A TRYING INTERVIEW.
So Bertie had declared love, and won an acknowledgment from Ethel that
his love was returned.
"Ethel," he said, and the name sounded wonderfully sweet as he dwelt
upon it with loving tenderness, "Ethel, I must go to the earl and ask
for my pearl of price. Shall I go to-morrow?"
Ethel turned pale and sighed.
"To-morrow?" she said. "Yes, must it be so soon?"
"Yes," he said, quietly and gravely, "the world will say that I should
have asked him first; but we cannot always control our hearts, they
will have their way sometimes, and mine has been under bolt and bar so
long--so long."
"So long?" she murmured, blushing and turning away from him.
"Almost from the day when I first saw you--do you remember the time?
Poor Leicester was alive then, and I poured all my hopes and fears into
his ears. Ethel, I thought it hard that I should be debarred from hope;
you were an earl's daughter--as you are now--and I was penniless,
struggling, unknown."
"But it is all altered now," breathed Ethel, pressing his hand. "You
are famous, and--and not poor."
Ethel rose, intoxicated with her new born happiness, to meet Lady
Lackland, who was seen approaching.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax," said the countess, eying him suspiciously with a
cold smile. "How good of you to take care of Lady Boisdale. I suppose
you have been cooling yourselves. Ethel, my dear, the carriage is
waiting; I don't know where your papa is."
There was a crush in the street, and while Bertie, bareheaded, was
placing the ladies in the carriage the earl and Lord Fitz came up.
Mr. Murpoint was with them, serene and self-composed as usual, though
the crush and confusion were bewildering.
"Here you are!" said the earl. "We were just going to look for you.
Fitz has been seeing the Mildmays to their brougham."
Howard Murpoint closed the door as the two gentlemen entered the
carriage and stood with his dark eyes, half closed, fixed upon Ethel.
Then the carriage was on the move, and Bertie and Howard Murpoint stood
looking after it.
Howard Murpoint regarded Bertie with a smile.
"You do not fear influenza," he said, nodding at the other's bare head.
"Eh? Oh, no," said Bertie. "I'll get my hat now, though."
And with a cool nod he strode into the hall again.
Howard Murpoint turned to make his way to his own brougham, and in
doing so nearly knocked down a gentleman who was standing near him.
"Ha, Smythe," he exclaimed, "you here?"
"Eh? Yes," said the man, a short, nervous-looking creature, with fair,
insipid face and timid, restless eyes. "Yes; just passing on my way to
the club and--and stopped to look in."
"Club!" said Howard Murpoint. "Better come home and coffee with me."
And he linked his arm within that of his acquaintance.
Wilhelm Smythe, for that was the name, or rather improved name--it
had been William Smith--of the stranger, was the son of a retired tea
merchant.
His father had left him an enormous amount of property and a very small
amount of brains.
The captain--or rather Howard Murpoint, as he preferred to be called,
had met him at a club some few months previously and had found out all
about him.
He had won the good opinion of the half-cunning simpleton, who thought
Howard Murpoint the nicest and most disinterested of friends.
All the way home Howard Murpoint gave a glowing description of the
ball, to which, of course, Wilhelm Smythe had received no invitation,
and the poor fellow was in agonies of envy.
"Delightful!" he exclaimed. "And she was there, for I saw her."
"Whom?" asked the captain.
"Can you ask me?" sighed Mr. Smythe, "when you know that I am madly in
love with her."
The captain smiled.
"'Pon my word, I've heard nothing," he said, encouragingly.
"Why, all the fellows have been chaffing me," said the simpleton.
"And who is the lady?" asked the captain.
They were ascending the stairs to the smoking-room as the question was
asked, and Mr. Smythe flung himself into the most comfortable lounge of
the great man's luxurious sanctum ere he answered.
"Don't you know? Can't you guess?"
"Not an idea," said the captain, handing him the cigars. "Come, who is
she?"
