"ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?"
All through the night the drizzling rain fell fast, and on the morning
of the 26th, when the gentlemen at the manor-house rectory went to
their windows to look out upon the weather, they were gratified by
finding that southerly wind and cloudy sky so dear to the heart of a
huntsman.
At half-past eight o'clock the whole party assembled in the
dining-room, where breakfast was prepared.
Many gentlemen living in the neighbourhood had been invited to
breakfast at the rectory; and the great quadrangle of the stables was
crowded by grooms and horses, gigs and phaetons, while the clamour of
many voices rang out upon the still air.
Every one seemed to be thoroughly happy--except Reginald Eversleigh. He
was amongst the noisiest of the talkers, the loudest of the laughers;
but the rector, who watched him closely, perceived that his face was
pale, his eyes heavy as the eyes of one who had passed a sleepless
night, and that his laughter was loud without mirth, his talk
boisterous, without real cheerfulness of spirit.
"There is mischief of some kind in that man's heart," Lionel said to
himself. "Can there be any truth in the gipsy's warning after all?"
But in the next moment he was ready to fancy himself the weak dupe of
his own imagination.
"I dare say my cousin's manner is but what it always is," he thought;
"the weary manner of a man who has wasted his youth, and sacrificed all
the brilliant chances of his life, and who, even in the hour of
pleasure and excitement, is oppressed by a melancholy which he strives
in vain to shake off."
The gathering at the breakfast-table was a brilliant one.
Lydia Graham was a superb horsewoman; and in no costume did she look
more attractive than in her exquisitely fitting habit of dark blue
cloth. The early hour of the meet justified her breakfasting in
riding-costume; and gladly availing herself of this excuse, she made
her appearance in her habit, carrying her pretty little riding-hat and
dainty whip in her hand.
Her cheeks were flushed with a rich bloom--the warm flush of excitement
and the consciousness of success. Lionel's attention on the previous
evening had seemed to her unmistakeable; and again this morning she saw
admiration, if not a warmer feeling, in his gaze.
"And so you really mean to follow the hounds, Miss Graham?" said Mrs.
Mordaunt, with something like a shudder.
She had a great horror of fast young ladies, and a lurking aversion to
Miss Graham, whose dashing manner and more brilliant charms quite
eclipsed the quiet graces of the lady's two daughters. Mrs. Mordaunt
was by no means a match-making mother; but she would have been far from
sorry to see Lionel Dale devoted to one of her girls.
"Do I mean to follow the hounds?" cried Lydia. "Certainly I do, Mrs.
Mordaunt. Do not the Misses Mordaunt ride?"
"Never to hounds," answered the matron. "They ride with, their father
constantly, and when they are in London they ride in the park; but Mr.
Mordaunt would not allow his daughters to appear in the hunting-field."
Lydia's face flushed crimson with anger; but her anger changed to
delight when Lionel Dale came to the rescue.
"It is only such accomplished horsewomen as Miss Graham who can ride to
hounds with safety," he said. "Your daughters ride very well, Mrs.
Mordaunt; but they are not Diana Vernons."
"I never particularly admired the character of Diana Vernon," Mrs.
Mordaunt answered, coldly.
Lydia Graham was by no means displeased by the lady's discourtesy. She
accepted it as a tribute to her success. The mother could not bear to
see so rich a prize as the rector of Hallgrove won by any other than
her own daughter.
Douglas Dale was full of his brother's new horse, "Niagara," which had
been paraded before the windows. The gentlemen of the party had all
examined the animal, and pronounced him a beauty.
"Did you try him last week, Lionel, as I requested you to do?" asked
Douglas, when the merits of the horse had been duly discussed.
"I did; and I found him as fine a temper as any horse I ever rode. I
rode him twice--he is a magnificent animal."
"And safe, eh, Lio?" asked Douglas, anxiously. "Spavin assured me the
horse was to be relied on, and Spavin is a very respectable fellow; but
it's rather a critical matter to choose a hunter for a brother, and I
shall be glad when to-day's work is over."
"Have no fear, Douglas," answered the rector. "I am generally
considered a bold rider, but I would not mount a horse I couldn't
thoroughly depend upon; for I am of opinion that a man has no right to
tempt Providence."
