CHAPTER VII.
A STRANGER AT THE ROSE AND CROWN
Mrs. Carlyon sat in the breakfast-room of her pleasant house at Bayswater, planning out in her own mind the route she should take on her journey to Hyères, for which place she intended to depart ere many days had elapsed, when the morning letters were brought in. One of them was from her niece, Ella Winter. Mrs. Carlyon opened it, and sat transfixed at the news it contained: nothing less than an avowal from that young lady that she was engaged to be married to Edward Conroy.
The shock and surprise sent Mrs. Carlyon into Norfolk. She gave orders to her maid, Higson, to prepare for their instant departure.
"And it is just as well that I should go on another score," she told herself, as she stepped into her carriage to be driven to the station: "to ascertain whether my niece has relinquished that most absurd idea of hers--that she is not her Uncle Gilbert's legal inheritor. What a ridiculous world we live in!"
So, at a late hour that same evening, Mrs. Carlyon, with her maid, arrived at Heron Dyke--without any notice.
"Your letter, Ella, took my breath away," she began, hardly allowing herself a moment for greetings. "Has this engagement which you tell me of really gone so far that it cannot be broken off?"
"But who wants it to be broken off, Aunt Gertrude?" returned Ella.
"What! Consider, my dear--a newspaper reporter, for Mr. Conroy is neither more nor less than that. A very nice gentlemanly young man, I admit, and one who has made himself a name in a certain way, but scarcely a match for the heiress of Heron Dyke."
"I am not going to marry for ambition, aunt, but for--for----"
"Love, I conclude you would say. Love may be all very well in its way, but why not have combined the two? Your husband ought to be at least your equal in position. With your fortune and good looks, you might have aspired to marry into the peerage; at the very least, you ought to have a husband with a seat in Parliament. I am very much disappointed," concluded Mrs. Carlyon, sitting down on the nearest chair.
"I am sorry for that, aunt; and so will Mr. Conroy be."
"My dear! Surely you will not be so foolish as to tell him," cried Mrs. Carlyon, hastily. "What I say to you is strictly between ourselves. I like Mr. Conroy very well--I like him so well that I should not care to hurt his feelings, although he has ambitiously cast his eyes on you."
"I am afraid, aunt, he could not help liking me. He said so."
"I dare say! Well, perhaps that may be true. If he were but well-connected--or a landed proprietor, say--or even a rising man in the law courts--or, in short, almost anything but a newspaper reporter, there is no one I would sooner see you marry. But as he is----"
"I am quite satisfied with him as he is, Aunt Gertrude. And you must please remember," added Ella, with a quaint little smile, "that it was at your house I first met him. Don't you remember with what empressement you introduced him to me? He was quite the lion of the evening: you made him so: still, of course, as you say, he was only a newspaper reporter."
Mrs. Carlyon fidgeted in her chair.
"One may be gratified to receive a person as a visitor," she said, "but it does not follow that one cares to make him a member of one's family. As to that evening, I have hated to think of it ever since, for it was when my jewels were stolen, and now I shall hate it still more. But, to return to the point, you, the mistress of Heron Dyke----"
"Am I the true mistress of Heron Dyke?--or, rather, shall I continue to be?" interrupted Ella.
"I will not hear a word of that nonsense," flashed Mrs. Carlyon. "My dear, I speak of you as you are: and I say that it is positively not seemly for a young lady in your position to wed a poor newspaper reporter."
"Ella put her arms round her aunt's neck and kissed her."
"Worldly-wise maxims do not come with a good grace from your lips, Aunt Gertrude," she whispered. "I have heard you say many a time that your marriage was one of pure affection, but I have never heard you say that you regretted it. You must let me be happy in my own unambitious way."
Mrs. Carlyon sighed. How differently the young and the old look at things!--and how impossible it is to reconcile the views. Not that she regretted her own choice: and she supposed she should have to put up with this one. Ella was her own mistress, under no control.
"Is it quite irrevocable, my love?"
"I think so, auntie dear. You can ask Mr. Conroy."
Irrevocable Mrs. Carlyon found it to be. After a short while given to private lamentation, she resolved to make the best of it; and she did so with a good grace. One very powerful advocate in her mind was Edward Conroy himself. She could not help liking him, admiring him; she mentally acknowledged that were she a young woman with a virgin heart, it would have been lost to Conroy. After frankly telling him that she did not approve of the match on account of his want of position, but that she could not and should not take any steps to hinder it, she became pleasant with him as before. Conroy received the rebuke with becoming humility: but he did not offer to relinquish Miss Winter.
Now that she was at Heron Dyke, Mrs. Carlyon determined to remain. With Mr. Conroy at the Hall every day, she considered it her duty to be at hand to afford proper countenance and support to Ella. Mrs. Toynbee was all very well, but she was not a relative: and duty was duty with Mrs. Carlyon. Her cough must take its chance this winter. It was possible that the bracing air of the east coast might prove as beneficial to her in the long-run as the sun-warmed but relaxing breezes of Southern France. And so she settled down in the old house, to stay there as long as might be expedient.
When Mr. Charles Plackett was at Heron Dyke, he had promised to write to Miss Winter as soon as he had communicated with his client of Nunham Priors. Instead of Charles Plackett writing, Mr. Denison himself wrote, and the following is what he said:
"Nunham Priors.
