Chapter 9 MR. CAPT LEAVES SERVICE.

Mr. Capt bided his time. The quiet respectful foreign servant showed by no word or gesture that he held the key to the mystery of Lucius Haggard's birth. His duties were almost a sinecure, and though now he drew his pay from Lucius Haggard, and was, of course, young Mr. Haggard's own man, yet he gave almost as much attention to the comforts of the younger brother. Every afternoon Mr. Capt was in the habit of taking a long walk in the great park.

I don't think it was simply for love of exercise, or to admire the scenery, that he was so regular in his pilgrimages to a particular sylvan glade on the border of the river Sweir, 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 daily inspection of the place where he had deposited his treasure. At first he was accustomed to walk down to the river and examine the little tuft of moss which he had so carefully planted over the hiding-place furnished him by nature in the beech tree. But he had noticed that he had worn quite a little path just beneath his tiny treasure-house; such carelessness he remembered might betray him; so though he passed the tree every day, he was careful to avoid his first mistake; and as day by day the little tuft of moss grew greener, for it had now evidently taken root, Capt gradually inspected the tree just as carefully but from a greater distance. From many a point of vantage he could observe the little green patch, and at length, by a refinement of ingenuity, he was enabled to keep away from the tree altogether. His eternal cigar in his mouth, he was accustomed to walk about well within sight of the beech tree. The spot was secluded enough when he had first adopted the hiding-place, but as the autumn wore on and the leaves fell, Mr. Capt thanked his stars at his own ingenuity. Having assured himself that no one was in sight, Mr. Capt would take a small opera glass from his pocket, then he would commence by its aid to admire the view, he would gaze round at all points of the compass; last of all, his glance would inevitably fall upon the beech tree, the glass would be fixed steadily upon the little tuft of moss, and then seeing that it was undisturbed it would be replaced in its case, and pocketed with a sigh of satisfaction. And then Mr. Capt would continue his perambulations in a comfortable frame of mind.

It was one of those bright, brisk, clear days of early winter, when the sun 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 just breasted the rising ground which formed the boundary of the dell in the direction of the Castle. He stopped, and placed his hand in his pocket, to draw from it the glass, and to then commence his usual artistic studies of the thousand and one autumn effects of the daily changing landscape. But before he could get the glass to his eye, he perceived a figure standing at the edge of the little swirling river. There was plenty of water in the Sweir just now, as it swept through the rich soft mould here, where it formed the boundary of the home park. Robinson Crusoe's gesture of disgust and fear, when he saw the first savage upon his island home, was very similar to that made by Mr. Capt when he discerned the tall figure of Blogg, the head keeper, leaning upon his gun. Robinson Crusoe was a pious Englishman, as we know, but Capt being an irreligious foreigner, gave vent to his feelings in a continental oath. The keeper's back was towards Capt, and his eyes were fixed upon the fast-hurrying waters of the swollen stream; the valet, though he was a good six hundred yards off, retraced his steps upon tip-toe in his great anxiety not to attract the keeper's attention. When he was well out of sight, having put the rising ground once more between himself and Blogg, he lighted a cigar, and recommenced his walk, making a long circuit, but as if drawn by some irresistible magnetism, his feet once more, ere the cigar was finished, brought him to the banks of the Sweir and 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. The fact is that Blogg had been standing chewing the cud of his reflections, or possibly thinking about nothing at all, during the five and twenty minutes' circuit that Capt had made. There is a considerable difference in position between a head keeper and his master's valet. Blogg recognized the fact, for though he didn't touch his hat to Capt, he didn't presume to shake hands with him, and he addressed him with marked deference.

"Mornin', sir," he said.

"Good morning, Mr. Blogg," replied the valet affably; "on duty, I suppose."

"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 than duty, for me to go mouching round the best part of the day, aye, and at times the best part of the night, too, with this here gun. Not that we're troubled much with poachers here about, they're mostly amytoors here, but they're as full o' tricks as a bag full o' monkeys. I'm mostly a match for 'em you know, for I was a regular myself once, as you can remember. Ah, many's the dark night as I went out a-wirin' in King's Warren parish. I don't know as there weren't more enjyment in those days. We were both younger then, Muster Capt," said the keeper with a sigh.

