by Grant Allen
Whatever happened, we must strain every nerve to reach Scotland in safety, and then to get married, in order that Harold might immediately surrender himself.
HE TOOK A LONG, CARELESS STARE AT ME.
At York, I noticed with a thrill of terror that a man in plain clothes, with the obtrusively unobtrusive air of a detective, looked carefully though casually into every carriage. I felt sure he was a spy, because of his marked outer jauntiness of demeanour, which hardly masked an underlying hang-dog expression of scrutiny. When he reached my place, he took a long, careless stare at me — a seemingly careless stare, which was yet brim-full of the keenest observation. Then he paced slowly along the line of carriages, with a glance at each, till he arrived just opposite the Maharajah’s compartment. There he stared hard once more. The Maharajah descended; so did Harold and the Hindu attendant, who was dressed just like him. The man I took for a detective indulged in a frank, long gaze at the unconscious Indian prince, but cast only a hasty eye on the two apparent followers. That touch of revelation relieved my mind a little. I felt convinced the police were watching the Maharajah and myself, as suspicious persons connected with the case; but they had not yet guessed that Harold had disguised himself as one of the two invariable Rajput servants.
We steamed on northward. At Newcastle, the same detective strolled, with his hands in his pockets, along the train once more, and puffed a cigar with the nonchalant air of a sporting gentleman. But I was certain now, from the studious unconcern he was anxious to exhibit, that he must be a spy upon us. He overdid his mood of careless observation. It was too obvious an assumption. Precisely the same thing happened again when we pulled up at Berwick. I knew now that we were watched. It would be impossible for us to get married at Edinburgh if we were thus closely pursued. There was but one chance open; we must leave the train abruptly at the first Scotch stopping station.
The detective knew we were booked through for Edinburgh. So much I could tell, because I saw him make inquiries of the ticket examiner at York, and again at Berwick, and because the ticket-examiner thereupon entered a mental note of the fact as he punched my ticket each time: ‘Oh, Edinburgh, miss? All right’; and then stared at me suspiciously. I could tell he had heard of the Ashurst will case. He also lingered long about the Maharajah’s compartment, and then went back to confer with the detective. Thus, putting two and two together, as a woman will, I came to the conclusion that the spy did not expect us to leave the train before we reached Edinburgh. That told in our favour. Most men trust much to just such vague expectations. They form a theory, and then neglect the adverse chances. You can only get the better of a skilled detective by taking him thus, psychologically and humanly.
By this time, I confess, I felt almost like a criminal. Never in my life had danger loomed so near — not even when we returned with the Arabs from the oasis. For then we feared for our lives alone; now, we feared for our honour.
I drew a card from my case before we left Berwick station, and scribbled a few hasty words on it in German. ‘We are watched. A detective! If we run through to Edinburgh, we shall doubtless be arrested or at least impeded. This train will stop at Dunbar for one minute. Just before it leaves again, get out as quietly as you can — at the last moment. I will also get out and join you. Let Partab go on; it will excite less attention. The scheme I suggest is the only safe plan. If you agree, as soon as we have well started from Berwick, shake your handkerchief unobtrusively out of your carriage window.’
I BECKONED A PORTER.
I beckoned a porter noiselessly without one word. The detective was now strolling along the fore-part of the train, with his back turned towards me, peering as he went into all the windows. I gave the porter a shilling. ‘Take this to a black gentleman in the next carriage but one,’ I said, in a confidential whisper. The porter touched his hat, nodded, smiled, and took it.
Would Harold see the necessity for acting on my advice? — I wondered. I gazed out along the train as soon as we had got well clear of Berwick. A minute — two minutes — three minutes passed; and still no handkerchief. I began to despair. He was debating, no doubt. If he refused, all was lost, and we were disgraced for ever.
At last, after long waiting, as I stared still along the whizzing line, with the smoke in my eyes, and the dust half blinding me, I saw, to my intense relief, a handkerchief flutter. It fluttered once, not markedly, then a black hand withdrew it. Only just in time, for even as it disappeared, the detective’s head thrust itself out of a farther window. He was not looking for anything in particular, as far as I could tell — just observing the signals. But it gave me a strange thrill to think even now we were so nearly defeated.
