"Oh God who art the Judge of all have mercy upon the soul of this wretched man."
Not a breath of air in the vastness of the room, no sound, no blaze of light--only the pale glimmer of the candles hollowing out a gulf of luminous light in the sombre blackness of the brooding night.
"Oh God who art all powerful and just, let not the soul of this man suffer for the sins of his life, for the mind which should have ruled the soul was a wreck and incapable of so ruling."
Was there not a sneer upon the still features of the dead man at this prayer for his misspent, useless life--he that despised prayer and only looked upon his soul as useful to inhabit a new body so that he could make it an instrument by which to enjoy the sensual things of this earth.
Midnight, and the wind is rising--with querulous voice it sweeps through the leafless trees and whistles through the chinks and crannies of the old house, making the dim light of the candles flicker and flare in the dense darkness. No prayer now sounds from the thin lips of the watcher, for a sudden thought has darted through her brain.
"The letter for my son--I must get it from the desk."
She rises softly from her knees, and putting her hand under the pillow whereon rests the head of the corpse, draws forth the keys of the dead man, holding her breath meantime, fearful lest he should arise and lay cold hands upon her. The keys chink musically in the silence, then with stealthy stride and sound of sweeping dress, she crosses to the desk, bent on obtaining the letter written by the squire to Reginald Blake.
The minutes slowly pass, and the wind is still rising; now howling furiously round the house, shaking the shutters and fluttering the curtains as though wroth at witnessing the sacrilegious theft it is powerless to prevent.
With the letter in her hand, the woman who has committed this crime against the dead for the sake of her son, softly crosses the room toward the bed, replaces the keys in their old place under the pillow, and slipping the letter into her bosom, falls once more upon her knees with tearful eyes and outstretched hands.
"God! God! if I have sinned in this I pray for pardon, it is for my son's sake, oh God, not for my own."
Fearfully she looks at the frozen face, cold and still in the glimmering light of the candles; the dead has not seen, the dead has not heard--her crime is unknown to anyone on earth, but involuntarily she looks upward as though dreading to see the all-seeing eye of God burning menacingly through the gloom. Then with an effort she betakes herself once more to prayer.
"Oh God, pardon me for my sins, and pardon those of this poor soul who has of late gone into Thy presence."
One sinner fresh from the committal of a crime praying for the soul of another sinner.
Oh, the irony--the irony of the prayer.
In truth he had a silver tongueWhose mild persuasive accents rungLike music in her ear;Despite her dread, despite her hate.She ever let him rule her fateAnd change her heart from joy elateTo one that ached with fear.
In truth he had a silver tongueWhose mild persuasive accents rung
Like music in her ear;
Despite her dread, despite her hate.She ever let him rule her fateAnd change her heart from joy elate
To one that ached with fear.
The shadows of solitude and dreariness had ever hung like ill-omened clouds over Garsworth Grange, but now the shadows were deepened by the presence of death. To the eerie atmosphere of the old house had been added a new element of fear, and every lonely room, every shadowy corner and every echoing corridor seemed to be filled with a weird feeling of the supernatural. Jellicks and Munks were not by any means imaginative folk, but even they felt the influence of the spell of horror which seemed to brood over the lonely mansion, and conversed together in low whispers with furtive looks around as if expecting a whole host of goblins and spirits to start forth from the brooding shadows. Miss Cassy and Una both kept to their rooms, mutually trying to cheer one another, and the only person who seemed to move about at all was Patience Allerby, who glided through the bare rooms and dusky passages like an unquiet ghost. And not unlike a ghost did she look with her haggard face, burning eyes, and slim figure, carrying with her the paper she had stolen from the sanctity of the dead man's chamber, the paper which hidden in her bosom seemed to her excited fancy to feel bitterly cold as if its dead owner had grasped it with his chill hand to drag it forth from its hiding-place. True, the paper would benefit her son, and it was legally his, still the memory of that stealthy theft in the dark night, while yet the corpse lay stiffly on the bed, seemed to haunt her conscious-stricken soul like a crime.
