King of the Dead E-Book

Frank Aubrey

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Don Lorenzo and Arnold Neville lead separate expeditions to the South American interior whereupon they encounter the exiled king of the underground world. But can Neville help him reclaim his throne when the arch-priestess, Alloyah, raises an army of the dead? The sequel to „The Devil-Tree of El Dorado” and „A Queen of Atlantis”, „King of the Dead” is a novel among the most famous „lost race” novels written by the British author Frank Aubrey.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. PRESENTIMENTS

II. THE MESSAGE

III. A MAN OF MYSTERY

IV. A STRANGE INTERVIEW

V. ON BOARD THE "ALLOYAH"

VI. SOME MODERN MAGIC

VII. GONE!

VIII. THE HAUNTED MOUNTAIN

IX. THE WHITE PUMA

X. THE LADY OF THE MOUNTAIN

XI. RHELMA'S WARNING

XII. HUNTING WITH LIONS

XIII. A LETTER FROM BERYL

XIV. MANZONI

XV. A MYSTERIOUS PLANT

XVI. THE RED RAY

XVII. THE STORY OF LYOSTRAH AND THE HIDDEN CITY

XVIII. WHAT IS LYOSTRAH'S SECRET?

XIX. A SURPRISE

XX. THE CITY OF MYRVONIA

XXI. IN LYOSTRAH'S PALACE

XXII. HAPPY HOURS

XXIII. THE TEMPLE OF DORNANDA

XXIV. GATHERING SHADOWS

XXV. THE HORROR IN THE LAND

XXVI. BERYL'S DREAM

XXVII. THE BLACK CANOE AGAIN

XXVIII. DEMONS OF THE NIGHT

XXIX. BERYL MISSING!

XXX. LYOSTRAH AND MANZONI

XXXI. A NIGHT EXPEDITION

XXXII. MAHRIMAH THE TERRIBLE

XXXIII. ALESTRO, SON OF THE STARS

XXXIV. IN ALLOYAH'S POWER

XXXV. THE END

I. PRESENTIMENTS

“DEAR Arnold, do not press me for reasons; for I can give none. As well might you ask me to tell you why I admire yonder glowing clouds and the golden sunset; or why I should shiver and be filled with sadness were it all to be suddenly obscured by rolling masses of heavy sea fog. The one affects me pleasurably; the other unfavourably–but I cannot tell you why. Yet you know that such feelings are part of one’s very nature. Well, so it is here–with this man. He affects me unfavourably, and therefore I instinctively shrink from him.”

“But, Beryl! Is it fair to him–to any man–to condemn him thus arbitrarily, especially–”

“I condemn him? What a foolish idea, Arnold! I know nothing about him that would justify my forming any such opinion. Indeed, his kindness to you–”

“Exactly. That’s just what I want to remind you of.”

“Indeed, Arnold, I am not in any danger of forgetting it. You, yourself, are always dilating upon it, and–to a certain extent–I, of course, am compelled to admit it. But then, there are people who are sometimes kind for some motive of their own, perhaps an unworthy motive. I–”

“Beryl!”

“Well, I don’t say that that is the case here. I only say that I have an intuitive distrust of your brilliant friend, and it urges me–oh so strongly, Arnold–to pray of you not to allow him to tempt you, or to persuade you, into joining him in any wild adventure.”

The scene was Ryde, the time summer, and the speakers were Beryl Atherton and Arnold Neville, two young people who were lovers. One may say, indeed, very much lovers. They had been engaged for quite three months and had not had a single quarrel as yet; not even–as yet–so much as a difference of opinion or an argument. And now that a slight difference of opinion had arisen it took no form of jealousy, though it had been caused through another man. On the contrary, the occasion was merely that the lady obstinately declined to diagnose, in the character of a certain mutual friend, the claims to admiration and confidence which her lover enthusiastically insisted upon. Most likely, had it been the other way about–i.e.had the lady been foremost in assigning to the mutual friend such an attractive personality–her lover would have been torn by jealousy, and would have contemptuously pooh-poohed the proposition. Such is the inconsistency of young people in love.

Beryl Atherton was an orphan, living with a widowed aunt who had brought her up from childhood. This relative–Mrs Beresford by name–lived a somewhat retired life in a small cottage of her own called “Ivydene,” one of the prettiest residences in the Isle of Wight. This home she scarcely ever left from year’s end to year’s end; and Beryl, in consequence, had grown up to what was now her twentieth year with but scant knowledge of the great world that lay outside that sunny island. A few visits, of no long duration, to distant and little known relatives, a month, once or twice, in London during the season, and a trip, one winter, to the South of France, for the benefit of her aunt’s health, constituted the total of her travels from home. But she was a studious and intelligent reader, and her industry in this direction, and a curiously accurate, intuitive, natural perception, enabled her to make up in many respects for her real ignorance of the “world” and its ways.

But, if lacking in most of those doubtful accomplishments which usually mark the society belle, Beryl Atherton possessed other attractions in the form of beauty and grace such as are but rarely granted to even the most favoured of Eve’s daughters. To a face and figure all but perfect, she added the charms of large, lustrous, grey-blue eyes, shining with the clear, unmistakable light of a pure woman’s soul within, and a smile so sweet and so sunny that few who once saw it ever forgot it. Golden brown hair that glistened in the sunlight, well-marked eyebrows a little darker in shade, perfect teeth, exquisitely moulded hands and feet, and a stature neither short nor tall, complete the short description of one of Nature’s fairest gifts to the earth, one of whom it had been said, by more than one, that she was “beautiful as a goddess, and as good as she was beautiful.”

