UNCLE DAVID'S SUSPICIONS.
Mr. David Arden, therefore, had made a call at the office of Paller,
Crapely, Plumes, and Co., eminent undertakers in the most
gentleman-like, and, indeed, aristocratic line of business, with immense
resources at command, and who would undertake to bury a duke, with all
the necessary draperies, properties, and _dramatis personæ_, if
required, before his grace was cold in his bed.
A little dialogue occurred here, which highly interested Uncle David. A
stout gentleman, with a muddy and melancholy countenance, and a sad
suavity of manner, and in the perennial mourning that belongs to
gentlemen of his doleful profession, presents himself to David Arden, to
receive his instructions respecting the deceased baronet's obsequies.
The top of his head is bald, his face is furrowed and baggy; he looks
fully sixty-five, and he announces himself as the junior partner, Plumes
by name.
Having made his suggestions and his notes, and taken his order for a
strictly private funeral in the neighbourhood of London, Mr. Plumes
thoughtfully observes that he remembers the name well, having been
similarly employed for another member of the same family.
"Ah! How was that? How long ago?" asked Mr. Arden.
"About twenty years, Sir."
"And where was that funeral?"
"The same place, Sir, Mortlake."
"Yes, I know that was----?"
"It was Mr. 'Enry, or rayther 'Arry Harden. We 'ad to take back the
plate, Sir, and change 'Enry to 'Arry--'Arry being the name he was
baptised by. There was a hinquest connected with that horder."
"So there was, Mr. Plumes," said Uncle David with awakened interest, for
that gentleman spoke as if he had something more to say on the subject.
"There was, Sir,--and it affected me very sensibly. My niece, Sir, had a
wery narrow escape."
"Your niece! Really? How could that be?"
"There was a Mister Yelland Mace, Sir, who paid his haddresses to her,
and I do believe, Sir, she rayther liked him. I don't know, I'm sure,
whether he was serious in 'is haddresses, but it looked very like as if
he meant to speak; though I do suppose he was looking 'igher for a wife.
Well, he was believed to 'ave 'ad an 'and in that 'orrible business."
"I know--so he undoubtably had--and the poor young lady, I suppose, was
greatly shocked and distressed."
"Yes, Sir, and she died about a year after."
David Arden expressed his regret, and then he asked--
"You have often seen that man, Yelland Mace?"
"Not often, Sir."
"You remember his face pretty well, I daresay?"
"Well, no, Sir, not very well. It is a long time."
"Do you recollect whether there was anything noticeable in his
features?--had he, for instance, a remarkably prominent nose?"
"I don't remember that he 'ad, Sir. I rather think not, but I can't by
no means say for certain. It is a long time, and I 'aven't much of a
memory for faces. There is a likeness of him among my poor niece's
letters."
"Really? I should be so much obliged if you would allow me to see it."
"It is at 'ome, Sir, but I shall be 'ome to dinner before I go out to
Mortlake; and, if you please, I shall borrow it of my sister, and take
it with me."
This offer David Arden gladly accepted.
When the events were recent, he could have no difficulty in identifying
Yelland Mace, by the evidence of fifty witnesses, if necessary. But it
was another thing now. The lapse of time had made matters very
different. It was recent impressions of a vague kind about Mr. Longcluse
that had revived the idea, and prompted a renewal of the search. Martha
Tansey was aged now, and he had misgivings about the accuracy of her
recollection. Was it possible, after all, that he was about to see that
which would corroborate his first vague suspicions?
Sir Richard had a busy and rather harassing day, the first of his
succession to an old title and a new authority, and he was not sorry
when it closed. He had stolen about from place to place in a hired cab,
and leaned back to avoid a chance recognition, like an absconding
debtor; and had talked with the people whom he was obliged to call on
and see, in low and hurried colloquy, through the window of the cab. And
now night had fallen, the lamps were glaring, and tired enough he
returned to his lodgings, sent for his tailor, and arranged promptly
about the
"----inky cloak, good mother,
And customary suits of solemn black;"
and that done, he wrote two or three notes to kindred in Yorkshire, with
whom it behoved him to stand on good terms; and then he determined to
drive out to Mortlake Hall. An unpleasant mixture of feelings was in his
mind as he thought of that visit, and the cold tenant of the ancestral
house, whom in the grim dignity of death, it would not have been seemly
to leave for a whole day and night unvisited. It was to him a repulsive
visit, but how could he postpone it?
Behold him, then, leaning back in his cab, and driving through glaring
lamps, and dingy shops, and narrow ill-thriven streets, eastward and
northward; and now, through the little antique village, with trembling
lights, and by the faded splendours of the "Guy of Warwick." And he sat
up and looked out of the windows, as they entered the narrow road that
is darkened by the tall overhanging timber of Mortlake grounds.
