Читать книгу The Veiled Man - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 11

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Immediately he arrived at Cawthorne Castle the veiled man took possession of the western wing, and there sealed himself up behind bars and bolts, with Simon Vicars for his sole companion and attendant. Only one apartment, his dining-room, did he place at the disposal of the Castle servants; and even that in a fashion strictly limited. This was situated on the ground floor, and it contained but two doors, one opening on the courtyard, the other upon an interior corridor. During certain hours each day the outer door was left open, to allow the Castle servants to pass in and out with the veiled man's meals. The inner door at such times was stoutly locked, but it was furnished with a fine-meshed grille, through which Mr. Deen might survey the apartment in order to assure himself of a clear coast before he ventured thither when he felt inclined to eat. The room had formerly possessed two windows, but Mr. Deen had obtained the glass of one to be stained and supplemented with impervious steel shutters, and the other to be walled up. The servants thought of him breakfasting in midsummer by candle light and shuddered, beset by unacknowledged superstitious fears. To them he appeared something in the light of an ogre, a shadowy uncanny personality whose directions it were as well to follow implicitly. On that account they entered the privileged rooms in pairs, and their business transacted, they were always glad to fly without attempting to satisfy their curiosity by peeping through the grille. The Earl had, in the first instance, endeavored to explain to them his cousin's peculiar sensitiveness and habits of seclusion, and he believed he had succeeded; but they preferred to listen to the vague and baneful hints of Simon Vicars, and the name which the little valet had dubbed his master—"the veiled man"—spread quickly over the country-side in whispers of evil and mysterious significance. All manner of curious rumors began to arise. Some declared the recluse a leper, or the victim of another equally abominable disease. Others muttered of insanity or crime—crime and the fear of its detection. Others again did not hesitate to dispute the veiled man's sex.

Lord Cawthorne rested blissfully unaware of these whisperings, though he sometimes wondered at the pertinacious frequency of the inquiries regarding his cousin which met him at each turn. The ugliest rumors in fact, had penetrated from the kitchen to the drawing-rooms of Stayton, and the curious dwell everywhere. His answers, however, and the transparent honesty of his demeanour went far to disarm suspicion. He was always glad to recount the story of his cousin's heroic conduct in saving his life from the flames, and he appeared to consider it the most natural thing in the world that Mr. Deen's facial disfigurement should have induced him to eschew society. The majority believed his story, but a few inclined to the opinion that the young Earl was a superlatively fine actor, and that Castle Cawthorne's western wing contained a strange mystery.

The veiled man was wiser than the Earl. Each morning when he awoke he asked Simon: "Well, my lad, and what did they say of me last night?" He occasionally chuckled at the valet's replies in a fashion that made little Simon shiver. But Simon was growing used to his master's sphinx-like and erstwhile disconcerting ways, and as time passed he shivered less frequently and less fearfully. Not even a veiled man can be for long a hero to his valet. A curious intimacy sprang up gradually between the pair; an intimacy, however, that resembled anything but friendship. Mr. Deen used Simon and in a manner liked his society, but behind his veil he despised the man. Simon adored his master's money, and lived in the constant hope of surprising some secret which would make his fortune.

The veiled man wore around his neck beneath his clothes a silver chain, to which was attached a key. Simon knew that this key belonged to an iron fireproof safe, which his master had brought with him from Australia; but Mr. Deen never opened the safe in his presence, and his wonder at its contents grew. Simon often looked at the safe, and he was determined to explore it some day. As yet he had lacked an opportunity, but he was content to bide his time; for his manner of life pleased him perfectly. The veiled man sent him frequently abroad with instructions to acquire information and nose out other people's secrets. Simon loved such work, and threw himself into it with heart and soul. He was soon hail fellow well met with the riff-raff of Stayton, and the crony of every servant and innkeeper in the place. And he managed so adroitly that none suspected his purpose, for he vilified his master in order to make other servants decry theirs; while with people of more independent standing he posed as the nurse of a querulous invalid who made up abroad for the tedious monotony of his home existence.

Simon's first important commission was to discover as much as possible of the pretty women of Stayton, for Mr. Deen was extremely anxious to learn what he could of those of his neighbors amongst whom he did not doubt but that the Earl would pick a wife. At the end of a week Simon was ready to report.

"They are all joined in a conspiracy to marry the Earl, sir," he declared by way of a beginning.

The veiled man shrugged his shoulders. "Cawthorne is no misognist—a full blooded man never is. He will marry," he said gravely. "The question is merely whom. You may spare me unnecessary comments, Simon."

"Shall I take the Carnes, first sir?"

"Do."

"They have three unmarried daughters, Mr. Deen, all pretty and young. Sybil is a blonde and soulful. The others are brunettes. May is musical, and Nelly is a nagger. I have this from their maid, who is not what you would call a reticent young woman. Mr. Carne has a large income, but it is badly invested, and Mrs. Carne is a match-maker. Her eldest daughter is married to a brewer baronet, and another to a pauper peer. She wishes Sybil to catch the Earl."

The veiled man nodded his head. "Excellent, Simon," he remarked. "You are an artist, a born artist; I note Sybil Carne. For the present, however, enough of her. Next."

