 
Transcriber's Notes:
CHAMBERS'S JOURNALOFPOPULAR POPULAR LITERATUREScience and Arts
1889
W. & R. CHAMBERSLONDON & EDINBURGH
A DEAD RECKONING.
CONTENTS.
A DEAD RECKONING.A STORY IN NINETEEN CHAPTERS.By T. W. SPEIGHT,Author of The Mysteries of Heron Dyke, By Devious Ways, &c.
CHAPTER I."Aunty, dear, do you know what day this is?" "If the almanac may be believed, it is the 24th of April." "Six months ago to-day, Gerald and I were married. I feel as if I had been married for years." "How dreadful to feel that you are growing old so quickly! I hope all married people don't feel like that." "You misunderstand me, Aunt Jane. I have been so happy since that evening last year when Gerald whispered something to me in the summer-house, that all my life before I knew him seems as unreal as a dream." "Such short courtships are positively dreadful. Now, when I was engaged to Captain Singleton"---- A third lady, who had been lounging on a sofa and making-believe to be intent on a novel, gave a loud sneeze and sat bolt upright. She had heard Captain Singleton's name introduced so often of late, that she might be excused for not caring to hear it mentioned again--at least for a little while. The first speaker, Clara Brooke, was a charming brunette of twenty-two, with sparkling black eyes, a pure olive complexion, and a manner that was at once vivacious and tender. Miss Primby, the second speaker, was a fresh-coloured, well-preserved spinster of---- But no; Miss Primby's age was a secret, which she guarded as a dragon might guard its young, and we have no right to divulge it. She had one of the best hearts in the world, and one of the weakest heads. Everybody smiled at her little foibles, yet everybody liked her. Just now she was busy over some species of delicate embroidery, in which she was an adept. Lady Fanny Dwyer, the third lady, whose inopportune sneeze had for a moment so disconcerted Miss Primby, was a very pretty, worldly-wise, self-possessed young matron, who in age was some six months older than Mrs. Brooke. She and Clara had been bosom friends in their school-days; and notwithstanding the many differences in their characters and dispositions, their liking for each other was still as fresh and unselfish as ever it had been. The ladies were sitting in a pleasant morning-room at Beechley Towers, Mr. Gerald Brooke's country-house, situated about fourteen miles from London. The room opened on to a veranda by means of long windows, which were wide open this balmy April afternoon. Beyond the veranda was a terrace, from which two flights of broad shallow steps led down to a flower-garden. Outside that lay a well-wooded park, with a wide sweep of sunny champaign enfolding the whole. Clara Brooke had scarcely heard her aunt's last remark. She was seated at a davenport, turning over some old letters. On the wall in front of her hung a portrait of her husband, painted on ivory. "'My own darling Clara,'" she read to herself from one of the letters; "'it seems an age since I saw you last, and it will seem like an age till I shall have the happiness of seeing you again.' What sweet, sweet letters he used to write to me! What other girl ever had such letters written to her?" She pressed the paper she had been reading to her lips, then refolded it, and put it away and took up another. "Ah, my dear," remarked Lady Fanny, turning to her friend, "as you remarked just now, you have only been a wife for six short months, and of course everything with you is still couleur de rose. But when you have been married as long as Algy and I have, when the commonplace and the prosaic begin to assert themselves, as they do in everything and everywhere, whether you like it or not, then I am sure you will agree that the scheme of married life my husband and I have planned for ourselves has really a good deal to recommend it to all sensible people." Miss Primby pricked up her ears. "You excite my curiosity, dear Lady Fanny," she said. "I hope you won't refuse to gratify it." "Why should I?" asked Lady Fan with her merry laugh. "We want converts, Algy and I; and who knows, my dear Miss Primby, but that some day--eh? Well, this is our modus vivendi--I believe that's the correct term, but won't be sure. About eighteen months ago--we had then been married a little over a year--Algy and I came to the conclusion that married people ought not to be too constantly together if they wish to keep on good terms with each other. Algy's contention is that half the quarrels and scandals which come out in the newspapers are simply the result of people seeing so much of each other that at last they are impelled by some feeling they can't resist to have what he calls 'a jolly row,' just to vary the monotony of existence. And then, as he says, one 'row' is sure to lead to another, and so on. When once the match is applied, no one can tell where the conflagration will stop. Now, although ours was a love-match, if ever there was one, we had not run together in harness very long before we made the discovery that in many things our likes and dislikes were opposed. For instance, next to me, I believe Algy loves his yacht; whereas I detest yachting: it seems to me a most stupid way of passing one's time. On the other hand, I delight in going from one country-house to another and visiting each of my friends in turn; while Algy, dear fellow, is always awfully bored in general society, especially wherever a number of our sex happen to be congregated. Thus, it has come to pass that at the present moment he is somewhere in the Mediterranean, while I--well, je suis ici. Algy and I never give ourselves time to grow tired of each other; and when we meet after being apart for a month or two, our meetings are 'real nice,' as my friend Miss Peckover from New York would say." Miss Primby shook her head. "I am afraid, dear Lady Fanny, that your opinions on such matters are very heterodox, and I can only say that I hope Clara will never see fit to adopt them." "Not much fear of that, Aunt Jane," answered the young wife. "Fancy Gerald and me being separated for a month or six weeks at a time! But it is quite out of the question to fancy anything so absurd." Lady Fan laughed. "Wait, my dear, wait," was all she said as she turned again to her novel. Clara Brooke shook her head; she was in nowise convinced. "Gracious goodness! whatever can that be?" ejaculated Miss Primby with a start. "Only Gerald and the Baron Von Rosenberg practising at the pistol-range. It is an amusement both of them are fond of." "An amusement do you call it! I wish they would practise their amusements farther from the house, then.--Heaven preserve us! there they go again. No wonder I have broken my needle." "It's nothing, Aunt Jane, when you are used to it," responded her niece with a smile. "Used to it, indeed! I should never get used to it as long as I lived. I have no doubt this is another of the objectionable practices your husband picked up while he was living in foreign parts." "Seeing that Gerald was brought up in Poland, and that he lived in that country and in Russia from the time he was five years old till he was close on twenty (I think I have told you before that his grandmother was a Polish lady of rank), I have no doubt it was while he was living in those foreign parts, as you call them, that he learnt to be so fond of pistol-practice." At this moment there came the sound of two pistol-shots in quick succession. Miss Primby started to her feet. "My dear Clara," she exclaimed, "if you don't want my poor nerves to be shattered for life, you won't object to my going to my own room. With plenty of cotton wool in my ears, and my Indian shawl wrapped round my head, I may perhaps---- Dear, dear! now my thimble's gone." "Why, there's your thimble, aunt, on your finger." "So it is--so it is, dear. That shows the state of my poor nerves." "Will you not stay and say good-bye to the Baron?" "No, my dear; I would rather not. You must make my excuses. Of course, you could not fail to notice how the Baron ogled me at luncheon. He puts me so much in mind of poor dear Major Pondicherry. But I never cared greatly for foreigners; besides, he will smell horribly of gunpowder when he comes in.