Life is a gameThe keenest wins.Repute or shame.Life is a game;We give or claimFor virtues, sins;Life is a gameThe keenest wins
Life is a gameThe keenest wins.Repute or shame.Life is a game;We give or claimFor virtues, sins;Life is a gameThe keenest wins
Beaumont was perfectly satisfied with the result of his experiment, as he had discovered the squire's secret, and had yet succeeded in keeping him in ignorance of his having done so. With the keen intellect of a man accustomed to live by his wits, he had, during his rapid survey of the papers, seen the chances of turning the secret to his own advantage. But to do so he required the co-operation of Patience, and this he was doubtful of obtaining.
She held studiously aloof from him, and since the interview in the churchyard had given no sign that she was aware of his existence. Many men would have been discouraged by this contemptuous silence; but not so Beaumont, who never saw discourtesy in anyone of whom he wanted to make use. Hitherto Patience had been a mere cipher in his eyes; but now, since his discovery of the existence of her son, and since he had learned the jealously-guarded secret of the squire, she suddenly became an important person; for it was through her he hoped to secure his ends--ends calculated to benefit himself alone.
The only way by which he could hope to gain her ear was through her love for their son, hence his explanation on the stairs. Now, after putting away his painting utensils, he lighted a cigarette, and strolled easily along to the housekeeper's room in order to arrange matters with her. Of the result he had no fear, as he intended to appeal to her motherhood, which appeal, he well knew, would not be neglected by this woman, whose whole life was devoted to her son. Mr. Beaumont was an expert whist-player, and, moreover, admired the game very much. So, in this case, being somewhat doubtful of Patience, yet holding a strong hand, he took an illustration from his favourite game, and said:
"When in doubt, play trumps."
"It will be a charming game," he murmured, as he knocked at the door of the housekeeper's room, "she is no mean adversary, and hates me like poison--all the more credit to me if I win--as I mean to."
Patience Allerby, in her quiet, grey dress, was sitting silent and statuesque by the window, staring out at the rapidly darkening landscape. When Beaumont entered, she looked coldly at him, but neither rose to receive him nor invited him to sit down. Her visitor, however, was not troubled by any sensitive feeling, so threw himself into a comfortable chair that was near the fire, and coolly went on smoking.
"I hope you don't mind my cigarette," he said, languidly, "but I can't exist without smoking."
"You can't exist without all sorts of luxuries," replied Patience, bitterly, "you're not the man to deny yourself anything."
"I had to deny myself a good many things when we were starving in London," said Mr. Beaumont, leisurely. "By the way, I want to speak to you about London."
"And I want to speak to you about the squire," she retorted, quickly. "What were you doing following him upstairs?"
"Don't distress yourself, my good soul," said the artist, in a coolly aggravating manner. "I'll tell you that later on; meantime, we will talk of Chelsea."
"No."
"Pardon me--yes. Do you remember how we lived there, you and I, and the visions we used to indulge in? I haven't forgotten it, I assure you, and then Fanny Blake--poor Fanny! she is dead now. I see you gave the boy her surname."
"And what if I did?" she flashed out fiercely, with a deep frown on her face. "Could I give him yours--the father who had deserted him? Could I give him mine--the mother to whom his birth was a disgrace?"
"A disgrace! I thought you loved him?"
"So I do--I love him more than my life; but his birth was a disgrace, and I wish to keep the knowledge from him, please God."
"Was the boy you call Reginald Blake ever christened?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I could not tell the truth about his birth, and I refused to tell a lie. He was neither christened, nor was his birth registered."
"Then he has no right to the name he bears."
"I know that. Whose fault is it, Basil Beaumont--yours or mine? Why didn't you make an honest woman of me?"
"Because I did not choose to," he replied, coolly; "by the way, has our son been confirmed?"
"No."
"Oh," he said, sneering, "I'm sorry he's not got some religious flavour about him. I wonder, Patience, when you called him Blake, you did not pass him off as Fanny's son."
She arose from her seat in a fury.
"Do you think I was going to place my sin on Fanny's shoulders?"
"I don't see why not--Fanny and yourself both came up to London at the same time--the child was born six months after you arrived there--why not call it Fanny's child?"
"There was no reason."
"Not then; but there is now, and a very excellent reason--ten thousand a year."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply this, that Reginald Blake, from this time forward, is the son of Fanny Blake and Randal Garsworth."
Patience looked at him in surprise, and involuntarily drew back a step, thinking him mad. Beaumont saw this, and laughed mockingly.
"Don't be afraid--there's method in my madness."
