FELIX CHECKMATES MR. DAVID SHELDRAKE.
Mr. David Sheldrake, calling at ten o'clock the next morning to see
Lily, receives from the landlady a message that the young lady has
passed a bad night, and cannot receive him until noon. Somewhat
surprised, but compelled to acquiesce in the arrangement, he walks
away from the inn, consoling himself with the thoughts that all girls
are capricious, and that Lily, having seen how deep was the passion he
entertained for her, and having made up her mind to accept him as her
lover, was disposed to coquet with him a little. "The bewitching
little jade!" he muses. "They like to hold on and off. But I'll soon
bring her to the point." He has not been idle during the morning; he
has been hunting after Mr. Musgrave, to give him information of
Alfred's movements. But Mr. Musgrave has not made his appearance at
the Myrtle Inn, and Mr. Sheldrake, although he has been about the
neighbourhood making inquiries, has been unsuccessful in finding any
trace of him or Alfred. Mr. Sheldrake has settled with himself that
this dereliction of duty must not be overlooked. "The old man must
go," he thinks: "Ivy Cottage has served its turn. It is getting rather
warm there, and Old Muzzy is beginning to know too much." The
reflection that Ivy Cottage is getting too warm is not entirely new;
certain victims who had been fleeced by Mr. Sheldrake and his agents
had been writing threatening letters to him and Con Staveley addressed
to Ivy Cottage, and the secret of their connection had in some way
leaked out. Now, Mr. Sheldrake does not desire a public exposure; such
a thing would be annoying and expensive, perhaps dangerous. He knows
well enough that many of his transactions will not bear the light,
and that in some instances a boundary line within which roguery can
safely trade had been overstepped. He thinks of this during the
interval between ten and twelve o'clock, and resolves to go to the
cottage that very evening, and destroy all the letters and papers it
contains; they are the only evidence against him. At noon he presents
himself again at the inn. The landlady informs him that the young lady
is up, and will see him. She leads him to the parlour. "We shall be
private here?" he says, before he enters. "O yes, sir," the landlady
replies, and retires. He sees at a glance that Lily has passed a
disturbed night, but she receives him with a singular mixture of
composure and nervousness. When he tells her that he has not brought
Alfred with him, she does not cry and make a scene, as he anticipated.
She is very pale, and she listens, without interrupting him, to the
reasons he gives for Alfred's absence.
"It looks as if I had broken faith with you, my dear Lily," he says
confidently; "but the fact is, Alfred _must_ keep out of the way until
his accounts are squared. The detectives are on the look-out for him,
but you and I will be able to pull him through. You see he has made a
mess of it all round. He owes me money; he owes a person of the name
of Con Staveley money. Of course what he owes me does not matter, but
this Con Staveley is a hard nail, and insists on having his money
down, or he'll prosecute. Even that wouldn't be so bad; but Alfred has
done worse. He has taken money from his office--in plain terms, he has
been embezzling the money of his employers--and they are determined
not to let him escape. I heard it an hour ago, from the best
authority--from one of the detectives, indeed, that I managed to
square. So you see how the matter stands."
As yet Lily has not spoken a word, and he pauses here, expecting her
to say something. She does not disappoint him.
"Will you tell me exactly, Mr. Sheldrake, how much money Alfred owes?"
"He owes me and Con Staveley about three hundred pounds. In a sort of
way, I am friendly with Con Staveley. He is stopping in the town for
the races, and hearing I was here, he came to see me. I thought I'd
best set to work at once, and I got him to give me an account of the
debt. Well, he puts confidence in me, and he not only gave me the
figures, but the bills as well, with Alfred's name on them. Here they
are." He takes some papers from his pocket, and shows them to her. "I
told Con I would pay them."
"And you will?"
"You have but to say the word, and I'll make things straight for
Alfred at his office, as well. Lily, do you remember the conversation
we had when we came home from the theatre, when that young puppy" (her
colour rose here) "interrupted us? I have a right to call him so, for
I know what he is made of. Would he do for you what I would do, what I
am ready to do this very day? I think not. Think! I am sure not." He
strives to read her face, but she has turned from him, and her eyes
are towards the ground. "Ah," he thinks, "she knows what is coming;"
and says aloud, "The very first night I saw Alfred, I told him I would
be his friend for his pretty sister's sake, and I have kept my word.
