CLARA FINDS A LODGING
On the morning following that verdict of Wilful Murder, some one was
astir very early at the Chater Arms; some one dressed hurriedly, while
the dawn was yet breaking; some one crept softly down the
stairs—pausing for a moment at one door, and seeming to catch her
breath in a sob—and so went cautiously out of the house.
It was Clara Siggs. But not the Clara Siggs of old; not the bright-eyed
impudent little beauty, ready for a dozen coquetries—willing to
exchange smiling glances with any good-looking lad who passed her.
Quite another person was the Clara Siggs who went swiftly down the
village street this morning, with a resolute purpose in her black eyes;
so much had one night changed her.
She hurried on, for a time, resolutely enough, until she was almost
clear of the village. The houses were closed; in one window which she
passed, a faint light—burning perhaps in some sick-chamber—seemed to
bid scant defiance to the coming day, and crave that the night might be
longer. But there was no sign of life anywhere else; the village might
have been a place of the dead, for all the life there was about it.
At a certain point on the road, her steady resolution seemed to falter;
she hesitated—walked more slowly—and finally stopped altogether; as
though working out something in her mind, she made little circles in
the dust with one foot, while she stood, looking frowningly at the
ground, and biting her red lips. At last the difficulty—whatever it
was—seemed to have solved itself; she turned from the road, and struck
off by a side path in the direction of the house known as The Cottage.
What instinct had guided her there, it would be impossible to say; but
the object of her search, early as the hour was, was in the
garden—sitting on a rustic seat, out of the view of the windows of the
house, and with her face hidden on her hands. Hearing the light sweep
of the girl’s dress on the grass, she rose hurriedly and disclosed the
figure of Madge Barnshaw.
For a moment, the two faced each other in silence—the one, vexed and
ashamed at being discovered in such an attitude; the other, with
something of defiance about her, mixed with a desperate and growing
anxiety. In some indefinable fashion, each seemed to know the subject
of the other’s thoughts, and to be jealous of those thoughts, each in a
different way.
But the one woman would have died sooner than acknowledge any emotion
or sorrow to the other; the other was proud of her emotion—openly
flaunted it, as it were; and would have been glad to think that one
man’s name was branded upon her forehead almost, that all might read
her secret.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Madge, rising to her feet, and
confronting the other.
“Dear Heaven!” cried Clara, in a sort of harsh whisper—“can you stand
there, and look at me and ask that? Can you know that a man is as good
as dying—dying by inches, with every moment that we live—and ask me
that?”
“I—I don’t understand,” said Madge, in a low voice. “More than all, I
cannot see why you are troubling yourself about——”
Clara Siggs had turned away impatiently; she flung round now, and came
at the other woman with her hands held clenched close to her sides, and
her teeth close clenched also. “You don’t understand! You cannot see
why I should be troubling about him! I am an inn-keeper’s
daughter—only a common girl, at the least; you are a great lady. They
say you were to marry him; will you cast him away now, when he lies in
prison, in shame and misery—and with Death drawing nearer every day?
Is your love for him so great, that it is something to be changed by
what men say of him?”
Some curious shame—some strange stirring of admiration for this wild
untutored child—crept over Madge Barnshaw. She saw, in this girl,
something stronger and more purposeful than herself—the wild and
desperate courage which might over-ride all obstacles—which might snap
fingers at Death itself, for the sake of one man’s life. She went
nearer to the girl, and held out her hands to her.
“Tell me—help me!” she whispered—“show me what I should do!”
With that direct appeal, all poor Clara’s heroism went to the winds;
she could only cover her face with her hands, and weep, and shake her
head, and declare how helpless she was. She could have met defiance
with defiance—pride with pride; but the sudden tenderness of the other
woman was too much for her, and broke down at once whatever barrier she
had determined to build up between them.
“Indeed—I don’t know—I can’t think. I want to help him, if I can; I
want to be near him—oh—you needn’t think,” added Clara,
tearfully—“that I am anything to him; I might have thought so
once—but I know better now. This trouble has cleared my mind somehow,
so that I can see things as they are. If he has been—kind—and
nice—to me—it’s only as he might be to any one whose face pleased
him”—Clara tossed her head a little, despite her tears, and seemed to
suggest that she knew the value of her own charms. “With
you—well—it’s different.”
Madge Barnshaw thought bitterly that it might not be so very different,
after all; thought of the murdered girl, and bitterly blamed herself
because she could not stand aside before all the world, and believe him
innocent.
Something of this must have been in the mind of the other girl; looking
at Madge steadily, she asked, with some sternness—“You don’t believe
he did that horrible thing—do you?”
Madge Barnshaw covered her face with her hands, and shuddered. “I don’t
know—I don’t know what to think,” she said, in a whisper.
Clara turned swiftly, and began to walk away. She had almost reached
the garden gate, when Madge, springing after her, caught her by the arm.
“You’re right—and I am a coward, and unworthy of his or any one else’s
love and confidence. I will believe in him—in his innocence. You make
me believe. Tell me—what are you going to do?”
