Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 10
Chapter X.—The Crash Comes.
WE thought Philip must have missed his train, it was so long before Elsie returned from the station; but a terrible fear that some accident had befallen him seized us when at length the chaise came back with Elsie alone, and we saw that her face was white and drawn as if with the agony of death.
Father, who had shared our anxiety in her absence, was the first to be at her side; he took her in his strong arms as she tried to step from the chaise, and almost carried her into the house, for she had not the strength to walk unaided. She smiled gratefully upon him as he seated her in the big chair; but she threw her arms round little mother's neck as mother bent over her, and burst into a passion of tears. We soothed her, mother and I, with what loving words came from our hearts, not daring as yet to approach the subject of our fears; and presently she began to laugh hysterically as she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, asking us to forgive her being so silly and causing us such anxiety.
“But Philip, dear—where is he?” asked mother.
“Oh, it has nothing to do with him, this foolishness of mine—nothing, nothing, nothing!” she said energetically, as if to impress the truth upon our minds. “He went by the train, and we parted quite happily. Only—when he was gone—I—I—I was seized with a feeling of faintness that obliged me to sit down for some time in the waiting-room; indeed, I think I must have fainted, for I found myself on the ground, and the station-master was dashing water on my face. Look at my poor hat and my cape!”
“But cannot you account for feeling ill, dear? Was there no unhappiness before Philip went?”
“Oh! no, no, no. We were happy—oh, so happy!—till the last moment. Maybe I have been too happy.”
“Over-excitement and reaction?” suggested father.
“Yes, that's it—that is just it, dear,” she replied, jumping eagerly at this explanation.
So we agreed it must be that, and advised her to lie down in her room until dinner time, thinking that an hour or two of repose would restore her, and that she would come down our own bright Elsie again.
But that happy change did not follow. She mustered strength to come down to dinner, but her eyes were swollen and red, and it was evident she had not slept. She tried to eat, but we saw that it was a mere pretence, to allay our anxiety; and she strove to be cheerful, but the words faltered on her quivering lips; and her laugh was so like the echo of a sob that it wrung our hearts. The effort to bear up was too much for her strength, and we persuaded her to go again to her room.
What was the matter? Mother and I could only think that, despite her protestation to the contrary, a lovers' quarrel was at the bottom of her unhappiness.
And at night-time, when I lay down beside her in the dark, and she clasped me close, yearning for sympathy and love, and pressing her cheek low down upon my shoulder that I might not detect the tears upon her face, I whispered—
“Tell me all about it now, Elsie dear. It will ease your poor heart.”
She pressed me tighter, shaking her head upon my shoulder in silence.
“Let us talk about him—Philip,” I said.
“No, no, Dol dear. Not about him. We must not talk of him any more—never any more,” she whispered, choking down her emotion.
“You must tell me why, dear.”
“Because—because—it is all over, that long dream of happiness; and now I am awake, I see that I can never, never be his wife.”
“Has he done anything to”
“No, no! Oh, don't think that, Dolly. Make what excuses you can for me, but never think that he has ever said a word, expressed a thought, a wish, a feeling, that is not true and good.”
I felt a tear trickling down my breast, and my own began to flow in sympathy so that I dared not speak. She was the first to find strength for speech,
“Sister, dear,” whispered she, “I, who have never kept a secret, hold one now that I would rather die than tell. As you love me, help me to keep it. And oh,”—with a little cadence of sobs—“for the love of mercy do not talk to me of Phil—Phil whom I must try to forget.”
“Be sure, dear, that I shall try to make your trial, whatever it be, less, and not more hard to bear,” said I; and then I tried to interest her in other things, and did, I think, partially succeed in distracting her thoughts. Maybe I only wearied her, but after a while she kissed me fervently and bade me “Good night.” And then we were silent, but neither I nor she slept.
