Again the Admiral burst out cheering.
“There remains, therefore, about L3,200 which has to be found within ten days. No man shall lose by me. I gave them my word in the room that if I worked my soul out of my body every one of them should be paid. I shall not spend a penny upon myself until it is done. But some of them can’t wait. They are poor men themselves, and must have their money. They have issued a warrant for Pearson’s arrest. But they think that he has got away the States.”
“These men shall have their money,” said the Admiral.
“Dad!”
“Yes, my boy, you don’t know the resources of the family. One never does know until one tries. What have you yourself now?”
“I have about a thousand pounds invested.”
“All right. And I have about as much more. There’s a good start. Now, mother, it is your turn. What is that little bit of paper of yours?”
Mrs. Denver unfolded it, and placed it upon Harold’s knee.
“Five thousand pounds!” he gasped.
“Ah, but mother is not the only rich one. Look at this!” And the Admiral unfolded his cheque, and placed it upon the other knee.
Harold gazed from one to the other in bewilderment. “Ten thousand pounds!” he cried. “Good heavens! where did these come from?”
“You will not worry any longer, dear,” murmured his mother, slipping her arm round him.
But his quick eye had caught the signature upon one of the cheques. “Doctor Walker!” he cried, flushing. “This is Clara’s doing. Oh, dad, we cannot take this money. It would not be right nor honorable.”
“No, boy, I am glad you think so. It is something, however, to have proved one’s friend, for a real good friend he is. It was he who brought it in, though Clara sent him. But this other money will be enough to cover everything, and it is all my own.”
“Your own? Where did you get it, dad?”
“Tut, tut! See what it is to have a City man to deal with. It is my own, and fairly earned, and that is enough.”
“Dear old dad!” Harold squeezed his gnarled hand. “And you, mother! You have lifted the trouble from my heart. I feel another man. You have saved my honor, my good name, everything. I cannot owe you more, for I owe you everything already.”
So while the autumn sunset shone ruddily through the broad window these three sat together hand in hand, with hearts which were too full to speak. Suddenly the soft thudding of tennis balls was heard, and Mrs. Westmacott bounded into view upon the lawn with brandished racket and short skirts fluttering in the breeze. The sight came as a relief to their strained nerves, and they burst all three into a hearty fit of laughter.
“She is playing with her nephew,” said Harold at last. “The Walkers have not come out yet. I think that it would be well if you were to give me that cheque, mother, and I were to return it in person.”
“Certainly, Harold. I think it would be very nice.”
He went in through the garden. Clara and the Doctor were sitting together in the dining-room. She sprang to her feet at the sight of him.
“Oh, Harold, I have been waiting for you so impatiently,” she cried; “I saw you pass the front windows half an hour ago. I would have come in if I dared. Do tell us what has happened.”
“I have come in to thank you both. How can I repay you for your kindness? Here is your cheque, Doctor. I have not needed it. I find that I can lay my hands on enough to pay my creditors.”
“Thank God!” said Clara fervently.
“The sum is less than I thought, and our resources considerably more. We have been able to do it with ease.”
“With ease!” The Doctor’s brow clouded and his manner grew cold. “I think, Harold, that you would do better to take this money of mine, than to use that which seems to you to be gained with ease.”
“Thank you, sir. If I borrowed from any one it would be from you. But my father has this very sum, five thousand pounds, and, as I tell him, I owe him so much that I have no compunction about owing him more.”
“No compunction! Surely there are some sacrifices which a son should not allow his parents to make.”
“Sacrifices! What do you mean?”
“Is it possible that you do not know how this money has been obtained?”
“I give you my word, Doctor Walker, that I have no idea. I asked my father, but he refused to tell me.”
“I thought not,” said the Doctor, the gloom clearing from his brow. “I was sure that you were not a man who, to clear yourself from a little money difficulty, would sacrifice the happiness of your mother and the health of your father.”
“Good gracious! what do you mean?”
