A cardinal sin, a novel, by Hugh Conway (F.J. Fargus) ...

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HUGH CONWAY

Author of “ CALLED BACK,” ” DARK DAYS,” Etc., Etc.

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' NO.

612 Carriston’s Gift, . , . • , ,

617 Paul Vargas : a Mystery, , ... «

631 A Family Affair, . . , » . ,

667 Story of a Sculptor, .....

672 Slings and Arrows, . . . . , .

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A CARDINAL SIN.

Chapter I. U P And D Own.”

We have heard of men whose temperament is such that it enables them to receive intelligence of the severest reverses of fortune, of the defeat of most cherished hopes, without even the movement of a muscle betraying how the news affects them. As huge misfortunes often stun with their shocks, and as pride is a great sustainer, we may believe such men do exist ; but I have yet to find the Stoic who can bear the petty injuries and grievances of every-day life without complaining. Such a character is more than mortal, and even when found I shall decline to believe in it until I have seen its behavior when kept waiting on a winter’s night at Sleeford Junction — that junction so comfortless that the very trains themselves appear to keep away from it as long as they can.

Sleeford Junction is in Westshire, and Westshire, as we know, is in the west of England. At first sight, the idea of Sleeford being a junction of any importance seems preposterous. The fast trains on the great main line clash through it scornfully. If you are waiting there at night, you see, miles away in the distance, it seems, a red light — in another minute there is a roar, a rattle, a rush of wind ; and, shrinking back as far as you can from the edge of the platform, you see for a second a confused blur of carriages — then looking along the line, you find the taillight a mile away. Then you collect yourself, and try to imagine what collision with the express means.

Although the flying trains spurn Sleeford, there are plenty of slower ones which show it favor, because from the south of the main line runs a little offshoot of a railway which takes people to a fashionable and rising water-

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ing-place ; while from tlie north runs another useful little line, which opens up a fertile valley, famous for all sorts of dairy produce, at the end of which valley is a good, old-fashioned, sleepy cathedral town — too large a place for railways to overlook. These are the substantial reasons pleaded by Sleeford for the necessity of its existence. It is just possible there may be a village from which the junction takes its name ; but it is supposed to be miles awa)'^ and, as nobody knows anything about it, need not be considered.

Sleeford Junction is a terrible place. The trains never seem to fit in. You get out there hopefully, having puzzled out the time-table and found your train should start at once. But it never does ; and the man who knows the nature of the place makes up his mind to wait — trusting it may be only twenty minutes — praying it may not be an hour.

It is an uncovered junction, and the winds of heaven seem to imitate the railways and join issue there. They blow round every corner ; they ignore the rights of leeward places ; they drive you at last into the general waiting-room, whose whitewashed wall hurls a cheerful text of Scripture at you, and where, most likely, two or three persons give evidence of the efficacy of the sacred quotation by hiding the fire from you altogether, or push their chairs, with an injured, scraping sound, back some three inches. In a very short time you begin to realize what waiting at Sleeford Junction means, and think it well, if you are a right-minded man, that there is no refreshment-room attached. The temptation to drown one’s woes would be too great.

On a certain night in December, 187 — , there were not many complaining travellers waiting on the down, or north side of the junction. Except on those days which are market days in Blacktown, the large city where so much of the valley-produce is disposed of, there is little traffic over the branch line. Often the last train takes back only one or two passengers, and, on this particular occasion, there seemed to be but one who had any right to objurgate the railway management. The up train might bring some more ; and it was the up train that was waited for. You may be certain that at Sleeford Junction you were always kept waiting for the up or the down train.

It was a cold, clear, frosty night. The wind was not so scathing as usual, or the detained traveller was wrapped up

A CARDINAL SIN.

well enough to defy it. At any rate, he seemed to prefer the open air to the comforts of the waiting-room. He sat on the edge of a luggage truck, drumming his feet against the ground to keep them warm, and smoked like one who finds tobacco a friend and a comforter.

