THE HOUSE OF THE SILENT SORROW
A bell tolled mournfully with a slow, swinging cadence like a passing
bell. On winter nights folks, passing the House of the Silent Sorrow,
compared the doleful clanging to the boom that carries the criminal from
the cell to the scaffold. Every night all the year round the little
valley of Longdean echoed to that mournful clang. Perhaps it was for this
reason that a wandering poet christened the place as the House of the
Silent Sorrow.
For seven years this had been going on now, until nobody but strangers
noticed it. From half-past seven till eight o'clock that hideous bell
rang its swinging, melancholy note. Why it was nobody could possibly
tell. Nobody in the village had ever been beyond the great rusty gates
leading to a dark drive of Scotch firs, though one small boy bolder than
the rest had once climbed the lichen-strewn stone wall and penetrated the
thick undergrowth beyond. Hence he had returned, with white face and
staring eyes, with the information that great wild dogs dwelt in the
thickets. Subsequently the village poacher confirmed this information. He
was not exactly loquacious on the subject, but merely hinted that the
grounds of Longdean Grange were not salubrious for naturalists with a
predatory disposition.
Indeed, on moonlight nights those apocryphal hounds were heard to bay and
whimper. A shepherd up late one spring night averred that he had seen two
of them fighting. But nobody could say anything about them for certain;
also it was equally certain that nobody knew anything about the people at
Longdean Grange. The place had been shut up for thirty years, being
understood to be in Chancery, when the announcement went forth that a
distant relative of the family had arranged to live there in future.
What the lady of the Grange was like nobody could say. She had arrived
late one night accompanied by a niece, and from that moment she had never
been beyond the house. None of the large staff of servants ever left the
grounds unless it was to quit altogether, and then they were understood
to leave at night with a large bonus in money as a recompense for their
promise to evacuate Sussex without delay. Everything was ordered by
telephone from Brighton, and left at the porter's lodge. The porter was a
stranger, also he was deaf and exceedingly ill-tempered, so that long
since the village had abandoned the hope of getting anything out of him.
One rational human being they saw from the Grange occasionally, a big man
with an exceedingly benevolent face and mild, large, blue eyes--a man
full of Christian kindness and given to largesse to the village boys. The
big gentleman went by the name of "Mr. Charles," and was understood to
have a lot of pigeons of which he was exceedingly fond. But who "Mr.
Charles" was, or how he got that name, it would have puzzled the wisest
head of the village to tell.
And yet, but for the mighty clamour of that hideous bell and that belt of
wildness that surrounded it, Longdean Grange was a cheerful-looking house
enough. Any visitor emerging from the drive would have been delighted
with it. For the lawns were trim and truly kept, the beds were blazing
masses of flowers, the creepers over the Grange were not allowed to riot
too extravagantly. And yet the strange haunting sense of fear was there.
Now and again a huge black head would uplift from the coppice growth, and
a long, rumbling growl come from between a double row of white teeth. For
the dogs were no fiction, they lived and bred in the fifteen or twenty
acres of coppice round the house, where they were fed regularly and
regularly thrashed without mercy if they showed in the garden. Perhaps
they looked more fierce and truculent than they really were, being Cuban
bloodhounds, but they gave a weird colour to the place and lent it new
terror to the simple folk around.
The bell was swinging dolefully over the stable-turret; it rang out its
passing note till the clock struck eight and then mercifully ceased. At
the same moment precisely as she had done any time the last seven years
the lady of the house descended the broad, black oak staircase to the
hall. A butler of the old-fashioned type bowed to her and announced that
dinner was ready. He might have been the butler of an archbishop from
his mien and deportment, yet his evening dress was seedy and shiny to
the last degree, his patent leather boots had long lost their lustre,
his linen was terribly frayed and yellow. Two footmen in livery stood in
the hall. They might have been supers playing on the boards of a
travelling theatre, their once smartly cut and trimmed coats hung
raggedly upon them.
As to the lady, who was tall and handsome, with dark eyes and features
contrasting strangely with hair as white as the frost on a winter's
landscape, there was a far-away, strained look in the dark eyes, as if
they were ever night and day looking for something, something that would
never be found. In herself the lady was clean and wholesome enough, but
her evening dress of black silk and lace was dropping into fragments, the
lace was in rags upon her bosom, though there were diamonds of great
value in her white hair.
