It was quite impossible that any other words he could have uttered should so completely have roused all the sympathy of Sally Spicer as these.
“Like him, Sir Herbert!” she exclaimed, with a degree of energy which caused both her companions to cry “Hush!” But this caution, though it lowered her voice to a whisper, could not prevent her adding, “If you have found him out to be the ruffian I am sure he is, we may all of us owe our lives to you!”
And then she proceeded, but in a very cautious tone, and while leading these midnight visitors on tip-toe across the hall, to state more than one fact calculated to prove that he was “no gentleman.”
And then she narrated what was more immediately to the purpose, namely, that he and the impudent young fellow who invited him, had, to her certain knowledge, been shut up together in Mr. Stephen’s room, long and long after everybody else in the house was gone to bed.
“And they have been quarrelling, too,” she added; “I knew that from the sound of their voices, though I dared not, for the life of me, stand near the door to listen.”
“And do you suppose they are talking together still?” demanded Mr. Cuthbridge.
“That’s more than I can say, Sir,” she replied. “I stopped at the door, after Miss Janet, and mistress, and everybody was gone to bed, for a minute or so, and then it was that I got sure they were quarrelling. But if my life had depended upon it, I don’t think I could have stayed any longer, for the thoughts of their opening the door and coming out upon me, made me feel ready to drop — me being up in the house all alone so! and therefore I took off my shoes, and crept up stairs for all the world like a thief. But I did not get into my bed; I only bolted my door, and laid down upon it, and that’s why I heard the dog so soon, and a blessing it was I did, or you two gentlemen might never have been able to get in.”
“And now we are in, Sally,” said Mr. Cuthbridge, “it would be as well to think a little what we had better do next. Though we are all perfectly agreed upon the fact that this tall fellow is not a gentleman, and can have no good right to he a visitor in your master’s house, we know nothing of him as yet, I believe, that may justify our turning him out of it. Nevertheless, I do not think that either Sir Herbert Otterborne or myself shall choose to leave the house to-night. To-morrow we can talk the matter over with Mr. Mathews; and I daresay we shall make him feel, as we do, that he is no proper guest for Mrs. Mathews to entertain, let him be as intimate as he may with Mr. Stephen. So now, Sally Spicer, you go to bed with a safe conscience. Sir Herbert and I will tuck ourselves up on these two sofas; but we will leave the door open; and be very sure that if any mischief is going on we shall hear it.”
This conversation passed in the drawing-room, the door of which Sally had gently shut as they entered it. The room occupied by Mr. Mathews, and which was the best in the house, having a very good dressing-room attached to it, was immediately over it.
Nothing had been spoken by them since they entered the drawing-room, save in a low whisper; and now Mr. Cuthbridge nodded his head to Sally as a signal of dismissal, and silently pointed towards the door.
Sally, remembering that her master’s room was above them, took the hint, and instead of speaking, inquired by signs whether she should light the candles which stood on the table.
The priest nodded affirmatively; but just as she was in the act of doing so, he laid his hand on hers, to stop her, while at ‘the same time he pointed with the other hand to the ceiling, and then, in the perfect silence which surrounded them, they all three distinctly heard the sound of some movement in the room above.
The breath of all seemed suspended, so earnestly did they listen; and if there was any doubt before, there was none now, for most assuredly there was some person moving overhead.
“It may be master himself,” said Sally, in a low and cautious whisper.
“Are his shutters closed?” demanded Sir Herbert, in the same tone.
“No,” replied Sally; “there is one window always left without shutter or curtains. Master likes to see the first of the light.”
“Were it possible to get out without noise,” whispered Sir Herbert, “we might ascertain, by looking at that window, whether there was any light in the room.”
“Follow me, then,” said Sally Spicer, stealing noiselessly out of the room; and making her way through a passage which led to the offices, she led her two companions through the open door by which they had just entered the house, and by a short cut passed out from the stable-yard upon the lawn.
The first glance from thence showed them that there was not only a light in the room of Mr. Mathews, but that there were two men at no great distance from the window.
