THE VIPER ON THE HEARTH
Whether or not the vulnerary water distilled from the plantain in
the year of its becoming a bird possessed the phœnix-like properties
attributed to it by its concoctor, certain it is that from the moment
of Mrs Harlock’s taking the stranger in hand the man’s hurts began to
mend; and within a month of his being received into the house he was
pronounced by his attendant in a fit state to take himself out of it.
He demurred over the verdict, protesting that only his own resolution
and desire to appear grateful were feigning a cure which in his inner
self he knew to be far from assured; but his precise plaints, after a
private consultation among the conspirators, were ignored, and he was
given definite notice that, as from the first day of May, he was to
consider them discharged of any further obligations regarding him, and
must make his plans accordingly. He submitted perforce, and, it is to
be assumed, took them at their word, for his plans, when he came to
develop them, showed a full appreciation of the independence of action
presented to him, and were very certainly his own. He went--but only
to return.
During those weeks of his convalescence no least hint of his presence
in the Grange had been allowed to percolate through to its master,
who, indeed, more than ever since his nephew’s departure, had shut
himself away in complete isolation from his household. Nor had a
whisper of the secret the place contained been let penetrate to the
outer world. Absolute loyalty to their service was, as Brion had very
well known, an assured asset with those faithful souls, and observance
to the letter of his instructions could be depended on. So rigidly,
indeed, had his directions been followed that from first to last the
invalid had been able to inform himself in no solitary particular of
the constitution of the household into which he had been admitted. He
knew from Brion the name of its head, and that was all. That, it may
be said, had conveyed something to him, but something which required
substantiation and consideration. The question was, how to bring
about, what he most desired, a personal interview. It was already, to
his mind, a sheer Providence which had brought him, though by way of
travail, to a house actually marked for early visitation on his list.
For there is need no longer to skirmish about the truth regarding
Master John Melton. He was in very fact one of those _agents
provocateurs_ already alluded to as being sent by the Jesuit Allen to
England to test popular feeling and sow sedition. Not in Orders
himself, he was possessed, nevertheless, of sufficient dogmatism to
qualify him for such a mission, his English blood further suiting him
for the task. He was, moreover, a dry and crafty creature, born for an
Inquisitor. Part of his business was to analyse the sources of
disaffection, and to involve such waverers as he could in the
conspiracy against the Queen’s life, which even then was germinating
in the breasts of certain Catholic extremists. Among such presumptive
confederates, it seemed, the name of Quentin Bagott figured as that of
one who had secretly recanted his heresy, and might be used as a local
agent for the insidious dissemination of treason. How the information
had been acquired is of little matter; it was of a piece with much
that jumped to certain conclusions from insufficient premises. In any
case a visit to the ex-Judge had been assigned a foremost place in the
itinerary mapped out for Allen’s emissary.
And here he was, by a very Providence, as has been said--inscrutably
severe in its methods though it might be--actually on the premises
which he might in vain have sought to enter lacking that Divine
castigation. It seemed incredible that his good fortune stood to be
stultified through the perversity of a party of fools, too obstinately
loyal to their instructions to give him the least tether for his
operations. Nor should it be--on that he was determined--whatever
close watch they kept over their tongues, or over his movements when
once he was in a condition to rise and creep about his room. He was
able to learn so much--that he owed this rigid supervision to the man
who had rescued him, and could form, perhaps, his own shrewd
conclusions as to some of Brion’s reasons for desiring to keep him and
his Uncle apart. For this Melton was as sharp as a ferret, and had
that sort of microscopic mental eye which can discover whole truths in
grains of unconsidered suggestion. So, when the time came, he went,
quite quietly and tamely, and his watchers breathed a sigh of relief
that their responsibility was at an end.
That same night Quentin Bagott was sitting in his chamber alone. A
solitary lamp burned over his head, diluting but not obliterating a
patch of moonlight which fell through the open casement upon the
floor. The window looked out upon the waste ground to the rear of the
Grange, and was flung wide, for the night was still and warm. He sat,
his eyes fixed on the carpet, on the patch of moonlight there,
drearily hypnotised by it. There was a criss-cross pattern in it which
seemed to entangle his brain. Wrenching himself once free from the
obsession, he turned to the table to drink, and again came round to
stare at the carpet. Something had happened to it. In the thick of the
moonlit lattice lay a folded scrap of paper which had not been there
before. It looked as if entangled in the meshes--or in his brain. He
sat staring at it, trying to think. Suddenly he rose unsteadily, and
stooped, and gained the thing, and unfolded it and read. He stood a
long time reading; then went softly and quickly to the window and bent
out.
‘_Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas_,’ he said low into the night.
A man came out of the shadows and approached the window.
‘_Et circumdabo altare tuum, Domine_,’ he responded, small and quiet.
‘Whence come you--and wherefore?’ asked Bagott in a fearful voice.
‘From Heaven--for your salvation,’ was the solemn answer.
