A FLASK OF COGNAC.
When the Weeslade Valley Bank declined to advance five thousand pounds
on the Weeslade Steamship Company's river passenger-boat the _Rodwell_,
they had two reasons for the refusal: first, they were not prepared to
lock up money at the time; second, a report reached them that the
_Rodwell_ was in bad condition.
In the winter of the year 1865 the _Rodwell_ had lain up, undergoing
repairs, and then the discovery was made that her condition was far from
satisfactory. Many of her plates were no thicker than brown-paper, and
just at the bends aft the point of a scraper had absolutely gone
through a plate.
The boilers, too, were found to be in an unsatisfactory condition, and
the machinery needed thorough overhauling.
But they wanted the boat for the summer traffic, and had no time to get
all she required done before the fine weather; so she was patched for
the time, the intention being to lay her up the following autumn and put
her in good repair; in the meantime one new boiler was to be made for
her.
Towards the middle of April she began running as usual with passengers
between Daneford and Seacliff.
On her third trip she broke down; something went wrong with her
machinery, and she had to be towed into Seacliff by another steamer.
As this accident occurred early in the season there were few passengers,
and little excitement arose from the circumstance.
Almost the whole trade of the _Rodwell_ consisted of carrying seaside
folk from Daneford to Seacliff and back again. She sailed every week-day
of the season from Seacliff to Daneford at half-past seven in the
morning, and from Daneford to Seacliff at half-past six in the
afternoon. Many of the business men of the city kept their families all
the season at Seacliff, they themselves coming and going between the
little town and the city daily, and enjoying the advantages of sleeping
in sea-freshened air and two bright pleasant sails of a couple of hours
each in the day.
When, in overhauling the _Rodwell_ in 1865, they found the boilers in
not a satisfactory condition, they took off five pounds of steam.
"Better to be sure than sorry," they said. This reduction of steam made
the _Rodwell_ slower in 1866 than in previous years.
On Tuesday, the 14th of August, 1866, the engineer of the _Rodwell_ made
a report to the owners, and was directed to work her at another five
pounds' reduction of pressure.
When Grey advanced the five thousand pounds on the mortgage he made no
enquiry into her condition. He knew the boat very well, had many times
travelled by her between Daneford and Seacliff. He knew she was worth
more than the money asked for, and as no mortgage existed upon her he
felt he should be quite secure if the company ensured her, and handed
him a policy for five thousand pounds. His position was that if the
company did not pay the interest on his money and his money itself,
ultimately he could seize the _Rodwell_; and if the steamboat were lost
by any chance of wind or water he should get his money from the
insurance company.
Mr. Grey was as familiar with the steamboat _Rodwell_ as any man in
Daneford. He had often spent the summer months with his wife at
Seacliff, and had been a passenger in the boat hundreds of times. He
knew all the men employed on her; he knew every exterior brass plate and
hinge and bolt. He could go about her blindfold, and steer her up or
down the river. He didn't understand machinery, but often said he could
command, steer, and attend to the engines all by himself, and save the
wages of the crew.
Daneford was proud of all its institutions, and after Wat there were few
it felt more complaisant about than the pretty town and picturesque
scenery of Seacliff and the faithful _Rodwell_, the town being regarded
as the country sweetheart, the milkmaid lover of the city, and the
steamboat as the Mercury of the love-making.
It was Grey's intention to spend the month of September, 1866, at
Seacliff. He did not own a house there. It had been his custom to rent a
small white cottage that hung half-way down a red cliff surrounding one
of the blue bays clustering around the high headland on which the white
town was built.
He did not regard his sojourn at Seacliff with any lively anticipations.
It was pleasant to steam up and down the blue river between the sunlit
green shores, through the sweet odours from the woods and hedges
freshened and spiritualised by the full broad river. The morning swim in
the strong sea-water brought the sense of health and vigour and power
into his frame. The breakfast, ample, well cooked, appetising, with
blithe company, full of inspiriting talk and resolute happiness, in the
steamer's cabin, would cure a misanthrope and buoy the heart of a cynic.
The joyous solemnity of that cigar on deck afterwards would reconcile an
anchorite to comfort. Yet for all these advantages Henry Walter Grey did
not like his season at Seacliff.
The evening voyage was no less to be enjoyed. After the dust and worry
of the city's day it was good to feel the moist winds blowing through
your hair, against your forehead; to hear the cooling swirl of the water
at the bow, and the far-off wash of the steamer's swells upon the
shadowy shore; to watch the crimson sunset, and the coming of the
pale-blue stars, and the red moon that, slowly rising from the hot earth
to the limpid sky, grew mild and fair, while under it the white earth
sailed silent down the ocean of the dark; to feel the hallowed peace of
night ascending from earth to God.
