It was the great anniversary. On that day Sir Richard Raby had lost for the Stuarts all the head he possessed. His faithful descendent seized the present opportunity to celebrate the event with more pomp than ever. A month before the fatal day he came in from Hillsborough with sixty yards of violet-colored velvet, the richest that could be got from Lyons; he put this down on a table, and told his sister that was for her and Jael to wear on the coming anniversary. “Don't tell me there's not enough,” said he; “for I inquired how much it would take to carpet two small rooms, and bought it; now what will carpet two little libraries will clothe two large ladies; and you are neither of you shrimps.”
While he was thus doing the cynical, nobody heeded him; quick and skillful fingers were undoing the parcel, and the ladies' cheeks flushed and their eyes glistened, and their fingers felt the stuff inside and out: in which occupation Raby left them, saying, “Full dress, mind! We Rabys are not beheaded every day.”
Mrs. Little undertook to cut both dresses, and Jael was to help sew them.
But, when they came to be tried on, Jael was dismayed. “Why, I shall be half naked,” said she. “Oh, Mrs. Little, I couldn't: I should sink with shame.”
Mrs. Little pooh-poohed that, and an amusing dialogue followed between these two women, both of them equally modest, but one hardened, and perhaps a little blinded, by custom.
Neither could convince the other, but Mrs. Little overpowered Jael by saying, “I shall wear mine low, and you will mortally offend my brother if you don't.”
Then Jael succumbed, but looked forward to the day with a simple terror one would hardly have expected from the general strength of her character.
Little arrived, and saw his mother for a minute or two before dinner. She seemed happy and excited, and said, “Cheer up, darling; we will find a way to make you happy. Mark my words, a new era in your life dates from to-day: I mean to open your eyes tonight. There, don't question me, but give me one kiss, and let us go and make ourselves splendid for poor Sir Richard.”
When Little came down-stairs he found his uncle and a distinguished-looking young gentleman standing before the fire; both were in full dress. Raby had the Stuart orders on his breast and looked a prince. He introduced Little to Mr. Richard Raby with high formality; but, before they had time to make acquaintance, two ladies glided into the room, and literally dazzled the young men, especially Dissolute Dick, who knew neither of them.
Mrs. Little, with her oval face, black brow and hair, and stately but supple form, was a picture of matronly beauty and grace; her rich brunette skin, still glossy and firm, showed no signs of age, but under her glorious eyes were the marks of trouble; and though her face was still striking and lovely, yet it revealed what her person concealed, that she was no longer young. That night she looked about eight-and-thirty.
The other lady was blonde, and had a face less perfect in contour, but beautiful in its way, and exquisite in color and peach-like bloom; but the marvel was her form; her comely head, dignified on this occasion with a coronet of pearls, perched on a throat long yet white and massive, and smooth as alabaster; and that majestic throat sat enthroned on a snowy bust and shoulders of magnificent breadth, depth, grandeur, and beauty. Altogether it approached the gigantic; but so lovely was the swell of the broad white bosom, and so exquisite the white and polished skin of the mighty shoulders adorned with two deep dimples, that the awe this grand physique excited was mingled with profound admiration.
Raby and Henry Little both started at the sudden grandeur and brilliance of the woman they thought they knew, but in reality had never seen; and Raby, dazzled himself, presented her, quite respectfully, to Dissolute Dick.
“This is Miss Dence, a lady descended, like the rest of us, from poor Sir Richard; Miss Dence; Mr. Richard Raby.”
Jael blushed more deeply than ladies with white and antique busts are in the habit of doing, and it was curious to see the rosy tint come on her white neck, and then die quietly away again. Yet she courtesied with grace and composure. (Mrs. Little had trained her at all points; and grace comes pretty readily, where nature has given perfect symmetry.)
Dinner was announced, and Raby placed the Dissolute between his sister and the magnificent Beauty dead Sir Richard had developed. He even gave a reason for this arrangement.
“All you ladies like a rake: you PRAISE sober fellows like me; but what you PREFER is a Rake.”
As they were rustling into their places, Mrs. Little said to Dick, with a delicious air of indifference, “ARE you a rake, Mr. Raby?”
