Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“No, no, those are all silver. It is a presentation set.”

“Then we’re in time,” whispered the sergeant. “I expect the servants are in it.”

A terrible dread was oppressing Artingale, but he did not speak, only followed the sergeant as he tried the breakfast-room door, to find it fast and the key outside; the library the same.

“All right there,” he said softly. “Joe, here. Stand inside and keep your eye on the staircase; we’re going below.”

The constable at the entrance obeyed his orders, and softly opening a glass door, the sergeant, who seemed quite at home in the geography of the place, led the way down a flight of well-whitened stone steps to the basement, the bright light of his lantern playing upon a long row of bells, and then upon a broad stone passage and several doors.

“Butler’s pantry,” he whispered, after a good look round. “You stop here, sir.”

Artingale stopped short, guarding the foot of the steps, and the sergeant tried the door, to find it fast, but as the handle rattled a man’s voice exclaimed, “Who’s there?”

“Police! Open quickly.”

There was a scuffling noise, then the striking of a match, and a light shone out from three panes of glass above the door. The hurried sound of some one putting on some clothes, and then a peculiar monitory click-click!

“Mind what you’re at with that pistol,” said the sergeant gruffly. “I tell you it’s the police. Open the door.”

“How do I know it’s the police?” said the butler firmly.

“Come and see then, stupid.”

“Open the door, Thompson,” said Artingale. “I’m here too.”

“Oh, is it you, my lord?” said the butler, and he unlocked the door, to be seen in his shirt and trousers, with a cocked pistol in his hand. “I’ve got the plate here, my lord, and I did not know but what it was a trick. For God’s sake, my lord, what’s the matter?”

“Don’t know yet,” said the sergeant. “But the plate’s right, you say?”

“Yes; all but the things in the dining-room.”

“They’re safe too. We found the front door open. Now then, who sleeps down here?”

“Under-butler, footman, and page,” said the butler quickly; and taking a chamber candlestick, he led the way to a smaller pantry where the light showed a red-faced boy fast asleep with his mouth open.

“Where are the men?” said the sergeant laconically; and the butler led the way to a closed door, which opened into a long stone-paved hall, in the two recesses of which were a couple of turned-up bedsteads, in each of which was a sleeping man, one of whom jumped up, however, as the light fell upon his eyes.

“Get up, James,” said the butler. “Have either of you fellows been up to any games?”

“No, sir. We came to bed before you,” was the reply.

“You’d better get up,” said the butler.

Then following the sergeant the basement was searched, and they reascended to the hall.

“I’ve been all about here,” said the sergeant quietly. “They must have meant the jewels and things up-stairs. Next thing is to go up and wake your guv’ner.”

“What, alone?” said the butler blankly.

“Come along, then, and I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll come too, sergeant,” said Artingale. “Don’t alarm the ladies if you can help it.”

And together they mounted the thickly-carpeted stairs.

Part 2, Chapter XIV.
Gone! Where?

If one could but bring oneself to the belief, there is only a slight difference between day and night, and that difference is that in the latter case there is an absence of light – that is all; but, somehow, we people the darkness with untold horrors. We ignore it, of course; we should ridicule the impeachment, but the fact remains the same, that probably nineteen people out of every twenty are afraid of being in the dark – perhaps more so than they were when children.

Possibly we grow more nervous than when we were young, or gas may have had something to do with it; certainly more people seem to burn lights in their bedrooms than used to be the case before a gas-burner or two had become the regular furniture of a well-ordered bedroom in town.

In our fathers’ days, people who were invalids burned long, thin, dismal rushlights in shades, with the candle itself in the middle of a cup of water; or else they had a glass containing so much oil floating on water, and a little wick upon its own raft, sailing about like a miniature floating beacon in the oil. But still these were the exceptions, and a light in a bedroom was an uncommon thing. At the same time, though, it must be allowed that there is something fear-exciting about the dark rooms, and that sounds that are unnoticed in the broad daylight acquire a strange weirdness if heard when all else is still. People have a bad habit of being taken ill in the night; burglars choose “the sma’” hours for breaking into houses; sufferers from indigestion select the darkness for their deeds of evil known as sleep-walking; and the imps attendant on one’s muscles prefer two or three o’clock in the so-called morning for putting our legs on that rack known as the cramp. It is perhaps after all excusable then for people to indulge, in moderation, in a little nocturnal alarm; and it may also, for aught we know, be good for us, and act as a safety-valve escape for a certain amount of bad nerve-force. No doubt Priam was terribly alarmed when his curtains were drawn in the dead of the night – as much so, perhaps, as the mobled queen; and therefore it was quite excusable for the Rector to answer the summons of the head of his wedding staff of servants in a state of no little excitement.

