Читать книгу This Publican - Cecil William Mercer - Страница 5

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That snow was coming was plain. A black frost ruled all Essex and the north wind blew about Jeffreys under a sky of lead, chilling the old, gray stone of which the mansion was built: since there was no central heating, the cold within the house was that of the tomb. Certain fires did their business, but, because their grates were old-fashioned, most of their heat was rising into the air, and though a man sat to their blaze, his back was cold.

The butler had rendered these truths for nearly thirty-five years. In the servants’ hall he was the recognized authority upon the reactions of the body to a winter at Jeffreys, and few things gave him more pleasure than an opportunity of remembering, for the benefit of a new-comer, the agonies of cold which he had suffered in what was to be their home. Yet he and the valet and the housekeeper stayed where they were, because there are some masters you cannot leave.

If the three belonged to Lord Elvin, his lordship belonged to them. It was less a case of affection than of religion itself. There was no god but Elvin, and they were his prophets. And now, to their consternation, their god was ill.

“He didn’t never ought to have lef’ London,” said Mrs. Mason. “If only we was back in the Crescent ...”

“Ah,” said the butler. “If. But he don’t go by nothing excep’ by the almanac. Law Sittin’s in London, vacations ’ere. That’s his rule, Mrs. Mason, an’ you know it as well as me.”

“He’s broke it now,” said the valet, miserably.

This was the sinister truth. Though the Hilary Term had begun, for the first time for sixty years Lord Elvin was out of Town.

He had not said that he was ill. He rose, as usual, at seven; worked the most of the day; dressed, as usual, for dinner: but he had not gone out. For five days now, the law lord who never kept house had not ventured abroad: yet prudence was not among his foibles, although he was eighty-six.

So much the three servants knew. They suspected that their master was failing. They could not know that, because of the cold within him, the old judge dared not go out until he had altered his Will.

He should have been in London on Monday. He had had an appointment on Tuesday in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. But on Sunday he had thrown in his hand and had written to Forsyth, solicitor, saying the Will must wait.

Two days later he wrote to Forsyth again.

I believe the Codicil should be made without further delay. Can you come down to lunch on Friday, bringing two clerks?

And now it was Friday, and Forsyth was on his way.

The library of Jeffreys might very well have been that of a nineteenth-century club. It was a long, tall room, heavily carpeted, lined to the ceiling with books. Two mighty fires and four tremendous windows respectively warmed and chilled such as ventured within their range: a terrestrial globe neighboured its celestial twin: two massive writing-tables, not unlike altar-tombs, divided the room into three, and, midway between the two, a mahogany lectern was presenting The Times and The Morning Post. Leather-covered arm-chairs stood about, offering less comfort than ease: and in one of them was sitting the old life peer.

Such men are not bred to-day. The pace is too hot. The fine, clean-cut features, the piercing eyes, the thick, snow-white hair—these things may severally survive: but the quiet dignity of countenance, the classic excellence of mien belonged to another world. But, then, Lord Elvin was fifty ere cars came in.

He was carefully groomed and was wearing a country suit and well-polished, brown walking-shoes. No slippered pantaloon here—at eighty-six. Still, he was sitting at ease, before noon, in a high-backed chair. And that was out of order ...

The law lord took out his watch and glanced at its dial.

Two minutes to eleven.

He slid back the watch with a frown. Then with a manifest effort he got to his feet, steadied himself for a moment by holding the arm of the chair and crossed the floor to the lectern six paces away.

When the butler entered the room at eleven o’clock, his lordship was standing, as usual, reading The Times. As he set down the sherry and biscuits, his master looked round.

“What? Oh, thank you. Weston.”

“My lord?”

“Serve the Methuselah brandy after lunch.”

“At table, my lord?”

“No. Up here.”

“Very good, my lord. I’ve arranged for the clerks to have lunch in the housekeeper’s room.”

“Very well. Don’t forget the chauffeur.”

“No, indeed, my lord.”

His master turned over a page and the butler passed to the fires, there to sweep the hearths and garnish the grates. Not till this duty was done did he make himself scarce. As the tall door closed behind him, Lord Elvin swayed to a chair and let himself go ...

After five minutes, perhaps, he got again to his feet and, making his way to the table, poured out a glass of sherry and drank it off.

The medicine revived him at once.

As he set the glass down on the tray—

“Just about do it,” he said.

