"A Tale of a Family Tree" (continued 4)
Reading edition
“You had better turn him out,” said Max. “I should search the room.”
“That’s soon done,” said Dick, throwing open the door. “Here, John—a lighter.”
The boy took a taper to the hall lamp, and a couple of the burners in the breakfast-room being lit, they entered, to discover nothing.
“There,” said Dick, wiping the perspiration from his face, “you see there is no one here. I won’t have any more of your poll-prying about. You pay men to see things, Max, and they see them.”
“That’s an aspersion on my word, sir,” said the private inquirer sharply.
“Serve you right!” cried Dick fiercely. “What do you come watching for? No one else saw, I’ll swear. You saw nobody come in, did you, Hopper?—nor you, Tom?”
Neither answered, and Dick grew more and more excited.
“I won’t have it!” he cried. “I’ll have the house cleared.”
“Without clearing your daughter’s name?” said Max, with a sneer.
“Clear my daughter’s name? It wants no clearing,” cried Dick angrily; and now his nervous, weak manner was thrown off, and he stood up proud and defiant. “Here, stop! You, Tom Fraser, and you, Hopper! I won’t have you go, if it comes to that.”
“I would rather go,” said Tom sadly, from the hall.
“But I say you shall not go.”
“Uncle,” said Tom—and he spoke in a low whisper—“let me go, for Heaven’s sake: I cannot bear it.”
“No,” said Dick sternly; “you shall not go till this has been set right. Do you, too, believe ill of my girl?”
“God forbid, uncle! I only wanted to know that my case was hopeless; and I have heard.”
“Heard what?” whispered Dick.
“What these men told you,” said Tom bitterly.
“Do you dare to say—”
“I say nothing, uncle—only that what those men have said is true.”
“Here!” cried Dick furiously, “mother, quick!—tell Jessie to come here. Oh, you are there,” he cried, as, hearing a door close on the landing, he looked up and saw Jessie.
“Uncle, for Heaven’s sake think of what you are doing,” cried Tom, catching his arm.
“I am thinking, sir, of clearing her name. My girl would not be guilty of—”
He stopped short; for he recalled the little incident in the old home.
“I don’t care,” he cried passionately. “I’m driven to it, and it shall be sifted to the bottom.”
As he spoke, he ran up the stairs, closely followed by Max and his private inquirers.
“Mr Hopper,” cried Tom passionately, “this is your doing, to bring me in here. Come away. It is too cruel to her.”
“Hey? cruel?—I don’t care,” said Hopper sturdily. “I’ll see it out; for look here, Tom, and you too, Mrs Richard,—I say, as I’ve said before, she’ll come out of it clear as day. Now, come up.”
He stumped hastily upstairs, Tom feeling compelled to follow, but hating himself for the part he was playing, the result of hanging about the house time after time, for the sake of catching a glimpse of Jessie, and then telling Hopper that evening what he had seen.
The old man had been astounded when, half-frantic, Tom had met him on his way to Richard Shingle’s; and then insisted upon his coming to have the matter cleared up, vowing that there was a mistake.
As the party reached the large landing, Jessie stood in front of the door of her room, the policeman being the last to complete the half-circle that surrounded her; and then Dick spoke.
“Jessie, my darling,” he said, tenderly, “I know this will upset you; but, my girl, when cruel conspiracies are hatched against us by scoundrels, we must meet them boldly.”
“Yes, father,” said Jessie, who did not shrink, but darted a reproachful look at Tom that went to his heart.
“Your uncle, to stab your fair fame, my dear, has brought these men to swear that they saw you let in some one to-night by the breakfast-room window; and they say he has not gone out. Speak out, my dear, and tell them it’s a lie.”
There was no reply, and Mrs Shingle caught at her husband’s arm; but he flushed up with passion and shook her off.
“Jessie,” he cried in a choking voice, “speak out quick!—is any one in that room of yours?”
Jessie looked wildly from face to face, her glance resting longest on those of Max and Tom.
“I say, is any one in that room?” thundered Dick, catching her by the wrist, which she snatched away, and, spreading her hands from side to side, as she stood back against the door, she cried out, wildly—
“No, father, no!”
As she spoke there was a sharp creaking noise from within, as of a sash being thrown up; and Dick once more caught her by the wrist.
“No, no!” she cried, struggling with him frantically. “Tom, dear Tom, for pity’s sake save me from this disgrace!”
Tom dashed forward, and caught her in his arms, more in sorrow than in anger; for Dick had swung her round with a savage oath, throwing open the door, and dashing in with the private inquiry men, to return dragging out a man with a strong resemblance to Tom, till Gilderoy gave his beard a twitch, and pulled it off, revealing the sallow, frightened countenance of Fred.
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
After the Discovery.
“Fred!” cried Max, in alarm.
“Yes,” said that gentleman savagely—“if you must blab it out.”
“Tom, Tom,” whispered Jessie, “for your own sake save him,—he is your brother.”
He turned from her with a sigh, as he freed himself from her grasp and placed her hands in those of her mother.
“And this is my child!” groaned Dick.
“Oh, father!” cried Jessie, “don’t condemn me unheard. Frederick, speak out.”
“Not I,” he said cynically. “Why should I?”
“And this is my son!” exclaimed Max, who was completely taken aback.
