THE HOLLOW BEECH TREE.
Curiosity is not, as is popularly supposed, the private and peculiar
failing of the female sex. Most men tear up their letters ere they
consign them to the waste-paper basket; the wiser and more suspicious
portion of the human race burn them. If Bluebeard had confided the key
of the Blue closet to any one of his servants, we may rely upon it that
they would have been just as certain to have investigated the contents,
as the nameless, but indiscreet, lady, whose sister's name was Ann.
Mr. Capt was a very superior servant, but like most servants he was
innately curious. The little red morocco box, which he had never seen
opened, which had always accompanied his deceased master on his numerous
journeys, and which was habitually kept in his master's iron safe, had
always puzzled him. It's not very much to be wondered at, then, that
when Mr. Capt saw the box upon the table in Mrs. Haggard's boudoir, with
its key standing invitingly in the lock, he should seize the opportunity
to take a peep at its contents. When Capt saw what those contents were,
being an unscrupulous man, he hesitated not an instant in becoming their
possessor. With men such as Capt, _chantage_, as the French call it, is
a favourite mode of obtaining wealth. We know how Capt had blackmailed
Lucy Warrender for years, and how he was a past-master in the art. We
know, too, that Capt meditated a still grander _coup_. The secret he
possessed had been a little fortune to him during poor Lucy's lifetime,
and, like the shares of a successful mine, Mr. Capt's secret had
developed in value with astonishing rapidity. But Capt was a timid as
well as a cautious man; he had a holy horror of the terrors of the law.
The secret he had to sell was a valuable one, it is true, but the chain
of proof was incomplete. Capt could show that the ladies had gone to
Auray in a mysterious manner. Capt could swear that Miss Warrender,
under the threat of exposure, had made no secret to him that she was the
mother of the boy Lucius; but who Lucius's father was, had been to Mr.
Capt an impenetrable mystery. And as Mr. Capt rubbed his hands at the
thought of the disclosures he could make and their great pecuniary
value, his smile of delight would fade at the reflection, that though
all he swore might be perfectly true, yet, like the inspired Cassandra,
he might fail to find anybody to believe him. Great then was Capt's
delight at getting possession of the miniature which represented Lucy
Warrender in her Watteau costume, for it opened up to him the means of
placing his own evidence beyond a doubt, by adding to it the probably
unwilling testimony of Lord Spunyarn, a witness who would be above
suspicion. His master's monogram upon the portrait case, followed by
the single word "Rome" and the date, brought back all the facts
distinctly to his mind. He remembered actually looking on with his own
eyes, disguised as he was as a Roman warrior, upon the _fracas_ between
Haggard and the unfortunate Mons. Barbiche at Papayani's ball; he had
seen the blue domino upon Haggard's arm, and he had gazed with
curiosity, striving to penetrate the secrecy of the very mask which was
now in his possession. Probably, he thought, Lord Spunyarn was Haggard's
confidant in the whole matter, but when he read the packet of letters
all doubt was set at rest, and Mr. Capt felt that the honour of a noble
family was his to traffic with, and that all that remained was to look
out for the best bargain. Mr. Capt then secreted his prey at once.
Secure now in the possession of the power of proving what he had to
tell, he had but to take his merchandise to the best market and dispose
of it to the highest bidder. Unfortunately for the valet, there were
only a few possible purchasers for the valuable commodity he had to
sell. There was the old lord, but Capt doubted whether Lord Pit Town
might feel disposed to invest his money in proving the eldest son of his
own deceased heir to be a bastard. As for Mrs. Haggard, dealings with
her were out of the question, for she was prostrated by the stroke of
paralysis. Then Capt's mind reverted to old Warrender, but he thought
with horror of the collection of antiquated horsewhips which hung in the
entrance-hall of The Warren, and he remembered that Squire Warrender,
though a very old man now, had a vigorous arm, and that he was a justice
of the peace. The other possible purchasers that remained were the two
young men, but unfortunately both were under age, and, therefore,
comparatively penniless; so Mr. Capt, reluctantly enough, was compelled
to defer negotiations to Lord Pit Town's death, or, at all events,
until Lucius Haggard's majority, and he determined whichever of those
events might happen first, that he would then realize his property at
once.
Capt had reluctantly made up his mind to wait; he carefully packed up
the contents of the little box which he had purloined, including the
brilliant earrings, for he feared to dispose of them, though they were
very valuable, lest he might be accused of, and punished for, a robbery.
