The Mystery of Jamaica Terrace

Front matter

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Chapter I. In The Conservatory

" DAISY, my dear, you look jaded and sleepy. I really wish you wouldn't dance any more to-night ; to-morrow you will be quite ill." "Oh, mamma, indeed I must dance again, and I am sure I am not tired. There are four more dances on the programme, and I am engaged for each of them." " Let me look at your programme, dear. I see that you are engaged to Mr. Aylmer for the lancers. You seem to have been his partner very often this evening. You are really indiscreet, Daisy, and forgetful of your dignity. If I had had my way, Mr. Aylmer would not have been present, but your father is so very stupid." " Oh, mamma ; you are really too cruel. Poor Mr. Aylmer is very simple, and most attentive. He has only been my partner twice during the whole evening, and he begged so hard for this last set of lancers that I could not refuse him."

"Mr. Aylmer ought to be taught to know his posi tion," replied Mrs. Bovingdon, with a haughty toss of the head. " Great as is the confidence which your father B reposes in him, the man should not forget that he is only a servant ; and he has no right to aspire to be on terms of equality with you. I consider that he is guilty of great impertinence." Daisy Bovingdon did not reply to this latter remark of her mother's. She deemed it better to remain silent, for she knew that argument was useless when Mrs. Bovingdon had once made up her mind on a subject ; and the lady had always shown a most pronounced objection to Gerald Aylmer. The scene was a ballroom in a mansion situated in Curzon Street, Mayfair, London ; and the mansion was the residence of Walter Bovingdon, Esq., of the firm of Bovingdon and Gilmartin, raw silk importers.

On that day Daisy Bovingdon had come of age, and the ball had been given to celebrate the event. There were nearly a hundred couples present, representing the middle class of society ; but all the arrangements had been carried out with the most lavish expenditure, for not only were the Bovingdons exceedingly proud, but they were reputed to be very wealthy. The room was elegantly and chastely decorated, and at one end a pair of plate-glass doors gave access to an extensive conservatory, that contained a unique collec tion of tree-ferns. It was the choicest private collection, possibly, in the whole of London ; and on entering the conservatory one could have imagined that he was in some exquisite tropical garden, for there were the susur ration of falling water, and the music of foreign birds, while the air was fragrant with the perfume of orange and lemon blossom.

Daisy Bovingdon was not a handsome girl, but there was a certain witchery about her that was irresistible. She was tall and well shaped, with a graceful carriage, and a very womanly expression of face. It was not a very striking face, but one that grew upon you, and yet about the moist red lips there were indications which hinted that their owner was not without a will. But in her eyes Daisy possessed a power which she IN THE CONSERVATORY. 3 knew well how to use. They were in colour a soft blue, and capable of wonderful expression. Sometimes they flashed with a sudden fire, and at others they were dreamy and pensive — " The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind of music breathing from her face : The heart whose softness harmonized the whole — And, oh ! that eye was in itself a soul !

" Daisy's face was a winsome face. The skin was fair, and tinged with a delicate flush of pink. Light brown hair encircled a shapely head that was set on a slender and graceful neck. She hardly looked her age by two or three years. But Daisy had never known a day's sorrow in the whole course of her life, excepting such childish sorrows — if they can be so called — as fall to the lot of every girl. She had been carefully brought up and jealously guarded, for she was an only daughter. She had two brothers, but they were both in India, one being in practice as a doctor in Calcutta, while the other held a captain's commission in the army, and was stationed with his regiment at Cawnpore. The girl had been a little pampered, and perhaps slightly spoiled, and her mother had taught her to look upon poverty as something little short of crime.

There fore she had come to entertain a sort of contempt for people who were poor, although this feeling was in reality an artificial one, for she was filled with the most generous impulses, and had a truewomanly heart. She had travelled a good deal, and had spent some time in Germany, Italy, and France, with a view of perfecting herself in the languages of those countries. In short, Daisy was a favoured child of fortune ; luxury and wealth had ever surrounded her, and her young life had never been darkened by a single shadow. Gerald Aylmer was a man of thirty, tall, of powerful physique, and dark as a raven. His face was not exactly handsome, but it was full of character, though there was a look of care in it that somewhat marred its beauty. Two deep nerve lines ran from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and there were lines under the eyes which, in a man of his years, ought not to have been there.

