Retribution.
At five o'clock in the evening Robert Grantham and Rathbeal joined
John Dixon in his rooms in Craven Street. The revelation which
Rathbeal had made to Grantham had produced a marked change in him.
With wonder and incredulity had he listened at first to the strange
story, but his friend's impressive earnestness had gradually convinced
him that it was no fable which Rathbeal was relating. The first force
of his emotions spent, hope, humility, and thankfulness were expressed
in his face. It seemed to him that the meeting between him and his
wife, which Rathbeal had promised should take place that night, was
like the meeting of two spirits that had been wandering for ages in
darkness. It was not without fear that he looked forward to it. The
sense of the wrong he had inflicted upon the woman he had vowed to
cherish and protect was as strong within him now as it had been
through all these years, from the day upon which he heard that she was
dead. Would she accept his assurance that he had not been false to
her, would she believe in his repentance, would she forgive him?
"I ask but that," he said to Rathbeal, "and then I shall be
content to go my way, and spend the rest of my life in the task of
self-purification."
"Hope for something better," Rathbeal replied: "for a reunion of
hearts, for a good woman's full forgiveness, and forgetfulness of the
errors of the past. The clouds have not lifted only to deceive. There
is a bright future before you, my friend."
"My future is in God's hands," said Grantham.
"He will direct your wife aright. Hope and believe."
In this spirit they wended their way to John Dixon's rooms.
Grantham and he had not met since they left school, but he received
his old schoolfellow as though there had been no break in their early
association. They shook hands warmly, and the look that passed between
Rathbeal and John Dixon told the latter that the truth had been
revealed to the wronged man. They wasted no time in idle conversation,
but started immediately on their journey.
For a reason which he did not divulge to his companions, John Dixon
had elected to drive to Mr. Fox-Cordery's summer residence; he had a
vague idea that occasion might arise to render it necessary that he
should run off with Charlotte that very night; if so, there was a
carriage, with a pair of smart horses, at his command. The coachman he
had engaged had received his instructions, and when they got out of
the tangle of the crowded thoroughfares the horses galloped freely
along the road. While they proceed upon their way some information
must be given of Martha's movements.
She had rushed from her sister's room in a state of delirium. Her
privations and sufferings, and the conflicting emotions which tortured
her, had destroyed her mental balance, and she was not responsible for
her actions. She had no settled notion where she was going; the only
motive by which she was guided was her desire to escape from her
fellow-creatures. Instinctively she chose the least frequented roads,
and she stumbled blindly on till she was out of London streets. She
had no food, and no money to purchase it, but she scarcely felt her
hunger. One dominant idea possessed her--under the floating clouds and
with silence all around her, she heard the drip of water. It pierced
the air, it made itself felt as well as heard. Drip, drip, drip! The
sound wooed her on toward the valley of the Thames, and unconsciously
she pursued a route which had been familiar to her in her girlhood's
days. She walked all that night, and through the whole of the
following day, compelled to stop now and again for rest, but doing so
always when there was a danger of her being accosted by persons who
approached her from an opposite direction. Rathbeal, had he been
acquainted with her movements, would have answered the question
whether it was chance or fate that took her in the direction of Mr.
Fox-Cordery's house. When night came on again she was wandering along
the banks of the Thames, within a short distance of the man who had
wrecked her life. She knew that she had reached her haven, and she
only waited for the moment to put her desperate resolve into
execution. The water looked so peaceful and shining! The tide silently
lapped the shore, but she heard the drip, drip, drip of the water.
Death held out its arms to her, and invited her to its embrace. It was
a starlight night, but she saw no stars in heaven. The moon sailed on,
but she saw no light. "I shall soon be at rest." That was her thought,
if it can be said that she thought at all.
The occupants of a carriage, drawn by a pair of smart horses, saw the
figure of a woman moving slowly on toward the little rustic bridge
which stretched from Mr. Fox-Cordery's lawn to the opposite bank. They
took no notice of her, being entirely occupied with the important
mission upon which they were engaged. They had remarked that it was
fortunate the night was so fine. Could they have heard the sound that
sounded like a death-knell in Martha's ears, they might have changed
their minds, and recognized that no night could be fine which bore so
despairing a message to a mortal's ears. Drip, drip, drip! "I am
coming," whispered Martha to her soul. "I am coming. The water is deep
beneath that bridge!"
At nine o'clock Robert Grantham and his companions reached their
destination. The coachman drew up at an inn, and the men alighted.
"Now," said John Dixon, as they strolled toward Mr. Fox-Cordery's
house, "we must be guided by Charlotte's instructions. The night is so
clear that we shall be able to see each other from a distance. You
must not be in sight when Charlotte comes; I must explain matters to
her. The bank by that bridge stands high. Go there and remain till you
hear from me. Before I enter the house I shall have a word to say as
to the method of our proceedings. Someone is coming toward us. Yes, it
is Charlotte. Go at once, and keep wide of her."
