PRIVATE THEATRICALS.
While the owner of Boland's Ait was weeping over the brief
announcement of his wife's death in the newspaper, the owner of a
house in Singleton Terrace, Richmond, was sitting in his wife's
drawing-room in a comfortable easy-chair, reading a novel. Mrs.
Crawford, in her invalid's wheeled chair, sat at the other side of the
table, languidly looking over a newspaper.
Mr. Crawford was a model of domestic virtue. He spent most of his time
in the house, and the greater part of the hours he was at home were
passed in the society of his wife. He did not drink, or smoke, or
swear, or indulge in any other vice--in Richmond. As to gambling, or
anything worse, the good people of the town would as soon think of
hearing the rector accused of such practices. He went to church once
on Sunday regularly; but made not the least claim to piety, not to say
anything of godliness. The few claims that charity or religion had
made upon his purse had been responded to with alacrity and modest
gifts; but the most censorious could not accuse him of ostentation.
In fact there was a complete absence of anything approaching
ostentation in the man. He seemed to care nothing for society, except
the society of his elderly ailing wife. The conduct of the man was
inexpressibly meritorious. He afforded many estimable matrons with an
exemplar of what a good husband ought to be.
"_He_ never goes out anywhere," they said. "He does not even want
company at his own house (though that is not only harmless, but
advantageous), for the society of the woman he loves is enough for
_him_. Of course, he has to go up to town every now and then to see
the workmen who are preparing his wonderful machine for making cotton
out of dock-leaves, or something of that kind; but, then, that is only
for a day, and when he returns does he come empty-handed? Not he! He
always thinks of his wife even in the little while he is away, and
brings her some pretty present to show his love. Ah, if every husband
were only like _him!_"
Of course, an inventor who is taking out a patent and getting models
of machinery made must often see the artificers employed, and before,
as well as after, his marriage, Crawford ran up to London for one day
in the week; that is, he went up on the evening of one day, and
returned in the morning of the next. Indeed, it was not, when put
together, quite a whole day of four-and-twenty hours; for he did not
leave until late in the afternoon, and was back next morning.
Now, an inventor is known to be a dreadful bore, for he is always
trying to explain how the machine works, and no woman that ever lived
could take a particle of interest in machinery, or even understand how
one cogwheel moves another, or how a leather band can make an iron
wheel revolve. Crawford did not make his house odious with plans of
his models and disquisitions on his plans. If you asked him a question
he answered it in the most explicit and kindest manner possible, and
said no more about the thing, but told you that the moment it was in
working order you should come and see his model at work. The kindness
of the man's manner almost made people think they understood him.
On the table between the husband and wife lay a lot of papers, but
they had nothing to do with the great invention. They related to the
Crawford property in the neighbourhood of the South London Canal. Some
of them were in Mr. Blore's handwriting, some of them in Crawford's.
Mrs. Crawford had, at her husband's request, been looking over them
before taking up the newspaper. She had glanced at the sheets, and
when her brief inspection was finished put them down, and, seeing him
deeply absorbed in his book, said nothing, but took up the newspaper
to look at it, so that he might not think she had been waiting for
him.
At last his chapter was finished. He put away his book and glanced
across the table. "Well, Nellie, isn't it very extraordinary these
people were so backward in paying?"
"It is a little strange," she said with a gentle smile; "but you must
not be disheartened by it. They are sure to pay next month." She took
up the list of the tenants and ran her eyes over it, that he might not
fancy she under-estimated his efforts and anxiety respecting the
rents.
"I'll tell you what I think, Nellie. I fancy that, although we issued
the circular about my collecting instead of Blore, and although I had
full credentials with me, they did not believe they would be quite
safe in paying me."
"But they knew you were my husband," she said softly, "did they not?
Was not that enough for them? It is more than enough for me." There
were infinite confidence and tenderness in her voice and look.
"Of course, dear. But they could not be certain of my identity. How
were they to be sure the man who called on them was the William
Crawford of the notice. The man who called upon them might be an
impostor, who obtained the credentials by fraud. Don't you see?"
