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“What's the row?”
Phœbe pushed Alice's hand in the direction of the passage that leads to the housekeeper's room. For a moment the young lady stands irresolute. Her presence of mind returns. She noiselessly takes the hint, and enters the corridor; Phœbe advances to answer his challenge.
“Well, Mr. Boult, and what is the row, pray?” she pertly inquires, walking up to that gentleman, who eyes her sulkily, raising his candle, and displaying as he does so a big patch of red on each cheek-bone, indicative of the brandy, of which he smells potently.
“What's the row? —you're the row! What brings you down here, Miss Chivvige?”
“My legs! There's your answer, you cross boy.” She laughed wheedlingly.
“Then walk you up again, and be d – d.”
“On! Mr. Boult.”
“P! Miss Phibbie.”
Mr. Boult was speaking thick, and plainly was in no mood to stand nonsense.
“Now Mr. Boult, where's the good of making yourself disagreeable?”
“Look at this 'ere,” he replied, grimly holding a mighty watch, of some white metal, under her eyes – “you know your clock as well as me, Miss Chavvinge. The gentlemen will be in this 'ere awl in twenty minutes.”
“All the more need to be quick, Mr. Boult, Sir, and why will you keep me 'ere talking?” she replies.
“You'll go up them 'ere stairs, young 'oman; you'll not put a foot in the kitchen to-night,” he says more doggedly.
“Well, we'll see how it will be when they comes and I tells 'em – ‘Please, gentlemen, the young lady, which you told me most particular to humour her in everything she might call for, wished a cup of tea, which I went down, having locked her door first, which here is the key of it,’” and she held it up for the admiration of Mr. Boult, “‘which I consider it the most importantest key in the 'ouse; and though the young lady, she lay on her bed a-gasping, poor thing, for her cup of tea, Mr. Boult stopt me in the awl, and swore she shouldn't have a drop, which I could not get it, and went hup again, for he smelt all over of brandy, and spoke so wiolent, I daren't do as you desired.’”
“I don't smell of brandy; no, I don't; do I?” he says, appealing to an imaginary audience. “And I don't want to stop you, if so be the case is so. But you'll come to this door and report yourself in five minute's time, or I'll tell 'em there's no good keepin' me 'ere no longer. I don't want no quarrellin' nor disputin', only I'll do my dooty, and I'm not afraid of man, woman, or child!”
With which magnanimous sentiment he turned on his clumsy heel, and entered his apartment again.
In a moment more Phœbe and Alice were at the door which admits to a passage leading literally to the side of the house. This door Phœbe softly unlocks, and when they had entered, locks again on the inside. They stood now on the passage leading to a side door, to which a few paces brought them. She opens it. The cold night air enters, and they step out upon the grass. She locks the door behind them, and throws the key among the nettles that grew in a thick grove at her right.
“Hold my hand, my lady; it's near done now,” she whispers almost fiercely; and having listened for a few seconds, and looked up to see if any light appeared in the windows, she ventures, with a beating heart, from under the deep shadow of the gables, into the bright broad moonlight, and with light steps together they speed across the grass, and reach the cover of a long grove of tall trees and underwood. All is silent here.
Soon a distant shouting brings them to a terrible stand-still. Breathlessly Phœbe listens. No; it was not from the house. They resume their flight.
Now under the ivy-laden branches of a tall old tree an owl startles them with its shriek.
As Alice stares around her, when they stop in such momentary alarm, how strange the scene looks! How immense and gloomy the trees about them! How black their limbs stretch across the moon-lit sky! How chill and wild the moonlight spreads over the undulating sward! What a spectral and exaggerated shape all things take in her scared and over-excited gaze!
Now they are approaching the long row of noble beeches that line the boundary of Mortlake. The ivy-bowered wall is near them, and the screen of gigantic hollies that guard the lonely postern through which Phœbe has shrewdly chosen to direct their escape.
Thank God! they are at it. In her hand she holds the key, which shines in the moon-beams.
Hush! what is this? Voices close to the door! Step back behind the holly clump, for your lives, quickly! A key grinds in the lock; the bolt works rustily; the door opens, and tall Mr. Longcluse enters, with every sinister line and shadow of his pale face marked with a death-like sternness, in the moonlight. Mr. Levi enters almost beside him; how white his big eyeballs gleam, as he steps in under the same cold light! Who next?
