The Master of Hullingham Manor: a novel

Front matter

PRICE OJSTE SHILLI3STC3- ])l(}Bl!]QN(i^,Pl]BLISllE^.L0ND0N H IRovel BY BERNARD WENTWORTH, AUTHOR OF 'TINTAGEL, BY THE CORNISH SEA ' — A POEM SLonbon DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 18 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. GHOSTS ....... i ii. mora's home - - - - - - 9 III. 'KENSINGTON' - - - - - - l8 IV. PATIENCE HULL1NGHAM - - - - - 25 V. A RETROSPECT - - - - - - 30 VI. WARP AND WOOF IN THE LOOM OF FATE- - - 38 VII. CONSPIRATORS - - - - - -46 VIII. AN ADVERTISEMENT, AND TWO INVITATIONS - - 49 IX. NEW YEAR'S EVE - - - - - "53 X. A PHANTOM RECITAL : THE ' CONFESSION ' - - 6l XI. RETRIBUTION - - - - - - 79 XII. ADELAIDE'S AVENGING - • - - -

Chapter I. Ghosts

Snow is falling heavily and silently outside, clothing trees and house and gardens in a mantle of glittering whiteness, and an ominous stillness forecasts more to come. Midnight has struck on the grandfather clock in the hall, its chimes sounding sepulchral in the night silence. In a carved armchair before the dying embers of a fire of logs in the oak-panelled library at Hullingham Manor, illumined but by the lurid glow, sits the master of the house — Sir Carlos Hullingham — in a brown study. The apartment, gorgeously furnished in an old-world style, in tapestry and antique oak, betrays the voluptuous temperament of its owner, in the Oriental perfumes, exotic flowers, and waving palms grouped here and there in artistic profusion. The floor, of polished parquet, is slippery as ice, and reflects, as in a mirror, furniture and flowers, except where it is hidden with Persian rugs and skins of Polar bears.

Over the doors rich portieres of olive plush are hung, upon which, in blue and gold, are embroidered the Hulling ham arms. The windows, seen by day, are of stained glass, the leaden casements opening on to a fair prospect of wooded hills, and a mist-veiled city far below. The lights have long been all extinguished, yet hour after hour the man sits on, musing in the gloom. Over the massive black oak chimney-piece, upon which stand antique bronzes, curios of various descriptions, and an ancient cross of beaten brass, a trophy from some ruined church in Spain, there hangs a picture, heavily framed in an oval frame of gold — the portrait of a woman. Wondrously fair is the face in the flickering light of the fire ; from the broad brow masses of red-gold hair, such as is seen in the paintings of Rubens, are drawn loosely back and pinned in a Grecian coil.

Cheeks just tinged with a carmine glow ; lips exquisitely formed and slightly parted, revealing an even row of pearly teeth ; and eyes deep and fathomless, the colour of pansies after rain — eyes veiled, as it were, in a mist of tears. Oh, the sadness, a weird and haunting sadness, telling the tale of heartbreak from which she died. The portrait is that of Adelaide Hullingham, the fair dead wife of the man before the fire. Many ghosts flock unseen in this room to-night. But one alone, if visible, would have power to move Sir Carlos, that of his dead brother, Reville Hullingham. Even the wistful face of Adelaide moves him less than the mere thought of him, whose blood stains the piano in the drawing room. An ancient legend in the annals of the House of Hulling ham tells that on the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve must retribution fall upon the sinning members of that name.

There have been many wicked Hullinghams, men at the sound of whose tread their women-folk have trembled. But never since the name first grew to be a name has there lived a Hullingham so deeply steeped in sin, or a man GHOSTS 3 of such complex nature, as the present master of the manor. Truly a fiend in angel's guise. See him, as he sits before the fire, a figure with no un graceful angle, perfect in the symmetry of form. Each limb proportioned with the sinuous grace of the tiger, each move ment as he stirs suggesting the tiger's pliant motion, deadly in its fascination. A face statuesque in its clear perfection of outline, with a beauty as that of some mighty fallen angel. Eyes of a luminous blue, in which burn fires of golden glow, eyes alluring in magnetic attraction or sinister in imperious command.

