A STORM OF TROUBLE.
The billows swell, the winds are high,
Clouds overcast my wintry sky;
Out of the depths to Thee I call,
My fears are great, my strength is small.
Oh, thou the pilot’s part perform,
And guard and guide me through the storm.
Defend me from each threatened ill,
Control the waves—say, “Peace, be still.”
Amidst the roaring of the sea,
My soul still hangs her hope on Thee;
Thy constant love, benignant care,
Is all that saves me from despair.
COWPER.
“When is the next train for the Miston Branch Junction?” inquired the
baron of the cabman, as he issued from the prison doors, leaving his
unfortunate young cousin behind him.
“At six-thirty,” replied the man, springing off his box, and opening the
cab door for his lordship.
“I will pay you an extra half-crown if you catch it,” said the baron, as
he sprang into the cab and took his seat.
The driver closed the door, climbed to his box, and set his horses off
at a brisk trot.
Passing through the village towards the station they overtook a sad
procession—James Ken, the fisherman, walking beside a slowly-moving
hearse that evidently contained the coffin of his unhappy daughter, on
its way to the same train which his lordship was trying to catch.
Notwithstanding the haste he was in, the baron ordered the cabman to
pull up.
Then he put down the window and hailed the fisherman:
“Ken, step this way, if you please.”
James Ken was a huge, broad-shouldered, red-haired, ruddy-faced man,
clothed in a blue tweed jacket and trousers, and an oilskin hat, and he
walked heavily, with his head held down in a very dejected manner.
“Get in here, Ken, and ride with me. I wish to talk with you,” said the
baron, as the fisherman approached him.
Ken touched his hat, and looked as if he did not understand the
invitation.
“I also am going to the Miston train; get in and ride with me, or you
will miss it. You had better order the hearseman to drive a little
faster also,” said the baron, pushing open the cab door.
The poor fisherman, too much absorbed in his grief to make any objection
or hold any argument, got into the cab, and sat down as far from the
baron on the seat as the limited space would allow.
The latter gave the order and the cab went on, followed by the hearse.
“This is a very sad affair, Ken. I deeply sympathize with you,” said the
baron.
The man burst out crying, and sobbed like a child.
“‘Sad’ beant the wurrud, my lord,” said Ken, as soon as he could use his
voice, through his tears. “It—it—moight be called ‘sad’ if we lost a
bairn in the nat’rel way, though we knowed the Lord tuk it straight to
heaven; but to hev moy pore gell murdered loike this—”
Here the man’s voice broke down in sobs.
Lord Beaudevere looked on in silence. He could find nothing to say to
grief like this.
“It is—it is—tarrible, my lord! It is orrful! Orrful!”
“I know it! I feel it, Ken! I wish I could do something for you. If
there be any way in the world, Ken, to which I can help you, I shall be
glad to do it,” said the baron, gently.
“I thank yo, my lord; I know yo wud. Yor goodness be known to the
country side.”
“Then let me know what I can do for you, Ken.”
“Yo cannot do naught, my lord. Nobbut He above,” said the man,
reverently bowing his head—“nobbut He above can help me. It’s a gret
sorrow, my lord—a gret sorrow. And the mither! Oh, the mither!”
“She takes it pretty hard, then?”
“She dunnot know the warst yet. She thinks—the mither do—thet the lass
deed a nat’rel deeth. If I cud keep it from her, my lord, she shud never
know other ways.”
“Try to keep it from her, Ken,” said the baron.
“No use, my lord. The neebor fowke are sure to foind out all aboot it,
and they wud be fain to burst it on her sudden, and thet wud kill the
mither. No, my lord, Oi must put it to her moyself as easy as Oi can.
Oi’m thinking it mun kill her anyways.”
“Ken,” whispered the baron, “have you any cause to suspect any
particular person of this great crime?”
“Ay, my lord, an’ it’s more than suspeck I do! Oi _know_ who killed moy
gell!” replied the man, as his whole honest face darkened in deep wrath.
“Who do you think it was, Ken?” inquired Lord Beaudevere.
The man looked into his lordship’s eyes with a peculiar expression of
malignity and answered:
“It wur him Oi mean to bring to the gallows if it teks all moy loife and
all my means to do it.”
“Would you mind telling me whom you suspect, or know it to be, then,
Ken?”
