“Inez! You can’t think I was a party to this!”
“Who said so, dear? Though the man was a protégé of yours, and was known to have remained where he encountered me by your instructions.”
“It is not true.”
“Isn’t it? Well, at least, the plan miscarried. Now, give me the button, and I promise, to the best of my power, to hush the matter up.”
“I haven’t got it, indeed; O, you must believe me! He told the policeman himself that he had thrown it away while escaping.”
“Yes, yes. I give him credit for his loyalty to you. But, Emma—you know I never put much faith in your sanctimoniousness. Don’t be a fool, and drive me to extremities.”
“You can’t mean it. I blame my covetous heart. I envied you—I admit it—this dear fetish of our family. But to think me capable of such a wickedness! O, Inez!”
Then Mrs. John Belmont exploded. I muffle the report. It left Miss Belmont flaccid and invertebrate, weakly sobbing that she would see Hurley; would try to get him to identify the exact spot where he had parted with the bauble; would move heaven and earth to make her guiltless restitution. Yet all the time, remembering the scene of last night, she must have known her promise vain. Jim had sought to thrust no shadow of a fact upon her. He had not thrown the button away. He alone knew where it now was; but would he so far play into the hands of her enemy as to tell? She felt faint in the horror of this doubt; and Mrs. John perceived the horror.
As for her, she was utterly hateful and incredulous. She had friends, she screamed—one in particular—who would act, and unmercifully, to see her righted. She hardly refrained from striking her sister-in-law, as she rushed out in a storm of hysterics.
And at this point I was called in—by Miss Belmont, that is to say.
I found her utterly prostrated—within step of the brink of the final collapse.
I coaxed her back, foot by foot; won the whole truth from her; laughed her terrors to scorn, and staked her my professional credit to have the matter put right, or on the way to right, by our next meeting.
And I meant it, and was confident. For that very day—though of this she did not know—I had officially ordered Jim Hurley’s removal from the cell in which he had been lodged to the County Hospital. The man was dying, that was the fact; and a fact which he had known perfectly when he staked at one throw for an easy bed for himself, and a repayment of his debt to his old benefactress.
He was ensconced in a little ward by himself, when I visited him and sat down to my task. He cocked an eye at me from a red tangle, and grinned.
“Now, Hurley,” I said, “I come straight from Miss Emma, by her authority, to acquaint you with the results of your deed.”
“O!” he answered. “Hev the peelers been a-dirtyin’ of their pore knees lookin’ for it in the ’edgerows? I ’opes as they found it.”
“You know they couldn’t. You’ve got it yourself.”
“S’elp me, I haven’t!”
Then I informed him, carefully and in detail, of the awful miscarriage of his intentions. He was patently dumbfounded.
“Well, I’m blowed!” he whispered, quite amazed. “Well, Iamblowed!”
“You must undo this,” I said. “There’s only one way. Whereisthe button?”
He gauged me profoundly a moment.
“On a ledge under the table,” he said. Then he thrust out a claw. “Don’t you go lettin’ ’er’ave it back,” he said, “or I’ll ’aunt you!”
I considered.
“You must undo what you’ve done,” I repeated. “Don’t you see? Unless you can prove that it’s been in your possession all the time,and is now, her character’s gone for ever. Mrs. John will see to that.”
He did not, professionally, lack wits. He understood perfectly. “You’re ’er friend?” he asked.
I nodded.
“All right,” he said, “you get ’old of it private, and smuggle of it ’ere, and I’ll manage the rest.”
“But, my good fellow! You’ve been overhauled, I suppose, and pretty thoroughly. How can you convince—convince, you understand—that you’ve kept the thing snug through it all?”
“You go and smuggle of it ’ere,” he repeated doggedly.
It needed only a very little manœuvring. I hurried back to Miss Belmont’s, heard the lady was still confined to her room, forbade the servant to report me, and claimed the privacy of the dining-room for the purpose of writing a prescription. The moment I was alone, I made an excited and perfectly undignified plunge under the table, found the ledge (the thing, in auctioneer’s parlance, was a “capital set,” in four leaves), and the button, which in a feverish ecstasy I pocketed. Then, very well satisfied, I hurried back to Mr. Hurley.
I found him, even in that short interval, changed for the worse; so much changed, that, in face of his condition, a certain sense of novel vigour, an overweening confidence in my own importance which had grown up, and lusty, in me during my return journey, seemed nothing less than an indecency. However, curiously enough, this mood began to ebb and sober from the very moment of my handing over thepièce de convictionto its purloiner. He “palmed” it professionally, cleared his throat, and took instant command of the occasion. “Now,” he said, “tell ’em I’ve confessed to you, and let ’em all come.”
His confidence mastered the depression which had overtaken me. I returned, with fair assurance, to Miss Belmont, who received my news with a perfect rapture of relief. What she had suffered, poor good woman, none but herself might know.
“Did he own to you where he had hidden it?” she asked. And “Yes,” I could answer, perfectly truthfully.
By my advice, she prepared at once to go and fetch her sister-in-law to the hospital—with a friend, if she desired it—that all might witness to the details of the restitution.
In the meanwhile I myself paid a visit to the police station, and thence returned to my post to await the arrival of my company.
It came in about an hour: Miss Belmont, tearfully expectant; Mrs. John Belmont, shrill and incredulous; an immaculate tall gentleman, Captain Naylor by name, whose chin was propped on a very high collar, that he might perpetually sniff the incense of his own superiority; and, lastly, and officially to the occasion, B 90.
I lost no time in conducting them to the bedside of the patient. He had rallied wonderfully since our last encounter. He was sitting up against his pillow, his red hair fluffed out like the aureole of a dissipated angel, an expression on his face of a quite sanctimonious relish. I fancy he even winked at me.
“Now, Hurley,” I said gravely, “as one on the threshold of the grave” (which, nevertheless, I had my doubts about), “speak out and tell the truth.”