My next trouble was — would the train draw up at Dunbar? The 10 A.M. from King’s Cross is not set down to stop there in Bradshaw, for no passengers are booked to or from the station by the day express; but I remembered from of old when I lived at Edinburgh, that it used always to wait about a minute for some engine-driver’s purpose. This doubt filled me with fresh fear; did it draw up there still? — they have accelerated the service so much of late years, and abolished so many old accustomed stoppages. I counted the familiar stations with my breath held back. They seemed so much farther apart than usual. Reston — Grant’s House — Cockburnspath — Innerwick.
The next was Dunbar. If we rolled past that, then all was lost. We could never get married. I trembled and hugged myself.
The engine screamed. Did that mean she was running through? Oh, how I wished I had learned the interpretation of the signals!
Then gradually, gently, we began to slow. Were we slowing to pass the station only? No; with a jolt she drew up. My heart gave a bound as I read the word ‘Dunbar’ on the station notice-board.
I rose and waited, with my fingers on the door. Happily it had one of those new-fashioned slip-latches which open from inside. No need to betray myself prematurely to the detective by a hand displayed on the outer handle. I glanced out at him cautiously. His head was thrust through his window, and his sloping shoulders revealed the spy, but he was looking the other way — observing the signals, doubtless, to discover why we stopped at a place not mentioned in Bradshaw.
Harold’s face just showed from another window close by. Too soon or too late might either of them be fatal. He glanced inquiry at me. I nodded back, ‘Now!’ The train gave its first jerk, a faint backward jerk, indicative of the nascent intention of starting. As it braced itself to go on, I jumped out; so did Harold. We faced one another on the platform without a word. ‘Stand away there:’ the station-master cried, in an angry voice. The guard waved his green flag. The detective, still absorbed on the signals, never once looked back. One second later, we were safe at Dunbar, and he was speeding away by the express for Edinburgh.
It gave us a breathing space of about an hour.
YOU CAN’T GET OUT HERE, HE SAID, CRUSTILY.
For half a minute I could not speak. My heart was in my mouth. I hardly even dared to look at Harold. Then the station-master stalked up to us with a threatening manner. ‘You can’t get out here,’ he said, crustily, in a gruff Scotch voice. ‘This train is not timed to set down before Edinburgh.’
‘We have got out,’ I answered, taking it upon me to speak for my fellow-culprit, the Hindu — as he was to all seeming. ‘The logic of facts is with us. We were booked through to Edinburgh, but we wanted to stop at Dunbar; and as the train happened to pull up, we thought we needn’t waste time by going on all that way and then coming back again.’
‘Ye should have changed at Berwick,’ the station-master said, still gruffly, ‘and come on by the slow train.’ I could see his careful Scotch soul was vexed (incidentally) at our extravagance in paying the extra fare to Edinburgh and back again.
In spite of agitation, I managed to summon up one of my sweetest smiles — a smile that ere now had melted the hearts of rickshaw coolies and of French douaniers. He thawed before it visibly. ‘Time was important to us,’ I said — oh, he guessed not how i
mportant; ‘and besides, you know, it is so good for the company!’
‘That’s true,’ he answered, mollified. He could not tilt against the interests of the North British shareholders. ‘But how about yer luggage? It’ll have gone on to Edinburgh, I’m thinking.’
‘We have no luggage,’ I answered boldly.
He stared at us both, puckered his brow a moment, and then burst out laughing. ‘Oh, ay, I see,’ he answered, with a comic air of amusement. ‘Well, well, it’s none of my business, no doubt, and I will not interfere with ye; though why a lady like you — —’ He glanced curiously at Harold.
I saw he had guessed right, and thought it best to throw myself unreservedly on his mercy. Time was indeed important. I glanced at the station clock. It was not very far from the stroke of six, and we must manage to get married before the detective could miss us at Edinburgh, where he was due at 6.30.