John Galbraith Forsyth was an attractive man. That he was also a fine lawyer goes without saying: otherwise, he would not, for instance, have been solicitor to Lord Elvin. His honesty and wisdom stood out: his astonishing adaptability was not apparent. The fact remains that his clients swore by his name. Subalterns and archdeacons, debutantes and financiers sat in turn in his room and went easy away. His counsel was so manifestly good. The shrewd solicitor was as other men are.

He had cancelled seven appointments to lunch at Jeffreys that day. But when Lord Elvin sent out an S.O.S....

“Just about do it, Forsyth.”

The solicitor smiled.

“I’ll remind you of that, sir,” he said, “next time you’re in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“Then why did you come? It must have been damned inconvenient.”

“I came,” said Forsyth, “to set both our minds at rest. The unmade Will’s like Macbeth. It murders sleep.”

The judge took a sup of old brandy and crossed his legs.

“Listen to me, Forsyth. The boy—my boy was married ten days ago.”

“Yes,” said Forsyth, “I saw it. Miss Howard, I think her name was. Her parents were dead.”

“That’s right. Rowena Howard. He brought her to lunch, to meet me, the week before.” Lord Elvin set down his glass and fingered his chin. “I liked her—anyone would. I liked her immensely, Forsyth—a most attractive girl. And when they’d gone I thanked God that the boy had made no mistake.”

“I’m terribly glad, sir,” said Forsyth. “I know——”

“Wait a minute. There’s more to come. The instant I saw the girl, I knew that I’d seen her before. Not her herself, but her double—same face, same figure, same charm ... same little trick of putting a hand to her throat ... And when they were gone and I was alone again, I began to try to remember—for curiosity’s sake.” The old fellow picked up his brandy and cupped the glass in his palms. “I’ve seen so many people in eighty-six years—all sorts and conditions of men, as high as low, and over and over again I have proved the truth of the doctrine that those alike in body are also alike in mind.”

“No doubt about that, sir,” said Forsyth. “I’ve proved it, too.”

“Then you will agree that the closer the physical resemblance, the closer the resemblance of soul.”

“Certainly,” said the solicitor, crossing his legs.

“Very well. If I could contrive to remember when and where I had seen her image before, I might or might not be able to form a further judgment of Miss Rowena Howard, now Mrs. David Bohun. Not that it mattered, Forsyth—understand that. That she was sterling stood out. She took me by storm—and, where the boy is concerned, I’m hard to please. Out of pure curiosity, therefore, I went to work—and the more my memory failed me, the harder I drove the brute. It should have been easy—you don’t see women like that every month of the year. But it wasn’t easy, Forsyth. It took me more than a week. And that was because I had got my environment wrong. I was looking for her double at dinners, at garden-parties and balls—a long way back, of course, but I used to go to such things. And then, eight days ago, I turned to the courts ...” Lord Elvin drained his glass and set it back on the tray. “I tried her for perjury, Forsyth, some twenty-nine years ago—the foulest, most treacherous lies that ever a woman told.”

“Good God,” said Forsyth, wide-eyed.

“It’s true. The jury let her off. They couldn’t withstand her charm and her angel face. And they hadn’t before them the proofs that lay on my desk. They were not ‘evidence’. And so she went free—in this world. But if I had done as she had—out-Judased Judas, put out the eyes of Truth, I say to you, Forsyth, I’d be afraid to die.”

“Perhaps——”

“Perhaps be damned,” snapped the judge. “She’s as deep as Hell.” With a shaking hand he touched the bottle beside him, and Forsyth, observing the movement, refilled his glass. “The boy’s been fooled, Forsyth: and so have I. He’s married a brilliant vampire, who knows no law but that of her own desires, who’s clever as sin, whose heart is of frozen iron: and because he is honest and faithful and likes to keep his hands clean, she’s going to feed on him, Forsyth, for as long as it suits her book. And he will be—miserable ...” He drank again. Then he set the glass back on the tray and sat up in his chair. “Well, the milk is spilt. She’s Mrs. David Bohun. But I’m not dead yet—and this is where you come in.”

“What can I do?” said Forsyth.

“I’ll tell you. As both of us know, I had left him everything. I make it some seventy thousand, when everything’s paid. In fact, he doesn’t need it. He’s doing well at the Bar and he has a private income of nearly a thousand pounds. And the house as well. And so I shall alter my Will and leave you half my fortune ... upon trust ... to do as I say.”

“Upon trust,” said Forsyth. “Yes? What trust will that be?”

“The words,” said the judge, “will be these. To employ the same as I may hereafter advise.”

“Yes?” said Forsyth again, with a hand to his chin.