The little fellow sighed, and replied, with due solemnity:
"Lady Boisdale!"
The captain's eyes flashed. He had wanted a tool! Here was one, ready
made to his hand.
"Come," said the captain, pushing the bottle, and eying his dupe
keenly, "if you have set your heart upon marrying Lady Ethel Boisdale I
think I can help you."
"You can!" exclaimed the young fellow.
"I can, and I will," said the captain, quietly, "on one condition--that
you will never mention that you are indebted to me for your success."
"I promise that," said Mr. Smythe, eagerly; "and you really will----"
"Do my best to recommend you to the earl and his peerless daughter,
and, what is more, I will venture to bet you something, that I succeed."
"Eh?" said Mr. Smythe, scarcely catching the idea.
Then suddenly he saw what Mr. Howard Murpoint meant.
"I see!" he said. "I'll bet you--you a--a--five thousand."
The captain raised his eyebrows.
"I never bet," he said, "unless the stake is worth something. If I am
to enter it in my book it must be twenty thousand."
Mr. Smythe hesitated--only for a moment.
"Twenty thousand be it," he said. "If I marry Lady Ethel I pay you
twenty thousand, and if I don't----"
"I pay you," said Mr. Murpoint, softly. "It's a wager."
And he held out his long, clawlike, white hand.
Mr. Smythe rose, clasped it eagerly, and, after a fervent and excited
"Good-night," took his departure.
It was morning, bright, beaming morning, by that time, and Mr. Murpoint
had too many great matters on hand to allow of his retiring to rest.
Instead he stepped into a cold bath which was ready for him in an
adjoining room, and, dressing himself in his business suit of dark
Oxford mixture with an imposing white waistcoat, made his way to his
office in Pall Mall.
Seating himself in his chair in his own private room he touched a small
bell.
In answer to the summons there entered a tall, thin and
cadaverous-looking man with a small dispatch case.
"Good-morning, Ridgett," said Mr. Murpoint.
The man bowed, and took from his portfolio a number of papers.
The captain went over them with a quick scrutiny and issued his
instructions.
"You will proceed in this case, Mr. Ridgett," he said, throwing one
letter over.
"Yes, sir. The woman is a widow, and very poor, and suffers from an
incurable complaint."
"The office has nothing to do with that," said Mr. Murpoint. "We did
not kill the husband, and we did not undertake to cure her complaint.
She came into our hands of her own accord, and we simply demand the
fees due us. You will proceed without delay. Have you bought up the L
debts yet?"
"Not all, sir," was the reply. "You instructed me to wait further
commands."
"Wait no longer," said Mr. Murpoint, "but get as many of the Lackland
bills together as you can. You understand?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Ridgett.
And, dismissed by a nod, he took his departure.
Scarcely had he gone when the small and weather-beaten face of the
smuggler entered the room.
Job, who had often paid visits to the captain at various places, but
never at the office, was awed for a moment by the grand furniture and
piles of papers and documents.
"Mornin', captain----"
"Have you brought the account?" said Mr. Murpoint.
Job nodded, and produced a greasy bag, which he placed on the polished
table.
The captain turned out the contents of the bag, and commenced counting
the heap of gold and silver.
Then he examined an account which was made out on a dirty piece of
paper Job had handed to him, looking up at last with a dark frown.
"How is this?" he said, in a low, stern voice. "There is some mistake.
Here is only a third of the profits--there should be a half."
"There bean't no mistake, capt--sir," said Job, with an emphatic nod.
"They've sent all they means to send, and a hard job I had to get that.
The boys say that they don't see the justice like of one man--gentleman
or no gentleman--taking half the swag when they've worked for the whole
of it."
"Oh, they don't?" said Mr. Murpoint, with a soft smile. "Tell them that
unless I have the remainder of the money by this time next week, and a
fair half for the future, paid to the very day, I will peach upon the
lot of them. Not a man shall escape me. The police shall know how the
great smuggling trade is done and who does it. You tell them, will you,
with my compliments?"
