"WANTED--A LADY"
We must go back a few days to watch with Dick Stanmore through the sad
sorrowing hours that succeeded his step-mother's ball. I trust I have
not so described this gentleman as to leave an impression that he was
what young ladies call a romantic person. Romance, like port
wine, after-dinner slumbers, flannel next the skin, and such
self-indulgences, should be reserved as a luxury for after-life; under
no circumstances must it be permitted to impair the efficiency of
manhood in its prime. Dick Stanmore took his punishment with true
British pluck and pertinacity. It was a "facer." As it could not
possibly be returned, his instincts prompted him to "grin and bear
it." He had sustained a severe fall. His first impulse was to get up
again. None the less did nerves thrill and brain spin with the force
and agony of the blow. Perhaps the very nature that most resists,
suffers also the most severely from such shocks, as a granite wall
cracks and splinters to the round shot, while an earth-work accepts
that rushing missile with a stolid harmless thud.
Dick's composition was at least not earthy enough to let him go to bed
after this recent downfall of his hopes. Restless, hurt, sorrowful,
angry with himself, not _her_--for his nature could be gallantly
loyal under defeat--sleep was as impossible as any other occupation
requiring quietude and self-control. No. The only thing to be done was
to smoke, of course! and then to pack up everything he could lay hands
on, without delay, so as to leave London that very morning, for any
part of England, Europe, or the habitable world. All places would be
alike to him now, only the farther from Belgrave Square the better.
Therefore it was, perhaps, that, after shamming to breakfast, and
enduring considerable pain in a state of enforced inactivity, while
his servant completed their travelling arrangements, he drove through
this very Square, though it lay by no means in a direct line for the
railway station to which he was bound. Those who believe in ghosts
affirm that a disembodied spirit haunts the place it best loved on
earth; and what are we but the ghosts of our former selves, when all
that constituted the pith and colouring and vitality of our lives has
passed away? Ah! Lady Macbeth's are not the only white hands from
which that cruel stain can never be removed. There are soft eyes and
sweet smiles and gentle whispers, enough in the world guilty of moral
manslaughter (I believe the culprits themselves call it "justifiable
homicide"), not entirely divested of that malice prepense which
constitutes the crime of murder! Happy the victims in whom life is not
completely extinguished, who recover their feet, bind up their wounds,
and undeterred by a ghastly experience, hazard in more encounters a
fresh assassination of the heart. Such fortitude would have afforded a
remedy to Dick Stanmore. "Wanted--a lady!" should have been the motto
emblazoned on his banner if ever he turned back into the battle once
more. Homoeopathy, no doubt, is the treatment for a malady like
that which prostrated this hapless sufferer,--homoeopathy, at first
distrusted, ridiculed, accepted only under protest, and in accordance
with the force of circumstances, the exigences of the position;
gradually found to soothe, to revive, to ameliorate, till at last it
effects a perfect and triumphant cure, nay, even shows itself powerful
enough to produce a second attack of the same nature, fierce and
virulent as the first. But, meanwhile, Dick Stanmore followed the
ghost's example, and drove sadly through Belgrave Square, as he told
himself, for the last--last time! Had he been an hour later, just one
hour, he might have taken away with him a subject for considerable
speculation, during his proposed travels in search of distraction.
This is what he would have seen.
A good-looking bad-looking man, with dark eyes and hair, sweeping a
crossing very inefficiently, while he watched the adjacent street with
an air of eager anxiety, foreign to an occupation which indeed seems
to demand unusual philosophy and composure of mind. Presently, Maud
Bruce, tripping daintily across the path he had swept clean, let
herself into the Square gardens, dropping her glove in the muddy
street as she took a pass-key from her pocket. The crossing-sweeper
pounced at it like a hawk, stuck his broom against a lamp-post, and
hurried round to the other side of the Square.
Here Maud appeared at the gate, while "Gentleman Jim," for it was none
other, returned her glove without a word through the iron bars.
"I hardly expected you so soon," said Miss Bruce. "My letter could
only have been posted at five this morning."
"You might ha' made sure I'd come that instant, miss," answered Jim,
his face brightening with excitement and delight. "I knowed who 'twas
from, well enough, though 'twas but a line as a man might say. I ain't
had it an hour, an' here I am, ready and willing for your job, be it
what it may!"
"You're a bold fellow, I know," said Maud, "but it's a desperate
undertaking. If you don't like it, say so."
Jim swore a horrible oath, and then drew his hand across his lips as
though to wipe away its traces.
"Look'ee here, miss," he muttered in a hoarse thick whisper. "If you
says to me, Jim, says you, go and rob that there church--see, now, I'd
have the wards of the big key in wax, ah! this weary arternoon. If you
says to me, says you, Jim, go and cut that there parson's throat, I've
got a old knife in my pocket as I wouldn't want to sharpen afore the
job was done, and the parson too, for good an' all!"
There was a peculiar grace in the setting on of Maud's head,
especially in the firm lines of her mouth and chin. Though she looked
even paler than usual, her rare beauty, always somewhat resolute and
defiant in character, never showed to greater advantage than now.
"I won't speak of reward to _you_," she said, very clearly and
distinctly, "though you shall name your own price, and be paid at
your own time. Listen--I have an enemy--a bitter enemy who threatened
me--actually dared to threaten _me_ last night--who would hesitate at
nothing to do me an injury."
"Blast him!" muttered Jim ferociously. "Leave 'un to me, miss, leave
'un to me!"
She took no heed of his interruption.
"That enemy," she continued, "must be got out of my way."
The sweat stood on her listener's brow.
"I understand you, miss," he gasped in a broken voice. "It shall be
done."
Over the face this ruffian thought too beautiful to be mortal came a
stern proud smile.
"I forbid _that_" she replied, "forbid it distinctly, and I _will_ be
obeyed to the very letter. If you were to kill this man, I should be
the first to hand you over to justice. Listen. He must be kept quiet
and out of the way for something less than three weeks. After that, he
can harm me no more. I bear him no grudge, I wish him no evil; but he
must be taken away this very afternoon. Every hour might make it too
late. Can you do this?"
Jim pondered. He was an experienced criminal. A man with certain
qualities which, in the honest paths of life, might have made him
successful, even remarkable. In a few seconds he had run over his
chances, his resources, his risk of detection, all the pros and cons
of the undertaking. He looked cheerfully in her face.
"I _can_, miss," said he confidently. "I don't go for to say as it's
a job to be done right off, like easy shavin', or taking a dozen of
hiseters. But it's to be worked. I'll engage for that, and I'm the
chap as can work it. You couldn't give me no longer than to-day, could
ye now?"
"If it's not done at once, you must let it alone," was the answer.
"Now that's business," replied Jim, growing cooler and more
self-possessed as he reviewed the difficulties of his enterprise. "The
party being in town, miss, o' course. You may depend on my makin' of
him safe before nine o'clock to-night. Shall I trouble you for the
name and address, or will you give me a description in full, that will
do as well?"
"You have seen him," she observed quietly. "On this very spot where I
am standing now. I walked with him in these gardens the first morning
you swept our crossing. A gentleman in a frock coat with a bunch of
flowers at his buttonhole. Do you remember?"
_Did he remember_? Why the man's figure, features, every detail of his
dress was photographed on Jim's heart.
"No need to tell me his name, miss," was the answer. "I knows him as
well as I knows these here old shoes o' mine. I've had my eye on him
ever since. I can tell you when he goes out, when he comes in, where
he takes his meals. I could lay my hand on him in any part of this
here town at two hours' notice. Make yourself easy, miss. Your job's
as good as done, and some day you'll see me again, miss, won't you?
And--and you'll thank me kindly, perhaps, when it's off your mind for
good and all!"
"You shall come and tell me the particulars," answered Miss Bruce,
with a gracious smile that seemed to flood him in sunshine, "when the
thing is finished. And now I ought to be at home again; but before I
go, understand plainly, to-morrow will be too late!"
Jim was deep in thought.
"The bird might be shy, miss," said he after a pause. "Some on 'em's
easy scared, and this doesn't seem like a green one, not a bit of it.
Supposin' as he _won't_ be 'ticed, miss; there's only one way, then!"
For a moment she felt a keen stab of compunction, but, remembering the
stake she ventured, nerved herself to resist the pang. This was no
time for child's play, for a morbid sensitiveness, for weak indulgence
of the feelings.
"Tell him you have a message from _me_, from Miss Bruce," she replied
firmly. "It will lead him anywhere."
Jim looked as if he would rather set about the business in any other
way; nevertheless, he was keenly alive to the efficiency of so
tempting a bait, reflecting at the same time with a kind of awe on Mr.
Ryfe's temerity in affronting such a character as this.
Another hurried sentence. A light in Jim's eyes like that with which a
dog receives directions from its master, a gesture such as dismisses
the same dog imperiously to its kennel, and Miss Bruce walked quietly
home to her music and her embroidery, while the crossing-sweeper,
recovering his broom, hurried off in another direction to commence
operations against the unsuspecting Tom Ryfe.
That gentleman's feelings, as he sat in his uncle's office the morning
after Mrs. Stanmore's ball, were of no enviable nature. Malice,
hatred, and all uncharitableness might indeed sufficiently describe
the frame of mind in which he went about his daily business,
unfortunately on the present occasion an affair of such mere routine
as in no way to distract his attention from his sorrows and his
wrongs.
"She has dared me," thought he, poring over a deed he knew by heart,
and of which his eye only took in the form and outward semblance,
"challenged me to do my worst, and herself declared it is to be war
to the knife. O Maud, Maud, how could you, how could you! Was it not
enough to have wound yourself round my heart, to have identified
yourself with my hopes, my ambition, my manhood, my very existence,
and then with one turn of your hand to have destroyed them, each and
all, but you must add insult to injury--must scorn and trample on me
as well? Some men may stand this sort of treatment--I won't. I _have_
a pull over you. Ah! I'm not such a fool, after all, perhaps, as you
thought. I have it, and hang me, but I'll make use of it! You have
blasted my life, and thought it good fun, no doubt. I'll see if I
can't give tit-for-tat and spoil _your_ little game, my haughty lady,
with your white face and your cursed high-handed airs. Yet, how I
loved them--how I loved them! Must I never see a woman again without
that queenly beauty coming between me and my share of happiness? What
right had you to destroy my whole future? And I would have been so
different if you had cared _for_ me; I might have made a better
gentleman than any of them. As for that emptyheaded cousin (to be sure
you've thrown him over, too, and I hope he feels it to his marrow),
and that swaggering lord, can they care for you like I did? Would they
have worked as hard to please you, and sat up night after night, as I
have done, poring over papers to see you righted? and why am I to
be sacrificed to such men as these? I won't be sacrificed; no, by
heavens! I've done my best for you hitherto, Miss Bruce, and you've
dared me now to do my _worst_. I shall rather astonish you, I think,
when you learn what that worst is. Curse you; I'll have no mercy! If
I _am_ to suffer, I'll take care not to suffer meekly and alone. It's
_my_ turn now, my lady, as, before twelve hours are out, you shall
know to your cost."
Mr. Ryfe, you see, was sadly wanting in that first element of chivalry
which establishes the maxim that "a woman can do no wrong." This
principle, when acted up to in its fullest sense, is convenient,
no doubt, and beneficial to us all. It involves free trade on the
broadest basis, sweeping away much of the selfishness and morbid
sentimentality that constitute the superstition we call Love. _She_
has a perfect right to change her mind, bless her! why shouldn't she?