But in spite of this, there was something singularly attractive in Gerald's face. It was frank, honest, manly. In disposition he was reticent and reserved, with a good deal of natural refinement and gentlemanliness. Mrs. Bovingdon, when speaking of him, was wont to say, "That man has a history," and no one could look into his face without feeling that this was true. For five years he had been in Mr. Bovingdon's service as a con fidential secretary. He had come to him strongly recommended, and had very soon won the most perfect trust of his employer, for he had proved himself to be a most worthy and honourable man. But Mrs. Boving don did not like him, and for no other reason than that he was, as she termed it, " a servant." Though, possibly, if the real truth had been known, her dislike had had its origin in Aylmer's persistent refusal to im part to her certain secrets in connection with her hus band's business, and which Mr. Bovingdon had thought proper to conceal from his wife.

But there was another secret, not connected with his business, which Mrs. Bovingdon only half suspected. She had tried on several occasions, with all a woman's artifice, to get at the bottom of this by questioning Aylmer, but her efforts had ever been fruitless. Gerald would never betray his trust. Daisy and he were a well-matched couple. He was dark, reserved, almost stern. She was fair, enthusiastic, volatile, and sanguine. They were graceful dancers both, and as they moved through the charming figures of the lancers they attracted a good deal of notice, and more than one young lady in the room felt a secret admiration for Aylmer. "Will you stroll into the conservatory, Miss Bovin°- don ? " he asked of his partner, when the dance had ended. " Yes, if you please. I am dreadfully hot, and I wish you would tell one of the servants to bring a little iced claret and water, if it is not troubling you too much."

IN THE CONSERVATORY. 5 " Trouble," he repeated ; " I should scarcely think anything a trouble that you requested me to do, Miss Bovingdon." The claret and watsr having been procured, Aylmer rejoined his partner and they strolled amongst the ferns and tropical plants. " Oh, this is delightful," Daisy exclaimed, as she placed herself before an open window, through which the cool night air was blowing. "Do not stand there, if you please," Aylmer said. "Why?" "Because you will take cold in that draught." He drew her gently away, and led her to the extreme end of the conservatory, where he offered her a chair. "You are very solicitous about me, Mr. Aylmer," she laughingly exclaimed, as she took the proffered seat, and opened her fan. " Why should I not be ? " he asked, a little seriously. "A man is always anxious about the woman he respects and — and — admires."

"Mr. Aylmer!" she cried with severity, and looking at him fixedly over her fan. "Pardon me, Miss Daisy; I have only spoken the truth, and surely it is not a crime for me to admire you." There was something in his tone that touched her. He spoke with a sadness, as though her pride had wounded him. "No," she said softly, and the flowers of her fan seemed suddenly to absorb her attention. " I suppose a gentleman is at liberty to admire every lady he meets — or, at least, to tell her so if he likes ? " " That is hardly the case. A gentleman would be greatly wanting in courtesy if he failed to be attentive to a lady. But attention would hardly imply that he admired her. You know that I admire you." " You once told me so before, and I was very angry," she answered, as she closed her fan with a snap, and then jerked it open again, and fanned herself petulantly, as though she thought her dignity had been wounded ; " but you have no right to talk to me in this way."

He was standing at a respectful distance, and leaning against a flower-stand. He always displayed great deference when in her presence, as though he never forgot her position and his own, but he moved a little nearer to her now, and picked up her handkerchief which had fallen to the floor. As he handed it to her he said : — "An honest man, Miss Bovingdon, has always a right to admire an honest woman. If there were no other reason in the world, I should admire you for the sake of the respect I bear your father. But there is another reason." " What is it ? " she asked quickly, yet timidly. Her woman's curiosity prompted the question, and yet the moment the words had left her lips she regretted them. " I am almost afraid to tell you, and yet the tempta tion to do so is irresistible. For the last two years there has grown up in my heart a feeling for you that is deeper, stronger than admiration ?

