CHAPTER XI.
ESAU WAS THE FIRSTBORN.
"Are you trying to tell his fortune, Georgie?" said Haggard as, cigar inmouth, he entered his wife's little boudoir.
The young mother was sitting in an American rocking-chair, her baby inher lap. The little creature stared at her in that peculiar way whichinfants do when they are being "amused." It wasn't altogether ameaningless stare, for what it meant was very obvious indeed; thispeculiar look is a threat, and may be translated thus:
"If you do not give me your entire attention, and become thoroughlyabsorbed in me, I will rend the air with eldritch screams, and mypiercing cries shall give you the headache you deserve."
"I think I was making a fool of myself, Reginald," said young Mrs.Haggard; "I certainly was predicting all sorts of good fortune for him,in baby language."
"Yes, baby language as you call it, is one of women's ridiculous fads;the child learns it, and he'll have to unlearn it again to pick up theQueen's English. You don't mean to say that you believe in palmistry,Georgie?" continued Haggard.
"Well, everybody says there's something in it, Reginald; besides, it'sonly an old belief revived, and it's better fun than spirit-rapping,thought-reading, or Madam Blavatsky."
The husband sat down, and critically inspected the child.
"Poor little devil!" he said; "he's like a young bear with all histroubles to come. I'll tell you his fortune, Georgie. If he's got brainshe'll have to go and live in the Law Courts, pinching and screwing tomake both ends meet, starving his belly to feed his back, working earlyand late, and hoping for the briefs that never come. Perhaps he'lldrift into something, or finding that he can't earn a farthing he mayturn paper stainer in despair, and gradually get a crust by writing dullfarces or novels that nobody reads; in fact he may become a modern GrubStreet free lance. If he is a humbug he'll go into the Church; or he maywant to wear a red coat, or a blue one, and vegetate on his pay and thetrifle he would get from me."
"Poor little fellow," said his wife; "but what has he done to bedisinherited?"
"He's committed the crime of existing, my dear," replied the husband."Can't you see, dear, that every farthing we have in the world will haveto go to Lucius, for he will be the head of the family. Gad," he said,"he may be a peer of the realm, though that's a rather unlikelycontingency. This child, Georgie, is not born in the purple, as is hiselder brother; the one is clay, the other china."
The young mother nervously clutched the child to her breast andsmothered him with kisses.
"Make the most of him, my dear, lavish your affection upon him. Unlessthe squire means doing something for him, his fortune is what I havepredicted. Younger sons in England, George, have to live on monkey'sallowance--more kicks than halfpence, and if there are half-a-dozen moreof them, poor little chaps, the fewer halfpence they will get and themore kicks."
Careless idle words, spoken jestingly, but every one of which went homelike a barbed arrow to the mother's heart. As she buried her face in thechild's neck, she thought of her vow of eternal secrecy to her cousin.It had been extracted from her when under the influence of intense fearand horror. Her cousin had only forced a solemn promise from her withthe intention of covering her own ignominy. It would have needed morethan even the diabolical ingenuity of a Machiavel to have extorted fromany mother her adhesion to a conspiracy for the ruin of her own child.But now she saw to her horror that each and every child she might bearto her own husband would, as a matter of course, be practicallydisinherited in favour of the little bastard. At that instant, theredawned on her for the first time the remote possible contingency of thechild who was supposed to be Haggard's firstborn son ultimatelyinheriting the Pit Town title; that troubled her far less than do theprobabilities of his ultimate succession to the Woolsack affect youngMr. Briefless when he is first called to the bar. But that each andevery one of her children should by her own deliberate act, and for thebenefit of an interloper, himself but a child of shame, be deprived ofwhat was legitimately their own, their share of their father's heritage,did seem a very bitter cup.
"I can tell you one thing, Georgie," said her husband; "your father'squite of my mind in the matter, and it is our universal respect for thelaw of primogeniture that has made England what she is. It's a sort ofnatural law of selection, and the survival of the fittest. The eldestson must be taken care of at the expense of the rest; he is the tribalchief, his brothers and sisters are but his henchmen and his slaves.Why, look at the French; since the Code Napoleon, which chopped up theland into little blocks and gave each child his share, there have beenno great families in France. Money a young fellow can squander, but hecannot get rid of his ancestral acres, when they are tightly tied up tocome to his eldest son. There's no way out of it, Georgie; theWarrenders and the Haggards wouldn't content themselves with turning intheir graves, they'd haunt the pair of us, if we hesitated to do theregulation thing."
On hearing these words, which for the first time in her life broughtthe real state of things home to her, it is hardly an exaggeration tosay that young Mrs. Haggard's heart died within her. Was it not her dutyto her child, to her husband, and to herself, to instantly make a cleanbreast of the whole mystery? Perhaps it was, but she struggled fiercelyagainst the natural impulse to adopt this simple course. The fact hasbeen insisted upon that secrecy was foreign to Georgie Haggard's nature;she hated deception and the very idea of anything which was underhand.Had she given way to her natural impulse, and then and there told herhusband the truth, the dark web of intrigue which surrounded herinnocent life would have been torn aside and dispersed at once and forever. But with Georgie, unhappily for herself, her promise bound her astightly as the most terrible oath. She had promised never to revealLucy's secret, and come what might, should this moral Juggernaut crushher, her child, and her offspring yet unborn, yet she would be true toit; her word, once plighted, should be kept to the bitter end.
"I think it's cruel, Reginald," she said, and the tears were in hereyes, "cruel and wicked too. What has he done, poor little fellow, thathe should be made to inherit a sort of curse?"
But before her husband could answer this very natural objection, thedoor was flung violently open and the child Lucius, his face suffusedwith angry colour, bounced into the room. To his breast he clutched atiny white kitten, it was quite young, its eyes not being yet open.
"Dad," he cried in a tone of rage, "Auntie says I shan't see the tittensdrowned. I do want so much to see them drowned. I hate Auntie Lucy, andI hate Fanchette."
Fanchette now appeared upon the scene, indignant and out of breath. Thechild, tossing the kitten from him, sprung upon Haggard's lap, and againexpressed his intense desire to be present at the execution of thekittens.
"Dad," he said in a tone of affectionate entreaty, "I never seed atitten drowned."
Perhaps it was natural after all. Just in the same way as an adult goesto an execution, because he "never has seen one, you know"--he forgetsthat it is "a thing to shudder at not to see"--so the little Lucius wasanxious to assist at the immolation of the kittens.
"No, my man, you mustn't be cruel," and then Haggard attempted to arguewith the child. But the little fellow pleaded, looking up into Haggard'sface with his big brown eyes.
"Me tiss oo, dad," he said, and he did so vehemently. Haggard strokedthe child's long golden curls, and placed him gently on the floor.