As he said this, he happened by chance to look towards Reginald
Eversleigh. The eyes of the cousins met; and Lionel saw that those of
the baronet had a restless, uneasy look, which was utterly unlike their
usual expression.
"There is some meaning in that old woman's dark hints of wrong and
treachery," he thought; "there must be. That was no common look which I
saw just now in my cousin's eyes."
The horses were brought round to the principal door; a barouche had
been ordered for Mrs. Mordaunt and the two young ladies, who had no
objection to exhibit their prettiest winter bonnets at the general
meeting-place.
The snow had melted, except here and there, where it still lay in great
patches; and on the distant hills, which still wore their pure white
shroud.
The roads and lanes were fetlock-deep in mud, and the horses went
splashing through pools of water, which spurted up into the faces of
the riders.
There was only one lady besides Lydia Graham who intended to accompany
the huntsmen, and this lady was the dashing young wife of a cavalry
officer, who was spending a month's leave of absence with his relatives
at Hallgrove.
The hunting-party rode out of the rectory gates in twos and threes. All
had passed out into the high road before the rector himself, who was
mounted on his new hunter.
To his extreme surprise he found a difficulty in managing the animal.
He reared, and jibbed, and shied from side to side upon the broad
carriage-drive, splashing the melted snow and wet gravel upon the
rector's dark hunting-coat.
"So ho, 'Niagara,'" said Lionel, patting the animal's arched neck;
"gently, boy, gently."
His voice, and the caressing touch of his hand seemed to have some
little effect, for the horse consented to trot quietly into the road,
after the rest of the party, and Lionel quickly overtook his friends.
He rode shoulder by shoulder with Squire Mordaunt, an acknowledged
judge of horseflesh, who watched the rector's hunter with a curious
gaze for some minutes.
"I'll tell you what it is, Dale," he said, "I don't believe that horse
of yours is a good-tempered animal."
"You do not?"
"No, there's a dangerous look in his eye that I don't at all like. See
how he puts his ears back every now and then; and his nostrils have an
ugly nervous quiver. I wish you'd let your man bring you another horse,
Dale. We're likely to be crossing some stiffish timber to-day; and,
upon my word, I'm rather suspicious of that brute you're riding."
"My dear squire, I have tested the horse to the uttermost," answered
Lionel. "I can positively assure you there is not the slightest ground
for apprehension. The animal is a present from my brother, and Douglas
would be annoyed if I rode any other horse."
"He would be more annoyed if you came to any harm by a horse of his
choosing," answered the squire. "However I'll say no more. If you know
the animal, that's enough. I know you to be both a good rider and a
good judge of a horse."
"Thank you heartily for your advice, notwithstanding, squire," replied
Lionel, cheerily; "and now I think I'll ride on and join the ladies."
He broke into a canter, and presently was riding by the side of Miss
Graham, who did not fail to praise the beauty of "Niagara" in a manner
calculated to win the heart of Niagara's rider.
In the exhilarating excitement of the start, Lionel Dale had forgotten
alike the gipsy's warning and those vague doubts of his cousin Reginald
which had been engendered by that warning. He was entirely absorbed by
the pleasure of the hour, happy to see his friends gathered around him,
and excited by the prospect of a day's sport.
The meeting-place was crowded with horsemen and carriages, country
squires and their sons, gentlemen-farmers on sleek hunters, and humbler
tenant-farmers on their stiff cobs, butchers and innkeepers, all eager
for the chase. All was life, gaiety excitement, noise; the hounds,
giving forth occasional howls and snappish yelpings, expressive of an
impatience that was almost beyond endurance; the huntsman cracking his
whip, and reproving his charges in language more forcible than polite;
the spirited horses pawing the ground; the gentlemen exchanging the
compliments of the season with the ladies who had come up to see the
hounds throw off.
At last the important moment arrived, the horn sounded, the hounds
broke away with a rush, and the business of the day had begun.