They obeyed, and walked toward the bridge. Martha was on the opposite
side, and perceiving men approaching, she crouched down and waited.
"John," said Charlotte, in a low, clear voice.
"Charlotte!"
Only a moment for a loving embrace, and then they began to converse.
What they said to each other did not occupy many minutes. John Dixon
left her standing alone, and went to his friends.
"I am going to the house," he said, "and am to speak to Mrs.
Grantham"--how Robert trembled at the utterance of the name!--"in her
room. That is her window; there is a light in the room. If I come to
the window and wave a white handkerchief, follow me into the house
without question. Allow no one to stop you. I do not know how long I
may be there, but I will bring matters to an issue as soon as
possible."
They nodded compliance, and Robert Grantham breathed a prayer. Then
John Dixon rejoined Charlotte, and they entered the house.
Martha, crouching by the bridge, heard nothing of this. All she heard
was the drip of water; all she saw were the dark shadows of men on the
opposite side. They would soon be gone, and then, and then----
Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother, being closeted together, were not
aware of the entrance of John Dixon. Unobstructed he ascended the
stairs to the first floor, and was conducted to the presence of Mrs.
Grantham.
What she had to disclose to him, and what he had to disclose to her,
is already known to the reader. She told her story first, and John
Dixon said that, from his knowledge of Mr. Fox-Cordery, he was more
than inclined to believe that her agent had been false to his trust.
He informed her that he had gained an insight into her affairs during
the time he had served Mr. Fox-Cordery, and that their disagreement
had arisen partly from a remonstrance he had made as to his employer's
management of certain speculations.
"My impression was then," said John Dixon, "that Mr. Fox-Cordery was
exceeding his powers, and that in case of a loss he could be made
responsible for it."
"God bless you for those words!" exclaimed Mrs. Grantham. "The thought
of being forced into marriage with him makes me shudder. But what can
I do? To see my child in want of food would break my heart."
"There is no question of a marriage with him," said John Dixon
gravely; his own task was approaching. "It is impossible. I will tell
you why presently, Mrs. Grantham. You will need all your strength. It
is not on your affairs alone that I am here to-night. Before I say
what I am come to say, let us finish with Mr. Fox-Cordery. I am a
partner in a respectable firm of solicitors, and my advice is that you
place your business affairs in our hands. We shall demand papers, and
a strict investigation; and I think I can promise you that we shall be
able to save something substantial for you. Are you agreeable to this
course?"
"Yes, dear friend, yes."
"Then I understand from this moment I am empowered to act for you?"
"It is so," she replied, and thanked Heaven for having sent her this
friend and comforter.
"Thank Charlotte also," he said.
Then he began to speak of the important branch of his visit to her.
Delicately and gently he led up to it; with the tenderness of a true
and tender-hearted man he brought the solemn truth before her. With
dilating eyes and throbbing breast she listened to the wonderful
revelation, and to the description of the life her husband had led
since he had received the false news of her death. Much of this he had
learned from Rathbeal, who had armed him with the truth; and as he
went on the scales fell from her eyes, and she saw with the eyes of
her heart the man she had loved, weak, erring, and misguided, but now
truly repentant and reformed, and not the guilty being she had been
led by Mr. Fox-Cordery to believe he was. She had no thought for the
wretch who had worked out his infamous design; she thought only that
Robert was true to her, and that her dear child was not fatherless.
John Dixon gave her time for this to sink into her mind, and then told
her that her husband had accompanied him, and was waiting outside for
the signal of joy.
"I will go to him! I will go to him!" she cried.
But John Dixon restrained her.
"Let him come into the house," he said. "Let your enemy know that he
is here, and that his schemes are foiled. Remember, I am your adviser.
Be guided by me."'
Trembling in every limb, she went to the window and opened it.
"Shall I give him the signal?" asked John Dixon.
"No; I will do it," she replied, and, reaching forth, waved the white
flag of love and forgiveness.
Robert Grantham, his eyes fixed in painful anxiety upon the window,
was the first to see the signal. With a gasp of joy he started for the
house, and Rathbeal, whose attention just then had been diverted by
the figure of Martha crouching by the bridge, hearing his footsteps,
turned to follow him. At the moment of his doing so, Martha, seeing
them walk away, crept on to the bridge and leaned over. Suddenly she
straightened herself, and raising her arms aloft, whispered softly,
"I'm coming--I'm coming!" and let herself fall into the water. The
heavy splash, accompanied by a muffled scream, reached Rathbeal's ears
before he had proceeded twenty yards. Turning to the bridge, and
missing the figure of the crouching woman, he instinctively divined
what had happened.
