Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (i love reading books txt) 📖

“I dare say that it has happened with you, sir,” said my uncle at last, “that you have lost some dear messmate, in battle or wreck, and that you have put him out of your mind in the routine of your daily life, until suddenly some word or some scene brings him back to your memory, and you find your sorrow as raw as upon the first day of your loss.”

My father nodded.

“So it is with me to-night.  I never formed a close friendship with a man—I say nothing of women—save only the once.  That was with Lord Avon.  We were of an age, he a few years perhaps my senior, but our tastes, our judgments, and our characters were alike, save only that he had in him a touch of pride such as I have never known in any other man.  Putting aside the little foibles of a rich young man of fashion, les indescrétions d’une jeunesse dorée, I could have sworn that he was as good a man as I have ever known.”

“How came he, then, to such a crime?” asked my father.

My uncle shook his head.

“Many a time have I asked myself that question, and it comes home to me more to-night than ever.”

All the jauntiness had gone out of his manner, and he had turned suddenly into a sad and serious man.

“Was it certain that he did it, Charles?” asked my mother.

My uncle shrugged his shoulders.

“I wish I could think it were not so.  I have thought sometimes that it was this very pride, turning suddenly to madness, which drove him to it.  You have heard how he returned the money which we had lost?”

“Nay, I have heard nothing of it,” my father answered.

“It is a very old story now, though we have not yet found an end to it.  We had played for two days, the four of us: Lord Avon, his brother Captain Barrington, Sir Lothian Hume, and myself.  Of the Captain I knew little, save that he was not of the best repute, and was deep in the hands of the Jews.  Sir Lothian has made an evil name for himself since—’tis the same Sir Lothian who shot Lord Carton in the affair at Chalk Farm—but in those days there was nothing against him.  The oldest of us was but twenty-four, and we gamed on, as I say, until the Captain had cleared the board.  We were all hit, but our host far the hardest.

“That night—I tell you now what it would be a bitter thing for me to tell in a court of law—I was restless and sleepless, as often happens when a man has kept awake over long.  My mind would dwell upon the fall of the cards, and I was tossing and turning in my bed, when suddenly a cry fell upon my ears, and then a second louder one, coming from the direction of Captain Barrington’s room.  Five minutes later I heard steps passing down the passage, and, without striking a light, I opened my door and peeped out, thinking that some one was taken unwell.  There was Lord Avon walking towards me.  In one hand he held a guttering candle and in the other a brown bag, which chinked as he moved.  His face was all drawn and distorted—so much so that my question was frozen upon my lips.  Before I could utter it he turned into his chamber and softly closed the door.

“Next morning I was awakened by finding him at my bedside.

“‘Charles,’ said he, ‘I cannot abide to think that you should have lost this money in my house.  You will find it here upon your table.’

“It was in vain that I laughed at his squeamishness, telling him that I should most certainly have claimed my money had I won, so that it would be strange indeed if I were not permitted to pay it when I lost.

“‘Neither I nor my brother will touch it,’ said he.  ‘There it lies, and you may do what you like about it.’

“He would listen to no argument, but dashed out of the room like a madman.  But perhaps these details are familiar to you, and God knows they are painful to me to tell.”

My father was sitting with staring eyes, and his forgotten pipe reeking in his hand.

“Pray let us hear the end of it, sir,” he cried.

“Well, then, I had finished my toilet in an hour or so—for I was less exigeant in those days than now—and I met Sir Lothian Hume at breakfast.  His experience had been the same as my own, and he was eager to see Captain Barrington; and to ascertain why he had directed his brother to return the money to us.  We were talking the matter over when suddenly I raised my eyes to the corner of the ceiling, and I saw—I saw—”

My uncle had turned quite pale with the vividness of the memory, and he passed his hand over his eyes.

“It was crimson,” said he, with a shudder—“crimson with black cracks, and from every crack—but I will give you dreams, sister Mary.  Suffice it that we rushed up the stair which led direct to the Captain’s room, and there we found him lying with the bone gleaming white through his throat.  A hunting-knife lay in the room—and the knife was Lord Avon’s.  A lace ruffle was found in the dead man’s grasp—and the ruffle was Lord Avon’s.  Some papers were found charred in the grate—and the papers were Lord Avon’s.  Oh, my poor friend, in what moment of madness did you come to do such a deed?”

The light had gone out of my uncle’s eyes and the extravagance from his manner.  His speech was clear and plain, with none of those strange London ways which had so amazed me.  Here was a second uncle, a man of heart and a man of brains, and I liked him better than the first.

“And what said Lord Avon?” cried my father.

“He said nothing.  He went about like one who walks in his sleep, with horror-stricken eyes.  None dared arrest him until there should be due inquiry, but when the coroner’s court brought wilful murder against him, the constables came for him in full cry.  But they found him fled.  There was a rumour that he had been seen in Westminster in the next week, and then that he had escaped for America, but nothing more is known.  It will be a bright day for Sir Lothian Hume when they can prove him dead, for he is next of kin, and till then he can touch neither title nor estate.”

