"Et thure et fidibus juvatPlacare,"
which hardly anyone understood, and then the serious business of the evening commenced.
The concert was opened by the indefatigable Miss Busky and Cecilia, who played a duet by a popular composer on popular airs, in which said airs were almost smothered in variations, and blended one with the other in a most surprising manner, for just as the audience recognized "Rule Britannia" and had settled themselves down for an intellectual treat the players broke off into "The Last Rose of Summer," and thence bursting into "Auld Lang Syne," melting, amid a perfect fire-work of runs, into "The British Grenadiers," which latter being played with full force by four hands, the loud pedal pressed down, brought the overture to an end in a noisy manner which delighted the audience.
Reginald then sang "Come into the garden, Maud," but this number evidently did not please them very much as they could not make out what it was all about and, preferring noise to delicacy, did not appreciate the beauty of the singer's voice. Beaumont, however, who was present, admired the item greatly, and said as much to Mrs. Larcher who, armed with a fan and a smelling bottle, sat next to him fighting with "The Affliction."
"Oh yes," sighed Mrs. Larcher when she had got "The Affliction" well under and did not feel inclined to faint, scream, or kick, or give way to any other eccentricities which "The Affliction" was fond of doing at unseasonable hours, "his voice is beautiful, no doubt, but so loud, it goes through my head and rattles my nerves. I love soft songs that soothe me--something cradle-like--a Berceuse, you understand. I'm afraid you find me rather hard to please, but it's my affliction and not myself. I assure you, Mr. Beaumont, that a loud voice often prostrates me for days and leaves me a perfect object, does it not, Eleanora Gwendoline?"
Eleanora Gwendoline, alias Pumpkin, assented with alacrity to this remark, upon which Beaumont observed that he never should have thought it to look at her, thereby inciting Mrs. Larcher to a weakly spasm of coquetry for she tapped Basil feebly with her fan and said he was a naughty man, then settled herself to listen to a glee by the choir.
The choirmaster, Simon Ruller, a long, thin individual, in a frantic state of excitement, having reduced his chorus to a state of abject nervousness started them off in the glee "Glorious Apollo," and after two or three false starts they managed to begin. Having begun, their great aim was to get over the ground as rapidly as possible, and they rushed it through at lightning speed, Mr. Ruller imploring them in fierce whispers to observe the rallentando, which advice, however, they did not take. On disappearing from the stage, chased off by the excited Ruller, they were succeeded by Miss Cassy, attired in a startling costume of blue and yellow.
This lady's contribution to the proceedings was a milk and water ballad of a semi-jocular kind, called "Almost a Case," and the way in which she leered and smirked at the audience from behind her music in order to point the meaning of the verses, was quite alarming. She paid no attention to time, and poor Cecilia was obliged to stop one minute and play furiously the next in order to follow Miss Cassy's spasmodic idea of rendering the song.
"So flippant," commented Mrs. Larcher when the fair songstress had retired, "a great want of decorum--she makes my nerves jump."
"It's the style of song, mama," said Pumpkin generously.
"Then why doesn't she choose less hoppy music?" retorted the matron fanning herself vigorously, "it makes me twitch to hear her. Ah, if she only had my affliction she wouldn't sing at all."
Beaumont privately thought this would be an excellent thing for everyone, but did not say so, knowing Mrs. Larcher to be a great friend of Miss Cassy's.
Dick Pemberton gave a sea song with great vigour, and received genuine applause, then Una and Reginald sang "Oh, that we two were Maying," which the audience did not care about. The vicar then read Poe's poem of "The Bells" in a ponderous manner, which crushed the airy lines, and after another song from Reginald, Mr. Ferdinand Priggs appeared to recite an original poem "My Ladye Fayre."
Mr. Priggs was ushered in by a melancholy strain from the piano, and placing one hand in his breast and tossing back his long hair with the other he burst into a series of questions about the fayre lady.
"Was it a dream of sadnessThat reeled my brain to madness,Or howDid I see her browWith its crown of golden gladness?"
After asking these questions Mr. Priggs proved conclusively that it was no dream, but
"A wild, weird, wandering, warning dameWho set the ears of all aflameWith loud acclaim."
The poet treated his audience to about twenty verses of this gruesome production, and having ended with a long sigh stood on the stage for fully a minute. Everyone waited to hear what he was going to say next, but the poetic Ferdinand doubled up his limp body into what he called a bow, and slowly drifted out of sight, his legs apparently taking him wherever they chose to go.
On the conclusion of this dismal poem the full company sang "God save the Queen," and the concert ended amid the congratulations of all concerned, as they decided it was a great success.
The vicar heartily congratulated the performers on the receipts, as after paying all expenses there remained fully five pounds for the almshouse fund, to aid which the concert had been got up.
"Where is Doctor Nestley, to-night?" asked Beaumont as they went out.
"He had to stay with the squire," replied Una, who was leaning on Reginald's arm, "he's not at all well."
"Nerves?" asked Mrs. Larcher anxiously, taking a medical interest in the case.
"Oh, dear no," said Miss Cassy lightly, "though he has got nerves--so very odd, isn't it? but this time the dear doctor says it's lungs--something gone wrong--a kind of what's-his-name thing, you know--if he doesn't take care he'll get that disease--so odd--something about a moan."
"Oh, pneumonia," observed Beaumont gravely. "I hope not, it's very dangerous, and to an old man like the squire, doubly so."
"I have had it," said Mrs. Larcher, who by her own showing possessed every disease under the sun. "Acute inflammation of the lungs, it left me a wreck--a prostrate wreck--did it not, Eleanora Gwendoline?"
"It did, mama," replied the dutiful Pumpkin.
