MR. PARMALEE'S LITTLE MYSTERY.
Kingsland Court had from time immemorial been one of the show-places of
the county, Thursday being always set apart as the visitors' day.
The portly old housekeeper used to play cicerone, but the portly old
housekeeper, growing portlier and older every day, got in time quite
unable to waddle up and down and pant out gasping explanations to the
strangers.
So Miss Sybilla Silver, with her usual good nature, came to the rescue,
got the history of the old house, and the old pictures, and cabinets,
and curiosities, and suits of armor and things by heart, and took Mrs.
Comfit's place.
The first Thursday after the marriage of Sir Everard there came
sauntering up to the Court, in the course of the afternoon, a tall
young gentleman, smoking a cigar, and with his hands thrust deep in his
trousers pockets.
He was not only tall, but uncommonly tall, uncommonly lanky and
loose-boned, and his clothes had the general air of being thrown on
with a pitchfork.
He wore a redundance of jewelry, in the shape of a couple of yards of
watch-chain, a huge seal ring on each little finger, and a flaring
diamond breastpin of doubtful quality.
His clothes were light, his hair was light, his eyes were light. He
was utterly devoid of hirsute appendages, and withal he was tolerably
good-looking and unmistakably wide awake.
He threw away his cigar as he reached the house, and astonished the
understrapper who admitted him by presenting his card with a
flourishing bow.
"Jest give that to the boss, my man," said this personage, coolly. "I
understand you allow strangers to explore this old castle of your'n,
and I've come quite a piece for that express purpose."
The footman gazed at him, then at the card, and then sought out Miss
Silver.
"Blessed if it isn't that 'Merican that's stopping at the Vine, and
that asked so many questions about Sir Everard and my lady, of Dawson,
last night," he said.
Sybilla took the card curiously. It was a _bonâ-fide_ piece of
pasteboard, printed all over in little, stumpy capitals:
GEORGE WASHINGTON PARMALEE,
PHOTOGRAPHIC ARTIST,
No. 1060 BROADWAY,
UPSTAIRS.
Miss Silver laughed.
"The gentleman wants to see the house, does he? Of course he must see
it, then, Higgins. And he was asking questions of Dawson last night at
the inn?"
"'Eaps of questions, Miss Silver, as bold as brass, all about Sir
Everard and my lady--our young lady, you know. Shall I fetch him up?"
"Certainly."
There chanced to be no other visitor at the Court, and Sybilla received
Mr. Parmalee with infinite smiles and condescension.
"Beg your pardon, miss," he said, politely; "sorry to put you to so
much trouble, but I calculated on seeing this old pile before I left
these parts, and as they told me down at the tavern this was the day--"
"It is not the slightest trouble, I assure you," Miss Silver
interposed. "I am only too happy to have a stranger come and break the
quiet monotony of our life here. And, besides, it affords me double
pleasure to make the acquaintance of an American--a people I intensely
admire. You are the first I ever had the happiness of meeting."
"Want to know!" said Mr. Parmalee, in a tone betokening no earthly
emotion whatever. "It's odd, too. Plenty folks round our section come
across; but I suppose they didn't happen along down here. Splendid
place this; fine growing land all round; but I see most of it is let
run wild. If all that there timber was cut down and the stumps burned
out and the ground turned into pasture, you hain't no idea what an
improvement it would be. But you Britishers don't go in for progress
and that sort of thing. This old castle, now--it's two hundred years
old, I'll be bound!"
"More than that--twice as old. Will you come and look at the pictures
now? Being an artist, of course you will like to see the pictures
first."
Mr. Parmalee followed the young lady to the long picture-gallery, his
hands still in his pockets, whistling softly to himself, and eying
everything.
"Must have cost a sight of money, all these fixings," he remarked. "I
know how them statues and busts reckons up. This here baronet must be
a powerful rich man?"
"He is," said Miss Silver, quietly.
"Beg your pardon, miss, but air you one of the family?"
"No, sir. I am lady Kingsland's companion."
"Oh, a domestic!" said Mr. Parmalee, as if to himself. "Who'd a'
thought it? Lady Kingsland's companion? Which of 'em? There's two,
ain't there?"
"Sir Everard's mother has left Kingsland Court. I am companion to Sir
Everard's wife."
"Ah! jest so! Got married lately, didn't he! Might I ask your name,
miss?"
"I am Sybilla Silver."
"Thanky," said Mr. Parmalee, with a satisfied nod. "So much easier
getting along when you know a person's name. Married a Miss Hunsden,
didn't he--the baronet?"
"Yes. Miss Harriet Hunsden."
