STORY TWO, CHAPTER ELEVEN.
CONCLUSION.
I stood watching Sir John, who seemed nearly mad with grief and rage,and a dozen times over my lips opened to speak, but without a soundbeing heard. At last he looked up at me and saw what I wanted to do,but which respect kept back.
"Well," he said, "what do you propose doing?"
I remained silent for a moment, and then, feeling that even if he wasoffended, I was doing right, I said to him what was in my heart.
"Sir John, I never married, and I never had a son. It's all a mysteryto me."
"Man, you are saved from a curse!" he cried fiercely.
"No, dear master, no," I said, as I laid my hand upon his arm. "Youdon't believe that. I only wanted to say that if I had had a boy--afine, handsome, brave lad like Mr Barclay--"
"Fine!--brave!" he says contemptuously.
"Who had never done a thing wrong, or been disobedient in any way tillhe fell into temptation that was too strong for him--"
"Bah! I could have forgiven that. But for him to have turned thief!"
I was silent, for his words seemed to take away my breath.
"Man, man!" he cried, "how could you be such an idiot as to write thatdocument and leave it where it could be found?"
"I did it for the best, sir," I said humbly.
"Best? The worst," he cried. "No, no; I cannot forgive. Disgrace orno disgrace, I must have in the police."
"No, no, no!" I cried piteously. "He is your own son, Sir John, yourown son; and it is that wretched woman who has driven him mad."
"Mad? Burdon, mad? No; it is something worse."
"But it is not too late," I said humbly.
"Yes, too late--too late! I disown him. He is no longer son of mine."
"And you sit there in that dining-room every night, Sir John," I said,"with all us servants gathered round, and read that half a chapter andthen say, `As we forgive them that trespass against us.' Sir John--master--he is your own son, and I love him as if he was my own."
There wasn't a sound in that place for a minute, and then he drew hisbreath in a catching way that startled me, for it was as if he was goingto have a fit. But his face was very calm and stern now, as he says tome gently:
"You are right, old friend;"--and my heart gave quite a bound--"oldfriend."
"Let's go to him and save him, master, from his sin."
"Two weak old men, Burdon, and him strong, desperate, and taken bysurprise. My good fellow, what would follow then?"
"I don't know, Sir John. I can only see one thing, and that is, that weshould have done our duty by the lad. Let's leave the rest to Him."
He drew a long deep breath.
"Yes," he says. "Come along."
We went back in the darkness to the cellar door and listened; but allseemed very still, and I turned the key in the patent Bramah lockwithout a sound. We went in, and stood there on the sawdust, with thathot smell of burnt oil seeming to get stronger, and there was a faintlight in the inner cellar now, and a curious rustling, panting sound.We crept forward, one on each side of the opening; and as we looked in,my hand went down on one of the sherry bottles in the bin by my arm, andit made a faint click, which sounded quite loud.
I forgot all about Sir John; I didn't even know that he was there, as Istared in from the darkness at the scene before me. They--I say they,for the whispering had taught me that there was more than one--had gotthe stone up while we had been away. It had been pushed aside on to thesawdust, and a soft yellow light shone up now out of the hole, showingme my young master, looking so strange and staring-eyed and ghastly,that I could hardly believe it was he. But it was, sure enough, thoughdressed in rough workman's clothes, and stained and daubed with clay.
It wasn't that, though, which took my attention, but his face; and as Ilooked, I thought of what had been said a little while ago in my place,and I felt it was true, and that he was mad. He had just crept up outof the hole, when he uttered a low groan and sank down on his knees, andthen fell sidewise across the hole in the floor. He was not there manymoments before there was a low angry whispering; he seemed to be heavedup, and, a big workman-looking fellow came struggling up till he sat onthe sawdust with his legs in the hole, and spoke down to some one.
"It's all right," he said. "The chests are here; but the fool hasfainted away. Quick the lamp, and then the tools."
He bent down and took a smoky oil lamp that was handed to him, and Idrew a deep breath, for the sound of his voice had seemed familiar; butthe light which shone on his face made me sure in spite of his roughclothes and the beard he had grown. It was Edward Gunning, our oldservant, who was discharged for being too fond of drink, turnedbricklayer once again.
As he took the lamp, he got up, held it above his head, looked round,and then, with a grin of satisfaction at the sight of the chests,stepped softly toward the opening into the outer cellar, where Sir Johnand I were watching.