Her brother! Oh, God! The mad impulse to throw her arms about his neck, and shriek her wild appeal to his manhood, courage, love, and stake all on that momentary frenzy!
As this group halts in silence, while Sir Richard locks the door, the Jew directs his big dark eyes, as she thinks, right upon Phœbe Chiffinch, who stands in the shadow, and is therefore, she faintly hopes, not visible behind the screen of glittering leaves. Her eyes, nevertheless, meet his. He advances his head a little, with more than his usual prying malignity, she thinks. Her heart flutters, and sinks. She is on the point of stepping from her shelter and surrendering. With his cane he strikes at the leaves, aiming, I daresay, at a moth, for nothing is quite below his notice, and he likes smashing even a fly. In this case, having hit or missed it, he turns his fiery eyes, to the infinite relief of the girl, another way.
The three men who have thus stept into the grounds of Mortlake don't utter a word as they stand there. They now recommence their walk toward the house.
Phœbe Chiffinch, breathless, is holding Alice Arden's wrist with a firm grasp. As they brush the holly-leaves, in passing, the very sprays that touch the dresses of the scared girls are stirring. The pale group drifts by in silence. They have each something to meditate on. They are not garrulous. On they walk, like three shadows. The distance widens, the shapes grow fainter.
“They'll soon be at the house, Ma'am, and wild work then. You'll do something for poor Vargers? Well, time enough! You must not lose heart now, my lady. You're all right, if you keep up for ten minutes longer. You don't feel faint-like! Good lawk, Ma'am! rouse up.”
“I'm better, Phœbe; I'm quite well again. Come on – come on!”
Carefully, to make as little noise as possible she turned the key in the lock, and they found themselves in a narrow lane running by the wall, and under the trees of Mortlake.
“Which way?”
“Not toward the ‘Guy of Warwick.’ They'll soon be in chase of us, and that is the way they'll take. 'Twould never do. Come away, my lady; it won't be long till we meet a cab or something to fetch us where you please. Lean on me. I wish we were away from this wall. What way do you mean to go?”
“To my Uncle David's house.”
And having exchanged these words, they pursued their way side by side, for a time, in silence.
CHAPTER LXXXVI
PURSUIT
Arrived at Mortlake, when Mr. Longcluse had discovered with certainty the flight of Alice Arden, his first thought was that Sir Richard had betrayed him. There was a momentary paroxysm of insane violence, in which, if he could only have discovered that he was the accomplice of Alice's escape, I think he would have killed him.
It subsided. How could Alice Arden have possessed such an influence over this man, who seemed to hate her? He sat down, and placed his hand to his broad, pale forehead, his dark eyes glaring on the floor, in what seemed an intensity of thought and passion. He was seized with a violent trembling fit. It lasted only for a few minutes. I sometimes think he loved that girl desperately, and would have made her an idolatrous husband.
He walked twice or thrice up and down the great parlour in which they sat, and then with cold malignity said to Sir Richard —
“But for you she would have married me; but for you I should have secured her now. Consider, how shall I settle with you?”
“Settle how you will – do what you will. I swear (and he did swear hard enough, if an oath could do it, to satisfy any man) I've had nothing to do with it. I've never had a hint that she meditated leaving this place. I can't conceive how it was done, nor who managed it, and I know no more than you do where she is gone.” And he clenched his vehement disclaimer with an imprecation.
Longcluse was silent for a minute.
“She has gone, I assume, to David Arden's house,” he said, looking down. “There is no other house to receive her in town, and she does not know that he is away still. She knows that Lady May, and other friends, have gone. She's there. The will makes you, colourably, her guardian. You shall claim the custody of her person. We'll go there, and remove her.”
Old Sir Reginald's will, I may remark, had been made years before, when Richard was not twenty-two, and Alice little more than a child, and the baronet and his son good friends.
He stalked out. At the steps was his trap, which was there to take Levi into town. That gentleman, I need not say, he did not treat with much ceremony. He mounted, and Sir Richard Arden beside him; and, leaving the Jew to shift for himself, he drove at a furious pace down the avenue. The porter placed there by Longcluse, of course, opened the gate instantaneously at his call. Outside stood a cab, with a trunk on it. An old woman at the lodge-window, knocking and clamouring, sought admission.
“Let no one in,” said Longcluse sternly to the man, who locked the iron gate on their passing out.
