Chapter Three
1873 Words
Chapter Three
Seeking for Information
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It was enough to make any man look grave; and as time went on the new owner of Walnut-Tree House found himself pondering continually as to what the mystery could be which attached to the child he had found in possession of his property, and who had already driven tenant after tenant out of the premises. Inclined at first to regard the clerk's story as a joke, and his own experience on the night of his arrival a delusion, it was impossible for him to continue incredulous when he found, even in broad daylight, that terrible child stealing down the staircase and entering the rooms, looking—looking, for something it never found.
Never after the first horror was over did Mr. Stainton think of leaving the house in consequence of that haunting presence which had kept the house tenantless. It would have been worse than useless, he felt. With the ocean stretching between, his spirit would still be in the old mansion at Lambeth—his mental vision would always be watching the child engaged in the weary search to which there seemed no end—that never appeared to produce any result.
At bed and at board he had company, or the expectation of it. No apartment in the building was secure from intrusion. It did not matter where he lay; it did not matter where he ate; between sleeping and waking, between breakfast and dinner, whenever the notion seized it, the child came gliding in, looking, looking, looking, and never finding; not lingering longer than was necessary to be certain the object of its search was absent, but wandering hither and thither, from garret to kitchen, from parlour to bed-chamber, in that quest which still seemed fresh as when first begun.
Mr. Stainton went to his solicitors as the most likely persons from whom to obtain information on the subject, and plunged at once into the matter.
“Who is the child supposed to be, Mr. Timpson?” he asked, making no secret that he had seen it.
“Well, that is really very difficult to say,” answered Mr. Timpson.
“There was a child once, I suppose—a real child—flesh and blood?”
Mr. Timpson took off his spectacles and wiped them.
“There were two; yes, certainly, in the time of Mr. Felix Stainton—a boy and a girl.”
“In that house?”
“In that house. They survived him.”
“And what became of them?”
“The girl was adopted by a relation of her father's, and the—boy—died.”
“Oh the boy died, did he? Do you happen to know what he died of?”
“No; I really do not. There was nothing wrong about the affair, however, if that is what you are thinking of. There never was a hint of that sort.”
Mr. Stainton sat silent for a minute; then he said:
“Mr. Timpson, I can't shake off the idea that somehow there has been foul play with regard to those children. Who were they?”
“Felix Stainton's grandchildren. His daughter made a low marriage, and he cast her adrift. After her death the two children were received at Walnut-Tree House on sufferance—fed and clothed, I believe, that was all; and when the old man died the heir-at-law permitted them to remain.”
“Alfred Stainton?”
“Yes; the unhappy man who became insane. His uncle died intestate, and he consequently succeeded to everything but the personalty, which was very small, and of which these children had a share.”
“There was never any suspicion you say, of foul play on the part of the late owner?”
“Dear, dear! No; quite the contrary.”
“Then can you throw the least light on the mystery?”
“Not the least; I wish I could.”
For all that, Mr. Stainton carried away an impression Mr. Timpson knew more of the matter than he cared to tell; and was confirmed in this opinion by a chance remark from Mr. Timpson's partner, whom he met in the street almost immediately after.
“Why can't you let the matter rest, Mr. Stainton?” asked the Co. with some irritation of manner when he heard the object of their client's visit. “What is the use of troubling your head about a child who has been lying in Lambeth Churchyard these dozen years? Take my advice, have the house pulled down and let or sell the ground for building. You ought to get a pot of money for it in that neighbourhood. If there were a wrong done it is too late to set it right now.”
“What wrong do you refer to?” asked Mr. Stainton eagerly, thinking he had caught Timpson's partner napping. But that gentleman was too sharp for him.
“I remarked if there were a wrong done—not that there had been one,” he answered; and then, without a pause, added, “We shall hope to hear from you that you have decided to follow our advice.”
But Mr. Stainton shook his head.
“I will not pull down the old house just yet,” he said, and walked slowly away.
“There is a mystery behind it all,” he considered. “I must learn more about these children. Perhaps some of the local tradespeople may recollect them.”
But the local tradespeople for the most part were newcomers—or else had not supplied “the house.”
“So far as ever I could understand,” said one “family butcher,” irascibly sharpening his knife as he spoke, “there was not much to supply. That custom was not worth speaking of. I hadn't it, so what I am saying is not said on my own account. A scrag end of neck of mutton—a bit of gravy beef—two pennyworth of sheep's liver—that was the sort of thing. Misers, sir, misers; the old gentleman bad, and the nephew worse. A bad business, first and last. But what else could be expected? When people as can afford to live on the fat of the land never have a sirloin inside their doors, why, worse must come of it. No, sir, I never set eyes on the children to my knowledge; I only knew there were children by hearing one of them was dead, and that it was the poorest funeral ever crossed a decent threshold.”
“Poor little chap,” thought Mr. Stainton, looking straight out into the street for a moment; then added, “lest the family misfortunes should descend to me, you had better send round a joint to Walnut-Tree House.”
