CHAPTER VII
LOSING
For a few days after the meeting between Grey and his mother at the Castle he did not go to the Island. Something repelled him. The thought of the Castle made him chill and uncomfortable now. He had never gone so far as to try and persuade himself he was in love with Maud. He never pretended to himself he felt more than a mild interest in her. The nature of the circumstances surrounding him and impelling him towards Maud had almost wholly obliterated the personality of the girl. She was a minus quantity in the equation of his life. Could he bring her over to the other side, the minus would become a plus, and he should be saved. He was too much impressed with the necessity of winning her to regard her personality with much interest.
Now he seemed to have receded further from her. He was no less impressed with the necessity of winning her than before, but between her and him had come of late a shadow, stretching from that interview at which his mother, Maud, and himself, had assisted.
At first this shadow was vague, indistinct, a source of indefinable uneasiness rather than absolute pain. Gradually, hour by hour after that interview, his subsequent discoveries in the fly, and at Evans's office, the appearance of vagueness disappeared, the repelling image took absolute form, and between the girl and himself flitted the form of a feeble beggared mother.
He had made no effort to trace Mrs. Grey. He knew nothing on earth would induce her to take aid from him. He knew she could not be reached indirectly, for she would suspect any side approach to be of his contriving. When she would not keep a shilling of her own honest money to buy bread, there was no likelihood of her receiving stolen money from his hand.
"I have already sacrificed two women, am I about to sacrifice a third?" He put this question to himself often, but took little interest in the answer. If any other means of extricating himself offered, he would have abandoned his design of marrying Maud. He saw no other loophole of escape.
"If I don't marry Maud, sooner or later it will be found out I have made fraudulent uses of my power of attorney, and they will seize me, search the Bank and the Manor, and – hang me out of one of the crossbars of that tank – always supposing I do not take the liberty of cheating the hangman by making away with myself."
He began to feel jaded, and people saw changes in him, and asked him if he was quite well. When not racked by dread or torn by remorse, a strange languor fell upon him, and he could not rouse himself to do anything not absolutely necessary.
In these languid moments he would think to himself: "I have been over-trained by crime, and I am not capable of fighting as of old."
The first day he called at the Castle after meeting his mother there, Maud could not be seen. She sent down Mrs. Grant to say she hoped Mr. Grey would excuse her, as she had a headache, and Mrs. Grant had recommended her to keep to her room.
This was an agreeable disappointment. He had come to the Island and requested he might see Maud, not as a matter of liking at the moment, but as part of a scheme of self-protection laid down when full of life and vigour, and now carried out with diminished forces.
He formally examined the work upon which the men were engaged, and took an early leave of the Island.
A meeting with Maud that day would have been too much for him. He did not feel equal to urging his suit; allusion might have been made to his manner on the last occasion, and he felt he could not carry off the fiction of the imaginary dispute of the will with a hand sufficiently light and firm.
He had now a vague fear – it went beyond fear, and assumed the settled form of conviction – that his explanation of his violence had not satisfied Maud. She might really have been indisposed, but of old so slight an indisposition as headache would not have excluded him from her presence. He was quite sure Maud had told him the truth, and that his mother had divulged nothing prejudicial to him. But this was not all. His mother may have divulged nothing, and yet his manner, his terror at the sight of her, his violence when she had gone, and his subsequent statement that litigation was not impossible, might have created an impression not to be removed easily from the mind of the girl.
He allowed a few days more to elapse before calling again.
Mrs. Grant came to him and said Miss Midharst was so miserably wretched and unwell she must ask Mr. Grey to be good enough to excuse her not receiving him.
"I have been very unfortunate with Miss Midharst of late," said the banker, with a smile to the little widow.
"She is so nervous and excitable," said Mrs. Grant, who seemed uneasy and disconcerted.
"Until quite lately I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Midharst daily. I have not been able to come here so often as of old, and when I do come I am so unfortunate as to find Miss Midharst laid up." There was complaint in his tone.
Mrs. Grant felt exceedingly awkward. Maud had told her of Mr. Grey's extraordinary conduct at their last interview. At her suggestion Maud had written to Sir William and avoided an interview with the banker. Maud had had a headache when he called last, but it was not bad enough to prevent her seeing him if nothing unusual had happened. To-day she was not unusually nervous, but she dreaded an interview with the banker so much she became hysterical when his name had been announced. Still Mrs. Grant's old feeling for Mr. Grey could not be put aside in a minute, and now that she was face to face with him who had been so useful and so kind, and found him complaining of exclusion from the presence of her over whose fortunes the dead baronet had made him guardian, she felt powerless and wretched. She said, in an unsteady voice and confused manner:
"I am sure I am very sorry you should have been twice disappointed in seeing Miss Midharst. It is unfortunate. But I hope you will not think she intends any disrespect to you. I know nothing is further from her thoughts."
Grey took the widow's hand gently in his. He felt conscious he was not as strong as formerly. He had now no friend in the world. A woman, a widow, had been his greatest friend. He knew Mrs. Grant meant him well.
"Mrs. Grant," he said, "I am sure I have a sincere friend in you."
"I am sure you have," she answered tremulously.
"Will you do me a great favour?"
"There is no one in the world, except Maud, for whom I would so soon do all I can," she said earnestly.
"You will be candid with me, I know. You will be candid with me because you could not be otherwise with anyone, and you will answer my question as a favour?"
"If I can I will; you may rely upon that."
"I knew I was right. My question is: Has anything occurred to make Miss Midharst disinclined to meet me?"
"She is not very well."
"You were good enough to tell me that some time ago. My question has reference to something else. Has anything of a personal nature occurred to make Miss Midharst disinclined to meet me?"
"You know, Mr. Grey, that when Sir William was here Maud made a promise to him."
"Yes. That she would look upon him as her personal guardian. Is it to that you refer?"
"It is. I believe Miss Midharst wishes to consult her cousin on some subject of importance. She has written to him."
"And will not receive me until she gets his reply? Is that what I am to understand, Mrs. Grant?" Grey's voice quavered, and his whole body shook. How had that letter escaped him?
"I do not think Maud will be quite strong enough to see you for a few days more."
"That is, until she hears from her cousin?"
"Until she sees him."
"Sees him! What do you mean?"
"She wrote him, asking him to come back, if he could."
"That is not true. I never saw the letter," he whispered.
"Yes. She wrote him the day she saw you last, and he is coming back. He has telegraphed to her saying so."
"The day she saw me last! The day I met another woman talking to her."
"Yes."
"Was it at the suggestion of that woman she wrote for Sir William to come home?"
"No; that lady did not, as far as I can hear, mention Sir William's name."
"And that was the day," said Grey, letting fall Mrs. Grant's hand and pressing it against his throbbing forehead – "that was the day I forgot the bag. How soon is Sir Alexander expected here?"
"Sir William, you mean."
"Ah, yes; Sir William I mean, of course. I forgot – I forgot!"
"We don't know exactly when he may be here, but he will certainly not be longer than a fortnight."
"And between this and then Miss Midharst will not see me?"
He had still his hand on his brow. She did not answer.
Without taking any further notice of her he walked feebly out of the room. For an hour he wandered aimlessly about the Castle grounds. There were men at work, but he took no notice of them. When it grew dusk he crossed over in a boat to the mainland, and set out to walk home.
The cool air and the walking gradually improved his tone, and little by little he became familiar with the new aspect of affairs. He was conscious of mental indifference, weakness, or numbness – he did not know exactly what it was. Thoughts and ideas and things had lost half their values to him. He felt like a man who wakes for the first time in a prison where he is to pass his life, only the prisoner's heart is afflicted with the memory of a better past. Grey, as he walked along, did not once turn his eyes back. He kept them fixed rigidly forward.
In the immediate future he saw he should lose all influence at the Castle. The moment Sir William came home his suspicions would be aroused. He would make inquiries, and find not a single shilling of Sir Alexander's money in the books of the Bank of England.
Then would come ruin and death, or death and ruin – put it either way. He was beaten. He confessed it to himself. Discovery could not be three weeks off. There was no loophole – no means of escape. The days of abduction were dead and buried long ago. He could not carry Maud away forcibly and marry her. He had, by law, no control over her person. She would not see him until Sir William's return. Most likely she was acting under the young man's advice in not seeing him.
A month ago he was keener, and would have felt angry at the interference of this young man and the stubbornness of this girl; but he was past all that now. He was beaten, beaten beyond all hope of retrieving his fortune. His life was forfeit. His name would be branded for ever in the town where it had been almost worshipped for years.
And when he had died by his own hand, and all had been discovered, his mother, a wanderer on the land, would, as she sank into a pauper's grave, learn the enormity of his crime, and call out that the sin of having brought such a monster into the world might be taken away from her in consideration of the wrongs he had done her.
No! no! no! Ten thousand times No! His mother should never hear the awful words: "Henry Walter Grey found guilty of Wife Murder," or, "Discovery of the body of Mrs. Henry Walter Grey, with a history of her murder by her husband."
No; that must never be. But how was he to prevent it? Only one way remained.
If he could hide the embezzlement, he could hide the murder. There was now only one way of hiding the fraud: he must throw himself on the mercy of Miss Midharst and her cousin. The moment Sir William returned, he should make a full confession. While there is life there is hope, and that was not a foolish hope. Sir William was young and chivalric. Sir William would listen to his prayer and show mercy.
CHAPTER VIII
"I AM HE. FIRE."
The morning after Grey had been at the Castle, he awoke cold and depressed. The magnitude of the misfortune just come upon him was more apparent than the evening before. Up to yesterday he had been fighting to defeat the past and render the future glorious. Henceforth all thought of glory must be cast aside, and the struggle conducted solely with a view to prevent fatal disgrace. He had lost the stake, and ran a grave risk of losing his life. He had been playing against Sir William Midharst. Now he was playing against the hangman.
The day of the baronet's return was not known. The young man must pass through Daneford on his way to the Castle. More than likely he would call at the "Warfinger Hotel," to leave his luggage there before setting out for the Island.
Grey went to the "Warfinger Hotel," saw the landlord, told him Sir William was expected home; and requested him to send instantly to the Bank word of the baronet's arrival.
He felt queer to-day. That old sensation of everything being far away and of little interest to him had come back upon him fourfold. He went through the routine business of the Bank with as little interest as a copying-clerk. He signed papers without reading them, and did not understand those he read.
And now day after day the banker lived without change or adventure. All his life he had been a man of action, a leader, and now he was wearily waiting, waiting in weak hope haunted by fierce terrors. He felt his physical health declining under the ordeal, but he had no alternative.
At last one afternoon, as he was sitting alone in his private office a messenger came from the "Warfinger Hotel" announcing the return of Sir William. The baronet had just arrived and ordered luncheon, so that in all likelihood he would be at the hotel for an hour or two.
Grey rose heavily and walked to the hotel with a misgiving heart. He carried in his hand his small black bag.
What reason had he to think this young man would take a merciful view of the case? All his pride was gone now, except the pride in a good name he did not deserve. He would crawl on his knees in private to this young man, rather than lower his front a jot before the public. If he could win over this young man he might save his name. It was not the hangman he dreaded most. It was not death. It was the groans and execrations of people over whom he once held imperial sway, and by whom he had been regarded as the high-priest of humanity and justice.
When he arrived at the hotel, he sent in his card and was instantly admitted.
The young man fixed his dark dreamy eyes upon the other as he entered, rose slowly from his chair, and held out his hand freely, saying:
"I am very much obliged to you for calling. I wanted to see you particularly."
This was unexpected. Grey thought Sir William would refuse to meet him until after a visit to the Castle. What did the young man know? Grey said:
"I have to speak to you on a very important matter indeed, and I would wish to speak to you about it at once."
"I am quite at your service for an hour. Sit down. You are not looking as well as I should like to see so good a friend."
"Friend!" sighed Grey. "Don't use that word again until I have finished."
A quick look of present interest came into the dreamy eyes. The baronet said: "I am ready to hear."
"I have been told by Mrs. Grant that you have come home to consult with Miss Midharst about some important matter – I do not know what, and I do not seek to know. Before you see Miss Midharst, I want to say to you some words of the deepest importance, and I want you to permit me to – lock the door." He was grave and collected in manner, and as he said the last words he waved his hand softly towards the door.
"You may lock the door," said Sir William, taking an easy-chair, and relapsing into his dreamy manner.
The banker walked slowly to the door, locked it deliberately, and then came back to the window at which the young man was sitting. Then he sat down on a chair opposite Sir William, having placed his bag on a small table that stood between them.
The day was bright and clear. Past the wall of the hotel through which that window looked ran the Weeslade. It was ebb tide, and now and then down the river shot a small boat or glided a barge, while from the upper wharves came the sound of chains and tackles, and the hoarse hoot of the steamboat blowing off steam.
For a few seconds Grey sat silent, resting his head upon his hand. At last he spoke:
"You have been asked to come back from Egypt to give advice to Miss Midharst on some subject of importance. You are by your relationship with her, and by her own agreement with you, the guardian of her person. I am by the will of her father the guardian of her fortune. Yours is a precious trust."
Grey paused here to give the young man an opportunity of saying something. Sir William merely said: "That is so."
"What I have further to say to you," continued Grey, "is in the nature, Sir William, of a confession. A confession so degrading and humiliating, that I have debated a thousand times whether I should make it or put an end to my life."
"I am sincerely glad you adopted the alternative of confiding in me."
"Sir William, what do you consider the greatest calamity which could befall Miss Midharst?"
"Really I have not thought of such a question, and could not answer it off-hand."
"What would you do to the man who behaved in an unscrupulous manner to Miss Midharst?"
Suddenly the young man lost his languid manner, sat bolt upright in his chair, looked with a strong present interest in his eyes at the banker, and demanded sharply: "What do you mean?"
Grey raised his head, and for the first time the eyes of the two men met.
"A terrible injury, an irreparable injury; who had inflicted upon her an injury so great that the sacrifice of his life could not atone for it, not the devotion of a lifetime undo it?"
"Shoot him. Where is he?"
Grey opened the black bag, took out the revolver, and holding the muzzle pointed at his own breast, handed it to the baronet, saying: "I am he. Fire."
The young man sprang to his feet, seized the revolver, and keeping the banker covered with it, said thickly through his clenched teeth: "A moment. Wait a moment."
For some seconds there was neither motion nor word. The one man stood over the other, the revolver in his hand, his finger on the trigger.
"I have thought of Maud until I am ready to shoot you here. Now speak. What was it?"
"She is a beggar."
"How?"
"I have stolen all her fortune. I sold out the Consols and used the money. The money is all gone."
"Have you confessed all?"
"Yes; all."
"And are you ready to die for that?"
"I am."
"There is nothing for you to add about Maud?"
"No. I have told you all candidly."
The young man seized Grey by the throat, and pulled him upon his feet. For a moment he swayed the banker to and fro.
"Not this. Fire if you are a man. Not this."
"Damnation seize you for a fool! You terrified me about nothing." He flung Grey violently from him.
"About nothing! I told you all her money is gone."
"And when did I tell you I wanted her money?"
"You never said anything to me about it."
"You are a fool, sir, and have terrified me for nothing."
Sir William stooped down, picked up the revolver, which had fallen from his hand in the scuffle, and raising the window quietly dropped it into the Weeslade. Then turning to the banker he said:
"Who knows of this?"
"Only you and I and my mother."
"That is true, is it?"
"It is."
"Miss Midharst has no suspicion of it?"
"Not the slightest. Only three people on earth know it. The three I have named."
"Keep the secret where it is, and meet me here to-morrow at noon. I shall then let you know what I intend doing."
CHAPTER IX
BANKER AND BARONET
Next noon, as appointed, Grey called at the "Warfinger Hotel" and saw Sir William. The interview was a brief one. Sir William informed the banker he had made up his mind to only one thing so far, namely, to keep the secret and do nothing for a month or two. "This looks very like compounding a felony," said the young man, "but I am prepared to take that risk."
Grey went away respited. It was a great relief nothing was to be done at once, but when something came to be done what would it be? That was the question which followed Grey day and night, waking and sleeping, through two long weary months. One qualifying fact operated greatly in his favour: day after day he lost susceptibility. Something was happening which dulled his sense of danger or exposure. He had begun to forget more and more, and it was only on rare occasions he had a clear and well-defined idea of his position. He had a weak conviction Sir William would not have him prosecuted, but what would the young man do?
But if the tyranny of the theft had lost its poignancy, he had two fiercer troubles left.
Every old broken-down woman he met in the street was his mother. By day he met his mother a thousand times; she crawled close to the wall, she had sold all her clothes for bread, she had worn out her boots, and her bare feet, her poor old bare feet, touched the cold wet streets. If he took up a paper his eye fell on some paragraph relating to the death in great misery of an old woman over seventy who had seen better days.
But it was when the twilight had died, and all the land lay in the dark trance of night, the prime actor in his mental disaster entered on the scene.
In order that he might marry Maud and so cover up his robbery, he had taken upon him the awful burden of blood. Now Maud had slipped through his grasp, and there was a chance his theft might still remain undisclosed. What was his position with regard to the deed of the seventeenth of August? If the warm-breathing body of his wife were by his side he should be in no worse position.
When the dusk came down upon the earth, when the fields lay under the shadow of the wings of ill angels, the warm and breathing body of his wife was not at his side, but there, no matter where he might sit, was the clammy cold thing he had left that night on the top of the Tower of Silence. It lay in passage and hall, and in the dining-room it was always stiff and stark behind his chair, where he could not see it, but whence the clammy chill radiating from it reached his back and froze his spirit.
That was not the worst, for it was vague; not the figure of his wife so much as that of the victim of murder. Over one shoulder, he knew not which, came that face, not now calm and passionless as before, but full of love and tender reproach, an expression in which the love out-measured the reproach ten thousand-fold. It was this new look of old love made him shut his fists, and grind his teeth, and sob and groan.
From the ghastly caverns of night's silence whispers of her voice came to him pleading for mercy.
"Do not, for God's sake, Wat, do not send me in my sin before my Maker!"
These awful whispers made him start and stare, and caused the cold sweat to start from all the pores of his body.
Then followed night and dreams. When he awoke after dreams he always thought the dreaming worse than waking. When he sought his bed at night he prayed for dreams as a relief. In the privacy of his own room, and in the still deeper privacy of dreams, he was always in her presence when the rustle of her dress made his pulses thicken with joy.
These dreams were his only resting-places. But, unfortunately, not only did they not last always, but towards the end of each it changed and died in an awful sense of unascertainable disaster. Something had happened to his love, something so hideous and unheard of, that not man or woman, beast or stone, would tell him the secret. With a great shout he awoke, sprang out of bed to seek for his love through all the world, tore open the door, and found his murdered wife lying across the threshold, and upon his hands her blood.
Day by day the influence of these terrors wrought on Grey until his eyes grew dim, his hands palsied, his gait feeble, and his mind dull. He forgot oftener now than formerly. In the midst of business transactions he would stop suddenly, put his hand to his head, mutter a few incoherent words, cease speaking for a while, and then exclaim piteously: "I have forgotten something! I have forgotten something!"
All who came in contact with him saw he was breaking down. They said:
"Poor Grey loved his wife so deeply, so tenderly, he is losing his reason for loss of her."
This popular verdict was not only a great cause of drawing sympathy towards the widower, but almost wholly washed away the stain which had smirched his dead wife's name. For those who had heard of her failing, and believed it fact, now asked themselves:
"How could any man care for a woman so afflicted? How could any man wear away his life in sorrow for the loss of an intemperate wife?"
The evening Grey first visited Sir William Midharst at the "Warfinger Hotel" the young man went to the Castle and had a long talk with Maud, in which she told him of Grey's extraordinary conduct on the occasion of the unknown old woman's visit. She did not tell him she suspected the banker had been trying to make himself more than agreeable to her. He did not say anything to her of the scene between the banker and himself at the "Warfinger." He heard all Maud had to say to him without comment beyond expressions of surprise.
"I know the whole secret," he thought, "but I must have time to think out the situation before I decide on a course of action. When I have considered all the points I shall not be slow to move."
As he was going down a corridor after saying good-night to Maud Mrs. Grant overtook him.
She said: "How can you account for Mr. Grey's conduct, Sir William? I cannot understand it at all. Of course Maud told you all. You do not think his manner of wooing likely to win?"
"His manner of wooing! I was told nothing of his wooing. Did he make love to Maud?"
"Ah, did she not tell you. I suppose the poor child felt it might not be delicate to mention the matter. He has been making downright love to her. She told me all about it. That's the extraordinary part of the thing; he has been making love to her, and then he breaks out into that violent manner all at once. Acting, indeed! I don't believe a word of it."
"So," thought Sir William to himself, as he went home to his hotel, "I did not know the whole secret, but I think I have it all now. Of course, if he married Maud he need say nothing about the money. It's all gone, no doubt. A man would not tell such a lie and offer to back it up with a bullet. Let me see now. My return has forced his hand. He saw he had no chance of winning Maud. What a preposterous idea to think of his making love to my angel Maud! What insolent presumption! Poor Maud a beggar through his means! It is well I am not. I suppose we can live on the old estate as the Midharsts have done for generations before us. I am full of hope. I am drunk with the belief Maud shall be mine. I think she is glad I am back, and will be glad to see me every day. Fancy seeing Maud every day from this out! Fancy being permitted to take her hand, and to feel that hand on my arm! Fancy being able to say 'Maud' a thousand times a day to herself and not to an image of her. Oh, Maud, my beautiful, be with me for ever as the flowers are with summer.
"What shall I do with this scoundrel Grey? He was very nearly too deep for me. He imposed on me, but that is all over now. What am I to do with him? If he is prosecuted there will be worry, and the past will be gone into, and the peculiarities of Sir Alexander, among other things his hatred of me and the, let me say, friendship between his daughter and me.
"They might call Maud, these lawyers have no taste, no sense of propriety. Think of putting Maud in the box and cross-examining her, and – yes, by Heavens, some of those legal bullies might be ungentle to my lily sweet Maud.
"What a wonderful thing Maud's hand is. It is like the moon, always the same, and yet you can't be in sight of it without looking at it often.
"But this scoundrel Grey. I wish I were done with him. I have given up all taste for affairs and difficulties. I am become bucolic. Suppose he is prosecuted we can't get the money back, for such a prosecution would shut up his Bank. We should have all the trouble and worry for nothing. Then what is the object of prosecuting the scoundrel?
"It is strange about Maud's hand. I thought as I looked at it this evening that if I were dying of wounds on a battle-field, parched with that last terrible thirst, and Maud came and put her hand on my forehead, the thirst would leave me. I know it would.
"But about Grey?
"Yes. Isn't it too bad that when I have Maud to think about this wretched Grey should thrust himself in between Maud and me. I wish the devil would take Grey. He'll want that bland burglar sometime, and he'd oblige me greatly by taking him now.
"What a beautiful thing Maud's ear is. While I was looking at it to-night I found out why when I speak to her I seem to pray; it is because I know my words must reach the spirit of a saint.
"But here is this Grey. I am to meet him to-morrow and let him know my decision. I wish the devil would take him now, or Heaven would inspire me what to do with him. If the money had been mine I should before going to bed to-night sign a receipt for the full amount, send the receipt to him, and beg of him never to allude to the matter again.
"If the money was mine!
"Ah! That is a thought worth considering twice.
"If I marry Maud the supposititious money will be mine. I don't want the money if I could get it, and I can't get it, or any of it, if I wanted it. The prosecution would involve nothing but trouble and worry.
"Come, on the day I marry Maud, I'll give him a clear receipt for it! But I'll put him off for a couple of months and then tell him.
"If all the rest of the world were mine on the day I marry Maud, and it would save her worry not to take it, I should pass it by.
"My gentle Maud, you are the infinite sum of all my earthly hopes to which nothing can be added, from which nothing can be taken away."