--There again! Not another moment will I stay." Clara Brooke's face rippled over with suppressed laughter as Miss Primby left the room. Then she turned to her letters again, and tied them up with ribbon. "I have heard that some people burn their love-letters when they get married," she mused. "What strange beings they must be! Nothing in the world would induce me to burn mine. Sweet silent messengers of love, what happy secrets lie hidden in your leaves!" She pressed the letters to her lips, put them away inside the davenport, and locked them up. Just as she had done this, the pompous tones of Bunce, who filled the joint positions of majordomo and butler at the Towers, became plainly audible. Apparently he was standing outside the side-door and addressing his remarks to someone on the terrace. "Now, the sooner you take your hook the better," the two ladies heard him say. "We don't want none of your kidney here. This ain't no place for mountebanks--I should think not indeed!" Mr. Bunce in his ire had evidently forgotten the proximity of his mistress. Clara crossed to one of the windows, and looking out saw, some little distance away, two strange figures slowly crossing the terrace. One was that of a man whose costume of a street tumbler was partly hidden by the long shabby overcoat he wore over it, which was closely buttoned to the chin. Over one shoulder a drum was slung, and in his left hand he carried a set of Pandean pipes. The second figure was that of a boy some eight or nine years old, who had hold of the man's right hand. Under one arm he carried a small roll of faded carpet. In point of dress he was a miniature copy of the elder mountebank, minus the overcoat. His throat was swathed in a dingy white muffler, while his profusion of yellow curls were kept from straying by a fillet round his forehead embroidered with silvered beads. "Poor creatures," said Clara to herself. "Bunce had no business to speak to them as he did. How dejected they look, and the child seems quite footsore." At this juncture the man happening to turn his head, caught sight of her. She at once beckoned him to approach. The mountebank's face lighted up and all signs of dejection vanished in a moment. He had some kind of old cap on his head. This he now removed, and bowed profoundly twice. It was a bow that might have graced a drawing-room. Then he and the boy crossed the terrace towards Mrs. Brooke. "Fan, I want you; come here," said Clara to her friend. Lady Fanny rose languidly and crossed to the window. What struck both the ladies first of all, as the vagrants drew near, was the remarkable beauty of the child. His face at the first glance seemed an almost perfect oval; his complexion, naturally fair and transparent, was now somewhat embrowned by exposure to the sun and wind. He had large eyes of the deepest and tenderest blue, shaded by long golden lashes; while his lips formed a delicate curve such as many a so-called professional beauty might have envied. "He looks more like a girl than a boy," whispered Lady Fan. "He looks more like a cherub than either," responded Clara, who was somewhat impulsive both in her likes and dislikes. "It is a face that Millais would love to paint." The appearance of the man was a great contrast to that of the child, and a casual observer would have said that there was no single point of resemblance between the two. Apparently the former was about forty to forty-five years of age. He had a sallow complexion and a thin aquiline nose; his black locks were long and tangled; while into his quick-glancing black eyes, which appeared to see half-a-dozen things at once, there would leap at times a strange fierce gleam, which seemed to indicate that although the volcano below might give forth few or no signs, its hidden fires were smouldering still. Only when his eyes rested on the boy they would soften and fill with a sort of wistful tenderness; and at such moments the whole expression of his face would change. "I am extremely sorry," said Mrs. Brooke, "that my servant should have spoken to you just now in the way he did. He had no right to do so, and I shall certainly ask my husband to reprimand him." "It was nothings, madame, nothings at all," responded the mountebank with a little bow and a smile and a deprecatory motion of his hands. "We are often spoken to like that--Henri and I--we think nothings of it." "Still, I cannot help feeling greatly annoyed.--Is this pretty boy your son?" "Oui, madame." "His mother"---- "Alas, madame, she is dead. She die six long years ago. She was English, like madame. Henri has the eyes of ma pauvre Marie; and his hair, too, is the same colour as hers." Although the man spoke with a pronounced foreign accent, his English was fluent, and he rarely seemed at a loss for a word to express his meaning. "Poor child!" said Mrs. Brooke. "This is a hard life to bring him up to. Surely some other way might be found"---- Then she paused. The mountebank's white teeth showed themselves in a smile. "Ah no, madame; pardon, but it is not a hard life by no means. Henri likes it, and I like it. In the winter we join some cirque, and then Henri has lessons every day. He is clevare, very clevare--everybody say so. One day Henri will be a great artiste. The world--tout le monde--will hear of him. It is I who say it--moi." He touched his chest proudly with the tips of his fingers as he ceased speaking. "Would mesdames like to behold?"---- he said a moment later as he brought his drum into position and raised the pipes to his lips. "Thank you, monsieur; not to-day," answered Clara gravely as she stepped back into the room and rang the bell. Monsieur looked disappointed. Henri, however, looked anything but disappointed when, two minutes later, the beautiful lady, from whose face he could scarcely take his eyes, heaped his little hands with cakes and fruit till they could hold no more. "Tell me your name, my pretty one," said Mrs. Brooke, as she stooped and helped him to secure his treasures. "Henri Picot, madame." "And have you any pockets, Henri?" "Oui, madame." A pocket was duly indicated, and into its recesses a certain coin of the realm presently found its way. Before either Picot or the boy had time to give utterance to a word of thanks, a servant entered the room, and addressing Lady Fan, said: "If you please, my lady, the carriage is waiting; and Miss Primby desires me to tell you that she is ready." "Good gracious, Clara," said Lady Fan, "I had forgotten all about my promise to accompany your aunt in her call on Mrs. Riversdale. I wish to goodness you could go with us. I dread the ordeal." "And leave the Baron Von Rosenberg without a word of apology! What would become of my reputation as a hostess? Gerald and he will be here in a few minutes, I don't doubt; and if you like to wait till he is gone"---- "That would never do," interrupted her friend. "You know what a fidget your aunt is when she is kept waiting. You had better come and keep her in good-humour while I am getting my things on.--By-the-bye, where can our singular friends have vanished to?" Clara looked round. Picot and the boy had disappeared. Neither of the ladies had seen the start the mountebank gave at the mention of Von Rosenberg's name, nor how strangely the expression of his face changed. Clutching the boy by one wrist, he whispered: "It is time to go. Venez, mon p'tit--vite, vite! The ladies want us no more." "The man was French, and he seems to have taken the proverbial leave of his countrymen," said Lady Fan with a laugh. Mrs. Brooke was a little surprised, but said nothing. The two ladies left the room together.