This man, as far as outward appearances went, might have been anytliing — except, perhaps, a duke or a pauper. His clothes were good, but not fashionable. They were of dark blue rough cloth, and, as his coat was of the kind which is called a pea-jacket, there was something seafaring in his look, although an ordinary felt round-topped hat neutralized this impression. He wore no gloves — his hands had no doubt been hardened by exposure and, as he raised his lingers to his pipe, you might have seen that the shirt he wore was of dark flannel. Thick, strong boots and a woollen wrap round his throat completed his attire.

The light on the Sleeford platform is not very good, but it showed his face fairly well — a face with strongly-marked features, yet not an unkind face ; a shrewd face, but not the face of a rogue. He wore a thick, closely-cut beard, here and there touched with gray ; although his age could not have been much over forty. If you had travelled in the same carriage with that man, and amused yourself, as I often do, by speculating as to the station and manner of life of your fellow-traveller, you would have decided he had spent his best years abroad, had worked hard at his calling, and, judging from his comfortable look, not unsuccessfully. If you had talked to him you would certainly have said something about the colonies.

He sat on the truck, kicking his heels with natural impatience ; then, his pipe going out, he drew out a knife and a plug of tobacco, cut a sufficient quantity of darklooking fragments to refill the bowl, and, as a porter with a lantern happened to be passing, hailed him and asked for a light. There was a sligiit American twang in his speech — a sort of acquired, not a natural flavor. The porter opened his lantern, and the down-train man puffed until liis coarse tobacco was aglow.

Thank you, mate,” he said, good-temperedly ; “have a pipe yourself ? ”

“ ’Gainst rules,” answered the porter.

“ Put a piece in your pocket — you won’t get such stuff in England, I guess.” He cut off a large piece of tobacco, which was gratefully accepted.

“Now tell me,” he said, “is this waiting about at this

A CAI^DIiVAL SIN'.

dog-liolc of a place a necessity ; or is it pure cussed ness ?

“ Up-train late. Start as soon as she comes in,” answered the porter, employing the usual formula.

“ Nice one-horse kind of working,” growled the traveller.

Know the country about here ?” he asked, quickly.

“Westshire man, sir — all my life, sir.”

“ Where’s Redhills ? I want to get there.”

The porter gave him another look, and mentally deciding his condition in life could not be called that of gentleman, asked, “What do you want at Redhill’s ? ”

The traveller laughed — apparently at the man’s curiosity.

“ Perhaps I’ve got business there ; perhaps I want to see the master ; perhaps 1 intend to buy the estate. Now you’re answered, answer me.”

The inquisitive porter was puzzled. He knew that some gentlemen dress strangely ; so he thought it well to atone for his rudeness by extra civility.

“ Lies midway between Brackley and Longmere, sir. Best go on to Longmere.”

“ That’s what I wanted to know. I suppose we shall get to Longmere some time to-night ?”

“Up-train signalled,” said the porter, slipping over the side of the platform and crossing the line nimbly.

There were three or four passengers by the up-train, whose destination appeared to be the same as the man’s who was waiting. They crossed the bridge and reached the other side, where all save one plunged into the waiting-room. The exception was evidently a personage of some importance. Our friend the porter followed him obsequiously, bearing his rug and bag, and the station-master, stepping out of his office, saluted him with the greatest respect. He was a tall man, of some fifty years, handsome and erect, with gentleman unmistakably stamped upon him. No porter, however ignorant, would have presumed to answer his question with another. After all, one of the greatest gifts a man can have is a fine presence. It has taken more people to fortune than intellect has borne there.

The new-comer acknowledged the station-master’s salute shortly.

“Why don’t you start the train, Jones?” he demanded, imperiously.

“ Express must pass first, sir ; and some trucks must be shunted.”

“ This place grows worse and worse. I shall myself appeal to the directors, and insist upon a change in the working.”

The way in which he pronounced the words “myself” and “ insist” appeared to amuse the man who sat on the truck. He gave vent to a low chuckle, and, turning to his friend the porter, who was standing near him, said, in an undertone —

“ It does a fellow good to hear such an almighty swell as that. Now, who may he be ?”