"Can't be done, my man," he said. At once the child's face changed andbecame frightful to behold; the corners of his mouth went down, thewhites of his eyes became injected, the tears coursed freely down hischeeks, he clenched his little fists and screamed aloud in his rage andfury.
"Debil!" he shouted in his passion, and he shook his fists at Haggard inimpotent rage.
"Take him away, Fanchette," said Haggard with a laugh.
The _bonne_ smiled and caught the infuriated child up in her arms.
"_Ah ma foi, monsieur_," she exclaimed, "_apres tout, c'est naturel, ilaime le spectacle, le beau bebe_."
"Well, he's not to have the spectacle, mind that, Fanchette."
The child and the one kitten undoomed to a watery grave were carried offby the _bonne_.
"That chap's a devil of a temper, Georgie," said the husband with alaugh. "Case in point, my dear," he continued; "we keep one kitten anddrown the rest, and there doesn't seem anything very horrible about itafter all; and that's what we of the upper classes, Georgie, havemorally to do with our own offspring. It's on exactly that sameprinciple that little Lucius will have to get our money and our land,while _that_ poor little chap and his brothers and sisters, if he shouldhave the misfortune to have any, will have to rub along as best theycan. You and I, Georgie, will have morally to perform the functions ofthe stony-hearted gardener."
Haggard kissed his wife, then he ran his hand meditatively over theinfant's soft scalp; he began to whistle a tune, and left the room.
It may be very unnatural, it may be very inartistic, but this beingmerely a veracious chronicle, it has to be told that Georgie loved thelittle Lucius quite as much and with exactly the same affection that shefelt for the infant she fondled on her lap. Totally inexplicable, youwill say; but so it was.
Georgie had never grudged to the little Lucius his share of her own andher husband's affection. She and her husband were young people; theymight have a large family growing up round them, but they were wealthy,and they had large expectations, so that a child more or less to peoplein their position in life did not very much matter. But to give a littlestranger a full share in the domestic pie is one thing, and to rob one'sown children for the sake of the same little stranger is another. Themore Georgie thought the matter over the more monstrous and impossibleseemed her position. She would make an appeal to her cousin's mercy, toher cousin's sense of justice. But she felt morally certain that Lucywould never consent to an _eclaircissement_, or to the making a cleanbreast of the whole long-buried scandal to her cousin's husband.
Gradually the infant on her lap, her husband's legitimate heir, dozedgently off; Mrs. Haggard placed him in his cot and proceeded to darkenthe room; as she did so the door opened and her cousin's smiling faceappeared.
"I want to talk to you, Lucy; I want to talk to you about baby," saidGeorgie with gravity.
"Nothing the matter with him, dear, I hope, is there?"
"Oh, he's well enough as to his bodily health. It's his future I'malarmed about. What do you suppose my husband told me to-day, Lucy? Hetold me, as a matter of course, that my baby was to be sacrificed toLucius, because, forsooth, Lucius is the elder. I nearly told him then,Lucy. I _must_ tell him, I shall have to tell him sooner or later."
"And when you do so, Georgie, you will have the satisfaction of seeingthe last of your cousin. When I told you that I would fling myself intothe lake if you betrayed me, it was not the mere idle vapouring of afoolish girl. I said it, and I meant it. Do you think for one singleinstant that your husband would keep my secret? The scandal has blownover, Georgie; you and I are its sole depositories. My secret and my sinare both dead, buried for ever in the silent past. You swore you wouldnever betray me, Georgie, and having sworn it you must keep your oath.Don't think for an instant that any ambition on my part, Georgie, makesme wish to see Lucius supplant your children. Oh that he were only dead,then at all events I should be safe."
Gradually, however, the girl became calmer, her manner to Georgie gotsofter and more caressing. "Keep my secret, Georgie dear," she said;"it'll be another twenty years before your children are men and women. Imay be dead before that, please God I shall. Anyhow there'll be quitetime enough to take your husband into our confidence, if it must be so.But I couldn't face him yet, and I couldn't face uncle. I must hold youto your promise, Georgie. You swore never to betray me, and you nevershall."
Reginald Haggard's wife pleaded with the girl; she argued, sheentreated, but she never threatened.
"It may come out after all, Lucy," she said, "and then think of theshame, the disgrace and the scandal."
"The only way in which it could come out, dear, would be if Capt knewsomething about it. He evidently has no suspicion, or he would have cometo us for hush-money long ago. Besides, Georgie, there's hope left to meyet," and here the girl's face grew almost diabolical as she hissedacross the table in a low whisper, "_Lucius is but a little child, dear;he may die!_"
"I can't believe, Lucy, that the worst of mothers could deliberatelywish for her own child's death. You took a base advantage of myaffection in entrapping me into a promise of secrecy."
"An oath, my dear."
"An oath or a promise, whichever you like, Lucy. I'll keep your secret,you may rely on that, whatever it may cost me. But I love the child(and you know you can trust me, Lucy Warrender), so be you sure of this.You dared to wish for the child's death. Should any danger menace himfrom you--you his own mother, worthless woman that you are--that instantyour secret shall be a secret no longer. I will sacrifice my ownhappiness, the future of my own children, to you; for your sake I havedeceived my husband, and I will go on deceiving him, but I will protectthe child's life from you, Lucy Warrender, at whatever cost. Your verypresence is a danger to him. After what you've told me, it is impossiblethat you and he can live under the same roof. You hate him, your ownunhappy friendless child. I banish you from his presence, Lucy, fromthis day forth."
Lucy Warrender gazed at her cousin in astonishment; their _roles_ werechanged; no longer young Mrs. Haggard looked at her cousin with patientpleading eyes; her foot beat the floor with suppressed excitement, andthough she never raised her voice, she continued in an angry butdetermined tone:
"Yes, Lucy, you must go, and quickly; you shall no longer poison my homewith your presence. You have brought sufficient misery to me and mine."
There was a something in the way young Mrs. Haggard had spoken thatconvinced Lucy Warrender of her sincerity.
Her cousin turned and left the room without a word.
That same evening Miss Warrender announced her intention of making along-postponed visit to some friends in town. In vain her uncleremonstrated, and pointed out that her presence was expected with therest of the family at Walls End Castle.
"I couldn't stand it, uncle," she said; "we are quiet enough and dullenough here, heaven knows; but a month at the Castle would be toodreadful. Besides it is Georgie who is the old lord's favourite. I don'tthink I'm in his good books at all. I've put off and put off this visitso long, that if I don't make it now, I never shall. And even London outof the season is to my mind preferable to the oppressive magnificence ofthe Castle. Lord Pit Town is Reginald's relative, not mine; I shouldonly be in the way, Uncle."
And so it was arranged.
Lucy went to her friends in town, and from their house she commenced around of visits. She corresponded regularly enough with her cousin, andthere was nothing very remarkable about the letters that wereinterchanged. Not one word was dropped by either cousin on the subjectof the family secret. Perhaps a letter written about this time from LordSpunyarn to his friend Haggard may throw a little light upon the way inwhich Miss Warrender amused herself.