“I am anything you like,” replied the shameless fellow.
All the old plate was out, and blazing in the light of candles innumerable.
There was one vacant chair.
Dick asked if there was anybody expected.
“Not much,” said Raby dryly. “That is Sir Richard's chair, on these occasions. However, he may be sitting in it now, for aught I know. I sincerely hope he is.”
“If I thought that, I'd soon leave mine,” said Jael, in a tremulous whisper.
“Then stay where you are, Sir Richard,” said the Rake, making an affected motion with his handkerchief, as if to keep the good Knight down.
In short, this personage, being young, audacious, witty, and animated by the vicinity of the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, soon deprived the anniversary of that solemn character Mr. Raby desired to give it. Yet his volubility, his gayety, and his chaff were combined with a certain gentlemanlike tact and dexterity; and he made Raby laugh in spite of himself, and often made the ladies smile. But Henry Little sat opposite, and wondered at them all, and his sad heart became very bitter.
When they joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Henry made an effort to speak to Jael Dence. He was most anxious to know whether she had heard from Grace Carden. But Jael did not meet him very promptly, and while he was faltering out his inquiries, up came Richard Raby and resumed his attentions to her—attentions that very soon took the form of downright love-making. In fact he stayed an hour after his carriage was announced, and being a young man of great resolution, and accustomed to please himself, he fell over head and ears in love with Miss Dence, and showed it then and thereafter.
It did not disturb her composure. She had often been made love to, and could parry as well as Dick could fence.
She behaved with admirable good sense; treated it all as a polite jest, but not a disagreeable one.
Mrs. Little lost patience with them both. She drew Henry aside, and asked him why he allowed Mr. Richard Raby to monopolize her.
“How can I help it?” said Henry. “He is in love with her; and no wonder: see how beautiful she is, and her skin like white satin. She is ever so much bigger than I thought. But her heart is bigger than all. Who'd think she had ever condescended to grind saws with me?”
“Who indeed? And with those superb arms!”
“Why, that is it, mother; they are up to anything; it was one of those superb arms she flung round a blackguard's neck for me, and threw him like a sack, or I should not be here. Poor girl! Do you think that chatterbox would make her happy?”
“Heaven forbid! He is not worthy of her. No man is worthy of her, except the one I mean her to have, and that is yourself.”
“Me, mother! are you mad?”
“No; you are mad, if you reject her. Where can you hope to find her equal? In what does she fail? In face? why it is comeliness, goodness, and modesty personified. In person? why she is the only perfect figure I ever saw. Such an arm, hand, foot, neck, and bust I never saw all in the same woman. Is it sense? why she is wise beyond her years, and beyond her sex. Think of her great self-denial; she always loved you, yet aided you, and advised you to get that mad young thing you preferred to her—men are so blind in choosing women! Then think of her saving your life: and then how nearly she lost her own, through her love for you. Oh, Henry, if you cling to a married woman, and still turn away from that angelic creature there, and disappoint your poor mother again, whose life has been one long disappointment, I shall begin to fear you were born without a heart.”
“Better for me if I had; then I could chop and change from one to another as you would have me. No, mother; I dare say if I had never seen Grace I should have loved Jael. As it is, I have a great affection and respect for her, but that is all.”
“And those would ripen into love if once you were married.”
“They might. If it came to her flinging that great arm round my neck in kindness she once saved my life with by brute force, I suppose a man's heart could not resist her. But it will never come to that while my darling lives. She is my lover, and Jael my sister and my dear friend. God bless her, and may she be as happy as she deserves. I wish I could get a word with her, but that seems out of the question to-night. I shall slip away to bed and my own sad thoughts.”
With this he retired unobserved.
In the morning he asked Jael if she would speak to him alone.
“Why not?” said she calmly.
They took a walk in the shrubbery.
“I tried hard to get a word with you yesterday, but you were so taken up with that puppy.”
“He is very good company.”
“I have seen the time when I was as good; but it is not so easy to chatter with a broken heart.”
“That is true. Please come to the point, and tell me what you want of me now.”
This was said in such a curious tone, that Henry felt quite discouraged.
