Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Magnus had laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, and was pointing to where, about fifty yards away, a figure was lying, apparently asleep on the short turf, not ten yards from the edge of the cliff; and in an instant Artingale had sprung forward, recognising as he did the man of whom they were in search.

Part 2, Chapter IV.
Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue, as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat drawn over his face to shade it from the sun – rather a work of supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it of a richer brown.

Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with this man, and look at him face to face.

But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but without eliciting any reply.

“Do you hear? Get up!” cried Artingale.

Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face.

“He’s not asleep, he’s shamming,” cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow’s face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast.

“Now then, young gentlemen! what’s the matter?” came now in a deep voice like a growl.

“You scoundrel!” began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast.

“Who are you calling names?” said the fellow fiercely.

“Leave him to me,” cried Artingale. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh, two of you, eh?” exclaimed Jack; “two of you to a man as is down. Well, as I said before, and I say again, what’s the matter?”

“Look here, you dog!” cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man’s broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, “I know everything about you, and where you come from.”

“Oh, do you?” said the fellow with a chuckle. “And so do I know you. You’re a game preserver from Lincolnshire.”

“Never mind who or what I am,” cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; “but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies.”

“What two young ladies? I don’t know anything about two young ladies.”

“I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police.”

“Ho!” said the fellow, making Artingale’s foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; “it’s a police case, then, after all? Lawford magistrates?”

“No, not now,” cried Artingale, angrily. “Keep back, Magnus, I’ll manage him,” he cried; “you’re not fit. I say, it is not a police case now.”

“Oh!” growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, “what may it be, then?”

“A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now.”

“Ho! it’s a leathering is it, your lordship!”

“Yes,” cried Artingale, “it’s a thrashing now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again – if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I’ll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police.”

“Ho, you will, will you?” said the fellow, mockingly.

“And I – I – ” cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.

“Yes, I see there’s two,” growled the fellow. “And what’ll you do?”

“I’ll shoot you like a dog!” There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian’s brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.

“All right,” he said; “fire away, and if you do kill me, I’ll come when I’m a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn’t Lawford, and I haven’t been taking any of your lordship’s rabbuds this time.”

“What are you doing here?” said Artingale.

“Doing here!” said Jock, musingly; “why don’t you know I’m a Lawford man?”

“Yes; I know that,” cried Artingale.

“Well, my parson’s down here; I miss him when he comes away.”

“Get up, you scoundrel!” cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.

“Not I,” growled the fellow. “There’s lots o’ room for you to pass, man, and ’taint your path. That’s the gainest road back.”

“Get up?” roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms. “Do you hear?”

“Oh, ah! I can hear,” growled the fellow.

“Get up, then.”

“Not I. It’s comfortable here.”

“You cowardly ruffian, get up!” roared Artingale.

“Nay, it’s not me as is the coward,” said Jock, coolly. “You’re two to one. Besides, I don’t want to hurt your lordship.”

“Get up!” roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man’s blood seem to seethe with rage.

“Get up!” he roared once more.

“Weant!”

As the word left the ruffian’s lips, Artingale’s passion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.

The effect was instantaneous.

With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily, hors de combat, for he was as weak almost as a child.

It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of rage that was murderous.

Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he felt himself crushed against the great fellow’s chest. He read it in the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain, for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant’s grip.

It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel’s murderous aim before Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.

He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.

But no – he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.

Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge into the void beneath.

End of Volume Two

Part 2, Chapter V.
What Plan Next?

James Magnus had just struggled to his knees, feeling half mad with rage at his impotence, for it was only now that he fully realised how terribly he had been reduced by his illness. Here before him was the man whom he had to thank for his sufferings, and against whom for other reasons as well he nourished a bitter hatred; and yet, instead of being able to seize him by the throat and force the scoundrel to his knees, he was as helpless as a child.

“Dog! villain!” he panted, as he staggered up, and made at the fellow; but Jock Morrison gave him a contemptuous look for answer, and turned to him, but seemed to alter his mind, and as if alarmed at what he had done, started off at a brisk trot; while after vainly looking round for help, Magnus tottered towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes starting and the great drops of perspiration gathering upon his face.

For a few moments he dared not approach the extreme verge, for everything seemed to be swimming before his eyes, but at last, horror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, he went down on hands and knees, crept to the spot where Artingale had gone over, and peered down, expecting to see the mangled remains of his poor friend lying upon the stones beneath.

“Ahoy!” came from below, in the well-known voice of Artingale; and then, as Magnus saw his friend some twenty feet below, trying to clamber back, he uttered a low sigh, and sank back fainting upon the turf.