The telling of this grim story had cast a chill upon all of us.  My uncle held out his hands towards the blaze, and I noticed that they were as white as the ruffles which fringed them.

“I know not how things are at Cliffe Royal now,” said he, thoughtfully.  “It was not a cheery house, even before this shadow fell upon it.  A fitter stage was never set forth for such a tragedy.  But seventeen years have passed, and perhaps even that horrible ceiling—”

“It still bears the stain,” said I.

I know not which of the three was the more astonished, for my mother had not heard of my adventures of the night.  They never took their wondering eyes off me as I told my story, and my heart swelled with pride when my uncle said that we had carried ourselves well, and that he did not think that many of our age would have stood it as stoutly.

“But as to this ghost, it must have been the creature of your own minds,” said he.  “Imagination plays us strange tricks, and though I have as steady a nerve as a man might wish, I cannot answer for what I might see if I were to stand under that blood-stained ceiling at midnight.”

“Uncle,” said I, “I saw a figure as plainly as I see that fire, and I heard the steps as clearly as I hear the crackle of the fagots.  Besides, we could not both be deceived.”

“There is truth in that,” said be, thoughtfully.  “You saw no features, you say?”

“It was too dark.”

“But only a figure?”

“The dark outline of one.”

“And it retreated up the stairs?”

“Yes.”

“And vanished into the wall?”

“Yes.”

“What part of the wall?” cried a voice from behind us.

My mother screamed, and down came my father’s pipe on to the hearthrug.  I had sprung round with a catch of my breath, and there was the valet, Ambrose, his body in the shadow of the doorway, his dark face protruded into the light, and two burning eyes fixed upon mine.

“What the deuce is the meaning of this, sir?” cried my uncle.

It was strange to see the gleam and passion fade out of the man’s face, and the demure mask of the valet replace it.  His eyes still smouldered, but his features regained their prim composure in an instant.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Charles,” said he.  “I had come in to ask you if you had any orders for me, and I did not like to interrupt the young gentleman’s story.  I am afraid that I have been somewhat carried away by it.”

“I never knew you forget yourself before,” said my uncle.

“You will, I am sure, forgive me, Sir Charles, if you will call to mind the relation in which I stood to Lord Avon.”  He spoke with some dignity of manner, and with a bow he left the room.

“We must make some little allowance,” said my uncle, with a sudden return to his jaunty manner.  “When a man can brew a dish of chocolate, or tie a cravat, as Ambrose does, he may claim consideration.  The fact is that the poor fellow was valet to Lord Avon, that he was at Cliffe Royal upon the fatal night of which I have spoken, and that he is most devoted to his old master.  But my talk has been somewhat triste, sister Mary, and now we shall return, if you please, to the dresses of the Countess Lieven, and the gossip of St. James.”

My father sent me to bed early that night, though I was very eager to stay up, for every word which this man said held my attention.  His face, his manner, the large waves and sweeps of his white hands, his easy air of superiority, his fantastic fashion of talk, all filled me with interest and wonder.  But, as I afterwards learned, their conversation was to be about myself and my own prospects, so I was despatched to my room, whence far into the night I could hear the deep growl of my father and the rich tones of my uncle, with an occasional gentle murmur from my mother, as they talked in the room beneath.

I had dropped asleep at last, when I was awakened suddenly by something wet being pressed against my face, and by two warm arms which were cast round me.  My mother’s cheek was against my own, and I could hear the click of her sobs, and feel her quiver and shake in the darkness.  A faint light stole through the latticed window, and I could dimly see that she was in white, with her black hair loose upon her shoulders.

“You won’t forget us, Roddy?  You won’t forget us?”

“Why, mother, what is it?”

“Your uncle, Roddy—he is going to take you away from us.”

“When, mother?”

“To-morrow.”

God forgive me, how my heart bounded for joy, when hers, which was within touch of it, was breaking with sorrow!

“Oh, mother!” I cried.  “To London?”

“First to Brighton, that he may present you to the Prince.  Next day to London, where you will meet the great people, Roddy, and learn to look down upon—to look down upon your poor, simple, old-fashioned father and mother.”

I put my arms about her to console her, but she wept so that, for all my seventeen years and pride of manhood, it set me weeping also, and with such a hiccoughing noise, since I had not a woman’s knack of quiet tears, that it finally turned her own grief to laughter.

“Charles would be flattered if he could see the gracious way in which we receive his kindness,” said she.  “Be still, Roddy dear, or you will certainly wake him.”

“I’ll not go if it is to grieve you,” I cried.

“Nay, dear, you must go, for it may be the one great chance of your life.  And think how proud it will make us all when we hear of you in the company of Charles’s grand friends.  But you will promise me not to gamble, Roddy?  You heard to-night of the dreadful things which come from it.”

“I promise you, mother.”

“And you will be careful of wine, Roddy?  You are young and unused to it.”

“Yes, mother.”

“And play-actresses also, Roddy.  And you will not cast your underclothing until June is in.  Young Master Overton came by his death through it.  Think well of your dress, Roddy, so as to do your uncle credit, for it is the thing for which he is himself most