CHAPTER XXVII
After the plain speaking which had passed between Richard Meadowes and his son, a readjustment of their relationships seemed necessary. It was not possible for them to keep up the former pretence of amity, yet Meadowes was anxious that no hint of their differences should reach the outside world. He called Philip to him one day and explained the case to him.
‘I would not have all the world know how it fares betwixt us, Phil,’ he said. ‘I had rather keep that bitter knowledge to myself; but things being as they are, ’twill be better for us now to live apart,—the one at Fairmeadowes, the other in town. I purpose after this date giving over the house in St. James’ Square to you, while I reside myself at Fairmeadowes. I care no longer for the amusements of the town.’
Phil objected at first to this arrangement as too generous. ‘You will tire of a rural existence, sir,’ he said, ‘ere six months are gone, and then—supposing me to have married in the meantime—I and my wife will have to rearrange our establishment once more. ’Twould be better for you to keep the house in town, and let me have another and smaller one.’
But Meadowes would not hear of this.
‘I cannot tell you, Phil, how it is with me,’ he said, leaning his head on his hand as he spoke. ‘And—may you never understand—a great weariness hath fallen over me, that is of the mind, not of the body. I care for nothing; the game is played out. So make no further parley over this; take what I offer and welcome: as you pointed out to me ’tis but your due, in a sense.’
‘Then you fully understand, sir, that I bring Carrie Shepley to live in your house?’
‘Bring her and welcome—ah, you think that will bring you happiness, Phil, but you are mistaken. Happiness is a creature of the fancy, she is never caught and held; always flits ahead. You’ll not find her in Carrie Shepley—no, nor in aught in this world.’
‘My dear sir, I fear you will be turning monk, when I hear you despise the good things of this world, as you do just now,’ said Phil. He laid his hand on his father’s shoulder with the caressing way he had to every one. Meadowes smiled.
‘I know better than to think happiness lies there either,’ he said.—‘But to return to business: you mean to marry this girl as soon as may be?’
‘So soon as she will have me, sir.’
‘I shall make you an allowance then, Phil, and the house in St. James’ Square; and you understand that the outer world still considers us as a devoted father and son.’
‘They will be right to name you a generous father at least, sir,’ said Phil, and he held out his hand suddenly to his father as he spoke. ‘Don’t name me ungrateful, sir,’ he added; ‘I see all you have done for me.’
It was a very painful moment to them both, for each understood how one spontaneous expression of affection on Phil’s part would have taken away all difficulty from the situation; and yet the possibility of giving it was not there. Gratitude, however sincere it may be, if unwarmed by love, is cold as icicles.
Now that his affairs were arranged in this unsatisfactory fashion, Phil lost no time in presenting himself at Jermyn Street, to ask for the hand of Miss Caroline Shepley in marriage.
Carrie stood at the window that evening looking out into the dusty little street, when all at once she saw Phil come up the steps and heard his knock at the door. Her father sat by the fire reading, unsuspicious of the blow that was about to fall. Carrie turned away from the window and came towards him.
‘Father,’ she said, in a very tense voice, then waited for a moment, not knowing what to say; and Phil, who was very impatient that night, knocked again more loudly than before. ‘I am sure my heart makes as much noise as the knocker!’ thought Carrie, as she listened. Sebastian looked up—
‘Well? what is it, my daughter?’
‘Philip,’ said Carrie.
Then as in a dream she heard Patty’s familiar voice announce her lover’s name, and a moment later saw her dear Phil stand beside her.
‘How are you, Carrie?’ he said, as if they had never been parted, and then he held out his hand to Sebastian.
‘I fear I come as an unwelcome guest, sir,’ he said.
‘I cannot welcome you,’ said Sebastian shortly; but he motioned to Phil to take a seat.
‘I need not tell you why I am come, sir,’ pursued Phil, who wasted no time upon preliminaries.
‘I have given Carrie her choice betwixt you and me; ’tis for her to speak,’ said Sebastian for answer.
Carrie had been standing behind her father during this conversation; she came now and sat on the arm of his chair, bent down, and whispered a few words in his ear. He rose, and taking her hand in his held it for a moment and then laid it in Phil’s.
‘She belongs to you now, Philip Meadowes,’ he said.
‘Oh, dada dear, love him too!’ pleaded Carrie, and the tears gathered in her blue eyes at the cold sound of her father’s voice.
‘You ask the impossible, Carrie,’ said he.
‘Perhaps, sir, time may soften the prejudice you entertain for me,’ said Phil. ‘Indeed I shall do my utmost to make Carrie a good husband.’
