A STARTLED LUNCHEON-TABLE.
The luncheon was laid in a low room, with a beam running across the
ceiling; the walls, once bright with red flock paper and much gilding,
were soiled and dull now, after the manner of a great many of our
dining-rooms. Squire Carr took the head of the table. He apologised for
the fare: cold veal, ham (which Benjamin, who sat at the foot of the
table, carved), and salad. The squire's daughters did not appear at it.
There were too many of them, he said to Robert; but Mrs. Lewis, who had
just come over from Westerbury by the train, did. She was a big woman,
with little eyes like the squire's, and a large face--the latter very
red just now, through her mile-and-a-half walk in the sun from Eckford.
She turned her back on the young clergyman when he said grace, as though
he had no business there. Benjamin had whispered to her who he was, and
the search of the marriage register books that was in prospect; and
Mrs. Lewis resented it visibly. She had no mind to give up that bijou of
a house just entered upon. She believed she should have trouble enough
with her father to keep it, without another opponent coming into the
field.
"What brings you over to-day, Emma?" asked the squire of Mrs. Lewis, as
the meal proceeded. "Anything turned up?"
A rather ambiguous question, the latter one, to uninitiated ears; but
the squire had been burning to put it, and Mrs. Lewis understood. He
looked covertly at her for a moment with his blinking eyes, and then
dropped them again.
"I only came over to see Ben, papa," she answered. "The news reached me
this morning that he had come home. I have not had time to do anything
yet."
Now, the fact was, Squire Carr had placed his daughter, knowing her
admirable ferreting propensities, in Marmaduke Carr's house for one sole
purpose--that of visiting its every hole and corner. "There _may_ be a
will," the squire had said to himself, in his caution, several times
since the death. "I don't think there is; I could stake a great deal
that there is not, for Marmaduke was not likely to make one; but it's as
well to be on the safe side, and such things have been heard of as
wills hid away in houses." And when the squire saw Mrs. Lewis, whom he
had not expected that day, he began to fear that something of the sort
had "turned up." The relief was great.
"Oh, to see Ben. You'll see enough of him, I expect, before he's off
again."
"Are you going to make a long stay here, this time, Ben?" asked Mr.
Arkell.
"Yes, I think I shall. Will you take some more ham, Emma?"
"Your name is the same as my wife's," observed the young clergyman, with
a smile, as he passed Mrs. Lewis's plate for more ham: for it was Squire
Carr's pleasure that servants did not wait at luncheon.
"Is it? It is a very ugly one," roughly replied Mrs. Lewis, who could
not recover her equanimity in the presence of this gentleman. "I can't
think how they came to give it me, for my part. I have a prejudice
against the name 'Emma.' The woman bore it whom, of all the women I have
known in the world, I most disliked."
"It was your mother's name, my dear," said the squire.
"And _I_ think a charming name," said Robert Carr. "I am not sure but it
was Emma D'Estival's name that first attracted me to her."
The squire looked up with a sort of start. He remembered the letter
written by "Emma Carr, _nee_ D'Estival." Of course! she was this young
man's wife.
"You look young to have a wife," was all the squire said.
"You look, to me, as if you had no business with one at all," added Mrs.
Lewis with blunt plainness. "Sickly men should be cautious how they
marry, lest they leave their wives widows. I have been so left. I threw
aside my widow's cap only last week."
Robert Carr explained to them what his hurt had been, and how his chest
had suffered at times since. He was aware he looked unusually ill just
now, he said; but he had looked just as much so about a year and a half
before--had coughed also. He should get well now, he supposed, like he
did then. For one thing, speaking of his present looks, this matter was
harassing him a good deal, and there had been his father's sudden death.
"Oh, by the way, Mr. Arkell, let me ask you something," exclaimed Mrs.
Lewis suddenly. "I have heard the strangest thing. That a gentleman, a
Mr. Dundas, or some such name, had been drowned or murdered, or
something, at Geneva; a relative of your wife's. What _is_ the truth of
it?"
