THE WEIRD SISTERS.
A Romance.
BY RICHARD DOWLING,
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD."
In Three Volumes.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1880.
[_All rights reserved._]
CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS,
GREAT NEW STREET, LONDON.
TO
EDMOND POWER, ESQ.,
OF SPRINGFIELD,
Whose kindness to Mine and to Me
I SHALL NEVER FORGET
WHILE I AM.
CONTENTS.
Part I.--A Plain Gold Guard.
I.--A CONSCIENTIOUS BURGLAR 1
II.--A GENEROUS BANKER 24
III.--THE MANOR HOUSE 47
IV.--AN UNSELFISH MOTHER 69
V.--AN UNSELFISH FATHER 99
VI.--"TO THE ISLAND OR TO ----" 123
VII.--TRUSTEE TO CANCELLED PAGES 148
VIII.--WAT GREY'S ROMANCE DIES OUT 174
IX.--A FLASK OF COGNAC 194
X.--ON THE THRESHOLD OF DEATH 216
XI.--BY THE STATE BED 235
THE WEIRD SISTERS.
PART I. A PLAIN GOLD GUARD.
CHAPTER I.
A CONSCIENTIOUS BURGLAR.
Mr. Henry Walter Grey sat in his dining-room sipping claret on the
evening of Monday, the 27th August, 1866. His house was in the suburbs
of the city of Daneford.
Mr. Grey was a man of about forty-five years of age, looking no more
than thirty-eight. He was tall, broad, without the least tendency to
corpulency, and yet pleasantly rounded and full. There was no
angularity or harshness in his face or figure. The figure was active
looking and powerful, the face open, joyous, and benignant. The hair had
begun to thin at his forehead; this gave his face a soothing expression
of contented calm.
His forehead was broad and white; his eyes were constant, candid, and
kindly; his nose was large, with quickly-mobile sensitive nostrils; and
his mouth well formed and full, having a sly uptwist at one corner,
indicating strong sympathy with humour. He wore neither beard nor
moustache.
His complexion was bright without being florid, fair without being
white. His skin was smooth as a young girl's cheek. He stood six feet
without his boots. He was this evening in the deepest mourning for his
wife, whom he had lost on Friday, the 17th of that month, August.
Although he occupied one of the most important positions in Daneford, no
person who knew him, or had heard of him from a Danefordian, ever
called him either Henry or Walter. He was universally known as Wat Grey.
Daneford believed him to be enormously rich. He was the owner of the
Daneford Bank, an institution which did a large business and held its
head high.
Indeed, in Daneford it was almost unnecessary to add the banker's
surname to his Christian name; and if anyone said, "Wat did so-and-so,"
and you asked, "Wat who?" the purveyor of the news would know you for an
alien or a nobody in the city.
The young men worshipped him as one of themselves, who, despite his
gaiety and lightheartedness, had prospered in the world, and kept his
youth and made his money, and was one of themselves still, and would
continue to be one of them as long as he lived.
Elder men liked him for the solid prudence which guided all his
business transactions, and which, while it enabled him to be with the
young, allowed him to exercise over his juniors in years the influence
of an equal combined with the authority of experience. Lads of twenty
never thought of him as a fogey, and men of thirty looked upon him as a
younger man, who had learned the folly of vicious vanities very much
sooner than others; and consequently they confided in him, and submitted
themselves to him with docility. Young men assembled at his house, but
there were no orgies; elder men came, and went away cheered and
diverted, and no whit the less rich or wise because discussions of
important matters had been enlivened with interludes of gayer discourse.
Wat Grey was one of the most active men in Daneford. He was Chairman of
the Chamber of Commerce, of the Commercial Club, and of the Harbour
Board.
He was Vice-chairman of the Daneford Boat Club, and Treasurer of the
Poor's Christmas Coal Fund.
If he was rich, he was liberal. He subscribed splendidly to all the
local charities, but never as a public man or as owner of the Daneford
Bank. What he thought it wise to give he always sent from "Wat," as
though he prized more highly the distinction of familiarity his town had
conferred upon him than any conventional array of Christian and
surnames, or any title of cold courtesy or routine right. It was not
often he dropped from his cheerful level of high-spirited and rich
animal enjoyment into sentimentalism, but on one occasion he said to
young Feltoe: "I'd rather be 'Wat' to my friends than Sir Thingumbob
Giggamarigs to all the rest of the world."
