AT THE BRIDGE.
The famous boat-race was postponed. Some of the competitors had
discovered they should be the better for a few days' training, and the
contest was fixed for the following Monday.
Not a day of the intervening week but sundry small cockle-shells--things
the ladies had already begun to designate as the "wager-boats," each
containing a gentleman occupant, exercising his arms on a pair of
sculls--might be seen any hour passing and repassing on the water; and
the green slopes of Hartledon, which here formed the bank of the river,
grew to be tenanted with fair occupants. Of course they had their
favourites, these ladies, and their little bets of gloves on them.
As the day for the contest drew near the interest became really exciting;
and on the Saturday morning there was quite a crowd on the banks. The
whole week, since Monday, had been most beautiful--calm, warm, lovely.
Percival Elster, in his rather idle fashion, was not going to join in the
contest: there were enough without him, he said.
He was standing now, talking to Anne. His face wore a sad expression,
as she glanced up at him from beneath the white feather of her rather
large-brimmed straw hat. Anne had been a great deal at Hartledon that
week, and was as interested in the race as any of them, wearing Lord
Hartledon's colours.
"How did you hear it, Anne?" he was asking.
"Mamma told me. She came into my room just now, and said there had been
words."
"Well, it's true. The doctor took me to task exactly as he used to do
when I was a boy. He said my course of life was sinful; and I rather
fired up at that. Idle and useless it may be, but sinful it is not:
and I said so. He explained that he meant that, and persisted in his
assertion--that an idle, aimless, profitless life was a sinful one. Do
you know the rest?"
"No," she faltered.
"He said he would give me to the end of the year. And if I were then
still pursuing my present frivolous course of life, doing no good to
myself or to anyone else, he should cancel the engagement. My darling,
I see how this pains you."
She was suppressing her tears with difficulty. "Papa will be sure to keep
his word, Percival. He is so resolute when he thinks he is right."
"The worst is, it's true. I do fall into all sorts of scrapes, and I have
got out of money, and I do idle my time away," acknowledged the young man
in his candour. "And all the while, Anne, I am thinking and hoping to do
right. If ever I get set on my legs again, _won't_ I keep on them!"
"But how many times have you said so before!" she whispered.
"Half the follies for which I am now paying were committed when I was but
a boy," he said. "One of the men now visiting here, Dawkes, persuaded me
to put my name to a bill for him for fifteen hundred pounds, and I had to
pay it. It hampered me for years; and in the end I know I must have paid
it twice over. I might have pleaded that I was under age when he got my
signature, but it would have been scarcely honourable to do so."
"And you never profited by the transaction?"
"Never by a sixpence. It was done for Dawkes's accommodation, not mine.
He ought to have paid it, you say? My dear, he is a man of straw, and
never had fifteen hundred pounds of his own in his life."
"Does Lord Hartledon know of this? I wonder he has him here."
"I did not mention it at the time; and the thing's past and done with. I
only tell you now to give you an idea of the nature of my embarrassments
and scrapes. Not one in ten has really been incurred for myself: they
only fall upon me. One must buy experience."
Terribly vexed was that sweet face, an almost painful sadness upon the
generally sunny features.
"I will never give you up, Anne," he continued, with emotion. "I told the
doctor so. I would rather give up life. And you know that your love is
mine."
"But my duty is theirs. And if it came to a contest--Oh, Percival! you
know, you know which would have to give place. Papa is so resolute in
right."
"It's a shame that fortune should be so unequally divided!" cried the
young man, resentfully. "Here's Edward with an income of thirty thousand
a year, and I, his own brother, only a year or two younger, can't boast a
fourth part as many hundreds!"
"Oh, Val! your father left you better off than that!"
"But so much of it went, Anne," was the gloomy answer. "I never
understood the claims that came in against me, for my part. Edward had no
debts to speak of; but then look at his allowance."
"He was the eldest son," she gently said.
"I know that. I am not wishing myself in Edward's place, or he out of it.
I heartily wish him health and a long life to wear his honours; it is no
fault of his that he should be rolling in riches, and I a martyr to
poverty. Still, one can't help feeling at odd moments, when the shoe's
pinching awfully, that the system is not altogether a just one."
"Was that a sincere wish, Val Elster?"
Val wheeled round on Lady Maude, from whom the question came. She had
stolen up to them unperceived, and stood there in her radiant beauty, her
magnificent dark eyes and her glowing cheeks set off by a little
coquettish black-velvet hat.
