MR. CAPT LEAVES SERVICE.
Mr. Capt bided his time. The quiet respectful foreign servant showed by
no word or gesture that he held the key to the mystery of Lucius
Haggard's birth. His duties were almost a sinecure, and though now he
drew his pay from Lucius Haggard, and was, of course, young Mr.
Haggard's own man, yet he gave almost as much attention to the comforts
of the younger brother. Every afternoon Mr. Capt was in the habit of
taking a long walk in the great park. I don't think it was simply for
love of exercise, or to admire the scenery, that he was so regular in
his pilgrimages to a particular sylvan glade on the border of the river
Sweir, which formed the extreme boundary of Lord Pit Town's home park.
The real fact was, that Capt was in the habit of making a daily
inspection of the place where he had deposited his treasure. At first he
was accustomed to walk down to the river and examine the little tuft of
moss which he had so carefully planted over the hiding-place furnished
him by nature in the beech tree. But he had noticed that he had worn
quite a little path just beneath his tiny treasure-house; such
carelessness he remembered might betray him; so though he passed the
tree every day, he was careful to avoid his first mistake; and as day by
day the little tuft of moss grew greener, for it had now evidently taken
root, Capt gradually inspected the tree just as carefully but from a
greater distance. From many a point of vantage he could observe the
little green patch, and at length, by a refinement of ingenuity, he was
enabled to keep away from the tree altogether. His eternal cigar in his
mouth, he was accustomed to walk about well within sight of the beech
tree. The spot was secluded enough when he had first adopted the
hiding-place, but as the autumn wore on and the leaves fell, Mr. Capt
thanked his stars at his own ingenuity. Having assured himself that no
one was in sight, Mr. Capt would take a small opera glass from his
pocket, then he would commence by its aid to admire the view, he would
gaze round at all points of the compass; last of all, his glance would
inevitably fall upon the beech tree, the glass would be fixed steadily
upon the little tuft of moss, and then seeing that it was undisturbed it
would be replaced in its case, and pocketed with a sigh of satisfaction.
And then Mr. Capt would continue his perambulations in a comfortable
frame of mind.
It was one of those bright, brisk, clear days of early winter, when the
sun has attained sufficient power to make us unbutton our overcoats,
and feel glad if we had left our neck-wraps at home. Mr. Capt had just
breasted the rising ground which formed the boundary of the dell in the
direction of the Castle. He stopped, and placed his hand in his pocket,
to draw from it the glass, and to then commence his usual artistic
studies of the thousand and one autumn effects of the daily changing
landscape. But before he could get the glass to his eye, he perceived a
figure standing at the edge of the little swirling river. There was
plenty of water in the Sweir just now, as it swept through the rich soft
mould here, where it formed the boundary of the home park. Robinson
Crusoe's gesture of disgust and fear, when he saw the first savage upon
his island home, was very similar to that made by Mr. Capt when he
discerned the tall figure of Blogg, the head keeper, leaning upon his
gun. Robinson Crusoe was a pious Englishman, as we know, but Capt being
an irreligious foreigner, gave vent to his feelings in a continental
oath. The keeper's back was towards Capt, and his eyes were fixed upon
the fast-hurrying waters of the swollen stream; the valet, though he was
a good six hundred yards off, retraced his steps upon tip-toe in his
great anxiety not to attract the keeper's attention. When he was well
out of sight, having put the rising ground once more between himself and
Blogg, he lighted a cigar, and recommenced his walk, making a long
circuit, but as if drawn by some irresistible magnetism, his feet once
more, ere the cigar was finished, brought him to the banks of the Sweir
and the entrance to the dell. This time Mr. Capt was not so fortunate,
for the keeper's eyes met his the instant he made his appearance. The
fact is that Blogg had been standing chewing the cud of his reflections,
or possibly thinking about nothing at all, during the five and twenty
minutes' circuit that Capt had made. There is a considerable difference
in position between a head keeper and his master's valet. Blogg
recognized the fact, for though he didn't touch his hat to Capt, he
didn't presume to shake hands with him, and he addressed him with marked
deference.
"Mornin', sir," he said.
"Good morning, Mr. Blogg," replied the valet affably; "on duty, I
suppose."
"Lor' bless you, a keeper's always on duty; leastways a head keeper is."
The two men walked along amicably side by side.
"I daresay it seems to you," continued Blogg, "more like loafing than
duty, for me to go mouching round the best part of the day, aye, and at
times the best part of the night, too, with this here gun. Not that
we're troubled much with poachers here about, they're mostly amytoors
here, but they're as full o' tricks as a bag full o' monkeys. I'm mostly
a match for 'em you know, for I was a regular myself once, as you can
remember. Ah, many's the dark night as I went out a-wirin' in King's
Warren parish. I don't know as there weren't more enjyment in those
days. We were both younger then, Muster Capt," said the keeper with a
sigh.
"Ah, but think of your position now," said Capt, who wished to put the
man in a good humour, that he might all the sooner shake him off.
