Kitabı oku: «Miser Farebrother: A Novel (vol. 3 of 3)», sayfa 4
"As truly as I stand here! As truly as I love my Phœbe, the dearest girl in all the wide world, of whom I should be unworthy if I failed you at such a pinch – as truly as I hope, despite all obstacles, to make her my wife, and to live a long and happy life with her! Quick, now, your time is almost up. Give me Shylock's name and address, and the thing is done. Ah; that is it, is it? I shall be able to settle the affair with him."
"God bless you, Fred!" said Uncle Leth, carried away by the young man's impetuous enthusiasm. "God in heaven bless you!"
"I hope so. And you and yours, and my own dear girl! Why, here's a telegraph office, three doors from the bank! We have just forty-five seconds to send a telegram to Aunt Leth. I will write it out. 'My dear Wife, – Do not worry about the bill. It is paid, and I am happy. God bless all at home! Uncle Leth.' How much? One-and-a-penny-ha'penny. How is that? Oh yes, the address! Quite right. Tenpence-ha'penny change. Thank you. Now, here we are outside, and there's your bank; and – hi! – here's a hansom. Good-bye, Uncle Leth. What a lovely morning!"
He rung Uncle Leth's hand, gave him a bright smile, jumped into the cab, and was whirled away.
How he managed it need not be here recapitulated. Sufficient that he did manage it, and that the affair was arranged before one o'clock. Perhaps he borrowed a trifle from a friend or two; perhaps he scraped up every shilling of his own; perhaps he paid a business visit to a gentleman whose trade-mark was three beautiful golden balls; perhaps he left another acceptance for a smaller amount than the original bill, with his own and a good friend's name on it, in Shylock's hands. But all the "perhapsing" in the world would have been useless had he not succeeded in bringing the matter to a satisfactory issue. And there he was at the bank exactly as the clock struck one, and asking to be allowed to say a word to Mr. Lethbridge, whispered in his ear, "It is all right."
CHAPTER VIII
PHŒBE IN PERIL
After this breaking out of the sun in the dear home in Camden Town, with respect to the money trouble, Aunt Leth's heart, as has been stated, fainted within her when Mr. Beeminster, introducing himself, said that he had called upon an inquiry of a serious nature. She mustered courage to say: "Is it anything about a debt? Is it anything about my husband?"
Mr. Beeminster stared at her, and answered: "No, not that I am aware of. The inquiry upon which I am engaged relates to Miss Farebrother – your niece – and her father."
A sigh of relief escaped Aunt Leth's bosom, and Mr. Beeminster stared the harder at her.
"Have you heard anything?" he asked. "Do you know what has occurred?"
"I do not understand you," she replied.
"Miss Farebrother has resided with you for – how long?"
"I cannot exactly say. For some time; since she left her father's house and came to us. But why do you question me?"
"You are not compelled to answer. It may be that you have something to conceal."
"I have nothing to conceal," said Aunt Leth indignantly.
"Or that, Miss Farebrother having got herself into trouble, it is your wish to screen her."
"My niece has not got herself into trouble," said Aunt Leth, feeling herself in a certain sense helpless in the hands of this man. "She is not capable of doing anything wrong. I will answer any reasonable questions you may put to me."
"It may be as well. Otherwise you might be suspected of a guilty knowledge. Miss Farebrother left her father's house and came to reside with you?"
"Yes; she has been in the habit of coming and stopping with us, from time to time, since she was a child."
"But never for so long a time as this?"
"That is true. We have a deep love for her. Our home is hers."
"She ought to be grateful for it."
"She is."
"Her friends will best serve her by being open and frank."
"But what has our dear child done?" asked Aunt Leth, in an imploring tone. "What has she done?"
"You will hear presently, if you have a little patience. On this last occasion of her coming to you did she do so with her father's consent?"
"It is a family secret," replied Aunt Leth despairingly.
"It will tell against her if you refuse to answer. I am here in the cause of justice."
"Of justice?"
"Yes, of justice. You refuse, then, to say whether she left her home in Parksides with her father's consent?"
