Complete works of hall c.., p.80
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 80
“Paul Drayton,” said Hugh.
Mercy saw and heard all. The tears suddenly dried in her eyes, which opened wide in amazement. She said nothing.
Hugh caught the altered look in her face.
“Mrs. Drayton,” he said, “didn’t you say you had something urgent for Mercy to do? Let her set about it at once. Now, driver, lend a hand — upstairs; it’s only a step.”
They lifted Paul Ritson between them, and were carrying him out of the bar.
“Where’s the boy?” asked Hugh. “Don’t let him get in the way. Boys are more hindrance than help,” he added, in an explanatory tone.
They had reached the foot of the stair. “Now, my man, easy — heavy, eh? rather.”
They went up. Mercy stood in the middle of the floor with a tearless and whitening face.
Half a minute later Hugh Ritson and the flyman had returned to the bar. The phantom of a smile lurked about the flyman’s mouth. Hugh Ritson’s face was ashen, and his lips quivered.
The boxes and portmanteaus which Paul and Greta had left in the bar three nights ago still lay in one corner. Hugh pointed them out to the driver. “Put them on top of the cab,” he said. The flyman proceeded to do so.
When the man was outside the door, Hugh Ritson turned to Mrs. Drayton. The landlady was fussing about, twitching her apron between nervous fingers. “Mrs. Drayton,” said Hugh, “you will go in this fly to the Convent of St. Margaret, Westminster. There you will ask for Mrs. Ritson, the lady who was here on Friday night. You will tell her that you have her luggage with you, and that she is to go with you to St. Pancras Station to meet her husband, and return to Cumberland by the midnight train. You understand?”
“I can’t say as I do, sir, asking pardon, sir. If so be as the lady axes why her husband didn’t come for her hisself — what then?”
“Then say what is true — nothing more, Mrs. Drayton.”
“And happen what may that be, sir?”
“That her husband is ill — but mind — not seriously.”
“Oh, well, I can speak to that, sir, being as I saw the poor gentleman.”
Mrs. Drayton was putting on her bonnet and shawl. The flyman had fixed the luggage on top of the cab, and was standing in the bar, whip in hand.
“A glass for the driver,” said Hugh. Mrs. Drayton moved toward the counter. “No, you get into the cab, Mrs. Drayton; Mercy will serve.”
Mercy went behind the counter and served the liquor in an absent manner.
“It’s now ten-thirty,” said Hugh, looking at his watch. “You will drive first to the convent, Westminster, and from there to St. Pancras, to catch the train at twelve.”
Saying this, he walked to the door and put his head through the window of the cab. The landlady was settling herself in her seat. “Mrs. Drayton,” he whispered, “you must not utter a syllable about your son when you see the lady. Mind that. You understand?”
“Well, sir, I can’t say — being as I saw the gentleman — wherever’s Paul?”
“Hush!”
The driver came out. He leaped to his seat. In another moment the cab rattled away.
Hugh Ritson walked back into the house. The boy Jabez had come down-stairs. “When do you close the house?” Hugh asked.
“Eleven o’clock, sir,” said Jabez.
“No one here — you might almost as well close now. No matter — go behind the bar, my lad. Mercy, your eyes are more inflamed than ever; get away to bed immediately.”
Mercy’s eyes were not more red than their expression was one of bewilderment. She moved off mechanically. When she reached the foot of the stairs she turned and tried to speak. The words would not come. At length she said, in a strange voice: “You did not tell me the truth.”
“Mercy!”
“Where’s Parson Christian?” said Mercy, and her voice grew stern.
“You must not use that tone to me. Come, get away to bed, little one.”
Her eyes dropped before his. She turned away. He watched her up the stairs. So sure of hand was he that not even at that moment did he doubt his hold of her. But Mercy did not go to bed. She turned in at the open door of Drayton’s room. The room was dark; only a fitful ray of bleared moonlight fell crosswise on the floor; but she could see that the unconscious figure of Paul Ritson lay stretched upon the bed.