It didn't take many moments, and I hardly know now how it happened, butI just saw young Mr Barclay lying helpless on the sawdust, another headappearing at the hole, and then, with the light full upon it, EdwardGunning's face being thrust out of the opening into the cellar where wewere, and his eyes gleaming curiously before they seemed to shut with asnap. For, all at once--perhaps it was me being a butler and so used towine--my hand closed upon the neck of one of those bottles, which roseup sudden-like above my head, and came down with a crash upon that ofthis wretched man.
There was a crash; the splash of wine; the splintering of glass; thesmell of sherry--fine old sherry, yellow seal--and I stood for a momentwith the bottle neck and some sawdust in my hand, startled by the yellthe man gave, by the heavy fall, and the sudden darkness which had comeupon us.
Then--I suppose it was all like a flash--I had rushed to the innercellar and was dragging the slab over the hole, listening the while to ahollow rustling noise which ended as I got the slab across and sat on itto keep it down.
"Where are you, Burdon?" says Sir John.
"Here, sir!--Quick! A light!"
I heard him hurry off; and it seemed an hour before he came back, whileI sat listening to a terrible moaning, and smelling the spilt sherry andthe oily knocked-out lamp. Then Sir John came in, quite pale, butlooking full of fight, and the first thing he did was to stoop down overEdward Gunning and take a pistol from his breast. "You take that,Burdon," he said, "and use it if we are attacked."
"Which we shan't be, Sir John, if you help me to get this stone back inits place."
He set the lamp on one of the chests and lent a hand, when the stonedropped tightly into its place; and we dragged a couple of chestsacross, side by side, before turning to young Mr Barclay, who lay thereon his side as if asleep.
"Now," says Sir John, as he laid his hand upon the young man's collarand dragged him over on to his back, "I think we had better hand thisfellow over to the police."
"The doctor, you mean, sir. Look at him."
I needn't have bade him look, for Sir John was already doing that.
It was a doctor that I fetched, and not the police, for Mr Barclay laythere quite insensible, and smelling as if he had taken to eating opium,while Ned Gunning had so awful a cut across his temple that he wouldsoon have bled to death.
The doctor came and dressed the rascal's wounds as he was laid in mypantry; but he shook his head over Mr Barclay, and with reason; for twomonths had passed away before we got him down to Dorking, and saw hispale face beginning to get something like what it was, with MissVirginia, forgiving and gentle, always by his side.
But I'm taking a very big jump, and saying nothing about our goingacross to the house opposite as soon as it was daylight, to find thedoor open and no one there; while the state of that basement and what wesaw there, and the artfulness of the people, and the labour they hadgiven in driving that passage right under the road as true as a die,filled me with horror, and cost Sir John five hundred pounds.
Why, their measurements and
calculations were as true as true; and if ithadn't been for me missing that paper--which, of course, it was EdwardGunning who stole it--those scoundrels would have carried off thatgolden incubus as sure as we were alive. But they didn't get it; andthey had gone off scot-free, all but our late footman, who hadconcussion of the brain in the hospital where he was took, Sir Johnsaying that he would let the poor wretch get well before he handed himover to the police.
But, bless you, he never meant to. He was too pleased to get MrBarclay back, and to find that he hadn't the least idea about the goldenincubus being in the cellar; while as to the poor lad's sorrow about hismadness and that wretched woman, who was Ned Gunning's wife, it waspitiful to see.
The other scoundrels had got away; and all at once we found that Gunninghad discharged himself from the hospital; and by that time the houseover the way was put straight, the builder telling me in confidence thathe thought Sir John must have been mad to attempt to make such a passageas that to connect his property without consulting a regular businessman. That was the morning when he got his cheque for the repairs, andthe passage--which he called "Drinkwater's Folly"--had disappeared.
Time went on, and the golden incubus went on too--that is, to a big bankin the Strand, for we were at Dorking now, where those young peoplespent a deal of time in the open air; and Mr Barclay used to say hecould never forgive himself; but his father did, and so did some oneelse.
Who did?
Why, you don't want telling that. Heaven bless her sweet face! Andbless him, too, for a fine young fellow as strong--ay, and as weak, too,of course--as any man.
Dear, dear, dear! I'm pretty handy to eighty now, and Sir John just oneyear ahead; and I often say to myself, as I think of what men will dofor the sake of a pretty face--likewise for the sake of gold: "This is avery curious world."