by Ellen Wood
Lord Level was a fine, powerful man, of good height and figure; his dark auburn hair was wavy and worn rather long, in accordance with the fashion of the day. His complexion was fair and fresh, and his features were good. Altogether he was what the Major had called him, an attractive man. Blanche Heriot had danced with him and he had danced with her; the one implies the other, you will say; and a liking for one another had sprung up. It may not have been love on either side as yet — but that is uncertain.
“How lovely!” exclaimed Blanche, as he held out to her a small bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley, and their sweet perfume caught her senses.
“I brought them for you,” whispered Lord Level; and he bent his face nearer and took a silent kiss from her lips. It was the first time; and Blanche blushed consciously.
“You did not tell me who that was, Blanche.”
“Arnold Ravensworth,” she replied. “You have heard me speak of him.”
“An ill-tempered looking man!”
“Do you think so? Well, yes, perhaps he did look cross to-night. He had been hearing about — about us — from papa; and I suppose it did not please him.”
Archibald Baron Level drew himself up to his full height; his face assumed its haughtiest expression. “What business is it of his?” he asked. “Does he wish to aspire to you himself?”
“Oh, no, no; he is soon to be married. He is a man of strict honour, and I fear he thinks that papa — that I — that we have not behaved well to Captain Cross.”
They were standing side by side on the hearth-rug, the fire-light playing on them and on Blanche’s shrinking face. How miserably uncomfortable the subject of Captain Cross made her she could never tell.
“See here, Blanche,” spoke Lord Level, after a pause. “I was given to understand by Major Carlen that when Captain Cross proposed for you, you refused him; that it was only by dint of pressure and persuasion that you consented to the engagement. Major Carlen told me that as the time went on you became so miserable under it, hating Captain Cross with a greater dislike day by day, that he had resolved before I spoke to save you by breaking it off. Was this the case, or not?”
“Yes, it was. It is true that I felt wretchedly miserable in the prospect of marrying Captain Cross. And oh, how I thank papa for having himself resolved to break it off! He did not tell me that.”
“Because I have some honour of my own; and I would not take you sneakingly from Cross, or any other man. You must come to me above-board in all ways, Blanche, or not at all.”
Blanche felt her heart beating. She turned to glance at him, fearing what he might mean.
“So that if there is anything behind the scenes which has been kept from me; that is, if it be not of your own good and free will that you marry me; if you gave up Captain Cross liking him, because — because — well, though I feel ashamed to suggest such a thing — because my rank may be somewhat higher than his, or for any other reason: why then matters had better be at an end between us. No harm will have been done, Blanche.”
Blanche’s face was drawn and white. “Do you mean that you wish to give me up?”
“Wish it! It would be the greatest pain I could ever know in life. My dear, have you failed to understand me? I want you; I want you to be my wife; but not at the sacrifice of my honour. If Captain Cross — —”
Blanche broke down. “Oh, don’t leave me to him!” she implored. “Of course, I could never, never marry him now; I would rather die. Indeed, I do not quite know what you mean. It was all just as you have been told by papa; there was nothing kept behind.”
Lord Level pillowed her head upon his arm. “Blanche, my dear, it was you who invoked this,” he whispered, “by talking of Mr. Ravensworth’s reflection on you in his ‘strict honour.’ Be assured I would not leave you to Captain Cross unless compelled to do so, or to any other man.”
Her tears were falling. Lord Level kissed them away.
“Shall I buy you, my love? — bind you to me with a golden fetter?” And, taking a small case from his waistcoat-pocket, he slipped upon her marriage finger a hoop of gold, studded with diamonds. His deep-gray eyes were strained upon her through their dark lashes — eyes which had done mischief in their day — and her hand was lingering in his.
“There, Blanche; you see I have bought you; you are my property now — my very own. And, my dear, the ring must be worn always as the keeper of the marriage-ring when you shall be my wife.”
