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THE RED WINDOW
* * * * * *
Popular Novels by Fergus Hume
THE SECRET PASSAGE
_The Albany Evening Journal_ says: "Fully as interesting as his former
books, and keeps one guessing to the end. The story begins with the
murder of an old lady, with no apparent cause for the crime, and in
unraveling the mystery the author is very clever in hiding the real
criminal. A pleasing romance runs through the book, which adds to the
interest."
12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25
THE YELLOW HOLLY
_The Philadelphia Public Ledger_ says: "'The Yellow Holly' outdoes any
of his earlier stories. It is one of those tales that the average reader
of fiction of this sort thinks he knows all about after he has read the
first few chapters. Those who have become admirers of Mr. Hume cannot
afford to miss 'The Yellow Holly.'"
12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25
A COIN OF EDWARD VII.
_The Philadelphia Item_ says: "This book is quite up to the level of the
high standard which Mr. Hume has set for himself in 'The Mystery of a
Hansom Cab' and 'The Rainbow Feather.' It is a brilliant, stirring
adventure, showing the author's prodigious inventiveness, his well of
imagination never running dry."
12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25
THE PAGAN'S CUP
_The Nashville American_ says: "The plot is intricate with mystery and
probability neatly dovetailed and the solution is a series of surprises
skillfully retarded to whet the interest of the reader. It is
excellently written and the denouement so skillfully concealed that
one's interest and curiosity are kept on edge till the very last. It
will certainly be a popular book with a very large class of readers."
12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25
THE MANDARIN'S FAN
_The Nashville American_ says: "The book is most attractive and
thoroughly novel in plot and construction. The mystery of the curious
fan, and its being the key to such wealth and power is decidedly
original and unique. Nearly every character in the book seems possible
of accusation. It is just the sort of plot in which Hume is at his best.
It is a complex tangle, full of splendid climaxes. Few authors have a
charm equal to that of Mr. Hume's mystery tales."
12mo, Cloth bound, $1.25
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
* * * * * *
THE RED WINDOW
[Illustration: "THERE HE SAW HIS GRANDFATHER SEATED BY THE FIRE WITH A
HANDKERCHIEF ROUND HIS NECK."
(_Frontispiece._) Page 63.]
THE RED WINDOW
by
FERGUS HUME
Author of
"The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Rainbow Feather,"
"A Coin of Edward VII," "The Pagan's Cup," "Claude
Duval of Ninety-Five," etc., etc.
With Frontispiece
[Illustration]
G. W. Dillingham Company
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1904, by
G. W. Dillingham Company
Entered at Stationers' Hall
_The Red Window_ _Issued May, 1904_
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. Comrades 9
II. Sir Simon Gore 23
III. The Will 38
IV. A Strange Adventure 50
V. Lost in the Darkness 64
VI. A Maiden Gentlewoman 77
VII. Bernard's Friends 90
VIII. Bernard's Enemies 103
IX. At Cove Castle 115
X. A Statement of the Case 129
XI. Mrs. Gilroy's Past 142
XII. The New Page 155
XIII. A Consultation 170
XIV. Love in Exile 183
XV. The Past of Alice 195
XVI. The Unexpected 208
XVII. The Diary 221
XVIII. Tolomeo's Story 232
XIX. Plots and Counterplots 245
XX. A Confession 259
XXI. Young Judas 276
XXII. The Truth 291
XXIII. A Year Later 309
The Red Window
CHAPTER I
COMRADES
"Hullo, Gore!"
The young soldier stopped, started, colored with annoyance, and with a
surprised expression turned to look on the other soldier who had
addressed him. After a moment's scrutiny of the stranger's genial smile
he extended his hand with pleased recognition. "Conniston," said he, "I
thought you were in America."
"So I am; so don't call me Conniston at the pitch of your voice, old
boy. His lordship of that name is camping on Californian slopes for a
big game shoot. The warrior who stands before you is Dick West of the
---- Lancers, the old Come-to-the-Fronts. And what are you doing as an
Imperial Yeoman, Gore?"
"Not that name," said the other, with an anxious glance around. "Like
yourself, I don't want to be known."
"Oh! So you are sailing under false colors also?"
"Against my will, Conniston--I mean West. I am Corporal Bernard."
"Hum!" said Lord Conniston, with an approving nod. "You have kept your
Christian name, I see."
"It is all that remains of my old life," replied Gore, bitterly. "But
your title, Conniston?"
