THE DAY AFTER.
When Mr. Simnel woke on the morning succeeding the night of Kate
Mellon's death, he felt a numbness in his limbs, a burning, throbbing
pain in his head, and a general sensation of prostration. He made an
attempt at getting up, thinking he would string himself into vigour
with his cold bath; but he found his head whirling--his legs shaking;
and, after a severe shivering fit, he was fain to forego the attempt,
and to get into bed again. Then he rang his bell, and told his servant
to ask Dr. Prater to step round at once, and then to go on to Mr.
Scadgers, whom he was to bring back with him. The servant despatched,
Mr. Simnel lay back in bed, and endeavoured to give himself up to
reflection. But the events of the last twenty-four hours had been far
too exciting for that; still lay stretched before his eyes the crushed
and mangled figure of his loved one; still her last broken words rung
upon his ears.
"'Dearest, kindest Robert!' she called me that--my darling called me
that with her last breath. 'Dearest kindest Robert!'--the last words!
never to see her any more--never to hear her voice again! All over
now; all--No, not all; one thing to be done, and done at once
--a settlement with Charles Beresford!"
Simnel smiled very grimly as this idea came into his mind. It was not
the first time that the idea had occurred to him. As, bit by bit, he
gleaned poor Kitty's incoherent story, as he knelt by her bed, he had
rapidly framed his course of action, and indeed carried it out in his
mind. He saw himself thrashing Beresford in the streets--saw the row
that would take place thereon consequent, the desperate confusion at
the Tin-Tax Office; and, through the perspective, had a distant vision
of a long stretch of sand on the Calais coast--he and Beresford
fronting each other as principals, a couple of soldiers from the
neighbouring _caserne_ as seconds, and an army medical man looking on.
He knew that Beresford was a man of courage; but he thought that he
would probably refuse to fight in such an affair as this; therefore
Simnel determined that no option should be given. He would not have a
friend of his wait on Beresford with a challenge. He (Simnel) would
pick a quarrel with him on some frivolous pretext, and insult him in
the street. That was what he had made up his mind to do, and that was
what he had intended to do that very day, if his sudden indisposition
had not prevented him.
Little Dr. Prater found his patient very restless and tolerably
impatient. "Well, my dear sir, and how are we? Glad I was at home, and
able to come round at once. A fortunate chance to catch me, for there
is a _great_ deal of sickness just now amongst the upper classes. The
tongue? Thank you. The pulse? Ah; dear me, dear me! as I feared--a
galloping pulse, my dear sir, and a high state of fever! Have you
now--have you had any cause for excitement?"
"Yes," said Simnel, shortly; "I was last night at the deathbed of one
very dear to me."
"To be sure, my dear sir; how came I to forget it!--Miss Kate
Mellon's. Oh, my dear sir, of course I heard of it,--I hear every
thing,--at least, I heard of her being very ill--impossible to live.
Slade attended, didn't he? Ah, couldn't have a better man. One of the
rough diamonds of our profession, my dear sir; not polished, but--all
here!" and the little doctor laid his forefinger on his forehead. "And
so she's gone, poor young lady! Well, well! Now, my dear sir, it's my
duty to prescribe for you the utmost quietude. The least bit of
excitement may be highly prejudicial; in fact, I would not answer for
the consequences."
"When shall I be able to go out?" asked Simnel impatiently.
"Go out, my dear sir! Not for several days--perhaps longer. I will
send in a nurse to look after you; for you must be carefully watched,
and have your medicines at stated times; and I'll look in this
evening. Mind, my dear sir, perfect quiet."
After letting out the doctor, the servant returned to his master.
"Mr. Scadgers is here, sir," said he.
"Then show him in," said Simnel, from the bed. "Beg your pardon, sir;
but the doctor's last words to me was that you was to see nobody but
the nuss."
"Are you the doctor's servant, or mine, sir? Show him in!" and in Mr.
Scadgers was shown.
"Hallo, sir!" said that worthy, regarding Mr. Simnel; "this is bad
news to find you ill."
"There's worse than that, Scadgers; a good deal worse; as you'll hear.
Your niece,--Kate Mellon, you know,--about whom we've had all the talk
lately--"
"Ay, I know; at the Runner's--I know--well?"
"Dead."
"Dead!" repeated Scadgers, with a blanched face--"dead! how? when?"
"Last night; thrown from her horse; had some row with a man named
Beresford in the Park; horse was frightened; bolted, and fell with
her. It was this cursed Beresford's fault, and--"
"What Beresford is it?"
"Charles Beresford of my office,--Commissioner, you know. I'll make
him remember that day's work; I'll post him at his club; I'll
horsewhip him in the street; I'll--I'd have done it to-day, but for
this--this cold."
"Charles Beresford, eh? And it's him that killed my niece, is it?
Horsewhip him, eh? you won't be able to leave your room yet; it's more
than a cold you've got, if I may judge by the look of your face and
the hot feel of your hands. Charles Beresford, eh? Ay, ay! ay, ay!"
