MR. PERCY OSMOND.
“We shall not be able to leave Paris for five or six weeks.” So wrote
Edith West to Lionel Dering at Park Newton.
Mrs. Garside’s sister—her sister by marriage only—was dead. The house,
plate, and furniture were to be sold, and Mrs. Garside had much to do.
Edith, as a matter of course, must stay with her aunt. Lionel, if he
wanted to see his promised wife, must go to Paris: and to Paris he
decided that he would go.
The same post which brought him this letter brought him one from India,
written by his uncle, General St. George. The old soldier’s letter ran
as under:
“ My Dear Nephew,
“Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune, the news of which
followed close upon the intimation of my poor brother’s death. I can
safely say that there is no one in whose hands I would sooner see the
family estates than yours. I contracted a very warm affection for you
during my last visit to England, and that feeling has not diminished
with time. But you must change your name, my dear boy. I know that you
are a St. George at heart, and you must be one in name also. However,
that is one of the things that we can discuss fully when I see you
again. Please Heaven, that will be before either you or I are many
months older.
“Yes, my dear nephew, it is even so. The old horse is nearly worn out
at last. People begin to whisper that he is no longer equal to his
work; and although the sound of the trumpet and the clash of arms have
still their old charm for his ears, the day must shortly come when he
will hear them for the last time. In brief, Lionel, putting aside what
other people may think, I feel myself that I am getting creaky and out
of repair, and a great longing has come over me to spend the few
remaining days that may be left me somewhere near the dear old
homestead where I first drew breath.
“I will write you full particulars in a week or two. Your brother
Richard is in good health, and is prospering. I had a letter from him
only a few days ago. As things have turned out, it is perhaps quite as
well that he came out to India instead of you.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“Lionel St. George.”
“He shall live with us at Park Newton,” said Lionel to himself as he
folded up the letter. “It will be like finding a second father to have
dear old Uncle Lionel come and share our home.”
A few days later Lionel received a note from Tom Bristow. It was
addressed to Gatehouse Farm, and had been sent from thence to Park
Newton, Tom not having heard of Lionel’s change of fortune. It was
dated from Egypt, and was written with Tom’s usual brevity. “Health
much improved. Hope to be back in England in about three months from
now. Shall take early opportunity of looking you up. The dear old days
at the farm are not forgotten.” That was nearly all.
“He will be here in time for the wedding,” said Lionel, as he read the
note. “I should like Tom Bristow to be my best man on that important
occasion.”
Nearly a fortnight passed away before Lionel Dering was able to leave
the house. The wound on his head was a very severe one, and for the
first two days and nights he lay in bed, to all outward seeming more
dead than alive. As soon as he was in a condition to do so he sent for
the Duxley superintendent of police, and told him confidentially all
that he knew of the affair. Lionel was strongly averse to all
unnecessary publicity, and was especially desirous that no mention of
the case should be made in the local newspapers. Had he been asked to
state his reasons for wishing to keep the matter so private, he would
perhaps have found it difficult to do so. Nevertheless, the feeling to
act thus was strong upon him.
It was proved, on investigation, that the intruder, whoever he might
be, had obtained, access to the house through one of the library
windows. One of the panes had been cut out with a diamond, and the
window then unfastened. Next came the discovery of a secret passage
from the library to the late Mr. St. George’s bedroom. Those among the
servants who had been at Park Newton under the old regime denied all
knowledge of the existence of any such passage, and their statements
might well be true.
The passage in question was one of a kind by no means uncommon in
houses built a couple of centuries ago. It was simply a very narrow
staircase, built in the thickness of the wall, and leading from the
ground floor to the floor above. The entrance to it was behind a
sliding panel in the bedroom; but both exit and entrance were so
carefully hidden that a person might pass his whole life at Park Newton
without ever suspecting the existence of such a place. One of Lionel’s
first acts, after a thorough exploration of the passage had been made,
was to send for the bricklayers and have both entrance and exit walled
up.
But the little closet or cupboard in the bedroom had still to be
considered. It was nothing more than a small square opening in the
wall; and, like the staircase, it was hidden behind the panelling, and
secured still further by means of a secret spring. It was evident that
the late Mr. St. George had known the secret of the cupboard, and had
used the place as a safe depository for money and other valuables. It
was equally certain that this latter fact must have been well known to
Lionel’s assailant; and there could be no doubt that the object of the
midnight raid had been to rifle the cupboard of its contents. Some
testimony as to the quality of those contents had been unavoidably left
behind in the hurry of flight. Three or four small diamonds, and a
couple of sovereigns of recent coinage, were found scattered on the
floor: but as to the further value of the property stolen there were no
means of judging.
