by Ellen Wood
A blush suffused her face, and Lord Hartledon smiled.
Down came the countess-dowager.
“Here’s that old dowager calling to me. She never lets me alone. Val sent me into a fit of laughter yesterday, saying she had designs on me for Maude. Poor deluded woman! Yes, ma’am, I hear. What is it?”
Mr. Elster went strolling along on the banks of the river, towards Calne; not with any particular purpose, but in his restless uneasiness. He had a tender conscience, and his past follies were pressing on it heavily. Of one thing he felt sure — that he was more deeply involved than Hartledon or anyone else suspected, perhaps even himself. The way was charming in fine weather, though less pleasant in winter. It was by no means a frequented road, and belonged of right to Lord Hartledon only; but it was open to all. Few chose it when they could traverse the more ordinary way. The narrow path on the green plain, sheltered by trees, wound in and out, now on the banks of the river, now hidden amidst a portion of the wood. Altogether it was a wild and lonely pathway; not one that a timid nature would choose on a dark night. You might sit in the wood, which lay to the left, a whole day through, and never see a soul.
One part of the walk was especially beautiful. A green hollow, where the turf was soft as moss; open to the river on the right, with a glimpse of the lovely scenery beyond; and on the left, the clustering trees of the wood. Yet further, through a break in the trees, might be seen a view of the houses of Calne. A little stream, or rivulet, trickled from the wood, and a rustic bridge — more for ornament than use, for a man with long legs could stride the stream well — was thrown over it. Val had reached thus far, when he saw someone standing on the bridge, his arms on the parapet, apparently in a brown study.
A dark, wild-looking man, whose face, at the first glimpse, seemed all hair. There was certainly a profusion of it; eyebrows, beard, whiskers, all heavy, and black as night. He was attired in loose fustian clothes with a red handkerchief wound round his throat, and a low slouching hat — one of those called wide-awake — partially concealed his features. By his side stood another man in plain, dark, rather seedy clothes, the coat outrageously long. He wore a cloth hat, whose brim hid his face, and he was smoking a cigar. Both men were slightly built and under middle height. This one was adorned with red whiskers.
The moment Mr. Elster set eyes on the dark one, he felt that he saw the man Pike before him. It happened that he had not met him during these few days of his sojourn; but some of the men staying at Hartledon had, and had said what a loose specimen he appeared to be. The other was a stranger, and did not look like a countryman at all.
Mr. Elster saw them both give a sharp look at him as he approached; and then they spoke together. Both stepped off the bridge, as though deferring to him, and stood aside as they watched him cross over, Pike touching his wide-awake.
“Good-day, my lord.”
Val nodded by way of answer, and continued his stroll onwards. In the look he had taken at Pike, it struck him he had seen the face before: something in the countenance seemed familiar to his memory. And to his surprise he saw that the man was young.
The supposed reminiscence did not trouble him: he was too pre-occupied with thoughts of his own affairs to have leisure for Mr. Pike’s. A short bit of road, and this rude, sheltered part of the way terminated in more open ground, where three paths diverged: one to the front of Hartledon; one to some cottages, and on through the wood to the high-road; and one towards the Rectory and Calne. Rural paths still, all of them; and the last was provided with a bench or two. Val Elster strolled on almost to the Rectory, and then turned back: he had no errand at Calne, and the Rectory he would rather keep out of just now. When he reached the little bridge Pike was on it alone; the other had disappeared. As before, he stepped off to make way for Mr. Elster.
“I beg pardon, sir, for addressing you just now as Lord Hartledon.”
The salutation took Val by surprise; and though the voice seemed muffled, as though the man purposely mouthed his words, the accent and language were superior to anything he might have expected from one of Mr. Pike’s appearance and reputed character.
“No matter,” said Val, courteous even to Pike, in his kindly nature. “You mistook me for my brother. Many do.”
