LADY CLAVERING.
The people were coming out of the various churches when I reached
Hastings. Going straight to the Queen's Hotel, I asked for Mrs.
Brightman. Perry had said she was staying there. It was, I believe,
the only good hotel in the place in those days. Hatch, Mrs.
Brightman's maid, came to me at once. Her mistress was not yet up, she
said, having a bad headache.
Hatch and I had become quite confidential friends during these past
years. She was not a whit altered since I first saw her, and to me did
not look a day older. The flaming ringlets adorned her face as usual,
and sky-blue cap-strings flowed behind them this morning. Hatch was
glaringly plain; Hatch had a wonderful tongue, and was ever ready to
exercise it, and Hatch's diction and grammar were unique;
nevertheless, you could not help liking Hatch.
But to hear that Mrs. Brightman was ill in bed rather checkmated me. I
really did not know what to do.
"My business with your mistress is of very great importance, Hatch," I
observed. "I ought to see her. I have come down on purpose to see
her."
"You might see her this afternoon, Mr. Charles; not before," spoke
Hatch decisively. "These headaches is uncommon bad while they last.
Perhaps Miss Annabel would do? She is not here, though; but is staying
with her aunt Lucy."
"I have brought down bad news, Hatch. I should not like Miss Annabel
to be the first to hear it."
"Bad news!" repeated Hatch quickly, as she stared at me with her
great green eyes. "Our house ain't burnt down, surely! Is that the
news, sir?"
"Worse than that, Hatch. It concerns Mr. Brightman."
Hatch's manner changed in a moment. Her voice became timid. "For
goodness' sake, Mr. Charles! he is not ill, is he?"
"Worse, Hatch. He is dead," I whispered.
Hatch backed to a chair and dropped into it: we were in Mrs.
Brightman's sitting-room. "The Lord be good to us!" she exclaimed, in
all reverence. Her red cheeks turned white, her eloquence for once
deserted her.
I sat down and gave her the details in a few brief words: she was a
confidential, trusted servant, and had lived with her mistress many
years. It affected her even more than I had expected. She wrung her
hands, her tears coursed freely.
"My poor master--my poor mistress!" she exclaimed. "What on
earth--Mr. Charles, is it _sure_ he is dead? quite dead?" she broke
off to ask.
"Nay, Hatch, I have told you."
Presently she got up, and seemed to rally her courage. "Anyway, Mr.
Charles, we shall have to meet this, and deal with it as we best may.
I mean the family, sir, what's left of 'em. And missis must be
told--and, pardon me, sir, but I think I'd best be the one to tell
her. She is so used to me, you see," added Hatch, looking at me
keenly. "She might take it better from me than from you; that is, it
might seem less hard."
"Indeed, I should be only too glad to be spared the task," was my
answer.
"But you must tell Miss Brightman, sir, and Miss Annabel. Perhaps if
you were to go now, Mr. Charles, while I do the best I can with my
missis, we might be ready for the afternoon train. That, you say, will
be best to travel by----"
"I said the train would be the best of the trains to-day, Hatch. It is
for Mrs. Brightman to consider whether she will go up to-day or
to-morrow."
"Well, yes, Mr. Charles, that's what I mean. My head's almost
moithered. But I think she is sure to go up to-day."
Miss Brightman, who was Mr. Brightman's only sister, lived in a
handsome house facing the sea. Annabel visited her a good deal,
staying with her sometimes for weeks together. Mr. Brightman had
sanctioned it, Mrs. Brightman did not object to it.
Upon reaching the house, the footman said Miss Brightman was not yet
in from church, and ushered me into the drawing-room. Annabel was
there. And really, like Hatch, she was not much altered, except in
height and years, since the day I first saw her, when she had
chattered to me so freely and lent me her favourite book, "The Old
English Baron." She was fourteen then: a graceful, pretty child, with
charming manners; her dark brown eyes, sweet and tender and bright
like her father's, her features delicately carved like her mother's,
a rose-blush on her dimpled cheeks. She was twenty now, and a
graceful, pretty woman. No, not one whit altered.
