For that device of a picture was fixed firmly in my mind, and I acted in the consequence of the thought. I rode home to Blackladies that night, and passed at once into the great hall. A fire of logs was burning on the hearth — for even in August I felt at times the nights fall chilly there — and the glow of the flames played upon the portraits of the Rookleys, dancing them into frowns and smiles and glances, as though the faces lived. Father and son, master and heir, they were ranged orderly about the walls in a double row, the father above the heir, who in his turn figured painted anew as the master. I turned to the lackey, a roughish fellow named Luke Blacket who had admitted me.
“Is Mr. Ashlock still up?”
“He is in the office, sir, I think,” he answered in some doubt or hesitation. “I will go and see.”
“I will go myself.” And I crossed the hall.
A man was sitting at the table with his wig off, and his head was bald. His back was towards me, and he did not hear me enter, so engrossed was he about his papers. His pen scratched and scratched as if all time was against him. It was doubtless a fancy, but it seemed to me to run ever quicker and quicker as I stood in the doorway. Behind me the house was very dark and silent; only this pen was scratching across the paper nimble like a live thing. I stepped forward; I heard a startled cry, and Jonnage Aron stood facing me, with his mouth dropping and a look of terror in his eyes.
I waited for him to speak, comprehending neither his fear nor his business in my factor’s office. At last in a jerky, trembling voice, resting one hand upon the table to steady him, he asked wherein he could serve me.
“It was Mr. Ashlock I needed,” I replied.
“He is not here, sir,” faltered Aron, looking about him like a trapped beast.
“I can see that for myself, Where is he?”
“I don’t know, sir,” and his confusion increased, “in bed, maybe. Shall I send him to you?”
He made a hasty movement as though he would escape from further questioning.
“No,” said I, “stay where you are,” and I stepped forward to the table. I took up the last paper he had been writing; the ink was still wet upon it, and I saw that it was a letter to one of my tenants in Johnny Wood concerning some improvements of which I had spoken to Ashlock.
“You do the work I pay my steward for,” I said. “And how comes that about?”
“Very seldom, sir,” he babbled out; “once or twice only, when Mr. Ashlock has been busy. It is not well done,” and he made as though he would take the paper from my hands, “for I am no clerk, but he told me the letter was not of the first importance.”
I looked at the sharp, precise characters of the letter.
“I’ll tell you what is not well done, Aron,” I cried in some heat, “and that is your excuse. The handwriting here tells of practice, and I see that you thrust your pen behind your ear.”
Aron’s yellow face flushed a dull red. He gave a start and plucked the pen from behind his ear; and the impulsive movement ludicrously betrayed his sense of detection.
“Ah!” said I with a sneer. “You had best ask Mr. Ashlock in the future to provide you with the excuse at the same time that he provides you with the work.”
I bent over the table to examine the other papers which were littered upon it I had just time to remark that they were all in Aron’s handwriting when a sharp click sounded through the silent house, not loud, but very clear, like the cocking of a trigger. The door was open; I stepped into the passage and peered along it. Aron moved uneasily in the room at my side, and his movement brought him betwixt me and the lamp, so that a shadow fell across my face and on the passage wall. I realized that I had been standing visible and distinct in a panel of light that was thrown from the open doorway. Aron moved again out of the light. I took a couple of paces into the dark, and again stretched forward, peering in front of me. I could see well nigh the length of the house. The corridor in which I stood ran straight to the hall. On the far side of the hall, opposite to me, there opened a wide gallery, which was closed at the end by a parlour, and this parlour lay at the east end of the house, and gave on to the topmost terrace of the garden. The door of the parlour stood open, so that I saw right through it to the moonlight shining white upon the window-panes. But I saw more than this. I saw the window opening — it was the catch of the window which I had heard — and a man, with his hat pulled down upon his brows and a heavy cloak about him, stealing in. I was the more astonished at the sight because Ashlock had informed me that there was no outlet from the garden at all; and that I had considered to be true, since on one side a cliff rose sheer above it, while on the other side and at the end it was enclosed with a sunk fence of stone. The intruder closed the window and came a-tiptoe down the passage. I drew close against the wall and held my breath. He passed by me insensible of my presence and walked into the room, and as he came into the light I saw that he was holding the ends of his peruke in his mouth. I did not, however, on that account fail to recognise that the new-comer was my steward. I followed very softly close upon his heels.
