LORD HARTFIELD REFUSES A FORTUNE.
A honeymoon among lakes and mountains, amidst the gorgeous confusion of
Borrowdale, in a little world of wild, strange loveliness, shut in and
isolated from the prosaic outer world by the vast and towering masses of
Skiddaw and Blencathara--a world of one's own, as it were, a world
steeped in romance and poetry, dear to the souls of poets. There are
many such honeymoons every summer; indeed, the mountain paths, the
waterfalls and lakes swarm with happy lovers; and this land of hills and
waters seems to have been made expressly for honeymoon travellers; yet
never went truer lovers wandering by lake and torrent, by hill and
valley, than those two whose brief honeymoon was now drawing to a close.
It was altogether a magical time for Mary, this dawn of a new life. The
immensity of her happiness almost frightened her. She could hardly
believe in it, or trust in its continuance.
'Am I really, really, really your wife?' she asked on their last day,
bending down to speak to her husband, as he led her pony up the rough
ways of Skiddaw. 'It is all so dreadfully like a dream.'
'Thank God, it is the very truth,' answered Lord Hartfield, looking
fondly at the fresh young face, brightened by the summer wind, which
faintly stirred the auburn hair under the neat little hat.
'And am I actually a Countess? I don't care about it one little bit, you
know, except as a stupendous joke. If you were to tell me that you had
been only making fun of poor grandmother and me, and that those diamonds
are glass, and you only plain John Hammond, it wouldn't make the
faintest difference. Indeed, it would be a weight off my mind. It is an
awfully oppressive thing to be a Countess.'
'I'm sorry I cannot relieve you of the burden. The law of the land has
made you Lady Hartfield; and I hope you are preparing your mind for the
duties of your position.'
'It is very dreadful,' sighed Mary. 'If her ladyship were as well and as
active as she was when first you came to Fellside, she could have helped
me; but now there will be no one, except you. And you will help me,
won't you Jack?'
'With all my heart.'
'My own true Jack,' with a little fervent squeeze of his sunburnt hand.
'In society I suppose I shall have to call you Hartfield. "Hartfield,
please ring the bell." "Give me a footstool, Hartfield." How odd it
sounds. I shall be blurting out the old dear name.'
'I don't think it will much matter. It will pass for one of Lady
Hartfield's little ways. Every woman is supposed to have little ways,
don't you know. One has a little way of dropping her friends; another
has a little way of not paying her dressmaker; another's little way is
to take too much champagne. I hope Lady Hartfield's little way will be
her devotion to her husband.'
'I'm afraid I shall end by being a nuisance to you, for I shall love you
ridiculously,' answered Mary, gaily; 'and from what you have told me
about society, it seems to me that there can be nothing so unfashionable
as an affectionate wife. Will you mind my being quite out of fashion,
Jack?'
'I should very much object to your being in the fashion.'
'Then I am happy. I don't think it is in my nature to become a woman of
fashion; although I have cured myself, for your sake, of being a hoyden.
I had so schooled myself for what I thought our new life was to be; so
trained myself to be a managing economical wife, that I feel quite at
sea now that I am to be mistress of a house in Grosvenor Square and a
place in Kent. Still, I will bear with it all; yes, even endure the
weight of those diamonds for your sake.'
She laughed, and he laughed. They were quite alone among the
hills--hardy mountaineers both--and they could be as foolish as they
liked. She rested her head upon his shoulder, and he and she and the
pony made one as they climbed the hill, close together.
'Our last day,' sighed Mary, as they went down again, after a couple of
blissful hours in that wild world between earth and sky. 'I shall be
glad to go back to poor grandmother, who must be sadly lonely; but it is
so sweet to be quite alone with you.'
They left the Lodore Hotel in an open carriage, after luncheon next day,
and posted to Fellside, where they arrived just in time to assist at
Lady Maulevrier's afternoon tea. She received them both with warm
affection, and made Hartfield sit close beside her sofa; and every now
and then, in the pauses of their talk, she laid her wasted and too
delicate fingers upon the young man's strong brown hand, with a
caressing gesture.
'You can never know how sweet it is to me to be able to love you,' she
said tenderly. 'You can never know how my heart yearned to you from the
very first, and how hard it was to keep myself in check and not be too
kind to you. Oh, Hartfield, you should have told me the truth. You
should not have come here under false colours.'