He cleared his throat, and started at once in a loud voice, as if repeating a lesson he had set himself—
“ ’Earing as ’ow my rash hact ’ave brought suspicion on a innercent lady, I ’ereby makes affirmation of the fac’s. I stole the button, and ’id it in my boot, where it is now.”
“No, it ain’t,” said B 90 suddenly. “Stow that.”
Mr. Hurley smiled pityingly.
“O, ain’t it, sir?” he said. “ ’Ow do you know?”
“Because I searched you myself,” said B 90 shortly.
“The patient, infinitely tolerant, waved his hand.
“ ’E searched me, ladies and gentlemen! Ho, lor! Look at ’im; I only arsks that—look at ’im! Why, he doesn’t even know as there’s a smut on his nose at this moment.” (B 90 hastily rubbed that organ, and remembering himself, lapsed into stolidity once more.) Mr. Hurley addressed him with exaggerated politeness—“Wouldyou be so good, sir, as to go and fetch my boots?”
B 90 thought profoundly, and officially, a minute; wheeled suddenly, withdrew, and returned shortly with the articles, very massive and muddy, which he laid on the counterpane before the prisoner. The latter, cherishing the ineffabledénouement, deliberately took and examined the left one, paused a moment, smilingly canvassing his company, and then quickly, with an almost imperceptible wrench and twirl, had unscrewed the heel bodily from its place and held it out.
“ ’Ere!” he said; and, with his arm extended, sank back in an invertebrate ecstasy upon his pillow.
The heel was pierced with a tiny compartment on its inner side, and within the aperture lay the button.
They all saw it, but not as I, who, standing as I did at the bed-head, and being something of an amateur conjurer myself, was conscious in a flash of the rascal “passing” the trinket into its receptacle even as he exposed it.
There followed an exclamation or two, and silence. Then Captain Naylor said “Haw!” and Miss Belmont, with a gasp, turned a mild reproachful gaze upon her sister-in-law. But Mrs. John had not the grace to accept it. She gave a little vexed, covetous laugh, and stepped forward. “Well,” she said to Miss Emma, “you must go without it still, dear, it seems.” Then, coldly, to Hurley: “Give it me, please.”
Now, so far so good; and, though I was enraged with, I could not combat the decision. But truly I was not prepared for the upshot.
Jim, at Mrs. John’s first movement, had recovered possession of the button.
“No, you don’t!” he said quite savagely. “I know all about it, and ’tain’t yourn by rights.”
“Jim, Jim,” cried Miss Belmont in great agitation; “it is hers, indeed; please give it up. You don’t think what you make me suffer!”
But the man was black with a lowering determination.
“ ’Tain’t,” he said. “Keep off, you! I’ve not thrown agen the devil for nothing. It’s goin’ to be Miss Emma’s or nobody’s.”
“Not mine,” cried the poor lady again. “I don’t want it. Not for worlds. I wouldn’t take it now!”
And then Mrs. John Belmont, in one discordant explosion of fury, gave away her case for ever.
“Insolent! Beyond endurance!” she shrieked, and whirled, with a flaming face, upon her cavalier.
“Archibald! why do you stand grinning there? Why don’t you take it from him?”
Thus prompted, Archibald, in great confusion, uttered an inarticulate “Haw!” explained himself in a second and clearer one, and strode threateningly towards the bed. Watching, with glittering eyes, the advance, Jim, at the last moment,whipped the button into his mouth and swallowed it!
* * * * *
The case, as a pathological no less than as a criminological curiosity, was unique. I will state a few particulars. The button lodged in the pancreas, in which it was presently detected, comfortably ensconced, by means of the Röntgen rays. And it is a fact that, from the moment it settled there—neverapparently (I use the emphasis with a full sense of my responsibility) to be evicted—Mr. Hurley began to recover, and from recovering to thrive—on anything. Croton-oil—I give only one instance—was a very cream of nourishment to him. Galvanic batteries but shook him into the laughter which makes fat, but without stirring the button. It was ridiculous to suggest an operation, though the point was long considered. But in the meanwhile the button had continued piling up over itself such impenetrable defences of adipose tissue that its very locality had become conjectural. The question was dropped, only to give rise to another. How could one any longer detain this luxuriant man in hospital as an invalid? He was removed, therefore, beaming, to the police court; received, for some inexplicable reason, a nominal sentence, dating from the time of his arrest (everything, in fact, was henceforward to prosper with him), and trundled himself out into the world, where he disappeared. I have seen him occasionally since at years-long intervals. He grows ever more sleek and portly, till the shadows of the three dead Belmonts together would not suffice to make him a pair of breeches. He has a colossal fortune; he is respectable, and, of course, respected—a genial monster of benevolence; and he never fails to remind me, when we meet, of the time when I could pronounce his life not worth a button.
I have, can only have, one theory. The button, after many cross adventures, “got home” at last—fatally for Mrs. John Belmont, who fell into a vicious decline upon its loss, and, tenderly nursed by her sister-in-law, departed this sphere in an uncertain year of her life. And, unless the button itself comes to dissolve, Jim, I fear, is immortal.
Therewas no reason why Richard Le Shore should not have made a straightforward appeal for the hand of Miss Molly Tregarthen to her papa. His credentials—of fortune, condition, and character—were unexceptionable; the girl’s kind inclinations were confessed; the father himself was an unexacting, indulgent, and ease-loving Democritus. It was but a question of those two and of Mr. Dicky, their favoured, their intimately favoured, guest.
There was no reason, and for the reason that the spirit of Romance abhors reason; and that was why, without any reason, Richard persuaded Mollinda to a clandestine engagement, to stolen interviews, to a belief that love franked by authority was only the skim-milk of human kindness. At least he chose to persuade himself that he persuaded her, at all times when he could coax a certain bewildered honesty in her eyes from dumbly questioning the necessity of such tactics. In reality he loved that look, as the sweetest earnest of a sweet quality. It was not her he studied to deceive, but himself. Incurably eligible, he could never taste but through make-believe, like the “Marchioness,” the sweet stimulant of paternal interdiction.