“Ashlock!” he began, and would have said more, but Aron held up a finger to his lips and grimaced at him.
I closed the door behind me with a bang and leaned against its panels. The steward swung round abruptly.
“And what stress of business keeps Mr. Ashlock so late from his bed?” I asked; and added pleasantly, “By the way, which of you is Mr. Ashlock?”
Seldom have I seen a man so completely taken aback, as my steward was then, and I was in the mind to profit by his confusion.
“And which of you is Mr. —” I continued, and came all at once to a dead stop. For the strangest suspicion flashed into my mind.
“I rode over to the farmer of Johnny Wood,” explained the steward, and Aron’s brows went up into his forehead, as well they might, “thinking that a word with him would expedite the business.”
“It was a pity then,” I returned, “that you kept Aron up so late writing a letter on that very subject.”
I picked up the paper from the table and placed it in his hands. His face puckered for a second and then smoothed again. He read it through from beginning to end with the completest nonchalance.
“It will do very well,” he said easily to Aron, and then turned to me with a smile. “The letter, of course, is a usual formality.”
“Surely an unnecessary one,” I insisted.
“Men of business,” he returned suavely, “will hold it the reverse. I presume, sir, that you have some urgent need of me.”
I recovered myself with a laugh.
“Not urgent,” I replied, “but since you are here — —” I took up the lamp from the table and went into the passage. The steward followed me, and after him, though at some distance, Aron stumbled in the dark. So we came into the hall. I held up the lamp above my head. At one point, in the lower row of pictures, there was a gap; the oak panels made as it were a black hollow amongst the bright colours of the figures, and the hollow was just beneath the portrait of Sir John.
I pointed an arm to it.
“It is the one vacant space left in the hall.”
Ashlock glanced sharply at me.
“Mr. Jervas Rookley’s picture should have hung there,” he replied in a rising tone, which claimed the prerogative of that space still for Mr. Jervas Rookley.
“But it did not,” I replied. “The space is vacant, and since it is the fashion of the house that the master’s portrait should hang in the hall, why, I will take my predecessors for my example.”
Ashlock took a quick step forward as though pushed by some instinct to get between me and the wall, and turned upon me such a look of perplexity and distrust, that for a moment I was well-nigh dissuaded from the project.
I heard a step behind me. It was Jonnage Aron drawing nearer. I turned and gave the lamp to him to hold, bidding him stand further off, and I said with a careless laugh, though I fixed my eyes significantly upon Ashlock —
“My successor has full licence fro
m me to displace it when his time comes to inherit, but for the present my picture will hang there.”
Ashlock looked me steadily In the eyes. The distrust faded out of his face, but the perplexity remained and deepened.
“Your picture, sir?” he asked in a wondering tone, as though he would be asking what in the devil’s name I needed with a picture at all.
“Yes, Mr. Ashlock,” said I with a swaggering air, which I doubt not was vilely overdone, “my picture. And why not, if you please?”
“It must needs be painted first,” he said.
“That is very true,” I replied. “I had even thought of that myself, and so apt an occasion has presented itself, that it would be folly to disregard it For a painter has but lately come to Keswick. My Lord Derwentwater spoke of him to me, and indeed showed me some signal evidence of his skill.”
“Lord Derwentwater?” exclaimed Ashlock, In a curious change of tone. The perplexity in its turn began to die off his face, and it was succeeded by an eager curiosity. It seemed as though the name gave to him a glimmering of comprehension. Though what it was that he comprehended I could not tell.
“Yes, Lord Derwentwater told me of the man,” I repeated, anxious to colour my pretext with all the plausibility of which it was capable. “Mr. Anthony Herbert — —”
“Mr. Anthony Herbert?” questioned Ashlock, slowly.
“It is the painter’s name,” said I, and he seemed to be, as it were, savouring it in his mind. “You will not have heard it before. Mr. Herbert has painted a portrait of Lady Derwentwater,” and I turned away and got me to my room, with Aron to light the way. I left Ashlock standing in the hall, and as I mounted the lower steps of the staircase, I heard him murmur to himself in a tone of reflection —
“Mr. Anthony Herbert!” — and he shook his head and moved away.
