|OLD Jacob Forest had made a well-grounded complaint when he cried out
with such vehemence that that fellow Derrick had actually left the front
door open, and the Guard-ship and his rheumatism more exposed to the
rigour of the elements even than usual; but to do his visitor justice,
this rudeness was not committed with intention; Ralph knew not what he
was doing; he was out of his mind with fury and despair.
“Damn her!” screamed he, plucking the little bunch of violets from where
he had placed them so tenderly but an hour before; “so she was false,
too, like the rest of them. She had no more heart in her than a woman
of stone; and I have been worshipping her all my life, just as a savage
worships his idol. No wonder I took to that young son of hers--how like!
how like!--and like, too, in his selfish soul! Why, I was calling
yonder Sea a while ago a cruel smiling traitress--because in her wrath
I thought that she had swallowed this woman up. But the sea is honest
enough compared to her. She puts up painted panes to my memory, does
she, with the money of the very man she has married! Hypocrite! Wonton!
Liar! She has held converse with me, knowing who I was, across that
man's very grave, and let me pour my heart out before her, drop by drop,
when she might have stanched it with a word. How _could_ she do it? How
_dared_ she do it?--she that is a God-fearing woman, forsooth! But I
suppose that all is fair against a castaway. Let her look to it now,
though. Ralph Gavestone is not a man, as I told her then, to be crossed
with impunity--far less to be cajoled, betrayed, insulted,
Wronged! Richard Lisgard, too!--Sir Richard, as the bastard calls
himself!--_your_ hour of bitterness is drawing nigh too, and I will not
spare you. There is no memory now of the beloved Dead to stay my hand;
there is the knowledge of the treacherous living to make the blow all
the surer and the more fatal. Love--nay, even the impress of where I
thought love had lain within me, but it was not so--is cancelled out,
and Mercy with it. Friendship--bah, I have found out what that is worth!
There is nothing left me, nothing in the world, now, except Revenge!
Lord it, Sir Richard, for yet a few hours more, among your truckling
neighbours, your fawning tenants, for your time is short indeed. They
may be your humble and obedient servants still, but what will they think
of you, what will they say of you, behind your back, when they come to
learn who you are? If your mother has the right to rule at Mirk, then
I will rule there too: and you shall serve; and if not--then she is my
wife still, and leaves you for me. There will be a downfall for
your pride! Lady Lisgard of Mirk Abbey to be claimed by a 'drunken
brawler'--do you suppose that I forget such words as those--and forced
to be once more plain Lucy Gavestone, for the wife of a vagabond like
me has scarcely the right to be termed 'madam.' The law will give her to
me: there is no doubt of that. The righteous Law, which is to be
always upheld--remember that, my game-preserving friend--no matter what
hardships it may entail upon individuals, or even what injustice it may
commit in exceptional cases. How sweet it is to remember such words of
wisdom, against which, in my ignorance, I was wont to fight tooth and
nail. You will not forbid me the Abbey, I suppose, when I come thither
to claim my wife. To-morrow, or next day at furthest, will introduce you
to your stepfather; for I have made up my mind to acknowledge you, just
as though you had been born in lawful wedlock.”
Breathing forth these cruel threats, and feeding upon their fulfilment
in his mind, Ralph Derrick lay awake for hours in his chamber at the
_Royal Marine_, and had hardly fallen asleep when the omnibus started
for the morning train. The horn, and noise of the wheels aroused him,
and he leaped up out of bed with an oath, because he knew that he had
missed that, his earliest opportunity, of getting to Mirk. However,
having rung his bell, he learned from the waiter that it would be
quite possible yet, by taking a carriage and four horses, to reach the
junction before the Coveton train, which, besides, had to wait there for
the mid-day mail. “Of course,” said the waiter, rubbing his hands,
and speaking with a hesitation induced by the contemplation of Ralph's
scanty kit, “it will be a very considerable expense, and perhaps”----
“Curse the expense, and you too!” ejaculated the whilom gold-digger in
his old flaming manner. “Here's a ten-pound note; and let my bill be
settled and the horses put to within five minutes.”
“But your breakfast, sir?”
“A glass of brandy and a piece of bread: that's all I want; quick,
quick!”
The waiter departed at full speed--his anxiety to execute Derrick's
orders being at least equalled by his desire to communicate them to his
mistress and the chambermaids. They were only accustomed at the _Royal
Marine_ to the Newly Married, who were rarely in a hurry, and never
broke their fast upon brandy and bread; and to these Ralph certainly
afforded a lively contrast.
