The Sport of the Gods

Front matter

a THE SPOET OF THE GODS. The Sport of the Gods. BY ESTHER MILLER. LONDON : A. D. INNES & CO., BEDFORD STREET. 1897. CONTENTS. CHAPTI.E PA0K L The Lake in the Wood 1 II. The Half-Brothers 7 III. "His Life is in your Hands'' 17 IV. Marion's Wedding-day 23 V. Julian 30 VI. Good-bye to Willoughhy Chase 38 VII. Two Meetings 49 VIII. A Scrap of Paper 55 IX. The Universal Panacea 60 X. Charlie 65 XI. Through the Post 73 XII. Valentine's Confession 76 XIII. "Forewarned — Forearmed" 81 XIV. A Visit — and Afterwards 89 XV. A Vain Mediation 97 XVI. Theodore falls in Love 104 XVII. Husband and Wife 112 XVIII. Julian's Visitor 123 XIX. A Friend in Need 128 XX. Guilty? 141 XXI. Theodore proposes 150 XXII. Chiefly concerning a Prince 155 XXIII. Mrs. Bulpitt's Plans 103 XXIV. At Brighton- 172 XXV. Enter the Karatoffs 176 XXVI.

His Brother's Wife 180 XXVII. "A Fortunate Girl" 186 XXVHI. Gossip VI CONTENTS. CHAPTEE PACK XXIX. A Judas' Kiss 200 XXX. Charlie disgraces Herself 208 XXXI. Missing! 213 XXXII. A Lawyer and a Gentleman 219 XXXIII. Lola's Story 230 XXXIV. "I Love You" ... 236 XXXV. Good-bye 245 XXXVI. Vain Hopes 249 XXXVII. "Coming Events" 255 XXXVIII. A Woman's Revenge 267 XXXIX. A Council of War 275 XL. Repentance ... ... .. ... 278 XLI. The Hypocrite 284 XLII. Marion's News 291 XLIII. A Terrible Journey 301 XLIV. Diplomacy 307 XLV. Justice at last 315 XLVI. Exit the Karatoffs 325 XL VII. "All's well that ends Well" THE SPOET OF THE GODS,

Chapter I. The Lake In The Wood

Hers was tlie only human figure in the landscape. Some distance away, a herd of deer was browsing on the undulating grassland ; now and then a squirrel, startled by her terrier, darted out of the bracken to the refuge of a tree ; from a giant cedar the mono tonous note of a cuckoo was answering the larks ; otherwise Marion might have been wandering in a virgin wilderness instead of in the park at G-lenluce. She did not seem unduly conscious of her solitude. Her fine grey eyes looked thoughtfully about her, absorbing the quiet beauty of the scene. Newly released from the four walls of a suburban school, which bad been her home for more colourless years than she cared to number, the blue sky, the tender green of the young fern, the numberless beauties of Nature in June, made her heart flutter with pleasure like the wings of a bird.

Rather lonely her life had been, rather uneventful ; and lone liness breeds self-resource, and sometimes rare beauty and strength of character, if the right germs be there. And they had been there in her case. A woman with a soul, Marion Cleeve ; a staunch friend, a merciful enemy, a woman all the more worth winning because she was not easily to be won. " One day you will give some lucky man a taste of Paradise on earth," said the little singing-master, who used to sit up writing sentimental verses to slip between the leaves of her music-book next day. This happened soon after Marion appeared in her first long frock, and, sinking the pupil in the teacher, earned her independence of the relative who had paid for her education. " You are without parents or friends, you have no fortune, and B what is enough for one is enough for two.

