Mrs. Tansey, with a feather-brush placed near, drove away a fly that was trying to alight on the still face.
“I mind him when he was a boy,” she said, with a groan and a shake of the head. “There was but six years between us, and the life that’s ended is but a dream, all like yesterday — nothing to look back on; and, I’m sure, if there’s rest for them that has been troubled on earth, he’s happy now: a blessed change ‘twill be.”
“Yes, Martha, we all have our troubles.”
“Ay, it’s well to know that in time: the young seldom does,” she answered sardonically.
“I’ll go, Martha. I’ll return to the oak-room. I wish my uncle were come.”
“Well, you have took your last look, and that’s but decent, and —— Dear me, Master Richard, you do look bad!”
“I feel a little faint, Martha. I’ll go there; and will you give me a glass of sherry?”
He waited at the room door, while Martha nimbly ran to her room, and returned with some sherry and a wine-glass. He had hardly taken a glass, and begun to feel himself better, when David Arden’s step was heard approaching from the hall. He greeted his nephew and Martha in a hushed undertone, as he might in church; and then, as people will enter such rooms, he passed in and crossed with a very soft tread, and said a word or two in whispers. You would have thought that Sir Reginald was tasting the sweet slumber of precarious convalescence, so tremendously does death simulate sleep.
When Uncle David followed his nephew to the oak-room, where the servants had now placed candles, he appeared a little paler, as a man might who had just witnessed an operation. He looked through the unclosed shutters on the dark scene; then he turned, and placed his hand kindly on his nephew’s arm, and said he, with a sigh —
“Well, Dick, you’re the head of the house now; don’t run the old ship on the rocks. Remember, it is an old name, and, above all, remember, that Alice is thrown upon your protection. Be a good brother, Dick. She is a true-hearted, affectionate creature: be you the same to her. You can’t do your duty by her unless you do it also by yourself. For the first time in your life, a momentous responsibility devolves upon you. In God’s name, Dick, give up play and do your duty!”
“I have learned a lesson, uncle; I have not suffered in vain. I’ll never take a dice-box in my hand again; I’d as soon take a burning coal. I shall never back a horse again while I live. I am quite cured, thank God, of that madness. I sha’n’t talk about it; let time declare how I am changed.”
“I am glad to hear you speak so. You are right, that is the true test. Spoken like a man!” said Uncle David, and he took his hand very kindly.
The entrance of Martha Tansey at this moment gave the talk a new turn.
“By-the-bye, Martha,” said he, “has Mr. Plumes come? He said he would be here at eight o’clock.”
“He’s waitin’, Sir; and ’twas to tell you so I came in. Shall I tell him to come here?”
“I asked him to come, Dick; I knew you would allow me. He has some information to give me respecting the wretch who murdered your poor Uncle Harry.”
“May I remain?” asked Richard.
“Do; certainly.”
“Then, Martha, will you tell him to come here?” said Richard, and in another minute the sable garments and melancholy visage of Mr. Plumes entered the room slowly.
When Mr. Plumes was seated, he said, with much deliberation, in reply to Uncle David’s question —
“Yes, Sir, I have brought it with me. You said, I think, you wished me to fetch it, and as my sister was at home, she hobleeged me with a loan of it. It belonged, you may remember, to her deceased daughter — my niece. I have got it in my breastpocket; perhaps you would wish me now to take it hout?”
“I’m most anxious to look at it,” said Uncle David, approaching with extended hand. “You said you had seen him; was this a good likeness?”
These questions and the answers to them occupied the time during which Mr. Plumes, whose proceedings were slow as a funeral, disengaged the square parcel in question from his pocket, and then went on to loosen the knots in the tape which tied it up, and afterwards to unfold the wrappings of paper which enveloped it.
“I don’t remember him well enough, only that he was good-looking. And this was took by machinery, and it must be like. The ball and socket they called it. It must be hexact, Sir.”
So saying, he produced a square black leather case, which being opened displayed a black profile, the hair and whiskers being indicated by a sort of gilding which, laid upon sable, reminded one of the decorations of a coffin, and harmonised cheerfully with Mr. Plumes’ profession.