“It is only right that you should know. That money represents the commutation of your father’s pension. He has reduced himself to poverty, and intends to go to sea again to earn a living.”
“To sea again! Impossible!”
“It is the truth. Charles Westmacott has told Ida. He was with him in the City when he took his poor pension about from dealer to dealer trying to sell it. He succeeded at last, and hence the money.”
“He has sold his pension!” cried Harold, with his hands to his face. “My dear old dad has sold his pension!” He rushed from the room, and burst wildly into the presence of his parents once more. “I cannot take it, father,” he cried. “Better bankruptcy than that. Oh, if I had only known your plan! We must have back the pension. Oh, mother, mother, how could you think me capable of such selfishness? Give me the cheque, dad, and I will see this man to-night, for I would sooner die like a dog in the ditch than touch a penny of this money.”
CHAPTER XVI. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR.
Now all this time, while the tragi-comedy of life was being played in these three suburban villas, while on a commonplace stage love and humor and fears and lights and shadows were so swiftly succeeding each other, and while these three families, drifted together by fate, were shaping each other’s destinies and working out in their own fashion the strange, intricate ends of human life, there were human eyes which watched over every stage of the performance, and which were keenly critical of every actor on it. Across the road beyond the green palings and the close-cropped lawn, behind the curtains of their creeper-framed windows, sat the two old ladies, Miss Bertha and Miss Monica Williams, looking out as from a private box at all that was being enacted before them. The growing friendship of the three families, the engagement of Harold Denver with Clara Walker, the engagement of Charles Westmacott with her sister, the dangerous fascination which the widow exercised over the Doctor, the preposterous behavior of the Walker girls and the unhappiness which they had caused their father, not one of these incidents escaped the notice of the two maiden ladies. Bertha the younger had a smile or a sigh for the lovers, Monica the elder a frown or a shrug for the elders. Every night they talked over what they had seen, and their own dull, uneventful life took a warmth and a colouring from their neighbours as a blank wall reflects a beacon fire.
And now it was destined that they should experience the one keen sensation of their later years, the one memorable incident from which all future incidents should be dated.
It was on the very night which succeeded the events which have just been narrated, when suddenly into Monica William’s head, as she tossed upon her sleepless bed, there shot a thought which made her sit up with a thrill and a gasp.
“Bertha,” said she, plucking at the shoulder of her sister, “I have left the front window open.”
“No, Monica, surely not.” Bertha sat up also, and thrilled in sympathy.
“I am sure of it. You remember I had forgotten to water the pots, and then I opened the window, and Jane called me about the jam, and I have never been in the room since.”
“Good gracious, Monica, it is a mercy that we have not been murdered in our beds. There was a house broken into at Forest Hill last week. Shall we go down and shut it?”
“I dare not go down alone, dear, but if you will come with me. Put on your slippers
and dressing-gown. We do not need a candle. Now, Bertha, we will go down together.”
Two little white patches moved vaguely through the darkness, the stairs creaked, the door whined, and they were at the front room window. Monica closed it gently down, and fastened the snib.
“What a beautiful moon!” said she, looking out. “We can see as clearly as if it were day. How peaceful and quiet the three houses are over yonder! It seems quite sad to see that `To Let’ card upon number one. I wonder how number two will like their going. For my part I could better spare that dreadful woman at number three with her short skirts and her snake. But, oh, Bertha, look! look!! look!!!” Her voice had fallen suddenly to a quivering whisper and she was pointing to the Westmacotts’ house. Her sister gave a gasp of horror, and stood with a clutch at Monica’s arm, staring in the same direction.
There was a light in the front room, a slight, wavering light such as would be given by a small candle or taper. The blind was down, but the light shone dimly through. Outside in the garden, with his figure outlined against the luminous square, there stood a man, his back to the road, his two hands upon the window ledge, and his body rather bent as though he were trying to peep in past the blind. So absolutely still and motionless was he that in spite of the moon they might well have overlooked him were it not for that tell-tale light behind.