"My Dear Young Kinswoman,
"You have often been in my thoughts since I saw you in London, now some weeks ago, and I look forward with great pleasure to your promised visit to me at Nunham Priors next spring.
"When in town last week I saw my lawyer, Charles Plackett, who gave me a long account of his visit to you at Heron Dyke. That visit was undertaken by him solely on his own responsibility, and without first consulting me, as he ought to have done. I have the utmost confidence in Plackett's good sense and business qualifications, but whether I should have sanctioned his visiting you for such a purpose is a question I will not now enter upon. What has been done, cannot be undone; and all I can now do, my dear, is to thank you, and express to you the admiration I feel for the frank and candid spirit in which you met his inquiries. As I told Plackett, many people under such circumstances would have shown him the door: I myself should probably have done so.
"Were I in your place, my dear young lady, I should stir no further in the matter respecting which Plackett called upon you. You have done everything that honour demands, and more than could be expected of you under the circumstances. Moreover, it appears to me that--though I admit one cannot help entertaining doubts--any further investigation would probably bring forth no results whatever. Let the affair rest: that is my advice to you. I have no particular ambition to be the master of Heron Dyke, especially now that I have learnt to know and love--aye, love, my dear--her who is its mistress. I have fortune enough and to spare, both for myself and that scapegrace boy who will succeed me. Why crave for more? A very little while and I must leave it, however much or however little it may be.
"Don't forget that I shall expect you at Nunham Priors in spring; and so for the present no more.
"From your affectionate kinsman,
"Gilbert Denison."
"P.S.--I am expecting Frank home in a week or two. I shall try to chain him by the leg until you come. I am anxious that you and he should be well acquainted with one another."
"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Conroy, as he read this letter with an amused smile, for Miss Winter handed it to him when he came to the Hall on the morning she received it.
"It is evident Mr. Denison has made up his mind that you should fall in love with this mythical son of his."
She nodded.
"After all, Ella, would not that seem to be a most sensible arrangement? It would unite the two branches of the family and concentrate the property of both. What a pity you have given away your heart to the wrong man!"
"I begin to think so too," gravely answered Ella. "It may not be too late to reclaim the poor thing and give it as you suggest."
"It is never well to be rash. Had you not better await the return of this wandering relative? Perhaps he might not value the offering?"
"But if he should value it?"
"He may not value it as--as its present possessor does."
"I dare say he would, sir."
"In that case, should you wish to reclaim it, you shall have it back."
Ella glanced up. "Do you mean what you say? Is it a bargain?"
"Undoubtedly." And, Mr. Conroy appeared to speak without reservation.
"Is he tiring of me?" thought Ella.
"Shall you take Mr. Denison's advice, and let the matter of the succession drop?" resumed Conroy, after a pause.
"Certainly not. You would not wish me to, would you?"
"No. I think if any fraud was enacted, it should be traced out and exposed. I have always said so. But, do you know why I have chiefly wished it?"
"Why have you?"
"For your own peace, dear. I see you will have none until the matter shall be set at rest."
"That is true; that is true," she impressively answered. "But, oh, Edward, what can we do? What can we do more than we have already done?"
"Nothing--that I see at present. It does not much matter, one way or the other."
"Do you mean that my title to the estate, or non-title, does not matter?"
"Not much, I say."
"I do not understand you this morning, Edward."
Conroy smiled. "You will understand me better sometime."
"That I am sure I never shall--if I am to marry that young Denison."
"Yes, you will, despite young Denison," returned Conroy, the same provoking smile still upon his lips.
It was known that Mrs. Ducie had been suffering from a severe cold. Suddenly, without bidding good-bye to anyone, she started for London: with the object, as was understood, of obtaining better medical advice. Nullington hoped she would obtain that, and be restored to health, for she was rather a favourite.
Mrs. Ducie did not return; and the next piece of news heard was that her well-known miniature phaeton, together with its pair of ponies, had been bought by Lord Camberley and presented to his aunt, the Hon. Mrs. Featherstone. From this, gossips argued, Mrs. Ducie's return to Nullington seemed a somewhat problematical event. Captain Lennox--who appeared to have taken up his abode in London, paying The Lilacs a flying visit now and then, in by the night-train and away again in the morning--was questioned upon the point. He said Mrs. Ducie continued very unwell indeed; he was not sure but she would have to go abroad; if so, he might perhaps accompany her.
It might have been from this item of problematical news that a report got about that the Captain was also about to leave Nullington. He himself neither denied it nor affirmed it: it would depend, he said, on his sister's health.
One evening, when the Captain had come down for a rather longer stay than usual now, he went into the billiard-room at the Rose and Crown. Lennox was a man who could not exist without society, or spend an evening at home with no company but his own.
After the Captain had played a few games with young Mr. Sandys, of Denne Park, and was about to quit the hotel, the landlord, Butterby, drew him aside.
"Can I speak with you a moment, sir?"
"Well?" cried the Captain, shortly.
"Pardon me, Captain, for asking; but would you mind telling me whether there's any truth in the report that you are about to leave The Lilacs?"
"What if there should be, eh?" asked the Captain, with a quick, suspicious glance at his questioner.
"Why simply this, sir," replied the landlord, "that I think I know of somebody who might perhaps take it off your hands, furniture and all."
"Oh, indeed! Who's that?" asked the Captain.
