THE WEIRD SISTERS.
A Romance.
BY RICHARD DOWLING,
AUTHOR OF "THE MYSTERY OF KILLARD."
In Three Volumes.
VOL. III.
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 II.--The Towers of Silence--_continued_.
VII.--WAT GREY'S BUSINESS ROMANCE 1
VIII.--MAKING HOLIDAY 20
IX.--THE END OF THE HOLIDAY 39
Part III.--Husband and Wife.
I.--THE SECRET OF THE SALE 58
II.--"SIR WILLIAM--" "NO; MIDHARST" 77
III.--THE PARTING 96
IV.--BETWEEN THE LIGHTS 116
V.--"A WOMAN OF NO NAME" 142
VI.--PENNILESS 159
VII.--LOSING 174
VIII.--"I AM HE. FIRE." 190
IX.--BANKER AND BARONET 201
X.--GREY REMEMBERS WHAT HE FORGOT 215
THE WEIRD SISTERS.
PART II. THE TOWERS OF SILENCE.
CHAPTER VII.
WAT GREY'S BUSINESS ROMANCE.
Grey found his mother in the front parlour of her own house. She was as
bright, intelligent as ever, and put down the _Times_ and took off her
spectacles as he entered.
"Henry," she exclaimed, as he came in, "what is the matter? You are
looking like a ghost."
"It is only that I have seen one, mother," he said wearily, tenderly, as
he kissed her, put his arms round her, and placed her in a chair.
"Seen what?" she demanded, looking up impatiently at her stalwart son.
"A ghost, mother."
"Nonsense, Henry. Of late I see but little of you; and when I do see
you, you are full of mysteries, only fit for sempstresses in penny
parts. You ought not to treat me as if I wanted to be roused into
interest in your affairs by secrets and surprises."
She patted her foot impatiently on the floor, and looked with vivacious
reproach in his face.
He placed his hand gently but impressively on her shoulder, and said,
looking down calmly from his large blue frank eyes into her swift bright
gray eyes:
"I am not, mother, practising any art upon you; I am practising a great
art upon myself."
She now saw something serious was coming or was in his mind; and while
she did not allow her courage to decline, or the resolution of her look
to diminish, she asked simply,
"And what is that art, Henry?"
"That of enduring the company of a villain in the presence of the person
I most respect on earth."
She looked round the room hastily.
"He can't mean this place," she thought, "for we are alone." Raising
impatient eyes to his, she said, "I am listening. Who is this villain?"
"Your son."
"Say that again, my hearing----" She paused and put her hand behind her
ear, and bent forward her wrinkled neck to catch the words.
"In your presence, mother, I am trying to endure the presence of your
villanous son, my villanous self."
"Sit down, Henry," she said very quietly.
He sat down on a chair a little distance in front of her.
She thought, "His father never told me there was a taint of insanity on
his side of the family, and I know there was none on mine. This is
terrible, but I must keep cool. Perhaps it will pass away. We shall have
the best advice. He looks haggard. The wisest thing is to make little of
what he says." Then she said aloud, "Well, Henry, I suppose you are
going to tell me something else?"
"I am going to tell you, mother, all man durst utter. The unspeakable
must remain unsaid."
He leaned his elbow on a small table, and supported his brow with his
thumb and forefinger, shading his eyes with the fingers and the palm of
the hand.
She sat upright on her chair. It was an easy chair, but she disdained
the support of elbows or back. She thought his words, "The unspeakable
must remain unsaid." "My son! my son! what has turned his poor head?"
Aloud she said, "Tell me all you please, Henry."
"It is so cool and sweet and pure here, mother, in this house of yours,
in your presence; I would give all the world if I might live here."
"Then why not come? That great empty house is too much for you, and you
are growing morbid there. Come here at once, and it will be like old
times to you and me."
"I am not so lonely in that house as you might think," he said, with a
ghastly contraction of the lips and a shudder.
"But you see no one now. You have no company, and even at its best and
brightest it was a dismal old barracks. Suppose, Henry, I live with
you?"
He looked up suddenly, fiercely, and cried in a loud voice:
"No, no; you must not think of that. That is the last thing likely to
happen. How could you think of such a thing?"
His head, his head was clearly gone. Fancy his resisting such an offer
from her in such a passionate, ill-tempered way.
"Then come and live with me; the isolation of that house is preying upon
you."
He had dropped his head once more to its old position.
"I am not so much alone there as you might suppose."
"I thought you saw nobody lately."
"But I am often, when at home now, in the company of Bee in her better
days."
What splendid self-torture this was! To dance thus before his mother on
the brink of a precipice she did not see was exhilarating. It was
almost worth committing a crime to enjoy the contrast between the ideas
these words brought up in his mind and his mother's.
"A bad sign," thought the old woman. "A bad sign of reason, when the
mind of a man of his age is always with the past." She said: "I think it
would be much better for you to shut up the Manor and come here. If you
take my advice you would most certainly leave that hateful house. It was
all very well when you were strong and happy to call parts of your house
by horrible names, but when you are ill and weak and nervous you get
superstitious, and full of foolish notions about those very things you
have been playing with."
"Do you know, mother, I would not exchange my Tower of Silence for any
castle in England at this moment; no, not for the fee-simple of
Yorkshire."
The tone, the words, and the awful smile that accompanied them, cowed
the spirit of the woman. "My God!" she thought, "this is worse than
death. His reason is toppling, toppling."
She did not speak, but waited for him to go on.
"But, mother, there is another reason for my not selling the Manor."
"And what is that, Henry?"
"I am thinking of getting married."
"Married! Married!"
"Yes. Am I so old or so feeble that I should not think of marrying
again?" he asked, with a clumsy attempt at a smile as he half uncovered
his pallid face.
"No," she answered slowly.
"Then why are you astonished?"
"I did not say I was astonished."
"No, mother, but you looked astonished; tell me why? Why were you
astonished at the idea of my marrying a second time? Do you know any
_reason_ why I should not?"
This was a fierce pleasure. It was like stirring up a sleeping lion when
there was no chance of escape save through a small door, before reaching
which he might, if he awoke, spring upon you, seize you by the back, and
batter out your brains with one swing against the bars. It was like
mounting a parapet under fire, and standing there thirty seconds, watch
in hand, expecting to be struck, and trying to anticipate where.