“No, Oi dunnot moind! Who wud it be but thet grend vilyun—begging your
lordship’s pardon for the word—thet Muster Brendon Corle! Who but him
wot woiled moy gell away under a false marriage, and then wanted to make
way with her to marry the gret leddy up to the castle? Ou ay! Oi hev
heard all about it, my lord. The whole country side be ringing with it.
It wur him, my lord.”
“I think so too! I certainly think so too! Do you know whom they have
accused of this murder, Ken?”
“Ay, my lord! Oi know they hev tried to put it on a gentleman as
innocent of it as Oi am moyself, your lordship. Wot hed _he_ to do with
slaying moy gell? Oi dunnot believe he even knowed her by soight.”
“I am sure he did not. But, Ken, do you know anything of the movements
of this fellow Coyle?”
“_Me_ know of his movements, my lord? No, my lord, Oi dunnot. If Oi did
know where he was this present toime he should be in jail or in burning
brimstone before morning!” said the man, in a deep, wrathful tone.
“Will you tell me all you know of this affair between Coyle and your
daughter, Ken?” gently requested the baron.
“Oi’d tell yo if Oi _did_ know, my lord. But Oi dunnot know no more ‘n
your lordship and all the country side knows, and not so mooch, mebby.
All Oi know be just wot kem out at t’ old ‘arl’s will-reading, up at t’
castle. It is loike a menny knows more ’n Oi do.”
The cab was just drawing up before the railway station, and the cabman
sprang down from his seat and opened the door.
The baron alighted, followed by the fisherman.
“Oi thank your lordship humbly, for your kindness to me,” said the
latter. “Oi ought to tell yor lordship how mooch good it did me—how Oi
needed it. Yo see, my lord, Oi cud hardly stand, mooch less walk, wen yo
tuk me oop. Eh, my lord, wot hae happened to _her_ tuk all the power and
strength out o’ moy limbs, able-bodied mon as Oi was.”
“You were very welcome, Ken, I was very glad to help you,” returned the
baron, as he put his hand in his pocket and drew out his portemonnaie to
pay the cabman.
They saw by the railway clock over the door of the station that they had
still ten minutes to spare.
When the baron had settled with the cabman he still held his
portemonnaie in his hand. He knew how poor this man Ken really was; how
ill he could afford the expenses that he was now incurring, yet he
hesitated to do what his kind and simple heart prompted—to offer Ken
pecuniary assistance—for he knew and respected the honest pride of this
man.
At this moment the hearse that had followed the cab at a short distance
behind arrived and drew up.
“Oi wish yor lordship good-day. Oi mun go and see it put on the freight
van,” said Ken, touching his hat and moving towards the hearse.
This motion brought the baron to a quick decision.
“Hi! Ken! Here! One moment!” he called after the retreating man.
Ken touched his hat to his lordship and came back.
“Ken, the highest authority in the universe tells us that ‘all men are
brethren.’ We know it to be true, and when trouble comes then we feel it
to be true. And, Ken, brethren should help one another, and I know if I
happened to fall overboard from my boat, and you were near, you would
fish me out and save my life—wouldn’t you, now!”
“Sartain my lord; it would be moy duty and moy pleasure,” answered the
man, staring a little with wonder at what this could have to do with the
affairs of the present.
“Very well, then, Ken. I hope, as you are in deep water now, you will
let me help you out,” said the baron, putting a closely-folded bank-note
for ten pounds in the hands of the man.
“But, moy lord, moy lord—” began Ken, looking from the face of the baron
down upon the note in his hand, which he refused to close upon it.
“Now, Ken, my friend, we have got no time to argue the point. Do you
think if I were in deep water, and you from your boat held out your hand
to me, that I would hesitate to take it? Come, Ken, put up that note and
be off to the freight van.”
“Yor lordship knows how to help a poor man without humbling him. Oi—”
began the fisherman, but the baron cut him short with:
“No better than you do yourself, Ken. There! Say no more about it.”
“God bless your lordship!” exclaimed the grateful man, as he hurried
away, muttering to himself: “And there’s a man wot won’t marry and send
doon his goodness in sons and darters to bless futur generations. Wot
wud Oi hev done if the Lord hedn’t put it into his haart to help me. Oi
never asked help of any in moy loife, and wud hev deed sooner!”
The immediate business upon which he had come now claimed his attention.
