The Third Volume
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Title: The Third Volume
Author: Fergus Hume
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THIRD VOLUME ***
THE THIRD VOLUME
THE THIRD VOLUME
BY
FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Lone Inn," "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab,"
"The Chinese Jar," Etc._
NEW YORK
THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.
31 EAST 17TH STREET (UNION SQUARE)
COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY
FERGUS HUME.
COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY
THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.
_All rights reserved._
THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS,
RAHWAY, N. J.
Oh, mothers, wisely sang ye,
When oft we went astray,
"Ye weave the ropes to hang ye,
Ye forge the swords to slay."
The ropes we wove so gladly,
Have robbed us of our breath,
The swords we forged so madly,
Have smitten us to death.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN OLD FRIEND, 1
II. A MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION, 10
III. THE REVELATION OF FRANCIS HILLISTON, 19
IV. WHAT OCCURRED AT HORRISTON, 27
V. A STRANGE COINCIDENCE, 37
VI. TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION, 45
VII. "LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE," 52
VIII. BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION, 61
IX. MRS. BEZEL, 67
X. A FEW FACTS CONNECTED WITH THE CASE, 78
XI. A STARTLING DISCOVERY, 86
XII. REVELATIONS, 94
XIII. ON THE TRACK, 102
XIV. THE UPPER BOHEMIA, 109
XV. A POPULAR AUTHOR, 117
XVI. A FALSE MOVE, 124
XVII. THE HUSBAND AT KENSINGTON GORE, 131
XVIII. A DUEL OF WORDS, 138
XIX. TAIT BRINGS NEWS, 147
XX. A PRÉCIS OF THE CASE, 154
XXI. THORSTON, 160
XXII. IN THE CHURCH, 168
XXIII. FACT AND FICTION, 175
XXIV. A NEW SUSPICION, 182
XXV. THE RECLUSE, 192
XXVI. AN OLD SERVANT, 200
XXVII. A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST, 210
XXVIII. PREPARING THE GROUND, 220
XXIX. KERRY, 228
XXX. MRS. BEZEL AGAIN, 235
XXXI. AN EVENING AT THE VICARAGE, 241
XXXII. THE DISCOVERIES OF SPENSER TAIT, 249
XXXIII. THE STORY OF THE MAD GARDENER, 258
XXXIV. A LETTER FROM HORRISTON, 268
XXXV. THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT, 275
XXXVI. A STRANGE THING HAPPENS, 282
XXXVII. A VOICE FROM THE DEAD, 290
XXXVIII. A NEW ASPECT OF THINGS, 299
XXXIX. THE GARNET SCARFPIN, 306
XL. FACE TO FACE, 314
XLI. AN EXPLANATION, 321
XLII. THE TRAGEDY OF A WOMAN'S VANITY, 329
XLIII. THE LAST APPEARANCE OF FRANCIS HILLISTON, 336
XLIV. THE TRUTH, 343
XLV. A FEW WORDS BY SPENSER TAIT, 351
THE THIRD VOLUME.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD FRIEND.
WHEN Spenser Tait took his seat at the breakfast table, he cast a look
around, according to custom, to see that all was as orderly as he could
wish. The neatest and most methodical of men, he was positively old
maidish in his love of regularity and tidiness. His valet, Dormer,--with
him for over fifteen years,--had been trained by such long service into
the particular ways of his master, and was almost as exacting as Tait
himself in the matter of domestic details. No woman was permitted to
penetrate into those chambers in Earls Street, St. James'; but had one
been able to do so, she could have found no fault with them, either on
the score of taste or of cleanliness. The shell of this hermit crab was
eloquent of the idiosyncrasies of its tenant.
The main characteristic of the breakfast room was one of severe
simplicity. The carpet of green drappled brown, the curtains to match,
and the furniture of oak, polished and dark. On the white cloth of the
table an appetizing breakfast was set out in silver and china, and a
vase of flowers showed that the little gentleman was not unmindful of
the requirements of an artistic temperament. Even the _Times_, carefully
cut and warmed, was neatly folded by the silver ringed napkin, and
Dormer, standing stiff and lean by his master's chair, was calmly
satisfied that no fault could be found with his work. For the past
fifteen years, save on occasions of foreign travel, the same etiquette
had been observed, the same actions performed, for, like the laws of the
Medes and Persians, the habits of Tait were fixed and determined.
He was a pleasant creature of thirty-four years, small in stature,
clean-shaven and brown-locked. His plump little body was clothed in a
well-brushed smoking suit of maroon-colored cloth, his neat feet encased
in slippers of red morocco, and he scanned the room through a
gold-mounted pince nez. Neat and firm as he was, women did not care for
him in the least, and he returned the compliment by heartily disliking
the female sex. Yet with men he was a great favorite, and the members of
his club liked to hear the sententious speeches of this little man,
delivered with point and deliberation in the smoking room from eleven
till midnight. When the clock struck twelve he invariably went to bed,
and no persuasion or temptation could induce him to break this excellent
rule.
Dormer, a tall, thin man of Kent, who adored his precise master, was
equally as misogynistic as Tait, and silent on all occasions save when
spoken to. Then he replied in dry monosyllables, and stood bolt upright
during such replies, in a military fashion, which he had picked up many
years before in the army. Tait humored his oddities on account of his
fidelity, knowing that this ugly, rough-hewn specimen of humanity was as
true as steel, and entirely devoted to his interests. Nowadays it is
unusual to meet with such equal appreciation between master and servant.
"I think, Dormer," said Tait, while the man ministered to his wants,
"that you might call at Mudie's this morning and get me a copy of the
new novel, 'A Whim of Fate,' by John Parver. I heard last night that it
contained a description of Thorston."
"Very good, sir," replied Dormer, noting the name in his pocketbook.
"And take a seat for me at the Curtain Theater, in the fifth row of the
stalls, not too near the side."
"Anything else, sir?"
"I think not," said his master, taking a morsel of toast. "I am going
down to Richmond by the twelve o'clock train to luncheon with Mr. Freak.
Lay out the serge suit."
Dormer saluted in a military fashion, and disappeared, leaving Tait to
skim the paper and finish his breakfast. Methodical as ever, the little
man first read the leading articles, thence passed to the city news,
perused the general information, and wound up with a glance at the
advertisements. In such order he ever proceeded, and never by any chance
thought of beginning with the advertisements and working back to the
leading article. Habit was everything with Spenser Tait.
As usual, his day's programme was carefully sketched out, and he knew
what he was about to do with every moment of his time from noon till
midnight. But his plans on this special day were upset at the outset,
for scarcely had he lighted his morning pipe than the door was thrown
open and a visitor was announced.
"Mr. Larcher," said Dormer stiffly, and ushered in a tall young man with
a bright face and a breezy manner.
"Hullo, little Tait!" cried the newcomer, hastily striding across the
room; "here I am again. Come from wandering up and down the earth, sir,
like a certain person whom I need not mention."
"Dear me," said Tait, welcoming his guest with prim kindliness, "it is
Claude Larcher. I am very glad to see you, my dear fellow, and rather
surprised; for I assure you I thought you were at the Antipodes."
"I have just returned from that quarter of the globe. Yes! Landed at the
docks yesterday from one of the Shaw-Saville line. Had a capital passage
from New Zealand. Sea like a mill-pond from Wellington Heads to the
Lizard."
"Have you had breakfast, Larcher?" asked Tait, touching the bell.
"A trifle! A trifle! I could eat another. What have you? Bacon and eggs,
watercress, coffee, and the best of bread and butter. Egad, Spenser, you
had the same victuals two years ago when I last called here!"
"I am a creature of habit, Claude," replied Tait sententiously; and when
Dormer made his appearance gave grave directions for fresh coffee and
another dish of eggs and bacon.
Larcher drew in his chair, and with his elbows on the table eyed the
little man with friendly eyes. They were old schoolfellows and fast
friends, though a greater contrast than that which existed between them
can scarcely be imagined. Tait, a prim, chilly misogynist; Larcher, a
hot-blooded, impetuous lover of women. The one a stay-at-home, and a
slave to habit; the other a roaming engineer, careless and impulsive.
Yet by some vein of sympathy the pair, so unlike in looks and
temperament, were exceedingly friendly, and always glad to meet when
circumstance threw them together. Such friendship, based on no logical
grounds, was a standing contradiction to the rule that like draws to
like.
It was scarcely to be expected that a well-favored mortal like Larcher
should share his friend's distaste for the female sex. Far from
disliking them, he sought them on all possible occasions, oftentimes to
his own disadvantage; and was generally involved in some scrape
connected with a petticoat. Tait, who was the older of the two by five
years, vainly exhorted and warned his friend against such follies, but
as yet his arguments had come to naught. At the age of thirty, Larcher
was still as inflammable, and answered all Tait's expostulations with a
laugh of scorn.
It was easy to dower this hero with all the perfections, physical or
mental, which lie within the scope of imagination, but the truth must be
told at whatever cost. Claude was no Greek god, no prodigy of learning,
neither an Apollo for looks, nor an Admirable Crichton for knowledge; he
was simply a well-looking young man, clean-limbed, clear-skinned,
healthy, athletic, and dauntless, such as can be found by the dozen in
England. Thews and sinews he had, but was no Samson or Hercules, yet his
strong frame and easy grace won the heart of many a woman, while with
his own sex he passed for a true comrade, and a friend worth having.
He was an engineer, and built bridges and railways in divers quarters of
the globe, pioneering civilization, as it were, in the most barbarous
regions.
For the past ten years he had roamed all over the world, and his
adventures, begotten by a daring and reckless spirit, were already
sufficient to fill a volume. Master of at least half a dozen tongues, he
could find his way from the tropics to the pole, and was equally at home
on the prairie as in Piccadilly. Indeed, he preferred the former, for
civilization was little to his taste, and he was infinitely more at ease
in Pekin than London. North and South America, Africa, China, India, he
knew them all, and on this occasion had returned from a prolonged
sojourn in the Antipodes, where he had been building bridges across
rapid New Zealand rivers.
"Well, my friend," said he, addressing himself to a second meal with a
hearty appetite, "I need not ask how you are. The same prim, finnicking
little mortal as ever, I see. Five years have made no difference in you,
Spenser. You've not married, I suppose?"
"Not I," returned Tait, with stormy disgust. "You know my views on the
subject of matrimony. You might go away for one hundred years and would
return to find me still a bachelor. But you, Claude----"
"Oh, I'm still in the market. I wasn't rich enough for the New Zealand
belles."
"Eh! You have five hundred a year, independent of your earnings as an
engineer."
"What is the use of setting up house on a thousand a year all told,"
retorted Claude coolly; "but the fact is, despite my inflammability,
which you are pleased to reproach, I have not yet seen the woman I care
to make Mrs. Larcher."
"Perhaps it is just as well for the woman," answered Tait dryly. "I
don't think you are cut out for a domestic life."
"I have had no experience of it, so I can't say," said Larcher, a shade
passing over his face. "You must not forget that I was left an orphan at
five years of age, Tait. If it had not been for old Hilliston, the
lawyer, who looked after me and my small fortune, I don't know what
would have become of me. All things considering, I think I have turned
out fairly decent. I have worked hard at my profession, I have not spent
my substance in riotous living, and have seen much more of life than
most young men. All of which is self-praise, and that we know being no
recommendation, give me another cup of coffee."
Tait laughed and obeyed. "What are you going to do now?" he demanded,
after a pause; "stay in town, or make another dash for the wilds?"
"I'll be here for a few months, till something turns up," said Larcher
carelessly. "I did very well out of that Maori land business, and bought
some land there with the proceeds. I suppose I'll go and look up Mr.
Hilliston, see all the theaters, worry you, and hunt for a wife."
"I shan't assist you in the last," retorted Tait, testily. "However, as
you are here you must stay with me for the day. What are your immediate
plans?"
"Oh, I wish to call at the club and see if there are any letters! Then I
am at your disposal, unless you have a prior engagement."
"I have a luncheon at Richmond, but I'll put that off. It is not very
important, and a wire will arrange matters. Finish your breakfast while
I dress."
"Go, you effete dandy of an exhausted civilization. I saw you looking at
my rig-out, and I dare say it is very bad. It has been packed away for
the last five years. However, you can take me to your tailor and I'll
get a fresh outfit. You won't walk down Bond Street with me unless I
assume a tall hat, patent leathers, and a frock coat."
"Oh, by the way, would you like to go to the Curtain Theater to-night?"
asked Tait, vouchsafing no reply to this speech. "They are playing a
good piece, and I sent for a seat for myself."
"You selfish little man; just send for two while you're about it."
"With pleasure," replied Tait, who permitted Larcher more freedom of
speech than he did any other of his friends. "I won't be more than ten
minutes dressing."
"Very good! I'll smoke a pipe during your absence, and see with what
further fribbles you have adorned your rooms. Then we'll go to the club,
and afterward to the tailor's. I don't suppose my letters will detain me
long."
In this Larcher was wrong, for his letters detained him longer than he
expected. This opened the way to a new course of life, of which at that
moment he knew nothing. Laughing and jesting in his friend's rooms,
heart-whole and untrammeled, he little knew what Fortune had in store
for him on that fateful morning. It is just as well that the future is
hidden from men, else they would hardly go forward with so light a step
to face juries. Hitherto Larcher's life had been all sunshine, but now
darknesses were rising above the horizon, and these letters, to which he
so lightly alluded, were the first warnings of the coming storm.
CHAPTER II.
A MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION.
THE ATHENIAN CLUB was the most up-to-date thing of its kind in London.
Although it had been established over eight years it was as new as on
the day of its creation, and not only kept abreast of the times, but in
many instances went ahead of them. The Athenians of old time were always
crying out for something new; and their prototypes of London, following
in their footsteps, formed a body of men who were ever on the look-out
for novelty. Hence the name of this club, which adopted for its motto
the classic cry, "Give us something new," and acted well up to the
saying. The Athenian Club was the pioneer of everything.
It would take a long time to recount the vagaries for which this coterie
had been responsible. If one more daring spirit than the rest invented a
new thing or reinstated on old one, his fellows followed like a flock of
intelligent sheep and wore the subject threadbare, till some more
startling theory initiated a new movement. The opinion of the club took
its color from the prevailing "fad" of the hour, and indeed many of the
aforesaid "fads" were invented in its smoke room. It should have been
called "The Ephemeral Club," from the rapidity with which its fanciers
rose to popularity and vanished into obscurity.
After all, such incessant novelty is rather fatiguing. London is the
most exhausting city in the world in which to live. From all quarters of
the globe news is pouring in, every street is crowded with life and
movement; the latest ideas of civilization here ripen to completion. It
is impossible to escape from the contagion of novelty; it is in the air.
Information salutes one at every turn; it pours from the mouths of men;
it thrusts itself before the eye in countless daily and weekly
newspapers; it clicks from every telegraph wire, until the brain is
wearied with the flood of ephemeral knowledge. All this plethora of
intellectual life was concentrated in the narrow confines of the
Athenian Club House. No wonder its members complained of news.
"What is the prevailing passion with the Athenian at present?" asked
Larcher as he stepped briskly along Piccadilly beside Tait.
"The New Literature!"
"What is that?"
"Upon my word, I can hardly tell you," replied Tait, after some
cogitation. "It is a kind of impressionist school, I fancy. Those who
profess to lead it insist upon works having no plot, and no action, or
no dramatic situations. Their idea of a work is for a man and
woman--both vaguely denominated 'he' and 'she'--to talk to one another
through a few hundred pages. Good Lord, how they do talk, and all about
their own feelings, their own woes, their own troubles, their own
infernal egotisms! The motto of 'The New Literature' should be 'Talk!
talk! talk!' for it consists of nothing else."
"Why not adopt Hamlet's recitation," suggested Larcher laughingly,
"'Words! words! words!'"
"Oh, 'The New Literature' wants nothing from the past! Not even a
quotation," said Tait tartly. "Woman--the new woman--is greatly to the
fore in this latest fancy. She writes about neurotic members of her own
sex, and calls men bad names every other page. The subjects mostly
discussed in the modern novel by the modern woman, are the regeneration
of the world by woman, the failure of the male to bridle his appetites,
and the beginning of the millennium which will come when women get their
own way."
"Haven't they got their own way now?"
"I should think so. I don't know what further freedom they want. We live
in a world of petticoats nowadays. Women pervade everything like
microbes. And they are such worrying creatures," pursued Tait
plaintively, "they don't take things calmly like men do, but talk and
rage and go into hysterics every other minute. If this sort of thing
goes on I shall retire with Dormer to an uninhabited island."
"It is easily seen that you are not a friend to the new movement," said
Larcher, with a smile, "but here we are. Wait in the smoke room, like a
good fellow, while I see after my correspondence."
"You will find me in the writing room," replied Tait. "I have lost my
morning pipe, and do not intend to smoke any more till after luncheon."
"I don't believe you're a man, Tait, but a clockwork figure wound up to
act in the same manner at the same moment. And you are such a horribly
vulgar piece of mechanism."
Tait laughed, gratified by this tribute to his methodical habits, so,
leaving Larcher to see after his letters, he vanished into the writing
room. Here he wrote an apologetic telegram to his friend Freak, and sent
it off so that it might reach that gentleman before he started for
Richmond. Then he scribbled a few notes on various trifling matters of
business which called for immediate attention, and having thus disposed
of his cares, ensconced himself in a comfortable armchair to wait for
Claude.
In a few minutes Larcher made his appearance with a puzzled expression
on his face, and two open letters in his hand. Taking a seat close to
that of Tait, he at once began to explain that the news contained in the
letters was the cause of the expression aforesaid.
"My other letters are nothing to speak of," said he, when seated, "but
these two fairly puzzle me. Number one is from Mr. Hilliston, asking me
to call; the other is from a Margaret Bezel, with a similar request. Now
I know Mr. Hilliston as guardian, lawyer, and banker, but who is
Margaret Bezel?"
Tait shook his wise little head. Well-informed as he was in several
matters, he had never heard of Margaret Bezel.
"She lives at Hampstead, I see," continued Claude, referring to the
letter. "Clarence Cottage, Hunt Lane. That is somewhere in the vicinity
of Jack Straw's Castle. I wonder who she is, and why she wants to see
me."
"You have never heard of her?" asked Tait dubiously. He was never quite
satisfied with Larcher's connections with the weaker sex.
"Certainly not," replied the other, with some heat. "If I had I would
assuredly remember so odd a name. Bezel! Bezel! Something to do with a
ring, isn't it?"
"It might have something to do with a wedding ring," said Tait, with a
grim smile. "The lady may have matrimonial designs on you."
"Bah! She may be a washerwoman for all you know, or a wife, or a widow,
or Heaven only knows what. But that is not the queerest part of the
affair, for Mr. Hilliston----But here, read the lady's letter first, the
gentleman's next, and tell me what you think of them. Upon my word, I
can make neither top nor tail of the business!"
(_The First Letter._)
"April 18, 1892.
"DEAR SIR: Will you be so kind as to call and see me at Clarence
Cottage, Hunt Lane, Hampstead, as I have an important
communication to make to you regarding your parents.
"Yours truly,
"MARGARET BEZEL."
(_The Second Letter._)
"LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, June 10, 1892.
"DEAR CLAUDE: Call and see me here as soon as you arrive in
town, and should you receive a communication from one Margaret
Bezel, bring it with you. On no account see the lady before you
have an interview with me. This matter is more important than
you know of, and will be duly explained by me when you call.
"Yours sincerely,
"FRANCIS HILLISTON."
Tait read these two letters carefully, pinched his chin reflectively,
and looked at Claude in a rather anxious manner.
"Well, sir," said the latter impatiently, "what is your opinion?"
Tait's opinion was given in one word, and that not of the nicest
meaning.
"Blackmail."
"Blackmail!" repeated Larcher, taken aback, as well he might be. "What
do you mean?"
"I may be wrong," said Tait apologetically, "but this is the only
conclusion to which I can come. I read the matter this way: Margaret
Bezel knows something about your parents, and wishes to reveal it to
you, possibly on condition that you pay her a sum of money. Hilliston
evidently knows that such is her intention, and wishes to put you on
your guard. Hence he asks you to see him before you accept the
invitation of the lady."
"H'm! This is feasible enough. But what possible communication can this
woman be likely to make to me which would involve blackmail. My parents
both died when I was four years of age. She can't have any evil to say
of them after twenty-five years."
"You must question Hilliston as to that," replied Tait, shrugging his
shoulders. "I think you ought to see him this afternoon. He knows you
are in town. I suppose?"
"I wrote from Wellington to tell him that I was returning in the
_Kailargatin_," said Claude, glancing at the letter. "He must have been
informed by the paper of her arrival yesterday, for this note is dated
the same day. To-day is the eleventh."
"But surely Hilliston knew you would call as soon as you arrived?"
"He might be certain that I would do so within the week, at all events,"
answered Larcher reflectively. "That is what makes his letter the more
puzzling. The matter must be very urgent when he demands an immediate
interview."
