At the Red Dawn.
Foxwood was going on quietly with the approach of winter. Mrs. Cleeve
had gone to London with her daughter; leaving Miss Blake to keep house
at the Court. Some ladies, fearing the world's chatter, might have
objected to remain with so young and attractive a man as Sir Karl
Andinnian; Miss Blake was a vast deal too strong-minded for any
thought of the kind. She was busy as ever with St. Jerome's and its
offices; but she nevertheless kept a tolerably keen look-out on the
Maze and on Sir Karl's movements as connected with it. He went there
more than he used to do: by day now as well as by night: and she
wondered how long the simple neighbourhood would keep its eyes closed
to facts and figures, that, to her, were so offensively plain.
There had been a sharpish frost in the night, but the glorious morning
sun had chased its signs away. At midday it was shining hotly; and
Karl was almost glad of the thin screen of leaves left in the
labyrinth as he made his way through it. Some days had passed now
since Adam had had any sharp amount of illness: he was wasting away
rapidly, and that was the worst outward sign. But his will in these
intervals of ease was indomitable, and it imparted to him a fictitious
strength.
As Karl came in view of the lawn, he saw Rose standing by one of the
distant beds, talking to Hopley. The old man was digging; and had bent
himself nearly double over his work. Karl crossed over, a reprimand on
his lips.
"Adam, you should not. You promised me you would not again take a
spade or other gardening implement in your hand. Your strength is not
equal to it, and it must do you harm."
"Just hark at him, Rose. It would not be Karlo if he did not find
fault with me. What shall you do for somebody to croak at, brother
mine, when I am gone?"
Was it Hopley who spoke?--or was it Sir Adam? The falling-in mouth and
the speech, the crooked back, the tottering and swelling knees, the
smock-frock and the red comforter and the broad straw hat, all were
Hopley's. But the manner of speech and the eyes too, now you came to
see them as he looked up at Karl, were Sir Adam's.
Yes. They were one and the same. Poor old Hopley the gardener was but
Sir Adam in disguise. With the padded knees and the false hump he had
managed to deceive the world, including Mr. Detective Tatton. He might
not perhaps have so surely deceived Mr. Tatton had the latter been
looking after Sir Adam Andinnian and been acquainted with his person.
But the decrepid gardener bore no resemblance to Philip Salter: and,
that fact ascertained, it was all that concerned Mr. Tatton.
It may be remembered that when Mrs. Andinnian was staying at Weymouth,
she and her servant, Ann Hopley, were in secret communication with one
of the warders of Portland Prison: in point of fact, they were
negotiating with him the possibilities of Sir Adam's escape. This man
was James Hopley; a warder--as Karl had taken him to be, and also
Ann's husband. In the scuffle that took place the night of the escape,
the man really killed was the other prisoner, Cole: and it was he who
was taken to Foxwood and lay buried in its churchyard. Hopley was
drowned.
At that period, and for some little time before it, Philip Smith was
at Portland Prison. Not as a prisoner: the man had never in his life
done aught to merit incarceration: but seeking employment there,
through the interest of one of the chief warders who was a friend of
his--a man named O'Brian. From the date of the frauds of Philip
Salter, Philip Smith had been--as he considered it--a ruined man: at
any rate he was unable to obtain employment. A ruined man must not be
fastidious, and Smith was willing and was anxious to become a warder
if they would make him one. It was while he was waiting and hoping for
the post, and employed sometimes as an assistant, and thoroughly
trusted, that the attempted escape of the prisoners occurred. Smith
was one of those who put off in the boat after the fugitives: the
other two being Hopley and O'Brian. In the scuffle on the Weymouth
shore, Sir Adam was wounded and left for dead. O'Brian saw him lying
there apparently dead, and supposed him to be so. O'Brian, however,
afterwards received a blow that stunned him--for the night was dark,
and friends and foes fought indiscriminately--and Smith contrived to
get Adam away into a place of concealment. It is very probable that
Smith foresaw in that moment how valuable a prize to him the living
and escaped Sir Adam might become. O'Brian really believed him to be
dead, and so reported him to the authorities. A dead man is worthless:
and Sir Adam was allowed to be retained by his friends for interment:
the beaten and disfigured Cole, shot in the face, being looked upon as
Sir Adam.
