MY LORD SAVILE REAPS HIS REWARD

LADY SUNDERLAND was, as usual, playing cards with her crony. The game was gleek, and Lady Dacres was determined to be avenged for the loss of the Chinese dragon—grinning hideously from the mantel—and she was betting and cheating desperately. Dr. Radcliffe made a third, and Lord Spencer looked on—politely bored.

The tapers burned brightly and Lady Sunderland simpered and nodded her head at Dr. Radcliffe, though she would not have tolerated his society if he had not been physician to the Princess Anne and she hoped to extract some royal gossip from him.

The host of the Lion’s Head came in himself, with a servant bearing a large loving-cup of silver. The good man was flushed and obsequious and plainly out of sorts, keeping a weather eye on Lord Spencer.“Will your ladyship be pleased to try this hypocras?” he said, bowing low; “’tis of my own brewing and I’ll warrant it the finest in the county—I had the rule from the keeper of Man’s,” and he rubbed his fat hands together unctuously.

Lady Dacres tasted first and rolled her eyes up.

“Ambrosia!” she said, “oh, la—I mean nectar, don’t I, Lord Spencer?” and she tittered like a girl of sixteen.

Dr. Radcliffe drank some deliberately.

“Better than the brandy you sent us this afternoon,” he remarked, with a twinkle in his eye.

The man grew crimson. “’Tis for a better purpose,” he stammered.

The great physician raised his eyebrows.

“Chut! that’s a strange notion,” he said bluntly; “it is not a good purpose, then, to save life?”

The innkeeper worked his hands nervously.

“I’ve heard strange things since, your worship,” he faltered, his eye on the young nobleman.

“You harbor strange guests,” remarked Spencer sternly, his cold glance transfixing the little man.“I can’t always know their antecedents, my lord,” said the host, redder than ever, and in an agony of uneasiness.

“What’s the matter?” asked Lady Sunderland, “you look as if you’d seen a ghost. What in the wide world are you hatching now, Spencer?”

“Oh, nothing of importance,” he replied coolly; “the Lion’s Head is turning Jacobite, that’s all.”

“Mercy on us!” ejaculated Lady Sunderland, with pious horror, “I thought ’twas a noted Whig house—and the king still in Newmarket, too.”

“Indeed, madam—your ladyship, I do protest,” put in the landlord.

“Tut, tut!” said Dr. Radcliffe, waving him aside, “we’ll excuse you. A dead Jacobite’s no great matter.”

“A dead Jacobite?” screamed Lady Dacres shrilly; “you make me faint! Here man, another glass of what-d’-ye-call-it?—hypocrite?” and she drank it with a sigh, fanning herself.

Spencer frowned, rising and walking to the window, and apparently looking out into the black night beyond. The landlord, taking advantage of his opportunity, slid out of the door with alacrity.“There has been a duel, madam,” explained Radcliffe, shuffling the cards, “in the long meadow—and the provost-marshal may look into it later.”

“Dear, dear,” simpered Lady Sunderland, looking over her cards, “was any one killed? I’ll raise the wager to nine shillings—oh, la—the doctor has a mourneval!” she added, aside to Lady Dacres.

“A young Irishman, Trevor, was desperately wounded,” replied Radcliffe; “a splendid swordsman, but his blade broke.”

“What!” exclaimed Lady Sunderland, “that charming young man?” she shook her head mournfully; “his legs were beautifully symmetrical.”

“Did he lose one?” tittered Lady Dacres, clutching at her cards with greedy fingers; “you said nine shillings more?”

Lady Sunderland nodded; she held three kings and hoped to win. “The doctor has Tiddy and Towser both,” she whispered behind her fan.

At the moment, Betty came into the room. Her face was pale but she showed no signs of the tempest.

“He had an ugly wound, madam,” Dr. Radcliffe said, playing a card leisurely; “his chances of life amount to that,” the physician made a significant gesture.

“Dear me, Betty, come here and listen to this awful tale,” said Lady Sunderland; “your friend, Mr. Trevor, killed—oh, by the way, who did it, doctor?”

Lord Spencer had turned from the window.

“Savile,” he answered coldly, “and he did well. It seems he suspected him—thought him a disguised Jacobite and has called him out twice to kill him—this time he has probably done it. And now it is rumored that the fellow is one of those excepted in the late act of Parliament. The country is flooded with these rascals, constantly menacing its safety and the king’s life.”

“How romantic,” sighed Lady Sunderland, throwing her cards; “there,” she crowed, “three kings—Meg, I’ve got you!”