"I'll tell them," said Job, quietly.
"Any news from sea?"
"About Maester Leicester?" asked Job, looking at the ground with a
sudden change of manner.
"Hush, no names," said Mr. Murpoint, cautiously.
"No, no news," replied Job. "He's dead by this time, p'r'aps."
"All the better," said Mr. Murpoint. "Dead or alive, he's safe."
"Ay," said Job, and, touching his forehead, he departed.
The captain leaned back in his chair and gave himself up to thought.
"Leicester Dodson is dead, or buried alive. Violet's money is in
my hands; the earl and all his clan are in my power; I am master
of thousands, some say millions; and the world calls me one of its
greatest men. Who says that honesty is the best policy?"
And as he concluded with the momentous question, he laughed with the
keenest enjoyment and insolence.
* * * * *
Bertie was very happy that night as he sat in his solitary chambers and
smoked his favorite pipe.
All the weary, hopeless months gone by since first he had seen and
loved sweet Ethel Boisdale seemed to have vanished like dark spirits
before the joy of that night.
He had told her that he loved, and had won the sweet confession from
her lips that she loved him in return.
How bright seemed the world to him--how full of hope and enjoyment!
His dull, book-lined rooms assumed a new aspect under his happy eyes
and all at once appeared comfortable quarters, full of pleasant peace
and quiet.
But in the morning, after a night of happy, glorious dreams, came the
stern reality.
He dressed himself with unusual care, and surveyed himself in the glass.
Would the earl, proud Lord Lackland, accept him as a son-in-law?
He dared not answer his own query, but whiled away the early hours
by pacing to and fro, doing a little work, smoking at intervals and
thinking always.
As the clock struck eleven he took up his hat and started on his
momentous business.
While he was on his way to the Lackland mansion in Grosvenor Square the
earl himself was seated in the breakfast-room munching his toast and
sipping his coffee.
Lady Lackland was seated at the table.
Fitz and Ethel were out in the park at their morning gallop.
"Extraordinary thing," said Lady Lackland, in answer to a remark of
the earl's, "I cannot understand it. The man has done so much, made so
much money and obtained such wonderful power that he makes one afraid.
I always said he was clever. I could see it the first moment I saw him.
Do you remember the conversation I had with him the day of the thunder
storm? It seemed almost as if he knew the codicil would be found. And
he has actually consented to Fitz's engagement with Violet Mildmay.
More, he has promised in an indefinite, cautious sort of way to advance
the match. A wonderful man. I hope he will succeed; we want money, we
must have it."
"We must," said the earl. "It is a singular thing that we have not been
ruined long before this. I feared that the bills would have been called
in long ago, but I seem to have heard very little of them lately."
"Perhaps your creditors think that Fitz will marry well and are waiting
till you should get some money."
"Perhaps so," said the earl, coolly. "I wish Ethel were as well
disposed of."
Lady Lackland sighed.
"Ethel is my great trouble," she said. "She is beautiful enough to make
a really great match, but there is no doing anything with her; she is
as cold as ice to all of them, and I am powerless."
"Hem!" said the earl, and he shifted in his chair to get more
comfortable. "There is one little difficulty about Ethel which you seem
to forget; perhaps you do not know it."
"What is that?" asked the countess.
"That her private fortune has long since been swallowed up."
Lady Lackland looked grave.
"And if she marries, her husband will want it--at least, ask for it. If
he should, where is it to come from?"
He put the question quite calmly, and Lady Lackland sighed.
"Nobody was ever so poor as we are----"
"Or spent more money," said the earl, comfortably. "Ethel is a
difficult question; a big marriage would bring questions, questions
would bring awkward answers. I have spent her fortune, and I cannot
replace it."
At that moment, while the countess sat with a look of annoyance and
distress, silent and dismayed, a servant entered with a card.
The earl glanced at it, and handed it to the countess.
"Bertie Fairfax!" she breathed.