"I am certain he wishes to forestall this lady," said Tait, picking up
the letter of Margaret Bezel. "She, at all events, knows nothing of your
movements, for the note is dated the 10th of April, when you were in New
Zealand."
"Humph! It is very odd, Tait."
"It is extremely odd, and too important to be neglected. Call on Mr.
Hilliston this afternoon, and send him a wire now to make an
appointment."
"I hope I am not going to have a bad quarter of an hour," observed
Claude, as he wrote out the telegram. The mystery of the matter ruffled
his usual serenity.
"I sincerely trust you are not," replied the other, touching the bell
for the waiter; "but I must say I do not like the look of those two
epistles."
The telegram was duly dispatched, and after a few more conjectures as to
the motive of the communications, Larcher went upstairs to luncheon with
his friend. Halfway through the meal he was struck with an idea.
"Margaret Bezel must be old, Tait."
"How do you know?"
"If she knows anything of my parents she must have been their friend or
servant, and as they died twenty-five years ago she can be no chicken."
"True enough! But don't go out and meet your troubles halfway, Claude.
It will be time enough to worry should Hilliston give you bad news. By
the way, I suppose you'll stay with him to-night?"
"No doubt. He has bought a new house in Kensington Gore, and wishes me
to have a look at it. I shall be glad to see his wife again. Dear old
lady, she has been a second mother to me, and he like a father."
"And I like a brother," interposed Tait, laughing. "As a lonely orphan
you have to depend upon public charity for your relatives. But talking
about new houses, you must see mine."
"What! Are you a householder?"
"A householder, not a landed proprietor," said Tait, with pride. "I have
purchased an old Manor House and a few acres at Thorston, about eight
miles from Eastbourne. You must come down and see it. I have just had it
furnished and put in order. A week or so there will do you good, and
give me much pleasure."
"I shall be delighted to come," said Larcher hastily, "that is, if there
is no troublesome business to detain me in London."
"Well, you will know shortly. After all, Hilliston may give you good
news, instead of bad."
"Bah! You don't believe that, Tait."
"I don't indeed! But I am trying to comfort you."
"After the fashion of Job's friends," retorted Claude promptly. "Well,
you may be right, for I do not like the look of things myself. However,
I must take bad fortune along with good. Hitherto all has gone well with
me, and I sincerely trust this letter from Margaret Bezel is not a
forerunner of trouble."
"Should it be so, you will always have at least one friend to stand by
you."
"Thank you, Tait," replied Larcher, grasping the outstretched hand.
"Should the time come for testing your friendship, I shall have no
hesitation in putting it to the proof. And the time is coming," added
he, tapping the pocket which held the letter, "of that I am certain."
"What about our theater to-night?" demanded Tait dubiously.
"It all depends on my interview with Hilliston."
Tait said nothing at the moment, and shortly afterward they parted,
Larcher to seek his guardian in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Tait to return to
his chambers.
"Humph!" said the latter thoughtfully, "there will be no theater for us
to-night. I don't like the look of things at all. The deuce take
Margaret Bezel!"
CHAPTER III.
THE REVELATION OF FRANCIS HILLISTON.
ONCE upon a time popular imagination pictured a lawyer as a cadaverous
creature, arrayed in rusty black, with bulging blue-bag, and dry
forensic lore on his tongue. So was the child of Themis represented in
endless Adelphia farces; and his moral nature, as conceived by the
ingenious playwright, was even less inviting than his exterior. He was a
scamp, a rogue, a compiler of interminable bills, an exactor of the last
shilling, a legal _Shylock_, hard-fisted and avaricious. To a great
extent this type is a thing of the past, for your latter-day lawyer is
an alert, well-dressed personage, social and amiable. Still he is looked
on with awe as a dispenser of justice,--very often of injustice,--and
not all the fine raiment in the world can rob him of his ancient
reputation: when he was a dread being to the dwellers of Grub Street,
who mostly had the task of limning his portrait, and so impartial
revenge pictured him as above.
All of which preamble leads up to the fact that Francis Hilliston was a
lawyer of the new school, despite his sixty and more years. In
appearance he was not unlike a farmer, and indeed owned a few arable
acres in Kent, where he played the rôle of a modern Cincinnatus. There
he affected rough clothing and an interest in agricultural subjects, but
in town in his Lincoln's Inn Fields' office he was solemnly arrayed in a
frock coat with other garments to match, and conveyed into his twinkling
eyes an expression of dignified learning. He was a different man in
London to what he was in Kent, and was a kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
for moral transformations. On this special occasion frock-coated
legality was uppermost.
Yet he unbent for a moment or so when receiving Claude Larcher, for
childless himself, the young man was to him a very Absalom; and he loved
him with an affection truly paternal. No one can have the conduct of a
child up to the age of twenty--at which period Claude made his _début_
in the engineering world, without feeling a tugging at the heart
strings. Had Larcher been indeed his son, and he a father in place of a
guardian, he could have scarcely received the young man more warmly, or
have welcomed him with more heartfelt affection.
But the first outburst over, and Claude duly greeted and seated in a
convenient chair, Mr. Hilliston recurred to his legal stiffness, and,
with no smile on his lips, sat eyeing his visitor. He had an awkward
conversation before him, and was mentally wondering as to the best way
of breaking the ice. Claude spared him the trouble by at once plunging
headlong into the subject of Margaret Bezel and her mysterious letter.
"Here you are, sir," said he, handing it to his guardian. "I have
brought the letter of this woman with me as you wished, and I have also
abstained from seeing her in accordance with your desire."
"Humph!" muttered Hilliston, skimming the letter with a legal eye, "I
thought she would write."
"Do you know her, sir?"
"Oh, yes!" said the other dryly. "I know her. But," he added after a
thoughtful pause, "I have not set eyes on her for at least
five-and-twenty years."
"Twenty-five years," repeated Claude, thoughtful in his turn. "It was
about that time I came into your house."
Hilliston looked up sharply, as though conceiving that the remark was
made with intention, but satisfied that it was not from the absent
expression in Larcher's face, he resumed his perusal of the letter and
commented thereon.
"What do you think of this communication, Claude?"
"I don't know what to think," replied the young man promptly. "I confess
I am curious to know why this woman wishes to see me. Who is she?"
"A widow lady with a small income."
"Does she know anything of my family?"
"Why do you ask that?" demanded Hilliston sharply, and, as it seemed to
Claude, a trifle uneasily.
"Well, as I am a stranger to her, she cannot wish to see me on any
personal matter, sir. And as you mention that you have not seen her for
five-and-twenty years, about which time my parents died, I naturally
thought----"
"That I had some object in asking you not to see her?"
"Well, yes."
"You are a man of experience now, Claude," said Hilliston, with apparent
irrelevance, "and have been all over the world. Consequently you know
that life is full of--trouble."
"I believe so; but hitherto no trouble has come my way."
"You might expect that it would come sooner or later, Claude. It has
come now."
"Indeed!" said Larcher, in a joking tone. "Am I about to lose my small
income of five hundred a year?"
"No, that is safe enough!" answered Hilliston abruptly, rising to his
feet. "The trouble of which I speak will not affect your material
welfare. Indeed, if you are a hardened man of the world, as you might
be, it need affect you very little in any case. You are not responsible
for the sins of a former generation, and as you hardly remember your
parents, cannot have any sympathy with their worries."
"I certainly remember very little of my parents, sir," said Larcher,
moved by the significance of this speech. "Yet I have a faint memory of
two faces. One a dark, handsome face, with kind eyes, the other a
beautiful, fair countenance."
"Your father and mother, Claude."
"Yes. So much I remember of them. But what have they to do with Margaret
Bezel--or Mrs. Bezel, as I suppose she is called? Why does she want to
see me?"
"To tell you a story which I prefer to relate myself."
"About whom?"
"About your parents."
"But they are dead!"
"Yes," said Hilliston, "they are dead."
He walked about the room, opened a box, and took out a roll of papers,
yellow with age. These were neatly tied up with red tape and inscribed
"The Larcher Affair." Placing them on the table before him, Hilliston
resumed his seat, and looked steadfastly at his ward. Claude, vaguely
aware that some unpleasant communication was about to be made to him,
sat silently waiting the words of ill omen, and his naturally fresh
color faded to a dull white with apprehension.
"I have always loved you like a son, Claude," said Hilliston solemnly,
"ever since you came to my house, a tiny boy of five. It has been my aim
to educate you well, to advance your interests, to make you happy, and
above all," added the lawyer, lowering his voice, "to keep the contents
of these papers secret from you."
Claude said nothing, though Hilliston paused to enable him to speak, but
sat waiting further explanation.
"I thought the past was dead and buried," resumed his guardian, in a low
voice. "So far as I can see it is foolish to rake up old scandals--old
crimes."
"Crimes!" said Claude, rising involuntarily to his feet.
"Crimes," repeated Hilliston sadly. "The time has come when you must
know the truth about your parents. The woman who wrote this letter has
been silent for five-and-twenty years. Now, for some reason with which I
am unacquainted, she is determined to see you and reveal all. A few
months ago she called here to tell me so. I implored her to keep silent,
pointing out that no good could come of acquainting you with bygone
evils; but she refused to listen to me, and left this office with the
full intention of finding you out, and making her revelation."
"But I have been in New Zealand."
"She did not know that, nor did I tell her," said Hilliston grimly; "in
fact, I refused to give her your address, but she is not the woman to be
easily beaten, as I well know. I guessed she would find out the name of
your club and write to you there, therefore I sent that letter to you so
as to counter-plot the creature. I expected that you would find a letter
from her at your club on your arrival. I was right. Here is the letter.
She has succeeded so far, but I have managed to checkmate her by
obtaining the first interview with you. Should you call on her,--and
after reading these papers I have little doubt but that you will do
so,--she will be able to tell you nothing new. I cannot crush the viper,
but at least I can draw its fangs."
"You speak hardly of this woman, sir."
"I have reason to," said Hilliston quietly. "But for this woman your
father would still be alive."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that your father, George Larcher, was murdered!"
"Murdered!"
"Yes! Murdered at Horriston, in Kent, in the year 1866."
Stunned by this information, which he was far from expecting, Claude
sank down in his chair with a look of horror on his face, while
Hilliston spoke rapidly.
"I have kept this secret all these years because I did not want your
young life to be shadowed by the knowledge of your father's fate. But
now Mrs. Bezel intends to tell you the truth, and will give you a
garbled version of the same, making herself out a martyr. I must be
beforehand with her, and I wish you to take those papers, and read the
account of the case which ended in the acquittal of your mother."
"My mother! Acquitted! Do you mean----"
"I mean that Mrs. Larcher was accused of the murder of her husband, and
was tried and acquitted."
"Great Heavens! But she is now dead?"
"I say no more," said Hilliston, evading a direct reply. "You will know
the truth when you read these papers."
Larcher mechanically took the packet held out to him, and placed it in
his pocket. Then he rose to go. A thousand questions were on the tip of
his tongue, but he dare not ask one. It would be better, he thought, to
learn the truth from the papers, in place of hearing it from the lips of
Francis Hilliston, who might, for all he knew, give as garbled a version
of the affair as Mrs. Bezel. Hilliston guessed his thoughts, and
approved of the unspoken decision.
"I think you are right," he said, with deliberation; "it is best that
you should learn the truth in that way. When you have read those papers
come and see me about them."
"One moment, sir! Who killed my father?"
"I cannot say! Your mother was suspected and proved innocent. A friend
of your father was also suspected and----"
"And proved innocent?"
"No! He was never arrested--he was never tried. He vanished on the night
of the murder and has not been heard of since. Now, I can tell you no
more. Go and read the papers, Claude."
Larcher took up his hat and hurried toward the door in a mechanical
manner. There he paused.
"Does Mrs. Bezel know the truth?"
Hilliston, arranging the papers on the table, looked up with a face
which had unexpectedly grown gray and old.
"Yes!" he said quickly. "I think Mrs. Bezel knows the 'truth.'"
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT OCCURRED AT HORRISTON.
AFTER that fatal interview Claude went neither to the house at
Kensington Gore nor to the chambers of his friend Tait. With the papers
given to him by Hilliston in his pocket, he repaired to a quiet hotel in
Jermyn Street, where he was well-known, and there secured a bedroom for
the night. A wire speedily brought his luggage from the railway station,
and thus being settled for the moment, he proceeded to acquaint himself
with the tragedy of his parents' lives.
It was some time before he could make up his mind to read the papers,
and, dreading the disagreeable relation, he put off the perusal till
such time as he retired to bed. A note dispatched to the Club intimated
to Tait that the second seat at the Curtain Theater would be unoccupied,
and then Claude tried to rid himself of distracting thoughts by a rapid
walk in the Park. So do men dally with the inevitable, and vainly
attempt to stay the march of Fate.
Dinner was a mere farce with the young man, for he could neither eat nor
drink, and afterward he dawdled about the smoke room, putting off the
reading of the papers as long as he could. A superstitious feeling of
coming evil withheld him from immediately learning the truth; and it was
not until the clock struck ten that he summoned up sufficient courage to
repair to his bedroom.
With the papers spread out on a small table, he sat down at half-past
ten, reading by the light of a single candle. A second and a third were
needed before he arose from his chair, and the gray dawn was glimmering
through the window blinds as he laid down the last sheet. Then his face
was as gray as the light spreading over street and house, for he knew
that his dead father had been foully murdered, and that his dead mother
had been morally, if not legally, guilty of the crime. The tragedy--a
strange mixture of the sordid and the romantic--took place at Horriston,
in Kent, in the year 1866, and the following are the main facts, as
exhibited by the provincial press:
In the year 1860 George Larcher and his wife came to settle at
Horriston, attracted thereto by the romantic beauty of the scenery and
the cheerful society of that rising watering-place. Since that time
Horriston, after a feeble struggle for supremacy, has succumbed to
powerful rivals, and is once more a sleepy little provincial town,
unknown to invalid or doctor. But when Mr. and Mrs. Larcher settled
there it was a popular resort for visitors from all quarters of the
three kingdoms, and the young couple were extremely liked by the gay
society which filled the town. For five years they lived there, but
during the sixth occurred the tragedy which slew the husband, and placed
the wife in the dock.
The antecedents of the pair were irreproachable in every respect. He was
a fairly rich man of thirty-five, who, holding a commission in the army,
had met with his wife--then Miss Barker--at Cheltenham. She was a
beautiful girl, fond of dress and gayety, the belle of her native town,
and the greatest flirt of the country side. Handsome George Larcher, in
all the bravery of martial trappings, came like the young prince of the
fairy tale, and carried off the beauty from all rivals. She, knowing him
to be rich, seeing him to be handsome, and aware that he was
well-connected, accepted his hand, and so they were married, to the
great discomfiture of many sighing swains. There was love on his side at
least, but whether Julia Barker returned that passion in any great
degree it is hard to say. The provincial reporter hinted that a prior
attachment had engaged her heart, and though she married Larcher for his
money, and looks, and position, yet she only truly loved one man--one
Mark Jeringham, who afterward figured in the tragedy at Horriston.
To all outward appearance Captain and Mrs. Larcher were a pattern
couple, and popular with military and civil society. Then, in obedience
to the wish of his wife, George Larcher sold out, and within a few
months of their marriage they came to live at Horriston. Here they took
a house known as The Laurels, which was perched on a cliff of moderate
height, overlooking the river Sarway; and proceeded to entertain the gay
society of the neighborhood. One son was born to them a year after they
took up their abode at The Laurels, and he was five years of age when
the tragedy took place which caused the death of his parent. Claude had
no difficulty in recognizing himself as the orphan so pathetically
alluded to by the flowery provincial reporter.
The household of George Larcher consisted of six servants, among whom
two were particularly interesting. The one was the captain's valet,
Denis Bantry, an Irish soldier in the same regiment as his master, who
had been bought out by Larcher when he took leave of military glory.
Attached to the captain by many acts of kindness, Denis was absolutely
devoted to him, and was no unimportant personage in the new home. The
other servant was Mona Bantry, the sister of Denis, a handsome,
bright-eyed lass from County Kerry, who acted as maid to Mrs. Larcher.
The remaining servants call for no special mention, but this Irish
couple must be particularly noted as having been mixed up with the
tragedy.
For some months all went well at The Laurels, and it seemed as though
the Larchers were devoted to one another. But this was only outwardly,
for the character of Julia developed rapidly after marriage into that of
a vain, frivolous woman, eager of admiration, extravagant as regards
dress, and neglectful of the infant son. Larcher, a thoroughly
domesticated man, greatly resented the attitude taken up by his wife,
and the resentment led to frequent quarrels. He was annoyed by her
frivolity and continuous absence from home; while she began to dislike
her grave husband, who would have made her--as she expressed it--a mere
domestic drudge. But the pair managed to hoodwink the world as to their
real feelings to one another, and it was only when the trial of Mrs.
Larcher came on that the truth was revealed. In all Kent there was no
more unhappy home than that at The Laurels.
To make matters worse, Mark Jeringham paid a visit to Horriston, and
having known Mrs. Larcher from childhood, naturally enough became a
frequent visitor. He was everywhere at the heels of the former belle of
Cheltenham, who encouraged him in his attentions. Larcher remonstrated
with his wife on her folly, but she saucily refused to alter her line of
conduct. But for the scandal of the thing Larcher would have forbidden
Jeringham the house; and, to mark his disapprobation, gave him the cold
shoulder on every occasion. Nevertheless, this inconvenient person
persisted in thrusting himself between husband and wife, to the anger of
the former and the delight of the latter. The introduction of this third
element only made matters worse.
The house was divided into camps, for Mona supported her mistress in her
frivolity, and, indeed, seemed herself to have an admiration for
handsome Mark Jeringham, who was very generous in money matters. Denis,
in whose eyes his master was perfect, hated the interloper as much as
Larcher, and loudly protested against the attention of Mona and his
mistress. Another friend who supported Larcher was Francis Hilliston,
then a gay young lawyer of thirty-five, who often paid a visit to
Horriston. He also frequented The Laurels, but was much disliked by Mrs.
Larcher, who greatly resented his loyal friendship for her husband.
Things were in this position on the 23d of June, 1866, when events
occurred which resulted in the murder of Captain Larcher, the
disappearance of Jeringham, and the arrest of Mrs. Larcher on a charge
of murder.
A masked ball in fancy dress was to be given at the Town Hall on that
night, and hither Mrs. Larcher was going as Mary, Queen of Scots,
accompanied by Jeringham in the character of Darnley. George Larcher
refused to be present, and went up to London on the night in question,
leaving his faithful friend Hilliston to look after his matrimonial
interests at the ball. Before he left a terrible scene took place
between himself and his wife, in which he forbade her to go to the
dance, but she defied him, and said she would go without his permission.
Whereupon Larcher left the house and went up to London, swearing that he
would never return until his wife asked his pardon and renounced the
friendship of Jeringham.
Now, here began the mystery which no one was able to fathom. Mrs.
Larcher went to the ball with Jeringham, and having, as she said to
Hilliston, who was also at the ball, enjoyed herself greatly, returned
home at three in the morning. The next day she was ill in bed, although
she had left the Town Hall in perfect health, and Mark Jeringham had
disappeared. Larcher was not seen in the neighborhood for five days, and
presumably was still in London; so during his absence Mrs. Larcher kept
her bed. Then his body, considerably disfigured, was found at the mouth
of the river Sarway, some four miles down. Curious to state it was
clothed in a fancy dress similar to that worn by Jeringham on the night
of the ball.
On the discovery of the body public curiosity was greatly excited, and a
thousand rumors flew from mouth to mouth. That a crime had been
committed no one doubted for a moment, as an examination proved that
George Larcher had been stabbed to the heart by some slender, sharp
instrument. The matter passed into the hands of the police, and they
paid a visit to The Laurels for the purpose of seeing what light Mrs.
Larcher could throw on the matter. At this awful period of her frivolous
life Francis Hilliston stood her friend, and it was he who interviewed
the officers of the law when they called.
Mrs. Larcher was still in bed, and, under the doctor's orders, refused
to rise therefrom, or to receive her visitors. She protested to
Hilliston, who in his turn reported her sayings to the police, that she
knew nothing about the matter. She had not seen her husband since he
left her on the 23d of June, and no one was more astonished or
horror-struck than she at the news of his death. According to her story
she had left the ball at three o'clock, and had driven to The Laurels
with Jeringham. He had parted from her at the door of the house, and had
walked back to Horriston. His reason for not entering, and for not using
the carriage to return, was that he did not wish to give color to the
scandal as to the relations which existed between them, which Mrs.
Larcher vowed and protested were purely platonic.
Furthermore, she asserted that her illness was caused by a discovery
which she had made on the night of the ball: that Mona Bantry was about
to become a mother, and to all appearance she believed that the father
of the coming child was none other than her husband. Far from thinking
that he had been murdered, she had been waiting for his return in order
to upbraid him for his profligacy, and to demand a divorce. Mona Bantry
had disappeared immediately after the discovery of her ruin, and Mrs.
