The paper fluttered from his grasp, his flabby cheeks grew white, and his lips opened to whisper the name — Theresa Leighton.
Then his miserly soul was filled with envy and a sort of rage. He fell to reviling himself for not having bought the ticket from his housekeeper without stopping to consider whether she would have sold it, and utterly oblivious of his own moral attitude towards gambling. Like many another he confined his moral objections to the unprofitable.
His mental anger was suddenly interrupted by another thought. What if Mrs. Leighton were yet in ignorance of her good fortune? He knew that it would take perhaps two or three days to trace the lucky ticket. What could he do in two or three days? Buy it from her? No. That was out of the question. She would divine his motive for wasting six shillings.
He thought hard for some moments — harder than he had ever thought in his life — and at last the only solution presented itself. He must marry her. But how could it be done in two or three days? There was Sharpe. Sharpe would know; he had been in a lawyer’s office.
Andreas slipped down from his stool, and shuffled quickly into the outer office. In his quiet, unobtrusive way, he sneaked up to Sharpe’s desk, and peering at him through his spectacles in a strangely perturbed fashion.
“Mr. Sharpe,” he whispered, timidly. “Will you come and have a drink with me?”
In the profoundest amazement, Fred Sharpe turned round and stared at the little German.
“I beg your pardon,” he said at last.
“Will you come and have a drink with me?”
Without another word, Sharpe reached out for his hat. He was a young gentleman of twenty-one who cut a lordly figure in the world on twenty-five shillings a week and reversible cuffs. Schumacher was not his ideal companion, but a drink was a drink, and Schumacher, for some mysterious reason, was going to pay for it.
Intimating to his fellow clerks that he was “just going round to the bank,” Sharpe followed Andreas out of the office, and piloted him round to a quiet little house in a back street close at hand.
He ordered a whisky and soda, whereat Schumacher winced. All unversed as he was in refreshment tariffs, he realized that a drink concocted with two fluids must be more expensive than an unmixed one. He requested a small lemonade for himself, and having gone through the agony of paying, he proceeded to obtain the requisite information and advice.
“What’s the quickest way of getting married, Mr. Sharpe?”
Mr. Sharpe eyed him with evident alarm. An idea that had occurred to him when Andreas had displayed the unusual trait of generosity was confirmed. Old Schumacher was going mad. It was only when Andreas repeated the question that he answered: “Special license.”
“That’s the quickest, is it? Well, how can I get one?”
“Thirty pounds, a reason and an affidavit that there’s no impediment.”
“Thirty pounds! Herrgott!” And he went as white as chalk. Then remembering the stake he was playing for he regained courage and his normal complexion. “What would be considered a reason?”
Sharpe supplied him with half a dozen.
“If you can substantiate any one of those, swear no impediment, the thing’s done.”
“But I can’t substantiate any one of them.”
“Then what the dickens do you want to get married for?”
Andreas ignored the question.
“Is there no other way?”
“No. You can lie, of course, but the Lord help you if they find you out.”
Schumacher realized that he would have to lie, and accepted his fate with surprising resignation.
“Supposing I get the license, when can I be married?”
“If you look sharp you might do it tomorrow morning. But you’ll have to look very sharp.”
That was enough. Schumacher ordered another drink for his matrimonial mentor, and proceeded to learn from him what he should do and say. How he should explain his haste to the Bishop and how substantiate his explanation in all necessary details.
Then Schumacher returned to the office, and having informed old Mr. Hartmann that he was feeling very ill, he got into his green overcoat — originally it had been black — and left. Sharpe saw him go, and half an hour later a wonderful story was current in the establishment.
Meanwhile, Schumacher went straight to the bank, and, for the first time in his life, he drew a check. He drew thirty pounds and ten shillings — the ten shillings he thought might be necessary for his wedding expenses.
With the notes safely stowed away in his breast pocket, he reached Bloomsbury three-quarters of an hour later, and alarmed Mrs. Leighton by the unusual event.
He told her that he didn’t feel well, and so he had thought that a few days’ holiday would do him good. She applauded his resolution. Indeed, he looked anything but well — the anxiety that was consuming him gave him a sickly air.
Fools are often cunning. But the cunning displayed by Andreas on this occasion might have done credit to a clever man. In five minutes he was able to breathe freely, in the conviction that she knew nothing of the result of the “Fortuna Gesellschaft” lottery.
Then he went craftily to work. He had thought it all out on his way home, and what he said made Theresa Leighton realize to the full how she had misjudged his character, and how bitterly she had wronged him hitherto.
He was growing old, he said, and the slight indisposition he felt that day had reminded him that it might not be very long before he would have to pay the debt of the flesh and visit another world — whether a better one or otherwise, he did not specify.
“You have been very good to me, Theresa,” he simpered. “And the thought struck me what would become of you if I die. You are getting old, dear friend, and you cannot work very much longer. I have savings. I have two thousand pounds. That would be something for you. I am fond of you.”
