A LITTLE RED BOX.
I don't think Lord Spunyarn could have really found it cold in Mrs.
Haggard's boudoir in the second week of September; perhaps it was for
the sake of collecting his ideas that he busied himself with the fire
and added another toy log to the flickering embers upon the dainty
hearth; then he sat down, and staring straight at the little red morocco
box upon the table, he began.
"I think it may perhaps spare your feelings a little, dear Mrs. Haggard,
if I tell you that from what my poor friend said, and from the contents
of this box, I have become aware of the secret of Lucius's birth." He
never took his eyes off the box for one instant, or he would have seen
as he said the words that the widow's face grew white as the lawn cuffs
upon her wrists.
She interrupted him suddenly.
"It is not I who have betrayed the secret. I have guarded it faithfully
for twenty years, God forgive me," she added with a sigh. "But what
could I do? I was bound to shield my cousin, even if I had not sworn to
her to do so; for she would not take my word for it, Lord Spunyarn. No
hint of it has ever passed my lips. Conceive my astonishment when my
dying husband told me that he was aware of the fact, for I suppose it
was that he meant, when he said to me, with almost his last breath, that
he had 'known it all along.'"
"Yes," said her husband's old friend, still staring at the little red
box, "and then?"
"And then he died, Lord Spunyarn," she said with a sigh; "but he had
asked me to forgive him, and to take care of Lucius."
"And did you forgive him, dear madam?"
"Of course I forgave him."
"And you forgive him still?"
"Certainly, though what it was he wished me to forgive I cannot tell."
But Lord Spunyarn never looked at her; he only stared at the box upon
the table. "I'm glad you forgave him," he said, "fully and freely."
"Fully and freely," she echoed.
"Mrs. Haggard, you had much to forgive. When you promised to take care
of Lucius, had you any idea whose son he was?"
"No, Lord Spunyarn, nor have I now; poor Lucy would never tell me that,
and I never pressed her, for it did not concern me."
"It concerned you very nearly, dear madam."
Their eyes met, and those of the widow were filled with mingled
astonishment and horror.
"No, Lord Spunyarn; do not tell me that Lucius's father was----" and her
eyes flashed with indignant rage.
"It is best to get it over--_he was your husband_!"
There was a dead silence of some seconds.
"Go on, Lord Spunyarn," said the widow in a hollow voice; "then I am
guiltless at least of deceiving him for years. It is horrible!" But she
shed no tear.
"Your husband, dear lady, when he was dying, gave it in charge to me to
let you see the contents of this box, which, he too truly said, would
explain all. I, too, at times, had my suspicions; for remember this, I
too loved your cousin long ago, and your husband was my dearest friend."
The man buried his face in his hands and was silent for a moment; he
pulled himself together with an effort. "When I saw what the box
contained, the whole ghastly secret was laid bare to me in an instant.
You remember when we were in Rome, by chance, by merest chance, I saw
your husband at a masked ball with a lady; at that ball arose the
quarrel between your husband and the unfortunate Frenchman who fell by
his hand. The box will tell you the rest. The masked lady wore a
magnificent pair of single-stone diamond earrings." Spunyarn unlocked
the box, placed it in front of his friend's widow and walked to the
window.
With trembling fingers Mrs. Haggard opened it. There was a little packet
of letters in Lucy Warrender's undeveloped girlish hand, the ink of
which had faded; then a pair of single-stone brilliant earrings, which
sparkled and shimmered in the firelight, as the widow took them in her
trembling fingers; to one of them was still attached the duplicate of
the _Mont de Piété_, dated the very day of her cousin's death. Last of
all was a little purple velvet case on which was her husband's monogram
with the single word "Rome," and a date just over twenty years ago. She
opened it with difficulty; in it was a lovely miniature, not a mere
photographer's likeness, of her cousin Lucy in all the pride of her
girlish beauty, as a shepherdess, in powdered hair and in a Watteau
costume. The face seemed to smile at her with an air of insolent
triumph, that old smile of Lucy's which her cousin remembered so well in
the days gone by, but which she had missed for many a long year. The
painter had not forgotten to place in the ears of the shepherdess a pair
of single-stone earrings; in the hand was the ordinary black silk vizard
worn at masquerades, and the shepherdess was depicted in the act of
unmasking. Nothing more pretty, nothing more piquant, nothing more
_chic_ could be imagined. The widow placed the miniature upon the table,
and as she did so a single object still remaining in the box caught her
eye. It was only a little black silk mask, and from the two holes in the
toy, in her disordered imagination, the eyes of her dead cousin still
seemed to sparkle with a mocking light. She dropped the miniature into
the box and closed the lid which shut out the horrid phantom.
