The Risen Dead E-Book

Marryat Florence

• Herausgeber: Xingú
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

When Anthony Melstrom comes of age and returns home to Gardenholme with a friend he saved from suicide to get his fiancée hand, he’s far from thinking he will trigger a succesion of events that will lead to the revelation of long held family secrets involving his birth and the death of his aunt.

Leseprobe

THE RISEN DEAD

by

FLORENCE MARRYAT

Based on the London Spencer Blackett, 1891 edition.

Cover illustration: Henri Boutet (1851-1919)

Licence: CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 2021 Xingú

https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/4.0/deed.es_ES

Índice

— I — Touch and go.

— II — Mutual confidences.

— III — In the countess’s boudoir.

— IV — Drawn into the net.

— V — The Abbey garden.

— VI — The family lawyer.

— VII — Startling intelligence.

— VIII — Who is Anthony?

— IX — The companion.

— X — A brothers’ quarrel.

— XI — Outcast Anthony.

— XII — A sorry triumph.

— XIII — In the toils.

— XIV — An unpleasant disclosure.

— XV — A mother’s retribution.

— XVI — The risen dead.

— XVII — An English Lily.

— XVIII — A fatal insult.

— XIX — The duel.

— XX — The death.

— XXI — The Earl proposes.

— XXII — The new baronet.

— XXIII — A resurrection.

— XXIV — Mother and son.

— XXV — A bootless bene.

— XXVI — At last.

— I — Touch and go.

A crowd of foreigners were warmly discussing some subject of interest in a salle à fumer in the Hôtel des Papilons in Homburg, and a young Englishman, with a cigar between his lips, was leaning against a pillar and listening to their conversation. It was a hot night in September, and it was late. The gaming-houses had closed, and dark, thunderous-looking clouds, with a warning of rain, had driven the most reckless spirits indoors. There they had broken up into clusters.

Some were playing at cards or dominoes; a few were talking over their success at the tables; a large proportion were smoking, or drinking sullenly by themselves, as they pondered over their losses. But by-and-by an old waiter, apparently well known to all present, commenced to move from one table to another, and chatter and whisper with bated breath and uplifted hands, till one idea seemed to animate every man present.

“Cannot you reason with him, Henri? Will he answer nothing? What does M. Legros say?”

“Mais, messieurs,” reiterated Henri, “M. Legros is half beside himself. What to do, he knows not. It is inconceivable, but it is certain. Ce pauvre intends to do himself some injury. And in the Papilons, too. Such a calamity has never happened in the hotel before!”

“I shall not be surprised at anything,” ejaculated a German, carelessly. “He has been losing heavily for the last fortnight—we have all seen that—and if he prefers a world where there are no landlords nor hotel bills to Homburg, he has a right to please himself.”

“But think of the disgrace, monsieur. It will be our ruin!” said Henri, wringing his hands.

“Bah! A fig for your disgrace! He spent his money royally whilst he had it, and doubtless has paid you double for what he has received. Let the poor fellow have his money’s worth for once.”

“But has M. Legros expostulated with him?” inquired another man. “Has he attempted to force the door?”

At this juncture a little fat man with a bald head, on which the beads of perspiration were standing with anxiety and alarm, was seen making his way between the crowd.

“V’là, m’sieur!” exclaimed the waiter. “Have I expostulated with the gentleman? Have I attempted to force the door?” the little man repeated, excitedly. “Messieurs, I give you my solemn word of honour that I have, in reason, done everything. I did not like the look of monsieur when he returned from the tables to-night. It was fixed—stony—immovable. I have seen that look before. I spoke to him, but received no answer. Then he ascended to his room and locked the door. He will neither speak nor open to us, but he has walked the floor for hours, and now all is still, and I fear the worst!”

The men near him burst into a loud peal of derisive laughter.

“Go to, Legros! You have been looking at an empty bottle! What is all this noise about? A man returns to your hotel tired and weary —a little low into the bargain, perhaps —and requires rest and none of your infernal chatter, and you jump to the conclusion that he is a suicide. We ought to duck you for having tried to make fools of us!”

“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried the hotel-keeper, in real distress, “this is no laughing matter. Believe me, I know the symptoms of such things better than you do. Monsieur is reckless—not hopeless nor despairing—he has not feeling enough for that—but just indifferent to his life and everything else. I could read it in his face. And he will kill himself if nothing is done to prevent it.”

“Break open the door, then, and hand him over to the police!” suggested another listener.

M. Legros’s face turned livid at the idea.

“Break open the door!” he ejaculated. “Monsieur cannot consider what he is saying. He might turn the deadly weapon against myself.”

“He has reason,” interpolated a Frenchman.

“I had a friend once—a brave and honest man—who would interfere between two brawlers and separate them, and they turned the knife against him, and he fell pierced to the heart. He had better have left them alone. It is dangerous to meddle with what does not concern one’s self.”