And amid all this horror and dreariness which clung round the place, the dead man lay in his coffin in the dismal room he had occupied during life. No flowers were placed on the bed or on the coffin, no relatives wept over the white set face to melt its frozen apathy with hot tears, no voice of lamentation was heard bewailing a good man's fate; lonely in death as he had been in life, Randal Garsworth, who had sacrificed the pleasures of this earth to a delusion, lay unloved and uncared for in the silent room as if he had lain for generations in the vault of his ancestors.
Sometimes when Munks or Jellicks had taken their turns in watching the body, Patience would come for a time and, kneeling down, pray for the dead man's soul; but the sneering look on the still countenance seemed to mock her prayers and she fled away in horror at the thoughts that gibing smile provoked.
On the second day after the death of the squire, a visitor came to see Patience, one whom she half expected, and the housekeeper was not at all astonished at beholding Beaumont standing at the door of her room, about four o'clock in the afternoon.
"Why do you come here?" she asked half in anger, half in dread.
"Because I want to speak to you," replied Beaumont, leisurely closing the door and taking a seat. "I know it is not quite the thing to pay visits so soon after a death, but Miss Challoner and her aunt are, I believe shut up in their rooms, Munks and that serpent you call Jellicks are safe in the kitchen, so I came in at the back of the house quite unperceived to see you."
"What about?" she asked stolidly.
"I think you can pretty well guess," he replied coolly, "about the conversation I had with you the other day--I want your answer."
"The answer is--no."
"Is it, indeed--ah! we'd better chat over it for a time. I may persuade you to change your mind."
"You'll never do that," she said with a kind of gloomy triumph, "never."
"Indeed--we'll see," he retorted calmly; "by-the-way I hope you don't mind me smoking, but it is so deucedly shivery in this tomb of a house that it gives me the creeps."
"You can smoke," she said curtly.
"Thanks--you know I love my creature comforts."
He rolled himself a cigarette, lighted it, and then blowing a thin cloud of blue smoke, crossed his legs and looked complacently at her.
"So you say no?" he observed with a smile. "Of course you know the consequences?"
"I do."
"And you are prepared to abide by them?"
"I am."
"Noble mother! May I ask your reasons?"
"Yes--and I will tell you my reasons," she said deliberately. "I half intended to agree to your scheme the other day, as I thought it would benefit my son--but now I have found a way to benefit him without participation in your villainy."
"The deuce you have," said Beaumont curiously. "How clever you are--come tell me all about it."
She smiled coldly at his evident uneasiness and went on speaking calmly with a certain malignant satisfaction which was not by any means acceptable to Mr. Beaumont.
"I asked the squire before he died to help Reginald Blake, telling him I was the boy's nurse and anxious to see him settled in life, he refused at first but by working on his delusion about re-incarnation I got him to give Reginald a cheque for one hundred pounds."
"Oh, and you think Reginald would prefer one hundred pounds down to ten thousand a year?" he said with an ugly look.
"Reginald doesn't know anything about it; the squire signed the cheque and wrote a letter, enclosed them both in an envelope and sealed it with his arms, then I, by his directions, locked it up in his desk."
"Where it is still?"
"No, I have got it. I have it here," she said, producing the letter from her bosom and holding it up to him.
"How did you get it?" he asked craftily.
"I watched by the body the first night after death, and remembering where he had put the letter, I took his keys from under his pillow and obtained it, then I locked up the desk and replaced the keys."
"Ah, perhaps you don't know that you have been guilty of a felony?"
"I don't care," she retorted defiantly. "You won't tell?"
"Won't I? that depends; at all events I'd like to look at that letter," he said, stretching out his hand.
She put the letter quickly behind her back.
"No, you won't see it."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't trust you."
"Very well," he said deliberately, "if you don't let me see the contents of the letter, I'll go straight to the lawyers when they arrive and tell them you stole it."
"You would not be such a villain?" she cried in despair.
"I don't see why I shouldn't--you always thought me bad, so why should I give the lie to your estimate of my character by proving myself good?--come, choose--the letter, or the exposure!"
Patience looked at him in despair, as she knew by her fatal admission she was in his power--so, with a sudden gesture of anger, she held the letter out to him.
