The Weird Sisters: A Romance. Volume 3 of 3
Half an hour elapsed before Grey found himself able to command himself sufficiently to face the public eye.
Evans offered to do anything in his power. He undertook to find Mrs. Grey and ascertain her condition; but Grey refused all help. He felt perfectly convinced his mother would allow nothing to be done for her by him. If she beggared herself to pay some of the stolen money, it was not likely she would accept money from him who had committed the theft.
When he left Evans's office he walked slowly and sadly towards the Bank. It was now dusk. He went to his private-room, and, flinging himself into a chair, sat long gazing at the fire.
He had, he had fancied, banished all thought of his mother from his mind for ever. He had flattered himself he had cast off all his old affection, so that it might be no longer a stumbling-stone in the path of his ambition. But this horrible discovery of the old woman's absolute destitution could not be resisted.
His mother a homeless wanderer among strange people in the winter time! Unendurable thought! She to whom he had looked up with love and reverence all his life, who had soothed and cheered him in the little griefs of his boyhood and the trials of his manhood, now without a fireside of her own!
He had himself never known what poverty, actual poverty, was; but he had heard and read of it, and had come in contact with it as a man connected with the treasurership held by him. There were people in the world at this moment who were hungry and had not a penny to buy bread. Had not a penny such as this.
He had taken a coin out of his pocket, and now held it in his left hand. He was bent forward; his right elbow rested on his knee; his head drooped over the left palm, in which lay the coin.
People who starved for want of such a coin as this! Under privation it was the children and the old people succumbed first. People of middle life like him lived through sieges and famines when the young and the old died.
To think of people being hungry for want of such a coin as this!
He had seen the old hungry. As president of the Coal Fund he had visited poor old people. He had seen their dropped jaws, their dim eyes, their feeble gait, their degraded humanity. He had seen women, old women who had once occupied comfortable positions, hobbling along the frozen streets with tickets for coal in their hands, while boys followed jeering at them. He had heard these respectable old women utter words of gratitude so humiliating to themselves, that he had felt to listen was more the punishment of a crime than the reward of a humane action.
Once at a Christmas-time he went to see a poor widow on behalf of whom application had been made to the fund. Her husband had been a well-to-do tradesman of Daneford. He found the poor creature in a most pitiable plight. She had nothing but a bundle of straw for a bed, and the ragged remains of an old patchwork counterpane. There were two broken chairs, a delf cup, and no saucer. This was a full inventory of the widow's goods. The old woman said she did not feel hunger half so much as cold. She was used to hunger all the year round, now and then; but the winter cold was terrible. When hungry and cold, you were tortured from within and without. For twelve months she had not tasted hot meat, and for six months neither eggs nor butter. Sprats were then three-halfpence for two pounds, and bread three-halfpence a pound. Two pounds of sprats, two pounds of bread, and the use of a neighbour's fire, carried her over two days very nicely, but that came to fourpence-halfpenny; and when she had paid eighteenpence a week for the room, it was not easy to find fourpence-halfpenny every two days for living. In coming away he gave her half-a-sovereign. She threw herself down on her knees to him, and thanked him and Providence that she should now have warm stockings and taste meat once more before she died. That thin old woman had thrown herself on her knees to him because she was hungry and cold, and he had given her half-a-sovereign! Thrown herself on her knees to him! When he came home he told Bee, and Bee had wept and sent the old woman clothes. He told his mother, too, about this old woman, and his mother had gone to see her and sat with her, and never lost sight of her until the poor woman died.
What changes since then! Bee had gone, and his mother was a pauper fugitive.
His stately keen-minded mother a penniless fugitive! Intolerable! There must be some mistake. Fancy for a moment his proud high-spirited mother being obliged to stoop and accept help! Fancy such a thing, she who had always had a full larder and purse at the service of royal generosity! The mere idea was preposterous on the face of it. And yet there were the figures of Evans. His mother prostrate at the feet of a stranger, thanking him for food!
