Kitabı oku: «This Man's Wife», sayfa 14
Volume Two – Chapter Fourteen.
Writhing in her Agony
“Mother! – father! Oh, in heaven’s name, speak to me! I cannot bear it. My heart is broken. What shall I do?”
“My poor darling!” sobbed Mrs Luttrell, holding her child to her breast and rocking to and fro, while the doctor sat with wrinkled face nursing and caressing Julia, who clung to him in a scared fashion, not having yet got over the terrors of the past night.
She had her arms about her grandfather, and nestled in his breast, but every now and then she started up to gaze piteously in his face.
“Would my dolls all be burnt, grandpa?”
“Oh, I hope not, my pet,” he said soothingly; “but never mind if they are: grandpa will buy you some better ones.”
“But I liked those, grandpa, and – and is my little bed burnt too?”
“No, my pet; I think not. I hope not. They put the fire out before it did a great deal of harm.”
The child laid her head down again for a few moments, and then looked up anxiously.
“Thibs says the bad men tore the place all to pieces last night and broke all the furniture and looking-glasses. Oh! grandpa, I – I – I – ”
Suffering still from the nervous shock of the nocturnal alarm, the poor child’s breast heaved, and she burst into a pitiful fit of sobbing, which was some time before it subsided.
“Don’t think about it all, my pet,” said the doctor, tenderly stroking the soft little head. “Never mind about the old house, you shall come and live here with grandpa, and we’ll have such games in the old garden again.”
“Yes, and I may smell the flowers, and – and – but I want our own house too.”
“Ah, well, we shall see. There, you are not to think any more about that now.”
“Why doesn’t Mr Bayle come, grandpa? Did the bad people hurt him very much?”
“Oh no, my darling: he’s all right, and he punished some of them.”
“And when will papa come?”
“Hush, child,” cried Millicent in a harsh, strange voice, “I cannot hear to hear you.”
The child looked at her in a scared manner and clung to her grandfather, but struggled from his embrace directly after, and ran to her mother, throwing her arms about her, and kissing her and sobbing.
“Oh, my own dear, dear mamma!”
“My darling, my darling!” cried Millicent, passionately clasping her to her breast; and Mrs Luttrell drew away to leave them together, creeping quietly to the doctor’s side, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, looking a while in his eyes as if asking whether she were doing wisely.
The doctor nodded, and for a few minutes there was no sound heard but Millicent’s sobs.
“I wish Mr Bayle would come,” said Julia all at once in her silvery childish treble.
“Silence, child!” cried Millicent fiercely. “Father dear, speak to me; can you not help me in this trouble? You know the charge is all false?”
“My darling, I will do everything I can.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but every one seems to have turned against us – Sir Gordon, Mr Bayle, the whole town. It is some terrible mistake: all some fearful error. How dare they charge my husband with a crime?”
She gazed fiercely at her father as she spoke, and the old man stood with his arms about Mrs Luttrell and his lips compressed.
“You do not speak,” cried Millicent; “surely you are not going to turn against us, father?”
“Oh! Milly, my own child,” sobbed Mrs Luttrell, running to her to take her head to her breast, “don’t speak to us like that; as if your father would do anything but help you.”
“Of course, of course,” cried Millicent excitedly; “but there, I must put off all this pitiful wailing.”
She rose in a quiet, determined way, and wiped her eyes hastily, arranged her hair, and began to walk up and down the room. Then, stopping, she forced a smile, and bent down and kissed Julia, sending a flash of joy through her countenance.
“Go and look round the garden, darling. Pick mamma a nice bunch of flowers.”
“Will you come too, grandpa?” cried the child eagerly.
“I’ll come to you presently, darling,” said the doctor nodding; and the child bounded to the open window with a sigh of relief, but ran back to kiss each in turn.
“Now we can speak,” cried Millicent, panting, as she forced herself to be calm. “There is no time for girlish sobbing when such a call as this is made upon me. The whole town is against poor Robert; they have wrecked and burnt our house, and they have cast him into prison.”
