0,49 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 1,99 €
Niedrigster Preis in 30 Tagen: 1,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Dark House: A Knot Unravelled," George Manville Fenn crafts an intricate narrative that embarks on a haunting exploration of human psychology and the complexities of relationships. Set against a backdrop of gothic elements, the novel delves into themes of mystery, betrayal, and redemption. Fenn's masterful use of atmospheric description creates a palpable tension that envelops the reader, while his keen dialogue reveals the characters' inner struggles, making the text resonate deeply within the literary context of Victorian sensibilities towards morality and social critique. George Manville Fenn, a prolific author and notable figure of the 19th century, was driven by a fervent desire to reflect the nuances of human experience. Many of his works were informed by his own life as a journalist and a chronicler of social issues, which allowed him to bring authenticity to his character portrayals. "The Dark House" reflects Fenn's commitment to exploring the darker facets of life, likely influenced by his experiences in a rapidly changing society marked by industrialization and social unrest. This novel is highly recommended for readers seeking an immersive experience in Victorian literature infused with psychological depth. Fenn's ability to weave suspense while inviting introspection makes this work a compelling read for those who appreciate nuanced storytelling and richly developed characters. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Ähnliche
The Dark House: A Knot Unravelled
Table of Contents
"The Dark House"
Chapter One.
Number 9A, Albemarle Square.
“Don’t drink our sherry, Charles?”
Mr Preenham, the butler, stood by the table in the gloomy servants’ hall, as if he had received a shock.
“No, sir; I took ’em up the beer at first, and they shook their heads and asked for wine, and when I took ’em the sherry they shook their heads again, and the one who speaks English said they want key-aunty.”
“Well, all I have got to say,” exclaimed the portly cook, “is, that if I had known what was going to take place, I wouldn’t have stopped an hour after the old man died. It’s wicked! And something awful will happen, as sure as my name’s Thompson.”
“Don’t say that, Mrs Thompson,” said the mild-looking butler. “It is very dreadful, though.”
“Dreadful isn’t the word. Are we ancient Egyptians? I declare, ever since them Hightalians have been in the house, going about like three dark conspirators in a play, I’ve had the creeps. I say, it didn’t ought to be allowed.”
“What am I to say to them, sir?” said the footman, a strongly built man, with shifty eyes and quickly twitching lips.
“Well, look here, Charles,” said the butler, slowly wiping his mouth with his hand, “We have no Chianti wine. You must take them a bottle of Chambertin.”
“My!” ejaculated cook.
“Chambertin, sir?”
“It’s Mr Girtle’s orders. They’ve come here straight from Paris on purpose, and they are to have everything they want.”
The butler left the gloomy room, and Mrs Thompson, a stout lady, who moved only when she was obliged, turned to the thin, elderly housemaid.
“Mark my words, Ann,” she said. “It’s contr’y to nature, and it’ll bring a curse.”
“Well,” said the woman, “it can’t make the house more dull than it has been.”
“I don’t know,” said the cook.
“I never see a house before where there was no need to shut the shutters and pull down the blinds because some one’s dead.”
“Well, it is a gloomy place, Ann, but we’ve done all these years most as we liked. One meal a day and the rest at his club, and never any company. There ain’t many places like that.”
“No,” sighed Ann. “I suppose we shall all have to go.”
“Oh, I don’t know, my dear. Mr Ramo says he thinks master’s left all his money to his great nephew, Mr Capel, and may be he’ll have the house painted up and the rooms cleaned, and keep lots of company. An’ he may marry this Miss Dungeon—ain’t her name?”
“D’E-n-g-h-i-e-n,” said the housemaid, spelling it slowly. “I don’t know what you call it. She’s very handsome, but so orty. I like Miss Lawrence. Only to think, master never seeing a soul, and living all these years in this great shut-up house, and then, as soon as the breath’s out of his body, all these relatives turning up.”
“Where the carcase is, there the eagles are gathered together,” said cook, solemnly.
“Oh, don’t talk like that, cook.”
“You’re not obliged to listen, my dear,” said cook, rubbing her knees gently.
“I declare, it’s been grievous to me,” continued the housemaid, “all those beautiful rooms, full of splendid furniture, and one not allowed to do more than keep ’em just clean. Not a blind drawn up, or a window opened. It’s always been as if there was a funeral in the house. Think master was crossed in love?”
“No. Not he. Mr Ramo said that master was twice over married to great Indian princesses, abroad. I s’pose they left him all their money. Oh, here is Mr Ramo!”
The door had opened, and a tall, thin old Hindoo, with piercing dark eyes and wrinkled brown face, came softly in. He was dressed in a long, dark, red silken cassock, that seemed as if woven in one piece, and fitted his spare form rather closely from neck to heel; a white cloth girdle was tied round his waist, and for sole ornament there were a couple of plain gold rings in his ears.
As he entered he raised his thin, largely-veined brown hands to his closely-cropped head, half making the native salaam, and then, said in good English:
“Mr Preenham not here?”
“He’ll be back directly, Mr Ramo,” said the cook. “There, there, do sit down, you look worn out.”
The Hindoo shook his head and walked to the window, which looked out into an inner area.
