The Pit Town Coronet Volume Iii Part 6

"Your husband, dear lady, when he was dying, gave it in charge to me to let you see the contents of this box, which, he too truly said, would explain all. I, too, at times, had my suspicions; for remember this, I too loved your cousin long ago, and your husband was my dearest friend."

The man buried his face in his hands and was silent for a moment; he pulled himself together with an effort. "When I saw what the box contained, the whole ghastly secret was laid bare to me in an instant.

You remember when we were in Rome, by chance, by merest chance, I saw your husband at a masked ball with a lady; at that ball arose the quarrel between your husband and the unfortunate Frenchman who fell by his hand. The box will tell you the rest. The masked lady wore a magnificent pair of single-stone diamond earrings." Spunyarn unlocked the box, placed it in front of his friend's widow and walked to the window.

With trembling fingers Mrs. Haggard opened it. There was a little packet of letters in Lucy Warrender's undeveloped girlish hand, the ink of which had faded; then a pair of single-stone brilliant earrings, which sparkled and s.h.i.+mmered in the firelight, as the widow took them in her trembling fingers; to one of them was still attached the duplicate of the _Mont de Piete_, dated the very day of her cousin's death. Last of all was a little purple velvet case on which was her husband's monogram with the single word "Rome," and a date just over twenty years ago. She opened it with difficulty; in it was a lovely miniature, not a mere photographer's likeness, of her cousin Lucy in all the pride of her girlish beauty, as a shepherdess, in powdered hair and in a Watteau costume. The face seemed to smile at her with an air of insolent triumph, that old smile of Lucy's which her cousin remembered so well in the days gone by, but which she had missed for many a long year. The painter had not forgotten to place in the ears of the shepherdess a pair of single-stone earrings; in the hand was the ordinary black silk vizard worn at masquerades, and the shepherdess was depicted in the act of unmasking. Nothing more pretty, nothing more piquant, nothing more _chic_ could be imagined. The widow placed the miniature upon the table, and as she did so a single object still remaining in the box caught her eye. It was only a little black silk mask, and from the two holes in the toy, in her disordered imagination, the eyes of her dead cousin still seemed to sparkle with a mocking light. She dropped the miniature into the box and closed the lid which shut out the horrid phantom.

As the box closed with an angry click, Lord Spunyarn turned towards the victim of her husband's perfidy.

"There is no need of explanation; my husband was right. I understand it all, but I forgave him, Lord Spunyarn, and I forgive him still. Poor Lucius!"

This was all she said.

Spunyarn resumed his seat at the fireside. Then there was a long silence, which neither seemed disposed to break.

At last with an effort he spoke. "What is to be done, dear madam? I wish the secret had remained in the dead man's keeping; it is a dreadful responsibility. Can it be still kept?"

"It is my duty towards my dead husband, Lord Spunyarn," she said decisively.

"But you have another duty, dear lady; a duty to your son and a duty to the old man here, who looks on Lucius as his heir."

"My son must suffer with me, Lord Spunyarn, for his father's fault."

Spunyarn shook his head. "Not so, dear lady; there is but one way, one possible way, to preserve the reputation of those who are gone and to do justice, for justice must be done. Pit Town must know; for others, taking the lowest standpoint, may possess the secret, and the honour of the family must not be compromised. Lucius must efface himself, that is the only course."

"Efface himself, Lord Spunyarn? I know the boy, the orphan boy; he was my husband's child; and with all his faults I love him; he will never consent to that; he would die first," said Reginald Haggard's widow.

"And die he must, I mean socially. There is no other way."

"He will never consent, Lord Spunyarn," repeated the widow. "He is wrapped up in the fact that he is Lord Pit Town's heir. With George it is different; he is my own son, my very son," she added bitterly, "and, if I wish it, he will give up everything for my sake and his father's; his father's honour is as dear to him as it is to me. Besides, my husband evidently foresaw the dilemma in which he has placed us, and made the boy his heir."

"But justice, dear lady, justice----"

"Justice, Lord Spunyarn," cried the indignant woman as she rose to her feet. "G.o.d's justice, do you mean, or man's? Is it not enough that my husband should have betrayed and befooled me for twenty years, and should have robbed my boy of his very heritage, and more than that, of half the treasure of a mother's love? For I tell you, strange and unnatural as it may seem, that I love Lucius; ay, I love him, though he is poor Lucy's child and my husband's b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And who could help loving the poor helpless, friendless, neglected child? Yes, I acted the love at first, Lord Spunyarn, and it grew upon me till it became a part of myself. Is it for nothing, that when my husband was bleeding to death before my very eyes, that he bade me take care of Lucius? I have been a faithful and obedient wife, Lord Spunyarn, and I will obey my husband's last behest to the letter. I will protect his son's interests and his son's rights."

"Alas, he has no rights, dear madam," said Spunyarn gently.

