Author: Fred M. White
Category: Mystery
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CHAPTER X
THE HOUSE OF THE SILENT SORROW
A bell tolled mournfully with a slow, swinging cadence like a passingbell. On winter nights folks, passing the House of the Silent Sorrow,compared the doleful clanging to the boom that carries the criminal fromthe cell to the scaffold. Every night all the year round the littlevalley of Longdean echoed to that mournful clang. Perhaps it was for thisreason that a wandering poet christened the place as the House of theSilent Sorrow.
For seven years this had been going on now, until nobody but strangersnoticed it. From half-past seven till eight o'clock that hideous bellrang its swinging, melancholy note. Why it was nobody could possiblytell. Nobody in the village had ever been beyond the great rusty gatesleading to a dark drive of Scotch firs, though one small boy bolder thanthe rest had once climbed the lichen-strewn stone wall and penetrated thethick undergrowth beyond. Hence he had returned, with white face andstaring eyes, with the information that great wild dogs dwelt in thethickets. Subsequently the village poacher confirmed this information. Hewas not exactly loquacious on the subject, but merely hinted that thegrounds of Longdean Grange were not salubrious for naturalists with apredatory disposition.
Indeed, on moonlight nights those apocryphal hounds were heard to bay andwhimper. A shepherd up late one spring night averred that he had seen twoof them fighting. But nobody could say anything about them for certain;also it was equally certain that nobody knew anything about the people atLongdean Grange. The place had been shut up for thirty years, beingunderstood to be in Chancery, when the announcement went forth that adistant relative of the family had arranged to live there in future.
What the lady of the Grange was like nobody could say. She had arrivedlate one night accompanied by a niece, and from that moment she had neverbeen beyond the house. None of the large staff of servants ever left thegrounds unless it was to quit altogether, and then they were understoodto leave at night with a large bonus in money as a recompense for theirpromise to evacuate Sussex without delay. Everything was ordered bytelephone from Brighton, and left at the porter's lodge. The porter was astranger, also he was deaf and exceedingly ill-tempered, so that longsince the village had abandoned the hope of getting anything out of him.One rational human being they saw from the Grange occasionally, a big manwith an exceedingly benevolent face and mild, large, blue eyes--a manfull of Christian kindness and given to largesse to the village boys. Thebig gentleman went by the name of "Mr. Charles," and was understood tohave a lot of pigeons of which he was exceedingly fond. But who "Mr.Charles" was, or how he got that name, it would have puzzled the wisesthead of the village to tell.
And yet, but for the mighty clamour of that hideous bell and that belt ofwildness that surrounded it, Longdean Grange was a cheerful-looking houseenough. Any visitor emerging from the drive would have been delightedwith it. For the lawns were trim and truly kept, the beds were blazingmasses of flowers, the creepers over the Grange were not allowed to riottoo extravagantly. And yet the strange haunting sense of fear was there.Now and again a huge black head would uplift from the coppice growth, anda long, rumbling growl come from between a double row of white teeth. Forthe dogs were no fiction, they lived and bred in the fifteen or twentyacres of coppice round the house, where they were fed regularly andregularly thrashed without mercy if they showed in the garden. Perhapsthey looked more fierce and truculent than they really were, being Cubanbloodhounds, but they gave a weird colour to the place and lent it newterror to the simple folk around.
The bell was swinging dolefully over the stable-turret; it rang out itspassing note till the clock struck eight and then mercifully ceased. Atthe same moment precisely as she had done any time the last seven yearsthe lady of the house descended the broad, black oak staircase to thehall. A butler of the old-fashioned type bowed to her and announced thatdinner was ready. He might have been the butler of an archbishop fromhis mien and deportment, yet his evening dress was seedy and shiny tothe last degree, his patent leather boots had long lost their lustre,his linen was terribly frayed and yellow. Two footmen in livery stood inthe hall. They might have been supers playing on the boards of atravelling theatre, their once smartly cut and trimmed coats hungraggedly upon them.
As to the lady, who was tall and handsome, with dark eyes and featurescontrasting strangely with hair as white as the frost on a winter'slandscape, there was a far-away, strained look in the dark eyes, as ifthey were ever night and day looking for something, something that wouldnever be found. In herself the lady was clean and wholesome enough, buther evening dress of black silk and lace was dropping into fragments, thelace was in rags upon her bosom, though there were diamonds of greatvalue in her white hair.