The young Englishman, who had been listening to all this, suddenly threw away the end of his cigar and stepped into their midst.

“And will you allow the man to die, then, without making an attempt to save his life?” he demanded, with more surprise than anger. “Will you all sit here and discuss his looks, and deeds, and probable intentions, whilst he may be contemplating suicide upstairs? It is a positive duty for us to do what we can to prevent it.”

He spoke fluently and in excellent French, and there was not a man present who did not understand him. And yet not one echoed his sentiments or offered to assist him.

“It is not our business,” said the majority, as they slunk back to their cards or dominoes.

“You will do no good by interfering. You had better leave it to M. Legros,” replied a chosen few. And the rest looked at him as if he were an impertinent coxcomb, whom they would dearly like to bring to his bearings.

“What! will not one of you respond? Are you utterly indifferent to a fellow-creature’s life, or are you afraid of the weapon that may be turned against yourselves?” continued the young Englishman, in a sarcastic voice.

At that word, “afraid,” dark brows were sternly lowered, and many an oath was muttered over the insult; but that was all the notice they took of it, and the young man turned to the hotel-keeper.

“M. Legros, what is this gentleman, Englishman or foreigner?”

“He is an Englishman, the same as monsieur; one, too, of high family, who knows lords and princes, and...”

“Come! come! that does not matter now. Lead me to his room.”

“Ah! monsieur must not be too venturesome. He is really dangerous. Henri peeped into his chamber but a little while since—we have means by which, in moments of danger like the present, we can view the interior of a chambre à coucher— and beheld him, with a white, fixed face, sitting at a table with his pistols before him. But when I rapped respectfully at the door, he ordered me away with an oath, and threatened to settle the first person who attempted to enter his room. So what can we do?”

“Go to him at once. There is not a moment to be lost. Will you lead the way, monsieur? You hesitate. Then tell me the number and I will find it for myself.”

“And get a bullet through your head for your pains” laughed a man, scornfully.

“That is my concern, monsieur, and no one else’s.”

“And no loss either, you might have added,” replied the man, rudely.

The blood rose to the fair face of the Englishman, but this was no moment to pick a quarrel, so he turned again to the landlord.

“The number, monsieur?”

“If you are resolute,” said Legros, deprecatingly, “Henri will conduct you to the end of the corridor and point out the door. But be careful, monsieur, I entreat of you. The poor gentleman is mad. You had better let me send for the gendarmes to take him away.”

“You can do that if you think fit, when I have failed in my mission,” replied the stranger, as he hurried the old waiter from the salle à fumer. The comments which followed his departure were not flattering ones.

“A pig-headed Anglais” said one.

“A good thing if his brains are blown out,” added another.

“There would be one boaster less in the world!” exclaimed a third man. “Who is he? Where does he come from? He had better wait until the hair has grown upon his chin before he lays down the law for wiser heads than his own.”

“Ah! messieurs!” cried Legros, “speak lower, I implore you. Some of his friends may be within hearing. It is a great milord; a monsieur of the English aristocracy, a son of the Duke Warren. It would be dangerous to affront him. It would ruin my house.”

“It appears to me, M. Legros,” said one of his customers, who had not hitherto spoken, “that your house is so easily injured, that the only wonder is that it was not in ruins long ago.”

Meanwhile, the young Englishman, full of generous warmth and anxiety to save a fellow creature from destruction, was rushing along the corridor at the top of his speed, towards the fatal bed-chamber.

“V’là, m’sieur, numéro vingt-neuf” said Henri, as he paused at a respectful distance from it, and pointed with his finger.

“Vingt-neuf” repeated the young man to make sure, and then, without hesitation, he walked up to the door and rapped loudly against it with his knuckles.

His interference was rewarded by the sound of a muttered imprecation, and a demand of who was there.

“A friend and a countryman!” replied the young man, cheerily, “and I bring you good news. Please let me in!”

“I don’t know you, and I want no news,” was the answer. “I beg you will leave me. I wish to be alone”

“Pray open the door” pleaded the fresh young voice. “I have a particular message for you. Let me come in, if only for five minutes.”

The man inside the chamber seemed to hesitate for a few moments, and then he answered gruffly: “Very well! for five minutes then, though I don’t know what on earth you can want with me”

The old waiter slunk into the background as he heard the key turn in the lock, and saw, to his amazement, the younger man admitted to the room. He lingered on the staircase for a moment, half expecting to hear the fatal pistol shot, with which he believed the desperate stranger would receive his visitor, but as it did not occur, he slipped back into the salle à fumer to relate his experiences. And as he did so, the two men so suddenly brought face to face were standing looking at each other.

“And now what the— has brought you here?” demanded the elder. “Do you know that this is an unwarrantable intrusion on my privacy? What right have you, or any one, to thrust your company on me, uninvited?”