"There's some villainy in it," she said, with a hard smile, sitting down near him; "tell me what you mean, Basil Beaumont, if you intend touching a hair of my son's head I'll punish you."
"I intend to give him ten thousand a year, if you won't be a fool."
She smiled coldly, and folded her hands upon her lap.
"I'm no fool, but I know you--go on, Ananias."
Beaumont flung the burnt-out cigarette into the fire with an irritable gesture, and turned his face towards the frigid woman seated before him.
"Listen to what I've got to say," he said slowly, "and then you can do as you please--if you assist me it means money and happiness for our son; if you don't, I'll tell him everything, and then leave the village for ever."
Patience shivered slightly under the steely glitter of his eyes, and then resumed her cold impassive manner.
"Brag's a good dog," she said mockingly, "but he does not bite--go on, I'm all attention."
The artist glanced at the door to make sure that it was closed, then drawing his chair closer to that of Patience Allerby, began to talk rapidly, in a low tone of voice.
"Of course you know the squire is mad--quite mad--he has an idea that his soul will be re-incarnated in another body, and as he is afraid he may be born poor, he has invented a silly scheme by which to become repossessed of his present wealth. I have discovered this scheme--how it does not matter--all I need tell you is, that I have found out all about it--his idea is to pass himself off as his own son."
"But he has no son."
"Of course not, you fool," said "Beaumont impatiently, "he couldn't "carry out his idea if he had; it's this way, he has made his will, leaving the property to his natural son, who will at some future time--date not fixed, as he cannot tell when he'll be re-incarnated--go to the lawyers who hold the will and produce, as a proof of his claim to the estate, a letter written to him by his supposed father, also the squire's seal ring--when he does so, under the terms of the will, he inherits the Garsworth estate."
"I understand, so far; but how does the squire, in a new body, expect to get these papers?"
"Oh! he thinks he'll remember about the affair when he is born again, so he has hidden the papers where he'll be able to find them--in his new body he'll simply go and look them up, produce them to the lawyers, and there you are."
"What a foolish idea."
"What a foolish remark, you mean," said Beaumont; "of course it's foolish, the man is mad. When he dies the papers will remain undisturbed till doomsday--if I choose."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply this--as he does not know when or where he'll be re-incarnated, he has left a number of blanks in the letter."
"Have you seen the letter?"
"Of course I have. I know where the paper is hidden--didn't I tell you I'd discovered his secret. Well, all I've got to do is to fill up these blanks--the name of the mother, the place of the supposed son's birth, and all the rest of it."
"I see. But what have I to do with this?"
Beaumont arose to his feet and walked angrily to and fro.
"What an idiot you are, Patience," he said irritably. "Can't you see? I'm going to fill up the mother's name as Fanny Blake, and the son's as Reginald."
"Our son?"
"Precisely. Now do you see why I want your help?"
"I do, but you shan't have it."
"Indeed; why not?"
"I'm not going to have such a sin on my conscience."
"There's no sin, you Puritan," he said quickly, "the re-incarnation idea is rubbish; no one will appear to claim the property, so why not give the ten thousand a year to Reginald?"
"It would dispossess Miss Una."
"It would do nothing of the sort--under the will Miss Una cannot claim--the lawyers don't know anything about the re-incarnation theory; all they know is that Squire Garsworth has a son who will appear and prove his claim by the possession of certain papers and a seal ring--until that son appears no one can claim the estate."
"Miss Una could dispute the will on the ground of madness."
"I dare say she could, but she won't--if Reginald becomes master of Garsworth Grange she will marry him, and will enjoy the property just the same as if she were sole heiress--on the other hand, if he does not become master she'll have to wait till this non-existent son appears or upsets the will, one of which things will be impossible and the other troublesome."
Patience thought for a moment or two and then looked up.
"How do you know Reginald will marry Una?"
"Because I've got eyes in my head. The boy is madly in love with her. I'm sure you must see that your helping me to place Reginald in possession of this property will hurt no one and be for the benefit of both Una and your own son."
"I see that, but I fail to see what benefit you obtain from it, and I don't think you're the man to work for nothing."
"You're perfectly right," he replied calmly, "but I'm going to make myself Reginald's right hand, and when he comes in for the property I can help him to look after the estate."
"And ruin him."
"I won't ruin him. Why should I want to ruin my own son?"
"Bah! don't talk like that to me."
"Oh well, if you disbelieve in interest, I'll put it another way. Why should I kill the goose with the golden eggs?"
"Yes, that's more like it," she said with a sneer, "I think your plan is an admirable one, but there's one obstacle."
