by Ellen Wood
He was pointing with his fork to a dish apart. Miss Barbara looked at it critically, and did not recognise it. “I dare say it’s some dish the new cook has sent up. It looks nice, pa.”
“Hand some of it over, then,” said Mr. Fauntleroy.
She helped him plentifully. The lawyer and his daughters were all fond of nice dishes, and liked good servings of them; as perhaps their large frames and their high colours testified. Miss Lizzy pushed up her plate.
“I’ll take some, too, Bab.”
“About that pic-nic, pa? Are we — —”
“Oh! I don’t know,” interrupted the lawyer, with his mouth full. “You girls are always bothering for something of the sort. Get it up if you like, only don’t expect me to go.”
“The Arkells will join us, pa; Bab has asked them.”
“Of course,” said the lawyer with a loud laugh. “She’d not fail to ask them. How was Mr. Travice, Bab?”
“I shan’t tell you, pa,” answered Miss Bab, tossing her head in demonstrative indignation, though her whole face beamed with a gratified smile. “The idea! How should I know anything about Mr. Travice Arkell!”
“A good-looking young fellow,” said the lawyer, significantly. “Perhaps others may be finding him so as well as you, Bab.”
“Pa, then, you are a stupid! And I want to know who it is that’s coming to dinner to-day?”
“Coming to dinner to-day, Bab? Nobody that I know of.”
“You said last night you had invited somebody, but you went to sleep when I asked who.”
“Oh! I remember. I met him yesterday, and he said he was going to call to-day. I told him to come in and dine, if he liked. It’s Ben Carr.”
“Oh!” said Miss Bab, with a depreciating sniff. “Only Ben Carr!”
“He’s over here for a few days, stopping with Mrs. Lewis. He wants to be off to Australia or some place, but the squire turns crusty about advancing the funds. Ben and he came to an explosion over it, and Ben has made himself scarce at home in consequence. What’s the time, Bab?”
Barbara Fauntleroy glanced over her father’s head at the French clock behind him. “It’s twenty-five minutes after nine, pa.”
“Eh!” cried the lawyer, starting up. “Why, what a time I have been at breakfast! You girls should not keep me with your chatter.”
He gathered up his letters, which lay in a stack beside him, and hastened into his office. The head clerk, Kenneth, was in the outer room, with one of the other clerks, a young man named Omer. Mr. Fauntleroy went in to ask a question.
“Have those deeds come in yet from the engrosser’s, Kenneth?”
“No, sir.”
“Not come! Why they promised them for nine o’clock this morning, and now it’s half-past. Go for them yourself, Kenneth, at once, and give them a word of a sort. It’s not the first time by many that they’ve been behindhand.”
Mr. Kenneth took his hat and went out; and his master shut himself in his private room and began to open his letters. Sometimes he opened his letters at breakfast time, at others he carried them, as now, into the office.
Amidst these letters was the envelope despatched by Mrs. Carr, containing the important letter found in the desk. To describe Mr. Fauntleroy’s astonishment when he read it, would be beyond mortal pen. To think that they should have been looking half over the world for this marriage record, when it was lying quietly under their very nose!
“By George!” exclaimed Mr. Fauntleroy. “A clever trick, though, of Robert Carr’s — if he did so marry her. The secret was well kept. He would be sure we should suspect any place rather than Westerbury.” “Omer!” he called out aloud.
The clerk came in, in answer, and stood before the table of Mr. Fauntleroy.
“Go down to St. James the Less, and look through the register. See if there’s a marriage entered between Robert Carr and — what was the girl’s Christian name? — Martha Ann Hughes. Stop a minute, I’ll give you the date of the year. And — Omer — keep a silent tongue in your head.”
Mr. Fauntleroy nodded significantly, and his clerk went out, knowing what that mandate meant, and that it might not be disobeyed. He came back after a while and went in to Mr. Fauntleroy.
“Well?” said the latter, looking up eagerly.
“It is there, sir.”
“By George!” repeated the lawyer. “Only to think of that! That’s all, Omer,” he added, after a pause. “Mr. Kenneth wants you. And mind what I charged you as to a silent tongue.”
