CHAPTER IX.
MR. PERCY OSMOND.
"We shall not be able to leave Paris for five or six weeks." So wrote Edith West to Lionel Dering at Park Newton.
Mrs. Garside's sister--her sister by marriage only--was dead. The house, plate, and furniture were to be sold, and Mrs. Garside had much to do. Edith, as a matter of course, must stay with her aunt. Lionel, if he wanted to see his promised wife, must go to Paris: and to Paris he decided that he would go.
The same post which brought him this letter brought him one from India, written by his uncle, General St. George. The old soldier's letter ran as under:
"My Dear Nephew,
"Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune, the news of which followed close upon the intimation of my poor brother's death. I can safely say that there is no one in whose hands I would sooner see the family estates than yours. I contracted a very warm affection for you during my last visit to England, and that feeling has not diminished with time. But you must change your name, my dear boy. I know that you are a St. George at heart, and you must be one in name also. However, that is one of the things that we can discuss fully when I see you again. Please Heaven, that will be before either you or I are many months older.
"Yes, my dear nephew, it is even so. The old horse is nearly worn out at last. People begin to whisper that he is no longer equal to his work; and although the sound of the trumpet and the clash of arms have still their old charm for his ears, the day must shortly come when he will hear them for the last time. In brief, Lionel, putting aside what other people may think, I feel myself that I am getting creaky and out of repair, and a great longing has come over me to spend the few remaining days that may be left me somewhere near the dear old homestead where I first drew breath.
"I will write you full particulars in a week or two. Your brother Richard is in good health, and is prospering. I had a letter from him only a few days ago. As things have turned out, it is perhaps quite as well that he came out to India instead of you.
"Your affectionate uncle,
"Lionel St. George."
"He shall live with us at Park Newton," said Lionel to himself as he folded up the letter. "It will be like finding a second father to have dear old Uncle Lionel come and share our home."
A few days later Lionel received a note from Tom Bristow. It was addressed to Gatehouse Farm, and had been sent from thence to Park Newton, Tom not having heard of Lionel's change of fortune. It was dated from Egypt, and was written with Tom's usual brevity. "Health much improved. Hope to be back in England in about three months from now. Shall take early opportunity of looking you up. The dear old days at the farm are not forgotten." That was nearly all.
"He will be here in time for the wedding," said Lionel, as he read the note. "I should like Tom Bristow to be my best man on that important occasion."
Nearly a fortnight passed away before Lionel Dering was able to leave the house. The wound on his head was a very severe one, and for the first two days and nights he lay in bed, to all outward seeming more dead than alive. As soon as he was in a condition to do so he sent for the Duxley superintendent of police, and told him confidentially all that he knew of the affair. Lionel was strongly averse to all unnecessary publicity, and was especially desirous that no mention of the case should be made in the local newspapers. Had he been asked to state his reasons for wishing to keep the matter so private, he would perhaps have found it difficult to do so. Nevertheless, the feeling to act thus was strong upon him.
It was proved, on investigation, that the intruder, whoever he might be, had obtained, access to the house through one of the library windows. One of the panes had been cut out with a diamond, and the window then unfastened. Next came the discovery of a secret passage from the library to the late Mr. St. George's bedroom. Those among the servants who had been at Park Newton under the old regime denied all knowledge of the existence of any such passage, and their statements might well be true.
The passage in question was one of a kind by no means uncommon in houses built a couple of centuries ago. It was simply a very narrow staircase, built in the thickness of the wall, and leading from the ground floor to the floor above. The entrance to it was behind a sliding panel in the bedroom; but both exit and entrance were so carefully hidden that a person might pass his whole life at Park Newton without ever suspecting the existence of such a place. One of Lionel's first acts, after a thorough exploration of the passage had been made, was to send for the bricklayers and have both entrance and exit walled up.
But the little closet or cupboard in the bedroom had still to be considered. It was nothing more than a small square opening in the wall; and, like the staircase, it was hidden behind the panelling, and secured still further by means of a secret spring. It was evident that the late Mr. St. George had known the secret of the cupboard, and had used the place as a safe depository for money and other valuables. It was equally certain that this latter fact must have been well known to Lionel's assailant; and there could be no doubt that the object of the midnight raid had been to rifle the cupboard of its contents. Some testimony as to the quality of those contents had been unavoidably left behind in the hurry of flight. Three or four small diamonds, and a couple of sovereigns of recent coinage, were found scattered on the floor: but as to the further value of the property stolen there were no means of judging.
Lionel had no reason for suspecting any of the people immediately about him, nor did such a thought ever find a lodging in his mind. The more he considered the matter, the more certain he felt that the man of whom he had caught a glimpse in the shrubbery was really the thief. But even granting such to be the case, the mystery was no nearer solution than before. Whoever the man might be, he had got clear away without leaving the slightest clue behind him by which he might be traced.
Lionel's first visit, when he was able to get out of doors again, was to a little cottage on the outskirts of Duxley, where lived an old man, Joseph Nixon by name, who had been body-servant to the late Mr. St. George, and to his father before him. Nixon was now living on a pension granted him by the family; and it seemed to Lionel that he would be more likely than any one else to have a knowledge of the hidden staircase, and the cupboard in the bedroom wall. He found the old man infirm in body but clear in mind. Yes, he said, in answer to Lionel's inquiries, he knew all about the staircase in the wall, and the little closet behind the panelling in his old master's bedroom. Mr. St. George, who was somewhat peculiar in his ways, was in the habit of keeping a considerable amount of ready money in the house, and used the cupboard as a secure place of deposit, known to himself and Nixon alone.
"But was there nothing besides money ever kept there?" asked Lionel.
"Yes, sir; there was a diamond necklace, and some other things as well," answered Nixon.
"It was rather a strange place in which to keep a diamond necklace, was it not?"
"Well, sir, this is how it was. When Mr. Arthur St. George was a young man, he was engaged to be married to a handsome young lady. The wedding day was fixed, and everything ready, when he made her a present of a diamond necklace. She wore it once only--at a grand ball to which he took her. Next day she was taken ill; a week later she was dead. Her friends sent back the necklace, and my master seemed as if he could never bear to part from it after that time. Many and many a time I've known him to sleep with it under his pillow."
Here was a page of romance out of his uncle's life that was quite fresh to Lionel.
"He was one o' the old-fashioned sort of lovers, was Mr. St. George," added Nixon. "He didn't know what it was to change."
"And are you certain that my uncle and yourself were the only two people who knew of the existence of the staircase and the cupboard? Try to remember.