Again the rector's horse was seized with sudden obstinacy, and again
the rector found it as much as he could do to manage him. An inferior
horseman would have been thrown in that sharp and short struggle
between horse and rider; but Lionel's firm hand triumphed over the
animal's temper for the time at least; and presently he was hurrying
onward at a stretching gallop, which speedily carried him beyond the
ruck of riders.
As he skimmed like a bird over the low flat meadows, Lionel began to
think that the horse was an acquisition, in spite of the sudden freaks
of temper which had made him so difficult to manage at starting.
A horseman who had not joined the hunt, who had dexterously kept the
others in sight, sheltering himself from observation under the fringe
of the wood which crowned a small hill in the neighbourhood of the
meet, was watching all the evolutions of Lionel Dale's horse closely
through a small field-glass, and soon, perceived that the animal was
beyond the rider's skill to manage. The stretching gallop which had
reassured Mr. Dale soon carried the rector beyond the watcher's ken,
and then, as the hunt was out of sight too, he turned his horse from
the shelter he had so carefully selected, and rode straight across
country in an opposite direction.
In little more than half an hour after the horseman who had watched
Lionel Dale so closely left the post of observation, a short man,
mounted on a stout pony, which had evidently been urged along at
unusual speed, came along the road, which wound around the hill already
mentioned. This individual wore a heavy, country-made coat, and leather
leggings, and had a handkerchief tied over his hat. This very
unbecoming appendage was stained with blood on the side which covered
the right cheek and the wearer was plentifully daubed and bespattered
with mud, his sturdy little steed being in a similar condition. As he
urged the pony on, his sharp, crafty eyes kept up an incessant
scrutiny, in which his beak-like nose seemed to take an active part.
But there was nothing to reward the curiosity, amounting to anxiety,
with which the short man surveyed the wintry scene around. All was
silent and empty. If the horseman had designed to see and speak with
any member of the hunting-party, he had come too late. He recognized
the fact very soon, and very discontentedly. Without being so great a
genius, as he believed and represented himself, Mr. Andrew Larkspur was
really a very clever and a very successful detective, and he had seldom
been foiled in a better-laid plan than that which had induced him to
follow Lionel Dale to the meet on this occasion. But he had not
calculated on precisely the exact kind of accident which had befallen
him, and when he found himself thrown violently from his pony, in the
middle of a road at once hard, sloppy, and newly-repaired with very
sharp stones, he was both hurt and angry. It did not take him a great
deal of time to get the pony on its legs, and shake himself to rights
again; but the delay, brief as it was, was fatal to his hopes of seeing
Lionel Dale. The meet had taken place, the hunt was in full progress,
far away, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur had nothing for it but to sit
forlornly for awhile upon the muddy pony, indulging in meditations of
no pleasant character, and then ride disconsolately back to Frimley.
In the meantime, Nemesis, who had perversely pleased herself by
thwarting the designs of Mr. Larkspur, had hurried those of Victor
Carrington towards fulfilment with incredible speed. He had ridden at a
speed, and for some time in a direction which would, he calculated,
bring him within sight of the hunt, and had just crossed a bridge which
traversed a narrow but deep and rapid river, about three miles distant
from the place where he Andrew Larkspur had taken sad counsel with
himself, when he heard the sound of a horse's approach, at a
thundering, apparently wholly ungoverned pace. A wild gleam of
triumphant expectation, of deadly murderous hope, lit up his pale
features, as he turned his horse, rendered restive by the noise of the
distant galloping, into a field, close by the road, dismounted, and
tied him firmly to a tree. The hedge, though bare of leaves, was thick
and high, and in the angle which it formed with the tree, the animal
was completely hidden.