Larcher professed that she did not know where she was.
This story, which was feasible enough, satisfied the police authorities
for the moment, and they retired, only to return three days later with a
warrant for the arrest of Mrs. Larcher. In the interval a dagger had
been found in the grounds of The Laurels, on the banks of the river,
and, as it was stained with blood and exactly fitted the wound, it was
concluded that with this weapon the crime had been committed. Inquiry
resulted in the information being obtained that Mrs. Larcher, in her
character of Mary, Queen of Scots, had worn this dagger on the night of
the ball. Hence it was evident, so said the police, that she had killed
her husband.
The theory of the police was that Captain Larcher had returned from
London on the night of the ball, and had witnessed the parting of his
wife and Jeringham at the door. Filled with jealous rage he had
upbraided his wife in the sitting room, the window of which looked out
on the cliff overhanging the river. In a moment of fury she had
doubtless snatched the dagger from her girdle and stabbed him to the
heart, then, terrified at what she had done, had thrown the body out of
the window, trusting that the stream would carry it away, and so conceal
her crime. This the river had done, for the body had been discovered
four miles down, where it had been carried by the current. As to the
dagger being in the grounds in place of the room, the police, never at a
loss for a theory, suggested that Mrs. Larcher had stolen out of the
house, and had thrown the dagger over the bank where it was subsequently
discovered.
Mrs. Larcher asserted her innocence, and reiterated her statement that
she had not seen her husband since the day of the ball. He had not
returned on that night, as the servants could testify. The only
domestics who had not retired to bed when she returned at three o'clock
were Mona and Denis. Of these the first had gone away to hide her shame,
and all inquiries and advertisements failed to find her. But at the
trial Denis--much broken down at the ruin of his sister--swore that
Captain Larcher had not returned from London on that evening, and that
Mrs. Larcher had gone straight to the sitting room, where she first made
the discovery of Mona's iniquity, and then had afterward retired to bed.
Mrs. Larcher asserted that the dagger had been lost by her at the ball,
and she knew not into whose hands it had fallen.
The trial, which took place at Canterbury, was a nine days' wonder, and
opinions were divided as to the guilt of the erring wife. One party held
that she had committed the crime in the manner stated by the police,
while the others asserted that Jeringham was the criminal, and had
disappeared in order to escape the consequences of his guilt.
"Doubtless," said they, "he had been met by Larcher after leaving the
house, and had killed him during a quarrel." The use of the dagger was
accounted for by these wiseacres by a belief that Mrs. Larcher had given
it to Jeringham as a love token when she parted from him at the door of
The Laurels.
The evidence of Denis, that he had been with or near Mrs. Larcher till
she retired to bed, and that the captain had not set foot in the house
on that evening, turned the tide of evidence in favor of the unfortunate
woman. She was acquitted of the crime, and went to London, but there
died--as appeared from the newspapers--a few weeks afterward, killed by
anxiety and shame.
The child Claude was taken charge of by Mr. Hilliston, who had been a
good friend to Mrs. Larcher during her troubles, and so the matter faded
from the public mind.
What became of Jeringham no one ever knew. His victim--as some supposed
Larcher to be--was duly buried in the Horriston Cemetery, but all the
efforts of the police failed to find the man who was morally, if not
legally, guilty of the crime. Denis also was lost in the London crowd,
and all those who had been present at the tragedy at The Laurels were
scattered far and wide. New matters attracted the attention of the
fickle public, and the Larcher affair was forgotten in due course.
The mystery was never solved. Who was guilty of the crime? That question
was never answered. Some accused Mrs. Larcher despite her acquittal and
death. Others insisted that Jeringham was the criminal; but no one could
be certain of the truth. Hilliston, seeing that Mr. and Mrs. Larcher
were dead, that Mona, Denis, and Jeringham had disappeared, wisely kept
the matter secret from Claude, deeming that it would be folly to disturb
the mind of the lad with an insoluble riddle of so terrible a nature. So
for five-and-twenty years the matter had remained in abeyance. Now it
seemed as though it were about to be reopened by Mrs. Bezel.
"And who--" asked Claude of himself, as he finished this history in the
gray dawn of the morning, "who is Mrs. Bezel?"
To say the least, he had a right to ask himself this question, for it
was curious that the name of Mrs. Bezel was not even mentioned in
connection with that undiscovered crime of five-and-twenty years before.
CHAPTER V.
A STRANGE COINCIDENCE.
IN spite of Tait's methodical habits, circumstances beyond his control
often occurred to upset them. On the previous day the unexpected arrival
of Claude had altered his plans for the day, and after his return from
the theater on the same evening, he had--contrary to his rule--passed
the night in reading. The invaluable Dormer had procured "A Whim of
Fate" from Mudie's, and Tait found it lying on the table in company with
biscuits and wine. Excited by the performance, he did not feel inclined
to retire at his usual hour of midnight, and while sipping his wine,
picked up the first volume to while away the time till he should feel
sleepy.
Alas! this novel, about which everyone in London was talking, proved
anything but soporific, and for the whole of that night Tait sat in his
comfortable chair devouring the three volumes. The tale was one of
mystery, and until he learned the solution Tait, conventional and
incurious as he was, could not tear himself from the fascination of the
printed page. When the riddle was read, when the criminal was hunted
down, when the bad were punished, and the good rewarded, the dawn was
already breaking in the east. In his Jermyn Street hotel, Claude Larcher
was rising, stiff and tired, from the perusal of a tragedy in real life;
in his Earls Street chambers, Spenser Tait was closing the third volume
of John Parver's work. Each had passed a wakeful night, each had been
fascinated by the account of a crime, the one real, the other fictional.
So does Fate, whose designs no one can presume to explain, duplicate our
lives for the gaining of her own ends.
Rather disgusted by his departure from the conventional, and heartily
blaming the too ingenious John Parver for having caused such departure,
Tait tumbled hastily into bed, in order to snatch a few hours' sleep.
Dormer, ignorant of his master's vigil, woke him remorselessly at his
usual hour, with the unexpected intelligence that Mr. Larcher was
waiting to see him in the sitting room. From the telegram of the
previous night, and this early visit, Tait rightly concluded that his
friend was in trouble, so without waiting to take his bath, he hurriedly
slipped on a dressing gown, and appeared sleepy and disheveled in the
sitting room. Larcher, who looked likewise dissipated, arose to his feet
as the little man entered, and they eyed one another in astonishment,
for the appearance of each was totally at variance with his usual looks.
"Well," said Tait interrogatively, "I see you've been making a night of
it."
"I might say the same of you," replied Larcher grimly; "a more
dissipated looking wretch I never saw. Have you fallen into bad habits
at your age?"
"That depends on what you call bad habits, Claude. I have not been round
the town, if that is what you mean. But, seduced by the novel of a too
ingenious author, I have sat up all night devouring his three volumes.
Such a thing has not occurred with me since I unfortunately tried to
read myself to sleep with 'Jane Eyre.' Charlotte Brontë and John Parver
are both answerable for my white nights. But you," continued Tait,
surveying his friend in a quizzical manner; "am I to understand
that----"
"You are to understand that my night has been a duplicate of your own,"
interrupted Larcher curtly.
"What! Have you been reading 'A Whim of Fate'?"
"No, my friend, I have not. While you were devouring fiction, I have
been making myself acquainted with a tragedy in real life."
Larcher thereupon savagely threw on the breakfast table a roll of
papers, and looked defiantly at his friend. Tone and expression failed
to elicit surprise.
"Oh!" said Tait reflectively, "then Hilliston gave you bad news, after
all. I guessed he had from your refusal to accompany me to the theater
last night."
"You guessed rightly. He gave me such news as I never expected to hear.
You will find it amply set forth in those papers, which I have been
reading all night."
"Dear me. I trust it is nothing serious. Has Mrs. Bezel----"
"I don't know anything about Mrs. Bezel," said Larcher loudly. "So far
as she is concerned I am as much in the dark as ever. But my
parents----"
"What of them?" interrupted Tait, uttering the first thought which came
into his mind. "Are they alive, after all?"
"No. They are dead, sure enough," muttered Claude gloomily.
"In that case what can Mr. Hilliston or Mrs. Bezel have to say about
them," demanded the other, looking puzzled. "No scandal about Queen
Elizabeth, I hope?"
"Confound it, man, don't be so flippant! I've had bad news, I tell you.
My father,"--here Larcher gulped down his emotion with some
difficulty--"my father was murdered!"
"Murdered!" repeated Tait, looking aghast, as well he might.
"Yes! And my mother was accused of having murdered him. There you have
it."
It was some little time before Tait could face the skeleton so
unexpectedly produced from the Larcher cupboard. Hitherto his
acquaintance with crime had been mainly derived from fiction after the
style of John Parver, or from the columns of the press; but now he was
brought face to face with a tragedy indirectly connected with his
dearest friend, and naturally enough did not like the situation.
Nevertheless, like the wise little man he was, he made no comment on the
truth so suddenly blurted out, but pushed his friend into a comfortable
chair, and proposed breakfast.
"Breakfast!" cried Claude, clutching his hair; "I could not eat a
morsel. Have you no feelings, you little monster, to propose breakfast
to me, after hearing such hideous news. Why don't you give me sympathy,
and try and help me, instead of sitting at your confounded rasher of
bacon like a graven image."
"I'll do all in my power later on," said Tait quietly; "but you are
upset by this news, and no wonder. Try and eat a little, then you can
tell me all about it, and I'll give you the best advice in my power."
Thus adjured, Claude drew in his chair, and managed to eat a morsel of
toast and drink a cup of coffee, after which he lighted his pipe, and
smoked furiously, while Tait, anxious that his friend should regain his
self-control, made a lengthened meal, and talked of divers matters.
Breakfast over, he also filled his favorite pipe, and, drawing a chair
close to that of Larcher's, waited for an explanation.
"Well, Claude," said he, after a pause, during which the other showed no
disposition to speak, "tell me your trouble."
"I have told you," grumbled Larcher angrily; "if you want to know any
more about it, read those papers."
"It would take too long, and, as it happens, I am already tired with
reading. Tell me about the affair as shortly as possible, and then we
can go through the papers together. You say your father was murdered.
Who committed the crime?"
"No one knows! The criminal is still at large."
"After five-and-twenty years he is likely to remain so."
"No!", cried Larcher vehemently, striking the table; "I'll hunt him
down, and find him out, and put a rope round his neck, so help me God!"
"You say your mother was accused of the crime," said Tait, ignoring this
outburst.
"Yes. But she was acquitted on the evidence of my father's valet.
Shortly afterward she died in London. I don't wonder at it," said poor
Claude distractedly; "the shame, the disgrace! If she survived she was
bitterly punished. I should like to see the man who would dare to
asperse her memory."
"No one will do so," said Tait soothingly. "Control yourself, my dear
fellow, and we will look into this matter together. I have just been
reading about a crime, but I did not think I would be so soon concerned
in dealing with one."
"You will help me, Tait? You will stand by me?"
"My dear friend, can you ask? I am completely at your service, and
together we will do all in our power to discover the murderer of your
father and clear the memory of your mother."
"It is clear. She was acquitted by the jury. Don't you dare to----"
"I don't dare to say anything," interrupted Tait impatiently. "Do be
reasonable, my good fellow. So long as I am ignorant, I can say nothing.
Tell me the particulars and we may arrive at some conclusion. Now then,
give me a _précis_ of the case."
Dominated by the superior calm of his friend, Claude related the Larcher
affair as succinctly as possible. The details of the case had impressed
themselves too strongly on his brain for him to hesitate in the
narration, and, keeping his emotions well in hand, he managed to give a
fairly minute account of the tragedy which had taken place at Horriston
in the year 1866.
The effect on Tait was surprising. A look of blank astonishment
overspread his face as Larcher proceeded with his story, and when it was
finished he looked anxiously at his friend. Apart from the details of
the case, he was deeply interested in the matter from another point of
view. Larcher waited to hear what his friend thought of the case, but
instead of commenting thereon Tait both acted and spoke in an apparently
irrelevant manner.
Without a word he heard Claude to the end, then rose from his seat, and
walking to the other end of the room returned with three volumes bound
in red cloth.
"This book is called 'A Whim of Fate,'" said he placing the volumes at
Larcher's elbow. "Have you read it?"
"Confound it, what do you mean?" burst out Claude, with justifiable
wrath. "I tell you of a serious matter which nearly concerns myself, and
you prattle about the last fashionable novel."
"Wait a minute," said Tait, laying a detaining hand on his friend's coat
sleeve. "There is more method in my madness than you give me credit
for."
"What do you mean?"
"The story you tell me is most extraordinary. But the information I am
about to impart to you is more extraordinary still. You say this crime
at Horriston was committed five-and-twenty years ago."
"Yes, you can see by the date of those newspapers."
"It has very likely faded out of all memories."
"Of course! I don't suppose anyone is now alive who gives it a thought."
"Well," said Tait, "it is certainly curious."
"What is curious? Explain yourself."
"The story you tell me now was known to me last night."
Larcher looked at his friend in unconcealed surprise, and promptly
contradicted what seemed to be a foolish assertion.
"That is impossible, Tait. I heard it only last night myself."
"Nevertheless, I read it last night."
"Read it last night!" repeated Larcher skeptically.
"In this book," said Tait, laying his hand on the novel.
"What do you mean?" demanded the other impatiently.
"I mean that John Parver, the author of this book, has utilized the
events which took place at Horriston in 1866 for the purpose of writing
a work of fiction. The story you tell me is told in these pages, and
your family tragedy is the talk of literary London."
CHAPTER VI.
TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION.
THIS astonishing statement was received by Claude with a disbelieving
smile; and so convinced was he of its untruth that he affected anger at
what he really believed to be the flippancy of Tait's conduct.
"It is no doubt very amusing for you to ridicule my story," said he,
with cold dignity, "but it is hardly the act of a friend. Some matters
are too serious to form the subject of a jest; and this----"
"I am not jesting," interrupted Tait eagerly. "I assure you that the
tragedy which concerned your parents forms the subject-matter of this
novel. You can read the book yourself, and so be convinced that I am
speaking the truth. The names and places are no doubt fictional, but the
whole story is narrated plainly enough."
Larcher turned over the three volumes with a puzzled expression. That a
story with which he had only become acquainted within the last
twenty-four hours should be printed in a book, and that the book itself
should be brought so speedily under his notice, seemed to him quite
inexplicable. The strangeness of the occurrence paralyzed his will, and,
contrary to his usual self-dependence, he looked to Tait for guidance.
"What do you think of it?" he asked irresolutely.
"Ah! That requires some consideration, my friend. But before we go into
the matter let us understand our position toward each other. You believe
this story of your father's death?"
"Certainly. Mr. Hilliston would not tell me an untruth, and moreover
this bundle of extracts from provincial newspapers confirms his
statement. I truly believe that my father, George Larcher, was murdered
at Horriston in 1866 by--and there you have me--I know not by whom. My
own opinion is that Jeringham is----"
"One moment, Claude! Let us settle all preliminaries. Are you resolved
to take up this matter!"
"I am! I must clear the memory of my mother, and avenge the death of my
father."
"Would it not be better to let sleeping dogs lie?" suggested Tait, with
some hesitation.
"I do not think so," replied Claude quietly. "I am not a sentimental
man, as you know; and my nature is of too practical a kind to busy
itself with weaving ropes of sand. Yet in this instance I feel that it
is my duty to hunt down and punish the coward who killed my father. When
I find him, and punish him, this ghost of '66 will be laid aside;
otherwise, it will continue to haunt and torture me all my life."
"But your business?"
"I shall lay aside my business till this matter is settled to my
satisfaction. As you know, I have a private income, and am not compelled
to work for my daily bread. Moreover, the last four years have brought
me in plenty of money, so that I can afford to indulge my fancy. And my
fancy," added Claude in a grim tone, "is to dedicate the rest of my life
to discovering the truth. Do you not approve of my decision?"
"Yes, and no," said Tait evasively. "I think your hunt for an
undescribed criminal, whose crime dates back twenty-five years, is
rather a waste of time. All clews must have disappeared. It seems
hopeless for you to think of solving the mystery. And if you do,"
continued the little man earnestly, "if you do, what possible pleasure
can you derive from such a solution? Your father is a mere name to you,
so filial love can have nothing to do with the matter. Moreover, the
criminal may be dead--he may be----"
"You have a thousand and one objections," said Larcher impatiently,
"none of which have any weight with me. I am in the hands of Fate. A
factor has entered into my life which has changed my future. Knowing
what I now know, I cannot rest until I learn the truth. Do you know the
story of Mozart?" he added abruptly.
"I know several stories of Mozart. But this special one I may not know."
"It is told either of Mozart or Mendelssohn! I forget which," pursued
Larcher, half to himself. "When Mozart--let us say Mozart--was ill in
bed, one of his friends struck a discord on the piano, which required
what is technically known as a resolution for its completion. The
omission so tortured the sensitive ear of the musician that, when his
friend departed, he rose from his bed and completed the discord in
accordance with musical theory. Till that was done he could not rest."
"And the point of your parable?"
"Can you not see? This incomplete case of murder is my discord. I must
complete it by discovering the criminal, and so round off the case, or
submit to be tortured by its hinted mystery all my life. It is not
filial love, it is not sentiment, it is not even curiosity, it is simply
a desire to complete a matter hitherto left undone. Till I know the
sequel to the Horriston tragedy, I shall feel in a state of
suspense--and suspense," added Claude emphatically, "is torture to men
of my temperament."
"Your reason is a trifle whimsical," said Tait, smiling at the
application of this musical theory to the present instance, "but I can
understand your feelings. Indeed, I feel the same way myself."
"You!"
"Why not? In reading 'A Whim of Fate,' I could not go to rest without
knowing the end, and I feel a like curiosity toward this tragedy of real
life. I shall not be content till I learn the truth. My feelings are
precisely the same as your own. Therefore," pursued Tait, with emphasis,
"I propose to assist you in your search. We will discuss the matter
calmly, and see what is best to be done. In spite of the lapse of
five-and-twenty years, who knows but what we may lay hands on the
murderer of your father, who is no doubt now living in fancied
security."
"Unless he is dead."
"Who is making the objections now?" said Tait, smiling. "Well, Claude,
will you accept me as your brother detective in this matter?"
"Willingly, and I thank you for this proof of your friendship."
"I am afraid there is an element of selfishness mixed up in my offer,"
said Tait, shrugging his shoulders. "It is not every day that one can
find an interesting case like this to dissect. Excitement is the joy of
life, and I rather think we will be able to extract a great deal from
this investigation. Come! We now understand one another."
Larcher grasped the hand held out to him, and gratefully accepted the
aid thus offered. From that moment the two dedicated themselves to hunt
down the criminal at whose hands George Larcher had met his death. It
was as strange a compact as had ever been made. Halting Nemesis, who had
rested all these years, once more resumed her stealthy progress, and
before her ran these two young men, as ministers of her long-delayed
revenge. This junction of unforeseen circumstances savored of the
dramatic.
"The first thing to be done," said Tait, when the compact was thus
concluded, "is to read both cases."
"Both cases!" repeated Claude curiously.
"Yes! You remember how Browning gives half a dozen aspects of the same
case in his 'Ring and the Book.' In a minor degree we benefit in the
same manner. There," said Tait, pointing to the roll of newspapers, "is
the case from the real point of view, and here, in these three volumes,
we will find the same case as considered in a fictional fashion by the
novelist. By reading both we may come to some conclusion whence to start
in our talk. Last night you read the newspapers; I the novel. To-day we
will reverse the process. I will view the affair as set forth by the
provincial press, and you will devour the three volumes of John Parver
as I did last night."
"And afterward?"
"Eh! Who can say?" replied Tait, shrugging his shoulders. Several
sojourns in Paris had left their trace in Gallic gestures, and possibly
in Gallic flippancy. "We must know what foundation we have before we
build."
Claude nodded. He was of the same way of thinking himself, and commented
on his friend's speech after his own fashion.
"Yes," said he a trifle vindictively, "we must build our gallows stanch
and strong. You can proceed with your toilet, and afterward we will read
novels and newspapers, as you suggest. The result of our reading must
appear in our actions. I rather think," he added slowly, "that the
result will be a visit to Mr. Hilliston."
"Without doubt. He was an eye-witness, and it is always preferable to
obtain evidence first hand."
"Then," said Claude reflectively, "there is Mrs. Bezel."
"Quite so! The enterprising lady who started the whole thing. Was she
also an eye-witness?"
"I can't say. Her name does not appear in the newspapers."
"Humph!" muttered Tait, scratching his chin. "Nor in those three volumes
can I find a character likely to develop into Mrs. Bezel of Hampstead."
"I wonder who she can be," said Claude curiously, "or what she can have
to do with the case."
"That we must find out. Depend upon it, there is more in this case than
in newspapers or novel. We must find out all about Mrs. Bezel, and,"
said Tait, with emphasis, "we must learn all that is to be learned
concerning John Parver."
"Who is John Parver?"