‘Do not misunderstand me, Meadowes,’ said Sebastian. ‘The feeling I have against you is quite impersonal, else I had not given you Carrie’s hand in marriage. I think you will make her happy; but for all that I cannot be your friend, I cannot bear to look upon your face!’ He rose at the last words and left the room, and Carrie and Phil looked at each in perplexity.
‘Ah, Phil, ’tis terrible,’ said Carrie, ‘and I so happy! my dearest father——’
Phil refused to look upon the tragic side of the case, however. He was far too pleased to think anything very far wrong.
‘Dear heart, you must not grieve; Dr. Shepley will forget after a time; the best you can do is to marry me at once. When that is done he will forgive you. He thinks now to prevent the wedding by his displeasure, but when he sees that impossible his resentment will die out. Come, Carrie, the sooner you arrange for our marriage the better ’twill be for all concerned.’
Perhaps Carrie did not need very much persuasion. Two years of waiting had been quite long enough.
‘I shall see my aunt, Lady Mallow, and she will decide the date for us,’ she said, and then, as Phil prepared to go, she whispered, ‘I shall make her arrange it soon.’
CHAPTER XXVIII
In spite of her happiness Carrie made a very tearful bride. The parting from her father was exquisitely painful to her, and not all Phil’s endearments could at first bring a smile to her lips. For Sebastian had told her that he could have nothing to do with her now, that their parting was final. The only way in which Carrie could hear of how he fared was by sending Peter to inquire of Patty, and Patty (a mature spinster), while she inwardly exclaimed over the turn of Fortune’s wheel which thus brought her former admirer again to her door, was fain to invent messages which would reassure Carrie’s anxious heart.
‘Lor’! Mr. Peter,’ she would say, ‘ ’tis distressful to see the Doctor now-a-days.—And how doth dear Miss Carrie (as was) do?’
‘Mrs. Meadowes has her health perfect,’ Peter would respond, ‘but is ever fretting over the Doctor, so I had best make up some message from you, and mayhap some evening you might step down to the Square yourself and make her more easy in the mind about him?’
Patty, in spite of her years and her wisdom, would shake her head coquettishly at this suggestion, and invent some message for Peter which had no foundation in fact. ‘The Doctor is well, madam, and eats hearty; was out the most part of the day at the hospital, and dined with his friend Dr. Munro,’ Peter would announce. And on such fragments Carrie had to appease her hungry heart.
Sebastian, poor man, had never been less inclined for social intercourse; had never eaten his meals with so little ‘heartiness’; had never visited the hospitals so seldom; but those two well-meaning retainers thought it kinder to suppress the true facts of the case—and perhaps they were right.
‘Never fear, Carrie; he will come round—parents always do; they can’t do without us,’ Phil used to say. ‘I wish you knew all the disputes I’ve had with my father!’ But Carrie said the cases were not quite similar, she fancied, and refused to be comforted.
‘ ’Tis well I am so beautifully happy with you, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘for this trouble weighs so on my heart that had I any other ’twould break in two.’
‘Oh, no fear!’ laughed Phil. They led a very gay life, these two exceedingly irresponsible young people, and indeed, older heads were nodded in wisdom, and prophecies were made that Carrie would have trouble enough with her wild young husband. Philip seemed, for the present at least, to have given up work of any kind. He meant to be in Parliament some day, he told Carrie, meantime he would enjoy himself and see the world. He was also letting Carrie see it, a process she much enjoyed, and, in Phil’s company, entered into with all her heart, unlike the lack-lustre young woman who had gone about with Lady Mallow the preceding winter. Carrie was now introduced into far finer circles than those of her worthy aunt. Her name figured in all the reports of what we should in this vulgar age call ‘smart’ society—a fact which afforded her a good deal of natural mundane satisfaction. ‘The beautiful Mrs. Meadowes,’ ‘Handsome Mrs. Philip Meadowes,’ ‘That most charming lady, Mrs. Meadowes’—these and similar descriptions of herself made Carrie dimple with pleasure. But a woman in such a position, so young, so beautiful, so unsophisticated, would, to defend herself aright, require a beak and claws, whereas our gentle Carrie had not even a sharp tongue wherewith to chastise her enemies. She entered society with no protection but simplicity—a much vaunted armour which, alas for the world, is in reality sadly vulnerable. Brought up as she had been almost exclusively among men—and honest men into the bargain—Carrie was quite ignorant of the wiles of her own sex, and scolded Philip heartily when he ventured to warn her against them; while, for the sterner sex, she entertained almost pathetic feelings of confidence and liking. The men did not exist (in consequence) who could resist her, and this more than any other cause at last opened Carrie’s eyes a little to the involutions of the feminine character. Alas! too late; half the women in London were jealous of her before Carrie was even distantly aware of it. She had smilingly accepted flowers and attention from many a man before it occurred to her that other women might be wanting them instead.