He had just money enough in small change to pay the charge of his sad
freight and buy a third-class ticket for himself.
At Miston he would have to change his bank-note to meet other expenses.
Meanwhile, Lord Beaudevere went to the railway station telegraph office
and dispatched a telegram to Mr. Reynolds Fox, Scotland Yard, London,
asking that experienced detective to meet him at the Yockley prison the
next afternoon.
Having done this, his lordship hurried to the ticket office and there,
feeling disinclined for any company, engaged a compartment for himself.
He had scarcely taken his seat before the train started.
It was now quite dark, and he leaned back in his seat and gave himself
up to thought.
The defense of his young cousin occupied all his attention. He felt
convinced in his own mind that Brandon Coyle was the murderer of
Christelle Ken, and whether he should succeed in getting any magistrate
to give a warrant for the arrest of that criminal or not, he was
determined upon one course—to employ the best detectives that could be
procured to look up and follow up Mr. Brandon Coyle, and investigate his
antecedents for the last few months. In this manner he hoped to collect
evidence enough against him to compel his arrest and—to vindicate
Valdimir Desparde.
The only difficulty and danger lay in the shortness of the time. There
were only two weeks to the coming of the Assizes! In those two weeks all
would have to be accomplished that could be done to save Valdimir
Desparde.
The baron resolved to begin work at once.
As the train rushed on through the darkness he thought over all the
evidence already in his hands against Brandon Coyle—his intimacy with
the deceased girl, Christelle Ken, during her life; his false and secret
marriage with her; his supposed abduction of her; his attempted marriage
with Lady Arielle Montjoie, foiled at the last moment by a letter from
the betrayed girl; his burning rage against her—all these forming strong
incentives to her murder.
Lord Beaudevere resolved to lay these facts, if necessary, before every
magistrate in the county until he could secure a warrant for Brandon
Coyle’s apprehension, and, in the meantime, keep his private detectives
at work.
It was ten o’clock when the train reached Miston.
Lord Beaudevere got out and found his old coachman, with the brougham,
waiting for him.
Lord Beaudevere entered it and took his seat, and the coachman climbed
to his box and started his horses.
Three hours’ ride through the middle of the winter night brought Lord
Beaudevere home to Cloudland at the unearthly hour of one o’clock in the
morning.
Lord Beaudevere alighted and ran up the steps of his house at the same
moment that the tired coachman turned his horses’ heads towards the
stables.
“Is Miss Desparde still up?” inquired the baron, without reflecting how
unnecessary was the question.
“Yes, my lord,” replied the porter, in a low, respectful tone as he
stepped to the left and threw open the door of the drawing-room, from
which Vivienne flew to meet him.
She was in full evening dress of ruby velvet, point lace and pearls, all
of which well became the rich, dark brunette type of her beauty.
She scarcely greeted Beaue, but looked eagerly to the right and left and
behind him, as she inquired:
“Where is he? Why don’t he come in?”
“He will be here soon, my dear,” replied the baron, who had taken off
his traveling cap, and was now, with the assistance of his valet,
drawing off his heavy ulster.
“What has he stopped for? Where has he gone? To the stables? And I
waiting for him here! How stupid of him! Men are so provoking!”
exclaimed Vivienne, flying to the hall door, flinging it wide open and
looking out into the night.
“Come, come in, my dear; you will take cold,” said the baron, as he
passed at once into the drawing-room.
Vivienne closed the door and passed into the drawing-room, inquiring:
“When will you be ready for supper, Beaue?”
“As soon as I have changed my dress—in twenty minutes,” replied the
baron.
Lord Beaudevere went up stairs.
Lord Beaudevere was seized with a fit of moral cowardice, and therefore
he prolonged his toilet as far as possible, by taking a full bath, a
fresh shave, and a thorough “shampooing.”
But loiter as he would, not being a lady, he _could_ not drag his
dressing through more than half an hour. Then he reluctantly went down
to face Vivienne, who was walking excitedly up and down the
drawing-room.
“Pray, Beaue, are you going to be married by special license to-night,
that you make such an elaborate toilet? You remind one of Harry
Hotspur’s fop—
‘Fresh as a bridegroom,’”
said Vivienne, sarcastically, as he came in.
“My dear, I was very dusty,” evasively replied the baron.
“And that boy of ours has not yet come in from the stables! It is _too_
aggravating!” exclaimed Vivienne.