It was a most exquisite relief to her. Blanche liked him far better than she had liked Captain Cross. And as Lord Level pressed his last kiss upon her lips — for Mrs. Guy was heard approaching — Blanche could never be sure that she did not return it.
A few more interviews such as these, and the young lady would be in love with him heart and soul.
* * * * *
And it may as well be mentioned, ere the chapter quite closes, that Mr. Charles Strange was out of the way of all this plotting and planning and love-making. The whole of that spring he was over in Paris, watching a case involving English and French interests of importance, that was on before the French courts, and of which Brightman and Strange were the English solicitors.
CHAPTER VII.
TRIED AT THE OLD BAILEY.
“Oh, Mrs. Guy, he is coming, after all! He is indeed!”
Blanche Heriot’s joyful tones, as she read the contents of a short letter brought in by the evening post, aroused old Mrs. Guy, who was dozing over her knitting one Tuesday evening in the May twilight.
“Eh? What, my dear? Who do you say is coming?”
“Tom. He says he must stretch a point for once. He cannot let anyone else give me away.”
“The Major is to give you away, Blanche.”
“I know he intended to do so if Tom failed me. But Tom is my brother.”
“Well, well, child; settle it amongst yourselves. I don’t see that it matters one way or the other. There’s a knock at the door! Dear me! It must be Lord Level.”
“Lord Level cannot be back again before to-morrow. He is at Marshdale, you know,” dissented Blanche. “I think it may be Tom. I hope it is Tom. He says here he shall be in town as soon as his letter.”
“Mr. Strange,” announced a servant, throwing wide the drawing-room door.
Charles Strange had only that morning returned from Paris, having crossed by the night mail. The legal business on which he and Mr. Brightman were just now so much occupied, involving serious matters for a client who lived in Paris, had kept Charles over there nearly all the spring. Blanche ran to his arms. She looked upon him as her brother, quite as much as she looked upon Tom.
“And so, Blanche, we are to lose you,” he said, when he had kissed her. “And within a day or two, I hear.”
He knew very little of Blanche Heriot’s approaching marriage, except that the bridegroom was Archibald, Lord Level. And that little he had heard from Mr. Brightman. Blanche did not write to him about it. She had written to tell him she was going to be married to Captain Cross: but when that marriage was summarily broken off by Major Carlen, Blanche felt a little ashamed, and did not send word to Charles.
“The day after to-morrow, at eleven o’clock in the morning,” put in Mrs. Guy, in response to the last remark.
All his attention given to Blanche, Charles Strange really had not observed the old lady. He turned to regard her.
“You cannot have forgotten Mrs. Guy, Charles,” said Blanche, noticing his doubtful look.
“I believe I had for the moment,” he answered, in those pleasant, cordial tones that won him a way with everyone, as he went up and shook the old lady heartily by both hands. “I heard you were staying here, Mrs. Guy, but I had forgotten it.”
They sat down — Blanche and Charles near the open window, Mrs. Guy not moving from her low easy-chair on the hearthrug — and began to talk of the wedding.
“Tom is really coming up to give me away,” said Blanche, showing him Captain Heriot’s short note. “It is very good of him, for he must be very b
usy: but Tom was always good. You are aware, Charles, I suppose, that the regiment is embarking for India? Major Carlen saw the announcement this morning in the Times.”
At that moment Charles Strange saw, or fancied he saw, a warning look telegraphed to him by Mrs. Guy: and, placing it in conjunction with Blanche’s words, he fancied he must know its meaning.
“Yes, I heard the regiment was ordered out,” he answered shortly; and turned the subject. “Will Lord Level be here tonight, Blanche? I should like to see him.”
“No,” she replied. “He went yesterday to Marshdale House, his place in Surrey, and will not return until to-morrow. I think you will like him, Charles.”
“I hope you do,” replied Charles involuntarily. “That is the chief consideration, Blanche.”
