by W. W. Jacobs
Susan was very quick. The cork popped; the glasses foamed and fizzed."Now we will have one glass each," the Professor said. "I think, it willkill me at this hour, and if my wife catches me she will send me to bed;so we must be very quick. Now, this is your health, George. God blessyou and good luck!"
He drained his glass like the brave old boy that he was; and when hiseyes had done streaming, and he had finished gasping and choking, badeSusan hurry away the signs of the dreadful deed before her mistressshould catch her.
"And now tell me your plans, George. Which road to Harley Street, eh?"
Then George poured into those kindly old ears all the tragic story--thegirl he was going to marry; the practice he was going to buy; thewrecker who had wrecked his fair ships ere ever he had put to sea.
There were in the Professor's nature no sympathies that enabled him evento comprehend miserliness in any degree. Made aware of the taint in Mr.Marrapit, he became red and furious in his abhorrence of it. With snortsand fumes he punctuated the recital; when it closed, burst out: "Why,but it is yours! the money is yours. It is misappropriation."
"That's just what I say."
"Well, he must be made to give it you." George laughed grimly. "I saythat, too. But how?"
"Are you certain of your facts, George?"
"I've been to Somerset house and seen my mother's will."
"Legally, then--we'll get it out of him by law."
"I've thought of that," George said. "I don't think it is possible.Look, the passage runs like this. I have it word for word. 'To mybrother Christopher Marrapit 4000 pounds, and I desire him to educate inthe medical profession my son George.' Not even 'with which I desirehim,' you see. I don't think there's any legal way of getting the moneyI want--the five hundred."
II.
For full ten minutes Professor Wyvern made no answer. He stared in thefire, and every now and again one of his little chuckles set his bentold shoulders bobbing. Upon a longer chuckle they waggled for aspace; then he turned to George. "Not legally; well, then, what aboutillegally, George?"
George did not comprehend.
"A very bad notion has come into my head," the Professor continued. "Iought to be ashamed of it, but I am not. I think it would be very funny.I think your uncle would deserve it. I am sure it would be very funny,and I think it would be proper and justifiable."
"Go on," George said. "Tell me."
The Professor's old shoulders bobbed about again. "No, I will not tellyou," he said. "I will not be a party to it; because if my wife foundout she would send me to bed and keep me there. But I will tell you alittle story, George. If it sets up a train of action that you like tofollow--well, I think it will be very funny. Only, don't tell me."
"I say, this is mysterious. Tell me the story."
"Yes, I will. This is the story. When I was a student in Germany we hada professor called Meyer. He wore a wig because he was quite bald. Hewas very sensitive about his baldness and would have no one know--but weknew. Upon one afternoon there was a great violinist who was coming toplay at our town. All the professors announced that for this occasionthey would postpone the lectures they should then have given, so thattheir classes might attend the concert. But this Professor Meyer saidthat he would not postpone his lecture. It was a link in a series, youunderstand--not to be missed,--so his class, of which I was one; werevery furious. We told him that we were entitled to a holiday this daysince all had it, but he would not hear us. We were very angry, forthis holiday was our right. Now, also, one week before the concert theburgomaster of our town was to give a great banquet to the celebrationof the centenary of a famous citizen. Here our Professor Meyer was tomake a speech. Well, when he remained adamant, determined to give usno holiday, we had a great meeting, and thus we arranged to procurethe holiday that was ours by right. Our plot was justified by hismulishness. He should lose the thing he most cherished--he should losehis wig two days before his banquet with the burgomaster. One of uswould take his wig, seizing him as by night he walked to his rooms.Before his distress we should be most sympathetic, offering every aid.Perchance he would encourage our efforts by offer of the prize we mostdesired. The plot worked, with no misadventure, to a brilliant triumph.We took the wig. We enveloped him in our sympathy. 'Search out andrestore my wig,' said he, 'and you shall have your holiday.' Then wefound his wig and we enjoyed the holiday that was our right. That is thestory," Professor Wyvern ended.
Mystification clouded George's face. He pushed out a leg, stared at thetoe. He stared at the fire; at the Professor, chuckling and rubbinghis hands, he stared. His brain twisted the story this way and that,striving to dovetail it into his own circumstances.
