Where ignorance is bliss 'tis folly to be wise. Quite ignorant and
unconscious of all that was going on in London, Stephen remained down at
the Hurst.
What he had written to his mother was quite true; as a matter of fact
Stephen was far too clever to write direct falsehoods--he was kept at
Hurst Leigh very much against his will.
Squire Ralph had left him everything--money, house, lands, everything
excepting the few legacies to servants, and Stephen had been hard at
work, and was still hard at work ascertaining how much that everything
was.
And, as day followed day, and disclosure succeeded disclosure, he became
fascinated and possessed by the immense wealth which had fallen into his
hands, or, say rather, which he had seized upon.
For many years the old squire had lived upon less than half his income;
the remainder he had invested and speculated with, and as often happens
to the miser, the luck of Midas had fallen upon him.
Everything he touched had turned to gold. The most unlikely speculations
had proved successful; properties which he had bought for a mere song,
and which had been regarded by the most wary as dangerous and
profitless, had become profitable and valuable.
Some of these risky speculations he had, not unnaturally, kept concealed
from the prudent Hudsley, who only now, by the discovery of scrip and
bonds in out-of-the-way desks and bureaus, learned what kind of man his
old friend had really been.
Not a day passed but it brought to light some addition to the old man's
gains, and served to swell the immense total.
Even the lands round Hurst had been manipulated by the old man, so that
leases ran out almost at his death, and rents were raised.
One speculation will serve as an instance; he had purchased, some
fifteen years before his death, the freehold of an estate bordering upon
London; and in a locality which was then regarded as hopelessly
unfashionable. A great capitalist had ruined himself by building large
houses on the property, foreseeing that at some time or other the tide
of the great city would reach this hitherto high and dry spot. But he
had made a miscalculation, and he died before the tide which was to
bring him wealth reached his property; old Ralph had then stepped in and
bought it--houses, land, everything. In ten years' time the tide of
fashion rolled that way, and now what had once been a neglected and
forgotten quarter was the center of fashionable London.
It reads like a romance, but like many other romances, it was true.
Old Ralph himself had no idea of his own wealth, and that when he died
he should leave behind him one of the most colossal fortunes in England.
Almost stunned by the immense total--so far as it had been arrived
at--Stephen went about the place silent and overwhelmed.
But one thought was always ringing like a bell in his brain--"And I had
nearly lost all this!"
Sometimes, in the quiet of the library, where he sat surrounded by books
and papers, by accountants' statements and estimates, he would grow pale
and tremble as he reflected by what a narrow chance he had secured this
Midas-like wealth.
But had he secured it? and when the question presented itself, as it did
a hundred, aye, a thousand times a day, he would turn ashy pale, and
clutch the edge of the table to keep himself from reeling.
Where was that will--the real, true, valid will--which left everything
away from him to Una?
Day by day, while going over the accounts, he found himself waiting,
watching, expecting someone--whom he could not imagine--coming in and
saying: "This is not yours; here is the will. I found it so and so, at
such and such a time!" and he felt that if such a moment occurred it
would kill him.
But as the days passed and no one came to contest his claim to the
property, he grew more confident and assured, and at last he nearly
succeeded in convincing himself that he really had burned the will.
"After all," he mused, over and over again, "that is the only probable,
the only possible explanation. Is it likely that if anyone had the
accursed thing they would keep it hidden? No! If they were honest, they
would have declared it at once; if dishonest, they would have brought it
to me and traded upon it. Yes, I was half mad that night. I must have
destroyed it at the moment Laura knocked at the window."
But all the same he determined to make his position secure. Immediately
he had arranged matters at the Hurst he would go to London and marry
Una.
"She is all safe and sound there," he mused, with a satisfied smile. "My
mother leads the life of a hermit. The girl herself has no friends--not
one single soul in London. I shall be her only friend, and--the rest is
easy."
Poor Stephen!
Then he would give a passing thought to Laura, and now and then would
take from his pocket half a dozen letters, which she had written to him
since the night of her journey to Hurst.
To not one of these had he replied, and the last was dated a week back.
"By this time," he thought, "she has forgotten me, or what is better,
has learned that plain Stephen Davenant and Squire Davenant of Hurst
Leigh are two very different men. Poor Laura! Well, well, I must do
something for her. I'll make her a handsome present. Say a thousand
pounds; perhaps find a husband for her. She's a sensible girl, too
sensible to dream that I should think of marrying her now. After all,
what harm is done? We were very happy, and amused ourselves with
innocent flirtation. A mere flirtation, that is all."
And he tried to forget the pale face and flashing eyes which turned
toward him that night at parting with such a strange look of warning.
But he did not always succeed in forgetting. Sometimes the remembrance
of that face rose like a vision between his eyes and the endless rows of
figures, and made him shudder with mingled fear and annoyance.
"It has been a lesson to me," he would say, after awhile. "It is the
only weakness I have ever been guilty of, and see how I am punished. I
deserve it, and I must bear it."
