THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
To say that Lesbia was amazed conveys imperfectly her state of mind.
The sudden arrival of her father, the hasty departure of her lover,
the mysterious incident connected with the amethyst cross, and the
still more mysterious remark which Mr. Hale had made--these things
perplexed and, very naturally, alarmed her. At once, with the
swiftness of an imaginative brain, she conjured up visions of disgrace
and shame and criminal publicity, going too far in her surmises, after
the fashion of such a brain. For after all, as a calmer reflection
suggested, there was nothing in what had taken place that should
induce such happenings, although there were several disquieting hints.
For a few moments the girl remained where she was, too agitated to
move; but when Hale disappeared into the cottage, and George's boat
vanished round a bend of the shining river, she woke to the fact that
for her own peace of mind it was necessary to ask questions. At once
she ran up the grass-grown path, and speedily found herself in the
narrow passage, which led right through the house from back to front.
But she only entered to hear the street door bang, and flew to open it
again in the hope of catching Mr. Hale before he could go far away.
But the man must have made good use of his legs, for when she peered
out into the quiet side street she noticed that it was empty. This
vanishing of her father without an explanation dismayed her more than
ever, and in the hope of gaining some sort of information she sought
Tim in the tiny kitchen, calling on him loudly. A soft voice like a
well-tuned lute answered her from the scullery.
"Ah, Miss Lesbia, and what wud ye be after spoilin' yer pretty voice
for now? Don't ye, me darlin', don't ye!"
"Why has my father gone out, Tim?" asked Lesbia sharply.
An odd little man emerged from the scullery and stood coolly rubbing
his nose-tip with the toe of the boot he was polishing. "An' how
should I know, miss? Didn't he come tearing through the passage, as if
the divil wor after him, an' lape like a trout int' the street? Sure
ye must have seen the masther rampagin' yersilf."
"I know that father came and found me with George and----"
"Ah, thin, 'tis Garge, is it?" muttered Tim, beginning to brush
mechanically.
"And rushed away in a temper because George would not give him my
amethyst cross."
Crash went the boot on the floor, and the blacking-brush followed,
while Tim stared out of his melancholy grey eyes as though he saw a
ghost. Decidedly the ornament was causing a considerable sensation,
although Lesbia could not understand why her father should rage, any
more than why Tim should stare. "Like a stuck pig," as she said,
inelegantly. And the annoying thing was that he did more than stare.
"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" groaned the Irishman, crossing himself.
"What on earth do you mean?" asked the girl, tartly, for she was
beginning to weary of these mysteries.
"Oh, blissid saints in glory!" Tim moaned again, and, picking up the
boot and the brush with the expression of a martyr, went into the
scullery to peel potatoes.
Lesbia, who was a determined young woman, followed, quite bent upon
getting at the root of the disturbance.
"Come and talk, Tim."
"Sure an' I must git the dinner ready anyhow, Miss."
"Come out, or I'll come in," cried Lesbia, standing at the door.
"Sure ye wudn't dirthy th' clothes av ye," coaxed Tim, and very
unwillingly scrambled back into the cleaner, drier kitchen with the
tin basin of potatoes in his huge fist.
He was certainly an ugly, under-sized man, and looked like the wicked
dwarf of a fairy tale. But the similarity was all on the surface, for
Tim Burke was as good and devoted a little Paddy as ever dipped his
fingers into holy water. But his appearance was not prepossessing, for
he was broader than he was long, and on a pair of hunched shoulders
was set askew a gigantic head much too large for his squat body. His
short legs were crooked, and he usually walked in a crab-like fashion
in unexpected directions--that is, whither his brain did not direct
his legs to go. He was barely five feet high, and his shaggy beard was
as red as the untidy hair covering his poll. He was quite a
monstrosity.
Nevertheless, Tim had his good points, for Nature had given him
beautiful grey eyes, pathetic as those of a dog, and a sweet
sympathetic voice, which sounded like a mellow bell. To hear Tim sing
Irish ditties of the heart-breaking sort was a treat not to be met
with every day, but he rarely sang them, save to Lesbia, whom he
adored. And small wonder, for she alone was kind to the odd, uncouth,
little man. Mr. Hale, whose selfishness was phenomenal, treated Tim
like a white slave and, indeed, he might be called one, seeing that he
worked like a horse and received no wages. Yet he was an admirable
housekeeper and a magnificent cook. With such qualifications he could
have procured a well-paid situation. Yet, for Lesbia's sake, he
remained at Rose Cottage, watching her like a cat a mouse, but with
more amiable intentions. She was the legacy which his mother Bridget,
the girl's nurse, had left him on her death-bed, when she died some
twelve months before.
