“Youmentioned, Mr. Levi, in your note, that you were instructed, by some person who takes an interest in me, to open this business,” said Richard Arden, in a more conciliatory tone. “Will your instructions permit you to tell me who that person is?”
“No, no,” drawled Mr. Levi, with a slow shake of his head; “I declare to you sholemnly, Mr. Harden, I couldn't. I'm employed by a third party, and though I may make a tolerable near guess who's firsht fiddle in the bishness, I can't shay nothin'.”
“Surely you can say this—it is hardly a question, I am so sure of it—is the friend who lends this money a gentleman?”
“I think the pershon as makesh the advanshe is a bit of a shwell. There, now, that'sh enough.”
“But I said agentleman,” persisted Arden.
“You mean to ask, hashn't a lady got nothing to do with it?”
“Well, suppose I do?”
Mr. Levi shook his head slowly, and all his white teeth showed dimly, as he answered with an unctuous significance that tempted Arden strongly to pitch him into the river.
“We puts the ladiesh first; ladiesh and shentlemen, that's the way it goes at the theaytre; if a good-looking chap's a bit in a fix, there'sh no one like a lady to pull him through.”
“I really want to know,” said Richard Arden, with difficulty restraining his fury. “I have some relations who are likely enough to give me a lift of this kind; someareladies, and some gentlemen, and I have a right to know to whom I owe this money.”
“To our firm; who elshe? We have took your paper, and you have our cheques on Childs'.”
“Yourfirm lend money at five per cent.!” said Arden with contempt. “You forget, Mr. Levi, you mentioned in your note, distinctly, that you act for another person. Whoisthat principal for whom you act?”
“I don't know.”
“Come, Mr. Levi! you are no simpleton; you may as well tell me—no one shall be a bit the wiser—for Iwillknow.”
“Azh I'm a shinner—as I hope to be shaved——” began Mr. Levi.
“It won't do—you may just as well tell me—out with it!”
“Well, here now; Idon'tknow, but if I did, upon my shoul, I wouldn't tell you.”
“It is pleasant to meet with so much sensitive honour, Mr. Levi,” said Richard Arden very scornfully. “I have nothing particular to say, only that your firm were mistaken, a little time ago, when they thought that I was without resources; I've friends, you now perceive, who only need to learn that I want money, to volunteer assistance. Have you anything more to say?”
Richard Arden saw the little Jew's fine fangs again displayed in the faint light, as he thus spoke; but it was only prudent to keep his temper with this lucky intervenient.
“I have nothing to shay, Mr. Harden, only there'sh more where that came from, and I may tell you sho, for that'sh no shecret. But don't you go too fasht, young gentleman—not that you won't get it—but don't you go too fasht.”
“If I should ever ask your advice, it will be upon other things. I'm giving the lender as good security as I have given to any one else. I don't see any great wonder in the matter. Good-night,” he said haughtily, not taking the trouble to look over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Good-night,” responded Mr. Levi, taking one of Dignum's cigars from his waistcoat-pocket, and preparing to light it with a lazy grin, as he watched the retreating figure lessening in the perspective of the street, “and take care of yourshelf for my shake,do, and don't you be lettin' all them fine women be throwin' their fortunes like that into your 'at, and bringin' themshelves to the workus, for love of your pretty fashe—poor, dear, love-sick little fools! There you go, right off to Mallet and Turner's, I dareshay, and good luck attend you, for a reglar lady-killin', 'ansome, sweet-spoken, broken-down jackass!”
At this period of his valediction the vesuvian was applied to his cigar, and Richard Arden, turning the far corner of the street, escaped the remainder of his irony, as the Jew, with his hands in his pockets, sauntered up its quiet pavement, in the direction in which Richard Arden had just disappeared. It seemed to that young gentleman that his supplies, no less than thirteenhundred pounds, would all but command the luck of which, as his spirits rose, he began to feel confident. “Fellows,” he thought, “who have gone in with less than fifty, have come out, to my knowledge, with thousands; and if less than fifty could do that, what might not be expected from thirteen hundred?”
He picked up a cab. Never did lover fly more impatiently to the feet of his mistress than Richard Arden did, that night, to the shrine of the goddess whom he worshipped.
The muttered scoffs, the dark fiery gaze, the glimmering teeth of this mocking, malicious little Jew, represented an influence that followed Richard Arden that night.