"Reason for your not marrying! No, I know nothing to prevent your
marrying."
She did care to excite him in his very critical mental condition by
reference to the little comfort he had derived from his experience of
wedlock.
"Well, mother, it is not only that no cause exists why I should not
marry, but an absolute necessity--a necessity there is no evading,
makes the step inevitable."
He had raised his head from his hand and was looking in her face.
"You have always had good reasons for your acts," she said, humouring
his whim.
"And, moreover, it is imperatively necessary I shall marry one
particular woman, and no other."
"What! in love again already!" exclaimed Mrs. Grey, with a desperate
attempt at archness.
The attempt failed utterly, and her face wore a look of anxiety and
pain. It was now clear her son did not suffer from mere hallucination;
this was a break up of the whole intellect.
The man was so lost to external things he did not notice the change in
his mother's face. He was deliberately rehearsing aloud his plan of
campaign, and counting his forces and chances. He had almost forgotten
he addressed his mother. He knew he might speak out with safety. This
was the first time he had dared to give utterance to his thoughts in the
presence of another. There was intoxication in the fearless recital of
his case, and, with his bodily eyes indifferent to things around him, he
abandoned himself to the delight of speaking his secret thought, and
observing how the uttered words lightened his burden.
"You are curious to know her name?" he asked, in a mechanical tone.
"I should like to hear who it is," she returned.
"It's a very good name. It will bring no discredit on the name of Grey.
Guess."
"Indeed, I cannot."
"Maud Midharst."
"Maud Midharst!" exclaimed the old woman, relaxing the rigidity of her
pose, and falling for support against the back of her chair--"Maud
Midharst!" she repeated, in a tone of dismay. For a moment she had
forgotten she was listening to a man suffering from severe mental
disturbance. Instantly almost she recovered herself, and fixing eyes now
full of tenderness and pity upon her son, resumed her upright attitude,
and continued her former plan of humouring him. "She is very beautiful,
very amiable, and very rich," the woman said.
"She is very beautiful, very amiable, and _very poor_," he said
impressively.
Again Mrs. Grey started. His tones were not those of a man of unsound
mind; and although his face looked pale and worn, and there was a queer
expression in the eyes, the whole conveyed the idea of a man overwrought
rather than radically unsound of head. She was so much thrown off her
guard that she could not refrain from repeating aloud, "Very poor!"
"Yes, very poor," he went on in the same monotonous voice, and with the
same lightless face turned to hers. "And it is because she is very poor
I am going to marry her."
"A regular love romance!" cried the old lady in a sprightly voice. The
tears were in her eyes. Her son, her only son, the idol of her life,
breaking down thus in his strong manhood! Hard sight for a mother! How
hard to sit still, and seem calm, and watch the light of departing
reason flickering in those large blue eyes, which in the happy warm long
ago had looked up to hers as the baby boy lay at her breast.
"A real _business_ romance," he said gravely. "A real business romance."
"It must be a romance indeed if you are marrying her because she is
poor, for I believe you, Henry, are not rich." She thought, "Perhaps it
will be best to take an interest in all this. If I do not he may think I
suspect him of being under delusions, and I daresay that would make him
worse."
"The Daneford Bank is now secure and in a prosperous condition, but I
have nothing beyond its prosperity, so that, compared with the time I
got the Bank, I am a poor man, for I have lost all my private fortune.
Does it not seem strange to you, mother, that I, a poor man, should
aspire to the hand of a baronet's poor daughter?"
"But, Henry, this is a love romance, and in love romances all things are
possible."
"I have explained to you, mother, that it is a _business_, and not a
love romance. But I have not told you half the romance yet."
"I am most anxious to hear it."
"I have never said a word of love to her yet. I do believe a word of
love has never yet been spoken to her, and already there is a rival in
the field, so that now we have every element of success."
"And who is this rival?"
"The new baronet, Sir William Midharst."
"Sir William Midharst! I thought he was in Egypt."
"He has been, but he got back just in time for Sir Alexander's funeral.
He walked to the funeral with me, came back and fell in love with his
cousin Maud."
"How do you know this?"
"Mrs. Grant told me."
"And does Mrs. Grant know you are in love with Miss Midharst?"
"No, nor any one else."
"I, for instance, know."
"Who told you?"
"You."
"Never."
"He forgets already what he told me a few minutes ago. This is terrible.
I shall not be able to stand it much longer. My poor Wat! I wonder what
has turned his brain?" the mother thought. She endeavoured to keep on
her face an expression of vivacious interest.
He spoke again. "I never told you I was in love with Maud Midharst. I
only told you that it is absolutely necessary I should marry her."
"In some things," the mother thought, "he is as clear as ever. Of course
all this talk of his marrying Miss Midharst is the result of some way
poor Bee's death affected him," she reflected. Aloud she said, "But,
Henry, if you do not love her, and if she is poor and you are not rich,
why are you compelled to marry her?"
"If any one knew the answer to that question, mother, that person could
put me in the dock and convict me of embezzlement."
She started to her feet and placed her hand on his shoulder, and cried
in a voice of agony: "My God, my son is mad!"
He rose quietly and put both his hands tenderly on her shoulders, and
whispered hoarsely in her ear: "I am not mad now. I never was more sane
in my life. I _was_ mad when I stole Sir Alexander's savings to the last
penny. It was with his money I saved the Bank."
"Great God, what do I hear!"
"The truth. I am no better than a thief. I have stolen the old man's
savings and the young girl's fortune, and, unless I marry her, I shall
be found out. Did I not tell you I was in the company of a villain when
I came in first? Now you believe me."
"And you lied to me when you told me about that money from the Pacific
coast? Ten thousand times better madness than this!"
"I did."
"You, Henry, my son, lied to me?"
"Yes."
"Understand my question once for all. When you, Henry Grey, told me,
your mother, that the Daneford Bank had been saved by money from the
Pacific coast, did you lie to me?"
"I did."
"Then, sir, leave my presence and my house for ever!"
"Mother!"
"Go, sir, at once!"
"Mother, for God's sake! You do not know all!"