"Take it."
Beaumont laughed softly, and took the letter daintily between his thumb and forefinger.
"I thought you'd have known," he said sneeringly. "Now get me a light."
"To do what?"
"Melt the wax--I want to see what's inside this envelope."
"But you mustn't do that--it's sealed with the Garsworth Arms--the lawyers won't pay the cheque if they find the seal has been tampered with."
"I can re-seal it with the Garsworth Arms," he replied coolly, "don't be alarmed. I know what I'm about."
She looked at him irresolutely, then apparently recognizing the futility of resistance, she lighted a candle and brought it to him.
With a dexterity only acquired by long practice Mr. Beaumont deftly melted the wax of the seal and speedily opened the letter. First he took out the short note, written by the Squire, which he read aloud to Patience, the contents being as follows:
"I give you this money to help you in your life. When I am born again in another body, and come to you for help or friendship, you must help me, if I ask, on my reminding you of this money I now give you--for no one but ourselves will know of this transaction, so you can be certain that he who speaks to you of it will be myself in a new body.
"Randal Garsworth."
"As mad as ever, I see," said Beaumont, with a sneer, putting down the note. "Now for the cheque."
He glanced at it quickly--saw that it was for one hundred pounds, payable to Reginald Blake, and dated the thirtieth of the month--whereupon he gave a low whistle.
"What's the matter?" asked Patience, quickly.
"To-day, I believe, is the fourteenth?"
"Yes--I know what you're going to say--the cheque is dated the thirtieth--I understand that."
"Yes, and you, doubtless, understand that the Squire died on the twelfth, and that this cheque is waste paper?"
"Waste paper?"
"Exactly--it's dated after the Squire's death, so to all intents and purposes, the Squire was not legally in existence when he signed it."
"What nonsense!" she said impatiently. "I saw him sign it myself."
"Of course you did," he replied smoothly. "You don't seem to understand me--a cheque is generally supposed to be signed on the day it is dated; and as this is dated the thirtieth, and the Squire died on the twelfth--well--it's so much waste paper."
"The lawyers will pay it when I explain the circumstances."
"The lawyers have nothing to do with it--the executors might, certainly, recognize it as a claim against the estate, but it is entirely optional with them; if you brought an action, you would, no doubt, recover on the cheque, but I'm afraid the costs would swallow up the amount claimed."
It was in order to get her to consent to join in his scheme that Beaumont thus argued in such a subtle manner, and he certainly succeeded in his plan; for, by taking away her last chance, he reduced her to despair.
"Then I can do nothing to help my son?" she cried, with a terrible expression of anguish on her face.
"Yes, you can--help me to get Reginald the property."
"I'm afraid."
"Afraid of what?" he asked, with supreme contempt, "the law?"
"No!--I'm not afraid of the law--but I am afraid of the curse this money will be to Reginald, if it's unlawfully obtained."
"Oh, if that is all your objection, I think you can set your mind at rest," replied the artist, with a sneer. "I'll help him to spend the money, and take my share of the curse. Don't talk rubbish--by putting Reginald in possession of ten thousand a year you will be harming no one--the money which should rightfully become Una Challoner's will still become hers by marriage, and two people will be made happy--if you will not help me, I'll tell Reginald all about his birth, and he will remain a pauper--if you help me, he will retain all--if you decline, he will lose everything."
"I do not see what chance I have against you," she cried in despair.
"No more do I!"
"You villain!" she said, furiously. "Why do you come and tempt me to sin like this?"
"I'm not tempting you to sin--don't I tell you, it will harm no one. Come, give me your answer--yes or no?"
"Yes," she said, faintly, "I agree."
"You will say that Reginald is the son of Fanny Blake and the Squire?"
"I will--for his sake."
"I don't care for whose sake you do it," he retorted, brutally, rising to his feet. "You've agreed to help me, so that's all I care about--now I'm going to get the papers."
"Where are they?"
"That's my business," said Beaumont, coolly sauntering to the door. "I'll fix up the necessary proofs, all you've got to do is, to tell a consistent story--I'll instruct you. By the way, you are quite sure Una Challoner, and that fool of an aunt, are out of the way?"