As the box closed with an angry click, Lord Spunyarn turned towards the
victim of her husband's perfidy.
"There is no need of explanation; my husband was right. I understand it
all, but I forgave him, Lord Spunyarn, and I forgive him still. Poor
Lucius!"
This was all she said.
Spunyarn resumed his seat at the fireside. Then there was a long
silence, which neither seemed disposed to break.
At last with an effort he spoke. "What is to be done, dear madam? I wish
the secret had remained in the dead man's keeping; it is a dreadful
responsibility. Can it be still kept?"
"It is my duty towards my dead husband, Lord Spunyarn," she said
decisively.
"But you have another duty, dear lady; a duty to your son and a duty to
the old man here, who looks on Lucius as his heir."
"My son must suffer with me, Lord Spunyarn, for his father's fault."
Spunyarn shook his head. "Not so, dear lady; there is but one way, one
possible way, to preserve the reputation of those who are gone and to do
justice, for justice must be done. Pit Town must know; for others,
taking the lowest standpoint, may possess the secret, and the honour of
the family must not be compromised. Lucius must efface himself, that is
the only course."
"Efface himself, Lord Spunyarn? I know the boy, the orphan boy; he was
my husband's child; and with all his faults I love him; he will never
consent to that; he would die first," said Reginald Haggard's widow.
"And die he must, I mean socially. There is no other way."
"He will never consent, Lord Spunyarn," repeated the widow. "He is
wrapped up in the fact that he is Lord Pit Town's heir. With George it
is different; he is my own son, my very son," she added bitterly, "and,
if I wish it, he will give up everything for my sake and his father's;
his father's honour is as dear to him as it is to me. Besides, my
husband evidently foresaw the dilemma in which he has placed us, and
made the boy his heir."
"But justice, dear lady, justice----"
"Justice, Lord Spunyarn," cried the indignant woman as she rose to her
feet. "God's justice, do you mean, or man's? Is it not enough that my
husband should have betrayed and befooled me for twenty years, and
should have robbed my boy of his very heritage, and more than that, of
half the treasure of a mother's love? For I tell you, strange and
unnatural as it may seem, that I love Lucius; ay, I love him, though he
is poor Lucy's child and my husband's bastard. And who could help loving
the poor helpless, friendless, neglected child? Yes, I acted the love at
first, Lord Spunyarn, and it grew upon me till it became a part of
myself. Is it for nothing, that when my husband was bleeding to death
before my very eyes, that he bade me take care of Lucius? I have been a
faithful and obedient wife, Lord Spunyarn, and I will obey my husband's
last behest to the letter. I will protect his son's interests and his
son's rights."
"Alas, he has no rights, dear madam," said Spunyarn gently.
"The secret, Lord Spunyarn, is not yours or mine; it is my husband's and
hers," she added, pointing to the box. "When she made me swear to keep
her secret, she threatened to haunt me should I betray her. How could I
answer her? It was a girl's idle jest, I know; but I did swear it, God
knows how unwillingly, and Heaven help me I will keep my oath. Yes, I
will keep my oath," here she sank into a chair, and covering her face
with her hands, wept bitterly.
