Читать книгу Sydney Cove - J H M Abbott - Страница 7

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THE colonel rose from his chair, took a bunch of keys from his pocket, and walked over to a corner of the room where there stood a carved oak desk of that high kind that necessitates the use of a long-legged stool. He unlocked and raised the lid, and, after a few moments' search of its interior, came back to the table with a folded document of parchment, upon which was inscribed, in the legal flourishes beloved of old-time lawyer firms, "The Last Will and Testament of Lieutenant-Colonel John Magnus Cartwright, Lately of His Majesty's 46th Foot, 1786."

He smiled affectionately at his nephew, and waved the document in his direction. Long afterwards, thousands of miles away from the old Kentish manor house, Patrick Cartwright often recalled the scene in the little, dark room, its sombre paneling of ancient oak gleaming dully in the candlelight, the two portraits of his parents looking down from their position above the tall chimney-piece, the shadows in the gloomy corners advancing and receding in the uncertain illumination of the wax tapers—more than all, the wistful, kindly smile on the face of the good old soldier as he spoke. The scene always remained for him the most abiding recollection of his uncle—indeed, it was the last time that he could recall when the good old man had smiled upon him, as he pondered the events of that night of horror in the after years.

"This, Pat," said the colonel, as he drew a chair up to the table and sat down, unfolding the parchment, and spreading it out upon the level surface before him, "is the very last thing I have been able to do for one whom I have loved as if he had been my own son—indeed, for three people whom I have loved very dearly. Those two up there"—he glanced in the direction of the two portraits—"they knew what they were to me. And I am sure that their son realises what he has been, too."

He peered past the candelabrum at his nephew.

"Indeed, Uncle Jack, I do. And what you have been to me, sir."

There was a tremor of emotion in the young man's voice as he murmured the words. Long after, he remembered the strange, nervous shivering that came over him as he spoke, as though some ghostly premonition of impending evil had been vouchsafed him.

"There is nothing in particular to show you in this. It is the last will that I have made though it is as yet unsigned. My lawyers in London sent it down to me a day or so since by the mail, and to-morrow—or, rather, on the following day, for we'll arrive too late in town to call upon them to-morrow—we'll walk down to Gray's Inn and complete the business of signing and attesting it. You are my sole legatee, and everything that I possess—this house, and all the lands attached to it, my shares in the East India Company, and whatever balance may lie at my bankers, Messrs. Coutts and Company—everything goes to you. So, when I am gone, you won't altogether have to depend upon your pay in the Marines. You may exchange into the Household Brigade, if it should please you to do so, or sell out altogether—though I hope you'll not be wanting to do that—for a few years, at any rate. We have always been service men, almost ever since Naseby. You know, I'd like you to stick to the Sea Regiment, for you are a sort of compromise, as it were. Your father was a sailor, and I am a soldier. He'd have liked you to have been in his service, and I wanted you in mine, so I put you where you might be both a soldier and a sailor and do us both equal credit. Besides, I know of no better or more efficient corps than the one to which you belong. My advice to you, my boy, is to stick to your profession until, at least, you shall have gained your majority. Then, perhaps, you may step ashore and see about making arrangements to pass on the old place here to a son of your own."

"Lord, Uncle Jack! Time enough to consider my passing on the place when you are done with it! There are a good many years of your occupation of Magnus Hall yet to run. I hope so! I don't like to think of the place without you. Indeed, I refuse to do it—yet a while, anyhow."

"Well, maybe you won't have to for a few years yet, Pat, but it's as well to have everything provided for. However that may turn out, I've something else to speak about. I want to tell you that strange story I hinted at a while ago, after Marvel had gone out."

"Does it concern this mysterious 'he' the old man spoke of as having come to the village last night? I confess I am curious to learn something of him."

"It does—it very intimately concerns him. In fact, 'tis almost wholly of him that I wish to speak to you. I want to tell you, Pat—I want to tell you all about your brother—so that you may judge as to whether I am not justified in having done in the matter of this"—he laid his hand upon the will spread out before him—"as I have done!"

"My brother!" the young man exclaimed with astonishment. "My brother, sir! I have no brother. You must be jesting, surely!"

Colonel Cartwright sighed, and made a gesture of weariness with his hand.

"I wish it were a jest—though, maybe it is—a jest of God's!"

"But I thought that there had only been two of us, uncle—my little sister Nelly, who died before I can remember her, and myself. We were the only children my mother bore—I've always understood that. Is it not so?"

"Yes. You and your sister—Heaven bless the memory of that sweet angel—were your mother's only offspring. But not your father's. This fellow had another mother—a she-devil!"

Ensign Cartwright leaned back in his chair, frankly puzzled.

"Then my father was married twice? This man is older than I?"

