_The Inmates of the Grange House._
Philip walked on roses during those glorious days. He had found his
mate. His life was complete. How bright the world, and how fair the
future.
The only disagreeable incident marring the utter joy of existence, and
that only for an instant, was his encounter with Langdon at Mrs.
Atherley's pretty flat in Mount Street.
Grenier, endowed by nature with an occasional retrospective glimpse of a
nobler character, read him correctly, when he said that Anson would
never condescend to name the intruder in the presence of the woman he
loved.
But he did ask a servant who it was with whom he had just been
conversing in the entrance hall, and the girl said the gentleman was a
Mr. Langdon. No; Mrs. Atherley did not know him well. He was brought to
her "At Home" on a previous Wednesday by a friend.
Obviously Evelyn could not have more than a passing acquaintance with
the man, or she would have recognized him herself. Her agitation that
night in the park, the terror of a difficult situation, was enough to
account for her failure in this respect, nor was Philip then aware that
at her previous meeting with Lady Morland's son she entertained a
curious suspicion, instantly dispelled by his glib manner, that Langdon
was the man who sought to thrust his unwelcome attentions upon her.
Mount Street--how came Mrs. Atherley and her daughter to return to the
precincts of Mayfair? That was a little secret between Philip and Lord
Vanstone.
When Evelyn slyly endeavored to make her new admirer understand that
there could be no intimacy between a millionaire and a young lady who
was embarking on a professional career--she thought so, be it recorded;
this is no canon of art--he seemingly disregarded the hint, but
interviewed Lord Vanstone next morning.
The conversation was stormy on one side and emphatic on the other.
Philip had heard sufficient of Mrs. Atherley's history by judicious
inquiry to enable him to place some unpleasant facts before his
lordship.
When the facts had been thrust down the aristocratic gorge, Anson turned
to pleasanter topics. He informed Lord Vanstone, who bore the title as
the third son of a marquis, that his niece's future was more important
than his lordship's dignity. He must eat mud for her sake, and willingly
withal.
Various firms of solicitors set to work, and, marvelous to relate, Lord
Vanstone was able to write and inform his half-sister that certain
speculations in which he had invested her fortune were turning out well.
A cash payment of two thousand pounds would be made to her at once, and
she possessed an assured income of at least one thousand five hundred
pounds per annum during the remainder of her life.
The poor lady had heard these fairy tales before; indeed, some such
story of more gorgeous proportions had converted her consols into waste
paper.
But a lawyer, not Lord Vanstone's, sent her a check for the larger
amount, and, at a subsequent interview, affirmed the statements made by
her unreliable relative.
So she went back to her caste, and her caste welcomed her with open
arms, and the dear woman thanked Providence for the decree that her
daughter might now accept the attentions of any man, no matter how rich
he might be, for she saw the drift of Philip's wishes, and, if Evelyn
were married to him, surely all their previous trials might be deemed
fortunate.
She little dreamed that imperious Philip had ordered matters his own
way.
It was not to his thinking that his bride should come to him from the
genteel obscurity of Maida Crescent. He would give her a great position,
worthy of the highest in the land, and it was better for her that he
should woo and win her from the ranks of her order.
It should not be imagined that he was hasty in his decision. To his
mind, Evelyn and he were known to each other since they were children.
It was not by the wayward caprice of chance that he met her on the night
of the meteor's fall, nor again, that he came to her assistance a second
time after the lapse of years.
It was his mother's work. He was faithful to her memory--she to her
trust. Never did his confidence waver. On the day that Evelyn consented
to marry him he showed her his mother's photograph, and told her his
belief.
The girl's happy tears bedewed the picture.
"A good son makes a good husband," she murmured. "Mamma says I have
been a good daughter, and I will try to be a good wife, Philip."
Apparently these young people had attained the very pinnacle of earthly
happiness. There was no cloud, no obstacle. All that was best in the
world was at their feet.
Some such thought flitted through Philip's active brain once when Evelyn
and he were discussing the future.
"Of course we will be busy," he said, laughing. "You are such an
industrious little woman--what? Well--such an industrious tall
woman--that the days won't be long enough for all you will find to do.
As for me, I suppose I must try and earn a peerage, just to give you
your proper place in society, and then we will grow old gracefully."
"Oh, Philip," she cried, placing her hands on his shoulders. "We met
once as children for a few minutes. Fate ordained that we should meet
again under strange circumstances. We were separated for years. Can fate
play us any uncanny trick that will separate us again?"
"Well, sweetheart, fate, in the shape of Wale, is coming for me at six.
Unless you wish me to send for my man and dress here----"
"Sometimes I cannot quite credit my good fortune," she said, softly.
"Tell me, dearest, how did you manage to live until you were twenty-five
without falling in love with some other girl?"
