The Talleyrand Maxim, J. S. Fletcher [books to read fiction TXT] 📗

There might be nothing in it, he said to

himself, over and over again; everything that seemed strange might be

easily explained; the evidence of Pratt at the inquest had appeared

absolutely truthful and straightforward, and yet the blunt, rough,

downright question of the blacksmith, crudely voiced as it was, found a

ready agreement in Collingwood’s mind. As he drew near the house he

found himself repeating Stringer’s broad Yorkshire—“What wor that

lawyer-clerk chap fro’ Barford—Pratt—doin’ about theer? What reight

had he to be prowlin’ round t’ neighbourhood o’ that bridge, and at that

time? Come, now—theer’s a tickler for somebody!” And even as he smiled

at the remembrance of the whole rustic conversation of the previous

evening, and thought that the blacksmith’s question certainly might be a

ticklish one—for somebody—he looked up from the frosted grass at his

feet, and saw Pratt.

 

Pratt, a professional-looking bag in his hand, a morning newspaper under

the other arm, was standing at the gate of one of the numerous

shrubberies which flanked the Grange, talking to a woman who leaned over

it. Collingwood recognized her as a person whom he had twice seen in the

house during his visits on the day before–a middle-aged, slightly

built woman, neatly dressed in black, and wearing a sort of nurse’s cap

which seemed to denote some degree of domestic servitude. She was a

woman who had once been pretty, and who still retained much of her good

looks; she was also evidently of considerable shrewdness and

intelligence and possessed a pair of remarkably quick eyes—the sort of

eyes, thought Collingwood, that see everything that happens within their

range of vision. And she had a firm chin and a mouth which expressed

determination; he had seen all that as she exchanged some conversation

with the old butler in Collingwood’s presence—a noticeable woman

altogether. She was evidently in close conference with Pratt at that

moment—but as Collingwood drew near she turned and went slowly in the

direction of the house, while Pratt, always outwardly polite, stepped

towards the interrupter of this meeting, and lifted his hat.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Collingwood,” he said. “A fine, sharp morning, sir! I

was just asking Mrs. Mallathorpe’s maid how her mistress is this

morning—she was very ill when I left last night. Better, sir, I’m glad

to say—Mrs. Mallathorpe has had a much better night.”

 

“I’m very pleased to hear it,” replied Collingwood. He was going towards

the front of the Grange, and Pratt walked at his side, evidently in the

same direction. “I am afraid she has had a great shock. You are still

here, then?” he went on, feeling bound to make some remark, and saying

the first obvious thing. “Still busy?”

 

“Mr. Eldrick has lent me—so to speak—until the funeral’s over,

tomorrow,” answered Pratt. “There are a lot of little things in which I

can be useful, you know, Mr. Collingwood. I suppose your

arrangements—you said you were sailing for India—won’t permit of your

being present tomorrow, sir?”

 

Collingwood was not sure if the clerk was fishing for information.

Pratt’s manner was always polite, his questions so innocently put, that

it was difficult to know what he was actually after. But he was not

going to give him any information—either then, or at any time.

 

“I don’t quite know what my arrangements may be,” he answered. And just

then they came to the front entrance, and Collingwood was taken off in

one direction by a footman, while Pratt, who already seemed to be fully

acquainted with the house and its arrangements, took himself and his bag

away in another.

 

Nesta came to Collingwood looking less anxious than when he had left her

at his last call the night before. He had already told her what his

impressions of the inquest were, and he was now wondering whether to

tell her of the things he had heard said at the village inn. But

remembering that he was now going to stay in the neighbourhood, he

decided to say nothing at that time—if there was anything in these

vague feelings and suspicions it would come out, and could be dealt with

when it arose. At present he had need of a little diplomacy.

 

“Oh!—I wanted to tell you,” he said, after talking to her awhile about

Mrs. Mallathorpe. “I—there’s a change in my arrangements, I’m not going

to India, after all.”

 

He was not prepared for the sudden flush that came over the girl’s face.

It took him aback. It also told him a good deal that he was glad to

know—and it was only by a strong effort of will that he kept himself

from taking her hands and telling her the truth. But he affected not to

see anything, and he went on talking rapidly. “Complete change in the

arrangements at the last minute,” he said. “I’ve just been writing about

it. So—as that’s off, I think I shall follow Eldrick’s advice, and take

chambers in Barford for a time, and see how things turn out. I’m going

into Barford now, to see Eldrick about all that.”

 

Nesta, who was conscious of her betrayal of more than she cared to show

just then, tried to speak calmly.

 

“But—isn’t it an awful disappointment?” she said. “You were looking

forward so to going there, weren’t you?”

 

“Can’t be helped,” replied Collingwood. “All these affairs

are—provisional. I thought I’d tell you at once, however—so that

you’ll know—if you ever want me—that I shall be somewhere round about.

In fact, as it’s quite comfortable there, I shall stop at the inn until

I’ve got rooms in the town.”

