Story 2—Chapter I.
The Golden Incubus.
Sir John Drinkwater is Eccentric.
“You’re an old fool, Burdon, and it’s all your fault.”
That’s what Sir John said, as he shook his Malacca cane at me; and I suppose it was my fault; but then, how could I see what was going to happen?
It began in 1851. I remember it so well because that was the year of the Great Exhibition, and Sir John treated me to a visit there; and when I’d been and was serving breakfast next morning, he asked me about it, and laughed and asked me if I’d taken much notice of the goldsmiths’ work. I said I had, and that it was a great mistake to clean gold plate with anything but rouge.
“Why?” he said.
Because, I told him, if any of the plate-powder happened to be left in the cracks, if it was rouge it gave a good effect; but if it was a white preparation, it looked dirty and bad.
“Then we’ll have all the chests open to-morrow, James Burdon,” he said; “and you shall give the old gold plate a good clean up with rouge, and I’ll help you.”
“You, Sir John?”
He nodded. And the very next day he sent all the other servants to the Exhibition, came down to my pantry, opened the plate-room, and put on an apron just like a servant would, and helped me to clean that gold plate. He got tired by one o’clock, and sat down upon a chair and looked at it all glistening as it was spread out on the dresser and shelves—some bright with polishing, some dull and dead and ancient-looking. Cups and bowls and salvers and round dishes covered with coats of arms; some battered and bent, and some as perfect as on the day it left the goldsmith’s hands.
I’d worked hard—as hard as I could, for sneezing, for I was doing that half the time, just as if I had a bad cold. For every cup or dish was kept in a green baize bag that fitted in one of the old ironbound oak chests, and these chests were lined with green baize. And all this being exceedingly old, the moths had got in; and pounds and pounds of pepper had been scattered about the baize, to keep them away.
“I’ll have a glass of wine, Burdon,” Sir John says at last; “and we’ll put it all away again. It’s very beautiful. That’s Cellini work—real,” he says, as he took up a great golden bowl, all hammered and punched and engraved. “But the whole lot of it is an incubus, for I can’t use it, and I don’t want to make a show.”
“Take a glass yourself, my man,” he said, as I got him the sherry—a fresh bottle from the outer cellar. “Ha! at a moderate computation that old gold plate is worth a hundred thousand pounds; and a hundred thousand pounds at only three per cent in the funds, Burdon, would be three thousand a year. So you see I lose that income by letting this heap of old gold plate lie locked up in those chests.—Now, what would you do with it, if it were yours?”
“Sell it, Sir John, and put it in houses,” I said sharply.
“Yes, James Burdon; and a sensible thing to do. But you are a servant, and I’m a baronet; though I don’t look one, do I?” he said, holding up his red hands and laughing.
“You always look a gentleman, Sir John,” I said; “and that’s what you are.”
“Please God, I try to be,” he said sadly. “But I don’t want the money, James; and these are all old family heirlooms that I hold in trust for my life, and have to hand over—bound in honour to do so—to my son.—Look!” he said, “at the arms and crest of the Boileaus on every piece.”
“Boileau, Sir John?”
“Well, Drinkwater, then. We translated the name when we came over to England. There; let’s put it all away. It’s a regular incubus.”
So it was all packed up again in the chests; for he wouldn’t let me finish cleaning it, saying it would take a week; and that it was more for the sake of seeing and going over it, than anything, that he had had it out. So we locked it all up again in the plate-room. And it took five waters hot as he could bear ’em to wash his hands; and even then there was some rouge left in the cracks, and in the old signet ring with the coat of arms cut in the stone—same as that on the plate.
I don’t know how it was; perhaps I was out of sorts, but from that day I got thinking about gold plate and what Sir John said about its worth. I knew what “incubus” meant, for I went up in the library and looked out the word in the big dictionary; and that plate got to be such an incubus to me that I went up to Sir John one morning and gave him warning.
“But what for?” he said. “Wages?”
“No, Sir John. You’re a good master, and her ladyship was a good mistress before she was took up to heaven.”
“Hush, man, hush!” he says sharply.
“And it’ll break my heart nearly not to see young Master Barclay when he comes back from school.”
“Then why do you want to go?”
“Well, Sir John, a good home and good food and good treatment’s right enough; but I don’t want to be found some morning a-weltering in my gore.”
“Now, look here, James Burdon,” he says, laughing. “I trust you with the keys of the wine-cellar, and you’ve been at the sherry.”
“You know better than that, Sir John. No, sir. You said that gold plate was an incubus, and such it is, for it’s always a-sitting on me, so as I can’t sleep o’ nights. It’s killing me, that’s what it is. Some night I shall be murdered, and all that plate taken away. It ain’t safe, and it’s cruel to a man to ask him to take charge of it.”
He did not speak for a few minutes.
“What am I to do, then, Burdon?”
“Some people send their plate to the bank, Sir John.”
“Yes,” he says; “some people do a great many things that I do not intend to do.—There; I shall not take any notice of what you said.”
“But you must, please, Sir John; I couldn’t stay like this.”
“Be patient for a few days, and I’ll have something done to relieve you.”
I went down-stairs very uneasy, and Sir John went out; and next day, feeling quite poorly, after waking up ten times in the night, thinking I heard people breaking in, as there’d been a deal of burglary in Bloomsbury about that time, I got up quite thankful I was still alive; and directly after breakfast, the wine-merchant’s cart came from Saint James’s Street with fifty dozen of sherry, as we really didn’t want. Sir John came down and saw to the wine being put in bins; and then he had all the wine brought from the inner cellar into the outer cellar, both being next my pantry, with a door into the passage just at the foot of the kitchen stairs.
“That’s a neat job, Burdon,” said Sir John, as we stood in the far cellar all among the sawdust, and the place looking dark and damp, with its roof like the vaults of a church, and stone flag floor, but with every bin empty.
