o’clock, a figure came round the corner of the street from the square
and walked a few paces past the iron door. Then the figure stood still
for a moment and peered up and down the road. Not a sound, save the
distant rattle of a night-cab—not a movement anywhere around. The
figure turned and walked back. It stood in the shadow of the wall,
glanced round once more, seemed to listen, opened the door, entered,
and closed it gently from within.
The few hours of night wore out, the bright summer morning was come.
The blinking policeman drifted slowly up the street, and as usual
inspected the door. All well. He thought he heard a distant cry, and
raised his head to listen. The cry was repeated. Satisfied that it
was very far off—nowhere near _his_ beat—he smote his chilled hands
together and sauntered away, to meet his welcome relief.
CHAPTER IV.—CONCLUSION.
Amy did not greatly enjoy herself at Brighton. Her father was kind
to her, but he was not the jovial, light-hearted companion whom
she remembered of old. He was dull, heavy, and irritable, and was
constantly engrossed in thought, muttering anxiously to himself. He
did not sleep well, for she heard him walking about his room in the
night; and he grew more haggard and weary-looking every day. He was
clearly not benefiting by the sea-air. He spoke but little; and on the
question of her relations with her husband, he, much to her surprise
and disgust, declined to speak at all. When she once began to babble
of her wrongs, he turned upon her with positive anger; told her that he
had come there for rest, not to be worried; that it would no doubt all
be arranged comfortably on their return; and that, till then, she was
to preserve silence on the subject. All this made Mrs Ferrard extremely
dignified and sulky; but being a young person of no great depth, she
simply concluded that Pa had a fit of indigestion, and contrived to
amuse herself fairly well with shopping, drives, and promenades, in
the company of certain friends of her maiden days who chanced to be at
Brighton, and who were by no means averse to the society of a lady of
title. At all events, the life was a pleasant contrast to that which
the Honourable Mrs Ferrard had enjoyed of late in the company of her
lord and master.
The truth was that Mr Cross was very ill both in body and mind. He had,
though he knew it not, been ailing ever since his daughter’s flight;
and the perplexity and distress he was now enduring were telling upon
him fearfully. He had quite lost faith in the success of his plans;
calmer reflection told him that it would be vain to hope that the
leopard could change his spots in the manner he had proposed. Ferrard’s
blank silence at the breakfast-table, and the fact that no letter had
been received from him since, bore out this opinion.
But what caused him greater trouble and alarm than anything else was
the manner in which the idea of Ferrard’s death had taken hold upon
his mind, to the exclusion of all other thoughts, until it had assumed
the pitiless tyranny of a fixed idea. Night and day it was all before
him—the uselessness of the man’s existence, the evils which would
cease with it, the chances for and against its duration, the various
causes which might perhaps terminate it. And through all, a fierce
and devouring longing for its termination, such as he dared not now
acknowledge to himself. He was maddened at the difficulties in his way,
horrified at the tendency of his thoughts; and there were times when he
felt that the safest and easiest thing to do would be to row himself
out a mile or two from the beach and hide his troubles and temptations
for ever under the careless waves.
They had only been at Brighton five days, when Mr Cross, to his
daughter’s surprise and chagrin, announced his intention of returning
to town at once. Amy expostulated, but in vain; he declared that he was
sick of the place; that it was doing him no good—which was quite true;
that he must get back to work and occupy his mind. Finding opposition
useless, Mrs Ferrard made her preparations with the best grace she
might, and they took the noon-train to London the same day.
On arrival, they drove first to the lodgings in Duke Street, and the
auctioneer entered the house with his daughter. To their surprise, they
found that Ferrard was not only absent, but had not been seen or heard
of since the day of his wife’s departure, when he had remained indoors
until ten o’clock at night, and had then gone out; leaving, according
to his wont, no word as to when he should return. The people of the
house had after a time concluded that he also must be at Brighton. Amy,
being used to these absences, though never before of such duration,
was less surprised than her father, who was not only astonished, but
greatly cast down at what seemed to be an additional evidence of
Ferrard’s rejection of his plans, and determination to continue the old
courses.