Now, some half an hour afterwards, as I was lying in bed, a thought occurred to me. I got me to the door and opened it. The house was still as a pool. I took my candle in my hand and crept to the stairhead. The moonlight pouring through the tall windows, lay in great silver stripes upon the floor. I stood for a little and listened. Once or twice a board of the staircase cracked; once or twice an ember spurted into flame and chattered on the hearth, but that was all. I stole downstairs, not without a queer shame that I should be creeping about my own house. At the bottom I lighted my candle, and shading it with my hand, crossed swiftly to the vacant space among the portraits. I held the light close against the panels. Yes, there were the splintered holes where the nails had been driven in.
I lowered the candle till it was level with the lowest rim of the picture-frames on either side of the space. Yes, there was a dimming of the oak, like breath upon a window-pane, where the edge of a picture had rubbed and rested against it. I rose upright, blew the candle out, and stood in the dark, thinking. “Mr. Jervas Rookley’s portrait should have hung there,” he had said. It had hung there — not a doubt of it. Was it destroyed, I wondered? Was it in some lumber-room, hidden away? And I remembered a room in the upper part of the house which I had found locked, and was told the key was lost. Why had the picture been removed? Was it so that I might not recognize it? Well, it did not matter so long as I never stumbled across it. I groped my way up the staircase, repeating to myself one sentence from the will, “I must not knowingly support Mr. Jervas Rookley.” I did not know, I said to myself. I might suspect, I might believe, but I had no proof; I did not know. I clutched the phrase to my very heart. I could keep my trust — the estate need not enrich the Hanoverian — Jervas Rookley should come to his own, if God willed it, in his own time. For I did not know. My steward was my steward — no more. What if he was ever out of sight when a visitor reined in his horse at the door? He might be busy in his office. What if another wrote his letters? There was work enough for the steward, and who should blame him for that he lightened his labours, so long as his work was done? I did not know.
Yet how the man must hate me, I thought, as I recalled that hour on the ridge of Coldbarrow Fell.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. HERBERT.
IT WAS ELEVEN of the forenoon when I stopped at Mr. Herbert’s door, and the long incline of the street was empty. At the bottom of the hill, beyond the little bridge, there was a shimmer of green trees, and beyond the trees a flashing corner of the lake. Through a gap in the houses on my left, I caught a glimpse of the woods of Brandelaw, and the brown slope of Catbells rising from the midst of them. A shadowless August morning bent over the country, cradling it to sleep with all its drowsy murmurings, so that contentment was like a perfume in the air. And it was with a contentment untroubled by any presage that I tied up my horse and knocked at the door.
Mr. Herbert’s lodging was on the first floor, and as I mounted the stairs the noise of an altercation came to me from behind the closed door. The woman who led me up shrugged her shoulders and stopped.
“One of the April showers,” I thought, recalling Lord Derwentwater’s words.
“Will you go up?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” said I. “For I take it that if I deferred the visit till to-morrow, to-morrow might be own brother of to-day.”
She knocked at the door twice and got no answer. I heard a man’s voice exclaim acrimoniously:
“It was the worst mistake man ever made,” and a woman cry in a passion —
“Or woman either. Deary me, I wish I were dead!”
And “Deary me, I wish it too,” said my attendant, and impatiently she turned the handle and opened the door. A man sprang forwards. He was young, I noticed, of a delicate face, with a dark, bilious complexion.
“Mr. Anthony Herbert, I suppose,” I said, taking off my hat, and I stepped into the room. The next moment I regretted nothing so much as that I had not taken the landlady’s advice, for a woman sat at the table, with her face couched upon her arms, crying.
“Your business?” asked Mr. Herbert, abruptly, getting between myself and the table.
I turned my back to the room and looked out of the window, making as though I had not seen his wife.
“Lord Derwentwater showed me yesterday a picture of his wife painted by you,” I said; and I unfolded the purport of my visit slowly. In the midst of my speech I heard the rustle of a dress and a door cautiously open and shut. A second or two later I turned back into the room; it was empty. The artist accepted the commission, and I arranged with him that he should set to work next day.
