CHAPTER XXXIV.

I have carefully avoided describing Lord Leycester Wyndward as a

"good" man. If to be generous, single-minded, impatient of wrong and

pitiful of the wronged; if to be blessed, cursed with the capacity for

loving madly and passionately; if to be without fear, either moral or

physical, be heroic, then he was a hero; but I am afraid it cannot be

said that he was "good."

Before many weeks had elapsed since his parting with Stella, the world

had decided that he was indeed very bad. It is scarcely too much to say

that his name was the red rag which was flourished in the eyes of those

righteous, indignant bulls whose mission in life it is to talk over

their fellow-creatures' ill deeds and worry them.

One mad exploit after another was connected with his name, and it soon

came to pass that no desperate thing was done within the circle of the

higher class, but he was credited with being the ringleader, or at

least with having a hand in it.

It was said that at that select and notorious club, "The Rookery,"

Lord Leycester was the most desperate of gamblers and persistent of

losers. Rumor went so far as to declare that even the Wyndward estates

could not stand the inroads which his losses at the gaming table were

making. It was rumored, and not contradicted, that he had "plunged" on

the turf, and that his stud was one of the largest and most expensive

in England.

The society papers were full of insinuating paragraphs hinting at the

wildness of his career, and prophesying its speedy and disastrous

termination. He was compared with the lost characters of past

generations--likened to Lord Norbury, the Marquis of Waterford, and

similar dissipated individuals. His handsome face and tall, thin, but

still stalwart figure, had become famous, and people nudged each other

and pointed him out when he passed along the fashionably-frequented

thoroughfares.

His rare appearance in the haunts of society occasioned the deepest

interest and curiosity.

One enterprising photographer had managed, by the exercise of vast

ingenuity, to procure his likeness, and displayed copies in his window;

but they were speedily and promptly withdrawn.

There was no reckless hardihood with which he was not credited. Men

were proud of possessing a horse that he had ridden, because their

capability of riding it proved their courage.

Scandal seized upon his name and made a hearty and never-ending meal

of it; and yet, by some strange phenomenal chance, no one heard it

connected with that of a woman.

Some said that he drank hard, rode hard, and played hard, and that he

was fast rushing headlong to ruin, but no one ever hinted that he was

dragging a member of the fair sex with him.

He was seen occasionally in drags bound to Richmond, or at Bohemian

parties in St. John's Wood, but no woman could boast that he was her

special conquest.

It was even said that he had suddenly acquired a distinct distaste for

female society, and that he had been heard to declare that, but for the

women, the world would still be worth living in.

It was very sad; society was shocked as well as curious, dismayed as

well as intensely interested. Mothers with marriageable daughters

openly declared that something ought to be done, that it was impossible

that such a man, the heir to such a title and estates should be

allowed to throw himself away. The deepest pity was expressed for Lady

Wyndward, and one or two of the aforesaid mammas had ventured, with

some tremors, to mention his case to that august lady. But they got

little for their pains, save a calm, dignified, and haughty rebuff.

Never, by word, look, or sign did the countess display the sorrow which

was imbittering her life.

The stories of his ill-doings could not fail to reach her ears, seeing

that they were common talk, but she never flushed or even winced. She

knew when she entered a crowded room, and a sudden silence fell, to be

followed by a spasmodic attempt at conversation, that those assembled

were speaking of her son, but by no look or word did she confess to

that knowledge.

Only in the secrecy of her own chamber did she let loose the floodgates

of her sorrow and admit her despair. The time had come when she felt

almost tempted to regret that he had not married "the little girl---the

painter's niece," and settled down in his own way.

She knew that it was broken off; she knew, or divined that some plot

had brought about the separation, but she had asked no questions, not

even of Lenore, who was now her constant companion and chosen friend.

Between them Leycester's name was rarely mentioned. Not even from her

husband would she hear aught of accusation against the boy who had ever

been the one darling of her life.

Once old Lady Longford had pronounced his name, had spoken a couple

of words or so, but even she could not get the mother to unburden her

heart.

"What is to be done?" the old lady had asked, one morning when the

papers had appeared with an account of a mad exploit in which the

well-known initials Lord Y---- W---- had clearly indicated his

complicity.

"I do not know," she had replied. "I do not think there is anything to

be done."

"Do you mean that he is to be allowed to go on like this, to drift

to ruin without a hand to stay him?" demanded the old lady almost

wrathfully; and the countess had turned on her angrily.

"Who can do anything to stay him? Have you yourself not said that it is

impossible, that he must be left alone?"

"I did, yes, I did," admitted the old countess, "but things were not so

bad then, not nearly. All this is different. There is a woman in the

case, Ethel!"

"Yes," said the countess, bitterly, "there is," and she felt tempted to

echo the assertion which Leycester had been reputed to utter, "that if

there had been no women the world would have been worth living in."