She was standing by the fire in her silk attire, just as she had come
in from church, only her bonnet-strings untied. Bonnets were really
bonnets then, and rendered a lovely face all the more attractive.
Annabel's bonnet that day was pink, and its border intermingled, as it
seemed, with the waves of her soft brown hair. She quite started with
surprise.
"Is it _you_, Charley!" she exclaimed, coming forward, the sweet
rose-blush deepening and the sweet eyes brightening. "Have you come to
Hastings? Is papa with you?"
"No, Annabel, he is not with me," I answered gravely, as I clasped her
hand. "I wanted to see Miss Brightman."
"She will be here directly. She called in to see old Mrs. Day, who is
ill: a great friend of Aunt Lucy's. Did papa----"
But we were interrupted by the return of Miss Brightman, a small,
fragile woman, with delicate lungs. Annabel left us together.
How I accomplished my unhappy task I hardly knew. How Miss Brightman
subsequently imparted it to Annabel I did not know at all. It must be
enough to say that we went to London by an afternoon train, bearing
our weight of care. All, except Miss Brightman. Hatch travelled in the
carriage with us.
In appearance, at any rate, the news had most affected Mrs. Brightman.
Her frame trembled, her pale face and restless hands twitched with
nervousness. Of course, her headache went for something.
"I have them so very badly," she moaned to me once during the journey.
"They unfit me for everything."
And, indeed, these headaches of Mrs. Brightman's were nothing new to
me. She had always suffered from them. But of late, that is to say
during the past few months, when by chance I went to Clapham, I more
often than not found her ill and invisible from this distressing pain.
My intimacy with Mrs. Brightman had not made much progress. The same
proud, haughty woman she was when I first saw her, she had remained.
Coldly civil to me, as to others; and that was all that could be said.
When about half-way up, whilst waiting for an express to pass, or
something of that sort, and we were for some minutes at a standstill,
I told Mrs. Brightman about the missing money belonging to George
Coney.
"It is of little consequence if it be lost," was her indifferent and
no doubt thoughtless comment. "What is thirty pounds?"
Little, I knew, to a firm like ours, but the uncertainty it left us in
was a great deal. "Setting aside the mystery attaching to the loss," I
remarked, "there remains a suspicion that we may have a thief about
us; and that is not a pleasant feeling. Other things may go next."
Upon reaching London we drove to Essex Street. What a painful visit
it was! Even now I cannot bear to think of it. Poor Mrs. Brightman
grew nervously excited. As she looked down upon him, in his
death-stillness, I thought she would have wept her heart away. Annabel
strove to be calm for her mother's sake.
After some tea, which Leah and Hatch brought up to us, I saw them
safely to Clapham, and then returned home.
* * * * *
Monday morning rose, and its work with it: the immediate work
connected with our painful loss, and the future work that was to fall
upon me. The chief weight and responsibility of the business had
hitherto been his share; now it must be all mine. In the course of the
day I sent a cheque to George Coney.
An inquest had to be held, and took place early on Tuesday morning.
Mr. Brightman's death was proved, beyond doubt, to have occurred from
natural causes, though not from disease of the heart. He had died by
the visitation of God. But for the disappearance of the money, my
thoughts would never have dwelt on any other issue.
After it was over, Lennard was standing with me in the front-room,
from which the jury had just gone out, when we fell to talking about
the missing money and its unaccountable loss. It lay heavily upon my
mind. Fathom it I could not, turn it about as I would. Edgar Lennard
was above suspicion, and he was the only one, so far as he and I knew,
who had been in the room after the bag was put there, Leah excepted.
Of her I felt equally certain. Lennard began saying how heartily he
wished he had not been told to come back that night; but I requested
him to be at ease, for he had quite as much reason to suspect me, as I
him.
"Not quite," answered he, smiling; "considering that you had to make
it good."
"Well, Lennard, I dare say the mystery will be solved some time or
other. Robberies, like murders, generally come out. The worst is, we
cannot feel assured that other losses may not follow."
