Читать книгу A Shadowed Love - Fred M. White - Страница 14

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A little way down the road Greigstein stopped and said something to his rusty-looking companion, then he turned aside from the main road and disappeared into the woods. The small man with the parchment face and the inscrutable expression sauntered on thoughtfully till he reached the lodge gates of Stanmere. With his hands behind him he strolled along very much with the air of one who possesses the place. The butler who answered the ring fell into an attitude of deference before the little man in the rusty black, for this was Mr. James Martlett, the family lawyer, and a power in the land.

Nobody knew anything about Mr. Martlett, who he was or whence he came, but most people knew that he was an exceedingly rich lawyer, who for the last thirty years had lived dingily in Lincoln's Inn.

A close, secretive, furtive man, who said very little, but that little to the point. Many a family secret reposed in that unemotional breast, many a great house on the verge of ruin had found safety in Martlett's capable hands. But he would always have his own way, and nothing would deviate him from his course. His clear grey eyes seemed to read everything. There was a sense of power about the man. The Stanmere butler was a great personage, but even he deemed it best to be deferential to Mr. James Martlett.

"I've come down to dine and sleep, Goss," he said, calmly. "See that my things are put out in my bedroom, and let her ladyship know that I have arrived. I don't suppose that I shall be in to tea."

Goss intimated that all these things should be done. He hoped that Mr. Martlett had had a pleasant journey from town. Dinner was at eight as usual. Her ladyship was at present in her room. Martlett strolled away with his hands still behind him. He inspected the lawns and the gravelled walks carefully, even the Scotch head gardener was polite to him. Then he went on, as if aimlessly, across the park and up the slopes of purple heather until he came at length to Shepherd's Spring. With the same air of possession upon him he walked into the house. In the hall Molly was arranging some flowers, and Dick was watching her approvingly.

"So you young people have found your way here," Martlett said in a voice that sounded like the creaking of a rusty hinge. "How are you both? Dick Stevenson, I am very much displeased with you. When your father died I wound up his affairs for him. Contrary to my usual custom, I made no charge for so doing. Why didn't you come and see me in London?"

"Because he is too proud," Molly laughed. "Like most people, Dick is a little afraid of you. On the contrary, I am not in the least afraid, though it happens I have never seen you before. There! What do you think of that, sir?"

She stooped and laid her fresh cool lips to the lawyer's crackled face. Martlett came as near to a smile as he permitted himself.

"Dick called for the keys," he said, "actually called for the keys of this house, and never asked to see me. He never told my friend Spencer that we were old acquaintances. Now, there's pride for you! And yet you would never have had the offer of Shepherd's Spring if it had not been for me."

"That's very kind of you," Dick said, gratefully. "But we didn't want anybody to know—"

"That you were not the great genius that you took yourself to be, therefore you preferred to starve in London. I had my eye on you. And if there is one thing I admire more than another it is grit and determination. But you are all right; you should get on now."

Dick had not the slightest doubt about it. The little man with his hands behind his back eyed him critically. He was pulling the strings of all the puppets in the drama. He chose his figures deliberately, and the specimen before him pleased the old lawyer exceedingly.

"It is a charming little house, and I trust you will be happy here," he said. "Only you must be careful not to lose yourself in those bogs over yonder. They tell me there are some horrible places in the woods beyond the Warren."

"And I know every inch of it," Dick cried. "Give me a supply of provisions and I could defy a regiment of detectives for a month there. I don't suppose anybody knows the lower moorland paths besides myself, now."

Mr. Martlett was deeply interested. There was something subtle about Dick's suggestion. He insisted upon having it all explained to him outside.

"It appeals to me," he cried. His eyes gleamed with an unusual fire. "Now, suppose you had to hide somebody here, somebody in peril of the law. The police are hot on his track. You mean to say you could baffle them?"

Dick responded eagerly. He proceeded to draw a map like the web of a spider on the garden path. He knew a hut at a certain part where nobody had been for years, a hut low down in a ferny hollow. There was no known pathway to it, its existence was forgotten.

"I know every blade of grass by the way," Dick said. "I learnt the moorland by heart from the last of the old shepherds. Sheep are not kept here now, because people are afraid of losing them. When I was young and longed to be a pirate the old hut beyond the moss bog used to be my ship, you see."

But Martlett was no longer listening. The fire had died out of his eyes, his mind seemed to be fixed on other problems. He came to himself with an uneasy kind of laugh as he met Dick's injured gaze.

"I am more interested than you imagine," he said. "My dear boy, you fancy that you are here by the accident, of a happy circumstance. Nothing of the kind. There are great interests at stake, and I am the general directing them. But I am old, and my nerves are not what they were, and I may want strength and courage and audacity to rely upon. Our conversation may seem trivial to you now, but the time may come when you will recall it vividly. Are you sure you can do what you say?"

