WAS HE IN RAGS?
Stubborn as a mule. Yes--it is the way with some girls: man is soft as
wax compared with woman: man concedes, compromises, gives way, submits:
woman has her own way--when that way is the right way she becomes a
pearl above price.
Elsie, when the door was shut and her sister gone, stood silent,
immovable. A red spot burned in her cheeks: her eyes were unnaturally
bright: her lips parted: she was possessed by a mighty wrath and great
determination: she was the tigress who fights for her beloved. Meantime,
everything was changed: the sunshine had gone out of the day: the warmth
out of the air: her work, that had pleased her so much an hour ago,
seemed a poor weak thing not worth thinking about. Everything was a
trifle not worth thinking about--the details of her wedding: her
presents: her honeymoon: her pretty flat--all became insignificant
compared with this threatened charge against her lover. How was it to be
met? If it was only a suspicion put into shape by Sir Samuel and old
Checkley it would be best to say nothing. If it was really going to be
brought against him, would it not be best to warn him beforehand? And
about her brother----
She sat down and wrote out the facts. To be doing this cleared her
brain, and seemed like working for her lover. In March 1882 a cheque for
720_l_. to the order of one Edmund Gray was cashed in ten-pound notes by
a commissionaire sent from an hotel in Arundel Street, Strand. No one
ever found out this Edmund Gray. Athelstan was suspected. The notes
themselves were never presented, and were found the other day in Mr.
Dering's safe, covered with dust, at the back of some books.
In February, March, and April, by means of forged letters, a great
quantity of shares were transferred from the name of Edward Dering to
that of Edmund Gray. The writing of the letters was the same as that of
the forged cheque.
These were the only facts. The rest was all inference and presumption.
Athelstan had been seen in London: Athelstan had been living all the
time in London: Athelstan had been seen going into the house which was
given as the residence of Edmund Gray. Well--Athelstan must be seen the
very first thing. Further than this point she could not get. She rang
the bell, ordered tea to be brought to her own room, and then put on her
hat and went out to the Gardens, where she walked about under the trees,
disquieted and unhappy. If a charge is going to be brought against him,
the most innocent man in the world must be disquieted until he knows the
nature of the evidence against him. Once satisfied as to that, he may be
happy again. What evidence could they bring against George?
She went home about eight, going without dinner rather than sit down
with her mother. It is a miserable thing for a girl to be full of
hardness against her mother. Elsie already had experience, as you have
seen. For the present better not to meet at all. Therefore she did not
go home for dinner, but took a bun and a cup of coffee--woman's
substitute for dinner--at a confectioner's.
When George called about nine o'clock, he was taken into the studio,
where he found Elsie with the traces of tears in her eyes.
'Why, Elsie,' he cried, 'what is the matter? Why are you crying, my
dear? and why are you alone in this room?'
'I choke in this house, George. Take me out of it--take me away. Let us
walk about the Squares and talk. I have a good deal to say.'
'Now, dear, what is it?'--when they were outside. 'What happened? You
are trembling--you have been shaken. Tell me, dear.'
'I don't think I can tell you just at present--not all.'
'Something then--the rest afterwards. Tell me by instalments.'
'You are quite happy, George? Nobody has said anything to make you
angry, at the office, or anywhere else?'
'Nobody. We are going on just the same. Mr. Dering thinks and talks
about nothing but the robbery. So do I. So does everybody else. I
suppose Checkley has told, for every clerk in the place knows about it,
and is talking about it. Why do you ask if anybody has made me angry?'
'My dear George, Hilda has been here this afternoon. You know
that--sometimes--Hilda does not always say the kindest things about
people.'
'Not always. I remember when she wrote me a letter asking whether I
thought that a lawyer's clerk was a fit aspirant for the hand of her
sister. Not always just the kindest things. But I thought we were all on
the most affectionate terms, and that everything had been sponged out.
Has she been saying more kind, sisterly, things about me? What have I
done now? Isn't the money difficulty solved?'
'I will tell you some other time--not now--what she said. At the present
moment I want to ask you a question. If you have reasons for not
answering, say so, and I shall be quite satisfied; but answer me if you
can. This is the question. Hilda says that Athelstan is secretly in
London, and that you know it, and that you have been seen with him. Is
that true?'
'Well--Elsie--the only reason for not telling you that Athelstan is here
is that he himself made me promise not to tell you. Athelstan is in
London. I see him often. I shall see him this evening after leaving you.
He is in London, walking about openly. Why not? I know no reason for any
concealment. But he cannot go to see his mother, or enter his mother's
house, until this charge against him has been acknowledged to be
baseless. As for you, he will be the first person to visit you--and will
be your most frequent visitor--when we are married. He is always talking
about you. He is longing for the time when he can see you openly. But
nothing will persuade him to come here. He is still bitter against his
mother and against Hilda.'