“Going to lay down some more wine here, Sir John?” I said; but he didn’t answer, only stood with a candle in the arched doorway, which was like a passage six feet long, opening from one cellar into the other. Then he went up-stairs, and I locked up the cellar and put the keys in my drawer.
“He always was eccentric before her ladyship died,” I said to myself; “and now he’s getting worse.”
I saw it again next morning, for Sir John gave orders, sudden-like, for everybody to pack off to the country-house down by Dorking; and of course everybody had to go, cook and housekeeper and all; and just as I was ready to start, I got word to stay.
Sir John went off to his club, and I stayed alone in that old house in Bloomsbury, with the great drops of perspiration dripping off me every time I heard a noise, and feeling sometimes as if I could stand it no longer; but just as it was getting dusk, he came back, and in his short abrupt way, he says: “Now, Burdon, we’ll go to work.”
I’d no idea what he meant till we went down-stairs, when he had the strong-room door opened and the cellar too and then he made me help him carry the old plate-chests right through my pantry into the far wine-cellar, and range them one after the other along one side.
I wanted to tell him that they would not be so safe there; but I daren’t speak, and it was not till what followed that I began to understand; for, as soon as we had gone through the narrow arched passage back to the outer cellar, he laughed, and he says, “Now, we’ll get rid of the incubus, Burdon. Fix your light up there, and I’ll help.”
He did help; and together we got a heap of sawdust and hundreds of empty wine-bottles; and these we built up at the end of the arched entrance between the cellars from floor to ceiling, just as if it had been a wine-bin, till the farther cellar was quite shut off with empty bottles. And then, if he didn’t make me move the new sherry that had just come in and treat that the same, building up full bottles in front of the empty ones till the ceiling was reached once more, and the way in to the chests of gold plate shut up with wine-bottles two deep, one stack full, the other empty.
He saw me shake my head, as if I didn’t believe in it; and he laughed again in his strange way, and said: “Wait a bit.”
Next morning I found he’d given orders, for the men came with a load of bricks and mortar, and they set to work and built up a wall in front of the stacked-up bottles, regularly bricking up the passage, just as if it was a bin of wine that was to be left for so many years to mature; after which the wall was white-washed over, the men went away, and Sir John clapped me on the shoulder. “There, Burdon!” he said; “we’ve buried the incubus safely. Now you can sleep in peace.”
Story 2—Chapter II.
Why Edward Gunning Left.
It’s curious how things get forgotten by busy people. In a few weeks I left off thinking about the hiding-place of all that golden plate; and after a time I used to go into that first cellar for wine with my half-dozen basket in one hand, my cellar candlestick in the other, and never once think about there being a farther cellar; while, though there was the strong-room in my pantry with quite a thousand pounds-worth of silver in it—perhaps more—I never fancied anybody would come for that.
Master Barclay came, and went back to school, and Sir John grew more strange; and then an old friend of his died and left one little child, Miss Virginia, and Sir John took her and brought her to the old house in Bloomsbury, and she became—bless her sweet face!—just like his own.
Then, all at once I found that ten years had slipped by, and it set me thinking about being ten years nearer the end, and that the years were rolling on, and some day another butler would sleep in my pantry, while I was sleeping—well, you know where, cold and still—and that then Sir John would be taking his last sleep too, and Master Barclay be, as it says in the Scriptures, reigning in his stead.
And then it was that all in a flash something seemed to say to me: Suppose Sir John has never told his lawyers about that buried gold plate, and left no writing to show where it is. I felt quite startled, and didn’t know what to think. As far as I could tell, nobody but Sir John and I knew the secret. Young Master Barclay certainly didn’t, or else, when I let him carry the basket for a treat, and went into the cellar to fetch his father’s port, he, being a talking, lively, thoughtless boy, would have been sure to say something. His father ought certainly to tell him some day; but suppose the master was taken bad suddenly with apoplexy and died without being able—what then?
I didn’t sleep much that night, for once more that gold plate was being an incubus, and I determined to speak to Sir John as an old family servant should, the very next day.
Next day came, and I daren’t; and for days and days the incubus seemed to swell and trouble me, till I felt as if I was haunted. But I couldn’t make up my mind what to do, till one night, just before going to bed, and then it came like a flash, and I laughed at myself for not thinking of it before. I didn’t waste any time, but getting down my ink-bottle and pens, I took a sheet of paper, and wrote as plainly as I could about how Sir John Drinkwater and his butler James Burdon had hidden all the chests of valuable old gold cups and salvers in the inner wine-cellar, where the entrance was bricked-up; and to make all sure, I put down the date as near as I could remember in 1851, and the number of the house, 19 Great Grandon Street, Bloomsbury, because, though it was not likely, Sir John might move, and if that paper was found after I was dead, people might go on a false scent, find nothing, and think I was mad.
I locked that paper up in my old desk, feeling all the while as if I ought to have had it witnessed; but people don’t like to put their names to documents unless they know what they’re about, and of course I couldn’t tell anybody the contents of that.
I felt satisfied as a man should who feels he has done his duty; and perhaps that’s what made the time glide away so fast without anything particular happening. Sir John bought the six old houses like ours opposite, and gave twice as much for them as they were worth, because some one was going to build an Institution there, which might very likely prove to be a nuisance.
I don’t remember anything else in particular, only that the houses would not let well, because Sir John grew close and refused to spend money in doing them up. But there was the trouble with Edward Gunning, the footman, a clever, good-looking young fellow, who had been apprenticed to a bricklayer and contractor, but took to service instead, he did no good in that; for, in spite of all I could say, he would take more than was good for him, and then Sir John found him out.
So Edward Gunning had to go; and I breathed more freely, and felt less nervous.
Story 2—Chapter III.
Mr Barclay thinks for himself.
So another ten years had slipped away; and the house opposite, which had been empty for two years, was getting in very bad condition—I mean as to paper and paint.
“Nobody will take it as it is, Sir John,” the agent said to him in my presence.