Now her fiancéeArnold Neville, was also an orphan; and perhaps that fact may have had something to do with the sympathy which had existed between the two from the moment of their first meeting. It had been a case of “love at first sight” on both sides. Not a surprising fact so far as the young man was concerned, for every young man fell in love with Beryl Atherton at first sight–or thought he did. But the fact that it was in this case mutual, was unexpected, especially by Beryl’s guardian. That good dame had been so accustomed to her niece’s attractions causing all and sundry to offer their adoration without the smallest symptom of corresponding feelings on her side, that she had come to look upon such an event as beyond the limit of everyday calculations. For, until Arnold’s appearance upon the scene, the young girl had merely accepted the homage of her admirers as a sort of form of politeness, smiling kindly and cordially upon each in turn, but never giving to any the smallest encouragement. And this gratified her guardian, who seemed to think that no one beneath the rank of a nobleman was good enough for her beloved niece, and had quite fallen into a sort of belief that the girl thought the same, and was awaiting the advent of her Prince Charming.

The shock had been, therefore, somewhat severe when she woke up one day to the knowledge that Beryl had given her heart to young Neville, whom they had known but a year; and who was very far indeed from fulfilling her dream of an ideal husband for her darling–at least, so far as worldly prospects went.

For Neville–unlike Beryl–possessed no “blue-blooded” relations. If Beryl was an orphan, she not only knew who her relatives were, but could boast–if she had wished to boast–that she was very “well-connected” indeed. Her father had been sixth cousin to a Duke, whilst her mother had been the daughter of parents who had been closely related to an Earl.

But Arnold, so far from possessing ducal or lordly relatives, scarcely even knew his own name. That is to say, he had no relative that he knew of in the whole world, had never known his own father or mother, and had to take it on trust, so to speak, that his name was really Neville. Saved from a wreck in which both his parents had been drowned, he had been adopted and brought up by a kindly old couple who had educated him as an engineer, and finally died, leaving him just enough to live upon had he cared to be an idle man. Some linen in which he had been wrapped, when saved from the wrecked ship, had been marked “Arnold Neville,” and this name had accordingly been bestowed upon him. Beyond that he knew nothing.

One thing, however, was certain–so far as appearance went, Neville might have claimed the best of descent. Fairly tall, and well built, with a face and head of a singularly refined, intellectual cast, there was something in his air and manner that denoted the polished gentleman almost before one had had time to perceive the pleasing character of the features, and the steady, searching gaze of the clear, grey eyes. Handsome he certainly was, and well-favoured beyond the common run of mankind; but the kindly expression, and the genial smile that were habitual to him, were more attractive, and formed a truer index to his real character, than even the manly beauty that was undoubtedly his. In temperament he was inclined to be somewhat of a dreamer; and he was an enthusiast in music and painting; but this was compensated by a natural mathematical bias which had been strengthened and fostered by the special education he had received as an engineer. He was fond, too, of outdoor sports, and was well skilled in athletic exercises–characteristics which served still further to balance the dreamy, poetical side of his nature. He had now reached, according to the only data be possessed, his twenty-fifth year, and the occasion had served to remind him that he had not as yet settled down to any fixed career. So far, he had passed his time, since leaving college, as an improver in the offices of two or three different firms, changing his ground with the object of gaining a more varied experience. Latterly, he had been seeking an opportunity of employment with some pioneer railway enterprise abroad, an occupation which would, he hoped, afford him still wider experience, combined with foreign travel and exploration, which latter had always had for him an almost irresistible fascination.

Hence it was that his fiancée’sallusion to “wild adventure” fell somewhat unpleasantly on his ears. Beryl’s ideas upon the subject, so far as she was able to judge, led her to oppose his accepting any post that would take him abroad, especially as it must, almost certainly, mean that they would be separated for a term. His argument was, however, that such a course was wisest in the end, though distasteful for the time being. He would in that way get a better position, earn more money, and thus be enabled to marry sooner than he could hope to do by staying at home and waiting for the slow promotion which would then be all he could hope for.

“I hardly see, Beryl,” he said, in reply to her last remark, “that going abroad to take part in some engineering or mining enterprise deserves to be denounced as entering upon a ‘wild adventure.’ Look at my friend Leslie, for instance. He has been out for five years in South America, engaged in railway work. Beyond such adventures as are more or less incidental to travel and exploration, his occupation has been businesslike enough; and, as the upshot, he has not only made more money than he could possibly have earned by staying at home, but he is now qualified to take a position which he could not otherwise have hoped to gain for years to come. He is, moreover, so well pleased with his experiences, that he is ready and willing to go out again, as you know, and–”

“Ah yes; but he has been engaged in a legitimate business undertaking–not in (I must really repeat the words, Arnold) a wild adventure. For it seems to me to be nothing else that his friend, Don Lorenzo, now proposes to you. I have a sort of instinctive aversion to your going off on any such expedition with that man.”

“But why, Beryl?”

Which question brought the two back precisely to the point from which the conversation had started. The talk had travelled in a circle; as, indeed, had happened more than once before, when the same subject had been under discussion.

This time, however, Beryl resolved to speak out more plainly.

“Well then, since you keep pressing me so, I will speak what is in my mind–so far as I can manage to frame it in words. For I admit, of course, that I have very little to guide me; it is all very shadowy and indistinct, to my perception. But then it is just that that impresses me with vague doubts and fears. You see we know, after all, very little–practically nothing–of this adventurer, who–”

“Beryl! You have been to Don Lorenzo’s entertainments, cruised in his yacht, accepted his hospitality; you have been the recipient of innumerable and most flattering kindnesses from a man who can boast Royalty amongst his friends; and now you style him an adventurer!”

“Arnold, dear, listen to me for a moment. It is your safety, dear, that I have in my mind, and your future–our future–” Beryl answered, with a charming blush. “It is true, as you say, that this man has, or seems to have, very highly placed personages for his friends; but that only makes it the more surprising to me that he should seek such very quiet society as ours. But to go back to the point; what, after all, do we know of him? What, even, has he told us? Come now, let us put it plainly.” Here she held up her hands as though counting on her fingers, and proceeded to mark offher points with an air of grave sedateness that was very pretty to look at. “This gentleman makes the acquaintance of your friend, Mr Leslie, somewhere in the wilds of the South American forests. He says he is a Brazilian–or rather he is supposed to be a Brazilian, for I do not know that he has actually declared it to be so. He says his name is Don Lorenzo, which sounds a very short, modest appellation for a Brazilian. He appears to be very rich–”

“What about Santos-Dumont, the inventor of the flying machine? Was not he a Brazilian and reputed to be rich? Are those things to be accounted crimes?”