But it ruined all to know in that cottage above the bay on the ledge of
red cliff one waited who was no companion, yet bound to him for life; to
know year by year the chasm between them widened; and that above that
chasm hung a spirit of evil, the bad angel of a terrible weakness, which
might at any moment become visible to all those standing by, and ruin
her, and bring on him pity--pity, that boneless scorn more unendurable
than contempt or loathing.
In the deep seclusion of the Manor, Grey felt the skeleton in his house
was pretty safely hidden; here in Seacliff there were innumerable
chances of discovery. It is more than likely he would not have gone to
Seacliff in the summer if by any possibility he could safely avoid it.
But all the well-off people of Daneford went every year to the little
town, and to depart from the custom would be to attract a dangerous
attention to himself and his household. It had been his custom of former
years to stay at Seacliff for three months of summer; but in the year
1866 he resolved to limit his stay to one month--the month of September.
When he and she were at home in the Manor House, she was more directly
under his control, immediately under his observation. But on leaving
Seacliff in the morning he was always weighed down by the dread that in
this little town of much gossip something might leak out while he was
away. She might go into the town, and in some incautious way betray her
fault, and destroy all the respect people felt for her--all the respect
they felt for his wife.
What an awful millstone to carry about with one! Fancy the men at the
street-corners chatting together, or groups standing at the Chamber of
Commerce windows, or the members of the Club, or his own staff at the
Bank, looking after him with compassionate eyes, and saying: "Poor Wat!
How sad and worn and broken-down he looks! What a wretched thing! What a
dreadful thing when a man's wife is a--drunkard!"
The last word was always haunting his ears, always booming in the hollow
caverns through which his fears followed him during sleep; and although
the habit of Mrs. Grey had not yet become so confirmed as to justify the
application of such an odious epithet, her case was growing no better,
growing rather worse with time.
All the Midharst money was gone. Her fault was at most a vice; but he
had committed a crime. He lay between two fears; he was threatened by
two discoveries. Someone might find out about her, and blast the fame
of the Manor House; someone might find out about him, and blast the
Daneford Bank, and lock him up in jail, and brand the name he bore with
ignominy.
In such a state of mind was Grey when the 16th of August arrived and
evening brought him home. The husband and wife sat down alone to dinner,
sat down alone to the last dinner they were ever to eat together.
"Bee," said Grey to his wife, when the dessert had been brought in and
the servants had gone, "do you think you could go down to Seacliff in
the _Rodwell_ to-morrow evening, and look up the cottage? I saw the
estimable and penurious landlord of it to-day. It's not occupied this
month, and he wanted me to take it from the 20th. I'm half inclined to
accept his offer. He says we can have it from the 20th of this month to
the end of September for a month's rent. It would be almost worth while
to take him at his word, and hear how he'd whine if I gave him a cheque
for the month's rent only. What are those two famous items out of last
year's bill?"
"Brunswick varnish, for the kitchen coal-scuttle, 2_d._; and a pair of
brass stair-eyes, one lost and one damaged, 2_d._," quoted Mrs. Grey
seriously, as if the imposition was intolerable.
"Yes, yes. That's it. Brunswick varnish and stair-eyes," laughed Grey.
"And at the end of all the items for damage was the general observation:
'The same being in excess of reasonable wear and tear.' Didn't he make
us whiten all the ceilings, too, on the grounds that we stopped far into
the season and blackened them with the lamps?"
"Yes, Wat."
"Is it three or four times we have paid, Bee, for cracking that
soup-tureen? The old crack, you know."
"We've paid, I think, Wat, only twice for that crack, but he has charged
us with the ladle every year, although we never had one."
"Why, this old Parkinson is much more amusing than a state-jester of
old, and not half so impudent or expensive." Mr. Grey smiled, and rubbed
his smooth cheek with his white hand. After a moment's enjoyment of his
recollections of Parkinson, he returned to the question. "Well, Bee,
will you go down in the _Rodwell_ with me to-morrow evening? We can have
a breath of sea-air, a look at Parkinson and the cottage, and come back
by the boat in the morning."
"Very well, Wat. Of course I'll go with you."
"Now let me see. The best plan will be for you to go from this to the
boat. Be on board at a quarter-past six, and stay there until I come.
You won't forget?"
"No, Wat."
"You're quite sure you won't forget?" Of late Mrs. Grey's memory had
shown signs of giving way.
"I'll be there, certainly," she answered, a little hotly. "You don't
think my memory is so bad I am likely to forget anything that gives me a
chance of getting out of this dull house."
"Because," he said, holding up his finger to quiet her displeasure, "I
may not be able to get away from the office until just half-past six. I
shall be at the boat in time. You will go aboard and sit down aft, and
wait for me."
Having thus arranged for the following evening, Grey lapsed into
silence, and his wife withdrew.
