The Reverend Francis Kettle and his daughter Maria sat down to their breakfast-table somewhat later than usual: the dinner-party of the previous evening had made the servants busy. The thoughts of each were preoccupied: the Vicar's with the strange loss of Dr. Downes' gold snuff-box, of which he spoke from time to time; Maria's with the proposal of marriage made to her by Philip Cleeve: the most momentous proposal a young girl can receive. Presently Mr. Kettle found leisure to take up a letter, which had been lying by his plate unopened.
"Oh," said he, "it is from Mrs. Page."
Maria glanced up with a smile. "In trouble as usual, papa, with her servants?"
"Of course. And with herself, too," added the Vicar, as he read the short letter. "She wants you to go to her, Maria."
Mrs. Page was the one rich relation of the Kettle family: first cousin to the late Mrs. Kettle. She lived in Leamington, in a handsome house of her own, and with a good establishment; and she might have been as happy there as any wealthy and popular widow lady ever was yet. But, though good at heart, Mrs. Page was intensely capricious and exacting; she lived in almost perpetual hot water with her servants, and changed them every two or three months. This week, for instance, she would be rich in domestics, not lacking one in any capacity; the next week the whole lot would depart in a body, turned away, or turning themselves away, and Mrs. Page be reduced to a couple of charwomen. But her goodness of heart was undeniable; and many a Christmas Day had Mr. Kettle received from her a fifty-pound note, to be distributed by himself and Maria amongst their poor.
Every now and then she would send a peremptory summons for Maria; and the Vicar never allowed it to be disobeyed.
"She is getting old now, Maria, she is nearly the only relative left of your poor mother's, and I cannot permit you to neglect her," he would say. But he did not choose to append to this another reason, which, perhaps, weighed greatly with himself, and add, "She is rich, and will probably remember you in her will if you do not offend her."
"The servants all went off the day before yesterday, Maria; and she says that she is feeling very ill, and she wants you to go to her as soon as convenient," said Mr. Kettle, passing the letter to his daughter.
"But I cannot go, papa."
"Not go!"
"I do not see that I can. There is so much work at home just now."
"What work?"
"With the parish----"
"Oh, hang the parish!" put in the Vicar impulsively, and then coughed down his words. "The parish cannot expect to have you always, child."
"It is a hard winter, papa, as to work; many of the men are out of it entirely, as you know; and that entails poverty and sickness on the wives and children. I have not told you how very many are sick."
"Some of the ladies will see to them. You cannot be neglecting your own duties always for their sakes."
"Once I get to Leamington, papa, there is no knowing when I may be allowed to return. Mrs. Page kept me six months once; I well remember that."
"And if she wishes now to keep you for twelve months, twelve you must stay."
"Oh, papa!"
"You are taking a lesson from Ella Winter's book," said the Vicar. "She did not want to leave home in the autumn; but it was all the better for her that she should. Her case, however, was different from yours, and I do not say she was wrong in wishing to remain with her uncle, so old and sick. I am not old, and I am not sick."
But Maria thought her father was sick, though not of course with the mortal sickness of the Squire; ay, and that, if not old, he was yet ageing. His health certainly seemed breaking a little, his eyesight was failing him; now and then his memory misled him. He displayed less interest than ever he had done in parish work, leaving nearly everything to the curate, Mr. Plympton, and Maria. His liking for old port was growing upon him and he would sit all the evening with the bottle at his elbow, and was roused with difficulty when bedtime came. Altogether Maria would a vast deal rather not leave home; but she saw she should have to do it. Perhaps, in her heart, she shrank also from being away from Philip.
"I'm sure, papa, I can't think how things in the parish will get on without me," she said, as she laid down the letter. "Think what a state they were in when we returned in the summer."
The Vicar felt half offended.
"Get on?" said he. "Why, bless me, shan't I and Plympton be here? As to the state they fell into during our stay abroad, was not I away myself? One would think, Maria, you were parson and clerk and everything."
Maria smiled her sweet smile. She knew her father set little store by her work in the parish, not in fact seeing the half she did, and she was glad it should be so.
"And I should not, child, let you neglect Mrs. Page in her need--your mother's own cousin--for all the parishes in the diocese. So you can write to her this morning, or I will write if you are busy, and fix a day to go to her."
Barely had they finished breakfast when Dr. Downes came in. The loss of his snuff-box grieved and annoyed him. Not so much for its value, not so much that it was the gift of a long-esteemed friend and patron, but for the uncertainty and suspicion attending the loss. That the box must have been cleverly filched out of his pocket he felt entirely convinced of; it could not have got out of itself. All night long, between his snatches of sleep, had he been pondering the matter in his mind; and he had come to the uneasy conclusion that Philip Cleeve had taken it--either to play him a foolish trick, or to convert the box into money for his own use. But this latter doubt the Doctor would keep to himself and guard carefully. Mr. Kettle met the Doctor with open hand. It was not the Vicar's way to put himself out over things; but he was very considerably put out by this loss.
"I met that young blade, Philip Cleeve, in walking over here," observed the Doctor, as they were all three once more examining minutely every corner of the little hall--for, in a loss of this kind, we are apt to search a suspected spot over and over again. "I took the liberty of asking him whether he had purloined the box in joke when he was helping me on with my great-coat last night. It must have been then, as I take it, that it left my pocket."
Maria was rather struck with the Doctor's tone; unpleasantly so: it bore a resentful ring. "Philip would not play such a joke as that, Dr. Downes," she rejoined. "What did he say?"