"A Mr. Norris, sir, who is stopping in the hotel. He says----"
"What's his business here?"
"Nothing in particular, sir: halted here quite promiscuous yesterday; been going about a bit to see places. He's not a gentleman by any means," added the landlord. "I hope I know a gentleman when I see one, Captain; but he seems to have plenty of money. Retired from business, I should put it. Says he should like to settle down in this part of the country, for it takes his fancy, and is on the look-out for what he calls a 'quiet little shanty' that would suit himself and his two grown up daughters. So I thought, Captain, that if----"
"I understand," interrupted Lennox in his quick way. He paused for a moment or two, biting his lip, his eyes bent on the ground.
"He looks awfully ill," was the landlord's unspoken thought, as he stood watching him. "But I suppose he goes the pace when he's in London. It's sure to tell on a man in the long-run."
"It might be worth my while to see this Mr. Norris in the morning," said Lennox, breaking out of his reverie. "To tell you the truth, Butterby, I have some notion of leaving Nullington."
"So we heard. But I'm sorry to hear you say so, sir."
"Nothing, however, is settled at present. You see my sister finds this part of the country a little too bleak for her, and I myself have been out of sorts for some time. We have some idea of travelling for a year or two. I shall see how she is when I next run up to town. We may perhaps come back here, after all."
"We shall miss you, sir, if you don't," spoke Butterby.
Captain Lennox looked undecided: as if he could not make up his mind. A minute or two passed before he spoke.
"You might take an opportunity, Butterby, of sounding this guest of yours as to what kind of place it is that he really wants. The Lilacs might be too small for him, or two expensive--it might not suit him in many ways. In that case my seeing him on the matter would be useless. I will look round in the morning about ten o'clock, and then you can tell me the result."
With that, Captain Lennox adjusted the camellia in his buttonhole, lighted a fresh cigar, linked his arm in the arm of young Sandys, and went his way.
Captain Lennox was punctual. The clock was striking ten the next morning as he walked into the bar of the Rose and Crown. The landlord met him with a smiling face.
"Mr. Norris would like to see you, sir," he began. "I had a little talk with him last night; and, from what I can make out, if you can come to terms yours will be just the place to suit him. He's a little bit odd in some of his ways, but a pleasant party enough when you come to converse with him."
"You can show me to his room."
Mr. Norris was a tall, ungainly, big-boned man, dressed somewhat after the fashion of a middle-aged country squire of sporting proclivities, with cutaway coat, gaiters, blue-and-white neck-tie and high collar. But his clothes sat awkwardly upon him, and he seemed ill at ease in them. He rose up from the breakfast-table as Lennox entered the room, and waved him to a chair.
"Proud to see you, sir," he said. "Shall be at your service in two minutes. Am late this morning."
"Don't hurry yourself," said Captain Lennox, politely. But Mr. Norris rang the bell and had the tray taken away. He then drew his chair a little nearer the fire, so that he might face his guest, and spread his big bony hands out to the cheerful blaze.
"I'm told, sir, that you have a little shanty you are about to vacate," he said, "and as I'm in want of something of the kind we may perhaps strike a bargain."
"Possibly so, Mr. Norris. But it might be waste of time to go into any details before you have seen the place. I may tell you that there are three years of the lease still to run, and that I should like the furniture to be taken at a valuation."
"All right, Captain. If the place suits me we shan't quarrel about terms, I dessay. When shall I pay you a visit?"
"The sooner the better. I am due in London to-morrow. How would two o'clock to-day suit you? You would then have time to look over the cottage before dusk, and you might favour me with your company at dinner afterwards, if not otherwise engaged. It may take some little time to talk over preliminaries."
"All right, Captain, I'm your man. At two sharp I'll be with you."
Mr. Norris was as good as his word. A fly deposited him at The Lilacs at the time appointed, where he found Captain Lennox waiting. The Captain went with him over the premises. Mr. Norris made a very minute inspection of the place, peering into every nook and corner, and examining every cupboard and pantry in the house. About the condition of the furniture he did not seem to trouble himself.
"It's good enough for me and my lasses," he said, with a wave of one of his large hands, when Lennox observed that he was afraid the drawing-room carpet was rather well worn.
Last of all, the garden and grounds were thoroughly perambulated.
"I like everything I've seen," said Mr. Norris, as they went back indoors, "but before giving a final answer, I must hear what my two lasses have to say. It's to be their home as well as mine, you know, Captain. Just now they are in the West of Ireland, but they'll be back in a week from to-day."
"In a week, eh?"
"Perhaps you don't care to wait so long as that for my answer?"
The Captain replied that a week more or a week less was a matter of very slight importance to him. So it was left at that.
When dinner was announced, Lennox sat down with his guest and was studiously polite, though he did not seem to be in much humour for talking. Mr. Norris, however, so far as he was concerned, did not let the conversation flag, while doing ample justice to the good things before him. He allowed no hint to drop as to what his profession in life had been or was now; but from certain things he said Lennox came to the conclusion that he was a man who had seen a good deal of the world, and had been acquainted with several phases of life of a more or less curious kind. Dinner over, young Sandys and three or four other men dropped in; there was an adjournment to the smoking-room, and after a time some one suggested cards.
"Do you play, Mr. Norris?" asked Lennox, with an air of languid interest.