It punished him, and it told upon him. The pallor which had come upon
his face the day the will was read had settled there. The old look of
composed serenity and "oiliness," as Jack called it, had gone, and in
the place was a look of strained intentness, as if he were always
listening, and watching, and waiting.
He was a fine actor, and would have made a fortune on the boards, and he
managed to suppress this look at times, but the effort of suppression
was palpable; he showed that he was affecting a calmness and serenity
which he did not possess.
By two men, of all others, this change in him was especially noticed--by
Mr. Hudsley and old Skettle.
The old lawyer and his clerk were necessarily with him every day;
Stephen could not move a step without them. He hated Hudsley, whose
keen, steel-like eyes seemed to penetrate to his inmost heart; and he
detested Skettle, whose quiet, noiseless way of moving about and
watching him from under his wrinkled lids, irritated Stephen to such an
extent that sometimes he felt an irresistible desire to fling something
at him.
But both of the men were indispensable to him at present, and he
determined to wait until everything was straight before he cut all
connections with them.
"Once let me get matters settled," he muttered to himself over and over
again, "and those two vultures shall never darken my doors again."
And yet Hudsley was always scrupulously polite and civil, and Skettle
always respectful.
With his characteristic graveness, Mr. Hudsley went through the work
systematically and machine-like.
But Stephen noticed when he came to announce some fresh edition to the
great Davenant property, he never even uttered a formal congratulation,
or seemed pleased and gratified.
One day Stephen, nettled beyond his usual caution, said: "You must be
tired of all this, Mr. Hudsley. I notice that it seems to annoy you."
And the old lawyer had looked up with grim impassibility.
"You are mistaken, Mr. Stephen. I am never tired, and I am never
annoyed."
"At least you must be surprised," said Stephen; "you had no idea that my
uncle had left so much."
"No, I am not even surprised," retorted Mr. Hudsley, if his calm reply
could be called a retort. "I have lived too long to be surprised by
anything."
And there was something in his keen, icy look which silenced Stephen,
and made him bend over his papers suddenly.
Others noticed the change which had come over the once sleek,
smooth-spoken young man. It got to be remarked that he rarely left the
Hurst grounds, and that what exercise he took was on the terrace in
front of the library, or on the lawn below it. It was said that he paced
up and down this lawn for hours.
It was said, too, that he rarely addressed a servant in or out of the
house. All the orders came through the valet Slummers.
Mention has been made of Slummers. It would have been difficult to
describe him. He was called in the village "the Shadow," because he was
so thin and noiseless, so silent and death-like.
In addition to his noiselessness, he had a trick of going about with
closed eyes, or with his lids so lowered that it looked as if his eyes
were closed.
Bets had been made upon the supposed color of those visional organs, but
had never been decided, for never by any chance did he look anyone in
the face when speaking; and when by some accident those sphinx-like lids
were raised they were dropped again so quickly that examination of what
lay behind them was impossible.
Secretiveness was part and parcel of this man. He never did anything
openly. When he gave an order it was in a round-about way. The simplest
action of his daily life was enveloped in mystery. Even his meals were
taken in a room apart; only a few of the servants knew the room he
occupied. Then he seemed ubiquitous. He was everywhere at once, and
turned up when least expected.
With noiseless step he came and went about the house; now in the
servants' hall, now in the library closeted with his master, now in the
stables looking under his lids at the horses, counting, so said the
grooms, every oat that went into the mangers. Not a thing was done in
the house but he was acquainted with it.
And he knew everything! Not a secret was kept from him. Had anyone in
the village an episode in his life, which he hoped and deemed hidden and
forgotten, Slummers knew it, and managed by some dropped word or look to
let the miserable man know that he knew it.
Before he had been at Hurst a week he had half the servants and
villagers in his power.
Power! That was the secret mainspring of the man's existence. He loved
power.
Give even the fiend his due. This man had one good quality, he was
devoted to his master. Saving this one great event of his life--the
theft and loss of his will--Stephen trusted him in everything.
And Slummers admired him. In his eyes Stephen was the cleverest man on
earth, and being the cleverest man on earth Slummers was content to
serve him. Yes, Slummers was devoted to his master, but he made up for
it in his detestation of the rest of mankind in general, and of one man
in particular--Jack Newcombe.
Between Jack--honest, frank, and reckless Jack--and the serpent-like
Slummers there had been a feud which had commenced from the moment of
their first introduction.
On that occasion Slummers had been sent with a message to Jack's room.
Jack happened to be out, and Slummers whiled away the tediousness of
waiting by opening a drawer in Leonard's table and reading some
unimportant letters. Jack, coming in with his usual suddenness, caught
him and kicked him. Jack had forgotten it long ago, but Slummers had
not, and he waited for the time till he could return that kick in his
own fashion.
The days passed, and Mr. Hudsley's task appeared to be nearing a
conclusion.
One morning he came up to the Hurst, his hands behind his back, his head
bent as usual, and asked for Stephen.
Stephen was in the library, and Slummers noiselessly ushered in the
lawyer. It happened to be what Stephen would have called one of his bad
mornings. He was seated at the table, not at work, but looking at the
pile of papers with lack-luster eyes, that saw nothing, and pale, drawn
face.