In a moment after Victor Carrington had done this, and while he
crouched down and looked through the hedge, Lionel Dale appeared in
sight, borne madly along by his unmanageable horse, as he dashed
heedlessly down the road, his rider holding the bridle indeed, but
breathless, powerless, his head uncovered, and one of his
stirrup-leathers broken. Victor Carrington's heart throbbed violently,
and a film came over his eyes. Only for a moment, however; in the next
his sight cleared, and he saw the furious animal, frightened by a
sudden plunge made by the horse tied to the tree, swerve suddenly from
the road, and dash at the swollen, tumbling river. The horse plunged in
a little below the bridge. The rider was thrown out of the saddle head
foremost. His head struck with a dull thud against the rugged trunk of
an ash which hung over the water, and he sank below the brown, turbid
stream. Then Victor Carrington emerged from his hiding-place, and
rushed to the brink of the water. No sign of the rector was to be seen;
and midway across, the horse, snorting and terrified, was struggling
towards the opposite bank. In a moment Carrington, drawing something
from his breast as he went, had run across the bridge, and reached the
spot where the animal was now attempting to scramble up the steep bank.
As Carrington came up, he had got his fore-feet within a couple of feet
of the top, and was just making good his footing below; but the
surgeon, standing close upon the brink, a little to the right of the
struggling brute, stooped down and shot him through the forehead. The
huge carcase fell crashing heavily down, and was sucked under, and
whirled away by the stream. Victor Carrington placed the pistol once
more in his breast, and for some time stood quite motionless gazing oh
the river. Then he turned away, saying,--
"They'll hardly look for him below the bridge--I should say the fox ran
west;" and he letting loose the horse he had ridden, walked along the
road until he reached the turn at which Lionel Dale had come in sight.
There he found the unfortunate rector's hat, as he had hoped he might
find it, and having carried it back, he placed it on the brink of the
river, and then once more mounted him, and rode, not at any remarkable
speed, in the opposite direction to that in which Hallgrove lay.
His reflections were of a satisfactory kind. He had succeeded, and he
cared for nothing but success. When he thought of Sir Reginald
Eversleigh, a contemptuous smile crossed his pale lips. "To work for
such a creature as that," he said to himself, "would indeed be
degrading; but he is only an accident in the case--I work for myself."
Victor Carrington had discharged his score at the inn that morning, and
sent his valise to London by coach. When the night fell, he took the
saddle off his horse, steeped it in the river, replaced it, quietly
turned the animal loose, and abandoning him to his fate, made his way
to a solitary public-house some miles from Hallgrove, where he had
given a conditional, uncertain sort of _rendezvous_ to Sir Reginald
Eversleigh.
* * * * *
The night had closed in upon the returning huntsmen as they rode
homewards. Not a star glimmered in the profound darkness of the sky.
The moon had not yet risen, and all was chill and dreary in the early
winter night.
Miss Graham, her brother Gordon, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh rode
abreast as they approached the manor-house. Lydia had been struck by
the silence of Sir Reginald, but she attributed that silence to
fatigue. Her brother, too, was silent; nor did Lydia herself care to
talk. She was thinking of her triumphs of the previous evening, and of
that morning. She was thinking of the tender pressure with which the
rector had clasped her hand as he bade her good-night; the soft
expression of his eyes as they dwelt on her face, with a long, earnest
gaze. She was thinking of his tender care of her when she mounted her
horse, the gentle touch of his hand as he placed the reins in hers.
Could she doubt that she was beloved?
She did not doubt. A thrill of delight ran through her veins as she
thought of the sweet certainty; but it was not the pure delight of a
simple-hearted girl who loves and finds herself beloved. It was the
triumph of a hard and worldly woman, who has devoted the bright years
of her girlhood to ambitious dreams; and who, at last, has reason to
believe that they are about to be realized.
"Five thousand a year," she thought; "it is little, after all, compared
to the fortune that would have been mine had I been lucky enough to
captivate Sir Oswald Eversleigh. It is little compared to the wealth
enjoyed by that low-born and nameless creature, Sir Oswald's widow. But
it is much for one who has drained poverty's bitter cup to the very
dregs as I have. Yes, to the dregs; for though I have never known the
want of life's common necessaries, I have known humiliations which are
at least as hard to bear."
The many windows of the manor-house were all a-blaze with light as the
hunting-party entered the gates. Fires burned brightly in all the
rooms, and the interior of that comfortable house formed a very
pleasant contrast to the cheerless darkness of the night, the muddy
roads, and damp atmosphere.
The butler stood in the hall ready to welcome the returning guests with
stately ceremony; while the under-servants bustled about, attending to
the wants of the mud-bespattered huntsmen.
