ARRESTED.
Cold news for him;
Thus are his blossoms blasted in the bud,
And caterpillars eat his leaves away.
SHAKESPEARE.
They alighted and were immediately greeted by the whole force of the
house and stables, from the landlord down to the bootblack, all coming
to welcome the return of the wanderer and to proffer their services to
him.
“Don’t run over us, good people!” exclaimed the baron, taking out his
portemonnaie. “There! there’s a sovereign to drink Mr. Desparde’s
health! Now let us pass!” exclaimed the baron, as he threw the coin down
to boots for the benefit of the crowd, who immediately cheered and
dispersed, leaving only the landlord and the headwaiter.
“Why should we not just as well drive on to Cloudland?” inquired
Valdimir Desparde, who was pleased, but embarrassed, by this public
ovation.
“Because I left Cloudland, fasting, before day this morning to come here
and meet you. And having ridden ten miles fasting, through the morning
air, I have no mind to ride ten miles fasting back. This is on my own
account. You, riding night and day, have come a railroad journey of
several hundred miles, and you look—begging your pardon for my candor—as
if you had been exhumed, in a good state of preservation, from a vault!
Come in!” replied the baron, leading the way into the house, followed by
the landlord and the headwaiter.
He paid no attention to them, but hailing a neat chambermaid who was
passing, he called out:
“Here! Ann! Jane! Mary! whatever your name is, my dear! Show Mr.
Desparde to the bedroom I engaged for him, where he can get rid of some
of the railroad dust! And here! Send up his valise! Young Ken has it in
charge.”
The chambermaid of the country inn, having none of the pertness of her
city sisters, courtesied and blushed and courtesied, until the baron
ceased to speak, and turned away from her; after which she modestly and
respectfully showed the traveler to his apartment.
Twenty minutes after Lord Beaudevere and Mr. Valdimir Desparde were
seated at a breakfast that might have satisfied in quantity the enormous
appetite of the hungriest Arctic explorer, or in quality the delicate
palate of the most fastidious epicure; as why should it not, when the
sea, with its treasures of fish and the forest with its wealth of game
was at hand, to supply the demand.
The meal was served in a private parlor, whence the baron had banished
all the servants, saying that he would ring if they should require any
attendance; for “Beaue” wished to continue his confidential talk with
his returned wanderer.
Beaue ate slowly and appreciatively, asking and answering questions
between times.
“Now will you tell me, Valdimir, what really _did_ take you flying off
to the uttermost ends of the earth, and that upon your very wedding
morning, when you were to be married to the girl you loved, the girl
approved by all your friends as you were approved by all of hers? You
say the cause of your flight was justifiable, and even your motive
commendable; you cannot feel any hesitation in explaining it.”
“My dear Beaue, it is a long and complicated narrative, and involves,
among other matters, the necessity of some explanation on your part of
the mystery—I hate the word; it sounds so affected or melo-dramatic; but
I am obliged to use it—the mystery that involves my own and my sister’s
birth and parentage and early life! Are you ready now to give me that
explanation, Beaue?”
“Bosh!” exclaimed the baron, in an irritable manner, “there is no
mystery surrounding your birth and parentage and early life! How should
there be? Could the heir presumptive of the Barony of Beaudevere be
of—doubtful parentage?”
“Certainly not! Yet, dear Beaue, there _has_ been a mystery made of mine
and my sister’s, which hitherto I have vainly implored you to clear up,
and which you will clear up for us, I feel sure,” said Valdimir, fixing
his earnest dark eyes wistfully upon the face of his cousin.
“Boy, you will ruin my digestion! That is what you will do, and it is a
serious misfortune to have dyspepsia at my time of life! And what in the
deuce has the mystery—confound the mystery!—involving yours or anybody’s
early life to do with your mad flight across the ocean on your
wedding-day, for which you ought to be shut up in the lunatic asylum for
the rest of your life?” hotly demanded the baron. “There is no more
secret history in your childhood than there is in the—in the—foalhood of
that colt we see kicking up its heels in the paddock,” said the baron,
looking around for an illustration, and then pointing through the
window.
But Desparde noticed that Lord Beaudevere was agitated, and he knew that
there was something behind that the baron kept hidden.
