Blind Policy

Chapter Twenty One.

Going Shares

Mr Roach confessed to being an admirer of the fair sex; and consequent upon his position, not from any special attraction of mind or person, the butler’s advances were in more than one instance favourably received; but he also confessed, in the strictest personal confidence, to a feeling of jealousy against Arthur.

“He’s big, and he’s not bad-looking, but he’s very weak and young, and there’s a want of manly tone about him. I can’t see why they should make so much fuss over the fellow.”

“They” embraced the lady members of the Clareborough household staff; and in spite of what the butler might say, Arthur was distinctly high in favour and enjoyed his popularity.

There were reasons, of course, more than the great display of affability, and one day Mr Roach took his fellow-servant seriously to task.

“Look here, Orthur, my lad,” he said confidentially; “you’re having a fine old time of it just now, but recollect this: the sex is soft, and smooth, and pleasant, and as you may say sweet, but don’t you make a mistake and think that girls are fools.”

“I don’t,” said Arthur, complacently – “Old boy’s a bit jealous,” he added to himself.

“Then don’t act as if you did. They’re sharp enough, and before long they’ll begin talking. One of ’em ’ll be jealous of you taking out another, and then out’ll come the claw from the soft paws, and there’ll be a row.”

“Well, they must settle it among themselves if there is.”

“But don’t you see that the disappointed one that you’ve made an enemy ’ll begin to talk nasty-like and she’ll know what your wages are.”

“Eh?”

“That’s it, my boy; she’ll be wanting to know how you can be treating some of ’em to music-halls, and paying for cabs and railway fares, and supper afterwards, on five pound a quarter.”

“Dash it!” cried Arthur.

“Yes, that’s it, my lad. You and me’s doing very nicely just now; don’t spoil a good thing. See what I mean?”

“Yes, I see what you mean, old chap,” said Arthur, who had suddenly become sobered.

“That’s right. You see, you gave Maria Blay a gold watch.”

“Only a second-’and ’un, and I bought the pawn-ticket cheap.”

“Maybe, but there’s a big sound about a gold watch. Then you gave cook a brooch, and Betsy Dellow a gold ring, and it ain’t wise, my lad, it ain’t wise. We’re on the road to fortune, so don’t you get looking back for the sake of a bit of nonsense, or you and me may have to part. Don’t do foolish things.”

“No, Mr Roach, I won’t, sir. I’m very sorry, and I’ll be a bit more careful.”

“That’s right, Orthur,” said the butler, importantly. “I shouldn’t like for anything to come between us two.”

“Of course not, sir. It wouldn’t do,” cried the footman, eagerly.

“Got anything new?”

“Well, no, Mr Roach, sir. I haven’t seen the chance of a tip lately.”

The butler smiled triumphantly.

“You don’t mean to say you have, sir?”

“But I do, Orthur,” he replied in a hoarse whisper. “It isn’t Mr Rob’s or Mr Paddy’s this time, but a put-up thing of the guv’nor’s.”

Arthur whistled in his excitement.

“It means a big stroke, Orthur. I’ve got the tip, and if you and me’s got the pluck to do it we’re made men.”

“Oh, we’ve got the pluck,” said the footman, huskily. “What’s the ’orse?”

“Not a horse at all, my lad. It’s a company. They’re working it to rights, and I’ve found out all about it, Orthur. I’ve seen the letters. They’re going to blow the thing up full of wind, and buy up all the shares they can. Then when the thing’s at the height, they sell, and make thousands.”

“Phew!” whistled the footman.

“S’pose we make a couple o’ thou, a-piece; that’s better than backing horses.”

“Yes; but could we?”

“Don’t they, my lad? Isn’t all this place run that way? Why shouldn’t we do it as well as them? They ain’t so precious clever after all.”

“Not as I see,” said the younger man, contemptuously.

“Then what do you say? Shall we venture?”

“I’m on,” said Arthur, eagerly. “How much does it want?”

“Two hundred a-piece. How much have you got?”

The footman gave him a curious look, and then said drily —

“Nothing at all.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say you’ve spent all we’ve made, Arthur?”

“Every penny. Haven’t you?”

The butler was silent, and frowned; but his companion followed up his question.

“Well, why don’t you answer a fellow?”

“I haven’t exactly spent it, Orthur,” said the butler at last, coughing to clear his voice.

“Well, what have you done with it?”

“’Orses.”

“Without saying a word to me?”

“Well, I didn’t know I was bound to tell you everything, Orthur.”

“Well, I did; and it serves you right. If you’d gone by my advice and taken my tips you’d ha’ won.”