“And I have led you here with a lie!” she thought. Then her head swam and fell on to the counterpane. Some minutes passed in silence. She was aroused by footsteps in the passage outside. They were coming toward this room. The door, which stood ajar, was pushed open. There was no time for Mercy to escape, so she crept back into the darkness of a narrow space between the foot of the bed and the wall.
Two men entered. Mercy realized their presence in the dark room rather by the sense of touch than by the sense of hearing or sight. They walked lightly, the darkness hid them, but the air seemed heavy with their hot breath. One of them approached the bedside; Mercy felt the bed quiver. The man leaned over it, and there was a pause. Only the scarcely perceptible breathing of the insensible man fell on the silence.
“He’s safe enough still,” said a voice that thrilled her through and through. “Now for it — there’s no time to lose!”
The girl crouched down and held her breath.
“Damme if I ain’t wishing myself well out of it!” muttered another voice.
Mercy knew both men. They were Hugh Ritson and Paul Drayton.
Hugh closed the door. “What simpleton says fortune favors the brave?” he said, in a low, derisive tone. “Here is fortune at the feet of a man like you!”
Drayton growled, and Mercy heard the oath that came from beneath his breath. “I’m wanting to be out of this, and I ain’t ashamed for you to know it.”
Hugh Ritson’s light laugh came from the bedside. He was still standing by Paul Ritson’s head. “If the lord mayor came for you in his carriage, with a guard of flunkies, you would leave this house in less safety,” he said. Then he added, impatiently: “Come, waste no words; strip off that tell-tale coat.”
With this he leaned over the bed, and there was a creak of the spring mattress.
“What’s that?” said Drayton, in an affrighted tone.
“For God’s sake, be a man!” said Hugh, bitterly.
“D’ye call this a man’s work?” muttered Drayton.
The light laugh once more. “Perhaps not so manly as robbing the dead and dying,” said Hugh Ritson, and his voice was deep and cold.
Mercy heard another muttered oath. Dear God! what was about to be done? Could she escape? The door was closed. Still, if she could but reach it, she might open it and fly away.
At that instant, Hugh Ritson, as if apprehending her thought, said, “Wait,” and then stepped back to the door and drew the snap bolt. Mercy leaned against the wall, and heard the beating of her heart. In the darkness she knew that Paul Drayton had thrown off his coat. “A good riddance!” he muttered, and the heavy garment fell with a thud.
Hugh Ritson had returned to the bed-head. “Give me a hand,” he said; “raise him gently — there, I’ll hold him up — now draw off his coat — quietly, one arm at a time. Is it free? Then, lift — away.”
Another heavy garment fell with a thud.
“What’s the fence got in his other pockets, eh?”
“Come, lend your hand again — draw off the boots — they’re Cumberland make, and yours are cockney style — quick!”
Drayton stepped to the bottom of the bed and fumbled at the feet of the insensible man. He was then within a yard of the spot where the girl stood. She could feel his proximity, and the alcoholic fumes of his breath rose to her nostrils. She was dizzy, and thought she must have fallen. She stretched out one hand to save herself, and it fell on to the bed-rail. It was within a foot of Drayton’s arm.
“Take off his stockings — they’re homespun — while I remove the cravat. The pin was a present; it has his name engraved on the plate behind.”
The slant of the moonlight had died off the floor, and all was dark.
Drayton’s craven fears seemed to leave him. He laughed and crowed. “How quiet the fence is — very obliging, I’m sure — just fainted in the nick of time. Will it last?”
“Quick! strip off your own clothes and put them where these have come from. The coat with the torn lapel — where is it? Make no mistake about that.”
“I’ll pound it, no!” Drayton laughed a short, hoarse laugh.
There was some shuffling in the darkness. Then a pause.
“Hush!”
Mercy knew that Hugh Ritson had grasped the arm of Drayton, and that both held their breath. At that moment the moonlight returned, and the bleared shaft that had once crossed the floor now crossed the bed. The light fell on the face of the prostrate man. His eyes were open.
“Water — water!” said Paul Ritson, very feebly.
Hugh Ritson stepped out of the moonlight and went behind his brother. Then Mercy saw a hand before Paul’s face, putting a spirit flask to his mouth.