"What is it?"
"Reginald is an honourable man, and won't accept any property gained by fraud."
Beaumont sighed in a resigned manner, apparently hopeless of explaining matters clearly to this painfully obstinate woman.
"He'll never know the property is obtained by fraud, because you will tell him he is the son of Fanny Blake and the squire; he will believe you, and regard himself as the lawful heir."
"Still, he thinks he's been born in lawful wedlock, and to undeceive him----"
"Gives him ten thousand a year," interrupted Beaumont coolly. "Well, what do you say, will you help me?"
"I'll tell you to-morrow."
"Why not to-day?"
"Because I don't trust you, I want to go over the affair in my own mind."
Beaumont shrugged his shoulders, put on his hat and lighted another cigarette.
"Just as you please," he said, pausing a moment at the door. "I'll call and see you to-morrow; but if you don't help me in this, I'll do what I say and tell Reginald everything."
When he was gone Patience sat for a long time looking into the fire, evidently pondering deeply. At length she sighed and muttered:
"I don't know what to do, I must ask counsel of the Lord."
She arose, and having lighted a candle opened the Bible.
Man is but a whimsical animal at best, for there is no life but what may some day act in discord with its theory.
Patience Allerby occupied a very peculiar position, and knew that she did so, much to her perplexity. Ever since her lapse from virtue she had lived a self-denying existence as an expiation for her sin, and she had cause to be satisfied with the past twenty years of her life, seeing that she had done nothing wrong all the time. True, living in almost monastic existence, she had no temptations to fight against, and the absence of temptation rendered it comparatively easy to lead a virtuous life. Not being tempted she lived an ascetic life, being absolutely certain that she was strong enough to withstand any temptation, however powerful. Vain hope, for now the devil in the person of her old betrayer assaulted her on her weakest side. Had he tried to make her rob her master or return to her old life of sin, he would have failed dismally, but an appeal through her motherhood was perilous to her strength, and Beaumont knew this when he used her love for Reginald as a weapon against her. In spite of her prayers, her tears, her comforting texts, she knew that if Beaumont wished her to commit any crime to benefit her son she would do so in defiance of her religious belief, however strong.
God alone knew the night of anguish this woman passed, wrestling with the subtle temptation placed before her in such an attractive shape. Those old saints, who, according to pious legends, fought with the visible powers of evil, had no such terrible enemies to cope with, in contrast to a soul racked with doubt fighting against spiritual promptings.
In vain this poor soul, who wished to do right, closed her ears to the infernal whisperings of evil spirits, in vain she read with frenzied ardour the terrible prophecies of Isaiah or the comforting promises of the Gospels, in vain she knelt weeping bitterly before the crucifix, praying to be guarded from falling into sin. It was all useless. Either spiritual weapons had lost their efficacy, or her intense maternal passion blunted her sense of religious duty, and after a terrible struggle with her invisible enemies, which left her completely prostrate, she began to calmly consider Beaumont's scheme. From that moment she was lost; for, on reviewing the whole matter she began to pacify her conscience with arguments concerning the rectitude of the affair.
She would be doing no wrong to anyone--nay, she would be conferring a benefit on Una, seeing that by her marriage with Reginald she would be put in possession of the property at once, whereas should the will be carried out strictly she would have to wait everlastingly for the appearance of a non-existing person. Suppose she agreed to Beaumont's plan, and said Fanny Blake and the squire were the parents of her son, he would become rich and honoured, bearing a renowned name and no longer be an unknown waif, heavily handicapped in the battle of life.
On the other hand he would learn the shame of his birth, and that would cast an everlasting shadow on his young spirit. What wealth--what position could compensate in his own eyes for the moral stigma thus cast upon him. He might succeed to the property, marry Una, and thus do no harm to anyone, still, if he became a father, how deeply would he feel for the sins of his parents being visited on his offspring. No, she could not place him in such a position; better for him to remain unknown and obscure, with a full belief in his honourable birth, than go through life haunted by the spectre of an intolerable disgrace.
While thus hesitating between these two views of the case, a sudden idea came to her, which inclined her to refuse to help Beaumont and let the boy make his own life, ignorant of the stain on his name. The squire, in spite of his miserly habits, had a kind heart. She would ask him to give Reginald fifty or a hundred pounds to help him, then the lad could go to London and make a position by his vocal talents. Thus, he would benefit in no way through money unjustly obtained, and Una, being in possession of the property, he could marry her and enjoy it just the same as if the scheme were carried out. Yes, it would be the best way; he would at least never know who or what he was, and she would thus assist him in life without committing a crime. The more she thought of the plan the better she liked it, and falling on her knees in the dark she thanked God long and fervently for the solution he had shown her of the difficulty.