Lionel had no reason for suspecting any of the people immediately about
him, nor did such a thought ever find a lodging in his mind. The more
he considered the matter, the more certain he felt that the man of whom
he had caught a glimpse in the shrubbery was really the thief. But even
granting such to be the case, the mystery was no nearer solution than
before. Whoever the man might be, he had got clear away without leaving
the slightest clue behind him by which he might be traced.
Lionel’s first visit, when he was able to get out of doors again, was
to a little cottage on the outskirts of Duxley, where lived an old man,
Joseph Nixon by name, who had been body-servant to the late Mr. St.
George, and to his father before him. Nixon was now living on a pension
granted him by the family; and it seemed to Lionel that he would be
more likely than any one else to have a knowledge of the hidden
staircase, and the cupboard in the bedroom wall. He found the old man
infirm in body but clear in mind. Yes, he said, in answer to Lionel’s
inquiries, he knew all about the staircase in the wall, and the little
closet behind the panelling in his old master’s bedroom. Mr. St.
George, who was somewhat peculiar in his ways, was in the habit of
keeping a considerable amount of ready money in the house, and used the
cupboard as a secure place of deposit, known to himself and Nixon
alone.
“But was there nothing besides money ever kept there?” asked Lionel.
“Yes, sir; there was a diamond necklace, and some other things as
well,” answered Nixon.
“It was rather a strange place in which to keep a diamond necklace, was
it not?”
“Well, sir, this is how it was. When Mr. Arthur St. George was a young
man, he was engaged to be married to a handsome young lady. The wedding
day was fixed, and everything ready, when he made her a present of a
diamond necklace. She wore it once only—at a grand ball to which he
took her. Next day she was taken ill; a week later she was dead. Her
friends sent back the necklace, and my master seemed as if he could
never bear to part from it after that time. Many and many a time I’ve
known him to sleep with it under his pillow.”
Here was a page of romance out of his uncle’s life that was quite fresh
to Lionel.
“He was one o’ the old-fashioned sort of lovers, was Mr. St. George,”
added Nixon. “He didn’t know what it was to change.”
“And are you certain that my uncle and yourself were the only two
people who knew of the existence of the staircase and the cupboard? Try
to remember. Think carefully before you answer.”
“It’s not in my knowledge,” answered the old man, slowly, “that anybody
knew about either of them places but my master and myself. Unless,
maybe——”
“Yes—unless what?”
“Unless Mr. Kester St. George happened to know about them.”
“And do you really think that my cousin Kester does know that there are
two such places in existence?” asked Lionel after a pause.
“Now I come to think of it, sir, he does know about the cupboard. Going
suddenly into the bedroom one day, without knowing that he was there, I
found him standing by the cupboard, with the door open, and the diamond
necklace in his hand. It was not my place to say anything, and it
seemed no more than likely, at that time, that some day the necklace
would be his own property. But, as regards the staircase, sir, I don’t
know as Mr. Kester was ever told about that.”
There was nothing more to be learned, so Lionel took a kindly leave of
the old man, who seemed as if he could not sufficiently express his
delight at not having been forgotten by “the new master.”
Lionel neither could nor would believe that Kester had had any hand in
the midnight robbery. Nevertheless, he sent word next day to the chief
constable of Duxley not to proceed any further with his investigation
of the affair. In his letters to Edith he had been careful not to
mention the matter in any way. It would only have frightened her, and
could have done no possible good.
As soon as he was thoroughly recovered he set out for Paris. He had not
seen Edith for several weeks, and longer separation was unendurable.
One morning there came a letter to Edith, in which Lionel stated that
he should be in Paris twelve hours after the receipt of it. What a day
of joyful expectation was that! Edith could neither read, nor work, nor
even sit quietly and do nothing. All she could do was to wander
absently from room to room, touching a few notes on the piano now and
again, or gaze dreamily out of the windows, or feed the noisy troop of
sparrows that assembled daily on the window-sill for their accustomed
bounty. She sent out for a Railway Guide that she might be enabled to
follow Lionel step by step on his journey. “Now he is at Dover,” she
said to herself. A little while later, “Now the steamer is nearly at
Calais.” Later still, “Now he has left Calais. Half his journey is
over. In six more hours he will be here.”
“Come and have some tea, child,” said Mrs. Garside. “I declare you look
quite worn and anxious. Mr. Dering will think I’ve been working you to
death.”
Mrs. Garside was very glad on her own account that Lionel was coming.