In such a process the eyes are the mouth of the machine whence thecompleted manufacture sends forth its sparkling. But while the mechanismtwists and turns the fabrics there is no sparkle--the eyes are cloudedin thought, as we say.
The eyes that George turned upon toe, upon fire, and upon ProfessorWyvern, were dull and lack-lustre. The machine worked unproductive;there was a cog that required adjustment, a lever that wanted a pull.
George sought the foreman machinist; said slowly: "But I don't see howthe story helps me?"
"Well, you must think over it," Professor Wyvern told him. "I darenot tell you any more. I must be no party to the inference that can bedrawn. But do you not see that the thing our Professor cherished mostwas his wig? Now, Bill has told me that the thing your uncle cherishesabove all price is--"
Click went the machine; round buzzed the wheels; out from George's eyesshot the sparkles. He jumped to his feet, his face red. "Is his cat!" hecried. "His Rose of Sharon! I see it! I see it! By Gad, I'll do it! Lookhere now--"
"No, I will not," the Professor said. "I do not wish to know anythingabout it. I hear my wife's step."
"I understand. All right. But don't tell a soul--not even Bill."
"I cannot tell, because I do not know. But I suspect it is somethingvery funny," and the Professor burst into a very deep "Ho! ho! ho!"
"My dearest," said Mrs. Wyvern at the door, "whatever can you belaughing at so loudly?"
"Ho! ho! ho! ho!" boomed the Professor, belling like a bloodhound. "Itis something very funny."
Mrs. Wyvern kissed the thin hairs on the top of his mighty head. "DearWilliam, I do trust it was not one of those painful stories of youryoung days."
George stayed to dinner. By nine he left the house. He did not make forhome. Striking through lanes he climbed an ascending field, mounted astile, and here, with an unseeing eye upon Herons' Holt twinkling itsbedroom lights in the valley below, he smoked many pipes, brooding uponhis scheme.
III.
It was not a melancholy process. Every now and again a crack of laughterjerked him; once he took his pipe from his mouth and put up a ringingpeal of mirth that sent a brace of bunnies, flirting near his feet,wildly scampering for safety. Long he brooded....
A church clock gave him eleven. At ten he had been too deeply buried.Now his head was pushed clear from the burrow in which he had beenworking, and the sound caught his attention. No light now prickedHerons' Holt upon the dusky chart stretched beneath him. Its occupantswere abed.
"I'll do it to-night!" cried George. "I'll do it at once!"
He drew on his pipe. A full cloud of smoke came. The pipe was wellalight, and caution bidding him that it were well to bide a whileso that sleep might more cosily warm the beds of the household, hedetermined that he would have out his last smoke as plotter: his nextwould be smoked as doer of the deed.
He rehearsed his plan. A knife would slip back the catch of the windowbehind which the Rose of Sharon lay. Possessing himself of her personhe would speed to that tumbled hut in the copse. There she might lie insafety for the night: neither hut nor copse was in any man's road. Uponthe morrow, when the hideous circumstance had been discovered, he wouldbear himself as events seemed to demand. He would be boundless in hissympathy, a leader in the search. If the idea of reward did not occur toMr. Marrapit, he must sugg
est it. Unlikely that in the first momentof loss, when the Rose would still seem to be near, the reward wouldapproach the figure at which he aimed. That was for his cunning tocontrive. But obviously it would be impossible permanently to keep theRose in the hut. To-morrow, when pretending to search for her he couldguard the place where she lay; but he could not always be sentinel.The countryside would be scoured; no stone left unturned, no spinneyunbeaten.
As he saw the matter, the plan would be to get somewhere down therailway line on pretext of a clue, taking the Rose of Sharon with him;for the success of the whole scheme depended upon his concealing the catuntil Mr. Marrapit should be upon his bended knees in his distress,in deepest despair as to the Rose's recovery, and hence would betransported to deepest gratitude when it was restored to his arms.George told himself he must be prepared against the eventuality of hisuncle failing to offer in public reward so large a sum as 500 pounds.That did not greatly distress. Best indeed if that sum were offered,but, failing it, it was upon Mr. Marrapit's gratitude that Georgeultimately reckoned. Surely when he "found" the cat it would be Mr.Marrapit's natural reply to give in exchange the sum he had thatafternoon so violently refused. At the least, he could not refuse tolend it.