As a young man his hair was of a rich brown, curling round his brow ; now, at the age of fifty-five, the curls, no less luxuriant, are tinged with gray. Born in Spain and of Spanish extraction, he inherits the latent cruelty and passion of the Spaniard, his innate chivalry, generosity, and pride. But behind the sensuous charm of exterior there lurks the spirit of a fiend, ruthless in its cruelty and malice. Gifted to a high degree with literary power and oratory, the books he sends forth, of high-flown idealism and spirituality, enfold him in a radiant halo of fame ; and the poetic senti ment with which he clothes his language, both in his writings and daily speech, have won for him the adulations of a hoodwinked world. Unchallenged he bears upon his course, the glittering tinsel of his personality effectually concealing the inward blackness of his soul.

Yet any breath which may inadvertently escape of his true character from the few persons who truly know him is voted by the idolizing world as slanderous libel. Yet twelve years ago this paragon was guilty of a series of inhuman acts of cruelty, culminating in a despicable criminal fraud, afoul conspiracy, by which a helpless woman was done to death, his fair wife I Adelaide, whose portrait hangs in the library at Hullingham Manor. Two persons in this world alone are cognizant of the details of this conspiracy, and of her martyrdom — for no less it was — Mora Alderson, his second wife, the present Lady Hullingham ; and Janet Stirling, a hospital nurse. Mora, whom he has long since tired of and cast upon the world, he fears more or less, aware that she has gleaned fragments of the past little to his credit.

Since he married her, bound by the ties of legality, he frets at his bonds, and by incisive cruelty essays to break her heart also, and drive her to her grave ; for his affection for her is dead, the present recipient of his love — if love it can be called — a foreign actress, Reine Donati, a dark Creole woman, resembling Mora — as the lump of coal the diamond. And yet, unknown to him, Mora Alderson, the despised, insulted wife, holds him in the hollow of her hand ; for between them lies her knowledge of every detail of his crime. Thus, at a moment that he dreams not of, Nemesis may come — retribution swift and sure. What if, through his desertion and ill-treatment, Mora were to turn and rend him ? But he laughs the idea to scorn. ' Mora, little Morie, whose love for me has stood un moved through worlds of sorrow ; Mora, my willing slave, bound to me by every tie of a passionate devotion, what need I fear from her ?

In spite of all my harshness, she loves me still, and would return to me at once, but for Reine. Besides, what can she know of ' And he glances uneasily around. Fool ! Even as he sits in his chair by the fire, pondering upon the dark, passionate beauty of Reine Donati's face, confident of security in Mora's love ; even now, when he GHOSTS 5 least suspects it, the links are forging of a retribution so terrible that ere many days have passed his sin-stained soul shall be hurled into a furnace of remorse, searching as the flames of the refiner's fire. Dream on, poor guilty fool, dream on ! Forge further plans for Mora's martyrdom, as twenty years ago you planned the murder of Adelaide. Soon shall the duped world's eyes be opened. Soon shall its idol be revealed in all his blackness, stripped of his shining tinsel.

Dream on ! The hour is fast approaching for Adelaide's avenging, when the finger of scorn and contumely shall point you out. Murderer and hypocrite ! Woe to you then, Carlos Hullingham ! Woe in the hour of retribution ! The mystic veil between mortal vision and the spirit world is for a brief space lifted for the reader, and in the gloom of the vast apartment the deepening shadows are thickly peopled with the spirits of the dead. Each as it comes and goes, appearing and vanishing into gloom, looks at the figure in the chair and sighs ; but if he feels their presence he pays no heed. At last a spirit comes to him, a fair, pale spectre, and stands beside his chair. He starts, and turns his head from side to side, scanning the darkness ; but his eyes are blinded that he cannot see ; yet a burden seems upon him, as when he tore at the coffin-lid which hid her form. ' Kitty !' he murmurs, 'little Kit !' The spirit smiles ; the waving tendrils of her hair brush against his cheek as she bends to imprint a kiss upon his brow.