"It might come on again," said Mrs. Larcher, opening her smelling-bottle. "I'll have a cup of hot tea when I go home, and a hot bottle to my feet."
"I wonder she doesn't have a mustard plaster and a fly blister," whispered Dick to Una, "might draw some of the bosh out of her."
Una laughed, and the great lumbering barouche of the Grange having arrived, driven by the stony Munks, she preferred to enter it, followed by the chattering Cassy.
"So cold, isn't it?" said that lady, "quite like the North Pole. Captain what's-his-name, you know, Parry, puts me in mind of Paris--French style--so odd. I'll see you to-morrow, Mr. Beaumont, and oh, Mrs. Larcher, will you come to tea next week--Thursday--what do you say, Una? Friday, oh yes--Friday."
"If my affliction permits me," said Mrs. Larcher in a stately tone, "I will try."
"So glad," replied the volatile Cassy, "and you come also Mr. Blake, and of course Mr. Pemberton, not forgetting Mr. Beaumont; so very nice to see one's friends. Oh, yes, Munks, we're quite ready, good-night--so pleased--delightful concert--odd--very odd."
Further talk on the part of Miss Cassandra was checked by the sudden start of the barouche, and what with the uneven road and the worn-out springs of the coach, Miss Cassy had enough to do to look after herself without talking.
Mrs. Larcher, leaning on the vicar's arm, walked home, followed by Pumpkin and the three pupils, Dick chaffing Ferdinand over his poem till that poetic soul was nearly out of his mind with anger.
Beaumont, left alone at the school-room door, lit a cigarette, and was about to go when he heard a faint sigh behind him, and on turning saw Cecilia and the lively Busky.
"I enjoyed the concert very much, Miss Mosser," he said gracefully as they passed him.
"I'm glad of that, sir," said Cecilia, who looked tired, "it went off very well. Was--was Doctor Nestley here?"
"No, he had to stay with Squire Garsworth."
The blind girl sighed again, and after saying good-night, went away followed by Miss Busky, who bounded along in the moonlight like a marionette.
"Poor girl," said Beaumont thoughtfully, "she loves Nestley, and won't have the slightest chance with him, he's too much in love with Una Challoner. By-the-way, I must see Nestley; if I want to find out the squire's secret, I'll have to arrange matters with him--I hate watch-dogs."
Strong god thou art the enemy of gods,A hater of blind Eros and his joys,Thy rule is bitter as the stinging rodsThat scourge at Dian's feast the Spartan boys;Evil his soul who asks thine evil aid,And in revenge such evil aid employs,In sundering the hearts of youth and maid.
Strong god thou art the enemy of gods,
A hater of blind Eros and his joys,
Thy rule is bitter as the stinging rods
That scourge at Dian's feast the Spartan boys;
Evil his soul who asks thine evil aid,
And in revenge such evil aid employs,
In sundering the hearts of youth and maid.
The Garsworth family was never a very prolific one, but the estates had always descended in a direct line from father to son. Many a time the race seemed to be on the point of extinction owing to the representative being an only child, yet though the line dwindled down to depending on one life alone for its continuity it never absolutely died out. In the event of such a thing taking place it would have been difficult to say who would have succeeded to the estates, as the Garsworth family seemed to be averse to matrimony and their connection with the county families was, to say the least, doubtful. Besides, as there was no entail, the estates were completely at the disposal of the head of the family for the time being, and he could will them to whomsoever he pleased. As hitherto son had always succeeded father, there had been no necessity for the exercise of such a power, but now the sole representative of the race being unmarried he was at liberty to use his own judgment in disposing of the estates.
In the opinion of right-minded people there could be very little doubt as to who should succeed the Squire, for Una was the next of kin. She was the only living representative of the younger branch of the family, being the grand-daughter of the Squire's aunt, and therefore his second cousin. Miss Cassandra, although she constantly alluded to Randal Garsworth as "my cousin," was as a matter of fact only a relation by marriage, being Una's paternal aunt.
Una's parents had died while she was a child and she had been brought up by the kind-hearted though eccentric Miss Cassy, who sent her to Germany in order to complete her education. Miss Cassandra, having an income of three hundred a year, dwelt in London, where she was known among a select society of well-born fossils who looked upon her as a mere child. Una, having finished her education, came back to England and took up her abode with Miss Cassy, and having an income of some two hundred a year joined it to that of her aunt, and thus the two women managed to live very comfortably in a small way.
On seeing Una's beauty, however, Miss Cassandra had no intention that she should live a dismal life in a smoky London suburb, without at least one chance of seeing the gay world and marrying as befitted her birth and loveliness, so she wrote to Squire Garsworth on the subject. The old man sent in reply a gracious message that Una could come down and stay at the Grange, and that he would not forget her in his will. Miss Cassy, not knowing the idiosyncrasies of the recluse, saw in her mind's eye a hospitable country house full of joyous company, so persuaded Una to accept the invitation, saying she herself would go also. After some demur Squire Garsworth agreed to Miss Cassy coming, and in due time, having broken up their London home, the two ladies arrived at the Grange.
Their dismay was great at finding the sordid way in which the Squire lived, and Miss Cassy would have promptly returned to London, only Una, being touched by the loneliness of her kinsman, determined to remain, persuading Miss Cassy to do likewise. So they lived quietly at the Grange on the somewhat begrudged hospitality of the old man, their own incomes obtaining for them any luxuries they might require, as they certainly received nothing but the bare necessities of life from their host.