"Quite sure--they are in the oak parlour."
"No chance of their coming out?"
"None."
"Very good--then I can get what I want, without suspicion. Have you got the keys of the Squire's desk?"
"No, Dr. Nestley took them yesterday from the room, to give them to Miss Una."
"Confound it--has he done so?"
"I do not know."
"That's a nuisance," said Beaumont, reflectively; "I want to put the papers in the squire's desk and lock them up so that they may be found there in a natural manner. I must get those keys. Humph! never mind--I'll hit on some plan; when do the lawyers arrive?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Well, I'll arrange the papers to-night, and bring them to you to-morrow morning; they must be put in the desk secretly. Now, good-bye at present, and mind, I have your promise."
Patience nodded silently, and turned away with a calm but determined face, while Beaumont went away to carry out the details of his nefarious scheme.
"I have done all I could to resist temptation," she said to herself, bitterly, "I can do no more. If I do sin it is for my son's sake, not my own."
Attention to details makes a perfect whole.
Attention to details makes a perfect whole.
When Mr. Beaumont arrived at "The House of Good Living" about six o'clock, he proposed first to have his dinner, and then to go in for a good night's work in arranging all the details of his scheme to place Reginald Blake in the possession of the Garsworth estate.
Though he had told Patience that he would not admit Reginald into his confidence in order to spare the moral nature of the young man, this was hardly the true reason, as, in the first place, he was afraid, from what he had seen of his son, that the young man would not consent to be a party to the swindle, and, in the second, he wished to keep the true facts of the case to himself, lest Reginald should prove difficult to deal with, in which case, by threatening to dispossess him of the estate, he could keep a firm hand over the unconscious victim of his scheme. Thus, by a little dexterous lying, he benefited in two ways, appearing kindly-disposed in the eyes of Patience, and yet keeping his own secret as a useful weapon in time of need.
As soon as he discovered the squire's secret, he foresaw that he would have to imitate the old man's penmanship in order to fill up the blank spaces in the document addressed by Garsworth to his supposed son, and therefore, having obtained a specimen of the dead man's handwriting he practised assiduously, in order to commit the forgery as dexterously as possible. This was to him a comparatively easy matter, as he had a pretty talent for imitating handwriting, which he had exercised before, though not in any fashion likely to bring him within reach of the law. Luckily, he had not to sign any name, as the squire had already attested his signature to the paper, and all he had to do was to fill up the blanks left in the body of the letter. It had evidently not been written very long, and, the ink not having faded, he had to make no preparation to imitate the colour, but merely allow the words he inserted to grow black like the rest of the contents of the document.
He therefore intended to fill up the blanks with the necessary details, re-seal the envelope directed by the squire to Reginald Blake which had contained the cheque, with the seal-ring in his possession, and then, after placing the letter and ring inside the envelope, re-seal it in such a way as to avert all suspicion.
To this end he shut himself up in his bedroom on finishing his dinner, and spread out before him the document which he had abstracted from its hiding-place in the ball-room. The letter addressed by the old man to his supposed son was as follows:
"My dear Son,
"You will, doubtless, be surprised at receiving a letter from me, but I have the strongest claim to write to you, as I am your father. I know that you are under the impression that you have a father and mother already: but they are not your real parents. I, Randal Garsworth, am your true father, andofwas your mother, and you were born inYour true parentage was concealed for reasons of my own. I now make the only reparation in my power, which is to put you in possession of my property; for, though you are not my lawful son, you are certainly my lawful heir. Take this letter and the seal-ring enclosed(bearing my crest),which will be found among my papers after my decease, and see my lawyers, Messrs. Binks & Bolby, of Glutcher's Lane in the City of London, and they will be sufficient to prove your identity as my son. I have made my will in your favour, saying you will produce the ring and this letter as a proof of your identity. The will is, of course, in the possession of my lawyers as above mentioned, and I hope you will carry out the instructions regarding legacies, etc., mentioned in my said will. As we have been strangers, it would be folly for me to express any regret, and all I can say is, that I hope the amount of the estate I leave you will compensate for the moral stain on your name.
