Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (580 page)

“I wonder,” thought Tom to himself, “if one of these poor devils goes home and murders his wife, who ought to be hung for it? Is it he, or that smug-faced villain behind the bar, who, for the sake of the gain of a few greasy coppers, gives him the poison that maddens him?” He was still pondering over this knotty point when they were ushered into the captain’s room.

That worthy was leaning back in a rocking-chair with his feet perched upon the mantelpiece and a large glass of rum arid water within reach of his great leathery hand. Opposite him, in a similar chair and with a similar glass, was no less an individual than our old acquaintance, Von Baumser. As a mercantile clerk in the London office of a Hamburg firm the German was thrown into contact with the shippers of the African fleet, and had contracted a special alliance with the bibulous Miggs, who was a social soul in his hours of relaxation.

“Come in, my hearties, come in!” he cried huskily. “Take a seat, Mr.

Dimsdale. And you, Sandy, can’t you bring yourself to your berth

without being asked? You should know your moorings by this time.

This is my friend, Mr. Von Baumser from Eckermann’s office.”

“And dis, I think, is Mr. Dimsdale,” said the German, shaking hands with Tom. “I have heard my very goot vriend, Major Clutterbuck, speak of your name, sir.”

“Ah, the old major,” Tom answered. “Of course, I remember him well.”

“He is not so very old either,” said Von Baumser, in a somewhat surly voice. “He has been took by a very charming and entirely pleasant woman, and they are about to be married before three months, the one to the other. Let me tell you, sir, I, who have lived with him so long, dat I have met no man for whom I have greater respect than for the major, however much they give him pills at a club or other such snobberies.”

“Fill your glasses,” Miggs broke in, pushing over the bottle of rum. “There are weeds in that box — never paid duty, either the one or the other. By the Lord, Sandy, a couple of days ago we hardly hoped ever to be yarning here.”

“It was rather beyond our prognostication, sir,” said the mate, taking a pull at his rum.

“It was that! A nasty sea on, Mr. Dimsdale, sir, and the old ship so full o’ water that she could not rise to it. They were making a clean breach over us, and we lost nigh everything we could lose.”

“I suppose you’ll have her thoroughly repaired now?” Tom remarked.

Both the skipper and the mate laughed heartily at the observation.

“That wouldn’t do, Sandy, would it?” said Miggs, shaking his head.

“We couldn’t afford to have our screw cut down like that.”

“Cut down! You don’t mean to say you are paid in proportion to the rottenness of the ships?”

“There ain’t no use makin’ a secret of it among friends,” said Miggs. “That’s just how the land lies with us. A voyage or two back I spoke to Mr. Girdlestone, and I says to him, says I, ‘Give the ship an overhauling,’ says I. ‘Well and good,’ says he, ‘but it will mean so much off your wage,’ says he, ‘and the mate’s wage as well.’ I put it to him straight and strong, but he stuck at that. So Sandy and me, we put our heads together, and we ‘greed It was better to take fifteen pound and the risk, than come down to twelve pound and safety.”

“It is scandalous!” cried Tom Dimsdale hotly. “I could not have believed it.”

“God bless ye! it’s done every day, and will be while there is insurance money to be gained,” said Miggs, blowing a blue cloud up to the ceiling. “It’s an easy thing to turn a few thousands a year while there are old ships to be bought, and offices which will insure them above their value. There was D’Arcy Campbell, of the Silvertown — what a trade that man did! He was smart — tarnation smart! Collisions was his line, and he worked ‘em well. There warn’t a skipper out of Liverpool as could get run down as nat’ral as he could.”

“Get run down?”

“Aye. He’d go lolloping about in the Channel if there was any fog on, steering for the lights o’ any steamers or headin’ round for all the fog whistles if it was too thick to see. Sooner or later, as sure as fate, he’d get cut down to the water’s edge. Lor’, it was a fine game! Half a ‘yard o’ print about his noble conduc’ in the newspapers, and maybe a leader about the British tar and unexpected emergencies. It once went the length o’ a subscription. Ha! ha!” Miggs laughed until he choked.

