THE FUGITIVE’S RETURN.
Before Miss Lindsay left London she accompanied her late cousin’s ward
to Victoria, and saw her depart for Brighton. The old lady was by no
means sorry that this was the last she was to see of Laura Mowbray.
There had been from the first hour of their meeting a natural antipathy
between the two women. Miss Lindsay’s ruling idea was that of duty,
while Laura’s chief aim in life was to get as much amusement, or,
failing that, as much comfort as possible, out of her existence. They
had put up with each other because they happened to be members of the
same household, and each had too much sense to indulge in quarrelling
or recrimination. Naturally they both felt it to be a relief when the
connection came to an end.
But no sooner were Miss Lindsay and Margaret seated in the carriage
which conveyed them back to Claremont Gardens, than the old lady’s
conscience began to trouble her. It told her that she had done nothing
for the girl who had been for some years in a manner under her care.
She had not tried to wean her from her pleasure-loving, selfish habits.
She had not tried to sympathize with her, or to make life in Mr.
Lindsay’s house, which was often cheerless enough, a whit more pleasant
for her. Beyond lending volumes of sermons and religious memoirs to her
to read on Sundays, she had not tried to influence the motherless girl
for good. Why had she not thought of all this before it was too late?
‘It was with a sigh, therefore, that she turned to Margaret, and said:
‘Poor lassie! I wish she may do weel.’
‘I think few people are better able to take care of themselves than
Miss Mowbray,’ responded Margaret.
‘I think Alec was greatly taken with her some time back,’ said Miss
Lindsay, after a pause.
‘She encouraged both him and that wretch, James Semple,’ said Margaret,
with more vehemence than was usual with her; ‘and I believe she meant
to take the one that turned out to be Uncle James’s heir. She has no
principle. I believe she would marry anyone who was rich enough to
give her all the comforts of life and take her to plenty of balls and
parties.’
‘It doesna become you to speak ill o’ the lassie as soon as her back’s
turned,’ said Miss Lindsay; and to this rebuke Margaret vouchsafed no
reply.
Meanwhile Laura was trying to realize that once more a great change
had come into her life. The comfortable, monotonous life of Mr.
Lindsay’s house was already for her a thing of the past. What the
future had in store for her she had no means of guessing. A cousin of
her mother’s, who had married a Mr. Crosby, had offered her a home, and
she had accepted the offer. Of Mr. Crosby she only knew that he was a
coal merchant, and that he lived at Richmond Villa, Brighton. He might
be a poor man, or he might be well-to-do; though from the fact that
Mrs. Crosby had accepted Laura’s proposal to pay her sixty pounds a
year for her board and lodging, it might be supposed that the Crosbys
were not rich.
‘Whatever they are like,’ said Laura to herself, ‘my life can’t be more
dull with them than it has been for the last three years. And if I
don’t like them, I can always go away again.’
But fate had decreed that in both of these points Laura was to be
disappointed.
The girl’s heart sank within her as the cab stopped at ‘Richmond
Villa,’ which was, in fact, nothing more than a shabby, stucco-fronted
cottage. The crying of a baby reached her ears before she had time
to raise the knocker; and no sooner had she done so than she became
conscious that two dirty children were peering at her from the window
at her left hand.
Mrs. Crosby was a large, flabby, good-natured woman, who seemed
incapable of being injuriously affected by any domestic troubles
whatever. She was always in a muddle, always undecided, always
unpresentable in appearance, and always contented. Her husband, on the
contrary, was a little, sharp-eyed, foxy-haired man with a rasping,
disagreeable voice, and an uncertain temper. Each of them had, without
knowing it, drawn a prize in the lottery of marriage. Either Mr. or
Mrs. Crosby would have driven any other man or woman mad in a week; but
they got on together tolerably well.
‘You are very welcome, Miss Mowbray,’ he said to Laura that evening,
‘if you can put up with the discomfort of this house. I’m used to it,
and I don’t mind; but with you it may be different.’
Laura did not know what to say in answer to this speech; but Mrs.
Crosby remarked with the utmost composure:
‘Law, Mr. Crosby, how can you say so? I’m sure everything’s very
comfortable, though at present a little unsettled. But you must never
mind Mr. Crosby, my dear. All men grumble and find fault; and if you
just let them alone, it never does anyone any harm.’