Lesbia, looking like a fairy princess attended by her dwarf, perched
herself on the kitchen table with a severe face. To lose no time while
being questioned, Tim set to work peeling the potatoes, for Mr. Hale
growled like a bear when his meals were not placed punctually on the
table. As he peeled each potato, he dropped it with a splash into a
bucket of clean water and rarely raised his sad eyes to the face of
his young mistress during the conversation which ensued. Also--and
this Lesbia noticed--he conversed very reluctantly, and every
admission was wrung from unwilling lips.
"Tim," said his mistress severely, and beginning at the beginning,
"you are the only son of my nurse, Bridget Burke."
"I am that, Miss, her only boy, Miss, and a good mother she was to
me."
"A good nurse also, Tim. She loved me."
"An' who wudn't, ye pretty creature? Ain't I devoted to ye likewise,
me darlin'? Answer me that now?"
"I shall do so," said Miss Hale significantly, "when our conversation
comes to an end."
Tim groaned and winced. "Bad luck to the crass," he breathed, "an' may
the Vargin forgive me for sayin that same."
"Why, bad luck to the cross?" demanded Lesbia, coming to the point.
"An' how shud I know, me dear?"
"But you do know," she insisted. "Tim, your mother gave me that
cross."
"Did she now?--the owd fool."
"How dare you, Tim, and Bridget dead? She was your mother."
"Deed an' well she might be, Miss, for an uglier owd woman nivir could
be found in County Clare, forby she left it for this blissid country
whin I wor a gossoon."
"Did my father bring her over from Ireland, Tim?"
"Not he," Tim shook his Judas-coloured head. "Divil an eye did the
pair av us clap on the gintleman for many a long day. Wasn't I a
bare-futted brat runnin' wild about Whitechapel till my father--rest
his sowl--wos tuck by the police for shop-liftin'--bad luck to thim?
An' he died in gaol, poor man--ah, that he did, laving me mother an'
me widout bread in the mouths av us."
"What did Bridget do then, Tim?"
"Sure she come to Wimbleton or a place hard by," admitted Tim
reluctantly, "sellin' apples an' nuts, an' a mighty bad thing she made
by the sale."
"I want to know exactly how she came to be my nurse?" said Lesbia.
Tim bent over the potatoes deeply interested in the peeling. "Why,
Miss, your father--" here he swallowed something--"the masther, Miss,
and a kind, good gintleman, tuck pity on her and give her the
situation as your nurse, me dear."
"But my mother?"
"Oh, howly saints, an' how cud she say anything whin she wos dyin' an'
you but a year old? But my mother nursed you like her own choild,
Miss, till ye went to that school at Hampstead. But ye came back here
just whin she was dyin', poor sowl."
"I did, a year ago," said Lesbia significantly, "and in time to
receive the cross, Tim."
"May the father av lies fly away wid it!" groaned the dwarf. "An' may
the saints forgive me for the wicked wish."
"Whatever do you mean, Tim?"
"Mane, ah, nivir ask me what I mane. But the crass isn't with ye now,
an' ye'll be the betther widout it."
"Oh!" Lesbia slipped off the table with a heightened colour, "does
that mean it is unlucky? I gave it to George, you see, and----"
"Ah, divil doubt but what you'd give the head av ye to Garge,"
grumbled Tim, taking up the tin of peeled potatoes. "Ah, well, 'tis
betther he shud have it nor you, me dear."
"But why, but why?" asked Lesbia, frantic with curiosity.
"Ah, nivir ask me, Miss," replied Tim enigmatically, and departed to
continue his culinary work; also--as she could see--to avoid further
questioning.
Failing Tim, the girl resolved to learn what her father would say,
when at dinner. This was a meal which Mr. Hale never missed, as he was
devoted to the pleasures of the table and appreciated Tim's excellent
cooking. He always arrayed himself in purple and fine linen to do
justice to the viands set before him, and it was the rule of the
cottage that Lesbia should also dress appropriately. Her father prided
himself upon being ultra-civilised, and would have eaten a red herring
with sartorial ceremony. The table was admirably laid with crystal and
silver and valuable china, and--decorated with flowers in graceful
vases--looked extremely pretty. Tim, in a livery of his master's
devising, acted as butler, and the wines were as good as the food,
which is saying a lot. Mr. Hale might live in a humble cottage and
might mix with queer people, but he was a sybarite, who enjoyed the
good things of this life artistically prepared. The room was
beautifully furnished, and Lesbia was more beautiful than the room.
