“EUDÆMON”
NIGHT-WALKERS--A “NICE JOB”--CLEARING THE PLATE-BASKET--JUST IN
TIME--DRUM-HEAD COURT-MARTIAL--FIRST LOVE--A RAT BEHIND THE
ARRAS--ON THE TRAIL--AN EFFECTUAL OPIATE
It was a soft dark night--such a night as is peculiar to our temperate
climate towards the close of autumn. There was no moon, and not a star
to be seen, yet was it not _pitch_ dark, save under the gigantic trees
or in the close shrubberies that surrounded Newton-Hollows. A man
could see about ten yards before him, and one bound on an evil errand,
by cat-like vigilance and circumspection, might have made out the
figure of an honest man at that distance, and remained himself unseen.
The night-wind sighed gently through the half-stripped hedges; and the
fragrance of the few remaining autumnal flowers floated lightly on the
breeze. It was a beautiful night for the purpose. “Quite
providential,” Mr. Fibbes said, as, clad in a long great-coat, he
stumbled up the dark lane that led from Newton station to General
Bounce’s residence. His companion made no answer; Tom Blacke was
pre-occupied and nervous. It may be that the stillness of the hour,
the soothing tendency of all around him, brought back too painfully
the innocent days of the past--it may be that he contemplated with
some misgivings the hazardous undertaking of the immediate future. Mr.
Fibbes, however, allowed no such gloomy reflections to influence his
spirits, and the pair proceeded in silence, save where the latter,
stumbling in some unseen rut, anathematised the slovenly finish of
“these here country roads,” and sighed for the gas-lit pavement of
his beloved London. Once Tom halted, grasping his comrade’s arm with a
low “Hush!” and whispering in his ear, “that there was a step behind
them, walking when they walked, and stopping when they stopped.”
“Hecho,” replied Mr. Fibbes, accounting for the phenomenon by natural
causes, but prefixing a superfluous aspirate to the name of the
invisible nymph. “Hecho,” said he; “I’ve often knowed it
so--’specially at night. But, Tom, what’s up, man? blessed if you
ain’t a-shakin’ all over,--have a drain, man, have a drain!” and the
never-failing remedy was forthwith produced in a goodly case-bottle
from the great-coat pocket. Nor did the doctor neglect his own
prescription, and much refreshed the twain proceeded on their way. A
slight difficulty occurred in scaling the park-railings, Mr. Fibbes
affirming with many oaths that nothing but his weight and the age of
his nether garments saved him from being impaled there for life; and
the tremendous disturbance occasioned by a panic-stricken
cock-pheasant compelled a halt of several minutes’ duration, lest the
inmates of the Hall should have been aroused by the vociferous
rooster. All was at length still--the church clock at Guyville chimed
the half-hour after one. The night grew more cloudy, and the wind died
away into a low, moaning whisper. The pair stole across the lawn, like
two foul shades returning to the nether world. A heavy foot-mark
crushed Blanche’s last pet geranium into the mould. Tom shook like an
aspen leaf, much to the covert indignation of Mr. Fibbes, and they
reached the scullery window unheard and unsuspected.
“Gently, now!” Why does Tom shake so, and even Mr. Fibbes, with his
bull strength and iron nerves, feel so ill at ease, so willing even
now to go back a guiltless trespasser, and leave the job undone? But
no--it has been boasted of in anticipation at their flash resorts;
what would the professionals think? Why, the very detectives would
sneer to learn that “Leary Tom” and “the Battersea Big ’un” had been
frightened at their own shadows, and after a long journey into
the country had returned bootyless to London, the sleepers
undisturbed--the “crib uncracked.” “Gently, again!”--a jackdaw on the
roof brings their hearts into their mouths; were it not for the
case-bottle they would “drop it” even now. Another pause, and Mr.