"The Club House, "Royal Yacht Squadron, Ryde. "13th August, 18--.
"DEAR HAGGARD,
"Here I am swaggering about this place in a blue coat and brass buttons, like the other sham sailors. I'm quite out of the hunt here, however, for I can't pretend to understand the jargon of the thing. Old and new measurements, tonnage, time allowances and movable ballast, are all a sealed book to me. Of course I go on to the balcony with the other idiots to stare at the matches, and, like them, I have to pretend to manifest an intelligent interest.
"To use a nautical simile your wife's cousin is 'carrying on' here. If I didn't know her so well I should think she meant marrying. Half the men here, including old Marlingspike, the venerable commodore, dance attendance upon her from morning till night, and she certainly looks a very bright little, tight little craft in her nautical get-up, which
is the regulation thing with the women here. They say that little Jack Hornpiper proposed to her the other day; it looks rather like it, for he has suddenly started for a lengthened cruise in the Mediterranean.
"I suppose by this you have begun wiring into Pit Town's grouse, though I hear he does not keep a very big head of game on the place. When Hetton comes into it, it won't be much better, for of course all his spare cash will go in horses. I too have an invite for Walls End, but it is only just for the festivities, which everybody declares are given in honour of your wife and her boy, and to spite Hetton. He, of course, is furious. He swore at first he wouldn't put in an appearance at all, but a good many of the people here are going, and Hetton'll have to show, if only to keep his Jews quiet. The Barringtons, who as you know were never great favourites, have been quite the rage here since Miss Warrender's arrival. They are asked everywhere and go everywhere for the lady's sake, which is very good of them. The Charmington is going to astonish us all in a three-nights engagement at the local theatre; her benefit is announced under the special patronage of H.R.H. She has gone off terribly, but her hair is more luxuriant and golden than ever.
"Miss Warrender bids me tell you that she shall make a final attempt to _rescue_ Hetton on her arrival at Pit Town's place. For your sake, old fellow, I hope she won't succeed, but I have known more unlikely things happen even than this.
"Sincerely yours, "SPUNYARN."
Lucy Warrender enjoyed herself thoroughly during her stay at Ryde. Mr.Hornpiper's misfortune had been a true bill. Lucy Warrender encouragedeverybody, and it was not her fault if enthusiasts like little Hornpipercut short the delightful period of their acquaintance with the lady byproposing to her.
It has been said that a ship is a prison, to which is added thepossibility of being drowned; this is particularly the case in regard toa yacht. Theoretically, yachting is a delightful pastime; practically,it is an exceedingly expensive foible, combining the maximum of probablediscomfort and boredom with the not unremote contingency of possibledanger. Given the most delightful weather, a big and well-found yachtand a really good cook, given that the cruise has been a short one, thateverybody has done his or her best to make things comfortable; yet howuncommonly glad we all are to bid our host and his dear delightfuldaughters good-bye--and how uncommonly glad they must be to see the lastof us. If any of our friends were to invite us to come and stay withthem and eat tinned provisions for a fortnight, we should indignantlydecline, but if we are asked to do it on board a friend's yacht, weaccept with effusion, and for at least a week or two before we brag ofthe high old time we are going to have. I am afraid Lucy Warrender andher friends the Barringtons were only fine-weather sailors after all,but they were very popular.
There was no false pride about Lucy Warrender. When she met her oldfriend and rival, Mrs. Charmington, upon the pier, she shook hands withher at once. In the days when Mrs. Charmington was a leader in society,little Jack Charmington, her husband, had been tacitly ignored; but nowhis wife was very glad indeed to have him constantly at her elbow, andshe introduced him to everybody.
"You must know Jack, Miss Warrender," she said, as they shook hands. "Idon't know what I should do without him, my dear," she continued. "Healways leads the applause in front, you know, and he talks to theprofessional people for me, when I have the misfortune to meet them inthe daytime."
"Doosid responsible position, Miss Warrender, I can tell you; one needsa constitution of iron, Miss Warrender; they're so awfully hospitable,that talking with them first always means drinking with them afterwards.It's bad enough for my wife to have quitted the scenes of her formertriumphs for the coarser joys of the play-house. But dramatic talent, mydear young lady, will assert itself. If my wife had been Empress of allthe Russias, sooner or later her destiny would have declared itself, andshe would have sought the only sphere which could content a woman of hertalent and ambition."
Now Mrs. Charmington's talents as an actress were microscopical. She wasgood looking, she had a decently good memory, and she was a dogged,plodding woman, with a good eye to the main chance. Her principle was tobuy a fairly good article, to pay a good price for it, and then to makeher little experiment upon the body of the vile, by hacking her piecethrough the provinces, say for six months; and then producing it for ashort London season. There is no doubt that by time and patience it ispossible to get even a little child to recite a piece of poetry with acertain amount of effect, and so it was with Mrs. Charmington. It mustbe remembered first, that Mrs. Charmington did not buy rubbish. She wentto the great Mr. Breitmann, and she made a bargain with him. Breitmannwas a man of five-and-forty; he stood six feet in his stockings, he wasfair, with a quantity of light curly hair, and he had big fat fingers,which were perpetually playing upon an imaginary pianoforte; when theyweren't running over an invisible keyboard, Mr. William Breitmann wasengaged in extending them separately, one after the other, in asuccession of violent cracks. Now the reason Mrs. Charmington went toMr. Breitmann was, that Breitmann was a particularly independent person,who declined dancing gratuitous attendance upon Mrs. Charmington oranybody else. In vain had she favoured him with a royal command,written upon crocodile paper, headed by a magnificent monogram,illuminated in many colours, in which Mr. Breitmann was informed that"Mrs. Charmington would be pleased if Mr. Breitmann would kindly callupon her on Tuesday, at three, as she wished to talk over a matter ofbusiness with him." A rude and cruel answer, short and to the point,came by return of post:
"MADAM,
"I have no business with you.
"Yours obediently,
"W. BREITMANN."
Then she sent an ambassador. Jack Charmington called four times upon thedramatist at his club, but even then, after bribing the page boy toindiscreetly admit that the great Breitmann was on the premises, hestill found him sufficiently difficult to approach. As Jack stood in thelittle bare den marked "Strangers' Room," he heard voices in loudtalking, with occasional shouts of laughter; then he heard a gruff andangry voice grunt in an irritated manner, "Charmington, what isCharmington? I don't know Charmington. Tell him to go to----." And herea door slammed violently.
The page boy entered the strangers' room and communicated to Mr.Charmington the fact that the great man was busy.
"Did you tell him I wanted to see him on business?"
"They all say that, sir," replied the boy; "he's a very busy gentlemanMr. Breitmann, sir, if you please."