“Very well, Beaue, we will drop the subject for the present. Some time
to-day, after we have got back to Cloudland and seen Vivienne, you and I
will shut ourselves up in your study and we will have it out with each
other. I will give you the whole story of the cause of my sudden flight,
and you shall tell me the story of my infancy, which has ‘no secret
history at all,’ but which is well known to all the world—except the
person most concerned,” laughed Valdimir.
“Let us talk of something else,” exclaimed the baron. “Let us talk of
something else while they are putting the horses to the coach. You have
heard of the old earl’s death, I presume?”
“Yes; accidentally, from Bartholomew, the guard. It was sudden, I
understand.”
“Rather. He was seized with apoplexy on the occasion of a small dinner
party. I was present at the time. He had been feeling unwell, however,
and had taken no wine at all at dinner. So this attack was not
precipitated in that way.”
“How did Lady Arielle bear the shock?”
“With great fortitude, although she was known to have been devotedly
attached to the old man. Net Fleming is staying with her. _There_ is a
fine young woman, Valdimir.”
“Net _who_?”
“Net Fleming. Oh! I forgot. You have much news to hear yet. Net Starr,
the rector’s step-daughter, is now Mrs. Adrian Fleming.”
“Ah! _Indeed!_ I met Fleming in New York. He never told me he was
married,” said Valdimir, in some surprise.
“Met him in New York, did you? I knew he was abroad, but imagined he was
on the Continent, somewhere; didn’t know he had crossed the ocean! Never
told you of his marriage to little Net Starr? That was strange!
Eccentric fellow! I sometimes think he is a little cracked,” observed
the baron.
“If so, it is with vanity! Married Net, did he! Not half good enough for
Little Mammam! When were they married?”
“Last August, just before the death of the rector! There! that is
another piece of bad news I had to tell you. The good Dr. Starr is gone.
Died very suddenly; heart disease!”
“I am _very_ sorry to hear it!” exclaimed Valdimir.
“Well! what in the deuce do you want, sir? Did I not tell you I would
ring if we required any attendance?” demanded the baron of the
headwaiter, who had now entered the room without knocking.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but here are two parties asking to see Mr.
Desparde, my lord,” replied the man, in an apologetic tone.
“Two parties? How in the deuce should any ‘parties’ know of Mr.
Desparde’s return or presence here? Who are they?” hotly demanded the
baron.
“My lord, they are officers of the law.”
“Officers of the law? What officers of the law?”
“A constable and a bailiff, my lord.”
“I imagine it is all a mistake; but you had better tell the men to come
in,” said the baron.
“They are here,” replied the waiter; and in truth the officers had been
there, behind the waiter, all the time, never having lost sight of the
man who was “wanted,” from the moment the door had been opened at their
command.
They walked into the room and took off their hats to the baron.
The first was a tall, robust, red-bearded man of about forty years of
age—one of the constables of the county—the other was a stout,
black-bearded young fellow of about twenty-five, the conductor of the
London and Northwestern train of the preceding night, who was
immediately recognized by Desparde.
“It _is_ something in connection with my railroad journey, after all!
But if there has been accident, or assault, or robbery, I am not able to
give the slightest evidence in the case, for I certainly know nothing
about it, whatever it may be!” said Valdimir, in a laughing “aside” to
his cousin.
“Well, my men, you wished to see Mr. Desparde. There is the gentleman
you seek, and I hope your business with him can be briefly concluded,
for he has just returned from abroad, and my carriage is waiting to take
him home,” said the baron, as he indicated his cousin.
The constable bowed in respectful silence, and then turning to the
conductor, inquired, slightly pointing to Desparde:
“Is this the party?”
“Yes, that is the man,” replied the latter.
“My name is Desparde. What can I do for you?” demanded the young
gentleman.
“I have a painful duty to perform,” said the constable, hesitatingly;
then plucking up his courage he laid his hands on the young man’s
shoulder, and said quickly: “Valdimir Desparde, I arrest you in the
queen’s name. You are my prisoner.”
“WHAT!” exclaimed the young man, starting back from the degrading touch,
and glaring at the constable with flashing eyes and pallid face—pallid
not from fear, but from intense amazement and indignation.
“What in the demon’s name is all this about?”
