CONVERGING THREADS.
Events now began to follow quickly on the steps of each other.
Philip Cleeve had not yet engaged in any active business. After his
return home he had had a slight relapse, and Dr. Spreckley said
business must wait. Old Mr. Marjoram, hearing of this in London, for
Maria often wrote to him, sent a peremptory mandate for Philip to go
back to his house to be nursed. But Philip was getting better now.
Matters were arranged with Mr. Tiplady: and that gentleman had already
ordered a new brass plate for his office-door--"Messrs. Tiplady and
Cleeve; Architects and Surveyors." The necessary money had been paid
by Maria: and the Vicar did not withhold his sanction. Philip would
take a fair income for a year or two, then become full partner, and
succeed to the whole whenever it should please Mr. Tiplady to retire.
It was a very fair prospect, and the Reverend Mr. Kettle saw no cause
to grumble at it.
One little clause, known only to Mr. Daventry, who drew it up, to Mr.
Tiplady, and to Philip, was inserted in the deed of partnership. It
was to the effect that Philip could not come upon the firm for any
money whatever beyond his salary; if he contracted debts, Mr. Tiplady
was secured from the fear of having to pay them.
"It is only a matter of precaution, Cleeve, inserted as much for your
own sake as for mine," Mr. Tiplady said to him in private. "I have not
much fear that you will be playing cards for high stakes again, or
betting at billiards. Or," added the architect, with a grim smile,
"investing your spare cash in silver mines."
"Never again; never again," whispered Philip, tears of emotion filling
his eyes, as he clasped the hand of his good friend.
The paying of the money had been a surprise to Mr. Tiplady, knowing,
as he did, Philip's penniless state. Without saying a word to her
husband, Maria had gone to Mr. Tiplady, and had made over to him the
twelve hundred pounds which, long before, he had agreed with Lady
Cleeve should be the amount of premium to be paid him in consideration
of taking Philip into partnership. How gratifying to Philip it was to
know that his mother was never to hear the truth of his folly; that
she was to be left in the belief that the money she had made him a
loving present of on his birthday, had all gone in the silver mine! In
her fond eyes Philip always remained the most peerless of sons. What a
weight was lifted off the young man's heart by this generous act of
his wife! From that day forward his health improved rapidly; he grew
again like the merry, light-hearted Philip Cleeve of old times, his
laugh a pleasure to hear. But the lesson taught him was not one to be
readily forgotten. And there would be one sweet presence ever by his
side to see that his footsteps did not falter, and to cheer him onward
whenever the road before him seemed hard and difficult to travel.
Philip Cleeve had learnt his life's lesson.
In truth, he had been more lucky than he deserved, and he was to be
more so yet. Apart from his past follies, the one item of remembrance
that made him wince was the thought that his wife should have
sacrificed a great portion of her little fortune to patch up his. Even
this bitterness was to be taken from him.
Just at this time his brother, Sir Gunton Cleeve, was despatched to
England on some mission by the embassy to which he was attached; and
he snatched an opportunity to run down to Homedale for four-and-twenty
hours. To him Philip made a clean breast of the past, confessing
everything: the card-playing, the billiard-playing, the personal
extravagance in the shape of petty ornaments and the like; and the
voracious silver mine that had quite finished him.
"Why, what a silly young fellow you must have been!" exclaimed the
baronet.
"I know it, Gunton, to my cost. I shall know it all my days."
Sir Gunton had sown a few wild oats during his youth, though he had
long ago steadied down, and he was not inclined to be too severe.
"What I don't like, Philip, is this, that your wife should have had to
pay the premium to Tiplady. It looks mean--for us. What does the
mother say?--and the Vicar?"
"The Vicar has said nothing to me: I don't think he intends to blow me
up; he has been very good, I must confess. All he said to Maria was,
that the money was her own and he could not interfere. As to the
mother, Gunton, she knows nothing of my wicked folly; she thinks the
twelve hundred pounds was all swallowed up by the mine. Maria went to
Tiplady, and paid over the money without saying a word to anybody."