Now they are driving up the broad avenue, with its noble old trees
clumped at either side; and with a shudder Sir Richard Arden leans back
and moves no more until the cab pulls up at the door-steps, and the
knock sounds through hall and passages, which he dared not so have
disturbed, uninvited, a day or two before. Crozier ran down the steps to
greet Master Richard.
"How are you, old Crozier?" he said, shaking hands from the cab-window,
for somehow he liked to postpone entering the house as long as he could.
"I could not come earlier. I have been detained in town all day by
business, of various kinds, connected with this." And he moved his hand
toward the open hall-door, with a gloomy nod or two. "How is Martha?"
"Tolerable, Sir, thankye, considerin'. It's a great upset to her."
"Yes, poor thing, of course. And has Mr. Paller been here--the person
who is to--to----"
"The undertaker? Yes, Sir, he was here at two o'clock, and some of the
people has been busy in the room, and his men has come out again with
the coffin, Sir. I think they'll soon be leaving; they've been here a
quarter of an hour, and--if I may make bold to ask, Sir,--what day will
the funeral be?"
"I don't know myself, Crozier; I must settle that with my uncle. He said
he thought he would come here himself this evening, at about nine, and
it must be very near that now. Where is Martha?"
"In her room, Sir, I think."
"I won't see her there. Ask her to come to the oak-room."
Richard got out and entered the house of which he was now the master,
with an oppressive misgiving.
The oak-parlour was a fine old room, and into the panels were set four
full-length portraits. Two of these were a lady and gentleman, in the
costume of the beginning of Charles the Second's reign. The lady held an
Italian greyhound by a blue ribbon, and the gentleman stood booted for
the field, and falcon on fist. It struck Richard, for the first time,
how wonderfully like Alice that portrait of the beautiful lady was. He
raised the candle to examine it. There was a story about this lady. She
had been compelled to marry the companion portrait, with the hawk on his
hand, and those beautiful lips had dropped a curse, in her despair, when
she was dying, childless, and wild with grief. She prayed that no
daughter of the house of Arden might ever wed the man of her love, and
it was said that a fatality had pursued the ladies of that family, which
looked like the accomplishment of the malediction; and a great deal of
curious family lore was connected with this legend and portrait.
As he held the candle up to this picture, still scanning its features,
the door slowly opened, and Martha Tansey, arrayed in a black silk dress
of a fashion some twenty years out of date, came in. He set down the
candle, and took the old woman's hand, and greeted her very kindly.
"How's a' wi' you, Master Richard? A dowly house ye've come too. Ye
didna look to see this sa soon?"
"Very sudden, Martha--awfully sudden. I could not let the day pass
without coming out to see you."
"Not me, Master Richard, but to ha'e a last look at the face of the
father that begot ye. He'll be shrouded and coffined by this time--the
light 'ill not be lang on that face. The lid will be aboon it and
screwed down to-morrow, I dar' say. Ay, there goes the undertaker's men;
and there's a man from Mr. Paller--Mr. Plumes is his name--that says
he'll stay till your Uncle David comes, for he told him he had something
very particular to say to him; and I desired him to wait in my room
after his business about the poor master was over; and the a'ad things
is passin' awa' and it's time auld Martha was fittin' herself."
"Don't say that, Martha, unless you would have me think you expect to
find me less kind than my father was."
"There's good and there's bad in every one, Master Richard. Ye can't
take it in meal and take it in malt. A bit short-waisted he was, there's
no denyin', and a sharp word now and again; but none so hard to live wi'
as many a one that was cooler-tempered, and more mealy-mouthed; and I
think ye were o'er hard wi' him, Master Richard. Ye should have opened
the estate. It was that killed him," she continued considerately. "Ye
broke his heart, Master Richard; he was never the same man after he fell
out wi' you."
"Some day, Martha, you'll learn all about it," said he gently. "It was
no fault of mine--ask my Uncle David. I'm not the person to persuade
you; and, beside, I have not courage to talk over that cruel quarrel
now."
"Come and see him," said the old woman grimly, taking up the candle.
"No, Martha, no; set it down again--I'll not go."
"And when will you see him?"
"Another time--not now--I can't."
"He's laid in his coffin now; they'll be out again in the mornin'. If
you don't see him now, ye'll never see him; and what will the folk down
in Yorkshire say, when it's told at Arden Court that Master Richard
never looked on his dead father's face, nor saw more of him after his
flittin' than the plate on his coffin. By Jen! 'twill stir the blood o'
the old tenants and gar them clench their fists and swear, I warrant, at
the very sound o' yer name; for there never was an Arden died yet, at
Arden Court, but he was waked, and treated wi' every respect, and
visited by every living soul of his kindred, for ten mile round."
"If you think so, Martha, say no more. I'll--go as well now as another
time--and, as you say, sooner or later it must be done."