“Then it can be left alone,” he says, very gruffly. “Good-morning.”
“Well, Mr Burdon,” said the agent, as I gave him a glass of wine in my pantry, “it’s a good thing he’s so well off; but it’s poison to my mind to see houses lying empty.” Which no doubt it was, seeing he had five per cent on the rents of all he let.
Then Mr Barclay spoke to his father, and he had to go out with a flea in his ear; and when, two days later, Miss Virginia said something about the house opposite looking so miserable, and that it was a pity there were no bills up to say it was to let, Sir John flew out at her, and that was the only time I ever heard him speak to her cross.
But he was so sorry for it, that he sent me to the bank with a cheque directly after, and I was to bring back a new fifty-pound note; and I know that was in the letter I had to give Miss Virginia, and orders to have the carriage round, so that she might go shopping.
Now, I’m afraid you’ll say that Mr Barclay Drinkwater was right in calling me Polonius, and saying I was as prosy as a college don; but if I don’t tell you what brought all the trouble about, how are you to understand what followed? Old men have their own ways; and though I’m not very old, I’ve got mine, and if I don’t tell my story my way, I’m done.
Well, it wasn’t a week after Mr Bodkin & Co, the agent, had that glass of wine in the pantry, that he came in all of a bustle, as he always was, just as if he must get everything done before dark, and says he has let the house, if Sir John approves.
Not so easily done as you’d think, for Sir John wasn’t, he said, going to have anybody for an opposite neighbour; but the people might come and see him if they liked.
I remember it as well as if it was yesterday. Sir John was in a bad temper with a touch of gout—bin 27—’25 port, being rather an acid wine, but a great favourite of his. Miss Virginia had been crying. The trouble had been about Mr Barclay going away. He’d finished his schooling at college, and was now twenty-seven and a fine strong handsome fellow, as wanted to be off and see the world; but Sir John told him he couldn’t spare him.
“No, Bar,” he says in my presence, for I was bathing his foot—“if you go away—I know you, you dog—you’ll be falling in love with some smooth-faced girl, and then there’ll be trouble. You’ll stop at home, sir, and eat and drink like a gentleman, and court Virginia like a gentleman; and when she’s twenty-one, you’ll marry her; and you can both take care of me till I die, and then you can do as you like.”
Then Mr Barclay, looking as much like his father as he could with his face turned red, said what he ought not to have said, and refused to marry Miss Virginia; and he flung out of the room; while Miss Virginia—bless her for an angel!—must have known something of the cause of the trouble—I’m afraid, do you know, it was from me, but I forget—and she was in tears, when there was a knock and ring, and a lady’s card was sent in for Sir John: “Miss Adela Mimpriss.”
It was about the house; and I had to show her in—a little, slight, elegantly dressed lady of about three-and-twenty, with big dark eyes, and a great deal of wavy hair.
Sir John sent for Mr Barclay and Miss Virginia, to see if they approved of her; and it was settled that she and her three maiden sisters were to have the opposite house; and when the bell rang for me to show her out, Mr Barclay came and took the job out of my hands.
“I’m very glad,” I heard him say, “and I hope we shall be the best of neighbours;” and his face was flushed, and he looked very handsome; while, when they shook hands on the door-mat, I could see the bright-eyed thing smiling in his face and looking pleased; and that shaking of the hands took a deal longer than it ought, while she gave him a look that made me think if I’d had a daughter like that, she’d have had bread-and-water for a week.
Then the door was shut, and Mr Barclay stood on the mat, smiling stupid-like, not knowing as I was noticing him; and then he turned sharply round and saw Miss Virginia on the stairs, and his face changed.
“James Burdon,” I said to myself, “these are girls and boys no longer, but grown-up folk, and there’s the beginning of trouble here.”
Story 2—Chapter IV.
A Little Skirmish.
I didn’t believe in the people opposite, in spite of their references being said to be good. You may say that’s because of what followed; but it isn’t for I didn’t like the looks of the stiff elderly Miss Mimprisses; and I didn’t like the two forward servants, though they seemed to keep themselves to themselves wonderfully, and no man ever allowed in the house. Worst of all, I didn’t like that handsome young Miss Adela, sitting at work over coloured worsted at the dining-room or drawing-room window, for young Mr Barclay was always looking across at her; and though he grew red-faced, my poor Miss Virginia grew every day more pale.
They seemed very strange people over the way, and it was only sometimes on a Sunday that any one at our place caught a glimpse of them, and then one perhaps would come to a window for a few minutes and sit and talk to Miss Adela—one of the elder sisters, I mean; and when I caught sight of them, I used to think that it was no wonder they had taken to dressing so primly and so plain, for they must have given up all hope of getting husbands long before.
Mr Barclay suggested to Sir John twice in my hearing that he should invite his new tenants over to dinner; and—once, in a hesitating way, hinted something about Miss Virginia calling. But Sir John only grunted; while I saw my dear young lady dart such an indignant look at Mr Barclay as made him silent for the rest of the evening, and seem ashamed of what he had said.
I talked about it a good deal to Tom as I sat before my pantry fire of an evening; and he used to leap up in my lap and sit and look up at me with his big eyes, which were as full of knowingness at those times as they were stupid and slit-like at others. He was a great favourite of mine was Tom, and had been ever since I found him, a half-starved kitten in the area, and took him in and fed him till he grew up the fine cat he was.
“There’s going to be trouble come of it, Tom,” I used to say; and to my mind, the best thing that could have happened for us would have been for over-the-way to have stopped empty; for, instead of things going on smoothly and pleasantly, they got worse every day. Sir John said very little, but he was a man who noticed a great deal. Mr Barclay grew restless and strange, but he never said a word now about going away. While, as for Miss Virginia, she seemed to me to be growing older and more serious in a wonderful way; but when she was spoken to, she had always a pleasant smile and a bright look, though it faded away again directly, just as the sunshine does when there are clouds. She used to pass the greater part of her time reading to Sir John, and she kept his accounts for him and wrote his letters; and one morning as I was clearing away the breakfast things, Mr Barclay being there, reading the paper, Sir John says sharply: “Those people opposite haven’t paid their first quarter’s rent.”