“My darling, be calm, be calm,” said the doctor soothingly.
“Yes, I am calm,” she said, “and I am going to work – and help my husband. Now tell me, What is to be done first? He is in that dreadful place.”
“Yes, my child, but leave this now. I will do all I can, and will tell you everything. You have had no sleep all night; go and lie down now for a few hours.”
“Sleep! and at a time like this!” cried Millicent. “Now tell me. He will be brought up before the magistrates to-day?”
“Yes, my child.”
“And he must have legal advice to counteract all this cruel charge that has been brought against him. Poor fellow! so troubled as he has been of late.”
The doctor looked at her with the lines in his forehead deepening.
“If they had given him time he would have proved to them how false all these attacks are. But we are wasting time. The lawyer, father, and he will have to be paid. You will help me, dear; we must have some money.”
The doctor exchanged glances with his wife.
“You have some, of course?” he said, turning to Millicent.
“I? No. Robert has been so pressed lately. But you will lend us all we want. You have plenty, father.”
The doctor was silent, and half turned away.
“Father!” cried Millicent, catching his hand, “don’t you turn from me in my distress. I tell you Robert is innocent, and only wants time to prove it to all the world. You will let me have the money for his defence?”
The doctor remained silent.
“Father!” cried Millicent in a tone of command.
“Hush! my darling; your poor father has no money,” sobbed Mrs Luttrell, “and sometimes lately we have not known which way to turn for a few shillings.”
“Oh, father!” cried Millicent reproachfully. “But there’s the house. You must borrow money on its security, enough to pay for the best counsel in London. Robert will repay you a hundredfold.”
The doctor turned away and walked to the window.
“Father!” cried Millicent, “am I your child?”
“My child! my darling!” he groaned, coming quickly back, “how can you speak to me in such a tone?”
“How can you turn from me at such a time, when the honour of my dear husband is at stake? What are a few paltry hundred pounds to that? You cannot, you shall not refuse. There, I know enough of business for that. The lawyers will lend you money on the security of this house. Go at once, and get what is necessary. Why do you hesitate?”
“My poor darling!” cried Mrs Luttrell piteously, “don’t, pray don’t speak to your father like that.”
“I must help my husband,” said Millicent hoarsely. “Yes, yes, and you shall, my dear; but be calm, be calm. There, there, there.”
“Mother, I must hear my father speak,” said Millicent sternly. “I come to him in sore distress and poverty. My home has been wrecked by last night’s mob, my poor husband half killed, and torn from me to be cast into prison. I come to my father for help – a few pitiful pounds, and he seems to side with my husband’s enemies.”
“Milly, my darling, I’ll do everything I can,” cried the doctor; “but you ask impossibilities. The house is not mine.”
“Not yours, father?”
“Hush! hush, my dear!” sobbed Mrs Luttrell. “I can’t explain to you now, but poor papa was obliged to sell it a little while ago.”
“Where is the money?” said Millicent fiercely.
“It was all gone before – the mortgages,” said Mrs Luttrell.
“And who bought it?” cried Millicent.
“Mr Bayle.”
There was a pause of a few moments’ duration, and then the suffering woman seemed to flash out into a fit of passion.
“Mr Bayle again!” she cried.
“Yes, Mr Bayle, our friend.”
At that moment there came a burst of merry laughter from the garden, the sounds floating in through the open window with the sweet scents of the flowers, and directly after Julia, looking flushed and happy, appeared, holding Christie Bayle’s hand.
Bayle paused as he saw the group within, and then slowly entered.
“Mamma, I knew Mr Bayle would come!” cried Julia excitedly. “But, oh, look at him, he has hurt himself so! He is so – so – oh, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it!”
The memories of the past night came back in a flash – the hurried awaking from sleep, the dressing, the sounds of the mob, the breaking windows, the fire, and the wild struggle; and the poor child sobbed hysterically and trembled, as Bayle sank upon his knees and took her to his breast.