"O, yes. That's it. Quite plainly they were afraid to pay you, lest
there might be something wrong about you. Fancy something wrong about
_you_, William!" and she leaned back in her chair and laughed with her
eyes closed, as if the thought was too deliciously droll to be
contemplated with open eyes. After a brief period of enjoying the
absurdity of these people, she looked at her husband and said, "But I
hope you are not angry with those people, William? They are mostly
poor and ignorant."
"Angry with them! Good gracious, no! The only thing that put me out
was that I could not bring the money home to you, dear."
"But I don't want any money just now."
"You never want anything for yourself, dear," he said in a tone of
affectionate admiration; "yet a little money would be very handy at
present. We have only a few pounds at the bank."
"But we don't want more than pocket-money until next month. There is
nothing of any consequence to pay; the monthly bills have been all
settled as usual." It was a great comfort to her to feel that he need
not bother himself about anything so insignificant as money.
"Yes, but----" and he paused, and a look of pain and perplexity came
over his face. He leaned his elbow on the table and his head upon his
hand.
For a moment there was no word spoken, but a dull, heavy, low,
continuous noise filled the room.
The noise ceased, and then her infinitely sympathetic voice said,
"Dear, what is it?"
She was at his side. She had wheeled her invalid's chair round to him
and had taken his hand in hers.
"Those workmen," he said. "They have swallowed up all I had." He did
not take down his hand. He sighed heavily.
"But you are not grieving about that? It will all come back a
hundredfold one day."
"Ay," he said in a tone of oppression and care, "a thousandfold--ten
thousandfold. But there is the present----" He paused.
Suddenly a light broke in upon her.
"O," she cried, "how stupid I was not to guess! Why did you not speak
out at once? William, dear, excuse me for not guessing. You will
pardon me, dear, won't you, for not seeing what depressed you? If you
want money, and there is none at the bank, why did you not sell out
Consols? Mr. Brereton told me that all my Consols were as much my own
as the income of the property, since they are my savings."
"No, no! I could not think of doing such a thing as take your
savings."
"But yes, William, dear, yes. For my sake sell out whatever you want.
Why not? They are not mine. They became yours on our marriage, dear.
Why did you not sellout?"
"No, they were yours, and are yours. There is a new law."
"Then it is a bad law. Take down your hand and look at me and say you
will sell what you want to-morrow. Do it to oblige me--for my sake. I
cannot bear to see you in this state. I'll sign anything this foolish
law obliges me to sign. If they are mine I surely can give them to
you. You must take what you want if you won't take all. If they are
mine I surely can give them to my husband as well as to any other
person. If you do not consent to take what you want, I'll sell all out
and give you the money."
She was pleading for the highest favour he could do her--to let her
help him.
"No," he said in a tone of authority, "I will not allow you to do
_that_."
"Well, take what you want. How much do you want?"
"Two hundred would be enough. But I can't--I can't."
"I'll write to Mr. Brereton to-morrow and ask him to sell out two
hundred for myself, and tell him I want the money for a private
purpose of my own. Take down your hand, dear, and let us go on with
the accounts. I have looked over the list and the remarks." She cared
nothing for the accounts, but she wanted the husband whom she loved to
be his old self again.
He took down his hand and pressed hers, and stroked her smooth hair.
"I am sorry and ashamed," he said, "but I am awfully hard pressed, and
you have delivered me."
"Let us go on with the list now, William, and say no more of this
matter. Give me the list."
He handed her the papers without a word. Before sitting down he bent
over and patted her hair and kissed her forehead.
"I know nearly all the names," she said, "but, of course, I have never
seen any of the people."
"You have not missed much by that, Nellie," he said in tremulous
tones, as though rendered almost tearful by her generosity. "They are
a rough lot."
At the same time he was thinking how much more delightful it would be
to have Hetty Layard, with all her buoyant youth, sitting by his side
than this faded elderly invalid. But then Hetty had no money. A man
ought to be allowed two wives: one with money, who need not be young
or beautiful, and one with beauty, who need not be rich.
Mrs. Crawford ran her finger down the names of her tenants, and the
houses which were tenantless, commenting as she went, and trying to
make her own remarks bear out his theory that the tenants did not pay
because they were not sure he was her husband.