“Very rich,” Beryl repeated, ignoring the interruption. “He comes to England in a wonderful yacht; visits London, and becomes at once the lion of the season. He goes everywhere, seems to be courted by everybody–even, as you say, by Royalty. He gives lavishly to charities–”

“That, after all, is only the modern way to get into society, and to rub shoulders with Royalty, you know.”

”–He is undoubtedly a very remarkable man. His personal beauty is admitted to be extraordinary–”

“Youdon’t seem to admit it.”

“But I do. No one can help acknowledging it He is a most accomplished gentleman–”

“H’m; you allow that, then?”

”–a brilliant talker; a master of an unknown number of languages; supposed to be a marvellously clever mechanician–”

“That he is I can declare.”

”–An eloquent orator, a finished musician;–in short, a social wonder. A sort of brilliant social meteor, the like of which has hardly been known before.”

“But is it not true?”

“Well; after a while, this wonderful being makes your acquaintance, and forthwith deserts all his brilliant circle of friends, at the very height of the season, to come down here to potter about in our little circle, apparently with no other object than to cultivate your society–”

“And yours–and Leslie’s.”

”–but yoursin particular, as it has all along seemed to me. And then he suddenly remembers that he has an enterprise in hand or in view–a mysterious adventure, apparently–about which he seems to have forgotten until he met you. For no one else appears to have heard of it–not even Mr Leslie, who came over in his yacht, ever heard it spoken of during their long voyage. An enterprise for which he requires an assistant or lieutenant–a mysterious post, which, he declares, no one can fill but you.”

“He did not say so, Beryl, dear. He paid me the flattering compliment of offering it to me before any one else; that’s all.”

“But the fact that he has so offered it to you is prima facieevidence that he considers that no one else but you can fill it. Is it not so? Out of all the people he met in London–dukes, marquises, earls, and the rest, with their younger sons and nephews and so on, who would have been but too eager to jump at such an offer–so we have heard–”

“And we know it to be true.”

“Even his own friend–and your friend–Mr Leslie, the one with whom he travelled to Europe–all are passed over–altogether ignored–in your favour.”

“And all this–which one would think ought to be considered the greatest possible compliment to myself, is, in your eyes, a sort of crime, I suppose.”

“No, Arnold; not that It is a mystery; a most strange, most inexplicable mystery. And for that reason it has caused me misgivings, and imbued my mind with vague apprehensions of which I am very conscious, but which I am altogether unable to define in words to my own satisfaction?”

She paused, and gazed out dreamily at the scene before her. They were seated on a terrace in the garden attached to Mrs Beresford’s residence, which stood on high ground overlooking the sea, with a view that extended across to Southsea and Portsmouth and the line of hills beyond. There were vessels of all sorts and kinds and sizes passing to and fro; busy passenger-steamers plying backwards and forwards from the island to the mainland; one or two Channel steamers of larger size were also within view, and two or three huge vessels-of-war riding majestically at their anchors. A torpedo-boat destroyer could be seen, too, boring its way along through the water at a terrific speed, and throwing up waves of its own that turned the twinkling ripples around into a tumbling, storm-tossed sea, threatening destruction to any small boat that lay near its path. And, not least, among the smaller craft, but most beautiful of all, were the yachts, with their wide spread of snow-white sails towering aloft, gliding in and out amongst all the rest with graceful, easy sweep, careening to the slight breeze. The whole scene was lighted up by the beams of the setting sun, slightly veiled, farther away, by a purple haze that softened the distant hills into the clouds which floated above them.

Beryl gazed out over the scene with eyes in which there seemed a great depth of tender longing. The view from that terrace had been familiar to her from childhood, but it always seemed to have a fresh charm. She loved it as she loved a very dear friend; loved it under all its aspects, in all its moods. In the summer daylight, when white-crested waves tripped merrily shorewards like rows of white-robed dancing children; at dusk, when, over the placid water, the guardian light at Selsey Bill waxed and waned in its ceaseless watch, now gleaming bright and clear, now fading slowly into nothingness, only to appear again as a tiny star that grey and grew till it became, once more, the flashing glare of a few minutes before; and in winter, when darkling skies and troubled waters and drifting sea-mists filled the scene, shutting out the opposite shores, and only showing a vessel here and there as a half-revealed, ghostly phantom;–under all these aspects, in all these moods, the outlook had seemed to her ever fresh, ever beautiful, ever fascinating. In its extent, in its quiet beauty, and its harmonious variety, there was, to her mind, a sense of restfulness that always soothed and comforted her.

She turned from it, and regarded her lover with eyes that were dimmed, ever so slightly, with tears.

“Dear Arnold,” she said, softly taking his hand in hers, “it is my heart that speaks and that prays you to avoid this man’s blandishments. My heart tells me there is something insincere in him. He is so cynical too; I like not his talk at times–”

“He is outspoken, certainly–especially against humbug, and cant, and hypocrisy.”

“Not only against such as that; but against better things, lie sneers and rails at much that I, for one, respect and revere; and his words hurt me, at times, more than I can give you any idea of. Oh, Arnold, dear, be advised by me. It is a voice within me that speaks, that assures me there is about this man something inimical to your future good and to my own; something, I had almost said, uncanny, unholy. Listen to me, dear heart, in this one’ matter. Avoid his persuasions, decline his tempting offers, and do not trust your future–our future–to his guidance, to his tender mercies. Promise me this, Arnold, now, before you have made any promise to him that might be irrevocable. I am more anxious about it than I can tell you–and–oh! I am so inexperienced in the world’s ways, I cannot properly define my own fears–I can only beg and pray of you to yield to me in this. Will you, Arnold?”