Lord Spunyarn paced the room in doubt. He was a man of principle, a
religious man, a man of honour--strange combination forsooth in this
nineteenth century, and he remembered that his mouth was closed. But was
he, a good man, to stand idly by and see a great wrong done? Was he to
see the honours and title of a noble family descend to a bastard through
the secret machinations of an artful woman? Heaven forbid!
"Think it over, dear madam, think it over," he said; "let me beg you, at
least, to sleep on it, and God give you counsel," he added in a broken
voice, and then leaving the little red box and its contents upon the
table where it lay, he hurriedly left the room.
While the interview which has been described was taking place, the two
young men were walking briskly up and down the great avenue, which was
already yellowing with commencing autumn.
It was Lucius who spoke.
"We have changed places, George, with a vengeance; it is I who am the
pauper now. If my father meant to surprise me, he certainly succeeded.
You are the man of property, George, while I am rich only in
expectations. Thank goodness, neither my father, the old man, nor any
one else can keep me out of the title and the entailed property; but
there may be a deuce of a long time to wait. By Jove! you know these
very old men don't die, they dry up. Why, look at grandfather Warrender.
It's a horrid nuisance this mourning, though I shall be heartily glad
when I have to go into black next time. His lordship is a decided
obstructionist;" so spoke the elder brother, as he blew a big cloud of
smoke into the air.
"Don't pretend to be a brute, Lucius; you don't mean it, you know, old
fellow," said George.
"But I do mean it, though. There's no more ridiculous custom than
mourning. It's a monstrous thing and ought to be done away with by act
of parliament, like suttee in India was--we could see the absurdity of
that. We have a kind of modified suttee here. Why, look at mother! Why
should she have to dress herself like a guy? It's a ridiculous custom, I
say. Why should I have to wear black gloves in order that I may exhibit
my woe by the stains on my fingers? And why should I be compelled to
look like a British working man out for a holiday, and pass the greater
part of my time in flicking the dust off my clothes? I've been badly
treated, George, and now I find myself pitchforked into a ridiculous
position. Here I am, heir to a title and any amount of coin, and without
a farthing I can call my own. I wonder whether the old man will think
fit to make me an allowance; he gave Hetton a big one, I have always
heard. Do you suppose I offended the governor, George?"
"No; the will was made several years ago, you know, when we were boys."
"Well, it's uncommonly rough. Anyhow, you'll allow that, I suppose; and
I confess I don't care for the _rôle_ of a waiter upon Providence. The
only thing I seem to have inherited at all is Capt, and I shall rid
myself of him at the earliest opportunity; he must have saved a pile of
money; he ought to go back to Switzerland and start an hotel. They all
do, I believe, when they don't cut their master's throats as Courvoisier
did. By Jove! I wonder whether Capt would lend me any money? If he
won't, I must try the Jews. Why, since the governor died, I've been
inundated with circulars from the house of Israel."
"You needn't trouble about money, Lucius; you can have anything you want
from me, you know."
"It's very good of you to say so, George; but as I shall have to go to
the Jews sooner or later, it's hardly worth while spunging upon you. I
may as well take the bull by the horns at once. Though, between
ourselves, I don't see why my mother shouldn't do something for me, and
so circumvent the governor's injustice. You and she got all the plunder
between you."
"Don't talk like that, Lucius. It's not right. It's hard on you, very
hard; but I wouldn't have anything to do with money-lenders if I were
you."
"Oh, of course not; that's the good advice all you wealthy fellows
always give us poor devils; it's the way of the world."
"You're not fair, Lucius; we are both under age, but this you can rely
on, till you come into your own, at all events, you're welcome to share
my purse."
"Do you really mean that, George?"
"Of course I mean it, or I shouldn't say it."
"I didn't believe you were half the good fellow that you are, my boy.
Let's shake hands on it," and the two young fellows shook hands, but
George's generosity was a bitter pill indeed to Lucius Haggard.