"Mr. Dale is at home, I suppose?" Douglas said, as he warmed his hands
before the great wood fire.
"At home, sir!" replied the butler; "hasn't he come home with you, sir?"
"No; we never saw him after the meet. I imagine he must have been
called away on parish business."
"I don't know, sir," answered the butler; "my master has certainly not
been home since the morning."
A feeling of vague alarm took possession of almost everyone present.
"It is very strange," exclaimed Squire Mordaunt. "Did no one come here
to inquire after your master this morning?"
"No one, sir," replied the butler.
"Send to the stables to see if my brother's horse has been brought
home," cried Douglas, with alarm very evident in his face and manner.
"Or, stay, I will go myself."
He ran out of the hall, and in a few moments returned.
"The horse has not been brought back," he cried; "there must be
something wrong."
"Stop," cried the squire; "pray, my dear Mr. Douglas Dale, do not let
us give way to unnecessary alarm. There may be no cause whatever for
fear or agitation. If Mr. Dale was summoned away from the hunt to
attend the bed of a dying parishioner, he would be the last man to
think of sending his horse home, or to count the hours which he devoted
to his duty."
"But he would surely send a messenger here to prevent the alarm which
his absence would be likely to cause amongst us all," replied Douglas;
"do not let us deceive ourselves, Mr. Mordaunt. There is something
wrong--an accident of some kind has happened to my brother. Andrews,
order fresh horses to be saddled immediately. If you will ride one way,
squire, I will take another road, first stopping in the village to make
all possible inquires there. Reginald, you will help us, will you not?"
"With all my heart," answered Reginald, with energy, but in a voice
which was thick and husky.
Douglas Dale looked at his cousin, startled, even in the midst of his
excitement, by the strange tone of Reginald's voice.
"Great heavens! how ghastly pale you look, Reginald!" he cried; "you
apprehend some great misfortune--some dreadful accident?"
"I scarcely know," gasped the baronet; "but I own that I feel
considerable alarm--the--the river--the current was so strong after the
thaw--the stream so swollen by melted snow. If--if Lionel's horse
should have tried to swim the river--and failed--"
"And we are lingering here!" cried Douglas, passionately; "lingering
here and talking, instead of acting! Are those horses ready there?" he
shouted, rushing out to the portico.
His voice was heard in the darkness without, urging on the grooms as
they led out fresh horses from the quadrangle.
"Gordon!" cried Lydia Graham, "you will go out with the others. You
will do your uttermost in the search for Mr. Lionel Dale!"
She said this in a loud, ringing voice, with the imperious tone of a
woman accustomed to command. She was leaning against one angle of the
great chimney-piece, pale as ashes, breathless, but not fainting. To
her, the idea that any calamity had befallen Lionel Dale was very
dreadful--almost as dreadful as it could be to the brother who so truly
loved him; for her own interest was involved in this man's life, and
with her that was ever paramount.
She was well-nigh fainting; but she was too much a woman of the world
not to know that if she had given way to her emotion at that moment,
she would have given rise to disgust and annoyance, rather than
interest, in the minds of the gentlemen present. She knew this, and she
wished to please every one; for in pleasing the many lies the secret of
a woman's success with the few.
Even in that moment of confusion and excitement, the scheming woman
determined to stand well in the eyes of Douglas Dale.
As he appeared on the threshold of the great hall-door, she went up to
him very quietly, with her head uncovered, and her pale, clearly-cut
face revealed by the light of the lamp above her. She laid her hand
gently on the young man's arm.
"Mr. Dale." she said, "command my brother Gordon; he will be proud to
obey you. I will go out myself to aid in the search, if you will let me
do so."
Douglas Dale clasped her hand in both his with grateful emotion.
"You are a noble girl," he cried; "but you cannot help me in this. Your
brother Gordon may, perhaps, and I will call upon his friendship
without reserve. And now leave us, Miss Graham; this is no fitting
scene for a lady. Come, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, "the horses are
ready. I go by the village, and thence to the river; you will each take
different roads, and will all meet me on the river-bank, at the spot
where we crossed to-day."