And here, strangely allied, were wealth and direst poverty; the whole
place was filled with rare and costly things, pictures, statuary, china;
the floors were covered with thick carpets, and yet everything was
absolutely smothered in dust. A thick, white, blankety cloud of it lay
everywhere. It obscured the china, it dimmed the glasses of the pictures,
it piled in little drifts on the heads and arms of the dingy statues
there. Many years must have passed since a housemaid's brush or duster
had touched anything in Longdean Grange. It was like a palace of the
Sleeping Beauty, wherein people walked as in a waking dream.
The lady of the house made her way slowly to the dining-room. Here dinner
was laid out daintily and artistically enough--a _gourmet_ would have
drawn up to the table with a feeling of satisfaction. Flowers were there,
and silver and cut-glass, china with a history of its own, and the whole
set out on a tablecloth that was literally dropping to pieces.
It was a beautiful room in itself, lofty, oak panelled from floor to
roof, with a few pictures of price on the walls. There was plenty of
gleaming silver glowing like an argent moon against a purple sky, and yet
the same sense of dust and desolation was everywhere. Only the dinner
looked bright and modern.
There were two other people standing by the table, one a girl with a
handsome, intellectual face full of passion but ill repressed; the other
the big fair man known to the village as "Mr. Charles." As a matter of
fact, his name was Reginald Henson, and he was distantly related to Mrs.
Henson, the strange chatelaine of the House of the Silent Sorrow. He was
smiling blandly now at Enid Henson, the wonderfully beautiful girl with
the defiant, shining eyes.
"We may be seated now that madam is arrived," Henson said, gravely.
He spoke with a certain mocking humility and a queer wry smile on his
broad, loose mouth that filled Enid with a speechless fury. The girl was
hot-blooded--a good hater and a good friend. And the master passion of
her life was hatred of Reginald Henson.
"Madam has had a refreshing rest?" Henson suggested. "Pardon our anxious
curiosity."
Again Enid raged, but Margaret Henson might have been of stone for all
the notice she took. The far-away look was still in her eyes as she felt
her way to the table like one in a dream. Then she dropped suddenly into
a chair and began grace in a high, clear voice.
".... And the Lord make us truly thankful. And may He, when it seemeth
good to Him, remove the curse from this house and in due season free the
innocent and punish the guilty. For the burden is sore upon us, and there
are times when it seems hard to bear."
The big man played with his knife and fork, smilingly. An acute observer
might have imagined that the passionate plaint was directed at him. If so
it passed harmlessly over his broad shoulders. In his immaculate evening
dress he looked strangely out of place there. Enid had escaped the
prevailing dilapidation, but her gown of grey homespun was severe as the
garb of a charity girl.
"Madam is so poetical," Henson murmured. "And charmingly sanguine."
"Williams," Mrs. Henson said, quite stoically, "my visitor will have some
champagne."
She seemed to have dropped once again into the commonplace, painfully
exact as a hostess of breeding must be to an unwelcome guest. And yet she
never seemed to see him; those dark eyes were looking, ever looking, into
the dark future. The meal proceeded in silence save for an oily sarcasm
from Henson. In the dense stillness the occasional howl of a dog could be
heard. A slight flush of annoyance crossed Henson's broad face.
"Some day I shall poison all those hounds," he said.
Enid looked up at him swiftly.
"If _all_ the hounds round Longdean were poisoned or shot it would be a
good place to live in," she said.
Henson smiled caressingly, like Petruchio might have done in his
milder moments.
"My dear Enid, you misjudge me," he said. "But I shall get justice
some day."
Enid replied that she fervently hoped so, and thus the strange meal
proceeded with smiles and gentle words from Henson, and a wild outburst
of bitterness from the girl. So far as she was concerned the servants
might have been mere automatons. The dust rose in clouds as the latter
moved silently. It was hot in there, and gradually the brown powder
grimed like a film over Henson's oily skin. At the head of the table
Margaret Henson sat like a woman in a dream. Ever, ever her dark eyes
seemed to be looking eagerly around. Thirsty men seeking precious water
in a desert might have looked like her. Ever and anon her lips moved, but
no sound came from them. Occasionally she spoke to one or the other of
her guests, but she never followed her words with her eyes. Such a sad,
pathetic, pitiable figure, such a grey sorrow in her rags and snowy hair.