"That is the truth, as far as we can learn it," replied Mr. Arkell. "It
was Mr. Dundyke, the husband of Mrs. Arkell's sister. You saw her once,
I know, at my mother's house, a great many years ago; she was Miss
Betsey Travice then----"
"But about the murder?" interrupted Mrs. Lewis. "_Was_ he murdered?
Roland ran home from Mr. Wilberforce's for a minute last night, and I
heard it from him. I think he said the young Prattletons told him. I
know he was quite up in arms about it. What is it?"
Mr. Arkell pointed to Robert Carr. "That gentleman can tell you better
than I can," he said. "He heard the particulars from Mrs. Dundyke
herself. I only heard them from Mr. Prattleton secondhand."
"I suppose you want me to tell the story, instead of yourself," said
Robert Carr, with a glance and a smile at Mr. Arkell. "Mr. Prattleton
was on the spot, and instituted the search, so _his_ information cannot
be secondhand."
They began it between them, but Mr. Arkell gradually ceased, and left it
to Robert Carr. It appeared to take a singular hold on the squire's
interest. He had just asked his son for more ham, but was too absorbed
to send his plate for it. Ben held the slice between his knife and fork,
and had to let it drop at last.
"Then he was not murdered!" exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. "It was only a case of
drowning, after all!"
"Of drowning," assented Robert Carr. "At least that is the most probable
supposition."
"It may rather be called at present a case of mysterious disappearance,
as the sensational weekly papers would phrase it," interposed Mr.
Arkell, speaking again. "Mrs. Dundyke at one time felt convinced that a
murder had been committed, as Mr. Prattleton tells me, and afterwards
modified her opinion. Now she feels her doubts renewed again."
"What a shocking thing!" exclaimed Mrs. Lewis. "And who does she think
murdered him--if he was murdered?"
"The Mr. Hardcastle of whom mention has been made. Mrs. Dundyke has
discovered that he was an impostor."
"Has she!" exclaimed Robert Carr.
"Mr. Prattleton heard from her by last evening's post, and he came in
late, and showed me her letters," said Mr. Arkell. "This man,
Hardcastle, had passed himself off as being a partner of the great
Hardcastle house in Leadenhall-street--a nephew of its head and
chief--whereas he turns out to be entirely unknown to them."
"And she thinks he did the murder?" quickly cried Mrs. Lewis, who was
possessed of all a woman's curiosity on such subjects.
"She thinks the suspicions look very dark against him," said Mr.
Arkell. "I confess I think the same."
"But I thought Mr. Carr, here, said she had completely exonerated this
Mr. Hardcastle!" cried the squire. "Be quiet, Emma; you would let nobody
speak but yourself, if you had your way."
"So I believe she did exonerate him," returned Mr. Arkell; "but in all
cases the same facts wear so different an aspect, according to their
attendant surroundings. When Mr. Hardcastle was supposed to _be_ Mr.
Hardcastle, one of the chief partners of the great East India house, the
nephew of its many-years' chief, it was almost impossible to suppose
that he _could_ have committed the murder, however little trifling
circumstances might seem to give point to the suspicion. But when we
know that this man was not Mr. Hardcastle, but an impostor--probably a
_chevalier d'industrie_, travelling about to see what prey he could
bring down--those same trifling circumstances change into alarming
facts, every one of which bears its own significance."
"I don't clearly understand what the facts were," said the squire. "He
borrowed money, didn't he?"
"He borrowed money--twenty pounds; he would have borrowed a hundred, but
Mr. Dundyke had it not with him. He, poor Mr. Dundyke, was utterly taken
in by them from the first--never had a shadow of suspicion that
anything was wrong; Mrs. Dundyke, on the contrary, tells Mr. Prattleton
that she had. She feels quite sure that their running account at the
hotel, for which she knows they were pressed, was paid with that twenty
pounds, or part of it; and she says they----"
"In saying 'they,' of whom do you speak besides Mr. Hardcastle?" asked
the squire.
