A STARTLING LETTER
After Mrs. Walker's portentous visit to Rose Cottage with her lawyer,
things went on quietly for some days. Mr. Hale at first positively
refused to speak on the subject of the cross and the fortune attached
thereto, as he maintained that it was useless to talk about
impossibilities. Then he changed his mind and spoke with extraordinary
freedom.
"Nothing can be done until we find the amethyst cross," he said
gloomily to his daughter, "when that is produced, the money will be
forthcoming."
"But you forget, father, that the cross has to be produced by Mrs.
Walker's nephew or niece," said Lesbia doubtfully.
"She hasn't got one," snapped Hale. "If there was a child, it is dead.
I know that no child was brought to my house at Wimbledon by Kate
Morse."
"Mrs. Walker said that was her sister's maiden name. Do you know the
name of the man she married?"
"Yes." Hale cast a jealous side-glance at his daughter. "It's an old
story and a long one."
"Which has to do with Mrs. Walker's enmity against you?" persisted
Lesbia.
"Yes," said Hale again. "She thought that I had something to do with
her sister's elopement. Such rubbish, as though I could have helped
it."
"Why did Miss Morse run away, then?"
"Because of her father. He was a wealthy, old, psalm-singing idiot,
who made the two girls wretched. Kate fell in love with a certain
friend of mine--I am not going to mention his name--and old Morse told
him that he was not to come near the house. Then Kate took the bit
between her teeth and ran away with the man. She had a miserable life,
I believe, but I saw nothing of her until she stumbled foot-sore and
weary into my house at Wimbledon. The rest you know."
"And the money?" asked Lesbia anxiously.
"You heard all that is to be said on that subject when Mrs. Walker was
here," growled Hale, who was more communicative than usual. "But I'll
repeat the story, because I wish to make a suggestion."
"What is the suggestion?" asked the girl, who mistrusted the uneasy
looks of her father.
"First the story and then the suggestion," he remarked grimly. "Well,
it can scarcely be called a story. Samuel Morse, the psalm-singing old
ass I told you of, had a hundred thousand pounds, two daughters, and
no son. He made a will leaving the money equally divided between them,
and after death the money if not used up was to go to their heirs.
Judith--Mrs. Walker that is--married a scampish man-about-town, who
soon got through all she had and then broke his neck in a
steeplechase, leaving Judith with next to nothing upon which to bring
up George. Kate, having eloped with the man whose name I don't wish to
mention, did not claim her share of the cash."
"If Mr. Morse was so angry I wonder he did not alter his will."
"He would have done so. Of that I am absolutely certain," said Hale
emphatically, "but he had no time to do so. Shortly after he made his
will Kate eloped, and the old man died in a fit of rage, before he
could give instructions to Jabez who was his lawyer. Jabez gave fifty
thousand pounds to Judith, who by and by married Walker and lost it
all through his spendthrift habits. The remaining fifty thousand he
invested, and what with the principal and interest it must be a tidy
sum by now. At all events it brings in over two thousand a year. Since
Kate is dead the money passes to her child if she left any, which I do
not believe. Failing a child, it reverts by the will to Mrs. Walker."
"But why need she produce the amethyst cross?" asked Lesbia.
"She need not, as her identity is fully established in Jabez's eyes.
The cross--as I learned from him years ago--was an ornament which old
Morse had made for Kate, a kind of religious symbol."
"Who bears the cross will win the crown," said Lesbia, remembering the
ornament; "or rather, as the motto goes, lose the crown by refusing
the cross."
Hale nodded with a smile of contempt. "Yes! That was old Morse's idea.
He gave the cross to Kate, and then she ran away with it and the man
who became her husband. Jabez, knowing that the ornament is peculiar,
swears that he will need the cross to prove the identity of Kate or of
her child, as no one else could possess so odd a trinket. As if it
could not be imitated exactly," ended Hale with contempt.
"The cross might be imitated," said Lesbia, doubtfully. "But as the
poor woman is dead, it will not be so easy to produce a child as
hers."
Hale, with his head on one side, looked at her oddly. "I don't know so
much about that," he said slowly.