There she clung, while he caressed her and whispered comforting words, Millicent the while standing back, erect and stern, and Mrs Luttrell and the doctor with troubled countenances looking on.
In a few minutes the child grew calm again, and then, without a word, Millicent crossed to the fireplace and rang the bell. It was answered directly by the doctor’s maid.
“Send Thisbe here,” said Millicent sternly.
In another minute Thisbe, who looked very white and troubled, appeared at the door, gazing sharply from one to the other.
“Julie, go to Thisbe,” said Millicent in a cold, harsh voice.
The child looked up quickly, and clung to Bayle, as she gazed at her mother with the same shrinking, half-scared look she had so often directed at her father.
“Julie!”
The child ran across to Thisbe, and Bayle bit his lip, and his brow contracted, for he caught the sound of a low wail as the door was closed.
Then, advancing to her, with his face full of the pity he felt, Bayle held out his hand to Millicent, and then let it fall, as she stood motionless, gazing fiercely in his face, till he lowered his eyes, and his head sank slowly, while he heaved a sigh.
“You have come, then,” she said, “come to look upon your work. You have come to enjoy your triumph. False friend! Coward! Treacherous villain! You have cast my husband into prison, and now you dare to meet me face to face!”
“Mrs Hallam! Millicent!” he cried, looking up, his face flushing as he met her eyes, “what are you saying?”
“The truth!” she cried fiercely. “He knew you better than I. He warned me against you. His dislike had cause. I, poor, weak, trusting woman, believed you to be our friend, and let you crawl and enlace yourself about our innocent child’s heart, while all the time you were forming your plans, and waiting for your chance to strike!”
“Mrs Hallam,” said Bayle calmly, and with a voice full of pity, “you do not know what you are saying.”
“Not know! when my poor husband told me all! – how you waited until he was in difficulties, and then plotted with that wretched menial Thickens to overthrow him! I know you now: cowardly, cruel man! Unworthy of a thought! But let me tell you that you win no triumph. You thought to separate us – to make the whole world turn from him whom you have cast into prison. You have succeeded in tightening the bonds between us. The trouble will pass as soon as my husband’s innocency is shown, while your conduct will cling to you, and show itself like some stain!”
A look as angry as her own came over his countenance, but it passed in a moment, and he said gravely: “I came to offer you my sympathy and help in this time of need.”
“Your help, your sympathy!” cried Millicent scornfully. “You, who planned, here, in my presence, with Sir Gordon, my husband’s ruin! Leave this house, sir! Stay! I forgot. By your machinations you are master here. Mother, father, let us go. The world is wide, and heaven will not let such villainy triumph in the end.”
“Oh, hush! hush!” exclaimed Bayle sternly. “Mrs Hallam, you know not what you say. Doctor, come on to me, I wish to see you. Dear Mrs Luttrell, let me assist you all I can. Good-bye! God help you in your trouble. Good-bye!”
He bent down and kissed the old lady; and as he pressed her hand she clung to his, and kissed it in return.
“Good-bye, Mrs Hallam,” he said, holding out his hand once more.
She turned from him with a look of disgust and loathing, and he went slowly out, as he had come, with his head bent, along the road, and on to the market-place.
Volume Two – Chapter Fifteen.
A Critical Time
There was only one bit of business going on in King’s Castor that morning among the mechanics, and that was where two carpenters were busy nailing boards across the gaping windows and broken door of Hallam’s house.
The ivy about the hall window was all scorched, and the frames of that and two windows above were charred, but only the hall, staircase, and one room had been burned before the fire was extinguished. The greater part of the place, though, was a wreck, the mob having wreaked their vengeance upon the furniture when Hallam was snatched from their hands by the law; and for about an hour the self-constituted avengers of the customers at Dixons’ Bank had behaved like Goths.
It was impossible for work to go on with such a night to canvass. One group, as Bayle approached, was watching the little fire-engine, and the drying of its hose which was hauled up by one end over the branch of an oak-tree at Poppin’s Corner.
There was nothing to see but the little, contemptible, old-fashioned pump on wheels; still fifty people, who had seen it in the belfry every Sunday as they went to church, stopped to stare at it now.