At the end of the season he accompanied father and child to “Tregarthen.” Here, you may be sure, he had not been twenty-four hours without making choice for his love’s rendezvous of a little wood which, approached through a tangled shrubbery, covered the slopes which ran up from the back of the house to the high beeches above.
Now Dicky would himself have allowed that everything (desirable) had shone upon his suit save moonlight. That only, of all poetic glamours, was yet lacking. And so he prevailed with Molly Tregarthen to consent to a postprandial trysting among the trees, on the very evening subsequent to that of his arrival.
He had no difficulty in escaping from papa, the imperturbable sybarite. Seated in an open window over against shrouded lawns, and a moon which rose like a bubble in liquid darkness; dreaming betwixt decanter and cigar-case, papa would not have had his luminous coma disturbed for anything less than a serious fire. So Dicky left him, and going up alone to the woods, leaned his back against a tree and smoked placidly.
It was very quiet, and fragrant, and beautiful there; and presently the young gentleman lost himself somewhat in reflections. The moonlight, penetrating the leaves, made of the sward a ghostly Tom Tiddler’s Ground, which was all mottled with disks of faint gold. What a soft, fine shower to fall upon the head of his Danae, as she should come stealing up the alleys of light! Stealing—stealing! There was a little thrill of ecstasy in the word. How wide her eyes would be, and how would her bosom rise and fall in the breathlessness of some phantom guilt!
Quite a nice little debauch of expectation, only—she did not come. He waited on, desirous, impatient, hungry; and at last, it must be said, cross. The touch of her hand, her lips, had never seemed so indispensable to him; but he would not cheapen the virtues of his own by carrying them back to market to a coquette. If she wanted them, she knew where to find them. As for him, he was quite placid and content; in proof of which he threw away his cigar-butt, and began pacing with a noisy recklessness up and down.
That did not conjure her to him, but it seemed to evoke occasional responsive rustlings, or the fancy of them, which would bring his heart into his throat. They were only the stirring of woodland things, it seemed. He got very angry, resentful, cruel in his thoughts. The moon, the bubble of light, rose higher and higher—to the very surface of night, where it floated a little, and then burst. At least, so it seemed; for, all of a sudden, where it had been was a black cloud, and drops began to patter on the leaves. Then Richard realized all in a moment that his tryst had failed, that the moonlight was quenched, and that it was beginning to rain. With a naughty word or two, he braced up his loins, left the wood, and descended towards the house.
As he went down, he heard the stable clock strike twelve. He startled, and strode faster, faster, until he was fairly scuttling. It was in vain. The Tregarthens were early people, and, even before he reached the house, he knew that its every window was blind and black. The whole family was abed, and he was shut out into the night.
Twice, and vainly, he made the entire round of the building, seeking for any loophole to enter by. The rain by then was pelting, yet he did not dare raise a clatter on the front door, for fear he should be pistolled from a window. The inmates knew nothing of his absence, and the Squire held, for a Democritus, strong views on the subject of undisturbed repose.
Coming to the porch again from his second circuit, and putting a hand to rest upon one of its columns, he jumped, as if he had touched a charged battery, to see a figure standing motionless in the shadow.
“Hullo!” he gasped, in the sudden shock; then rallying, muttered out in a fury at his own weakness, “Who the devil are you?”
Some faint gleam of moonshine, weltering through the flood, enlightened him even as he spoke.
“Why, if it ain’t the butler!” he said.
It was the butler. The figure admitted it in a curt word. Le Shore had already, on the occasions of his two dinners at “Tregarthen,” noticed this man, and had taken a quite violent exception in his own conscience to his manner and appearance. He thought he had never known a leading trust bestowed upon one whose face so expressed the very moral of acquisitiveness, whose conduct was marked by such an uncouth inurbanity. Here, if there was any value in biology, was Bill Sikes in broadcloth.
The tone of the fellow’s answer grated confoundedly on him—he hardly knew why.
“Are you locked out, like me?” he said, putting violence on himself to speak civilly.
“Yes, sir,” answered the man; “but for a better reason.”
“What do you mean by that?”
The creature was as thick-set as a bull. He could have broken this elegant like a stick across his knee. He commanded the situation, massive and impassive, from his own standpoint.
“Look’ee here, sir,” he said, speaking through a grip of little strong teeth in a square jaw, “I’m going to tell you what I mean. I’m going to make no bones about it. You meet Miss Molly fair and open, or you don’t meet her at all. Do I know what I’m saying? Yes, I do know. She didn’t come to you to-night—because why? BecauseIinterdicted of her. That’s it. She might have thought better—or worse—of it, bein’ a woman, and soft; and that’s why I laid by, watchin’ that no harm should come of it if she did. But she was wise, and didn’t. I seen you all the time in the wood, and I tell you this. A word’s got to be enough. You meet her by fair means, or not at all. Never mind the Squire there. It’s me that says it. If she admires you, nine stun ten—which there’s no accounting for tastes—I’m not the one to make difficulties. But you go like a honest man and ask her straight of her father. That’s the ticket, and don’t you make no error. Don’t you flatter your fancy no more with randy-voos in the moonshine. Why, if ever there’s a light calc’lated to lead a gentleman astray, it’s that. I say it, and I know. You go to the girl’s father; and, after, we’ll see what we’ll see.”
He cleared his throat with a quarrelling sound, and came out of the shadow.
“Now,” said he, “here’s a house you’ve been locked out of, and you want to get in without disturbin’ of the family—is that it? Very well, sir; now we understand everything; and step this way, ifyouplease.”
Almost with the words, he had clawed himself up to a window-sill of the ground-floor, and was very softly manipulating the sash. Mr. Le Shore, voiceless, hardly gasping, stood, just conscious of himself, in an absolute rigor of fury and astonishment. He was “stound,” as Spenser would have put it. Presently he snapped his eyelids, and woke aware that Mr. Hissey, standing on the grass, was loweringly inviting him to enter by way of an opened window. With a shock, he recovered his nerves of motion, and, stalking to the place, vaulted stiffly to the sill, and sat thereon like a cavalryman.