"He said nothing at first; only stared at me, and asked me what I meant. So I told him what I meant: that my gold snuff-box had left my pocket last night in a mysterious and unaccountable manner, and I had been hoping that he had, perhaps, taken it, to play me a trick. He blushed red with that silly blush of his, assured me that he would not play so unjustifiable a trick on me, or on anyone else, and walked off, saying he had to catch a train. So there I was, as wise as before.--And the box is not here; and it seems not to be anywhere."
"Shall you have it cried?" asked Mr. Kettle, as they returned to the breakfast-room.
"Why, yes, I shall. Not that I expect any good will come of it. Rely upon it, that box has not been dropped in the road; it could not have been. It has been stolen; and the thief will send it up to London with speedy despatch, and make money of it. My only hope was, and that a slight one, that Philip Cleeve had got it for a lark."
"But why Philip Cleeve?" said the Vicar, hardly understanding. "Why not any other young fellow?"
"Because Philip Cleeve put my coat on for me, here, in your hall; that is, helped me to put it on. I am sure the box was in my pocket then; it must have been; and when I unbuttoned the coat at home, the box was gone."
"You did not leave it in the carriage?"
"I did not touch the box in the carriage: I never unbuttoned my overcoat, I tell you. Philip Cleeve knows that too: he went with me as far as Market Row."
"It really does look as though Philip Cleeve had taken it--for a jest," spoke the Vicar.
"No, no, papa," said Maria. "Philip is honourable."
"Not quite so honourable, perhaps, as folks think him," quickly rejoined Dr. Downes. "Not that I say he did or would do this. Philip Cleeve has his faults, I fear; he must take care they don't get ahead of him, or they may land him in shoals and quicksands. And a certain young lady of my acquaintance had better not listen to his whispering until he has proved himself worthy to be listened to," added he, as the Vicar passed temporarily into the next room, "and--and has got some better prospect of a home in view than he has at present. Take an old man's advice for once, my dear."
The stout old Doctor had turned to Maria, and was stroking her hair fondly. In his apparently jesting tone there ran an earnest warning; and Maria blushed deeply as she listened to it.
If the past night had been an uneasy one to Dr. Downes, it had also been one to Maria Kettle. Not from the same cause. Divest herself of a doubtful feeling with regard to Philip she could not. That he had not stability, that he was led away by any folly that crossed his path, and that--as Dr. Downes had but now put it--he had at present little prospect of making himself a home--a home to which he could take a wife--Maria was only too conscious of. _She_ had a vast amount of common, sober sense; and in that respect was a very contrast to Philip.
Maria herself would have waited for Philip for ever and a day, and never lost hope; but she, after this sleepless night was passed, had very nearly concluded that there ought to be no engagement between them; that it might be better for Philip's own sake he should not be hampered. It was rather singular that these words should have been spoken by Dr. Downes so soon afterwards as if to confirm her in her resolution.
In the afternoon, between three and four o'clock, when the Vicar had gone up to Heron Dyke, Philip made his appearance at the Vicarage. He had been sent away on business for the office early in the day, and had but now got back. Maria met him with a pretty blush, and held out her hand, as the servant closed the door; but Philip drew her to him and kissed her, sat down by her side on the sofa, and stole his arm round her waist. Maria gently put it away.
"Philip," she said, "we were both, I fear, thoughtlessly rash last night."
"In what way?" asked Philip, possessing himself of her hand, as it seemed he was not to have her waist.
"Oh--you know. In what you said and I--I listened to. I think we must wait a little, Philip: another year or so. It will be best."
"Wait for what? What is running in your head, Maria?"
"Until our prospects shall be a little more assured. Forgive me, Philip, but I mean it; I am quite serious. In a year's time from this, if you so will it, we can speak of it again."
"Do you mean to say there must be no engagement between us?" fired Philip.
"There had better not be. Neither of us at present has any chance of carrying it out."
"Oh," commented Philip, who was getting angry. "Perhaps you will point out what you do mean, Maria. I can see no meaning in it."
The tears rose to Maria's eyes. "Philip dear, don't be vexed with me: I speak for your sake more than for my own. At present you have no home to take a wife to, no expectation of making one----"
"But I have," interrupted Philip. "Old Tiplady intends to take me into partnership."
"Well--I hope he will: but still that lies in the future. Your mother, I feel sure, would not like to see you hamper yourself with a wife until you are quite justified in doing it. And then, on my side--how can I marry? It is scarcely possible for me to leave papa. And all the parish duties that I have made mine; the visiting and the schools----" Maria broke down with a sob.
"That young fop, Plympton, ought to take these duties," returned Philip, with a touch of petulance. "What's he good for? Garden-parties, and croquet, and flirting with the ladies. That's what he thinks of, rather than of looking after the poor wretches who live and die in the back lanes and alleys of the town."
"He is young," said Maria, gently. "Wisdom will come with years."
"One would think that you were _old_, to hear you talk, Maria."
"I think I am; old in experience. And so, Philip," sighed Maria, returning to the point, "let it be understood that there shall be no actual engagement between us. I shall be the same to you that I have been; the same always; and when things look brighter for you and for me----"
His ill-humour had passed away like mist in the sunshine, and he sealed the bargain with a kiss.
"Be assured of one thing, my darling," he whispered: "we shall not have to wait long if it depends on me. I will spare no pains, no exertion to get on, to offer you a home that all the world might approve, and to be in every respect what you would have me be."
Maria told him then of the probability that she should have to go to Leamington for an indefinite period, should have to depart in the course of a very few days. Philip did not receive the news graciously, and relieved his mind by calling Mrs. Page selfish.
"I can't stay longer," he said, getting up. "That precious office claims me; old Best does not know I am back yet.----Here's a visitor for you in my stead, Maria," he broke off, as they heard some one being admitted.
