The Fire Trumpet Part 73

"I don't pretend to guess. But it must be even as I say, and I am sure you will agree with me that it is best so."

"Indeed, I am sure I shall do nothing of the sort," he cries. "You are only playing with me, Lilian, only doing this just to try me. You are; say you are, my darling. It is not kind of you after I have come far to find you."

For all reply she shakes her head, sadly but firmly, and Truscott can see that every particle of faith she ever had in him is dead and buried.

"But your promise!" he cries. "I have your promise, at all events. You cannot get out of that, nor do I intend to let you."

"My promise!" she answers, and there is a scornful curve in the beautiful lips and a hard ring in the rich voice. "My promise! To a man who woos in prosperity and deserts in adversity; who sees an unprotected girl thrown upon the world, lonely and unfriended; and makes no sign. Who, when she departs to live among strangers in a far-off land, suffers her to go without so much as a word of farewell and encouragement; and that, too, the girl whom in palmier days he professed to love. No, Ralph Truscott, you have cancelled my promise by your own act, and, even if no other bar existed its conditions should never be yours."

Truscott's face is white with rage. He sees that his game is played out--that there is not a chance. He was prepared for some reproaches; in short, a good deal of unpleasantness, but not for such decision as this. His whole being quivers beneath a sense of overwhelming defeat, mortification, disappointment--nay, despair--and now, as he sees the prize slipping from his grasp, he is not sure whether he hates or loves her most.

"So the good, the pious, the saintly Lilian Strange can perjure herself in a way the most unregenerate would shrink from," he sneers. "The privilege of G.o.dliness, I suppose. Oh, so a 'bar' does exist, does it?

You should have told me that before."

"It is impossible that you could not have known of it," she replies, gently, but with quiet dignity. "That I am plighted--to another."

His answer is a harsh, jeering laugh.

"Oh, I have heard some nonsensical story of the kind, but I knew it couldn't be true. I thought you were only amusing yourself, in fact, knowing that anything serious was impossible, considering. So, of course, I didn't believe it."

"What do you mean?" says Lilian, outwardly calm, but with indignation and contempt in her voice, for there is something so maliciously significant in his tone that she is disturbed in spite of herself.

"Don't deal in hints and innuendoes. Speak out--if you dare."

"If I dare? Well, then, I will speak out," answers Truscott, stung to madness by her scornful look. He will bring her to her knees, he thinks. "This is what I mean," dropping out his words deliberately. "I knew it couldn't be true, because I knew it was impossible that Lilian Strange could be engaged to an ex-pirate, a murderer, and what, in her eyes, is probably much worse."

"Do you know of whom you are speaking?"

"Of the man who calls himself Arthur Claverton."

There is dead silence. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks loudly; the crack of a waggon-whip in the High Street, and the harsh, long-drawn shout of the driver, sound plainly though distant through the still afternoon, and in the little garden the bees hum drowsily.

"You must be mad?"

Every vestige of colour has fled from Lilian's face, as she stands cold and statuesque, looking down upon her lover's traducer. But she is perfectly calm, for she does not believe one word of this, though the bare suggestion has upset her. He shall speak more plainly, though.

"Of course you don't believe me," he says. "I wasn't fool enough to expect you would--without proof. To begin, then. How much has this Claverton told you of his antecedents?"

"As much as I wish to know. But this is not proof."

"Wait a bit. All in good time. He came to South Africa four years ago; quite so. Now has he by chance ever told you where he spent the two previous years--what he was doing?"

In spite of herself Lilian feels her heart sink somewhat. It happens that concerning that very portion of his career her lover has been conspicuously reticent. But she says carelessly:

"I dare say he has."

"Indeed! You surprise me. Then it will be no news to you to learn that he was in Central Africa?"

"I believe he has been there. Go on."

For Truscott pauses. He is watching her narrowly--playing with her in devilish malice. But he goes on in affected commiseration.

"Lilian, Lilian. I don't think I'll tell you any more. Forget what I have said. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps my informants are mistaken as to the man. Let it pa.s.s."

"No. You have made charges against one who is absent; you must not leave this room until you have proved them. Otherwise the gallant Captain Truscott will stand branded as a liar and a coward."

He stares at her in amazement, quite nonplussed. He never could have given Lilian Strange credit for so much firmness, he thinks. Yet there she stands over him, calm, even judicial, as she awaits his answer.

"You would not dare to say these things if he were here," she adds.

"If he is wise he will not give me the chance," is the prompt reply.

"To be brief, then, our friend, at that period of his history, in company with seven other spirits more wicked than himself, let us say, dealt in ebony. Slaves, you understand."

"Go on."

