‘Help! Help! for God’s sake!—Murder! Mur—’
Just as that cry for help passed the old man’s lips, the two robbers, masked and armed, appeared in the room; and the next instant, Chummy Dick’s gag was fast over his mouth.
He had the cash box clasped tight to his breast. Mad with terror, his eyes glared like a dead man’s, while he struggled in the powerful arms that held him.
Grimes, unused to such scenes, was so petrified by astonishment at finding the old man out of bed, and the room lit up, that he stood with his pistol extended, staring helplessly through the eyeholes of his mask. Not so with his experienced leader. Chummy Dick’s ears and eyes were as quick as his hands—the first informed him that Reuben’s cry for help (skilfully as he had stifled it with the gag) had aroused someone in the house; the second instantly detected the cash box, as Mr Wray clasped it to his breast.
‘Put up your pop-gun, you precious yokel, you!’ whispered the housebreaker fiercely. ‘Look alive; and pull it out of his arms. Damn you! do it quick! they’re awake, up stairs!’
It was not easy to ‘do it quick’. Weak as he was, Reuben actually held his treasure with the convulsive strength of despair, against the athletic ruffian who was struggling to get it away. Furious at the resistance, Grimes exerted his whole force, and tore the box so savagely from the old man’s grasp, that the mask of Shakespeare flew several feet away, through the open lid, before it fell, shattered into fragments on the floor.
For an instant, Grimes stood aghast at the sight of what the contents of the cash box really were. Then, frantic with the savage passions produced by the discovery, he rushed up to the fragments, and, with a horrible oath, stamped his heavy boot upon them, as if the very plaster could feel his vengeance. ‘I’ll kill him, if I swing for it!’ cried the villain, turning on Mr Wray the next moment, and raising his horse-pistol by the barrel over the old man’s head.
But, exactly at the same time, brave as his heroic namesake, ‘Julius Caesar’ burst into the room. In the heat of the moment, he struck at Grimes with his wounded hand. Dealt even under that disadvantage, the blow was heavy enough to hurl the fellow right across the room, till he dropped down against the opposite wall. But the triumph of the stout carpenter was a short one. Hardly a second after his adversary had fallen, he himself lay stunned on the floor by the pistol-butt of Chummy Dick.
Even the nerve of the London housebreaker deserted him, at the first discovery of the astounding self-deception of which he and his companion had been the victims. He only recovered his characteristic coolness and self-possession when the carpenter attacked Grimes. Then, true to his system of never making unnecessary noise, or wasting unnecessary powder, he hit ‘Julius Caesar’ just behind the ear, with unerring dexterity. The blow made no sound, and seemed to be inflicted by a mere turn of the wrist; but it was decisive—he had thoroughly stunned his man.
And now, the piercing screams of the landlady, from the bedroom floor poured quicker and quicker into the street, through the opened window. They were mingled with the fainter cries of Annie, whom the good woman forcibly detained from going into danger down stairs. The female servant (the only other inmate of the house) rivalled her mistress in shrieking madly and incessantly for help, from the window of the garret above.
‘The whole street will be up in a crack!’ cried Chummy Dick, swearing at every third word he uttered, and hauling the partially recovered Grimes into an erect position again, ‘there’s no swag to be got here! step out quick, young yokel, or you’ll be nabbed!’
He pushed Grimes into the back drawing-room; hustled him over the window-sill on to the wash-house roof, leaving him to find his own way, how he could, to the ground; and then followed, with Mr Wray’s watch and purse, and a brooch of Annie’s that had been left on the chimney-piece, all gathered into his capacious greatcoat pocket in a moment. They were not worth much as spoils; but the dexterity with which they were taken instantly with one hand, while he had Grimes to hold with the other; and the strength, coolness, and skill he displayed in managing the retreat, were worthy even of the reputation of Chummy Dick. Long before the two Tidbury watchmen had begun to think of a pursuit, the housebreaker and his companion were out of reach—even though the Bow Street Runners themselves had been on the spot to give chase.
How long the old man has kept in that one position!—crouching down there in the corner of the room, without stirring a limb or uttering a word. He dropped on his knees at that place, when the robbers left him; and nothing has moved him from it since.
