GENERAL ST. GEORGE
General St. George’s departure from India had been accelerated by a
slight attack of fever, which so far prostrated him that he was unable
to write, or communicate in any way to his friends in England the fact
that he was starting for home two months before the date previously
fixed on by himself. As a consequence, the letters and newspapers
addressed to him, which contained the account of his nephew Lionel
Dering’s arrest and commitment for wilful murder, crossed him on the
voyage, and he landed at Marseilles in happy ignorance of the whole
affair.
His health had benefited greatly by the voyage, and he determined to
strengthen it still further by lingering for a few weeks in the South
of France before venturing to encounter the more variable and trying
climate of his own country. It was while thus enjoying himself that the
letters and papers sent back from India reached him. It was a terrible
shock to the old soldier to read the news told therein. In his secret
heart he had come to look upon Lionel with all the affection and
yearning which he might have bestowed on a son.
Without the loss of a moment he started for Paris, en route for London.
But by the time he reached Paris he was so ill again that the doctor
whom he called in ordered him at once to bed, and utterly forbade him
even to think of venturing any farther on his journey for at least a
fortnight to come. In this dilemma he telegraphed to Mr. Perrins, the
family lawyer. That gentleman was by the old soldier’s bedside in less
than twenty-four hours afterwards.
Mr. Perrins brought with him the startling news of Lionel’s escape from
prison; but beyond the bare facts of the affair as detailed in the
newspapers he knew nothing. With those bare facts the General was
obliged to content himself for some time to come. He watched the
newspapers from day to day with feverish anxiety, dreading each morning
to find in them the news of Lionel’s recapture. But when a month had
passed away, and the subject had begun to die out of people’s minds in
the rush of newer interests, he took heart of grace and wrote to
Perrins again, begging of him to go down to Duxley, and there
ascertain, by cautious inquiries and the free use of his purse, whether
it were not possible to obtain some clue, however faint, to Lionel’s
whereabouts.
Mr. Hoskyns was the first person on whom Mr. Perrins called when he
found himself at Duxley; but that gentleman professed to know very
little more than was known to the public at large. Nor, in fact, did
he. The annoyance he had felt at the time at having been so cleverly
impersonated, and the trouble he had been put to to prove his
non-complicity in the escapade, had soon been forgotten. He had learned
to like and esteem Lionel as much as it was possible for him to like
and esteem any one, and he was genuinely glad that he had escaped from
prison. But it was no part of his business to pry into the details of
the affair, nor did he ever attempt to do so; neither did Lionel nor
Tom see any adequate motive for laying on his shoulders the burden of a
secret which he could in nowise help to lighten for them.
Thus it fell out that he had nothing to tell Perrins. But he did the
wisest thing that could be done under the circumstances: he took him
straight to Tom Bristow, introduced him to that gentleman, and then
left the two together.
This first interview between Mr. Perrins and Tom took place during the
time that Lionel was lying perdu at Pincote. Not till he had fully
satisfied himself as to the lawyer’s identity, and had consulted with
Lionel, would Tom say a word either one way or another. So Mr. Perrins
stayed all night in Duxley, and saw Tom the following morning; but,
even then, the information which he took back with him for the behoof
of General St. George was of the scantiest. Still, as far as it went,
it was eminently satisfactory. Lionel was well and safe. He sent his
love and regards to his uncle, and begged of him to wait a little while
longer and then everything should be told him.
The General had not long to wait. Within a fortnight of the time that
Mr. Perrins had communicated to him the result of his mission, Mr. Tom
Bristow was ushered into the sitting-room of his hotel in Paris. Tom
was the bearer of a letter of introduction from Lionel, which spoke of
him and his services in such terms that the old soldier’s heart warmed
to him in a moment. Then Tom told him everything: the story of the
murder; the imprisonment; the marriage; the trial and the escape; and
finished by telling him how Lionel, under the name of the Rev. Horace
Brown, was at that moment hidden safely away among the Cumberland
hills.
The old soldier listened to the narrative in open-mouthed wonder. To
him it was like a story out of the “Arabian Nights”—a veritable chapter
of romance.
He thanked Tom Bristow over and over again, in his warm-hearted,
impulsive way, for the services he had rendered his dear boy.
“But we have now to consider the future,” said Tom, when he had brought
his narrative up to date.