He was a middle-aged man of about five-and-forty, with gray hair, surmounting a face which bore traces of great physical beauty. He was tall, erect, and well-made, with blue eyes and fair complexion, and a general appearance of vigour that seemed strange in juxtaposition with his prematurely whitened hair. His dress was disordered, his head ruffled, and his whole bearing sullen and defiant; but the younger man’s feelings seemed to go forth at once to him, as though he longed to know and own him as a friend. But the manner in which he had been addressed made him feel diffident.

“I know—I feel, sir” he commenced, “that this intrusion must seem impudent to you, but I could not help it. Forgive me. There are rumours passing below that you have been a little unfortunate (as we all are at times) at the tables lately, and I have come to offer myself as your friend. Will you let me be so?”

The elder man laughed sardonically.

“My friend! How do you propose to be that?”

The other got hold of his hand.

“By begging you to pause and consider before you do anything you may afterwards regret. By asking you to be a little calm and patient, and to confide in me and see if it is not possible that I can help you. To remember that your luck may change again as quickly as it seems to have done now, and that the assistance of a friend may enable you to win back all that you have lost. Only be patient, and do nothing rash.”

The elder man wrenched his hand away again, and sank down in a chair, burying his face upon his outstretched arms. The younger one walked deliberately up to the table where the shining revolvers lay ready for their victim, and placed them in the back pocket of his coat. On seeing this, their owner started from his position.

“What makes you do that?” he demanded, furiously. “What right have you to meddle with my property?”

“The right of a friend and fellow-sinner. Have I not already said I wish to be your friend? Let us talk quietly over your affairs this evening, and then if you are still convinced you will be better out of the world than in it, you shall have your revolvers back again. Isn’t that a fair bargain? You will be able to blow out your brains just as well to-morrow as to-day indeed, I expect better, for your hand is rather shaky, I perceive, and will be all the steadier for a night’s rest”

The stranger left his seat and walked up to his side.

“You are rather a remarkable young man,” he observed, “and rather a plucky one. There are not many people who would dare to interfere with my affairs like this. Who and what are you? I have at least the right to ask the name of one who constitutes himself my friend whether I will or no.”

“By all means,” cried the youth, laughing, for he felt he had gained his end. “I am not ashamed of it. My name is Anthony Melstrom, and I am the second son of Lord Culwarren.”

The stranger’s white and careworn face became still more pallid. He staggered slightly as he reseated himself, and passed his hand in a puzzled way across his brow.

“Lord Culwarren!” he repeated. “Culwarren of Gardenholme?”

“The same, sir,” said the young man, eagerly; “but my father is dead (as perhaps you know), and my brother Philip has the title. We lost our father ten years ago, and my mother has resided almost completely at Gardenholme since. Did you know my father?”

“How strange, how very strange” murmured his companion, “that his son should lend me a helping hand at such a juncture! Yes, Mr. Melstrom, I did know Lord Culwarren, but it is now many years ago, indeed before his marriage with your mother, and I have been a wanderer in foreign lands ever since. And so you are actually Culwarren’s son?”

“Only the second, sir—a younger son of no repute whatever, and still less fortune; but all I have will be gladly at the disposal of my dear father’s friend. And may I ask your name in return?”

“Oh, certainly,” replied the stranger, with some confusion, “though the position you found me in to-night makes me rather ashamed to confess it. I am called Fosbrooke—Oliver Fosbrooke”

“Then, Mr. Fosbrooke, I hope you will shake hands with me and say we shall be friends for my father’s sake.”

“With all my heart, lad” replied Fosbrooke, as he grasped the offered hand warmly. “You’ve saved my life for the time being, there’s no doubt of that, and I suppose I ought to be grateful to you for it; though it would puzzle me (or any man) to say what I have left to live for”

“You must not let our friendship stop here,” exclaimed young Melstrom. “You must tell me candidly, Mr. Fosbrooke, what misfortunes have led you to this state of dejection, and let us find the remedy for them. If money can tide the difficulty over, I am sure it can be remedied. Why, if my modest allowance will be of no avail, do you suppose that my brother Culwarren would permit an old friend of our dear father’s to—”

“Stop—stop, my dear lad,” cried Fosbrooke. “I can quite understand and appreciate your generous intentions, for I received enough favours from your father in the days gone by, but I cannot avail myself of them. A small loan I may accept at your hands, but my money matters are not so desperate as you may have been led to imagine. My unhappiness—my depression—arises from quite a different cause, and what I was tempted to do to-night—to put an end to thought once and for ever—I have been tempted to do on twenty different occasions, even when my somewhat uncertain coffers were piled with gold”

“But you will never attempt it again,” said Anthony, earnestly, “you will promise to try henceforth to look on the brighter side of life for there is always a brighter side, you know.”