"Of his wife. And Mrs. Dundyke did not like _her_. But let us come to
the day of the disappearance. On that morning, as they sat at breakfast,
Mr. Dundyke told Mr. Hardcastle that he was about to leave; and that
some money he had written for, notes for thirty pounds, had come that
morning--were inclosed in two letters which Mr. Hardcastle saw him
receive and put in his pocket. Mrs. Dundyke says that she shall never
forget the strangely eager glance--something like a wolf's when it
scents prey--that he cast on Mr. Dundyke at mention of the thirty
pounds. Mr. Dundyke went out alone, and hired a boat, as you have heard;
and they afterwards saw him on the lake bearing away to the spot where
he landed; Mr. Hardcastle saw him, and then walked away. Nothing more
was seen of either of them until dinner-time, six o'clock, when Mr.
Hardcastle returned; he came creeping into the house as if he wished to
shun observation, travel-soiled, dusty, his face scratched, his hand
hurt--just as if he had been taking part in some severe struggle; and
Mrs. Dundyke is positive that his face turned white when she rushed up
and asked where her husband was."
"Did she suspect him then?"
"Oh dear no; not with the faintest suspicion. That same night she heard
a fearful quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Hardcastle; weepings, lamentings,
reproaches from Mrs. Hardcastle, ill-language from him; and twice she
heard her husband's name mentioned. She told Mr. Prattleton subsequently
that it was just as though the fact of the murder had been then
disclosed to Mrs. Hardcastle, and she, the wife, had received it with a
storm of horror and reproach. But the most suspicious circumstance was
the pencil-case."
"What was that?" came the eager question from the squire and his
daughter, for this had not yet been named.
"Well, what Mr. Prattleton tells me is this," said Mr. Arkell. "When Mr.
Dundyke went out in the boat he had his pencil-case with him; Mrs.
Dundyke saw him return it to his pocket-book the last thing before
leaving the breakfast-room, and put the book in his pocket. It was the
same pocket-book in which he had just placed the letters containing the
bank-notes. The pencil-case was silver; it had been given to Mr. Dundyke
by my cousin Mildred, and had his initials upon it; Mrs. Dundyke says
he never carried any other--had not, she feels convinced, any other with
him that morning. After he had landed on the opposite side of the lake,
he must have made use of this pencil to write the note, which note he
sent back to the hotel by the boatmen. So that it appears to be a pretty
certain fact that, whatever evil overtook Mr. Dundyke, this pencil must
have been about him. Do you follow me?"
"Yes, yes," answered the squire, testily. He did not like the narrative
to be interrupted by so much as a thread.
"Good. But this same pencil-case was subsequently found in Mr. and Mrs.
Hardcastle's room at the hotel."
"What!" exclaimed Benjamin Carr, looking up as if startled to sudden
interest.
"The droll question is, how did it come there?" continued Mr. Arkell.
"It was found in the room the Hardcastles had occupied at the hotel.
They had left there some days; had gone on, they said, to Genoa. Mr.
Prattleton's daughter was put in this room after their departure, and
the silver pencil-case was picked up from behind the drawers. Mr.
Prattleton and Mrs. Dundyke were in the chamber at the time, and the
latter was dreadfully agitated; she quite startled him, he says, by
saying that Mr. Hardcastle must have murdered her husband."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Squire Carr. "I see. The pencil-case which
was lost with Mr. Dundyke reappeared in their room! How very strange! I
should have had the man apprehended."
"The hypothesis of course is, that Mr. Hardcastle had in some manner
possessed himself of the things the missing man had about his person,"
pursued Mr. Arkell. "Mr. Prattleton thought at the time that this could
perhaps have been explained away. I mean the finding of the
pencil-case--that Mr. Dundyke might have dropped it on going out from
breakfast, and the other have picked it up; but since the arrival of
Mrs. Dundyke's letter yesterday, he says he does not like the look of it
at all."
