EXIT EDWARD MARSTON.
Marston and Ruth were back from their honeymoon. They had enjoyed a
month of almost unclouded happiness. The only trouble Ruth had was the
discovery she had made that her husband was subject to occasional fits
of despondency and abstraction.
Sometimes she would speak to him and he would not answer her. His
thoughts were far away. She asked him, half-banteringly, once if he had
anything very dreadful on his mind, that he looked so solemn.
He flushed scarlet, and then laughed.
‘No, little woman,’ he said; ‘I’ve got nothing on my mind, except the
responsibility of being a married man.’
He stopped all further questioning with a kiss, and exercised more
control over himself in the future. He took care not to drop the mask
again in his wife’s presence.
The line on the news paper contents bills which had alarmed him so
seriously on his wedding-day had been nothing after all. One of those
rumours which are industriously circulated from time to time had been
magnified into importance, and when he had the courage to read the
paragraph he found that it was merely some drunken fellow who had gone
to the police-station and pretended to be concerned in the affair.
But although he had argued himself almost into a sense of security with
regard to this special event, he was continually haunted by the idea
that many of his old companions in guilt were still about, and that he
might always be liable to awkward visits and rencontres. He had not
gone under any _alias_. He was known as Edward Marston in the old days,
and he was Edward Marston now. The name was tainted, but he must bear
it still. If he were ever to become famous or take a position in
society it must be as Edward Marston, and then—— He hardly liked to
think what a constant temptation he would offer to his unscrupulous
acquaintances, if once he became a prominent person. It wasn’t pleasant
to think that they would always be able to find him out and trade upon
their knowledge of the past.
Mr. and Mrs. Adrian had welcomed the newly wedded pair to the new home,
and a very pretty, comfortable home it was. The old couple had their
own suite of apartments and their own servants, but Mrs. Adrian was not
inclined to remain in her own territory.
She still considered that she had conferred an immense favour on
Marston in allowing him to live with them, and she took care that he
should understand it.
Ruth feared sometimes lest her mother’s _brusquerie_ should annoy him,
but it didn’t in the least; and when Mr. Adrian, painfully alive to
Marston’s generosity in the matter, suggested that perhaps, after all,
the good lady ought to learn the secret of their misfortunes, Marston
wouldn’t hear of it.
‘Nonsense!’ he said; ‘it would break her heart. Let her enjoy herself
here, and be mistress of everything if she likes. I don’t think she
would stop a moment if she knew the real reason of the change: it would
wound her to the quick.’
Mr. Adrian and Ruth were very grateful to Marston for his forbearance,
and the old gentleman was never tired of singing his praises.
Lion and Gertie were as happy as the day was long in their new home,
for there was a large garden where Gertie could watch the beautiful
flowers, and a nice lawn on which the dog would roll over and over in
the sun like a young donkey at play.
In fact everyone in the house was happy except the owner. He began to
dread his own thoughts now. The new ties and the home life only served
the more vividly to remind him of what his loss would be if the
prophecy of the clergyman came true, and his sin found him out.
He had always intended to invest his capital in some business and
employ his leisure and his talents in developing it. He wanted
something to do more than ever now, and he set about to find a good
opening. He perused the papers daily for partners wanted and businesses
to be sold, and he put an advertisement in himself.
His advertisement: ‘A gentleman with capital would be glad to hear of a
partnership in a going concern, or a business for sale,’ brought him
hosts of answers. Several of them were of the usual description, and
not worth troubling about. One, however, attracted his attention on
account of its absurdity. The writer was anxious to meet with a
gentleman of capital, as he had an idea which only needed capital to
develop. This idea was to start an office and have a trained staff for
the recovery of all offered rewards. The writer pointed out that in
every day’s paper there were several hundreds of pounds offered for the
recovery of lost or stolen property, for the detection of criminals,
and for the addresses of missing friends. His letter concluded by
pointing out an instance of a large reward still to be had, which, he
was sure, with a little trouble and some outlay, might be gained. He
alluded to the thousand-pound reward offered by the railway company for
the discovery of the gold-robbers. No confederate dare come forward, he
explained, but a couple of hundred pounds might induce a confederate to
give a clue to private individuals which he dare not impart to the
authorities.
Marston flung the letter from him with an expression of rage. Was this
wretched business, which he would give the world to forget, always to
be flaunted before his eyes in some form or other?