Fibbes, summoning all his energies, proceeds to act. Gently and
stealthily he produces the brown paper, and the treacle with which it
is to be smeared. Lightly he applies it to the selected pane, Tom
turning the dark-lantern deftly on the job. How ghastly the white face
on which a chance ray happens to gleam! Warily--gradually--the heavy
hand presses harder, harder still, and the glass gives way; but the
faithful treacle absorbs every stray fragment, and not a particle
reaches the ground either without or within. Fortune favours the
rogues; the shutters have not been put up. They are in for it now, and
both gather confidence, Mr. Fibbes assuming the initiative. A large
dirty hand gropes through the broken pane, and the hasp of the window
is moved cautiously back; but with all their care it gives a slight
click, and again they pause and listen with beating hearts. “The
grease,” whispers Mr. Fibbes to his confederate, and the sashes being
plentifully smeared with that application, the window opens
noiselessly to the top. Admittance thus gained to the body of the
place, our housebreakers are now fairly embarked on their enterprise.
Their shoes are pulled off and stowed away in their pockets. The
centre-bit is got in readiness, and Mr. Fibbes feels the edge of his
long knife with a grim sense of dogged, bloodthirsty resolution. All
is, however, in their favour. The scullery door is left open, and they
reach the passage on the ground-floor without the slightest noise or
hindrance. And here we may remark for the benefit of those who are
affected by nervous apprehensions of their houses being “burglariously
entered and their property feloniously abstracted,” to use the
beautiful language of the law--that there is no precautionary measure
better worth observing than that of carefully locking _on the outside_
the door of every room on the ground-floor, and leaving the key in the
lock. There are three things, it is said, of which the housebreaker
has a professional horror--a little dog loose, an infant unweaned, and
a sick person _in extremis_. The first is an abomination seldom
permitted where there is anything worth stealing; the second, a
misfortune which Nature kindly suffers only to exist at considerable
intervals; the third, a calamity to which we may hope not to be
subjected _very_ often in a lifetime. In the absence, then, of these
unwelcome defences, every door secured as above makes an additional
fortification against the enemy. The thief having perhaps effected a
skilful and elaborate entrance into your dining-room, where he finds
no booty but an extinguished lamp and a volume of family prayers, must
commit a fresh burglary before he can reach your study, or wherever
you keep your small stock of ready money for household expenses; and
though he came in at the window, reversing the usual order of things
with an unwelcome visitor, he finds it no easy matter to get out at
the door. The probability is he will hardly work through three solid
inches of mahogany, for he cannot conveniently pick the lock, if the
key is left in it, without some little noise. Thus (although to the
damage of your upholstery) you get an additional chance of being
aroused, and a few minutes more time to betake yourself to your
weapons, whether they consist of an unloaded blunderbuss, a
twelve-barrelled revolver (out of order), or a hand-candlestick and a
short brass poker. In the meantime, your _placens uxor_, uttering
piercing shrieks out at the window, alarms the country for miles
round, and, what is more to the purpose, frightens the robber out of
his wits, who decamps incontinently, leaving no further marks of his
visit than a window-frame spoilt, an inkstand or a jar of curry-powder
upset, and a small box of lucifer-matches, his own property, and
seized on by you as the _spolia opima_ of this bloodless victory.
Stealthily, noiselessly, like the tiger on his velvet footfall, our
two ruffians glide along the passage towards the butler’s
sleeping-room, where the plate is kept. Small need have they of the
dark lantern, so accurately have they studied the plan of the house,
so apt are they in their nefarious trade. But they have reckoned
without their host upon that official’s absence at Bubbleton; the late
arrivals from Africa have kept him at home. However, he has been
celebrating their return so cordially that, as far as being aroused
and making an alarm goes, he might as well be a hundred miles off.
They pass the lantern twice or thrice across his sleeping,
open-mouthed face, and Fibbes feels the edge of his knife once more,
with devilish ferocity, ere the centre-bit is brought into play, and a
hole bored in the plate-cupboard, which soon makes the robbers masters
of its contents. That receptacle is emptied, and its treasures
transferred to the blue bag, with astonishing silence and celerity.
The adepts, growing bold with impunity, almost regret the deep
slumbers of the inmates, sufficiently attested by the prolonged snores
resounding from that portion of the basement where the other male
servants repose, and arguing that the jollifications of the evening
have not been confined to the somnolent butler alone: had the garrison
been more on the alert, think the invaders, there would have been more
satisfaction in foiling them, and it would have been a “more
creditable job” altogether. Hush! is that a footfall along the
passage? They stop and listen intently. The kitchen clock ticks loudly
throughout the darkness, but other sound is there none. They resume
their labours. By this time the plate is packed; the great object of
the foray has been attained--melted silver tells no tales--and there
is nothing further to be done than to strip the drawing-room of such
portable articles as are worth the carrying, and so decamp in triumph.