‘Just singe your wings, my dear butterfly,’ said Phil, ‘then you will understand what the candle is.’
‘Philip, it must be from your father you take such base views of human nature,’ said Carrie. ‘For certainly you have not lived long enough yourself to learn such views. ’Tis not my fault that I am good-looking, and I do not believe for a moment that other women dislike me for it.’
‘Wait—ah, just wait, Carrie. I agree with you that they do not dislike you for it—hateis the word.’
‘Phil, I am ashamed to hear my husband say such things,’ said Carrie, though she laughed in spite of herself.
I have said that Carrie liked and trusted all men; but with one exception—she could not abide the sight of Simon Prior.
‘I cannot say what it is, Phil,’ she said one day, ‘but to speak with Mr. Prior doth turn me sick. Pray, my dearest, is he a great friend? Could you not intimate to him that he visits my drawing-room too frequently?’
Prior had certainly got into a strange habit of haunting the house in St. James’ Square, considering how very lukewarm a reception he always received there. Carrie was one of those fortunate women who find it quite impossible to be anything except pleasant to every one. She would sit, smiling and charming, beside Simon Prior, while all the time she loathed the sound of his voice.
‘Do not be so pleasant to the man, Carrie,’ Phil suggested; and Carrie in genuine amazement opened her blue eyes widely:—
‘Philip, I was most discourteous to him but yesterday! Twice he hinted at his wish to accompany me on my airing, and each time I took no notice of his remark.’
‘But you smiled all the time, and seemed merely not to have noticed the hint, Carrie—instead of appearing purposely to ignore it.’
‘I tried my best; in honesty, Phil, I tried my best to be disagreeable,’ sighed Carrie, ‘so you must do it for me if I cannot manage it.’
Phil had no scruples. He waited for Prior to call again, and then set about finding some matter to differ upon; but Prior himself brought about the dispute finally.
‘I should like a word with you, Philip,’ he said, as he rose to say good-bye, and Phil, with a quite perceptible shrug, led the way into the library.
‘I wondered—not to beat about the bush, for frankness between friends is a good thing—I wondered, in fact, Philip, if you could accommodate me with a small loan—some £20, or perhaps less; I happen to be very much pressed just now; I—in fact, ’twould be a great boon.’
‘No,’ said Phil curtly; ‘I fear I cannot oblige you.’
‘Oh, I am sure you can. Your father would advance me the money to-morrow were he in town, and I look upon you as his representative,’ began Prior.
‘Were I in the way of lending money, sir,’ said Phil with great deliberation, ‘ ’twould be to another sort of man than you.’
‘Ha, ha—very good—the poor ever with us,’ said Prior uneasily; ‘but indeed you make a mistake when you take me for a rich man. I am constantly pressed for funds, as you see me to-day; you could scarcely find a needier object for accommodation, you——’
‘I could easily find a better,’ said Phil.
‘Philip, you call my honour in question!’ cried Prior.
‘I would never trouble to do so,’ said Phil; ‘because I do not consider that you have got any.’
For far less provocation men in those fighting days had risked their precious lives, as Phil was well aware. He had calculated the chances of having to fight with Prior, and his calculations were verified: Prior had no intention of fighting; he had swallowed many an insult.
‘For your father’s sake, Philip, I will not go further into the dispute,’ he said with the sorry attempt at dignity of a man who knows himself in the wrong.
Philip walked to the door and flung it open.
‘Adieu, Mr. Simon Prior,’ he said with great mock ceremony. And Carrie was not troubled with any more visits.
CHAPTER XXIX
Simon Prior had come out to Fairmeadowes to beg. It was not the first time he had begged from Richard Meadowes, and he had little shame about doing it. He even assumed a slightly bullying air as he made his modest demand for £100—he had not gone so high with Philip.
Meadowes sat by the fire in his usual easy lounging attitude. He did not look like a man inclined to dispute anything, and he listened quietly to Prior’s demand. But after he had considered it for a moment he spoke with the greatest decision of tone.
‘No, Prior; I have decided to give you no more. You’ve been bleeding me these twenty years, now you’ll bleed me no longer.’
