CHAPTER XV.

THE BEGINNING OF A MYSTERY.

Lucius had a long interview with Mrs. Bertram on the following morning, and he and Geoffrey left Stillmington together in the afternoon; to the despair of the proprietor of the family hotel, who had not had such a customer as Mr. Hossack for many years, not even during that halcyon period which he spoke of fondly as ‘our ’untin’ season.’ They travelled to London by the same express-train, having a long and friendly talk on the way, Geoffrey _en route_ for Christiana, with a view to shooting grouse among the Norwegian hills, and if it were possible in some measure to stifle the pangs of hopeless love in the keen joys of the sportsman; Lucius to return to the beaten round of a parish doctor’s life, brightened only by those happy hours which he spent in the old house with Lucille.

It was too late to visit Cedar House on the evening of his return from Stillmington, so Lucius and Geoffrey dined, or supped, together at the Cosmopolitan, and had, what the latter called, ‘a gaudy night;’ a night of prolonged and confidential talk rather than of deep drinking, however; for Lucius was the most temperate of men, and with Geoffrey pleasure never meant dissipation. They talked of the future; and hope kindled in Geoffrey’s breast as they talked. Not always would Fate be inexorable; not always would the woman he loved be inaccessible to his prayers.

‘I could hardly bear my life if it were not for one fond hope,’ he said; ‘and even that is, perhaps, a delusion. I believe that she loves me.’

‘I know she does,’ replied Lucius; and the two men grasped hands across the table.

‘She has told you!’ cried Geoffrey, rapture gleaming in his honest face.

‘She has told me. Yes, Geoffrey, a love such as yours deserves some recompense. My sister confessed that you had made yourself only too dear to her; that but for the tie which she deems binding until death she would have been proud to become your wife.’

‘God bless her! Yes, I have been buoyed up by the belief in her love, and that will sustain me still. Did she tell you nothing of that wretch—her husband—nothing that may serve as a clue for you to hunt him down?’

‘Very little; or very little more than I already knew. She gave me a general description of the man; but she possesses no likeness of him, so even that poor clue is wanting. The name he bore was doubtless an assumed one, therefore that can help us little. But the strangest part of all this strange story is—’

‘What, Lucius?’

‘That the description of this man, Vandeleur—that was the name under which he married my sister—tallies in many respects with the description of another man, whose fate I have pledged myself to discover; a man who had the same genius for music, and was as complete a scoundrel.’

Hereupon Lucius told his friend the story of his engagement to Lucille Sivewright, and the condition attached to its fulfilment, to which Geoffrey lent an attentive ear.

‘You say this man sailed for Spanish America in the year ’53. Your sister was married in ’58. How, then, can you suppose that Lucille’s father and the man calling himself Vandeleur are one and the same person?’

‘There would have been ample time for Sivewright to have grown tired of America between ’53 and ’58.’

‘So there might. Yet it seems altogether gratuitous to suppose any identity between the two men. Musical genius is not so exceptional a quality; nor is scoundrelism the most uncommon of attributes to be found among the varieties of mankind.’

They discussed the subject at length in all its bearings. It was a relief to Lucius to unburden his mind to the friend he loved and trusted; the chosen companion of so many adventures; the man whose shrewd sense he had never found wanting in the hour of difficulty. They talked long and late, and Lucius slept at the Cosmopolitan, and returned to the Shadrack district at an hour when the domestics of that popular hotel were only just opening their weary eyelids on the summer morning.

He spent his day in the accustomed round of toil; had double work to do in consequence of his brief holiday; found the atmosphere of the Shadrack-road heavy and oppressive in the sultry noontide, after the clearer air and bluer skies of the hills and woods round Stillmington. And that all-pervading aspect of poverty which marked the streets and alleys of his parish struck him more keenly after the smug respectability and prosperous trimness of Stillmington’s dainty High-street and newly-erected villas. He travelled over the beaten track somewhat wearily, and felt ever so little inclined to envy Geoffrey, who was by this time hurrying across the face of the sun-dappled country-side, in the Hull express, on the first stage to Norway. But he was no whit less patient than usual in his attention to the parish invalids; and when the long day was done he turned homeward hopefully, to refresh himself after his labours before presenting himself at Cedar Lodge.