When the hand was raised the face twitched slightly, the eyes closed with a convulsive tremor, and the half-lifted head fell back on to the pillow.
“He’ll be quieter than ever now,” said Hugh Ritson, softly. Mercy thought she must have screamed, but the instinct of self-preservation kept her still. She stirred not a limb. Her head rested against the wall, her eyes peered into the darkness, her parched tongue and parted lips burned like fire.
“Quick! put his clothes on to your own back, and let us be gone.”
Drayton drew on the garments and laughed hoarsely. “And a good fit, too — same make of a man to a T — ex — act — ly!”
The window and the door stood face to face; the bed was on the left of the door, with the head at the door-end. The narrow alcove in which the girl stood was to the left of the window, and in front of the window there was a dressing-table. Drayton stepped up to this table to fix the cravat by the glass. The faint moonlight that fell on his grinning face was reflected dimly into the mirror.
At that moment Mercy’s sickening eyes turned toward the bed. There, in repose that was like death itself, lay the upturned face of Paul Ritson. Two faces cast by nature in the same mold — one white and serene and peaceful, the other bloated, red, smirking, distorted by passion, with cruel eyes and smoking lips.
“The very thing — the very thing — damme if his own mother wouldn’t take me for her son!”
Hugh Ritson stepped to Drayton’s side. When he spoke his voice was like a cold blast of wind.
“Now listen: From this moment at which you change your coat for his you cease to be Paul Drayton, and become Paul Ritson.”
“Didn’t you say I was to be Paul Lowther?”
“That will come later.”
“As I say, it won’t go into my nob.”
“No matter; say nothing to yourself but this, ‘I am to pretend to be Paul Ritson.’”
“Well, now for it!”
“Ready?” asked Hugh. He returned to the bed-head.
“Ready.”
“Then give a hand here. We must put him up into your garret. When the police come for him he must seem to be in hiding and in drink. You understand?”
A low, hoarse laugh was the only answer.
Then they lifted the unconscious man from the bed, opened the door, and carried him into the passage.
Mercy recovered her stunned senses. When the men were gone she crept out on tiptoe and tripped down the passage to her own room. At the door she reeled and fell heavily. Then, in a vague state of consciousness, she heard these words passed over her— “Carry her back into her room and lock her in.” At the same instant she felt herself being lifted in a strong man’s arms.
CHAPTER XVI.
Before Gubblum Oglethorpe parted with Jabez, he tried to undo the mischief he had done. “Give us a shak’ o’ thy daddle,” he said, holding out his hand. But Jabez had not forgotten the similitude of the swine ring. He made no response.
“Dang him for a fool!” thought Gubblum. “He’s as daft as a besom.” Then Gubblum remembered with what lavish generosity he had bribed the pot-boy to no purpose. “He cover’t a shilling dammish,” he thought; “I’ll dang his silly head off!”
Jabez put down the candle and backed out of the room, his eyes fixed on the peddler with a ghostly stare.
“You needn’t boggle at me. I’ll none hurt ye,” said Gubblum. Jabez pulled the door after him. “His head’s no’but a lump of puddin’ and a daub o’ pancake,” thought Gubblum.
Then the peddler sat on the bed and began to wonder what possible reason there might be for the lad’s sudden change of temper. He sat long, and many crude notions trotted through his brain. At last he recalled the fact that he had said something about Jabez’s snout carrying a swine ring. That was the rub, sure enough. “I mak’ no doobt he thowt it was a by-wipe,” thought Gubblum.
Just as the peddler had arrived at this sapient conclusion, he heard heavy footsteps ascending and descending the ladder that stood in the passage outside. Gubblum understood the sounds to mean that the inn was so full of visitors that some of them had to be lodged even in the loft. “Ey, I shouldn’t wonder but this is a bonny paying consarn,” he thought.
He undressed, got into bed, and blew out his light. He lay awhile waiting for sleep, and thinking of the failure of his plummets to sound the depths of Jabez. Then he remembered with vexation that the lad had even laughed at him in spite of the “shilling dammish.”