Prior stood aghast, and Meadowes continued, ‘Angry, I suppose? Well, take what revenge you will. Mine is an old story now. Your own character, such as it is, will suffer full as much as mine should you make it public.’ He paused and drew his hand slowly across his eyes. ‘The fact is, I care no longer: I have nothing to lose: life is done—I would it had never begun for me. Mistake upon mistake; and now a dead heart. D’you remember the old torment? They used to build living men into a wall slowly with bricks and mortar; every day the tomb closed more and more round them. Well, I am alive still, but the wall is closing round me; it hath reached the heart now and presses sore upon it—well-nigh hath pressed the life out of it. I have built myself into this living tomb with my own hands too—there’s the special torture.’ He paused, wondering if Prior understood one half of his meaning. He did not; the higher feelings had been left out of his nature; he did not even guess at his friend’s mood.
‘What ails you to-day, Meadowes?’ he said; ‘truly this country life is too quiet for you by half. Come, we shall return to town, play high, and forget care.’
‘I have no care,’ said Meadowes.
‘What then?’
‘A dead—rather a dying—heart, I tell you, only you do not understand.’ Then, as impulsive men will often do, Meadowes told out all his sorrow to this man, just because he did not understand—it was the same relief as it would have been to talk aloud to himself. ‘Phil loves me no more; there’s the fact on’t—I doubt if ever he hath loved me. I’ve borne a measure of disgrace for him, I’ve renounced marriage for his sake, I’ve nurtured him delicately, and willed half my fortune to him. I’ve loved that boy foolishly all his days, and now he turns and tells me he doth not love me. Where doth the advantage lie of loving aught but oneself? There’s no return for love, and a fool I’ve been to sacrifice myself for any man. ’Tis the last lesson I needed. All these fine theories we dealt in in our youth, theories of “love” and “sacrifice” and so on, are purest moonshine. But with the last shreds of belief I had in them, goes my last shred of caring for life.’
‘Tush, Meadowes! I must reason with you,’ said Prior. ‘A man at your time of life to speak thus! Come, Philip hath treated you shamefully, like the young scoundrel that he is. Let me advise you on this point. Bring him to his senses by some judicious coldness, and indeed this is not the first time I have urged you to marry. Now is the time; let no sentiments for a thankless knave like Philip keep you from it now; turn him off with a shilling—he deserves no more.’
Prior spoke earnestly, delighted to find some way of repaying the insult he had received at Phil’s hand. He flattered himself that he was making an impression, for his listener sat and listened to it all in silence. ‘Now, on the score of our old friendship—’ he went on, but Meadowes suddenly interrupted him.
‘There, I hate the very sight of you,’ he cried. ‘No friendship hath been betwixt us, only the bonds of iniquity, and heavy they’ve been. I’ll have it no more; I’ll go to hell alone—not in your company.’
Prior stood dumb with surprise; so long they had held together for evil, he could scarcely credit that the rupture had come at last.
‘But——’ he began.
‘No more, no more,’ said Meadowes, and he rose from his seat, and stretched out his hands in a sudden agonised way. ‘Don’t you know me yet, Prior?I can’t be true.Sooner or later I turn upon every man that leans on me. Man, I know myself—cruelly well; this is but the old story. You’ve served my turn, I need you no more, so I leave you. Yes, sink or swim for me. . . . You should have known better than to trust me.’
‘I’ve done your dirty work these twenty years,’ said Prior, with unblushing veracity, ‘and now you forget it all.’
‘Yes, I mean to forget.’
‘But I am indeed hard pressed for money.’
‘Well, find it elsewhere.’
‘Is this final?’
‘Quite.’
Prior moved towards the door, but he paused for a moment on the threshold and looked back. ‘They call you Judas in the Clubs,’ said he, ‘and they are right—no man ever yet trusted you but he was betrayed.’ He walked out, slamming the door behind him, and Meadowes listened to hear his footsteps die away along the passage.
‘A bad man,’ he meditated, ‘but not as bad as myself, though the world takes him to be worse. He’ll end on the gallows—the world will blame him; but the blame will lie with me—I who made him what he is—and I shall sleep with my fathers in the chapel like a Christian.’
Prior meantime walked away through the quiet winter woods—a figure which accorded ill with rural scenes, he so carried with him the savour of towns, the atmosphere of dissipation. A miserable man—to be moral,—pressed for money and at an end of his resources, at an end of pleasure and beginning to realise it; angry, baffled, rejected. He stood to take a last look at Fairmeadowes, lying so peacefully among its wooded fields, with the placid river flowing past it, and then, overpowered by anger, he shook his fist in the air and cursed aloud in that silent place.
‘By ——!’ he cried, ‘you’ll pay me yet for all I’ve done these twenty years! I’ll have your money, or’—his raised right hand fell—‘wanting that, I’ll have your blood.’