"Mrs. Pemberton has not paid, I see. I don't wonder at all at that.
Poor soul, she has had a great struggle for years, ever since her
husband's death. She has tried to help herself along by letting
lodgings, Mr. Blore told me, but that won't come to much in such a
poor neighbourhood. I'm sure I don't know what could induce any one to
lodge in such a district."
"People are often obliged to lodge near their place of business, no
matter how objectionable their place of business may be," said he
sententiously. Then he added with a smile, "Why, recollect, Nellie,
that I myself am a lodger for business purposes in the locality."
"Of course you are, dear. I quite forgot that. And what kind of people
are you lodging with?" she asked cheerfully, anxious to get his mind
as far away as possible from those wretched Consols and rapacious
artificers.
"O, they seem to be quiet respectable people enough. A little slow,
you know, but perhaps none the worse for that when they have for a
lodger such a gay young spark as I." He smiled.
She looked lovingly at him, and laughed at the enormity of the joke of
his calling himself gay and fancying any society could harm _him_.
"And now you must tell me what your landlord and landlady are like."
He seemed to have forgotten about the wretched Consols and rapacious
artificers.
"Well, Layard is a man who has something to do in the gas-house. The
chief thing about him is a long beard. He's rather like a monkey with
a beard."
"And what is Miss Layard like?"
"She's like a monkey without a beard," he said, with one of his short
quick laughs. "As I thought before I went there, she's about ten or
twelve years older than he. She's one of those dowdy little women,
don't you know, dear, whose new clothes always look second-hand."
Again came his short quick laugh. "She belongs to what geologists
would call the antimacassar era. There's a dreadful Phyllis, or
somebody else, in tapestry, framed over their sitting-room
mantelshelf. She told me she worked it when she was young. But I ought
not to laugh at the worthy soul. It is ungrateful of me; for I never
tasted a more delicious omelette than she made for my breakfast. I
must get her next time to give me the recipe for you, Nellie." He put
his arms round his wife's shoulder and pressed his lips upon her
smooth hair.
"I think, William," said she, "we are the happiest couple in England."
"And I'm sure of it," said he in a tone of full conviction.
She sighed a sigh of perfect contentment.
He sighed, thinking of Hetty Layard and her golden hair and luminous
blue eyes, and her lithe round figure, and her fresh young voice, and
the sweet red young lips through which that voice came to make
sunshine and joy in the air.
"Shall I go on with the list, dear?" she asked.
She took no interest on her own part in this list; but then the
interest of him and her was bound together in it, and there was a
charm for her in the bond--not the thing binding them.
"Yes, dear," he answered, wishing the list at the bottom of the Red
Sea among the chariots of Pharaoh.
She ran threw a few more items on the paper, and then paused, and said
with a laugh:
"Here is one store, I see, from which you got neither money nor
promise."
"What is that?"
"Ice-house, Crawford's Bay."
"O, ay. I examined the place with much interest. I believe it is in
ruins. The gates are off, the lower part of it is full of water. I am
told there are eight or ten feet of water in it."
"The place has not been let for ever so many years. I never saw an
ice-house. I wonder what one is like."
"I'll tell you. It's exactly like a huge room of brick, lined with
thick boards, and one-third below the ground. I examined this one very
closely, thoroughly. There are no floors in it but the one at the
bottom of the tank--no ladders--nothing. It is like a great empty tank
lined with wood."
"And you say the one at Crawford's Bay is full of water?" she asked.
"Yes."
She shuddered and drew the light shawl she wore tightly round her
shoulders.
"How dreadfully dark and cold it must be there, William?"
"Yes; but bless me, Nellie, no one _lives_ in an ice-house, and this
one isn't even let!" he cried in surprise.
"I know. But suppose some one should fall into it? Don't you think the
doors ought to be put up?"
"My dear Nellie, there isn't the least occasion to waste money on a
useless place like that. Of course if we should let it we would be
only too happy to put it into good repair. But what is the good of
throwing money away?"
"But the danger?"
