CHAPTER IX.
MR. CAPT LEAVES SERVICE.
Mr. Capt bided his time. The quiet respectful foreign servant showed byno word or gesture that he held the key to the mystery of LuciusHaggard's birth. His duties were almost a sinecure, and though now hedrew his pay from Lucius Haggard, and was, of course, young Mr.Haggard's own man, yet he gave almost as much attention to the comfortsof the younger brother. Every afternoon Mr. Capt was in the habit oftaking a long walk in the great park. I don't think it was simply forlove of exercise, or to admire the scenery, that he was so regular inhis pilgrimages to a particular sylvan glade on the border of the riverSweir, which formed the extreme boundary of Lord Pit Town's home park.The real fact was, that Capt was in the habit of making a dailyinspection of the place where he had deposited his treasure. At first hewas accustomed to walk down to the river and examine the little tuft ofmoss which he had so carefully planted over the hiding-place furnishedhim by nature in the beech tree. But he had noticed that he had wornquite a little path just beneath his tiny treasure-house; suchcarelessness he remembered might betray him; so though he passed thetree every day, he was careful to avoid his first mistake; and as day byday the little tuft of moss grew greener, for it had now evidently takenroot, Capt gradually inspected the tree just as carefully but from agreater distance. From many a point of vantage he could observe thelittle green patch, and at length, by a refinement of ingenuity, he wasenabled to keep away from the tree altogether. His eternal cigar in hismouth, he was accustomed to walk about well within sight of the beechtree. The spot was secluded enough when he had first adopted thehiding-place, but as the autumn wore on and the leaves fell, Mr. Captthanked his stars at his own ingenuity. Having assured himself that noone was in sight, Mr. Capt would take a small opera glass from hispocket, then he would commence by its aid to admire the view, he wouldgaze round at all points of the compass; last of all, his glance wouldinevitably fall upon the beech tree, the glass would be fixed steadilyupon the little tuft of moss, and then seeing that it was undisturbed itwould be replaced in its case, and pocketed with a sigh of satisfaction.And then Mr. Capt would continue his perambulations in a comfortableframe of mind.
It was one of those bright, brisk, clear days of early winter, when thesun has attained sufficient power to make us unbutton our overcoats,and feel glad if we had left our neck-wraps at home. Mr. Capt had justbreasted the rising ground which formed the boundary of the dell in thedirection of the Castle. He stopped, and placed his hand in his pocket,to draw from it the glass, and to then commence his usual artisticstudies of the thousand and one autumn effects of the daily changinglandscape. But before he could get the glass to his eye, he perceived afigure standing at the edge of the little swirling river. There wasplenty of water in the Sweir just now, as it swept through the rich softmould here, where it formed the boundary of the home park. RobinsonCrusoe's gesture of disgust and fear, when he saw the first savage uponhis island home, was very similar to that made by Mr. Capt when hediscerned the tall figure of Blogg, the head keeper, leaning upon hisgun. Robinson Crusoe was a pious Englishman, as we know, but Capt beingan irreligious foreigner, gave vent to his feelings in a continentaloath. The keeper's back was towards Capt, and his eyes were fixed uponthe fast-hurrying waters of the swollen stream; the valet, though he wasa good six hundred yards off, retraced his steps upon tip-toe in hisgreat anxiety not to attract the keeper's attention. When he was wellout of sight, having put the rising ground once more between himself andBlogg, he lighted a cigar, and recommenced his walk, making a longcircuit, but as if drawn by some irresistible magnetism, his feet oncemore, ere the cigar was finished, brought him to the banks of the Sweirand the entrance to the dell. This time Mr. Capt was not so fortunate,for the keeper's eyes met his the instant he made his appearance. Thefact is that Blogg had been standing chewing the cud of his reflections,or possibly thinking about nothing at all, during the five and twentyminutes' circuit that Capt had made. There is a considerable differencein position between a head keeper and his master's valet. Bloggrecognized the fact, for though he didn't touch his hat to Capt, hedidn't presume to shake hands with him, and he addressed him with markeddeference.
"Mornin', sir," he said.
"Good morning, Mr. Blogg," replied the valet affably; "on duty, Isuppose."
"Lor' bless you, a keeper's always on duty; leastways a head keeper is."
The two men walked along amicably side by side.
"I daresay it seems to you," continued Blogg, "more like loafing thanduty, for me to go mouching round the best part of the day, aye, and attimes the best part of the night, too, with this here gun. Not thatwe're troubled much with poachers here about, they're mostly amytoorshere, but they're as full o' tricks as a bag full o' monkeys. I'm mostlya match for 'em you know, for I was a regular myself once, as you canremember. Ah, many's the dark night as I went out a-wirin' in King'sWarren parish. I don't know as there weren't more enjyment in thosedays. We were both younger then, Muster Capt," said the keeper with asigh.
"Ah, but think of your position now," said Capt, who wished to put theman in a good humour, that he might all the sooner shake him off.