There was nothing Daneford could have refused him. He had been mayor,
and could be Liberal member of Parliament for the ancient and small
constituency any time he chose when the Liberal seat was vacant.
Daneford was one of those constituencies which give one hand to one side
and the other hand to the other, and have no hand free for action.
Walter Grey had always declined the seat; he would say:
"I'm too young yet, far too young. As I grow older, I shall grow wiser
and more corrupt. Then you can put me in, and I shall have great
pleasure in ratting for a baronetcy. Ha, ha, ha!"
Of late, however, it had been rumoured the chance of getting the rich
banker to consent to take the seat (this was the way everyone put it)
had increased, and that he might be induced to stand at the next
vacancy. Then all who knew of his personal qualities, his immense
knowledge of finance, and his large fortune, said that if he chose he
might be Chancellor of the Exchequer in time; and after his retirement
from business, and purchase of an estate, the refusal of a peerage was
certain to come his way.
As he sat sipping his claret that Monday evening of the 27th of August,
1866, his face was as placid as a secret well. Whether he was thinking
of his dead wife and sorrowing for her, or revolving the ordinary
matters of his banking business, or devising some scheme for the
reduction of taxation in the city, or dallying mentally with the sirens
who sought to ensnare him in parliamentary honours, could no more be
gathered from his face than from the dull heavy clouds that hung low
over the sultry land abroad.
It was not often he had to smoke his after-dinner cigar and sip his
after-dinner claret alone; men were always glad to dine with him, and
he was always glad to have them; but the newness of his black clothes
and of the bands on his hats in the hall accounted for the absence of
guests. He was not dressed for dinner. One of the things which had made
his table so free and jovial was that a man might sit down to it in a
coat of any cut or colour, and in top-boots and breeches if he liked.
Before his bereavement he would say:
"Mrs. Grey--although she may not sit with us--has an antiquated
objection to a man dining in his shirt-sleeves. I have often
expostulated with her unreasonable prejudice, but I can't get her to
concede no coat at all. You may wear your hat and your gloves if you
like, but for Heaven's sake come in a coat of some kind. If you can't
manage a coat, a jacket will do splendidly."
Mrs. Grey never dined out. In fact, she saw little company; tea was
always sent into the dining-room.
Mr. Grey had not got more than half-way through his cigar on that
evening of the 27th of August when a servant knocked and entered.
The master, whose face was towards the window, turned round his head
slowly, and said in a kindly voice:
"Well, James, what is it?"
"A man, sir, wants to see you."
James was thick-set, low-sized, near-sighted, and dull. He had been a
private soldier in a foot regiment, and had been obliged to leave
because of his increasing near-sightedness. But he had been long enough
in uniform to acquire the accomplishment of strict and literal attention
to orders, and the complete suspension of his own faculties of judgment
and discretion. Although his master was several inches taller than
James, the latter looked in the presence of the banker like a clumsy
elephant beside an elegant panther.
"A man wants to see me!" cried Mr. Grey, in astonishment, not unmixed
with a sense of the ridiculous. "What kind of a man? and what is his
business."
He glanced good-humouredly at James, but owing to the shortness of the
servant's sight the expression of the master's face was wasted in air.
James, who had but a small stock of observation and no fancy, replied
respectfully:
"He seems a common man, sir; like a man you'd see in the street."
"Ah," said Mr. Grey, with a smile; "that sort of man, is it? Ah! Which,
James, do you mean: the sort of man you'd see walking in the streets, or
standing at a public-house corner?"
Again Mr. Grey smiled at the droll dulness and droller simplicity of
his servant.
A gleam of light came into James's dim eyes upon finding the description
narrowed down to the selection of one of two characteristics, and he
said, in a voice of solemn sagacity:
"The back of his coat is dirty, sir, as if he'd been leaning against a
public-house wall."