“Not I,” returned the man, assuming a freedom and a roughness at variance with his evident intelligence. “I know you for the Honourable Percival Elster.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Elster, a slight curiosity stirring his mind, but not sufficient to induce him to follow it up.
“But I like to do a good turn if I can,” pursued Pike; “and I think, sir, I did one to you in calling you Lord Hartledon.”
Val Elster had been passing on. He turned and looked at the man.
“Are you in any little temporary difficulty, might I ask?” continued Pike. “No offense, sir; princes have been in such before now.”
Val Elster was so supremely conscious, especially in that reflective hour, of being in a “little difficulty” that might prove more than temporary, that he could only stare at the questioner and wait for more.
“No offence again, if I’m wrong,” resumed Pike; “but if that man you saw here on the bridge is not looking after the Honourable Mr. Elster, I’m a fool.”
“Why do you think this?” inquired Val, too fully aware that the fact was a likely one to attempt any reproof or disavowal.
“I’ll tell you,” said Pike; “I’ve said I don’t mind doing a good turn when I can. The man arrived here this morning by the slow six train from London. He went into the Stag and had his breakfast, and has been covertly dodging about ever since. He inquired his way to Hartledon. The landlord of the Stag asked him what he wanted there, and got for answer that his brother was one of the grooms in my lord’s service. Bosh! He went up, sneaking under the hedges and along by-ways, and took a view of the house, standing a good hour behind a tree while he did it. I was watching him.”
It instantly struck Percival Elster, by one of those flashes of conviction that are no less sure than subtle, that Mr. Pike’s interest in this watching arose from a fear that the stranger might have been looking after him. Pike continued:
“After he had taken his fill of waiting, he came dodging down this way, and I got into conversation with him. He wanted to know who I was. A poor devil out of work, I told him; a soldier once, but maimed and good for little now. We got chatty. I let him think he might trust me, and he began asking no end of questions about Mr. Elster: whether he went out much, what were his hours for going out, which road he mostly took in his walks, and how he could know him from his brother the earl; he had heard they were alike. The hound was puzzled; he had seen a dozen swells come out of Hartledon, any one of which might be Mr. Elster; but I found he had the description pretty accurate. Whilst we were talking, who should come into view but yourself! ‘This is him!’ cried he. ‘Not a bit of it,’ said I, carelessly; ‘that’s my lord.’ Now you know, sir, why I saluted you as Lord Hartledon.”
“Where is he now?” asked Percival Elster, feeling that he owed his present state of liberty to this lawless man.
Pike pointed to the narrow path in the wood, leading to the high-road. “I filled him up with the belief that the way beyond this bridge up to Hartledon was private, and he might be taken up for trespassing if he attempted to follow it; so he went off that way to watch the front. If the fellow hasn’t a writ in his pocket, or something worse, call me a simpleton. You are all right, sir, as long as he takes you for Lord Hartledon.”
But there was little chance the fellow could long take him for Lord Hartledon, and Percival Elster felt himself attacked with a shiver. He knew it to be worse than a writ; it was an arrest. An arrest is not a pleasant affair for any one; but a strong opinion — a certainty — seized upon Val’s mind that this would bring forth Dr. Ashton’s veto of separation from Anne.
“I thank you for what you have done,” frankly spoke Mr. Elster.
“It’s nothing, sir. He’ll be dodging about after
his prey; but I’ll dodge about too, and thwart his game if I can, though I have to swear that Lord Hartledon’s not himself. What’s an oath, more or less, to me?”
“Where have I seen you before?” asked Val.
“Hard to say,” returned Pike. “I have knocked about in many parts in my time.”
“Are you from this neighbourhood?”
“Never was in these parts at all till a year or so ago. It’s not two years yet.”
“What are you doing here?”
“What I can. A bit of work when I can get it given to me. I went tramping the country after I left the regiment—”
“Then you have been a soldier?” interrupted Mr. Elster.
“Yes, sir. In tramping the country I came upon this place: I crept into a shed, and was there for some days; rheumatism took hold of me, and I couldn’t move. It was something to find I had a roof of any sort over my head, and was let lie in it unmolested: and when I got better I stayed on.”
