A PARTING AND A LETTER.
Next morning Miss Baynard and Evan breakfasted alone, Mr. Ellerslie
remaining invisible. But Nell, who was becoming accustomed to her
host's eccentricities, was hardly surprised at his non-appearance. Not
much appetite had she this morning. Dare was coming at ten o'clock,
and the thought of her forthcoming interview with him disturbed her
strangely. They were about to part. When she had given expression to
her gratitude, and they had taken leave of each other, and she had
gone her way and he his, what chance or likelihood was there of their
ever meeting again? By his own confession his business in England was
now at an end; in a few days, or a few weeks at the latest, he would
have left its shores, never to return; they would have passed out of
each other's life, and, except for one thing, all would be as it was
before they first met.
Yes, save and except for one thing, but one which to Nell made all
imaginable difference. Then she had held her heart fast in her own
keeping, but what had become of the poor thing now? She had given it
away without having been asked for it. Could anything be more
shameful? It was gone from her past reclaiming; lost to her forever;
and yet he into whose keeping it had been given knew nothing about it.
And he never would know. He would carry it away with him, all
unwitting, and to all outward seeming, life with her would go on just
as before. She alone would know that she had lost something which
nothing else could make up to her, that some of the magic had faded
out of existence, and that the sun no longer shone quite so brightly
as it had been used to do.
Hardly had the clocks struck ten when there came a tap at the door,
which was followed by the entrance of Geoffrey Dare. Young Evan was on
the floor busied with some toys which the housekeeper had disinterred
for him out of one of the garrets. The moment he saw who the newcomer
was, he called out: "Uncle Geoff, come here. One of my horses has only
got three legs, and I want you to make me a new one."
"Presently, my dear boy, presently," he replied, as, after pausing for
a moment at the door, he went slowly forward, his eyes fixed full on
Miss Baynard.
She was standing, supporting herself with one hand on the table and
with the other pressed to her side. For a little space her gaze met
his without the flicker of an eyelash and then dropped before the
ardor of his regard. Her heart was beating tumultuously, while the
quick rise and fall of her bosom told of the emotions at work beneath.
A lovely flush suffused both face and throat; but Dare was paler than
ordinary, and haggard and weary-looking, and might have just risen
from a sick bed. Both were putting a strong restraint on themselves,
but each showed it in a different way.
Nell did not advance with impulsive outstretched hands, as she had
done in the case of Mr. Ellerslie. It was as though her limbs refused
to move under her. But when Dare came up and held out one of his
hands, she laid one of hers in it readily enough. "It did not take
long to bring you here, Miss Baynard," he said, "when once you knew
that my uncle had tidings of the boy."
After pressing her hand slightly he had withdrawn his own. They might
have been the merest casual acquaintances, Nell felt a little
bitterly. And yet, unless her feelings had blinded her, as he entered
the room, she had detected in his eyes a flame of passionate ardor
from which her own had been fain to shrink abashed. Could it be that
he was hiding something from her, even as she was hiding something
from him? As this question flashed across her she raised her eyes once
more to his. But the flame which had so dazzled her a minute before
was no longer there. Had it been extinguished? or was it merely that a
veil had been temporarily drawn before it?
It was after a scarcely observable pause that she answered his remark.
"You may be sure that after Mr. Ellerslie's message reached me I let
no grass grow under my feet. I came, looking to have merely some
tidings of the boy, whereas it was Evan himself whom I found! But I am
only telling you what you know already. When I began to thank your
uncle, under the belief that I owed Evan's recovery to him, he stopped
me. It seems that you are the person to whom my thanks are due.
Believe me, Mr. Dare, they are yours from the bottom of my heart."
Dare bowed. "Not a word more on that score, I beg," he said with a
smile. "I need not tell you that it makes me very happy to have been
the means of restoring Evan to you; but, as you are aware, I myself
have a strong interest in the boy--strong enough to make it impossible
for me to leave a stone unturned till he had been found, whether by me
or some one else did not greatly matter."
"I am very glad it was you, and not another, who found him."
"And, of course, I am not sorry that such should have been the case."
Miss Baynard had resumed her chair, and Dare had dropped into another
no great distance away.
"If there is no secret involved in the affair, and it will be breaking
no confidence on your part, I should like you to tell me, not only how
you succeeded in discovering Evan's whereabouts, but by what means you
contrived to rescue him from the wretches--for wretches they must have
been--who, to gratify some vile purpose of their own, stole him away
in broad daylight."
"'Tis a story very easily told. To your old friend Captain Nightshade
is due the boy's rescue from those who abducted him."
"To Captain Nightshade? Oh!"
"Who once more, and for the last time, revisited the glimpses of the
moon. But I am starting my story at the wrong end. I will tell it you
from the beginning, since you say you would like to hear it. First of
all, however, I must inquire into the state of Master Evan's horse,
which seems to be minus one of its legs."
Miss Baynard left Rockmount two hours later, but without seeing Mr.
Ellerslie again, who sent his apologies by his nephew. His rheumatism
had come on in the night, and this morning he was unable to rise.
Dare rode with Miss Baynard as far as the park gates of Stanbrook,
with Evan in front of him. Next day he was going to London, there to
complete a few preparations and arrange certain business matters for
Mr. Ellerslie, before setting sail for that New World where his home
would henceforth be. But this was not to be their final farewell; they
would see each other once more in about a fortnight, when Dare would
come north in order to bid his uncle goodbye, on which occasion he
would not fail to call at Stanbrook. He would not, of course, dream of
leaving England without seeing his godson again.
And so they parted, both secretly consumed with love. Dare would not
open his lips. In the first place, he was far too poor to marry; and
then, to dream that, in any case, the proud and beautiful Miss Baynard
would stoop so low as to wed the notorious "Captain Nightshade" was
the veriest moonstruck folly. Had he but known how often Nell, with
despair gnawing at her heartstrings, murmured sadly to herself, "If
only he would say one word!" what a change, little less than
miraculous, would have come over him!