After that, the path was easy. Sir Adam, very badly injured, lay for
many weeks hidden away. Smith continued at Portland Prison keeping his
own counsel, and unsuspected, visiting Sir Adam cautiously at
intervals. As soon as it was practicable for him to be moved, the step
was ventured on. He was got away in safety to London, and lay in
retirement there, in a house that had been taken by Smith: his wife
(formerly Rose Turner) coming up to join him; and Ann Hopley, faithful
to Sir Adam's fortunes through all, waiting on them. She had no one
else left to be faithful to now, poor woman. Smith managed everything.
He had withdrawn himself from Portland Island, under the plea that he
could no longer, in consequence of his disabled arm, aspire to a
wardership--for his arm had been damaged that fatal night, and it was
thought he would never have the full use of it again. The plea was
unsuspiciously recognised by the prison authorities; Smith retained
his friendship with O'Brian, and occasionally corresponded with him,
getting from him scraps of useful information now and then. From that
time his services were devoted to Sir Adam. It was he who communicated
between Sir Adam and his mother; for, letters they did not dare to
transmit. It was he who first disclosed to Mrs. Andinnian the fact
that Miss Rose Turner was her son's wife; it was he who made the
arrangements for Sir Adam's taking up his abode at the Maze, and
provided the disguise to arrive at Foxwood in, as the decrepid old
husband of the servant, Ann Hopley. To do Mr. Smith justice, he had
fought against the scheme of coming to the Maze; but Mrs. Andinnian
and Adam were both bent upon it; and he yielded. Adam and his wife had
stayed in London under the name of Mrs. Grey, and she retained it.
Amidst the injuries Sir Adam received was one to the mouth and jaw. It
destroyed those beautiful front teeth of his. After his recovery he
sought the services of a clever but not much known dentist named
Rennet, went to the pain of having the rest of his teeth extracted,
and an entire set of false ones made. Two sets, in fact. The journey
Rose took to London, when Miss Blake espied her with Karl, was for the
purpose of getting one of these sets of teeth repaired, Sir Adam
having broken the spring the night before. The teeth had to be
conveyed personally to Mr. Rennet and brought away; for they were too
cautious to entrust him with their address.
And now it will be seen how Sir Adam had concealed himself at the
Maze. In the daytime he was the toothless, hump-backed, infirm old
Hopley, working at his garden with enlarged knees and tottering steps:
as soon as dusk came on, his false padding was thrown of with his
smock frock and coarse clothes, and he was the well-bred gentleman,
Sir Adam Andinnian, in his evening attire and with his white and even
teeth. His assumed role was maintained always during the day; his
meals were taken in the kitchen to be safe in case of any possible
surprise, Ann attending upon him with all respect. The delay in
admitting Nurse Chaffen, kept waiting once on the wrong side of the
kitchen door, was caused by "Hopley's" taking out his set of teeth and
putting on his broad-brimmed hat: for it was convenient to assume the
teeth during the short period devoted to dinner. The deafness was of
course assumed as an additional precaution. Thus he had lived, in a
state of semi-security, tending his flowers and occupied with the care
of his garden generally, an employment that he loved so well. The day
that General Lloyd's party went in, Karl was transfixed with
apprehension and amazement to see Hopley showing himself. Adam enjoyed
it: it was so like him to brave things; and he feared no danger from a
pleasure party like that.
Well, I think that is all that is needed in the way of explanation;
and we can go on. Karl was looking at the digging with regretful eyes.
"You ought to be glad to see me at work again, Karl, instead of
groaning over it," cried Sir Adam.
"And so I should be, Adam, only that I fear you will feel its effects
unpleasantly by and by."
"I asked him not to do it, but he only laughed at me," said Rose.
"Somebody must do it. I can't see the garden quite neglected. Besides,
if I am well enough to work there's no reason why I should not. I am
not sure, Karl, but I shall cheat you now."
"Cheat me?"
"By getting well. What should you say to that?"
"Thank heaven for it: and do my best to get you away to a place of
safety."
"By George, old fellow, I don't know that I shan't. I am feeling as
blithe as a bee. Rose, take yourself a trifle further off; out of the
mould."
He was throwing about the spadefuls almost as well as he had ever
thrown them in his strength. Rose was cheated into something like
hope, and her face for the moment lost its sadness.
"I wish to goodness I had a draught of beer," cried Adam. "Where's
Ann, I wonder."
Karl went to fetch it. Ann Hopley shook her head at the idea of hope,
when Karl spoke of it as she gave him the beer.
"You never saw any person, who was to live on, have the look in his
face that he has, sir."
"He looks fairly well to-day."