"The Franklyns."

"Well."

"They boast of Norman blood, sir," (Simon remarked). "Poor as church mice——" (he added contemptuously). "One girl, Maude. The gardener says she shrivels up his flowers worse than a nor'easter. I've seen her, sir; she is beautiful, but proud and cold."

"She might melt to the Earl, Simon."

"Like enough, Mr. Deen; she is as dark as Juno."

"We'll mark her 'dangerous,' Simon, since the Earl is a blonde. Next."

"I'll pass by the vicarage girls, sir; there are two of them, but although pretty and sweet they are engaged—to parsons. There is Mrs. Toombes, though."

"Ah! with so ominous a name, she would be a widow."

Simon nodded. "Francine Toombes is her full name, sir. She is wonderfully lovely, they say, and lively too; but her French maid gives her a good character, and she ought to know."

The veiled man laughed lightly but said nothing.

"I would mark her doubly dangerous if I were you, sir," Simon ventured.

"And why? my man."

"She is great on platonics, Mr. Deen. All the men in Stayton are her friends."

"What the deuce do you know of platonics?" demanded the veiled man, in contemptuous tones.

Simon rested undisturbed. "It is the oldest and surest trick by which our sex is stalked," he replied. "It is a salt of friendship which clever women scatter broadcast, and it differs from all other salts in that often enough it lights on a bird's tail."

"Lord Cawthorne, is not a fool, Simon."

"But his experience of women——"

"That will do," cut in Mr. Deen. "Next."

Simon shrugged his shoulders. "Next is the last, sir, not by any means the least; but I put her last because she does not properly belong here."

"Oh! her name?"

"Lady Dorothy Foulkes. She is the only daughter of the Marquis of Fane, and she is at present paying a visit to her father."

"But the Marquis resides here."

"True enough, sir; but she spends most of her time in London with her mother. Lord Fane has been separated from his wife for many years."

The veiled man was surprised, and said so.

"No scandal," explained Simon. "Not a breath. They say incompatibility of temperament was the cause of it. Anyway, people don't even gossip about them now, and both parties are highly respected. The Marchioness is passe and charitable, and his lordship might be a monk the life he leads. They have a son as well as a daughter—a crack-brained guardsman, who rides like a centaur to hounds, and is always breaking an arm or leg. Lady Dorothy is her father's pet."

"What is she like?"

"A veritable fairy, sir. She is nicknamed the 'butterfly' in Stayton, and it fits her from head to heel. I doubt if she thinks about anything but amusing herself. She is a reputed flirt, and is accredited with a handsomely accoutred string of scalps. I've seen her twice already, and would like to every day. She is absolutely charming."

The veiled man leaned back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling.

"A goose is walking over my grave," he muttered. Then of a sudden he started upright and said aloud—

"Simon, Simon, you should have named her first."

"But, sir, she returns to London presently."

"No matter."

"She is blue-eyed and fair-haired—like Lord Cawthorne."

"No matter."

"She is supposed to be engaged."

"Again I tell you no matter. She is the one."

"I beg your pardon sir."

"The 'butterfly' you said."

"Yes, sir."

"A flirt—shallow and heartless."

"Ay, sir."

"Simon she is the one, Cawthorne will marry her. It is I who say it. And let me tell you—I am not ill pleased."

Simon gasped. "But," he stammered, "I thought you did not want the Earl to marry anyone."

The veiled man resumed his chair and stared at Simon fixedly for many seconds. "You are not a fool," he said at last, "but it would be impossible to make you understand just yet. I shall have to train you, Simon, train you."

Simon looked ludicrously puzzled. "Yes, sir," he muttered.

The veiled man smiled unseen. "Put me to bed," he said, "and don't speak again until I address you."

Ten minutes later Mr. Deen took from beneath his pillow a small hypodermic syringe that was charged with a colorless fluid. He handed this to Simon, and having disposed himself between the sheets he bared his arm, and beckoned his companion.

"Inject," he said, laconically, pointing to his arm.

"I beg pardon, sir," replied the valet, who was astonished at so unusual a request; "but what is in the tube, sir?"

"Morphia, Simon. For three nights past I have not slept. I shall to-night."

"Are you sure the dose is right, sir?"

"Inject."

The voice was so imperative that Simon hastened to obey. Mr. Deen winced as the needle pierced his skin, and exclaimed aloud as if in spite of himself. "The deuce," he muttered in apology, "it seems I have forgotten how to bear pain."

A little later he laughed softly, and turned his head on the pillow so that his back was to the valet. Simon recovered slowly from his surprise.

"I hope you'll be all right, sir," he muttered.