"Oh, God, who is our master, and who is the master of our joys and our woes, afflict me with what Thou wilt, but take away that vision! Take away that vision from before my eyes! Give me all other pains but that sight, the result of my misdoings."
He had risen, and was praying with all the might of his soul, his face and hands thrown up, and the tones of terrible beseeching in his voice.
Suddenly he sank to his knees and drew his arms swiftly and strongly across his eyes; swaying his body to and fro, he moaned out in piteous entreaty:
"Oh, God of mercy, show mercy to me, and turn away from me my mother's eyes!"
There was a knock at the door.
He staggered feebly to his feet, and took a few hasty inspirations before asking:
"Who's there?"
"I, sir."
"What do you want?"
"The mail is going out, sir."
"Well?"
"Have you any letters to go?"
"No, Doughty."
"But there's the Castle bag, sir. I want the letters out of that."
"True; thank you for reminding me of them." He opened the door. "Here is the key." He handed it through the door, adding: "I am most particularly engaged. Let no one come to me."
He retired from the door feebly. He went back to the fire and sat down.
In half an hour he rang his bell. The porter entered.
"Are the letters posted?"
"Yes, sir."
"All gone?"
"Yes, sir."
"That will do." To himself he thought with his hand on his brow: "I forgot something about the Castle letters. I forget still what it was. I should have – I remember now. Well, it does not make much difference."
CHAPTER VII
LOSING
For a few days after the meeting between Grey and his mother at the Castle he did not go to the Island. Something repelled him. The thought of the Castle made him chill and uncomfortable now. He had never gone so far as to try and persuade himself he was in love with Maud. He never pretended to himself he felt more than a mild interest in her. The nature of the circumstances surrounding him and impelling him towards Maud had almost wholly obliterated the personality of the girl. She was a minus quantity in the equation of his life. Could he bring her over to the other side, the minus would become a plus, and he should be saved. He was too much impressed with the necessity of winning her to regard her personality with much interest.
Now he seemed to have receded further from her. He was no less impressed with the necessity of winning her than before, but between her and him had come of late a shadow, stretching from that interview at which his mother, Maud, and himself, had assisted.
At first this shadow was vague, indistinct, a source of indefinable uneasiness rather than absolute pain. Gradually, hour by hour after that interview, his subsequent discoveries in the fly, and at Evans's office, the appearance of vagueness disappeared, the repelling image took absolute form, and between the girl and himself flitted the form of a feeble beggared mother.
He had made no effort to trace Mrs. Grey. He knew nothing on earth would induce her to take aid from him. He knew she could not be reached indirectly, for she would suspect any side approach to be of his contriving. When she would not keep a shilling of her own honest money to buy bread, there was no likelihood of her receiving stolen money from his hand.
"I have already sacrificed two women, am I about to sacrifice a third?" He put this question to himself often, but took little interest in the answer. If any other means of extricating himself offered, he would have abandoned his design of marrying Maud. He saw no other loophole of escape.
"If I don't marry Maud, sooner or later it will be found out I have made fraudulent uses of my power of attorney, and they will seize me, search the Bank and the Manor, and – hang me out of one of the crossbars of that tank – always supposing I do not take the liberty of cheating the hangman by making away with myself."
He began to feel jaded, and people saw changes in him, and asked him if he was quite well. When not racked by dread or torn by remorse, a strange languor fell upon him, and he could not rouse himself to do anything not absolutely necessary.
In these languid moments he would think to himself: "I have been over-trained by crime, and I am not capable of fighting as of old."
The first day he called at the Castle after meeting his mother there, Maud could not be seen. She sent down Mrs. Grant to say she hoped Mr. Grey would excuse her, as she had a headache, and Mrs. Grant had recommended her to keep to her room.
This was an agreeable disappointment. He had come to the Island and requested he might see Maud, not as a matter of liking at the moment, but as part of a scheme of self-protection laid down when full of life and vigour, and now carried out with diminished forces.
He formally examined the work upon which the men were engaged, and took an early leave of the Island.