"Show Mr. Fairfax into the library," said the earl.
Then, when the servant had withdrawn, he smiled over his cup quite
calmly and unmoved.
"Bertie Fairfax," said the countess, with a frown.
"What is to be done? Of course he comes to ask for Ethel."
"Not having seen him, I cannot say."
"What shall you say if he does?"
"It all depends," said the earl, wiping his mustache. "I may have to
order him to leave the house, or I may----"
"Be careful!" said the countess.
The earl smiled coldly, and left the room.
Bertie rose as the earl entered.
"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfax," he said, fixing his cold, steely eyes on
Bertie's face, and holding out a cold, impassive hand.
"Good-morning, my lord," said Bertie, who had determined to remain
self-possessed and unembarrassed, whatever might be the issue of
the interview, or, however the question might go. "Good-morning. I
am afraid I am rather early, but I have come on a matter in which
impatience is permissible."
"Pray sit down," said the earl, seating himself as he spoke in a hard,
straight-backed chair, and looking as straight as the chair itself.
"Nothing has happened, I hope."
"Nothing of harm, I hope," said Bertie, gravely. "I have come, my lord,
to ask you for the hand of Lady Boisdale."
The earl raised his eyebrows, assuming a surprise which, of course, he
did not feel.
"I had thought it best to declare my purpose and put my request as
plainly and as straightforwardly as I could. I do not undervalue
the prize which I pray for at your hands, my lord, and I am humbly
conscious that I am not worthy to receive it from you. I can only plead
that I love her with all my heart and that I have loved her for years.
But, a few months ago, I should have deemed my request presumptuous
to the extent of madness, but now, although I am not one whit more
worthy of her, I am, perhaps, in the eyes of the world a little less
presumptuous."
The earl listened with an unmoved countenance, as if he were listening
to some passage from a book which in no way concerned him.
"May I ask, Mr. Fairfax," he said, "if you have made Lady Boisdale
acquainted with the state of your feelings?"
Bertie flushed the slightest in the world.
"I regret to say that I have, my lord. No one can regret it more than
I do. I know that I should have come to you first, and have gained
permission to place myself at your daughter's feet. But the depth of
my devotion must plead for me; may I hope that it will? We are all,
the best of us, the slaves of impulse. There are times when the heart
asserts itself and enslaves the will, which, perhaps for years, has
bidden its voice be silent, as mine has done."
The earl bowed.
"May I ask," he said, "in what way Lady Ethel received your advances?"
"I found that, for once, true love had won its best return."
"She consented, do you mean?"
Bertie bowed.
"Then, doubtless, Mr. Fairfax," said the earl, as softly as ever, "you
were kind enough to place her in possession of facts of which I am in
ignorance?"
Bertie did not understand, and looked as if he did not.
"In such matters as this," said the earl, "it is best, as you say, to
speak with candor. I refer to your position in the world, and your
ability to keep Lady Boisdale in the society which, all my friends tell
me, she so greatly adorns."
Bertie bowed.
"My lord, I should have shamed her by any such allusion, and lost all
hope of winning her heart. To you I may say that I am not poor in the
eyes of many, though I may seem poor indeed to one of your lordship's
position and wealth."
The earl winced inwardly, but showed nothing of it outwardly.
"I have an income of two thousand pounds a year, and I trust that I may
be able before long to own with gratitude that it is doubled. It is not
a large sum, my lord."
"I may conclude that the sum you mention is the whole--in fact, that
you are not prepared to make any settlement?"
"All that I have shall be hers," said Bertie. "The richest man in
England can do no more."
"No settlement!" said the earl, coldly. "Under the circumstances, you
would not, therefore, expect a fortune with her?"
Bertie crimsoned.
"Your lordship forgets," he said, with quiet dignity, "that I came to
ask for your daughter and not for your money."
The earl showed no displeasure at the stern retort, but took it simply
as an assent, and nodded.
