She broke into a wild, hysterical laugh, and fell senseless upon that lifeless body. The medical men lifted her up, and carried her across the course to her carriage, which had never moved; one of them got into the carriage with the countess, and laid her on the seat. Mary Wood, the companion, supported the unconscious woman in her arms.
“Home!” cried the doctor to the coachman; “and as fast as you can go.”
The windows were drawn up, the carriage drove away. There was no one to witness its departure. Everybody on that part of the course was crowded around the spot where the young lord lay.
Gervoise had been one of the first to rush to that spot. He stood foremost among the circle gathered round the motionless figure in the satin jacket, staring blankly down at the dead man’s face. His own face was almost as colourless as the livid countenance of the dead. He was stupefied by the suddenness of the catastrophe; and he could only stand there, silently staring; powerless to move, almost unable to think.
Far away he heard the braying of brazen trumpets, harsh and discordant, the clashing of cymbals, the beating of drums, the hoarse voices of the showmen clamouring to the crowd. The news of the accident had not yet circulated amongst the country people in the fair.
The stewards of the races consulted together, and it was arranged by general consent that there should be no more races upon that day; so much respect, at least, should be paid to the lord of Palgrave Chase.
Had it been a professional jockey who had been killed, it would have been, of course, quite a different matter. The awkward business would have been hushed up, and the day’s sport would have proceeded without interruption.
One of the doors belonging to the refreshment-rooms below the grand stand was tom from its hinges, and upon this rough litter the dead man was laid. They covered the lifeless figure with a carriage-rug, and carried their dismal burden away towards a short cut that led through the meadows to Avondale. The surgeon walked by the side of the litter.
The horse, Devilshoof, was shot through the head.
CHAPTER VI. THE KING IS DEAD: LONG LIVE THE KING!
EVEN after that gloomy procession had moved away, Gervoise Palgrave stood near the spot upon which his dead kinsman had been lying. Bewildered and terror-stricken, he had not yet been able to shake off the utter stupefaction of mingled surprise and horror, or to think calmly of the event that had just happened.
His cousin was dead. The principal barrier that had stood between himself and fortune was suddenly swept away; and what obstacle remained? Only the unborn child, the heir that was expected at Palgrave Chase.
If that child should be a girl, Gervoise Palgrave would be Earl of Haughton.
The young man passed his hand across his hot forehead.
“Great God,” he muttered to himself, “I think I must be going mad! A wretch tramping about the streets of London in search of bread only a few weeks ago; and perhaps the master of Palgrave Chase, and one of the first men in Warwickshire, to-morrow. Bah!” he cried suddenly, shrugging his shoulders with a contemptuous gesture, “am I a fool, that I stand here dreaming of these things? Is it like my luck that this should happen? No, the child will be a boy; and the joy-peal will ring for the birth of the new lord before the funeral bell has tolled for his father’s death.”
The crowd had dispersed after the departure of the men who carried the Earl of Haughton’s body, and Gervoise was alone in the little valley near the fatal double fence. He walked away from the racecourse to the loneliest part of the common, scarcely knowing whither he went; but he still heard the braying of brazen trumpets, the clashing of cymbals, the beating of drums, and the hoarse voices of the showmen clamouring to the crowd.
The tidings of the young lord’s death had penetrated to the remotest part of the common by this time; but still the fair went on. The country people had come a long way for their day’s pleasure, and were not to be cheated out of their enjoyment. The interruption and postponement of the races was a very good thing for the merchants and showmen, the circuses and merry-go-rounds, and the fair was doing splendidly.
Little Georgey Palgrave, kinsman to the dead man, was dancing gaily on the platform before Mr. Cadgers’s booth, with coloured ribbons round his boyish head.
It was twilight by the time Gervoise Palgrave returned to the tent of his employer. The troupe had eaten their dinner, and kind-hearted Nancy Cadgers had put aside a plate of cold ham and sausages, with half a loaf of bread, and some beer in a stone bottle, for the scene-painter; but Geryoise could eat nothing. He took two or three mouthfuls of bread, drank a brief draught of ale, and then lighted his pipe, and flung himself once more upon the truss of hay.