At that moment the butler entered, and the Hindoo turned to him quickly, and laid his hand upon his arm.
“There, there, don’t fret about it, Mr Ramo,” said the butler. “It’s what we must all come to—some day.”
“Yes, but this, this,” said the Hindoo, in a low, excited voice. “Is—is it right?”
The butler was silent for a few moments.
“Well,” he said at last, “it’s right, and its wrong, as you may say. It’s master’s own orders, for there it was in his own handwriting in his desk. ‘Instructions for my solicitor.’ Mr Girtle showed it me, being an old family servant.”
“Yes, yes—he showed it to me.”
“Oh, it was all there,” continued the butler. “Well, as I was saying, it’s right so far; but it’s wrong, because it’s not like a Christian burial.”
“No, no,” cried the Hindoo, excitedly. “Those men—they make me mad. I cannot bear it. Look!” he cried, “he should have died out in my country, where we would have laid him on sweet scented woods, and baskets of spices and gums, and there, where the sun shines and the palm trees wave, I, his old servant, would have fired the pile, and he would have risen up in the clouds of smoke, and among the pure clear flames of fire, till nothing but the ashes was left. Yes, yes, that would have been his end,” he cried, with flashing eyes, as he seemed to mentally picture the scene; “and then thy servant could have died with thee. Oh, Sahib, Sahib, Sahib!”
He clasped his hands together, the fire died from his eyes, which became suffused with tears, and as he uttered the last word thrice in a low moaning voice, he stood rocking himself to and fro.
The two women looked horrified and shuddered, but the piteous grief was magnetic, and in the deep silence that fell they began to sob; while the butler blew his nose softly, coughed, and at last laid his hand upon the old servant’s shoulder.
“Shake hands, Mr Ramo,” he said huskily. “Fifteen years you and me’s been together, and if we haven’t hit it as we might, well, it was only natural, me being an Englishman and you almost a black; but it’s this as brings us all together, natives and furreners, and all. He was a good master, God bless him! and I’m sorry he’s gone.”
The old Indian looked up at him half wonderingly for a few moments. Then, taking the extended hand in both of his, he held it for a time, and pressed it to his heart, dropped it, and turned to go.
“Won’t you take something, Mr Ramo?”
“No—no!” said the Indian, shaking his head, and he glided softly out of the servants’ hall, went silently, in his soft yellow leather slippers, down a long passage and up a flight of stone stairs, to pass through a glass door, and stand in the large gloomy hall, in the middle of one of the marble squares that turned the floor into a vast chess-board, round which the giant pieces seemed to be waiting to commence the game.
For the faint light that came through the thick ground-glass fanlight over the great double doors was diffused among black bronze statues and white marble figures of Greek and Roman knights. In one place, seated meditatively, with hands resting upon the knees, there was an Indian god, seeming to watch the floor. In another, a great Japanese warrior, while towards the bottom of the great winding staircase, whose stone steps were covered with heavy dark carpet, was a marble, that imagination might easily have taken for a queen.
Here and there the panelled walls were ornamented with stands of Indian arms and armour, conical helmets, once worn by Eastern chiefs, with pendent curtains, and suits of chain mail. Bloodthirsty daggers, curved scimitars, spears, clumsy matchlocks, and long straight swords, whose hilt was an iron gauntlet, in which the warrior’s fingers were laced as they grasped a handle placed at right angles to the blade, after the fashion of a spade. There were shields, too, and bows and arrows, and tulwars and kukris, any number of warlike implements from the East, while beside the statues, the West had to show some curious chairs, and a full-length portrait of an Englishman in the prime of life—a handsome, bold-faced man, in the uniform of one of John Company’s regiments, his helmet in his hand, and his breast adorned with orders and jewels of foreign make.
The old Indian servant stood there like one of the statues, as the dining-room door opened and three dark, closely-shaven and moustached men, in black, came out softly, and went silently up the stairs.
There was something singularly furtive and strange about them as they followed one another in silence, all three alike in their dress coats and turned-down white collars, beneath which was a narrow strip of ribbon, knotted in front.
They passed on and on up the great winding stairs, past the drawing-room, from whence came the low buzz of voices, to a door at the back of the house, beside a great stained-glass window, whose weird lights shone down upon a lion-skin rug.
Here the first man stopped for his companions, to reach his side. Then, whispering a few words to them, he took a key from his pocket, opened the door, withdrew the key, and entered the darkened room, closing and locking the door, as the old Indian crept softly up, sank upon his knees upon the skin rug, his hands clasped, his head bent down, and resting against the panels of the door.
Chapter Two.
The Dead Man’s Relatives.
“I can tell you very little, Mr Capel. I have been your great uncle’s confidential solicitor ever since he returned from India. I was a mere boy when he went away. He knew me then, and when he came back he sought me out.”
“And that is twenty-five years ago, Mr Girtle?”
“Yes. The year you were born.”
“And he made you his confidant?”
“Yes; he gave me his confidence, as far as I think he gave it to any man.”
“And did he always live in this way?”