"That is ridiculously easy. Tell me how you managed to escape matrimony
until you were twenty-two and you are answered."
"Philip, I--I liked you that night I saw you in the square. You were a
woe-begone little boy, but you were so brave, and gave me your hand to
help me from the carriage with the air of a young lord."
"And I have cherished your face in my waking dreams ever since. You
looked like a fairy. And how you stuck up for me against your uncle!"
"Tell me, what did you think of me when you saw me standing disconsolate
in the park?"
Tell, tell, tell--it was nothing but sweet questions and sweet
assurances that this pair of turtle doves had been seeking each other
through all eternity.
Their wedding was fixed for the middle of July. Sharp work, it may be
said, but what need was there to wait? Mr. Abingdon was greatly pleased
with Philip's choice, and urged him to settle down at the earliest
possible date.
Mrs. Atherley, too, raised no protest. The sooner her beloved daughter
was married, the more rapidly would life resume its normal aspect; they
would not be long parted from each other.
The young people had no housekeeping cares. Philip's mansions were
replete with all that could be desired by the most fastidious taste. His
yacht was brought to the Solent, so that they could run over to
Portsmouth on a motor car to inspect her, and Evelyn instantly
determined that their honeymoon in Etretat should be curtailed to permit
them to go for a three-weeks' cruise around the British coast.
This suggestion, of course, appealed to Philip. Nothing could be more
delightful. He whispered in Evelyn's ear that he would hug her for the
idea at the first available opportunity.
One morning, a day of June rain, a letter reached Philip. It bore the
printed superscription, "The Hall, Beltham, Devon," but this was struck
out and another address substituted. It was written in a scrawling,
wavering hand, the caligraphy of a man old and very ill. It read:
"MY DEAR PHILIP: I am lying at the point of death, so I use no
labored words to explain why I address you in such manner. I want
to tell you how bitterly I regret the injustice I showed to your
dear mother and my sister. If, of your charity, you will come to my
bedside, and assure a feeble old man of your forgiveness, I can
meet the coming ordeal strong in the certainty that Mary Anson will
not refuse what you have given in her behalf.
"Your sorrowing uncle,
"PHILIP MORLAND."
With this piteous epistle was inclosed another.
"DEAR MR. ANSON: I join my earnest supplication to my husband's
that you will console his last hours with a visit. He blames
himself for what has happened in the past. Yet the fault was more
mine than his--far more. For his sake I willingly admit it. And I
have been punished for my sin. Ruined in fortune, with my husband
at death's door, I am indeed a sorrowing woman.
"Yours faithfully,
"LOUISA MORLAND."
The angular Italian handwriting of the second letter recalled a faded
script in his safe at that moment. The address in each case was a
village on the Yorkshire coast, a remote and inaccessible place
according to Philip's unaided recollection of the map. "Grange House"
might be a farm or a broken-down manor, and Lady Morland's admission of
reduced circumstances indicated that they had chosen the locality for
economy's sake.
These appeals brought a frown of indecision to Anson's brow. His uncle,
and his uncle's wife, had unquestionably been the means of shortening
and embittering his mother's life. The man might have acted in
ignorance; the woman did not.
Yet what could he do? Refuse a dying relative's last request! They, or
one of them, refused his mother's pitiful demand for a little pecuniary
help at a time when they were rich.
And what dire mischance could have sunk them into poverty. Little more
than two months had passed since Sir Philip Morland was inquiring for
his--Philip's--whereabouts through Messrs. Sharpe & Smith with a view
toward making him his heir.
Was the inquiry Lady Morland's last ruse to save an encumbered estate?
Why was all pretense of doubt as to his relationship swept aside so
completely?
He glanced again at the address on the letter, and asked a servant to
bring him a railway guide. Then he ascertained that if he would reach
Scarsdale that day he must leave London not later than noon. There was a
journey of nearly seven hours by rail; no chance of returning the same
night.
He went to the library and rang up Sharpe & Smith on the telephone.
A clerk assured him that Mr. Sharpe, who attended to Sir Philip
Morland's affairs, had been summoned to Devonshire the previous day.
"To Devonshire!" cried Philip. "I have just received letters from Sir
Philip and Lady Morland from Yorkshire."
"Mr. Sharpe himself is puzzled about the matter, sir. Lady Morland wrote
from Yorkshire, but told him to proceed to Devonshire without delay."
"Has there been some unexpected development affecting the estate?"
"I am sorry, sir, but you will see I can hardly answer any further
questions."
Of course the clerk was right. Philip had hardly quitted the telephone
when a note reached him by hand from Evelyn: "Please come at once. Must
see you."
He was at Mount Street in three minutes.
Evelyn looked serious and began by holding out a letter to him. He
recognized Lady Morland's writing.
"Philip--those people--who behaved so badly to your mother----"
"Have they dared to trouble you?"
