Collected works of j s f.., p.20
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 20
And then Rose became seriously alarmed. She began to beat upon the door with her hands, and called out. And suddenly the door opened, and Simon Murgatroyd appeared, pale, resolute.
He struck a match and lighted the swinging lamp in the cabin. And then he turned and locked the door again. Rose faced him.
“Mr. Murgatroyd,” she cried, “what is the meaning of this? Where are we? I feel the boat moving. Where is Leonard? Oh, you are not deceiving me in all this, are you?”
Simon folded his arms and looked at her. “Miss Aylmer,” he said in a low voice, “when a man is madly, terribly in love, he will do anything — anything! Listen, Rose Aylmer. I have loved you, oh, for many and many a year, and watched and waited and schemed to win you. Chance has favoured me — you are mine!”
“Yours?”
“Yes, mine, without a chance of escape. This vessel is twelve hours out at sea. Every man on board is my paid servant, and you and I are the only passengers. We are bound for Spain, where no English law can reach me. There you will marry me, Rose.”
“Never, Simon Murgatroyd, never!”
“We will see. Who will help you? Your father is dead; your lover is dead, too!”
“Leonard — dead!” she cried, “Oh! when? how?”
“He was killed at Millford the day after your lather’s suicide. Do you remember reading in the papers of a young man being killed in the streets whom it was impossible to identify? That man was Leonard Aylmer.”
He thought she would have fainted for a moment, for she turned white, and reeled as though she would have fallen; but she recovered in a moment or two, and turned to Simon again.
“And you think, villain, that I would marry you — you, who have trapped me aboard this vessel by means of foul lies, by means of promises to —— Oh!” she cried, “are men so wicked, so cruel, as this? Let me pass, Simon Murgatroyd, let me pass, I cannot breathe here.”
He opened the door readily enough, and stood aside. He even offered her his hand to help her up the companion ladder; but she pushed past him, and went on deck. Captain Jansenn, his mate, and a few of the little crew were standing about. The two officers winked at each other; the seamen made way for her. She went to the side of the vessel.
It was dark then, but over the waves came the gleam of lights on shore. The night was calm and frosty, the stars shone brightly above. Rose turned to an old man who was smoking his pipe close by.
“What town is that?” she asked, pointing to the lights.
“That, ma’am, is Dover.”
“Are we far from it?”
“A matter o’ two or three miles, ma’am.”
Miss Aylmer turned to the man with the black beard and sinister eye, whom she recognized as the person who had handed her aboard.
“If you are the captain, sir,” she said, “you will at once alter your course, and land me at Dover, I have been most shamefully entrapped on board, your vessel. And I warn you that wherever you take me to I will tell the authorities of what has been done, and have everybody concerned in this outrage punished.” But Captain Jansenn only laughed and pulled his heard, and appealed to Simon. The men stared at her stolidly, and no one ventured to speak. And presently the poor girl sank down on a seat, and looked with despairing eyes at the friendly far-off lights, “It’s a damned shame, Bill,” said one salt to another, “and I wish we were out of it. These here things is always unlucky, so they are. I remember—”
Suddenly out of the darkness close by, rising up like an angry spirit, loomed the bows of a huge vessel, coming straight on to the starboard quarter of the Hawk. Vain to shout, to scream, to swear, to call loudly for help; the great ship came on the tiny steamer like an avalanche, and cut her down to the water. There was a crash, and shrieks, and curses and then the Hawk, cut in two as by a knife went down fore and aft, while her destroyer sailed across the place with scarce a tremor in the length of her great bulk.
CHAPTER XV.
IN LIFE OR DEATH.
IT IS I, Rose Aylmer, who must write what remains to be written of this history. Nobody, I think, but a woman could write it, because only a woman can properly understand it. Now, when eight years have gone by, I can never think of that terrible time without feeling something of the horror that I then experienced. Nor can I forget the poor girl Andrewlina, about whom this story has been written.
I had almost given myself up to despair on board the Hawk. Remember, you who say that one should be brave under all circumstances, how terribly I had been deceived, how cruelly wronged. I had been entrapped into a long night-journey to London, left for hours in a strange house, brought on board a ship where there was no other woman and no friend, and all under the belief that I was going to the sick-bed of the man I loved, and whom I had not seen for a year. And then, undeceived, I had been told that Leonard, my lover, was dead, killed, crushed to death in my own town, and I had never known of it. Was there any wonder that I should give way to despair, as I saw the lights on shore, knowing that I was being carried away from them, a defenceless woman in the midst of bad and cruel men?
