VICTORY.
And thus, from the sad years of life,
We sometimes do short hours, yea, minutes strike,
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten;
Which, through the dreary gloom of time o’er past,
Shine like the sunny spots on a wild waste.
BAILLIE.
Wise Heaven doth see it just as fit
In all our joys to give us some alloys,
As in our sorrows, comforts; when our sails
Are filled with happiest winds, then we most need
Some heaviness to ballast us.
FOUNTAIN.
When the judges and the officers of the law had withdrawn, and the
huzzas of the crowd, inside and outside the court-house, had subsided,
Valdimir Desparde and his friends retired through the sheriff’s room and
down the rear stairs to the Orchard street entrance, where the two
carriages awaited them.
During the excitement in the court-room he found no opportunity of
approaching his betrothed or her companions, though he was most
impatient to do so.
Lord Beaudevere then whispered to him:
“I will take Arielle down stairs and put her in the carriage. You can
join her there, and no one else shall intrude upon you. I will go with
Vivienne and the Flemings in the other carriage.”
Valdimir pressed his hand in silent acquiescence, and then the baron led
Lady Arielle out of the still densely-crowded court-room and down stairs
to the back entrance, and put her into one of the carriages, whispering,
as he closed the door:
“Valdimir will join you here in a very few moments.”
And almost as he spoke Valdimir Desparde came up.
Lord Beaudevere, with a smile, gave way, and the young man entered the
carriage and seated himself beside his betrothed.
Lord Beaudevere gave the coachman his orders to drive to the White Bear
Inn, and then went to join the other members of his party who were
seated in the other vehicle.
Both carriages started, that of the young lovers taking the precedence.
As soon as the betrothed pair found themselves alone together, Valdimir
lifted the hand of Arielle and pressed it warmly to his lips and to his
heart.
Tears of joy stood in his eyes.
Neither could speak, but their silence was more eloquent than any words
could have been.
After a short drive, our party stopped at the inn.
Arielle had already laid off her hat and mantle, and was seated on a
short, hard, horse-hair sofa, in the parlor, with Valdimir by her side.
After a few pleasant words, Lord Beaudevere drew Adrian Fleming’s arm
within his own and took him out, ostensibly to see the landlord in
person as to the condition of his larder, but really to leave the lovers
to themselves for a little while; for Vivienne and Net had already gone
to their chambers to lay off their hats and coats.
_Only_ “for a little while” could the one private parlor in the crowded
inn be left to the young lovers.
Very soon they were disturbed by the entrance of the waiter to lay the
cloth for dinner.
When _he_ went out the two young ladies, Net and Vivienne, came in.
Then, for the first time since the verdict, the brother and sister met,
and embraced with so much emotion that scarcely an articulate word could
be uttered between them.
Vivienne presented her brother to Net Fleming, whom he had not seen
since his arrival in the country.
Mutual and hearty congratulations passed between them.
Net expressed her joy in his triumphal vindication, which she declared
to be equal to a public ovation.
Valdimir returned thanks and wished her much joy in her married life.
“And to think,” he added, in his total ignorance of the circumstances of
that marriage, “to think that Sly Boots, Adrian Fleming, never told me a
word about it when we met in New York, never even dropped a hint of it!”
At this moment the gentleman of whom they were speaking entered the
room.
More congratulations followed, with more or less sincerity, between
Messrs. Desparde and Fleming.
Dinner was served, and six of the hungriest people in the town sat down
to one of the best repasts ever laid there.
And they lingered long over its three courses and longer over the
dessert.
It was ten o’clock before the last cloth was drawn and the coffee
served.
While they were sipping this fragrant beverage the voice of the
indefatigable and ubiquitous newsboy was heard under the windows
yelling:
“_‘Ere’s yer Evening Noose—full account of the trial—Muster Valable
Despatch, and werdick for the ’cused. ’Ere’s yer—_”
Lord Beaudevere arose and rang the bell.
A waiter entered in answer to the summons.
“Go down and bring me a paper,” said the baron.
A few moments later the waiter entered the room with the paper and
handed it to the baron.
“What an exaggeration! Why, Valdimir, they have got it here that your
horses were taken off and your carriage was drawn through the streets by
relays of men, followed by a multitude of citizens. Ha! what is this?
Here is news!” continued the baron, as his eyes glanced to other parts
of the paper.
“What is it?” inquired Valdimir Desparde.
“I will read it,” answered Lord Beaudevere, and he began as follows:
“‘THE ASSASSIN OF CHRISTELLE KEN.
“‘There is not a shadow of a doubt on the minds of any who heard the
evidence on the trial of Mr. Valdimir Desparde, (whose honor has been
vindicated amid such thunders of applause as never yet attended the
acquittal of any person) that the murderer of poor Christelle Ken, was
no other than Brandon Coyle, of Caveland, Miston. Some dark stories have
been afloat in regard to that gentleman, by which it appears that
homicidal mania may be hereditary in his family. An officer armed with
the necessary warrants has gone down to Liverpool, and will sail
to-morrow morning for New York in quest of Mr. Brandon Coyle, who has
escaped to the United States, but it is hoped will be found and brought
back under the extradition treaty to answer for the crime for which Mr.
Desparde has been so unjustly accused, and of which he has been so
triumphantly acquitted.’
“There, that’s it! They are prompt. They lose no time—these law
officers. But I am grieved for Coyle—my poor, old neighbor. Ah! he
hatched a couple of cockatrice’s eggs when he took those two Simses to
his home!” sighed the baron.
“But poor Aspirita is not to blame for all this,” said Net, in a tone of
compassion.
“Humph!” said the baron, dryly. “She is too much like her brother in
everything to engage my sympathies. You do not know perhaps, my dear,
that she was his confederate in the transmission of those forged
letters, that deceived and misled both Valdimir and Arielle, and but for
providential agencies would have resulted in severing them forever.”
“I knew of the letter purporting to come from Mr. Desparde to Mr. Coyle,
giving a _mésalliance_ as the motive of his sudden journey to New York,
but I thought that Aspirita herself must have been also deceived when
she inclosed it to Arielle,” replied Net.
“No. Subsequent events proved that she was his confederate; for about
the same time a forged letter, purporting to have been from Arielle to
_her_—Aspirita—announcing Arielle’s engagement to be married to a
gentleman approved by her grandparents, was inclosed by Brandon Coyle to
Valdimir Desparde. The brother could not have done all this without the
assistance of his sister. She was his confederate in everything except
in the murder of poor Kit Ken.”
When the clock struck eleven they separated and retired to rest.
The following morning, the members of our party rose early, and when the
hurried morning meal was over they hastily assumed their outer garments
and went out to take their places in the hacks.
A short and pleasant ride through the crisp winter air and over the
frosty ground took them to the Miston Branch Station, where the party
separated—Lord Beaudevere, Lady Arielle Montjoie, Mr. and Miss Desparde
leaving the carriage to take the Miston train, and Mr. and Mrs. Adrian
Fleming continuing their journey to London _en route_ for Devonshire.