"Oh, it is so sad. Your uncle is dying. They are wretchedly poor; an
unforeseen collapse. See." And she read:
"Of your pity, Miss Atherley, ask your affianced husband to come to
us, and to help us. I want nothing for myself, but the mere sight
of a few checks to pay tradespeople, doctor and the rest will
soothe Sir Philip's last hours. He is a proud man, and I know he is
heartbroken to think he is dying a pauper among strangers."
So it ended as might be expected. Philip wired to Grange House,
Scarsdale, to announce his coming. Accompanied by his valet, he left
King's Cross at twelve o'clock, but his parting words to Evelyn were:
"See Mr. Abingdon after luncheon, dear, and tell him what I am doing. I
will return to-morrow; meanwhile, I will keep you informed by telegraph
of my movements."
After leaving the main line at York there was a tiresome crawl to the
coast, broken by changes at junctions--wearying intervals spent in
pacing monotonous platforms.
At last the train reached Scarsdale at twenty minutes to seven. A few
passengers alighted. The place was evidently a small village not given
over to the incursions of summer visitors.
A tall man, with "doctor" writ large on his silk hat and frock coat,
approached Philip.
"Mr. Anson?"
"Yes."
"I am Dr. Williams. I have brought you a letter from Lady Morland.
Perhaps you will read it now. I expect it explains my errand."
"Sir Philip is still living?"
"Yes, but sinking fast."
Anson tore open the note. It was brief.
"Thank you for your prompt kindness. Dr. Williams will drive you to
the house. If you have brought a servant he might take your luggage
to the Fox and Hounds Inn, where Dr. Williams has secured rooms for
you. I regret exceedingly we have no accommodation here, but, in
any event, you will be more comfortable at the inn."
He looked at the doctor. In a vague way, his voice recalled accents he
seemed to recognize.
"Is there a telegraph office here?"
"Yes. We pass it. It closes at eight."
"I will not be back from the Grange House before then?"
"Hardly. It is a half-hour's drive."
"Thank you. You will stop a moment at the telegraph office?"
The doctor hesitated.
"There is so little time. Is it of great importance? Of course----"
"Oh, I know what to do. Green--take my traps to the Fox and Hounds Inn.
Then go to the telegraph office and send a message in my name to Miss
Atherley, saying: 'Arrived. Sir Philip worse.' That is all."
Anson's valet saluted and left them. Dr. Williams said cheerfully:
"That disposes of a difficulty. Are you ready, Mr. Anson?"
They entered a ramshackle dogcart, for which the doctor apologized.
"These hills knock one's conveyances to pieces. I am having a new cart
built, but it will be done for in a couple of years. Out in all
weathers, you see. To carry you I had to leave my man at home."
The doctor himself seemed to be young and smart-looking. Evidently
Scarsdale agreed with him, if not with his vehicles. The horse, too, was
a good one, and they moved through a scattered village at a quick trot.
They met a number of people, but Dr. Williams was talking so eagerly to
his companion that he did not nod to any of them.
As the road began to climb toward a bleak moorland he became less
voluble, more desirous to get Anson to speak. Philip thought that the
doctor listened to him with a curious eagerness. Probably Sir Philip and
Lady Morland impressed him as an odd couple; he would be anxious to
learn what sort of relative this was who had traveled from London to see
them.
Philip was in small humor for conversation. He looked forward to an
exceedingly unpleasant interview, when his lips would utter consoling
words to which he must strive to impart a genuine and heartfelt ring;
that would need an effort, to say the least.
The road wound its way through pines and heather, but ever upward, until
the trees yielded to an unbroken range of open mountain, and the farms
that nestled in nooks of the hillside disappeared wholly.
Glimpses of the sea were caught where a precipitous valley tore a cleft
in the land. On a lofty brow in front Philip saw a solitary and
half-dismantled building.
"Is that the Grange House?" he inquired.
"Yes."
"Why on earth did two old people, one of them an invalid, select such a
lonely residence?"
"That has been puzzling me for days."
"How long have they been here?"
"I cannot say. I was only called in four days ago."
They passed a policeman patrolling his country beat. The doctor gave him
an affable smile. The man saluted promptly, but looked after them with a
puzzled air. He continued to watch them at intervals until they reached
the Grange House.
Anson noticed that the track, it was a gate-guarded bridle path now,
mounted steadily to the very threshold.
"The place stands on the edge of a cliff," he said.
"Yes. It was built by some recluse. The rock falls sheer, indeed slopes
inwards to some extent, for three hundred feet."
"Some day, I suppose, it will fall into the sea?"
"Probably, but not in our time. Here we are. Just allow me to hitch the
reins to the gatepost."
He jumped lightly out of the dogcart.
"Are there no servants?"
"Only an old woman and her daughter. They are busy at this hour."