“ That’s Philip Tremaine Bourchier, Esq., M. P.,” answered the porter, with awe in his voice.

The man on the truck started slightly. He leaned forward and scanned the features of the M. P. as well as he could in the dim light — scanned them with so much interest that the porter felt even greater pleasure in holding the luggage of such a distinguished person.

The down-train man continued to gaze at Mr. Bourchier, who walked up and down the platform until the porter informed that gentleman the train was about to start, conducted him to his carriage, saw to his comfort, and, doubtless, retired gratified. The little knot of third-class passengers emerged from the waiting-room, and took their places. Then a sudden thought seemed to strike the down-train man. He jumped up quickly and ran to the ticket-office. Business was suspended, and the pigeon-hole barred by the little wooden slide. He knocked, but met with no response. In retracing his steps he met the porter.

“ I want to change my ticket,” he said.

“You’ve no time for changing tickets. Train’s just moving. Look alive, or you’ll be here all night.”

The porter was right — the train was in motion. The traveller caught up his little hand-bag, ran after the train, opened the door of the first compartment he could, and sprung in, regardless of railway by-laws. It was done in a second, but in that second he noticed that he had chosen the compartment adjoining the one occupied by Mr. Bourchier. He threw himself on the seat and began tugging at his beard, as if to assist thought.

“Just my luck,” he said. “Why didn’t I think of changing my ticket at first ? Why didn’t I get in the same carriage without a ticket ? Then I suppose he’d have turned me out. I must see him to-night, someiiow. I heard him tell the fellow at the station to take care of his bag, he was going off by train again early to-morrow. So I shall miss him, and have my journey for nothing. If I try and speak s

A CAJ?D/jVAL SJJV.

to him when he gets out of the train, he won’t be botiiered with me.”

The man fidgeted about, and looked angrily at the partition which separated him from Mr. Bourchier. He threw the window down and saw by the light of tlie moon the various roadside objects flitting by.

“ I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it,” he said. “ This old train runs precious slow, and it’s but a step. Guess he’s not likely to shoot — Englishmen don’t without warning. It’s foolish, but I’ll do it. Let’s see everything is safe first.”

He opened his warm pea-coat and satisfied himself that a thick blank pocket-book was safe in the breast of it. Then he buttoned it carefully, tucked the ends of his comforter in tightly, and opened the door of the carriage. He could see the foot-board plainly enougli in the moonliglit, and the large brass handles gleamed brightly. He was a hard-headed man, strong and confident — the danger in passing from one carriage door to another seemed trifling. He stepped out, and, clinging by the brasses, shut the door, even managing to turn the handle.

I imagine there can be nothing more startling to a traveller — a traveller sitting alone in one corner of a railway carriage — his rug round his knees, his cigar in his mouth, and his own thoughts miles away — than to hear a sudden tapping at the window, where, glancing around, he sees not the double of himself who always rides side by side with him, but the face of another man. Mr. Bourchier was not a timid man, but his start of horror may easily be understood. For a second or two he gazed helplessly at the would-be intruder, but as the tapping continued, he concluded there was some object at it, so throwing off his rug he rose and approached the window. Had anyone been with him he might have noticed that before doing so Mr. Bourchier transferred something from the breast of his coat to the loose side pocket where it could be readily got at. Then he opened the window.

What are you doing there ? ” he asked the man outside. ^‘If you mean robbery, you have mistaken your man.”

The outsider laughed so pleasantly, that Mr. Bourchier’s fears on that score were quite dispelled.

“ Better let me get in,” he said, “ then I’ll tell you how I got here.”

Although no man has a right to put himself in such a predicament, clinging outside a carriage window is sup-

A CAI^DI/VAL SIN, posed to be a position too perilous to admit of parley ; so, without saying more, Mr. IBourchier drew aside, while his visitor entered through the window in a most undignified way, and then seated himself, smiling triumphantly at the success which liad attended his efforts.