Lord Elvin leaned forward.

“You will use that money,” he said, “to bring Mrs. Bohun down. It may take you several years, and stalking a woman like her is expensive work. It may very easily cost you five thousand a year. But I give you a free hand, Forsyth. Your job is to spend that thirty-five thousand pounds in catching out that she-devil and freeing my boy.” He threw himself back in his chair and put a hand to his eyes. “If there’s anything left when you’ve done it, give it to charity. God knows how grateful I’ll be, wherever I am.”

There was a little silence.

Then—

“You really mean this?” said Forsyth. “I mean, it’s a secret trust—and I might be killed to-morrow, crossing the street.”

“I know. I’ve thought of all that. But you are the only man, and this is the only way.”

“Are you sure of that, sir?” said Forsyth, folding his arms. “I mean, it’s a delicate matter. I’ll do it for you, if I must: but I’d like, if I can, to—to go round some other way.”

“You try and find one,” said the judge, and picked up his glass.

For perhaps five minutes the two men sat very still, the one considering his brandy and the other with his eyes on the fire.

Then Forsyth raised his eyebrows and let out a sigh.

“You’re right—as always,” he said. “There’s no other way.” He got to his feet and stood looking into the blaze. “I wonder if such a strange duty was ever imposed before.”

“Or accepted,” said Lord Elvin.

The solicitor laughed.

“Why do I accept it?” he said.

“Not for my sake, Forsyth, but because you’ve a sense of justice which must be served.” He smote an arm of his chair. “And so have I. That’s why I impose the duty. I’m fond of the boy, of course: but it’s more than that. Can you watch a man flogging a horse that’s doing its best? And that is nothing to what’s going to happen here.”

Forsyth took a pen from his pocket and looked at the judge.

“Humanum est errare,” he said. “Supposing I prove you wrong.”

Lord Elvin frowned.

“You will take what is left of the money and buy her the finest diamonds that you can procure.”

The solicitor nodded. Then he crossed to one of the tables and drafted the Codicil ...

Some twenty minutes later this had been written out fair by one of the nervous clerks, and when the testator had read it, the second clerk was sent for, to see the document signed.

The law lord laid down his pen and rose to his feet.

“I’m much obliged to you both. I hope my people are looking after you.”

The two stammered an assurance, glanced at Forsyth for instructions and made their way from the room.

“I’m more than obliged to you, Forsyth. Mind you’re fair to yourself in the matter of costs.”

“I always am,” said Forsyth, “as a matter of course.”

“I’m not so sure,” said the judge. “But in this case remember it was my especial desire.”

“Very well, sir,” said Forsyth, obediently.

“And now we both know you must go. I should very much like to keep you, but you’ve given me a yard and I’m not going to take an ell. Are you going to lodge an appeal in that revenue case?”

“I can’t make up my mind,” said Forsyth. “I wish I could.”

“If you do, you’ll win. There’s a case that’s dead in your favour that’s not in the books. Gunther v. Borwick in 1910. A very good judgment of Scrutton’s. It’s never been overruled.”

The solicitor’s eyes were shining.

“Gunther v. Borwick,” he repeated. “I’m terribly grateful, sir. That revenue case has worried me out of my life.”

“That’s the worst of a sense of justice.” The law lord moved to a fireplace and rang a bell. “And now good-bye, Forsyth. You’ve done a good deed to-day.”

In silence the two shook hands.

Forsyth would have spoken if he could have trusted his voice: but the moment which he had dreaded had taken him by the throat. A giant of his world was swaying: a time-honoured elm was toppling: a peerless, full-rigged ship was going down. He was looking upon an old master, whose period frame would be empty within the week, with whom he had been familiar for thirty years.

The old fellow smiled and nodded, and Forsyth turned ...

Arrived at the mahogany doors, he opened a leaf and looked back. His hand upon the head of a chair, Lord Elvin was standing, watching him, still with a smile upon his face. Forsyth put up a hand in salutation. Then he turned again and passed out of the room.

As the door closed behind him, the law lord moved round the chair and sat carefully down. After resting for a moment or two, he got again to his feet and crossed to one of the windows commanding the drive. As he did so, a car emerged from the stable-yard.

Approaching the window-pane, he watched the car fetch a compass and come to rest. He could not see the front door, for this was flush with the window at which he stood, but by standing against the glass he could see the last of the steps. After perhaps two minutes, he saw the chauffeur descend and open the hinder door. Then Forsyth appeared, his hands thrust into his pockets, his fur-coat’s collar lifted against the cold. For a moment he spoke with the chauffeur: then he stepped into the car. The senior clerk followed him in, the junior waiting to sit by the chauffeur’s side. And then they were all within, and the doors were shut. At once the car moved off ...