A meeting with Maud that day would have been too much for him. He did not feel equal to urging his suit; allusion might have been made to his manner on the last occasion, and he felt he could not carry off the fiction of the imaginary dispute of the will with a hand sufficiently light and firm.
He had now a vague fear – it went beyond fear, and assumed the settled form of conviction – that his explanation of his violence had not satisfied Maud. She might really have been indisposed, but of old so slight an indisposition as headache would not have excluded him from her presence. He was quite sure Maud had told him the truth, and that his mother had divulged nothing prejudicial to him. But this was not all. His mother may have divulged nothing, and yet his manner, his terror at the sight of her, his violence when she had gone, and his subsequent statement that litigation was not impossible, might have created an impression not to be removed easily from the mind of the girl.
He allowed a few days more to elapse before calling again.
Mrs. Grant came to him and said Miss Midharst was so miserably wretched and unwell she must ask Mr. Grey to be good enough to excuse her not receiving him.
"I have been very unfortunate with Miss Midharst of late," said the banker, with a smile to the little widow.
"She is so nervous and excitable," said Mrs. Grant, who seemed uneasy and disconcerted.
"Until quite lately I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Midharst daily. I have not been able to come here so often as of old, and when I do come I am so unfortunate as to find Miss Midharst laid up." There was complaint in his tone.
Mrs. Grant felt exceedingly awkward. Maud had told her of Mr. Grey's extraordinary conduct at their last interview. At her suggestion Maud had written to Sir William and avoided an interview with the banker. Maud had had a headache when he called last, but it was not bad enough to prevent her seeing him if nothing unusual had happened. To-day she was not unusually nervous, but she dreaded an interview with the banker so much she became hysterical when his name had been announced. Still Mrs. Grant's old feeling for Mr. Grey could not be put aside in a minute, and now that she was face to face with him who had been so useful and so kind, and found him complaining of exclusion from the presence of her over whose fortunes the dead baronet had made him guardian, she felt powerless and wretched. She said, in an unsteady voice and confused manner:
"I am sure I am very sorry you should have been twice disappointed in seeing Miss Midharst. It is unfortunate. But I hope you will not think she intends any disrespect to you. I know nothing is further from her thoughts."
Grey took the widow's hand gently in his. He felt conscious he was not as strong as formerly. He had now no friend in the world. A woman, a widow, had been his greatest friend. He knew Mrs. Grant meant him well.
"Mrs. Grant," he said, "I am sure I have a sincere friend in you."
"I am sure you have," she answered tremulously.
"Will you do me a great favour?"
"There is no one in the world, except Maud, for whom I would so soon do all I can," she said earnestly.
"You will be candid with me, I know. You will be candid with me because you could not be otherwise with anyone, and you will answer my question as a favour?"
"If I can I will; you may rely upon that."
"I knew I was right. My question is: Has anything occurred to make Miss Midharst disinclined to meet me?"
"She is not very well."
"You were good enough to tell me that some time ago. My question has reference to something else. Has anything of a personal nature occurred to make Miss Midharst disinclined to meet me?"
"You know, Mr. Grey, that when Sir William was here Maud made a promise to him."
"Yes. That she would look upon him as her personal guardian. Is it to that you refer?"
"It is. I believe Miss Midharst wishes to consult her cousin on some subject of importance. She has written to him."
"And will not receive me until she gets his reply? Is that what I am to understand, Mrs. Grant?" Grey's voice quavered, and his whole body shook. How had that letter escaped him?
"I do not think Maud will be quite strong enough to see you for a few days more."
"That is, until she hears from her cousin?"
"Until she sees him."
"Sees him! What do you mean?"
"She wrote him, asking him to come back, if he could."
"That is not true. I never saw the letter," he whispered.
"Yes. She wrote him the day she saw you last, and he is coming back. He has telegraphed to her saying so."
"The day she saw me last! The day I met another woman talking to her."
"Yes."
"Was it at the suggestion of that woman she wrote for Sir William to come home?"