Next morning she proceeded to carry her ideas into effect, for after Miss Cassy and Una had paid their usual morning visit, she found herself alone with the squire and in a position to make her request.
Garsworth was lying in bed, propped up by pillows, and looked very feeble indeed, so that Patience saw the end could not be far off, in spite of Nestley's care and attention.
After his recovery from his debauch, Nestley had felt bitter shame at his fall, but having lost his self-respect by thus reverting to his old ways, he tried to drown remorse by drinking, and alcohol was rapidly regaining all its old influence over him. Still he did not let it interfere with his attendance on the Squire, and if the old man saw that Nestley's hand was shaky, and his eyes becoming bleared, he said nothing, and the unhappy young man performed his duties in a mechanical way, drinking deeply whenever an opportunity offered.
Nestley, looking haggard and unsteady after his drinking of the previous night, had just left the room, leaving Patience alone with the Squire, when the old man spoke sharply:
"Patience, what is the matter with the doctor?"
"Drink!" she answered laconically.
"Drink!" repeated the Squire, raising himself on his elbow. "Nonsense, woman, you must be mistaken, he drinks neither wine nor spirits."
"He never did until a week ago," answered Patience coolly, "he used to be a total abstainer, but now--well, you can see for yourself."
The long connection that had existed between this strange couple as master and servant, had developed between them a certain amount of familiarity.
"I remember," said Garsworth musingly, "that in my last incarnation, I drank ale very much--it was in the reign of Elizabeth, and we drank confusion to the King of Spain--it resulted in confusion to myself. If I had not been a drunkard, I would not have been a pauper; it's a pity this young man should follow the same downward path."
"It's his own fault," replied Patience in a stony manner, "he ought to stop when he finds it does him harm."
"No doubt," returned the old man acidly, "but did you ever know a man deny himself anything if it did him harm?"
"You did."
"Yes, because I had an object to gain. The life I led in Town was very pleasant, but it would have left me a pauper for my next incarnation."
It was no use trying to argue the old man out of his delusion, so Patience said nothing, but stood beside him in grim silence with folded arms.
"I'll enjoy myself when I'm born again," pursued Garsworth exultingly. "I will have plenty of money and a new body. I will have youth once again. Oh, youth! youth! how short are your golden hours. Young men never know the treasure they possess in youth, and waste it in idleness and folly; there's that child you brought up, Reginald Blake----"
"I did not bring him up."
"Well, well," rejoined Garsworth testily. "You know what I mean, you were his nurse--but he has youth, good looks, health and talents--why doesn't he go to London with such advantages, instead of wasting his life in a dull village?"
"He's got no money," retorted Patience icily; "all you mention go for nothing without money."
"No doubt, no doubt," muttered Garsworth, his eyes gleaming; "money is a necessity--still he has talents, I hear."
"What can talents do?"
"Everything; a clever brain commands the world."
"I dare say," retorted Patience ironically, "if it gets money to give it a start. Master Reginald has it in him to make a great name by his voice, but he needs help--the help of money--who will give him that help?"
She eyed the old man keenly as she spoke.
"Ah, who indeed?" he replied carelessly, "who indeed?"
"Why not yourself?" said the housekeeper eagerly.
"I?" he ejaculated in surprise.
"Yes, you," she retorted vehemently. "I was as you say the nurse of that boy. I have loved him far more than his dead parents ever did; they left him to me, and I stood in his mother's place: it is my dearest wish that he should succeed--with money he can do so. I have served you long and faithfully and asked no favour, but now that you have mentioned his name, I ask this first and last favour of you, give him money and help him to succeed."
"Do you think I'm mad?" cried the old man shrilly. "Why should I help him? What is he to me? I have gathered all my wealth by years of self-denial. I want to enjoy it in my next existence, not squander it in this by helping a pauper."
"And yet you talk of the golden hours of youth," she replied bitterly. "It's easy saying, but hard doing. What is a hundred pounds to you?--a drop in the ocean. What is it to him?--everything."
"I can't part with my money," he said doggedly, turning his face away.
Her voice took a tender tone as she pleaded for her son.
"He has no claim upon you, I know, but think of his youth, his talents, wasted in this dull village. You say you will remember in your next body what you have done in this; for years you have never done a kind action to a human being, do one now by helping this lad, and your next existence will be none the worse for having helped an unknown man."
The old man made no reply, but was clearly moved by her argument.