So I smiled once more, that heart-softening smile. ‘We have each our own fancies,’ I said blushing — and, indeed (such is the pride of race among women), I felt myself blush in earnest at the bare idea that I was marrying a black man, in spite of our good Maharajah’s kindness. ‘He is a gentleman, and a man of education and culture.’ I thought that recommendation ought to tell with a Scotchman. ‘We are in sore straits now, but our case is a just one. Can you tell me who in this place is most likely to sympathise — most likely to marry us?’
He looked at me — and surrendered at discretion. ‘I should think anybody would marry ye who saw yer pretty face and heard yer sweet voice,’ he answered. ‘But, perhaps, ye’d better present yerself to Mr. Schoolcraft, the U.P. minister at Little Kirkton. He was aye soft-hearted.’
‘How far from here?’ I asked.
‘About two miles,’ he answered.
‘Can we get a trap?’
‘Oh ay, there’s machines always waiting at the station.’
WE TOLD OUR TALE.
We interviewed a ‘machine,’ and drove out to Little Kirkton. There, we told our tale in the fewest words possible to the obliging and good-natured U.P. minister. He looked, as the station-master had said, ‘soft-hearted’; but he dashed our hopes to the ground at once by telling us candidly that unless we had had our residence in Scotland for twenty-one days immediately preceding the marriage, it would not be legal. ‘If you were Scotch,’ he added, ‘I could go through the ceremony at once, of course; and then you could apply to the sheriff to-night for leave to register the marriage in proper form afterward: but as one of you is English, and the other I judge’ — he smiled and glanced towards Harold— ‘an Indian-born subject of Her Majesty, it would be impossible for me to do it: the ceremony would be invalid, under Lord Brougham’s Act, without previous residence.’
This was a terrible blow. I looked away appealingly. ‘Harold,’ I cried in despair, ‘do you think we could manage to hide ourselves safely anywhere in Scotland for twenty-one days?’
His face fell. ‘How could I escape notice? All the world is hunting for me. And then the scandal! No matter where you stopped — however far from me — no, Lois darling, I could never expose you to it.’
The minister glanced from one to the other of us, puzzled. ‘Harold?’ he said, turning over the word on his tongue. ‘Harold? That doesn’t sound like an Indian name, does it? And — —’ he hesitated, ‘you speak wonderful English!’
I saw the safest plan was to make a clean breast of it. He looked the sort of man one could trust on an emergency. ‘You have heard of the Ashurst will case?’ I said, blurting it out suddenly.
‘I have seen something about it in the newspapers; yes. But it did not interest me: I have not followed it.’
I told him the whole truth; the case against us — the facts as we knew them. Then I added, slowly, ‘This is Mr. Harold Tillington, whom they accuse of forgery. Does he look like a forger? I want to marry him before he is tried. It is the only way by which I can prove my implicit trust in him. As soon as we are married, he will give himself up at once to the police — if you wish it, before your eyes. But married we must be. Can’t you manage it somehow?’
My pleading voice touched him. ‘Harold Tillington?’ he murmured. ‘I know of his forebears. Lady Guinevere Tillington’s son, is it not? Then you must be Younger of Gledcliffe.’ For Scotland is a village: everyone in it seems to have heard of every other.’
‘What does he mean?’ I asked. ‘Younger of Gledcliffe?’ I remembered now that the phrase had occurred in Mr. Ashurst’s will, though I never understood it.
‘A Scotch fashion,’ Harold answered. ‘The heir to a laird is called Younger of so-and-so. My father has a small estate of that name in Dumfriesshire; a very small estate: I was born and brought up there.’
‘Then you are a Scotchman?’ the minister asked.
‘Yes,’ Harold answered frankly: ‘by remote descent. We are trebly of the female line at Gledcliffe; still, I am no doubt more or less Scotch by domicile.’
‘Younger of Gledcliffe! Oh, yes, that ought certainly to be quite sufficient for our purpose. Do you live there?’
‘I have been living there lately. I always live there when I’m in Britain. It is my only home. I belong to the diplomatic service.’
‘But then — the lady?’
‘She is unmitigatedly English,’ Harold admitted, in a gloomy voice.