He hesitated a moment and then said, “What is the matter with you? You are a changed girl to me. There's something about you so cold and severe; it makes me fear I have worn out my friend as well as lost my love; if it is so, tell me, and I will not intrude my sorrow any more on you.”
There was a noble and manly sadness in the way he said this, and Jael seemed touched a little by it.
“Mr. Henry,” said she, “I'll be frank with you. I can't forgive you leaving the factory that night without saying a word to me; and if you consider what I had done before you used me so, and what I suffered in consequence of your using me so—not that you will ever know all I suffered, at least I hope not—no, I have tried to forgive you; for, if you are a sinner, you are a sufferer—but it is no use, I can't. I never shall forgive you to my dying day.”
Henry Little hung his head dejectedly. “That is bad news,” he faltered. “I told you why I did not bid you good-by except by letter: it was out of kindness. I have begged your pardon for it all the same. I thought you were an angel; but I see you are only a woman; you think the time to hit a man is when he is down. Well, I can but submit. Good-by. Stay one moment, let me take your hand, you won't refuse me that.” She did not deign a word; he took her hand and held it. “This is the hand and arm that worked with me like a good master: this is the hand and arm that overpowered a blackguard and saved me: this is the hand and arm that saved my Grace from a prison and public shame. I must give them both one kiss, if they knock me down for it. There—there—good-by, dear Jael, good-by! I seem to be letting go the last thing I have to cling to in the deep waters of trouble.”
Melted by this sad thought, he held his best friend's hand till a warm tear dropped on it. That softened her; the hand to which he owed so much closed on his and detained him.
“Stay where you are. I have told you my mind, but I shall ACT just as I used to do. I'm not proud of this spite I have taken against you, don't you fancy that. There—there, don't let us fret about what can't be helped; but just tell me what I can DO for you.”
Young Little felt rather humiliated at assistance being offered on these terms. He did not disguise his mortification.
“Well,” said he, rather sullenly, “beggars must not be choosers. Of course I wanted you to tell me where I am likely to find her.”
“I don't know.”
“But you left Hillsborough with her?”
“Yes, and went to York. But there I left her, and she told me she should travel hundreds of miles from York. I have no notion where she is.”
Little sighed. “She could not trust even you.”
“The fewer one trusts with a secret the better.”
“Will she never return? Will she give up her father as well as me? Did she fix no time? Did she give you no hint?”
“No, not that I remember. She said that depended on you.”
“On me?”
“Yes.”
Here was an enigma.
They puzzled over it a long time. At last Jael said, “She wrote a letter to you before she left: did she say nothing in that? Have you got the letter?”
“Have I got it?—the last letter my darling ever wrote to me! Do you think it ever leaves me night or day?”
He undid one of his studs, put his hand inside, and drew the letter out warm from his breast. He kissed it and gave it to Jael. She read it carefully and looked surprised. “Why, you are making your own difficulties. You have only got to do what you are told. Promise not to fall foul of that Coventry, and not to tempt her again, and you will hear of her. You have her own word for it.”
“But how am I to let her know I promise?”
“I don't know; how does everybody let everybody know things nowadays? They advertise.”
“Of course they do—in the second column of 'The Times.'”
“You know best.” Then, after a moment's reflection, “Wherever she is, she takes in the Hillsborough papers to see if there's anything about you in them.”
“Oh, do you think so?”
“Think so? I am sure of it. I put myself in her place.”
“Then I will advertise in 'The Times' and the Hillsborough papers.”
He went into the library and wrote several advertisements. This is the one Jael preferred:
“H. L. to G. C. I see you are right. There shall be no vengeance except what the law may give me, nor will I ever renew that request which offended you so justly. I will be patient.”
He had added an entreaty that she would communicate with him, but this Jael made him strike out. She thought that might make Grace suspect his sincerity. “Time enough to put that in a month hence, if you don't hear from her.”
This was all I think worth recording in the interview between Jael and Henry, except that at parting he thanked her warmly, and said, “May I give you one piece of advice in return? Mr. Richard Raby has fallen in love with you, and no wonder. If my heart was not full of Grace I should have fallen in love with you myself, you are so good and so beautiful; but he bears a bad character. You are wise in other people's affairs, pray don't be foolish in your own.”