 

Then, not trusting himself to remain longer, he went off to Barford,

certain that he was now definitely pledged in his own mind to Nesta

Mallathorpe, and not much less that when the right time came she would

not be irresponsive to him. And on that, like a cold douche, came the

remembrance of her actual circumstances—she was what Eldrick had said,

one of the wealthiest young women in Yorkshire. The thought of her

riches made Collingwood melancholy for a while—he possessed a curious

sort of pride which made him hate and loathe the notion of being taken

for a fortune-hunter. But suddenly, and with a laugh, he remembered that

he had certain possessions of his own—ability, knowledge, and

perseverance. Before he reached Eldrick’s office, he had had a vision of

the Woolsack.

 

Eldrick received Collingwood’s news with evident gratification. He

immediately suggested certain chambers in an adjacent building; he

volunteered information as to where the best rooms in the town were to

be had. And in proof of his practical interest in Collingwood’s career,

he there and then engaged his professional services for two cases which

were to be heard at a local court within the following week.

 

“Pratt shall deliver the papers to you at once,” he said. “That is, as

soon as he’s back from Normandale this afternoon. I sent him there again

to make himself useful.”

 

“I saw him this morning,” remarked Collingwood. “He appears to be a very

useful person.”

 

“Clever chap,” asserted Eldrick, carelessly. “I don’t know what’ll be

done about that stewardship that he was going to apply for. Everything

will be altered now that young Mallathorpe’s dead. Of course, I,

personally, shouldn’t have thought that Pratt would have done for a job

like that, but Pratt has enough self-assurance and self-confidence for a

dozen men, and he thought he would do, and I couldn’t refuse him a

testimonial. And as he’s made himself very useful out there, it may be

that if this steward business goes forward, Pratt will get the

appointment. As I say, he’s a smart chap.”

 

Collingwood offered no comment. But he was conscious that it would not

be at all pleasing to him to know that Linford Pratt held any official

position at Normandale. Foolish as it might be, mere inspiration though

it probably was, he could not get over his impression that Eldrick’s

clerk was not precisely trustworthy. And yet, he reflected, he himself

could do nothing—it would be utter presumption on his part to offer any

gratuitous advice to Nesta Mallathorpe in business matters. He was very

certain of what he eventually meant to say to her about his own personal

hopes, some time hence, when all the present trouble was over, but in

the meantime, as regarded anything else, he could only wait and watch,

and be of service to her if she asked him to render any.

 

Some time went by before Collingwood was asked to render service of any

sort. At Normandale Grange, events progressed in apparently ordinary and

normal fashion. Harper Mallathorpe was buried; his mother began to make

some recovery from the shock of his death; the legal folk were busied in

putting Nesta in possession of the estate, and herself and her mother in

proprietorship of the mill and the personal property. In Barford, things

went on as usual, too. Pratt continued his round of duties at Eldrick &

Pascoe’s; no more was heard—by outsiders, at any rate—of the

stewardship at Normandale. As for Collingwood, he settled down in

chambers and lodgings and, as Eldrick had predicted, found plenty of

work. And he constantly went out to Normandale Grange, and often met

Nesta elsewhere, and their knowledge of each other increased, and as the

winter passed away and spring began to show on the Normandale woods and

moors, Collingwood felt that the time was coming when he might speak. He

was professionally engaged in London for nearly three weeks in the early

part of that spring—when he returned, he had made up his mind to tell

Nesta the truth, at once. He had faced it for himself—he was by that

time so much in love with her that he was not going to let monetary

considerations prevent him from telling her so.

 

But Collingwood found something else than love to talk about when he

presented himself at Normandale Grange on the morning after his arrival

from his three weeks’ absence in town. As soon as he met her, he saw

that Nesta was not only upset and troubled, but angry.

 

“I am glad you have come,” she said, when they were alone. “I want some

advice. Something has happened—something that bothers—and puzzles—me

very, very much! I’m dreadfully bothered.”

 

“Tell me,” suggested Collingwood.

 

Nesta frowned—at some recollection or thought.

 

“Yesterday afternoon,” she answered, “I was obliged to go into Barford,

on business. I left my mother fairly well–she has been recovering fast

lately, and she only has one nurse now. Unfortunately, she, too, was out

for the afternoon. I came back to find my mother ill and much

upset–and there’s no use denying it—she’d all the symptoms of having

been—well, frightened. I can’t think of any other term than

that—frightened. And then I learned that, in my absence, Mr. Eldrick’s

clerk, Mr. Pratt—you know him—had been here, and had been with her for

quite an hour. I am furiously angry!”

 

Collingwood had expected this announcement as soon as she began to

explain. So—the trouble was beginning!

 

“How came Pratt to be admitted to your mother?” he asked.

 

“That makes me angry, too,” answered Nesta. “Though I confess I ought to

be angry with myself for not giving stricter orders. I left the house

about two—he came about three, and asked to see my mother’s maid,

Esther Mawson. He told her that it was absolutely necessary for him to

see my mother on business, and she told my mother he was there. My

mother consented to see him—and he was taken up. And as I say, I found

her ill—and frightened—and that’s not the worst of it!”

 

“What is the worst of it?” asked Collingwood, anxiously. “Better tell

me!—I may be able to do something.”

 

“The worst