“There, don’t cant, old man,” cried Fred, brutally. “I don’t suppose you have always been so very particular.”
“Fred!” exclaimed Tom savagely, “it is enough that you have brought this disgrace upon your uncle, without insulting the poor girl you have injured.”
“Bosh! I shall be off,” said Fred, flippantly; and, as he spoke, he made for the head of the staircase, not noticing that a movement had bee made in that direction by the private detectives, the principal speaking to the policeman, who nodded sapiently.
“Stop!” cried Max. “You shall not go without hearing a few words from me. You shall listen, as you are present, to advice that may—”
“Do him good,” cried Dick, turning upon him savagely. “Give it him, then, in your own place, and not in mine. You coward—you pitiful miscreant! To revenge yourself on me you stoop to this low, beggarly watching; and when your tools warn you of your opportunity, you are such a high-toned moral man that you come with your scoundrels to degrade and disgrace that poor child before her father. I don’t defend her—she did wrong; but I’m not a high-toned moral man, I’m not. I know what she has suffered; and I say to her, ‘Come here, my poor darling—I’m only a weak fool, and I forgive you.’”
“Father!” cried Jessie, and she sprang to his breast.
“Yes—lie there, my darling,” cried Dick, glancing round at all in turn. “Now let’s see who dare say a word against you—or touch you! You’re my gal, and always will be, come what may. I can’t cast you off and say I have no child; but—but, my darling, I’d sooner have been back, a poor man again, in Crowder’s Buildings, and bullied for my bit of rent, than this should have happened.”
“Oh, hush, father—hush!” whispered Jessie—“wait till they’re gone—wait till they’re gone.”
“No, I’ve nothing to be ashamed of,” cried Dick, “without it is of my brother and his sons. All the world may know that I was a poor man who made his fortune, but never lost his ignorant ways. So I forgive you, my gal.”
“Uncle,” cried Tom, “I have given you no cause to speak to me as you do.”
“Well, perhaps not, my lad—perhaps not. I’d take it kindly of you and Hopper, then, if you’d clear the house and then go.”
“I’ll soon rid you of my company,” said Fred. “Ta-ta, uncle. Good-bye, little Jess.”
Dick’s fist clenched as the young man approached him; and Tom saw that Jessie shrank from him as if with loathing, though she watched his movements with a strange, keen interest.
He laughed lightly as he passed, and then started back, for the policeman placed his hands across from the balustrade to the wall.
“One moment, please, Sir. This is your photograph, I think?”
He held up a card, but Fred struck it down and tried to leap past; but the policeman caught him in his arms and forced him back.
“Oh no, you don’t, sir,” said the constable, laughing. “E. Gilderoy, send your men down to keep the door. The fact is, Frederick Fraser, alias Captain Leroux, alias the Hon. Algernon Bracy, there’s a warrant out against you, and two-fifty reward. We only knew this afternoon that you were F. Fraser, and you were to have been took this evening; but the job has fallen to us.”
“Man, you are mad, or drunk.”
“I dare say I am,” said the constable, laughing; “but Mr Gilderoy and me means to have that two-fifty.”
“Father—uncle—Tom! this is a lie—an imposition!” cried Fred, wildly glancing round for a means of escape, but seeing none.
“No, sir,” said the constable; “it was them forged bills was lies and impositions.”
“Constable, this is all nonsense—some trumped-up case!” cried Max. “An invention, perhaps, of the poor boy’s uncle,” he added malignantly.
“Oh no, it is not, sir; the game’s been going on for close upon two years, only my gentleman here has been too clever to be caught. There’s over two thou, been discounted. It’s all tight.”
“Fred,” cried Max, “why don’t you knock this lying scoundrel down?”
“Don’t want to bruise my knuckles,” said Fred carelessly. “There, the game’s up, and I’m sick of it.”
“What?” cried Max.
“It’s all right,” said Fred callously. “I had the cake, so I must pay for it.”
“Reprobate!” cried Max furiously: “do you dare to own to my face that this is true?”
“True enough,” said Fred, taking out his cigar-case. “I can smoke, I suppose, constable?”
“Oh yes, sir, and make much of it,” said the man, grinning. “I don’t suppose you’ll get another—not just yet.”
“Good heavens, that it should come to this!” cried Max, raising his hands toward the ceiling. “Lost, depraved, reckless boy! you bring down your father’s grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”
“What!” shrieked Fred, with a sneering laugh.
“After the Christian home in which you have been brought up!”
“Look here!” cried Fred. “Slang me, if you like, for being an unlucky scoundrel; but, curse it, give me none of your sickly cant.”
“Away with him, constable. Out of my sight, wretch! I disown and curse you!” cried Max.
“Take your curse back,” shrieked Fred savagely. “Example!—Christian home! What of the office? What has been done there? Where is Violante’s money?”
Max stepped back with his jaw fallen.
“Where is the hundred pounds the old man in Australia sent for Uncle Dick? Example, indeed!”
“What?” shouted Dick, starting forward. “Say that again.”
“Say it again!” shrieked Fred, who was now mad with rage: “I say two two hundreds were sent by an old relative in Australia for you and him, and he kept them both.”
“It’s a lie—a base lie!” cried Max, foaming at the mouth.
“Oh, Max, Max, Max,” said Dick sadly, “and when I was close to starving!”
