ALLIES FROM ALSATIA.
And so things went on with the Gregorys through the summer months, and
on into the autumn. Still the firm of Gregory and Fielding flourished,
and still Sophy wrote their letters for them. Robert remained moody and
sullen, staying at home of an evening, but saddening Sophy by his
continued indulgence in the bottle, and by his moody sullen temper,
which, however, was hardly ever turned against herself. Robert Gregory
still tried hard to keep to the resolve he had made. This little girl
who loved him so fondly, who had ruined herself for his sake, and who
bore so patiently with his faults, he was determined should in addition
to her other troubles, have at any rate no unkindness to bear from him;
he strove hard for that; he would at least in that respect not be a bad
husband to her. He did not love her with the passionate love which he
might have given to some women; his feelings towards her were a mixture
of love and compassion, mingled with admiration at the unflinching
courage and equanimity with which she endured the great change which had
befallen her.
Late in the autumn the good fortune which had so steadily accompanied
the operations of the firm seemed all at once to desert them, and on the
Cambridgeshire and the Cesarewitch, the two last great races of the
season, they lost very heavily. For the one, relying upon information
they had received from a lad in the stable, they had continued to lay
heavily against the favourite, who, when the day came, not only won, but
won in a canter. The other, an outsider against whom they had several
times laid fifty to one--believing his chance to be worth nothing--won
by a neck, defeating a horse on whom they stood to win heavily. These
two races were a very severe blow to them, but still they held up their
heads. Their previous winnings had been so large that they were able to
draw from their bankers sufficient to meet their creditors on settling
day, and still to have two hundred pounds remaining in the bank. Heavy
as their loss was, it had one good effect--it gave them the best
possible name, and, as Fielding said, it secured them a certainty of
increased connection and business in the ensuing year.
Throughout the season they had never been a day behind in their
payments, nor once asked for time; and their character as
straight-forward honest men stood so high, that Fielding was resolved
during the winter to enter as a member of Tattersall's, which would
secure them a larger business, and give them a better position and
increased opportunity for managing the commission part of their
business.
On Robert Gregory, however, the loss had one good effect, that of making
him determine more than ever that he would give up the business and
start for Australia in the spring, unless in the meantime he could find
the will; and to this point all his thoughts now turned. He would sit of
an evening musing over it for hours, and hardly speaking a word. Sophy,
too, was now less able to endeavour to cheer or rouse him, for she, too,
had her anxieties--she was expecting very shortly to be confined. One
evening after sitting thus for an unusually long time, he rose, and
saying that his head ached, and that he should go out for an hour or so
for a walk, he got up and went out. He did not walk far, only to the
corner of the street, and stood there for some little time smoking his
pipe and looking out on the busy road. Then he turned round, and came
slowly back to the house, walking in the road so that his tread on the
pavement might not be heard. When he came opposite his own door, he
paused, then went in at the gate and into the little patch of garden,
and knocked at the kitchen door under the steps. Mr. Billow who was
dozing at the fire woke up and opened the door, and was astonished into
a state more approaching perfect wakefulness than he had been for many a
month before, on seeing his lodger from upstairs applying for admission
at this door.
"It is all right, Mr. Billow," Robert said, entering and shutting the
door behind him. "Just fasten the other door, will you; I don't wish my
wife, and therefore I don't wish yours, to know that I am here. I want
half an hour's chat with you."
Mr. Billow fastened the kitchen door in silence, and then sat down
again, motioning to Robert, whom he was regarding with great suspicion,
to do the same.
"What are you drinking?" Robert asked, taking up a black bottle which
was standing on the table, and smelling the contents. "Ah, whisky; that
will do;" so saying he took down a glass from the shelf, poured some
spirits into it from the bottle, and some hot water from a kettle on the
fire, and then putting in a lump of sugar from a basin on the table,
took his seat. Mr. Billow imitated his guest's proceedings as far as
mixing himself a strong glass of spirits and water, and then waited for
Robert to commence the conversation. He had seen so many unexpected
things in his trade, that it took a good deal to surprise him. Robert
lit his pipe again, swallowed half the contents of his tumbler, and then
began.
"My wife, Mr. Billow, as you may suppose by what you have heard, and by
what you may remember of her pony carriage and piano which came up when
we first came here fifteen months ago, was brought up a lady, and not
accustomed to live in such a miserable little den as this."
Mr. Billow here interrupted, "that if it was not good enough for them,
why did they stop there?"