When Annie broke away from the landlady, and ran down stairs—he never stirred. When the long wail of agony burst from her lips, as she saw the dead look of the brave man lying stunned on the floor—he never spoke. When the street door was opened; and the crowd of terrified, half-dressed neighbours all rushed together into the house, shouting and trampling about, half panic-stricken at the news they heard—he never noticed a single soul. When the doctor was sent for; and, amid an awful hush of expectation, proceeded to restore the carpenter to his senses—even at that enthralling moment, he never looked up. It was only when the room was cleared again—when his granddaughter came to his side, and, putting her arm round his neck, laid her cold cheek close to his—that he seemed to live at all. Then, he just heaved a heavy sigh; his head dropped down lower on his breast; and he shivered throughout his whole frame, as if some icy influence was freezing him to the heart.
All that long, long time he had been looking on one sight—the fragments of the mask of Shakespeare lying beneath him. And there he kept now—when they tried in their various methods to coax him away—still crouching over them; just in the same position; just with the same hard, frightful look about his face that they had seen from the first.
Annie went and fetched the cash box; and tremblingly put it down before him. The instant he saw it, his eyes began to flash. He pounced in a fury of haste upon the fragments of the mask, and huddled them all together into the box, with shaking hands, and quick panting breath. He picked up the least chip of plaster that the robber had ground under his boot; and strained his eyes to look for more, when not an atom more was left. At last, he locked the box, and caught it up tight to his breast; and then he let them raise him up, and lead him gently away from the place.
He never quitted hold of his box, while they got him into bed. Annie, and her lover, and the landlady, all sat up together in his room; and all, in different degrees, felt the same horrible foreboding about him, and shrank from communicating it to one another. Occasionally, they heard him beating his hands strangely on the lid of the box; but he never spoke; and, as far as they could discover, never slept.
The doctor had said he would be better when the daylight came.—Did the doctor really know what was the matter with him?—and had the doctor any suspicion that something precious had been badly injured that night, besides the mask of Shakespeare?
VIII
By the next morning the news of the burglary had not only spread all through Tidbury, but all through the adjacent villages as well. The very first person who called at No. 12, to see how they did after the fright of the night before, was Mr Colebatch. The old gentleman’s voice was heard louder than ever, as he ascended the stairs with the landlady. He declared he would have both the Tidbury watchmen turned off, as totally unfit to take care of the town. He swore that, if it cost him a hundred pounds, he would fetch the Bow Street Runners down from London, and procure the catching, trying, convicting, and hanging of ‘those two infernal housebreakers’ before Christmas came. Invoking vengeance and retribution in this way, at every fresh stair, the Squire’s temperament was up at ‘bloodheat’, by the time he got into the drawing-room. It fell directly, however, to ‘temperate’ again, when he found nobody there; and it sank twenty degrees lower still, at the sight of little Annie’s face, when she came down to see him.
‘Cheer up, Annie!’ said the old gentleman with a last faint attempt at joviality. ‘It’s all over now, you know; how�
��s grandfather? Very much frightened still—eh?’
‘Oh, sir! frightened, I’m afraid out of his mind!’ and unable to control herself any longer, poor Annie fairly burst into tears.
‘Don’t cry, Annie! no crying! I can’t stand it—you mustn’t really!’ said the Squire in anything but steady tones, ‘I’ll talk him back into his mind; I will, as sure as my name’s Matthew Colebatch—Stop!’ (here he pulled out his voluminous India pocket handkerchief, and began very gently and caressingly to wipe away her tears, as if she had been a little child, and his own daughter). ‘There, now we’ve dried them up—no we haven’t! there’s one left—And now that’s gone, let’s have a little talk about this business, my dear, and see what’s to be done. In the first place, what’s all this I hear about a plaster cast being broken?’
Annie would have given the world to open her heart about the mask of Shakespeare, to Mr Colebatch; but she thought of her promise, and she thought, also, of the Town Council of Stratford, who might hear of the secret somehow, if it was once disclosed to anybody; and might pursue her grandfather with all the powers of the law, miserable and shattered though he now was, even to his hiding-place, at Tidbury-on-the-Marsh.