'Should I not, Lady Maulevrier? It was my only chance of being loved
for my own sake; or, at least of knowing that I was so loved. If I had
come with my rank and my fortune in my hand, as it were--one of the good
matches of the year--what security could I ever have felt in the
disinterested love of the girl who chose me? As plain John Hammond I
wooed and was rejected; as plain John Hammond I wooed and won; and the
prize which I so won is a pearl above price. Not for worlds, were the
last year to be lived over again, would I have one day of my life
altered.'
'Well, I suppose I ought to be satisfied. I wanted you for Lesbia, and I
have got you for Mary. Best of all, I have got you for myself. Ronald
Hollister's son is mine; he is of my kin; he belongs to me; he will not
forsake me in life; he will be near me, God grant, when I die.'
'Dear Lady Maulevrier, as far as in me lies, I will be to you as a son,'
said Lord Hartfield, very solemnly, stooping to kiss her hand.
Mary came away from her tea-table to embrace her grandmother.
'It makes me so happy to have won a little of your regard,' she
murmured, 'and to know that I have married a man whom you can love.'
'Of course you have heard of Lesbia's engagement?' Lady Maulevrier said
presently, when they were taking their tea.
'Maulevrier wrote to us about it.'
'To us.' How nice it sounded, thought Mary, as if they were a firm, and
a letter written to one was written to both.
'And do you know this Mr. Smithson?'
'Not intimately. I have met him at the Carlton.'
'I am told that he is very much esteemed by your party, and that he is
very likely to get a peerage when this Ministry goes out of office.'
'That is not improbable. Peerages are to be had if a man is rich enough;
and Smithson is supposed to be inordinately rich.'
'I hope he has character as well as money,' said Lady Maulevrier,
gravely. 'But do you think a man can become inordinately rich in a short
time, with unblemished honour?'
'We are told that nothing is impossible,' answered Hartfield. 'Faith can
remove a mountain; only one does not often see it done. However, I
believe Mr. Smithson's character is fairly good as millionaires go. We
do not inquire too closely into these things nowadays.'
Lady Maulevrier sighed and held her peace. She remembered the day when
she had protested vehemently, passionately, against Lesbia's marriage
with a poor man. And now she had an unhappy feeling about Mr. Smithson's
wealth, a doubt, a dread that all might not be well with those millions,
that some portion of that golden tide might flow from impure sources.
She had lived remote from the world, but she had read the papers
diligently, and she knew how often the splendour of commercial wealth
has been suddenly obscured behind a black cloud of obloquy. She could
not rejoice heartily at the idea of Lesbia's engagement.
'I am to see the man early in August,' she said, as if she were talking
of a butler. 'I hope I may like him. Lady Kirkbank tells me it is a
brilliant marriage, and I must take her word. What can _I_ do for my
granddaughter--a useless log--a prisoner in two rooms?'
'It is very hard,' murmured Mary, tenderly, 'but I do not see any reason
why Lesbia should not be happy. She likes a brilliant life; and Mr.
Smithson can give her as much gaiety and variety as she can possibly
desire. And, after all, yachts, and horses, and villas, and diamonds
_are_ nice things.'
'They are the things for which half the world is ready to cheat or
murder the other half,' said Lady Maulevrier, bitterly. She had told
herself long ago that wealth was power, and she had sacrificed many
things, her own peace, her own conscience among them, in order that her
children and grandchildren should be rich; and, knowing this, she felt
it ill became her to be scrupulous, and to inquire too closely as to
the sources of Mr. Smithson's wealth. He was rich, and the world had no
fault to find with him. He had attended the last _levée_. He went into
reputable society. And he could give Lesbia all those things which the
world calls good.
Fräulein Müller had packed her heavy old German trunks, and had gone
back to the _Heimath_, laden with presents of all kinds from Lady
Maulevrier; so Mary and her husband felt as if Fellside was really their
own. They dined with her ladyship, and left her for the night an hour
after dinner; and then they went down to the gardens, and roamed about
in the twilight, and talked, and talked, and talked, as only true lovers
can talk, be they Strephon and Daphne in life's glad morning, or
grey-haired Darby and Joan; and lastly they went down to the lake, and
rowed about in the moonlight, and talked of King Arthur's death, and of
that mystic sword, Excalibur, 'wrought by the lonely maiden of the
lake.'
