Читать книгу The Grey Monk - T. W. Speight - Страница 11

Denis Boyd did not forget the promise he had given Alec Clare not to mention his encounter with the latter after his return to England. It did not, however, seem to him that there was any necessity to include his father in the embargo thus laid on his tongue. Accordingly when, a little later, Colonel Boyd went on a visit to his son, the latter, knowing that his father and Sir Gilbert were acquaintances of many years' standing, mentioned, as one of the minor incidents of his recent visit to the States, his meeting with young Clare, without any thought that the Colonel might have occasion to deem it worth his while to mention the circumstance again. As it fell out, however, a few weeks later, Colonel Boyd and Sir Gilbert found themselves together in the reading-room of the London club of which both were members. They had not met for some time, for of late years the baronet's visits to the metropolis had become few and far between. They greeted each other heartily, and agreed to lunch together.

In the course of the meal the Colonel said: "By the way, Clare, my lad and yours stumbled across each other quite by accident a little while ago in the States, where Denny had been sent on a matter of business for his firm."

"Ah, indeed," remarked the baronet as he set down the glass of wine he had been in the act of raising to his lips. "And how was Alec?"

"First-rate, for anything I was told to the contrary. They had only a very short time together, as I understood, and seeing that they were chums at college, they would have plenty of subjects to talk about."

"No doubt--no doubt. By-the-bye, did your boy say whereabouts in the States it was--in New York, or Boston, or Chicago--that he came across Alec?"

"Oh, it was in some quite outlandish place I believe; but I did not trouble to remember the name."

"I am rather anxious to ascertain Alec's address, and for this reason: his godmother, Mrs. Fleming, died lately and left him a legacy of two thousand pounds. The executors, being anxious to wind up the estate, have applied to me for his address, which I am unable to furnish them with. You see, Alec kicked over the traces pretty considerably some time ago, and he and I parted in a huff, since which he has not condescended to keep me au courant of his movements. Now, if your boy can supply me with his address, it will get me out of my difficulty with Mrs. Fleming's executors."

"I have no doubt Denny can furnish you with what you want. I will write to him by to-night's post, and advise you of the result the moment I hear from him."

Denis Boyd, in view of his promise to Alec Clare, could not help feeling annoyed at the turn the affair had taken; and yet, as he put it to himself, what harm could come of his furnishing Sir Gilbert with the information he asked for? Apparently the only purpose for which the baronet required his son's address was that he might thereby be enabled to inform him that a certain legacy was awaiting his instructions. Really, when he, Boyd, came to think of it, Alec ought to be very grateful to him, and doubtless would be were he made aware of the circumstances, for having had it in his power to do him such a capital turn.

His brief note to his father was to the effect that young Clare, who passed in the States under the name of "John Alexander," was at the time the writer met him, residing at Pineapple City, a town on the borders of Lake Michigan, in the State of the same name; and, further, that he was engaged in business there, his partner being an Englishman of the name of Travis.

This note was at once forwarded by Colonel Boyd to Sir Gilbert, who lost no time in taking it in person to Mr. Page.

As it happened, the lawyer about that time had occasion to send a confidential member of his staff to America, to make certain inquiries in the interests of one of his clients; so it was decided that, instead of trusting to the chances of a letter reaching Alec through the medium of the post, the clerk in question, Winch by name, should proceed as far as Pineapple City, seek out "Mr. John Alexander," and deliver into his hands the communication which would be entrusted to him for that purpose.

The letter referred to was written by Mr. Page, and was read and approved of by Sir Gilbert before being sealed up. It was nothing more than a briefly worded intimation to the effect that two thousand pounds, being the amount of the late Mrs. Fleming's legacy to her godson, was awaiting his disposal in the hands of the executors at such and such an address. But the baronet had no knowledge of the little private note from the same pen which the lawyer contrived to smuggle into the envelope. In it he reproached Alec for having allowed so long a time to pass without communicating with him, begging him at once to repair the omission, and assuring him that in the writer he had a friend who might always be relied upon to keep a watchful eye over his interests.

Mr. Winch started on his long journey in due course. He would attend, first of all, to that other business which was taking him across the Atlantic, and then make the best of his way to Pineapple City.

Mr. Winch was an undersized, podgy man, with a round full-moon sort of face and cold fish-like eyes of no hue in particular, to which a pair of spectacles lent a still more vacuous expression. He was clean shaven, always dressed in well-worn black, and, wet or fine, was never seen without a serviceable alpaca umbrella. He had been Mr. Page's confidential clerk for many years, and that gentleman esteemed him highly. Behind that Dutch-clock-like mask of a face was a complex-working brain which delighted in secrets and mysteries, and occasionally went so far as to imagine them where none existed. Although his employer had never told him so--for that was one of the few matters which the lawyer kept to himself--Mr. Winch had not the least doubt in his mind that the John Alexander to whom the letter of which he was the bearer was addressed and the heir of Withington Chase, who had set out on his travels upwards of four years ago and had never returned, were one and the same person. The name alone had been enough to furnish him with the first hint. He seemed to scent a most delightful mystery. Mr. Winch was jubilant, although, to look at him, nobody would have guessed it.

What, then, must have been his feelings--indeed, it is not too much to say that a tear blurred his spectacles--as on the morning of the twenty-first day after his departure from Liverpool he stood in the telegraph office at Pineapple City and wrote out the following cablegram, addressed to Mr. Page:

"J. A. killed. Steamboat explosion--September 18th. Am returning at once."

