by Grant Allen
The Colonel, meanwhile, moved slowly into the next room, and looked about him on every side with the same studied air of preternatural cunning. Yes, it was Julia’s boudoir! The paper was changed, to be sure, and the curtains, and the carpet; but, with those exceptions, the room and furniture remained much the same as he had known them twenty-four years ago. The Sheraton chairs; the Empire lounge; the Japanese cabinet with the inlaid birds; the portrait of Julia’s father, by Sir Francis Grant; above all, the escritoire! As he looked at it, he felt it contained what he wanted — the documentary evidence that was bound to make him master of Milworth!
Trembling all over with excitement, he hardly knew why, he approached the escritoire, and began fumbling at the lock with his skeleton key in a tremulous fashion. The wards yielded slowly. The Colonel opened a drawer. A piece of blue paper stared him in the face, with a red embossed stamp of familiar aspect. He took it out and looked at it. So she treasured that still! the forged draft on General Walker! He tossed it aside without a sign of care. It was waste paper now; old Walker was dead, and nobody else could swear to the forgery. Such a capital imitation! His fingers trembled still more as he explored the rest of the drawer. This was clearly where Julia kept her most private papers. He pulled them out one by one — bills, photographs, vouchers. Ha! a bundle of letters — faded old letters, tied with green silk ribbon, and neatly folded. A seal outside! He tore open the covering. These were the sort of thing now! His heart swelled with triumph. These would prove what she had said that day at the Rothenthal! These would dispossess the whipper-snapper — and make him master of Milworth Manor!
He turned them over and gazed at them. “Now I have her in my grip f” he cried. “Marked outside with his name! These are they! These are they! It says, ‘Letters from Arthur’!”
He drew one from the packet. “Let me see,” he muttered. “‘My darling Julia.’ How’s that for the Probate and Divorce Division?— ‘A kiss to our boy.’ Why, that’s evidence! that’s evidence!— ‘Our boy,’ he says — here, in his own handwriting! ‘Your ever devoted friend and lover,’ and he’s signed it with his name. The fool! A poet! — a poet! She thought it such romance to pick up with a poet!”
His fingers trembled as he ran through the packet. He skimmed letter after letter hurriedly, just grasping their meaning, and, as he read them, one thought grew uppermost all the time in his mind — he would be lord of Milworth and revenged on Julia.
He had not even the usual barbaric feeling of his class. He did not think of the slight upon his honor, as people phrase it; he rejoiced to know he could be revenged on Julia. She had kept him all those years on the Continent out of his own. Now, his heel was on her neck, and he would crush her, crush her! And that bastard upstart, who turned him out to-day! He would turn him out in turn — to beg or starve by the wayside!
As he read and read, Fletcher coughed in the next room. For a minute or two the Colonel, now flushed with victory, hardly noted the signal; but when the detective coughed again, somewhat more loudly than before, he recollected with an effort, and bundling up the letters loosely in his hand, staggered out into the drawing-room.
Staggered visibly now; Fletcher noticed the change as he entered the room again. “Well, what’s up?” the Colonel inquired, with an air of suppressed triumph.
The detective pointed to the park. “They’re coming this way,” he said; “young Mr. Egremont and some ladies and gentlemen.”
“That’s my wife!” the Colonel cried excitedly, pointing towards her. “I’ve got her under my foot! I’ve found what I wanted, Fletcher! I’ve found what I wanted!” He flourished the letters over his head, and then thrust them hastily here and there into his pockets. “And that’s the Italian brigand by her side,” he went on; “and that’s the young jackanapes who’s taken my place, and the girl who thinks it’s a fine thing to marry him! I have them all under my thumb! “He spoke with thick, loud accents. “I’ve bested them, Fletcher! I’ve bested them! And I mean to make them pay for it.”
The detective looked at him closely. The Colonel’s eye was shot with triumph. Was it madness or success, the private inquirer wondered. Had he really found anything, or was he suffering from a delusion!— “Well, you d better come away now,” the spy said at last. “You’ve got what you want — and they’ll be back in a minute!”
The Colonel turned to him with fierce exultation. “Victory! victory!” he cried. “I’ve crushed that woman!”
“Then the best thing you can do,” the detective answered dryly, “is to clear out at once, before they come back and take the letters away from you!”
