CHAPTER XXIII.

VIVIENNE’S WOE.

Sorrow and sin, and suffering and strife, Have now been cast in the stream of my life; And they have gone up to the fountain head, And all that flows thence is embitteréd. Yet still that fountain up to Heaven springs, And still the stream, where’er it wanders, sings And still, where’er it hath found leave to rest, The blessed sun looks down upon its breast; And it reflects, as in a mirror fair, The image of all beauty shining there. F. A. KEMBLE.

Lord Beaudevere continued his daily visits to Yockley prison, although the journey there and back, and the hour spent with his unhappy kinsman, took the whole of every day.

So long as he could prevent Jobson from sending the newspapers to Montjoie Castle and to Cloudland he had hopes that the disastrous news of Valdimir Desparde’s arrest and imprisonment on the terrible charge of murder might not reach the ladies of either house, for Lady Arielle lived in strict seclusion since the death of her grandfather, and Miss Desparde was confined to her room by a severe cold.

But as the days went on, and the news spread from one to another all over the country, until it was in everybody’s mouth, Lord Beaudevere perceived how futile were his plans to keep it concealed from his wards.

Any day, a word from a tradesman might reveal the calamity to a servant or a child, who might bring it suddenly to either of the houses from which he so earnestly desired to keep it.

He deemed it, therefore, best that he should himself gently break the matter to Vivienne and send her with the intelligence to Lady Arielle.

In accordance with this plan, he delayed his daily visit to Valdimir for a couple of hours, and met Vivienne at breakfast, to which she was now sufficiently recovered to come down.

She herself unwittingly led up to the subject.

“Oh, indeed!” she exclaimed, as soon as she entered the breakfast-room and saw him waiting there for her. “You do not mean to say that you are going to sit down to the table with me this morning? Why, I have not had the honor of your company for seven days! What has happened? Is the lost jewel, the great diamond, Sirius, found at last? If so, when shall I see my truant brother? Or is he detained to identify his property and—the thief?” she saucily demanded.

“Pour out my coffee, Vivi, and I will tell you all about it after breakfast,” replied the baron.

The girl sat down and did as he desired.

After breakfast was over the baron arose and said:

“Come into the library, my love. I have something to say to you.”

His manner and tone of voice alarmed the girl, and prepared her in some degree for what she was destined to hear.

She followed her guardian into the library, sat down opposite to him, and leaning upon the table, said:

“Now, Beaue, I know by your looks, that you have bad news to tell me! Out with it! Don’t _break_ it to me for pity’s sake! _Breaking_ bad news is like amputating the dog’s leg an inch at a time! Tell me in one word. What has happened to Valdimir?”

“Then, in one word, he is in _prison_,” answered the baron, solemnly.

The girl stared at him as if she did not comprehend.

“He is—_what_?” she demanded, in an uncertain tone.

“Valdimir is in _prison_,” repeated the baron.

“‘In—prison?’” slowly echoed the girl, still staring at the speaker—“‘in prison?’ Why—how is that? How can that be? Is Valdimir in debt? In debt beyond his ability to pay? Oh, Beaue! Why did you not tell me! _Now_ I know what you meant by the most precious jewel that he had lost! It was not the diamond Sirius. It was his precious _liberty_ that he had lost! Oh, Beaue! why did you not tell me the truth and not prevaricate with me? I would have given every penny I possess in the world to release Valdimir! You know it, Beaue!” exclaimed the girl, as the tears sprang to her eyes.

“My dear,” replied the baron, in a choked voice, “I also would give every farthing I own on earth to release Valdimir from prison, if money could do it! But money cannot do it, my girl. All the money in all the banks in this world could not do it! Valdimir is not in prison for _debt_, Vivienne.”

“BEAUE!! What do you mean? What is Valdimir in prison for?” cried the girl, growing marble pale.

“Brace yourself, Vivienne! Be firm! There is _nothing to fear_. Be sure of that. Now, do you believe me when I tell you that there is nothing, absolutely _nothing_, to fear for your brother?” earnestly inquired the baron, taking her hand and looking deeply into her wild and terrified eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course I believe you, Beaue! I could never seriously doubt your word. But—_what_—oh! _what_ is my brother in prison for?” she cried, clasping and wringing her hands.