Mr. Maurice Capt did not find himself comfortable under the new
_régime_. He was still Mr. Haggard's man, but things were changed; he
disliked his new master, and his sharp eyes soon detected that the
dislike was more than reciprocated. When Lucy Warrender died, what he
looked upon as a legitimate source of income he suddenly found closed to
him for ever. The proprietor of a valuable secret is naturally anxious
to secure the best return possible from his property, but unfortunately
in Mr. Capt's case dividends may be said to have ceased. As he turned
the matter over in his mind he disliked his investment more and more.
It seemed to have assumed the aspect of a very unpromising property
indeed. What was he to do? The terms of Reginald Haggard's will were no
secret to him, for, in his first rage and mortification, the young
Lucius had confided his woes to his late father's confidential servant.
Should he, the valet, hang on at Walls End Castle for an indefinite
period, until Lucy Warrender's son should come into the old lord's
property, when he would be able to recommence the blackmailing process
which he had so successfully carried out upon the young man's mother? He
knew enough of the character of Lucius Haggard to feel certain that the
power he would possess in such a case would be boundless. But Mr. Capt
was no longer a young man; he, like his master, might die suddenly, and
then the secret would die with him. That miserable anticipation filled
him with horror and indignation. Should he go to the widow, inform her
that he shared her secret, and, for a good round sum in ready money,
sell his silence, and of course betray her as soon as he found it
convenient to do so? Should he go to the old earl, and make the best
bargain he could under the circumstances? He was torn by conflicting
doubts. Mr. Capt had an observant eye; he had noticed that there had
been an exciting interview between the widow and her late husband's
executor, and he became aware of the fact that a little red morocco box,
which in the old days had usually accompanied his master upon his
travels, had passed into Mrs. Haggard's personal custody. Intuitively,
he correctly jumped to the conclusion, that in some way or other, the
red morocco box was connected with the secret of Lucius Haggard's birth.
Mr. Capt felt then that it was his duty, as a prudent man, to ascertain
the nature of the contents of the box, or even to obtain possession of
it. Promptitude as well as firmness had characterised every action of
Mr. Capt's life; with him to determine was to execute, and he made up
his mind not to rest until he had mastered the secret of the box, and
that his subsequent action should be guided by the information so
obtained.
Reginald Haggard was a wise man, a man who burnt his letters, a man who
was as a rule untroubled by sentiment. The one episode in his early life
over which, to him, there had still hung a sort of unhealthy halo of
romance, was the affair with Lucy Warrender. Many a time and oft had
common sense urged him to commit the contents of the little red box to
the flames; but he knew too well that somehow or another his wife had
become the involuntary accomplice of her cousin's fault. He had not
burned the contents of the box; if he had done so the secret, as far as
he was concerned, would probably have died with him; but he had not
burned it. Hence his whispered death-bed confession to his friend
Spunyarn, and his appeal to his wife for forgiveness.
Mrs. Haggard had turned the matter over in her mind again and again. To
her it seemed unnecessary to rake up an old scandal, at least during
Lord Pit Town's life; the propriety of letting sleeping dogs lie
commended itself very strongly to her mind. She herself was quite
convinced that when it became necessary to communicate the secret to
young Lucius Haggard things would right themselves without a scandal. Of
course Lucius would do what was right, and so would George for the
matter of that. Spunyarn's suggestion that Lucius Haggard should "efface
himself," and so voluntarily suffer a social death, seemed to her but a
brutal and inhuman method of cutting the Gordian knot. She had never
again opened the little red box, since she had closed it on the occasion
of her interview with her husband's executor. To her mind the simplest
thing of all would have been to do away with the box and its contents,
but she gave way to the better judgment of Spunyarn in this matter. On
one thing, however, she was determined: by no act of hers should her
dead cousin's shameful secret be dragged into the light of day; and so
she made up her mind to communicate her decision to Spunyarn, and to
deliver the box to him for safety.