"Mr. Fairfax, to be candid, as we have been all through, Lady Lackland
and I have had higher hopes for Ethel, much higher. It is true that you
are famous, and that you are well descended; the Fairfaxes run with
ourselves, I think. It is usual--nay, it is the duty of a father to
endeavor to place his daughter in a higher station than the one which
she inherits from him. If I ignore that duty and consent to give up
that hope, I trust I shall be pardoned if I make one suggestion."
"My lord, I am in your hands," said Bertie, with simple dignity and
earnestness.
"And that is that you will give me, both of you, a formal quittal of
any fortune or estate that may be due to her. I simply suggest it as a
fair and honorable thing. You may be aware, or you may not, that Lady
Ethel has some small fortune of her own; under the circumstances I must
make the condition that should I give my consent you will agree to let
the money remain in the estate, vested, so to speak, in the family."
Bertie smiled.
"As I said before, my lord, I ask only for Ethel. What money she may
have is at her own disposal. I don't wish to touch one penny of it,
directly or indirectly."
"My dear Mr. Fairfax, do not let us continue this branch of our
subject, then," said the earl, with a smile that was intended to be
cordial, but was more like a stray sunbeam on an October morning. "I
will confess that I merely put the question to test you, not that I
doubted your honor, but--well, well, you are young, she is young,
and I am obliged to guard both of you. But, there, if you still feel
confident that you can make her happy, and that you can take her for
herself alone, my dear Fairfax, I give her to you, and with her my most
hearty blessing."
Bertie gasped with astonishment.
To him, knowing nothing of Ethel's fortune which the earl had
appropriated, his consent to Ethel's betrothal was simply astonishing.
He had expected to be repulsed, refused.
The tears sprang to his eyes, his gentle nature was filled with
gratitude.
"My lord," he said, grasping the cold hand, "I cannot thank you; thanks
for such a gift were idle and vain. Only one who has waited for years,
hoping against hope until the heart was sick, can tell what I feel now.
My lord, if you will pardon me I will take my leave."
"Good-by, my dear boy," said the earl, "good-by; you will find Ethel in
the park. Heaven bless you!"
Bertie found himself outside--how he scarcely knew--bathed in delight
and satisfaction.
Where should he find Ethel? Every moment he was away from her now
seemed an insane delay.
Where----As he hurried to make his way to the Park there came around
the corner, smiling and serene as usual, Mr. Howard Murpoint.
A short gentleman leaned upon his arm.
"Ah, Mr. Fairfax, how d'ye do?" said the captain, with a sunny smile of
friendly greeting. "What a delightful morning. Allow me to introduce my
friend--Mr. Wilhelm Smythe, Mr. Bertie Fairfax."
Bertie shook hands with the captain, and bowed slightly to his friend,
then with a nod hurried on.
He turned at the corner in time to see the captain and his friend
standing on the doorsteps of the Lackland house, and as he saw an
indefinable and intangible shadow crept over him and chilled him.
By some strange course of reasoning or feeling, he had grown to connect
the captain with every mishap of his life.
What were he and his friend doing thus early at Lackland house?
Casting from him the dim foreboding which had fallen upon him at the
sight of Howard Murpoint and Mr. Smythe, Bertie hurried to the park.
It was the unfashionable hour--at eleven the Upper Ten are either in
bed or just thinking of breakfast--and the Row was nearly empty.
Bertie did not meet with much difficulty in finding his quarry, for
they were galloping up and down the tan in the height of enjoyment.
Ethel saw Bertie first, and exclaimed:
"Fitz, there is Bert--Mr. Fairfax."
"What, Bert out of his den as early as this! Hello, old fellow," he
exclaimed, as Bert came up, "what's the matter? Temple burned down?"
"No," said Bert, "not that I am aware of."
Then he took off his hat as Ethel rode up.
"I've come out for a run," he said, the happiness and delight within
him showing itself in his eyes, "and I thought perhaps I should find
you here."