Besides the earrings were a part of the proofs. It was quite a neat
little parcel he made, and he carefully covered the whole with
waterproof canvas, lest the valuable contents of the packet might be
damaged by weather. Mr. Capt had determined to place his property in a
temporary hiding place, for he argued rightly that Lord Spunyarn, as
soon as he was aware of the robbery that had been committed, would leave
no stone unturned to regain possession of the deposit he had so
carelessly guarded.
Nature had provided Mr. Capt with a hiding-place suitable in every way
to his designs. In the most secluded portion of the park, whither he was
accustomed to resort to meditate and smoke his master's cigars in
secret, was a very picturesque beech. At about the height of a man in
the trunk of this vigorous young tree was a hole some eighteen inches
deep, just large enough to admit a man's hand. Into this natural
hiding-place Mr. Capt remembered to have once himself thrust his fingers
from curiosity. It was not without some hesitation that he placed his
property in the cavity, and to make assurance doubly sure he covered the
packet with a few dead leaves and closed the mouth of the hole with a
big stone, upon which he artistically placed a little layer of living
moss, carefully smoothing down the edges of the tuft with his fingers.
And then Mr. Capt became once more a waiter upon Providence.
The explosion which Mr. Capt had expected took place. The sudden
summoning of the family lawyer, and the striking down of Mrs. Haggard by
paralysis, had sufficiently informed him of the fact. He felt certain
that a vigorous perquisition would ensue, and it was with considerable
satisfaction, that he reflected that he had been beforehand in the
matter, and that he had placed, what he looked upon as his property, in
safety.
The interview between Lord Pit Town and his solicitor was a long one.
The old lord was naturally much agitated. As was to be expected, he
placed himself unreservedly in the hands of his legal adviser, and he
determined not to move in the matter.
"You seem to think, Brookes," he said, "that there is nothing to be done
in this thing."
"Certainly not, my lord," Mr. Brookes replied. "The late Mr. Reginald
Haggard's widow, should she recover possession of her faculties, which
her medical adviser has informed me is extremely doubtful, would be able
assuredly to give us the solution of the mystery; till then, or till her
death, it is my opinion that we can take no action whatever. It is
certainly not for us to throw any doubt upon the legitimacy of the young
man, whom you must perforce continue to look upon as your lawful heir.
Of Lucius Haggard's silence for his own sake, we may be certain. Lord
Spunyarn we may trust, while Mrs. Haggard herself will assuredly reveal
nothing until her health is in some measure restored, and then only
probably under considerable pressure from you, if you should, under the
circumstances, consider such a course advisable. If there really was a
secret, Lord Pit Town, we can rely upon the discretion of a woman who
has kept it for twenty years. But after all it seems to me that it is
only the distant branches of the family who suffer in losing a remote
contingent succession; even if the extremely unlikely history which
Lord Spunyarn gave me is a fact, and true in all its details, Lucius
Haggard is still Reginald Haggard's son. It seems to me that it is not
for us to stir up the question of his legitimacy. Possibly your lordship
might feel inclined to put pressure upon him, and make him covenant not
to marry in his younger brother George's lifetime, and so the title and
entailed estates would eventually pass to George Haggard or his heirs."
"That is, of course, supposing the story to be true," quavered the old
lord.
"It is impossible, my lord, in the absence of the documents, for us to
take any notice of the story. I may attempt, if you wish it, to obtain
information. I might sound the late Mr. Haggard's valet, though I think
it would be extremely bad policy to do so. As for George Haggard, my
lord, he is his father's heir, and you and I, my lord, know that the
present disposition of your lordship's property will amply compensate
him for the loss of the Pit Town title and the Walls End estates, even
if they were really his by right."
"Yes, Brookes, I suppose things must take their course."
His lordship's remark showed that he accepted Mr. Brookes' point of
view. The lawyer communicated the old man's decision to Lord Spunyarn,
but the matter itself was never mentioned between Lord Pit Town and the
executor of his late heir.
Young Lucius Haggard for the last few days had had plenty of food for
reflection. The agony of mind which he had suffered when Lord Spunyarn
had broken to him the strange story of his birth was more than
counterbalanced by the disappearance of the proofs and the opportune
illness of his father's widow. He found himself once more the heir
apparent, and so temporary had been his degradation that it seemed but a
fevered dream. Whether the story was true or false, probably no one
would ever know. The more he thought of the matter, the more young
Lucius Haggard congratulated himself on having controlled his feelings
after his first natural burst of passionate indignation. He had not
alienated Lord Spunyarn, he had not quarrelled with any one; his
conduct, under the most trying circumstances, had been such as to merit
the respect of all concerned. Though he had not yet won the rubber, he
had decidedly scored the first game.
