Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 57

Let us return to the halls of the rich and great. In the library at Broxbridge are seated two venerable-looking gentleman; the first of these is Lord Ethalwood, his companion being the white-haired old vicar. They are both students, only in different ways. The rev. father in God, Canon Lenthal, was a special favourite with the master of Broxbridge.

“But you will pardon me, my lord,” he observed, in his soft, mellifluous voice. “The time, I think, has arrived when it is your bounden duty to look to the future. I have no desire to allude to painful subjects, but I really think your worldly affairs should not be forgotten.”

“My children are dead, sir,” returned the earl—​“have been dead for very many years—​and every hope of my life has been destroyed. I bow to the decrees of Fate; but the last thing an Ethalwood lays down is what the world is pleased to term his pride.”

“My dear and very excellent friend,” said the vicar, “that may be true enough—​without doubt it is absolutely true in every sense of the word; but, nevertheless, that is no reason for you not turning your eyes towards the future, which is to one and all of us inevitable. Look around you and consider who is to succeed you—​who is to carry on the glories and the honours of your grand old race?”

“I have no next of kin save a headstrong, wild, dissipated nephew, who is unworthy for a place of honour—​unworthy to represent the ancient and honoured line of the Ethalwoods.”

“The more reason, then, is there for you making an effort while there is yet time.”

“Make an effort!” exclaimed the Earl. “Can I restore the dead to life?” he added, with supreme bitterness. “Can I call back the loved ones who have passed away?”

“Assuredly not.”

“Then what do you mean by an effort?”

“My dear Lord Ethalwood, I have no desire to offend you, but assuredly you can be at no loss to divine my meaning?”

There was a pause. The nobleman made no reply. Like Othello, he gnawed his nether lip, and looked persistently at a large silver salver that blazed on the sideboard beneath the rays of the midday sun, which found their way through the oriel window of the apartment.

The vicar felt that he was treading upon forbidden ground. He, however, determined upon proceeding.

“I think you have not duly considered the matter, Lord Ethalwood,” he observed, in the same quiet tender way. “Nay, I am sure you cannot have done so. You have a daughter.”

“I have no daughter—​she died years ago.”

“Died?”

“She has been dead to me—​dead—​for full five and twenty years.”

“True, she may be dead. But, even assuming this were the case—​assuming it for argument’s sake——”

“Well, what then? We will assume it for argument’s sake.”

“She may have left children—​may have left a son and heir to the title and estates. You have said that her offence was an unpardonable one.”

“So it was. No living man will dare to dispute the point with me.”

“Do not be so choleric, my very dear old friend. I grant what you say. Her offence is perhaps unpardonable, but that is no reason for the innocent being similarly punished. You really must allow me to be plain-spoken when a subject of this nature——”

“You are plain-spoken,” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood, as his pale face became still paler, “very plain-spoken.”

He arose from his chair and walked with rapid strides up and down the room.

“You are moved,” said Canon Lenthal. “The subject is a painful one, without doubt, but it may appear like egotism on my part when I express a hope that you might possibly be induced to listen to me more complacently than you would to any other. Now sit down, my lord, and view the matter in a better and more becoming spirit.”

Lord Ethalwood made no reply, but again took his seat at the table in front of the vicar.

“How could I,” he muttered, “bring the child or children of that base, low-born Italian within the walls of Broxbridge?”

“They are his children, no one will for a moment deny, that is, assuming there are any. Should there be issue of his marriage with your daughter they belong to your race—​they may even resemble you in features, and in disposition also.”

“I hope not.”

“Do not say that, my dear friend—​let us hope they do. They may even have the grand old Ethalwood spirit, the force, the nobility, and honour of the race from which they descend in a direct line. In a direct line, mark you—​you cannot deny that.”

“I do not seek to deny it.”

“Very well, they have a greater right to succeed to the title and estates than any other living person. You may be proud, but that is no reason why you should not be just and reasonable, and I maintain that it would not be right to pass over your lineal descendants. After all there is something in a rightful claim which the best and worst of mankind generally acknowledge. It would be manifestly unjust to set it aside.”

“Really, my esteemed and reverend sir, I must tell you plainly that your argument is based upon no foundation whatever; you are jumping at a conclusion. My undutiful daughter may have no children.”

“That I admit. She may not. I am only suggesting that some effort should be made to find her. She may be dead—​life is, at best, held but on a frail and uncertain tenure, but that is no reason for your remaining persistently in the dark.”

“Ah! so many years have elapsed that the task would not be likely to turn out satisfactory in any way, even if I were disposed to consent.”

“But you will give your consent. Let me prevail upon you to do so,” observed the good old vicar. “Some effort must be made to find out whether your daughter is alive or dead—​that is the first thing to be done.”

“We have not the faintest clue. Five and twenty years have passed over. You seem to forget that.”

“No, indeed, I do not. I have thought over this matter more often than you can possibly imagine, for I must tell you it is a subject which has troubled me much for years past. I have abstained from breaking it from feelings of delicacy, as I felt that I had no right to interfere between father and child; but it has occupied my mind very much, nevertheless, and it has, moreover, caused me the deepest anxiety.”

“Pray say no more. Accept my best thanks for your kindness and consideration. I will think the subject over, and then determine upon my course of action.”

“No time like the present.”

“You are very persistent,” observed the earl, with a smile—​it was the first that irradiated his features for many a day.

His companion looked upon it as a good omen.

“I have one or two calls to make at the other end of the village, and, upon my return, will call in again,” said the vicar. “Think over what I have said. In less than an hour I will see you again.”