"Do you want me?" said Fitz, rather puzzled, for there was something in
Bertie's face that looked momentous.
"No, I don't want you," said Bertie; "I wanted a word with your sister."
Fitz looked puzzled still, but nodded to Ethel.
"Do you hear that, Eth? He wants to speak to you."
Ethel steered her horse near the rails, and Bertie went up and patted
it.
Now that he had the opportunity he did not know what to say, or rather
he was loath to say it before Fitz; he would rather have had Ethel
alone, and, besides, his news was so precious that he clung to it and
hugged it.
"Fitz," he said, "do you mind lending me your nag? It isn't far to walk
home."
"Eh?" said Fitz, "what do you mean? I say, what's up? Something between
you and Eth, I'll bet a pound. Yes, here you are, old fellow, here's
the nag. Don't you two get up to mischief."
He got off in a moment, like the good-natured fellow that he was, and
Bertie sprang into the saddle.
"You're a good fellow, Fitz," he said, gratefully.
"Just so," said Fitz, "that's what every man says; but, I say, I don't
know whether it's the right thing. What will the earl and countess say?
They're mighty particular, you know."
"I'll be responsible," said Bertie, laughing. "Good-by, old fellow; you
are a good fellow, too."
Fitz nodded smilingly, and trotted off.
The two lovers, left thus, sat still, Ethel blushing and trembling,
Bertie flushed and excited.
"Shall we have a gallop?" he said, and accordingly Ethel, without a
word, put her horse into a run.
They rode to the end of the Row, then Bertie said:
"Don't you think it is very impudent of me to borrow your brother's
horse and capture you?"
Ethel smiled faintly.
"Oh, my darling!" he burst out, triumphantly, delightedly, "you are
mine! I have seen the earl this morning and he has given you to me."
They rode side by side, Bertie speaking of all his hopes and plans, she
listening and drinking in the music of his voice.
Somehow or other they found themselves out of the Row and away to a
secluded road, where there were no spectators.
Then Bertie took possession of the hand, and while he murmured
soft, sweet words, as lovers can and will, he performed a feat of
equestrianism which would have made him a worthy candidate for a
circus, for with reckless daring he bent forward and actually snatched
a kiss from the blushing but forgiving Ethel.
Then they rode home, happy, glowing, at peace with all the world, and
as madly in love as any young couple in England.
"We shall meet to-night," said Bertie, "at Mrs. Mildmay's?"
"Yes," said Ethel, "to-night," and, though it was then one o'clock,
"to-night" seemed as far off to her as the week after next.
Bertie left the horse at the Lacklands' stables and walked home to his
chambers.
As he sat down at his table, his man entered with a letter.
Bertie glanced at the envelope and tore it open. It was stamped with
the Lackland crest. It contained a short note, which Bertie had no
sooner read than he turned as pale as the paper and staggered back into
his chair like a man mortally wounded.
Before we glance over his shoulder and ascertain the contents of the
letter which had so affected him let us return to Mr. Howard Murpoint
and Mr. Wilhelm Smythe as they stand on the doorstep of Lackland House.
When the servant opened the door Mr. Murpoint inquired for Lord
Lackland, and was soon, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Wilhelm Smythe,
ushered into the earl's presence.
When they entered the room Howard Murpoint introduced Mr. Smythe to the
earl and then proceeded to business.
He said that Mr. Smythe had been anxious to see the earl, as one of the
directors of a certain mining company, to ask a few questions.
The earl admitted that he was on the board of directors and answered
the questions, or rather the captain answered them for him.
Then Mr. Smythe announced his intention of becoming a director, and
incidentally mentioned that he would, if there was any occasion for it,
purchase the mine.
This made the earl stare, as the captain had intended that it should;
and when Mr. Smythe rose to take his leave, Lackland's adieu was a
great deal more cordial than his greeting.
When the rich Mr. Smythe had gone the captain eyed his dupe warily.
"A nice young fellow," he said.