As I sat by the vessel’s side, feeling that death in the cold dark waves below would be better than life with these men around me, I saw a shape rise out of the darkness and bear down upon the Hawk. I saw, being too frightened myself to speak or move, men rushing up and down the decks; I heard shouts, screams, blasphemous execrations of anger and despair. And then I felt a shock that ran all through the little Hawk and made her stagger, even as a tree staggers when the final stroke of the axe is laid at its roots. And then there came a rushing of waters, and supplications for mercy and help from the lips that not a minute before had cursed and blasphemed. I felt a hand seize me; I was lifted up, carried I knew not where. And then came an interval in which I knew nothing, but when consciousness came back to me I was lying in bed, and a kindly faced woman was bending over me.
I do not know whose fault it was that the collision took place, nor where the blame lay; but the people into whose hands I had fallen, the people of the merchantman City of York, were most kind to me, and I could not, considering the circumstances, regard the accident as anything but an interposition of Providence to release me from a fate worse than death.
The stewardess, attending to me, told me that the ship, which was little damaged, was heading now for Dover, where I and the other survivors were to he landed. She had cruised round the spot for an hour after the accident, and had picked up two men. These, with the man who had lifted me over the bows of the City of York as they cut down the Hawk, were the only ones saved; and I wondered, as she told me this, if it was to Simon Murgatroyd that I owed my life.
I went up on deck presently, dressed in the stewardess’s clothes, and there the three men from the Hawk were brought to me; and I knew that they were all seamen, and that Simon Murgatroyd and the black-bearded captain, who had laughed at my appeal for help, were lost. They had paid the penalty of their many crimes, for they were both very wicked men, as events afterwards proved, and had gone to meet their doom. And, awful as it was, I think I felt thankful that my enemy could no longer harm me. He had been a bad man, and he came, as all bad men do, to a bad end. And whether, in that terrible moment, he had time to make one prayer for forgiveness or to repent him of his evil deeds, who can say? Let us hope that he had.
I told my story to the captain of the City of York, and called on the three Seamen of the Hawk to corroborate it. This they did willingly, for they were honest men who did not like Captain Jansenn, and cared less for deeds of wrong and violence; and the captain, who had been full of grief at having run the Hawk down, began, as he heard my tale, to think, as I thought, that Providence had made him the instrument of its vengeance upon my enemies.
And so we came to Dover and were landed, the captain of the City of York going with us on shore to tell his tale to the authorities and to send me back to Millford. I was ill by that time, and felt ready to drop with fatigue and sorrow; for, when: the excitement passed away, I began to remember that Leonard was dead, and that I was alone. Conceive what trouble for a girl whose father had been dead — and what a death! — but twelve days, and who was already full of grief on his account. Now both were gone, father and lover, and I was alone.
The landing-stage was, crowded with people, and the news of the collision being rapidly whispered about amongst the crowd, they came up eagerly to watch us land. And as I walked up the gangway leaning on the captain’s arm, and scarce able to hold up my head for grief, I heard a voice which sounded familiar to me, and, looking up eagerly, I saw the American Mr. Cadd, who had also caught sight of me and was endeavouring to break through the crowd so that he might reach my side.
He pushed the men before him out of the way and came up and seized my hands. Two or three times he opened his mouth to speak, but words seemed to fail him. His face beamed all over, and tears ran out of his eyes and down his cheeks. He put his arms round me and actually hugged me; and it was impossible to he angry with him, for he was so delighted.
He said a few words to the captain, and then took me under his arm and led me to an hotel close by, conducting me to a private room facing the sea.
“This,” he said, as we ascended the stairs, “is a dispensation of Providence. There was a time in my career when I should hev improved the occasion. Not bein’ in the preach in’ biz any longer, however, I will allow the occasion to improve itself.”
We entered the room. A strange object, illshaped, ugly, but with, oh, such eager eyes, darted forward and seized upon Mr. Cadd; and recovering from my surprise at seeing her, I recognized Andrewlina, Simon Murgatroyd’s servant, I had seen her once before at my father’s warehouse, and those who had once seen her could not easily forget her terrible ugliness.
