A Baffling Quest. A novel

Front matter

VOL. L PRINTED BY BPOTTISWOODB AN'D CO., NEW-STREET 8QUAR1 LONDON A NOVEL uv RICHARD DOWLING AUTHOR OF 'THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD' 'THE WEIRD SISTERS' 'MIRACLE GOLD* 'AN ISLE OF SURREY* ETC. IN THEEE VOLUMES YOL. I Hon&on WARD & DOWNEY 12 YORK STEEET, COVENT GARDEN 1891 All rights reserved CONTENTS OP THE FIRST VOLUME CHAPTER PAGE I. Three Conspirators 1 II. Dire Awakenings 16 III. A Visitor from the Hall 34 IV. News from the Hall 49 V. Willing to Compound Felony . . . .62 VI. A Confession of Innocence 78 VII. At Baemead Hall 92 VIII. What Ware Found in Sir Andrew's Boom . .110 IX. Wake's Story of Tuesday Night .... 119 X. Two Views of Honour 137 XI. Ware Appoints a Secretary 150 XII. The Meeting of the Man and the Maid . . 163 XIII. A Forlorn Woman 175 XIV. At the Death-chamber Door 190 XV. In Sir Andrew's Boom ' .... 201 XVI. An Unavailing Search

Chapter I Three Conspirators

''Well, Jimmie, what luck ? ' ' Luck ! My luck. Bad luck, of course. Look out for the painter and take a turn.' ' What ! Not a fish ? ' asked the former speaker, Zachariah Lomax, leaning over the head of the ladder that reached from the top of the wall to the strip of sand beneath. 'And yet, Jimmie,' he went on as he made fast the painter, ' there's as good a fish in the sea as ever came out of it.' Jack Burch, the second man in the boat, was busy aft with the fishing tackle. He had paid no heed to the dialogue between Lomax and Ware. VOL. I. B Lomax's last words seemed to exasperate Ware. He raised himself in the bow to his full height, pushed his sou'-wester back on his poll, placed his hands on his hips under his rolled-up jersey, and said, defiantly, to the man above him : — ' And there's as big a fool alive as ever was buried.' ' Hush ! ' cried Lomax, looking around cautiously.

Seeing no one, he leant over the low parapet and whispered, I forgot you were out all night. You did not land any where this morning ? ' ' No,' answered Ware, still in the indignant attitude — still in the aggressive voice. ' Then, come ashore at once. There's news that will keep you from fishing to-night. There's a bigger fish on the land now than ever came out ofthe sea.' ' What foolery are you after, Zach Lomax ? ' ' Sh-sh-sh-sh, Jimmie. Don't you see there's some thing in Zach Lomax's mind ? ' said Burch, standing up in the stern sheets. ' Zach Lomax hasn't brains enough to have anything in his mind,' cried Ware, violently. Again the man on the wall glanced apprehensively round ; then, leaning still further over the wall, he whis pered : — ' He's dead ! ' ' Who's dead ? ' ' Sir Andrew ! ' ' You lie ! ' ' As sure as you are alive, Sir Andrew is dead 1 ' With a hoarse, inarticulate cry, Ware sprang out on the narrow strip of sand between the boat and the wall, and seizing the slimy ladder, whispered threateningly : — ' No joke, Zach Lomax? ' ' I swear to you, Sir Andrew Brinfield is dead — died last night,' whispered Lomax, whose head was now only a few feet from the head of Ware.

Ware turned his back to the wall, thrust his hands into his trousers pockets, and leant against the ladder, limp and collapsed. His wide blue eyes stared expresb2 sionlessly into the damp, thick, sunless air of the November morning. It appeared for a moment as though his long legs would give way under him. Burch stepped briskly from the boat and whispered to Ware : — ' What ails you, man ? You look as if you had seen a ghost. Why, it's fine news.' ' Seen a ghost ! ' said Ware in a low voice. ' I don't mind man or ghost, but that ' He shuddered and did not finish the sentence. 'You're not going to back out of the job?' asked Burch, with a sneer. ' Back out of it ? No ; but I don't like it. Do you ? ' ' No, I can't say I like the job ; but I like the money — think of the money, Jimmie Ware. It's the one chance of your life — of our lives.