Let me keep you, my Marion. The world can be very hard to a woman alone," suggested Mr. Silverthorne, and dropped on one knee — Miss Brown was engaged at that moment with the baker's boy — to emphasize his appeal. There were tears in his pale eyes — he took her very seriously, so she did not snub him. Also, he was the only man with whom she had ever been upon terms of intimacy, the only man who had ever told her that he loved her, and she was naturally grateful. " You are very kind," she said ; " but I want to see something of the world — I am not afraid. Besides " The sentence was finished in her own mind. She had not been bred in a manner conducive to the building of aerial castles. With the exception of this pitiful interlude, she had only seen the prosaic, sordid side of human nature ; but poor little Silverthorne was not her ideal of manhood, and perhaps — who knows ? — in the intervals between the sewing-class and the geography lesson, the under-teacher may have dreamt of a romance, like other girls.

Four years had come and gone since then, and, tired of the routine of Miss Brown's academy, pining for change and a broader, fuller life, she had successfully applied for the post of companion to the delicate wife of Sir John Dundonald, J. P., of Willoughby Chase. So far she was pleased with her venture. After a week at a London hotel, with a not inconsiderate mistress, she had been sent on alone to the Chase, while Lady Dundonald paid a brief visit, which was to terminate to-morrow. Since she came, a pale-faced mite in a black frock, to the Clapham school, Marion had not enjoyed so much liberty ; and she had spent it in wandering about the country with her sketch-book and a small terrier, who had adopted her on her first visit to the stables, drinking in thebeauty of hill and dale, of woodland and stream.

This afternoon she was devoting to the exploration of Glenluce, the estate adjoining Willoughby Chase. It belonged to Colonel Kilgour, an old widower without children, and a public footpath, but little frequented, made a short cut between Holden- Bassett and Overstone. It was towards the latter village that Marion was now turning her steps. She was in no hurry ; no duties awaited her at homel the day was hers, to do with as she chose ; and, by-and-by, when the path dived into the deep shade of a plantation of Norwegian Irs, she seated herself on a felled trunk, to rest awhile. Dreaming there, her hands clasped about her knee, she was a picture worthy of an artist's pencil, of a man's love. Although THE LAKE IN THE WOOD. 3 not given to dwelling overmuch upon her appearance, she must have known how grandly her head was set upon her shoulders, how well-moulded was her shape, what beauty of expression, even more than of line, lay in her clear-cut features, her straight brows, her dark-fringed eyes.

Not that hers was a perfect face, by any means, for perfection is apt to lack individuality, and Marion was older than her years — of stronger stuff than most women are made of. Her mouth was large, but the well-shaped lips showed humour, courage, determination ; her hands were not small, but they were strong, and white, and capable — as capable as the brain under the broad, low brow, which the tawny hair shaded so softly. It was a quiet, secluded spot. No sound in the hot, scented air except the drowsy humming of numberless insects, until suddenly the intense silence, peculiar to pine woods, was broken by the cracking of a twig. Footsteps followed, crushing the dried pine needles, and a man appeared in the opposite direction to that from which she had come. Not a tramp, she was relieved to find, for she had quite a commonplace feminine horror on that score.

A loosely-built man of seven or eight and twenty, in a Norfolk jacket, with a dark, clean-shaven face, bronzed to a warm brown by the sun, and a lock of black hair straying from under his cap across his brow — a man with a keen, cultured face, the face of an artist, an author, not that of a country squire ; the kind of face, in spite of the tan, which one expects to meet rather in the cities than the by-ways of the world. He was approaching with hasty, irregular strides, but he did not seem conscious of Marion's light figure against the background of green, and as he drew abreast of her, she saw that he was panting like the little dog crouched by her side, and that there was a large purple bruise on his right cheek. The terrier barked and snapped at his heels, and he started with more nervousness than a man usually shows, and dis covered her presence with a glance.

But for that incident she would not have ventured to address him. " Will you kindly tell me the time ? " she asked. Only a woman would have noticed that he drew out his watch with his left hand, and that a handkerchief spotted with blood was wound round the other, which he was endeavouring to conceal. She glanced at the face bent over the dial again, a swift glance, rather an interested glance, and wondered a httle — all before he had time to speak. " It is twenty minutes past four," he said — an incisive voice, that would hold its own in an argument. " Thank you, very much." He raised his cap, and walked on. Once more, nothing but the sound of insects, and the faint, mysterious rustle of the breeze among the trees. Marion sat still for a few minutes longer, then she rose and also continued her way.