"And so he will at times to the last, as it strikes me. I have had a
good deal of experience in illness, sir. As to his talking about
getting well--why, sir, you know what he is: saying this and that
without meaning it. There's no doubt he feels pretty sure himself how
it will be."
Karl sighed as he went back with the beer. Yes, there was no real
hope.
That same night--or rather on the following morning, for the dawn was
more than glimmering--Karl in his bed began to dream that he was out
in a shower of hail. It seemed to be falling with great violence: so
much so that a sharper crash awoke him. Lying awake for a moment and
questioning where he was, he found the noise to be reality. The hail
was beating on the chamber windows.
_Was_ it hail? Scarcely. It was crashing but on one window, and only
came at intervals. It sounded more like gravel. Karl rose and opened
the window. Smith the agent stood underneath. A prevision of evil
shook Karl as he leaned out.
"He is very ill indeed, sir," said Smith in the lowest whisper
possible to be heard, and extending his finger to indicate the Maze.
"Mr. Moore's there and thinks it will be for death. I thought you
would like to know it."
"How did you hear it?" asked Karl.
"Ann Hopley ran over and knocked me up, that I might go for the
doctor."
"Thank you," replied Karl. "I'll be there directly."
Now it so happened that for some purposes of cleaning--for the Court
was not exempt from those periodical visitations any more than the
humble dwelling of Mrs. Chaffen--Miss Blake's chamber had been
temporarily changed to the one next to that recently occupied by Lady
Andinnian. Miss Blake was in the habit of sleeping with her window
open; and, not being asleep at the time, she had heard Mr. Smith's
footsteps and the crashes at Sir Karl's window. Of course she was
curious as to what could cause the noise, and at first thought of
housebreakers. Had Mr. Smith chanced to turn his head in the right
direction during the colloquy with Sir Karl, he might have seen an
elaborately night-capped head peeping forth cautiously.
"Why, it is Mr. Smith!" thought Miss Blake, as he walked away. "What
an extraordinary thing! He must have been calling up Sir Karl."
Listening inside as well as out, Miss Blake heard the bell that was in
Hewitt's chamber ring gently; and, after a minute or two, the latter
proceeding to his master's room. Then they both went down together,
and Hewitt let Sir Karl out at the hall door, and came upstairs again.
Miss Blake, after a good deal of self-puzzling, arrived at the
conclusion that the affair must be in some way connected with
poachers--who had been busy on the land latterly--and returned to her
bed.
With death on his face, and a look of resignation than which nothing
could be more peaceful, lay Sir Adam for the last time. His weary
life, with all its bitter turmoil, was nearly at an end; night _here_
was closing, morning _there_ was opening. Karl's grey eyes were wet as
he bent over him.
"Don't grieve too much," said Adam with a smile, as he put his cold
hand into Karl's clasp. "You know how much better off I shall be. Rose
knows it."
"You were so full of hope yesterday, Adam."
"Was II It cheated the wife into a few hours of pleasantness, and did
its mission. I did not think I took _you_ in. Why, Karlo, I have just
been waiting from day to day for what has now come: moreover, I have
seen how much best it all is as it _is_ than anything else would be. I
would not accept life if you'd give it to me, unless the whole time
since that Midsummer Eve could be blotted out."
Karl swallowed a sob.
"You don't know what it has been, Karl. No one can know what it is to
live under a hanging sword, as I have, unless they experience it. And
few in this world can do that. It was all a mistake together. The
shooting of Scott when I ought to have horsewhipped him; the escape
from Portland; the taking up my abode here; everything: and these
mistakes, Karl, have to be worked out. I have paid for mine with
life."
Karl did not answer. He was only nervously pressing the wasted hand in
his.
"It is all, I say, for the best. I see it now. It was best that the
little lad should go; it is best that I should; it is best that you
should be the true owner of Foxwood. It would have been too much of a
complication otherwise. The boy could never have put forth a claim to
it while I lived; and, after that, people might but have pointed their
scornful finger at him as the son of a convict. I thank God for taking
him."
"Should you talk so much, Adam?"
"I don't know. A man in my condition, about to leave the world behind,
prefers to talk while he can. You will take care of my wife, Karl.
There was no settlement, you know, and----"
"I will take care of her to the best of my power, Adam," came the
earnest interruption. "She shall have a proper and suitable jointure
as the widowed Lady Andinnian."