‘There, it’s no use talking,’ he said at last. ‘He’ll come home some
time, I suppose; and when he does, send him on to me at once, d’ye
hear, Amy? Tell him—ay, tell him that I’ve altered my mind—that I have
proposals to make to him which will suit him much better than the last.
I must try and hit on something else. And if he’s not back to-morrow,
come over and let me know in the evening, will you? There, good-bye;
and keep up your spirits, my pet—father’ll see you all right, don’t you
fear.’
He kissed her and departed. He must get home, and quietly think matters
over. Suppose the fellow had bolted for good and all? What was to be
done in that event? It required careful consideration, and should have
it at once.
He called at the bank on the way home, to get his keys. The parcel,
tied with string and sealed with his own seal, was delivered to him
just as he had left it. He drove to his house, where he found several
letters awaiting him. Like a good man of business, he set to work
to dispose of all lighter matters, before addressing himself to the
consideration of the weightier. He opened and glanced at the letters;
he took up the parcel, once more examined the seal, tore off the paper,
unlocked the wallet, and spread the keys on the table. All right. Was
it? Surely there was something wrong?
What could it be?
He puzzled over the keys again and again, but without result. He seemed
to be constantly on the verge of detecting the deficiency, whatever it
was; but the clearness and readiness of his thinking powers had of late
in great measure departed, and it continued to escape him. At last he
thought that he must be the victim of a nervous delusion, and with an
effort, turned his thoughts to other matters. He would first, according
to custom, visit his diamonds; then he would answer such of the letters
as required a reply; then he would be at leisure to reflect upon the
next step to be taken with regard to his son-in-law. And once more the
dominant wish rose in his mind, filling it like a poisonous mist.
He took his lantern and the keys, and went to the strong-room, which
he entered, closing the doors as usual carefully behind him. What was
it, as he turned towards the safe, that sent him staggering back to the
wall, his eyes starting from his head, his hair crisping with horror?
The drawer full of papers lay on the table. The iron semicircular
handle projected from the orifice. It was in an upright position—it had
not been turned to the horizontal one. And the safe was closed.
He saw the whole sequence of events in one agonising second of time,
as drowning men are said to review instantaneously the whole course
of their past lives. It was the absence of the duplicate keys which
had puzzled him in the study; and their absence at once explained the
absence of Ferrard. He now remembered how, while at breakfast, just
before leaving the house, he had placed all his keys, as he had then
supposed, into his wallet; how he had then and there put the locked
wallet into his pocket, and had driven straight to the bank, where,
without opening it, he had made it into a parcel, sealed it with his
signet, and handed it to the manager, taking his receipt. The parcel
had been given back to him exactly as he had left it—of that he had
assured himself. Only one thing could have happened. The duplicates
had never been in the wallet at all. Unused to their presence, he
had doubtless left them behind; and the wretched man whom he had so
insanely trusted had stolen them, had the same night entered the
strong-room and the safe, and——
What would he have to face, when that massy door should glide away? The
dingy face of the picture, guardian of the deadly trap and its awful
secret, seemed to sneer and gibe at him, daring him to seek an answer
to the question.
Stay! There was one hope. He might have carried away the keys in his
hand or his pockets, and dropped them in the street, or left them on
the bank counter. If this were so, some common marauder might have met
with his deserts—or, if he had recently entered, might even now be
waiting to make a dash for liberty!
He approached the door, and listened. All was silent. He called in
a quavering voice, which rang weirdly in the vaulted roof, ‘Who is
there?’ No reply—no movement.
He sat down in the one chair, and tried to remember whether on that
fatal night he had withheld from his guest the ultimate secret, of the
necessity for half-turning the handle before withdrawing it. In vain.
All was confused and dream-like. Either he had disclosed the secret, or
he had not. If he had not——
He dragged the table desperately to the corner of the room and mounted
upon it. Pushing at one end a stone seemingly as firmly fixed as its
fellows, it revolved on a pivot. Thrusting his hand through the gap, he
withdrew the second handle, and the safe-door glided back. One look was
enough. The next moment, he was groping blindly for the door—for escape
from the horror which was behind him.
His wish was terribly fulfilled! His daughter was a widow!
He crept into the sunlit street, with difficulty closing the heavy
door. White and ghastly, he leaned one hand on the wall as he went, and
gasped for breath. Two or three passers-by stopped and looked after
him, expecting to see him fall. He did not do so, but gained the house,
let himself in, staggered into the dining-room, dropped into a chair,
and, for a space, knew no more.
When he regained his senses, he contrived to get to the cellaret and
to swallow a heavy dose of brandy. This restored him sufficiently
to enable him to think over his discovery and to settle his plan of
action. He rang the bell.
‘Something dreadful has happened,’ he said to the parlour-maid, who had
uttered an exclamation on seeing him. ‘No, no; I’m not ill—only a bit
upset. Get me a pen and ink and paper, and send John for a cab. I want
him to take a letter.’
He wrote a line or two with difficulty, and addressed it to the Earl of
Englethorpe. Having despatched his messenger, he remained in a kind of
stupor until wheels were heard at the door and the earl was announced.
Their greeting was of the briefest kind, though they remained together
for a considerable time. Then they repaired to the strong-room. The
auctioneer on his return was more composed than he had hitherto been,
but his visitor was terribly agitated. Again they were closeted
together. Various deputations from the kitchen, which by this time
was in a ferment of the most unendurable curiosity, failed, in spite
of enterprising approaches to the keyhole, to hear more than a low
murmuring within. At length the earl departed; and then the dreadful
event which had happened became known to the amazed and awe-stricken
household. Mr Cross had, it was said, met Captain Ferrard just outside
the door, and had been accompanied by him to the strong-room, where
he had fallen down—in a fit, as the auctioneer had at first supposed;
stone-dead, as he had perceived immediately afterwards. Without delay,
Mr Cross had gone for a doctor, who had stated that death had been
instantaneous—cause, apoplexy; and would in due course formally certify
to that effect.
The body was put into a coffin within two hours, and removed to the
Englethorpe town-house. The father of the deceased was the only mourner
at the very plain and quiet funeral which took place soon after. There
was no inquest, for the necessary medical certificate was actually
obtained; how obtained, it is no concern of ours to relate. Money is
powerful; in every profession and calling, there are those with whom it
is all-powerful.
There was a little talk at first over James Ferrard’s death. People
were found to say that there was something queer about the matter,
and to comment on the fact that nothing had been seen of the dead man
for some days before his death. But it was speedily known that he was
a defaulter on the turf, which fully accounted for his disappearance
from his usual haunts. Nothing, therefore, came of these suspicions,
though others of a different kind were rife enough, if rather vague.
The earl sternly forbade all reference to the subject, even in his own
household; it was understood that something awkward was behind, which
for family reasons was to be hushed up. Hushed up it accordingly was;
and in a fortnight’s time James Ferrard, except to his creditors, was
as though he had never been.
All this was, of course, distinctly wrong, and contrary to public
policy. Yet a coroner’s jury could only have dragged to light matters
the disclosure of which would have inflicted cruel shame and disgrace
upon a noble and hitherto stainless house. The blame of the death could
have attached to no one save the dead man himself; least of all to Mr
Cross. His evidence would have been that he had shown the diamonds
and explained the mechanism, but that he could not remember, owing to
his state at the time, whether he had called attention to the secret
connected with the handle. It would have been clear, either that he
had not done so, or that Ferrard had forgotten it. Beyond this, there
would have been absolutely nothing to connect him with the matter. He
was in a different part of the kingdom during the whole period of the
occurrence, as would have been conclusively proved. ‘Accidental death’
would have been the only possible verdict; and it would have been as
clear as daylight that the felonious intention of the deceased had
brought with it its own terrible punishment.