The four horses carried him along at a great rate, and the old-fashioned
carriage swung from side to side down every hill, so that if motion
could have soothed his perturbed spirit, on the principle of like to
like, it should have grown calmer with every mile. But fast as he sped,
his thoughts flew on before him--and in them he was already at Mirk
Abbey, denunciating, exposing, Avenging, until physical inaction became
intolerable, and thrusting his head and shoulders out at the window,
he bade the astonished post-boys pull up, and let him out, for that he
would have no more of such travel. Then once more he pursued his way on
foot, and had walked two-score of miles before he put up for the night,
at one of the same inns at which he had stopped upon his way down to
Coveton.
But exercise, even in this violent degree, could now no longer avail
him. He was still consumed with bitterness and anger, and the desire of
vengeance. He could not sleep; and he had lost all appetite for food. He
drank, as he had never drunk since he was in Cariboo; glass after glass
of raw spirits, to the wonder of his tolerably well-seasoned host, who
looked to have him for quite a permanent guest, overtaken, as it seemed
must come to pass, by delirium tremens. Brandy, however, could now
affect him nothing; except perhaps that it added fuel to his rage. On
the third day, he grew impatient of his slow progress, and took the
train upon a line of rails that brought him within a dozen miles of
Mirk. As soon as he got out at the station, he inquired for a vehicle to
take him to his journey's end.
“You wish to go to Mirk Abbey, do you not, sir?” said the porter
respectfully (for Ralph always travelled first class).
“That's my business, and not yours,” retorted Derrick angrily, but
without surprise; for it seemed to him natural enough that the purpose
which was consuming his whole being should be recognised in his external
features.
“Nay, sir; I meant no harm. It is not business, but pleasure, that
is taking all the world to Mirk to-day. Everything here that has four
wheels, and even that has two, has been already engaged; but if you
don't mind waiting an hour or so, there will be a return-fly.”
But, with a contemptuous oath, Ralph had already resumed his journey
on foot, looking neither to left nor right, but keeping his eyes
steadfastly fixed on the wind-mill, he could even now see afar off,
and which he knew crowned Mirkland Hill. The afternoon was already far
spent, and by the time he reached the spot in question the dusk had
already deepened into dark. On one side of the road lay the white gate
and little hedge belonging to Belcomb; on the other, the great Windmill,
with its dilapidated wall still unrepaired, and over which a young man
was leaning and looking towards the valley with longing eyes. Ralph
followed the direction of his gaze, and perceived the noble outlines
of Mirk Abbey “picked out” in lines of many-coloured flame--its every
window aglow with light, and the shadowy Park itself islanded with two
large shining spots, which old experience taught him at once were walls
of canvas well lit up within.
“What is going on there?” asked he of the miller, for such the young
man's dress proclaimed him to he.
“Why, victuals and drink, to be sure,” replied the lad, in a tone that
bespeaks a grievance; “and music and pretty girls to dance to it, and
fireworks, and I don't know what all. And here am I, the only young man
in the parish that is not to enjoy himself at it: just because Master
Hathaway happens to have a pressing order in hand, I am to keep the
mill going all to-night. I don't say I wishes it to rain--for that would
spoil everybody's sport--but if the wind would be so good as to fall,
and stop the mill, why, I wouldn't whistle to try and set it agoing
again.”
“Yes, by the by,” said Ralph, “I heard something at the station about
some goings-on at Mirk, but I didn't take much heed. What is it, lad?
And why are they all so gay down yonder at the Abbey?”
“Why, it's Sir Richard coming of age, to be sure,” answered the lad.
“You must hail from a darned long way off, not to know that; and yet I
seem to know your face. Why, you're Mr Derrick, ain't you, as used to
lodge at the Lisgard Arms? I thought so. Well, you'll find nobody there
now, for Steve has been taken into favour again--thanks to my Lady, I
believe--and is up at the Park with the rest; and they won't let _you_
into the grounds, you know; so you might just as well stop here, and
have a chat with a poor fellow as”----
Striking his stick with violence against the ground, Ralph strode away
down the hill. This, then, was the very time for him to come upon the
inmates of Mirk Abbey, while they were holding their heads highest,
and to cast them down to the very dust. If his determination had needed
strength, if the sharpness of his revenge had wanted an edge, both had
been supplied by the careless words of the miller's boy. Before the
night was out, not only that lad, but all the parish, nay, all the
County, should learn that he, Ralph Derrick, could not only be no longer
forbidden to enter the Lisgards' doors, but would perhaps even rule
within them as the husband of my Lady herself.
The village, as he had been forewarned, was as deserted as Auburn
itself, and the inn fast closed. But the iron gates of the Abbey
were flung back, as though to welcome all comers, and the rheumatic
lodge-keeper and his wife had betaken themselves with their pretty
daughter to the festive scene within. So Ralph strode, undenied, up the
long dense avenue, made darker by the glancing lights at the far end,
like some embodiment of Misfortune, about to paralyse Youth and Hope
with a word. The fairylike splendours of the scene before him seemed to
him like a house of painted cards, which, at his finger-touch, should
collapse in utter ruin; his frown should silence all those melodies that
jarred so on his reluctant ears; that merriment should be turned into
wailing, or still better, into scornful laughter. The scene of pride
should be made a place of shame.