She may have strolled along for half a mile or so when the trees on the left opened out a little, and through a narrow vista of pine boles and undergrowth, she caught the steely gleam of water. It was an attractive glimpse, just enough to arouse the appetite for more. "I suppose I'm trespassing, but I don't care," she thought, with a smile, and left the public way for the fainter track leading to the lake. A moment later she found something small and black lying on the ground. It was a sketch-book, such as a man might carry in his pocket, and she turned over the leaves and looked at its contents. Half a dozen sketches, that was all — hasty, rough, but as different, she decided, with a pang of envy, from her own painstaking amateur attempts as chalk is from cheese, the work of a practised hand.

Scraps of Glenluce, evidently, and one of them riveted her attention at once. It seemed to have appealed equally to the imagination of the artist, for he had spent more time upon it than upon any other in the book. A weird scene of shadow this, of deep, black water and rush-fringed bank, of sombre foliage and the jagged outline of firtops against the sky-gloom, oppressive and unrelieved, save where a single ray of white sunlight pierced the overhanging boughs and touched the surface of the lake. She turned to the cover, in search of some trace of ownership. There was no name and address, nothing except the pencilled initials, "V. K." Why she should have instantly jumped to the conclusion that " V. K." was a man, and the man who had told her the time, was one of those instincts which cannot be explained ; though, after all, the assumption was natural enough.

He looked like a man who could draw those sketches, and he might easily have passed the spot a little while ago. However, as she did not know his name, or where he lived, or anything about him, that train of reasoning did not assist her to return her find, so, as there was nothing else to be done, she slipped the book into her pocket and continued her way. The silence deepened, if possible, as she went. Nature seemed hushed to sleep in that fragrant wilderness of firs, and a tiny, THE LAKE IN THE WOOD. 5 white-tailed rabbit scampered away with a noise like a tiger burst ing from his lair. Directly she reached the water's edge she recognized the place, although she had never been there before in her life. It was the scene of the sketch — the same trees, the same deeply-shelving bank, and silent pool, the same solitude and mystery.

Neverthe less, it was evident that she was not the first to visit it that day ; the artist had been here, no doubt, and others, too, perhaps, for the long, dank grass was trampled, as though with many feet. An eerie feeling crept over Marion, and, the spell of the moment upon her, she called to the dog in the hushed tone which people use in the presence of death. The little animal did not obey her for once. He was peering over the bank in the spot where the rushes grew thickest, barking short, sharp little barks, and running up and down. " Why, what's the matter, Spot ? " she said. " Have you found a water-rat ? " When she saw that he paid no attention to her voice, but con tinued his excited movements, something induced her to investi gate the cause. She pushed back the boughs and bent over the water — to start back blanched and horror-stricken.

It was no rat that the dog had found. A hand was sticking out of the slime and rushes on the surface — a man's hand, clenched in the agony of death ! For a moment Marion stared at it, sick, faint, trembling ; then she caught the terrier in her arms and ran from that ghastly spot as though a legion of devils were behind her. Back in the sunlight and the path which so many living feet had trodden, she was a little ashamed of herself, and it occurred to her that she ought to give information to some one of her discovery. She knew the house lay somewhere to the north, having caught a distant glimpse over the tree-tops, some time ago, of grey chimney stacks, and stately, mullioned windows, reflecting the afternoon sun ; so she hurried on, hoping to find a path leading in the right direction at the end of the lake.

