Into the Mists

Otago Witness, Issue 3755, 2 March 1926, Page 66

Into the Mists

ijS*.

E. Phillips Oppenheim.

Author of “The Wrath to Come,’* “The Hillman,” “The Tempting of Tavernake,” &c., &c.

(Copyright.—Fob the Witness.)

PROLOGUE and CHAPTER I.—The introduction shows Israel Fernham, first Baron Honcrton, at a family gathering. A multi-millionaire he yet has his moments of bitterness as he watches critically the doings of bis children. His gaze rests with pride on Cecil, his joungest born, a young man just dowu .from Oxford. A servant enters the room,'whispers to the butler, who crosses to Cecil: ‘ John Heggs. the keeper, is here, «.r. He wants a few words with you.” Cecil understands that Heggs's request concerns to-morrow’s shooting. He proceeds to the far room. Arrived there Heggs announces that his purpose is not to discuss birds, but to use a dog-whip. There is a stampede of eervants. Heggs, hearing them coming, ilPls Cecil’s half-insensible body and dashes it ou the stone floor. Then he passes out, through the servants, into *he park. Later, enjoying his beer and pipe ta his cottage, he is visited by Choppin, the local policeman, who tells him that Cecil Fernham is dead, and puts handcuffs on to Heggs’s wrists. He is condemned to death. The sentence would have been commuted to penal servitude for life but for the influence of Lord Honerton. He is In hts automobile, outside the gaol, on the morning of Heggs's execution. A young woman comes close to the window, and, addressing Lord Honerton, tells him that the executed man was her father, and that Honerton’s murdered son was her lover. She speaks as a seeress. His wealth will lie like a curse on him and his. She passes away. He drives on. Later on he instructs his solicitors to find this young woman and make a money offer to help her in her approaching motherhood His solicitors reply to the effect that she refuses to have anything to do with him or his family. Israel tears the letter and burns it. That night he dies. Thirty years afterwards Joseph Fernham, second Lord Honerton, is eutertalning guests on the eve of a day’s shooting. His younger son, Ernest, has just entered his father’s business, a family concern. A servant enters the room, whispers to the butler, who crosses to Ernest: * Middletor.. the nead keeper, is outside,” adding that Middleton awaits instructions. Ernest rises and excuses himself. He wants to have a few words with Middleton. CHAPTER I (continued), II and 111. Three people of the party are dumfounded at the duplication of an event which took place 30 years ago. Ernest passes out. Samuel speaks quietly to his brother, Joseph, of that long past, horrible night. Without alarming the guests inquiries are quietly made. Later on there are searchings. They all prove futile. Lady Judith Fernham, the baron’s daughter, and Lord Frederick Amberleys, are among the shootin? party. They discuss Ernest’s disappearance and the 30 years’ old tragedy. She studies this young man whom she is expected to marry. CHAPTER I.—(Continued.) There were three people who sat at that table as though turned to stone. Lady Honerton’s dark eyes held, for a moment, a glqam of almost inhuman terror. From her husband’s face the patch of colour faded into a streaky slur. His pudgy fingers gripped the table on either side of him, his beady eyes seemed to be in danger of dropping out altogether. Further down the table Samuel had leaned forward, his hands clasped on the top of his stout stick, his gaze wandering alternately from his brother to his sister-in-law. Ernest walked several paces towards the door, then stopped short as he caught sight of his father’s face. “ Hullo, dad! ”he exclaimed. “ Nothing wrong, is there? You wanted me to look after the shooting? It’s all r\ght for me to have a word with Middleton, isn’t it? I”ll be back directly.” “ Quite all right,” his father muttered. “ Don’t be long,” his mother begged. “If Middleton keeps me more than a few minutes I’ll join you all in the bridge room.” He passed out. and the door was closed behind him. Very few people had realised the depths of the shock which, for their host and hostess, had brought an atmosphere of horrified reminiscence into the room. Conversation was resumed. It was not until the marchioness noticed the little beads of perspiration all over her host’s forehead that a sudden wave of memory assailed her. “My dear Lord Honerton 1” she exclaimed. “Do forgive us for not having recognised at once this most distressing coincidence. I was very young at the time—it must be thirty years ago, isn’t it? But I remember distinctly the shock wo all felt, every one in the County felt when they heard the terrible news. It was your brother, of course, who was murdered by that madman, wasn’t it? And if I remember rightly lie was fetched out of the room in precisely the same manner.” “The message was almost identical,” Lord Honerton groaned. “Most distressing! However, in this instance there need be no anxiety. Middleton is a most respectable manFrederick thinks highly of him—and he has, cr—no family. It was the association, of course, which was so painful.” Lady Honerton rose a little abruptly, and the men drew closer together, eager in their discussion of the possible bag to-morrow. The marquess would have moved up to his host’s left hand, but