It was Captain Lennox: who was calling to inquire about the health of the Vicar and Maria after the previous evening's dissipation. Philip was going, and they all three stood together in the drawing-room for a minute or two.
"By the way, talking of last night, what is this tale about old Dr. Downes losing his gold snuff-box?" asked Captain Lennox. "The people at the library told me they had heard it cried, as I came by just now."
"So he has lost it," said Philip. "That is, he thinks he has. I dare say he has put it in some place or other himself, and will find it before the day's over."
"Did he miss it here?"
"No; not till he got home. And he had the impudence to ask me this morning whether I had _taken_ it, because I helped to button his coat," added Philip.
Captain Lennox looked at Philip, then at Maria, then at Philip again.
"He asked you whether you had taken it!" exclaimed the Captain.
"Taken it for a lark. As if I would do such a thing! It's true I buttoned his coat for him, but I never saw or felt the box."
"I do not quite understand yet," said Captain Lennox.
"It seems that old Downes, just before he left, had his box out, handing it about for people to take pinches out of it. The Vicar took a pinch."
"I saw that," interrupted Captain Lennox. "They were standing by the fire. Two or three of us were round them. Old Miss Parraway was, for one, I remember; I was talking with her."
"Well," rather ungraciously went on Philip, impatient at the interruption, "the Doctor took his leave close upon that. I took mine, and I found him in the hall here, awkwardly fumbling with his overcoat. I helped him to get it on, and he gave me a lift in his brougham as far as my way went."
"And when he got home he missed the box," added Maria, concluding the story, as Philip stopped. "It is a sad loss--and so very strange where the box can be, and how it can have gone."
"Yes, it is strange--but I did not thank him for asking me whether I had taken it; there was a tone in his voice which seemed to imply a suspicion that I had--and not as a joke."
"And did you?" said Captain Lennox.
Philip, who had been turning to the door after his last speech, wheeled round to face the Captain.
"Did I _what?_
"Take it for a joke?"
"No, of course I did not. Good-bye, Maria."
"Here, you need not be so hasty, old fellow," laughed Captain Lennox, following Philip out. "You are as cranky as can be to-day. Of course you did not steal the box, Cleeve; and of course I am not likely to think it. If I did, I should say so to your face," added the Captain, his light laugh deepening. "But--I say--do you know what this put me in mind of?"
"No. What?"
"Of Mrs. Carlyon's jewels. They disappeared in the same mysterious way."
Philip had the outer door open, when at this moment the Vicar turned in at the entrance-gate. He shook hands cordially with them both.
"I have been up to Heron Dyke," spoke he; "and have met with the usual luck--non-admittance to the Squire. I must say I think they might let him see me."
"It seems to me, sir, that they let him see nobody; for my part, I have grown tired of calling," said the Captain. "Still, in your favour, his spiritual adviser, an exception might well be made."
"I ventured to say as much to surly old Aaron this afternoon," returned Mr. Kettle "He refused at first point-blank, saying it was one of his master's bad days, and he was sure he would not see me. I persevered; bidding him take a message for me to the Squire; so he showed me into one of the dull old rooms--all the blinds down--while he took it in."
"And were you admitted, sir?" interposed impatient Philip, interested in the story, yet anxious to be gone.
"No, I was not, Philip. Aaron came back in a few minutes, bringing me the Squire's message of refusal. He would have liked to see me very much; very much; but he was in truth too poorly for it to-day; it was one of his weak days, and Jago had absolutely forbidden him to speak even to the attendants--and he sent his affectionate regards to me. So I came away: having made a fruitless errand, as usual."
"If Jago's grand curative treatment consists in shutting up the Squire from the sight of all his friends, the less he boasts of it the better," cried Philip, as he marched away. "Tiplady remarked to me the other day that he thought there must be something very queer going on up there," concluded he, turning round at the gate to say it.
Maria Kettle departed for Leamington, and the time passed on. Philip Cleeve attended well to his duties, seeming anxious to make up for past escapades. So far as The Lilacs went, no temptations assailed him, for the place was empty, Captain Lennox having joined his sister in London. No tidings could be heard of the gold snuff-box. Dr. Downes had had it cried and advertised: but without result. It might be that he had his own opinion about the loss; or it might be that he had not. During a little private conversation with Lady Cleeve, touching her state of health, she chanced to mention that she hoped Philip's future was pretty well assured. Mr. Tiplady meant to take him into partnership, and she had herself placed twelve hundred pounds to Philip's account at the bank.
"That's where the young scapegrace has drawn his money from, then, for his cards and his dice, and what not," quoth the Doctor to himself. "I hope with all my heart I was mistaken--but where the dickens can the box have gone to?"
The Doctor was fain to give the box up as a bad job. He told all his friends that he should never find it again, and the less said about it the better.
In February Philip had a pleasant change. Mr. Tiplady despatched him to Norwich, to superintend certain improvements in one of its public buildings. Philip, before starting, spoke a word to the architect of the anticipated partnership; but Mr. Tiplady cut him short with a single sentence. "Time enough to talk of that, young sir."
When Philip returned from Norwich, after his few weeks' stay there, during which he had done his best and had given unlimited satisfaction, he heard that Captain Lennox and Mrs. Ducie were at The Lilacs--and to Philip the town seemed to look all the brighter for their presence.
In spite of his former good resolution, he went over to call on Mrs. Ducie, went twice, neither of the times finding her at home. About this time Philip was surprised and gratified by receiving a note of invitation from Lord Camberley to attend a concert and ball at Camberley Park. Philip took the note to his mother. "My dear boy, you must go by all means," said Lady Cleeve. "This is an invitation which may lead to--to pleasant things. I am glad to find that they have not forgotten you are the son of Sir Gunton Cleeve. You have as good blood in your veins as anyone who will be there. What a pity, for your sake, dear, that we cannot live in the style we ought--to which you were born."
