THE IMPATIENT BARON.
The brigands had resisted stubbornly, but finally found themselves
without a leader. Girasole had disappeared; and as his voice no longer
directed their movements, they began to fall into confusion. The
attacking party, on the other hand, was well led, and made a steady
advance, driving the enemy before them. At length the brigands lost
heart, and took to flight. With a wild cheer the assailants followed
in pursuit. But the fugitives took to the forest, and were soon beyond
the reach of their pursuers in its familiar intricacies, and the
victors were summoned back by the sound of the trumpet.
[Illustration: "THE DISCOVERY OF A BODY ON THE SHORE OF THE LAKE."]
It was now daylight, and as the conquering party emerged from the
forest they showed the uniform of the Papal Zouaves; while their
leader, who had shown himself so skillful in forest warfare, proved to
be no less a personage than our friend the Baron. Led by him, the
party advanced to the old stone house, and here, drawing up his men in
front, their leader rushed in, and searched every room. To his
amazement, he found the house deserted, its only inmate being that
dead brigand whom Girasole had mistaken for Hawbury. This discovery
filled the Baron with consternation. He had expected to find the
prisoners here, and his dismay and grief were excessive. At first he
could not believe in his ill luck; but another search convinced him of
it, and reduced him to a state of perfect bewilderment.
But he was not one who could long remain inactive. Feeling confident
that the brigands were scattered every where in headlong flight, he
sent his men out in different directions, into the woods and along the
shore, to see if they could find any traces of the lost ones. He
himself remained near the house, so as to direct the search most
efficiently. After about an hour they came back, one by one, without
being able to find many traces. One had found an empty coffin in a
grave, another a woman's hood, a third had found a scarf. All of these
had endeavored to follow up these traces, but without result. Finally
a man approached who announced the discovery of a body on the shore of
the lake. After him came a party who was carrying the corpse for the
inspection of their captain.
The Baron went to look at it. The body showed a great gap in the
skull. On questioning the men, he learned that they had found it on
the shore, at the bottom of a steep rock, about half-way between the
house and the place where they had first emerged from the woods. His
head was lying pressed against a sharp rock in such a way that it was
evident that he had fallen over the cliff, and had been instantly
killed. The Baron looked at the face, and recognized the features of
Girasole. He ordered it to be taken away and laid in the empty grave
for future burial.
The Baron now became impatient. This was not what he had bargained for
at all. At length he thought that they might have fled, and might now
be concealed in the woods around; and together with this thought there
came to his mind an idea of an effective way to reach them. The
trumpeter could send forth a blast which could be heard far and wide.
But what might, could, would, or should the trumpeter sound forth
which should give the concealed listeners a certainty that the summons
came from friends and not from foes? This the Baron puzzled over for
some time. At length he solved this problem also, and triumphantly.
There was one strain which the trumpeter might sound that could not be
mistaken. It would at once convey to the concealed hearers all the
truth, and gently woo them home. It would be at once a note of
victory, a song of joy, a call of love, a sound of peace, and an
invitation--"Wanderer, come home!"
Of course there was only one tune that, to the mind of the Baron, was
capable of doing this.
And of course that tune was "Yankee Doodle."
Did the trumpeter know it?
Of course he did.
Who does not know it?
All men know that tune. Man is born with an innate knowledge of the
strain of "Yankee Doodle." No one can remember when he first learned
it. The reason is because he never learned it at all. It was born in
him.
So the trumpeter sounded it forth, and wild and high and clear and far
the sounds arose; and it was "Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes
flying; and answer, echoes, answer, Yankee Doodle dying."
And while the trumpet sounded the Baron listened and listened, and
walked up and down, and fretted and fumed and chafed, and I'm afraid
he swore a little too; and at last he was going to tell the trumpeter
to stop his infernal noise, when, just at that moment, what should he
see all of a sudden emerging from the woods but three figures!
And I'll leave you to imagine, if you can, the joy and delight which
agitated the bosom of our good Baron as he recognized among these
three figures the well-known face and form of his friend Hawbury. With
Hawbury was a lady whom the Baron remembered having seen once in the
upper hall of a certain house in Rome, on a memorable occasion, when
he stood on the stairs calling _Min_. The lady was very austere then,
but she was very gracious now, and very wonderfully sweet in the
expression of her face. And with them was a stranger in the garb of a
priest.
Now as soon as the party met the Baron, who rushed to meet them,
Hawbury wrung his hand, and stared at him in unbounded astonishment.