"I do not refuse. Her father was not kind to her; he turned her from his house."
"Then when she came here they were not upon friendly terms. It is the construction which every person would place upon it. Have you any objection to say why he turned her from his house?"
"He wished to force her into a hateful marriage; she would not consent."
"Were you and her father upon friendly terms?"
"We were not."
"You harboured her, then, against his wish?"
"She had no other shelter. We have always regarded her as a child of our own. Her mother was my sister."
"I know it. Since she has been living permanently with you has Miss Farebrother heard from her father?"
"He wrote to her, but not in answer to any letter of hers."
"Did he not say in his communication that if she would obey him she could return to Parksides?"
"Yes," said Aunt Leth, amazed at the extent of Mr. Beeminster's knowledge, and in an agony of apprehension.
"Did Miss Farebrother reply to that letter?"
"No, she did not."
"I suppose that her conduct met with your approval? She would be guided by you?"
"I endeavoured to guide her aright. Her father showed no love for her."
"But you may be prejudiced. Since your marriage there has been no love lost between you and Miser Farebrother?"
"I cannot deny it."
"I beg your pardon; these are matters which, perhaps, I should not go into. They will, no doubt, be investigated elsewhere. They are, however, an evidence of prejudice. Did Miss Farebrother leave your house last night?"
"She did."
"With your knowledge and consent?"
"We did not know of it until she was gone. She met our servant, and gave her a message to us that she had gone to Parksides."
"Did you send after her?"
"We did."
"Who was your messenger?"
"A young man of the name of Barley."
"Barley!" said Mr. Beeminster, turning to his companion with a look of intelligence. "Tom Barley?"
"Yes."
"There is a man of that name in the force."
"It is the same. He is a policeman."
"Ah! Did he obtain any information of her?"
"No. He could not remain long away. He had to return to his duty here in London."
"So that he came back alone?"
"Yes."
"Miss Farebrother, however, came back?"
"Yes."
"She is in the house now?"
"She is."
"I believe she is not well?"
"She is very ill, and I am anxious to go to her."
"A little patience, please, and all will be cleared up. At what hour of the night or morning did she come back?"
"At between nine and ten o'clock this morning."
"A strange hour for a young lady to come home. Had she been to Parksides?"
"I do not know to a certainty."
"She has not told you?"
"No."
"Did she see her father?"
"I cannot say."
"You do not know? She has not told you?"
"She has not."
"Then if she went to Parksides and saw her father, she is concealing the fact from you?" Aunt Leth did not reply. These cold, relentless questions, with their strange and close adherence to fact, bewildered her. "When she left this house last night she was in good health. Contradict me if such is not the case, and in anything I may say which is opposed to the truth. She was in good health at that time. She returned this morning, sick and ill. Has she worn this veil lately?" He produced it, and handed it to Aunt Leth.
"She wore it yesterday."
"She must have worn it when she went out last night. It was found in the grounds of Parksides to-day. Therefore Miss Farebrother must have been there. Do you recognize this brooch?"
He handed her the brooch he had shown to 'Melia Jane.
"It was given to my dear niece by her father's house-keeper."
"Mrs. Pamflett?"
"Yes."
"It was found in the grounds of Parksides to-day." Mr. Beeminster took his companion aside and whispered a few words to him; the man nodded and left the room. Aunt Leth heard him close the street door behind him. "When, within your knowledge, did Miss Farebrother wear this brooch last?"
"I cannot say positively; it is a long time since. I believe she did not bring it away with her from Parksides when she left her father's house to come to us."
"Can you swear to that?"
"No; but my niece will be able to tell you."
"I shall not ask her; it might be used in evidence against her."
"In evidence against her! For God's sake tell me what you are here for! Do not keep me any longer in suspense!"
"Not for a moment longer. Miser Farebrother is dead."
"Dead!"
"Dead. Found murdered this morning in the grounds at Parksides. A cruel murder. I have brought a copy of an evening paper with me containing the information. It was just out as I came here. Would you like to read it? But you do not seem in a fit state. I will read it to you."
Mr. Beeminster unfolded the paper and read:
"Frightful Murder. – A Mysterious Case.
