A FRIEND IN NEED.
Rose Lancaster had never looked prettier than that Sunday night, as she
tripped into church, a soft ruffle of fur setting off the delicate fair
face, a large velvet hat resting on the golden hair. Dixon, with a
proud air of possession, walked in behind her, and, seating himself at
her side, proved his proprietorship by producing her Prayer-book from
his pocket, and finding all her places for her throughout the service.
When Rose dared to lift her head and look about her, she gave a sigh of
relief to see that Tom was not present.
"I dare say he thought I should like it best if he stayed away," she
thought. She was thankful that the question of her marriage was
decided and well decided.
The moon had risen when the service ended. There was a group of people
collected outside the church-gate discussing the village gossip before
they dispersed to their several homes.
Dixon pulled Rose's arm through his own, and, not allowing her to
linger for a moment, led her off. They did not either of them notice
that a man with a hat well pulled over his eyes followed them at some
little distance; and not until the village was left behind, and the
pair had turned into the road, which, with many a wind, led up to the
Court, did he attempt to lessen the space which separated them. Then,
as unconsciously Rose and Dixon walked more slowly, Tom quickened his
steps, and was alongside of them before they realized his presence. He
pushed back his hat; and Rose broke into a smothered cry of alarm as
the moonlight fell upon the haggard face and wild eyes of her rejected
lover, and she clung the tighter to Dixon's arm.
Tom's laugh was not pleasant to listen to. "You asked for my company,
Rose, but you don't seem best pleased now I've come," he said; "but,
pleased or not, I'll walk with you to-night, and say a thing or two
it's right for you to hear before we part company for good."
"I wrote to you," stammered Rose. "I sent it by a special messenger on
Saturday night to tell you that, after thinking things over,
I'd--I'd----"
"She made up her mind that I should be the best husband for her," said
Dixon, putting a protecting arm round Rose's shoulder, and finishing
off the sentence she found it so difficult to frame.
The words and the action alike maddened Tom. Was Rose to be protected
from him when, to give her pleasure and shield her from pain, had been
his one thought for the last eighteen months?
"It's only fair that, as she's chucked me for you, she should know the
sort of man she's got hold of," he stuttered.
"I didn't lose my place for being so drunk that it took the parson the
best part of the night to see me home, did I?" sneered Dixon.
"No, you didn't. But Rose shall hear now who plotted to make me drunk
that night, and who informed against me next day. It was you, you sly,
sneaking scamp!--deny it if you dare? If it comes to character who's
got the better one, you or I? No man can throw a dirty, dishonest
trick at me! And you! Who squares the corn-merchant? Who cooks every
bill that goes into the Court? Don't I know it? Have I lived nearly a
year under the same roof that covered you, without finding out pretty
well how you've managed to feather your nest so as to make it fine
enough for the pretty bird you've caught; and if I'd chosen to round on
you when you got me turned out, where would you be now, I'd like to
know? You would not be coachman at the Court."
Dixon had turned livid with rage, but kept his head.
"You are a poor, drunken fool, and don't know what you are saying, or
I'd make you swallow your words."
"You wouldn't! I could prove them!" went on Tom, choking with passion.
"And as you've cheated in work, you've cheated in love. You've cheated
me, and you've cheated that one as followed you sobbing and crying from
the place where you last came from, and who you'd promised faithful to
marry, and who you'd walked with for three years and more. I had the
story from the woman where I lodge. The girl spent the night there,
and she was pretty nigh broken-hearted. She'd even got her
wedding-gown."
Dixon sprang across the road like a tiger, and gave Tom such a swinging
box on the ear that, for a moment, he reeled again. And then, all the
devil in Tom was loosed, and he leaped on his foe, gripping him by the
throat until every vein in his forehead stood out in blue knots. The
action was so unexpected and so rapid that Dixon found it impossible to
free himself. The men swayed to and fro in each other's embrace,
finally falling heavily together with a sickening thud upon the road.
Tom was uppermost, and picked himself up with a rather ghastly smile,
but Dixon lay there rigid and motionless.
"Get up!" said Tom, poking him with the toe of his boot. "You won't be
so ready to interfere with me another time." But Dixon did not stir.
Rose, who had tried to stop the quarrel by every artifice in her power,
knelt down by the side of her lover. And suddenly a cry so shrill, so
despairing, broke the air, that Tom's heart stood still and the blood
froze in his veins.