And here, strangely allied, were wealth and direst poverty; the wholeplace was filled with rare and costly things, pictures, statuary, china;the floors were covered with thick carpets, and yet everything wasabsolutely smothered in dust. A thick, white, blankety cloud of it layeverywhere. It obscured the china, it dimmed the glasses of the pictures,it piled in little drifts on the heads and arms of the dingy statuesthere. Many years must have passed since a housemaid's brush or dusterhad touched anything in Longdean Grange. It was like a palace of theSleeping Beauty, wherein people walked as in a waking dream.
The lady of the house made her way slowly to the dining-room. Here dinnerwas laid out daintily and artistically enough--a _gourmet_ would havedrawn up to the table with a feeling of satisfaction. Flowers were there,and silver and cut-glass, china with a history of its own, and the wholeset out on a tablecloth that was literally dropping to pieces.
It was a beautiful room in itself, lofty, oak panelled from floor toroof, with a few pictures of price on the walls. There was plenty ofgleaming silver glowing like an argent moon against a purple sky, and yetthe same sense of dust and desolation was everywhere. Only the dinnerlooked bright and modern.
There were two other people standing by the table, one a girl with ahandsome, intellectual face full of passion but ill repressed; the otherthe big fair man known to the village as "Mr. Charles." As a matter offact, his name was Reginald Henson, and he was distantly related to Mrs.Henson, the strange chatelaine of the House of the Silent Sorrow. He wassmiling blandly now at Enid Henson, the wonderfully beautiful girl withthe defiant, shining eyes.
"We may be seated now that madam is arrived," Henson said, gravely.
He spoke with a certain mocking humility and a queer wry smile on hisbroad, loose mouth that filled Enid with a speechless fury. The girl washot-blooded--a good hater and a good friend. And the master passion ofher life was hatred of Reginald Henson.
"Madam has had a refreshing rest?" Henson suggested. "Pardon our anxiouscuriosity."
Again Enid raged, but Margaret Henson might have been of stone for allthe notice she took. The far-away look was still in her eyes as she felther way to the table like one in a dream. Then she dropped suddenly intoa chair and began grace in a high, clear voice.
".... And the Lord make us truly thankful. And may He, when it seemethgood to Him, remove the curse from this house and in due season free theinnocent and punish the guilty. For the burden is sore upon us, and thereare times when it seems hard to bear."
The big man played with his knife and fork, smilingly. An acute observermight have imagined that the passionate plaint was directed at him. If soit passed harmlessly over his broad shoulders. In his immaculate eveningdress he looked strangely out of place there. Enid had escaped theprevailing dilapidation, but her gown of grey homespun was severe as thegarb of a charity girl.
"Madam is so poetical," Henson murmured. "And charmingly sanguine."
"Williams," Mrs. Henson said, quite stoically, "my visitor will have somechampagne."
She seemed to have dropped once again into the commonplace, painfullyexact as a hostess of breeding must be to an unwelcome guest. And yet shenever seemed to see him; those dark eyes were looking, ever looking, intothe dark future. The meal proceeded in silence save for an oily sarcasmfrom Henson.
In the dense stillness the occasional howl of a dog could beheard. A slight flush of annoyance crossed Henson's broad face.
"Some day I shall poison all those hounds," he said.
Enid looked up at him swiftly.
"If _all_ the hounds round Longdean were poisoned or shot it would be agood place to live in," she said.
Henson smiled caressingly, like Petruchio might have done in hismilder moments.
"My dear Enid, you misjudge me," he said. "But I shall get justicesome day."
Enid replied that she fervently hoped so, and thus the strange mealproceeded with smiles and gentle words from Henson, and a wild outburstof bitterness from the girl. So far as she was concerned the servantsmight have been mere automatons. The dust rose in clouds as the lattermoved silently. It was hot in there, and gradually the brown powdergrimed like a film over Henson's oily skin. At the head of the tableMargaret Henson sat like a woman in a dream. Ever, ever her dark eyesseemed to be looking eagerly around. Thirsty men seeking precious waterin a desert might have looked like her. Ever and anon her lips moved, butno sound came from them. Occasionally she spoke to one or the other ofher guests, but she never followed her words with her eyes. Such a sad,pathetic, pitiable figure, such a grey sorrow in her rags and snowy hair.