"A sincere wish--that my brother should live long to enjoy his honours!"
echoed Val, in a surprised tone. "Indeed it is. I hope he will live to a
green old age, and leave goodly sons to succeed him."
Maude laughed. A brighter hue stole into her face, a softer shade to her
eyes: she saw herself, as in a vision, the goodly mother of those goodly
sons.
"Are you going to wear _that_?" she asked, touching the knot of ribbon in
Miss Ashton's hands with her petulant fingers. "They are Lord Hartledon's
colours."
"I shall wear it on Monday. Lord Hartledon gave it to me."
A rash avowal. The competitors, in a sort of joke, had each given away
one knot of his own colours. Lady Maude had had three given to her; but
she was looking for another worth them all--from Lord Hartledon. And
now--it was given, it appeared, to Anne Ashton! For her very life she
could not have helped the passionate taunt that escaped from her, not in
words, but in tone:
"To _you_!"
"Kissing goes by favour," broke from the delicate lips of Val Elster, and
Lady Maude could have struck him for the significant, saucy expression of
his violet-blue eyes. "Edward loves Anne better than he ever loved his
sisters; and for any other love--_that's_ still far enough from his
heart, Maude."
She had recovered herself instantly; cried out "Yes" to those in the
distance, as if she heard a call, and went away humming a tune.
"Val, she loves your brother," whispered Anne.
"Do you think so? I do sometimes; and again I'm puzzled. She acts well
if she does. The other day I told Edward she was in love with him: he
laughed at me, and said I was dreaming; that if she had any love for him,
it was cousin's love. What's more, Anne, he would prefer not to receive
any other; so Maude need not look after him: it will be labour lost. Here
comes that restless old dowager down upon us! I shall leave you to her,
Anne. I never dare say my soul's my own in the presence of that woman."
Val strolled away as he spoke. He was not at ease that day, and the
sharp, meddling old woman would have been intolerable. It was all very
well to put a good face on matters to Anne, but he was in more perplexity
than he cared to confess to. It seemed to him that he would rather die
than give up Anne: and yet--in the straightforward, practical good sense
of Dr. Ashton, he had a formidable adversary to deal with.
He suddenly found an arm inserted within his own, and saw it was his
brother. Walking together thus, there was a great resemblance between
them.
They were of the same height, much the same build; both were very
good-looking men, but Percival had the nicer features; and he was fair,
and his brother dark.
"What is this, Val, about a dispute with the doctor?" began Lord
Hartledon.
"It was not a dispute," returned Val. "There were a few words, and I was
hasty. However, I begged his pardon, and we parted good friends."
"Under a flag of truce, eh?"
"Something of that sort."
"Something of that sort!" repeated Lord Hartledon. "Don't you think, Val,
it would be to your advantage if you trusted me more thoroughly than you
do? Tell me the whole truth of your position, and let me see what can be
done for you."
"There's not much to tell," returned Val, in his stupidity. Even with his
brother his ultra-sensitiveness clung to him; and he could no more have
confessed the extent of his troubles than he could have taken wing that
moment and soared away into the air. Val Elster was one of those who
trust to things "coming right" with time.
"I have been talking to the doctor, Val. I called in just now to see Mrs.
Ashton, and he spoke to me about you."
"Very kind of him, I'm sure!" retorted Val. "It is just this, Edward. He
is vexed at what he calls my idle ways, and waste of time: as if I need
plod on, like a city clerk, six days a week and no holidays! I know I
must do something before I can win Anne; and I will do it: but the doctor
need not begin to cry out about cancelling the engagement."
"How much do you owe, Val?"
"I can't tell."
Lord Hartledon thought this an evasion. But it was true. Val Elster knew
he owed a great deal more than he could pay; but how much it might be on
the whole, he had but a very faint idea.
"Well, Val, I have told the doctor I shall look into matters, and I hope
to do it efficiently, for Anne's sake. I suppose the best thing will be
to try and get you an appointment again."
"Oh, Edward, if you would! And you know you have the ear of the
ministry."
"I dare say it can be managed. But this will be of little use if you are
still to remain an embarrassed man. I hear you were afraid of arrest in
London."
"Who told you that?"
"Dawkes."
"Dawkes! Then, Edward--" Val Elster stopped. In his vexation, he was
about to retaliate on Captain Dawkes by a little revelation on the score
of _his_ affairs, certain things that might not have redounded to that
gallant officer's credit. But he arrested the words in time: he was of a
kindly nature, not fond of returning ill for ill. With all his follies,
Val Elster could not remember to have committed an evil act in all his
life, save one. And that one he had still the pleasure of paying for
pretty deeply.