The law lord watched it until he could see it no more, and when it was out of his sight, he still stood looking after, as though he was taking in spirit the London road. So for perhaps two minutes: then he looked to and fro, to focus the empty park.

Remarking the graceless country, he found the house of Nature divided against itself. The hang-dog day was passing into a vicious night. The bitter wind was still whipping a sullen world; great trees rocked and bellowed, as though in pain; the bushes below them shuddered; the lake lay dead. Somehow the pregnant clouds withheld their snow, weighting the faltering twilight out of its humble race and making the hearts of all things fail them for fear. As well that darkness was coming to cloak the sheer unkindness that ruled the earth.

A sudden stab of pain reminded the aged peer that cold within him fed upon cold without. At once he turned from the window and made his way to a fire, but, now that he had no interest, he felt too weak to stand and after a moment he left the fire for a chair. As he laid back his head, again the pain shot through him and he began to cough ...

Perhaps some instinct told him he must have warmth.

God knows what it cost him to drag his chair to the blaze, but ring for a servant he would not—he never had rung for a servant to move a chair. For the matter of that, no servant had ever seen him sitting beside a fire; but that record went that day, when the butler came with the tea.

Still the warmth had done its work, and the pain was gone. He was able to speak to the man, as soon as the lights were up and the curtains were drawn.

“A cold night, Weston.”

“Bitter, my lord.”

“See that the postman has something to warm him up.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The butler saw to the fire and then, without inquiry, poured out his master’s tea.

For a moment the law lord stared.

Then—

“Er, thank you,” he said. “Much obliged.”

The butler passed to the lectern. One minute later The Times and The Morning Post were lying beside the tray.

“Thank you, Weston, thank you. I—I’m quite all right.”

“Certainly, my lord. But it’s warmer here by the fire.”

“You find it cold, do you?”

“My lord, it’s exceptional.”

“Ah.”

The second grate replenished, Lord Elvin was left alone.

The tea did him good. He even glanced at The Times before falling asleep ...

When he awoke, he realized with a shock that the tray had been taken and letters left in its place.

“This won’t do,” he said shortly and got to his feet.

Two minutes later he was sitting at one of his tables, dealing with one of the letters which the postman had brought ...

As usual, he dressed for dinner at half past seven o’clock. He could not know that, whilst he was in his bedroom, his valet was standing, listening, without the door.

He dined, as usual, at eight.

How he managed the stairs, I cannot pretend to say, but under the eyes of his servants he passed up and down. And then once more he was back in the library ...

The pain had returned now, to lace his chest with irregular, savage thrusts. Perhaps the low-cut waistcoat must answer for that. It was not, of course, so warm as that which he had put off. Still, there was a roaring fire, and the butler had left his chair drawn close to the hearth. Out of all order, that. Still, Weston had said that the cold was exceptional. He supposed it was. He hadn’t been out himself, so how could he know?

“All wrong,” said Lord Elvin. “All wrong. I’ll go out to-morrow, come snow. No reason now why I——”

Another slash of pain snapped the sentence off short, and the valet, stooping in the shadows, straightened his back.

His master was clinging to the chair. After a moment or two, he worked his way round its side and into its seat.

He sat, leaning back, with the firelight playing upon him, lighting the stiff shirt-front and the clean-cut face. This might have been cut out of marble, it was so pale: the lips were white as the rest, and the eyes were shut.

He sat so still for so long that a sudden apprehension knocked at the valet’s heart. He began to approach softly, finger to lip. Then the law lord lifted his voice, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Where was it I saw her? Gunther v. Borwick’s the name. You’ve given an old man pleasure. It’s too late now. Good-bye, my boy. Up here with the coffee, Weston. There’s no other way.”

The valet was shocked—with reason, for the nonsense was naturally spoken and not by a sleeping man. At once he whipped to a fireplace and rang a bell.

In an instant the butler appeared ...

The two men consulted together. Then the butler ran out of the room and down the stairs. At their foot the housekeeper was trembling ...

“Delirious,” vouchsafed the butler. “Is Lupton there?”

“Here, Mr. Weston,” said the chauffeur.

“Stan’ by, while I talk,” said the other, and fell on the telephone.

