style="font-size:15px;"> He walks slowly upstairs. All is very silent in the room mentioned. He stands on the threshold, hardly daring to open the door. He can hear a rustling inside, and, yes, unmistakably the sound of a kiss. He coughs audibly as he lays his hand on the door’s handle. He can hear a scuffling of feet, and on entering perceives Vivi sitting bolt upright on the sofa, and Captain Kilmarnock apparently warming his hands over the fireplace. Unfortunately there is no fire!
She looks at him as he comes in, and for a moment their eyes meet. A bright flush rises to Vivi’s cheeks. She expects to see him furious, as he had been that morning, and is surprised, nay, even awed by the sad expression on his face.
“Vivi,” he says very quietly, “I think we ought to be dressing for dinner. Good-evening to you, Kilmarnock. Are you to be at Ferdey’s to-night?”
“No, Trevor,” stammers the captain, visibly uncomfortable. “I have another engagement.”
“Oh, well, shall see you again, I suppose, soon? Good-night, old chap. Must go and dress. Vivi dear, don’t be late.”
He goes out as he speaks, and closes the door behind him. Hector D’Estrange’s words are still next his heart.
“Poor Vivi,” he mutters to himself. “It is not her fault. Poor Vivi.”
He is hardly out of the room, when she looks up at Captain Kilmarnock. The scared expression is still in her face.
“Kil,” she whispers, “that was a near squeak. You had better be off, old man. Didn’t hear the front door bell ring, did you?”
“No,” he answers in a rather sulky tone. “Hang him! he’s always where he’s not wanted. But you are right. I’d better be off. To-morrow at three. Don’t forget.”
“All right,” she answers, with a smile.
III
ALWAYS busy and astir, the little town of Melton Mowbray presents a more than usually busy aspect on the morning of the 15th April, 1894. It is early yet, nevertheless the streets ring with the sound of trotting and cantering hacks, as well as the more sober paces of the strings of horses returning from exercise to their respective stables.
People are coming and going at a rapid rate. They nearly all seem to know each other, judging by the little nods, and “good-mornings,” and suchlike familiar greetings with which friends meet, and in which these afore-mentioned personages indulge, as they hurry by each other.
A party of horsemen and horsewomen are just riding out of the stables belonging to The Limes. They are laughing and talking merrily. We have seen two of the women before, and their names are Mrs. de Lacy Trevor and Lady Manderton. Close in attendance upon them are two smart good-looking men, whom we must introduce to the reader as Lord Charles Dartrey and the Earl of Westray. The former appears to be entirely taken up with the first-named lady, the latter—already introduced to the reader in a former as Lord Altai—with the last-named one.
There is yet another pair in that cheery group that we must particularly notice. They are a man and woman, both young, both good-looking, and both unmistakably at home in the saddle. If one can judge from appearances, the woman must be about twenty-two years of age, the man perhaps five or six years her senior. Both are mounted on grey horses, and both look every inch what they are, splendid equestrians. The woman is well known in Society’s world, as also in the tiny hunting world of Melton. She is Lady Flora Desmond, and the man is handsome Captain “Jack” Delamere.
They trot through the streets at a merry pace, down past the Harborough Hotel, over the railway, away on by Wicklow Lodge, towards Burton Lazarus. It is a beautiful morning, and the sun is shining brightly on the flats that lie below. Dalby Hall, nestling amidst its woods on the far hillside, stands out distinct and clear, with the same bright sun gleaming on its gables and windows.
“What a glorious morning, Jack!” exclaims Lady Flora enthusiastically. “Why, it’s like summer, is it not?”
The others are a little on ahead, and these two have fallen in the rear. Jack looks at the speaker with a smile.
“It is a grand day, Florrie, and it suits you, too. I never saw you looking better in my life.”
She flushes up. Florrie Desmond does not care about compliments,—she values them at their worth,—but she and Jack are fast friends, and she is not quite averse to them from him. She answers, however.
“Shut up, you goose, and don’t talk nonsense.”
She is a clever woman is Flora Desmond, cleverer far than some people take her to be. Her bringing up has not been exactly like other women’s, and she has always kicked against the restraints and restrictions put upon her sex. She is the daughter of the Marquis and Marchioness of Douglasdale, and an orphan, having lost her father at an early age. Lady Douglasdale was, in her day, a very beautiful woman, a persona grata at Court, where her husband exercised the duties of Comptroller of the Household, and was a favourite with his sovereign; but after the marquis’s death she took greatly to travelling, and thus it was that Flora Ruglen, in conjunction with her twin brother Archie, saw most of the great world of Europe before she was ten years of age.
Travelling expands the mind, and brightens the senses. It had this effect upon the girl, forming much of her character before its time. At that early age she exhibited peculiar characteristics. No one could get her to settle down to study under a governess; she loathed the sight of school books, and led her unfortunate preceptors a sad life; yet, in strange contradiction to so much wilfulness and apparent indolence, she was seldom without the companionship of a book in her play hours, and when not otherwise engaged with her brother, would invariably be found poring over these books, thirstily seeking knowledge, or committing to paper, in powerful language for one so young, the impressions of her youthful brain.
She had dreams had Flora Ruglen—dreams of a bright future, an adventurous career. The time had not arrived when the road which she and her twin brother had been pursuing, would branch off in different directions, his leading forth to opportunities of power, fame, and glory, hers along a lane, narrow and cramped, and with nothing to seek at the end, save that against which her bright independent spirit rebelled and revolted. But it came at last, when the companion of her happy childhood’s days was taken from her, when Archie was sent to school, and she was left alone. It came upon her with a suddenness which she found difficult to realise, and the blow was terrible. To describe what she suffered would be well-nigh impossible. Only those who by experience have learnt it, could be brought to understand the horror of her position. But Flora Ruglen, having faced it, brought all the courage of her nature to support it, though from that moment she became utterly changed.
She had no one in whom to confide; neither her mother nor any one else would have understood her. With girls of her own age she had nothing in common, and they looked on her with awe as a proud, stuck-up being. None could guess at the warm heart that beat beneath Flora Ruglen’s apparently cold and reserved demeanour—except one, and that one was a boy of about her own age.
She had made his acquaintance during the holidays, when Archie, home from school, had invited his “best pal” to spend them at Ruglen Manor, the beautiful dower property of Lady Douglasdale. It was with young Lord Estcourt that Archie Douglasdale had struck up so keen a friendship. The lads had been “new boys” at Eton together, and in the first strangeness of introduction to that boy’s world had been thrown into each other’s company a good deal, being in the same house, and, as in Flora’s case, much of the same age.