Up the back-stairs they steal. The General hates a door to _slam_, in
which aversion we cordially agree with him; and the green-baize one
communicating with the offices revolves noiselessly on its hinges. So
they glide through without hindrance, and on past that statue the
nudity of which had shocked Tom’s sense of propriety on a previous
occasion. Mr. Fibbes, who is of a facetious humour when under
excitement, seizes the dark-lantern, and turns its glare full upon
this work of art, with a high-seasoned joke. They reach the
drawing-room door; for the space of a minute they listen intently;
prolonged snores from the direction of the General’s apartment pervade
the house; other sounds there are none. Cautiously the lock is turned,
and the door thrown quickly open, that no creaking hinge may betray
them by its moan. A gleam of light well-nigh blinds them, accustomed
to the darkness of the passages through which they have been groping;
and Mr. Fibbes, who enters first, starts back, paralysed for a moment
by the unexpected apparition of a female figure robed in white, and
shining like some unearthly being in the strong light of his lantern
turned full upon the place she occupies. The figure starts up, and
utters a long piercing shriek. There is no time for deliberation; Tom
hisses a frightful oath into his confederate’s ear, and the big
ruffian gripes Blanche’s white throat in one hand, whilst the other
gropes in his dress for the long knife. Already the blade quivers
aloft in the candle-light. Crash!--a terrific blow levels the villain
to the floor. Tom, turning madly to escape, finds himself in the
powerful grasp of Frank Hardingstone, who shakes him as a terrier
would shake a rat--Frank’s extremely airy costume being highly
favourable to such muscular exertions. Bells peal all over the house;
lights are seen glancing along the passages; female voices rise shrill
and high, in scream and sob and voluble inquiry. Charlie and Mary
Delaval meet on the stairs, and he only exclaims, “What is it? Thank
God, _you_ are safe!” The General rushes tumultuously down in a scanty
cotton garment, disclosing the greater portion of a pair of extremely
sturdy supporters, and in which, crowned with a red nightcap, and
armed moreover with a short brass poker, he presents the appearance of
some ancient Roman of “the baser sort,” inciting his brother-plebeians
to an agrarian tumult. “Guard, turn out!” shouts the General, in a
voice of thunder. “Murder, thieves! Let me get at ’em; _only let me
get at ’em_!” And he bursts into the drawing-room, where he beholds
Frank still shaking Tom Blacke, who is by this time nearly strangled;
Blanche in a “dead faint” on the sofa; Mr. Fibbes’ huge body extended
senseless on the floor, and standing over him, apparently ready to
knock him to shivers again the very instant he should show the
slightest symptom of vitality, our old friend, rough, honest,
undaunted Hairblower!
* * * * *
“Drum-head court-martial!” exclaimed the General, as he struggled
hastily into a somewhat warmer costume than that which he had worn
during the brunt of the action--“drum-head court-martial at three in
the morning. Zounds! I only wish I was in India, I’d have ’em hanged
in front of the house before breakfast-time. Frank--hollo!--march the
prisoners into my study, under escort, my boy, and be d----d to them.