"Don't stop for me," he cried hurriedly to Grantham. "I'll follow
you."
Then he ran back to the bridge.
Robert Grantham did not hear him, so absorbed was he in the supreme
moment that was approaching. Had a storm burst upon him, he would
scarcely have been conscious of it. Who was that standing at the
window, waving the handkerchief! It was not John Dixon. His eyes were
dim, his heart palpitated violently, as he fancied he recognized the
form of his wife. If it were so, indeed his hope was answered. He was
met at the door by Charlotte, who led him to the room above. Standing
upon the threshold he saw his wife looking with wistful yearning
toward him--toward her husband who, after these long years, had come
to her, as it were, from the grave. They were spellbound for a few
moments, incapable of speech or motion, each gazing upon the other for
a sign.
John Dixon stepped noiselessly to Charlotte's side, and the lovers
left the room hand in hand, closing the door gently behind them.
Husband and wife, so strangely reunited, were alone.
She was the first to move. Bending forward, she held out her arms, and
her eyes shone with ineffable love; with a sob he advanced, and fell
upon his knees before her. Sinking into a chair, she drew his head to
her breast and folded her arms around him.
Let the veil fall upon those sacred minutes. Aching hearts were eased,
faith was restored, and Love shed its holy light upon Lucy and Robert.
"Our child!" he whispered. "Our Clair!"
"I will take you to her," she said, and led him to the bed where Clair
was sleeping.
Meanwhile Rathbeal, hastening to the bridge, saw his suspicions
confirmed by the death-bubbles rising to the surface of the water.
With the energy and rapidity of a young man, he tore off his coat and
waistcoat, and plunged into the river. He was a grand swimmer, and he
did not lose his self-possession. He had eyes in his hands and
fingers, and when, after some time had elapsed, he grasped a woman's
hair, he struck out for the bank, and reaching it in safety, drew the
woman after him. She lay inanimate upon the bank, and, clearing his
eyes of the water, he knelt down to ascertain if he had rescued her in
time to save her. He put his ear to her heart, his mouth to her mouth,
but she gave no sign of life. The moon, which had been hidden behind a
cloud, now sailed forth into the clearer space of heaven, and its
beams illumined the woman's face.
"It is Martha!" he cried, and without a moment's hesitation he caught
her up in his arms and ran with her to the house.
Mr. Fox-Cordery, closeted with his mother in a room on the ground
floor, heard sounds upon the stairs which had a disturbing effect upon
him. The sounds were those of strange footsteps and whispering voices.
Opening the door quickly he saw, by the light of the hall-lamp, John
Dixon and Charlotte coming down--John with his arm round Charlotte's
waist, she inclining tenderly toward the man she loved.
"You here!" cried Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"You behold no spirit," replied John Dixon, releasing Charlotte, and
placing her behind him; "I am honest flesh and blood."
Mr. Fox-Cordery, his mother now by his side, looked from John Dixon to
Charlotte with a spiteful venom in his eyes which found vent in his
voice.
"You drab!" he cried. "You low-minded hussy! And you, you sneak and
rogue! Have you conspired to rob the house? I'll have the law of you;
you shall stand in the dock together. Curse the pair of you!"
"Easy, easy," said John Dixon, calm and composed. "Don't talk so
freely of law and docks. And don't forget that curses come home to
roost."
Other sounds from the first floor distracted Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"Is there a gang of you here? Whose steps are those above? Mother,
alarm the house. Call up the servants, and send for the police."
"Aye, do," said John Dixon, as Mrs. Fox-Cordery pulled the bell with
violence, "and let them see and hear what you shall see and hear.
Don't be frightened, Charlotte. The truth must out now."
Mr. Fox-Cordery's pallid lips quivered, and he started back with a
smothered shriek. Robert Grantham and his wife appeared at the top of
the stairs, and as they slowly descended he retreated step by step,
and seized his mother's arm.
"Be quiet, can't you?" he hissed. "Go and send the servants away. We
do not want them. Say it was a mistake--a false alarm--anything--but
keep them in their rooms!"
Retribution stared him in the face. The edifice he had built up with
so much care had toppled over, and he was entangled in the ruins. It
was well for them that he had no weapon in his hands, for coward as he
was, his frenzy would have impelled him to use it upon them.
"I am here," said John Dixon, "by the permission you gave to Mrs.
Grantham, and I am armed with authority to act for her. You see, I
have not come alone."
"You devil! you devil!" muttered Mr. Fox-Cordery, through the foam
that gathered about his mouth.