He had just risen from perusing his answers when the servant informed
him that a gentleman wished to see him on most particular business.
‘What is the gentleman like?’ he asked, half fearing that his
persecution had commenced.
The servant described him.
It was no one that Marston knew.
‘Show him into the library,’ he said. ‘I’ll come directly.’
It was not without some slight misgiving that Marston went to see his
visitor.
He had always an undefined dread of something unpleasant.
The gentleman in the library was an ordinary individual with a
professional cut about his clothes.
He rose as Mr. Marston entered, and bowed politely.
‘Mr. Edward Marston, I presume?’
Marston nodded, and motioned his visitor to resume his seat.
‘I come on professional business, sir. I am one of the firm of Doddle
and Co., solicitors. The senior partner is from town, or he would have
called upon you himself. We ascertained that Miss Ruth Adrian was no
longer Miss Ruth Adrian (a professional smile), and—ah—we thought,
perhaps, under the peculiar circumstances we had better call ourselves
and see you.’
What did the man mean? What could solicitors have to do with Ruth and
himself?’
‘You see,’ continued the gentleman, ‘a very large sum of money is
concerned.’
‘Pray explain, sir,’ faltered Marston. ‘I really don’t understand you
yet.’
‘Well, do you remember a daring burglary some time ago at the residence
of Squire Heritage?’
‘Burglary—burglary!’ gasped Marston. ‘No; what should I know about
burglaries?’
‘Of course not, my dear sir—of course not; but you might have read
about it in the papers. Great sensation!—son suspected!—dreadful
affair—dreadful!’
Marston remembered his own share in the subsequent fate of George
Heritage. Was this coming home to him too?
‘Well,’ continued the solicitor, the father didn’t recover from the
shock. He got worse and worse, and at last he was quite childish. Poor
old gentleman!—poor old gentleman!’
‘I am very sorry, of course!’ exclaimed Marston; ‘but, upon my word, I
can’t see what it all has to do with me.’
‘It has everything to do with you, sir. You are very closely concerned
in the old gentleman’s death.’
‘What!’
Marston leapt from his chair as though he had been shot. The
professional gentleman was astonished, but he didn’t show it.
Professional gentlemen never do.
‘Yes, my dear sir, you are indeed concerned in his death, but
pleasantly’ (rubbing his hands)—‘very pleasantly indeed. By a will
dated some time previous to the painful affair the whole of his
property is left to a lady, the daughter of Mr. John Adrian.’
Marston could hardly believe his ears. ‘Ruth an heiress!’ he exclaimed.
‘I really don’t understand. I never knew that she was even acquainted
with Squire Heritage.’
‘That, sir, I know nothing about. My visit this morning is simply to
make your acquaintance and ask you to make an appointment with us, when
we can have the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Marston and yourself at our
office, where all the papers are, and where the whole matter can be
laid properly before you.’
On the following day, at the office of Messrs. Doddle and Co., Ruth
learned how she had inherited a fortune, and how there was an
extraordinary proviso in the will that she and her husband would have
to adopt the name of Heritage.
When the first surprise was over, and Ruth recognised the fact that she
was an heiress, she whispered to her husband:
‘Oh. Ned! You see I shan’t be Ruth Marston for long, after all.’
And he, without answering her, clasped her hand in his. His heart was
too full for him to speak. Here, at last, was an escape from that he
dreaded most. He need he Edward Marston no longer.
Lord of a splendid estate, and taking his place as a prosperous country
gentleman, he would be completely isolated from the bitter past.
Who would recognize in Edward Heritage, Esq., of Heritage Hall, the
penniless adventurer who met Dr. Birnie in Little Queer Street, started
the eminent firm of Smith and Co., and was once the lending spirit in a
desperate gang of rogues and vagabonds?
ENTR’ACTE.
Five years have to pass by ere we meet the characters in this story
again. Five years, with their many changes and strange vicissitudes.
Old Time rolls on like a river, that flows, heedless of what it bears
on its bosom, to the great sea—heedless of the wreckage that strews its
banks—heedless of all that lies lost in the depths of its weed-tangled
bed. Old Time rolls on, and bears its human freight nearer and nearer
to the last haven.