Samuel Fernham anticipated him. Leaning heavily upon his ivory-knobbed stick, Samuel hobbled up and sank into the chair adjoining his brother’s. He laid his shrivelled, yellow hand upon the other’s thick one. “That was a shock, brother,” he said quietly. “It was like looking bad: into the past—that horrible night! Never mind. That all lies thirty years behind. That is finished.” Joseph looked at him, some of the old terror still smouldering in his face. “That is finished, Samuel. It is the memory that never dies!” CHAPTER 11. Lord Honerton allowed his guests that evening far less time than usual for discussing his admirable port. He rose just as everyone was settling down, and led the way towards the door. “They are waiting for us to play bridge,” he vouchsafed by way of explanation. “The coffee and cigars will be in the card room.” There was something almost like consternation amongst those who had just filled their glasses. The marquess declined to be hustled. “We’ll follow you in a minute, if we may, Honerton,” he said. Joseph hurried on. He was not usually a nervous man, but a queer little demon of unrest was sitting in his heart. He crossed the hall at a speed which left Samuel far behind, and looked eagerly around the bridge room. Most of the women were collected there, some already at the bridge table, one or two around the great log fire. There was no sign of Earnest, however. Through the halfclosed portiere he could hear the sound billiard balls in the room beyond. He looked in there and found Judith playing another youthful member of the house party a game of pool. “Seen anything of Ernest?” he inquired. “He hasn’t been in here, Dad,” she said. said. “I expect he’s still with Middleton Joseph dropped the curtain, stepped back into the bridge room, and made his way with somewhat greater deliberation towards the servants’ quarters. He skirted these, and, passing through a en baize door into a stone-flagged passage which led to the rear of the house, pushed open the door of the gun-room. A little blue cigarette smoke was still hanging about, but the room was empty Robinson, one of the under-keepers, came out of an adjoining apartment, with the gun which he had been cleaning in his hand. “Have you seen Mr Ernest?” Joseph asked. “Not for the last ten miuutes, my lord. He was in the gun-room with Middleton then.” “Where is Middleton?” “Gone home about ten minutes since, my lord.” Joseph turned away with the intention of rejoining his guests, telling himself he was a fool, yet wondering at the queer sense of impending disaster in his heart. He struggled against it, however, and exchanged casual greetings with the little stream of men whom he met crossing the hall. Arrived in the dining-room, he summoned Martin. “Martin,” he enjoined. “I wish von would find Mr Ernest for me. He has perhaps gone up to his room. If he isn’t there search until you find him. I want him for bridge.” ; “Very good, my lord,” the man replied. Joseph returned to the bridge room. He looked around eagerly, but Ernest was not anywhere in sight, however, nor was he in the billiard-room, nor in the great lounge hall where there was another billiard table, and where one or two men were playing pool. Joseph returned once more to the bridge room, poured himself out a stiff glass of brandy, and drank it. “Who’s for bridge?” he asked, strolling towards his guests. “We have enough for three tables, haven’t we? Will you play with me, Marchioness, and vou, Lady Levater, and you, Pownall ? ‘ Good ! Then you foqr might play as you are,’ ! he added, with a wave of the hand, “and Ernest can make you others up when he comes.” “Where is Ernest?” Lady Honerton inquired. “I thought you went to find him.” “He seems to have gone up to his room, my dear. I’ve sent Martin to fetch him. Will you come to this table, Lady Levator ?” There was a certain amount of hubbub for the next few minutes whilst every one settled down ; then comparative silence, broken only by the soft fall of the cards and the occasional impact of the billiard balls in the next room. Rachel, Lady Honerton, who was not playing, sat in an easy-chair, pretending to read an evening paper, hut with her eyes fixed nearly all tfio time upon the door. Her husband,

