Mrs. Riddell and Miss Cory were sitting in the drawing-room. Both ladies were occupied less fancifully than ladies of fiction generally are. They were darning stockings, and Mrs. Riddell’s spectacles were dimmed with tears, as she held up a neatly finished piece of work, and sighed wistfully, “I wonder if poor Harley will live to wear it again.”
“Live to wear it!” was the optimistic rejoinder. “Of course he will. He’s not particularly ill, though he’s naturally low-spirited. But he will soon be all right, when we are able to infuse a little more hope into his mind than is advisable at present.”
“Do you know, I was sorely tempted to tell him yesterday of all that is being done for him. It seems so cruel to leave the poor fellow in misery.”
“But think how much more dreadful his disappointment will be, if things do not go off so well as we have reason to expect. Far better wait until we hear from Hilton. Then we shall, I trust, have something definite to promise him. Meantime, as you are aware, every effort is being made to trace Hugh Stavanger’s doings from the time ofthe robbery until the time of his flight. Our chain of evidence, with God’s help, will soon be complete, and when we have effected his deliverance, we will all do our best to make up to your poor lad for some of his sufferings.”
“I wish I could feel as you do. But, somehow, as each day passes, I begin to lose heart more and more, and yesterday, when I saw my dear boy, looking so ill and miserable, I thought my heart would have broken.”
“Yes, I knew you would feel it keenly, and wanted you to stay at home. Perhaps it is as well that you will not be permitted to see him again—until honour and freedom are restored to him. Picture how happy we shall all be then!”
“I will try, dear kind friends, I will try. And what do I not owe you already! Without you to hearten me up, when I am tempted to doubt Providence, I should have fretted myself into my grave before this time. But don’t you think we should have the telegram which Hilton promised to send from Malta soon? Shouldn’t it be here to-day or to-morrow?”
“I suppose it should. Only we must, of course, make allowances for possible bad weather and other causes of detention.”
“Yes, yes, I won’t be impatient again.”
Mrs. Riddell, utterly crushed by the suddenness and severity of her recent troubles, was prone to despondency and melancholy. It was fortunate for her that she had found such a firm, cheerful, and hopeful friend as Miss Cory to cheer her now childless loneliness. Annie, too, though she took her lover’s fate sadly to heart, was fainto do her utmost to keep up the health and spirits of both herself and others.
“There may be important work before me,” she was apt to say, “and I should feel ashamed of myself if I were to allow myself to become incapable of doing it.”
So she kept herself fully occupied with healthy employment, took her food regularly, and held herself in readiness for action at any moment. On the afternoon during which the above conversation took place between Mrs. Riddell and Miss Cory, Annie had been with her father to see a private detective whom they were employing to make inquiries concerning Hugh Stavanger. But although the man gleaned proofs that the individual whose past he was trying to investigate had spent a great deal of money lately, he could discover nothing to connect him with the diamond robbery.
“Never mind,” said Annie bravely, as they were walking homewards again. “We shall hear from Hilton soon, and he is not likely to lose sight of Hugh Stavanger, so that he can be arrested as soon as we are ready with our proofs. When Mr. Lyon comes home, we will have him subpœnaed as a witness, whether he likes it or not.”
“I don’t think we can rely upon him,” said Mr. Cory.
“And I do think that we can. I have given him a good deal of consideration, and have come to the conclusion that he is a gentleman. From the inquiries we have made of him, we have learnt nothing that could lead us to believe him anything but honourable. A few days ago I thought as you do. Mr. Lyon has no doubt every desire to shield the honour of his firm. But when he comes back, I mean to interview him and implore himto help us to save an innocent man from worse than death.”
“And surely he cannot refuse so reasonable a prayer.”
“I wonder how he came to suspect Hugh Stavanger, and how much he really knows.”
“We shall, I hope, discover everything in time—at any rate, enough to reverse the positions of Harley and young Stavanger.”
“Poor Harley. How dreadfully ill he looked yesterday! And yet how brave he tried to be! But hurry up, father, you know that it is just possible for the ‘Merry Maid’ to have reached Malta to-day, and a message may even now be waiting for us.”
There was no cablegram waiting for them, but the quartette spent the rest of the day without augmented anxiety, little dreaming of the terrible tidings in store for them. Late in the evening they were all sitting round the drawing-room fire, the ladies working while Mr. Cory read extracts from the “Echo.”