"Position ain't everything. A head keeper's life is as anxious a time asa frog's in a frying-pan, a hot frying-pan, ye mind me; it's not alltips and perquisites; it's information here and information there, it'snight lines in the river and the lake, its wirin' and steel trappin',when it ain't ferrettin' and fish-pison, and what with the boys as cumsafter the antlers and the nestes, and the children as cums after theblackberries, and the radicals as keeps a dog, a man's hands is veryfull indeed."
"You must have an anxious time," said the sympathizing Capt.
"Ah, you may well say that," replied the keeper; "why, in my young daysthe boys they cum after the nestes, and the men they cum after the game,as is perhaps natural after all, but now they cums after everything.They even grubs up the ferns and the primroses with irons madea-purpose. Why, one of they fern chaps would think nothing of clearinghalf an acre in a mornin'. They comes after the butterflies with theirnets, and a botanizing with their tin candle boxes, and trespassin'comes natural to them. Why, only the other day I caught a fellerbottling mud out of a pond, and a-catchin' newts and such like. 'What'syour business here?' I said. 'I'm collecting quattic animals,' said he.'And I suppose you've got permission?' 'Don't you be insolent, my man,'he said; and he shakes his finger at me, for all the world like theSunday-school teacher used to shake his finger at me when I was alittle bit of a chap. 'Don't you try to stop the march of science, myman,' says he. 'I don't care nothin' about the march of science,' saysI; 'but if you don't hand over the pair of antlers as you've got up yourback, I'll wallop you, master. And after I've walloped you, you andscience can march where you please.' But what makes my life a burden tome," continued the keeper, still airing his grievances, "is vermin."
Capt started.
"What with the weasels, the stoats, and such-like, a man need have hiseyes open."
"Yes," said Capt; "you need all your powers of observation, I suppose."
"You're right there," assented the keeper; "it ain't much as escapesme."
By this time they had reached the middle of the glen, and were within adozen paces of Mr. Capt's secret store-house. Greatly to the valet'sdisgust the keeper now produced a lump of tobacco from his pocket, andcommenced with his knife to carefully shred off the quantity necessaryfor filling his pipe; he stopped to satisfactorily complete the delicateoperation, then, with great care, he lighted the little black claycutty. The keeper got his pipe into full swing, the two men were aboutto proceed on their walk, but Blogg suddenly laid his hand on thevalet's arm and pointed at the beech tree.
"It's many a man," he said sententiously, "as would walk by that treeand see nothing particular about it," and he stared at the tree incuriosity. "Aren't you well, Muster Capt?" he said suddenly, as theexpression on the valet's face attracted his attention.
The valet's countenance had become of an ashen
grey, and drops ofperspiration stood upon his brow as he seized the keeper's arm.
"I am feeling very queer," he said.
"You look as if you'd seen a ghost," said his friendly fellow-servant."Take a pull at that," said Blogg, producing a small flask from one ofthe capacious pockets of his moleskin coat. "I'll get ye a drop ofwater," he continued, removing the little metal cup from the bottom ofthe flask.
Half-a-dozen strides brought the keeper to the banks of the Sweir, butgetting the cup full of water was not such a very easy matter. Thekeeper flung himself upon the turf at the edge of the rapidly runningstream, but ere he did so he took the precaution to stamp, with one footin advance, upon the edge. The reason he did this was obvious, for thesoft bank was undercut by the rush of waters. He filled the little cup,and returned with it to his companion, incidentally remarking, "Thebanks are plaguy dangerous just here. Do ye feel better now?" he saidwith solicitude.
"Yes, I'm better now," said the valet.
"You look uncommon bad," returned the sympathetic keeper.
"And I feel so, Blogg," the other replied; "give me your arm, I mustlean on something. I think I'll get home at once."
"Just an instant, Muster Capt," said the keeper; "there's some artfulgame or other been a-doin' with that beech; some chap has gone andplugged the hole of it with a lump of moss; as like as not he's got ashopful of wires there now. I'll just put my hand in and find out whatthey've been up to with it."
"Get me home first, Blogg, if you can," hurriedly interrupted the valet,clutching his arm. "I feel," said he, with simulated anxiety, "I feel asif I were going to die."
"I won't keep ye a minute, Capt, but duty's duty," answered Blogg.
"Don't be a fool, man," cried the valet in an authoritative tone; "thereare seven days in the week, and you can search the hole, if there is ahole, to-morrow as well as to-day."
But Blogg was an obstinate man. "You're woundy masterful, Capt, for aman who thinks he's a-dying," said the keeper with an honest laugh."I'll see what's in the hole; and then, if you ask me, why, I'll carryyou to the Castle pick-a-pack, if you like." And then Blogg marched upto the beech tree and picked the moss away from the hole. He removed thestone, and turning to the valet, with a triumphant guffaw he cried, "Itold 'ee so, Muster Capt. I said as how there was a game going on," andthen he plucked the little packet from its hiding-place.
