Early next morning the officer in charge of Mr. Sandford's house was
relieved by a brother constable. Number Two was a much more civil person
in speech and manner than Number One; in fact, he speedily made himself
so agreeable to the housemaid that she brought him a cup of coffee, and
looked admiringly while he swallowed it. By the time Mrs. Sandford and
Marcia came down to breakfast, he had established an intimacy with Biddy
that was quite charming to look upon. One would have thought he was an
old friend of the household,--a favored crony; such an easy, familiar
air he assumed. He accosted the ladies with great gallantry,--assured
them that they were looking finely,--hoped they had passed a pleasant
night, and that Number One had given them no unnecessary inconvenience.
Marcia met him with a haughty stare which nobody but a woman of fashion
can assume. Turning to Mrs. Sandford, she exclaimed,--
"Who is this fellow?"
Number Two hastened to answer for himself:--
"My name, Ma'am, is Scarum, Harum Scarum some of the young lawyers call
me. Ha!" (_A single laugh, staccato_.)
"Well, Mr. Scarum, you can keep your compliments for those who
appreciate them. Come, Lydia, let us go down to breakfast. The presuming
fool!" she exclaimed, as she passed through the hall,--"he's worse
than the other. One can put up with a coarse man, if he minds his own
business; but an impudent, self-satisfied fellow must be made to know
his place."
"High-strung filly! ha!" (_Sforzando_.)
"May have to speak to common folks, yet,--eh, Miss Bridget?"
But farther conversation was interrupted for the time. Bridget was
summoned by the bell to the dining-room, and gallant Number Two was left
alone in the parlor. Meanwhile he surveyed the room as minutely as if
it had been a museum,--trying the rocking-chair, examining pictures,
snapping vases with his unpared nails, opening costly books, smelling of
scent-bottles, scanning the anti-Macassars and the Berlin-wool mats. At
last he opened the piano, and, in a lamentably halting style, played,
"Then you'll remember me," using only a forefinger in the performance.
He sang at the same time in a suppressed tone, while he cast agonizing
looks at an imaginary obdurate female, supposed to be on the sofa,
occasionally glancing with admiration in the mirror at the intensely
pathetic look his features wore.
Marcia, meanwhile, had borne the noise as long as she could; so Biddy
was dispatched to ask the singer if he would not _please_ to do his
practising at some other time.
"Practising, indeed!" exclaimed Number Two, indignantly, upon receiving
the message. "There are people who think I can sing. These women,
likely, a'n't cultivated enough to appreciate the 'way-up music. They're
about up to that hand-organ stuff of Sig-ner Róssyni, likely. They
can't understand Balfy; they a'n't up to it. What do _you_ think, Miss
Bridget? Nice figger, that of yours." (_Sotto voce_.) "None of the
tall, spindlin', wasp-waisted, race-horse style about you, like that"
(pointing down-stairs). "A good plump woman for me! and a woman with an
ear, too! Now _you_ know what good singin' is. I led the choir down to
Jorumville 'bove six months b'fore I come down here and went into the
law. But _she_ thinks I was practising! Ha!" (_Sempre staccato_.)
"La! did ye?" said the admiring Biddy.
Tinkle, tinkle, again. Biddy was now summoned to call Charles, and see
if he would breakfast. Number Two made another tour of the room, with
new discoveries. While absorbed in this pleasing employment, the two
women passed upstairs. Marcia could not restrain herself, as she saw him
with her favorite bird-of-paradise fan.
"Don't spoil those feathers, you meddlesome creature!"
"Beg your pardon, Ma'am" (with an elaborate bow). "Merely admirin' the
colors. Pretty sort of a thing, this 'ere! 'Most too light and fuzzy for
a duster, a'n't it? Feathers ben dyed, most likely? Willin' to 'bleege
the fair, however, especially one so handsome." (Rubbing it on his
coat-sleeve.) "Guess't a'n't got dirty any."
Charles, meanwhile, had risen and dressed, and came out when Bridget
knocked; a spectacle, indeed,--a walking sermon on the perils that may
follow what are termed "good times." His face would have been pale,
except that his nose, which was as puffy as an _omelette soufflée_, and
his left eye with a drooping lid sustained by a livid crescent, gave it
a rubicund expression. His knees were shaky, his pulse feeble, his head
top-heavy. He declined assistance rather sulkily, and descended holding
by the stair-rail and stepping gingerly. Number Two, in spite of his
genial, unruffled temper, could not repress his surprise, as the
apparition passed the parlor-door.
"A rum customer! Ha!" (_Con anima_.)
Before the repentant owner of the puffy nose and purple eyelid had
finished his solitary breakfast, Mr. Sandford came home. He had obtained
bail and was at large. Looking hastily into the parlor, he saw
a stranger, with his hat jauntily on one side, seated in the
damask-covered chair, with his feet on an embroidered ottoman, turning
over a bound collection of sea-mosses, and Marcia's guitar lying across
his lap. He was dumb with astonishment. Polite Number Two did not leave
him to burst in ignorance.
"All right. Mr. Sandford, I suppose. An 'tachment put on, and I'm
keeper. Sorry to disturb a family. But somebody has to. Can I do anything
to obleege you?"
"Yes, by laying down that book which you are spoiling. And you may take
your greasy boots off that worsted-work, and put the stopper into that
Bohemian-glass bottle."
"Beg your pardon, Sir. Didn't intend to make trouble. Boots has to be
greased, you know, else they crack all out, an' don't last no time; mine
do. This 'ere Cologne is nice, to be sure. I jest poured out a bit on my
pocket-handkercher."
"Cologne! It's attar of roses; and you've spilled more than your neck is
worth,--taking yourself at your own valuation."