“I am afraid,” he said awkwardly, as he bowed me from the room, “that you caught me at an inopportune moment.”
“Did I?” I returned, playing surprise. “Ah yes, you are not dressed,” for he was wearing a dressing-gown. “But it is my fault in that I came too early.”
And he closed the door.
“Thank you!”
The words were breathed in a whisper from the landing above that on which I stood. I looked up; the staircase was ill-lighted and panelled with a dark mahogany, so that I saw nothing but the outline of a head bent over the balustrade; and even as I looked that outline was withdrawn.
“Not at all,” I replied to the empty air.
The door behind me was thrown open.
“What is it, Mr. Clavering?” asked Herbert, and he glanced suspiciously up the stairs.
I, on the contrary, stared down them.
“It is,” I answered, “that your staircase is cursedly dark.”
“True,” says he, and steps to my side. “One cannot see an inch further than is needful;” and he looked down them too.
“One cannot even see so far,” says I, and I peered upwards.
“One might break one’s neck if one were careless,” he continued in a musing tone.
“Oh, I did not stretch it out enough for that,” I replied, thinking of something totally different.
Herbert looked at me with a puzzled expression.
“It occurs to me, Mr. Clavering,” he resumed, “that if it would please you better I could fetch my easel over to B
lackladies.”
“There is no manner of occasion for that,” I replied hastily, and I got me into the street with as little difficulty as if there had been a window to every step of the stairs.
Thus, then, I had my excuse. I rode back to Blackladies that afternoon, and bade Luke Blacket carry such clothes as I required to Mr. Herbert’s lodging.
“Very well, sir,” he said, but did not go. For just as it was getting dusk I saw from the library window Ashlock — for so I still called him, even or perhaps more particularly to myself — ride down the drive with the package upon his saddle-bow. I was as much surprised now at this voluntary exposure of himself as I had been previously at his sedulous concealments. But I bethought me in time that it would be dark long before Ashlock reached the village of Keswick, and as to his doings — well, I deemed it wisest to busy myself as little as possible on that head. For I was never certain from one minute to the next but what I might stumble upon some proof which I could not disregard. Consequently neither then, nor when he returned, did I utter a single word.
But on the next morning I followed my clothes to Mr. Herbert’s lodging, sat to him for an hour or so, and then went about my business. And this I did day after day, visiting the gentry about, and attending the fairs and markets until I had acquired as complete a knowledge of what the district intended as would have satisfied my Lord Bolingbroke in person. That there were a great many, not merely of the gentry, but of the smallest statesmen and even peasants who favoured King James, I was rejoiced to perceive. But against this disposition I had to set a deplorable lack of arms and all munitions of war. Here and there, indeed, one came across a gentleman, like Mr. Richard Salkeld, of Whitehall, in Cumberland, who had carefully collected and stored away any weapon that he could lay his hands on, and I remember that in Patterdale, one Mr. John Burtham, a man very advanced in years, led me with tottering steps down to his cellar and showed me with the greatest glee a pile of antique musketoons and a couple of barrels of gunpowder, which his grandfather had hidden there for the service of King Charles I., but had discovered no use for after Marstoon Moor. For the most part, however, such as took the field I saw would take it with no more effectual armament than scythes and sickles and beaten-out ploughshares; and, indeed, I am not sure but what I would rather have so armed myself than with the musketoons and gunpowder of Mr. Burtham. One necessary condition, however, or rather I should say, one necessary preliminary of a rising, all with whom I had speech required and in a unanimous voice — I mean that his Most Christian Majesty should land twenty thousand troops in England and with them money for their subsistence. On the other hand, I knew that the French King, howbeit disposed to the utmost friendliness, was yet anxious, before he violated the peace of Utrecht, to ascertain which way the wind blew in England, and whether it was a steady breeze or no more than a flickering gust. It was about this time, too, that news was brought to me of the Duke of Ormond’s flight to Paris, and I did not need the letter of Lord Bolingbroke which conveyed the news, to assure me how great a discouragement that flight must be to our friends in France. This, then, was the posture of affairs: France waited upon the Jacobites in England, and they in their turn waited upon France.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 221