"Who was the Man in the Iron Mask?" replied Tait, in a bantering tone.
"I cannot say. But whomsoever he may be, he knows all about this case."
"There is that possibility, certainly," assented the other smoothly,
"but I think it hardly likely. A man of to-day would not readily come
across the account of a tragedy occurring in a little known town
twenty-five years ago. Do you know," he added, after a pause, "that it
occurs to me that the publication of this book, containing an account of
the case, may have been the cause which incited Mrs. Bezel to write the
letter."
"I thought so myself. Mrs. Bezel may think that John Parver is a _nom de
plume_ assumed by Claude Larcher."
"Or another alternative. Mrs. Bezel may be John Parver herself. It is
the fashion nowadays for women to write under the names of men."
There was a few minutes' silence, during which each man was intent on
his own thoughts. Tait, whose brain turned quicker than that of
Larcher, was the first to break the silence.
"Well," said he, moving briskly toward his bedroom door, "before we can
say or do anything we must learn the facts of the case."
As he vanished into his room Claude laid his hand on the first of the
three volumes.
CHAPTER VII.
"LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE."
ON the journey of life we sometimes come to a dead stop. Obstacles arise
which bar our further progress, and circumstances, impossible to do away
with, confront us on all sides. We cannot go back, for in life there is
no retrogression; we cannot proceed, owing to blocked paths, and so
stand hopeless and powerless, waiting for the word or action of Fate.
She, unseen but almighty deity, alone can remove the hindrance which
prevents our progress, and until she speaks or acts, we can do nothing
but wait. It is on such occasions that we feel how truly we are the
puppets of some unknown power.
Francis Hilliston had arrived at some such stoppage. Hitherto his keen
brain, his strong will, his capability for decisive action, had carried
him onward from past to present, through present to future. When
obstacles had arisen they had been easily swept away, and with his own
life in his hands, he was perfectly satisfied of his power to mold it to
his liking. Possibly Fate, who is a somewhat jealous deity, felt angered
at the egotistic self-reliance of the man; for without warning she
brought him to a dead stop, then grimly waited to see how his boasted
cunning would outwit her. As she probably foresaw, the man did nothing
but await her decision. It was the only thing he could do.
For five-and-twenty years the Horriston tragedy had been unmentioned,
unthought of; Hilliston deemed that it was relegated to the category of
unknown crimes, and having in mind his friendship for the parents, and
his love for the son, was not unwilling that it should be so. He did not
wish Claude to know of the matter, he was not desirous that he should
come in contact with Mrs. Bezel; and hitherto had managed so well that
neither contingency had eventuated. Congratulating himself on his
dexterity, he remained lulled in fancied security, when Fate, observant
of his complacency, sent a bolt from the blue, and brought him up short.
Now, Hilliston, forced by circumstances to tell the truth to Larcher,
did not know what to do. He could only wait for the fiat of the higher
power.
Grimly satisfied that she had brought home his fault, and had shown him
his moral weakness, Fate made the next move, and sent Larcher and his
friend to Lincoln's Inn Fields to again set Hilliston on his former
journey. The paralysis of will which had seized the elder man did not
extend to the younger; for Claude arrived full of anxiety to begin the
search for the undiscovered criminal. The first result of his compact
with Tait was this visit to the lawyer.
"Claude Larcher; Spenser Tait," muttered Hilliston, glancing at the
cards brought in by his clerk. "I thought as much; the matter is out of
my hands now. Show the gentlemen in," he added sharply.
The clerk departed, and Hilliston walked quickly to the window, where he
stood biting his nails. All geniality had vanished from his face; he
looked older than his years, and an unaccustomed frown wrinkled his
expansive forehead. A crisis had come which he knew not how to meet; so,
after the fashion of men when they feel thus helpless, he left the
decision in the hands of Fate. Which was precisely what Fate wanted.
"Good-morning, Claude! Good-morning, Mr. Tait!" said Hilliston,
welcoming the young men with artificial enthusiasm. "I expected to see
you today."
"Surely you did not expect to see me?" said Tait, in a silky tone, as he
placed his hat on the table.
"Indeed, I did! Where Damon is Phintias is sure to be. That Claude's
perusal of those papers would result in your accompanying him to this
office, I felt sure. I was right. Here you are!"
Mr. Hilliston affected a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. With
increasing age a distaste had come for violent excitements, and with one
of Claude's temperament he knew that the chances were that the ensuing
quarter of an hour would be somewhat stirring. Contrary to his
expectations, however, Larcher was eager, but calm, and Hilliston,
assuring himself that the calmness was genuine, began to hope that the
interview would pass off better than he expected. Still, none of us like
to reopen a disagreeable chapter of the book of life, and this Mr.
Hilliston, against his will and inclination, was about to do.
"Well, sir," said Claude, when they were all seated, and the hush of
expectancy was in the air, "I have read those papers."
"Yes," said Mr. Hilliston interrogatively; "and what do you think of the
matter?"
"I think it is a very black case."
"You are quite right, Claude. It is a very black case indeed. I did all
in my power to bring the criminal to justice, but without success."
"Who is the criminal?" asked Larcher, with a keen glance at his
guardian.
Hilliston shuffled his feet uneasily, by no means relishing the
directness of the question.
"That is a difficult question to answer," he said slowly; "in fact an
impossible one. My suspicions point to Jeringham."
From this point Tait made a third in the conversation.
"That is because Jeringham disappeared on the night of the murder," he
said leisurely.
"Yes. I think that circumstance alone is very suspicious."
"He was never found again?"
"Never. We advertised in all the papers; we employed detectives,
inquired privately, but all to no result. The last person who saw
Jeringham was Mrs. Larcher. He parted from her at the door of The
Laurels, and vanished into the night. It still hides him."
"What do you conclude from that, sir?" asked Claude, after a pause.
"I can only conclude one thing," replied Hilliston, with great
deliberation, "that your father, suspicious of Jeringham, returned on
that night from London, and saw the parting. The result is not difficult
to foresee. It is my own opinion that there were words between the men,
possibly a struggle, and that the matter ended in the murder of your
father by Jeringham. Hence the discovery of the body thrown into the
river, hence the flight of the murderer."
"Was this the generally received opinion at the time?"
"Yes. I can safely say that it was believed Jeringham was guilty, and
had fled to escape the consequences of his crime."
"In that case, how was it that Mrs. Larcher was arrested?" asked Tait
skeptically.
"You cannot have read the case carefully, to ask me that," replied
Hilliston sharply. "She was arrested on the evidence of the dagger.
Without doubt the crime was committed with the dagger, and as she had
worn it, the inference was drawn that she was the guilty person. But she
was acquitted, and left the court--as the saying is--without a stain on
her character."
"Nevertheless she died, Mr. Hilliston."
"Shame killed her," said the lawyer sadly. "She was a foolish woman in
many ways,--your pardon, Claude, for so speaking,--but she was not the
woman to commit so foul a crime. Indeed, I believe she was fondly
attached to her husband till Jeringham came between them."
"Ah!" interposed Tait composedly, "that is John Parver's view."
"John Parver?" repeated Hilliston, with well-bred surprise. "I do not
know that name in connection with the case."
"Nor do we know the name of Mrs. Bezel," said Claude quickly.
Hilliston started, and looked at Claude as though he would read his very
soul. The inscrutability of the young man's countenance baffled him, and
he turned off the remark with a dry laugh.
"With Mrs. Bezel we will deal hereafter," he said shortly; "but who is
this John Parver!"
"He is the author of a book called 'A Whim of Fate.'"
"A novel?"
"Yes. A novel which embodies the whole of this case."
"That is strange," said Hilliston quietly, "but no doubt the author has
come across the details in some old provincial journal, and made use of
them. The Larcher affair caused a great deal of talk at the time, but it
is certainly remarkable that a novelist should have made use of it for
fictional purposes after the lapse of so many years. I must read the
book. Just note the name of it here, Mr. Tait, if you please."
Tait did so, and Hilliston continued:
"Is my character in the book?"
"I think so. Under the name of Michael Dene!"
"I trust the author has been flattering to me. By the way, who does he
say committed the crime?"
"Michael Dene."
Hilliston went gray on the instant, as though a sudden blow had been
struck at his heart. Two pairs of keen eyes were fixed on his face with
some surprise, and uneasy at the scrutiny, he strove to recover his
composure.
"Upon my word," he said, with quivering lips, "I am infinitely obliged
to John Parver for describing me as a murderer. And what motive does he
ascribe to me, or rather to Michael Dene, for the committal of the
crime?"
"Love for the wife," said Tait, smiling.
"Eh! That is rather the rôle of Jeringham, I should say," replied
Hilliston, the color coming back to lips and cheek. "I must read this
novel, and if possible discover the identity of the author."
"Oh, we will do that!"
"Claude!" cried the lawyer, in astonishment.
"I and Tait. We intend to follow out this case to the end."
"It is useless! Five-and-twenty years have elapsed."
"Nevertheless, I am determined to hunt down the murderer of my father,"
said Claude decisively. "Besides, we have two eye-witnesses to the
tragedy. Yourself and Mrs. Bezel."
"Ah! Mrs. Bezel! I forgot her. Certainly, I will do all in my power to
help you, Claude. Your father was my dearest friend, and I shall only be
too glad to avenge his fate. But if I could not do it at the moment, how
can I hope to do so now--after so long a period has elapsed?"
"Leave that to us, sir. Tait and I will attend to the active part of the
business. All we ask you to do is to give us such information as lies in
your power."
"I will do that with pleasure," said Hilliston, who by this time was
thoroughly master of himself. "What is it you wish to know."
"We wish to know all about Mrs. Bezel. Who is she? What has she to do
with the case? Why is not her name mentioned in these pages?"
"For answers to these questions you had better apply to the lady
herself. You have her address. Why not call on her?"
"I intend to do so to-morrow."
The old man rose from his seat, and took a turn up and down the room.
Then he paused beside Claude, and laid a trembling hand on the young
man's shoulder.
"I have been a good friend to you, Claude."
"You have been my second father--my real father," said Larcher gently.
"I shall never forget your kindness. I would return it if I could."
"Then do so, by letting sleeping dogs lie."
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Hilliston?" asked the other, with a
subtle change in his tone.
"Abandon this case. Do not call on Mrs. Bezel. You can do no good by
reopening the affair. It was a mystery years ago, it is a mystery still;
it will remain a mystery till the end of time."
"Not if I can help it. I am sorry to disoblige you, sir, but my mind is
made up. I am determined to find out the truth."
Hilliston sighed, passed his hand across his forehead, and returned to
his seat, hopeless and baffled. He was sufficiently acquainted with
Claude's character to know that he was not easily turned from his
purpose, and that his resolution to solve the mystery would be
resolutely carried out. Yet he made one more attempt to bend the young
man to his will.
"If you are wise you will not call on Mrs. Bezel."
"Why not, sir?"
"It will give you great pain."
"All my pain is past," replied Claude quickly. "I can suffer no more
than I did when reading these papers. I must call on Mrs. Bezel; I must
know the truth, and," added he significantly, "I have your promise to
assist me."
"I will do all in my power," answered Hilliston wearily, "but you do not
know what are you doing. I am older and more experienced than you, and I
give you my best advice. Do not see Mrs. Bezel, and leave the Larcher
affair alone."
The result of this well-meant advice was that Claude called the next
morning on Mrs. Bezel.
CHAPTER VIII.
BOTH SIDES OF THE QUESTION.
MAN'S life has frequently been compared to a river. In childhood it is a
trickling thread, in youth a stream, in manhood a majestic river, and
finally in old age is swallowed up in the ocean of death. A very pretty
parable, but somewhat stale. It is time that life was indicated by a new
metaphor. Let us therefore compare the life of man to the ocean itself.
Like the ocean life has its calms and storms, its sullen rages, its
caressing moments; and like the ocean--for this is the main point of the
illustration--it has its profound depths, containing a hundred secrets
unknown to the outer world. Francis Hilliston was like the ocean: all
knew the surface, few were acquainted with the depths below.
A man who leads a double life need never feel dull. He may be nervous,
anxious, fearful lest his secret should be discovered, but the constant
vigilance required to hide it preserves him from the curse of ennui. He
ever keeps the best side of his nature uppermost; his smiles are for the
world, his brow is smoothed to lull suspicion. But to continue the
simile of the ocean: in the depths lie many terrible things which never
come to the surface; things which he scarcely dare admit even to
himself. Francis Hilliston was one of these men.
Everyone knew Hilliston of Lincoln's Inn Fields, or thought they did,
which is quite a different thing. He was widely respected in the
profession; he was popular in society; hand and glove with prominent and
wealthy personages. His house at Kensington Gore was richly furnished;
his wife was handsome and fashionable; he gave splendid entertainments,
at which none was more jocund than the host himself; he was, outwardly,
all that was prosperous and popular. In his professional capacity he was
the repository of a thousand secrets, but of all these none was more
terrible than the one locked up in his own breast.
Long years of training, constant necessity, had taught him how to
control his emotions, to turn his face into a mask of inscrutability;
yet he succeeded ill at times, as witness his interview with the two
young men. Not all his powers of self-repression could keep his face
from turning gray; nor prevent the perspiration beading his brow; nor
steady his voice to well-bred indifference. Usually he succeeded in
masking his emotion; this time he had failed, and, worst of all, he knew
that he had failed.
It was not Claude that he feared, for the young man was not of a
suspicious nature; and even had he been so, would certainly have scoffed
at the idea of attributing any evil to the one who had been to him a
father. Tait, silent, observant, and cynical, was the person to be
dreaded. Accustomed by his profession to read faces, Hilliston had seen
that the quiet little man was possessed of one of those inquisitive
penetrative natures, which suspect all men, and from a look, a gesture,
a pause, can draw evidence to support any suspicion they may entertain.
Certainly Tait had no reason to distrust Hilliston when he entered the
room, but during the interview he appeared dissatisfied with the
lawyer's manner. That Hilliston should attempt to dissuade Claude from
prosecuting a search for his father's murderer seemed strange; but that
he should betray such marked agitation at the idea of such searching
taking place was stranger still. Altogether Tait left the office in a
very dissatisfied state of mind. Hilliston had sufficient penetration to
note this, and when left alone was at his wit's end how to baffle the
unwarrantable curiosity of this intruder.
"I don't mind Claude," he said, pacing up and down the room, "he has not
sufficient brain power to find out anything. I do not want him to know.
But this Tait is dangerous. He is one of those dogged creatures, who
puts his nose to the scent, and never leaves the trail till the prey is
captured. It is with him I have to deal, not with Claude."
His agitation almost mastered him, and he hurriedly took a small bottle
from a drawer in his desk. Dropping the contents of this into a glass of
water, he drank off the draught, and in a short space of time regained
his composure, in some measure. Then he sat down to think, and plot, and
plan how to baffle the vigilance of Tait.
"That infernal woman has done it all," he muttered savagely; "she has
lighted the fire. Let us see how she will put it out. But she cannot put
it out," he added, striking his forehead with his clenched fist; "it
will blaze and burn. I shall burn with it unless----"
There was a strange smile on his lips, as an idea entered his mind, and
he glanced quickly at his watch.
"Four o'clock. Claude can't possibly call on Margaret to-day, so I have
yet time to prepare her for his visit. I must silence her at any cost.
She must hold her tongue or ruin us both. Great Heavens! to think that
she should break out like this after five-and-twenty years. It is enough
to drive me mad."
By this time he had put on his gloves, and stretched his hand toward his
hat, which stood on a side table. A glance in the glass showed him how
old and gray he looked, and the sight was so unexpected that he started
in dismay.
"Bah! I look as though I were going to fail," he said to himself, "but I
must not fail. I dare not fail. At sixty, rich, honored, respected, I am
not going to fall from the pedestal I have reached. I shall reassure
Claude. I shall baffle Tait. I shall silence Margaret. The first move in
the game is mine."
Calm, dignified, easy, he left his office, and stepped into the brougham
waiting at the door. To judge by appearance, one would have thought him
the most respectable and upright man in London. No one knew what lurked
behind that benevolent expression. His mask had fallen for the moment
when Tait was present; now it was on again, and he went forth to deceive
the world. Yet he had an uneasy consciousness that one man at least
guessed his real character.
"Never mind," he thought, as the footman closed the door of the
brougham, "it will be strange if, with my age and experience and
reputation and money, I cannot baffle him."
He did not go direct home, as it was yet early, and he had one or two
things to do in connection with his new task. First he drove to Tait's
chambers, and ascertained from the porter that the two young men were
within.
"Never mind sending up my name, I won't disturb them," he said, when the
porter requested his card. "I only wished to speak to Mr. Tait about a
box at the theater."
"If it is the Lyceum you mean, sir, I have just got two stalls for Mr.
Tait."
"Ah! I may see them there," replied Hilliston negligently; and as he
drove away reflected: "Good! They have not yet been to Hampstead; nor do
they intend to go to-night. Mr. Tait has yet to learn the value of
time."
Driving through Piccadilly he stopped at a bookshop, and with some
difficulty, for the demand was large, obtained a copy of "A Whim of
Fate." He began to read it in the brougham, and skimmed its pages so
rapidly that by the time he reached Kensington Gore he had nearly
finished the first volume. He did not recognize himself in the character
of Michael Dene, and became more convinced than ever that the
coincidence of the Larcher affair forming the plot of a novel, was due
to the author's reading the case in some old provincial newspaper. On
every page it betrayed that, to him, the story was hearsay.
Fortunately Mrs. Hilliston was driving in the Park, so the lawyer shut
himself up in his library, and went on reading the story. He did not see
his wife till dinner, which took place at eight o'clock, and then
descended in his ordinary clothes, looking ill and pale. Something he
had read in the novel had startled him more than he cared to
confess--even to himself.
"You must excuse my dress, Louise," he said, on taking his seat, "but I
have been so engrossed with a novel that I did not hear the dressing
bell."
"It has not had a pleasant effect on you," replied his wife, smiling;
"you do not look at all well."
"I am not well," said Hilliston, who merely trifled with his food; "you
must excuse me going with you to the Lamberts' to-night, as I think I
shall call in and see my doctor."
"Are you so bad as all that?" questioned Mrs. Hilliston anxiously. "Why
not send for Dr. Bland?"
"I prefer going to see him, Louise. You will probably not be back till
three in the morning, so I will go to bed immediately on my return. Have
no fear, my dear, it is only a trifling indisposition."
After these plain statements it was rather strange that Hilliston, in
place of driving to Dr. Bland's, who lived in Hill Street, should direct
the cab, which he picked up by the Park railings, to drive to Hampstead.
CHAPTER IX.
MRS. BEZEL.
ONE cannot always judge by appearances either as regards human beings or
houses. Mr. Hilliston was one excellent illustration of this rule;
Clarence Cottage was another. It was in a narrow and crooked lane
trending downward to the right, at the summit of Fitzjohn's Avenue; an
unpretentious two-story building, divided from the public thoroughfare
by a well-cultivated garden. Therein grew thyme and lavender, marigolds
and pansies; for the owner of the cottage loved those homely flowers,
and daily gazed at them from the bow-window wherein her couch was
placed.
Mrs. Bezel never walked in her garden, for the all-sufficient reason
that she was a helpless paralytic, and had not used her limbs for over
ten years. Still a moderately young woman of forty-five, she possessed
the remains of great beauty, ravaged by years of anxiety and mental
trouble. Those passing along the lane usually saw her pale face at the
window, and pitied the sufferings written in every line; sufferings
which were apparent even to a casual glance. Noting the homely garden,
the mean-looking dwelling, the anxious expression of the invalid, they
deemed her to be some poor sickly creature, the scapegoat of nature and
the world, who had sought this secluded spot in order to hide her
troubles. This view was not entirely correct.
She was in ill-health, it is true; she dwelt in a small house certainly;
and the anxious expression was seldom absent from her face. But she was
in easy circumstances, untroubled by pecuniary worries, and the interior
of the cottage was furnished with a magnificence more suggestive of Park
Lane than of Hampstead. The outward aspect of the house, like that of
Mr. Hilliston, was a lie.
Her sitting room resembled the boudoir of some Mayfair beauty. The
curtains were of silk, the carpet velvet pile, the walls were adorned
with costly pictures, and every corner of the small apartment was filled
with sumptuous furniture. All that art could contribute, all that
affection could suggest, were confined in the tiny space, and had Mrs.
Bezel possessed the mines of Golconda she could not have been more
luxuriously lodged. The house was a gem of its kind, perfect and
splendid.
Mrs. Bezel took little interest in these material comforts. Her life was
passed between a couch in the bow-window, a well-cushioned chair by the
fire, and a downy bed in the next room. She had little appetite and did
not enjoy her food; mental anxiety prevented her interesting herself in
the splendors around her; and the only pleasure she took was her dreary
journey in a Bath-chair when the weather permitted. Then, as she inhaled
the fresh breeze blowing across the Heath, she gazed with longing eyes
at London, almost hidden under its foggy veil, far below, and always
returned with reluctance to the familiar splendors of her narrow
dwelling. Fortune had given her much, but by way of compensation had
deprived her of the two things she most desired--of health and of love.