So, by way of the main gate, and the tree across the moat, had Melton
achieved his purpose. He had simply ‘evacuated’ to order, had gone
straight round by the copse, and had lain hidden all day in the secret
place of which only he knew. Then at night he had emerged, and by good
fortune had reached his quarry.
He was never again to drop what he had seized until he had sucked it
dry. From that moment he had the sodden and bewildered brain at his
mercy. By what specious arts he had prevailed could never afterwards
be known; but somehow, working upon his victim’s superstitious fears,
he ended by establishing a complete control over him. He was to go
brazenly about it, too, never before witnesses so much as hinting at
the question of religion, but letting it be assumed that the tie
between him and Bagott was purely one of mutual liking and good-will.
In all this he was guided by a very definite purpose, which only
ultimately came to light. Whatever at the outset might have been the
singleness of his motives, temptation changed it into one of gripping
and savage cupidity. He had suddenly seen his way to the acquisition
of unexpected wealth, and the prospect was too much for his caution.
He dared to stake on the chance, and he came within an ace of
succeeding.
As to the tricked and jockeyed household, the knowledge of their
humiliation came soon enough to them. It synchronised with the arrival
before his master’s door of Nol porter, prepared to perform at the
usual hour his usual bedtime duties. He heard voices speaking within,
and stood stupefied to listen; then heaved away on creaking boot-tips
to call Phineas. The master-cook came. ‘Anan?’ said he.
‘Hist!’ whispered Nol: ‘Put thy ear hither, and tell me. Who is it?’
Phineas listened, and came about, his long face aghast.
‘John Melton,’ said he.
Nol stared a moment; then, his jaw set grim, opened the door and
walked into the room. His master sat facing him; the stranger stood by
the table, a thin, wintry, but wholly unperturbed smile upon his lips.
‘_Soyez le bienvenu!_’ he murmured, with an indrawn snigger.
Nol made an ugly gesture:--
‘Out of this you go!’ said he.
The stranger just glanced at his host. Bagott half rose in his chair,
his eyes red with fury:--
‘Away, thou dog, thou villain!’ he roared. ‘What; you’d so dare to my
guest, and before my face! I’ll requite thee, dog!’
He rocked and panted, mouthing like a mad thing.
‘’Twas Master Brion’s order,’ said Nol sulkily.
The Judge banged his fist on the table.
‘Who is master here, thou beast? Disobey me at thy peril. I have not
yet so abrogated my authority’--he made a sudden effort to command
himself; and went on in a quieter voice, which yet shook with
agitation: ‘Master Brion judged within the limits of his knowledge,
which was not all, nor near all. I have learned the whole truth from
this gentleman, who indeed was on his way to visit me when that
misfortune befell him. My nephew did well and prudently, acting for
the best; and you did well to follow his instructions. But that is
done. Henceforth this becomes _my_ guest, whom I commit to your duty
to serve and honour. Attend to it well.’
He sank back in his chair, waving the two from the room, and with
dismay at their hearts they left him. What was to be done? Nothing
that they could see. They were on the horns of as bitter a dilemma as
could have perplexed two honest, troubled heads. They could not act in
opposition to their lawful master: they dared not make a public
scandal of the business, lest its consequences should visit themselves
on that loved but dishonoured head. There was nothing, for their part,
but to continue to keep the fact of the stranger’s presence in the
house a secret from the world, and to abide whatever issue might
arise, pending their young lord’s return. How the man had succeeded in
procuring that interview was a mystery to them; but they had done
their part faithfully, and were not in any way to blame for the
miscarriage of their plans.
Thence ensued a strange glooming time, which, running into months, was
destined to culminate in nothing less than tragedy. The man remained
on, an accepted inmate of the house, and steadily assuming a position
of authority in it. Whatever moral hold he had acquired over the
haunted mind of its master he used with crafty effect to advantage
himself in the name of the Cause. He was served, as directed, but with
a sullenness and repressed hostility which he did not fail to note and
record. After all, he had the courage of his qualities, and was
playing a desperate game, whose success depended upon the audacity of
the ‘bluff’ he could bring to bear upon it.
Still time--being, in the commercial sense, of the essence of the
contract--had to be considered in the maturation of his designs. An
inopportune return of the nephew might upset all his calculations, and
what was to be done must be done unhurriedly but promptly. However he
went about his work, he went about it effectively, approaching his end
step by step. It became soon enough apparent that Quentin Bagott was
falling under the complete domination of this interloper, whom he had
taken to his heart and confidence. He deferred to him, clung to him,
gave it to be understood that he had delegated to him his own
authority in domestic matters, to issue what directions he thought
fit. The household accepted the situation, with a sort of mutinous
resignation to a state of things they could not help; but evil was in
their hearts. It seemed to them that their master was yielding the
last remains of his vitality to this sinister, thin-lipped
bloodsucker; that, under the dark influence to which he had succumbed,
he was waxing steadily in feebleness and dependence. There came a time
when he would hardly allow John Melton out of his sight, holding to
him as if upon him alone depended his own last hope of moral and
material safety. It was strange and pitiful; but worse was to follow.