"No, not married, Pat. Not married. Thank God. I was able to prevent that."

"Prevent it? How?"

"By marrying the woman myself."

"Lord, uncle, I am all at sea!"

"Patience, Patrick, and I will tell you everything. But mix yourself some brandy and water, and pass me one, too. I am dry with talking."

The young man stood up, and walked across to a little table bearing glasses and a decanter. He poured out the spirit and the water silently, placed the colonel's tumbler at his elbow, and raised his own glass towards his uncle.

"Your good health, sir!"

Colonel Cartwright nodded his acknowledgement, and turned his gaze upon the portrait of his brother, wistfully, as though he were appealing in some fashion to him.

"Sit down, Pat, and I'll tell you all about it. It won't take very long. Sit down and listen to what I have to say."

With an appearance of deep mystification, the young man seated himself again. Colonel Cartwright began to speak in a low tone, as if what he had to say were something whose saying was infinitely distasteful.

"As I have told you, Pat, your poor father was a bit of a scamp. That is not to say that he was in any way a rogue, or that, after his own erratic fashion, he was not an honorable man. He was careless, maybe a little thoughtless as to the interests of those who were near and dear to him—perhaps selfish in his carelessness. But he was a fine seaman, and a brave man—one of those captains who have made the Royal Navy what it is in our generation. I have heard Lord Rodney speak of his professional abilities and courage in the highest terms. Somehow, I always think of your father as having had two distinct personalities. He must have been absolutely a different man afloat to that which he was on shore. As the commander of a man-o'-war, he was careful, far-seeing, cool, at the same time bold and prudent. When he was on land he was a spendthrift, a rake, and a gambler, besides being the very maddest and most harum-scarum fellow it has ever been my fortune to run across. There were no bounds to his extravagances—no limit to his follies."

Involuntarily the son looked up at his father's portrait, and the old man followed his glance.

"Yes," he went on; "there is true genius in that painting of Sir Joshua's. I always think that, besides being an excellent likeness of him at about the time of his marriage, it portrays the two sides of dear Dick's extraordinary character. To anyone who knew him, there are the two sorts of men that he undoubtedly was—the fearless, keen, able naval officer, and the wild lunatic that he was ashore. To me, the one is as apparent in the picture as the other. Ah, well, I did not set out to discuss the curious contradictions in your father's character—so I'll come to the point at once. Whatever he was, I loved him—and I know that he loved me. Of course, as you know, he was the eldest son, and Magnus Hall was his inheritance. But there was no entail, and he left everything he had to me—your mother having died before him, when you were quite a little chap."

Colonel Cartwright paused for a moment to drain his glass, and then continued.

"Thirty-two or thirty-three years ago your father was in command of the frigate Helena, and came back to Chatham from the Mediterranean, after three years' hard and constant service, to pay off. At his own request—for he was never long unemployed—the people at the Admiralty placed him upon half-pay. He said that he was sick of the sea—for a while, at any rate—and wanted a spell ashore. So he came here in the summer of '55 or '56—I forget exactly which—for a few months' holiday. And I can tell you, he did indeed make a holiday of it, with a vengeance."

"Well, there was a woman in Rochester, a Mrs. Sarah Mortimer, a very gay lady indeed. Handsome as they make them she was—and bad and vicious as, fortunately, they are not often made. She was the wife of a lieutenant who was serving in the West Indies, and it was no time before your father was as badly entangled with her as it was possible to be. In the midst of all the fine business, Mortimer comes home, and there were terrible doings, which ended in a duel, and the death of Mortimer. They fought with swords, and your father, who was a splendid swordsman, did his utmost to spare his adversary—but he would not be spared, and was finally run through the body and killed.

"You may imagine what a to-do there was. It was well known that poor Mortimer—insane with rage and jealousy—had left your father with no option but to fight—he'd have been kicked out of the Navy, ignominiously, if he hadn't. Why, the angry husband struck him in the Dockyard, in the presence of his officers and crew—it was on the quay-side alongside the Helena where it happened. And there wasn't the prejudice against duelling that there is now. Mortimer was determined to have a meeting—he even spat in Dick's face. The affair was inevitable.

"But the scandal about Mrs. Mortimer was too glaring even for your father, who cared very little about other people's comments on his private life—there was never anything but praise for his public one, as the commander of a King's ship. So he resigned his commission, and went across to Ireland, intending to remain there, hunting and shooting, until the affair should have been forgotten. Besides, he wanted to cut loose from that vile woman.

"That sort of infatuation never lasts long—the very intensity of the fever burns out. He put her out of mind when he crossed St. George's Channel—but she didn't do the same by him. He was too good a mark, and there were, besides—not unnaturally—plenty of people who sympathised with her, regarded her as a grossly-wronged woman, and your father as the very prince of blackguards and most unscrupulous seducer of virtue.