The show was still going on. He could hear the horses hoofs upon the sawdust, the slashing of whips, the tinkling of bells, the merry laughter and loud applause of the audience, and the “Houp là, loupe!” of the ring-master. Then the horses rested, and the gloomy clown, Herr yon Volterchoker, amused the public.
The noise seemed deafening and bewildering to the overheated brain of Gervoise Palgrave. He clasped his hands upon his forehead and tried to think; but he could not collect his thoughts. A confusion of light and colour danced before his dazzled eyes. It seemed to him as if the horses in the ring were rushing round and round in his own distempered brain. He had lain like this for about an hour, smoking his short, blackened pipe, and trying to think, when the canvas that separated this corner of the booth from the ring was divided, and a man’s face looked through the division; a dark, sinister-looking countenance, framed with grizzled hair. It was the face of Herr von Volterchoker, the dismal clown. He watched Gervoise for some minutes before he spoke; but the young man was quite unconscious of the watchful gaze of those black, fierce-looking eyes.
“You’re uncommonly quiet in there,” the clown said at last.
Gervoise looked up with a start.
“Yes,” he said absently; “I’m tired.”
“You seem so. Have you heard the news?”
“What news?”
“Why, the news that’s just come to the fair. There’s a new master at Palgrave Chase; a master that isn’t two hours old yet.”
“A boy!” gasped Gervoise.
“Yes, her ladyship’s baby is a boy. The news of the young vermin’s birth is upon everybody’s lips.”
“Mr. Merriman, Mr. Merriman!” cried a voice from the ring. “Come here, Mr. Merriman, and tell these ladies and gentlemen what is the difference between my wife’s tin teakettle and the Hemperor of Roosia!”
The clown closed the canvas division and went back into the ring. Gervoise Palgrave covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud.
Then he knew, for the first time, that he had hoped to succeed to his kinsman’s title and fortune. After his first horror at the earl’s sudden death, hope had sprung up in his heart — a wild desperate hope, that had almost maddened him. His manhood gave way before this horrible disappointment.
He sat motionless, with his face buried in his hands, for some time. Then he was aroused by little soft fingers, which twined themselves about his own, and tried to pull his hands away from his face.
“Papa, papa!” cried a childish voice.
Gervoise uncovered his head and looked up. The boy George stood before him in his fantastical dress, smiling at his father.
“I want to go to sleep, papa,” he said; “I’m so tired, and my new mammy told me I was to come to you.”
The child called the friendly Nancy Cadgers his new mammy. The showman’s wife had been very good to George, who was not accustomed to kindness — from a woman.
Gervoise took the boy up in his arms, wrapped him in a shabby greatcoat, and laid him down upon the hay.
“The new-born earl lies in a cradle sheltered with curtains of silk and lace, I daresay,” he muttered to himself, as he watched the child’s face; “but my boy is a beggar’s brat, and is glad to sleep on such a bed as a dog might lie upon.”
He filled and lighted his pipe again, an
d sat down upon an empty beer-cask. He watched the sleeping child with a gloomy face. Dark, angry thoughts were busy in his breast. He hated the young countess and her two-hours-old babe.
It was past ten o’clock, but the uproar of the fair was louder than ever. The horses were still cantering round amidst the sawdust in the ring, the trumpets were braying, the drums sounding. Gervoise Palgrave sat in the same attitude for nearly half an hour, smoking slowly, and watching his sleeping child.
Suddenly the canvas which divided the booth from the open common was lifted, and a young man, hot, breathless, and panting, burst into the tent.
Gervoise sprang to his feet. The young man was Humphrey Melwood, the under-gamekeeper of Palgrave Chase. His face was flushed, his eyes were bright with excitement. He flung himself upon his knees on the ground, and kissed Gervoise Palgrave’s hands.
“Master!” he cried, “brother! I’ve run here like a madman. I can scarce get breath to speak. My wish has come, Lord Haughton — Lord Haughton! There’s nobody but me knows you’re here, and I’m first to tell you — I’m first to cry huzza for the new master of Palgrave Chase!”
