Hard Cash

C >> Charles Reade >> Hard Cash

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58

"(Signed) BARROW.

_"N.B._--I have been thus particular, because Hardie _v._ Hardie (if
carried to a verdict) will probably be a leading case."

"Who shall decide when counsel disagree?' inquired Alfred satirically.

"That depends on where they do it. If in court, the judge. If here, the
attorney."

You appear sanguine, Mr. Compton," said Alfred; "perhaps you would not
mind advancing me a little money. I've only half-a-crown."

"It is all ready for you in this drawer," said Compton cheerfully. "See
thirty sovereigns. Then you need not go to a bank."

"What, you knew I should borrow?"

"Don't all my clients begin by bleeding _me?_ It is the rule of this
office."

"Then why don't you give up business?"

"Because I bleed the opposite attorney's client a pound or two more than
my own bleeds me."

He then made Alfred sign a promissory note for the thirty pounds: advised
him to keep snug for one week more, and promised to write to him in two
days, and send Thomas Hardie's answer. Alfred left his address and went
from Mr. Compton a lighter man. Convinced of his courage and prudence, he
shifted one care off his own shoulders: and thought of love alone.

But, strange as it may appear, two cares are sometimes better for a man
than one. Alfred, having now no worry to divert him from his deeper
anxiety, was all love and jealousy; and quite overbalanced: the desire of
his heart grew so strong it overpowered alike his patience and his
prudence. He jumped into a cab, and drove to all the firemen's stations
on the Surrey side of the river, inquiring for Edward. At last he hit
upon the right one, and learned that Julia lived in Pembroke Street;
number unknown. He drove home to his lodgings; bought some ready-made
clothes, and dressed like a gentleman: then told the cabman to drive to
Pembroke Street. He knew he was acting imprudently; but he could not help
it. And, besides, Mr. Compton had now written to his uncle, and begun the
attack: that would surely intimidate his enemies, and turn their thoughts
to defence, not to fresh offence. However, catching sight of a gunsmith's
shop on the way, he suddenly resolved to arm himself on the bare chance
of an attack. He stopped the cab; went in and bought a double-barrelled
pistol, with powder-flask, bullets, wads, and caps complete. This he
loaded in the cab, and felt quite prudent after it. The prudence of
youth!

He paid off the cab in Pembroke Street, and set about the task of
discovering Julia. He inquired at several houses, but was unsuccessful.
Then he walked slowly all down the street, looking up at all the windows.
And I think, if he had done this the day before, he might have seen her,
or she him: she was so often at the window now. But just then she had
company to keep her in order.

He was unlucky in another respect. Edward came out of No. 66 and went up
the street, when he himself was going down it not so very many yards off.
If Alfred's face had only been turned the other way he would have seen
Edward, and all would have gone differently.

The stoutest hearts have their moments of weakness and deep dejection.
Few timings are more certain, and less realised by ordinary men than
this; from Palissy fighting with Enamel to Layard disinterring a city,
this thing is so.

Unable to find Julia in the very street she inhabited, Alfred felt weak
against fate. He said to himself, "If I find her, I shall perhaps wish I
had never sought her."

In his hour of dejection stern reason would be heard, and asked him
whether all Mrs. Archbold had said could be pure invention; and he was
obliged to confess that was too unlikely. Then he felt so sick at heart
he was half minded to turn and fly the street. But there was a large yard
close by him, entered by a broad and lofty gateway cut through one of the
houses. The yard belonged to a dealer in hay: two empty waggons were
there, but no men visible, being their dinner-time. Alfred slipped in
here, and sat down on the shaft of a waggon; and let his courage ooze. He
sighed, and sighed, and feared to know his fate. And so he sat with his
face in his hands unmanned.

Presently a strain of music broke on his ear. It seemed to come from the
street. He raised his head to listen. He coloured, his eyes sparkled; he
stole out on tiptoe with wondering, inquiring face into the street. Once
there, he stood spell-bound, thrilling from his heart, that seemed now on
fire, to his fingers' ends. For a heavenly voice was singing to the
piano, just above his head; singing in earnest, making the very street
ring. Already listeners were gathering, and a woman of the people said,
"It's a soul singing without a body." Amazing good things are said in the
streets. The voice was the voice of Julia; the song was Aileen Aroon, the
hymn of constancy. So sudden and full was the bliss, which poured into
the long and sore-tried listener at this sudden answer to his fears, that
tears of joy trembled in his eyes. "'Wretch that I was to doubt her," he
said: and unable to contain his longing, unable to wait and listen even
to that which had changed his griefs and doubts into rapture, he was at
the door in a moment. A servant opened it: "Miss Dodd?" he said, or
rather panted; "you need not announce me. I am an old acquaintance." He
could not bear any one should see the meeting between him and his
beloved; he went up the steep and narrow stair, guided by the hymn of
constancy.

He stopped at the door, his heart was beating so violently.

Then he turned the handle softly, and stepped into the drawing-room; it
was a double room: he took two steps and was in the opening, and almost
at Julia's back.

Two young clergymen were bending devotedly one on each side of her; it
was to them she was singing the hymn of constancy.

Alfred started back as if he had been stung; and the music stopped dead
short.

For she had heard his step, and, womanlike, was looking into her
companions' eyes first, to see if her ear had deceived her. What she saw
there brought her slowly round with a wild look. Her hands rose toward
her face, and she shrank away sideways from him as if he was a serpent,
and her dilated eyes looked over her cringing shoulder at him, and she
was pale and red and pale and red a dozen times in as many seconds.

He eyed her sorrowfully and sternly, taking for shame that strange
mixture of emotions which possessed her. And so they met. Strange meeting
for two true lovers, who had parted last upon their wedding eve.

No doubt, if they had been alone, one or other would have spoken
directly; but the situation was complicated by the presence of two
rivals, and this tied their tongues. They devoured one another with their
eyes in silence; and then Julia rose slowly to her feet, and began to
tremble from head to foot, as she looked at him.

"Is this intrusion agreeable to you, Miss Dodd?" said Mr. Hurd
respectfully, by way of courting her. She made no reply, but only looked
wildly at Alfred still, and quivered visibly.

"Pray, sir," said Alfred, turning on Mr. Hurd, "have you any right to
interfere between us two?"

"None whatever," said Julia hastily. "Mr. Hurd, I need no one: I will
permit no one to say a word to him. Mr. Hardie knows he cannot enter a
house where I am--without an explanation."

"What, before a couple of curates?"

"Do not be insolent to my friends, sir," said Julia, panting.

This wounded Alfred deeply. "Oh, as you please," said he. "Only if you
put me on my defence before strangers, I shall, perhaps, put you to the
blush before them."

"Why do you come here, sir?" said Julia, not deigning to notice his
threat.

"To see my betrothed."

"Oh, indeed!" said she bitterly; "in that case why have you postponed
your visit so long?"

"I was in prison."

"In prison?"

"In the worst of all prisons; where I was put because I loved you; where
I was detained because I persisted in loving you, you faithless,
inconstant girl."

He choked at these words; she smiled--a faint, uncertain smile. It died
away, and she shook her head, and said sadly--

"Defend yourself, and then call me as many names as you like. Where was
this prison?"

"It was an asylum: a madhouse."

The girl stared at him bewildered. He put his hand into his pocket and
took Peggy's letter. "Read that," he said. She held it in her hand, and
looked him in the face to divine the contents. "Read it," said he, almost
fiercely; "that was the decoy." She held it shaking in her hands, and
stared at it. I don't know whether she read it or not.

He went on: "The same villain who defrauded your father of his money,
robbed me of my wife and my liberty: that Silverton House was a lunatic
asylum, and ever since then (Oh, Julia, the agony of that day) I have
been confined in one or other of those hells; sane amongst the mad; till
Drayton House took fire, and I escaped: for what? To be put on my
defence, by you. What have you suffered from our separations compared
with the manifold anguish I have endured, that you dare to receive the
most injured and constant of mankind like this, you who have had your
liberty all this time, and have consoled yourself for my absence with a
couple of curates?"

"For shame," said Julia, blushing to the forehead, yet smiling in a way
her companions could not understand.

"Miss Dodd, will you put up with these insults?" said Mr. Hurd.

"Ay, and a thousand more," cried Julia, radiant, "and thank Heaven for
them; they prove his sincerity. You, who have thought proper to stay and
hear me insult my betrothed, and put my superior on his defence, look how
I receive his just rebuke: Dear, cruelly used Alfred, I never doubted you
in my heart, no not for a moment; forgive me for taunting you to clear
yourself; you who were always the soul of truth and honour. Forgive me: I
too have suffered; for I thought my Alfred was dead. Forgive me."

And with this she was sinking slowly to her knees with the most touching
grace, all blushes, tears, penitence, happiness, and love; but he caught
her eagerly. "Oh! God forbid," he cried: and in a moment her head was on
his shoulder, and they mingled their tears together.

It was Julia who recovered herself first, and shrank from him a little,
and murmured, "We are not alone."

The misgiving came rather late: and they were alone.

The other gentlemen had comprehended at last that it was indelicate to
remain: they had melted quietly away; and Peterson rushed down the
street; but Hurd hung disconsolate about that very entry, where Alfred
had just desponded before him.

"Sit by me, my poor darling, and tell me all," said Julia.

He began; but, ere he had told her about his first day at his first
asylum, she moaned and turned faint at the recital, and her lovely head
sank on his shoulder. He kissed her, and tried to comfort her, and said
he would not tell her any more.

But she said somewhat characteristically, "I insist on your telling me
all--all. It will kill me." Which did not seem to Alfred a cogent reason
for continuing his narrative. He varied it by telling her that through
all his misery the thought of her had sustained him. Alas, in the midst
of their Elysium a rough voice was heard in the passage inquiring for Mr.
Hardie. Alfred started up in dismay: for it was Rooke's voice. "I am
undone," he cried. "They are coming to take me again; and, if they do,
they will drug me; I am a dead man."

"Fly!" cried Julia; "fly! upstairs: the leads."

He darted to the door, and out on the landing.

It was too late. Rooke had just turned the corner of the stairs, and saw
him. He whistled and rushed after Alfred. Alfred bounded up the next
flight of stairs: but, even as he went, his fighting blood got up; he
remembered his pistol: he drew it, turned on the upper landing, and
levelled the weapon full at Rooke's forehead. The man recoiled with a
yell, and got to a respectful distance on the second landing. There he
began to parley. "Come, Mr. Hardie, sir," said he, "that is past a joke:
would you murder a man?"

"It's no murder to kill an assassin in defence of life or liberty; and
I'll kill you, Rooke, as I would kill a wasp, if you lay a finger on me."

"Do you hear that?" shouted Rooke to some one below.

"Ay, I hear," replied the voice of Hayes.

"Then loose the dog. And run in after him."

There was a terrible silence; then a scratching was heard below: and,
above, the deadly click of the pistol-hammers brought to full cock.

And then there was a heavy pattering rush, and Vulcan came charging up
the stairs like a lion. He was half-muzzled; but that Alfred did not
know; he stepped forward and fired at the tremendous brute somewhat
unsteadily; and missed him, by an inch; the bullet glanced off the stairs
and entered the wall within a yard of Rooke's head: ere Alfred could fire
again, the huge brute leaped on him, and knocked him down like a child,
and made a grab at his throat; Alfred, with admirable presence of mind,
seized a banister, and, drawing himself up, put the pistol to Vulcan's
ear, and fired the other barrel just as Rooke rushed up the stairs to
secure his prisoner; the dog bounded into the air and fell over dead with
shattered skull, leaving Alfred bespattered with blood and brains, and
half blinded: but he struggled up, and tore the banister out in doing so,
just as a heavy body fell forward at his feet: it was Rooke stumbling
over Vulcan's carcass so unexpectedly thrown in his path: Alfred cleared
his eyes with his hand, and as Rooke struggled up, lifted the banister
high above his head, and, with his long sinewy arm and elastic body,
discharged a blow frightful to look at, for youth, strength, skill, and
hate all swelled, and rose, and struck together in that one furious
gesture. If the wood had held, the skull must have gone. As it was, the
banister broke over' the man's head (and one half went spinning up to the
ceiling). The man's head cracked under the banister like a glass bottle;
and Rooke lay flat and mute, within the blood running from his nose and
ears. Alfred hurled the remnant of the banister down at Hayes and the
others, and darted into a room (it was Julia's bedroom), and was heard to
open the window, and then drag furniture to the door, and barricade it.
This done, he went to load his pistol, which he thought he had slipped
into his pocket after felling Rooke. He found to his dismay it was not
there. The fact was, it had slipped past his pocket and fallen down.

During the fight, shriek upon shriek issued from the drawing-room. But
now all was still. On the stairs lay Vulcan dead, Rooke senseless: below,
Julia in a dead faint. And all in little more than a minute.

Dr. Wolf arrived with the police and two more keepers, new ones in the
place of Wales and Garrett discharged; and urged them to break into the
bedroom and capture the maniac: but first he was cautious enough to set
two of them to watch the back of the house. "There," he said, "where that
load of hay is going in: that is the way to it. Now stand you in the yard
and watch."

This last mandate was readily complied with; for there was not much to be
feared on the stones below from a maniac self-immured on the second
story. But to break open that bedroom door was quite another thing. The
stairs were like a shambles already--a chilling sight to the eyes of
mercenary valour.

