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THE NEW TENANT
BY E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM
AUTHOR OF "THE YELLOW HOUSE," "TO WIN THE LOVE HE SOUGHT," "A DAUGHTER
OF ASTREA," ETC.
DONALD W. NEWTON
156 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
C. H. DOSCHER & CO.
THE TROW PRESS, NEW YORK
CONTENTS
I. FALCON'S NEST
II. THE MURDER NEAR THE FALCON'S NEST
III. MR. BERNARD BROWN
IV. AN EVIL END TO AN EVIL LIFE
V. THE INNER ROOM AT THE FALCON'S NEST
VI. A TERRIBLE ENEMY
VII. HELEN THURWELL'S SUSPICIONS
VIII. DID YOU KILL SIR GEOFFREY KYNASTON?
IX. MR. BROWN DINES AT THE COURT
X. THE TRAGEDY OF RACHEL KYNASTON
XI. LEVY & SON, PRIVATE AGENTS
XII. A JEWEL OF A SON
XIII. A STRANGE MEETING
XIV. HELEN THURWELL ASKS A DIRECT QUESTION
XV. A LITERARY CELEBRITY
XVI. A SNUB FOR A BARONET
XVII. BERNARD MADDISON AND HELEN THURWELL
XVIII. A CHEQUE FOR L1,000
XIX. AN UNPLEASANT DISCOVERY FOR BERNARD BROWN
XX. GOD! THAT I MAY DIE!
XXI. SIR ALLAN BEAUMERVILLE HAS A CALLER
XXII. "GOD FORBID IT!"
XXIII. LOVERS
XXIV. A WOMAN'S LOVE
XXV. MR. LEVY, JUNIOR, GOES ON THE CONTINENT
XXVI. HELEN DECIDES TO GO HOME
XXVII. MR. THURWELL MAKES SOME INQUIRIES
XXVIII. SIR ALLAN BEAUMERVILLE VISITS THE COURT
XXIX. THE SCENE CHANGES
XXX. BENJAMIN LEVY RUNS HIS QUARRY TO EARTH
XXXI. BENJAMIN LEVY WRITES HOME
XXXII. A STRANGE TRIO OF PASSENGERS
XXXIII. VISITORS FOR MR. BERNARD MADDISON
XXXIV. ARRESTED
XXXV. COMMITTED FOR TRIAL
XXXVI. MR. LEVY PROMISES TO DO HIS BEST
XXXVII. BERNARD A PRISONER
XXXVIII. "THERE IS MY HAND. DARE YOU TAKE IT?"
XXXIX. MR. BENJAMIN LEVY IS BUSY
XL. A STRANGE BIRTHDAY PARTY
XLI. INNOCENT
XLII. AT LAST
THE NEW TENANT
CHAPTER I
FALCON'S NEST
Thurwell Court, by Thurwell-on-the-Sea, lay bathed in the quiet
freshness of an early morning. The dewdrops were still sparkling upon
the terraced lawns like little globules of flashing silver, and the
tumult of noisy songsters from the thick shrubberies alone broke the
sweet silence. The peacocks strutting about the grey stone balcony and
perched upon the worn balustrade were in deshabille, not being
accustomed to display their splendors to an empty paradise, and the few
fat blackbirds who were hopping about on the lawn did so in a desultory
manner, as though they were only half awake and had turned out under
protest. Stillness reigned everywhere, but it was the sweet hush of
slowly awakening day rather than the drowsy, languorous quiet of
exhausted afternoon. With one's eyes shut one could tell that the pulse
of day was only just beginning to beat. The pure atmosphere was buoyant
with the vigorous promise of morning, and gently laden with the mingled
perfumes of slowly opening flowers. There was life in the breathless
air.
The sunlight was everywhere. In the distance it lay upon the dark
hillside, played upon the deep yellow gorse and purple heather of the
moorland, and, further away still, flashed upon a long silver streak of
the German Ocean. In the old-fashioned gardens of the court it shone
upon luscious peaches hanging on the time-mellowed red-brick walls; lit
up the face and gleamed upon the hands of the stable clock, and warmed
the ancient heart of the stooping, grey-haired old gardener's help who,
with blinking eyes and hands tucked in his trousers pockets, was smoking
a matutinal pipe, seated on the wheelbarrow outside the tool shed.