“Yes, it was a mistake,” said the butler, humbly. “I was tempted to have just one little flutter on my own account, Orthur.”

“Well, don’t you do it again. That’s worse than giving the gals presents, old man. Then I suppose it will have to be your uncle again?”

“Yes, Orthur; but it’s a pity we couldn’t manage about a key for that door.”

“Ah! it is; but it ain’t to be done, only with a big hammer and wedges, I’m afraid. I’m trying still, though, to get a key made, and it may turn up trumps. Never mind; raise something on what you can take.”

“But it won’t be enough, my boy.”

“Never mind; let’s do what we can. A little’s more than none. Half a loaf’s better than no bread, old man.”

“Very well, my boy; I’ll take what I can to-night.”

“I say, you’re sure this’ll turn out all right?”

“Certain. It’s as safe as safe. I’ll make him let me have a little more – put something else up – and then we’ll take all the shares we can get.”

“And about selling out at the right time?”

“You leave that to me,” said the butler, smiling confidently. “Look here.”

He took out a letter and held it to his companion, who read it with his face lighting up, and clapped it back in the butler’s hands.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” said Roach.

“Splendid, old man. But stop; why, that’s your writing.”

“Of course it is; I copied it.”

“Oh, I see. Well, then, that’s all right. Go on ahead.”

“But I wish it wasn’t that centre-piece again. I’m always afraid of its being wanted.”

“Oh, it won’t be wanted,” said the footman, impatiently.

“If you could only have managed about that key.”

“Well, give me time. I say, that was a narrow squeak, when the old woman nearly caught us.”

“Yes, it was horrible,” said the butler, wiping his forehead. “Fancy her telling Jemmy, and him sending for us to come up in the lib’ry afore the lot of them!”

“Easy enough for him to send,” said the footman, with a grin, “but it would have taken a lot of pulling to get us there.”

“Yes, Orthur, my boy, the game would have been up.”

“And before we’d made our pile, old man. There, you want a glass of wine to pull you together. You mustn’t go and see our dear old relative looking like that.”

“No,” said Roach, brightening up; “that would not do, Orthur. The old woman did not find us out.”

“I held the door too fast for her, and a miss is as good as a mile, eh, guv’nor? I say, old man, don’t you think we might wet it?”

The butler smiled blandly.

“Well, just one glass wouldn’t be amiss, my boy. What shall it be?”

“Can’t beat a glass o’ port, old man. What do you say?”

“I say ditto, my dear boy,” and the butler, smiling, drew out his keys, unlocked a cupboard, lifted out a cobwebby bottle with a dab of whitewash on its end, and with a great deal of ceremony drew the cork, while Arthur fetched and gave a finishing touch to a couple of glasses as the cork was presented to him.

But it was only to smell, and Arthur inhaled the fragrance and sighed. Then the rich wine came gurgling out into the glasses, and these latter were raised.

“Well, old man, here’s success to speculation,” said Arthur.

“Suck-cess to speculation,” said the butler, and the glasses were slowly drained. Lips were smacked and the glasses refilled. “A very fine wine, Orthur.”

“Tip-top. How much is there of it?”

“Over six hundred dozen, my lad.”

“Well, we’ll help ’em drink it, old man. It’s fine. Sets a fellow thinking. Now, look here. We’re not going to stand still, eh?”

“Not a bit of it, dear boy. We’ll make our hay while the sun shines.”

“Ah, yes,” said the butler, filling another glass of the port; “and some people shoot a long time before folks get hit, eh, Orthur?”

“That’s so, guv’nor; you’ve only to keep going, and the chances are that they can’t hit you at all.”

The result of the emptying of that bottle of wine was that the gold epergne and several other pieces of plate went into the charge of the none too particular descendant of the Medici, a gentleman who, having been exceedingly unfortunate in carrying on what he called a square trade, had of late gone in for the risky and round, with the result that he was making money fast, and calming his conscience by chuckling to himself and saying —

“What harm is there, so long as you’re not found out?”

That evening Mr Roach returned with a sufficient amount to dip slightly into the new speculation in which the Clareboroughs were engaged, but he did not sleep any better for that. He dreamed about brokers who dealt in stock, and by a steady descent of thought he went on to brokers who put executions into houses. They suggested debtors’ prisons – debtors’ prisons brought up Holloway, and Holloway the criminal side – the criminal side, penal Portland, with irons, and costumes ornamented with broad arrows, shortcut hair, chain-gangs, and an awakening in a violent perspiration.