_No_ one of all the crowd of holiday-makers seemed to take notice of
his presence, though he carried with him, from spot to spot, the only
scowling face that was to be seen among them. He stood at the opening
of the great marquee, and watched the dancers; his evil eye scanned each
gay couple as they whirled before him, but settled upon none whom it
had come to wither. Sir Richard and his brother had inaugurated the
proceedings there by taking part in a few dances, but had then withdrawn
themselves to the ball-room within. In the second tent, reserved for
the humblest class of guests, the mirth was already growing somewhat
uproarious; but there was one among the company, who, though he took
two glasses for other folk's one, looked as sober as an undertaker; and
Derrick came behind this man and plucked his arm.
“Steve,” said he, “I want a word with you. Come out with me, and leave
these capering idiots.”
The landlord of the _Lisgard Arms_ did not even make a pretence of being
glad to recognise his late lodger: he had been received, as Hathaway's
lad had stated, into favour at the Abbey once more, through the
intercession of my Lady, but he was still upon his good-behaviour, and
it excessively annoyed him to see the original cause of Sir Richard's
displeasure with himself once more at Mirk, and intruding where he was
least welcome. However, the two withdrew together apart from the crowd.
“What is it, Derrick? I think it is foolish of you venturing here. I am
sorry to say that I have promised not to receive you again at my inn. I
did not dream of your coming back, or else I would never have done so.”
“Don't trouble yourself about that, Steve. If I stay at Mirk at all, it
will be here, at the Abbey.”
“At the Abbey! You have been drinking, Derrick. Now, take my advice, and
be off; at all events, for the present. To-day, when everybody is being
entertained by Sir-Richard, folks would resent any insult put upon the
family, I can promise you--it's the worst day you could possibly have
selected to force your way in here.”
“No, Steve, the best day--the only day. I would have given ten thousand
pounds, I tell you, rather than have missed it, or have arrived
to-morrow instead.”
“I am glad you are so rich, man,” returned Steve drily, “for it is the
impression down here that you lost all your money upon that French horse
at the Derby; poor Master Walter, too, you led him into a pretty mess,
it seems.”
“Curse Master Walter!” ejaculated Derrick angrily. “He's a mean skunk,
if ever there was one.”
“People don't think so hereabouts, Mr Derrick; and I should recommend
you not to express your opinion quite so loudly. If any of these
volunteers heard you speaking of their captain in that way, you would
not escape with a whole skin.”
“That's my look-out,” answered Derrick roughly. “I want you to tell
me where I can find Sir Richard. I have particular business with him;
something for his private ear.
“It isn't about my Lady, is it?” inquired the other eagerly.
“Yes, it is. How came you to think of that? Eh?”
“How could I be off on it, man? Is she not the uppermost thought of
everybody here? Do you really bring any news of her? And, look you, if
it's bad news, don't tell it. I don't like that ugly look of yours, Mr
Derrick. If you have done any harm to my Lady, I, for one, will help to
wring your neck round.”
“Do you mean to say she is not here?” gasped Ralph, without heeding his
last words.
“Of course not; didn't you know that? She's gone away, all of a sudden.
Sir Richard quite broke down when he alluded to it in his speech. He
said that urgent business had compelled her to be in London; but Roberts
told me that the family themselves have no idea why she took herself
off”----
“Ah, but they do though,” exclaimed Derrick scornfully. “And _I_ know,
too, or I'm much mistaken. She's trying _that_ dodge on, is she? Not at
home, eh? And she supposes that I shall leave my card, and go away like
any other well-conducted visitor. She'll find me an acquaintance whom
it is not so easy to drop, I fancy. So my Lady has fled, has she?”
continued he. “Hadn't the pluck to blazon it out, eh? She won't,
however, have flown very far from her young chicks, I reckon. And,
perhaps, it's just as well that I should cut the comb of this young
bantam, Sir Richard, while his mother's out of the way; not that I feel
an ounce of pity for her, either.”
“You'll feel a horsewhip about your shoulders, Ralph Derrick, before
you're a quarter of an hour older, or else I'm much mistaken,” observed
Steve ruefully. “I'll have nothing more to say to you, and that's a
fact. You are not only drunk, but stark mad. I never heard a fellow go
on with such a farrago of rubbish. Look here, if you'll come home with
me at once, you shall have as much brandy as you can drink; but you
shan't kick up a row here. See, one of the ball-room windows is wide
open, and Sir Richard himself, for all you know, may---- Confound the
fellow, it will be only kindness to tell Styles, the policeman, to take
him up.”
Derrick had burst away from Steve, and was running across the lawn to
the very place where the Lisgard family had discussed their mother's
departure upon the preceding evening.