It can't be less than a thousand pounds. Think of a thousand pounds between three of us ! ' This dialogue was only partly audible to the man on the wall. ' He's not funking it ? ' asked Lomax, putting his hand behind his ear to help his hearing. ' He's not afraid ? ' At the word 'afraid' Ware started, sprang upright and faced round. ' Who says I'm afraid ? I am afraid of no one — of no man,' he cried, fiercely, under his breath, looking upwards into Lomax's face at the head of the ladder. ' I didn't say you were afraid. I know you are not afraid of any man' ' I'm not afraid of any thing either, Zach Lomax. I don't like the sound of that word " afraid" in your mouth. When a man has his teeth knocked down his throat ' — drawing his brawny brown hand out of his trousers pocket, and shaking his fist in the face of Lomax — ' he is never able to ask again if Jimmie Ware is afraid when Jimmie Ware is by.' 'No one said you were afraid.

I was asking — were you ; for I couldn't believe you'd turn your back on such a chance as this : particularly as we have arranged everything, and I'm willing to run the risk with you.' 'And share the profit with us for doing nothing,' interrupted Ware, angrily. ' I supplied some of the idea, and I supply the whole of the accommodation ' ' Accommodation ! ' cried Ware, scornfully. ' Well, the storage, if you like that word better. But s this a place for talk ? Come up, Jimmie ; come up, Jack ; and we can chat by the fire.' ' He's right,' said Burch ; ' Zach Lomax is right. Up you go, Jimmie, and I'm after you.' The inertness had completely left Ware's manner and body. He seized the ladder with strong, nervous hands and ascended. Burch followed him, and, led by Lomax to the back door, the two fishermen entered the Bridge House, of Eyworth, a town of ten or twelve thousand people, four miles from the sea, on the south-east coast of England.

Early that morning news had come into Eyworth that Sir Andrew Brinfield, the eccentric and unpopular owner of most of the town and much of the land surrounding it, had died suddenly at his country seat, Barmead Hall, three miles further inland than the town. Neither the Bridge House, nor the landlord of it, Zachariah Lomax, had a good name in Eyworth. The town is partly built on low, flat islands in the river Lade, where the stream or tiny inland sea is broken up into many channels. Connecting several of these islands is a long bridge, or series of bridges, and on the smallest of the islands, all alone and distant from any other building, stands the Bridge public house. Lomax conducted the two fishermen into a large, ill kept room in the rear. The room had one window opposite the one door.

Two coarse deal tables occupied most of the floor. By these ran deal forms. In the huge, old fashioned fireplace burned a steep glowing bank of small coal. In front of the fire stood common wooden chairs. On the table were scattered pipes, tobacco, and matches. ' You see, I guessed you'd call, and I got ready for you,' Lomax said, waving his hand towards the pipes and tobacco. ' I thought you'd like a good fire and a smoke. I'll stand treat. What's it to be ? ' ' Rum after the cold,' said Ware. ' Well you may stand treat ; you'll get your share of the money easy enough.' ' You needn't give yourself such airs,' said Lomax, maliciously, 'just because there's nothing now to hinder your gentleman nephew from marrying Sir Andrew's daughter.' ' The white-livered, dandified, milk-sop puppy ! ' said Ware, flaring up. ' Nephew, indeed !