The meal came to an end at length, and Mrs. Henson rose suddenly. Therewas a grotesque suggestion of the marionette in the movement. She bowedas if to some imaginary personage and moved with dignity towards thedoor. Reginald Henson stood aside and opened it for her. She passedinto the dim hall as if absolutely unconscious of his presence. Enidflashed a look of defiance at him as she disappeared into the gloom andfloating dust.
Henson's face changed instantly, as if a mask had fallen from his smugfeatures. He became alert and vigorous. He was no longer patron of thearts, a wide-minded philanthropist, the man who devotes himself to thegood of humanity. The blue eyes were cold and cruel, there was a hungrylook about the loose mouth.
"Take a bottle of claret and the cigars into the small library,Williams," he said. "And open the window, the dust stifles me."
The dignified butler bowed respectfully. He resembled the typical badbutler of fiction in no respect, but his thoughts were by no meanspleasant as he hastened to obey. Enid was loitering in the hall asWilliams passed with the tray.
"Small study and the window open, miss," he whispered. "There's some gameon--oh, yes, there is some blessed game on again to-night. And him soanxious to know how Miss Christiana is. Says she ought to call him inprofessionally. Personally I'd rather call in an undertaker who wasdesperately hard up for a job."
"All right, Williams," Enid replied. "My sister is worse to-night. Andunless she gets better I shall insist upon her seeing a doctor. And I amobliged for the hint about Mr. Henson. The little study commands thestaircase leading to my sister's bedroom."
"And the open window commands the garden," Williams said, drily.
"Yes, yes. Now go. You are a real friend, Williams, and I will neverforget your goodness. Run along--I can actually _feel_ that man coming."
As a matter of fact, Henson was approaching noiselessly. Despite hisgreat bulk he had the clean, dainty step of a cat; his big, rolling earswere those of a hare. Henson was always listening. He would have listenedbehind a kitchen door to a pair of chattering scullery-maids. He liked tofind other people out, though as yet he had not been found out himself.He stood before the world as a social missioner; he made speeches atreligious gatherings and affected the women to tears. He was known todevote a considerable fortune to doing good; he had been asked to standfor Parliament, where his real ambition lay. Gilead Gates had alluded toReginald Henson as his right-hand man.
He crept along to the study, where the lamps were lighted and the silverclaret-jug set out. He carefully dusted a big arm-chair and began tosmoke, having first carefully extinguished the lamps and seen that thewindow leading to the garden was wide open. Henson was watching forsomething. In his feline nature he had the full gift of feline patience.To serve his own ends he would have sat there watching all night ifnecessary. He heard an occasional whimper, a howl from one of the dogs;he heard Enid's voice singing in the drawing-room. The rest of the housewas quite funereal enough for him.
In the midst of the drawing-room Margaret Henson sat still as a statue.The distant, weary expression never left her eyes for a moment. As thestable clock, the only one going on the premises, struck ten, Enidcrossed over from the piano to her aunt's side. There was an eager lookon her face, her eyes were gleaming like frosty stars.
"Aunt," she whispered; "dear, I have had a message!"
"Message of woe and desolation," Margaret Henson cried. "Tribulation andsorrow on this wretched house. For seven long years the hand of the Lordhas lain heavily upon us."
She spoke like one who was far away from her surroundings. And yet noone could look in her eyes and say that she was mad. It was a proud,passionate spirit, crushed down by some bitter humiliation. Enid'seyes flashed.
"That scoundrel has been robbing you again," she said.
"Two thousand pounds," came the mechanical reply, "to endow a bed in somehospital. And there is no escape, no hope unless we drag the shamefulsecret from him. Bit by bit and drop by drop, and then I shall die andyou and Christiana will be penniless."
"I daresay Chris and myself will survive that," Enid said, cheerfully."But we have a plan, dear aunt; we have thought it out carefully.Reginald Henson has hidden the secret somewhere and we are going to findit. The secret is hidden not far off, because our cousin has occasion torequire it frequently. It is like the purloined letter in Edgar Poe'swonderful story."
