by Tom Gallon
CHAPTER XVII
CLARA FINDS A LODGING
On the morning following that verdict of Wilful Murder, some one wasastir very early at the Chater Arms; some one dressed hurriedly, whilethe dawn was yet breaking; some one crept softly down thestairs—pausing for a moment at one door, and seeming to catch herbreath in a sob—and so went cautiously out of the house.
It was Clara Siggs. But not the Clara Siggs of old; not the bright-eyedimpudent little beauty, ready for a dozen coquetries—willing toexchange smiling glances with any good-looking lad who passed her.Quite another person was the Clara Siggs who went swiftly down thevillage street this morning, with a resolute purpose in her black eyes;so much had one night changed her.
She hurried on, for a time, resolutely enough, until she was almostclear of the village. The houses were closed; in one window which shepassed, a faint light—burning perhaps in some sick-chamber—seemed tobid scant defiance to the coming day, and crave that the night might belonger. But there was no sign of life anywhere else; the village mighthave been a place of the dead, for all the life there was about it.
At a certain point on the road, her steady resolution seemed to falter;she hesitated—walked more slowly—and finally stopped altogether; asthough working out something in her mind, she made little circles inthe dust with one foot, while she stood, looking frowningly at theground, and biting her red lips. At last the difficulty—whatever itwas—seemed to have solved itself; she turned from the road, and struckoff by a side path in the direction of the house known as The Cottage.
What instinct had guided her there, it would be impossible to say; butthe object of her search, early as the hour was, was in thegarden—sitting on a rustic seat, out of the view of the windows of thehouse, and with her face hidden on her hands. Hearing the light sweepof the girl’s dress on the grass, she rose hurriedly and disclosed thefigure of Madge Barnshaw.
For a moment, the two faced each other in silence—the one, vexed andashamed at being discovered in such an attitude; the other, withsomething of defiance about her, mixed with a desperate and growinganxiety. In some indefinable fashion, each seemed to know the subjectof the other’s thoughts, and to be jealous of those thoughts, each in adifferent way.
But the one woman would have died sooner than acknowledge any emotionor sorrow to the other; the other was proud of her emotion—openlyflaunted it, as it were; and would have been glad to think that oneman’s name was branded upon her forehead almost, that all might readher secret.
“Is anything the matter?” asked Madge, rising to her feet, andconfronting the other.
“Dear Heaven!” cried Clara, in a sort of harsh whisper—“can you standthere, and look at me and ask that? Can you know that a man is as goodas dying—dying by inches, with every moment that we live—and ask methat?”
“I—I don’t understand,” said Madge, in a low voice. “More than all, Icannot see why you are troubling yourself about——”
Clara Siggs had turned away impatiently; she flung round now, and cameat the other woman with her hands held clenched close to her sides, andher teeth close clenched also. “You don’t understand! You cannot seewhy I should be troubling about him! I am an inn-keeper’sdaughter—only a common girl, at the least; you are a great lady. Theysay you were to marry him; will you cast him away now, when he lies inprison, in shame and misery—and with Death drawing nearer every day?Is your love for him so great, that it is something to be changed bywhat men say of him?”
Some curious shame—some strange stirring of admiration for this wilduntutored child—crept over Madge Barnshaw. She saw, in this girl,something stronger and more purposeful than herself—the wild anddesperate courage which might over-ride all obstacles—which might snapfingers at Death itself, for the sake of one man’s life. She wentnearer to the girl, and held out her hands to her.
“Tell me—help me!” she whispered—“show me what I should do!”
With that direct appeal, all poor Clara’s heroism went to the winds;she could only cover her face with her hands, and weep, and shake herhead, and declare how helpless she was. She could have met defiancewith defiance—pride with pride; but the sudden tenderness of the otherwoman was too much for her, and broke down at once whatever barrier shehad determined to build up between them.
“Indeed—I don’t know—I can’t think. I want to help him, if I can; Iwant to be near him—oh—you needn’t think,” added Clara,tearfully—“that I am anything to him; I might have thought soonce—but I know better now. This trouble has cleared my mind somehow,so that I can see things as they are. If he has been—kind—andnice—to me—it’s only as he might be to any one whose face pleasedhim”—Clara tossed her head a little, despite her tears, and seemed tosuggest that she knew the value of her own charms. “Withyou—well—it’s different.”
Madge Barnshaw thought bitterly that it might not be so very different,after all; thought of the murdered girl, and bitterly blamed herselfbecause she could not stand aside before all the world, and believe himinnocent.
Something of this must have been in the mind of the other girl; lookingat Madge steadily, she asked, with some sternness—“You don’t believehe did that horrible thing—do you?”
Madge Barnshaw covered her face with her hands, and shuddered. “I don’tknow—I don’t know what to think,” she said, in a whisper.
Clara turned swiftly, and began to walk away. She had almost reachedthe garden gate, when Madge, springing after her, caught her by the arm.
“You’re right—and I am a coward, and unworthy of his or any one else’slove and confidence. I will believe in him—in his innocence. You makeme believe. Tell me—what are you going to do?”