Charmington then sat down and wrote a polite note, in which he informedMr. Breitmann that he desired a short interview with him on a matter ofvital importance to them both. A second half-crown was administered tothe page boy, and in a few moments the door of the strangers' room wasviolently flung open, and Mr. Breitmann himself suddenly burst in.Breitmann never entered a room, he always burst in. The suddenness ofhis entry startled Charmington considerably; he was still moreastonished at the tone in which Breitmann addressed him. That gentlemancarried poor Jack's note in his hand.
"What is your vital business, sir? I have no vital business with you."
"My wife wrote to you, Mr. Breitmann, yesterday, asking you to call onher."
This only seemed to exasperate Mr. Breitmann still more.
"I have no business with your wife. I am not a ladies' man. Why should Icall on your wife when I have no business? What do you mean by cominghere and bullying me because I won't call on your wife?"
"My wife is a very prominent person, Mr. Breitmann."
"I have seen your wife, sir, and if you wish, I will tell you what Ithink of her."
He hardly gave poor little Charmington time to assent to thisproposition, when he continued, his voice changing from a shout to ascream:
"Sir, your wife is a fool!" Then he proceeded to crack his fingersviolently, one after another. "Now, sir," he continued, "I wish yougood-morning; my time is fully occupied in my businesses
and inprotecting my copyrights."
He was about to rush from the room.
"It's about that I wanted to see you," said Jack.
"Have you been infringing my copyrights then?" replied the other in aterrible voice.
"No, I want to buy one," said Charmington.
"Ah," replied Breitmann, in a calmer tone, "then you _have_ business.Sit down. What do you want to buy?"
"Well, I don't exactly know," replied Charmington.
"Well, tell me how much you want to spend, five thousand--ten thousand?"
And then they went to business. It was explained to Mr. Breitmann thatMrs. Charmington was anxious to purchase one of his new and originaldramas, one of those extraordinary combinations of melodramaticimpossibility, which however appeal, and not in vain, to the eye and tothe heart, which never fail to fill the pockets of their fortunatepurchasers, and which have rendered the name of Breitmann a householdword.
For thirty years it had been Mr. Breitmann's misfortune to fightincompetency in some shape or other. It had fallen to his lot tomanipulate vast armies of theatrical supernumeraries and to teach themto perform the apparently impossible feat of being in two places atonce. Mr. Breitmann's struggles with the British super had taught himone great secret: the British super, like the British donkey, never doeswhat he is told until the person in authority over him loses his temper.So Breitmann, to avoid loss of time, used to begin by losing his temperat once; so terrible were his ebullitions of wrath, that nobody everattempted to argue with him, and he always carried his point. Findinghis tactics invariably successful within the walls of the theatre, headopted them with similar success in ordinary life, and the time hesaved was enormous.
His negotiations with Mrs. Charmington, her husband and her solicitor,were over in forty-eight hours; a satisfactory bargain was concludedbetween them for the purchase of "Ethel's Sacrifice," a melodrama ofthrilling interest, originally written as a novel by Robinson. Robinsonhad submitted the manuscript to Breitmann, and then for a fortnight thepair had "collaborated." What took place during that dreadful fortnightis only known to the two collaborators. Robinson at its commencement wasa bright-eyed young fellow, full of enthusiasm, poetry and romance; atthe end of the fortnight all the enthusiasm, poetry and romance had beenknocked out of him. "Ethel's Sacrifice" had been altered, tinkered,transposed, cut and filled with comic incidents of the most every-daydescription, incidents from which the poetic soul of the unhappyRobinson revolted. Then "Ethel's Sacrifice" was gabbled through onesummer's evening at a remote provincial theatre, and "Ethel'sSacrifice," by Messrs. Robinson and Breitmann, became a marketablesecurity, duly protected by act of parliament. A nervous invalid leftLondon for prolonged mental rest and change of scene--that was Robinson;his collaborator calmly returned to his multifarious businessengagements and the onerous duties of the protection of his innumerablecopyrights.
Now Mr. Breitmann not only sold "Ethel's Sacrifice" to the Charmingtons,but he sold them the benefits of his own personal skill in itsproduction. When the bills said that "Ethel's Sacrifice" was producedunder the personal supervision of Mr. William Breitmann, the knowingones jumped at once to the correct conclusion that "Ethel's Sacrifice"would be a success. Mr. Breitmann had stipulated with Mrs. Charmingtonthat he should not deliver to her the complete drama until she herselfwas letter-perfect in the title _role_.
"You're never perfect, you know," he had said to her, "and you won't betill you've played the thing in the provinces for six months; that's thecurse of amateurs, they never are perfect."
"But I'm not an amateur, Mr. Breitmann," the lady had retortedindignantly.
"Pardon me, dear lady," he said, "but you are nothing else. You haveplayed four original parts, specially written for you mind, in thewhole of your stage experience; of course you're an amateur, but you area big success. And," and here he cracked his fingers very slowly, "youare a fine woman, yes, a fine stage presence of a woman," said heappreciatively, as he looked her all over, much as a dealer might lookover a horse--a dealer who was selling a horse, not a dealer who wasbuying one.
Mrs. Charmington fought hard to get hold of the beautiful type-printedcopy of "Ethel's Sacrifice," which young Robinson, in elaborate morningcostume and a flower in his button-hole, had read to her sodelightfully; but all in vain. Mr. Breitmann kept it carefully locked upin one of the numerous tin boxes which made his rather grim-lookingstudy so much resemble a lawyer's office.
"You'll find this quite enough to occupy you for the next three months,my dear," said Breitmann decisively, using the affectionate method ofaddress invariable in the profession.
The part, which was a formidable little volume, was just about twice aslong as the Church catechism. To do Mrs. Charmington justice she set towork with a will; she was actually letter-perfect when the play was readto her company for the first time by Mr. Robinson at the Stoke Pogistheatre, where the talented little band of actors that supported Mrs.Charmington were playing at the time.
"At ten on Monday, if you please, ladies and gentlemen," said Robinson,"we will rehearse Acts I., II. and III. Mr. Breitmann will be present."
Everybody was punctual, and Mr. Breitmann _was_ present. For five mortalhours he abused the company individually and collectively; he pervadedthe theatre, he shrieked from the lighted rake of gas jets whichilluminated the centre of the stage, he objurgated from the author'stable, he used the most horrible language when he suddenly appeared inthe stalls, he had the presumption to order Mrs. Charmington not to"mince," and he told her that "it wasn't a time for mincing;" heinsisted on the minuet in the second act being repeated six times, andthen he informed the infuriated stage manager that "it wasn't goodenough even for Whitechapel." But the climax was reached at Mrs.Charmington's great scene with her leading man, at the conclusion of thethird act. Ethel (Mrs. Charmington) has to fling herself into the armsof her confiding husband; she proceeded to do so in her usualperfunctory and society manner.