In the mad pursuit of his delusion, Garsworth, in contrast to the lavishness of his youth, had become absolutely penurious in his mode of life. The large staff of servants necessary for such an immense house as the Grange had been long ago dispensed with, and Patience Allerby, assisted by Jellicks looked after the household, while the stony Munks exercised a grim sovereignty over the exterior arrangements. The Squire mostly lived in his own study, and Una, aided by Miss Cassy, managed to make one room habitable for themselves, but the rest of the house was given over to the rats and spiders, becoming at last so lonely and eerie that Miss Cassy frequently declared it was haunted.
Una having fallen in love with Reginald, was quite content in her dreary exile, but Miss Cassy, used to the lively entertainments of the fossilized society in London, longed to get away from the place, and looked forward to the Squire dying with a certain ghastly eagerness, as she thought Una would then come in for all the estates and they could once more live London.
On the morning after the concert Miss Cassy and Una seated at a late breakfast, were talking seriously about the unsettled health of the Squire, who was now obviously breaking up.
"He's about seventy-three now," said Miss Cassy thoughtfully, "I'm sure he can't live long.
"My dear Aunty!" replied Una in a shocked tone, "how can you talk so?"
"Why not?" retorted Miss Cassy indignantly. "He's not much use alive. I'm sure he'd be more use dead."
"Why?"
"Because you'd get his money and we could go back to dear London."
"I don't want his money," said Una with great spirit, "and certainly don't care about speculating on cousin Garsworth's death to gain it. I wonder at your doing so, Aunt."
"Well, I'm sure, Una," whimpered Miss Cassy, producing her handkerchief, "you are so odd--I only meant to say I'm tired of this place--it is dull--now isn't it? I need excitement, you know I need excitement--and after me bringing you up. I always dressed you beautifully--real lace--and kept you so clean. I always had your nerves attended to--you blame me now--I want to see you rich--it isn't odd--wishing to see you rich, and I'm so dull here; really Una, you are unkind--quite crushing--I'm only an ivy--oh, why wasn't I married? there's nothing for one to cling to--you don't want me to cling."
"My dear Auntie," said Una with a smile, "you are so sensitive."
"Ivy," sobbed Miss Cassy, "nerves--mother's side--you've got none--so very odd."
"I don't want you to think of the Squire dying, it won't benefit me at all."
Miss Cassy removed her handkerchief and gasped:
"Quite ten thousand a year--he can't take it away--you're his only relative--no one could be so odd as to leave it to a what's-it's-name asylum or a cats'-home."
"I don't know whom he'll leave the money to," said Una deliberately. "I certainly ought to get it, but you know the Squire's delusion about re-incarnation--you may depend his will is mixed up with the idea, how I don't know--but there will be some trouble at his death."
"Such an idiot he is," groaned Miss Cassy, "quite eccentric--hereditary--I've seen it in you--bad blood you know--it's in all old families--our family was always sane."
To prove which sanity Miss Cassy arose from the table to go to her room, and placed the tea cosy on her head to protect her from cold. The eccentric lady walked to the door talking in a broken fashion all the time.
"I'm sure I don't want his money--small income but sure--yes--but it's so dull--I love London--I can't blossom here--I'm like a cabbage--in Town I expand--such nice amusements--Madame Tussaud's and the Crystal Palace--so exciting--it's food--food--oh, dear me, Dr. Nestley is this you? how is my cousin? better?--so glad--it's very odd, isn't it? I mean it's not odd I'm glad--no--quite so--oh, you want to see Miss Challoner--yes--good-bye just now," and Miss Cassy, with the tea cosy perched on her head, disappeared, leaving Nestley alone with Una.
The young man was not looking well, as his ruddy colour had given place to an unhealthy paleness, his skin had a flaccid appearance and his countenance wore an anxious, haggard expression. His eyes glanced restlessly round the room looking at everything except Una, and he moved his hands nervously. Even in his voice there was a change, for in place of his former bold confident tones he now spoke in a low hesitating manner.
"I just came to tell you the squire is better, Miss Challoner," he said in an agitated voice, keeping his eyes on the ground.
"It's very good of you, doctor," she replied courteously. "I hope he will become quite strong again."
"I'm afraid not, his body is worn out and has not strength enough to resist disease--of course, now he has only a slight cold, but any chance exposure may affect his lungs seriously and if pneumonia sets in I'm afraid he will have no chance."
"What is to be done?" she asked anxiously.
"I cannot do more than I have done, he must be kept quiet and warm. I've persuaded him to take some strong soup which will do him good--in fact I think his ascetic manner of living has had as much to do with his ill-health as anything else."
"I hope he will get well," said Una earnestly, "if he would only change his mode of life I'm sure he would get well."
"Yes," the young man answered absently, "of course, exactly," he hesitated a moment then burst out in despair, "Then I would have to go away."
Una looked at him surprised at his evident emotion.
"Of course we would be very sorry to lose you," she said quietly, "but you, no doubt, would be glad to get back to your home."
"No--I would not," he said passionately, coming a step nearer, "because you would not be there."
"I?"
Una Challoner rose to her feet in amazement at his words.
"I?" she repeated in a puzzled tone. "What have I to do with your movements?"
"Everything," said the unhappy young man with a gesture of despair. "When I came here a short time since I was perfectly happy--I had conquered all the evils and sorrow of my youth, and my life was a pleasant one, but since I saw you all is changed. I can think of nothing but you--morn, noon, and night, I see you before me--morn, noon, and night, I only hear your voice."
He looked at her defiantly and saw her standing silent and indignant before him.
"Can't you understand?" he burst out again rapidly. "I love you--I love you! from the first moment I saw you I loved you--I want you to be my wife, will you be my wife Una."
Miss Challoner felt perplexed--this man had only known her a fortnight, she had spoken very little to him, yet here he was asking her to marry him in a vehement, masterful manner which roused within her all the pride of womanhood.