The baron made no reply. He did not know what to say.
“I wish you would send for him, Beaue! Do you know that it is near two
o’clock in the morning now? And he will require some time to make
himself presentable—after his long journey and—the stables! Send for him
at once, Beaue!”
“My dear, he is not at the stables,” said the baron.
“Not at the stables!” echoed Vivienne.
“Certainly not, my dear! What put it in your head that he was there?”
“_You_ did, Beaue! You said that he had gone around to the stables with
the coachman and carriage to look at the horses! Now, if he is not at
the stables, _where_ is he?” demanded Vivienne, beginning to grow
anxious.
“My dear, you have deceived yourself! I certainly could never have told
you that Valdimir had gone around to the stables.”
“Where _is_ he, then?” almost fiercely demanded the girl.
“You see you took it for granted that he had gone around to the stables,
and now you imagine that I told you so,” continued the baron, trying to
gain time.
Vivienne made a gesture of impatience, exclaiming:
“Never mind what I imagined, or what I took for granted, Beaue. Tell me
where my brother is, and why he did not come with you? Has any accident
happened to him? Is he hurt? Is he ill? _What_ is the matter, Beaue?”
she demanded, growing white.
“Don’t alarm yourself, my dear. Valdimir is alive and well, and no
accident has happened to him, unless you would call robbery an
accident,” replied the baron.
“Robbery!” exclaimed Vivienne, in astonishment.
“Yes, my dear, robbery! He is detained by a robbery—(the robbery of his
good name),” mentally added the baron.
“But—I don’t understand. Who has robbed him?” inquired the disappointed
and bewildered girl.
“I—he—we—” stammered the baron—“that is, we think it may have been the
railway guard. (Certainly it was the guard who accused him and took away
his good name),” mentally added the baron in an aside.
“But—dear me!—what has he lost? Anything of so much importance as to
detain him on his journey home?” inquired Vivienne, uneasily.
“Yes, my dear, the most valuable piece of property he has in the world.
A rare jewel, worth more than the whole of Cloudland put together,”
replied the baron—(“his good name,”) he added mentally.
“But—I do not understand. Where did Valdimir get such a jewel?”
“It was one of his hereditary family jewels. (So it was—the inheritance
of an untarnished name),” mentally added the baron.
“But how careless of Valdimir to carry such a jewel about him!”
exclaimed Vivienne.
The baron made no reply to this.
“And he thinks the guard has stolen it?”
“I think there is no doubt of it.”
“What steps has my brother taken to recover his property?”
“He has gone back to Yockley, where he first missed it,” replied the
baron.
“How provoking! And I really care a great deal more about the delay of
my brother’s home-coming than I do about the loss of the jewel. How long
do you suppose this unlucky affair will detain him?” anxiously inquired
the girl.
“It is uncertain; some days, I fear—some weeks possibly. He may have to
go farther than Yockley in pursuit of his lost property—(to the other
world, indeed, if the worst should happen),” mentally added Lord
Beaudevere, with a fearful darkening of his own mind.
“It is a great disappointment, Beaue, dear; but come in to supper. We
have waited long enough,” said Vivienne.
The baron gave her his arm and they passed into the dining-room and took
their places at the table, where presently the footman in attendance
served oysters on the half shell, then fresh venison steaks on
chafing-dishes, and other light dainties.
Soon after supper the guardian and ward prepared to retire—one very much
disappointed, the other very anxious.
As they were about to bid each other good-night the baron said:
“I only returned here, my love, to relieve your anxiety. I must go back
to Yockley to-morrow morning to help Valdimir recover his property. I
shall probably start before you are up in the morning; but you must not
be uneasy, for I shall return at night.”
“And bring Valdimir with you?”
“Why, certainly! Of course! If he shall have recovered his property in
the meantime.”
And so they separated for the night—Vivienne very sleepy in spite of her
disappointment, and Lord Beaudevere very wide awake in spite of his
weariness.
It was now three o’clock in the morning, but instead of going to bed the
baron dispatched his valet to the library for writing materials, and
when they were brought dismissed the man and sat down and wrote two
letters, addressed to two eminent counselors at law on that circuit.
When he had sealed and stamped them he put them carefully in the pocket
of his coat to mail as he should pass through Miston on his way to the
railway station.
Then he lay down to take a short rest.