"And again," said Patience, still in the same anxious voice, "with your help he will make a position in the world. What position will you occupy? with all your money, you may be born a prince or a ploughboy--you do not know--but in whatever station you are born, his influence, his friendship, may be a help to you, and it will be all the more precious when you know it is your work."
The woman's voice died away in a soft manner, and she anxiously watched the old man's wrinkled face to see if he would do what she asked. Evidently her words appealed either to his selfishness or good nature, for, turning towards her, a smile spread over his crabbed face.
"I'll do it, Patience," he said quickly. "I'll do it--perhaps he will be of help to me in my next life--get me my cheque book, and I'll write a cheque for fifty pounds--no more--no more. I can't afford it."
"Fifty is no use--say one hundred," she urged eagerly.
"Well, well! one hundred," he said peevishly, "it's a large sum, still it may do good to me. I'll write a letter with it, and tell him he must do what I ask in my next life. Will he do that?"
"Yes! Yes!" she replied impatiently, in nowise affronted by his selfish motives. "He is not the man to forget a kind action."
"You don't thank me," he said angrily, as she went over to the escritoire and got his cheque book. "Grasping! ungrateful!"
"I'm not ungrateful," she retorted, bringing the pen and ink to him with the cheque book, and a block of blotting paper to write on, "but I do thank you. I was never one for lip service."
"Bah! women are all alike," he said viciously, sitting up in bed, and seizing the pen. "Go and bring me some letter paper and an envelope."
She did so, and returned to his bedside by the time he had written the cheque.
"I've post-dated this cheque," he said cunningly, "because I won't send it to him till just before I die."
"What do you mean by post-dated?"
"This is the twelfth," he replied, smoothing out the letter paper, "I have dated it the thirtieth."
"How do you know you'll die then?"
"I don't know if I will, you fool," he retorted angrily, "but I think so--if I don't I'll write another cheque."
"Yes, and change your mind."
"No--no--a promise is a promise--if he helps me in the future I'll help him now--be quiet, you cat, I want to write."
She remained silent, and very slowly and painfully the old man wrote a letter, then he directed the envelope to Reginald Blake at the Vicarage and placed the letter and cheque therein. After doing this he closed the letter and told her to bring sealing-wax and his seal.
"What for?" she asked, going over to his desk.
"Because I'm not going to let anyone but himself see what I have written--you needn't be afraid--I will do what I say, look at the cheque, you fool."
She had brought a candle to the bedside so that he could melt the wax for the seal, and as he held the cheque out to her she read it in the dim light.
"It's all right," she said with a sigh of relief, "I thank you very much."
"You needn't," he retorted cynically, sealing the letter with the Garsworth arms. "I do it for my own sake not his; now put this letter in the desk and let me see you do it."
He handed her his keys, so taking them and the letter over to the desk, she deposited it in the place indicated by his lean, outstretched finger, and having locked it safely up, blew out the candle and brought the keys back to him.
The Squire placed them under his pillow, then lay down again with a sigh of exhaustion.
"There, I've done what you asked," he said in a dull voice, "now go away. I'll sleep a little."
Patience carefully tucked all the clothes round him and then left the room with a look of triumph on her face.
"Now, Basil Beaumont," she said when she was outside the door. "I think I can laugh at you and your threats about my son."
Shadows of what are shadows--living onceNow naught but ghosts among a world of ghosts.Who knows--we may but shadows be on earthAnd act the other life's realities.
Shadows of what are shadows--living onceNow naught but ghosts among a world of ghosts.Who knows--we may but shadows be on earthAnd act the other life's realities.
Miss Cassy was greatly excited over the afternoon tea to which she had bidden Mrs. Larcher and the rest of the vicarage inmates. It was a long time since she had taken part in a little social festivity such as she had been accustomed to in London, so both herself and Una determined it should be a success. In the dreary dismal life they led this was a little mild excitement, consequently, it was to them as great an event as the ball of the season to a Town belle.
Reginald and Pumpkin walked over to the Grange, but Mrs. Larcher was driven over in state by Dick Pemberton, who drove at such a speed that he nearly rattled the vicar's wife into hysterics. Consequently on arriving at her destination, Mrs. Larcher was severely under the sway of "The Affliction" and had to be at once comforted with strong tea. Cecilia had also been invited, and arrived at the Grange under the guardianship of Miss Busky, who bounced the blind girl so rapidly along the road that she entered the Park in a state of exhaustion.