Mr Roach had no appetite next morning, but on behalf of footman Arthur and himself, a couple of hundred pounds were invested in the shares of the gaseous company which had nothing whatever to do with gas.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Man Masters

“At last!” muttered Chester, as he stood, pale and careworn, leaning upon the iron rail in the Row, watching the carriages slowly filing by, or stopping from time to time.

For after days and days of watching, he was once more about to give up in despair and venture, in spite of all rebuffs, upon another call at the house, when in the distance he caught sight of the Clareborough’s light victoria approaching, and to his great delight he found that it only contained one occupant.

He hesitated for a few moments as to what he should do – wait, or advance to meet it, and decided now upon a bold attack, for every nerve was on the strain.

“I will not be put off this time,” he said to himself. “She shall acknowledge me.”

As he approached his heart began to beat fast and he gazed upon the elegantly-dressed figure leaning carelessly back with her face shaded by the tinted parasol she held, and, as yet unobserved, Chester saw that she looked pale, troubled and weary, her half-closed eyes dreamy and thoughtful.

Fate favoured him, for there was a block somewhere ahead, and the horses were stopped only a few yards away.

He passed under the rail, walked up quickly, still unobserved, till his hand was upon the carriage door.

“Marion!” he whispered.

She gave a violent start, the blood suffused her cheeks, and then fled, leaving her deadly pale, as she gazed at him with dilating eyes.

“I beg your pardon,” she said coldly, “you addressed me?”

“Yes,” he said in a low voice which trembled a little from the excess of his emotion, “but we are alone now, Marion. For pity’s sake let there be an end to this.”

“Ah, I remember,” she said in her low, musical tones, “you are the strange gentleman who addressed me before. You are repeating your mistake, sir.”

“Indeed!” he said reproachfully, as he fixed her eyes with his. “Do you think I could ever be mistaken?”

She bowed slightly and drew a little back, glancing hurriedly at the driver, and then looking ahead as if eager for the carriage to proceed.

“How can you be so cruel?” he whispered. “Marion, you are maddening me!”

He saw her wince, but with wonderful self-command she sat rigid as she said slowly —

“I beg, sir, that there may be an end of this. Can you not see that you are making a mistake, and are insulting an unprotected woman?”

She looked him fully in the eyes now with a calm air of wonderment, and for the moment he was in doubt.

But the next moment his heart said no, and his pulses increased their beat. No accidental resemblance could have produced that effect upon him. He knew that there was something which he could not explain – a strange vitality or occult force which bound him to her, and, though his eyes might have erred, his nature could have made no such blunder, and he was eager to continue the attack now the opportunity was there.

“Mistaken?” he said in a low, impassioned tone; “how could I be mistaken? From the first moment you came to me, your looks, the tones of your voice in your appeal to me for help, awoke something which till then had slumbered within me. I had lived in ignorance of the reality of such a passion, one which has gone on growing like a torrent ever since. It has swept all before it since the hour I knew that I had found my fate.”

“My good sir,” she said firmly and gently; “indeed you are taking me for someone else.”

He smiled as he gazed at her intently.

“For whom?” he said.

“I cannot say; some friend. It is an accidental resemblance, and once more – I appeal to you as a gentleman to cease this persecution.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Accidental resemblance? No. There is but one Marion on earth. No woman ever resembled you in any way. This is impossible. Marion, be merciful. After the night on which I saw you last, what must you think of me? Of what manner of man could I be if, after striving so hard to gain an interview like this, I could let you throw me over in so cruel a way? Marion, for pity’s sake. There must be stronger reasons than I already know of to make you act like this.”

She glanced round wildly for a moment or two, as if in dread that they were being observed and his words were taking the attention of the people around, then up at the coachman, but he sat erect and stolid, too well schooled in his duties to have a thought or eyes for anything but the beautiful pair of horses under his charge. Then, as she realised the fact that they were perfectly unobserved by the busy throng around, she recovered her passing composure, and said quite calmly, and with a suggestion of pity in her tone for one who seemed to her to be suffering from some slight mental aberration —

“Can you not see that you are mistaken?”

“No,” he said, smiling sadly; “only that it is impossible.”

There was a faint quiver of the lips, but it passed off, and her beautiful eyes flashed, and the colour rose in her cheeks, as she made a strong effort to be firm. Then there was a touch of anger in her voice as she said coldly —

“Must I appeal to someone passing, sir, or to one of the police?”

Her words stung him to the quick, “No,” he whispered huskily; “there is no need. If you are made of steel and can act to me like this, I must suffer; but do not insult me by treating me as if I were insane. I could bear it from your brother; not from you, Miss Clareborough.”