"No; that lady did not, as far as I can hear, mention Sir William's name."
"And that was the day," said Grey, letting fall Mrs. Grant's hand and pressing it against his throbbing forehead – "that was the day I forgot the bag. How soon is Sir Alexander expected here?"
"Sir William, you mean."
"Ah, yes; Sir William I mean, of course. I forgot – I forgot!"
"We don't know exactly when he may be here, but he will certainly not be longer than a fortnight."
"And between this and then Miss Midharst will not see me?"
He had still his hand on his brow. She did not answer.
Without taking any further notice of her he walked feebly out of the room. For an hour he wandered aimlessly about the Castle grounds. There were men at work, but he took no notice of them. When it grew dusk he crossed over in a boat to the mainland, and set out to walk home.
The cool air and the walking gradually improved his tone, and little by little he became familiar with the new aspect of affairs. He was conscious of mental indifference, weakness, or numbness – he did not know exactly what it was. Thoughts and ideas and things had lost half their values to him. He felt like a man who wakes for the first time in a prison where he is to pass his life, only the prisoner's heart is afflicted with the memory of a better past. Grey, as he walked along, did not once turn his eyes back. He kept them fixed rigidly forward.
In the immediate future he saw he should lose all influence at the Castle. The moment Sir William came home his suspicions would be aroused. He would make inquiries, and find not a single shilling of Sir Alexander's money in the books of the Bank of England.
Then would come ruin and death, or death and ruin – put it either way. He was beaten. He confessed it to himself. Discovery could not be three weeks off. There was no loophole – no means of escape. The days of abduction were dead and buried long ago. He could not carry Maud away forcibly and marry her. He had, by law, no control over her person. She would not see him until Sir William's return. Most likely she was acting under the young man's advice in not seeing him.
A month ago he was keener, and would have felt angry at the interference of this young man and the stubbornness of this girl; but he was past all that now. He was beaten, beaten beyond all hope of retrieving his fortune. His life was forfeit. His name would be branded for ever in the town where it had been almost worshipped for years.
And when he had died by his own hand, and all had been discovered, his mother, a wanderer on the land, would, as she sank into a pauper's grave, learn the enormity of his crime, and call out that the sin of having brought such a monster into the world might be taken away from her in consideration of the wrongs he had done her.
No! no! no! Ten thousand times No! His mother should never hear the awful words: "Henry Walter Grey found guilty of Wife Murder," or, "Discovery of the body of Mrs. Henry Walter Grey, with a history of her murder by her husband."
No; that must never be. But how was he to prevent it? Only one way remained.
If he could hide the embezzlement, he could hide the murder. There was now only one way of hiding the fraud: he must throw himself on the mercy of Miss Midharst and her cousin. The moment Sir William returned, he should make a full confession. While there is life there is hope, and that was not a foolish hope. Sir William was young and chivalric. Sir William would listen to his prayer and show mercy.
CHAPTER VIII
"I AM HE. FIRE."
The morning after Grey had been at the Castle, he awoke cold and depressed. The magnitude of the misfortune just come upon him was more apparent than the evening before. Up to yesterday he had been fighting to defeat the past and render the future glorious. Henceforth all thought of glory must be cast aside, and the struggle conducted solely with a view to prevent fatal disgrace. He had lost the stake, and ran a grave risk of losing his life. He had been playing against Sir William Midharst. Now he was playing against the hangman.
The day of the baronet's return was not known. The young man must pass through Daneford on his way to the Castle. More than likely he would call at the "Warfinger Hotel," to leave his luggage there before setting out for the Island.
Grey went to the "Warfinger Hotel," saw the landlord, told him Sir William was expected home; and requested him to send instantly to the Bank word of the baronet's arrival.
He felt queer to-day. That old sensation of everything being far away and of little interest to him had come back upon him fourfold. He went through the routine business of the Bank with as little interest as a copying-clerk. He signed papers without reading them, and did not understand those he read.