CHAPTER II.Five minutes might have passed when Gerald Brooke and the Baron Von Rosenberg came sauntering along the terrace, and entered the room through one of the long windows. In appearance the owner of Beechley Towers was a thoroughgoing Englishman, and no one would have suspected him of having a drop of foreign blood in his veins. He was six-and-twenty years old, tall, fair, and stalwart. His hair, beard, and moustache were of a light reddish brown; he had laughing eyes of the darkest blue, and a mouth that was rarely without a smile. His bearing was that of a well-born, chivalrous, young Englishman. As he came into the room, laughing and talking to the Baron, he looked like a man who had not a care in the world. The Baron Von Rosenberg was so carefully preserved and so elaborately got up, that one might guess his age at anything between forty and fifty-five. He was tall and thin, with a military uprightness and precision of bearing. He had close-cropped iron-gray hair, and a heavy moustache of the same colour. He spoke excellent English with only the faintest possible accent, but with a certain slowness and an elaboration of each word, which of themselves would have been enough to indicate that he was not "to the manner born." "I had no idea, my dear Brooke, that you were such a crack shot," remarked the Baron. "I had made up my mind that I should have an easy victory." "I learned to shoot in Poland, when I was quite a youngster. It is an amusement that has served to while away many idle hours." "I have a tolerable range at Beaulieu; you must come over and try your skill there." "I shall be most pleased to do so." "I have also a small collection of curios, chiefly in the way of arms and armour, picked up in the course of my travels, which it may amuse you to look over." "Your telling me that," answered Gerald, "reminds me that I have in my possession one article which, as I believe you are a connoisseur in such matters, you may be interested in examining." As he spoke he crossed to a cabinet, and opening the glass doors, he brought out a pistol, the barrel and lock of which were chased and damascened in gold, and the stock ornamented with trophies and scrolls in silver inlay and repoussÉ work. "It was given me when I was in India by a certain Nawab to whom I had rendered some slight service," said Gerald as he handed the pistol to the Baron. "It doesn't seem much of a curiosity to look at; but I am told that in its way it is almost unique." "I can readily believe that," answered the Baron, as he examined the weapon minutely through his gold-rimmed glasses. "I have never seen anything quite like it, although I have seen many curious pistols in my time. I myself have two or three in my collection on which I set some little store. I call to mind, however, that a certain friend of mine in London, who is even more entÊtÉ in such matters than I am, owns a weapon somewhat similar to this, inlaid with arabesque work in brass and silver, which he has always looked upon as being of Spanish, or at least of Moorish workmanship.--Now, my dear Mr. Brooke, I am going to ask you the favour of lending me this treasure for a few days. I go to London tomorrow, and while there, I should like to show it to my friend, so as to enable him to compare it with the one in his possession. He would be delighted, I know, and"---- "My dear Baron, not another word," cried Gerald. "Take the thing, and keep it as long as you like. I value it only as a memento of some pleasant days spent many thousands of miles from here. My servant shall carry it across to Beaulieu in the course of the evening." "A thousand thanks; but I value the weapon too highly to trust it into the hands of a servant. I will return it personally in the course of a few days." So saying, the Baron, with a nod and a smile, dropped the pistol into the pocket of his loose morning coat. "But madame your wife," he said presently; "may I not hope to have the pleasure of seeing her again before I take my leave?" Gerald crossed the room, and was on the point of ringing the bell, when Mrs. Brooke entered. The Baron's heels came together as he bent his head. "I was just about to take my leave, madame," he said. "I am overjoyed to have the felicity of seeing you again before doing so." There was something too high-flown about this for Clara's simple tastes, and her cheek flushed a little as she answered: "I hope you have enjoyed your pistol-practice, Baron." "Greatly. I assure you that Mr. Brooke is an adept with the weapon--very much so indeed. I must really beg of him to give me a few lessons." Gerald laughed. "As a diplomatist by profession, Baron, you are doubtless a proficient in the art of flattery," said Mrs. Brooke. "A mere tyro, dear madame. Sincerity is the badge of all our tribe, as every one knows." At this they all laughed a little. "But now I must positively say adieu." "By which road do you return to Beaulieu, Baron?" inquired Gerald. "The afternoon is so fine and the distance so short, that I purpose walking back through the park." "Then, with your permission, I will walk with you as far as the corner of the wood." "Need I say that I shall be charmed?" Mrs. Brooke gave the Baron her hand. He bent low over it. For once the ramrod in his back found that it had a hinge in it. "You will not be gone long?" said Clara to her husband. "Not more than half an hour.--We will go this way, Baron, if you please." "Are all diplomatists like the Baron Von Rosenberg, I wonder?" mused Mrs. Brooke. "If so, I am glad Gerald is not one. His politeness is so excessive that it makes one doubt whether there is anything genuine at the back of it. And then the cold-blooded way in which he looks you through out of his frosty eyes! Could any woman ever learn to love a man like the Baron? I am quite sure that I could not." She seated herself at the piano, and had been playing for a few minutes when she was startled by the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside. She turned her head and next moment started to her feet "George! You!" she exclaimed; and as she did so, the colour fled from her cheeks and her hand went up quickly to her heart. At Mrs. Brooke's exclamation, a tall, thin, olive-complexioned young man, with black eyes and hair and a small silky moustache, advanced into the room. He was handsome as far as features went; just now, however, his expression was anything but a pleasant one. A something that was at once furtive and cruel lurked in the corners of his eyes, and although his thin lips were curved into a smile, it was a smile that had neither mirth nor good-nature in it. A small gash in his upper lip, the result of an accident in youth, through which one of his teeth gleamed sharp and white, did not add to the attractiveness of his appearance. In one hand he carried a riding-whip, and in the other a pair of buckskin gloves. "Good afternoon, Clara," he said with a careless nod as he deposited his hat, gloves, and whip on the side-table. "You quite startled me," said Mrs. Brooke as she went forward and gave him her hand. "You expected any one rather than me--of course. As I was riding along the old familiar road, I saw your husband, in company with some other man, walking down the avenue. In the hope that I might perhaps find you alone, I rode on to the Beechley Arms, left my horse there, entered the park by the side-entrance that you and I know so well, and here I am." "I am very glad to see you."--Mr. George Crofton shrugged his shoulders.--"Why have you not called before now? Gerald has often wondered why we have seen nothing of you since our return from abroad." "How kind, how thoughtful, of my dear cousin Gerald!" This was said with an unmistakable sneer. "George!" "You are not like yourself to-day." "Look you, Clara--if you expect me to come here like an everyday visitor, to congratulate you on your marriage, you are mistaken. How is it possible for me to congratulate you?