"Well, look here, Philip. I can't stand this: a Cleeve was never mean
yet--at least in our day. I am not rich, as you know, but I can manage
this much. I will pay the premium to Tiplady; that is, I will refund
the money to Maria: and you had better let it be settled upon her. But
I do it in the belief that you will never play at folly again:
understand that, young fellow."
The tears had rushed to Philip's eyes.
"Oh, Gunton, you may trust me! How generous you are!"
When Philip had done thanking him, they began to talk of Captain
Lennox and the suspicions attaching to him.
"Where is he now?" asked Sir Gunton.
"Nobody knows. He can't be found--by the police, or by anybody else.
By the way, you knew him three or four years ago. Gunton."
"_I_ knew him!" retorted Sir Gunton. "Knew Lennox!"
"Any way, you have seen him. You met him at Cheltenham, at Major
Piper's. Young Conroy, a fellow up at Heron Dyke, told me that much.
The Major had a card-party, and you and Lennox were both at it, he
said; and the next day the Major's jewels were missing. If you
recollect, you spent a few days at Cheltenham about that time."
"Yes, I did; and I recollect the evening. Lennox?--Lennox? Ay, I do
remember him now. A fair, slender man of very gentlemanly manners:
wore a white rose in his button-hole."
"That's he. One can hardly believe him to be an accomplished
swindler."
"If he played these pranks often, helping himself to jewels and
purses, and the like, he must have been uncommonly lucky to go on so
long without detection," observed Sir Gunton.
"The very remark Conroy made to me."
"Pray, who is Conroy?"
"The luckiest man living," replied Philip, with enthusiasm.
"That's saying a good deal," cried the baronet, lifting his eyebrows.
"Well, upon my word, I think he is, Gunton," returned Philip. "He is
nothing but a man connected with newspapers; draws cartoons for them,
or something of that. He and Miss Winter met somewhere and fell in
love with one another, and she means to marry him and make him the
master of Heron Dyke."
"Oh, indeed. What next?"
"I think that's pretty well. You can't say but he is lucky."
"Is the man a sneak?"
"Just the opposite. A highly-educated, open-mannered, masterful kind
of man, who can hold his own with his betters, and apparently, not
recognise them to be so. To see him and hear him you might think he
had been born the master of Heron Dyke at least. Any way, that's what
Ella Winter intends him to become."
"She has the Denison blood in her veins, I suppose, and we know the
old distich," carelessly remarked Sir Gunton:
"'Whate'er a Denzon choose to do
Need ne'er surprise nor me nor you.'"
The small dinner-party at Heron Dyke, of which Miss Winter spoke to
her housekeeper, was held without much delay. Philip, getting strong
then, was able to attend it with his mother and Maria. Lady Maria
Skeffington, who had been taking a good deal of notice of Maria since
her marriage; the Vicar, and Dr. Spreckley completed the party.
Dinner was over, and they were all back in the large drawing-room when
the evening post was brought in. It was some hours late; the postman
said there had been a break-down on the line. Three or four newspapers
came in, and one letter, which was addressed to Miss Winter. It bore
the American post-mark; and Ella's curiosity arose, not so much
because she knew no one in America, as that she thought the
handwriting was Margaret Ducie's.
"Oh, I must open it," she exclaimed, taking it into the next room.
The intervening doors were open, and they watched her read the letter.
She came back with it in her hand, looking a little pale.
"It is from Mrs. Ducie," she said in a low tone to her guests: "it is
dated from Rhode Island, America. I think you ought to hear it.
Perhaps"--turning to Mr. Conroy--"you will read it aloud."
Conroy took the letter from her hand, glanced over it, and began:
"'Mrs. Ducie, late of The Lilacs near Nullington, takes the liberty of
addressing a few lines to Miss Winter of Heron Dyke. She does it with
great reluctance, as Miss Winter will readily understand; but the
charge is laid upon her, and she cannot evade it: the time being now
come when certain facts connected with the past must be made known.