And so, no doubt, have _you_! Ring for fresh cards, cut again for
partners, and so sit merrily down to another rubber. Thus, too, you
will learn to play the game cautiously and with counters, saving both
your temper and your gold. It may be you will miss the excitement of
real gambling, finding the pastime so wearisome that you are fain to
leave off and go to bed. Whatever you do, retire with a good grace.
It is but a choice of evils. Perhaps you had better be bored than
miserable, and, if less exciting, it is surely less painful to stifle
listless yawns, than to crush down the cry of a wilful wounded heart.
Mr. Ryfe, however, I consider perfectly inexcusable in the course
he chose to adopt. Self-sacrifice is, of all others, the quality by
which, in questions of feeling, the true gold is to be distinguished
from the false. But Tom had no idea of such generous immolation--not
he.
Hour after hour, poring over the deeds of which he never read a line,
he raged and chafed and came to a determination at last.
He had thought of writing to Lord Bearwarden, in his own name, warning
him as a true friend of the lady's antecedents who was about to become
his lordship's bride, enclosing at the same time a copy of her promise
to himself; for, with professional caution, he reflected that the
original had better not pass out of his hands. Then, he argued, if his
lordship could only see with his own eyes the treasured lines in her
well-known handwriting, by which Miss Bruce had bound herself in all
honour to the lawyer's clerk, that nobleman must readily, and of
necessity, hold himself absolved from any engagement he might have
contracted with her, and perceive at once the folly and impropriety
of making such a woman his wife. Yes, Lord Bearwarden should read the
letter itself; he would obtain a personal interview that very evening,
when the latter dressed for dinner. There would thus be no necessity
for trusting the important document out of his own possession, while
at the same time he could himself adopt a tone of candour and high
feeling, calculated to make a strong impression on such a true
gentleman as his friend.
He took Miss Bruce's promise from the safe in which he kept it locked
up, and hid it carefully in his breast-pocket. Then, looking at his
watch, and finding it was time to leave his office for the West-End,
heaped his papers together, bundled them into the safe, and prepared
to depart.
Walking moodily down-stairs he was waylaid by Dorothea, who, sluicing
the steps with dirty water under pretence of cleaning them, thus held,
as it were, the key of the position, and so had him at command. It
surprised him not a little that she should desist from her occupation
to request an interview.
"Can I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Thomas?" said she. "It's
private, and it's particular."
The amount of pressure put on Dorothea ere she consented to the
job now in hand it is not for me to estimate. Her Jim was a man of
unscrupulous habits and desperate resources. It is probable that she
had been subjected to the influences of affection, sentiment, and
intimidation, perhaps even physical force. I cannot tell, my business
is only with results.
There was no escaping, even had Mr. Ryfe been so inclined, for
Dorothea's person, pail, and scrubbing-brushes defended the whole
width of the staircase.
"It's strange, Mr. Thomas," she continued, pushing the hair off her
face. "Lor! I was that frightened and that surprised, as you might
have 'eard my 'eart beatin' like carpets. Who she may be, an' wot she
may be, I know no more than the dead. But her words was these--I'm
tellin' you her werry words--If you can make sure of seeing Mr. Ryfe,
says she,--that's _you_, Mr. Thomas,--any time afore to-night, says
she, tell him, as I must have a word with him in priwate atween him
and me this werry evening, or it would have been better for both of
us, poor things, says she, if we'd 'a never been born!"
Tom Ryfe stared.
"What do you mean?" he said. "Am I to understand that the--the
lady who spoke to you was desirous of an interview with me here in
chambers, or where?"
"An' a born lady she is an' were!" answered Dorothea, incoherent, and
therefore in the acute lawyer's opinion more likely to be telling
the truth. "A beautiful lady, too--tall and pale, 'aughty and
'andsome--(Tom started)--dressed in 'alf-mourning, with a
black-and-white parasol in her 'and. It's to see you priwate, Mr.
Thomas, as she bade me to warn of you. To-night at height in the
Birdcage Walk, without fail, says she, for it's life and death as is
the matter, or marriage, says she, which is sometimes wuss nor both."