--and if I were to say that I wished you much happiness, it would be--well--a lie!" "This from you!" He drew a step nearer, flinging out his clenched hand with a quick passionate gesture. "Listen, Clara. You and I have known each other from childhood. As boy and girl we played together; when we grew older we walked and rode out together; and after you left school we met at balls, at parties, at picnics, and if a week passed without our seeing each other we thought that something must have happened. During all those years I loved you--ay, as no other man will ever love you--and you, being of the sex you are, could not fail to see it. But your father was poor, while I was entirely dependent on my uncle; so time went on, and I hesitated to speak. But a day came when I could keep silence no longer; I told you everything, and--you rejected me. If I had been wild and reckless before, I became ten times more wild and reckless then. If before that day I had offended my uncle, I offended him beyond all hope of forgiveness afterwards. But before I spoke to you, my irresistible cousin had appeared on the scene and had made your acquaintance. Your woman's wit told you that his star was in the ascendant, while mine was sinking. Pshaw! what need for another word. It is barely eighteen months since you and he first met, and now you are the mistress of Beechley Towers, while I am--what I am!" It was with very varied emotions that Mrs. Brooke listened to this passionate outburst. When it came to an end she said in her iciest tones: "Was it to tell me this that you came here to-day?" "It was." "Then you had much better have stayed away. You do not know how deeply you have grieved me." "I have told you nothing but the bitter truth." "The truth, perhaps, as seen through your own distorted vision. From childhood you were to me as a dear playmate and friend, and as a friend I have regarded you till to-day." "A friend! Something more than friendship was needed by me." "That something would never have been yours." "I will not believe it. Had not a rival crossed my path--a rival who wormed his way into my uncle's affections, who ousted me from the position that ought to have been mine, who is master here to-day where I ought to be master--had he never appeared, a love so strong and deep as mine must have prevailed in the end!" "Never, George Crofton, as far as I am concerned! You deceive yourself utterly. You"---- She came to a sudden pause. A servant had entered, carrying a card on a salver. Mrs. Brooke took the card and read, "M. Paul Karovsky.--I never remember hearing the name before," she remarked to herself. Then aloud to the servant: "Where is the gentleman?" "In the small drawing-room, ma'am. He said that he wanted to see Mr. Brooke on particular business." "Your master is out at present; but I will see Monsieur Karovsky myself." Turning to Crofton as soon as the servant had left the room, she said: "You will excuse me for a few moments, will you not? Gerald will be back in a little while, and I do so wish you would stay and meet him. George"--offering him her hand with a sudden gracious impulse--"let this afternoon be blotted from the memory of both of us. You will never say such foolish things to me again, will you?" He took her proffered hand sullenly enough. "I have said my say," he muttered with averted eyes; with that he dropped her fingers and turned away. A pained expression flitted across her face as she looked at him. "You will wait here till I come back, will you not?" she said; and then, without waiting for an answer, she quitted the room. With his hands behind his back and his eyes bent on the ground, George Crofton paced the room once or twice in silence. Then he said, speaking aloud, as he had a trick of doing when alone: "It is a lie to say she would never have learned to love me! She may try to deceive herself by saying so; but she cannot deceive me. Had not my smooth-tongued cousin come between us, she would have been mine. I had no rival but him. Not only has he robbed me of the woman I loved, but of this old house and all this fair domain, which would all have been my own, had he not come between my uncle and me, and made the old man's bitterness against me bitterer still. "Oh," he exclaimed bitterly, "I have every reason for loving my dear cousin Gerald!" Presently he caught sight of the miniature of his cousin where it hung above the davenport. "His likeness!" he exclaimed. "The original is not enough for her; she must have this to gaze on when he is not by." He took the miniature off the nail on which it hung and scanned it frowningly. "To think that only this man's life stands between me and fortune--only this one life!" he said. "Were Gerald Brooke to die without heirs, I--even I, his graceless scamp of a cousin--would come into possession of Beechley Towers and six thousand a year! Only this one life!" He let the miniature drop on the hearth, and then ground it to fragments savagely under his heel. "If I could but serve the original as I serve this!" he muttered. The sound of the shutting of a distant door startled him. He pressed his hands to his forehead for a moment, as though awaking from a confused dream; then he sighed deeply and took up his hat, gloves, and whip. "Adieu, Clara; but we shall meet again," he said aloud. With that he put on his hat and buttoned his coat and walked slowly out by the way he had come. Two minutes later Mrs. Brooke re-entered the room. She looked round in surprise. "George gone?" she said to herself. "Why did he not wait and see Gerald?" She crossed to the window and looked out. "Yes; there he goes striding through the grass, and evidently not in the most amiable of humours. How strangely he has altered during the last three or four years; how different he is now from what he used to be when we were playmates together! If he had but some profession--something to occupy his mind--he would be far happier than he is. But George is not one to love work of any kind." With that Clara looked at her watch and dismissed Mr. Crofton from her thoughts. "I wish Gerald were back. What can that strange Monsieur Karovsky want with him? What can be the business of importance that has brought him here? I feel as if some misfortune were impending. Such happiness as mine is too perfect to last." She was crossing the room in search of a book, when her eye was attracted by the fragments of the miniature on the hearth. She was on her knees in a moment. "What is this?" she cried. "Gerald's likeness, and trodden under foot! This is George's doing. Oh, cruel, cruel! What a mean and paltry revenge! It is the portrait Gerald gave me before we were married. I could never like another as I liked this one. Oh, how mean! Gerald must not know--at least not for the present." Tears of mingled anger and sorrow stood in her eyes as she picked up the fragments and locked them away in her desk. She had scarcely accomplished this when she heard her husband's footsteps. She hastily brushed her tears away and turned to greet him with a smile. "And this is what you call being half-an-hour away!" she said as he drew her to him and kissed her. "Von Rosenberg and I were busy talking. We had got halfway through the wood before I called to mind where I was." He sat down and fanned himself with his soft felt hat. "He tells me," went on Gerald, "that he has taken Beaulieu for twelve months--furnished, of course--so that we are likely to be neighbours for some time to come." "He must find English country-life very tame and unexciting after being used to Berlin and St Petersburg." "You may add, to Paris also. Some years ago he was attached to the German Embassy there." "To live as he is now living must seem like exile to such a man." "I am afraid it is little better. But the whisper goes that he is really exiled for a time--that he has contrived in some way to incur the displeasure of the powers that be, and that leave has been given him to travel for the benefit of his health." "Poor Baron! Let us hope that his eclipse will only be a temporary one.--By-the-bye, there has been some one else to see you while you have been out." "And they call this the seclusion of the country!" "Some Russian or Polish acquaintance whom you probably met when abroad." "Ah! His name?" "Monsieur Karovsky." Gerald Brooke drew in his breath with a gasp. "Karovsky--and here!" "He says that he has important business to see you upon. "He is one of the few men whose faces I hoped never to see again. Where is he?" There was trouble in his eyes, trouble in his voice, as he asked the question. "When I told him that you were out, he said that, with my permission, he would smoke a cigarette in the grounds while awaiting your return. What a strange, almost sinister-looking man he is! How I wish he had stayed away!" Her husband did not reply; he looked as if he had not heard what she said. Next moment Mrs. Brooke started to her feet. "There he is. There is Monsieur Karovsky," she cried. And there, indeed, he was, standing just outside the open window smoking a cigarette. Perceiving that he was seen, he flung away his cigarette, stepped slowly into the room, removed his hat, and bowed.
