AT seven o'clock in the morning Crawley was at Meadows' house by
appointment. To his great surprise the servant told him master had not
slept at home. While he was talking to her Meadows galloped up to the
door, jumped off, and almost pulled Crawley upstairs with him. “Lock the
door, Crawley.” Crawley obeyed, but with some reluctance, for Meadows,
the iron Meadows, was ghastly and shaken as he had never been shaken
before. He sank into a chair. “Perdition seize the hour I first saw
her!” As for Crawley, he was paralyzed by the terrible agitation of a
spirit so much greater than his own.
“Crawley,” said Meadows, with a sudden unnatural calm, “when the devil
buys a soul for money how much does he give? a good lump, I hear. He
values our souls high--we don't, some of us.”
“Mr. Meadows, sir!”
“Now count those,” yelled Meadows, bursting out again, and he flung a
roll of notes furiously on the ground at Crawley's feet, “count and tell
me what my soul has gone for. Oh! oh!”
Crawley seized them and counted them as fast as his trembling fingers
would let him. So now an eye all remorse, and another eye all greed,
were bent upon the same thing.
“Why, they are all hundred-pound notes, bright as silver from the Bank
of England. Oh, dear! how new and crimp they are--where do they come
from, sir?”
“From Australia.”
“Ah! Oh, impossible! No! nothing is impossible to such a man as you.
Twenty.”
“They are at Newborough--slept at 'King's Head,'” whispered Meadows.
“Good Heavens! think of that. Thirty--”
“So did I.”
“Ah! forty--four thousand pounds.”
“The lump of stuff you left here hocussed one--it was a toss-up--luck
was on my side--that one carried them--slept like death--long while
hunting--found them under his pillow at last.”
“Well done! and we fools were always beat at it.
Sixty--one--two--five--seven. Seven thousand pounds.”
“Seven thousand pounds! Who would have thought it? This is a dear job to
me.”
“Say a dear job to them and a glorious haul to you; but you deserve it
all, ah!”
“Why, you fool,” cried Meadows, “do you think I am going to keep the
men's money?”
“Keep it? why, of course!”
“What! am I a thief? I, John Meadows, that never wronged a man of a
penny? I take his sweetheart, I can't live without her; but I can live
without his money. I have crimes enough on my head, but not theft, there
I say halt.”
“Then why in the name of Heaven did you take them at such a risk?”
Crawley put this question roughly, for he was losing his respect for his
idol.
“You are as blind as a mole, Crawley,” was the disdainful answer. “Don't
you see that I have made George Fielding penniless, and that now old
Merton won't let him have his daughter? Why should he? He said, 'If you
come back with one thousand pounds.' And don't you see that, when the
writ is served on old Merton, he will be as strong as fire for me and
against him. He can't marry her at all now. I shall soon or late, and
the day I marry Susan that same afternoon seven thousand pounds will
be put in George Fielding's hand, he won't know by whom, but you and I
shall know. I am a sinner, but not a villain.”
Crawley gave a dissatisfied grunt. Meadows struck a lucifer match
and lighted a candle. He placed the candle in the grate--it was warm
weather. “Come, now,” said he coolly, “burn them; then they will tell no
tales.”
Crawley gave a shriek like a mother whose child is falling out of
window, and threw himself on his knees, with the notes in his hand
behind his back. “No! no! sir! Oh, don't think of it. Talk of crime,
what are all the sins we have done together compared with this? You
would not burn a wheat-rick, no, not your greatest enemy's; I know you
would not, you, are too good a man. This is as bad; the good money that
the bountiful Heaven has given us for--for the good of man.”
“Come,” said Meadows sternly, “no more of this folly,” and he laid his
iron grasp on Crawley.
“Mercy! mercy! think of me--of your faithful servant, who has risked his
life and stuck at nothing for you. How ungrateful great men are!”
“Ungrateful! Crawley! Can you look me in the face and say that?”
“Never till now, but now I can;” and Crawley rose to his feet and faced
the great man. The prize he was fighting for gave him supernatural
courage. “To whom do you owe them? To me. You could never have had them
but for my drug. And yet you would burn them before my eyes. A fortune
to poor me.”
“To you?”