“Thank you,” said Jael, a little dryly. “I shall think twice before I give my affections to any young man.”
Henry had a word with his mother before he went, and begged her not to prepare disappointment for herself by trying to bring Jael and him together. “Besides, she has taken a spite against me. To be sure it is not very deep; for she gave me good advice; and I advised her not to throw herself away on Dissolute Dick.”
Mrs. Little smiled knowingly and looked very much pleased, but she said nothing more just then. Henry Little returned to Hillsborough, and put his advertisement in “The Times” and the Hillsborough journals.
Two days afterward Ransome called on him with the “Hillsborough Liberal.” “Is this yours?” said Ransome.
“Yes. I have reason to think she will write to me, if she sees it.”
“Would you mind giving me your reason?”
Little gave it, but with so much reticence, that no other man in Hillsborough but Ransome would have understood.
“Hum!” said he, “I think I can do something with this.” A period of expectation succeeded, hopeful at first, and full of excitement; but weeks rolled on without a word from the fugitive, and Little's heart sickened with hope deferred. He often wished to consult Jael Dence again; he had a superstitious belief in her sagacity. But the recollection of her cold manner deterred him. At last, however, impatience and the sense of desolation conquered, and he rode over to Raby Hall.
He found his uncle and his mother in the dining-room. Mr. Raby was walking about looking vexed, and even irritable.
The cause soon transpired. Dissolute Dick was at that moment in the drawing-room, making hot love to Jael Dence. He had wooed her ever since that fatal evening when she burst on society full-blown. Raby, too proud and generous to forbid his addresses, had nevertheless been always bitterly averse to them, and was now in a downright rage; for Mrs. Little had just told him she felt sure he was actually proposing.
“Confound him!” said Henry, “and I wanted so to speak to her.”
Raby gave him a most singular look, that struck him as odd at the time, and recurred to him afterward.
At last steps were heard overhead, and Dissolute Dick came down-stairs.
Mrs. Little slipped out, and soon after put her head into the dining-room to the gentlemen, and whispered to them “YES.” Then she retired to talk it all over with Jael.
At that monosyllable Mr. Raby was very much discomposed.
“There goes a friend out of this house; more fools we. You have lost her by your confounded folly. What is the use spooning all your days after another man's wife? I wouldn't have had this happen for ten thousand pounds. Dissolute Dick! he will break her heart in a twelvemouth.”
“Then why, in heaven's name, didn't you marry her yourself?”
“Me! at my age? No; why didn't YOU marry her? You know she fancies you. The moment you found Grace married, you ought to have secured this girl, and lived with me; the house is big enough for you all.”
“It is not so big as your heart, sir,” said Henry. “But pray don't speak to me of love or marriage either.”
“Why should I? The milk is spilt; it is no use crying now. Let us go and dress for dinner. Curse the world—it is one disappointment.”
Little himself was vexed, but he determined to put a good face on it, and to be very kind to his good friend Jael.
She did not appear at dinner, and when the servants had retired, he said, “Come now, let us make the best of it. Mother, if you don't mind, I will settle five thousand pounds upon her and her children. He is a spendthrift, I hear, and as poor as Job.”
Mrs. Little stared at her son. “Why, she has refused him!”
Loud exclamations of surprise and satisfaction.
“A fine fright you have given us. You said 'Yes.'”
“Well, that meant he had proposed. You know, Guy, I had told you he would: I saw it in his eye. So I observed, in a moment, he HAD, and I said 'Yes.'”
“Then why doesn't she come down to dinner?”
“He has upset her. It is the old story: he cried to her, and told her he had been wild, and misconducted himself, all because he had never met a woman he could really love and respect; and then he begged her, and implored her, and said his fate depended on her.”
“But she was not caught with that chaff; so why does she not come and receive the congratulations of the company on her escape?”
“Because she is far too delicate;” then, turning to her son, “and perhaps, because she can't help comparing the manly warmth and loving appreciation of Mr. Richard Raby, with the cold indifference and ingratitude of others.”
“Oh,” said Henry, coloring, “if that is her feeling, she will accept him next time.”