Whatis luck? Is there such an influence? What type of mind rejects altogether, and consistently, this law or power? Call it by what name you will, fate or fortune, did not Napoleon, the man of death and of action, and did not Swedenborg, the man of quietude and visions, acknowledge it? Where is the successful gamester who does not “back his luck,” when once it has declared itself, and bow before the storms of fortune when they in turn have set in? I take Napoleon and Swedenborg—the man of this visible world, and the man of the invisible world—as the representatives of extreme types of mind. People who have looked into Swedenborg's works will remember curious passages on the subject, and find more dogmatical, and less metaphysical admissions in Napoleon's conversations everywhere.
In corroboration of this theory, that luck is an element, with its floods and ebbs, against which it is fatuity to contend, was the result of Richard Arden's play.
Before half-past two, he had lost every guinea of his treasure. He had been drinking champagne. He was flushed, dismal, profoundly angry. Hot and headachy, he was ready to choke with gall. There was a big, red-headed, vulgar fellow beside him, with a broad-brimmed white hat, who was stuffing his pockets and piling the table before him, as though he had found the secret of an “open sesame,” and was helping himself from the sacks of the Forty Thieves.
When Richard had lost his last pound, he would have liked to smash the gas-lamps and windows, and the white hat and the red head in it, and roar the blasphemy that rose to his lips. But men can't afford to make themselves ridiculous, and as he turned about to make his unnoticed exit, he saw the littleJew, munching a sandwich, with a glass of champagne beside him.
“I say,” said Richard Arden, walking up to the little man, whose big mouth was full of sandwich, and whose fierce black eyes encountered his instantaneously, “you don't happen to have a little more, on the same terms, about you?”
Mr. Levi waited to bolt his sandwich, and then swallow down his champagne.
“Shave me!” exclaimed he, when this was done. “The thoushand gone! every rag! and” (glancing at his watch) “only two twenty-five! Won't it be rayther young, though, backin' such a run o' bad luck, and throwin' good money after bad, Mr. Harden?”
“That's my affair, I fancy; what I want to know is whether you have got a few hundreds more, on the same terms—I mean, from the same lender. Hang it, say yes or no—can't you?”
“Well, Mr. Harden, there's five hundred more—but 'twasn't expected you'd a' drew it so soon. How much do you say, Mr. Harden?”
“I'll take it all,” said Richard Arden. “I wish I could have it without these blackguards seeing.”
“They don't care, blesh ye! if you got it from the old boy himself. Thatisa rum un!” There were pen and ink on a small table beside the wall, at which Mr. Levi began rapidly to fill in the blanks of a bill of exchange. “Why, there's not one o' them, almost, but takes a hundred now and then from me, when they runs out a bit too fast. You'd better shay one month.”
“Say two, like the other, and don't keep me waiting.”
“You'd better shay one—your friend will think you're going a bit too quick to the devil. Remember, as your proverb shays, 'taint the thing to kill the gooshe that laysh the golden eggs—shay one month.”
Levi's large black eye was fixed on him, and he added, “If you want it pushed on a bit when it comes due, there won't be no great trouble about it, I calculate.”
Richard Arden looked at the large fierce eyes that were silently fixed on him: one of those eyes winked solemnly and significantly.
“Well, what way you like, only be quick,” said Richard Arden.
His new sheaf of cheques were quickly turned into counters; and, after various fluctuations, these counters followed the rest, and in the grey morning he left that haunt jaded and savage, with just fifteen pounds in his pocket, the wreck of the large sum which he had borrowed to restore his fortunes.
It needs some little time to enable a man, who has sustained such a shock as Richard Arden had, to collect his thoughts and define the magnitude of his calamity. He let himself in by a latch-key: the grey light was streaming through the shutters, and turning the chintz pattern of his window-curtains here and there, in streaks, into transparencies. He went into his room and swallowed nearly a tumbler of brandy, then threw off his clothes, drank some more, and fell into a flushed stupor, rather than a sleep, and lay for hours as still as any dead man on the field of battle.
Some four hours of this lethargy, and he became conscious, at intervals, of a sound of footsteps in his room. The shutters were still closed. He thought he heard a voice say, “Master Richard!” but he was too drowsy, still, to rouse himself.
At length a hand was laid upon him, and a voice that was familiar to his ear repeated twice over, more urgently, “Master Richard! Master Richard!” He was now awake: very dimly, by his bedside, he saw a figure standing. Again he heard the same words, and wondered, for a few seconds, where he was.
“That's Crozier talking,” said Richard.
“Yes, Sir,” said Crozier, in a low tone; “I'm here half-an-hour, Sir, waiting till you should wake.”
“Let in some light; I can't see you.”
Crozier opened half the window-shutter, and drew the curtain.
“Are ye ailin', Master Richard—are ye bad, Sir?”
“Ailing—yes, I'm bad enough, as you say—I'm miserable. I don't know where to turn or what to do. Hold my coat while I count what's in the pocket. If my father, the old scoundrel——”
“Master Richard, don't ye say the like o' that no more; all's over, this morning, wi' the old master—Sir Reginald's dead, Sir,” said the old follower, sternly.
“Good God!” cried Richard, starting up in his bed and staring at old Crozier with a frightened look.
“Ay, Sir,” said the old servant, in a low stern tone, “he's gone at last: he was took just a quarter past five this mornin', by the clock at Mortlake, about four minutes before St. Paul's chimed the quarter. The wind being southerly, we heard the chimes. We thought he was all right, and I did not leave him until half-past twelve o'clock, having given him his drops, and waited till he went asleep. It was about three he rang his bell, and in I goes that minute, and finds him sitting up in his bed, talking quite silly-like about old Wainbridge, the groom, that's dead and buried, away in Skarkwynd Churchyard, these thirty year.”
Crozier paused here. He had been crying hours ago, and his eyes and nose still showed evidences of that unbecomingweakness. Perhaps he expected Richard, now Sir Richard Arden, to say something, but nothing came.
“'Tis a change, Sir, and I feel a bit queer; and as I was sayin', when I went in, 'twas in his head he saw Tom Wainbridge leadin' a horse saddled and all into the room, and standin' by the side of his bed, with the bridle in his hand, and holdin' the stirrup for him to mount. ‘And what the devil brings Wainbridge here, when he has his business to mind in Yorkshire? and where could he find a horse like that beast? He's waiting for me; I can hear the roarin' brute, and I see Tom's parchment face at the door—there,’ he'd say, ‘andthere—where are your eyes, Crozier, can't you see, man? Don't be afraid—can't you look—and don't you hear him? Wainbridge's old nonsense.’ And he'd laugh a bit to himself every now and again, and then he'd whimper to me, looking a bit frightened, ‘Get him away, Crozier, will you? He's annoying me, he'll have me out,’ and this sort o' talk he went on wi' for full twenty minutes. I rang the bell to Mrs. Tansey's room, and when she was come we agreed to send in the brougham for the doctor. I think he was a bit wrong i' the garrets, and we were both afraid to let it be no longer.”
Crozier paused for a moment, and shook his head.
“We thought he was goin' asleep, but he wasn't. His eyes was half shut, and his shoulders against the pillows, and Mrs. Tansey was drawin' the eider-down coverlet over his feet, softly, when all on a sudden—I thought he was laughin'—a noise like a little flyrin' laugh, and then a long, frightful yellock, that would make your heart tremble, and awa' wi' him into one o' them fits, and so from one into another, until when the doctor came he said he was in an apoplexy; and so, at just a quarter past five the auld master departed. And I came in to tell you, Sir; and have you any orders to give me, Master Richard? and I'm going on, I take it you'd wish me, to your uncle, Mr. David, and little Miss Alice, that han't heard nout o' the matter yet.”
“Yes, Crozier—go,” said Richard Arden, staring on him as if his soul was in his eyes; and, after a pause, with an effort, he added—“I'll call there as I go on to Mortlake; tell them I'll see them on my way.”
When Crozier was gone, Richard Arden got up, threw his dressing-gown about him, and sat on the side of his bed, feeling very faint. A sudden gush of tears relieved the strange paroxysm. Then come other emotions less unselfish. He dressed hastily. He was too much excited to make a breakfast. He drank a cup of coffee, and drove to Uncle David's house.
Ashe drove to his uncle's house, he was tumbling over facts and figures, in the endeavour to arrive at some conclusion as to how he stood in the balance-sheet that must now be worked out. What a thing thatpost-obithad turned out! Those cursed Jews who had dealt with him must have known ever so much more about his poor father's health than he did. They are such fellows to worm out the secrets of a family—all through one's own servants, and doctors, and apothecaries. The spies! They stick at nothing—such liars! How they pretended to wish to be off! What torture they kept him in! How they talked of the old man's nervous fibre, and pretended to think he would live for twenty years to come!
“And the deed was not six weeks signed when I found out he had those epileptic fits, and they knew it, the wretches!—and so I've been hit for that huge sum of money. And there is interest, two years' nearly, on that other charge, and that swindle that half ruined me on the Derby. And there are those bills that Levi has got, but that is only fifteen hundred, and I can manage that any time, and a few other trifles.”
And he thought what yeoman's service Longcluse might andwouldhave rendered him in this situation. How translucent the whole opaque complexity would have become in a hour or two, and at what easy interest he would have procured him funds to adjust these complications! But here, too, fortune had dealt maliciously. What a piece of cross-grained luck that Longcluse should have chosen to fall in love with Alice! And now they two had exchanged, not shots, but insults, harder to forgive. And that officious fool, Vandeleur, had laid him open to a more direct and humiliating affront than hadbefore befallen him. Henceforward, between him and Longcluse no reconciliation was possible. Fiery and proud by nature was this Richard Arden, and resentful. In Yorkshire the family had been accounted a vindictive race. I don't know. I have only to do with those inheritors of the name who figure in this story.
There remained an able accountant and influential man on 'Change, on whose services he might implicitly reckon—his uncle, David Arden. But he was separated from him by the undefinable chasm of years—the want of sympathy, the sense of authority. He would take not only the management of this financial adjustment, but the carriage of the future of this young, handsome, full-blooded fellow, who had certainly no wish to take unto himself a Mentor.
Here have been projected on this page, as in the disk of an oxy-hydrogen microscope, some of the small and active thoughts that swarmed almost unsuspected in Richard Arden's mind. But it would be injustice to Sir Richard Arden (we may as well let him enjoy at once the title which stately Death has just presented him with—it seems to me a mocking obeisance) to pretend that higher and kinder feelings had no place in his heart.
Suddenly redeemed from ruin, suddenly shocked by an awful spectacle, a disturbance of old associations where there had once been kindness, where estrangements and enmity had succeeded: there was in all this something moving and agitating, that stirred his affections strangely when he saw his sister.
David Arden had left his house an hour before the news reached its inmates. Sir Richard was shown to the drawing-room, where there was no one to receive him; and in a minute Alice, looking very pale and miserable, entered, and running up to him, without saying a word threw her arms about his neck, and sobbed piteously.
Her brother was moved. He folded her to his heart. Broken and hurried words of tenderness and affection he spoke, as he kissed her again and again. Henceforward he would live a better and wiser life. He had tasted the dangers and miseries that attend on play. He swore he would give it up. He had done with the follies of his youth. But for years he had not had a home. He was thrown into the thick of temptation. A fellow who had no home was so likely to amuse himself with play; and he had suffered enough to make him hate it, and she should see what a brother he would be, henceforward, to her.
Alice's heart was bursting with self-reproach; she told Richard the whole story of her trouble of the day before,and the circumstances of her departure from Mortlake, all in an agony of tears; and declared, as young ladies often have done before, that she never could be happy again.
He was disappointed, but generous and gentle feelings had been stirred within him.
“Don't reproach yourself, darling; that is mere folly. The entire responsibility of your leaving Mortlake belongs to my uncle; and about Wynderbroke, you must not torment yourself; you had a right to a voice in the matter, surely, and I daresay you would not be happier now if you had been less decided, and found yourself at this moment committed to marry him. I have more reason to upbraid myself, but I'm sure I was right, though I sometimes lost my temper; I know my Uncle David thinks I was right; but there is no use now in thinking more about it; right or wrong, it is all over, and I won't distract myself uselessly. I'll try to be a better brother to you than I everhavebeen; and I'll make Mortlake our head-quarters: or we'll live, if you like it better, at Arden Manor, or I'll go abroad with you. I'll lay myself out to make you happy. One thing I'm resolved on, and that is to give up play, and find some manly and useful pursuit; and you'll see I'll do you some credit yet, or at least, as a country squire, do some little good, and be not quite useless in my generation; and I'll do my best, dear Alice, to make you a happy home, and to be all that I ought to be to you, my darling.”
Very affectionately he both spoke and felt, and left Alice with some of her anxieties lightened, and already more interest in the future than she had thought possible an hour before.
Richard Arden had a good deal upon his hands that morning. He had money liabilities that were urgent. He had to catch his friend Mardykes at his lodgings, and get him to see the people in whose betting-books he stood for large figures, to represent to them what had happened, and assure them that a few days should see all settled. Then he had to go to the office of his father's attorney, and learn whether a will was forthcoming; then to consult with his own attorney, and finally to follow his uncle, David Arden, from place to place, and find him at last at home, and talk over details, and advise with him generally about many things, but particularly about the further dispositions respecting the funeral; for a little note from his Uncle David had offered to relieve him of the direction of those hateful details transacted with the undertaker, which every one is glad to depute.
Mr. David Arden, therefore, had made a call at the office of Paller, Crapely, Plumes, and Co., eminent undertakers in the most gentleman-like, and, indeed, aristocratic line of business, with immense resources at command, and who would undertake to bury a duke, with all the necessary draperies, properties, anddramatis personæ, if required, before his grace was cold in his bed.
A little dialogue occurred here, which highly interested Uncle David. A stout gentleman, with a muddy and melancholy countenance, and a sad suavity of manner, and in the perennial mourning that belongstogentlemen of his doleful profession, presents himself to David Arden, to receive his instructions respecting the deceased baronet's obsequies. The top of his head is bald, his face is furrowed and baggy; he looks fully sixty-five, and he announces himself as the junior partner, Plumes by name.
Having made his suggestions and his notes, and taken his order for a strictly private funeral in the neighbourhood of London, Mr. Plumes thoughtfully observes that he remembers the name well, having been similarly employed for another member of the same family.
“Ah! How was that? How long ago?” asked Mr. Arden.
“About twenty years, Sir.”
“And where was that funeral?”
“The same place, Sir, Mortlake.”
“Yes, I know that was——?”
“It was Mr. 'Enry, or rayther 'Arry Harden. We 'ad to take back the plate, Sir, and change 'Enry to 'Arry—'Arry being thename he was baptised by. There was a hinquest connected with that horder.”
“So there was, Mr. Plumes,” said Uncle David with awakened interest, for that gentleman spoke as if he had something more to say on the subject.
“There was, Sir,—and it affected me very sensibly. My niece, Sir, had a wery narrow escape.”
“Your niece! Really? How could that be?”
“There was a Mister Yelland Mace, Sir, who paid his haddresses to her, and I do believe, Sir, she rayther liked him. I don't know, I'm sure, whether he was serious in 'is haddresses, but it looked very like as if he meant to speak; though I do suppose he was looking 'igher for a wife. Well, he was believed to 'ave 'ad an 'and in that 'orrible business.”
“I know—so he undoubtably had—and the poor young lady, I suppose, was greatly shocked and distressed.”
“Yes, Sir, and she died about a year after.”
David Arden expressed his regret, and then he asked—
“You have often seen that man, Yelland Mace?”
“Not often, Sir.”
“You remember his face pretty well, I daresay?”
“Well, no, Sir, not very well. It is a long time.”
“Do you recollect whether there was anything noticeable in his features?—had he, for instance, a remarkably prominent nose?”
“I don't remember that he 'ad, Sir. I rather think not, but I can't by no means say for certain. It is a long time, and I 'aven't much of a memory for faces. There is a likeness of him among my poor niece's letters.”
“Really? I should be so much obliged if you would allow me to see it.”
“It is at 'ome, Sir, but I shall be 'ome to dinner before I go out to Mortlake; and, if you please, I shall borrow it of my sister, and take it with me.”
This offer David Arden gladly accepted.
When the events were recent, he could have no difficulty in identifying Yelland Mace, by the evidence of fifty witnesses, if necessary. But it was another thing now. The lapse of time had made matters very different. It was recent impressions of a vague kind about Mr. Longcluse that had revived the idea, and prompted a renewal of the search. Martha Tansey was aged now, and he had misgivings about the accuracy of her recollection. Was it possible, after all, that he was about to see that which would corroborate his first vaguesuspicions?
Sir Richard had a busy and rather harassing day, the first of his succession to an old title and a new authority, and he was not sorry when it closed. He had stolen about from place toplace in a hired cab, and leaned back to avoid a chance recognition, like an absconding debtor; and had talked with the people whom he was obliged to call on and see, in low and hurried colloquy, through the window of the cab. And now night had fallen, the lamps were glaring, and tired enough he returned to his lodgings, sent for his tailor, and arranged promptly about the
“——inky cloak, good mother,And customary suits of solemn black;”
“——inky cloak, good mother,And customary suits of solemn black;”
“——inky cloak, good mother,
And customary suits of solemn black;”
and that done, he wrote two or three notes to kindred in Yorkshire, with whom it behoved him to stand on good terms; and then he determined to drive out to Mortlake Hall. An unpleasant mixture of feelings was in his mind as he thought of that visit, and the cold tenant of the ancestral house, whom in the grim dignity of death, it would not have been seemly to leave for a whole day and night unvisited. It was to him a repulsive visit, but how could he postpone it?
Behold him, then, leaning back in his cab, and driving through glaring lamps, and dingy shops, and narrow ill-thriven streets, eastward and northward; and now, through the little antique village, with trembling lights, and by the faded splendours of the “Guy of Warwick.” And he sat up and looked out of the windows, as they entered the narrow road that is darkened by the tall overhanging timber of Mortlake grounds.
Now they are driving up the broad avenue, with its noble old trees clumped at either side; and with a shudder Sir Richard Arden leans back and moves no more until the cab pulls up at the door-steps, and the knock sounds through hall and passages, which he dared not so have disturbed, uninvited, a day or two before. Crozier ran down the steps to greet Master Richard.
“How are you, old Crozier?” he said, shaking hands from the cab-window, for somehow he liked to postpone entering the house as long as he could. “I could not come earlier. I have been detained in town all day by business, of various kinds, connected with this.” And he moved his hand toward the open hall-door, with a gloomy nod or two. “How is Martha?”
“Tolerable, Sir, thankye, considerin'. It's a great upset to her.”
“Yes, poor thing, of course. And has Mr. Paller been here—the person who is to—to——”
“The undertaker? Yes, Sir, he was here at two o'clock, and some of the people has been busy in the room, and his men has come out again with the coffin, Sir. I think they'll soon be leaving; they've been here a quarter of an hour, and—if I may make bold to ask, Sir,—what day will the funeral be?”
“I don't know myself, Crozier; I must settle that with my uncle. He said he thought he would come here himself this evening, at about nine, and it must be very near that now. Where is Martha?”
“In her room, Sir, I think.”
“I won't see her there. Ask her to come to the oak-room.”
Richard got out and entered the house of which he was now the master, with an oppressive misgiving.
The oak-parlour was a fine old room, and into the panels weresetfour full-length portraits. Two of these were a lady and gentleman, in the costume of the beginning of Charles the Second's reign. The lady held an Italian greyhound by a blue ribbon, and thegentlemanstood booted for the field, and falcon on fist. It struck Richard, for the first time, how wonderfully like Alice that portrait of the beautiful lady was. He raised the candle to examine it. There was a story about this lady. She had been compelled to marry the companion portrait, with the hawk on his hand, and those beautiful lips had dropped a curse, in her despair, when she was dying, childless, and wild with grief. She prayed that no daughter of the house of Arden might ever wed the man of her love, and it was said that a fatality had pursued the ladies of that family, which looked like the accomplishment of the malediction; and a great deal of curious family lore was connected with this legend and portrait.
As he held the candle up to this picture, still scanning its features, the door slowly opened, and Martha Tansey, arrayed in a black silk dress of a fashion some twenty years out of date, came in. He set down the candle, and took the old woman's hand, and greeted her very kindly.
“How's a' wi' you, Master Richard? A dowly house ye've come too. Ye didna look to see this sa soon?”
“Very sudden, Martha—awfully sudden. I could not let the day pass without coming out to see you.”
“Not me, Master Richard, but to ha'e a last look at the face of the father that begot ye. He'll be shrouded and coffined by this time—the light 'ill not be lang on that face. The lid will be aboon it and screwed down to-morrow, I dar' say. Ay, there goes the undertaker's men; and there's a man from Mr. Paller—Mr. Plumes is his name—that says he'll staytillyour Uncle David comes, for he told him he had something very particular to say to him; and I desired him to wait in my room after his business about the poor master was over; and the a'ad things is passin' awa' and it's time auld Martha was fittin' herself.”
“Don't say that, Martha, unless you would have me think you expect to find me less kind than my father was.”
“There's good and there's bad in every one, Master Richard.Ye can't take it in meal and take it in malt. A bit short-waisted he was, there's no denyin', and a sharp word now and again; but none so hard to live wi' as many a one that was cooler-tempered, and more mealy-mouthed; and I think ye were o'er hard wi' him, Master Richard. Ye should have opened the estate. It was that killed him,” she continued considerately. “Ye broke his heart, Master Richard; he was never the same man after he fell out wi' you.”
“Some day, Martha, you'll learn all about it,” said he gently. “It was no fault of mine—ask my Uncle David. I'm not the person to persuade you; and, beside, I have not courage to talk over that cruel quarrel now.”
“Come and see him,” said the old woman grimly, taking up the candle.
“No, Martha, no; set it down again—I'll not go.”
“And when will you see him?”
“Another time—not now—I can't.”
“He's laid in his coffin now; they'll be out again in the mornin'. If you don't see him now, ye'll never see him; and what will the folk down in Yorkshire say, when it's told at Arden Court that Master Richard never looked on his dead father's face, nor saw more of him after his flittin' than the plate on his coffin. By Jen! 'twill stir the blood o' the old tenants and gar them clench their fists and swear, I warrant, at the very sound o' yer name; for there never was an Arden died yet, at Arden Court, but he was waked, and treated wi' every respect, and visited by every living soul of his kindred, for ten mile round.”
“If you think so, Martha, say no more. I'll—go as well now as another time—and, as you say, sooner or later it must be done.”
“He'slookin' very nice and like himself,” mumbled the old woman, as she led the way.
At the open door of Sir Reginald's room stood Mr. Plumes, in professional black with a pensive and solemn countenance, intending politely to do the honours.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the old woman graciously, taking the lead in the proceedings. “This is the young master, and he won't mind troublin' you, Mr. Plumes. If you please to go to my room, Sir, the third door on the right, you'll find tea made, Sir; and Mr. Crozier, I think, will be there.”
And having thus disposed of the stranger, they entered the room, in which candles were burning.
Sir Reginald had, as it were, already made dispositions for his final journey. He had left his bed, and lay instead, in the handsomely upholstered coffin which stood on tressels beside it. Thin and fixed were the cold, earthly features that looked upward from their white trimmings. Sir Richard Arden checked his step and held his breath as he came in sight of these stern lineaments. The pale light that surrounds the dead face of the martyr was wanting here: in its stead, upon selfish lines and contracted features, a shadow stood.
Mrs. Tansey, with a feather-brush placed near, drove away a fly that was trying to alight on the still face.
“I mind him when he was a boy,” she said, with a groan and a shake of the head. “There was but six years between us, and the life that's ended is but a dream, all like yesterday—nothing to look back on; and, I'm sure, if there's rest for them that has been troubled on earth, he's happy now: a blessed change 'twill be.”
“Yes, Martha, we all have our troubles.”
“Ay, it's well to know that in time: the young seldom does,” she answered sardonically.
“I'll go, Martha. I'll return to the oak-room. I wish my uncle were come.”
“Well, you have took your last look, and that's but decent, and——Dear me, Master Richard, you do look bad!”
“I feel a little faint, Martha. I'll go there; and will you give me a glass of sherry?”
He waited at the room door, while Martha nimbly ran to her room, and returned with some sherry and a wine-glass. He had hardly taken a glass, and begun to feel himself better, when David Arden's step was heard approaching from the hall. He greeted his nephew and Martha in a hushed undertone, as he might in church; and then, as people will enter such rooms, he passed in and crossed with a very soft tread, and said a word or two in whispers. You would have thought that Sir Reginald was tasting the sweet slumber of precarious convalescence, so tremendously does death simulate sleep.
When Uncle David followed his nephew to the oak-room, where the servants had now placed candles, he appeared a little paler, as a man might who had just witnessed an operation. He looked through the unclosed shutters on the dark scene; then he turned, and placed his hand kindly on his nephew's arm, and said he, with a sigh—
“Well, Dick, you're the head of the house now; don't run the old ship on the rocks. Remember, it is an old name, and, above all, remember, that Alice is thrown upon your protection. Be a good brother, Dick. She is a true-hearted, affectionate creature: be you the same to her. You can't do your duty by her unless you do it also by yourself. For the first time in your life, a momentous responsibility devolves upon you. In God's name, Dick, give up play and do your duty!”
“I have learned a lesson, uncle; I have not suffered in vain. I'll never take a dice-box in my hand again; I'd as soon take a burning coal. I shall never back a horse again while I live. I am quite cured, thank God, of that madness. I sha'n't talk about it; let time declare how I am changed.”
“I am glad to hear you speak so. You are right, that is the true test. Spoken like a man!” said Uncle David, and he took his hand very kindly.
The entrance of Martha Tansey at this moment gave the talk a new turn.
“By-the-bye, Martha,” said he, “has Mr. Plumes come? He said he would be here at eight o'clock.”
“He's waitin', Sir; and 'twas to tell you so I came in. Shall I tell him to come here?”
“I asked him to come, Dick; I knew you would allow me.He has some information to give me respecting the wretch who murdered your poor Uncle Harry.”
“May I remain?” asked Richard.
“Do; certainly.”
“Then, Martha, will you tell him to come here?” said Richard, and in another minute the sable garments and melancholy visage of Mr. Plumes entered the room slowly.
When Mr. Plumes was seated, he said, with much deliberation, in reply to Uncle David's question—
“Yes, Sir, I have brought it with me. You said, I think, you wished me to fetch it, and as my sister was at home, she hobleeged me with a loan of it. It belonged, you may remember, to her deceased daughter—my niece. I have got it in my breast-pocket; perhaps you would wish me now to take it hout?”
“I'm most anxious to look at it,” said Uncle David, approaching with extended hand. “You said you had seen him; was this a good likeness?”
These questions and the answers to them occupied the time during which Mr. Plumes, whose proceedings were slow as a funeral, disengaged the square parcel in question from his pocket, and then went on to loosen the knots in the tape which tied it up, and afterwards to unfold the wrappings of paper which enveloped it.
“I don't remember him well enough, only that he was good-looking. And this was took by machinery, and itmustbe like. The ball and socket they called it. It must be hexact, Sir.”
So saying, he produced a square black leather case, which being opened displayed a black profile, the hair and whiskers being indicated by a sort of gilding which, laid upon sable, reminded one of the decorations of a coffin, and harmonised cheerfully with Mr. Plumes' profession.
“Oh!” exclaimed Uncle David with considerable disappointment, “I thought it was a miniature; this is only a silhouette; but you are sure itisthe profile of Yelland Mace?”
“That is certain, Sir. His name is on the back of it, and she kept it, poor young woman! with a lock of his 'air and some hother relics in her work-box.”
By this time Uncle David was examining it with deep interest. The outline demolished all his fancies about Mr. Longcluse. The nose, though delicately formed, was decidedly the ruling feature of the face. It was rather a parrot face, but with a good forehead. David Arden was disappointed. He handed it to his nephew.
“That is a kind of face one would easily remember,” he observed to Richard as he looked. “It is not like any one that I know, oreverknew.”
“No,” said Richard; “I don't recollect any one the least like it.” And he replaced it in his uncle's hand.
“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Plumes; it was your mention of it this morning, and my great anxiety to discover all I can respecting that man, Yelland Mace, that induced me to make the request. Thank you very much,” said old Mr. Arden, placing the profile in the fat fingers of Mr. Plumes. “You must take a glass of sherry before you leave. And have you got a cab to return in?”
“The men are waiting for me, I thank you, and I have just 'ad my tea, Sir, much obleeged, and I think I had best return to town, gentlemen, as I have some few words to say to-night to our Mr. Trimmer; so, with your leave, gentlemen, I'll wish you good-night.”
And with a solemn bow, first to Mr. Arden, then to the young scion of the house, and lastly a general bow to both, that grave gentleman withdrew.
“I could see no likeness in that thing to any one,” repeated old Mr. Arden. “Mr. Longcluse is a friend of yours?” he added a little abruptly.
“I can't say he was a friend; he was an acquaintance, but even that is quite ended.”
“What! you don't know him any longer?”
“No.”
“You're quite sure!”
“Perfectly.”
“Then I may say I'm very glad. I don't like him, and I can't say why; but I can't help connecting him with your poor uncle's death. I must have dreamed about him and forgot the dream, while the impression continues; for I cannot discover in any fact within my knowledge the slightest justification for the unpleasant persuasion that constantly returns to my mind. I could not trace a likeness to him in that silhouette.”
He looked at his nephew, who returned his steady look with one of utter surprise.
“Oh, dear! no. There is not a vestige of a resemblance,” said Richard. “I know his features very well.”
“No,” said Uncle David, lowering his eyes to the table, on which he was tapping gently with his fingers; “no, there certainly is not—not any. But I can't dismiss the suspicion. I can't get it out of my head, Richard, and yet I can't account for it,” he said, raising his eyes to his nephew's. “There is something in it; I could not else be so haunted.”