“I will promise you one thing, my dear boy,” replied Fosbrooke, cheerfully, as he rose and regarded himself in the glass, “and that is to arrange my toilet a little, and try and eat some supper. Do you know that I have not tasted any food for eight-and-forty hours?”

“Let me order them to bring it up here,” exclaimed Anthony, as he rang the bell. You mustn’t go down amongst that ribald; heartless crew, who have been betting on the probability of your death to-night. We will have a cosy meal and a bottle of champagne together, Fosbrooke, and then you shall tell me all about your troubles, and I will tell you about mine.”

“Your troubles?” echoed Fosbrooke, with a derisive laugh, as he regarded the lad’s youthful appearance.

“Yes, indeed! I dare say you think I cannot possibly have any, because I do not come of age until next month, but you are mistaken. My very presence here, when I would so much rather be at home, is a real misfortune, as you will acknowledge when you have heard my story.”

“Youth, good looks, a pocket full of money, and liberty to travel are not usually considered as misfortunes, my boy.”

“No, I suppose not. Yet there are greater troubles than age, or poverty, or an ordinary appearance, Fosbrooke.”

“Why, you’re quite a philosopher, Melstrom, and if you go on at this rate, you will be making one of me too. I think you have made a new man of me already. I feel quite glad to think I’m going to sit down to supper, with your bright young face opposite to me, instead of lying stark upon my bedroom floor, with my brains blown out over the carpet. Ah, Anthony! I feel as if I had known you all your life already.”

— II — Mutual confidences.

Monsieur Legros, who had never expected another order to issue from numéro vingt-neuf, unless it were for a coffin, was so astonished when he heard that Henri had been told to carry up the best supper and a couple of bottles of the driest champagne that the Hôtel des Papilons could afford, for the refreshment of the supposed suicide, that he felt bound to accompany the tray in order to satisfy himself that the marvellous account he had received was true.

“I trust” he commenced, as he timidly looked in at the bedroom door, “that monsieur is served to his satisfaction. If the hour were not so late, and the night so stormy, I should have sent into Homburg for something more recherché; but as it is” —rubbing his hands deprecatingly— “monsieur will be good enough to overlook any deficiencies.”

“Everything seems very nice,” replied Fosbrooke, as he glanced at the table.

“Come in, M. Legros” exclaimed Anthony Melstrom. “I owe you a thousand thanks for having been terribly mistaken about my friend Mr. Fosbrooke here. If you had not imagined, in consequence of his having a raging attack of toothache and being unable to eat or speak, that he contemplated putting himself out of the world, I should never have found out, perhaps, that we were staying under the same roof”

“Mais, milles pardons,” commenced M. Legros, in dread of Fosbrooke’s anger.

“No apologies, monsieur,” replied the latter. “It was a very natural mistake on your part. Truth to tell, I have felt miserable enough for anything the last few days, but this fortunate rencontre with Mr. Melstrom has set me up again, and after discussing your excellent supper I expect to be quite myself.”

“But he is not a Frenchman, remember” interposed Anthony, “and does not blow out his brains for a finger-ache or a decayed tooth.”

“Mais, le mal aux dents—c’est une douleur terrible,” exclaimed M. Legros, sympathetically.

“But there’s nothing for it like a glass of good champagne,” said Melstrom, as the first cork flew, and then Legros and the waiter bowed themselves out of the room, and the newly made friends were left alone.

“It’s just as well to put those beggars off the right scent” remarked Melstrom, as he put down his empty glass. “You don’t want the whole hotel to be talking of your adventure, Fosbrooke. They’ve said enough already, I can assure you, and if you take my advice you’ll clear out of Homburg as soon as may be.”

“Tm afraid I’ve made an ass of myself,” replied Fosbrooke, reflectively, “and I wonder if I have been a greater ass still not to carry out my first intention? When you knocked at my door, Melstrom, and startled me, I had one of my revolvers pointed at my open mouth, I can’t think why I didn’t pull the trigger instead of answering you. Shall I regret my indecision, I wonder? And shall I only have the trouble of going through it all over again, when the dark mood returns upon me?”

“I hope not, Fosbrooke. I hope I have been your deus ex machina, and that something more powerful than my own inclination led me to your assistance to-night. But don’t talk any more till you have had your supper. Fasting for forty-eight hours is enough to give any man the blues. I believe I should cut my own throat after it.”

He lay back in his chair, laughing as he spoke, and his companion took a long survey of him. He was a handsome stripling, tall, and Saxon in feature and appearance, with gray-blue eyes, that could look very sad when a cloud passed over them, but were usually kind and merry.

“You’re not a bit like your father, Melstrom,” he remarked, presently, as they began their supper. “I suppose you resemble your mother?”