Then Lady Longford had attempted to "get at" Leycester through his

companion Lord Charles, but Lord Charles had plainly intimated his

helplessness.

"Going wrong," he said, shaking his head. "If Leycester's going wrong,

so am I, because, don't you see, I'm bound to go with him. Always did,

you know, and can't leave him now; too late in the day."

"And so you'll let your bosom friend go to the dogs"--the old lady had

almost used a stronger word--"rather than say a word to stop him?"

"Say a word!" retorted Lord Charles, ruefully. "I've said twenty. Only

yesterday I told him the pace couldn't last; but he only laughed and

told me that was his business, and that it would last long enough for

him."

"Lord Charles, you are a fool!" exclaimed the old lady.

And Lord Charles had shook his head.

"I daresay I am," he said, not a whit offended. "I always was where

Leycester was concerned."

The one creature in the world--excepting Stella--who could have

influenced him, knew nothing of what was going on.

The excitement of her visit to Stella, and her terrible interview

during it, had utterly prostrated the delicate girl, and Lilian lay

in her room in the mansion in Grosvenor Square, looking more like the

flower namesake than ever.

The doctor had insisted that no excitement of any kind was to be

permitted to approach her, and they had kept the rumors and stories of

Leycester's doings from her knowledge.

He came to see her sometimes, and even in the darkened room she could

see the ravages which the last few months had made with him; but he was

always gentle and considerate toward her, and in response to her loving

inquiries always declared that he was well--quite well. Stella's name,

by mutual consent, was never mentioned between them. It was understood

that that page of his life was closed for ever; but after every visit,

when he had left her, she lay and wept over the knowledge that he had

not forgotten her. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice.

As Stella had said, Leycester was not one to love and unlove in a

day--in a week--in a month!

So the Summer had crept on to the Autumn. Not one word has he heard of

Stella. Though she was in his thoughts day and night, alike in the hour

of the wildest dissipation, and in the silent watches of the night,

he had heard no word of her. All his efforts were directed towards

forgetting her. And yet if he picked up a paper or a book and chanced

to come upon her name--Stella!--a pang shot through his heart, and the

blood fled from his face.

The Autumn had come, and London was almost deserted, but there were

some who clung on still. There are some to whom the shady side of Pall

Mall and their clubs are the only Paradise; and the card-rooms of the

Rookery are by no means empty.

In the middle of September, when half "the town" was in the country

popping at the birds, Leycester and Lord Charles were still haunting

Pall Mall.

"Better go down and look at the birds," said Lord Charles one night,

morning rather, for it was in the small hours. "What do you say to

running down to my place, Ley?"

"My place" was Vernon Grange, a noble Elizabethan mansion, standing

right in the center of one of the finest shooting districts. The grange

was at present shut up, the birds running wild, the keepers in despair,

all because Lord Leycester could not forget Stella, and his friend

would not desert him!

"Suppose we start to-morrow morning," went on Lord Charles, struggling

into his light over-coat and yawning. "We can take some fellows

down!--plenty of birds, you know. Had a letter from the head keeper

yesterday; fellow quite broken-hearted, give you my word! Come on,

Ley! I'm sick of this, I am, indeed. I hate the place," and he glanced

sleepily at the dimly lit hall of the Rookery. "What's the use of

playing ecarte and baccarat night after night; it doesn't amuse you

even if you win!"

Leycester was striding on, scarcely appearing to hear, but the word

"amuse" roused him.

"Nothing 'amuses,' Charles," he said, quietly. "Nothing. Everything is

a bore. The only thing is to forget, and the cards help me to do that,

for a little while, at least--a little while."

Lord Charles nearly groaned.

"They'll make you forget you've anything to lose shortly," he said.

"We've been going it like the very deuce, lately, Ley!"

Leycester stopped and looked at him, wearily, absently.

"I suppose we have, Charles," he said; "why don't you cut it? I don't

mind it; it is a matter of indifference to me. But you! you can cut it.

You shall go down to-morrow morning, and I'll stay."

"Thanks," said the constant friend. "I'm in the same boat, Ley, and

I'll pull while you do. When you are tired of this foolery, we'll come

to shore and be sensible human beings again. I shan't leave the boat

till you do."

"You'll wait till it goes down?"

"Yes, I suppose I shall," was the quiet response, "if down it must go."

Leycester walked on in silence for a minute.

"What a mockery it all is!" he said, with a half smile.

"Yes," assented Lord Charles, slowly; "some people would call it by a

stronger name, I suppose. I don't see the use of it. The use--why it's

the very ruination. Ley, you are killing yourself."

"And you."

"No," said Lord Charles, coolly, "I'm all right--I've got nothing on my

mind. I'm bored and used-up while it lasts, but when it's over I can

turn in and get to sleep. You can't--or you don't."