Even on this warm June evening a fire burned in the grate, for Mrs.
Bezel was a chilly creature, who shrunk at the least breath of wind.
According to custom, she had left the window couch at seven o'clock, and
had taken her simple meal while seated in her large chair to the right
of the fireplace. After dinner she took up a novel which was placed on a
small table at her elbow, and tried to read; but her attention was not
fixed on the book, and gradually it fell from her hands, while she gazed
idly at the fire.
What she saw therein Heaven only knows. We all have our moments of
retrospection, and can picture the past in the burning coals. Some even
picture the future, but there was none for this woman. She was old,
weary, diseased, worn-out, and therefore saw in the fire only the
shadows of past years. Faces looked out of the flaming valleys, scenes
arranged themselves in the red confusion; but among them all there was
always one face, one scene, which never vanished as did the others. This
special face, this particular scene, were fixed, immovable, cruel, and
insistent.
The chime of the clock striking half-past nine roused her from her
reverie, and she again addressed herself to the novel with a sigh.
Tortured by her own thoughts, Mrs. Bezel was not accustomed to retire
before midnight, and there were nearly three hours to be got through
before that time. Her life was as dreary, and weary, and heart-breaking
as that of Mariana in the Moated Grange.
The tread of a firm footfall in the distance roused her attention, and
she looked expectantly toward the door, which faced her chair. The
newcomer passed up the narrow garden path, entered the house, and, after
a pause in the hall, presented himself in the sitting room. Mrs. Bezel
knew who it was before the door opened; for standing on the threshold
was the man with the face she had lately pictured amid the burning
coals. Francis Hilliston and the woman who called herself Mrs. Bezel
looked steadily at one another, but no sign of welcome passed between
them. He was the first to break the awkward silence.
"How are you this evening, Margaret?" he asked, advancing toward her;
"better, I hope. There is more color in your cheeks, more brightness in
your eyes."
"I am the same as ever," she replied coldly, while he drew a chair close
to the fire, and stretched out his hands to the blaze. "Why have you
come here at this hour?"
"To see you."
"No doubt! But with what purpose?"
Hilliston pinched his nether lip between finger and thumb, frowning the
while at the fire. Whatever had been, there was now no love between this
woman and himself. But on no occasion had he noted so hostile a tone in
her voice. He was aware that a duel of words and brains was about to
ensue, and, knowing his antagonist, he took the button off his foil.
There was no need for fine speaking or veiled hints in this
conversation. It was advisable that all should be plain and
straightforward, for they knew each other too well to wear their masks
when alone. Under these circumstances he spoke the truth.
"I think you can guess my errand," he said suavely. "It concerns the
letter you wrote to Claude Larcher."
"I thought as much! And what more have you to say in connection with
that affair?"
"I have merely to inform you that the man whom you desire to see is in
London, and will no doubt answer your kind invitation in person."
Mrs. Bezel stretched out her hand and selected a letter from the little
pile on her table.
"If you will look at that," she said coldly, "you will see that Claude
intends to call on me at three o'clock to-morrow."
Taking the letter in silence, Hilliston turned frightfully pale, and the
perspiration stood in large beads on his forehead. He expected some such
appointment to be made, yet the evidence in his hand startled him all
the same. The promptitude of action spoke volumes to one of his acute
perceptions. To defend his good name would require all his skill and
experience, for he had to do with men of action, who acted as quickly as
they thought. The duel would be more equal than he had thought.
"Are you still determined to tell all," he said in a low tone, crushing
the paper up in his hand.
"Yes."
The monosyllable was uttered in so icy a manner that Hilliston lost his
temper completely. Before this woman there was no need for him to retain
his smiling mask, and in a frenzy of rage he hurried into rapid speech,
frantic and unconsidered.
"Ah, you would ruin me!" he cried, springing to his feet; "you would
drag up those follies of '66, and make London too hot to hold me! Have I
not implored, threatened, beseeched, commanded--done everything in my
power to make you hold your peace? Miserable woman, would you drag the
man you love down to----"
"The man I loved you mean," responded Mrs. Bezel, in nowise moved by
this torrent of abuse. "Pray do not be theatrical, Francis. You know me
well enough to be aware that when my mind is made up I am not easily
moved. A man of your brains," she added scornfully, "should know that
loss of temper is but the prelude to defeat."
Recognizing the truth of this remark, Hilliston resumed his seat, and
subdued his anger. Only the look of hatred in his eyes betrayed his real
feelings; otherwise he was calm, suave, and self-controlled.
"Have you weighed the cost of your action?" he demanded quietly.
"Yes. It means ruin to us both. But the loss is yours, not mine.
Helpless and deserted, life has no further charms for me, but you, Mr.
Hilliston, doubtless feel differently."
"Margaret," he said entreatingly, "why do you speak like this? What harm
have I done you that----"
"What harm!" she interrupted fiercely. "Have you not ruined me, have you
not deserted me, have you not robbed me of all that I loved? My life has
been one long agony, and you are to blame for it all. Not a word," she
continued imperiously. "I shall speak. I insist upon your knowing the
truth!"
"Go on," he said sullenly; "I listen."
"I loved you once, Francis. I loved you to my own cost. For your sake I
lost everything--position, home, respect, and love. And you--what did
you do?"
Hilliston looked round the room, and shrugged his shoulders. Look and
gesture were so eloquent that she commented on them at once.
"Do you think I valued this splendor? I know well enough that you gave
me all material comforts. But I wanted more than this. I wanted love."
"You had it."
"Aye! I had the passion such as you call love. Did it endure? You know
well that it did not. So long as I was healthy and handsome and bright
your attentions continued, but when I was reduced to this state, ten
years ago, what did you do? Left me to marry another woman."
"It was not my fault," he muttered uneasily; "my affairs were involved,
and, as my wife had money, I was forced to marry her."
"And you did marry her, and no doubt neglect her as you do me. Is Mrs.
Hilliston any happier in her splendid house at Kensington Gore than I in
this miserable cottage? I think not. I waited and waited, hoping your
love would return. It did not; so I took my own course--revenge!"
"And so wrote to Claude Larcher!"
"Yes. Listen to me. I wrote the first letter on the impulse of the
moment. I had been reading a book called 'A Whim of Fate,' which
contained----"
"I know! I know! I read it myself this evening."
"Then you know that someone else is possessed of your secret. Who is
John Parver?"
"I don't know. I intend to find out. Meanwhile I am waiting to hear the
conclusion of your story."
Mrs. Bezel drew a long breath, and continued:
"The book, which contained an account of the tragedy at Horriston,
brought the fact so visibly before me that I wrote on the impulse
telling you that I wished to see Claude, and reveal all. You came and
implored and threatened. Then my impulse became a fixed determination. I
saw how I could punish you for your neglect, and so persisted in my
scheme. I wrote to Claude, and he is coming here to-morrow."
"What do you intend to tell him?"
"So much of the death of his father as I know."
"You must not--you dare not," said Hilliston, with dry lips. "It means
ruin!"
"To you, not to me."
"Impossible," he said curtly. "Our relations are too close for one to
fall without the other."
"So you think," rejoined Mrs. Bezel coolly; "but I know how to protect
myself. And of one thing you may be assured, I will say nothing against
you. All I intend to do is to tell him of his father's death."
"He knows it already."
"What?"
"Yes! Did you think I was not going to be beforehand with you," sneered
Hilliston triumphantly. "I guessed your intention when you wrote me that
letter, and when Claude arrived in town I saw him before he could call
here. I did not intend to tell him of the matter till your action forced
me to do so. He has read all the papers in connection with his father's
death, and intends to hunt down the murderer. Now, do you see what you
have done?"
Apparently the brutal plainness of this speech strongly affected Mrs.
Bezel. It seemed as though she had not comprehended till that moment
what might be the result of her actions. Now an abyss opened at her
feet, and she felt a qualm of fear.
"Nevertheless, I intend to go on now that I have begun," she said
gloomily. "I will answer any questions Claude may ask me."
"You will put him in possession of a clew."
"It is not improbable; but, as I said, life has no charms for me."
"You don't think of my sufferings," said Hilliston bitterly, rising to
his feet.
"Did you think of mine during all these lonely years?" she retorted,
with a sneer. "I shall punish you, as you punished me. There is such a
thing as justice in this world."
"Well, I warn you that I shall protect myself."
"That is your lookout. But I will show you this mercy, as I said before.
That nothing will be told by me of your connection with this affair. As
to myself, I will act as I think best."
"You will tell him who you are?"
"Yes; I will tell him my real name."
"Then I am lost!"
"Surely not," she rejoined scornfully. "Francis Hilliston is old enough
in villainy and experience to protect himself against a mere boy."
"It is not Claude I fear, but his friend, Spenser Tait. He is the
dangerous person. But enough of this," added Hilliston, striking the
table imperiously. "I forbid you to indulge in these follies. You know I
have a means whereby to compel your obedience."
"It is your possession of that means that has turned me against you,"
she retorted dauntlessly. "If you give me back my----"
"Margaret! Not a word more! Let things remain as they are."
"I have said what I intend to do."
Hilliston ground his teeth. He knew that nothing he could say or do
would shake the determination of this woman. He had already experienced
her resolute will, and not even the means of which he spoke would shake
her immovability. There was nothing more but to retire and protect
himself as best he could. At all events, she promised to remain neutral
so far as he was concerned. That was something gained. Before leaving
the house, however, he made one final effort to force her to his will.
"I will not give you any more money."
"I don't care, Francis. This cottage and its contents are settled on me.
A sale of this furniture will produce sufficient money to last my life.
I can't live long now."
"I will deny all your statements."
"Do so!"
"I will have you declared insane and shut up in an asylum."
Mrs. Bezel laughed scornfully, and pointed toward the door.
"If that is all you have to say you had better go," she said jeeringly.
"You know well enough that you cannot harm me without jeopardizing your
own position."
They looked at one another fiercely, each trying to outstare the other.
Hilliston's eyes were the first to fall, and he hastily turned toward
the door.
"So be it," he said, with his hand on the knob; "you want war. You shall
have it. See Claude, tell him all. I can defend myself."
On leaving the house a few minutes later, he paused irresolutely by the
gate and looked back.
"If I could only find the paper," he muttered, "she could do nothing. As
it is----"
He made a gesture of despair and plunged into the darkness.
CHAPTER X.
A FEW FACTS CONNECTED WITH THE CASE.
WHEN the two young men left Lincoln's Inn Fields after the momentous
interview with Hilliston, they walked on in silence for some distance,
each busied with his own thoughts. Like most solitaries, Tait had a
habit of speaking aloud, and, unmindful of the presence of Claude, he
stopped short at the gate of the New Law Courts to give vent to his
feelings.
"It is decidedly suspicious," he said in a low tone, "and quite
inexplicable."
"What are you talking about?" asked Claude irritably, whereupon Tait
became aware that he was not alone, but nevertheless showed no
disposition to balk the question.
"I was thinking of Mr. Hilliston," he returned quietly. "I am not at all
satisfied with his conduct. He is hostile to us, Claude."
"Hostile? Impossible! He is doing all in his power to help us."
"So it appears," answered Tait dryly. "Nevertheless I think that he
intends to thwart us in our plans--if he can."
"Now you are talking nonsense," said Claude, as they resumed their walk.
"Why, he first brought the case under my notice."
"And why? Because he wanted to be beforehand with Mrs. Bezel. If he had
not told she would have done so, and naturally enough he wished to be
first in the field."
"But I can't think ill of him," protested Larcher. "He has been a second
father to me."
"No doubt! There is such a thing as remorse."
"Remorse? You are mad!"
"Not at all. I am suspicious. We will discuss Mr. Hilliston later on,
when I will give you my reasons for speaking thus. Meanwhile he has
decided to play a game against us!"
"Nonsense! He has no motive."
"Pardon me. I think he has, but what it is I am unable to say--as yet.
However, he will make two moves in the game within the next twenty-four
hours."
"Indeed," said Claude ironically, "perhaps you can tell me what those
two moves will be."
"Certainly," answered Tait serenely. "As to the first, he will call at
my rooms to find out if we have gone to see Mrs. Bezel to-night,
and----"
"Why at your rooms?"
"Because he thinks you are staying with me. And, moreover, knowing that
we are acting together, he knows your movements will coincide with
mine."
"Ah! And the second move?"
"He will write you a letter asking you to stay with him at Kensington
Gore."
"I don't see what there is suspicious about that," said Claude
petulantly.
"I know you don't. But it is my belief that he is afraid of your
investigations in this case, and wishes to keep you under his eye."
"But good Heavens, man! he advised me to pursue the matter."
"On the contrary, he advised you to let sleeping dogs lie."
"So he did," cried Claude, with a sudden recollection of the interview.
"But why? What harm can my investigations do to him?"
"Ah! That is a difficult question to answer," said Tait reflectingly.
"To my mind they will show that Hilliston was not the friend of your
father he pretended to be."
"But according to those papers he acted like a friend throughout."
"Yes, according to those papers."
Larcher faced round suddenly, struck by the significance of the remark.
He was a clever young man, but could not see clearly before him, and
honest himself, was far from suspecting dishonesty in others. Instead of
agreeing with Tait in his estimate of Hilliston, he vehemently defended
the lawyer.
"You must not speak like that, Tait," he said angrily. "Mr. Hilliston is
an honest man, and has been like a father to me. I owe all to him."
"Perhaps you do," retorted Tait significantly. "However, we need not
quarrel over the matter. I am content to wait, and will bet you five
pounds that the inquiry is made to-night, and the letter is sent
to-morrow."
Larcher did not accept the bet thus confidently offered, but walked on
stiffly with his head in the air. He was seriously annoyed with Tait for
daring to cast an imputation on the character of a man to whom he owed
all. Never could he bring himself to believe that Hilliston intended him
evil, and deemed that the lawyer, despite his manifest reluctance, would
help him by all the means in his power to discover the assassin.
Nevertheless, Tait proved to be in the right. As the two young men
passed down the stairs on their way to the theater--whence Tait insisted
on taking Claude with a view of distracting his mind--they were met by
the porter.
"Beg pardon, sir," addressing himself to Tait, "but a gentleman called
some time ago and asked for you and Mr. Larcher."
"Who was he? Why did you not show him up?"
"He would not give his name, sir, and did not wish to come up. He only
asked if you had a box for the theater, and when I said you had stalls,
drove off."
"Ah! Can you describe his appearance?"
"Not very tall, sir. Clean shaven, with white hair and a red face.
Looked like a country gentleman, sir."
"Thank you! that will do," replied Tait quietly, and left the house with
Claude.
For a few minutes he enjoyed his companion's astonishment at this proof
of Hilliston's double-dealing, and it was not till they were in the cab
that he spoke.
"Well," he said, smiling, "was I not right when I said that he would
make the first move?"
"You are right so far," muttered Claude, who looked ill at ease, "but I
cannot bring myself to suspect my guardian."
"You want another proof, perhaps. Well, we will wait for your invitation
to Kensington Gore."
Claude shook his head, and seemed so indisposed to talk that Tait judged
it wise to humor his silence. The young man's thoughts were anything but
pleasant. He had been accustomed to look up to Hilliston as the model of
an English gentleman, honest, honorable, upright, and noble. If, then,
this suspicion of Tait's should prove correct,--and the last act of
Hilliston certainly gave color to it,--where was he to find honest and
honorable men? If Hilliston proved false, then Claude felt he could no
longer trust the human race. Still he fought against the supposition,
and secretly hoped that the second prophecy of his friend would not be
fulfilled.
Alas, for his hopes! At eleven the next morning, while they were
discussing the situation, a letter was delivered to Claude by special
messenger. It proved to be from Hilliston, and contained a warm
invitation for Larcher to take up his abode at the Kensington Gore
house. "As you may only be in London for a short period, my dear
Claude," wrote his guardian, "my wife and I must see as much of you as
possible." With a bitter smile Claude tossed the letter across to Tait.
"You see I was right," said the latter, for the second time, after
skimming the note. "Mr. Hilliston is playing a double game. He wishes to
keep you under his eye, thinking that, as you trust him, you will keep
him informed as to your doings, so that being forewarned he may be
forearmed."
"Do you really think he is my enemy, Tait?"
"I am really not prepared to say," replied the little man, with some
hesitation. "His behavior of yesterday struck me as suspicious. He
seemed unnecessarily agitated, and moreover urged you not to see Mrs.
Bezel. Perhaps he thinks she will tell you too much. Taking all these
facts into consideration I cannot help thinking that Hilliston is asking
you to his house for some motive in connection with our search."
"But he showed me the papers."
"I know that, but as I told you yesterday it was Hobson's choice with
him. If he hadn't imparted the information, Mrs. Bezel would have done
so. Of two evils he chose the least, and by showing you the papers
proved to all outward appearance that he was your firm friend. Should
you bring any charge against him, he will meet it by the very argument
you have just made use of."
"Good Heavens!" groaned Claude, in despair, "is everybody as treacherous
as you think him to be."
"A good number of people are," replied Tait suavely. "A long residence
in London does not strengthen one's belief in human nature. It is a city
of wild beasts,--of wolves and foxes,--who rend and betray for the
gaining of their own ends. If Hilliston is what I believe him to be, we
must do our best to baffle him; and so you must continue to be his
friend."
"How can I, if he wishes to betray me?"
"Ah, you are so unsophisticated, Claude," said the hardened man of the
world; "you betray your feelings too plainly. In this city it is worse
than madness to wear your heart on your sleeve. If you are convinced
that Hilliston bears you ill----"
"I am not convinced. I can't believe any man would be so base."
"Ah, bah, that is a want of experience," retorted Tait, raising his
eyebrows; "I'll pick you out a dozen of my decent friends who are as
base or baser than I believe them to be. Respectability is all a
question of concealment nowadays, and it must be confessed that your
guardian wears his mask very prettily."
"But do you think he is----"
"Never mind what I think," interrupted Tait impatiently. "Hilliston may
turn out to be an angel, after all. But his conduct of yesterday and
this morning appears to be suspicious, and in dealing with the matters
we have in hand it is as well to be careful. Keep your faith in
Hilliston if it assists you to continue the friendship. He must suspect
nothing."
"Do you then wish me to accept this invitation?"
"No. Why go into the lion's den? Write and thank him and--decline."
"I have no excuse."
"Indeed! Then I will provide you with one. You are engaged to stay with
me at Thorston for a month. By the end of that time you will know
sufficient of Hilliston to decide for yourself as to the wisdom of
accepting or declining his invitation."
"But if we go to Thorston we cannot prosecute our inquiries."
"Yes, we can. I tell you that book, which contains the story of your
father's murder, also contains a description of Thorston. I recognize
every scene."
"Well?"
"Well," repeated Tait sharply, "can't you see? The author of that book
must either live at Thorston or have stayed a few months there. Else he
could not have described the village so accurately. We must make
inquiries about him there, and should we be fortunate enough to discover
him, we must extract his secret."
"What secret?"
"Upon my word, Claude, you are either stupid or cunning. Why, find out
where he got his material from. That may put us on the right track. Now,
write to Hilliston, and then go up to Hampstead and find out what Mrs.
Bezel has to say."
"Won't you come, too?" said Claude, going to the writing desk.
"No. I have my own business to attend to."
"Is it connected with our enterprise?"
"I should think so. It is my intention to call on the firm who published
'A Whim of Fate,' and find out all I can concerning the author. When you
return from Mrs. Bezel we will compare notes, and on what information we
obtain will depend our future movements."
CHAPTER XI.
A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
IN one of his novels Balzac makes the pertinent remark that "It is
impossible for man to understand the heart of woman, seeing that her
Creator himself does not understand it." These are not the precise
words, but the sentiment is the same. And who, indeed, can understand a
woman's heart; who can aver that he has a complete comprehension of her
character? Very young men lay claim to such knowledge, but as they grow
older, and the vanity of youth gives way to the modesty begotten by
experience, they no longer pretend to such omniscience, and humbly admit
their inability to solve the riddle of femininity. Had the Sphinx
proposed such an enigma to oedipus he would not have been able to guess
it, and so, meeting the fate of other victims, would have deprived
Thebes of a king and Sophicles of a tragedy.
Yet, if we bear in mind that women work rather from impulse than from
motive, we may arrive at some knowledge of the organ in question. If a
woman is impulsive, and most women are, she acts directly on those
impulses; and so startles men by paradoxical actions. As a rule, the
male intellect has logical reasons wherefrom it deduces motives upon
which to act. Not so with women. They obey the impulse of the moment,
reckless of the consequence to themselves or to anyone else.
Consequently, it is impossible to foretell how a woman will act in a
given circumstance, but it may be asserted that she will obey the latest
thought in her mind. Even from this point of view, the feminine mind is
still a riddle; but one which is more capable of explanation.
