The King of Diamonds: A Tale of Mystery and Adventure

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XVII.

  _The Inmates of the Grange House._

  Philip walked on roses during those glorious days. He had found hismate. His life was complete. How bright the world, and how fair thefuture.

  The only disagreeable incident marring the utter joy of existence, andthat 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 anobler character, read him correctly, when he said that Anson wouldnever condescend to name the intruder in the presence of the woman heloved.

  But he did ask a servant who it was with whom he had just beenconversing in the entrance hall, and the girl said the gentleman was aMr. Langdon. No; Mrs. Atherley did not know him well. He was brought toher "At Home" on a previous Wednesday by a friend.

  Obviously Evelyn could not have more than a passing acquaintance withthe man, or she would have recognized him herself. Her agitation thatnight in the park, the terror of a difficult situation, was enough toaccount for her failure in this respect, nor was Philip then aware thatat her previous meeting with Lady Morland's son she entertained acurious suspicion, instantly dispelled by his glib manner, that Langdonwas the man who sought to thrust his unwelcome attentions upon her.

  Mount Street--how came Mrs. Atherley and her daughter to return to theprecincts of Mayfair? That was a little secret between Philip and LordVanstone.

  When Evelyn slyly endeavored to make her new admirer understand thatthere could be no intimacy between a millionaire and a young lady whowas embarking on a professional career--she thought so, be it recorded;this is no canon of art--he seemingly disregarded the hint, butinterviewed 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 judiciousinquiry to enable him to place some unpleasant facts before hislordship.

  When the facts had been thrust down the aristocratic gorge, Anson turnedto pleasanter topics. He informed Lord Vanstone, who bore the title asthe third son of a marquis, that his niece's future was more importantthan his lordship's dignity. He must eat mud for her sake, and willinglywithal.

  Various firms of solicitors set to work, and, marvelous to relate, LordVanstone was able to write and inform his half-sister that certainspeculations 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, andshe possessed an assured income of at least one thousand five hundredpounds per annum during the remainder of her life.

  The poor lady had heard these fairy tales before; indeed, some suchstory of more gorgeous proportions had converted her consols into wastepaper.

  But a lawyer, not Lord Vanstone's, sent her a check for the largeramount, and, at a subsequent interview, affirmed the statements made byher unreliable relative.

  So she went back to her caste, and her caste welcomed her with openarms, and the dear woman thanked Providence for the decree that herdaughter might now accept the attentions of any man, no matter how richhe might be, for she saw the drift of Philip's wishes, and, if Evelynwere married to him, surely all their previous trials might be deemedfortunate.

  She little dreamed that imperious Philip had ordered matters his ownway.

  It was not to his thinking that his bride should come to him from thegenteel 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 heshould woo and win her from the ranks of her order.

  It should not be imagined that he was hasty in his decision. To hismind, 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 nightof the meteor's fall, nor again, that he came to her assistance a secondtime after the lapse of years.

  It was his mother's work. He was faithful to her memory--she to hertrust. Never did his confidence waver. On the day that Evelyn consentedto marry him he showed her his mother's photograph, and told her hisbelief.

  The girl's happy tears bedewed the picture.

  "A good son makes a good husband," she murmured. "Mamma says I havebeen a good daughter, and I will try to be a good wife, Philip."

  Apparently these young people had attained the very pinnacle of earthlyhappiness. There was no cloud, no obstacle. All that was best in theworld was at their feet.

  Some such thought flitted through Philip's active brain once when Evelynand he were discussing the future.

  "Of course we will be busy," he said, laughing. "You are such anindustrious little woman--what? Well--such an industrious tallwoman--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 youyour proper place in society, and then we will grow old gracefully."

  "Oh, Philip," she cried, placing her hands on his shoulders. "We metonce as children for a few minutes. Fate ordained that we should meetagain under strange circumstances. We were separated for years. Can fateplay 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-fivewithout falling in love with some other girl?"

  "That is ridiculously easy. Tell me how you managed to escape matrimonyuntil you were twenty-two and you are answered."

