The House of Secrets

Evening Star, Issue 18533, 16 January 1924, Page 4

The House of Secrets

[All Eights Reserved.]

[By Tkeo Douglas (Mrs H. D. Everett), Author of 'Hadow of ’Shaws,’ ft ‘The Grey\ Countess,* Etc.]

(Our readers are informed that all characters in this story are purely l& imaginary, and if the name of any living Jtorson happens to be mentioned, g no personal reflection is intended.] g

CHAPTER XI. HOST AND GUEST. The note sent from The Oaks reached Hugh in due course, and he could do nothing else but accept Mr Jordans apology and invitation, which was for the following Monday. The intermediate days were filled with occupation for Hugh; interviews with the agent, visits to the farming tenants, inquiry about a groom who applied to him seeking a place. And it.may here be noted that he temporarily supplied his stable with the young horse the farmer had for sale, and also purchased a second-hand light cart, which ran easily on rubber tyres. Some vehicle of the sort was a necessity in that remote spot for the convenience of supplies, as well as for his own use. The young black horse did not make much show in the Revel line of empty stalls, but probably he would bo followed by others, unless Hugh elected to incur the larger expense, and indulge himself with the greater convenience of a car. On the second day he began an examination of the locked drawers. It took him some time to go through the contents with patient particularity even of one, and the task was not complete when Monday came round, bringing the interruption of an engagement. So far he had failed to find letter or document into which he could read a personal moaning; and, indeed, most of the papers under lock and key had belonged not to Godwin Revel, but to the uncle ho succeeded. No doubt they had been examined at the time of Mr Henry Revel’s death; but there they still wore, left for the second in succession to sweep away and destroy. Fisher hovered about Hugh on the Monday, keenly interested; and, indeed, the simple fact that The Oaks had invited Redrevel to dinner filled the whole household with surprise. Ho suggested that the cart should be ordered round, and then, on learning that Hugh preferred to ■walk, advised that he should himself bring across a lantern later, as the night promised to be dark. For the outward way there was light enough in the sunset sky when Hugh crossed the upper valley by the hanging bridge, which was a short cut—a slight affair fhat connected footpath and road. At The Oaks he was shown into the music room, where the master of the house was sitting. A small reading-lamp with hooded reflector was set on the table at Mr Jordan’s elbow, and its feeble light was the solo illumination of the room, other than the evening twilight. Mr Jordan rose to receive the entering guest, moving more lamely than usual, and when he spoke it was in a hoarse haif-whisper.

Godwin’s, his contemporary in age, who must have many memories in common, with the dead- man. Might not Nigel Jordan be able to throw some light on the nature of that last unspoken command. Hugh (began to put the case. There was something of importance that Godwin Revel had to say to him, eo ran the summons, end, most unhappily, ho came too late, meeting only the s'ilence of the grave. What could it be? He bad made every inquiry, and could discover nothing—no memorandum had been left behind. Hugh could only guess it was something.ho wished his near to do, or pay; some charge ho would have been desired to undertake. Had Mr Jordan any idea of what this unspoken wish could moan—a wish Godwin was reluctant to write down, and -waited to express till they met face to face? Mr Jordan’s face was in shadow, but it became suddenly intelligent. Hugh had unwittingly supplied the very information he desired and was probing to find. Godwin had kept silence to the last, and so the secret he guarded was secure. There was a distinct pause before ho answered, but finally he shook his dead. “ I nm afraid I cannot help you. L would willingly, if I could. There is too wide a field. I might guess, but that would be unsafe; you would be misguided rather than helped by a guess that went astray. Godwin Revel had many interests, and he used to talk them over when he was here, but probably he never mentioned this to me. I could imagine it something so closely private that ho could not bring himself to reveal it till the last. That would be my reading of what you tell me. By the way, did he ever mention his brother to you —James Cullen? Ah, no, I suppose not; ho died so long ago, when you were a schoolboy, or perhaps younger still. He was tiie father of Madge, the child you wore speaking of just now.” “Do you lcnow Miss Cullen, Mr Jordan? ”

“It is very good of you, Mr Dacre, to waive ceremony and come in this friendly way • but really the case is that of Mahomet and the mountain, as I am too infirm to go across to you. Oh, my lameness is a chronic affair, and I must leam to put up with it, as I suppose it is incurable. But I have my good days and my ill, and, as there are alleviations, I ought not to complain. I live like a hermit here, solacing myself with music. Music is my sole joy. Can yon sympathise? Are you a musician? What is your instrument?” < Hugh had strummed a little ou the piano in his youth, but, as he hastened to say, he was no performer. He was, however, able to listen intelligently, and also to appreciate what he heard. He hoped he might some day have the privilege of hearing- Mr Jordan play. “My instrument is the organ. You see it there, or would if we had a better light. If you like, I will play to you after dinner. No; you need not thank mo; lam pleased to have on audience. Do you care for Bach? I am just now in lovo witn Bach, and for these last weeks have played little else. But perhaps you prefer the modem school?”

