Part 21 (2/2)
He looked back once as he pa.s.sed from the ballroom--back to the sea of colors, to the glitter of light, to the moving hues, amid which the sound of the laughing, intoxicating music seemed to float; to the glisten of the jewels and the gold and the silver--to the scene, in a word, of the life that would be his no more. He looked back in a long, lingering look, such as a man may give the gladness of the earth before the gates of a prison close on him; then he went out once more into the night, threw the domino and the mask back again into the carriage, and took his way, alone.
He pa.s.sed along till he had gained the shadow of a by-street, by a sheer unconscious instinct; then he paused, and looked round him--what could he do? He wondered vaguely if he were not dreaming; the air seemed to reel about him, and the earth to rock; the very force of control he had sustained made the reaction stronger; he began to feel blind and stupefied. How could he escape? The railway station would be guarded by those on the watch for him; he had but a few pounds in his pocket, hastily slipped in as he had won them, ”money-down,” at ecarte that day; all avenues of escape were closed to him, and he knew that his limbs would refuse to carry him with any kind of speed farther. He had only the short, precious hours remaining of the night in which to make good his flight--and flight he must take to save those for whom he had elected to sacrifice his life. Yet how? and where?
A hurried, noiseless footfall came after him; Rake's voice came breathless on his ear, while the man's hand went up in the unforgotten soldier's salute--
”Sir! no words. Follow me, and I'll save you.”
The one well-known voice was to him like water in a desert land; he would have trusted the speaker's fidelity with his life. He asked nothing, said nothing, but followed rapidly and in silence; turning and doubling down a score of crooked pa.s.sages, and burrowing at the last like a mole in a still, deserted place on the outskirts of the town, where some close-set trees grew at the back of stables and out-buildings.
In a streak of the white moonlight stood two hunters, saddled; one was Forest King. With a cry, Cecil threw his arms round the animal's neck; he had no thought then except that he and the horse must part.
”Into saddle, sir! quick as your life!” whispered Rake. ”We'll be far away from this d----d den by morning.”
Cecil looked at him like a man in stupor--his arm still over the gray's neck.
”He can have no stay in him! He was dead-beat on the course.”
”I know he was, sir; but he ain't now; he was pisined; but I've a trick with a 'oss that'll set that sort o' thing--if it ain't gone too far, that is to say--right in a brace of shakes. I doctored him; he's hisself agen; he'll take you till he drops.”
The King thrust his n.o.ble head closer in his master's bosom, and made a little murmuring noise, as though he said, ”Try me!”
”G.o.d bless you, Rake!” Cecil said huskily. ”But I cannot take him, he will starve with me. And--how did you know of this?”
”Begging your pardon, your honor, he'll eat chopped furze with you better than he'll eat oats and hay along of a new master,” retorted Rake rapidly, tightening the girths. ”I don't know nothing, sir, save that I heard you was in a strait; I don't want to know nothing; but I sees them cursed cads a-runnin' of you to earth, and thinks I to myself, 'Come what will, the King will be the ticket for him.' So I ran to your room unbeknown, packed a little valise, and got out the pa.s.sports; then back again to the stables, and saddled him like lightning, and got 'em off--n.o.body knowing but Bill there. I seed you go by into the Kursaal, and laid in wait for you, sir. I made bold to bring Mother o' Pearl for myself.”
And Rake stopped, breathless and hoa.r.s.e with pa.s.sion and grief that he would not utter. He had heard more than he said.
”For yourself?” echoed Cecil. ”What do you mean? My good fellow, I am ruined. I shall be beggared from to-night--utterly. I cannot even help you or keep you; but Lord Rockingham will do both for my sake.”
The ci-devant soldier struck his heel into the earth with a fiery oath.
”Sir, there ain't time for no words. Where you goes I go. I'll follow you while there's a drop o' blood in me. You was good to me when I was a poor devil that everyone scouted; you shall have me with you to the last, if I die for it. There!”
Cecil's voice shook as he answered. The fidelity touched him as adversity could not do.
”Rake, you are a n.o.ble fellow. I would take you, were it possible; but--in an hour I may be in a felon's prison. If I escape that, I shall lead a life of such wretchedness as--”
”That's not nothing to me, sir.”
”But it is much to me,” answered Cecil. ”As things have turned--life is over with me, Rake. What my own fate may be I have not the faintest notion--but let it be what it will, it must be a bitter one. I will not drag another into it.”
”If you send me away, I'll shoot myself through the head, sir; that's all.”
”You will do nothing of the kind. Go to Lord Rockingham, and ask him from me to take you into his service. You cannot have a kinder master.”
”I don't say nothing agen the Marquis, sir,” said Rake doggedly; ”he's a right-on generous gentleman, but he aren't you. Let me go with you, if it's just to rub the King down. Lord, sir! you don't know what straits I've lived in--what a lot of things I can turn my hand to--what a one I am to fit myself into any rat-hole, and make it spicy. Why, sir, I'm that born scamp, I am--I'm a deal happier on the cross and getting my bread just anyhow, than I am when I'm in clover like you've kept me.”
Rake's eyes looked up wistfully and eager as a dog's when he prays to be let out of kennel to follow the gun; his voice was husky and agitated with a strong excitement. Cecil stood a moment, irresolute, touched and pained at the man's spaniel-like affection--yet not yielding to it.
”I thank you from my heart, Rake,” he said at length, ”but it must not be. I tell you my future life will be beggary--”
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