She winced slightly at the utterance of her name, and he fancied that there was the light of compassion for one brief moment in her eyes.

His own face hardened now in the bitterness and despair of the moment as he took out his pocket-book, and in spite of her self-command she watched his action narrowly as he drew out the carefully-folded handkerchief stained with blood.

“I saved this inadvertently,” he continued. “Yours; marked with your initials.”

He looked her full in the eyes as he spoke, bitterly now.

“When I found it where I had hurriedly thrust it into my pocket that night, it seemed to offer itself as an excellent clue for the police to track out the mystery of the house to which I was taken.”

She leaned forward quickly and caught at the handkerchief to cover it with her hand, while he still retained his hold.

“For God’s sake, no!” she whispered, and her face convulsed with fear. “Don’t do that – the police!”

The stained scrap of cambric formed a bond between them as he gazed deeply in her eyes now, while a faint smile dawned upon his lip.

“I checked the thought at once,” he said softly. “I told myself that such an act might hurt you – might give you pain; and I set to and tried to track you without, all through the months of agony and dread for what you might have to fear from him. Take it, to destroy or save, as you will. It is yours; but do not do me the injustice to think I would retain it to hold over you in terrorem. Marion, I love you too well.”

He breathed these words in the faintest tones, but he could read that they fell heavily upon her ears, for in spite of her rigid position he saw that her eyes looked wildly and imploringly into his.

“For Heaven’s sake be silent!” she whispered faintly.

“I am your slave,” he said softly. “Take the handkerchief.”

“No, no; I trust you,” she whispered back. “I will not try to dissimulate any longer. It is impossible; but you must never speak to me again – never recognise me. I cannot explain – I am not my own mistress. It would injure others. Be merciful to me, for I have suffered deeply. Think of all that has passed as some dream. I cannot – must never see you more.”

The carriage began to move on, but he walked by the side as she continued —

“Spare me – spare those I love. I ask it of you. Now, farewell for ever, for your own sake – for mine.”

“No,” he said softly, as he walked on, unnoticed by the many they passed, for it was a commonplace thing enough to see a gentleman by a carriage door talking to its occupant. “No. You have made me more happy then I can express. The dense black cloud that has been over my life has passed away, for I know now that you have been wearing this mask for the sake of others whom you wish to spare. But you have let me see behind it; just one glimpse, but enough to show me the true nature of the woman I love.”

“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Believe me, that is impossible. Now leave me, pray.”

“Nothing is impossible to a man who loves as I love you,” he whispered.

“No, no; once more, I tell you that we must never meet again.”

“And I tell you,” he whispered back, “that you are part of my life, and that while my heart beats I will never give you up. Marion, we must meet again sooner or later; I live for nothing else. Your hand one moment.”

“No, no!” she moaned.

“Your hand – life of my life,” he whispered softly; and as she gazed at him wildly, her hand, as if drawn by the magnetism of his nature, glided slowly into his, and was clasped in his nervous grasp.

“I am going to wait.”

“No,” she said more firmly. “This for the last time. They would kill me – they would kill you.”

“No,” he said. “An hour ago I would have welcomed death; now life opens before me in its fullest sunshine of joy. They shall not kill you; they shall not kill me, for I know you love me and have suffered, and it has made me strong.”

“Impossible, impossible,” she whispered, with her eyes fixed upon his.

Then he loosed his hold of her gloved hand, dropping back and raising his hat as the carriage rolled on.

He stood and watched it for a few minutes till it had passed out of sight, and then drawing himself up, feeling that a breach of invigorating life had run through his being, he turned to walk back across the path, and found himself nearly confronting the man who had occupied so much of his waking thoughts, and whose eyes now seemed to flash as they gazed fiercely in his.

“Well,” said Chester to himself, as he set his teeth hard, “I am ready for the worst. Am I to learn the mystery of the big house now?” And he took a step forward to meet the man he felt to be the great enemy of both their lives.

Chapter Twenty Three.

The Game is up

To Chester’s surprise James Clareborough’s face hardened and grew stony as they approached, and the next moment he had passed him without a word or the slightest sign of recognition, and when, stung by jealous solicitude for the woman he loved, Chester turned and followed, he saw his enemy take another direction to that in which Marion was being driven.

Then days passed – then weeks; and in spite of constant watchfulness Chester could not get a glimpse of her who filled his thoughts. The reason was patent – the family had left town, and he had once more to track them out. But this was easy, and in a day or two he was down at the nearest spot where he could unobserved obtain lodgings, ostensibly trout fishing the stream that meandered by The Towers, the Clareboroughs’ Kentish estate.