The forms and processes of French law in connection with the property
left her by her sister troubled her exceedingly. She knew that she
could count on Lionel’s good-natured assistance in extricating her from
sundry perplexities into which she had fallen.
How slowly the hours went by; as hours, when they are watched, always
seem to do! Mrs. Garside began to prophesy. “Perhaps the train will be
delayed,” she said. “Perhaps he will think it too late to call. Perhaps
we shall not see him till midday to-morrow.” To all which Edith could
only respond with a doleful “Perhaps.”
“But for all that,” said Mrs. Garside, “we will have dinner ready for
him to the minute. Men are never good-tempered when they are hungry.
Always bear that little fact in mind, Edith, when you get married.”
So a choice little repast was prepared, and Edith went out and bought
some flowers with which to decorate the table; then the candles were
lighted; and after that they could only sit and wait.
By-and-by a cab came rattling into the courtyard. Then there came the
sound of welcome footsteps on the stairs, and next moment Lionel was
with them.
What two happy hours were those before the time came for them to bid
each other good-night! But, then, what a little suffices to make us
happy when we are in love! Kind-hearted Mrs. Garside was happy in the
happiness of Edith, and in the freshness and change which Lionel’s
welcome arrival brought with it. Edith and Lionel asked nothing more
for the time being than to be able to see each other, and speak to each
other, and to spell out that silent language of the eyes which has
often a meaning far more deep and heartfelt than any words can convey.
In Paris that year the spring seemed to come earlier than usual.
Already the Bois was beginning to clothe itself in a mantle of
tenderest green. The daylight hours were warm and bright; hardly a
cloud was to be seen in the sky. All the gay world of Paris was on the
qui vive. It was a splendid moving panorama, framed with flowers and
softest buds just bursting into leaf. To the fancies of Edith and
Lionel it almost seemed as if all this glamour and brightness had been
devised by some kind fairy godmother for their especial behoof, simply
because they were under love’s sweet witchery, and that it would all
vanish like a dream the moment they two should have quitted the scene.
They spent hours in the Louvre looking at the pictures. They spent more
hours on the pleasant Boulevards, jostled by troops of
pleasure-seekers. But it is more than probable that, as sightseers,
they saw very little indeed. They moved like dreamers in the midst of a
crowd, like denizens of a more etherealized world, who breathed, as of
right, a finer atmosphere, and in whose veins flowed the only true
elixir of life. It was a season of happiness, pure and unalloyed. They
saw nothing—not even in their dreams had they any prevision—of the huge
black cloud whose edge already touched the horizon, whose sable folds
would soon shut out the sunshine and the flowers, but whose thunders
would smite in vain the strong pure rock of their mutual love.
By the end of a fortnight, thanks to the assistance given by Lionel,
Mrs. Garside’s legal difficulties were at an end. After a few last
lingering days in Lutetia the Beautiful, they went back to London
together. Lionel saw the two ladies safely housed in Roehampton
Terrace, and then bade them farewell for a little while. The marriage
was to take place in June, and there was much to be done before that
time.
Having some purchases to make, Lionel stopped in London for a few
hours, after leaving Edith, before continuing his journey home. He had
kept telling himself, as he came along in the train, that he must not
fail to call on Kester before going back to Park Newton. He wanted his
cousin to fix a date for his promised visit. But when London was
reached and his business done, he still felt unaccountably reluctant to
pay the call. He shrank from making any inquiry of himself as to the
origin of this strange reluctance, but its existence he could not
dispute. Was it possible that some half-formed and unacknowledged doubt
was at work in his mind as to whether the man who had so brutally
struck him down was any other than Kester St. George? If so, it was a
doubt that never clothed itself with words even to himself. But, be
that as it may, four o’clock was reached; his train started at five,
and Great Carrington Street was still as far away as ever.
His irresolution was brought to a sudden end at last. He was gazing
absently into Colnaghi’s window, when a hand was laid lightly on his
shoulder, and his cousin’s musical voice fell on his ear.
“What! in town again, old fellow? You might have let one know that you
were coming.”
All Lionel’s half-shaped doubts vanished in a moment under the
influence of his cousin’s genial smile and hearty grasp of the hand. As
he stood there his conscience pricked him that he should have wronged
Kester for a moment even in thought.
“I have only just got back from Paris,” he said. “I am glad to have met
you, because I want you to fix a date for your promised visit to Park
Newton.”
Kester was not alone. His arm was linked in that of another man.
“Before fixing anything,” he said, “I must introduce to you my
particular friend, Mr. Percy Osmond.—Osmond, my cousin, Li Dering, of
whom you have frequently heard me speak.”