"Not they," returned Lennard, too confidently. "This one has been
enough for us."
"Did it ever strike you, Lennard, that Mr. Brightman had been in
failing health lately?"
"Often," emphatically spoke Lennard. "I think he had something on his
mind."
"On his mind? I should say it was on his health. There were times when
he seemed to have neither energy nor spirits for anything. You don't
know how much business he has of late left to me that he used to do
himself."
"Well," contended Lennard, "it used to strike me he was not at ease;
that something or other was troubling him."
"Yes, and now that this fatal termination has ensued, we see that the
trouble may have been health," I maintained. "Possibly he knew that
something was dangerously wrong with him."
"Possibly so," conceded Lennard.
He was leaving the room for his own, when a clerk met him and said
that Sir Edmund Clavering was asking for Mr. Strange. I bade him show
up Sir Edmund.
Mr. Brightman had for years been confidential solicitor to Sir Ralph
Clavering, a physician, whose baronetcy was a new one. When Sir Ralph
gave up practice, and retired to an estate he bought in the country, a
Mrs. Clavering, a widow, whose husband had been a distant cousin of
Sir Ralph's, entered it with him as his companion and housekeeper. It
ended in his marrying her, as these companionships so often end,
especially where the man is old, and the woman young, attractive and
wily. Mrs. Clavering was poor, and no doubt played for the stake she
won. The heir-presumptive to Sir Ralph's title was his nephew, Edmund
Clavering, but his fortune he could leave to whom he would.
Sir Ralph Clavering died--only about ten days before Mr. Brightman's
own death. The funeral took place on the Tuesday--this very day week
of which I am writing. After attending it, Mr. Brightman returned to
the office in the evening. The clerks had left, and he came up to my
room.
"Take this off my hat, will you, Charles?" he said. "I can't go home
in it, of course: and Mrs. Brightman had a superstition against
hat-scarves going into the house."
I undid the black silk and laid it on the table. "What am I to do with
it, sir?"
"Anything. Give it to Leah for a Sunday apron. My lady treated us to a
specimen of her temper when the will was read," he added. "She
expected to inherit all, and is not satisfied with the competency left
to her."
"Who does inherit?" I asked: for Mr. Brightman had never enlightened
me, although I knew that he had made Sir Ralph's will.
"Edmund Clavering. And quite right that he should do so: the estate
ought to go with the title. Besides, setting aside that consideration,
Sir Edmund is entitled to it quite as much as my lady. More so, I
think. There's the will, Charles; you can read it."
I glanced over the will, which Mr. Brightman had brought back with
him. Lady Clavering had certainly a competency, but the bulk of the
property was left to Sir Edmund, the inheritor of the title. I was
very much surprised.
"I thought she would have had it all, Mr. Brightman. Living estranged
as Sir Ralph did from his brother, even refusing to be reconciled when
the latter was dying, the estrangement extended to the son, Edmund, I
certainly thought Lady Clavering would have come in for all. You
thought so too, sir."
"I did, until I made the will. And at one time it was Sir Ralph's
intention to leave most of it to her. But for certain reasons which
arose, he altered his plans. Sufficient reasons," added Mr. Brightman,
in a marked, emphatic manner. "He imparted them to me when he gave
instructions for his will. _I_ should have left her less."
"May I know them?"
"No, Charles. They were told to me in confidence, and they concern
neither you nor me. Is the gas out in the next room?"
"Yes. Shall I light it?"
"It is not worth while. That hand-lamp of yours will do. I only want
to put up the will."
I took the lamp, and lighted Mr. Brightman into the front room, his
own exclusively. He opened the iron safe, and there deposited Sir
Ralph Clavering's will, to be left there until it should be proved.
That is sufficient explanation for the present. Sir Edmund Clavering,
shown up by Lennard himself, came into the room. I had never acted for
him; Mr. Brightman had invariably done so.
