"How strange a testament is this, my lord?The outcome of a most fantastic brain.'Tis but a mirror that reflects his life,With all its twists and turns and madcap arguments."
"How strange a testament is this, my lord?The outcome of a most fantastic brain.'Tis but a mirror that reflects his life,With all its twists and turns and madcap arguments."
Mr. Bolby, the junior partner in the legal firm who had control of the Squire's business, was a little, red-faced man, with a round head set upon an equally round body, which, in its turn, was supported by two short, sturdy legs. His face was clean shaven, save for two little tufts of white hair, which stood out on each cheek in startling contrast to the crimson of his complexion, and his baldish head was sparsely scattered over with similar tufts. He dressed in a somewhat gay manner, and had a loud, cheerful voice of a chirpy nature, also a curious habit of using the same words twice over in different ways.
On arriving from London at the Grange he was handed the Squire's keys by Una, and at once proceeded to look over all the private papers of the dead man. Evidently he had some object in doing so, for he never rested until he had looked through every document in the desk, and having made himself master of the precise state of affairs, rested quietly until the day of the funeral, varying the monotony of this somewhat dreary life by paying frequent visits to the vicarage, where he had several lively arguments with Dr. Larcher on archæological subjects.
At last the day of the funeral arrived, and the dead man was borne with great pomp to the ancestral vault in Garsworth Church, where numerous generations of the family had already mouldered for many centuries. Some of the county families came to the funeral, but most of them sent their carriages to represent them, as Randal Garsworth, owing to his secluded life, had been by no means popular, and they only came themselves or sent their representatives from a sense of courtesy.
So the long procession, headed by the ponderous hearse with its stately black horses and nodding plumes, left the coldness of Garsworth Grange for the similar coldness of the family vault, and on arriving at the lichgate of the graveyard, were met by Dr. Larcher and his curate. The coffin was taken into the church, and the vicar read the funeral service in his most impressive manner, after which Cecilia played the "Dead March" from "Saul," and the remains of Randal Garsworth were conveyed to their last resting-place in the dismal vault. This being done, the heavy doors were once more closed until the death of some other member of the family would require them to be opened, and the greater part of the mourners went their different ways, while Dr. Larcher, accompanied by Reginald and Dick, returned to the Grange in company with Mr. Bolby, to hear the will read.
Dr. Larcher was obliged to be present, as he was co-executor with Mr. Bolby, and he took his two pupils with him for the sake of company, Reginald being nothing loth, as he had not seen Una since the death of the Squire.
So charming she looked in her black dress as she stood amid the faded splendour of the drawing-room, receiving the visitors with graceful courtesy. Her manner was calm and self-possessed, and she did not give way to any manifestations of grief on the death of her cousin, a contrast to Miss Cassy, who loudly bewailed the Squire's decease, as if he had been her dearest and most intimate friend.
"Such a gentleman as he was," she whimpered, wiping her eyes, "quite one of the old school--a regular what's-his-name of the Regency--very odd, isn't it?"
Dr. Larcher himself thought that Miss Cassy's ostentatious grief was very odd, seeing it was for a person of whom she had seen very little, but he said nothing beyond a few words of sympathy, as he quite understood Miss Cassy to be one of those demonstrative people who weep alike at funeral or wedding, and display their feelings openly on the least occasion.
After partaking of some cake and wine, Mr. Bolby seated himself in a stately manner in order to read the will, and everyone prepared to listen. Dr. Larcher looked pityingly at Una, for he knew the contents of the will and what a blow it would be for her to lose the property, but as he had expostulated with the Squire at the time of executing it he could do no more, so things had to take their course.
"This will, gentlemen and ladies," chirped Mr. Bolby, putting on his spectacles, "ladies and gentlemen, this will was made five or six years back by my client deceased--my deceased client being then, as I have no reason to doubt, in full possession of his senses, that is, he had his senses in full. I will now read the will, and of course you will please listen attentively to the will read by me."
It was not a very long document, as, after leaving small legacies to Patience, Jellicks and Munks, the Squire had bestowed upon Una an income of a thousand a year, and all the rest of his property was left to Dr. Larcher and Simon Bolby in trust for the natural son of the deceased, who would prove his claim in due time by producing a letter written by his father, and also the seal ring of the family.
There was a considerable sensation at the conclusion of Mr. Bolby's reading, as no one thought the Squire had any offspring, and, in spite of her presentiment that she would never get the property, Una could not help feeling disappointed, as it seemed to be a bar to her marriage with Reginald. However, she had a thousand a year, and they could live on that, so after a moment's reflection, she did not grudge this unknown son his good fortune. Miss Cassy, however, was not so easily satisfied, and loudly expressed her anger at the Squire's duplicity, which sounded rather comical considering how she had been previously praising up his virtues.
"So dreadful!" she said indignantly, "a son we never heard of--how very odd!--who is his mother?--where was he born?--what is his name?--is most peculiar."
"It is very peculiar," assented Mr. Bolby drily, "particularly when I tell you I don't know any of the three things you have stated--that is, the three things stated by you."
"Do you tell me, sir," asked the vicar in his ponderous manner, "that you don't know the name of this son?"