He looked at her meaningly as he spoke, and it brought a blush to her face. What a lovely face it was — fair and pure, its blue eyes haughty as of yore, its golden hair brilliant and abundant! She wore a simple evening dress of white muslin, and a blue sash, an inexpensive necklace of twisted blue beads on her neck, no bracelets at all on her arms. She looked what she really was — an inexperienced school-girl. Lord Level’s engagement ring on her finger, with its flashing diamonds, was the only ornament of value she had about her.
In the momentary silence that ensued, Blanche left her seat and went to stand at the open window.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, an instant later, “I do think this may be Tom! A cab has stopped here.”
Charles Strange rose. Mrs. Guy lifted her finger, and he bent down to her. Blanche was still at the window.
“She does not know he has sold out,” warningly breathed Mrs. Guy. “She knows nothing of his wild ways, or the fine market he has brought his eggs to, poor fellow. We have kept it from her.”
Charles nodded; and the servant opened the door with another announcement.
“Captain Heriot.” Blanche flew across the room and was locked in her brother’s arms.
Poor Tom Heriot had indeed, as Mrs. Guy expressed it, with more force than elegance, brought his eggs to a fine market. It was some few months now since he sold out of the Army; and what he was doing and how he contrived to exist and flourish without money, his friends did not know. During the spring he had made his appearance in Paris to prefer an appeal for help to Charles, and Charles had answered it to the extent of his power.
Just as gay, just as light-hearted, just as débonnaire as ever was Tom Heriot. To see him and to hear him as he sat this evening with them in Gloucester Place, you might have thought him as free from care as an Eton boy — as flourishing as a duke-royal. Little blame to Blanche that she suspected nothing of the existing state of things.
When Charles rose to say “Good-night,” Tom Heriot said it also, and they went away together.
“Charley, lad,” said the latter, as the street-door closed behind them, “could you put me up at your place for two nights — until after this wedding is over?”
“To be sure I can. Leah will manage it.”
“All right. I have sent a portmanteau there.”
“You did not come up from Southampton to-day, Tom? Blanche thought you did.”
“And I am much obliged to them for allowing her to think it. I would have staked my last five-pound note, if you’ll believe me, Charley, that old Carlen had not as much good feeling in him. I am vegetating in London; have been for some time, Blanche’s letter was forwarded to me by a comrade who lets me use his address.”
“And what are you doing in London?” asked Charles.
“Hiding my ‘diminished head,’ old fellow,” answered Tom, with a laugh. No matter how serious the subject, he could not be serious over it.
“How much longer do you mean to stand here?” continued Charles — for the Captain (people still gave him his title) had not moved from the door.
“Till an empty cab goes by.”
“We don’t want a cab this fine night, Tom. Let us walk. Look how bright the moon is up there.”
“Ay; my lady’s especially bright tonight. Rather too much so for people who prefer the shade. How you stare, Charley! Fact is, I feel safer inside a cab just now than parading the open streets.”
“Afraid of being taken for debt?” whispered Charles.
“Worse than that,” said Tom laconically.
“Worse than that!” repeated Charles. “Why, what do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing,” and Tom Heriot laughed again. “Except that I am in the deuce’s own mess, and can’t easily get out of it. There’s a cab! Here, driver! In with you, Charley.”
* * * * *
And on the following Thursday, when his sister’s marriage with Lord Level took place, who so gay, who so free from care, who so attractive as Tom Heriot? — when giving her away. Lord Level had never before seen his future brother-in-law (or half brother-in-law, as the more correct term would be), and was agreeably taken with him. A random young fellow, no doubt, given to playing the mischief with his own prospects, but a thorough gentleman, and a very prepossessing one.
“And this is my other brother — I have always called him so,” whispered Blanche to her newly-made husband, as she presented Charles Strange to him on their return from church to Gloucester Place. Lord Level shook hands heartily; and Charles, who had been prejudiced against his lordship, of whom tales were told, took rather a liking to the tall, fine man of commanding presence, of handsome face and easy, genial manners.