“Dreadful! extraordinary! most strange?” he faltered. “You were passing, Henry, eh?”

“Yes: Mr Magnus and I were going by, and we found the policeman had discovered that the door was open.”

“Then the place has been rifled,” exclaimed the Rector; “and many of the things are hired,” he cried piteously. “Everything will be gone! What is to be done?”

“Hush, Mr Mallow! we shall alarm the whole house,” said Artingale, hastily. “I fancy I saw some one leave the place as we came up. Will you send and see if – if – ”

He hesitated, for he saw Magnus with a face like ashes, standing holding on by the balustrade.

“Yes, yes,” exclaimed the Rector. “Speak out, please. Do you mean see if all the servants are at home?”

“I don’t know – I scarcely know what to say,” whispered Artingale, going close up to him. “We want to avoid exposure, sir. Go and knock at Cynthia’s door, and send her to see if her sister has been alarmed.”

“There is no occasion to frighten her. Let the place below be well searched, and the servants examined.”

Just then Mrs Mallow’s voice was heard inquiring what was the matter, and the Rector thrust his head inside the door to tell her that she was not to be alarmed.

“Is any one ill?” said a voice just then, which made Artingale thrill, and he ran to the door from which the voice had come.

“Dress yourself quickly, Cynthy,” he whispered, “and go and tell Julie not to be alarmed. We – we are afraid there has been a burglary.”

The door closed, and just then the Rector, who had been compelled to go back to his room to quiet Mrs Mallow’s fears, came back.

“I will speak to the young ladies,” he said, looking pale and troubled, and going along the landing, he tapped lightly at Julia’s door.

“Julia, my dear! Julia!”

He tapped again.

“Julia, my child! Julia!”

Still no answer.

He tapped a little louder, a little louder still – but no answer; and Artingale and Magnus exchanged glances.

“Dear me, it is most embarrassing. How fast she sleeps,” said the Rector, looking round apologetically. “Really, gentlemen, I do not think we ought to disturb her.”

All the same, urged by a strange feeling of alarm, he tapped again, but still without result; and once more he looked round at the strange group gathered upon the broad landing – the police in great-coats, and lantern-bearing; the butler with his candlestick and pistol; the two gentlemen in evening dress, with their light overcoats and crush hats in hand.

Just then a door opened, and every one drew back to allow the pretty little vision that burst upon their sight to pass them by.

The figure was that of Cynthia, with her crisp, fair hair lightly tied back, so that it floated down loosely over the loose wide peignoir of creamy cashmere trimmed with blue, which formed a costume, as it swept from her in graceful folds, far more becoming than the most ravishing toilet from a Parisian modiste. She held a little silver candlestick, with bell glass to shade the light, and as she came forward, looking very composed and firm, though rather pale, Artingale felt for the moment as if he could have emulated Perry-Morton, and fallen down to kiss her pretty little slipper-covered feet.

“Ah, my dear!” exclaimed the Rector, “I am glad you have come. I cannot make Julia hear.”

Cynthia darted a quick glance at Artingale, full of dread and dismay, and then without a word she passed on and laid her hand upon the china knob of Julia’s door. Then she hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment, before turning the handle and going in, the door swinging to behind her.

Cynthia held her candle above her head and gave one glance round, the light falling on Julia’s wedding dress and veil; the wreath was on a table, side by side with the jewels that had been presented to her. Over other chairs and in half-packed trunks were travelling and other costumes, with the endless little signs of preparation for leaving home.

Cynthia gave one glance round her with dilating eyes; ran into the dressing-room and back looked at the unpressed bed, and then she let fall the candlestick as she sank on her knees uttering a loud cry, and covering her face with her hands.

