DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.
On the morning after the day when Miss Gillespie had made so
successful a debut among the company assembled at Redmoor, Mr.
Effingham, lounging quietly up the road from the Mitford Arms, rang at
the lodge-gate, and after a few minutes' conversation with the old
portress, passed up the avenue. His conversation was purely of a
pleasant character; there was no inquiry as to who he was, or what he
wanted,--all that had been settled long ago. He was a gentleman from
London, who was writing a book 'bout all the old fam'ly houses, and
was going to put our place into it. He knew Sir Charles, and had his
leave to come and go when he liked. A civil-spoken gentleman he was,
and talked most wonderful; never passed the lodge without stopping to
say something. Perhaps of all Mr. Effingham's peculiarities, this
impressed the old woman the most; for, like all country people of her
class who live a solitary and quiet life, she was thoroughly reticent,
and it is questionable whether, beyond the ordinary salutations to
those with whom she was brought in contact, she uttered more than a
dozen sentences in a week. But Mr. Effingham's light airy chatter was
very welcome to the old lady, and, combined with the politeness which
he always exhibited, had rendered him a great favourite.
A considerable alteration had been effected in Mr. Effingham's outward
man since his first visit to Redmoor. As in the former instance, his
first step on receiving the ten pounds from Sir Charles was to
purchase a new suit of clothes. He bought them at the neighbouring
town, and in pursuance of his intention to assume a literary or
artistic character, he had endeavoured to render his apparel suitable,
or, as he called it, "to make up for the part." So he now wore a large
slouch felt wideawake hat, a dark velveteen jacket, long waistcoat,
gray trousers, and ankle-jack boots. Had he carried out his own views
of literary attire, he would have adopted a long dressing-gown and
Turkish trousers, such as he had seen in the portraits of celebrated
authors; but he felt that these would be out of place in the country,
and might attract attention. He, however, armed himself with a large
notebook and a pencil of portentous thickness, with which he was in
the habit of jotting down visionary memoranda whenever he found
himself observed. By the initiated and the upper classes this
last-described act may have been recognized as an indisputable
literary trait; but by the lower orders Mr. Effingham was regarded as
a mystic potentate of the turf, whose visit to the Mitford arms had
mysterious connection with the proximity of Sir Danesbury Boucher's
stables, where Lime-juice, the third favourite for the Derby, was in
training; while the entries of the memoranda were by the same people
ascribed to the exercise of a process known to them as the booking of
bets.
The March morning was so splendid in its freshness and bright
glittering sunlight, that Mr. Effingham, although little given to
admiring the beauties of nature, could not resist occasionally
stopping and looking round him. The old elms forming the avenue were
just putting forth their first buds; far away on either side stretched
broad alternations of turf in level, hill, and glade, all glistening
with the morning dew; while on the horizon fronting him, and behind
the house, could be seen the outline of the great Redmoor. The jolly
old house stood like some red-faced giant, its mullioned windows
winking at the sunlight, the house itself just waking into life. From
the stable-yard came a string of rugged and hooded horses for
exercise. The gardeners were crossing from the conservatory bearing
choice flowers for the decoration of the rooms. At the porch was
standing the head-keeper, accompanied by two splendid dogs; a groom on
horseback, with the swollen post-bag slung round him, passed Mr.
Effingham in the avenue; everywhere around were signs of wealth and
prosperity.