So Philip went to the concert and ball. Lord Camberley vouchsafed him a couple of fingers and "how d'ye do," and introduced him to his aunt, the Hon. Mrs. Featherstone. Philip sat through the concert without speaking to anybody. He was glad when it came to an end, and then he made his way to the ball-room. There he met several people with whom he was, more or less, acquainted. Presently his eye caught that of Mrs. Ducie, who was sitting somewhat apart from the general crush. She beckoned him to her side, and held out her hand with a frank smile.
"What a truant you are. What have you been doing with yourself all this long time?" as she made room for him to sit beside her.
Philip told her, his laughing eyes bending in admiration on her face, that he had been staying for some weeks at Norwich, and that he had twice called at The Lilacs since his return, but had not found her at home. She listened in her pretty, engaging, attentive manner.
"Do you dance?" she asked him, as another set was forming.
"I do not care to--unless you will stand up with me," he replied.
"I shall not dance to-night. Lord Camberley came up to ask me, but I said no: I told him I had sprained my foot. I do not much like Lord Camberley," she added, confidentially--and Philip felt wonderfully flattered at the confidence. "He often talks at random--and he is so fond of playing for high stakes at cards. I told Ferdinand the other day that I should object, were I in his place; but, as he said, it does not often happen. Ferdinand, with his income, can afford a loss occasionally; but everybody is not so fortunate."
It seemed to Philip that she looked at him with a kindly meaning as she spoke. Could it be that she felt an especial interest in him? A blush, bright and ingenuous as a schoolgirl's, rose to his face.
He sat by Mrs. Ducie a great part of the evening, and took her down to supper. Captain Lennox came up several times, and they both invited him for the following Friday evening.
When Friday evening came, and Philip found himself again at The Lilacs, and knocked at the well-remembered door, it seemed to him as if the intervening weeks and all that had happened to him since his last visit were nothing more substantial than a dream.
Two or three gentlemen were at the cottage this evening whom he had not met before, but to whom he was now introduced. After a light and elegantly served supper came cards and champagne. To-night, however, Philip did not play. He read poetry to Mrs. Ducie in a little boudoir that opened out of the drawing-room. So were woven again the bonds which at one time he believed were broken for ever. There was a strange, subtle fascination about this woman which held him almost as it were against his will. She was gracious and frank towards him, but that was all. She was gracious and frank to every gentleman who visited at the cottage. There was nothing in her manner towards Philip which would allow of his flattering himself that he was a greater favourite than anyone else whom he met there: though at moments it did seem as if she had a special interest in him. He certainly did not love her--his heart was given to Maria--but Margaret Ducie held him by an invisible chain which he was too weak to break.
That Friday evening was but the precursor of many other evenings at The Lilacs: for all the old glamour had come back over Philip. Maria was away, and the cottage was a very pleasant place. Sometimes he played cards, sometimes he did not; sometimes he won a little money, not unfrequently he lost what for him was a considerable sum. Now and then it almost seemed as if Mrs. Ducie, compassionating his youth and inexperience, drew him away of set purpose from the card-table. Be that as it may, when April came in, and Philip looked into the state of his banking account, he found to his dismay that in the course of the past few weeks he had lost upwards of a hundred pounds. How could he redeem it?
"Now's your time if you want to make a cool hundred or two," said Lennox to him a day or two later.
Philip pricked up his ears.
"Who does not want to make a cool hundred or two? Only show me how."
"The thing lies in a nutshell. Back Patchwork."
"Eh?" queried Philip, who knew little more about racing and sporting matters than he did of the mysteries of Eleusis.
"Back Patchwork," reiterated the Captain, with emphasis. "I am quite aware that he is not a general favourite: the odds were ten to one against him last night: there's Trumpeter and Clansman, and one or two other horses that stand before him in public estimation. But take no notice of that. Camberley and I have got the tip, no matter how, and you may rely upon it that we know pretty well what we are about. Both of us are going to lay heavily on the horse, and if you have a few spare sovereigns you can't do better than follow our example."
The Captain spoke of an early Spring Meeting at Newmarket; and this particular race in it was exciting some interest at Nullington, for reasons which need not be detailed here. Philip, desperately anxious to replenish his diminished coffers, took the bait, though in a cautious manner, and betted twenty pounds on Patchwork. If the horse won, and Philip gained the odds, he would pocket two hundred pounds.
He grew anxious. Everybody said that either Trumpeter or Clansman would win; Patchwork was scoffed at as an outsider. Philip began to think of his twenty pounds as so much good money thrown away.
At length the day of the race arrived, and Philip awaited the result with a feverish anxiety to which his young life had hitherto been a stranger. It is true, if he lost, twenty pounds would not ruin him; but, if he won, two hundred would set him up.
At length the looked-for news reached Nullington by telegram, and a slip of paper was pasted to the window of the Rose and Crown, on which was written in large characters:--Patchwork 1.--Clansman 2.--Trumpeter 3.
Philip Cleeve fell back out of the crowd gathered there, with a great gasp of relief.
Three days later Captain Lennox placed in his hands two hundred pounds in crisp Bank of England notes.
"If you had only taken my advice," he said, "and ventured fifty pounds instead of twenty, what a much richer man you would have been to-day!"
The twenty-fourth of April was here, and with it Gilbert Denison's seventieth birthday.