Rooke was but just sensible: the others hung back. But presently the
pistol was found sticking in a pool of gore. This put a new face on the
matter; and Dr. Wolf himself showed the qualities of a commander. He sent
down word to his sentinels in the yard to he prepared for any attempt on
Alfred's part, however desperate: and he sent a verbal message to a
stately gentleman who was sitting anxious in lodgings over the way, after
bribing high ad low, giving out money like water to secure the recapture,
and so escape what he called his unnatural son's vengeance; for he knew
him to be by nature bold and vindictive like himself. After these
preliminaries, Doctor Wolf headed his remaining forces--to wit, two
keepers, and two policemen, and thundered at the bedroom door, and
summoned Alfred to surrender.

Now among the spectators who watched and listened with bated breath, was
one to whom this scene had an interest of its own. Mr. Hurd, disconcerted
by Alfred's sudden reappearance, and the lovers' reconciliation, had hung
about the entry very miserable; for he was sincerely attached to Julia.
But, while he was in this stupor, came the posse to recapture Alfred, and
he heard them say so. Then the shots were fired within, then Wolf and his
men got in, and Mr. Hurd, who was now at the door, got in with them to
protect Julia, and see this dangerous and inconvenient character disposed
of. He was looking demurely on at a safish distance, when his late
triumphant rival was summoned to surrender.

No reply.

Dr. Wolf coaxed.

No reply.

Dr. Wolf told him he had police as well as keepers, and resistance would
be idle.

No reply.

Dr. Wolf ordered his men to break in the door.

After some little delay, one of the keepers applied a chisel, while a
policeman held his truncheon ready to defend the operator. The lock gave
way. But the door could not open for furniture.

After some further delay they took it off its hinges, and the room stood
revealed.

To their surprise no rush was made at them. The maniac was not even in
sight.

"He is down upon his luck," whispered one of the new keepers; "we shall
find him crouched somewhere." They looked under the bed. He was not
there. They opened a cupboard; three or four dresses hung from wooden
pegs; they searched the gowns most minutely, but found no maniac hid in
their ample folds. Presently some soot was observed lying in the grate;
and it was inferred he had gone up the chimney.

On inspection the opening appeared almost too narrow. Then Dr. Wolf
questioned his sentinels in the yard. "Have you been there all the time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Seen nothing?"

"No, sir. And our eyes have never been off the window and the heads."

Here was a mystery; and not a clue to its solution. The window was open;
but five-and-twenty feet above the paved yard; had he leaped down he must
have been dashed to pieces.

Many tongues began to go at once; in the midst of which Edward burst in,
and found the two dead men of contemporary history consisted of a dead
dog and a stunned man, who, having a head like a bullet, was now come to
himself and vowing vengeance. He found Julia very pale, supported and
consoled by Mr. Hurd. He was congratulating her on her escape from a
dangerous maniac.

She rose and tottered away from him to her brother and clung to him. He
said what he could to encourage her, then deposited her in an arm-chair
and went upstairs; he soon satisfied himself Alfred was not in the house.
On this he requested Dr. Wolf and his men to leave the premises. The
doctor demurred. Edward insisted, and challenged him to show a
magistrate's warrant for entering a private house. The doctor was obliged
to own he had none. Edward then told the policemen they were engaged in
an illegal act; the police had no authority to take part in these
captures. Now the police knew that very well; but, being handsomely
bribed, they had presumed, and not for the first time, upon that
ignorance of law which is deemed an essential part of a private citizen's
accomplishments in modern days. In a word, by temper and firmness, and a
smattering of law gathered from the omniscient _'Tiser,_ Edward cleared
his castle of the lawless crew. But they paraded the street, and watched
the yard till dusk, when its proprietor ran rusty and turned them out.

Julia sat between Edward and Mr. Hurd, with her head thrown back and her
eyes closed; and received in silence their congratulations on her escape.
She was thinking of his. When they had quite done, she opened her eyes
and said, "Send for Dr. Sampson. Nobody else knows anything. Oh pray,
pray, pray send for Dr. Sampson."

Mr. Hurd said he would go for Dr. Sampson. She thanked him warmly.

Then she crept away to her bedroom, and locked herself in, and sat on the
hearthrug, and thought, and thought, and recalled every word and tone of
her Alfred; comparing things old and new.

Dr. Sampson was a few miles out of town, visiting a patient. It was nine
o'clock in the evening when he got Julia's note; but he came on to
Pembroke Street at once. Dr. Wolf and his men had retired; leaving a
sentinel in the street, on the bare chance of Alfred returning. Dr.
Sampson found brother and sister sitting sadly, but lovingly together.
Julia rose upon his entrance. "Oh, Doctor Sampson! Now _is_ he--what they
say he is?"

