CHAPTER III
THE PLAINTIFF IS STARTLED
Miss Angel was dressed for dinner. She was in the drawing-room with other guests of the hotel, waiting for the gong to sound, when she was informed that a gentleman wished to see her. On the heels of the information entered the gentleman himself. It seemed that Mr. Roland had only eyes for her. As if oblivious of others he moved rapidly forward. She regarded him askance. He, perceiving her want of recognition, introduce himself in a fashion of his own.
"Miss Angel, I'm the man who travelled with you from Nice to Dijon."
At once her face lighted up. Her eyes became as if they were illumined.
"Of course! To think that we should have met again! At last!"
To judge from certain comments which were made by those around one could not but suspect that Miss Angel's story was a theme of general interest. As a matter of fact, they were being entertained by her account of the day's proceedings at the very moment of Mr. Roland's entry. People in these small "residential" hotels are sometimes so extremely friendly. Altogether unexpectedly Mr. Roland found himself an object of interest to quite a number of total strangers. He was not the sort of man to shine in such a position, particularly as it was only too plain that Miss Angel misunderstood the situation.
"Mr. Roland, you are like a messenger from Heaven. I have prayed for you to come, so you must be one. And at this time of all times-just when you are most wanted! Really your advent must be miraculous."
"Ye-es." The gentleman glanced around. "Might I speak to you for a moment in private?"
She regarded him a little quizzically.
"Everybody here knows my whole strange history; my hopes and fears; all about me. You needn't be afraid to add another chapter to the tale, especially since you have arrived at so opportune a moment."
"Precisely." His tone was expressive of something more than doubt. "Still, if you don't mind, I think I would rather say a few words to you alone."
The bystanders commenced to withdraw with some little show of awkwardness, as if, since the whole business had so far been public, they rather resented the element of secrecy. The gong sounding, Miss Angel was moved to proffer a suggestion.
"Come dine with me. We can talk when we are eating."
He shrank back with what was almost a gesture of horror.
"Excuse me-you are very kind-I really couldn't. If you prefer it, I will wait here until you have dined."
"Do you imagine that I could wait to hear what you have to say till after dinner? You don't know me if you do. The people are going. We shall have the room all to ourselves. My dinner can wait."
The people went. They did have the room to themselves. She began to overwhelm him with her thanks, which, conscience-striken, he endeavoured to parry.
"I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you for coming in this spontaneous fashion-at this moment, too, of my utmost need."
"Just so."
"If you only knew how I have searched for you high and low, and now, after all, you appear in the very nick of time."
"Exactly."
"It would almost seem as if you had chosen the dramatic moment; for this is the time of all times when your presence on the scene was most desired."
"It's very good of you to say so; – but if you will allow me to interrupt you-I am afraid I am not entitled to your thanks. The fact is, I-I haven't the bag."
"You haven't the bag?"
Although he did not dare to look at her he was conscious that the fashion of her countenance had changed. At the knowledge a chill seemed to penetrate to the very marrow in his bones.
"I-I fear I haven't."
"You had it-I left it in your charge!"
"Unfortunately, that is the most unfortunate part of the whole affair."
"What do you mean?"
He explained. For the second time that night he told his tale. It had not rolled easily off his tongue at the first time of telling. He found the repetition a task of exquisite difficulty. In the presence of that young lady it seemed so poor a story. Especially in the mood in which she was. She continually interrupted him with question and comment-always of the most awkward kind. By the time he had made an end of telling he felt as if most of the vitality had gone out of him. She was silent for some seconds-dreadful seconds; Then she drew a long breath, and she said: -
"So I am to understand, am I, that your sister has lost the bag-my bag?"
"I fear that it would seem so, for the present."
"For the present? What do you mean by for the present? Are you suggesting that she will be able to find it during the next few hours? Because after that it will be too late."
"I-I should hardly like to go so far as that, knowing my sister."
"Knowing your sister? I see. Of course I am perfectly aware that I had no right to intrust the bag to your charge even for a single instant: to you, an entire stranger; though I had no notion that you were the kind of stranger you seem to be. Nor had I any right to slip, and fall, and become unconscious and so allow that train to leave me behind. Still-it does seems a little hard. Don't you think it does?"
"I can only hope that the loss was not of such serious importance as you would seem to infer."