No one spoke for a moment or two, and then in a fidgety sharp way, Mr Barclay says: “Why, it was only due yesterday, father.”
“Thank you, sir,” says Sir John, in a curiously polite way; “I know that; but it was due yesterday, and it ought to have been paid.—’Ginny, write a note to the Misses Mimpriss with my compliments, and say I shall be obliged by their sending the rent.”
Miss Virginia got up and walked across to the writing-table; and I went on very slowly clearing the cloth, for Sir John always treated me as if I was a piece of furniture; but I felt uncomfortable, for it seemed to me that there was going to be a quarrel.
I was right; for as Miss Virginia began to write, Mr Barclay crushed the newspaper up in his hands and said hotly: “Surely, father, you are not going to insult those ladies by asking them for the money the moment it is due.”
“Yes, I am, sir,” says the old gentleman sharply; “and you mind your own business. When I’m dead, you can collect your rents as you like; while I live, I shall do the same.”
Miss Virginia got up quickly and went and laid her hand upon Sir John’s breast without saying a word; but her pretty appealing act meant a deal, and the old man took the little white hand in his and kissed it tenderly. “You go and do as I bid you, my pet,” he said; “and you, Burdon, wait for the note, take it over, and bring an answer.”
“Yes, Sir John,” I said quietly; and I heard Miss Virginia give a little sob as she went and sat down and began writing. Then I saw that the trouble was coming, and that there was to be a big quarrel between father and son.
“Look here, father,” says Mr Barclay, getting up and walking about the room, “I never interfere with your affairs—”
“I should think not, sir,” says the old man, very sarcastic-like.
“But I cannot sit here patiently and see you behave in so rude a way to those four ladies who honour you by being your tenants.”
“Say I feel greatly surprised that the rent was not sent over yesterday, my dear,” says Sir John, without taking any notice of his son.
“Yes, uncle,” says Miss Virginia. She always called him “uncle,” though he wasn’t any relation.
“It’s shameful!” cried Mr Barclay. “The result will be that they will give you notice and go.”
“Good job, too,” said Sir John. “I don’t like them, and I wish they had not come.”
“How can you be so unreasonable, father?” cried the young man hotly.
“Look here, Bar,” says Sir John—(“Fold that letter and seal it with my seal, ’Ginny”)—“look here, Bar.”
I glanced at the young man, and saw him pass his hand across his forehead so roughly that the big signet ring he wore—the old-fashioned one Sir John gave him many years before, and which fitted so tightly now that it wouldn’t come over the joint—made quite a red mark on his brow.
“I don’t know what you are going to say, father,” cried Mr Barclay quickly; “but, for Heaven’s sake, don’t treat me as a boy any longer, and I implore you not to send that letter.”
There was a minute’s silence, during which I could hear Mr Barclay breathing hard. Then Sir John began again. “Look here, sir,” he said. “Over and over again, you’ve wanted to go away and travel, and I’ve said I didn’t want you to go. During the past three months you’ve altered your mind.”
“Altered my mind, sir?” says the young man sharply.
“Yes, sir; and I’ve altered mine. That’s fair. Now, you don’t want to go, and I want you to.”
“Uncle!”
“Have you done that letter, my pet?—Yes? That’s well. Now, you stand there and take care of me, for fear Mr Barclay should fly in a passion.”
“Sir, I asked you not to treat me like a boy,” says Mr Barclay bitterly.
“I’m not going to,” says Sir John, as he sat playing with Miss Virginia’s hand, while I could see that the poor darling’s face was convulsed, and she was trying to hide the tears which streamed down. “I’m going to treat you as a man. You can have what money you want. Be off for a year’s travel. Hunt, shoot, go round the world, what you like; but don’t come back here for a twelvemonth.—Burdon, take that letter over to the Misses Mimpriss, and wait for an answer.”
I took the note across, wondering what would be said while I was gone, and knowing why Sir John wanted his son to go as well as he did, and Miss Virginia too, poor thing. The knocker seemed to make the house opposite echo very strangely, as I thumped; but when the door was opened in a few minutes, everything in the hall seemed very proper and prim, while the maid who came looked as stiff and disagreeable as could be.
“For Miss Mimpriss, from Sir John Drinkwater,” I said; “and I’ll wait for an answer.”
“Very well,” says the woman shortly.
“I’ll wait for an answer,” I said, for she was shutting the door.
“Yes; I heard,” she says, and the door was shut in my face.
“Hang all old maids!” I said. “They needn’t be afraid of me;” and there I waited till I heard steps again and the door was opened; and the ill-looking woman says in a snappish tone: “Miss Adela Mimpriss’s compliments, and she’ll come across directly.”
“Any one would think I was a wild beast,” I said to myself, as I went back and gave my message, finding all three in the room just as I had left them when I went away.
Story 2—Chapter V.
James Burdon smells Fire.
Mr Barclay followed me out, and as soon as we were in the hall, “Burdon,” he says, “you have a bunch of small keys, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Master Barclay, down in my pantry.”
“Lend them to me: I want to try if one of them will fit a lock of mine.”
He followed me down; and I was just handing them to him, when there was a double knock and a ring, and I saw him turn as red as a boy of sixteen found out at some trick.
I hurried up to open the door, leaving him there, and found that it was Miss Adela Mimpriss.
“Will you show me in to Sir John?” she says, smiling; and I did so, leaving them together; and going down-stairs, to see Mr Barclay standing before the fire and looking very strange and stern. He did not say anything, but walked up-stairs again; and I could hear him pacing up and down the hall for quite a quarter of an hour before the bell rang; and then I got up-stairs to find him talking very earnestly to Miss Adela Mimpriss, and she all the time shaking her head and trying to pull away her hand.