The long winter had come to an end at last. It was a lovely spring morning, fresh and sweet. The air was full of the melody of birds; faint delicious odours stole in and out among the garden-paths; a warm sun shone over all. But we must for the moment leave Heron Dyke.
In the breakfast-room at Nunham Priors, a charming house among the Sussex Hills, sat Gilbert Denison--that Gilbert Denison who was cousin to the Master of Heron Dyke, and between whom there had been such a long and bitter feud--and Frank, his only son.
Gilbert Denison of Nunham Priors bore little likeness to him of Heron Dyke. He was a lean, finical old gentleman, a little younger than his cousin, wearing a brown wig and a long, buttoned-up, bottle-green coat that reached nearly to his heels. His whimsical but good-natured face was full of lines and puckers and creases, and he had an odd quaint way of screwing up his lips while waiting for an answer to a question that many a low comedian might have envied. Living much by himself, his establishment was a small one; his wife was dead, his son Frank chose to be often away from home, and the old man had no love of show or ostentation. He liked his gardens and hothouses to be well looked after, and everything around him to be cosy and comfortable, but beyond that he cared little. He kept one old-fashioned carriage in which he drove to and from the station on the occasions of his frequent journeys to town. An hour's ride by railway took him to Charing Cross, and after that it was but a short walk to one or another of the great auction-rooms where so large a portion of his leisure time was passed: for Mr. Denison was a great bibliophile and noted collector of curiosities. Nothing came amiss to him that was recommended by its rarity. From the skull of a Carib chief to an etching by Rembrandt, from an illuminated missal to a suppressed number of _La Lanterne_, or a bit of Roman pavement dug up in the City, his tastes were omnivorous enough for all. Nunham Priors itself was a very museum of curios. Some half-dozen or more of its rooms were entirely filled with a miscellaneous assortment of articles purchased by him from time to time at different auctions. Next to the acquisition of a bargain, Mr. Denison's greatest pleasure was in dusting his treasures and re-arranging them in different ways, or in displaying them and descanting on their rare qualities to some appreciative visitor.
"And what better way than this could I have found of investing my surplus income?" he would sometimes say to his son. "Nearly all you see I picked up as bargains, and in twenty years they will sell for a hundred per cent, more than I gave for them. No fear here of broken banks or shares at zero."
The breakfast this morning was the first meal father and son had partaken of together for some months. Mr. Frank had lingered unconscionably long away on his rovings, and the old gentleman was testy over it.
"I do wish, Frank, you would leave off gallivanting about the world," said he, as he cracked an egg. "It is high time you settled down. Why don't you marry?"
The words sent Frank into a laugh. There was not much likelihood of his marrying yet, he answered.
"It's no laughing matter, sir, I can tell you."
"Matrimony? No, I suppose not."
"Tush! you know what I mean," retorted the old gentleman. "You ought to be looking out for a wife. What do you suppose I was thinking the other day, Frank? that it might be a good thing if you and that young lady at Heron Dyke made a match of it. It would heal the family feud, and--and bring all the money on both sides into one bag."
Frank looked at his father in some surprise. "The young lady at Heron Dyke?" repeated he.
"Why, yes," said the old gentleman, testily. "That half-cousin of yours, Miss Ella Winter."
"Did you ever see her, sir?" asked Frank.
"No: how should I? I might as well ask for a sight of the man in the moon."
"I confess that I should like to see Miss Winter," said Frank.
"Zounds! man, why don't you do so, then?"
Frank shook his head. "My respected kinsman would not like to catch me prowling about his preserves at Heron Dyke."
"The young men nowadays are nothing better than a set of molly-coddles," grumbled Mr. Denison with a tinge of contempt. "When I was a young spark--but where's the use of talking?" he abruptly broke off; and Frank laughed again.
"Do you know what day this is, Frank?" presently resumed Mr. Denison.
"I am not likely to forget it, father. It is the twenty-fourth of April: and Squire Denison of Heron Dyke is now seventy years old."
"Yes--if he is alive," said Mr. Denison, grimly.
The tone was significant, and Frank stared across the table at his father.
"Have you any reason, sir, for thinking that he is not alive?"
"I have reason to know that he was given up months ago by his medical attendant, and that he has never once crossed his own threshold since last December. I have reason to know, moreover, that there is something very inexplicable going on inside the Hall: and, remembering what sort of man my cousin Gilbert is, I feel sure that he would stick at nothing to keep me and mine out of the estate."
Frank was silent for a moment or two.
"How did you come by this information, father?"
"Oh, I put Charles Plackett on the matter a couple of years ago; not but that he knew for himself what a wily fellow my cousin Gilbert was; and Plackett has been following the scent ever since. He has employed an agent at Nullington, one Nixon, to keep his eyes open on Heron Dyke; and Nixon has done it, so far as outside vigilance goes, for he cannot get inside; and has sent up his reports to Charles Plackett from time to time. Perhaps you'd like to hear what he says?"
"Why yes, I should, very much indeed," replied Frank.
Charles Plackett--of the firm of Plackett, Plackett and Rex--was the family solicitor. Mr. Denison had the breakfast things taken away, and then produced a case of papers.
"They date from a good while back," he observed; "but I will just read you two or three extracts from the past few months."
Frank rose and shut the door. And Mr. Denison, rubbing his spectacles, put them on, and began.
"'October 14th. Dr. Jago was suddenly sent for by the Squire, _vice_ Dr. Spreckley, superseded. As Dr. S. has been the Squire's medical attendant for twenty years, there must be some very special reason for so sudden a change.