Lady Dacres replied by tossing her cards on the table with a scream of triumph.

“Oh, confound it!” cried Lady Sunderland furiously; “the hussy has a gleek of aces! You’re an old cheat, Meg!”

Lady Dacres laughed immoderately, gathering in the coin with eager fingers. The other old gambler eyed her with fury, her headdress quivering. Dr. Radcliffe, who knew it was the fashion to fleece the men at table, looked on indifferently, keeping up his talk with Spencer.

“I cannot see why Savile had to kill him for a Jacobite,” he remarked, deliberately taking snuff from an elaborate box with the arms of the Princess of Denmark on it; “the provost-marshal can see to them. We all know that the Habeas Corpus Act is suspended on account of the plots against the king’s life. Savile’s motive must have been more human than that, my lord.”

Spencer shrugged his shoulders.

“He was doing a high duty, sir,” he replied pompously, “he was ridding his country of a traitor. Savile’s a fine fellow.”

“He’s a murderer!” said Betty sharply.

She stood with her hand on the back of her mother’s chair and her tall figure seemed to tower. The doctor gave her a shrewd glance.

“You love heroics, Elizabeth,” her brother replied with a drawl, but his face turned white—a danger signal.

Betty did not look at him; she fixed her eyes on the doctor.

“Will he die?” she asked, and her voice was perfectly controlled.

Radcliffe was thoughtful and did not answer for a moment.“There is one chance in a thousand,” he said, “there would have been more, but this political stir and hubbub has compelled them to spirit him away, and a journey—” he shrugged his shoulders; “I should say six feet of earth, madam, would end it.”

She drew her breath sharply; to her all the candles in the room seemed to be revolving in a death-dance.

“He ought to die,” said Spencer piously, “a Jacobite and a renegade. By Saint Thomas, we’re well rid of him!”

“La, how romantic it is!” Lady Sunderland said, shuffling her cards and glaring at her simpering rival.

Betty walked past them and out into the anteroom, where she met Lord Savile leaning on Mr. Benham’s arm. His neck was bound up and swathed in lace, and one arm was in a sling. He bowed low with a white face and languishing eyes.

“Here’s a brave fellow half killed for love of you, my lady,” said Mr. Benham, with gallantry.

Betty halted; tall and straight as an arrow, her eyes sparkling. No one anticipated the lightning.

Savile smiled. “Dear Lady Clancarty,” he said, in a weak voice, “I am your humblest servant.”

“You are a murderer, sir,” she replied, in a terrible tone; “let me never see your face again.”

And she swept on and left them standing there in blank amazement.

In her own room she fell on Alice’s neck in a passion of tears.

“O Alice, Alice!” she cried, “I have driven him to his death.”

And Alice—who had heard all that evening, in the agony of her ladyship’s first grief and terror—Alice clasped her close, forgetting the great distance between them and remembering only her devotion to this beautiful and wilful creature.

“I did not know you cared so much,” she said, “I never thought that he might be Lord Clancarty.”

“Ah, I felt it from the first, Alice,” Lady Betty said; “there was something in his bearing toward me—his tone—I knew he was my husband, I felt it!”

“And yet—and yet—my lady, you sent him away!” the girl murmured, in a tone of wonder.Betty’s head dropped. “Yes, he has gone!” she said, “gone—my own true love—and desperately wounded, too!”

“Yes, gone,” said Alice, venturing on a tearful remonstrance; “I can’t understand you, my lady, I can’t indeed! One moment, you are all tenderness for the poor gentleman, the next, you are driving him into exile with your coldness.”

“Exile? Oh, no, no!” cried Lady Betty passionately, “he shall not go without me. I love him, my girl, I love him—can’t you understand? ’Twas that which made me feel so—feel that he only claimed me, did not woo me. You are as dull as any man, Alice,” she walked to and fro, beating her hands together, “my love, my poor love!” she sighed and then suddenly her mood changed, she raised her head resolutely.

“My hood and cloak, Alice,” she said quickly, “and my vizard.”

“Madam, ’tis very late,” remonstrated the girl.

Betty stamped her foot. “I am your mistress,” she said, “obey me—you forget your place.”

“Nay, my lady,” said Alice sadly, “I do not forget—but I love you!”Her generous-hearted mistress repented in a moment.

“Forgive me,” she said gently, “I know it, Alice, but I cannot be advised—I must find him.” She stopped, her face white under the hood that the girl was adjusting: “O Alice, he may be dying!”