“I am going to Chelmsford,” replied Clara, simply. “I want to be near
him—I want to feel that I know all that is happening. For me—it will
not matter; no one will take any notice of me. I can go where you could
not.”
“But what will you do at Chelmsford? How will you live?” asked Madge.
Clara smiled bravely, and threw up her head a little higher. “I have a
little money—no, thank you”—as the other made a gesture, as if to
reach her purse—“I have more than I need—and I shall take a lodging
near—near the prison. I came here, because I wanted to know—to
know”—she hesitated, and her voice trailed off, and died away.
“Wanted to know—what?”
“To know if there was any—any message you would wish to send to him,”
replied Clara at last, very stiffly, and with a face of scarlet. “I
thought maybe that if I could carry—carry some message from you—you,
who have the right to send one—it might cheer him, and lead him to
think better of the world, when every one is against him. He may
not—how should he?—may not think or care anything for what I may
say—but you——”
Madge Barnshaw moved forward quickly, and took the girl in her arms.
“What angel of God has put such a thought in your heart?” she
whispered. “I shall bless you all my life for coming to me like
this—for teaching me, out of your own simple faith and loyalty, some
faith and loyalty too. Will you promise to write to me, directly you
are settled in your new lodging? Will you promise to write often to
me—to claim from me anything you may want?”
After a little further hesitation, Clara Siggs promised that she would
communicate with her new friend frequently. And then Madge, with her
arms still about the girl, whispered her message.
“Tell him—if you will,” she said—“that I love him, and believe in his
innocence—that I will believe in that—and in him—until he tells me,
with his own lips, that he is guilty!”
Clara promised that the message should be delivered; and, with a
parting embrace the two separated—Clara to set forth on her journey;
Madge to pace the garden wearily, and, now that she was alone again,
with a growing despair.
Having only some five miles to traverse, before coming into the
picturesque old town of Chelmsford, Clara Siggs first trod its streets
just as the shops were beginning to set forth their wares for the day,
and its pavements to echo with the fall of busy feet. Rendered timid by
the size of the place, and fearful of attracting attention, she did not
care to ask her way to the jail, but wandered about, until the frowning
walls of the building looked down upon her. Various notices were posted
on a door, setting forth the date of the next assizes, together with
other information—only part of which she grasped, in her anxiety, and
in the many tumultuous thoughts which stirred her, at the remembrance
of how near she was to the place where the man of whom she had come in
search lay.
She resolved, for her own comfort and satisfaction, to get a lodging as
near to the prison as possible; and, after some little search, came to
a decent house in a by-street, in the lower window of which a card
announced that a room was to be let. Her hesitating knock at the door
was answered promptly, by a tall, thin, angular-looking woman, with
very red hair, and a very business-like aspect. She appeared to possess
a kindly nature, however, despite her grim appearance; and civilly
invited Clara to inspect the room advertised.
“If I wasn’t a person as ’as bin put upon by ’er ’usband,” she
ejaculated, darting a scornful glance in the direction of a door past
which they walked—“I wouldn’t never demean myself by a takin’ a
lodger. But ’avin’ a man as give me ’is name, an’ precious little
else—an’ whose delight it ’as bin to flaunt it on the main, so to
speak—an’ who now ’as ’is mind runnin’ constant on circuses, an’ fat
women—(w’ich is nothink else but a throwin’ of my figger in my
face)—I should be in a better position than I now am, Miss. But Peter
Quist won’t deceive _me_ with ’is circuses—the low Turk—an’ so I
tells ’im.”
They had, by this time, reached the room—a pleasant and airy place,
and very simply furnished. Clara would probably have decided to take
it, whatever terms might have been asked, when she saw that its one
small window looked right on to the prison; but, as a matter of fact,
the rent proved to be very small, and the woman, being pleased with the
bright face of the girl, asked for no reference.
Perhaps from the fact that she felt most desperately lonely and
friendless, in that strange place, Clara determined that she would tell
the landlady frankly what her mission was, and ask her advice.
Accordingly, with many tears, she told the woman that she had come to
Chelmsford, in the hope of seeing or befriending a prisoner—a friend
of hers, then awaiting his trial. The woman proved to be genuinely
sympathetic, and, after a little cogitation, decided to consult her
husband about the matter.
“Mind you,” she said, in a voice of caution—“I’m not sayin’ but wot
Quist is a bit of a fool; salt water do ’ave that effect on the best o’
men; it seems to soak through, some’ow and make ’em soft. But ’e’s got
a ’eart, ’as Quist—an’ now an’ then, ’e knows wot ’e’s about. It ain’t
often—but we may ’appen to catch ’im at a lucky time.”
Clara, willingly consenting to consult this oracle, and inwardly
praying that he might have his full wits about him, they adjourned
downstairs in search of him. He proved to be an exceedingly amiable
looking man, with a heavy fringe of whiskers all round a jolly red face.
The circumstances having been briefly explained by his wife, the
man—no other than our old friend Captain Peter Quist—poured himself
out, from a stone bottle, what he termed “a toothful”—and proceeded to
give the matter weighty consideration.