He stopped and breathed, whilst she dropped her eyes and turned red. Then he took her thin, emaciated hand in his great, fleshy paw, and with a clever shake in his voice: “Will you marry me?” he inquired, softly.
“Oh, Mr. Shoemaker!”
“Will you marry me?” he repeated.
She was silent for a moment, and during that moment she considered the situation.
She compared him to her late husband. The gay, handsome, drunken Mr. Leighton was very different indeed, and how passionately he had wooed her! Andreas proposed like a jellyfish. But Andreas had two thousand pounds and an income of three hundred a year. Then, what he had said of her position was only too true; she was growing old. Altogether she had much to gain from accepting him. He was evidently fond of her. So in the end she raised her eyes and whispered her acquiescence.
Had he ever read a novel he would have known what was expected of him. He would have gathered her to his adipose bosom, and impressed the bond-sealing kiss upon her lips — there is a world of wooing deportment to be gathered from a novel. But Andreas knew nothing and cared less about such trivial pastimes.
With an anxiety that brought great beads of perspiration to his brow, he proceeded to tell her how he had hoped for this; how he had resolved whilst walking home that day that if she consented, they should avail themselves of his present holiday to get married at once and have a day or two in the country.
She thought it very sudden, but he explained that his holiday would be so very short that they had best do as he suggested. Moreover, he added with sudden inspiration, they were both growing old, and they had a right to grudge every moment of the life of connubial happiness that lay before them. Let them enter upon it without delay, and, if possible, get married next morning.
She was rather frightened for a moment, but no suspicion crossed her mind, and it never occurred to her that there was anything very strange in the affair. What he said appeared reasonable enough, and having no notion of the cost of a special license, there was nothing to arouse her mistrust.
And so, to be succinct, they were married the following afternoon. Andreas lost a co
uple of pounds — avoirdupois — during the twenty-four hours that preceded his marriage, out of sheer anxiety lest at the last moment she should get wind of the fortune that belonged to her.
At last when he heard her utter the fateful “I will” a great sigh of relief escaped his lips, and he felt ready to caper with joy — he would have cut rather a curious figure capering.
He was rich. Hartmann, Stoffel & Co. might go hang. He would keep no more books for them.
He drew another check for ten pounds, and they went into the country for a quiet honeymoon, abandoning themselves to the all-satisfying contemplation of each other.
At his request, Sharpe had sent him a bundle of copies of the Hamburger Tageblatt, among which was the one containing the result of the “Fortuna Gesellschaft” lottery. He read them all on the second evening of their holiday, ignoring the announcement in question. He greatly preferred that she should learn of it through another quarter.
But when a third day went by and she continued in ignorance of what had taken place, he thought it would be only kind of him to enlighten her.
He was turning the papers over in a careless way, that evening, when suddenly he uttered a sharp cry and seizing one of them he set himself to read vigorously. She raised her head at this sign of excitement.
“What is it, Andrew?”
“What was the number of your lottery ticket?” he cried.
“Five thousand four hundred,” she answered. “Why? You don’t mean to tell me that it’s won anything?”
“Won anything? Potzteufel! It’s won the big prize — five hundred thousand marks. Look!” And he held out the paper, setting his fat, unclean finger against the number.
Mrs. Andreas Schumacher did not look. She sat rigid and white, staring at him with parted lips.
“It’s your fault, Andreas,” she said. “You bullied me so about wasting money that I sold the ticket next day to Mrs. Armstrong.”
Then seeing the spasm of pain that crossed his face, and thinking — poor, unsuspecting soul! — that her harsh reproof had caused it, she forgot her loss and grew tender.
Going over to where he sat, she put her arm round his neck, and drawing his head on to her shoulder: “Never mind, dear,” she said, softly, “you were quite right in a way, and we have each other.”
“Yes,” he echoed, mechanically, “we have each other.” And as he realized fully what that meant, “we have each other,” he repeated. “Herrgott! We have each other!”
And he fainted.
THE MALEDICTION
Royal Magazine, June 1900
I stood erect and defiant, the point of my sword — to which the rash fool’s blood still clung — resting upon my boot, and with cold contempt in my glance, I let my eyes wander over the score of idle dogs that encircled me — dogs that barked, yet dared not bite.
Two of them had raised my vanquished and unconscious opponent from the ground, and were endeavouring to staunch the blood which spurted freely from the wound I had given him. The others stood around us in a circle, growling and snarling like the curs they were, but taking care to keep beyond my reach.
“It is a nasty wound, Mein Herr,” said one of those who tended the fallen man.
“The quarrel was of his own seeking,” I exclaimed, angrily, “and he received his wound in fair fight. If there be one here who says that it is not so, to him I’ll answer that he lies, and prove it upon his body if he dare to come forth and play the man.”
Their snarling was arrested by the fierceness of my tone and gesture, and albeit their looks were black and sullen enough, their tongues were silent.
I vented my contempt in a harsh laugh of derision.
“So, my masters,” I said, sheathing my sword and moving towards a point where the rabble was thinnest, “since none disputes my word, I pray you let me hence.”
A way was opened at my approach. Not for me — as I had thought at first — but for another.