It was dusk when Mrs. Wincher admitted him into the blossomless courtyard. Mr. Sivewright had retired for the night, but Lucille was at work in the parlour, Mrs. Wincher informed him, with her protecting air.

‘You never come anigh us yesterday, nor yet the day before, Dr. Davory,’ she said, ‘and Mr. Sivewright was quite grumptious about it—said as he began to feel you was neglecting of him. “It serves me right,” he said, “for believin’ as any doctor would go on caring for his patient without the hope of a fee;” but I took him up sharp enough, and told him he ought to know you’d never looked at your attendance here from a fanatical pint of view.’

‘Meaning financial, I suppose, Mrs. Wincher?’

‘O lor, yes, if you like it better pernounced that way. I gave it him up-right and down-straight, you may be sure.’

‘It was very good of you to defend the absent. Nothing but absolute necessity would have kept me away from this house even for two days. Has Miss Sivewright been quite well?’

Mrs. Wincher hesitated before replying, and Lucius repeated his question anxiously.

‘Well, yes; I can’t say as there’s been anythink amiss with her. Only yesterday evening,’ here Mrs. Wincher dropped her voice, and came very close to him, with a mysterious air, ‘between the lights—blind man’s holiday, as my good gentleman calls it in his jocose way—she gave me a bit of a turn. She’d been walking in the garden, and down by that blessed old wharf, where there’s nothink better than stagnant mud and strange cats for anybody to look at, and it might be just about as dark as it is now, when she came past the window of the boothouse, where I happened to be scouring my saucepans and such-like; for the work do get behindhand in this great barrack of a place. You know the boothouse, don’t you, Dr. Davory,—the little low building with the peaky roof, just beyond the laundry?’

‘Yes, I know. Go on, pray.’

‘Well, she came past the window, looking so pale and strange, with her hands clasped upon her forehead, as if she’d been struck all of a heap by somethink as had frightened her. I bounced out upon her sudding, and I suppose that scared her all the more; for she gave a little skreek, and seemed as if she’d have dropped on the ground. “Lor, Miss Lucille,” says I, “it’s only me. What in goodness name’s the matter?” But she turned it off in her quiet way, and said she’d only felt a little dull and lonesome-like without you. “Miss Lucille,” says I, “you look for all the world as if you’d seen a ghost.” And she looks at me with her quiet smile, and says, “People do see ghosts sometimes, Wincher; but I’ve seen none to-night;” and then all of a sudding she gives way, and busts out crying. “Astaricall,” says I; and I takes her into the parlour, and makes her lie down on the sofa, and biles up the kittle with half a bundle of wood, and makes her a cup of tea, and after that she comes round again all right. You mustn’t let out to her that I’ve told you about it, Dr. Davory; for she begged and prayed of me not to say a word, only I thought it my bonding duty to tell you.’

‘And you were right, Mrs. Wincher. No, I’ll not betray you. This dismal old house is enough to blight any life. How I wish I could take her to a brighter home without delay!’

‘I’m sure I wish you could,’ answered Mrs. Wincher heartily; ‘for I must say there never was a house that less repaid the trouble of cleaning, or weighed heavier on the spirits.’

This little exchange of confidences had taken place in the forecourt, where Mrs. Wincher had detained Mr. Davoren while she disburdened her bosom of its weight.

Lucius went straight to the parlour, where Lucille was seated before a formidable pile of household linen—table-cloths in the last stage of attenuation, sheets worn threadbare, which she was darning with a sublime patience. She looked up as Lucius entered the room, and a faint flush lighted up the pale face at sight of her lover. Yet, despite her pleasure at his return, he saw that she had changed for the worse during his brief absence. The transient glow faded from her cheek, and left her paler than of old; the hand Lucius held in both his own was burning with a slow fever.

‘My dearest,’ he said anxiously, ‘has anything been amiss in my absence?’

‘Was not your absence itself amiss?’ she asked, with the faintest possible smile. ‘I have been very dull and very sad without you; that is all.’