“It’s a lie, I say!”
“It’s the truth, you pitiful scoundrel!” said old Hopper. “But I made you disgorge some of it again, and sent it into the right channel.”
“What, you turn against me, too!” said Max, with a groan. “I say it’s a lie—a conspiracy. No money was sent: there was no uncle to send it.”
“No?” said Hopper quietly. “Well, I can prove it all; for I sent the money, for the sake of Dick here, and to try you both.”
“I tell you it’s a lie!” stammered Max, foaming at the mouth.
“You’ve got to prove it one,” said Fred carelessly. “Come along, constable—let’s be off. Here’s my last half-crown. I’ll go in a cab.”
“Stop!” cried Dick excitedly. “I won’t have it. I forgive Max. I forgive Fred here. I’ve plenty of money, constable. Can’t it be squared? I’ll—I’ll pay the reward. Cash down.”
“No, sir,” said the constable; “not if you doubled it.”
“But I will double it,” cried Dick.
“Hold hard, uncle,” said Fred, smiling. “It’s no go. But you always were a trump—always. Thank you for it! Sorry I’ve disgraced you. Tom, old man, it’s all right. Uncle, it’s all right about your little girl here. I came to-night, and she admitted me, thinking it was Tom; and as soon as I was inside I told her the police were after me, unless she could help me to escape. There’s the bag inside, with her purse and the jewels she gave me to sell, watch and chain, and the rest of it; for I was off across the herring-pond if I could get away. Fetch it out.”
Tom ran into Jessie’s room, and brought out a little travelling bag which lay beneath the open window.
“I didn’t like to jump it,” said Fred, laughing. “It was too high: but I should try if I had another chance.”
“Fred—brother!” cried Tom passionately, as he held out his hand; and Fred seized it for a moment, and then flung it away.
“No, Tom; let me be: I’ve always been a bad one. As for you, Jessie—God bless you! you were a little trump. I told her it would disgrace you all, and poor Tom, if I was taken; and she told a lie to save me. Good-bye, little woman!” he said, holding out his hand.
Jessie ran forward and took it, and he tried to speak in a light, cavalier manner; but his voice faltered, and he had to make an effort to keep from breaking down.
“Good-bye, Fred,” said Tom, stepping before him, as if to shake hands. Then, forcing the little bag into his grasp, he whispered, “Run for it, lad—the window. I’ll cover you—run.”
As he spoke, he gave his brother a push into the bedroom, and then faced round with clenched fists.
For a moment the men were paralysed, but the next they flung themselves on Tom.
Gilderoy was nearest, and a blow sent him rolling over; but the constable evaded a second blow, and closed in a fierce struggle, which, taking place at the doorway, prevented the next man from forcing his way through.
Mrs Shingle shrieked; but Jessie stood firm, gazing with dilating eyes at her lover, as he wrestled bravely with the policeman, whom he kept between himself and the second man, still covering his brother’s flight.
They were well matched, and victory might have been on Tom’s side but for the action of Dick, who, seeing the second man about to leap on him, thrust out his foot and laid him sprawling.
It was unfortunate for Tom, though. The man was so near that he tripped over him, and lay for the moment half-stunned; while now all three rushed into the room and to the open window.
“Below there!” cried Gilderoy—“have you seen him?”
“No,” was the reply. “He came down with a crash, though, into the shrubs here, and I think he’s hurt—he hasn’t moved since. Come down, and bring a light.”
Jessie’s window looked down upon a great clump of lilacs, into which it seemed that Fred must have jumped; and, running back to the landing, the three men dashed downstairs, through Dick’s study, into the conservatory, and thence to the enclosed back garden.
As they did so, Fred glided out from behind the window curtains, placed his hand to his lips, and bounded down the staircase, almost into his brother’s arms.
Tom saw the ruse, seized a coat and hat from the stand, and opened the front door.
“Cabstand at the corner,” he whispered. “Walk—don’t run.”
Fred went leisurely out, and as Tom closed the door the private inquiry man came back, and placed himself as sentinel to guard the door.
The search went on for a few moments outside, and then there was a shout.
“They’ve got him,” cried the sentry eagerly. “Got him?” he shouted.
“No,” cried the constable, running into the hall, hot and panting. “He threw a great ottoman out of the window, and didn’t jump. Keep that door; we must search the house.”
The search began, and it was not until every nook and corner had been hunted over that the men stood looking at one another in the hall.
“A pretty mess you’ve made of this, Mr Gilderoy!” cried the constable, at last.
“Two-fifty thrown into the gutter by your bad management,” groaned the other.
“P’r’aps you’d better go and search all London now,” said Hopper, with a sneer, “for he can’t be far off.”
The men turned upon him angrily.
“We haven’t done yet,” said the constable. “We must have some one for this. The law can’t be resisted for nothing.”
“I’m ready to give up,” said Tom quietly.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried Hopper, hastily pushing him away. “Here, you there! don’t be fools. Come in here. The man’s gone—off by the front door. What have you got to say to that?”
“I must have some one,” said the constable surlily.
“Hey? Have some one?” cried Hopper. “Then have me.”
They followed the old fellow into the dining-room, where a little private inquiry went on; and the result was that soon after they left the house, evidently having forgotten to call Tom’s behaviour into question; while, as for Max, he had not been seen to go, which Dick said was a blessing in disguise, as the encounter might have been painful.