I pretended not to see, and went into the dining-room slowly, to find Miss Virginia down on her knees before Sir John, and him with his two hands lying upon her bent head, while she seemed to be sobbing.
“I did not ring, Burdon,” he said huskily.
“Beg pardon, Sir John; the bell rang.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot—only to show that lady out.”
I left the room; and as I did so, I found the front door open, and Mr Barclay on the step, looking across at Miss Adela Mimpriss, who was just tripping up the steps of the house opposite; and I saw her use a latchkey, open the door, and look round as she was going in, to give Mr Barclay a laughing look; and then the door was closed, and my young master shut ours.
That day and the next passed quietly enough; but I could see very plainly that there was something wrong, for there was a cold way of speaking among our people in the dining-room, the dinner going off terribly quiet, and Sir John afterwards not seeming to enjoy his wine; while Miss Virginia sat alone in the drawing-room over her tea; and Mr Barclay, after giving me back my keys, went up-stairs, and I know he was looking out, for Miss Adela Mimpriss was sitting at the window opposite, and I saw her peep up twice.
This troubled me a deal, for, after all those years, I never felt like a servant, but as if I was one of them; and it made me so upset, that, as I lay in my bed in the pantry that night wondering whether Mr Barclay would go away and forget all about the young lady opposite, and come back in a year and be forgiven, and marry Miss Virginia, I suddenly thought of my keys.
“That’s it,” I said. “It was to try the lock of his portmanteau. He means to go, and it will be all right, after all.”
But somehow, I couldn’t sleep, but lay there pondering, till at last I began to sniff, and then started up in bed, thinking of Edward Gunning.
“There’s something wrong somewhere,” I said to myself, for quite plainly I could smell burning—the oily smell as of a lamp, a thing I knew well enough, having trimmed hundreds.
At first I thought I must be mistaken; but no—there it was, strong; and jumping out of bed, I got a light; and to show that I was not wrong, there was my cat Tom looking excited and strange, and trotting about the pantry in a way not usual unless he had heard a rat.
I dressed as quickly as I could, and went out into the passage. All dark and silent, and the smell very faint. I went up-stairs and looked all about; but everything was as I left it; and at last I went down again to the pantry, thinking and wondering, with Tom at my heels, to find that the smell had passed away. So I sat and thought for a bit, and then went to bed again; but I didn’t sleep a wink, and somehow all this seemed to me to be very strange.
Story 2—Chapter VI.
A Sudden Change.
If any one says I played spy, I am ready to speak up pretty strongly in my self-defence, for my aim always was to do my duty by Sir John my master; but I could not help seeing two or three things during the next fortnight, and they all had to do with a kind of telegraphing going on from our house to the one over the way, where Miss Adela generally appeared to be on the watch; and her looks always seemed to me to say: “No; you mustn’t think of such a thing,” and to be inviting him all the time. Then, all at once I thought I was wrong, for I went up as usual at half-past seven to take Mr Barclay’s boots and his clothes which had been brought down the night before, after he had dressed for dinner. I tapped and went in, just as I’d always done ever since he was a boy, and went across to the window and drew the curtains. “Nice morning, Master Barclay,” I said. “Half-past—” There I stopped, and stared at the bed, which all lay smooth and neat, as the housemaid had turned it down, for no one had slept in it that night. I was struck all of a heap, and didn’t know what to think. To me it was just like a silver spoon or fork being missing, and setting one’s head to work to think whether it was anywhere about the house.
He hadn’t stopped to take his wine with Sir John after dinner; but that was nothing fresh, for they’d been very cool lately. Then I hadn’t seen him in the drawing-room; but that was nothing fresh neither, for he had avoided Miss Virginia for some little time.
“It is very strange,” I thought, for I had not seen him go out; and then, all at once I gave quite a start, for I felt that he must have done what Sir John had told him to do—gone.
“That won’t do,” I said directly after. “He wouldn’t have gone like that;” and I went straight to Sir John’s room and told him, as in duty bound, what I had found out, for Mr Barclay was not the young man to be fast and stop out of nights and want the servants to screen him. There was something wrong, I felt sure, and so I said.
“No,” said the old gentleman, as he sat up in bed, and then began to dress; “he wouldn’t go at my wish; but that girl over the way is playing with him, and he is too proud to stand it any longer, besides being mortified at making such an ass of himself. There’s nothing wrong, Burdon. He has gone, and a good job too.”
Of course, I couldn’t contradict my master; but I went up and examined Mr Barclay’s room, to find nothing missing, not so much as a shirt or a pair of socks, only his crush-hat, and the light overcoat from the brass peg in the front hall; and I shook my head.
Miss Virginia looked paler than ever at breakfast; but nothing more was said up-stairs. Of course, the servants gossiped; and as it was settled that Mr Barclay had done what his father had told him, a week passed away, and matters settled down with Miss Adela Mimpriss sitting at the window just as usual, doing worsted-work, and the old house looking as grim as ever, and as if a bit of paint and a man to clean the windows would have been a blessing to us all.
Every time the postman knocked, Miss Virginia would start; and her eyes used to look so wild and large, that when I’d been to the little box and found nothing from Mr Barclay, I used to give quite a gulp; and many’s the time I’ve stood back in the dining-room and shook my fist at Miss Adela sitting so smooth and handsome at the opposite house, and wished she’d been at the world’s end before she came there.
Story 2—Chapter VII.
A Terrible Discovery.
Mr Barclay had been gone three weeks, and no news from him; and I was beginning to think that he had gone off in a huff all at once, though I often wondered how he would manage for want of money, when one night, as I sat nursing Tom, I thought I’d look through my desk, that I hadn’t opened for three or four years, and have a look at a few old things I’d got there—a watch Sir John gave me, but which I never wore; six spade-ace guineas; and an old gold pin, beside a few odds and ends that I’d had for a many years; and some cash. Tom didn’t seem to like it, and he stared hard at the desk as I took it on my knees, opened it, lifted one of the flaps, and put my hand upon the old paper which contained the statement about the old gold plate. No; I did not. I put my hand on the place where it ought to have been; but it wasn’t there.