"It depends on what you call serious. It probably means the difference between affluence and beggary. That's all."
"On one point you must allow me to make an observation. The will was not in the bag."
"The will was not in the bag!"
There was a quality in the lady's voice which made Mr. Roland quail. He hastened to proceed.
"I have here all which it contained."
He produced a neat packet, in which were discovered four keys, two handkerchiefs, scraps of what might be chocolate, a piece of pencil, a pair of brown shoe-laces. She regarded the various objects with unsympathetic eyes.
"It also contained the will."
"I can only assure you that I saw nothing of it; nor my sister either. Surely a thing of that kind could hardly have escaped our observation."
"In that bag, Mr. Roland, is a secret pocket; intended to hold-secure from observation-banknotes, letters, or private papers. The will was there. Did you or your sister, in the course of your investigations, light upon the secret of that pocket?"
Something of the sort he had feared. He rubbed his hands together, almost as if he were wringing them.
"Miss Angel, I can only hint at my sense of shame; at my consciousness of my own deficiencies; and can only reiterate my sincere hope that the consequences of your loss may still be less serious than you suppose."
"I imagine that nothing worse than my ruin will result."
"I will do my best to guard against that."
"You! – what can you do-now?"
"I am at least a juryman."
"A juryman?"
"I am one of the jury which is trying the case."
"You!" Her eyes opened wider. "Of course! I thought I had seen you somewhere before today! That's where it was! How stupid I am! Is it possible?" Exactly what she meant by her disjointed remarks was not clear. He did not suspect her of an intention to flatter. "And you propose to influence your colleagues to give a decision in my favour?"
"You may smile, but since unanimity is necessary I can, at any rate, make sure that it is not given against you."
"I see. Your idea is original. And perhaps a little daring. But before we repose our trust on such an eventuality I should like to do something. First of all, I should like to interview your sister."
"If you please."
"I do please. I think it possible that when I explain to her how the matter is with me her memory may be moved to the recollection of what she did with my poor bag. Do you think I could see her if I went to her at once?"
"Quite probably."
"Then you and I will go together. If you will wait for me to put a hat on, in two minutes I will return to you here."
CHAPTER IV
TWO CABMEN ARE STARTLED
Hats are uncertain quantities. Sometimes they represent ten minutes, sometimes twenty, sometimes sixty. It is hardly likely that any woman ever "put a hat on" in two. Miss Angel was quick. Still, before she reappeared Mr. Roland had arrived at something which resembled a mental resolution. He hurled it at her as soon as she was through the doorway.
"Miss Angel, before we start upon our errand I should like to make myself clear to you at least upon one point. I am aware that I am responsible for the destruction of your hopes-morally and actually. I should like you therefore to understand that, should the case go against you, you will find me personally prepared to make good your loss so far as in my power lies. I should, of course, regard it as my simple duty."
She smiled at him, really nicely.
"You are Quixotic, Mr. Roland. Though it is very good of you all the same. But before we talk about such things I should like to see your sister, if you don't mind."
At this hint he moved to the door. As they went towards the hall he said: -
"I hope you are building no high hopes upon your interview with my sister. I know my sister, you understand; and though she is the best woman in the world, I fear that she attached so little importance to the bag that she has allowed its fate to escape her memory altogether."
"One does allow unimportant matters to escape one's memory, doesn't one?"
Her words were ambiguous. He wondered what she meant. It was she who started the conversation when they were in the cab.
"Would it be very improper to ask what you think of the case so far as it has gone?"
He was sensible that it would be most improper. But, then, there had been so much impropriety about his proceedings already that perhaps he felt that a little more or less did not matter. He answered as if he had followed the proceedings with unflagging attention.
"I think your case is very strong."
"Really? Without the bag?"
It was a simple fact that he had but the vaguest notion of what had been stated upon the other side. Had he been called upon to give even a faint outline of what the case for the opposition really was he would have been unable to do so. But so trivial an accident did not prevent his expressing a confident opinion.
"Certainly; as it stands."
"But won't it look odd if I am unable to produce the will?"
Mr. Roland pondered; or pretended to.
"No doubt the introduction of the will would bring the matter to an immediate conclusion. But, as it is, your own statement is so clear that it seems to me to be incontrovertible."
"Truly? And do your colleagues think so also?"
