A LOVE CHASE.
He must be worthy of her love,
For not the faintest shade
Of all the charms that round her move
Within his heart can fade.
The glances of her gentle eyes
Are in his soul enshrined;
Her radiant smiles, her tender sighs,
Are treasured in his mind.
MIRAVAL.
In the meantime Net had gone to her room; but she was too deeply
disturbed to sit down at once to her letter-writing.
While in the presence of Mr. Adrian Fleming her self-respect had
constrained her to the exercise of a severe self-control; but as soon as
she reached the privacy of her own chamber her over-strained nerves gave
way, and she sank trembling into her easy-chair, where she sat some time
before she could recover her calmness.
Then she drew the little writing-table up before her, and commenced a
letter to Lady Arielle Montjoie, to give the latter an account of her
journey and of all that had happened since her arrival at Deloraine
Park.
While Net was so engaged, the sick girl, in her luxurious boudoir, slept
on her lounge, under the influence of an opiate.
Antoinette did not wake until four o’clock in the afternoon. She found
the nurse sitting by her side, for in the present condition of her
health Miss Deloraine was never left alone for a moment, sleeping or
waking.
“Nurse, if you will be my maid for once and dress me for the afternoon,
I will rise and sit up for a while,” said Miss Deloraine.
The woman smilingly nodded assent to her request.
While these things were going on in other parts of the vast house,
Adrian Fleming was comfortably sleeping the deep sleep of fatigue on the
sofa in the library.
The profound quiet of the place favored his long and unbroken repose, so
he slumbered on until five o’clock, when he was aroused by the ringing
of the first dinner, or dressing-bell.
“And where the deuce am I to dress?” he inquired, as he sat up, rubbed
his eyes, and stared at the ebony clock on the mantel-shelf, where the
hands pointed at a few minutes after five.
He rang the bell and Hart promptly appeared.
“If you please, sir, the telegram went off all right, and here’s the
agent’s receipt or somethink,” said the boy, delivering a sealed
envelope.
It was not any receipt, however, where none was needed. It was only the
change for the sovereign that had been sent to pay for the telegram.
“Can you show me into a dressing-room where I may wash my hands?”
inquired the young gentleman, in an irritated tone, for he was impatient
under a sense of having been neglected.
“If you please, sir, I have my mistress’s orders to show you to your own
suite of apartments, sir, and that’s the first dinner-bell, if you
please, and your porkmangle have been carried up,” replied Hart,
pointing to his red head.
“Very well, then. Carry yourself up, and I will follow.”
And Hart indexed his red hair again, and conducted the guest to an
elegant suite of rooms, very much like the other suites except in color.
These were upholstered in sea-green.
The same sounding bell that roused Adrian Fleming from his nap, startled
Net at her letter-writing. She settled herself again, however, and did
not leave her writing-table until she had sealed and superscribed her
last letter.
Then she arose and looked at her watch, and found that she had ten
minutes to arrange her toilet for dinner.
She glanced at the mirror and saw that her neat dress of rich,
lusterless black silk, with delicate white crepe frills at the throat
and wrists, needed very little attention indeed.
So she only washed her hands, shook out the folds of her skirt, took a
white calla lily from its glass on the table and placed it in the dark
braids of her hair, caught up a fresh pocket-handkerchief, and went out
to the dining-room just as the second bell sounded.
To her surprise, she met Adrian Fleming on the threshold.
“You missed your train, then?” she said, with all the composure of
outward manner that she could command.
“I did not try to catch my train,” he answered, with a mischievous
smile; then he added gravely: “No, Net, I did not leave the house; nor
will I leave it for the present. We must not part again with a
misunderstanding between us.”
Net thought that the misunderstanding had been none of her making or
seeking; but she said nothing, only passed into the dining-room and took
her seat at the table.
He followed her example.
The butler and the footman were both in attendance—the butler waiting,
it is to be presumed, in honor of the new guest.
There could be no confidential conversation in the presence of these
two.
Fleming touched upon the subject which was at that time the most
frequent topic of discussion in every drawing-room, parlor, club and
dinner-table in England—the mysterious murder in the railway carriage,
and the impending trial of Mr. Valdimir Desparde.
“I saw him in New York just before he sailed. I had intended to remain
longer abroad, but after having spent a couple of days with Desparde,
and then parted with him after seeing him off to Liverpool, I was seized
with a sudden and severe fit of home-sickness, and I quickly made up my
mind, packed my traps, and followed by the next steamer. I reached
England only three days after he had landed; and you may judge my
consternation when, on picking up the London _Times_ of that morning, I
saw the account of his apprehension on the charge of having murdered
that poor, witless creature, Kit Ken,” said Adrian.
“Of course, you never believed it,” said Net, not as a question, but as
a positive affirmation.
“Believed it? No! I read the whole account, and came to the conclusion
that it was—another man whom I had positively known to be on intimate
terms with the beautiful idiot.”
“I know the man to whom you refer, and I have more reason than you can
have for believing him—nay, for _knowing_ him to be the guilty party.
But, unhappily, our mental convictions are not legal evidence, and we
cannot get hold of the man, at least, we _had_ not up to the time of my
coming here; and, indeed, _nothing_ but the extreme illness of
Antoinette could have drawn me away from Arielle and Vivienne at such a
time.”
“When does his trial come on?”