‘I’ve promised, sir, not to say anything about the plaster cast to anybody,’ she began, looking very embarrassed and unhappy.
‘And you’ll keep your promise,’ interposed the Squire; ‘that’s right—good, honest little girl! I like you all the better for it; we won’t say a word more about the cast; but what have they taken? what have the infernal scoundrels taken?’
‘Grandfather’s old silver watch, sir, and his purse with seventeen and sixpence in it, and my brooch—but that’s nothing.’
‘Nothing—Annie’s brooch nothing!’ cried the Squire, recovering his constitutional testiness. ‘But, never mind, I’m determined to have the rascals caught and hung, if it’s only for stealing that brooch! And now, look here, my dear; if you don’t want to put me into one of my passions, take that, and say nothing about it!’
‘Take’ what? gracious powers! ‘take’ Golconda! he had crumpled a ten pound note into her hand!
‘I say, again, you obstinate little thing, don’t put me in one of my passions!’ exclaimed the old gentleman, as poor Annie made some faint show of difficulty in taking the gift. ‘God forbid I should think of hurting your feelings, my dear, for such a paltry reason as having a few more pounds in my pocket, than you have in yours!’ he continued, in such serious, kind tones, that Annie’s eyes began to fill again. ‘We’ll call that bank note, if you like, payment beforehand, for a large order for lace, from me. I saw you making lace, you know, yesterday; and I mean to consider you my lace manufacturer in ordinary, for the rest of your life. By George!’—he went on, resuming his odd abrupt manner,—‘it’s unknown the quantity of lace I shall want to buy! There’s my old housekeeper, Mrs Buddle—hang me, Annie, if I don’t dress her in nothing but lace, from top to toe, inside and out, all over! Only mind this, you don’t set to work at the order till I tell you! We must wait till Mrs Buddle has worn out her old stock of petticoats, before we begin—eh? There! there! there! don’t go crying again! Can I see Mr Wray? No?—Quite right! better not disturb him so soon. Give him my compliments, and say I’ll call tomorrow. Put up the note! put up the note! and don’t be low-spirited—and don’t do another thing, little Annie; don’t forget you’ve got a queer old friend, who lives at Cropley Court!’
Running on in this way, the good Squire fairly talked himself out of the room, without letting Annie get in a word edgewise. Once on the stairs, he fell foul of the housebreakers again, with undiminished fury. The last thing the landlady heard him say, as she closed the street-door after him, was that he was off now, to ‘trounce’ the two Tidbury watchmen, for not stopping the robbery—to ‘trounce them handsomely’, as sure as his name was Matthew Colebatch!
Carefully putting away the kind old gentleman’s gift, (they were penniless before she received it), Annie returned to her grandfather’s room. He had altered a little, as the morning advanced, and was now occupied over an employment which it wrung her heart to see—he was trying to restore the mask of Shakespeare.
The first words he had spoken since the burglary, were addressed to Annie. He seemed not to know that the robbers had effected their retreat, before she got down stairs; and asked whether they had hurt her. Calmed on this point, he next beckoned the carpenter to him, and entreated, in an eager whisper, to have some glue made directly. They could not imagine, at first, what he wanted it for; but they humoured him gladly.
When the glue was brought, he opened his cash box, with a look of faint pining hope in his face, that it was very mournful to see, and began to arrange the fragments of the mask, on the bed before him. They were shattered past all mending; but still he moved them about here and there, with his trembling hands, murmuring sadly, all the while, that he knew it was very difficult, but felt sure he should succeed at last. Sometimes he selected the pieces wrongly; stuck, perhaps, two or three together with the glue; and then had to pull them apart again. Even when he chose the fragments properly, he could not find enough that would join sufficiently well to reproduce only one poor quarter of the mask in its former shape. Still he went on, turning over piece after piece of the broken plaster, down to the very smallest, patiently and laboriously, with the same false hope of success, and the same vain perseverance under the most disheartening failure, animating him for hours together. He had begun early in the morning—he had not given up, when Annie returned from her interview with Mr Colebatch. To know how utterly fruitless all his efforts must be, and still to see him so anxiously continuing them in spite of failure, was a sight to despair over, and to tremble at, indeed.