"When I was a lad at home we used to play loo and speculation for nuts at Christmas time, and since then I've sometimes played a rubber of whist, but nothing more," answered Mr. Norris, with his broad smile. "Still, I'm no spoil-sport, and if one of you will only give me a lesson or two I'll do my best."
Mr. Sandys kindly undertook the part of mentor, and found his pupil a most apt one. In about ten minutes he said rather drily, "And now, I think, Mr. Norris, you will be quite able to take care of yourself," at which Mr. Norris nodded his head.
During the early part of the evening the luck seemed decidedly against Mr. Norris. But by-and-by there came a change, and his lost sovereigns began to find their way back to his pocket. It appeared to be a peculiarity of this Mr. Norris, that whenever he sustained a more severe loss than ordinary he leant back in his chair and gave vent to a hearty guffaw; whereas, when the cards happened to be in his favour and the pool fell to him, he looked as glum as a judge. Young Sandys stared at him through his eye-glass as though he were some strange animal who had found his way there by mistake, while Captain Lennox's cold, keen glances began to be directed more and more frequently towards his guest. It was dawning on the Captain's mind that Mr. Norris was, perhaps, not so much of a novice as he had tried to make himself out to be. At the close of the evening he rose from the table a winner to a small amount.
Norris was the first to leave. He bowed his awkward bow to the company generally, and shook hands with the Captain.
"Everything shall be settled in a week from now," he whispered with a meaning look. "Rely upon that. Good-night."
"Queer fish that," said young Sandys, as the door closed on Mr. Norris's lanky figure.
"Not quite the greenhorn he would have had us believe," remarked Gray, another of the guests. "Where the deuce did you pick him up, Lennox?"
"I'm glad he's gone," said Lennox, with an air of weariness, as he dropped into a chair "The fellow is after this place--if I should make up my mind to leave it."
"I say, old fellow, how jolly bad you look to-night!" said Downes Dyson as he proceeded to shuffle the cards.
"Yes, I'm altogether out of sorts. These horrible English winters are enough to kill anyone."
Captain Lennox was indeed glad that Mr. Norris had gone, and he would have been well pleased were he never going to see him again. He had contracted a great dislike for him, for which he could give no reasonable account to himself; a sort of dread which had grown deeper and deeper as the evening had advanced.
And he could not shake it off. His dreams that night were troubled ones: through the whole of them the tall, gaunt figure of Mr. Norris loomed ominously. Even in his sleep he felt that he hated him.
Next morning the Captain rose unrefreshed, and started by an early train for London. He was thinking that he needed a different air from the English air just as greatly as his sister did.
It was at the Rose and Crown that Mr. Conroy stayed when at Nullington. He and Norris had once or twice met on the stairs, and passed each other as strangers. On the evening above-mentioned, however, when Mr. Conroy was just about to go to rest, a tap came to the door of his sitting-room, and Norris appeared at it.
"I thought I'd just see whether you had retired yet, sir, having a word to say to you."
"Ah, is it you, Mr. Meath?" said Conroy. "Come in. You have some news for me, I presume. Sit down. What is it?"
"The news I have at present, sir, is this: that I have made some very curious discoveries indeed respecting the antecedents of the gentleman who goes by the name of Captain Lennox."
"Goes by the name! Is it not his real name?"
"Well, sir, he has gone by a lot of names in his time, but which of them's his real one is best known to himself."
From the breast-pocket of his coat, Mr. Meath drew a small memorandum-book, and opened it.
"Ten years ago," he began, "Lennox was passing under the name of Blaydon. At that time he was tuner to a large pianoforte firm in London. This situation he lost because a number of valuable articles were missed from different houses to which he was sent. We next hear of him under the name of Perke, as book-keeper at a fashionable hotel in Mayfair. Here also some robberies were perpetrated, but whether by him or not I am not in a position to assert. In any case, he lost his situation before long. After this he appears to have gone abroad for two or three years, and was seen in Paris, Brussels, Homburg, and other places. In some way or other, probably by successful gambling, he seems to have feathered his nest pretty considerably. We next find him at Cheltenham."
"At Cheltenham!" involuntarily exclaimed Conroy.
"At Cheltenham, sir. He had become Captain Lennox then, and was a very big card. Being Captain Lennox and a great swell, he is of course above peculations, unless some very tempting chance offers itself, as in the case of Major Piper's jewel-case. By his skill at cards and billiards he contrives to make a very comfortable income. He entices young men of fortune to his rooms, and there fleeces them. Do you follow me, sir?"
"Quite so."
"It would appear that he at length becomes fearful that Cheltenham is growing too warm for him; and he wisely beats a retreat from it before any suspicion touches him. Accompanied by his sister, Mrs. Ducie, he comes to Norfolk, and takes The Lilacs on a five or six years' lease. It would seem a curious, out-of-the-way place to come to," remarked Mr. Meath, looking off his note-book for a moment; "but no doubt Lennox knew what he was about, and I have very little doubt that the scheme has paid him handsomely. He must have known that there were many young men of family in this part of the country, some of them with more money than brains, and Captain Lennox having more brains than money was exactly the man to adjust the difference. It is a pity, sir, a great pity," added Mr. Meath, with a solemn shake of the head, "that so clever a rascal did not stop short at plucking pigeons, and leave the darker paths of villany untrodden. He might have gone on living as a gentleman and among gentlemen for years to come."