Lord Spunyarn's reflections upon the whole matter convinced him of one
thing--his own unenviable position. To his mind the matter was
thoroughly clear, and his own duty peremptorily defined. He had received
the secret as a death bed confidence; there could be no doubt as to the
mystery of Lucius Haggard's birth. It was certainly not for him to stand
calmly by and see the Pit Town title and the Pit Town estates pass to
Reginald Haggard's bastard son. It was his duty to take the old lord
into his confidence and to break the matter to the brothers. His own
evidence and that of George's mother, coupled with the contents of the
box, would set the facts at rest beyond a doubt. If young Lucius were
an honourable man he would not attempt to make matters worse by a
useless contest in the Law Courts, but would doubtless of his own accord
see the wisdom of disappearing into an honourable obscurity, while Lord
Pit Town and George Haggard would, of course, provide for him. He felt
assured that having had time for reflection Mrs. Haggard herself would
inevitably consent to this, the only possible course of action. As to
her scruples respecting her cousin's secret, they would be overcome. It
was then with a mind fully made up that Lord Spunyarn demanded a second
interview with his dead friend's widow, and he requested young Lucius
Haggard to await his summons to speak with them "on a matter which," as
he phrased it, "concerns you nearly."
He found Mrs. Haggard comparatively cheerful.
"I have thought it all over, Lord Spunyarn," she said. "You were my
husband's friend. I place myself in your hands unreservedly."
Spunyarn gave a sigh of relief, and then he proceeded to sketch the
course of action which we have given above.
"We will tell no one, dear Mrs. Haggard. George himself need never know.
The whole thing can be a simple matter of arrangement. Of course Lucius
must know all, and Pit Town. I purpose to break it to Lucius at once,
and to him at least your cousin's name need never be mentioned. He is
his father's son after all."
"His father's son," she said with a sigh. "Yes, his father's son," she
repeated with meaning. "Must it be done to-day?"
"Don't let us procrastinate, dear lady. Shall I send for him? He is
awaiting our summons."
The widow nodded, and Spunyarn went to seek the youth, who in a few
minutes was to be stripped of name and fame and wealth.
So far from suspecting a communication of an unpleasant nature, young
Lucius Haggard, his face wreathed in anticipatory smiles, was
impatiently drumming upon the window-pane in the library with his
finger-tips. It seemed to him that this formal interview with his mother
and his father's executor could have but one object, namely, to announce
to him that a suitable provision was to be made for the heir to the Pit
Town title during the short time that must necessarily elapse ere he
should come into his heritage. But his anticipations were considerably
damped by Lord Spunyarn's first words. The elder man placed his hand
affectionately upon the young fellow's shoulder.
"Lucius, my poor boy," he said, "prepare yourself for a surprise, and a
great disappointment," he added ominously.
The happy smile of anticipation left the young fellow's face as he heard
the words.
"Well, Lord Spunyarn," he said, "when my father cut me off without even
the proverbial shilling, I thought he had done the worst he could for
me."
Lord Spunyarn took no notice of the remark.
"My poor fellow," he said, "steel yourself to hear what I have to tell
you. I will tell you now," he added, "to spare your poor mother the pain
and horror of having the sad story repeated in her presence. Lucius," he
said solemnly, "you are no longer the heir to the Pit Town title, and
all that goes with it."
"Good heavens!" cried the young man as he sank into a chair, "it can't
be true. Did Hetton contract a secret marriage, and is there a son? Does
the old man know of it?"
"It isn't that, Lucius. Compose yourself," Spunyarn added after a short
pause, "and listen to what I have to tell you. This thing concerns you
and your brother only. Lucius, bear it like a man, but, my poor boy,
you are illegitimate."
"Did my mother dare----" he began, but Spunyarn stopped him with a
gesture.
"Lucius," he said severely, "the lady who has allowed you to call her
mother from the time you were a little child, did so out of kindness;
speak no ill word of her, my boy, for to her you owe everything, to her
love, and to her forbearance."
"Great God! Lord Spunyarn, it can't be true, there is some base plot in
the matter. Who is the heir, the man who calls himself the heir, I
mean?" he asked fiercely, and he clenched his hands; and his eyes, Lucy
Warrender's eyes, sparkled with mingled rage and hate. "We shall contest
the thing, of course?"
