Down To The Abbey (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 12)

by Frank Howell Evans

  The artist was amused by this speech. “And who do you think would give money to a foundling like me for no reason?”

  Will opened his eyes. “What?” he said. “Don’t tell me you have no family?”

  “I am. I make no secret of it. All my friends know this and I’m surprised that you’re not aware that I’m simply a foundling, left behind at Bexley Hospital.”

  Will, who had taken a seat on the sofa in order to listen, took a cigarette from his pocket, but Robert stopped him. “Excuse me, but will you oblige me by not smoking?”

  Will tossed the cigarette aside, though he was surprised as the painter was an avid smoker.

  “No benefactor, my friend. I paid my dues.”

  “You paint!”

  “That came later on. I attended evening schools and worked steadily at my art. It was a very long time before I ventured to indulge in a glass of beer. “No, no Robert Crawley,” I would say to myself. “Beer costs six pennies.” Finally, when I was earning from eighty to a hundred shilling a week, I was able to spend more time painting.”

  The recital of a life of toil and self-denial, so different from his own selfish and idle career, was inexpressibly mortifying to Will, but he felt that he was called on to say something.

  “When one has talents like yours,” he said, “success is easy.”

  He stood up and feigned interest in the sketches on the walls, though his attention was attracted to the covered painting on the easel. He remembered what the garrulous old landlady had said about the veiled lady, who sometimes visited the painter and there had been some delay in admitting him, when he first knocked. For whom had the painter dressed himself with such care? Why had he requested him not to smoke? From all these facts Will came to the conclusion that Robert Crawley was expecting the lady’s visit and that the veiled portrait was her portrait. He therefore determined to see it and with this end in view, he walked around the studio, admiring all the paintings on the walls, maneuvering in such a manner as to imperceptibly move nearer to the easel.

  “And this,” he said, suddenly extending his hand toward the cover, “is, I presume, the gem of your studio?”

  But Robert was by no means an idiot. He had understood Will’s intention and grabbed the young man’s outstretched hand just as it touched the curtain.

  “If I veil this portrait,” he said, “it is because I don’t want it to be seen.”

  “Excuse me,” answered Will, trying to pass over the matter as a jest, though in reality he was boiling over with anger.

  “At any rate,” he said to himself, “I will lengthen out my visit and have a glimpse of the original instead of her portrait.” As Will sat down, he saw close to him on the table the photograph of a young lady and looked at it.

  “Very pretty!” he said.

  At these words the painter flushed red and snatching away the photograph with some violence, thrust it between the pages of a book.

  Will stood up and for a second or two the men looked into each other’s eyes as two adversaries do when about to engage in a mortal duel. They knew little of each other and fate, which had brought them together, was about to separate them again, but each felt that the other would exercise a huge influence over his life.

  Robert Crawley was the first to recover himself. “You must excuse me, but I was wrong to leave so precious an article lying around.”

  Will bowed with the air of a man, who accepts an apology, which he considers his due. Robert went on, “I very rarely receive anyone except my friends, but today I have broken my rule.”

  Will understood the insult immediately. “Believe me, sir,” he said in a voice, which he tried to make cutting and sarcastic, “had it not been for paying back my debt, I would not have intruded.”

  And with these words he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Will was in a furious rage. He had visited the studio with the kindly desire of humiliating the painter. He could not but feel that the tables had been turned on him.

  “He will not have it all his own way,” he said, “because I will see the lady.” He crossed the street and took up a position from which he could obtain a good view of the house where Robert lived. It was snowing, but Will did not care.

  He had waited for half an hour, when a cab drove up. Two women stepped out from it. The one was eminently aristocratic in appearance, while the other looked like a respectable servant. Will moved closer and in spite of her veil he recognized the face he had seen on the photograph.

  Will was not the only voyeur, because at the sound of the car wheels the old landlady took up her position in the doorway, with her eyes fixed on the face of the young lady. When the two women had ascended the stairs, a sudden inspiration took a hold of her and she went out and spoke to the cab driver.