"Well, as far as that goes, you may make your mind perfectly easy. No
one has access to the little quay or wharf but the people in
Crawford's House. The rest of the property is lying idle, and from
what I have seen of the Layards they are not the people to go
wandering about on the wharf after dark. Besides, they know that the
ice-house is full of water. It was Layard's maiden sister first told
me."
He laughed at the idea of calling blooming young Hetty Layard's maiden
sister.
"But the child, William--the child!" persisted the invalid. "Suppose
by some misfortune the child should stray that way and fall in?"
"Nellie, no person with an atom of sense would think of permitting a
child out on that wharf. Why, the canal, the waters of Crawford's Bay,
are only a few steps from the back door of Crawford's House, and who
would let a child play on the banks of a canal? I mean, of course, no
people like the Layards would allow their child to play there."
"But this awful dark huge tank you tell me of is a thousand times
worse than the open canal. If a child fell into the open canal people
would see him, but if he fell into that dreadful tank he would be
drowned, poor little fellow, before any one missed him. I do wish,
William, you would get the doors put up. You see, as you tell me,
there was no danger up to this, for no one could get near it; but now
there is a child."
She pleaded with gestures and her eyes and her voice, as though a
child of her own were menaced.
He held out his hand to her and took hers in his.
"There, Nellie, I will. I'll see the place made quite safe. Of course
I'll go down and arrange about it if you wish it."
She raised the hand she held and kissed it.
He thought what a chance this would give him of meeting the
Layards--Hetty--before the month was out!
"Shall I roll you round to your own place now, and you can go on with
your paper and I with my book?"
"Thank you, dear."
He took up the volume, but he did not read. He fell into a profound
reverie. First of all, he began to think of how pleasant it would be
to tell Hetty that he had become alarmed for the safety of her little
nephew, and had come back before his time to see about putting doors
upon the ice-house. Hetty and he would go out on the quay, and look at
the place and talk the matter over.
There was one good thing, the quay on which the icehouse stood was not
visible from the tow-path, so that even if Philip Ray should chance to
pass by he could not be seen.
Then his thoughts took another turn, and became concentrated on Philip
Ray. He mused a long time upon his sworn enemy. Suddenly he shook all
over, as if a chill had struck him. His blood seemed to thicken in his
veins. His eyes stood in his head, staring straight out before him,
perceiving nothing present in that room, but seeing a ghastly awful
sight in that dim dark ice-house.
On the surface of the cold secret waters of the huge tank he saw a
hideous object: the upturned face of a dead man, the face of Philip
Ray.
Crawford's breath came short, and he panted. His mouth opened, his
eyes dilated.
Philip Ray, lying drowned in that hideous lonely water where no one
would ever think of looking for him! It was a perfect way out of the
terror of Philip Ray's anger which beset him. It was a thing to think
upon for ever. _A thing that might come to pass!_
"William," said the sweet low voice of his wife, "here is a strange
thing in the paper to-day. You remember the awful nightmare you had,
in which you thought two of your schoolfellows long ago were going to
shoot you?"
"Yes," he answered hoarsely, but he did not know what she had said. He
knew she had asked a question, and he answered "Yes." He was in a
trance.
"Well, here in to-day's _Telegraph_ are the two names together.
Listen: 'On the 28th inst, at her residence, London, Kate, wife of
Francis Mellor (_née_ Ray), late of Greenfield, near Beechley,
Sussex.'"
"Eh?" he cried, suddenly starting up from his chair and looking wildly
at his wife. "Read that again."
In dire alarm at his manner she read again: "'On the 28th inst, at her
residence, London, Kate, wife of Francis Mellor (_née_ Ray), late of
Greenfield, near Beechley, Sussex.'"
"What is the good of your playing with me, you fool Her death is no
good to me. I am done with her. It's his life I want, and, by ----, I
shall have it too!"
"William!" cried the terrified wife. "My William! Come to me. I cannot
go to you. What is the matter? You look strange, and you are saying
dreadful things, and you have sworn an awful oath. What is the matter?
Are you unwell? Come to me."
A sudden tremor passed through him, and with a dazed expression he
looked round him.
With his short laugh he said, "I hope I didn't frighten you, Nellie,
dear. I was only going over a passage of a play we used to act at
school. I was always good at private theatricals."