“Oh!” exclaimed Uncle David with considerable disappointment, “I thought it was a miniature; this is only a silhouette; but you are sure it is the profile of Yelland Mace?”
“That is certain, Sir. His name is on the back of it, and she kept it, poor young woman! with a lock of his ‘air and some hother relics in her work-box.”
By this time Uncle David was examining it with deep interest. The outline demolished all his fancies about Mr. Longcluse. The nose, though delicately formed, was decidedly the ruling feature of the face. It was rather a parrot face, but with a good forehead. David Arden was disappointed. He handed it to his nephew.
“That is a kind of face one would easily remember,” he observed to Richard as he looked. “It is not like any one that I know, or ever knew.”
“No,” said Richard; “I don’t recollect any one the least like it.” And he replaced it in his uncle’s hand.
“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Plumes; it was your mention of it this morning, and my great anxiety to discover all I can respecting that man, Yelland Mace, that induced me to make the request. Thank you very much,” said old Mr. Arden, placing the profile in the fat fingers of Mr. Plumes. “You must take a glass of sherry before you leave. And have you got a cab to return in?”
“The men are waiting for me, I thank you, and I have just ‘ad my tea, Sir, much obleeged, and I think I had best return to town, gentlemen, as I have some few words to say tonight to our Mr. Trimmer; so, with your leave, gentlemen, I’ll wish you goodnight.”
And with a solemn bow, first to Mr. Arden, then to the young scion of the house, and lastly a general bow to both, that grave gentleman withdrew.
“I could see no likeness in that thing to any one,” repeated old Mr. Arden. “Mr. Longcluse is a friend of yours?” he added a little abruptly.
“I can’t say he was a friend; he was an acquaintance, but even that is quite ended.”
“What! you don’t know him any longer?”
“No.”
“You’re quite sure!”
“Perfectly.”
“Then I may say I’m very glad. I don’t like him, and I can’t say why; but I can’t help connecting him with your poor uncle’s death. I must have dreamed about him and forgot the dream, while the impression continues; for I cannot discover in any fact within my knowledge the slightest justification for the unpleasant persuasion that constantly returns to my mind. I could not trace a likeness to him in that silhouette.”
He looked at his nephew, who returned his steady look with one of utter surprise.
“Oh, dear! no. There is not a vestige of a resemblance,” said Richard. “I know his features very well.”
“No,” said Uncle David, lowering his eyes to the table, on which he was tapping gently with his fingers; “no, there certainly is not — not any. But I can’t dismiss the suspicion. I can’t get it out of my head, Richard, and yet I can’t account for it,” he said, raising his eyes to his nephew’s. “There is something in it; I could not else be so haunted.”
CHAPTER LII.
MR. LONGCLUSE EMPLOYED.
The funeral was not to be for some days, and then to be conducted in the quietest manner possible. Sir Reginald was to be buried in a small vault under the little church, whose steeple cast its shadow every sunny evening across the garden-hedges of the “Guy of War
wick,” and could be seen to the left from the door of Mortlake Hall, among distant trees. Further it was settled by Richard Arden and his uncle, on putting their heads together, that the funeral was to take place after dark in the evening; and even the undertaker’s people were kept in ignorance of the exact day and hour.
In the meantime, Mr. Longcluse did not trouble any member of the family with his condolences or inquiries. As a raven perched on a solitary bough surveys the country round, and observes many things — very little noticed himself — so Mr. Longcluse made his observations from his own perch and in his own way. Perhaps he was a little surprised on receiving from Lady May Penrose a note, in the following terms: —
“DEAR MR. LONGCLUSE,
“I have just heard something that troubles me; and as I know of no one who would more readily do me a kindness, I hope you won’t think me very troublesome if I beg of you to make me a call tomorrow morning, at any time before twelve.
“Ever yours sincerely, “MAY PENROSE.”
Mr. Longcluse smiled darkly, as he read this note again. “It is better to be sought after than to offer one’s self.”