“I am going to Chelmsford,” replied Clara, simply. “I want to be nearhim—I want to feel that I know all that is happening. For me—it willnot matter; no one will take any notice of me. I can go where you couldnot.”
“But what will you do at Chelmsford? How will you live?” asked Madge.
Clara smiled bravely, and threw up her head a little higher. “I have alittle money—no, thank you”—as the other made a gesture, as if toreach her purse—“I have more than I need—and I shall take a lodgingnear—near the prison. I came here, because I wanted to know—toknow”—she hesitated, and her voice trailed off, and died away.
“Wanted to know—what?”
“To know if there was any—any message you would wish to send to him,”replied Clara at last, very stiffly, and with a face of scarlet. “Ithought maybe that if I could carry—carry some message from you—you,who have the right to send one—it might cheer him, and lead him tothink better of the world, when every one is against him. He maynot—how should he?—may not think or care anything for what I maysay—but you——”
Madge Barnshaw moved forward quickly, and took the girl in her arms.“What angel of God has put such a thought in your heart?” shewhispered. “I shall bless you all my life for coming to me likethis—for teaching me, out of your own simple faith and loyalty, somefaith and loyalty too. Will you promise to write to me, directly youare settled in your new lodging? Will you promise to write often tome—to claim from me anything you may want?”
After a little further hesitation, Clara Siggs promised that she wouldcommunicate with her new friend frequently. And then Madge, with herarms still about the girl, whispered her message.
“Tell him—if you will,” she said—“that I love him, and believe in hisinnocence—that I will believe in that—and in him—until he tells me,with his own lips, that he is guilty!”
Clara promised that the message should be delivered; and, with aparting embrace the two separated—Clara to set forth on her journey;Madge to pace the garden wearily, and, now that she was alone again,with a growing despair.
Having only some five miles to traverse, before coming into thepicturesque old town of Chelmsford, Clara Siggs first trod its streetsjust as the shops were beginning to s
et forth their wares for the day,and its pavements to echo with the fall of busy feet. Rendered timid bythe size of the place, and fearful of attracting attention, she did notcare to ask her way to the jail, but wandered about, until the frowningwalls of the building looked down upon her. Various notices were postedon a door, setting forth the date of the next assizes, together withother information—only part of which she grasped, in her anxiety, andin the many tumultuous thoughts which stirred her, at the remembranceof how near she was to the place where the man of whom she had come insearch lay.
She resolved, for her own comfort and satisfaction, to get a lodging asnear to the prison as possible; and, after some little search, came toa decent house in a by-street, in the lower window of which a cardannounced that a room was to be let. Her hesitating knock at the doorwas answered promptly, by a tall, thin, angular-looking woman, withvery red hair, and a very business-like aspect. She appeared to possessa kindly nature, however, despite her grim appearance; and civillyinvited Clara to inspect the room advertised.
“If I wasn’t a person as ’as bin put upon by ’er ’usband,” sheejaculated, darting a scornful glance in the direction of a door pastwhich they walked—“I wouldn’t never demean myself by a takin’ alodger. But ’avin’ a man as give me ’is name, an’ precious littleelse—an’ whose delight it ’as bin to flaunt it on the main, so tospeak—an’ who now ’as ’is mind runnin’ constant on circuses, an’ fatwomen—(w’ich is nothink else but a throwin’ of my figger in myface)—I should be in a better position than I now am, Miss. But PeterQuist won’t deceive _me_ with ’is circuses—the low Turk—an’ so Itells ’im.”
They had, by this time, reached the room—a pleasant and airy place,and very simply furnished. Clara would probably have decided to takeit, whatever terms might have been asked, when she saw that its onesmall window looked right on to the prison; but, as a matter of fact,the rent proved to be very small, and the woman, being pleased with thebright face of the girl, asked for no reference.
Perhaps from the fact that she felt most desperately lonely andfriendless, in that strange place, Clara determined that she would tellthe landlady frankly what her mission was, and ask her advice.Accordingly, with many tears, she told the woman that she had come toChelmsford, in the hope of seeing or befriending a prisoner—a friendof hers, then awaiting his trial. The woman proved to be genuinelysympathetic, and, after a little cogitation, decided to consult herhusband about the matter.
“Mind you,” she said, in a voice of caution—“I’m not sayin’ but wotQuist is a bit of a fool; salt water do ’ave that effect on the best o’men; it seems to soak through, some’ow and make ’em soft. But ’e’s gota ’eart, ’as Quist—an’ now an’ then, ’e knows wot ’e’s about. It ain’toften—but we may ’appen to catch ’im at a lucky time.”
Clara, willingly consenting to consult this oracle, and inwardlypraying that he might have his full wits about him, they adjourneddownstairs in search of him. He proved to be an exceedingly amiablelooking man, with a heavy fringe of whiskers all round a jolly red face.
The circumstances having been briefly explained by his wife, theman—no other than our old friend Captain Peter Quist—poured himselfout, from a stone bottle, what he termed “a toothful”—and proceeded togive the matter weighty consideration.