He would have had to cave-in long ago if it hadn't been for me; but
again and again, when he was going to the bad, you stepped in and
saved him. He knew this all along. He knew that it was for your sake I
helped him through his troubles. You sigh! You think he is in a worse
trouble to-day than he has ever been before. Well, you are right. I
warned him repeatedly; I told him twenty times to pull-up, but he
wouldn't listen to me; and still I stuck to him like a man, for his
pretty Lily's sake. I can save him now, and will, if you but say the
word. To-morrow, this afternoon, in another hour, it may be too late.
His fate hangs upon you, and you only. Say but the word, and I'll
bring him to your arms again."
"What word?"
Although she is almost falling to the ground, and although she speaks
in a whisper, as if the words were forced from her, he hears her.
"Say that you love me."
Bending forward it his eagerness, with his eyes fixed upon her
drooping form, with his arms outstretched to receive her, he does not
see that a door which communicates with an inner room is swiftly and
softly opened. Emboldened by her silence, which he interprets
favourably, he is approaching nearer to her exultantly, when he is put
aside with a firm hand, and Old Wheels steps between him and her. His
face turns white as he sees the old man, who regards him steadily.
"You were saying----" says Old Wheels gently.
Mr. Sheldrake bites his lips, and accepts the situation.
"That I love your granddaughter. I was about to ask her to be my
wife."
Old Wheels, with his arms around Lily, kisses her, and strokes her
hair fondly.
"My darling!" he murmurs. She hides her face on his breast. He directs
his clear bright eyes to Mr. Sheldrake, whose own eyes shift and
waver, and shrink, as falsehood shrinks in the light of truth. "I will
answer for her, Mr. Sheldrake. She declines."
"What!" exclaims Mr. Sheldrake, a white fury gathering about his lips.
"It is true, nevertheless," says the old man.
"She shall answer with her own lips," cries Mr. Sheldrake, with a
menacing gesture.
"She will never again open her lips to you. I speak for her."
"Old dotard! But she _shall_ answer!"
The arm he raises to put the old man aside is seized by a stronger
hand than his, and he is thrust back violently.
"O!" he sneers, as he recognises Felix. "Are there any more of you?"
"One other," replies Felix, with a smile. "You shall see him
presently."
For a moment Mr. Sheldrake measures himself with Felix; the conclusion
he arrives at in this hasty glance is not assuring. Felix stands
before him as firm as a rock, and with a kindling light in his eyes,
which warns him to be careful of himself. He heeds the warning, and
says in as calm a voice as he can command,
"This is a plot, then!"
"If you please to call it so," is the answer. "Plot against plot, we
will say. Yours has failed."
"We shall see."
"We shall."
Felix is supremely calm; Mr. Sheldrake's passion breaks against him as
the sea breaks against a rook and recoils upon itself.
"And you came here, I suppose, to play the hero, and to trick that
young lady with fine speeches. But if she knows what is good for her,
she'll be wise in time."
"I hope she will. Lily!"
She does not answer in words, but creeps into his arms. Then Mr.
Sheldrake shows his full meanness. "Take her!" he says, with a toss of
the hand, as discarding a worthless thing. "She came with me from the
old man's house last night. How many hours ago? Ah, thirteen! Take
her. _I_ have done with her!"
Felix laughs cheerily, and holds Lily closer to his breast.
"It was a lucky chance," he says, not addressing Mr. Sheldrake, "that
caused us to put up at the Myrtle Inn; for going into the stable to
look after my horse, I saw another horse which had been put up but a
very short time before we arrived. I have driven that horse more than
once, and I know the livery-stables to which it belonged. It was by
another lucky chance that I inquired of the ostler at the Myrtle
whether a man of the name of Thompson, a man with a crooked nose and a
hare-lip, had driven that horse down. But it was by the luckiest
chance of all that we found Thompson in bed at that very inn, and that
we induced him, without much trouble, to tell all about the pleasant
drive he had had, and where he had set his passengers down."
"You _have_ been very lucky," sneers Mr. Sheldrake, "but all your luck
will not avail you to save Master Alfred from the hulks. It is my
mission now to assist him to that desirable retreat for fools and
thieves. I have you there, my lucky hero."
