Christmas had gone and there was a vague suggestion of spring in
the air; but it was cold still, and a huge fire burned in the great
drawing-room of Leyton Court. It was after dinner, and the room, though
by no means full, contained a fair number of people representing a
small house party which had been spending the Christmas with the new
earl: for the old earl had died a week after Blair and Violet Graham's
wedding, and Blair reigns in his stead. Not only is he in possession
of the old title and the estates and the large sum of money bequeathed
by the old earl, but he has married one of the wealthiest young women
in England, and consequently the world speaks of Lord Blair with bated
breath, murmuring, "Lucky beggar!" and sometimes adding, "Just in
time, too! Another month and he would have gone under, by George!"
And so they point him out to country cousins as he walks down Pall
Mall, and whisper: "The Earl of Ferrers--the famous Lord Leyton, you
know," and his county neighbors regard him with awe not far short of
adoration, and everybody, great and small, combines to envy him.
Some say that the long course of reckless dissipation has told upon his
constitution and the general break up, which is always and inevitably
the result of burning the candle at both ends, has arrived. And yet
those who are intimate with him have never heard him complain, and it
is notorious that there is no harder rider in the hunt, and that the
earl can out-walk, out-box, and generally out-do any man of his age and
weight, just as he has always done. There is not a stoop, not a sign of
weakness in the stalwart, well-knit figure; the face is as handsome, is
even more distinguished looking than ever; but there is a strange look
upon it, an expression of utter weariness and lassitude, a far-off,
preoccupied air which falls upon it whenever he is silent and alone.
And he is very silent of late, and very fond of being alone. Leyton
Court is a charming place to visit, it is in very truth Liberty Hall,
and so long as a guest does not bore his host or his fellow guests, he
may do just what he pleases. And this freedom which is enjoyed by his
guests, the earl claims for himself. Sometimes days will pass without
his being seen, excepting at the dinner table, or for a few hours
afterward in the drawing-room; but while there he is a model of what a
host should be. Courteous, attentive, gentle mannered, everything but
the smiling and light-hearted Blair who is still remembered in club
land as the one man who never had the "blues!"
If he is attentive to his guests, to his wife he seems devoted. It is
easy to gratify your wife's desires when you happen to be an earl, and
wealthy to boot, but Blair, it would appear, aims at something higher
than this--to anticipate the countess' wishes.
"Your rake makes the best husband!" exclaims a character in one of
the old comedies, and it would really seem as if the saying were
exemplified in Blair. The countess never leaves the room, but he is at
the door to open it for her. In these days of sixteen-button gloves,
that useful animal, man, has discovered a task suited to his energies,
but no man save her husband ever buttons the countess' gloves; it is he
who assists her with her pony carriage, rides beside her in her morning
gallop, turns her music at the piano, and is ever at hand to perform
those hundred and one little offices which render a woman's life so
sweet to her.
For the rest, Austin Ambrose is as close a friend of the countess as of
the earl, much to the surprise and annoyance of their friends, to whom
it is still a mystery what those two young people can see in him.
It is he who assists Blair in the management of his vast estates,
interviewing tenants, engaging servants, etc. And it is he who helps
Lady Ferrers with her visiting lists, and executes all the little
offices which a lady of rank and title is so glad to find some one to
undertake.
This evening the countess is seated in her accustomed chair,
exquisitely dressed--it is said that she takes Mr. Austin Ambrose's
advice on this point also--and playing the part of hostess with
admirable tact and judgment; but every now and then the keen observer
might see that her eyes turned toward the earl, who leaned against the
mantel, his hands folded behind him, his eyes bent on the ground, and
that look on his face which had become habitual to it. Presently the
tall, thin figure of Austin Ambrose came between her and the earl, and
sauntering up, stood beside him.
"Blair," he said, "here are the letters."
There was a late mail, and the special messenger brought the letters
from the office to the Court.
Blair awoke with a little start, and took them and glanced at the
addresses indifferently.
"One from Tyler & Driver, isn't there?" said Austin Ambrose.
Blair nodded.
"Yes," he said, listlessly.
"I expect it is about the late earl's will," said Austin Ambrose.
Blair walked into an anteroom, and dropping into a chair, threw the
letters on to a writing table.
"See what it is they want, will you, Austin?" he said.
Austin took the letter and opened it.
"It's about that five thousand pounds which the earl left to----"
Blair turned and leaned his head on his hand, so that his face was
concealed.
"Well?"
"They say that every effort has been made to discover Miss Hale's
whereabouts, by advertising and inquiries, and that they can find no
trace of her."
"Ah, no!" said Blair, with a deep sigh.
"And they give the usual advice, that the money should be funded. It is
the best plan."
"Yes, unless we tell the truth," said Blair, in a low, sad voice.
"Sometimes I think that I have been unwise, Austin, in keeping the
story of--of my marriage and my darling's death from Lady Ferrers."