“No fear, sir,” said Omer, as he retired. And to give him his due there was no fear. One clerk had been discharged from Mr. Fauntleroy’s office six months before, some tattling having been traced back to him; but Omer was of a silent nature, and cautious besides.
“I shall never be surprised at anything again,” soliloquized Mr. Fauntleroy. “A week longer, and I should have thrown up the cause, unless the Holland Carrs had come forward with money. Won’t I go on with it now! But — I suppose—” he continued more slowly, and in due deliberation, “the cause will be at an end now. Old Carr can’t hold out in the face of this. Shall I tell of it? If I don’t — and they don’t else come to know of it — and the cause goes on, there’ll be a pretty picking for both sides; and old Carr can afford it, for it’s his pocket that will have to stand costs now. I’m not obliged to tell them; and I won’t,” concluded Mr. Fauntleroy.
But this little cunning plan of secresy on the part of Mr. Fauntleroy was destined to be defeated. Mynn and Mynn, the solicitors of Eckford, were in negotiation with a gentleman in London to take the head of their office, and act as its chief during their own frequent absence. This gentleman, by one of those coincidences that arise in this world, to help our projects or baffle them, as the case may be, happened to be Mr. Littelby. The negotiation had been opened for some little time, and was only waiting for a personal interview for completion; Mr. Littelby himself being rather anxious for it, as it held out greater advantages than he enjoyed in his present post, one of which was a possible partnership. Mr. George Mynn made a journey to London to see him; and while he was gone, it chanced that the clerk, Richards, had occasion to see Mr. Fauntleroy.
He, Richards, arrived in Westerbury betimes on this same morning, and was told by Kenneth that he might go in to Mr. Fauntleroy. Richards found, however, that the room was empty; Mr. Fauntleroy having quitted it for an instant, leaving the inner door ajar.
The morning’s letters, open, lay in a stack on the table, one upon another, faces upwards. Mr. Richards, a prying man, with a curiosity as sharp as his nose, and both were sharp as a needle, saw these letters, and took the liberty of bending his body forward from the spot where he stood, to bring his eyes within range of their contents. He read the first, which did him no good whatever; and then gently lifted it an inch slant-wise with his thumb and finger, and so came to the second. That likewise afforded him scant gratification; for it did not concern him at all, or any business with which he could possibly be connected, and he lifted it gingerly and came to the third. The third was the all-important letter of the deceased Robert Carr; and Mr. Richards read it with devouring eyes.
He did not care to go on now to the other letters. This was enough; and he regaled himself with a second perusal. A faint foot-fall in the passage warned him, and Mr. Richards stole away from danger.
Mr. Fauntleroy entered, coming bustling in by the door he had left ajar. Surprised perhaps to see the room tenanted which he had left empty, he glanced at his letters. Thought is quick. They were lying in the stack just as he had placed them, certainly undisturbed for any sign they gave; and the visitor was sitting yards off, in a remote chair behind the other door, his legs crossed and his hat held on his knees.
“Ah, Richards! you are here early this morning!”
“I was obliged to come early, sir, to get back in time,” said Richards as he rose. “Mr. Mynn is ill, as usual, and Mr. George went to London yesterday afternoon; so the office is left to me.”
“Gone
to engage his new clerk, isn’t he?” asked Mr. Fauntleroy, who had no more objection than Richards to hear somewhat of his neighbours’ business.
“I believe so; gone to see him, at all events,” replied Richards, speaking with scant ceremony; but it was in his nature so to do. “They want him to come next month, I hear.”
“What’s his name?”
“Littelton, or Littelby, or some such name. I heard them talking of him in their room. We are going to have a busy winter of it, Mr. Fauntleroy,” continued the candid Richards, brushing a speck off his hat; “so the governors want the new man to come to us next month, or in December at latest. We have three causes already on hand for the spring assizes.”
“That’s pretty well for your quiet folks,” returned Mr. Fauntleroy, as he sat down and placed a large weight on the stack of letters. “Whose are they?”