“But what about your aunt, Beryl? She will be very much against my refusing his offers, or I am much mistaken. She will say I am recklessly throwing up a good thing when I have nothing else to choose from to put in its place. I feel sure, from many hints she has let fall, that she has quite made up her mind I am going out with the Don; and I should not be surprised if she were to show her disappointment in somewhat disagreeable fashion.”

“You must leave that to me, dear. Since I shall be chiefly responsible for the decision, I am quite prepared to share the blame. I will tell her it was my doing.”

“She will be very vexed.”

“I shall be sorry, but in this matter I feel so anxious, that I would rather bear almost anything than see you go away with this man. Dear Arnold, for my sake, for the sake of our love, for the sake of our future happiness–which is, I am sure, at stake,–make up your mind and give me the promise I so long to hear from your lips.”

And Arnold, feeling that he could refuse nothing to such tender pleading, drew the almost trembling girl to him, and kissed her.

“Very well, Beryl; be reassured, my darling,” he said. “I have now made my mind to do as you wish. Come what will, no matter what his offers may be, or what we may seem to lose by it, I have made up my mind I will not go away with him. Will that content you?”

Beryl gave a soft, satisfied sigh, and rested her bead lovingly upon his shoulder.

“Now I shall feel more at ease,” she murmured. “I cannot tell you, Arnold, what a nightmare this haunting fear has been to me. Your promise has lifted a load from my heart.”

A minute later she turned towards the house, as the sound of footsteps came along the path.

It was a servant.

“If you please, Miss,” said the girl, “Mr Gordon Leslie has called, and wishes to speak at once to Mr Neville.”

II. THE MESSAGE

A FEW minutes later Mr Gordon Leslie joined the two on the terrace; and since he takes a considerable part in the series of events that go to make up this strange tale, it may not be out of place to give a few lines to him, by way of introduction to the reader.

Mr Gordon Wentworth Leslie, to give him his name in full, was at this time some thirty years of age; he was tall and muscular in build, and fairly good-looking. His features were bronzed by exposure to a tropical sun, and this, with his black hair and brown eyes, made him somewhat dark in appearance compared with the average untravelled Englishman. His movements had in them a peculiar easy swing–perhaps be had unconsciously acquired some of the free grace of the Indians amongst whom much of his time during the last few years had been passed. His sojourn in South American wilds had made him hard and tough in constitution, and self-reliant and alert in action. In character he was somewhat contradictory, or appeared so to those who only knew him slightly, since he had at times a half-cynical, half-flippant, ultra-critical way of expressing himself which appeared to be at variance with the genial, hearty manner and blunt common-sense that characterised him at others. It was a little difficult to those who knew him but slightly to discover which was his true character; only, perhaps, by his “chum” Neville, and one or two other intimates, was he thoroughly understood. As to the rest, in addition to his qualifications for his profession–which were unquestioned–he delighted to dabble a little in science, and, in particular, in botany and natural history. On his return, six months or so previously, from the tropics, he had brought back with him a collection of specimens of tie fauna and flora of the countries he had visited, selected with such knowledge and skill that their sale had brought him a considerable sum.

Leslie’s home had originally been on the wild western shores of Scotland, where he had been accustomed from boyhood to outdoor life with boat and gun; but after the death of his parents he had come to live in the Isle of Wight, where he met Arnold Neville, and the two had become henceforth the firmest of friends and the most devoted of chums. During the absence of Leslie in America a constant correspondence had been kept up, and so graphic had Leslie’s letters been, and so detailed and eloquent his descriptions of his life and adventures, that Neville was wont to say he already seemed to know the country almost as well as if he had lived out there himself.

“I’ve come,” said Leslie, after the few preliminary inquiries concerning health, and remarks about the weather, which form the indispensable introduction to more serious subjects in all civilised intercourse–”I’ve come to seek you, Arnold, by command of his excellency the Count–that latter-day Sphinx–”

“You mean Don Lorenzo, Mr Leslie, I suppose,” said Beryl, with a smile.

“Exactly, Miss Atherton. That gentleman, so good, so wise that some have bestowed upon him the soubriquet of the human riddle.”

“Oh, stow that, Gordon,” Neville interrupted. “Do tell us what the message is.”

“His excellency’s message is that he will be very greatly and eternally indebted to you if you can do him the never-to-be-sufficiently-appreciated honour of paying him an early and not-too-long-delayed visit at the suite of rooms which he occupies at the hotel which he has favoured with his distinguished and very much-to-be-desired patronage.”

“Good gracious, Gordon, man, don’t be so ridiculous!” Arnold exclaimed, half in earnest, half laughing. “He means, dear,” he went on, by way of explanation to Beryl, “that the ‘Don’ wants to see me.”

“So I gathered,” said Beryl, laughing at his expression of affected disgust at the other’s circuitous way of giving the message. Then she became graver, and, turning to Leslie, said:

“Why is it so pressing, Mr Leslie? Have you any idea what his object is?”

Leslie nodded. “I believe,” he answered, “that his excellency has received some news which has somewhat disturbed that lofty serenity which usually appears so unassailable. He talks of retiring, at an earlier date than at first intended, to his native fastnesses–wherever they may be located; and I apprehend, therefore, that he may desire to learn from his well-beloved friend here, whether he consents to accompany him. To give the precise message, he begs his dear and never-to-be-sufficiently-admired friend to go and see him at once–now.”

“This evening?” said Beryl.

“Yes. It is only fair to his excellency to say that this somewhat peremptory-sounding request was accompanied by a string of most elegantly-worded apologies, so long, that were I to repeat the half of them his dear-and-well-beloved friend could not possibly arrive at the hotel before to-morrow morning. So I leave out all that part of the message, much as I should like to repeat it to you, if only out of admiration for its mellifluous and well-balanced phraseology.”