“Next time!” roared Raby. “There shall be no next time. I have given the scamp fair play, quite against my own judgment. He has got his answer now, and I won't have the girl tormented with him any more. I trust that to you, Edith.”
Mrs. Little promised him Dick and Jael should not meet again, in Raby Hall at least.
That evening she drew her son apart and made an earnest appeal to him.
“So much for her spite against you, Henry. You told her to decline Richard Raby, and so she declined him. Spite, indeed! The gentle pique of a lovely, good girl, who knows her value, though she is too modest to show it openly. Well, Henry, you have lost her a husband, and she has given you one more proof of affection. Don't build the mountain of ingratitude any higher: do pray take the cure that offers, and make your mother happy, as well as yourself, my son.” In this strain she continued, and used all her art, her influence, her affection, till at last, with a weary, heart-broken sigh, he yielded as far as this: he said that, if it could once be made clear to him there was no hope of his ever marrying Grace Carden he would wed Jael Dence at once.
Then he ordered his trap, and drove sullenly home, while Mrs. Little, full of delight, communicated her triumph to Jael Dence, and told her about the five thousand pounds, and was as enthusiastic in praise of Henry to Jael, as she had been of Jael to Henry.
Meantime he drove back to Hillsborough, more unhappy than ever, and bitter against himself for yielding, even so far, to gratitude and maternal influence.
It was late when he reached home. He let himself in with a latch-key, and went into his room for a moment.
A letter lay on the table, with no stamp on it: he took it up. It contained but one line; that line made his heart leap:
“News of G. C. RANSOME.”
Late as it was, Little went to the Town-hall directly. But there, to his bitter disappointment, he learned that Mr. Ransome had been called to Manchester by telegram. Little had nothing to do but to wait, and eat his heart with impatience. However, next day, toward afternoon, Ransome called on him at the works, in considerable excitement, and told him a new firm had rented large business premises in Manchester, obtained goods, insured them in the “Gosshawk,” and then the premises had caught fire and the goods been burned to ashes; suspicions had been excited; Mr. Carden had gone to the spot and telegraphed for him. He had met a London detective there, and, between them, they had soon discovered that full cases had come in by day, but full sacks gone out by night: the ashes also revealed no trace of certain goods the firm had insured. “And now comes the clew to it all. Amongst the few things that survived the fire was a photograph—of whom do you think? Shifty Dick. The dog had kept his word, and gone into trade.”
“Confound him!” said Little; “he is always crossing my path, that fellow. You seem quite to forget that all this time I am in agonies of suspense. What do I care about Shifty Dick? He is nothing to me.”
“Of course not. I am full of the fellow; a little more, and he'll make a monomaniac of me. Mr. Carden offers L200 for his capture; and we got an inkling he was coming this way again. There, there, I won't mention his name to you again. Let us talk of what WILL interest you. Well, sir, have you observed that you are followed and watched?”
“No.”
“I am glad of it; then it has been done skillfully. You have been closely watched this month past by my orders.”
This made young Little feel queer. Suppose he had attempted anything unlawful, his good friend here would have collared him.
“You'll wonder that a good citizen like you should be put under surveillance; but I thought it likely your advertisement would either make the lady write to you, or else draw her back to the town. She didn't write, so I had you watched, to see if any body took a sly peep at you. Well, this went on for weeks, and nothing turned up. But the other night a young woman walked several times by your house, and went away with a sigh. She had a sort of Protestant nun's dress on, and a thick veil. Now you know Mr Carden told you she was gone into a convent. I am almost sure it is the lady.”
Little thanked him with all his soul, and then inquired eagerly where the nun lived.
“Ah, my man didn't know that. Unfortunately, he was on duty in the street, and had no authority to follow anybody. However, if you can keep yourself calm, and obey orders—”
“I will do anything you tell me.”
“Well, then, this evening, as soon as it is quite dark, you do what I have seen you do in happier times. Light your reading-lamp, and sit reading close to the window; only you must not pull down the blind. Lower the venetians, but don't turn them so as to hide your face from the outside. You must promise me faithfully not to move under any circumstances, or you would be sure to spoil all.”