"Yes," said Mr. Effingham to himself, as he stopped and surveyed the
scene, "this is better than my lodgings in Doory Lane, this is! No end
better! And why should this fellow have it, and not me--that's what I
want to know? I could do it up pretty brown, here, I'm thinkin'; not
like him--not in the same way, that is, but quite as good. There
mighn't be so many nobs, but there'd be plenty of good fellers; and as
for the nobs, Lord bless you, when they found there was plenty of good
grub and drink, and good fun to be had, they'd come fast enough. I
should just like to try it, that's all; I'd show him. And why
shouldn't I try it? Not in this way, perhaps--not to cut it quite so
fat as this, but still reg'lar comfortable and nice. A nice little box
at Finchley or Hampstead, with a bit o' lawn, and a pony-trap, and
chickens, and a spare bed for a pal,--that's my notion of comfort! And
why shouldn't I have it, if I play my cards properly? Damme, I will
have it! I'm sick of cadgin' about from hand to mouth, never knowin'
what's goin' to turn up next. This bit o' stiff ought to be worth
anything to me--anything in reason, that is to say. So, when I've once
got it from our friend here, and that won't be just yet,--I must get
her away from here, and have her well under my thumb, before I try
that on,--when I once get, that docyment, I'll take it straight
to Sir Charles, and let him have it for a sum down--must be a big sum
too--and then I'll cut the whole lot of 'em, and go and live somewhere
in the country by myself! That's what I'll do!"
_L'appétit vient en mangeant_. When Mr. Effingham was utterly
destitute he accommodated himself to his position, and lived on, from
hand to mouth, in the best way he could. He retired to the back-ways
and slums then, and seeing very few people much better off than he was
himself, his envy and jealousy were not excited. Sir Charles's ten
pounds had disturbed the little man's mental equilibrium; the
readiness with which they melted in his grasp showed him how easily he
could get rid of a hundred, of a thousand, of ten thousand. The sight
of the comfort and luxury of Redmoor contrasted horribly with the
wretchedness of his own lodging, and lashed him into a storm of rage.
"It's too bad!" said he, striking his stick against the tree by which
he was standing,--"it's too bad that there should be all this lot of
money in the world, and that I should have none of it, while this cove
here--O yes, if you please, my horses goin' out with the grooms; my
gardeners a bringin' pines and melons and all the rest of it; my
keeper a-waitin' to know how many pheasants I'm going to kill to-day!
Damme, it's sickening!" Mr. Effingham struck the tree again, pushed
his hat over his eyes, and started off in his walk. When he had
proceeded about half-way up the avenue, he climbed the iron fence, and
started off to the right over the park, until he reached a little
knoll, on the top of which were two magnificent cedars. On the other
side of these cedars, and completely hidden by them from the house,
was a carved rustic seat. On reaching the top of the knoll, Mr.
Effingham looked round, and seeing nobody, sat down, put his feet up,
and made himself most comfortable.
A lengthened contemplation of the cedars, however, instead, as might
have been expected, of bringing calm to his perturbed soul, served
only to remind him that they, in common with all the surroundings,
were the property of somebody else, and that on that somebody else he
had a tremendous hold, provided he went properly to work.
"And I'll do it!" said he, taking his feet off the bench, and
pushing the felt wideawake hat into all kinds of shapes in his
excitement,--"I'll do it too! Now, let me see! My friend will be here
presently--let me just run through what's to be done. Quiet's the game
with her, I think; no bullyrag and bluster--quiet and soft. No
connection with any one here--never even heard the name--sent by the
other parties--I'm so innocent. Yes, I think that will do; then, when
we've once started together, I can make my own terms.--How late she
is! She must be awfully down on her luck at being spotted down here,
and she must suspect something by the quick way in which she agreed to
meet me here when I spoke to her yesterday as she was walkin' with the
young 'un,--made no bones about it at all. She won't fail me, I
suppose."
Oh no, she would not fail him. There she was, crossing the park
apparently from the back of the stables, and making straight for the
cedars. Could it be she? A figure bent nearly double, dressed in an
old-fashioned black-silk cloak and a poke-bonnet, and leaning on a
thick umbrella. It was not until she was well under the shadow of the
cedars, that she straightened herself, pushed back her bonnet, and
stood revealed as Miss Gillespie.
"Good-morning," said she, so crisply and blithely that Mr. Effingham,
who had expected she would adopt a very, different tone, was quite
astonished; "I'm afraid I'm a little late, Mr. ----; you did not
favour me with your name; but the fact is, as you probably know, I am
not my own mistress, and my services were required just as I was about
to start."
"All right, miss," said Mr. Effingham, taking off his hat, and making
a bow as near as possible after the manner of walking-gentlemen on the
stage--a proceeding with which the limpness of the wideawake's brim
interfered considerably; "my name's Effingham."