"Dawkes knows nothing of my affairs except from hearsay, Edward. I was
once intimate with the man; but he served me a shabby trick, and that
ended the friendship. I don't like him."
"I dare say what he said was not true," said Lord Hartledon kindly. "You
might as well make a confidant of me. However, I have not time to talk
to-day. We will go into the matter, Val, after Monday, when this race has
come off, and see what arrangement can be made for you. There's only one
thing bothers me."
"What's that?"
"The danger that it may be a wasted arrangement. If you are only set up
on your legs to come down again, as you have before, it will be so much
waste of time and money; so much loss, to me, of temper. Don't you see,
Val?"
Percival Elster stopped in his walk, and withdrew his arm from his
brother's; his face and voice full of emotion.
"Edward, I have learnt a lesson. What it has cost me I hardly yet know:
but it is _learnt_. On my sacred word of honour, in the solemn presence
of Heaven, I assert it, that I will never put my hand to another bill,
whatever may be the temptation. I have overcome, in this respect at
least, my sin."
"Your sin?"
"My nature's great sin; the besetting sin that has clung to me through
life; the unfortunate sin that is my bane to this hour--cowardly
irresolution."
"All right, Val; I see you mean well now. We'll talk of these matters
next week. Instead of Elster's Folly, let it become Elster's Wisdom."
Lord Hartledon wrung his brother's hand and turned away. His eyes fell on
Miss Ashton, and he went straight up to her. Putting the young lady's arm
within his own, without word or ceremony, he took her off to a distance:
and old Lady Kirton's skirts went round in a dance as she saw it.
"I am about to take him in hand, Anne, and set him going again: I have
promised Dr. Ashton. We must get him a snug berth; one that even the
doctor won't object to, and set him straight in other matters. If he has
mortgaged his patrimony, it shall be redeemed. And, Anne, I think--I do
think--he may be trusted to keep straight for the future."
Her soft sweet eyes sparkled with pleasure, and her lips parted with a
sunny smile. Lord Hartledon took her hand within his own as it lay on his
arm, and the furious old dowager saw it all from the distance.
"Don't say as much as this to him, Anne: I only tell you. Val is so
sanguine, that it may be better not to tell him all beforehand. And I
want, of course, first of all, to get a true list of--that is, a true
statement of facts," he broke off, not caring to speak the word "debts"
to that delicate girl before him. "He is my only brother; my father left
him to me, for he knew what Val was; and I'll do my best for him. I'd do
it for Val's own sake, apart from the charge. And, Anne, once Val is on
his legs with an income, snug and comfortable, I shall recommend him to
marry without delay; for, after all, you will be his greatest safeguard."
A blush suffused her face, and Lord Hartledon smiled.
Down came the countess-dowager.
"Here's that old dowager calling to me. She never lets me alone. Val sent
me into a fit of laughter yesterday, saying she had designs on me for
Maude. Poor deluded woman! Yes, ma'am, I hear. What is it?"
Mr. Elster went strolling along on the banks of the river, towards Calne;
not with any particular purpose, but in his restless uneasiness. He had a
tender conscience, and his past follies were pressing on it heavily. Of
one thing he felt sure--that he was more deeply involved than Hartledon
or anyone else suspected, perhaps even himself. The way was charming in
fine weather, though less pleasant in winter. It was by no means a
frequented road, and belonged of right to Lord Hartledon only; but it was
open to all. Few chose it when they could traverse the more ordinary way.
The narrow path on the green plain, sheltered by trees, wound in and out,
now on the banks of the river, now hidden amidst a portion of the wood.
Altogether it was a wild and lonely pathway; not one that a timid nature
would choose on a dark night. You might sit in the wood, which lay to the
left, a whole day through, and never see a soul.
One part of the walk was especially beautiful. A green hollow, where the
turf was soft as moss; open to the river on the right, with a glimpse of
the lovely scenery beyond; and on the left, the clustering trees of the
wood. Yet further, through a break in the trees, might be seen a view of
the houses of Calne. A little stream, or rivulet, trickled from the wood,
and a rustic bridge--more for ornament than use, for a man with long legs
could stride the stream well--was thrown over it. Val had reached thus
far, when he saw someone standing on the bridge, his arms on the parapet,
apparently in a brown study.