“Ay; just so. But what about the future?” asked General St. George,
with a puzzled look.
“Simply this,” answered Tom. “As matters stand at present, Dering’s
life is one of perpetual dread and uncertainty. He never feels sure
from day to day that before nightfall his hiding-place may not be
discovered, or his disguise penetrated, and he himself taken into
custody as an escaped murderer. Such a life, in time, would become
utterly unbearable—would, in fact, be enough to drive a man insane, or
to give himself up to the police in utter despair.”
“I see it all. Poor boy! poor boy!”
“It would, therefore, seem that in order to escape so wretched a fate,
only one course is left open to Dering: and that is, to put the width
of the ocean between himself and his pursuers. The width of half a
world if possible.”
“I should go with him wherever he went,” said the General, with a tear
in the corner of his eye. “I could not bear to let him go again.”
“In some remote nook of the New World, where the nearest city is a
hundred miles away, with his wife on one hand and you on the other, to
love and care for him, Lionel Dering, like a storm-tossed ship that has
reached a happy haven at last, might live out the remainder of his days
in quiet happiness; without any haunting dread that his past life would
ever become known, or that he would ever be touched on the shoulder by
any other hand than that of a friend.”
“Yes—yes; living out in the bush, or something of that kind is what you
mean,” said the old soldier, excitedly. “I’ve camped out in the jungle
many a time, and know what it is. It’s not such a bad sort of life when
you get used to it. Why not get Li to sail next week? I’m an old
campaigner, and could have my rattletraps ready in a few hours.”
“But to go away thus,” resumed Tom, “with the red stain of murder
clinging to his name; with the foul conspiracy to destroy him still
unravelled; with his wrongs unavenged; is what Lionel Dering will never
consent to do. And I confess that, were I in his place, my feelings in
the matter would be very similar to his. He has set before himself one
great object in life, and he will never rest till he has accomplished
it. And that is—to track out and bring to punishment the real murderer
of Percy Osmond.”
“But—but what can he do?” faltered the General. “It seems to me that
his predicament is such that he is quite powerless to help himself, or
to take any action whatever in his own interests.”
“At the first glance it would naturally seem so,” said Tom. “But some
of the difficulties which surround his case, as it stands at present,
may, perhaps, be got over by a little ingenuity. I am going to put
before you a certain scheme which may, or may not, meet with your
approbation. Should you not approve of it, it will have to be at once
abandoned, as it will be impossible to carry it out without your active
help and co-operation.”
“My dear Mr. Bristow, you have told me enough this morning to induce me
to promise beforehand that any scheme you may put before me, which has
for its basis the welfare of Lionel, will meet with my heartiest
support. No man could have proved himself a better friend to my dear
boy than you have done. Your wishes are my law.”
After satisfying himself that there were no eavesdroppers about, Tom
proceeded to lay before General St. George the details of a scheme
which he had been elaborating in his brain for several days, and which,
in outline, had been already agreed to by Lionel.
When Tom ceased speaking, the old soldier mopped his forehead with his
handkerchief. He was hot and nervous with excitement. “Your scheme is
certainly a most extraordinary one,” he said; “but I have faith in your
ability to carry it out. I need hardly say that you may depend upon my
doing my best in every way to second your designs.”
Tom stayed and dined with the General, and went back to London by the
night mail.
One result of the interview was that the General decided on not
returning to England for some time to come. Lionel and his wife were to
join him in a little while at some place on the Continent, not yet
fixed upon. Meantime he would rest quietly in Paris, and there await
further instructions from Tom.
The General had obtained Kester St. George’s address from Mr. Perrins,
and about a week after Tom’s visit he wrote to his nephew, telling him
where he was, and asking him to go over and see him in Paris. The
invitation was one which Kester obeyed with alacrity. He had always
held firmly to the belief that his uncle was a comparatively rich man.
Now that Lionel was out of the way, and with so terrible an accusation
still hanging over him, what more natural or likely than that he should
replace Lionel in his uncle’s affections; and have his own name
substituted in place of that of his cousin in his uncle’s will?
Kester flung black care to the winds as he climbed the staircase that
led to his uncle’s apartments in Paris. He put on his most winning
smile, his most genial manner, as another man might pull on a pair of
easy-fitting gloves. A servant opened the door: and there was his uncle
seated in an invalid chair at the far end of the room.