In less than five minutes all had mounted, and the trampling of hoofs
announced their departure. Reginald was amongst them, hardly conscious
of the scene or his companions.
Sight, hearing, perception of himself, and of the world around him, all
seemed annihilated. He rode on through dense black shadows, dark clouds
which hemmed him in on every side, as if a gigantic pall had fallen
from heaven to cover him.
How he became separated from his companions he never knew; but when his
senses awoke from that dreadful stupor, he found himself alone, on a
common, and in the far distance he saw the glimmer of lights--very
feeble and wan beneath the starless sky.
It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was going
straight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, and
was, no doubt, familiar with the country.
Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surrounding
circumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse.
What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise to
meet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything,
except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that its
fatal issue was about to burst like a thunder-clap upon him.
"Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he has
failed once, but will not fail always," he said to himself.
The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on the
baronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated with
shuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival at
Hallgrove.
The lights grew more distinct--feeble lamps in a village street,
glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. The
horse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Five
minutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginning
of a little country town.
Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door was
open, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang out
merrily on the night air.
"Great heaven!" exclaimed Reginald, "how happy these peasants
are--these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!"
He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with the
humblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it was
only now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape.
He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world better
than he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul.
He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. A
man came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted.
"What is the name of this place?" he asked.
"Frimley, sir--Frimley Common it's called by rights. But folks call it
Frimley for short."
"How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?"
"A good six miles, sir."
"Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quart
of oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour."
"Sharp work, sir," answered the ostler. "Your horse seems to have done
plenty already."
"That is my business," said Sir Reginald, haughtily.
He went into the inn.
"Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?" he asked at the bar.
He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had been
falling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat.
"Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?" asked the landlord.
"Yes."
"Good sport, sir?"
"No," answered Sir Reginald, curtly.
"Show the way to the parlour, Jane," said the landlord to a
chambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the
tap-room with a tray of earthenware mugs. "There's one gentleman there,
sir; but perhaps you won't object to that, Christmas being such a
particularly busy time," added the landlord, addressing Reginald.
"You'll find a good fire."
"Send me some brandy," returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to make
any further reply to the landlord's apologetic speech.
He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of a
passage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light and
comfortable room.
Before a large, old-fashioned fire-place sat a man, with his face
hidden by the newspaper which he was reading.
Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. He
walked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung it
on a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himself
into another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at the
fire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away into
some dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs.
He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterly
unconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind the
sheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a small
decanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed her
entrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked.
Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion's
newspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatient
gesture and an exclamation of surprise.
"You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh," said the man,
whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper.
The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spoken
was, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to Reginald
Eversleigh.
"You here!" he exclaimed. "But I ought to have known that."
The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleigh
found himself face to face with Victor Carrington.
"You ought, indeed, considering I told you you should find me, or hear
from me here, at the 'Wheatsheaf,' in case you wished to do so, or I
wished you should do so either. And I presume you have come by
accident, not intentionally. I had no idea of seeing you, especially at
an hour when I should have thought you would have been enjoying the
hospitality of your kinsman, the rector of Hallgrove."
"Victor Carrington!" cried Reginald, "are you the fiend himself in
human shape? Surely no other creature could delight in crime."
"I do not delight in crime, Reginald Eversleigh; and it is only a man
with your narrow intellect who could give utterance to such an
absurdity. Crime is only another name for danger. The criminal stakes
his life. I value my life too highly to hazard it lightly. But if I can
mould accident to my profit, I should be a fool indeed were I to shrink
from doing so. There is one thing I delight in, my dear Reginald, and
that is success! And now tell me why you are here to-night?"
"I cannot tell you that," answered the baronet. "I came hither,
unconscious where I was coming. There seems a strange fatality in this.
I let my horse choose his own road, and he brought me here to this
house--to you, my evil genius."
"Pray, Sir Reginald, be good enough to drop that high tragedy tone,"
said Victor, with supreme coolness. "It is all very well to be
addressed by you as a fiend and an evil genius once in a way; but upon
frequent repetition, that sort of thing becomes tiresome. You have not
told me why you are wandering about the country instead of eating your
dinner in a Christian-like manner at the rectory?"
