A DEXTEROUS ARRANGEMENT.
Attention to details makes a perfect whole.
When Mr. Beaumont arrived at "The House of Good Living" about six
o'clock, he proposed first to have his dinner, and then to go in for a
good night's work in arranging all the details of his scheme to place
Reginald Blake in the possession of the Garsworth estate.
Though he had told Patience that he would not admit Reginald into his
confidence in order to spare the moral nature of the young man, this
was hardly the true reason, as, in the first place, he was afraid,
from what he had seen of his son, that the young man would not consent
to be a party to the swindle, and, in the second, he wished to keep
the true facts of the case to himself, lest Reginald should prove
difficult to deal with, in which case, by threatening to dispossess
him of the estate, he could keep a firm hand over the unconscious
victim of his scheme. Thus, by a little dexterous lying, he benefited
in two ways, appearing kindly-disposed in the eyes of Patience, and
yet keeping his own secret as a useful weapon in time of need.
As soon as he discovered the squire's secret, he foresaw that he would
have to imitate the old man's penmanship in order to fill up the blank
spaces in the document addressed by Garsworth to his supposed son, and
therefore, having obtained a specimen of the dead man's handwriting he
practised assiduously, in order to commit the forgery as dexterously
as possible. This was to him a comparatively easy matter, as he had a
pretty talent for imitating handwriting, which he had exercised
before, though not in any fashion likely to bring him within reach of
the law. Luckily, he had not to sign any name, as the squire had
already attested his signature to the paper, and all he had to do was
to fill up the blanks left in the body of the letter. It had evidently
not been written very long, and, the ink not having faded, he had to
make no preparation to imitate the colour, but merely allow the words
he inserted to grow black like the rest of the contents of the
document.
He therefore intended to fill up the blanks with the necessary
details, re-seal the envelope directed by the squire to Reginald Blake
which had contained the cheque, with the seal-ring in his possession,
and then, after placing the letter and ring inside the envelope,
re-seal it in such a way as to avert all suspicion.
To this end he shut himself up in his bedroom on finishing his dinner,
and spread out before him the document which he had abstracted from
its hiding-place in the ball-room. The letter addressed by the old man
to his supposed son was as follows:
"My dear Son,
"_You will, doubtless, be surprised at receiving a letter from me, but
I have the strongest claim to write to you, as I am your father. I
know that you are under the impression that you have a father and
mother already: but they are not your real parents. I, Randal
Garsworth, am your true father, and_
_of_ _was your mother, and you were
born in_ _Your true parentage was
concealed for reasons of my own. I now make the only reparation in my
power, which is to put you in possession of my property; for, though
you are not my lawful son, you are certainly my lawful heir. Take this
letter and the seal-ring enclosed_ (_bearing my crest_), _which will
be found among my papers after my decease, and see my lawyers, Messrs.
Binks & Bolby, of Glutcher's Lane in the City of London, and they will
be sufficient to prove your identity as my son. I have made my will in
your favour, saying you will produce the ring and this letter as a
proof of your identity. The will is, of course, in the possession of
my lawyers as above mentioned, and I hope you will carry out the
instructions regarding legacies, etc., mentioned in my said will. As
we have been strangers, it would be folly for me to express any
regret, and all I can say is, that I hope the amount of the estate I
leave you will compensate for the moral stain on your name_.
"_I remain_,
"_Your affectionate father_,
"Randal Garsworth."
After reading this extraordinary document Beaumont laid it down and
laughed heartily. Of course, Garsworth was quite mad, therefore his
folly was excusable; but that he should think to claim his property on
such flimsy evidence was really the strongest proof of his insanity.
"Luckily," observed Mr. Beaumont to himself, "I can supply all the
missing links by bringing forward Patience to prove the birth of
Reginald as Fanny Blake's child in London, explain the absence of
registration and baptismal certificates, and give a much more definite
birthplace than he was likely to give."
He thereupon applied himself to his work and, after practising the
names he wished to fill in on pieces of waste-paper, he inserted them
in the original document, the clause which gave him all the work
reading as follows:
"_I, Randal Garsworth, am your true father, and Fanny Blake, of
Garsworth, was your mother, and you were born in Chelsea, London_."
Having finished this with infinite pains, Mr. Beaumont eyed his work
in a very complacent manner.
"When that ink is dry," he said, thoughtfully, "it will turn as black
as the rest of the writing. I'll wait till to-morrow morning before I
put it into the envelope, just to see how the names look by daylight."
He took the letter written by the squire to Reginald and also the
cheque, and placed them carefully away in one compartment of his
pocket-book, then he placed the envelope, the seal-ring and the
original document, wide open, in a small despatch-box, so that the
ink would dry properly. Having locked the box, he put the key in his
pocket, lighted a cigarette, and considered his next move.
