CRAWFORD WRITES HOME.
The morning after Mrs. Crawford's relapse and Crawford's visit to town
about the three thousand pounds, the husband was sitting by his wife's
bedside. He was in a particularly cheerful and hopeful humour, and
insisted that she had already begun to mend, and would in a week be
better than she had been for months.
She shook her head with a sad smile, but said nothing. She did not
wish to sadden the being she loved above all other living creatures by
the thought of a final separation between them, a separation which she
felt was inevitable, and to which she could not reconcile her mind.
When alone she would cry out in despair to her gentle heart, "To be so
loved, and to be so loving, and to be separated so soon!"
He went on affecting undiminished confidence in her recovery. "I tell
you, I am certain you must, you will, get well, and that much sooner
than even the doctor thinks." (The doctor had told him again that day
there was little hope of her rallying.) "What good would my luck be if
you were not by my side to share it? My Nelly comforted and sustained
me in my days of doubt and difficulty. Do you mean that she is not to
share my triumph? I will take very good care she shall. And now I want
to tell you what I insist upon doing. I will take no denial, for I
look on it as essential to your recovery."
"I will do anything you tell me," she said with meek devotion. "I will
do all I can to get well. For, William, I am the happiest and most
blessed woman in England, and I do not want to leave you, dear."
"That's my own brave wife," said he, winking his eyes quickly and
patting her arm. "I don't think you will raise much, if any, objection
to what I am about to do. I am going to write to Mrs. Farraday to come
back and stay with you. She promised she would come if you needed her,
and she will be a great source of comfort and confidence to you."
"But her brother?"
"Oh, her brother can do without her for awhile. You will be all right
again in less than no time, and then, if she wishes, she can go back
to her brother. And now I am off to write to Rochester for her by this
very post, for a good thing cannot be done too soon, and I am sure
this is a good thing for you."
He left her, went to his own room, wrote the letter, and posted it
immediately himself. Then he came back to the house, and having
entered the dining-room on the ground-floor, began walking up and down
with brows lowered in deep meditation.
"I had better get it over me before Mrs. Farraday comes," he thought
as the result of his cogitations. "I can't stay here any longer. I am
not a sick-nurse to philander after an ailing woman, and dally in an
invalid's room. She was a fool to marry me. Did she think for a moment
I fell a victim to her ancient charms? If she did she ought to be in a
lunatic asylum. Of course I told her I wanted to marry her for love,
but is there in the history of the whole human race a single case of a
man saying to a woman, 'I want to marry you for your money'? Not one.
"I can't stand this house any longer; it suffocates me. The doctor
says there is no hope. Why should I wait to see the end? The approach
of death and the presence of death are abhorrent to all healthy
people. I can do no good by staying, and I have to think of myself.
There are very few men living who would have been as good to her as I
have been. She cannot expect me to do more, and," with one of his
short laughs and a quick winking of his eyes, "my affairs in South
America urgently demand my presence. I'll get the business over me at
once. Brereton told me I could have the money early this afternoon."
Here his mind became so intensely occupied that his legs ceased to
move, and he stood in the middle of the room lost in thought. He was
contemplating scenes in his imagination: not proceeding by words.
Presently words began to flow through his brain again, and he resumed
his pacing up and down.
"If there should be any hitch about that money I should be in a nice
mess." He shook his head gravely and repeated this contingency to
himself two or three times. "That would never do. It would look weak
and foolish. When I act I must act with firmness and decision. No, I
had better make sure of the cash first."
He put all the money he had in his pocket, left the house, and took
the first train to town. At Waterloo he jumped into a hansom and drove
straight to the office of Mrs. Crawford's solicitor. He found Mr.
Brereton in, and everything ready. The solicitor handed him an open
cheque for £3,270, saying gravely as he did so:
"And you are fully resolved to put this money in that South American
speculation?"
"My dear sir, there's a vast fortune in that fibre of mine; and now
that the machinery has been perfected, it is only stretching out one's
hands to gather in hundreds of thousands of pounds."
Brereton shook his head.
"The best place in which to put money is English Consols."
"What, less than three per cent.! For you can't buy even at par now.
Why, my dear sir, it's letting money rust."
"It's keeping money safe."
Crawford shrugged his shoulders and made a grimace of dissatisfaction.