"He made a good thing of it, I'm told--a very good thing. But then, unfortunately, by British law, and, indeed, by international law, slavery is piracy; and piracy is--a hanging matter."

"I see," she answers in a dry, stony voice. "We have disposed of the piracy, now let us get on to the murder; after that to the other thing."

Truscott's astonishment knows no bounds. "Upon my word, Lilian, you have a judicial mind. Why, you ought to be a Q.C.," he says, admiringly.

She smiles slightly--a hard, defiant smile.

"Well, then," he continues, "you recollect the affair with the _Sea Foam_? In case you don't, I'll just go over the facts again. The _Sea Foam_, then, was a gunboat stationed in Zanzibar waters, where there was a good deal of dhow-running just at that time--in fact, several captures were made. But it so happened that on one occasion four dhows got clean off, beating back the boats' crews with a loss of three men killed and several wounded. It was a secret expedition, betrayed to the captain of the man-of-war by a spy, and, but for one man, the whole concern would have been captured red-handed. That man was Arthur Lidwell--the commander of the slavers--now known as Arthur Claverton. The authorities, at that time, did not know who the leader was whose coolness and daring caused their retreat, with loss; but they suspected him to be a renegade European, and a price was set on his head; but, with his usual luck, our friend escaped. Three men were killed, I say; and recollect our friend is a good shot, and, moreover, not likely to stand by with his hands in his pockets while fighting is going on,"

concludes Truscott, significantly.

Lilian remembers the circ.u.mstance perfectly. She had listened shudderingly while her stepfather read out the details from the newspaper, one evening years ago in the cosy, lighted drawing-room at Dynevard Chase, expressing a hope, as became "a fine, old English gentleman," that the scoundrels would all be caught and hanged, and especially their rascally leader. And now this same leader--but it is incredible--her brain is dazed. Her eyes are fixed on Truscott's face, but she does not speak.

"For the other thing," he goes on, narrowly watching her, "the next time you see Claverton ask him what became of Anita de Castro. Ask him, at the same time, what made him suddenly give up so paying a thing as the slave trade."

Lilian becomes a shade whiter, and Truscott, noting it, feels a fiendish delight in having at length disturbed her equanimity.

"Who is Anita de Castro?" she asks, still in a firm voice.

"The daughter of the chief of the gang. Spanish or Portuguese; but, they tell me, a lovely girl. Our friend Claverton, to do him justice, is a man of taste, and, these Spaniards are terribly revengeful when you take an undue advantage of them."

Lilian stands in the same att.i.tude as before. Her fingers clutch more nervously the back of the chair; but that is the only sign she shows of having even heard. She would fain not believe this; but then, how confidently this man speaks! He cannot have invented such a story, the way in which he tells it is enough to show that. And, in spite of herself, recollections crop up of more than one hint which Claverton has let fall to the effect that there is a chapter in his life's history which he would fain forget; mere nothings at the time, and which on one or two occasions she even gently rallied him about, but now with what fell significance do they stand out! She knows his bold and daring disposition, his coolness and powers of administration or command; his cynical vein, which might under adverse circ.u.mstances render him unscrupulous and even cruel; and all this seems to lend likelihood to the other's statements. But, ah! how she loves him! Even if every word of what she has just heard is true, she feels that, in spite of it all, she loves him if possible ten times more dearly than she did before.

She remembers his neglected and uncared-for childhood and youth which might palliate, if not excuse, far worse crimes than these; and her whole soul goes out in a pitying, tender yearning to make his life so different, so happy with her love, and in time to lead him gradually and gently to what she reckoned a more lasting source of joy. She hardly sees Truscott; she is looking out through the open window beyond him with a soft, pensive expression that is wondrously lovely, and he who watches her gnaws his lip in fury, and the very fiend of mad burning jealousy shakes his soul. This prize was within _his_ grasp once, but he threw it away.

"Well?" he says, impatiently.

She brings down her eyes to his, calm and serene as before. "Quite a romance. But, as yet, we are no farther than when we started. You have given me no proof."

"Romance, eh? Well, like many romances, it may have a tragic ending. I have two witnesses. You remember the man you saw following you in the crowd at King Williamstown?"

Again Lilian grows ashy white. It was something more than instinct, then. And, like a flash, she remembers the troubled look which had come over her lover's face when they met the man on the road during their ride, and how the two had been conversing under her window that last Sunday morning. Doubtless the fellow had been trying to trade on his knowledge. Merciful heavens! That ruffian--and Arthur in his power!

"Yes, I see you do. Now for the other. You don't suppose Anita de Castro would spare him?"

Lilian gives an imperceptible shudder. "All this may, or may not be,"