Early in his brooding George had decided he must not tell his Mary.First, it would be cruel to set her upon the rack of acting a partbefore Mr. Marrapit, before the household, before every questioner shemust encounter; second--second, my ignoble George had doubts as to inwhat spirit his Mary would regard this plot did he make her partner init. That it was wholly justifiable he personally would have contendedbefore archangels. This miserly uncle was keeping from him money thatwas as incontestably his own as the being which also his motherhad given him. Before all the angelic host he would thus haveprotested-without stammer, without blush; with the inspiration ofrighteousness, with the integrity of innocence. But to protest hiscause before his Mary was another matter. There might be no occasionto protest; his Mary might see eye to eye with him in the matter. Shemight; but it was an eventuality he did not care to try against a test.His Mary was a girl--and girls are in their conduct narrowed by scruplesthat do not beset men. His Mary--and this it was that would make a testso violent--his Mary was his Mary, and well he knew, and loved, thelittle heart so delicately white as instantly to discover the finestspecks of sootiness--if specks there were--in any breeze that mightcross its surface.
No, he would not tell his Mary. When the thing was done--when he, theblack-hearted rogue, had the little saint safe in the toils she wouldfind so delicious, then--then he would tell her, would silence herfrightened squeals--if she squealed--by his intention to pay back themoney, whether won as reward (which was improbable) or earned as tokenof gratitude (which was highly likely). He had only asked to borrow, andit should only be a loan.
Across the dark fields in spirit he kissed his little saint. ... Ofcourse--of course--one must admit these brutal things--of course thescheme might fail. Anything might happen to crash it about his ears.That was a deadly, dismal thought, but he flattened it from sight withthat lusty hammer that gay youth uses--"I shan't be any worse off if itdoes fail."
The smoke came through his pipe in burning whiffs. He shook it bowldownwards. Ashes and sparks fell in a shower. The pipe was done.
_Whoop! forrard!_ The game was afoot.
IV.
A moon as clear as that which shone when Bill stole to Herons' Holtto woo his blessed damosel, gave a clear light to George as now heapproached the house. He took his way across the fields, and hisprogression was that of no stealthy-footed conspirator. Two miles ofdownward-sloping land lay between the stile whereon he had brooded andthe home that his plottings were to disturb. In buoyant spirits--forthis was action, and action makes lusty appeal to youth--he trotted orgalloped as the descent was easy or sharply inclined; the low hedges hetook in great sprawling jumps, the ditches in vast giant strides--armsworking as balance-pole, humming as he ran.
Upon the lawn he became more cautious. But the moon showed Herons' Holtsleepy-eyed-blinds drawn.
The cats' parlour, back of the house, gave upon a little strip of turfthat kept away the kitchen garden. George drew his knife; approached thewindow. Now he was a criminal indeed.
To slip the catch was easy work; between upper and lower sash there wasclear space. George inserted his pen-knife. Tip of blade grated againstcatch; a little pressure--an answering movement; a little more--and,_click_, the trick was done!
Now he raised the sash, and now he is in the room. Glimmer of a matchshows him the sleeping-baskets; its steadier flame discloses the Rose,snugly curled, a little free of her silken coverlet.
Wake, now, Rose--as an older school of novelists would have addressedyou. Wake, Rose! Wake, pretty Rose! Queenly Rose, awake! Wake precious,virgin Rose! Squeal! scratch! bite! Claw those wicked hands descendinginto your pure bed! Spring like spotless maiden aroused to find ravisherat her couch! Spring, Rose, spring! Squawking news of outrage to all thehouse, bound wildly, Rose, about this room that else you shall not seeuntil through searing perils you have passed! Spring! Rose, spring!
Not Rose!
II.