"I think not. You have not heard all our luck yet. A friend of mine, a
detective--O yes, I have detective friends, as well as you!--has in
his possession certain letters and documents concerning transactions
in which the names of Sheldrake, Staveley, and half a dozen aliases
assumed by each to serve his turn, suspiciously occur. I think the law
is not inclined to treat with leniency the miserable tricksters whose
knavery leads many poor creatures to ruin. Some public attention has
been drawn to the class to which Mr. Sheldrake and Mr. Staveley
belong, as you may have observed. The law hitherto has been
comparatively powerless, because of the want of sufficiently direct
evidence; the rascals are a cunning set. But I and my detective friend
have in our possession documents by which we shall be able to prove
distinct fraud; and as those who administer the law wait but for the
opportunity to convict, you may depend that the punishment will not be
light. Nay, we have not only documents; we have witnesses. Knowing
what kind of man we had to deal with, knowing what kind of knavery we
had to expose, we set traps, not yesterday, nor last week, but months
ago, and the evidence we can bring forward will be sufficient.
Temptation has proved too strong for you in one or two instances, and
you have overstepped the mark, as we shall prove to you to your cost."
Inwardly disturbed as he is--for he does not know what proofs
may be in Felix's hands, and whether Felix is speaking truth or
gasconading--Mr. Sheldrake snaps his fingers scornfully.
"That for your evidence and witnesses!" he says. "You can do your best
and your worst!"
But he begins to lose courage when Felix plays his next move.
"You asked me when I came in whether there were any more of us. I told
you there was one more, and that you should see him presently."
Felix goes to the door which leads to the inner room, and opens it,
and Mr. Musgrave comes forward. Then, for the first time, the
consideration whether it will not be advisable to make terms, occurs
to Mr. Sheldrake.
"You drunken old thief!" he exclaims, with an oath. "Are you in this
plot?"
"And has been for some time," answers Felix, in a pleasant voice. "We
will excuse any hard words you may use. We are in confidence, and what
passes between us is, as the lawyers say, without prejudice. But you
have not seen all the cards in our hands yet. I speak, you see, in a
language you can understand. Shall I show you another trump-card that
we hold?"
"Go on."
"I heard you say before I entered that you had seen Mr. Con Staveley
this morning. That is not true. But it _is_ true that my detective
friend has seen him, and we have made terms (this is without
prejudice, mind) with him. If we are compelled to make this case
public, he appears against you. We hold him harmless, and he is
satisfied to get out of a serious scrape without a scratch. In no one
instance was he your partner in any of the transactions you have had
with the young gentleman whom you tried to lead to ruin. We have this
down in black and white. Do you think we have trumps enough to win the
game?"
"I don't know. What stakes are we playing for?"
"Those bills and acceptances you hold with Alfred's name to them, and
a full quittance from you to him for all money directly or indirectly
advanced to him by you and Con Staveley. We know almost to a sovereign
what they amount to. You have a list in your pocket. I also have a
list from Con Staveley."
"What if I refuse?"
Felix smiles.
"Why, then, I suppose, we must be quixotic enough to pay to Mr.
Sheldrake such of those bills as bear his name. Those bearing Mr.
Staveley's name we should be able to settle with that gentleman
direct. We should pay your bills under protest."
"_We_ pay!" interrupted Mr. Sheldrake incredulously.
"Well, say instead that I pay. I am able, I assure you; and I assure
you also that I am able to prove how many of the cheques bearing Mr.
Sheldrake's name for which bills were given came back to Mr. Sheldrake
through Mr. Staveley, and never passed through the bank. Here is a
suspicion of fraud, which it might be worth while to prosecute. But we
should not want it, I believe. We shall be able to keep Alfred's name
out of the proceedings. The other cases we have against you are,
in my detective friend's opinion, amply sufficient. And be sure of
this"--and here Felix's voice grew stern--"that unless the terms I
have stated are accepted by you, I will make the name of Sheldrake
famous in criminal records, and will so gibbet you in public opinion
that your very friends and acquaintances shall think it prudent to
know you no more. Excuse me for using strong language; all that passes
is without prejudice, and we are here in private conference."
His earnestness and determined manner carry conviction with them. Mr.
Sheldrake does not hesitate.
"And if I give you those bills, and the quittance, as you desire----"
"We wash our hands of you."
"You will give me back those documents and letters--you dog, you!"
with a dark look at Mr. Musgrave--"which you say you have?"
"We might be prevailed upon to do as much."
"On those terms I accept; I can have my revenge another way."
"Any other way you please. This is all I stipulate for."
"Can we arrange the business now?"
"At once. I will call my detective friend in."