“And have adopted it as your own, putting a window and a chimney into it! But do you know that Lord Hartledon may not choose to retain you as a tenant?”
“If Lord Hartledon should think of ousting me, I would ask Mr. Elster to intercede, in requital for the good turn I’ve done him this day,” was the bold answer.
Mr. Elster laughed. “What is your name?”
“Tom Pike.”
“I hear a great deal said of you, Pike, that’s not pleasant; that you are a poacher, and a—”
“Let them that say so prove it,” interrupted Pike, his dark brows contracting.
“But how do you manage to live?”
“That’s my business, and not Calne’s. At any rate, Mr. Elster, I don’t steal.”
“I heard a worse hint dropped of you than any I have mentioned,” continued Val, after a pause.
“Tell it out, sir. Let’s have the whole catalogue at once.”
“That the night my brother, Mr. Elster, was shot, you were out with the poachers.”
“I dare say you heard that I shot him, for I know it has been said,” fiercely cried the man. “It’s a black lie! — and the time may come when I shall ram it down Calne’s throat. I swear that I never fired a shot that night; I swear that I no more had a hand in Mr. Elster’s death than you had. Will you believe me, sir?”
The accents of truth are rarely to be mistaken, and Val was certain he heard them now. So far, he believed the man; and from that moment dismissed the doubt from his mind, if indeed he had not dismissed it before.
“Do you know who did fire the shot?”
“I do not; I was not out at all that night. Calne pitched upon me, because there was no one else in particular to pitch upon. A dozen poachers were in the fray, most of them with guns; little wonder the random shot from one should have found a mark. I know nothing more certain than that, so help—”
“That will do,” interrupted Mr. Elster, arresting what might be coming; for he disliked strong language. “I believe you fully, Pike. What part of the country were you born in?”
“London. Born and bred in it.”
“That I do not believe,” he said frankly. “Your accent is not that of a Londoner.”
“As you will, sir,” returned Pike. “My mother was from Devonshire; but I was born and bred in London. I recognized that one with the writ for a fellow cockney at once; and for what he was, too — a sheriffs officer. Shouldn’t be surprised but I knew him for one years ago.”
Val Elster dropped a coin into the man’s hand, and bade him good morning. Pike touched his wide-awake, and reiterated his intention of “dodging the enemy.” But, as Mr. Elster cautiously pursued his way, the face he had just quitted continued to haunt him. It was not like any face he had ever seen, as far as he could remember; nevertheless ever and anon some reminiscence seemed to start out of it and vibrate upon a chord in his memory.
CHAPTER VII.
LISTENERS.
It was a somewhat singular coincidence, noted after the terrible event, now looming in the distance, had taken place, and when people began to weigh the various circumstances surrounding it, that Monday, the second day fixed for the boat-race, should be another day of rain. As though Heaven would have interposed to prevent it! said the thoughtful and romantic.
A steady, pouring rain; putting a stop again to the race for that day. The competitors might have been willing to face the elements themselves, but could not subject the fair spectators to the infliction. There was some inward discontent, and a great deal of outward grumbling; it did no good, and the race was put off until the next day.
Val Elster still retained his liberty. Very chary indeed had he been of showing himself outside the door on Saturday, once he was safely within it. Neither had any misfortune befallen Lord Hartledon. That unconscious victim must have contrived, in all innocence, to “dodge” the gentleman who was looking out for him, for they did not meet.
On the Sunday it happened that neither of the brothers went to church. Lord Hartledon, on awaking in the morning, found he had a sore throat, and would not get up. Val did not dare show himself out of doors. Not from fear of arrest that day, but lest any officious meddler should point him out as the real Simon Pure, Percival Elster. But for these circumstances, the man with the writ could hardly have remained under the delusion, as he appeared at church himself.
“Which is Lord Hartledon?” he whispered to his neighbour on the free benches, when the party from the great house had entered, and settled themselves in their pews.