Margaret Henson nodded and mumbled. It seemed almost impossible to makeher understand. She babbled of strange things, with her dark eyes everfixed on the future. Enid turned away almost despairingly. At the sametime the stable clock struck the half-hour after ten. Williams slippedin with a tray of glasses, noiselessly. On the tray lay a small pile oftradesmen's books. The top one was of dull red with no lettering uponit at all.
"The housekeeper's respectful compliments, miss, and would you go throughthem to-morrow?" Williams said. He tapped the top book significantly."To-morrow is the last day of the month."
Enid picked up the top book with strange eagerness. There were pages offigures and cabalistic entries that no ordinary person could makeanything of. Pages here and there were signed and decorated with pinkreceipt stamps. Enid glanced down the last column, and her face grew alittle paler.
"Aunt," she whispered, "I've got to go out. At once; do you understand?There is a message here; and I am afraid that something dreadful hashappened. Can you sing?"
"Ah, yes; a song of lamentation--a dirge for the dead."
"No, no; seven years ago you had a lovely voice. I recollect what apleasure it was to me as a child; and they used to say that my voicewas very like yours, only not so sweet or so powerful. Aunt, I must goout; and that man must know nothing about it. He is by the window inthe small library now, watching--watching. Help me, for the love ofHeaven, help me."
The girl spoke with a fervency and passion that seemed to waken aresponsive chord in Margaret Henson's breast. A brighter gleam creptinto her eyes.
"You are a dear girl," she said, dreamily; "yes, a dear girl. And I lovedsinging; it was a great grief to me that they would not let me go uponthe stage. But I haven't sung since--since _that_--"
She pointed to the huddled heap of china and glass and dried, dustyflowers in one corner. Ethel [Updater's note: Enid?] shuddered slightlyas she followed the direction of the extended forefinger.
"But you must try," she whispered. "It is for the good of the family, forthe recovery of the secret. Reginald Henson is sly and cruel and clever.But we have one on our side now who is far more clever. And, unless I canget away to-night without that man knowing, the chance may be lost forever. Come!"
Margaret commenced to sing in a soft minor. At first the chords were thinand dry, but gradually they increased in sweetness and power.
Thehopeless, distant look died from the singer's eyes; there was a flush onher cheeks that rendered her years younger.
"Another one," she said, when the song was finished, "and yet another.How wicked I have been to neglect this balm that God sent me all theseyears. If you only knew what the sound of my own voice means to me!Another one, Enid."
"Yes, yes," Enid whispered. "You are to sing till I return. You areto leave Henson to imagine that I am singing. He will never guess.Now then."
Enid crept away into the hall, closing the door softly behind her. Shemade her way noiselessly from the house and across the lawn. As Hensonslipped through the open window into the garden Enid darted behind abush. Evidently Henson suspected nothing so far as she was concerned, forshe could see the red glow of the cigar between his lips. The faintsweetness of distant music filled the air. So long as the song continuedHenson would relax his vigilance.
He was pacing down the garden in the direction of the drive. Did the manknow anything? Enid wondered. He had so diabolically cunning a brain. Heseemed to find out everything, and to read others before they had made uptheir minds for themselves.
The cigar seemed to dance like a mocking sprite into the bushes. Usuallythe man avoided those bushes. If Reginald Henson was afraid of one thingit was of the dogs. And in return they hated him as he hated them.
Enid's mind was made up. If the sound of that distant voice should onlycease for a moment she was quite sure Henson would turn back. But hecould hear it, and she knew that she was safe. Enid slipped past him intothe bushes and gave a faint click of her lips. Something moved andwhined, and two dark objects bounded towards her. She caught themtogether by their collars and cuffed them soundly. Then she led the wayback so as to get on Henson's tracks.
He was walking on ahead of her now, beating time softly to the music ofthe faintly distant song with his cigar. Enid could distinctly see thesweep of the red circle.
"Hold him, Dan," she whispered. "Watch, Prance; watch, boy."
There was a low growl as the hounds found the scent and dashed forward.Henson came up all standing and sweating in every pore. It was not thefirst time he had been held up by the dogs, and he knew by hardexperience what to expect if he made a bolt for it.
Two grim muzzles were pressed against his trembling knees; he saw fourrows of ivory flashing in the dim light. Then the dogs crouched at hisfeet, watching him with eyes as red and lurid as the point of his owncigar. Had he attempted to move, had he tried coercion, they would havefallen upon him and torn him in pieces.