"I'm afraid you're right, Scadgers," said Simnel. "I begin to feel
deuced bad, much worse than when I woke. And to be lying here while
that scoundrel will be getting safe away--out of my reach!"
"What do you mean, getting away?"
"Why, he's off to the Continent! I myself recommended him to go there,
to lie quiet until his difficulties blew over; and he'll be off at
once,--to-night or to-morrow."
"Will he, by Jove! no, no! don't you flurry yourself, sir. I'll put a
stopper on that. Charles Beresford shall be here whenever you want
him, I'll take my oath. Excuse me now; look in and see you to-morrow."
And despite Mr. Simnel's calling to him, Mr. Scadgers rushed off at
the top of his speed.
Mr. Scadgers, albeit of a stout figure, and ill-adapted for exercise,
never ceased running until he ran into his own office in Berners
Street, when he sat himself down and fairly panted for breath. When he
had recovered a little, he called to him the wondering Jinks, and
said, "How does Beresford--Charles Beresford--stand with us?"
The little man thought for a minute, and then said, "About a
hundred-and-thirty-seven on renewal; due the fifteenth next month."
"What's his figure with Parkinson?"
"Between eight and nine hundred; dessay more'an a thousand--renewals,
judges' orders, all sorts of things in that lot. Parkinson's clerk was
here yesterday, talking about it amongst other things."
"Very good. Now look here, Jinks; you jump into a cab, and bowl away
to Parkinson's as hard as you can split. Tell him the game's up; that
I've just learnt Master Beresford's going to hook it abroad. Let
Parkinson, or his chief clerk, ran down and swear this before the
judge in chambers,--affidavy, you know,--and then let him instruct
Sloman's people to collar Master Beresford at once."
"You want this done?"
"Most certainly I do; and rely on you to have it done at once. Look
here, Jinks, you know me: Beresford must be quodded to-night!"
"All right; look upon it as settled."
"And more than that: learn, if you can, who holds his paper besides
Parkinson, and to what amount; and bring me a list. Tell Parkinson
that I've a feeling in this beyond mere business, and he'll
understand. And bring me the list of the others."
Mr. Jinks nodded acquiescence and departed. As he went out of the
door, Mr. Scadgers rubbed his grimy hands together, and muttered,
"Better than all your horsewhippings and shootings. Master Beresford's
broke up root and branch,--stock, lock, and barrel. I'll never leave
him now until I've crushed him out. Insult my poor niece, did he?
better have put his head in the fire at once!"
That afternoon, as Mr. Beresford walked jauntily from the Tin-Tax
Office, he was arrested on the _ne-exeat-regno_ affidavit of William
Parkinson, gentleman, attorney-at-law, and conveyed to the mansion of
Mr. Sloman in Cursitor Street, at which pleasant house detainers to
the amount of nearly five thousand pounds were lodged in the course of
the following day.
Mr. Scadgers, going to communicate his cheering intelligence to Mr.
Simnel, found the portion of Piccadilly opposite that gentleman's door
thickly strewn with tan, and asking Dr. Prater, whom he met on the
threshold, for news of his patient, was informed that Mr. Simnel had a
severe attack of brain-fever, and that at that moment the doctor would
not answer for the result.
According to appointment, Frank Churchill presented himself at Mr.
Russell's offices in Lincoln's Inn; Mr. Russell, whose firm had been
solicitors to the Wentworths from time immemorial, and who himself had
enjoyed all the confidence of the late baronet. The old gentleman,
clad in his never-varying rusty black, and still as desirous as ever
to hide his hands under his coat-sleeves, received Frank in his usual
icy manner, and bade him sit down. "I have here," said he, "a letter
for you from the late Sir Marmaduke Wentworth, with the contents of
which I am not acquainted; but which refers, I believe, to the will, a
copy of which I also have here. Be good enough to read it, and see
whether you require any information."
Frank broke the seal, and read the following, written in a trembling
hand:
"_Pau, Pyrenees, October_.
"My Dear Professor,
"Two lines, to tell you two things: I'm dying--that's one; I've always
honoured and respected, and recently I've liked, you--that's the
other. They tell me you're a deuced-clever fellow--which is nothing to
me. I've proved you to be a gentleman--which is every thing. I wish
you were my son and my heir; but I can't make you either. I haven't
got any son, and my heir is my nephew--I've no doubt a very
respectable fellow; a parson, who collects sea-anemones and other
fifths, in dirty water and a glass-bowl--a harmless fellow enough, but
not in my line. All I've been able to do is to leave you five thousand
pounds, which Russell, or some of them, will see that you're paid.
Don't be squeamish about taking it. I owe it you. I never gave you a
mug when you were christened. My love to your dear wife. God bless
you!
"Marmaduke Wentworth."
When he had finished the reading of this characteristic epistle, he
told Mr. Russell of its purport; and heard from the old gentleman that
the legacy named therein had been provided for by the will. Then Frank
returned to Saxe-Coburg Square, and settled with Mrs. Schröder and
Barbara that they should at once leave for Brighton, whither, after
poor Kitty's funeral, he would follow them.