CHAPTER XXX
As time went on Society began to surmise that Philip Meadowes and his father were not upon the best of terms. The elder man seldom came to town, and when he did, never stayed at his own house, then tenanted by Philip; and this of itself was eloquent of differences. But as against this was the very fact of Philip’s tenancy of the house—an arrangement which seemed to point to amiable relationship. The world wondered, but could do no more.
The feud between Meadowes and Simon Prior had, owing to peculiar caution on Prior’s part, never got abroad either; he preferred to be still considered everywhere as Meadowes’ friend.
One night (it was the night of the 9th of January, as Philip had afterwards reason enough to remember) fortune drew together in her net at a certain gaming-house, not a thousand miles from Pall Mall, Richard Meadowes, Philip, and Simon Prior. Phil and his father met quite easily; their quarrel had not been so serious as to make this the least difficult for them; but the rest of the men there watched the meeting with great curiosity. If they had only known, they had better have turned their scrutiny upon Meadowes’ meeting with Prior; the cordiality with which these gentlemen met might perhaps, to the observant and cynically-minded, have given a key to their relations. But there probably was no cynic in the company; so Phil was the object of interest.
‘My dear sir,’ said Phil, as he stood beside his father, laying his hand on his shoulder, ‘you have surely come to town unexpectedly? And but just in time to see me lose some money, or I am mistaken. Yesterday I won it—to-night (to make odds even) I am come to lose to the same man. Come, you shall watch our play, ’twill be fairish sport, I don’t doubt.’
They set them down—Phil and his opponent—and a circle gathered round them to watch their play. Philip played out of the sheerest love of excitement, like a schoolboy, laughing and jesting as he threw down his money, the other man more gravely, pondering his cards. The play ran high; Philip had staked and lost all the money he had with him, and yet he played on. It grew late.
‘Come, sir,’ he said, and he leant across the table towards his father, with his sunny smile, ‘I must play schoolboy again and have my father pay my debts.’ Meadowes, bewitched like every one else, handed him over all the gold pieces he carried, and thought himself well paid by Phil’s smile.
‘Now I’ve cleared out my father,’ he said, ‘and myself, I’ll play you for my lace ruffles, good ones they are; come on, sir,’ and he tore off the ruffles carelessly enough, and flung them on the table.
‘Now you’ll have my coat, ’tis a new silk one—there it goes,’ he cried, flinging off the fine garment in question, as he leant forward with sparkling eyes to cut the cards.
‘Lost again! My diamond shoe-buckles now—there—you have them also? Gad! I’ll be stripped before I’m done—well, the shoes themselves. Lost them too!’ and with a shout of laughter Phil flung down his cards and rose from the table.
‘I must get home without my shoes and without my coat!—I thank you; no, sir, I’d like the sensation. We’ll taste the sweets of poverty on a chill winter’s night for once—to walk home with empty pockets, without a coat or shoes. By George, that’s something new!’
‘Phil, put on your coat; for all the world you act like a child,’ laughed his father. And Phil certainly looked babyish enough as he stood there shoeless, in his ruffled cambric shirt, laughing and careless.
But Phil would not be persuaded. The coat was his no longer, said he, nor the shoes.
‘Come, sir, if you are going my way,’ he said, bowing to his father, and they stepped out into the passage together.
‘We may go so far in company,’ said Meadowes, as they passed out.
The other men who had been in the room waited to exchange comments on the father and son, only Simon Prior, after a few minutes, found that it was growing late, and he must make his way homewards.
He went through the passage and looked out into the inky darkness of the moonless January night; the sky was of a bluish blackness, only a shade less dense than the earth it canopied, and unpierced by any star. Prior listened intently for a moment, but no footsteps echoed down the street. Great London was asleep in these early morning hours, for it was nearing three o’clock. Once and again as he walked along Prior stopped to listen, then he bent down and slipped off his shoes, crammed one into each of the huge pockets of his long-skirted coat, and with noiseless flying footsteps sped down the street: the darkness received him.
Meantime Phil and his father were walking together in the direction of St. James’ Square; Phil, gay as was his wont when excited, was pressing Meadowes to come home with him.
‘You have scarce seen me for months, sir, and Carrie is a stranger to you,’ he said.
‘I cannot come to-night, Phil, mayhap to-morrow,’ said Meadowes, as they paused at the corner where their ways parted.
‘Carrie will think me lost; ’tis three of the clock at the least,’ said Phil, and his father laughed.