But the great group was round about the manager’s house, many of them being the idlers and scamps of the place, who had been foremost in the destruction.
The public-houses had their contingents; and then there were the farmers from all round, who had driven in, red-hot with excitement; and, as soon as they had left their gigs or carts in the inn-yard, were making their way up to the bank.
Some did not stop to go to the inn, but were there in their conveyances, waiting for the bank to open, long before the time, and quite a murmur of menace arose, when, to the very moment, James Thickens, calm and cool and drab as usual, threw open the door, to be driven back by a party of those gathered together.
Fortunately the news had spread slowly, so that the crowd was not large; but it was augmented by a couple of score of the blackguards of the place, hungry-eyed, moist of lip, and ready for any excuse to leap over the bank counter and begin the work of plunder.
For the first time in his life James Thickens performed that feat – leaping over the counter to place it between himself and the clamorous mob, who saw Mr Trampleasure there and Sir Gordon Bourne in the manager’s room, with the door open, and something on the table.
“Here – Here” – “Here – Me” – “No, me.”
“I was first.”
“No, me, Thickens.”
“My money.”
“My cheque.”
“Change these notes.”
The time was many years ago, and there were no dozen or two of county constabulary to draft into the place for its protection. Hence it was that as Thickens stood, cool and silent, before the excited crowd, Sir Gordon, calm and stern, appeared in the doorway with a couple of pistols in his left hand, one held by the butt, the other by the barrel passed under his thumb.
“Silence!” he cried in a quick, commanding tone.
“I am prepared – ”
“Yah! No speeches. Our money! Our – ”
“Silence!” roared Sir Gordon. “We are waiting to pay all demands.”
“Hear, hear! Hooray!” shouted one of the farmers, who had come in hot haste, and his mottled face grew calm.
“But we can’t – ”
“Yah – yah!” came in a menacing yell.
“Over with you, lads!” cried a great ruffian, clapping his hands on the counter and making a spring, which the pressure behind checked and hindered, so that he only got one leg on the counter.
“Back, you ruffian!” cried Sir Gordon, taking a step forward, and, quick as lightning, presenting a pistol at the fellow’s head. “You, Dick Warren, I gave you six months for stealing corn. Move an inch forward, and as I am a man I’ll fire.”
There was a fierce murmur, and then a pause.
The great ruffian half crouched upon the counter, crossing his eyes in his fear, and squinting crookedly down the pistol barrel, which was within a foot of his head.
“I say, gentlemen and customers, that Mr Thickens here is waiting to pay over all demands on Dixons’ Bank.”
“Hear, hear!” cried the farmer who had before spoken.
“But there are twenty or thirty dirty ruffians among you, and people who do not bank with us, and I must ask you to turn them out.”
There was a fierce murmur here, and Sir Gordon’s voice rose again high and clear.
“Mr Trampleasure, you will find the loaded firearms ready in the upper room. Go up, sir, and without hesitation shoot down the first scoundrel who dares to throw a stone at the bank.”
“Yes, Sir Gordon,” said Trampleasure, who dared not have fired a piece to save his life, but who gladly beat a retreat to the first-floor window, where he stood with one short blunderbuss in his hand, and Mrs Trampleasure with the other.
“Now, gentlemen,” cried Sir Gordon, “I am waiting for you to clear the bank.”
There was another fierce growl at this; but the mottled-faced farmer, who had ridden in on his stout cob, and who carried a hunting crop with an old-fashioned iron hammer head, spat in his fist, and turned the handle —
“Now, neighbours and friends as is customers!” he roared in a stentorian voice, “I’m ready when you are.” As he spoke he caught the man half on the counter by the collar, and dragged him off.
“Here, keep your hands off me!”
“Yow want to fight, yow’d – ”
“Yah! hah!”
Then a scuffling and confused growl, and one or two appeals to sticks and fists; but in five minutes every man not known as a customer of the bank was outside, and the farmers gave a cheer, which was answered by a yell from the increasing mob, a couple of dozen of whom had stooped for stones and began to flourish sticks.