“No, no,” the Colonel cried. “I’m in my own house again, and I’ll never clear out of it.”
“Till you go to Colney Hatch,” the detective murmured inaudibly.
“I’m lord of the manor of Milworth,” the Colonel went on, blustering. “As fine a place as any in the county of Devon! And now I’m here, I’d have you to know, I mean to stop here.”
“If you’ve got the letters you want,” Fletcher urged, with professional common sense, “you’d better go at once. They’re coming back four strong, and they’ll make short work of you and me, Colonel.”
“No, no,” the Colonel cried, staggering. “I’ve found what I wanted, and I’m master of the situation. J’y suis, et j’y reste! That’s the word for a soldier. This is my Malakoff, and I won’t stir out of it. Fletcher, I feel like Nelson at Trafalgar! I’ve carried my point! I’ve trampled on that woman!”
“Nelson died at Trafalgar, I believe,” the detective said dryly, trying to lead him away. The omen appeared to him by no means a well-chosen one.
The Colonel resisted, and reeled more than ever. “What’s that to a soldier?” he cried. He was quivering with excitement. “What’s death — with victory? Do I care about dying — at the moment of triumph? Wolfe died on the field! So did Sidney — and Gordon. I’m Nelson at Trafalgar. These papers settle all. If she dares to turn me out, I have her at my mercy!” He drew them from his pocket again and brandished them round his head, “Compromising! compromising! They’ve settled her!” he shouted.
“Well, what are they any way?” the detective asked, with a quiet smile. If there was anything to know, he might as well know it.
The Colonel eyed him suspiciously. “What’s that to you, sir?” he said, the insane secretiveness getting the upper hand once more of the insane ostentation. “You want to know too much, an underling like you. I’m the lord of the manor, and I shall do as I like... with my own women and my own papers.”
He broke into a hoarse laugh. The detective knew what it meant, and chose his side instantly. “Of course,” he said, scanning him up and down, and speaking in a coaxing tone. “Quite right and proper. You’re the King of the Castle, and who shall knock you down? Still — they’re coming along the avenue! You have no time to lose. They’ll try to take them from you — those valuable letters — those compromising letters! Hadn’t you better give them to me for safe keeping?” For he reflected that the letters were probably incriminating; they might prove a great deal; and if his client went mad, or had a fit on the spot, he could use them himself to sell to Mrs. Egremont, or to levy blackmail with.
“No,” the Colonel answered firmly, clasping them to his breast. “I’ll keep them, and defend them! I’m a British soldier. I’m not afraid of your Italian brigands!” He strode about the room, blustering and vaporing. “I’m a Royal Engineer,” he said; “finest corps in the world — and a match for a dozen of them! And I’ll fight for it! I’ll fight for it! I’ve got that woman on her knees at last. I’ve got her on her marrow-bones — a sneaking, puritanical skinflint hypocrite?”
Fletcher seized him by the arm. “Now, come away,” he said, coaxing him. “You’d better come away with me.”
“I won’t,” the madman answered, beginning to hector and caper about with momentary recovery of the use of his limbs. He pulled out a revolver. “I shall be even with them!” he cried aloud, pointi
ng it. “I haven’t come unarmed! Trust a soldier for that! If they touch me, hand or foot, I tell you, sergeant, they’ll have a warm reception!”
Fletcher humored him quietly. He saw now he had to deal with a dangerous lunatic. “Is it loaded?” he asked, with a suspicious glance at the deadly instrument.
“In six chambers!” the Colonel answered, regarding if affectionately.
The detective eyed it with apparent admiration. “It’s a nice weapon,” he observed, with the tone of a connoisseur. He put out his hand and took it. The Colonel yielded it easily. Fletcher pretended to examine it, while the Colonel strutted up and down the room excitedly. “A very pretty instrument,” he said, eyeing it close. “With ejector, I observe! The neatest I’ve handled — and we sometimes have a use for them!” He juggled with it for a moment. “Ought to settle their hash for them! “he went on, handing it back. “Though, as a man of peace, I object to firearms. A court of law is safer for all parties. If I were you, Colonel, I wouldn’t use the revolver unless absolutely necessary. Revolvers complicate private inquiry.”