who had fortified himself with another liqueur brandy, puffed at a huge cigar, and played his usual sound, if somewhat aggressive, game. His skilful play of the hand evoked his partner’s heart-felt admiration. “If 1 could only play like you, Lord Ilonerton!” she murmured. “What I find so difficult t concentration.” ‘‘Concentration,” Joseph pronounced, keeping his eyes sedulously turned from tlie door, ‘is one of the disciplines of life.” “That sounds like a copy book maxim,” the marchioness declared, “but they never did help me one bit in real life.” The door was opened and Martin, followed by two footmen who had come in to remove the coffee equipage, entered the room. He made his way at once to his master’s chair and stood there. As soon as the last card had fallen he made his report. “I am sorry, my lord, but I have not been able to find Mr Ernest. I have been up to his suite of rooms, and I have tried the picture gallery, the ballroom, and the squash racket court.” “Have you been in the library?” Joseph inquired. “1 went there first, my lord. There is nowhere in the house I have not tried.” Samuel came hobbling across the room. “What’s become o\ the lad, Joseph?” he demanded. “What does Martin say?” “He is not in the house anywhere,” was the strained reply. Major Pownall, who knew nothing of the family history, was impatient to get on with the game. “Well, nothing can have happened to him here, can it? Alter all it is not many minutes since ho was with your keeper. He may have strolled out with him, or gone to see what sort of a night it is.” “Anything in the nature of uneasiness is, of course, absurd,” Joseph declared firmlv. “It is simply irritating that he should have left three people waiting to play bridge.” “What is it, Dad?” Judith asked, coming through the portiere. “Where’s Ernest ?” “Hiding apparently, because he doesn’t want to play bridge with us,” Joyce ClOughton, one of the three who were left out, observed. “It’s too bad of him to keep you waiting,” said Judith. “Shall I make you up until he comes ? I wonder where on earth he can be?” she added, as she-,took her place at the table. “Martin can’t find him anywhere, her father observed. “He’ll probably turn up in a few minutes.” “Is there anything more I can do, my lord?” the butler inquired. “Telephone over to the garage, and keep your eyes open,” Joseph directed. “The lad has a new’ car he drove down from London in, he explained to the marchioness. “He may have gone over to have a look at it.” Again the game proceeded. Samuel sat in an easy chair on one side of the great, wood fire. Rachel Honerton sat with her eyes steadfastly fixed upon the door. Half an hour, three-quarters of an hour passed, and with it the effects of Joseph’s second liqueur brandy. At the end of a rubber he laid down his cards. “I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” he said. “This absurd escapade of Ernest’s is getting on mv nerves. I must make a few further inquiries.” “It does seem queer,” Major Pownall acknowledged, glancing at the clock. Joseph left his place and crossed the room towards his wife. The marchioness leaned forward and in an undertone began to tell Major Pownall of the tragedy which had happened in the house thirty years ago. Joseph approached his wife. Her eyes watched him. “My dear, he said soothingly, “it is ridiculous to be anxious about Ernest. I am going out to make inquiries.” Rachel was only maintaining her selfcontrol with an effort. “Let me know quickly,” she begged. “It seems absurd, of course, but if only Ernest had not sat in the same place, if Martin had not come round him in the same way, given almost the same message ! Tt was like a tragedv thrown back from Hell!” “Rubbish, my dear!” Joseph scoffed. “Sheer rubbish! These sort of things don’t repeat themselves. It’s iust the setting; unpleasant, but that’s all!” Joseph found his way to his private studv and sent for Martin. The latter appeared almost at once, ushering in Middleton. the keeper, a lanky, weatherbeaten man, a little disturbed at this unexpected summons, which had reached him iust as he h*d been on the point of going to bed. In his haste he had forgotten to replace either his collar or tie. “I sent for Mrs Midleton in case your lordship would care to have a word with him.” Martin explained. Joseph tried to treat the affair hVhtly. “We seem to have lost Mr Ernest, Middleton.” he said. “Have you anv idea what became of him after he had finished with you?” “I can’t say, I am sure, my lord. I left him in the gun-room.” “He didn’t give you any hint which might account for his absence?” “All that I can call to mind about the young gentleman was that he seemed in a rare hurry to get hack again, your lordship.” “Sorry to have fetched you up. Middleton,” Joseph concluded. “See that they give you a glass of wine in the Bervants’ ball. You have nothing more to say to me, Martin?” “Nothing, my lord. Except that I have satisfied myself personally that Mr Erne&t is not in the house” “And the cars were all in the garage?” “Miles, the head chauffeur, lias gone rut himself to look them over, my lord. There were several visitors’ cars the ethers weren’t sure about.** "It is now five-and-twenty past eleven, Martin,” Joseph pointed out. “Just two