But the stout farmer, who was on the steps between the two pillars that flanked the entrance, put his hand to his mouth, as if about to give a view halloo!
“Look out for the bloonder-boosh, my lads.” And then, turning his head up to the window where Mr Trampleasure stood, weapon in hand, “Tak’ a good aim on the front, and gie it ’em – whang! Mr Trampleasure, sir. Thee’ll scatter the sloogs fine.”
Not a stone was thrown, and by this time James Thickens was busy at work cancelling with his quill pen, and counting and weighing out gold. He never offered one of Dixons’ notes: silver and gold, current coin of the realm, was all he passed over the counter, and though the customers pressed and hurried to get their cheques or notes changed, Thickens retained his coolness and went on.
At the end of a quarter of an hour the excitement was subsiding, but the bank was still full of farmers and tradespeople, the big burly man with the hunting crop being still by the counter unpaid.
All at once, after watching the paying over of the money for some time, he began hammering the mahogany counter heavily with the iron handle of his whip.
“Here, howd hard!” he roared.
Sir Gordon, who had put the pistols on the table, and was sitting on the manager’s chair, coolly reading his newspaper in full view, laid it down, and rose to come to the open glass door.
“Ay, that’s right, Sir Gordon. I want a word wi’ thee. I’m not a man to go on wi’ fullishness; but brass is brass, and a hard thing to get howd on. Now, look ye here. Howd hard, neighbours, I hevn’t got much to saya.”
“What is it, Mr Anderson?” said Sir Gordon calmly.
“Why, this much, Sir Gordon and neighbours. Friend o’ mine comes out o’ the town this morning and says, ‘If thou’st got any brass i’ Dixons’ Bank, run and get it, lad, for Maester Hallam’s bo’ted, and bank’s boosted oop.’ Now, Sir Gordon, it don’t look as if bank hev boosted oop.”
“Oh, no,” said Sir Gordon, smiling.
“Hev Maester Hallam bo’ted, then, or is that a lie too?”
“I am sorry to say that Mr Hallam has been arrested on a charge of fraud.”
“That be true, then?” said the farmer. “Well, now, look here, Sir Gordon; I’ve banked wi’ you over twanty year, and I can’t afford to lose my brass. Tween man and man, is my money safe?”
“Perfectly, Mr Anderson.”
“That’ll do, Sir Gordon,” said the farmer, tearing up the cheque he held in his hand, and scattering it over his head. “I’ll tak’ Sir Gordon’s word or Dixons’ if they say it’s all right. I don’t want my brass.”
“Gentlemen,” said Sir Gordon, flashing slightly, “if you will trust me and my dear old friend Mr Dixon, you shall be paid all demands to the last penny we have. I am sorry to say that I have discovered a very heavy defalcation on the part of our late manager, and the loss will be large, but that loss will fall upon us, gentlemen, not upon you.”
“But I want my deeds, my writings,” cried a voice. “I’m not a-going to be cheated out o’ my rights.”
“Who is that?” said Sir Gordon.
“Mr Gemp, Sir Gordon,” said Thickens quickly. “Deposit of deeds of row of houses in Rochester Close; and shares.”
“Mr Gemp,” said Sir Gordon, “I am afraid your deeds are amongst others that are missing.”
“Ay! Ay! Robbers! Robbers!” shouted Gemp excitedly.
“No, Mr Gemp, we are not robbers,” said Sir Gordon. “If you will employ your valuer, I will employ ours; and as soon as they have decided the amount, Mr James Thickens will pay you – to-day if you can get the business done, and the houses and shares are Dixons’.”
“Hear, hear, hear,” shouted Anderson. “There, neighbour, he can’t say fairer than that.”
“Nay, I want my writings, and I don’t want to sell. I want my writings. I’ll hev ’em too.”
“Shame on you, Gemp,” said a voice behind him. “Three days ago you were at death’s door. Your life was spared, and this is the thank-offering you make to your neighbours in their trouble.”