They spent three happy days in wandering about the neighbourhood,
revisiting in the delicious freedom of their wedded life those spots
which they had seen together, when Mary was still in bondage, and the
eye of propriety, as represented by Miss Müller, was always upon her.
Now they were free to go where they pleased--to linger where they
liked--they belonged to each other, and were under no other dominion.
The dogcart, James Steadman's dogcart, which he had rarely used during
the last six months, was put in requisition and Lord Hartfield drove his
wife about the country. They went to the Langdale Pikes, and to Dungeon
Ghyll; and, standing beside the waterfall, Mary told her husband how
miserable she had felt on that very spot a little less than a year ago,
when she believed that he thought her plain and altogether horrid.
Whereupon he had to console her with many kisses and sweet words, for
the bygone pain on her part, the neglect on his.
'I was a wretch,' he said, 'blind, besotted, imbecile.'
'No, no, no. Lesbia is very lovely--and I could not expect you would
care for me till she was gone away. How glad I am that she went,' added
Mary, naïvely.
The sky, which had been cloudless all day, began to darken as Lord
Hartfield drove back to Fellside, and Mary drew a little closer to the
driver's elbow, as if for shelter from an impending tempest.
'You have your waterproof, of course,' he said, looking down at her, as
the first big drops of a thunder shower dashed upon the splash-board.
'No young woman in the Lake country would think of being without a
waterproof.'
Mary was duly provided, and with the help of the groom put herself into
a snug little tartan Inverness, while Hartfield sent the cart spinning
along twelve miles an hour.
They were at Fellside before the storm developed its full power, but the
sky was leaden, the landscape dull and blotted, the atmosphere heavy and
stifling. The thunder grumbled hoarsely, far away yonder in the wild
gorges of Borrowdale; and Mary and her husband made up their minds that
the tempest would come before midnight.
Lady Maulevrier was suffering from the condition of the atmosphere. She
had gone to bed, prostrate with a neuralgic headache, and had given
orders that no one but her maid should go near her. So Lord Hartfield
and his wife dined by themselves, in the room where Mary had eaten so
many uninteresting dinners _tête-à-tête_ with Fräulein; and in spite of
the storm which howled, pelted, and lightened every now and then, Mary
felt as if she were in Paradise.
There was no chance of going out after dinner. The lake looked like a
pool of ink, the mountains were monsters of dark and threatening aspect,
the rain rattled against the windows, and ran from the verandah in
miniature water-spouts. There was nothing to do but stay in doors, in
the sultry, dusky house.
'Let us go to my boudoir,' said Mary. 'Let me enjoy the full privilege
of having a boudoir--my very own room. Wasn't it too good of grandmother
to have it made so smart for me?'
'Nothing can be too good for my Mary,' answered her husband, still in
the doting stage, 'but it was very nice of her ladyship--and the room is
charming.'
Delightful as the new boudoir might be, they dawdled in the picture
gallery, that long corridor on which all the upper rooms opened, and at
one end of which was the door of Lady Maulevrier's bedroom, at right
angles with that red-cloth door, which was never opened, except to give
egress or ingress to James Steadman, who kept the key of it, as if the
old part of Fellside House had been an enchanted castle. Lord Hartfield
had not forgotten that summer midnight last year, when his meditations
were disturbed by a woman's piercing cry. He thought of it this evening,
as Mary and he lowered their voices on drawing near Lady Maulevrier's
door. She was asleep within there now, perhaps, that strange old woman;
and at any moment an awful shriek, as of a soul in mortal agony, might
startle them in the midst of their bliss.
The lamps were lighted below; but this upper part of the house was
wrapped in the dull grey twilight of a stormy evening. A single lamp
burned dimly at the further end of the corridor, and all the rest was
shadow.
Mary and her husband walked up and down, talking in subdued tones. He
was explaining the necessity of his being in London next week, and
promising to come back to Fellside directly his business at the House
was over.
'It will be delightful to read your speeches,' said Mary; 'but I am
silly and selfish enough to wish you were a country squire, with no
business in London. And yet I don't wish that either, for I am intensely
proud of you.'
'And some day, before we are much older, you will sit in your robes in
the peeress's gallery.'
'Oh, I couldn't,' cried Mary. 'I should make a fool of myself, somehow.