The meal came to an end at length, and Mrs. Henson rose suddenly. There
was a grotesque suggestion of the marionette in the movement. She bowed
as if to some imaginary personage and moved with dignity towards the
door. Reginald Henson stood aside and opened it for her. She passed
into the dim hall as if absolutely unconscious of his presence. Enid
flashed a look of defiance at him as she disappeared into the gloom and
floating dust.
Henson's face changed instantly, as if a mask had fallen from his smug
features. He became alert and vigorous. He was no longer patron of the
arts, a wide-minded philanthropist, the man who devotes himself to the
good of humanity. The blue eyes were cold and cruel, there was a hungry
look about the loose mouth.
"Take a bottle of claret and the cigars into the small library,
Williams," he said. "And open the window, the dust stifles me."
The dignified butler bowed respectfully. He resembled the typical bad
butler of fiction in no respect, but his thoughts were by no means
pleasant as he hastened to obey. Enid was loitering in the hall as
Williams passed with the tray.
"Small study and the window open, miss," he whispered. "There's some game
on--oh, yes, there is some blessed game on again to-night. And him so
anxious to know how Miss Christiana is. Says she ought to call him in
professionally. Personally I'd rather call in an undertaker who was
desperately hard up for a job."
"All right, Williams," Enid replied. "My sister is worse to-night. And
unless she gets better I shall insist upon her seeing a doctor. And I am
obliged for the hint about Mr. Henson. The little study commands the
staircase leading to my sister's bedroom."
"And the open window commands the garden," Williams said, drily.
"Yes, yes. Now go. You are a real friend, Williams, and I will never
forget your goodness. Run along--I can actually _feel_ that man coming."
As a matter of fact, Henson was approaching noiselessly. Despite his
great bulk he had the clean, dainty step of a cat; his big, rolling ears
were those of a hare. Henson was always listening. He would have listened
behind a kitchen door to a pair of chattering scullery-maids. He liked to
find other people out, though as yet he had not been found out himself.
He stood before the world as a social missioner; he made speeches at
religious gatherings and affected the women to tears. He was known to
devote a considerable fortune to doing good; he had been asked to stand
for Parliament, where his real ambition lay. Gilead Gates had alluded to
Reginald Henson as his right-hand man.
He crept along to the study, where the lamps were lighted and the silver
claret-jug set out. He carefully dusted a big arm-chair and began to
smoke, having first carefully extinguished the lamps and seen that the
window leading to the garden was wide open. Henson was watching for
something. In his feline nature he had the full gift of feline patience.
To serve his own ends he would have sat there watching all night if
necessary. He heard an occasional whimper, a howl from one of the dogs;
he heard Enid's voice singing in the drawing-room. The rest of the house
was quite funereal enough for him.
In the midst of the drawing-room Margaret Henson sat still as a statue.
The distant, weary expression never left her eyes for a moment. As the
stable clock, the only one going on the premises, struck ten, Enid
crossed over from the piano to her aunt's side. There was an eager look
on her face, her eyes were gleaming like frosty stars.
"Aunt," she whispered; "dear, I have had a message!"
"Message of woe and desolation," Margaret Henson cried. "Tribulation and
sorrow on this wretched house. For seven long years the hand of the Lord
has lain heavily upon us."
She spoke like one who was far away from her surroundings. And yet no
one could look in her eyes and say that she was mad. It was a proud,
passionate spirit, crushed down by some bitter humiliation. Enid's
eyes flashed.
"That scoundrel has been robbing you again," she said.
"Two thousand pounds," came the mechanical reply, "to endow a bed in some
hospital. And there is no escape, no hope unless we drag the shameful
secret from him. Bit by bit and drop by drop, and then I shall die and
you and Christiana will be penniless."
"I daresay Chris and myself will survive that," Enid said, cheerfully.
"But we have a plan, dear aunt; we have thought it out carefully.
Reginald Henson has hidden the secret somewhere and we are going to find
it. The secret is hidden not far off, because our cousin has occasion to
require it frequently. It is like the purloined letter in Edgar Poe's
wonderful story."