"Position ain't everything. A head keeper's life is as anxious a time as
a frog's in a frying-pan, a hot frying-pan, ye mind me; it's not all
tips and perquisites; it's information here and information there, it's
night lines in the river and the lake, its wirin' and steel trappin',
when it ain't ferrettin' and fish-pison, and what with the boys as cums
after the antlers and the nestes, and the children as cums after the
blackberries, and the radicals as keeps a dog, a man's hands is very
full indeed."
"You must have an anxious time," said the sympathizing Capt.
"Ah, you may well say that," replied the keeper; "why, in my young days
the boys they cum after the nestes, and the men they cum after the game,
as is perhaps natural after all, but now they cums after everything.
They even grubs up the ferns and the primroses with irons made
a-purpose. Why, one of they fern chaps would think nothing of clearing
half an acre in a mornin'. They comes after the butterflies with their
nets, and a botanizing with their tin candle boxes, and trespassin'
comes natural to them. Why, only the other day I caught a feller
bottling mud out of a pond, and a-catchin' newts and such like. 'What's
your business here?' I said. 'I'm collecting quattic animals,' said he.
'And I suppose you've got permission?' 'Don't you be insolent, my man,'
he said; and he shakes his finger at me, for all the world like the
Sunday-school teacher used to shake his finger at me when I was a
little bit of a chap. 'Don't you try to stop the march of science, my
man,' says he. 'I don't care nothin' about the march of science,' says
I; 'but if you don't hand over the pair of antlers as you've got up your
back, I'll wallop you, master. And after I've walloped you, you and
science can march where you please.' But what makes my life a burden to
me," continued the keeper, still airing his grievances, "is vermin."
Capt started.
"What with the weasels, the stoats, and such-like, a man need have his
eyes open."
"Yes," said Capt; "you need all your powers of observation, I suppose."
"You're right there," assented the keeper; "it ain't much as escapes
me."
By this time they had reached the middle of the glen, and were within a
dozen paces of Mr. Capt's secret store-house. Greatly to the valet's
disgust the keeper now produced a lump of tobacco from his pocket, and
commenced with his knife to carefully shred off the quantity necessary
for filling his pipe; he stopped to satisfactorily complete the delicate
operation, then, with great care, he lighted the little black clay
cutty. The keeper got his pipe into full swing, the two men were about
to proceed on their walk, but Blogg suddenly laid his hand on the
valet's arm and pointed at the beech tree.
"It's many a man," he said sententiously, "as would walk by that tree
and see nothing particular about it," and he stared at the tree in
curiosity. "Aren't you well, Muster Capt?" he said suddenly, as the
expression on the valet's face attracted his attention.
The valet's countenance had become of an ashen grey, and drops of
perspiration stood upon his brow as he seized the keeper's arm.
"I am feeling very queer," he said.
"You look as if you'd seen a ghost," said his friendly fellow-servant.
"Take a pull at that," said Blogg, producing a small flask from one of
the capacious pockets of his moleskin coat. "I'll get ye a drop of
water," he continued, removing the little metal cup from the bottom of
the flask.
Half-a-dozen strides brought the keeper to the banks of the Sweir, but
getting the cup full of water was not such a very easy matter. The
keeper flung himself upon the turf at the edge of the rapidly running
stream, but ere he did so he took the precaution to stamp, with one foot
in advance, upon the edge. The reason he did this was obvious, for the
soft bank was undercut by the rush of waters. He filled the little cup,
and returned with it to his companion, incidentally remarking, "The
banks are plaguy dangerous just here. Do ye feel better now?" he said
with solicitude.
"Yes, I'm better now," said the valet.
"You look uncommon bad," returned the sympathetic keeper.
"And I feel so, Blogg," the other replied; "give me your arm, I must
lean on something. I think I'll get home at once."
"Just an instant, Muster Capt," said the keeper; "there's some artful
game or other been a-doin' with that beech; some chap has gone and
plugged the hole of it with a lump of moss; as like as not he's got a
shopful of wires there now. I'll just put my hand in and find out what
they've been up to with it."
"Get me home first, Blogg, if you can," hurriedly interrupted the valet,
clutching his arm. "I feel," said he, with simulated anxiety, "I feel as
if I were going to die."
"I won't keep ye a minute, Capt, but duty's duty," answered Blogg.
"Don't be a fool, man," cried the valet in an authoritative tone; "there
are seven days in the week, and you can search the hole, if there is a
hole, to-morrow as well as to-day."
But Blogg was an obstinate man. "You're woundy masterful, Capt, for a
man who thinks he's a-dying," said the keeper with an honest laugh.
"I'll see what's in the hole; and then, if you ask me, why, I'll carry
you to the Castle pick-a-pack, if you like." And then Blogg marched up
to the beech tree and picked the moss away from the hole. He removed the
stone, and turning to the valet, with a triumphant guffaw he cried, "I
told 'ee so, Muster Capt. I said as how there was a game going on," and
then he plucked the little packet from its hiding-place.