And now day after day the banker lived without change or adventure. All his life he had been a man of action, a leader, and now he was wearily waiting, waiting in weak hope haunted by fierce terrors. He felt his physical health declining under the ordeal, but he had no alternative.
At last one afternoon, as he was sitting alone in his private office a messenger came from the "Warfinger Hotel" announcing the return of Sir William. The baronet had just arrived and ordered luncheon, so that in all likelihood he would be at the hotel for an hour or two.
Grey rose heavily and walked to the hotel with a misgiving heart. He carried in his hand his small black bag.
What reason had he to think this young man would take a merciful view of the case? All his pride was gone now, except the pride in a good name he did not deserve. He would crawl on his knees in private to this young man, rather than lower his front a jot before the public. If he could win over this young man he might save his name. It was not the hangman he dreaded most. It was not death. It was the groans and execrations of people over whom he once held imperial sway, and by whom he had been regarded as the high-priest of humanity and justice.
When he arrived at the hotel, he sent in his card and was instantly admitted.
The young man fixed his dark dreamy eyes upon the other as he entered, rose slowly from his chair, and held out his hand freely, saying:
"I am very much obliged to you for calling. I wanted to see you particularly."
This was unexpected. Grey thought Sir William would refuse to meet him until after a visit to the Castle. What did the young man know? Grey said:
"I have to speak to you on a very important matter indeed, and I would wish to speak to you about it at once."
"I am quite at your service for an hour. Sit down. You are not looking as well as I should like to see so good a friend."
"Friend!" sighed Grey. "Don't use that word again until I have finished."
A quick look of present interest came into the dreamy eyes. The baronet said: "I am ready to hear."
"I have been told by Mrs. Grant that you have come home to consult with Miss Midharst about some important matter – I do not know what, and I do not seek to know. Before you see Miss Midharst, I want to say to you some words of the deepest importance, and I want you to permit me to – lock the door." He was grave and collected in manner, and as he said the last words he waved his hand softly towards the door.
"You may lock the door," said Sir William, taking an easy-chair, and relapsing into his dreamy manner.
The banker walked slowly to the door, locked it deliberately, and then came back to the window at which the young man was sitting. Then he sat down on a chair opposite Sir William, having placed his bag on a small table that stood between them.
The day was bright and clear. Past the wall of the hotel through which that window looked ran the Weeslade. It was ebb tide, and now and then down the river shot a small boat or glided a barge, while from the upper wharves came the sound of chains and tackles, and the hoarse hoot of the steamboat blowing off steam.
For a few seconds Grey sat silent, resting his head upon his hand. At last he spoke:
"You have been asked to come back from Egypt to give advice to Miss Midharst on some subject of importance. You are by your relationship with her, and by her own agreement with you, the guardian of her person. I am by the will of her father the guardian of her fortune. Yours is a precious trust."
Grey paused here to give the young man an opportunity of saying something. Sir William merely said: "That is so."
"What I have further to say to you," continued Grey, "is in the nature, Sir William, of a confession. A confession so degrading and humiliating, that I have debated a thousand times whether I should make it or put an end to my life."
"I am sincerely glad you adopted the alternative of confiding in me."
"Sir William, what do you consider the greatest calamity which could befall Miss Midharst?"
"Really I have not thought of such a question, and could not answer it off-hand."
"What would you do to the man who behaved in an unscrupulous manner to Miss Midharst?"
Suddenly the young man lost his languid manner, sat bolt upright in his chair, looked with a strong present interest in his eyes at the banker, and demanded sharply: "What do you mean?"
Grey raised his head, and for the first time the eyes of the two men met.
"A terrible injury, an irreparable injury; who had inflicted upon her an injury so great that the sacrifice of his life could not atone for it, not the devotion of a lifetime undo it?"
"Shoot him. Where is he?"
Grey opened the black bag, took out the revolver, and holding the muzzle pointed at his own breast, handed it to the baronet, saying: "I am he. Fire."
The young man sprang to his feet, seized the revolver, and keeping the banker covered with it, said thickly through his clenched teeth: "A moment. Wait a moment."