“I’ve just a word or two for you, before I—I avail myself of this,” he said. “You’ve been gadding, and got drunk, I suppose; and this is your way of trying to make capital of a belated guest. Perhaps the means you’ve adopted ’ll appear less excellent to you in the sober morning. As to your method of entry, there’s nothing in it incompatible with the character I’d already formed of you. But that, and your quite outrageous insolence, will be made matters for your master’s consideration to-morrow. I mention this in honour, before I——” He waved his hand towards the room.
“I could twist your neck with two fingers, here and now,” said the man.
“Exactly,” said Dicky. “And that’s why I decline to make use of this window except on the plain understanding.”
The butler cleared his throat again, even with a strange note of approval in the unseemly sound.
“Mayhap you’ll do,” he said. “Now go to bed, and don’t forgit your prayers in your disappyntment.”
Mr. Le Shore hissed-in a breath, as though the rain had suddenly become boiling spray, then tiptoed rigidly to his room.
The opening of the window, framed with creepers, whose shadows shrank or dilated softly in the muslin curtains, gave on to a soothful picture of lawn and herbaceous border which, withdrawing to cool caverns of leafiness under a remote cedar tree, seemed to gather themselves to a head of prettiest expression in the person of little Miss Mollinda swinging there in a hammock. Within, at the luncheon-table, Tregarthen poured himself out a glass of Madeira with a hand so limp and white in appearance that one would have thought it incapable of the task of poising the heavy decanter. Here was delicate seeming only, however. The perpetual sybarite reads an incorruptible constitution. The white hand held the bottle horizontal, as steady as a rock, during the minute the indolent, good-humoured eyes of its owner were directed to those of his visitor.
“My dear good Richard, the manisa burglar.”
He laughed at the other’s expression, filled his glass, sipped at it, and, hooking his thumbs in his arm-holes, lolled back in his chair.
“I am not justified in the confidence, perhaps. I don’t know. Anyhow, it is the short way out of a fatiguing explanation. The manisa burglar—not figuratively, but actually, by breeding, education, profession—appelez-le comme vous voudrez. He has the stamp of it so distinctly on him that one need not ask him to produce his skeleton key.”
“Then I have nothing more to say.”
“Ah! the devil take the honest thief! Your obvious grievance forces me to the explanation, after all. My dear boy, I imply nothing, argue from no premises but such as a long experience of this capital, troublesome fellow suggest to me. Speaking from these (I may be wrong), I should conclude that he is somehow in process of safeguarding, as he thinks, the interests of my girl, to whom he is quite romantically attached. Honestly, I don’t know to whom I would rather commit them. Poor motherless child!”
He had, it seemed, no thought of himself as pledged to the task. ‘Himself’ should be a fair one-man’s burden.
“He is very right to be attached to Miss Tregarthen,” muttered Le Shore dryly, and a little sullenly.
“He is very right indeed,” answered his host; “righter (pardon the solecism) than you might think. In this excellent rogue is provided such an illustration of the ‘harmony not understood’ of discords, as circumstance has ever given to anennuyéworld. The dear creature has decided to stultify his every instinct for a sentiment. It is the most interesting psychological phenomenon you can imagine. He has conceded nothing of his nature but the means to its practical achievement. Conceive a wolf of his own determination forgoing blood. Such is this dear, admirable brute.Perfossor parietum nascitur.He cannot change his spots. To this day, I think, he will always of choice enter by a window rather than a door; to this day he regards plate with a mostmeltinglook. But for all that, I think I may swear that at the present moment the tally of my spoons is to an ounce what it was when he took service with me eighteen years ago.”
“Your servant for eighteen years!”
“My servant—titularly: in reality, my mentor, my vizier. Dog Trust is a rather sweetly demoralizing acquisition. He takes the burden of conscience from one—steals it, in this case, I may say. But then, after all, he may use his vicegerency to ends so far beyond the moral grasp of the master he represents, as more than to vindicate that master in his withdrawal from the vexatious problems of duty. Through sheer force of affection this admirable George has mastered himself, and bettered his master in the parental ethics.”
“Indeed, sir?” (Mr. Dicky spoke very dryly.) “And how does Miss Tregarthen approve the viziership?”
“As she loves and respects the vizier, Richard. I do not think she would willingly run counter to his dictates, which, by the way, he never imposes in a manner to alarm one’s pride. Ah! did you catch that whiff of scabious? There is a bush of it under the window there. It always seems to me to embody in itself the whole warmth and fragrance of summer. My dear fellow, your eyes are relentless inquisitors. No more wine? Well, I suppose I shall have to tell you how it came about.”
He sighed, drained his glass, laughed slightly, and smoothed a stray wisp of hair from his forehead.
“Once,” he said—“it was particularly disagreeable to a person of my temperament—I was called upon by Fate to suffer the ugly and sordid experience of a conflagration in my house. You, who are also a little inclined, I believe, to create for yourself an atmosphere of romance, to regard the great world only as a quarry, from which to gather materials most exquisite and most apt to the enrichment of the hermitage, which it is your design and your delight to build apart for your soul, will appreciate what were my feelings upon seeing my fairy fabric doomed to destruction, to positive annihilation, by the flames. I have never spoken to you of the disaster before. You will know that I do so now under the mere stress of fitness, as a means to your proper understanding of George Hissey’s conduct. The recollection is painful and horrible to a degree.
“The alarm, the escape, the catastrophe were all accomplished in the dark hours of a winter’s morning. My dear wife (she sleeps, awaiting my coming, in Elysium) followed me down the stairs and out of the house at a short interval. She found me devoted to a frantic endeavour to secure from destruction such of my poor treasures as were accessible—few enough, alas! though the tears I shed should have quenched the hate of a Hecla. What had I done with her child? she cried to me—with our sweet Molly, our little three-year-old babe? Richard, I felt as stunned as if she, the pretty, gentle mother, had struck me across the mouth. I could only stare and gasp. She uttered a heart-shaking scream, and turned to where the servants stood huddled together in the garden. They were all there, and the two nurses were crying and moaning and accusing one another. My God! mad with terror, they had deserted their charge to perish by itself in the burning house!”