He shivers and heaves a smothered sigh, for it seems to him as though she called him. 'Father ! father dear P He cannot bear to think of her : his fair young daughter Katherine — little Kit — who, in spite of his sins, pitied and loved him. Muttering an exclamation, he rises abruptly, pushing the heavy hair from his brow. ' It must be the wind ; there's no one here, yet I could have sworn I heard Kitty's voice.' He crosses to the windows, tears aside the tapestry curtains, and throws wide the casements. No sound with out ; silently, softly, fall the downy flakes of snow ; no breath of wind stirs the leafless branches of the trees, or the ivy round the windows. A cold shiver seizes him, and he looks around, passing his hand across his eyes. ' Strange ! my nerves must be unstrung,' he mutters un easily. ' I thought I heard my — my brother Reville calling to me ; this room seems full of ghosts to-night.' He re-fastens the windows, and is drawing to the curtains, when again the voice sounds on his ear : ' Carlos !

Carlos P A mighty trembling shakes him, and the drops break out upon his brow, but with a courage born of despair he cries aloud : ' Reville Hullingham, if you are here, stand forth.' ' Carlos P ' In God's name I command you, stand forth !' From the fast-deepening gloom a filmy shape is formed : a figure clothed in diaphanous mist ; a thin, ascetic face, with large, reproachful eyes, which, like those of the picture on the wall, bear in them a haunting sadness and the traces of a terrible fate. The features, though not so handsome, yet bear a striking resemblance to those of his brother, Sir Carlos. A short beard and a drooping moustache, of chestnut hue, cover the lower part of the face. ' Carlos, I am here.' Hullingham sinks on to a chair, and hides his face. In GHOSTS 7 the gentle presence of the spirit, which seems but the reflection of a boundless sorrow, he feels no fear — nothing save remorse for his share in his brother's death. ' Pity !' he cries. ' Forgive !' 'Forgiveness is from God; look to Him.

Follow me.' In the light of a mystic luminance from the spirit's form they pass into the great hall, with its stained-glass windows and broad oaken staircase, where many a time young Edone, Mora's child, would spring from stair to stair in the days gone by. Crossing the hall, they pause before the drawing-room door, a stately salon, furnished in the style of Louis XVI., in old rose, blue, and gold. Of the two great windows, one opens on to the garden, the other into a beautiful conservatory, now disused, but bearing traces of richly-grouped chrysanthemums of varied kind and colour ; of drooping passion-flower, and yellow creeping roses, withering or dead. Here too, against the wall, from floor to roof, stands the now empty cage where once dwelt Edone's squirrels. Now only straw and broken nuts remain to tell their tale.

Into this room, for six long years, no foot has passed till now. The furniture looks ghostly in its sheeting covers, and the dust lies thick upon the floor. As the spirit stops before this door, a cry escapes from Hullingham's lips : 'Not here! not here! I dare not enter here.' But ruthlessly the spectre answers : ' Follow me P With shaking limbs and face of chalk, the wretched man follows his ghostly guide, and they pass within the room. Here all his children lived and laughed and played, with Mora, radiant in her happiness, the centre of his home. Here, on the Persian rug before the hearth, with his bricks, played the little Spanish caballero, Edone. Here, by the piano, where now he stands, died his brother, Reville Hullingham. Now all are gone — most are dead, the rest scattered, and Mora cast upon the world, deserted ; for he has wearied of one whose love was so unchanging ; and in her place reigns an actress, whose life will bear no scrutiny.

Hullingham shivers as these ghosts of the past flock to his memory, and there comes to him a sickening sadness. The phantom points to an inlaid davenport, at which his wife Mora sat to write her letters. Carlos advances and opens it. On the top of some old letters, and an endless litter of memoranda of little import, he sees a newlywritten document. ' Read !' says the spectre. Tearing it open in the mystic light, Hullingham reads as follows : ' Carlos Hullingham, ' I know your secret. I have kept it up to now because I loved you. Your own acts have killed that love, and it is dead. Look for no mercy at my hands ; you will find none. On New Year's Eve, in accordance with the records of your house, at midnight your crime will be exposed. ' For eternal peace look to your God in time ; on earth you can expect but retribution. ' Mora Alderson.' The paper falls from his hand and flutters to the ground, as with a wild cry the wretched man stretches out his hands towards his brother's spirit ; but the spectre vanishes and he is left alone in darkness in the ghostly room.

