CHAPTER XVII.
LYDIA BELCHER INTERVENES.
The effect of my words astounded me. As a regiment holding itselfbravely against an attack in front will suddenly melt at anunexpected shout on its flank and collapse without striking anotherblow, so Mr. Whitmore collapsed. His jaw fell; his eyes wildlysearched the dim corners of the room; his hands gripped the edge ofthe table; he dropped slowly into the chair behind him, dragging thetablecloth askew as he sank.
With that I felt Mr. Rogers's grip on my shoulder--no gentle one, Ican assure you. He, too, had been gazing at the curate, but nowstared down, searching my face.
"You've hit him, by George! Quick, boy!--have you learnt more thanyou told me last night? Or is it only guessing?"
"Ask him," said I, "why he married Miss Isabel."
"Married! Isabel Brooks married!"--Mr. Rogers's eyes, wide andround, turned slowly from me and fastened themselves on the curate.
"Not to _him_, but to Archibald Plinlimmon. Mr. Whitmore marriedthem privately. Ask him why!"
"Why?" Mr. Rogers released me and springing on the curate, seizedhim by the collar. "Why, you unhanged cur? Why? Or better, sayit's not true--say _some_thing, else by the Lord I'll kill you hereand now!"
Mr. Whitmore slid from his chair and grovelling on the floor claspedMr. Doidge's knees. "Take him off!" he gasped. "Have mercy--takehim off! You shall hear everything, sir: indeed you shall. Onlyhave mercy, and take him off!"
"Pah!" Mr. Rogers hurled him into a corner.
"Enough, Mr. Rogers!" commanded the Rector. The two stood eyeing theculprit who, crouching where he fell, gazed up at them dumbly,pitifully, as a dog between two thrashings.
"Now, sir," the Rector continued. "You married this couple, itseems. At whose request?"
"At their own," came the answer in a whisper.
"Ay," said Mr. Rogers, "at their own request. You--not being apriest at all, or in orders, but a swindler with a forged licence--married that lady at her own request."
"Is that true?" the Rector demanded.
The poor wretch made as if to crawl towards him, to clasp his kneesagain. "Mercy!" he whined, between two sobs.
"One moment," Mr. Rogers insisted, as the Rector held up a hand."Did young Plinlimmon know of the fraud?"
"No."
"Does he know now?"
"No."
"Thank the Lord for that small mercy! For, by the Lord, I'd haveshot him without grace to say his prayers."
"Mr. Rogers!" Again the Rector lifted a reproving hand.
"You don't understand, sir. For this marriage--which isn't amarriage--Isabel Brooks gave the door to an honest man. He may be abit of a fool, sir: but since she wasn't for him, he prayed she mightfind a better fellow. That's sound Christianity, hey? I can tellyou it came tough enough. And now--" He swung round upon Whitmore."Did this man Letcher know?" he demanded.
"He did, Mr. Rogers. Oh, if you only knew what agonies of mind--"
"Stow your agonies of mind. We'll begin with those you've caused.What was Letcher's game?"
"His right name is Leicester, sir. He is Mr. Plinlimmon's cousin--or second cousin, rather--though Mr. Plinlimmon don't know it."Mr. Whitmore, with his gloss rubbed off, was fast returning to hisnative style even in speech. You could as little mistake him now fora gentleman as for a priest.
"And how does that bear on your pretty plot?"
"I will tell you, gentlemen: for when George Leicester forced me toit--and it was only under threats so terrible that you would hardlybelieve--"
"In other words, he knew enough to hang you."
"It was terrorism, gentlemen: I was his slave, body and soul.But when he came and proposed this, and never told me what he was toget by it--for the plan was all his, and I stood to win nothing,absolutely nothing--I determined to find out for myself, thinking(you see) that by getting at his secret I might put myself on levelterms."
"You mean, that you might discover enough to hang _him_. I hope yousucceeded."
"To this extent, Mr. Rogers--George Leicester and ArchibaldPlinlimmon's mother were first cousins. There were three Leicestersto begin with, as you might say--Sir Charles, who was head of thefamily and is living yet, though close on eighty, and two youngerbrothers, Archibald and Randall, both dead. Sir Charles was abachelor, and for years his brothers lived with him in a sort ofdependence. Towards middle-age they both married--I was told, by hisorders--and near about at the same time. At any rate each marriedand each had a child--Archibald a daughter and Randall a son.Archibald's daughter--he died two years after her birth--was broughtup by her uncle, Sir Charles, who made a pet of her; but she spoilther prospects by marrying a poor soldier, Captain Plinlimmon.She ran away with him. And the old man would never speak to heragain, nor see her, but cut her out of his will."
