THE ROOT OF THE MYSTERY
For a few moments he stood fuming and glaring with angry eyes and bent
brows at nothing in particular, while debating with himself what his
next step ought to be. Evidently the first thing to do was to ascertain
why the Tower was shut up and what had become of Rigg and his daughter.
After considering the matter for a little space, he said aloud: “Nixon
will be pretty sure to know. I’ll go and question him.”
Like Rigg, Nixon was another pensioned dependent of the house of Clare,
and together with his wife, much younger than himself, filled the post
of lodge-keeper at the main entrance to Withington Chase.
Across the park tramped the Baronet, a very unusual thing for him to
do. The old lodge-keeper was at home, and it did not take Sir Gilbert
long to elicit all that Nixon had to tell. It appeared that Martin Rigg
had gone down to Yorkshire to attend the funeral of his only brother,
and that his daughter had accompanied him. As to when they might be
expected back, Nixon knew nothing.
“Do you happen to know,” said Sir Gilbert, “whether Rigg has had anyone
staying with him at the Tower of late—a visitor of any kind, I mean?”
Nixon shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, Sir Gilbert.”
“And you are sure you heard nothing about any stranger being there?”
“I’m quite certain on that score, Sir Gilbert. And either Martin, or
Dulcie would have been sure to speak of it if there had been.”
As the Baronet walked back to the Chase he knew not what to think. So
powerfully had his imagination been worked upon by the belief, which by
this time had grown almost to a conviction, that his son was at the
root of the mystery of the Grey Monk, and that, of all men, Rigg was
the one to whom he must look to supply him with the key, that his mood
was one of bitter disappointment.
After luncheon he told Lady Pell all about his morning’s errand and its
result.
In her own mind her ladyship had little or no faith in her kinsman’s
conviction that the Grey Monk was none other than John Alexander Clare,
restored to life after some all but miraculous fashion when there was
every reason for supposing him to have died twenty long years before.
She was not a believer in the improbable, although, if questioned, she
would have felt bound to admit that even she had known cases where
incidents of the most startling kind had evolved themselves out of
lives to all seeming the most commonplace and prosaic.
In the course of the day she took an opportunity of informing Sir
Gilbert of the engagement of Ethel Thursby and Everard Lisle. That the
news afforded him genuine pleasure could not be doubted. “So I shall
not lose my little girl after all!” he said. “That is indeed something
worth hearing. She has become very dear to me, Louisa; I may tell you
so now; and I should have felt the loss of her more, perhaps, than the
occasion would have seemed to warrant, for she has contrived to steal
her way into my affections in a quite unaccountable fashion. My old age
is the sweeter for her presence. I am very glad that I am not to lose
her.”
“I shall make it my business to furnish her trousseau.”
“And you may rely upon it that she shall not go to her husband without
a _cadeau_ from me. I suppose she will have no dowry?”
“Not a shilling, so far as I am aware. She is an orphan and was brought
up by two maiden aunts who, till a little while ago, were quite
comfortably off. Now, however, they have only just enough left to live
upon.”
“In that case I must see what I can do by way of increasing Lisle’s
salary. Of course when anything happens to poor Kinaby, Lisle will at
once step into his shoes. The furniture which is now at Maylings may as
well be transferred to Elm Lodge for the young couple’s use. They will
make a well-matched pair, Louisa. As you know, I hold Lisle in very
high regard, not merely because he happens to be the son of the man who
saved my life, but by reason of his own fine qualities. How wide is the
difference between him and young Rispani!”
Later in the day he took occasion to congratulate both the young folk,
with the old-fashioned courtesy which became him so well, nor did he
fail at dinner to drink to their health and happiness in a bumper of
the rare old Madeira which was reserved for very special occasions. It
was evident to everyone that the Baronet was in high good-humour, and
that for the time at least he had succeeded in throwing off the gloom
to which late events seemed to have hopelessly condemned him.