Before she had gone another hundred yards, however, she emerged abruptly from the wood close to the paling of an ivy covered cottage. A man, evidently a gamekeeper, was lounging against the doorway, smoking a pipe, which he removed civilly as Marion approached and gasped out her errand. " A corpse in the lake, miss ? Lor', you don't say so ! 'Ere, Bill," he called to a little lad, who was cleaning a gun on a bench under a tree, " get me that rope in the out-'ouse, and run and tell George Masters, or the first person you come across, as 'e's wanted on the south side o' th' pool, and that he'd better bring a hurdle with 'im. Now, miss, if you'll kindly show me the spot." As Marion retraced her steps by the man's side, she gave him an account of how the dog had found the body. " I wonder who it is, and how it got there ?

" she added. " Is it accident or suicide ? " "Probably foul play, miss," suggested her companion with gloomy relish. " It ain't a very lively spot to go and drown in o' purpose, and it's a sight too far from the footpath for a chap to get to it by accident, if 'e was ever so drunk and the night was ever so dark. 'E must be a stranger, any'ow, for I ain't 'eard as 'ow there's any one a-missin' round about these parts. A tramp, maybe." Marion looked thoughtful. " What would airy one gain by murdering a tramp ? Besides, the hand didn't look like a tramp's. It looked like a gentleman's, and there was a ring on the little finger." By this time they had reached the track which led to the water's edge. " Down there, as straight as you can go, and then turn to the left, where the rushes are," she said.

" You can find it without me. I " — she shuddered — " I shouldn't care to see it again." The man left her then, but she did not go away. The pro pinquity of that horror in the lake chilled her blood, and its identity could not affect her personally ; nevertheless, a certain natural, if morbid, interest chained her to the spot. She wanted to hear what the water disgorged. Her suspense was of short duration. Before ten minutes had passed the gamekeeper rejoined her, his face white and scared. " Well ? " she asked eagerly. " Well ? " " I've got him out," said the man, with an oath and a sob, " and it ain't no stranger. It's the master — the dear old master, what I saw alive and 'earty not an hour ago ! " " Colonel Kilgour ! " cried Marion, inexpressibly shocked. "Ay — murdered! s'elp me, with the marks of fingers on his throat ! "

Chapter II. The Half-brothers

The gruesome termination of her walk had thoroughly unnerved Marion. She returned to Willoughby Chase, thoughtful and depressed, and even a late cup of tea failed to revive her. The cases in the library were unlocked, and their contents at her disposal, but her book, fond of reading as she was, could not distract her mind, and make her forget the events of the after noon. When eleven struck, too, and she mounted the wide oak staircase, candlestick in hand, she noticed for the first time how far her bedroom was from the servants' quarters, and wondered, if she were taken ill or anything happened, how she should make them hear. " Marion, you are a goose ! I thought you had more sense," she said to herself aloud, and declined to pursue her conjectures further. But it was with an effort that she extinguished the light and went to bed.

This same bed, by the way, was an old-fashioned mahogany four-poster, which she had welcomed with rapture on other occasions as an artistic contrast to the modern abomination in shabby, green-enamelled iron whereon she had reposed at Miss Brown's. To-night the enthusiasm flagged a little. The curtains looked gloomy, and she rather wished that the moon would not pop in and out in that abrupt way. Feminine weaknesses these, of which she affected unconsciousness so successfully that at last she fell asleep. The sleep was feverish and disturbed, however, and many times she started awake with a nightmare-like oppression on her chest, to dwell once more upon the shadowy lake and the dead man's hand amongst the sedge. The memory in itself was disagreeable enough, even in the light of next morning's sun, but an equally disagreeable duty awaited her.

With her breakfast she received a summons to attend the Coroner's Court at eleven o'clock, and the prospect of an ordeal— for it was an ordeal to a shy woman— did not improve her appetite. But there was no escape, and, after all, she told herself, her nervousness was childish. She would merely be asked to describe the manner of her discovery, and then she would be at liberty to forget the hideous break in her pleasant holiday as speedily as she could. The parlour of the Blue Boar, at Overstone, where the inquest was to be held, was a large, dark, low-ceilinged room, somewhat stuffy, and reminiscent of beer and tobacco, and adorned with faded prints of the Royal Family in maple-wood frames. When Marion entered it was packed to the utmost limits of its capacity, for the mysterious murder of a man so well known in the county as Colonel Kilgour of Glenluce had created a con siderable stir.