"This morning, at eleven o'clock, the discovery was made of a horrible murder committed on a small estate known as Parksides, on the outskirts of Beddington.
"For a number of years Parksides has been inhabited by a man who, from some cause or other, was generally spoken of as Miser Farebrother. He was a man, it is understood, of penurious habits, and the only servant in the house was a house-keeper, Mrs. Pamflett. He had one child, a daughter, who for some time past has not resided with him, but who found a home with an aunt and uncle living in London. Mrs. Pamflett bore the reputation of being an attentive and capable servant, and of faithfully performing her duty. Like her master, however, she was not a favourite in the village. The establishment altogether was not in good repute, although the only charge that can be brought against the inmates is that they did not court society, and kept themselves from their neighbours. This remark does not apply to Miser Farebrother's daughter. She was generally liked, and has been in the habit of going frequently to London and paying long visits to her aunt and uncle. The only persons in Parksides yesterday, until the afternoon, were Miser Farebrother and Mrs. Pamflett, the house-keeper. Then the house-keeper was sent by her master to the telegraph office with a message to his manager in London, requesting him to come down to Parksides, presumably upon business. The business conducted in London was a money-lending business, and – Miser Farebrother being confined to his house by gout and rheumatism – the confidential manager here was Mr. Jeremiah Pamflett, the son of the house-keeper. Before the telegram could reach him in London Mr. Pamflett was on his way to his master, having an important matter of business to discuss with him. The business settled, Mr. Pamflett left for London.
"At about ten o'clock last night a man called at Parksides to see Miser Farebrother, and being expected, was admitted to Miser Farebrother's room. For the last three or four years this man has been in the habit of paying periodical visits to Miser Farebrother: he always came at night, and always departed after the house-keeper had retired to rest. This was in accordance with her master's orders. Last night as usual she retired to her room while her master and his visitor were closeted together. Before seeking her rest, however, she paused outside the door of her master's apartment, and inquired whether she could do anything for him. He called out to her that he did not require anything further from her, and that she was to go to bed. She obeyed him, and getting into bed, was soon asleep. She describes herself as a sound sleeper, and difficult to awake. It was strange, therefore, that she should awake in the middle of the night, with an impression that some person had entered the house. She looked at her watch; it was twenty minutes past one o'clock. Not being satisfied with a mere impression, she left her room in her night-dress and went down to the kitchen. There, to her surprise, she saw Miser Farebrother's daughter. The house-keeper does not know how she got into the house, nor for how long a time she had been there. Miss Farebrother asked her angrily why she came down without being summoned, and the house-keeper, in explanation, replied that she had been awakened by a sound of some person moving in the house, and that she naturally came down to see what it was. Still speaking in anger, Miss Farebrother said that she was mistress there, and she ordered the house-keeper back to her room. After this order there was no apparent reason why the house-keeper should remain, and she retired from the kitchen and went to bed again. As she left the kitchen she observed a large knife, with a horn handle, which she frequently used for rough work, lying on the table.
"As she lay in bed the house-keeper shortly afterward heard the voices of two persons in altercation in the grounds, and she recognised the voices of her master and his daughter. It seemed to her that they were wrangling violently, but this was not an unusual occurrence when Miss Farebrother was at Parksides. Miser Farebrother was, besides, a person of eccentric habits. He was frequently in the habit of wandering through his grounds in the middle of the night. The sounds grew fainter, as though the miser and his daughter were walking away; or, as the house-keeper explains, they may have entered the house and ceased their dispute. However it was, she fell asleep again, and did not awake till morning. Going down to her work, she found everything as she had left it on the previous night, with the exception that the knife with the horn handle was missing.
"Miser Farebrother usually rang for the house-keeper at nine o'clock in the morning. On this morning, however, he did not summon her at the accustomed time. Neither to this circumstance did she attach any particular importance.
"When ten o'clock struck, however, the house-keeper felt it strange that she did not hear her master's bell. She waited another half-hour, and then she went to his room. She knocked, and received no answer. Then she opened the door, and found that the room was empty, and that there was no appearance of the bed having been slept in. Somewhat alarmed, but still not suspecting the dreadful truth, she went to her young mistress's room. That also was empty, and the bed had not been occupied.