"I see. And she--this daughter of Archibald Leicester--wasArchibald's Plinlimmon's mother. Is she living?"
"Mrs. Plinlimmon died some years ago," I put in.
"Hey? What do _you_ know about all this?" asked Mr. Rogers.
"A little, sir," I answered.
"But what little you know--does it bear this man's story out?"
"Yes, sir."
"It's as well to have some check on it, for I'd trust him just so faras I could fling him by the eyebrows."
"There was no profit for me in this business, Mr. Rogers," protestedWhitmore. "I'm telling you the truth, sir!" And indeed the poorrogue, having for the moment another's sins to confess, rattled onwith his story almost glibly. "As I was saying, sir, the old man cuther out of his will: and not only this, but had a Bible fetched andtook his oath upon it that no child of hers should ever touch a pennyof his money. Be so good as to bear that in mind, sir, for it'simportant."
"I see," Mr. Rogers nodded. "So that cuts out Master Archibald.And the money, I suppose, went to her brother's child--the boy youspoke of?"
"Softly sir, for now we come to it. That boy--Randall Leicester'sson--was George Leicester--the man who calls himself Letcher.Randall Leicester lived long enough to have his heart broken by him.He started in the Navy, with plenty of pocket-money, and betterprospects; for Sir Charles turned all his affection over to him andmeant to make him his heir. But--if you knew George Leicester,gentlemen, as I do! That man has a devil in him; and the devilshowed himself early. First there was an ugly story about a woman--aplanter's wife in one of the West India islands, where he was servingunder Abercromby--Santa Lucia, I think, or it may have been St.Vincent. They say that after getting her to run with him, he lefther stranded and bolted back to the ship with his pockets full of herjewels. On top of that came a bad business at Naples--an affair ofcards--which cost him his uniform. After that he disappeared, andfor years his uncle has believed him to be dead."
"Then who gets the money?"
"There's the villainy, sir"--he spoke as if indeed he had taken nohand in it. "Sir Charles, you see, had vowed never to leave it toyoung Plinlimmon: but it seems he's persuaded himself that the oathdoesn't apply to young Plinlimmon's children, should he marry andhave children. To whom else should it go? 'Lawful heirs of hisbody': and if the inheritance is made void by bastardy, you see, heturns up as the legitimate heir and collars the best of theproperty."
"My God!" shouted Mr. Rogers, and would have leapt on him again hadnot the Rector, with wonderful agility for his years, flung himselfbetween. "You dare to stand there and tell me that, to aid thisdevilry, you pushed a woman into shame--and that woman IsabelBrooks?"
"Mr. Rogers," the Rector implored, "control yourself! I know betterthan you--every man knows who has been a parish priest--what vilenessa man can be guilty of to save his skin. Reserve your wrath forLeicester, but let this poor creature be--he has an awful expiationbefore him--and consider with me if the worst of this evil cannot beremedied." He turned to the curate. "You have the registers--theparish papers? Where are they? Here?"
Whitmore nodded towards a door in the corner.
"I
s the licence for this marriage among them? Give me the key."
The curate seemed to search in his pocket for a moment; then jerked ahand towards the door, as if meaning that no key was necessary.The Rector strode across to search.
"By God, it shall be remedied!" Mr. Rogers shouted. "Rector!"
The old man turned.
"Well?" he asked.
"You can marry them yet?"
"To be sure I can. And if the licence is in order, little time needbe lost. Let me search for it."
"Man, there's no time to lose! The North Wilts Regiment sailsto-morrow night for Portugal. I heard the news as I left Plymouth."
"If that's so," I put in, "Plinlimmon will be down at the cottageto-night, or to-morrow morning to say good-bye."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Sure," said I. "Miss Isabel told me that he had his Colonel'spromise."
Mr. Rogers slapped his thigh. "Egad, boy, it seems to me you're thegood angel in this business! We'll send down to the Cottage atonce."
He pulled a dog-whistle from his pocket and blew two shrill callsupon it. But above the second sounded the Rector's voice in a sharpexclamation, and we spun round in time to see him fling back the doorin the corner. It opened on a lighted room.