“And what became of this British star?” asked the German.

“He’s still about. He’s in the passenger trade now.”

“Potztausand!” Von Baumser ejaculated. “I would not go as a passenger with him for something.”

“There’s many a way that it’s done, sir,” the mate added, filling up his glass again, and passing the bottle to the captain. “There’s loadin’ a cranky vessel wi’ grain in bulk without usin’ partition boards. If you get a little water in, as you are bound to do with a ship o’ that kind, the grain will swell and swell until it bursts the seams open, and down ye go. Then there’s ignition o’ coal gas aboard o’ steamers. That’s a safe game, for nobody can deny it. And there are accidents to propellers. If the shaft o’ a propeller breaks in heavy weather it’s a bad look-out. I’ve known ships leave the docks with their propellers half sawn through all round. Lor’, there’s no end o’ the tricks o’ the trade.”

“I cannot believe, however,” said Tom stoutly, “that Mr. Girdlestone connives at such things.”

“He’s on the waitin’ lay,” the seaman answered. “He doesn’t send ‘em down, but he just hangs on, and keeps his insurances up, and trusts in Providence. He’s had some good hauls that way, though not o’ late. There was the Belinda at Cape Palmas. That was five thousand, clear, if it was a penny. And the Sockatoo — that was a bad business! She was never heard of, nor her crew. Went down at sea, and left no trace.”

“The crew too!” Tom cried with horror. “But how about yourselves, if what you say is true?”

“We are paid for the risk,” said both the seamen, shrugging their shoulders.

“But there are Government inspectors?”

“Ha! ha! I dare say you’ve seen the way some o’ them do their work!” said Miggs.

Tom’s mind was filled with consternation at what he had heard. If the African merchant were capable of this, what might he not be capable of? Was his word to be depended on under any circumstances? And what sort of firm must this be, which turned so fair a side to the world and in which he had embarked his fortune? All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he listened to the gossip of the garrulous old sea dogs. A greater shock still, however, was in store for him.

Von Baumser had been listening to the conversation with an amused look upon his good-humoured face. “Ah!” said he, suddenly striking in, “I vill tell you something of your own firm which perhaps you do not know. Have you heard dat Mr. Ezra Girdlestone is about to be married?”

“To be married!”

“Oh yes; I have heard It dis morning at Eckermann’s office. I think it is the talk of the City.”

“Who’s the gal?” Miggs asked, with languid interest.

“I disremember her name,” Von Baumser answered. “It is a girl the major has met — the young lady who has lived in the same house, and is vat they call a warder.”

“Not — not his ward?” cried Tom, springing to his feet and turning as white as a sheet. “Not Miss Harston? You don’t tell me that he is going to marry Miss Harston?”

“Dat is the name. Miss Harston it is, sure enough.”

“It is a lie — an infamous lie!” Tom cried hotly.

“So it may be,” Von Baumser answered serenely. “I do but say vat I have heard, and heard more than once on good authority.”

“If it is true there is villainy in it,” cried Tom, with wild eyes, “the blackest villainy that ever was done upon earth. I’ll go — I’ll see him to-night. By heavens, I shall know the truth!” He rushed furiously downstairs and through the bar. There was a cab near the door. “Drive into London!” he cried; “69, Eccleston Square. I am on fire to be there!” The cabman sprang on the box, and they rattled away as fast as the horse would go.

This sudden exit caused, as may be imagined, considerable surprise in the parlour of the Cock and Cowslip.

“He’s a vera tumultuous young man,” the mate remarked. “He was off like a clipper in a hurricane.”

“I perceive,” said Von Baumser, “dat he has left his hat behind him. I do now remember dat I have heard his name spoken with dat of dis very young lady by my good vriend, the major.”