Accordingly, next morning, Mr. Longcluse presented himself in Lady May’s drawingroom; and after a little waiting, that goodnatured lady entered the room. She liked to make herself miserable about the troubles of her friends, and on this occasion, on entering the door, she lifted her hands and eyes, and quickened her step towards Mr. Longcluse, who advanced a step or two to meet her.
“Oh! Mr. Longcluse, it is so kind of you to come,” she exclaimed; “I am in such a sea of troubles! and you are such a friend, I know I may tell you. You have heard, of course, of poor Reginald’s death. How horribly sudden! — shocking! and dear Alice is so broken by it! He had been, the day before, so cross — poor Reginald, everybody knows he had a temper, poor old soul! — and had made himself so disagreeable to her, and now she is quite miserable, as if it had been her fault. But no matter; it’s not about that. Only do you happen to know of people — bankers or something — called Childers and Ballard?”
“Oh! dear, yes; Childers and Ballard; they are City people, on ’Change — stockbrokers. They are people you can quite rely on, so far as their solvency is concerned.”
“Oh! it isn’t that. They have not been doing any business for me. It is a very unpleasant thing to speak about, even to a kind friend like you; but I want you to advise what is best to be done; and to ask you, if it is not very unreasonable, to use any influence you can — without trouble, of course, I mean — to prevent anything so distressing as may possibly happen.”
“You have only to say, dear Lady May, what I can do. I am too happy to place my poor services at your disposal.”
“I knew you would say so,” said Lady May, again shaking hands in a very friendly way; “and I know what I say won’t go any further. I mean, of course, that you will receive it entirely as a confidence.”
Mr. Longcluse was earnest in his assurances of secresy and good faith.
“Well,” said Lady May, lowering her voice, “poor Reginald, he was my cousin, you know, so it pains me to say it; but he was a good deal embarrassed; his estates were very much in debt. He owed money to a great many people, I believe.”
“Oh! Really?” Mr. Longcluse expressed his well-bred surprise very creditably.
“Yes, indeed; and these people, Childers and Ballard, have something they call a judgment, I think. It is a kind of debt, for about twelve hundred pounds, which they say must be paid at once; and they vow that if it is not they will seize the coffin, and — and — all that, at the funeral. And David Arden is so angry, you can’t think! and he says that the money is not owed to them, and that they have no right by law to do any such thing; and that from beginning to end it is a mere piece of extortion. And he won’t hear of Richard’s paying a farthing of it; and he says that Richard must bring a lawsuit against them, for ever so much money, if they attempt anything of the kind, and that he’s sure to win. But that is not what I am thinking of — it is about poor Alice, she is so miserable about the mere chance of its happening. The profanation — the fracas — all so shocking and so public — the funeral, you know.”
“You are quite sure of that, Lady May?” said Longcluse.
“I heard it all as I tell you. My man of business told me; and I saw David Arden,” she answered.
“Oh! yes; but I mean, with respect to Miss Arden. Does she, in particular, so very earnestly desire intervention in this awkward business?”
“Certainly; only she — only Miss Arden — only Alice.”
He looked down in thought, and then again in her face, paler than usual. He had made up his mind.
“I shall take measures,” he said quietly. “I shall do everything — anything in my power. I shall even expose myself to the risk of insult, for her sake; only let it soften her. After I have done it, ask her, not before, to think mercifully of me.”
He was going.
“Stay, Mr. Longcluse, just a moment. I don’t know what I am to say to you; I am so much obliged. And yet how can I undertake that anything you do may affect other people as you wish?”
“Yes, of course you are right; I am willing to take my chance of that. Only, dear Lady May, will you write to her? All I plead for — and it is the last time I shall sue to her for anything — is that my folly may be forgotten, and I restored to the humble privileges of an acquaintance.”
“But do you really wish me to write? I’ll take an opportunity of speaking to her. Would not that be less formal?”
“Perhaps so; but, forgive me, it would not answer. I beg of you to write.”
“But why do you prefer my writing?”
“Because I shall then read her answer.”