  “Nasty night,” she said. “I don’t envy you in such weather as this.”

  “You may well say that,” replied the driver. “My feet are like lumps of ice.”

  “Have you come far?”

  “Rather! I picked them up in Kensington.”

  “That is a distance.”

  “Yes and only five pennies for drink money.”

  And with these words and a knowing wink, he drove away and the landlady, only half satisfied, went back to her office.

  “Why that is the borough where all the swells live,” she murmured. “I’ll give the maid something to drink next time and she’ll let out everything.”

  After Will’s departure Robert could not stay still. He had thrown open the door of his studio and ran to the stairs at every sound.

  At last their footsteps really sounded on the steps. The sweetest music in the world is the rustle of a beloved one’s dress. Leaning over the banisters, he looked down. Soon she appeared and in a short time had reached the open door of the studio.

  “You see, Robert,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m true to my word.”

  Pale and trembling with emotion Robert Crawley pressed the little hand to his lips.

  “Ah, Felicia! How kind you are!”

  It was indeed Felicia, the scion of the aristocratic house of Burgh le Marsh, who had come to visit the poor artist in his studio and thereby risked all that was most precious in the world, her honor and reputation. Cold reason could find no excuse for such a step, but the heart could easily solve the riddle. Felicia and Robert Crawley had been lovers for more than two years. Their first acquaintance had commenced at the Burgh le Marsh mansion.

  He was sent to the mansion in his capacity as a stone mason. On his arrival at the mansion, he made a thorough examination of the work with which he had been entrusted. He saw that he could finish it with perfect ease, because he was only to restore the carved work on a balcony, which would not take more than two weeks. He didn’t, however, press on the work, because he had caught a glimpse of a young woman in the park of the mansion, who had caused a new feeling to spring up in his heart. It was Felicia Burgh le Marsh. The count, as the season came on, had gone to his hunting estates in Scotland, the countess had flitted away to Bath. They had exchanged a few words on their first meeting and on the next Felicia went on to the balcony and watched the rapid play of Robert Crawley’s chisel with childish delight. For a long time they talked and Felicia was surprised at the education and refinement of the young workman. Without experience, Felicia could not understand her new feelings. One night Robert held a long conversation with himself and was at last obliged to confess to himself that he loved her deeply. He also understood the madness of such feelings as he recognized the divide of birth and wealth that stood between them.

  “Why can’t Mr. Crawley take his meals with us?” asked Felicia one day of her aunt, who kept an eye on her when her father and mother were absent. “He’s certainly more gentlemanlike than many of those, who visit us and I think that his conversation would entertain you.”

  The old lady was easily persuaded to adopt this suggestion, though at first it seemed an odd kind of thing to admit a mere working man to her table, b
ut she was so bored with the loneliness of the place that she hailed with delight anything that would break its monotony. Robert at once accepted the proposal and the old lady could hardly believe her eyes when her guest entered the room with the dress and manners of a highbred gentleman.

  “It seems to me that all distinctions of social rank have vanished,” she said, as she was preparing to go to bed. “It is time for me to die. This last war was one too many. It has destroyed more than we all care to admit.”

  In spite of her prejudices, Robert Crawley was able to win the old lady’s heart and won a complete victory by painting her portrait in full gala dress. From that moment he was treated as one of the family. Felicia slowly came to see in him the realization of all her young womanish dreams and finally confessed to herself that she loved him.

  The days fled by rapidly. After the morning meal, the old aunt would take a nap. The young couple would slip quietly away and wander beneath the shade of the giant oaks. Sometimes, seated in a small boat, they would drift around the pond with its flower-bedecked banks.

  Two months of enchantment fled past. They never declared their love for each other, but only basked in the glow of happiness, which they were experiencing.