No, I will _not_ swear,” and the General took his place at his
study-table, with all the pomp and circumstance of a district
court-martial, as the hapless housebreakers, with their arms pinioned
behind them, and guarded by the whole male strength of the
establishment, were paraded before him, Hairblower bringing up the
rear, and keeping his eye steadily fixed on Mr. Fibbes, as if only
watching his opportunity for an insubordinate movement on the part of
that individual to knock him down again. Mr. Fibbes maintained a
dogged silence throughout; save once, when he muttered a complimentary
remark, containing the figurative expression, “white-livered son of a
----,” supposed to be explanatory of the state of prostration in which
he saw his fellow-prisoner. Tom Blacke was utterly unnerved; he cried,
and shook, and staggered like a man with the palsy, and would have
gone down on his knees to the General, had he not been forcibly held
up by the two tall footmen, who seemed to mistrust even the slightest
movement as preparatory to a fresh outbreak of ferocity. “This once,”
pleaded the wretched coward, “forgive me this once, General, for the
sake of my poor wife--Miss Blanche’s maid she was, sir--only this
once, and I’ll confess all--the forgery and everything--you might
transport me for life, but you won’t be hard upon me, General--this
job wasn’t my doing, ’twas him that set me on it; ’twas his plan, I’ll
swear,” pointing to Mr. Fibbes, whose countenance was expressive of
intense contempt and disgust. “Well,” muttered that gentleman, as if
this was indeed a climax, “well, I am ----,” something which he
certainly was _not_, however much the mode of life he affected might
eventually lead to such a consummation. “Forgery!” exclaimed the
General, “what? Zounds! here’s something of importance! swear him--no,
he’s on his trial--take his words down in writing--forgery
indeed!--here’s a pretty discovery!” As Blacke became more composed,
out it all came--how his wife had forged Mrs. Kettering’s name, and
obtained the legacy, and got the will proved, through that knowledge
of the law which he was always ready to turn to evil account--the
whole confession, which was indeed full and satisfactory, for he was
frightened into telling the truth, closing with another earnest appeal
for mercy, and another denunciation of his dogged confederate.
The General was in raptures--Blanche was an heiress once more--even
Charlie’s contumacious refusal to be married against his will was now
a matter of secondary importance. In his delight he would have let
both the rogues go, and pledged himself not to prosecute them, had
Frank Hardingstone not reminded him that the duty he owed to civilised
society would hardly admit of such injudicious lenity; so the
prisoners were marched off, still under a numerous and voluble escort,
and carefully locked into a coal-house, whence, it is needless to
observe, they made an easy escape within two hours, when their
temporary gaolers, after beer all round, returned to their repose--nor
should we omit to mention that they were retaken by the London police
within five days, and eventually transported--Mr. Fibbes for fourteen
years, and Tom Blacke, in consideration of divers little matters that
came up against him, for the term of his natural life.
But in the meantime, the General, his guests, and servants, returned
to their respective couches. Blanche, after the administration of such
restoratives as ladies alone understand, was put to bed by Mary
Delaval, who would not leave her till she saw her sink into a quiet
refreshing slumber--then the governess too sought her room, and oh!
what a happy heart she carried with her to her rest. “Thank God, _you_
are safe!” It was but five words--yet what depths of joy and hope and
tenderness that short sentence opened up--what a different world it
was now--true, they were far apart as ever in reality, but she felt
that in the bright realms of fancy they were linked in a bond that
could never be forgotten--“yes, he loved her.” ’Twas _his cousin’s_
scream that had disturbed him in his chamber; ’twas _his cousin_, his
betrothed wife, as she had once thought, who was in peril and
distress; yet in all the hurry and confusion of the moment, _she_, the
poor governess, was uppermost in his thoughts. “Thank God!” he said,
“_you_ are safe!”--yes, he loved her, he loved her, and he was hers
for evermore. They would never be united in the material world; other
duties, other affections would supplant her in his outer life, his
every-day existence--but when the cloud of sorrow overshadowed
him--when joy more than common flooded him in its golden light--when a
strain of music, or a gleam of sunshine, or the song of a bird, or the
ripple of a stream touched his higher nature--whenever the springs of
feeling gushed up in his inmost heart, then would her image rise to
vindicate its sovereignty over its spiritual being--then would she
claim him and possess him as her own, her _very_ own. First love is a
fatal illusion--the plant may never come into full bloom--it may
blossom but to be cut down--it may be nipped by bitter frosts or rent
by the blustering gale--it may be trodden into the dirt by rude feet,
and covered by grass mould, or spotted by the slime of trailing
reptiles. For years it may be buried and forgotten, yet when the south
wind breathes its fragrance over earth, when the gentle rain descends
from heaven, its fibres will again put forth their leaves; from its
burial-place the meek plant will again raise its head above the
surface, and its perfume will steal over the senses like a sigh from
Paradise. So thought Mary with regard to that superstition. To do them
justice, women in general cling with wonderful tenacity to this
article of their faith. Poor things! they seldom have it in their
power to observe it practically, but their adoration in theory for the
holiness and inviolability of first love is all the more disinterested
and edifying. So Mary lay awake for hours in an ecstasy of happiness,
and when she did close her eyes what wonder that her dreams, take
whatever shape they would at first, invariably resolved themselves
into a circle of merry-makers, and in the middle a figure on its knees
before her, with fair, upturned face, and tender, smiling lips,
whispering, “Thank God, _you_ are safe!”