Do I look as if there was any of my blood in his veins ? ' ' Well, no,' said Lomax from the door ; ' but he's your sister's son, anyway.' ' He is ; and only for him and for the goodwill I bear him, I'd have had nothing to do with this job.' Lomax disappeared, and the two fishermen threw themselves on chairs in front of the fire. Jimmie Ware was a tall man, with broad, flat chest, flat back, and long limbs. A man of sixty, possessing extraordinary strength and activity for his years. His face was blotchy. He did not wear whiskers or moustaches, but under his purple ears and all round his neck bristled a short wiry fringe of dirty yellowish-grey hair. His features were irregular and blunted. The wide blue eyes stood out in his face like two fiery twinkling stars. They were easily lit up into flame by anger, seldom meeting you steadily, and when not in motion or anger were gazing at nothing with that wide-eyed contemplative stare peculiar to those who frequent the sea.

The expression of the man's face and figure was arrogant and restless. His companion was shorter, better looking, and younger by fifteen years. Burch was round shouldered, heavy, and awkward. His eyes and beard were dark brown. His face, notwithstanding his good looks, mean, crafty, suspicious. Lomax was a man of fifty, with round bullet head, round, pallid, unwholesome face, grey eyes, and clean shaven, save a tuft of straight grey on the lower part of the chin : a calculating, watchful, cruel face. He was of the medium height, full bodied, but not un wieldy. Lomax, having returned with the liquor, sat down and filled a pipe. ' There will be a fog to-night,' said Burch, after a pause. ' There is one already, and it's bound to come on thicker.' ' All the better for you,' said Lomax, ' if you mean to do the job before morning.' ' To-night it must be done,' said Ware, decisively. ' Do you think I'm going to have a thing like this hanging over me ? ' ' All will be ready here.

How does the tide answer ? ' said the landlord. ' It will be high water there at ten o'clock,' said the old man, puffing at his pipe energetically. ' We can be here between eleven and twelve. If the fog is thick, I would not undertake to bring a boat down in the dark if I had to start after the first hour of ebb. The currents are too strong and too baffling.' ' Of course,' said Burch, ' everything depends on the information Lomax got being right about the exact place and the ways of the people.' ' You may bet your life on my information.' Burch took a swig at his rum, and cleared his throat twice uneasily. ' There's only one doubt on my mind,' he said. ' The old craze, I suppose ? ' said Lomax, with an impatient sneer. ' You may gibe at me as you like,' said Burch, dog gedly ; ' but I say Tom Purkiss and Bill Meese heard what we said when we first talked of this, before we thought of doing it.' ' What I said, and Purkiss and Meese heard, was said with no meaning, and they could not think we had any intention of doing the job.

How could they suspect ? And suppose they did suspect, what can they do ? This is the only place for miles and miles around — the only roof at all, as far as I know — under which there is the necessary accommodation with safety,' said Lomax. Ware sprang up with a sudden start, crying, ' I can't stand your talking in that way about it, Zach Lomax. It's all very well for you that'll have nothing to do only look on.' ' You don't mean to say you are funking it at last ? ' cried Lomax, with a mocking laugh, also rising to his feet. ' What, you, Jimmie Ware, with the name you have for pluck and daring and not caring for any man or any law ! '• ' I've done my share of queer things in my time, but never one like this,' Ware cried, beginning to walk up and down the room agitatedly. ' I've often heard you call your gentleman nephew, Mr. Arthur Longton, a white-livered puppy.

Who knows but you ate right, and who knows which side of his family he got the white liver from? His father, anyway, had plenty of pluck.' Ware drew up as if he had run against a wall, faced round with an oath, and would have mauled Lomax had not Burch thrown himself between the two, crying, ' He didn't mean it, Jimmie ! He didn't mean it ! ' ' But, by , he did mean it, and, by , I mean to pay him out ! Let me go, Jack Burch ; let me go, and I'll show you the colour of Zach Lomax's liver.' The old man, frantic with passion, roared and struggled to get at Lomax. At that moment the door opened and Tom Purkiss and Bill Meese rushed into the room. ' What's the row, mates? ' said Purkiss. Ware ceased to struggle, and stood glaring at the landlord. ' Oh, it's only Jimmie in one of his tantrums,' said Purkiss, answering his own question. ' Bring us a pot of ale, Zach.' Ware made a prodigious effort and controlled himself. ' There,' said Lomax, in a conciliatory tone, holding out his hand. ' You know I was only joking.