  Then one morning a valet came to him, saying that the old lady wished to see him and begged him to lose no time as the matter was urgent. Robert felt that his short dream of happiness was at an end and he followed the valet as a criminal would follow his executioner to the scaffold.

  The old lady was in a terrible state of excitement and in spite of rheumatic pains was walking up and down the room, gesticulating wildly and striking her crutch-handled stick on the floor.

  “And so,” she cried in that haughty tone adopted by women of aristocratic lineage when addressing an inferior, “you’ve, I hear, had the impudence to kiss my niece?”

  Robert Crawley’s face grew red as he stammered, “Milady…”

  “Be quiet!” cried the angry woman. “Do you dare to deny this when your face betrays you? You’re an insolent rogue. How dare you even to venture to look at Miss Felicia Burgh le Marsh?”

  “On my honor, Milady, I assure you nothing….”

  “On your honor! To hear you speak, one would almost have the idea that you were a gentleman. If my poor husband, Lord Dulverton were alive, he would break every bone in your body, but I’m satisfied with ordering you out of the house. Pick up your tools and be off at once.”

  Robert stood frozen. She might as well have told him to go away and die. He staggered out of the room. It seemed to him as if the flooring heaved and rolled beneath his feet. He could see nothing, but as he walked down the endless hallway he felt someone touch his hand. It was Felicia.

  “Still lingering here!” the aunt cried in a voice like a trumpet call.

  Robert fled away, but with hope in his heart.

  At the death of the old lady, which happened two months afterward, she left the whole of her immense fortune to her niece with the explicit stipulation that she would receive the money only if she wed with the consent of her parents. Both Robert Crawley and Felicia knew what she had intended.

  As soon as Robert had released her hand, Felicia took off her hat and handing it to Georgette, said, “How am I looking today, Robert?”

  The young painter hastened to reassure her on this point and she continued in a joyous voice, “I don’t want compliments. I want to know if I look all right for sitting for my portrait.”

  Felicia was beautiful, but hers was a different style of beauty from that of Selma, whose charms were sensuous and superficial, where Felicia’s were more refined, ethereal in character and seemed to come from within. She might have passed unnoticed, like the work of a great master’s brush hanging neglected over the altar of a village church, but when the eye had once seen the hidden beauty, it never stopped to gaze on it with admiration. In appearance she was a painter’s dream. She had a wealth of chestnut hair, soft, lustrous eyes and an exquisitely chiseled mouth.

  He took aside the curtain and the young woman’s portrait was revealed. Felicia looked at it for a few moments in silence and then murmured the words, “It’s lovely!”

  Robert was too discouraged to notice her praise.

  “I have your look, but not your expression. It is a failure. Can I try again?”

  Felicia shook her head.

  “This visit will be my last, Robert.”

  “The last?” stammered the painter.

  “I don’t want to punish you, Robert. You asked for my portrait and I yielded to your request, but let us talk reasonably. Do you not know that I’m risking my reputation by coming here day after day?”

  Robert did not reply, because the unexpected blow had almost stunned him.

  “Remember,” continued Miss Burgh le Marsh, “I am still engaged to Mr. Ingoldmells. Our marriage hangs on your success.”

  “I don’t forget that.”

  “Hasten then to gain all honor and distinction, because the world must agree with me in saying that my choice is a wise one. For my parents’ sake.”

  “I will do so.”

  “I fully believe you, dear Robert and remember what I said to you a year ago. Achieve a name then go to my father and ask for my hand.”

  “You’re right,” answered Robert. “I would be a fool if I sacrificed a future happy life for a few hours of enjoyment.”

  “And now,” said Felicia, “let us discuss our progress.”

  Robert at once began to tell her, “I’m in an awkward plight. Yesterday, that well known American collector, Mr. Coolindale, came to my studio. One of my paintings took his fancy and he ordered another from me for which he is willing to pay three thousand shilling. What a luck!”

  “You deserve it.”

