Volume Iii Part 11 (2/2)

”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 pa.s.sed 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; a.s.sailant and a.s.sailed, and the very earth they struggled on, fell with a dull splash into the rus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sailant and a.s.sailed 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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, rus.h.i.+ng waters. ”Poor chap, he have gone to his account. I wonder what was in that little bundle though!”

The dark waters of the Sweir have closed for ever over the crafty wretch who had so lately held the destinies of a n.o.ble 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.

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 pa.s.sion, 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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