“I don’t see him. He has not come to-day.”
“Which is Mr. Elster?”
“He has not come, either.” So for that day recognition was escaped.
It was not to be so on the next. The rain, as I have said, came down, putting off the boat-race, and keeping Hartledon’s guests indoors all the morning; but late in the afternoon some unlucky star put it into Lord Hartledon’s head to go down to the Rectory. His throat was better — almost well again; and he was not a man to coddle himself unnecessarily.
He paid his visit, stayed talking a considerable time with Mrs. Ashton, whose company he liked, and took his departure about six o’clock. “You and Anne might almost walk up with me,” he remarked to the doctor as he shook hands; for the Rector and Miss Ashton were to dine at Hartledon that day. It was to have been the crowning festival to the boat-race — the race which now had not taken place.
Lord Hartledon looked up at the skies, and found he had no occasion to open his umbrella, for the rain had ceased. Sundry bright rays in the west seemed to give hope that the morrow would be fair; and, rejoicing in this cheering prospect, he crossed the broad Rectory lawn. As he went through the gate some one laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“The Honourable Percival Elster, I believe?”
Lord Hartledon looked at the intruder. A seedy man, with a long coat and red whiskers, who held out something to him.
“Who are you?” he asked, releasing his shoulder by a sharp movement.
“I’m sorry to do it, sir; but you know we are only the agent of others in these affairs. You are my prisoner, sir.”
“Indeed!” said Lord Hartledon, taking the matter coolly. “You have got hold of the wrong man for once. I am not Mr. Percival Elster.”
The capturer laughed: a very civil laugh. “It won’t do, sir; we often have that trick tried on us.”
“But I tell you I am not Mr. Elster,” he reiterated, speaking this time with some anger. “I am Lord Hartledon.”
He of the loose coat shook his head. He had his hand again on the supposed Mr. Elster’s arm, and told him he must go with him.
“You cannot take me; you cannot arrest a peer. This is simply ridiculous,” continued Lord Hartledon, almost laughing at the real absurdity of the thing. “Any child in Calne could tell you who I am.”
“As well make no words over it, sir. It’s only waste of time.”
“You have a warrant — as I understand — to arrest Mr. Percival Elster?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, sir, I have. The man that was looking for you in London got taken ill, and couldn’t come down, so our folks sent me. ‘You’ll know him by his good looks,’ said they; ‘an aristocrat every inch of him.’ Don’t give me trouble, sir.”
“Well now — I am not Percival Elster: I am his brother, Lord Hartledon. You cannot take one brother for another; and, what’s more, you had better not try to do it. Stay! Look here.”
He pulled out his card-case, and showed his cards— “Earl of Hartledon.” He exhibited a couple of letters that happened to be about him— “The Right Honble. the Earl of Hartledon.” It was of no use.
“I’ve known that dodge tried before too,” said his obstinate capturer.
Lord Hartledon was growing more angry. He saw some proof must be tendered before he could regain his liberty. Jabez Gum happened to be standing at his gate opposite, and he called to him.
“Will you be so kind as to tell this man who I am, Mr. Gum. He is mistaking me for some one else.”
“This is the Earl of Hartledon,” said Jabez, promptly.
A moment’s hesitation on the officer’s part; but he felt too sure of his man to believe this. “I’ll take the risk,” said he, stolidly. “Where’s the good of your holding out, Mr. Elster?”
“Come this way, then!” cried Lord Hartledon, beginning to lose his temper. “And if you carry this too far, my man, I’ll have you punished.”
He went striding up to the Rectory. Had he taken a moment for consideration, he might have turned away, rather than expose this misfortune of Val’s there. The doctor came into the hall, and was recognized as the Rector, and there was some little commotion; Anne’s white face looking on from a distance. The man was convinced, and took his departure, considerably crestfallen.
“What is the amount?” called the doctor, sternly.
“Not very much, this, sir. It’s under three hundred.”