CHAPTER XXVI.
A VISIT TO VALDIMIR.
Love’s heralds should be thoughts Which ten times faster glide than the sunbeams. Driving back shadows over lowering hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind swift Cupid wings. SHAKESPEARE.
With thee all scenes are sweet; each place hath charms— Earth, sea, alike our world within our arms. BYRON.
Lord Beaudevere kept his appointment, and reached Castle Montjoie in time to dress for dinner; but only in time, for he had to go at once to his chamber, make a hasty toilet, and descend to the drawing-room, where he found the three young ladies waiting for him.
In answer to their eager questions, he told them that old Mr. Coyle knew nothing of Brandon’s whereabouts, and that therefore he had been disappointed in his hope of obtaining a clew to the fugitive.
He forbore to tell them the news of Brandon Coyle’s heavy forgery. His sympathies for the poor old squire kept him silent upon this subject of the family dishonor.
Dinner was at once announced, and they all went into the dining-room.
Lord Beaudevere had gained a fine appetite from his long ride in the crisp, cold air, and moreover he highly approved the young countess’s cook; therefore, notwithstanding other adverse circumstances, he greatly enjoyed his dinner.
The two children were brought in at dessert, and had their treat of nuts, fruit and cake; after which they were remanded to their nursery, and the three young ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, leaving Lord Beaudevere at the table.
The baron, however, never sat long over his wine. He soon joined them.
Then, instead of their usual evening recreation of music, chess or backgammon, they gathered around the fire and talked only of their beloved prisoner.
They were interrupted at length by the postman’s knock, which the hall footman answered.
They listened eagerly, and soon Adams came into the room with only one letter on his silver waiter.
“For Mrs. Adrian Fleming, my lady,” he answered to the inquiring look of the countess, as he took the waiter across the room to Net.
“It is from Deloraine, Devon, but in a strange handwriting. I fear—I fear—that Antoinette is worse,” she exclaimed, as she gazed at the letter, and then hastily opened it.
“Who is it from?” impatiently inquired Vivienne.
“Her attendant physician—Dr. Bede,” slowly and sadly answered Net, who was anxiously reading the few lines written on one page of note-paper.
“How is she?” inquired Lady Arielle, eagerly.
“Antoinette is worse—much worse. Her physician writes at her request to tell me so, and to ask me to come at once without a day’s delay, and to bring the children if I prefer to do so,” mournfully replied Net.
“And you will go, of course,” said Vivienne.
“Oh! I must! I must! I must go by the very first train! _Dear_ Lord Beaudevere, is there any train that I can catch to-night?” she anxiously inquired, turning to the baron.
“My good young lady, certainly not. There is a train in the morning at eight-thirty. The time has been changed within a few days. We can catch _that_ by getting up to-morrow morning at five o’clock. It is the same train by which we go.”
“Then we can travel together,” said Net.
“Yes, as far as the Miston Junction, but no farther. There we separate.”
“You go North, we go South,” put in Net.
“Exactly.”
“And now,” said wise Little Mammam, “as we have to rise so early in the morning, will you let me suggest that we retire immediately?”
“We will, and we will follow the suggestion,” said Arielle.
And each of the party took a light, and they bade one another good-night and retired.
Punctually at five o’clock the next morning the baron was awakened from his slumbers by the rap of Adams.
In half an hour afterwards the travelers had dressed, breakfasted, and were ready to commence their journey.
The vehicle just held the party—Net filling the fourth seat.
The regular coach-horses were not taken out for this long drive; but the strongest pair of draught horses were harnessed to the carriage, and the careful old coachman, Abraham, was on the box.
It was but a few minutes after five when they drove off in the darkness of the winter morning.
The carriage-lamps had been trimmed and lighted, and the coachman knew his road and his horses, so that the journey seemed a safe one, notwithstanding the hour.
The conversation during the long drive turned exclusively upon the prisoner at Yockley and the invalid at Deloraine Park.
“What is the malady of Miss Deloraine?” inquired the baron of Net.