"Indeed! what a pretty name! so romantic. You would not mind my
sitting down, would you? No; that's all right. And now, Mr. Effingham,
I suppose you want something of me, don't you, after that mysterious
communication which you made to me yesterday when I was walking with
my pupil? Poor child! she's been in a state of wonderment ever since;
and I've had to invent such stories about you. And what is it you
want, Mr. Effingham?"
Mr. Effingham scarcely liked the tone; he felt he was being "chaffed;"
so he thought he would bring matters to a crisis by saying, "My name's
not Effingham--at least, not more than yours is Gillespie."
"Oh, I perceive," said she with a little nod.
"My name's Butler as much as yours is Ponsford. Now d'ye see?"
"O yes; now I see perfectly. Butler, eh? Any relation of a man named
Tony Butler who is now dead?"
"Yes--his brother. He may have spoken to you of a brother in America."
"In America! ay, ay. Well, Mr. Butler," she continued with a bright
smile, "now I know that you're the brother of Tony Butler, there's
scarcely any need of repeating my question whether you wanted
anything; for--pardon me--you could hardly belong to that interesting
family without wanting something. The question is, what do you want?
Money? and if so, how much?"
"No; I don't want money--"
"That's very unlike Tony Butler. I shall begin to discredit your
statements," said she, still with the pleasant smile.
"At least not yet, nor from you. But I do want something."
"Ye-es, and that is--"
"I want you to go away from here with me at once."
"To go away from here! O no. _Connu_, my dear Mr. Butler; I see the
whole of the play. This is not your own business at all, dear sir. You
dance, and kick your legs and swing your arms very well; but you are a
puppet, and the gentleman who pulls the strings lives over yonder;"
and she pointed with her umbrella to Redmoor House.
"I can't make out what you mean."
"O yes, you can. 'A master I have, and I am his man.' You are Sir
Charles Mitford's man, Mr. Butler; and he has set you on to tell me
that I must leave this place and rid him of my influence. Now, you may
go back to Sir Charles Mitford, your master, and tell him that I set
him utterly at defiance; that I won't move, and that he can't make me.
Do you hear that, my dear Mr. Butler?"
She had risen from her seat, and stood erect before him, looking very
grand and savage. Her companion knew that the success of his scheme
depended wholly upon the manner in which he carried out the next move,
and accordingly he threw all his power into the acting of it.
"You're one of those who answer their own questions, I see," said he
with perfect calmness. "I've met lots o' that sort in my travels, and
I never found 'em do so much good as those that waited. All you've
been saying's Greek to me. Who's Sir Charles Mitford? I've heard of
him, of course, as the swell that lives in that house. They've never
done talking of him at the Mitford Arms and all about there. But
what's he to do with you? I suppose it don't matter to him who his
friends' governesses is. He's not sweet on you, is he? If so, he
wouldn't want you to go away. And what's he to do with me? and how's
he likely to hear of my having been in the place? I haven't left my
card upon him, I promise you," said Mr. Effingham with a grim humour.
Miss Gillespie looked at him hard, very hard. But his perfect command
of feature had often stood Mr. Effingham in good stead, and it did not
desert him now. The saucy laughter on his lips corresponded with the
easy bantering tone of his voice; he sat swinging his legs and sucking
his stick, the incarnation of insolence. So far he was triumphant.
She waited a minute or two, biting her lips, and turning her plans in
her mind. Then she said, "Granting what you say--and it was rather a
preposterous proposition of mine, I admit--you are still a puppet in
somebody's hands. You had no knowledge of my previous life, and yet
you come to me and say I must come away at once with you. Why must I
come away?"
"Because you're wanted."
"And by whom?"
"By the crew of the Albatross. Ah, I thought you wouldn't be quite so
much amused and so full of your grins when I mentioned them."
"Oh," said she, recovering herself, "I can still grin when there's
anything to amuse me. But we seem to have changed places; now _you_'re
talking riddles which I cannot understand."