“Then he’s jealous belike,” said Hamilton Miggs, with a knowing shake of the head. “I’ve felt that way myself before now. I rounded on Billy Barlow, o’ the Flying Scud, over that very thing, twelve months ago come Christmas. But I don’t think it was the thing for this young chap to cut away and never say ‘With your leave,’ or ‘By your leave,’ or as much as ‘Good night, gentlemen all.’ It ain’t what you call straight up an’ down.”

“It’s transcendental,” said the mate severely; “that is what I call it.”

“Ah, my vriends,” the German put in, “when a man is in love you must make excuses for him. I am very sure dat he did mean no offence.”

In spite of this assurance Captain Hamilton Miggs continued to be very sore upon the point. It was only by dint of many replenishings of his glass and many arguments that his companions could restore him to his pristine good humour. Meanwhile, the truant was speeding through the night with a fixed determination in his heart that he should have before morning such an understanding, one way or the other, as would never again leave room for a doubt.

CHAPTER XXXI
.

A CRISIS AT ECCLESTON SQUARE
.

His father’s encouraging words had given Ezra Girdlestone fresh heart, and he had renewed his importunities with greater energy than ever. Never surely did any man devote every moment of his time more completely to the winning of a woman’s heart. From morning until night the one idea was ever before his mind and every little want of Kate’s was forestalled with a care and foresight which astonished her. The richest fruit and flowers found their way unexpectedly into her room; her table was littered with the latest books from Mudie’s, and the newest pieces lay upon her music-stand. Nothing which attention and thoughtfulness could do was left undone either by the father or the son.

In spite of these attentions, however, and the frequent solicitations of her guardian, Kate stood firmly to her colours. If the Tom of the present were false, she at least would be true to the memory of the Tom of other days, the lad who had first whispered words of love into her ears. Her ideal should remain with her whatever might befall. No other man could ever take the place of that.

That Tom was from some unexplained and unaccountable reason false to her appeared to be beyond all question. Her trusting and innocent heart could not dream of the subtle network which was being wound round her. Her secluded life had left her very ignorant of the ways of the world, and the possibility of an elaborate deceit being practised upon her had never occurred to her. From the day that she heard the extract of the letter read by her guardian she never doubted but that such letters were received at the office by the man who professed to love her. How could she hesitate to believe it when it was confirmed by his avoidance of Eccleston Square and of herself? The cause of it all was a mystery which no amount of speculation could clear up. Sometimes the poor girl would blame herself, as is the way of women in such cases. “I have not seen enough of the world,” she would say to herself. “I have none of the charms of these women whom I read of in the novels. No doubt I seemed dull and insipid in his eyes. And yet — and yet—” There always remained at the end of her cogitations the same vague sense of bewilderment and mystery.

She endeavoured as far as possible to avoid Ezra Girdlestone, and stay in her room for the most part on the days when he was at home. He had, however, on the advice of his father, ceased pressing his suit except in the silent manner aforementioned, so that she gradually took courage, and ended by resuming her old habits. In her heart she pitied the young merchant very sincerely, for he was looking haggard and pale. “Poor fellow,” she thought as she watched him, “he certainly loves me. Ah, Tom, Tom! had you only been as constant, how happy we should be!” She was even prompted sometimes to cheer Ezra up by some kind word or look. This he naturally took to be an encouragement to renew his advances. Perhaps he was not far wrong, for if love be wanting pity is occasionally an excellent substitute.

One morning after breakfast the elder Girdlestone called his son aside into the library. “I’ve had a notice,” he said, “as to paying up dividends. Our time is short, Ezra. You must bring matters to a head. If you don’t it will be too late.”

“You mustn’t pick fruit before it is ripe,” the other answered moodily.

“You can try if it is ripe, though. If not, you can try again. I think that your chance is a good one. She is alone in the breakfast-room, and the table has been cleared. You cannot have a better opening. Go, my son, and may Heaven prosper you!”

“Very well. Do you wait in here, and I shall let you know how things go.”