A dark, wild-looking man, whose face, at the first glimpse, seemed all
hair. There was certainly a profusion of it; eyebrows, beard, whiskers,
all heavy, and black as night. He was attired in loose fustian clothes
with a red handkerchief wound round his throat, and a low slouching
hat--one of those called wide-awake--partially concealed his features. By
his side stood another man in plain, dark, rather seedy clothes, the coat
outrageously long. He wore a cloth hat, whose brim hid his face, and he
was smoking a cigar. Both men were slightly built and under middle
height. This one was adorned with red whiskers.
The moment Mr. Elster set eyes on the dark one, he felt that he saw the
man Pike before him. It happened that he had not met him during these few
days of his sojourn; but some of the men staying at Hartledon had, and
had said what a loose specimen he appeared to be. The other was a
stranger, and did not look like a countryman at all.
Mr. Elster saw them both give a sharp look at him as he approached;
and then they spoke together. Both stepped off the bridge, as though
deferring to him, and stood aside as they watched him cross over, Pike
touching his wide-awake.
"Good-day, my lord."
Val nodded by way of answer, and continued his stroll onwards. In the
look he had taken at Pike, it struck him he had seen the face before:
something in the countenance seemed familiar to his memory. And to his
surprise he saw that the man was young.
The supposed reminiscence did not trouble him: he was too pre-occupied
with thoughts of his own affairs to have leisure for Mr. Pike's. A short
bit of road, and this rude, sheltered part of the way terminated in more
open ground, where three paths diverged: one to the front of Hartledon;
one to some cottages, and on through the wood to the high-road; and one
towards the Rectory and Calne. Rural paths still, all of them; and the
last was provided with a bench or two. Val Elster strolled on almost to
the Rectory, and then turned back: he had no errand at Calne, and the
Rectory he would rather keep out of just now. When he reached the little
bridge Pike was on it alone; the other had disappeared. As before, he
stepped off to make way for Mr. Elster.
"I beg pardon, sir, for addressing you just now as Lord Hartledon."
The salutation took Val by surprise; and though the voice seemed muffled,
as though the man purposely mouthed his words, the accent and language
were superior to anything he might have expected from one of Mr. Pike's
appearance and reputed character.
"No matter," said Val, courteous even to Pike, in his kindly nature. "You
mistook me for my brother. Many do."
"Not I," returned the man, assuming a freedom and a roughness at variance
with his evident intelligence. "I know you for the Honourable Percival
Elster."
"Ah," said Mr. Elster, a slight curiosity stirring his mind, but not
sufficient to induce him to follow it up.
"But I like to do a good turn if I can," pursued Pike; "and I think, sir,
I did one to you in calling you Lord Hartledon."
Val Elster had been passing on. He turned and looked at the man.
"Are you in any little temporary difficulty, might I ask?" continued
Pike. "No offense, sir; princes have been in such before now."
Val Elster was so supremely conscious, especially in that reflective
hour, of being in a "little difficulty" that might prove more than
temporary, that he could only stare at the questioner and wait for more.
"No offence again, if I'm wrong," resumed Pike; "but if that man you saw
here on the bridge is not looking after the Honourable Mr. Elster, I'm a
fool."
"Why do you think this?" inquired Val, too fully aware that the fact was
a likely one to attempt any reproof or disavowal.
"I'll tell you," said Pike; "I've said I don't mind doing a good turn
when I can. The man arrived here this morning by the slow six train from
London. He went into the Stag and had his breakfast, and has been
covertly dodging about ever since. He inquired his way to Hartledon. The
landlord of the Stag asked him what he wanted there, and got for answer
that his brother was one of the grooms in my lord's service. Bosh! He
went up, sneaking under the hedges and along by-ways, and took a view of
the house, standing a good hour behind a tree while he did it. I was
watching him."
It instantly struck Percival Elster, by one of those flashes of
conviction that are no less sure than subtle, that Mr. Pike's interest in
this watching arose from a fear that the stranger might have been looking
after _him_. Pike continued:
"After he had taken his fill of waiting, he came dodging down this way,
and I got into conversation with him. He wanted to know who I was. A poor
devil out of work, I told him; a soldier once, but maimed and good for
little now. We got chatty. I let him think he might trust me, and he
began asking no end of questions about Mr. Elster: whether he went out
much, what were his hours for going out, which road he mostly took in his
walks, and how he could know him from his brother the earl; he had heard
they were alike. The hound was puzzled; he had seen a dozen swells come
out of Hartledon, any one of which might be Mr. Elster; but I found he
had the description pretty accurate. Whilst we were talking, who should
come into view but yourself! 'This is him!' cried he. 'Not a bit of it,'
said I, carelessly; 'that's my lord.' Now you know, sir, why I saluted
you as Lord Hartledon."