I should look like a housemaid in borrowed plumes. Remember, I have no
_Anstand_--I have been told so all my life.'
'You will be one of the prettiest peeresses who ever sat in that
gallery, and the purest, and truest, and dearest,' protested her
lover-husband.
'Oh, if I am good enough for you, I am satisfied. I married _you_, and
not the House of Lords. But I am afraid your friends will all say,
"Hartfield, why in heaven's name did you marry that uncultivated
person?" Look!'
She stopped suddenly, with her hand on her husband's arm. It was growing
momentarily darker in the corridor. They were at the end near the lamp,
and that other end by Lady Maulevrier's door was in deeper darkness, yet
not too dark for Lord Hartfield to see what it was to which Mary
pointed.
The red-cloth door was open, and a faint glimmer of light showed within.
A man was standing in the corridor, a small, shrunken figure, bent and
old.
'It is Steadman's uncle,' said Mary. 'Do let me go and speak to him,
poor, poor old man.'
'The madman!' exclaimed Hartfield. 'No, Mary; go to your room at once.
I'll get him back to his own den.'
'But he is not mad--at any rate, he is quite harmless. Let me just say a
few words to him. Surely I am safe with you.'
Lord Hartfield was not inclined to dispute that argument; indeed, he
felt himself strong enough to protect his wife from all the lunatics in
Bedlam. He went towards the end of the corridor, keeping Mary well
behind him; but Mary did not mean to lose the opportunity of renewing
her acquaintance with Steadman's uncle.
'I hope you are better, poor old soul,' she murmured, gently, lovingly
almost, nestling at her husband's side.
'What, is it you?' cried the old man, tremulous with joy. 'Oh,
I have been looking for you--looking--looking--waiting, waiting for
you. I have been hoping for you every hour and every minute. Why didn't
you come to me, cruel girl?'
'I tried with all my might,' said Mary, 'but people blocked up the door
in the stables, and they wouldn't let me go to you; and I have been
rather busy for the last fortnight,' added Mary, blushing in the
darkness, 'I--I--am married to this gentleman.'
'Married! Ah, that is a good thing. He will take care of you, if he is
an honest man.'
'I thought he was an honest man, but he has turned out to be an earl,'
answered Mary, proudly. 'My husband is Lord Hartfield.'
'Hartfield--Hartfield,' the old man repeated, feebly. 'Surely I have
heard that name before.'
There was no violence in his manner, nothing but imbecility; so Lord
Hartfield made up his mind that Mary was right, and that the old man was
quite harmless, worthy of all compassion and kindly treatment.
This was the same old man whom he had met on the Fell in the bleak March
morning. There was no doubt in his mind about that, although he could
hardly see the man's face in the shadowy corridor.
'Come,' said the man, 'come with me, my dear. You forgot me, but I have
not forgotten you. I mean to leave you my fortune. Come with me, and
I'll show you your legacy. It is all for you--every rupee--every jewel.'
This word rupee startled Lord Hartfield. It had a strange sound from the
lips of a Westmoreland peasant.
'Come, child, come!' said the man impatiently. 'Come and see what I have
left you in my will. I make a new will every day, but I leave everything
to you--every will is in your favour. But if you are married you had
better have your legacy at once. Your husband is strong enough to take
care of you and your fortune.'
'Poor old man,' whispered Mary; 'pray let us humour him.'
It was the usual madman's fancy, no doubt. Boundless wealth, exalted
rank, sanctity, power--these things all belong to the lunatic. He is the
lord of creation, and, fed by such fancies, he enjoys flashes of wild
happiness in the midst of his woe.
'Come, come, both of you,' said the old man, eagerly, breathless with
impatience.
He led the way across the sacred threshold, looking back, beckoning to
them with his wasted old hand, and Mary for the first time in her life
entered that house which had seemed to her from her very childhood as a
temple of silence and mystery. The passage was dimly lighted by a little
lamp on a bracket. The old man crept along stealthily, looking back,
with a face full of cunning, till he came to a broad landing, from which
an old staircase, with massive oak banisters, led down to the square
hall below. The ceilings were low, the passages were narrow. All things
in the house were curiously different from that spacious mansion which
Lady Maulevrier had built for herself.
A door on the landing stood ajar. The old man pushed it open and went
in, followed by Mary and her husband.