For in spite of Jock Morrison’s murderous intent, fate had been kind to Harry Artingale, who had been hurled over the edge in one of the few places where instead of going down perpendicularly, the friable cliff was broken up into ledges and slopes, upon one of which the young man had fallen and clung for his life to the rugged pieces of stone, slipping in a little avalanche of fragments some twenty or thirty feet farther than his first fall of about ten. Here he managed to check himself, while one of the largest fragments of stone that he had started in his course went on, and as he clung there he saw it leap, as it were, from beside him, and a few seconds after there came up a dull crash from where the stone had struck and splintered, two hundred feet below.

“I shall lose my nerve,” he thought, “if I stop here;” and rousing himself into action, he began to climb back, and was making his way up the steep slope without much difficulty, when he saw his friend’s ghastly face for a moment, peering over the edge, and then it disappeared.

“Poor old fellow, it has made him giddy,” muttered Artingale, as he drew himself up higher and higher, clinging close to the face of the slope and placing his feet cautiously till he found himself with his hands resting upon a ledge only a few feet below the top of the cliff.

If he could only get upon this ledge the rest would be easy, but unless he could draw himself up by the strength of his muscles, he felt that he must wait for help, and the task was one of no little difficulty, for there was no firm hold for his hands.

He knew that if he waited for help he must lose his nerve by thinking of his perilous position, while if he tried to draw himself up and did not succeed in reaching the ledge he felt that he must fall.

He dared not pause to think of the consequences of that fall, for though he had escaped so far, it was not likely that he would be so fortunate again.

He was standing now with his feet on a piece of crumbling sandstone, which was likely enough to give way if he tried to make a spring upwards.

Still, there was nothing else to be done, and drawing in a deep breath, he remained perfectly motionless before making the supreme effort.

His hands were only a few inches above his head, and he began searching about with them now for a crevice into which he could thrust his fingers, but the blind search was vain, and feeling that this was hopeless, he let his eyes fall to scan the surface of the rock below his chest for some fresh foothold; but there was none, unless he cut a niche in the soft sandstone, and he had no knife. If he climbed to the right he would be in no better position; if to the left, he would be in a worse; so once more drawing a long breath, he began cautiously to draw himself up higher and higher by sheer force of muscle, till his eyes were level with the edge of the shelf; then an inch or two higher, and then he felt that his hands were giving way – that he was falling – that all was over, and that he must dashed to pieces, when, in his agony, he saw an opening, a mere crack, across the shelf, but it was sufficient for him to force in the fingers of one hand with a desperate effort, and then, how he knew not, he placed the other beside it.

He could cling here and force feet and knees against the face of the rock, and in the struggle of the next few moments he raised himself higher, scrambled on to the ledge, rose panting and with every nerve in his body quivering, seized hold of a stone above him, thrust his feet into a niche or two, gained the top of the cliff, and, unable to keep up the tension longer, he loosed the strain upon his nerves and sank down beside his friend, trembling in every limb.

This, however, did not last many moments, for, shaking off the feeling of his own horror, Artingale rose, drew down and buttoned his wristbands, looking pityingly the while at his friend, and then caught up his coat and threw it on.

The next moment he was kneeling beside Magnus, who soon after opened his eyes.

“Ah, Harry,” he said, feebly, “you didn’t know what a miserable reed you had for a friend.”

“Nonsense, man! How are you? Did the blackguard hurt you?”

“No, scarcely at all. I’m weak as a rat. But you!”

“Oh, I’m all right. Only a little skin off my elbows and varnish off my toes. Which way did the brute go?”

“Over the hill yonder,” said Magnus. “Where he may go,” said Artingale, “for hang me if I go after him to-day. Why, confound him, he’s as strong as a bull. I couldn’t have thought a man could be so powerful. But let’s get back, old fellow. Can you walk?”

“Oh yes, I’m better now,” said Magnus feebly; “but I shall never forgive myself for failing you at such a pinch.”

“Never mind the failing, Jemmy: but pinch it was; the blackguard nearly broke my ribs. One moment: let me look down.”

He walked to the edge and looked over the cliff, realising more plainly now the terrible risk he had run, for his escape had been narrow indeed, and in spite of his attempt to preserve his composure, he could not help feeling a peculiar moisture gathering in the palms of his hands. But he laughed it off as he took Magnus’s arm, and drew it through his own, saying, —

“It’s a great blessing, my dear boy, that I took off this coat. It would have been completely spoiled.”

“You had an awfully narrow escape.”

“Yes; and it is almost a pity the brute did not kill me,” said Artingale, coolly.

“Harry!”

“Well, if he had, the police would have hunted the scoundrel down, then he would have been hung, and little Julie could have rested in peace.”