The coroner was already seated at the head of the linoleum covered table— a kindly old gentleman who evidently felt com passion for the woman accident had placed in such a trying position, and who advanced to give her evidence with such a brave attempt at composure, for he did not confuse her by question or interruption, but allowed her to tell her story in her own way, and thanked her courteously when she had done. Despite the fact that she knew no more of the late Colonel Kilgour than that he was the owner of Glenluce, she naturally felt more interest in the problem of his murder than she would have felt in a similar case reported in a newspaper. The excitement, too, which seemed to impregnate the close atmosphere of the inn parlour, was infectious. Instead of leaving at once, she took a seat which was offered her in a corner of the room.

The next witness was the gamekeeper, and while he gave his evidence she seized the opportunity to take stock of her surroundings. Hitherto, what with the scanty light the small-paned windows admitted, and her own nervousness, she had discerned no more than a dim sea of faces ; now she began to discriminate and analyze. With one exception, besides herself, all of those present were men, the majority of them country gentlemen in breeches and top-boots, who had ridden over to hear the inquiry into the tragic death of a friend and neighbour. The one exception rather interested Marion, partly, no doubt, because she was the only other member of her sex present, partly because her appearance was striking and unusual, and certainly un-English. She mi°-ht have been Italian or Spanish, or, perhaps, a Creole — a handsome woman of five or six and twenty, with black almond eyes aud red lips, and the silky black hair and languorous grace of the South.

Evidently some relative of the dead man, for she was dressed in mourning, and followed the proceedings with an attention too vivid for that of a mere acquaintance. As Marion Cleeve gazed at her, she leaned back in her chair, and raised a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils, as though overcome by the heat or the unwholesome oppression inseparable from such a subject, and, for the first time, Marion caught sight of a man who was sitting on the farther side of her. His face at once recalled an episode forgotten in the overwhelming event which had followed. It was the face of the man who had told her the time in the wood. If he had looked serious then, he looked even more so now. His hps were compressed into a line, and he was leaning forward motionless, with his elbow on his knee and his chin in the hollow of his hand, frowning fixedly at the coroner and the witness.

Only once, when the latter added a too-graphic touch to his horrible story, he stirred and brushed the lock of black hair off his forehead — a habit, doubtless, and performed unconsciously. Something in the intensity of his attitude revived her specula tion of the previous day regarding him, and she had the curiosity to whisper to her neighbour — a prosperous-looking farmer — if he could tell her the name of the gentleman beside the fireplace. " I should rather think I could, miss," was the answer. "There ain't many who couldn't i' these parts. That's Mr. Valentine Kilgour, the poor colonel's nephew. He and his half brother, Mr. Julian, live at Glenluce. The old gentleman adopted them when their father died." " And the lady beside him ? " " Oh, that's Mrs. Wentworth — a Creole, she is, by birth.

One of the colonel's family married her abroad, and a fine life he led her, by all accounts, poor thing. A twelvemonth ago, he died and left her not very well off, so the colonel asked her to come and keep house for him, and be a kind of companion to Mr. Valentine's mother." Although Marion had asked the question, she did not pay very much attention to the reply. Valentine Kilgour's rather un common initials were occupying her mind. " ' V. K.,' of course," she thought. " The owner of the sketch book." • The train of recollection thus fired reminded her of a remarkable coincidence, a coincidence which was in fact a little startling. From the obscurity of her corner she favoured Mr. Valentine Kilgour with a second and keener look — not alone because talent appealed to her, and he was a clever artist, but because he was the owner of the sketch-book she had found near the scene of the murder.