"Good heavens! madam," shrieked the indignant Breitmann, "that won't do.Stand here," said he in his ferocious voice, "and look at me." He rushedat the leading man, he plunged his face into that gentleman's shirtfront, he gripped the gentleman's muscular shoulders with tremendousenergy, and his back went up and down with convulsive sobs.
"There, ma'am," he said triumphantly; "try again." She tried again, butBreitmann vociferated all the more.
"It's no good, my dear; you must clutch and nestle. I wouldn't givethat," and here he snapped his fingers, "for a woman who can't clutchand nestle; try it with me."
Breitmann took up the position of the leading man. Mrs. Charmington gaveone tearful glance at her husband, then she rushed into Breitmann's armsand did her best to clutch and to nestle. But he was not even thensatisfied.
"Go home, my dear," he said, "and practise it with your husband."
What a situation for one who has been a queen of society. When Mrs.Charmington, almost heart-broken, reached her lodgings she informed herhusband that it was more than she could bear.
"The idea of the wretch actually teaching me my business before my wholecompany, and then ordering me to go home and learn to 'clutch andnestle.'"
"Dev'lish sensible idea I think, Julia," said Charmington, who was inlove with his wife before all things; "you can't do better than begin atonce," and the little man drew himself up to his full height of fivefoot six and extended his arms like a mechanical doll.
"Don't remind me of my humiliation, Jack; it's too much, too much tobear," and the beauty flung herself into an easy chair and burst intofloods of tears.
But Julia Charmington, wise woman that she was, did as she was bid; sheclutched and she nestled all that afternoon, and she had her reward. Forsix whole months she delighted all the great provincial towns andwatering-places of the United Kingdom with "Ethel's Sacrifice," and shereaped a golden harvest. When she came to town for the season shescored a decided success, and all the leading Dailies joined in thechorus of adulation. The fair Julia got a good round sum from thephotogr
aphers for the right to represent her in her four elaboratecostumes; the particular triumph of the sun-artist being therepresentation of her nestling and clutching scene. Even the dramaticcritic of the great morning journal went into ecstasies over this.
"Mrs. Charmington," he said, "has made real progress. It has been thefashion to go to see this lady from curiosity, but last night she scoreda genuine success in 'Ethel's Sacrifice,' a thrilling melodrama byMessrs. Breitmann and Robinson, which was seen in London for the firsttime. The house was crowded with the well-known faces so familiar to usat all important _premieres_. In her great scene in the third act, Mrs.Charmington took every one by surprise. Thoroughly spontaneous andunaffected, quite free from staginess and straining after effect, theaudience thoroughly appreciated the genuine burst of feeling of theyoung wife," and so on, and so on, for a column and a half.
Messrs. Breitmann and Robinson bowed their thanks to an enthusiasticcall; and Breitmann, his face wreathed in smiles and cracking hisfingers violently, as was his custom, whispered to his collaborator,"She's only a 'mug,' after all, my boy, but I'm proud of her; it's thenestling and clutching that fetched them." And then he went off to theConvivial Cannibals, where he ate an enormous tripe supper, and was morejovial and violent than ever.
CHAPTER XII.
IN ST. JOHN'S WOOD.
Lord Hetton was certainly a long-suffering man. It has been stated thatthe temper of the mistress of Azalea Lodge was almost diabolical; therewas nothing the pair didn't quarrel over. I believe, originally, theirquarrels were about nothing at all, the mere disagreements of loversthat are but a renewal of love; the best-tempered and most virtuous havebeen known to fight even during their honey-moons: but it is adangerous practice, for use is second nature, and quarrelling, likedram-drinking, grows upon one, and after a while becomes a necessity. Iverily believe had the inhabitants of Azalea Lodge not both been membersof the cultured classes that murder would have been done. But just asthey quarrelled, abused each other, and hurt each other's feelings asmuch as possible, so they were each in the habit after a pitched battleof leaving the field in possession of the victor.
On the very day that Mr. Parsons had left Matilda Street to proceed onbusiness to the Swiss Cottage, one of these numerous pitched battles hadtaken place; the lady had been vanquished, and she, her maid, and herjewel-case had left for Brighton by the evening train. Lord Hetton satalone and tried to do justice to a _recherche_ little dinner, but hefailed, for Hetton was jealous and unhappy; and as he looked at thevacant chair opposite him, the triumphs of his undeniable cook turned toDead Sea apples in his mouth, for, in his mind's eye, he saw themistress of Azalea Lodge dining in solitary grandeur in the coffee-roomof a fashionable Brighton hotel, the cynosure of many an admiring eye.Lord Hetton did not enjoy his dinner.
These two unfortunate people, if the truth be told, really did love eachother very sincerely. As has been said the lady was Lord Hetton's onlyfriend; of this she had given him very tangible proof in the hour of hisneed, and on her part she owed everything she had in the world to hislordship; but each of the pair was haunted by a special terror--the ladyby the fear that Lord Hetton might marry, his lordship by the dread thatthe lady might actually carry out her frequent threat that the next timeshe left him it would be never to return. Poor wretch, he would onlyhave been too glad to have married her, but that outraged society wouldhave been instantly vindicated by the stoppage of his allowance from theold earl.
Lord Hetton sat and meditated by his study fire. "By Jove!" thought he,"it would serve her right if I really did pay her off and married. Iought to, if it were only to keep out that fellow Haggard and hisbrats."
It was ten o'clock. Azalea Lodge was a well-regulated household. Theparlourmaid placed the spirit stand upon the table, and asked hislordship if he had any further orders. Within half-an-hour the fourwomen servants of Azalea Lodge were fast asleep, and the thickbaize-covered door, which separated the servants' quarters from the restof the house, was securely fastened. And now Lord Hetton sat down to hiswriting-table, and he wrote a letter to the solicitor of the mistress ofAzalea Lodge. This was the letter, which was short and to the point:
"Azalea Lodge.
"SIR,
"I shall be glad if you will call upon me here, as I am desirous of washing my hands of your client and of all the associations of this place.
"Yours faithfully, "HETTON."
Now Lord Hetton when he wrote this letter had not the slightest idea ofcarrying out the threat contained in it; it was merely his way ofexpressing his displeasure--the quickest means he knew of causing thereturn of the fugitive from the seaside. It was upon the lines of thisletter that he composed a second epistle full of indignantrecrimination, in which he announced that this, the last rupture, mustbe final. "I have long determined," he said, and he chuckled as he wrotethe words, "to shake myself free from what was after all but a boyishinfatuation at the commencement, an entanglement which I feel we bothhave been anxious to terminate for some time. Your solicitor will informyou that I have requested him to take the necessary steps." And as hefolded the letter and placed it in its envelope he smiled. "She'll getit by the mid-day delivery to-morrow, if they post it the first thing inthe morning, and she'll probably come back in a towering passion by thefour express. I wish she was here now," he continued with a sigh. LordHetton yawned, he looked at his watch, and then he stamped the lettersand laid them out for posting, but circumstances intervened which causedthose two letters not to leave Azalea Lodge.
