I had reached this point when he led the way upstairs. The staircase was wide, the steps were low and broad. On either side at the head of the flight stood a beautiful Venus of white Parian marble. They were not common reproductions, and I paused. I could see beyond them a Hercules and a Meleager of bronze, and delicately tinted draperies and ottomans that under the light of a silver hanging-lamp? — a gem from Malta — changed a mere lobby to a fairies’ nook. The sight filled me with a certain suspicion; which was dispelled, however, when my hand rested for an instant upon the reddish pedestal that supported one of the statues. The cold touch of the marble was enough for me. The pillars were not of composite; of which they certainly would have consisted in a gaming-house, or worse.
Three steps carried me across the lobby to a curtained doorway by which the servant was waiting. I saw that the “shakes” were upon him again. His impatience was so ill-concealed that I was not surprised — though I was taken aback — when he dropped the mask altogether, and as I passed him — it being now too late for me to retreat undiscovered, if the room were occupied — laid a trembling hand upon my arm and thrust his face close to mine. “Ask how he is! Say anything,” he whispered trembling, “no matter what, sir! Only, for the love of heaven, stay five minutes!”
He gave me a gentle push forward as he spoke — pleasant all this! — and announced in a loud, quavering voice, “Mr. George!” — which was true enough. I found myself walking round a screen at the same time that something in the room, a long, dimly-lighted room, fell with a brisk, rattling sound, and there was the scuffling noise of a person, still hidden from me by the screen, rising to his feet in haste.
Next moment I was face to face with two men. One, a handsome, elderly gentleman, who wore gray moustaches and would have seemed in place at a service club, was still in his chair regarding me with a perfectly calm, unmoved face, as if my entrance at that hour were the commonest incident of his life. The other had risen and stood looking at me askance. He was five-and-twenty years younger than his companion and as good-looking in a different way. But now his face was white and drawn, distorted by the same expression of terror — ay, and a darker and fiercer terror than that which I had already seen upon the servant’s features; it was the face of one in a desperate strait. He looked as a man looks who has put all he has in the world upon an outsider — and done it twice. In that quiet drawing-room by the side of his placid companion, with nothing whatever in their surroundings to account for his emotion, his panic-stricken face shocked me inexpressibly.
They were in evening dress; and between them was a chess-table, its men in disorder: almost touching this was another small table bearing a tray of Apollinaris water and spirits. On this the young man was resting one hand as if but for its support he would have fallen.
To add one more fact, I had never seen either of them in my life.
Or wait; could that be true? If so, it must be indeed a nightmare I was suffering. For the elder man broke the silence by addressing me in a quiet ordinary tone that exactly matched his face. “Sit down, George,” he said, “don’t stand there. I did not expect you this evening.” He held out his hand, without rising from his chair, and I advanced and shook it in silence. “I thought you were in Liverpool. How are you?” he continued.
“Very well, I thank you,” I muttered mechanically.
“Not very well, I should say,” he retorted. “You are as hoarse as a raven. You have a bad cold at best. It is nothing worse, my boy, is it?” with anxiety.
“No, a throat cough; nothing else,” I murmured, resigning myself to this astonishing reception — this evident concern for my welfare on the part of a man whom I had never seen in my life.
“That is well!” he answered cheerily. Not only did my presence cause him no surprise. It gave him, without doubt, actual pleasure!
It was otherwise with his companion; grimly and painfully so indeed. He had made no advances to me, spoken no word, scarcely altered his position. His eyes he had never taken from me. Yet in him there was a change. He had discovered, exactly as had the butler before him, his mistake. The sickly terror was gone from his face, and a half-frightened malevolence not much more pleasant to witness had taken its place. Why this did not break out in any active form was part of the general mystery given to me to solve. I could only surmise from glances which he later cast from time to time towards the door, and from the occasional faint creaking of a board in that direction, that his self-restraint had to do with my friend the butler. The inconsequences of dreamland ran through it all: why the elder man remained in error; why the younger with that passion on his face was tongue-tied; why the great house was so still; why the servant should have mixed me up with this business at all — these were questions as unanswerable, one as the other.
