He heard them to an end. Then he looked at the bag; then at the will. Then once more at the bag; then at the will again. Then he smoothed his chin.
"It seems to me—speaking without prejudice—that this ends the matter. In the face of this the other side is left without a leg to stand upon. With this in your hand"—he was tapping the will with his finger-tip—"I cannot but think, Miss Angel, that you must carry all before you."
"So I should imagine."
He contemplated Mr. Roland.
"So you, sir, are one of the jury. As at present advised, I cannot see how, in the course of action which you have pursued, blame can in any way be attached to you. But, at the same time, I am bound to observe that in the course of a somewhat lengthy experience I cannot recall a single instance of a juryman—an actual juryman—playing such a part as you have done. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the position you have taken up is—in a really superlative degree—irregular."
Such, also, seemed to be the opinion of counsel before whom, at a matutinal hour, he laid the facts of the case. When, in view of those facts, counsel on both sides conferred before the case was opened, the general feeling plainly pointed in the same direction. And, on its being stated in open court that, in face of the discovery of the vanished will, all opposition to Miss Delia Angel would, with permission, be at once withdrawn, it was incidentally mentioned how the discovery had been brought about. All eyes, turning to the jury-box, fastened on Philip Roland, whose agitated countenance pointed the allusion. The part which he had played having been made sufficiently plain, the judge himself joined in the general stare. His lordship went so far as to remark that while he was pleased to accede to the application which had been made to him to consider the case at an end, being of opinion that the matter had been brought to a very proper termination, still he could not conceal from himself that, so far as he could gather from what had been said, the conduct of one of the jurymen, even allowing some latitude—here his lordship's eyes seemed to twinkle—was marked by a considerable amount of irregularity.
Mitwaterstraand - The Story of a Shock
*
Chapter I - The Disease
On the night before their daughter's Wedding Mr. and Mrs. Staunton gave a ball. As the festivities were drawing to a close, Mr. Staunton button-holed the bridegroom of the morrow.
"By the way, Burgoyne, there's one thing with reference to Minnie I wish to speak to you about. I—I'm not sure I oughtn't to have spoken to you before."
In the ball-room they were playing a waltz. Mr. Burgoyne's heart was with the dancers.
"About Minnie? What about Minnie? Don't you think that the little I don't know about her already, I shall find out soon enough upon my own account?"
"This is something—this is something that you ought to be told."
Mr. Staunton hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. The next morning Mr. Burgoyne was married.
During their honeymoon the newly-married pair spent a night at Mont St. Michel. In the course of that night an unpleasant incident took place. There was a bright moon, and the occupants of the bedrooms gathered on the balconies of the Maison Blanche to enjoy its radiance. The room next to theirs was tenanted by two sisters, Brooklyn girls. The costumes of these young ladies, although in that somewhat remote corner of the world, would have made an impression on the Boulevards, and still more emphatically in the Park. The married one—a Mrs. Homer Joy—wore some striking jewellery, in particular a diamond brooch, redolent of Tiffany, which would have attracted notice on a Shah night at the opera. Mr. Burgoyne had noticed this brooch earlier in the day, and had told himself that we must have returned to the days of King Alfred—with several points in our favour—if a woman could journey round the world with that advertisement in diamond work flashing in the sun.
Someone proposed a midnight stroll about the rock. They strolled. In the morning there was a terrible to-do. The advertisement in diamond work had disappeared!—stolen!—giving satisfactory proof that in those parts, at any rate, the days of King Alfred were now no more.
Mrs. Joy stated that, previous to starting for the midnight ramble about the Mount, she had placed it on her dressing-table, apparently despising the precaution of placing it even in an ordinary box. She was not even sure that she had closed her bedroom door, so it had, of course, struck the eye of the first person who strolled that way, and, in all probability, that person had, in the American sense, "struck it." Mont St. Michel was still in a little tumult of excitement when Mr. and Mrs. Burgoyne journeyed on their way.
Oddly enough, this discordant note, once struck, was struck again—kept on striking, in fact. At almost every place where the honeymooners stopped for an appreciable length of time there something was lost. It seemed fatality. At Morlaix, a set of quaint, old, hammered silver-spoons, which had accompanied their coffee, vanished—not, according to the indignant innkeeper, into thin air, but into somebody's pockets. It was most annoying. At Brest, Quimper Vannes, Nantes, and afterwards through Touraine and up the Loire, it was the same tale, the loss of something of appreciable value—somebody else's property, not their's—accompanied their visitation. The coincidence was singular. However they did seem to have shaken off the long arm of coincidence at last. There had been no sort of unpleasantness at either of the last two or three places at which they had stopped, and when they reached Paris at last, they were so contented with all the world, that each seemed to have forgotten everything in the existence of the other.
They stayed at the Grand Hotel—for privacy few places can compete with a large hotel—and directly they stayed the annoyances began again. It was indeed most singular. On the very morning after their arrival a notice was posted in the salle de lecture that the night before a lady had lost her fan—something historical in fans, and quite unique. She had been seated outside the reading-room—the Burgoynes must have been arriving at that very moment—preparatory to going to the opera. She laid this wonderful fan on a chair beside her, it was only for an instant, yet when she turned it was gone. The administration charitably suggested—in their notice—that someone of their lady guests had mistaken it for her own.