"Say nothing more to him, Mr. Dixon," said Robert Grantham, who had
reached the foot of the stairs. "The truth has been brought to light,
and his unutterable villainy is fully exposed. Leave to the future
what is yet to be done. Lucy, go and dress our child. We quit this
house within the hour. Do not fear; no one shall follow you."
Mrs. Grantham went upstairs to Clair, and she had scarcely reached the
room when the street door was burst open, and Rathbeal appeared with
Martha in his arms.
"This poor woman threw herself into the water," said Rathbeal. "Tired
of life, she sought the peace of death in the river. Give way, Mr.
Fox-Cordery; she must be attended to without delay. Obstruct us, and
the crime of murder will be on your soul!" He beat Mr. Fox-Cordery
back into the room, and laid his burden down on the floor. "You see
who it is!"
"She is a stranger to me," muttered Mr. Fox-Cordery, his heart
quaking with fear.
"False! You know her well. If she is dead you will be made
responsible; for you and no other drove her to her death!"
It was no time to bandy further words. Assisted by Charlotte and John
Dixon, he set to work in the task of bringing respiration into the
inanimate form, Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother standing silently by,
while Robert Grantham guarded the staircase. Their efforts were
successful. In a quarter of an hour Martha gave faint signs of life,
and they redoubled their efforts. Martha opened her eyes, and they
fell upon Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"That man! that monster!" she murmured, and would have risen, but her
strength failed her.
"Rest--rest," said Rathbeal soothingly. "Justice shall be done. You
are with friends who will not desert you." Returned to Mr.
Fox-Cordery. "Have you no word to speak to your victim?"
"I have no knowledge of her," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You are mad,
all of you, and are in a league against me."
"You ruined and betrayed her," said Rathbeal, "and then left her to
starve. Is it true, Martha?"
"It is true," she moaned. "God have pity upon me, it is true!"
"Liars--liars!" cried Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Liars all!"
"She speaks God's truth, and it shall be made known to man," said
Rathbeal.
He did not scruple to search the room for spirits, and he found some
in a sideboard.
"Drink," he whispered to her, "and remember that you have met with
friends. You shall not be left to starve. We will take care of her,
will we not, Mr. Dixon?"
"I take the charge of her upon myself," said John Dixon. "She shall
have the chance of living a respectable life."
"Robert!" said Mrs. Grantham, in a gentle tone. She was standing by
his side, holding Clair by the hand. Seeing the woman on the floor she
started forward. "Oh, can I do anything? Poor creature! poor
creature!"
"We can do all that is required," said John Dixon. "She is getting
better already. Go with your husband and child to the inn where we put
up the horses. Mr. Grantham knows the way. We will join you there as
soon as possible."
Charlotte whispered a few words in his ear.
"Take Charlotte with you, please. She must not sleep another night
beneath her brother's roof. Go, my dear."
"Remain here!" cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, speaking for the first time. "I
command you!"
But Charlotte paid no heed to her. Accompanied by her friends, she
left her brother's home, never to return.
But little remains to be told. Baffled and defeated, Mr. Fox-Cordery
was compelled to sue for mercy, and it was granted to him under
certain conditions, in which, be sure, Martha was not forgotten. His
accounts were submitted to a searching investigation, and, as John
Dixon had anticipated, it was discovered that only a portion of Mrs.
Grantham's fortune was lost. Sufficient was left to enable her and her
husband and child to live in comfort. Purified by his sufferings,
Robert Grantham was the tenderest of husbands and fathers, and he and
those dear to him commenced their new life of love and joy, humbly
grateful to God for the blessings he had in store for them.
Neither were Little Prue and her mother forgotten. Each of those who
are worthy of our esteem contributed something toward a fund which
helped them on in the hard battle they were fighting.
A month later our friends were assembled at the wedding of Charlotte
and John Dixon. The ceremony over, the newly-married couple bade their
friends good-by for a little while. They were to start at once upon
their honeymoon.
"It is a comfort," said Rathbeal, shaking John heartily by the hand,
"in our travels through life to meet with a man. I have met with two."
"I shall never forget," said John, apart to Mrs. Grantham, "nor will
Charlotte, some words of affection you once addressed to her. We know
them by heart: 'If the man is true,' you said, 'and the woman is true,
they should be to each other a shield of love, a protection against
evil, a solace in the hour of sorrow.' Charlotte and I will be to each
other a Shield of Love. Thank you for those words, and God bless you
and yours."
The last kisses were exchanged.
"God protect you, dear Charlotte," said Mrs. Grantham, pressing the
bride to her heart. "A happy life is before you."
"And before you, dear Mrs. Grantham," said Charlotte, hardly able to
see for the tears in her eyes.
"Yes, my dear. The clouds have passed away. Come, my child; come, dear
Robert!"