"You!" he cried; "yourself, old boy! By Jove!"
"Yes," said the Baron. "You see, the moment we got into that ambush I
kept my eye open, and got a chance to spring into the woods. There I
was all right, and ran for it. I got into the road again a couple of
miles back, got a horse, rode to Civita Castellana, and there I was
lucky enough to find a company of Zouaves. Well, Sir, we came here
flying, mind, I tell you, and got hold of a chap that we made guide us
to the lake. Then we opened on them; and here we are, by thunder! But
where's Min?"
"Who?" asked Hawbury.
"Min," said the Baron, in the most natural tone in the world.
"Oh! Why, isn't she here?"
"No. We've hunted every where. No one's here at all." And the Baron
went on to tell about their search and its results. Hawbury was
chiefly struck by the news of Girasole.
"He must have gone mad with terror," said Hawbury, as he told the
Baron about his adventure at the grave. "If that's so," he added, "I
don't see how the ladies could be harmed. I dare say they've run off.
Why, we started to run, and got so far off that we couldn't find our
way back, even after the trumpet began to sound. You must keep blowing
at it, you know. Play all the national tunes you can--no end. They'll
find their way back if you give them time."
And now they all went back to the house, and the Baron in his anxiety
could not talk any more, but began his former occupation of walking up
and down, and fuming and fretting and chafing, and, I'm again afraid,
swearing--when all of a sudden, on the bank in front of him, on the
very top, just emerging from the thick underbrush which had concealed
them till that moment, to their utter amazement and indescribable
delight, they beheld Scone Dacres and Mrs. Willoughby. Scone Dacres
appeared to Hawbury to be in a totally different frame of mind from
that in which he had been when he last saw him; and what perplexed him
most, yea, and absolutely confounded him, was the sight of Scone
Dacres with his demon wife, whom he had been pursuing for the sake of
vengeance, and whose frenzy had been so violent that he himself had
been drawn with him on purpose to try and restrain him. And now what
was the injured husband doing with his demon wife? Doing! why, doing
the impassioned lover most vigorously; sustaining her steps most
tenderly; grasping her hand; pushing aside the bushes; assisting her
down the slope; overwhelming her, in short; hovering round her,
apparently unconscious that there was in all the wide world any other
being than Mrs. Willoughby. And as Hawbury looked upon all this his
eyes dilated and his lips parted involuntarily in utter wonder; and
finally, as Dacres reached the spot, the only greeting which he could
give his friend was,
"By Jove!"
And now, while Mrs. Willoughby and Ethel were embracing with tears of
joy, and overwhelming one another with questions, the Baron sought
information from Dacres.
Dacres then informed him all about Tozer's advent and departure.
"Tozer!" cried the Baron, in intense delight. "Good on his darned old
head! Hurrah for the parson! He shall marry us for this--he, and no
other, by thunder!"
Upon which Mrs. Willoughby and Ethel exchanged glances, but said not a
word. Not they.
But in about five minutes, when Mrs. Willoughby had Ethel apart a
little by herself, she said,
"Oh, Ethel dear, isn't it dreadful?"
"What?" asked Ethel.
"Why, poor Minnie."
"Poor Minnie?"
"Yes. Another horrid man. And he'll be claiming her too. And, oh dear!
what shall I do?"
"Why, you'll have to let her decide for herself. I think it will
be--this person."
Mrs. Willoughby clasped her hands, and looked up with a pretty little
expression of horror.
"And do you know, dear," added Ethel, "I'm beginning to think that it
wouldn't be so _very_ bad. He's Lord Hawbury's friend, you know, and
then he's very, very brave; and, above all, think what we all owe
him."
Mrs. Willoughby gave a resigned sigh.
And now the Baron was wilder with impatience than ever. He had
questioned Dacres, and found that he could give him no information
whatever as to Tozer's route, and consequently had no idea where to
search. But he still had boundless confidence in "Yankee Doodle."
"That's the way," said Dacres; "we heard it ever so far, and it was
the first thing that told us it was safe to return. We didn't dare to
venture before."
Meanwhile Hawbury had got Dacres by himself, and poured a torrent of
questions over him. Dacres told him in general terms how he was
captured. Then he informed him how Mrs. Willoughby was put in the same
room, and his discovery that it was Minnie that the Italian wanted.
"Well, do you know, old chap," continued Dacres, "I couldn't stand it;
so I offered to make it all up with her."