"I must get the letter locked up in the squire's desk," he said to
himself. "But how? Very likely Nestley has given the keys to Una
Challoner, then there will be no chance. If I can't get the keys to
lock it up I'll slip it among some loose papers in the desk
to-morrow--but it would look better locked up. I think I'll walk over
to the Grange and find out if Nestley has the keys still."
On going down stairs, however, he discovered that there was no need
for him to walk to the Grange, as he found Nestley seated in the
parlour, apparently in very low spirits, drinking hot whisky and
water. When he saw Beaumont his face flushed, and he looked away, for
the unhappy man, having lost his self-respect, felt his moral
degradation keenly. Beaumont, however, pretended not to notice his
action, but advancing towards him shook hands warmly, and asked after
his health in the friendliest manner possible. Nestley was cold and
short in his replies at first, but under the quiet warmth of
Beaumont's fascinating manner began to talk more amiably.
"Excuse me drinking this hot whisky. It's so very cold, to-night," he
said, in a deprecating tone, "and I've had a long walk from the
Grange."
"Yes, and you'll have a cold walk back," said Beaumont, in a
sympathetic manner.
"I'm not going back," replied Nestley sadly, looking down at the
table.
"Not going back," echoed the artist; "why not?"
"I've finished my business at the Grange, and it is no use my staying
there; besides, Miss Challoner dislikes me so much that it was painful
for me to live in the same house with her."
"How do you know she dislikes you?"
"It's easily seen; her manner is quite sufficient--besides, by
persuading me to give way to this again," he added vehemently,
touching his glass, "you have caused me to lose all hope and
self-respect; every person who looks at me seems to be pitying my
downfall."
"Well then, give up the drink."
"What's the good?" said Nestley despairingly. "I left it off for five
years, yet such is my weak nature that I yielded to your persuasions,
and now it has got complete mastery of me again."
"You seem determined to regard me as your evil genius," said the
artist deliberately. "Why I do not know. I suggested a little wine on
that evening, in order to cheer you up--that is all."
"All! and quite enough too. You knew, in the old days, when I took one
glass it meant more."
"I am not to blame for your weakness."
"No doubt--but knowing that weakness you might have left me alone."
"Well, well," said Beaumont impatiently, "my back is broad enough to
bear your sins as well as my own. What are you going to do now?"
"Stay here for two or three days, and then go away," replied Nestley.
"I've risked my all on the cast of a die--and lost, so I'm going back
to my own town, and live out the remainder of my life as best I can."
"Have you said good-bye to Miss Challoner?"
"No, nor do not intend to; she knows my degradation. I can see it in
her eyes, in her manner, in the way she shrinks from me. I have lost
the best part of myself--my self-respect."
Beaumont was hard and callous as a rule, but he could not help feeling
a pang of pity for the abject misery of the man whom he had brought so
low.
"Come, come, Nestley," he said cheerily, patting the doctor on the
back, "I'm truly sorry I ever persuaded you to touch the wine, but
you'd better leave this place at once. When you are back again, in
your own home, you will once more take up your old life of temperance
and hard work."
"It is too late--the evil is done."
"Rubbish! it's never too late to mend; leave Garsworth without delay."
"And leave you to make love to Miss Challoner!"
"I," said Beaumont, with an enigmatic smile, "nonsense--I'm past the
age of love--you can make your mind easy on that score; but, as I will
probably see Miss Challoner, shall I make your adieux to her?"
"If you like," returned Nestley gloomily, "and give her these
keys--they belonged to the Squire, and I forgot to give them into her
possession."
Here was a wonderful piece of luck; the very keys he was in search of,
delivered into his hands without any difficulty whatsoever. Beaumont
did not believe in astrology, but surely at that moment he must have
thought his lucky star was in the ascendant. With his habitual
craftiness, however, he suppressed all outward manifestations of joy,
and took the keys from Nestley with an assenting smile.
"I won't forget," he said calmly, slipping them into his pocket, "and
you will take my advice about leaving the village."
"Why are you so anxious for me to go?" asked Nestley suspiciously.
"For your own good."
"And for your own ends too, I've no doubt," retorted the doctor
bitterly. "You never did anything in your life without a motive."
"Very well," said Beaumont, strolling to the door, "if you don't
choose to take my advice, stay here and drink yourself to death, as
you will surely do--please yourself, my friend."
"Please myself," echoed Nestley, when the door closed on Beaumont. "I
intend to, Basil Beaumont--you've got some plan to carry out, or you
would not remain so placidly in this dull village--so I'll stay and
see the game out; and, if I can thwart you I will, if it's only to
punish you for the evil you have done to me."