"'October 22nd. Dr. Jago goes daily to the Hall. Have got an inkling at last of the reason of Dr. Spreckley's sudden dismissal. Dr. S. himself very cautious and reticent: does not say much about it to anybody. Dr. Jago, over his hot grog of an evening in the smoking-room of the Pied Bull, sometimes lets his tongue wag a bit. The man is naturally something of a braggart. From what I can make out, Dr. S. was incautious enough to tell the Squire that he could not live through the winter. Thereupon the other man was sent for. He calls S. an old woman, and says openly that the Squire will live till next midsummer, if not longer. Something rather queer about that, seeing that Dr. S. has had twenty times the experience that he has had.
"'October 29th. Mrs. Carlyon has been staying at the Hall for the last few days. She and Miss Winter left by rail yesterday morning with a lot of luggage. The servants report that they are going abroad for several months. This does not look as if the Squire felt himself to be in any immediate danger. If he did think so he would hardly let his niece leave him for so long. The neighbourhood, however, teems with silly reports--that the Hall is haunted by a ghost, and Miss Winter could not bear to stay in it during the dark days of winter.
"'November 8th. Met the Squire to-day as he was being driven out in his brougham. Had not seen him for two months. Could not help noticing the change in him since that time--a great change. He looks woefully ill and haggard; not fit to be out of his bed.
"'November 12th. Shalders the carpenter has been employed up at the Hall for the last few days. He told me all about it after a couple of glasses of toddy, in answer to my cautious questioning--not that he has been told to keep silence. He has been shutting in the Squire's rooms from the rest of the house with two baize-covered doors. No one can reach Mr. Denison now except through those doors. The doors in question can only be opened by a patent key, of which key Shalders has supplied four duplicates. Why should the Squire wish to isolate himself thus? Shalders is as much at a loss to guess the meaning of it as I am. They say at the Hall it is to insure quiet to the Squire: but he could be insured that without two protecting doors.
"'November 28th. A piece of good fortune to-day. I tracked a young woman, a discharged housemaid from the Hall, to the railway station, and had a long confab with her while she was waiting for a train. It seems that the Squire is really shut up behind the green baize doors--whether with or without his consent, who shall say?--and that only four persons are allowed to have access to him. They are, Dr. Jago, Aaron Stone and his grandson Hubert, and a certain Mrs. Dexter, a middle-aged nurse from London, hired by Dr. Jago, of whose presence there I confess that I was previously unaware. The doors are always kept locked--no other inmate of the Hall ever sees or hears anything of the Squire, unless it be on those rare occasions when he drives out for an hour. Very mysterious, to say the least of it. The girl had got that rubbish into her head about the house being haunted, and would have liked to talk of nothing else--and she looked disposed to be offended because I laughed at it.
"'December 19th. The Squire has only been outside the baize doors twice during the last month, and then only for half an hour's drive in the park.
"'January 1st. The Squire has never been seen outside the house since early in December.
"'January 7th. Dr. Jago goes up to the Hall every morning. He told a friend of mine the other day that Mr. Denison was no worse than usual, and that he was only kept indoors by the cold winds.
"'February 3rd. Nothing seen of the Squire since my last report, and yet we have had a fortnight of beautiful open weather for the time of year. Jago daily visits the Hall as usual. I've made acquaintance with one Hannah Tilney, the gardener's wife at the lodge. Creeping in there one fine morning, my hand to my side, I begged to be allowed to sit for five minutes, telling her a thumping story about a weak heart. She is a decent woman, but fond of gossip, as they all are, and she had a queer thing to talk of. She said that ever since early in December the shutters of Mr. Denison's sitting-room had been closed and barred at dusk, although it was a well-known fact that all his life the Squire hated to sit in a room of which the shutters were closed or the blinds pulled down. I do not see much in this myself: old people's fancies change: but the woman seemed to think it very strange, a matter for speculation, and said that she and her husband could not understand it at all. Speculation of what, you will ask, and in truth I can't say: but an air of mystery seems to overhang the doings in the Hall.
"'March 1st. No news of the Squire. He is pretty well, it is said, but he has not been seen out of doors since the 17th of December. Nothing fresh at all to report, except that I have ascertained that every week there passes through Nullington Post Office a letter from abroad addressed to Mr. Denison in a lady's handwriting. Is this letter from Miss Winter? If so, can she be aware how matters are going on at Heron Dyke?
"'April 8th. Nothing fresh. Jago daily at the Hall. The Squire still invisible to the outer world. No visitors have been admitted for a long while.'"
Mr. Denison, having come to the last extract he deemed it needful to read, shut up his case, and looked at his son.
"Like the agent Nixon, I must say that I do not see much in all this myself," observed Frank.
"Don't you!" retorted his father. "I do, then. To me it looks remarkably unaccountable. There is a mystery about it that I can't fathom, and Charles Plackett has my instructions to go down to Heron Dyke."
"What to do, sir?"
"To see my cousin Gilbert, and satisfy himself by ocular demonstration that he is still alive, and--and mentally sane. You look surprised, Frank; let me tell you what perhaps you never knew before--that there is a clause in old Uncle Gilbert's will which empowers me to take the step in question."
"Is there! How curious that he should have made it."
"A great deal that he did was curious. But, for my part, I think some prevision was upon him that such a clause might be needed. I tell you, Frank," concluded the old gentleman, "that I am strangely curious myself, just now, as to what may be doing at Heron Dyke."
On this warm and sunny morning of the twenty-fourth of April, the bells of Nullington parish church rang forth a merry peal. They continued to do so at intervals throughout the day. The Vicar of Nullington, who had given the orders, was rejoiced to think that his old friend, Squire Denison, had lived to reach, what might be called, the crowning day of his life.