‘Not quite,’ I answered. ‘I lived four years in Edinburgh. And I spent my holidays there while I was at Girton. I keep my boxes still at my old rooms in Maitland Street.’
‘Oh, that will do,’ the minister answered, quite relieved; for it was clear that our anxiety and the touch of romance in our tale had enlisted him in our favour. ‘Indeed, now I come to think of it, it suffices for the Act if one only of the parties is domiciled in Scotland. And as Mr. Tillington lives habitually at Gledcliffe, that settles the question. Still, I can do nothing save marry you now by religious service in the presence of my servants — which constitutes what we call an ecclesiastical marriage — it becomes legal if afterwards registered; and then you must apply to the sheriff for a warrant to register it. But I will do what I can; later on, if you like, you can be re-married by the rites of your own Church in England.’
‘Are you quite sure our Scotch domicile is good enough in law?’ Harold asked, still doubtful.
‘I can turn it up, if you wish. I have a legal handbook. Before Lord Brougham’s Act, no formalities were necessary. But the Act was passed to prevent Gretna Green marriages. The usual phrase is that such a marriage does not hold good unless one or other of the parties either has had his or her usual residence in Scotland, or else has lived there for twenty-one days immediately preceding the date of the marriage. If you like, I will wait to consult the authorities.’
‘No, thank you,’ I cried. ‘There is no time to lose. Marry us first, and look it up afterwards. “One or other” will do, it seems. Mr. Tillington is Scotch enough, I am sure; he has no address in Britain but Gledcliffe: we will rest our claim upon that. Even if the marriage turns out invalid, we only remain where we were. This is a preliminary ceremony to prove good faith, and to bind us to one another. We can satisfy the law, if need be, when we return to England.’
The minister called in his wife and servants, and explained to them briefly. He exhorted us and prayed. We gave our solemn consent in legal form before two witnesses. Then he pronounced us duly married. In a quarter of an hour more, we had made declaration to that effect before the sheriff, the witnesses accompanying us, and were formally affirmed to be man and wife before the law of Great Britain. I asked if it would hold in England as well.
‘You couldn’t be firmer married,’ the sheriff said, with decision, ‘by the Archbishop of Canterbury in Westminster Abbey.’
Harold turned to the minister. ‘Will you send for the police?’ he said, calmly. ‘I wish to inform them that I am the man for whom they are looking in the Ashurst will case.’
Our own cabman went to fetch them. It was a terrible moment. But Harold sat in
the sheriff’s study and waited, as if nothing unusual were happening. He talked freely but quietly. Never in my life had I felt so proud of him.
At last the police came, much inflated with the dignity of so great a capture, and took down our statement. ‘Do you give yourself in charge on a confession of forgery?’ the superintendent asked, as Harold ended.
I HAVE FOUND A CLUE.
‘Certainly not,’ Harold answered. ‘I have not committed forgery. But I do not wish to skulk or hide myself. I understand a warrant is out against me in London. I have come to Scotland, hurriedly, for the sake of getting married, not to escape apprehension. I am here, openly, under my own name. I tell you the facts; ’tis for you to decide; if you choose, you can arrest me.’
The superintendent conferred for some time in another room with the sheriff. Then he returned to the study. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said, in a respectful tone, ‘I arrest you.’
So that was the beginning of our married life. More than ever, I felt sure I could trust in Harold.
The police decided, after hearing by telegram from London, that we must go up at once by the night express, which they stopped for the purpose. They were forced to divide us. I took the sleeping-car; Harold travelled with two constables in a ordinary carriage. Strange to say, notwithstanding all this, so great was our relief from the tension of our flight, that we both slept soundly.
Next morning we arrived in London, Harold guarded. The police had arranged that the case should come up at Bow Street that afternoon. It was not an ideal honeymoon, and yet, I was somehow happy.
At King’s Cross, they took him away from me. Still, I hardly cried. All the way up in the train, whenever I was awake, an idea had been haunting me — a possible clue to this trickery of Lord Southminster’s. Petty details cropped up and fell into their places. I began to unravel it all now. I had an inkling of a plan to set Harold right again.