"Confusion to the creatures!" he cried, passionately. "I'll get arevolver; I'll buy some prussic acid and poison the lot. And here I'llhave to stay till Williams locks up the stables. Wouldn't that littleJezebel laugh at me if she could see me now? She would enjoy it betterthan singing songs in the drawing-room to our sainted Margaret. Steady,you brutes! I didn't move."
He stood there rigidly, almost afraid to take the cigar from his lips,whilst Enid sped without further need for caution down the drive. Thelodge-gates were closed and the deaf porter's house in darkness, so thatEnid could unlock the wicket without fear of detection. She rattled thekey on the bars and a figure slipped out of the darkness.
"Good heavens, Ruth, is it really _you_?" Enid cried.
"Really me, Enid. I came over on my bicycle. I am supposed to be round atsome friend's house in Brunswick Square, and one of the servants issitting up for me. Is Reginald safe? He hasn't yet discovered the secretof the tradesman's book?"
"That's all right, dear. But why are you here? Has something dreadfulhappened?"
"Well, I will try to tell you so in as few words as possible. I neverfelt so ashamed of anything in my life."
"Don't tell me that our scheme has failed!" "Perhaps I need not go so faras that. The first part of it came off all right, and then a verydreadful thing happened. We have got Mr. David Steel into frightfultrouble. He is going to be charged with attempted murder and robbery."
"Ruth! But tell me. I am quite in the dark."
"It was the night when--well, you know the night. It was after Mr. Steelreturned home from his visit to 219, Brunswick Square--"
"You mean 218, Ruth."
"It doesn't matter, because he knows pretty well all about it by thistime. It would have been far better for us if we hadn't been quite soclever. It would have been far wiser to have taken Mr. Steel entirelyinto our confidence. Oh, oh, Enid, if we had only left out that littlesentiment over the cigar-case! Then we should have been all right."
"Dearest girl, my time is limited. I've got Reginald held up for thetime, but at any moment he may escape from his bondage. What about thecigar-case?"
"Well, Mr. Steel took it home with him. And when he got home he found aman nearly murdered lying in his conservatory. That man was conveyed tothe Sussex County Hospital, where he still lies in an unconscious state.On the body was found a receipt for a gun-metal cigar-case set withdiamonds."
"Good gracious, Ruth, you don't mean to say--"
"Oh, I do. I can't quite make out how it happened, but that same casethat we--that Mr. Steel has--has been positively identified as onepurchased from Walen by the injured man. There is no question about it.And they have found out about Mr. Steel being short of money, and theL1,000, and everything."
"But we _know_ that that cigar-case from Lockhart's in North Street waspositively--"
"Yes, yes. But what has become of that? And in what strange way was thechange made? I tell you that the whole thing frightens me. We thoughtthat we had hit upon a scheme to solve the problem, and keep our friendsout of danger. There was the American at Genoa who volunteered to assistus. A week later he was found dead in his bed. Then there wasChristiana's friend, who disappeared entirely. And now we try furtherassistance in the case of Mr. Steel, and he stands face to face with aterrible charge. And he has found us out."
"He has found us out? What do you mean?"
"Well, he called to see me. He called at 219, of course. And directly Iheard his name I was so startled that I am afraid I betrayed myself. Sucha nice, kind, handsome man, Enid; so manly and good over it all. Ofcourse he declared that he had been at 219 before, and I could onlydeclare that he had done nothing of the kind. Never, never have I felt soashamed of myself in my life before."
"It seems a pity," Enid said, thoughtfully. "You said nothing about 218?"
"My dear, he found it out. At least, Hatherly Bell did for him. HatherlyBell happened to be staying down with us, and Hatherly Bell, who knowsMr. Steel, promptly solved, or half solved, that side of the problem. AndHatherly Bell is coming here to-night to see Aunt Margaret. He--"
"Here!" Enid cried. "To see Aunt Margaret? Then he found out about you.At all hazards Mr. Bell must not come here--he _must_ not. I would ratherlet everything go than that. I would rather see auntie dead and ReginaldHenson master here. You _must_--"
In the distance came the rattle of harness bells and the trot of a horse.
"I'm afraid it's too late," Ruth Gates said, sadly. "I am afraid thatthey are here already. Oh, if we had only left out that wretchedcigar-case!"