After a moment or two—

“Is that Dr. Riley?” he cried ... “Oh, this is Lord Elvin’s butler ... I’m speakin’ from Jeffreys, sir. His lordship’s took very bad. Can you come at once? The chauffeur’s here if you’d like me to send the car ... Oh, very good, sir. Thank you ... Well, I think it’s the cold, sir, that’s done it ... In the library, sir ... Very good, sir. Thank you. Good-bye.” He put the receiver back and turned to the housekeeper. “ ’Ot bottles at once, Mrs. Mason, to warm his bed. An’ one to the library, Lupton, an’ car rugs out of the ’all.”

With that, he was gone ...

Five minutes went by. The chauffeur had been and gone and Mrs. Mason had come to the library. Lord Elvin’s voice was still speaking—intermittently.

“Just about do it, Forsyth. You won’t get a bid. Where have I seen that face? The post’s very late. A very good judgment of Scrutton’s. I’m much obliged. That’s a good boy. I’ve seen her somewhere. All wrong ...”

Together the butler and valet removed his shoes, set his feet on a bottle, swathed him in rugs. Sometimes the voice petered out and the peer seemed to doze: then it would start again, investing its incoherence with such conviction as made their blood run cold. Just before the doctor arrived, the brain resumed control, and the law lord sat up.

“What’s this, Weston?”

He plucked at the rug on his knees.

For once confounded, the butler made no reply, and Mrs. Mason, behind him, fell to her knees and began to crawl out of range. The valet stepped into the breach.

“You fainted, my lord. I think perhaps it’s the cold. When Weston answered the bell, he—he found you asleep.”

“I’m—I’m quite all right. I—I only rang for ... for some tea.”

“Very good, my lord. Tea, Mrs. Mason.”

“Mrs. Mason? What’s she doing here?”

“She brought the hot bottle, my lord. Your feet were cold.”

“Very good of you, Mrs. Mason. I’m much obliged. But I’m all right now. And don’t bother about the tea.”

There was an awkward silence.

Then—

“By your lordship’s leave,” said the butler, “Dr. Riley is on the way.”

“Dr. Riley? Why?”

“Er, we thought it a precaution, my lord. We’re—not used to your being ill.”

“I’m not ill, Weston. I—Ah!”

The pain had replied to the plea—and that, so effectively that nearly a minute went by before its victim could speak.

Then—

“Perhaps you’re right. Where’s Weston?”

“My lord?”

“You—you said it was cold, Weston.”

“Exceptionally so, my lord.”

“Ah.” The white head fell back. “I tried her for perjury, Forsyth. I’m much obliged. See you in London, David ...”

Mrs. Mason burst into tears.

Then the door was opened by the chauffeur, and the doctor entered the room.

The butler hastened to meet him ...

Very gently he lifted one of Lord Elvin’s hands, to take the wrist between his finger and thumb. After a little, he laid the hand back on the arm of the high-backed chair. Then he passed to the other side and lifted the other hand ...

As he laid this back—

“I shouldn’t move him,” he said. “It won’t be long.”

There was a dreadful silence. The law lord had ceased to talk. Two fat tears rolled slowly down Weston’s face. Mrs. Mason was sobbing quietly. On his knees by the chair, the valet hid his face in his hands. By the doors at the end of the room the chauffeur stood very still, with his eyes on the floor. The doctor stood back, to set a hand on the marble above the grate.

With his eyes on the fine, old face—

“I might have done something,” he said, “two days ago. But I very much doubt it. Eighty-five is full eighty-five in weather like this.”

“Eighty-six,” quavered the valet, “last Michaelmas Eve.”

Unable to bear such inaction, the butler lifted his voice.

“But can’t you do nothing, sir? Nothing at all?”

“Nothing,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry. His heart has practically stopped.”

Twenty halting minutes dragged by, the doctor watching his patient, the weeping servants supporting their dying lord. Then a change came, and Lord Elvin was short of breath.

The unfamiliar condition disturbed his peace. For a moment his eyelids fluttered: then, at the second attempt, he lifted his handsome head.

“Is—is Kendal there?” he said faintly.

“My lord?” said the valet.

“I’m ... rather tired ... this evening. I don’t know why. I ... think perhaps ... it’s the cold. But call me as usual, Kendal ...”

With the words, his head fell back; and after the ghost of a struggle the law lord died.

By Dr. Riley’s direction, the servants lifted his body and carried it off to his room.

Then Weston rang up Forsyth: and Forsyth rang up The Times to say that a great man was dead.