‘Narrow minds think nothing right that is above their own capacity.’
‘What is the meaning of this?’ says Wyndham. He comes in quickly,
locking the door and putting the key in his pocket. He has taken in the
situation at a glance.
‘It means that I have come here to take this girl out of your hands,’
says Moore, who shows no fear, or anything else, save a concentrated
hatred of the man before him.
‘Then you have come on an idle errand,’ says Wyndham haughtily. ‘I
should advise you to amuse yourself on Christmas Days, in future, with
something more likely to prove amusing. This young lady’—with strong
emphasis—‘does not stir from this spot except at her own desire.’
‘She is coming, for all that,’ says Moore doggedly. Wyndham glances from
him to Ella, who now, white as a sheet, is standing trembling, like a
frightened creature, with one small hand uplifted to her lips, as if to
hide their trembling. Her eyes are agonized, but in some way Wyndham can
see that, though she fancies hope dead, still hope in him has lit one
small spark.
‘Are you going?’ says Wyndham, addressing her directly.
‘No, no,’ breathes she from between her frozen lips. She takes a step
forward. ‘Don’t let me go,’ says she.
‘Certainly I shan’t let you go,’ says Wyndham, with the utmost
cheerfulness. ‘As a fact, indeed, I forbid you to go. I have excellent
authority for looking after you.’
‘What authority?’ asks Moore, who has now struck a most aggressive
attitude upon the gravel path. ‘I shall question that. You to talk of
authority! Why, I tell you that you, and such as you, cut a very bad
figure in a court of law.’
‘Never mind that, my man,’ says Wyndham. ‘I have no time now for
impromptu speeches. May I ask what claim you have on this young lady?’
‘I am her rightful guardian,’ says Moore, ‘and I shall exercise my
rights. Open that gate, or it will be the worse for you. You talk of
claims! What claim have you? Is she your wife or your——’
Wyndham, who is now as white as Ella herself, turns to her:
‘Go away,’ says he quickly; ‘go at once.’
‘Hah! you don’t like her to hear it,’ cries Moore, now in a frenzy, as
Ella, only too glad to get back into the beloved house, runs quickly
towards the Cottage. He would have intercepted her flight, but Wyndham
prevents him.
‘But if not your wife, what is she? Your mistress?’
‘Hold your tongue, you —— scoundrel,’ says Wyndham, his eyes blazing.
‘Hold yours,’ says Moore. ‘Is she your wife? Come, answer that.’
‘No,’ says Wyndham. ‘But——’
‘No “buts” for me,’ says Moore. ‘I know the meaning of your “but.” Come,
who’s the —— scoundrel now?’
‘You, beyond all doubt,’ says Wyndham. ‘Stand back, man’—as the other
makes a lunge towards him—‘and listen to law, if not to reason. You have
as much claim on her as the beggar in the street beyond, and you know
it.’
‘I do not.’ Moore shows an air of open defiance. ‘Her mother died in my
wife’s house, and my wife died later on and left her to me. That makes
me her guardian, I reckon. As for you’—turning upon Wyndham defiantly—‘I
wonder you can look an honest man in the face after what you’ve done to
her.’
‘I can look an honester man than you in the face,’ says Wyndham quietly.
‘But let’s come to business. You wanted to marry her—eh?’
‘She told you that?’
‘Certainly she told me that.’
‘She told you most things, it seems to me’—with a sneer that is full of
trouble and jealousy. ‘Aren’t you ashamed to repeat them—to me?’ He
pauses, and his face grows positively livid. ‘To me, who would have
married her fair and square, whilst you—what have you done?’ He steps
forward, and makes as though he would clutch at Wyndham’s collar, but
the latter flings him backward.
‘Well, what have I done?’
‘Ruined her, body and soul.’
‘You are wrong there,’ says Wyndham, who has recovered from his sudden
temper, and is now quite calm. ‘You had better sit down and let us talk
it over. You are wrong on all counts. I have done her no injury. You are
not her proper guardian. She is in a position to support herself.’
‘She is not,’ says Moore coarsely.
‘But she is, I assure you, if’—with elaborate politeness—‘you will
permit me to explain. Miss—what is her name, by the way, Moore?’
‘That’—with a scowl—‘is for you to find out.’
‘True. Well, I shall find it out. In the meantime, I suppose you quite
recognise the fact that all is at an end about that idea of yours that
you have any power over her.’
‘It would take a good lawyer to convince me of that,’ says Moore
insolently.
‘A good lawyer,’ says Wyndham. ‘Well, name one.’