Volume Two—Chapter Fourteen.
Jessie’s Malady.
”‘I cannot forgive myself,’” wrote Tom to Richard Shingle—and the latter read the note aloud—”‘I feel, uncle, that I have wronged her twice in thought most cruelly, and that I dare not hope for her forgiveness till time has enabled me to prove myself more worthy of her—’”
“Read more loudly, and don’t mumble,” said Hopper, who was present.
”‘Tell her, uncle, that I love her dearly—more dearly than ever; and some day, if she has not made another choice, I may come and ask you all, humbly, if you can forget the past, ignore the misfortunes of my family, and give me room to hope that there is a happy future where at present all looks black.’”
“I’ve read that ten times over,” said Dick, “and hang me if I know what it means. It’s too fine and sentimental for me. Why, if he was half the man I took him for, he’d come down here and say, ‘Uncle, blood’s thicker than water: shall we cry “wiped out” to all that’s gone by?—because, if so, ’ere’s my ’art and ’ere’s my ’and.’”
“Hey?”
“’Ere’s my ’art and ’ere’s my ’and,” roared Dick.
“And what should you say to that?” chuckled Hopper.
“I should say, ‘Tom, my lad, I don’t want your ’art, and I don’t want your ’and, for I’ve got a ’art as is, I hope, a warm one, and I’ve got a ’and to offer to the man I can believe in and trust. Take yours somewheres else, and offer ’em where they may be taken.’”
Dick winked at his friend, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, where, seen dimly in the farther room, were Jessie and Mrs Shingle—Dick having taken a house at Hastings, and gone down for change, he said, but really on account of the weak state of Jessie’s health; and now he and his friend were having a pipe together in the inner room.
“He’s too cocky,” said Hopper: “he’s as proud as Lucifer. He won’t come and ask till he’s made money, and can be independent.”
“That’s where he’s such a fool,” said Dick. “Of course I’m not going to say ‘Come down and marry my gal,’ who’s dying to have him; but he can have her when he likes; and as to money, why, there’s enough for all.”
“Tom won’t want for money,” said Hopper, blowing out a great cloud.
“Oh, won’t he?” said Dick. “Well, a good job too. What’s become of Fred?”
“Married that violent girl, who was dead on him, and went and joined him as soon as she knew he was in trouble.”
“Did she, though?” said Dick. “Well, ’ang me if I ever liked her, with her twissened eyes, till now; but that was a good one. Hopper, Max spent all that poor gal’s money, which was hard on her. Could you get to let her have a hundred pounds if I give you a cheque? You can come those dodges of sending money on the sly most artfully.”
Hopper chuckled as Dick poked him in the side with his pipe-stem. “No, no, no, Dick, they are in America by now; and Fred will be better without money. Make him work.”
He began to refill his pipe as he spoke.
“I never could make out how it was he got off so easily to America. The police wasn’t half sharp; but it was a good job. How about the extra tradition, as they called it?”
“Hey? Extradition?” said Hopper. “Ha! there was a reason for that.”
He opened his pocket-book, took out a slip of blue paper, folded it, and, striking a match, lit the paper and held it to his pipe.
“I say,” said Dick, “what’s that you’re burning?”
“An old bill,” was the reply—“I’m using ’em up by degrees.”
“An old bill?” said Dick; for Hopper looked at him curiously.
“Yes,” said Hopper, “I’ve done a deal in bills. This is one of ten—of Fred’s: I bought ’em—for his grandmother’s sake,” he added softly.
Dick stretched out his hand, grasped the other’s, and then turned his chair to have a look at a ship in the offing, which seemed quite blurred.
“Pick! Dick!” screamed Mrs Shingle.
“Yes, yes—what?” he cried, starting up and running in, to find Jessie lying white as ashes in her mother’s arms.
“Quick!” cried Mrs Shingle; “tell—tell the doctor—this is the second time to-day! Dick—Dick!” she cried passionately, “she’s dying!”
Old Hopper was the most active of the party; and long before the doctor could be brought Jessie had revived, but only to lie back listlessly, gazing out to sea; while, when the medical man left, it was with a solemn shake of the head, which sent a chill to the hearts of Dick and his spouse.
They had been sitting by their child for about an hour, when old Hopper came in, and stood looking down at her in a quiet, unsympathising way.
“I’ve come to say good-bye,” he said roughly.
“Good-bye?” said Dick. “Why, you only came yesterday!”
“I know, but I’m no good here. Good-bye, my girl. I wish you better.”
She half raised her head to kiss him, and the old man bent down and pressed his lips to hers very tenderly, before leaving the room, closely followed by Dick.
“I know it’s a dreary place to come to, Hopper,” he said; “and we’ve only had one tune-up together; but when she’s—better—Hopper, old man, if I wrote and asked Tom to come, would it be wrong?”
“Hey? Wrong? Yes. Don’t do anything of the sort. Hey? What’s that?”
“Only a letter for Max. I hear he’s laid up. Don’t let him know who sent it—that’s all.”
The old man nodded, and held out his hand.
“Do you know why I’m going in such a hurry?” he whispered.
“No,” was the reply.
