IN THE FIRELIGHT.
Earl Verner returned from London by the evening mail, after having put
the law into active operation on Lionel’s behalf. When he came bustling
into the coziest of cozy drawing-rooms, having rushed in before anybody
had time to go out and meet him in the hall, he was most agreeably
surprised by a singularly happy-looking family party.
Lionel Hammerton, in the easiest of easy chairs (the hero of the
evening, the especial delight of all beholders just then), was sitting
near Mrs. Arthur Phillips, on one side of the fire. On the other sat
the Countess, looking almost herself again, and close by her side was
the artist. Before the fire, sitting in a rather constrained manner,
was a stranger--a mild-looking, inoffensive gentleman, with brown
curly whiskers and expressive grey eyes. This latter person was Mr.
Bales, whom Lionel had brought with him from Brazencrook, in order that
he might relate the singular story of his capture to the Earl. His
lordship being away, the Countess had insisted upon Mr. Bales coming
into the drawing-room and telling her all about it.
And so they had sat in the firelight, this happy grateful group of
friends, listening to the detective’s story. It was one of those first
chilly autumn nights with falling rain, when the farmer begins to have
fears for the wheat which should have been carried the week before;
one of those nights when the shortening of the days begins to be more
particularly apparent, and when you feel that winter is really not far
off, and the sooner it comes the better. So the curtains were drawn
over the windows, and the great dogs in the fireplace were weighted
with a glowing pile of wood. The firelight fairly contested supremacy
of effect with the numerous wax candles, sending flickers of light
into the furthest corners, and reflecting its radiance in the mirrors
on the opposite side of the room. Mrs. Arthur Phillips, with her wealth
of wavy hair, her deep blue eyes, and those half-parted lips,--a round,
rosy dimpled beauty,--(Dicksee’s Miranda arrived at the full beauty of
womanhood),--looked like some painter’s dream of perfect loveliness in
this softened light of evening. There was just a shade of melancholy
now and then upon her fair hopeful features; but her newly-awakened
joy at Hammerton’s escape, chased the shadow away almost before there
was time to note it. The Countess looked considerably older than
Phœbe; there was an air of matronly and aristocratic dignity in Amy’s
manner which was entirely foreign to that of Phœbe. The anxiety which
Amy had undergone had left its traces upon her; and for the last few
days she had suffered a world of agony and remorse, which she could
never explain to anybody. She had endured the cruellest tortures on
Hammerton’s account. She could not have borne up against her fears and
sorrows much longer; but for Hammerton’s timely release the Earl would
have known everything, and from her own lips.
Never had she prayed so fervently for guidance and succour and mercy as
she had done during these few days of her severest mental agony; and it
seemed to her as if her petitions had been specially answered in this
most unlooked-for and marvellous release of Lionel Hammerton,--not only
from custody, but from suspicion. And _he_, how grateful he was on her
account; and he had felt a bitter pang of self-condemnation when he
thought how deeply he had wronged her in his foul and absurd suspicion.
It seemed to him as if Fortune had willed it that he should be unjust
to this woman; as if Fate had put a finger upon his love to blight his
dearest hopes. This woman, whom he had loved and lost through neglect
and suspicion; this woman, the memory of whose love he had vowed to
treasure up as a sweet dream of the past,--again had Fate stepped in
and cast down the idol.
And so they sat there in the evening whilst Mr. Bales related to
them the story which we have already told in the previous chapters,
and they all pitied poor Dibble. When “Thomas” was in his cell, he
insisted upon telling Mr. Bales how he came to commit so great a crime.
The reproaches of his wife had rung in his ears night and day. It had
seemed as if the devil had told him to touch that roll of notes; and
when he felt his hand upon the money, he could not help taking it.
Crying like a child, and sitting on the edge of the little prison
bedstead, Dibble said he had never known before what that beautiful
prayer meant, in which we asked our Father to lead us not into
temptation.
Whereupon the Countess told Earl Verner what she knew of Mrs. Dibble,
and hoped that something might be done for both of them.
Mr. Bales said Mrs. Dibble’s money had been all lost in one way or
another during the panic, and this had led to all their misfortunes.
“Have you written to her, Mr. Bales?” the Countess asked.
“I have not, your ladyship. The prisoner was most anxious that I
should not do so: it would kill her, he said.”
“What can we do, my lord, for these poor people?” asked the Countess,
earnestly. “Is there no means of obtaining the man’s release?”
“I fear not,” said the Earl. “Who is the prosecutor, Mr. Bales?”
“The bank, I think, your lordship. It is a question whether the
money belonged to the bank or to Mr. Flooks. The bank repudiated all
responsibility at the outset.”
“Oh, but surely they could be induced to withdraw from the affair, or
make it up in some way, seeing that the money is restored?” said the
Countess.