Chapter II

mora's home. In a poorly-furnished top floor of a small lodging-house, in one of the cheapest outskirts of London, lives Mora Alderson, Lady Hullingham. In spite of the years of sorrow that have passed over her, a tidal wave of Carlos Hulling ham's tyranny, she is handsome still, with a shadow of her once brilliant beauty. Her hazel eyes, which change to blue and gray, and even black, in some lights, are fixed upon the houses opposite, as she stands by the window in her shabby black dress. In the dismal street below bits of straw and paper and other refuse are blown in eddies, by a gusty north east wind, along the dirty, snow-trodden pavements into the gutters of this London slum. Noisy, unkempt children scream at their play, their shrieks mingling with unmusical cries of costers and milk and cat's-meat men on their daily rounds.

A tap at the door rouses her at last ; and a woman's voice calls : 'Mora?' ' Is that you, Lucy ? Come in.' She turns, and a wan smile distorts her wasted face, and a hacking cough shakes her frame, weakened by illness, suffering, and want. ' Mother sends you this, dear, if you will accept it ;' and Miss Heywood lays a brown-paper parcel upon the table. ' There's a cake — the one you like — a pound of tea, and some mushrooms Milly sent.' ' Lucy, you — your kindness kills me. I can bear harshness to any amount, but kindness such as this — no, don't kiss me !' and her voice trembles, and she presses her hands to her aching eyes, into which, in spite of her emotion, no tears will come. ' Mora, don't let the world and trouble make you hard, dear !' says Miss Heywood gently. ' But there ! what's the good of my talking like this ?

Sophistry's all very well, but it won't heal a breaking heart or feed us when we're hungry. See here, too : I've brought you those letters you want. I have been thinking of what you told me last night, and I think you are justified in frightening Sir Carlos, and if these letters will help you which he wrote to me last spring, you shall have them ; but I want them back — they are the only power I have to hold over him, in case he injures you. How you can love that man after the way he treats you ' ' Love him ?' cries Mora, a lurid fire of passion burning in her eyes ; ' I hate him !' Lucy shivers. ' I can scarcely believe you are the same woman I knew at Brighton and at Hullingham Manor,' she says ; ' or, for the matter of that, last year, at Earl's Court. You were sad and miserable then, poor child ! but you were not like this.' Mora laughs bitterly. ' I was different then,' she says. ' I was cowed, my spirit broken, but I loved him still.

It was sufficient for me to know that it was his hand that inflicted the suffering upon me, for me to bow in silent submission. The memory of the Carlos I loved, a memory bitter-sweet, was with me still, for there were gleams off and on, even through his harshness, to remind me of the man I loved with so passionate an adoration. But now, by his own actions, he has killed that love, crushed out the last remaining spark. Kensington was the straw which broke the camel's back — Kensington and the Scarborough Hotel, when he allowed that foreign woman, Reine Donati, openly to insult me in a public place. But for those two episodes, I might never have become what now I am, Carlos Hullingham's most deadly enemy. 'Oh, if you could read my heart!' she goes on after a pause ; ' could feel one atom of the agony I suffer, con sumed by a raging fire within, a burning furnace never quenched in its relentless fury night nor day, its flames devouring all the Christian charity which once was mine !

Lucy Heywood, if in the final reckoning I am lost, then mayhap the world shall know that the foot which stamped me down to hell was that of Carlos Hullingham, the — the —oh, words fail me wherewith to designate him !—consum mate murderer, hypocrite and liar !' and in a frenzy of passion she throws herself face downwards upon the shabby horsehair sofa, writhing, and tearing her handkerchief to shreds between her teeth. Lucy Heywood stands petrified, uncertain what to do ; and for some time the silence is unbroken save by Mora's tearless sobs and the noises in the street outside. ' Mora ! Mora ! poor child, in mercy, cease !' she cries at last, kneeling upon the floor at Mora's side. ' Much more of this will end in madness. Madness ? what am I saying ? Mora, listen here ! Mora, listen to me, dear : never, never act in any way which could lead your husband to believe his treatment could drive you mad !' Lady Hullingham raises herself slowly from the couch, in her eyes a still smouldering fire — her manner quiet, with an ominous calm.