"That's her. Lived with her pa, an old officer in the army, didn't
she? Used to be over there in America?"
"Yes. Did you know her?"
"Wa-al, no," replied Mr. Parmalee, with a queer sidelong look at the
lady; "I can't say I did. They told me down to the tavern all about
it. Handsome young lady, wasn't she? One of your tall-stepping,
high-mettled sort?"
"Yes."
"And her pa's dead, and he left her nothing? Was poor as a
church-mouse, that old officer, wasn't he?"
"Captain Hunsden had only his pay."
"And they've gone off on a bridal tower? Now when do you expect them
back?"
"In a month. Are you particularly desirous of seeing Sir Everard or
Lady Kingsland?" asked Sybilla, suddenly and sharply.
"Well, yes," he said, slowly, "I am. I'm collecting photographic views
of all your principal buildings over here, and I'm going to ask Sir
Everard to let me take this place, inside and out. These rooms are the
most scrumptious concerns I've seen lately, and the Fifth Avenue Hotel
is some pumpkins, too. Oh, these are the pictures, are they? What a
jolly lot!"
Mr. Parmalee became immediately absorbed by the hosts of dead-and-gone
Kingslands looking down from the oak-paneled walls. Miss Silver
fluently gave him names, and dates, and histories.
"Seems to me," said Mr. Parmalee, "those old fellows didn't die in
their beds--many of 'em. What with battles, and duels, and high
treason, and sich, they all came to unpleasant ends. Where's the
present Kingsland's?"
"Sir Everard's portrait is in the library."
"And her ladyship--his wife?"
"We have no picture of Lady Kingsland as yet."
Mr. Parmalee's inscrutable face told nothing--whether he was
disappointed or not. He followed Miss Silver all over the house, saw
everything worth seeing, and took the "hull concern," as he expressed
it, as a matter of course.
"Should like to come again," said Mr. Parmalee. "A fellow couldn't see
all that's worth seeing round here in less than a month. Might I step
up again to-morrow, Miss Silver?"
Miss Silver shook her head.
"I'm afraid not. Thursday is visitors' day, and I dare not infringe
the rules. You may come every Thursday while you stay, and meantime
the gardeners will show you over the grounds whenever you desire. How
long do you remain, Mr. Parmalee?"
"That's oncertain," replied the artist, cautiously. "Perhaps not long,
perhaps longer. I'm much obliged to you, miss, for all the bother I've
made you."
"Not at all," said Sybilla, politely. "I shall be happy at any time to
give you any information in my power."
"Thanky. Good-evening."
The tall American swung off with long strides. The young lady watched
him out of sight.
"There is more in this than meets the eye," she thought. "That man
knows something of Harriet--Lady Kingsland. I'll cultivate him for my
lady's sake."
After that Mr. Parmalee and Miss Silver met frequently. In her walks
to the village it got to be the regular thing for the American to
become her escort.
He was rather clever at pencil-drawing, and made numerous sketches of
the house, and took the likenesses of all the servants. He even set up
a photographic place down in the village, and announced himself ready
to "take" the whole population at "half a dollar" a head.
"There's nothing like making hay while the sun shines," remarked Mr.
Parmalee to himself. "I may as well do a little stroke of business, to
keep my hand in, while I wait for my lady. There ain't no telling how
this little speculation of mine may turn out, after all."
So the weeks went by, and every Thursday found the American exploring
the house. He was a curious study to Sybilla as he went along, his
hands invariably in his pockets, his hat pushed to the back of his
head, whistling softly and meditatively.
Every day she became more convinced he knew something of Harrie
Hunsden's American antecedents, and every day she grew more gracious.
But if Mr. Parmalee had his secrets, he knew how to keep them.
"Can he ever have been a lover of hers in New York?" Sybilla asked
herself. "I know she was there two years at school."
But it seemed improbable. Harrie could not have been over thirteen or
fourteen at the time.
The honey-moon month passed--the January day that was to bring the
happy pair home arrived. In the golden sunset of a glorious winter day
the carriage rolled up the avenue, and Sir Everard handed Lady
Kingsland out.
The long line of servants were drawn up in the hall, with Mrs. Comfit
and Miss Silver at their head. High and happy as a young prince, Sir
Everard strode in among them, with his bride on his arm. And
she--Sybilla Silver--set her teeth as she looked at her, so gloriously
radiant in her wedded bliss.
Mr. Parmalee, lounging among the trees, caught one glimpse of that
exquisite face as it flashed by.
