"IF AUGHT'S FOR ME, REMEMBER IT."
Before he left the house at night, Murdoch had a brief interview with
his mother.
"I am going to London as _he_ went," he said,--"on the same errand. The
end may be what it was before. I have felt very sure--but he was sure
too."
"Yes," the woman answered, "he was very sure."
"I don't ask you to trust it--or me," he said. "He gave a life to it. I
have not given a year, and he was the better man, a thousand-fold. I,"
he said, with a shadow falling on his face, "have not proved myself as
he did. He never faltered from the first."
"No," she said. "Would to God he had!"
But when he went, she followed him to the door and said the words she
had refused him when he had first told her he had taken the burden upon
his shoulders.
"God speed you!" she said. "I will try to believe."
His plan was to go to his room, pack his case securely, and then carry
it with him to the station in time to meet the late train he had decided
on taking.
He let himself into the Works as usual, and found his way along the
passage in the darkness, though he carried his lantern. He knew his way
so well that he did not need it there. But when he reached Haworth's
room and put out his hand to open the door, he stopped. His touch met
no resistance, for the door was wide open. The discovery was so sharp a
shock to him that for a few seconds he remained motionless. But he
recovered himself in a second or so more. It might have been the result
of carelessness, after all; so he turned on his light and went into his
cell and began his task. It did not take him long. When he had finished,
the wooden case was simply a solid square brown parcel which might have
contained anything. He glanced at his watch and sat down a minute or so.
"There is no use in going too early," he said. And so he waited a
little, thinking mechanically of the silence inside and the darkness
out, and of the journey which lay before him. But at last he got up
again and took his burden by the cord he had fastened about it.
"Now," he said, "it is time."
At the very moment the words left his lips there was a sound outside the
door, and a rush upon him; he was seized by the throat, flung backward
into the chair he had left, and held there. He made no outcry. His first
thought when he found himself clutched and overpowered was an
incongruous one of Briarley sitting on the road-side and looking up at
him in panic-stricken appeal. He understood in a flash what his terror
had meant.
The fellow who held him by the collar--there were three of them, and one
was Reddy--shook him roughly.
"Wheer is it?" he said. "You know whatten we've coom for, my lad."
Murdoch was conscious of a little chill which passed over him, but
otherwise he could only wonder at his own lack of excitement. No better
place to finish a man than such a one as this at dead of night, and
there was not one of the three who had not evil in his eye; but he
spoke without a tremor in his voice,--with the calmness of being
utterly without stay or help.
"Yes, I suppose I know," he said. "You came to me for it before. What
are you going to do with it?"
"Smash it to h----," said one, concisely, "an' thee too."
It was not a pleasant thing to hear by the half light of a lantern in a
place so deadly still. Murdoch felt the little chill again, but he
remembered that after all he had one slender chance if he could make
them listen.
"You are making a blunder," he began.
Reddy stopped him by addressing his comrades.
"What art tha stondin' hearkenin' to him fur?" he demanded. "Smack him
i' th' mouth an' stop him."
Murdoch gave a lurch forward which it gave his captor some trouble to
restrain. He turned dangerously white and his eye blazed.
"If you do, you devil," he panted, "I'll murder you."
"Wheer is th' thing we coom fur?" said the first man. And then he caught
sight of the package, which had fallen upon the floor.
"Happen it's i' theer," he suggested. "Oppen it, chaps."
Then all at once Murdoch's calmness was gone. He shook in their grasp.
"For God's sake!" he cried, "don't touch it! Don't do it a harm! It's a
mistake. It has nothing to do with your trade. It would be no hurt to
you if it were known to the whole world. For God's sake, believe me!"
"We've heerd a different mak' o' tale fro' that," said Reddy, laughing.
"It's a lie--a lie! Who told it?"
"Jem Haworth," he was answered. "Jem Haworth, as it wur made fur."
He began to struggle with all his strength. He cried out aloud and
sprang up and broke loose and fought with the force of madness.
"You shall pay for it," he shrieked, and three to one as they were, he
held them for a moment at bay.
"Gi' him th' knob-stick!" cried one. "At him wi' it!"
It was Reddy who aimed the blow at him,--a blow that would have laid him
a dead man among them,--but it never fell, for he sprang forward with a
mighty effort and struck the bludgeon upward, and as it fell with a
crash at the opposite side of the room, they heard, even above the
tumult of their struggle, a rush of heavy feet, a voice every man among
them knew, and the sound they most dreaded--the sharp report of a
pistol.
[Illustration: IT WAS REDDY WHO AIMED THE BLOW.]
"It's Haworth!" they shouted. "Haworth!" And they made a dash at the
door in a body, stumbling over one another, striking and cursing, and
the scoundrel who first got through and away was counted a lucky man.
Murdoch took a step forward and fell--so close to the model that his
helpless hand touched it as it lay.
It was not long before he returned to consciousness. His sudden loss of
strength had only been a sort of climax body and mind had reached
together. When he opened his eyes again, his first thought was a wonder
at himself and a vague effort to comprehend his weakness. He looked up
at Haworth, who bent over him.
"Lie still a bit, lad," he heard him say. "Lie and rest thee."
He no sooner heard his voice than he forgot his weak wonder at himself
in a stronger wonder at him. He was ashen pale and a tremor shook him as
he spoke.
"Lie still and rest thee," he repeated, and he touched his head with an
approach to gentleness.
"They thought there was more than me," he said. "And they're not fond of
powder and lead. They're better used to knobsticks and vitriol in the
dark."