"And the bank-notes that Mr. Dundyke had undoubtedly about his person
were found to have been changed the subsequent day in Geneva," spoke up
Robert Carr. "The money-changer thought they had been changed by a man
whose appearance agreed with that of Mr. Hardcastle. And then there was
the testimony of the Swiss peasant."
"What was the testimony?" asked the squire.
"A peasant, or small farmer, testified that he saw two gentlemen
together walking away from the direction of the lake on the day of the
disappearance; and in describing them, he exactly described the persons
and dress of Mr. Hardcastle and Mr. Dundyke. I told Mrs. Dundyke," added
the clergyman, "that I did not like her account of this Mr. Hardcastle;
and she had expressed to me no suspicion of him then."
"And why did they not cause him to be apprehended?" asked the squire.
"There could not well be a clearer case. I have committed many a man
upon half the evidence. What sort of a man was he in person, this
Hardcastle?"
"A tall, strong man, very dark; a fine man, Mrs. Dundyke says. I should
think," added the clergyman, ranging his eyes around, lest haply he
might find anyone in the present company to illustrate his meaning by
ever so slight a likeness, as we are all apt to do in trying to describe
a stranger--"I should think----"
Robert Carr stopped; his eyes were resting on the white face of Benjamin
Carr. Those sallow, dark faces when they turn white are not pleasant to
look upon.
"I should think," he continued, "that he must have been some such a man
as your son here, sir. Yes, just such another; tall, strong, dark----"
"How dare you?" shouted Benjamin Carr, with a desperate oath. "How dare
you point at me as the--the--as Mr. Hardcastle?"
The whole table bounded to their feet as if electrified. Benjamin had
risen to his full height; his eyes glared on the clergyman; his fist was
lifted menacingly to his face. Had he gone out of his senses? Some of
them truly thought so. That he had momentarily allowed himself to lose
his presence of mind, there could be no question.
"What on earth has taken you, Ben?"
The words came from Mrs. Lewis. Her brother's demeanour had been
puzzling her. He had sat, with that one slight interruption mentioned,
with his head down, looking sullen, as if he took no interest in the
narrative; and she had seen his face grow whiter and whiter. She
supposed it to be caused by the story; and said to herself, that she
should not have thought Ben was chicken-hearted.
The squire followed suit. "Have you taken leave of your senses, sir?
What's the matter with you? _What_ is it, I say?"
"Your visitor offended me, sir," replied Benjamin Carr, slowly sitting
down in his chair again, and beginning to recollect himself. "How dare
he say that I bear a resemblance to this Hardcastle?"
"He never did say it," angrily returned the squire. "If you cause such a
startling interruption at my table again, I shall request you to think
twice before you sit down to it."
Mrs. Lewis was staring at her brother with a sort of wondering stare.
Mr. Arkell could not make him out; and the young clergyman stood
perfectly confounded. Altogether, Benjamin Carr was under a sea of keen
eyes; and he knew it.
"I'm sure I beg your pardon if my words offended you," began Robert
Carr. "I meant no offence. I only wished to convey an impression of what
this Mr. Hardcastle was like--a tall, fine, dark man, as described to
me. I never saw him. The same description would apply to thousands of
men."
"I thought you did intend offence," said Benjamin Carr in a distinct
tone. "Your words and manner implied it, at any rate."
"Don't show yourself a fool, Benjamin," cried out the squire. "I shall
begin to think you are one. The clergyman no more meant to liken you to
the man, than he meant to liken me; he was only trying to describe the
sort of person. What has taken you? You must have grown desperately
thin-skinned all on a sudden."
"Can't you let it drop?" said Benjamin, angrily. The squire sent up his
plate as he spoke, for the ham that had been waiting all this while;
perhaps by way of creating a divertissement; and Ben lifted the slice
with a jerk, and then jerked the knife and fork down again. Mrs. Lewis,
who had never come out of the prolonged stare, apparently arrived now at
the solution of the problem.