And the fog in my mind grew denser when the old gentleman turned from me as if my presence were a usual thing, and rapped the table before him impatiently. “Now, Gerald!” cried he in sharp tones, “have you put those pieces back? Good heavens! I am glad that I have not nerves like yours! Don’t remember the squares, boy? Here, give them to me!” With a hasty gesture of his hand, something like a mesmeric pass over the board, he set down the half-dozen pieces with a rapid tap! tap! tap! which made it abundantly clear that he, at any rate, had no doubt of their former positions.
“You will not mind sitting by until we have finished the game?” he continued, speaking to me, and in a voice I fancied more genial than that which he had used to Gerald. “You are anxious to talk to me about your letter, George?” he went on when I did not answer. “The fact is that I have not read the inclosure. Barnes, as usual, read the outer letter to me, in which you said the matter was private and of grave importance; and I intended to go to Laura to-morrow, as you suggested, and get her to read the news to me. Now you have returned so soon, I am glad that I did not trouble her.”
“Just so, sir,” I said, listening with all my ears; and wondering.
“Well, I hope there is nothing very bad the matter, my boy?” he replied. “However — Gerald! it is your move! — ten minutes more of such play as your brother’s, and I shall be at your service.”
Gerald made a hurried move. The piece rattled upon the board as if he had been playing the castanets. His father made him take it back. I sat watching the two in wonder and silence. What did it all mean? Why should Barnes — doubtless behind the screen listening — read the outer letter? Why must Laura be employed to read the inner? Why could not this cultivated and refined gentleman before me read his — Ah! That much was disclosed to me. A mere turn of the hand did it. He had made another of those passes over the board, and I learned from it what an ordinary examination would not have detected. He, the old soldier with the placid face and light-blue eyes, was blind! Quite blind!
I began to see more clearly now, and from this moment I took up, at any rate in my own mind, a different position. Possibly the servant who had impelled me into the middle of this had had his own good reasons for doing so, as I now began to discern. But with a clue to the labyrinth in my hand I could no longer move passively at any other’s impulse. I must act for myself. For a while I sat still and made no sign. My suspicions were presently confirmed. The elder man more than once scolded his opponent for playing slowly; in one of these intervals he took from an inside pocket of his dress waistcoat a small packet.
“You had better take your letter, George,” he said. “If there are, as you mentioned, originals in it, they will be more safe with you than with me. You can tell me all about it, viva voce, now you are here. Gerald will leave us alone presently.”
He held the papers towards me. To take them would be to take an active part in the imposture, and I hesitated, my own hand half outstretched. But my eyes fell at the critical instant upon Master Gerald’s face, and my scruples took themselves off. He was eyeing the packet with an intense greed, and a trembling longing — a very itching of the fingers and toes, to fall upon the prey — that put an end to my doubts. I rose
and took the papers. With a quiet, but I think significant, look in his direction, I placed them in the breast-pocket of my evening coat. I had no safer receptacle about me, or into that they would have gone.
“Very well, sir,” I said. “There is no particular hurry. I think the matter will keep, as things now are, until to-morrow.”
“To be sure. You ought not to be out with such a cold at night, my boy,” he answered. “You will find a decanter of the Scotch whiskey you gave me last Christmas on the tray. Will you have some hot water and a lemon, George? The servants are all at the theatre — Gerald begged a holiday for them — but Barnes will get you the things in a minute.”
“Thank you; I won’t trouble him. I will take some with cold water,” I replied, thinking I should gain in this way what I wanted — time to think: five minutes to myself, while they played.
But I was out in my reckoning. “I will have mine now too,” he said. “Will you mix it, Gerald?”