Margaret Henson nodded and mumbled. It seemed almost impossible to make
her understand. She babbled of strange things, with her dark eyes ever
fixed on the future. Enid turned away almost despairingly. At the same
time the stable clock struck the half-hour after ten. Williams slipped
in with a tray of glasses, noiselessly. On the tray lay a small pile of
tradesmen's books. The top one was of dull red with no lettering upon
it at all.
"The housekeeper's respectful compliments, miss, and would you go through
them to-morrow?" Williams said. He tapped the top book significantly.
"To-morrow is the last day of the month."
Enid picked up the top book with strange eagerness. There were pages of
figures and cabalistic entries that no ordinary person could make
anything of. Pages here and there were signed and decorated with pink
receipt stamps. Enid glanced down the last column, and her face grew a
little paler.
"Aunt," she whispered, "I've got to go out. At once; do you understand?
There is a message here; and I am afraid that something dreadful has
happened. Can you sing?"
"Ah, yes; a song of lamentation--a dirge for the dead."
"No, no; seven years ago you had a lovely voice. I recollect what a
pleasure it was to me as a child; and they used to say that my voice
was very like yours, only not so sweet or so powerful. Aunt, I must go
out; and that man must know nothing about it. He is by the window in
the small library now, watching--watching. Help me, for the love of
Heaven, help me."
The girl spoke with a fervency and passion that seemed to waken a
responsive chord in Margaret Henson's breast. A brighter gleam crept
into her eyes.
"You are a dear girl," she said, dreamily; "yes, a dear girl. And I loved
singing; it was a great grief to me that they would not let me go upon
the stage. But I haven't sung since--since _that_--"
She pointed to the huddled heap of china and glass and dried, dusty
flowers in one corner. Ethel [Updater's note: Enid?] shuddered slightly
as she followed the direction of the extended forefinger.
"But you must try," she whispered. "It is for the good of the family, for
the recovery of the secret. Reginald Henson is sly and cruel and clever.
But we have one on our side now who is far more clever. And, unless I can
get away to-night without that man knowing, the chance may be lost for
ever. Come!"
Margaret commenced to sing in a soft minor. At first the chords were thin
and dry, but gradually they increased in sweetness and power. The
hopeless, distant look died from the singer's eyes; there was a flush on
her cheeks that rendered her years younger.
"Another one," she said, when the song was finished, "and yet another.
How wicked I have been to neglect this balm that God sent me all these
years. If you only knew what the sound of my own voice means to me!
Another one, Enid."
"Yes, yes," Enid whispered. "You are to sing till I return. You are
to leave Henson to imagine that I am singing. He will never guess.
Now then."
Enid crept away into the hall, closing the door softly behind her. She
made her way noiselessly from the house and across the lawn. As Henson
slipped through the open window into the garden Enid darted behind a
bush. Evidently Henson suspected nothing so far as she was concerned, for
she could see the red glow of the cigar between his lips. The faint
sweetness of distant music filled the air. So long as the song continued
Henson would relax his vigilance.
He was pacing down the garden in the direction of the drive. Did the man
know anything? Enid wondered. He had so diabolically cunning a brain. He
seemed to find out everything, and to read others before they had made up
their minds for themselves.
The cigar seemed to dance like a mocking sprite into the bushes. Usually
the man avoided those bushes. If Reginald Henson was afraid of one thing
it was of the dogs. And in return they hated him as he hated them.
Enid's mind was made up. If the sound of that distant voice should only
cease for a moment she was quite sure Henson would turn back. But he
could hear it, and she knew that she was safe. Enid slipped past him into
the bushes and gave a faint click of her lips. Something moved and
whined, and two dark objects bounded towards her. She caught them
together by their collars and cuffed them soundly. Then she led the way
back so as to get on Henson's tracks.
He was walking on ahead of her now, beating time softly to the music of
the faintly distant song with his cigar. Enid could distinctly see the
sweep of the red circle.
"Hold him, Dan," she whispered. "Watch, Prance; watch, boy."
There was a low growl as the hounds found the scent and dashed forward.
Henson came up all standing and sweating in every pore. It was not the
first time he had been held up by the dogs, and he knew by hard
experience what to expect if he made a bolt for it.
Two grim muzzles were pressed against his trembling knees; he saw four
rows of ivory flashing in the dim light. Then the dogs crouched at his
feet, watching him with eyes as red and lurid as the point of his own
cigar. Had he attempted to move, had he tried coercion, they would have
fallen upon him and torn him in pieces.