"Go, sir, at once! I do not want to see any more of you--hear any more
of you. You have brought disgrace on our honourable name. You had not
the courage to face ruin, but you had the courage to face crime, and you
had the baseness to lie to me, sir. Go, I tell you, sir, and let me see
you no more. Let me forget there is a man alive who bears your
honourable father's name. Do not let me see you again. Do not let me
hear of you. You will not go, sir? Then I shall leave you. Remember, we
never meet again."
She swept out of the room.
When she had gone he stood a while holding his forehead in his hands,
then shook himself, left the room, and drew the front door after him
with a low laugh, muttering: "And I did not tell her all. I forgot a
part."
CHAPTER VIII.
MAKING HOLIDAY.
When Grey awoke the morning after the interview with his mother, he felt
calmer than usual. He had slept better, and the air of early November
was bright and crisp, and wholesome and invigorating.
He arose, drew back the curtains, and raised the blind. The leaves were
all off the trees, and the bright sharp fretwork of oak sprays glittered
in the morning sun. The grove was silent. All its winged lodgers had
long since taken flight in search of food. The glades and caverns of the
grove no longer sweltered under canopies of impenetrable leaves. Aisles,
which had been vaults of sultry gloom in summer, lay partly open to the
sky. Here and there the eye could pierce the inter-twisted branches and
catch sight of the mounds of red rotting leaves.
The grove no longer desired the screen of leaves to hide it from the
eyes of man, to cover up the monsters of soft rank vegetation that
throve and bloated until they burst with the unclean rottenness of
excess. All things perishable in the vegetable domain were now melting
down into the ground, there to lie until the spring-hunger of the seed
and root moved and drank them in, to thrust them once more whence they
lay into the green-giving air.
In the warm weather these juices, as they move about through the earth,
are caught in the webs of roots and budding seeds, and are pushed
upwards through the crust of earth, and by the sun dyed into a coat of
many colours to keep excessive heat from the under earth.
In the winter they are shorn of their beauty, and thrust down into all
the crevices of earth, there standing incorruptible sentinels of ice to
prevent the penetration of the cold.
The coming and going of these juices through the mould is the
respiration of the earth. The breathing of all things grows less
frequent as they increase in size. Man breathes twelve times a minute,
the earth once a year. Can the heat of all earth's time be its share of
one fiery expiration of the sun?
Grey stood gazing vacantly at the skeleton trees and the mounds of
red-yellow leaves.
Of late he had observed that his thoughts came much more slowly than of
old, and this was a mercy. This morning they scarcely moved at all.
"Like a skeleton," he thought. "The grove is like a skeleton from the
bones of which the flesh has rotted, fallen through, and is lying down
there under the ribs."
He shuddered, put his hand to his head, muttering: "No, no; I must not
think of that; I must not think of that. I must think of anything but
that. Of course, the exposure--it is nearly three months there
now--has--has--and there is nothing left but--Oh, God! No, no, no; I
must not think."
It took him a long time to collect his thoughts latterly. This morning
he was much slower than usual. It was those sleepless nights that made
him so dull of mornings now. He had such thoughts and visions in the
night that in the mornings he felt weary, worn out, jaded.
His mother!
Yes. He had not thought of that until now. That was bad, very bad. These
blows were coming too quickly and too heavily, and that one was the
heaviest of all. He had sought her in his sorest trouble, his direst
fear, and she had spurned him, cast him off, expelled him from her
presence for ever. She--she--she had been cruel to him--cruel to him.
She was all now left to him in the world. He had squandered everything
else in the world but her love and his love for her. He went to her in
his direst need, and confessed a small crime and a little sin, an
embezzlement and a lie only, and she had spurned him--more, it seemed to
him, for the lie than the embezzlement. This was too bad. If she had
spurned him for these, what would she do if he had told her of--of the
other thing? Called the police perhaps. Well, after all, the police were
not so terrible to him now, for there was no one in all the world he
cared for who cared for him, and he was free.
All things had gone well with him until now, until the funeral of the
baronet. Since then he had learned he was not the absolute guardian of
Maud, he had found out Maud had an admirer, and he had lost the
affection and esteem of his mother for ever.
The blows were too fast and too heavy.
What should he do? He could not go on in this way. He should break down
if he did not get relief. There was no use in going to the castle while
that young fellow was there, and even if the young fellow were gone, the
thinker was in no state of mind to push forward his fortunes with Maud.
Indeed, there was absolute danger in going near the castle. In his
present state of mind he might betray his designs on Maud, and that
would be ruin beyond retrieval. That young fellow was not likely to
propose to the orphan a few days after her father's death. He, the
thinker, would take a week's holiday, and come back invigorated for the
game.
That day he went to the Bank and arranged everything for an absence of a
week or ten days. He wrote a note to Miss Midharst, saying he was
compelled by ill-health to leave Daneford for a week or so. He expressed
his hope that while he was away Mrs. Grant would advise in any little
matter on which Miss Midharst might in the usual course look to him for
guidance; as to any matter of importance, they would have his address at
the Bank, and a messenger should call every day at the castle for any
message, letter, or telegram she might please to send to him. He would
send her his address; but he did not know how long he might stay in
London, where he was going first, as change was what he needed most.
To Sir William he wrote courteously and blandly to the effect that he
hoped Sir William would not forget his promise of drawing on the
Daneford Bank for the twenty thousand spoken of, and any further sum the
baronet might stand in need of. The banker regretted he was obliged to
go away so soon after the sad event at the castle; but he was absolutely
done up, and rest was the only thing to restore him to vigour. The
writer hoped to be back in Daneford in time to say God speed Sir
William, on the baronet's setting out for Egypt. While the banker was
away, Mr. Matthew Aldridge, manager of the Daneford Bank, would be
delighted to do anything in his power for Sir William.
Grey wrote a few lines to Mrs. Grant. That note was the shortest of the
three, and took him the longest time to write. He tore up two copies.
Nothing could be simpler or more guileless than the one he sent. It ran:
"DEAR MRS. GRANT,
"I am obliged by my health, to take a few days' rest in a new
scene. I hope to be no longer than a week or ten days from home. I
hope you will not think absenting myself so soon after Sir
Alexander's death shows want of devotion to Sir Alexander's child.