"Tom! Tom!--you wicked man, you've killed him!" she shrieked.
And Tom, sobered by the cry, and realizing in all its horror the
meaning of the words, turned like guilty Cain and fled. There was but
one place for him now: the river--the river, and the end of it all. He
was making for it straight, flying by the nearest cut across the
fields, leaping ditches, scrambling through hedges, regardless of the
brambles that scored his face and hands. Like a hare hunted by the
hounds he fled; away from his own guilty action, away from the woman he
loved, to the river which would sweep him swiftly, painlessly to rest
and forgetfulness. But would it? He had stumbled accidentally into
the path which led towards the cottage where he lodged, and turned his
head as he ran to take one last glance at the light which glimmered in
the window. He could see the river now; he was nearing the brink.
There was but one field between him and it, when he became conscious of
a pursuing step. Somebody was already on his scent. The question now
was whether he should die by his own act, or be delivered over to the
terrible hands of justice; and at that thought Tom redoubled his speed
to outstrip his pursuer. It was a desperate race, for his strength was
nearly spent. His long fast had told upon him, and the fictitious
power of the spirit he had swallowed had passed away. His breath was
coming in quick, short gasps. His foot caught in a tussock of grass,
and he fell face foremost to the ground, and, before he could regain
his feet, a hand was on his collar.
[Illustration: Before he could regain his feet, a hand was on his
collar.]
"Let me go! Let me go!" he cried, struggling desperately in the hands
of his capturer. "If I've killed him I'm ready to die too. You can't
do more than hang me! One more moment and I'd have been in the river.
Let me go, I say!"
"I shall _not_ let you go; you are either mad or drunk--incapable of
taking care of yourself," said a low, clear voice; and Tom was lifted
to a standing posture by the rector's strong arms.
* * * * * *
When Dixon had called late on Saturday night to ask the rector to put
up his banns on the morrow, Mr. Curzon's thoughts flew straight to Tom.
So this was the end of his love-story, poor fellow! and he feared that
it would go hardly with the lad.
"Maybe he will come to see me to-morrow. And, if not, I will see him,"
he had said.
He had noticed with satisfaction that Tom was in his accustomed place
on Sunday morning, and did not see him slip out of church after the
publishing of the banns; but on Sunday night he missed him, and, the
minute service was ended, he set off for the cottage where he lodged.
He had reached the field-path which led to it, when he heard the sound
of footsteps that stumbled in their running, and, pausing to look
round, he saw a figure, which he did not immediately recognize in the
moonlight as Tom's, dashing across the pathway in the direction of the
river. Almost before he knew what he was doing the rector gave chase,
for he felt the man meant mischief: a conviction which grew into
certainty as he gained upon the runaway, and recognized him as the man
whom he sought.
Tom attempted no further resistance, and, from his incoherent
utterances, Mr. Curzon presently gathered what had occurred.
"And you ran off and left Rose with her dead lover? I could not have
believed you such a coward, Tom!" he said, unable to keep back the
indignation and scorn he felt. "This is no place for you and me; we
must go back at once, and see if anything can be done."
Nothing was said as the two hastened back to the spot where Dixon was
left lying; but, to the utter astonishment of both, when they arrived
there, Rose and Dixon had gone.
"Either some vehicle has driven by which has conveyed Dixon to the
Court, or he was, by God's mercy, only stunned," said the rector.
"We'll go on and find out."
Tom made no answer, but followed the rector's lead. In a kind of dumb
despair he felt he was walking to meet his fate. They made their way
first to the stables, anxious not to give the alarm at the house until
they knew the extent of the mischief. The usual orderly quiet
prevailed, and, in response to the rector's knock, the groom, who had
played such a faithless part by Rose, appeared.
"Is Dixon in? Can I see him for a moment?" asked Mr. Curzon, guardedly.
"He came in, sir, about a quarter of an hour since, but he's gone
straight up to bed. He'd a nasty fall--did not know quite how he'd
done it, slipped up on his heel, he said, and fell on the back of his
head. Rose Lancaster was with him, and seemed terrible cut up about
it, said he lay like a dead thing; and she would never have got him
home if it had not been that a cart drove by and gave 'em both a lift."
"Thank you. Tell Dixon that I'll come round in the morning to see how
he is."