"The heir, Lucius, the rightful heir, is your brother George; he was
born in wedlock, while you, alas, though your father's son, are----"
"Not base born; don't say that, Lord Spunyarn."
But Spunyarn nodded sadly.
"I won't believe it, Lord Spunyarn," almost shouted the young man with
uncontrollable fury. "Have you, my father and my mother, been hatching
this infernal plot between you all these years? Can the dead man's hand
strike me, even from beyond the grave? I won't believe it, it isn't
true. I'll fight it in the Courts. What does Lord Pit Town say? Does he
give a tacit consent to my undoing?"
"Pit Town as yet knows nothing. Lucius, try to be calm. Listen to me,"
and as gently as he could he broke to the indignant boy the dismal fact
of his heritage of shame, that he was but Reginald Haggard's love-child
after all.
"And my mother?" said the boy in a broken voice.
"No need to speak of her, Lucius; she is dead."
"Have you the proofs, Lord Spunyarn, of all this?" said the boy more
calmly, after he had listened to Spunyarn's narrative in silence. "It'll
have to be proved, you know, proved to the hilt; that at least is my
right, and I'll not forego it."
"Lucius, you have no rights."
"I must see the proofs, at least."
"Yes, you must see them, I suppose, but spare your mother, Lucius; she
is broken down with grief and suffering."
"Lord Spunyarn," said the boy coldly, "you say she is not my mother; why
should I spare the feelings of my father's accomplice? Feelings
forsooth;" and he laughed bitterly.
"Lucius, you are mad. Let me beseech you, as a gentleman, in the painful
interview that must take place, to spare your father's widow as much as
possible. Deal gently with her, boy; it is she who has been the victim
in the whole matter."
"Don't bandy words with me, Lord Spunyarn," cried the young man, and
for the moment the impetuous Reginald Haggard of bygone years seemed to
stand before the astonished nobleman in the very flesh. "You tell me,"
he continued in a calmer tone, "that George Haggard is the heir, that I
am but my father's base-born child. Show me the proofs of this and I'll
believe it; till then, Lord Spunyarn, I simply say you lie," and the
young man bowed defiantly. "Let us go," he continued, "to the clever
woman who has hoodwinked me for a lifetime. I follow you, sir."
Lord Spunyarn made no reply, but led the way to the widow's boudoir.
As they entered, Mrs. Haggard rose and opened her arms to Lucius, but
she sunk again into her chair, staring with sad astonishment at the
extraordinary transformation that had been suddenly effected in the
young man. His dead father, in an access of furious passion, seemed to
stand before her. No answering look of affection was upon his face; the
young mouth was firmly set, and the eyes glittered with savage defiance.
"Lucius," she said with an effort, "dear Lucius."
"Madam," he replied, as, uninvited, he seated himself with an attempt at
dignity, "his lordship has inflicted upon me a strange and improbable
story. I have told him, and I do honestly believe it, that that wild
story is a lie, a wicked lie. He tells me that you hold the proofs. Let
me then see these proofs, that I may make him my humble apologies, and
go out from your presence into the world a nameless beggar. But you will
please remember that you will find it difficult to deceive me, and to
deceive Lord Pit Town, for you must cheat us both."
"Lucius," said Mrs. Haggard in a broken voice.
But Lord Spunyarn interrupted her. "I had hoped, dear lady," he said,
"to have spared you such a scene as this; let me deal with him, Mrs.
Haggard. The proofs, Lucius," he added, "are here. I myself can supply
the few missing links in the chain of evidence. It is but natural,
perhaps," he said, "and you have, as you say, a right to see these sad
proofs, unhappy boy, of the miserable folly and wickedness of your real
parents. Look at them, then; examine them for yourself, and then you
cannot fail to be convinced that I have not lied to you after all."
He turned the key in the lock and softly opened the box; then the
astonished man gave a sudden start and placed his hand to his forehead.
Young Lucius Haggard rose to his feet, and laughed a loud, indignant,
mocking laugh.
_The box was empty!_