He paused. “Don’t go on, sir, if it distresses you,” said Le Shore quietly.
“No,” answered Tregarthen. “Like the Ancient Mariner, I must be quit of it now I have begun. But I will have a glass of wine.”
He poured himself out one, daintily as to the drop on the decanter lip.
“There followed a fearful scene,” he said. “It was all I could do to prevent my angel from precipitating herself through the blazing doorway. The whole building seemed by now a furnace—no possibility of further salvage from those priceless accumulations—not, of course, that at such a pass it was to be thought of. I mingled my tears with my wife’s. I offered half my fortune to any one of the crowd who would save, and a large reward to any one who would venture to save, our darling. But it was in vain; and in my heart I knew it.
“Now, in this extremity of despair, a sudden roar went up from a hundred throats, and passed on the instant. Richard, a man, shedding flakes of fire as Venus cast her birth-slough of spray, had emerged overhead from the sea of flame, and in his arms was our child. Who was he? Whence did he come? No one knew. Our house was isolated. The engine from the neighbouring town had not arrived. He was not a friend, nor a neighbour, nor an employé. It was only evident that innocence had somehow evolved its champion.
“We watched, stricken, as castaways watch the glimmer of a remote sail. The figure had broken its way through the skylight in the roof, only, it might be, to symbolize in the burden it bore the leaping of a little flame heavenward. The situation was the very sublimity of tragedy. Beneath those two the roof, sown with a very garden of fire, dropped at a sickening angle.
“Suddenly, shutting, as it seemed, upon his charge, the man rolled himself up like a hedgehog, and came bowling down the slope. It was a terrible and gasping moment. His body, as it whirled, reeled out a hiss of sparks. The next instant it had bounded over the edge, and plunged among the smoking bushes beneath.
“They broke his fall; but it was the verandah awning which in the first instance saved his life—his, and our dear devoted cherub’s. But he had never once, through all the stunning vertigo of his descent, failed to shield the little body which his own enwrapped.
“Now, my dear Richard, comes the strange part. When I was sufficiently recovered to seek our preserver, I found him sitting handcuffed, in charge of the local policeman. He was very white, with two or three ribs broken; but he took it all unconcerned, as being in the day’s, or the night’s, business. Who was he? Well, here is the explanation. He was a renowned cracksman, as I think they call it, who had been operating in the neighbourhood for some weeks past—the hero of many a shuddering midnight adventure. Without doubt he had taken his toll ofmy‘crib,’ had not circumstance dropped him ripe into the gaping mouth of the law. He had entered, and was actually at work, when fire cut the ground, as it were, from under his feet. Almost before, intensely occupied, he realized his position, escape by the lower rooms was debarred him. Was ever situation so dramatic? It was to be compared only with that of a huntsman who, entering some cave to steal bear cubs, turns to find the dam blocking his outlet. Still, Mr. Hisseymighthave escaped, and without detection, by dropping to the lawn from a back window, had his burglarious ears not pricked suddenly to the wailing of a child.
“My dear fellow, need I explain further? The child he risked his own life to rescue was our—I may almost say, at this day, washisMolly. It was the strangest thing. I did not, as a consequence, quite see my way to holding him altogether absolved; but my dear, emotional partner was of a different opinion. We had quite a little scene about it. In the end she prevailed—with the whole boiling of the law, too; and the man was sentenced to come up for judgment if called upon. Then straightway, and by his own desire, she took the disinfected burglar into her service. It was one of those daring psychologic essays which may once and again be carried to a successful issue through the white-hot faith of the experimenter; but which must not be given authority as a precedent. My wife fairly redeemed this burglar, by committing, without hesitation, to his loyal trust the little waif of fire whose destinies he had earned the right to a voice in. From that day to this, I will say, he has never abused the faith we reposed in him. On her deathbed, my dear girl (pardon me a moment, Le Shore), my dear wife most solemnly recommitted her child to his care. I did not complain, I do not complain now. I, who make no pretence of competence in the paternal rôle, thank the gods only for my vizier, who is quite willing to accord me the ritual of authority, while taking its practical business on his own shoulders. With a man of my temperament it works; and I am satisfied, if Molly gives me her respect, that she should give Hissey her duty.”
He ceased, with a little smiling sigh, and lifted a cigarette from a silver case which lay on the table. Le Shore regarded him steadily.
“Mr. Tregarthen,” said he, “Molly and I are engaged. I should have told you before.”
The older man did not pause in the act of lighting his cigarette; but enjoyed an inhalation of smoke before he answered—
“I plead guilty to a suspicion, Richard. I am confident our vizier has been safeguarding the proprieties. You remember what I said to you in his excuse just now?”
“I have your sanction, sir?”
“Certainly, as a form. But I am afraid, from the practical side, you will have to satisfy that same inquisitor.”
“Mr. George Hissey,” said Dicky, “I have papa’s authority to marry Miss Molly. Now, with your permission, I will relieve you of your trust.”
“Dicky!” cried the girl reproachfully; and she put her kind young arms round the ex-burglar’s neck.
“Unless,” said Le Shore, “you care to transfer that to my ‘crib,’ Mr. Hissey.”
The butler cleared his throat.
“Well, I do care, sir,” he said, hoarsely, nevertheless, “since you seen fit to cut that moonshinin’ lay, And as to cribs——”
“Molly” said Richard, “there’s papa calling.”
“I havenothing to do with your scruples,” said the magistrate; “the law is the law, and I am here to administer it.”
Mr. Plumley licked his hand, and stolidly smoothing down his black hair with it, answered, as if at a distance, being a well-fed, unctuous man, “too full for sound and foam,” “I’m a conscientious objector.”
“Passive resister!” corrected a friend, a little eager man, among the audience near him.
“Eh?” said Mr. Plumley immovably, and without a glance in the direction of the voice, “I said passive resister, didn’t I?”
