Читать книгу A Clue In Wax - Fred M. White - Страница 7

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The grand old Tudor pile known as Seagrane Holt stood on an eminence some three miles from the South Kent coast. The front of it faced the park, beyond which were the sand-dunes and, beyond them again, the famous Sandchester golf links. A year or two before, the house had been practically closed, for the late earl had found it hard enough on a sadly depleted income and heavily mortgaged lands to keep up a dozen rooms or so in a state of decent occupation, though he had steadfastly set his face against discharging any of the old servants, every one of whom had been born and bred on the property. The shooting and fishing had been let, and the long array of glass houses had fallen almost into a state of decay. There was only one head gardener, and he made the best of a bad job, seeing that at times there was not even enough coke on the premises to keep the furnaces alight. The lawns had grown long and weedy and the paths covered with green moss. All very picturesque from a short distance, but very lamentable from a close point of view. But all that was changed now. When the present holder of the title had come home, he had arrived more in a spirit of curiosity than anything else. There was none of the pride of race or sense of position in him. He had left home far too early for that, and in all his years of wandering and adventure he had hardly given the house in which he had been born a single thought.

But blood and tradition will tell and, almost before the new earl had realised what a precious heritage his was, the place had got hold of him and he had plunged enthusiastically into a scheme for bringing it back to its pristine beauty.

He was a man of little or no education, but certainly not lacking in shrewdness and common sense. And he had seen in a flash that here was a paying proposition if it was only properly handled. He instantly abandoned the idea of letting the house and going abroad again, and decided, sensibly enough, that here was a haven for his old age beyond all his dreams. He was full sixty years of age, and, despite his splendid health and virility, he was beginning to feel that he was not exactly the man he used to be. He had a natural sense of the artistic and beautiful, and here was a chance of gratifying it to the full. Scores of workmen of various sorts came down from London, extra gardeners were engaged, and, such is the power of money, within a few months Seagrane Holt emerged, with all its glories and traditions, more brilliantly than ever.

But though the great reception rooms with their panelled apartments and the long picture gallery were no longer hidden in dust and gloom, and the electric light scintillated where smoky oil lamps had feebly illuminated those treasures before, there was a sense of loneliness that oppressed Seagrane and refused to be shaken off. True, he had looked up Andrew Canton, the only son of his late partner, and established him at Seagrane Holt, with a more than promise that the place would be his own some day, but the sense of loneliness and want of companionship lay over the old man like a nightmare. Nor was he getting along with young Canton quite as well as he had hoped.

He found the young man practically doing nothing and earning no more than a pittance in some questionable occupation. There was a reason, and a very strong reason indeed, why Seagrane wanted to do the best he could for the son of the man who had helped him to found his fortunes, and he was honest in his intention to do so. But, somehow or another to the shrewd man of the world Canton did not ring quite true. There was nothing the matter with his breeding or his manners or his sense of sportsmanship, though he seemed to be lacking in the finer points. He was vain, egotistical and headstrong: moreover, he was a born gambler. Not one of those shrewd, calculating gamblers who study games of chance with a view of self-aggrandisement and watch the fall of the cards much as a sportsman studies the form of a horse. He was more of the hot-headed, impetuous clan—a man who would have been prepared to gamble away the last penny he had, even if he had a wife and family depending upon him. It seemed to Seagrane that what he lacked was ballast, something to keep him on an even keel and arouse in him a proper sense of responsibility. He would be away for days at a time, and then return in a sullen mood which invariably ended in a confession of some speculating folly with more than a hint that Seagrane should step into the breach and save the situation. Already, Seagrane, making due allowance for the folly of youth, had done this on two occasions. And he had given the impetuous youth a broad hint to the effect that he was not prepared to do so again.

"What you want, my lad," the old man said. "Is some steadying effect. I don't mind you having your fling, but you are thirty years of age now, and it is time you began to realise that you haven't as many brains as you think. Until a young man does this, he is likely to be at the mercy of any well-dressed card-sharper who comes along. Now, look here, son, I have been making inquiries about some of your so-called friends, and it seems to me that they are a pretty shady set. I have knocked about the world all my life, and I flatter myself that I can recognise a rascal, even if I meet him in the dark. You have got to settle down. I don't want to rub it in, but, I ask you, what were your prospects when I turned up and dragged you out of the city? Pretty darned thin, eh? Now, here is one of the finest properties in the land, with its place in history and all these family treasures got together by men whose names are famous, to say nothing of the means of keeping it up. It will be practically all yours one of these days if only you have sense enough to hold it down, but I am not such a darned fool as to give you the opportunity unless I see a change for the better. I would rather make it a home of rest for broken-down gamblers. And that is about all, my boy. But I mean it—yes, I mean it all right."

Canton listened rather sullenly, with a frown on that weakly handsome face of his.

"Oh, I know I have been a fool," he admitted grudgingly. "This is some place, of course, but it is dull, infernally dull. You don't seem to cotton to your neighbours and I am not going to blame you for that, because they strike me as a set of duds, too. But what is a paradise without an Eve or two in it?"

Seagrane looked shrewdly at the speaker. "Boy, you have said it," he exclaimed. "I never thought of that. Of course, we do want some women."

It was after this conversation that Seagrane set about finding relatives of the family. And, in the end, Evelyn and her mother were invited down to Seagrane Holt for a short stay, which ended in their taking up their quarters under that splendid and hospitable roof. Moreover, the scheme was a success from the first moment. The house badly wanted a mistress, and in Mrs. Marchand they found it. There was no veiled opposition in the servants' quarters, the mere fact that Mrs. Marchand was born at Seagrane Holt herself was quite sufficient for those who found themselves under her gentle and persuasive sway.

And within a week of Evelyn's coming there wasn't even a dog on the estate that was not her devoted slave. Old Seagrane chuckled and rubbed his hands as he saw how well everything was going, and said nothing, though he smiled to himself when he realised that Andrew Canton had been at Seagrane Holt for a whole four months without the slightest sign of restlessness or a disposition to run up to London on one of those expensive flights of his, and the old man's mind was beginning to see the realisation of all his dreams.

Andrew Canton, a reformed character, married to Evelyn. With a wing in the great house placed at their disposal and in the future the chatter of children and the patter of their feet in the old corridors.

Yes; that was the idea. So, for the present, at any rate, there were peace and tranquility under the ancient roof-tree and the promise of even better things to come. It would have been, perhaps, wiser of the old man if he had not so openly hinted to Evelyn at the dream in the back of his mind. She liked Canton because he was young and by no means unattractive. He could be amusing when it pleased him, and, so far as outdoor sports were concerned, he could hold his own with most people. And so it seemed to the girl that she might do a great deal worse, though she knew perfectly well that her heart was not touched, and that Andrew Canton had no thrill for her. Still, gratitude is a fine feeling when it is genuine, and perhaps but for that meeting with Clifford in London—.

It was about twelve o'clock on the morning following the encounter with Cheriton that Evelyn returned to Seagrane Holt and found the Earl sitting under one of the ancestral cedars on the south lawn, placidly reading his 'Times.'

"Hello, my dear," he said. "Got back, have you? Well, did you find London looking much the same as it was when you last saw it? Want to go back there and live, by any chance?"

"Oh, no, uncle," Evelyn smiled. "That is the first time I have been in London since you came into our little house at Dalston like a great big fairy and spirited mother and myself down here. I feel as if I never wanted to see London again."

The old man looked at Evelyn fondly. It was just the sort of remark he had hoped her to make, and it pleased him immensely.

"That's right, little girl," he said. "That's right. Well, what about that story of yours?"

"Oh, I think that is going to be all right," Evelyn said. "Mr. Lawrence was quite pleased with it. He encouraged me to go on, and I think I shall. And then when I had talked with him I had quite an adventure."

"You don't say. Spill it."

"Well, it was like this. Did you hear me speak of a man called Clifford Cheriton? No, I don't think you ever did."

"Sounds like the hero of one of your own stories," Seagrane chuckled. "Tell me all about him, honey."

"I was going to, uncle. You see, when I was little more than a child, and trying to get a living with my typewriter, I met Mr. Clifford Cheriton quite accidentally, and he told me he wanted some typing done. I don't really believe he did, because he was only a policeman who thought he could write, and I am sure that he had to go without one or two little luxuries in order to pay me for my work. I didn't realise it at the time, but I discovered it afterwards. I did work for him for about a year, and then he had to go to America before the long story we were engaged upon was finished, and I lost sight of him altogether. You can imagine how surprised I was to meet him in Mr. Lawrence's office, and to hear that he had made a tremendous hit with the book that I had helped him with. The novel has been an immense success in America, and it is going to be just as popular on this side. Anyhow, Mr. Cheriton left Mr. Lawrence's office with me with nearly L2000 in his pocket, and commissions lasting him for years. I don't believe he was half as pleased as I was. He is going to leave the police force and devote himself to writing in future."

"He seems to have told you quite a history," Seagrane said dryly. He did not fall to notice the girl's heightened colour. "I guess he was flattered at the interest you took in his work. But that was rather a high spot for a policeman, wasn't it?"

Evelyn laughed happily.

"Well, you see, Mr. Cheriton is not an ordinary policeman. His father was Sir Charles Cheriton, K.C., and one of the most famous barristers in London. He died not long after Mr. Cheriton left school, leaving the latter nothing. I think it was an extraordinarily plucky thing for Clifford Cheriton to go into the police force like that and work himself up to sergeant's rank in so short a time. If he had stayed where he is, he would have gone very far. But I am sure he has made a wise decision."

"You seem to have had a pretty long talk."

"Yes, uncle, we did," Evelyn said demurely. "You see, he took me to dine at the Clarendon last night on the strength of his great good fortune, and I suppose we were pretty intimate. And, oh yes, I had almost forgotten. When Mr. Cheriton was a boy he used to come down here with his father every summer holiday to play golf. And he says they were the happiest times of his life. And now that he is independent and must have his exercise regularly, he wants to come down here whenever he likes."

"Oh, he does, does he?" Seagrane said dryly. "Attracted by the beauty of the neighbourhood, no doubt."

If Evelyn saw the point, she wisely ignored it and allowed it to pass serenely over her head.

"Partly, I suppose," she murmured. "But I think more for old associations' sake than anything else. He spoke of different spots in the neighbourhood, more particularly about that old cottage of yours on the sand-dunes at the back of the seventh hole. He said that he had always wanted to buy that and make it a week-end cottage. One of the little dreams a poor man has when he begins to see that fortune is not altogether against him. And if he can't buy the cottage, he wondered if you would let him have it on a long lease."

"Yes, and I suppose he persuaded you to put it to me just like that, knowing that I can refuse you nothing," the old man chuckled. "What's he like? Is he one of those pretty boys?"

"Certainly not," Evelyn cried indignantly. "He is a splendid type of man. Anyone who has gone through what he had without complaining must ring true. I thought you would like to have someone of that sort to play golf with yourself."

"Shrewd kid," Seagrane chuckled. "There is not a man in the world who is keener on a game of golf than I am. But it is not everybody I care to play with. Give me a real good sportsman who will play the game for its own sake and doesn't make an excuse for every bad stroke he makes. And doesn't want to have bets on. There are only about half a dozen people down here that I care to turn out with, though I am able to hold my own with most of them at my handicap."

"Oh, don't be so modest," Evelyn laughed. "Your handicap of scratch is by no means a complimentary one, and I am sure the committee here didn't give it you simply because you are president of the club by right of your title, and the fact that you are the landlord of the links. I am certain you would enjoy a game against Clifford."

"I thought it was Cheriton just now," Seagrane said shrewdly. "Oh, well, it doesn't much matter. Then I suppose you want me to let that young man have a lease of the cottage, is that it?"

"Yes, uncle," Evelyn said frankly "I want you to let him have a long lease of it so that he can furnish it to please himself and play his golf, and do his writing in a spot where there is no one to disturb him. Of course, I am not going to ask you to do this until you have seen him first."

"Well, I dare say that can be managed. When does he want to come? I suppose it will take him some time to clear up his affairs in London and all that sort of thing."

"Oh, no, I should think not. He told me he would be free by the end of the week. And if he can manage that, he will come down here on Saturday and put up at the Dormy House. Then you will be able to see him early next week—"

"Dormy House nothing," the old man replied. "If that young man is a friend of yours, he is a friend of mine. I suppose, haply, he has met your mother?"

"Oh, yes, he knows mother," Evelyn explained.

"Well, you tell her all about it and ask her to send the guy a note saying that I shall be glad to see him as a guest here this week-end and he can stay as long as he likes, and she can mention, too, the matter of the cottage, and if I find this beau of yours is half you say he is, then he can have it on a lease for as many years as he chooses. Fact is, we don't have half enough people down here. Now, you run along to Ma and fix the whole thing up and leave me to my study of English politics, which is more than I can grasp at times."

"That is very nice and kind of you, uncle," Evelyn said gratefully. "I'll go and ask mother to write that letter now."