“Oh! Do be sensible, Gordon; you are incorrigible,” Arnold exclaimed, impatiently. “If I understand you aright, you believe he wishes to get a final decision from me; and if so it is too serious a matter to fool about with. Not, however,” he added, more quietly, “that it requires much thought, for my mind is made up.”

Something in Arnold’s tone, as he said this, struck Leslie as unusual, and he opened his eyes and sat up in his chair.

“Your mind is made up, Arnold?” he said, with an entire change of manner. “And your answer is–?”

“No!”

Leslie gave a long, low whistle; and for a while there was dead silence. Then he looked at Beryl.

“You two have discussed this and made up your minds together, I can see,” he observed. “May I ask–is it final?”

“Yes, Mr Leslie. Arnold has given me his promise, and that ends it,” was Beryl’s answer, given with quiet decision.

“The Don won’t like it!”

“He has no claim upon Arnold, no right to insist upon his acceptance of his offer,” said Beryl, with just a trace of annoyance in her tone. “Do you mean to say you think he will resent it? Would he dare–”

“No, no, Miss Beryl,” Leslie put in hastily, smiling at the way in which the young lady had flushed up, and the indignant ring in her last words. “I was only thinking that he would be very disappointed; I feel sure he will.”

“Well, he can get a very good substitute close at hand,” Arnold remarked.

“You mean myself?”

“Why, of course.”

“Ah! I only wish he would transfer the offer to me!”

“What? Would you accept it?” Beryl inquired.

“Like a shot! But there–I feel assured there is no likelihood of his doing that.”

“In that case it only adds to the mystery of the thing,” said Beryl, meditatively. “I had had an idea that perhaps he had made you the offer at first, and that you had refused it, only you did not wish it to be known, thinking that if it were it might prejudice Arnold.”

“No, Miss Atherton. He never seems to have so much as thought of me in such a connection.”

“Yet you, with the experience you have already had out there would, one would have supposed, have been far better suited to him than Arnold. It is all a puzzle to me.”

“Well, well, Beryl, dear, we have decided,” said Arnold; “so why worry further about it? I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll trot along there now, and get if over. It won’t take long; and I’d rather get it off my mind. Will you come with me, Gordon, or stay here and wait till I return?”

“I’ll stay here and wait for you, with Miss Beryl’s permission,” said Leslie. “He won’t want me there. But I should like to know what he says; so I will wait for you here–that is, if you will not be late.”

“I shall certainly come back here to tell Beryl what transpires,” Arnold returned; “so by all means wait for me.” And with that he left them.

Beryl and Leslie, thus left alone, remained for some time silent; but presently the former exclaimed, half to herself and half to her companion:

“God grant that no harm may come of this! How I wish that man had never taken this strange fancy to Arnold!”

“It seems hard to say that, Miss Atherton,” Leslie answered, warmly. He was fond of Arnold himself, and it seemed to him easy enough to understand why another man should feel the same way. “In selecting him, or wishing to select him, above all else, Don Lorenzo has but rated him at his true value; at least, so I would humbly submit the matter to you.”

“Yes, yes; it is like you to say so. I know how true and loyal your friendship for dear Arnold is; and oh, I beg of you, Mr Leslie, I implore you to tell me truly–do you believe that Don Lorenzo will accept his ‘No’ quietly, and that no harm will come of it!”

“My dear Miss Beryl! What harm can possibly come of it?”

Beryl looked at him wistfully, as though wishing that she could read his secret thoughts. Then she gave a slight shiver.

“Mr Leslie,” she said, in a tone so grave and serious that Leslie involuntarily gave a slight start of surprise, “why do you affect ignorance of what is in my mind–ay, and, for the matter of that, in your own mind–for I saw the grave expression that came into your face when Arnold told you that his answer would be ‘No.’ You felt then as I did. Immediately there flashed across your mind the question: ‘How will he take this refusal?’ and deep down in your heart you had a lurking fear that trouble would come of it I read it all in your face as clearly as I would read a book. Why did you have that fear, and what is the trouble that you instinctively foresaw?”

The girl was so earnest, so convinced of the reality of that of which she spoke, that Leslie felt himself in a difficulty how to make answer. Her searching gaze, telling so eloquently of the deep love and the tender concern that troubled her thoughts, conveyed to him, plainly enough, that she was not to be put off, like an inquisitive child, by empty phrases or conventional disclaimers. Her great love, he could not fail to perceive, had inspired her with a sort of exalted courage and a way of looking at things that were new in her–at least so far as regarded his own experience of her–and quite different to her usual quiet and simple manner.

He felt, in fact, to state his own thoughts about the matter at the moment, that he was “cornered,” and that it would be useless to beat about the bush.

“Miss Beryl, I will not deny that you have correctly divined my thoughts. But of course there is no danger–”

“Dear friend–true friend of Arnold’s as I know you to be,–do not play with me further; let us be frank. I fear this man’s resentment; so do you. If it be the case that he is going away soon, then, if there is any harm coming it will come quickly. If there is anything to be done to avert it, we must take our precautions now–at once. There is no time for delay. This man is rich, powerful with all the power that an iron will and unscrupulous resolve, backed by great wealth, can give him. He has no ties here–will leave no hostages behind if he chooses to sail in his yacht and simply disappear. None can follow him, for no one knows whence he comes or whither he goes. Thus I read it; for I have given it much anxious thought; and so do you. Am I not right?”

“Partly; but–”

“Now, you know him better than we do. What form do you think his resentment is likely to take?”

“I cannot now say. I must have time to think. I declare to you I have never thought about it till a few minutes ago, for the simple reason that I never anticipated that Arnold would refuse so promising an opening.”

“Then, Mr Leslie, you willthink about it now, will you not? Promise me that you will give allyour thought to it, as if our lives depended upon it, as indeed they do–mine does, for how could I live on if anything happened to Arnold!”