"What you ask is impossible, Doctor Nestley," she said coldly and deliberately. "I have only known you a fortnight and--beyond this I am ignorant of your life in every way. I never dreamed that you would speak to me in this manner."
"Then you don't love me?" he cried in despair, "You cold perfection of womanhood, you don't love me?"
Una would have replied indignantly, but she began to see the nervous excitable temperament of the young man and recognised that, being under the influence of a strong emotion, he was not answerable for the way in which he spoke.
"No," she replied gently, "I cannot love you, Doctor Nestley--even if I did, I could hardly respond to your passion after so short an acquaintance; come, doctor, you have been worn out by your nightly attendance on my cousin, you are not well and speak without thinking, forget the words you have spoken and let things be as they were."
It was a gracious thing of her to say, for, in spite of his evident earnestness, she felt indignant at the manner in which he had spoken to her.
"Things can never be as they were," he replied dully. "I have seen you and that has changed my whole life--is there no chance?"
"There is no chance," she replied coldly, and turned away to intimate the interview was over. Even as she did so, he sprang forward with a fierce light in his eyes.
"You love another," he hissed out between his clenched teeth.
Una turned on him in a dignified way with her eyes blazing with anger.
"How dare you speak to me in this manner?" she said wrathfully. "Do not try my patience too far--I have given you an answer to the mad words you spoke--now go."
She pointed to the door with a commanding gesture and the young man drooping his head on his breast, moved towards it.
"You don't know what you are doing," he said in a dreary voice. "You are destroying my life; whatever evils now drag me down, it will be your fault."
"A cowardly speech," she said in a clear, scornful voice; "because you cannot get the toy you long for you speak like a child. I have nothing to do with your life, if you yield to evil it will be through your own weak will, not through any fault of mine--not a word," she went on as he was about to speak; "leave me at once and I will try and forget what you have said."
He tried to look her in the face, but seeing her standing tall and straight as a young Greek maiden, with nothing but scorn and condemnation in her eyes, he turned away with a sigh, and letting his head fall on his breast walked slowly out of the room, careless of what happened to him now that he had placed all his chances on the casting of a die--and lost.
Who stands so high that he may never fall,Who lies so low that he may never rise?The lowliest may one day win life's prize,The highest thro' temptation lose his all.
Who stands so high that he may never fall,Who lies so low that he may never rise?The lowliest may one day win life's prize,The highest thro' temptation lose his all.
Beaumont was a man who neglected no chance, however small, by which he could benefit himself; consequently thinking if he discovered Squire Garsworth's secret it might prove of use to him, he determined to find out all about it. He knew perfectly well that no power of persuasion would lead the madman to divulge his thoughts, so the only chance of discovering anything was to reduce him to a mere automaton, perfectly powerless in his hands. This he hoped to do by means of hypnotism, of which curious process he knew a good deal.
While in Germany, some years before, he had by accident come across Heidenheim's book on animal magnetism, which interested him so much that he pursued the subject. After reading the opinions of Grützner, Berger and Baumler on hypnosis, he turned his attention to French authorities, eagerly following the history of animal magnetism from Mesmer and Puységur downward, and led by such studies to try his hand on subjects, he became quite an adept in this strange psychological science. Taking it up at first merely as an amusement, on going deeper into the subject he soon saw that such hypnotic power would be a terrible weapon in the hands of an unscrupulous man, as, by reducing the hypnotised person to the condition of a mere instrument, it enabled him to do acts through such instrument for which he himself could not be held legally responsible.
In a book on the subject by MM. Demarquay and Giraud Teulon, entitled "Recherches sur L'Hypnotism," he had come across a case in which a lady in a condition of hypnotic hallucination began to tell aloud secrets which compromised her exceedingly. Taking this case as an illustration of what could be done during hypnosis, Beaumont determined to throw the Squire into a cataleptic trance, and by questions or suggestions lead him to reveal his secret. This being done, he could restore him to his normal condition, absolutely ignorant of his revelation, and he thought if the secret were worth anything, he could then do what he pleased.
Having thus definitely settled his plan of action, the next step to take was to guard against the possibility of Nestley surprising him in any of his hypnotic experiments, with which, as medical attendant of the Squire, he would have a perfect right to interfere. Although Nestley had become much more friendly with Beaumont, he still regarded him with a certain amount of suspicion, so the artist's aim was now to reduce him to the state of subjection in which he had been in London five years before.
He knew Nestley was a very clever man, but remarkably weak, and likely to be led astray. In London, under the influence of drink, he had been a slave to Beaumont, and here in Garsworth the artist determined to reduce him to a similar state of slavery. Never for a moment did he think of the clever brain he would destroy, or the life he would wreck--all he wanted was the assistance of the young doctor in certain plans beneficial to himself, and, at whatever cost, he determined to carry them out. Beaumont, as a matter of fact, had in him a great deal of the Italian Despot nature as described by Machiavelli, and with cold, relentless subtlety, set himself to work to ruin the unhappy Duncan Nestley body and soul for his own ends.
Nestley was doubtless weak to allow himself to be so dominated, but unhappily it was his nature. If Nature endows a man largely in one way, she generally deprives him of something else in equal proportion, and while Nestley was a brilliant, clever man, who, if left to himself, would have lived an honest and creditable life, yet his morally weak nature placed him at the mercy of any unscrupulous scoundrel who thought fit to play upon his feelings.
Unhappily, circumstances aided Beaumont's nefarious plan, for after leaving Una the young doctor walked across the common to the village, hoping to pull himself together by a brisk walk.
At the bridge he found Beaumont leaning over it, looking at the water swirling below, and on hearing footsteps, the artist looked up with a gratified smile as he recognised his victim.