Those after-dinner hours, which, to the prosperous man are the most
placid and full of content, were now to Grey full of fears and subtle
agonies when he had no company. The necessity all through the day for
showing a fair front to the world and keeping up his reputation for
cordial joviality no longer existed when he found himself alone in his
own dining-room.
Then he exposed his imagination to all the dangers and difficulties in
his path. Here, this 16th of August, was he safe over all the wreck of
that awful month of May, but at what a cost? The commission of a
disgraceful crime and the perpetual dread of a damning discovery.
The financial crisis had shattered trade, dispersed confidence, and
ruined enterprise. The last penny of the baronet's money had been taken,
and was gone; and yet no remarkable prosperity, nothing in the meanest
way approaching what he had calculated upon, had set in towards him.
Even in the recent days of over-trading, when money was dear, the
deposits in the Daneford Bank had been more than during the past few
months. Things were not likely to mend in time for him. At the present
rate twenty years could not bring in half the sum he wanted, and he
might be called to disgorge within eighteen months, within a much less
time should the old baronet suddenly die and matters take a turn
unfavourable to his interest with regard to the guardianship of the
heiress--his care over her not reaching, he supposed, beyond her
twenty-first birthday. Merciful Heavens! what could deliver him?
And then followed the invariable reply: There is nothing to save you
from infamy but marriage with Maud Midharst.
Then the memory of his wife's faults came up before him like an
indictment seeking her life. She was flighty, unwise, dull,
uncompanionable--intemperate.
She was no pleasure to him. She seemed to be the source of no pleasure
to herself. If the Powers of good would only take her, what a blessed
relief to him!
If the Powers of any denomination whatever would only take her and leave
him free!
He rose, and strode up and down the long room, his face puckered and
pinched, his hands clutched, his eyebrows dragged down over his eyes
until the eyes disappeared, those eyes wont to be so free and open.
If the Powers of any denomination whatever----His thoughts paused a
while, his brows relaxed, his whole face changed character, put on
holiday attire. With a light foot and a pleasant smile he approached
the chimney-piece and pulled the bell.
"James," he said, when the man entered, "bring me a flask of cognac."
While the servant was going to the cellar he said to himself, with a
gentle smile, "I have been very thoughtless about that press in the
Tower of Silence. I have left claret and port and sherry there, but
until now I never remembered brandy! How careless I have been."
In a few minutes James returned with the bottle, drew the cork, decanted
the brandy, and left.
Grey took up the decanter with a cordial smile on his face, walked
towards the tower-room, the first-floor room in the Tower of Silence
upon the top of which the wasted skeleton of the huge tank stood out
clear against the quiet summer stars.
It was now past eleven o'clock. No profounder silence reigned by night
in deserted mine deep in the bowels of the earth, in Asian desert open
to the glittering stars and the pale radiance of the moon, on the dark
peaks of mighty alp that reaches upward into the thin windless air, than
in the chambers and passages of the fearful Manor House.
As he draws near the door of the tower-room he carries the decanter of
brandy in one hand, a lighted candle in the other. When only a few feet
separate him from the door he pauses suddenly, and looks earnestly
forward. There are two keys for that door, one is on his ring, the other
is in the possession of his wife. He holds the lamp high above his head,
and listens intently. Yes; there is someone inside.
While he waits he hears a lock shot. Presently the door opens, and with
a cry of surprise and fear his wife confronts him.
"Bee," he says, without allowing the smile to relax, "is this you? I
thought you were gone to bed."
"I went to my room," says the unhappy woman, trembling and looking down,
"but I could not sleep. I was very nervous and--and, Wat, I thought a
glass of port might do me good."
"Of course it will. Of course it will," he says, in a soft voice. "I was
just going to put this in the cupboard." He holds up the decanter.
"What is that?" she asks, in a voice full of uneasiness and fear.
"Only a little brandy. It's not a rattlesnake or a petard that you need
be afraid of, Bee," he replies, in a bantering tone.
"No, no, Wat," she cries, drawing back a pace and holding up her hands
as though she saw some fearful object in her way. "We don't want any
brandy here. Indeed we don't."
"What nonsense!" he laughs. "But, seriously, Bee, you know we must have
some brandy here. Suppose one of the servants, or any chance caller were
to become suddenly faint, what could you do without brandy?"
"Don't put it there, Wat! For my sake, for God's sake, don't put it
there!" She covers her face with her hands, and trembles again.
"There now, Bee, go to bed, and don't be silly. I should never be able
to forgive myself if any harm came of there being no brandy that could
be readily got at."
With slow heavy steps the woman passes him, and, as she reaches the end
of the short corridor, throws up her hands to heaven, sobs out, "God be
merciful to me!" and bursts into tears.
He waits until she is out of the passage, then shrugs his shoulders,
and, with the old, genial smile upon his face deposits the decanter of
cognac in the cupboard of the room on the first floor of the tower, of
that tower which, in a moment of grim humour, he had called the Tower of
Silence.