"Can't you? then I must explain them for you. If what I'm told is
right--but it's very little I know--you belonged to that crew yourself
once. My brother Tony was one of them, I understand; and though he's
dead now, there's several of 'em left. Old Lyons, for instance,--you
recollect him? Crockett, Griffiths--"
"Suppose, to avoid giving you further trouble, I say I do recollect
them, what then?"
"You're angry, although you smile; I can see that fast enough. But
what's the good of being angry with me? You know when a feller gets
into their hands what chance he has. You know that fast enough, or
ought to. Well, I'm in their hands, and have to do what they order
me."
"And they've ordered you to come down to me?"
"They found out where you were, and sent me after you."
"Ha! And what on earth can have induced them, after a certain lapse of
time, to be so suddenly solicitous of my welfare?" said Miss
Gillespie, laughingly. "There was never any great love between any of
those you have named and myself. I have no money for them to rob me
of, nor do I see that I can be of any great use to them."
"I don't know that," said Mr. Effingham, laying his forefinger
knowingly alongside his nose. "You see, you're a pretty gal, and
you've rather got over me--"
"Flattered, I am sure," said Miss Gillespie, showing all her teeth.
"No, it ain't that," said he, with a dim perception that his
compliment was not too graciously received; "it ain't that; but I
do like a pretty girl somehow. Well, you see, they don't let me much
into their secrets--don't tell me the reason why I'm told to do so
and so; they only tell me to go and do it. But I don't mind tellin'
you--taking an interest in you, as I've just said--that, from what
they've let drop accidentally, I think you _can_ be of great use to
them."
"Indeed! have you any notion how?"
"Well, now look here. I'm blowin' their gaff to you, and you know what
I should get if they knew it; so swear you'll never let on. From what
I can make out, there's certain games which you used to do for them
that they've never been able to find anybody to come near you in. I
mean the Mysterious Lady, the fortune-tellin', and the electro-biology
business."
Some scenes recalled to her memory by these words seemed to amuse Miss
Gillespie, and she laughed heartily.
"But that's 'general work,'" continued Mr. Effingham; "what they want
you particularly for just now is this. Some swell, so far as I can
make out, came to grief early in life, and made a mistake in putting
somebody else's name to paper; what they call forgery, you know."
She nodded.
"Old Lyons has got hold of this paper, and he wants to put the screw
on the swell and make him bleed. Now there's none of the lot has half
your manner, nor, as they say, half your tact; and that's why, as I
believe, is the reason they want you back in town amongst them."
"Ah! to--what did you say?--'to put the screw on a swell and make him
bleed,' wasn't it? How very nice! Well, now you've obeyed your orders,
and it's for me to speak. And suppose--just suppose for the fun of the
thing--I were to hold by my original decision and declare I would not
come, what would you do?"
"I should go back to town and tell 'em all that had passed."
"And they?--what would they do?"
"I can tell you that, because that was part of my instructions. Old
Lyons put that very plain. 'If she rides rusty,' he says,--'and she's
got a temper of her own, I can tell you,--just let her know from me
that I'll ruin her. I'll never leave her; she knows me of old; it
won't be merely,' he says, 'her being turned away in disgrace out of
where she is now; but I'll never leave her. She may go where she
likes, but I've found her out once, and I'll find her out again; I'll
foller her up, and I'll be the ruin of her,' he says, 'so sure's her
name's what it is.'"
He looked up to see the effect of his speech, but Miss Gillespie was
looking full at him with an expression of great interest and a very
pleasant smile, as if she were listening to the narration of a
thrilling story with which she had no connection save that of
listener.
"Did he indeed say all that?" said she, after a pause. "Oh, he's a
most terrible old man, and whatever he determines on, he never fails
of carrying out. However, I think I won't put him to much trouble this
time."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, do you know I've a strong mind to save you any further worry,
and to crown you with glory by allowing you to carry me back in
triumph."
"You don't say so! but this is too sudden, you know. I don't put much
trust in such sudden conversions."