"We need do nothing more to-night; your worst fear is not realized," he
said, as he and Tom turned towards home. "Now you will come back to
supper with me, and we will trace your sin to its very root, please
God. You've had a warning that I think you are not likely to forget."
But Tom, in the sudden relief from the horrible fear that he had
inadvertently taken the life of a fellow creature, had broken into a
passion of sobs, shedding such tears as a man sheds but once in a
lifetime--scalding tears of bitter repentance and shame.
He and Mr. Curzon sat talking far into the night, and Tom told the
story truly, keeping nothing back.
"You've let drink and passion get the upper hand, Tom. You have put
the love of a woman before the love of God, and you've come near to
wrecking your life and hers in consequence. It would not have mended
matters if you had hurried yourself into another world to which you
have given so little thought, would it? It was a mad, wicked thought!
a thought of the devil's own suggestion; but you are saved for the
beginning of a better life, a new life in new surroundings."
Tom glanced up quickly. "Not in Tasmania," he said. "The squire won't
send me, after this."
"You'll tell him about it, then," replied Mr. Curzon, with a
heart-throb of thanksgiving that Tom was ready to face out the
consequences of his action.
"Oh yes; I shall tell him. He might hear it any way, but I'd rather
tell him myself."
"Very good. Now you had better go home to bed, and, if you have never
said a real prayer before, you will say one to-night, Tom, to the God
who has saved you from falling over a precipice of crime."
Tom nodded; his heart was too full to speak.
When the morning broke it found the rector in his study where Tom had
left him, still upon his knees, for here and there, in this hurrying
nineteenth century world, there is yet found a disciple who, like the
Master whom he serves, will spend whole nights in prayer. Was not the
salvation of a soul at stake?
A fresh development of Rose Lancaster's love-affairs was brought to Mr.
Curzon's notice on Monday, for the first person he met, as he left the
rectory in the morning, was Rose herself--a crumpled dishevelled Rose,
whose toilet gave evidence of hurry, and whose eyes were red with
weeping.
"Oh, sir, I've come because I didn't know what to do. We're all in
dreadful trouble!--Dixon's gone!"
"Not dead!" cried the rector in horror.
"Oh no; he's run away. And oh, it's cruel, cruel! to have used me like
this," said Rose, her sobs bursting out afresh.
"I wonder what has made him do it? Has he left no note behind him?"
"Not a line--nor a message for me," replied Rose. "Only a scrawl in
pencil which the groom found on the saddle-room table, to say that
nobody need try to trace him. And only to think that our banns were
put up yesterday."
"I think you are wasting your tears over a heartless scamp!" said the
rector, a little impatiently. "Did you come with any message from the
Court?"
"No, sir; I only came to ask you if I ought to tell?"
"To tell what?"
"All that happened last night. There was a dreadful quarrel between
Dixon and Tom Burney; and that's how Dixon got hurt. He was stunned,
and I thought he was dead; and Tom ran off, and, when Dixon came to
himself, his one notion was that I was not to tell any one how he came
by his fall."
"So you promised to back him up in a lie!" said the rector, coldly.
"One can scarcely wonder that you wished to keep the thing quiet,
however. You've terribly misused God's good gift of a pretty face,
Rose. You have played with two men; and chosen the wrong one, and
driven the other half off his head with misery. Mercifully the good
God has saved you from what must have been a miserable marriage, for
there is more in Dixon's disappearance than we can see just yet."
Rose's tears dried with her gathering indignation. It had not occurred
to her to blame herself in any way; she felt rather in the position of
the ill-used heroine of a tragedy in real life.
"Then you think I ought to tell," she said a little sulkily.
"I certainly think your mistress ought to know exactly what happened.
You need not tell any one else, that I know of."
So Rose returned to the Court greatly crestfallen; and her account of
the quarrel, and Tom's vague threats about Dixon's character, put Mrs.
Webster on to the right clue as to the causes of his sudden flight. He
was found to have been guilty of repeated acts of dishonesty, so
cleverly concealed that, but for the fear that Tom would report him, he
might have gone on for years longer, respected and trusted by his
employers. As the time seemed ripe for flight, however, he had taken
with him the change of a big cheque that Mrs. Webster had given him to
cash on the Saturday, and which he had told her glibly that he could
not get cashed until the Monday. Each fresh revelation filled Rose
with misery and shame; and, behind all, was the one fact that she had
kept to herself: the memory of Tom's mention of that other girl that
Dixon had jilted--the crowning taunt which had hurried Dixon into
showing fight.