Her distress was so apparent, so real, that Leslie felt more deeply touched than he would have cared, perhaps, to own. Inwardly he made a vow to give his whole thoughts to this matter until the Brazilian had left the country.

“I will watch over Arnold day and night, Miss Atherton,” he promised her, in a low but resolute tone. “The more anxiously in that, should any trouble arise, I should feel myself, in a measure, the cause of it, seeing that I was the means of introducing Lorenzo and Arnold to each other.”

“No, no; you must not look at it so. But now do explain to me a little more clearly what you know about this man of mystery–for so I call him. You said just now that if he made you an offer you would accept it readily enough. If that is the case you must feel confidence in him?”

“I have confidence in him in this way, that I fully believe he possesses almost unlimited wealth; and if, therefore, he promised me what would be to me a very liberal remuneration, I see no reason to doubt that he would keep his word. Moreover, you must not forget that he saved my life.”

“Ah yes, of course; Arnold told me something of that; but I scarcely heard any details. Since you came down here, and this stranger with you, we seem to have lived in such a whirl, and Arnold has been so wrapped up in this new friend, as he considered him, and has regarded everything through such rose-coloured spectacles, as it were, that really I have only confused recollections of what you at first told us. Do you really owe your life to him?”

“Undoubtedly. It happened far away in the interior of Brazil, hundreds of miles from the nearest white settlement I was alone–that is to say, so far as white men were concerned–and for the first and only time in my experience I had, through over-confidence, allowed a party of treacherous Indians to steal a march upon me. They fell upon us in the night, murdered nearly all my attendants then and there, took away my arms, and tied me up to a tree, and the following day were about to kill me when this man rode into their midst. He was armed in the fashion usual in those parts, but he apparently disdained to unsling his rifle or so much as draw his revolver. He carried in his hand a heavy riding-whip, and with that he lashed right and left into the cowardly, murderous crew. They appeared thoroughly frightened, made only futile attempts at resistance, and finally dropped all their plunder–everything they had stolen from me–and slunk off like whipped curs. Yet they were a marauding band who had long been notorious in those parts for the robberies and massacres they had perpetrated.”

“Could he have been in league with them, have been their real master?” Beryl queried, thoughtfully. “We have heard of such things.”

“That crossed my mind, too. But it could not have been so, since he did not live in that part of the country, and was only passing through it. He, in fact, came on down to the coast with me, and offered me, as you know, a passage home in his yacht, which was waiting for him at Rio.”

“Well, but who is he then? Who do you think he is?”

“Either a wealthy rancher who owns large properties far away in the interior of Brazil, or (more likely) one who has chanced upon some immensely rich gold or diamond mine, the secret of which he has managed to keep to himself.”

“There is something more than that,” Beryl said, dreamily, “some secret that you–we–have not yet guessed at. Riches can do a great deal, no doubt; but would you say in your own mind that this man is a ‘mere millionaire’? We have seen millionaires before; they have been plentiful of late years; but we know fairly well what they are like–at all events, within certain limits. After all, they are only men with more money than usual, and, generally speaking, they only become noticeable as each in turn displays more vulgarity and ostentation than his predecessors. But there is something very different about thismillionaire–or billionaire, or whatever he may be.”

“I agree with that. Yet, so far as I can speak of him–and I lived with him on his yacht for some time, you know–I’ve had nothing to complain of with him.”

“Nothing to complain of say you! Why, Mr Leslie, I cannot be in his company for half-an-hour without feeling that I dislike him–dread him.”

“Dread him! Others speak of his marvellous attractiveness, of his magnetic influence, and his inexhaustible good nature and royal munificence.”

“Yes; but does he not show his contempt for it all the time? He gives, it is true, ten thousand pounds in one lump to a charity to-day, and twenty thousand pounds to another to-morrow; but youknow, well enough, the cynical humour with which he talks of it afterwards.”

“I think a good deal of his cynicism is put on.”

“It is not, Mr Leslie. He scoffs and laughs at everything that is good, everything that is pure and holy. He believes in nothing, reverences nothing. He avows it all to you, and you laugh at it, and affect not to believe he means what he says. But I knowthat he means it–every word of it. My heart tells me so; my instinct tells me so. And that is why I dread him, why I so dreaded the thought of Arnold going away with him. I tell you that this man, handsome–a demigod–as he is, in face and figure, fascinating as he may be to those who are too much dazzled by his splendour, or too careless to look below the surface–this man of many strange gifts and powers has a heart of stone! God help any of us who had to trust to his tender mercies! That is the final message that my heart has whispered to me. And my woman’s instincts tell me that it is true.”

Now this conversation had carried the two far into the evening, and at this point Beryl went into the house to seek her aunt and keep her company till supper-time. Leslie preferred to stay outside on the terrace, to smoke a cigar in the cool evening air, and ponder over all that had been said. For a long while he remained there, sometimes walking restlessly up and down, sometimes standing gazing out through the darkness at the lights that twinkled on the opposite shore, or at the regular waxing and waning of the revolving light. The moon rose, large and ruddy, and spread her soft light over land and sea; and still Arnold did not return.

Presently, however, just as Leslie, after many impatient glances at his watch, was about to go into the house, he heard a step coming along the path, and a moment later Arnold appeared and dropped, as though greatly fatigued, into a seat.

“Ah, here you are at last! What a time you have been,” Leslie exclaimed. “How did you get on?”

“Gordon,” said Arnold, in a low, awed tone, “that man is beyond my comprehension! He is most certainly no ordinary human being! I cannot make up my mind whether he is a god, a madman, or a devil!”

And Leslie, going up closer to him, saw, in the moonlight, an expression upon his friend’s face that he had never seen there before. It was as though he had seen a ghost.