The party all assembled in Una's private room, where they were shortly afterwards joined by bluff Dr. Larcher and Beaumont. Jellicks, having wriggled in with the tea-cake and muffins, was dismissed altogether, as Mrs. Larcher, under the influence of "The Affliction," declared the old woman made her feel creepy.
"She's so twisty, my dear," she observed to Una, "like a sea-serpent you know--even the vicar has noticed her."
"Qui siccis oculis monstra natantia," roared the vicar, quoting from his favourite poet, "though to be sure, I speak of her in the singular."
"Of course," said Dick slily, "she's singular in any case:"
"So very odd," giggled Miss Cassy, who was making the tea, "I don't mean Jellicks, but what you say--puns you know--like what's his name, Byron, had in his burlesques--not the Don Juan one you know, but the other--so odd, wasn't he?"
"Not half so odd as Miss Cassy," whispered Dick to Reginald, but the latter young gentleman, being engaged with Una, did not reply.
"I don't know if I ought to eat muffins," said Mrs. Larcher darkly, as Miss Busky bounced up to her with a plate of those edibles. "So very buttery--make me bilious--I've been bilious often, have I not Eleanora Gwendoline?"
"Yes, often, Mama," assented the obedient Pumpkin.
"I hope you're better now?" observed Beaumont politely, seeing the lady's eyes fixed upon him.
"Ah, yes, now," sighed Mrs. Larcher, stirring her tea, "but will it last? the question is will it endure? my affliction is so capricious--I'm very weak--quite a Hindoo."
"Why a Hindoo, my dear?" asked the vicar, rather puzzled.
"Because they are weak--die if you look at them," explained Mrs. Larcher, "rice of course--they live on it and there's no nourishment in it."
"By the way, Miss Challoner, how is the Squire?" asked Beaumont, who was leaning up against the mantelpiece looking rather bored.
"He's not at all strong," replied Miss Cassy, taking the remark to herself, "quite like a candle you know--so odd--might go out at any moment--but Dr. Nestley is doing him good; but I don't think the dear doctor is well himself."
Beaumont smiled slightly at this, guessing the cause of the doctor's illness, and glancing at Cecilia, saw the blind girl was trembling violently.
"I hope he is not very ill," she said in her low, clear voice.
"Oh no--he'll be all right soon--I think it's overwork," said Una hastily, anxious to avoid any discussion of the doctor's complaint, the cause of which she, with her feminine shrewdness, half guessed. "Cecilia, will you play something?"
The blind girl assented, and was led by Una to the quaint old spinet which stood in the corner. With the true feelings of an artist Cecilia did not play anything noisy on the delicate instrument, but a dainty old gavotte which sounded faint and clear like the sound of a silver bell. All the company were charmed with the delicacy of the music except Miss Cassy and Mrs. Larcher who were conversing about dress.
"I hope you like mine," observed Miss Cassy, looking at the gown she wore, which was of white muslin dotted with pink bows. "I was afraid I'd make it dabby--I'm afraid I have made it dabby--do you think so?"
Mrs. Larcher eyed the production of Miss Cassy's artistic nature with a critical eye, and pronounced her opinion that it was dabby, thus reducing poor Miss Cassy to the verge of tears. When Cecilia finished the gavotte all present urged her to play something else.
"It's like fairy music," said Beaumont. "I love to hear those old airs of Purcell and Arne played upon such an instrument. It's so thoroughly in keeping with the idea. The lyrics in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' set to the old-fashioned music and played on a spinet, gives one a charming idea of the court of Oberon and Titania."
"And Miss Mosser plays so charmingly," said Reginald, gaily.
"'O testudinis aureæDulcem quæ strepitum Pieri temperas,'"
quoted the vicar, in his rolling bass.
"I prefer the sweet harmony of the spinet to the lyre," said Beaumont, smiling.
"Dear me, vicar," observed Mrs. Larcher angrily. "I wish you wouldn't be always talking Latin. No one understands it."
"That's hardly a compliment to the gentlemen present, my dear," said Dr. Larcher in his most stately manner, "but, as Horace says, 'Oh, mater pulchra'----I beg your pardon, I will refrain from the bard."
"Now, Mr. Blake, I want you to sing something," said Una, crossing over to Pumpkin.
"Certainly--some old English melody, I suppose, to match the spinet. 'Phyllida flouts me,' or 'Mistress mine where are you roaming?'"
"Let us have them both," said Beaumont, lazily. "Very likely the ghosts of the old Elizabethan lyrists will come and listen."
"You'll see a real ghost shortly," said Una mysteriously, as she and Pumpkin, after a whispered consultation, moved to the door.
"The ghost of whom?" asked Reginald, who was standing by the spinet.