Throughout the length and breadth of Nullington the stagnation of every-day life seemed stirred by a ripple of excitement. People came to their doors to listen to the bells, groups in earnest conversation might be seen at the corner of almost every street, neighbour looked in upon neighbour, customers lingered longer than usual in the shops, bar-parlours held their knots of eager gossipers. Not an inhabitant of the little town but knew that this was the twenty-fourth of April, and if the Master of Heron Dyke should live to hear the clocks strike noon, houses and land and all that pertained thereto would become his own irrevocable property, and the great battle of his life would end in his remaining the victor.
Mr. Denison was a man who had never laid himself out for personal popularity, and of late years he had been very little seen abroad. Still the neighbourhood felt that he was one of them. For forty years he had made his home at Heron Dyke, not spending half his time in London or in foreign countries, as so many other great people did, and they would have been sorry to see his place usurped by a strange branch of the family of whom nobody knew anything, except that the head of it was said to be a half-demented gentleman who had much more of the furniture broker about him than the county magnate. Should Squire Denison live through to-day, all he might die possessed of would go to his niece Miss Winter, a young lady beloved by all, rich and poor, and one quite worthy to be the Hall's mistress.
There was one inhabitant of Nullington, however, who did not feel quite so elated as the rest. He was too much puzzled for that. It was Dr. Spreckley. He stood at his window in the morning sun, listening to the cheery bells. Mr. Denison had lived to see his coveted birthday, and the bells were ringing for it; but Dr. Spreckley felt as if he were in a fog, and should never distinguish anything clearly in medical practice again. Knowing Mr. Denison's constitution so thoroughly, and the malady he had been long suffering from, he did not see how it was _possible_ for him to be still alive.
Night and day of late had the good physician brooded over the mystery. For to him it seemed a mystery; but a mystery beyond his comprehension. So far as his own skill and experience went, and that of eminent authorities in London to whom he wrote minutely of the case, it had seemed to him not only improbable but impossible that Gilbert Denison could have lasted to see Christmas. Yet here he was alive, and, as reported from Heron Dyke, fairly well, on the twenty-fourth of April!
Dr. Spreckley was yet at his window when his successful rival practitioner, Dr. Jago, came driving past in his gig, a high-stepping mare in the shafts, which he had recently bought. He was on his way to Heron Dyke, and he was going this morning half an hour earlier than usual. In honour of the occasion, he had dressed himself in a new suit of black, with a white cravat and a fashionable overcoat. He glanced up at the window as he passed, and Dr. Spreckley felt sure that there was a smile of insolent triumph on his face which he now did not conceal. As Spreckley turned away, his heart was very bitter within him.
The Heron Dyke post-bag this morning bore a letter addressed to the Squire, dated from Florence. Ella Winter had written and posted it so that it should reach him on the twenty-fourth. After numerous congratulations and loving wishes came these words: "I cannot tell you how greatly I have longed to be at home for your birthday. But it was not to be. Now, however, that my six months' extradition are at an end, cannot you name a time for my return to Heron Dyke? We have been slowly making our way homeward, as you are aware, lingering here and there, and continually hoping to receive a summons that we were wanted back in the old nest at home. But even my aunt has grown tired at last of these perpetual journeyings from place to place, and at the present moment would, I verily believe, gladly exchange all the churches and picture galleries of Florence for the dear delights of an afternoon's shopping in Regent Street; and to her house in Bayswater we are returning. Do then, my dear uncle, in your next letter, name the day when you will expect to see me once again under the old roof-tree; and be assured that neither wind nor weather will keep me from your side an hour beyond it."
An answer to this letter was sent from Heron Dyke the following day, which reached Miss Winter in due course.
It has been said that Mr. Denison's letters to Ella were written for him by Hubert Stone from Mr. Denison's dictation, but each of them bore at the foot the Squire's own peculiar and crabbed signature, which anyone would have found it difficult even passably to imitate, and the present letter was no exception to this rule. In it occurred these passages: "I begin to be as anxious to see your young face again as you are to be back at home. But, as I have said all along--patience, patience. Enjoy yourself while you can, and, now that you _are_ abroad, see all that you can. Strive to enrich your mind in every possible way, and to lay up stores of pleasant memories for days to come. You will not soon get away again from the sound of the sea when once you are back, I promise you. I am as well and hearty as I was two years ago, so that you need not be troubled on the score of my health. That Jago is a wonderful fellow. A fortnight with your aunt at Bayswater would be a pleasant finish to your travels; it would please Mrs. Carlyon to have you with her for a time, and we must not be ungracious to her, lassie. Let us put it, then, that I shall look to see my pretty one back at Heron Dyke on the first of June, not to part again for a long, long time."
Hubert Stone had also donned a new suit of gentlemanly attire this morning, and even old Aaron wore his best clothes and a particularly well-starched cravat. The Squire's long-wished-for birthday must be observed appropriately. The maids were gladdened by new gowns and muslin aprons trimmed with ribbons, Dorothy Stone by a cap of rich old lace. Dorothy, however, did not seem to find much pleasure in the day; she sat by the fire in her room, complaining of neuralgia, with a frightened expression of face, and a dazed look in her eyes.
The grand old entrance-doors were flung open to-day. A cheerful fire burnt in the hall, where no fire had been known to burn for years. A Turkey carpet covered the middle of the floor, on which stood a carved table of black oak: on the table was an antique silver salver for the reception of callers' cards. Tubs containing orange-trees and shrubs from the conservatory stood in each corner of the hall.
Nothing, however, could put Aaron into a good temper when he chose to be in a bad one. He wandered about like a restless ghost, peering into this place and that, scolding the maids, grumbling at his nephew, and eyeing Dr. Jago askance as though he were some malign wizard.