At last, Annie entreated him to put the fragments away in the box, and take a little rest. He would listen to nobody else; but he listened to her, and did what she asked; saying that his head was not clear enough for the work of repairing, today; but that he felt certain he should succeed tomorrow. When he had locked the box, and put it under his pillow, he laid back, and fell into a sleep directly.
Such was his condition! Every idea was now out of his mind, but the idea of restoring the mask of Shakespeare. Divert him from that; and he either fell asleep, or sat up vacant and speechless. It was suspension, not loss of the faculties, with him. The fibre of his mind relaxed with the breaking of the beloved possession to which it had been attached. Those still, cold, plaster features had been his thought by day, his dream by night; in them, his deep and beautiful devotion to Shakespeare—beautiful as an innate poetic faith that had lived through every poetic privation of life—had found its dearest outward manifestation. All about that mask, he had unconsciously hung fresh votive offerings of pride and pleasure, and humble happiness, almost with every fresh hour. It had been the one great achievement of his life, to get it; and the one great determination of his life, to keep it. And now it was broken! The dearest household god, next to his grandchild, that the poor actor had ever had to worship, his own eyes had seen lying shattered on the floor!
It was this—far more than the fright produced by the burglary,—that had altered him, as he was altered now.
There was no rousing him. Everybody tried, and everybody failed. He went on patiently, day after day, at his miserably hopeless task of joining the fragments of the plaster; and always had some excuse for failure, always some reason for beginning the attempt anew. Annie could influence him in everything else,—for his heart, which was all hers, had escaped the blow that had stunned his mind,—but, on any subject connected with the mask, her interference was powerless.
The good Squire came to try what he could do—came every day; and joked, entreated, lectured, and advised, in his own hearty, eccentric manner; but the old man only smiled faintly; and forgot what had been said to him, as soon as the words were out of the sayer’s mouth. Mr Colebatch, reduced to his last resources, hit on what he considered a first-rate stratagem. He privately informed Annie, that
he would insist on his whole establishment of servants, with Mrs Buddle, the housekeeper, at their head, learning elocution; so as to employ Mr Wray again, in a duty he was used to perform. ‘None of those infernal Tidbury people will learn,’ said the kind old Squire; ‘so my servants shall make a class for him, with Mrs Buddle at the top, to keep them in order. Set him teaching in his own way; and he must come round—he must from force of habit!’ But he did not. They told him a class of new pupils was waiting for him; he just answered he was very glad to hear it; and forgot all about the matter the moment afterwards.
The doctor endeavoured to help them. He tried stimulants, and tried sedatives; he tried keeping his patient in bed, and tried keeping him up; he tried blistering, and tried cupping; and then he gave over; saying that Mr Wray must certainly have something on his mind, and that physic and regimen were of no use. One word of comfort, however, the doctor still had to speak. The physical strength of the old man had failed him very little, as yet. He was always ready to be got out of bed, and dressed; and seemed glad when he was seated in his chair. This was a good sign; but there was no telling how long it might last.
It had lasted a whole week—a long, blank melancholy winter’s week! And now, Christmas Day was fast coming; coming for the first time as a day of mourning, to the little family who, in spite of poverty and all poverty’s hardening disasters, had hitherto enjoyed it happily and lovingly together, as the blessed holiday of the whole year! Ah! how doubly heavy-hearted poor Annie felt, as she entered her bedroom for the night, and remembered that that day fortnight would be Christmas Day!
She was beginning to look wan and thin already. It is not joy only, that shows soonest and plainest in the young: grief—alas that it should be so—shares, in this world, the same privilege: and Annie now looked, as she felt, sick at heart. That day had brought no change: she had left the old man for the night, and left him no better. He had passed hours again, in trying to restore the mask; still instinctively exhibiting from time to time some fondness and attention towards his grandchild—but just as hopelessly vacant to every other influence as ever.
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