“No, I think not. She is rather dark than otherwise—so was my father. Culwarren is the image of him”

“Indeed! Your mother was considered a great beauty, I believe? I remember reading the accounts of her marriage. Was she not a Miss Fairley, of Oakham?”

“Yes, Emily Fairley. There were twin sisters, Emily and Ada. Ada married Sir Allan Osprey, and died shortly after, leaving an only daughter, who has always lived with my mother.”

“Is she an orphan, then?”

“Yes. Sir Allan died before his wife. It was the shock, I believe, that killed her. It was a sad business altogether, and my mother felt it very much. But it happened before I can remember.”

“Your cousin must be quite like a sister to you, then,” said Fosbrooke.

Anthony flushed to the roots of his fair hair, but answered nothing. His companion regarded him in silence and changed the subject.

“Tell me,” said the young man, after a pause, “how long you knew my father, Fosbrooke, and why you dropped his acquaintance. I have always heard him spoken of as such a true and constant friend. Miss Paget says he was one of the best men that ever lived”

“Miss Paget! Who is she?”

“I hardly know how to tell you. I suppose most people would call her my mother’s companion, but she is much more like her dearest friend and confidante. She has lived with us ever since I can remember, and has been like a second mother to Lily (that’s my cousin) and myself I don’t know what we should do without Miss Paget, and Gardenholme would not be itself if she were away.”

“You give the lady high praise. Is not Lady Culwarren rather jealous of the influence she has over you?”

“Lady Culwarren! My mother!” exclaimed Anthony Melstrom, colouring again. “Oh, no! She wouldn’t care any way, whatever happened to me. Fosbrooke, that is the trouble of my life. I am nothing to my mother.”

“My dear fellow, I cannot believe that.”

“It is the truth, though. She adores Culwarren. He is a dear fellow and worthy of her affection, but she might spare a scrap or so for me. The reason I am wandering about the Continent alone now is because she won’t have me at Gardenholme.”

“Is it possible?”

“Quite so. You see I am confiding the history of my troubles to you before I have heard yours. Culwarren is a great book-worm, and is never so happy as when in his library. But I love dogs, and horses, and all field sports, and hardly know what to do with myself in a town. Yet, a twelve month ago—only because, I think, she saw I was so happy there—my mother ordered me to leave home for a year’s travel. She said I was too rough and boorish, and my mind required cultivation, but— but— I think there were other reasons.”

“Won’t you confide them to me?”

“I don’t know why I should not. I have no cause to be ashamed of them. I— I— am fond of my cousin Lily, and I want to marry her—in fact, we are engaged.”

“And Lady Culwarren objects to it?”

“Vehemently, though I cannot say why, for the match seems suitable enough. Lily inherits a small fortune from her parents, and I have the younger son’s portion on coming of age. It is not much, but it will be sufficient to marry on. Both the Miss Fairleys had handsome settlements. And my mother loves Lily dearly, and yet she sets her face against her engagement to me. Isn’t it strange?”

“What does the Earl say to it all?”

“Oh! he says nothing. He is a very quiet sort of fellow, and not likely to interfere in any quarrel. We have never discussed the subject together.”

“And Miss Osprey?”

“Lily would wait for me a dozen years, and marry me against all opposition. I am sure of that,” replied young Melstrom, confidently.

“She writes and tells you so?”

“No! that is the worst of it. They won’t let her write to me. My mother forbid all correspondence when we parted, and my cousin is naturally bound to obey her. But next month, when I shall be of age, I return to Gardenholme, and then no one will be able to come between us”

“Miss Osprey will be of age also?” inquired Fosbrooke.

“Not for two years, I am sorry to say. She is just nineteen. But if I can only see her, I shall not care, even though my mother should continue to oppose our marriage. But it is hard, isn’t it, Fosbrooke, to have one’s dearest wishes thwarted for nothing but caprice?”

“Do you wish me to tell you the truth?”

“Why, surely.”

“Then I should say that your mother was doing the kindest thing in the world for you by preventing your marriage, and especially to the first woman you’ve fallen in love with.”

“Don’t you believe in love, then, and the sacredness of marriage?”

“I believe in passion, Melstrom, and a legal tie that oftener turns into chains of iron than fetters of roses for the unfortunate couples it binds together. You have asked me to tell you the reason that brought me down to the desperate condition in which you found me. I can trace it all back to the treachery, the infidelity, the weak faith of a woman.”

“A woman!” echoed Anthony, starting.

Fosbrooke smiled.