“I think they call it atrophy of the heart. It is hereditary in her mother’s family,” replied Net, as they drove on through the darkness.
They drove on as fast as the strong draught horses could draw them.
They came in sight of the spires of Miston Old Church just as the first faint light of morning was seen on the Eastern horizon, and they reached Miston Station as the first beams of the rising sun appeared above the hilltops.
They had ten minutes to spare, and these were spent in giving directions to old Abraham to put up the carriage and horses at the Dolphin for the day, and to meet them at the station for the seven P. M. train.
Then the baron put the three young ladies in the central compartment of a first-class carriage and went into a smoking-car to enjoy his matutinal cigar.
In five more minutes the train was off.
The three girls, after a little more conversation among themselves, went off to sleep, as was very natural after having been disturbed in the morning’s nap and fatigued by a long and rough drive.
They slept with little disturbance until the train reached Miston Junction, where they were awakened by the bustle of arrival.
Here the friends were to part company—Net to go down to Devonshire, and the others to go up to Yockley.
Lord Beaudevere threw away the stump of his cigar, got out of the smoking-carriage and came to the door of the ladies’ compartment to get them off.
“Your train is ready, my dear. It starts full fifteen minutes before ours. I shall have plenty of time to get you a seat in the ladies’ carriage and commend you to the care of the guard. But _you_ must hurry. Come on.”
By this time the baron had led the way to the waiting-room, where Net hastily kissed her two girl friends good-bye and followed Lord Beaudevere to the next train, where he got for her a safe and comfortable seat in a carriage full of ladies, and where he put a half sovereign into the hand of the guard as an inducement to look after the safety and comfort of the young traveler.
Then he shook hands with Net, telling her to write or telegraph in case she should want service of any sort from him.
The train began to show signs of moving, so he left the carriage and returned to his own party in the waiting-room.
As soon as their own train was ready he put the two young ladies in a reserved compartment, and not wishing to smoke another cigar, he joined them there.
This happened to be an express train, and the run to Yockley was a rapid one.
They reached the station at about eleven o’clock.
Lord Beaudevere engaged a fly, put his young companions in it, followed them and ordered the driver to go to Yockley prison.
The man was the same one whom his lordship had several times already engaged, and he touched his hat respectfully as he mounted his box and drove off.
“I must warn you, my dear, not to be shocked too severely by the appearance of the prison. It is not like a private house, nor even like any other public building.”
“Oh, my dear Lord Beaudevere, I have seen the _outside_ of several prisons, and I can judge from that the inside is not very attractive,” replied Arielle with a sad smile.
Yet half an hour later, when they reached the high stone walls and rolled through the great iron gate of the prison-yard, and saw the grim stone face, with its small, grated windows, of the prison house, Arielle lost all her courage and burst into a storm of tears.
Lord Beaudevere stopped the carriage to give her an opportunity of conquering her emotion and recovering her self-command.
Then they drove on to the doors of the prison and got out.
Arielle shuddered at the great, oaken, iron-bound doors, and the heavy lock chains, the bare stone walls, the bare flagged floors.
The baron stopped at the door of the warden’s office to get the service of a turnkey, and then drew Arielle’s arm within his own and led her up the stone steps.
Vivienne followed, with her vail drawn down over her face to conceal its irrepressible emotion.
Vivienne suffered equally with Arielle, but even her own Beaue forgot the sister’s sorrow in the betrothed bride’s bitter grief.
The baron whispered a word to the turnkey, who started off at once and opened the cell door and left it open before they came up.
Lord Beaudevere’s money and care had converted the cold, bare prison-cell into a palatial cabinet or closet.
It was into this place that the two young ladies were introduced.
Valdimir Desparde, in a carefully made morning toilet, was seated in the easy-chair, leaning over his little writing-table.
He turned his head on hearing approaching footsteps, and seeing Lord Beaudevere leading in Arielle Montjoie, the light of a sudden rapture irradiated his face, and he sprang up to meet them.