They both expected to see a room humble almost to poverty--an iron
bedstead, perhaps, and such furniture as the under servants in a
nobleman's household are privileged to enjoy. Both were alike surprised
at the luxury of the apartment they entered, and which was evidently
reserved exclusively for Steadman's uncle.
It was a sitting-room. The furniture was old-fashioned, but almost as
handsome as any in Lady Maulevrier's apartments. There was a large sofa
of most comfortable shape, covered with dark red velvet, and furnished
with pillows and foot rugs, which would have satisfied a Sybarite of the
first water. Beside the sofa stood a hookah, with all appliances in the
Oriental fashion; and half a dozen long cherry-wood pipes neatly
arranged above the mantelpiece showed that Mr. Steadman's uncle was a
smoker of a luxurious type.
In the centre of the room stood a large writing table, with a case of
pigeon-holes at the back, a table which would not have disgraced a Prime
Minister's study. A pair of wax candles, in tall silver candlesticks,
lighted this table, which was littered with papers, in a wild confusion
that too plainly indicated the condition of the owner's mind. The oak
floor was covered with Persian prayer rugs, old and faded, but of the
richest quality. The window curtains were dark red velvet; and through
an open doorway Mary and her husband saw a corresponding luxury in the
arrangements of the adjoining bedroom.
The whole thing seemed wild and strange as a fairy tale. The weird and
wizened old man, grinning and nodding his head at them. The handsome
room, rich with dark, subdued colour, in the dim light of four wax
candles, two on the table, two on the mantelpiece. The perfume of
stephanotis and tea-roses, blended faintly with the all-pervading odour
of latakia and Turkish attar. All was alike strange, bearing in mind
that this old man was a recipient of Lady Maulevrier's charity, a
hanger-on upon a confidential servant, who might be supposed to be
generously treated if he had the run of his teeth and the shelter of a
decent garret. Verily, there was something regal in such hospitality as
this, accorded to a pauper lunatic.
Where was Steadman, the alert, the watchful, all this time? Mary
wondered. They had met no one. The house was as mute as if it were under
the spell of a magician. It was like that awful chamber in the Arabian
story, where the young man found the magic horse, and started on his
fatal journey. Mary felt as if here, too, there must be peril; here,
too, fate was working.
The old man went to the writing table, pushed aside the papers, and then
stooped down and turned a mysterious handle or winch under the
knee-hole, and the writing-desk moved slowly on one side, while the
pigeon-holes sank, and a deep well full of secret drawers was laid open.
From one of these secret drawers the old man took a bunch of keys,
nodding, chuckling, muttering to himself as he groped for them with
tremulous hand.
'Steadman is uncommonly clever--thinks he knows everything--but he
doesn't know the trick of this table. I could hide a regiment of Sepoys
in this table, my dear. Well, well, perhaps not Sepoys--too big, too
big--but I could hide all the State papers of the Presidency. There are
drawers enough for that.'
Hartfield watched him intently, with thoughtful brow. There was a
mystery here, a mystery of the deepest dye; and it was for him--it must
needs be his task, welcome or unwelcome, to unravel it.
This was the Maulevrier skeleton.
'Now, come with me,' said the old man, clutching Mary's wrist, and
drawing her towards the half-open door leading into the bedroom.
She had a feeling of shrinking, for there was something uncanny about
the old man, something that might be life or death, might belong to this
world or the next; but she had no fear. In the first place, she was
courageous by nature, and in the second her husband was with her, a
tower of strength, and she could know no fear while he was at her side.
The strange old man led the way across his bedroom to an inner chamber,
oak pannelled, with very little furniture, but holding much treasure in
the shape of trunks, portmanteaux--all very old and dusty--and two large
wooden cases, banded with iron.
Before one of these cases the man knelt down, and applied a key to the
padlock which fastened it. He gave the candle to Lord Hartfield to hold,
and then opened the box. It seemed to be full of books, which he began
to remove, heaping them on the floor beside him; and it was not till he
had cleared away a layer of dingy volumes that he came to a large metal
strong box, so heavy that he could not lift it out of the chest.
Slowly, tremulously, and with quickened breathing, he unlocked the box
where it was, and raised the lid.
'Look,' he said eagerly, 'this is her legacy--this is my little girl's
legacy.'
