My only regret at the moment was that I could not warn Smeaton of his danger. Dinah went back and had dinner and supper with the man she had betrayed—actually broke bread with him and smiled in his face, and appeared more loving than she had showed herself for weeks. A woman, when good, can be holier, purer, and more strong in her devotion and love than a man; but when she is bad, the depths of iniquity which she can reach have never been touched by mortal man.
I sent over a posse of men one by one to the marked establishment, and when Smeaton and his companion appeared and ascended the stair I followed, and so closed up the retreat. They were not long gone. We heard the alarm, and some shouting and struggling, and soon saw Smeaton come scrambling out at the window on the roof by which he had entered, and come flying along the slates towards the hatch. As he got close my head popped out in front of him, and he started—staggered back with an oath—lost his footing, and vanished over the edge of the roof. He was picked up on the pavement below, very much injured and quite senseless, and borne on a shutter to the Infirmary, while his captured companion was marched over to the Office and locked up. Dinah, in ferocious joy over Smeaton’s accident, got drunk and disorderly, and was taken to the cells next day. Smeaton remained for the most part unconscious during two days and nights. Towards the close of the second day, a cab drove up to the Infirmary gate, and out of it stepped a young girl, so pale and feeble that every one thought it was a patient instead of a visitor who had arrived. It was Jessie Aimers, who had risen from bed and taken that long journey the moment she heard of the accident. She was helped in to the ward, and sat there with Smeaton’s hand in her own till evening, when he opened his eyes for a moment and hazily recognised her.
“Oh, Jessie, I’ll never rise off this bed,” he feebly exclaimed; and then, as her warm tears rained down on his cheeks, and her lips were pressed to his own, he said—“Dinna! dinna dae that! I dinna deserve it. Pray for me, Jessie, lass; it’s a’ I can ask o’ ye now.”
A screen had been put up round the bed, shutting them off from the gaze of the other patients, and inside that the nurses glanced occasionally. They remained there, whispering and communing till Smeaton relapsed again. Towards morning there was a cry, loud and piercing, behind the screen, but the night nurse was out of the ward at the moment. When she appeared, one of the patients spoke of the cry, and the nurse looked in on the pair. Jessie lay across the bed with her arms clasped tight about the patient, and her face hid in his bosom. Smeaton’s face was marble-like, his eyes half open and fixed. The nurse knew that look at a glance, and called to her companion that Smeaton was dead, and that she feared the young girl had fainted. Gently they tried to disengage the clasping fingers, that they might raise her and restore her to consciousness, but the deathly coldness of the thin hand caused them both to start back and exchange a look of inquiry and alarm. They bent over her, they listened; all was still—still as the grave, still as eternity. Jessie was dead.
THE WRONG UMBRELLA.
A gentleman drove up to a Princes Street jeweller’s in a carriage or a cab—the jeweller was not sure which, but inclined to think that it was a private carriage—in broad daylight, and at the most fashionable hour. He was rather a pretty-faced young man, of the languid Lord Dundreary type, with long, soft whiskers, which he stroked fondly during the interview with the tradesman, and wore fine clothes of the newest cut with the air of one who was utterly exhausted with the trouble of displaying his own wealth and beauty. He wore patent boots fitting him like a glove, and appeared particularly vain of his neat foot and the valuable rings on his white fingers.
When this distinguished customer had been accommodated with a seat by the jeweller—whom I may name Mr Ward—he managed to produce a card-case, and then dropped a card bearing the name of Samuel Whitmore. The address at the corner at once gave the jeweller a clear idea of the identity of his customer. The Whitmores were a wealthy family, having an estate of considerable size in the West, and had, in addition to the fine house on that estate, a town residence in Edinburgh and another in England. There was a large family of them, but only one son; and that gentleman the jeweller now understood he had the pleasure of seeing before him. He was said to be a fast young man, with no great intellect, but traits of that kind are not so uncommon among the rich as to excite comment among tradesmen. The follies of some are the food of others, and the jeweller was no sooner aware of the identity of his visitor than he mentally decided that he was about to get a good order. He was not disappointed—at least in that particular.
“I want your advice and assistance, Mr Ward, as to the best sort of thing to give—ah—to a young lady—you know—as a present,” languidly began the pretty young gentleman. “It must be a real tip-top thing—artistic, pretty, and all that; and you must be willing to take it back if she shouldn’t like it—that is, in exchange for something as good or better.”
“Hadn’t we better send a variety of articles to the young lady, and let her choose for herself?” suggested Mr Ward.
“Oh, hang it, no!—that would never do,” said Mr Whitmore, with considerable energy. “She’d stick to the lot, you know; women are never satisfied;” and he gave a peculiar wink to convey the idea he wished to express. “You just be good enough to show me the things, and I’ll choose what I think best, and you can send them to the house addressed to me. I’ll take them to her myself to-morrow, and if they don’t suit, I’ll send them back by my valet, or bring them myself.”