Edward Conroy had been thinking. There were some discrepancies in this history. "You speak of Lennox as a tuner of pianos and an hotel clerk, Mr. Meath; but he is undoubtedly a gentleman, both as regards education and manners. I think he must have been born one."
"Little doubt of that, sir. 'Tis but another edition of the old story, I take it. Well-connected parents, expensive bringing-up, perhaps good launch in life--perhaps not good through lack of funds: then temptation, weakness, ruin. Repudiated by friends, or perhaps friends dead. Then another start under a fresh name and from a lower rung of the ladder. Ah, my dear sir, such cases are unfortunately but too common. This is a queer world, yet men must live in it."
Conroy silently assented.
"How far do you suppose Mrs. Ducie has been implicated in these unpleasant matters?"
The private detective shook his head.
"Sir, I can't answer that. We have made no discovery against her as yet; neither do we care to push any. She is much attached to her brother, and she has clung to him in her sisterly affection. It can hardly be that she has lived without suspicion; any way, as to his making money by fleecing the world at cards. Whether she has known of worse things, I can't say. If so, one could not expect her to denounce him; but she must have walked upon thorns."
"I suppose she is really a widow?--and her name Ducie?
"Yes, sir, that's all straightforward enough. Her husband was an officer in the army; he died young, and left her with a fair income--which is hers still. People like her, and she has some good acquaintances. So has the Captain, for that matter."
"What do you purpose doing next?" asked Conroy.
"Well, sir, my next move--though I don't say when it will take place, either this day or that day--will be to apply for a search-warrant, and go quietly over The Lilacs--into every nook and corner of it."
"With any particular object in view?"
"Yes, sir, a very particular one. I hope to find there a malachite and gold sleeve-link, to match the one that was found upon the gravel at Heron Dyke."
Conroy almost smiled: this appeared to him to be so improbable a hope.
"You cannot expect to find it. Knowing, as he must have known, that he had lost the one sleeve-link in the struggle with Hubert Stone, Lennox's first care would be to effectually hide its fellow."
"Let me tell you, Mr. Conroy, that the chances are he didn't. These criminals are always making some fatal mistake; and that's a very common one--the not doing away effectually, as you are pleased to term it, sir, and it's an apt word, with the proofs that might destroy them."
CHAPTER VIII.
TOGETHER AT LAST
Sundry matters had been taking place concerning Philip Cleeve which might well have been told previously.
It was on a Wednesday morning, as may be remembered, that Philip started for London, on business, as Lady Cleeve was led to suppose, connected with Mr. Tiplady's office. On Thursday evening Lady Cleeve waited up to welcome her son's return. But Philip did not come.
"He must be staying in town to spend the evening with Mr. Bootle," she said to herself. "I shall have a letter in the morning."
The morning brought neither letter nor messages from the truant, and Lady Cleeve sent her breakfast away nearly untasted. "After all," she thought, "seeing that he will return to-day, he probably hardly thought it worth while to write."
But when Friday evening passed away and still Philip came not, and when Saturday morning's post brought her no letter, then Lady Cleeve became seriously alarmed. Business might, of course, be detaining him, she knew that; but why did he not write? And Philip, as she believed, was so ultra-dutiful.
"I will send to Mr. Tiplady, and risk it, she thought. She would have sent to inquire before, only Philip had so intense a dislike to being, what he called, looked after. Once, when he had stayed away at Norwich a day or two beyond the time of coming home, she had gone herself to the office to ask about him, and Philip was annoyed about it.
"Bridget," she said, calling to the maid who had waited upon her for many years, and who was as well known in Nullington as Lady Cleeve herself, "you had better go and inquire at the office when they expect Mr. Philip home. You can say, if you like, that I am a little uneasy at not hearing from him."
Away went Bridget, in her warm Scotch plaid shawl and black coal-scuttle bonnet. Mr. Tiplady was standing at the office-door, looking up and down the street. Bridget delivered to him her lady's message.
"Lady Cleeve sent you to me to inquire about the movements of Mr. Philip," cried the architect, after listening. "I was just going to send to ask Lady Cleeve the same question."
This famous architect, renowned in more counties than one, was a kindly, unpretending man, small and slight, and chary of speech in general. He took off his hat to push back the few scanty grey hairs left on his head, as he looked at the servant.
"My lady thought, sir, that you must know what was keeping Mr. Philip so long in London."
"I know nothing about it, Bridget. I don't know why he went. His absence is causing us some inconvenience."
Bridget, who was much in her mistress's confidence, could not make this out.
"He went upon business for you, sir, did he not?"
"Not at all. Mr. Best here got a note from him on Wednesday morning, saying he had to run up to town on a little business, but should be back the following day. We have heard nothing of him since. Make my compliments to your lady, and tell her this."
Lady Cleeve became actively alarmed now. All sorts of dire forebodings filled the mother's heart. London was a place beset with dangers in many ways: she had heard, and fully believed, that hardly a day passed but somebody or other was lost in it, and that they were never heard of again.
Sending out to order a fly, she was set down at the office. Mr. Tiplady was in his private room then, and handed her to a seat.
"I would be only too glad to tell you what is detaining him, if I knew," said the little man kindly, in answer to her somewhat impassioned appeal. "We supposed he had gone up upon some matter for yourself. Lost?--lost? no, no, dear Lady Cleeve; don't imagine anything so improbable as that. Philip is quite old enough to take care of himself."