The auctioneer followed his son-in-law to the grave in little more
than a year, a broken-hearted man. It was said that he never got over
the shock received on the morning of his return from Brighton. This
was undoubtedly the truth; yet, as we know, it was not all the truth.
Though without his knowledge or design, yet in accordance with his
morbid wish, and indirectly by his act, had Ferrard died a miserable
death; and the auctioneer regarded himself as a murderer, though
unpunishable by the laws of this world. An already enfeebled body
was unable to resist the effect of the mental torture of ceaseless
self-reprobation, and the end was not long in coming.
But he lived to see Amy married to such a husband as he would have
chosen for her in the old happy days, and to bestow upon her by will
the bulk of his fortune. This did not, however, include the diamonds or
the proceeds of their sale, which he distributed before his death among
the London hospitals. Amy and her husband lived in the house in the
square; but the safe was sold, its ingenious mechanical arrangements
destroyed, and the fatal vault and its ghastly associations bricked up
together.
With much diminished hopes, owing to the death of the acceptor, the
holders of the forged bill made their first cautious advances, in the
hope that consideration for the honour of the family might still induce
the relations of the deceased to pay a good price for silence. To their
surprise, their exorbitant demands were paid in full without cavil or
hesitation, and the acceptance redeemed. Where the money came from was
a mystery; but it was observed that the earl always thenceforth spoke
of the auctioneer as a most respectable and worthy man, to whom he was
under the greatest obligations.
LIFEBOAT COMPETITION.
The success of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution in the recent
lifeboat competition will give general satisfaction. It is in the
first place very gratifying that it should have won the substantial
prize of six hundred pounds which was offered by the Committee of the
International Fisheries Exhibition for ‘the best full-sized lifeboat,
fully equipped, and on a carriage, adapted to aid stranded or wrecked
vessels from the shore in gales of wind, and through heavy broken seas
and surf;’ since it is now certain that the sum in question has been
devoted to the best of all possible objects. It is also reassuring to
know that the model boat of an English Institution which has not only
earned a world-wide reputation for saving life at sea, but in a great
measure makes up for our national shortcomings in this respect, should
have held its own against all comers.
The competition was carried out under difficult circumstances, and
frequent postponements were necessary before the judges could declare
the state of wind and weather to be satisfactory. The successful boat
had to contend with two formidable competitors—the Hodgson Patent
Lifeboat, and one built by Messrs Forrest and Son, of Limehouse; and
the public interest in the experiment was considerably heightened by
the fact that all three boats were exhibited in the International
Fisheries Exhibition and had been examined by many thousands of
persons. The Hodgson Patent Lifeboat in particular excited general
curiosity from its novel construction; and the fact that it was claimed
for it that it was uncapsizable, unimmergible, and reversible, gave
additional interest to its behaviour in the water. It should be added
that the boat in question was built as a ship’s boat, and that it
therefore had to contend under a disadvantage against the heavier and
more serviceable pattern of the Institution. It was, however, almost a
foregone conclusion that both of these boats would fail to wrest the
palm of superiority from the model built on those familiar lines which
have earned such a wonderful reputation off all our coasts and under
the identical conditions of the competition.
Few boats can stand the terrible test of being launched from an exposed
beach through mountains of surf, and fewer still prove manageable
under either oars or sails in broken water. Further, the boats of the
National Lifeboat Institution possess seven qualities which experience
has proved to be essential, and in each of these they have some claim
to be regarded as being as nearly perfect as possible. Thus they are
buoyant, self-discharging, self-righting, stable and with great power
of ballasting; and they possess speed, stowage-room, and strength of
build. It is perhaps in this last respect that they especially excel.
One of the greatest dangers to which lifeboats are exposed is that
of being stove-in against wreck or rocks; and the present pattern of
boat is designed so as to possess the greatest possible strength and
elasticity compatible with portability.