Mr. Bourchier was a man with whom few dared to take liberties. His frown was very unpleasant, his mouth was a hard one, and at times his light-blue eyes could w^ear a merciless look. Tramps and poachers whose fate it was to stand before the magistrates, always, if they knew the district, congratulated themselves when he was absent from the bench. Therefore, you may imagine the look he cast on the intruder was not a sweet one, nor was his voice the kindest.

“Now, sir,” he said, “if you have recovered yourself, kindly explain the meaning of this intrusion — or, perhaps, you would prefer to make the explanation to the guard when next we stop.”

The intruder bent forward.

“ Mr. Bourchier,” he said, speaking without the slightest trace of levity, and with an earnestness which surprised his listener — “Mr. Bourchier, I learned who you were at the junction. I heard you say you were going away again to-morrow. I have come many miles to see you on an important matter ”

“It must be an important matter indeed, when you risk your life to obtain an interview,” said Mr. Bourchier, with sarcasm.

“ It is important. Shall I tell you who I am ?”

“ There is no necessity. People can’t act in the foolish W’ay you have acted without justifying their conduct to the proper authorities. I shall learn your name in good time.”

Tlie man’s face flushed — a hot retort seemed trembling on his lips, but he stifled it, and his voice was almost as calm as that of the sarcastic gentleman facing him.

“Had you asked me twelve months ago my name, I should have told you I had no riglit to any name. To-day my name is John Bourchier, and I am the rightful owner of an estate known as Redhills, Westshire.”

Philip Tremaine Bourchier was a man who was glad to think that his complexion did not change with the temperature — growing alternately red and white like that of common people. There was seldom much color in his face, but now, for the moment, it became absolutely bloodlo

A CARDIN-AL SIJV.

less. For some time he seemed deprived of speech. Then he made an effort and recovered himself, as was but d;ie from a man of his position and station in the world. It may be a look, something like triumph, in his companion’s eyes hastened that recovery. He spoke with dignity.

“Without disputing you are the person who thinks he is entitled to bear that name, I can only trust that for your own sake you are going to make no attempt to revive that preposterous claim.”

“Mr. Bourchier,” said the other, “no doubt all former proceedings are family history to you. You know what, and what alone was wanting.”

Mr. Bourchier bowed stiffly.

“ Then I have only to tell you it has been found. My poor old father’s life-long search was at last successful — I believe it was joy that killed him.”

His listener paled again.

“ Why come to me ? ” he asked in a strange, hoarse voice. “ Take your forgeries to some pettifogging solicitor ; let him try and trade on them.”

“ I hate lawyers. I am a plain, rough fellow ; my head was never turned by what my old father called his rights. I didn’t believe in them till a very short time ago. Besides, the thing is so simple — no lawyer’s advice is wanted. Look here, Mr. Bourchier, you are a clever man ; it needs little law to tell you that this slip of paper makes me the owner of Redhills.

As he spoke he extracted a long, narrow document from his pocket-book and handed it to Mr. Bourchier. No sense of dignity could prevent that gentleman’s hand from trembling as he stood up and, holding the paper under the light, slowly deciphered it. His lips twitched, and only the fact of his remembering that the paper was but a copy prevented him from tearing it into fragments. He read it again, then returned it to its owner, and reseated himself without speaking.

His companion awaited Mr. Bourchier’s pleasure. He sat looking at him with an expression of curiosity, but not unkindness. Mr. Bourchier seemed in no hurry to speak. He was thinking of many things, and his thoughts, whatever they were, lent his cold, blue eyes an expression which few men had ever seen there. His right hand was in the pocket of his overcoat.