Poor Elsie! how could she sleep?—a light-hearted, careless child brought face to face with an ordeal that would have strained the fortitude of one inured to suffering and self-denial. It would have been easier to pluck out her own heart than to stem the current of love that flowed from it, giving warmth and life to every part of her being. She had to stifle every hope that she had hitherto fostered, and reconcile herself to a hopeless future. She must overcome despair to resign herself to loss, to live and suffer patiently: light-hearted Elsie was to die this night, to be re-born in another Elsie who could never smile again. Who could call her weak who came victorious out of such a struggle? And she did come out victorious, wearied and shattered though her forces were. The idea of temporising or evading the great calamity by devious means never entered her head, I am sure. Martyrdom was offered her as the price for shielding those she loved from dishonour and disaster, and within such limits as her own conscience prescribed she prepared herself at once to accept it.
She came down to breakfast at the usual time, looking worn and ill, painfully unlike herself; but she had dressed with more than usual care, and strove to assume cheerfulness. Indeed we all looked as though we had passed a wretched and sleepless night, and our conversation was forced, our gaiety palpably unreal.
When the postman knocked, Elsie, instead of rushing to the door, bowed her head and grew a little paler, although she had exacted a promise from Philip to write the moment he arrived at his destination.
I took the letters; there were two, both from Philip: one for Elsie, the other for father. I called Elsie out, and she took the letter from me with feverish haste, and ran quickly with it upstairs, as if she had determined to allow herself one last half-hour's indulgence. The other letter I gave to my father, and then I went out into the garden.
It was some time before he came from the house, and then his head was bowed and he walked slowly to the workshop without once raising his eyes from the ground. Philip had felt it advisable to say something about Redmond, and warn him of the danger Elsie ran of a second encounter with him.
The old look of dreadful apprehension had come back to poor little mother's face when I saw her again: they must have divined the cause of Elsie's trouble, and foreseen consequences that I alone could not see. Little mother did not speak of her new trouble to me—partly because for ten years she had practised from necessity this habit of speaking only upon matters that concerned my father and herself when she was questioned, and also, maybe, because it was natural for her to suppose that Elsie had confided her secret to me.
It began to rain that day, and the downpour continued without cessation for four days, beating down the flowers, and the leaves from the trees, and casting a gloom over the world without which was reflected by the little world within our house. It seemed as if our short summer was ended and the sun was never to shine again upon us.
On the fourth day, as I was returning from the village, I was startled by catching sight of James Redmond. I was at the end of the lane that passed by my father's workshop, and he was twenty or thirty yards distant. It struck me that if instead of going in by the front gate I hurried down the lane, I might slip into the workshop before Redmond could reach the end of the lane, and possibly throw him off the scent by that means if he had not recognised me. I ran, slipped into the empty shop, and stood there panting for breath and listening in dreadful suspense. Heavy steps crushing the soft path came nearer and nearer, the latch was lifted without any hesitation,and he confronted me, his “piggy” eyes screwed up in an expression of malicious satisfaction, his under-lip overlapping the upper in stolid resolution.
“Parties as think they are goin' to give Jimmy Redmond the slip makes a great mistake,” he observed with a forbidding nod; then, drawing his hand over his square chin, he asked, “Where's your father?”
“I don't know. I think he's down at the mill,” I answered.
“And where's missy?”
“I don't know. I've been out.”
“Ah! well, now you can go in and see if she's there, to save me the trouble. Tell her I can't stand it no longer. Tell her I'm losin' flesh every day, and what's more, I'm losin' money every day I'm hangin' about here frettin' my in'ards out with vexation at my own madness. They want me at home; there's somethin' going on there as looks bad, they tell me, but I can't go while this madness holds me. Tell missy I won't keep her five minutes; I won't do her no harm; you shall be here all the time. I won't insist on havin' her answer now, and I'll treat her like a gentleman in every respeck, and I'll make it wuth her while—tell her that I'll make it wuth her while; for when I've seen her I can go back to Wales and see what's up with a easy mind—tell her that.”
Should I go with this inducement, or should I not? While I was asking myself this question, my father came in through the door opening into the garden and faced James Redmond. He did not seem surprised nor alarmed, but looked at him with steadfast composure in his strong manly face.
“Good-mornin', Mr. Evans,” said Redmond, affecting not to recognise him; “I was just speaking to Dolly—me and 'er's old friends; but I dropped in chiefly to see you.”