hours since Mr Ernest left the dining table to give a few simple orders to Middleton. What the devH can have become of him?” “He can’t be far away, your lordship.” His master turned towards the door. As he neared the threshold Martin spoke: “I beg your lordship’s pardon for making the suggestion, but would you care for me to ring up the police station at Norwich?” Joseph was conscious of a little shiver. This strange affair of Ernest’s disappearance was becoming full of hateful reminiscence. “I don’t »nk we need treat the thing quite so seriously as that, Martin. After all, it’s only a matter of two hours.” “If your lordship will excuse my saying so,” the man observed respectfully. “Mr Ernest isn’t one of those harumscarum young ' gentlemen. He’s not likely to be iu any trouble or anything of that sort.” “That’s all right, Martin,” his master acquiesed. “He’s a good lad, as steady and level-headed as lam myself. That’s what makes the whole thing so extraordinary.” Joseph, Lord Honerton, returned to his guests. Except so far as regarded himself, his wife, and Samuel, it was impossible for any one to fully appreciate the tragic note in this curious event. The rank improbability of any thing serious happening to their host’s son, kept the rest of the party unconcerned. Half a dozen of them were playing fives on the billiard table, and another four at bridge had been arranged. Rachel was knitting faster than ever, but her eyes called wildly to her husband’s across the space of the room. He shook his head with a cheerfulness which was half bravado. “Anything been heard of the young man?” someone asked. ‘‘Not yet,” Joseph replied. “Miles is down looking over the cars. I’ll give Ernest a talking-to when he gets backj” “Any poachers about, do you think? Could he have heard a gun?” another of the male guests suggested. MARCH 2. “There are four keepers on duty tonight, and no report has been made,” Joseph replied. “Poachers wouldn't get much quarter here. I give most of the game away and employ half the neighbourhood. Yes, my dear.”” He crossed the room towards his wife. “You have heard no news, Joseph?” she asked. “ None.” “ You have met with no fresh cause for fear?” “ Of course not I ” he answered, with well-simulated impatience. “You and I are making idiots of ourselves over this business. Nothing can have happened to the boy. He hadn’t an enemy in the world, and he’s as strong as a horse.” Rachel made no remark. From the inner room Martin re appeared. “I thought you would like to know, my lord, that Miles has just got back from the garage,” he announced. “ None of the cars are missing, nor is there any sign of any one of them having been tampered with.” “ So that’s that,” Jospeh murmured. “ Some of the under-servants,” the man continued, “have made up a little search party of their own and taken every room, back and front, including the cellars. It is absolutely certain that Mr Ernest is not in the house. Two or three of the men have been through the outhouses and shrubberies, and they have handed in a similar report. George Mr Ernest’s own valet, has been through his master’s things, and assured me that not even a pair of shoes is missing. Mr Ernest was wearing very thin slippers for dinner.” “ He can’t be far away,” Joseph replied. “ Let the servants retire at the usual time, Martin, and stop all gossip as much as you can.” “ I shall discourage it as far as possible, ray lord.” From the billiards room came sounds of laughter, and from the bridge table in the corner the monotonous patter of the cards, the methodical calling over of the score. Joseph and his wife were alone. There were lines of anguish in Rachel’s face. “Can’t you feel it, Joseph?” she whispered. “Somewhere in the background—not so far away —I can hear it all the time, and they laugh and deal! And in the billiard room—what a hubbub! ”* “ What do you mean ? ’” he demanded. “ What can you hear ? ” The needles ceased to flash. There was all the throb and pain of actual tragedy in her mournful words. “Ernest!”* she whispered. “He’s gone into the darkness, and we don’t know where to find him! ” “ What the devii are you talking about, Rachel” Joseph exclaimed. “ Ernest’s all right! He must bo all right! ” Ilia wife recommenced her knitting. CHAPTER 111. Juuith, who had been restless in her movements all morning, finally pitched her shooting stick by Freddy Amberley’s side. He signalised the occasion by bringing down a very creditable right and left of high-flying cock pheasants. “I am one of the best shots in the country,” he assured her. “This confidence,” she murmured, “is one of the most pleasing characteristics of extreme youth.”