As time rolled on, Reginald Haggard's widow made no perceptible progress
towards recovery. The speechlessness continued; she was still unable to
articulate. At first she frequently attempted to speak, but gradually
ceased her efforts, as she found that it was practically impossible to
express herself. When she tried to write, although the fingers could
grasp the pen, she was unable to produce written characters, but she
appeared to hear and to understand perfectly. Her memory, too, seemed
to have failed her, for she no longer attempted to express her grief at
her husband's death. She had lost to a certain extent also the power of
motion, and was confined to her couch. With this exception, her bodily
health remained good, and there was no visible change in her appearance.
No intimation of the supposed discovery of a family mystery had been
made to old Squire Warrender, not that there was any doubt as to his
discretion, but simply because there was nothing to be gained by
disturbing the old man's mind with so terrible a communication. Squire
Warrender had hurried to the Castle to visit his daughter when he first
heard of her seizure; but as the fears of an immediate fatal termination
gradually wore off, the old squire had returned to King's Warren. But
the two young men, as was natural, still remained at the Castle in close
attendance upon their mother; George, from natural affection, while
Lucius, though he longed to taste the sweets of his newly-acquired
liberty, felt that it was to his interest to remain upon the spot in the
unlikely contingency of Mrs. Haggard regaining her faculties.
While the minds of many of the inhabitants of Walls End Castle had been
disturbed in the manner narrated, the quiet little parish of King's
Warren had been shaken out of its ordinary state of somniferous
torpidity. To use Mrs. Dodd's words, "the government of the country had
at last become awakened to the important services rendered to the Church
by my dear father." The fact is, that a bishopric had fallen in, and
that the Prime Minister, a notorious talker and time-server, and a very
old servant of Her Majesty, was extremely anxious to perpetrate a great
and glorious job. But the Prime Minister was a wise man; he knew very
well that in trying to please everybody he would satisfy no one, and so
he meant to please himself, and to appoint to the vacant see an old
college chum of his own, a learned but harmless enthusiast, now a Don,
who had once in his life perpetrated a very abstruse work upon the Greek
particle. The first thing that the Prime Minister did was to lend an
apparently willing ear to the suggestions of the various busybodies who
under such circumstances always favour unfortunates in his position with
their disinterested ideas upon the subject. Deputations from the two
rival missionary societies waited upon him, lords temporal and lords
spiritual had private interviews with him, and the heads of his party
expressed their opinions to him freely but confidentially; he promised
to give their suggestions what he called his earnest consideration, and
then he bowed them out. But the Prime Minister was a man who invariably
killed two birds with one stone. "I will obtain some cheap popularity,"
he thought, "and several good rounds of universal applause, by a
master-stroke. I will _offer_ the bishopric to a simple parish
clergyman." In the clerical world, to use a profane phrase, there were
at least half-a-dozen favourites in the betting, and as many dark
horses. When the _Thunderer_ appeared with an inspired article upon the
fitness of a successful parish clergyman for the more onerous position
of a bishop, great was the humming and disturbance in the clerical hive.
Profound was the disappointment in the minds of the drones and
dignitaries. Men who were performing archidiaconal functions heaped dust
and ashes on their heads, crying aloud that the interests of the Church
were being sacrificed to obtain an ephemeral popularity. But the breasts
of the working bees throbbed with excitement; the vicars of parishes who
had been long in harness, and had never met with the expensive
misfortune of being haled by their bishop, or the terrible aggrieved
parishioner, under the Church Discipline Act, before that greatest of
all clerical bogies, Lord Penzance, and who would never have thought of
undergoing six months' imprisonment for conscience' sake; men who knew a
good glass of wine when they saw it; men who were apostles of the Blue
Ribbon Army, fathers of large families of sons and daughters blessed in
having their quivers full of them, and Celibates wedded to the Church
alone; all these men were racked by ambitious hopes. In the meanwhile
the Prime Minister was occupied in putting salt on his sparrow's tail:
that rare clerical bird so fast becoming extinct in the present day,
_rara avis in terris nigroque simillima cygno_, who should be willing to
reply to him _nolo episcopari_. The Prime Minister was looking round for
a man of straw, and after some search he found him in the person of the
Reverend John Dodd.
The _Thunderer_ had said that "the little leaven that was needed in the
hierarchy of the Church of England, that it might leaven the whole
lump, was a parochial clergyman who had unostentatiously laboured in the
clerical vineyard, a man who could rule his see as he had ruled his
parish," and after a long diatribe, the article concluded with these
pregnant words: "Such a man the noble lord at the head of affairs has
found in the well-known vicar of King's Warren, the Reverend John Dodd."
And then it compared the Reverend John Dodd to the "Man of Ross," in its
usual graceful and pointed manner.
Verbal communications, like dead men, tell no tales.