My first duty in life is to her. I need not say I leave her with
implicit confidence in your care. I know you will always be loyal
to the wishes of her father, herself, and yours very faithfully,
"HENRY WALTER GREY."
When these letters had been disposed of and a few other business
matters attended to, he took train for the south-east and arrived in
London that night.
The journey fatigued him; and change of air, even when from a good into
a worse atmosphere, being beneficial, he slept soundly that night, and
awoke with less sense of distraction, less difficulty in collecting his
thoughts.
In Grey's youth he had spent much time in London, and knew portions of
the town, those west of Tottenham Court Road and Trafalgar Square, very
well. But he had little acquaintance with the City, and none with the
east. He had been frequently in the City on banking business, and knew
the ten streets confluent round the Bank. But the bulk of the City was
an unknown land to him.
Change was what he sought. Novelty without solitude. Therefore, instead
of the quiet hotel in Jermyn Street, where he usually put up, he found
himself this morning in a large City hotel not a bow-shot from the
cathedral of St. Paul.
A while he lay awake listening to the tremulous mutter of the City
traffic. What a contrast, these groans of wheels and clatters of hoofs
with the morning silence about the Manor House. Here, the walls
vibrated, the solid ground shook, the air fluttered against the
window-panes with the sway of bodies moving ceaselessly hither and
thither. There, no sound came in upon the desert realms of the morning
silence but the faint twitter of a bird or the far-off crack of a
carter's whip or a sportsman's gun.
Would it not be better for him to stop here always?
Here were no suggestions of the disastrous past. No one knew him here.
Suppose he burnt down the Manor House, took twenty thousand pounds out
of the Bank, changed his name, disguised himself, and came to live in
the middle of roaring London? Ambition he would abandon. Blows had come
so heavily and so quickly, the ambition had been beaten out of him.
Security and peace were what he yearned for. Security and peace. Peace.
If he lived in this great whirlpool in the ocean of Man, the shoutings
of his fellows would drown the memories of his ears. Who could hear the
whisperings of a woman's dress in the tumult of this great city, with
its turmoil of multitudinous wheels and clangour of innumerable bells?
Here he could take his ease for the rest of his life, and drown the
vague hideous whispers of the dead in the loud-toned wrangles of the
living.
There was, however, no necessity for his now changing his name or
adopting disguises. He had some days to rest and recruit. When these had
passed it would be time enough for him to think of precautions.
He went out after breakfast, and strolled along streets he had never
been in before.
He moved west through streets running in perplexing zigzags, a little to
the north of Cheapside, Newgate Street, and Holborn. He strolled slowly,
looking in at shop-windows, and taking interest in the disputes of
ragged boys and the bargaining of slattern women at the doors of
slopshops and marine store dealers. He was not used to such scenes, and
they took his mind off his own affairs and condition better than the
deserted parks or richer streets. It seemed to him as though he had
already severed his connection with Daneford, and lived emancipated from
the past.
At last he came to an open space, in the centre of which stood a large
heavy-looking building he had never seen before. Passing along the
southern side of this open space, he came to the entrance of that
building.
He thought: "Often as I have been in London, I have never seen even the
outside of this before. It will be a capital place to spend a few
hours."
He entered the enclosure through the small gate, and walked slowly up to
the deep portico. Under this portico he stood awhile, watching the
pigeons, and the people going in and out. Then turning his back upon the
daylight, he entered the British Museum, that storehouse for the
unclaimed personal property of intestate centuries and forgotten kings.
Passing slowly through the hall of busts, he reached the Egyptian Room.
He had no great love of the antique, no great curiosity in people who
staggered through the dark approaches leading up to the still,
unspiritualised, unexciting Greek art. He never took much interest in
art. He had been many times to the Academy. He had enjoyed going; but it
is doubtful if he were offered to be allowed to go through the rooms
alone he would have accepted the privilege.
To-day Egypt had a new meaning and a new attraction for him. From Egypt
that young man had come unexpectedly to thwart his plans. To Egypt that
young man was going back again.
What preposterous and foolish figures those around were! What impossible
creatures! Cat-headed men! Was this the kind of country that young man
had come from? Alligators, too, and crocodiles! Tombs. The Egyptians
gave more honour to their illustrious dead than we do to our living
poor. With them a dead lion was much better than a living dog.
Egypt must have been a land of monsters, fools, and tombs.
Grey was now leaning on the rail which protected a sarcophagus of
polished black stone. His eyes were fixed vacantly on the coffin.
"The Egyptians," he followed on thinking, "preserved their dead for
ever; the Greeks destroyed them at once; and we put them underground,
and let them shift for themselves.
"Put them underground--not all!"
He stopped thinking, and looked around cautiously. There were no
protecting noises here. Infrequent footsteps, and occasionally a cough,
were the only sounds invading the dull gloomy gallery. Coming up towards
the sarcophagus by which he stood was a middle-aged portly man, leading
two fair flaxen-haired children by the hand. The man was describing the
various objects they passed.
"Sometimes we don't let the living shift for themselves, we shift for
them; and sometimes without putting the dead in the ground we leave
those whom we shifted out of life to shift for themselves unburied."
The man leading the little girls reached the sarcophagus. He stopped the
children and, pointing to the coffin, said:
"This was King Pharoah's favourite coffin. When he was quite a young man
he contracted the habit of being buried in this coffin, and as he grew
older he gave way more and more to this degrading habit. Stop, let me
look closer. Upon my word and honour I have made a mistake. I see by one
of the mortuary cards issued at the death, and found when they dug up
this coffin out of the Nile, the body was that of one Ibis Cheops, who
flourished a long time ago. When he was done flourishing they put him
in here. Flourishing long ago was greatly admired; we solicitors are
dead against it now. Let me see any of my copying clerks flourishing,
and he may take down his hat and overcoat and go and enjoy life."
"Is that in the catalogue, all about this stone hearse?" asked one of
the children.
"No, child."
"Then how do you know, uncle? You told us you were never here before."