For example, Mrs. Bezel read "A Whim of Fate," and thus, after
five-and-twenty years, the Horriston tragedy was freshly impressed on
her brain. Seized with remorse, terrified by the memory of the crime,
she, acting on the impulse, wrote to Hilliston stating that she intended
to see Claude Larcher and reveal all. The dismay of the lawyer at this
mad proposal, and his steady opposition thereto, turned what was
originally a mere whim into a fixed idea. She saw a way of punishing the
man for the withdrawal of his love ten years before, when she lost her
beauty and became paralyzed. Delighted at learning that she had still
some power to wound him, she persisted in her project, and so wrote the
letter to Larcher, which he received the day after his arrival in
London.
To baffle Hilliston, and prevent him from intercepting the letter, she
was obliged to use all her wits, and so hit on the idea of learning the
name of the young man's club. How she managed to obtain it is best known
to herself; but Hilliston, never dreaming of this pertinacity, was
unable to thwart her schemes, and, beyond writing to Claude, telling him
to call, could do nothing. Had he guessed that she would address her
invitation to the club, he might have called and obtained it in the
character of Larcher's guardian; but, knowing her helpless condition,
the thought that it might be there never entered his mind. So the letter
arrived, was duly answered, and Claude was coming to-day at three
o'clock to hear what Mrs. Bezel had to say.
The visit, though due to her own action, was a source of considerable
anxiety; for she was not at all certain of what she would say. It was
impossible to tell all without inculpating Hilliston, and this, for
reasons of her own, Mrs. Bezel was unwilling to do. All her talk of the
previous night had been so much rodomontade to frighten the man she
hated, but she was too well aware of her dependent position to think of
doing him an injury. Her impulse had led her into deep water, as she
knew instinctively.
She was a woman who had lived every moment of her life, but now,
stretched on a bed of sickness, she missed her former triumphs and
excitements. This visit promised a great deal of amusement, and the use
of much diplomacy, therefore she was unwilling to abandon her plans. At
the same time she determined to give the young man as little information
as she possibly could. It would not be through her agency that the mask
would be torn from Hilliston's face. She was resolved on that point.
Yet the matter, starting originally from an impulse, had now gone too
far for her to draw back. Claude had seen the papers, and therefrom must
have guessed that she desired to impart certain information with regard
to the crime which had cost him a father. Mrs. Bezel therefore
compromised the matter, and settled in her own mind to tell him half the
truth, or, at all events, only sufficient to interest him without aiding
him. Had she been a man, and had taken this decision, all would have
gone well, but being a woman she reckoned without her impulse, and it
betrayed her.
Moreover, she had a revelation to make which would effectively tie
Larcher's hands should he learn too much; but this she did not intend to
make unless driven into a corner. She was in that corner before the
interview was finished, though she little expected to get there.
Hilliston, clever as he was, could not understand her present actions;
she did not understand them herself, else she would not have ventured to
receive Claude Larcher.
He duly arrived at three o'clock, and Mrs. Bezel glanced approvingly at
his stalwart figure and handsome face. Claude had one of those
sympathetic, yet manly, natures, to which women are instinctively drawn
by the law of sex, and Mrs. Bezel proved no exception to this rule. She
was too thoroughly a woman not to relish masculine society, and, despite
her perplexity, was glad she had sent the invitation, if only for the
sake of talking to this splendid looking young man. There was another
reason, which she revealed in a moment of impulse. But that was later
on.
Meanwhile Claude, seated by her couch in the window, was wondering who
she was, and why she had sought this interview. He was certainly aware
that she had some information to impart concerning the fate of his
parents, but as he had not seen her name in the papers containing the
account of the case, he was at a loss to fix her identity. His doubts
were soon set at rest. Mrs. Bezel was a more prominent actor in the
Horriston tragedy than he had any idea of.
"You were doubtless astonished to get my letter," said Mrs. Bezel, when
the first greetings were over, "especially as you do not remember your
parents, and my name is also unknown to you."
"Were you a friend of my parents, madam?" asked Claude, too anxious for
information to reply directly to her remark.
"Yes. I--I knew them. That is, I lived at Horriston," stammered Mrs.
Bezel, passing a handkerchief across her dry lips.
"You lived at Horriston? At the time of the murder?"
Mrs. Bezel nodded; she was not yet sufficiently self-controlled for
speech.
"In that case," continued Claude eagerly, "you must know all the details
of the crime."
"Only those that were reported in the papers."
"Still you must be acquainted with those concerned in the tragedy. With
my father, with Jeringham, Denis Bantry, with Mona, his sister."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bezel calmly; "I knew them all."
"Have you any idea who committed the crime?"
"Not the slightest."
"But you must have some suspicions?"
"Oh, yes! But they may be wrong. I believe that Mr. Jeringham had
something to do with it."
"Oh!" said Claude, remembering Hilliston's opinion, "some believe him to
be guilty."
"I cannot say for certain," replied Mrs. Bezel, shaking her head. "The
flight of Mr. Jeringham certainly showed that he had something to
conceal."
"What kind of a man was Mr. Jeringham?"
"Tall and fair. Amiable as a rule, but liable to violent passions."
"Was he not in love with my mother before she married my father?"
Mrs. Bezel turned away her head, and the color rose to her face. The
nervous movement of her hands plucking at her dress showed how
profoundly she was moved by this question.
"I believe so. But she--Mrs. Larcher loved her husband."
"Then why was my father jealous of Jeringham?" said Claude, who could
not reconcile this statement with the evidence given at the trial.
"How should I know?" cried Mrs. Bezel, turning on him with sudden
passion. "If George Larcher had not been so blinded by jealousy he would
have seen that there was nothing between them. Your mother knew
Jeringham all his life; they were like brother and sister. It is true he
wished to marry her, but when he saw that her heart was given to your
father, he bowed to her decision. He came to Horriston as her friend,
not as her lover."
"But he was constantly with her."
"Do you dare to speak thus of your mother, sir?"
"I--I cannot help doing so," stammered Claude, startled by the anger in
her voice. "God knows I wish to revere the memory of my mother, but I
cannot help seeing that she was morally responsible for the tragedy."
"She was not! She was not!" said Mrs. Bezel vehemently. "How dare you
speak thus? Your father neglected her. He left her to the companionship
of Mark Jeringham, while he indulged in his predilection for literary
work. All day long he shut himself up in his study, and let his wife sit
alone, and miserable. Was it any wonder, then, that she should turn to
her old friend for consolation? There was nothing between them--nothing
to which any Pharisee could have taken exception."
"But surely my father was sufficiently sensible to see all this?"
"He saw nothing, or what he did see was distorted by his jealousy. The
police, in their endeavors to fix the crime on your mother, took the
same view of the relations between her and Jeringham. Oh, I know what
you read in those papers shown to you by Mr. Hilliston!"
So surprised was Claude by this unexpected introduction of his
guardian's name that he could not suppress a start.
"How do you know that Mr. Hilliston showed me the papers?"
Mrs. Bezel saw that she had said too much, but, unable to go back on her
words, rapidly resolved to make that revelation which she had hitherto
intended to keep as a last resource.
"Mr. Hilliston told me that he had done so."
"Do you know him?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Bezel, seizing her opportunity to lead up to the
revelation. "I know him as the best and kindest of men. I know him as
one who has been a good friend to you--orphan as you thought yourself."
"Orphan as I thought myself," muttered Claude, turning pale. "Is it not
true--am I not an orphan?"
"No!"
"Great Heavens! What is this you tell me? My father----"
"Your father is dead. He was murdered, as you know."
"Then my mother?"
Mrs. Bezel looked at the agonized face of the young man, and covered her
own, with a quick indrawn breath.
"She lives!"
"My mother! She lives! Are you mad? She died in London shortly after her
acquittal."
"So it was supposed, but it was not true. Could you expect that unhappy
woman to face the scorn and contempt of the world after having been
accused of her husband's murder? She did not die, save to the world. She
fled from society and sought refuge here--here where she lies a helpless
invalid."
"Mrs. Bezel!"
"I am not Mrs. Bezel. I am your mother."
"God! My mother!"
CHAPTER XII.
REVELATIONS.
IT was only natural that a silence should ensue between these two so
strangely brought together. Claude, seated pale and anguished in his
chair, tried to collect his thoughts, and stared wildly at his mother.
She, with her face buried in the cushions, sobbed bitterly. After the
way in which her son had spoken, it was cruel that she should have been
forced to make such a revelation at such a moment. He condemned, he
reproached, her conduct in the past, and she again tasted the full
bitterness of the cup which had been held to her lips twenty-five years
before.
On his part Claude did not know what to say; he hardly knew what to
think. Convinced by a perusal of the papers that his mother was morally
guilty of his father's death, he was overwhelmed to find that she was
still alive, and capable, for all he knew, of offering a defense for her
share in the tragedy. After all, he had no right to judge her until he
heard what she had to say. Blood is thicker than water, and she was his
mother.
Now he saw the reason why Hilliston objected to his calling at
Hampstead; why he advised him to let sleeping dogs lie. After so long a
period it was worse than useless to bring mother and son together. Their
thoughts, their aims, their lives, were entirely diverse, and only pain
could be caused by such a meeting. Claude silently acknowledged the
wisdom of Hilliston's judgment, but at the same time could hardly
refrain from condemning him for having kept him so long in ignorance of
the truth.
Mrs. Bezel--as we must still continue to call her--was astonished at
this long silence, but raised her head to cast a timid glance at Claude.
His brow was gloomy, his lips were firmly set, and he looked anything
but overjoyed at the revelation which she had made. Guessing his
thoughts, the unhappy woman made a gesture of despair, and spoke in a
low voice, broken by sobs.
"You, too, condemn me?"
"No, mother," he replied, and Mrs. Bezel winced as she heard him
acknowledge the relationship; "I do not condemn you. I have heard one
side of the question. I must now hear the other--from you."
"What more can I tell you than what you already know," she said, drying
her eyes.
"I must know the reason why you let me think you dead all these years."
"It was by my own wish, and by the advice of Mr. Hilliston."
Claude bit his lip at the mention of this name, and cast a hasty glance
round the splendidly furnished room. A frightful suspicion had entered
his mind; but she was his mother, and he did not dare to give it
utterance. His mother guessed his thoughts, and spared him the pain of
speaking. With a womanly disregard for the truth she promptly lied
concerning the relationship which her son suspected to exist between his
guardian and herself.
"You need not look so black, Claude, and think ill of me. I am
unfortunate, but not guilty. All that you see here is mine; purchased by
my own money."
"Your own money?" replied Claude, heaving a sigh of relief.
"Yes! Mr. Hilliston, who has been a good friend to me, saved sufficient
out of my marriage settlement to enable me to furnish this cottage, and
live comfortably. It is just as well," added she bitterly, "else I might
have died on the streets."
"But why did you let Hilliston bring me up to think I was an orphan?"
"I did not wish to shadow your life. I did not wish you to change your
name. I had to change mine, and retire from the world, but that was part
of my punishment."
"Still if----"
"It was impossible, I tell you, Claude," interrupted his mother
impatiently. "When you grew up you would have asked questions, and then
I would have been forced to tell you all."
"Yet, in spite of your precautions, I do know all. If you took all this
trouble to hide the truth, why reveal it to me now?"
Mrs. Bezel pointed to three books lying on an adjacent table. Claude
quite understood what she meant.
"I see," he remarked, before she could speak, "you think that the author
of that book knows about my father's murder."
"I am certain he does. But what he knows, or how he knows, I cannot say.
Still, I am certain of one thing, that he tells the story from hearsay."
"What makes you think that?"
"It would take too long to tell you my reasons. It is sufficient to
state that the fictitious case differs from the real case in several
important particulars. For instance," she added, with a derisive smile,
"the guilty person is said to be Michael Dene, and he is----"
"Is drawn from Mr. Hilliston."
"How do you know that?" she asked, with a startled air.
Claude shrugged his shoulders. "I have eyes to read and brains to
comprehend," he said quietly; "There is no doubt in my mind that the
lawyer of the fiction is meant for the lawyer of real life. Otherwise, I
think the writer drew on his imagination. It was necessary for him to
end his story by fixing on one of the characters as a criminal; and
owing to the exigencies of the plot, as developed by himself, he chose
Michael Dene, otherwise Mr. Hilliston, as the murderer."
"But you don't think----"
"Oh, no! I don't think Mr. Hilliston is guilty. I read the trial very
carefully, and moreover I do not see what motive he could have to commit
the crime."
"The motive of Michael Dene is love for the murdered man's wife."
"In other words, the author assumes that Hilliston loved you," said
Claude coolly; "but I have your assurance that such is not the case."
"You speak to me like that," cried Mrs. Bezel angrily; "to your mother?"
Larcher's expression did not change. He turned a trifle paler, and
compressed his lips firmly, otherwise he gave no outward sign of his
emotion. Knowing so much of the case as he did, he could not look on
this woman in the light of a mother; she had indirectly contributed to
his father's death; she had deserted him for twenty-five years; and
now that she claimed his filial reverence, he was unwilling to yield
it to her. Perhaps he was unjust and harsh to think this, but the
natural tie between them was so weakened by time and ignorance that he
could find no affection in his heart to bestow on her. To him she was a
stranger--nothing more.
"Let us understand each other," he said coldly. "That you are my mother
is no doubt true, but I ask you if you have performed your maternal
duties? You obliterated yourself from my life; you left me to be brought
up by strangers; in all ways you only consulted your own desires. Can
you then expect me to yield you that filial obedience which every mother
has a right to expect from her son? If you----"
"Enough, sir," said Mrs. Bezel, white with anger, "say no more. I
understand you only too well, and now regret that I sought this
interview, which has resulted so ill. I hoped that you would be glad to
find your mother still alive; that you would cherish her in her
affliction. I see I was wrong. You are as cold and bitter as was your
father."
"My father?"
"Yes. Do you think that all the wrong was on my side. Had I nothing to
forgive him? Ah! I see by your face that you know to what I allude. It
was your father and my husband who betrayed me for Mona Bantry."
"You have no proof of that," said Claude, in a low voice.
"I have every proof. The girl told me with her own lips. I returned from
that ball at three o'clock in the morning, and Mr. Jeringham left me at
the door. I entered the house alone and proceeded to my sitting room.
There I found Mona and--my husband."
"Ah! He did return from London on that night?"
"Yes. He returned, thinking I was out of the way, in order to see his
mistress. In his presence she confessed her guilt. I looked to him for
denial, and he hung his head. Then hardly knowing what I did, overcome
with rage, I snatched the dagger which I wore as part of my costume,
and----"
"And killed him," shrieked Claude, springing to his feet. "For Heaven's
sake, do not confess this to me!"
"Why not? I did no wrong! I did not kill him. I fainted before I could
cross the room to where he stood. When I recovered I was alone. My
husband and Mona Bantry had disappeared. Then I retired to bed and was
ill for days. I know no more of the case."
"Is this true?" asked Claude anxiously.
"Why should it not be true? Do you think I would invent a story like
that to asperse the memory of your father? Vilely as he treated me, I
loved him. I do not know who killed him. The dagger I wore disappeared
with him. It was found in the garden; his body in the river four miles
down. But I declare to you solemnly that I am ignorant of whose hand
struck the blow. It might have been Mona, or Jeringham, or----"
"Or Hilliston!"
"You are wrong there," replied his mother coolly, "or else your judgment
has been perverted by that book. Mr. Hilliston was still at the ball
when the tragedy occurred. His evidence at the trial proved that. Don't
say a word against him. He has been a good friend to you--and to me."
"I do not deny that."
"You cannot! When I was arrested and tried for a crime which I never
committed, he stood by me. When I left the court alone and friendless,
he stood by me. I decided to feign death to escape the obloquy which
attaches to every suspected criminal. He found me this refuge and
installed me here as Mrs. Bezel. He took charge of you and brought you
up, and looked after your money and mine. Don't you dare to speak
against him!"
Exhausted by the fury with which she had spoken, the unfortunate woman
leaned back in her chair. Claude, already regretting his harshness,
brought a glass of water, which he placed to her lips. After a few
minutes she revived, and feebly waved him away; but he was not to be so
easily dismissed.
"I am sorry I spoke as I did, mother," he said tenderly, arranging her
pillows. "Now that I have heard your story, I see that you have suffered
greatly. It is not my right to reproach you. No doubt you acted for the
best; therefore, I do not say a word against you or Mr. Hilliston, but
ask you to forgive me."
The tears were rolling down Mrs. Bezel's cheeks as he spoke thus, and
without uttering a word, she put her hand in his in token of
forgiveness. Claude pressed his lip to her faded cheek, and thus
reconciled--as much as was possible under the circumstances--they began
to talk of the case.
"What do you intend to do?" asked Mrs. Bezel weakly.
"Find out who killed my father."
"It is impossible--after five-and-twenty years. I have told you all I
know, and you see I cannot help you. I do not know whom to suspect."
"You surely have some suspicion, mother?"
"No, I have no suspicions. Whomsoever killed your father took the dagger
out of my sitting room."
"Perhaps Mona----"
"I think not. She had no reason to kill him."
"He had wronged her."
"And me!" cried Mrs. Bezel vehemently. "Do not talk any more of these
things, Claude. I know nothing more; I can tell you nothing more."
"Then I must try and find John Parver, and learn how he became
acquainted with the story."
"That is why I sent for you; why I revealed myself; why I told you all I
have suffered. Find John Parver, and tell me who he is, what he is."
This Claude promised to do, and, as his mother was worn out by the long
conversation, he shortly afterward took his leave. As he descended
Fitzjohn's Avenue a thought flashed into his mind as to the identity of
John Parver.
"I wonder if John Parver is Mark Jeringham?" said Claude.
The question was to be answered on that very evening.
CHAPTER XIII.
ON THE TRACK.
IT was nearly six o'clock when Claude returned to Earls Street, and
Tait, already dressed for the evening, was waiting his arrival with
considerable impatience. His usual imperturbability had given place to a
self-satisfied air, as though he had succeeded in accomplishing a
difficult undertaking. He uttered a joyful exclamation when he saw
Claude enter, but a look of apprehension passed over his face when he
noted the altered appearance of his friend.
"What is wrong?" he asked, as Claude threw himself into a chair, with a
sigh of fatigue. "Do you bring bad news? My dear fellow, you are
completely worn out. Here, Dormer, a glass of sherry for Mr. Larcher."
The servant, who was putting the finishing touches to the dinner-table,
speedily obeyed this order, and Tait made his friend drink the wine
without delay. Then he proceeded to question him regarding the reason of
his pallor, but with his usual caution first sent Dormer out of the
room. Only when they were alone did he venture to speak on the subject
about which both were thinking.
"Well!" he demanded anxiously, "you saw Mrs. Bezel?"
"Yes; I was with her for two hours."
"Ah!" said Tait, with great satisfaction; "she must have told you a good
deal in that time."
"She did. She told me more than I expected."
"Did it concern your parents?"
"It did."
"Good! Then you no doubt heard her version of the crime."
"Yes!"
These unsatisfactory replies, which dropped so strangely from Larcher's
lips, at once puzzled and irritated the questioner.
"You don't seem anxious to confide in me," he said, in a piqued tone.
"I will tell you all. I am anxious to tell you all," replied Larcher,
finding his tongue, "but I do not know how to begin."
"Oh, I shall save you that trouble by asking you questions. In the first
place, who is Mrs. Bezel?"
"My mother!"
Tait bounded from his chair with an expression of incredulity. This
unexpected information, so abruptly conveyed, was too much for his
self-control.
"Your mother!" he stammered, hardly thinking he had heard aright. "Are
you in earnest? I cannot believe it. According to the notice in the
newspapers, according to Hilliston, your mother died in London in 1867."
"She did not die. Her death was a feigned one, to escape the notoriety
gained by her trial at Canterbury."
"Did Mr. Hilliston know she was alive?"
"Yes. It was by his advice that she changed her name."
"Oh! Oh!" said Tait, with marked significance; "Hilliston knew,
Hilliston advised. Humph! John Parver may be right, after all."
"Tait, be silent! You are speaking of my mother."
"I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, but I really do not understand."
"You will shortly. I will tell you the story of my mother's troubles,
and Hilliston's kindness."
"Hilliston's kindness," repeated Tait, in a skeptical tone. Nevertheless
he resumed his seat, and signified his willingness to hear the
narrative.
The wine had done Claude good, and restored his self-possession; so, now
master of himself, he related all that had passed between himself and
Mrs. Bezel. Gifted with a retentive memory, and no mean powers as a
narrator, he succeeded in giving Tait a vivid impression of the
conversation. The little man, with his head slightly on one side, like a
bright-eyed sparrow, listened attentively, and not till the story was
finished did he make an observation thereon. To this capability of
listening without interruption Tait owed a great deal of his popularity.
"Truth is stranger than fiction, after all," said he, when Claude ended;
"and the novel is less dramatic than the episode of real life. John
Parver did not dare to insinuate that the supposed dead widow of the
murdered man was alive. Humph! this complicates matters more than ever."
"At least it clears the character of Hilliston."
"Yes," assented Tait doubtfully; "I suppose it does."