The ravisher's hands descended upon her person--she only purred. Theypassed about her warm and exquisite form--she purred the more. Theytickled her as they laid hold--she stretched a leg; purred with fullernote. Perchance this virgin cat dreamed of some gallant young Tom wooingher bed; perchance these ticklings had their deliciously transfiguredplace in her visions; perchance--she only purred.
Now George tucked her beneath his arm. Legs dangled wretchedly; gallantyoung Tom leapt from her dreams and she awoke. She stirred. George had afoot upon the window-sill, and the night air ruffled her downy coat.She was pressed against bony ribs; a rough arm squeezed her wretchedly;long, poky fingers tortured her flank; her legs draggled dismally. Shevoiced protest in a plaintive, piercing, long-drawn _"Mi-aow!"_
_Clout!_
Ah, Rose! Pretty, foolish Rose--as our older school again would havewritten--why did you entertain sensuous dreams when you should have beenstirring?
_"Mi-aow!"_
_Clout!_
Too late, Rose! Too late! That beauteous head--that prize-winning headwhich from kittenhood upwards has known none other than caress, is nowa mark for battering bumps if you do but open those perfect jaws--thoseprize-winning jaws. Too late, Rose! Too late! Do not cry now, Rose! Theravisher has you. His blood congeals in terror at your plaintive cry.In his brutish panic he will answer it with thuds. Too late, Rose! Toolate!
"_Mi-aow!_"
_Clout!_
Ah, Rose, Rose!
He is outside now. "Shut up, you fat idiot!" he hisses. Squeezing heryet more villainously with one arm, with the other he draws down thesash. Through the gate, into the lane, over the stream, down the ride,into the copse--up to the hut.
The outer door hangs grinningly upon its hinges. The door going tothe inner room has a working latch; George kicks it open; elbows it tobehind him; drops the Rose with jarring plump; strikes a match. There isthe dusty pile of Old Tom bottles, there the little heap of bracken uponwhich Mrs. Major doubtless had reclined while with Old Tom she talked.Excellent!
The match goes out. He lights another. The Rose is standing forlornly athis feet. While the match lasts he lifts her to the bracken bed; pressesher down; backs out; closes the door.
His watch, put beneath the moon, tells him it is upon one o'clock. Hepulls to the outer door; wedges beneath it a stump of wood that keeps itfirmly shut; makes for home.
In an hour he is sleeping the dreamless, childlike slumber that comesto those who, setting their hand to the plough, have manfully laboured afull day's work.
CHAPTER V.
Horror At Herons' Holt.
I.
Sleep does not necessarily shun the bed of the wicked. She is a wantonmistress, and will cuddle where her fancy chances, careless whether viceor virtue is her bedfellow; coy when most eagerly supplicated, seductivewhen least desired.
Geo
rge, steeped in crime, snuggled warmly to her until aroused by a rudeshaking.
Night-capped and dressing-gowned, white-faced and trembling, awful ingrief Mr. Marrapit stood near him.
"Get up! The Rose of Sharon is lost."
"Impossible!"
"I tell you it is so. Up!"
George pushed a shaking leg out of bed. He was had unawares. As asleeper pitched sleeping into the sea, so from unconsciousness he washurled plump into the whirlpool of events. And as the sleeper thusimmersed would gulp and sink and kick, so now he blinked, shivered, andgasped.
He repeated: "Impossible!"
"I tell you it is so. I have eyes; I have been to her room." Mr.Marrapit's voice rose in a wailing cry. "I have been to her room. Gone!Gone!"
George put out the other leg--crime-steeped legs that quivered. He hadlooked for a space between awaking and meeting his uncle in which toprepare his plans, rehearse his words. This abrupt rousing stampeded hissenses. He quavered "Wher--where can she be?"
Mr. Marrapit flung up his arms. "Oh, my God! If I knew that would I behere? Up! Up! Join the searchers in the garden."
George pushed a criminal leg into his trousers. Conscience made thumbsof his fingers, trembled his joints. He hopped frantically, thrustingwith the other foot.
"Dance!" Mr. Marrapit moaned bitterly. "Dance! That is right! Why do younot sing also? This is nothing to you! Dance on! Dance on!"