Hugh was saved from the disquisition which seemed likely to follow his reply, as one of the younjs; waiting-maids announced the service of dinner. Mr Jordan led the way limping into the opposite parlor There Miss Rice awaited them, and he made the presentation to that lady of “Our landlord, Mr Dacre.”

“I can hardly say I know her. I have seen her, but it is years ago now. Oddly enough, she is related to my housekeeper, and Miss Rico talks of asking hor to stay here for the holidays. She and Miss Rice both have a tie of blood to Revel, though it is remote. Yotf, I understand, have none.” “ None whatever.” Hugh was frank in his avowal. “I had not the least claim to inherit • it was just Mr Revel’s bounty in my case. lib knew my parents, and after my father died ho adopted mo as a sort of son. I owe everything I have and am to him. Ho was a generous man.” “Yes,” Mr Jordan' assented, but he spoke as if the subject had lost its interest. “Godwin Revel had every virtue under the sun. His fault was that ho was too perfect 5 ho would have been more human with a few failings thrown in, and I truly believe, a happier man. But I am forgetting. You professed to like music, Mr Dacre, and to bo interested in my organ. Do you really wish to hear it, or will it boro you if 1 play’ ” To this there could bo but one answer. Nigel Jordan adjusted the liglits, and took bis place on the stool, first setting the mechanical appliance to work which supplied the pipes with wind. A score was open on tho desk; what it was, Hugh was too ignorant to know. But his host dashed into it with surprising verve, now loud, now delicately tender, accentuating the melody; bis grey head bent forward, feet working on the pedals, and hands which looked too frail for such mastery, moving rapidly over the double keyboard, above and below. Tile chief memory Hugh took away with him when he departed later was of the ecstatic musician. Seated at the organ, Nigel Jordan was transformed; it was as if some passion in the man, checked in every other direction, here found its sole outlet and scope. Some passion, something that might have been dangerous; but Hugh did not reason it out to the end. The Oaks was a queer place, and his tenant a character—that was all. The bold way had been the safe way, and Hugh did not sense or apprehend anything beyond.

“ Miss Rice ia my very good friend, and she takes all household trouble off my hands,” Mr Jordan explained as they sat down. “ And she is also a distant relative or connection hy marriage of your predecessor. Mr 110701. though T am not elpnr in what degree. I always find relationships puzzling. 1 hope you like soup, Mr Dacre. We pride ourselves on our soup here, and for me In my weak state it is a necessary of life.”

The soup was of excellent quality, and deserved all that could be said in its praise. It was placed ready in covered cups, and when these were removed by the young maid Miss Rice rose and went to a long copper heater on the side-table to dispense the next course from there. On this heater covered dishes were sot ready, with a full service of hot plates beside them. And out of those covered dishes came the several courses of an excellent dinner—sole and mushrooms au gratin, flaked lobster a la Neuburg, a chicken wonderfully cooked In casserole fashion, and a superlative savory. Miss Rice was each time the carver and dispenser, rising and resuming her seat without fuss; she was quietly but handsomely dressed, and took the head of the table in dignified fashion. She did not, however, accompany the gentlemen when they returned to the music room, or appear again during the evening, and the young servant brought in the coffee tray. Mr Jordan offered his guest a choice of cigarette or cigar; he lighted a cigarette 0 H ■®P! S?) prei jtyuasojd ;nq ‘jpsunq liked the scent, he explained, but had never been able to reconcile himself to the flavor on the palate. And now, in the midst of talk which glanced over general subjects, ho began to slip in questions that were particular, and Hugh might have noticed, had he not been so .utterly without suspicion, that he was very closely observed. He (Jordan) and Godwin Revel had been fast friends, as perhaps Mr Dacre was aware; but of the last stage of Mr Revel’s illness he know only the fatal termination. No doubt Mr Dacre could inform him. Did the end occur suddenly? Was he well cared for abroad ? Who was with him at the last ?

