CONTINUES THE LIEUTENANT’S ADVENTURE.
They lighted fresh cigars as the sun went down in the West, and Arundel
Williamson felt the spirit of old days come over him.
A sad train of thoughts and memories had been awakened in the
barrister’s mind; and he placed his chair near his young friend, and
bade him continue his story.
“Don’t be afraid, Paul; tell me everything and, believe me, I
sympathise with you deeply.”
Paul was re-assured by the kindly tone of the barrister’s voice.
“I passed a wretched night that night when I had left her, thinking of
her troubles, and trying to remember where I had seen her; and my mind
wandered away to Avonworth Valley, and it seemed as if I had known her
when I was a child. When I went to bed I dreamt that she was my sister,
and that we lived at the farm; and then I was rescuing her from some
blackguard who had beaten her. I could not sleep, and I hardly know how
the night and day passed. Macshawser came to me, and said he had had
a mutual friend with him making a private inquiry. He alluded to Mr.
Jefferson Crawley, he said; and wished I had mentioned the subject to
him (the Captain) first. Of course he would have helped me at once; he
could have put me in the way of getting the money apart from Crawley,
though Crawley was a decent sort of fellow. He said he would back
my bill for me; of course my allowance was safe. I told him I would
consider the matter further, and I resolved at once to write to my
benefactress and ask for a remittance on account: I felt that was the
most honest way, after what she and Lord Verner had said to me.”
“Bravo!” said Mr. Williamson; “that was right.”
“As six o’clock struck by a church clock somewhere in the thick of the
houses, I was at Crawley’s again. The office-boy was not there, Mrs.
Crawley was alone. I trembled like a schoolboy in her presence. She
seemed pleased to see me. Had I heard anything of her husband? she
asked. I said ‘No;’ but I told her of the incident about Macshawser.
She said she need hardly ask if she might rely upon my honour and
secrecy. I assured her, and begged that she would show me how I could
help her. It was not wrong to go thus far?”
Paul waited for his friend’s reply.
“Considering how far you had gone, no,” said Mr. Williamson.
“She said Macshawser was an agent of the Jews; that although he was an
officer in the army, he was the secret spy and agent of money-lenders;
that his business was to get into the confidence of people, and
particularly military men, and when they were in trouble for money
he made inquiries as to their position, then told them where to go,
and afterwards got a bonus from the usurer to whom he had made his
recommendation.”
“She told you the truth; my friend of Scotland Yard could tell you some
rare stories in illustration,” said the barrister.
“Her husband,” she said, “was an agent of a lower stamp than this
gentleman--of a much lower stamp; and what was worse, he did not
confine himself to this; but he cheated at cards, and expected her now
and then to assist in plucking young men whom they met by accident at a
friend’s in the West End, where Macshawser was an occasional visitor.
Her husband had gone there now to dinner, and she was ordered to attend
at eight o’clock. And then the tears rolled down her cheek, and I felt
that I could have laid my life down for her.”
“Yes, yes--we are all alike,” said Mr. Williamson; “those cursed
tears, they make fools of us all.”
“Then she asked me if I did not truly pity her, and from that we got to
a mutual confession of love. She knew it was wicked, and she had tried
to fight against it, she said; but she loved me with all her heart,
because I had had pity on her, and had loved her as a woman should be
loved before I had known she was married. We set to thinking what we
should do under the circumstances, but all that I could think of was
that she must get away from this fiend, her husband.”
“How came she to marry him? Did she not tell you that?” asked the
barrister.
“Not at that time, but she has told me all her history since. I went to
see her the next evening at the same hour, and found her pale and ill,
and unlike herself. She had had a violent quarrel with her husband,
who had subjected her to gross insult on the previous night; she had
refused to go out this evening, and I stayed with her until late, and
tried to cheer her. We talked of Severntown, and of her childhood. She
never remembered her mother; she had always understood that her mother
died when she was but a child. She dare not tell me, she said, how her
younger life had been spent, lest I should despise her; but she would
tell me by-and-by. The more she said to prevent me from loving her, the
more my sympathies were excited, and I laid down a plan whereby she
should leave her husband the next day, if she would.”
“Rash--rash boy!” exclaimed Mr. Williamson.
“I know it. I felt afterwards, in sober moments, that I had behaved
most foolishly, but I could not help it. The next morning twice the
money I wanted reached me from Barton Hall, and this determined my
course of action.”
“Why did you not tell me of it at the time?”