“And Cynthia?” said Magnus, with a sad smile.

“Ah, yes! poor little darling, she would have broken her heart. But I say, old fellow, it’s a pity the scoundrel got away. What are we to do?”

“He must be taken,” exclaimed Magnus, “at any cost. It was a murderous attempt on your life.”

“Humph! yes, but he might swear that I tried to throw him over first. It was a fight, old fellow, and I got the worst of it.”

“But he must be taken.”

“No,” said Artingale, “I think not, old fellow; his is a peculiar case, and we can’t be going into witness-boxes and answering all sorts of questions. After to-day’s adventure down below on the beach, I don’t see that we can move. No, Magnus, there are things that must be hushed up, and this is one of them. But we must do something. I declare I’ll mount a revolver, and have a shot at the brute if he annoys them again, legal or illegal.”

“Impossible,” said Magnus, bitterly.

“By Jove; if he’d only go down home again and get up to some of his poaching tricks. I tell you what, Magnus, old man,” he said, setting his teeth, “I hope fate will never place me with my men down at Gatley, going to meet a poaching party led by Jock Morrison. If she does – well – ”

“Well what?”

“I hope I sha’n’t have a gun in my hand.”

“You must persuade Mr Mallow to leave here.”

“What I just as he has come down for Julia’s health. No, my dear fellow, you might just as well try to move a rock. But I say, our first attempt at playing detectives don’t seem to have been much of a success.”

“No,” said Magnus, dreamily. “Let’s get back.”

“What are you thinking about, old man,” said Artingale, after a pause.

“I was thinking whether the fellow could be bribed to go away.”

“Oh, yes, easily,” said Artingale, “and he’d go and come back next week, and levy blackmail wherever the family went, while the very fact of his having been paid off would give the affair an ugly look if ever we had occasion to drag the scoundrel before the judge.”

“Then what is to be done?” said Magnus, angrily, “the police must be consulted.”

“No: won’t do,” said Artingale, decisively. “Wait a bit, Jemmy, and I’ll hit upon some plan. Unfortunately, we live in these degraded times when that fine old institution the press-gang is no more.”

“This is no time for levity, Harry,” said Magnus, bitterly.

“Levity! My dear boy, my feelings towards that fellow are full of anything but levity. He nearly killed me, and that is no joke; and – oh! horror of horror! I did not expect this – here’s Perry-Morton.”

He was quite right, for the idol of the early masters’ clique was advancing to meet them after failing to see poor Julia, who with throbbing pulses and cheeks now pale, now burning with fever, was sobbing in her sister’s arms.

Part 2, Chapter VI.
Unselfish Proceedings

“Frightened away? Not a doubt about it,” said Artingale. “I feel as if I had been a martyr, and offered myself up as a sacrifice.”

“Martyr – sacrifice!” cried Cynthia, looking at the speaker keenly, and with her bright little face flushing. “Now, Harry, I’ll never forgive you. I’m sure you’ve been keeping something back. There, see how guilty you look! Oh, shame! shame!”

Artingale protested that he had been silent only from the best motives, was accused of deceit and want of confidence, and ended by making a full confession of the whole incident, after which he had to take Cynthia and show her the exact spot before his shuddering little companion condescended to forgive.

“And when was this, sir?”

“This day month,” said Artingale, humbly, “and we have not seen him since. Magnus and I have watched, and searched, and hunted, and done everything possible; but, as I say, I think I have been the sacrifice. He believes he killed me, and is afraid to show.”

“Perhaps he has committed suicide out of remorse,” said Cynthia.

“Just the sort of fellow who would,” replied Artingale, with a dry look.

“Now you are laughing at me,” cried Cynthia, pettishly. “I declare, Harry, I believe you are tired of me, and want to quarrel. I’ve been too easy with you, sir, and ought to have kept you at a distance.”

More protesting and pardoning took place here, all very nice in their way, but of no interest to any save the parties concerned.

“You must get Julie to come out more now,” said Artingale. “Tell her there is nothing to mind.”

“I can’t make poor Julie out at all,” said Cynthia thoughtfully. “She seems so strange and quiet. That man must have frightened her dreadfully.”

“Did she tell you about it?”

“Very little, and if I press her she shudders, and seems ready to burst out sobbing. Then I have to comfort her by telling her that I am sure she will never see him any more, and when I say this she looks at me so strangely.”

“What does mamma say?”

“Oh, only that Julie is foolish and hysterical. She doesn’t understand her at all. Poor mamma never did understand us girls, I’m sure,” said Cynthia, with a profound look of wisdom upon her little face.

“And papa?”