Austin Ambrose watched him closely.
"Take my advice, Blair, and while trouble sleeps let it sleep. The
past--that past--is dead and done with. The poor girl is dead, and lost
to human ken! Why provide the public prints with sensational paragraphs?
"No, I could not do it, and yet, I feel that it is due to my poor dead
Margaret. I will think it over. If it should be done, if it is my duty
to do it, I will do it," he added, with mournful firmness. "See what
the other letters are about, will you, if it isn't too much trouble."
"Not a bit; it amuses me to flatter myself I am of some use to you,"
was the prompt reply, as the speaker sat down to the table.
Blair strolled back to the drawing-room. Some one was playing, and the
vast room was filled with the music. For a moment Violet seemed left
alone, and, with the courtesy which never deserted him, Blair walked
across to her and took a chair by hers.
"You look tired, Blair," she said.
"Tired! Do I? I am not in the least," he replied.
"All this bores you, does it not?" she asked, glancing round at the
company.
"Not at all," he replied, with a smile. "Why should it? They do not
interfere with me----"
"No, nothing is permitted to interfere with you," she broke in, with a
sudden bitterness. "So that you are left alone, you are--satisfied. Is
that not so, Blair?"
"What do you wish me to do?" he asked, with grave earnestness. "Believe
me, Violet, you have only to express a wish----"
"And you will gratify it. I know!" she retorted, with a laugh that
seemed hard and cold. "You are the model husband they all declare you,
Blair. No, I haven't a wish, excepting, perhaps--but it isn't worth
mentioning."
"What is it?" He forced a laugh, and put his hand on her arm with a
caress that was gentle enough, if it had no love in it. "Our old selves
have a trick of disappearing, Violet," he said, "and once they are
gone----" he stopped significantly. "And I think most people would
admit that it is a good thing my old self cannot come back!"
"Not I!" she said, in a low, quiet voice. "I would rather have you as
you were. Yes; I know!--with all your wildness. I would rather you were
unkind to me--struck me!--than as you are."
He half rose, then sank back again with a troubled sigh.
"You are wild enough for us both to-night, Violet," he said, trying to
speak lightly. "Have you been reading some of the latest romances, or
is it the professor's music that has affected you?"
She looked at him fixedly, and the color died out from her face,
leaving it waxen pale.
"Yes, that is it," she said; "it is the music. It always did affect
me," and she laughed.
He looked at her anxiously.
"Violet, this place does not suit you," he said. "You are looking pale
and ill. It is my fault; I ought to have taken you abroad. You will go,
will you not?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"Oh, yes, if you like. I am perfectly indifferent. But I am quite well,
all the same."
Some one coming up to them, he rose and surrendered the chair, as a
matter of course, and a moment or two afterward he heard her laugh as
if nothing had passed between them.
He walked about the room for some minutes, absently looking at the
pictures, or exchanging a word with one person and another, then
sauntered into the anteroom to consult Austin Ambrose as to the best
place to take the countess, but that gentleman had left the room; and,
ascertaining from a servant that he had gone into the library, Blair
went there with the same listless step.
As he opened the library door he heard voices and saw that Austin
Ambrose was not alone; a thin, gentlemanly man was seated opposite him,
a stranger to Blair, and he stepped back.
"I beg your pardon; I thought you were alone, Austin," he said.
"Don't go," said Austin Ambrose. "This is the earl, Mr. Snowdon; this
is Mr. Snowdon, the detective, Blair."
The gentlemanly man rose and bowed respectfully, and remained standing
until Blair motioned him to resume his seat.
"Mr. Snowdon has come to report on his inquiries respecting Miss
Margaret Hale," said Austin Ambrose, quickly but fluently, and giving
the man no chance to speak. "He simply confirms Tyler & Driver's
letter. No trace of Miss Hale can be found, unfortunately; that is so,
I think, Mr. Snowdon?"
"Quite so," assented the detective, respectfully.
Blair stood with his hand pressed on the table, his face white and
drawn.
"Thank you!" he said. "Yes, yes."
He stood silently for a moment, and then left the room without another
word.
Austin Ambrose rose and slipped the bolt in the door.
"You were mad to come down here!" he exclaimed in a low and angry voice.
"I am very sorry," said the detective, humbly; "but you told me to let
you know immediately if I got a clew, and I don't like writing; there's
no knowing where a piece of paper will go to."
"Well--well!" said Austin Ambrose. "Now tell me as quickly as you can,"
and he sank into the chair with an affectation of indifference which
the close compression of his hands and the glint of his dark eyes
belied.
The detective took a note-book from his pocket.
"First of all, sir, I've to admit that you were right and I was wrong.