  “But unfortunately he wants it immediately. Then I was also offered the decoration of a mansion for a rich speculator, a Mr. Skegness. I’ll receive some seven or eight hundred shilling a month for that job.”

  “But how does this trouble you?”

  “The one would bring in money,” he returned, “and the other fame.”

  “Then accept the offer of Mr. Skegness.”

  The old cuckoo-clock in the corner struck five. Both knew it was time to leave.

  After a tender farewell, Felicia and Georgette left. For a moment after he was left alone Robert felt very sad, but a happy thought flashed across his mind.

  “Felicia,” he said, “went away on foot. I can look at her without injury to her reputation.”

  In another moment he was in the street and caught a glimpse of Felicia and her maid under a lamp. He crossed to the other side of the street and followed them cautiously.

  By this time Felicia and her companion had reached the corner of the street, hailed a cab and were rapidly driven away. Robert looked after them wistfully. When they were out of sight, he decided to return to his work. As he passed a beautifully lit shop, a young woman’s voice greeted him.

  “Mr. Crawley!”

  He looked up in surprise and saw a young woman, dressed in extravagant style, standing by the door of a car.

  “Miss Selma?” he said.”

  A shrill voice replied, “Mrs. Samara Herstmonceux, if you please.”

  Robert turned quickly around and found himself face to face with a young man, who had just stepped out of the same car. The painter examined the personage, who had just addressed him, with curiosity. He was dressed expensively. He wore an eyeglass and an enormous locket on his gold watch chain.

  Selma shrugged, “What matters a name? All you have to do is ask this gentleman, who is an old friend of mine, to dinner.” And without waiting for a reply, she took Robert by the hand. “You must dine with us,” she said. “I will not take no for an answer. Come, let me introduce you, Mr. Robert Crawley, Mr. Belvedere Skegness. There, that is all settled.”

  The men bowed.

  “Mr. Robert Crawley?” repeated Belvedere Skegness. “The name sounds familiar to me. Have I not met you at my father’
s house? Come in, we intend to have a jovial evening.”

  “Come up,” cried Selma, placing her foot on the stairs leading to the door of the house. Robert was about to follow her, but was held back by Skegness, whose face was glowing with delight.

  “Was there ever a more beautiful woman?” he whispered.

  Selma had by this time, entered the house. “Robert Crawley,” she said, impatiently, “are you never coming up?”

  “Quick,” said Belvedere. “She is sure to have a nervous attack, so let us hurry up.”

  Selma did all she could to dazzle Robert. She showed him her domestics, a cook and a maid. He was forced to admire the furniture. Skegness led the way, telling them the price of everything like an energetic tradesman.

  “That clock,” he said, “cost me a hundred shilling and dirt cheap at the price. How funny that you know my father! Has he not a wonderful intellect? That flower stand was three hundred shilling, absolutely given away. Take care of the governor. He’s as fast as a needle. Yes, that table was a bargain at twenty shilling. Six months ago I thought that the old man would have dropped off, but now the doctors say…” He stopped suddenly, because a loud noise was heard in the hallway. “Here are the gentleman I invited,” he cried and left the room.

  Selma felt flattered by the admiration her fine rooms obviously caused.

  “You see,” she whispered, “I’ve left Will. He half-starved me.”

  Robert frowned. “You must be joking. He visited me today and said he was earning twelve thousand shilling a year.”

  At that moment young Skegness brought in his friends and introduced them. They were all of the same type as their host.

  When Berrick was asked what the best way was to achieve success, his invariable reply was, “Keep moving!” He had one great advantage over other men, he put in practice the doctrines he preached and at seven o’clock the morning after his conversation with the Count of Burgh le Marsh he was hard at work in his office. The visitors consisted mainly of waiters from small eating houses and cooks, who knew little or nothing of what was going on in the houses where they were in service. Berrick gave them over to Haven and only occasionally nodded to the servant of some important family, who happened to stroll in.