Lord Hetton lighted his candle and went to bed. In half-an-hour he wassound asleep, and a dead silence reigned in Azalea Lodge. The cricketschirped merrily upon the hearth of the housemaid's pantry, where theremains of a fire still smouldered. But what is that monotonous gratingsound which continues with mechanical regularity? It isn't a kettleboiling, though it sounds rather like it, for there is an occasionalsqueak and then the noise suddenly ceases altogether, only to recommenceagain.
Mr. Parsons on reaching the Swiss Cottage had walked straight to AzaleaLodge. He entered the front garden of the empty house next door to it,which was still in the hands of the workmen. He flung his three-prongedhook over the high wall which separated Azalea Lodge from the emptyhouse. Quickly, noiselessly, and without effort Mr. Parsons reached thetop of the wall; then he removed the three-pronged hook, fixed it on thenear side of the wall, and descended by means of the friendly ropeattached to it into the grounds of Azalea Lodge. He left the ropehanging, for the return journey might possibly have to be accomplishedin a very hurried manner. When Mr. Parsons stood safely within the outerdefences of the fortress which he had assailed he proceeded todeliberately remove his boots. The big list slippers which he put onwere perfectly noiseless; they are the professional foot coveringscommon to the British thief and to the ghost of Hamlet's father. Then hewalked straight to the pantry window, and shading his eyes with hishands, carefully took stock of the interior. Mr. Parsons lost no time;and, skilled mechanic that he was, commenced his work at once. Grippinghis file firmly in both hands, and carefully lubricating its keen edgewith oil, he commenced operations vigorously upon the massive bar ofsoft iron, which with five others protected the pantry window; the barwas at least an inch in diameter and was quite seven feet long. It tookMr. Parsons a good twenty minutes' hard work to cut through, and beadsof perspiration stood upon the brow of that clever operator long beforethe job was finished. Mr. Parsons replaced his files in their specialreceptacles in his many-pocketed coat, then he seized themassive-looking bar just above where he had divided it, he placed a footagainst the window-ledge and tugged with all his might. It's easy enoughto bend a poker between the bars of a kitchen range; it is true that thekitchen poker is not an inch in diameter, but then neither is it sevenfeet long. Mr. Parsons wrenched away with a will, and soon the great barwas bent almost to a right angle. Mr. Parsons slipped a small paletteknife between the sashes, but Azalea Lodge had been fitted up re
gardlessof expense, and the window-catch was a patent one which resisted theefforts of Mr. Parsons; but that gentleman was equal to the occasion; hetook out a piece of diachylon plaister, apparently from the small of hisback, really from one of the numerous receptacles of his professionalcoat; he carefully affixed and smoothed the plaister over the top centrepane of the lower sash, and then he rapidly drew a glazier's diamondround the pane. Spreading his left hand out upon the middle of theplaister he struck a smart blow upon his fingers with his right fist; hehad smashed the window, but without noise--there was no crash or rattleof falling glass. With deliberate care Mr. Parsons effected an openingin the broken window, in a workmanlike manner, large enough to admit hisright hand, and then with a smile he gently opened Sharp's Patent Safetywindow-catch. Mr. Parsons now raised the window-sash with ease, and,taking his boots in his hand, effected his felonious entry, leapinglightly and noiselessly into the room. Mr. Parsons placed his boots inthe fender to warm, for nothing is more unpleasant to a careful man thanthe putting on of cold boots. And now Mr. Parsons proceeded to carefullyand deliberately wash his hands and to remove from them the grimy tracesof his honest labour; then he lighted a short piece of candle--the matchhe used gave forth no warning sound. He examined the lock, the key wasin the door, the projecting end of it he seized with a pair ofpeculiarly-made forceps, the key turned noiselessly and with ease. Mr.Parsons ascended the kitchen stairs and proceeded straight to thedining-room, for he was no vulgar thief to whom the contents of thelarder of Azalea Lodge would present attractions, but an industrioustradesman and a keen man of business.
Mr. Parsons was occupied for at least half-an-hour in the dining-room,for in the massive oak sideboard he found a good deal of portableproperty; the patent locks soon yielded to his skilful attack, and thespoons and forks were rapidly packed by him into the smallest possiblecompass and placed in a bag of suitable size. But Mr. Parsons looked invain for any sign of the racing plate which had attracted his attentionupon his first visit to Azalea Lodge. He placed the bag containing theplunder upon the hall table, and then, his lighted end of candle in hishand, he ascended the stairs. When he reached the first floor he heardthe regular breathing of the sleeping Lord Hetton; he carefully removedhis lordship's boots from the mat and gently tried the door, blowing outhis candle as he did so, for the landing was illuminated by a flickerof gas, and had his lordship awakened, the light would have betrayed theintruder. The burglar entered the room without noise, and the heavybreathing of the sleeper continued without intermission. Mr. Parsonslooked around him; his eyes at once alighted on the object of hissearch; in a corner of the room stood a large safe of painted iron ofthe most recent construction--Chubbs' Patent Safety. Mr. Parsons wasquite aware of what Chubbs' Patent Safety meant; he knew full well thata Chubbs' safe would successfully withstand his attempts for a period oftwenty-four hours at least, and that picking the lock would be quite ahopeless matter. But Mr. Parsons did not despond; he knew that owners ofsafes generally keep the key upon their persons. He looked towards thesleeper; upon a small table at the bedside lay his heavy gold Frodshamchronograph, to the massive chain of which was attached a long slendersteel key. The burglar possessed himself of the watch and appendages,knelt down in front of the safe, which yielded to the key, and in a fewmoments the Toiler of the Night was busy with Lord Hetton's racingtrophies. There they lay, the glittering, precious baubles, the prizesfor which their owner had schemed ever since his early manhood, theuseless cups, vases, &c., which had cost their fortunate proprietor farmore than their weight in purest gold. The feelings of Mr. Parsons maybe better imagined than described; they must have somewhat resembledthose of Ali Baba when the treasures of the Forty Thieves first met hisastonished eye. Is it to be wondered at then that Mr. Parsons lost hishead for the moment, and that though his eyes were busily employed heforgot to use his ears; he forgot to note that Lord Hetton's breathing,which was a heavy snore when he entered the room, was now inaudible.