But the word was not said, and they separated with nothing warmer than
a hand-grasp--torn asunder, not by Fate, but by their own pride, and
to the full as wretched as parted lovers are always said, or supposed,
to be.
Lady Carradine, having much leisure time on her hands, and being fond
of letter-writing, not infrequently obliged her goddaughter with one
of her lengthy and somewhat diffusely-worded epistles. To Miss
Baynard, in the retirement of Stanbrook, these occasional glimpses of
a life so different from her own were always welcome; and as her
ladyship had now taken up her permanent residence in London and saw a
good deal of company, she had much to tell that was both fresh and
interesting.
Nearly a fortnight had gone by since Nell's return from Rockmount, and
she was looking daily for the coming of Dare, when one of Lady
Carradine's crossed and recrossed letters--postage in those days was a
consideration--came to hand. With only one part of her ladyship's
epistle are we in any way concerned. The part in question ran as
under:--
"I forget, my dear, whether I ever mentioned to you that among my many
acquaintances is numbered Sir Peter Warrendale, a baronet of old
family, whose home, when he is at home, is somewhere in your benighted
part of the country. Of late years, however, he has been seen a good
deal in town. I have a notion that his health is not quite what he
would like it to be, and that he has little or no faith in your rural
practitioners, which I can't wonder at. But that is his own secret.
"He is now well on for seventy, a tetchy, cross-grained old man, with
a good word for nobody behind their back; and I have not the least
doubt he pulls me to pieces before others, just as he pulls others to
pieces before me. I candidly confess that I don't like him, but he
helps to amuse me, and to any one who does that I can forgive much.
"I had not seen him for some little time till one evening about a week
ago, when he called upon me, evidently brimful of news, of which it
was needful that he should relieve himself to somebody if he wished to
escape a fit of apoplexy. I quite expected that I was about to be
treated to the latest scandalous _on dit_, or the most recent morsel
of society gossip, which would lose nothing in Sir Peter's telling,
but for once I was mistaken. What he had to tell me was the
particulars of a somewhat singular incident in which he had figured as
one of the chief actors.
"It would appear that several months ago Sir Peter, while travelling
in his own chariot, was stopped by a mounted highwayman and relieved,
among other things, of a choice snuff-box--an heirloom, and set with
brilliants--by which he set great store. Although the affair happened
in his own part of the country, when he came to town, a few weeks
later, he reported his loss at Bow Street, and handed in a full
description of the box. This he did in the faint hope that the box
might some day find its way to one of the London pawnbrokers--to each
of whom a description of it would have been furnished--and, through
him, back to its rightful owner.
"Time went on, and Sir Peter had given up all hope of ever seeing his
box again, when he was one day requested to betake himself to Bow
Street, and there, sure enough, he set eyes once more on his precious
heirloom. It had been found on the person of a low London thief who
had been arrested for something altogether different.
"But now comes the most singular feature of the affair. The box had
been _twice_ stolen, once, several months ago, from the person of Sir
Peter, and a second time, a few weeks ago, here in London, from the
person of a certain Mr. Geoffrey Dare, and both losses had been
notified to the authorities.
"Sir Peter having identified the box as his property, it became
needful to ascertain through what channel it had come into the
possession of Mr. Dare, who seems to be one of those numerous young
men of good family about whom one is continually hearing, who seem to
think that twenty thousand pounds will go as far as a hundred
thousand, and who, after their follies and extravagances have made
them the talk of the town for a few seasons, vanish and are no more
seen. At any rate, that, some two or three years ago, the young man in
question was a well-known figure in London society, and that, with the
help of the gaming table--an important factor in nearly all such
cases--he dissipated his fortune to the last shilling, are well
ascertained facts.
"When inquired for at his lodgings--a couple of cheap rooms in some
horrid back street--it was ascertained that he had gone into the
country for an indefinite time, without leaving any word where he
might be found. Such being the state of affairs, nothing more could be
done till he should return, which he did about ten days ago. A message
had been left at his lodgings, requesting his attendance at Bow
Street, which he seems to have lost no time in obeying. There he was
questioned as to how the snuff-box came into his keeping, and, his
answers not being deemed satisfactory, he was confronted with Sir
Peter.
"In him--although he admitted that the highwayman was masked--the
baronet professed to recognize the man who robbed him of his purse and
the box; indeed, on being pressed, he actually went so far as to swear
to his identity with the robber, although, from what he has confessed
to me, I cannot help thinking that the evidence on which he grounds
his accusation is of the flimsiest possible kind.
"But be that as it may, after two or three remands at Bow Street, Dare
has been committed to take his trial for highway robbery at the next
Lanchester assizes, within a few miles of which town Sir Peter was
waylaid.
"I had written thus far yesterday when Sir Peter himself rang the
bell. He brought me some further news with regard to young Dare which
is of a sufficiently remarkable kind.
"It would appear that the authorities have some ground for believing
that in him they have laid hands on no less a personage than a certain
Captain Nightshade (a sobriquet, of course), whose exploits and
adventures as a gentleman of the road in the course of the past two or
three years have, according to Sir Peter, formed the fireside talk of
half the households in the north of England. It seems, however, that
some six or eight months ago he disappeared, and has not been heard of
since. But now that the runners have been laid on the scent, 'twill
not be their fault if they fail to run their quarry to earth.
"Poor fellow! I can't help feeling sorry for him, although it may be
very reprehensible on my part to say so. I am afraid it will go hard
with him at his trial. 'Tis said that Captain Nightshade was one of
the most chivalrous of men, and never robbed a woman in his life."