Part 2, Chapter III.
Playing Detective.
“I say, old fellow, I’ve got some news for you that ought to make you well in half-an-hour,” exclaimed Artingale.
“What’s that?” said Magnus, eagerly.
“That scoundrel who gave you the ugly cut on the head is down here.”
“Down here!” cried Magnus, with his pale face flushing.
“Yes; and he has seen and insulted Julia Mallow.”
A deadly pallor came over the countenance of the artist once more, as he rose from his chair, and caught his friend by the shoulder.
“Harry,” he said hoarsely, “you found out my secret when I thought it was hidden deeply away. You are right; your news does give me strength, and I shall live to kill that man.”
“Well, old fellow, I would rather, for everybody’s sake, that you were not hung; but I don’t wonder at what you say, for I feel just now as if I could shove the beggar over the cliff. But set aside talking, we must act. What is to be done?”
“Let us see Mr Mallow at once.”
“Bah! He would hem and haw, and look rigid, and say we had better leave the matter to the police.”
“Very well, then, in Heaven’s name let us speak to the police.”
“What about, my dear fellow? What are we to say? Don’t you see that we are helpless. The man has kept outside the pale of the law; and besides, suppose we have him caught—if we can—think of the unpleasant exposé, and how painful it would be to both of those poor girls. No, we can’t do that. It would be horrible, my dear fellow. Suppose the scoundrel is trapped, and—I only say suppose—gets some sharp, unscrupulous lawyer to defend him. It would be painful in the extreme.”
Magnus began to walk up and down the room, looking agitated.
“What would you do?” he said at last.
“Well,” said Artingale, after a pause, “I feel greatly disposed to take the law in my, or our, own hands.”
“Why do you say our?” asked Magnus, hoarsely.
“Because I look upon it as your case as much as mine. Look here, old fellow, Cynthia and I both think you are the man who would make Julia happy, and if you don’t win her it is your own fault.”
“And Perry-Morton?”
“Hang Perry-Morton! Confound him for a contemptible, colourless bit of canvas—or, no, I ought to say brass, for the fellow has the impudence of a hundred. A man without a pretension to art in any way pretending to be a patron and connoisseur, and, above all, to be my brother-in-law. Hang the fellow! I hate him; Cynthia hates him; and we won’t have him at any price. No, dear boy, we want you, and if you don’t go in and win and wear Julia, why, it is your own fault.”
Magnus turned to the window, and stood looking out dreamily.
“Faint heart never won fair lady, Mag,” cried Artingale, merrily; “and how you, who have always been like a Mentor to this wandering Telemachus, can be such a coward about Julia, I can’t conceive. Not afraid of the brothers, are you?”
“Pish! Absurd! How can she help her brothers!”
“Well, then, what is it?” Magnus turned upon him slowly, and gazed at him fixedly.
“Harry,” he said, “you love Cynthia?”
“By George! yes, with all my heart,” cried the young man, enthusiastically.
“Yes,” said Magnus, “I am sure you do. Then it should be the easier for you to think of a love where a man looks up so to the woman he worships that he would sooner suffer than cause her a moment’s pain, when, knowing that she does not—that she cannot return his affection—”
“Hold hard. Now look here, my dear Magnus, don’t let sentiment take the bit in its teeth and bolt with you, or else we shall have a smash. Now I say, look here, old man, why cannot Julia return your love?”
“It is impossible. She is engaged.”
“Bah! what has such an engagement to do with it? I tell you I believe that poor little Julia is perfectly heart-whole, and that the flower of her affection—I say, that’s pretty, isn’t it?—I told you not to let sentiment bolt with you, and I am talking like a valentine! But seriously, old fellow, I am sure that Julia detests Perry-Morton.”
“How can you be sure?” said Magnus, gloomily.
“Very easily, my cynical old sage. Don’t sisters indulge in confidences, and when one of the confidential sisters has a young man, as people in the kitchen call it, doesn’t she confide things to him?”
Magnus looked at him for a moment or two excitedly, but a gloom seemed to settle upon him directly after, and he shook his head.
“No,” he said, “it is hopeless; but all the same, Harry, we must, as you say, put a stop to this annoyance. What do you propose?”
“There are two courses open, as Parliamentary people say.”
“Yes; go on. You are so slow; you torture me.”
“Well, not to torture you then, my dear boy, one course is to get a private detective.”
“No, no; absurd. I’d sooner employ the genuine article.”
“The other is to make private detectives of ourselves, and quietly keep watch and ward over our treasures—eh? ‘Our treasures’ is good.”
“Yes, that seems the wiser plan,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “But it will be hard to manage.”
“Where there’s a will there’s a way, my dear boy. You join with me, and we’ll manage it.”
“You would not speak to Mr Mallow first?”
