FRIEND AND EXECUTOR
In the capital of Lucifram there is a great park—a city park—planted
with trees sown centuries since by the restless winds, when all was
peaceful country. To the right stretches the city—work and pleasure,
laughter and tears, and perpetual hurry-scurry. All round the park
sounds and sights of human life, condensed within a curiously small
circle, were in evidence. Silent streets, tall and shadowy, lit by
occasional gas lamps, fringed on a brilliant thoroughfare, with
omnibuses, cabs, and people hurrying everywhere. Most spacious squares,
with fountains and statues, backed by huge buildings, erected both for
grace and durability, lay on all sides. The mansions on this side of the
park were in many cases of plain exterior. This gave the lie to the
magnificence within. On the right side of the park, facing it and
running along its entire length, was built the famous Greensward Avenue.
In the centre of the avenue, standing back under the shadow of the high
walls of two palace gardens rising on either side, stood a large square
house built of black marble. It was built in black, and the blinds were
of deep red, the only colour to relieve it. Those were not visible till
night came. Thirteen imposing-looking steps lead up to an imposing door,
in black polished oak, rarely carved. Two narrow windows in the wall
reached down on each side of it. The house consisted of three storeys
and a basement, and to the back were pretty and extensive gardens
protected by high walls.
The owner of this house was a certain Camille Barringcourt, who had but
lately come there, within the last three years. With the exception of
servants, he lived quite alone—a bachelor in the land of double
marriages.
Now the house in which he lived was very appropriately called “Marble
House.” It had been built by a millionaire quite recently, despite its
old appearance. The reason why it had such an appearance of age was
because it had been erected from a spoiled cathedral in the remotest
corner of Lucifram, where instead of worshipping the Serpent they
worshipped the Toad. It had cost a vast amount of money to cart the
marble and oak right over from east to west, but it was done right
royally, and the house itself, from this point of view at least, was
very interesting. No sooner was the great mansion completed, and royalty
entertained on one single occasion, than the millionaire died. Men and
women agreed on this, that his death was at least mysterious. He was
found dead in bed. So far as the doctors could tell he suffered from
nothing, and had come by no foul play. He had died painlessly, in the
big plain bed-chamber containing little else but the desecrated altar of
the Toad, with a fac-simile of the Serpent rising above it—a shrine
which all good people in Lucifram kept in their private rooms. And so he
was buried, and the ladies mourned. He had been generous. And then his
will was read.
All his vast wealth was given to charities; all went to charity except
the house. That was left “To my friend, Camille Barringcourt, as a
slight token of esteem, and in remembrance of the past.” That was all.
No one had ever heard or seen anything of this friend, and no one knew
anything of the past. But lawyers, like detectives, have a way of
hunting people up. In a little time it was spread abroad that Camille
Barringcourt lived in Fairysky, or at least was staying there, a country
which much resembled Italy on the Earth.
It may also be mentioned here that Camille Barringcourt and the lawyer
were left executors of those vast charities.
The first thing about the new-comer’s arrival that excited general
interest was the advent of six horses. All were black as night, with
long tails, fiery eyes, shining coats, and tossing, untamed heads.
Nearly all the little boys in that aristocratic neighbourhood were late
for school that morning; or better, never went. Accustomed as they were
to beautiful horses, they had never even in their experience seen
anything to equal these. The six black horses travelled through the
crowded thoroughfares singly led, each by a groom. Their trappings were
of a deep red, and no unnecessary weight was placed upon them. The men
who led the animals were men who understood their business, and had
great patience with their coquettish, curvetting ways. Just as the
journey was drawing to a close the traffic in the streets was for the
minute stopped. Five of the six horses had passed the crossing, and the
last was drawn up close to Lady Flamington’s carriage. Whether it was
her ladyship’s hat (she was one of the best dressed and most beautiful
women of the day), or whether her two thoroughbreds were ready to enter
into the fun of the thing, and dance a lively impromptu pirouette with
the new arrival, it would be hard to say. However, the black steed began
a dance, anything but safe in the state of the crowded thoroughfare, and
the bays in harness did their best to follow suit. It was a spirited
attempt; then the groom for once lost his temper.
“Get up, you devil!” said he. The horse took him literally and reared
up, despite his efforts to keep it down, dragging him with it, in its
wild, untamable fury. The trampling forepaws struck on the cushions of
my lady’s brougham. What might have been the result it is impossible to
say, for her escape on the other side was cut off by a huge lorry drawn
up against her like a wall, but just at that moment a voice fell on the
hubbub and the consternation, and the “voice that breathed o’er Eden” on
the day of her marriage had never been so welcome to Lady Flamington as
that one now. At the same time a hand, the whitest, the most beautiful
she had ever seen (so she told her friends after), grasped at the
bridle.
“Waugh-o, Starlight—Starlight! Come, then.”
The words, the tone, the caressing hand on one side, the firm hand on
the bridle, were too much for the four-legged beauty. Won over by more
words, more pressure on the hateful bit (even though silver), and more
caressing patting on her glossy neck, she came gracefully down to earth
once more.