"He had not been in Ireland more than three months when—not to my astonishment, for nothing he did astonished me, knowing him as I did—I received a letter from him announcing his impending marriage, and begging me to join him in Dublin without delay. Of course, I scented another complication of the Mortimer sort, and hurried across to Ireland, determined, if I could, to save the situation somehow. But when I met your dear mother, I saw at once that no better thing could happen than their marriage—at least, so far as he was concerned. And one only had to know that splendid woman to realise that she would probably reform him and keep him faithful to their great love. She did this, indeed—for though in most respects he remained an incorrigible reprobate afterwards, until the end of his days, he never looked at another woman but her—that is to say, not in the way he had been wont to look at them.

"I left them in Ireland—having only very short leave from my regiment, which was then stationed at Hounslow—and hurried back to London. And then I learned that, every day for a week past, a lady had been calling upon me at my quarters, with an insistent demand that she must see me. My soldier-servant—'twas old Marvel—told her that I might be back any day, as he knew my leave was short, and the regiment was under orders for India. So every morning found her seated in my room, and the day that I reported myself to the adjutant, there she was awaiting me. 'Twas Mrs. Mortimer.

"Indeed, she was very handsome, and her widow's weeds became her. A pitiful tale she had too—and I was very young. She had a way with her, that wanton—for I was to learn bitterly enough that she was naught else—and was a born actress. That's what she had been before the unfortunate Mortimer had married her. Well, to be brief, she informed me that she expected to become a mother, and there was no doubt as to the paternity of the child—her husband having been in the West Indies three years. Dick was undoubtedly the father—though afterwards I had my suspicions. Well, I"—the old man shook his head sorrowfully—"I did a very foolish thing. I—I married her!"

Patrick Cartwright sat bolt upright in his chair, and stared at his uncle.

"Good Gad, Uncle Jack! In the name of Heaven, why did you do such a thing? Damme—why?"

"Well, Patrick—as I've said, I was very young. And your father was more to me than any man in the world. Moreover, I had fallen under the enchantment of your dear mother. I'd have cut my head off to have saved her a moment of pain. Yes, in less than a month I had given that woman the shelter of my name. I suppose I did it for their sakes," he said, quietly, fixing his eyes upon the two portraits. "And, I think—now that I'm coming to the end of my life—I'm not sorry. Yes—I think I'm not sorry. God bless them both!"

The younger man stood up, and walked round the table to Colonel Cartwright's side. He held out his hand, and the old man took it, and patted it with his left one.

"Uncle—you were splendid! By Gad, though—hullo, what's all this?"

There was a sound of excited voices in the hall, that quickly came into the library—Marvel's querulous protests against the entry of some stranger, and the harsh and angry tones of someone who was determined to come in.

"I tell 'ee, th' colonel give me strict orders not for to let 'ee in, Mr. Mortimer. He says he'll not see——"

"Oh, to hell with you, you old fool! Get out of my way. Where is he—in the study?"

A flash of black wrath darkened Colonel Cartwright's handsome features. He rose to his feet, and strode to the door between the study and the library.

"Come with me, Patrick," he said. "I'll soon give this fellow his route. The villain! To dare to force an entrance in such a fashion!"

Pat Cartwright followed his uncle into the library, on a table in which, that was lighted with candles in silver sticks, and stood in a corner near the further door, supper had been laid for the colonel and his nephew. Snowy tablecloth and silver stood out against the gloom of the big room, and in the circle of candlelight, it seemed to Pat Cartwright, his father stood scowling and defiant, with the old butler hovering behind in the shade, his hands upraised in protest.

"Richard Mortimer—leave my house instant! How do you dare to return to England? Go, I say——"

"Mortimer be———, you infernal old villain. You know my name's the same as yours. See here, father—I am in trouble. I had to chastise a fellow last night in the inn, and the fool's died. I want money to get away to France. And quickly. The constables are after me now. I must escape at once. Come, come—there's no time to argue."

"Not if five pounds would save you from the hangman should you have it, you scoundrel. You have robbed me, and forged my name. I held my hand on the condition you remained in America. Go! Not a penny of mine shall you have to save you from destruction. I have done with you. Ah, God—look out, Patrick!"

So suddenly and instantaneously did the thing happen that it was over before Pat Cartwright realised what had happened. He saw the fierce hatred in the stranger's face—his father's face, the face of the picture, it seemed to him—there was the report of a pistol shot, a haze of acrid smoke, a second or two later the crash of breaking glass, as the murderer plunged through one of the windows looking into the garden, and, after a moment of deadly silence, old Marvel's scream:—

"My Gad, he's killed the colonel!"