“Lor', sir, are you the gentleman as is living there? I beg your pardon, I am sure, but I have been so bothered with questions in regard of that house and those children that I forget my manners when I talk about them. A joint, sir—what would you please to have?”
The new owner told him; and while he counted out the money to pay for it Mr. Parker remarked:
“There is only one person I can think of sir, likely to be able to give any information about the matter.”
“And that is?”
“Mr. Hennings, at the ‘Pedlar's Dog.’ He had some aquaintance with the old lady as was housekeeper both to Mr. Felix Stainton and the gentleman that went out of his mind.”
Following the advice, the new owner repaired to the ‘Pedlar's Dog,’ where (having on his first arrival at Walnut-Tree House ordered some creature comforts from that well-known public) he experienced a better reception than had been accorded to him by Mr. Parker.
“Do I know Walnut-Tree House, sir?” said Mr. Hennings, repeating his visitor's question. “Well, yes, rather. Why, you might as well ask me, do I know the ‘Pedlar's Dog.’ As boy and man I can remember the old house for close on five-and-fifty years. I remember Mr. George Stainton; he used to wear a skull-cap and knee-breeches. There was an orchard then where Stainton Street is now, and his whole time was taken up in keeping the boys out of it. Many a time I have run from him.”
“Did you ever see anything of the boy and girl who were there, after Mr. Alfred succeeded to the property—Felix Stainton's grandchildren, I mean?” asked the new owner, when a pause in Mr. Henning's reminiscences enabled him to take his part in the conversation.
“Well, sir, I may have seen the girl, but I can't bring it to my recollection; the boy I do remember, however. He came over here two or three times with Mrs. Toplis, who kept house for both Mr. Staintons, and I took notice of him, both because he looked so peaky and old-fashioned, and also on account of the talk about him.”
“There was talk about him, then?”
“Bless you, yes, sir; as much talk while he was living as since he died. Everybody thought he ought to have been the heir.”
“Why?” enquired the new owner.
“Because there was a will made leaving the place to him.”
Here was information. Mr. Stainton's heart seemed to stand still for a second and then leap on with excitement.
“Who made the will?”
“The grandfather, Felix Stainton, to be sure; who else should make it?”
“I did not mean that. Was it not drawn out by a solicitor?”
“Oh! Yes—now I understand you, sir. The will was drawn right enough by Mr. Quinance, in the Lambeth Road, a very clever lawyer.”
“Not by Timpson, then? How was that?”
“The old man took the notion of making it late one night, and so Mrs. Toplis sent to the nearest lawyer she knew of.”
“Yes; and then?”
“Well, the will was made and signed and witnessed, and everything regular; and from that day to this no one knows what has become of it.”
“How very strange.”
“Yes, sir, it is more than strange—unaccountable. At first Mr. Quinance was suspected of having given it up to Mr. Alfred; but Mrs. Toplis and Quinance's clerk—he has succeeded to the business now—say that old Felix insisted upon keeping it himself. So, whether he destroyed it or the nephew got hold of it, Heaven only knows; for no man living does, I think.”
“And the child—the boy, I mean?”
“If you want to hear all about him, sir, Mrs. Toplis is the one to tell you. If you have a mind to give a shilling to a poor old lady who always did try to keep herself respectable, and who, I will say, paid her way honourable as long as she had a sixpence to pay it honourable with, you cannot do better than go and see Mrs. Toplis, who will talk to you for hours about the time she lived at Walnut-Tree House.”
And with this delicate hint that his minutes were more valuable than the hours of Mrs. Toplis, Mr. Hennings would have closed the interview, but that his visitor asked where he should be able to find the housekeeper.
“A thousand pardons!” he answered, with an air; “forgetting the very cream and marrow of it, wasn't I? Mrs. Toplis, sir, is to be found in Lambeth Workhouse—and a pity, too.”
Edgar Stainton turned away, heart-sick. Was this all wealth had done for his people and those connected with them?
No man seemed to care to waste a moment in speaking about their affairs; no one had a good word for or kindly memory of them. The poorest creature he met in the streets might have been of more use in the world then they. The house they had lived in mentioned as if a curse rested on the place; themselves only recollected as leaving everything undone which it befitted their station to do. An old servant allowed to end her days in the workhouse!
“Heaven helping me,” he thought, “I will not so misuse the wealth which has been given me.”
The slight put upon his family tortured and made him wince, and the face of the dead boy who ought to have been the heir seemed, as he hurried along the streets, to pursue and look on him with a wistful reproach.
“If I cannot lay that child I shall go mad,” he said, almost audibly, “as mad, perhaps, as Alfred Stainton.” And then a terrible fear took possession of him. The horror of that which is worse than any death made for the moment this brave, bold man more timid than a woman.
“God preserve my senses,” he prayed, and then, determinedly putting that phantom behind him, he went on to the Workhouse.
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