Читать книгу Tracked to Doom - James Edward Muddock - Страница 8

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MR. GLINDON usually went to the City about ten o'clock, but on the day following that eventful evening he remained at home to luncheon, though he ate but little. He looked wretchedly ill and haggard, and both his daughter and sister were greatly distressed. They wished him to remain at home all day and rest, but he said—

"No; I have important matters to attend to, and must go to town for a couple of hours at least. But I tell you what we will do. I want a change, and we will go down to Eastbourne for two or three weeks. You ladies can make all arrangements. It would be better, perhaps, if you were to run down to-morrow and see if you can secure a small furnished house. We will take a couple of servants, and tell John he can take down the pair of bays and the brougham. There now, I hope you are satisfied."

They were more than satisfied, they were delighted, for they could never get him to go away even for two or three days at a time. He stuck to his business far too closely, making an excuse that it afforded him distraction. They knew that he sadly wanted change and rest, and his proposal, therefore, was peculiarly gratifying.

Of course, Muriel had not been able to conceal from her aunt that something unusual had taken place on the previous evening, but it was not until her father had departed for the City that she told her about the extraordinary statement he had made; and she appealed to her aunt to clear up the mystery.

But the lady shook her head sorrowfully, and while the tears gathered in her eyes she said—

"Alas! my child, I cannot do that. All that I know is, that there is some dark and terrible shadow on his life, but what it is I know not. He has told me nothing, and when in the past I have sought for an explanation of his grief, he has become angry. I associate it, however, with something that occurred in Russia when he was a young man. But what that something was I have no idea, except it was in connection with his first marriage."

"You never knew papa's first wife, auntie, did you?"

"No. During the time he was courting her, and for some time after her death, I was in Siberia with my husband. He never told me anything about her, not even when he was first married. However, it is no use trying to worm his secret from him. He only gets irritated when questioned. If Raymond is willing to take you as a penniless girl, why should you make yourself unhappy about things you cannot alter? I am sure Raymond will prove a good husband, and will carve his way in the world."

Muriel felt more comforted after this little conversation with her aunt, while the arrangements that had to be made for going away gave her mental occupation. With the approval of her aunt, she wrote off at once to Penoyre, asking him to accompany them on the morrow to Eastbourne; and when she had fulfilled sundry little household duties, she put on her sunshade and sallied forth into the grounds with Ita Prokop, as was her habit, in order that they might talk together in two or three different languages.

Mr. Glindon was an exceedingly good linguist himself, and he was anxious that his daughter should have the same accomplishment; but she already spoke French, German, Italian, and Russian, and Ita was engaged merely for the sake of keeping her in practice. In fact, the girl had been taken into the service partly out of charity; for she had gone to Mr. Glindon saying that she had been brought to London by a lady, who had treated her badly and discharged her penniless, and as she mentioned the names of several people in Russia with whom Mr. Glindon was well acquainted, he employed her, thinking she would be an agreeable companion to Muriel.

As the two young women strolled about the grounds Muriel told her in Russian about the proposed sojourn in Eastbourne, whereupon Ita asked quickly—

"And am I to go?"

"No, I think not. Papa didn't say so, at any rate. Besides, I don't see the necessity for your going."

"No, of course not; and I am very glad, because I do not want to go." And there was an expression in her face that seemed to indicate she spoke no mere words, but really was glad.

In accordance with the arrangements, Mrs. Romanoff, Muriel, and Raymond went off on the following morning to Eastbourne. Muriel's letter had brought Penoyre from Windsor by an early train, for it would have had to have been something very extraordinary that would have prevented him availing himself of a day's outing with the woman who was dearer to him than all the world.

It was a glorious day—one of those perfect days that even our fickle English climate can sometimes give us. No reference was made to the events of the preceding evening; and, perfectly happy in each other's presence, Muriel and Raymond did not give way to forebodings or useless sorrow.

They were fortunate in being able to find a house that exactly answered the requirements—admirably situated, comfortably furnished; a two-stall stable and coach-house, and plenty of accommodation. So a bargain was made, the place engaged for a month, and everything settled, and the three returned to town delighted with their success.