“On a charge—Be firm now, Vivienne, for the charge can be disproved! I assure you that it can, and you must believe me—”

“Yes! yes! But what is the charge?” she demanded, wringing her hands.

“_Murder._”

Vivienne shrieked and covered her face with her hands.

“I told you it could be disproved, my dear,” said the baron, gently.

Vivienne did not answer.

“I told you there was nothing to fear for Valdimir,” continued the baron.

She did not reply.

“And there really _is_ nothing to fear. He is sure to be acquitted. I hope you believe me, Vivienne.”

“He—has—been—fighting a duel, then, and killed his antagonist?” she inquired, as if each word tortured her in its utterance, and without uncovering her face.

“No, no, dear! I am happy to assure you that he has not. He has not been fighting at all. He has not killed anybody. Did I not tell you the charge was a false one?” inquired the baron, in an encouraging tone of voice.

“Then, how came he to be accused?” demanded the girl, dropping her hands from her deadly pale face and raising eyes wild with anguish to the face of her guardian.

“It is a case of circumstantial evidence, sure to be disproved, my love. I will tell you all about it. Come! rally yourself! You are a brave young woman!”

“Give me a glass of water, Beaue,” she asked, in a faint voice.

The baron went to a little private cabinet of his own and poured out a small glass of rich old port and made her drink it all.

The cordial old wine revived her failing powers, and she sat back in her chair and prepared to listen.

Then Lord Beaudevere told her, as gently and delicately as he possibly could tell such a tale, the story of the reserved compartment taken by the mysterious stranger for himself and his female companion at Paddington, and afterwards ignorantly and innocently entered at the Grand Junction by Valdimir Desparde, who found what he believed to be a sleeping woman as the sole other occupant of the compartment, and who traveled all the rest of the way to Miston Branch Junction with the corpse of a murdered woman, for whose assassination he had been falsely arrested and imprisoned.

“But do not be anxious, my dear. Of course, such a charge as that can be fully disproved,” said the baron, in concluding his story.

“Who was the woman—do they know?” inquired Vivienne, in a low voice.

“A girl that belonged to Miston, I regret to say—a girl who was once in the service of your young friend, Mrs. Fleming, and whose poor little letter to Lady Arielle saved her ladyship from an unfortunate marriage.”

“Not Kit Ken?” exclaimed Vivienne, in amazement.

“Yes, poor Kit Ken.”

“Oh, I am very sorry! Poor girl! Ah! then there can be no doubt as to _who_ her slayer was.”

“You suspect Brandon Coyle?”

“I _more_ than suspect him, for I heard the words and saw the scowl of vengeance with which he left Castle Montjoie on the day poor Kit’s letter was read.”

“Oh, ah, yes! _you_ heard those threats of vengeance, did you, my dear?”

“Indeed I did! and I saw the look that accompanied them.”

“We may, then, want you to testify. But, Vivienne, do you know—have you any idea where the scamp went when he left Castle Montjoie?”

“Not the slightest. How should I, Beaue?”

“I thought possibly you might have seen or heard through Aspirita.”

“No, indeed; I have not set eyes on Aspirita, or got a word from her, since the day she left Castle Montjoie. I feel very sorry for the humiliation of that poor girl. It certainly is not her fault that her brother is a villain,” said Vivienne, who was far from suspecting how deeply imbued the sister was with the brother’s hereditary evils.

“The detectives are looking him up, but they have got no trace as yet. And now, Vivienne, my dear, I wish you to go to Castle Montjoie and inform Lady Arielle of the situation of affairs, before she can hear of it from any other source.”

“Oh, Beaue! what a terrible task to impose upon me! I cannot! I cannot, indeed! Besides, I intend to go with you this morning and see my poor, dear brother,” replied the young lady.

“I am not going to see him to-day. He will be engaged with his counsel the whole day. Do you know his trial is fixed for Monday week?”

“Good Heaven, Beaue!”

“I told you not to be afraid. He is certain to be honorably acquitted. But what I wish to impress upon you now is the fact that he will not have time to receive a visit from you to-day. So you had better go this morning to Castle Montjoie.”

“Beaue! I will go there with _you_, if you choose to take me; but I will not go alone to carry the burden of such a terrible story to Lady Arielle—especially after deluding _her_ as well as myself with mistaken theories of Valdimir’s detention! I will not, Beaue!” said Vivienne, in a tone that assured the baron all further argument would be useless.