‘You have not yet acquired that fine indifference which comes with practice, Phil,’ he said. ‘You mention your wife with too palpable interest.’
‘Maybe, maybe,’ laughed Phil, whose heart indeed beat quicker at the sound of Carrie’s name. He held out his hand then and bade Meadowes good-night.
‘Ah, Philip, Philip, if only you loved me!’ thought Meadowes, as he turned and walked away down the dark street. Phil was going home to the wife he adored, while he—how bleak a loveless life like his was, to be sure! There was not a human being that would mourn his death—even Phil would not think twice of it—more than that, ‘I believe he would welcome it,’ he thought bitterly; ‘for all his frankness and his charm he cares nothing for me: I sometimes think he doth veritably hate me.’
Sad thoughts these on a winter’s night. ‘Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,thou dost not bite so nigh,’ he said, feeling the chill at his heart. A moment later he heard a step behind him, a light, unshod step, surely Phil returned. Could it be? Think if Phil were to come beside him in the darkness, touch his arm, speak one kind word, say that now all would be right between them! Surely even now the wilderness would rejoice—would blossom as the rose—at the coming of love. Surely he would leave his old crooked ways, live even yet a white, clean, straight year or two before all was ended, return, if he might do no more, to the attitude of heart that has at least a desire for good!
These, and half a hundred more, thoughts crowded through his fancy in that silly moment of expectancy. But it was a moment so dear—like the sudden thawing of a long frost—that he dared scarcely break it. His voice was thick with feeling when he spoke.
‘Why are you returned, Phil?’ he asked. It was too dark to make out more than the outline of the man’s head against the sky, but the sound of his shoeless feet, as he walked alongside, convinced Meadowes that Phil was there.
‘Why are you returned?’ he questioned again. There was no reply, then the man, with a sudden, quick movement, drew his sword and turned upon Meadowes, pinning him against the wall. He fell almost without a groan. The man knelt with one knee pressed down on Meadowes’ chest, as if to squeeze his shortening breaths out of him, and spoke loudly in his ear.
‘I am Philip,’ he said.
Meadowes heard even through his clouding senses the high bell-clear voice. ‘Is it—— Merciful Lord! doth my Phil torment me for my sins? . . . his voice. . . . Ah, surely not Phil,’ he thought.
‘I am Philip,’ repeated the man, rising hastily; he dared not tarry even for the sweetness of revenge.
‘Philip, Philip!—Ah, undone, undone!’ murmured the dying man. He writhed over on the pavement as the weight of his adversary’s knee was lifted off him; pressed his hand against his side as the last agony seized him, and the spirit, driven so roughly from its dwelling, lingered for a second on the threshold and looked back. In that second fifty years were reviewed like one day: childhood at sweet Fairmeadowes among the fields, youth and manhood, war and love and treachery, and all the busyness of life, passed before him in a flash. One remembrance stood out with extraordinary clearness:—the memory of a prayer offered long ago in one of the old City churches—a strange, seemingly unanswered prayer. Here, late in time, was its bitter answer. And then this memory passed also, and one only thought remained—Philip.
All this in a second’s time. In that second, as the murderer rose to his feet, the glimmer of a lantern fell into the pressing darkness, and a hand appeared out of the gloom, clutched, and held him.
Meadowes did not see the light. His eyes were closed, but the one thought of Philip held possession of his brain.
‘Run, Phil, run, lest this bring you to trouble,’ he cried with his latest breath; the two struggling men could not choose but hear. The watchman let fall his lantern and they wrestled in the darkness, then with one great wrench the other freed himself, and flung aside his adversary, who fell heavily. It took him a moment to rise, and then he stood stupidly for a brief space to listen in what direction the murderer ran. But even the silent street scarcely echoed back the light footsteps of the man wearing no shoes, as he scudded away into the darkness.
CHAPTER XXXI
Carrie had sat up late that night waiting for Philip to come in, then she grew sleepy, went to bed, and fell asleep. But her sleep cannot have been very sound, for the heavy foot of the watch who passed in the street below, and the echo of his voice as he chanted out the hour, wakened her widely.
‘Three o’clock of a January night: a cold dark night with no moon.’ He went under the window and his footsteps died away.
Carrie rubbed her eyes, and saw that the fire still burned brightly, lighting up the big room with its heavy hangings and huge pieces of furniture.
‘Where can Phil be? why has he never come in?’ asked Carrie, a little anxiously. She sat up to listen if she could not hear any sound in the house, tossing back her long red curls over her shoulder. Yes, some one was coming softly up-stairs; she knew the footstep well. A minute later the door opened and Philip came in. He wore no coat nor any shoes.