You could heave me out of the window if you liked.' Ware took the proffered hand with a growl. ' It's all over ? ' said Lomax, in a friendly voice. ' I don't bear malice,' said Ware. ' I know you don't ; and you keep your word ? ' ' I do,' moving towards the door. ' Are you off now ? ' asked Lomax. ' Yes. Come along, Jack ; I'm going home. I want my breakfast ; and so do you.' Ware, Burch, and Lomax moved into the passage, Lomax shutting the door behind them. ' You'll go through with it ? ' whispered Lomax, anxiously. ' If I swing for it. We'll be here at or before twelve. Do you be ready.' ' And you think Purkiss and Meese suspect nothing ? ' said Burch to Lomax, with a look of doubt in his uncer tain eyes. ' I tell you they never gave the matter a thought since.' ' Then, at or before twelve ? ' said Burch, with a significant nod. ' At or before twelve.

I'll be on the look-out,' said Lomax. ' I don't like the job ; but I gave my word and it's got to be done,' said Ware with a shudder as he and Burch strode away.

Chapter II

dire awakenings That morning of Ware's return to the Bridge House, Arthur Longton, his nephew, awoke early. He struck a match. It was not yet six. Such disturbing thoughts came trooping into his mind ruminating. he did not like to lie awake After a few minutes he lamp, fetched a book off the sprang out of bed, lit his dressing table, and jumping between the sheets again, resolved to read till day. He had awakened out of a delightful dream into the disenchanting and black reality of November morning. The dream happened to be retrospective, chronologically correct, and true. It was, in fact, a chapter, the most eventful and astounding chapter of his life, now six-and twenty years from its beginning. In his sleep he knew he was the teacher of the Eyworth School of Art, earning for that enough money to keep the roof of a lodging house over his head, bread in his cup board, and a decent coat on his back.

Of late he had begun to think he should in time become a landscape painter, whose name would not be forgotten twenty-four hours after death. lie had sold several drawings of local scenery, and was thinking of giving up teaching and going to London to learn. He knew little of his own people beyond the fact that his father, a gentleman named Longton, had married his mother, a sister of Jimmie Ware, the notorious Eyworth fisherman. Shortly after his birth his father had died in this town, leaving his mother a slender annuity, on which he had been reared and educated. Ten years since his mother had died, bequeathing to him a small hoard of savings, which, with rigid economy, enabled him to study art for four years, when he became pupil teacher in the local school, and, four years later, master.

All this he knew in his dreams, though he did not vol. i. c rehearse it. What he did rehearse were memorable events ofthe past six months. Miss Adelaide Brinfield, oldest daughter of the eccen tric, mysterious, and unpopular Sir Andrew Brinfield, had just become engaged to the young Marquess of Frome. The marquess was not poor. He did not gamble. No one accused him of vicious ways. It was well known that owing to failure of a male heir to Sir Andrew, and the nature of the settlement, the baronet had power to dispose of his property to his daughters, dividing it between both how he pleased, or willing it all to one. The match between Miss Brinfield and Lord Frome was purely a love affair, and the belief prevailed that Sir Andrew had made a will, leaving half to Adelaide, now twenty-three years old, and half to Mary, now twenty-one.

Lady Brinfield would be provided for by her marriage settlements and out of the personal estate, believed to be very large. Nothing of this was known for certain, but such was the general belief. Lady Brinfield was most popular. No one ever said a kind or good word of Sir Andrew ; no one ever spoke of his wife without words of admiration and prayers for her welfare. As for the two daughters, they were the poems of the district. Even Sir Andrew was pleased with the projected mar riage of his eldest child. Sir Andrew was a recluse, a student, an experimentalist, a vivisectionist — what you will. He had not for years gone outside his own demesne. He conceived the idea of giving his elder daughter as a wedding present a series of drawings of the beautiful grounds of Barmead, and young Longton was selected to execute two dozen sketches in his long summer vaca tion.