“I’ll tell you,” said Hopper. “If your girl’s left like that, she’ll die. I’m going to send her the best doctor in town.” Ten minutes after Hopper was at the station, where he telegraphed one short message, climbed slowly into his seat, reached the terminus in due time, and on being driven to his chambers found some one waiting for him.
“How is she?” cried Tom eagerly, as the cats crowded round their master.
“Dying!” said Hopper briefly.
“Dying?”
“Yes. I’ve come for the best doctor in London.”
“And you sit still there!” cried Tom. “Have you sent him?”
“No,” said Hopper coolly. “Wait a minute. Tom, my lad, do you think you can throw away your pride to save her?”
“I’d throw away my life,” he cried passionately.
“That wouldn’t save hers. Here, take this. Quick—there’s a hundred pounds. Take it, you young fool! Go down at once to her, and throw away all nonsense. Tell her you love her; ask her to forgive you; and—”
“Yes—yes,” cried Tom. “Go on.”
“And marry her, you young idiot!”
“But a train?” cried Tom despairingly. “It will be too late to-night.”
“You have the money: if necessary, take a special,” said the old man. “What’s fifty or a hundred pounds to happiness, or life?”
Tom caught the old fellow’s hand in his, and it was retained.
“Stop one moment, my lad,” he said. “You feel some shrinking about your brother’s disgrace. I was burning these by degrees. See—the last of the forged bills.”
He took six from his pocket-book, and burned them.
“There,” he said, “that business is dead, and you can go with a lighter heart. Perhaps I shall come down next week. Be off.”
Tom bounded down the stairs, leaped into the first cab, and bade the man gallop to London Bridge station.
“All right, sir.”
The little door in the roof was slammed down, there was a flick of the long whip, and for about half a minute the horse broke into a short canter, one which subsided into a trot a few minutes later.
A loud rattling at the top of the cab spurred the driver to fresh exertions, and once more the wretched horse cantered, but dropped again into a trot, and there was an end of it. Tom had to sit and fume, as at every turn he seemed to be hemmed in by other vehicles; and, no matter how the driver tried, there was always a huge, heavily-laden van in front, blocking up the way.
“I think I’ll take a short cut round, sir,” said the cabman. “The streets is werry full to-night.”
“Anything to get there quickly.” So the driver turned out of the main thoroughfare, and began to dodge in and out of wretched streets, all of which seemed ill lighted, and so strongly resembled the one the other, that Tom soon grew bewildered, and sat back thinking, and trying to arrange his thoughts.
His brain was in such a tumult that he could do nothing, however—nothing but upbraid himself for his folly and madness, “What have I done?—what have I done?” he moaned, as he thought of the anguish that he must have inflicted upon the poor girl, who had slowly pined away, and was now dying—dying through his wretched blindness and want of faith.
He tried to excuse himself—pleaded his term of bitter suffering, but could get no absolution from his own stern judgment. He had doubted one who was all that was purity and truth, and here was his punishment—a bitter one indeed!
He prayed mentally that she might be spared, that he might ask her forgiveness—forgiveness that he knew he should receive—and then covered his face with his hands, as a feeling of hope came upon him that he might still be able to save her. He might, he thought, bring joy to her heart even yet.
A sudden stoppage nearly threw him out of the cab; and, looking up hastily, it was to find that a barrier was across the street, from which hung a red lantern.
The street was narrow, and he could see beyond, while the driver was sulkily backing and turning his horse, that the paving-stones were all up, and the inevitable long fosse and hill of earth lay by the side.
He sank back shuddering, for it looked as if a grave were yawning in the path; and, with a low moan of despair, he covered his face once more, and tried to reason with himself that this was merely a superstitious fancy.
But all in vain. There was the long, dark cutting fixed upon the retina of his eye; and he could see nothing else as the cab slowly went back over much of the ground already traversed. What was more, his distempered fancy magnified and added to it, so that he could see trains of mourners, the clergyman, hear the solemn words of the burial service; and these the revolving wheels and the rattling cab kept repeating, till at last it settled itself down into a constant reiteration of the words, “In the midst of life we are in death,”—“In the midst of life we are in death,” till he grew almost frantic, and stopped his ears in vain against the weird, funereal sound.
At last, after wearying himself by trying to bring reason to bear, the cab reached the comparative freedom of London Bridge; and then he began to think of the hour, and wondered whether there would be a train.
“Perhaps I shall be in time,” he thought, as he sprang out of the cab, and, paying the fare, ran up to the doors, where a porter was standing.
“You should have gone to the other gate, sir,” said the man sharply.
“No, no,” he replied hastily. “Main line. I want Hastings.”
“Last train for there was at 8:45, sir.”
“What time is it now?” he gasped.
“Ten fifty-five, sir.”
“But—but is there nothing more to-night—say, to take me part of the way?” he exclaimed, for he was mad with the desire to be moving.
“No main line train to-night, sir. Nothing till six in the morning.”
“How long would it take to get a special ready?”
“Oh, not very long, sir. I dessay they’d get you off in half an hour. Costs a deal, sir—’bout a pound a mile.”
“Where is the superintendent?”
“This way, sir,” said the man; and, following him, he was taken to the official’s house, just in time to catch him before he retired for the night.
“I want a special train—engine and carriage—down to Hastings immediately,” said Tom, hardly able to speak for agitation.