"Or as if he had been carrying a sack of corn on his back?" demanded the
master, laughing softly, and brushing imaginary cigar-ashes off the
polished oak-table with his white curved little finger.
For a moment James stood on his heels in stupefied doubt and dismay at
this close questioning. He was a man of action, not of thought. Had his
master shouted, "Right wheel--quick march!" he would have gone out of
the window, through the glass, without a murmur and without a thought
of reproach; but to be thus interrogated on subtleties of appearance
made him feel like a blindfold man, who is certain he is about to be
attacked, but does not know where, by whom, or with what weapon. He
resolved to risk all and escape.
"I think, sir, it was a public-house, for I smelt liquor."
"That is conclusive," said the master, laughing out at last. "That is
all right, James. I am too lazy to go down to see him. Show him up here.
Stop a moment, James. Let him come up in five minutes."
The servant left the room, and as he did so the master laughed still
more loudly, and then chuckled softly to himself, muttering:
"He thought the man had been leaning against a public-house because he
smelt of liquor! Ha, ha, ha! My quaint James, you will be the death of
your master. You will, indeed."
When he had finished his laugh he dismissed the idea of James finally
with a roguish shrug of his shoulders and wag of his head.
Then he drew down the gasalier, pushed an enormous easy-chair in front
of the empty fire-place, pulled a small table between the dining-table
and the easy-chair, and placed an ordinary oak and green dining-room
chair at the corner of the dining-table near the window; then he sat
down on the ordinary chair.
When this was done he ascertained that the drawer of the small table
opened easily, closed in the drawer softly, threw himself back in his
own chair and began smoking slowly, blowing the smoke towards the
ceiling without taking the cigar from his lips, and keeping his legs
thrust out before him, and his hands deep in his trousers-pockets.
Presently the door opened; James said, "The man, sir!" the door closed
again, and all was still.
"Come over and sit down, my man," said the banker, in a good-natured
tone of voice, without, however, removing his eyes from the ceiling.
To this there was no reply by either sound or gesture.
Mr. Grey must have been pursuing some humorous thought over the ceiling;
for when he at last dropped his eyes and looked towards the door, he
said, with a quiet sigh, as though the ridiculous in the world was
killing him slowly: "It's too droll, too droll." Then to the man, who
still stood just inside the door: "Come over here and sit down, my man.
I have been expecting a call from you. Come over and sit down. Or would
you prefer I should send the brougham for you?"
As he turned his eyes round, they fell on the figure of a man of forty,
who, with head depressed and shoulders thrust up high, and a battered,
worn sealskin-cap held in both hands close together, thumbs uppermost,
was standing on one leg, a model of abject, obsequious servility.
The man made no reply; but as Mr. Grey's eyes fell upon him he
substituted the leg drawn up for the one on which he had been standing,
thrust up his shoulders, and pressed down his head in token of
unspeakable humility under the honour of Mr. Grey's glance, and of
profound gratitude for the honour of Mr. Grey's speech.
"Come, my man; do come over and sit down. The conversation is becoming
monotonous already. Do come over, and sit down here. I can't keep on
saying 'come' all the evening. I assure you I have expected this call
from you. Do come and sit down."
Mr. Grey motioned the man to the large easy-chair in front of him.
At last the man moved, stealthily, furtively, across the carpet,
skirting the furniture cautiously, as though it consisted of
infernal-machines which might go off at any moment. His dress was ragged
and torn; his face, a long narrow one, of mahogany colour; his eyes were
bright full blue, the one good feature in his shy unhandsome
countenance.
"Sit in that chair," said Mr. Grey blandly, at the same time waving his
hand towards the capacious and luxurious easy-chair.
"Please, sir, I'd rather stand," said the man, in a low sneaking tone.
The contrast between the two was remarkably striking: the one, large
and liberal of aspect, gracious and humorous of manner, broad-faced,
generous-looking, perfectly dressed, scrupulously neat; the other, drawn
together, mean in form, narrow of features, with avaricious mouth and
unsteady eye, with ragged and soiled clothes.