"Where is he now?" asked Percival Elster, feeling that he owed his
present state of liberty to this lawless man.
Pike pointed to the narrow path in the wood, leading to the high-road.
"I filled him up with the belief that the way beyond this bridge up to
Hartledon was private, and he might be taken up for trespassing if he
attempted to follow it; so he went off that way to watch the front. If
the fellow hasn't a writ in his pocket, or something worse, call me a
simpleton. You are all right, sir, as long as he takes you for Lord
Hartledon."
But there was little chance the fellow could long take him for Lord
Hartledon, and Percival Elster felt himself attacked with a shiver. He
knew it to be worse than a writ; it was an arrest. An arrest is not a
pleasant affair for any one; but a strong opinion--a certainty--seized
upon Val's mind that this would bring forth Dr. Ashton's veto of
separation from Anne.
"I thank you for what you have done," frankly spoke Mr. Elster.
"It's nothing, sir. He'll be dodging about after his prey; but I'll dodge
about too, and thwart his game if I can, though I have to swear that Lord
Hartledon's not himself. What's an oath, more or less, to me?"
"Where have I seen you before?" asked Val.
"Hard to say," returned Pike. "I have knocked about in many parts in my
time."
"Are you from this neighbourhood?"
"Never was in these parts at all till a year or so ago. It's not two
years yet."
"What are you doing here?"
"What I can. A bit of work when I can get it given to me. I went tramping
the country after I left the regiment--"
"Then you have been a soldier?" interrupted Mr. Elster.
"Yes, sir. In tramping the country I came upon this place: I crept into
a shed, and was there for some days; rheumatism took hold of me, and I
couldn't move. It was something to find I had a roof of any sort over my
head, and was let lie in it unmolested: and when I got better I stayed
on."
"And have adopted it as your own, putting a window and a chimney into it!
But do you know that Lord Hartledon may not choose to retain you as a
tenant?"
"If Lord Hartledon should think of ousting me, I would ask Mr. Elster to
intercede, in requital for the good turn I've done him this day," was the
bold answer.
Mr. Elster laughed. "What is your name?"
"Tom Pike."
"I hear a great deal said of you, Pike, that's not pleasant; that you are
a poacher, and a--"
"Let them that say so prove it," interrupted Pike, his dark brows
contracting.
"But how do you manage to live?"
"That's my business, and not Calne's. At any rate, Mr. Elster, I don't
steal."
"I heard a worse hint dropped of you than any I have mentioned,"
continued Val, after a pause.
"Tell it out, sir. Let's have the whole catalogue at once."
"That the night my brother, Mr. Elster, was shot, you were out with the
poachers."
"I dare say you heard that I shot him, for I know it has been said,"
fiercely cried the man. "It's a black lie!--and the time may come when I
shall ram it down Calne's throat. I swear that I never fired a shot that
night; I swear that I no more had a hand in Mr. Elster's death than you
had. Will you believe me, sir?"
The accents of truth are rarely to be mistaken, and Val was certain he
heard them now. So far, he believed the man; and from that moment
dismissed the doubt from his mind, if indeed he had not dismissed it
before.
"Do you know who did fire the shot?"
"I do not; I was not out at all that night. Calne pitched upon me,
because there was no one else in particular to pitch upon. A dozen
poachers were in the fray, most of them with guns; little wonder the
random shot from one should have found a mark. I know nothing more
certain than that, so help--"
"That will do," interrupted Mr. Elster, arresting what might be coming;
for he disliked strong language. "I believe you fully, Pike. What part of
the country were you born in?"
"London. Born and bred in it."
"That I do not believe," he said frankly. "Your accent is not that of a
Londoner."
"As you will, sir," returned Pike. "My mother was from Devonshire; but I
was born and bred in London. I recognized that one with the writ for a
fellow cockney at once; and for what he was, too--a sheriffs officer.
Shouldn't be surprised but I knew him for one years ago."
Val Elster dropped a coin into the man's hand, and bade him good morning.
Pike touched his wide-awake, and reiterated his intention of "dodging the
enemy." But, as Mr. Elster cautiously pursued his way, the face he had
just quitted continued to haunt him. It was not like any face he had ever
seen, as far as he could remember; nevertheless ever and anon some
reminiscence seemed to start out of it and vibrate upon a chord in his
memory.