“Will you have the goodness to specify the charge upon which Mr.
Desparde is arrested?” haughtily demanded Lord Beaudevere, now firmly
believing the warrant for arrest had been issued under some strange and
grievous misapprehension.
“Yes, my lord,” gravely replied the constable. “We arrest Mr. Desparde
on the charge of murder.”
“_Murder!_” echoed Lord Beaudevere.
“MURDER!” exclaimed Valdimir Desparde.
They were both too much astonished to add another word.
“Yes, my lord; yes, Mr. Desparde; the murder last night in a railway
carriage of a young woman who was his traveling companion on the London
and Northwestern Railway,” exclaimed the constable.
In an instant the whole truth flashed upon the mind of Valdimir
Desparde.
The apparently sleeping, strangely motionless woman who had been his
sole companion in the compartment by which he had traveled from the
Grand Junction to the Miston Junction.
He stood confounded, aghast, as much like a detected criminal as a brave
and innocent and an honorable man could look.
“In the name of Heaven, Valdimir, what is the meaning of this? I know,
of course, that you are as guiltless of that charge as I am myself! I
need scarcely tell you that! But what does this mean? Can you throw any
light upon this matter at all?” inquired the baron, in great distress.
“I do not know, my lord! I feel like an unconscious sleep-walker caught
in a man-trap,” answered the young gentleman.
“Was there any woman alone in the carriage with you, then?”
“There was a woman, who was the sole occupant of the carriage into which
I was shown by this same conductor,” said Valdimir, indicating the man,
who responded by a nod, “and who seemed to be fast asleep. But whether
she were young or middle-aged I really could not say. Her figure and
attitude were not those of an old woman.”
“How long were you alone with this woman!”
“From midnight until the dawn of day—that is to say, from the time I
took the London and Northwestern at the Grand Junction until I changed
carriages for Miston—a period of six or seven hours, I should judge.”
“And did she sleep all that time?”
“She appeared to sleep most profoundly. She never moved one inch all the
way. At the Miston Branch I left her in precisely the same attitude in
which I had found her when I entered the compartment some hours before
at the Grand Junction. I thought it strange at the time that she should
have slept so long and so profoundly.”
“I beg pardon, my lord! But if I might suggest, having some experience
in these cases, I would advise your lordship not to lead the young
gentleman on to talk of this affair just at present. He might do himself
a mischief,” said the constable, good-naturedly.
“Why, confound you, sir, do you suppose Mr. Desparde has anything to
conceal in this matter?” demanded the baron.
“I don’t know, my lord; but I think he had best not make any more
admissions. And—pardon me, my lord, but we must be moving on. I don’t
want to be disrespectful, but I must do my duty,” added the officer.
“I think, Baron, that the shortest way out of this difficulty would be
to go immediately before a justice of the peace—especially as it seems
we have no alternative,” said Valdimir, with a laugh.
There was no laughter in Lord Beaudevere’s tone as he turned to the
constable and inquired:
“Where will you take him?”
“Before Justice Gatton, sir, who issued the warrant, at Yockley, where
the murder was first discovered.”
“You will go by train?”
“Yes, my lord, by the 10:10 from the Miston Station, and we have not got
too much time to catch it.”
“Very well, I will go with Mr. Desparde and see him through this
misadventure, for it is nothing else. Wait a moment.”
Then the baron rang for writing materials and wrote a hasty note to Miss
Desparde, telling her that her brother had reached Miston in perfect
health and excellent spirits, but that they were both called to Yockley
on unexpected business and could not return to Cloudland before evening.
“There!” said the baron, handing the note over to Valdimir Desparde, “I
think that will prevent Vivienne from feeling any anxiety on our
account, unless she hears the worst from rumor.”
“I do not think she will do that. These men have been discreet. Even the
waiter that admitted them did not know they bore a warrant,” replied
Desparde.
This was true, and so a few minutes later, Yates, the coachman, was sent
back with the carriage to Cloudland and the note to Vivienne Desparde,
and Valdimir Desparde, accompanied by his cousin, Lord Beaudevere, was
on the train going North, in custody of the constable, without having
left any suspicion behind him that the heir of Cloudland had been
arrested on the terrible charge of murder.