III. A MAN OF MYSTERY

WHEN Arnold Neville left Mrs Beresford’s house to call upon the Brazilian, he hurried along with only one idea uppermost in his mind, and that was to get the matter over as quickly as possible. He instinctively felt that the interview must, in any case, be an unpleasant one; but for that very reason he braced up his courage and determined to cut it short. As, however, he neared the hotel, at which the Count–as he was frequently styled–had taken up his temporary residence, his pace gradually slackened until his brisk walk had degenerated info a saunter, and a very slow one at that. He began to realise that the business before him might prove more difficult than he had at first considered it; and first one thought and then another came into his mind, suggesting points which he had for the moment left out of account, and which now made him wish that he had taken a little more time for consideration.

It was not so much that he had any fears–such as Beryl had confessed to–of the man’s resentment. That he would be annoyed, and be likely to show it, was to be expected; for he was a man accustomed to have his own way and to consider solely his own will and pleasure. And when Arnold remembered his usual haughty and often disdainful manner towards others, and the terrible look that he had seen in his face once or twice when he had been crossed, he could not but confess that he shrank from the necessity that lay before him of bearding this lion in his own den. But alongside of these recollections came others of a softer character. They reminded him how this high and mighty individual had invariably softened in his manner towards himself; he thought of the many kindnesses he had received at his hands, kindnesses the more noticeable in that they had involved expenditure of time and trouble upon Lorenzo’s part–a very different thing–with him–to the expenditure of money; of which he took no account.

There was another question that came to Arnold’s mind, too; could he anyhow persuade the count to extend his offer to his friend Leslie instead of himself? If he could do that, it would be a good way out of it all. But in order that he might have a chance to accomplish it, it behoved him to be cautious, and to avoid, as far as possible, putting his refusal in such a fashion as to give even the slightest offence. And yet to manage all this, and still be firm in such refusal, would clearly not be an easy matter.

Thus did Neville cogitate; and by the time he arrived at the hotel he had come to the conclusion that he had before him a pretty hard nut to crack.

The moment he set foot inside the hotel door, an obsequious waiter, quickly followed by a still more obsequious manager, came forward to receive him. They knew him as the intimate and favoured friend of their illustrious Guest (they would have spelt the word with a very big G), and they almost got pains in their backs in their anxiety to bow low enough to do him homage.

“I believe that his excellency is in, Mr Neville,” said the manager, rubbing his hands, and bowing two or three to the second. “Pray walk in here, sir, and be seated while I send word to his excellency’s secretary. I’ve no doubt his excellency will see you immediately, sir. Very fine weather we’re having, aren’t we, sir? Very summery for the time of year, is it not, sir?”

The proprietors of the hotel had good reason for their attentions to their illustrious guest, and they naturally extended them to his friends, and to this one in particular, whom they knew to be on terms of especial intimacy. This millionaire had taken it into his head, during the last six weeks, to make the hotel his head-quarters, engaging the whole of the first and second floor, the first for the use of himself and his suite, and the floor above to keep it empty–-such was his caprice–in order that no one should disturb him by stamping about or making other noises overhead. Which arrangement, by the way, was altogether supererogatory at that time of the year, seeing that the place never expected any visitors, to speak of, before the beginning of August–and it was not yet the end of July. Therefore this visitor, who paid so lavishly, and threw his money about in such royal fashion, had been a windfall indeed that year to the hotel proprietors; and it is not to be wondered at that both he and any friends who visited him received all the attention that the staff could bestow.

As to this notable visitor himself, giving his name as Don Lorenzo–which, as Beryl had remarked, was an unusually short and modest name for a Brazilian, and especially for such a man–he had been the wonder, the admiration, and the puzzle of London for some six months past. Arnold’s friend Leslie had met him under the circumstances briefly related in the last chapter. The stranger was, he stated, on his way, with a large party of attendants, down to the coast where his yacht was awaiting him, when early one morning a fugitive Indian had burst into his camp declaring that his party had been set upon during the night and nearly all murdered, and that he believed the white man with whom they had been travelling was a prisoner and was likely also to be killed. Lorenzo had at once set off with the Indian to guide him without waiting for his armed followers, and had, single-handed, fearlessly attacked and scattered the bloodthirsty band, using only the riding-whip which he was accustomed to carry when mounted. Leslie, tied to a tree, looked on in amazement at the cool, contemptuous fashion in which this stranger drove off wild men who were known as the fiercest and most determined in that part of the country, never so much as drawing a revolver or unslinging his rifle. In describing the occurrence subsequently to Arnold he always declared that the man acted as though possessed of some magical power over the cut-throat crew. “The scoundrels would raise their rifles or pistols–they were well armed–and take aim, and seem to try to fire at him point blank,” he declared, “or one would raise a cutlass, or another a dagger to cut him down or stab him in the back, but the firearm either refused to go off or missed him, if it did, in the most wonderful manner, while the steel never seemed to reach him. At last the whole cowardly crowd gave a great howl of fear and ran off with eyes starting from their heads, declaring that he was a devil Then his attendants came up and went after the flying wretches, shooting them down as they hunted them, while Lorenzo turned to me and, as he dismounted and cut the ropes that bound me, greeted me in English as quietly and unconcernedly as though we had just met in Pall Mall.” Such had been Leslie’s full description.

When the two came to talk, and Leslie had stated that he was on his way to Rio with the object of returning to Europe, Lorenzo replied that he was proceeding upon the same journey, and proposed that they should travel to the coast together. As Leslie had lost many of his attendants and horses he gladly acquiesced, and so well did they get on together that when the stranger afterwards offered him a passage home in his yacht, he cordially and gratefully accepted the proposal.