He knew no more what his "colleagues" thought than the man in the moon. But that was of no consequence.
"I think you may take it for granted that they are not all idiots. I believe, indeed, that it is generally admitted that in most juries there is a preponderance of common sense."
She sighed, a little wistfully, as if the prospect presented by his words was not so alluring as she would have desired. She kept her eyes fixed on his face-a fact of which he was conscious.
"Oh, I wish I could find the will!"
While he was still echoing her wish with all his heart a strange thing happened.
The cabman turned a corner. It was dark. He did not think it necessary to slacken his pace. Nor, perhaps, to keep a keen look-out for what was advancing in an opposite direction. Tactics which a brother Jehu carefully followed. Another hansom was coming round that corner too. Both drivers, perceiving that their zeal was excessive, endeavoured to avoid disaster by dragging their steeds back upon their haunches. Too late! On the instant they were in collision. In that brief, exciting moment Mr. Roland saw that the sole occupant of the other hansom was a lady. He knew her. She knew him.
"It's Agatha!" he cried.
"Philip!" came in answer.
Before either had a chance to utter another word hansoms, riders, and drivers were on the ground. Fortunately the horses kept their heads, being possibly accustomed to little diversions of the kind. They merely continued still, as if waiting to see what would happen next. In consequence he was able to scramble out himself, and to assist Miss Angel in following him.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I don't think so; not a bit."
"Excuse me, but my sister's in the other cab."
"Your sister!"
He did not wait to hear. He was off like a flash. From the ruins of the other vehicle-which seemed to have suffered most in the contact-he gradually extricated the dishevelled Mrs. Tranmer. She seemed to be in a sad state. He led her to a chemist's shop, which luckily stood open close at hand, accompanied by Miss Angel and a larger proportion of the crowd than the proprietor appeared disposed to welcome. He repeated the inquiry he had addressed to Miss Angel.
"Are you hurt?"
This time the response was different.
"Of course I'm hurt. I'm shaken all to pieces; every bone in my body's broken; there's not a scrap of life left in me. Do you suppose I'm the sort of creature who can be thrown about like a shuttlecock and not be hurt?"
Something, however, in her tone suggested that her troubles might after all be superficial.
"If you will calm yourself, Agatha, perhaps you may find that your injuries are not so serious as you imagine."
"They couldn't be, or I should be dead. The worst of it is that this all comes of my flying across London to take that twopenny-halfpenny bag to that ridiculous young woman of yours."
He started.
"The bag! Agatha! have you found it?"
"Of course I've found it. How do you suppose I could be tearing along with it in my hands if I hadn't?" The volubility of her utterance pointed to a rapid return to convalescence. "It seems that I gave it to Jane, or she says that I did, though I have no recollection of doing anything of the kind. As she had already plenty of better bags of her own, probably most of them mine, she didn't want it, so she gave it to her sister-in-law. Directly I heard that, I dragged her into a cab and tore off to the woman's house. The woman was out, and, of course, she'd taken the bag with her to do some shopping. I packed off her husband and half-a-dozen children to scour the neighbourhood for her in different directions, and I thought I should have a fit while I waited. The moment she appeared I snatched the bag from her hand, flung myself back into the cab-and now the cab has flung me out into the road, and heaven only knows if I shall ever be the same woman I was before I started."
"And the bag! Where is it?" She looked about her with bewildered eyes.
"The bag? I haven't the faintest notion. I must have left it in the cab."
Mr. Roland rushed out into the street. He gained the vehicle in which Mrs. Tranmer had travelled. It seemed that one of the shafts had been wrenched right off, but they had raised it to what was as nearly an upright position as circumstances permitted.
"Where's the hand-bag which was in that cab?"
"Hand-bag?" returned the driver. "I ain't seen no hand-bag. So far I ain't hardly seen the bloomin' cab."
A voice was heard at Mr. Roland's elbows.
"This here bloke picked up a bag-I see him do it."
Mr. Roland's grip fastened on the shoulder of the "bloke" alluded to, an undersized youth apparently not yet in his teens. The young gentleman resented the attention.
"'Old 'ard, guv'nor! I picked up the bag, that's all right; I was just a-wondering who it might belong to."
"It belongs to the lady who was riding in the cab. Kindly hand it over."