"Can you carry my business through, Mr. Strange?" he asked, after
expressing his shock and regret at Mr. Brightman's sudden fate.
"I hope so. Why not, Sir Edmund?"
"You have not Mr. Brightman's legal knowledge and experience."
"Not his experience, certainly; because he was an old man and I am a
young one. But, as far as practice goes, I have for some time had
chief control of the business. Mr. Brightman almost confined himself
to seeing clients. You may trust me, Sir Edmund."
"Oh yes, I dare say it will be all right," he rejoined. "Do you know
that Lady Clavering and her cousin John--my cousin also--mean to
dispute the will?"
"Upon what grounds?"
"Upon Sir Ralph's incompetency to make one, I suppose--as foul a plea
as ever false woman or man invented. Mr. Brightman can prove---- Good
heavens! every moment I forget that he is dead," broke off Sir Edmund.
"How unfortunate that he should have gone just now!"
"But there cannot fail to be ample proof of Sir Ralph's competency.
The servants about him must know that he was of sane and healthy
mind."
"I don't know what her schemes may be," rejoined Sir Edmund; "but I do
know that she will not leave a stone unturned to wrest my rights from
me. I am more bitter than gall and wormwood to her."
"Because you have inherited most of the money."
"Ay, for one thing. But there's another reason, more galling to her
even than that."
Sir Edmund looked at me with a peculiar expression. He was about my
own age, and would have been an exceedingly pleasant man but for his
pride. When he could so far forget that as to throw it off, he was
warm and cordial.
"Her ladyship is a scheming woman, Mr. Strange. She flung off into a
fit of resentment at first, which Mr. Brightman witnessed, but very
shortly her tactics changed. Before Sir Ralph had been three days in
his grave, she contrived to intimate to me that we had better join
interests. Do you understand?"
I did not know whether to understand or not. It was inconceivable.
"And I feel ashamed to enlighten you," said Sir Edmund passionately.
"She offered herself to me; my willing wife. 'If you will wed no other
woman, I will wed no other man----' How runs the old ballad?
Not in so many words, but in terms sufficiently plain to be
deciphered. I answered as plainly, and declined. Declined to join
interests--declined _her_--and so made her my mortal enemy for ever.
Do you know her?"
"I never saw her."
"Take care of yourself, then, should you be brought into contact with
her," laughed Sir Edmund. "She is a Jezebel. All the same, she is one
of the most fascinating of women: irresistibly so, no doubt, to many
people. Had she been any but my uncle's wife--widow--I don't know how
it might have gone with me. By the way, Mr. Strange, did Mr. Brightman
impart to you Sir Ralph's reason for devising his property to me? He
had always said, you know, that he would not do it. Mr. Brightman
would not tell me the reason for the change."
"No, he did not. Sir Ralph intended, I believe, to bequeath most of it
to his wife, and altered his mind quite suddenly. So much Mr.
Brightman told me."
"Found out Jezebel, perhaps, at some trick or other."
That I thought all too likely; but did not say so. Sir Edmund
continued to speak a little longer upon business matters, and then
rose.
"The will had better be proved without delay," he paused to say.
"I will see about it the first thing next week, Sir Edmund. It would
have been done this week but for Mr. Brightman's unexpected death."
"Why do you sink your voice to a whisper?" asked Sir Edmund, as we
were quitting the room. "Do you fear eavesdroppers?"
I was not conscious that I had sunk it, until recalled to the fact.
"Every time I approach this door," I said, pointing to the one opening
into the other room, "I feel as if I were in the presence of the dead.
He is still lying there."
"What--Mr. Brightman?"
"It is where he died. He will be removed to his late residence
to-night."
"I think I will see him," cried Sir Edmund, laying his hand on the
door.
"As you please. I would not advise you." And he apparently thought
better of it, and went down.
I had to attend the Vice-Chancellor's Court; law business goes on
without respect to the dead. Upon my return in the afternoon, I was in
the front office, speaking to Lennard, when a carriage drove down the
street, and stopped at the door. Our blinds were down, but one of the
clerks peeped out. "A gentleman's chariot, painted black," he
announced: "the servants in deep mourning."