"Very," said the earl. "A good business man, I have no doubt."
"Immensely rich," said the captain--"immensely. I wonder if the
countess would oblige me by sending him a card for her next ball? I
should take it as a personal favor."
The earl stroked his mustache.
"I am sure the countess would only be too delighted," he said. "But are
you sure that Mr. Smythe would care to come?"
"I am certain that he would," said the captain. "Indeed, he was
speaking of it only this morning. Poor fellow, he has become infatuated
with the beauty of Lady Boisdale!"
The earl was almost guilty of a start.
"Indeed!" he said. "I am sure we are very much flattered by Mr.
Smythe's preference. It is a pity we did not know him. Unfortunately
there is no chance of his wishes being fulfilled. I have this morning
promised the hand of Ethel to Mr. Fairfax."
"To Mr. Fairfax!" echoed the captain, with as much polite astonishment
and disgust in his voice as if the earl had said "His Satanic Majesty."
"To Mr. Fairfax!"
"Yes," said the earl. "Mr. Fairfax called here this morning, just
before you came, and pressed his suit so earnestly that I yielded and
gave my consent--a very reluctant consent, I must confess."
"Write a letter to him recalling your consent."
"Impossible," said the earl.
"Why so?" inquired Mr. Murpoint.
"My word has been given and if I were to break it I should be cut by
every man in London. I dared not show my face in a single club."
"It is very unfortunate," said the captain, coolly, "more unfortunate
than you can imagine, for I have not told you all."
"All?" inquired the earl. "What else is there to tell?"
"Mr. Smythe is a determined man," said the captain, quietly, "and he
assured me this morning that if he did not get your consent to his suit
he should go to extremities."
"Extremities! what do you mean?"
"Simply this: that he will buy up the mortgages and the numerous bills
which you have given, and come down on you like a hawk. He is a most
determined young man. He will sell Lackland Hall and everything you
possess, as sure as you stand there."
"He cannot," said the earl, with a smile. "I can make arrangements with
my creditors. I can purchase the bills, raise the money, pay off the
debts."
"I am afraid not," said the captain. "Because, you see, the bills are
all in my hands."
"Your hands?" exclaimed Lord Lackland.
"Yes, mine," answered the captain, softly and with the sweetest smile.
"It is very unfortunate! I promised this worthy young man that I would
use my influence with your lordship to gain your consent. I gave my
word of honor, and if I were to break it I should be cut by every man
in London and should not be able to enter a single club."
As he used the earl's own words, and smiled his soft, deadly smile, the
earl sank into a chair and gasped for breath.
"Are you a man or a fiend?" he breathed.
"I am simply a man of business," said Mr. Murpoint, "and a man of my
word."
"What am I to do? I am in your power!"
"Write a letter to this Mr. Fairfax and tell him that you cannot
consent, that you rescind the promise you gave this morning."
The captain stood over him, quite the master of the situation, and
dictated.
"DEAR SIR: I regret that circumstances have occurred which compel
me, on consideration, to recall the consent which I reluctantly gave
you this morning. I must beg of you to believe that I am obliged by
the force of circumstances to rescind that promise, and that I am
strengthened in my resolution to refuse you the hand of my daughter by
the countess, who is strongly opposed to any engagement taking place
between you. If you have already seen Lady Boisdale, and acquainted
her with your hopes and wishes, I must beg that you will, by writing,
inform her that all engagements between you must cease, and that you
are compelled in honor to refrain from prosecuting your suit. With
regret I have arrived at this decision, and sign myself most sincerely
your well-wisher, LACKLAND.
"P.S.--It would be as well, perhaps, if you could make arrangements to
leave London for a time. If it should be inconvenient to you to do so,
I will remove Lady Boisdale to one of my places in the country."
This letter was written and signed by the earl.
It was carried by a servant to the Temple, and it was read by our
friend, Bertie, as we have seen.
Its effect upon him was beyond all description.