At the very first glance–even amid the excitement of his rescue–Leslie had been struck by the stranger’s good looks. When he came to regard him more leisurely, this feeling was increased to wondering admiration. He was, to his mind, the most handsome, the most comely specimen of a man, white, red, or black, that he had ever seen. He appeared, in effect, perfect both in face and figure; and this verdict of Leslie’s was subsequently universally confirmed by general opinion wherever the man afterwards appeared. Tall and commanding in stature, he was yet so exactly proportioned that he looked a little less than his real height; he was muscular without being stout, light and graceful in carriage without being thin. His voice had a charm of its own; once heard it was never forgotten. His clear-cut face was free from the slightest appearance of beard or moustaches, and what was very noticeable was that it had no appearance of having been shaven, as is generally the case with men with such dark hair and eyebrows–for these, like his eyes, were black, while his complexion was clear and smooth, almost like that of a fresh young English boy. The mouth was exquisitely carved and, in all his moods, very expressive; but when at rest its classic beauty was slightly marred, perhaps, by the smallest possible trace of cynicism. It was hardly noticeable; but it was of that kind that some natures–like Beryl. Atherton’s, for instance–would intuitively feelrather than read, while the generality of folk would fail to notice it. But the most expressive features of all were the eyes–dark, luminous, large, and sparkling, with a gaze so steady, so penetrating, that few could long endure it without flinching. It had, too, that peculiar quality which is sometimes found amongst gypsies–that seems to look right through and beyond the person upon whom it is fixed. Leslie thought to himself, as he looked upon this stranger, that he had often heard and read of a “magnetic glance,” but he had to admit to himself that he had never seen it realised before. Later on when, one day, he saw those eyes flash in anger, he understood a little better the overmastering influence that their owner had exercised over the Indians when he had appeared amongst them and attacked them in so sudden and so masterful a manner.

As they travelled together towards the coast, the stranger charmed his companion by his varied talk and captivating personality, surprised him by his extensive fund of information and familiarity with all the scientific subjects of the day, and amused and interested him by many curious contrivances and inventions which he carried with him, and which were different to anything the young Englishman had ever seen before.

As to his age, the Brazilian seemed to be between thirty and thirty-five, so far as appearance went, but Leslie told himself that in his surprising experience, and the intimate knowledge he exhibited of other countries of the world, and of all, even the most abstruse as well as the most recent, scientific researches, he conveyed the idea rather of acquirements such as only a man of great and advanced age could be expected to possess. Nor did he vouchsafe to Leslie any information as to his previous history, his native country, or his home. Upon all such matters he was absolutely dumb; and at the time of the opening of this story, Leslie knew no more about him than he had done a day or two after their first meeting.

When, at Rio, Leslie went on board the “Alloyah”–so the stranger’s yacht was named,–his wonder and astonishment increased. Almost every contrivance on board differed from anything he had ever seen before, from the motive power to the smallest pulley block, from the shape and comparative size of the cabins to the furniture; and especially was he surprised at the number of novel inventions brought into use during the voyage to administer to their comfort or convenience.

The motive power was itself a mystery. That there were engines of some kind on board seemed evident from the fact that the boat moved without sails, and at great speed. A slight sound as of very smooth-working machinery was just audible when she was going full speed; but what the engines were like, or where they were situated, what was the motive power, or what the means of propulsion, he could not discover; and Lorenzo never told him. They took in no coal or other fuel, and there was no smoke, smell, or dust about the vessel, such as all machinery usually causes more or less. There was a funnel, but so far as the closest observation went, there was no smoke or fumes to escape by it The cabins were unusually large and spacious for the size of the vessel; this evidently being rendered easy to arrange from the fact that they occupied much of the space generally allotted in other vessels to machinery and coal. And in them the air was always maintained at an agreeable temperature, ever sweet and fresh under all conditions:–cool in a hot climate, warm in a cold one, and pure and bracing even when the ports had to be closed in heavy weather. But of how all this was managed Leslie was told nothing. His host avoided all questions and allusions with such perfect good breeding, and was ever so polished and courteous in his manner that his guest was completely baffled, without feeling that he had cause for complaint From the crew, too, he could learn nothing. Of these there were nearly twenty; but he could not so much as guess at their nationality. Their language was strange to him–though be knew something of most of those spoken on the South American continent–and they appeared not to understand English.

Thus Leslie landed in England with his mind full of wonder and unsatisfied curiosity, and full, too, it must be said, of admiration and liking for his new friend, piqued though he was at his refusal to explain to him the many marvels and mysteries of the vessel and her belongings.

Arrived at Southampton, Lorenzo left his yacht anchored in the river and proceeded to London, while Leslie went first to visit his mother and friends in the Isle of Wight Not long afterwards, however, he called upon the Brazilian in town, where he found that he had already established himself in a large furnished mansion in Belgravia, and had been introduced at court by the Brazilian Minister. Immediately, he seemed to be the rage in the highest circles, visiting during the winter at some of the most exclusive houses in the counties, and, later on, in the season, becoming the lion and the pet of London.

Just at the height of the season, at a time when invitations to splendid functions poured in thick and fast upon the “Lion,” and his engagements multiplied as such things do at this time of the year, Arnold Neville went up to London. He went at Leslie’s invitation to pass a few days with him before he returned to Ryde; and it was there that he was introduced to the man of whom he had already, by that time, heard so much.

The occasion of the meeting was a notable one, and proved remarkable both in itself and in its after results. It was at a very grand and exclusive function at a ducal mansion; more than one Royal personage, as well as Ministers of State, Ambassadors, and highly placed officials in the most gorgeous of uniforms, were there; and many who were amongst the éliteof the nobility deemed themselves fortunate in being invited. To this brilliant assemblage Don Lorenzo sent Leslie tickets, one for himself, “and one for his friend,” whom he did not yet know, but understood would be in London, with a polite instruction not to fail to seek him out and make his friend known to him during the evening. Arnold, who had never been to anything of the kind before, at first strenuously objected to going, but was overruled by Leslie, who pointed out to him that it would be an experience he might never meet with again. So they donned their “war-paint,” arrived in due time at the mansion in Park Lane where the assemblage took place, and a few minutes later found themselves in the midst of the splendid throng.