Allen went out and brought back a card. "The lady wishes to see you,
sir."
I cast my eyes on it--"Lady Clavering." And an involuntary smile
crossed my face, at the remembrance of Sir Edmund's caution, should I
ever be brought into contact with her. But what could Lady Clavering
want with me?
She was conducted upstairs, and I followed, leaving my business with
Lennard until afterwards. She was already seated in the very chair
that, not two hours ago, had held her opponent, Sir Edmund: a very
handsome woman, dressed as coquettishly as her widow's weeds allowed.
Her face was beautiful as to form and colouring, but its free and vain
expression spoiled it. Every glance of her coal-black eye, every
movement of her head and hands, every word that fell from her lips,
was a purposed display of her charms, a demand for admiration. Sir
Edmund need not have cautioned me to keep heart-whole. One so vain and
foolish would repel rather than attract me, even though gifted with
beauty rarely accorded to woman. A Jezebel? Yes, I agreed with him--a
very Jezebel.
"I have the honour of speaking to Mr. Strange? Charles Strange, as I
have heard Mr. Brightman call you," she said, with a smile of
fascination.
"Yes, I am Charles Strange. What can I do for you, madam?"
"Will you promise to do what I have come to ask you?"
The more she spoke, the less I liked her. I am naturally frank in
manner, but I grew reserved with her. "I cannot make a promise without
knowing its nature, Lady Clavering."
She picked up her long jet chain, and twirled it about in her fingers.
"What a frightfully sudden death Mr. Brightman's has been!" she
resumed. "Did he lie ill at all?"
"No. He died suddenly, as he was sitting at his desk. And to render it
still more painful, no one was with him."
"I read the account in this morning's paper, and came up at once to
see you," resumed Lady Clavering. "He was my husband's confidential
adviser. Were you in his confidence also?"
I presumed that she meant Mr. Brightman's, and answered accordingly.
"Partially so."
"You are aware how very unjustly my poor childish husband strove to
will away his property. Of course the will cannot be allowed to stand.
At the time of Sir Ralph's funeral, I informed Mr. Brightman that I
should take some steps to assert my rights, and I wished him to be my
solicitor in the matter. But no; he refused, and went over to the
enemy, Edmund Clavering."
"We were solicitors to Mr. Edmund Clavering before he came into the
title."
"Mr. Brightman was; you never did anything for him," she hastily
interrupted; "therefore no obligation can lie on you to act for him
now. I want you to act for me, and I have come all this way to request
you to do so."
"I cannot do so, Lady Clavering. I have seen Sir Edmund since Mr.
Brightman's death, and have undertaken to carry on his business."
"Seen Sir Edmund since Mr. Brightman's death!"
"I have indeed."
She threw herself back in her chair, and looked at me from under her
vain eyelids. "Leave him, Mr. Strange; you can easily make an excuse,
if you will. Mr. Brightman held all my husband's papers, knew all
about his property, and no one is so fitted to act for me as you, his
partner. I will make it worth your while."
"What you suggest is impossible, Lady Clavering. We are enlisted in
the interests--I speak professionally--of the other side, and have
already advised with Sir Edmund as to the steps to be taken in the
suit you purpose to enter against him. To leave him for you, after
doing so, would be dishonourable and impossible."
She shot another glance at me from those mischievous eyes. "I will
make it well worth your while, I repeat, Mr. Strange."
I could look mischievous too, if I pleased; perhaps did on occasion;
but she could read nothing in my gaze then, as it met hers, that was
not sober as old Time.
"I can only repeat my answer, Lady Clavering."
Not a word spoke she; only made play with her eyes. Did the woman mean
to subdue me? Her gaze dropped.
"I have heard Mr. Brightman speak of Charles Strange not only as a
thorough lawyer, but as a _gentleman_--very fond of the world's
vanities."
"Not very fond, Lady Clavering. Joining in them occasionally, in
proper time and place."