“I shall never cease to regret it,” Hugh answered, " but I got to Mentone too late. When the end was drawing near—that is, when the doctors Informed him there was no hope of recovey— he wrote asking me to go to him. 1 had been sent from the office on special correspondent service, and just then was out of town. When I returned I found this letter, and set crat at once. I lost no time, but when I reached the Hotel Royale he had been dead some hours. Mr Revel had-his own man with him, and a skilled ■ doctor in attendance. I saw the doctor after, and I believe everything was done for him that could relieve.” Mr Jordan's eyes to be weak, for he dhaded them with his hand. But he wae still regarding Hugh. “ I wonder if he asked for his niece, Madge Cullen, at tiro last. _ Do you know 1 He used to take an interest in her education.” “ She was not there 5 so I conclude he did not ask. Nothing that he wished for would have been left undone. And the lady who is her guardian, Madam e- 1 - I forget the name—could easily have brought the child.” “ Madge is not quite a child in these days,” put in Mi Jordan, and he seemed amused, but Hugh paad no attention to the remark. A fresh idea had suggested itself to his mind. Here waa a friend of

CHAPTER XIL MADGE DECIDES, It was a fair day o£ early summer when Martha Rice paced up and down the pier at Folkestone, waiting for the incoming of the French boat.. The s£a was calm and blue, glinting in the sun, a fresh breeze tempered the heat, the coast-lino stood out clear of mist, and even the white cliffs across the Channel might tie distinguished from the higher ground. The boat was late, or else Martha was over-soon. She walked slowly up and down, her hard face lined and anxious, an unhappy woman one would say regarding her; and with truth, for she went unwillingly to that tryst, though it was a meeting with one held close at heart and dear. That one, was now on board the black speck which trailed smoke on the horizon, and which with every added minute grew larger and nearer. At last the boat drew into the pier, a throng of people became distinguishable at the side, and handkerchiefs were waved; was one of those greetings for her? It was an inconvenient moment for her eyes to grow dim; she could not discern a familiar figure amid the crowding of the gangway. Did tears come in the way of sight, or was it nothing but the fast beating of her heart? Presently a pair of arms went round her in a warm embrace. “ Auntie Patty —Auntie Patty—don’t you know me?” cried a young, clear voice. The girl at her side was fresh as a flower, with smiling grey eyes, and cheeks that bloomed the brighter for the salt air. There was no need to ask how Madge had fared on the transit; nothing ip her appearance suggested the miseries of mal de mer. “ Why, my child, how you have grown 1” was all the aunt could find to say. “ Grown—of course I have grown in four years. Grown up, haven’t I? Do you know I am turned eighteen, and I believe I am taller than you. I always wanted to be tall. Oh, it is delightful to see England aMin, and you. 1 have only one box, and that will be all right, as it was registered through. There, see, it is coming now, on that man’s shoulder. Yes, I left Madame Vipehall well, but she was very loth to spare me to coma away; though, as I told her, the holiday was overdue. I was beginning to fret because you did not send for me, so judge how delighted I was when the letter came, I knew it wasn’t your fault, but just because that selfish old man would not spare you to get away. And now we ore going to the dear old Kentish manorhouse in the middle of the hop-fields. I can’t tell you how I have longed to see it again, I used to dream of it at night.” “ Dear- Madge, no. Not this time; not to-day. You are going with me to London, and there we stay the night.,, I have to go : back to-morrow to the north, and lam taking you there—my dear ” “To Revel? That is'.where you are housekeeper to Mr Jordan. Of course I’ll go with you to any place where we two can be together. But I hate you being housekeeper to a stranger. I’ve a lovely plan, that when I am a real singer you shall come to me. Is Mr Jordan a nice old man'?”

Martha opened her lips to speak, but no' words followed immediately. The fountain of speech 1 seemed dry. “ I will tell you about Mr Jordan another time ; Lot us go and get our places in the train. See, all the rest have gone on before;’' So the- young girl and tie elderly woman.went arm in arm. Madge's spirits

were dancing a-tiptos. "It Is sweet to be in England, she said agaip. “ And sweet to hear the people talking just the old familiar sort of‘speech.’ I feel as if- I could kiss them all. No, you needn’t be frightened; I won’t do‘that.'"l havo the fear of Madame Vinchall before my eyes, as well as of you. Have you really taken my billet with your own ? Shall we got in here? This carriage looks clean, and it will bo pice if we nave it to ourselves. But oh, Auntie Patty, what am I to do about my clothes ? Madame Vinehall thought I need not buy mourning, being so tar away. But if you are taking me up to Revel, that will be different. Uncle Godwin’s own place, you know. What can we contrive?”