She had no time, however, to produce order among the mental chaos of vague suggestion contained in this discovery, for at this moment the medical man rose to give his evidence, which caused some interest. He said that from the marks on the throat it was evident that death had ensued partly from violence and partly from drowning. " How long do you think the body was in the water ? " asked the coroner. " That is easy to calculate. The gamekeeper stated, I believe, that it was ten minutes to five when he rescued it. The murder was committed at exactly fifteen minutes past four." " How on earth do you know ? " demanded a startled juryman. The doctor permitted himself to smile. "I looked at his watch. It had stopped, of course, when it touched the water." Dr. Dixie resumed his seat, and Mr. Valentine Kilgour took his place at the table.

His story was brief enough — almost as brief as Marion's own. He aud his uucle had left the house together after luncheon. When they had gone some distance, he remembered that he had forgotten to despatch a rather important telegram. Whereupon they separated, and he went on to Holden-Basset alone. That was the last time he saw his uncle alive. " What o'clock was it when you parted ? " asked the coroner. " I should say it was about ten minutes to four." " Therefore the murder must have taken place within half an hour ? Quick work ! In which direction was he walking ? " " Towards the south— that is, towards the place where he was found." " And you ? " " I took the'path on the north side of the lake. The distance is shorter, and I was in a hurry." " Did you meet any one in the neighbourhood ?

" The witness hesitated a moment, and Marion fancied he was about to allude to their meeting, but apparently he changed his mind, if such had been his intention. " I met my brother Julian a few minutes afterwards." " You met him fifteen or twenty minutes before the murder ? " " I suppose it would be about that." " On the north side of the lake ? " " No, at the western extremity, where the two paths join." " Which one did he take after you left him ? " " I don't know." " Are you aware whether your uncle had any private enemies ? " " To the best of my knowledge he hadn't an enemy in the world. He deserved none." " Hear, hear ! " came in a gruff whisper from the back of the room. " You were on good terms with him ? " ■ " Certainly. He was like a father to me — the best of fathers — for many years."

There was a hiatus between the sentences, and he added the latter with a slight tremor in his voice, the first sign of emotion he had shown. The next question seemed somewhat irrelevant, and was evidently an intense surprise to the majority of those present. " Is it true that your uncle has bequeathed to you his entire fortune, including the residence and estate known as Glenluce ? " " So I learnt this morning ! " If the query had caused a sensation, the affirmative reply intensified it, and it was not a sensation favourable to Mr. Valentine Kilgour. An unmistakable coldness and displeasure manifested itself on many faces. The witness appeared to feel this instinctively, for, although he did not turn his head, Marion saw his features set into still sterner lines, and his nervous artistic hands close like vices on the edge of the table.

" Then hitherto you were unaware that you would benefit so largely by his death ? " "Yes. I always understood it to be his intention that my half-brother and I should share alike." " You are not the elder ? " " No — the younger by three years." " Thank you, Mr. Kilgour, that will do." A moment's pause, accompanied by the scratching of pens, then Julian Kilgour was called. Apparently he was somewhere outside, and had to be fetched, for a full minute elapsed before he entered. No two men could have resembled each other less than these half-brothers, despite the close bond of blood — perhaps each favoured his mother in looks instead of their mutual father. While Valentine was dark, Julian was fair, and built on heavier, fleshier lines — a sunny-haired, blue-eyed Saxon, with a blonde moustache and a military carriage, acquired in the yeomanry.

His voice was mellow, his manner — to women — caressing. It was conceivable that he could put on "side." Certainly, a man of attractive appearance, even his rivals— and their name was legion —could not deny that. Nevertheless, his face, although hand some enough, did not interest Marion nearly as much as his brother's. It lacked the character, the individuality of Valentine's. " These men are as opposite as the poles," she thought. " I wonder if they get on together ? " Julian Kilgour said little to throw light on the mystery. He had been lunching with friends, and when he returned home, his uncle and brother were out. Soon after the news of the tragedy was brought to him. Valentine was still absent at the time. " Did you meet your brother in the wood ? " " Y— yes." " Why do you hesitate ?