That same evening a really remarkable tale was whispered about the place. A certain lady and gentleman—not our pair, but another—happened to be honeymooning in the hotel. Monsieur had left Madame asleep in bed. When she got up and began to dress, she discovered that the larger and more valuable portion of the jewellery which had been given her as wedding presents, and which she, perhaps foolishly, had brought abroad, had gone—apparently vanished into air. The curious part of the tale was this. She had dreamed that she saw a woman—unmistakably a lady—trying on this identical jewellery before the looking-glass. Query, was it a dream? Or had she, lying in bed, in a half somnolent condition, been the unconscious witness of an actual occurrence?
"Upon my word," declared Mr. Burgoyne to his wife, "If the thing weren't actually impossible, I should be inclined to believe that we were the victims of some elaborate practical joke; that people were in a conspiracy to make us believe that ill luck dogged our steps!"
Mrs. Burgoyne smiled. She was putting on her bonnet before the glass. They were preparing to sally out for a quiet dinner on the boulevard.
"You silly Charlie! What queer ideas you get in your head. What does it matter to us if foolish people lose their things? We have not a mission to make folks wiser, or, what amounts to the same thing, to compel them to keep valuable things in secure places."
The lady, who had finished her performance at the glass, came and put her hands upon her lord's two shoulders,
"My dear child, don't look so black? I shall be much better prepared to discuss that, or any subject, when—we have dined."
The lady made a little moue and kissed him on the lips. Then they went downstairs. But when they had got so far upon their road, the gentleman discovered that he had brought no money in his pockets. Leaving his wife in the salle de lecture, he returned to his bedroom to
supply the omission.
The desk in which he kept his loose cash was at that moment standing on the chest of drawers. On the top of it was a bag of his wife's—a bag on which she set much store. In it she kept her more particular belongings, and such care did she take of it that he never remembered to have seen it left out of her locked-up trunk before. Now, taking hold of it in his haste, he was rather surprised to find that it was unlocked—it was not only unlocked, but it flew wide open, and in flying open some of the contents fell upon the floor. He stooped to pick them up again.
The first thing he picked up was a silver spoon, the next was an ivory chessman, the next was a fan, and the next—was a diamond brooch.
He stared at these things in a sort of dream, and at the last especially. He had seen the thing before. But where?
Good God! it came upon him in a flash! It was the advertisement in diamond work which had been the property of Mrs. Homer Joy!
He was seized with a sort of momentary paralysis, continuing to stare at the brooch as though he had lost the power of volition. It was with an effort that he obtained sufficient mastery over himself to be able to turn his attention to the other articles he held. He knew two of them. The spoon was one of the spoons which had been lost at Morlaix; the chessman was one of a very curious set of chessmen which had disappeared at Vannes. From the notice which had been posted in the salle de lecture he had no difficulty in recognising the fan which had vanished from the chair.
It was some moments before he realised what the presence of those things must mean, and when he did realize it a metamorphosis had taken place—the Charles Burgoyne standing there was not the Charles Burgoyne who had entered the room. Without any outward display of emotion, in a cold, mechanical way he placed the articles he held upon one side, and turned the contents of the bag out upon the drawers.
They presented a curious variety at any rate. As he gazed at them he experienced that singular phenomenon—the inability to credit the evidence of his own eyes. There, were the rest of the chessmen, the rest of the spoons, nick-nacks, a quaint, old silver cream-jug, jewellery—bracelets, rings, ear-rings, necklaces, pins, lockets, brooches, half the contents of a jeweller's shop. As he stood staring at this very miscellaneous collection, the door opened, and his wife came in.
She smiled as she entered.
"Charlie, have they taken your money too? Are you aware, sir, how hungry I am?"
He did not turn when he heard her voice. He continued motionless, looking at the contents of the bag. She advanced towards him and saw what he was looking at. Then he turned and they were face to face.
He never knew what was the fashion of his countenance. He could not have analysed his feelings to save his life. But, as he looked at her, his wife of yesterday, the woman whom he loved, she seemed to shrivel up before his eyes, and sank upon the floor. There was silence. Then she made a little gesture towards him with her two hands. She fell forward, hiding her face on the ground at his feet, prisoning his legs with her arms.
"How came these things into your bag?"
He did not know his own voice, it was so dry and harsh. She made no answer.
"Did you steal them?"
Still silence. He felt a sort of rage rising within him.
"There are one or two questions you must answer. I am sorry to have to put them; it is not my fault. You had better get up from the floor."
She never moved. For his life he could not have touched her.
"I suppose—." He was choked, and paused. "I suppose that woman's jewels are some of these?"
No answer. Recognising the hopelessness of putting questions to her now, he gathered the various articles together and put them back into the bag.
"I'm afraid you will have to dine alone."
That was all he said to her. With the bag in his hand he left the room, leaving her in a heap upon the floor. He sneaked rather than walked out of the hotel. Supposing they caught him red-handed, with that thing in his hand? He only began to breathe freely when he was out in the street.