The ladies of the Hall often stood by Longton's easel in the ground chatting with him. Lady Brinfield asked him to luncheon. Romance was in the air, and at the first meeting Longton fell desperately in love with the younger sister, and bore his pain in silence ; for was not she the high-born and most beautiful and richest heiress, save her sister, in all the county, and was not he the son of a poor, unknown c2 gentleman and a fisherman's sister, with an income that barely afforded himself a modest living? True, he had hopes from the future of his art ; but for him to think of Miss Brinfield would be sheer lunacy. How she came to love him he did not know. Once when he was sketching close to the blink of the little river called the Bar, which flows through the demesne on its way to the Lade, and while the two young ladies were looking on, he walked a few paces back from the easel to get a fresh view, and would have fallen into the water had not the younger of the sisters cried out to him in terror.

He laughed and said a ducking would not harm him as he was an expert swimmer, and she said, ' Oh, indeed ! ' and with a smile her head drooped forward on her breast, and she fell fainting on the grass. There was an end of his peace of mind from that moment. ' It is a great misfortune for a poor devil like me to fall in love with such as she. I shall get over it no doubt,' he thought. ' Anyway the drawings must be finished Business is business.' So he went on making his sketches, and to prove how strong and valiant he was, he took care to be as off-hand and amusing and unsentimental as he could towards Miss Mary Brinfield, until the end of his commission was in sight. ' This is the last of the sketches,' he said, as they were alone, the elder sister having stayed away. ' Yes,' Miss Mary Brinfield said, quietly. ' This is the twentyfourth.' He stayed his brush and looked at her in surprise. ' Pray, may I ask, how you know ? ' She started and coloured and looked down in silence. ' Did you keep account ? ' His sight became unsteady, and he felt a strange beating in his temples.

She did not answer, but turned to the easel, and bent over the drawing. Then the subject dropped, until he came for the last time to put the finishing touches to this last drawing. Then, they being once more alone, and he bending forward over his work, and she, in a moss-green dress, standing beside him, so that neither could see the face of the other, he said : — ' In an hour I shall bid good-bye to Barmead. But, do you know, the other day when you counted up the drawings I have made here, you were mistaken ? ' ' Mistaken ! Will you not have made twenty -four when this is done ? ' ' No. Twenty -five.' ' I think I remember every one, and I cannot recall more than twenty-four.' ' I have one picture you never saw : one I did privately for myself. I am only a poor artist, Miss Brinfield, but I could not deny myself the pleasure of painting one picture for myself.' ' May I see it ? ' ' Yes.' ' Where is it ? ' He straightened himself, and without turning round pointed. ' If you go to that pond and bend over the water DIRE WANDERINGS 23 and look down you will see the picture I have painted for myself; the picture no reverse of fortune or difference in social position can rob me of.' She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously.

He stood with his face towards the drawing on the easel, but he was looking, not at the picture before him, but at the picture he had told her of in the pond. ' I do not think,' she said, with a half-hysterical laugh, ' that if I looked into the pond I could see the picture of any social difference.' He passed his hand across his brow two or three times. Had she taken his meaning ? he asked himself, and he could not answer. ' Will you walk with me as far as the pond and look ? ' With another hysterical laugh she moved off. The two went in silence, wide apart, neither looking at the other. They both bent over and gazed into the lucent depths of the water. ' What do you see ? ' he said. ' Two figures.' ' And only two figures ? You do not see an adamantine barrier between the two ? ' Again the hysterical laugh. ' I can see only what is reflected.' ' Watch carefully, and do not stir or speak until I speak again.

