Checkmate

CHAPTER LI

THE SILHOUETTE

“He’s lookin’ very nice and like himself,” mumbled the old woman, as she led the way.

At the open door of Sir Reginald’s room stood Mr. Plumes, in professional black with a pensive and solemn countenance, intending politely to do the honours.

“Thank you, Sir,” said the old woman graciously, taking the lead in the proceedings. “This is the young master, and he won’t mind troublin’ you, Mr. Plumes. If you please to go to my room, Sir, the third door on the right, you’ll find tea made, Sir; and Mr. Crozier, I think, will be there.”

And having thus disposed of the stranger, they entered the room, in which candles were burning.

Sir Reginald had, as it were, already made dispositions for his final journey. He had left his bed, and lay instead, in the handsomely upholstered coffin which stood on tressels beside it. Thin and fixed were the cold, earthly features that looked upward from their white trimmings. Sir Richard Arden checked his step and held his breath as he came in sight of these stern lineaments. The pale light that surrounds the dead face of the martyr was wanting here: in its stead, upon selfish lines and contracted features, a shadow stood.

Mrs. Tansey, with a feather-brush placed near, drove away a fly that was trying to alight on the still face.

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“I mind him when he was a boy,” she said, with a groan and a shake of the head. “There was but six years between us, and the life that’s ended is but a dream, all like yesterday – nothing to look back on; and, I’m sure, if there’s rest for them that has been troubled on earth, he’s happy now: a blessed change ‘twill be.”

“Yes, Martha, we all have our troubles.”

“Ay, it’s well to know that in time: the young seldom does,” she answered sardonically.

“I’ll go, Martha. I’ll return to the oak-room. I wish my uncle were come.”

“Well, you have took your last look, and that’s but decent, and – Dear me, Master Richard, you do look bad!”

“I feel a little faint, Martha. I’ll go there; and will you give me a glass of sherry?”

He waited at the room door, while Martha nimbly ran to her room, and returned with some sherry and a wine-glass. He had hardly taken a glass, and begun to feel himself better, when David Arden’s step was heard approaching from the hall. He greeted his nephew and Martha in a hushed undertone, as he might in church; and then, as people will enter such rooms, he passed in and crossed with a very soft tread, and said a word or two in whispers. You would have thought that Sir Reginald was tasting the sweet slumber of precarious convalescence, so tremendously does death simulate sleep.

When Uncle David followed his nephew to the oak-room, where the servants had now placed candles, he appeared a little paler, as a man might who had just witnessed an operation. He looked through the unclosed shutters on the dark scene; then he turned, and placed his hand kindly on his nephew’s arm, and said he, with a sigh –

“Well, Dick, you’re the head of the house now; don’t run the old ship on the rocks. Remember, it is an old name, and, above all, remember, that Alice is thrown upon your protection. Be a good

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brother, Dick. She is a true-hearted, affectionate creature: be you the same to her. You can’t do your duty by her unless you do it also by yourself. For the first time in your life, a momentous responsibility devolves upon you. In God’s name, Dick, give up play and do your duty!”

“I have learned a lesson, uncle; I have not suffered in vain. I’ll never take a dice-box in my hand again; I’d as soon take a burning coal. I shall never back a horse again while I live. I am quite cured, thank God, of that madness. I sha’n’t talk about it; let time declare how I am changed.”

“I am glad to hear you speak so. You are right, that is the true test. Spoken like a man!” said Uncle David, and he took his hand very kindly.

The entrance of Martha Tansey at this moment gave the talk a new turn.

“By-the-bye, Martha,” said he, “has Mr. Plumes come? He said he would be here at eight o’clock.”

“He’s waitin’, Sir; and ‘twas to tell you so I came in. Shall I tell him to come here?”

“I asked him to come, Dick; I knew you would allow me. He has some information to give me respecting the wretch who murdered your poor Uncle Harry.”

“May I remain?” asked Richard. “Do; certainly.”

“Then, Martha, will you tell him to come here?” said Richard, and in another minute the sable garments and melancholy visage of Mr. Plumes entered the room slowly.

When Mr. Plumes was seated, he said, with much deliberation, in reply to Uncle David’s question –

“Yes, Sir, I have brought it with me. You said, I think, you wished me to fetch it, and as my sister was at home, she hobleeged me with

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a loan of it. It belonged, you may remember, to her deceased daughter – my niece. I have got it in my breast-pocket; perhaps you would wish me now to take it hout?”

“I’m most anxious to look at it,” said Uncle David, approaching with extended hand. “You said you had seen him; was this a good likeness?”

These questions and the answers to them occupied the time during which Mr. Plumes, whose proceedings were slow as a funeral, disengaged the square parcel in question from his pocket, and then went on to loosen the knots in the tape which tied it up, and afterwards to unfold the wrappings of paper which enveloped it.

“I don’t remember him well enough, only that he was goodlooking. And this was took by machinery, and it must be like. The ball and socket they called it. It must be hexact, Sir.”

So saying, he produced a square black leather case, which being opened displayed a black profile, the hair and whiskers being indicated by a sort of gilding which, laid upon sable, reminded one of the decorations of a coffin, and harmonised cheerfully with Mr. Plumes’ profession.

“Oh!” exclaimed Uncle David with considerable disappointment, “I thought it was a miniature; this is only a silhouette; but you are sure it is the profile of Yelland Mace?”

“That is certain, Sir. His name is on the back of it, and she kept it, poor young woman! with a lock of his ‘air and some hother relics in her work-box.”

By this time Uncle David was examining it with deep interest. The outline demolished all his fancies about Mr. Longcluse. The nose, though delicately formed, was decidedly the ruling feature of the face. It was rather a parrot face, but with a good forehead. David Arden was disappointed. He handed it to his nephew.