“Great Heavens!” he exclaimed suddenly, as his eye lighted on a passage which filled him with consternation. “Surely God himself is working for our enemies.”
His words so startled his companions that at least two of them were incapable of inquiring the nature of the new calamity which had evidently befallen them.
“What has happened now?” gasped Miss Cory, her face pale with consternation.
“Read for yourself,” was the reply, as her brother handed the paper to her. She took it with trembling fingers, but gained courage, when she saw, at a glance, that the news was not what she had feared.
“Don’t be so alarmed, Mrs. Riddell,” she said reassuringly. “This paragraph does not concern your son.” Then she read aloud as follows:—
“TERRIBLE COLLISION AT SEA.“GREAT LOSS OF LIFE.
“The news of a painful disaster has reached us from New York. The Pioneer liner ‘Cartouche’ reports a collision between that vessel and the British steamer ‘Gazelle’ on the 31st ultimo. The weather was thick at the time of the collision, and the foghorn of the ‘Cartouche’ was blowing. Suddenly a vessel emerged from the fog, and was seen to be crossing the starboard bow of the ‘Cartouche.’ The latter was immediately ported, and her engines set full speed astern. But these efforts could not prevent a collision, and in a few seconds the ‘Gazelle’ was struck amidships, going down immediately, with every soul on board. Some of these were afterwards picked up by the boats of the ‘Cartouche.’ But 28 persons are known to have perished, among these being three first-class passengers—Mr. Thomas Ackland, the Lancashire cotton spinner; Mr. Henry Teasdale, son of the Member for Sheffington; and Mr. Edward Lyon, junior member of the firm of Stavanger, Stavanger and Co., diamond merchants, Hatton Garden.”
For awhile there reigned an awestruck silence in the room.
“There seems no doubt about it,” at last said Mr. Cory.
“No, the information is positive enough,” was his sister’s response.
“It seems dreadful,” said Annie, with quivering lips and streaming eyes, “to think of oneself when reading of such awful catastrophes. The news is sad enough for anyone to read, but how can we help thinking also how strangely it affects us? Wear is dead; and now death has overtaken the only other witness, apart from ourselves, upon whom we could hope to place any reliance. Surely God must have forsaken us altogether.”
“Not that, my dear child,” was Mrs. Riddell’s trembling protest. “We are sorely tried. But I cannot bring myself to think that He has wholly deserted us. He is just trying us to the utmost of our strength.”
With this, Mrs. Riddell stooped to kiss Annie. Then, wishing the others “good-night,” she left them, for she feared to break down, and thus increase the sorrow of the others. She also hoped that her Bible, a never-failing source of comfort, would lend her its tranquillising aid. Alas, she was soon to experience a trial great enough to make even her faith falter.
The next morning all four were seated at breakfast, when a servant brought the morning paper in.
“Quick, father,” said Annie. “Look at the shipping news and see if there is any account of the ‘Merry Maid’.”
Mr. Cory turned obediently to the part of the paper named. But he was so long in making any remark that Annie looked up in surprise, which deepened into terror when she saw the expression of her father’s face. It was white and drawn, and big drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead.
Mutely she asked to see for herself what was the new trouble sent them. And mutely he handed her the paper.The reader already knows what she was likely to read there, and will not care to witness the grief with which the news of Hilton Riddell’s death was received.
But, great though the grief was, there came a time when other passions gave it battle.
“My boy has been murdered,” said the heartbroken mother. “I may lie down, and die. Hilton is dead, and Harley’s last hope is gone.”
“Hilton has been murdered,” said Annie. “But Harley’s last hope has not gone. I still count for something, and I will never rest until I have tracked and denounced the man to whom we owe all our misery.”
“Hilton has been murdered,” said Mr. Cory. “But the world is not so very big after all, and I swear that his murder shall not go unavenged.”
“Yes, there has been murder,” said Miss Cory; “and everything must be done to punish the fiend who is guilty of it. I cannot go with you, my place is with our unhappy friend here. But I can do this much—I can place my fortune at your disposal. Spend it freely in tracking our enemy. I will give every penny I have for such a purpose. Go, and my blessing go with you.”
So far, everything had seemed to work in Hugh Stavanger’s favour. All those whom he had to fear were swept from his path. But, if he had heard and seen what passed at the Corys, he would perhaps have trembled.
And he would have had good cause for trembling. For Nemesis is not an agreeable foe to follow in one’s wake.