She pushes the dark hair from her eyes, and in a metallic tone, 'Mad?' she says. 'No, I am not mad yet, whatever I may be if this goes on.' Then, suddenly changing her tone and manner : ' No ! Carlos Hul lingham shall never lay that unction to his soul ; besides, I have work to do. ' 'What do you mean?' asks Miss Heywood. She does not like the look on Mora's face, which augurs ill for Hullingham. ' Never mind,' says Mora, biting her nails, and swaying her body sideways to and fro. 'Why did you marry that man, Mora?' Lucy asks, after a long silence. Lady Hullingham turns her head, and gazes intently into her friend's face for some moments without answering. 'I married him because I loved him,' she says at last — 'if marriage it can be called.' ' What do you mean ? Surely you are his wife ?' ' I may be,' Mora replies listlessly. ' When it suits Sir Carlos' purpose, he says I am, but really I cannot tell.' ' But you were married in the church ?

Tell me about it again, if you can, Mora.' ' Oh, you know the circumstances well enough. We were married under pseudonyms, as he desired to keep the marriage a secret for a time. I loved him so intensely, I never dreamed he had a motive for deceiving me, so I yielded on his promise to proclaim it, and acknowledge me publicly, as soon as he was able. Thus, only a few privileged friends, yourself amongst the number, ever knew a marriage had taken place. On May 29, 1889, as you know, the ceremony was performed at St. Cyprian's Church, Maida Vale. ' After this, at Hullingham Manor, my life was one long dream of joy — such joy, Lucy, as I had never thought to know. Adelaide's children loved me, and we were all as happy as the day was long. At night when his arms were round me, my head upon his breast, and by the soft glimmer of the little ruby lamp I read the love he bore me in his eyes, we talked of happy plans for years to come, when Edone should be grown to the glorious manhood his boyhood promised, and Kitty should be my right hand in my social and household duties.

And then, how when old age should come upon us, we should live again in our children's children, till at last, hand-in-hand, we should pass into that land where there is no more parting. That, Lucy, was my life at Hullingham from 18S9 to 1892. A striking contrast between then and now ! what think you ?' and she laughs a bitter laugh. 'Now the grass grows thick on Edone's grave, and the snow lies deep on Kitty's, while /—-well, I am here. Kensington first, now here ! There is little fear of monotony in a life like mine : driven from my home, an outcast, to make room for a newer toy ; thrown into the workhouse, when almost starved to death, through lack of means to support myself — all this in order to drive me to my death, as once before poor Adelaide was driven, by despair ! And yet I live !

When I am dead, Carlos will marry Reine Donati, and I — I shall be forgotten.' 1 Oh, Mora, Mora ! how do you bear it all ?' Miss Hey wood cries, the tears coursing each other down her cheeks. ' But he will be punished, dear ' 'Yes, he will be punished. On New Year's Eve the blow will fall.' ' What do you mean ? Mora, don't look like that ; you frighten me ! What do you mean ?' ' Retribution P and Mora's eyes flash with a sombre flame. ' Retribution ?' echoes Miss Heywood almost inaudibly. ' How ?' ' I hold Adelaide's Confession.' 'I know. You have had that some years now. It only tells the terrible story of her martyrdom, poor hapless woman !' ' It tells that, fourteen months before she died, Adelaide Hullingham regained her sanity ! It tells that Carlos Hullingham knew it ! It tells that, for a sum of money given to him by Carlos, that inhuman scoundrel Braiser concealed the fact and kept her there, until from a broken heart she died.' ' My God, Mora ! this isn't true.