Humphrey Mel wood raised his voice as he said this. Once more the canvas was divided and the face of the clown appeared in the narrow opening. But the eager face of the spy was unperceived by the two men; Gervoise and his foster-brother stood with their backs towards Herr von Volterchoker. For an instant Gervoise stood staring vacantly at his foster-brother.
“You are mad, Humphrey,” he cried half angrily; “you are mad!”
“No, not mad, Master Gervoise, but like to be,” answered the young man. “You are Earl of Haughton! Last night you were walking about Avondale afraid to show yourself in your shabby clothes, wild and desperate, talking about ending your days in a river; to-night you are the master of Palgrave Chase. The poor countess is dying; the child died within an hour of its birth.”
“Dead!”
“Yes, Master Gervoise. Ah, my lord — I mustn’t call you Master Gervoise any longer — the days are gone for ever when I might call you brother.”
“No, no, Humphrey — no, no,” answered Gervoise. “If this is all true — if it is not some distempered dream, as it seems to me it must be — why then I will be more your brother than ever. Adversity is a hard master, Humphrey; and those who suffer are apt to think very little of the sufferings of others. But prosperity softens a man’s heart. I’ll be a true friend to you, Humphrey.”
He held out his hand as he spoke, and grasped the horny fingers of the gamekeeper.
“Bless you for those words, Master Gervoise! The world will be all at your feet now, and money’s very powerful; but for all it’s so powerful, there are some things it can’t do, and those are just the very things that a faithful friend can do. You see this arm, Master Gervoise,” cried the gamekeeper, stretching out his muscular right arm and clenching his powerful fist; “there’s many about Avondale as could tell you that it isn’t a weak one. If there’s anyone that wronged you, I’d as lief strike him down with that arm as I’d crush a worm that came in my pathway. It’s not many people I care for, Master Gervoise, but there’s something more than common in the love I bear you; I must have sucked it in with my mother’s milk, I suppose, for it seems as if it was mixed with the blood that runs in my veins, and I think every drop of that blood would turn to liquid fire if I knew that anyone had injured you. Heaven help them that harmed you, that’s all! Heaven keep ’em safe out of my pathway!”
The young man’s eyes flamed as he spoke, but Gervoise Palgrave scarcely heeded him. He was standing quite still, looking down at the child asleep upon the hay.
“For his sake,” he muttered—” if I were not thankful for my own sake, how glad I ought to be for him! — I will try and be a good man, and deserve the fortune that has come to me.” He said this to himself; then he cried aloud:
“Come out into the air, Humphrey; I shall choke, I shall faint, if I stay in this stifling place.”
He lifted the canvas and went out, followed by the gamekeeper. The naphtha lamps were flaming against the purple of the sky. The thousand voices of the clamorous crowd mingled in one loud uproar.
As the two young men left the tent, Herr von Volterchoker parted the canvas, and came through the opening into the place where little Georgey lay asleep.
CHAPTER VII. LOST.
THE new lord of Haughton and his foster-brother walked away from the crowded avenues where the country people were clustered about the stalls. They left the noise and confusion of the fair behind them, and went down into the hollow in which Sydney Earl of Haughton met his untimely death.
“It seems to me as if it couldn’t be true” Gervoise said; “ it’s too sudden, too strange.”
“But it’s true, Master Gervoise, for all that,” answered Humphrey. “Mother went up to the great house when she heard that my lord was killed, and my lady brought home in a dying state, as folks said. She went up to the house, and she was in the servants’-hall when the news of the baby’s birth was brought from my lady’s room, and she was there when the news of his death came, less than an hour afterwards. Poor little fellow, he was born before his time, the doctors say, and the countess was said to be dying when I came away. I’m sorry for her, poor lady. She was proud, but she was kind and charitable, for all that, and she loved the very ground my lord walked on. If he’d listened to her he wouldn’t have ridden Devilshoof to-day, for they say she went down upon her knees to him to prevent him; but he wouldn’t listen to her. So it was his selfishness that caused his death.”