"Has disappeared," said the lancer, good-humoredly, "until I can make
enough money to gild it."
"Do you hope to do that on a private's pay?"
West shrugged his shoulders. "I hope to fight my way during the war to a
general's rank. With that and a V.C., an old castle and an older title,
I may catch a dollar heiress by the time the Boers give in."
"You don't put in your good looks, Conniston," said Bernard, smiling.
"Dollar heiresses don't buy what's in the shop-windows, old man. But
won't you explain your uniform and dismal looks?"
Gore laughed. "My dismal looks have passed away since we have met so
opportunely," he said, looking across the grass. "Come and sit down. We
have much to say to one another."
Conniston and Gore--they used the old names in preference to the
new--walked across the grass to an isolated seat under a leafless elm.
The two old friends had met near the magazine in Hyde Park, on the
borders of the Serpentine, and the meeting was as unexpected as
pleasant. It was a gray, damp October day, and the trees were raining
yellow, brown and red leaves on the sodden ground. Yet a breath of
summer lingered in the atmosphere, and there was a warmth in the air
which had lured many people to the Park. Winter was coming fast, and the
place, untidy with withered leaves, bare of flowers, and dismal under a
sombre, windy sky, looked unattractive enough. But the two did not mind
the dreary day. Summer--the summer of youth--was in their hearts, and,
recalling their old school friendship, they smiled on one another as
they sat down. In the distance a few children were playing, their
nursemaids comparing notes or chatting with friends or stray policemen,
so there was no one near to overhear what they had to say. A number of
fashionable carriages rolled along the road, and occasionally someone
they knew would pass. But vehicles and people belonged to the old world
out of which they had stepped into the new, and they sat like a couple
of Peris at the gate of Paradise, but less discontented.
Both the young men were handsome in their several ways. The yeoman was
tall, slender, dark and markedly quiet in his manner. His clear-cut face
was clean-shaven; he had black hair, dark blue eyes, put in--as the
Irish say--with a dirty finger, and his figure was admirably
proportioned. In his khaki he looked a fine specimen of a man in his
twenty-fifth year. But his expression was stern, even bitter, and there
were thoughtful furrows on his forehead which should not have been there
at his age. Conniston noted these, and concluded silently that the world
had gone awry with his formerly sunny-faced friend. At Eton, Gore had
always been happy and good-tempered.
Conniston himself formed a contrast to his companion. He was not tall,
but slightly-built and wiry, alert in his manner and quick in his
movements. As fair as Gore was dark, he wore a small light mustache,
which he pulled restlessly when excited. In his smart, tight-fitting
uniform he looked a natty jimp soldier, and his reduced position did not
seem to affect his spirits. He smiled and joked and laughed and bubbled
over with delight on seeing his school chum again. Gore was also
delighted, but, being quieter, did not reveal his pleasure so openly.
When they were seated, the lancer produced an ornate silver case, far
too extravagant for a private, and offered Gore a particularly excellent
cigarette. "I have a confiding tobacconist," said Conniston, "who
supplies me with the best, in the hope that I'll pay him some day. I can
stand a lot, but bad tobacco is beyond my powers of endurance. I'm a
self-indulgent beast, Gore!"
Gore lighted up. "How did your tobacconist know you?" he asked.
"Because a newly-grown mustache wasn't a sufficient disguise. I walked
into the shop one day hoping he was out. But he chanced to be in, and
immediately knew me. I made him promise to hold his tongue, and said I
had volunteered for the war. He's a good chap, and never told a soul.
Oh, my aunt!" chattered Conniston. "What would my noble relatives say if
they saw me in this kit?"
"You are supposed to be in California?"
"That's so--shootin'. But I'm quartered at Canterbury, and only come up
to town every now and again. Of course I take care to keep out of the
fashionable world, so no one's spotted me yet."
"Your officers!"
"There's no one in the regiment I know. The Tommies take me for a
gentleman who has gone wrong, and I keep to their society. Not that a
private has much to do with the officers. They take little notice of me,
and I've learned to say, 'Sir!' quite nicely," grinned Conniston.
"What on earth made you enlist?"
"I might put the same question to you, Bernard?"
"I'll tell you my story later. Out with yours, old boy."
"Just the same authoritative manner," said Conniston, shrugging. "I
never did have a chap order me about as you do. If you weren't such a
good chap you'd have been a bully with that domineering way you have. I
wonder how you like knuckling under to orders?"
