“You did not expect to see me here, Miss Anderson?” he said, laughing; “but to tell you the honest truth, I got heartily tired of you and my mother, and in order to prevent the disgrace to all of us of my falling fast asleep in your presence, I rambled out into the moonlight, and I suppose it was the mere force of habit that brought me here.”
The eyes of Janet were fixed upon his face as he said this, and Mrs. Mathews, at least, know her well enough to be aware, from the expression of her countenance, that the words Sir Herbert had uttered were not true words.
Her only answer to him was a bow, which was the best answer she could make, — for it said nothing. While things were in this attitude, Mr. Cuthbridge, either by accident or design, looked into the face of Mr. White. He instantly withdrew his eyes, and turning suddenly to Sir Herbert Otterborne, he said, —
“Well, my young friend, you have had your frolic, and by your own account have greatly enjoyed your moonlight walk. What say you to having a little more enjoyment of the same kind? Will you walk with me to Proctor Castle? Mrs. Mathews will send Jem across the park to say you are going to sleep there; and! Will promise to go back with you in the morning, and breakfast with her ladyship. What say you, Sir Herbert? The distance is nothing for such an active fellow as you are.”
This was a proposition as foreign as was well possible to the habits of both gentlemen, for the priest had never in his life invited any guest to sleep at Proctor Castle in the absence of its noble owner; and Sir Herbert Otterborne would decidedly have preferred walking back again from the Castle, if he had walked to it, rather than send such a very strange message to his mother.
But while the priest was uttering this very novel proposal, he fixed his eyes on those of the intelligent young friend he addressed; and there seemed to be no occasion for any further explanation between them, for Herbert replied by just such a nod as he would have given had he proposed any ordinary excursion for the morrow, and replied, “Willingly, Mr. Cuthbridge!” and they quitted the house together; but not, however, till Sir Herbert had made an opportunity of muttering to Mrs. Mathews, “You need not send Jem. I shall be with you early to-morrow.”
CHAPTER LX.
THE two friends then walked off arm-in-arm, in the direction they would have taken, had they indeed been intending to proceed together to Proctor Castle; nor were they very far short of it, when Sir Herbert at length called a halt, and took leave of his companion — but not till it had been settled between them that they were to meet on the morrow at an early breakfast, at the Manor-house. The subject which they discussed during their walk may be easily guessed — and some account of it shall be given hereafter; but we must first follow Stephen Cornington into his bed-room — to which he was speedily followed by his friend, Mr. White, who remained in his own apartment only long enough to take off his shoes, and put out his candle; having done which he stepped over the few yards of carpeted passage which divided their rooms, almost as noiselessly as if, instead of being the massive Mr. William White which he has been described, he had been as light as the fleet Camilla herself.
“Is it likely that your old woman may be walking under the window again?” demanded Stephen’s frowning visitor.
“You may look, if you will,” returned the sulky Stephen. “There is no window opens on this side the house, except the dairy below and the laundry above. You may open the window very safely.”
“Do you think she could have heard us at that time that we were talking, before dinner?” asked Mr. White.
“No,” replied Stephen; without adding another word.
His companion looked at him sternly for a moment; and then said, “I would not advise you to be sulky, Master Stephen. You may take my word for it, that it won’t help you a bit — quite the contrary; for if you work me into a rage, you will just be the first to suffer for it, trust me for that. By the Heaven that is above us, boy! I would as soon wring your neck round, as I would that of a chicken that I wanted for my dinner, if I found out that you were not true to me.”
“I daresay you would,” replied Stephen, savagely; “and when you had done it, you would have done nothing worse by me than you have done already.
“And if I have done you harm, you puppy!” replied Mr.
White, “whose fault is it? Who would ever have guessed, from your boasting letters, that you were hemmed in on all sides by a set of infernal spies, instead of a set of adoring friends?”
“I never said a word about adoring friends,” retorted Stephen. “I told you that the old man doted on me — and so he did, till you came and spoiled everything by your bullying ways. I don’t much see how he could give better proof of it either, than by leaving me every sixpence that he has in the world, cither of his own right or that of his wife either; and he has repeated this to me again, and again, and again! And now, what do you think of my chance, after such a pleasant dinner-party as we had to-day? I tell you that you have done me quite as much harm already as if you had wrung my neck.”
“You had better not aggravate me, young man!” muttered the other, between his closed teeth. “I should have thought you might have known me better than to fancy it would be safe to do so — selfish hound that you are! Have I not told you how things stand with me? Have. I not told you that I must be a convict on board the Hulks in a week or two, unless I can, by some means or other, obtain the means of getting out of the country? At this moment all I have in the world is THIS!”
And as he spoke, he thrust his hand into the pocket of his pantaloons, and drew forth seven or eight shillings, about as many half-pence, and in the midst, one splendid half-sovereign.
“It is long since luck ran so confoundedly against me,” said he; “and I don’t know that I was ever so thoroughly cleaned out before; so you had better not try to pull me up, for I am pretty nearly desperate, young Sir, I can tell you.”