"What's the matter, Nestley?" he asked after the first greetings; "you don't look well."
"I'm not well," retorted Nestley abruptly; "I'm nearly worn out by that old man--morn, noon and night I've got to be beside him--if he's paid me handsomely he's taking his full value out of me."
"Yes, I think he is," replied Beaumont deliberately, "you look quite thin--not the man of three weeks ago. He must be a kind of mediæval succubus living on the blood of young men. It would be wise for you to leave him."
Nestley leaned his chin on his folded arms, which were resting on the parapet of the bridge, and sighed deeply.
"No--I can't do that."
"Oh! I understand," said Beaumont with a sneer, beginning to smoke one of his eternal cigarettes.
"What do you understand?"
"Why you won't leave the Grange."
"There's no difficulty in guessing that," retorted Nestley angrily, "my medical---- What the deuce are you grinning at?"
"You, my friend," said Basil smiling, "your medical--what!--honour--knowledge--interest--what you like."
"Don't talk rubbish."
"As you please."
"Look here," said Nestley, turning round with a resolute frown on his haggard face, "what is the reason I don't leave the Grange?"
"Not being in your confidence I can't say, but if I may guess, I should think Una Challoner."
Nestley made a gesture of assent, and turned once more to gaze moodily at the grey waters of the river.
"If I only had the courage," he muttered harshly, "I would throw myself into the water and end everything."
"More fool you," remarked Beaumont cynically; "men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love. Don't give Rosalind's remark the lie."
"I've no doubt she loves someone else," said Nestley bitterly.
"I've no doubt she does," replied Beaumont tranquilly, "but you seem quite worn out between love and sickness, so come with me to the inn and have something to eat."
"I don't mind," said Nestley listlessly, "but I can't eat a thing."
"Don't give way so easily, my dear fellow," said Beaumont scornfully, as they walked along; "be a man, not a baby."
"You're not in love."
"True, oh king; but I've had the disease badly enough--it's all dead and done with now. I've left Venus for Plutus, and I think Mercury, the god of tricksters, has some of my worship."
Dr. Nestley made no remark, being occupied with his own sad thoughts, so Beaumont said nothing more, and they walked along to the inn silently. On arriving there they went into the parlour, and Nestley took his seat near the window, staring idly out at the dusty road, while Beaumont ordered a slight luncheon, and a bottle of champagne.
Job Kossiter's idea of wine was a very vague one, as he himself habitually drank beer, but in deference to Beaumont's wishes, he sent over to Duxby and obtained a few dozen cases of champagne, whose excellence satisfied even the fastidious artist. The table being laid and the luncheon brought in, Beaumont filled two tumblers with champagne, one for himself, and the other he placed by Nestley's plate. The young doctor, being wrapped up in gloomy thought, did not perceive this, and, when he took his seat at the table, had no idea that the glass at his elbow contained wine instead of water. He tried to eat two or three mouthfuls of food, but not succeeding, took up the glass to drink, and so preoccupied was he that it was not until he had swallowed a mouthful that he perceived what it was. Replacing the glass on the table immediately, he glared angrily at Beaumont, who, feigning not to observe his annoyance, went on eating his luncheon with great enjoyment.
"Why did you give me champagne?" asked Nestley harshly. "You know I only drink water."
"I know you're an idiot," retorted Beaumont coolly, "and don't know what's good for you. In your present state of health a glass of champagne will do you no harm."
"You forget the harm drink has done me already."
"Five years ago," said the artist mockingly. "You've been a teetotaller for five years, so I think you are entitled to a little indulgence now. Go on, drink it up like a man."
"No," replied Nestley resolutely, and he turned his head away. "I will not drink."
"Very well," said Beaumont indifferently. "Please yourself."
His unhappy friend looked again at the amber-coloured wine in the glass, and felt half inclined to yield. After all, he had not touched liquor of any sort for five long years, and did not feel as a rule inclined to take it, but now the nights of watching by the bedside of the old squire had worn him out physically, and the disdain of Una had made him wretched mentally, so he half determined to take this one glass to cheer him up. His good angel, however, came to his aid at this critical moment, and turning his head away with a shudder, he went on making a pretence of eating. Beaumont, who had watched him narrowly all this time, saw the struggle that was going on in the young man's mind, but with true craftiness, pretended to take no notice, satisfied that his victim was gradually being lured into the snare so artfully laid.
"So you love Miss Challoner," he said genially. "Well, I can hardly wonder at that. To tell you the truth, I fell in love with her myself--merely in an artistic sense, I assure you," added the astute artist with a laugh as he saw the anger in Nestley's face. "She has a lovely face which seems to wear the calm of those old Greek statues. I should like to paint her as Artemis--the inviolate Artemis before she loved Endymion--with the serene light of chastity on her face and the sweetness of night in her eyes. It would be a wonderful picture."
"I wonder you don't ask her to be your model," growled Nestley, sulkily.
"Hardly worth while, for two reasons," replied Beaumont lightly, yet with a suspicion of regret in his tone. "In the first place she would refuse, and in the second, my hand has lost its cunning. One needs to be young and enthusiastic to paint a classical picture. I am of too earthy a nature to have such hopeless visions. Well, are you going to play the part of young Endymion to this moon goddess?"
"No," answered Nestley bitterly, "she won't have anything to do with me."
"Poor Endymion!"
"Don't be a fool, talking such classical stuff! I tell you I'm madly in love with her, and she won't have anything to do with me. Everything is against me. I'm poor, unloved and obscure. Life isn't worth living under such conditions."