" " Mr. Aylmer, this is audacity." She rose hurriedly to her feet, as if to go away. " I beg, I entreat of you to listen to me for a few moments." He said this so earnestly, and there was something so sad in his face, that she sat down again. He took this as a tacit consent that she would listen to him, so he proceeded. He spoke this in a low tone, for there were other people in the conservator}-, though from the position he and Daisy occupied their con versation was not likely to be overheard. " Oh, Miss Bovingdon, if I could only find language sufficiently eloquent to make you appreciate what I say, I might hope that my words would have some effect." She showed symptoms of impatience, and played with her fan nervously. " Pray listen to me," he went on. " If I offend you it will be unwittingly, and my very offence will be due to my honesty " "Mr. Aylmer, what is it you have to say ?

" she asked IN THE CONSERVATORY. 7 quickly, and interrupting him as though irritated at his prolixity. He trembled with suppressed excitement, and a red flush had come into his face. He twisted his watch chain about and seemed confused, as though half-fearful of offending her, and yet yearning to speak the words that were hovering on his lips. " For two years I have had a dream," he continued, "a dream that I pray to God may be realized. You have grown into my heart, and come to be to me some thing that I cannot do without. Miss Bovingdon, I — I love you." " Sir, this is impertinence," she cried, as she rose quickly from her chair and stood facing him. She was trembling now — trembling from a sense of insulted dignity. " I am sorry — very, very sony — that I should have been impertinent to you," he answered, emphasizing his words.

" I feel as though I could die rather than wound you by word or deed." " I believe you are sincere in what you say," she re turned, in a changed tone, as though she were sorry for him, " but you forget the difference in our social positions. I am the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, whereas you are only a poor dependent." He bit his lip and beat a tattoo with his foot, as though her words had stung him. " I must correct you, Miss Bovingdon. I am not quite a poor dependent. I hold an important position of trust, and if I dare but tell you how insecure your father's " He checked himself suddenly. " Pardon me ; I am for getting myself," he added. She looked at him with glowing eyes, and her face had become scarlet. " What do you mean ? " she demanded. " You have made an insinuation about my father.

What were you going to say ? " "Forgive me, Miss Bovingdon, for my indiscretion, but I must decline to answer you." "Then, sir, you are not a gentleman, and my father shall know of this," she answered scornfully, and walked away. But before she had got many yards she turned round quickly and came back. Her eyelids were quivering, as though she were making desperate efforts to restrain the tears that were trying to force their way out. "Mr. Aylmer," she said softly, "I am sorry to have spoken to you so angrily. I cannot forget how kind you have always been to me, and I will tell you candidly that I have liked you very much. But you have no right to presume upon the confidence reposed in you by my papa to talk to me in the way you have done." He gained courage from her words, and said, "Will you give me no hope for the future ?

" " No ; you must not dare to speak to me of love again." She hurried away, leaving him standing there alone. The conservatory was empty now. He leaned against the flower-stand and put his hand over his eyes. The music of the band, as it played a dreamy waltz, floated in and mingled with the plash of the falling water, and the man sighed and murmured — " 0 God, am I ever to chase shadows ? Is my life ever to be a meaningless dream ? "

Chapter II. Mr

BOVINGDON'S MYSTERIES. THE firm of Bovingdon and Gilmartin, silk brokers, was an old-established one, and for several generations had commanded the respect and trust of the commercial world. The business was conducted in one of the old fashioned buildings situated in Leadenhall Street. It was a dusty, gloomy place. The counting-house was constantly illuminated with gas, and the thirty or forty clerks who conducted the business of the firm were perched on high stools, and worked like so many human machines ; for the dingy place, and the absence of sunshine, seemed to have warped their natures, and the young ones looked old, the old ones more aged than they should have done. And yet these clerks had a great respect for the firm. Many of them had entered it when mere children, and had grown grey in its service.