Gerald jumped up to do it with tolerable alacrity. I sat still, preferring to help myself, when he should have attended to his father — if his father it was. I felt more easy now that I had those papers in my pocket. The more I thought of it, the more certain I became that they were the object aimed at by whatever devilry was on foot; and that possession of them gave me the whip-hand. My young gentleman might snarl and show his teeth, but the prize had escaped him.
Perhaps I was a little too confident: a little too contemptuous of my opponent; a little too proud of the firmness with which I had taken at one and the same time the responsibility and the post of vantage. A creak of the board behind the screen roused me from my thoughts. It fell upon my ear trumpet-tongued: a sudden note of warning. I glanced up with a start, and a conviction that I was being caught napping, and looked instinctively towards the young man. He was busy at the tray, his back to me. Relieved of my fear of I did not know what — perhaps a desperate attack upon my pocket, I was removing my eyes, when, in doing so, I caught sight of his reflection in a small mirror beyond him. Ah!
What was he busy about? Nothing. Absolutely nothing, at the moment. He was standing motionless — I could fancy him breathless also — a strange listening expression on his face; which seemed to me to have faded to a grayish tinge. His left hand was clasping a half-filled tumbler: the other was at his waistcoat pocket. So he stood during perhaps a second or two, a small lamp upon the tray before him illumining his handsome figure; and then his eyes, glancing up, met the reflection of mine in the mirror. Swiftly as the thought itself could pass from brain to limb, the hand which had been resting in the pocket flashed with a clatter among the glasses; and turning almost as quickly, he brought one of the latter to the chess-table, and set it down unsteadily.
What had I seen! Nothing; actually nothing. Just what Gerald had been doing. Yet my heart was going as many strokes to the minute as a losing crew. I rose abruptly.
“Wait a moment, sir,” I said, as the elder man laid his hand upon the glass, “I don’t think that Gerald has mixed this quite as you like it.”
He had already lifted it to his lips. I looked from him to Gerald. That young gentleman’s color, though he faced me hardily, shifted more than once, and he seemed to be swallowing a succession of over-sized fives-balls; but his eyes met mine in a vicious kind of smile that was not without its gleam of triumph. I was persuaded that all was right even before his father said so.
“Perhaps you have mixed for me, Gerald?” I suggested pleasantly.
“No!” he answered in sullen defiance. He filled a glass with something — perhaps it was water — and drank it, his back towards me. He had not spoken so much as a single word to me before.
The blind man’s ear recognized the tone now. “I wish you boys would agree better,” he said wearily. “Gerald, go to bed. I would as soon play chess with an idiot from Earlswood. Generally you can play the game if you are good for nothing else; but since your brother came in, you have not made a move which any one not an imbecile would make. Go to bed, boy! Go to bed!”
I had stepped to the table while he was speaking. One of the glasses was full. I lifted it with seeming unconcern to my nose. There was whiskey in it as well as water. Then had Gerald mixed for me? At any rate, I put the tumbler aside, and helped myself afresh. When I set the glass down empty, my mind was made up.
“Gerald does not seem inclined to move, sir, so I will,” I said quietly. “I will call in the morning and discuss that matter, if it will suit you. But to-night I feel inclined to get to bed early.”
“Quite right, my boy. I would ask you to take a bed here instead of turning out, but I suppose that Laura will be expecting you. Come in any time to-morrow morning. Shall Barnes call a cab for you?”
“I think I will walk,” I answered, shaking the proffered hand. “By the way, sir,” I added, “have you heard who is the new Home Secretary?”
“Yes, Henry Matthews,” he replied. “Gerald told me. He had heard it at the Club.”
“It is to be hoped that he will have no womanish scruples about capital punishment,” I said, as if I were incidentally considering the appointment. And with that last shot at Mr. Gerald — he turned green, I thought, a color which does not go well with a black moustache — I walked out of the room, so peaceful, so cosy, so softly lighted, as it looked, I remember; and downstairs. I hoped that I had paralyzed the young fellow, and might leave the house without molestation.