“Now, then, for the kitchen poker, Sally!” said the priest, striding rapidly back by the way they came; nor were either of his two companions much behind him.
In the article of pokers, Sally Spicer seemed to have a perfect arsenal; but in passing through the kitchen, Mr. Cuthbridge caught sight of a cleaver, of which he possessed himself without a moment’s delay, indicating to his friend Sir Herbert, who followed close upon his heels, that he resigned the noble poker which Sally was in the act of presenting, to his use.
CHAPTER LXIII.
WE must now return to the unhappy Stephen Cornington, whom we left in the act of passing from his own room into the long passage, which terminated by a door, leading into that of his “adored grandfather.”
But though he stepped pretty steadily forward, and without once venturing to look back, it seemed that Mr. William White did not feel sufficient confidence in his valour to trust to it implicitly; for, shoeless, and so lightly, that, considering his weight, it appeared as if he must have studied the art of walking stealthily, his tyrannical companion followed close behind him.
On reaching Mr. Mathews’ door, the young man laid his faltering hand upon the lock, and made a not very vigorous attempt to open it “Idiot!” ejaculated his companion at his ear. “Have you forgotten that the old fool is deaf?”
“Not very,” murmured Stephen; “he is not very deaf.
He is not deaf enough. I am sure he will wake! I know he will!”
These doubting words seemed to try the patience of Mr. William White beyond his power of endurance; for grasping the arm of the young man, as if to prevent his running away, he applied his own powerful hand to the lock, and in the next moment they were both in the room.
The candle, which had been carried by Stephen, was placed upon the table; and this being done, the leader of the exploit held up his finger as a signal that the business was to begin, and uttered the emphatic monosyllable, “Now!”
Though evidently trembling in every limb, as he well might do, from the double terror of being taken up for a thief, and of losing a splendid inheritance into the bargain, the pale and haggard-looking young man seized upon Mr. Mathews’ nether garments, which were placed beside his bed on a chair, and thrusting his hand into the pocket, drew forth a small bunch of keys.
It now seemed that Mr. William White intended to perform the rest of the business himself; for he grasped the bunch of keys, which certainly looked as if they were in danger of falling, and holding them up between himself and the candle, pronounced the word, “WHICH?”
In reply to this, the quaking Stephen stretched out a finger, and touched the smallest.
“WHERE?” was now uttered in the same imperative whisper, and again obeyed by the pointing of Stephen to a tolerably massive writing-desk, which stood upon a table between the two windows.
“Now hold the candle for me,” said the master-spirit, who, unfortunately, was the master-body, too. “Hold the candle steadily for me, my hero, and I will not detain you long. And then you shall let me out of the back-door. I know where to find the brisk-trotting horse; and then, good-bye, my dear; you won’t hear of me again in a hurry!”
While he softly whispered these consolatory words, Stephen held the candle for him with the most unresisting obedience; and, by the aid of it, the practise
d hand of Mr. William White drew forth from a private drawer a good-sized pocket-book, one single glance at the contents of which proved to him beyond contradiction that his host kept a great deal more ready money in the house than was prudent, considering his defective hearing, and the soundness with which he slept.
But exactly at the moment when this precious pocket-book was in the act of being transferred to the pocket of his own pantaloons, he felt a powerful, though when compared to his own, not exactly a heavy hand, laid upon his shoulder.
The thieving giant swung himself round with equal strength and agility, and perceived the priest, whose hand his quick movement had shaken off, and the taller, though less powerful Sir Herbert Otterborne behind him.
Mr. William White measured them both with his eye in an instant. “If you are a priest,” said he, “which from your white choker I suspect you are, you will prove yourself too wise a man to do battle against odds. Just look at him,” he continued, pointing at Stephen, “he would bring your companion down by mere weight of metal; and I will leave you to judge for yourself what you would be in my clutches.”
Mr. Cuthbridge, though as complete a priestly gentleman as ever was bred at Rome, was, nevertheless, a stout-hearted Irishman, and there was probably more of his native than of his adopted country in the feeling with which he answered this bravado.