“Hallo! What brings her here? That's the old housekeeper!” said Longcluse, pulling up suddenly.
It was quite true. Her growing uneasiness about Alice had recalled the old woman from the North. Martha Tansey, who had heard the clang of the gate and the sound of wheels and hoofs, turned about and came to the side of the tax-cart, over which Longcluse was leaning. In the brilliant moonlight, on the white road, the branches cast a network of black shadow. A patch of light fell clear on the side of the trap, and on Longcluse's ungloved hand as he leaned on it.
“Here am I, Martha Tansey, has lived fifty year wi' the family, and what for am I shut out of Mortlake now?” she demanded, with stern audacity.
A sudden change, however, came over her countenance, which contracted in horror, and her old eyes opened wide and white as she gazed on the back of Longcluse's hand, on which was a peculiar star-shaped scar. She drew back with a low sound, like the growl of a wicked old cat; it rose gradually to such a yell and a cry to God as made Richard's blood run cold, and lifting her hand toward her temple, waveringly, the old woman staggered back, and fell in a faint on the road.
Longcluse jumped down and hammered at the window. “Hallo!” he cried to the man, “send one of your people with this old woman; she's ill. Let her go in that cab to Sir Richard Arden's house in town; you know it.” And he cried to the cabman, “Lift her in, will you?”
And having done his devoir thus by the old woman, he springs again into his tax-cart, snatches the reins from Sir Richard, and drives on at a savage pace for town.
Longcluse threw the reins to Sir Richard when they reached David Arden's house, and himself thundered at the door.
They had searched Mortlake House for Alice, and that vain quest had not wasted more than half-an-hour. He rightly conjectured that, if Alice had fled to David Arden's house, some of the servants who received her must be still on the alert. The door is opened promptly by an elderly servant woman.
“Sir Richard Arden is at the door, and he wants to know whether his sister, Miss Arden, has arrived here from Mortlake.”
“Yes, Sir; she's up-stairs; but not by no means well, Sir.”
Longcluse stepped in, to secure a footing, and beckoning excitedly to Sir Richard, called, “Come in; all right. Don't mind the horse; it will take its chance.” He walked impatiently to the foot of the stairs, and turned again toward the street door.
At this moment, and before Sir Richard had time to come in, there come swarming out of David Arden's study, most unexpectedly, nearly a dozen men, more than half of whom are in the garb of gentlemen, and some three of them police. Uncle David himself, in deep conversation with two gentlemen, one of whom is placing in his breast-pocket a paper which he has just folded, leads the way into the hall.
As they there stand for a minute under the lamp, Mr. Longcluse, gazing at him sternly from the stair, caught his eye. Old David Arden stepped back a little, growing pale, with a sudden frown.
“Oh! Mr. Arden?” says Longcluse, advancing as if he had come in search of him.
“That's enough, Sir,” cries Mr. Arden, extending his hand peremptorily toward him; and he adds, with a glance at the constables, “There's the man. That is Walter Longcluse.”
Longcluse glances over his shoulder, and then grimly at the group before him, and gathered himself as if for a struggle; the next moment he walks forward frankly, and asks, “What is the meaning of all this?”
“A warrant, Sir,” answers the foremost policeman, clutching him by the collar.
“No use, Sir, making a row,” expostulates the next, also catching him by the collar and arm.
“Mr. Arden, can you explain this?” says Mr. Longcluse coolly.
“You may as well give in quiet,” says the third policeman, producing the warrant. “A warrant for murder. Walter Longcluse, alias Yelland Mace, I arrest you in the Queen's name.”
“There's a magistrate here? Oh! yes, I see. How d'ye do, Mr. Harman? My name is Longcluse, as you know. The name Mays, or any other alias, you'll not insult me by applying to me, if you please. Of course this is obvious and utter trumpery. Are there informations, or what the devil is it?”
“They have just been sworn before me, Sir,” answered the magistrate, who was a little man, with a wave of his hand, and his head high.
“Well, really! don't you see the absurdity? Upon my soul! It is really too ridiculous! You won't inconvenience me, of course, unnecessarily. My own recognisance, I suppose, will do?”
“Can't entertain your application; quite out of the question,” said his worship, with his hands in his pockets, rising slightly on his toes, and descending on his heels, as he delivered this sentence with a stoical shake of his head.