“You see, my lass,” he said—“w’en the Law ’as once got a ’old on a
man, an’ clapped ’im under ’atches, as it were—that man ’as got to go
through with it, right up to the end. Might I venture for to ask wot
your friend is put in irons for?”
“Indeed—he is quite innocent,” exclaimed Clara. “But he has been sent
to take his trial—oh—I beg that you will not think the worse of him
for that—for murder.”
The Captain whistled softly, and raised his eyebrows. “An’ wot might be
the name of this innocent gent?” he asked, after a pause.
“Mr. Chater,” replied Clara, in a low voice.
Peter Quist upset his toothful, and nearly overturned Mrs. Quist also,
in his excitement; he sprang up, and backed away into a corner of the
room. For some moments he stood there, making curious motions with his
hands, as though warding off an attack, and looking at Clara uneasily.
“Say it agin,” he said at last, in a hoarse whisper. “Wot was the name?”
Clara repeated it; and the Captain gradually came out of his corner,
and approached her slowly. “Look ’ere, my lass,” he said; “I’ve ’ad a
shock over that there name—an’ I’m a bit upset with it. A friend o’
mine sailed under that name—an’ it proved too much for ’im—or summink
did. Leastways—’e’s dead. So I don’t want nuffink more to do with no
Chaters; I’d sooner ’elp a Smith or Jones than a Chater.”
Gradually, however, the Captain’s uneasiness wore away; he began to
take a lively interest in the girl, and in her story; and went out,
that very afternoon, to ascertain if it were possible for her to visit
the prisoner, and at what hours.
He returned, with the gratifying intelligence that she might go to the
prison on the next morning; and poor Clara slept happily enough that
night, with that blessed prospect before her. The Captain, too, was in
better spirits than he had been for some time past—a letter having
reached him through the post, which seemed to promise a definite
solution of his difficulties, in regard to finding a circus at last.
The only drawback to it seemed to be, that there were no fat ladies
attached to it—although, perhaps, in view of Mrs. Quist, this was not
altogether a subject for sorrow.
It was with a trembling heart that Clara presented herself next day at
the door which the Captain pointed out to her. But everyone with whom
she came in contact seemed willing to help her—even anxious to be of
service; and she was passed on, from one to the other, until at last
she was directed to the room where he was actually waiting.
“You’d better wait a minute, Miss,” said a warder—“there’s someone
with him.”
The door opened at the same moment, and a brisk-looking young gentleman
came out, thrusting some papers in his pocket as he did so. Seeing a
young girl drawn up timidly against the wall, he stopped—hesitated a
moment—and then turned towards her.
“You’re young for such a place as this, girl,” he said, sharply but
kindly. “Are you going to see Chater?”
“Yes, sir.” She was scarcely able to speak for nervousness.
The young man came nearer, and whispered exultantly, “Splendid
case—they’re proud of it even here. And I think we shall pull him out
of it—I do, indeed.”
“Oh—I am so glad to hear you say so, sir,” said the girl, gratefully.
“Yes—I think he’s all right; I shall try everything. The only
difficulty is that he’s so close about it that I can get nothing out of
him. But—won’t he make a lovely prisoner; we shan’t be able to get
into Court for the petticoats!”
The young man walked briskly away, and Clara passed into the room. The
warder who had brought her to the door, and who had stood aside, while
the young barrister spoke, opened the door, and followed her in.
Another warder, who had been lounging near a high barred window,
glanced at her for a moment; and then she felt her hands grasped by
those of Philip Chater.
“My child! How do you come to be here? Are you alone?”
Hurriedly and tearfully, she explained all that had happened; how she
had left a note at home, telling them that she was safe, and with
friends—and would write more fully at a later time; how she had seen
Miss Barnshaw, and how she had a message for him. And, loyal and brave
as she had been through everything, her heart seemed to sink deeper and
deeper, as she saw the brightness on his face, when he heard what that
message was.
The warders, seeing in these two, as they imagined, a pair of
sweethearts, took but little notice of them, beyond keeping a sharp eye
upon them. In reply to Philip’s eager questions, Clara told him of the
lodging she had taken, and mentioned the name of her landlady—and of
the Captain, husband of that landlady.
“There is a Providence in this,” whispered Philip, eagerly. He appeared
to be deep in thought for a moment, and then turned swiftly to the
girl. “I know this man Quist—a good and honest man, with whom you are
safe. Say nothing to him about me, or about my knowledge of him. Now,
don’t start or cry out—come closer to me, and listen to what I say. I
shall be out of this—I _must_—within a few hours. My defence—my
life—everything depends on that—and on myself. There is some one I
must find; to stay here means death—within a given time.”
“Time’s up!” exclaimed one warder, shaking his keys.
“An instant I beg.” He turned again to the girl. “If you could loiter
near the prison—at the back of it, so far as I can discover,—each
night—can you?”
There was no time for anything more; the girl nodded quickly, and was
hurried away. But she went home to her lodging with a heart beating
more heavily even than before.