Possibly no man in Paris spent the night of that twentieth of June more curiously than Mr. Burgoyne. When he returned it was four o'clock in the morning, and broad day. He was worn-out, haggard, the spectre of a man. In the bedroom he found his wife just as he had left her, in a heap upon the floor, but fast asleep. She had removed none of her clothes, not even her bonnet or her gloves. She had been crying—apparently had cried herself to sleep. As he stood looking down at her he realised how he loved her—the woman, the creature of flesh and blood, apart entirely from her moral qualities. He placed the bag within his trunk and locked it up. Then, kneeling beside his wife, he stooped and kissed her as she slept. The kiss aroused her. She woke as wakes a child, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him back again. Not a word was spoken. Then she got up. He helped her to undress, and put her into a bed as though she were a child. Then he undressed himself, and joined her. And they fell fast asleep locked in each other's arms.
That night they returned to London. The bag went with them. On the morning after their arrival, Mr. Burgoyne took a cab into the city, the fatal bag beside him on the seat. He drove straight to Mr. Staunton's office. When he entered, unannounced, his father-in-law started as though he were a ghost.
"Burgoyne! What brings you here? I hope there's nothing wrong?"
Mr. Burgoyne did not reply at once. He placed the bag—Minnie's bag—upon the table. He kept his eyes fixed upon his father-in-law's countenance.
"Burgoyne! Why do you look at me like that?"
"I have something here I wish to show you." That was Mr. Burgoyne's greeting. He opened the bag, and turned its contents out upon the table. "Not a bad haul from Breton peasants,—eh?"
Mr. Staunton stared at the heap of things thus suddenly disclosed.
"Burgoyne," he stammered, "what's the meaning of this?"
"Are you quite sure you don't know what it means?"
Looking up, Mr. Staunton caught the other's eyes. He seemed to read something there which carried dreadful significance to his brain. His glance fell and he covered his face with his hands. At last he found his voice.
"Minnie?"
The word was gasped rather than spoken. Mr. Burgoyne's reply was equally brief.
"Minnie!"
"Good God!"
There was silence for perhaps a minute. Then Mr. Burgoyne locked the door of the room and stood before the empty fire-place.
"It is by the merest chance that I am not at this moment booked for the travaux forces. Some of those jewels were stolen from a woman's dressing case at the Grand Hotel, with the woman herself in bed and more than half awake at the time. She talked about having every guest in the place searched by the police. If she had done so, you would have heard from us as soon as the rules of the prison allowed us to communicate."
Mr. Burgoyne paused. Mr. Staunton kept his eyes fixed upon the table.
"That's what I wanted to tell you the night before the wedding, only you wouldn't stop. She's a kleptomaniac."
Mr. Burgoyne smiled, not gaily.
"Do you mean she's a habitual thief?"
"It's a disease."
"I've no doubt it's a disease. But perhaps you'll be so kind as to accurately define what in the present case you understand by disease."
"When she was a toddling child she took things, and secreted them—it's a literal fact. When she got into short frocks she continued to capture everything that caught her eye. When she exchanged them for long ones it was the same. It was not because she wanted the things, because she never attempted to use them when she had them. She just put them somewhere—as a magpie might—and forget their existence. You had only to find out where they were and take them away again, and she was never one whit the wiser. In that direction she's irresponsible—it's a disease in fact."
"If it is, as you say, a disease, have you ever had it medically treated?"
"She has been under medical treatment her whole life long. I suppose we
have consulted half the specialists in England. Our own man, Muir, has given the case his continual attention. He has kept a regular journal, and can give you more light upon the subject than I can. You have no conception what a life-long torture it has been to me."
"I have a very clear conception indeed. But don't you think you might have enlightened me upon the matter before?"
Rising from his seat, Mr. Staunton began to pace the room
"I do! I think so very strongly indeed. But—but—I was over persuaded. As you know, I tried at the very last moment; even then I failed. Besides, it was suggested to me that marriage might be the turning point, and that the woman might be different from the girl. Don't misunderstand me! She is not a bad girl; she is a good girl in the best possible sense, a girl in a million! No better daughter ever lived; you won't find a better wife if you search the whole world through; There is just this one point. Some people are somnambulists; in a sense she is a somnambulist too. I tell you I might put this watch upon the table"—Mr. Staunton produced his watch from his waistcoat pocket—"and she would take it from right underneath my nose, and never know what it was that she had done. I confess I can't explain it, but so it is!"
"I think," remarked Mr. Burgoyne, with a certain dryness, "that I had better see this doctor fellow—Muir."
"See him—by all means, see him. There is one point, Burgoyne. I realised from the first that if we kept you in the dark about this thing, and it forced itself upon you afterwards, you would be quite justified in feeling aggrieved."
"You realised that, did you? You did get so far?"
"And therefore I say this, that, although my child has only been your wife these few short days, although she loves you as truly as woman ever loved a man—and what strength of love she has I know—still, if you are minded to put her from you, I will not only not endeavour to change your purpose, but I will never ask you for a penny for her support—she shall be to you as though she had never lived."
Mr. Burgoyne looked his father-in-law in the face.
Between the Dark and the Daylight Page 5