"What do you mean?" questioned Lesbia, seeing that her father had
something on his mind.
"Well," said Hale, pinching his chin and still looking at her as
though to hypnotise her mind; "there was no child, as I said. But you
were only a baby twenty years ago, born, in fact, only a week before
Kate Morse came to my house. Could we not say that you are the child?"
"What?" Lesbia looked indignantly at her father.
"Don't be foolish," said Hale testily. "It is not a crime seeing that
the money is there for the asking, Bridget Burke told you that the
cross was given to you by your mother. Let it be so, and I can swear
and, for your sake, I can get Tim to swear, that you are the long-lost
child. The train has already been laid by Bridget's story--which by
the way I told her to tell you--so old Jabez will be easy to
convince."
Lesbia drew a long breath. "I should not think of deceiving and
robbing Mrs. Walker."
"Oh, nonsense," said Hale earnestly. "When she dies the money goes to
her son, so if you marry him you can hand over twenty-five thousand to
him, or say one thousand a year. Thus you will be acting honestly
towards the Walkers, my dear, and----"
"And dishonestly towards myself," cried Lesbia indignantly. "And what
of the remaining one thousand a year, father?"
Hale drooped his eyes suavely. "I take that for arranging that you get
the money. Come, Lesbia, what do you say?"
"I decline," she retorted, quivering with indignation. "How dare you,
who are my father, make such a proposal? Even if I were the true
child, I should not give you one penny."
"Ha!" said Hale bitterly. "I thought so, and thus suggested a wild
scheme to try you. I might have known."
"I believe that if I had fallen in with your scheme," cried Lesbia
boldly, "that you would have arranged to carry it through. You have
not the cross, however, and even if I consented----"
"I remember the look of the cross, and so do you. It could have been
duplicated, my dear."
Lesbia looked at her father in pained astonishment, and then burst
into bitter tears. "Oh, how I wish that I could respect you," she
wailed.
Hale lifted his eyebrows. "Don't you?"
"No! How can I, when I find that you are so wicked?"
"I was only trying you," he said hastily. "Though it is true that had
you shown a disposition to give me my fair share I might have
endeavoured to get you this fortune. But, as it is, I see well that
all my pains would be thrown away. You would see me--your own
father--starve rather than let me have one penny."
Lesbia dried her tears. "I would have nothing to do with such a wicked
scheme, and I only wish I could get away from you. You have never been
a father to me, and every day we drift farther and farther apart. When
I see Lord Charvington I shall ask him to help me to get a situation,
as a companion or a nursery governess, and then----"
"Lesbia, you surely would not disgrace me by talking to Charvington in
that way," said Hale, his face growing dark. "Perhaps I have never
been affectionate, but then I feel more than I say. And you have
always had comfort and all that I could give."
"I have had everything, save a father's love."
"My nature is a reticent one," said her father sullenly. "So it is
useless to ask for impossibilities. If you really are unhappy with me,
marry George Walker and have done with it."
"And what about Captain Sargent?" asked Lesbia sharply.
Hale shrugged his shoulders. "I can't force you to marry a man against
your will, bad father as you say that I am. I have done my best for
you and you persistently regard me with suspicion."
"What you proposed to do just now----"
"Was merely an experiment. Think no more about it, and don't make
yourself ridiculous with Charvington. Play your cards well with him
and his wife, and you may make a good match."
"I shall marry no one but George," said Lesbia obstinately.
"He won't have anything to do with you," sneered Hale, and turned
away.
Things being strained in this way Lesbia was sufficiently unhappy,
especially as George was absent and silent. She could not understand
why, after her explanation, he refused to come back to her. But in the
depths of her mind, she felt certain that he was acting against his
heart's desire, and much in the same way as she had acted when she
dismissed him. It was impossible to see him, as he was in London and
she did not know his address, and it was equally impossible to write
to him. Certainly, as Mrs. Walker was ready to receive her, she could
have gone to Medmenham to converse with that formidable lady, but she
hesitated to pour out her woes in that quarter. In spite of her sudden
friendliness, Mrs. Walker was unsympathetic, and the poor girl longed
for some kind breast whereon she could lie and weep and be comforted.