‘Paul Wyndham, for one.’ Moore laughs sardonically as he says it, and
looks at his antagonist as if defying him to question the power of the
man he has named.
Wyndham smiles. After all, what a compliment this man has paid him! He
dips his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and brings out a leather
card-case, and hands it to Moore. The latter opens it.
There is a slight pause, then Moore gives him back the case in silence.
‘So you are Paul Wyndham?’ says he. His face has changed colour, but
still his bull-dog courage sticks to him. ‘Then you ought to be the more
ashamed of yourself.’
‘I expect I’ll make you very much ashamed of yourself,’ says Wyndham,
‘and that almost immediately. An abduction has a very unpleasant sound
nowadays, and generally means trouble to the principal actor in it. I’d
advise you to sit down and let us talk sense. I know all your dealings
with this—this young lady, and they scarcely redound to your credit. In
fact, I am pretty sure they would lead you into mischief—and six months’
hard labour—if eloquently stated. That is the very least you would
get—unless——’
‘Six months! I am going abroad on Thursday next.’
‘Are you? I wouldn’t be too sure, if I were you,’ says Wyndham grimly.
‘It’s as bad a case of persecution as I have ever gone into. And I may
as well say at once that, if you persist in your determination to carry
off this poor child against her will, I shall call in the village police
and expose the whole matter.’
Moore, who has been cowed by Wyndham’s name and the stern air of the
barrister, in spite of his show of defiance, falters here, and the
result of the long conversation that ensues between the two men leaves
all in Wyndham’s hands.
At the end, seeing the game was up, Moore gave in unconditionally. He
acknowledged that Ella’s name was not Moore. It was Haynes. She was no
relation of his or his wife’s, but undoubtedly her mother had left the
girl to their charge when dying, and as she was useful and his wife was
fond of her, they kept her with them. Her father was dead. Mrs. Haynes
had always been very reticent. He was of opinion that she had once been
in better circumstances. Haynes was not respectable—he, Moore, had an
idea that his father had cast him off. He was not at all sure that
Haynes was his real name. He had, indeed, reasons for thinking it
wasn’t, but he had never been able to discover anything; and when the
child was left to them, his wife had insisted on calling her Moore. She
had gone by that name ever since.
All this information was not given until payment had been demanded and
made, and after that there had been a final settlement, by which all the
small belongings of the girl were to be delivered up to Wyndham; over
this part of the transaction Moore had proved himself specially shrewd.
As the game was up, he was determined to see himself really well out of
it; and in the end he made so excellent a bargain that Wyndham found
himself a good deal out of pocket. The price he paid was certainly a
heavy one for two boxes, that might contain anything or nothing, and,
for an astute lawyer like Wyndham, bordered on the absurd. Beyond doubt,
if he went to law with the fellow, Ella would have got her own, but then
there would be the publicity, and—— Any way, he paid it—not so much for
the boxes, however, as for the certainty that Moore would go abroad and
leave Ella free. It was for that he bought and paid. But in spite of his
better sense, that told him if there were anything in the boxes worth
having Moore or his wife would have traded on it long ago, still he
looked forward to the examining of them with a strange anxiety.
When they came, they brought only disappointment with them—one was a
hideous trunk, absolutely empty; the other a small dressing-case that
had been costly when first made, the clasps and fastenings being of
silver. The bottles inside had no doubt been made of silver, but they
were all gone. It was a melancholy relic, and Wyndham, looking at it,
told himself that probably Ella’s mother had picked it up for the sake
of its outside beauty (the wood was Coromandel, and very pretty) at some
cheap sale. Inside it was as empty of information as the trunk itself, a
reel or two of thread, a pair of old black silk gloves, and a little bit
of fancy work half done, being the only things to be seen. No letters or
clue of any sort. It looked like the dressing-case of a young girl. On
the lid were engraved the letters E. B. He was right, then—of course
Ella’s mother had bought it. What could E. B. have to do with Mrs.
Haynes? Unless her maiden name. But it seemed a common story, scarce
worth looking into any further. All that was to be seen to now was
Moore’s departure. And this he saw to effectually, getting up on a
pouring morning to see Moore off, and giving him half of the cheque
agreed on, as he left the outward-bound ship that took Moore with it.
The big trunk he got rid of through the means of Denis, who burnt it,
and the dressing-case he took down to Ella, who regarded it with
reverence, and made a little special place for it on one of the small
tables in the drawing-room of the Cottage. It was all that remained to
her, poor child—all that she knew—of the woman who was her mother.