"No, Karl; not that. She and I have talked over the future at odd
moments, and we do not wish it. Rose does not mean to acknowledge her
marriage with me, or to live in any kind of state in accordance with
it. She will be Mrs. Grey to the end. Unless, indeed, any occasion
were to arise, such as a tarnishing breath of scandal brought against
this past period of her life. Then, of course, the truth must be
declared, and you, Karl would have to come forward and testify to it.
I leave that in your hands."
"With every surety," assented Karl.
"A few hundreds a year, say four or five, are all that she will want
from you, or take. Her late uncle's money must come to her sometime,
and that of itself would be almost enough. She purposes to live a
retired life with her aunt; and I think it will be the happiest for
her. In my desk, Karl, you will find a paper in my handwriting,
setting forth all these wishes of hers and mine; it will serve as a
direction for you.--No," he went on, after a pause, "for her own
peace, the world must never know her as Lady Andinnian. She dreads it
too much. See you not the reason? She would have to stand before the
public convicted of perjury. That past trial is rarely out of her
mind, Karl--when she appeared falsely as Miss Rose Turner. The foolish
things people do in their blindness! It was my fault. _Her fault_ lay
only in obeying me: but your charitable people would not accept that
as an excuse. Be it as it may, Karl, Rose's life henceforth will be
one of modest position and strict retirement. Ann Hopley goes with
her."
Looking at the matter from all points of view, it might be, as Sir
Adam said, for the best.
"And you will be Sir Karl in reality as well as in seeming, brother
mine; and Foxwood will be your true home and your children's after
you. That is only justice. When you arranged to marry Lucy Cleeve, you
deemed yourself to be the inheritor, and she deemed it. My death will
set all right. And now about Smith, Karl. The man did me a great
service, for I should have been retaken but for him; and he has been
faithful to me since. I should like you to allow him something in the
shape of an annuity--a hundred and fifty pounds a year, or so. Not the
cottage: he will not stay in this neighbourhood when I am gone. It was
through me that his arm got injured: which, of course, partly
incapacitates him for work; and I think I am bound to provide for
him."
"It shall be done," said Karl. "Ungrudgingly."
"I have mentioned it in the paper, and the sum. He--he--he--"
Sir Adam's hesitation was caused by faintness. He broke down, and for
the time said no more. Nor did he recur to the subject again.
The day went on, Adam partially sleeping through it. At other times he
lay in a kind of stupor. Mr. Moore attended at intervals; but nothing
further could be done. At dusk Hewitt came over for a last sight of
his old master; for a last farewell: and he sobbed bitterly as he said
it.
Karl did not go home--at which Miss Blake was in much private wonder.
Discarding the poacher theory, she shrewdly suspected now that he must
be at the Maze, taking the opportunity of his wife's absence to play
the gay bachelor away from home. She asked Hewitt, she questioned
Giles; Giles knew nothing, Hewitt fancied Sir Karl, might be "detained
at Basham" on some business.
And so, the night set in. When quite awake Adam had the full
possession of his senses, and exchanged a few words, sometimes with
his wife, sometimes with Karl. About three o'clock he fell into a calm
sleep. Karl watched on; Rose, weak and sick and weary, dropped into a
doze in a distant chair. Ann Hopley was in the kitchen below.
Save for the faint sighing of the wind as it swept round the house,
stirring the branches of the trees, there was no sound to be heard.
Stillness reigned unbroken in the dying chamber. How many of us have
kept these watches! But who has kept them as this was being kept by
Karl Andinnian!
With that bitter aching of the heart known but to few, and which when
felt in its greatest intensity is the saddest pain the troubles of the
world can give, Karl sat gazing on his brother. In his love for him,
every pang endured by Adam in the past was a sting for him, every
hazard run had reflected on him its dread apprehension. He sat
thinking of what might have been; looking on what was: and an awful
regret, than which nothing like unto it could be ever again
experienced, tore at his heart-strings for the wasted life, cut short
ere it had reached its prime. More than willingly in that moment would
Karl have given his own remaining days to undo what his brother had
done, and to restore to him freedom and honour. It might not be.
Adam's course was run: and he was passing away in obscurity from the
world in which he had virtually no longer a place. Never for a moment
did the immunity from perplexity it would bring to himself or the
release from the false position he had been compelled to assume, occur
to Karl; or, if it did, it was not dwelt upon: all of self and
self-interest was lost in the regret and grief for his brother. He saw
Adam living at Foxwood Court with his wife; its master; held in repute
by men; he saw himself settled near with Lucy; his fortunes advanced
by his brother's aid to a position not unacceptable to Colonel Cleeve;
he saw his mother alive still and happy: a united family, enjoying
comfort the one with the other. This might have been. His mother dead
of a broken heart; Adam, dying before his eyes, an escaped fugitive;
his own life blighted with pain and sorrow unutterable for Adam's
sake, his wife estranged from him--this was what was. Be you very sure
that no earthly pang could be keener than that despairing heart-ache
felt by Karl Andinnian.