CHAPTER III.When George Crofton informed Mrs. Brooke that it was while riding along the road outside the park palings he had seen her husband leaving the house, he stated no more than the truth; but one little point he had not seen fit to mention--that he himself was not alone at the time. When he had recovered from his momentary surprise at seeing his cousin, he had said to his companion--an extremely handsome young person in a riding-habit that fitted her like a glove: "Let us put the pace on a bit, Steph. I've just remembered that there's a call I ought to make while I'm in this neighbourhood." A few minutes later they pulled up at the Beechley Arms, a country tavern only a few hundred yards distant from the back entrance to the park. Here Mr. Crofton had been well known in days gone by; and by the time he had dismounted and had assisted his companion to alight, the buxom landlady, all smiles and cap-ribbons, had come to the door to greet him. "Why, Master George, it's never you sure-ly," she said. "It seems like old times come back to see you come riding up just as you used to do." "Then you have not quite forgotten me, Mrs. Purvis," he said, as he shook hands with the landlady with that air of easy affability which he knew so well how to assume. "I don't wish to flatter you, but, on my honour, you look younger every time I see you." The landlady smirked and blushed, and said: "Get along with you, do, sir;" and then led the way to her best parlour, an old-fashioned, low-ceilinged room, with a diamond-paned window and a broad, cushioned window-seat. George ordered some sherry and biscuits to be brought; and as soon as the landlady had left the room, he said to his companion: "I shall have to leave you for half-an-hour, Steph, to make the call I spoke of just now; I shall be sure not to be gone longer. You won't mind, will you?" Mademoiselle Stephanie made a little moue. "I suppose you will go whether I mind or not;" she said. "I must go," he replied. "It is a matter of extreme importance." "In that case there is nothing more to be said," she answered with a shrug. A moment later she added: "Only, remember, if you are away much longer than half-an-hour, Tartar and I will go back home by ourselves, and leave you to follow at your leisure." George Crofton laughed. "Never fear, carissima; I won't fail to be back to time. Besides, our dinner will be waiting for us three miles farther on. Did I tell you that I had ordered it by telegraph before leaving town?" "There's one thing neither you nor I must forget," she answered, "and that is, that I'm due at the cirque at nine o'clock to the minute. Signor Ventelli never forgives any one who is not there to time." At this juncture Mrs. Purvis came in with the wine and biscuits. George hastily swallowed a couple of glasses of sherry; and then, after giving a few instructions with regard to the horses, and reiterating his promise not to be gone more than half an hour, he went. Mademoiselle Stephanie Lagrange was a very pretty woman--a fact of which she was perfectly cognisant, as most pretty women are. She had a profusion of light silky hair, and large steel-gray eyes that were lacking neither in fire nor audacity. Her lips were thin and rather finely curved; but her chin was almost too massive to be in proportion with the rest of her features. Her figure was well-nigh perfect; and as she was a splendid horsewoman, she never appeared in the Row without having a hundred pair of eyes focused on her, and a hundred tongues asking eagerly who she was. In case the reader should put the same question, it may be as well to state that Mademoiselle Lagrange was a prominent member of the celebrated Ventelli Circus troupe, on whose posters and placards she was designated in large letters as "Queen of the Haute Ecole." Whether Mademoiselle Lagrange was of French or English extraction was a moot-point with several of those who knew her best, seeing that she spoke both languages equally well. Some there were who averred that she spoke English with a slight French accent, and French with a slight English accent; but be that as it may, no one knew from her own lips where she was born or of what nationality her parents had been. As soon as she was left alone, Stephanie took off her hat and veil and seated herself on the window seat, from whence she could look into a strip of old-fashioned garden at the back of the tavern. As she nibbled at a biscuit and sipped her sherry--Steph was by no means averse to a glass of good wine--she soliloquised, half aloud: "Why has my good friend George left me and who is the person he has gone to see?--Eh bien, cher monsieur, there appear to be certain secrets in your life of which I know nothing. It must be my business to find out what they are. I like to have secrets of my own, but I don't like other people to have secrets from me." At this point, in came bustling Mrs. Purvis, ostensibly to inquire whether the lady was in need of anything, but in reality to satisfy in some measure the cravings of her curiosity. She found Mademoiselle Stephanie by no means disinclined for a little gossip; only, when she came to think over the interview afterwards, she discovered that it was she who had answered all the young lady's questions, but that the young lady had answered few or none of hers. Yes; she had known Master George from quite a boy, Mrs. Purvis went on to say, gratified at finding a listener so ready to her hand. He had been brought up at the Towers--the great house in the park there--and everybody thought he would be his uncle's heir. But as he grew up he fell into bad ways, and all sorts of tales were told about his extravagance and dissipation; and no doubt he was made out to be far worse than he really was. At length the old gentleman turned him out of doors, and made a fresh will in favour of his other nephew, Mr. Gerald Brooke--he who now lives at the Towers--while Master George had to content himself with a legacy of five thousand pounds. And then there was Miss Danby--the late vicar's daughter--whom everybody thought Master George would marry; but she, too, turned against him, and married his cousin, so that he lost both his inheritance and his wife. "And does this lady whom Mr. Crofton was to have married live at the place you call the Towers?" asked Stephanie. "Certainly, miss. She is mistress there; and a very beautiful lady she is." "It is her whom he has gone to see," said Stephanie to herself. "He pretends that he loves me, but he cannot forget her.--So this is your secret, cher George! I shall know how to make use of it when the time conies." Suddenly she started and half rose from her seat. Her eyes had been caught by something outside the window. She turned quickly on Mrs. Purvis. "That child--where does he come from? Who is he?" The landlady's gaze followed hers through the window. "Do you mean that little fellow on the grass plat who is throwing crumbs to the birds? He's a mountebank's son, as you may see by his dress. His father is having some bread-and-cheese in the kitchen. What a shame it is that such a dear little mite should have to earn his living by turning head over heels in the streets." For several moments Stephanie stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the child. Then, without turning her head, she said: "Thank you. I require nothing more at present. When I do, I will ring." The tones in which the words were spoken conveyed more than the words themselves. Mrs. Purvis bridled like a peacock, shook her cap-ribbons, and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her with unnecessary violence. There were two doors to the room, one by which the landlady had made her exit, and another which led into the garden. This second door Stephanie now opened, and at the sound the boy raised his eyes. She beckoned to him, and he came forward. It may be that he had visions of more fruit and sugared biscuits. Stephanie drew him a little way into the room, and going down on one knee, she passed an arm round his waist. It was evident that she was full of suppressed emotion. The conversation that ensued was carried on in French. "Tell me your name, cheri." "Henri Picot, mademoiselle." She had known what the answer would be; but for a moment or two her lips blanched, while she murmured something the boy could not hear. "And your father?" she said at last. "He is here, indoors. Poor papa was tired; he is resting himself." "Does your papa treat you kindly, Henri?" The boy stared at her. "Papa always treats me kindly.--Why should he not?" "And your mamma?" said Stephanie with bated breath. Henri shook his head. "I have no mamma," he answered with a ring of childish pathos in his voice. "She has gone a long, long journey, and no one knows when she will come back. Papa does not like me to talk about her--it makes him so sad. But sometimes I see her in my sleep, and then she looks beautiful, and smiles at me. Some day, perhaps, she will come back to papa and me." She kissed him passionately, to the boy's wonderment. Then with a half-sob in her voice, she said: "But you have a sister, have you not?" Henri's large eyes grew larger. "No; I have no sister," he answered with a shake of his head. "But you had one once, had you not? Does your papa never speak of her?" "No; never. I had a mamma, but I never had a sister." For a moment or two Stephanie buried her face on the child's shoulder. What thoughts, what memories of the past, rushed through her brain as she did so? "Cast off and forgotten!" was the mournful cry wrung from her heart. Suddenly a voice outside was heard calling, "Henri, Henri, oÙ es tu?" followed by a note or two on the pipes and a tap on the drum. "Papa is calling me; I must go," said the boy. Stephanie started to her feet, and lifting him in her arms, kissed him wildly again and again. Then setting him down, she pressed some money into his hand and turned away without another word. Henri darted off. "He is gone--gone--and perhaps I shall never see him again!" She sank on her knees and buried her face in the cushions of the window-seat. Her whole frame shook with the sobs that would no longer be suppressed. Five minutes later George Crofton entered the room. For a few seconds he paused in utter amazement; then going forward, he laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Steph," he said, "Steph--why, what's amiss?" As he spoke his eyes rested for a moment on Picot and Henri, who were crossing the grass-plat hand in hand.
CHAPTER IV."Pardon. I hope I do not intrude?" said M. Karovsky, addressing himself to Mrs. Brooke with the suave assurance of a thorough man of the world. "I saw through the window that Mr. Brooke had returned, and as my time here is limited--me voici." Then advancing a few steps and holding out his hand to Gerald, he added: "It is five years, mon ami, since we last met. Confess now, I am one of the last men in the world whom you thought to see here?" "You are indeed, Karovsky," responded Gerald as he shook his visitor's proffered hand, but with no great show of cordiality.--"Have you been long in England?" "Not long. I am a bird of passage. I come and go, and obey the orders that are given me. That is all." "My wife, Mrs. Brooke. But you have seen her already.--Clara, Monsieur Karovsky is a gentleman whose acquaintance I had the honour of making during the time I was living abroad." "May we hope to have the pleasure of Monsieur Karovsky's company to dinner?" asked Clara in her most gracious manner, while at the same time hoping in her heart that the invitation would not be accepted. "Merci, madame," responded the Russian, for such he was. "I should be delighted, if the occasion admitted of it; but, as I said before, my time is limited. I must leave London by the night-mail. I am due in Paris at ten o'clock tomorrow." "For the present, then, I must ask you to excuse me," said Clara. Karovsky hastened to open the door for her, and bowed low as she swept out of the room. "That man is the bearer of ill news, and Gerald knows it," was the young wife's unspoken thought as she left the two together. M. Karovsky was a tall, well-built man, to all appearance some few years over thirty in point of age. His short black hair was parted carefully down the middle; his black eyes were at once piercing and brilliant; he had a long and rather thin face, a longish nose, a mobile and flexible mouth, and a particularly fine arrangement of teeth. He wore neither beard nor moustache, and his complexion had the faint yellow tint of antique ivory. He was not especially handsome; but there was something striking and out of the common in his appearance, so that people who were introduced to him casually in society wanted to know more about him. An enigma is not without its attractions for many people, and Karovsky had the air of being one whether he was so in reality or not. He was a born linguist, as so many of his countrymen are, and spoke the chief European languages with almost equal fluency and equal purity of accent. "Fortune has been kind to you, my friend, in finding for you so charming a wife," he said, as he lounged across the room with his hands in his pockets, after closing the door behind Mrs. Brooke. "But Fortune has been kind to you in more ways than one." "Karovsky, you have something to tell me," said Brooke a little grimly. "You did not come here to pay compliments, nor without a motive. But will you not be seated?" Karovsky drew up a chair. "As you say--I am not here without a motive," he remarked. Then, with a quick expressive gesture, which was altogether un-English, he added: "Ah, bah! I feel like a bird of ill-omen that has winged its way into Paradise with a message from the nether world." "Whatever your message may be, pray do not hesitate to deliver it." But apparently the Russian did hesitate. He got up, crossed the room to one of the windows, looked out for half a minute, then went back and resumed his seat. "Eight years have come and gone, Gerald Brooke," he began in an impressive tone, "since you allied yourself by some of the most solemn oaths possible for a man to take to that Sacred Cause to which I also have the honour of being affiliated." "Do you think that I have forgotten! At that time I was an impetuous and enthusiastic boy of eighteen, with no knowledge of the world save what I had gathered from books, and with a head that was full of wild, vague dreams of Liberty and Universal Brotherhood." "The fact of your becoming one of Us is the best of all proofs that the cause of Liberty at that time was dear to your heart." "But when as a boy I joined the Cause, I was ignorant of much I have learned since that time." "The world does not stand still. One naturally knows more to-day than one did eight years ago." "Karovsky, I know this--that the Cause, which, when I joined it, I believed to be so pure in its aims, so lofty in its ideas, so all-embracing in its philanthropy, has, since that time, been stained by crimes which make me shudder when I think of them--has dragged its colours through shambles reeking with the blood of those who have fallen victims to its blind and ferocious notions of revenge." "Pardon. But can it be possible that I am listening to one who, only eight short years ago, was saturated with philanthropic ideas which seemed expansive enough to include the whole human race--one whose great longing was that every man should be free and happy?