"'Mrs. Ducie's brother, known to Miss Winter and to others as Captain
Lennox, died two days ago. Enclosed is a declaration which he
dictated, word for word, before his death; with a request that it
might be forwarded to the proper quarter immediately after that event
should have taken place.
"'Mrs. Ducie can make no attempt to palliate anything that happened in
the past. As it was, so it must remain. If all were known, which it
never can be here on earth, it would sometimes be found that the
greatest sinners were first driven into sin by no wish or will of
their own. Many, who were destined to fill an honourable career, have
been forced by circumstances which they could not control on a
contrary path. The dead are sacred; and she, who is obliged to write
these painful lines, can never forget that she has lost a brother,
who, whatever his faults might be, was dearer to her heart than anyone
now left to her.'"
Such was Mrs. Ducie's note. The enclosed paper was also in her
handwriting. Mr. Conroy went on to read it.
"'I, Ferdinand Lennox, or the man commonly known by that name, being
about to quit this petty planet, and set out on my travels to that
unknown country from which there is no return, am desirous, while
there is still sufficient strength and clearness of mind left me, to
state the facts with regard to a certain event as they really
occurred; which facts will probably be found to be somewhat different
from what the world believes them to be. I allude to the death of
Hubert Stone.
"'The fates had been unpropitious for some time; circumstances were
against me; I had lost heavily on the turf and in other speculations,
and was nearly at my wit's end for lack of ready money. It was at this
time that my sister, quite innocently, told me of the strange
discovery of a quantity of old family jewels at Heron Dyke.
"'And, in justice to her, my good and faithful sister, I may here
remark that since she came to live with me I have been more cautious,
and have striven to keep my little peccadilloes from her knowledge.
She may have thought sometimes that my luck at the card-table was
something out of the common way, but of the darker passages of my life
she knew absolutely nothing.
"'It did not take me long to decide that I must make those jewels mine
if it were by any means possible to do so. My circumstances just then
were desperate, and a _coup de main_ had become absolutely necessary.
Burglary was altogether out of my line, but in this case the
enterprise seemed to me so peculiarly an easy one that I could not
make up my mind to forego it. I knew the position of the room in which
the jewels were lying. I knew that it was only a question of opening a
window and forcing a shutter, after the family should be safe in bed.
There were no dogs to fear, and the servants slept in another wing of
the house. Nothing could possibly be more easy. I felt that I could
never forgive myself if I allowed such an opportunity to escape me.
"'Up to a certain point, everything happened in accordance with my
expectations. The Hall was in darkness; there was no sign of life
anywhere. I found the window I was in search of, and a few minutes
later I stood inside the room. I opened a slide of my dark lantern and
took a survey. There stood the bureau in the corner where I had
expected to find it. I had brought a small chisel and one or two other
implements with me, and a very little time sufficed to force open the
receptacle in which the jewels were stored. What a fine glow filled my
heart as I feasted my sight for a few moments on their flashing
beauty, and recognised the fact that they were all my own! For some
time to come my finances were assured.
"'I was wearing an old shooting-jacket with many pockets, so that I
had no difficulty in stowing away my booty. I was putting away the
last handful when a noise behind me made me start and look round.
There was just enough starlight to enable me to discern the figure of
a man standing at the open, window and gazing into the room. Flashing
a ray from my lantern across his face, I at once recognised the man as
Hubert Stone. A moment later he had vaulted over the low window-sill
into the room. 'Surrender, you villain,' he cried, 'or it will be
worse for you!' I did not answer, but moved noiselessly in the
darkness over the soft carpet to another corner of the room. He was
evidently nonplussed, and after standing still for a moment or two I
could just make out his figure as he advanced slowly but in a
direction opposite to the spot where I was standing. Now was my
opportunity. I made a rush for the window, reached it, and was leaping
from it; when, as ill-luck would have it, my foot caught against the
slightly-raised framework, and I fell face downward on to the
gravelled pathway. Hurt and bleeding, I regained my feet, but only to
find myself enclosed by the stalwart arms of young Stone. 'Surrender!'
he said again. Again I made no answer, hoping he had not recognised
me, and a desperate struggle began between us: but he was the younger
and the stronger, and presently we were rolling over each other on the
ground. It must have been then that I lost the sleeve-link; which loss
has led to all the mischief as regards myself. Although I could by no
means get away from Stone, he was unable altogether to overpower me.