"Her alarm increased. She searched the grounds for her master and mistress. Her mistress she did not find. Her master she did. He was lying upon the ground, at some distance from the house. Bending over him, she was horrified by the discovery that he was dead – not only that he was dead, but that he had been cruelly, ruthlessly murdered! A dreadful wound was in his breast, and near him was the knife with the horn handle, clotted with blood.
"She rushed into the village, and brought assistance back – a doctor and a policeman, who were followed by two or three idlers. It needed only a slight examination on the part of the doctor to prove that a frightful murder had been committed.
"Here, for the present, the matter rests. The inquest will be held to-morrow.
"Certain discoveries have already been made which it would be premature here to refer to. The affair is in the hands of the police, who are confident they will succeed in bringing the murderer to justice."
Aunt Leth listened to the account of the murder with a feeling of unutterable horror. Quiet and observant, Mr. Beeminster carefully folded the newspaper and put it into his pocket, saying as he did so:
"The 'certain discoveries' to which the newspaper reporter says it would be premature to refer are Miss Farebrother's brooch and veil which were picked up in the grounds."
"Gracious God!" cried Aunt Leth, with a pallid face and horror-struck eyes. "You do not – you cannot suspect – "
"Best to say as little as possible," said Mr. Beeminster, rising.
"You brought a companion in with you," said Aunt Leth. "What was it you whispered to him, and why did he go away?"
Mr. Beeminster was standing near the window, which faced the street. He looked out, and Aunt Leth's eyes followed the direction of his. The man she referred to was on the opposite side of the road, strolling a few steps leisurely this way and that, but never too far to lose a clear view of the house upon which his eyes were fixed.
"Have you placed him there to watch us?" asked Aunt Leth, faintly. "And for what reason?"
"A murder has been committed," replied Mr. Beeminster. "Miss Farebrother will most likely be served with a notice to attend the inquest to-morrow."
"It will kill her! it will kill her!" cried Aunt Leth.
Mr. Beeminster, without replying, quietly left the room.
CHAPTER IX
FRED CORNWALL TO THE RESCUE
So overwhelming was Aunt Leth's despair after Mr. Beeminster's departure that she almost lost her senses. She could not think coherently, but she had a vague consciousness that something – she knew not what – must be immediately done, and she put her hands over her face and pressed her forehead hard in the endeavour to recall her wandering thoughts. She was not successful; her mind grew more confused, and she might have remained for a long time in this most terrible bewilderment had it not been for a loud and rapid knocking at the street door. The interruption had a salutary effect upon her; it caused her to start to her feet, and to become sensible to what was actually occurring. What did that knocking portend? Some fresh calamity?
"Fred! Fred!" she cried.
He hastened into the room, and she fell into his arms, and sobbed there hysterically.
"Aunt Leth! Aunt Leth!" said Fred, in a soothing tone. "There, there, be calm! You have heard the dreadful news, then?"
"And you," whispered Aunt Leth, amazed that he should be so cool: his voice was solemn, it is true, but there was in it no note of despair: "you know all?"
"All," he replied. "I bought a newspaper, and came here at once. Has Phœbe been told?"
"No."
"My poor girl!" said Fred. "How will she bear it?"
"What paper did you buy?" asked Aunt Leth, bewildered by his manner.
He gave it to her, and wiping the tears from her eyes and looking at the column he pointed out, she saw that it was a different newspaper from that which Mr. Beeminster had brought with him. Fred's newspaper contained the simple announcement that Miser Farebrother had been found dead in his grounds at Parksides under such circumstances as would lead to the belief that he had been murdered.
"You do not know the worst," said Aunt Leth; and then, in as calm a voice as she could command, she related what had occurred.