“Maister! “she cried, “hev yo heeârd ony news? Has he escaaped? Dooan’t let’s gooa aht i’ t’ boat to catch him, maister. Let him good free.”
And then, I think, I began to understand something of the matter. I had wondered why Mr. Cadd was there. I turned to him now and asked him to tell me about it.
“First, ma’am,” said he, “let me inform you that I hev discovered where pard is. He is ill, certainly, but I have just had a telegram to say he has got a turn for the better.”
I looked at him for an instant, not understanding him, and then it dawned on me that he was speaking of Leonard, I sprang to my feet with a glad cry.
“Oh,” I cried, “he is not dead — he is alive! Oh, thank God, thank God!”
And then I laughed and cried together while Mr. Cadd told me all his wonderful tale. And again I thought that nothing but the hand of Divine Justice could have so surely brought about the punishment of Simon Murgatroyd.
“And now,” said Mr. Cadd, when we had each told the other all we knew and all that had happened, “we must tell the poor girl yonder that her master is dead. It beats creation that the poor critter should think such a lot of him, such a tarnation scoundrel as he was.”
But I understood something of it. I knew, because my father had often spoken of it to me, that the man Murgatroyd had been very kind to this poor deformed girl, and I knew how she was feeling. I sent Mr. Cadd away to send his detectives back to London with their warrant, and to countermand his orders for the tug, in which he said they were about to put out with the idea of intercepting the Hawk; for the man whom they wanted to arrest was beyond human laws, and the Hawk was at the bottom of the sea.
I went to Andrewlina’s side. She had gone away from me while we talked, and was now standing at the window, her face close to the pane, her eyes fixed on the dark sea outside. I touched her on the shoulder. She impatiently shook me off. “I dooan’t want to talk to yo,” she said, with something of the pettishness of a child that thinks itself ill-used. “Yo’re one on ’em ‘at wants to harm my maister. Yo dooan’t knaw him, yo dooan’t. He’s as gooid a man as ivver stepped.”
“I am sure he was good to you, Andrewlina,” I said, “and it is right that you should think well of him.”
It was hard, very hard, to have to tell her that he was dead, this man whom she worshipped; but little by little I told her the news, breaking it gradually so that it should seem less terrible.
And at last her poor dull mind comprehended it — Simon Murgatroyd was dead.
I shall never forget the look, the terrible look of anguish and despair that came over the poor thing’s face. She turned away and sat down, and folded her hands before her and looked away with eyes that saw nothing.
“Dead!” she said in a low, strange tone; “dead!”
She sat there I know not how long, never speaking, taking no heed of what I said to her. I made arrangements, with Mr. Cadd’s assistance, for remaining at the hotel all night. Now that I knew Leonard was living and on the way to recovery I felt stronger, and something of my other sorrow began to die away. On the morrow I should go to him.
But it was no easy task to persuade Andrewlina to go to her bedroom that night. She sat staring into vacancy till midnight, and she never spoke. I tried to comfort her and to coax her to go to bed; and still she sat like a statue. When she caught sight of Mr. Cadd she shuddered, and a fierce look of hate came into her eyes. So I sent him away altogether, though I was anxious to know all that he could tell me of Leonard. It was midnight when Andrewlina spoke. “Do yo think,” she said, still in that despairing voice which it was terrible to hear, “do yo think ‘at they’ll bring his body to Millford to bury? Cos Ah should like to see his graave.”
Alas! the dead man’s body was out at sea, waiting in its depth till the deep shall give up its dead. I could give her no comfort in that.
I got her to her bed at last, and watched by her till she fell asleep. If she had wept or given way to violent grief it had been better. But she sat or lay dry-eyed, always with that fixed, despairing expression on her face. It was near morning when she went to sleep. And it was well for me that I am a strong woman, for all that night I dare not leave her side.
We were to leave Dover the next day at noon. We were to travel together to London, and then Mr. Cadd was to take Andrewlina down to Millford to my friend Mrs. Lattimer, while I went to that other Millford to Leonard. I had determined to take charge of the poor girl in the future, and I wrote to Mrs. Lattimer begging her to take her in till I returned home.