At first Mrs. Romanoff suggested that she should be left at home to take care of the household, but her brother would not hear of this. He said that she needed change as much as he did. Besides, she would be wanted to chaperon Muriel. This argument was decisive.

It was, therefore, arranged that part of the house was to be shut up, the rooms locked, and the keys given into the charge of the under-housekeeper; and when the servants had received their final instructions, the family departed for their seaside quarters.

Mr. Glindon seemed to have recovered his spirits—that is, in a relative sense, for his haggard face still wore the same look of abstraction and sorrow that it had worn for years. But his daughter and sister did all they could to try and wean him from himself, though, it might be said, without success.

The second week of their stay Raymond Penoyre went down to Eastbourne as their guest for a few days; and Mr. Glindon made it evident that the young man's company afforded him gratification and pleasure. He had become warmly attached to him, and spoke quite cheerfully of the time when he would welcome him as his son-in-law. His faith in Raymond was whole, and he firmly believed that in placing his daughter's happiness in his hands Muriel's future was secured. And her happiness was the one thing he lived for—the one thing that made life at all bearable to him—for no father could have borne a stronger affection for his daughter than he bore for her.

At the end of a fortnight it was evident that the change had been beneficial to Mr. Glindon. He certainly looked better, and he was less gloomy than usual. But just as those near and dear to him were beginning to express their gratification for this a great shock fell upon them, and to explain what that shock was we must return to The Priory.

It had been one of those uncertain days, climatically speaking, peculiar to midsummer in England. The morning had come in splendidly fine, but by noon the sky was overcast, and soon after thunder and lightning rent the air, while the rain fell in a deluge. This condition of things continued for some time, until the thunder sullenly growled afar off. The rain ceased, but sheet-lightning flashed at intervals along the horizon for many hours. The night closed in gloomy and murky. The earth seemed oppressed by the heavy mass of thunderous clouds that obscured the sky. The air was stagnant; and never the gleam of a star broke the inky darkness.

The hour was near midnight, and the inmates of The Priory had retired to rest. The house stood in a lonely situation; but every precaution had been taken to guard it against burglary. Now, however, a man climbed a high fence at the bottom of the lower garden. He chose this mode of ingress, no doubt, to avoid the lodge gates. He made his way through the shrubbery, and walking as if his feet were shod with wool, crossed the lawn to the garden-door of Mr. Glindon's special conservatory, where he crouched down and waited.

In a little while there broke on the still air the sonorous boom of the church clock as it solemnly tolled midnight. Scarcely had the last vibration died away, when the conservatory door opened, and a woman peered cautiously out. The man rose and greeted her. He entered the conservatory, and the door was closed. Then he lighted a dark-lantern he carried with him. The door leading into Mr. Glindon's library was already open, and the man and woman passed in, then paused and listened.

But nothing was stirring; the house was silent as death. The man handed the woman the lantern while he went down on his knees, and with some pick-locks endeavoured to open the escritoire. It was not an easy job, but at last he succeeded with the aid of a long, thin chisel, which he used as a lever.

When the flap was opened, the woman, who evidently knew the secret, pressed the spring that caused the panel to slide back, revealing the drawer where Mr. Glindon kept the story of his life. The lock of the drawer was also forced, and then the man drew forth the packet Glindon had shown to his daughter. This packet was evidently the sole object of the man's burglarious entry; for, having secured it, he placed it underneath his waistcoat next his breast, and tightly buttoned his coat over. His purpose fulfilled, he left the dark-lantern and the chisel on the floor, kissed the woman, uttered some whispered words to her, and hurried out into the darkness of the night, leaving the conservatory door open.

When the morning came, and the servants descended to their duties, they found, to their alarm, that the house had been entered during the night. But nothing had been touched save the escritoire, and nothing stolen, so far as they could ascertain. To them the whole affair was shrouded in mystery; and the housekeeper in charge despatched the following telegraphic message to her master:—

HOUSE HAS BEEN ENTERED BY BURGLARS, AND YOUR ESCRITOIRE BROKEN OPEN, BUT SO FAR AS WE CAN ASCERTAIN NOTHING IS MISSING. WILL YOU PLEASE RETURN AT ONCE?