Dorothea then removed herself, her pail, and her scrubbing-brushes to
one side, as though inviting him to follow out his assignation without
delay.
"I ask yer pardon," said she, "Mr. Thomas, if I done wrong. But the
young lady she seemed so anxious and aggrawated-like. No offence, sir,
I 'umbly 'ope, and she guv' me 'alf-a-sovereign."
"And I'll give you another," exclaimed Tom, placing a coin of that
value in Dorothea's damp hot hand. "The Birdcage Walk, at eight. And
it's past six now. Thank you, Dorothea. I've no doubt it's all right.
I'll start at once."
Leaving Gray's Inn, the warm tears filled his eyes to think he had
so misjudged her. Evidently she was in some difficulty, some
complication; she had no opportunity of confiding to him, and hence
her apparent heartlessness, the inconsistency of her conduct which he
had been unable to understand. Obviously she loved him still, and the
conviction filled him with rapture, all the more thrilling and intense
for his late misgivings.
He pulled her written promise from his pocket, and kissed it
passionately, reading it over and over again in the fading light. A
prayer rose from heart to lip for the woman he loved, while he looked
up to the crimson glories of the western sky. Do such prayers fall
back in the form of curses on the heads of those who betray, haunting
them in their sorrows--at their need--worst of all in their supreme
moments of happiness and joy? God forbid! Rather let us believe that,
true to their heaven-born nature, they are blessings for those who
give and those who receive.
Some two hours later, Tom Ryfe found himself pacing to and fro under
the trees in the Birdcage Walk, with a happier heart, though it beat
so fast, than had been within his waistcoat for weeks.
It was getting very dark, and even beneath the gas-lamps it was
difficult to distinguish the figure of man or woman, flitting through
the deep shadows cast by trees still thick with their summer foliage.
Tom, peering anxiously into the obscure, could make out nothing but
a policeman, a foot-guardsman with a clothes-basket, and a drunken
slattern carrying her baby upside-down.
He was growing anxious. Big Ben's booming tones had already warned him
it was a quarter past eight, when, suddenly, so close to him he could
almost touch it, loomed the figure of a woman.
"Miss Bruce," he exclaimed--"Maud--is it you?"
Turning his own body, so as to take advantage of a dim ray from the
nearest gaslight, he was aware that the woman, shorter and stouter
than Miss Bruce, had muffled herself in a cloak, and was closely
veiled.
"You have a letter--a message," he continued in a whisper. "It's all
right. I'm the party you expected to meet--here--at eight--under the
trees."
"And wot the--are you at with my missus under the trees?" growled
a brutal voice over his shoulder, while Tom felt he was helplessly
pinioned by a pair of strong arms from behind, that crushed and
bruised him like iron. Ere he could twist his hands free to show
fight, which he meant to do pretty fiercely, he found himself baffled,
blinded, suffocated, by a handkerchief thrust into his face, while a
strong, pungent, yet not altogether unpleasant flavour of ether filled
eyes, mouth, and nostrils, till it permeated to his very lungs. Then
with every pulsation of the blood Big Ben seemed to be striking
inside his brain till something gave way with a great whizz! like
the mainspring of a watch, and Tom Ryfe was perfectly quiet and
comfortable henceforth.
Five minutes afterwards a belated bricklayer lounging home with his
mate observed two persons, man and woman, supporting between them a
limp helpless figure, obviously incapable of sense or motion. Said the
bricklayer, "That's a stiff-'un, Bill, to all appearance."
"Stiff-'un be d----d!" retorted Bill; "he's only jolly drunk. I wish I
was too!"
The bricklayer seemed a man of reflection; for half-a-mile or so he
held his peace, then, with a backward nod of the head, to indicate his
meaning, observed solemnly--
"I wouldn't take that chap's head-ache when he comes to, no, not to be
as jolly drunk as he is this minnit--I wouldn't!"