He looked again at the sparkling wine, which seemed to invite him to try it as an anodyne for his pain. Everything seemed to his distorted imagination to be dull and dark. Wine would at least give him a few hours' respite from these torturing thoughts. He was master of himself now. He would drink one glass and no more. After all, seeing that everything was lost, what did it matter if he did fall once more? He had nothing to live for now. A wild despair took possession of his heart, and with a reckless laugh he seized the glass and finished the wine to the last drop.
"Evohé Bacchus," said Beaumont, draining his glass. "There's nothing like wine to cure a broken heart."
The insidious wine mounted rapidly to the excitable brain of the young man, and he no longer felt regret at breaking the pledge he had made five years before. The humdrum past of struggle and respectability was done with. Wine would solace him. Drink! Who cared for such a thing? Anacreon was the head of a glorious band of poets, and praised the wine. Wise Anacreon, he knew the true virtues of the grape. The past is dead, the future is uncertain. Live--live only in the present, with wine to make us as gods--Evohé Bacchus.
The stimulating wine had performed its work excellently, and the world hitherto so gloomy now appeared of a roseate tint.
"A broken heart!" he repeated, with a gay laugh. "Pish! hearts don't break so easily. A woman's no means yes. I'll ask again."
"Nothing like perseverance," said Basil, observing with infinite joy the flushed face and bright eyes of the young man. "Have some more wine?"
"Rather!" replied Nestley, holding out his glass, which Beaumont filled. "I was a fool to give up this for water. I'm sick of total abstainers--thin-blooded croakers. Here's confusion to them!" and he drank off the second glass.
Beaumont now saw that his victim was in that obstinate stage of recklessness which could not brook contradiction, so knew well how to proceed.
"Well, we've finished the bottle," he said brightly. "Suppose we go out for a walk."
"No--no walk," returned Nestley, with an imbecile grin. "You've stood me a bottle. Now it's my turn."
"I don't want any more," said Beaumont indifferently, "and I think you've had enough also."
"I haven't," retorted Nestley defiantly. "I'm as straight as a die. I suppose you won't drink with me?"
"Oh yes, I will, if you insist upon it."
"I do insist," cried the doctor, bringing his fist down on the table with a bang. "You must drink to show there is no ill-will. We were once friends, Basil."
"And are so still, I trust," said the artist, cordially.
"Your hand," said Nestley, with an outburst of maudlin affection. "Give me your hand."
Beaumont suffered his hand to be shaken violently by the doctor, and then that gentleman, now in a hilarious state of excitement, walked to the bell, ringing it with unnecessary violence.
Margery appeared in answer, and seemed somewhat astonished at Nestley's state, as he had always been so reserved and quiet in his demeanour.
"Another bottle of champagne," said Nestley in a thick voice, coming close to her. "You are a pretty girl."
He tried to embrace her, but Margery, who was used to seeing the rustics in a similar state, pushed him away with a hearty laugh, and went off to get the wine.
Nestley resumed his seat at the table, talking rapidly to Beaumont about all sorts of things, and then began to boast about himself.
"I can do anything--anything, I tell you," he said, looking at Beaumont, who was smoking. "My brain's worth a dozen of any other fellows' Don't you believe me?"
"Oh, yes, I believe you," replied Beaumont, as Margery returned with another bottle of champagne; "but, if I were you, I'd take no more wine."
"Won't I!" said Nestley in a defiant manner. "You'll see."
Margery retreated, laughing at the maudlin condition of the young man, and filling his tumbler up to the brim with wine, he drank it off with an air of drunken bravado. Beaumont, with a sneer on his thin lips, sat calmly watching the grotesque antics of the man he had brought so low, and only took a little of the second bottle. Dr. Nestley sang and laughed and boasted till his legs began to get shaky, and then he sat down and finished the rest of the bottle, thereby reducing himself to a state of hopeless intoxication.
Finally he fell asleep with his head on the table, whereupon Beaumont, not without some difficulty, woke him up and half led, half dragged him to the sofa. With noisy protests that he was all right, the unhappy young man lay down, and in a few moments fell into a drunken slumber, while Beaumont, feeling no compunction at having reduced a human being to the level of the beast, stood over him with a sneer.
"I don't think you'll give me much trouble," he said serenely. "You've started on the downward path once more, and this time I expect you'll never get back again."
He went out, calmly smoking his cigarette, and asked Margery to let no one disturb his friend.
"He's taken more than is good for him," he said apologetically.
"Oh bless you, sir, that's nothing," returned Margery stolidly. "A sleep will put him all right."
"Will it?" said Beaumont to himself when he was standing in the bright sunshine. "A sleep will never put you all right again in this life, Duncan Nestley."
I use no charms,Ephesian letters, philtres, spells or runes,Nor aught of necromantic devilriesYet thro' the power of new-found sciencesBefore my searching gaze I bare your soulAnd read the secret longings writ thereon.
I use no charms,Ephesian letters, philtres, spells or runes,Nor aught of necromantic devilriesYet thro' the power of new-found sciencesBefore my searching gaze I bare your soulAnd read the secret longings writ thereon.
Owing to Nestley's skilful treatment the squire soon recovered from his illness, but the fact of twice being laid upon a bed of sickness within a few weeks, showed how susceptible his constitution had become to the slightest ailment, and how rapidly any such ailment might terminate with fatal results.
To a young and vigorous frame such slight indispositions would be comparatively unimportant, but the weak body of the old man, with its worn-out-organization, was able to develop these disorders in a most alarming tanner. The flame of life was very feeble, and it was only by the utmost watchfulness that it could be kept alive at all.