"My dear child, you forget I am a solicitor; and once a man has anything
to do with the Court of Chancery he is up to every mean dodge of human
nature. It isn't to say that the muddle-headed ancient Egyptians could
deceive or over-reach him in any way, but he is more than a match at
cheating for the modern Greeks; and that's about as stiff a competitive
examination in roguery as anyone can pass. I beg your pardon, sir; Mr.
Grey, I think, of Daneford? Am I right?"
CHAPTER IX.
THE END OF THE HOLIDAY.
Grey looked up with an uneasy start and a sudden pallor.
"You do not remember me. My name is Barraclough. I am London
representative of Mr. Evans, your Daneford solicitor."
"Of course, of course. This is about the last place in the world I
should think of meeting you, Mr. Barraclough."
"I may say the same of you, Mr. Grey. Indeed few men--none, practically
speaking--of our age come here, unless specialists of some kind."
"I have never been here before."
"Nor have I. That fact explains our presence here to-day at our time of
life. As a rule, boys are brought here when young, under the impression
they are going to have a treat; they find the thing a pedantic stuck-up
bore, get disgusted with the place, and swear an oath (most likely the
only one they swear and keep) that they will not enter this building
again. Ever after in their memory this building seems the sour, old,
crusty, maiden aunt of the sights of London. Now, my dears, just walk on
a little before us; I want to speak to this gentleman. Mind to keep a
sharp look-out for Pharaoh's favourite coffin. I'm sure it's somewhere
hereabouts. You'll know it at once by not being able to distinguish it
from the others until you shut one eye and keep the other eye fixed on
the Rosetta stone, because that is, as you know, the only key we have to
the hieroglyphics. I think they keep the Rosetta stone in one of the
cellars, for fear of the daylight fading the inscription. You shall go
down and see it presently; but now run on, and look up the coffin. My
nieces, Mr. Grey," he explained, as the children with bewildered gravity
walked on. "I live quite close--Bloomsbury Square. My wife had to go
somewhere or other to-day, and asked me to take the children out for a
few hours; so I left word at the office I should be here if they wanted
me. You are not looking quite so well as the last time I saw you."
"I have not been very well of late, and came up here for a rest from
business."
"I don't know how you bankers live. If I were one, I should worry myself
to death in forty-eight hours. I should always be thinking my clerks
were pocketing hundred-pound notes, or burglars were breaking into the
strong-box."
Grey winced a little, but said nothing. The other ran on:
"I am sure this meeting is most lucky. Will you dine with me to-day? I
got the instructions from Evans this morning, and will do the best I
can, you may be sure. I have not, of course, been able to do anything in
the matter as yet. It will take time. Dine with me, and we can talk the
matter over. We shall be quite alone--no one but my wife. We can
exchange views over a cigar."
Grey felt perplexed and confounded. He had not the least idea of what
Barraclough referred to. Could it be his head had been so much confused
he had gone to Evans, given him important instructions, and then
forgotten all about them? The thing must be of consequence. There would
be no need to discuss a trifle. It would not, however, do to confess his
ignorance or forgetfulness to this man.
"Can we not speak of it here?" Grey asked.
Barraclough looked around, shrugged his shoulders in deprecation of the
place, and said: "I think business always comes best after dessert. Do
dine with me. I promise you an excellent cigar."
Grey was sorely perplexed. He had no hint of what those instructions
were. It was absolutely necessary he should find out. This was not a
fitting place for a business chat. The idea of dining with anyone was
intolerable.
"I am very much obliged to you, and should be very pleased to dine with
you, but I--I really cannot. I must keep as quiet as possible. You will
excuse my not going; and, as a favour, tell me now what you have to
say."
"Certainly, certainly. Let me see--let me see. Of course, Mr. Grey, in a
matter of this kind we must be business-like, and take into
consideration facts we might otherwise leave out of sight."
"Of course."
What could be coming? This was a very grave prelude.
"You are executor and trustee to the will?"
"Yes." Grey started. "Sole executor and trustee."
"Sole executor and trustee! Are you sure of that? Evans said you were
one of the executors and trustees."
"I am sole executor and trustee, I assure you."
What had he said to Evans about the will? In his conscious moments he
had no intention of saying anything to Evans about the will. The blows
were coming too heavily and too quickly. His head--his head!
"Strange! Evans ought to be more careful. He said he was not sure
whether the others were living or not; but he mentioned the fact that
it would be necessary to inquire and ascertain if they were living or
dead."
The attorney looked cautiously into the sarcophagus, as though he
expected the bottom to disappear, disclosing the missing executors and
trustees.
Grey glanced at the other man in a bewildered way. The whole of his
intellect must be going. Not only had he gone to Evans and given him
important instructions about something or other, but, if he was to
credit Evans and Barraclough, he had forgotten a feature in that will,
and this very feature happened to be enough to destroy him instantly.
Could it be, good Heavens, that there was a second name in the will, and
he had forgotten it, and was roaming here about London instead of taking
the precaution of blowing out his brains!
He felt sick and faint. His head began to swim. What a blessed fate that
of those men of Egypt who, three thousand years ago, had died, and been
swathed up in bandages, enclosed in huge granite coffins, and buried in
the inviolable silence and security of pyramids! Here was he, all naked
and raw from crime, out in the rough winds, among the rough ways of
unfeeling men; and add to all this his head--his head!
"I am surprised at Evans," said Grey. "He ought to have known. He ought
to have known better."
"I should think he ought!" exclaimed the attorney warmly. "To fancy a
man instructing another to move in an important matter of this kind, to
write and say the consent of the trustees might be relied upon, and then
to find out there was but one trustee! Evans must be going mad."
"Yes; he or--I."
"Nonsense," returned Barraclough. "There is no chance of your being
wrong. Evans is either careless or mad."
"What do you purpose doing?" asked Grey cautiously.
That question might safely be put in the face of any facts.
"I shall sell, of course. Evans tells me you agree to sell; so that if
you are sole executor and trustee, there is no need to look up anyone
for consent."
What was he to hear next? This man was telling him he had a co-executor
and co-trustee, and that he had authorised Evans to sell. Monstrous!
Which was his period of insanity: when he had (if he had) given Evans
the instructions, or now? Which was his madness: in giving such
instructions, or in now believing his senses and the words of this man?