The next half-hour is passed in the settlement of the affair, and
Felix conducts himself in so calm and business-like a manner, as to
intensify the bitterness with which Mr. Sheldrake regards him. Lily
and her father and grandfather do not speak, but they worship Felix
with their eyes; and now and then he turns and gives them an
encouraging smile, which does not escape Mr. Sheldrake's notice. But
he seems more eager than Felix to conclude the affair, having
something in his mind of which he is burning to deliver himself.
"On your word and honour as a gentleman," he says, as he receives
certain letters and papers from Felix, "these are all that you have?"
Felix, who has been carefully examining the bills, and who has been
very particular in the wording of the paper which releases Alfred from
liability, places the documents in his pocket carefully, and says,
"On my word and honour as a gentleman, these are all that we have. I
cannot honestly put the same form of words to you; but I am satisfied
that the bills tally with the list, and that the amount is correct.
Here, then, our acquaintanceship ends. I wish you good-day."
"I am going," says Mr. Sheldrake, energetically buttoning his
coat--"where to, do you think?"
"I haven't the slightest interest in knowing," Felix replies.
"You will alter your note when you hear I am going to Messrs. Tickle
and Flint, Alfred's employers, to tell them where it is likely they
will find the runaway clerk who has embezzled their money. You thought
the game was over, did you? Here is an unexpected check for you."
Mr. Sheldrake, with a wicked smile, is hurrying from the room, when
Felix, in his brightest manner, says with a pleasant laugh,
"I checkmate you. I have myself been to Messrs. Tickle and Flint, and
have arranged with them. This is in strict confidence between you and
me, as men of--well, we will say of honour. If you go, you will find
that they have nothing to say against Alfred. But I should advise you
to beware of Tickle and Flint; they are my lawyers in the little
matter in which you were very nearly putting in an appearance in the
dock. Shall I call 'checkmate' again, for the game is over?"
He turns his back upon Mr. Sheldrake, who takes his leave with no good
feelings in his heart, you may be sure. Felix takes Lily's hand, and
looks fondly into her eyes.
"This last piece of news is true, my darling. I have made myself
responsible to the firm for Alfred's debt; and Messrs. Tickle and
Flint have accepted fifty pounds on account. It was not an easy matter
to persuade them; but I pleaded with them effectually, and it is a
satisfaction to them to know that they will not be losers. Alfred, of
course, will not be employed in the office again; but he is free, and
let us thank God."
Her heart is too full for words; she can only press his hand to her
trembling lips, and bid God bless him. He looks round with a happy
smile.
"All selfishness, sir, believe me!" he says to Old Wheels. "I would
not change my lot with that of the best man in England!"
* * * * * *
A scene of another description took place at the same time between two
women, mother and daughter. Felix brought Martha Day from London,
after his visit to Alfred's employers. Before he returned to the inn,
to play the principal part in the scene just described, he took Martha
to the tent in which Lizzie was nursing Alfred, and said,
"You will find your daughter in there. Keep with her until I come for
you."
As Martha timidly entered the tent, Lizzie turned with a low cry, and
threw her arms round her mother's neck.
"I sent a letter to you this morning, mother; but you could not have
received it."
"I came home last night, my dear," Martha replied.
"Last night! How anxious you must have been! If I had thought you were
coming back, I would have left word."
"I was almost distracted, Lizzie. Felix found me at the house this
morning in a sad state, and told me all."
Lizzie moved to where Alfred was lying. A bed had been made up for him
on the ground, and he was murmuring feverishly in his sleep. She knelt
by his side, but could not make sense of the words that came from his
lips. Names of horses and jockeys and prophets, with expressions of
fondness for Lizzie and Lily, were strangely mingled together.
"He would have died, mother, if I had not come last night! I found him
lying under a hedge in a strong fever. He has not recognised me yet.
If he dies, my heart will break! You will help me to nurse him,
mother?"
"Yes, dear child."
They gazed at each other wistfully. Lizzie's eyes were heavy and weary
with watching. Filled as was Martha's heart with yearning love for her
child, there was an expression of misery in her face. Lizzie saw it,
and a sad smile played upon her lips.
"I want all your love, mother!"
"You have it, dear child!"
"And yet you are unhappy."
Martha did not reply; and after a pause Lizzie continued, in a low
sweet voice:
"Mother, I am going to make you happy."
"Lizzie!"