In spite of his settled conviction regarding incarnation in a new body, the squire seemed remarkably loth to leave his old one, and obeyed the doctor's orders in a most slavish manner, dreading lest by some chance his soul should slip away into the next world. He had accumulated a large fortune, which according to his delusion he hoped to enjoy when his soul had become incarnate in a new body, so he had no trouble on that score. His great desire was now to get his portrait finished, and to this end, in spite of his ill-health, he insisted upon leaving his bed and sitting to Beaumont according to his regular custom.
Basil having once more brought Nestley under his dominating will, determined to proceed at once in his hypnotic experiment, and at this final sitting judged it an admirable time to carry out his idea. All he wanted was an opportunity to introduce the subject without rousing the squire's suspicions, and the old man, during their conversation, speedily afforded him an opportunity of doing so.
They were in the drawing-room as usual, and the squire, looking more wrinkled and worn than ever, was seated in his arm-chair, while the artist dexterously put a line here and there on the painted face before him.
"You don't seem well this morning, Mr. Garsworth," said Beaumont, as the old man moved wearily in his chair.
"No, sir, I don't," retorted the squire in his harsh voice. "I don't expect I'll leave my bed again when I once go back to it."
"Oh, things are surely not so bad as that."
"I'm afraid they are," replied Garsworth, shaking his head. "I am anxious to go into a new body and leave this worn-out frame with its incessant pain."
"Are you in pain now?" asked Beaumont, sympathetically.
"Yes--I have a bad attack of neuralgia--the east wind always affects me more or less that way."
"I think I could do you some good."
"Nonsense--you're not a doctor?"
"I am not the rose, but I've lived near it, my dear sir," said Beaumont equably, "and I know something of therapeutics."
"A little knowledge is a dangerous thing," replied the old man sneeringly.
"I can reply with another proverb," said Basil smiling. "A drowning man will clutch at a straw--so take me as your straw and see what I can do--I cannot cure you of your neuralgia, but I can give you some relief."
"In what way?"
"By hypnosis."
"Bah!--Mesmer and charlatanism."
"Not at all--I have studied the subject, and I assure you there is more truth in it than you imagine. Mesmer was not altogether a charlatan remember--he was wiser than Cagliostro."
"Well--well--what do you propose to do?"
"Hypnotise you."
"And then?"
"Well--the neuralgia will go away after you've been in the trance some time, then I'll wake you and you can retire."
"But the portrait?"
"It won't affect the portrait in the least--I-can go on painting and you will be free from pain."
The squire hated pain, and was moreover very curious to test Beaumont's knowledge, so he consented to the idea.
"Go on, sir," he said grimly. "I don't object."
Beaumont nodded carelessly, delighted thus to have gained his end, and producing from his pocket a facetted piece of glass, he arose from his seat and walked over to the old man.
Taking up his position at one side of the chair he held the glittering object just above the squire's forehead.
"Look steadily at this," he said in a quiet tone, and on Garsworth doing so he waited silently for the result, which soon took place. The eyes became humid and brilliant, the gaze fixed and the pupils dilated, until the old man fell into a cataleptic state. As the glass facet was still held in front of his eyes he soon passed into a lethargic condition and fell backward in his chair with a sigh.
Beaumont took the glass away with a feeling of relief, as he doubted being able to produce the hypnotic sleep so easily. He had now at his command a will-less automaton who would do what ever he was told. But this was not what Beaumont desired, as he was unable to suggest the secret to the helpless man before him, and without suggestion the automaton would not do anything. He wanted to change this lethargic sleep into a somnambulistic state, so that he could have the memory, the intelligence, and the imagination of the squire at his command. This he achieved by slightly rubbing his hand to and fro for a few minutes across the top of the head, and in obedience to the feeling produced by this Garsworth rapidly passed into a state of active somnambulism.
He arose from his chair, looked quickly from right to left, while Beaumont spoke to him, and during the conversation that followed, was in a state of perpetual movement. All that Beaumont had now to do was to suggest things to the somnambulist which would engender trains of thought, and these trains of thought would be speedily acted upon by volition.
The tall figure in black swayed rapidly to and fro while Beaumont spoke in a clear, deliberate manner, suggesting the questions he wanted to be answered.
"You have a secret?"
"I have a secret," assented the somnambulist, in the same slow manner.
"You have arranged a certain affair so that you will be able to enjoy your present fortune during your next incarnation?"
"Yes."
"You think you have arranged everything necessary to carry out this idea?"
"I think so."
"State to yourself the whole scheme so that you can see you have forgotten nothing."
Garsworth remained silent for a moment, then began to talk rapidly.
"I have arranged everything in a proper manner. I am sure I have forgotten nothing. My will has been made some years, and in it I have left all my property to my natural son. Such natural son does not exist--at present he is a fictitious person. When I am re-incarnated he will become a reality. I will be my own natural son, and the property will pass to myself in the new body by the action of my will in this present body. It will be necessary for me in my new form to prove myself the person mentioned in the will. I do this in such new body by producing a certain paper and my seal ring, which I have safely hidden away. Retaining my memory during my next incarnation I go to the hiding-place, find the paper and the ring, produce them to the lawyer who holds my will, and having proved my identity as natural son, can become possessed of the property. Yes, everything is all right."
He ceased speaking and Beaumont, having listened attentively, was much struck with the ingenuity of the idea expressed in the delusion. This, then, was the way in which he hoped to carry out his scheme. Was ever madman so whimsical? The artist did not see much chance of benefiting by the discovery so far, still if he saw the papers mentioned by the squire, there might be something in them which would prove useful. Yes; he would get the squire to show him the hiding-place of the papers.
"Your scheme is perfect," he said slowly, "but some one may find the hiding-place and steal the paper?"
"No, no," replied the somnambulist, in an exulting tone. "No chance of that. I've hidden it too well."