Maurice Capt was a determined man. Should he allow the cherished plan oftwenty years to be ruined by the curiosity of a clod? The packet was inthe keeper's hands. Like Alnaschar's dream of wealth, all the valet'splans and schemings, all his fondest hopes of affluence, would be kickeddown in an instant. He well knew the dogged honesty of the man; thepacket, now within the keeper's grasp, was as good as in Lord Pit Town'shands. All this passed through his mind in the twinkling of an eye, andas the keeper flung himself once more upon the ground, the Swiss valetadvanced over the soft turf towards his prostrate form with noiselesscat-like step. Maurice Capt had made up his mind. He flung himself uponthe keeper's throat with the ferocity of a tiger, and proceeded toattempt to throttle his adversary from behind. But the keeper was apowerful man. Although Capt's long fingers were tightly fixed upon hiswindpipe, and the astonished man was taken at a great disadvantage, yetthe keeper did his best to rid himself of the remorseless adversary whowas savagely attempting to strangle the life out of him. He couldn'tcall for help, and he didn't attempt it; but he struggled bravely, hedrove his heavy boots into the soft turf, and succeeded once even inrising to his knees, only to be forced back again upon his face by thefurious efforts of the Swiss. Blogg's eyes were nearly starting from hishead, and his mouth literally foamed, from the cruel tightening gripupon his throat. But the force of his muscular fingers, which wrenchedin vain at the iron wrists of the valet, began to relax. Even a strongman cannot fight long when deprived of air. As the light of triumph cameinto the valet's eyes, for he felt that slowly but surely he was chokingthe very life out of his victim, the vengeance of heaven suddenlyovertook the aggressor. The overhanging bank of soft earth all at oncegave way; assailant and assailed, and the very earth they struggled on,fell with a dull splash into the rushing stream.
Yet another few seconds, and the long lithe fingers of the Swiss wouldhave completed their deadly work. As he felt himself falling, herelaxed his grasp of the keeper's throat, in the natural instinct ofself-preservation. Before his mouth reached the water, the hapless Blogggot one great draught of air into his capacious chest, but Capt had toonearly effected his work, and the keeper was practically almostinsensible. The only effect of this last breath of life, that chance,and not the mercy of his adversary, had given him, was to make hismuscular fingers clutch the struggling wrists of his murderer with amore vice-like grasp. The assailant and assailed had now changed placesas they sank beneath the black waters. The valet's sole efforts now weredirected to escape from the tenacious grip of the still struggling man.As well might a cur attempt to shake off an infuriated bull-dog who hadonce fixed his remorseless fangs in his throat. They sank beneath thewaters, and, still violently struggling, reappeared again and again asthey were spun round and round by the rushing stream. But not for long.
The little packet escaped from Blogg's fingers and floated rapidly awaydown the stream. The would-be murderer sunk to the muddy bottom dead,and honest Blogg struck out and scrambled up the bank of the rushingSweir.
"Blame me," he cried, as he shook himself like a great water dog, "blameme if I don't think Muster Capt went clean mad; why, he nigh onstrangled me," and then he stared at the hurrying, rushing waters. "Poorchap, he have gone to his account. I wonder what was in that littlebundle though!"
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The dark waters of the Sweir have closed for ever over the crafty wretchwho had so lately held the destinies of a noble family within his grasp.Poor Lucy's secret has disappeared for ever beneath the raging waters ofthe little river. The oath that Lucy Warrender extracted from hercousin at the Villa Lambert more than twenty years ago will have beenkept but too well, and the secret will probably remain for everundiscovered. And will young George Haggard be any the worse, seeingthat he is robbed of his birthright? We know that Lord Pit Town's willhas practically made him a very wealthy man. The mills of heaven'sjustice grind slowly perhaps at times, but they go on turning andgrinding for ever. Lucius Haggard, who in his black and bitter heartknows that he is but an undetected impostor, may never marry, may evenpredecease the half-brother who was born in lawful wedlock. She, thesilent invalid, may yet perhaps speak, or the hollow beech tree mayperchance give up its secret.
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Many things can happen in a couple of years. To-day the old lord and theGerman doctor still chat and doze in the great picture galleries; andGeorge's mother, beautiful still in life's sad evening, yet wonderswhether she shall ever meet again in another world the dead husband whobetrayed her, but whom she has forgiven long ago. As she lies on hersofa in the pretty room heavy with the scent of flowers, which has beenhers for many a long year, her eye brightens, and the soft colour comesback momentarily to the pale cheek, as she hears the manly step of herdear son George; her own son, her very own son, her best beloved.
He is dressed in deepest mourning; and he wears it for Lucius Haggard,the man who would have robbed him of his birthright.
"Mother! dear mother!" he says, as he gently takes her hand.
There is no more to tell. And now the prompter claps his hand upon hislittle bell, and down comes the green curtain upon the drama of humanlove, of human passion, selfishness and greed, upon the end of thefamily mystery with which it has been the author's privilege to try andinterest the reader.
THE END.
PRINTED BYKELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
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Transcriber's note:
Although most printer's errors have been retained, some changes havebeen
made silently in spelling, punctuation, capitalization, andaccents. Variations have been made consistent.
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