"Lying there as Alfred is lying now--dying, perhaps--I may consider
myself absolved from my promise. Ah, mother, you are not tender to
him; you have not kissed him; you have no kind thoughts in your heart
for him! Is it not so? You do not answer, and I love him so! Mother,
kiss Alfred."
Martha leant towards the sleeping man; but fast-flowing tears came
from her eyes, and she wrenched herself away from him, and said, in a
choking voice,
"I cannot, child; I cannot!"
"Ah, mother, you wrong him," said Lizzie tenderly. "And me. You spoke
some words to me last evening. They are in my mind now. Look at me,
mother. Place your hand in mine."
Martha placed her hand in Lizzie's, and Lizzie's other hand stole
forward, and imprisoned it. An eager light flashed into Martha's eyes
as she looked down on the hand that lay uppermost.
"Lizzie! A wedding-ring!"
"We were married six months ago, mother. But Alfred made me promise
solemnly to keep it secret until he gave me permission. He wanted to
make his fortune first, poor dear! I have broken my promise; but I
don't think he would blame me. Mother, will you kiss Alfred now? Will
you kiss my husband?"
* * * * * *
It is so short a time since this last scene was acted, that there is
but little more to tell. All those persons who have taken part in the
story are living now. Alfred went through a very severe illness, but
has almost recovered his strength. He is very humble; let us hope that
the bitter experience he has undergone will make him a better man. His
mind is filled with good resolves as he looks at Lizzie, who sits at
his side with a baby at her breast.
Mr. David Sheldrake prospers. Will the law ever give him his proper
position in society, and deprive him of the means of lawful wrong
doing? Let us hope that it will--and soon.
The Reverend Emanuel Creamwell still reigns at Stapleton. The justices
of the peace who are ruled by him, and who speak their sentences out
of his mouth, pursue the crooked tenor of their way. Last week, a
woman nearly eighty years of age, whose antecedents are good, was
charged before them with damaging a fence to the amount of one penny.
The owner of the fence, a farmer, would not appear against her, and a
policeman was the only witness. The woman is nearly stone-deaf, and
could not hear a word of the evidence. She and her aged husband
depended upon parish relief for support, and between them would have
found it difficult, after their long battle of life, to muster
sufficient money to pay for one day's food. The policeman said he
charged the woman with the terrible offence, and that she denied it,
and said she had merely broken a bit of dead wood with her foot. The
woman being deaf, could not examine the witness. The magistrates
pronounced the sentence, as dictated by the clergyman. She was found
guilty, and was condemned to pay one penny for the damage done to the
property of a man who was too merciful to prosecute; was fined
fivepence in addition to the penny; and was required to pay the cost
of the trial, amounting to thirteen shillings and sixpence. In
default of these payments, she was condemned to prison for seven days.
The old deaf woman was sent to prison. _And the clergyman, on the
following Sabbath, preached God's love and mercy to his flock!_ Will
the Government ever recognise that it belongs imperatively to its duty
to be careful that only capable[1] men--men with hearts as well as
heads--shall sit on the magisterial benches to dispense justice? Let
us hope this, also.
Pollypod's accident was not a very serious one; but it was discovered
that she had hurt her knee, and she will never be able to walk without
a limp. Sometimes when Jim Podmore looks at her as she limps along, it
seems to him as if she is treading on his heart. Jim has obtained a
situation in which he is enabled to earn a living by working ten hours
a day. Quite hours enough to work for a decent living.
Felix and Lily are married. He is working bravely, modestly,
cheerfully, and they are very happy. Old Wheels and he have many
quaint conversations together, and Lily and Pollypod listen with
delight to their discussions about this and that. They have but little
of the world's wealth; but they are very rich notwithstanding.
--------------------
Footnote 1: In a disreputable gambling action which was tried at the
Court of Queen's Bench in February, 1873, the Lord Chief-Justice of
England, speaking of "the pernicious and fatal habit of gambling,"
declared "that the habit was one so demoralising and degrading that it
would, like some foul leprosy, eat away the conscience, until a man
comes to think that it is your duty to yourself to 'do your neighbour
as your neighbour would do you!'" The defendant in this disreputable
action was twenty-four years of age, _and a magistrate!_ The case of
the poor woman who was charged with committing a penny's worth of
damage to a fence was tried before three magistrates, all of them
clergymen. Are such men as these fit administrators of justice?
--------------------
THE END.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
London: SWIFT & Co., Regent Press, King Street, Regent Street, W.
End of Project Gutenberg's London's Heart, by B. L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon