A VISIT TO VALDIMIR.
Love’s heralds should be thoughts
Which ten times faster glide than the sunbeams.
Driving back shadows over lowering hills.
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the wind swift Cupid wings.
SHAKESPEARE.
With thee all scenes are sweet; each place hath charms—
Earth, sea, alike our world within our arms.
BYRON.
Lord Beaudevere kept his appointment, and reached Castle Montjoie in
time to dress for dinner; but only in time, for he had to go at once to
his chamber, make a hasty toilet, and descend to the drawing-room, where
he found the three young ladies waiting for him.
In answer to their eager questions, he told them that old Mr. Coyle knew
nothing of Brandon’s whereabouts, and that therefore he had been
disappointed in his hope of obtaining a clew to the fugitive.
He forbore to tell them the news of Brandon Coyle’s heavy forgery. His
sympathies for the poor old squire kept him silent upon this subject of
the family dishonor.
Dinner was at once announced, and they all went into the dining-room.
Lord Beaudevere had gained a fine appetite from his long ride in the
crisp, cold air, and moreover he highly approved the young countess’s
cook; therefore, notwithstanding other adverse circumstances, he greatly
enjoyed his dinner.
The two children were brought in at dessert, and had their treat of
nuts, fruit and cake; after which they were remanded to their nursery,
and the three young ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, leaving Lord
Beaudevere at the table.
The baron, however, never sat long over his wine. He soon joined them.
Then, instead of their usual evening recreation of music, chess or
backgammon, they gathered around the fire and talked only of their
beloved prisoner.
They were interrupted at length by the postman’s knock, which the hall
footman answered.
They listened eagerly, and soon Adams came into the room with only one
letter on his silver waiter.
“For Mrs. Adrian Fleming, my lady,” he answered to the inquiring look of
the countess, as he took the waiter across the room to Net.
“It is from Deloraine, Devon, but in a strange handwriting. I fear—I
fear—that Antoinette is worse,” she exclaimed, as she gazed at the
letter, and then hastily opened it.
“Who is it from?” impatiently inquired Vivienne.
“Her attendant physician—Dr. Bede,” slowly and sadly answered Net, who
was anxiously reading the few lines written on one page of note-paper.
“How is she?” inquired Lady Arielle, eagerly.
“Antoinette is worse—much worse. Her physician writes at her request to
tell me so, and to ask me to come at once without a day’s delay, and to
bring the children if I prefer to do so,” mournfully replied Net.
“And you will go, of course,” said Vivienne.
“Oh! I must! I must! I must go by the very first train! _Dear_ Lord
Beaudevere, is there any train that I can catch to-night?” she anxiously
inquired, turning to the baron.
“My good young lady, certainly not. There is a train in the morning at
eight-thirty. The time has been changed within a few days. We can catch
_that_ by getting up to-morrow morning at five o’clock. It is the same
train by which we go.”
“Then we can travel together,” said Net.
“Yes, as far as the Miston Junction, but no farther. There we separate.”
“You go North, we go South,” put in Net.
“Exactly.”
“And now,” said wise Little Mammam, “as we have to rise so early in the
morning, will you let me suggest that we retire immediately?”
“We will, and we will follow the suggestion,” said Arielle.
And each of the party took a light, and they bade one another good-night
and retired.
Punctually at five o’clock the next morning the baron was awakened from
his slumbers by the rap of Adams.
In half an hour afterwards the travelers had dressed, breakfasted, and
were ready to commence their journey.
The vehicle just held the party—Net filling the fourth seat.
The regular coach-horses were not taken out for this long drive; but the
strongest pair of draught horses were harnessed to the carriage, and the
careful old coachman, Abraham, was on the box.
It was but a few minutes after five when they drove off in the darkness
of the winter morning.
The carriage-lamps had been trimmed and lighted, and the coachman knew
his road and his horses, so that the journey seemed a safe one,
notwithstanding the hour.
The conversation during the long drive turned exclusively upon the
prisoner at Yockley and the invalid at Deloraine Park.
“What is the malady of Miss Deloraine?” inquired the baron of Net.
“I think they call it atrophy of the heart. It is hereditary in her
mother’s family,” replied Net, as they drove on through the darkness.