Selfishness, the one blemish upon the character of almost every scion of the house of Palgrave; selfishness, which was now paramount in the breast of Gervoise, now lord of Palgrave Chase, for he could not think of the heart-broken wife’s despair, the young mother’s bitter agony; he could only think of himself, his own unparalleled good fortune.
“Nobody must know that I have been down here, Humphrey,” he said; “nobody must ever know that I have Fallen so low as to be the companion of a wandering showman and his vulgar troupe. Messrs. Peck and Featherby, of Gray’s Inn, were the Earl of Haughton’s lawyers. They knew my father well, and they have known me from my boyhood. They have the certificate of my fathers marriage, my own birth, and all documents necessary to my identification. I shall go up to London by the first train to-morrow morning, and go straight to them. But I cannot take Georgey with me. The child would be a hindrance to me at such a time as this. Will you take him to your mother’s cottage, Humphrey, and look after him until I come back to Warwickshire?”
“Will I, Master Gervoise?” cried the gamekeeper. “Ay, that I will, and watch over him as I would over the crown-jewels if I was trusted with the care of them.”
“Thanks, Humphrey. I know I can trust you. You talked about money last night, and I refused your offer; tonight I’ll borrow a couple of sovereigns of you, if you have got so much about you.”
“I have, Master Gervoise,” answered the young man; “I’m a steady chap now, though I have been such a precious wild one, and I’ve saved a pound or two out of my wages.” The gamekeeper took a washleather purse from his pocket, unrolled it, and produced three sovereigns.
“Three’s better than two, Master Gervoise,” he said; you’d better take the lot.”
“I will, Humphrey,” answered Gervoise Palgrave, “for I can afford to pay you fifty-fold when I come back. This will take me up to London; Peck and Featherby will lend me plenty of money when I get there. You’ll take care of the boy, Humphrey. He’s very dear to me.”
“Then he shall be dearer to me than if he was my own, Master Gervoise,” cried the gamekeeper.
“You may as well take him home to-night, then,” said his foster-brother; “these people have been very good to him, and I shall take care to reward them for their goodness, by and by. But I don’t want them to know who I am, or any thing about me; so I should like to get the boy away quietly.”
The earl and his foster-brother walk
ed back towards Mr. Cadgers’s booth.
The glory of the fair was over now, for it was past midnight; the fires were dying slowly out; many of the lights had been extinguished. The crowd had thinned; only drunkards and dissipated men and women, the inveterate and insatiable pleasure-seekers, still lingered in the alleys between the stalls, and in the open spaces before the shows.
Mr. Cadgers had shut up his establishment for the night, and the front of the circus was dark.
As Gervoise and Humphrey came within a few paces of the canvas opening at the back of the booth, they saw a tall, gaunt figure coming towards them, and the Earl of Haughton recognised his late associate, Herr von Volterchoker, the clown.
He came up to them and looked at Gervoise with an expression of surprise.
“Where’s the boy?” he exclaimed.
“What boy?”
“What boy! — why little Georgey, of course.”
“Where should he be,” returned Gervoise, “except where I left him — on the truss of hay in there?” He pointed to the booth as he spoke.
“Didn’t you take him with you, then?” cried the clown.
“No,” answered Gervoise, his face blanched with sudden fear. “Why do you ask me?” he cried; “the boy is in there, I tell you. I left him there a quarter of an hour ago, asleep upon the hay.”
“He’s not there now, then,” answered the clown. “Mrs. Cadgers wants to put him to bed with the other lads, and has been looking for him everywhere. I told her you were out, and I thought, of course, you’d taken the child with you.”
“No, no, no!” exclaimed Gervoise; “I left him there asleep. He must have got up and gone out into the fair to look at the other shows. He can’t be far away. You go one way, Volterchoker, there’s a good chap, while I go the other; we shall find him in five minutes, I daresay.”
“I daresay we shall,” answered the clown. “O, by the bye, there’s been a woman here inquiring for you.”
Delphi Works of M. E. Braddon Page 1073