My father walked across the shop to the bench by which I was standing, and putting his arm about me, drew me to him as he half seated himself on the bench so as to face Redmond. The light from the bay window fell full upon his face: it was as if he purposely courted recognition.
“What do you want to say to me, Redmond?” he asked.
“Well, it's like this, Mr. Evans—you've brought out a shaper that's goin' to revolutionise the trade. If I'm to keep pace with the times—and I intend to do so—I must just chuck my old plant on the scrap-heap, and go to the expense of fitting out the workshop with these new tools, at a cost of I don't how many hunderd. But the queer thing is as I've got to pay for what ackshally belongs to me.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Why, this here tool was invented for Pettigrew by Pettigrew's servant and my old friend, po'r George Heatherly, and as such became my property when I bought up the business and stock-in-trade of Mrs. Pettigrew after her husband's death. I've been to my lawyer about it, and he says I've got a clear case to take into court and challenge your right to patent a tool as I can prove is my property. Now, Mr. Evans, you see what I can do: I can summons you to appear in a court of justice, and have you cross-examined, bullyragged, and turned inside-out by my counsel, to show that this tool is not your invention, but the invention of my friend, po'r George Heatherly. But I'm always for settlin' jobs amicable, and so I come here to see what arrangement you care to make to spare yourself the aforesaid bullyragging and turning inside-out.”
“Have you any arrangement to propose?”
“Yes, I have, and it's like this: you've married the widow of my old friend po'r George, and I've fell that desperate in love with her daughter Elsie, as it comes to this—I can't do without her; I'm wastin' away like a man that's cut off his food and is starvin' to death. It's a sheer madness, but there's only one cure for it—she must be my wife. And you must help to make her my wife, Mr. Evans, if you want to keep out of a court .of justice, cross-examination, and searchin' inquiry. You must, if needs be, force her to be my wife, if this tool question is to be sunk and we're to live in a united friendly sperit.”
“Have you asked her to be your wife?”
“I have.”
“Has she consented?”
“Well, not exackly. She's sort of holdin' off, but a little pressure on your part, Mr. Evans, as her stepfather”
“Has she refused?” my father asked, interrupting him.
“No, she ain't.”
“Have you considered that you are thirty years older than she, that she is beautiful and that you are hideous, that she is good and that you are the greatest scoundrel unhung?”
“I say!” remonstrated Redmond, “do you call this settlin' things amicable, Mr. Evans?”
“We'll have no playing at cross-purposes,” said my father, dropping his arm from my waist and starting to his feet, his face growing grey with passion, but losing none of its line expression by the wrath he felt. “My name is George Heatherly, the convicted murderer and escaped convict. This you have told my daughter, and you have threatened her as you threaten me to gain your end.”
“Yes,” muttered Redmond fiercely, “and by the law I'll gain it. One passion shall be gratified—love or vengeance, I swear!”
“You accursed villain, I know you now!” cried my father, seizing him by the throat with both hands,and shaking him as he held him at arms' length. “It was you who murdered Pettigrew for your mercenary ends—you, who in cold blood so planned the deed as to throw suspicion upon me. You, who under the pretence of friendship brought damning evidence to convict me. You who, not content with blasting the life of an honest man, sought to ruin the happiness of his wife—you, you! who would cap your villainy by forcing me to give my daughter as the price of freedom!”
Redmond, struggling in vain to wrench my father's hands from his throat, upon which they closed like a vice, choked and spluttered as he strove to cry for help, his face growing purple, his little snaky blue eyes starting from their orbits.
“Oh! you may well fear me,” cried my father, “for such fierceness is in my heart as never stirred it yet. And I would choke the last breath of life out of your villainous body if I could believe that any power upon earth could one day induce my child to be your wife.” He pushed him back against the wall and kicked the lane door open with his foot. “There's no fear of that. Go!” he added, flinging him out into the road. “You've done your worst, and you're not worth hanging for.”
“I've done my wust, have I?” gasped Redmond, picking himself and his hat up from the mud; “done my wust, have I? You shall see about that—felon!”