"Sit down, my good man; sit down. I assure you the conversation will
continue to be very monotonous until you take my advice, and sit down in
that chair. You need not be afraid of spoiling it. Sit down, and then
you may at your leisure tell me what I can do for you."
Mr. Grey may have smiled at the whim of Nature in forging such a
counterfeit of human nature as the man before him, or he may have smiled
at the obvious dislike with which his visitor surveyed the chair. The
smile, however, was a pleasant, cordial, happy one. He drew in his legs,
sat upright, and, leaning his left elbow on the small table before him,
pointed to the chair with his right hand, and kept his right hand fixed
in the attitude of pointing until the man, with a scowl at the chair and
a violent upheaval of his shoulders and depression of his head, sank
among the soft cushions.
"Now we shall get on much more comfortably," said Mr. Grey, placing what
remained unsmoked of his cigar on the ash-tray beside him, clasping his
hands over his waistcoat, and bending slightly forward to indicate that
his best attention was at the disposal of his visitor. "What is your
name?"
"Joe Farleg."
"Joe Farleg, Joe Farleg," mused, half aloud, Mr. Grey. "An odd name. Why
am I fated always to meet people with odd ways or odd names? Well, never
mind answering that question, Joe," he said, more loudly, in an
indulgent tone, as though he felt he would be violating kindliness by
insisting on a reply which had little or nothing to do with Farleg. He
continued, "I don't think I have ever seen you or heard your name
before; and although I did not think it improbable you, or someone like
you, would call, I could not know exactly whom I was to see. Before we
go any farther, I ask you: Haven't I been good to you without even
knowing who you were?"
"Good to me, sir!" cried the man, in surprise.
"Yes; I have been very good to you in not setting the police after you."
The man tried to struggle up out of the chair, but, unused to a seat of
the kind, struggled for a moment in vain. At last he gained his feet,
and with an oath demanded: "How did you know I did it? Are you going to
set them after me now?" His blue eyes swiftly explored the room to find
if the officers had sprung out of concealment, and to ascertain the
chances of his escape.
With a kindly wave of his hand, Mr. Grey indicated the chair. "I have
not even spoken to the police about the matter, and I do not intend
speaking to them. Sit down in your chair, Joe, and let us talk the
matter over quietly."
"I'm d----d if I sit in that chair again. It smothers me."
He regarded the banker with uneasiness and the chair with terror.
Mr. Grey laughed outright. The laughter seemed to soothe Farleg a
little. He cast his large blue eyes once more hastily round the room,
then regarded the banker for an instant, and dropped his glance upon the
chair.
Nothing could have been more reassuring than the brilliantly-lighted
dining-room, the good-natured, good-humoured face of its master, and
the harmlessly seductive appearance of the chair. Farleg was ashamed of
his fears; upon another invitation, and an assurance that nothing
farther would be said by his host until he had returned to his former
position, he threw himself once more into the comfortable seat.
"And now, Joe, that we are in a position to go on smoothly, what can I
do for you?"
"You remember, sir, the night of the robbery, sir?"
"Yes; you broke into my house, into one of the tower-rooms, on the
evening of the 17th of this month, and you carried off a few things of
no great value."
"And you're not going to send the police after me?"
"No."
Farleg leaned forward in his chair until his elbows rested on his
knees.
"You missed the things. You said a while ago you expected me, or whoever
did the robbery; was that a true word? Did you expect whoever did the
robbery to come and see you?"
"I did. I could not be sure you would come, but when I missed the things
I thought you might call. There was, of course, the chance you might
not."
"That's it. Well, I have come, you see. I found some rings, and I kept
three; but I thought you might like to have this one, and I brought it
to you, as I am about to leave the country. Look at it. It's a plain
gold guard."
As Farleg said these words his eyes, no longer wandering, fixed
themselves on the face of Mr. Grey.
For an instant the face of the banker puckered and wrinkled up like a
blighted leaf. Almost instantly it smoothed out again; and, with a bland
smile, he said:
"Thank you very much. It was my poor wife's guard ring. You were very
kind to think of bringing it back to me."
As he spoke he began softly opening the drawer of the little table that
stood between him and the burglar.