He made a great effort, pulled all his faculties together, knit his
brows, and put this question to himself: "Is the lead to overtake the
gold--to-night?" Then he put another question to Barraclough:
"What did Evans say altogether?"
"That Mrs. Grey had come to him----" Arrested by the banker's manner,
Barraclough paused.
Grey had leaned suddenly forward, thrust a pale, shrivelled face close
to Barraclough's, placed one hand on the attorney's shoulder, and,
pointing over his own right shoulder with the other hand, whispered:
"_This one?_"
"You are ill?"
"_No. Go on._"
"You really look very ill. Let me----"
"_No. Go on._"
"He said she wished to sell out her annuity of two thousand a year----"
"Who said that?"
"Mrs. Grey, your mother."
"_My mother?_"
"Yes."
Suddenly Grey's face changed. It flushed. He drew himself clear of the
attorney, and, throwing his arms aloft, uttered a loud long laugh,
followed by the words: "Before high Heaven I thought he meant my wife!"
All eyes were now directed to where the tall banker stood, with his arms
upraised, and a smile of joy upon his flushed face. Ere the last echo of
his voice had died away among these galleries of relics from the wrecks
of a hundred religions, Grey's knees shook, and, with a groan, he fell
to the ground.
It was hours before Walter Grey regained consciousness. His thoughts
were sluggish and dull. The edges of his ideas were blurred, and
wavering this way and that against the background. Around him all was
dim. It was night. A shaded lamp was somewhere in the room. He did not
know where the lamp stood.
Where was that lamp? What a strange thing no one came there to tell him
where the lamp lay! He himself could not of course get up to try and
find out where the lamp was. Of course not.
Why not? Ay, why not? Wasn't it very strange there should be no one
there to tell him where the lamp was, particularly as he could not get
up!
But why--why--why?
He lost the sense of sight, and felt his eyes pressed against
illimitable void darkness. His ears, too, were dead, plugged with thick
silence that was not clear, but confused silence, as in the ears of one
deep in water. Then the darkness and the silence shuddered with horror,
and he ceased to be aware.
It was daylight, and his tongue was very thick--thicker than ever he had
felt it. It was so thick and stiff he could not move it. This was
strange. The light, too, was peculiar. It looked as though the dawn or
daylight lay far from the window. Of course the dawn was far away from
the windows always, but it seemed immeasurably far off this morning. But
then the ringing of all those bells made up for the increased distance
of the dawn. How dull he had been not to see that at first! Of course
the bells more than compensated the distance of the dawn. How he hated
Latin! He'd never even try to learn it--never. They might flog him as
much as ever they chose, but Latin he'd never learn. Not for all the
masters in England. No; not for his father. He would not even pretend to
learn it, only for his mother. But for his mother he'd shy a slate at
the head-master, and hit the Latin man with the heavy, very heavy knob
of the big school-room poker on the bald part, right in the middle of
the bald part, of his head. They were ringing a thousand bells more now.
How the sound did thin out the dawn! It thinned it out until all was
worn away. Well, he had better go to sleep. He had a hard day's work
before him. He had promised Bee (this very day six weeks they had been
married) to take her on the river, their own river, and show her what he
could do with the sculls. He was to pull her down to Seacliff. And yet,
with that run on the Bank, how was he to sleep? Bee too was worrying him
a good deal. Why did they not stop those bells? They had changed the
measure of the bells. They had been ringing peals of joy; they now rang
ten thousand times more bells, but they were all ringing death-bells.
Ah, yes; how stupid he had been! Of course, they were burying the
universe in the Great Darkness, and these were the great bells swung in
the peaked hollows of space, ringing for the burial in chaos of the
dead stars. Now he must go.
It was afternoon before he again opened his eyes. He felt something had
happened, what he did not know. "I have had a bad fall, or an accident
of another kind; my head feels queer and I am weak. What has happened?
Where am I?"
He lay still awhile to recover strength. Then he asked feebly: "Is there
anyone here?"
A nurse showed herself. She would not allow him to speak much, but she
told him the history of his present position briefly:
While speaking to Mr. Barraclough in the British Museum, he had had an
attack, of what kind the doctor did not say. From the British Museum Mr.
Barraclough had him conveyed to this place, the attorney's house, where
he had been insensible for some hours.
Had he raved?
No; not a word.
Had any message been sent home?
Yes. Mr. Barraclough had telegraphed to Mr. Grey's chief man at
Daneford, and the gentleman was now waiting below.
Grey asked that Mr. Aldridge might be sent to him. The nurse agreed to
admit the manager on an understanding the interview was to occupy no
more than a quarter of an hour.
In a few minutes Aldridge entered the room, and having expressed his
regrets and hopes, and received suitable replies, Grey's first question
was:
"Have you told anyone of the contents of that telegram?"
"No."
"You are sure?"
"Quite sure."
"Tell no one on the face of the earth."
"I promise not."
"Aldridge, I have known you some time, and I have every reason to
believe and trust you. I am under many obligations to you. Keep this
matter entirely to yourself, and you will double all my gratitude."
"Rely on me."
"It may leak out through the telegraph office or through Barraclough. I
want you to go back to Daneford at once, see Evans, and tell him not to
say anything of my illness. This is most important. Now go. Barraclough
may have told Evans. Go at once."
"Any further orders?"
"No."
"I have paid Sir William Midharst's cheque for twenty thousand."
"All right. Don't lose a moment. Don't miss the first train."
Grey fell back exhausted. Though his head ached, it felt clearer than
for many weeks.
"It would never do," he thought, "to have all Daneford gossiping over
the infirmities of a man who must one of these days be a candidate
bridegroom. The least said about me the better. I have neither the
humour nor the strength for criticism or sympathy at present."
It was several days before he was well enough to go home. He went back
straight to Daneford.
The evening of his arrival he strolled through the city, and took no
heed of the direction in which he had wandered until he was attracted by
something unusual in a house over the way. The front of the house was
all dark. It was his mother's house. The piers of the gate were covered
with auction bills announcing in a few days the sale of the lease and
furniture.
He had, until now, forgotten what Barraclough had told him. All rushed
in upon his mind.