"I remain,
"Your affectionate father,
"Randal Garsworth."
After reading this extraordinary document Beaumont laid it down and laughed heartily. Of course, Garsworth was quite mad, therefore his folly was excusable; but that he should think to claim his property on such flimsy evidence was really the strongest proof of his insanity.
"Luckily," observed Mr. Beaumont to himself, "I can supply all the missing links by bringing forward Patience to prove the birth of Reginald as Fanny Blake's child in London, explain the absence of registration and baptismal certificates, and give a much more definite birthplace than he was likely to give."
He thereupon applied himself to his work and, after practising the names he wished to fill in on pieces of waste-paper, he inserted them in the original document, the clause which gave him all the work reading as follows:
"I, Randal Garsworth, am your true father, and Fanny Blake, of Garsworth, was your mother, and you were born in Chelsea, London."
Having finished this with infinite pains, Mr. Beaumont eyed his work in a very complacent manner.
"When that ink is dry," he said, thoughtfully, "it will turn as black as the rest of the writing. I'll wait till to-morrow morning before I put it into the envelope, just to see how the names look by daylight."
He took the letter written by the squire to Reginald and also the cheque, and placed them carefully away in one compartment of his pocket-book, then he placed the envelope, the seal-ring and the original document, wide open, in a small despatch-box, so that the ink would dry properly. Having locked the box, he put the key in his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and considered his next move.
"I must get the letter locked up in the squire's desk," he said to himself. "But how? Very likely Nestley has given the keys to Una Challoner, then there will be no chance. If I can't get the keys to lock it up I'll slip it among some loose papers in the desk to-morrow--but it would look better locked up. I think I'll walk over to the Grange and find out if Nestley has the keys still."
On going down stairs, however, he discovered that there was no need for him to walk to the Grange, as he found Nestley seated in the parlour, apparently in very low spirits, drinking hot whisky and water. When he saw Beaumont his face flushed, and he looked away, for the unhappy man, having lost his self-respect, felt his moral degradation keenly. Beaumont, however, pretended not to notice his action, but advancing towards him shook hands warmly, and asked after his health in the friendliest manner possible. Nestley was cold and short in his replies at first, but under the quiet warmth of Beaumont's fascinating manner began to talk more amiably.
"Excuse me drinking this hot whisky. It's so very cold, to-night," he said, in a deprecating tone, "and I've had a long walk from the Grange."
"Yes, and you'll have a cold walk back," said Beaumont, in a sympathetic manner.
"I'm not going back," replied Nestley sadly, looking down at the table.
"Not going back," echoed the artist; "why not?"
"I've finished my business at the Grange, and it is no use my staying there; besides, Miss Challoner dislikes me so much that it was painful for me to live in the same house with her."
"How do you know she dislikes you?"
"It's easily seen; her manner is quite sufficient--besides, by persuading me to give way to this again," he added vehemently, touching his glass, "you have caused me to lose all hope and self-respect; every person who looks at me seems to be pitying my downfall."
"Well then, give up the drink."
"What's the good?" said Nestley despairingly. "I left it off for five years, yet such is my weak nature that I yielded to your persuasions, and now it has got complete mastery of me again."
"You seem determined to regard me as your evil genius," said the artist deliberately. "Why I do not know. I suggested a little wine on that evening, in order to cheer you up--that is all."
"All! and quite enough too. You knew, in the old days, when I took one glass it meant more."
"I am not to blame for your weakness."
"No doubt--but knowing that weakness you might have left me alone."
"Well, well," said Beaumont impatiently, "my back is broad enough to bear your sins as well as my own. What are you going to do now?"
"Stay here for two or three days, and then go away," replied Nestley. "I've risked my all on the cast of a die--and lost, so I'm going back to my own town, and live out the remainder of my life as best I can."
"Have you said good-bye to Miss Challoner?"
"No, nor do not intend to; she knows my degradation. I can see it in her eyes, in her manner, in the way she shrinks from me. I have lost the best part of myself--my self-respect."