"How can I tell, till I see 'm?" objected the doctor.

"But you know they call people mad who are nothing of the kind; for you
said so."

Sampson readily assented to this. "Why it was but last year a surjin came
to me with one Jackson, a tailor, and said, 'Just sign a certificate for
this man: his wife's mad.' 'Let me see her,' sid I. 'What for,' sis he,
'when her own husband applies.' 'Excuse me,' sis I, 'I'm not a bat, I'm
Saampson.' I went to see her; she was nairvous and excited. 'Oh, I know
what you come about,' said she. 'But you are mistaken.' I questioned her
kindly, and she told me her husband was a great trile t' her nairves. I
refused to sign. On that disn't the tailor drown himself in the canal
nixt day? He was the madman; and she knew it all the time, but wouldn't
tell us; and that's a woman all over."

"Well then," said Julia hopefully.

"Ay, but," said Sampson, "these cases are exceptions after all; and the
chances are nine to one he's mad. Daun't ye remember that was one of the
solutions offered ye, whem he levanted on his wedding-day?" He added
satirically, "And couldn't all that logic keep in a little reason?"

This cynical speech struck Julia to the heart; she could not bear it, and
retired to her own room.

Then Dr. Sampson saw his mistake, and said to Edward, with some concern,
"Maircy on us, she is not in love with Him still, is she? I thought that
young parson was the man now."

Edward shook his head: but declined to go much into a topic so delicate
as his sister's affections: and just then an alarming letter was
delivered from Mrs. Dodd. She wrote to the effect that David, favoured by
the wind, had run into Portsmouth harbour before their eyes, and had
disappeared, hidden, it was feared, by one of those low publicans, who
provide bad ships with sailors, receiving a commission. On this an
earnest conversation between Sampson and Edward.

It was interrupted in its turn.

Julia burst suddenly into the room, pale and violently excited, clasping
her hands and crying, "He is _there._ His voice is like a child's. Oh,
Help me! He is hurt. He is dying."

CHAPTER XLVI

JULIA, as I have said, went to her own room, wounded unintentionally by a
chance speech: she sat down sick at heart; and presently opened her
window and looked out upon the starry night, and wondered where Alfred
was now; that Alfred for whom nobody else had a Human heart, it seemed.
"Alfred! my poor Alfred!" she sighed, and half-expected to hear him
reply. Then she said to herself, "They all called you false but me; yet I
was right: and now they all call you mad; but not I: I believe nothing
against you. You are my own Alfred still. Where have the wretches driven
you to?" At this her feelings carried her away, and she cried aloud on
him despairingly, and leaned upon the window-sill, and the tears ran fast
for him.

Presently out of the silence of the night seemed to struggle a faint but
clear voice:

"Julia."

She started, and a muffled scream came from her. Then she listened, all
trembling. Again the voice sighed, faintly but clear, "Julia!"

"Alfred?" said she, quavering.

"Yes. Pray be cautious; give no alarm. The house is watched; bring
Edward."

She flew downstairs, and electrified Edward and Sampson with the news.
"Oh, promise me not to betray him!" she cried.

"Hut!" said the doctor, starting to his feet, "what should we betray him
for? I'll cure him for you. I can cure any lunatic that has lucid
intervals. Where is he?"

"Follow me," gasped Julia. "Stay. I'll get rid of the servants first.
I'll not play the fool, and betray him to his enemies." She sent Sarah
eastward, and Jane westward, and then led the way through the kitchen
door into the yard.

They all searched about, and found nothing. Then Julia begged them to be
silent. She whispered, "Alfred!" And instantly a faint voice issued from
the top of a waggon laden with hay and covered with a tarpaulin. "Julia."

They all stood staring.

"Who are those with you?" asked Alfred uneasily.

"Only friends, dear! Edward and Dr. Sampson."

"Ned, old fellow," groaned Alfred, "you pulled me out of the fire, won't
you help me out of this? I think my leg is broken."

At this Julia wrung her hands, and Edward ran into the house for his
rope, and threw it over the waggon. He told Julia and Sampson to hold on
by one end, and seizing the other, was up on the waggon in a moment. He
felt about till he came to a protuberance; and that was Alfred under the
tarpaulin, in which he had cut breathing-holes with his penknife. Edward
sent Julia in for a carving-knife, and soon made an enormous slit:
through this a well-known figure emerged into the moonlight, and seemed
wonderfully tall to have been so hidden. His hands being uninjured, he
easily descended the rope, and stood on one leg, holding it. Then Sampson
and Edward put each an arm under his, and helped him into the house.