Hudsley had seen him like this before, but his keen eyes looked like
steel blades.
Stephen started and put his thin, white hand across his brow.
"Good morning," he said. "Good morning. Any news? Sit down."
But Hudsley remained standing.
"I have no news," he said. "I think I may say that there are no more
surprises for us. You know the extent of the fortune which you hold!"
He did not say "which is yours," or "which your uncle left you." Simply
"which you hold." On Stephen's strained mind the phrase jarred. He
nodded and kept his eyes downcast.
"The business that lies within my province," continued Mr. Hudsley, "is
completed. What remains is the work of an accountant. My task is done."
"I am sure," said Stephen, smoothly, "that you do not need any assurance
of my gratitude----"
The old man waved his wrinkled hand.
"I have been the legal adviser of the Davenant family for the last forty
years," he said, "and I know my duty. I trust I have done it so far as
you are concerned," he said, sternly. "And now I have come to you to
request you to receive what papers and documents are in my charge--my
clerk, Skettle, will hand them to you and take your receipt--and to
inform you that I wish to withdraw from my position as your legal
adviser."
Stephen's pale face winced and shrunk, and he raised his eyes
suspiciously.
"Mr. Hudsley, you surprise me! May I ask your reasons for this abrupt
withdrawal?"
"My reasons are my own," said Hudsley, dryly; "I may say that I am
growing old, and that I am disinclined to undertake the charge of so
large an estate."
"Oh!" said Stephen, with a sickly smile. "Such a reason is unanswerable.
But I deeply regret it--deeply. My uncle always trusted you."
"He did nothing of the sort," interrupted Mr. Hudsley, sternly. "He
trusted no man."
"At any rate, I have placed implicit and well-merited confidence in
you," said Stephen.
The old man looked at him and Stephen trembled.
"I--I hope I shall find your bill of costs among the papers?" he said,
hoarsely.
"No," said Mr. Hudsley. "What service I have rendered you I consider as
rendered to the estate. The estate has paid me sufficiently hitherto. I
need, I will receive no other payment."
"But----" urged Stephen.
Mr. Hudsley waved his hand.
"I am quite resolved, sir. If you should need any information respecting
any business that has occurred up to the present, I am at your service;
but for the future I beg to withdraw. Good-morning."
Stephen rose, and held out his hand.
"At least, Mr. Hudsley," he said, "we part as friends, notwithstanding
this hasty resolution of yours?"
"It is not hasty, sir," said Hudsley, and just touching the cold, thin
hand, he bowed and left the room.
Stephen sank into a chair, and wiped the drops of cold sweat that had
accumulated on his brow.
"He suspects me," he muttered. "He suspects! But he suspects only, and
he can do nothing, or he would have done it. Yes; he is powerless. Let
him go! let him go!" he repeated; and he paced the room.
Gradually the relief of Hudsley's withdrawal broke upon him, and his
step grew lighter.
"Yes, let him go! Now I am free--I am my own master! master of wealth
undreamed of! And I'll use it! By Heaven, I'll be happy! Let him go! I
meant to get rid of him--he has saved me an unpleasant scene. And now
to work, to work!"
He ran rather than walked across the room, and rang the bell.
Slummers opened the door almost instantly and stood motionless and
silent.
"Has--has that old idiot gone?" asked Stephen.
"Yes, sir," said Slummers.
Stephen laughed hoarsely.
"Let the past go with him!" he said. "Slummers, go to my room and bring
a roll of papers from my bureau-drawer. You know what they are! Plans
and estimates. Do you know what I am going to do?"
Slummers raised his eyes.
"Of course you do!" said Stephen with the same laugh. "I'm going to make
a clean sweep here, Slummers. I'm going to pull half this beastly place
to the ground. Alterations, Slummers--alterations that will make Hurst a
place for a man to live in, not a tomb, as it is at present."
"You are right, sir, it is a tomb," said Slummers, in his low, hollow
voice.
Stephen shuddered.
"Yes, yes; but I mean to alter that. I'll make it fit to live in, fit to
bring a young bride to. Fetch the plans, Slummers; I'll go over them at
once, this minute. Yes, I will change the place till the very trees
shall not know it. Fetch the plans! I'll pull the whole of it down,
every stick and stone! I hate it--hate it! I'll change the name! I can
do it. I can do anything now, or what is the use of this money? Fetch
the plans! Fetch----" He broke off suddenly and staggered.
Slummers sprang nervously forward and caught him, and putting him into a
chair, poured out some neat brandy and gave it to him.
Stephen tugged at his collar and struggled for a moment, then sank back
helplessly.
"Stop!" he said, "stay here. Don't go. I--I can hear voices--an old
man's voice--what is it?"
"Nothing--nothing," said Slummers. "Be calm, sir."
"Calm--I am calm!" retorted Stephen. "It's this beastly house, it's full
of noises! Give me some brandy--and--get the time table. I'll go to
London to-morrow, Slummers. Yes, I'll go to London!"
And the master of Hurst, the owner of a million and more, sank back in
his chair and fingered the time table with trembling fingers.