"She is going to sell her annuity, her lease, her furniture, poor old
woman; and I, the only trustee living, cannot prevent her, cannot
approach her. Poor old woman! Wat Grey, I never pitied you until this
moment."
PART III. HUSBAND AND WIFE.
CHAPTER I.
THE SECRET OF THE SALE.
Grey had taken all the precautions in his power to prevent a report of
his illness spreading, because he did not wish anything to get abroad
which might make his approaches to Maud seem unreasonable. That was an
important consideration. But it sank into insignificance beside the
enormous danger likely to arise from the concentration of public
attention upon him at this time.
Here was his own mother, the one owner of remaining claims upon his
better nature, imperilling his fortune--his neck. By advertising this
sale, the eyes of all Daneford would be drawn to his mother, and the
tongues of Daneford would be busy with his name. He himself did not know
why his mother had resolved upon converting all she had in the world
into cash, though he had an uneasy suspicion he could guess if he tried.
His great dread was that his mother might do some incautious thing, take
some incautious measure, in carrying out her design.
Suppose her action did not suggest examination of anything in connection
with him, he would still be in a very uncomfortable position. Surely
people would speak to him of the step his mother was about to take. What
answer should he make? What explanation could he give? If anyone asked
him why his mother was selling, he could not tell, for he did not know.
It would soon be found out that, under the simple conditions of his
father's will, his authority would be necessary to the sale. How could
he justify so unwise an act on the part of his mother? How could he tell
people he approved of it? And yet he must say he sanctioned it,
otherwise people would think there was something wrong.
But even if he said he sanctioned it, would they not think there was
something wrong? People would look first with amazement and then with
suspicion at the sale of an old woman's annuity, house and furniture,
when he, her childless and only son, was reputed to be enormously rich.
What could induce a woman like Mrs. Grey to sell her house in her native
town, and the chairs her husband had used, the table at which he had
sat, the back drawing-room furniture given her by him as a birthday
present after the coming of their only boy? Clearly nothing but want of
money.
It would be known his mother and he had been on most affectionate terms
all their lives. Why did not an affectionate son spare an affectionate
mother the unpleasantness of a sale by giving her the paltry few
thousands? Even if he was mean enough not to make her a present of them,
he might advance them upon the security she had to offer. It could not
be that mother and son had quarrelled; if that were so he would clearly
refuse his assent. It could not be she was in difficulties while her son
had money. The clear deduction, the only possible deduction left to the
people of Daneford would be that the selling was with his, Wat's, full
consent, and that the money was for him--for the Daneford Bank.
All this was quite clear to Grey; beyond it he durst not go. No, he
would not allow his mind to look behind the curtain drawn across the
remote future.
What should he do?
All night he lay awake, trying to solve that question. Morning came and
found him without a solution.
He had recovered wonderfully. His mind was now clear and vigorous. He
resolved not to go to the office this day. He could not face people
without some answer to enquiries sure to be made, and he had not yet
resolved upon the course he should pursue.
He spent the forenoon reading and writing letters. One he wrote to the
Castle to Miss Midharst, announcing his return, and that he should call
upon her next day. A second he addressed to his mother in the following
terms:
"MOTHER,
"One last word. If you persist in attracting attention to my
affairs, by selling out, the chances are I shall be ruined; and
such ruin will be mine that I shall not face it, but leave people
to discuss my conduct over my corpse."
He did not sign this note. He sent it by James, the stupid, purblind,
discharged soldier, and bade him wait for an answer.
In an hour James returned with the answer. It was in a large envelope, a
very large envelope. The reply must have been prepared in anticipation
of the appeal. A reply so bulky must be a favourable one. If an adverse
answer had to be given, it would be brief.
With trembling hands he broke the seal as soon as he was alone. He drew
forth several documents. But the first that caught his eye was the
smallest of all--his own letter returned unopened! Upon the envelope was
written, in the unsteady hand of his mother, these words:
"Sign the enclosed papers. The signatures must be witnessed. They must
be signed and with me before the sale. I have not opened your letter. I
daresay it does not lie, but how could I be sure?"
His hand ceased to tremble. He put the unopened letter into his pocket
with a firm deliberate hand, calmly took up the legal papers, perused
them carefully, critically, and paused now and then to extract the sense
from the legal jargon.
When he had finished reading he rang the bell. James answered it.
"James, is there any other man who can read and write about the place,
besides you?"
"One of the clerks has just come with a message for you, sir."
"Ask him to step this way, please, and come yourself."
In a few minutes the clerk entered, followed by the servant.
"Glad to see you, Doughty. Got a message for me? Take a seat."
"Yes, sir. A message from Mr. Aldridge. This is it."
"Thank you. I want you, now that you have come so opportunely, to
witness my signature to documents of importance. They concern the sale
of my mother's annuity and property. I am sole surviving trustee to my
father's will, and I am now about to sign these documents, authorising
those sales. Stand up, Doughty, and look at me as I sign. James, come
near. You are near-sighted. Closer still. Now!"
He signed, and they after him.
"That will do, James. It is exceedingly unlikely there will be any
dispute. In case there should, all you have to remember is that I signed
these papers in your presence, and you in mine, and in the presence of
one another. I am not sure the last is necessary, but never mind. You
need not trouble yourselves to remember all I have said about the matter
contained in the papers. You may go now, James."
When the servant had retired he said to the clerk: "Thank you, Doughty.
You came very luckily. I will ask you to take these documents back to
Mrs. Grey's. Usually such matters reach one through an attorney, but I
am sorry to say this is not a very ordinary or pleasant transaction.
Leave the documents with Mrs. Grey. There is no answer. Then go back to
the Bank, and ask Mr. Aldridge to come to me here this afternoon or
evening. I shall not be in town to-morrow, and have something to
communicate to him. This is the reply to the note you brought from him."
When the manager of the Daneford Bank arrived at the Manor House he was
shown into the presence of the banker.
Grey received him with more of the old grave blandness than he had
displayed for a long time.
"Aldridge," he said, "I am sorry I have a little bad news. It does not
concern the Bank. It is worse than that. I wish to Heaven it did concern
the Bank. We can bear reverses in business better than home troubles."
He paused, with his eyes fixed on the ground, in deep thought.