He listened in horror and amazement. Until this moment he had been ignorant of Phœbe's visit to Parksides on the previous night, and of her return to Camden Town at ten o'clock that morning; and he instantly saw that his darling girl was in peril. The name of the paper from which Mr. Beeminster had read the account of the murder was being called in the street by a newspaper boy, and Fred darted out and purchased a copy. After perusing the report he remained quiet for a minute or two, with his head resting in his hand. "We must be calm, Aunt Leth," he said. "There is in this paper the first notes of a terrible accusation against our dear girl. It is due to Mrs. Pamflett's malice. She shall be punished for it – she and her infamous son!"
"You will protect Phœbe!" implored Aunt Leth, laying her hand on Fred's arm. "You will save her!"
"I will protect and save her. My poor Phœbe! my poor Phœbe! But she will be able to clear up the mystery, although she may not lead us immediately to the discovery of the actual murderer. She can give us an explanation of her own movements. What has she told you, Aunt Leth?"
"I have not got one sensible word from her, Fred, since she came home."
"What does the doctor say?"
"That she must be kept quiet. He is coming again this evening."
"I must see her, if only for a moment. I will not agitate her, but it is imperative that we learn something from her which will enable us to act. Take me to her, Aunt Leth."
Aunt Leth recognized the reasonableness of Fred's request, and she led him upstairs to the bedroom. Fanny was there, her eyes red with weeping.
"Has she spoken, Fanny?" asked Aunt Leth. "Has she said anything?"
"Only one word, mamma. Oh, Fred, isn't this dreadful! There, mamma, that is all she says – 'Father! father!'"
"Go out of the room for a little while, Fanny," said Fred Cornwall. "You can return when we leave." And then to Aunt Leth, when Fanny was gone, "Does Fanny know of Mr. Beeminster's visit?"
"She knows nothing, Fred," replied Aunt Leth.
It required a supreme effort on Fred's part to control his agitation as he gazed upon the white pitiful face of his dear girl. Her body was quite still, but her head tossed from side to side on the pillow, and in her distressful moans there could be distinguished but one word – "Father! father! father!" repeated incessantly.
"Phœbe!" whispered Fred, bending over her.
"She recognizes no one, Fred," whispered Aunt Leth; "not even me or Fanny."
They remained with the suffering girl for a quarter of an hour, and then they stole softly from her bedside and went down-stairs. Fred was very grave; he realized that his dear one was in no light peril.
"Mr. Beeminster set a man to watch the house," said Aunt Leth, pointing to the window.
Fred looked out, and then, saying he would not be gone a minute, left the house.
"There is a man watching also at the back of the house," he said, when he returned.
"Oh, Fred," cried Aunt Leth, "what does it all really mean?"
"The meaning is clear enough," replied Fred, and the concentrated expression on his face showed how busily his mind was employed; "there has been a suspicion of the horrible crime thrown upon the suffering angel upstairs. If I were only Phœbe's lover, Aunt Leth, I should be in a fury of rage at the wicked accusation; but I am her champion and her defender, and I must keep my feelings well under control, or I shall not be able to serve her. Some devilish plot has been invented, and we must meet it. Phœbe, by her actions last night and this morning, even by the state in which she now lies, unfortunately gives some colour to the vile, infernal accusation. Everything depends upon coolness. Such strange cases are being daily brought to light that the public are ready to believe anything. Now tell me: what was Phœbe's motive in leaving last night for Parksides without first letting you know?"
"I can only guess at it, Fred; but I am sure it is the truth. We were in the most dreadful trouble – I thought nothing worse could happen to us, but I was mistaken; this is a thousand times more terrible!"
"Don't give way, Aunt Leth. Remember what I said: everything depends upon coolness. I know of your trouble, and that you are, thank God! out of it; it was a money trouble, and the money is paid."
"Yes, Fred; but how did you know?"
"Never mind; go on about Phœbe."