"Oh, I see you've done that, old boy. Congrat--"
"Pooh! wait a minute," said Dacres, interrupting him. "Well, you know,
she wasn't my wife at all."
At this Hawbury stood utterly aghast.
"What's that?"
"She wasn't my wife at all. She looks confoundedly like what my wife
was at her best, but she's another person. It's a most extraordinary
likeness; and yet she's isn't any relation, but a great deal prettier
woman. What made me so sure, you know, was the infernally odd
coincidence of the name; and then I only saw her off and on, you know,
and I never heard her voice. Then, you know, I was mad with jealousy;
and so I made myself worse and worse, till I was ripe for murder,
arson, assasination, and all that sort of thing, you know."
To all this Hawbury listened in amazement, and could not utter a word,
until at last, as Dacres paused, he said,
"By Jove!"
"Well, old man, I was the most infernal ass that ever lived. And how I
must have bored you!"
"By Jove!" exclaimed Hawbury again. "But drive on, old boy."
"Well, you know, the row occurred just then, and away went the
scoundrels to the fight, and in came that parson fellow, and away we
went. I took Mrs. Willoughby to a safe place, where I kept her till I
heard the trumpet, you know. And I've got another thing to tell you.
It's deuced odd, but she knew all about me."
"The deuce she did!"
"Yes, the whole story. Lived somewhere in the county. But I don't
remember the Fays. At any rate, she lived there; and do you know, old
fellow, the county people used to think I beat my wife!"
"By Jove!"
"Yes; and afterward they raised a report that my cruelty had driven
her mad. But I had a few friends that stood up for me; and among
others these Fays, you know, had heard the truth of it, and, as it
happened, Kitty--"
"Kitty?"
"Well, Mrs. Willoughby, I mean--her name's Kitty--has always known the
truth about it; and when she saw me at Naples she felt interested in
me."
"Oho!" and Hawbury opened his eyes.
"Well, she knew all about it; and, among other things, she gave me one
piece of intelligence that has eased my mind."
"Ah! what's that?"
"Why, my wife _is_ dead."
"Oh, then there's no doubt about it?"
"Not a bit. She died eight years ago, and in an insane asylum."
"By Jove! Then she was mad all the time."
"Yes; that accounts for it, and turns all my curses into pity."
Dacres was silent now for a few moments. At length he looked at
Hawbury with a very singular expression.
"Hawbury, old boy."
"Well, Sconey?"
"I think we'll keep it up."
"Who?"
"Why, Kitty and I--that is, Mrs. Willoughby and I--her name's Kitty,
you know."
"Keep what up?"
"Why, the--the--the fond illusion, and all that sort of thing. You see
I've got into such an infernal habit of regarding her as my wife that
I can't look on her in any other light. I claimed her, you know, and
all that sort of thing, and she thought I was delirious, and felt
sorry, and humored me, and gave me a very favorable answer."
"Humored you?"
"Yes; that's what she says now, you know. But I'm holding her to it,
and I've every reason to believe, you know--in fact, I may as well say
that it is an understood thing, you know, that she'll let it go, you
know, and at some early day, you know, we'll have it all formally
settled, and all that sort of thing, you know."
Hawbury wrung his friend's hand.
"See here, old boy; you see Ethel there?"
"Yes."
"Who do you think she is?"
"Who?"
"_Ethel Orne_!"
"Ethel _Orne_!" cried Dacres, as the whole truth flashed on his mind.
"What a devil of a jumble every thing has been getting into!--By
Heaven, dear boy, I congratulate you from the bottom of my soul!"
And he wrung Hawbury's hand as though all his soul was in that grasp.
But all this could not satisfy the impatience of the Baron. This was
all very well in its way, merely as an episode; but he was waiting for
the chief incident of the piece, and the chief incident was delaying
very unaccountably.
So he strode up and down, and he fretted and he fumed and he chafed,
and the trumpeter kept blowing away.
Until at last--
Just before his eyes--
Up there on the top of the bank, not far from where Dacres and Mrs.
Willoughby had made their appearance, the Baron caught sight of a
tall, lank, slim figure, clothed in rusty black, whose thin and
leathery face, rising above a white neck-tie, peered solemnly yet
interrogatively through the bushes; while just behind him the Baron
caught a glimpse of the flutter of a woman's dress.
[Illustration:
"HE GAVE A LOUD CRY OF JOY, AND THEN SPRANG UP THE BANK."]
He gave a loud cry of joy, and then sprang up the bank.
* * * * * *
But over that meeting I think we had better draw a veil.