"No."
"Nor the name of his mother?"
"No."
"Nor his birthplace?"
"I give you my word of honour," said Mr. Bolby solemnly, "that I am absolutely ignorant of all these--of all these, my dear sir, I am ignorant absolutely."
All present looked at one another in blank astonishment, and it was some time before anyone could speak. Una was the first to recover, and at once addressed herself to the lawyer.
"If this is the case," she said slowly, "how is this unknown son to claim the estate?"
"Did you not hear the will read, my dear lady?" replied Mr. Bolby equably. "Did you not hear me read the will? The son must produce a letter written to him by his father, and also the seal ring of the family."
"But you surely would not give an unknown man the estate on such slight evidence?"
"What can I or Dr. Larcher do," said the lawyer with a deprecating shrug, "Dr. Larcher and myself; what can we do? If he has the papers and the ring, he is undoubtedly the heir if he produces the ring and the papers."
"It's the will of a lunatic," cried Miss Cassy angrily.
"I assure you he was in his right mind when it was written," chirped Mr. Bolby placidly, "my dear lady, in his right mind I assure you."
"I will contest this will," said Una firmly.
"Better wait, my dear young lady," said the lawyer, "my dear young lady, better wait--till the heir appears."
"But suppose he never appears?" suggested Dr. Larcher.
"Oh, he'll turn up all right," said Bolby calmly, "people don't give up ten thousand a year so easily--no--ten thousand is not so easily given up by people."
"But Mr. Bolby," said Una in despair, "is there no note or certificate among my cousin's papers which can lead to the identification of this unknown person?"
Mr. Bolby produced a letter from his breast coat pocket. "Now we are coming to it," he said with great glee. "I thought such a thing might be possible; so as it was possible such a thing might be, I searched and found this letter--it is sealed with the arms of the family, and was found by me locked up in his private desk, so everything so far is in order--I'm sure you will agree there is order in everything so far; it certainly has a ring inside it, for a ring is inside certainly, as I can feel it. To my mind this envelope contains the letter and ring mentioned in the will."
The curiosity of everyone was now roused to the highest point, and Una asked the next question amid a breathless silence.
"To whom is the letter addressed?"
A profound silence ensued, during which the proverbial pin might have been heard to drop, as the lawyer replied solemnly and slowly,
"The letter is addressed to 'Mr. Reginald Blake, Vicarage, Garsworth.'"
"Addressed to me?" cried Reginald in an astonished voice, springing to his feet. "Impossible!"
"See for yourself," replied Bolby, handing him the letter.
Reginald took it in silence and stood holding it irresolutely for a few moments, during which time he glanced round at the astonished faces present. At last with an effort he tore open the envelope, but overcome with emotion seemed unable to proceed further, and crossing the room, gave the opened envelope to the vicar. Dr. Larcher arose from his seat as he took the letter and looked steadily at the young man.
"Do you wish me to read it?" he asked slowly.
Reginald bowed silently, and sat down in the vicar's chair.
Whereupon Dr. Larcher took the letter out of the envelope, leaving the ring still inside, and having opened it, read the contents in a slow, deliberate manner. Everyone listened in amazement to the extraordinary disclosure, and every eye was fixed on Reginald, who sat in his chair with his face buried in his hands.
"This then," said the vicar folding up the letter, "proves that you Reginald are the son of Randal Garsworth and Fanny Blake, for here is the letter, and here is the ring."
He stepped up to the lawyer and solemnly delivered both to him, then returning to his seat laid his hand kindly on Blake's shoulder.
"You hear what I have read," he observed sonorously. "What do you say?"
"Say?"' cried the young man, springing to his feet with a pale, haggard-looking face, "that it's a lie--you know yourself, sir, that I am not the squire's son--Patience knows all about my birth--it is honourable--honourable. I--I am not the son of that man," and the poor young fellow fairly broke down.
On hearing Reginald was the heir to the property a great joy appeared in Una's face, but it gave place to a look of pity and sorrow as she saw how keenly he felt the ignoble circumstances of his birth.
"There is only one thing to be done in order to make sure," she said, rising. "Call Patience Allerby."
Dick Pemberton went out of the room to fetch her, and during the dead silence which now prevailed Una walked across the room to Reginald and took his hand.
"This makes no difference to me," she whispered fondly. "Do not think that your birth will stand in the way of our marriage, I love you too well for that."
"God bless you," he muttered brokenly, and clasped her hand convulsively.
The housekeeper entered the room looking pale and worn, with a hard, defiant expression on her face, as if she was determined to face the affair out to the bitter end, as indeed she was. On hearing her footstep Reginald arose unsteadily to his feet and looked at her anxiously. On seeing the anguish in his face she seemed to falter for a moment, but soon recovered, and veiled her agony under stolid composure.
"Patience," said Reginald in a broken voice, "I have learned by a letter from Squire Garsworth that I am his son, and that Fanny Blake was my mother--is it true?"
She bowed her head and replied slowly.
"Perfectly true."
Reginald flung up his hands with a cry of anguish and fell back in his chair--it was true--the possession of ten thousand a year could never cleanse away the stain which rested on his birth.