Shortly after noon the carriage of the first caller drove up--that of the Vicar, the Reverend Francis Kettle. His daughter would have been with him but that she was from home. He was received in the hall by Dr. Jago and Hubert Stone. A few words passed, and then Mr. Kettle expressed his strong desire to see once more, once more to shake by the hand, his dear old friend the Squire. Dr. Jago was blandly sorry, but refused. The fact was, he said, that the Squire had passed a very restless and uneasy night, having hardly slept at all. An hour ago he had fallen into a refreshing sleep, which it was to be hoped would last for several hours, and be of great benefit to him. Still, if the Vicar pressed it, Mr. Denison should be awakened, and----
"Not for worlds," interrupted the Vicar, hastily. "I would not have him awakened on any account. You will not fail to offer him my congratulations, and to say how greatly I hope to see him. Perhaps another day he may be able to receive a short visit from an old friend."
"No doubt he will be," returned Dr. Jago, quite warmly. "He had been saving himself up for to-day, you must understand, sir, intending to see just one or two esteemed friends; and--and now this wretched past night has marred it."
Other carriages drove up in quick succession after the Vicar's departure, till nearly every person of consideration in the neighbourhood had either called or left cards. To all inquiries the same reply was given: Mr. Denison had hoped to receive a friend or two to-day, but he had passed a restless and uneasy night, and had lately fallen into a deep and refreshing sleep, which it would be undesirable to disturb.
One caller, especially full of regret at not being able to see the Squire, was Lady Maria Skeffington. Maria Kettle was her goddaughter, and had been named after her. She was a withered-up maiden of sixty-five. Lady Maria gazed round the entrance-hall with a sigh, and recalled the time when she had felt so sure that she should one day be mistress of Heron Dyke. Some forty years previously Mr. Denison had danced with her several times at the county balls, and had paid her other little attentions when they met; and she, following the fashion of young maidens, had taken it for granted that he meant to ask her to be his wife. But the longed-for declaration never came, and hope gradually died out of her heart. Still, as Lady Maria often told herself, she had never been so near matrimony before or after, and she yet cherished a half-tender recollection of the handsome young Squire. They had remained good friends: and to-day, a white-haired old woman, Lady Maria felt an intense longing in her heart to see him once again before he should go hence. When told that it might not be, she dropped her veil and went back to her carriage, crying softly to herself.
About five o'clock a message reached the Hall from Mr. Toomes, the leader of the Nullington string band. Mr. Toomes wished to know whether the band might be permitted to pay their respects to the Squire on his birthday, by playing a few select pieces at the Hall during the evening.
Old Aaron took the message into the Squire's room with an ill grace; he would have liked to refuse had he dared; and he came back in a few minutes with the Squire's gracious answer--he would be very much pleased to receive the band at half-past eight.
The band came at the appointed hour: two violins, a violoncello, a harp, and a couple of clarinets, the musicians being all small tradesmen of the town. They were met at the postern which opened into the private garden by Hubert Stone, who now wore a fashionable overcoat, and was smoking a cigar. Hubert marshalled the players on to the sward directly opposite to, but a few yards away from, the windows of Mr. Denison's sitting-room. The Squire was but weak, he said, and it was desirable not to have the sounds too near. John Tilney, the gardener, and his wife crept in behind the musicians, and stood a little in the background. Had Mr. Hubert Stone noticed the movement, he might have ordered them away, for he had a great notion of keeping servants in their places.
The shutters of Mr. Denison's sitting-room had not been closed this evening. A bright wood-fire was burning on the hearth, and two lighted wax candles stood on a table in the middle of the room. The tall gaunt figure of the Squire as he sat in his great leathern chair, muffled up in his long dressing-robe, was plainly visible to the group on the lawn. His head looked partially shrunken between his shoulders as he sat leaning forward a little, staring intently into the fire, his bony hands clasped over the knob of the massive cane which for a long time past he had made use of to help him from room to room. The firelight flickered on the diamonds in his ring; it made the hollows of his wasted cheeks seem deeper still, and brought into prominent relief the contrast between his black velvet skull-cap and the long white locks which straggled from under it. He sat there, the solitary living figure in a picture that otherwise was instinct with gloom, and that was not wanting in a sort of weird solemnity of its own.
At a signal from their leader, the band struck up the old English air, "Welcome to thy Native Vale." As the first note struck his ear, the Squire lifted his head quickly, changed the position of his stick, and put on the air of a man who listens intently.
The first piece at an end, there ensued a minute's pause, and then the band struck up again. This in turn was followed by two other pieces. When the last strains of the fourth air had died away, the Squire was seen to rise slowly and painfully to his feet. With the help of his cane, and drawing the folds of his dressing-gown around him, he tottered feebly forward till he came near the window. Standing there, and changing his cane to the left hand, he gravely bent his head to the (to him) invisible onlookers in the garden, and waved his right hand two or three times in token of thanks and greeting. Turning then, he tottered back to his chair.
Three hearty cheers were raised for the old Squire; and the musicians filed out of the private garden, Hubert locking the door of it. A plentiful meal was set out for them in the smaller servants' hall, to which they did not fail to do ample justice.
Old Aaron, grumpy as usual, did not choose to preside at it, though his grandson had told him in the hearing of the household, earlier in the evening, that it was what he ought to do. Barely did he condescend to show himself at all, for this visit of the musicians had not met with his approval. He came stalking through the room while they were at supper, looking at them in his surly way, and muttering to himself about "ruin" and "extravagance," and "dying in the workhouse." But the ale was strong, and the company did not mind. They knew old Aaron before, and they burst into a laugh as he shut the door behind him.