It was "handed over"; borne back into the chemist's shop; proffered to Miss Angel.
"I believe that this is the missing bag, apparently not much the worse for its various adventures."
"It is the bag." She opened it. Apparently it was empty. But on her manipulating an unseen fastening an inner pocket was disclosed. From it she took a folded paper. "And here is the will!"
CHAPTER V
THE COURT IS STARTLED
They dined together-it was still not too late to dine-in a private room at the Piccadilly Restaurant. Mrs. Tranmer found that she was, indeed, not irreparably damaged; and by the time she could be induced to look over the fact that she was not what she called "dressed" she began to enjoy herself uncommonly well. Delia Angel was in the highest spirits, which, on the whole, was not surprising. The recovery of the bag and the will had transformed the world into a rose-coloured Paradise. The evening was one continuous delight. As for Philip Roland-his mood was akin to Miss Angel's. Everything which had begun badly was ending well. He was the host. The meal did credit to his choice-and to the cook. The wine was worthy of the toasts they drank. There was one toast which was not formally proposed, and of which, even in his heart he did not dream, but whose presence was answerable for not a little of the rapture which crowned the feast-"The Birth of Romance." His life had been tolerably commonplace and grey. For the first time that night Romance had entered into it. It was just possible that, maintaining the place it had gained, it would continue to the end. So might it be; for sure, the Spirit is the best of company.
After dinner the three journeyed together to Miss Angel's solicitor. He lived in town, not far away from where they were, and though the hour was uncanonical it was not so very late. And though he was amazed at being required to do business at such a season, the tale they had to tell amazed him more. Nor was he indisposed to commend them for coming straight away to him with it at once.
He heard them to an end. Then he looked at the bag; then at the will. Then once more at the bag; then at the will again. Then he smoothed his chin.
"It seems to me-speaking without prejudice-that this ends the matter. In the face of this the other side is left without a leg to stand upon. With this in your hand" – he was tapping the will with his finger-tip-"I cannot but think, Miss Angel, that you must carry all before you."
"So I should imagine."
He contemplated Mr. Roland.
"So you, sir, are one of the jury. As at present advised, I cannot see how, in the course of action which you have pursued, blame can in any way be attached to you. But, at the same time, I am bound to observe that in the course of a somewhat lengthy experience I cannot recall a single instance of a juryman-an actual juryman-playing such a part as you have done. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, the position you have taken up is-in a really superlative degree-irregular."
Such, also, seemed to be the opinion of counsel before whom, at a matutinal hour, he laid the facts of the case. When, in view of those facts, counsel on both sides conferred before the case was opened, the general feeling plainly pointed in the same direction. And, on its being stated in open court that, in face of the discovery of the vanished will, all opposition to Miss Delia Angel would, with permission, be at once withdrawn, it was incidentally mentioned how the discovery had been brought about. All eyes, turning to the jury-box, fastened on Philip Roland, whose agitated countenance pointed the allusion. The part which he had played having been made sufficiently plain, the judge himself joined in the general stare. His lordship went so far as to remark that while he was pleased to accede to the application which had been made to him to consider the case at an end, being of opinion that the matter had been brought to a very proper termination, still he could not conceal from himself that, so far as he could gather from what had been said, the conduct of one of the jurymen, even allowing some latitude-here his lordship's eyes seemed to twinkle-was marked by a considerable amount of irregularity.
Mitwaterstraand
THE STORY OF A SHOCK
Chapter I
THE DISEASE
On the night before their daughter's Wedding Mr. and Mrs. Staunton gave a ball. As the festivities were drawing to a close, Mr. Staunton button-holed the bridegroom of the morrow.
"By the way, Burgoyne, there's one thing with reference to Minnie I wish to speak to you about. I-I'm not sure I oughtn't to have spoken to you before."
In the ball-room they were playing a waltz. Mr. Burgoyne's heart was with the dancers.
"About Minnie? What about Minnie? Don't you think that the little I don't know about her already, I shall find out soon enough upon my own account?"
"This is something-this is something that you ought to be told."
Mr. Staunton hesitated, and the opportunity was lost. The next morning Mr. Burgoyne was married.