"Why did you deceive the lad?" asked Dr. Larcher sternly.
"By order of his father," she replied doggedly. "If you remember, sir, I went to London with Fanny Blake over twenty-two years ago; she told me the squire had ruined her, and that was why she left the village; six months afterwards her child was born and she died. I brought the baby down to the village to the squire, he refused to recognize his own offspring, but said he would pay for the boy's keep, so to save the good name of the child, I invented the story of the parents dying in France, and placed it in your care, and he has grown up all these years under the name of Reginald Blake."
"And Reginald Blake is the squire's son?"
"Yes. I hope he has done the boy justice at last."
"He has. By his will Reginald Blake is acknowledged as master of Garsworth Grange."
Patience gave a cry of delight, and with a face beaming with tenderness approached the young man. He arose slowly from his chair as she came near him fixing his wild eyes in horror on her face. She saw the look and half recoiled, but offered her congratulations timidly.
"You are now rich--" she began, when he interrupted her furiously.
"Rich!--rich! Who cares for riches? I am dishonoured for the rest of my life. I have no right to the name I bear. You have deceived and tricked me with your lies, leading me to believe that my birth at least was without dishonour, and now--now, I find my life has been one long lie. Do you think money will ever repay me for the stain on my birth. I declare to God that I would willingly become the pauper I was if I could only regain my self-respect with my poverty. Look at me all of you. I am rich! young, and a bastard."
With a cry of passionate anger he rushed from the room, and with an answering cry of anguish Patience Allerby fell fainting on the floor.
We call Death cruel, but death ends all strife,Dishonour turns to gall the sweetest life.
We call Death cruel, but death ends all strife,Dishonour turns to gall the sweetest life.
To say that those who had assembled in the drawing-room of the Grange to hear the will read were astonished at the extraordinary disclosures they had heard, would give but a faint idea of the amazement they felt. That the squire should have left his large fortune to a son of whom no one had ever heard was most remarkable, but that the son in question should turn out to be Reginald Blake was almost beyond belief.
Still, after examining all the evidences of the fact, Mr. Bolby came to the conclusion that there could be no doubt as to the identity of the young man.
According to the story told by Patience Allerby, who was well known to be the nurse of the boy, he had been born at Chelsea, London, six months after Fanny Blake's arrival there, and had been called by his mother's name. On bringing him down to the village, Randal Garsworth, no doubt dreading the scandal, refused to recognise his son, but agreed to pay for his keep. Patience, therefore, had done the best she could under the circumstances, and had placed the boy with Dr. Larcher, telling him that his parents were dead, thus giving him at least the fiction of an honourable birth. It had been a lie, no doubt, still it was a lie the nobility of which there was no denying, and one which would hardly be set down by the Recording Angel.
As to the strange discovery that had been made, everyone saw at once that the squire had tried to make tardy reparation for his sin by leaving his property to his unfortunate son; and the evidence of the will itself, the evidence of the letter found in the squire's desk, and the evidence of the seal ring, all showed plainly that the young man was really and truly the mysterious son alluded to in the will. Besides, according to Dr. Larcher, the squire had mentioned Reginald's name on his death-bed, and pointed towards the desk, intimating, no doubt, that the document which would give the young man his just right was hidden there, as indeed it was. Altogether, on reviewing the whole case through, Mr. Bolby declared it to be the most extraordinary one that had ever come under his notice. There could be no doubt but that justice had been done, and Reginald was formally recognised by everyone as the master of Garsworth Grange.
Of course, the absence of registration and baptismal certificates would doubtless have proved a stumbling-block in a court of law, but, as Beaumont had foreseen, there was no hesitation upon Una's part to surrender the property to one whom she believed to be the rightful heir, and moreover, when Mr. Bolby discovered that the two claimants were engaged to be married, he declared that it was a very neat solution of the difficulty, although, as a matter of fact, owing to the clearness of the case on the one side and the refusal to test its truth by legal process on the other, no such difficulty had ever arisen.
Beaumont was now extremely satisfied with the way in which his conspiracy had succeeded, as he had placed his son in possession of a fine estate, worth ten thousand a year. Now his next object was to gain control of this large income through the young man himself. Thanks to his ingratiating manner, he completely succeeded in fascinating Reginald, who admired him greatly, and Beaumont only wanted to have the young man in his company for a few months to become indispensable to him. He proposed to become Reginald's right-hand man, at a fixed salary, and with authority to look after the estate, out of which he foresaw he could make some nice pickings. To do this, however, he would have to get Reginald away from the village, as Patience jealously watched her son, and if she thought for one moment that Beaumont was trying to take advantage of his lack of worldly experience, was quite capable of exposing the whole swindle.
Fate, however, once more played into his hands, for Mr. Bolby, having recognised Reginald as the heir, insisted upon his coming up to London to see his partner, and be put in formal possession of the estate. Beaumont therefore determined also to go to London first, so as not to arouse the suspicious nature of Patience Allerby, and then call on Reginald when he arrived later on. Once he had an interview with him in London he was quite satisfied that he could do what he liked with the plastic nature of the young man.