A tall, spare man, in the habit of a Capuchin monk, and with the cowl drawn over his head, elbowed his way through to where I stood.
His deep-set eyes met mine, and for a moment he held my gaze with a look of mingled sorrow and anger.
“So! You have been at your foul work again, Master von Huldenstein,” he said in even, solemn tones that brought the blood to my face.
“You presume upon the safety of your sack-cloth,” I answered hotly.
“And you, you presume upon the death of the Duke of Retzbach,” he retorted with a show of righteous indignation. “When the Duke lived the edict was enforced, and men of your kidney were appalled from the ways of murder by the grim shadow of the Schwarzenbaum gibbet. But take heed, sir,” he continued, raising his voice, “you shall not pursue your accursed trade with impunity. I will appeal to the King if need be, and you shall learn that there is still justice and retribution in Schwerlingen.”
White with passion I stepped up to him, but he brushed me aside with a gesture almost of scorn, and my tongue — usually so nimble — clove to my teeth.
He bent over the unconscious man, whilst I looked on quivering with rage, and vainly racking my brain for a fitting answer.
Presently he turned to me again with flashing eyes.
“This man may die, sir,” he cried. “Do you hear me? He may die!”
“Then do your shaveling’s trade, and shrive him,” I answered with callous cynicism.
Wonder and indignation seemed to choke his utterance for a moment. Then —
“Oh, God will punish you, you son of Cain,” he exclaimed. “Your own murderous sword shall work your undoing, and if ever in your wasted life there should open out a way for better things” — he raised his right hand aloft, and his gaunt frame seemed to dilate and grow before my fascinated eyes— “may your accursed sword prove an insuperable barrier. In such an hour, if ever it should come to you, may God’s curse strike you, and may His vengeance lay you low!”
A shudder ran through the crowd, as much at the words as at the frightful tone in which they were delivered, and many crossed themselves as if that monk had been the Devil.
“Silence, priest,” I muttered, stepping close up to him, with my eyes on his. “Do not drive me to do that which I might regret hereafter.”
“Hence, hence!” he retorted boldly enough. “There is more already on your soul than—”
He stopped abruptly. Almost unconsciously I had half drawn my dagger, and his eyes caught the glitter of steel. The colour left his cheeks, and he fell back mumbling some Latin fragments.
I laughed at his sudden fears, and pushing back my poniard I turned to depart. The crowd made a way for me in silence, and thus I passed out of his presence. I retraced my way to the city which half-an-hour earlier I had left in the company of him who now lay between life and death, tended by a vulgar rabble and a Capuchin monk.
The sun was setting as I passed beneath the arch of the Heinrichsthor, and little did I dream of all that would come to pass before it rose again, or of how the dawn would find me.
I stalked moodily along towards the inn of the Sword and Crown, where, methought, I was likely to find an evening’s entertainment.
In my heart I carried many an evil thought against the priest who had dared to beard me in public, and launch upon my head his puerile malediction, but scarcely one for the poor wretch I had transixed, and who — for aught I knew or cared — might die before morning.
From the scene of my encounter to the Sword and Crown inn I had come direct, and at a fair pace, yet the news of what had taken place was there before me. Even as I set my foot upon the lintel, old Armstadt came hurrying forward, his wonted suave and obsequious manner laid aside and replaced by a rude and offensive bearing that was new to me.
“Not into my house, Master von Huldenstein,” he cried harshly, barring my way with his burly frame. “You shall find no fresh victims beneath my roof.”
This was plain speaking — and from a scullion to whose house I had brought endless custom! Herrgott
! had I lived to be refused admittance to a tavern, and insulted by a gutter-bred wine-seller?
“Sacrament! You do not mince your words, you knave. Stand aside!” I thundered advancing a step.
But he did not budge.
“This house is mine,” he answered insolently, “and mine it is to guard its reputation. Shall I have it said that the Sword and Crown is a harbour for assassins and deriders of priests? Away with you!”
For a moment I looked about me in doubt, anger bidding me punish the insolent hound as he deserved, prudence telling me to begone.
Three or four passers-by had already stopped, curious to see the outcome of this unusual altercation. To own myself beaten and withdraw beneath their eyes was hurtful to my pride. And yet, to linger and persist in a desperate endeavour might provoke a scene from which withdrawal would be still more humiliating.
With a dull feeling of baffled rage, I realised that I must go; and so I went with the best show of dignity I could muster, and watching to see if any of the onlookers dared to comment upon my going. By my soul, if one of them had so much as smiled I would have picked a quarrel with him. But knowing me, they were wise, and let me go in peace.
Clearly I realised as I quitted the threshold of the Sword and Crown, how the wine-shop was from that hour symbolical to me of the attitude of all Schwerlingen. The town was closed to me. Go where I might the same reception would await me. To remain in the capital of Sachsenberg I must starve, and starving is an unpleasant occupation.
I realised to the full how much the Capuchin’s malediction was accountable for this, and in my heart I repaid that meddling monk with curse for curse.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 497