“Yes, my boy, a woman. I suppose you think because my hair is gray, and I have reached middle age, that my blood must run cold, and I have done with all the weaknesses and temptations of youth. But let that pass. The woman I allude to is not in Homburg—is not, indeed, in this world; she passed out of it many years ago. Were it not so, I do not think I could trust myself to speak of her— even now. She was very beautiful, Anthony, and she was my wife in the eyes of God and man. But she did not love me enough to have complete faith in me. She married me secretly—there is no need to tell you why—but when those who were interested in separating us brought falsehoods to her against my character, and said I had legal ties existing which prevented her being my lawful wife, she believed them instead of me, and left me without any clue to her discovery, and died of the broken heart she had brought upon herself. And when she did that, my boy, she broke mine too.”

“She must have loved you very much,” said Anthony Melstrom, gently.

“She did; but the more I believed in her affection for me, the greater my remorse became. It is remorse that has carved out my life and made me what I am. The remembrance of her want of faith in my honour had no power to quell that, though it has turned me against the whole sex for her sake. There is but one way to live happy or content, Melstrom. Avoid women as you would a pestilence. Abjure love and marriage; they are only cheats to lure men to their destruction—mirages in the desert of life, which promise satisfaction, but vanish as you approach close to them. Keep to yourself, and if not happy, you can at least be free. Give up your liberty and you become a slave, without any compensation.”

“Fosbrooke, you are a misanthrope!” exclaimed his companion; “you view the world through the memory of your own disappointment. You don’t know what it is to be doubly happy in the presence of one you love.”

“Don’t I, my boy.?” cried Fosbrooke, as he drained another glass of champagne. “That’s all you know about it. Do you think there is no happiness in this world without making love? That’s a boy’s creed. Have you never heard of the land of Bohemia—the world of wit, and language, and song; where the care is lightest, and the talk is brightest, and we turn the night into the day, or the day into the night, just as it may please our unfettered spirits to do? That is my world, Anthony—the kingdom I have possessed now for over twenty years, in which I shall reign till I die. There are no women there, my friend, or not, at all events, in the set to which I belong; and if they do enter, it is on sufferance, and we neither love them nor hate them sufficiently to make our hearts ache. That is the place to live and die in—the Land of Bohemia. Let us drink to it in a flowing bumper.”

“And yet, beautiful and pleasant as you assert it to be, Fosbrooke, you did not seem to show much reluctance at leaving it just now. How is that?” demanded Melstrom.

For a moment Fosbrooke looked puzzled what to reply.

“Well, you see, my dear Anthony, the glass will fall sometimes, and even in Bohemia does not always point at “Fair.” Besides, I have none of my bons camarades with me in Homburg, and I must confess that I have been drinking too much lately—all from want of companionship and playing too high. When I am alone for a few days, old memories come pouring back upon me in such a flood, that I am not always master of myself. And then I have lost confoundedly been completely cleared out, in fact, and I shall have to raise the wind till my remittances fall due again. So, taking one thing and another into consideration, I thought I might as well not quite clear yet whether I’m obliged to you for spoiling my little game.”

“Oh yes, you are,” exclaimed the younger man; “and you will be still more so to-morrow. Look here, Fosbrooke, I have a proposal to make to you. Let us travel on together. I have more ammunition than I need to carry on the war, and can easily be your banker till your remittances arrive. And it will be a real charity to take me in tow. I am lonely like yourself, and very impatient to make the time pass till I can return home, and I am sure your company will help to do so. Is it a bargain?”

“My dear fellow, nothing would give me greater pleasure. I am not quite a pauper, Melstrom, and if you will lend me sufficient to get out of Homburg, I shall receive a communication from my bankers in the course of a week. But what will the Countess say?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Will she not be shocked if she hears that you have taken up with a man of my Bohemian proclivities—with a gambler, for I tell you plainly that I find my greatest excitement at the tables or in the cards—with a disbeliever in love, marriage, women, virtue—all the good old fables, in fact, which have been instilled into our minds with our mother’s milk, and which so few of us credit afterwards?”

Anthony Melstrom looked serious.

“Strange to say,” he answered, “though I have known you so short a time, I do not believe you to be half so bad as you would make yourself out to be. But were it so, I am afraid my mother does not take enough interest in my career to be either shocked or pleased by the company I keep. In fact, she has never asked what it might be, so I consider myself at liberty to choose it for myself And when the month of probation is over, I shall try and induce you to accompany me back to Gardenholme.”

Oliver Fosbrooke started.

“To Gardenholme?” he ejaculated. “Oh no! I could not go with you to Gardenholme.”

“Why not? You say you know the place, and must remember how charming the old abbey and the surrounding gardens are.”

Fosbrooke passed his handkerchief across his brow.

“Yes. I can remember perfectly. Is it much changed from— from five-and-twenty years ago?”

“I believe not. My mother always prides herself on keeping it up as it was in the old days. Did you know my grandfather, Fosbrooke?”

“No. He had been dead for some years before I became acquainted with your father.”

“But you must have known my father’s sister, Lady Diana Melstrom, who lived with him till she died. Poor Aunt Diana! I never saw her, of course, but I have heard she was lovely. Our old butler says she was the toast of the county.”