“Good. I shall look for you, then, at the expiration of that time.”

The rumbling of the wheels of the vicar’s chariot were heard on the hard dry road, and Lord Ethalwood was alone once more.

He did think the matter over after the departure of Canon Lenthal, and his heart softened.

“He is right—​oh, he is quite right! I am childless—​have no kith or kin that I know of. I must and will take active measures, and see if she be still alive.”

He sat down at the table, and buried his face in his hands.

The hour sped by, and the vicar returned, agreeable to his promise.

“I have taken your advice, and have thought the matter seriously over,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“And what is your ultimatum?” inquired Canon Lenthal.

“To institute inquiries without further delay.”

The two friends sat down once more, and began to discuss details in a serious and business-like manner.

To the great surprise of the vicar, he learnt from Lord Ethalwood that he had never heard a word of his daughter after she left Broxbridge.

“Most singular,” murmured the good pastor. “But did she never write to you?”

“I believe so, but all the letters have been destroyed.”

“Where were they addressed from?”

“I don’t know. I never saw them. I gave orders to my butler to destroy them. Oh, we shall never be able to learn anything of that, I am convinced. Nevertheless I will endeavour to do so.”

“How will you proceed?”

No. 14.

CHARLES PEACE AND THE DETECTIVE OFFICER.

“Place the matter in the hands of my lawyer—​he will know how to act.”

“I am most delighted to find that you have listened to my advice, and hope and trust that you may be successful,” exclaimed the vicar. “In a few days’ time I hope to hear good news. Farewell, my friend, and that your efforts may be crowned with success will be the earnest prayer of your old friend.”

The two shook hands, and Canon Lenthal left Broxbridge in much better spirits than when he entered.

Mr. Chicknell, the earl’s lawyer, who had been telegraphed for, arrived about noon on the following day.

He was at once shown into the library. Lord Ethalwood had by this time become excited and restless. He explained the whole business to his legal adviser.

“Oh,” observed the latter, when his client had concluded. “You now desire to find her out?”

“If it be possible. It seems to me to be most hopeless.”

“Nothing is hopeless in the hands of efficient persons,” returned the man of parchment. “Leave the matter in my hands. I know a clever fellow belonging to the detective department at Scotland-yard.”

“Detective department!” exclaimed the earl, in evident disgust. “Is my daughter to be traced by a man whose business it is to hunt down common thieves?”

“My lord, I pray of you not to be so hasty. Detectives are employed by all sorts of people for all sorts of purposes, and for this reason they are especially qualified to deal with cases of this sort. They’ll find out in a week probably more than I could in months.”

“Well, as you please. You know best.”

“I will do my best for you, rest assured of that,” said Mr. Chicknell. “The very moment I obtain the least scrap of information I will either write or wire to you without delay.”

The active little lawyer returned to London that very afternoon.

Weeks passed over after this. Mr. Chicknell wrote several letters, but they contained but little intelligence.

At last one came which was more cheering. The Italian professor and his wife had been traced first to London, where they had lived some months, and in all probability had spent what little ready money they had. From the metropolis the Italian had gone to Leeds, where he earnt a living by teaching. He and his wife had taken lodgings in that city, and there a child was born.

From what could be gathered it would appear that Montini found it a hard task to maintain a lady brought up in the lap of luxury, and the young couple had to submit to a number of privations.

There were persons residing in Leeds who remembered both the professor and his young English wife.

Indeed, some of the Italian’s pupils, now grown up to middle-aged people, attested to the fact that Montini’s wife presented her husband with a little girl, and the register of her birth and baptism was obtained in the town.

Matters, therefore, looked a little more promising, and the old earl watched for the post each day with the greatest anxiety.

From Leeds they went to Harrogate. In this place they were supposed to be struggling for some time in adverse circumstances, and while there the professor became seriously ill—​so bad indeed that his life was despaired of.

A doctor who attended him, and who still practised in this fashionable watering-place, gave a very sorry account of the Italian’s health, which, he said, was much broken while Montini was under his care. His impression, at the time, was that he could not live more than three or four years.

Mr. Chicknell, in his letters to the earl, informed the latter of all these facts; at the same time he expressed his sincere regret that there did not seem to be much chance of obtaining more information, as the clue seemed to be lost after the professor and his wife left Harrogate.

The supposition was that they returned to London, but this was merely surmise; there was no direct proof of them having done so.

For some time after this the matter remained in abeyance, and the anxiety of the bereaved nobleman increased as the weeks flew by.

He proceeded up to town, and waited upon Mr. Chicknell at his chambers, Paper-buildings, Temple.

“Can nothing more be done in the matter?” he inquired of the lawyer.

“I fear not, my lord. Certainly not at present,” answered his legal adviser.

“Surely, Mr. Chicknell, you do not intend giving over making further inquiries. The case is a most serious one as far as I am individually concerned, and we must not let the matter rest. I do not care what expense is incurred, but you must do your best to clear up the mystery,” said Lord Ethalwood.

“We appear to have come to a dead lock, but that is no reason for our abandoning the search as hopeless,” returned his companion. “Mr. Wrench, of Scotland-yard, has had the case in hand, and has striven as hard as any man possibly could have done to bring the matter to a satisfactory conclusion. I think the best plan will be for him to wait upon you at Broxbridge, and you can then hear what he has to say. You will find him a most intelligent officer.”

“I wish you would communicate with him at once, then.”

“He is not in town this week, but the moment he comes back I will convey to him your expressed wish, and he will hasten at once to Broxbridge.”

“I shall be anxiously awaiting his appearance,” said the earl, who took his leave, and returned to his country seat.