“Well, there’s that old-standing cause of the Whitcombs, the remanet from last assizes; and there’s a new one that I suppose I must not talk about: it’s a breach of trust affair, and our side want it kept close, meaning to have a try at going in for a compromise, which they’ll never get: and then there’s your cause, Carr versus Carr. But, Mr. Fauntleroy, surely you’ll never bring that into court! you can’t win, you know.”
Mr. Fauntleroy’s eyes rested lovingly for a moment on the stack of letters. “If clients are sanguine without reasonable cause, we can’t help it you know, Richards.”
“Well, how those Holland Carrs can be sanguine bangs me hollow!” was the retort of Mr. Richards. “They’ve never had the ghost of a case from the first. I was dining at the old squire’s on Sunday again, and we got talking of it. The old man was saying he thought the Carrs over in Holland must be mad, to persist risking their money in this way; and so they must be. There never could have been any marriage, Mr. Fauntleroy: I dare say you feel as sure of it as everybody else does.”
Mr. Fauntleroy shrugged his huge shoulders. “The clergyman is dead; and the rest may not be so sanguine as he was. I confess I did think him a little mad. And now to your business, Richards. I suppose you have come about that tithe affair. Will Kenneth do for you? I am busy this morning.”
“Kenneth won’t do until I have had a word with yourself, and shown you a paper,” replied Richards, taking out his letter-case. “Just look at that, Mr. Fauntleroy.”
Mr. Fauntleroy unfolded the paper handed to him. It had nothing to do with our history; but he apparently found it so interesting or important, that Richards was not dismissed for nearly an hour. And at his departure, to make up for lost time, Mr. Fauntleroy set to work with a will: one of his first tasks being to drop a line to Mrs. Carr, acknowledging the receipt of the important letter, and cautioning her to keep the discovery a strict secret. All unconscious, as he was, that one had seen it in his own office.
Mr. Richards was scuttering along the street to the railway station, when he encountered Benjamin Carr. He could hardly stop to speak, for his own office really wanted him. In the past few weeks, since their first introduction, he and Benjamin Carr had been a great deal together, and the latter placed himself right in his path.
“I can’t stay a minute, Ben,” — they had grown familiar, as you perceive,— “I shall lose the train.”
Benjamin Carr turned, and stepped out alongside him, with a pace as quick. He began telling him, as they walked, of an outbreak he had had with the “old man,” as he was pleased to call his father. “It was all about this money,” exclaimed Ben. “He refuses to give me any until this affair is settled; persists in saying he may lose the inheritance: altogether we got in a passion, both of us. As if he could lose it!”
“I suppose it is within the range of possibility,” said Richards.
“Nonsense!” replied Benjamin Carr. “You’ll say there was a marriage next.”
“There might have been.”
“Pigs might fly.”
“Suppose there was a marriage — and that it can be proved? What then?”
“Suppose there wasn’t,” wrathfully returned Ben Carr. “I’m not in a mood for joking, Richards.”
They stepped on to the platform. The train was not in yet; was scarcely due: one of the porters remarked that “that there mid-day train didn’t keep her time as well as some on ’em did.” Richards familiarly passed his arm within Benjamin Carr’s, and drew him beyond the platform. They turned sideways and halted before a dwarf wall, looking over it at the town, which lay beneath.
“You say you are not in a mood for joking, Ben: neither am I; and what I said to you I said with a meaning,” began Richards in a low tone. “It has come to my knowledge — and you needn’t ask me how or when or where, for I shan’t tell you — that old Marmaduke’s money, so far as you Eckford Carrs go, is imperilled. If the thing goes on to trial, you’ll lose it: but I should think it won’t go on to trial, for you’d never let it when you come to know what I know. The other side has got hold of a piece of evidence that would swamp you.”
Benjamin Carr’s great dark eyes turned themselves fiercely upon his companion: he saw that he was, in truth, not jesting. “It’s not the record of the marriage, is it?” he asked, after a pause.
“Something like it.”
Not a word was spoken for a couple of minutes. A little tinkling bell was heard in the station. Benjamin Carr broke the silence.
“Real, or forged?”