Beaumont was hard and callous as a rule, but he could not help feeling a pang of pity for the abject misery of the man whom he had brought so low.
"Come, come, Nestley," he said cheerily, patting the doctor on the back, "I'm truly sorry I ever persuaded you to touch the wine, but you'd better leave this place at once. When you are back again, in your own home, you will once more take up your old life of temperance and hard work."
"It is too late--the evil is done."
"Rubbish! it's never too late to mend; leave Garsworth without delay."
"And leave you to make love to Miss Challoner!"
"I," said Beaumont, with an enigmatic smile, "nonsense--I'm past the age of love--you can make your mind easy on that score; but, as I will probably see Miss Challoner, shall I make your adieux to her?"
"If you like," returned Nestley gloomily, "and give her these keys--they belonged to the Squire, and I forgot to give them into her possession."
Here was a wonderful piece of luck; the very keys he was in search of, delivered into his hands without any difficulty whatsoever. Beaumont did not believe in astrology, but surely at that moment he must have thought his lucky star was in the ascendant. With his habitual craftiness, however, he suppressed all outward manifestations of joy, and took the keys from Nestley with an assenting smile.
"I won't forget," he said calmly, slipping them into his pocket, "and you will take my advice about leaving the village."
"Why are you so anxious for me to go?" asked Nestley suspiciously.
"For your own good."
"And for your own ends too, I've no doubt," retorted the doctor bitterly. "You never did anything in your life without a motive."
"Very well," said Beaumont, strolling to the door, "if you don't choose to take my advice, stay here and drink yourself to death, as you will surely do--please yourself, my friend."
"Please myself," echoed Nestley, when the door closed on Beaumont. "I intend to, Basil Beaumont--you've got some plan to carry out, or you would not remain so placidly in this dull village--so I'll stay and see the game out; and, if I can thwart you I will, if it's only to punish you for the evil you have done to me."
He may be poor, and quite unknown,In rank there may be men above him;But my heart beats for him alone,You ask the reason; this--I love him!
He may be poor, and quite unknown,
In rank there may be men above him;
But my heart beats for him alone,
You ask the reason; this--I love him!
The next morning Beaumont examined the important document, upon which hung the fate of his scheme, in order to see by the searching light of day if a close scrutiny would reveal in any palpable degree his alterations. According to his expectations, it appeared eminently satisfactory, for the words he had inserted had turned quite black, and assumed the ebon tint of the rest of the handwriting, so to an ordinary observer the entire document appeared to have been written by one person. True, if it were submitted to experts in a court of law, the forgery might be detected; but Beaumont was quite satisfied in his own mind that the paper would never have to stand such a test. The directions in the will, the production of the paper and seal-ring mentioned therein, and the evidence of Patience Allerby as to the birth of Reginald, would be quite strong enough evidence to put him in possession of the property, even if Una should contest the affair, which he knew she would not do when she found that the heir who ousted her from her rightful position was Reginald Blake.
Being therefore perfectly satisfied, Mr. Beaumont took the envelope, directed by the Squire to Reginald Blake, at the Vicarage, and having placed some new wax on the closing fold, he stamped it with the Garsworth arms by means of the seal ring. Then placing the document he had so carefully prepared inside, together with the ring, he melted the under portion of the wax till it became soft and firmly closed the letter so that no one, from its appearance, could detect the fraud.
This being done, he placed the important letter, together with the keys given to him by Nestley, in his breast coat pocket, and set off gaily to the Grange, in order to place it where it could be easily found.
He had invented some trivial explanation to give to Una and Miss Cassy should he meet them before carrying out his plan, and, of course, on having done so, the mission of delivering the keys to Una would be ample excuse for his intrusion on their grief. Fate, however, stood his friend, for by going round to a side door he was enabled to enter the house, and go to the housekeeper's room, unseen by anyone, save Jellicks, who admitted him.
Patience, looking pale and worn, arose to receive him, and he half dreaded to glance at her lest she had altered her mind. Her first remark, however, reassured him at once.
"Have you arranged everything?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes! Here is the precious document," he replied, producing the envelope, "and here are the keys of the Squire's desk."