Lord Hartfield bent down and looked at the old man's treasure, by the
wavering light of the candle; Mary looking over his shoulder, breathless
with wonder.
The strong box was divided into compartments. One, and the largest, was
filled with rouleaux of coin, packed as closely as possible. The others
contained jewels, set and unset--diamonds, emeralds, rubies,
sapphires--which flashed back the flickering flame of the candle with
glintings of rainbow light.
'These are all for her--all--all,' exclaimed the old man. 'They are
worth a prince's ransom. Those rouleaux are all gold; those gems are
priceless. They were the dowry of a princess. But they are hers
now--yes, my dear, they are yours--because you spoke sweetly, and smiled
prettily, and were very good to a lonely old man--and because you have
my mother's face, dear, a smile that recalls the days of my youth. Lift
out the box and take it away with you, if you are strong enough,--you,
you,' he said, touching Lord Hartfield. 'Hide it somewhere--keep it from
_her_. Let no one know--no one except your wife and you must be in the
secret.'
'My dear sir, it is out of the question--impossible that my wife or I
should accept one of those coins--or the smallest of those jewels.'
'Why not, in the devil's name?'
'First and foremost, we do not know how you came in possession of them;
secondly, we do not know who you are.'
'They came to me fairly enough--bequeathed to me by one who had the
right to leave them. Would you have had all that gold left for an
adventurer to wallow in?'
'You must keep your treasure, sir, however it may have come to you,'
answered Lord Hartfield firmly. 'My wife cannot take upon herself the
burden of a single gold coin--least of all from a stranger. Remember,
sir, to us your possession of this wealth--nay, your whole existence--is
a mystery.'
'You want to know who I am?' said the old man drawing himself up, with a
sudden _hauteur_ which was not without dignity, despite his shrunken
form and grotesque appearence. 'Well, sir. I am----'
He checked himself abruptly, and looked round the room with a scared
expression.
'No, no, no,' he muttered; 'caution, caution! They have not done with me
yet; she warned me--they are lying in wait; I mustn't walk into their
trap.' And then turning to Lord Hartfield, he said, haughtily, 'I shall
not condescend to tell you who I am, sir. You must know that I am a
gentleman, and that is enough for you. There is my gift to your
wife'--pointing to the chest--'take it or leave it.'
'I shall leave it, sir, with all due respect.'
A frightful change came over the old man's face at this determined
refusal. His eyes glowered at Lord Hartfield under the heavy scowling
brows; his bloodless lips worked convulsively.
'Do you take me for a thief?' he exclaimed. 'Are you afraid to touch my
gold--that gold for which men and women sell their souls, blast their
lives with shame, and pain, and dishonour, all the world over? Do you
stand aloof from it--refuse to touch it, as if it were infected? And
you, too, girl! Have you no sense? Are you an idiot?'
'I can do nothing against my husband's wish,' Mary answered, quietly;
'and, indeed, there is no need for us to take your money. We are rich
without it. Please leave that chest to a hospital. It will be ever so
much better than giving it to us.'
'You told me you were going to marry a poor man?'
'I know. But he cheated me, and turned out to be a rich man. He was a
horrid impostor,' said Mary, drawing closer to her husband, and smiling
up at him.
The old man flung down the lid of his strong box, which shut with a
sonorous clang. He locked it, and put the key in his pocket.
'I have done with you.' he said. 'You can go your ways, both of you.
Fools, fools, fools! The world is peopled with rogues and fools; and, by
heaven, I would rather have to do with the rogues!'
He flung himself into an arm-chair, one of the few objects of furniture
in the room, and left them to find their way back alone.
'Good-night, sir,' said Lord Hartfield; but the old man made no reply.
He sat frowning sullenly.
'Good-night, sir,' said Mary, in her gentle voice, breathing infinite
pity.
'Good-night, child,' he growled. 'I am sorry you have married an ass.'
This was more than Mary could stand, and she was about to reply with
some acrimony, when her husband put his hand upon her lips and hurried
her away.
On the landing they met Mrs. Steadman, a stout, commonplace person, who
always had the same half-frightened look, as of one who lived in the
shadow of an abiding terror, obviously cowed and brow-beaten by her
husband, according to the Fellside household.
At sight of Lord Hartfield and his wife she looked a little more
frightened than usual.
'Goodness gracious, Lady Mary! how ever did you come here?' she gasped,
not yet having quite realised the fact that Mary had been promoted.