“And how far from desperate do you think I am?” retorted Stephen. “Do you think I can’t see that the hag and her set are plotting to turn me out? And I shan’t be the first, and I mayn’t be the last, dear, darling grandson that has been disinherited because he was out of sight.”
“If you had had the heart of a man, you might have settled all doubts about the inheritance long ago,” replied the ruffian. “You are a great reader of newspapers, Master Stephen. Did you never read any of the pretty, interesting stories to be found there about putting troublesome people out of the way, by cooking for them?”
“But very pleasant it would have been for me, after it was. done, to be taken up as the only person who had any interest in such a job, and kept in jail while the post-mortem work was going on, and only taken out again to be hanged!” returned Stephen, bitterly.
“You are a boy, and an idiot,” rejoined Mr. White, with a sneer. “The blundering old ladies who were wanting to get the burying-money for their deceased husbands, might easily get into trouble with their clumsy arsenic — but I should have thought such an ingenious and clever young gentleman as you are, Stephen, might, by the help of a little reading, have found out something better than that. And what is more, I am of the same opinion still.”
“Then you may keep your opinion to yourself,” replied Stephen, changing colour; “I will do no such ticklish work either for you, or for myself.”
“It would be more your concern than mine,” returned his friend; “I never heard that there was any settlement of two thousand a year made upon me, which I should be sure to come into if I would leave off billiards for a week and study chemistry. The affair is yours, not mine; so let it bide till we have better leisure to talk about it.”
“Agreed!” returned Stephen, with a growl.
“Now then, let us talk of MY business, if you please. It is easy enough for you to take the thing coolly; you are vastly well off as you are — though your beloved grandfather is an idiot, and your beloved grandmother as vicious a hag as ever stood in the path of a young man. But my condition is somewhat different. If you do not intend to hurry ma
tters for yourself, I really must trouble you to hurry them a little for me. What do you propose doing for me, Master Stephen?”
“What do you expect me to do? What CAN I do?” muttered the perplexed young man — adding to the question a tremendous oath, to give weight to his protestation that he had no power of doing anything.
“Say that again, and by the Heavens above us, I will give myself up to justice! and denounce you for the swindler that you are!” returned his irritated companion, with his clenched list raised as if his first object were to lay him crippled at his feet.
“You may bully me if you will — for I can’t help myself unless I raise the house. I know of old that you can master me. But if you knock me down first, and tread upon me afterwards, it would not make me at all more capable of giving money to you that I have not got myself,” said Stephen, in the most miserable tone imaginable.
“To think that you should be such a milksop!” returned Mr. William White, looking at him with unutterable contempt. “And you really think that the assistance you can render me is by putting your hand in your pocket, and giving me whatever ready cash you may happen to find there? And do you believe, boy, that I would have ventured to make a daylight visit to a gentleman’s house for this?”
“What do you come for, then?” said Stephen, fixing his eyes upon him, as if he would rather have read his answer in his face than heard it spoken.
His companion returned his look with one equally earnest; and remained looking at him for a moment without speaking. Then, drawing the chair he sat on forward, so as to bring himself very close to his companion, and exactly in front of him, he placed his huge hands upon his tall knees, and thus replied to him: —
“I will tell you why I came here, Stephen. I will tell the precise reason for making you this visit, without a moment’s further delay We have wasted quite time enough already. I am here solely for the purpose of obtaining money. Your flourishing letters really persuaded us poor innocent West Indians that you were not only declared heir to your devoted grandfather, but that the amiable old gentleman’s purse was more at your command than at his own. Under this persuasion I very naturally thought that there could not be a more favourable opportunity for me to visit my native London than the present; but I had many things to do, and many old haunts that I wished to visit, before I announced my arrival to you. Unfortunately a very admirable opportunity, as it appeared to me — in short, a most tempting opportunity occurred, by which it seemed particularly easy for me to realise a large sum of money by merely availing myself of the power which you know I possess of imitating any writing that I see. I never did a job of the sort better in my life. In fact, it was beautifully done — beautifully, though I say it that shouldn’t; there was neither doubt nor difficulty about it for a single moment; the cash was paid — and if it had not been for my confounded itch for play, I might have been off with it to Barbadoes in perfect safety, and have almost bought a plantation! But I have told you already the misfortune that happened to me. I lost it all! all! — every shilling at the gaming-table! And then, as one misfortune is sure to follow another, I had the satisfaction of knowing the day after I was thus comfortably cleaned out, that the forgery had been discovered, and that the police dogs were let loose. I should have snapped my fingers at them, as I have done before now, if I had had a paltry ten-pound note to help me — for I know every dodge in London, I believe. But NOTHING can be done without money. And then, Master Stephen, what do you think was the most natural thing for me to do? To give myself up to the police, or to come down and pay you an affectionate visit at the house of your devoted grandfather? The latter project appeared to me to be the most agreeable — and here I am. But I have not found you in the condition I expected; if I had, I would have just taken all the ready money you could give me, and taken myself off again, leaving your fine friends nothing worse to say of me than that your Barbadoes crony was a tall, stout man, who did not talk much, but who gave nobody any trouble, and had an excellent appetite. But your boastings had deceived me boy — not only as to your not having a farthing of money to give me, but in the article of your being a favourite. I had not been two minutes in the room before I saw that the old hag hated you worse than poison, and that the young one, with all her prettiness, would have done anything she was bid to do — if it had been to throw the poker at your head; and as to the old man, with all his civility, he looked as if he was ready to fall into a fit from terror of what poor I might say or do next — And then, Master Stephen, I should like you to tell me how you interpret the manners of the two gents who have been visiting here to-day. I should give it as my opinion, if you asked me, that everything they did, and everything they said, and everything they looked, was as full of insolence as they could make it; and I should not be the least surprised if they were both lurking round the house at this very moment, just to watch if I might not take it into my head to set fire to it; it is no fault of mine, therefore, Master Stephen, if I have got you into a scrape; it is the consequence of your own false boasting. If you had been really and truly the beloved and admired young gentleman that you pretended to be, your very particular friend would not be looked at in the way they one and all look at me.”