Thus it can easily be guessed that Lesbia hailed with joy the arrival
of a brisk little woman, who introduced herself as Lady Charvington.
She came in a gorgeous motor car, with much noise and pomp, and was
dressed like Solomon, in all his glory, so wonderful was her frock.
Mr. Hale was within and received her with much deference, which was
natural considering that Lord Charvington was his patron. Lesbia was
sent for, and duly came down to the tiny drawing-room to be
introduced.
"So this is Lesbia," said Lady Charvington, putting up a
tortoise-shell lorgnette, "quite a beauty I declare."
She frowned a trifle when she said this, for her own daughters, in
their 'teens at present, were not beautiful. She herself had no great
pretension to good looks, although she made the best of herself in
every way. She was as small as Lesbia, but did not possess such a
complexion or such a figure, and there was an ill-tempered droop to
her mouth which made the girl mistrust her. For Lord Charvington's
sake, since he had been so kind to her, Lesbia was anxious to love his
wife, and perhaps had she been a plain girl Lady Charvington might
have given her an opportunity of exercising such affection. But the
looks of Lesbia took her aback, as she saw in this delicately
beautiful girl a formidable rival, not only to her plain daughters but
to herself. For Lady Charvington, in spite of her age and of the fact
that she was married, flirted a great deal. However, swiftly as these
things passed through her mind, she did not permit them to be revealed
by her face and welcomed Lesbia with well-affected enthusiasm.
"You dear," she said, hopping up like a bird to peck the velvet cheek
of her proposed guest; "why have you hidden yourself for so long?"
"I have been stopping here with my father since I came from school,"
said Lesbia, trying to overcome a sudden dislike for this smiling
vision of small talk and chiffon.
Lady Charvington shook a dainty finger at Mr. Hale, who was looking on
well-pleased at the scene. "You naughty, naughty man," she cried
effusively and girlishly, "how dare you keep Beauty shut up in a
castle no one ever heard of? But that Charvington spoke about this
sweet thing the other day and proposed to have her over at the Court
for a few days, I should never never have seen her."
"I didn't wish to trouble you with my girl, Lady Charvington."
"Oh," Lady Charvington uttered a little scream of delight, while
taking in every detail of Lesbia's looks and costume, "there will be
no trouble. We have always plenty of nice boys at the Court and they
will lose their heads over this Sleeping Beauty. For you are that, you
know," she added to Lesbia, "whatever the poor dear creature's name
may have been. But I have come at my husband's express desire to wake
you up, and to find a prince who will kiss you."
"I have already got one," said Lesbia abruptly. "I am engaged!"
Hale frowned, as he thought that she was too candid, but Lady
Charvington felt more satisfied than she had been. An engaged girl
would not be so dangerous. "Then we must ask your prince over to the
Court also," she declared effusively and kissed Lesbia again. "I have
brought over the car to take you back to dinner. Get your frocks and
frills, dear, and we shall start while the afternoon is yet warm."
"Are you ready to go, Lesbia?" asked Hale, smiling artificially, for,
from the look on his daughter's face, he was not quite sure if she
approved of the invitation.
But he need not have troubled. Lesbia did not like Lady Charvington
but, being anxious to see my lady's husband and tell him of her
troubles--since the sending of the cheque proved him to be a kindly
man,--made up her mind to overcome her mistrust and travel in the
motor car. "Everything is ready," she said quietly. "I have only one
box."
"Oh, but, my dear, I wish you to stay for a week," protested the lady.
"So I understood, and thank you very much," replied the girl with
enforced cordiality. "And the one box of clothes will be sufficient."
"Dear me!" said Lady Charvington with a gasp, "what a careful girl you
must be. Why I take five boxes for a week's visit."
"I am not rich enough to do that. Besides," added Lesbia smiling, "I
should only cumber up your motor car."
"Oh, that is all right. It's a big thing and holds heaps. Have you
ever been in one, my dear girl?"
"Lesbia has lived a very quiet life," interposed Hale quickly, "and
knows nothing of modern luxury."
"Poor thing," said Lady Charvington, with a pitying glance. "I hope
your prince is wealthy," she added, turning to Lesbia.
The girl smiled. "On the contrary, he is very poor."
"Dear me! I seem to have found a paragon of virtue. But are you not
rather foolish, my dear girl? With such a face and such a figure and
with my influence you should make a better match."
"So I tell her," cried Hale quickly; he was always on the watch to put
in a word, "and she is not really engaged, Lady Charvington. There is
some disagreement between Lesbia and Mr. Walker."
"What a horrid name! So plebeian!" cried Lady Charvington.
"George is not plebeian," said Lesbia, colouring hotly, "his father
was the Honourable Aylmer Walker."
"Lord Casterton's third son," said the visitor, nodding. "Yes, I have
heard of him from my brothers. He was rather wild, was he not?"
"Really I don't know."
"There is no chance of his coming in for the title--your George, I
mean," prattled on Lady Charvington, "as Aylmer Walker's two elder
brothers have both heaps and heaps of children. I rather think that
Aylmer was the black ba-ba of the family. Well, there, I'm talking
scandal, a thing of which I highly disapprove. Go and get your things
on, dear, and tell your man to put your box on the motor. Wilkins will
help him. He's the chauffeur--not at all a bad driver, but oh, so
dreadfully reckless. Be prepared to go like the wind, my dear."
Lady Charvington babbled on in this fashion with bird-like glances
here and there, taking in every detail of the room. She knew that Hale
was a poor relation of her husband's, and indeed had received him
twice or thrice at The Court near Maidenhead. But this was the first
time she had seen his daughter and, but for the express command of
Lord Charvington, she would not have asked her over. There was some
comfort in the fact that the girl's affections were engaged, but all
the same, such beauty, whether free or bound, would prove dangerous.
"I trust she won't interfere with my men," thought Lady Charvington as
she smiled sweetly on Lesbia leaving the tiny drawing-room.
The girl summoned Tim to take her box to the motorcar which was
panting violently at the door, and went to her room to put on her hat.
She made a desperate attempt while doing so to overcome her dislike to
Lady Charvington, as she felt sure that for some reason the little
woman was hostile. Lesbia was too unsophisticated to put down the
hostility to the fact that Lady Charvington found her exasperatingly
beautiful, and was puzzled to think why any hostility should exist.
But it certainly was there, and Lesbia detected it immediately.
However, as she could see no reason for any such feeling existing
between her and a woman who--on the face of it--was doing her a
kindness, she fought desperately with her intuition. Still it seemed
to her that she was but leaving one abode of trouble to go to another,
wherein even more annoying things might happen. And the root of all
the worry was the missing cross.
Tim took down the box and then returned to Lesbia's bedroom as she was
issuing therefrom. He drew her back mysteriously and produced a letter
cautiously from his inner pocket. "This is for you, Miss," he declared
in a whisper, "it came under cover to me by the mid-day post, with a
scratch av a pin saying Mr. Canning sint it, and 'twas to be given ye
at onct."
"Mr. Canning!" Lesbia's face grew eager, and she hastily opened the
thin envelope to skim five or six lines written on foreign notepaper.
What she read surprised her, and she noted that the address given was
in a quiet street in Whitechapel.
"I have heard indirectly," wrote The Shadow, "that you are going some
time to The Court, Lord Charvington's place near Maidenhead. If you
do, keep a good watch, as two London thieves--the same who robbed
Tait's strong-room by Tait's direction--are about to try to steal Lady
Charvington's jewels when everyone is at dinner. The attempt will be
made on Thursday evening. I advise you to warn Lord Charvington, but
tell him not to bring in the police, as he will deeply regret doing
so. Yours always, C."
This mysterious letter, signed with Canning's initial, startled
Lesbia, For the moment she felt inclined to go down and tell her
father: but on second thoughts and with a discretion far beyond her
years, she decided to say nothing until she met her host. It was now
Tuesday, and the burglary was not arranged for until Thursday. There
was ample time.
"It's nothing, Tim," she said mendaciously, putting the letter away.
"Good-bye for one whole week, you dear old thing," and she kissed him
fondly.