‘Hullo, Carrie! are you too keeping a vigil?’ he said lightly, as he paused at the door.
‘Phil! where is your coat? and why are you without shoes?’ cried Carrie.
‘I played them away. I played the coat off my back and the shoes off my feet. I scarce ever before had such sport. And let me lie down, Carrie, my dear, for I am dog tired.’
And with that Phil cast himself down on the bed just as he was, rolled over on his side, dragged the satin quilt over his shoulder, and was asleep before the words were well said.
Carrie tried ineffectually to waken him. ‘You will catch a chill for certain, Phil,’ she said; but Phil would not listen, so she fetched a cloak and covered him with it as tenderly as a mother might wrap up a sleeping child, then lay down herself and tried to sleep. But she was wakeful for long, and thought of many things; of long ago, and the visit she had paid Phil in that very room where he lay, in that very bed, a sick and a very bad-tempered child. How strange the turns of Fortune’s wheel were, to be sure! Then she thought of her father, and longed and longed to see him. ‘I believe he will find me somewhat altered. I am become such a fine lady now-a-days,’ thought she, smiling in the darkness. At last she fell asleep, and dreamed pleasant dreams of meeting her father, and finding their quarrel had all been a mistake; and then suddenly she woke with a great noise going on down-stairs. There came a terrific thunder at the outer door, a confusion of voices, and then footsteps came up the staircase. Then Peter’s voice threatening, expostulating:—
‘I’ll tell my master. Stand back! I tell you you are mistook.’
‘Phil,’ cried Carrie, shaking him lightly. ‘Phil, there is something wrong!’
Phil grumbled in his sleep. But the next moment the door was opened, and Peter, white and agitated, entered the room.
‘Sir, sir, there is some mistake! For the love of Heaven waken and come out here.’
As he spoke two men followed him into the room, and one of them advanced to where Phil, yawning and rubbing his eyes, sat up on the edge of the bed, exclaiming impatiently to Peter,
‘What the deuce is all this, Peter?’
‘I arrest you in the King’s name,’ said one of the men, and he laid his hand on Phil’s shoulder.
Phil was wide awake at last.
‘My good fellow,’ he said, ‘you are indeed under some mistake, and you surely choose a strange place where to arrest me, and show little consideration for this lady’s feelings.’
‘I’m sorry indeed, my lady,’ said the officer, as he bowed to Carrie; ‘but my business is to secure my prisoner.’
Phil stood up.
‘Of what crime am I accused, then, my good fellow?’
The man hesitated—glancing at Carrie, but Phil laughed.
‘My wife can hear aught I’m accused of,’ he said.
‘Of the murder of Richard Meadowes,’ said the man low into Philip’s ear. He did not mean Carrie to hear; but she, leaning forward, caught the words. There was a moment’s dismayed silence. Then Carrie shrieked aloud—three sharp little screams, and fell back against the pillows.
‘Come,’ said Philip, ‘I am ready to go with you.’ At the door he turned and came back to where Carrie lay, white and scared, staring after him.
‘ ’Tis some mistake, Carrie; have no fear,’ he said. ‘And, Peter, fetch me a coat and a pair of shoes.’
The day wore on somehow for Carrie after Phil’s arrest; she sat idle, hour by hour, looking for news of him and getting none. Late in the day she sent Peter out to make inquiries, but when he returned it was to bring her very scant comfort.
‘There was great excitement in town over the murder; nothing was known, no news was to be had,’ said Peter, but he concealed the half that he had really heard on all sides. Meantime Phil was detained for examination.
‘In prison—Phil in prison!’ cried poor Carrie incredulously. ‘Why, I thought to see him back ere half an hour had gone. O Peter, what can I do? ’Tis unbelievable.’
Peter was dumb with distress; he did not know what to think—the whole matter seemed to him like an ugly dream.
‘Mayhap Mr. Philip will return home on bail, madam,’ he said lamely, the only comfort he could suggest.
‘But that any one should even suppose him to have done it!’ sobbed Carrie. Ah, that was the sting.
Poor Carrie was to weep many tears before she saw the end of this sad matter.
CHAPTER XXXII
The Courts were crowded on the day that Philip Meadowes stood his trial at the Old Bailey. The case attracted a vast deal of attention in its day, and if all the cross-questioning of Phil’s case were reported here, they would make a ponderous volume, that no one would ever finish. So the outlines of the trial must suffice for the story.
‘How say you, Philip Richard William Meadowes, Are you Guilty of the felony and murder whereof you stand indicted, or Not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘How will you be tried?’
‘By God and my country.’