“Oh, never fear for me,” the Colonel answered. “I’m an old hand, you know. I’m a military man! I’m as cool as a cucumber!”
“You look it, you do,” the detective replied grimly. “You’d better keep calm! Remember, no more brandy.”
The madman caught at the word. “Brandy!” he cried. “Ha, that’s good! I am a bit excited. I want something to calm me down — something to nerve and quiet me! “He held out his hand. It trembled violently. “By Jove, this won’t do,” he said. “Can’t shoot straight with that hand. Want winding up again. Where’s the key?” He pulled out his flask, and turned it upside down. “Not a blessed drop in it!” He stalked up and down with long steps. “Pretty position,” he cried, “for an officer and a gentleman! In his own house, and kept short of brandy! Wolfe at Quebec — kept short of brandy! I must have a drink. If I don’t, I collapse — collapse before I’ve had my revenge upon Julia! I must keep cool, I say, for the sake of my revenge.” He went up to the bell, pressed the knob hard, and rang it violently. “Electric,” he said, “electric; put in without my consent! But I want some brandy. I’m master in this house, and, by George, I tell you I shall have what I want in it.”
He strode up and down fiercely till the bell was answered. Fletcher in the background regarded him with cynical indifference. A young footman came up, not the imperturbable Reece. He stared at the Colonel in evident surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, stammering. “Did you ring, sir?”
Colonel Egremont turned upon him with a scowl that made the man tremble. “Yes, I did ring, jackass,” he said. “I should think you heard me. I want some brandy.”
The footman hesitated. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he began. “Mr. Reece, sir, told me—”
The Colonel advanced towards him with a fierce grimace, brandishing his revolver. “Mr. Reece may go to hell, fool,” he shouted. “Do you hear what I say? Brandy, BRANDY, BRANDY!”
The man retreated a step or two, and glanced aside at Fletcher. Fletcher signed to him to fetch it. A keeper, no doubt; but still the man hesitated. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said again, “but — I didn’t let you in; and Mr. Reece gave particular orders—”
The Colonel strode towards him with two very long paces, and pointed the revolver. “I’m master in this house,” he cried, “not Mr. Reece or Mrs. Egremont. I’m Colonel Walter Egremont, fellow — late Royal Engineers; and when I give an order, by George, I expect to be listened to. I’m lord of the manor of Milworth, and I shall be obeyed in it. I’m waiting here for your mistress, who happens to be my wife. And I order you now to bring me some brandy.”
He glared at the man savagely. The fellow, cowed and terrified, answered in a feeble voice, “Yes, sir; certainly, sir!” and retreated towards the door. The Colonel glanced after him. “And mind,” he cried, “if you bring up that creature Reece instead of bringing the brandy, I shall put a bullet through that ugly fat mug of yours. Do you understand, a bullet — here — out of this revolver. Damned cheek of the fellow! That’s the way to treat them! A military man should inspire respect. And here in my own house I’m an Egremont of Egremont.”
He prowled about and blustered. The man-servant came back with a decanter of brandy, a syphon, and a tumbler. He presented them, shaking. “The spirit, sir,” he muttered.
“I see it, idiot,” the Colonel replied. “What’s this for, fool?” And he snatched up the syphon derisively. Then, seized with a sudden impulse, he pressed the handle and spurted the contents over the man’s morning livery. “Take that,” he exclaimed, laughing. He poured himself out half a tumblerful of spirit, and tossed it off neat. “There! That makes a man of me!” he cried. ‘“That washes out the brain and fortifies the intellect! I can face Julia now. By Jove, this is a triumph! Victory, victory! I’m Nelson at the Nile! I’m Wolfe at Trafalgar! If I don’t go mad with it, soon I shall have them on their marrow-bones!’
“You’ll have them pretty quick,” Fletcher interposed, with a dry smile. “For they’re coming across the lawn there.”
The Colonel raised a loud laugh. “Now to disinherit that beggar!” he cried, with fierce joy. “Ha, ha, ha! I shall crush him! I shall trample on him!”
CHAPTER XX.
HIS TRAFALGAR.