“Always. He filled up the house with the vast collection of curiosities and things that he had been sending home for years, and I expected that he would entertain, and lead the life of an English gentleman; but no, the house has been closed for twenty-five years.”
Mr Girtle, a clean-shaven old gentleman, with yellow face, dark, restless eyes and bright grey hair, took a pinch of snuff from a handsome gold box, flicked a few grains from his white shirt-front, and said “Hah.”
“Had my uncle met with any great disappointment?” said the first speaker, a frank-looking man with closely curling brown hair, and a high, white forehead.
“What, to make him take to this strange life? Oh, no. He was peculiar, but not unhappy. He liked to be alone, but he was always bright and cheerful at his club.”
“You met him there, then?” said a fresh voice, and a handsome, dark young fellow, who had been leaning back in an easy chair in the dim drawing-room, sat up quickly, playing with his little black moustache.
“Oh, yes! I used to dine with Colonel Capel when we had business to transact.”
“But, here you say he led the life of a miser!” continued the young man, crossing his legs, and examining the toe of his patent leather boot.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Gerard Artis, I did not say that. Your great uncle was no miser. He spent money freely, sometimes, in charities. Yes,” he continued, turning to where two ladies were seated. “Colonel Capel was often very charitable.”
“I never saw his name in any charitable list,” said the darker of the two ladies, speaking in a sweet, silvery voice; and her beautiful regular features seemed to attract both the previous speakers.
“No, Miss D’Enghien, I suppose not,” said the old man, nodding his head and rising to begin walking up and down, snuff-box in hand. “Neither did I. But he was very charitable in his own particular way, and he was very kind.”
“Yes,” said the young man who had first spoken; “very kind. I have him to thank for my school and college education.”
“Well—yes,” said the old lawyer; “I suppose it is no breach of confidence to say that it is so.”
“And I have to thank him for mine, and the pleasant life I have led, Mr Girtle, have I not?” said the second of the ladies; and, but for the gloom, the flush that came into her sweet face would have been plainly visible.
At that moment the footman entered with a letter upon a massive salver, and as he walked straight to the old lawyer, he cast quick, furtive glances at the other occupants of the room.
“A note, eh?” said the old solicitor, balancing his gold-rimmed glasses upon his nose; “um—um—yes, exactly—very delicate of them to write. Tell them I will see them shortly, Charles.”
The footman bowed, and was retiring as silently as he came over the soft carpet, when he was checked by the old solicitor.
“You will tell Mr Preenham to see that these gentlemen have every attention.”
“Yes sir.”
The footman left the room almost without a sound, for the door was opened and closed noiselessly. The only thing that broke the terrible silence that seemed to reign was the faint clink of the silver tray against one of the metal buttons of the man’s coat. As for the magnificently furnished room, with its heavy curtains and drawn-down blinds, it seemed to have grown darker, so that the faint gleams of light that had hung in a dull way on the faces of the great mirrors and the gilded carving of console and cheffonier, had died out. It required no great effort of the imagination to believe that the influence of the dead man who had passed so many solitary years in that shut-up house was still among them, making itself felt with a weight from which they could not free themselves.
Paul Capel looked across at the beautiful face of Katrine D’Enghien, thinking of her creole extraction, and the half French, half American father who had married his relative. He expected to see her looking agitated as her cousin, Lydia Lawrence, but she sat back with one arm gracefully hanging over the side of the chair, her lustrous eyes half closed; and a pang strongly akin to jealousy shot through him as it seemed that those eyes were resting on the young elegant at his side.
“Yes,” said the old solicitor, suddenly, and his voice made all start but Miss D’Enghien, who did not even move her eyelids; “as I was saying,” he went on, tapping his snuff-box, “I can tell you very little, Mr Capel, until the will is read.”
“Then there is a will?” said Miss D’Enghien.
The old lawyer’s brows wrinkled, as he glanced at her in surprise.
“Yes, my dear young lady, there is a will.”
“And it will be read, of course, directly after the funeral?” said the dark young man.
The lawyer did not reply.
“I suppose you think it’s bad form of a man asking such questions now; but really, Mr Girtle, it would be worse form for a fellow to be pulling a long face about one he never saw.”
“But he was your father’s friend.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“Hence you, sir, are here,” continued the lawyer. “My instructions were clear enough. I was to invite you here at this painful time, and take my old friend’s place as your host.”
“You have been most kind, Mr Girtle,” said Miss D’Enghien.
“I thank you, madam, and I grieve that you should have to be present at so painful a time. My next instructions were to send for the Italian professor, who is here to carry out the wishes of the deceased.”
“Horrible idea for a man to wish to be embalmed,” said Artis, brutally.
Lydia Lawrence shuddered, and turned away her face. Paul Capel glanced indignantly at the speaker, and then turned to gaze at Katrine D’Enghien, who sat perfectly unmoved, her hand still hanging from the side of the chair, as if to show the graceful contour of her arm.
“Colonel Capel had been a great part of his life in the East, Mr Artis,” said the old lawyer, coldly. “He had had the matter in his mind for some time.”
“How do you know that?”
“By the date on my instructions, which also contained the Italian professor’s card.”
“And I suppose we shall have a very eccentric will, sir.”