“On next Monday the assizes open at Yockley, and his case is the first
on the docket. Only three days, you see, and no important evidence for
the defense yet. We have been seeking through both public and private
means to find Valdimir’s fellow travelers from Southampton to prove an
_alibi_, but hitherto without success; for, you see, they were
passengers for short stages, and though Valdimir exchanged observations
with several of them, he neither knew their names nor did they know his,
which makes our seeking almost impossible of success.”
“Unless an _alibi_ can be proved it will be likely to go hard with him,”
said Adrian.
Net shuddered, but did not reply.
Soon after the dessert was set on the table Net withdrew from the room,
leaving Mr. Fleming to his wine.
Adrian was very temperate. He took a single glass of light Rhine wine,
and arose and joined Net in the drawing-room.
“At last,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction, “I have the opportunity
of speaking to you without the gaping eyes and ears of servants.”
“Do eyes and ears gape?” inquired Net, gravely.
“Do not mock me. I love you, Net! I love you!” he said, seizing her
hand.
She did not withdraw it. She neither repulsed nor responded to his
advance. She stood before him, to all appearance, quiet and indifferent.
“I love you, Net! Why don’t you say something? I love you!”
“So you have told me—and others—many times!” smiled the girl.
“Ah! you do not believe me!” he said, with an aggrieved air—“Net, you do
not believe!”
“Oh, yes I do! I believe that you love me, just at this moment, or
rather I believe that you _think_ you love me, just at this moment,”
said Net, not smilingly this time, but very gravely.
“Ah, what do you mean by—‘just at this moment’? Do you not know that I
shall love you always, for all time?” he inquired, in a voice full of
pain.
Net was silent.
“Say, do you not?” he persisted.
“No, Adrian, I do not. I cannot!” she answered, truthfully and
sorrowfully.
“Net! Net! how shall I ever win your confidence again?” he cried, in a
despairing voice.
The girl looked at him in mute distress. She could not flatter him by
any fair untruths.
“How?” he asked. “How, Net?”
“I do not know,” she sighed.
“You will let me try, Net? You will let me try to win your love?”
“You _have_ my love; you have had my love through all,” she hastened to
say, in a low, tremulous voice, but as if she were glad to be able to
say it.
“Bless you for those words, Net! And your _trust_! You will let me try
to win your trust too?”
“Yes,” murmured the girl.
At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of Hart, who
touched his red locks and said:
“If you please, ma’am and sir, my mistress’s compliments and she would
be glad to see you in her room, _now_, if you please.”
“We will attend her. Come, Adrian,” said Net, leading the way to
Antoinette’s boudoir.
They found the invalid wrapped in a warm and beautiful dressing-gown of
white velvet, trimmed with white Astrachan fur, and reclining in her
resting-chair.
“I sent for you to see you for a little while before I retire, for I do
not feel equal to sitting up long to-night,” she said, as she smilingly
extended a hand to each.
They pressed those pale hands to their lips and then took seats on each
side of her.
She looked from one face to the other to read the answer to the question
she dared not ask—whether they had become reconciled to each other.
She read there that they were tending towards a reunion, and she
breathed a sigh of relief.
The two visitors had scarcely seated themselves, however, when the
postman’s knock was heard on the hall door, and it sounded through the
silent house as it never sounded before.
“I have no correspondents myself, now that you are here, Net,” said the
invalid girl with a smile.
The footman entered with a single letter on a silver tray, which he
carried to Mrs. Fleming.
“It is from Miston—from Lord Beaudevere. Will you excuse me?” said Net,
as she took the letter and examined it.
“Oh, by all means! Read it at once, and let us hear all the news,” said
Antoinette.
The girl broke the seal, glanced over the letter and then read it aloud
for the benefit of her companions:
“CASTLE MONTJOIE—Midnight.
“We have just got home from Yockley, dear Net, and, upon inquiry, find
all well, including the most important items—the babies. Of course, I
have no news to tell you of our search for defensive evidence. I write
now only to inclose a letter that has arrived for you from Chelsea,
London. Don’t know the locality, and don’t know the handwriting, but
lose no time in sending it on to you, while I remain your friend and
servant,
BEAUDEVERE.”
“Who is the inclosed letter from, if I may venture to inquire?” demanded
Antoinette.
“I—don’t—know,” slowly replied Net, as she critically examined the
superscription.
“Well, then, suppose you open it and see,” said Antoinette with a smile.
Net broke the seal and opened the second letter, which, oddly enough,
inclosed a third.
Net glanced over the open letter and started; her placid face became
agitated, her grave eyes grew joyous, as she gazed at the letter and
rapidly traversed its contents.
Her companions watched her in silent surprise and expectation as she
quickly turned over the page and swiftly read to the conclusion.
Then, seizing the third letter, she tore it open and quickly ran through
it.
Lastly, dropping it upon her lap, she burst into tears of joy, covered
her eyes with her hands and exclaimed:
“Thank Heaven! Oh, thank, thank Heaven!”
“What is it all about, Net, dear?” inquired the invalid girl.
“What does all this mean, my dear Net?” demanded Adrian Fleming in the
same instant.
Net dropped her hands and turned her radiant face from one to the
other—radiant through her tears as sunbeams through rain—as she
answered:
“It means deliverance for Valdimir Desparde! Oh, my dears! It means
deliverance!”