Suddenly, while holding me down with his right hand, with his left he
drew from some inner pocket a closed knife, which, with the help of
his teeth, he presently contrived to open. 'If you will not
surrender,' he said, 'I will mark you so that you can be traced
wherever you go.' What he was about to do I know not, but I suddenly
struck up my arm, and the knife flew out of his hand. His object was
now to regain possession of it, while mine was to keep him from doing
so. We were still struggling on the ground; when, I know not how it
was, but suddenly my fingers felt the knife as it lay among the
gravel. I gripped it instinctively and drew it towards me, and Stone
perceived that I had got it. He bent suddenly forward to regain
possession of it, but as he did so the point slipped and penetrated
deep into his chest. A short sharp cry broke from his lips, he sprang
to his feet at a single bound, threw up his hands, staggered a pace or
two, groaned, and fell on his face--no doubt dead.
"'Once for all, let me assert most solemnly, and at a time when to
tell a lie in the matter could be of no possible benefit to me, that I
am utterly guiltless of intentionally causing Hubert Stone's death.
His fate was the result of an accident brought on by his own rashness.
Had he left the knife in his pocket he would have been alive at the
present moment; although how the struggle would have terminated in
that case, and what might have happened to me, is another matter.
"'After having confessed to so much, it maybe some relief to the minds
of certain people if I reveal one or two other secrets, which in
comparison are trifles. Be it known, then, that it was I, Ferdinand
Lennox, who appropriated Mrs. Carlyon's jewel-case, and Mr. Booties
watch and chain, and the old Doctor's gold box, together with one or
two minor articles that I happened to find close to my hands; hands
that had acquired remarkable dexterity in the art of conveyancing.
And, really, if unthinking people will place such flagrant temptations
in the way of poor erring humanity, they are decidedly to blame;
for it serves to entice otherwise would-be innocent people into
wrong-doing. Had no thoughtless person ever put temptations before me,
even my dark plumage might have been far whiter than it is now.
"'And now that my task is over--it has cost me some pain, if only from
the sight of my poor sister's tears that drop on her writing as she
sits by the bed--I subscribe my name for the last time in this world:
Ferdinand Lennox.'"
It was his own signature, scrawled in a shaky hand.
"Poor Mrs. Ducie!" exclaimed Ella. "I shall write her a nice letter."
"So shall I," added Maria.
"I shall write to her myself," cried the good-hearted Vicar. "If we
were all to be abandoned for the sins committed by our friends and
relatives, the world would be harder than it is."
"To have had such a brother!--so sweet a woman as that Margaret Ducie
seemed to be, poor thing!" lamented Lady Maria Skeffington. "She quite
won my heart."
Philip Cleeve's face flushed: Margaret Ducie had nearly won his. He
recalled what his feelings towards her had been. But last summer's
flowers were not more dead than those feelings were now.
"Mrs. Ducie will never come back to England," he remarked aloud.
"Never," nodded Dr. Spreckley: "we may rest pretty well assured of
that. It must have been Lennox to whom you were indebted for the loss
of your purse," he added to Mr. Kettle.
"Ay," said the Vicar. "I remember quite well that he stood talking to
me for some little time just before the party broke up. The fellow was
so pleasant that no one on earth would have taken him for a
pickpocket. Dear me! what curious experiences we pick up in life!"