It is, of course, only too true that lifeboat service is, and always
must be, terribly hazardous. Nearly every winter some of the heroes who
man our lifeboats lay down their lives in attempting to save those of
others; but this is happily but seldom the fault of the boat. It may
fairly be contended that human ingenuity has exhausted its resources
in this direction, and that, with certain modifications to suit local
requirements, the pattern of the Lifeboat Institution is the best
possible; and that even when it has to yield the palm in some one or
two particulars, the rare combination of qualities which it possesses
still entitles it to be considered _facile princeps_.
Now that the loss of life at sea is attracting general attention,
the work of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution seems to again
call for marked recognition. At a time when the national conscience
is being awakened to the inefficiency of the shipping laws to secure
a reasonable measure of safety for seamen, it is refreshing to turn
to the sixtieth annual Report of this inestimable society. Practical
benevolence is always attractive; and the facts and figures which the
Institution adduces in order to justify its claim to public support,
certainly point to a vigorous usefulness. Last year, lifeboats were
launched two hundred and eighty-three times, saving seven hundred
and twenty-five lives, and thirty vessels. It may be added that the
number of vessels would doubtless have been greatly increased but
for the imperative orders that the saving of life shall be the first
consideration; and it is only on those comparatively rare occasions
when it can be done without endangering the safety of the crew, that
lifeboats render salvage services. Two hundred and thirty lives were
also saved last year by shore-boats and other means, rewards being
bestowed by this Institution; and this brings up the total of lives
rescued to nine hundred and fifty-five. Further, in the sixty years
ending 31st December 1883, the Institution has been instrumental in
saving thirty thousand five hundred and sixty-three lives, and has
recompensed these noble services by the payment of seventy-seven
thousand nine hundred and eighty-four pounds as rewards, and the
distribution of gold and silver medals. These figures are a sufficient
testimonial to secure a substantial increase of support from a nation
which is nothing if not maritime. Yet it is impossible to regard the
present state of things as wholly satisfactory. It is a great thing
that some hundreds of lives should be saved off our coasts every year;
but it should not be forgotten that some thousands are annually lost.
Thus, in the year 1880-81, two thousand nine hundred and twenty-three
lives were lost in British or colonial vessels off British coasts; and
in the year 1881-82, this number was increased to three thousand nine
hundred and seventy-eight. Later figures are not yet available; but
there is little hope that they will show a decrease. Again, a recent
Board of Trade return shows that the total number of lives lost in
British merchant-ships in the twelve years from 1871 to 1882 inclusive
amounted to thirty-eight thousand seven hundred and twenty-two. These
figures are simply appalling. Doubtless a large proportion of these
poor fellows perished far away from help; but it is within common
knowledge that much can be done, by strengthening the resources of the
Lifeboat Institution, to diminish this terrible mortality.
Let any one take the wreck-charts for a few years past, and note those
districts where clusters of black spots appropriately mark the scene
of fatal wrecks. Let him then turn to the Reports of the Lifeboat
Institution, and see what lifeboats were stationed there, and he
will find that the number of fatalities are in an inverse ratio to
the number of lifeboats. Thus, many stretches of coast which bore a
terrible reputation only a few years back have, chiefly owing to the
increased number and efficiency of the lifeboats stationed upon them,
lately become much less fearful. But the total number of lifeboats
now under the management of the Institution is only two hundred and
seventy-four; and although we have the best reasons for believing that
no effort is spared in this direction, it is notorious that a certain
number of them are very old, if not unseaworthy, craft, which should be
at once replaced by new ones. Indeed, no inconsiderable proportion of
the funds of the Institution is necessarily devoted to these purposes.
Thus, last year, old lifeboats were replaced by new ones at Caister,
Cardigan, Margate, Padstow, Swansea, Winchelsea, and Withernsea; while
wholly new stations were established at Llanaelhaiarn, Mablethorp, Port
Erin, and Aranmore Island. Others are in course of formation. But,
turning to the wreck-chart, it is easy to see at a glance how much
remains to be done.