“I must have put it in the other side,” I said to myself; and I opened the other lid.
Then I turned cold, and ran my hand here and there, wild-like, to stop at last with my mouth open, staring. The paper was gone! So was the money, and every article of value that I had hoarded up.
For a few minutes I was too much stunned even to think; and when at last I could get my brain to work, I sat there, feeling a poor, broken, weak old man, and I covered my face with my hands and cried like a child.
“To think of it!” I groaned at length—“him so handsome and so young—him whom I’d always felt so proud of—proud as if he’d been my own son. Why, it would break his father’s heart if he knew. It’s that woman’s doing,” I cried savagely. “She turned his head, or he’d never have done such a cruel, base, bad act as to rob a poor old man like me.” For I’d recollected lending Mr Barclay my keys, and I felt that sooner than ask his father for money, he had taken what he could find, and gone. “Let him!” I said savagely at last. “But he needn’t have stolen them. I’d have given him everything I’d got. I’d have sold out the hundred pounds I’ve got in the bank and lent him that. But he didn’t know what he was doing, poor boy. That woman has turned his brain.”
“Ah, well!” I said at last bitterly, “it’s my secret. Sir John shall never know. He trusted me with one, and now his son—” I stopped short there, for I recollected the paper, and fell all of a tremble, thinking of that gold plate, and that some one else knew of its hiding-place now; and I asked myself what I ought to do. For a long time I struggled; but at last I felt that, much as I wanted to hide Mr Barclay’s cruelly mean act, I must not keep this thing a secret. “It’s my duty to tell my master,” I said at last, “and I must.” So I went up to where Sir John was sitting alone, pretending to enjoy his wine, but looking very yellow and old and sunken of face. “He’s fretting about Master Barclay,” I said to myself, and I felt that I could not tell him that the lad had taken my little treasures, but that he must know about the paper, so I up and told him only this at once; and that’s why he said I was an old fool, and that it was all my fault.
“You old fool!” he cried excitedly, “what made you write such a paper? It was like telling all the world.”
“I thought it would be so shocking, Sir John, if we were both to die and the things were forgotten.”
“Shocking? Be a good job,” he cried. “A man who has a lot of gold in his care is always miserable.—Taken out of your desk, you say. When?”
“Ah, that I can’t tell, Sir John. It might have been done years ago, for aught I know.”
“And the old gold plate all stolen and melted down, and spent. Here have I been thinking you a trustworthy man. There; we must see to it at once. I shan’t rest till I know it is safe.”
It seemed to me then that he snatched at the chance of finding something to do to take his attention off his trouble, for when I asked him if I should get a bricklayer to come in, he turned upon me like a lion. “Burdon,” he said, “we’ll get this job done, and then I shall have to make arrangements for you to go into an imbecile ward.”
“Very good, Sir John,” I said patiently.
“Very good!” he cried, laughing now. “There; be off, and get together what tools you have, and as soon as the servants have gone to bed, we’ll go and open the old cellar ourselves.”
Story 2—Chapter VIII.
The Signet Ring.
It was exactly twelve o’clock by the chiming timepiece in the hall. Just the hour for such a task, I felt with a sort of shiver, as Sir John came down to the pantry, where I had candles ready, and a small crowbar used for opening packing-cases, and a screw-driver.
“Everybody seems quiet up-stairs, Burdon,” says Sir John, “so let’s get to work at once.—But, hillo! just put out a lamp?”
“No, Sir John,” I said. “I often smell that now; but I’ve never been able to make out what it is.”
“Humph! Strange,” he says; and then we went straight to the cellar, the great baize door at the top of the kitchen steps being shut; and directly after we were standing on the damp sawdust with the bins of wine all round.
“It hasn’t been touched, apparently, and there seems to be no need; but I should like to see if it is all right. But we shall never get through there, Burdon,” he says, looking at the bricked-up wall, across the way to the inner cellar.
“I don’t know,” I said, taking off my coat and rolling up my sleeves, to find that though the highest price had been paid for that bricklaying, the cheat of a fellow who had the job had used hardly a bit of sand and bad lime, so that, after I had loosened one brick and levered it out, all the others came away one at a time quite clear of the mortar.
“Never mind,” says Sir John. “Out of evil comes good. I’ll try that sherry too, Burdon, and we’ll put some fresh in its place. But if that’s left twenty years, we shall never live to taste it, eh?”
I shook my head sadly as I worked away in that arch, easily reaching the top bricks, which were only six feet from the sawdust; and, as is often the case, what had seemed a terrible job proved to be easy.
“There,” he says; “the place will be sweeter now. We’ll just have a glance at the old chests, and then we must build up the empty bottles again. To-morrow, I’ll order in some more wine—for my son.”
He said that last so solemnly that I looked up at him as he stood there with the light shining in his eyes.
“As’ll come back some day, sorry for the past, Sir John,” I said, “and ready to do what you wish.”
“Please God, Burdon!” he says, bowing his head for a bit. Then he looked up quite sharply, and took a candle, and I the other. “Come along,” he says in his old, quiet, stern way; and I was half afraid I had offended him, as he stepped in at the opening and stood at the mouth of the inner cellar. Then I heard him give a sharp sniff; and I smelt it too—that same odour of burnt oil. We neither of us spoke as we walked over the damp black sawdust, both thinking of the likelihood of foul air being in the place; but we found we could breathe all right; and as we held up the candles, the light shone on the black-looking old chests, every one with its padlocks and seals all right, just as we had left them all those years before.
I looked up at Sir John, and he gave me a satisfied nod as he tried one of the seals, and then we both stood as if turned to stone, for from just at my feet there came a dull knocking sound, and as I looked down, I could see the black sawdust shake.