"The secret, Lord Spunyarn, is not yours or mine; it is my husband's and hers," she added, pointing to the box. "When she made me swear to keep her secret, she threatened to haunt me should I betray her. How could I answer her? It was a girl's idle jest, I know; but I did swear it, G.o.d knows how unwillingly, and Heaven help me I will keep my oath. Yes, I will keep my oath," here she sank into a chair, and covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly.

Lord Spunyarn paced the room in doubt. He was a man of principle, a religious man, a man of honour--strange combination forsooth in this nineteenth century, and he remembered that his mouth was closed. But was he, a good man, to stand idly by and see a great wrong done? Was he to see the honours and t.i.tle of a n.o.ble family descend to a b.a.s.t.a.r.d through the secret machinations of an artful woman? Heaven forbid!

"Think it over, dear madam, think it over," he said; "let me beg you, at least, to sleep on it, and G.o.d give you counsel," he added in a broken voice, and then leaving the little red box and its contents upon the table where it lay, he hurriedly left the room.

While the interview which has been described was taking place, the two young men were walking briskly up and down the great avenue, which was already yellowing with commencing autumn.

It was Lucius who spoke.

"We have changed places, George, with a vengeance; it is I who am the pauper now. If my father meant to surprise me, he certainly succeeded.

You are the man of property, George, while I am rich only in expectations. Thank goodness, neither my father, the old man, nor any one else can keep me out of the t.i.tle and the entailed property; but there may be a deuce of a long time to wait. By Jove! you know these very old men don't die, they dry up. Why, look at grandfather Warrender.

It's a horrid nuisance this mourning, though I shall be heartily glad when I have to go into black next time. His lords.h.i.+p is a decided obstructionist;" so spoke the elder brother, as he blew a big cloud of smoke into the air.

"Don't pretend to be a brute, Lucius; you don't mean it, you know, old fellow," said George.

"But I do mean it, though. There's no more ridiculous custom than mourning. It's a monstrous thing and ought to be done away with by act of parliament, like suttee in India was--we could see the absurdity of that. We have a kind of modified suttee here. Why, look at mother! Why should she have to dress herself like a guy? It's a ridiculous custom, I say. Why should I have to wear black gloves in order that I may exhibit my woe by the stains on my fingers? And why should I be compelled to look like a British working man out for a holiday, and pa.s.s the greater part of my time in flicking the dust off my clothes? I've been badly treated, George, and now I find myself pitchforked into a ridiculous position. Here I am, heir to a t.i.tle and any amount of coin, and without a farthing I can call my own. I wonder whether the old man will think fit to make me an allowance; he gave Hetton a big one, I have always heard. Do you suppose I offended the governor, George?"

"No; the will was made several years ago, you know, when we were boys."

"Well, it's uncommonly rough. Anyhow, you'll allow that, I suppose; and I confess I don't care for the _role_ of a waiter upon Providence. The only thing I seem to have inherited at all is Capt, and I shall rid myself of him at the earliest opportunity; he must have saved a pile of money; he ought to go back to Switzerland and start an hotel. They all do, I believe, when they don't cut their master's throats as Courvoisier did. By Jove! I wonder whether Capt would lend me any money? If he won't, I must try the Jews. Why, since the governor died, I've been inundated with circulars from the house of Israel."

"You needn't trouble about money, Lucius; you can have anything you want from me, you know."

"It's very good of you to say so, George; but as I shall have to go to the Jews sooner or later, it's hardly worth while spunging upon you. I may as well take the bull by the horns at once. Though, between ourselves, I don't see why my mother shouldn't do something for me, and so circ.u.mvent the governor's injustice. You and she got all the plunder between you."

"Don't talk like that, Lucius. It's not right. It's hard on you, very hard; but I wouldn't have anything to do with money-lenders if I were you."

"Oh, of course not; that's the good advice all you wealthy fellows always give us poor devils; it's the way of the world."

"You're not fair, Lucius; we are both under age, but this you can rely on, till you come into your own, at all events, you're welcome to share my purse."

"Do you really mean that, George?"

"Of course I mean it, or I shouldn't say it."

"I didn't believe you were half the good fellow that you are, my boy.

Let's shake hands on it," and the two young fellows shook hands, but George's generosity was a bitter pill indeed to Lucius Haggard.

Mr. Maurice Capt did not find himself comfortable under the new _regime_. He was still Mr. Haggard's man, but things were changed; he disliked his new master, and his sharp eyes soon detected that the dislike was more than reciprocated. When Lucy Warrender died, what he looked upon as a legitimate source of income he suddenly found closed to him for ever. The proprietor of a valuable secret is naturally anxious to secure the best return possible from his property, but unfortunately in Mr. Capt's case dividends may be said to have ceased. As he turned the matter over in his mind he disliked his investment more and more.

It seemed to have a.s.sumed the aspect of a very unpromising property indeed. What was he to do? The terms of Reginald Haggard's will were no secret to him, for, in his first rage and mortification, the young Lucius had confided his woes to his late father's confidential servant.