Do you see that the man has stretched out his hand and touched the hand of the woman ? ' No answer. ' Do you see that the man has taken the hand of the woman and that she does not withdraw the hand ? ' No answer. ' May I paint another picture for you — the picture you see below ? ' ' Yes,' breathed in a whisper. ' Is it possible — is it possible on earth — that I might kiss you ? ' No answer. He drew her back from the brink of the pool, still holding her hand. ' There would be,' he said, ' no sacri lege in a kiss.' She shook her head gently. ' Then it cannot but sanctify ; ' and raising her head, he kissed her. ' Mine for ever ! ' ' For ever I ' As he walked home that evening he felt humiliated beyond endurance. It was intolerable that he should have broken ruthlessly into the heart of this gentle, simple lady, so much above him in birth and position.

It was the act of a blackguard to surprise her secret and take, not only her heart, but the promise of her hand. Her hand ! Good heavens ! was ever anything so monstrous and so dishonourable as that he should steal into her heart, and then expose the condition of her heart to herself? Nay, worse ; snatch advantage of her in fatuation, and extract a promise that she would marry him 1 Into what a horrible predicament had he rushed ! He, a nobody, the poor drawing-master, the son of some needy gentleman and a fisherman's sister, to take the hand of the wealthy, exclusive Sir Andrew Brinfield's daughter in his own, and ask her to let it lie there for ever ! The chances were that either Sir Andrew or Lord Frome would shoot him. It would be an excellent thins: if he were shot. But then — she ? Next day he was more calm.

In the plenteous white light of morning, he found space for his swelling heart and all sweet-minded thoughts. He breathed no atmo sphere of earth, but ethereal air of heaven. He saw the meek hands and eyes of the woman who had told him she was his for ever, and he felt sanctified by the fragrant spirit of her faith and love. Beside the truthfulness of this exquisite girl, nothing that man valued was worthy to stand : not wealth, not title, not position, not fame. He was permitted by intoxicating fate to give her what she desired most of all things — his love ! He could now see nothing reflected in the pond, but the figures of two lovers whom love had made one in spite of social let or bar. Thus began trouble at the Hall; for in time Sir Andrew heard of the matter. Neither ofthe lovers would give up ; and Sir Andrew was savage.

Had not this younger daughter been his favourite child ? The marriage between Lord Frome and Miss Brinfield had been arranged to take place shortly after Christmas. In view of this fact, and the contumacy of his second daughter, Sir Andrew was reported to have made a new will, leaving all the property to the elder. Mary was of age, and free to marry whom she liked, at the cost of her natural share of a splendid fortune. To young Longton's mind there would be something mon strously incongruous aud shameful in the notion of bringing Sir Andrew's daughter into the town her father owned, and lodging her in a house of which her father was landlord — a house which, if she had married into her own station, would be her own property later, and possibly occupied by one of her father's retired servants.

So Mary and he arranged that for the present they could not think of marriage. He would go to London before Christmas, and try to win a competence and a name. The memory of all these things had visited Longton in dreams, and shortened his sleep. This November morning he lay reading, so that he might not brood over the hard fate driving him away from this girl, whose love had been given to him with such absolute candour and unstinting joy. Sir Andrew had peremptorily forbidden him the Hall and grounds. ' They are my father's,' she said to Longton ; ' and he has a right to tell you not to come. I will never marry against his will, but I will never marry at all if I do not marry you. You are my love — my life. No one can take you from me unless you take yourself.' ' But if, in a little time, I find my position so improved that I can dare to ask you to come to me, will you not come, my dearest love ? ' ' My father is peculiar ; but not hard-hearted.

People think that, because he has made experiments with living creatures, he is fiendishly cruel. I know him better than to think such a thing. He does not speak his mind, and science may have given him strange notions of the extent to which a man's authority extends over the beast3. But my father is not naturally cruel.' ' He will never consent.' ' I do not want him to consent. I want him to cease opposing. He has never been firmly resisted yet by any one. This is not his affair. This is my own affair — the affair of my heart, of my soul.' The book Arthur Longton had taken from the table that Tuesday morning was dull. It soon slipped from the young man's hand, and he slept again. He awoke with a start. There was a loud knocking at his door, and he heard the voice of his landlady, Mrs-. Gort, calling out : — ' Mr. Longton !