Nothing could have proved so strongly the utterly discomfited condition of Stephen as the forbearance with which he listened to this long harangue.
He knew he had lied, he knew he had been a vain boaster, and therefore he felt completely cowed and subdued under the accusation; but, at the same time, he felt truly, and he felt strongly, that if the man who now sat staring at him with the eye of a desperate ruffian, had not crossed his path, he might have still been almost all he wished if not quite all he had boasted to be. His companion read pretty accurately all that was passing in his heart. “You are a nice one,” he resumed, tauntingly: “a noble anchor, are you not, for a dismantled lark to swing upon? But if you won’t help me willingly, young gentleman, I will see if I cannot make you help me unwillingly; for helped I will be, boy, if your young life pays for it.”
“Tell me what to do, and I will do it?” replied the pale boy, trembling with terror, and with a very deep conviction at his heart that his companion was perfectly capable of executing whatever threats his peril and his poverty might lead him to utter.
It was a frightful sort of glance which was now exchanged between them; desperation and contempt flashing from the eye and curling the features of the elder, and fear, desperate fear, rendering absolutely livid the face of the younger.
“Tell me what to do, and I will do it?” repeated Stephen, as if to brave a positive command, let it be what it might, in preference to the dark threatenings of the fierce eyes that were fixed on his.
Mr. William White seemed to feel that he had brought his companion to the proper pitch, for he now thrust back his chair a little, and not with an angry, but with cautious movement and changing his attitude and his look from threatening to meditative, he said, after the silence of a few seconds, —
“I will tell you.”
And then again he was silent; but soon added, “ If my present condition could be changed for your present condition, Master Stephen, I should conceive that I had an easy as well as a triumphant game to play. What I should do in that case would be to remove the old gentleman by tolerably slow poison, — not brisk enough to attract the attention of the coroner, nor slow enough to give any opportunity of meddling to the doctor. If you have not blundered about the settlement, as much as you have about the love and admiration you have inspired, the death of the old man would suffice to ensure the inheritance, after the death of the widow; for after his death, the settlement could not be altered. They wanted to make me a lawyer once; and though I could not stand the bore of their books and their parchments, I am up to a thing or two in that line still. This bit of advice, however, is rather more than you deserve, for the welcome you have given me, Master Stephen, has not been particularly affectionate. So now then I come to my own affairs, — and if you don’t h
elp me, then, you may repent it to the latest day you have to live; and yet that may not be over long either.”
“I have told you,” muttered the pale Stephen under his breath, “that I am ready to do your bidding; that is, if it is any way possible to do it. No man can say more than that. No man can do what isn’t possible.”
“And that’s quite true, my brave fellow!” returned the other, jeeringly. “But when a man has studied his trade as carefully as I have studied mine, he finds it quite easy to do many things, Master Stephen, that another might call impossible.”
“I’ll do what you bid me,” reiterated the trembling Stephen, looking nervously at him.
“Good!” replied his companion. “Now for it, then. There is no poisoning, no stabbing, no killing of any kind to be done to-night, young gentleman; so there is no reason why you should look so ridiculously pale. The house must be robbed my dear, that’s all. Of course you know where your adored grandfather keeps his money? — and also where his not so fondly-beloved wife keeps hers? This money I must have; but I must encumber myself with nothing else, — and with this, be it much, or be it little, I shall take myself off with the least possible delay, leaving it to your ingenuity to account for having had the misfortune of making my acquaintance. Of course, you know, you had considered me as one of the most estimable individuals in existent. — And besides, Stephen, our acquaintance has been very slight, you know, — so that upon the whole I think that such a particularly clever fellow as you are, may easily restore yourself to as great a degree of popularity as you were enjoying before my arrival.”
Stephen remained perfectly silent.
“Will you be so obliging, young gentleman,” resumed his tormentor, “as to enlighten me on the subject of the money drawers?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 426