What I wanted to do was to run, for I felt that the place was haunted; but I couldn’t move, and when I looked at Sir John, he was holding up his right hand, as if to order me to be silent. Then he held his candle down, for there was another sound, but this time more of a grinding cracking in a dull sort of way, just as if some one was forcing an iron chisel in between the joints of the stones. Then there was a long pause, and I half thought it had been fancy; but soon after, as I stood there hardly able to breathe, the sawdust just in one place was heaved up about an inch.
I was terribly alarmed, not knowing what to think; but Sir John was brave as brave, and he signed to me not to speak, and stood watching till there was a dull cracking sound, the sawdust was heaved up again, and all at once I seemed to get a hot puff of that burnt oily smell right in my nose. Then I began to understand, and felt afraid in a different fashion, as I knew that we had only got there just in time.
The next minute Sir John made a movement toward me, took my candle and turned it upside down, so that it went out, and then pointed back toward the outer cellar, as he put his lips to my ear:
“Iron bar!”
I stepped back softly, and got the iron bar from where it lay on the edge of a bin, and I was about to pick up the screw-driver, when I remembered where the wooden mallet lay, and I picked up that before stepping softly back to where Sir John was watching the floor; and now I could see that the sawdust was higher in one place, as if a flagstone had been heaved up a little at one end.
There was no doubt about it, for, as I handed the crowbar, the end of the stone was wrenched up a little higher and then stuck; for it was tightly held by those on either side; but it was up far enough to let a thin ray of dull light come up through the floor and shine on the side of one of the old chests.
It was a curious scene there, in that gloomy cellar: Sir John standing on one side, candle in his left, the iron bar in his right hand, and me on the other bending down ready with the mallet to hit over the head the first that should come up through the floor. For, though horribly alarmed, I could understand now what it all meant—an attempt to steal the gold in the chests, though how those who were working below had managed to get there was more than I could have said.
As we watched, the smell of the burnt oil came through, and I knew that it must have been going on for a long time.
All at once we could hear a low whispering, and then there was a grinding noise of iron against stone; the flag gritted and gave a little, but it held fast all along; and I could understand that the man who was trying to wrench it up had no room to work, and therefore no power to wrench up the stone. Then came the faint whispering again, and it seemed to sound hollow. Then another grinding noise, and the end of the flag was moved a trifle higher, so that the line of light on the old chest looked two or three inches broad.
I stepped softly to Sir John and put my lips to his ear as the whispering could be heard again, and I said softly: “Shall I fetch the police?”
Sir John for answer set his candle down upon the top of one of the chests and put it out with the bar as he whispered to me in turn: “Wait a few moments.” And then—“Look!” He pointed with the iron bar; and as I stared hard at the faint light shining up from below the edge of the stone, I could see just the tips of some one’s fingers come through and sweep the sawdust away to right and left. Then they came through a little more, and were drawn back, while directly after came the low whispering again, and the hand now was thrust right through as far as the wrist.
“Yes,” said Sir John then, as he grasped my arm—“the police!” Just then he uttered a gasp, and I turned to look at him; but we were in the dark, and I could not see his face, but he gripped my arm more tightly, and I looked once more toward the broad ray, to see the hand resting now full in the light, and I turned cold with horror, for there was something shining quite brightly, and I could see that it was a signet ring, and what was more, the old ring Mr Barclay used to wear—the one he had worn since he was quite a stripling, and beyond which the joint had grown so big that he could never get the jewel off.
I should have bent down there, staring at that ring for long enough, fascinated, as you may say, only all at once I felt my arm dragged, and I was pushed softly into the outer cellar, and from there into the passage beyond, Sir John closing and locking the door softly, before tottering into the pantry and sinking into a chair, uttering a low moan.
“Oh, don’t take on, sir,” I whispered; but he turned upon me roughly.
“Silence, man!” he panted, “and give me time to think;” and then I heard him breathe softly, in a voice so full of agony that it was terrible to hear: “Oh, my son!—my son!”
“No, no, sir,” I said—for I couldn’t bear it. “He wouldn’t; there’s some mistake.”
“Mistake? Then you saw it too, Burdon? No; there is no mistake.”
I couldn’t speak, for I remembered about the keys, and something seemed to come up in my throat and choke me, for it seemed so terrible for my young master to have done this thing.
“What are you going to do, sir?” I said at last, and it was me now who gripped his arm.
“Do?” he said bitterly. “All that is a heritage: mine to hold in trust for my son—his after my death to hold in trust for the generations to come. Burdon, it is an incubus—a curse; but I have my duty to do: that old gold shall not be wasted on a—”
Story 2—Chapter IX.
Mr Barclay goes too far.
When young Mr Barclay—
Stop! How do I know all this?
Why, it was burned into my memory, and I heard every word from him.
When young Mr Barclay left the dining-room on the night he disappeared, he went up to his own room, miserable at his position with his father, and taking to himself the blame for the unhappiness that he had brought upon the girl who loved him with all her sweet true heart. “But it’s fate—it’s fate,” he said, as he went up to his room; and then, unable to settle himself there, he lit a cigar, came down, and went out just as he was dressed in his evening clothes, only that he had put on a light overcoat, and began to walk up and down in front of our house and watch the windows opposite, to try and catch a glimpse of Miss Adela.
Ten o’clock, eleven, struck, but she did not show herself at the window; and feeling quite sick at heart, he was thinking of going in again, when he suddenly heard a faint cough, about twenty yards away; and turning sharply, he saw the lady he was looking for crossing the road, having evidently just come back from some visit.
“Adela—at last,” he whispered as he caught her hand.
“Mr Drinkwater!” she cried in a startled way. “How you frightened me!”
“Love makes men fools,” said Mr Barclay, as he slipped into her home ere she could close the door. “Now take me in and introduce me to your sisters.”
“Adela, is that you? Here, for goodness’ sake. Why don’t you answer?”