Maurice Capt was a determined man. Should he allow the cherished plan of
twenty years to be ruined by the curiosity of a clod? The packet was in
the keeper's hands. Like Alnaschar's dream of wealth, all the valet's
plans and schemings, all his fondest hopes of affluence, would be kicked
down in an instant. He well knew the dogged honesty of the man; the
packet, now within the keeper's grasp, was as good as in Lord Pit Town's
hands. All this passed through his mind in the twinkling of an eye, and
as the keeper flung himself once more upon the ground, the Swiss valet
advanced over the soft turf towards his prostrate form with noiseless
cat-like step. Maurice Capt had made up his mind. He flung himself upon
the keeper's throat with the ferocity of a tiger, and proceeded to
attempt to throttle his adversary from behind. But the keeper was a
powerful man. Although Capt's long fingers were tightly fixed upon his
windpipe, and the astonished man was taken at a great disadvantage, yet
the keeper did his best to rid himself of the remorseless adversary who
was savagely attempting to strangle the life out of him. He couldn't
call for help, and he didn't attempt it; but he struggled bravely, he
drove his heavy boots into the soft turf, and succeeded once even in
rising to his knees, only to be forced back again upon his face by the
furious efforts of the Swiss. Blogg's eyes were nearly starting from his
head, and his mouth literally foamed, from the cruel tightening grip
upon his throat. But the force of his muscular fingers, which wrenched
in vain at the iron wrists of the valet, began to relax. Even a strong
man cannot fight long when deprived of air. As the light of triumph came
into the valet's eyes, for he felt that slowly but surely he was choking
the very life out of his victim, the vengeance of heaven suddenly
overtook the aggressor. The overhanging bank of soft earth all at once
gave way; assailant and assailed, and the very earth they struggled on,
fell with a dull splash into the rushing stream.
Yet another few seconds, and the long lithe fingers of the Swiss would
have completed their deadly work. As he felt himself falling, he
relaxed his grasp of the keeper's throat, in the natural instinct of
self-preservation. Before his mouth reached the water, the hapless Blogg
got one great draught of air into his capacious chest, but Capt had too
nearly effected his work, and the keeper was practically almost
insensible. The only effect of this last breath of life, that chance,
and not the mercy of his adversary, had given him, was to make his
muscular fingers clutch the struggling wrists of his murderer with a
more vice-like grasp. The assailant and assailed had now changed places
as they sank beneath the black waters. The valet's sole efforts now were
directed to escape from the tenacious grip of the still struggling man.
As well might a cur attempt to shake off an infuriated bull-dog who had
once fixed his remorseless fangs in his throat. They sank beneath the
waters, and, still violently struggling, reappeared again and again as
they were spun round and round by the rushing stream. But not for long.
The little packet escaped from Blogg's fingers and floated rapidly away
down the stream. The would-be murderer sunk to the muddy bottom dead,
and honest Blogg struck out and scrambled up the bank of the rushing
Sweir.
"Blame me," he cried, as he shook himself like a great water dog, "blame
me if I don't think Muster Capt went clean mad; why, he nigh on
strangled me," and then he stared at the hurrying, rushing waters. "Poor
chap, he have gone to his account. I wonder what was in that little
bundle though!"
* * * * *
The dark waters of the Sweir have closed for ever over the crafty wretch
who had so lately held the destinies of a noble family within his grasp.
Poor Lucy's secret has disappeared for ever beneath the raging waters of
the little river. The oath that Lucy Warrender extracted from her
cousin at the Villa Lambert more than twenty years ago will have been
kept but too well, and the secret will probably remain for ever
undiscovered. And will young George Haggard be any the worse, seeing
that he is robbed of his birthright? We know that Lord Pit Town's will
has practically made him a very wealthy man. The mills of heaven's
justice grind slowly perhaps at times, but they go on turning and
grinding for ever. Lucius Haggard, who in his black and bitter heart
knows that he is but an undetected impostor, may never marry, may even
predecease the half-brother who was born in lawful wedlock. She, the
silent invalid, may yet perhaps speak, or the hollow beech tree may
perchance give up its secret.
* * * * *
Many things can happen in a couple of years. To-day the old lord and the
German doctor still chat and doze in the great picture galleries; and
George's mother, beautiful still in life's sad evening, yet wonders
whether she shall ever meet again in another world the dead husband who
betrayed her, but whom she has forgiven long ago. As she lies on her
sofa in the pretty room heavy with the scent of flowers, which has been
hers for many a long year, her eye brightens, and the soft colour comes
back momentarily to the pale cheek, as she hears the manly step of her
dear son George; her own son, her very own son, her best beloved.
He is dressed in deepest mourning; and he wears it for Lucius Haggard,
the man who would have robbed him of his birthright.
"Mother! dear mother!" he says, as he gently takes her hand.
There is no more to tell. And now the prompter claps his hand upon his
little bell, and down comes the green curtain upon the drama of human
love, of human passion, selfishness and greed, upon the end of the
family mystery with which it has been the author's privilege to try and
interest the reader.
THE END.
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;
AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Although most printer's errors have been retained, some changes have
been made silently in spelling, punctuation, capitalization, and
accents. Variations have been made consistent.