He held out both hands and clasped hers warmly, while he gazed into her eyes in anxious, questioning love. What he read there gave him courage to draw her to his bosom, and press his lips upon her brow. And hardly a syllable passed between them but the inevitable low-breathed words:
“_Oh, Arielle!_”
“_Oh, Valdimir!_”
“Speak to Vivienne! Speak to your sister! She is behind!” whispered the young girl, gently disengaging herself from her lover’s embrace.
He turned to see his sister, and met her as warmly as he had met his betrothed bride.
And lastly he shook hands with his kinsman, and thanked him for bringing these dear ones to comfort him.
Then the two young ladies sat down on the sofa with Valdimir between them.
Lord Beaudevere occupied the seat of honor, the crimson damask, deeply-cushioned easy-chair.
And then they talked freely of Valdimir’s case and prospects, which the young man considered safe, notwithstanding that detectives had found no trace of Brandon Coyle, nor any passenger who remembered coming up by the London and Southwestern train with any gentleman answering to Valdimir Desparde’s description.
“Nevertheless I am not a whit discouraged. And indeed, though my detention here is disagreeable enough and the occasion tragic enough yet I _cannot_ help seeing a ludicrous side to this farce of falling into the trap of that railway carriage and being arrested for midnight murder. Me! whom it always hurt to have to kill a gnat!” said Valdimir, in a gay tone that was perhaps partly assumed to raise the depressed spirits of his visitors.
“The police are looking after Brandon Coyle on another count!” said Lord Beaudevere, impulsively; and he immediately regretted that he had done so.
“Indeed! But I do not wonder! On what other count?” inquired Valdimir.
“I will tell you another time, my boy. It is near your luncheon hour, is it not?” inquired Lord Beaudevere—“we will invite ourselves to lunch with you! I will go to the _White Bear_ myself to cater for our luncheon!” said the baron, as he took his hat and walked out of the cell.
“My cousin told you all about my reason for leaving the country in the way I did, dearest?” asked Valdimir of his betrothed.
“Oh, yes, everything he thought I ought to know, and quite enough to vindicate you perfectly, Valdimir. But, oh, love, why should you have punished yourself, and me, and all your friends, for the sin of another? Even if the base story had been true it would not have been your fault! I should never have thought the less of you, Valdimir!” pleaded Arielle with a look and tone that assured him she knew not the depth of dishonor that would have fallen on his own guiltless head had that dreadful story been true—for _him_.
Very soon Lord Beaudevere returned, followed by two waiters from the _White Bear_, bringing every requisite for a most substantial and delicious lunch.
After this lunch, which was really enjoyed by all the party notwithstanding the grave surrounding circumstances, the waiters cleared the table and carried away all the _debris_ and other articles, and the place was restored to tidiness.
After a little more conversation the baron told his young protégées that they must put on their coats and hats and be ready to go, for they had stayed to the last minute of their time.
The parting with the prisoner was a sad one, notwithstanding that he bore himself with the greatest cheerfulness, and that Lord Beaudevere promised to return every day to see him, and fetch and carry messages between Yockley and Montjoie.
After taking leave of Valdimir Desparde the party re-entered their carriage, that still waited at the prison gate, and drove fast to the station, where they just caught the train.
Much rested and comforted, the party entered upon their eight hours’ drive to Castle Montjoie, where they arrived in safety about half-past ten o’clock.
“All right here, Adams?” the baron inquired of the footman who opened the door to them.
“Oh, yes, my lord. All quite right, your lordship.”
“Any letters by the night’s mail?
“Only one, my lord, and that was for Mrs. Fleming.”
“Let me look at it. Unless it comes from Devonshire, where she has gone, it must be forwarded to her.”
The footman handed this letter on his silver salver. Lord Beaudevere took it and examined it carefully.
“It is post-marked London, and directed to Mrs. Fleming’s home in Church Lane. It has been sent on here. Come into the library a moment, Adams. I will put this letter in another envelope, and direct it, and do you put it in the carrier’s box to-night. It may be important,” said the baron.
And it was important, for it was that very letter which poor Kit Ken had cunningly written to Mrs. Fleming and left with her landlady to be forwarded after ten days, unless good news arrived of her.