Should he, the valet, hang on at Walls End Castle for an indefinite period, until Lucy Warrender's son should come into the old lord's property, when he would be able to recommence the blackmailing process which he had so successfully carried out upon the young man's mother? He knew enough of the character of Lucius Haggard to feel certain that the power he would possess in such a case would be boundless. But Mr. Capt was no longer a young man; he, like his master, might die suddenly, and then the secret would die with him. That miserable antic.i.p.ation filled him with horror and indignation. Should he go to the widow, inform her that he shared her secret, and, for a good round sum in ready money, sell his silence, and of course betray her as soon as he found it convenient to do so? Should he go to the old earl, and make the best bargain he could under the circ.u.mstances? He was torn by conflicting doubts. Mr. Capt had an observant eye; he had noticed that there had been an exciting interview between the widow and her late husband's executor, and he became aware of the fact that a little red morocco box, which in the old days had usually accompanied his master upon his travels, had pa.s.sed into Mrs. Haggard's personal custody. Intuitively, he correctly jumped to the conclusion, that in some way or other, the red morocco box was connected with the secret of Lucius Haggard's birth.

Mr. Capt felt then that it was his duty, as a prudent man, to ascertain the nature of the contents of the box, or even to obtain possession of it. Prompt.i.tude as well as firmness had characterised every action of Mr. Capt's life; with him to determine was to execute, and he made up his mind not to rest until he had mastered the secret of the box, and that his subsequent action should be guided by the information so obtained.

Reginald Haggard was a wise man, a man who burnt his letters, a man who was as a rule untroubled by sentiment. The one episode in his early life over which, to him, there had still hung a sort of unhealthy halo of romance, was the affair with Lucy Warrender. Many a time and oft had common sense urged him to commit the contents of the little red box to the flames; but he knew too well that somehow or another his wife had become the involuntary accomplice of her cousin's fault. He had not burned the contents of the box; if he had done so the secret, as far as he was concerned, would probably have died with him; but he had not burned it. Hence his whispered death-bed confession to his friend Spunyarn, and his appeal to his wife for forgiveness.

Mrs. Haggard had turned the matter over in her mind again and again. To her it seemed unnecessary to rake up an old scandal, at least during Lord Pit Town's life; the propriety of letting sleeping dogs lie commended itself very strongly to her mind. She herself was quite convinced that when it became necessary to communicate the secret to young Lucius Haggard things would right themselves without a scandal. Of course Lucius would do what was right, and so would George for the matter of that. Spunyarn's suggestion that Lucius Haggard should "efface himself," and so voluntarily suffer a social death, seemed to her but a brutal and inhuman method of cutting the Gordian knot. She had never again opened the little red box, since she had closed it on the occasion of her interview with her husband's executor. To her mind the simplest thing of all would have been to do away with the box and its contents, but she gave way to the better judgment of Spunyarn in this matter. On one thing, however, she was determined: by no act of hers should her dead cousin's shameful secret be dragged into the light of day; and so she made up her mind to communicate her decision to Spunyarn, and to deliver the box to him for safety.

Lord Spunyarn's reflections upon the whole matter convinced him of one thing--his own unenviable position. To his mind the matter was thoroughly clear, and his own duty peremptorily defined. He had received the secret as a death bed confidence; there could be no doubt as to the mystery of Lucius Haggard's birth. It was certainly not for him to stand calmly by and see the Pit Town t.i.tle and the Pit Town estates pa.s.s to Reginald Haggard's b.a.s.t.a.r.d son. It was his duty to take the old lord into his confidence and to break the matter to the brothers. His own evidence and that of George's mother, coupled with the contents of the box, would set the facts at rest beyond a doubt. If young Lucius were an honourable man he would not attempt to make matters worse by a useless contest in the Law Courts, but would doubtless of his own accord see the wisdom of disappearing into an honourable obscurity, while Lord Pit Town and George Haggard would, of course, provide for him. He felt a.s.sured that having had time for reflection Mrs. Haggard herself would inevitably consent to this, the only possible course of action. As to her scruples respecting her cousin's secret, they would be overcome. It was then with a mind fully made up that Lord Spunyarn demanded a second interview with his dead friend's widow, and he requested young Lucius Haggard to await his summons to speak with them "on a matter which," as he phrased it, "concerns you nearly."

He found Mrs. Haggard comparatively cheerful.

"I have thought it all over, Lord Spunyarn," she said. "You were my husband's friend. I place myself in your hands unreservedly."

Spunyarn gave a sigh of relief, and then he proceeded to sketch the course of action which we have given above.

"We will tell no one, dear Mrs. Haggard. George himself need never know.

The whole thing can be a simple matter of arrangement. Of course Lucius must know all, and Pit Town. I purpose to break it to Lucius at once, and to him at least your cousin's name need never be mentioned. He is his father's son after all."

"His father's son," she said with a sigh. "Yes, his father's son," she repeated with meaning. "Must it be done to-day?"

"Don't let us procrastinate, dear lady. Shall I send for him? He is awaiting our summons."

The widow nodded, and Spunyarn went to seek the youth, who in a few minutes was to be stripped of name and fame and wealth.