They are a strange and motley group, whose ends destiny shapes during
the years that elapse ere the curtain rises again on the little life
drama that you and I, gentle reader, are waiting to see played out. In
one of Her Majesty’s prisons a young man—a felon, with the bearing of a
gentleman and the garb of a convict—counts the years as they go by and
wonders what justice there can be in heaven that a cruel fate should
raise this bar of shame between him and the young wife he loves. Up in
the great city a woman toils wearily night and day, for a scant wage,
to keep the wolf at bay, toiling for bare subsistence, and weeping over
her work, when she thinks of the past that was happy, and of the
fearful blow that dashed the cup of joy from her lips for ever. Only in
her sleep sometimes she looks up, and the skies are bright, and a
loving arm encircles her waist, and a musical voice whispers in her
ear. ‘Bess, my darling, ’tis I—George!’
Out in Australia a burly grey-haired man keeps a low drink store, and
upholds the reputation of the old country for thoroughpaced
blackguardism. ‘Bully Heckett’ his customers call him, and his
customers are as nice and select a lot as he could possibly wish to
have, and they find him remarkably useful in more ways than one. He
talks about going back to England ‘some day,’ and his customers say,
‘When the coast’s a bit clearer, eh, Bully?’ and laugh.
Among the Surrey hills there is a beautiful mansion, and there the new
Squire Heritage and his lady pass their days in peace and contentment.
Nothing has come to mar their happiness. Ruth’s greatest trouble was
the death of her father. He died thanking God that his Ruth had found
so good a husband and his old wife so kind and gentle a son. No
children have blessed the union yet, but there is a young lady who
lives with them, and who is their adopted daughter And there isn’t a
prettier little lady for miles round, or one more beloved by the people
on the estate and the villagers than ‘Miss Gertie up at the hall,’ as
they call her. Gertie and Ruth attended by a faithful mastiff dog, who
follows closely at their heels, and is almost as great a favourite as
Gertie, are to be seen out on all the fine days, going hither and
thither among the people and spreading happiness wherever their two
kind faces are seen.
The squire does not go about so much, but he gives liberally to
charities, never lets a poor man on his estate want when times are
hard, and has the reputation of being a kindly Christian gentleman,
rather grave and studious, and not fond of too much society. He goes
out occasionally though to the best houses, gives a dinner party or
two, and now and then there is a ball at the hall. He is a justice of
the peace, goes to the parish church and idolizes the ground his wife
treads upon.
The firm of Grigg and Limpett flourishes, though it has lost the
services of Mr. Jabez Duck. The firm receives from time to time letters
from its absent client, Mr. Gurth Egerton, who seems inclined to settle
in America, and whose house is now occupied by Dr. Oliver Birnie, whose
brass plate is very large, and whose practice has increased wonderfully
with a West-End address.
There is no Mrs. Turvey. She has become Mrs. Duck, and she and Jabez
have a lodging-house, and take in and do for single gentlemen.
Miss Georgina, having raised a little capital through the kindness of
her friend, Miss Jackson, has taken the house exactly opposite to them,
and started an opposition establishment. Miss Duck’s lodgers and Mrs.
Duck’s lodgers each support the lady under whose banner they pay their
rent, and the amenities exchanged across the street are frequently
highly edifying to the neighbourhood. Jabez has been disappointed.
Having married his lady in the firm belief that he was marrying a snug
thousand pounds, he was bitterly disillusioned a few days after the
fatal knot had been tied. The money he has never discovered, and Mrs.
Turvey stoutly denies that it was hers.
This is at once the mystery and the misfortune of Mr. Duck’s married
life. He has other mysteries and misfortunes to attend to, for he has
left the law and entered the service of a private inquiry agent. His
taste he determined to gratify: if he couldn’t be a principal, he would
be an employé. He likes it better than the law, and he is getting quite
clever at poking his nose into other people’s business. His talents
always lay in that direction.
Mr. Preene still flourishes and pursues the even tenor of his way, but
Mr. Brooks has paid the debt of nature, dying respectably in his bed,
and leaving his widow a nice little competency. She was shortly
afterwards united to a middle-aged and very hard-up Scripture-reader,
who fell in love with her while reading the prayers for the sick by the
bedside of her first husband at Mrs. Brooks’s special request. Perhaps
the people who assisted to make Mrs. Brooks independent would have been
resigned to their loss had they known it would ultimately benefit so
devout a man.
So time works its changes, alters the scene, redresses the characters,
and clears the stage during the five years entr’acte that elapses ere
our curtain rises again.