“Whether you said it or not,” answered the magistrate sharply, “you look it. I make an order against you for the amount.”
“As man to man——” began Mr. Plumley.
“Not in the least,” said the magistrate; “as debtor to creditor. Stand down.”
“I shan’t pay it,” said Mr. Plumley, preparing to obey.
“If you say another word, I’ll commit you for contempt,” said the magistrate. “Stand down, sir!”
Mr. Plumley stood down, with an unspeakable expression—it might have been of satisfaction—on his huge, stolid face. Arrived at the floor, he beckoned his little friend to follow him, and heavily left the court.
He steered—the other acting as his rudder, as it were, and keeping his position behind—straight for his own domestic shrine, hight Primrose Villa, semi-detached. It was a beautiful little home for a widower unencumbered, calculated, like an india-rubber collar, to afford the maximum of display at a minimum of cost in washing. The doorsteps were laid with a flaming pattern in tiles; red-aspinalled flower pots, embellished with little dull glazed shrubs, stood on the lowest window-sill; the bell-knob was of handsome porcelain, painted with the gaudiest flowers in miniature. Within, too, it was all furnished on a like hard principle of lustre—red and yellow oilcloth in the hall, with marbled paper to match; earthenware-panned mahogany hat-rack and umbrella-stand combined, as red as rhubarb, and as acrid in suggestion to one’s feelings; more oilcloth in the parlour; more mahogany, also, with a pert disposition in its doors and drawers to resent being shut up; glass bead mats and charity bazaar photograph frames on the whatnots, all so clean and pungent with sharp furniture stain that the rudder—Gardener by name—felt, as usual, the necessity of a humble apology for bringing his five feet four of shabbiness into the midst of so much splendour and selectness.
Mr. Plumley rumbled condescendingly in reply—
“You’d get used to it, Robert, you’d get used to it, if you’d lived familiar with it all your life, as I have.”
“Ah!” said Gardener, “but I wasn’t born like you, sir, to shine.”
If he meant that the other was a light in his way—a little tallowy, perhaps—his own dry, hungry cheeks certainly justified him in the self-depreciation. They justified him, moreover—or he fancied they did, which was all the same as to the moral—in continuing to act jackal to this social lion, who had once been his employer in the cheap furniture-removal line. He lived—hung, it would seem more apposite to say—on his traditions of the great man’s business capacities, capacities whose fruits were here to witness, for evidence of the competence upon which his principal had retired. He got, in fact, little else than his traditions out of his former master at this date; yet it was strange how they served to delude him into a belief in his continued profit at the hands of the old patronage. The moral benefit he acquired from stealing into the local chapel to hear Mr. Plumley take a Sunday-school class, was at least worth as much to him as the occasional pipe of tobacco, or glass of whisky and water, which his idol vouchsafed him. For Mr. Gardener, as a true ‘poor relation’ of the gods, was humbly thankful for their cheapest condescensions.
“You stuck to your principles, sir,” he said, standing on one leg and the toe of the other, in humble deprecation of his right to any but the smallest possible allowance of oilcloth. Perhaps he would have brought his foot down, even he, could he have guessed the true significance of his own remark.
“I did, Robert,” said Mr. Plumley, placidly sleeking his hair. “I always do. Have a pipe, Robert?”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” said the man. “That was a mistake you made, sir.”
“Mistakes,” said Mr. Plumley, “will occur. Have some whisky, Robert?”
“You’re very good, sir.”
“You don’t like it too strong, I think, Robert? And how’s the world treating you, my friend?”
“Much as usual, sir. From hand to mouth’s my motto.”
“Sad, sad to be sure. They’ll distrain upon me, I suppose.”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“The inhumanity of the world, Robert! You do pretty reg’lar porter’s work for Bull and Hacker, the auctioneers, don’t you, Robert?”
“That’s so, Mr. Plumley,” said the man, wondering. “But the work’s heavier than the wages.”
“They’ll be commissioned to seize the necessary goods. I wish you’d manage to give ’em a hint, Robert—over the left, you know, without any reference to me—that there’s a picture I prize (and that I’ve reason to believe a dealer is after), what would more than pay the two pun odd of the distraint if put up first. O’ course, I can’t appear to favour the matter myself, being a con——”
“Passive resister, sir.”
“Thank you, Robert; being the one most concerned in disputin’ the justice of the law. But a hint from you might settle the question at once. We aren’t very good friends, Bull and me; and, if he thought I prized the article, he’d be moral sure to seize it, slap away, to spite me.”
“The picter?”
“The picture, Robert. There it is.”
It hung in an obscure corner, a dingy enough article, in an old damaged frame.
“It don’t look the price,” said Gardener doubtfully.
“It cost me more in a bad debt,” said the ex-remover, busying himself with the whisky in his heavy, observant way.
“Very like, sir,” answered the other, and coughed behind his hand.
“I know what you mean,” said his patron; “that I was took in. Well, I’ve reason to think not, my man. I’ve reason to think that picture’s worth a deal—say, fifty pun. Anyhow, I mean to try.”
“A dealer’s after it, you say?”
“Yes, I do say.”
“Then why—with deference, sir—don’t you sell direct to him?”
“Why don’t I? Am I a man of business, Robert? Look about you. Have I learned, do you think, to take a hexpert’s word as to the precise vally of a article that I see his heye’s on, or to argy by induction that a good private offer means a better public one? When it comes to overreaching—hem!—a connoyser’s a man like myself; so we’ll just, by your leave, put the picture up to auction.”
He carried the decanter back to its place in one of the shiny cupboards.
“Besides, my friend,” said he, talking over his shoulder, “don’t you see as how my conscience demands this seizure?”
“Not quite, sir,withhumility, if so be as——”
“You’re dense, Robert. Look here, I’m a conscientious resister, ain’t I? Law ain’t necessarily equity because the devil and Mr. Chamberlain frames it. There’s some lawgivers that are Vicars of Jehovah, and some of——but perhaps you’ve never heard of Abaddon?”