It was not till the second day after Sir Gilbert’s visit to the Tower
that Martin Rigg and his daughter got back home. Within an hour of his
return he was summoned to proceed at once to the Chase, where Sir
Gilbert received him in his study. Scarcely had he limped slowly into
the room before Sir Gilbert, turning quickly upon him with bent brows
and an assumption of his most minatory manner, said: “Rigg, how many
days ago is it since you last saw my son, Mr. John Alexander Clare?”
That the keeper was utterly taken aback he himself would have been the
first to admit. He turned hot and then cold almost as quickly as it
takes to write the words. He shifted his weight from one foot to the
other and then back again, and so crushed his hard felt hat between his
fingers that it was never fit to wear again. For a moment or two his
gaze went up to a corner of the ceiling, only to be drawn irresistibly
back to the stern face and deep-set eyes of the one man of whom he had
ever stood in awe.
“When did I set eyes on Mr. Alec last, sir?” he stammered.
“You heard my question. I said, how many days is it—not years, mind
you—since you saw my son last? Now, let me have no prevarication, Rigg.
You know that is what I would never put up with either from you or
anyone else. I have a right to know the truth in this matter, and I
demand to know it. Speak, and dare to tell me a lie at your peril!”
“I have never been in the habit of telling lies, Sir Gilbert, either to
you or anybody else,” replied the keeper stiffly. “Since you force me
to speak, I can’t help myself, though I bound myself under a promise
not to do so. Sir, I parted from Mr. Alec Clare five days ago, just
before I left home to go and bury my brother.”
A low cry broke from Sir Gilbert; his figure suddenly lost its rigidity
and he sank back in his easy-chair, while his face blanched like that
of a man at the point of death. Martin, terrified, made a step forward,
but Sir Gilbert, tremblingly held up one hand. “Leave me alone,” he
murmured, “I shall be better presently.” To those of his time of life
the shock of sudden joy is oftentimes almost as trying as that of
sudden grief.
“Sit down, Rigg,” said the Baronet presently, mindful even at such a
moment of the man’s lameness. Then, as he lay back with closed eyes,
little by little the colour ebbed back into his cheeks. It was true,
then; his instinct had not led him astray, and his Alec was still in
the land of the living! A great fountain of love and gratitude welled
up in his heart—of reverent thankfulness and gratitude that it had
pleased the Inscrutable Power who sways the destinies of mankind to
vouchsafe him this crowning mercy so far beyond his deserts. What
happiness to know that his firstborn—he whom, when young, he had so
hardly treated that for years his memory of him had been an unending
remorse—had been given back to him as it were, indeed, from the tomb,
and that a season of reparation might still be granted him! But let us
not pry too curiously into all that passed through his mind at this,
one of the supreme moments of his life. Let his white hairs and his
many sorrows not appeal to us in vain.
After a time he began to question Rigg, eagerly and closely, about all
that he knew with reference to Alec. A summary of the information which
he elicited piece-meal from the keeper is all that need be given here.
It appeared that “Master Alec,” as Martin still, from old habit,
persisted in calling him, had been in hiding at the Tower for upwards
of a month, in fact, ever since about two days before—quite
unintentionally on his part—he so frightened Bessie Ogden on the
terrace. The upper room of the old structure, ordinarily used by Martin
as a bedroom, had been fitted up with a few extra articles of furniture
and given up to his use; while Dulcie, the keeper’s daughter, had
looked after his meals. More than once Martin had heard him asseverate
that he had only returned to the Chase in order to right a great
wrong—to send fraud and villainy to the right-about, and that as soon
as the task he had set himself was accomplished he should go back to
the place from whence he had come. What he had meant thereby Martin did
not know. During the day Alec had never stirred out of the Tower; only
after nightfall had he ventured abroad, and then only in the
traditional guise of the Grey Monk—a character which in his younger
days, when home from school or college, he had assumed more than once
out of sheer love of mischief. As to the means by which Alec had been
enabled to obtain access to the Chase after the household had retired
for the night, that was his own secret, and one which he had never
divulged to the keeper.