"Where did you get them?"
"From Nestley; he gave them to me to return to Miss Challoner, as I intend to do after placing this letter in the Squire's desk. There's no time to be lost, Patience--take me up to the room at once."
"Wait a moment," she replied cautiously, growing a shade paler. "I'd better go and see that Miss Cassy and Miss Una are safe in the oak parlour first. Wait here."
She glided out of the room like a ghost, and after an absence of ten minutes returned to Beaumont with a more composed expression on her face.
"They are at breakfast," she said in a whisper, "no chance of being disturbed by them. Come along, but make no noise. Every sound echoes through this old place."
Silently and stealthily they stole along the dark passages, which, owing to the light filtering through grimy windows, had a dusky appearance. Softly over the echoing pavement of the gloomy hall, up the wide staircase with the old Garsworths frowning on them from the walls, as if they knew their wicked errand, along the chill length of the upper corridor, and then the slow turning of the key in the lock, the gentle opening of the door, and they stood in the presence of the dead.
So still, so lonely, so cold, with the heavy curtains drawn over the wide windows, only admitting faint streaks of light which stole whitely through the heavy atmosphere of the room. On the bed was the black coffin, with the dead man laid therein. On either side tall candles were burning with a sickly light, and the heavy draperies of the bed hung motionless as if frozen with horror. In the dim shadows of the far end of the room, where the faint daylight and the faint candlelight produced an unnatural twilight, stood the desk, and towards it Beaumont stepped with a stealthy activity, suggestive of the sinuosity of a tiger. After him, soft-footed and pale, stole the woman up.
"In which recess did you lock up the letter?" he asked in a low whisper.
She indicated the place with outstretched finger and shuddered as she heard the click of the key turning in the lock. A subdued rustle of papers, a soft, shutting sound, another click as the key turned again, and the first part of the scheme was achieved.
In the shadowy light of the room their faces looked pale and haggard, as they sped silently and rapidly towards the door, as though they feared lest the dead man should arise from his coffin and call upon them to stop. Did no frown pass over that marble face? Did no sound hint to them that a disembodied spirit stood near the bed wailing over the failure of its cherished scheme through the treachery of humanity? No, all was still as the grave as the two companions glided out of the room, along the corridor, down the stairs, and found themselves once more in the housekeeper's room.
"Faugh!" said Beaumont, on whose pale face the beads of perspiration were standing, "what unpleasant work. Give me some brandy."
The housekeeper silently left the room and shortly returned with a liqueur glass of the liquor, which he tossed off rapidly, and the effect was soon seen in the glow which came over his face.
"You ought to have some yourself," he suggested, handing her back the glass.
"I don't require it," she replied coldly. "I'm used to the atmosphere of this house. You are not."
"It's like a charnel-house," he said, with a look of disgust. "Well, I've done my part of the affair. Now, all you've got to do is to swear Reginald is Fanny Blake's son. I'll leave it to your ingenuity to tell a good story."
"You can be certain of that," she replied coldly. "I've done with all scruples, and since it is to enrich my son, you may be sure I will do my best. And now I suppose in order to avert all suspicion, you'd better see Miss Una."
"Yes, of course. I want to return her these keys," he replied, jingling the bunch. "If any questions are asked, of course you can swear I have not been out of the room. But I don't think you need be afraid, everything will go quite smooth. There is a strong motive."
"And the motive?"
"Una's love for Reginald. Now go and tell her I am here."
When Patience left the room on her errand he dusted his boots with his handkerchief, pulled down his shirt-cuffs and settled his tie and hair in the mirror over the fireplace. By the time Patience returned he had quite recovered his nonchalant manner, and was humming a tune when she entered.
"Well?" he asked, facing round.
"It's all right. She will see you," replied the housekeeper, and, catching up his hat and stick, Beaumont followed her along the passage to the oak parlour.
Una and Miss Cassy, both in deep mourning, were seated at the breakfast-table when he entered, and as the door closed on Patience, he apologised for disturbing them.
"Of course I would not have thought of intruding on your grief," he said, in a courtly manner, "but the fact is, Miss Challoner, I have a message for you from Doctor Nestley."