"They meant to murder me," said Murdoch.
"Aye, make sure o' that. They weren't for play. They've had their minds
on this for a month or two. If I'd been a minute later----"
He did not finish. A queer spasm of the throat stopped him.
He rose the next instant and struck a match and turned the gas on to
full blaze.
"Let's have light," he said. "Theer's a look about th' place I can't
stand."
His eyes were blood-shot, his face looked gray and deeply lined and his
lips were parched. There was a new haggardness upon him and he was
conscious of it and tried to bear it down with his old bravado.
"They'll not come back," he said. "They've had enough for to-night. If
they'd known I was alone they'd have made a stand for it. They think
they were in luck to get off."
He came back and sat down.
"They laid their plans better than I thought," he added. "They got over
me for once, devil take 'em. How art tha now, lad?"
Murdoch made the effort to rise and succeeded, though he was not very
strong upon his feet, and sank into a chair feeling a little irritated
at his own weakness.
"Giddy," he answered, "and a trifle faint. It's a queer business. I
went down as if I'd been shot. I have an hour and a half to steady
myself before the next train comes in. Let me make the best of it."
"You'll go to-night?" said Haworth.
"There's a stronger reason than ever that I should go," he answered.
"Let me get it out of the way and safe, for heaven's sake!"
Haworth squared his arms upon the table and leaned on them.
"Then," he said, "I've got an hour and a half to make a clean breast of
it."
He said it almost with a swagger, and yet his voice was hoarse, and his
coolness a miserable pretense.
"Ask me," he said, "how I came here!"
And not waiting for a reply even while Murdoch gazed at him bewildered,
he answered the question himself.
"I come," he said, "for a good reason,--for the same reason that's
brought me here every night you've been at work."
Murdoch repeated his last words mechanically. He was not quite sure the
man was himself.
"Every night I've been at work?"
"Aye, every one on 'em! There's not been a night I've not been nigh you
and ready."
A memory flashed across Murdoch's mind with startling force.
"It was you I heard come in?" he cried. "It was not fancy."
"Aye, it was me."
There was a moment's silence between them in which Murdoch thought with
feverish rapidity.
"It was you," he said with some bitterness at last,--"_you_ who set the
plot on foot?"
"Aye, it was me."
"I could have done the job I wanted to do in a quicker way," he went on,
after a second's pause, "but that wasn't my humor. I'd a mind to keep
out of it myself, and I knew how to set the chaps on as would do it in
their own way."
"What do you mean by 'it'?" cried Murdoch. "Were you devil enough to
mean to have my blood?"
"Aye,--while I was in the humor,--that and worse."
Murdoch sprang up and began to pace the room. His strength had come back
to him with the fierce sense of repulsion which seized him.
"It's a blacker world than I thought," he said. "We were friends
once--friends!"
"So we were," he said, hoarsely. "You were the first chap I ever made
friends with, and you'll be the last. It's brought no good to either of
us."
"It might," returned Murdoch, "if----"
"Let me finish my tale," he said, even doggedly. "I said to myself
before I came you should hear it. I swore I'd stop at naught, and I kept
my word. I sowed a seed here and there, and th' soil was just right for
it. They were in the mood to hearken to aught, and they hearkened. But
there came a time when I found out that things were worse with you than
with me, and had gone harder with you. If you'd won where I lost it
would have been different, but you lost most of the two--you'd the most
to lose--and I changed my mind."
He stopped a second and looked at Murdoch, who had come back and thrown
himself into his chair again.
"I've said many a time that you were a queer chap," he went on, as if
half dubious of himself. "You _are_ a queer chap. At th' start you got a
hold on me, and when I changed my mind you got a hold on me again. I
swore I'd undo what I'd done, if I could. I knew if the thing was
finished and you got away with it they'd soon find out it was naught
they need fret about, so I swore to see you safe through. I gave you the
keys to come here to work, and every night I came and waited until you'd
done and gone away. I brought my pistols with me and kept a sharp
lookout. To-night I was late and they'd laid their plans and got here
before me. There's th' beginning and there's th' end."
"You saved my life," said Murdoch. "Let me remember that."
"I changed my mind and swore to undo what I'd done. There's naught for
me in that, my lad, and plenty to go agen me."
After a little he pushed his chair back.
"The time's not up," he said. "I've made short work of it. Pick up thy
traps and we'll go over th' place together and see that it's safe."
He led the way, carrying the lantern, and Murdoch followed him. They
went from one end of the place to the other and found all quiet; the
bars of a small lower window had been filed and wrenched out of place,
Mr. Reddy and his friends having made their entrance through it.
"They've been on the lookout many a night before they made up their
minds," said Haworth. "And they chose the right place to try."
Afterward they went out together, locking the door and the iron gates
behind them, and went down in company to the dark little station with
its dim, twinkling lights.
Naturally they did not talk very freely. Now and then there was a blank
silence of many minutes between them.
But at last the train thundered its way in and stopped, and there was a
feeble bustle to and fro among the sleepy officials and an opening and
shutting and locking of doors.
When Murdoch got into his empty compartment, Haworth stood at its step.
At the very last he spoke in a strange hurry:
"When you come back," he said, "when you come back--perhaps----"
There was a porter passing with a lantern, which struck upon his face
and showed it plainly. He shrank back a moment as if he feared the
light; but when it was gone he drew near again and spoke through the
window.
"If there's aught in what's gone by that's for me," he said, "remember
it."
And with a gesture of farewell, he turned away and was gone.