“I dare not; I seemed to be impelled by an infatuation that overcame me
completely. I went and hired a modest lodging for her out at Pimlico,
not far from where the Dibbles lived; and that evening at six I went
again, told her what I had done, and implored her to come with me. She
was paler and weaker than when I saw her the evening previously, and
wandered a little in her talk. I told her she should not want--she
should be kindly treated--and talked of happiness in a distant land. I
hardly know what I said. She came with me, and she has never rallied
since; she is very ill, and somehow I do not think she will live, and
I love her so much, that if she should die, I think it would drive me
mad.”
And then the young fellow threw his arms upon the table, buried his
face in his hands, and sobbed like a child.
“Poor fellow!” said the barrister, “poor fellow!”
“Now, call me a fool, or what you like,” said Paul, in broken accents.
“This is my trouble, and this my reason for going to town by the next
train. I came with you to tell you my story; it has been breaking my
heart, and I know you are my best friend.”
“Yes, yes,” said the barrister, taking Paul’s hand; “we are nearer and
dearer friends than ever now, heaven help us! I will tell you of _my_
trouble some day, Paul. But about this poor woman: has she had medical
advice?”
“She has,” said Paul, “and every attention.”
“Ha! that’s well. I think it is time we returned to town, then,” said
the barrister. “Come, cheer up, Lieutenant; cheer up, man!”
“I feel better now,” said Paul, taking up his sash, and slinging his
sword round his waist. “A nice fellow to be a soldier, I am!” he went
on, as he wiped his face with his handkerchief.
“You are a good fellow,” said the barrister; “unfortunate, but a good
fellow. What a blessing it is we know each other! I thank that rascal
Gibbs that he put a certain young fellow to much trouble years ago. I
might never have known you but for that. It was necessary we should
know each other: the hand of Fate is in this business.”
It was late when the two friends reached London. They drove from the
station to Pimlico, and halted at a house in a quiet bye-street. They
both entered, and dismissed the cab.
Mrs. Dibble let them in, and Mr. Williamson recognised her with
pleasure.
“You did not tell me she was with Mrs. Dibble,” said the barrister.
“Did I not?” said Paul, hardly heeding the question.
“How is she to-night?” said Paul.
“Better--a little better,” said Mrs. Dibble. “She hath athked for you
twenty timeth.”
“I will not keep you five minutes,” said Paul, as he ascended the
stairs on tip-toe.
“Poor creature! poor dear love!” said Mrs. Dibble; “she’th had a thad
life for one so young though we all have our troublth. I’m thure if my
pa could rithe and thee me, it would break hith heart, that it would,
to think that after having a boarding-thchool education, and being
brought up with accomplishmenth at my fingerth ends, that I thould
have to let my huthband go out to thervice in hith old age, and live on
the bounty of him and Mithter Thomerton.”
The bare contemplation of her lot set Mrs. Dibble weeping copious tears.
“In service? Why I thought Thomas had come back to live with you, and
that you were going on quite comfortably again?” said the barrister.
“Tho he did, tho he did,” said Mrs. Dibble, wiping her eyes; “but it
wath only to bring fresh troublth. We were perthecuted by a showman--a
dreadful, drunken perthon--and then we had to move, and what ith worth,
thith panic, or whatever it ith, in the Thity, hath been our ruin; the
bank in which our all wath depothited broke, and left uth without tho
much ath five poundth in the world. If Mithter Thomerton had not helped
uth--God bleth him for it!--we thould have been in the workhouth, and
one of the gentlemen at the bank who had known thomething of Dibble,
he offered him a place as his butler, and I came to live in thith
little houthe, having thold motht of my other furniture: and loath I
wath to part with that piano which poor pa bought me when I came home
from boarding-thchool; and Dibble he hath a good place, and he comth
home thometimeth, though what I thall do when the family goth for two
month to Brazencrook, I don’t know; but the Lord have merthy on uth! My
poor pa! my poor pa!”
The contemplation of what her poor pa would think of her forlorn
condition was too much for Mrs. Dibble, and she lapsed into silent
tears, whilst Mr. Williamson bade her be of good cheer and asked her to
accept a guinea for “auld lang syne.”
Meanwhile the Lieutenant came down-stairs, looking more hopeful than he
had done previously. He certainly thought the poor girl was better.
“Poor dear!” said Mrs. Dibble again; “tho young too, tho young!”
Paul shook hands with Mrs. Dibble, as he left the house, and then he
and his friend walked arm and arm out into the night, each occupied
with his own thoughts.