His lordship, who had been sleeping heavily, had not exactly awakened,though had he been addressed at the moment he would probably haveanswered coherently enough; the fact was that he had been sound asleepand dreaming a pleasant dream, and in a state of semi-consciousness hewas trying to recall the delightful vision, but it was gone for ever,and he appealed to his memory in vain. Lying perfectly still on hisback, his lordship half-opened his eyes, and they rested upon the top ofMr. Parsons' head, which exactly intervened between them and an objectthey were accustomed habitually to rest upon, namely, the bright gildedhandle of the Chubbs' safe. But the sleepy eyes closed again, andreopening half mechanically sought the missing handle. Lord Hetton nowopened his eyes widely enough, and almost thoroughly awake stared,without moving his head, in search of the accustomed object. He saw thetop of the safe, but he failed to discern the gay lines of green paintand gilding which decorated the door; then it slowly dawned upon LordHetton's mind that he was no longer dreaming, or even dozing, but thathe was almost wide awake, and that the door of his iron safe was open.And then his lordship became seriously alarmed. Not that he was by anymeans a coward, but it is alarming to awaken from one's tranquilslumbers and to feel that one may have to fight for one's life andproperty against possible unknown odds, and without one's clothes. A manmay feel very brave indeed with his boots on, but take away his clothesand it considerably reduces his courage. As Lord Hetton became graduallythoroughly wide awake, he grew alive to the fact, not only that the safedoor was open, but that (what the Divorce Court calls) "a personunknown" was tampering with its contents. Now perhaps the most prudentthing that Lord Hetton could have done would have been to have gone tosleep again, but it never for one moment occurred to his mind to allowhimself to be robbed with impunity. Thoroughly awake at last, LordHetton could with difficulty contain his rage, and it was only by apowerful exertion of his own will that he did restrain himself fromrushing from his bed and attacking the intruder with his naked fists.But, he reflected, the thief or thieves were probably armed; heremembered too that there was no assistance to be obtained in the houseitself, and that there was no means of arousing the neighbourhood. Andthen Lord Hetton's mind, which was a cool one, came to a determination.Very slowly indeed, and perfectly silently, Lord Hetton graduallystretched out his arm from the bed towards the little table upon whichhis watch had lain; but it was not upon the top of the table that hisextended fingers attempted to grasp the object which they sought, but ona ledge several inches beneath. On that ledge lay a loaded six-chamberrevolver. His lordship's fingers gradually closed upon the butt of theweapon, gradually and noiselessly he raised it, and with his thumb heproceeded to cock it.
There was an ominous click.
His lordship sprang from the bed, pistol in hand.
The man Parsons started to his feet with equal celerity, and the two menstood glaring at each other.
There was an appreciable instance of silence, and each of theadversaries could hear the loud beating of his own heart.
"You infernal villain, if you don't surrender, I'll blow your brainsout," hissed his lordship.
The burglar made no reply, but placed his right hand in his bosom, andin an instant his keen cruel sheath knife was raised high above hishead, and without a word, like an infuriated tiger, he rushed upon thesporting nobleman.
Lord Hetton pulled the trigger, there was a sharp click, that was all.His lordship swore a bitter oath, as it flashed through his mind that inhis excitement of rage and indignation he had forgotten to withdraw thesafety catch.
There was no time to do it now, for the burglar was upon him. Hettonstruck the man furiously in the face with the butt of the pistol, butthe thief succeeded in avoiding the full force of the blow, and used hisknife with murderous dexterity. The pistol dropped from his lordship'sfailing hand, each man had the other by the throat, and the thiefcontinued to mercilessly hack and stab, for he knew that he was fightingfor liberty, and even life. Gradually he forced his victim down upon thefloor, he placed his knee upon his chest, and tightened hi
s cruel gripupon the throat of the fallen man. They still glared at each other andstruggled on in horrid silence, but gradually the convulsive clutch ofLord Hetton's fingers relaxed, the glare of rage and hate disappearedfrom his eyes, and its place was taken by a dull leaden stare. For LordHetton was dead.
But not for several minutes did the burglar relax his grip of the deadman's throat; and then it dawned upon him that he was a murderer, thatin a few short hours justice would be upon his track; and he shudderedwith mingled horror and remorse as he mechanically wiped the blade ofhis knife between his fingers, ere he returned it to its sheath.
The man Parsons had been cool and collected enough before, but now hetrembled, and he hurried out upon the landing with anxiety, to listen ifthere was any movement in the house. The struggle had been fierce, butthere had been no noise. The murderer was considerably reassured, as hemarked the dead silence that reigned in the place, and then he turnedagain towards the door of the fatal bedroom. He hesitated to enter it,for the wretch, though full of brute courage, feared to look again uponthe face of the victim he had done to death. But there was nothing elsefor it; he entered the room in fear and trepidation, he gathered up hisplunder with a shaking hand, and carefully secured it in a Gladstone bagwhich lay in the dressing-room; on it were the initials of the master ofAzalea Lodge. Last of all he thrust the watch and chain of the murderedman into his pocket; then he looked upon the ground and saw with horrorthe marks of his own guilty foot-prints in hideous red blurs upon thegay carpet. He removed his tell-tale felt slippers, and the bag in onehand, the slippers in the other, and holding the end of the bit ofcandle which he had re-lighted high above his head, he regained thehall. He carefully placed the little parcel which he had left upon thehall table in the bag, and stuffing a sheep's skin mat and theblood-stained slippers in as well, he succeeded in deadening thejangling noise made by the plate. He snatched down an Inverness capewhich hung in the hall and flung it over his arm, and on tiptoe hegained the housemaid's pantry in safety; he put on his boots and washedhis blood-stained hands. Then he strode down the garden of Azalea Lodge,carrying in his hand the rope and three-pronged hook by which he hadentered the premises. He scaled several walls with cat-like celerity,and then secreted himself among the shrubs of the front garden of ahouse in a main road of St. John's Wood. From this hiding-place he sawwith satisfaction the infrequent policeman pass on his nocturnal round;then he put on the Inverness cape, which gave him a rather distinguishedappearance, and walked boldly forth, carrying his Gladstone bag. Hehailed the first hansom he met and drove to Charing Cross; there he tookanother cab to Matilda Street. He dismissed the man at the corner, andreached his lair.
Here the man Parsons disappears from our story. Early dawn saw him onboard the Antwerp boat, and he reached the Continent in safety. No doubthe had his reward, in this world or the next.
And so Lord Hetton died, unlamented save by his lonely old father atWalls End Castle and by the woman who firmly believed that the very lastdetermination of his life had been to cast her off as a worn-out garmentand to "wash his hands" of her for ever. Save to these two persons, andto those who had had the misfortune to back Lord Hetton's nomination forthe coming Derby, his death made no difference to anybody. We haveforgotten Reginald Haggard; he, lucky fellow, of course benefited, forit brought him one step nearer to the Pit Town title.
It was after all but a vulgar tragedy, though it made considerable noiseat the time.