I was running towards this door to see what his exclamation mightmean when at the other appeared the constable whom Mr. Rogers called"Jim"--a youngish man, and tall, with a round head set like a buttonon top of a massive pair of shoulders.
"You whistled for me, sir?"
"I did. You will not be wanted to keep watch any longer. Step downto Minden Cottage and give this note to Miss Brooks." He pulled outa pencil, searched his pockets, found a scrap of paper, and, leaningover the table, scribbled a few lines. "If Miss Brooks has gone tobed, you must knock her up."
"Very good, sir." Constable Jim touched his hat and retired.
"And now what's the matter in there? Come along, you Whitmore.Has he found the licence?"
But this was not what the Rector's cry had announced. The room intowhich we passed had apparently served Mr. Whitmore for a bed-chamberand private study combined, for a bed stood in the corner, and abookcase and bureau on either side of the chimneypiece. In themiddle of the floor lay an open valise, and all around it a litter ofbooks and clothes, tossed here and there as their owner had draggedthem out to make a selection in his packing.
Mr. Rogers uttered a long whistle. "So you were bolting?" He staredaround, rubbing his chin, and fastened his eyes again on Whitmore."Now why to-night?"
"My conscience, Mr. Rogers--"
"Oh, the devil take your conscience! Your conscience seems to havetimed matters pretty accurately. Say that your nose smelt a rat.But why to-night?"
I cannot say wherefore; but, as he stared around, a nausea seemed totake the unfortunate man. Perhaps, the excitement of confessionover, the cold shadow of the end rose and thrust itself before him.He was, I feel sure, a coward in grain. He swayed and caught at theledge of the chimneypiece, almost knocking over one of the twocandles which burned there.
With that there smote on our ears the sounds of two voices inaltercation outside--one a woman's high contralto. Footsteps camebustling through the outer room and there stood on the threshold--Miss Belcher.
She was attired in a low-crowned beaver hat and a riding habit theskirt of which, hitched high in her left hand, disclosed a pair oftall boots cut like hessians. On this hand blazed an enormousdiamond. The other, resting on her hip, held a hunting-crop and apair of gauntleted gloves.
"I bid ye be quiet, Sam Hodgson," she was saying to the expostulatingconstable. "Man, if you dare to get in my way, I'll take the whip toye. To heel, I say! 'Mr. Rogers's orders?' Damn your impidence,what do I care for Mr. Rogers? Why hallo, Jack!--"
As her gaze travelled round the room, Mr. Rogers stepped up andaddressed the constable across her.
"It's all right, Hodgson: you may go back to your post. Begad,Lydia," he added as the constable withdrew, "this is a queer hour fora call."
But Miss Belcher's gaze moved slowly from the Rector--whose bow sheanswered with a curt nod--to me, and from me to the figure ofWhitmore by the fireplace.
"What's wrong?" she demanded. "Lord, if he's not fainting!"--and asshe ran, the curate swayed and almost fell into her arms."Brandy, Jack! I saw a bottle in the next room, didn't I? No, thankye, Rector. I can manage him."
As Mr. Rogers hurried back for the brandy, she lifted the man andcarried him, rejecting our help, to an armchair beside the window.There for a moment, standing with her back to us, she peered into hisface and (as I think now) whispered a word to him.
"Open the window, boy--he wants air," she called to me, over hershoulder.
While I fumbled to draw the curtains she reached an arm past me andflung them back: and so with a turn of the wrist unlatched thecasement and thrust the pane wide. In doing so she leaned the weightof her body on mine, pressing me back among the curtain-folds.
I heard a cry from the Rector. An oath from Mr. Rogers answered it.But between the cry and the answer Mr. Whitmore had rushed past meand vaulted into the night.
"Confound you, Lydia!" Mr. Rogers set down the tray with a crash,and leapt over it towards the window, finding his whistle and blowinga shrill call as he ran. "We'll have him yet! Tell Hodgson to takethe lane. Oh, confound your interference!"
Across the yard a clatter of hoofs sounded, cutting short his speech.
"The gate!" he shouted, clambering across the sill.
But he was too late. As he dropped upon the cobbles and pelted offto close it, I saw and heard horse and rider go hurtling through theopen gate--an indistinguishable mass. A shout--a jet or two ofsparks--a bang on the thin timbers as on a drum--and the hoofs werethudding away farther and farther into darkness.
The Adventures of Harry Revel Page 17