Therefore, on this especial night, Mr. Walter Hale had both his palate
and his eye gratified. His ear was not ministered to quite so
pleasantly, as, after dinner, and when Tim had left the room to
prepare the coffee, he renewed the subject of the cross with his
daughter.
"Lesbia," said he, fixing his eyes on her somewhat flushed face, and
looking extremely high-bred, "why did you give away that cross?"
"Bridget, who presented it to me on her death-bed, said that I was to
bestow it on the man I meant to marry. I have done so."
This was a very defiant speech, and Hale frowned. "I shall not allow
you to marry young Walker," he said distinctly.
Lesbia shrugged her shoulders with indifference. This was not the way
to manage her. "I am sorry, father, as I have decided to become his
wife."
"He has no money, you silly girl. I know for a fact that he is paid
only a small salary by Michael Tait, who is a screw and a skinflint
where his own pleasures are not concerned. Moreover, Walker has to
support his widowed mother, and she is not likely to welcome a
daughter-in-law who will curtail her comforts, such as they are. A
hard woman, Lesbia, a very hard woman, my dear. I ought to know, as we
have been acquainted for years."
The prospect did not seem alluring, but love sustained the girl.
"George might get a better situation," she ventured to remark, a
trifle anxiously. "Why," she added, this as though the thought had
just struck her, "he might help you, father."
Hale spilt the port wine he was pouring into his glass. "What's that?"
"You need not speak crossly, father," replied Lesbia, puzzled by the
sharpness of his tone. "I merely suggested that George might enter
your office, and then he----"
The man rose suddenly and began to pace the room with the glass
of wine in his hand. But the look he cast upon his daring child
was so grim that the unfinished sentence died on her lips.
"'George--might--enter--your--office!'" he repeated slowly, and ended
with a cynical laugh. "Humph! I wonder now----" he laughed again and
checked his speech. Then he finished his glass of wine and returned to
the table. "When does Walker come to see you again?" he asked
abruptly.
"To-morrow night at six o'clock," said Lesbia, promptly. "He rows down
the river from Medmenham, or walks along the towing-path, every
evening."
"A devoted lover truly," said Hale drily, "and how long has this
pretty wooing been going on?"
"For a few months," said Lesbia, rather alarmed by the stern
expression of her father's face. "Don't be angry. After all, it was
you who introduced me to George."
"The more fool I, seeing his age and looks and poverty. Lesbia!" he
placed his knuckles on the table and leaned across it. "You must marry
my friend, Captain Sargent."
"Ex-Captain Sargent," cried Lesbia scornfully, and rising
unexpectedly. "I shall do nothing of the sort. I don't even like him."
"Pooh! Pooh! Pooh! He is a gentleman----"
"So is George."
Hale rapped the table sharply. "Do not interrupt, you minx. Sargent
has retired from the army, it is true. But he has a good income and a
pretty bungalow at Cookham. We were in the same regiment until I left
the service some fifteen years ago; so I know him well. He will make
an excellent husband--a very excellent husband indeed."
"But, father, he is nearly as old as you are."
"What of that? Sargent is a handsome man and looks young."
Lesbia bit her lip, and tapped her foot on the ground. "I shan't marry
him."
Hale scowled. "You shall. I am your father and you shall do as you are
told, my dear. And if you don't marry Sargent you shall certainly not
marry Walker, unless----" he stopped suddenly.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you get that cross back from him," stormed Hale angrily.
Lesbia was nothing if not direct, and the mystery of the cross piqued
her exceedingly. She ventured on a leading question. "Why do you want
that cross so much, father?"
"It belonged to your poor mother," said Mr. Hale sentimentally, "and
means more to me than you can ever guess. I missed it from your
mother's jewel-case when she died; but I never expected that Bridget
Burke, who was supposed to be the soul of honesty, had stolen it."
"No! no. I don't believe Bridget would have stolen anything."
"Bridget would have done anything that suited her," retorted Hale
grimly, "and if she came by the cross honestly--say by your mother
giving it to her--why did she not let you show it to me?"
"I can't guess: perhaps she thought you would take it from me."
"I might and I might not," replied Hale hesitatingly, "but at all
events I should not have allowed you to give it to young Walker. You
must ask him to return it at once."