“There be many” said he, “who think that the corporeal strength of a priest is bestowed a little after the fashion of Samson’s, and that it oozes out when he submits to the tonsure; but do not be too sure, Mr. William White, that such has been the case with me. I do not wish to delude you, however, into fancying I am unarmed. See this!” he added, suddenly raising his right arm which he had suffered to hang beside him, “this cleaver, Sir, will do your business very rapidly if you do not instantly lay down upon that table the pocket-book you have stolen. Do you hear me! Lay down the pocket-book, and be off.”
“I have a trick worth two of that,” returned Mr. William White, — thrusting his hand into his bosom, and drawing thence a pistol; “I want this money, Sir, and will have it,” he said, deliberately taking aim at the head of the priest, who stood exactly before him at the distance of about four feet. “Beyond this,” continued the ruffian, “I have no evil intentions towards any of ye. Consult your own safety, Sir, and get out of my way.”
But ere he had well pronounced the last word, he found that he had another adversary to deal with; for Sir Herbert Otterborne, who was standing on his right hand, but a little behind him, threw himself suddenly upon him, and wrenched the pistol from his hand.
The startled robber stood for a moment aghast, as if doubtful from what quarter this attack upon him had come; and as he looked around him, his eye encountered that of Stephen Cornington, — who might have stood at that moment, notwithstanding all his manly comeliness, as a model of craven terror and dismay.
“And there you stand, accursed coward!” roared the disarmed ruffian; “and this is the way you hope to get quit of me, and escape discovery, is it?”
Either these words, which were uttered in a stentorian voice, or the sound of the pistol which Sir Herbert had prudently discharged from the window, had conquered both the sleep and the deafness of poor Mr. Mathews, who now wide awake, but conscious only that his room seemed full of people making a great noise, raised himself in his bed, and chancing to fix his eye upon his beloved grandson, exclaimed in a piteous voice, “Come to me, Stephen! come to me!”
Sally Spicer, meanwhile, having stayed in the room long enough to see the pistol safely discharged through the window, proved her faithful affection to her mistress by hastening to her room, — for seeing the big man disarmed, and his ally, Stephen, so comfortably terrified, she began to feel more interest in what was going on than fear for the result of it; but Mrs. Mathews and Janet, who had agreed to pass the night together in the room of the former, for the sake of talking over the strangeness of having such a guest as Mr. William White, — had already been disturbed by the various noises which had been startling the dull ear of that eventful night, and now met her in the passage. Without pausing for any explanation, the three females entered the bed-room of Mr. Mathews together.
It boots not to tell the astonishment felt by the two ladies on beholding the party assembled there; but startling as was the unexpected appearance of Sir Herbert Otterborne and Mr. Cuthbridge, it removed all or very nearly all, the terror which the scene they now witnessed might otherwise have inspired.
Stephen at the moment they entered had rushed to the bed, in obedience to the cry of the frightened and bewildered old gentleman, and as he threw his arms about him, assuring him that he would willingly sacrifice his own life for the protection of his “adored grandfather,” the fond youth flattered himself that his bright prospects for the future were still unchanged, and that Mr. William White being disarmed, he had no longer anything to fear from him. For it was evident that the law must now take its course, and that his dear friend, if not hanged, would at any rate be transported as a convict for the term of his natural life, which would effectually prevent his having any more trouble from him.
But in reasoning this, the hope that was father to the thought very cruelly deceived him.
Mr. William White, — notwithstanding the awkward position in which he found himself standing, with Mr. Cuthbridge on one side, Sir Herbert on the other, and the three females joined by the now awakened footman, around him, — retained quite enough self-possession to hear the sugared words with which Stephen was endeavouring to soothe the terrors of his beloved progenitor; whereupon he very majestically addressed his audience in these words r “Don’t be afraid of me, good people! Even if his reverence had left me in possession of the pistol, I had no intention of shooting any of ye, — for I vastly prefer being transported to being hanged. You may save yourselves all trouble on my account; for, as the beloved Stephen can tell you, I have committed a forgery, which has been fully traced to me, and it will be only necessary to mention where I am, in order for the proper authorities to save you all further trouble about me. I have nothing to reproach myself with; for I made a very well-planned and spirited attempt to get out of the scrape — and it would have succeeded too, it would have succeeded perfectly, if that degenerate craven had stood by me. But I have not done with you yet, young gentleman; — leave hugging your adored grandfather, and come to me.”