The mystery on which he had counted had all at once collapsed owing to the death of the person chiefly concerned.

It became Mr. Page's unenviable duty, on receipt of the above message, to convey the news to Sir Gilbert. Over what passed between the two on that occasion we need not linger.

On arriving at Liverpool, Mr. Winch telegraphed to his employer by which train he might be expected to reach Mapleford. It was as a consequence of this message that he found Sir Gilbert Clare seated in Mr. Page's private office when, after a preliminary tap at the door, he was bidden to enter.

"Glad to see you back, Winch, and looking so well," said Mr. Page heartily, as he shook hands with his subordinate. "Of course I know already from your advices the nature of the arrangements you were enabled to make in that matter of Lord Dovercourt, and I congratulate you on your success. Later on we will go through the details one by one. But, sit down. What I want you to do first of all is to furnish me with the whole of the particulars you have been able to obtain confirmatory of the cablegram by which you advised me of the death of Mr. John Alexander."

Mr. Winch seated himself opposite his employer at the big square writing-table in the centre of the room. Sir Gilbert sat with his back to them and facing the fire. Although he appeared to be immersed in The Times, and betrayed no more interest in what followed than any stranger might have done, the reason that had brought him there was perfectly transparent to Mr. Winch, who could not help saying to himself: "Surely to goodness, Mr. Page does not think me such an innocent as not to be able to see through Sir Gilbert's little plot!"

Much of what Mr. Winch had to relate will have already been anticipated by the reader. We need only take up his narrative at the point where Alec Clare, on the morning following the receipt of his wife's letter, stepped on board the Prairie Belle at Milwaukee, in the expectation of landing at Davisville about nine o'clock the same evening. But the Prairie Belle never reached Davisville. When about a dozen miles from that place, and soon after nightfall, one of her boilers exploded. The vessel parted amidships, and five minutes later all that was left of her sank in deep water. The accident happened only about half a mile from the shore, and a number of boats at once put out to the rescue of the survivors, of whom a considerable number were picked up, several of them, however, being so badly injured that they afterwards succumbed. Of those saved John Alexander was not one. The only inference which could be drawn, was that, either, like many among both passengers and crew, he had been killed outright by the explosion, and that his body had gone down with the ship, or else that, even though, perhaps unhurt, he had sunk before help could reach him from the shore. In any case, alive or dead, nothing was seen or heard of him after the explosion, which had happened just eight weeks prior to Mr. Winch's interview with Mr. Frank Travis.

"I presume," said Mr. Page, "it is a matter of absolute certainty that Mr. Alexander was really on board the ill-fated vessel at the time of the accident."

"That was a question I did not fail to put to Mr. Travis. In reply he told me that among the survivors was a person well acquainted with Mr. Alexander, who had been talking to him only a few minutes before the explosion."

"In that case, I am afraid there is no room left for doubt as to the poor fellow's fate. A sad end, truly, for any one to come to!--I think that will do for the present, Mr. Winch. We will go into other matters later on."

"By-the-way, sir, there is one point which I have not yet mentioned. It is this: When Mr. Alexander, some little time prior to his death, entered into partnership with Mr. Travis, he put the sum of fifteen hundred pounds into the business. That amount Mr. Travis desired me to say that he shall be prepared to refund to Mr. Alexander's heir-at-law after due substantiation of claim and reasonable notice having been given him."

"Hum! very honourable on the part of Mr. Travis. It is a matter, however, as to which there is no immediate hurry, and in regard to which I can take no steps without instructions."

As soon as Mr. Winch had closed the door behind him the baronet faced round.

"It is all true, then!" he exclaimed. "There seems no longer any room for hope."

"None whatever, I am afraid, Sir Gilbert."

"He was my son, Page--my firstborn! I cannot forget that whatever his faults--and they were many--may they lie lightly on his head!"

When, on his return home, the baronet broke the news to his wife, that lady, being a fairly good actress, had no difficulty in giving the needful lugubrious twist to her features, but when she strove to eliminate a tear, she was not so successful. "I am so sorry," she said softly, laying a plump hand for a moment on her husband's shoulder. "Sorry for his sake, poor fellow!--and sorry for yours. But you must strive not to give way, dear. You may rely upon it that it has been ordained for the best." To herself she said: "So, after all, the title as well as the estates will come to Randolph! That is only as it should be. I hate the thought of having to go into mourning, but I suppose there's no help for it."

Poor Lady Clare!

No long time elapsed before a marble tablet was placed in situ above the family pew in Withington Church--where there were many more tablets to keep it company--which recorded that it was to the memory of John Alexander Clare, "who was accidentally killed abroad" on such and such a date, "in the twenty-eighth year of his age."

"To think," said Mr. Winch as he one day read the inscription through his spectacles, "that there are only three people in England who know how that poor young man really came by his death, and that I am one of them! But what reason had he for dropping his surname and hiding his identity? Ah! those are mysteries which I'm afraid I shall never now have a chance of fathoming."

By Sir Gilbert's desire, no communication was ever entered into with Mr. Frank Travis. The baronet preferred to sacrifice the fifteen hundred pounds which Alec had invested in the business rather than reopen before the eyes of strangers a chapter of family history which, as he trusted, was now closed for ever.