On his part Blake, or, as he was now called, Garsworth, was anxious to leave the village for a time till the nine days' wonder was over, for in spite of the consolatory feeling of having ten thousand a year, he felt his position bitterly. Having been brought up in an English gentleman's household, he had imbibed rigorous principles all his life, therefore it seemed to him a terrible disgrace to have such a stigma on his name. He was a nobody--a nameless outcast, unrecognized by the law of England--and much as he wanted to marry Una, he shrank from giving her a name to which he had no legal claim. He dreaded lest there should be children of such a marriage, in which case they would have to bear the stigma attached to their father's birth, and he spoke seriously to Dr. Larcher about releasing Una from her engagement and restoring to her the property to which he felt she was justly entitled. Thus were the fruits of Beaumont's crime placed in jeopardy by the honour and upright feeling of the young man whom such crime had benefited, but luckily for Mr. Beaumont, Una came to the rescue.
She plainly told Reginald that she did not care for the circumstances of his birth, which he could not help in any way, and as to her being rightfully entitled to the property, if she married him the property would be just as much hers as if it had been duly left to her by the squire. So after a great deal of persuasion from Una and Dr. Larcher, Reginald came to accept his somewhat improved position with equanimity.
"I cannot stay here, however," he said bitterly. "Everyone stares at me as if I were a wild beast. I will go up to town with Mr. Bolby, and return in a few months, when I get more used to the position."
Una fully approved of this, and agreed to stay on at the Grange with Miss Cassy until he returned, then they would be married, and go abroad for a year, during which time the old house would be redecorated, and they would then return to live in it, when all the circumstances of his succession to the property had to some extent been forgotten.
Beaumont, having heard this decision, determined to go up to Town in advance and there await Reginald's arrival. So, after taking an effusive farewell of everyone, he departed, carrying with him the good wishes of all with whom he had come in contact. Only Patience did not wish him God speed, but surveyed him grimly when he came to say good-bye to her.
"I'm glad to see you go," she said coldly. "Our son is now provided for, and you have at least done something towards repairing your villainy. I hope I'll never set eyes upon you again, but if ever I hear of you meddling with Reginald in any way it will be the worse for you."
"Say the worse for both of us," retorted Beaumont airily. "We're in the same box over this affair, and punishment to me means the same for you."
So he took his departure, leaving an excellent impression behind him, and everyone hoped he would come back again some day, which he laughingly promised to do if his engagements would permit him.
"I'll see you in London, Reginald," he said to the young man, "and anything I can do for you there, of course, you may command me."
Reginald thanked him for his kindness, little thinking how treacherous that kindness was, and then addressed himself to the work of preparing for his own departure.
He had a long interview with Patience, in which she informed him that the story told by her to Dr. Larcher had been told with the best intentions to spare him the truth, and on consideration he saw for himself that she had acted for the best, so he forgave her for the falsehood. Patience stayed on at the Grange, living her old life, and felt quite satisfied now that the future of the human being she loved best on earth was secured.
Reginald asked Dr. Larcher to let him take Dick to Town, which request the worthy vicar granted, only admonishing Mr. Bolby to look carefully after the pair.
"I love them as my own sons," said the good man gravely, "and I dread lest they should be led into evil ways in the great city--they are young and untried--let them not drink, for what says Horace? 'Non ego sanius, Bacchabor Edonis.'"
"They won't get any bad example from me," said Mr. Bolby, "from me there's no bad example to be got. I'll take them to the theatres and several amusements, but that's all."
So the vicar, full of anxiety for his dear boys, allowed them to go, and the last to bid Reginald farewell was Una.
"Don't forget me among all the beauties of London," she whispered archly; "or I'll come to Town to look for you."
"Don't be afraid," he replied with an affectation of lightness he was far from feeling. "I will come back to you heart-whole, and then if you'll have me we'll be married."
So the poor lad departed, having learned already thus early in life that wealth alone does not bring happiness.
So low--so low--yes I am low indeedBut he thy lover tho' of high estateWill fall to this--I tell thee dainty dameThe devil even now is at his earBreathing temptations in most subtle guiseWhich soon will lose him all he holds most dear.
So low--so low--yes I am low indeedBut he thy lover tho' of high estateWill fall to this--I tell thee dainty dameThe devil even now is at his earBreathing temptations in most subtle guiseWhich soon will lose him all he holds most dear.
The autumn was now nearly over, and it was that bleak, chill season just before winter when the trees, denuded of foliage, seemed to wait for the snow to cover the bare branches which shivered complainingly in the chill wind. Under foot the ground was dark and sodden, overhead the sky dull and lowering, while piercingly cold blasts blew across the lonely marshes and whistled shrilly over the waste moorland.
Dreary and desolate as it had looked in summer time, Garsworth Grange appeared even more dreary and desolate under the sombre-coloured sky. The damp had discoloured the white marble of the statues, which seemed lost amid the surrounding desert of bare trees and dead leaves. It was everlastingly raining, and Una, looking out of the antique windows at the gloomy landscape seen through the driving mists of rain, felt dull and depressed. All day long the winds whistled through the dismal rooms, and the rain ceaselessly dripped from the eaves, so it was hardly to be wondered that both Una and Miss Cassy felt anything but cheerful.