--Ah, yes, you are the same--only time and the world have contrived to spoil you, as they spoil so many others. In those days you were poor; now you are rich. Then you had no fixed home; you were a wanderer from city to city; your future was clouded and uncertain. Now, you are the wealthy Mr. Brooke--a pillar of your country: this grand old mansion and all the broad acres, for I know not how far around it, are yours. You are married to one whom you love, and who loves you in return. Away, then, with the wild notions of our hot youth!" "Karovsky, you wrong me. My love of my fellows is as ardent as ever it was. My---- But why prolong a discussion that could serve no good end? You have a message for me?" "I have." The man was evidently ill at ease. He rose, crossed to the chimney-piece, took up one or two curios and examined them through his eyeglass, then went back and resumed his seat. "Gerald Brooke," he continued, "eight years ago, on a certain winter evening, in a certain underground room in Warsaw, and before some half-dozen men whose faces you were not permitted to see, you, of your own free-will, took the solemn oaths which affiliated you to that great Cause for the furtherance of which thousands of others have given their fortunes, their lives, their all. From that day till this you have been a passive brother of the Society; nothing has been demanded at your hands; and you might almost be excused if the events of that winter night had come at length to seem to you little more than a half-remembered dream. That you have not been called upon before now is no proof that you have been overlooked or forgotten, but simply that your services have not been required. Other instruments were at hand to do the work that was needed to be done. But at length the day has come to you, Gerald Brooke, as it comes to most men who live and wait." Gerald had changed colour more than once during the foregoing speech. "What is it that I am called upon to do?" he asked in a voice that was scarcely raised above a whisper. "You are aware that when an individual is needed to carry out any of the secret decrees of the Supreme Tribunal, that individual is drawn for by lot?" "And my name"---- "Has been so drawn." The light faded out of Gerald Brooke's eyes; a death-like pallor crept over his face; lie could scarcely command his voice as for the second time he asked: "What is it that I am called upon to do?" "The Supreme Tribunal have decreed that a certain individual shall suffer the penalty of death. You are the person drawn by lot to carry out the sentence." "They would make an assassin of me?--Never!" "You are bound by your oath to carry out the behests of the Tribunal, be they what they may." "No oath can bind a man to become a murderer." "One of the chief conditions attached to your oath is that of blind and unquestioning obedience." "Karovsky, this is monstrous." "I am sorry that things have fallen out as they have, mon ami; but such being the case, there is no help for it." "I--Gerald Brooke--whose ancestors fought at Cressy, to sink to the level of a common assassin? Never!" "Pardon. Might it not be as well, before you express your determination in such emphatic terms, to consider what would be the consequence of a refusal on your part to comply with the instructions of which I have the misfortune to be the bearer?--Mrs. Brooke is very young to be left a widow." "Karovsky!" "Pardon. But that is what it means. Any affiliated member who may be so ill-advised as to refuse to carry out the decrees of the Tribunal renders himself liable to the extreme penalty; and so surely as you, Gerald Brooke, are now a living man, so surely, in a few short weeks, should you persist in your refusal, will your wife be left a widow." "This is horrible--most horrible!" "Obedience, blind and unquestioning, the utter abnegation of your individuality to the will of your superiors, is the first great rule of the Propaganda to which you and I have the honour to belong. But all this you knew, or ought to have known, long ago." "Obedience carried to the verge of murder is obedience no longer--it becomes a crime. However you may put it, assassination remains assassination still." "Pardon. We recognise no such term in our vocabulary." "Karovsky, had you been called upon to do this deed"---- "I should have done it. For if there be one man in the world, Brooke, whom I have cause to hate more than another, that man is Baron Otto von Rosenberg!" "Von Rosenberg!" "Pardon. Did I not mention the name before? But he is the man." For a moment or two Gerald could not speak. "It is but half an hour since I parted from him," he contrived to say at last.--"Karovsky, I feel as if I were entangled in some horrible nightmare--as if I were being suffocated in the folds of some monstrous Python." "It is a feeling that will wear itself out in the course of a little while. I remember---- But that matters not." "But Von Rosenberg is not a Russian; he is a German ex-diplomatist. What can such a man as he have done to incur so terrible a vengeance?" "Listen. Four years ago, when attached to the Embassy at St Petersburg, certain secrets were divulged to him, after he had pledged his sacred word of honour that no use whatever should be made of the information so acquired. Wretch that he was! Von Rosenberg turned, traitor, and revealed everything to those in power. In the dead of night, a certain house in which a secret printing press was at work was surrounded by the police. Two of the inmates were shot down while attempting to escape. The rest were made prisoners, among them being three women and a boy of seventeen--my brother. Two of those arrested died in prison, or were never heard of more; the rest were condemned to the mines. On the road, my brother and one of the women sank and died, killed by the dreadful hardships they had to undergo; the rest are now rotting away their lives in the silver mines, forgotten by all but the dear ones they left behind.--You now know the reason why the Baron Otto von Rosenberg has been sentenced to death. The vengeance of the Supreme Tribunal may be slow, but it is very sure." There was silence for a few moments, then Gerald said: "All this may be as you say; but I tell you again, Karovsky, that mine shall not be the hand to strike the blow." "Then you seal your own death-warrant" "So be it. Life at such a price would not be worth having. 'Death before Dishonour' is the motto of our house. Dishonour shall never come to it through me." Gerald rose and walked to the window. His face was pale, his eyes were full of trouble; what he had said had been lacking neither in dignity nor pathos. The Russian's cold glance followed him, not without admiration. "English to the backbone," he muttered under his breath. "It was a blunder ever to allow such a man to become one of Us." Then he looked at his watch, and started to find it was so late. "I can stay no longer--I must go," he said aloud. "But remember my last warning words." He took up his hat and moved slowly towards the window. "Karovsky, for the last time I solemnly declare that this man's death shall not lie at my door!" Gerald sank into a chair, let his elbows rest on the table, and buried his face between his hands. "I have nothing more to say," remarked the Russian. He stepped through the window, his hat in his hand, and then turned. At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Brooke, on the point of entering the room, paused suddenly as her eyes took in the scene before her. "Gerald!" she exclaimed in a frightened voice, and then her gaze travelled from her husband to Karovsky. The latter, with his eyes still resting on the bowed figure at the table, pronounced in low clear accents the one word, "Remember!" Then he bowed low to Mrs. Brooke, and next moment was gone.