When, in the early morning, the housemaid at Azalea Lodge found herpantry door unlocked, she was alarmed; and when she saw that the windowwas open and that one of the protecting iron bars had been wrenchedaside, she very nearly fainted. In her tribulation she hurried to herfellow servants and informed them of her startling discovery. The fourwomen were terribly frightened, and it was only after a considerableamount of persuasion that the cook consented to put on her bonnet and goin search of the police. While she was absent the three other womenfortified themselves in the kitchen and awaited her return in fear andtrembling. Constable Bulger, 130 D, was soon upon the scene; he examinedthe pantry window from the outside, he looked very wisely indeed at thefoot-prints in the soft gravel path, and directed that they shouldremain undisturbed; and then he entered the house and proceeded tointerrogate the servants.
"Anything missing, ladies?" he said.
No, nothing was missing in the basement, and the policeman and thefrightened maids ascended to the hall, where the parlourmaid instantlydetected the absence of the Inverness cape.
"There's more gone than that, miss," said Constable Bulger. "They don'teffect a forcible entry now-a-days for the sake of a coat or two; we'dbetter look in the dining-room."
The parlourmaid flung open the shutters and drew up the blinds, lettingin the bright sunshine. As the girl turned from the window she gave asuccession of eldritch screams and went off into violent hysterics; forshe saw that the doors of the massive sideboard were standing wide openand that the empty plate-basket lay upon the floor. Constable Bulger wasperfectly satisfied in his own mind that the parlourmaid, at all events,had had nothing to do with the burglary which had evidently beencommitted. For portly 130 D prided himself, and perhaps with somejustice, on his intimate knowledge of the ways of women. He knewperfectly well that the dreadful laugh was not simulated, and he wasquite aware of the appropriate remedies.
"Let her lie flat on the floor, ma'am," he said to the cook, "and justyou run for a little water, miss, and be spry," was his command to thefrightened housemaid, who, pale as ashes, was standing in the doorway."Is his lordship at home?" said Bulger. "I'd better see him at once.Just run up and say I am here," added he.
But not one of the women stirred; all three redoubled their assiduitiesto the recovering parlourmaid, but each firmly declined to quit thedining-room, on the ground that "it wasn't a woman's place."
"Just keep your eye on the roadway, one of you," said the constable,"the sergeant'll be passing directly, and if you see him you'd bettercall to him."
And then Constable Bulger undid the button of his truncheon case, notthat he expected to find any one on the premises, but it was as well tobe prepared for the worst, and he then ascended the stairs. One of thebedroom doors was wide open, and a horrid sight met his astonished eyes.
On the floor lay the murdered master of Azalea Lodge. The face lookedlike a waxen mask; the lips were bloodless and of an ashen grey,slightly parted, leaving the regular teeth of the dead man painfullyapparent. The eyes were wide open and had a terror-stricken look; butthe hands were clenched. The dead man lay in a pool of blood, with whichhis white nightdress was stained in many places.
The constable drew his truncheon, looked under the bed and into thedressing-room; a glance at the open safe told him that it had beenrifled. Then, without in the slightest degree disturbing the dead manor his surroundings, the constable left the room, locking the door andplacing the key in his pocket. He made a perfunctory search through therest of the house, though he knew full well that the murderer had fled;and as he descended the stairs and rejoined the frightened women, hissergeant, whom the cook had hailed from the dining-room window, appearedupon the scene.
In a whisper Bulger communicated to him what had taken place; but whilehe was yet speaking shrieks and cries were heard from the dining-room.Both men hurriedly entered it. The parlourmaid, mad with terror, wasstruggling with the other women.
"They have murdered him," she shrieked. "Oh God! they have murderedhim," she reiterated, as she pointed to a great pink stain upon theceiling.
There was no need to break to them the dreadful news now. The girlcontinued to shriek and point at the awful stain for some minutes, andthen went off in a dead faint.
All that morning a little crowd stopped to whisper and point at AzaleaLodge. In vain a special policeman entreated them to move on; theymerely passed over to the other side to point and whisper in mingledexcitement and curiosity. The red-coated newsvendors did a thrivingtrade in the neighbourhood on that day.
"Sp
ecial edition. Frightful murder of a nobleman by burglars. Flight ofthe murderers. Further horrible details." The red-coated men's harvestwas a precarious one, and they made the most of it; they even succeededin selling some of their papers at a shilling a-piece. But thepurchasers were disappointed, for though the newspaper reporters hadswelled their description of what they called "The Tragedy in High Lifein St. John's Wood," into two columns of leaded type, yet nothing morewas to be gained from it all than that the heir to the Pit Town titlehad been brutally murdered by a midnight thief, that the assassin hadescaped with his plunder, and as yet had succeeded in baffling theefforts of the police.
Ere nightfall every police station in the metropolis displayed ahand-bill headed by the startling word "MURDER," in big black letters,and offering a reward for the apprehension of a man wearing an Invernesscape and carrying a Gladstone bag. For days the police stations werebesieged by anxious informers, desirous to give information about menwith Gladstone bags and Inverness capes. Both cabmen came forward, andthe murderer was traced as far as Matilda Street, but here the scentfailed utterly; and though the old lord offered a further and largerreward, and smug-looking men, in slop clothes and billycock hats, hungabout Matilda Street at all hours of the day and night, yet they failedto come upon any trace of Lord Hetton's murderer.
Twelve good men and true, his lordship's butcher, baker and candlestickmaker and nine others of the same kidney, found a verdict of "WilfulMurder;" and two days after the inquest the body of the unhappy noblemanwas conveyed to Walls End Castle and interred with due pomp in thefamily vault. The old lord, Mr. Haggard of the Home Office and ReginaldHaggard, followed it to the grave.
Mr. Haggard had had a rather painful interview with a lady dressed indeep mourning in the dining-room of Azalea Lodge, on the morning of theremoval of his lordship's body. The lady's grief was evidentlyunfeigned. When Mr. Haggard had informed her that the dead man had lefther all he had to give, she was in no way consoled, and merely continuedto sob and wring her hands in the bitterness of her grief.
A fortnight afterwards Azalea Lodge was in the hands of an auctioneer.The first-rate modern furniture, by Gillow, was eagerly inspected by thecurious, and fetched fancy prices. Six months afterwards Lord Hetton'svery existence was forgotten, save by his father and a lady dressed indeep mourning, who gambled with feverish energy at Monte Carlo, vainlystriving, poor thing, in that way to drown the remembrance of the past.
The wicked man's epitaph, as a rule, may be generally appropriatelywritten in the pithy words "He was, and is not." Like a stone droppedinto the water he disappears and leaves no trace.
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BYKELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS, W.C.;AND MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
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Transcriber's note:
Most of the apparent printers' errors have been retained. A few havebeen changed, including the one listed below.
Line 3920 in Chapter X where a comma was inserted in the phrase 'hewould secure the competence he had yearned for, for so many years'.
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