"Ah, poor, dear doctor," whimpered Miss Cassy, dabbing her red eye-lids with a pocket handkerchief. "He's gone away--so very odd."
"I don't think so, aunt," observed Una quietly. "He had done all he could for my poor cousin, and now it would be merely wasting his time for him to remain. What is the message, Mr. Beaumont?"
"Just to give you these keys," he said, handing the bunch to her. "They belonged to the squire, and Nestley picked them up after the death, intending to give them to you, only he forgot all about them till it was too late, so asked me to bring them to you."
Una took the keys with a grave bow.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Beaumont," she said, putting them in her pocket. "It was very kind of you to bring them. I trust Doctor Nestley is well?"
Beaumont shrugged his shoulders, the meaning of which action she understood with feminine quickness.
"Let us hope he will be quite well when he returns home," she said with emphasis, her colour rising. "I am truly sorry for him. Where did he contract this unfortunate habit?"
"Oh, in London, I believe," said Beaumont carelessly. "I knew him there five or six years ago. He was very fast in those days. Then he pulled up and reformed altogether. I am sorry to see him resuming his old habits."
Mr. Beaumont did not think it necessary to explain how he had tempted the unhappy young man, so poor Nestley was blamed severely by both ladies for his evident tendency to fast living.
"So dreadful," piped Miss Cassy, lifting up her hands. "I really cannot understand it, and the dear doctor was so nice. Really, it's very odd. Oh, are you going, Mr. Beaumont? So sorry--good-bye."
Beaumont bowed to both the ladies and then left the room, quite satisfied with his interview.
"I think I have fixed up everything satisfactorily," he muttered to himself, as he lighted a cigarette outside on the terrace. "If Patience only carries out her part of the affair as well as I have done mine, we'll soon put Reginald in possession of the property, and then--it's my turn."
Miss Cassy watched him cross the terrace, and turned to Una with a look of admiration in her eyes.
"What a handsome man Mr. Beaumont is--so distinguished?" she said volubly. "Quite like a Spanish what's-his-name, you know."
"He's not bad-looking," replied Una absently, "but I prefer Reginald."
"Mr. Blake?" said Miss Cassy, rather astonished to hear her niece speak of him in such a familiar way.
Una saw that she had betrayed herself, so, going over to the elder lady, put her arms round her waist caressingly.
"Auntie, you must have seen it all the time."
"Seen what?" asked Miss Cassy, opening her eyes widely.
"That I love Reginald."
"Love Reginald Blake! Oh, my dear--how very odd."
"I don't see it's odd at all," replied Una blushing, "we love one another very dearly."
"But, my dear, he's nobody."
"He's everybody--in my eyes," said Una fondly.
"What would the Squire have said?" observed Miss Cassy in dismay.
"Forbidden the marriage, I've no doubt," replied Una, "so that is why we kept our engagement quiet--but now we are free to marry."
"Oh, Una, how heartless you are--so odd, and the poor Squire just dead."
"My dear auntie," said Una gravely, "I am the last person in the world to speak ill of the dead, but I cannot feign a regret which I do not feel; the Squire asked us down here for his own gratification--not ours; we have lived on our own money, and not his; he has taken no notice of us at all--so neither you nor I can pretend to weep over the death of a man whom we hardly ever saw, and who certainly did nothing to deserve tears."
"But still, he may have left you his fortune," urged Miss Cassy in a tearful voice.
"I doubt it," replied Una with a sigh, "but fortune or no fortune, I cannot pretend to a grief I do not feel."
"And you are quite determined to marry Reginald Blake?"
"Quite--we love each other devotedly."
"I'm sure I hope so," said poor Miss Cassy whimpering, "it's just like a romance of what's-his-name--so very odd; he is good-looking, I know--but money--he's got no money."
"I don't want money--I want him."
"He's got no name."
"He'll make one with his voice."
"I'm sure," cried Miss Cassy in despair, "I can't see what you see in him."
Una closed the argument in a most decisive manner.
"I love him."
This remark was unanswerable, so Miss Cassy dissolved in tears.