Around the mansion itself it was very busy, casting a thousand sunbeams
upon its long line of oriel windows, and many quaint shadows of its
begabled roof upon the lawns and bright flower-beds below. On one of the
terraces a breakfast-table was laid for two, and here its splendour was
absolutely dazzling. It gleamed upon the sparkling silver, and the
snow-white tablecloth; shone with a delicate softness upon the
freshly-gathered fruit and brilliant flowers, and seemed to hover with a
gentle burnished light upon the ruddy golden hair of a girl who sat
there waiting, with her arm resting lightly upon the stone balustrade,
and her eyes straying over the quaint well-kept gardens to the open
moorland and dark patches of wooded country beyond.
"Good morning, Helen! First, as usual."
She turned round with a somewhat languid greeting. A tall, well-made
man, a little past middle-age, in gaiters and light tweed coat, had
stepped out on to the balcony from one of the open windows. In his right
hand he was swinging carelessly backwards and forwards by a long strap a
well-worn letter-bag.
"Is breakfast ready?" he inquired.
"Waiting for you, father," she answered, touching a small handbell by
her side. "Try one of those peaches. Burdett says they are the finest he
ever raised."
He stretched out his hand for one, and sinking into a low basket chair,
commenced lazily to peel it, with his eyes wandering over the sunny
landscape. A footman brought out the tea equipage and some
silver-covered dishes, and, after silently arranging them upon the
table, withdrew.
"What an exquisite morning!" Mr. Thurwell remarked, looking up at the
blue cloudless sky, and pulling his cap a little closer over his eyes to
protect them from the sun. "We might be in Italy again."
"Indeed we might," she answered. "I am going to imagine that we are, and
make my breakfast of peaches and cream and chocolate! Shall I give you
some?"
He shook his head, with a little grimace.
"No, thanks. I'm Philistine enough to prefer devilled kidneys and tea. I
wonder if there is anything in the letters."
He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket, and, unlocking the bag, shook
its contents upon the tablecloth. His daughter looked at the pile with a
faint show of interest. There were one or two invitations, which he
tossed over to her, a few business letters, which he put on one side for
more leisurely perusal later on, and a little packet from his agent
which he opened at once, and the contents of which brought a slight
frown into his handsome face.
Helen Thurwell glanced through her share without finding anything
interesting. Tennis parties, archery meetings, a bazaar fete;
absolutely nothing fresh. She was so tired of all that sort of
thing--tired of eternally meeting the same little set of people, and
joining in the same round of so-called amusements. There was nothing in
Northshire society which attracted her. It was all very stupid, and she
was very much bored.
"Some news here that will interest you, Helen," her father remarked
suddenly. "Who do you think is coming home?"
She shook her head. She was not in the least curious.
"I don't remember any one going away lately," she remarked. "How warm it
is!"
"Sir Geoffrey Kynaston is coming back."
After all, she was a little interested. She looked away from the sunny
gardens and into her father's face.
"Really!"
"It is a fact!" he declared. "Douglas says that he will be here to-day
or to-morrow. Let me see, it must be nearly fifteen years since he was
in England. Time he settled down, if he means to at all."
"Was he very wild, then?" she asked.
The squire nodded.
"Rather!" he answered dryly. "I dare say people will have forgotten all
about it by now, though. Forty thousand a year covers a multitude of
sins, especially in a tenth baronet!"
She asked no more questions, but leaned back in her chair, and looked
thoughtfully across the open country towards the grey turrets of
Kynaston Towers, from which a flag was flying. Mr. Thurwell re-read his
agent's letter with a slight frown upon his forehead.
"I don't know what to do here," he remarked.
"What is it?" she asked absently. She was watching the flag slowly
unfurling itself in the breeze, and fluttering languidly above the
tree-tops. It was odd to think that a master was coming to rule there.
"It's about Falcon's Nest. I wish I'd never thought of letting it!"