CHAPTER V.Ten weeks, had come and gone since the memorable visit of M. Karovsky to the master of Beechley Towers. It was a pleasant evening towards the end of June. There had been a heavy shower a little while ago; but since then the clouds had broken, and the sun was now drawing westward in a blaze of glory. In the same pleasant morning-room in which we first made their acquaintance, Mrs. Brooke and her aunt, Miss Primby, were now sitting. The latter was dozing in an easy-chair with a novel on her lap, the former was seated at the piano playing some plaintive air in a minor key. The glad light, the light of a happiness that knew no cloud, which shone from her eyes when we saw her first, dwelt there no longer. She looked pale, anxious, and distraits, like one who is a prey to some hidden trouble. She had spoken no more than the truth when she said that her happiness was too perfect to last. As the last sad note died away under her fingers she turned from the instrument. "I cannot play--I cannot work--I cannot do anything," she murmured under her breath. At this juncture Miss Primby awoke. "My dear Clara, what a pity you did not keep on playing," she said. "I was in the midst of a most lovely dream. I thought I was about to be married; my wreath and veil had been sent home, and I was just about to try them on; when you stopped playing and I awoke." "If I were to go on playing, aunt, do you think that you could finish your dream?" "No, my dear, it's gone, and the chances are that it will never return," said the spinster with a sigh. Clara crossed the room, and sat down on a low chair near the window, whence she could catch the first glimpse of her husband as he came round the clump of evergreens at the corner of the terrace. "I wish you would not mope so much, and would try not to look quite so miserable," said her aunt presently. "How can I help feeling miserable, when I know that Gerald has some unhappy secret on his mind, of which he tells me nothing. He has been a changed man ever since the visit of M. Karovsky. He cannot eat, he cannot rest; night and day he wanders about the house and grounds, like a man walking in his sleep." "Bad signs, very, my dear. Married men have no right to have secrets from their wives." "If he would but confide in me! If he would but tell me what the secret trouble is that is slowly eating away his life!" "I remember that when the Dean of Rathdrum leaned over the back of my chair, and whispered 'My darling Jane, I'"---- "Here comes Gerald!" cried Mrs. Brooke. She started to her feet, while a glad light leapt into her eyes, and ran out on the terrace to meet him. "What a time you have been away!" she said, as he stooped and kissed her. "And your hair and clothes are quite wet." "It is nothing," he answered. "I was caught in a shower in the wood." "Poor fellow! He certainly does look very haggard and dejected," remarked Miss Primby to herself. "Have you been far?" asked Clara. "Only as far as Beaulieu." "You called on the baron, of course." "No. I changed my mind at the last moment." "The first bell will ring in a few minutes." "I have one important letter to write before I dress." "Then aunt and I will leave you. You will not be long? I am so afraid of your taking cold. Come, aunt." "Nothing brings on rheumatism sooner than damp clothes," remarked Miss Primby sententiously, as she folded down a leaf of her novel, and tucked the volume under her arm. Then the ladies went and Gerald was left alone. He looked a dozen years older than he had looked ten weeks previously. All the light and gladness had died out of his face; he had the air of a man who was weighed down by some trouble almost heavier than he could bear. "She is afraid of my taking cold," he said to himself, with a bitter smile as his wife closed the door. "Poor darling! if I were to take cold and have a fever and die, it would be the best thing that could happen either to her or me." He began to pace the room slowly, his hands behind him, and his eyes bent on the ground. "Nearly three months have passed since Karovsky's visit, and nothing has yet been done. Only two more weeks are left me. Coward that I am, to have kept putting off from day to day doing that which I ought to have done long ago. Even this very afternoon, when I reached Beaulieu, I had not the courage to go in and confront Von Rosenberg. My heart failed me, and I turned back. If I have begun one letter to him I have begun a dozen, only to burn or tear them up unfinished; but now there is no time for further delay. I will warn him that if he wishes to save his life he must leave here immediately, and seek some asylum where his enemies will be powerless to harm him. Shall I vaguely hint at some shadowy danger that impends over him? or shall I tell him in plain terms why and by whom the death sentence has been recorded against him? Shall I write to him anonymously, or shall I sign the letter with my name? Better tell him everything and put my name to the letter; he can then act on the information in whatever way he may deem best. In doing this, as Karovsky said, I shall be sealing my own doom. Well, better that, better anything than the only other alternative." He halted by one of the windows, and stood gazing out at all the pleasant features of the landscape he had learned to know and love so well. "It seems hard to die so young, and with so much about me to make life happy," he sadly mused. "I think I could meet my fate on the battle-field without a murmur--but to be murdered in cold blood--to be the mark for some stealthy assassin! Poor Clara! poor darling! what will you do when I am gone?" He sighed deeply as he turned from the window. His eyes were dim with tears. |
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