The Prime Minister didn't write a letter to the Reverend John Dodd, he
didn't even send him a halfpenny post-card, offering him the bishopric;
but he did dispatch a trusted emissary. We must remember that the
Minister had been credibly informed that the Reverend John Dodd was
absolutely the only respectable clergyman in the Church of England, in
the full possession of his mental faculties, who would be certain to
decline the honours of consecration. Certain Roman emperors have earned
our respect by refusing to accept divine honours, and the Prime Minister
heard with delight that the Reverend John Dodd was a man of the same
heroic kidney. We have met the emissary before, it was the same old
clerical friend of the Reverend John's, who had on a previous occasion,
as his archdeacon, warned him to set his house in order on the
appointment of a new bishop, a king who knew not Joseph. He it was, who
had recommended to his friend Dodd that eminently reliable clerical
charwoman, the Reverend Barnes Puffin. The Reverend Barnes Puffin had
done his work well, things had gone on smoothly ever since in the parish
of King's Warren; and many a time and oft had the stout vicar, like the
mask'd Arabian maid in the "Light of the Harem," exclaimed, "Oh, if
there be an Elysium on earth, it is this, it is this." I don't believe
that the vicar of King's Warren would have changed places with the
Mikado of Japan. The two clergymen had their interview; at which Mrs.
Dodd, to her great indignation, did not assist. Never before in his life
had the Reverend John kept a secret so long from the knowledge of the
wife of his bosom, the fair Cecilia; until the next morning at
breakfast, he may be said to have continuously wrestled with her in the
spirit. In vain did Mrs. Dodd alternately beg, command, and even entreat
him with briny tears, to communicate to her what had taken place in that
secret interview. All she could extract from him was, that she should
know all about it at breakfast time. She even tried guessing, but each
guess was more wildly improbable, and wider of the mark than the last;
her final suggestion was a rather barbed arrow though.
"John," she said in a hissing whisper, with a vicious nudge, to the poor
vicar, who was vainly seeking sleep for the twentieth time. "You may
keep it from me if you will, John, but I've guessed your dreadful
secret. Yes," she added with a succession of sobs, "I've guessed it at
last; the boo-boo-bishop is going to sequestrate your living on the
ground of your weakened intellect." But Dodd only chuckled, or rather
"chortled," in his amusement, as he buried his face in his pillow.
The next morning Mrs. Dodd, as was her custom, entered the
breakfast-room first. She took up the _Thunderer_, and she performed her
natural duty as a woman, and went carefully through the list of births,
deaths and marriages; and then she came upon the inspired article to
which we have alluded. At first the paper dropped from her fingers, and
then her face was illumined by a smile of triumph. The neat
parlour-maid was just placing the hissing urn upon the table.
"Jane," said Mrs. Dodd, "in future when addressing your master, be good
enough to say, 'my lord.' You can inform the others of what I wish
done."
The girl dropped Mrs. Dodd a low courtesy, stared at her, and then
stammered out, "Yes, my lady."
So grateful was this speech to Mrs. Dodd's feelings that she hadn't the
heart to correct the girl; she merely smiled blandly and smoothed her
cap ribbons.
The Reverend John Dodd entered the room at the moment; he sniffed and
rubbed his hands, for ambrosial odours from the kitchen reached his
nostrils. His wife sprang to her feet, and rushing into his arms after
the manner of long-lost daughters upon the stage, she buried her face in
his M.B. waistcoat. "John, dear John," she said through her tears of
joy, as she gazed up at his great round smiling visage, "let me be the
first to congratulate you on your well-deserved honours." She snatched
up the newspaper and waved it wildly in the air. "I've read it all,
John, and they've put it _so_ nicely. Little did I dream last night when
I spoke to you so irreverently, for I shall revere you now, John, that I
was speaking to a bishop. Oh, John," she continued, clapping her hands
in a girlish manner, "'tis such a becoming dress, and so, so
delightfully exclusive."
"Calm yourself, Cecilia," said Dodd, who feared the shock would be too
much for her. "Calm yourself, Cecilia, dear. I'm plain Jack Dodd still;
they did offer it me yesterday, but I refused it."
"And you can stand there, Mr. Dodd, and tell me this dreadful thing. Oh,
Mr. Dodd," she said with withering sarcasm, "I thought just now that I
was the wife of a bishop. Alas, I learn from your lips the terrible
truth, the truth which my poor father so often impressed upon me, that
I am only married to a fool," and she rushed from the room.
I suppose that the parson was after all a callous stony-hearted man, for
though he breakfasted alone, he devoured the entire dish of stewed
kidneys, which the parlour-maid had placed upon the table with a low
obeisance.