TERRIBLY FULFILLED.
IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER III.
Thursday evening came, and with it Captain Ferrard; and the two shook hands with a certain guarded cordiality, as of prize-fighters about to ‘get to business.’ But the dinner was a good one; Ferrard thawed considerably under the influence of a bottle of old Johannisberg, and enjoyed himself more than he had anticipated. His host treated him with much deference, and seemed considerably impressed by his conversation. The captain was consequently in great good-humour with himself and all the world, and exerted himself—as, to do him justice, he well knew how—to be agreeable and amusing and to make a favourable impression. He was surprised also to find that this auctioneering father-in-law of his was really a very entertaining fellow. He overflowed with anecdote of a certain highly flavoured kind, and was full of curious experiences; he talked a good deal of ‘shop,’ about pictures and precious stones and such matters in the way of his trade, but it was amusing ‘shop,’ and served to introduce many strange and out-of-the-way facts and incidents.
The truth was that Mr Cross was taking a good deal more wine than usual, whereby he was ably seconded in his loyal resolve to think as well of his son-in-law and to be as friendly and open with him as possible. The pleasingly insinuating ways of the gallant captain were not without their effect, and the auctioneer began to feel more favourably disposed towards him than he had at one time thought possible. He appeared, now that one knew him, to be an open-hearted, good-humoured sort of fellow, one who was nobody’s enemy but his own, who was more sinned against than sinning, and so on. In his then condition, it seemed to Mr Cross that he had perhaps been rather too hasty and prone to think evil. His daughter, as he well knew, had her ‘little tempers,’ and might herself to some extent have contributed to her wedded unhappiness. No doubt the young man would be amenable to reason, and with judicious management and some outlay, might make a tolerable son-in-law after all.
The talk at last centred itself upon diamonds, and Ferrard was in the midst of an animated description of those belonging to certain family connections of his own, when the auctioneer interrupted him.
‘I know all about the Frayer diamonds,’ he said—‘no one better. But I wouldn’t mind laying you a wager that I could show you some, and not far off either, that would beat them hollow.’
‘I think you would lose your money,’ said Ferrard.
The auctioneer regarded him with vinous solemnity. ‘Look here, my boy,’ he suddenly said; ‘I’ve taken a fancy to you, and I’m sorry we should have been at odds so long. Perhaps I may have something else to say to you to-morrow, and perhaps you may be glad to hear it—I can’t tell. Anyhow, to prove to you that I’m in earnest, I’ll show you to-night what I wouldn’t show to any other man alive. Just you come with me.’
‘Are you going to let me have a sight of the wonderful diamonds?’ laughed Ferrard, as he followed his host into the hall.
‘That’s just what I am going to do, and a little more besides. But first of all, you give me your word as an officer and a gentleman that you’ll tell nobody about anything you may see to-night. Promise!’
‘By all means—of course,’ assented Ferrard carelessly. He was becoming a little bored, and had no expectation of seeing anything out of the common.
‘That’s all right. Put on your hat,’ said Mr Cross, taking his lantern from a cupboard and opening the hall-door.
They were absent about half an hour. When they returned, Ferrard was in a state of dazzled amazement. He did not in truth know which most to wonder at—the number and beauty of the gems, the ingenuity of their safe keeping, or the fatuous folly of the man who, even under the influence of wine, could impart such a secret to a person of whom he knew next to nothing, except that—as the captain frankly confessed to himself—he did not bear the best of characters. And he fairly hugged himself at the thought, that if he played his cards well, the wealth which was capable of affording such surprises as this might one day be his own.
‘I am glad we did not bet, Mr Cross,’ he said, ‘for I cannot afford to lose. They are far the most splendid diamonds I have ever seen. I must really thank you for giving me such a sight, and especially for the confidence you have placed in me, which I hope is an earnest of our future friendship.’
‘Wait till to-morrow—that’s all I say—wait till to-morrow,’ said the auctioneer thickly. ‘I’m hardly fit to talk business just now. But I will say,’ he continued, laying a heavy hand on Ferrard’s shoulder, ‘though I always knew, of course, that you were quite the gentleman, I never thought I should have taken to any man, least of all to you, as I have done. We had best be going to bed—it’s late; and I must have an hour in the City to-morrow, before I meet Amy at London Bridge.—Good-night, and pleasant dreams, my boy.’