"Why, you don't say this is high-cost? It does smell good, though, ha!"
As he started to go up-stairs, Mr. Sandford saw the linen carpet-cover
spattered with frequent drops of blood. He called aloud to his sister,--
"Marcia! are you there? alive? What's the meaning of this blood? Who has
been murdered? Or is this turned into a butcher's shop?"
Marcia and her sister-in-law descended, and hurriedly explained the
mystery. While they were standing at the head of the stairs, Charles
made his appearance, and received such congratulations from his brother
as might be expected. He vouchsafed no word of reply, but went into
the room where he had slept to get some article he had left. A sudden
thought struck Mr. Sandford. He followed Charles into the room, and in a
moment after returned,--but so changed! Imagine Captain Absolute at
the duelling-ground turned in a twinkling into Bob Acres, Lucy Bertram
putting on the frenzied look of Meg Merrilies, or the even-tempered
Gratiano metamorphosed into the horror-stricken, despairing Shylock
at the moment he hears his sentence, and you have some notion of the
expression which Sandford's face wore. His eyes were fixed like baleful
lights in a haggard, corpse-like countenance. His hair was disordered.
He clutched his cravat as though suffocating. His voice was gone; he
whispered feebly, like one of Ossian's ghosts,--
"Gone! gone! Who has it? Marcia! Lydia! Charles! Who's got it? Quick!
The money! Gone?"
He rushed into the room again, deaf to any reply. He got upon his hands
and knees, looked under the bed, the wardrobe, the dressing-table, the
chairs, muttering all the while with a voice like a dying man's. He rose
up, staggering, and seized Marcia by the arm, who trembled with terror
at his ferocity.
"The money! Give me the money! You've got it! You know you have! Give it
to me! Give"--
"Pray, be calm," said Mrs. Sandford; "you shall know all about it."
"I don't want to know," he almost screamed; "I want the money, the
money!"
Then dropping his voice to a lower key, and with a tone which was meant
to be wheedling, he turned to his sister-in-law:--
"You've got it, then? How you frightened me! Come, dear sister! don't
trifle with me. I'm poor, very poor, and the little sum seems large.
Give it to me. Let me see that it is safe. _Dear_ sister!"
"I haven't it," said Mrs. Sandford, "But compose yourself. You shall
know about it."
He cried audibly, like a sickly child.
"It isn't gone? No, you play upon my fears. Where is the pocket-book?"
"How are you ever going to know, if you won't hear?" asked Marcia. "I
wouldn't be so unmanly as to whine so even about a million."
"No, you think money is as plenty as buttons. Wait till you
starve,--starve,--till you beg on a street-crossing."
"Listen," said Mrs. Sandford.
"Do, and stop your groaning like a madman," said Marcia, consolingly.
"When Charles met with his mishap and fell senseless, we asked the
officer to carry him up-stairs. Rather than go up another flight, we had
him taken into your chamber. Your dressing-case lay on the table, in
the middle of the room, away from its usual place by the mirror. The
officer at once seized and opened it. You had carelessly left your money
in it. He was evidently informed of the fact that you had money, and was
directed to attach it. He counted the package before me, and then put it
into his pocket."
During this recital, Mr. Sandford's breath came quick and his eyes
opened wider. His muscles all at once seemed charged with electricity.
He dashed down-stairs, half-a-dozen steps at a time, and pounced upon
unlucky Number Two, who, with the captivated Biddy, was leaning at the
parlor-door, listening to the conversation above. Seizing the officer by
the throat, Sandford shouted huskily,--
"Robber! thief! Give up that money! How dare you? Give it up, I say!"
Number Two could not answer, for his windpipe was mortally squeezed
under the iron grip of his adversary; therefore, as the only reply he
could make, he commenced the manual exercise right and left, and with
such effect, that Sandford loosened his hold and staggered back.
"There! I guess you've got enough on't. What ye talkin' about money? I
a'n't got any of your money."
Meanwhile, Mrs. Sandford, who had followed the infuriated man, though
necessarily at some distance, came and grasped his arm.
"The man who seized the money is gone," she said. "This is the one who
takes his place."
Sandford was speechless,--but not long. While hope remained, he had
whined, begged, cried, implored. Now that he was baffled, discomfited,
ruined, his rage broke out. The placid gentleman, whose glossy garb and
quiet air a day before made such a picture of content, would hardly
be recognized in this furious, gesticulating lunatic, whose oaths and
objurgations came belching forth like sulphurous flames. It was on his
gentle sister-in-law that the weight of his wrath fell. She tried to
pacify him, until she became actually alarmed for her safety, and turned
to fly.
"Go!" he exclaimed. "You've done enough. You've ruined me. Pack off!
You've beggared me. Now look out for yourself! Don't let me see your
face again!"
Trembling and tearful, Mrs. Sandford went to her room to gather
her wardrobe. She had not intended to remain a burden upon her
brother-in-law. Now she must go at once. Even if he were to repent of
his blind rage and ask her forgiveness, she felt that there was an
impassable gulf between them.
During the confusion that followed, Number Two, feeling hungry, went
down with Biddy to lunch.
"It's about the last ov it here, Sirr," said the girl, "an' we may as
well ate what is good and drink something betther than cold wather."
So saying, the best the house afforded was set out;--wines of rare
vintages were uncorked, and glasses hob-a-nobbed.
Mr. Sandford, exhausted with his delirium, went to his room, and there
languidly paced the floor back and forth, without cessation, like a
caged white bear in midsummer. Charles crawled up to his own bed. Marcia
remained in the parlor, her busy brain turning over the unusual events
of the day, and wondering what loop-hole of escape from their present
difficulties could be found.