They drove on as fast as the strong draught horses could draw them.
They came in sight of the spires of Miston Old Church just as the first
faint light of morning was seen on the Eastern horizon, and they reached
Miston Station as the first beams of the rising sun appeared above the
hilltops.
They had ten minutes to spare, and these were spent in giving directions
to old Abraham to put up the carriage and horses at the Dolphin for the
day, and to meet them at the station for the seven P. M. train.
Then the baron put the three young ladies in the central compartment of
a first-class carriage and went into a smoking-car to enjoy his
matutinal cigar.
In five more minutes the train was off.
The three girls, after a little more conversation among themselves, went
off to sleep, as was very natural after having been disturbed in the
morning’s nap and fatigued by a long and rough drive.
They slept with little disturbance until the train reached Miston
Junction, where they were awakened by the bustle of arrival.
Here the friends were to part company—Net to go down to Devonshire, and
the others to go up to Yockley.
Lord Beaudevere threw away the stump of his cigar, got out of the
smoking-carriage and came to the door of the ladies’ compartment to get
them off.
“Your train is ready, my dear. It starts full fifteen minutes before
ours. I shall have plenty of time to get you a seat in the ladies’
carriage and commend you to the care of the guard. But _you_ must hurry.
Come on.”
By this time the baron had led the way to the waiting-room, where Net
hastily kissed her two girl friends good-bye and followed Lord
Beaudevere to the next train, where he got for her a safe and
comfortable seat in a carriage full of ladies, and where he put a half
sovereign into the hand of the guard as an inducement to look after the
safety and comfort of the young traveler.
Then he shook hands with Net, telling her to write or telegraph in case
she should want service of any sort from him.
The train began to show signs of moving, so he left the carriage and
returned to his own party in the waiting-room.
As soon as their own train was ready he put the two young ladies in a
reserved compartment, and not wishing to smoke another cigar, he joined
them there.
This happened to be an express train, and the run to Yockley was a rapid
one.
They reached the station at about eleven o’clock.
Lord Beaudevere engaged a fly, put his young companions in it, followed
them and ordered the driver to go to Yockley prison.
The man was the same one whom his lordship had several times already
engaged, and he touched his hat respectfully as he mounted his box and
drove off.
“I must warn you, my dear, not to be shocked too severely by the
appearance of the prison. It is not like a private house, nor even like
any other public building.”
“Oh, my dear Lord Beaudevere, I have seen the _outside_ of several
prisons, and I can judge from that the inside is not very attractive,”
replied Arielle with a sad smile.
Yet half an hour later, when they reached the high stone walls and
rolled through the great iron gate of the prison-yard, and saw the grim
stone face, with its small, grated windows, of the prison house, Arielle
lost all her courage and burst into a storm of tears.
Lord Beaudevere stopped the carriage to give her an opportunity of
conquering her emotion and recovering her self-command.
Then they drove on to the doors of the prison and got out.
Arielle shuddered at the great, oaken, iron-bound doors, and the heavy
lock chains, the bare stone walls, the bare flagged floors.
The baron stopped at the door of the warden’s office to get the service
of a turnkey, and then drew Arielle’s arm within his own and led her up
the stone steps.
Vivienne followed, with her vail drawn down over her face to conceal its
irrepressible emotion.
Vivienne suffered equally with Arielle, but even her own Beaue forgot
the sister’s sorrow in the betrothed bride’s bitter grief.
The baron whispered a word to the turnkey, who started off at once and
opened the cell door and left it open before they came up.
Lord Beaudevere’s money and care had converted the cold, bare
prison-cell into a palatial cabinet or closet.
It was into this place that the two young ladies were introduced.
Valdimir Desparde, in a carefully made morning toilet, was seated in the
easy-chair, leaning over his little writing-table.
He turned his head on hearing approaching footsteps, and seeing Lord
Beaudevere leading in Arielle Montjoie, the light of a sudden rapture
irradiated his face, and he sprang up to meet them.