“There is a serious offence, my love, called compounding a felony,
which might be an obstruction to your wishes,” said his lordship. “My
friend, Lord Tufton, is chairman of Quarter Sessions, I must talk to
him upon the subject to-morrow; he can advise us best.”
“Meanwhile, however, we can do something for this woman Dibble. She
was very kind to Lieutenant Somerton,” said the Countess; “we must take
care of her.”
“I go to town in the morning,” said Bales. “I shall be happy to be your
messenger to her.”
“By what train, Mr. Bales, do you leave?” her ladyship asked.
“At ten o’clock, your ladyship.”
“That means half-past nine from Montem?”
“It does, my lady,” said Bales.
“I will see you before you go, if you please, at nine in the morning,”
said the Countess.
“So early!” exclaimed the Earl.
The Countess smiled and nodded assent.
“One cannot rise too early to help a poor creature in trouble, Mr.
Phillips,” said the Countess, aside; adding, “and now, Phœbe, I think
we may retire.”
Phœbe took her ladyship’s proffered arm; Lionel Hammerton opened the
door, and the two women went up-stairs to sit and talk of the past and
the present, and the time to come; to have one of those long confiding
gossips which are so charming to newly-married friends. But there
was a gloomy shadow now and then which seemed to lay an icy finger
upon their warm and tender words--the shadow of the dead man, Amy’s
half-brother--who lay in that darkened room above.
The gentlemen, when they were alone, adjourned, upon Earl Verner’s
invitation, to the billiard-room, not for the purpose of playing at the
fascinating game of billiards, but to smoke and talk and drink spirits
and hot water before they went to bed.
Lord Verner had heard in town that if Tallant had lived two more days,
he would only have lived to be a disgraced and ruined man. His shares
in the Meter Works had been sent into the market and sold, a heap of
bills had been dishonoured, and he was involved to the last degree.
“I have a shrewd guess that he came down here to see if he could get
money from his sister; knowing her generous disposition, I do not doubt
that he came here as a forlorn hope. My solicitor said the opinion in
town was that he had committed suicide.”
“I am anxious to see his servants,” said Mr. Bales. “I think his butler
will be able to give some strong testimony against this man Gibbs.”
Then, upon a remark from Lionel, they discussed the career of
this miserable wretch. Lionel did not hesitate to relate the full
particulars of that scene at the Ashford Club, which our readers will
remember.
The detective thereupon added some other curious details of the
downward career of Gibbs, carefully guarding himself in respect to
Richard Tallant’s connection with some of the transactions which he
narrated. If his lordship had not been “a sort of relation” of the dead
man, he would have made his stories more piquant with the introduction
of some of the financier’s schemes.
There was quite a cloud of smoke amongst the beautiful carved leather
work of the billiard-room ceiling, before the Earl and his friends
thought it necessary to adjourn. Their closing conversation turned upon
the great success of Arthur Phillips as an artist; and Earl Verner
complimented him more particularly upon his taste in selecting a wife.
Arthur deftly changed the subject, and Lionel readily caught at the
opportunity to urge his brother to take no steps against that silly
policeman at Brazencrook; but Earl Verner would make no promise at all
about it.
“We will talk of that to-morrow,” he said.
They sat for an hour over the fire, Lionel, Arthur, and Mr. Bales,
after his lordship had gone to bed; Mr. Bales telling the two gentlemen
all he knew about Paul Somerton. Lionel said he wished the young
fellow had gone to India; he would like to make his acquaintance and
apologise to him for a little act of discourtesy which lay heavily on
his mind. It appeared from what the detective said, that Williamson had
the credit at his club of having eloped with another man’s wife, and
his oldest friends were his severest critics. It was quite a joke at
the club, Williamson’s philanthropy, now: some of the fellows put the
affair down to constitutional weakness. He had done something of the
sort, they said, when he was a very young fellow. That he was a fool
was the worst thing they said of him nevertheless, and some of them
pitied him, wondered at his silly infatuation, and was glad to hear
that the husband had made no objection to his wife’s fresh choice. But
they missed the barrister’s quiet benevolent face; some of them would
miss the sovereigns that he lent so readily; and the motion of the
clerical gentleman who called himself a professor of Hebrew mythology,
that his name be expunged from the list of members of the club, was
negatived unanimously.
Lionel could have sat all night listening to Bales telling these
stories of Paul and Williamson, Tallant and Dibble, and so could Arthur
Phillips, had that pretty wife of his not been waiting for him.
“Ah, I see you want to be off,” said Lionel at length: “good-night,
old boy. Bales and I have no magnetic attraction to induce us to lay
down our cigars. Ah, well, never mind, Bales, we can’t all expect to be
Arthur Phillipses. Good-night, dear old boy. Bales and I will smoke
just one more cigar.”
But old Morris, who would persist in sitting up until the Captain was
ready to retire, looked at his watch and found that it was four o’clock
by the time he had put the gas out and gone to bed,--shuddering with
superstitious fear as he passed the room where the body of Richard
Tallant was lying.