The discovery made of the treacherous plot enacted at Heron Dyke was
not to be proclaimed to the world: it reflected discredit on the old
Squire as much as on his subordinates, and Miss Winter was anxious to
spare his memory. But to one or two people it must necessarily be
disclosed, Ella intending to bespeak their secrecy. Mr. Daventry was
the first to hear it.
Ella, accompanied by her aunt, proceeded to London, Mr. Daventry
travelling by the same train. Conroy had left Nullington the day
before, upon business of his own. The object of Ella's visit was to
see Mr. Charles Plackett, and inform him that she was now prepared to
yield up the property to his client at Nunham Priors. But she meant to
ask the favour of Mr. Denison, of being allowed to remain at Heron
Dyke herself for a short period longer; until, in fact, she quitted it
with Conroy for good: which she felt sure the kind old man would
accord.
Ella had told her aunt something, but not all. She gave her to
understand that in consequence of some flaw in the title-deeds, Heron
Dyke had become the property of the other branch of the family. There
is no need to dwell on Mrs. Carlyon's perturbation of spirit when she
found that her niece was determined to give up everything of her own
free will. Of her own free will: that is how Mrs. Carlyon looked at
it. When first the news was broken to her she cried, and implored Ella
not to be so romantically foolish, so ridiculously Quixotic. "If there
is any flaw in the title-deeds it is their place to find it out, and
not yours to show it them," she reiterated. But Ella assured her that
she could not help herself; _no other choice was left her_; that in
fact the estate had been Mr. Denison's ever since her uncle's death.
It a little appeased Mrs. Carlyon; she kissed Ella, and remarked that
"what must be, must be."
And, in the gratification of once more getting to her own home, Mrs.
Carlyon recovered her spirits. Ella was her guest that night; and the
following morning proceeded to keep the appointment already made with
Mr. Charles Plackett, Mr. Daventry meeting her there. In a very few
words Miss Winter stated her business. Recalling to Mr. Plackett's
mind their interview at Heron Dyke and what passed thereat, she went
on to state that since that time certain fresh circumstances had come
to her knowledge, in consequence of which she had decided to give up
the property to Mr. Denison. What the circumstances in question were
she declined to say, at least at present, and begged that she might
not be pressed to explain. All she wished was that Mr. Denison would
quietly accept that which she had of her own free will come to offer
him, without inquiring too curiously into the past. In short, Mr.
Charles Plackett understood that she wished to have no thought of
persecuting this person or indicting that one; there must be a
complete condonation of what might have happened in the time gone by.
During this, Mr. Daventry sat by and said nothing: he was but there to
give, as it were, legality to this avowed resolution of Miss Winter's;
in fact, to show the other side that it was not made lightly, or in
jest.
"I perceive," nodded Mr. Charles Plackett, gazing at his brother
lawyer: "you have obtained information that you consider to be
conclusive as to my client's rightful claims, but the particulars of
which you do not wish to be inquired into?"
"That is so," replied Miss Winter.
"Is my esteemed friend here, if I may put the question to him,
cognisant of these particulars?"
"Yes, I am," spoke up Mr. Daventry. "And I am prepared to testify, if
necessary, that Mr. Denison need entertain no scruple whatever as to
assuming possession of the estate. Miss Winter resigns it to him from
to-day."
Mr. Charles Plackett looked at her earnestly. "It will be a great
sacrifice on your part, my dear young lady."
"Yes, it will; I do not deny that," acknowledged Ella, involuntary
tears starting to her eyes. "But I have no choice in the matter: none.
All I would ask of Mr. Denison is, that he will allow me to remain in
the house for a short while longer: a very few weeks at the most."
Mr. Charles Plackett smiled amiably. "That small request will be
granted as a matter of course, my dear Miss Winter. _I_ remember some
words spoken by my client in this very room; not long ago, either.
Though it were proved that Heron Dyke did belong to him, he said, he
would like that charming young lady to retain it."
Ella smiled faintly, and shook her head. "That cannot be," she
answered. "But I do not feel the less indebted to Mr. Denison for the
kindness that prompted the thought."