"Why? It would be a great deal better occupied, surely!"
"If I could let it to a decent tenant, of course it would. But, you know
that fellow Chapman, of Mallory? He wants it!"
She looked up at him quickly.
"You surely would not let it to a man like that?"
"Certainly not. But, on the other hand, I don't want to offend him. If I
were to decide to stand for the county at the next election, he would be
my most useful man in Mallory, or my worst enemy. He's just the sort of
fellow to take offence--quickly, too."
"Can't you tell him it's let?"
"Not unless I do let it to some one. Of course not!"
"But are there no other applications?"
"Yes, there is one other," he answered; "but the most awkward part of it
is that it's from a complete stranger. Fellow who calls himself
'Brown.'"
"Let me see the letter," she said.
He passed it over the table to her. It was written on plain notepaper,
in a peculiar, cramped handwriting.
"_London_, May 30.
"DEAR SIR,--I understand, from an advertisement in this week's
_Field_, that you are willing to let 'Falcon's Nest,' situated on
your estate. I shall be happy to take it at the rent you quote, if
not already disposed of. My solicitors are Messrs. Cuthbert, of
Lincoln's Inn; and my bankers, Gregsons. I may add that I am a
bachelor, living alone. The favor of your immediate reply will much
oblige,
"Yours faithfully,
"BERNARD BROWN."
She folded the letter up, and returned it to her father without remark.
"You see," Mr. Thurwell said, "my only chance of escaping from Chapman,
without offending him, is to say that it is already let, and to accept
this fellow's offer straight off. But it's an awful risk. How do I know
that Brown isn't a retired tallow-chandler or something of that sort?"
"Why not telegraph to his solicitors?" she suggested; "they would know
who he was, I suppose."
"That's not a bad idea!" he declared. "Morton shall ride over to Mallory
at once. I'm glad you thought of it, Helen."
Having come to this decision, Mr. Thurwell turned round and made an
excellent breakfast, after which he and his daughter spent the day very
much in the same manner as any other English country gentleman and young
lady are in the habit of doing. He made a pretense of writing some
letters and arranging some business affairs with his agent in the
library for an hour, and, later on in the morning, he drove over to
Mallory, and took his seat on the magistrates' bench during the hearing
of a poaching case. After lunch, he rode to an outlying farm to inspect
a new system of drainage, and when he returned, about an hour before
dinner-time, he considered that he had done a good day's work.
Helen spent the early part of the morning in the garden, and arranging
freshly cut flowers about the house. Then she practised for an hour,
solely out of a sense of duty, for she was no musician. Directly the
time was up, she closed the piano with a sigh of relief, and spent the
rest of the time before two o'clock reading a rather stupid novel. After
luncheon she made a call several miles off, driving herself in a
light-brown cart, and played several sets of tennis, having for her
partner a very mild and brainless young curate. At dinner-time she and
her father met again, and when he entered the room he had two slips of
orange-colored paper in his hand.
"Well, what news?" she inquired.
He handed the telegrams to her without a word, and she glanced them
through. The first was from the bankers.
"To Guy Davenant Thurwell, Esq.,
Thurwell Court, Northshire.
"We consider Mr. Brown a desirable tenant for you from a pecuniary
point of view. We know nothing of his family."
The other one was from his lawyers.
"To Guy D. Thurwell, Esq.,
Thurwell Court, Northshire.
"Mr. Brown is a gentleman of means, and quite in a position to rent
'Falcon's Nest.' We are not at liberty to say anything as to his
antecedents or family."
"What am I to do?" asked Mr. Thurwell, undecidedly. "I don't like the
end of this last telegram. A solicitor ought to be able to say a little
more about a client than that."
Helen considered for a moment. She was so little interested in the
matter that she found it difficult to make up her mind either way.
Afterwards she scarcely dared think of that moment's indecision.
"Perhaps so," she said. "All the same, I detest Mr. Chapman. I should
vote for Mr. Brown."
"Mr. Brown it shall be, then!" he answered. "Douglas shall write him
to-morrow."
A fortnight later Mr. Bernard Brown took up his quarters at Falcon's
Nest.