"Lady Betty Modish or Sophia Western--which ever you like--town or country," replied Una, laughing, and thereupon vanished with Miss Larcher.
"What does she mean?" demanded the vicar in astonishment.
"Something very odd," said Miss Cassy, shaking her girlish head. "Yes, quite like a play. The School for what's-it's-name. Sheridan, you know--quite lovely."
And now Reginald began to sing the quaint old song "Phyllida flouts me," while Cecilia, who knew the music off by heart, played the accompaniment. The night was beginning to close in, and the room was full of shadows, lighted in a fantastic manner by the red glare of the fire, which flashed on the tarnished gilded frames of the pictures and the sombre faces looking from the walls. Beaumont, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, listened quietly, while opposite to him the vicar, ensconced in a great arm-chair, crossed his legs and kept time to the music with his spectacles.
So gay and charming the old song sounded. Nothing of the sickly sentimentality of the modern drawing-room ballad--nothing of the florid passion of the Italian school--but all fresh and wholesome, like a gentle wind blowing freely over an English meadow, white with daisies. Reginald sang the complaint of the unhappy lover charmingly, and ended amid a subdued murmur of satisfaction, even Mrs. Larcher being pleased.
"So simple," she said, nodding her head. "Quite soothing, like a cradle. Ah, there are no songs now-a-days like the old ones."
"My dear, we are past the age of Corydon and Chloe," replied the vicar. "Virgil and Horace would find no Arcady to sing about now."
"Well, I don't suppose that Imperial Rome was more Arcadian than London," said Beaumont, lazily, "but I'm afraid we've lost the charm of simplicity."
"Ah, you've never heard 'Lady Bell,'" said Dick wisely.
"No. I must confess my ignorance," replied the artist. "Who or what is Lady Bell?"
"It's a song--simplicity, if you like. Reggy found it among some old music at the vicarage."
"Did he indeed?" observed the vicar placidly. "No doubt it belonged to my grandfather. I thought that music was all burnt.Damnosa quid non imminuit dies?"
"He spared this, sir, at all events," said Reginald gaily. "Miss Mosser, you can play 'Lady Bell'?"
"Yes, I think so," replied Cecilia, striking a chord. "It haunted me when I first heard it. Sing it now, Mr. Blake."
Whereupon she played a prelude of silvery-sounding chords, and Reginald sang the old ballad of "Lady Bell." How, despising all the beaux, she gave her heart to a plain young country squire, and left the delights of Ranelagh for the quiet of a village. So dainty and crisp rang the music to the simple story with its Arcadian end.
"My Lady Bell in gold brocade,Looked not so fair or trim a maidAs when in linsey woollen gown,She left for love the noisy town."
"My Lady Bell in gold brocade,Looked not so fair or trim a maidAs when in linsey woollen gown,She left for love the noisy town."
And then the door opened as Reginald ended the delightful old song, and surely on the threshold stood my Lady Bell as she appeared at Ranelagh, in powdered hair, in shimmer of gold brocade, with wide hoops and patches on her arch-looking face, with dainty red-heeled shoes and skilfully manipulated fan. It was surely Lady Bell that stepped so stately into the room in the red glare of the fire to the melodious clearness of the gavotte played by Cecilia, who, being whispered to by Reginald, at once seized the spirit of the jest. Or perchance one of the old Garsworth dames had stepped down from her gilt frame, and, attracted by the familiar tinkle of the spinet, come to look at what gay company were assembled in the oak parlour; but no, it was to their eyes Lady Bell, fair and dainty as of old, who swept into the firelight with tapping of high heels and sweep of stiff brocade.
"We must have lights to see this," cried Dick, jumping up from his chair.
"No, no, I protest!" said Beaumont, lifting up his hand. "It will spoil all. This is not Miss Challoner, but Lady Bell--a ghost from the days of powder and patches come to visit us. She moves in mysterious shadows--a light will cause her to melt away."
"I'm too substantial for that, I'm afraid," laughed Una, waving her fan. "But isn't this a charming dress? I found it the other day, and thought I would give you all a fright."
"I don't think you could give any one a fright," whispered Reginald, whereupon she flashed a saucy look at him out of the shadows. The sweet, clear music was still stealing through the room, and Beaumont, in his low, languid voice, talked idly.
"Lady Bell, I admire you vastly. How have you left London and the modish company at Soho? Surely no highwayman stayed you on the way hither in your coach and six? And what of my Lord Mohun? Is there any news at Will's coffee-house, and do the belles admire the new opera of Mr. Handel? Come, tell us the news."'