One day Nol was called in by his master, and instructed by him to ride
into Ashburton with a note to a certain scrivener and attorney, much
in demand locally, requesting that gentleman to attend, with his
clerk, at the Grange at his early convenience. The two came, and had
been closeted with their client but a brief time, when Nol and Phineas
were ordered into the presence. They came, wondering, to find the men
of law standing at the table, their master sunk into the great chair
where he habitually sat, and Melton withdrawn into the window, where
he stood viewing the waste prospect, as if wholly absorbed in it.
Quentin Bagott regarded the newcomers, as they entered, from deep eyes
sunk in hollow sockets. He looked wasted and exhausted; but his voice,
when he spoke, measured out its words as if he had rehearsed them all
carefully beforehand. He held a document, which he lifted and tapped
in a slow feeble way.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I have sent for ye two to mark and digest the
substance of that which is in my hand. It is my last Will and
testament, drawn up by me, a lawyer, revoking all former Wills, duly
executed, and witnessed by these two in whose presence I have attached
my signature. Would ye, who cannot read, know what are its terms? They
are briefly stated. To my dear friend, John Melton, I give and
bequeath unconditionally all this messuage and dwelling-house known as
the Moated Grange, to do and devise with it, his heirs and assigns, as
shall be his pleasure from the date of my death thenceforth. And I ask
him, if he will, and so he survive me, to continue to employ and make
provision for such of my good and faithful retainers as shall be in my
service at the time.’
Mr Melton turned in his place at the window, and bent to a little dry
bow, silently acquiescing. No one might have guessed from his sober
manner the cold jubilation which was thrilling his breast. He had won
to the anteroom of that for which, during these long months, he had
been steadily scheming with all the craft and finesse at his command,
and it would be his own fault now if he failed in the final fruition
of his hopes. But poor rueful Nol cared nothing for that provision
affecting his own well-being. He stood all amazed, understanding only
enough of the legal jargon to gather that it deposed his young lord
from his full and equitable rights. Fairly blubbering, he threw
himself on his knees before the Judge, and bellowed out a protest:--
‘Don’t do it, Sir. Think of our poor young master!’
Bagott regarded the suppliant without animus. He even smiled
indulgently on him.
‘I have not forgotten him, good Nol,’ he said. ‘The residue of the
estate is his--of more independent value to a young man than this
hampering property ever would or could be. I have not forgotten him,
my good, faithful fellow.’
But Nol would not be comforted. ‘Wait till he returns, good master,’
he cried. ‘Think again once and twice before you do it.’
‘I have thought a thousand times,’ answered Bagott, still with a
strange mildness, ‘and always to the same end. None of you knows, none
of you can know, all that I owe to this my friend, since he came to
fill the vacant place caused by another’s secession.’
‘He hath corrupt your mind,’ cried Nol despairingly.
‘Harkee, good man,’ answered his master: ‘I bear with you because I
love you. I love you all, who have served me so long and singly; and
because of my love I would have you abet, not balk me in a step my
very conscience demands. Come, Nol, come Phineas, please your old
master by pleasing him who will one day take his place, it may be in
no great time.’
That set Nol howling; but it conquered him, poor simple soul. He
swore, and Phineas swore, that they would all, answering for the
others, try to act up to their lord’s wishes, and so they stumbled
out. When they were gone, Bagott produced wine, with which he regaled
the mildewed men of law--too accustomed, like undertakers, to the
laying-out and burying of human hopes to be in any way affected by the
grief they had witnessed, but flattered over their employment by so
great a lawyer--and, having presently got rid of them, turned to his
inseparable companion, and said pantingly, as he placed the Will in
his hands:--
‘In trust, then, Melton, for the future, when the true faith is
restored to our land, and the seminary we wot of shall form itself
within these desolate walls, and the Chapel be reconsecrated to the
service of the holy Mass.’
Significant words, betraying something of the trend of recent events.
‘I accept the trust,’ said Melton simply, as he received the
document--‘_in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_.’ But the
thought beneath the words ran as thus: ‘Hot hands. He will be the
worse for this rally. How long? Will he last till the nephew’s return?
The worse for me: but even then, not failure. We must pile on the
fuel.’
‘Bagott,’ he said aloud; ‘this effort has been too much for you. You
must take means to restore the vital spark, or I will not answer for
the consequences.’
He poured liberally from a flask, while the other watched him with a
sort of dull, exhausted eagerness; and once, twice, thrice he poured
again--and so gained his end.
‘You drunken dog,’ he said to the insensible figure. ‘Will you never
die?’
Three weeks later Nol, being called in betimes to support his master
to his bedchamber, and having hard ado, despite his great strength, to
keep the almost inert form from slipping to the floor, paused at the
first landing to breathe himself before proceeding. As he stood for a
moment, with a sudden convulsive wrench Bagott stiffened his whole
body, tore free, and swaying one instant, before the other could
clutch at him, went down, and rolled crashing from the stair-head into
the hall. When they picked him up he was dead.