“Ah, I don’t know. Real, I suppose. The man’s dead you see, that young clergyman-fellow who came down, so he’d be hardly likely to get it up. I don’t see how it could be done, either, in the present case. It’s easier to suppress evidence of a marriage than it is to invent it. Still it may be on the cross.”
“Can’t you speak plain English, Richards.”
“I hardly dare. But I suppose you could be silent, if I were to.”
“I suppose I could. I have had secrets to carry in my lifetime weightier than this, whatever it may be.”
Benjamin Carr lifted his hat, and wiped his brow with his handkerchief, as if the secrets were there and felt heavy still. Richards looked at him.
“You may speak out, Richards. You can’t believe,” he added, his tone changed to one of passionate pain, “that it is not safe with me.”
“It must be kept safe for your own sake, for your family’s sake. If any evidence has turned up, there’s no cause to let the world know it before you are compelled. It would be damaging your cause irreparably.”
Ben Carr nodded assent. “What is it?” he asked.
“Well, I think they have found out where the marriage was solemnized. I think so, mind; I am not positive. That is, I am not positive of the fact; only that they think it so.”
“How did you hear it?”
“Now, Ben, you’ll not get me to let out that. I’ve said so. Perhaps I dreamt it; perhaps a little bird told me: never mind. I mean to go over to your place to see Valentine to-night, and drop him a hint of the state of affairs. Shall you be at home?”
“I didn’t mean to be at home for some days to come; but I’ll meet you there. Take care of one thing: that you say nothing to the squire.”
Mr. Richards gave a knowing nod sideways, as if to intimate that he knew just as well what to do and what not to do as Benjamin Carr. Just then the noise of a train was heard puffing up.
“Here it comes, Richards.”
“Here it doesn’t,” was the reply. “It’s coming the wrong way. This is the London train coming in.”
The train came in, and stopped on the other side of the platform, while it discharged its passengers and any luggage pertaining to them. It then went puffing on, and the passengers crossed the line to this side, as they had to do before they could leave the station. Benjamin Carr and his friend stood still to look at them, and the former recognised in one of them Mr. Arkell.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Arkell,” said Ben, holding out his hand. “Been out anywhere?”
But Mr. Arkell did not see the hand. What with the jostling crowd, what with a small
portmanteau he was carrying, what with wondering who the stranger might be, hanging lovingly on Ben’s arm, for Mr. Arkell had not the honour of knowing Mr. Richards by sight, he certainly did not appear to see the held-out hand. “Where have you been?” inquired Ben, inquisitively.
“I have been to London, Mr. Benjamin, as you wish to know. A short visit, though.”
“Oh,” said Ben, meaning to be jocular. “Seen any of my friends there?”
“I saw Mrs. Carr, the clergyman’s young widow: I don’t know whether you count her as one of your friends. And I saw Mrs. Dundyke.”
There was a look in Mr. Arkell’s face, not usual on it: a peculiar, solemn, penetrating look. Somehow Mr. Ben Carr’s jocularity and his courage went out of him together.
“Mrs. Dundyke?” he repeated, vaguely, staring over the heads of the passing passengers. “Oh, ah, I remember, that connexion of yours. I don’t know her.”
“I got her to give me a description of the man, calling himself Hardcastle, who lies under the suspicion of knowing rather too clearly what became of Mr. Dundyke. Poor Robert Carr, just dead, attempted the description of him, you may remember, at your father’s table.”
“Ah; yes,” said Ben, striving to be more vague than before: and his dark face perceptibly changed its hue.
“And I may tell you that this description of Mrs. Dundyke’s has made a singular impression upon me, and a very disagreeable one. It is not my affair,” he added, slowly and distinctly; “and for the present I shall not make it mine: but — —”
“Here’s your train, Richards. Got a return ticket?”
The two walked forward to meet it, Richards evidently pulled along by his companion. The train came dashing in too far, and had to be backed: porters ran about, departing passengers hustled each other. And altogether, in the general confusion, there was no more to be seen of Mr. Benjamin Carr.
CHAPTER XIII.
A DISLIKE THAT WAS TO BEAR ITS FRUITS.