"But what can he have gone to London for? And why should he have made a mystery of it?"
"Well, to say the truth, that's what I cannot quite understand. Best said a word to me this morning--he got it from young Plympton, I fancy--that Philip had been embarking money in some speculation, and---- Do you know anything about it?"
"Nothing," said Lady Cleeve, whose face was growing more anxious with every moment.
"I'll call Best in," said the architect.
But upon going into an adjoining room he found that Mr. Best had stepped out. So he brought in Richard Plympton. This young man, who had been placed in the architect's office as an "improver," was brother to Mr. Kettle's curate, and was a great friend of Philip.
Young Plympton, after shaking hands with Lady Cleeve, told what he knew, thinking it right under present circumstances to do so: that Philip had bought some shares in a rich silver-mining company, the Hermandad, and that he had gone up to town to see if he could not sell out again.
"Oh," said Mr. Tiplady, "embarked money in that, has he? I heard that same mine spoken of yesterday--quite incidentally."
"It is a very rich mine, is it not, sir?" cried young Plympton with enthusiasm.
"Very," drily responded the architect.
"Captain Lennox got him the shares, sir. He is one of the directors, and has gone in for it himself largely."
"Sorry for him," cried Mr. Tiplady. "The mine has come to grief."
"No!" exclaimed the young man, opening his eyes widely. "You don't mean that, sir! Then"--a thought striking him--"it must be that which has been keeping Lennox so much in town lately."
"Ay, no doubt. That will do, Mr. Plympton. I wonder whether Philip has risked much upon this worthless thing?" added the architect to Lady Cleeve, as his clerk withdrew.
"It is sad news for me," she sighed, wiping her pale face. "We can soon ascertain, by inquiring at the bank how much money he has drawn out. Of course, anything is better than that he should be lost."
"Of course," smiled Mr. Tiplady. "Still I don't myself see why this matter should be keeping Philip in London. It has been known to the public some days now. Shall I make the inquiry at the bank for you, Lady Cleeve?"
"If you will take the trouble. I shall be very much obliged to you."
"I may want your authority before they'll answer me. I'm not quite sure, though; they know me for Philip's good friend."
It was arranged that he should get into the fly now with Lady Cleeve. The driver was directed to stop at the bank. Mr. Tiplady went in, and came out with a serious face.
"Will they not answer you?" cried Lady Cleeve.
"Oh yes; they made no difficulty about that."
"Well! How much has he drawn out?"
"Nearly every pound he had there."
So poor Lady Cleeve had to go home with her anxiety augmented, instead of lessened. Suppose Philip, in his dismay at the loss of all his money, should--should have done something rash!
Saturday wore itself away. The look on the mother's face was pitiful to see. She sat at the window which faced the entrance-gate, looking for one that did not appear. And when dusk had closed in she still sat on in the same spot, listening in the dark with straining eyes for the well-known footfall that was so long in coming.
Sunday morning came and with it the postman, for there was an early postal delivery on that day at Nullington. But there was no letter from Philip. Dr. Spreckley was in the act of brushing his hat preparatory to setting out for church, when in rushed Bridget. Her lady had suddenly been taken with one of her old attacks, and the Doctor must hasten to her.
Dr. Spreckley had another patient on his hands at that time--the Reverend Francis Kettle; he was laid up with gout. When Dr. Spreckley called there after church, he mentioned Lady Cleeve's illness to Maria.
"She had been getting on so well lately," he lamented. "Anxiety of mind has brought on this attack; nothing else."
"Anxiety of mind?" repeated Maria.
"Yes; all about that harum-scarum son of hers. He went to London on Wednesday last, and has never been heard of since. She is in a fine quandary, I can tell you, fancying some dreadful harm has come to him."
"But why should harm come to him?" asked Maria, her heart beating wildly.
"Why, indeed! He does harm enough to himself without its coming to him gratuitously. Been and spent all his money; made ducks and drakes of it."
"Oh!" gasped Maria. "How?"
"How!" returned the Doctor. "Well"--looking at Maria's tale-telling countenance--"been embarking a lot of it in some precious mining scheme, and the mine has burst up."
Maria went to Lady Cleeve's that afternoon. She found her very ill. Maria hid her own fears and forebodings, and spoke cheerfully and hopefully; although every now and then a blinding rush of tears would come into her eyes when she thought that perhaps in very truth she should never see Philip more on this side the grave. More than ever before, she seemed to realise how dear he was to her heart.
How many days of this terrible anxiety went on, neither of them cared to number. The vicar was getting better now, though still confined to a sofa in his room, and Maria spent much of her time at Homedale. One morning there arrived a telegram addressed to Lady Cleeve. The poor mother's face turned paler still, and her hands trembled so much that she could not open it. She signed to Maria to take the paper.
"No. 6, Maxwell Terrace, Wandsworth, London.
"From Phillip Cleeve,
"I have met with a slight accident, which will detain me in London for a few days yet. It is nothing serious, so do not be alarmed. Another message to-morrow."
"Thank heaven! my boy still lives," said Lady Cleeve. Tears of thankfulness stood in Maria's eyes: for she also had been fearing the worst. "And yet it is strange why he has not written," mused Lady Cleeve, stretching out her hand for the paper. "He says, 'Another message to-morrow!' Why send a telegram when, if he were to post a letter this evening, it would reach me in the morning? He must be worse than he wishes me to know of; he must be so ill that he cannot write. He may be dying. And I cannot go to him!"