He held out both hands and clasped hers warmly, while he gazed into her
eyes in anxious, questioning love. What he read there gave him courage
to draw her to his bosom, and press his lips upon her brow. And hardly a
syllable passed between them but the inevitable low-breathed words:
“_Oh, Arielle!_”
“_Oh, Valdimir!_”
“Speak to Vivienne! Speak to your sister! She is behind!” whispered the
young girl, gently disengaging herself from her lover’s embrace.
He turned to see his sister, and met her as warmly as he had met his
betrothed bride.
And lastly he shook hands with his kinsman, and thanked him for bringing
these dear ones to comfort him.
Then the two young ladies sat down on the sofa with Valdimir between
them.
Lord Beaudevere occupied the seat of honor, the crimson damask,
deeply-cushioned easy-chair.
And then they talked freely of Valdimir’s case and prospects, which the
young man considered safe, notwithstanding that detectives had found no
trace of Brandon Coyle, nor any passenger who remembered coming up by
the London and Southwestern train with any gentleman answering to
Valdimir Desparde’s description.
“Nevertheless I am not a whit discouraged. And indeed, though my
detention here is disagreeable enough and the occasion tragic enough yet
I _cannot_ help seeing a ludicrous side to this farce of falling into
the trap of that railway carriage and being arrested for midnight
murder. Me! whom it always hurt to have to kill a gnat!” said Valdimir,
in a gay tone that was perhaps partly assumed to raise the depressed
spirits of his visitors.
“The police are looking after Brandon Coyle on another count!” said Lord
Beaudevere, impulsively; and he immediately regretted that he had done
so.
“Indeed! But I do not wonder! On what other count?” inquired Valdimir.
“I will tell you another time, my boy. It is near your luncheon hour, is
it not?” inquired Lord Beaudevere—“we will invite ourselves to lunch
with you! I will go to the _White Bear_ myself to cater for our
luncheon!” said the baron, as he took his hat and walked out of the
cell.
“My cousin told you all about my reason for leaving the country in the
way I did, dearest?” asked Valdimir of his betrothed.
“Oh, yes, everything he thought I ought to know, and quite enough to
vindicate you perfectly, Valdimir. But, oh, love, why should you have
punished yourself, and me, and all your friends, for the sin of another?
Even if the base story had been true it would not have been your fault!
I should never have thought the less of you, Valdimir!” pleaded Arielle
with a look and tone that assured him she knew not the depth of dishonor
that would have fallen on his own guiltless head had that dreadful story
been true—for _him_.
Very soon Lord Beaudevere returned, followed by two waiters from the
_White Bear_, bringing every requisite for a most substantial and
delicious lunch.
After this lunch, which was really enjoyed by all the party
notwithstanding the grave surrounding circumstances, the waiters cleared
the table and carried away all the _debris_ and other articles, and the
place was restored to tidiness.
After a little more conversation the baron told his young protégées that
they must put on their coats and hats and be ready to go, for they had
stayed to the last minute of their time.
The parting with the prisoner was a sad one, notwithstanding that he
bore himself with the greatest cheerfulness, and that Lord Beaudevere
promised to return every day to see him, and fetch and carry messages
between Yockley and Montjoie.
After taking leave of Valdimir Desparde the party re-entered their
carriage, that still waited at the prison gate, and drove fast to the
station, where they just caught the train.
Much rested and comforted, the party entered upon their eight hours’
drive to Castle Montjoie, where they arrived in safety about half-past
ten o’clock.
“All right here, Adams?” the baron inquired of the footman who opened
the door to them.
“Oh, yes, my lord. All quite right, your lordship.”
“Any letters by the night’s mail?
“Only one, my lord, and that was for Mrs. Fleming.”
“Let me look at it. Unless it comes from Devonshire, where she has gone,
it must be forwarded to her.”
The footman handed this letter on his silver salver. Lord Beaudevere
took it and examined it carefully.
“It is post-marked London, and directed to Mrs. Fleming’s home in Church
Lane. It has been sent on here. Come into the library a moment, Adams. I
will put this letter in another envelope, and direct it, and do you put
it in the carrier’s box to-night. It may be important,” said the baron.
And it was important, for it was that very letter which poor Kit Ken had
cunningly written to Mrs. Fleming and left with her landlady to be
forwarded after ten days, unless good news arrived of her.