“You'll send for my attorney, of course? I'm not to be humbugged, you know.”
“I must tell you, Mr. Longcluse, I can't listen to such language,” observes Mr. Harman sublimely.
“If you have informations, they are the dreams of a madman. I don't blame any one here. I say, policeman, you need not hold me quite so hard. I only say, joke or earnest, I can't make head or tail of it; and there's not a man in London who won't be shocked to hear how I've been treated. Once more, Mr. Harman, I tender bail, any amount. It's too ridiculous. You can't really have a difficulty.”
“The informations are very strong, Sir, and the offence, you know as well as I do, Mr. Longcluse, is not bailable.”
Mr. Longcluse shrugged, and laughed gently.
“I may have a cab or something? My trap's at the door. It's not solemn enough, eh, Mr. Harman? Will you tell one of your fellows to pick up a cab? Perhaps, Mr. Arden, you'll allow me a chair to sit down upon?”
“You can sit in the study, if you please,” says David Arden.
And Longcluse enters the room with the police about him, while the servant goes to look for a cab. Sir Richard Arden, you may be sure, was not there. He saw that something was wrong, and he had got away to his own house. On arriving there, he sent to make inquiry, cautiously, at his uncle's, and thus learned the truth.
Standing at the window, he saw his messenger return, let him in himself, and then considered, as well as a man in so critical and terrifying a situation can, the wisest course for him to adopt. The simple one of flight he ultimately resolved on. He knew that Longcluse had still two executions against him, on which, at any moment, he might arrest him. He knew that he might launch at him, at any moment, the thunderbolt which would blast him. He must wait, however, until the morning had confirmed the news; that certain, he dared not act.
With a cold and fearless bearing, Longcluse had by this time entered the dreadful door of a prison. His attorney was with him nearly the entire night.
David Arden, as he promised, had dictated to him in outline the awful case he had massed against his client.
“I don't want any man taken by surprise or at disadvantage; I simply wish for truth,” said he.
A copy of the written statement of Paul Davies, whatever it was worth, duly witnessed, was already in his hands; the sworn depositions of the same person, made in his last illness, were also there. There were also the sworn depositions of Vanboeren, who had, after all, recovered speech and recollection; and a deposition, besides, very unexpected, of old Martha Tansey, who swore distinctly to the scar, a very peculiar mark indeed, on the back of his left hand. This the old woman had recognised with horror, at a moment so similar, as the scar, long forgotten, which she had for a terrible moment seen on the hand of Yelland Mace, as he clutched the rail of the gig while engaged in the murder.
The plaster masks, which figured in the affidavits of Vanboeren, and of David Arden, were re-cast from the moulds, and made an effectual identification, corroborated, in a measure, by Mr. Plumes' silhouette of Yelland Mace.
Other surviving witnesses had also turned up, who had deposed when the murder of Harry Arden was a recent event. The whole case was, in the eyes of the attorney, a very awful one. Mr. Longcluse's counsel was called up, like a physician whose patient is in extremis, at dead of night, and had a talk with the attorney, and kept his notes to ponder over.
As early as prison rules would permit, he was with Mr. Longcluse, where the attorney awaited him.
Mr. Blinkinsop looked very gloomy.
“Do you despair?” asked Mr. Longcluse sharply, after a long disquisition.
“Let me ask you one question, Mr. Longcluse. You have, before I ask it, I assume, implicit confidence in us; am I right?”
“Certainly – implicit.”
“If you are innocent, we might venture on a line of defence which may possibly break down the case for the Crown. If you are guilty, that line would be fatal.” He hesitated, and looked at Mr. Longcluse.
“I know such a question has been asked in like circumstances, and I have no hesitation in telling you that I am not innocent. Assume my guilt.”
The attorney, who had been drumming a little tattoo on the table, watches Longcluse earnestly as he speaks, suspending his tune, now lowers his eyes to the table, and resumed his drumming slowly with a very dismal countenance. He had been talking over the chances with this eminent counsel, Mr. Blinkinsop, Q.C., and he knew what his opinion would now be.
“One effect of a judgment in this case is forfeiture?” inquired Mr. Longcluse.
“Yes,” answered counsel.
“Everything goes to the Crown, eh?”
“Yes; clearly.”