The young man buttoned up his coat, pulled down his cuffs, and walked back into the breakfast-room with a sullen look of resolution upon his dark face.

Kate was sitting in a wicker chair by the window, arranging flowers in a vase. The morning sunlight streaming in upon her gave a colour to her pale face and glittered in her heavy coils of chestnut hair. She wore a light pink morning dress which added to the ethereal effect of her lithe beautiful figure. As Ezra entered she looked round and started at sight of his face. Instinctively she knew on what errand he had come.

“You will be late at Fenchurch Street,” she said, with a constrained smile. “It is nearly eleven now.”

“I am not going to the office to-day,” he answered gravely. “I am come in here, Kate, to know my fate. You know very well, and must have known for some time back, that I love you. If you’ll marry me you’ll make me a happy man, and I’ll make you a happy woman. I’m not very eloquent and that sort of thing, but what I say I mean. What have you to say in answer?” He leaned his broad hands on the back of a chair as he spoke, and drummed nervously with his fingers.

Kate had drooped her head over the flowers, but she looked up at him now with frank, pitying eyes.

“Put this idea out of your head, Ezra,” she said, in a low but firm voice. “Believe me, I shall always be grateful to you for the kindness which you have shown me of late. I will be a sister to you, if you will let me, but I can never be more.”

“And why not?” asked Ezra, still leaning over the chair, with an angry light beginning to sparkle in his dark eyes. “Why can you never be my wife?”

“It is so, Ezra. You must not think of it. I am so sorry to grieve you.”

“You can’t love me, then,” cried the young merchant hoarsely.

“Other women before now would have given their eyes to have had me.

Do you know that?”

“For goodness’ sake, then go back to the others,” said Kate, half amused and half angry.

That suspicion of a smile upon her face was the one thing needed to set

Ezra’s temper in a blaze. “You won’t have me,” he cried savagely.

“I haven’t got the airs and graces of that fellow, I suppose.

You haven’t got him out of your head, though he is off with another

girl.”

“How dare you speak to me so?” Kate cried, springing to her feet in honest anger.

“It’s the truth, and you know it,” returned Ezra, with a sneer. “Aren’t you too proud to be hanging on to a man who doesn’t want you — a man that is a smooth-tongued sneak, with the heart of a rabbit?”

“If he were here you would not dare to say so!” Kate retorted hotly.

“Wouldn’t I?” he snarled fiercely.

“No, you wouldn’t. I don’t believe that he has ever been untrue to me. I believe that you and your father have planned to make me believe it and to keep us apart.”

Heaven knows what it was that suddenly brought this idea most clearly before Kate’s mind. Perhaps it was that Ezra’s face, distorted with passion, gave her some dim perception of the wickedness of which such a nature might be capable. The dark face turned so much darker at her words that she felt a great throb of joy at her heart, and knew that this strange new thought which had flashed upon her was the truth.

“You can’t deny it,” she cried, with shining eyes and clenched hands. “You know that it is true. I shall see him and hear from his own lips what he has to say. He loves me still, and I love him, and have never ceased to love him.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” snarled Ezra, taking a step forward, with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Your love may do him very little good. We shall see which of us gets the best of it in the long run. We’ll—” His passion was so furious that he stopped, fairly unable to articulate another word.

With a threatening motion of his hands he turned upon his heel and rushed from the room. As he passed it chanced that Flo, Kate’s little Skye terrier, ran across his path. All the brutality of the man’s soul rose up in the instant. He raised his heavy boot, and sent the poor little creature howling and writhing under the sofa, whence it piteously emerged upon three legs, trailing the fourth one behind it.

“The brute!” Kate cried, as she fondled the injured animal and poured indignant tears over it. Her gentle soul was so stirred by the cowardly deed that she felt that she could have flown at her late suitor were he still in the room. “Poor little Flo! That kick was meant for me in reality, my little pet. Never mind, dear, there are bright days coming, and he has not forgotten me, Flo. I know it! I know it!” The little dog whined sympathetically, and licked its mistress’s hand as though it were looking into its canine future, and could also discern better days ahead.