The superintendent looked at him curiously, as if he doubted his sanity.
“It’s only excitement—trouble. It is a case of life and death. A dear young friend.”
“All right, sir,” the superintendent said quickly. “I see,” and there was a look of sympathy in his eyes. “But I am only a servant of the company. The charge for a special train is high.”
“If it is a thousand pounds, man,” cried Tom, “I must have it.”
“It won’t be that, sir,” was the reply; “nor yet a hundred.” Then naming a sum, it was hastily placed in his hand, and the superintendent left.
He was back directly, and Tom accompanied him then to the telegraph office, where he gave certain instructions, and the clerk began clicking the instruments in his cabinet very forcibly.
“Sending word on for a clear line,” said the superintendent. “Warning for the special.”
“How long will they be?” asked Tom.
“What, with the special? Oh, not long. There was an engine with steam nearly up. But you had better take some refreshment before you go. The place is closed, but come to my room.”
“I could not touch anything.”
“But you have no wrapper or rug,” said the superintendent.
“No, I came in a great hurry.”
“You must let me lend them to you,” continued the superintendent; “and, excuse me, you have given me all your money. You had better keep the gold; you are sure to want some change.”
He handed him back the cash, and Tom took it mechanically.
“I cannot thank you now,” he said, in a choking voice. “Some day I may.”
“I hope so, sir,” said the superintendent cheerily; “and that the young lady will come and thank me too.”
“Heaven grant she may!” Tom said, with quivering lip; and he turned away to hide his emotion, while the superintendent turned back to his office, leaving Tom walking up and down the platform, where the lamps quivered in the night breeze, and the whole place looked ghostly, dim, and cold.
Away to the side the station was bright and busy, for from there started the local traffic; and trains, with people from the theatres and places of amusement, left from time to time for the various suburban villages of the south-east of London; but where he stood all was shadowy, and in keeping with his terrible journey.
“There, sir—slip that on,” said the superintendent. “Here’s a rug, too, and my flask, with some brandy and biscuits in one of the pockets of the ulster. You’ll find it cold, and you’ll turn faint when you get on your journey. Here she comes.”
There was a sharp whistle, and Tom could see the lights of an engine passing out of a shed, to run a little distance down the line, then back on to another, and come smoothly along to where they stood—hissing, glowing, and bright.
Tom saw at a glance that there was only an engine, tender, one carriage, and the guard’s break; and, turning to the superintendent, “Can I ride on the engine with the driver?” he asked.
“No. In with you.”
The superintendent opened the door of the saloon carriage, and shut him in. Then Tom heard him give a few quick, decisive orders to the guard, there was another sharp whistle, he waved his hand from the window, and the superintendent leaped on to the step:
“Tell them to go as fast as possible,” shouted Tom, as the train was gliding past the platform.
“I have,” the superintendent said quickly. “Hope she’ll be better. Good night.”
As he spoke he leaped off at the end of the platform, and, shrieking and snorting, the little special went rather slowly along, past hissing goods engines and long black-looking trains, such as might be the funeral processions of an army. Lights flashed here and there, and far to right and left shone the glow of great London; while the big illuminated clock of the Parliament Houses loomed out of the darkness like a dull, fog-dimmed moon.
“They are crawling!” Tom exclaimed, as he started up to look out from the window. But, as he did so, the wind was already beginning to whistle more quickly by his ears: they were clear of obstructions, and speed was getting up rapidly. There was the quick, throbbing beat, a crash as they passed under bridge after bridge, and soon after, as the engine gave a weird scream, they seemed to skim through a long station, whose row of pendant lights ran together like closely strung golden beads; and then, as Tom sank back in his seat, he felt the carriage begin to vibrate from side to side, and he knew that the telegraph had flashed its message, that the line was clear, and that, ever increasing in speed, they were off and away through the black darkness of the night—the best doctor in London speeding to the patient dying to hear his words.
Volume Two—Chapter Fifteen.
A Ride by Night.
With the speed of the special train the excitement seemed to increase; but, for a time, Tom’s attention was taken up by the stations they passed, and he tried hard to recall their names, referring at the same moment that they passed through to his watch, so as to endeavour to calculate the speed at which they ran.
But soon they were going so fast that he ceased to hold his watch up to the thick glass lamp in the roof, and he missed count of the places, unable to tell one from the other, seeing merely a streak of light directly after the warning shriek of the engine had told of their coming. And now, as he threw himself back and began to think once more of his trouble, the roar and beat of the engine resolved itself into the words that had troubled him before; and, with feelings of anguish that he could not express, he sat listening to the reiteration—“In the midst of life we are in death,”—“In the midst of life we are in death!”—and, with a groan of anguish, he bent down and wept like a child.
But for the relief those tears afforded his throbbing brain, he would soon have been suffering from fever. The relief was but short, though, and he rose to gaze out of the window at the thick gloom. Then, removing his hat, he lowered the glass and leaned out, letting the cold night air blow upon his heated face as the train rushed on.
All was black darkness, save the glow shed by the rushing train; and he could make out nothing but that they were dashing on at a frightful pace, seeming to tear up the very earth as they thundered along. Once or twice speed was slackened, with the engine whistle sounding loudly; and, looking out, he could see far ahead a red point of light, which, as they neared it, changed into a green, when, with a triumphant shriek, the special glided on once more, and they swept by a station and a hissing engine attached to some long goods train, whose guard stood by with a lantern in his hand, fresh from the operation of shunting to allow them to pass.