  "Philip, I--I liked you that night I saw you in the square. You were awoe-begone little boy, but you were so brave, and gave me your hand tohelp me from the carriage with the air of a young lord."

  "And I have cherished your face in my waking dreams ever since. Youlooked 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 disconsolatein the park?"

  Tell, tell, tell--it was nothing but sweet questions and sweetassurances that this pair of turtle doves had been seeking each otherthrough all eternity.

  Their wedding was fixed for the middle of July. Sharp work, it may besaid, but what need was there to wait? Mr. Abingdon was greatly pleasedwith Philip's choice, and urged him to settle down at the earliestpossible date.

  Mrs. Atherley, too, raised no protest. The sooner her beloved daughterwas married, the more rapidly would life resume its normal aspect; theywould not be long parted from each other.

  The young people had no housekeeping cares. Philip's mansions werereplete with all that could be desired by the most fastidious taste. Hisyacht was brought to the Solent, so that they could run over toPortsmouth on a motor car to inspect her, and Evelyn instantlydetermined that their honeymoon in Etretat should be curtailed to permitthem to go for a three-weeks' cruise around the British coast.

  This suggestion, of course, appealed to Philip. Nothing could be moredelightful. He whispered in Evelyn's ear that he would hug her for theidea at the first available opportunity.

  One morning, a day of June rain, a letter reached Philip. It bore theprinted superscription, "The Hall, Beltham, Devon," but this was struckout 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 fo
r 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 fadedscript in his safe at that moment. The address in each case was avillage on the Yorkshire coast, a remote and inaccessible placeaccording to Philip's unaided recollection of the map. "Grange House"might be a farm or a broken-down manor, and Lady Morland's admission ofreduced circumstances indicated that they had chosen the locality foreconomy'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 shorteningand embittering his mother's life. The man might have acted inignorance; the woman did not.

  Yet what could he do? Refuse a dying relative's last request! They, orone of them, refused his mother's pitiful demand for a little pecuniaryhelp at a time when they were rich.

  And what dire mischance could have sunk them into poverty. Little morethan two months had passed since Sir Philip Morland was inquiring forhis--Philip's--whereabouts through Messrs. Sharpe & Smith with a viewtoward 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 socompletely?

  He glanced again at the address on the letter, and asked a servant tobring him a railway guide. Then he ascertained that if he would reachScarsdale that day he must leave London not later than noon. There was ajourney of nearly seven hours by rail; no chance of returning the samenight.

  He went to the library and rang up Sharpe & Smith on the telephone.

  A clerk assured him that Mr. Sharpe, who attended to Sir PhilipMorland's affairs, had been summoned to Devonshire the previous day.

  "To Devonshire!" cried Philip. "I have just received letters from SirPhilip and Lady Morland from Yorkshire."

  "Mr. Sharpe himself is puzzled about the matter, sir. Lady Morland wrotefrom 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 furtherquestions."

  Of course the clerk was right. Philip had hardly quitted the telephonewhen a note reached him by hand from Evelyn: "Please come at once. Mustsee you."

  He was at Mount Street in three minutes.

  Evelyn looked serious and began by holding out a letter to him. Herecognized 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; anunforeseen 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 leftKing'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. Iwill return to-morrow; meanwhile, I will keep you informed by telegraphof my movements."

  After leaving the main line at York there was a tiresome crawl to thecoast, broken by changes at junctions--wearying intervals spent inpacing monotonous platforms.

  At last the train reached Scarsdale at twenty minutes to seven. A fewpassengers alighted. The place was evidently a small village not givenover 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 heseemed 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 MissAtherley, 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 cartbuilt, but it will be done for in a couple of years. Out in allweathers, you see. To carry you I had to leave my man at home."

  The doctor himself seemed to be young and smart-looking. EvidentlyScarsdale agreed with him, if not with his vehicles. The horse, too, wasa 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 tohis companion that he did not nod to any of them.