"Don't leave me, Simon. Good-night." The veiled man's tones were already drowsy. Simon dazedly sat down and watched his master. Five silent minutes passed, then Mr. Deen turned restlessly in his bed, presenting to the valet his curious helmet-like mask. He breathed heavily, and Simon fancied him asleep. At the end of another silent period the veiled man's right hand clutched at his chest, and then flung spasmodically aloft, holding, tightly grasped, the key upon the chain he always wore round his neck. The gleam of steel caught Simon's eye and held his attention in a sort of spell. Presently Mr. Deen's hand fell back on his breast, still, however, clasping the key. His breathing was now deep and regular, and he no longer tossed about. It seemed to Simon that the touch of the key had smoothed his master's slumbers. Simon's eyes did not wander from the key, although he could only see a tiny bit of it. He told himself over and over again that it was the key to his fortune. His expression grew more hawk-like every moment and more cunning. He was making up his mind. In half an hour he was resolved. Fortune favored him. As he arose from his chair the veiled man's hand slid from his breast to the bed, and his fingers, relaxed by sleep, lost their clutch upon the key.

Simon smiled as he approached the bed.

"Mr. Deen," he said. Mr. Deen did not reply. "Mr. Deen," he cried in louder tones. The veiled man slept on.

Simon shook his master rather roughly and evoked a snore. But still he was not satisfied; he took a pin from the lapel of his coat and pricked the veiled man's arm. Mr. Deen slept on. Simon eyed the drop of blood and his smile broadened into a cruel grin. "My chance," he chuckled, and with deft fingers he removed the chain from his master's neck. The safe was in the next room. He tiptoed to the door and turned. Mr. Deen's breathing charmed him. He made his way without further delay to the safe. Immediately he had disappeared the veiled man sat up in his bed and looked about him. Tossing off the clothes he sprang lightly to the floor, and noiselessly as a phantom glided to the door. Simon was on his knees before the open safe. The veiled man smiled disdainfully and as noiselessly as he had come he returned to his bed and resumed his former attitude. Simon meanwhile searched the safe through and through. Much to his surprise it contained nothing but a simple package of papers, the wrapper of which was covered with seals. But Simon's disposition was sanguine, and he hoped much from the package and its seals. He bore his trophy with quick, cat-like steps to his own bedroom, and there, toiling with the skill of an expert, he speedily removed the wrapper without damaging the seals. From the opened envelope he extracted a neatly folded square of blank parchment, within this was a second wrapper of snowy linen, within that a third. Then appeared a common paper envelope which cost him ten minutes of careful manipulation to negotiate, for its parts were closely cemented. But at length his reassure—which had begun to assume extraordinary proportions in his mind—lay open to his hands and eyes.

It consisted of a slip of pasteboard inscribed with three words in his master's handwriting: "Patience, Simon, patience!" Simon Vicars did not comprehend immediately the nature of the trap into which he had fallen. When he did he shook as if with an ague. And yet a moment later he began to replace the various wrappers about the pasteboard slip and subsequently reseal the package, working smoothly and certainly the while like a machine. Simon had escaped from too many tight corners in the course of his life to be quite dismayed by any circumstance. But he was very angry, and his low-mouthed curses were terrible to hear. When satisfied that no one could detect the handling to which he had subjected his master's property, he returned to the safe, put the package back into its proper place, and locked the door. That done, however he shook again, and more violently than before. There remained for him to restore the chain about his master's neck, and he was about to do so when he experienced a sudden agonising fear that the veiled man's sleep had been assumed. His face was of the hue of chalk as he crossed the threshold, and his eyes contained the desperate expectancy of a cornered vermin. The veiled man smiled to see Simon tremblingly approach the bed, a little encouraged by his master's placid breathing, but nevertheless eaten up with doubt and dark suspicions. In a moment it was over. The key lay upon the veiled man's chest, the chain reposed about his neck. Simon sighed gently, and stepping behind the bed stood motionless, his eyes fixed steadily upon his master's mask.

"What now," thought the veiled man. Very soon Mr. Deen began to grow uneasy at the other's inexplicable moveless silence.

Simon was experimenting. Out of his poignant anxiety to discover whether or not his master really slept, he had conceived a clever plan. "If he is awake," thought Simon, "I shall soon be assured of it, for no man can long endure the torture of being observed by an unseen adversary."

But he reckoned without a proper knowledge of the veiled man's iron will. Mr. Deen became more and more disturbed in mind, but he had resolved not to disclose his hand to his valet, and rather than have moved, he would have suffered himself to be very hardly dealt with. At the end of five minutes his face was wet with perspiration, but he still breathed tranquilly. At the end of ten he was employing all the strength in his body to maintain the character he played. At the end of fifteen he was struggling fiercely with hysteria. But Simon Vicars saw only a veil, and his master's respirations seemed to his strained ears as unlabored and regular as ever.

"I guess I've been exploring a mare's nest," he muttered, and as he spoke he stalked to a chair.

In the intense delight of his relief Mr. Deen realised how narrowly the victory had been won, and for the first time in their relationship he paid a tribute of respect to his servant's powers of intelligence. "The fellow is cleverer than I fancied," he reflected. "It was a subtle trick and admirably played."

Simon on his part frowned, then smiled. "He'll never know," he muttered under his breath, "and now that I have proof of his confidence in my good faith, he won't catch me napping; not much, curse him!"

Ten minutes later the veiled man on his bed and Simon in his chair were both asleep. But while Simon had troubled dreams, Mr. Deen slumbered like an infant.