Little gave the promise, and performed it to the letter. He lighted his lamp, and tried to read book after book; but, of course, he was too agitated to fix his attention on them. He got all Grace's letters, and read them; and it was only by a stern effort he kept still at all.
The night wore on, and heart-sickness was beginning to succeed to feverish impatience, when there was a loud knock at the door. Little ran to it himself, and found a sergeant of police, who told him in a low voice he brought a message from the chief-constable.
“I was to tell you it is all right; he is following the party himself. He will call on you at twelve to-morrow morning.”
“Not before that?” said Little. However, he gave the sergeant a sovereign for good news, and then, taking his hat, walked twenty miles out of Hillsborough, and back, for he knew it was useless his going to bed, or trying to settle to any thing.
He got back at ten o'clock, washed, breakfasted, and dozed on two chairs, till Ransome came, with a carpet-bag in his hand.
“Tell me all about it: don't omit any thing.” This was Little's greeting.
“Well, sir, she passed the house about nine o'clock, walking quickly; and took just one glance in at your window, but did not stop. She came back in half an hour, and stood on the opposite side of the way, and then passed on. I hid in a court, where she couldn't see me. By-and-by she comes back, on your side the way this time, gliding like a cat, and she crouched and curled round the angle of the house, and took a good look at you. Then she went slowly away, and I passed her. She was crying bitterly, poor girl! I never lost sight of her, and she led me a dance, I can tell you. I'll take you to the place; but you had better let me disguise you; for I can see she is very timid, and would fly away in a moment if she knew she was detected.”
Little acquiesced, and Ransome disguised him in a beard and a loose set of clothes, and a billy-cock hat, and said that would do, as long as he kept at a prudent distance from the lady's eye. They then took a cab and drove out of Hillsborough. When they had proceeded about two miles up the valley, Ransome stopped the cab, and directed the driver to wait for them.
He then walked on, and soon came to a row of houses, in two blocks of four houses each.
The last house of the first block had a bill in the window, “To be let furnished.”
He then knocked at the door, and a woman in charge of the house opened it.
“I am the chief-constable of Hillsborough; and this is my friend Mr. Park; he is looking out for a furnished house. Can he see this one?”
The woman said, “Certainly, gentlemen,” and showed them over the house.
Ransome opened the second-story window, and looked out on the back garden.
“Ah,” said he, “these houses have nice long gardens in the rear, where one can walk and be private.”
He then nudged Henry, and asked the woman who lived in the first house of the next block—“the house that garden belongs to?”
“Why, the bill was in the window the other day; but it is just took. She is a kind of a nun, I suppose: keeps no servant: only a girl comes in and does for her, and goes home at night. I saw her yesterday, walking in the garden there. She seems rather young to be all alone like that; but perhaps there's some more of 'em coming. They sort o' cattle mostly goes in bands.”
Henry asked what was the rent of the house. The woman did not know, but told him the proprietor lived a few doors off. “I shall take this house,” said Little. “I think you are right,” observed Ransome: “it will just answer your purpose.” They went together, and took the house directly; and Henry, by advice of Ransome, engaged a woman to come into the house in the morning, and go away at dusk. Ransome also advised him to make arrangements for watching Grace's garden unseen. “That will be a great comfort to you,” said he: “I know by experience. Above all things,” said this sagacious officer, “don't you let her know she is discovered. Remember this: when she wants you to know she is here, she'll be sure to let you know. At present she is here on the sly: so if you thwart her, she'll be off again, as sure as fate.”
Little was forced to see the truth of this, and promised to restrain himself, hard as the task was. He took the house; and used to let himself into it with a latch-key at about ten o clock every night.
There he used to stay and watch till past noon; and nearly every day he was rewarded by seeing the Protestant nun walk in her garden.
He was restless and miserable till she came out; when she appeared his heart bounded and thrilled; and when once he had feasted his eyes upon her, he would go about the vulgar affairs of life pretty contentedly.
By advice of Ransome, he used to sit in his other house from seven till nine, and read at the window, to afford his beloved a joy similar to that he stole himself.
And such is the power of true love that these furtive glances soothed two lives. Little's spirits revived, and some color came back to Grace's cheek.