‘And you have fretted yourself into a fever. O, Lucille, end all difficulties; make no impossible conditions, and let me take you away from this great lonely house very soon. I cannot give you the fair home we have talked about yet awhile—it may even be long before prosperity comes to us; but all that patience and courage can do to achieve fortune, I will do for your dear sake. I would not ask you to share debt or poverty, Lucille; I would not urge you to link your fate with mine if I did not see my way to a secure position, if I had not already the means of providing a decent home for my sweet young bride.’

‘Do you think that the fear of poverty has ever influenced me? No, Lucius, you must know me better than that. But I will not let you burden yourself too soon with a wife. Believe me, I am more than content. I am very happy in my present life, for I see you nearly every day. And I would not leave my poor old grandfather in his declining years. Let us think of our marriage as something still a long way off—in that happy future which it is so sweet to talk and dream about. Only, Lucius,’ she went on in a faltering tone, and with a downward look in the eyes that were wont to meet his own so frankly, ‘you spoke just now of my having imposed too hard a condition upon you—you meant, of course, with regard to my father?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘I have been thinking a great deal about this subject in your absence, and have come to see it in a new light. The condition was too difficult; forget that I ever imposed it. I am content to know no more of my father’s fate than I know already.’

‘This change is very sudden, Lucille.’

‘No, it is not sudden. I have had ample time for thought in these two long days. I had no right to ask so much of you. Let my father’s fate be what it may, neither you nor I could have power to alter it.’

It happened somewhat strangely that this release was not altogether welcome to Lucius. He had thought his mistress unreasonable before; he thought her capricious now.

‘I have no desire in this business except to obey you,’ he said somewhat coldly. ‘Am I to understand, then, that I am absolved from my promise? I am to make no farther effort to discover Mr. Sivewright’s fate.’

‘No farther effort. I renounce altogether the idea of tracing out my father’s life.’

‘You are content to remain in utter ignorance of his fate—not to know whether he is living or dead?’

‘He is in God’s hands. What could my feeble help do for him?’

‘And after cherishing the idea of finding him all these years, you abandon the notion at once and for ever?’

‘Yes. You think me changeable—frivolous, perhaps?’ with a faint sigh.

‘Forgive me, Lucille. I cannot help thinking you just a little capricious. I am naturally very glad to be released from the task you imposed upon me, which I felt was almost impossible. Yet I can but wonder that your opinions should undergo so complete a change. However, I do not question the wisdom of your present decision. I have placed the business in the hands of Mr. Otranto, the detective. You wish me to withdraw it—to forbid farther inquiries on his part.’

‘Yes! It will be better so. He is not likely to discover the truth. He would only raise false hopes, to end in bitter disappointment.’

‘His manner was certainly far from hopeful when I put the case before him. But these men have an extraordinary power of hunting up evidence. He might succeed.’

‘No, no, Lucius. He would only lure you on to spend all your hardly-earned money, and fail at last. Tell him your inquiry is at an end. And now let us say no more about this painful subject. You are not angry with me Lucius, for having caused you so much trouble?’

‘It is impossible for me to be angry with you, Lucille,’ answered the surgeon; and then followed the foolish lovers’ talk, at which Mrs. Wincher (presently appearing with the supper tray, whereon was set forth a banquet consisting of a plate of hard biscuits and a tumbler of London milk, for Lucille’s refreshment), assisted in her capacity of duenna and guardian angel, for half an hour of unalloyed bliss; after which she escorted Lucius to the grim old gate, like a state prisoner led across the garden of the Tower on his way to execution.

‘I shall come early to-morrow to see your grandfather,’ said Lucius to Lucille at parting.

He went home lighter-hearted than usual. It was a relief to be rid of that troublesome search for a man who seemed to have vanished utterly from human ken. He wrote to Mr. Otranto, the detective, that very night, bidding him abandon the inquiry about Ferdinand Sivewright.

Mr. Sivewright received his medical attendant with a somewhat fretful air next morning, and Lucius was both shocked and surprised to discover that a change for the worse had occurred in his patient during his absence. There was a touch of fever that was new to the case—a nervous depression, such as he had not found in the invalid for some time past. But this change seemed the effect of mental excitement rather than of physical weakness.