“Good heaven!” gasped Bertha, “it is a burglar.”
But her sister set her mouth grimly and shook her head. “We shall see,” she whispered. “It may be something worse.”
Swiftly and furtively the man stood suddenly erect, and began to push the window slowly up. Then he put one knee upon the sash, glanced round to see that all was safe, and climbed over into the room. As he did so he had to push the blind aside. Then the two spectators saw where the light came from. Mrs. Westmacott was standing, as rigid as a statue, in the center of the room, with a lighted taper in her right hand. For an instant they caught a glimpse of her stern face and her white collar. Then the blind fell back into position, and the two figures disappeared from their view.
“Oh, that dreadful woman!” cried Monica. “That dreadful, dreadful woman! She was waiting for him. You saw it with your own eyes, sister Bertha!”
“Hush, dear, hush and listen!” said her more charitable companion. They pushed their own window up once more, and watched from behind the curtains.
For a long time all was silent within the house. The light still stood motionless as though Mrs. Westmacott remained rigidly in the one position, while from time to time a shadow passed in front of it to show that her midnight visitor was pacing up and down in front of her. Once they saw his outline clearly, with his hands outstretched as if in appeal or entreaty. Then suddenly there was a dull sound, a cry, the noise of a fall, the taper was extinguished, and a dark figure fled in the moonlight, rushed across the garden, and vanished amid the shrubs at the farther side.
Then only did the two old ladies understand that they had looked on whilst a tragedy had been enacted. “Help!” they cried, and “Help!” in their high, thin voices, timidly at first, but gathering volume as they went on, until the Wilderness rang with their shrieks. Lights shone in all the windows opposite, chains rattled, bars were unshot, doors opened, and out rushed friends to the rescue. Harold, with a stick; the Admiral, with his sword, his grey head and bare feet protruding from either end of a long brown ulster; finally, Doctor Walker, with a poker, all ran to the help of the Westmacotts. Their door had been already opened, and they crowded tumultuously into the front room.
Charles Westmacott, white to his lips, was kneeling an the floor, supporting his aunt’s head upon his knee. She lay outstretched, dressed in her ordinary clothes, the extinguished taper still grasped in her hand, no mark or wound upon her — pale, placid, and senseless.
“Thank God you are come, Doctor,” said Charles, looking up. “Do tell me how she is, and what I should do.”
Doctor Walker kneeled beside her, and passed his left hand over her head, while he grasped her pulse with the right.
“She has had a terrible blow,” said he. “It must have been with some blunt weapon. Here is the place behind the ear. But she is a woman of extraordinary physical powers. Her pulse is full and slow. There is no stertor. It is my belief that she is merely stunned, and that she is in no danger at all.”
“Thank God for that!”
“We must get her to bed. We shall carry her upstairs, and then I shall send my girls in to her. But who has done this?”
“Some robber,” said Charles. “You see that the window is open. She must have heard him and come down, for she was always perfectly fearless. I wish to goodness she had called me.”
“But she was dressed.”
“Sometimes she sits up very late.”
“I did sit up very late,” said a voice. She had opened her eyes, and was blinking at them in the lamplight. “A villain came in through the window and struck me with a life-preserver. You can tell the police so when they come. Also that it was a little fat man. Now, Charles, give me your arm and I shall go upstairs.”
But her spirit was greater than her strength, for, as she staggered to her feet, her head swam round, and she would have fallen again had her nephew not thrown his arms round her. They carried her upstairs among them and laid her upon the bed, where the Doctor watched beside her, while Charles went off to the police-station, and the Denvers mounted guard over the frightened maids.
CHAPTER XVII. IN PORT AT LAST.