“No, my boy, we must take the matter in our own hands.”
“And if we find this fellow annoying—the—the ladies?” said Magnus, in a curiously hesitating way.
Artingale set his teeth hard, and spoke through them.
“The blackguard’s too big to treat like a black beetle. But let that rest, and remember the saying attributed to the celebrated Mrs Glasse of cookery fame—a saying, by the way, that I’m told is not to be found in her book—let us first catch our hare, which in this case is a fox, or rather I ought to say a wolf. We’ll decide afterwards how we will cook him.”
Magnus nodded, and walked up and down the room in a quick, nervous fashion.
“That’s right! that’s capital,” cried Artingale, merrily. “I thought my news would make that sluggish blood of yours begin to move. By George, there’s nothing like a genuine love to make a man of you.”
“Or a woman,” said Magnus, gloomily.
“Get out! Rubbish! Come, come, no retrograde movements: forward’s the word. Now the next thing is for the knight to meet the lady in whose defence he was wounded. I’ll manage a meeting, or Cynthy will, and if you don’t make good use of your time I’ll never forgive you. We’ll speak to the Rector after you have won a little on poor Julia. He’s a good fellow, and wants his girls to be happy. But by Jove, Magnus, there’s nothing like a rattling good crack on the head.”
“Why?”
“Excites sympathy. Young lady finds out your value. Why, my dear old boy, you look a hundred pounds better. Here, take your hat, and let’s go and have a ramble. The sea air and a bit of exercise will beat all the doctor’s tonics.”
Magnus said nothing, but taking the cigar offered to him, he lit up, and the two young men strolled off together, along by the sea.
“Show me the place where you left Miss Mallow,” said Magnus at last.
“All right,” was the reply; “but wouldn’t it be better if we went up the cliff and walked along the edge? I want to see where that scoundrel came up; and we might meet him.”
James Magnus looked intently in his friend’s countenance, and could not help noticing how hard and fixed the expression had become.
“It would not tire you too much?” he said.
“Oh no,” replied Magnus, hastily, “let us do as you say.”
Artingale noted the flush that came into his companion’s face, and he could see that it was more due to excitement and returning health than to fever. And then, saying little but thinking a great deal of their plans, they strolled on and on, leaving town and castle behind, and having the glistening, ever-changing sea on one side, the undulating spread of well-wooded hills and valleys in the Sussex weald upon their left; but far as eye could reach no sign of human being.
“These cliffs are much higher than I thought for,” said Artingale at last, as he stopped for a moment to gaze down at the beach. “How little the people look. See there, Mag, those stones lying below, you would not think they were as high as you? Some of them weigh tons.”
“Was it on one of those you left Miss Mallow seated?” said Magnus, eagerly.
“Oh no, quite half a mile farther on, more or less. I don’t know, though, seashore distances are deceitful. That was the pile, I think,” he continued, pointing, “there, below where you see that dark streak on the face of the cliff.”
“I see,” said Magnus. “Come along.”
“All right, but don’t walk so close to the edge. You know, of course, that a false step means death.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Magnus, going close to where the weathered cliff suddenly ceased and there was a perpendicular fall to the rough stones beneath. “It looks an awful depth,” he continued, gazing down as if fascinated.
“Awful!” cried Artingale, “but hang it all, Mag, come away. You give a fellow the creeps. You are weak yet; suppose you turn giddy.”
“No fear,” said Magnus, quietly; “but do you know, Harry, whenever I look over from a height I quite realise how it is that some people end their wretched lives by jumping down. There always seems to be a something drawing you.”
“Yes, I dare say,” cried Artingale, with a shudder, “but if we are to play amateur detectives here goes to begin. Now then, young fellow, move on. It’s agin the law to jump off these here places.”
He spoke laughingly, and in supposed imitation of a constable, as he took his friend by the wrist, and pulled him away from the giddy edge of the cliff. But the next moment he was serious.
“Why, you wretched old humbug,” he cried, “what are you talking about? I’ve a good mind to go back.”
“No, no, let’s go on,” said Magnus smiling, “I was only speaking scientifically.”
“Indeed,” said Artingale, gruffly; “then don’t talk scientifically any more.”
They walked on for some little distance in silence, Artingale keeping on the dangerous side, as if he doubted his friend’s strength of mind, and looking down from time to time for the spot where they had found Julia, and the head of the cliff where Jock Morrison had made his ascent.
“What should we do if we met the fellow?” said Magnus suddenly.
“I don’t know quite,” said Artingale, shortly. “Let’s find him first. Here, look here, Magnus, those are the stones! No, no, those—the grey blocks; and that is where the blackguard got up. By George, however did he manage it? The place is enough to make one shudder—Eh? What?”
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.