‘God send you a good deliverance.’
So ran the time-honoured prelude; and the listening crowds echoed the prayer, for Phil made a very interesting prisoner.
He stood in the dock and looked round him, nodding to right and left as he recognised friends among the crowd, as easy and self-possessed as any man in the house.
There was no trace of anxiety on his face, and he listened with interest and apparent unconcern to the damning evidence brought against him.
The watchman came up for examination first.
‘May it please you, my Lord,’ said he, ‘this is all I know of this matter; that on the night of the 9th January, being a black dark night from want o’ the moon, I came of a sudden round the corner of —— Street, and was half on top of something lying on the pavement before that I well knew what I was about. A man rose up from under my very feet, and, guessing there was something amiss, I caught at him, and we struggled a minute, but I’d to let go my lantern and it went out in the falling. That moment came a voice from the ground, “Run, Phil, run, lest this bring you into trouble,” and with a great blow the man knocked me down and ran. I was a moment rising, and I stood to listen which way he’d gone, but I heard naught but the steps of a man without shoes a-scudding down the street, for all the world as you may have heard the tail of a codfish flapping the flags o’ Billingsgate. I followed after, but I lost him in the darkness before I well knew. I came back to see if aught could be done for the wounded man, but he was going fast by then, and did but breathe once or twice again, with never a word—and, my Lord, I know no more.’
‘Have you any notion of the hour?’
‘The hour was some ten minutes before three o’ the clock.’
‘In what direction did the man run?’
‘He ran in the direction of St. James’ Square.’
There was a little ripple of excitement through the Court. Then Peter, looking older by ten years, was brought into the witness-box.
‘At what hour did you open the door to your master?’
‘At three o’ the clock, my Lord; the watch had passed a moment before.’
‘Did your master say anything to you on coming in?’
‘He said, “I’m half asleep, like yourself, Peter,” and passed on up the stairs.’
There was then brought forward a mass of secondary evidence, as to the relations which had existed between Philip and his father, and so on. But even with this the trial did not threaten to be a long one. No complications seemed to spring up, the whole case was virtually settled long before all these matters had been gone into. The summing up came at last:—
‘Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard a long evidence; I shall now take notice of a few points, which I think are the most material.
‘The indictment against the prisoner at the bar is for a very great crime: it is for murder, and, moreover, for the murder of a parent. You must now consider the evidence.
‘You have heard that for some time past the relations between the late Richard Meadowes and his son have been somewhat strained; but you have also heard evidence to-day, that on the night of the 9th January they met with apparent good feeling on both sides, that Meadowes borrowed money of his father, and that they went out together, apparently on good terms. You have heard, gentlemen of the Jury, that Meadowes, when he went out, wore no shoes. The chain of evidence which we have heard after this is curiously complete. The watchman has told us that the murderer who ran down the street wore no shoes, and that the dying man called him “Philip” twice by name, begging him to run for his life. You have evidence that the murderer was discovered at his horrid task, at ten minutes before three of the clock, and that he ran in the direction of St. James’ Square. The time which it would take to go quickly between —— Street and St. James’ Square is about ten minutes. You have evidence that Meadowes came home at three of the clock. Gentlemen, I am very much puzzled in my thoughts, and am at a loss to find out what inducement there could be to draw Mr. Meadowes to commit such a horrid, barbarous murder. For though he hath not been on the best of terms with the late gentleman, his father, yet the supposed cause of their coolness—an imprudent marriage—is not a cause likely to lead to such tragic happenings as these. Nor can I see what Mr. Meadowes would gain by the crime, were it not his own undoing. But, against these considerations, you must weigh the extraordinary evidence which you have heard, and must judge whether it be a likely case that another man, known to Richard Meadowes as “Philip,” and wearing no shoes, should have committed this crime. I do not say more, gentlemen; there is little more to say; go and consider your evidence, and I pray God direct you in giving your verdict.’
The Jury were absent for a very short time.
‘Gentlemen, are you all agreed in your verdict?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who shall say for you?’
‘Foreman.’
‘Philip Richard William Meadowes, hold up thy hand.’ Which he did.
‘Look upon the prisoner. How say you? Is he Guilty of the murder whereof he stands indicted, or Not guilty?’
‘Guilty.’
Philip listened, incredulous. Then, as the truth forced itself in upon his mind, the injustice and cruelty of fate overcame him. In his wrath and bitterness he stood silent, then, with a sudden hard bitter little laugh, and a dramatic movement of his hand, he leant forward to speak.
‘My Lord,’ he said, ‘I am innocent of the blood of this just man.’