"I shall not," said Lesbia determinedly.
"You shall," cried Hale, and their eyes met like those of two duelists
crossing swords. But the father's eyes fell first. "You dare to defy
me."
"Not exactly, but----"
"I want no explanations, thank you; but I'll make a bargain with you.
If Walker returns that cross he can have you as his wife. If not, I
shall refuse to allow him to haunt the cottage or pay attentions to
you. And remember, Lesbia, that I hold the purse-strings."
"George can keep me," panted Lesbia, her colour rising.
"George has to keep his mother. Marry him without a dowry and see what
the Honourable Mrs. Aylmer Walker will say."
"You cannot give me a fortune, father."
"I can give you two thousand a year if you are obedient," said her
father coolly, and walked towards the door. "Think it over, Lesbia,"
and he left her to meditate on the astounding news.
Lesbia was naturally astonished, since she never dreamed that her
father was so wealthy. Everything in the cottage was good of its kind,
and even luxurious, and the living was excellent. But at times Hale
appeared to lack ready money, and frequently impressed upon Tim that
it was necessary to be economical. Why then should he act in this way
when he appeared to be rich, and why should he offer so large an
income on condition that the cross was returned? So far as Lesbia
understood her father's hard nature, he was not a man to pay
generously for a merely sentimental idea.
However, the fact remained that if she could get the amethyst cross
returned, she could marry George and bring him a substantial dowry.
After much reflection, she determined to ask George for the ornament.
After all, she could easily give him something else, and it was worth
satisfying her father when so much was at stake.
For half a moment Lesbia thought that she would put on her cloak and
hat, and walk along the towing-path to Medmenham in the hope of
meeting her lover. It was now half-past eight, as dinner had taken
place at seven.
Mr. Hale had gone out, and Tim, as was his custom on fine evenings,
was paddling about in a boat on the river, sometimes rowing and
sometimes fishing. She was alone and the solitude was becoming
irksome. A great wave of desire for love and sympathy came over the
girl, and she longed to see George Walker immediately, not only to
tell him of her father's offer, but to be petted and kissed and
comforted. But a few minutes' reflection showed her that it was not
advisable that she should walk alone to Medmenham, especially as the
chances were that she might not meet her lover. It was true that he
would certainly be at home, but Lesbia did not know Mrs. Walker and,
from the description given by her father, hesitated to meet that
formidable lady. On the whole, then, she decided, it was better to
wait until George came as usual on the ensuing evening.
Being alone, it was difficult to find entertainment. Lesbia played the
piano for a few minutes: then she read and afterwards enjoyed a game
or two of Patience. Finally, feeling bored in the lonely house, she
retired to bed about ten o'clock. There she speedily fell asleep, and
dreamed that all obstacles were removed, and she was George Walker's
wife. When she put out her light, neither Mr. Hale nor Tim had
returned.
Lesbia's sleep lasted for some considerable time. Then she suddenly
sat up with her senses keenly alive to every sensation. It seemed to
her that George had called her, and that she had awakened in answer to
his cry. And it was a cry for help, too! With a sensation of alarm,
she sprang from her bed, and opened the lattice to look down the
garden and across the river. There it flowed silvery in the calm
moonlight: but she heard no cry and saw nothing. Yet the call for
help had been very distinct. Lesbia was not superstitious, and had it
been broad daylight she would have laughed, at such midnight fancies.
But in the mysterious moonlight--alone in the house so far as she
knew--and at the hour of twelve o'clock, her heart beat rapidly, and a
cold perspiration broke out on her forehead. George was in danger: she
was sure of that. And George had called to her in a dream. What was
she to do? In which direction was she to look?
The first idea that came into her head was to see Tim, and explain. He
would not laugh at her fancies, as he had many of his own. Lesbia
threw on her dressing-gown, slipped her feet into shoes, and went down
the narrow staircase, taking a lighted candle with her. In the hall
all was quiet, and she paused here for a single moment, wondering if
it was worth while to awaken Tim with such a fantastical story of
midnight terrors. Just as she was deciding that it would be wiser to
return to bed, she heard a groan, and in her fright nearly dropped the
candle. But being a brave girl, she plucked up courage and listened.
There came a second groan--from the parlour. Lesbia immediately opened
the door and entered. There on the floor she saw a man bound and
gagged and stiff, with nothing alive about him but his eyes. And those
were the eyes of George Walker.