"Over-prudence, my dear Mr. Brereton. Who never ventured never got."
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; and of all the uncertain
things I know of there is only one worse than putting money in South
American speculations, and that is putting it in Central American
ones."
"Ah, but you have never been in South America!" said he triumphantly,
and his eyes winked quickly, and he laughed a short unpleasant laugh,
and thought to himself, "Nor have I either." Then he continued aloud,
"I am aware that it is most unwise of any one who does not know the
ground to dabble in South American speculations, but, you see, I am
well acquainted with the place, and know the ropes."
"The last client I had who touched anything in South America blew his
brains out. But, of course, it is no affair of mine. I have only to do
what I am asked by Mrs. Crawford in her letter to me. The cheque is an
open one, as you requested. They will pay you across the counter. I
hope you will not think of keeping such a sum as that in your house?"
"O, dear, no! I am going to remit it at once to my agent. When you see
me next, Mr. Brereton," laughing and winking his eyes, "you will
congratulate me upon my spirit and success."
"I hope so," said the lawyer drily, and in a tone and manner which
plainly said he believed nothing of the kind would occur.
Crawford said good-bye and went straight to the bank, where he got
thirty-two one-hundred pound notes and seventy in fives.
He had never had so much money in his possession before. He had never
had any sum approaching it. Once or twice after a good racing week in
the old times he had been master of five or six hundred, but three
thousand two hundred pounds! It was almost incredible! And it was all
in cash! It did not lie in the cold obstruction of any bank. It was
not represented by doubtful I.O.U.'s. It was not represented by
shadowy entries in a betting-book. It was not invested in any shaky
securities. It was not manifested by abstract entries in a ledger. The
money was concrete and tangible, and lying safely in his breast-pocket
under the stout cloth of his coat. He could take it out and count it
now if he liked. That minute he could start for Monte Carlo or St.
Petersburg, Australia or Norway.
As he walked along the streets he held his head high. He felt
independent of all men, independent of fortune, of Fate. He had
married for money, he had realised the prize, and it was now safe in
his pocket. These notes were as much legally his own as his hands or
his teeth. No one could take them from him except by force, and he
took pride in thinking that few men who passed him in the street would
be able to cope with him single-handed. He had as much thought of
risking his money in anything so far off and tame as South American
speculations as he had of buying a box of matches and burning it note
by note.
Of course, Brereton had been right in saying it would be a dangerous
thing to keep such a tempting sum in an ordinary house. There might
even be danger in walking about the streets with it in his pocket.
Some dishonest person might have seen him draw it out of the bank and
might be following him. He might be a match for more than an average
man, but he would be no match for two or three. Garrotting had gone
out of use, but it might be revived even in midday in London by men
who knew the prize he carried, and were bold and prompt. If in a quiet
street he were seized from behind and throttled so that he could not
cry out, and if a man in front cut the pocket out of his coat, the
thieves might be off before passers-by knew what was going on or
suspected anything being wrong. He had a horror of revolvers, but
plainly he ought to be armed. He did not yet know where he should keep
his hoard, but in any case it would be well to possess the means of
defending it.
Crawford had by this time got out of the City and was strolling
through Regent Street. He turned into a gunsmith's shop and bought a
short large-bore revolver and some cartridges. The man showed him how
to load the weapon. Crawford explained that he was about to leave the
country for Algiers, and wished to have all the chambers charged, as
he was going in a vessel with a crew of many nationalities, and was
taking out a lot of valuable jewellery.
Lying was a positive pleasure to him, even when it was not necessary.
"It keeps a man's hand in," he explained the habit to himself.
It was now about two o'clock, and he began to feel the want of
luncheon. There was no place where better food could be got or where
the charges were more moderate than at the Counter Club. He was only a
short distance from it. What could be more reasonable than that he
should go and lunch there? Nothing. So he turned into an off street on
the left, and in a few minutes was seated in a luxurious armchair in
the dining-room, waiting for the meal he had ordered of the obsequious
waiter.
He was somewhat tired by his walk, and found rest in the
well-cushioned chair grateful and soothing.
