A Crooked Path Part 1

A Crooked Path.

by Mrs. Alexander.

CHAPTER I.

"GATHERING CLOUDS."

The London season had not yet reached its height, some years ago, before the arch admitting to Const.i.tution Hill had been swept back to make room for the huge, ever-increasing stream of traffic, or the plebeian 'bus had been permitted to penetrate the precincts of Hamilton Place. It was the forenoon of a splendid day, one of the earliest of June, and at that hour the roadway between the entrance to Hyde Park and the gate then surmounted by the statue of the Duke of Wellington on his drooping steed was comparatively free, when two gentlemen coming from opposite directions recognized each other, and paused at the gate of Apsley House--the elder, a stout, florid man of military aspect, middle age, and average height, with large gray mustache and small, slightly bloodshot eyes; the younger, who was tall and bony, might have been thirty, or even forty, so grave and sedate was his bearing, although his erect carriage, elastic step, and clear keen dark eyes suggested earlier manhood.

Both had the indescribable well-groomed, freshly bathed look peculiar to Englishmen of the "upper ten."

"Ha! Errington! I didn't know you were in town. I thought you were cruising somewhere with Melford, or rusticating at Garston Hall. I think your father expected you about this time."

"I don't think so. I was summoned by telegraph from Paris. My father was seized with a paralysis last week. He had just come up to town, and for a few days was dangerously ill, but is now slowly recovering."

"Very sorry to hear of it. A man of his stamp would have been of immense value to the country. He had begun to take a very leading part in local matters. I trust he will come round."

"I fear he will never be the same again. I doubt if he will be able to direct his own affairs as he used."

"That's bad! You are not in the business, I believe?"

"No; I never took any part in it. I almost regret I did not. It would, I imagine, be a relief to my father, now that his mind is less clear, to know that I was at the helm. But we have a capital man as manager, quite devoted to the house. I shall get my father down to the country as soon as I can, and I trust he'll come round."

"No doubt he will. He was wonderfully hale and strong for his years."

"Ay! how d'ye do, Bertie?" interrupted the first speaker, holding out his hand to a young man who came up from Hyde Park and seemed about to pa.s.s with a smile and a nod. "Who would have thought of meeting you in these G.o.dless regions? I hear you are busy 'slumming' from morning till night."

"Well, Colonel," returned Bertie--a slight, fair, boyish-looking man--"I am so far false to my new vocation as to have lost some irrevocable moments looking at the horses and horsewomen in the Row."

"Aha! the old leaven, my dear boy! You are on the brink of perdition.--Don't you know Bertie Payne?" he continued, to his newly met friend. "He was one of my subs before he renounced the devil and all his works. He was with us at Barrackbore when you were in India."

"I do not think we have met," the other was beginning, when a young lady--toward whom the Colonel had already cast some sharp, admiring glances as she stood on the curbstone holding a hand of the smaller of two little boys in smart sailor suits--uttered a cry of dismay. The elder child had rushed into the road, as if to stop a pa.s.sing omnibus, not seeing that a hansom was coming up at speed.

The young man called Bertie dashed forward, and barely succeeded in s.n.a.t.c.hing the child from under the wheel. A scramble of horses' feet, an imprecation or two shouted by the irritated driver, a noisy declaration from the "fare" that he should lose his train, and the scuffle was over.

The little man, held firmly by the shoulder, was marched back to his young guardian.

"Thank you!--oh, thank you a thousand times! You have saved his life!"

she exclaimed, fervently, in unsteady tones. Then to the child: "How could you break your promise to stay by me, Cecil? You would have been killed but for this gentleman!"

"I wanted to catch the 'omlibus' for you, auntie!" he cried, with an irrepressible sob, though he gallantly tried to hold back his tears.

"Hope the little fellow is none the worse of his fright," said the Colonel, advancing and raising his hat. "Can I be of any use?--can I call a cab?"

"No, thank you; I will take an omnibus and get home as soon as I can.

Cecil will soon forget his fright, I fear--"

"Sooner than you will," remarked Bertie. "There is a Royal Oak omnibus.

Will that do?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Come along, then, my young man; I will not let you go."

Bertie put the trio into the vehicle, and the lookers-on saw that he shook hands with "auntie" as the conductor jumped on his perch and they rolled on.

"Gad! there's a chance for you!" cried the Colonel as Bertie joined him.

"An uncommon fine girl, by George! What a coloring! and a splendid pair of black eyes!"

"I suspect extreme fright did a good deal for both, poor girl. Her eyes are brown, not black."

"Brown! Nonsense! Didn't _you_ think they were black?"

"I did not observe them," returned the grave personage he addressed, indifferently. "The boy had a narrow escape. I must say good morning,"

he added.

"Stop a bit," cried the Colonel. "I must see you again before you leave town. Dine with me to-morrow at the Junior. And, Bertie--"

"Thanks, no, I am engaged." He said good-by and walked on.

"Queer fellow that," said the Colonel, looking after him. "He got into some money troubles in India, left the army, and got converted. Now he is not exactly a Salvation soldier, but something of the kind. He'll be at you one of the days for a subscription to convert the crossing sweepers or some such undertaking. But you'll dine with me to-morrow.

I'll tell you all the Clayshire gossip."

"Thank you, I shall be very happy."

"Then good-by for the present, I am engaged to lunch to meet one of the prettiest little widows you ever saw in your life, but she has no cash.

Here, hansom," calling to the driver of a cab which was pa.s.sing slowly.

"I am a little late." He jumped in and drove off.

His friend, with a slight grave smile, continued his walk to the Alexandria Hotel, the portals of which received him.

Meantime the hero of the cab incident sat very demurely by his young aunt, as the omnibus rolled slowly up Park Lane, occasionally stealing inquisitive glances at her face.

"You have been a _very_ naughty boy, Cecil!" she exclaimed as her eyes met his. "How could I have gone home to mamma if I had been obliged to leave you behind?"

"But you needn't, you know; you could have tied me up in a bundle and taken me back. Mamma would have known it wasn't your fault."

"I am not so sure of that, and you have made poor Charlie cry,"--drawing the younger boy to her side.

"Charlie is just a baby," contemptuously.

"He is a better boy than you are." Silence.

"Auntie, do you think the gentleman who pulled me back was the old gentleman's son?"

"No, I do not think he was."