“Nay, don’t you talk like that, parson, thou doesn’t know what it is to lose thy all,” piped Gemp.
“Lose?” cried Bayle, who had entered the bank quietly to see Sir Gordon. “Man, I have lost heavily too.”
Thickens was making signs to him now with his quill pen.
“Ay, but I want my writings. I’ll hev my writings,” cried Gemp. “Neighbours, you have your money. Don’t you believe ’em. They’re robbers.”
“If I weer close to thee, owd Gemp, I’d tak’ thee by the scruff and the band o’ thy owd breeches and pitch thee out o’ window. Sir Gordon’s ready to do the handsome thing.”
“Touch me if you dare,” cried old Gemp. “I want my writings. It was bank getting unsafe made me badly. You neighbours have all thy money out, for they haven’t got enough to last long.”
There was a fresh murmur here, and Sir Gordon looked anxious. Mr Anderson stood fast; but it was evident that a strong party were waiting for their money, and more than one began to twitch Thickens by the sleeve, and present cheques and notes.
Thickens paid no heed, but made his way to where Christie Bayle was standing, and handed him a pocket-book.
“Here,” he said. “I couldn’t come to you. I had to watch the bank.”
“My pocket-book, Thickens?”
“Yes, sir. I was just in time to knock that scoundrel over as he was throttling you. I’d come to meet the coach.”
“Why, Thickens!” cried Bayle, flushing – “Ah, you grasping old miser! What! turn thief?”
The latter was to old Gemp, who saw the pocket-book passed, and made a hawk-like clutch at it, but his wrist was pinned by Bayle, who took the pocket-book and slipped it into his breast.
“It’s my papers – it’s writings – it’s – ”
His voice was drowned in a clamour that arose, as about twenty more people came hurrying in at the bank-door, eager to make demands for their deposits.
Sir Gordon grew pale, for there was not enough cash in the house to meet the constant demand, and he had hoped that the ready payment of a great deal would quiet the run.
The clamour increased, and it soon became evident that the dam had given way, and that nothing remained but to go on paying to the last penny in the bank, while there was every possibility of wreck and destruction following.
“Howd hard, neighbours,” cried Anderson; “Sir Gordon says it’s all right. Dixons’ ’ll pay.”
“Dixons’ can’t pay,” shouted a voice. “Hallam’s got everything, and the bank’s ruined.”
There was a roar here, and the fire seemed to have been again applied to the tow. Thickens looked in despair at Bayle, and then with a quick movement locked the cash drawer, and clapped the key in his pocket. The action was seen. There was a yell of fury from the crowd in front, and a dozen hands seized the clerk.
Sir Gordon darted forward, this time without pistols, and hands and sticks were raised, when in a voice of thunder Christie Bayle roared:
“Stop!”
There was instant silence, for he had leaped upon the bank counter.
“Stand back!” he said, “and act like Christian men, and not like wild beasts. Dixons’ Bank is sound. Look here!”
“It’s failed! it’s failed!” cried a dozen voices.
“It has not failed,” shouted Bayle. “Look here: I have been to London.”
“Yes, we know.”
“To fetch twenty-one thousand pounds – my own property!”
There was dead silence here.
“Look! that is the money, all in new Bank of England notes.”
He tore them out of the large pocket-book.
“To show you my confidence in Dixons’ Bank and in Sir Gordon Bourne’s word, I deposit this sum with them, and open an account. Mr Thickens, have the goodness to enter this to my credit; I’ll take a chequebook when you are at liberty.”
He passed the sheaf of rustling, fluttering, new, crisp notes to the cashier, and then, taking Sir Gordon’s offered hand, leaped down inside the counter of the bank.
“There, Sir Gordon,” he said, with a smile, “I hope the plague is stayed.”
“Christie Bayle,” whispered Sir Gordon huskily, “Heaven bless you! I shall never forget this day!” Half-an-hour later the bank business was going on as usual, but the business of the past night and morning was more talked of than before.