Kester sprang forward. “My dear uncle——” he began; and then he stopped.
There was something in the eyes of the old soldier that chilled his
enthusiasm in a moment.
The General extended two lean, frigid fingers, and motioned to him to
sit down. “Pray be seated,” he said. “I am not well, and I hate
scenes.” Kester sat down without a word.
General St. George, after deliberately rubbing his spectacles with his
handkerchief, placed them across his nose, and proceeded to take a
steady survey of his nephew.
Kester fidgeted a little under the ordeal, but smiled and tried to
appear pleased.
“You don’t look so young as when I saw you last,” said his uncle.
“Eight years make a difference in the appearance of most men,” said
Kester; “and London life is very wearing.”
“No doubt it is,” said the veteran, drily. “But that any absolute
necessity exists for you to live in London is more than I was aware of
before.”
“No absolute necessity, perhaps, does exist. Yet I confess that, except
by way of a brief change now and again, life to me anywhere else would
soon become unendurable.”
“You look prematurely old, sir—prematurely old,” said the General,
severely. His spectacles were across his nose again by this time, and
he was again looking Kester steadily in the face. And now he spoke in a
voice that was low, stern, and impressive. “You look as if you had a
burden on your mind: you look as if you had some secret care that was
eating away your very life. Kester St. George, you are an unhappy man!”
Kester’s colour came and went. A shiver ran through him from head to
foot. He pressed one hand for a moment across his eyes. Then he
laughed, a forced, hollow laugh.
“Really, sir, you are rather hard on me,” he said. “After not seeing
you for eight years, this is scarcely the greeting I anticipated from
you. You have called me an unhappy man. Granting that I am one, am I
any exception to the ordinary run of my fellow mortals? Show me the man
who is really happy—who has no skeleton locked up in the secret closet
of his heart!”
“Kester St. George, what have you done with your cousin, Lionel
Dering?”
Kester started to his feet, his eyes staring, his hands trembling. A
spasm that was gone almost before it had come, contorted his face for a
moment strangely.
“Before heaven, General St. George, I don’t know what you are driving
at!” he cried, in tones that were husky from excitement. “I am not my
cousin’s keeper, that you should ask me what I have done with him.”
“Then it was not you who assisted him to escape from prison?”
“I! No—certainly not.”
“And yet I said it could be no one but you,” said the General, half
sadly. “And you don’t know what has become of him? You cannot tell me
where to find him now?”
“I have no more knowledge of my cousin’s whereabouts than you have,
sir.”
“How I have been mistaken! When I read the account of Lionel’s
extraordinary escape, I said to myself, ‘This is Kester’s doing. Kester
knew that his cousin was innocent, and it is he who has helped him to
escape.’”
“You honoured me in your thoughts far more highly than I deserved. I
stated all along my belief in my cousin’s innocence, but I had
certainly no hand in planning his escape.”
“But, at all events, you saw him frequently while he was in prison? You
were there as his friend, helper, and adviser? How did he bear his
imprisonment? Did he speak of me?”
Again Kester’s colour came and went. “I never saw my cousin while he
was in prison,” he said, in a low voice. “I was suffering severely from
illness during the whole time. I was confined to my own rooms, and
forbidden to stir out of doors on any account.”
“You were well enough, sir, to find your way to your club within a week
of the date of your cousin’s trial. You were not too ill to play whist
with Colonel Lexington, and win fifty guineas from that gentleman by
betting on the odd trick. You were not afraid of walking home
afterwards through the cold streets with a cigar in your mouth.” All
this had been told General St. George by Colonel Lexington himself—an
old military friend, who had called upon him two or three days
previously.
Kester St. George glared at his uncle as if he would gladly have
annihilated him. But the old soldier gave him back look for look, and
the younger man’s eyes quickly fell. With a muttered curse, he pushed
aside his chair, and strode to the window. Then he turned.
“General St. George, I will be frank with you,” he said. “There was
never any love lost between Lionel Dering and myself. However deeply
shocked I might be that such a foul crime should be laid to his charge,
however strong might be my belief in his innocence, I could not—no, I
could not—go near him when he lay in prison. He wanted no help or
advice from me. He would not have thanked me for proffering them. I
would not play the hypocrite’s part, and I did not go near him.”