"I know what it is, Ben," she quietly said. "This Hardcastle must be an
acquaintance of yours. You know you do pick up all sorts of----"
"It is a lie," interrupted Ben, regardless of his good manners.
"Papa"--turning to the squire--"rely upon it I am right. Ben no doubt
fell in with this Hardcastle on his travels, grew intimate with him, and
now does not like to hear him aspersed."
"Be quiet, Emma," cried Ben, but his voice was lowered now, as if with
concentrated passion, or policy. "You talk like a fool."
"Well, perhaps I do," retorted Mrs. Lewis, "but I think it is as I say
for all that. You would not put yourself out like this for nothing. I
dare say you did know the man; it was just the time that you were at
Geneva."
"I was not at Geneva."
"You _were_ at Geneva," she persisted. "You know you wrote home from
thence."
"Why yes, of course you did, Ben," added the squire. "Valentine showed
us the letter: you said you were hard up in it. But that's nothing new."
"I swear that I never saw this Hardcastle in my life," said Ben Carr,
his white face turning to a dusky red. "What time did this affair
happen?" he continued, suddenly addressing Mr. Arkell. "If I had been
in Geneva at the time, I must have heard of it."
"I can tell you," said Robert Carr. "Mr. and Mrs. Dundyke went to Geneva
the middle of July, and this must have happened about the second week in
August."
Benjamin Carr poured himself out a glass of wine as he listened. He was
growing cool and collected again.
"Ah, I thought I could not have been there. I went to Geneva the latter
part of June. I and a fellow were taking a walking tour together. We
stayed there a few days, and left it for Savoy the first week in July. I
think I did write to Valentine while I was there. All these people, that
you speak of, must have arrived afterwards."
"Then did you not see this Mr. Hardcastle, Ben?" asked his sister.
"I tell you, no! I never saw or heard of him in my life."
"Then why need you have flown out so?"
"Well, one does not like to be compared to a--murderer. Some of you had
been calling him one."
No more was said. But the hilarity (if there had been any) of the
meeting was taken away, and Robert Carr rose to leave. He had a little
business to do in Westerbury yet, he said, and must go back that night
to London. The squire was the only one who showed courtesy in the
farewell. Benjamin was sullenly resentful still; Mrs. Lewis haughty and
indifferent.
"Is he quite in his right mind?" Robert Carr asked of Mr. Arkell, as
they drove out of the avenue.
"Who?--Benjamin Carr? Oh yes, he is right enough. He is as sharp as a
needle."
"Then what could have caused him to break out in the manner he did? I
never was so taken to in my life."
"I don't know," said Mr. Arkell; "it is puzzling me still. But for his
very emphatic denial, I should assume it to be as Mrs. Lewis
suggested--that he must have got acquainted with this Hardcastle, and
did not like to hear any ill of him."
"Is he a married man?"
"No. Not any of the squire's children have married, except Mrs. Lewis.
And she's a widow, as you heard her say."
"I suppose she is the daughter that has entered into possession of my
grandfather's house?"
"She is. Hoping, no doubt, to stay there."
"Tell me, Mr. Arkell," resumed Robert Carr after a pause, for he could
not forget the recent occurrence, "did _you_ see anything offensive in
my allusion?"
"Certainly not. Neither would anyone else. I say I cannot make out
Benjamin Carr."
Before starting for London that night, Robert Carr paid a visit to Mr.
Fauntleroy. It was after office hours, but that gentleman received him
in his drawing-room. One of Mr. Fauntleroy's daughters, a buxom damsel
on the same large scale as her father, was thumping through some loud
piece on the piano. She satisfied her curiosity by a good look at the
intruder, as all Westerbury would like to have done, for his name had
been in men's mouths that day, and then retired with a good-humoured
smile and nod, carrying her piece of music.
"Bab!" called out the lawyer.
Miss Fauntleroy came back. "Did you speak, pa?"
"Don't go strumming that in the next room. This gentleman has perhaps
called to talk on matters of business."