During their honeymoon the newly-married pair spent a night at Mont St. Michel. In the course of that night an unpleasant incident took place. There was a bright moon, and the occupants of the bedrooms gathered on the balconies of the Maison Blanche to enjoy its radiance. The room next to theirs was tenanted by two sisters, Brooklyn girls. The costumes of these young ladies, although in that somewhat remote corner of the world, would have made an impression on the Boulevards, and still more emphatically in the Park. The married one-a Mrs. Homer Joy-wore some striking jewellery, in particular a diamond brooch, redolent of Tiffany, which would have attracted notice on a Shah night at the opera. Mr. Burgoyne had noticed this brooch earlier in the day, and had told himself that we must have returned to the days of King Alfred-with several points in our favour-if a woman could journey round the world with that advertisement in diamond work flashing in the sun.
Someone proposed a midnight stroll about the rock. They strolled. In the morning there was a terrible to-do. The advertisement in diamond work had disappeared! – stolen! – giving satisfactory proof that in those parts, at any rate, the days of King Alfred were now no more.
Mrs. Joy stated that, previous to starting for the midnight ramble about the Mount, she had placed it on her dressing-table, apparently despising the precaution of placing it even in an ordinary box. She was not even sure that she had closed her bedroom door, so it had, of course, struck the eye of the first person who strolled that way, and, in all probability, that person had, in the American sense, "struck it." Mont St. Michel was still in a little tumult of excitement when Mr. and Mrs. Burgoyne journeyed on their way.
Oddly enough, this discordant note, once struck, was struck again-kept on striking, in fact. At almost every place where the honeymooners stopped for an appreciable length of time there something was lost. It seemed fatality. At Morlaix, a set of quaint, old, hammered silver-spoons, which had accompanied their coffee, vanished-not, according to the indignant innkeeper, into thin air, but into somebody's pockets. It was most annoying. At Brest, Quimper Vannes, Nantes, and afterwards through Touraine and up the Loire, it was the same tale, the loss of something of appreciable value-somebody else's property, not their's-accompanied their visitation. The coincidence was singular. However they did seem to have shaken off the long arm of coincidence at last. There had been no sort of unpleasantness at either of the last two or three places at which they had stopped, and when they reached Paris at last, they were so contented with all the world, that each seemed to have forgotten everything in the existence of the other.
They stayed at the Grand Hotel-for privacy few places can compete with a large hotel-and directly they stayed the annoyances began again. It was indeed most singular. On the very morning after their arrival a notice was posted in the salle de lecture that the night before a lady had lost her fan-something historical in fans, and quite unique. She had been seated outside the reading-room-the Burgoynes must have been arriving at that very moment-preparatory to going to the opera. She laid this wonderful fan on a chair beside her, it was only for an instant, yet when she turned it was gone. The administration charitably suggested-in their notice-that someone of their lady guests had mistaken it for her own.
That same evening a really remarkable tale was whispered about the place. A certain lady and gentleman-not our pair, but another-happened to be honeymooning in the hotel. Monsieur had left Madame asleep in bed. When she got up and began to dress, she discovered that the larger and more valuable portion of the jewellery which had been given her as wedding presents, and which she, perhaps foolishly, had brought abroad, had gone-apparently vanished into air. The curious part of the tale was this. She had dreamed that she saw a woman-unmistakably a lady-trying on this identical jewellery before the looking-glass. Query, was it a dream? Or had she, lying in bed, in a half somnolent condition, been the unconscious witness of an actual occurrence?
"Upon my word," declared Mr. Burgoyne to his wife, "If the thing weren't actually impossible, I should be inclined to believe that we were the victims of some elaborate practical joke; that people were in a conspiracy to make us believe that ill luck dogged our steps!"
Mrs. Burgoyne smiled. She was putting on her bonnet before the glass. They were preparing to sally out for a quiet dinner on the boulevard.
"You silly Charlie! What queer ideas you get in your head. What does it matter to us if foolish people lose their things? We have not a mission to make folks wiser, or, what amounts to the same thing, to compel them to keep valuable things in secure places."
The lady, who had finished her performance at the glass, came and put her hands upon her lord's two shoulders,
"My dear child, don't look so black? I shall be much better prepared to discuss that, or any subject, when-we have dined."
The lady made a little moue and kissed him on the lips. Then they went downstairs. But when they had got so far upon their road, the gentleman discovered that he had brought no money in his pockets. Leaving his wife in the salle de lecture, he returned to his bedroom to supply the omission.