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“That is a kind of face one would easily remember,” he observed to Richard as he looked. “It is not like any one that I know, or ever knew.”

“No,” said Richard; “I don’t recollect any one the least like it.” And he replaced it in his uncle’s hand.

“We are very much obliged to you, Mr. Plumes; it was your mention of it this morning, and my great anxiety to discover all I can respecting that man, Yelland Mace, that induced me to make the request. Thank you very much,” said old Mr. Arden, placing the profile in the fat fingers of Mr. Plumes. “You must take a glass of sherry before you leave. And have you got a cab to return in?”

“The men are waiting for me, I thank you, and I have just ‘ad my tea, Sir, much obleeged, and I think I had best return to town, gentlemen, as I have some few words to say to-night to our Mr. Trimmer; so, with your leave, gentlemen, I’ll wish you good-night.”

And with a solemn bow, first to Mr. Arden, then to the young scion of the house, and lastly a general bow to both, that grave gentleman withdrew.

“I could see no likeness in that thing to any one,” repeated old Mr. Arden. “Mr. Longcluse is a friend of yours?” he added a little abruptly.

“I can’t say he was a friend; he was an acquaintance, but even that is quite ended.”

“What! you don’t know him any longer?” “No.”

“You’re quite sure!” “Perfectly.”

“Then I may say I’m very glad. I don’t like him, and I can’t say why; but I can’t help connecting him with your poor uncle’s death. I must have dreamed about him and forgot the dream, while the impression continues; for I cannot discover in any fact within my

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CHAPTER LII

MR. LONGCLUSE EMPLOYED

The funeral was not to be for some days, and then to be conducted in the quietest manner possible. Sir Reginald was to be buried in a small vault under the little church, whose steeple cast its shadow every sunny evening across the garden-hedges of the “Guy of Warwick,” and could be seen to the left from the door of Mortlake Hall, among distant trees. Further it was settled by Richard Arden and his uncle, on putting their heads together, that the funeral was to take place after dark in the evening; and even the undertaker’s people were kept in ignorance of the exact day and hour.

In the meantime, Mr. Longcluse did not trouble any member of the family with his condolences or inquiries. As a raven perched on a solitary bough surveys the country round, and observes many things – very little noticed himself – so Mr. Longcluse made his observations from his own perch and in his own way. Perhaps he was a little surprised on receiving from Lady May Penrose a note, in the following terms: –

“Dear Mr. Longcluse,

“I have just heard something that troubles me; and as I know of no one who would more readily do me a kindness, I hope you won’t think me very troublesome if I beg of you to make me a call to-morrow morning, at any time before twelve.

“Ever yours sincerely, “May Penrose.”

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Mr. Longcluse smiled darkly, as he read this note again. “It is better to be sought after than to offer one’s self.”

Accordingly, next morning, Mr. Longcluse presented himself in Lady May’s drawing-room; and after a little waiting, that goodnatured lady entered the room. She liked to make herself miserable about the troubles of her friends, and on this occasion, on entering the door, she lifted her hands and eyes, and quickened her step towards Mr. Longcluse, who advanced a step or two to meet her.

“Oh! Mr. Longcluse, it is so kind of you to come,” she exclaimed; “I am in such a sea of troubles! and you are such a friend, I know I may tell you. You have heard, of course, of poor Reginald’s death. How horribly sudden! – shocking! and dear Alice is so broken by it! He had been, the day before, so cross – poor Reginald, everybody knows he had a temper, poor old soul! – and had made himself so disagreeable to her, and now she is quite miserable, as if it had been her fault. But no matter; it’s not about that. Only do you happen to know of people – bankers or something – called Childers and Ballard?”

“Oh! dear, yes; Childers and Ballard; they are City people, on ‘Change – stockbrokers. They are people you can quite rely on, so far as their solvency is concerned.”

“Oh! it isn’t that. They have not been doing any business for me. It is a very unpleasant thing to speak about, even to a kind friend like you; but I want you to advise what is best to be done; and to ask you, if it is not very unreasonable, to use any influence you can – without trouble, of course, I mean – to prevent anything so distressing as may possibly happen.”

“You have only to say, dear Lady May, what I can do. I am too happy to place my poor services at your disposal.”

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“I knew you would say so,” said Lady May, again shaking hands in a very friendly way; “and I know what I say won’t go any further. I mean, of course, that you will receive it entirely as a confidence.”

Mr. Longcluse was earnest in his assurances of secresy and good faith.

“Well,” said Lady May, lowering her voice, “poor Reginald, he was my cousin, you know, so it pains me to say it; but he was a good deal embarrassed; his estates were very much in debt. He owed money to a great many people, I believe.”

“Oh! Really?” Mr. Longcluse expressed his well-bred surprise very creditably.

“Yes, indeed; and these people, Childers and Ballard, have something they call a judgment, I think. It is a kind of debt, for about twelve hundred pounds, which they say must be paid at once; and they vow that if it is not they will seize the coffin, and – and – all that, at the funeral. And David Arden is so angry, you can’t think! and he says that the money is not owed to them, and that they have no right by law to do any such thing; and that from beginning to end it is a mere piece of extortion. And he won’t hear of Richard’s paying a farthing of it; and he says that Richard must bring a lawsuit against them, for ever so much money, if they attempt anything of the kind, and that he’s sure to win. But that is not what I am thinking of – it is about poor Alice, she is so miserable about the mere chance of its happening. The profanation – the fracas – all so shocking and so public – the funeral, you know.”

“You are quite sure of that, Lady May?” said Longcluse.

“I heard it all as I tell you. My man of business told me; and I saw David Arden,” she answered.

“Oh! yes; but I mean, with respect to Miss Arden. Does she, in particular, so very earnestly desire intervention in this awkward business?”

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