Day had broken before the several denizens of the Wilderness had all returned to their homes, the police finished their inquiries, and all come back to its normal quiet. Mrs. Westmacott had been left sleeping peacefully with a small chloral draught to steady her nerves and a handkerchief soaked in arnica bound round her head. It was with some surprise, therefore, that the Admiral received a note from her about ten o’clock, asking him to be good enough to step in to her. He hurried in, fearing that she might have taken some turn for the worse, but he was reassured to find her sitting up in her bed, with Clara and Ida Walker in attendance upon her. She had removed the handkerchief, and had put on a little cap with pink ribbons, and a maroon dressing-jacket, daintily fulled at the neck and sleeves.
“My dear friend,” said she as he entered, “I wish to make a last few remarks to you. No, no,” she continued, laughing, as she saw a look of dismay upon his face. “I shall not dream of dying for at least another thirty years. A woman should be ashamed to die before she is seventy. I wish, Clara, that you would ask your father to step up. And you, Ida, just pass me my cigarettes, and open me a bottle of stout.”
“Now then,” she continued, as the doctor joined their party. “I don’t quite know what I ought to say to you, Admiral. You want some very plain speaking to.”
“‘Pon my word, ma’am, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“The idea of you at your age talking of going to sea, and leaving that dear, patient little wife of yours at home, who has seen nothing of you all her life! It’s all very well for you. You have the life, and the change, and the excitement, but you don’t think of her eating her heart out in a dreary London lodging. You men are all the same.”
“Well, ma’am, since you know so much, you probably know also that I have sold my pension. How am I to live if I do not turn my hand to work?”
Mrs. Westmacott produced a large registered envelope from beneath the sheets and tossed it over to the old seaman.
“That excuse won’t do. There are your pension papers. Just see if they are right.”
He broke the seal, and out tumbled the very papers which he had made over to McAdam two days before.
“But what am I to do with these now?” he cried in bewilderment.
“You will put them in a safe place, or get a friend to do so, and, if you do your duty, you will go to your wife and beg her pardon for having even for an instant thought of leaving her.”
The Admiral passed his hand over his rugged forehead. “This
is very good of you, ma’am,” said he, “very good and kind, and I know that you are a staunch friend, but for all that these papers mean money, and though we may have been in broken water lately, we are not quite in such straits as to have to signal to our friends. When we do, ma’am, there’s no one we would look to sooner than to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” said the widow. “You know nothing whatever about it, and yet you stand there laying down the law. I’ll have my way in the matter, and you shall take the papers, for it is no favor that I am doing you, but simply a restoration of stolen property.”
“How’s that, ma’am?”
“I am just going to explain, though you might take a lady’s word for it without asking any questions. Now, what I am going to say is just between you four, and must go no farther. I have my own reasons for wishing to keep it from the police. Who do you think it was who struck me last night, Admiral?”
“Some villain, ma’am. I don’t know his name.”
“But I do. It was the same man who ruined or tried to ruin your son. It was my only brother, Jeremiah.”
“Ah!”
“I will tell you about him — or a little about him, for he has done much which I would not care to talk of, nor you to listen to. He was always a villain, smooth-spoken and plausible, but a dangerous, subtle villain all the same. If I have some hard thoughts about mankind I can trace them back to the childhood which I spent with my brother. He is my only living relative, for my other brother, Charles’s father, was killed in the Indian mutiny.
“Our father was rich, and when he died he made a good provision both for Jeremiah and for me. He knew Jeremiah and he mistrusted him, however; so instead of giving him all that he meant him to have he handed me over a part of it, telling me, with what was almost his dying breath, to hold it in trust for my brother, and to use it in his behalf when he should have squandered or lost all that he had. This arrangement was meant to be a secret between my father and myself, but unfortunately his words were overheard by the nurse, and she repeated them afterwards to my brother, so that he came to know that I held some money in trust for him. I suppose tobacco will not harm my head, Doctor? Thank you, then I shall trouble you for the matches, Ida.” She lit a cigarette, and leaned back upon the pillow, with the blue wreaths curling from her lips.
Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) Page 557