"Ah, but think of your position now," said Capt, who wished to put the man 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 as a frog's in a frying-pan, a hot frying-pan, ye mind me; it's not all tips and perquisites; it's information here and information there, it's night 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 cums after the antlers and the nestes, and the children as cums after the blackberries, and the radicals as keeps a dog, a man's hands is very full indeed."

"You must have an anxious time," said the sympathizing Capt.

"Ah, you may well say that," replied the keeper; "why, in my young days the 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 made a-purpose. Why, one of they fern chaps would think nothing of clearing half an acre in a mornin'. They comes after the butterflies with their nets, and a botanizing with their tin candle boxes, and trespassin' comes natural to them. Why, only the other day I caught a feller bottling mud out of a pond, and a-catchin' newts and such like. 'What's your 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 the Sunday-school teacher used to shake his finger at me when I was a little bit of a chap. 'Don't you try to stop the march of science, my man,' says he. 'I don't care nothin' about the march of science,' says I; 'but if you don't hand over the pair of antlers as you've got up your back, I'll wallop you, master. And after I've walloped you, you and science can march where you please.' But what makes my life a burden to me," continued the keeper, still airing his grievances, "is vermin."

Capt started.

"What with the weasels, the stoats, and such-like, a man need have his eyes 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 escapes me."

By this time they had reached the middle of the glen, and were within a dozen paces of Mr. Capt's secret store-house. Greatly to the valet's disgust the keeper now produced a lump of tobacco from his pocket, and commenced with his knife to carefully shred off the quantity necessary for filling his pipe; he stopped to satisfactorily complete the delicate operation, then, with great care, he lighted the little black clay cutty. The keeper got his pipe into full swing, the two men were about to proceed on their walk, but Blogg suddenly laid his hand on the valet's arm and pointed at the beech tree.

"It's many a man," he said sententiously, "as would walk by that tree and see nothing particular about it," and he stared at the tree in curiosity. "Aren't you well, Muster Capt?" he said suddenly, as the expression on the valet's face attracted his attention.

The valet's countenance had become of an ashen grey, and drops of perspiration 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 of the capacious pockets of his moleskin coat. "I'll get ye a drop of water," he continued, removing the little metal cup from the bottom of the flask.

Half-a-dozen strides brought the keeper to the banks of the Sweir, but getting the cup full of water was not such a very easy matter. The keeper flung himself upon the turf at the edge of the rapidly running stream, but ere he did so he took the precaution to stamp, with one foot in advance, upon the edge. The reason he did this was obvious, for the soft bank was undercut by the rush of waters. He filled the little cup, and returned with it to his companion, incidentally remarking, "The banks are plaguy dangerous just here. Do ye feel better now?" he said with 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 must lean on something. I think I'll get home at once."

"Just an instant, Muster Capt," said the keeper; "there's some artful game or other been a-doin' with that beech; some chap has gone and plugged the hole of it with a lump of moss; as like as not he's got a shopful of wires there now. I'll just put my hand in and find out what they'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 as if 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; "there are seven days in the week, and you can search the hole, if there is a hole, to-morrow as well as to-day."

But Blogg was an obstinate man. "You're woundy masterful, Capt, for a man 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 carry you to the Castle pick-a-pack, if you like." And then Blogg marched up to the beech tree and picked the moss away from the hole. He removed the stone, and turning to the valet, with a triumphant guffaw he cried, "I told 'ee so, Muster Capt. I said as how there was a game going on," and then he plucked the little packet from its hiding-place.