As they passed the drawing-room window, Mrs. Egremont’s eye caught a sudden glimpse of a man in a gray tweed suit, walking up and down with evident excitement, and talking loudly to somebody. His head was so erect, his mien so soldierly, his dress so much neater and more gentlemanly than was usual with Colonel Egremont, that for half a minute the terrified wife did not recognize her husband. But Hubert at the same second caught her arm with a meaning touch. “He’s in there,” he whispered, in a voice of warning, “Take them off to the library!”
Mrs. Egremont’s face blanched, but she gave no overt sign of her intense agitation. As she entered the house, she led Fede and the Marchese into the room that Hubert suggested, while her son went straight into the drawing-room to face the Colonel. A minute later, with some feminine excuse, Mrs. Egremont followed, and confronted the man who had once been her husband. As for Fletcher, he had prudently disappeared for the moment through the open window, and stood watching the scene with attentive eyes from the clump of evergreens.
Hubert looked at the sot sternly. “What do you mean by this return, sir?” he asked. “Must I drive you out again? I told you already you had no place in this house. I shall send the servants now for the police to expel you.”
The Colonel broke into a chuckle of insane delight. “Don’t try to bully me, sir,” he cried, in a voice of triumph, “for I’m not going to stand it. The tables are turned. I have you now in my grasp!” He stretched out his right hand and clenched it hard. “And I mean to grip you,” he continued. “I’ve come here to stop, and I’m not going away again in a hurry, I can tell you. This is my house, young man; it shall never be yours. I know the truth. I have proof of it — proof of it!” He chuckled hard once more, and clapped his hand to his pocket. “A poet!” he cried. “A poet! “Your ever devoted and affectionate Arthur!” Ha, ha! so you kept them, Julia; — his letters — all these years — you kept them!”
Mrs. Egremont gave a sudden wild scream of terror. “My letters!” she cried, darting forward.— “My letters! Has that creature seen them?”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen them,” the Colonel answered, leering. “Very nice letters, too! So refined! so poetical!”
She burst into the boudoir in an agony of fear. The escritoire lay open, and the drawer was empty. Mrs. Egremont caught her breath. A pang seized on her heart. Her letters — those sacred, those tender letters! In Walter Egremont’s hands! What desecration! Her blood turned sour at it.
She reeled back, half fainting. “You have stolen them?” she cried. “You have read them?”
The Colonel assumed once more his jaunty manner. “Yes, I have read them,” he answered, grinning joy at her misery.
“All’s fair in love and war. I have read them — very pretty! Such nice turns of thought! He could write, that fellow! So you fancied you’d lay them by? Well thumbed, too, they look! Marks of tears here and there! Most agreeable keepsakes!... A poet! A poet! You thought such a lot of him!”
Hubert sprang at the man, angrily, as he stood there mocking. “You have possessed yourself of my mother’s private letters?” he asked, clutching the Colonel’s arm.
The Colonel shook him off. “I have, young man,” he answered; “and I mean to stick to them.”
“Oh, Walter, how did you get them?” Mrs.
Egremont cried helplessly, clasping her hands in terror.
Her husband danced about in a frenzy of delight, and snapped his fingers. “Duplicate key!” he shouted. “That’s all. Felt sure they were there. Mere prudent forethought! Wisdom is justified of all her children.”
“You shall restore them,” Hubert exclaimed, holding him in his powerful hands. “They are stolen, and I demand them! You shall not leave this house till you have given them all up! I say, you shall restore them!”
“I shall not restore them,” the Colonel answered, unable to free himself, but still dancing with joy in his malevolent ecstacy. “I decline! I refuse it! They are my wife’s letters — therefore mine; and they shall be read aloud in court, and reported in the papers. ‘Great laughter!’ in parentheses. It’s divorce and bastardy — that’s the name of the action. All England shall know of this woman’s shame. And you shall lose your claim to the estate of Milworth!”
Hubert held him in his grasp. “Give up those letters,” he said sternly. With a dexterous jerk the Colonel eluded him. “I won’t,” he answered, dancing about. “I’ll give them up in court, when I read them out aloud to the whole of England, and show up this saint here in her true colors. Fine thing, to be sure, for a woman like her, with her bastard son, to go coming the ascetic over me for years, reading me sermons with her sanctity and her purity! But I’ll be even with her yet; I’ll take it out of her — and then, do you think your pretty little Italian girl will care to marry a beggar and a bastard?”