Elsie sighed. 'It is very terrible--and now---- But go on.'
'I have answered your question, Elsie.'
'Oh, no. I have only just begun. You say that Athelstan is in London;
but you do not tell me what he is doing and how he fares.'
'He fares very well, and he is prosperous.'
'Hilda says that he has been living in some wretched quarter of London
all these years; that he has been frequenting low company; and that he
has been, until the last few weeks, in rags and penniless.'
George laughed aloud. 'Where on earth did Hilda get this precious
information? Athelstan in a low quarter? Athelstan a Prodigal? Athelstan
in rags? My dearest Elsie, if Lady Dering were not your sister, I should
say that she had gone mad with venomous hatred of the brother whom she
made so much haste to believe guilty.'
'Oh! Tell me quick, George. Don't say anything against Hilda, please. I
am already---- Tell me quick the whole truth.'
'Well, dear, the whole truth is this. Athelstan is doing very well. I
suppose you might call him prosperous. When he went away, he had ten
pounds to begin with. People kindly credited him with the nice little
sum of 720_l_. obtained by a forgery. We now know that this money has
been lying in the safe all the time--how it got there, the Lord
knows--perhaps Checkley could tell. He went to America by the cheapest
way possible. He had many adventures and many ups and downs, all of
which he will tell you before long. Once he had great good fortune on a
silver mine or something: he made thousands of pounds over it. Then he
lost all his money--dropped it down a sink or into an open drain--you
know, in America, these traps are plentiful, and started again on his
ten pounds. He was a journalist all the time, and he is a journalist
still. He is now over here as the London correspondent of a great paper
of San Francisco.--That, my dear Elsie, is, briefly, the record of your
brother since he went away.'
'Oh! But are you quite sure, George?--quite--quite sure? Because, if
this can be proved----'
'Nothing is more easy to prove. He brought letters to a London Bank
introducing him as the correspondent, and empowering him to draw certain
moneys.'
'How long has Athelstan been at home?' She remembered the dates of the
recent forgeries, and the alleged fact that all were in the same
handwriting.
'You are so persistent, Elsie, that I am certain you have got something
serious on your mind--won't you tell me?'
'No, George--not to-night. But--how long has Athelstan been in England?'
'I will tell you exactly how and when I met him. Do you remember three
weeks ago, that Sunday evening when we were so happy and so
miserable--resolved on braving everything--going to live on love and a
crust for the rest of our lives?--you poor, dear, brave girl!' He
touched her fingers. 'I shall always be thankful for that prospect of
poverty, because it revealed my mistress to me in all her loveliness of
love and trust and courage.'
'Oh, George--you spoil me. But then I know myself better.'
'Well--on that evening we went to Church together; and after Church, as
I was not allowed in the house, we walked round and round the Square
until the rain came on, and we had to go home. Well, you did not take
any notice; but as you stood on the steps waiting for the door to be
opened, a man was standing on the kerb under the lamp close by. When the
door was shut behind you, I turned and walked away. This man followed me
and clapped me on the shoulder. It was Athelstan.'
'And I saw him and did not know him!'
'He has grown a big beard now, and wore a felt hat. He is a picturesque
object to look at. Ought to have been one of Drake's men. I daresay he
was in a former existence. He had then been in England exactly a week,
and every day he had prowled about the place in the hope of seeing
you--not speaking to you--he trusted that you would not know him again.'
'Oh, poor Athelstan! That is nearly three weeks ago. He has been in
England four weeks--a month--and three--four--five months ago--where was
he?'
'I told you. In California.'
'Oh! then he could not--possibly--not possibly--and it can be
proved--and oh! George--George--I am so glad--I am so glad.' She showed
her joy by a light shower of tears.
'Why, my dear,' he said, soothing her, 'why are you so troubled and yet
so glad?'
'You don't quite understand, George. You don't know the things that are
said. All these forgeries are in the same handwriting.'
'Certainly.'
'One man has written all these letters and cheques and things--both that
of eight years ago and those of last March?'
'That is perfectly certain.'
'Then, don't you see? Athelstan was out of England when these
newly-discovered forgeries were done. Therefore, he had no hand in them.
Therefore, again, he could have had no hand in the earlier one. Why--you
establish his innocence perfectly. Now you see one of the reasons why I
was so glad.'
The other reason--that this fact destroyed at one blow the whole of the
splendid edifice constructed upon the alleged stay of Athelstan in
London--Elsie concealed. Her heart, it must be acknowledged, was
lightened. You may have the most complete belief in the innocence of a
person, but it is well to have the belief strengthened by facts.