Maurice Capt was a determined man. Should he allow the cherished plan of twenty years to be ruined by the curiosity of a clod? The packet was in the keeper's hands. Like Alnaschar's dream of wealth, all the valet's plans and schemings, all his fondest hopes of affluence, would be kicked down in an instant. He well knew the dogged honesty of the man; the packet, now within the keeper's grasp, was as good as in Lord Pit Town's hands. All this passed through his mind in the twinkling of an eye, and as the keeper flung himself once more upon the ground, the Swiss valet advanced over the soft turf towards his prostrate form with noiseless cat-like step. Maurice Capt had made up his mind. He flung himself upon the keeper's throat with the ferocity of a tiger, and proceeded to attempt to throttle his adversary from behind. But the keeper was a powerful man. Although Capt's long fingers were tightly fixed upon his windpipe, and the astonished man was taken at a great disadvantage, yet the keeper did his best to rid himself of the remorseless adversary who was savagely attempting to strangle the life out of him. He couldn't call for help, and he didn't attempt it; but he struggled bravely, he drove his heavy boots into the soft turf, and succeeded once even in rising to his knees, only to be forced back again upon his face by the furious efforts of the Swiss. Blogg's eyes were nearly starting from his head, and his mouth literally foamed, from the cruel tightening grip upon his throat. But the force of his muscular fingers, which wrenched in vain at the iron wrists of the valet, began to relax. Even a strong man cannot fight long when deprived of air. As the light of triumph came into the valet's eyes, for he felt that slowly but surely he was choking the very life out of his victim, the vengeance of heaven suddenly overtook the aggressor. The overhanging bank of soft earth all at once gave 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 would have completed their deadly work. As he felt himself falling, he relaxed his grasp of the keeper's throat, in the natural instinct of self-preservation. Before his mouth reached the water, the hapless Blogg got one great draught of air into his capacious chest, but Capt had too nearly effected his work, and the keeper was practically almost insensible. The only effect of this last breath of life, that chance, and not the mercy of his adversary, had given him, was to make his muscular fingers clutch the struggling wrists of his murderer with a more vice-like grasp. The assailant and assailed had now changed places as they sank beneath the black waters. The valet's sole efforts now were directed 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 had once fixed his remorseless fangs in his throat. They sank beneath the waters, and, still violently struggling, reappeared again and again as they were spun round and round by the rushing stream. But not for long.

The little packet escaped from Blogg's fingers and floated rapidly away down the stream. The would-be murderer sunk to the muddy bottom dead, and honest Blogg struck out and scrambled up the bank of the rushing Sweir.

"Blame me," he cried, as he shook himself like a great water dog, "blame me if I don't think Muster Capt went clean mad; why, he nigh on strangled me," and then he stared at the hurrying, rushing waters. "Poor chap, he have gone to his account. I wonder what was in that little bundle though!"

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The dark waters of the Sweir have closed for ever over the crafty wretch who 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 of the little river. The oath that Lucy Warrender extracted from her cousin at the Villa Lambert more than twenty years ago will have been kept but too well, and the secret will probably remain for ever undiscovered. And will young George Haggard be any the worse, seeing that he is robbed of his birthright? We know that Lord Pit Town's will has practically made him a very wealthy man. The mills of heaven's justice grind slowly perhaps at times, but they go on turning and grinding for ever. Lucius Haggard, who in his black and bitter heart knows that he is but an undetected impostor, may never marry, may even predecease the half-brother who was born in lawful wedlock. She, the silent invalid, may yet perhaps speak, or the hollow beech tree may perchance give up its secret.

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Many things can happen in a couple of years. To-day the old lord and the German doctor still chat and doze in the great picture galleries; and George's mother, beautiful still in life's sad evening, yet wonders whether she shall ever meet again in another world the dead husband who betrayed her, but whom she has forgiven long ago. As she lies on her sofa in the pretty room heavy with the scent of flowers, which has been hers for many a long year, her eye brightens, and the soft colour comes back momentarily to the pale cheek, as she hears the manly step of her dear 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 his little bell, and down comes the green curtain upon the drama of human love, of human passion, selfishness and greed, upon the end of the family mystery with which it has been the author's privilege to try and interest the reader.

THE END

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Transcriber's Note:

Although most printer's errors have been retained, some changes have been made silently in spelling, punctuation, capitalization, and accents. Variations have been made consistent.

This cover for mobile versions is placed in the public domain.

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