"I will go to him, dear Lady Cleeve!" said Maria, with a lovely flush on her cheeks.
"You, my dear!"
"Yes, I. I can go: papa is almost well now."
"But, my dear child, will it do for you to go? You----"
"I am his promised wife, and who has more right to be by his side, at such a time as this, than I have?" She flung herself into Lady Cleeve's arms, and the two wept together.
Maria lost no time. Before the astonished vicar could say yes or no, before he quite understood what the matter was, she was on her way to the railway-station.
A cab stopped that same evening at the door of No. 6, Maxwell Terrace. Miss Kettle alighted, knocked, and inquired for Mr. Cleeve.
Before the servant had time to reply, a white-haired, ruddy-faced gentleman came out of a side-room. "Come inside, come inside," he said, as he peered at Maria through his spectacles. "Yes, Mr. Cleeve is under this roof. He is my guest, you know; and you, I presume, are some relation of his?" he added, as he led the way into the parlour. "Perhaps his sister?"
"No, not his sister," faltered Maria, the difficulties of her position suddenly presenting themselves to her. "I am not related to him."
"Not related to him!" repeated the old gentleman, gazing at her. But, there was something so benevolent in the ruddy face, so kindly in the honest eyes, that Maria took heart and courage.
"I am his promised wife, sir," she said simply. "There was nobody but me to come."
"His promised wife, now! Bless my heart, but that's very nice, do you know! I never had a promised wife; I often wish that I had. My name's Marjoram, my dear--Josiah Marjoram, late of Bucklersbury, City; now retired, with nothing to do--nothing to do. It's hard work, though, sometimes."
"But about Philip--about Mr. Cleeve, sir?" said Maria, earnestly. "Is he very ill? I was to send a telegram to his mother if I got here in time. How was he hurt?"
"Sit down, my dear, and I will tell you all about it. It was as gallant a thing as ever I saw. I was standing at my drawing-room window one afternoon, whistling to myself, and thinking about nothing in particular, when all at once a hansom cab came dashing round the corner at a most furious rate. A little child was running across the road: it stumbled and fell: upon which a young man, who happened to be passing, and whom I had not noticed before, dashed into the road and seized the child in his arms. But he was too late; the cab was over him. The child escaped with a few bruises, but the young man was--well, let us put it, rather badly hurt. 'Take him to the hospital,' called out the people, running up. 'The only hospital he shall go to is my house,' I said to them: and into it he was carried. We found a name on some cards in his pocket-book, 'Mr. Cleeve,' but no address, so that I was unable to communicate with his friends."
"And he was too much injured to give you the address!" exclaimed Maria.
"Just so; he was not sufficiently sensible. But he is getting better now; oh, very much better," added the old gentleman, briskly. "As a proof of it, it was he who dictated the telegram to Lady Cleeve this morning. My doctor and the one from London both say that with care we shall soon have him on his legs again now."
"I should like to see him, sir, if you please," said Maria, faintly.
"So you shall, my dear: so you shall, when I have spoken to the nurse. Meanwhile, my housekeeper, Mrs. Wale, a good, motherly old soul, shall show you to your room, to take your bonnet off. We prepared it for his mother, thinking she might come."
The old housekeeper came in curtseying. She supposed Maria to be Lady Cleeve's daughter. Maria took off her travelling things, and was then ready to see Philip. Mr. Marjoram opened the chamber-door for her. She caught sight of a white face on the pillow, and two preternaturally large eyes, that stared at her as if she were a visitor from the dead. She bent her face to his.
"Oh, my dear one!" she murmured. "Thank Heaven, I have found you at last!" And Maria made up her mind that she would not leave him again. The doctors said that very much would depend on good nursing. Maria felt that no one could nurse him as she could; at least, she would help to do it. The old gentleman approved of this so much that he clapped his hands in applause; he told Maria he wished she could be converted by some good fairy into his real daughter, and never go away from his house.
On the morning after Philip's first wretched night in London, when he was somewhat restored to common sense, he resolved to return to Nullington and confess all his weakness and folly to his mother and to Mr. Tiplady. There was no help for it. But the thought struck him that he ought once more to go to the Hermandad office in the City, and to ascertain, if possible, whether the silver-mining prospect was absolutely hopeless.
The place was still shut up, and Philip could hear nothing. In coming away he met a gentleman whom he had seen at The Lilacs, an acquaintance of Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie. This gentleman had also put some money into the mine, and had come down to the City on the same errand as Philip.
"Lennox? No, I can't tell you where he is; I've not seen him here lately," he said, in answer to Philip's question. "Lennox is as hard hit as we are, I expect; worse, in fact. He may be staying with those friends he has at Wandsworth; he is there sometimes."
"Can you give me their address?
"Why, yes, I can. I spent an evening or two there with Lennox in the summer."
Philip took the address, and went to Wandsworth. He found the people, but could not hear anything of Captain Lennox; they supposed him to be at Nullington. It was after leaving their house that Philip met with the accident. It is probable that his previous night's vigil, and the troubled state his mind was in, rendered him less quick and agile than he might otherwise have been.