  As the road began to climb toward a bleak moorland he became lessvoluble, more desirous to get Anson to speak. Philip thought that thedoctor listened to him with a curious eagerness. Probably Sir Philip andLady Morland impressed him as an odd couple; he would be anxious tolearn what sort of relative this was who had traveled from London to seethem.

  Philip was in small humor for conversation. He looked forward to anexceedingly unpleasant interview, when his lips would utter consolingwords 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, untilthe trees yielded to an unbroken range of open mountain, and the farmsthat nestled in nooks of the hillside disappeared wholly.

  Glimpses of the sea were caught where a precipitous valley tore a cleftin the land. On a lofty brow in front Philip saw a solitary andhalf-dismantled building.

  "Is that the Grange House?" he inquired.

  "Yes."

  "Why on earth did two old people, one of them an invalid, select such alonely 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 himan affable smile. The man saluted promptly, but looked after them with apuzzled air. He continued to watch them at intervals until they reachedthe 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 slopesinwards 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 hitc
h thereins 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 forlong, poor fellow."

  Indeed the doctor himself betrayed some slight agitation now. Heperspired somewhat, and his hand shook.

  Anson followed him into a somber apartment, crudely furnished, halfdining room, half kitchen. Though the light of a June evening was clearenough 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 goto her?"

  Philip obeyed in silence. He passed through the curtains. It was so darkthat 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 hadjust quitted.

  In the neglected garden at the landward front of the Grange House thehorse stood patiently on three legs, ruminating, no doubt, on thesteepness 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 thegate.

  "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, theprivileged rat-tat of a telegraph messenger.

  There was a long delay. Then a heavy step approached, and a man openedthe door, a big, heavy-faced man, with eyes that stared dreadfully, anda nose damaged in life's transit.

  "Philip Anson, Esquire," said the boy, briskly, producing a buff-coloredenvelope.

  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 hisretreating 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'veridden all t' way frae Scarsdale."

  Late that evening, when the protracted gloaming of the north was fastyielding to the shadows of a cloudy night, the big man from the GrangeHouse drove into Scarsdale. He pulled up at the Fox and Hounds publichouse. He wanted Mr. Green.

  Anson's valet came.

  "Your master says you are to bring his portmanteau to the Grange Houseto-night. He intends remaining there. You must get the landlord to situp until you return. It will take you an hour and a half to drive bothways."

  Green was ready in five minutes. He learned that a stable boy mustcrouch at their feet to bring the dogcart back. It was the property ofthe Fox and Hounds' proprietor.

  Very unwillingly the horse swung off again toward the moor. There waslittle conversation. The driver was taciturn, the Londoner somewhatscared by the dark loneliness.

  At the Grange House they were met by Philip Anson. He stood in the opendoorway. 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 thevillage. Here is a five-pound note. Pay your bill and go back to Londonby the first train to-morrow. I stop here some few days."

  The astonished servant took the note. Before he could reply, his masterturned, crossed a room feebly lighted by a dull lamp, and passed througha curtained doorway.

  Green was staring perplexedly at the house, the kitchen, his ill-favoredcompanion carrying Philip's portmanteau within, when he heard hismaster's voice again, and saw him standing between the partly drawncurtains, 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. Youremember 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 trainto the Station Hotel, York."

  "To-morrow night, sir?"

  "Yes."

  The keys were thrown with a rattle onto a broad kitchen table. EvidentlyMr. Anson would not brook questions as to his movements, though his fewwords sounded contradictory. Green got down, unfastened the portmanteauand went back to the dogcart.

  "They're queer folk i' t' grange," said the stable boy, as they droveaway. "There's a barrow-night and a lady as nobody ever sees, an' adochtor, 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 verychirpy, but yon uther is a rum 'un."

  Green was certainly puzzled very greatly by the unexpected developmentsof 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. Allhe could do was to hear and obey.

  He slept none the less soundly because his master chose voluntarily tobury himself, even for a little while, in such a weirdly tumbledown, oldmansion as the Grange House.