She ate no breakfast that morning, and she spoke little, and then only to me. Now and then I caught sight of her glancing at Mr. Cadd, still with that fierce look of sullen hatred; and I began to think that I should have to send him to Leonard while I took Andrewlina home. It was evident that she would never forgive him for the fancied injury to her dead master.
About ten o’clock I persuaded her to go out with me. I was becoming frightened by that fixed despairing look, and I thought that a walk or drive in a strange town would, perhaps move her out of her apathy. She did as I bid her and I sent for a cab and told the driver to take us out of the town where we could walk along the beach unobserved and unnoticed by curious eyes.
The tide was rolling in when we left the cab and went down the cliffs to the shore. Andrewlina, who had never seen the sea before, fixed her eyes on the rough breakers and gazed at them wistfully. I knew what she was thinking. Somewhere, she thought, in those dancing waters, was her master. And he was dead.
We turned a corner of the cliffs, and suddenly I put out my hand, and would have drawn Andrewlina back; for there, stretched out on the rough shingle, face upwards, lying just as the waves had thrown him there, was the body of Simon Murgatroyd!
“Oh, my dear,” I cried, “come away, come! This is no sight for you.”
But she had seen the ghastly sight as soon as I, and she shook my hand off and darted forward to the dead man’s side. And she knelt down and took his head in her arms, and made a pillow for it in her lap, and looked up at me and smiled — the smile of a mad-woman!
Can you conceive it? The white cliff behind, the long, long stretch of brown sand, the tumbling waves, and there on the beach the deformed girl sitting, rocking to and fro over the body of a drowned man. Often for months after that I woke up at my husband’s side, screaming and shuddering, for I had seen it in my dreams.
I sent the cabman back to the hotel for help, telling him to inform Mr. Cadd of the circumstances, and then I went back to the beach and waited. I dare not go towards that dreadful group, for the poor hunchback’s weak reason had flown and words would have been powerless to move her.
It seemed hours before help came. They moved towards her, and I turned away, for I did not dare to see them take the dead man from her arms. But I heard no sound, and presently I ventured to look round, and then I saw that Andrewlina was dead.
She sat in the same attitude, her head bending over the dead man’s face, her arms still tightly clasping him. She had looked upon him as the best and noblest of men ever since the day when he took her, a poor outcast, from the storm and cold, and her service of him had grown into love. He had become her all-in-all in life; and her dumb but eloquent devotion followed him in death. And who shall say, considering what we are, that that one good deed of this wicked man’s life did not follow him to the hereafter, there to plead for him against the evil that he had wrought?
THE END
Mr. Spivey’s Clerk (1890)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
The first edition’s title page
CHAPTER I.
AN EVENING WALK.
ABOUT HALF-WAY DOWN Paternoster Row there was, not many years ago, a small shop, which bore above its window the name of Spivey, Publisher and Bookseller, and was not otherwise distinguished from the adjacent establishments. What its number was has now slipped from my memory; nay, I do not remember that in the time of my acquaintance with it it ever had a number. The letters which were delivered there never bore a number; and the booksellers’ collectors, who came to the place with blue or black bags across their shoulders, never knew it by any other term than “Spivey’s.” Not that Spivey’s possessed any features likely to attract. I believe, speaking from memory, that it was a very dirty shop as regards its exterior appearance. The door and window-frames had grown dingy from much rubbing. The Row is exceedingly narrow just there, and the top half of the large sheets of glass had evidently not seen the charwoman’s mop or leather for some years. The lower half was painted with white lead, so that no one might peer into the shop, lest they should catch glimpses of the mysteries of the publishing craft. But Mr. Spivey’s various office-boys had thought it well to have an occasional peep into the Row, and they had therefore scratched minute portions of the paint away, so that the painted half bore something of a piebald appearance. There was generally a contents bill hanging in the square of glass which ornamented the top panel of the door; but the latter was always so dingy that I question whether any one could read it. Nevertheless, as Mr. Spivey published a magazine and also a weekly paper, it was necessary that a contents bill should be displayed somewhere about the establishment, and accordingly the magazine bill was posted in the door, and the weekly paper in the window. The titles of both magazine and journal were painted in neat black letters on the door-post, but I am not going to tell you what they were just now.