“Haven’tI?” said Mr. Gardener ruefully. “I was near run in once for tendering one as had been passed on me.”
“He was king of the bottomless pit,” said Mr. Plumley patiently. “Heframed this here law what’s made a passive objector of me. Well, if, in resigning myself to his unjust processes, I force the picture-dealer’s hand, thereby making a profit elsewise denied me, don’t you see how I round on the law—triumph over it—kill two birds with one stone, as it might be?”
“Yes, sir; I see that,” said Mr. Gardener, though still doubtfully.
“You do, do you?” responded the other. “Well, then, the only thing is to make the law pay as heavy as possible by getting the picture run up to the dealer’s figure.”
“But the law wouldn’t go for more’n its two pun odd,” protested the jackal.
“O, you fool!” snarled the lion. “It’s the moral profit’s the game, don’t you see?Igain by the very hact what starts of itself to ruin me. It’s as plain as two pins.”
Mr. Gardener scratched his head, and broke into a short laugh.
“Bless you sir,” said he, “it’s clear enough; if on’y you’ll tell me who in all this here place is a-going to run up the dealer, since you can’t yourself.”
Mr. Plumley, bending at the cupboard, did not answer for a moment. When at last he did, rising and facing round, there was a curious pallor on his lips, and he had to clear his throat before he could articulate—
“You, Robert.”
“Me, sir! You’re joking.”
“Never less so, Robert.”
“I ain’t worth a sixpence in the world, sir.”
The ex-remover walked shakily across, and put a flabby, insinuative hand on the other’s shoulder.
“I think I may say I’ve been a good friend to you, Robert?”
Gardener muttered an uneasy affirmative.
“To justify a great principle, Robert? It’s a mere matter of form; it's——humph! A moment, if you please. Think of it while I’m gone.”
A rap at the front door had obtruded itself. Mr. Plumley tiptoed elephantinely out, was heard murmuring a few minutes in the hall, and returned shortly in a state of suavely perspiring mystery.
“It’s the dealer himself, Robert,” he whispered, his little eyes twinkling. “He’s come to make another attempt. I’ll humour him—humour him, never fear. Now, you must be quick. Will you do this little thing to oblige me?”
“Supposing I were let in, sir?”
Mr. Plumley coughed.
“I guarantee you, of course. It’s just a confidence between us. Go to fifty pound—not a penny less nor more—and let him take it at any figure he likes, beyond. He won’t fail you. You’ll do it, Robert?”
“I don’t favour the job, sir.”
“But you’ll do it?”
“Well, yes, then.”
Mr. Plumley showed him out, returned to the parlour, finished his whisky and water, and called in the dealer from some hidden corner of the hall where he had lain concealed. He had braced his nerves in the interval. His attitude all at once was scowling and truculent—meet for the reception of the shabby loafer who now presented himself.
“What are you grinning at, sir?” he roared. “This ain’t the face to bring to business.”
“O! isn’t it?” said the man. “Then I’ll change it——” which he did, so suddenly and terrifically that the other cowered. The stranger snorted, and relaxed.
“What now, minion?” said he.
“Bah!” snarled Mr. Plumley: “it comes easy to a barnstormer.”
“Roscius, ye fat old Philistine,” cried the actor, striking his breast with a ragged-gloved hand: “Roscius, thou ‘villainous, obscene, greasy tallow-ketch!’ ”
“Well,” said Mr. Plumley, wiping his brow, “I meant no offence, anyhow. Have a drink?”
The stranger breathed heavily, and assumed a Napoleonic pose.
“I will have a drink,” he said; and, in fact, before he would condescend to utter another word, he had two.
“Ha!” he said then, ejaculating a little spirituous cloud, and his lean, pantomimic face was all at once benign. “Richard’s himself again, and eager for the fray! To the charge, my passive resister, my heavy lead! Ye need Theophilus Bolton! Ye must pay!”
“As to that there,” began Mr. Plumley, stuttering and glowering; but the other took him up coolly——
“As to that, dear boy, there’s no question. You’ve withheld me from a profitable engagement——”
“O, blow profitable!” interposed Mr. Plumley. “And you didn’t jump at the chanst neither!”
“To play a part for you,” went on the actor unruffled “Well, am I to be Agnew, or Christie, or Sotheby, or who? My commission’s five per cent.”
“Well, I don’t object to that,” said Plumley, relieved. “On the vally of the picture to Gardener, that’s to say. Call it done, and call yourself what you like.”
“One man in his time plays many parts,” murmured Mr. Bolton. “Put it on paper, dear boy. I have a weakness for testaments.”
Mr. Plumley protested; the actor whistled. In the end, the latter pocketed a document to the effect that Joshua Plumley agreed to pay Theophilus Bolton a sum to be calculated at the rate of five per cent on the ultimate selling price at auction (on a date hereafter to be filled in) of a picture known as the “The Wood Shop.”
“You’ll be close?” said Mr. Plumley uneasily. “It might—it might injure me, you know, if it got about. Short o’ fifty pound’s the figger—you understand? Let Gardener secure it at that. I’ve my reasons. You come to me quick and quiet after the sale, and you shall have your two pound ten on the nail, and slip off with it as private as you wish.”
Now, what was Plumley’s little game? And wasn’t he anyhow a good man of business?
He was at least such a sure student of human nature as to have made no miscalculation in the matter of Bull and Hacker’s predilections. They seized, on the strength of Mr. Gardener’s artful insinuations, the very picture on which the defaulter was supposed to set a value, and put it up to sale one afternoon on the tail of a general auction. Mr. Gardener bid for it (the practice was common enough amongst the firm’s employés, acting for private clients, and Bull rather admired the man’s astuteness in having suggested a seizure so prospectively profitable to himself), and a strange dealer opposed him. They ran one another up merrily, and the room gaped and sniggered and whispered. It was an afternoon of surprises.
“Forty-six,” cried the auctioneer—“any advance on forty-six?”
A local lawyer, Bittern by name, was observed pushing his way through the crowd.
“Good Lord!” he was muttering; “is the man daft!”