“Well, I have neither wife nor children. I need not care; but suppose I make my will now; that's a good will, ain't it, between this and judgment, if things should go wrong?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Blinkinsop. “No judgment no forfeiture.”
“And now, Doctor, don't be afraid; tell me truly, shall I do?” said Mr. Longcluse, leaning back, and looking darkly and steadily in his face.
“It is a nasty case.”
“Don't be afraid, I say. I should like to know, are the chances two to one against me?”
“I'm afraid they are.”
“Ten to one? Pray say what you think.”
“Well, I think so.”
Mr. Longcluse grew paler. They were all three silent. After about a minute, he said, in a very low tone, —
“You don't think I have a chance? Don't mislead me.”
“It is very gloomy.”
Mr. Longcluse pressed his hand to his mouth. There was a silence. Perhaps he wished to hide some nervous movement there. He stood up, walked about a little, and then stood by Mr. Blinkinsop's chair, with his fingers on the back of it.
“We must make a great fight of this,” said Mr. Longcluse suddenly. “We'll fight it hard; we must win it. We shall win it, by – ”
And after a short pause, he added gently, —
“That will do. I think I'll rest now; more, perhaps, another time. Good-bye.”
As they left the room, he signed to the attorney to stay.
“I have something for you – a word or two.”
The attorney turned back, and they remained closeted for a time.
CHAPTER LXXXVII
CONCLUSION
Sir Richard Arden had learned how matters were with Mr. Longcluse. He hesitated. Flight might provoke action of the kind for which there seemed no longer a motive.
In an agony of dubitation, as the day wore on, he was interrupted. Mr. Rooke, Mr. Longcluse's attorney, had called. There was no good in shirking a meeting. He was shown in.
“This is for you, Sir Richard,” said Mr. Rooke, presenting a large letter. “Mr. Longcluse wrote it about three hours ago, and requested me to place it in your own hand, as I now do.”
“It is not any legal paper – ” began Sir Richard.
“I haven't an idea,” answered he. “He gave it to me thus. I had some things to do for him afterwards, and a call to make, at his desire, at Mr. David Arden's. When I got home I was sent for again. I suppose you heard the news?”
“No; what is it?”
“Oh, dear, really! They have heard it some time at Mr. Arden's. You didn't hear about Mr. Longcluse?”
“No, nothing, excepting what we all know – his arrest.”
The attorney's countenance darkened, and he said, dropping his voice as low as he would have given a message in church —
“Oh, poor gentleman! he died to-day. Some kind of fit, I believe; he's gone!”
Then Mr. Rooke went into particulars, so far as he knew them, and mentioned that the coroner's inquest would be held that afternoon; and so he departed.
Unmixed satisfaction accompanied the hearing of this news in Sir Richard's mind. But with reflection came the terrifying question, “Has Levi got hold of that instrument of torture and ruin – the forged signature?”
In this new horror he saw the envelope which Rooke had handed to him, upon the table. He opened it, and saw the forged deed. Written across it, in Longcluse's hand, were the words —
“Paid by W. Longcluse before due.
“W. Longcluse.”That day's date was added.
So the evidence of his guilt was no longer in the hands of a stranger, and Sir Richard Arden was saved.
David Arden had already received under like circumstances, and by the same hand, two papers of immense importance. The first written in Rooke's hand and duly witnessed, was a very short will, signed by the testator, Walter Longcluse, and leaving his enormous wealth absolutely to David Arden. The second was a letter which attached a trust to this bequest. The letter said —
“I am the son of Edwin Raikes, your cousin. He had cast me off for my vices, when I committed the crime, not intended to have amounted to murder. It was Harry Arden's determined resistance and my danger that cost him his life. I did kill Lebas. I could not help it. He was a fool, and might have ruined me; and that villain, Vanboeren, has spoken truth for once.
“I meant to set up the Arden family in my person. I should have taken the name. My father relented on his death-bed, and left me his money. I went to New York, and received it. I made a new start in life. On the Bourse in Paris, and in Vienna, I made a fortune by speculation; I improved it in London. You may take it all by my will. Do with half the interest as you please, during your lifetime. The other half pay to Miss Alice Arden, and the entire capital you are to secure to her on your death.
“I had taken assignments of all the mortgages affecting the Arden estates. They must go to Miss Arden, and be secured unalienably to her.
“My life has been arduous and direful. That miserable crime hung over me, and its dangers impeded me at every turn.