It was now about two months since Reginald had gone up to town, and Una had received frequent letters from him about the way in which everything was being arranged by the lawyers. Of late these letters had become feverish in tone, as if the writer were trying to invest his correspondence with a kind of fictitious gaiety he was far from feeling, and this sudden change of style gave her serious uneasiness. She knew how sensitive Reginald was, and how deeply he had felt the discovery of his real birth, so dreaded lest to banish the spectres which haunted him he should plunge into dissipation. In one of his letters also he had mentioned that he had met Beaumont in town, and as Una learned from the vicar that Dick Pemberton had gone to Folkestone to see his uncle, she felt doubtful as to the wisdom of an inexperienced youth like Reginald being left alone in London with a reckless, man of the world like Beaumont.
She had mistrusted Beaumont when she first met him, but by his fascinating manner he had succeeded in overcoming her repugnance, but now that he was away the influence of his strong personality died out, and she began to dread his power over her lover's honourable, guileless nature.
"I wish Reginald would come back at once," she said to Miss Cassy, "and then we could be married, and he would have some one to look after him."
"I'm sure I'll be glad when you are married," whimpered Miss Cassy, whose spirits the lonely life she was leading sadly depressed. "I'll go melancholy mad if I stay here--I know I shall. I'm sure that isn't odd, is it? I feel like what's-her-name in the Moated Grange, you know--the weary, weary dead thing I mean, and the gloomy flats--not half so nice as the flat we had in town. If we could only go to it again--I feel so shivery."
And so Miss Cassy rambled on in a disconnected fashion, one thought suggesting another, while Una sat staring out of the window, with Reginald's last letter in her hand, wondering what was best to be done.
"I don't trust Mr. Beaumont," she said at length. "He is not a good companion for Reginald."
"Oh, my dear," said Miss Cassy, picking up the tea-cosy, which she kept by her to put on her head when she felt cold, "such a charming man--quite a Lord what's-his-name in his manners."
"His manners are all right, I've no doubt," returned Una drily, "but what about his morals?"
Miss Cassy gave a little girlish scream and extinguished herself with the tea-cosy.
"What dreadful things you do say, Una," she observed in a shocked tone. "So very odd--quite like Zola, so very French."
"My dear aunty, I know you are one of those people who think that unmarried girls should be absolutely ignorant of such things. I don't agree with you. There's no need of them to parade their knowledge of evil, but they cannot help hearing about it, however carefully brought up. I know London is not a good place for a young man with plenty of money, especially when he is so inexperienced as Reginald--besides, Mr. Beaumont is a man of the world, whom I really believe lives by his wits--and if it be a case of his wits against Reginald's, my dear aunt, I'm afraid poor Reginald will come off worst."
"What's to be done then?" said Miss Cassy blankly. "Do you think if I sent dear Reginald some tracts----"
"I don't think that would be much use," interrupted Una laughing. "No, I'll go over to Garsworth to see the vicar--he will know what is best to be done. I will show him Reginald's letter, and I'm sure he will agree with me that it will be wise to withdraw him from Mr. Beaumont's influence."
"Why doesn't Mr. Bolby look after him?" said Miss Cassy indignantly.
"I daresay Mr. Bolby has got his own business to look after," replied Una with a faint sigh; "besides, he only regards Reginald from a monetary point of view, nothing more--will you come to the vicarage with me, aunt?"
"Oh yes, dear," cried Miss Cassy with great alacrity, "the walk will do me good, and I'm so dull--I'll talk to dear Mrs. Larcher, you know, she's so odd, but still she's better than one's own company, isn't she, dear?--let us get ready at once--the rain has gone off I see."
"Then let us follow the example of the rain," said Una with a laugh, and the two ladies went away to prepare themselves for their walk.
When they sallied forth with heavy cloaks and thick boots, they found that for once the sun had shown his face and was looking through the watery clouds in a somewhat feeble fashion. The ground under foot was wet and spongy, still it was better than being immured in the dreary Grange, and as they walked rapidly along their spirits rose in spite of the depressing influence of the weather.
When they arrived at the bridge after a sharp walk they saw a man leaning over the parapet looking at the cold grey water swirling below.
"Dear me, Una, how very odd," exclaimed Miss Cassy, "there is Dr. Nestley."
"Dr. Nestley," echoed Una rather startled. "I thought he had gone away last week?"
"He was going, but for some reason did not," answered Miss Cassy, who by some mysterious means heard all the gossip of the village. "I hear he is still staying at Kossiter's--drinking, my dear--oh dreadful--so very odd."
By this time they were directly in the centre of the bridge, and hearing footsteps Nestley turned round, showing a wan haggard face with dull bleared eyes filled with mute misery. So ill and desolate did the young man look that Una's heart smote her as she thought the change was brought about through her refusal to marry him, and though she despised him for his weakness of character in thus being influenced, yet she still felt pity for the helplessness of the poor fellow. Nestley flushed as he recognized the two ladies, then raised his hat and without saying a word turned once more to look at the river. Una felt uneasy as he did so, for a sudden doubt arose in her heart as to whether he did not intend to put an end to his life, so taking a sudden resolution she whispered to Miss Cassy to walk on by herself to the vicarage.