Philip understood that a meal might be in preparation. He hoped not;
personally, he could not eat there.
Dr. Williams pressed the latch of an old-fashioned door. He whispered:
"Be as quiet as possible. He may be asleep; if he is, it will not be for
long, poor fellow."
Indeed the doctor himself betrayed some slight agitation now. He
perspired somewhat, and his hand shook.
Anson followed him into a somber apartment, crudely furnished, half
dining room, half kitchen. Though the light of a June evening was clear
enough outside, the interior of the house was gloomy in the extreme.
There were some dark curtains shrouding a doorway.
"Lady Morland is in there," murmured the doctor, brokenly. "Will you go
to her?"
Philip obeyed in silence. He passed through the curtains. It was so dark
that he imagined he must be in a passage with a door at the other end.
"Can't I have a light?" he asked, partly turning toward the room he had
just quitted.
In the neglected garden at the landward front of the Grange House the
horse stood patiently on three legs, ruminating, no doubt, on the
steepness of hills and the excellence of pastures.
Nearly an hour passed thus, in solemn quietude. Then a boy on a bicycle,
red-faced with exertion, pedaled manfully up the hill, and through the
gate.
"I hope he's here," thought he. "It's a long way to coom for nothin'."
Around his waist was a strap with a pouch bearing the king's monogram.
He ran up to the door and gave a couple of thunderous knocks, the
privileged rat-tat of a telegraph messenger.
There was a long delay. Then a heavy step approached, and a man opened
the door, a big, heavy-faced man, with eyes that stared dreadfully, and
a nose damaged in life's transit.
"Philip Anson, Esquire," said the boy, briskly, producing a buff-colored
envelope.
The man seemed to swallow something.
"Yes; he's here. Is that for him?"
"Yes, sir. Any reply?"
The man took the telegram, closed the door, and the boy heard his
retreating footsteps. After some minutes he returned.
"It's too late to reply to-night, isn't it?" he inquired.
"Yes, sir. It coom'd after hours, but they'd paid t' porterage i'
Lunnon, so t' postmistress said ye'd mebbe like to hev it at yance. I've
ridden all t' way frae Scarsdale."
Late that evening, when the protracted gloaming of the north was fast
yielding to the shadows of a cloudy night, the big man from the Grange
House drove into Scarsdale. He pulled up at the Fox and Hounds public
house. He wanted Mr. Green.
Anson's valet came.
"Your master says you are to bring his portmanteau to the Grange House
to-night. He intends remaining there. You must get the landlord to sit
up until you return. It will take you an hour and a half to drive both
ways."
Green was ready in five minutes. He learned that a stable boy must
crouch at their feet to bring the dogcart back. It was the property of
the Fox and Hounds' proprietor.
Very unwillingly the horse swung off again toward the moor. There was
little conversation. The driver was taciturn, the Londoner somewhat
scared by the dark loneliness.
At the Grange House they were met by Philip Anson. He stood in the open
doorway. He held a handkerchief to his lips and spoke in a husky voice,
the voice of one under the stress of great agitation:
"That you, Green? Just give my bag to the driver and return to the
village. Here is a five-pound note. Pay your bill and go back to London
by the first train to-morrow. I stop here some few days."
The astonished servant took the note. Before he could reply, his master
turned, crossed a room feebly lighted by a dull lamp, and passed through
a curtained doorway.
Green was staring perplexedly at the house, the kitchen, his ill-favored
companion carrying Philip's portmanteau within, when he heard his
master's voice again, and saw him standing between the partly drawn
curtains, with his face quite visible in the dim rays of the lamp.
"Green?"
"Yes, sir."
"Here are my keys. Unlock the bag and take the keys with you. You
remember the small portmanteau in my safe at Park Lane?"
"Yes, sir."
"Open the safe, get that bag, and send it to me to-morrow night by train
to the Station Hotel, York."
"To-morrow night, sir?"
"Yes."
The keys were thrown with a rattle onto a broad kitchen table. Evidently
Mr. Anson would not brook questions as to his movements, though his few
words sounded contradictory. Green got down, unfastened the portmanteau
and went back to the dogcart.
"They're queer folk i' t' grange," said the stable boy, as they drove
away. "There's a barrow-night and a lady as nobody ever sees, an' a
dochtor, an' a man--him as kem for ye."
"Surely they are well known here?"
"Not a bit of it. On'y bin here about a week. T' doctor chap's very
chirpy, but yon uther is a rum 'un."
Green was certainly puzzled very greatly by the unexpected developments
of the last few minutes, but he was discreet and well trained.
He liked his young master, and would do anything to serve his interests.
Moreover, the ways of millionaires were not the ways of other men. All
he could do was to hear and obey.
He slept none the less soundly because his master chose voluntarily to
bury himself, even for a little while, in such a weirdly tumbledown, old
mansion as the Grange House.