Some men, the worship of Bacchus visits with heavy and dreamless slumber; others it renders wakeful and uneasy. This latter was the case with Mr Cross. He tossed and turned, courting sleep in vain; and thirst and dyspepsia supervened on excitement. His thickly crowding thoughts took a gloomy and despondent tone. Now that he was sober and sorry, he anathematised his folly in betraying the secret of his safe, so closely guarded through long years, even from his nearest friends, only to be blurted out in a moment of ill-judged confidence to a mere stranger, of whom he knew nothing but ill. All his old dislike and distrust of Ferrard returned, intensified by the consciousness that that gentleman had gained a distinct advantage over him. He determined that, although he would not altogether go back from his implied promise, he would hedge its fulfilment about with such conditions as should insure an entire change in Ferrard’s habits and mode of life, and should oblige him to cast in his lot with the class to which his wife belonged. In this way alone, he considered, could he ascertain whether it would be possible to trust the man and to secure peace, if not happiness, for Amy; and at the same time to patch up to some extent her husband’s shattered plans. At last he rose from an almost sleepless bed, feeling ill and worried, and more disposed than ever to repeat his wish for Captain Ferrard’s speedy dissolution.
When guest and host met at the breakfast-table, the manner of the latter, to Ferrard’s surprise, had totally changed. He was nervous and irritable; he complained that he was growing old, and said that a bottle or two of wine overnight would not once have affected him in this way. He ate little, but drank a good deal of coffee, and kept fussing nervously with several keys which lay beside his plate, putting them into his pockets, taking them out again, dropping them on the floor, and grumbling at his own awkwardness; altogether, behaving like a man considerably off his balance.
‘I’ve been up and about, for all I took too much last night,’ he said; ‘and sent my traps off to the cloak-room at London Bridge before you were out of your bed, young man. I’ve found time to take a look at the sparklers too,’ he added, holding up two of the keys, fastened together by a ring. ‘Always do, every day of my life, before I leave in the morning, and the last thing at night. Wouldn’t leave it undone for anything you could mention. These diamonds—I meant them for Amy, poor girl; and if—— But never mind about that just now.’
‘As I understood you last night,’ said Ferrard, who was growing impatient, ‘you had something of importance to say to me this morning touching our mutual relations.’
‘Well, I don’t know—I don’t know,’ replied the auctioneer. ‘You mustn’t take everything for gospel a man says when he’s had a glass.’
The captain’s face grew long.
‘Oh, you needn’t look so glum. I’m not going back upon what I intended, though perhaps it may not be all you were expecting. I have felt uncommon sore about this business, Ferrard, I can tell you; and if you and I are to patch up a bad job, you’ll have to make a fresh start altogether, and that’s flat.’
Ferrard remained silent.
‘I’m pretty plain-spoken, and I tell you straight that I can’t bear an idle man, and won’t have anything to do with one, if I can help it. All the same, I want to be friends with you, and let bygones be bygones; and so this is what I offer. Cut the West End, and racing and billiards and gallivanting, and come into the City. I’ll employ you in the business. If you give your mind to it and work hard, you’ll soon find your feet; and then I’ll take you into partnership. When I go, you will have it all to yourself; and a very pretty penny it will be in your pocket. Your father will stop your allowance, of course; but you and Amy can live here with me, free; that’ll save you a good bit; and giving up your expensive habits will save you a lot more. Till you are in the business, I’ll allow you—ah, I’ll allow you three hundred a year; and altogether, you’ll be better off in this way than you’ve been for some time.—Don’t say anything now’ (not that the captain had any such intention, being stricken literally dumb); ‘think it over, and make up your mind by the time I come back.’
He gathered his keys together with a good deal of unnecessary clatter, and locked them into a leathern wallet, muttering something about leaving them at his bank. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Hillo! I have not got another minute. You must excuse me, captain—don’t hurry over your breakfast, but I must leave you at once—there’s a deal to be seen to before we start. Good-bye; don’t move; and think it over—think it over.’