Ezra Girdlestone, fierce and lowering, tramped into the library, and told his father brusquely of the result of his wooing. What occurred in that interview was never known to any third person. The servants, who had some idea that something was afoot, have recorded that at the beginning of the conversation the bass voice of the son and the high raucous tones of the father were heard in loud recrimination and reproach. Then they suddenly sunk into tones so low that there might have been complete silence in the room for all that any one could tell from the passage outside. This whispered conversation may have lasted the greater part of an hour. At the end of it the young merchant departed for the City. It has been remarked that from that time there came a change over both the father and the son — a change so subtle that It could hardly be described, though it left its mark upon them both. It was not that the grey, wolfish face of the old man looked even greyer and fiercer, or that the hard, arrogant expression of Ezra deepened into something even more sinister. It was that a shadow hung over both their brows — a vague indefinable shadow — as of men who carry a thought in their minds on which it is not good to dwell.

During that long hour Kate had remained in the breakfast-room, still nursing her injured companion, and very busy with her own thoughts. She was as convinced now that Tom had been true to her as if she had had the assurance from his own lips. Still there was much that was unaccountable — much which she was unable to fathom. A vague sense of the wickedness around her depressed and weighed her down. What deep scheme could these men have invented to keep him away from her during these long weeks? Was he, too, under some delusion, or the victim of some conspiracy? Whatever had been done was certainly connived at by her guardian. For the first time a true estimate of the character of the elder Girdlestone broke upon her, and she dimly realised that the pious, soft-spoken merchant was more to be dreaded than his brutal son. A shudder ran through her whole frame as, looking up, she saw him standing before her.

His appearance was far from reassuring. His hands were clasped behind his back, his head bent forward, and he surveyed her with a most malignant expression upon his face.

“Well done!” he said, with a bitter smile. “Well done! This is a good morning’s work, Miss Harston. You have repaid your father’s friend for the care he has bestowed upon you.”

“My only wish is to leave your house,” cried Kate, with an angry flash in her deep blue eyes. “You are a cruel, wicked, hypocritical old man. You have deceived me about Mr. Dimsdale. I read it in your son’s face, and now I read it in your own. How could you do it — oh, how could you have the heart?”

John Girdlestone was fairly staggered by this blaze of feminine anger in his demure and obedient ward. “God knows,” he said, “whatever my faults may have been, neglect of you has not been among them. I am not immaculate. Even the just man falleth. If I have endeavoured to wean you from this foolish love affair of yours, it has been entirely because I saw that it was against your own interests.”

“You have told lies in order to turn me away from the only man who ever loved me. You and your odious son have conspired to ruin my happiness and break my heart. What have you told him that keeps him away? I shall see him and learn the truth.” Kate’s face was unnaturally calm and rigid as she faced her guardian’s angry gaze.

“Silence!” the old man cried hoarsely. “You forget your position in this house. You are presuming too much upon my kindness. As to this girl’s fancy of yours, you may put all thought of it out of your head. I am still your guardian, and I should be culpably remiss if I ever allowed you to see this man again. This afternoon you shall come with me to Hampshire.”

“To Hampshire?”

“Yes. I have taken a small country seat there, where we intend to spend some months of the winter. You shall leave it when you have reconciled yourself to forget these romantic ideas of yours — but not till then.”

“Then I shall never leave it,” said Kate, with a sigh.

“That will depend upon yourself. You shall at least be guarded there from the advances of designing persons. When you come of age you may follow your own fancies. Until then my conscience demands, and the law allows, that I should spare no pains to protect you from your own folly. We start from Waterloo at four.” Girdlestone turned for the door, but looked round as he was leaving the room. “May God forgive you,” he said solemnly, raising his lean hands towards the ceiling, “for what you have done this day!”