“What did she die of.” demanded Fosbrooke, as he stooped to recover his serviette.

“I am not quite sure. I believe it was from a fall from her horse, or some dreadful accident, but my mother never cared to speak of it. Indeed, I hardly think she knows herself. And Aunt Diana was such a favourite sister of my father’s that he could never bear to mention her name. Although she was such a beauty, we have not a single likeness of her. He smashed them all after her death, and destroyed every memento of her. It seems a great pity!”

“Does— does this Miss Paget you spoke of remember your poor aunt?” asked Fosbrooke.

“Oh no! How should she? She only came to live with us a few years before my father’s death—when I was about five, I think. She never knew any of the family before that.”

“Well, I am not sure whether I should like to see Gardenholme again or not, Melstrom. It would contain many sweet and bitter memories for me, for I esteemed your father highly. But for your sake I am sure I should like to be introduced to Miss Lily Osprey.”

“You shall be introduced to her when she is my wife, if not before,” replied the lad, proudly.

“Don’t shout till you’re out of the wood, Anthony. A year is a long time to a girl of nineteen. You may find a rival in the field.”

“Never! She is as true as steel.”

“Others have said that before you. But come, my friend, the supper is finished, and it is early morning. We had better go to bed. Tomorrow, since you wish it, we will journey on together, and I will try what I can do to make your exile pleasanter to you. Good night! I suppose I ought to thank you again for what you have done for me, or saved me from, and I do thank you for the generous impulse that prompted the deed. That, and a certain look in your eyes that brings back the remembrance of happier days to me, have made me your friend for life, Anthony. I am not a good man—I do not profess to be—but you need never fear for me. I will cut off my right hand before I abuse the trust and confidence you have shown in me to-night.”

— III — In the Countess’s boudoir.

Few people with unbiased minds would have been found ready to endorse Anthony Melstrom’s generous estimate of his elder brother’s character, for to the majority Lord Culwarren was an effete, weak-minded, and intensely conceited young man. Having no occasion to work for his living, and being strongly desirous to court popularity, he tried to pose as a genius, and spent his time in writing bad novels and worse poetry, which no one read but tuft-hunters, and for the appearance of which he largely indemnified his publishers. Still, he and his mother continued to believe that his non-success was caused solely by the envy and malice of less favoured writers, and that the day must dawn when his brilliant talents, combined with his high station, would make the world fall down and worship him. They formed of themselves a little mutual admiration society, of which each member was always ready to put the other in a good temper, despite of all discouragements from without. So the young Earl wrote, and Lady Culwarren admired, and chose to believe that every one viewed them in the same light they did themselves.

About a month after the occurrence related in the last chapter, the Countess was seated in her boudoir awaiting the arrival of her son. She kept a suite of apartments for her own use in the left wing of the house, which was shut off by baize doors from the rest of the establishment. Here, in a gorgeously furnished apartment, the walls, and tables, and étagères of which were covered with paintings, marble statuettes, rare china, and ivory carvings, it was her Ladyship’s pleasure to take her breakfast and receive such of her intimates as desired an audience of her, before she appeared en grande toilette at the luncheon-table. Culwarren was naturally the most frequent and the most favoured guest who ever knocked at the boudoir door. Indeed, he usually spent all his mornings there, composing his literary rubbish under the supervision of his mother, who was about as competent to advise as he was to write. But a sincere, though selfish affection existed between the Countess and her son, and the readiness with which she called out “Entrez” in answer to his summons, showed the satisfaction she felt at his arrival. It would fain have astonished any one who had been told that the Earl of Culwarren resembled his once beautiful mother, to have seen them together for the first time. He was a tall, slender young man, with brown eyes, and dark, crisp hair, which he wore rather long, in imitation of Tennyson and Swinburne, whilst she had a head of bright golden locks. But she had become inoculated with the prevailing fashion of dyeing her hair and painting her face, which, as she was now in her fifty-second year, made her age only more apparent. But she had been a toasted beauty, and she could not forget it, and so she attempted to hide the ravages of Time by Art, and fondly hoped that no one but her maid was in the secret. Attired in a peach-coloured robe de chambre, trimmed with costly lace, and with a fanciful cap upon her head, Lady Culwarren looked like a large and handsome doll, freshly turned out of the maker’s hands, before any of its curls had been ruffled, or the rosy hue of its lips kissed away. She saluted her son, though, very affectionately, and discovered at the first glance that something had disturbed him.

“Why, my dear Culwarren, what is the matter?” she exclaimed, as she held his hand. “Nothing unpleasant appeared in the papers about ‘An Aristocratic Secret,’ I hope? Because, if so, you must certainly not let Toadeater have your next novel. I gave him carte blanche to buy up the critics, in order that you should have favourable reviews.”