After the breakfast, to which very few guests were bidden, and at which Mrs. Guy presided, as well as her nerves permitted, at one end of the table and Major Carlen at the other, Lord and Lady Level departed for Dover on their way to the Continent.
And in less than a week after the wedding, poor Thomas Heriot, who could not do an unkind action, who never had been anyone’s enemy in the whole world, and never would be anyone’s, except his own, was taken into custody on a criminal charge.
The blow came upon Charles Strange as a clap of thunder. That Tom was in a mess of some kind he knew well; nay, in half a dozen messes most likely; but he never glanced at anything so terrible as this. Tom had fenced with his questions during the day or two he stayed in Essex Street, and laughed them off. What the precise charge was, Charles could not learn at the first moment. Some people said felony, some whispered forgery. By dint of much exertion and inquiry, he at last knew that it was connected with “Bills.”
Certain bills had been put into circulation by Thomas Heriot, and there was something wrong about them. At least, about one of them; since it bore the signature of a man who had never seen the bill.
“I am as innocent of it as a child unborn,” protested Thomas Heriot to Charles, more solemnly in earnest than he had ever been heard to speak. “True, I got the bills discounted: accommodation bills, you understand, and they were to have been provided for; but that any good name had been forged to one of them, I neither knew nor dreamt of.”
“Yet you knew the good name was there?”
“But I thought it had been genuinely obtained.”
This was at the first interview Charles held with him in prison. “Whence did you get the bills?” Charles continued.
“They were handed to me by Anstey. He is the true culprit in all this, Charles, and he is slinking out of it, and will get off scot-free. People warned me against the fellow; said he was making a cat’s-paw of me; and by Jove it’s true! I could not see it then, but my eyes are open now. He only made use of me for his own purposes. He had all, or nearly all, the money.”
And this was just the truth of the business. The man Anstey, a gentleman once, but living by his wits for many years past, had got hold of light-headed, careless Tom Heriot, cajoled him of his friendship, and used him. Anstey escaped completely “scot-free,” and Tom suffered.
Tom was guilty in the eyes of the law; and the law only takes cognizance of its own hard requirements. After examination, he was committed for trial. Charles Strange was nearly wild with distress; Mr. Brightman was much co
ncerned; Arthur Lake (who was now called to the Bar) would have moved heaven and earth in the cause. Away went Charles to Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar: and that renowned special pleader and good-hearted man threw his best energies into the cause.
All in vain. At the trial, which shortly came on at the Old Bailey, Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar exerted his quiet but most telling eloquence uselessly. He might as well have wasted it on the empty air. Though indeed it did effect something, causing the sentence pronounced upon the unfortunate prisoner to be more lenient than it otherwise would have been. Thomas Heriot was sentenced to be transported for seven years.
Transportation beyond the seas was still in force then. And Thomas Heriot, with a cargo of greater or lesser criminals, was shipped on board the transport Vengeance, to be conveyed to Botany Bay.
It seemed to have taken up such a little space of time! Very little, compared with the greatness of the trouble. June had hardly come in when Tom was first taken; and the Vengeance sailed the beginning of August.
If Mrs. Guy had lamented beforehand the market that poor Tom Heriot had “brought his eggs to,” what did she think of it now?
* * * * *
One evening in October a nondescript sort of vehicle, the German makers of which could alone know the name, arrived at a small village not far from the banks of the Rhine, clattering into the yard of the only inn the place contained. A gentleman and lady descended from it, and a parley ensued with the hostess, more protracted than it might have been, in consequence of the travellers’ imperfect German, and her own imperfect French. Could madame accommodate them for the night, was the substance of their demand.
“Well — yes,” was madame’s not very assured answer: “if they could put up with a small bedroom.”
“How small?”
She opened the door of — it was certainly not a room, though it might be slightly larger than a boot-closet; madame called it a cabinet-de-toilette. It was on the ground-floor, looking into the yard, and contained a bed, into which one person might have crept, provided he bargained with himself not to turn; but two people, never. Three of her beds were taken up with a milor and miladi Anglais, and their attendants.