One night there was a house broken into in the row.
Instantly Little took the alarm on Grace's account, and bought powder and bullets, and a double-barreled rifle, and a revolver; and now at the slightest sound he would be out of bed in a moment ready to defend her, if necessary.
Thus they both kept their hearts above water, and Grace visited the sick, and employed her days in charity; and then, for a reward, crept, with soft foot, to Henry's window, and devoured him with her eyes, and fed on that look for hours afterward.
When this had gone on for nearly a month, Lally, who had orders to keep his eye on Mr. Little, happened to come and see Grace looking in at him.
He watched her at a distance, but had not the intelligence to follow her home. He had no idea it was Grace Carden.
However, in his next letter to his master, who was then in London, he told him Little always read at night by the window, and, one night, a kind of nun had come and taken a very long look at him, and gone away crying. “I suspect,” said Lally, “she has played the fool with him some time or other, before she was a nun.”
He was not a little surprised when his master telegraphed in reply that he would be down by the first train; but the fact is, that Coventry had already called on Mr. Carden, and been told that his wife was in a convent, and he would never see her again. I must add that Mr. Carden received him as roughly as he had Little, but the interview terminated differently. Coventry, with his winning tongue, and penitence and plausibility, softened the indignant father, and then, appealing to his good sense, extorted from him the admission that his daughter's only chance of happiness lay in forgiving him, and allowing him to atone his faults by a long life of humble devotion. But when Coventry, presuming on this, implored him to reveal where she was, the old man stood stanch, and said that was told him under a solemn assurance of secrecy, and nothing should induce him to deceive his daughter. “I will not lose her love and confidence for any of you,” said he.
So now Coventry put that word “convent” and this word “nun” together, and came to Hillsborough full of suspicions.
He took lodgings nearly opposite Little's house, and watched in a dark room so persistently, that, at last, he saw the nun appear, saw her stealthy, cat-like approaches, her affected retreat, her cunning advance, her long lingering look.
A close observer of women, he saw in every movement of her supple body that she was animated by love.
He raged and sickened with jealousy, and when, at last, she retired, he followed her, with hell in his heart, and never lost sight of her till she entered her house in the valley.
If there had been a house to let in the terrace, he would certainly have taken it; but Little had anticipated him.
He took a very humble lodging in the neighborhood; and by dint of watching, he at last saw the nun speaking to a poor woman with her veil up. It revealed to him nothing but what he knew already. It was the woman he loved, and she hated him; the woman who had married him under a delusion, and stabbed him on his bridal day. He loved her all the more passionately for that.
Until he received Lally's note, he had been content to wait patiently until his rival should lose hope, and carry himself and his affections elsewhere; he felt sure that must be the end of it.
But now jealousy stung him, wild passion became too strong for reason, and he resolved to play a bold and lawless game to possess his lawful wife. Should it fail, what could they do to him? A man may take his own by force. Not only his passions, but the circumstances tempted him. She was actually living alone, in a thinly-peopled district, and close to a road. It was only to cover her head and stifle her cries, and fly with her to some place beforehand prepared, where she would be brought to submission by kindness of manner combined with firmness of purpose.
Coventry possessed every qualification to carry out such a scheme as this. He was not very courageous; yet he was not a coward: and no great courage was required. Cunning, forethought, and unscrupulousness were the principal things, and these he had to perfection.
He provided a place to keep her; it was a shooting-box of his own, on a heathery hill, that nobody visited except for shooting, and the season for shooting was past.
He armed himself with false certificates of lunacy, to show on an emergency, and also a copy of his marriage certificate: he knew how unwilling strangers are to interfere between man and wife.
The only great difficulty was to get resolute men to help him in this act.
He sounded Cole; but that worthy objected to it, as being out of his line.
Coventry talked him over, and offered a sum that made him tremble with cupidity. He assented on one condition—that he should not be expected to break into the house, nor do any act that should be “construed burglarious.” He actually used that phrase, which I should hardly have expected from him.