"You hold your tongue," Robert said, savagely, "and don't interrupt me,
if you value that miserable old neck of yours. She was brought up a
lady," he continued, "and was to have come into a large fortune. The
person who had left her the fortune died, and the will has been hidden
away by his sisters,--two old women who live in a lonely house in the
country. Of course, there are servants, and that sort of thing; but they
sleep in a distant part of the building, and would not be likely to hear
anything that went on. There is no other house within call. One of these
women, I understand, is as hard as a rock; there would be no getting her
to say a word she did not want to say, if it was to save her life. The
other one is made of different stuff. Now I want to get hold of a couple
of determined fellows, accustomed to that sort of business, to make an
entrance there with me at night--to get hold of this old woman, and to
frighten her into telling us where this will is hidden. If I can get it,
I am safe, because the house is part of the property; and besides, I
should have them under my thumb for hiding the will. If it had not been
my own house I was going to break into, I would rather do the job by
myself than take any one with me, to give them the opportunity of living
on me all the rest of my life. As it is, I am safe both from the law and
from extortion. If we are interrupted, and things go wrong, we can get
off easily enough, so that there is no great risk either for me or the
men who go with me. What do you think, Mr. Billow--this is all in your
line? Could you put your hand on a couple of such men as I want?"
"There are such men to be found in London, no doubt," Mr. Billow said,
cautiously. "The question is, would it be worth any one's while to find
them, and would it be worth their while to go?"
"If from any bad luck we should fail," Robert Gregory answered, "I could
only afford to pay a ten-pound note each; if I succeed, I will give them
a couple of hundred apiece, which would make it the best night's work
they have done for a long time, and I will give you the same I do them."
"I can find the men," Mr. Billow said readily; "they shall be here--let
me see, by this time the day after to-morrow."
"No, no," Robert said hastily; "not here. You take me to some place you
may appoint to meet them; and your part of the agreement is that you on
no account tell them my name, or anything about me. If the plan
succeeds, I don't care, for I shall only have broken into my own house.
At any rate, if I were punished I should care very little, for I should
be a rich man; and I question if the old women dare prosecute me for any
violence I may have to use, when they will be themselves liable to
imprisonment for hiding the will; but in the case of its failing, I
don't want to be in the power of any man. I don't mind you, because I
could break up your place here in return; but I intend to go abroad very
soon if it fails, and I don't want anything known against me. So make an
appointment for me to meet them where you like, and call me Robert
Brown."
Two days afterwards, Mr. Billow informed Robert that he had made an
appointment for him to meet two first-rate hands that evening, at a
quiet place, where they could talk things over without being
interrupted. Accordingly, at nine o'clock, Robert Gregory made some
excuse to Sophy, and went out. He found Mr. Billow waiting for him at
the corner of the street; and although for once he was sober, and had
evidently taken some pains with his personal appearance, Robert could
not help thinking what a dirty, disreputable old man he looked, and
feeling quite ashamed of him as he kept close to his heels along the
busy Westminster Bridge Road. They crossed the bridge, kept on in front
of the old Abbey, and entered the network of miserable lanes and alleys
which lie almost beneath the shadow of its towers. Into this labyrinth
they plunged, and went on their way through lanes of squalid houses,
with still more squalid courts leading from them, reeking with close,
foul smells, which sickened the mere passer-by, and told their tales of
cholera and typhus; miserable dens, where honest labour and unsuccessful
vice herd and die together; hotbeds of pestilence and fever, needing
only a spark to burst into a flame of disease, and spread the plague
around--a fitting judgment on the great, rich city which permits their
existence within it. Through several of these they passed, and then
emerged into a wider street, where the gaslight streamed out from nearly
every house, and where the doors were ever on the swing. By the sides of
the pavements were stalls with candles in paper lanterns, with hawkers
proclaiming the goodness of the wares which they sold; stale vegetables,
the refuse of the fish at the public sales at Billingsgate, and strange,
unwholesome-looking meats, which would puzzle any one to define the
animals from which they were taken, or the joints which they were
supposed to represent. Round them were numbers of eager, haggling women;
and the noise, the light, and bustle, formed a strange contrast to the
silent, ill-lighted lanes through which they had just passed. In a
rather wider lane than usual, leading off this sort of market, was a
quiet-looking public-house, offering a strong contrast to its brilliant
rivals close by, with their bright lamps, and plate-glass, and gaudy
fittings. Into this Mr. Billow entered, followed by Robert Gregory. Two
or three men were lounging at the bar, who looked up rather curiously as
the new comers entered. Mr. Billow spoke a word or two to the landlord,
to whom he was evidently known, and then passed along a passage into a
small room, where two men were sitting with glasses before them, smoking
long pipes. They rose when Robert and his conductor entered, with a sort
of half bow, half nod. Mr. Billow closed the door carefully behind him,
and then said to Robert,--
"These are the parties I was speaking to you of; both first-class in
their lines. I have had a good deal to do with them in my time, and have
always found them there when wanted."
