The Red Window Read online

  The Red Window

  CHAPTER I

  COMRADES

  "Hullo, Gore!"

  The young soldier stopped, started, colored with annoyance, and with asurprised expression turned to look on the other soldier who hadaddressed him. After a moment's scrutiny of the stranger's genial smilehe extended his hand with pleased recognition. "Conniston," said he, "Ithought you were in America."

  "So I am; so don't call me Conniston at the pitch of your voice, oldboy. His lordship of that name is camping on Californian slopes for abig game shoot. The warrior who stands before you is Dick West of the---- Lancers, the old Come-to-the-Fronts. And what are you doing as anImperial Yeoman, Gore?"

  "Not that name," said the other, with an anxious glance around. "Likeyourself, I don't want to be known."

  "Oh! So you are sailing under false colors also?"

  "Against my will, Conniston--I mean West. I am Corporal Bernard."

  "Hum!" said Lord Conniston, with an approving nod. "You have kept yourChristian name, I see."

  "It is all that remains of my old life," replied Gore, bitterly. "Butyour title, Conniston?"

  "Has disappeared," said the lancer, good-humoredly, "until I can makeenough money to gild it."

  "Do you hope to do that on a private's pay?"

  West shrugged his shoulders. "I hope to fight my way during the war to ageneral's rank. With that and a V.C., an old castle and an older title,I may catch a dollar heiress by the time the Boers give in."

  "You don't put in your good looks, Conniston," said Bernard, smiling.

  "Dollar heiresses don't buy what's in the shop-windows, old man. Butwon't you explain your uniform and dismal looks?"

  Gore laughed. "My dismal looks have passed away since we have met soopportunely," he said, looking across the grass. "Come and sit down. Wehave much to say to one another."

  Conniston and Gore--they used the old names in preference to thenew--walked across the grass to an isolated seat under a leafless elm.The two old friends had met near the magazine in Hyde Park, on theborders of the Serpentine, and the meeting was as unexpected aspleasant. It was a gray, damp October day, and the trees were rainingyellow, brown and red leaves on the sodden ground. Yet a breath ofsummer lingered in the atmosphere, and there was a warmth in the airwhich had lured many people to the Park. Winter was coming fast, and theplace, untidy with withered leaves, bare of flowers, and dismal under asombre, windy sky, looked unattractive enough. But the two did not mindthe dreary day. Summer--the summer of youth--was in their hearts, and,recalling their old school friendship, they smiled on one another asthey sat down. In the distance a few children were playing, theirnursemaids comparing notes or chatting with friends or stray policemen,so there was no one near to overhear what they had to say. A number offashionable carriages rolled along the road, and occasionally someonethey knew would pass. But vehicles and people belonged to the old worldout of which they had stepped into the new, and they sat like a coupleof Peris at the gate of Paradise, but less discontented.

  Both the young men were handsome in their several ways. The yeoman wastall, slender, dark and markedly quiet in his manner. His clear-cut facewas clean-shaven; he had black hair, dark blue eyes, put in--as theIrish say--with a dirty finger, and his figure was admirablyproportioned. In his khaki he looked a fine specimen of a man in histwenty-fifth year. But his expression was stern, even bitter, and therewere thoughtful furrows on his forehead which should not have been thereat his age. Conniston noted these, and concluded silently that the worldhad gone awry with his formerly sunny-faced friend. At Eton, Gore hadalways been happy and good-tempered.

  Conniston himself formed a contrast to his companion. He was not tall,but slightly-built and wiry, alert in his manner and quick in hismovements. As fair as Gore was dark, he wore a small light mustache,which he pulled restlessly when excited. In his smart, tight-fittinguniform he looked a natty jimp soldier, and his reduced position did notseem to affect his spirits. He smiled and joked and laughed and bubbledover with delight on seeing his school chum again. Gore was alsodelighted, but, being quieter, did not reveal his pleasure so openly.

  When they were seated, the lancer produced an ornate silver case, fartoo extravagant for a private, and offered Gore a particularly excellentcigarette. "I have a confiding tobacconist," said Conniston, "whosupplies me with the best, in the hope that I'll pay him some day. I canstand a lot, but bad tobacco is beyond my powers of endurance. I'm aself-indulgent beast, Gore!"

  Gore lighted up. "How did your tobacconist know you?" he asked.

  "Because a newly-grown mustache wasn't a sufficient disguise. I walkedinto the shop one day hoping he was out. But he chanced to be in, andimmediately knew me. I made him promise to hold his tongue, and said Ihad volunteered for the war. He's a good chap, and never told a soul.Oh, my aunt!" chattered Conniston. "What would my noble relatives say ifthey saw me in this kit?"