The old worm-eaten ledgers that stood in rows in the strong-room were, so to speak, the records of their lives, for in most cases those lives had been uneventful. Week in week out these seedy-looking clerks had spent so many hours "per diem" in that mouldy and cobwebby atmosphere, and they had talked figures, written figures, thought figures. Their world was a world of figures, in the mildewed ledgers they had written out their exist ence ; and if the yellow and time-stained pages could have spoken they might have told strange stories. Bovingdon and Gilmartin's was one of those quiet, methodical, rather quakerish firms, where everything is done with the greatest precision and clock-like regularity. The little army of busy bees in faded habiliments, yclept clerks, marched in at ten o'clock and marched out again at five.

There was never any excitement — no bustle, no rushing about. Apparently things were conducted with painful slowness ; the clerks seemed to speak in whispers, as though they were in the presence of the dead or the dying. In fact, the gloomy chambers had a funereal air about them. In the shadowy corners and recesses a stranger might have fancied that the silent dead were lying awaiting for burial, and these human machines with bowed forms and sunless faces would have passed for mourners. Again, the " sample rooms " were suggestive of the departed. The little heaps of different kinds of silk which were arranged on the mahogany tables that ran down each side were not unlike human hair. Here was a bunch of bright yellow, flossy material that might have been the locks from a baby's head, and there a little heap of almost pure white would have passed for the grey hair of some old person who, having played out his part, had gone home.

There, again, was what seemed to be the long, brown tresses of a woman, and there the light golden hair of some bonny child. The labels that were attached to the various samples height ened this idea, which, having once been conceived, was extremely difficult to shake off. But, in spite of the melancholy and gloom which seemed to be the prevail ing characteristics of the place, and the absence of all noticeable energy and excitement, there was an enor mous business done, and the firm was reputed to be one of the wealthiest silk houses in the city of London. Although the word " firm " is here used, it is necessary to explain that in reality it was not a firm, for the Gil martins had gradually died out, and Mr. Bovingdon, by purchasing various interests, had become the sole representative, although the style of the firm was retained.

Walter Bovingdon, Esq., silk merchant, of the City, and of Curzon Street, Mayfair, was a gentleman of the old school. He had formerly sat in Parliament as re presentative of the Lancashire borough of Pottletown, where he had considerable property. His parliamentary duties, however, during a trying session so affected his health that he was obliged to apply for the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, and resigned his seat. He was a very decided Conservative. He was descended from a good old Conservative family, and it was his boast that, through storms that had shaken the political world to its foundation, not one of his ancestors had ever swerved from his creed. Possessed of considerable ability as an orator, combined with keenness of observa tion and a great amount of natural shrewdness, he had been a power of no mean importance to his party, and during the time he had sat in the House, a period of nearly ten years, he had been a conspicuous and honourable member.

His constituents held him in very high esteem, and they referred with no little pride to the fact that their representative had never been known to break a promise once made. Certain people, however, had accused Walter Boving don of being a political tyrant. Be that as it might, his worst enemy was bound to admit that out of the political atmosphere he was peculiarly tolerant. To some extent he had been the architect of his own fortunes. It is true he had inherited what might have been a small independence from his father. But this was not enough to satisfy his ambition and pride, and so he had applied himself assiduously to business. At an early age he had entered the firm he then represented as a junior. It was "the good old days," when the Hon. East India Company flourished, and when their " House " in Leadenhall-street was a mine from which many a colossal fortune was drawn.

For a long series of years one of the best known faces at the company's periodical silk sales was Walter Bovingdon's. Strictly honourable in all his dealings, and ever prompt to meet his engagements, he stood above reproach, while his business tact and energy had enabled him to weather many a crisis in which wealthy men and firms had crashed and foundered. In personal appearance he was the true stamp of a thorough English gentleman. Though well advanced in years his face still bore some of the freshness of youth. It might be that there was just a very faint tinge of port wine in the well-rounded cheeks, for if there was one thing that he was more partial to than another it was good old crusted port. He was fond of saying that port was a " constitutional " wine, and it was only Englishmen who knew how to drink it.