"I met you once at a large evening party. It was at old Judge
Tartar's," she ran on.
"Indeed!" I answered, not remembering it.
"It was before I married Sir Ralph. You came in with your relative,
Serjeant Stillingfar. What a charming man he is! I heard you tell
someone you had just come down from Oxford. _Won't_ you act for me,
Mr. Strange?"
"Indeed, it does not lie in my power."
"Well, I did not think a gentleman"--with another stress upon the
word--"would have refused to act on my behalf."
"Lady Clavering must perceive that I have no alternative."
"Who is Edmund Clavering that he should be preferred to me?" she
demanded with some vehemence.
"Nay, Lady Clavering, circumstances compel the preference."
A silence ensued, and I glanced at my watch--the lawyer's hint. She
did not take it.
"Can you tell me whether, amidst the papers Mr. Brightman held
belonging to Sir Ralph, there are any letters of mine?"
"I cannot say."
"Some of my letters, to Sir Ralph and others, are missing, and I think
they must have got amongst the papers by mistake. Will you look?"
"I will take an early opportunity of doing so."
"Oh, but I mean now. I want them. Why cannot you search now?"
I did not tell her why. In the first place, most of the Clavering
papers were in the room where Mr. Brightman was lying--and there were
other reasons also.
"I cannot spare the time, Lady Clavering: I have an appointment out of
doors which I must keep. I will search for you in a day or two. But
should any letters of yours be here--of which I assure you I am
ignorant--you will pardon my intimating that it may not be expedient
to give them up."
"What do you mean? Why not?"
"Should they bear at all upon the cause at issue between you and Sir
Edmund Clavering----"
"But they don't," she interrupted.
"Then, if they do not, I shall be happy to enclose them to you."
"It is of the utmost consequence to me that I should regain possession
of them," she said, with suppressed agitation.
"And, if possible, you shall do so." I rose as I spoke, and waited for
her to rise. She did so, but advanced to the window and pulled the
blind aside.
"My carriage is not back yet, Mr. Strange. A friend who came up with
me has gone to do a commission for herself. It will be here in a few
minutes. I suppose I can wait."
I begged her to remain as long as she pleased, but to excuse me, for I
was already behind time. She drew up the blind a little and sat down
at the window as I left her.
After giving some directions to Lennard, I hastened to keep my
appointment, which was at the Temple with a chamber-counsel.
The interview lasted about twenty minutes. As I turned into Essex
Street again, Lady Clavering's carriage was bowling up it. I raised my
hat, and she bowed to me, leaning before another lady, who sat with
her, but she looked white and frightened. What had taken her
brilliant colour? At the door, when I reached it, stood the clerks,
Lennard amongst them, some with a laugh on their countenances, some
looking as white and scared as Lady Clavering.
"Why, what is this?" I exclaimed.
They went back to their desks, and Lennard explained.
"You must have seen Lady Clavering's carriage," he began.
"Yes."
"Just before it came for her, cries and shrieks were heard above;
startling shrieks, terrifying us all. We hastened up with one accord,
and found that Lady Clavering----"
"Well?" I impatiently cried, looking at Lennard.
"Had gone into the next room, and seen Mr. Brightman," he whispered.
"It took three of us to hold her, and it ended with hysterics. Leah
came flying from the kitchen, took off her bonnet, and brought some
water."
I was sorry to hear it; sorry that any woman should have been exposed
to so unpleasant a fright. "But it was her own fault," I said to
Lennard. "How could she think of entering a room of which the door was
locked?"
"What right had she to attempt to enter it at all, locked or unlocked,
I should say, Mr. Strange!" returned Lennard severely. "And the best
of it was, she laid the blame upon us, asking what business we had to
put dead people into public rooms."
"She is a curious sort of woman, I fancy, Lennard."
And the more I thought of her, the more curious I found her. The door
between the two rooms had been locked, and the key was lying in the
corner of the mantelpiece. Lady Clavering must have searched for the
key before she could open the door and enter the room.
With what motive had she entered it?