It is now high time that we should explain by what fortunate train of
circumstances Hairblower and Blanche should have met at that critical
moment, when the astonished girl found herself in the grasp of a
ruffian, who but for the timely intervention of the seaman’s arm,
would in all probability have murdered her on the spot. Her champion’s
own account of his proceeding was so intermixed with professional
terms and peculiar phrases, which in his vocabulary possessed an
entirely different meaning from that which is found attached to them
in Johnson’s Dictionary, or any other standard authority on the
English language, that we prefer giving it in our own words, merely
observing that the whole robbery and rescue was a proceeding which he
designated “special,” and should, indeed, be considered, so he said,
“a circumstance from beginning to end.” Hairblower, then, having
transacted his fishing affairs with his “governor,” as he called him,
in which interview, we have since been informed, the “governor,” a
shrewd, hard-headed man of business, got very much the better of the
seaman; and having failed in his intention of making a ceremonious
call on his foreign friends, “the True-blues,” who were then making a
tour of the provinces, was irresistibly impelled by a species of
morbid curiosity to revisit the scene of his former misfortunes. So he
actually turned into the very public-house where he had been robbed on
his previous visit to London; and finding no one there but the
bar-maid (a late acquisition), very quietly had his dinner and drank
his beer in the small snuggery of the bar, which we have mentioned as
being lighted by a window from the identical room in which Tom Blacke
and Mr. Fibbes were in the habit of holding their nefarious
consultations. The seaman had paid for his liquor, and was in the act
of departing--in fact, the girl thought he had already gone, when the
two housebreakers entered the door, and Hairblower, resisting his
first impulse, which was to do battle on the spot with the twain, “one
down, t’other come on,” shrank back unobserved into the little room he
had been occupying, and taking off his shoes, concealed himself behind
an old-fashioned chest that stood against the wall. His first idea was
to remain in hiding till the two worthies should have arrived at the
height of their jollification, and then, bursting in upon their
banquet, to administer to each what he termed “his allowance.” The
conversation, however, which he overheard was of such a nature as to
modify considerably this desire for immediate blows, and when the
horrid method of silencing the alarm likely to be raised by some
female watcher was discussed in cold blood as a matter of regular
business, the listener’s hair stood on end as he resolved, come what
might, to prevent this deliberate and inhuman murder.
But Hairblower was completely in the dark still as to the “where” and
the “when” of the intended burglary. He could not therefore warn the
inmates, nor had he time to inform the police. He could but watch the
plotters, lie still, and listen. Little thought Tom Blacke, when he
looked outside the door and peeped through the red-curtained window,
as he imagined to make all safe, that the avenger in the shape of his
old sailor friend was within five yards of him; little thought Mr.
Fibbes, in his acoustic speculations about “Hecho,” that in this
instance hers was a substantial frame dogging his every footstep, a
strong heavy arm ready and willing to strike him to the earth. They
thought they were secure at least of all _outside_ the house, and they
took their measures accordingly.