"I would need to be a gazette to do so."
"And you are not--only a fair dead woman from the perished past, come to show us what wit and beauty went out with powder and patches. Ah, my dear Lady Bell----"
At this moment he was interrupted, for a wild shriek rang through the house, and all present sprang to their feet, looking at one another in wild surmise.
We may have died in being born to earthPerchance our dying is another birth.
We may have died in being born to earthPerchance our dying is another birth.
The shriek was uttered by Patience Allerby, and when the whole party, recovering from their surprise, went upstairs they found her leaning against the door of the squire's room, with pale face and terrified-looking eyes. Beyond, half seen in the dim candlelight which illuminated the room, lay a dark shapeless object on the floor.
There was no need to say what had happened, for in the air there was that indescribable feeling which tells of the presence of the great destroyer. Leaving Patience to the care of Beaumont, to whom she clung with convulsive terror, Dr. Larcher reverently entered as he thought the chamber of death. He bent down to the form lying so still on the floor, and turned the face to the light with tender hand. It was ghastly pale, and from the thin lips there flowed a thin stream of blood; still the vicar saw at a glance that life yet remained, so calling softly to Reginald and Dick, the three men lifted the body up gently and placed it on the bed.
Beaumont had succeeded in somewhat pacifying Patience, and induced the women to go downstairs while he sent for the doctor to examine the sick man. They all re-assembled in the oak parlour, and terrified faces and subdued whispers took the place of merry looks and jocund laughter.
Attracted by the housekeeper's shriek, Dr. Nestley now entered the room, and proceeded to see what he could do towards reviving the squire. Beaumont glanced keenly at him as he passed, but though his face was pale and heavy-looking, still he was perfectly sober. He caught the artist scrutinising him, and drawing himself up with an angry frown, passed him by without a word.
"What is the matter, doctor?" asked the vicar anxiously, when the young man had concluded his examination.
"Aneurism," he replied briefly. "The body is thoroughly debilitated--he has burst a main artery."
"Is it his heart?" asked Reginald.
"If he had burst any artery in the vicinity of the heart, he would have died at once--even now he cannot live very long--I expected this?"
"What produced the rupture?"
"Some sudden emotion, I presume, or violent exercise--here comes the housekeeper; she will tell us all about it."
Patience, looking pale but composed, and in answer to the interrogatories of the doctor, told the following story:
"The squire was quietly sleeping in bed," she exclaimed calmly, "and I fell asleep in the chair by the side of the bed--he must have arisen and gone to his desk, for I was awakened by a fall, and saw him lying on the floor. I was so startled that I cried out and you came up--I know nothing more."
Owing to the remedies which Dr. Nestley was applying, the sick man now revived, and moaned feebly. Shortly afterwards, opening his eyes he stared wildly at the figures surrounding his bed, and tried to speak, but seemed unable to make any sound beyond an indistinct murmur.
Dr. Larcher came close to the bed, and bending down spoke distinctly and slowly to the dying man.
"You are very ill," he said in a pitying voice. "I hope you have made your peace with heaven."
With a superhuman effort Garsworth raised himself on his elbow, and stretching out his hand pointed to the desk.
"In there," he gasped. "Blake--there."
The effort was too much for him, for with a choking cry he fell back on the bed a corpse.
Nestley, starting to his feet, bent over the bed, and tearing open the squire's shirt, put his hand on his heart--it had ceased to beat.
"He is dead," he said, in a coldly professional manner, "that last effort killed him."
"Dead!" echoed Patience, who was leaning against the curtains with staring eyes and a white terrified face.
"Yes--dead," repeated Dr. Larcher gravely. "We can do no good now," and followed by Reginald and Dick he left the room, wondering in his own heart what the old man had meant by pointing at the desk while pronouncing Blake's name.
The melancholy news was conveyed to the terrified women downstairs, and shortly afterwards everyone departed, leaving the inmates of the Grange alone with its dead master. Una and Miss Cassy, stunned by the suddenness of the event, retired early to bed, and Jellicks, with the help of Patience, laid the corpse out on the bed ready for the undertaker. Nestley went to his own room and solaced himself with brandy; Patience remained by the side of the corpse to watch it during the night, and over all the house there hung a shadow of fear and dread which invested the place with awesome terror.
And that which once held the soul of Randal Garsworth lay on the bed under the heavily-draped canopy--a still white-faced form with the dead hands crossed on the dead breast, and on the white lips a terrible smile. Candles burned on each side of the body with a sickly light, and a woman with her face buried in her hands knelt praying for the dead man's soul.