"By George! ain't she a stunner? Not a bit like t'other one, with her
black eyes and tarry hair. I've seen quadroon girls, down South,
whiter than Miss Silver. And, what's more, she isn't a bit like--like
the lady in London, that she'd ought to look like."
Sybilla saw very little of Sir Everard or his bride that evening. But
the next morning, at breakfast, she broached the subject of Mr.
Parmalee.
"Wants to take photographic views of the place, does he?" said Sir
Everard, carelessly. "Is he too timid to speak for himself, Sybilla?"
"Mr. Parmalee is not in the least bashful. He merely labors under the
delusion that a petition proffered by me can not fail."
"Oh, the fellow is welcome!" the baronet said, indifferently. "Let him
amuse himself, by all means. If the views are good, I will have some
myself."
Mr. Parmalee presented himself in the course of the day.
Sir Everard received him politely in the library.
"Most assuredly, Mr.--oh, Parmalee. Take the views, of course. I am
glad you admire Kingsland. You have been making some sketches already,
Miss Silver tells me."
Miss Silver herself had ushered the gentleman in, and now stood
lingeringly by the door-way. My lady sat watching the ceaseless rain
with indolent eyes, holding a novel in her lap, and looking very serene
and handsome.
"Well, yes," Mr. Parmalee admitted, glancing modestly at the plethoric
portfolio he carried under his arm. "Would your lordship mind taking a
look at them? I've got some uncommon neat views of our American
scenery, too--Mammoth Cave, Niagry Falls, White Mountains, and so on.
Might help to pass a rainy afternoon."
"Very true, Mr. Parmalee; it might. Let us see your American views,
then. Taken by yourself, I presume?"
"Yes, sir!" responded the artist, with emphasis. "Every one of 'em;
and done justice to. Look a-here!"
He opened his portfolio and spread his "views" out.
Lady Kingsland arose with languid grace and crossed over. Her husband
seated her beside him with a loving smile. Her back was partly turned
to the American, whom she had met without the faintest shade of
recognition.
Sybilla Silver, eager and expectant of she knew not what, lingered and
looked likewise.
The "views" were really very good, and there was an abundance of
them--White Mountain and Hudson River scenery, Niagara, Nahant,
Southern and Western scenes. Then he produced photographic portraits
of all the American celebrities--presidents, statesmen, authors,
actors, and artists.
Mr. Parmalee watched her from under intent brows as she took them
daintily up in her slender, jeweled fingers one by one.
"I have a few portraits here," he said, after a pause, "painted on
ivory, of American ladies remarkable for their beauty. Here they are."
He took out five, presenting them one by one to Sir Everard. He had
not presumed to address Lady Kingsland directly. The first was a
little Southern quadroon; the second a bright-looking young squaw.
"These are your American ladies, are they? Pretty enough to be ladies,
certainly. Look, Harrie! Isn't that Indian face exquisite?"
He passed them to his wife. The third was an actress, the fourth a
_danseuse_. All were beautiful. With the last in his hand, Mr.
Parmalee paused, and the first change Sybilla had ever seen cross his
face crossed it then.
"This one I prize most of all," he said, speaking slowly and
distinctly, and looking furtively at my lady. "This lady's story was
the saddest story I ever beard."
Sybilla looked eagerly across the baronet's shoulder for a second. It
was a lovely face, pure and child-like, with great, innocent blue eyes
and wavy brown hair--the face of a girl of sixteen.
"It is very pretty," the baronet said, carelessly, and passed it to his
wife.
Lady Kingsland took it quite carelessly. The next instant she had
turned sharply around and looked Mr. Parmalee full in the face.
The American had evidently expected it, for he had glanced away
abruptly, and begun hustling his pictures back into his portfolio.
Sybilla could see he was flushed dark red. She turned to my lady. She
was deathly pale.
"Did you paint those portraits, too?" she asked, speaking for the first
time.
"No, marm--my lady, I mean. I collected these as curiosities. One of
'em--the one you're looking at--was given me by the original herself."
The picture dropped from my lady's hand as if it had been red-hot. Mr.
Parmalee bounded forward and picked it up with imperturbable _sang
froid_.
"I value this most of all my collection. I know the lady well. I
wouldn't lose it for any amount of money."
My lady arose abruptly and walked to the window, and the hue of her
face was the hue of death. Sybilla Silver's glittering eyes went from
face to face.
"I reckon I'll be going now," Mr. Parmalee remarked. "The rain seems
to hold up a little. I'll be along to-morrow, Sir Everard, to take
those views. Much obliged to you for your kindness. Good-day."
He glanced furtively at the stately woman by the window, standing still
as if turning to stone. But she neither looked nor moved nor spoke.