“Well, well, perhaps I had better go with you, if it is only to set the poor fellow in a proper light before his lady’s eyes. Be ready as soon as you can, my dear. I will order the carriage,” said Lord Beaudevere.

“I will be ready in fifteen minutes, Beaue,” replied Vivienne, hurrying away to her own chamber.

Arrived there, however, she stood still in the middle of the floor, transfixed by the thought that her brother was in prison on the charge of murder, and was about to be tried for his life! She forgot everything else, until a footman rapped at the door, with his lord’s compliments and the carriage was waiting.

Then she started, went to a wardrobe, threw a sable circular around her shoulders, put on a velvet hat, seized her muff and gloves and ran down stairs to join her guardian.

“Is _this_ what you call fifteen minutes, my dear? I waited twenty before I sent for you,” said the baron as he handed her into the carriage.

“I beg your pardon, Beaue. I did not know,” she answered, vaguely and with a deep sigh.

“Vivienne, you do not place confidence in me when I assure you that your brother’s life and honor are in no serious danger,” said Lord Beaudevere, as they drove on; and he noticed her continued depression of spirits.

“Oh, I do, I do, Beaue! But do you think it possible for me to rally my spirits while my brother is in prison on such an awful charge?” she murmured, between pale lips.

“But, my dear, I hope you will be able to command yourself before we go into Arielle’s presence. She has been very severely tried of late.”

“Beaue,” said the young lady, very sadly, “I think there is another trouble and disappointment in store for poor Valdimir. Even when he shall be honorably acquitted of this charge there is another against him that he cannot disprove and Arielle will not condone.”

“And what is that?” inquired the baron, elevating his eyebrows.

“Valdimir’s low marriage! The death of his wife and child may have freed him from the ties, but cannot affect his future relations with Lady Arielle, who will never condone the offense,” answered Vivienne.

“‘His low marriage!’ Rubbish! Valdimir never was married!” impatiently exclaimed the baron.

“No? Why—we all believed—the detectives all told—I don’t understand,” muttered Vivienne, with a perplexed look.

“The detectives were all at sea; all misled by false appearances. Listen,” said the baron; and he began and told the story of Valdimir Desparde’s accidental meeting with Annek Yok and her child on the pier at New York, the morning of his arrival there, and of his subsequent care of the poor widow and her babe until he placed them under the protection of her two brothers in New Orleans; of their final death by yellow fever, and of Valdimir Desparde’s devotion to the sufferers from the fearful plague during the whole period of its reign.

“Oh, I am so rejoiced at that; or I should be if Valdimir were not in prison. At any rate I—it is a drop of comfort in my cup of sorrow. But, since it was not a low marriage that drove Valdimir so suddenly from his native shores, _what on earth was it_?” earnestly demanded Vivienne.

“Ah! thereby hangs another tale. I do not know that I shall have a better opportunity of telling you than the present one. I will save time. Now give me your attention,” said the baron.

And while Vivienne listened with the most sympathetic interest, Lord Beaudevere gave her first of all a sketch of Brandon and Aspirita Coyle’s early history, with the disgraceful career and ignominious death of their father, under the false _alias_ of a noble name—that of Desparde—and of the fraud practiced upon Valdimir by Brandon, which was rendered practicable and even plausible by the identity of names and the total ignorance in which young Desparde had been left of his own early history.

“And my brother believed himself to be the son of that executed murderer who had taken his father’s stainless name for an _alias_!” exclaimed Vivienne, in surprise and scorn.

“Yes, circumstances seemed to bear out the story told by Brandon Coyle.”

“I hope it is not necessary to tell Arielle such a horrible tale,” added Vivienne.

“No; it will be only necessary to say that a deception had been practiced upon Valdimir by making him believe that his own father had been guilty of a felony which had been committed by a villain who had assumed his name. I shall not go into particulars with Lady Arielle; it would be exceedingly bad form for me to do so. All that she will need to know is, that Valdimir was never married to any one, and never unfaithful to her in thought, word or deed; but that he left in the way he did from the most honorable motives. I shall assure Lady Arielle of this and leave my boy’s fate, with great confidence, in her hands.”

This conversation had occupied the whole two hours of their journey and ceased only as their carriage passed under the great archway.