“Oh, poor dear papa thinks of nothing but seeing us married and – Oh, Harry, I am ashamed.”

“What of?” he cried, catching her in his arms and kissing her tenderly. “Why, Cynthy, I never knew before what a fine old fellow the pater is. He is up to par in my estimation now.”

“Is that meant for a joke, sir?” said Cynthia mockingly.

“Joke? – joke? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Never mind now; but you need not be so pleased about what papa says. I think it’s very cruel – wanting to get rid of us.”

“I don’t,” exclaimed Artingale, laughing.

“Then you want to see poor Julie married to that dreadful Perry-Morton?”

“No, I don’t; I want her to have dear old James Magnus. I say, Cynthy. We won’t be selfish, eh? We won’t think about ourselves, will we? Let’s try and make other people happy.”

“Yes, Harry, we will.”

It was wonderful to see the sincerity with which these two young people spoke, and how eagerly they set to making plans for other people’s happiness – a process which seemed to need a great deal of clinging together for mutual support, twining about of arms, and looking long and deeply into each other’s eyes for counsel. Then Artingale’s hair was a little too much over his forehead for the thoughts of Cynthia to flow freely, and it had to be smoothed back by a little white hand with busy fingers. But that hair was obstinate, and it was not until the little pinky fingers had several times been moistened between Cynthia’s ruddy lips and drawn over the objecting strands of hair that they could be forced to retain the desired position.

After the performance of such a kindly service Artingale would have been ungrateful if he had not thanked her in the most affectionate way his brain could suggest, a proceeding of which, with all due modesty, the young lady seemed highly to approve.

Then Harry’s tie was not quite right, and the new collar stud had to be admired, and a great deal more of this very unselfish eau sucrée had to be imbibed before Julia again came on the tapis, her entrance being heralded by a sister’s sigh.

“Poor Julie!” said Cynthia.

“Oh, yes; poor Julia. Now, look here, pet, I dare say it’s very shocking, and if it were known the Rector would be sure to give me my congé.”

“Oh, I would never think of telling him, Harry.”

“That’s right. Well, as I was saying, if she marries Perry-Morton she will be miserable.”

“Horribly,” assented Cynthia. “And if she marries old Magnus she will be very happy.”

“But are you sure that Mr Magnus really loves her?”

“He worships her. I’m sure of it.”

“Then it would be wicked, wouldn’t it, Harry, to keep them apart?”

“I should think it as bad as murder to keep us apart.”

“Should you, Harry?”

“Yes.” And more unselfish proceedings.

“Then, as papa and mamma have made a mistake, don’t you think we ought to help them?”

“Yes,” said Artingale, “but how? Magnus hangs back. He says he is sure that Julia does not think of him in the slightest degree. What do you say?”

“I don’t know what to say,” cried Cynthia thoughtfully, “only that I am sure she hates Perry-Morton. She says she does.”

“But does she show any liking for Magnus?”

“N-no, I’m afraid not. But does that matter, dear?”

“Well, I should think not,” replied Artingale thoughtfully. “Magnus loves her very much, and I’m sure no girl could help loving him in return. I almost feel jealous when he talks to you.”

“No, you don’t, Harry,” retorted Cynthia, recommencing operations upon the obstinate lock of hair.

“Then what is to be done?” said Artingale, at last, after another long display of unselfishness.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Harry. It almost seems as if Julia was ready to let herself go with the stream. She is so quiet and strange and reserved. I don’t know what to make of her. She keeps fancying she sees that man.”

“But she don’t see him.”

“Oh no: it is impossible; but she is so changed. I find her sometimes sitting and thinking, looking straight before her as if she were in a dream. Bring Mr Magnus here more often.”

“Here?”

“Well, no; to Lawford. I’ll coax papa into asking him. Oh, I say, what a capital idea!” cried Cynthia, clapping her hands. “I have it. Her portrait!”

“Her portrait!” exclaimed Artingale, starting, as he recalled the scene in his friend’s studio.

“Yes; the very thing. You take him down to Gatley, and papa shall ask Mr Magnus over to Lawford to paint Julia’s portrait, and then there will be such long sittings, Harry; and Mr Magnus will have to look at her so patiently, and move this hand there and that hand here, and get her into quite the correct pose. Oh, Harry, what fun!”

“Why, you cunning little witch,” he exclaimed; “if Magnus does not jump at the idea, he deserves to lose her.”

Then there came a little more unselfishness and a little disinterested proceeding, which was interrupted by the entrance of Julia herself, looking very pale and sad. There was a far-off, distant aspect about her eyes, as of one who was thinking deeply of some great trouble, but she smiled affectionately when Cynthia spoke, after which the conspirators exchanged glances, and Artingale went away.