'We came to please Steadman's uncle--he brought us in here,' Mary
answered, quietly.
'But where did you find him?'
'In the corridor--just by her ladyship's room.'
'Then he must have taken the key out of Steadman's pocket, or Steadman
must have left it about somewhere,' muttered Mrs. Steadman, as if
explaining the matter to herself, rather than to Mary. 'My poor husband
is not the man he was. And so you met him in the corridor, and he
brought you in here. Poor old gentleman! He gets madder and madder every
day.'
'There is method in his madness,' said Lord Hartfield. 'He talked very
much like sanity just now. Has your husband had the charge of him long?'
Mrs. Steadman answered somewhat confusedly.
'A goodish time, sir. I can't quite exactly say--time passes so quiet in
a place like this. One hardly keeps count of the years.'
'Forty years, perhaps?'
Mrs. Steadman blenched under Lord Hartfield's steadfast look--a look
which questioned more searchingly than his words.
'Forty years,' she repeated, with a faint laugh. 'Oh, dear no, sir, not
a quarter as long. It isn't so many years, after all, since Steadman's
poor old uncle went a little queer in his head; and Steadman, having
such a quiet home here, and plenty of spare room, made bold to ask her
ladyship if he might give the poor old man a home, where he would be in
nobody's way.'
'And the poor old man seems to have a very luxurious home,' answered
Lord Hartfield. 'Pray when and where did Mr. Steadman's uncle learn to
smoke a hookah?'
Simple as the question was, it proved too much for Mrs. Steadman. She
only shook her head, and faltered some unintelligible reply.
'Where is your husband?' asked Lord Hartfield; 'I should like to have a
little talk with him, if he is disengaged.'
'He is not very well, my lord,' answered Mrs. Steadman. 'He has been
ailing off and on for the last six months, but I couldn't get him to see
the doctor, or to tell her ladyship that he was in bad health. And about
a week ago he broke down altogether, and fell into a kind of drowsy
state. He keeps about, and he does his work pretty much the same as
usual, but I can see that it's too much for him. If you like to come
downstairs I can let you through the lower door into the hall; and if he
should have woke up since I have left him he'll be at your lordship's
service. But I'd rather not wake him out of his sleep.'
'There is no occasion. What I have to say will keep till to-morrow.'
Lord Hartfield and his wife followed Mrs. Steadman downstairs to the low
dark hall, where an old eight-day clock ticked with hoarse and solemn
beat, and a fine stag's head over each doorway gave evidence of some
former Haselden's sporting tastes. The door of a small panelled parlour
stood half-way open; and within the room Lord Hartfield saw James
Steadman asleep in an arm-chair by the fire, which burned as brightly as
if it had been Christmas time.
'He was so chilly and shivery this afternoon that I was obliged to light
a fire,' said Mrs. Steadman.
'He seems to be sleeping heavily,' said Hartfield. 'Don't awaken him.
I'll see him to-morrow morning before I go to London.'
'He sleeps half the day just as heavy as that, my lord,' said the wife,
with a troubled air. 'I don't think it can be right.'
'I don't think so either,' answered Lord Hartfield. 'You had better call
in the doctor.'
'I will, my lord, to-morrow morning. James will be angry with me, I
daresay; but I must take upon myself to do it without his leave.'
She led the way along a passage corresponding with the one above, and
unlocked a door opening into a lobby near the billiard-room.
'Come, Molly, see if you can beat me at a fifty game,' said Lord
Hartfield, with the air of a man who wants to shake off the impression
of some dominant idea.
'Of course you will annihilate me, but it will be a relief to play,'
answered Mary. 'That strange old man has given me a shock. Everything
about his surroundings is so different from what I expected. And how
could an uncle of Steadman's come by all that money--and those
jewels--if they were jewels, and not bits of glass which the poor old
thing has chopped up, in order to delude himself with an imaginary
treasure?'
'I do not think they are bits of glass, Molly.'
'They sparkled tremendously--almost as much as my--our--the family
diamonds,' said Mary, puzzled how to describe that property which she
held in right of her position as countess regnant; 'but if they are real
jewels, and all those rouleaux real money, how could Steadman's uncle
become possessed of such wealth?'
'How, indeed?' said Lord Hartfield, choosing his cue