Leycester thrust his hands in his pockets in silence, he could not deny

it.

"I don't believe you sleep one night out of three," said Lord Charles.

"You've got the mad fever, Ley. I wish it could be altered."

Leycester walked on still more quickly.

"You shall go down to-morrow, Charles," he said. "I don't think I'll

come."

"Why not?"

Leycester stopped and put his hand on his arm, and looked at him with a

feverish smile on his face.

"Simply because I cannot--I cannot. I hate the sight of a green field.

I hate the country. Heaven! go down there! Charlie, you know dogs can't

bear the sight of water when they are queer. You've got a river down

there, haven't you? Well, the sight of that river, the sound of that

stream, would drive me mad! I cannot go, but you shall."

Lord Charles shook his head.

"Very well. Where now! Let us go home."

Leycester stopped short.

"Good-night," he said. "Go home. Don't be foolish, Charlie--go home."

"And you!"

Leycester put his hand on his arm slowly, and looked round.

"Not home," he said--"not yet. I'm wakeful to-night."

And he smiled grimly.

"The thought of the meadow and the river has set me thinking. I'll go

back to the 'Rookery.'"

Lord Charles turned without a word, and they went back.

The tables were still occupied, and the entrance of the two men was

noticed and greeted with a word here and there. Lord Charles dropped on

to a chair and called for some coffee--a great deal of coffee was drank

at the "Rookery"--but Leycester wandered about from table to table.

Presently he paused beside some men who were playing baccarat.

They had been playing since midnight, and piles of notes, and gold, and

I O U's told pretty plainly of the size of the stakes.

Leycester stood leaning on the back of a chair, absently watching the

play, but his thoughts were wandering back to the meadows of Wyndward,

and he stood once more beside the weir stream, with the lovely face

upon his breast.

But suddenly a movement of one of the players opposite him attracted

his attention, and he came back to the present with a start.

A young fellow--a mere boy--the heir to a marquisate, Lord Bellamy--the

reader will not have forgotten him--had dropped suddenly across the

table, his outstretched hands still clutching the cards. There was an

instant stir, the men started to their feet, the servants crowded up;

all stood aghast.

Leycester was the first to recover presence of mind, and, hurrying

round the table, picked the boy up in his strong arms.

"What's the matter, Bell?" he said; then, as he glanced at the white

face, with the dark lines round the eyes, he said in his quiet,

composed voice: "He has fainted; fetch a doctor, some of you."

And lifting him easily in his arms, he carried him in to an adjoining

room.

Lord Charles followed with a glass of water, but Leycester put it aside

with the one word--

"Brandy."

Lord Charles brought some brandy and closed the door, the others

standing outside aghast and frightened. Leycester poured some of the

spirit through his closed teeth, and the boy came back to life--to what

was left for him of life--and smiled up at him.

"The room was hot, Bell," said Leycester, in his gentle way; he could

be gentle even now. "I wanted you to go home two--three--hours ago! Why

didn't you go?"

"You--stayed----" gasped the boy.

Leicester's lips twitched.

"I!" he said. "That is a different matter."

The boy's head drooped, and fell back on Leycester's arm.

"Tell them not to stop the game," he said; "let somebody play for me!"

then he went off again.

The doctor came, a fashionable, hardworked man, a friend both of

Leycester's and Guildford's, and bent over the lad as he lay.

"It's a faint," said Lord Charles, nervously; "nothing else, eh,

doctor?"

The doctor looked up.

"My brougham is outside," he said. "I will take him home."

Leycester nodded, and carried the slight frame through the hall and

placed it in the brougham. The doctor followed. The cool air revived

the boy, and he made an effort to sit up, looking round as if in search

of something; at last his wandering sight fell on Leycester's, and he

smiled.

"That's right, Bell!" said Leycester; "you will be well to-morrow; but

mind, no more of this!" and he took the small white hand.

The heir to a marquisate clung to the hand, and smiled again.

"No, there will be no more of it, Leycester," he breathed, painfully.

"There will be no more of anything for me; I have seen the last of the

Rookery--and of you all. Leycester, I am dying!"

Leycester forced a smile to his white face.

"Nonsense, Bell," he said.

The boy raised a weak, trembling finger, and pointed to the doctor's

face.

"Look at him," he said. "He never told a lie in his--life. Ask him."

"Tell them to drive on, my lord," said the doctor.

The boy laughed, an awful laugh; then his face changed, and even as the

brougham moved on, he clung to Leycester's hand, and bending forward,

panted:

"Leycester--good-bye!"

Leycester stood, white and motionless as a statue, for the space of a

minute; then he turned to Lord Charles, who stood biting his pale lips

and looking after the brougham.

"I will go with you to-morrow," he said, hoarsely.