“Faster, faster!” Tom began repeating to himself, as, in spite of his efforts to master the fancy, he kept hearing the words into which the noise of the train resolved itself; though, as he leaned out again, he felt a sensation of joy, for he was being borne nearer and nearer to where his darling lay.
Then he would walk to and fro in the narrow space that formed the saloon carriage, the difficulty of preserving his balance taking up some of his attention, and relieving his mind from its dreadful strain. But it always came back to his throwing himself back on a seat, to listen to those dreadful words; and at such times he was for ever seeing the open grave and the funeral procession, and in a despair that was almost maddening he, told himself that by his folly he had dashed away the cup of happiness from his lips, and that if Jessie died he would be little better than a murderer.
“My poor darling! my poor darling!” he moaned; and then her sweet, pensive eyes seemed to look up in his, and he was once again with her in the days of their early love, “And are those times never to come back again?” he asked aloud; to get back for answer the constant dull repetition, “In the midst of life we are in death,”—“In the midst of life we are in death,” till he groaned in the anguish of his heart.
Onward still, with a rush and a roar, through tunnels, with a quick, sharp crash as if wood and brickwork had come into contact; and then on again. Over bridges, with a strange quivering vibration, and a dull metallic roar, and on again through the black darkness, till the engine began to shriek once more, the speed slackened, grew slower and slower, and ended by the little train pulling up alongside a platform.
The guard was at the door as Tom let down the window, and met his question with—
“Tunbridge, sir. Take in water. Engine’s been detached. Back directly.”
“Don’t lose a moment.”
“No, sir. Like to get out, sir?”
“No.”
Tom threw himself back in his seat, and waited impatiently what seemed an hour, but was really only five minutes; when, just as he was rising to thrust his head out of the window, there was a slight concussion, the rattle of chains, and he knew the engine was once more attached.
“Right away!” A whistle from the guard, an answering shriek from the engine, and they glided along the platform, while the night porter on duty looked curiously at the carriage where the young man sat, after giving the signal to start; and in a few minutes, always gathering speed, away they went once more, faster and faster, into the darkness of the night.
It was refreshing to feel the wind blowing against his cheeks, even though at times he could hardly get his breath; but as he gazed forward it was almost with a feeling of wonder that they had had no accident, so black was all ahead.
From time to time a goods train dashed by them in the opposite direction, while as often they rushed by carriages which stood in sidings until those on their urgent way had passed. At last, after trying all he could to contain himself, and grow calm and fit to see the poor sufferer whom he feared to encounter, he sat in despair listening to the dreadful fancied utterances of the train.
With a prayer on his lips that it might not be too late, he lowered the window on the other side, and gazed out through the darkness in the direction that he believed to be the one where Jessie lay. “We must be near now,” he felt; and he began to look out eagerly for the town, which once reached, his journey would soon be ended.
They seemed to be going at a tremendous speed; and, once more returning to his seat, he was in the act of taking out his watch, when the whistle began to pierce the black night air; and directly after, there was a sharp crash, a stunning blow, the end of the saloon carriage seemed to come suddenly upon him, and he knew no more.
Tom’s next recollection was of feeling drowsy, and being troubled by some one holding a lantern close to his face. There was a buzzing of voices about him, and, close by, the glare of a fire, which flared and crackled loudly. Men were moving about, and they would not leave him alone, so it seemed to him; ending by lifting him up and placing him carefully upon cushions, which cushions they had laid upon a gate; and then he was carried some distance to a well-lighted room, where he seemed to go to sleep.
He must have lain some hours quite insensible, for it was broad daylight when he came thoroughly to himself, and found he was upon a mattress in the waiting-room of a station.
“Where am I?” he said wonderingly, for it seemed that the troubled journey must have been all a dream.
“At Broxton,” was the reply; and a gentleman, whom he immediately set down to be a doctor, came forward.
“But how—what is it? I remember now!” he exclaimed, with a dull, aching pain in his head and arm—“there was an accident to the train.”
“Yes,” was the reply. “A couple of goods trucks that were being shunted ran back down the incline, met the special train you were in, and wrecked it. You had a narrow escape, sir.”
“The driver—stoker—guard?” he said eagerly.
“A bit cut and shaken; but you are the great sufferer.” Tom lay still for a few minutes, trying to collect himself; and then all came clear once more.
“I see,” he cried. “Left arm broken—head contused—cut or two. Much loss of blood, doctor?”
“Not much,” he said. “A fortnight’s quiet. Well, I think—My dear sir, are you mad?”
“I hope not,” said the injured man, sitting up. “There, don’t touch me, doctor. I can judge by my feelings that my case is not serious. When is the next down train?”
“In half an hour, sir,” said a fresh voice, and a man he had not seen came from behind the extemporised couch.
“Here, help me to put on my coat and waistcoat. Doctor, I’m much obliged for what you’ve done; but I was travelling special to a case of emergency. I must go on, if it kills me.”
“I will not be answerable for the consequences if you do,” the doctor said tartly. “Fever is almost certain to supervene if you exert yourself, and then I would not give that for your life.”