It was no time for ceremony, and at the cry the Rector rushed in, followed by Artingale, Magnus stopping at the door to keep back the police and the servants, who would have entered too, both the men from below having now joined the group.

As the Rector ran in with Artingale, Cynthia started up once more.

“Oh, papa! oh, Harry!” she cried, piteously, “Julie has gone!”

“Gone!” gasped the Rector. “Gone! Where? Are you mad?”

“Mad? no, papa, but she is. Oh, Harry! I saw that dreadful man to-night outside in the garden, after we had gone to bed; but I thought she would be safe; and now I know it – I am quite sure. Oh, Harry, Harry! what shall we do? He has taken her away!”

Part 2, Chapter XV.
The Bird and the Serpent

Unmistakably. There could be no doubt of the fact; Julia Mallow had fled from her home that night – half willingly, half forced, always drawn as it were by the strange influence that the man who had been the evil genius of her life had exercised over her.

For months past she had fought against it, and striven to nerve herself to conquer the force that seemed to master her; but always in vain. For often, unseen except by her, Jock Morrison was on the watch, turning up where least expected; and when not present in the flesh, seemingly always there in spirit, and haunting her like her shadow. Again and again he had come upon her alone, taken her in his arms, and in his coarse fashion told her that he loved her, and that she should belong to him alone. Nothing, he told her, should keep them apart, for if he could not get her by fair means he would by foul; laughingly showing her the great spring-bladed dagger-knife he carried, and saying that he kept it sharp for any one who got in his way.

Julia trembled at the thought of seeing him; she shuddered and closed her eyes when he appeared before her, and then grew nerveless and weak, fascinated, as it were, like some bird before a serpent; and the scoundrel knew it. He felt the power of his words, and he repeated them to his shivering victim, glorying the while in the power he felt that he exercised over her.

Sometimes she had fancied that she was mastering her fear, but as she overcame that dread, she found, to her horror, that there was another occult influence at work which refused to be overcome; for as in the solitude of her own chamber she strove with it, she found that she was only riveting her chains more stoutly. It was not love for him. No, that was impossible; for she shuddered and shrank from him as from some monster. But, to her horror, she found that her feelings towards the great overmastering ruffian were something near akin. The thoughts of his great muscular figure, his bold bearing, and brown picturesque face were always before her; and even when her own were closed, his fierce black piercing eyes were fixed upon hers, reading her weakness, insisting upon his mastery over her more powerfully even than his words, though they were burned into her memory; and at last, after fighting with all her mind against the current of what she felt to be her fate, she had begun to drift.

Once she had allowed that terrible idea – that it was her fate – to obtain entrance, and she was lost, for it produced a weak submission that stifled every hope. Drift, drift, drift – resigning herself to what she thought was the inevitable. Some day, she told herself, Jock would come and order her to leave home and all she loved, and follow him wheresoever he willed; and she would have to go. He was her master, her fate; and mingled with her horror of him there was that inexplicable fascination that exercised upon her will the power of the mesmerist upon his patient, and she could fight no more. When it would be she knew not, thought not; only she knew that the time would come, and when it did she could no more resist, no more battle with it, than against that other inevitable point that would end her weary life – when the angel of death would overshadow her with his heavy wings, touch her with icy finger, and bid her away.

Always brooding now over these two fixed points in her career – the coming of Jock Morrison and the coming of the end; and so she drifted on. She heard the talk of the wedding that she knew would never be; for if the day did come, and she were taken to the church, she felt that her fate would pluck her from the very altar, or even from her husband’s arms.

She knew of the love of James Magnus, and she felt a curious kind of pity for one whom she liked and esteemed; but she closed her eyes with a weary smile as she thought of him, for she knew that she was drifting away, and that even to look at him was to give him pain.

Drifting still when taken to see the talked-of home, asked opinions upon decorations, and taken by father and sister where she was prepared to be decked for the sacrifice. Drifting, too, at party or ball, where she met Perry-Morton, who always seemed to her like some nebulous mist, that was absorbed and died away in the presence of the giant ever filling her imagination.

Go where she would, she felt that she would see him somewhere, though often it was but imagination. Still it kept Jock Morrison always in her mind, and he knew that he was secure of his prize, waiting patiently till she came back from abroad.