But as I gained the foot of the stairs he tapped me on the shoulder. I saw then, looking at him, that I had mistaken my man. Every trace of the sullen defiance which had marked his manner throughout the interview upstairs was gone. His face was still pale, but it wore a gentle smile as we confronted one another under the hall lamp. “I have not the pleasure of knowing you, but let me thank you for your help,” he said, in a low voice, yet with a kind of frank spontaneity. “Barnes’s idea of bringing you in was a splendid one, and I am immensely obliged to you.”
“Don’t mention it,” I answered stiffly, proceeding with my preparations for going out, as if he were not there; although I must confess that this complete change in him exercised my mind no little.
“I feel so sure that we may rely upon your discretion,” he went on, ignoring my tone, “that I need say nothing about that. Of course we owe you an explanation, but as your cold is really yours and not my brother’s, you will not mind if I read you the riddle to-morrow instead of keeping you from your bed to-night?”
“It will do equally well — indeed better,” I said, putting on my overcoat, and buttoning it carefully across my chest, while I affected to be looking with curiosity at the sedan chair.
He pointed lightly to the place where the packet lay. “You are forgetting the papers,” he reminded me. His tone almost compelled the answer, “To be sure.”
But I had pretty well made up my mind, and I answered instead, “Not at all. They are quite safe, thank you.”
“But you don’t — I beg your pardon—” he said, opening his eyes very wide, as if some new light were beginning to shine upon his mind and he could scarcely believe its revelations. “You don’t really mean that you are going to take those papers away with you?”
“Certainly.”
“My dear sir!” he remonstrated earnestly. “This is preposterous. Pray forgive me the reminder, but those papers, as my father gave you to understand, are private papers, which he supposed himself to be handing to my brother, George.”
“Just so!” was all I said. And I took a step towards the door.
“You really mean to take them?” he asked seriously.
“I do; unless you can satisfactorily explain the part I have played this evening. And also make it clear to me that you have a right to the possession of the papers.”
“Confound it! If I must do so to-night, I must!” he said reluctantly. “I trust to your honor, sir, to keep the explanation secret.” I bowed, and he resumed. “My elder brother and I are in business together. Lately we have had losses which have crip
pled us so severely that we decided to disclose them to Sir Charles and ask his help. George did so yesterday by letter, giving certain notes of our liabilities. You ask why he did not make such a statement by word of mouth? Because he had to go to Liverpool at a moment’s notice to make a last effort to arrange the matter. And as for me,” with a curious grimace, “my father would as soon discuss business with his dog! Sooner!”
“Well?” I said. He had paused, and was absently flicking the blossoms off the geraniums in the fireplace with his pocket-handkerchief, looking moodily at his work the while. I cannot remember noticing the handkerchief, yet I seem to be able to see it now. It had a red border, and was heavily scented with white rose. “Well?”
“Well,” he continued, with a visible effort, “my father has been ailing lately, and this morning his usual doctor made him see Bristowe. He is an authority on heart-disease, as you doubtless know; and his opinion is,” he added in a lower voice and with some emotion, “that even a slight shock may prove fatal.”
I began to feel hot and uncomfortable. What was I to think? The packet was becoming as lead in my pocket.
“Of course,” he resumed more briskly, “that threw our difficulties into the shade at once; and my first impulse was to get these papers from him. Don’t you see that? All day I have been trying in vain to effect it. I took Barnes, who is an old servant, partially into my confidence, but we could think of no plan. My father, like many people who have lost their sight, is jealous, and I was at my wits’ end, when Barnes brought you up. Your likeness,” he added in a parenthesis, looking at me reflectively, “to George put the idea into his head, I fancy? Yes, it must have been so. When I heard you announced, for a moment I thought you were George.”
“And you called up a look of the warmest welcome,” I put in dryly.
He colored, but answered almost immediately, “I was afraid that he would assume that the governor had read his letter, and blurt out something about it. Good Lord! if you knew the funk in which I have been all the evening lest my father should ask either of us to read the letter!” and he gathered up his handkerchief with a sigh of relief, and wiped his forehead.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 330