When Philip had gained sufficient strength, he poured into Maria Kettle's ear all the story of his folly and ruin, the latter culminating with these dreadful mines. He was yet so weak and ill that when he had done he cried like a child. Maria pressed his hand to her soft, warm cheek, and soothed and comforted him.
"I think sometimes, Maria, that if you had not cast me off as you did all this would not have happened," he continued; "and yet how weak and foolish I have been all through, no one knows better than myself."
"I will never leave you again," she murmured, with scarlet cheeks: and they sealed the promise with a kiss.
"I shall always say, Maria, your father was harder to me than he need have been."
"Yes. But the truth is, Philip, he has had more on his mind than he would speak of," she returned. "It was about----"
"About, what?" queried Philip, as she stopped.
"I am almost ashamed to mention it."
"I shall never rest now, till you have told me."
"Papa took up a notion that you were somehow concerned in those robberies which took place: his own purse, you know--and the Doctor's snuff-box--and the jewels."
Philip's large eyes grew larger as he stared at Maria.
"Not that I stole them? You can't mean that!"
"I fear that he was afraid you did. Dr. Downes was also."
Philip lay without speaking, lost in astonishment. Presently he burst into the strongest laugh his feeble state allowed.
"What a joke, Maria! They could not believe such a thing of me. I am Philip Cleeve."
The words imparted their own assurance. Though Maria had never needed to be assured.
"Did you think this?"
"Oh, Philip! Don't you know me better than that?"
"My dear, yes. Forgive the question. You say you will never leave me again, Maria: I bless you for that. If we could but be married here, and now, so that no adverse fate might ever more part us! Here and now!"
Maria's vivid blush was the only answer.
"But how could we live now that our future is marred?" continued Philip. "As Tiplady's partner, I could have ensured you a good home; but the money which was to have secured that position, the twelve hundred pounds, is gone for ever."
"I have two thousand pounds that I think you have not heard of, Philip," she said in a low tone, as she hid her face. "Mrs. Page left it to me. We will pay over some of it to Mr. Tiplady, in place of that which is lost."
"Maria!"
"Yes," she answered. "I have been intending it ever since I knew you were getting better. Do not fret after the money, Philip. Captain Lennox is worse off----"
"Hang Captain Lennox!" interjected Philip. "But for him I should never have got into trouble of any kind."
"He had embarked, it is said, a great deal in this mine," added Maria. "People fancy that it is his loss in it which makes him think of giving up The Lilacs."
Romantic though old Mr. Marjoram showed himself to be, it yet may have surprised him to be told that the two young people enjoying his hospitality had determined to get married as soon as possible, while Philip still lay ill and helpless--if he, the kind old gentleman, would only help them to accomplish it.
"Oh ho!" said he. "Love's young dream, and all that, eh? Your parents have destined you for one another from childhood, you tell me."
"That's quite true," said Philip, from his pillow.
"Philip will need careful tending for some time to come, as you know, sir," spoke Maria, with soft red cheeks and downcast eyes; "and no one can tend him as a wife can. If you, sir, would be at the trouble of procuring a special license for us, and--and Philip and I thought if you would not mind our being married here quietly some morning----"
Tears twinkled on the old gentleman's eyelashes. He drew Maria to him and pressed her to his heart, and she cried a little on his shoulder as she might have done on that of her father. Mr. Marjoram wished that Heaven had given him such a child.
Thus it fell out that a few days later a quiet wedding took place in the drawing-room of No. 6, Maxwell Terrace. Philip was lifted out of bed that day for the first time since his accident, and lay on a couch while the ceremony was performed. He looked desperately white and ill, poor fellow! but the light of perfect content shone in his eyes, and the old sweet smile that used to mark the Philip Cleeve of old days came and went continually on his lips. Mr. Marjoram gave away the bride, and his sister, a charming maiden lady of fifty, came all the way from Hertford to countenance the ceremony. And the old state of things then went on again. Poor helpless Philip lay in bed, and Maria waited on him.
But he seemed to get rapidly better now. And when sufficiently well to leave the good old man's hospitable roof, he and Maria went to a quiet seaside place lying on their way to Norfolk, that Philip might inhale the refreshing sea-breezes for a few days before returning home. At present he and his wife would stay with Lady Cleeve.
She, Lady Cleeve, was thankful in her heart for all that had happened, now that it had led to all this happiness. The Vicar, making up his mind at first to be very stern and high and mighty, broke down at the first interview. For one thing, his mind was at rest as to Philip's fancied participation in the robberies. Too much proof had been found at The Lilacs by Mr. Detective Meath, to admit of suspicion against anyone but Captain Lennox.
Dr. Downes's snuff-box had turned up first. It was supposed the Captain had been afraid to get rid of it for a time. Most of the jewels lost at Heron Dyke had been found there; and--the fellow sleeve-link of malachite and gold.
"That we must have a snake-in-the-grass amongst us here, I knew," cried Dr. Downes; "but I never suspected Lennox. I was more inclined to suspect you, Master Philip," with a nod at Philip, who was lying on a sofa, "although you are your father's son and your good mother's. You are laughing, are you? Well, you can afford to laugh, things having turned out so: you'd have found it no laughing matter had you been the black sheep."
"I dare say not, Doctor," answered Philip.
"But it is an awful thought that he, Lennox, whose hand has been meeting ours in friendship, should have been the murderer of Hubert Stone."