It can't be true !' Miss Heywood cries, still kneeling upon the floor at Mora's feet. ' What could be his motive for so diabolical a fraud ? Why did he do it, Mora ?' ' In order — to — marry — me.' And she buries her face, grown ashen, in her hands and shudders. Miss Heywood starts to her feet. ' Mora ! No, no, I'll not believe it. It can't be true ! You ' It is true.' ' But you, surely you ' ' No ; I knew nothing. I only knew what Carlos told me, that she was mad. I was with her at the last. Together, he and I, we went to the asylum, summoned by a telegram to the effect that she was dying. When we arrived there, Carlos would not face his victim — at the time I wondered why — but paced the garden to and fro, until they told him that she was dead. My arm was round her when she breathed her last, yet not one word did she utter of the cause of her death.

I only learned the truth from her confession two years ago, when, as you know, it was sent to me by a nurse named Janet Stirling, her attendant at the asylum, who became her friend.' ' Then, this nurse knew ' ' Yes ; but Adelaide persuaded her to withhold her know ledge, so as to spare Carlos, whom to the last she loved. Sister Janet, who had grown to love her, consented upon one condition.' 'And that?' 'That Adelaide should write a full confession of the truth to me, withholding no detail of her martyrdom ; and this, for Carlos' sake, she did.' ' And this, that you allude to, is the Confession f ' Yes.' ' Mora — don't — don't tell me any more ! And you loved this — this devil incarnate — this Carlos Hullingham ? Mora, how could you ?' ' Yes ; and she loves him still !' says a quiet voice at the door.

Both women start up. In the earnestness of their con versation they had not noticed a gentle tap, and the visitor had entered. ' Frank !' ! Mr. Hullingham !' ' You, Frank ! You here ?' falters Mora ; ' I thought you were in Australia !' ' So I was till I was sent for.' ' But — but, how did you find me here ?' ' Rowlands wrote to me claiming my assistance on your behalf, in my father's name, who ' ' Laurence ! Oh, Frank, if he had lived ! Laurie ! Laurie !' and, sinking upon the couch, she covers her face with her hands and sobs aloud. They are the first tears she had shed since the episode of Kensington. ' It was the worst day in your life, Mora, the day when Mr. Laurence died,' Miss Heywood says, sitting beside her, while Frank Hullingham crosses to the window, and stands looking out, a big lump in his throat. ' That was a man and brother !' ' You're right, Miss Heywood,' young Hullingham cries, turning towards them. ' Aunt Mora married the wrong brother when she' wedded Uncle Carlos.

My father said so many a time. He loved her too, but with a quiet, un assuming devotion that ministered to her needs in a way which ' ' Frank, if you love me, speak not of Laurence !' cries Lady Hullingham, starting up, and dashing the tears from her eyes as she crosses to the window. ' 1 cannot bear it ! Smarting as I am under Carlos' ill-treatment, I dare not think of Laurence. His loss to me ' ' Aunt Mora !' exclaims her nephew, his honest plain face aglow with pleasure ; ' do I understand that you had a deeper feeling for my father than ' ' Frank, do not speak of it, I implore you ! I am Carlos Hullingham's wife ; do not tempt me to unfaithfulness to him, even in one thought.' ' What a magnificent woman she is !' thinks the young man admiringly ; then, to his aunt, he says : ' But see how he treats you !

What a tyrant he is ! See the shameless woman he sets above you, in your home, casting you upon the streets !' 'Yes, Frank; I know all that,' says Mora wearily. 'Still, he is my husband, and though my love for him is dead, killed by his own actions, I will not stain my wifehood by one thought of Laurence, of whom, though dead, to think would be a sin.' Miss Heywood and Frank exchange a glance in silence, and Lucy nods and noiselessly claps her hands. Frank moves over to Mora at the window. 'You do love him, then — his memory, I mean. Aunt Mora, if you could only forget ' ' Stand back !' In Mora Alderson's eyes a strange fire burns ; her face is pale, her gesture commanding, as she waves him back, her whole figure endowed, as it were, with a new majesty. ' Frank Hullingham,' she says, ' how dare you come here to remind me of — of the dead, at a time when I am crushed and friendless ; and when I warn you that the memory of my husband's brother holds sin for me, you seek to force from my lips a confession I would rather die than make, even to you — his son !