“Your candour is really refreshing,” answered the General. “Since you
have no tidings to give me of my nephew, I am sorry to have brought you
so far from home. If you will accept this little cheque in payment of
your expenses, I shall esteem it a favour.”
Kester came a step or two nearer and held out his hands appealingly.
“Uncle—are we to part in this way?” he said, not without a ring of
pathos in his voice.
“And why should we not part in this way, Mr. St. George?”
“I know, sir, that I was never a favourite, with you,” answered Kester,
bitterly. “I know that I can never hope to stand as high in your
regards as my cousin Lionel stood; but I did not know till this moment
that I should ever be insulted by an offer such as the one you have
just made me. I did not know till now that I should be dismissed like
the veriest stranger that ever crossed your threshold!”
Not a muscle of General St. George’s face stirred in answer to this
appeal: the hard, cold light in his eyes never wavered for a moment. He
distrusted his nephew thoroughly, and he dealt with him as he would
have dealt with a wily Asiatic.
“If you feel that my offer of a cheque is an insult,” he said, “I
retract the insult by replacing the cheque in my pocket. As regards
treating you like a stranger, I have no intention of doing that,
although I might just remind you that you and I are, in fact, very
little more than strangers to each other. Still, I do not forget that
you are my nephew. I asked you to come and see me, in the expectation
that you would be able to give me some tidings of Lionel Dering, just
as I should have sent for Lionel Dering in the expectation that he
would have been able to give me some tidings of you, had your position
and his been reversed. You have not been able to give me the news I
wanted, why then need I detain you here? Are you anxious to become a
hanger-on to a querulous invalid? No, Kester St. George, that is not
the kind of life that would suit you—or me either. Stay in Paris or go
back to London, as may please you best. When I want you again, I will
send for you. Meanwhile you may rest fully assured that I shall not
forget you.”
“I suppose it must be as you wish, sir,” said Kester, humbly. “May I
ask whether it is your intention to make any very long stay in Paris?”
“If my strength increases as it has done during the last few days, I
shall not stay here more than another fortnight at the most.”
“When we get you back again in England, sir, I trust there will be no
objection to my calling on you rather oftener than I shall be able to
do while you stay abroad.”
“My doctor tells me that I must not think of crossing the Channel
before next summer. I shall winter either in the south of France or in
Italy. Probably in the latter, if I can find a place to suit me. I
shall not be alone. Richard Dering, Lionel’s brother, is ordered to
Europe for his health, and will join me through the winter. He has been
with me in India, and understands my crotchety ways and queer temper.”
Not without a bitter pang did Kester St. George hear this announcement.
Hardly was one brother disposed of when another sprang up in his place.
But he hid his disappointment under an admirable assumption of mingled
affection and respect.
“At least, sir, there can be no objection to my having your address,”
he said, “when you are finally settled for the winter.”
“None whatever—none whatever,” answered the General.
“And should my vagrant footsteps lead me anywhere into your
neighbourhood—although I don’t think it at all likely that they will do
so—and should I chance to drop in upon you about luncheon-time, I
presume I should not be looked upon as an intruder?”
“Certainly not as an intruder. In fact, it was my intention to send for
you before long, and ask you to stay with me. But not while my health
is so bad. At present I am too nervous and out of sorts for company of
any kind.” This was said with more kindness of tone than the General
had yet used in speaking to his nephew, but at the same time it was a
plain intimation that their interview was at an end. Kester rose at
once, and took his leave.
“That fellow’s an arrant scamp, although he is my nephew,” muttered the
General to himself, as the door closed behind Kester. “He’s no real St.
George. There’s a drop of sinister blood somewhere in his veins that
has proved foul enough to poison the whole. Of course, I knew when I
sent for him that he had nothing to tell me about Lionel, but I wanted
to see him and talk with him. I wanted to ascertain whether the
impression that I formed of him when I was in England several years ago
would be borne out by the impression I should form of him now. It has
been borne out most fully. The Kester St. George of to-day, with his
scheming brain and shallow heart, is precisely the Kester St. George of
ten years ago, only with more experience and knowledge of the world’s
hard ways. Could we but wring the truth out of that crafty heart of
his, I wonder whether one would find there the secret of a certain
terrible crime? But I have no right to accuse him even in thought; and
Heaven, in its own good time, will surely bring the truth to light.”