But honest Hairblower enjoyed one of those enviable organisations to
which fear seems positively unknown, and when he reflected that, in
his ignorance of where they were bound and when their plot was to be
ripe, his only chance was never to let the ruffians out of his sight
till he could place them in safe custody, it seemed to him the most
natural thing in the world, alone and unarmed, to dog the footsteps of
two desperate men, one of whom was an acknowledged murderer. He
followed them accordingly from the house; he waited on the opposite
side of the street whilst they got their implements from Tom’s
lodgings; he arrived at the station twenty yards behind them, stole up
and heard them take tickets to “Newton,” took a similar one himself,
and sat down in the very next carriage to them, with the collar of his
pea-jacket pulled high over his face, and a guard placed upon his
lips, lest his old acquaintance should by any means overhear and
recognise his voice. As he journeyed down, he thought over every
possible plan by which he could frustrate the robbery. If he gave them
into custody with the railway people, he could prove nothing; they
were two to one; they would not hesitate to swear black was white, and
they might easily turn the tables upon him, and perhaps succeed in
transferring him to durance vile instead of themselves. If he asked
for assistance from a fellow-passenger (and there was one stout-made
countryman in whom Hairblower was sorely tempted to confide) he would
probably not be believed, or at any rate the explanation and
consequent watching would be very likely to place the ruffians on
their guard. No, he would do it all himself. He could rely on his own
stout heart and powerful frame; he would hunt them to the world’s end.
At Newton station great caution was necessary. He remained in the
train till they had left the platform, then nimbly jumped out as it
was on the point of starting, and delivering up his ticket, got clear
of the building in time to distinguish their footsteps stealing up the
lane not fifty yards ahead of him. This distance he cautiously
diminished. Like most sailors, he could see pretty well in the dark,
and was used to going barefoot, so taking his shoes off once more, he
had no difficulty in keeping within earshot of the chase. At last they
reached the house; Hairblower no more knew whose it was than the man
in the moon; but he had determined, as soon as they were all safe
inside, to make a dash at Tom Blacke, knock him senseless, close with
Fibbes, and alarm the inmates; thus, he thought, they will be taken in
the fact. Had he known his dear Miss Blanche was in jeopardy, perhaps
he might not have been so cool. Fortunately, sailors are so used to
every sort of difficulty that it is next to impossible to put one
wrong, and Hairblower managed to creep through the scullery window
nearly as deftly as either of the professionals, with whom proficiency
in such exercises is a necessary part of their trade. Whilst they
robbed the butler’s pantry he stood behind the door; but the moment,
he thought, had not yet arrived. In that small room, he calculated, he
had hardly space to “tackle” with them properly, and with admirable
coolness waited a better opportunity, and followed them up-stairs. As
they entered the drawing-room he was close upon them; and had it not
been that he was as much startled as Fibbes himself at the apparition
of “Miss Blanche,” his arm would have been raised an instant sooner,
and might perhaps have saved that young lady a fainting-fit, as it did
save her life. As he turned to seize Tom Blacke he beheld him in the
grasp of Mr. Hardingstone, and then Hairblower felt indeed that he
could have encountered a host; but by this time the house was alarmed,
and further violence unnecessary.
Now, although we are aware that it is not customary for well-nurtured
damsels to sit with lighted candles in drawing-rooms at an hour when
the rest of the family have retired to rest, yet allowances must be
made for such as have the misfortune to be in love. This was Blanche’s
case, and being unable to sleep, she wisely slipped on her
dressing-gown, and stole down-stairs for the purpose of getting the
last new novel, then lying on the drawing-room table, and
administering it as the never-failing soporific. When there, she found
the room so much more comfortable than her own, that she lit the
candles and sat quietly down to read, till disturbed by what she
thought at the moment a frightful apparition. Her delight at
recognising Hairblower when she came to her senses was only equalled
by the enthusiasm of that formidable auxiliary himself, who with
difficulty refrained from embracing her on the spot, a mode of worship
in which Frank Hardingstone would willingly have joined. That
gentleman, we have reason to think, was in love too; at least, on the
night in question he was restless and fidgety, and courted slumber in
vain. Then he heard a door open, and got up and put on a few clothes,
and then he fancied he distinguished a stealthy footfall in the
passage below; so he too left his room, and arrived on the scene of
action in the nick of time. How the disturbance of that night
influenced the destiny of several of the party it is not now necessary
to state, nor can we tell what Frank saw, heard, or felt, to induce
him the following morning to send to Bubbleton for his horses, and to
make such arrangements as argued his intention of protracting his
visit at Newton-Hollows during some considerable portion of the
hunting-season. We are satisfied, however, although she did not say
so, that this arrangement was by no means unwelcome to Blanche
Kettering.