“Forty-seven,” said the dealer.
“Forty-eight,” bawled Gardener.
“Forty-nine,” said the dealer monotonously.
“Fifty!” cried Gardener stoutly; and hung on the bid which was to quit and relieve him.
It did not come.
The auctioneer raised his stereotyped wail: It was giving the lot away; a chance like that might never occur again; let him say fifty-one. “Come, gentlemen! Shall I say fifty-one? No?” He would sell at fifty, then—sell this unique work at the low figure of fifty pounds. “Any advance on fifty pounds?” He raised his hammer.
“Not for me,” said the dealer, turning away. “Let him have it.”
Down came the hammer. “Gardener: fifty pounds,” murmured Mr. Bull, with a very satisfied face. The purchaser stood stupefied.
Two flurried gentlemen at this moment entered the room. They seemed more rivals than friends, and each shouldered the other rather rudely.
“Too late, by gosh!” growled one.
“Not a bit,” said the second, pushing past. “We’ll get the vendee to put it up again. I dare say he’ll do it.”
“Here!” cried the first, grasping at the other’s receding figure.
Jibbing together, they made their way towards Gardener, who was standing in rueful and dumbfounded altercation with the lawyer. A brief but very earnest discussion took place among the four. At the end, the rostrum was invoked, the picture was replaced on the table, the two new-comers took up position. Gardener, mute and dazed, fell back, in custody of the lawyer, who stood with a hard, shrewd glitter in his eyes, and the auctioneer, blandly elated, raised his voice, justifying his own judgment.
The picture, he said—as he had already informed the company, in fact—was a desirable one, a rare example of that peerless master Adrian Ostade; and the recent purchaser—whose property it was now become—had been persuaded generously to put it up to auction again on his own account, in answer to the representations of certain would-be bidders, whom an unforeseen delay on the railway had prevented from attending earlier.
“We will start at fifty pounds, gentlemen, if you please,” said he.
Mr. Bolton, in the background, pulled his hat over his eyes, and settled himself to listen.
That great financial strategist, Mr. Plumley, sat drinking whisky and water by lamplight. His pipe lay at his side. He had tried to smoke it; but tobacco flurried him.
“It should be about settled by now,” he muttered. “Where’s that Bolton?”
“Rap!” came the answer, upon such an acute nervous centre, that he started as if he had been stung.
He rose, made an effort to compose himself, and went to the door.
A spare tall figure detached itself from the dark, and entered.
“What the devil’s been keeping you?” growled the ex-remover.
“Ah! you’re short-sighted, my friend,” said Mr. Bittern, and walked coolly into the parlour.
Mr. Plumley stared, felt suddenly wet, shook himself, and followed. When it came to creeping flesh, he felt the full aggravation of his size. The slow march of apprehensions, taking time from a sluggish but persistent brain, seemed minutes encompassing him.
“So,” said the lawyer, dry and wintry, the moment he was in, “you coveted your neighbour's one ewe lamb?”
Mr. Plumley took up his pipe, blew through it, put it down again, and said nothing.
“You’d heard of Gardener’s aunt’s little bequest to him of fifty pounds, duty free, eh?” asked the lawyer.
“No,” said Mr. Plumley.
“O!” said the lawyer. “He bid fifty pounds for that picture of yours this afternoon, and got it. On whose instructions?”
“Ask him, sir. He acts for many.”
“It wasn’t on yours, then?”
“Is that reasonable, Mr. Bittern, when to my knowledge the man wasn’t worth a brass farden?”
“What do you say about holding him to his bargain?”
“I say, if he’s bought the picture, he must pay for it.”
“And who bid against him? You don’t know that either, I suppose?”
“Nat’rally. Was I there?”
“Well, I’ve settled for him with Bull and Hacker, and brought you their cheque, less commission and distraint. Give me a receipt for it.”
The great creature, elated with his own strategy as he was, could hardly draw it out, his hands shook so. But he managed the business somehow. The lawyer examined the paper, and buttoning it into his pocket, took up his hat.
“O, by the way!” he said, as if on an afterthought, “I was forgetting to mention that Gardener, after securing the picture, put it up to auction again, at the particular request of some late arrivals, and was bid a thousand pounds for it. It turned out to be a very good work.”
Mr. Plumley took up his pipe again quite softly, looked at it a moment, and suddenly dashed it to smithereens on the floor.
“It was a plant!” he cried in a fat, hoarse scream. “I’ll be even with him—I’ll have the money—the picture was mine—I’ll—by God, I say, it was a conspiracy!”
The lawyer at the door lashed round on him like whipcord.
“And that’s what I think,” he shouted. “The meanest, dirtiest trick that was ever played by a canting scoundrel on a poor brother. But I may get to the bottom of it yet, from the opening scheme to enlist Gardener’s sympathies for a poor martyr to conscience, to the last wicked design upon him in the saleroom. I may get to the bottom of it, cunning as it was planned; and, when I do, let some look out!”
As he flung away, he let in a new-comer, Mr. Bolton, by the opened door. Mr. Plumley, choking in the backwater of his own fury, had sunk into a chair, gasping betwixt bitterness and panic. He could not, for the moment, remember how far he had committed himself. He looked up to meet the insolent, ironic smile of his confederate. “Come along, dear boy,” said Mr. Bolton. “Curtain’s down. Cash up!”
He presented a claim for fifty pounds, and stood, his hat cocked on his head, picking his teeth.
“What’s this curst gammon?” sneered Mr. Plumley, rousing himself.
“Commission,” said the actor airily. “Five per cent. on the ultimate selling price of a picture.”
“It went at fifty.”
“Pardonme, sir.Ultimate—ultimate, see agreement” (he smacked his chest). “One thou’ was the figure, and dirt cheap. Fine example. I’ll trouble you for a cheque.”
“Two pound ten. I’ll give it you in cash.”
Mr. Bolton whistled a stave, and turned round, his hands deep in his breeches’ pockets.
“I can sell to the other party. Good day to you, and look out.”
[The End]