That was a snap of the fingers, evidently given to get rid of some snuff.
“Make me a sling for this arm,” said Tom; and one being extemporised with a handkerchief, he had to fight hard to master the faintness that kept attacking him; but he persevered—had the bandages on his head replaced by strapping where his hair had been cut away on account of a couple of ghastly cuts; and finally had himself led to the platform, where he sat down waiting.
Twice over the doctor tried to persuade him not to go; but he felt that he must, even at the risk of life; and at last, on the morning train coming up, he stepped in, feeling deathly sick and faint, and leaning back, reached Hastings at last, hardly able to crawl.
It was with a sense of dizziness that he could hardly counteract that he reached Richard Shingle’s house; and then once more he appeared to sink into a dreamy state, in which he was always hearing the words—“In the midst of life we are in death,” and then came a long blank.
Volume Two—Chapter Sixteen.
The Gilded Pill.
One morning, when the sun was making the sea shimmer and glisten like so much frosted silver in constant motion, Tom Fraser awoke, calm and placid, after a long, burning time of fever, to find the soft, pleasant face of Mrs Shingle bending over him; and, on seeing him awake, she stole gently away, and, while he lay wondering and trying to make out what it all meant, and whether it was a dream, the door once more opened, and he knew he was awake, for Jessie appeared, to creep to his bedside and clasp him in her arms.
Invalids recover fast under such circumstances. In his character of the best doctor in London, sick and injured as he was, Tom’s coming had instantaneously effected Jessie’s cure; and now, in turn, she nursed him back to health, ready to become his wife when he should ask her to crown his joy.
It was not long first; for at a meeting one day, old Hopper had proposed to Dick that they should put down so much apiece for the young folks, and this was done without their consent, the donors almost quarrelling as to who should give most.
Old Hopper won.
It was some little time after, when Richard Shingle and his wife had returned to town, that the former called upon his old friend in his chambers, where there was a long chat about the young people, and also about Max Shingle.
“Don’t you make yourself uncomfortable about him,” said Hopper gruffly. “He won’t starve as long as there’s any one to swindle. As for his wife, young Tom will see that she don’t want, and so will I, for the sake of the past.”
“Why, hallo!” cried Dick suddenly, after the conversation had turned upon music, and they had arranged for what was called “a good scrape,”—“what have you got here?”
As he spoke he took a small bill from the chimney-piece, and began looking at it with a grim smile of contempt on his face.
“Can’t you read?” said Hopper roughly. “Plain enough, isn’t it? ‘The Gilded Pill for every ill.’”
“Yes, but—”
”‘Yes, but,’—I haven’t been well lately. And I’m going to take a few: they say they’re good for nearly everything.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t do that,” said Dick dubiously.
“Hey? not do it? why not? Speak up: this traffic makes such a noise.”
“Oh, take them if you like,” said Dick, smiling. “They won’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?” cried Hopper testily. “Everybody says they’re good. Hey? How do you know?”
“That’s my secret,” said Dick, laughing.
“Your what? Look here: what do you mean?”
“I say, take ’em if you like—hundreds of thousands do. Small boxes one and three-halfpence, large boxes two-and-nine, with the Government stamp.”
“Bah! I know all about that,” said Hopper, rattling a box close to his ear, and then opening it, to show a dozen boluses covered with gold foil. “Have one?”
“No, thanks,” said Dick, smiling. “I know ’em by heart—compound rhubarb and a little new bread. That’s my secret, my fortune, old lad.”
“What!” cried Hopper. “Hey? what! You made your fortune with these?”
“Yes,” said Dick; “the murder’s out now. My bright idea was—The Gilded Pill. But I was not at all proud of it, so I kept it dark.”
“Well, I am blessed,” said Hopper.
“Glad of it. So am I, old man. It’s paid me well, but there was always a skeleton in the cupboard.”
“Hey?”
“Skeleton, old man. I’ve paid thousands to Government for stamps, but they wouldn’t have let me off if anything had gone wrong.”
“But these pills couldn’t go wrong, could they?”
“I don’t think so, Hopper; but I never meet a doctor without feeling queer,—the faculty is like a cloud to me, and behind it I always seem to see an inquest coming off through somebody taking too much of my stuff.”
“The idea of your keeping it all to yourself! You might have told me.”
“You never told me you were a wealthy man, and Uncle Rounce in Australia.”
“Humph!”
“I say, Hopper, would you give up the pills now?”
Hopper’s answer was emphatically—“No.”
The End.
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Volume 1 Chapter 1
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Volume 1 Chapter 2
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Volume 1 Chapter 3
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Volume 1 Chapter 4
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Volume 1 Chapter 5
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Volume 1 Chapter 6
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Volume 1 Chapter 7
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Volume 1 Chapter 8
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Volume 2 Chapter 1
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Volume 2 Chapter 2
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Volume 2 Chapter 3
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Volume 2 Chapter 4
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Volume 2 Chapter 5
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Volume 2 Chapter 6
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Volume 2 Chapter 7
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Volume 2 Chapter 8
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Volume 2 Chapter 9
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Volume 2 Chapter 10
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Volume 2 Chapter 11
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Volume 2 Chapter 12
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Volume 2 Chapter 13
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Volume 2 Chapter 14
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Volume 2 Chapter 15
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Volume 2 Chapter 16
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