"Mine is not the least sudden. I generally act on the impulse of the
moment. That now urges me to go back to my old life. The shackles of
this respectability are beginning to strain a little. I feel cramped
by them occasionally, and I suppose I have originally something of the
Bohemian in my nature, for you have fired me with au ardent longing
for freedom and irresponsibility."
"That's right!" cried Mr. Effingham, delighted at the success of his
scheme; "that's just as it should be. It's all very well for those
swells to live on here, and go on their daily round. They've got the
best of it, so far as they know; but they haven't seen as much as we
have. They don't know the pleasure of--well, of pitting your wits
against somebody else who think themselves deuced sharp, and beating
them, do they?"
"No," said Miss Gillespie, with her crispest little laugh; "of course
they don't."
"Well, now," said Mr. Effingham, "you know what old Lyons is, reg'lar
man of business; want's everything done at once, right off the reel.
When will you be ready to start?"
"What a practical man you are, Mr. Butler!" cried she, still laughing;
"it will be quite delightful to get back again into the society of
practical people after all this easy-going _laissez-aller_ time. But
you must not be too hard upon me at first. I've several things to do."
"You won't be saying 'goodbye' to anybody or anything of that sort?"
"O no, nothing of that sort, you may depend."
"That's right; you mean putting your things together, eh?"
"Yes; packing and getting ready to start."
"Well, twenty-four hours will be enough for that, I should think.
Suppose we say to-morrow at noon?"
"Ye-es, give me a little longer: say two in the afternoon, then I
shall be perfectly ready."
"And where shall we meet?"
"We must get across to the rail at once. Not to Torquay; there's a
small station nearer here, where they won't think of looking for us.
Not that I suppose they'd take any trouble of that kind when they find
I'm once gone. However, it's best to be prepared. Can you drive?"
"I should think so!" said Mr. Effingham with a chuckle. "I've driven
most things, from a shofle-cab in town to the mail-sleigh in Canada!"
"How very nice!" said she; "that will do beautifully, then. You must
get a gig or a dog-cart, or something light, from some place in
Torquay. I shall have very little luggage, and have it all ready at a
little side-gate of the park, which you can see--over there," again
bringing the umbrella into requisition. "That gate is invisible from
the house; it's perfectly quiet and unfrequented, and I have a key of
it. That once closed behind me I'm thoroughly safe."
"And there's no chance of our being met, and you being recognized?"
"Not the very smallest. The people staying in the house will all be at
luncheon; the gardeners and stable-people, should we come across any,
will all be in that state of comatose repletion which succeeds the
after-dinner tobacco. Besides, very few of them know me by sight; and
the road which I have pointed out skirts the Redmoor, and is very
little frequented."
"That'll do! that will be first-rate! Now, let me see if all's
understood. A dog-cart to be ready to-morrow at yon gate of the park,
at two o'clock sharp. There you'll be and your luggage--eh? By the by,
how's that to get there?"
"I told you it would be very little; and there's a boy devoted to my
service, who will carry it."
"All right,--I only wanted to know. Two o'clock to-morrow, then." He
put out his hand, and as she lightly touched it with the tips of her
fingers, offered to seize hers and convey it to his lips; but she slid
it through his clumsy fist, and had pulled the poke-bonnet over her
face, resumed the bent walk and the clumsy umbrella, and was making
her way back across the park almost before he had missed her.
"And if ever a man did a good day's work, I've done one this blessed
morning," said Mr. Effingham, as he strolled quietly back through the
avenue. "They may talk about great genius, if they please. Great
genius means getting hold of a good idea at the right minute, and
strikin' while the iron's hot. That's great genius! and they was two
great ideas which I've worked just now! That pretendin' to know
nothin' of the Bart., and gammonin' her that old Lyons sent me after
her, was first-rate! I thought old Lyons's name would bring her round.
They're all afraid of him, it seems. Now when we've got some distance
on the road, I'll tell her the truth, or, at least, as much as I
choose, and just sound her about the bill. D'Ossay, my boy, you've
done a good day's work, and can afford to go into Torquay and dine
like a swell to-night!"