She threw down the music with a laugh: gave another good-natured nod to
Robert, and finally quitted the room.
"Mr. Fauntleroy, I have come--but I ought first to apologize for calling
at this hour, but I am going off at once to London--I have come to ask
if you will act for me as my legal adviser?"
Mr. Fauntleroy made a momentary pause. "Do you mean generally, or in any
particular cause?"
"I mean in this, my cause. I require some solicitor to take it up at
once, and serve a notice of ejectment on Squire Carr, from the
possession of the property he has assumed. I suppose that would be the
first legal step; but you will know what to do better than I. As the
many years solicitor to my grandfather, I thought you might perhaps have
no objection to become mine."
"I have no objection in the world," said Mr. Fauntleroy. "But, my good
sir--and this, mind you, is disinterested advice--I would recommend you
to pause before you enter on any such contest. There's not a shadow of
chance that the property can be wrested from Squire Carr, so long as
your father's marriage remains a doubt. It is his by law."
"I do not think there is a shadow of doubt that the proofs of the
marriage will be found, and speedily. I go up to London to search.
Meanwhile you will be so kind as act just as you would act were the
proofs in your hand. I will not allow Squire Carr to retain, by ever so
short a time, the property unmolested, or to fancy he retains it,"
continued the young man, in some emotion. "Every hour that he does so is
a reflection on my mother's name."
"But--yes, that's all very well, very dutiful--but where's the use of
entering on a contest certain to be lost?"
"It is certain to be gained; I know the proofs will be forthcoming."
"The most prudent plan will be to wait until they are," returned the
lawyer. He was not usually so considerate for his clients; but this, as
he looked upon it, was a hopeless case, one that nobody, many degrees
removed from a fool, would venture upon.
"No," said Robert Carr, "I will not wait a day. Be so kind as take
proper steps at once, Mr. Fauntleroy."
"Very well; if you insist upon it. It will cost money, you know."
"That shall be placed in your hands as soon as I can send the necessary
instructions to Rotterdam. What sum shall you require?"
"Oh, suppose you let me have fifty pounds at first. Before that's
expended, perhaps--perhaps some decision may have been come to."
Had Mr. Fauntleroy spoken the words on his tongue, they would have run,
"perhaps you will have come to your senses."
"I will spare no expense on this cause; any money you want, you shall
have, only my right must be maintained against the other branch of the
family. Do you understand me, Mr. Fauntleroy?"
"I do; and I must ask you to understand me, and to remember later that
I did not advise this. If the proofs of the marriage shall come to
light, why, then of course the tables will be turned."
"By the way," said Robert Carr, "I have never asked what amount of money
my grandfather has left?"
"Not much less than the value of twenty thousand pounds, taking it in
the aggregate. He did not live up to his income, and it accumulated.
There are several houses; the one he resided in is a beautiful little
place. You have not been inside it?"
"No; I met Mrs. Lewis to-day, at the squire's, and I thought she might
have invited me to see it," added Robert Carr. "But she did not."
"No danger; they'll keep you at arm's length, if they can. Well, Mr.
Carr, you will not forget what I say, that I do not advise you to enter
on this contest. And should you, after a day or two's reflection, think
better of it, there's no harm done. Just drop me a line to say so,
that's all. I won't charge you for my advice."
"You must think I am of a changeable nature," returned the young
clergyman, half resentfully.
"I should think you a sensible man."
Robert could not smile, he was too serious. "And if you receive the
money from me, instead of the letter you suggest, you will immediately
commence this action; is that an understood thing between us, Mr.
Fauntleroy?"
"It is," said Mr. Fauntleroy; "it will cost a mint of money, mind you,
if it goes on to trial."
Robert Carr said no more; he was satisfied. As he went down
the richly-carpeted stairs, two large female heads, and two
coarsely-handsome, good-natured faces were propelled over the
balustrades, to gaze after him: the heads and the faces of the Miss
Fauntleroys.