"Go and see if it is safe."
"Safe! safe! is that paper safe?" muttered the old man, with a frown. "I must see. I must see. But how can I go? I am too weak."
Beaumont instantly exerted his power by suggestion.
"You are very strong. Go at once and examine the paper."
Ordinarily the Squire used a crutch to walk with, but on hearing the remark about his strength from his hypnotiser, he at once became imbued with the hallucination that he was physically a vigorous man, and walked towards the door of the drawing-room with rapid, springy steps, followed by Beaumont.
The somnambulist lead the way up the stairs, paused for a moment on the first landing, then, turning round, walked towards the front of the house on the first floor. At this moment Patience Allerby came out of one of the rooms, and seeing the squire walking in such a rapid manner, and Beaumont following, looked at them both in alarm.
"Where are going sir?" she cried, as Garsworth brushed past her, and, putting out her hand, tried to grasp him. The slight touch she gave him appeared to cause the somnambulist suffering and break the hypnotic spell, for he paused at once. Alarmed lest the old man should awake, Beaumont gripped Patience by the wrist and dragged her back quickly.
"You are going for your papers?" he said to Garsworth.
"I am going for my papers," repeated the squire slowly, and then, in obedience to the impulse engendered, went on again. Patience would have spoken, but a devilish look on Beaumont's face seemed to freeze her blood.
"Be silent," he said in a harsh whisper, shaking her wrist. "I will tell you all soon, but now be silent for your son's sake."
She wrenched herself free and shrank back into the shadow with a cry, while Beaumont, taking no further notice, quickly followed the squire who was now some distance ahead.
Garsworth opened a large folding-door that stood a short distance away from the stairs and which led into the ball-room of the Grange. Followed by the artist he went into the long, bare room, which stretched nearly the whole length of the front wing of the house, being lighted by eight large windows, looking out on to the park.
The room was chill and bleak, every footfall awaking a responsive echo and leaving a mark on the grey dust that had accumulated on the floor for many years. The wall opposite the door was adorned with delicately-painted panels, representing the nine muses, each female figure being twice life-size and rising from the floor to the arched roof, between each of the eight windows. At one end of the room the panels represented the three Graces, at the other the three Fates, while the remaining wall displayed nine goddesses of heathen mythology. The arched roof was painted a deep blue, silvered with stars, but nowhere appeared any male form--nothing but the gracious female figures of Hellas were to be seen around.
The squire went straight to the extreme corner of the room, on the left hand of the door, and knelt down where there was a panel representing Clotho spinning the thread of life. He evidently touched a spring concealed in the gold-embossed frame of the panel, for it silently slid back, displaying a wall of rough stone. The upper blocks of stone appeared heavy and cumbersome, but the lower ones were much smaller, and as Beaumont looked he saw Garsworth drag from its place a smallish stone in the lower centre of the wall, displaying only the rough place where it lay, but no cavity where anything could be hid. The squire, however, soon showed how ingenious was the hiding-place he had chosen, for on turning round the stone which he had taken out, there appeared a small hole hollowed out and from this the old man took a paper and a ring. He laid them down for a moment to lift the stone off his lap, but at this moment Beaumont, exerting his hypnotic power, said abruptly:
"You are looking at the paper."
Under the influence of the hallucination produced, the squire looked earnestly at the stone on his lap, while Beaumont, picking up the real paper, glanced over it rapidly, examined the ring, then laid them both down again by the somnambulist.
"You should put them back," he suggested distinctly. Garsworth picked up the paper, and replacing it in the stone, put it once more in its former position, and then dragged the panel along till it clicked on the spring, thus resuming its former appearance. No one, to look at it, would think that such a large picture could be moved in any way, and even if the secret of the panel were discovered, Beaumont felt sure no one would think of examining the interior of the stone in the wall. Having now ascertained all he wanted to know, Beaumont's next care was to get the squire back to his former position and wake him, so that he would be unconscious of what he had done during his hypnotic sleep. To this end he bent forward to the kneeling figure on the floor.
"Mr. Beaumont is waiting to finish your picture."
"Yes, yes. I must have the picture done," said Garsworth, and, rising to his feet, he left the room, followed by Beaumont, who saw the white face of Patience peering from the shadow and frowning at him in a menacing manner.
Placing his finger on his lips to enforce silence, he glided past her down the wide stairs, across the hall and into the drawing-room, where he found the squire had once more re-established himself in his chair.
"Well," said Beaumont to himself, "there seems to be some chance of making use of this secret, but I can't do it without the help of Patience, so I must see her. Meanwhile, I'll wake the squire."
He crossed over to the squire and touched his face with his own cold hands, upon which the old man started violently.
He then spoke loudly into his ear:
"Mr. Garsworth!"
The somnambulist opened his eyes, and a confused expression appeared on his face as he looked at Beaumont.
"Do you feel better?" asked the artist, gently.
"Yes," answered the squire, slowly passing his hand over his forehead. "The pain is gone, but I feel very tired."
"It's always the case in hypnotism."
"How long have I been asleep?"
"About a quarter-of-an-hour," replied Beaumont, glancing at his watch. "Were you dreaming at all? Hypnotism usually produces dreams."
"Aha!" said Garsworth, cunningly, "I was dreaming of my secret. I did not speak in my sleep, did I?" he asked, in sudden terror.
"No, you were perfectly quiet," answered the artist, going back to his seat.
"I feel too tired to sit any more," observed Garsworth, rising with a great effort. "I must lie down. Hypnotism seems to exhaust the body very much."
"It does, of course; it acts physically."
The squire, with the aid of his stick, moved painfully to the door, leaving Beaumont smiling at the picture before him.