"He who cannot serve is not fit to command," quoted Gore, sententiously.
"Go on with the story."
"It's not much of a story. I came in for the title three years ago, when
I was rising twenty. But I inherited nothing else. My respected
grandfather made away with nearly all the family estates, and my poor
father parted with the rest. Upon my word," said the young lord,
laughing, "with two such rascals as progenitors, it's wonderful I should
be as good as I am. They drank and gambled and--"
"Don't, Conniston. After all your father _is_ your father."
"_Was_ my father, you mean. He's dead and buried in the family vault. I
own that much property--all I have."
"Where is it?"
"At Cove Castle in the Essex Marshes!"
"I remember. You told me about it at school. Cove Castle is ten miles
from Hurseton."
"And Hurseton is where your uncle, Sir Simon, lives."
Gore looked black. "Yes," he said shortly. "Go on!"
Conniston drew his own conclusions from the frown, rattled on in his
usual cheerful manner. "I came into the title as I said, but scarcely an
acre is there attached to it, save those of mud and water round Cove
Castle. I had a sum of ready money left by my grandmother--old Lady
Tain, you remember--and I got through that as soon as possible. It
didn't last long," added the profligate, grinning; "but I had a glorious
time while it lasted. Then the smash came. I took what was left and went
to America. Things got worse there, so, on hearing the war was on, I
came back and enlisted as Dick West. I revealed myself only to my
lawyer; and, of course, my tobacconist--old Taberley--knows. But from
paragraphs in the Society papers about my noble self I'm supposed to be
in California. Of course, as I told you, I take jolly good care to keep
out of everyone's way. I'm off to the Cape in a month, and then if
Fortune favors me with a commission and a V.C. I'll take up the title
again."
"You still hold the castle, then?"
"Yes. It's the last of the old property. Old Mother Moon looks after it
for me. She's a horrid old squaw, but devoted to me. So she ought to be.
I got that brat of a grandson of hers a situation as messenger boy to
old Taberley. Not that he's done much good. He's out of his place now,
and from all accounts, is a regular young brute."
"Does he know you have enlisted?"
"What, young Judas--I call him Judas," said Conniston, "because he's
such a criminal kid. No, he doesn't. Taberley had to turn him away for
robbing the till or something. Judas has spoiled his morals by reading
penny novels, and by this time I shouldn't wonder if he hasn't embarked
on a career of crime like a young Claude Duval. No, Gore, he doesn't
know. I'm glad of it--as he would tell Mother Moon, and then she'd howl
the castle down at the thought of the head of the West family being
brought so low."
"West is your family name, isn't it?"
"It is; and Richard is my own name--Richard Grenville Plantagenet West,
Lord Conniston. That's my title. But I dropped all frills, and here I
smoke, Dick West at your service, Bernard, my boy. So now you've asked
me enough questions, what's your particular lie?"
"Dick, Dick, you are as hair-brained as ever. I never could--"
"No," interrupted Conniston, "you never could sober me. Bless you,
Bernard, it's better to laugh than frown, though you don't think so."
Gore pitched away the stump of his cigarette and laughed somewhat sadly.
"I have cause to frown," said he, wrinkling his forehead. "My
grandfather has cut me off with a shilling."
"The deuce he has," said Conniston coolly. "Take another cigarette, old
boy, and buck up. Now that you haven't a cent, you'll be able to carve
your way to fortune."
"That's a philosophic way to look at the matter, Dick."
"The only way," rejoined Conniston, emphatically. "When you've cut your
moorings you can make for mid-ocean and see life. It's storm that tries
the vessel, Bernard, and you're too good a chap to lie up in port as a
dull country squire."
Bernard looked round, surprised. It was not usual to hear the
light-hearted Dicky moralize thus. He was as sententious as Touchstone,
and for the moment Gore, who usually gave advice, found himself
receiving it. The two seemed to have changed places. Dick noticed the
look and slapped Gore on the back. "I've been seeing life since we
parted at Eton, old boy," said he, "and it--the trouble of it, I
mean--has hammered me into shape."
"It hasn't made you despondent, though."
"And it never will," said Conniston, emphatically, "until I meet with
the woman who refuses to marry me. Then I'll howl."
"You haven't met the woman yet?"
"No. But you have. I can see it in the telltale blush. Bless me, old
Gore, how boyish you are. I haven't blushed for years."