"I don’t suppose it matters, one way or another, bolt I will think it over. Wo mbht go out and buy something when we° get to London, A costume ready made.” - Martha truly looked perplexed, and not only over the clothes problem; there was another difficulty on her mind. The train was moving now, sweeping by Shomcliffe, and then Fondling, rushing on towards Ashford. The funny puckered wrinkle smoothed itself out of Madge’s brow;she forgot the mourning clothes, for all her attention was devoted to the out-of-win-dow world.

“ Oh, how pretty it is, Aunt Patty—how pretty; oh, it is lovely to come home. Who would believe the two sides of the Channel could be so unlike, with just that strip of sea in between? Look at those funny old drying kilns—and the way that roof slopes —and the lichen on it. And the hops are beginning to grow up the pole; see, they are quite high already. Do you remember when I went away? They were stripping the fields then, and the working gangs were coming in, and I used to go and see the rations served out. I’m sorry there are no hops in the north.” Martha Rice looked as she was bidden, but ever her gaze was drawn back to the -young face opposite, so bright and free from care. This was how Godwin wished Madge to remain, and she herself would fain have had it so. It was hard that a certain thing must needs be said —harder still that the saying of it should fall to her. And yet, Madge could not always bo kept ignorant. Sooner or later tne time must have come.” Despite her love and her pity, the grim woman looked grimmer than ever when at last she leaned forward, and laid her hand on the girl’s knee. “My dear, you wonder why I am taking you north, and why I live there with Mr Jordan: I will tell you why. Stoop nearer, for I will whisper——” The whisper was a long one, and as she listened, the sweet color paled utterly out of Madge’s face, so that the lily replaced the rose. “But —but—l don’t sc.e why this need have been,” she cried in her distress. The whisper was renewed. This time conviction came. Madge said no more, and she covered her face with her hands. It was a long while before she looked up; the Kentish landscape had lost its charm. Then it was to ask a question. “Does Madame Vinehall know?” “ Not of our telling. Godwin may havo told her —something, when he placed you there. But I don’t think it. No.” Madge shook her head for answer. Again she covered her face, and the miles went by. When she spoke it was still with her face hidden. “If she had known—-I don’t think—she would have lot me come away.” At these words to Martha a ray of hope shot through tho darkness. Perhaps, after all, the meeting need not be. “It rests with you now, dear Madge, to go or not to go. No one can compel you, so far as I can see. And in my judgment, too, it would ho better to turn back, Think of it and to-morrow morning tell mo. I will take you to Folkestone again and set you off, and telegraph to Madame Vinehajl. And I, for one, shall say that in refusing you did well.” Again the miles went by, and there was another interval, speechless, between these two. London was drawing near when Madge looked up at last. “ When we are quiet together you shall tell mo more. I want to know—the whole; I have a right. I am not a child any longer after to-day. Then—l will think, os you say; I will think all night. And in the morning yod*. shall know."

The rattle and roar of the terminus came next; the finding of a taxi, and then their swift conveyance to the plain hotel where Martha Eke had spent the night before. Nothing more was said about a shopping expedition to purchase the black dress; such frivolities ns those had perished out of both their minds. The bedroom engaged for Madge was divided from Martha’s only by a party wall. When they reached that refuge, and the luggage porter and chambermaid had left them alone, Madge pushed her aunt into a chair and knelt beside her.

“Now,” she said. “I cannot wait any longer. Bogin at the beginning, and leave nothing outj tell me the whole. It cannot be worse than what I fear.” Martha did not rest well in a strange place, and, with the roar of London round her, sleep would have been well-nigh impossible, apart from the excitements of the day. As she waked and watched she wondered how Madge was faring on the other side of the partition; whether grief moved her chiefly, or pity, or shame. Miss Eice was early down to breakfast at the hour they had agreed upon, finding the coffee room nearly empty. The waiter pulled out her chair from the table reserved for them, and presented the bill of fare, so all was ordered and in readiness before Madge appeared. The girl was very pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Martha looked at her as she passed the coffee cup. “Have you decided?” she asked. The answer was firmly given. “Yes. I will go with yon to Revel.” (To be continued.)