"Can you doubt it?" said Larcher, dissatisfied with this grudging
consent. "You can now see why Hilliston was agitated at our interview;
why he asked me not to see Mrs. Bezel, so-called; why he called here the
same evening to find out if I had gone; and finally why he wished to
prepare me before seeing her, by telling of the tragedy."
"Oh, I see all that," said Tait quietly. "Nine men out of ten would
consider Hilliston a most disinterested person. But I am the tenth man,
and am therefore skeptical of his motive."
"But what motive can he have for----"
"That is just it," interrupted Tait vivaciously. "I can't see his
motive, but I will find it out some day."
"Well, you can speak for yourself," said Claude, frowning. "After what
my mother has told me, I believe Hilliston to be an upright and
honorable man."
"You are quite right to do so on the evidence. Still, if I were you I
would not keep him informed of all our movements, unless----Do you
intend to go on with the matter?" he asked abruptly.
"Assuredly! I am determined to find out who killed my father."
Tait walked to the fireplace and took up his position on the hearth-rug.
An idea had entered his mind, which he did not intend to put into words.
Nevertheless it was indirectly the reason for his next speech.
"I think, after all, it would be best to take Hilliston's advice, and
let sleeping dogs lie."
He had not calculated the effect of these words on his hearer, for
Claude also arose from his chair, and looked at him with angry surprise.
"I don't understand you," he said coldly. "Some hours back, and you were
more eager than I to pursue this unknown criminal. Now you wish to
withdraw. May I ask the reason of this sudden change."
"It seems to be useless to hope to find the assassin," replied Tait,
shrugging his shoulders. "One cannot discover a needle in a haystack."
"Oh, yes you can--by patient research."
"Well, even that would be easier than to hope to solve a mystery which
has been impenetrable for five-and-twenty years."
"It has been impenetrable for that time because no one has tried to
solve it. This is not your real reason for wishing to end the case. What
is your reason? Speak! I insist upon knowing the truth."
The other did not reply, but thrust his hands deeper into his pockets,
and maintained a masterly silence. Irritated by this negative attitude,
Claude placed his hands on the little man's shoulders and looked at him
indignantly.
"I know what your reason is, Tait," he said rapidly; "it is not that you
fear we may learn too little, but that you expect we will learn too
much."
"Yes," replied Tait simply, "that is the reason. Is it not an
all-sufficient one for you to pause?"
"No!" shouted Claude savagely; "it is all-sufficient for me to go on.
You think that I may discover that Hilliston is the criminal, or learn
that my mother is accountable for the crime. I tell you no such thing
will happen. Hilliston was not near The Laurels on the fatal morning. My
mother--I have told you how she exonerated herself, and the exoneration
was substantiated by Denis Bantry. Both are innocent."
"It may be so. But who is guilty?"
"Jeringham. I believe that he discovered that my father had returned,
and perhaps knowing of this intrigue between him and Mona Bantry,
remained at The Laurels, unknown to my mother, in order to assist her as
a friend."
"How did Jeringham obtain possession of the dagger?"
"I cannot say. We must find out. But he did obtain possession of the
dagger, and during a quarrel with my father killed him with it. He fled
to avoid the consequences. Oh, yes! I swear that Jeringham is guilty.
But I will hunt him down, if I have to do it alone."
"You will not do it alone," said Tait quietly. "I am with you still."
"But you said----"
"I know what I said! I think it is best to leave well alone. But since
you are set on learning the truth, I will help you to the best of my
ability. Only," added Tait explicitly, "should you discover the truth to
be unpalatable, do not blame me."
"I won't blame you. I am certain that you will find that I am right, and
that Hilliston and my mother had nothing to do with the affair. Help me,
that is all I ask. I will bear the consequences."
"Very good! Then we had better get to work," said Tait dryly. "Just go
and dress, my dear fellow, or you'll keep dinner waiting."
"Why should I dress? I am not going out to-night."
"Indeed you are! We are due at Mrs. Durham's 'At Home' at ten o'clock."
"I shan't go. I am in no mood for frivolity. I would rather stay at home
and think over the case. It is only by hard work that we can hope to
learn the truth."
"Very true. At the same time it is necessary for you to go out to-night,
if only to meet with John Parver."
"The author of 'A Whim of Fate,'" asked Claude eagerly, "is he in town?"
"Yes. And he will be at Mrs. Durham's to-night. We must see him, and
find out where he obtained the materials for his novel."
"Do you think such information will lead to any result?" asked Claude
dubiously.
"I don't think. I am sure of it," retorted Tait impatiently. "Now go and
dress."
Larcher departed without a word.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE UPPER BOHEMIA.
THE name Bohemia is suggestive of unknown talent starving in garrets, of
obdurate landladies, of bacchanalian nights, and shabby dress. Murger
first invested the name with this flavor, and since his time the word
has become polarized, and indicates nothing but struggling humanity and
unappreciated genius. Yet your true Bohemian does not leave his country
when he becomes rich and famous. It is true that he descends from the
garret to the first floor; that he fares well and dresses decently; but
he still dwells in Bohemia. The reckless air of the hovels permeates the
palaces of this elastic kingdom of fancy.
Mrs. Durham was a Bohemian, and every Thursday received her _confrères_
in the drawing room of a very elegant mansion in Chelsea. She had
written a novel, "I Cling to Thee with Might and Main," and this having
met with a moderate success, she posed as a celebrity, and set up her
_salon_ on the lines of Lady Blessington. Everyone who was anyone was
received at her "At Homes," and by this process she gathered together a
queer set of people. Some were clever, others were not; some were
respectable, others decidedly disreputable; but one and all--to use an
expression usually connected with crime--had done something. Novelists,
essayists, painters, poets, and musicians were all to be found in her
rooms, and a more motley collection could be seen nowhere else in
London. Someone dubbed the Chelsea Mansions "The Zoo," and certainly
animals of all kinds were to be found there, from monkeys to peacocks.
It was considered rather the thing to be invited to "The Zoo," so when
brothers and sisters of the pen met one another there they usually said:
"What! are you here?" as though the place were heaven, and the speaker
justifiably surprised that anyone should be saved except himself or
herself. Literary people love one another a degree less than Christians.
Hither came Tait and Claude in search of John Parver. That young man had
made a great success with his novel, and was consequently much sought
after by lion hunters. However, Tait had learned that he was to be
present at Mrs. Durham's on this special evening, and hoped to engage
him in conversation, so as to learn where he had obtained the materials
for his story.
When they arrived the rooms were quite full, and Mrs. Durham received
them very graciously. It was true that they were not famous, still as
Tait was a society man, and Claude very handsome, the lady of the house
good-humoredly pardoned all mental deficiencies. Tait knew her very
well, having met her at several houses, but she addressed herself rather
to Claude than to his friend, having a feminine appreciation of good
looks.
"My rooms are always crowded," said she, with that colossal egotism
which distinguished her utterances. "You know they call me the new
George Eliot."
"No doubt you deserve the name," replied Claude, with mimic gravity.
"Oh, I suppose so," smirked the lady amiably. "You have read my novel,
of course. It is now in its fourth edition, and has been refused by
Smith and Mudie. I follow the French school of speaking my mind."
"And a very nasty mind it must be," thought Larcher, who had been
informed about the book by Tait. He did not, however, give this thought
utterance, but endeavored to generalize the conversation. "You have many
celebrities here to-night, I presume?"
"My Dear Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Durham, in capitals, "every individual in
this company is famous! Yonder is Mr. Padsop, the great traveler, who
wrote 'Mosques and Mosquitoes.' He is talking to Miss Pexworth, the
writer of those scathing articles in _The Penny Trumpet_, entitled 'Man,
the Brute.' She is a modern woman."
"Oh, indeed!" said Claude equably, and looked at this latest production
of the nineteenth century, "she is rather masculine in appearance."
"It is her pride to be so, Mr. Larcher. She is more masculine than man.
That is her brother, who designs ladies' dresses and decorates dinner
tables."
"Ah! He isn't masculine. I suppose nature wanted to preserve the balance
in the family. The law of compensation, eh?"
"Oh, you are severe. Tommy Pexworth is a dear little creature, and so
fond of chiffons. He knows more about women's dress than his sister."
"So I should think," replied Claude dryly. He took an instant and
violent dislike to Mr. Pexworth, who was one of those feminine little
creatures, only distinguished from the other sex by wearing trousers. "A
charming pair," he added, smiling. "I don't know which I admire the
most. The sister who is such a thorough gentlemen, or the brother who is
a perfect lady."
"You are satirical," smiled Mrs. Durham, enjoying this hit at her
friends. "Now you must take me down to have some refreshment. Really,
you must."
Thus inspired, Claude elbowed the hostess through the crush, and
escorted her to a bare counter in the dining room, whereon were
displayed thin bread and butter, very weak tea, and fossil buns. Mrs.
Durham evidently knew her own refreshments too well to partake of them,
for she had a mild brandy and soda, produced from its hiding place by a
confidential waiter. She asked Claude to join her, but he refused on the
plea that he never drank between meals.
"But you are not a brain-worker," said Mrs. Durham, hurriedly finishing
her brandy and soda, lest her guests should see it and become
discontented with the weak tea; "if I did not keep myself up I should
die. Ah! Why, here is Mr. Hilliston."
"Hilliston!" said Claude, astonished at seeing his guardian in this
house.
"Yes. Do you know him? A dear creature--so clever. He was my solicitor
in a libel action against _The Penny Trumpet_, for saying that I was an
ungrammatical scribbler. Just fancy! And they call me the new George
Eliot. We lost our case, I'm sorry to say. Judges are such brutes! Miss
Pexworth says they are, ever since she failed to get damages for her
breach of promise case."
"Here comes Mr. Hilliston," said Larcher, rather tired of this
long-tongued lady. "I know him very well, he is my guardian."
"How very delightful!" said Mrs. Durham, with the accent on the "very."
"Oh, Mr. Hilliston," she continued, as the lawyer approached, "we were
just talking about you!"
"I trust the absent were right for once," replied Hilliston, with an
artificial smile and a swift glance at Claude. "I have just come to say
good-by."
"Oh, not yet, surely not yet! Really!" babbled Mrs. Durham with shallow
enthusiasm. Then finding Hilliston was resolved to go, and catching
sight of a newly arrived celebrity, she hastened, after the amiable
fashion of her kind, to speed the parting guest. "Well, if you must, you
must. Good-by, good-by! Excuse me, I see Mr. Rawler, a delightful
man--writes plays, you know. The new Shakspere; yes!" and thus talking
she melted away with a babble of words, leaving Hilliston and his ward
alone.
They were mutually surprised to see one another, Claude because he knew
his guardian did not affect Bohemianism, and Hilliston because he
thought that the young man had left town. The meeting was hardly a
pleasant one, as Hilliston dreaded lest Mrs. Bezel should have said too
much, and so prejudiced Claude against him.
"I understood from your refusal of my invitation that you had gone to
Thorston with Tait," said he, after a pause.
"I am going to-morrow or the next day," replied Claude quickly, "but in
any event I intended to call on you before I left town."
"Indeed!" said Hilliston nervously; "you have something to tell me?"
"Yes. I have seen Mrs. Bezel."
"Good. You have seen Mrs. Bezel."
"And I have made a discovery."
"Oh! Has the lady informed you who committed the crime?"
"No. But she told me her name."
"Margaret Bezel!" murmured Hilliston, wondering what was coming.
"Not Margaret Bezel, but Julia Larcher, my mother."
"She--she told you that?" gasped Hilliston, his self-control deserting
him for the moment.
"Yes. I know why she feigned death; I know how you have protected her.
You have been a kind friend to me, Mr. Hilliston, and to my mother. I am
doubly in your debt."
Hilliston took the hand held out to him by Claude, and pressed it
cordially. The speech relieved him from all apprehension. He now knew
that Mrs. Bezel had kept their secret, and immediately took advantage of
the restored confidence of Claude. His quick wit grasped the situation
at once.
"My dear fellow," he said with much emotion, "I loved your poor father
too much not to do what I could for his widow and son. I hope you do not
blame me for suppressing the truth."
"No. I suppose you acted for the best. Still, I would rather you had
informed me that my mother was still alive."
"To what end? It would only have made you miserable. I did not want to
reveal anything; but your mother insisted that you should be made
acquainted with the past, and so--I gave you the papers."
"I am glad you did so."
"And now, what do you intend to do?" asked Hilliston slowly. "You know
as much as I do. Is there any clew to guide you in the discovery that
your mother still lives?"
"No. She can tell me nothing. But I hope to find the clew here."
"Ah! You intend to speak with John Parver?"
"I do," said Claude, rather surprised at this penetration; "do you know
him?"
"I exchanged a few words with him," replied Hilliston carelessly. "I
only came here to-night at the request of Mrs. Durham, who is a client
of mine. As I paid my respects to her, she was talking to John Parver,
and he was introduced to me as the latest lion. So you still intend to
pursue the matter?" added Hilliston, after a pause.
"Assuredly! If only to clear my mother, and restore her to the world."
"I am afraid it is too late, Claude. You know she is ill and cannot live
long."
"Nevertheless, I wish her to take her own name again. She will not do so
until the assassin of her husband--of my father--is discovered, so you
see it is obligatory on me to find out the truth."
"I trust you may be successful," said Hilliston, sighing; "but my advice
is still the same, and it would be best for you to let the matter rest.
After five-and-twenty years you can discover nothing. I cannot help you;
your mother cannot help you, so----"
"But John Parver may," interrupted Larcher sharply. "I will see how he
learned the details of the case."
Before Hilliston could make further objection, Tait joined them, and not
noticing the lawyer, hastily took Claude by the arm.
"I have been looking for you everywhere," said he. "Come and be
introduced to Mr. Linton."
"Who is Mr. Linton?"
"John Parver. He writes under that name. Ah, Mr. Hilliston, I did not
see you. How do you do, sir?"
"I am quite well, Mr. Tait, and am just taking my departure," replied
Hilliston easily. "I see you are both set on finding out the truth. But
you will learn nothing from John Parver."
"Why not, Mr. Hilliston?"
"Because he knows nothing. Good-night, Claude--good-night, Mr. Tait!"
When Hilliston disappeared Tait looked at Claude with a singular
expression, and scratched his chin.
"You see," said he quietly, "Mr. Hilliston has been making inquiries on
his own account."
"You are incurably suspicious," said Claude impatiently. "Hilliston is
my friend."
"Yes. He was your father's friend also, I believe."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing! Nothing! Come and cross-examine Frank Linton, alias John
Parver."
Clearly Tait was by no means so satisfied with Hilliston as Claude.
CHAPTER XV.
A POPULAR AUTHOR.
BEARING in mind that the character of Hilliston had been rehabilitated
by Mrs. Bezel, it was natural that Claude should feel somewhat annoyed
at the persistent mistrust manifested toward that gentleman by Tait.
However, he had no time to explain or expostulate at the present moment;
and moreover, as he knew that the little man was assisting him in this
difficult case out of pure friendship, he did not deem it politic to
comment on what was assuredly an unfounded prejudice. Tait was singular
in his judgments, stubborn in his opinions; so Claude, unwilling to risk
the loss of his coadjutor, wisely held his peace. His astute companion
guessed these thoughts, for in place of further remarking on the
inexplicable presence of Hilliston, he turned the conversation toward
the man they were about to see.
"Queer thing, isn't it?" he said, as they ascended the stairs. "Linton
is the son of the vicar of Thorston."
"Ah! That no doubt accounts for his intimate knowledge of the locality.
Do you know him?"
"Of course I do--as Frank Linton; but I had no idea that he was John
Parver."
"Why did he assume a _nom de plume_?"
Tait shrugged his shoulders. "Paternal prejudice, I believe," he said
carelessly. "Mr. Linton does not approve of sensational novels, and,
moreover, wishes his son to be a lawyer, not a literary man. Young Frank
is in a solicitor's office in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and he employed his
evenings in writing 'A Whim of Fate.' He published it under the name of
'John Parver,' so as to hoodwink his father, but now that he has scored
a success I have no doubt he will confess."
"Do you think we will learn anything from him?"
"We will learn all we wish to know as to where he obtained his material.
The young man's head is turned, and by playing on his vanity we may find
out the truth."
"His vanity may lead him to conceal the fact that he took the plot from
real life."
"I don't think so. I know the boy well, and he is a great babbler. No
one is more astonished than I at learning that he is the celebrated John
Parver. I didn't think he had the brains to produce so clever a book."
"It is clever!" assented Claude absently.
"Of course it is; much cleverer than its author," retorted Tait dryly;
"or rather, I should say, its supposed author, for I verily believed
Jenny Paynton helped him to write the book."
"Who is Jenny Paynton?"
"A very nice girl who lives at Thorston. She is twice as clever as this
lad, and they are both great on literary matters. But I'll tell you all
about this later on, for here is Linton."
The celebrated author was a light-haired, light-complexioned young man
of six-and-twenty, with bowed shoulders, a self-satisfied smile, and a
pince nez, which he used at times to emphasize his remarks. He evidently
possessed conceit sufficient to stock a dozen ordinary men, and lisped
out the newest ideas of the day, as promulgated by his college, for he
was an Oxford man. Although he was still in his salad days, he had
settled, to his own satisfaction, all the questions of life, and
therefore adopted a calm superiority which was peculiarly exasperating.
Claude, liberal-minded but hot-blooded, had not been five minutes in his
company before he was seized with a wild desire to throw him out of the
window. Frank Linton inspired that uncharitable feeling in many people.
For the moment, Mr. Linton was alone, as his latest worshiper, a
raw-boned female of the cab-horse species, had just departed with a fat
little painter in quest of refreshment. Therefore, when he turned to
greet Claude, he was quite prepared to assume that fatigued
self-conscious air, with which he thought fit to welcome new votaries.
"Linton, this is Mr. Larcher," said Tait abruptly. "Claude, you see
before you the lion of the season."
"It is very good of you to say so, Mr. Tait," simpered the lion, in no
wise disclaiming the compliment. "I am pleased to make your
acquaintance, Mr. Larcher."
"And I yours, Mr. Linton, or shall I say Mr. Parver?"
"Oh, either name will answer," said the author loftily, "though in town
I am known as Parver only."
"And in Thorston as Linton," interpolated Tait smartly. "Then your
father does not yet know what a celebrated son he has?"
"Not yet, Mr. Tait. I intend to tell him next week. I go down to
Thorston for that purpose."
"Ah! My friend and I will no doubt meet you there. We also seek rural
felicity for a month. But now that you have taken London by storm, I
suppose you intend to forsake the law for the profits."
"Of course I do," replied Linton quickly. "I never cared for the law,
and only went into it to please my father."
"And now you go into literature to please Miss Paynton."
Linton blushed at this home thrust, and being readier with the pen than
the tongue, did not know what answer to make. Pitying his confusion, and
anxious to arrive at the main object of the interview, Claude
interpolated a remark bearing thereon.
"Did you find it difficult to work out the plot of your novel, Mr.
Linton?" he said, with assumed carelessness.
"Oh, not at all! The construction of a plot is second nature with me."
"I suppose you and Miss Paynton talked it over together," said Tait
artfully.
"Well, yes," answered Linton, again falling into confusion; "I found her
a good listener."
"I presume it was all new to her?"
"I think so. Of course she gave me some hints."
Evidently Linton was determined to admit nothing, so seeing that Tait's
attack was thus repulsed, Claude brought up his reserve forces.
"I saw in a paper the other day that your book was an impossible
one--that nothing analogous to its story ever happened in real life."
"Several critics have said that," replied Linton, growing angry, and
thereby losing his caution, "but they are wrong, as I could prove did I
choose to do so."
"What!" said Claude, in feigned astonishment. "Did you take the incident
from real life?"
"The tale is founded on an incident from real life," answered Linton,
flushing. "That is, Miss Paynton told me of a certain crime which was
actually committed, and on her hint I worked out the story."
"Oh, Miss Paynton told you," said Tait smoothly; "and where did she see
the account of this crime?"
"Ah, that I cannot tell you," replied Linton frankly. "She related the
history of this crime, and refused to let me know whence she obtained
it. I thought the idea a good one, and so wrote the novel."
"Why don't you tell this to the world, and so confound the critics?"
"I do! I have told several people. For instance, I told a gentleman
about it this very evening, just because he made the same remark as Mr.
Larcher did."
Tait drew a long breath, and stole a look at Claude. That young man had
changed color and gave utterance to the first idea that entered his
mind.
"Was it Mr. Hilliston who made the remark?"
"Hilliston! Hilliston!" said Linton thoughtfully. "Yes, I believe that
was the man. A tall old gentleman, very fresh-colored. He was greatly
interested in my literary work."
"Who could help being interested in so clever a book?" said Claude, in a
meaning tone. "But Mr. Hilliston is a lawyer, and I suppose you do not
like members of that profession."
"Now, why should you say that?" demanded Linton, rather taken aback by
this perspicacity.
"Well, for one thing you admit a dislike for the law, and for another
you make Michael Dene, the solicitor, commit the crime in 'A Whim of
Fate.'"