The desk in which he kept his loose cash was at that moment standing on the chest of drawers. On the top of it was a bag of his wife's-a bag on which she set much store. In it she kept her more particular belongings, and such care did she take of it that he never remembered to have seen it left out of her locked-up trunk before. Now, taking hold of it in his haste, he was rather surprised to find that it was unlocked-it was not only unlocked, but it flew wide open, and in flying open some of the contents fell upon the floor. He stooped to pick them up again.
The first thing he picked up was a silver spoon, the next was an ivory chessman, the next was a fan, and the next-was a diamond brooch.
He stared at these things in a sort of dream, and at the last especially. He had seen the thing before. But where?
Good God! it came upon him in a flash! It was the advertisement in diamond work which had been the property of Mrs. Homer Joy!
He was seized with a sort of momentary paralysis, continuing to stare at the brooch as though he had lost the power of volition. It was with an effort that he obtained sufficient mastery over himself to be able to turn his attention to the other articles he held. He knew two of them. The spoon was one of the spoons which had been lost at Morlaix; the chessman was one of a very curious set of chessmen which had disappeared at Vannes. From the notice which had been posted in the salle de lecture he had no difficulty in recognising the fan which had vanished from the chair.
It was some moments before he realised what the presence of those things must mean, and when he did realize it a metamorphosis had taken place-the Charles Burgoyne standing there was not the Charles Burgoyne who had entered the room. Without any outward display of emotion, in a cold, mechanical way he placed the articles he held upon one side, and turned the contents of the bag out upon the drawers.
They presented a curious variety at any rate. As he gazed at them he experienced that singular phenomenon-the inability to credit the evidence of his own eyes. There were the rest of the chessmen, the rest of the spoons, nick-nacks, a quaint, old silver cream-jug, jewellery-bracelets, rings, ear-rings, necklaces, pins, lockets, brooches, half the contents of a jeweller's shop. As he stood staring at this very miscellaneous collection, the door opened, and his wife came in.
She smiled as she entered.
"Charlie, have they taken your money too? Are you aware, sir, how hungry I am?"
He did not turn when he heard her voice. He continued motionless, looking at the contents of the bag. She advanced towards him and saw what he was looking at. Then he turned and they were face to face.
He never knew what was the fashion of his countenance. He could not have analysed his feelings to save his life. But, as he looked at her, his wife of yesterday, the woman whom he loved, she seemed to shrivel up before his eyes, and sank upon the floor. There was silence. Then she made a little gesture towards him with her two hands. She fell forward, hiding her face on the ground at his feet, prisoning his legs with her arms.
"How came these things into your bag?"
He did not know his own voice, it was so dry and harsh. She made no answer.
"Did you steal them?"
Still silence. He felt a sort of rage rising within him.
"There are one or two questions you must answer. I am sorry to have to put them; it is not my fault. You had better get up from the floor."
She never moved. For his life he could not have touched her.
"I suppose-." He was choked, and paused. "I suppose that woman's jewels are some of these?"
No answer. Recognising the hopelessness of putting questions to her now, he gathered the various articles together and put them back into the bag.
"I'm afraid you will have to dine alone."
That was all he said to her. With the bag in his hand he left the room, leaving her in a heap upon the floor. He sneaked rather than walked out of the hotel. Supposing they caught him red-handed, with that thing in his hand? He only began to breathe freely when he was out in the street.
Possibly no man in Paris spent the night of that twentieth of June more curiously than Mr. Burgoyne. When he returned it was four o'clock in the morning, and broad day. He was worn-out, haggard, the spectre of a man. In the bedroom he found his wife just as he had left her, in a heap upon the floor, but fast asleep. She had removed none of her clothes, not even her bonnet or her gloves. She had been crying-apparently had cried herself to sleep. As he stood looking down at her he realised how he loved her-the woman, the creature of flesh and blood, apart entirely from her moral qualities. He placed the bag within his trunk and locked it up. Then, kneeling beside his wife, he stooped and kissed her as she slept. The kiss aroused her. She woke as wakes a child, and, putting her arms about his neck, she kissed him back again. Not a word was spoken. Then she got up. He helped her to undress, and put her into a bed as though she were a child. Then he undressed himself, and joined her. And they fell fast asleep locked in each other's arms.