As my father shut the door and turned to me, I ran and threw myself in his arms, bursting into tears, my pent-up emotions overcoming me.
“Courage, Dolly dear, courage!” he whispered, pressing me to his breast and kissing my drooping head. “You have stood by us all so bravely through our troubles, and now there is more need than ever of your help. Be brave—your own dear helpful little self, for the sake of poor little mother and also—and for my sake.”
“Oh, I will try, father—I will do my best indeed; only tell me what I can do.”
“Help little mother to bear the last trial with fortitude.”
“The last trial—why, what will that man do?”
“Obtain a warrant for my arrest. I have been waiting for it—expecting it long enough, and happily I have left nothing unprepared.”
There was a step in the garden, a tap at the door, and Maggie came to say that dinner was served.
“So much the better. We will come at once, Maggie.”
My father, still holding me, crossed to the lane door and shot the bolt. Then, pausing, he looked round the workshop lovingly, and with a suppressed sigh led me out into the garden.
“We'll say nothing of this incident at dinner, Dolly,” he said almost cheerfully, and slipping my hand through his arm he walked boldly into the house, with perfect composure in his face.
Maggie was standing in the passage. My father stopped, and looking at his watch, said in a low voice to her—
“Tell Morris to be at the door at a quarter to two, sharp. Tell him at once.”
Then we joined mother and Elsie in the dining-room.
Whilst we were at dinner a telegram came for father; he read it, and, passing it to Elsie, he said to mother—
“Philip will be here to-night.”
There was fervent gratitude in his tone, and I read it in his deep eyes as he glanced significantly at me.
“There will be someone to take my place and help you, Dolly,” they seemed to say.
When dinner was ended, Elsie rose to leave the table, for the coming of Philip presented a problem which she had yet to solve. Then father, looking at his watch, said—
“Stay a minute, Elsie,” and drawing his chair nearer to little mother, he took her hand, and said gently, “The end has come, dear wife.”
Little mother bowed her head in silence, as if the blow were expected. She did not cry, only turning very white as she clasped my father's hands, she murmured—
“So soon?”
“I have seen Redmond and had it out with him, and he is now getting the warrant, I believe. We have seen that it must be so, love, and we must resign ourselves to the inevitable. The darkest day has come; who can say that brighter will not follow?”
“God's will be done,” murmured my mother with a quivering voice. She rose from the table and left the room.
Then Elsie, who had sat for a moment paralysed by the light breaking in upon her, sprang to her feet, and, throwing her arms about my father's neck, poured forth a babble of sweet and loving words—unconnected, unwritable, but not to be misunderstood. She knew or comprehended what had happened, and she offered to make the last sacrifice to save my father.
“Thank heaven, dear child,” said he, “no further sacrifice on your part is necessary.”
He wrote a few lines to Philip, and enclosed them in an envelope; and he took a letter already written from his desk that was to be sent down to Mr. Gardener at the mills, for he had foreseen the possibility of being forced suddenly to go away. Then he unlocked the cupboard in the under part of the bureau, and brought out a parcel.
“Here comes the chaise: it will soon be over, dears,” he said, opening his arms and taking us to his heart.
Oh! I cannot describe that last parting for the tears that flow as I think of it; but we did not cry then, the moments seemed too precious, and our agitation was chiefly centred in the dread that Redmond would arrest him before he had time to escape.
As the chaise came to the door, little mother ran downstairs in her bonnet and mantle, drawing on her gloves.
“Oh, my love!” said my father, in a tone of remonstrance.
“George, I must go with you as far as I may,” said she with gentle firmness. “The girls can do without me for a little while.”
“Yes, yes!” we said eagerly. “You cannot go alone, father dear; it's too cruel. Little mother must go!”
My father tried to speak, but his voice failed him, his strength breaking down with the belief that he should never again hold us in his arms.
And so he went away, we knew not whither. Yet I might have guessed, had I known that the parcel he carried contained the clothes he had worn when he came to us at Christmas—clothes that he had taken from the chaplain's house after his escape from the prison at Dartmoor.
END OF CHAPTER THE TENTH.