"We were sitting in the dark, talking and mourning over it. My husband was in despair. There was only one way to prevent ruin, and that was to obtain a sum of money at once – it was three hundred pounds, Fred; a fortune – and we saw no way. So we sat talking, and trying to console each other. Suddenly I missed Phœbe; she had left the room so quietly that we did not observe it. A little while afterward 'Melia Jane told us that she had met Phœbe, who had given her a message to us that she had gone to Parksides to see her father. There was but one reason for her doing this; it was to try and obtain the money from her father that would prevent us being turned into the streets. She must have left us just as my husband was saying that as he walked to the bank he had a dream of hope, and that an angel had come forward to save us. Then, I suppose, the idea occurred to our dear girl to go to her father and entreat him to help us. If she had spoken to me first, I should have convinced her of the impossibility of her errand meeting with success."
"You have placed the right construction upon her leaving unknown to you. She felt that if you suspected her intention she would be unable to carry it out. When you put her to bed this morning did you search her pockets?"
"Yes, Fred; and I hoped to find something that would clear up the mystery. I found nothing."
"You found something," said Fred. "Her handkerchief, her purse?"
"Yes, of course, those; and her gloves."
"She was not wearing them, then?"
"No."
"Was there any money in her purse?"
"Not one penny, Fred."
"I hear 'Melia Jane's step on the stairs; I must have a word with her." He went to the door and called the girl, who entered the room. "I want to ask you a question or two," he said to her. "In answering me do not say a word you are not certain of."
"I won't, Mr. Cornwall," said 'Melia Jane.
"When you met Miss Phœbe last night did she seem very much agitated?"
"Very much, Mr. Cornwall. More nor I can express. She was crying, but she didn't want me to see. She tried to keep her face from me."
"You did not attempt to stop her? You asked her no questions?"
"Lor', Mr. Cornwall, she didn't give me time to get out a single word! She said what she had got to say, and she ran away like lightning."
"Did she wear a veil?"
"Yes, Mr. Cornwall, she did. The veil that man as come 'ere this afternoon showed me, and arksed me whether Miss Phœbe wore it last night when she went away. 'Owever he got 'old of it is more than I can guess."
"When he asked you whether Miss Phœbe wore the veil, what did you say?"
"I sed, yes, she did. And he showed me a brooch, and wanted to git me to say that she wore that last night; but I didn't, because I ain't seen that brooch on Miss Phœbe for a long time."
"You could swear," said Fred, eagerly, "that she did not wear a brooch when you saw her last night?"
"No, Mr. Cornwall, I couldn't swear that. I could swear I didn't see it – that's all. But I could swear to the veil."
Fred bit his lip. "If any man you don't know asks you any further questions about Miss Phœbe, do not answer him."
"I won't, Mr. Cornwall; they sha'n't pump me. That feller tried to, but he didn't git very much."
"He got enough," thought Fred, and said aloud, "That will do, 'Melia Jane; you can go. And now, Aunt Leth, quite apart from the statement which Mrs. Pamflett gave the reporters, it is proved that Phœbe was at Parksides last night. How did she get there?"
"I really can't say, Fred. I think she must have been too late for the last train."
"Have you an 'A B C' in the house?"
"No."
"I must see at what time the last train starts. Do you think she came back to London by the train this morning?"
"I don't know, Fred. Poor child! her feet were very much blistered."
"Good God! Surely she could not have walked!" He paced the room in great excitement. "About the brooch, Aunt Leth? Can you fix any definite time – any particular day – on which you last saw it in Phœbe's possession?"
"No, Fred; but I am sure I haven't seen it for a good many weeks."
"That she has not worn it for a good many weeks?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"You could not swear she has not worn it?"
"No."
"You could not swear she did not wear it last night?"
"No. But it is scarcely likely, with her feelings toward that wretch Mrs. Pamflett, that she would ever wear it after she was turned out of her father's house. What I am saying seems to trouble you."
"It does trouble me. I pray that I may be wrong in my impressions, but I fear that dark days are before us."
"If we speak the truth, Fred, there is nothing to fear."
"I am not so sure," said Fred, gloomily.
"But we must speak the truth, Fred!"
"Yes; it must be spoken – by us at least."
"Your fears may be groundless, Fred."
"I am afraid not."
"All we can do is to hope for the best."
"Not at all, Aunt Leth. What we have to do is to work for the best. Hoping never yet overcame a villainous plot. I must go now. There is much to do. I shall be here again in the evening."
