughter, and Jem noticed that every man seemed to be watching or listening.
Once the door opened rather suddenly, and the little man rose with an ill attempt at indifference, but only Polly entered with some tobacco, and the little man sat down again.
Presently the door opened again, and Martha Pettingall entered.
She wore her yellow bandana, and as she looked round the room Jem, who while lighting his pipe was watching her closely, saw her raise her hand and scratch her ear.
He looked round the room covertly to see for whom the sign was intended, and was not surprised to see the little man lift his hand with a natural air and scratch his ear.
"Well, boys, what do you say, shall we be starting?" And as he spoke he went to the window and pushed the curtain aside to look out at the night.
As he did so Jem, who was watching under his eyelids with the most lynx-like intention, saw a streak of light cleave the sky seawards.
The old man dropped the curtain again immediately, but Mr. Starling's eyes were sharp ones, and he had seen the light distinctly enough to know that it was not a natural phenomenon.
"Well, come along, boys," said Willie Sanderson, and, hastily tossing down the remains of their potations, the boys rose and trudged out, giving Martha Pettingall and Polly a cheery "good-night" as they passed.
Jem sat for a little while in deep thought. Then he sauntered out.
Outside he paused and looked up at the sky, then scratched his head, and instead of turning homeward he bent his steps toward the beach.
The tide was coming in; it was a fine night, and Jem could see every ripple upon the smiling, playful ocean.
There, far out now, were the fishing boats, looking like magnified walnut shells as they rose and fell on the light swell.
He waited until the boats were lost to sight, then climbed up the beach again.
As he passed through the street he peeped into the "Blue Lion".
There was no one in the bar, and he was about to peep in when he saw a light pierce the chink in the cellar flap.
He stooped and knelt down, and was rewarded, not with a sight of Polly or Martha, but of the little old man, peering on his knees into what seemed to Jem like the mouth of a well.
"Hello," he thought, "here's the old chap playing larks with old Grunty-grump's beer," and he was about to run into the bar with the information.
But before he could get up from his knees another figure, no other than Martha Pettingall, entered the cellar, and, far from expressing alarm or indignation at the old man's presence, commenced talking with him in a low, confidential tone.
Jem would have given one of his large eyes to have heard that conversation, or for a peep into that hole over which it was held.
But the pair spoke in a faint whisper, and Jem could not catch a word.
Presently the man dropped the lid of the well, spread some sawdust over it, and, taking up the candle from a cask, lighted Martha up the steps, following himself immediately after.
Jem got up, gave vent to a noiseless whistle, and, having had his curiosity sharpened to a most ravening edge, determined to play spy a little longer.
Accordingly he drew back into the shadow of the house, chose a tree as ambush, and kept a sharp watch both upon cellar and door.
The light did not appear in the former, and for some time the latter was not moved, but at last Jem heard voices in the bar, and presently Martha opened the door.
She stood for a few moments looking up and down the empty street, then re-entered.
"What they call reckonorriting," muttered Jem. "Now I bet the old chap'll come out."
And so it proved.
The little old man did come out, and set off at a sharp trot up the hill.
"Well, I'm blest; that must be funny fishin' up a mountain," said Jem to himself. "He's in a mighty hurry, too. But what's my move? Do I dog him or wait here a bit longer and see what the old woman will be up to? If I sets off arter him he's safe to see me; you could see a brass farden at two miles in this light. No, I'll stop here."
And he did, but was rather disgusted at his fortune when about half an hour afterward Martha came out, banged the shutters to, and shut up the house for the night.
"The performance is hover," said Jem, coming out of his ambush, "and a werry pretty play it's been, only, as the chap said at the Hitalian hopera, it 'ud be all the better if I knowed what it means, which jigger me if I do."
And with a shake of the head Jem hurried his steps homeward.
He looked about him as he went, but nothing more suspicious occurred than the flitting of a rabbit across the road, at which Mr. Starling flung a stone, and as he paused within sight of the Park he wiped the perspiration from his bottle-shaped head, and sighed.
"Where's that chap gone to?" he asked himself. "Got a sweetheart up in the house, I dare say. I'll ask the cook; he knows everybody, and will put me right about these 'ere goings on at the "Blue Lion"."
Somewhat cheered by that resolution he trudged on again, looking at the house, which even to his unpoetical eyes looked beautiful in the moonlight.
Then he glanced at the sky, in which a few black clouds were gathering.
"All in the dark d'rectly," he muttered.
And as he spoke the moon was obscured.
He turned his eyes up toward it, then was about to lower them, when they saw something which caused him to start, to stop and to stare.
By this time he was near that part of the Park called the "ruins."
Right before him was the façade with the oriel window.
All the way up the hill, when not thinking of the "Blue Lion" and its mysterious frequenters, he had been thinking over the various ghost stories in connection with the Park, and now, just at the moment when the moon was obscured, and he was thinking of one of the latest he had heard, he saw something white pass across the window.
He stared and waited breathlessly.
"I'll take my oath I saw it," he muttered. "It's gone, and I mayn't see it again. But I saw it, I swear! Ah!"
The sharp, smothered exclamation was caused by absolute fear.
It had come again.
There, so plain and distinct that he could see every fold in the white robe, was the White Nun!
Jem's face turned pale and his teeth shook.
He had a sensation as of cold water being quietly poured down his back, and his mouth felt dry and hot.
The ghost stood motionless with its back to the window, and a horror seized upon Jem that it might perhaps turn, see him, and – and – he did not know what else to dread!
The horror was not ill-founded.
The ghost turned.
Jem saw the hideous white, bleached skull-face, and as the gleaming eyes seemed to pierce him through he fell on the ground, stricken by that nameless horror before which the strongest man must succumb.
How long he lay there he did not know.
When he feigned consciousness he found himself covered with dust, fearfully cold, but with no tangible injury.
He rose, shuddered, and striking the dust from his clothes with a shaking, uncertain hand walked slowly on, averting his eyes from the dreadful window.
"Shall I tell the captain what I've seen?" he thought. "No, he'll swear at me, and say I was drunk, and I should think I was, only I know it 'ud take more than three pints o' beer to knock me silly. Ugh! I shan't get the sight o' that thing's face and eyes out o' my head till I'm as dead as she was. This is a rum, unearthly sort o' place, this is, and if summat uncommon queer and nasty don't happen afore long I'm a Dutchman."
CHAPTER XII
UNDER THE EVIL EYE
The morning which had been fixed upon for the riding party was as fine as the many which had preceded it, and there was, as a slice of luck, a fresh breeze blowing from the sea that glittered beyond the cliffs.
Leicester had given his friend Bertie the choice of his stables, and Bertie had selected a rakish-looking chestnut mare, because, as he said, it winked at him as he entered.
"Humor should be encouraged in a horse," he said, with a laugh. "I'll ride this comic old lady."
"And I," said Leicester, "will give the Black Knight a spin."
The Black Knight was a tall, black hunter, a special favorite of Leicester's, and a good but somewhat willful horse.
"I'm afraid the ladies will be burned up," said Mrs. Dodson. "Won't you have a white scarf over your neck, Mr. Fairfax? I can't persuade Leicester, but perhaps you will be more prudent."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Dodson," said Bertie. "I am rather anxious to get tanned, to tell you the truth, but I'm sorry Leicester won't wear one, because if he gets any darker he'll be as black as his horse."
And with that parting sally the light-hearted young fellow rode off after his friend.
When he reached the Park, Violet was standing in her habit on the lawn, with Leo making frantic dashes at her and altogether in insane delight.
"Isn't it hot?" said Violet, as they bent over her hand. "I'm afraid Lady Ethel will not have the courage to venture; the least fastidious might fear for their complexions this morning."
"Then you are not fastidious at all?" said Leicester.
"No, not at all," said Violet. "Besides, my blue veil will protect me. Ah, here's Captain Murpoint. He is going to ride my dear old Ned. Look at him; isn't he a noble fellow?"
"Who? the captain, or Ned?" said Leicester.
"Oh both," said Violet, with an arch smile.
And certainly the term would not have been altogether ill chosen; the captain did look well on horseback, and he sat on the old horse as if he had grown to his back.
"And here is another favorite," said Bertie, as the groom brought round a pretty white Arabian.
Leicester approached and held his hand, and when Violet placed her small foot in it, lifted her on to the saddle with that ease which is only acquired by practice.
For some time they rode all together, and the conversation was partly general, mutual inquiries after healths and remarks upon the weather filling up the first two miles.
Then the captain and Mr. Fairfax got into a conversation upon the merits of Bengal cheroots as weighed against Manilas, and Leicester and Violet were left to their own devices.
In due course they reached Coombe Lodge.
"Now for the proof of Lady Ethel's courage," said Captain Murpoint. "Here is Lord Fitz," he added, as his lordship came round from the stables dressed in a light summer tweed, which set off his slight, boyish figure to advantage.
"Well, does Lady Ethel shrink from the ordeal?" said Leicester, as they shook hands.
"No," he said, "she is getting ready. My mother is in the drawing-room."
But while he spoke Lady Lackland came on to the steps, and, with her parasol raised, walked carefully toward them.
She shook hands most graciously with the captain, and insisted upon kissing Violet, which caress Violet met with her usual gentle smile and blush. Indeed, her ladyship was gracious to the whole party, even including Mr. Fairfax, who modestly kept in the background until the other salutations were made – his frank, handsome face rather overshadowed by the knowledge that he was not a welcome sight to the countess.
Ethel appeared the next moment, and welcomed the party with grace and gentleness, and after the usual gossip, the captain helped her to mount.
"Are – a – all ready?" said Lord Fitz.
"No, wait a moment," said the countess. "My dear, will you come and dine with us to-morrow, and forgive so informal an invitation? I will drive over to the Park and call upon Mrs. Mildmay this afternoon, and upon Mrs. Dodson. You, gentlemen, will honor us?" and with an amiable good-by she bade them start.
Although the great lady had been very gracious and smiled her sweetest, all the young people felt an indescribable sense of relief when they had got clear of the great iron gates, and the formal avenue. Ethel, who always seemed quieter and more reserved in her parent's presence, broke into a merry laugh which almost matched that of Violet's, who was telling her some anecdote concerning Leo, who trotted by her side with his great tongue out and his faithful eyes turned up to her with a look of admiring devotion.
"And now for the cliffs," said the captain, raising his white hand toward the sea. "I long for a breath of salt air. Mr. Fairfax, shall we put the horses to a little spurt? Mr. Leicester and my lord, you will look after the ladies?"
And so, much to Mr. Bertie's annoyance, he divided the party.
"How beautiful the sea looks," Violet said.
"Yes, the cloth of the field of gold with the jewel side uppermost," said Leicester. "But you can get a better view of it from that promontory yonder. Will you come?"
"Yes," said Violet. "Will you, Lady Boisdale?"
"No," murmured Ethel, in a low voice. "Not if you call me Lady Boisdale, but I will go anywhere with you if you will call me Ethel."
"I will call you Ethel if you call me Violet."
"That I will," said Ethel, and the bargain was struck.
On the way homeward Captain Murpoint did a little expert maneuvering.
The captain, with infinite art, engaged Mr. Leicester in conversation, and, by dint of stopping every now and then to ask questions concerning, or to dilate upon, the beauty of the scenery, kept Leicester back while Lord Fitz and Violet went on in front.
Then he proposed that they should wait for the remainder of the party, and, when it came up, with the same tact he drew Bertie away from Lady Ethel, and compelled Leicester to escort her.
So he made two of our heroes intensely savage, but gained his point.
When they all came together for the parting Lord Fitz looked particularly happy and flustered; his boyish face was all smiles, and his yellow, flaxen hair was blown across his forehead like a donkey's twist.
"Jolly ride we've had," he said, looking round, "especially the ride home. It doesn't seem so hot."
"No," said Violet, who also looked particularly happy; "I have enjoyed it."
So had they all, they declared, and they parted at the crossroads amid laughter and with wishes for another expedition.
But when Bertie and Leicester turned up the road which led to the Cedars, a dissatisfied, disappointed expression seemed to settle upon both their faces, even on jovial, light-hearted Bertie's.
The countess was as good as her word, and called at the Park and the Cedars with her invitation.
Mrs. Mildmay received her with her usual good-breeding, which covered a considerable amount of satisfaction, and accepted her invitation for herself and Violet.
At the Cedars, where she was received with a little more ceremony, she was quite as gracious, and entertained Mrs. Dodson with an account of the various admirable qualities of Ethel. There was no end to be gained by praising Lord Fitz, so the wily mother said nothing about him.
That evening the Lackland skeleton kept very discreetly in its cupboard, and no one, looking at the magnificent rooms and appointments, would ever have guessed that there was a skeleton at all there.
There were the evidences of wealth everywhere, spacious saloons and snug anterooms, splendid furniture in the best taste, magnificent plate, noiseless and well-liveried servants; and over and above all that nameless tone of rank and high breeding.
The Mildmays were late.
Leicester, who had enough confidence and cool determination to perform many acts which would seem impossible to smaller minds, had, in the drawing-room before dinner, determined upon escorting Violet in to dinner, and his intention was so palpable that Lady Lackland bowed to it, but she so maneuvered that Ethel should be seated on his other side, and that Bertie Fairfax should be separated from them by three others.
The dinner was not nearly so successful a one as that which Mr. Dodson had given.
Lady Lackland was particularly gracious, and talked to all in turns. The captain also exerted himself, but Leicester was either silent or devoted himself to the ladies on either side, and the rest of the company followed in the wake of any conversation like timid sheep.
It was not until the ladies had left the room that Bertie roused himself to be amusing.
The gentlemen got all together, and passed the Lackland port about with alacrity, for now they felt that they were free to please themselves, and would not be disposed of by Lady Lackland like a set of children at a form round a table.
Bertie and the captain made Leicester and Lord Fitz laugh, and Mr. Dodson drank the port for half an hour, then went into the drawing-room.
Two pairs of eyes were raised with something like a welcome: Ethel's and Violet's.
The two girls were seated very close together, talking in a low voice. Violet was telling Ethel the ghost story, and Ethel was trying to convince her that she was the victim of a delusion.
As the gentlemen entered Violet said, quickly and with a slight flush:
"Hush! do not let us talk about it any more."
"Why?" said Ethel.
"Because," said Violet, with her usual candor and openness. "I promised Mr. Leicester Dodson I would try and forget it."
Leicester dropped into the vacant seat beside Violet without any hesitation.
Bertie, taking courage from Leicester, sauntered up to Lady Ethel, and the two pairs were now very comfortable and happy. But their delight was of short duration.
The captain, as he entered, had passed the quartet on the sofa and had stroked his mustache to hide the evil, malicious smile which crossed his face.
Then he went up to Lady Lackland, and in his soft tones laid himself out to please her.
He praised in a delicate, well-bred way the beauty and grace of Ethel, the cleverness and horsemanship of Lord Fitz, and when her ladyship, who had been rather suspicious of him at first, was beginning to think him rather nice and distinguished, he glided from Fitz and Ethel to Violet and Leicester.
"Miss Mildmay," he said, after a sigh, "is, as you are, my lady, no doubt aware, the daughter of my dearest friend! Poor John! he consigned his darling to my care, and I am sorely tempted to take upon myself the post of guardian in the literal sense of the word. I would pray for no other task than that of watching over and protecting her. She is all soul, my dear countess, all soul, as simple, as innocent, as single minded as a child. Just the nature to be misled by seeming heroism, to fancy all sorts of wild, improbable things, to be deceived in matters of the heart. Look at her now. Have you ever seen a more absorbed and trustful face than that turned up to Mr. Leicester Dodson?"
Lady Lackland did not require to be directed. All the while the captain had been running on in his smooth way she had been watching the pair and Ethel and Bertie beside them, and she felt as if she could have dragged Mr. Fairfax away and thrust Leicester in his place while she pushed Fitz beside the ingenuous Violet.
"Mr. Leicester, too, if he will permit me to say so," continued the captain, "is one of those disinterested men who follow the bent of their passing fancy without thought or reflection. Immensely rich, my dear madam, immensely! He should marry rank. Rank is what he wants – so does Violet. It would never do for Violet to marry one of her own class – never! Poor John would rise from his grave to forbid it. Hundreds of times he has said to me 'Howard, my girl must be a countess!' Poor John!"
Lady Lackland sighed sympathetically, and her voice was less cold than it had been hitherto toward the captain when she said:
"She is beautiful and well bred enough for any rank."
The captain bowed.
"Did I hear that Lord Fitz sang?" he said, softly. "If so, I wish we could induce him to sing a duet with Violet."
"I'll try," said Lady Lackland, instantly acting on the hint, and she went over to Violet.
"Miss Mildmay, will you sing a duet with my son? Please do; we are dying for a little music."
Violet, ever ready to give pleasure, rose and laid down her fan.
Lord Fitz, who had vainly been trying to interest Mr. Dodson in the next likelihoods for the coming race meetings, came forward with a blush of pleasure, and Lady Lackland had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Fitz and Violet at the piano.
Then the captain went up to Bertie and in his pleasantest manner said:
"Mr. Fairfax, there is a sketch here you ought to see. I have never seen such color and tint in so simple an effect."
Bertie looked up at him as if he could have pitched him out of the window, but he rose and with as good a grace as he could assume went with the artistic captain to inspect the sketch.
Leicester and Ethel were left alone, and they fell to talking of violets.
The song ended, and there were the usual thanks and requests for more.
Violet turned to Ethel and Leicester with a smile.
"Enjoyed it, did you?" she said, echoing his words. "How can you say so? I heard you talking the whole while!"
"Yes," said Fitz, who was radiant and eager to sing another in the same company, "it was too bad, and there's no escaping Mr. Leicester's voice."
"Thank you," said Leicester. "No one would wish to escape yours. Sing another, pray."
"Do you not sing, Mr. Leicester?" said Lady Lackland. "No? Mrs. Dodson, perhaps. Ethel, if Miss Mildmay is too hot, will you sing?"
Ethel rose obediently, and Leicester, in duty bound, led her to the piano.
So by clever maneuvering the countess had secured another ten minutes of happiness for Lord Fitz.
The song ended, Leicester stayed a little while at the piano, and then, after talking a few moments with Lady Lackland, strode back to Violet.
But Lord Fitz seemed to have taken possession of her, and Leicester sank back on the lounge in profound silence.
At last Mrs. Dodson dropped her fan. Fitz sprang across the room to pick it up, and Leicester regained his seat.
"It is very warm," said Violet.
"Come on to the terrace," said Leicester, with great coolness; "Lady Ethel is going, I think. Yes, there is Captain Murpoint opening the door."
Violet put her hand upon his arm, and Leicester took her out.
"How beautiful!" she said. "I wish all the nights were moonlight."
"We cannot see the moonlight here; it is ruined and marred by the light from the room. Let us move a few feet lower down."
Violet allowed him to take her out of the glare of the room.
"We cannot see the sea," she said. "We have the advantage over the Lacklands, the only one I expect, for they are mighty people, are they not?"
"Very," said Leicester, coolly. "With one disadvantage."
"Pray what is that?" said Violet.
"That the great age of the blood has turned the heads of the family to stone."
"Oh, how can you say so?" said Violet. "Lady Lackland seems quite kind."
"The moon appears quite near," said Leicester, significantly. "But don't let us quarrel over Lady Lackland's temperature; I was going to ask you if you would persuade Mrs. Mildmay to try a little yachting."
Violet was about to reply when a smooth voice, the low, hateful one of Captain Murpoint, said behind them:
"Miss Mildmay, I am the reluctant censor. This night is dangerous after a warm room, and your aunt has commissioned me to break into a pleasant tête-à-tête and carry you from the probability of cold."
Violet smiled, and was about to put her hand upon his arm, but Leicester, whose face had set with that hard, cold look which some of his friends had seen when he was about to punish insolence or was suppressing his feelings by a great effort, took her hand and laid it on his own arm.
"Allow me to take you to Mrs. Mildmay and offer my excuses, Miss Mildmay," he said.
And as he passed the captain he looked him full in the face with the cold, icy stare.
The captain met the look of contemptuous suspicion and defiance with the sweetest smile, which lingered upon his face until the pair had quite passed, then it deepened to a grin, and the wreathed lips muttered:
"Soh! Now comes the tug of war. My lord, the grand duke, King Leicester means fighting. So be it. Howard, my boy, you have had a nice little rest, now set to work!"