Aldridge moved his chair closer to Grey's, to show he was giving his
best attention. He did not speak.
"You can meet a business difficulty face to face; but you shrink from
difficulties or unpleasantnesses which bring the names of those you love
and honour into the public mouth."
It was plain to Aldridge Grey was weighing his words with the nicest
care. The manager considered it better to preserve his silence still.
"I am going now," pursued Grey, "to place myself upon your honour----"
"I am sure you may do that," interrupted Aldridge with respectful
emphasis. The respect in the emphasis was not that of employed to
employer, but of sympathiser for a fellow-man, an esteemed fellow-man in
trouble.
Something in Aldridge's tone struck Grey. He stood up, stretched out his
hand to Aldridge, took the manager's hand in his, and said impressively:
"Aldridge, I am sure of that."
"Thank you. Now you may go on. I will not interrupt again."
"You know my mother has advertised her house and furniture for sale?"
"Yes."
"And that she is about to sell her annuity."
"So I have heard."
"I, as trustee, have just signed the documents. There is talk about
this affair in town?"
"There is; a good deal. People cannot understand it."
"It came as a great shock and surprise to me when I heard it. It was
that shock knocked me up in London."
"I thought it must have had something to do with it."
"It was the cause of it. Well, I am placed in a horribly awkward
position. My mother is called upon to pay a large sum of money, say
eight to ten thousand. Of course, we could easily manage that."
"Easily, I should think," said Aldridge, thinking with pride of the
gallant stand the Bank had made in the late ruinous times.
"But," continued Grey, "if I paid the money now, I might be called upon
to pay a similar or even a larger sum in six months, and again six
months later, and I could not stand that kind of thing."
Aldridge shook his head and looked grave in confirmation of Grey's
decision.
"The things must be sold," continued the banker. "When she has no
property to pledge, no annuity to pawn, I can make a suitable allowance
to her. The fact is, Aldridge, my poor mother has lost all her money in
gambling on the Stock Exchange. Her name does not appear. She did it
through some fellow in London. Now you see how there is nothing for it
but to sell out. You see that clearly?"
"Nothing in the world could be plainer. A woman of her age!"
"Isn't it extraordinary in a woman of her years?"
"Wonderful!"
"Now I told you I threw myself on your honour, and what I want you to do
is to keep the matter rigidly to yourself, except in such cases as you
in your judgment think silence would injure the Bank, and then you must
not reveal the facts except upon a pledge of strict, the strictest
secrecy. No earthly consideration would induce me to allow my poor
mother's name to become a byword in Daneford, where she has been
respected for so many years. Aldridge, Aldridge, my friend, I count on
you to do this for me."
This time it was the manager who stood up. He went to the banker, caught
his hand, and said: "You may count upon me in this, Mr. Grey, as upon
yourself. I should be the last in the world to make idle talk about the
name of Grey, and you may rely upon my keeping the secret from everyone,
except when the interest of the Bank is at stake."
"Thank you, my dear Aldridge. It is a great relief to me to have opened
my mind to you. You are the only man whose discretion I could trust in
so delicate a matter."
In a little while Aldridge took his leave, and Grey was left alone.
"By Jove," he mused, "that returned letter was a splendid tonic. It
pulled me together like magic. I feel a new man now--a new man. Now I
have only one person to take care of--myself. She would not hear me.
Because I tried to save her the misery I myself endured, because I
represented things to her as flourishing when all was gone, she turns on
me, throws me off, draws attention to my credit and my reputation when I
should have neither if the truth were known, if the lesser truth were
known; and by opening up inquiry leading to the discovery of the lesser
truth, the disclosure of the greater was risked.
"By Jove, that returned letter was my salvation! She thought she was
treating me as I deserved, severely; all the time she was only nerving
me to lace my armour and prepare for the great fight. I can easily
provide now against any course she may take short of denunciation, and I
don't think she will go so far as that.
"The reason for the sale, as Aldridge has heard it, will be known under
pledges of secrecy to-morrow to half-a-dozen of the most important men
in Daneford. That will be more than enough to counteract any sinister
rumours. The pledge of secrecy extracted from the men whom Aldridge
tells will not operate at all, save in making those to whom they give
the news very careful as to whom they in turn tell it. Thus it will
never come to her ears, even if she stays in Daneford, which I doubt;
and thus she will never have an opportunity of denying it."
He got up and walked about. His elation was great. He swelled out his
chest, threw back his shoulders, and allowed his arms to swing at his
sides. His thoughts ran on:
"I have been fencing with death, and for the moment I have disarmed my
foe. That sale might have ruined me, given me over to the hangman; I
have averted the danger, and turned the attack into a source of
security. In a moment of weakness I told her, in a moment of strength I
turned the feeble act into a fresh rampart; for how can I tell, if
things went on smoothly, as they had been going (had she not shown the
danger-signal at the Consols), I might not, in the weak and pitiful
state I then was in, have told her all? Now a gulf lies between her and
me. It is unlikely we shall ever meet again. She had the power of
exercising an influence over me which might not be to my safety. I have
ensured my future safety by getting away from the influence of the only
person who could make me indiscreetly talkative."
He paused in his walk and drew himself up before the glass. Much of the
haggard expression had left his face. He was flushed and
handsome-looking as of old. His eyes shone with excitement and the
anticipation of triumph.
Once more he strode up and down the room.
"I feel five-and-twenty to-day. Five-and-twenty; not a month older. And
though in spirits and health and strength I feel no more than half my
age, I am conscious I carry the experience of a second quarter of a
century on the shoulders of the first. I could command an army or make
love to a school-girl. I shall win yet. I shall win in spite of that
lanky nigger, Sir William. I shall win I know, I feel. These muscles are
more than a match for his; this head is more than a match for his; and
in spirits I am a long way his junior. I shall win now, for all
obstacles are out of my way. She is gone for ever, and she was the last
link with----Bah! the old time is dead. Earth to earth. I am a new man,
I say."
In all this he never thought of her as his mother. He always looked upon
her as she or her; never as mother. He treated her as if the spirit of
his mother had left the body, and the spirit of another, a stranger, had
entered in.
That night he slept well, and started early for the Castle the next
day.