'As for me,' said George, 'I have been so long accustomed to regard him
as one of the worst used of men, that I never thought of that
conclusion. Of course, if the handwriting is the same, and it certainly
seems the same--a very good imitation of Mr. Dering's hand--there is
nothing now to be said. Athelstan was in California in the spring. That
settles it. And the notes were in the safe. Two clinchers. But to some
minds a suspicion is a charge, and a charge is a fact.'
'George, you must take me to Athelstan. Give me his address.'
'He is in lodgings in Half Moon Street. I will ask him if he will meet
you.'
'No--no; let me go to him. It is more fitting. You will see him
presently. Will you tell him that I will call upon him to-morrow morning
at eleven? And tell him, George, that something has happened--something
that makes it impossible for me to remain at home--even for the short
time before our wedding.'
'Elsie! this is very serious.'
'Yes, it is very serious. Tell him that I shall ask him to receive me
until the wedding, or until certain things have happened.--But in any
case--oh! they must happen so--they must--it is too absurd.'
'Elsie, my dear, you grow interjectional.'
'Yes--yes. I mean, George, that if things turn out as I hope they may, I
will go home again. If not, we will be married from Athelstan's
lodgings.'
'And you will not tell me what this terrible business is?'
'Not to-night, George,' she repeated. 'It is very serious, and it makes
me very unhappy that my mother and sister----'
'It is something to do with me, Elsie, clearly. Never mind. You will
tell me when you please. Whatever you do is sure to be right. I will see
him this evening.'
'Thank you, George. I think that what I propose is the wisest thing to
do. Besides, I want to be with you and Athelstan. Tell him that as he
left the house eight years ago I leave it now.'
'You? Why, my dear child, what forgeries have you been committing?'
'None. And yet---- Well, George, that is enough about me and my
troubles. Tell me now about your search into this business. How have you
got on?'
'There is nothing new to report. I told you that I left a note on Edmund
Gray's table. No answer has come to that. The Bank has written to tell
him that his letter of introduction was a forgery. No answer. The
dividends are accumulating: he draws no cheques: he makes no sign. In a
word, though this money is lying to his credit, and the shares are
transferred to his name, and the letters give his address, there is
nothing whatever to convict the man himself. We could not prove his
signature, and he has taken none of the money. He might call any day and
say that he knew nothing about it. I wonder he hasn't done it. When he
does, we shall just have to put everything straight again. As for poor
old Checkley, I really believe that he is going mad. If I meet him he
glares; if he is in his master's room, his eyes follow me about under
his shaggy eyebrows with a malignity which I have never seen painted. As
for being described, words couldn't do it. I suppose he sees that the
end is inevitable. Really, Elsie, the man would murder me if he dared.'
'The man is dangerous, George, as well as malignant. But I think he will
do you no harm in the long run. Have you told Athelstan what is going
on?'
'Certainly. He follows the business with the greatest interest. He
agrees with me that the thing is done out of the office with the help of
some one in it. Now, the point is, that the man in the office must have
the control of the post. All the letters must pass through his hands.
'Who is that man? No one but Checkley. Everything turns on that. Now,
here is a lucky accident. An old friend of Athelstan's, a man who
coaches, has Chambers on the same stairs and on the same floor. He knows
this Mr. Edmund Gray. We have been to his rooms to question him.'
'Is it to see this old friend that Athelstan visits No. 22?'
'Yes. His name is Carstone--commonly called Freddy Carstone--a pleasing
man, with a little weakness, which seems to endear him to his friends.'
'This is the way in which things get distorted in a malignant mind!
Well. What did this gentleman tell you about this mysterious Edmund
Gray?'
'Nothing definite. That he is some kind of Socialist we knew before:
that he has occupied the Chambers for ten years or so we knew before.
Also, that he is an elderly gentleman of benevolent aspect. And that he
is irregular in his visits to his Chambers. We seem to get no further.
We see Checkley coming out of the house. That connects him, to be sure.
But that is not much. There is no connection established between Edmund
Gray and the forgeries in his name. Nor between Checkley and the
forgeries. One feels that if one could lay hold of this mysterious
elderly gentleman, a real step in advance would be taken.'
'You talked at first of arresting him on the charge.'
'Well--there is no evidence. His name has been used--that is all. On
that evidence no magistrate would issue a warrant. Sometimes one's head
goes round with the bewilderment of it. I've managed to learn something
about Checkley in the course of these inquiries. He is quite a great
man, Elsie; a tavern oracle in the evening; a landlord and householder
and collector of his own rents at odd hours; a capitalist and a miser.
But he is not, as thought at first--Edmund Gray.'
They had by this time got round to the house again. 'Go, now, George,'
said Elsie. 'See Athelstan this evening. Tell him that I must go to him.
I will tell him why to-morrow.'
'If he is not at his club I will go to his lodgings. If he is not there
I will wait till he comes home. And before I go home I will drop a note
for you.--Good-night, sweetheart--good-night.'