‘Why did you leave me so long?’ asked Mr. Sivewright peevishly. ‘But I am a fool to ask such a question. I pay you nothing, and it is not likely you would allow any consideration for my comfort to stand in the way of your pleasures.’

‘I have not been taking pleasure,’ answered Lucius quietly, ‘nor could I give you more honest service than I do now were you to pay me five hundred a year for my attendance. Why are you always so ready to suspect me of sordid motives?’

‘Because I have never found mankind governed by any other motives,’ replied the old man. ‘However, I daresay I wrong you. I like you, and you have been very good to me; so good that I have come to lean upon you as if you were indeed that staff of my age which I ought to have found in a son. I am glad you have come back. Do you believe in sinister influences, in presentiments of approaching misfortune? Do you believe that Death casts a warning shadow across our path when he draws near us?’

‘I believe that invalids are fanciful,’ answered Lucius lightly; ‘you have been thinking too much during my absence.’

‘Fanciful!’ repeated Mr. Sivewright with a sigh, ‘yes, it may have been nothing more than a sick man’s fancy. Yet I have seemed to feel a shadowy presence in this house—the unseen presence of an enemy. There have been strange sounds too in the long sleepless night—not last night, all was quiet enough then—but on the previous night; sounds of doors opening and shutting; stealthily opened, stealthily closed, but not so quietly done as to cheat my wakeful ears. Once I could have sworn that I heard voices; yet when I questioned both the Winchers next morning they declared they had heard nothing.’

‘Did you say anything to Lucille about these noises?’

‘Not a word. Do you think I would scare that poor lonely child? No, the house is dreary enough. I won’t put the notion of ghosts or other midnight intruders into her head; girls’ brains are quick enough to grow fancies.’

‘There was wisdom in that reserve,’ said Lucius; and then he went on thoughtfully, ‘The noises you heard were natural enough, I have no doubt. Old houses are fruitful of phantoms; doors loosely fastened, old locks that have lost their spring; given a strong wind, and you have a ghostly promenade.’

‘But there was no wind the night before last. The air was hot and sultry. I had my window open all night.’

‘And you may therefore have imagined the noises in yonder road to be sounds proceeding from the interior of this house. Nothing is so deceptive as the sense of hearing, especially in nervous subjects.’

‘No, Davoren, I made no such mistake. Nothing you or any one else can say will convince me that I did not hear the shutting of the heavy outer door, a door in the back premises that opens upon the garden. I should, perhaps, have thought less of this fact, strange and alarming as it is in itself, were it not for my own feelings. From the hour in which I heard those sounds I have had an overpowering sense of approaching evil. I feel that something, or some influence inimical to myself, is near at hand, overshadowing and surrounding my life with its evil power. I feel almost as I felt twelve years ago, when I woke from my drugged sleep to find that my son had robbed me.’

‘The delusion of an overwrought brain,’ said Lucius. ‘I must give you a sedative that will insure better sleep.’

‘No, for pity’s sake,’ cried the old man eagerly, ‘no opiates. Let me retain my natural sense to the last. If there is danger at hand I need it all the more.’

‘There can be no such thing as danger,’ said Lucius; ‘but I will examine the fastenings of that back door, and of all other external doors, and, if necessary, have the locks and bolts made more secure.’

‘The locks and bolts are strong enough. You need waste no money on them. I used to fasten all the doors myself every night before my illness.’

‘You have every reason to trust the Winchers, I suppose?’

‘As much reason as I can have to trust any human being. They have served me upwards of five-and-twenty years, and I have never yet found them out in any attempt to cheat me. They may have been robbing me all the time, nevertheless, as my son robbed me, and may wind up by cutting my throat.’

‘A crime that would hardly repay them for their trouble, I imagine,’ said Lucius, with his thoughtful smile, ‘since you possess nothing but your collection, and the assassins could hardly dispose of that.’

‘Perhaps not. But they may think that I am rich—in spite of all I have ever told them of my poverty—just as you may think that I am rich, and that the penniless girl you have chosen may turn out a prize by and by.’