Life at Richmond Villa was certainly uneventful; but very much to her
own surprise Laura found that it interested her. It was the first time
she had ever formed one of a family circle; and though the children
were by no means attractive, they amused her, and pleased her by coming
to her with their little wants and cares, their joys and sorrows.
And before Laura had been long enough in the house to decide whether
it would not be better to leave it and go and live by herself in a
boarding-house, an event happened which settled the question for her.
The Patent Match-box Company, whose shares she had bought on her
lawyer’s advice at twenty per cent. premium, went into liquidation; and
after a miserable period of anxiety Laura found that only nine hundred
pounds of her money could be saved out of the wreck. She was thankful
to remain with Mrs. Crosby as nursery-governess. It was a hard, dull
life; but the very hardness and dulness of it did the girl good. She
was forced to think of other things than her own amusement and her
own pleasure. Almost insensibly she grew less self-indulgent, more
considerate for others, more simple and straightforward.
One day, about six months after Laura had first come to Brighton, she
was returning home, late in the afternoon, when she was stopped by a
man whom she took for a beggar. As she was searching her pocket for a
copper, he spoke to her.
‘Laura--Miss Mowbray, don’t you know me?’
It was James Semple!
The girl was shocked beyond the power of speech. She stood, exactly
as she had been standing when he spoke her name, and stared at him.
His dress was that of a labourer, except for his coat--an old black
overcoat, torn, and indescribably dirty, which had the effect of making
him look a thousand times more disreputable than he would have been
without it. On his head was a battered felt hat, gray with old age.
His face was thin and unshaven, his eyes hungry and wolfish.
‘Well! you needn’t stare at me like that!’ he exclaimed.
But Laura did not hear him. She had burst into tears. She hardly
could have told why she wept; for certainly the man deserved his evil
fortune. Yet it seemed too horrible that a man whom she had lived with
on terms of familiarity should be reduced to this--to actual squalor
and hunger.
‘You’re sorry for me, I see. You’ve a good heart, Laura. But you won’t
care to be seen speaking to me,’ he added, throwing a furtive glance
around him. ‘There’s a policeman coming up the street. Let’s turn down
here,’ and he led the way into a side-alley. Half reluctantly the girl
followed him.
‘I say, do you know if there’s a warrant out against me?’ he whispered,
stretching his unsightly face nearer to her.
‘No; I think not. I never heard of anything of that kind.’
‘Because I’ve been afraid, you know--horribly afraid. I haven’t been
able to sleep at night. I couldn’t go to prison, Laura. Not for long,
you know. It would kill me.’
‘Where have you been? And how did you know I was here?’
‘I’ve been in Spain. I worked my passage from Lisbon. And I went to the
house in Claremont Gardens one night, after dark, and the old woman
who is keeping the place told me where you had gone. I’ve tramped from
London.’
‘And how have you lived, all this time?’
‘I haven’t lived, I’ve starved. That’s what I’ve done. You never knew
what it was to be hungry, I suppose. How would you like to be hungry,
not for days, but weeks and weeks--and cold too at the same time, and
nowhere to sleep. I couldn’t stand it, so I came back and took my
chance. I say, Laura, can you lend me any money?’
Laura took out her purse. There were two sovereigns in it, besides some
silver. She poured it all into the man’s open palm.
‘I am not rich now,’ she said, with a sad smile; ‘I lost nearly all my
money.’ And she then remembered that it would be two months at least
before her purse could be filled again.
‘Have you?’ said Semple. ‘Are you sure you can spare all this?’ He
picked out one of the sovereigns and held it, as if he intended to
return it.
‘Oh yes, I can spare it; and you want it so much.’
‘Don’t I! But you’re a good sort, Laura, returned Semple; slipping the
sovereign into his pocket with the rest of the money.
‘I’m afraid I must go now,’ said the girl, remembering that it was
just possible that they might be observed.
‘All right. I’ll go back to London. It’s easier to pick up coppers
there than anywhere else.’
‘Why don’t you consult a lawyer?’ asked Laura suddenly.
‘What! Don’t you see, I could be caught and put in prison, for the
conspiracy, if it were nothing else?’
‘Yes; but surely the lawyer might act for you, and get your money for
you, even if you lived abroad.’
‘I thought of that. But what lawyer would look at me, dressed as I am
now? Your two sovereigns will change all that, Laura. I will find a
solicitor to take up the case. There ought to be ten thousand pounds
for my share of the residue.’