"Do you not know the reason, Carrington?" asked the baronet, gazing
fixedly at his companion.
"How should I know anything about it?"
"Because to-day's work has been your doing," answered Reginald,
passionately; "because you are mixed up in the dark business of this
day, as you were mixed up in that still darker treachery at Raynham
Castle. I know now why you insisted upon my choosing the horse called
'Niagara' for my cousin Lionel; I know now why you were so interested
in the appearance of that other horse, which had already caused the
death of more than one rider; I know why you are here, and why Lionel
Dale has disappeared in the course of the day."
"He has disappeared!" exclaimed Victor Carrington; "he is not dead?"
"I know nothing but that he has disappeared. We missed him in the midst
of the hunt. We returned to the rectory in the evening, expecting to
find him there."
"Did _you_ expect that, Eversleigh?"
"Others did, at any rate."
"And did you not find him ?"
"No. We left the house, after a brief delay, to seek for him; I among
the others. We were to ride by different roads; to make inquiries of
every kind; to obtain information from every source. My brain was
dazed. I let my horse take his own road."
"Fool! coward!" exclaimed Victor Harrington, with mingled scorn and
anger. "And you have abandoned your work; you have come here to waste
your time, when you should seem most active in the search--most eager
to find the missing man. Reginald Eversleigh, from first to last you
have trifled with me. You are a villain; but you are a hypocrite. You
would have the reward of guilt, and yet wear the guise of innocence,
even before me; as if it were possible to deceive one who has read you
through and through. I am tired of this trifling; I am weary of this
pretended innocence; and to-night I ask you, for the last time, to
choose the path which you mean to tread; and, once chosen, to tread it
with a firm step, prepared to meet danger--to confront destiny. This
very hour, this very moment, I call upon you to make your decision; and
it shall be a final decision. Will you grovel on in poverty--the worst
of all poverty, the gentleman's pittance? or will you make yourself
possessor of the wealth which your uncle Oswald bequeathed to others?
Look me in the face, Reginald, as you are a man, and answer me, Which
is it to be--wealth or poverty?"
"It is too late to answer poverty," replied the baronet, in a gloomy
and sullen tone. "You cannot bring my uncle back to life; you cannot
undo your work."
"I do not pretend to bring the dead to life. I am not talking of the
past--I am talking of the future."
"Suppose I say that I will endure poverty rather than plunge deeper
into the pit you have dug--what then?"
"In that case, I will bid you good speed, and leave you to your poverty
and--a clear conscience," answered Victor, coolly. "I am a poor man
myself; but I like my friends to be rich. If you do not care to grasp
the wealth which might be yours, neither do I care to preserve our
acquaintance. So we have merely to bid each other good night, and part
company."
There was a pause--Reginald Eversleigh sat with his arms folded, his
eyes fixed on the fire. Victor watched him with a sinister smile upon
his face.
"And if I choose to go on," said Reginald, at last; "if I choose to
tread farther on the dark road which I have trodden so long--what then?
Can you ensure me success, Victor Carrington?"
"I can," replied the Frenchman.
"Then I will go on. Yes; I will be your slave, your tool, your willing
coadjutor in crime and treachery; anything to obtain at last the
heritage out of which I have been cheated."
"Enough! You have made your decision. Henceforward let me hear no
repinings, no hypocritical regrets. And now, order your horse, gallop
back as fast as you can to the neighbourhood of Hallgrove, and show
yourself foremost amongst those who seek for Lionel Dale."
"Yes, yes; I will obey you--I will shake off this miserable hesitation.
I will make my nature iron, as you have made yours."
Sir Reginald rang, and ordered his horse to be brought round to the
door of the inn.
"Where and when shall I see you again?" he asked Victor, as he was
putting on the coat which had hung before the fire to be dried.
"In London, when you return there."
"You leave here soon?"
"To-morrow morning. You will write to me by to-morrow night's post to
tell me all that has occurred in the interval."
"I will do so," answered Reginald.
"Good, and now go; you have already been too long out of the way of
those who should have witnessed your affectionate anxiety about your
cousin."
* * * * *