"I will join you soon," she said in a low voice, "but first I want to speak to Dr. Nestley."
"But it's so odd," objected Miss Cassy, "really so very--very odd."
Nevertheless she made no further objection and trotted away through the village street, leaving Una alone on the bridge with Dr. Nestley. Though the unhappy young man knew that she was still behind him he did not turn round but kept staring dully at the foam-streaked waters of the Gar.
"Dr. Nestley," she said, softly touching him on the shoulder, "I want to speak to you."
He turned sullenly round, though the touch of her gloved hand sent a thrill through his frame, and Una recoiled with an exclamation of pity as she saw what a wreck he was. His face, formerly so fresh-coloured, was now grey and thin, his eyes bleared with dark circles under them, while his nervous lips and shaking hands showed how deeply he had been drinking. Even in his clothes she saw a change, for they were carelessly put on, his linen was dirty and his tie arranged in a slovenly manner--altogether he looked like a man who had entirely lost his self-respect and cared neither for his health nor appearance.
Nestley saw the expression on her face and laughed, a hollow mirthless laugh, which seemed quite in keeping with his wretched appearance.
"You are looking at your work, Miss Challoner," he said bitterly, "well, I hope you are satisfied."
Una's pride was up in arms at once.
"You have no right to speak to me in such a manner, sir," she said haughtily, looking at him with a proud cold face. "Do not ascribe your own folly to any fault of mine--that is both weak and unmanly."
The wretched creature before her drooped his head before the severe gaze of her eyes.
"You would not marry me," he said weakly, "you would not save me from myself."
"Am I to go through the world saving men from their own passions?" she returned scornfully. "Shame upon you, Dr. Nestley, to take refuge behind such a weak defence. Surely because a woman refuses to marry a man he ought not to lower himself as you have done, and then lay the blame on her instead of himself--you ought to make an end of this folly."
"Just what I was thinking," he muttered, glancing at the river. She instinctively guessed what the glance meant, and looked at him, saying:
"Would you add suicide to the rest of your follies?--that is a coward's refuge and one not worthy of a clever man like you. Come, Doctor Nestley," she continued, laying a kind hand on his shoulder, "be advised by me. Give up this mad love of drink which is lowering you to the level of the brutes, and go back to your home--then amid your old companions you will soon forget that I ever existed."
"Never! Never!" he said in a broken voice.
"Oh yes you will," she replied cheerfully. "Time is a wonderful consoler--besides, Doctor Nestley, I could never have married you, for though you did not know then you know now--I am going to marry Mr. Blake."
"And what difference will that make to you?" he asked mockingly, lifting his dull eyes to her earnest face.
"I do not understand you," she said coldly, drawing back.
"Then I can easily explain," replied the young man quickly, "the only difference will be this--you love him, you do not love me--for the rest both Reginald Blake--or shall I call him Garsworth?--and myself will be equal in all else."
"You are talking wildly," said Una in an icy tone, "so I shall leave you--permit me to pass if you please?"
"Not till I have had my say," he retorted, his eyes growing bright. "I can wring your proud heart now as you wrung mine then. I saw your look of horror when you looked at me and saw how low I had fallen through drink--in the same way you will look upon your lover when he returns from the guardianship of Basil Beaumont."
Una gave a cry of alarm and reeled against the stone parapet of the bridge for support, while a cold hand seemed to clutch at her heart.
"You have heard of those devils of old who tempted mankind," went on Nestley rapidly. "Yes, you have heard such stories and thought them pious fictions of Catholicism--but it is true, quite true. There are devils of like sort in our midst even now, and Basil Beaumont is one. I knew him in London five years ago when I was a young man just starting in life. I had no vices, I had great talents, I was devoted to my profession and all seemed to promise a fair life. But Beaumont came, devil that he is, in the guise of an angel of light, and ruined me. He beguiled me with his wheedling tongue and specious manners into believing in him. Having gained my confidence he led me to gamble and drink until I sank so low that even he forsook me--yes, forsook the man he had ruined. It was when his fatal influence was withdrawn that I began to recover. I took the pledge, left London and its fascinations and plunged into hard work. For five years I never touched alcohol and things seemed going well with me once more--but I came down here and met him again. I resisted his persuasions for a long time, but on the night you rejected me I was worn out with watching by the bedside of the Squire, and sick with disappointment; he persuaded me to take a glass of wine--it was followed by another--and then--I need not go on, but next morning I found I had lost my self-respect. I gave way to despair, there seemed no hope for me, and now see what I am, and all through Basil Beaumont--I have lost my good name--my money--my position--everything--everything in the world."
Sick with horror Una tried to speak, but could only look at him with white lips and a terrified face. Seeing her alarm he resumed his discourse but in a somewhat milder fashion.
"Your lover has gone to London, and Beaumont is with him. He is the possessor of money. Beaumont will want to handle that money; to do so he will reduce Reginald Blake to a mere cypher. Do you know how he will do it? I will tell you. By fast living--he will reduce your lover to the abject condition I was in, and through him squander the Garsworth money. It does not matter how high Reginald Blake's principles may be, how pure he desires to live, how temperate he may have been, he is in the power of Basil Beaumont, and, little by little, will be dragged down to the lowest depths of degradation and despair."