Coventry assented to this condition. He undertook to get into the house, and open the door to Cole and his myrmidons: he stipulated, however, that Cole should make a short iron ladder with four sharp prongs. By means of this he could enter Grace's house at a certain unguarded part and then run down and unbar the front door. He had thoroughly reconnoitered the premises, and was sure of success.
First one day was appointed for the enterprise, then another, and, at last, it was their luck to settle on a certain night, of which I will only say at present, that it was a night Hillsborough and its suburbs will not soon forget.
Midnight was the hour agreed on.
Now at nine o'clock of this very night the chief-constable of Hillsborough was drinking tea with Little scarcely twenty yards from the scene of the proposed abduction. Not that either he or Little had the least notion of the conspiracy. The fact is, Hillsborough had lately been deluged with false coin, neatly executed, and passed with great dexterity. The police had received many complaints, but had been unable to trace it. Lately, however, an old bachelor, living in this suburban valley, had complained to the police that his neighbors kept such enormous fires all night, as to make his wall red-hot and blister his paint.
This, and one or two other indications, made Ransome suspect the existence of a furnace, and he had got a search-warrant in his pocket, on which, however, he did not think it safe to act till he had watched the suspected house late at night, and made certain observations for himself. So he had invited himself to tea with his friend Little—for he was sure of a hearty welcome at any hour—and, over their tea, he now told him his suspicions, and invited him to come in and take a look at the suspected house with him.
Little consented. But there was no hurry; the later they went to the house in question the better. So they talked of other matters, and the conversation soon fell on that which was far more interesting to Little than the capture of all the coiners in creation.
He asked Ransome how long he was to go on like this, contenting himself with the mere sight of her.
“Why;” said Ransome, “even that has made another man of you. Your eye is twice as bright as it was a month ago, and your color is coming back. That is a wise proverb, 'Let well alone.' I hear she visits the sick, and some of them swear by her. If think I'd give her time to take root here; and then she will not be so ready to fly off in a tangent.”
Little objected that it was more than flesh and blood could bear.
“Well, then,” said Ransome, “promise me just one thing: that, if you speak to her, it shall be in Hillsborough, and not down here.”
Little saw the wisdom of this, and consented, but said he was resolved to catch her at his own window the next time she came.
He was about to give his reasons, but they were interrupted by a man and horse clattering up to the door.
“That will be for me,” said Ransome. “I thought I should not get leave to drink my tea in peace.”
He was right; a mounted policeman brought him a note from the mayor, telling him word had come into the town that there was something wrong with Ousely dam. He was to take the mayor's horse, and ride up at once to the reservoir, and, if there was any danger, to warn the valley.
“This looks serious,” said Ransome. “I must wish you good-by.”
“Take a piece of advice with you. I hear that dam is too full; if so, don't listen to advice from anybody, but open the sluices of the waste-pipes, and relieve the pressure; but if you find a flaw in the embankment, don't trifle, blow up the waste-wear at once with gunpowder. I wish I had a horse, I'd go with you. By the way, if there is the least danger of that dam bursting, of course you will give me warning in time, and I'll get her out of the house at once.”
“What, do you think the water would get as far as this, to do any harm? It is six miles.”
“It might. Look at the form of the ground; it is a regular trough from that dam to Hillsborough. My opinion is, it would sweep everything before it, and flood Hillsborough itself—the lower town. I shall not go to bed, old fellow, till you come back and tell me it is all right.”
With this understanding Ransome galloped off. On his way he passed by the house where he suspected coining. The shutters were closed, but his experienced eye detected a bright light behind one of them, and a peculiar smoke from the chimney.
Adding this to his other evidence, he now felt sure the inmates were coiners, and he felt annoyed. “Fine I look,” said he, “walking tamely past criminals at work, and going to a mayor's nest six miles off.”
However he touched the horse with his heel, and cantered forward on his errand.
John Ransome rode up to the Ousely Reservoir, and down again in less than an hour and a half; and every incident of those two rides is imprinted on his memory for life.
He first crossed the water at Poma bridge. The village of that name lay on his right, toward Hillsborough, and all the lights were out except in the two public houses. One of these, “The Reindeer,” was near the bridge, and from it a ruddy glare shot across the road, and some boon companions were singing, in very good harmony, a trite Scotch chorus: