Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “He is pretty fresh, ain’t he?” remarked one of the officers in an undertone to his neighbour.

  “You bet he is,” answered the other.

  “Now I have got to see the old gentleman,” said Darche, speaking to Vanbrugh. “Before I go, I would like to have a word with you. There is no objection to my speaking privately to Mr. Vanbrugh, I suppose?” he inquired, turning to the officer.

  “Not if you stay in the room,” answered the one who took the lead.

  Darche nodded to Vanbrugh, who somewhat reluctantly followed him to the other end of the room.

  “I say,” he began in a tone not to be overheard by the detectives. “Can you not give me another chance?”

  “What sort of chance?” replied Vanbrugh, raising his eyebrows.

  “If I could get through that door,” said John looking over Vanbrugh’s shoulder, “I could get away. I know the house and they do not. Presently, when my father comes, if you could create some sort of confusion for a moment, I could slip out. They will never catch me. There is an Italian sailing vessel just clearing. I have had exact information. If I can get through that door I can be in the Sixth Avenue Elevated in three minutes and out of New York Harbour in an hour.”

  Vanbrugh had no intention of being a party to the escape. He met Darche’s eyes coldly as he answered.

  “No, I will not do it. I have defended you in open court, but I am not going to help you evade the law.”

  “Do not be too hard, Vanbrugh,” said Darche, in a tone of entreaty. “Things are not half so bad as they are made out.”

  “If that is true, I am sorry. But you have had a perfectly fair trial.”

  “Will you not help me get away?” Darche urged knowing that this was his last chance.

  “No.”

  “Vanbrugh,” said John in an insinuating tone, “you used to be fond of my wife. You wanted to marry her.”

  “What has that to do with it?” asked Vanbrugh turning sharply upon him.

  “You may marry her and welcome, if you let me get through that door. I shall never be heard of again.”

  “You infernal scoundrel!” Vanbrugh was thoroughly disgusted. “Now gentlemen,” he said, turning to the officer in charge, “I will bring Mr. Darche here to see his son. I am sure that for the old gentleman’s sake, out of mere humanity, you will do the best you can to keep up the illusion we have arranged. He is old and his mind wanders. He will scarcely notice your presence.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man answered. “You may trust us to do that, sir. Now then, boys,” he said, addressing his two companions, “straighten up, best company manners, stiff upper lip — keep your eye on the young man. He is rather too near that door for my taste.”

  John Darche’s face expressed humiliation and something almost approaching to despair. He was about to make another attempt, and had moved a step towards Vanbrugh, when he suddenly started a little and stood still. Marion stood in the open door beyond three detectives. She touched one of them on the shoulder as a sign that she wished to pass.

  “Pardon me, lady,” said the man, drawing back. “Anything that we can do for you?”

  “I am Mrs. Darche. I wish to speak to my husband.”

  “Certainly, madam,” and all three made way for her.

  She went straight to her husband, and stood before him at the other end of the room, speaking in a low voice.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, John?” she asked so that he could barely hear her.

  “You can help me to get away — if you will.” John Darche’s eyes fell before hers.

  She gazed at him during several seconds, hesitating, perhaps, between her sense of justice and her desire to be faithful to her husband to the very end.

  “Yes, I will,” she said briefly.

  Before she spoke again she turned quite naturally, as though in hesitation, and satisfied herself that the three men were out of hearing. Vanbrugh, perhaps suspecting what was taking place, had engaged them in conversation near the door.

  “How?” she asked, looking at John again. “Tell me quickly.”

  “Presently, when my father comes, get as many people as you can. Let me be alone for a moment. Make some confusion, upset something, anything will do. Give me a chance to get through the door into the library.”

  “I will try. Is that all?”

  “Thank you,” said John Darche, and for one moment a look of something like genuine gratitude passed over his hard face. “Yes, that is all. You will be glad to get rid of me.”

  Marion looked one moment longer, hesitated, said nothing and turned away.

  “If you have no objections,” said Vanbrugh addressing the officer in charge, “we will take Mr. Darche to his father’s room instead of asking him to come here.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered the detective. “We can do that.”

  As they were about to leave the room, Brett met them at the door. He paused a moment and looked about. Then he went straight to Vanbrugh.

  “Has he seen him yet?” he asked.

  “No, we are just going,” answered Vanbrugh.

  “Can I be of any use?”

  “Stay with Mrs. Darche.”

  “Shall we go?” he asked, turning to John.

  “How brave you are!” exclaimed Brett when they were alone.

  “Does it need much courage?” asked Marion, sinking into a chair. “I do not know. Perhaps.”

  “I know that there are not many men who could bear all this as well as you do,” Brett answered, and there was a little emotion in his face.

  “Men are different. Mr. Brett—” she began after a short pause.

  “Yes, do you want to ask me something?”

  “Yes, something that is very hard to ask. Something that you will refuse.”

  “That would be hard indeed.”

  “Will you promise not to be angry?” asked Marion faintly.

  “Of course I will,” Brett answered.

  “Do not be so sure. Men’s honour is such a strange thing. You may think what I am going to ask touches it.”

  “What is it?”

  He sat down beside her and prepared to listen.

  “Will you help my husband to escape?” asked Marion in a whisper. “No — do not say it. Wait until I tell you first how it can be done. Presently I will get them all into this room. Old Mr. Darche is too ill to come, I am afraid. You have not spoken alone to John yet. Take him aside and bring him close to this door on pretence of exchanging a few words. I will make a diversion of some sort at the other end of the room and as they all look round he can slip out. If he has one minute’s start they will never see him again. Will you do it?”

  “You were right,” said Brett gravely. “It is a hard thing to ask.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “It is criminal,” he answered.

  “Will you do it?”

  “For God’s sake, give me time to think!” He passed his hand over his eyes.

  “There is no time,” said Marion anxiously. “Will you do it for me?”

  “How can I? how can I?”

  “You told me that you loved me the other day — will you do it for my sake?”

  A change came over Brett’s face.

  “For your sake?” he asked in an altered tone. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes. For my sake.”

  “Very well. I will do it.” He turned a little pale and closed one hand over the other.

  “Thank you — thank you, Harry.” Her voice lingered a little, as she pronounced his name. “Stay here. I will make them come. It is of no use to leave them there. It is a mere formality, at best.”

  “I am ready,” said Brett, rising.

  Marion left her seat, and crossing the room again tried the door in question to satisfy herself that it would open readily. She looked out into the passage beyond and then came back, and passing Brett without a word left the room.

  She was not gone long, and during the minutes of her absence Brett tried hard
not to think of what he was going to do. He could not but be aware that it was a desperately serious matter to help a convicted criminal to escape. He thought of the expression he had seen on Marion’s face when he had promised to do it, and of the soft intonation of her sweet voice, and he tried to think of nothing else.

  In a moment more she was in the room again leading old Mr. Darche forward, his arm linked in hers. John came in on his father’s other side, while Vanbrugh and the three officers followed.

  “I understand, I understand, my boy,” cried old Darche in his cheery voice. “It is a grand thing.”

  John was very pale as he answered, and was evidently making a great effort to speak lightly.

  “Yes, of course. It has turned out much simpler than we expected, however, thanks to your immense reputation, father. Without your name we could not have done it, could we, gentlemen?” he asked, turning to the detectives as though appealing to them.

  “No, guess not,” answered the three together.

  “Good God, what a scene!” exclaimed Brett under his breath.

  “Mr. Brett,” said Marion approaching him. “You said you wanted to speak to my husband. Now you must tell me all about it, father,” she continued, drawing the old gentleman towards the fire. “I do not half understand in all this confusion.”

  “Why it is as plain as day, child,” said Simon Darche, ever ready to explain a matter of business. “The second mortgage of a million and a half to square everything. Come here, come close to the fire, my hands are cold. I think I must have been ill.”

  “You would never think Mr. Darche had been ill, would you, gentlemen?” asked Marion, appealing again to the detectives.

  “No, guess not,” they answered in chorus.

  Meanwhile Brett led Darche across the room, talking to him in a loud tone until they were near the door.

  “Your wife will make some diversion presently,” he whispered. “I do not know how. When she does, make for that door and get out.”

  “Thank you, thank you,” said John with genuine fervour, and his face lighted up. “God bless you, Brett!”

  “Do not thank me,” answered Brett roughly. “I do not want to do it. Thank your wife.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed John Darche, and his eyelids contracted. “My wife! Is it for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will remember that. I will remember it as long as I live.”

  Brett never forgot the look which accompanied the words.

  “Well, be grateful to her anyhow,” he said.

  At that moment a piercing scream rang through the room. Marion Darche, while talking to her father-in-law, had been standing quite close to the fire. When Brett turned his head the front of her dress was burning with a slow flame and she was making desperate efforts to tear it from her.

  “Good Heavens, you are really burning!” cried Brett as he crushed the flaming stuff with his bare hands, regardless of the consequences to himself.

  “Did you think that I cried out in fun?” asked Marion calmly.

  On hearing his wife’s cry John Darche had bestowed but one glance upon her. It mattered but little to him that she was really on fire. The detectives had rushed to her assistance and for one moment no one was looking. He was close to the door. A moment later he had left the room and turned the key behind him.

  “My God!” exclaimed the officer in charge, suddenly. “He has gone! Run, boys! Stop! One of you take the old one. We will not lose them both.”

  Old Darche started as though he had suddenly been waked out of a deep sleep, and his voice rang out loud and clear.

  “Hey, what is this?” he cried. “Hello! Detectives in my house? Disguised too?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered one of the detectives, seizing him by the wrist just as the other two left the room in pursuit of John Darche. “And one of them has got you.”

  “Got me!” roared the old man. “Hands off, there! What do you mean? Damn you, sir, let me go!”

  “Oh, well,” replied the officer calmly, “if you are going to take on like that, you may just as well know that your son was tried and convicted for forgery to-day. Not that I believe that you had anything to do with it, but he is a precious rascal all the same, and has escaped from your house—”

  “I! Forgery? The man is mad! John, where are you? Brett! Vanbrugh! Help me, gentlemen!”

  He appealed to Brett, and then to Vanbrugh who, indeed, was doing his best to draw the officer away.

  “No, no,” answered the latter firmly. “I’ve got one of them — it’s all in the family.”

  Though Marion’s dress was still smouldering and Brett was on his knees trying to extinguish the last spark with his own hands, she forgot her own danger, and almost tearing herself away from Brett she clasped the policeman’s hand trying to drag it from Simon Darche’s shoulder.

  “Oh, sir,” she cried in tearful entreaty, “pray let him go! He is innocent — he is ill! He will not think of escaping. Don’t you see that we have kept it all from him?”

  “Kept it all from me?” asked the old gentleman fiercely turning upon her. “What do you mean? Where is John? Where is John? I say!”

  “In handcuffs by this time I guess,” said the detective calmly.

  “But I insist upon knowing what all this means,” continued old Darche, growing more and more excited, while the veins of his temples swelled to bursting. “Forgery! Trial! Conviction! John escaping! Am I dreaming? Are not you three directors of the other road? Good God, young man, speak!” He seized Brett by the collar in his excitement.

  “Pray be calm, sir, pray be calm,” answered the young man, trying to loosen the policeman’s sturdy grasp.

  By a tremendous effort, such as madmen make in supreme moments, the old man broke loose, and seizing Marion by the wrist dragged her half across the room while he spoke. “Tell me this thing is all a lie!” he cried, again and again.

  “The lady knows the truth well enough, sir,” said the policeman, coming up behind him. “She caught fire just right.”

  For one moment Simon Darche stood upright in the middle of the room, looking from one to the other with wild frightened eyes.

  “Oh, it is true!” he cried in accents of supreme agony. “John has disgraced himself! Oh, my son, my son!”

  One instant more, and the light in his eyes broke, he threw out his arms and fell straight backwards against the detective. Simon Darche was dead.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THERE WAS NO lack of sympathy for Marion Darche, and it was shown in many ways during the period of calm which succeeded her husband’s disappearance and the sudden death of his father. Every one was anxious to be first in showing the lonely woman that she was not alone, but that, on the contrary, those who had been her friends formerly were more ready than ever to proclaim the fact now, and, so far as they were able, not in words only, but in deeds also.

  She was relieved, all at once, of the many burdens which had oppressed her life during the past years — indeed, she sometimes caught herself missing the constant sacrifice, the daily effort of subduing her temper, the hourly care for the doting old man who was gone.

  But with all this, there was the consciousness that she was not altogether free. Somewhere in the world, John Darche was still alive, a fugitive, a man for whose escape a reward was offered. It was worse than widowhood to be bound to a husband who was socially dead. It would have been easier to bear if he had never escaped, and if he were simply confined in the Penitentiary. There would not have been the danger of his coming back stealthily by night, which Marion felt was not imaginary so long as he was at large.

  Yet she made no effort to obtain a divorce from the man whose name was a disgrace. On the contrary, so far as outward appearances were concerned, she made no change, or very little, in her life. Public opinion had been with her from the first, and society chose to treat her as a young widow, deserving every sympathy, who when the time of mourning should have expired, would return to the world, and open her door
s to it.

  There was a great deal of speculation as to the reasons which prevented her from taking steps to free herself, but no one guessed what really passed in her mind, any more than the majority of her acquaintances understood that she had once loved John Darche. It had been commonly said for years that she had married him out of disappointment because something had prevented her from marrying another man, usually supposed to have been Russell Vanbrugh. People attributed to her a greater complication of motives than she could have believed possible.

  In order not to be altogether alone, she took a widowed cousin to live with her — a Mrs. Willoughby, who soon became known to her more intimate friends as Cousin Annie. She was a gray, colourless woman, much older than Marion, kind of heart but not very wise, insignificant but refined, a moral satisfaction and an intellectual disappointment, accustomed to the world, but not understanding it, good by nature and charitable, and educated in religious forms to which she clung by habit and association rather than because they represented anything to her. Cousin Annie was one of those fortunate beings whom temptation overlooks, passing by on the other side, who can suffer in a way for the loss of those dear to them, but whose mourning does not reach the dignity of sorrow, nor the selfish power of grief.

  Marion did not feel the need of a more complicated and gifted individuality for companionship. On the contrary, it was a relief to her to have some one at her side for whom she was not expected to think, but who, on the contrary, thought for her in all the commonplace matters of life, and never acted otherwise than as a normal, natural, human unit. There had been enough of the unusual in the house in Lexington Avenue, and Marion was glad that it was gone.

  Three months passed in this way and the spring was far advanced. Then, suddenly and without warning, came the news that John Darche had been heard of, traced, seen at last and almost captured. He had escaped once more and this time he had escaped, for ever, by his own act. He had jumped overboard in the English Channel from the Calais boat, and his body had not been found.

  Mrs. Darche wore black for her husband, and Cousin Annie said it was very becoming. Dolly Maylands thought it absurd to put on even the appearance of mourning for such a creature, and said so.