  "You are supposed to be in California?"

  "That's so--shootin'. But I'm quartered at Canterbury, and only come upto town every now and again. Of course I take care to keep out of thefashionable world, so no one's spotted me yet."

  "Your officers!"

  "There's no one in the regiment I know. The Tommies take me for agentleman who has gone wrong, and I keep to their society. Not that aprivate has much to do with the officers. They take little notice of me,and I've learned to say, 'Sir!' quite nicely," grinned Conniston.

  "What on earth made you enlist?"

  "I might put the same question to you, Bernard?"

  "I'll tell you my story later. Out with yours, old boy."

  "Just the same authoritative manner," said Conniston, shrugging. "Inever did have a chap order me about as you do. If you weren't such agood chap you'd have been a bully with that domineering way you have. Iwonder how you like knuckling under to orders?"

  "He who cannot serve is not fit to command," quoted Gore, sententiously."Go on with the story."

  "It's not much of a story. I came in for the title three years ago, whenI was rising twenty. But I inherited nothing else. My respectedgrandfather made away with nearly all the family estates, and my poorfather parted with the rest. Upon my word," said the young lord,laughing, "with two such rascals as progenitors, it's wonderful I shouldbe as good as I am. They drank and gambled and--"

  "Don't, Conniston. After all your father _is_ your father."

  "_Was_ my father, you mean. He's dead and buried in the family vault. Iown that much property--all I have."

  "Where is it?"

  "At Cove Castle in the Essex Marshes!"

  "I remember. You told me about it at school. Cove Castle is ten milesfrom Hurseton."

  "And Hurseton is where your uncle, Sir Simon, lives."

  Gore looked black. "Yes," he said shortly. "Go on!"

  Conniston drew his own conclusions from the frown, rattled on in hisusual cheerful manner. "I came into the title as I said, but scarcely anacre is there attached to it, save those of mud and water round CoveCastle. I had a sum of ready money left by my grandmother--old LadyTain, you remember--and I got through that as soon as possible. Itdidn't last long," added the profligate, grinning; "but I had a glorioustime while it lasted. Then the smash came. I took what was left and wentto America. Things got worse there, so, on hearing the war was on, Icame back and enlisted as Dick West. I revealed myself only to mylawyer; and, of course, my tobacconist--old Taberley--knows. But fromparagraphs in the Society papers about my noble self I'm supposed to bein California. Of course, as I told you, I take jolly good care to keepout of everyone's way. I'm off to the Cape in a month, and then ifFortune favors me with a commission and a V.C. I'll take up the titleagain."

  "You still hold the castle, then?"

  "Yes. It's the last of the old property. Old Mother Moon looks after itfor me. She's a horrid old squaw, but devoted to me. So she ought to be.I got that brat of a grandson of hers a situation
as messenger boy toold Taberley. Not that he's done much good. He's out of his place now,and from all accounts, is a regular young brute."

  "Does he know you have enlisted?"

  "What, young Judas--I call him Judas," said Conniston, "because he'ssuch a criminal kid. No, he doesn't. Taberley had to turn him away forrobbing the till or something. Judas has spoiled his morals by readingpenny novels, and by this time I shouldn't wonder if he hasn't embarkedon a career of crime like a young Claude Duval. No, Gore, he doesn'tknow. I'm glad of it--as he would tell Mother Moon, and then she'd howlthe castle down at the thought of the head of the West family beingbrought so low."

  "West is your family name, isn't it?"

  "It is; and Richard is my own name--Richard Grenville Plantagenet West,Lord Conniston. That's my title. But I dropped all frills, and here Ismoke, Dick West at your service, Bernard, my boy. So now you've askedme enough questions, what's your particular lie?"

  "Dick, Dick, you are as hair-brained as ever. I never could--"

  "No," interrupted Conniston, "you never could sober me. Bless you,Bernard, it's better to laugh than frown, though you don't think so."

  Gore pitched away the stump of his cigarette and laughed somewhat sadly."I have cause to frown," said he, wrinkling his forehead. "Mygrandfather has cut me off with a shilling."

  "The deuce he has," said Conniston coolly. "Take another cigarette, oldboy, and buck up. Now that you haven't a cent, you'll be able to carveyour way to fortune."

  "That's a philosophic way to look at the matter, Dick."

  "The only way," rejoined Conniston, emphatically. "When you've cut yourmoorings you can make for mid-ocean and see life. It's storm that triesthe vessel, Bernard, and you're too good a chap to lie up in port as adull country squire."

  Bernard looked round, surprised. It was not usual to hear thelight-hearted Dicky moralize thus. He was as sententious as Touchstone,and for the moment Gore, who usually gave advice, found himselfreceiving it. The two seemed to have changed places. Dick noticed thelook and slapped Gore on the back. "I've been seeing life since weparted at Eton, old boy," said he, "and it--the trouble of it, Imean--has hammered me into shape."

  "It hasn't made you despondent, though."

  "And it never will," said Conniston, emphatically, "until I meet withthe woman who refuses to marry me. Then I'll howl."

  "You haven't met the woman yet?"

  "No. But you have. I can see it in the telltale blush. Bless me, oldGore, how boyish you are. I haven't blushed for years."

  "You hardened sinner. Yes! There is a woman, and she is the cause of mytrouble."

  "The usual case," said the worldly-wise Richard. "Who is she?"

  "Her name is Alice," said Gore, slowly, his eyes on the damp grass.

  "A pretty unromantic, domestic name. 'Don't you remember sweet Alice,Ben Bolt?'"

  "I'm always remembering her," said Gore, angrily. "Don't quote thatsong, Dick. I used to sing it to her. Poor Alice."

  "What's her other name?"

  "Malleson--Alice Malleson!"

  "Great Scott!" said Conniston, his jaw falling. "The niece of MissBerengaria Plantagenet?"

  "Yes! Do you know--?" Here Gore broke off, annoyed with himself. "Ofcourse. How could I forget? Miss Plantagenet is your aunt."

  "My rich aunt, who could leave me five thousand a year if she'd onlydie. But I daresay she'll leave it to Alice with the light-brown hair,and you'll marry her."

  "Conniston, don't be an ass. If you know the story of Miss Malleson'slife, you must know that there isn't the slightest chance of herinheriting the money."

  "Ah, but, you see, Bernard, I don't know the story."

  "You know Miss Plantagenet. She sometimes talks of you."

  "How good of her, seeing that I've hardly been in her company for thelast ten years. I remember going to "The Bower" when a small boy, andmaking myself ill with plums in a most delightful kitchen garden. I wasscolded by a wonderful old lady as small as a fairy and rather like onein looks--a regular bad fairy."

  "No! no. She is very kind."

  "She wasn't to me," confessed Conniston; "but I daresay she will havemore respect for me now that I'm the head of the family. Lord! to thinkof that old woman's money."

  "Conniston, she would be angry if she knew you had enlisted. She is soproud of her birth and of her connection with the Wests. Why don't youcall and tell her--"

  "No, indeed. I'll do nothing of the sort. And don't you say a wordeither, Bernard. I'm going to carve out my own fortune. I don't wantmoney seasoned with advice from that old cat."

  "She is not an old cat!"

  "She must be, for she wasn't a kitten when I saw her years ago. Butabout Miss Malleson. Who is she? I know she's Miss Plantagenet's niece.But who is she?"

  "She is not the niece--only an adopted one. She has been with MissPlantagenet for the last nine years, and came from a French convent.Miss Plantagenet treats her like a niece, but it is an understood thingthat Alice is to receive no money."

  "That looks promising for me," said Conniston, pulling his mustache,"but my old aunt is so healthy that I'll be gray in the head before Iget a cent. So you've fallen in love with Alice?"

  "Yes," sighed Gore, drawing figures with his cane. "I love her dearlyand she loves me. But my grandfather objects. I insisted upon marryingAlice, so he cut me off with a shilling. I expect the money will go tomy cousin, Julius Beryl, and, like you, I'll have to content myself witha barren title."

  "But why is Sir Simon so hard, Gore?"

  Bernard frowned again. "Do you notice how dark I am?" he asked.

  "Yes! You have rather an Italian look."

  "That's clever of you, Dick. My mother was Italian, the daughter of anoble Florentine family; but in England was nothing but a poorgoverness. My father married her, and Sir Simon--_his_ father--cut himoff. Then when my parents died, my grandfather sent for me, and broughtme up. We have never been good friends," sighed Bernard again, "and whenI wanted to marry Alice there was a row. I fear I lost my temper. Youknow from my mother I inherit a fearful temper, nor do I think the Goresare the calmest of people. However, Sir Simon swore that he wouldn'thave another _mesalliance_ in the family and--"

  "_Mesalliance?_"

  "Yes! No one knows who Alice is, and Miss Plantagenet--who doesknow--won't tell."

  "You said no one knew, and now you say Miss Plantagenet does," saidConniston, laughing. "You're getting mixed, Bernard. Well, so you andSir Simon had a row?"

  "A royal row. He ordered me out of the house. I fear I said thingsto him I should not have said, but my blood was boiling at theinsults he heaped on Alice. And you know Sir Simon is a miser. Myextravagance--though I really wasn't very extravagant--might have donesomething to get his back up. However, the row came off, and I wasturned away. I came to town, and could see nothing better to do thanenlist, so I have been in the Yeomanry for the last four months, andhave managed to reach the rank of corporal. I go out to the war soon."

  "We'll go together," said Conniston, brightening, "and then when youcome back covered with glory, Sir Simon--"

  "No. He won't relent unless I give up Alice, and that I will not do.What does it matter if Alice is nameless? I love her, and that is enoughfor me!"

  "And too much for your grandfather, evidently. But what about thatcousin of yours, you used to talk of? Lucy something--"

  "Lucy Randolph. Oh, she's a dear little girl, and has been an angel. Sheis trying to soothe Sir Simon, and all through has stood my friend. Imade her promise that she would put a lamp in the Red Window when SirSimon relented--if he ever does relent."

  Conniston looked puzzled. "The Red Window?"

  "Ah! You don't know the legend of the Red Window. There is a window ofthat sort at the Hall, which was used during the Parliamentary wars toadvise loyal cavaliers of danger. It commands a long prospect down theside avenue. The story is too long to tell you. But, you see, Conniston,I can't get near the house, and my only chance of knowing if Sir Simonis better disposed towards me
is by looking from the outside of the parkup to the Red Window. If this shows a red light I know that he isrelenting; if not, he is still angry. I have been once or twice to theHall," said Gore, shaking his head, "but no light has been shown."

  "What a roundabout way of letting you know things. Can't Lucy write?"

  Gore shook his head again. "No. You see, she is engaged to Julius, whohates me."

  "Oh, that Beryl man. He comes in for the money?"

  "Now that I'm chucked I suppose he will," said Bernard, gloomily; "and Idon't want to get poor Lucy into his black books, as he isn't a nicesort of chap. He won't thank her if she tries to bias the old man in myfavor. And then there's the housekeeper who doesn't like me--Mrs. Gilroyher name is. She and Julius will both keep Sir Simon's temper alive. Ican't write to him, or my letter would be intercepted and destroyed byMrs. Gilroy. Lucy can't write me because of Julius, so my only chance ofknowing if the old man is thinking better of his determination is bywatching for the red light. I shall go down again twice before I leavefor Africa."

  "And if you see the red light you won't stick to soldiering?"

  "Yes, I will. But I'll then walk boldly up to the Hall and tell SirSimon how sorry I am. But in any case I intend to fight for my country.Alice herself wouldn't ask me to be a coward and leave. I go to the Capewith you, Conniston," said Bernard, rising.

  "Good old chap," said Conniston, delighted, "you're the only fellow I'dcare to chum up with. I have often thought of you since we parted. Butyou rarely wrote to me."

  "You were the better correspondent, I admit," said Gore, as they walkedacross the bridge. "I am ashamed I did not continue our schoolfriendship, as we always were such chums, but--"

  "The inevitable woman. Ah, Delilah always comes between David andJonathan."

  "Don't call Alice by that name!" fired up Gore.

  "Well, then, I won't. But don't get in a wax. What a fire-brand you are,Gore! Just as fierce as you were at school."

  "Yes," said Bernard, quieting down. "I only hope my bad temper will notruin me some day. I tell you, Conniston, when Sir Simon pitched into meI felt inclined to throw something at his head. He was most insulting. Ididn't mind what he said about me, but when he began to slang Alice Itold him I'd pitch him out of the window if he didn't stop. And I saidmany other foolish things."

  "Shouldn't do that. He's an old man."

  "I know--I know. I was a fool. But you have no idea how readily mytemper gets the better of me. I could strangle anyone who said a wordagainst my Alice."

  "Well, don't strangle me," said Conniston, laughing. "I won't call herDelilah again, I promise you. But about your Red Window business--youneedn't go down to the Hall for a week or so."

  "Why not?"

  "Because Sir Simon is in town."

  "Nonsense. He never comes to town."

  "He has this time. Queerly enough, his lawyers are mine. I saw him atthe office and asked who he was. Durham, my lawyer friend, told me."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Three days. I came up on business, and was in plains!"

  "Plains?"

  "What! you a soldier and don't know plain clothes are called so. You arean old ass, Bernard. But, I say, I've got digs of a sort hereabouts.Come and dine with me to-night."

  "But I haven't any dress clothes. I got rid of them, thinking I wasgoing to the Cape sooner."

  "Then come in khaki. You look A 1 in it. Here's the address," andConniston hastily scribbled something on his card. "I shall expect youat seven."

  The two friends parted with a hearty handshake, and Gore walked awayfeeling happier than he had been. Conniston, gazing after him, felt atug at his coat. He looked down, and saw a small boy. "Judas," saidConniston, "you young brute! How did you know me?"