How many a night at that still hour had Adam lain in his terror,
listening to this moaning wind with supernaturally quick ear, lest it
should be only covering other sounds--the approach of his deadly
enemies! How many times in a night had he quitted his bed, his heart
beating, and stolen a cautious peep beside the blind to see whether
they might not be there, in battle array, waiting until the dawn
should come and they might get in to take him! Ah, it was all at an
end now; the fever, and the fear, and the wasting restlessness. Why!
if the men were drawn up round his bed, they would not care to touch
him. But the terror from force of habit stayed with him to the last.
He started up. How long he had slept, and how the night was going,
Karl in his abstraction hardly knew. Adam's eyes looked somewhat wild
in the shade of the night-light, and he put up his feeble hand.
"What is it?" asked Karl gently.
"I thought they were here, Karl; I saw them in the room,"--he
whispered--and his eyes went round it. "They had muskets I think. Was
it a dream?"
"Nothing but a dream, Adam. I am with you. Rose is asleep in the
arm-chair."
"Ay. I have not dreamt of them for a week past. Stay by me, Karlo."
Karl would have risen to administer some cordial: but Adam was holding
his hand in a tight grasp; had shut his eyes, and seemed to be
dropping asleep again.
He slept about half-an-hour, and Karl's imprisoned arm went from a
state of pins and needles into the cramp. When Adam awoke, there was a
smile on his face and a peaceful rest in his eyes. He was quite
collected.
"Karl, I dreamt of them again: but they had turned to angels. They
were here, all about my bed. Oh Karl, I wish you could see them as I
saw them! you'd never be afraid of anything more in this world. What's
that?"
Karl turned round: for Adam's eyes were fixed on something or other
behind him. He could see nothing save a streak of light, herald of the
dawn, that came in at the side of the blind.
"Do you mean the light, Adam? It's the dawn breaking."
"Ay. _My_ dawn. Draw up the blind. Karl."
Softly, not to awake Rose, Karl drew it up. Rose-coloured clouds,
heralds of a beauteous sunrise, flooded the East. Adam lay and gazed
at it, the smile on his face changing to a rapt look that seemed to
speak of heaven, more than of earth.
"It will be better there than here, Karl. For me."
"Better for all of us."
"I am very happy, Karl. The world is fading from me: heaven opening.
Forgive me all that I have cost you."
Karl's heart and eyes were alike full.
"Just as the men who had troubled me were changed into angels, so my
fear has changed to rest. The angels are about the bed still, Karl; I
know they are; waiting for me. The same lovely light shone on them
that is shining yonder; and they told me without words that they were
come to bear me up to God. I read it in their tender faces--so full of
pitying love for me. It won't be so very long, Karl: you'll come
later."
Karl's tears were falling on the up-turned face.
"I should like to have seen your wife, Karl; just once. Tell her so,
with my love. Ask her to forgive me the worry I know I have caused
her."
"I will, I will."
"Oh, Karl, it has been a dreadful life for me; you know it has. I
began to think that God had forgotten me--how foolish I was! He was
full of mercy all the while, and kept me here in safety, and has now
changed it all into peace. Listen, Karl! there's a sound of sweet
music."
Karl could hear nothing but the wind.
"It is the angels singing," whispered Adam, a smile of ineffable
beauty on his face. "They sing on the journey, you know. Goodbye,
Karl, goodbye!"
Karl bent his face, his tears streaming, his heart aching. These
partings are too bitter to be told of. This was most essentially so.
"Where's Rose, Karl?"
She was already by Karl's side. He yielded his place to her, and went
down to Ann; and there sobbed over the kitchen fire as a woman might
have done.
But in the midst of it all, he could say as his brother had done,
"Thank God." If ever a poor sinful weary man had need to rejoice that
he was removed to that better world, it was Adam Andinnian.
Rose's bell called Karl up again. The last moment was at hand. Ann
Hopley followed: and they all stood round the bed and saw him die. The
red clouds had dispersed; the sun was just showing itself above the
verge of the horizon.