“Yes! What does it matter to you what becomes of them so that _he_ never
sees them again? but it matters all to me. Give them to me and in twelve
hours I will be in France with them. You won't miss me, sir. I have done
my work. And it will be more prudent, for since I have left you I can't
help drinking, and I might talk, you know, sir, I might, and let out
what we should both be sorry for. Send me away to foreign countries
where I can keep traveling, and make it always summer. I hate the long
nights when it is dark. I see such cu-u-rious things. Pray! pray let me
go and take these with me, and never trouble you again.”
The words, though half nonsense, were the other half cunning, and the
tones and looks were piteous. Meadows hesitated. Crawley knew too much;
to get rid of him was a bait; and after all to annihilate the thing he
had been all his life accumulating went against his heart. He rang the
bell. “Hide the notes, Crawley. Bring me two shirts, a razor, and a
comb. Crawley, these are the terms. That you don't go near that woman--”
Crawley, with a brutal phrase, expressed his delight at the idea of
getting rid of her forever. “That you go at once to the railway. Station
opens to-day. First train starts in an hour. Up to London, over to
France this evening.”
“I will, sir. Hurrah! hurrah!” Then Crawley burst into protestations
of gratitude which Meadows cut short. He rang for breakfast, fed
his accomplice, gave him a great-coat for his journey, and took the
precaution of going with him to the station. There he shook hands with
him and returned to the principal street and entered the bank.
Crawley kept faith, he hugged his treasure to his bosom and sat down
waiting for the train. “Luck is on our side,” thought he; “if this had
been open yesterday those two would have come on from Newborough.”
He watched the preparations, they were decorating the locomotive with
bouquets and branches. They did not start punctually, some _soi-disant_
great people had not arrived. “I will have a dram,” thought Crawley; he
went and had three. Then he came back and as he was standing inspecting
the carriages a hand was laid on his shoulder. He looked round, it was
Mr. Wood, a functionary with whom he had often done business.
“Ah, Wood! how d'ye do? Going to make the first trip?”
“No, sir! I have business detains me in town.”
“What! a capias, eh?” chuckled Crawley.
“Something of the sort. There is a friend of yours hard by wants to
speak a word to you.”
“Come along, then. Where is he?”
“This way, sir.”
Crawley followed Wood to the waiting-room, and there on a bench sat
Isaac Levi. Crawley stopped dead short and would have drawn back, but
Levi beckoned to a seat near him. Crawley came walking like an automaton
from whose joints the oil had suddenly dried. With infinite repugnance
he took the seat, not liking to refuse before several persons who saw
the invitation. Mr. Wood sat on the other side of him. “What does it
all mean?” thought Crawley, but his cue was to seem indifferent or
flattered.
“You have shaved your beard, Mr. Crawley,” said Isaac, in a low tone.
“My beard! I never had one,” replied Crawley, in the same key.
“Yes, you had when last I saw you--in the gold mine; you set ruffians to
abuse me, sir.”
“Don't you believe that, Mr. Levi.”
“I saw it and felt it.”
The peculiarity of this situation was, that, the room being full of
people, both parties wished, each for his own reason, not to excite
general attention, and therefore delivered scarce above a whisper the
sort of matter that is generally uttered very loud and excitedly.
“It is my turn now,” whispered Levi; “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a
tooth.”
“You must look sharp then,” whispered Crawley; “to-morrow perhaps you
may not have the chance.”
“I never postpone vengeance--when it is ripe.”
“Don't you, sir? dear me.”
“You have seven thousand pounds about you, Mr. Crawley.”
Crawley started and trembled. “Stolen!” whispered Isaac in his very ear.
“Give it up to the officer.”
Crawley rose instinctively. A firm hand was laid on each of his arms; he
sat down again. “What--what---ever money I have is trusted to me by the
wealthiest and most respectable man in the cou--nty, and--”
“Stolen by him, received by you! Give it to Wood, unless you prefer a
public search.”
“You can't search me without a warrant.”
“Here is a warrant from the mayor. Take the notes out of your left
breast and give them to the officer, or we must do it by force and
publicity.”
“I won't without Mr. Meadows' authority. Send for Mr. Meadows if you
dare.” Isaac reflected. “Well! we will take you to Mr. Meadows. Keep the
money till you see him, but we must secure you. Put his coat over his
hands first.” The great-coat was put over his hands, and the next moment
under the coat was heard a little sharp click.
“Let us go to the carriage,” said Levi, in a brisk, cheerful tone.
Those present heard the friendly invitation and saw a little string of
acquaintances, three in number, break up a conversation and go and get
into a fly; one carried a great-coat and bundle before him with both
hands.