“Tell me,” he inquired, “what is that heap of mine just ontside the covert. I noticed them laat time I was here.” aom^re concern darkened Judiths beautiful face. lliose stones,” she explained, “are the remains of a tragedy which occurred thirty years ago—long before I was horn, and when you were in your cradle.” itv* Ve neVer heard about il ‘ What was ‘‘lt happened,” se continued, “on the eve of a shooting party, just like this one. My father’s youngest brother, Cecil, who was rather by way of being the jamily favourite, was murdered by the head-keeper. 4 “J remember now,” he acknowledged. I heard the whole story in the smoking room last night.” “There was a girl, of .course,” she proceeded, “and the usual sordid business i ou probably heard as much about it as J U l6 tragedy consisted in the tact that the keeper never meant to kill my uncle, but was disturbed and threw him backwards, so that he hit his head upon the stone floor.” \\ hat happened to the keeper ?” Amberleys asked. ‘‘He was hanged,” was the quiet reply. •ihe devil! It doesn’t sound like anything more than manslaughter.” “The man was arraigned for murder and found guilty with a strong recommendation tor mercy,” Judith went on. “No one doubted but that he would get off with twenty years’ penal servitude, but my grandfather, Israel Fernham, who was an old gentleman of singularly unforgiving temperament, had great influence with the Gov eminent at that time, and he moved heaven and earth to prevent any reduchon of the sentence. In the end he succeeded, although there was a terrible scandal, and the Home Secretary very soon afterwards resigned. Those ruins you were asking me about are the remains of the keepers cottage. My grandfather had it razed to the ground on the day the man was hanged, and would never allow it to be rebuilt.” There was a brief interlude, whilst Judith’s companion added to his bag. Then the beaters appeared at the end of the wood, and the two young people strolled off together to the next stand. “That old grandfather of yours must have been quite a character,” Amberleys remarked. “I admire him immensely. He was a strict Jew, a follower of the Mosaic law. He never smoked nor touched wine, nor indulged in any of the modem luxuries. There were no rules in his household. Everyone did as they chose, but he himself lived the most austere life. He never failed a friend, and never forgave an enemy. Cecil’s death, however, broke his heart. He only lived for a very short time afterwards. Do you know what my Uncle Samuel told me this morning? Cecil was fetched out from the dining table to see the keeper about the morrow’s shooting exactly in the same way that Ernest was sent for last night. My mother and father and Uncle Samuel were there, of coarse. Can’t yo- imagine how it must all have come back to them last night—the horror of it; the same message, the same hour, Ernest, again the younger of our family, and now this disappearance of his?” “ Quite enough to upset anyone! ” the young man admitted. “ Of course,” she went on, “ there couldn’t be any possible connection between the' two things. Middleton, this present keeper, is a bachelor, and Ernest, I belieive, is a remarkably moral young man. All the same, there’s something almost morbidly horrible/' “ It’s unspeakable,” Amberleys interrupted. “ I think that we Jews are all fatalists,” she saiid. “Father and mother and Uncle Samuel are, of course, unbalanced by memories and associations. I cannot think it possible that anything could have happened to Ernest.” They were standing at the end of a glade, and from some distance away came the sound of the tapping of trees, the shouts of the beaters, occasionally the keepr’s whistle. It was a still day towards the end of October. The air was a little chilly. A promise of frost was in the air; the twigs broke crisply under the feet of the advancing beaters. The sound of firing all around was now much more frequent, and, her companion's attention being fully engaged, Judith found herself suddenly studying the man whom she knew that she was expected to marry. He was tall, inclined to sturdiness. His features, without being regular, were good enough, his slightly red hair had a tendency to curl in becoming fashion, his expression was frank. He had sat in the House of Commons for two years, and had made one or two speeches with moderate success. His politics were stereotyped but sincere. His outlook upon life, considering his upbringing and characteristics, was not intolerant. Judith permitted her thoughts to dwell deliberately upon the prospect of becoming Lady Frederick Amberleys, and afterwards Marchioness of Holt. There was a town house, and a country estate, of course. Her own great fortune might provide also a flat in Paris, a palace at Venice or a villa on the Riviera. She might count upon retaining a certain measure of the more intellectual life to which she was already becoming accustomed, but a measure which would have its limitation. Life and heredity had given Judith the fervid, almost passionate, imagination of the gifted of her race. She was an unfaltering judge of herself and her weaknesses. Venice with its traditions, Florence with its art, Paris with its nameless sense of excitement, were no places for her to visit as a wanderer alone.. Realising this, was it wise for her to marry at all a man of Amberleys’s type. She found herself

watching the rabbits and an occasional hare. One hare in particular almost sat up and looked at her, ran this way and that, dumb terror in its eyes, and finally scurried by her, only to be sent head over heels in a lifeless heap when it had reached the line of safety. She gave a little shiver. After all, it was death. She found herself thinking of Ernest. The senso of foreboding was suddenly redoubled. (To be continued.)