At first she had felt a kind of sorrow for Perry-Morton, and wanted to warn him of what her fate would be; but the pity gave place to contempt, the contempt to disgust, the disgust to dread; for she felt that if she warned him he would take steps to assert himself, and if he did, she knew in her heart that her fate, as she called him, would not stop at taking his life.

And so by slow degrees Julia drifted from active opposition into a morbid belief that resistance was vain, nursing her horror in her own racked breast, and waiting for the fulfilment of her fate. As Cynthia had complained, she had grown reticent, and made no confidante of her sister; in fact, there were times, after seeing Morrison, when she felt with a sigh that she should be glad when all was over, and she need think no more. For she was weary of thinking, weary of this keeping up appearances, weary of Perry-Morton, of his sisters, of home, of her own life.

There were times when she looked from her window longingly towards where she knew the long lake lay in the hollow of the Park, and wondered whether it would not be better to flee from the house some evening, go down to the bridge, and throw herself in. She shuddered as she formed the idea; not from dread of death, which would have been like rest to her; but because she felt that she would be only hastening her fate, and that she did fear. For so surely as she left the house to cross the Park, so surely she knew that Jock Morrison would start up from the grass and take her away.

And so it had come to the wedding-eve, and the great burly form had shown itself in the garden. She had seen it early in the evening, and she had felt that it was there hour after hour, till Perry-Morton had left, and she had gone to the window, drawn there in spite of herself. Later on she had obeyed Jock’s signals, feeling as if he were speaking to her – telling her that the time had come, and dressing herself in her plainest things, she had sat down and waited by the open window, acting mechanically, till the deep voice came up to where she sat, bidding her come down now.

She felt no emotion, for it was all as if she were in a dream. She obeyed, however, going out on to the landing, after closing her window, to find that all was very silent in the house. Then for a moment she went and kneeled down upon the mat by her sister’s door, laid her cheek against it, sighed heavily and kissed the panel that separated them, and slowly descended the stairs, entered the dining-room, and, still as if drawn by her fate, unfastened the shutters and window, which latter was thrown open, and Jock Morrison stepped boldly into the room.

“Good girl!” he said, clasping her in his embrace. “I’ve got a cab waiting, for you shall ride to-night. Didn’t you think it was time I came?”

She did not answer, but acted still like one in a dream, as he watched from the door, withdrawing more than once with a muttered oath as Artingale and Magnus kept parading about the place.

He was about to start again and again, but he always seemed to hesitate till their steps were heard once more, when he would close the door and stand listening, with the trembling girl clasped tightly in his arms.

At last he seemed to be satisfied that the ground was clear, and with a smile of triumph on his lip he stepped out, drawing Julia after him; but as he reached the pavement he heard the steps of the two gentlemen once more, and uttering a fierce oath he hurried his prize along faster and faster, as he felt that their evasion had been seen.

“Quicker, my lass, quicker!” he said, gruffly; and she had to obey him. But she was growing faint. She held up, though, till she reached the cab, into which he hurried her. And now for the first time the reality of her position seemed to force itself upon her, and she started up with a wild cry.

Too late! With one hand he thrust her back into the seat as with the other he drew up the window, and her next feeble cry was drowned by the noise of the jangling panes.

In his agony of grief and horror the Rector could hardly believe in the possibility of that which Artingale reluctantly told; for when he appealed to his child he could not get a word from her, but hysterical cries for her sister, whom she accused herself of having neglected and allowed to go.

It was impossible, the Rector declared, and after a long discussion he insisted upon the matter being kept quiet, refusing to take any steps in the way of pursuit till he had seen his son.

It would all come right, he was sure, he said; and finding that nothing could be done, Artingale left the house, after hearing from the doctor, who had been sent for, that he need be under no apprehension concerning Cynthia.

“What next?” he said to Magnus.

“To find her,” said the artist, “wherever she is, and to bring her back – poor lost lamb! Oh, Harry, they have driven the poor girl mad!”

“I’m with you, Magnus,” said Artingale, “to the end. Come on; we have lost much valuable time, but I could not stir till I saw what her father intended to do.”

He hailed a cab.

“Scotland Yard!” he shouted, and the man drove on. “If it costs me all I’ve got I’ll have her back. I look upon her as a sister. Poor girl! poor girl! she must have been mad indeed.”