Martlett's voice sank to a hoarse whisper. His hand had fallen on Dick's arm and crooked upon it with a nervous grip.

"I spoke no more than the truth, sir," Dick said, quietly.

"Good boy, good boy! Permit me to take a pinch of snuff. Nothing is so soothing to the nerves. If you serve those who would be your friends, there is a fine fortune before you. And don't be too curious as to our friend Greigstein."

Martlett passed down the garden path, leaving Dick to his own bewildered thoughts. The little shuffling man in the rusty black seemed to know everything. Certainly he was on the best terms with himself as he tied his old fashioned cravat and donned his quaint dress clothes an hour or so later.

He passed down the wide old staircase into the drawing-room in time to open the door for Lady Stanmere. There was quite a bouquet in the flavor of his manners—courtly, chivalrous, but ever with the suggestion of power. He had it now as he bent over Lady Stanmere's hand. He never lost it as he stood there chatting over a variety of general topics. The place was looking charming; Goss had informed him that the trout fishing had been good—to all of which Lady Stanmere replied timidly with her eyes on the clock.

Dinner was served at length—a long, elaborate meal, with a fine show of old silver and Venetian glass, the artistic beauty of which appealed to Martlett much, as if it had been Dutch delf. A simple chop and a glass of port would have sufficed him. The oaken wall, with their pictures and armor, the pools of light from shaded lamps, and the banks of flowers, passed unheeded. Dessert was over at length, and then Goss handed the lawyer a box of cigars and a cedar-spill.

"Have I your permission, my lady?" Martlett asked.

Lady Stanmere bowed. The little ceremony lost none of its flavour by lapse of years. A faint blue cloud drifted across the banks of flowers. Lady Stanmere played nervously with her wineglass, empty as it was.

"I received your most amazing letter," she said. "We are under a great debt to you, a very great debt indeed, sir, that—"

"But your ladyship imagines that I am going too far. That is a perfectly natural idea. When I made the suggestion that—"

"Suggestion! It was a positive command."

Martlett bowed. Nothing seemed to disturb his equanimity.

"Hardly that," he said. "You wrote to me that you had made a discovery. You were aware to a certain extent what had become of a certain young lady. Von Wrangel, otherwise Greigstein, had seen her photograph in the hands of a young man who had lodged under the same roof as our valuable German friend. I am sorry that you received Von Wrangel at all. Surely your family has suffered enough at his hands. Not that I doubt his good intentions. There was your son Stephen, for instance. I have my own suspicions as to Stephen's character."

"Which are not very favorable," Lady Stanmere said, bitterly.

"Well, madam, they are not. Truth compels me to state that I know no more unmitigated scoundrel than Stephen. But all this is beside the point. If I had seen Von Wrangel a day or two sooner you would never have heard about that photograph. I wish I could tell you everything, but the secret is not entirely mine. It may seem strange, perhaps dramatic, but the greatest misfortune that could overtake your house now would be to have your niece back under your roof again."

The words fell with cold and clear distinctness from Martlett's lips. Lady Stanmere regarded him with astonished eyes. Above all things Martlett was practical. He spoke now like the stage lawyer of melodrama.

"You are playing with me," Lady Stanmere cried. The long slim hands were trembling, her rings streamed like unsteady fire. "What harm could it do?"

"I repeat, I cannot tell you," Martlett replied. "Be advised by me, think what I have done for you. Only a few years since and the house was on the verge of ruin. And look at it now. I pledge you my word that the child shall come back some day. If you defy me in the matter you will never cease to regret it. If you elect to do so the work of years will be lost."

Martlett's voice sank to a hoarse, whisper. The stem of a wineglass snapped in his fingers, but he did not heed. Evidently the man was terribly in earnest. It seemed strange, almost incredible, that the presence or absence of a blind girl should make all this terrible difference to the family fortunes.

"The girl is the heart of the mystery," Martlett went on. "She came to you mysteriously, she vanished in the same way. The girl is pure and good and an angel, and she knows as little of the intrigues about her. And now your ladyship will be good enough to promise me that you will take no further steps in the matter."

Lady Stanmere bowed. She did not care to trust herself to words. Martlett rose and offered his arm with old-fashioned courtesy. His manner was deferential, he might have been overcome with a sense of the honour conferred upon him. There was a queer, dry smile on his lips as he returned to the dining-room. He drew up an easy chair by the fireplace and rang the bell.

"You were pleased to want something, sir," Goss asked.

"I was," Martlett said. "Within a few minutes there will be a man here asking to see Lady Stanmere. He looks like a gentleman, Goss, but in these matters appearances are apt to be terribly deceptive. When this man comes show him in here without a word of explanation. And then—"

"Yes, sir," Goss murmured, as Martlett paused. "And then, sir?"

"Well, then you can close the door carefully behind you and keep an eye on the place."