Could anything be more comfortable and cheering than to sit at ease in
this well-appointed club, with a small fortune in notes under one's
coat? Here was no suggestion of illness or approaching death. All the
men present were in excellent health and spirits. They were talking of
cheerful subjects--horses, theatres, cards, the gossip and scandal of
the town. They spoke of nothing that was not a source of enjoyment;
and though all they said ran on assumption that they did not
contemplate the idea of any man denying himself pleasure or being
unable to obtain pleasure owing to the want of money, they were not
all rich men, but all spoke as if they were. It was so much pleasanter
to sit here, listening to this talk and taking part in it, than to
wander about that cold-mannered house in Singleton Terrace at
Richmond, or to sit by the sick-bed of a wife ten years older than
himself and whine out loving phrases and indulge in distasteful
private theatricals.
Then the obsequious and silent-footed waiter brought in his cutlets,
and whispered that his luncheon was ready. Everything was very nice at
Singleton Terrace, but somehow cutlets there and here were two widely
different matters. It was no doubt easy to explain the reason of the
difference. In one place the cook got twenty, in the other a hundred,
pounds a year. But though that explained the difference, it made the
cutlets at Singleton Terrace no better.
He had had enough of Richmond. Why should he go back there? As he had
always held, there was no advantage in being brutal, and he would not
undeceive his elderly wife. He would not tell her in plain words that
he had never cared in the least for her, that he had married her
merely for her money, and now that she was dying and her income would,
for him, die with her, and that he had got all the money she had, that
his whole mind was occupied with the image of a beautiful young girl
whom he was about to make love to and ask to fly with him on her
(his wife's) money. No. It would be uselessly unkind to tell that
middle-aged silly invalid any of these things. But why should he go
back to Richmond?
If he went back to say good-bye he would have to play a long scene in
private theatricals to which no salary was now attached, since he had
all the savings in his pocket. Besides, he would find it hard,
credulous as his elderly wife was, to make her believe there could be
any urgent necessity for his immediate departure to South America.
There would be a scene and tears--and he hated scenes and tears--and
then if the surprise or shock made her worse, who could tell the
consequences, the unpleasant consequences, which might arise?
In the next room were pen, ink, and paper. Why should he not write
instead of going back? That was it! He'd write explaining, play at the
club to-night, and go on to Welford in the morning. That was a better
programme than crawling back to that silly old invalid and acting
sorrow at parting when his heart was overrunning with joy.
He went into the next room and wrote his first letter to his wife. He
used a sheet of unheaded paper, and did not date or domicile it.
My dearest Nellie,--Upon coming to town I found waiting for me a
telegram from Rio Janeiro to the effect that if I did not reach that
city at the very earliest moment possible--in fact, by a steamer
sailing from London to-day--my title to the estate on which the fibre
grows would lapse. Nothing but my personal presence could save it. So,
much against my will, I was obliged to drive in hot haste to the boat
without the satisfaction of bidding you good-bye. Indeed, I have
barely time to write this scrawl, and shall have to intrust it to a
waterman for post. Be quite sure all will go well with me, and that I
shall telegraph you the moment I land. I am so glad I wrote for Mrs.
Farraday before leaving home this morning. I know she will take every
care of my Nellie while I am away, and I am sure my Nellie will take
every care of herself, and be quite well long before the return of her
loving husband,
William Crawford.
"Thank heaven that's the end of this ridiculous connection!" he said
to himself as he dropped the letter into a pillar-box in front of
the club. "My mind is now easy, and I can enjoy myself. I can play
to-night as though I were still a bachelor with no thought of the
morrow. Ah, but I have thought of the morrow! What delightful thought,
too! delightful Hetty."
It was late in the evening when this letter was delivered at Singleton
Terrace. Nothing else came by that post. Although Mrs. Crawford had
often seen her husband's writing, this was the first letter she had
got from him, and she had never before seen her name and the address
of that house in his writing. She did not recognise the hand, and
thinking the letter must be connected with routine business about the
Welford property, she put it on the table by her bedside unopened. He
attended to all such matters.
When the maid brought in her supper she took up the letter again and
turned it over idly in her hands. All at once it struck her that the
writing was familiar, but whose it was she could not guess.
With a smile at her own curiosity, she broke the cover and drew out
the sheet of paper.
She looked at the signature languidly until she read it. Then hastily,
tremulously she scanned the first few lines. When she gathered their
import she uttered a low wailing sob and fell back insensible on the
pillow.