“Harry,” whispered Magnus, “what are you going to do?” and his voice sounded hoarse and strange.

“Put the best dogs to be had upon the trail to run them down.”

“And then?”

“Get the scoundrel transported for life. And you?”

“I’m going with you to-night, or this morning, or whatever it is; to-morrow I’m going to buy a pistol.”

“And blow out your brains?” cried Artingale. “Bah! what’s the use of that?”

“No,” said Magnus, turning his haggard face to his friend, “to shoot him as I would a rabid dog.”

“And be put on your trial for murder. No; my plan’s best.”

“Your plan!” said Magnus, fiercely. “What can you do? You forget the circumstances of the case. Before we can reach them the scoundrel will have married her. You cannot touch him.”

Artingale ground his teeth as he seemed to realise the truth of what was said. Then, turning, he urged the man on to greater speed.

All was quiet and orderly in the great office at Whitehall, and a quiet, thoughtful official heard their business, raised his eyebrows a little, and then made a few notes.

“You will keep the matter as quiet as possible,” said Artingale, “for the sake of the young lady’s family; but at all costs she must be brought back.”

“We’ll soon find the scoundrel, my lord; but from your description he is not a London man.”

“London, no; he is one of those scoundrels who live more by poaching than anything.”

“All right, sir. I’ll take your address – and yours, sir. Can I find you here – at what time?”

“Time!” cried Artingale; “I have no time but for this affair. I’ll stay here with you and your men – live here – sleep here. Damme, I’ll join the force if it will help to bring the poor child back. It is horribly bad! She was to have been married this morning.”

“All that can be done, sir, shall be done,” said the officer, quietly. “And now, gentlemen, if you’ll take my advice you’ll go home and have a good sleep.”

“What!” cried Artingale. “Go and sleep? No, I want to be at work.”

“Exactly, sir; then go and have a rest, and be ready for when I want you. If you stop here you can do no good – only harm, by hindering me.”

“But, damn it all!” cried Artingale, furiously, “you take it so coolly.”

“The only way to win, sir – my lord, I mean. But we are wasting time. By now I should have had the telegraph at work, and the description flying to every station in London.”

“In God’s name, then, go on,” cried Artingale, “take no notice of us, only let us stay.”

The officer nodded, and in an incredibly short space of time it was known all over London and the districts round of the elopement or abduction, and a couple of the keenest officers were at work to track the fugitives down.

It took some time; but a clever net was drawn all over London. The early morning trains were watched, the yards where the night cabs were housed were visited; the various common lodging-houses had calls, and every effort was made to trace Jock Morrison, and had he been a known London bird the probabilities are that the police would have placed their hands upon him; but they had to deal with a man whose life had been one of practised cunning, and he had so made his plans that the police were at fault.

They found the cabman in a very short time, and he testified to having driven the great fellow and the lady with him to Charing Cross.

That was all.

The net spread over London missing that which it was intended to catch, its meshes were lessened, and it was stretched out wider, and from every police-station in the country, and in every provincial town, the description of the fugitives went forth; but still they were not found. So cleverly had the scoundrel made his plans that no tidings whatever were obtained, and by degrees the pursuit waxed less hot. First one and then another cause célèbre took the attention of the police. Then Artingale grew less keen, for the months were gliding by, and he had devoted himself heart and soul to the cause for long enough without result.

Then more months passed, and still no news. The strange disappearance of Julia Mallow became almost historical, and it was only revived a little as a topic of conversation, when it was announced that Mr Perry-Morton had returned with his sisters from their long sojourn in Venice, and soon after it was rumoured in paragraphs that the talented leader of a certain clique was about to lead to the altar the daughter of a most distinguished member of the artistic world.

Luke Ross had been consulted by Magnus and Lord Artingale, and had helped them to the best of his power, counselling the enlistment of Tom Morrison and his wife upon their side; but he could do no more, and the matter was pushed from his mind by the hard study and work upon which he was engaged, till he read in the morning papers the announcement of Cynthia’s marriage to Lord Artingale, quite two years after Julia’s disappearance, the Mallows having again been a long time abroad.

Then, saving to a few, Julia was as one that is dead.