"And it must have been true, or it would not have made him so angry,"
thought Rose.
It was a bitter pill for the vain little thing to swallow: the
conviction that she had all along occupied the second place in Dixon's
affections, and that he had cast her away, like that other girl,
without any compunction. Tom would not have done it; and at the
remembrance of him Rose's eyes filled with tears. Rose was returning
from the village, whither she had been sent on a message, and she
shivered a little as she passed the scene of the last night's disaster;
and her alarm found expression in a little cry when she saw Tom Burney
standing there, too, and yet there was nothing to terrify her in the
deprecating glance of his troubled eyes.
"Rose," he said, stretching out his hands, "I don't wonder that you
hate the sight of me, but you can afford to speak kindly to me for this
once? God knows I'm sorry enough for what I've done, heart sorry. I
came here to look at the place again, where I nearly killed a man, just
to let it burn in so that I mayn't forget."
"But--but--you can't have heard that he's not much hurt even? that he's
run away and taken a lot of money that does not belong to him?"
"Oh yes," said Tom, drearily. "But that does not alter things; I can't
forget that I nearly killed him--and myself."
"Oh, Tom, not that! not that!" cried Rose, for the first time pierced
by a pang of keen remorse.
"Yes. I should have drowned myself if Mr. Curzon had not stopped me,"
said Tom, simply. "I was mad, I think, with misery and drink."
Then Rose understood the full meaning of the rector's words that
morning.
"I did not mean to try and see you before I went away," went on Tom,
brokenly; "but I'm glad of the chance to ask your forgiveness for the
hurt I might have done to the man you wished to marry."
"Oh don't! please don't talk like that!" said Rose, Tom's utter
self-abasement and humility rousing all her better nature. "Don't you
see that it's you who ought to forgive me for the cruel way I've
treated you; and if you'd died, Tom, and my wickedness had killed you,
how could I have ever lifted up my head again? I see now how wicked
I've been. I wanted to marry Dixon because he promised to give me
everything I liked: a pretty house and a little servant, and pretty
clothes and things. It was not because I loved him best."
Tom threw back his head with a little cry.
"Rose," he said, coming a step nearer. "Rose, my dear; it can't hurt
to tell me now. In two days I'm going away for good and all. I have
told the squire all about it, and he is going to overlook it and send
me across the seas just the same as if nothing had happened; but when
I'm gone, it would make me happy to know that you had ever loved me
just a little bit."
"I do," said Rose. "I think I've loved you all the time."
Tom drew a long breath, but did not attempt to come closer.
"Thank you," he said, with an odd thrill in his voice. "I'll go away
and think of it. It will help me to be good, for I'll have a try at
that, Rose, my dear. I'll keep clear of the drink; I'm going up to the
rector to-night to tell him I'm ready to sign. He asked me to do it
before; and don't I wish I had listened to him! But now I'll do it
without the asking."
There was some difference in Tom that Rose felt but could not define,
some influence over him that was stronger than her own. She had been
conscious before that she had but to speak and he would try his utmost
to carry out her whim; but to-day, miserable as he was, oppressed by
the weight of sin, she felt respect for a certain strength of purpose
that seemed developed in him. Mr. Curzon was right; she had chosen the
wrong man. Never had she valued Tom's love as she did now when she was
just about to lose it.
"Then you are going directly?" she almost whispered.
"Yes; I leave here the day after to-morrow, and I sail in about a
fortnight. The squire thought the sooner I was out of the way the
better."
"Shall you ever come back?"
"I don't know."
"Nor ever write?" asked Rose, with a sob in her throat.
"That's as may be; I'd write to one who cared."
"I care. Write to me, please?"
She was looking at him with pleading eyes, but he would not trust
himself to return her glance.
"Rose," he said, "there's not the woman now that I would ask to be my
wife. I'm guilty, before God, of two black sins; but if He gives me
time to live it down and earn a clean name again----"
"He will! He will!" said Rose. "And, Tom, it does not matter if it's
years, I'll wait." And then she put her arms round his neck and kissed
him.
His face was ashen grey; his arms ached with the longing to return her
embrace and hold her close to his heart, but he let her go.
"Before God, Rose, my darling, I'll live worthy of your kiss! Maybe it
won't be long before I dare return it."
The next instant he was gone, not daring to look back at her.