‘Far more than that. The Free Church----’
‘Yes. What about the Free Church? They get the half-million, don’t
they?’
‘I believe not. Alec gave up his share to them; and they tried to get
your share from the executors; but the court decided that they could
not prove their case, and had no right to it.’
‘Are you sure?’ cried Semple, almost mad with excitement.
‘I am quite sure. I saw it in the papers about a fortnight ago.’
‘You don’t say so! What luck!’ And with sundry half-articulate cries of
wonder and delight, Mr. James Semple disappeared.
Six weeks afterwards he came back to Brighton. It was on a Sunday
morning that Laura and he met. She had a headache which had prevented
her going to church; and she was enjoying the unwonted repose of the
little sitting-room when the door was opened, and Semple walked into
the room. He was no longer an outcast dressed in rags. Every article
of dress he had on was palpably new; and except for an irrepressible
twitch of the eyelids, he had an air of confidence and display.
‘You see I’ve come back again, Laura,’ he said, as soon as the door
was closed. ‘I didn’t forget you. But it was a risk--a tremendous
risk. Curtin--that’s my solicitor--is careful to impress on me that my
getting the money won’t save me from prosecution. It’s a comfortable
truth for him; for he’s charged me fifty per cent. for the money he
has lent me,----him, because he knew very well I didn’t dare to go to
anyone else for it. But how are you?’
‘I don’t feel very well to-day.’
‘I’m sorry for that. Well, I’ve come a good way to see you. I’m in
France, you know--supposed to be in France; and I ran over last night
and came down here this morning. I want to pay you the little debt I
owe you;’ and he counted out the money as he spoke. ‘We’ve made them
pay up,’ he cried in triumphant tone.
‘Indeed,’ said Laura.
‘Yes. Two hundred and eleven thousand four hundred and nineteen pounds
were paid in to my account at the Bank of England on Friday morning.
What do you think of that?’
‘I’m going to buy a yacht,’ he continued, without waiting for an
answer. ‘One feels more comfortable, safer, in fact, on board ship.’
He ceased talking for a moment, and Laura made no effort to supply the
gap.
‘I say, Laura,’ he exclaimed, ‘did you ever hear of such a fool as that
fellow Alec--throwing away all that money?’
Laura reddened. It was exactly what she had thought herself; but it was
a very different thing to hear it from this man’s mouth.
‘So I’m the heir after all!’ He laughed; he actually laughed as he
spoke. ‘And as soon as I’ve come into my inheritance I’ve come back to
you. I’m not a man to forget old friends or old promises, Laura; and
I’ve come to ask you to let bygones be bygones, and go shares with me
in this good luck. You’ll marry me, Laura, won’t you? And we’ll be so
jolly! Think of how jolly we will be! Eh, Laura?’
‘But I have lost my fortune, Mr. Semple,’ she said, without raising her
eyes.
‘What is that to me?--a flea-bite--a mere flea-bite;’ and Mr. Semple
drummed on the table pleasantly with the tips of his fingers.
‘And you might perhaps find someone who was more attractive, more
accomplished, more worthy to be the wife of a rich man than poor me,’
said the girl, almost humbly.
‘Oh, well; I dare say I might pick almost anywhere now; but we are old
friends, and I have always liked you, Laura, so----’
He stretched out his hand and laid it upon hers.
At the touch she sprang to her feet as if she had been stung.
‘You wretch!’ she cried. ‘You cowardly, cruel monster! How dare you ask
an honest girl to marry you! Do you think I would have accepted you as
you were the other day? As little would I listen to you now!’
He shrank back amazed, angry, insulted--cowering before the girl’s
scorn.
‘You think that because I pitied you and gave you money to save you
from starvation that I forgot what a vile being you are. You helped
to lay a snare for your cousin, who never so much as lifted a finger
against you. You would have seen him sent into penal servitude
innocent, that you might get this money. I never heard of such
baseness. I could not have conceived that anyone could have been so
mean, so cruel!’
‘It wasn’t my idea; I never knew what was going on.’
‘You changed the wills; and you were ready to swear your cousin’s
liberty away, and let him spend his life in prison, while you----And
you think you can come here and ask me to marry you as if you were not
known. What did you take me for? Can you not imagine that a girl would
die a thousand times rather than marry such as you? I think you had
better go.’
Her last words were not needed. Semple hung his head like a slave
caught in a theft, and slunk out of the room.