“He shall not come near you!” cried Mr. Mathews, lustily. “You have done him mischief enough already; but it is clear that he has saved my life now, and all my good friends here will give him credit for it, and esteem him accordingly.”
“He has not saved your life, old gentleman, because it has never been in danger,” replied Mr. William White, composedly; “but most certainly he has saved your pocket-book, and you may reward him for it as much as you think proper. Only it will be more for your credit, you know, if what you bestow upon him is on the ground of gratitude and generosity, and not of relationship, — for it is quite time that joke should come to an end: the craven fellow does not deserve to profit by it any longer, nor shall he. You, some of you, saw him hold the candle to me as I took the pocket-book, — and that is quite enough to make him a party — so you may get him transported with me, if you will; and if we should happen to be together, I may in the course of time be able to teach him more than he seems to know at present of the duty of a son.”
“Your son!” cried Mrs. Mathews, almost convulsively grasping the arm of Janet as she spoke; “is Stephen Cornington your son?”
“I am ashamed to own him, old lady, — but truth is truth, and you may depend upon it I shall tell no more lies to pleasure him. Stephen Cornington is my son, and my lawful son too; and my wife is still alive, and will take her oath of it, if you wish it.”
“Are you, then, the son of my husband?” said my heroine, almost gasping.
In reply to this question, Mr. William White drew himself up to his full height, and folding his arms across his ample chest replied, �
��May I ask you, my good lady, whether you see sufficient resemblance between us to make it probable?”
“Then Stephen is not my grandson?” ejaculated Mr. Mathews, with an eagerness that showed him to be exceedingly anxious for the answer; but whether he wished most for a negative or an affirmative none but himself could know.
Notwithstanding the disagreeable scrape, as he called it, in which Mr. William White found himself, he could not restrain a smile as he replied, with a very profound bow, “No, Mr. Mathews, he is not.”
“And that letter from Mrs. Briot?” said the old man, anxiously.
“That letter from Mrs. Briot was a very proper letter for her to write, my dear Sir. Mrs. Briot is my mother, though you are not my father. Your child, as I have been told, Mr. Mathews, was but a weakly baby, and it died before my mother had been married to my father six months. But she would have done a very foolish thing, Mr. Mathews, if she had told you so. The sum you allowed her assisted her very much in giving ME a liberal education. Though, at this moment, I am almost inclined to wish she had not spent so much of it in procuring such particularly skilful writing-lessons.
“But the man Martha Cornington married was called Briot, and not White,” said the still half-doubting Mr. Mathews.
“He was so called, Sir: you have made no mistake whatever in the name. His name was Etienne Briot, — and my name is Etienne Briot also. But men of the world, my worthy Mr. Mathews, very often find it convenient to have more names than one. And now, gentlemen and ladies, permit me to wish you good night. I have had a good deal of fatigue lately, and am extremely sleepy. I must trouble your hospitality for a night’s lodging, Mr. Mathews, and so must Etienne Briot, junior; but you can lock us up together, — and place us both if you like it, in the hands of the police to-morrow.”
This speech was made by Mr. Etienne Briot, senior, with the utmost civility and composure; and when he had ceased speaking, Mr. Cuthbridge and Sir Herbert Otterborne approached the bed of Mr. Mathews, and, after a few minutes conversation between them, it was settled, that the Messieurs Briot, father and son, should be permitted to remain in their respective rooms until the following morning; when the elder, as he was informed by Sir Herbert, who was a justice of the peace, would be given into the hands of the proper authorities.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 428