“No, mother, it’s not that. There hasn’t been time for the book to be reviewed yet.”

“Nonsense, dear boy! It has been out more than a week, and naturally the critics would read a novel from your pen sooner than they would those of the dozens of common authors who make a living by literature.”

“Perhaps so. Still, I have seen nothing of it.”

“What makes you look so gloomy, then? You have had something on your mind for weeks past. Come! what is the use of beating about the bush in this way? Tell me all about it. I may be able to help you.”

The young Earl threw himself into a chair and leaned his head thoughtfully upon his hand.

“You have remarked it then, mother!” he said, with a melodramatic air.

“How could I fail to remark it, Culwarren? Whom do I ever trouble my head about, except it is yourself? You know that you are my chief care—that you occupy my undivided heart, and always have done so—with the exception, of course, of that affection which was due to your late lamented father.”

“You have forgotten my brother Melstrom,” said the Earl.

At the mention of that name the alteration in Lady Culwarren’s voice and manner was painfully apparent. From having been earnest and affectionate it became hard and cold, as though the very subject were distasteful to her. She could not forgive the younger son, perhaps, for being so much handsomer, brighter, and a greater favourite with the world than his elder brother.

“Anthony!” she ejaculated, indifferently. “Oh, yes! he is well enough, poor fellow, and his father made an absurd fuss over him. But you are my own child, Culwarren—a Fairley no less in feature than in mind. You take after my family, and you have always held the first place in my affections.”

“And you are very fond of Lily also, mother, are you not? I fancy you would find it almost as hard to part with her as with myself.”

“Well, naturally, Culwarren. You have often heard me speak of the strong attachment that existed between my dead sister and myself, and her child has been like a real daughter to me. But why look so conscious? Have you really come this morning to make a confession to me?”

“What sort of a confession?” asked the Earl, with a conceited smile.

“One that I have been expecting to hear for a long time—that you have come to the conclusion that since Lily has spent so much of her life with us, it would be a pity for her ever to seek another home.”

“Don’t laugh at me, mother, for I’m very much in earnest. I’m over head and ears in love with her, and I want to marry her. There! now the murder’s out.”

“Well?”

“Well! You are not surprised, nor vexed, nor startled by my announcement? For this is no light fancy on my part, mother, to be taken up to-day and put down to-morrow. I want to make Lilian Osprey the Countess of Culwarren. You are sure you will like to see her sitting in your seat?”

Lady Culwarren rose with dignity, and crossing the room, imprinted a kiss upon the forehead of her son. It was not an ardent kiss as mothers’ kisses go—but then she had just been made up, and had her paint and powder to think of. But the embrace was worth more than it appeared, only there are circumstances under which one cannot afford to be too affectionate.

“My darling boy, it is just what I have been secretly longing for. Lily is a sweet, affectionate, docile girl, who will make you a charming wife and me an excellent daughter. I congratulate you both with all my heart.”

“Yes! But what about Anthony?”

“What about Anthony? I do not understand you, Culwarren.”

“Why, you know there were love passages between him and Lily before he left home—that they even considered themselves engaged to each other.”

“Nonsense! nonsense!” exclaimed the Countess, “there was nothing of the sort. I utterly forbade them to think of such a thing. Anthony may have disobeyed me—he has always been of an intractable and rebellious nature—but I have implicit faith in my niece, and I can vouch for her never having written to him, or hardly spoken of him, since their separation.”

“Still, she may not have forgotten him, mother, and somehow I don’t think she has. If I formally offer her my hand, she may not see fit to accept it.”

Lady Culwarren laughed incredulously.

“With your coronet in it! What an absurd idea! Really, Culwarren, you are ridiculously modest. Do you mean to tell me that if you, with your title, and your wealth, and your genius and good looks, were to ask Lily Osprey to be your wife, she would refuse you? You must think very little of yourself, or very little of her, to entertain such an idea. You put me out of all patience by even supposing it.”

But the Earl shook his head, and was silent.

Índice de contenido

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— I — Touch and go.

— II — Mutual confidences.

— III — In the countess’s boudoir.

— IV — Drawn into the net.

— V — The Abbey garden.

— VI — The family lawyer.

— VII — Startling intelligence.

— VIII — Who is Anthony?

— IX — The companion.

— X — A brothers’ quarrel.

— XI — Outcast Anthony.

— XII — A sorry triumph.

— XIII — In the toils.

— XIV — An unpleasant disclosure.

— XV — A mother’s retribution.

— XVI — The risen dead.

— XVII — An English Lily.

— XVIII — A fatal insult.

— XIX — The duel.

— XX — The death.

— XXI — The Earl proposes.

— XXII — The new baronet.

— XXIII — A resurrection.

— XXIV — Mother and son.

— XXV — A bootless bene.

— XXVI — At last.

Hitos

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