He had shaken hands, talked himself into the hall, and slammed the front-door, before the captain had been able in the slightest degree to grasp the situation, so utterly confused and astounded was he at this sudden wreck of his hopes. Anger had no place whatever in his mind. At another time, he might have been both amused and indignant at the offer which had been made him and at the manner of its making. The picture of himself as an auctioneer’s clerk, with the prospect of becoming in time, if he were good, a real auctioneer, might have struck him as exquisitely ludicrous; yet, though a gambler, a spendthrift, a debauchee, he was no fool; and it was just possible that, considering the splendid reward in prospective, he might at anyrate have seemed to assent, in the hope of making better terms after a while. But now, there was no room for any such speculations, for absolute ruin stared him in the face. The auctioneer had supposed him to be hard pressed for money; but what was the real nature of the pressure, he was far from imagining. In a short while, a certain acceptance for a heavy amount would fall due, renewal of which had been definitely and decidedly refused on the very day of Amy’s visit to her father. Unless that acceptance were taken up on presentation, it would forthwith be known that the signature of one of the indorsers had never been written by that gentleman; and in that case, the career of the Honourable James Ferrard would be most unpleasantly terminated. This was more than suspected by the holders of the bill; it was their reason for refusing renewal; and it was their intention to use it as a lever for extorting from the captain or his family, not only payment of the debt, but a goodly sum, by way of hush-money, into the bargain. Money he must have somehow, and that immediately, even if he had to appeal to his father; a last resource which, though audacious enough in general, he could not contemplate without dismay. Besides, the earl’s affairs were themselves so desperate, and the amount was so large, that he had little expectation that assistance would be possible, even if the will to afford it were good. A faint hope of escape had been held out to him by the auctioneer’s visit; and last night, from the friendliness of his host’s manner and the extraordinary mark of his confidence, he had fully expected that, with a little management, the money would be forthcoming. But this chance was now utterly gone; and flight, suicide, or penal servitude seemed to be the only alternatives left to him.
At this stage of his meditations, he became aware of three keys in a ring which were lying under the edge of his host’s plate. He continued to gaze abstractedly at them for some moments, half-unconsciously noting certain peculiarities in the shape of the larger of them. All at once he came to himself with a start. They were the keys of the strong-room and the iron box; overlooked, of course, by the auctioneer when he put the others into the locked-up wallet. To do him justice, Ferrard’s first thought was to snatch them up, take a cab into the City, and restore them to their owner. Mechanically he stretched out his hand, then drew it quickly away, and fell back in his chair, horrified at the thought which had at that moment seized upon him. He had written the name of another man; it was done in a minute, and was comparatively easy. But it is not easy, for the first time at least, to take the goods of another man—to steal.
There they lay, close to his hand as it were, utterly in his power. All that sweet and desirable money, frozen into a few crystals, the property of this plebeian, who had so poor an idea of enjoying it, so hateful an objection to parting with it. He tingled with envious rage at the thought. Why, a poor dozen of them, like angels of light, would put to the rout his persecuting demons of difficulty and danger; yet to help himself to them would be—theft. He looked at his watch. Half-past ten. The train was to leave at ten minutes to eleven. No doubt Cross would discover his oversight, and return with all speed to remedy it. He sat on and on, and gazed at the fatal keys until they seemed to fill his eye and brain. Once a footstep approached the door of the room. Without knowing why, he hastily moved the plate so as completely to hide them. A servant looked in, and seeing him still there, begged pardon and withdrew, wondering when he would have finished breakfast. Then he softly moved the plate back, and again sat looking at the keys. One thought ebbed and flowed continually in his mind, flowing more and more fiercely, ebbing with surely decreasing force. To take the diamonds—theft. Not to take them—ruin.
Half-past eleven. No cab at the door, no hurried step in the hall. Cross must now be well on his way to Brighton, and under the idea that the keys were safe at his bank. At anyrate, the things must not be left lying there. Clearly, it was his duty to take charge of them until they could be restored to their owner.
Ferrard presently rose from his chair, and put the keys in his waistcoat pocket. Then he left the house, stealthily, like one in fear.
That night, or rather the next morning, for it was between one and two o’clock, a figure came round the corner of the street from the square and walked a few paces past the iron door. Then the figure stood still for a moment and peered up and down the road. Not a sound, save the distant rattle of a night-cab—not a movement anywhere around. The figure turned and walked back. It stood in the shadow of the wall, glanced round once more, seemed to listen, opened the door, entered, and closed it gently from within.
The few hours of night wore out, the bright summer morning was come. The blinking policeman drifted slowly up the street, and as usual inspected the door. All well. He thought he heard a distant cry, and raised his head to listen. The cry was repeated. Satisfied that it was very far off—nowhere near his beat—he smote his chilled hands together and sauntered away, to meet his welcome relief.