"No, no!" she cried, wildly, "it cannot be!"
"It will be, I tell you--I know Beaumont, you do not--if you would save your lover, get him out of the clutches of that devil, or he will become an object of horror to you as I am."
He turned away with a look of despair, and crossing the bridge on to the common, slouched along the muddy road without casting a glance back, while Una, with pale face and tightly-clenched hands, gazed after him with mute agony in her eyes.
"Oh, great Heaven!" she moaned, lifting up her wan face to the grey sky, "if this should be true--it must be true--I can see he is speaking the truth! Reginald to sink to that--no, no! I'll go and see the vicar. I will tell him all--all! We must save him before it is too late!"
With feverish impatience she began to walk down the street on her way to the vicarage, intent only on finding some means of saving the man she loved.
And the man who had no woman to save him slouched wearily along the road--a lonely, desolate figure, with only the grey sky above and the grey earth below, with no hope, no peace, no love awaiting him, but only the blank, black shadow of approaching sorrow brooding over his life with sombre wings.
Niobe. From cruel Ph[oe]bus all my children fly.Chorus. Fly then, oh Queen, else will they bring thee harm.Niobe. What evil counsel is upon thy tongue?Chorus. The counsel that would save thee from thyself.Niobe. A mother's love should thus protect her child.Chorus. From such protection cometh death to thee.Niobe. Death will be welcome if it cometh thusFor naught thou knowest of true motherhoodThinking that fear of death will drive me henceTo leave mine offspring to Ph[oe]bean darts.
Niobe. From cruel Ph[oe]bus all my children fly.Chorus. Fly then, oh Queen, else will they bring thee harm.Niobe. What evil counsel is upon thy tongue?Chorus. The counsel that would save thee from thyself.Niobe. A mother's love should thus protect her child.Chorus. From such protection cometh death to thee.
Niobe. Death will be welcome if it cometh thusFor naught thou knowest of true motherhoodThinking that fear of death will drive me henceTo leave mine offspring to Ph[oe]bean darts.
The next day was Sunday, and during the night there was a heavy fall of snow, so the Garsworth folk were not a little astonished, upon rising in the morning, to find the ground white, and the sky of a dull, leaden colour. Una had seen the vicar, and, in consequence of the interview she had with him, had written a letter to Reginald, which she was enclosing in an envelope when Patience Allerby entered in order to clear away the breakfast-things. She saw that Una had been writing to Reginald, and a gleam of interest crossed her stolid face as she looked eagerly at her mistress. Una guessed her thoughts, and, knowing the woman's deep interest in Reginald, arising, as she thought, from the fact of Patience being his nurse, spoke to her on the subject.
"I am writing to Mr. Blake," she said, closing the envelope, "as I am anxious for him to return to Garsworth."
"He is all right, is he not, Miss Una?" asked Patience, anxiously.
"Oh, yes, I think so," replied Una, doubtfully, "but I have been talking with the vicar, and he agrees with me that it is dangerous for Reginald to be in London."
"Danger--from whom?"
"Mr. Beaumont."
"Mr. Beaumont!" echoed Patience, in a harsh voice. "What has he been doing to my boy?"
Una looked at her in astonishment, for the whole face of the woman seemed transformed, and instead of wearing its usual calm expression it was convulsed with stormy passions. For once the mask had fallen off, and Una recognized the terrible force of character hidden under this woman's placid exterior. The housekeeper also felt that she had betrayed herself and strove to recover her lost ground by an explanation.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Una, if I speak angrily," she said feverishly, "but remember I was Mr. Blake's nurse, and he is the only being I care about in this world--if harm happened to him I would never forgive myself."
"I hope there is no chance of harm happening to him," replied Una gently, "but he is in London with Mr. Beaumont, and from what Dr. Nestley told me about that gentleman I don't think he is a good companion for Reginald."
"Dr. Nestley," said Patience thoughtfully, "I was not aware Dr. Nestley had met Mr. Beaumont before."
"Yes, I believe he met him in London," replied Una, and proceeded to direct the envelope, while Patience thinking over what she had heard left the room.
When she had finished all her work for the day she retired to her room in order to think over the conversation. Judging from what Miss Challoner had told her Beaumont was trying to ruin Reginald, and she guessed his motive for doing so. Patience was well enough acquainted with the artist to know that he did nothing without an object, and as he had placed Blake in receipt of ten thousand a year, she foresaw that his next step would be to handle it. As he could only do this through Reginald he was trying to get the boy completely into his power in order to do what he pleased. As to Dr. Nestley's remarks, he evidently knew something about Beaumont's former life, and Patience after some thought came to the decision that she would call upon Dr. Nestley that afternoon and find out all he knew about him.
Having taken this resolution she put on her things and went out, after telling Jellicks she would come back again in about two or three hours.