‘I have no such thought,’ answered Lucius, meeting his patient’s cunning look with the calm clear gaze of perfect truth; ‘wealth or poverty can make no difference in my love for your granddaughter. For her own sake I might wish that she were not altogether portionless; for mine I can have no such desire. I value no fortune but such as I can win for myself.’

‘You speak like a proud man, and a foolish one into the bargain. To say you do not value money is about as wise as to say you do not value the air you breathe; for one is almost as necessary to existence as the other. What does it matter who makes the money, or how it is made, so long as it finds its way to your pocket? Will a sovereign buy less because it was scraped out of a gutter? Is wealth one whit the less powerful though a man crawls through the dirt to win it? Let him squeeze it from the sweat and toil of his fellow men, it carries no stain of their labour. Let him cheat for it, lie for it, betray his brother or abjure his God for it, his fellow men will honour him none the less, so long as he has enough of it. The gold won on a racecourse or at a gaming-table, though broken hearts and ruined homes went along with it, has as true a ring as your honourable independence, by whatever inspiration of genius or toil of brain you may earn it.’

‘You speak bitterly, like a man who has been accustomed to contemplate humanity “the seamy side without,”’ said Lucius coldly; ‘but be assured I have never calculated on being enriched by the fruits of your industry.’

‘Not even upon finding yourself the inheritor of my collection?’ inquired Mr. Sivewright, his keen eyes peering into the surgeon’s face.

‘I have not even aspired to that honour,’ replied Lucius, with a somewhat contemptuous glance at the outer shell of painted canvas, inscribed with hieroglyphics, which encased the defunct Pharaoh.

‘So much the better,’ said the old man. ‘I should be sorry to think you might be disappointed by and by, when this shrunken form is clay, and you come to grope among my art treasures, thinking to find some hidden hoard—the miser’s hoard of slowly-gathered wealth which he loved too well to spend, and yet was obliged to leave behind him at the last.’

Lucius looked at the speaker curiously. The old man’s pale gray eyes shone with a vivid light; his thin tremulous hands were spread above the bedclothes, as if they had been stretched over a pile of gold, protecting it from a possible assailant.

‘Yes,’ thought Lucius, ‘I have often fancied this man must be a miser; I am sure of it now. Those words, that gesture, tell their own story. In spite of all his declarations to the contrary, he is rich, and these groundless fears spring from the thought of some concealed hoard which he feels himself powerless to protect.’

He felt some pity, but more contempt, for the subject of these thoughts, and no elation at the idea that this hoarded wealth might possibly descend to him. He did his best to soothe the old man’s excited nerves, and succeeded tolerably well. He had taken up his hat, and was on the point of hurrying off to begin his daily round—delayed considerably by the length of this interview—when Mr. Sivewright called him back.

‘Will it trouble you to return here after your day’s work?’ he asked.

‘Trouble me? very far from it. I had counted on spending my evening with Lucille—and you, if you are well enough to be plagued with my company.’

‘You know I always like your company. But to-night I have something to do; some papers that I want to look over, of no particular importance either to myself or those that come after me; old documents connected with my business career and what not. But I want to set my house in order before I leave it for a narrower one. Now, Davoren, I want you to hunt up some of these papers for me. I have sent that old fumbler, Jacob Wincher, to look for them, but the man is purblind, I suppose, for he did not succeed in finding them. They are in an old oak cabinet in a loft where I keep the dregs of my collection. Lucille will show you the place. Here is the key—the lock is a curious one—and the papers are stowed away in odd corners of the cabinet; inner drawers which brokers call secret, but which a child might discover at the first glance. Bring me all the papers you find there.’

‘Do you wish me to make the search now, sir, or in the evening?’

‘In the evening, of course. It is a business to be done at your leisure. But you must have daylight for it. Come back as early as you can, like a good fellow; I have a fancy for looking over those papers to-night. Heaven only knows how many days remain to me.’

‘The same doubt hangs over the lives of all of us,’ answered Lucius. ‘Your case is by no means alarming.’

‘I don’t know that. I have a presentiment of evil, an instinctive apprehension of danger, like that which all nature feels before the coming of a storm.’