"You hardened sinner. Yes! There is a woman, and she is the cause of my
trouble."
"The usual case," said the worldly-wise Richard. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Alice," said Gore, slowly, his eyes on the damp grass.
"A pretty unromantic, domestic name. 'Don't you remember sweet Alice,
Ben Bolt?'"
"I'm always remembering her," said Gore, angrily. "Don't quote that
song, Dick. I used to sing it to her. Poor Alice."
"What's her other name?"
"Malleson--Alice Malleson!"
"Great Scott!" said Conniston, his jaw falling. "The niece of Miss
Berengaria Plantagenet?"
"Yes! Do you know--?" Here Gore broke off, annoyed with himself. "Of
course. How could I forget? Miss Plantagenet is your aunt."
"My rich aunt, who could leave me five thousand a year if she'd only
die. But I daresay she'll leave it to Alice with the light-brown hair,
and you'll marry her."
"Conniston, don't be an ass. If you know the story of Miss Malleson's
life, you must know that there isn't the slightest chance of her
inheriting the money."
"Ah, but, you see, Bernard, I don't know the story."
"You know Miss Plantagenet. She sometimes talks of you."
"How good of her, seeing that I've hardly been in her company for the
last ten years. I remember going to "The Bower" when a small boy, and
making myself ill with plums in a most delightful kitchen garden. I was
scolded by a wonderful old lady as small as a fairy and rather like one
in looks--a regular bad fairy."
"No! no. She is very kind."
"She wasn't to me," confessed Conniston; "but I daresay she will have
more respect for me now that I'm the head of the family. Lord! to think
of that old woman's money."
"Conniston, she would be angry if she knew you had enlisted. She is so
proud of her birth and of her connection with the Wests. Why don't you
call and tell her--"
"No, indeed. I'll do nothing of the sort. And don't you say a word
either, Bernard. I'm going to carve out my own fortune. I don't want
money seasoned with advice from that old cat."
"She is not an old cat!"
"She must be, for she wasn't a kitten when I saw her years ago. But
about Miss Malleson. Who is she? I know she's Miss Plantagenet's niece.
But who is she?"
"She is not the niece--only an adopted one. She has been with Miss
Plantagenet for the last nine years, and came from a French convent.
Miss Plantagenet treats her like a niece, but it is an understood thing
that Alice is to receive no money."
"That looks promising for me," said Conniston, pulling his mustache,
"but my old aunt is so healthy that I'll be gray in the head before I
get a cent. So you've fallen in love with Alice?"
"Yes," sighed Gore, drawing figures with his cane. "I love her dearly
and she loves me. But my grandfather objects. I insisted upon marrying
Alice, so he cut me off with a shilling. I expect the money will go to
my cousin, Julius Beryl, and, like you, I'll have to content myself with
a barren title."
"But why is Sir Simon so hard, Gore?"
Bernard frowned again. "Do you notice how dark I am?" he asked.
"Yes! You have rather an Italian look."
"That's clever of you, Dick. My mother was Italian, the daughter of a
noble Florentine family; but in England was nothing but a poor
governess. My father married her, and Sir Simon--_his_ father--cut him
off. Then when my parents died, my grandfather sent for me, and brought
me up. We have never been good friends," sighed Bernard again, "and when
I wanted to marry Alice there was a row. I fear I lost my temper. You
know from my mother I inherit a fearful temper, nor do I think the Gores
are the calmest of people. However, Sir Simon swore that he wouldn't
have another _mésalliance_ in the family and--"
"_Mésalliance?_"
"Yes! No one knows who Alice is, and Miss Plantagenet--who does
know--won't tell."
"You said no one knew, and now you say Miss Plantagenet does," said
Conniston, laughing. "You're getting mixed, Bernard. Well, so you and
Sir Simon had a row?"
"A royal row. He ordered me out of the house. I fear I said things
to him I should not have said, but my blood was boiling at the
insults he heaped on Alice. And you know Sir Simon is a miser. My
extravagance--though I really wasn't very extravagant--might have done
something to get his back up. However, the row came off, and I was
turned away. I came to town, and could see nothing better to do than
enlist, so I have been in the Yeomanry for the last four months, and
have managed to reach the rank of corporal. I go out to the war soon."
"We'll go together," said Conniston, brightening, "and then when you
come back covered with glory, Sir Simon--"
"No. He won't relent unless I give up Alice, and that I will not do.