Outside the snow had ceased to fall, and all the cold tints and wretched appearance of the landscape were hidden under a pure white covering. The bare branches of the trees were all laden with powdery snow, which was shaken down in white flakes at every breath of wind. The long lines of thorny hedges ran along the white surface in black lines, and here and there tall, gaunt trees stood up in startling contrast of colour. Patience, however, saw none of the beauties of winter, but trudged slowly along the half-obliterated road and thought of the perils to which Reginald was being exposed by his own father.
Then she crossed the bridge, and, glancing over the side, saw the leaden-coloured water sweeping drearily between the white banks, the sloping roof of the church covered with whiteness like an altar covered by the sacramental cloth; the heavy grey stones of the tower, and beyond the tall red chimneys of the vicarage, making a cheerful spot of bright colour against the bluish sky.
She knew that Nestley was stopping at "The House of Good Living," so went straight there and asked for him, whereupon she was shown into the parlour, before the fire of which was seated the unhappy young man, looking more worn out and haggard than ever. He started to his feet when he saw Patience and stared anxiously at her, speaking the thought that was uppermost in his mind:
"Is Miss Una ill?" he asked, thinking she had come for his professional services.
"No, sir," replied Patience sitting down and throwing back her veil, "Miss Una is quite well--I have come to see you on my own business."
"Are you ill?" he asked wearily, resuming his seat and leaning his head upon his hand, "what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing at all," she answered coldly. "My health is all right, but I wish to speak to you about Mr. Beaumont."
Dr. Nestley looked at her in surprise, with a bitter smile on his lips.
"What, you too?" he said derisively, "are you another of his victims?"
"No--I am not his victim--but, as you know, I am the nurse of Mr. Blake, who lately succeeded to the property, and as he is now in London with Mr. Beaumont I want to hear from your own lips what danger you think there is in such companionship."
"What can I say?"
"Everything; you told Miss Una your story yesterday and she said something about it to me----"
"Betrayed my confidence?"
"Nothing of the sort, sir, she merely said you did not consider Mr. Beaumont a good companion for a young man, nothing more--is it true?"
"Perfectly true. I know what Beaumont is from my own experience of him--he will drag Reginald Blake down to the lowest depths of degradation."
The woman tightened her thin lips ominously.
"I don't think so if I can help it," she said grimly.
"Then if you can help it--if you have any power over him--take Blake away from his influence or he will ruin him."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure," he repeated bitterly, "I know it only too well to my own cost, God help me! Basil Beaumont is a devil, and never rests till he makes his friends as base as himself. Blake has got money, Beaumont wants that money, and will let nothing stand in his way to procure it."
"He had better not set himself up against me."
"What do you know about him?"
"More than he cares the world to know."
"Then use that knowledge to keep him away from Garsworth."
"I don't care if he comes to Garsworth as long as he leaves my--my boy alone."
"Your boy?"
"Reginald Blake--I was his nurse--I will get him to return here, and if he marries Miss Una I don't think Mr. Beaumont will be able to do much."
"He'll do this much," cried Nestley quickly, "he'll try and prevent the marriage."
"Why?" she asked curtly. "For what reason?"
"The best of all reasons--he loves Una Challoner himself."
Patience arose to her feet with a cry, her face turned to a ghastly pallor.
"You--you--are mad," she gasped, placing her hand on her heart, "it cannot be true."
"It is true, I tell you," said Nestley in a harsh whisper, coming close to her. "Una Challoner would not listen to me because she loves Reginald Blake. Beaumont also loves her and sees Blake is an obstacle in his path, he will remove that obstacle by fair means or foul--but remove it he will--he'll obtain such power over Blake that he will get him to make a will in his favour, then--then--you can guess what will follow."
"Oh! but it's horrible--horrible--this man would never do such a thing."
"I know Basil Beaumont--you don't."
"Don't I!" she cried viciously, turning round. "I know him only too well--I was a good woman once!"
"Ah! I thought you were another victim," said Nestley cynically. "And what do you propose to do?"
"Do!" she said fiercely. "I will write him a letter and warn him once and for all--if he refuses to accept the warning I will show him no mercy--he must give up all thought of Una Challoner--she shall marry Reginald Blake and none other."
"She will never do that while Beaumont lives--I know she loves Blake, but Beaumont loves her, and what are those two innocents against his devilish craftiness?"
"He has got to deal with me as well as with them," she said grandly. "Sooner than Beaumont shall harm a hair of their heads I will end his life and his villanies at the same time."
"You would not kill him?"
"I will do what I say--if he does not accept the warning I send him, his life is in his own hands not mine."
Nestley stood silent with astonishment, while without another word, Patience swept out of the room, and then only did he recover his power of speech.
"Ugh!" he said with a shiver. "I believe she will--but no--Beaumont is a man nothing can harm--devils are sent upon the earth for some purpose, and he is one."
He crouched down over the fire, the red light of which glared upon his face, bringing out all the lines and hollows now stamped on it and making him look very old and grey. Outside, the night was closing in and he shivered again as the deep voice of the church bell rang through the keen air.
"It's Sunday," he whispered. "Sunday night--I ought to go to church. Church!" he repeated with a dreary laugh, "there's no church for me--between myself and God stands the devil of Drink."