Extreme was Sir Gilbert’s disappointment and chagrin when told that his
son had finally quitted the Tower only about forty hour’s previously.
This had happened during Martin’s absence from home, but the latter was
already aware that his guest’s visit would presently come to an end,
and that, although he continued to linger on like one who found it
impossible to tear himself away from the home of his boyhood, his task
was accomplished and there was nothing more left him to do.
“But if you were away at the time, how do you know that my son left the
Tower when you say he did?” demanded the Baronet.
“Because I found this note, sir, waiting for me when I got home,”
responded the keeper.
Sir Gilbert took the proffered note with an eagerness he made no effort
to dissemble.
“DEAR OLD MARTIN,” it ran, “I am off to-night—Tuesday—and whether we
shall ever see each other again is more than I can say. My hearty
thanks are due to you and Dulcie for the hospitality you have shown me,
and the many kindnesses I have received at your hands. You may be sure
that both of you will be often in my thoughts when I am thousands of
miles away, and I will not so far wrong you as to think you will forget
me. I implicitly trust you to still preserve the same strict secrecy as
heretofore with regard to my presence at the Chase. On no account must
the faintest whisper of the truth escape the lips of either of you.
More on this point I know that I need not write.
“I am especially desirous—in fact, I lay it on you as a charge—that you
should keep yourself informed from day to day (which you will have no
difficulty in doing) of the state of my dear father’s health; and,
should any necessity arise for you to do so, I rely upon you to at once
telegraph to me, under the name of ‘John Alexander,’ to the address
given you on the other side. That this is most important you will
readily understand, and that you will not neglect my wishes in the
matter I feel assured.
“And now goodbye till we meet again—if ever we do.
“Your friend,
“A. C.”
“Rigg, I should like to keep this, if you have no objection,” said the
Baronet when he had read it carefully through.
“No objection whatever, Sir Gilbert; only I should like you to bear in
mind that I should have kept my promise to Master Alec, and that nobody
would have got a word out of me, if you, sir, hadn’t forced me to
speak.”
“That I quite understand. Under the circumstances no option was left
you. But I wish you still to preserve the same secrecy. Not a syllable
about this business must pass your lips to anyone else.”
“Neither me nor Dulcie is of the gossiping sort. You may trust us for
that, sir.”
“I am quite sure I may. And now I won’t detain you further; but I may
tell you this—that, in the long run, you will find yourself no loser by
this morning’s work.”
No sooner had the ex-keeper gone than the Baronet sought Lady Pell in
her own room and was closeted with her for nearly a couple of hours.
One result of the interview was that he sent a groom to bring back
Everard Lisle, who, his morning’s work dispatched, had left the Chase
some time before.
“Lisle, I want you to start in the course of a few hours for America,”
he said to Everard when the latter had returned. “You will be the
bearer of a note to my long-lost eldest son, John Alexander Clare, who,
astounding to relate, I now find, from evidence which it is impossible
to dispute, did not meet his death years ago, as, at the time, I was
fully led to believe. But I need not enter into particulars just now.
It is enough to say that he is still alive. So make your preparations
for starting in the morning, and, when you come to dinner this evening,
the note I want you to take will be ready for you, and I shall then be
in a position to give you my final instructions.”
In a matter of such vital importance it did not seem enough to Sir
Gilbert to merely entrust his message to the post. A letter might, or
might not, reach Alec; but he felt satisfied that Lisle would not rest
till he had hunted him down, wherever he might be, and had put his
father’s message of forgiveness into his hands.
The note Sir Gilbert wrote was a very brief one, and, such as it was,
his nervous excitement was so extreme as to render it all but
illegible.
“Alec, my son, all is forgiven and forgotten,” he wrote. “Come back to
me—come back. I want you. It is your father who asks this of you.”