The two men bowed.
“Is it possible,” asked Lionel, “that you are a brother of the Mr.
Kenneth Osmond whom I met when in America?”
“Kenneth Osmond and I are certainly brothers,” answered the other.
“Then I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Your brother and I
travelled together for six months through some of the wildest parts of
North America. I never met with a man in my life whom I esteemed more
or liked better.”
“Look here,” said Kester. “We can’t stand jawing in the street for
ever. My club’s not three minutes away. Let us go there and wet the
talk with a bottle of fiz.”
Mr. Percy Osmond was about eight-and-twenty years old. He was of medium
height and slender build, and of a somewhat effeminate appearance. He
had good features, and had rather fine black eyes, of which he was
particularly proud. But there was a shiftiness about them, a restlessly
suspicious look, as though the man at one time had been haunted by some
terrible fear, and had never been able to forget it.
His face was closely shaven, except for a thin, silky, black moustache,
which he wore with long waxed ends. He was foppishly dressed in the
latest fashion, and displayed a profusion of jewellery. But there was
something about him so arrogant and self-opinionated, something so
coldly contemptuous of other men’s feelings and opinions whenever they
chanced to clash with his own, that Lionel had not been ten minutes in
his company before he said to himself that Mr. Percy Osmond was very
different from Mr. Percy Osmond’s brother, and could never be included
by him among the few men he numbered as his friends.
“So you want to pin me down to a date, do you?” said Kester as they sat
down in the smoking-room at the club.
“I should certainly like to fix you, now that I am here,” answered
Lionel.
“How would this day fortnight suit you?”
“No time could suit me better. And if Mr. Osmond will honour me by
coming down to Park Newton at the same time, I need hardly say how
pleased I shall be to see him there.”
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” said Osmond. “Glad to run down to your
place, especially as St. George is going. Am thinking of buying a quiet
little country roost myself. Town life is awfully wearing, you know.”
Kester laughed aloud. “Osmond would commit suicide before he had been
in the country a month,” he said. “He is one of those unhappy mortals
who cannot live away from bricks and mortar. The shady side of Pall
Mall is dearer to him than all the county lanes and hayfields in the
world.”
“You do me an injustice—really,” said Osmond. “Some of my tastes are
quite idyllic. No one, for instance, could be fonder of clotted cream
than I am. I never shoot, myself—haven’t muscle enough for it, you
know—yet I have a weakness for grouse pie that almost verges on the
sublime.”
“Or the ridiculous,” interposed Kester.
“By-the-by, I hope you are not without a billiard-table at your place,”
said Osmond, with that affected little cough which was peculiar to him.
“We have a table on which you shall play all day long if you choose,”
said Lionel.
“Then I’ll come. Country air and billiards charming combination! Yes,
you may expect to see me at the same time that you see St George.”
He made a memorandum of the date in his tablets; and after a little
further talk, he shook hands with Lionel and went, leaving the two
cousins together.
Kester looked after him with a sneer. “There goes another gilded fool,”
he said.
“I thought you introduced him to me as your particular friend,” said
Lionel.
“I called him my particular friend because he is rich. I can’t afford
to call any poor man my friend.”
“My reason for inviting him to Park Newton was partly because I thought
it would please you to have him there at the same time as yourself, and
partly out of compliment to his brother, whom I respect and like
exceedingly.”
“Don’t mistake me. I am glad you have asked him down to the old place.
As I said before, he is rich, and some day or other he may be useful to
me. All the same, he’s an awful screw, and thinks as much of one
sovereign as I do of five.”
“How long have you known him?” asked Lionel.
“For a dozen years at the least. When he was twenty-one he came in for
a fortune of twelve thousand pounds. This he contrived to get through
very comfortably in the course of a couple of seasons. Then came the
climax. For two years longer he managed to pick up a precarious crust
among the different friends and acquaintances whom he had made during
his more prosperous days. Then, when everybody had become thoroughly
tired of him, he crossed the Atlantic. For the next four years he was
lost sight of utterly. When heard of again, he had sunk to the position
of marker in a billiard-saloon at New Orleans. After that, he was heard
of in several places, but always in dreadfully low water. Then came the
story of a murder in which he was said to be somehow mixed up, but
nobody on this side seemed ever to get at the truth about it; and the
next thing we heard about him was something altogether different. An
old maiden aunt had died and had left the scapegrace eighty thousand
pounds. Such as you saw him to-day, he turned up in London three months
ago. Bitter experience has taught him the value of money. Still he has
his weaknesses. What those weaknesses are it is my business just now to
find out.”