“Shaf, it was no’but his guts crowkin’,” thought Gubblum; and he rolled over, face to the wall, and began to pay nasal tribute to sleep.
From the slowly tightening grip of unconsciousness Gubblum was roused to sudden wakefulness. There was a noise as of heavy shuffling feet outside his door. The peddler raised himself and listened.
“Too dark in this corner,” said a voice. “Get a light.”
Gubblum crept out of bed, held his head to the door, and listened.
There were retreating steps. Then the man who had spoken before spoke again. “Quick, there! we must catch the train at eleven fifteen.”
The voice pealed in Gubblum’s memory. He knew it. It was the voice of the last man he should have looked for in this house — Hugh Ritson.
Presently the footsteps approached, and thin fingers of light shot over Gubblum’s head into his dark room. He looked up at the door. Three small round holes had been pierced into the styles for ventilation.
“Put the candle on the floor and take the feet — I’ll go up first,” said the same voice.
Gubblum raised himself on tiptoe and tried to peer through the perforations. He was too small a man to see through. There was a chair by the side of his bed, and his extinguished candle stood on it. He removed the candlestick, lifted the chair cautiously, placed its back to the door, and mounted it. Then he saw all.
There were two men, and he knew both — the brothers Ritson. Ah! had he not said that Paul Ritson kept this inn? “I’ll shut up the whole boilin’ of ‘em next time,” thought the peddler, “Wait! what are they lugging into the pigeon loft?”
“Easy! — damme, but the fence is a weight!”
It was the hoarse voice of the other man. The candle was behind him and on the floor. It cast its light on his back. “If I could no’but get a blink frae the cannel, I’d see what’s atween them,” thought Gubblum.
The men with their burden were now at the top of the ladder.
“Twist about, and go in sideways,” muttered the voice first heard.
The man below twisted. This movement brought the full light of the candle on to the faces of all three.
“Lord A’mighty, whativer’s this?” Gubblum thought.
The burden was a man’s body. But it was the face that startled the peddler — the face of Paul Ritson.
Gubblum’s eyes passed over the group in one quick glance. He saw two Paul Ritsons there, and one of them lay as still as the dead.
A minute more of awful tension, and the door of the loft above was slammed and shut, the heavy feet of the two men descended the ladder quickly, and went down the stairs into the bar.
Gubblum listened as if with every sense. He knew that the outer door to the road had opened and closed. He heard footsteps dying away in the distance without. All was silent within the house.
Two men hastening in the night to the Hendon railway station paused at that turn of the road which leads to the police offices and jail.
“You go on and take care of yourself — I’ll follow in five minutes,” said one.
“You ain’t going to give a man away?” said the other.
There was only a contemptuous snort for answer. The first speaker had turned on his heel. When he reached the police offices, he rang the bell. The door was answered by a sergeant in plain clothes. “I’ve found your man for you,” said Hugh Ritson.
“Where, sir?”
“At the Hawk and Heron.”
“Who is he?”
“Paul Drayton. You’ll find him lying in the garret at the west end of the gable — drunk. Lose not an hour. Go at once.”
“Is the gentleman who struggled with him still staying there — Mr. Paul Ritson?”
“No; he goes back home to-night.”
“What’s his address in the country?”
“The Ghyll, Newlands, Cumberland.”
“And yours, sir?”
“I am his brother, Hugh Ritson, and my address is the same.”
“We’ll go this instant.”
“Well, take your piece of frieze with you and see if it fits. It was by the torn ulster that I recognized your man. Good-night.”
CHAPTER XVII.
As soon as the noise of the retiring steps had died away on Gubblum’s ear, he dressed himself partially, opened the door of his bedroom cautiously, and stepped into the passage. He was still in the dark, and groping with one hand, he felt for the ladder by which the two men had carried their burden to the loft above. He had grasped the lowest rungs of it, and was already some steps up, when he heard a singular noise. It was something between the cry of a child and the deep moan of a sick man. Did it come from the loft? Gubblum held his head in that direction and listened. No; the sound was from the other end of the passage. Now it was gone, and all was quiet. What a strange house was this!