The self-styled John Bourchier had been in peril on many occasions, but he little suspected never in such dire

A CARDINAL SIN.

peril ns nt the present moment. He little knew what the slackening of the train’s speed, before Mr. Bourchier had quite completed his round of thought, meant to him. He never dreamed that his silent companion was mentallyweighing pros and cons, and endeavoring to decide whether an attempted forcible entry of a roughly-clad man into a first-class compartment, while the train was at full speed, would justify an extreme act He thought it would ; but time must be considered, and time was slipping away. Mr. Bourchier’s fingers moved uneasily in his pocket. Then there was another thing he wanted to know — a thing he must know — before he decided that his theory was tenable. The question he would have asked was rising to his lips when the decreasing speed of the train told him it was too late.

He clenched his teeth for a moment, then removing his right hand from his pocket, commenced to fold up his railway rug.

“This is Brackley,” he said, coldly. “ I get out here.”

“ Mr. Bourchier,” said his companion, earnestly, “ you will see me in the morning and talk this matter over ? ”

“ I would rather not. I can see no use in it.”

“ I don’t want to be unfriendly, if I can help it, sir.”

A grim smile flickered on Mr. Bourchier’s lips. A man who comes to turn you out of your home and possessions can scarcely be friendly. The train was almost at a standstill — Mr. Bourchier rose from his seat with a curious undefinable expression in his eyes. He spoke, and his voice was rather husky — his accents not so clearly cut as usual.

“ Then I will see you. Come early. Where do you stay to-night ? ”

“ I thought of going on to Longmere.”

“ You had better go to Redton. It is close to my place. There is a very good inn there.”

“ How far is it from here ?”

“ Some six miles — I will drive you there if you like.”

“ Now that’s hearty ! I call that very kind. I know we shall square this all right, Mr. Bourchier” — the speaker held out his large hand in token of goodwill.

Philip Bourchier just placed the tips of his fingers in it, withdrawing them hastily as a railway official opened the carriage door, and bowed as- the great man stepped out.

His fellow traveller followed. “Got in the wrong carriage,” he said, in answer to an inquiring look — “here’s a

A CARDhVAL SUV, shilling — keep the change.” Then he went in search of his hand-bag, left behind him in Ids transit.

A smart groom with horse and dog-cart was waiting outside the station for Mr. Bourchier. When driving at night the groom generally sat by his master — the cart ran easier.

Open the back seat and ride behind, William,” said Mr. Bourchier. “ I have promised to give a man a lift to Redton,” he added, although as a rule he did not volunteer any reason for his commands.

The man came out.

“You can get up by me,” said Mr. Bourchier, with that . peculiar intonation in his voice which some people adopt when speaking to those greatly their inferiors.

The man did as he was told ; William the groom let go the horse’s head, and the dog-cart rolled quickly along the road — the Redton road. The carriage lamps were lit, for although it was a moonlight night, the path in places was shaded and gloomy.

Chapter II. From Two Points Of View

The six miles of road between Brackley and Redton is delightfully picturesque, but terrible in its gradient. As you drive over it, and pause now and again at some of its most elevated parts, you are filled with two feelings — admiration at tljc beautiful view you get over Westshire, and pity for your horse. He, poor creature, driven in blinkers, is quite unable to understand your admiration, and can only hope your pity will allow him to take his own time up those liills.

It is a terrible road — you get a bit of level ground after leaving Brackley, then the up-and-down system begins. If you are not descending a hill you are ascending one, and the worst hill of the lot is the one about half way, called Steepsides, but better known by those who have to climb it often as “ Bellows-to-mend ” — a very significant term, which needs no explanation. You go down- a hill called Littlesteep — an ironical name which evidences Westshire wit — before you come to Steepsides, then the road skirts the bottom of the -hill for -some distance, rising gradually, until, tired of its tardy progress, it turns round at an

A CARBIA'AL SJ.V.

acute angle and goes in an uncompromising Roman sort of a way straight on its errand, which errand appears to be that of going down the other face of Steepsides almost as quickly as it got up. Now, if you have the power of drawing mental landscapes, and provided my words are well chosen, you will see that the acute angle where the road begins to grow steep forms the apex of a gigantic triangle, the plane of which is Steepsides, and the base a line drawn from the bottom of Littlesteep to the upper line of road on the former hill.