“Is she there?”
The first was a rough man’s voice, the next that of a woman, and as they were heard in the passage, another voice cried hoarsely: “It’s of no use: the game’s up.”
“Hist! Hide! Behind that curtain! Anywhere!” panted Adela, starting up in alarm. “Too late!”
Barclay had sprung to his feet, and stood staring in amazement, and perfectly heedless of the girl’s appeal to him to hide, as two rough bricklayer-like men came in, followed by a woman.
“Will you let me pass?” cried Mr Barclay.—“Miss Mimpriss, I beg your pardon for this intrusion. Forgive me, and good-night.”
One man gave the other a quick look, and as Mr Barclay tried to pass, they closed with him, and, in spite of his struggles, bore him back from the door. The next moment, though, he recovered his lost ground, and would have shaken himself free, but the sour-looking woman who had entered with the two men watched her opportunity, got behind, flung her arms about the young man’s neck, and he was dragged heavily to the floor, where, as he lay half stunned, he saw Adela gazing at him with her brows knit, and then, without a word of protest, she hurried from the room.
Mr Barclay heaved himself up, and tried to rise; but one of his adversaries sat upon his chest while the other bound him hand and foot, an attempt at shouting for help being met by a pocket-handkerchief thrust into his mouth.
A minute later, as Mr Barclay lay staring wildly, the rough woman, whom he recalled now as one of the servants, and who had hurried from the room, returned, helping Adela to support a pallid-looking man, whose hands, face, and rough working clothes were daubed with clayey soil.
“Confound you! why didn’t you bring down the brandy?” he said harshly.—“Gently, girls, gently. That’s better. I’m half crushed.—Who’s that?”
“Visitor,” said one of Mr Barclay’s captors sourly. “What’s to be done?”
Mr Barclay looked wildly from one to the other, asking himself whether all this was some dream. Who were these men? Where the elderly Misses Mimpriss? And what was the meaning of Adela Mimpriss being on such terms with the injured man, who looked as if he had been working in some mine?
Their eyes met once, but she turned hers away directly, and held a glass of brandy to the injured man’s lips.
“That’s better,” he said. “I can talk now. I thought I was going to be smothered once.—Well, lads, the game’s up.”
“Why?” said one of the others sharply.
“Because it is. You won’t catch me there again if I know it; and here’s private inquiry at work from over the way.”
“Hold your tongue!” said the first man of the party. “There; he can’t help himself now. You watch him, Bell; and if he moves, give warning.”
The rough woman seated herself beside Mr Barclay and watched him fiercely. The two men crossed over to their companion; while Adela, still looking cold and angry, with brow wrinkled up, drew back to stand against the table and listen.
The men spoke in a low tone; but Mr Barclay caught a word now and then, from which he gathered that, while the man who had in some way been hurt was for giving up, the other two angrily declared that a short time would finish it now, and that they would go on with it at all hazards.
“And what will you do with him?” said the injured man grimly.
Mr Barclay could not help looking sharply at Adela, who just then met his eye, but it was with a look more of curiosity than anything else; and as she realised that he was gazing at her reproachfully, she turned away and watched the three men.
“Very well,” said the one who was hurt, “I wash my hands of what may follow.”
“All right.”
Mr Barclay turned cold as he wondered what was to happen next. He saw plainly enough now that the house had been let to a gang of men engaged upon some nefarious practice, but what it was he could not guess. Coining seemed to be the most likely thing; but from what he had heard and read, these men did not look like coiners.
Then a curious feeling of rage filled him, and the blood rushed to his brain as he lay reproaching himself for his folly. He had been attracted by this woman, who was evidently thoroughly in league with the man who spoke to her in a way which sent a jealous shudder through him, while the sisters of whom he had once or twice caught a glimpse, seemed to be absent, unless— The thought which occurred to him seemed to be so wild that he drove it away, and lay waiting for what was to come next.
“Be off, girls!” said the first man suddenly; and without a word, the two women present left the room, Adela not so much as casting a glance in the direction of the prisoner.
The three men whispered together for a few moments, and then Mr Barclay made an effort to get up, but it was useless, for the first two seized him between them, all bound as he was, and dragged him out of the room, along the passage, and down the stone steps to the basement, where they thrust him into the wine-cellar, and half-dragged him across there into the inner cellar, the houses on that side being exactly the same in construction as ours.
“Fetch a light,” said one of them; and this was done, when the speaker bent down and dragged the handkerchief from the prisoner’s mouth.
“You scoundrel!” cried Mr Barclay.
“Keep a civil tongue in your head, my fine fellow,” he said.
“You shall suffer for this,” retorted Mr Barclay.
“P’r’aps so. But now, listen. If you like to shout, you can do so, only I tell you the truth: no one can hear you when you’re shut in here; and if you do keep on making a noise, one of us may be tempted to come and silence you.”
“What do you want?—Money?”
“You to hold your tongue and be quiet. You behave yourself, and no harm shall come to you; but I warn you that if you attempt any games, look out, for you’ve desperate men to deal with. Now, then, will you take it coolly?”
“Tell me first what this means,” said Mr Barclay.
“I shall tell you nothing. I only say this—will you take it coolly, and do what we want?”
“I can’t help myself,” says Mr Barclay.
“That’s spoken like a sensible lad,” says the second man.—“Now, look here: you’ve got to stop for some days, perhaps, and you shall have enough to eat, and blankets to keep you warm.”
“But stop here—in this empty cellar?”
“That’s it, till we let you go. If you behave yourself, you shan’t be hurt. If you don’t behave yourself, you may get an ugly crack on the head to silence you. Now, then, will you be quiet?”
“I tell you again, that I cannot help myself.”
“Shall I undo his hands?” said one to the other.
“Yes; you can loosen them.”
This was done, and directly after Mr Barclay sat thinking in the darkness, alone with as unpleasant thoughts as a man could have for company.