"That's true, governor," one of the men said; "no man can say that
either of us ever did what was not right and straight-forward."
"And now, Mr. Brown," Mr. Billow said, "that I have brought you
together, I shall leave you to talk things over. I don't want to know
anything about the matter. The fewer that are in these things the
better. I shall go out for half an hour to see some friends, and after
that you will find me in the bar. Shall I order anything in for you?"
"Yes," Robert Gregory said; "tell them to send in a bottle of brandy,
and a kettle with hot water."
Mr. Billow accordingly went out, and the two men instinctively finished
the glasses before them, in order that they might be in readiness for
the arrival of the fresh ingredients. While they were waiting for the
coming of them, Robert Gregory had time to examine narrowly his
associates in his enterprise. The younger, although there was not much
difference in their ages, was a man of from thirty to thirty-five--a
little active man. The lower part of his face was, contrary to usual
custom, the better. He had a well-shaped mouth and chin, with a
good-natured smile upon his lips; but his eyes were sharp and watchful,
with a restless, furtive look about them, and his hair was cut quite
short, which gave him an unpleasant jail-bird appearance. He was a man
of some education and considerable natural abilities. He was known among
his comrades by the soubriquet of The Schoolmaster. The other was a much
bigger and more powerful man; a heavy, beetle-browed, high-cheeked
ruffian, with a flat nose, and thick, coarse lips. He was a much more
common and lower scoundrel than The Schoolmaster; but they usually
worked together: one was the head and the other the hand. Both were
expert house-breakers, and had passed a considerable portion of their
time in prison. When the bottle of spirits was brought, the kettle
placed upon the fire, the glasses filled, and they were again alone,
Robert Gregory began,--
"I suppose you know what I want you for?"
"Thereabout," The Schoolmaster said. "The old one told us all about it.
The long and short of it is, two old women have hid a paper, which you
want, and our game is to go in and frighten one of them into telling
where it is hid."
"Yes, that is about it," Robert answered.
"You know the house well?"
"I have only been in it once, but it has been so exactly described to me
that I could find the right room with my eyes shut. She is a timid old
woman, and I think a pistol pointed at her head will get the secret out
of her at once."
"I don't know," the schoolmaster said, "some of these old women are
uncommon cantankerous and obstinate. Suppose she should not, what then?"
"She must," Gregory said, with a deep oath. "I must have the will; she
shall tell where it is."
"You see, master, if she is hurt we shall get hauled up for it, even if
you do get the paper."
"She is liable to imprisonment," Robert said, "for hiding it, so she
would hardly dare to take steps against us; but if she did, you are safe
enough. They may suspect me, they may prove it against me, but I don't
care even if I am sent across the sea for it. The property would be my
wife's, and she would come out to me, and in a year or two I should get
a ticket-of-leave. I have thought it all over, and am ready to risk it,
and you are all right enough."
"And the pay is ten pounds each down, and two hundred pounds each if we
get it?"
Robert nodded.
"We are ready to do it, then," The Schoolmaster said; "there's my hand
on it;" and the two men shook hands with Robert Gregory on the bargain.
"And now let us talk it over. Of course she must be gagged at once, and
the pistol tried first. If that does not do--and old women are very
obstinate--I should say a piece of whipcord round her arm, with a stick
through it, and twisted pretty sharply, would get a secret out of any
one that ever lived."
"I don't wish to hurt the old woman if I can help it," Gregory said,
moodily; "besides, it would make it so much the worse for me afterwards.
But the will I must have, and if she brings it upon herself by her
cursed obstinacy, it is her fault, not mine."
They then went into a number of details on the subject, and arranged
everything, and it was settled that they should start on that day week;
but that if any delay were necessary, that Robert should call at the
same place on the evening before the start. If they heard nothing from
him, they were to meet at the railway station at nine o'clock on the
morning named. Robert then took leave of them, and returned home with
Mr. Billow.
This delay for a week was because Sophy was daily expecting to be
confined, and Robert was determined to wait till that was over. However,
on the very next day a son was born to Sophy, who, as she received it,
thanked God that now at least she had a comfort who would be always with
her, and which nothing but death could take away. She felt that her days
would be no longer long and joyless, for she would have a true
pleasure--something she could constantly pet and care for.