“You see, my lass,” he said—“w’en the Law ’as once got a ’old on aman, an’ clapped ’im under ’atches, as it were—that man ’as got to gothrough with it, right up to the end. Might I venture for to ask wotyour friend is put in irons for?”
“Indeed—he is quite innocent,” exclaimed Clara. “But he has been sentto take his trial—oh—I beg that you will not think the worse of himfor that—for murder.”
The Captain whistled softly, and raised his eyebrows. “An’ wot might bethe name of this innocent gent?” he asked, after a pause.
“Mr. Chater,” replied Clara, in a low voice.
Peter Quist upset his toothful, and nearly overturned Mrs. Quist also,in his excitement; he sprang up, and backed away into a corner of theroom. For some moments he stood there, making curious motions with hishands, as though warding off an attack, and looking at Clara uneasily.
“Say it agin,” he said at last, in a hoarse whisper. “Wot was the name?”
Clara repeated it; and the Captain gradually came out of his corner,and approached her slowly. “Look ’ere, my lass,” he said; “I’ve ’ad ashock over that there name—an’ I’m a bit upset with it. A friend o’mine sailed under that name—an’ it proved too much for ’im—or summinkdid. Leastways—’e’s dead. So I don’t want nuffink more to do with noChaters; I’d sooner ’elp a Smith or Jones than a Chater.”
Gradually, however, the Captain’s uneasiness wore away; he began totake a lively interest in the girl, and in her story; and went out,that very afternoon, to ascertain if it were possible for her to visitthe prisoner, and at what hours.
He returned, with the gratifying intelligence that she might go to theprison on the next morning; and poor Clara slept happily enough thatnight, with that blessed prospect before her. The Captain, too, was inbetter spirits than he had been for some time past—a letter havingreached him through the post, which seemed to promise a definitesolution of his difficulties, in regard to finding a circus at last.The only drawback to it seemed to be, that there were no fat ladiesattached to it—although, perhaps, in view of Mrs. Quist, this was notaltogether a subject for sorrow.
It was with a trembling heart that Clara presented herself next day atthe door which the Captain pointed out to her. But everyone with whomshe came in contact seemed willing to help her—even anxious to be ofservice; and she was passed on, from one to the other, until at lastshe was directed to the room where he was actually waiting.
“You’d better wait a minute, Miss,” said a warder—“there’s someonewith him.”
The door opened at the same moment, and a brisk-looking young gentlemancame out, thrusting some papers in his pocket as he did so. Seeing ayoung girl drawn up timidly against the wall, he stopped—hesitated amoment—and then turned towards her.
“You’re young for such a place as this, girl,” he said, sharply butkindly. “Are you going to see Chater?”
“Yes, sir.” She was scarcely able to speak for nervousness.
The young man came nearer, and whispered exultantly, “Splendidcase—they’re proud of it even here. And I think we shall pull him outof it—I do, indeed.”
“Oh—I am so glad to hear you say so, sir,” said the girl, gratefully.
“Yes—I think he’s all right; I shall try everything. The onlydifficulty is that he’s so close about it that I can get nothing out ofhim. But—won’t he make a lovely prisoner; we shan’t be able to getinto Court for the petticoats!”
The young man walked briskly away, and Clara passed into the room. Thewarder who had brought her to the door, and who had stood aside, whilethe young barrister spoke, opened the door, and followed her in.Another warder, who had been lounging near a high barred window,glanced at her for a moment; and then she felt her hands grasped bythose of Philip Chater.
“My child! How do you come to be here? Are you alone?”
Hurriedly and tearfully, she explained all that had happened; how shehad left a note at home, telling them that she was safe, and withfriends—and would write more fully at a later time; how she had seenMiss Barnshaw, and how she had a message for him. And, loyal and braveas she had been through everything, her heart seemed to sink deeper anddeeper, as she saw the brightness on his face, when he heard what thatmessage was.
The warders, seeing in these two, as they imagined, a pair ofsweethearts, took but little notice of them, beyond keeping a sharp eyeupon them. In reply to Philip’s eager questions, Clara told him of thelodging she had taken, and mentioned the name of her landlady—and ofthe Captain, husband of that landlady.
“There is a Providence in this,” whispered Philip, eagerly. He appearedto be deep in thought for a moment, and then
turned swiftly to thegirl. “I know this man Quist—a good and honest man, with whom you aresafe. Say nothing to him about me, or about my knowledge of him. Now,don’t start or cry out—come closer to me, and listen to what I say. Ishall be out of this—I _must_—within a few hours. My defence—mylife—everything depends on that—and on myself. There is some one Imust find; to stay here means death—within a given time.”
“Time’s up!” exclaimed one warder, shaking his keys.
“An instant I beg.” He turned again to the girl. “If you could loiternear the prison—at the back of it, so far as I can discover,—eachnight—can you?”
There was no time for anything more; the girl nodded quickly, and washurried away. But she went home to her lodging with a heart beatingmore heavily even than before.