“Then I must tell her that you are to read her reply.”
“Certainly, dear Lady May; I meant nothing else.”
“Well, Mr. Longcluse, there is no great difficulty.”
“I only make it a request, not a condition. I shall do my utmost in any case. Pray tell her that.”
“Yes, I’ll write to her, as you wish it; or, at least, I’ll ask her to put on paper what she desires me to say, and I’ll read it to you.”
“That will answer as well. How can I thank you?”
“There is no need of thanks. It is I who should thank you for taking, I am afraid, a great deal of trouble so promptly and kindly.”
“I know those people; they are cunning and violent, difficult to deal with, harder to trust,” said Longcluse, looking down in thought. “I should be most happy to settle with them, and afterwards the executor might settle with me at his convenience; but, from what you say, Mr. David Arden and his nephew won’t admit their claim. I don’t believe such a seizure would be legal; but they are people who frequently venture illegal measures, upon the calculation that it would embarrass those against whom they adopt them more than themselves to bring them into court. It is not an easy card to play, you see, and they are people I hate; but I’ll try.”
In another minute Mr. Longcluse had taken his leave, and was gone.
CHAPTER LIII.
THE NIGHT OF THE FUNERAL.
Mr. Longcluse smiled as he sat in his cab, driving Cityward to the office of Messrs. Childers and Ballard.
“How easily, now, one might get up a scene! Let Ballard, the monster — he would look the part well — with his bailiffs, seize the coffin and its precious burden in the church; and I, like Sir Edward Maulay, step forth from behind a pillar to stay the catastrophe. We could make a very fine situation, and I the hero; but the girl is too clever for that, and Richard as sharp — that is, as base — as I; knowing my objects, he would at once see a plant, and all would be spoiled. I shall do it in the least picturesque and most probable way. I should like to know the old housekeeper, Mrs. Tansey, better; I should like to be on good terms with her. An awkward meeting with Arden. What the devil do I care? besides, it is but one chance in a hundred. Yes, that is the best way. Can I see Mr. Ballard in his p
rivate room for a minute?” he added aloud, to the clerk, Mr. Blotter, behind the mahogany counter, who turned from his desk deferentially, let himself down from his stool, and stood attentive before the great man, with his pen behind his ear.
“Certainly, Mr. Longcluse — certainly, Sir. Will you allow me, Sir, to conduct you?”
Most men would have been peremptorily denied; the more fortunate would have had to await the result of an application to Mr. Ballard; but to Mr. Longcluse all doors flew open, and wherever he went, like Mephistopheles, the witches received him gaily, and the catapes did him homage.
Without waiting for the assistance of Mr. Blotter, he ran up the backstairs familiarly to see Mr. Ballard; and when Mr. Longcluse came down, looking very grave, Mr. Ballard, with the red face and lowering countenance which he could not put off, accompanied him downstairs deferentially, and held open the office-door for him; and could not suppress his grins for some time in the consciousness of the honour he had received. Mr. Ballard hoped that the people over the way had seen Mr. Longcluse step from his door; and mentioned to everyone he talked to for a week, that he had Mr. Longcluse in his private office in consultation — first it was “for a quarter of an hour by the clock over the chimney,” speedily it grew to “half-an-hour,” and finally to “upwards of an hour, by —— ,” with a stare in the face of the wondering, or curious, listener. And when clients looked in, in the course of the day, to consult him, he would say, with a wag of his head and a little looseness about minutes, “There was a man sitting here a minute ago, Mr. Longcluse — you may have met him as you came up the stairs — that could have given us a wrinkle about that;” or, “Longcluse, who was here consulting with me this morning, is clearly of opinion that Italian bonds will be down a quarter by settling day;” or, “Take my advice, and don’t burn your fingers with those things, for it is possible something queer may happen any day after Wednesday. I had Longcluse — I daresay you may have heard of him,” he parenthesised jocularly— “sitting in that chair to-day for very nearly an hour and a half, and that’s a fellow one doesn’t sit long with without hearing something worth remembering.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 547