"Oh, I only did that as he was the least likely person to be suspected,"
said the author easily. "Jenny--that is, Miss Paynton--wanted me to make
Markham commit the crime."
"Markham is Jeringham," murmured Tait, under his breath. "Who committed
the crime in the actual case?" he added aloud.
"No one knows," answered Linton, shrugging his shoulders. "The case as
related to me was a mystery. I solved it after my own fashion."
"In the third volume you trace the assassin by means of a breastpin
belonging to Michael Dene," said Claude, again in favor. "Is that fact
or fiction?"
"Fiction! Miss Paynton invented the idea. She said that as the dagger
inculpated the woman the breastpin found on the banks of the river would
lead to the detection of the man. And, as I worked it out, the idea was
a good one."
"Ah!" murmured Tait to himself, "I wonder if Mr. Hilliston had anything
to do with a breastpin."
By this time Linton was growing rather restive under examination, as he
was by no means pleased at having to acknowledge his indebtedness to a
woman's wit. Seeing this Tait abruptly closed the conversation, so as to
avoid waking the suspicions of Linton.
"A very interesting conversation," he said heartily. "I like to get
behind the scenes and see the working of a novelist's brain. We will say
good-by now. Linton, and I hope you will call at the Manor House next
week, when we will all three be at Thorston."
"Delighted, I'm sure," replied the author, and thereupon melted into the
crowd, leaving Claude and Tait looking at one another.
"Well," said the former, after a pause, "we have not learned much."
"On the contrary, I think we have learned a great deal," said Tait,
raising his eyebrows. "We know that Linton got the whole story from
Jenny Paynton, and that Mr. Hilliston is in possession of the
knowledge."
"What use can it be to him?"
"He will try and frustrate us with Miss Paynton, as he did Mrs. Bezel
with you."
"Do you still doubt him?" asked Claude angrily.
"Yes," replied Tait coolly, "I still doubt him."
CHAPTER XVI.
A FALSE MOVE.
THE next day the two young men repaired to the club for the purpose of
having luncheon and discussing their plans. Contrary to the wish of
Claude, his friend did not deem it advisable to at once depart for
Thorston, as he wished to remain in town for a few days on business
connected with Hilliston.
"You see, you are quite in the dark regarding that gentleman," said
Tait, as they lighted their cigarettes after dinner, "and before we
commence operations at Thorston it will be advisable to know that he is
not counteracting our efforts."
"In that case you had better go down to Thorston and I will remain in
town so as to keep an eye on Hilliston."
"I don't think that will be necessary," replied Tait reflectively, "it
is more than probable that Hilliston will visit Thorston."
"For what purpose?"
"Can't you guess? Last night he learned from Linton that Jenny Paynton
supplied the material for that novel. Consequently he will see her, and,
if possible, find out where she heard the story."
"Yes; I suppose he will," said Claude thoughtfully. "By the way, who is
Miss Paynton, who now seems to be mixed up in the matter?"
"She is the daughter of an old recluse called Ferdinand Paynton."
"A recluse! Humph! That's strange."
"Why so? You would not say so if you saw the old man. He is an invalid
and lives in his library. A charming companion, though I must say he is
rather sad."
"Where does he live?"
"At Thorston, half a mile from the Manor House. Not very rich, I should
think. His cottage is small, like his income."
"And his daughter lives with him?"
"Yes. A pretty girl she is, who inherits his literary tastes. It is my
impression that she wrote the most part of that novel. From all I know
of Frank Linton he is given more to poetry than to prose. Jenny has the
brain, not Frank."
"Ho, ho!" said Claude, smiling. "Is it the skeptical misogynistic Tait I
hear speaking?"
"Himself. I admit that I do not care for women, as a rule, but there are
exceptions to every rule, and in this case Jenny Paynton is the
exception."
"Is she in love with our author?"
"No. But I rather think he is in love with her, as you will be when you
see her."
"I! What are you talking about, Tait? I have more to do than to fall in
love with country wenches, however pretty."
"Jenny is not a country wench," said Tait, with some displeasure; "she
is a highly educated young woman."
"Worse and worse! I hate highly educated bluestockings."
"You won't hate Jenny, at all events. Especially as it is probable you
will see a great deal of her."
"No; I shall keep away from her," said Claude doggedly.
"That's impossible. We must maneuver to get at the truth. By asking her
straight out she certainly will not gratify our curiosity. We must plot
and plan, and take her unawares. She is not a fool, like Linton,
remember."
"What! Do you call a lion of the season by so opprobrious a name?"
"I do," replied Tait serenely; "because I don't believe he wrote the
book."
"Well! well! Never mind Linton. We have pumped him dry. The next thing
is to tackle the fair Jenny. How do you intend to set about it?"
"I can't say, at present. We must be guided by circumstances. I will
introduce you to the rector and to Mr. Paynton. There will be musical
parties and lawn tennis _fêtes_, so in some way or another we may find
out the truth?"
"Does anyone else live with Paynton; his wife, for instance."
"No. His wife died before he came to Thorston, where he has been for a
long time. An old servant called Kerry lives with him."
"Man or woman?"
"Man. A queer old fellow, rather morose."
"H'm! A flattering description. By the way, he bears the same name as
the ancient retainer in Boucicault's play."
"Why shouldn't he?"
"It may be an assumed name."
Tait threw a surprised glance at his friend, and laughed quickly.
"Who is suspicious now?" said he, smiling. "You blame me for suspecting
Hilliston, yet here you are doubtful of people whom you have never
seen."
Before Larcher could answer this home thrust, a waiter entered with a
letter for him which had just arrived.
"From Hilliston," said Claude, recognizing the writing. "I wonder what
he has to say?"
"It's only another move in the game," murmured Tait; then as Claude,
after glancing at the letter, uttered an ejaculation of surprise, he
added: "What is the matter?"
"Hilliston is going down to Eastbourne."
"Impossible!" cried Tait, holding out his hand for the letter. "He is
surely not so clumsy as to show his hand so plainly."
"He does, though. Read the letter yourself."
"MY DEAR CLAUDE [wrote Hilliston]: Mrs. Hilliston has decided to
leave town for Eastbourne this week, so it is probable we will
see you and Mr. Tait down there. If you can spare the time come
to dinner at half-past seven to-night, and tell me how you are
getting on with your case.
"Yours very sincerely,
"FRANCIS HILLISTON."
"Well," said Claude, as Tait silently returned the letter, "what do you
think?"
"I think that Hilliston intends to look up Jenny Paynton."
"I can see that," replied Claude impatiently, "but touching this
invitation to dinner."
"Accept."
"But I promised to see my mother to-night, and tell her about John
Parver. She will expect me, as I have written."
"I will take your apologies to her," said Tait quietly.
"You?"
"Yes. Listen to me, Claude," continued the little man in a tone of
suppressed excitement. "You will keep your belief in Hilliston. I tell
you he is your enemy and wishes you to leave this case alone. To-night
he will make one last attempt to dissuade you. If he succeeds he will
not go to Eastbourne. If he fails you can depend on it he will try and
see Jenny before we do. Now, to thwart his aims we will go down to
Thorston by an early train to-morrow morning."
"But I must see my mother before I leave town."
"No! I will tell her all she wishes to know."
"She might not like it."
"This is not a case for likes or dislikes," said Tait grimly; "but a
question of getting the better of Hilliston. You must dine with him
to-night, and find out, if possible, if it was his wife or himself who
suggested this visit to Eastbourne. You need not tell him we go down
to-morrow. Say you don't know--that you await my decision. Try and learn
all you can of his attitude and plans. Then we will discuss the matter
when you return. On my part," continued Tait significantly, "I may have
some something to say about your mother."
"You want to see her?"
"Yes. I am extremely anxious to see her."
"Perhaps you suspect her!" cried Claude, in a fiery tone.
"Bless the man, what a temper he has!" said Tait jocosely. "I don't
suspect anyone except Hilliston. But I am quicker than you, and I wish
to learn precisely what your mother has to say. A chance remark on her
part may set us on the right path."
"Well, I will be guided by you," said Claude, in a few minutes. "You can
go to Hampstead, and I will dine with Hilliston. But I don't like the
task. To sit at a man's table and scheme against him is not my idea of
honor."
"Nor is it mine. You are doing no such thing. All I wish you to do is to
observe Hilliston's attitude and hold your tongue. There is nothing
wrong in that. I want to find out his motive for this behavior."
"Then why not see him yourself!"
"I will see him at Thorston. Meantime it is necessary that I become
acquainted with your mother. Now come and wire an acceptance to
Hilliston, and write a letter to your mother for me to deliver."
Claude obeyed. He was quite content to accept the guidance of Tait in
this matter, and began to think that his friend was right in suspecting
Hilliston. Else why did the lawyer's plans so coincide with their own.
"Mind you don't tell Hilliston too much," said Tait, when the wire was
despatched.
"I shall tell him that we go to Thorston shortly, and that we saw John
Parver."
"No; don't tell him about John Parver. He will be certain to mention the
subject first."
"Well, and if he does----"
"Oh, you must use your brains," replied Tait ironically. "Baffle his
curiosity, and above all, make no mention of the breastpin episode
related in the third volume."
"Why not?"
"Because Jenny Paynton told Linton of that. She could not have obtained
it from the newspapers, as it is not related therein."
"It is pure invention."
"No! I believe it to be a fact."
"But who could have told it to Miss Paynton?"
"Ah!" said Tait, in a low tone. "Find me the person who told her that
and I'll find the man who murdered your father."
CHAPTER XVII.
THE HUSBAND AT KENSINGTON GORE.
TO a woman who rules by right of beauty it is a terrible thing to see
her empire slipping from her grasp by reason of gray hairs and wrinkles.
What desperate efforts does she make to protract her sway, how she dyes
and paints and powders and tight laces--all to no end, for Time is
stronger than Art, and finally he writes his sign-manual too deep to be
effaced by cosmetics. Mrs. Hilliston was not yet beaten in the fight
with the old enemy, but she foresaw the future when she would be shamed
and neglected close at hand.
Perhaps it was this premonition of defeat that made her so unamiable,
sharp, and bitter on the night when Claude came to dine. She liked
Claude and had stood in the place of a mother to him; but he was a man,
and handsome, so when she saw his surprised look at her changed
appearance all the evil that was in her came to the surface.
Yet she need not have felt so bitter a pang, had she taken the trouble
to glance at her image in the near mirror. It reflected a tall, stylish
figure, which, in the dim light of the drawing room, looked majestic and
beautiful. It was all very well to think that she appeared barely thirty
in the twilight, but she knew well that the daylight showed up her
forty-seven years in the most merciless manner. Velvet robes, diamond
necklaces, and such like aids to beauty would not make up for lack of
youth, and Claude's ill-advised start brought this home to her.
Ten years before she had married Hilliston in utter ignorance of the
house at Hampstead. Though she did not know it she was not unlike her
rival. There was the same majesty, the same imperious beauty, the same
passionate nature, but Mrs. Bezel was worn and wasted by illness,
whereas Mrs. Hilliston, aided by art, looked a rarely beautiful woman.
People said she had not done well to marry Hilliston. She was then a
rich widow from America, and wanted to take a position in society. With
her looks and her money, she might have married a title, but handsome
Hilliston crossed her path, and, though he was then fifty years of age,
she fell in love with him on the spot. Wearied of Mrs. Bezel, anxious to
mend his failing fortunes, Hilliston accepted the homage thus offered.
He did not love her, but kept that knowledge to himself, so Mrs.
Derrick, the wealthy widow, secured the man she idolized. She gave all,
wealth, beauty, love, and received nothing in return.
During all their married life her love had undergone no abatement. She
loved her husband passionately, and her one object in life was to please
him. At the time of the marriage she had rather resented the presence of
Claude in Hilliston's house, but soon accepted him as an established
fact, the more so as he took up his profession shortly afterward, and
left her to reign alone over the heart of her husband. When the young
man called she was always kind to him, she constantly looked after his
welfare, and playfully styled herself his mother. Claude was greatly
attached to her, and spoke of her in the highest terms, but for the life
of him he could not suppress that start, though he knew it wounded her
to the heart. During his five years of absence she had aged greatly, and
art seemed rather to accentuate than conceal the truth.
"You find me altered, I am afraid," said she bitterly; "age is robbing
me of my looks."
"By no means," answered Claude, with a desire to please her; "at the
worst, you are only growing old gracefully."
"Small comfort in that," sighed Mrs. Hilliston. "I do not want to grow
old at all. However, it is no use fighting the inevitable, but I hope
I'll die before I become a hag."
"You will never become one."
"I'm not so sure of that. I'm one of those large women who turn to bones
and wrinkles in old age."
"In my eyes you will always be beautiful, Louise," said Hilliston, who
entered at this moment. "You are an angel ever bright and fair."
"You have not lost the art of saying pretty things, Francis," replied
his wife, greatly gratified; "but there is the gong. Claude, take your
mother in to dinner."
The young man winced as she said this, thinking of his real mother who
lay sick and feeble at Hampstead. Hilliston saw his change of
countenance, and bit his lip to prevent himself remarking thereon. He
guessed what Claude was thinking about, and thus his thoughts were
turned in the same direction. At the present moment the memories thus
evoked were most unpleasant.
During dinner Mrs. Hilliston recovered her spirits and talked freely
enough. No one was present save Claude and her husband, so they were a
very pleasant party of three. While in the full flow of conversation,
Claude could not help thinking that Tait was unjust to suspect the
master of the house of underhand dealings; for Hilliston was full of
smiles and geniality, and did his best to entertain his guest. Could
Claude have looked below the surface he would have been considerably
astonished at the inward aspect of the man. Yet a hint was given him of
such want of concord, for Hilliston showed the cloven hoof before the
meal ended.
"So you are going to Eastbourne," said Claude, addressing himself to
Mrs. Hilliston. "I hope you will come over to Thorston during your
stay."
"It is not unlikely," replied the lady. "Francis intends to make
excursions all round the country."
"Only for your amusement, my dear," said Hilliston hastily. "You know
how dreary it is to pace daily up and down that Parade."
"I think Eastbourne is dreary, in any case. It is solely on your account
that I am going."
Hilliston did not answer, but stole a glance at Claude to see what he
thought. The face of the young man was inscrutable, though Claude was
mentally considering that Tait was right, and Hilliston's journey to
Eastbourne was undertaken to interview Jenny Paynton.
"I don't like your English watering-places," continued Mrs. Hilliston
idly. "They are so exasperatingly dull. In America we can have a good
time at Newport, but all your south coast is devoid of amusement.
Trouville or Dieppe are more enjoyable than Eastbourne or Folkestone."
"The fault of the national character, my dear Louise. We English take
our pleasures sadly, you know."
For the sole purpose of seeing what effect it would produce on the
lawyer Claude purposely introduced the name of the town where his father
had met his death.
"I wonder you don't try an inland watering-place, Mrs. Hilliston," he
said calmly; "Bath or Tunbridge Wells or--Horriston."
Hilliston looked up quickly, and then busied himself with his food.
Discomposed as he was, his iron will enabled him to retain a quiet
demeanor; but the effect of the name on the wife was more pronounced
than it was on the husband. Her color went, and she laid down her knife
and fork.
"Ah, I don't know Horriston," she said faintly. "Some inland----Ah, how
hot this room is. Open the window," she added to the footman, "we want
fresh air."
Rather astonished at the effect thus produced, Claude would have spoken
but that Hilliston forestalled him.
"The room is hot," he said lightly, "but the fresh air will soon revive
you, Louise. I am glad we are going to Eastbourne, for you sadly need a
change."
"The season has been rather trying," replied his wife, resuming her
dinner. "What were you saying about Horriston, Claude?"
"Nothing. I only know it is a provincial town set in beautiful scenery.
I thought you might wish to try a change from the fashionable seaside
place."
"I might go there if it is pretty," answered Mrs. Hilliston, who was now
perfectly composed. "Where is Horriston?"
"In Kent," interposed Hilliston quickly, "not very far from Canterbury.
I have been there myself, but as it is a rather dull neighborhood, I
would not advise you to try it."
Despite her denial Claude felt certain that Mrs. Hilliston was
acquainted with Horriston, for on the plea of indisposition she left the
table before the dinner was ended. As she passed through the door she
playfully tipped Claude on the shoulder with her fan.
"Don't forget to come and see us at Eastbourne," she said vivaciously,
"and bring Mr. Tait with you. He is a great favorite of mine."
This Claude promised to do, and, when she left the room, returned to his
seat with a rather puzzled expression on his face. Hilliston saw the
look, and endeavored to banish it by a hasty explanation.
"You rather startled my wife by mentioning Horriston," he said, in an
annoyed tone. "I wish you had not done so. As it is connected with the
case she naturally feels an antipathy toward it."
"What! Does Mrs. Hilliston know about my father's death?" asked Claude,
in some surprise.
"Yes. When we married, she wanted to know why you lived in the house
with me, so I was forced to explain all the circumstances."
"Do you think that was necessary?"
"I do. You know how suspicious women are," replied Hilliston lightly;
"they will know the truth. But you can trust to her discretion, Claude.
No one will hear of it from her."
At this moment a footman entered the room with a message from Mrs.
Hilliston.
"My mistress wants to know if you have the third volume of 'A Whim of
Fate,' sir?" said the servant.
"No," replied Hilliston sharply. "Tell your mistress that I took it to
my office by mistake. She will have it to-morrow."
Claude thought this strange, and when the footman retired Hilliston made
another explanation equally as unsatisfactory as the first.
"I am so interested in that book that I could not leave it at home," he
said quickly; "and now that I have met the author I am doubly interested
in it."
Another proof of Tait's acumen. Hilliston was the first to introduce the
subject of John Parver.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A DUEL OF WORDS.
A LONGISH pause ensued between the two men. Hilliston seemed to be in no
hurry to continue the conversation, and Claude, with his eyes fixed
absently on his glass, pondered over the facts that Mrs. Hilliston had
an aversion to Horriston, and that the lawyer had taken the third volume
of the novel out of the house. The two facts seemed to have some
connection with each other, but what the connection might be Claude
could not rightly conclude.
From his frequent talks with Tait he knew that the third volume
contained the episode of the scarfpin, which was instrumental in
bringing the fictitious murderer to justice. The assassin in the novel
was meant for Hilliston, and remembering this Claude wondered whether
there might not be some reason for his removal of the book. Mrs.
Hilliston had quailed at the mention of Horriston, and the explanation
given by her husband did not satisfy Larcher. What reason could she have
for taking more than a passing interest in the tragic story? Why, after
ten years, should she pale at the mention of the neighborhood? Claude
asked himself these two questions, but could find no satisfactory answer
to either of them.
He was toying with his wineglass while thinking, when a sudden thought
made him grip the slender stem with spasmodic force. Was it possible
that Mrs. Hilliston could have been in the neighborhood five-and-twenty
years before; that she could have heard some talk of that scarfpin which
was not mentioned at the trial, but which Tait insisted was an actual
fact, and no figment of the novelist's brain; and finally, could it be
that Hilliston had purposely removed the third volume of "A Whim of
Fate" so that his wife should not have her memory refreshed by a
relation of the incident. It was very strange.
Thus thinking, Claude glanced stealthily at his guardian, who was
musingly smoking his cigar, and drinking his wine. He looked calm, and
content, and prosperous. Nevertheless, Claude was by no means so sure of
his innocence as he had been. Hilliston's confusion, his hesitation, his
evasion, instilled doubts into the young man's mind. He determined to
gain a knowledge of the truth by questions, and mentally arranged these
as follows: First he would try and learn somewhat of the past of Mrs.
Hilliston, for, beyond the fact that she was an American, he knew
nothing of it. Second, he would lead Hilliston to talk of the scarfpin,
and see if the reference annoyed him; and, third, he would endeavor to
discover if the lawyer was averse to his wife reading the novel. With
his plans thus cut and dried, he spoke abruptly to his guardian:
"I am sorry Mrs. Hilliston's health is so bad."
"It is not bad, my dear fellow," replied the lawyer, lifting his head.
"She is a very strong woman; but of course, the fatigue of a London
season tells on the healthiest constitution. That is why I wish her to
go to Eastbourne."
"Why not take her to Horriston?"
"Why should I? She connects the place with the story of your father,
about whom I was forced to speak ten years ago; and, speaking
personally, I have no desire to return there, and recall the horrors of
the past."
"You were greatly affected by my father's death?"
"Naturally; he was my dearest friend. I would have given anything to
discover the assassin."
"Did Mrs. Hilliston give you her opinion as to who was guilty?"
"No. I told her as little as I could of so painful a subject. She is not
in possession of all the facts."
"At that rate why let her read 'A Whim of Fate'?"
"I don't wish her to read it," answered Hilliston quietly; "but I left
the novel lying about, and she read the first two volumes. If I can help
it, she shall not finish the story."
"Why object to her reading the third volume?"
"Because it would recall the past too vividly to her mind."
"I hardly follow you there," said Cl
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