It seemed to Lady Flamington that the stranger had sprung up from
nowhere. As a matter of fact, he had sprung from the hansom behind, in
which he was following, at almost walking pace, these six prancing
treasures. Then just as the traffic was starting again he looked across
at her.
“You are not hurt,” said he. “I should have been bitterly sorry if that
had happened.”
For once her ladyship could find no words. She bowed, he raised his hat,
the procession moved along. Then she knitted her brows thoughtfully.
“He should have been sorry in either case,” she thought, and fell to
studying his face in her memory.
Meanwhile the six black horses had turned into Greensward Avenue, where
likewise at a quicker rate her ladyship’s carriage was progressing.
All the way to the spacious private stables at the rear of the private
grounds, Mr. Barringcourt, for it was he, led that most spoiled of all
spoilt animals, Starlight. The little boys followed admiringly, till the
big doors of the stable-yard closed cruelly upon them.
“That looks like a dook turned undertaker,” said one.
Rumour had spread a report that Camille Barringcourt was a twice married
gentleman, with a large family.
“How unlike poor Geoffrey Todbrook,” said the ladies, and sighed.
But rumour for once was entirely wrong. One bachelor was dead; another
succeeded him.
The new arrival settled quickly into his new home. Seeing it was already
furnished, that was but natural. His servants were all foreigners, dark,
tall, all very unlike the people on this side of Lucifram. Yet there was
an inexpressible charm, dignity, and quiet repose about them that
delighted and mystified everyone. Among them were some women,
parlourmaids, sewing-maids, and housemaids apparently.
Each one of these servants, men and women, dressed in black, faced with
deep red. It was a kind of uniform.
Now, a few words are needed as to the personal appearance of the Master
himself. In figure he was tall, athletic, graceful, broad-shouldered.
His hair was black and short, crisp at the ends, as Lady Flamington
noticed when he removed his hat. People called his face “odd.” It was
dark and swarthy, with a strong forehead, and black eyes which were
gloomy and deeply set. The nose was straight, bearing in its lines more
sensitive refinement than any other feature of his face.
When he smiled he showed, though not obtrusively, a sparkle of white and
even teeth. When Lady Flamington admired the beauty of his hands she was
within the right. For strength and suppleness they would be hard to
beat, and for whiteness also. This then, in short, was the figure of
Camille Barringcourt, come to dispense the charity of his friend of the
past; come to settle in Marble House, of Greensward Avenue.
Lady Flamington, some dozen houses off, persuaded her first and only
husband to call there, soon after the arrival. He did so, hoping to see
the fine black horses she had spoken of. Horseflesh was his hobby. He
saw the gentleman, but nothing else in the way of interest, took a
sudden fancy to him, and invited him over to dinner on Friday night. The
invitation was as suddenly accepted. Sir James went home with some
misgivings. He didn’t know whether his wife liked swarthy men; she was
fastidious. His wife had no objection to them. She was delighted to
welcome any of his friends, except turf acquaintances and bookmakers.
On Friday night Mr. Barringcourt came. It was a little formal affair,
one or two of the family circle and an intimate friend. The stranger sat
beside his hostess for dinner, and they talked commonplaces. At last she
turned to him with a pretty grace.
“You have not yet demanded my thanks,” said she.
“For what?” he asked.
“You know for what.”
“Your thanks would necessitate my apologies.”
“I am surprised you never offered them.”
“It was unnecessary.”
“There I must confess to some curiosity. Do you remember you said to me,
‘You are not hurt.’”
“Well?” said he, and smiled—a smile all the more charming as he bent his
head to hers.
“Well!” she retorted. “I was hurt; your horse frightened me. To be
frightened is to be hurt. Can you dispute it?”
“I never saw anyone stand pain better. Your face was a vision of—of—”
“Of what?” she asked.
“I do not understand your language very well, as yet. I shall improve in
it; you must be patient. In a week or two I shall have found the word I
need.”
“And till then?”
“Learn to be gracious to a poor speaker.”
“Ah! But I do not intend to let you off so easily. After telling me I
was not hurt, you next proceeded to say, ‘In that case you would have
been deeply sorry’—you see my memory is good. Now, am I to understand
that under the circumstances you felt no sorrow?”
“Most certainly.”
“Now we shall quarrel, unless you can explain yourself.”
“Is it necessary?”
“You shall discover how much so if you do not explain your meaning
instantly.”
“Then do not blame me if I sink still deeper into the mire. Under the
circumstances, I was not sorry. I had been told on coming to this
country I should find all the women forward—most of them ugly—the
remainder plain. After three days’ looking round me I had come to the
same conclusion. Suddenly by the merest chance my eyes lighted on you.
Can you wonder I should feel no sorrow?”
She frowned, then laughed, and looked at him.
“Where did you learn this grossest form of flattery?”
“I see your ladyship has no education to appreciate the truth.”
“Talk to my husband about horses. I have no more to say to you.”
“Is he a lover of horses?”
“Yes. He attends every Race Meet in the county.”
Mr. Barringcourt smiled. “That speaks for itself,” he said.