What does it matter if Alice is nameless? I love her, and that is enough
for me!"
"And too much for your grandfather, evidently. But what about that
cousin of yours, you used to talk of? Lucy something--"
"Lucy Randolph. Oh, she's a dear little girl, and has been an angel. She
is trying to soothe Sir Simon, and all through has stood my friend. I
made her promise that she would put a lamp in the Red Window when Sir
Simon relented--if he ever does relent."
Conniston looked puzzled. "The Red Window?"
"Ah! You don't know the legend of the Red Window. There is a window of
that sort at the Hall, which was used during the Parliamentary wars to
advise loyal cavaliers of danger. It commands a long prospect down the
side avenue. The story is too long to tell you. But, you see, Conniston,
I can't get near the house, and my only chance of knowing if Sir Simon
is better disposed towards me is by looking from the outside of the park
up to the Red Window. If this shows a red light I know that he is
relenting; if not, he is still angry. I have been once or twice to the
Hall," said Gore, shaking his head, "but no light has been shown."
"What a roundabout way of letting you know things. Can't Lucy write?"
Gore shook his head again. "No. You see, she is engaged to Julius, who
hates me."
"Oh, that Beryl man. He comes in for the money?"
"Now that I'm chucked I suppose he will," said Bernard, gloomily; "and I
don't want to get poor Lucy into his black books, as he isn't a nice
sort of chap. He won't thank her if she tries to bias the old man in my
favor. And then there's the housekeeper who doesn't like me--Mrs. Gilroy
her name is. She and Julius will both keep Sir Simon's temper alive. I
can't write to him, or my letter would be intercepted and destroyed by
Mrs. Gilroy. Lucy can't write me because of Julius, so my only chance of
knowing if the old man is thinking better of his determination is by
watching for the red light. I shall go down again twice before I leave
for Africa."
"And if you see the red light you won't stick to soldiering?"
"Yes, I will. But I'll then walk boldly up to the Hall and tell Sir
Simon how sorry I am. But in any case I intend to fight for my country.
Alice herself wouldn't ask me to be a coward and leave. I go to the Cape
with you, Conniston," said Bernard, rising.
"Good old chap," said Conniston, delighted, "you're the only fellow I'd
care to chum up with. I have often thought of you since we parted. But
you rarely wrote to me."
"You were the better correspondent, I admit," said Gore, as they walked
across the bridge. "I am ashamed I did not continue our school
friendship, as we always were such chums, but--"
"The inevitable woman. Ah, Delilah always comes between David and
Jonathan."
"Don't call Alice by that name!" fired up Gore.
"Well, then, I won't. But don't get in a wax. What a fire-brand you are,
Gore! Just as fierce as you were at school."
"Yes," said Bernard, quieting down. "I only hope my bad temper will not
ruin me some day. I tell you, Conniston, when Sir Simon pitched into me
I felt inclined to throw something at his head. He was most insulting. I
didn't mind what he said about me, but when he began to slang Alice I
told him I'd pitch him out of the window if he didn't stop. And I said
many other foolish things."
"Shouldn't do that. He's an old man."
"I know--I know. I was a fool. But you have no idea how readily my
temper gets the better of me. I could strangle anyone who said a word
against my Alice."
"Well, don't strangle me," said Conniston, laughing. "I won't call her
Delilah again, I promise you. But about your Red Window business--you
needn't go down to the Hall for a week or so."
"Why not?"
"Because Sir Simon is in town."
"Nonsense. He never comes to town."
"He has this time. Queerly enough, his lawyers are mine. I saw him at
the office and asked who he was. Durham, my lawyer friend, told me."
"How long ago was that?"
"Three days. I came up on business, and was in plains!"
"Plains?"
"What! you a soldier and don't know plain clothes are called so. You are
an old ass, Bernard. But, I say, I've got digs of a sort hereabouts.
Come and dine with me to-night."
"But I haven't any dress clothes. I got rid of them, thinking I was
going to the Cape sooner."
"Then come in khaki. You look A 1 in it. Here's the address," and
Conniston hastily scribbled something on his card. "I shall expect you
at seven."
The two friends parted with a hearty handshake, and Gore walked away
feeling happier than he had been. Conniston, gazing after him, felt a
tug at his coat. He looked down, and saw a small boy. "Judas," said
Conniston, "you young brute! How did you know me?"