The Lost Lady of Lone | Page 4

Every footman that waited at the grand state-dinner table
was a bailiff in disguise, in charge of the plate and china, which,
together with all the fabulous riches of art, literature, science and virtu
collected at Lone had been taken in execution, by the officers secretly
in possession.
The royal party, with their retinue, left Lone on the afternoon of the
third day.

And then the crash came? The blow was sudden, overwhelming and
utterly destructive.
The shock of the fall of Lone was felt from one end of the kingdom to
the other.
For the last time a crowd gathered around Castle Lone. But they came
not as festive guests but as a flock of vultures around a carcass, bent on
prey. For the last time artists and reporters came not to illustrate the
triumphs, but to record the downfall of the great ducal house of
Scott-Hereward; to make sketches, take photographs and write
descriptions of the magnificent and splendid halls and chambers,
picture-galleries and museums, before they should be dismantled by the
rapacious purchasers who flocked to the vendue of Lone, to profit by
the ruin of the proprietor.
And for the last time illustrations of Lone and its glories went forth
over every part of the world where the English language is spoken, or
the English mails penetrate.
Another heavy blow fell upon the doomed duke. Even while the grand
vendue was still in progress the duchess died of grief.
When all was over, and the good duchess was laid in the family vault,
the duke and the young marquis disappeared from Lone and none knew
whither they went. Some said that they had gone to Australia; some
that they were in America; some that they were on the Continent.
Others declared that they had hidden themselves in the wilderness of
London, where they were living in great poverty and obscurity, and
even under assumed names.
Opinions and rumors differed also concerning the character and
conduct of the young marquis. Many called him a devoted son, filled
with the spirit of heroic self-sacrifice. Many others affirmed that he was
a hypocrite and a villain, addicted to drinking, gambling, and other
vices and even cited times, places, and occasions of his sinning.
There never lived a man of whom so much good and so much evil was

said as of the young Marquis of Arondelle. A stranger coming into the
neighborhood of Lone, would hear these opposite reports and never be
able to decide whether the absent and self-exiled young nobleman was
a model of virtue or a monster of vice.
But there was one whose faith in him was firm as her faith in Heaven.
Rose Cameron was the daughter of a Highland shepherd, living about
ten miles north of Ben Lone. No court lady in the land was fairer than
this rustic Highland beauty. Her form was tall, fine, and commanding.
Her step was stately and graceful as the step of an antelope. Her
features were large, regular, and clear cut, as if chiseled in marble, yet
full of blooming and sparkling life as ruddy health and mountain air
could fill them. Her hair was golden brown, and clustered in
innumerable shining ringlets closely around her fair open forehead and
rounded throat. Her eyes were large, and clear bright blue. Her
expression full of innocent freedom and joyousness.
Rumor said that the fast young Marquis of Arondelle, while
deer-stalking from his hunting lodge in the neighborhood of Ben Lone,
had chanced to draw rein at the gate of Rob. Cameron's sheiling, and
had received from the shapely hand of the beautiful shepherdess a cup
of water, and had been so suddenly and forcibly smitten by her
Juno-like beauty, that thenceforth his visits to his hunting lodge became
very frequent, both in season and out of season, and that he was a very
dry soul, whose thirst could be satisfied by nothing but the spring water
that spouted close by the shepherd's sheiling, dipped up and offered by
the hands of the beautiful shepherdess.
Much blame was cast by the rustic neighbors upon all parties
concerned--first of all, upon the young marquis, who they declared
"meant nae guid to the lass," and then to the old shepherd, who they
said, "suld tak mair care o' his puir mitherless bairn," and lastly, to the
girl, who, as they affirmed, "suld guide hersel' wi' mair discretion."
None of these criticisms ever came to the ears of the parties concerned:
they never do, you know.

Besides the lovers seemed to be infatuated with each other, and the
shepherd seemed to be blind to what was going on in his sheiling. To
be sure, he was out all day with his sheep, while his lass was alone in
the sheiling. Or, if by sickness