"Confusion to the creatures!" he cried, passionately. "I'll get a
revolver; I'll buy some prussic acid and poison the lot. And here I'll
have to stay till Williams locks up the stables. Wouldn't that little
Jezebel laugh at me if she could see me now? She would enjoy it better
than singing songs in the drawing-room to our sainted Margaret. Steady,
you brutes! I didn't move."
He stood there rigidly, almost afraid to take the cigar from his lips,
whilst Enid sped without further need for caution down the drive. The
lodge-gates were closed and the deaf porter's house in darkness, so that
Enid could unlock the wicket without fear of detection. She rattled the
key on the bars and a figure slipped out of the darkness.
"Good heavens, Ruth, is it really _you_?" Enid cried.
"Really me, Enid. I came over on my bicycle. I am supposed to be round at
some friend's house in Brunswick Square, and one of the servants is
sitting up for me. Is Reginald safe? He hasn't yet discovered the secret
of the tradesman's book?"
"That's all right, dear. But why are you here? Has something dreadful
happened?"
"Well, I will try to tell you so in as few words as possible. I never
felt so ashamed of anything in my life."
"Don't tell me that our scheme has failed!" "Perhaps I need not go so far
as that. The first part of it came off all right, and then a very
dreadful thing happened. We have got Mr. David Steel into frightful
trouble. He is going to be charged with attempted murder and robbery."
"Ruth! But tell me. I am quite in the dark."
"It was the night when--well, you know the night. It was after Mr. Steel
returned home from his visit to 219, Brunswick Square--"
"You mean 218, Ruth."
"It doesn't matter, because he knows pretty well all about it by this
time. It would have been far better for us if we hadn't been quite so
clever. It would have been far wiser to have taken Mr. Steel entirely
into our confidence. Oh, oh, Enid, if we had only left out that little
sentiment over the cigar-case! Then we should have been all right."
"Dearest girl, my time is limited. I've got Reginald held up for the
time, but at any moment he may escape from his bondage. What about the
cigar-case?"
"Well, Mr. Steel took it home with him. And when he got home he found a
man nearly murdered lying in his conservatory. That man was conveyed to
the Sussex County Hospital, where he still lies in an unconscious state.
On the body was found a receipt for a gun-metal cigar-case set with
diamonds."
"Good gracious, Ruth, you don't mean to say--"
"Oh, I do. I can't quite make out how it happened, but that same case
that we--that Mr. Steel has--has been positively identified as one
purchased from Walen by the injured man. There is no question about it.
And they have found out about Mr. Steel being short of money, and the
£1,000, and everything."
"But we _know_ that that cigar-case from Lockhart's in North Street was
positively--"
"Yes, yes. But what has become of that? And in what strange way was the
change made? I tell you that the whole thing frightens me. We thought
that we had hit upon a scheme to solve the problem, and keep our friends
out of danger. There was the American at Genoa who volunteered to assist
us. A week later he was found dead in his bed. Then there was
Christiana's friend, who disappeared entirely. And now we try further
assistance in the case of Mr. Steel, and he stands face to face with a
terrible charge. And he has found us out."
"He has found us out? What do you mean?"
"Well, he called to see me. He called at 219, of course. And directly I
heard his name I was so startled that I am afraid I betrayed myself. Such
a nice, kind, handsome man, Enid; so manly and good over it all. Of
course he declared that he had been at 219 before, and I could only
declare that he had done nothing of the kind. Never, never have I felt so
ashamed of myself in my life before."
"It seems a pity," Enid said, thoughtfully. "You said nothing about 218?"
"My dear, he found it out. At least, Hatherly Bell did for him. Hatherly
Bell happened to be staying down with us, and Hatherly Bell, who knows
Mr. Steel, promptly solved, or half solved, that side of the problem. And
Hatherly Bell is coming here to-night to see Aunt Margaret. He--"
"Here!" Enid cried. "To see Aunt Margaret? Then he found out about you.
At all hazards Mr. Bell must not come here--he _must_ not. I would rather
let everything go than that. I would rather see auntie dead and Reginald
Henson master here. You _must_--"
In the distance came the rattle of harness bells and the trot of a horse.
"I'm afraid it's too late," Ruth Gates said, sadly. "I am afraid that
they are here already. Oh, if we had only left out that wretched
cigar-case!"