The young lady was not drowned on that rock, and you were right in
supposing that the Days had a hand in getting her away--not that I got
any information from them; I'll do them that credit. Close as wax, both
of 'em. I traced them down to Cardiff, and lodged in their house for a
fortnight; but if I'd stayed twenty years, I don't believe I'd have got
any light on the matter. If it hadn't been for an accident I'm afraid I
should still be in the dark. If it hadn't been for spending the evening
with the second mate of the Rose of Devon, I shouldn't have earned my
money, Mr. Ambrose. I've had some tough business to do for you now and
again, but this was the very toughest I ever had in hand."
Austin Ambrose sat perfectly still, and apparently patient, but his
hands closed and unclosed with a spasmodic movement.
"From this sailor I discovered that the Rose had picked up the Days
and a young lady one night, off the Devon coast, and an extra glass of
brandy induced him to admit that she'd sailed in the Rose to Brest.
At Brest I found that my man was correct. The Rose _did_ have a lady
on board. Two persons saw her land, and noticed her, as French people
will! One of them, the harbor master, could even give me a description
of her. There it is; you'll know best whether there can be any doubt!"
Austin Ambrose did not snatch the paper out of his hand, but let it lie
on the table for a second or two, then he took it up and read it, and,
self-possessed as he was, could not help an exclamation of triumph.
"It is she! She is alive! Well?" he demanded, quietly; "go on!"
"Well, sir," said the detective, "having made certain of the young
lady's being still in the land of the living, I posted straight off for
England. Your instructions were, Mr. Ambrose, that I was to come to you
the moment I found out that she was alive. I could have traced her
from Brest easily enough----"
"I know! I know!" interrupted Austin Ambrose. "You have carried out
my instructions! A French _mouchard_ will do the rest. She landed
there--she did not go aboard again, you say?"
The detective hesitated for a second. As a matter of fact, he was not
certain on the point; but your detective never likes to admit that he
does not know everything, so, after the imperceptible hesitation, he
said, glibly enough:
"No, Mr. Ambrose, she went straight on by land. She's in France, most
likely Paris--for certain. Large cities are generally chosen by people
who want to hide securely; every child knows that."
"Yes, yes," muttered Austin Ambrose, "she is in Paris."
He rose and took out his pocketbook.
"I am much obliged to you, Snowdon. The matter can rest here now.
I wanted to be certain of the young lady's existence, and for the
rest, well, I dare say I can find her if I should require her, which
at present I do not. There is the sum I promised you, and there is a
bonus. You will find it in your interest to deserve my confidence; and
now make yourself scarce as quickly and quietly as possible."
"If you will kindly open that window, sir," said the detective,
quietly, "I need not disturb any of the servants. I can find my way
across the park," and with a respectful farewell he passed out.
Austin Ambrose stood and mused, his sharp brain turning the situation
this way and that. Then he looked up and smiled at his own face
reflected in the mirror over the mantel.
An hour afterward he re-entered the drawing-room, with his usual placid
smile, and all his plans made.
Lying on the couch was the countess. Her fingers were picking
restlessly at the edge of the Indian shawl, a habit she had, and as she
looked up he saw her face was pale and troubled.
He bent over the head of the couch, murmuring softly: "Not in bed yet?
You ladies are as dissipated as we men."
"Yes, this is dreadful dissipation, is it not?" she retorted,
ironically.
"You look tired," he said. "Violet, I don't think this air suits
you----"
She laughed sarcastically.
"Really you are too transparent. Blair has been telling you I want
a change and you can't summon up courage to tell me so openly! What
cowards men are!"
"Blair has not been speaking to me," he said. "But, all the same, I
think you should go away, both of you. He looks bored, don't you think;
rather off tone----"
"No, I don't think--I am sure," she retorted.
"Leyton never is very good in the winter, I believe," he said, hastily.
"What do you say to--Naples for instance?"
"What do _you_ say?" she responded, her keen eyes seeking his fixed
steadily upon some point above her head. "That is the question, because
whatever place you say, will doubtless be the one selected. I wonder
why you take such an interest in us both?" and her eyes grew hard as
steel. "You can say that I am pining for it, that it is the one desire
of my heart, that I shall die if I'm not taken there at once----"
"Don't jest on such a grewsome topic," he said. "Joking apart, I will
venture to prophesy that you will be happier at Naples than you have
ever been in your life. It is so warm there."
"Even that will not be wonderful," she retorted; then suddenly her
voice changed, and she looked up at him almost fiercely. "Do you think
it will be warm enough to thaw Blair's heart? Austin, will he _never_
forget that girl? Oh, Heaven! how I hate her."
"Hush!" he said, in a low voice: "you forget--the dead!"
"No," she retorted, the two bright spots burning fiercely on her
cheeks, her eyes glittering like dagger-points; "I hate her more now
she is dead, for if she had lived he would have tired of her, but now
she comes between us like a ghost; and you cannot get rid of that for
me, even you, clever as you are, Austin!"