His hair had long ago turned from an iron grey to a decided white ; and, though nature had left but scant covering for his head, a long, well-shaped beard gave him a peculiarly venerable appearance. His face was one that had never failed to arrest attention. There was some thing bold and resolute in it, and yet it was not without kindliness and sympathy. But he was by no means lack ing in weaknesses. He had one serious blemish in what otherwise might have been an almost perfect character. He believed that his judgment in all things mundane was as nearly infallible as human judgment might be. This idea had probably been fostered in his trading days, when his success as a merchant induced others to appeal to him for advice, and his advice so given invariably proved correct. And then, like most wealthy men, he had been able to command, or, to use a less'objectionable word, purchase obedience to his desires.

One thing was certain. He could not bear to be thwarted, nor could he brook defeat. At the period with which we are dealing things had changed considerably with Mr. Bovingdon. Security had given place to insecurity ; the silk trade had de clined in an extraordinarily rapid manner ; and he had lost very large sums of money through several bad speculations. The result was he had got into serious difficulties. He was embarrassed, and his business was in danger. He knew this. He had stared the matter in the face ; but he had so far managed to stave off what seemed to be the inevitable crash, and no one was aware but himself and Aylmer how near to giving way were the foundations of the honoured firm. But Mr. Bovingdon was proud, and it is possible that he would have died rather than face the disgrace attached to bankruptcy.

This state of affairs he had carefully concealed from his wife, for her pride was even stronger than his own. She was dreadfully extravagant, and, believing that her husband's resources were inexhaustible, she never at tempted to place a limit on her expenditure. Moreover, she was very jealous of Walter, and this did not tend to lighten his cares. On the second morning after the ball in Curzon Street Mr. Bovingdon was seated alone in his sanctum at the office. It was a comfortably furnished room, though nearly all the light was obtained by means of a reflector fixed outside of the window. There was a small library in the room, a few choice pictures, two or, three Parian marble busts, and some samples of raw gpk in a glass case. Over the mantelshelf there hung an oil-painting of his daughter Daisy.

It had been done when she was about fifteen years of age. She was then a remarkably pretty child, and the picture was a striking likeness. She had a hoop and stick in one hand, and a large Newfoundland dog was lying at her feet. Walter was never tired of looking at this portrait, and sometimes, though not often, he unlocked a drawer in his room, and took therefrom another portrait. It also represented a young girl, a trifle the junior, perhaps, of Daisy. She had an exquisitely pretty face, and a wreath of ringlets hung over her shoulders and down her back It was a small picture done on ivory, and was beautifully painted. As I have said, Walter seldom looked at this, and when he did it was always when he was alone. It was one of his mysteries, and he guarded it jealously. As he sits there on this particular morning his face is clouded with care.

He is troubled. His chair is drawn up to the table, on which are a number of papers and documents. Before him lies an open letter. His elbow rests on the table, and his hand supports his head, while with the other he toys with an ivory paper-knife. He is not reading the letter, for his eyes are apparently fixed on one of the busts that stand on pedestals opposite him. Presently there enters unto him Gerald Aylmer. Then Bovingdon starts from his reverie. He throws the paper-knife on the table, folds the letter up, puts it into his pocket, and, turning to his secretary, says — " I have been anxiously waiting for you, Aylmer. What has detained you ? " " I have had a great deal to attend to, sir ; and I had to go to the bank, where I was detained for some time." Aylmer had a bundle of letters and other papers in his hand, and these he placed upon the table.

"And what is the news this morning ? " Mr. Bovingdon asks anxiously. " I am sorry to say that I have nothing very good. Here is a letter from the mortgagees of your property in Curzon Street. They threaten to foreclose if the whole of the year's interest is not paid by twelve o'clock to-morrow." Mr. Bovingdon bit his lip, and his brow contracted with a frown. " What is the interest ? " he asked. " Three thousand pounds." " Surely we can manage that, Aylmer ? " " We can ; but it will reduce the account at the bank to a few hundreds." Mr. Bovingdon thrust his hands deep into his pockets, and he strode up and down the room three or four times. Then he stopped and stood with his back to the fire. "You must pay that interest, Aylmer." "But, sir " Never mind the buts ; pay it, pay it. Our resources are not quite exhausted yet.