“I passed a wretched night that night when I had left her, thinking of her troubles, and trying to remember where I had seen her; and my mind wandered away to Avonworth Valley, and it seemed as if I had known her when I was a child. When I went to bed I dreamt that she was my sister, and that we lived at the farm; and then I was rescuing her from some blackguard who had beaten her. I could not sleep, and I hardly know how the night and day passed. Macshawser came to me, and said he had had a mutual friend with him making a private inquiry. He alluded to Mr. Jefferson Crawley, he said; and wished I had mentioned the subject to him (the Captain) first. Of course he would have helped me at once; he could have put me in the way of getting the money apart from Crawley, though Crawley was a decent sort of fellow. He said he would back my bill for me; of course my allowance was safe. I told him I would consider the matter further, and I resolved at once to write to my benefactress and ask for a remittance on account: I felt that was the most honest way, after what she and Lord Verner had said to me.”
“Bravo!” said Mr. Williamson; “that was right.”
“As six o’clock struck by a church clock somewhere in the thick of the houses, I was at Crawley’s again. The office-boy was not there, Mrs. Crawley was alone. I trembled like a schoolboy in her presence. She seemed pleased to see me. Had I heard anything of her husband? she asked. I said ‘No;’ but I told her of the incident about Macshawser. She said she need hardly ask if she might rely upon my honour and secrecy. I assured her, and begged that she would show me how I could help her. It was not wrong to go thus far?”
Paul waited for his friend’s reply.
“Considering how far you had gone, no,” said Mr. Williamson.
“She said Macshawser was an agent of the Jews; that although he was an officer in the army, he was the secret spy and agent of money-lenders; that his business was to get into the confidence of people, and particularly military men, and when they were in trouble for money he made inquiries as to their position, then told them where to go, and afterwards got a bonus from the usurer to whom he had made his recommendation.”
“She told you the truth; my friend of Scotland Yard could tell you some rare stories in illustration,” said the barrister.
“Her husband,” she said, “was an agent of a lower stamp than this gentleman—of a much lower stamp; and what was worse, he did not confine himself to this; but he cheated at cards, and expected her now and then to assist in plucking young men whom they met by accident at a friend’s in the West End, where Macshawser was an occasional visitor. Her husband had gone there now to dinner, and she was ordered to attend at eight o’clock. And then the tears rolled down her cheek, and I felt that I could have laid my life down for her.”
“Yes, yes—we are all alike,” said Mr. Williamson; “those cursed tears, they make fools of us all.”
“Then she asked me if I did not truly pity her, and from that we got to a mutual confession of love. She knew it was wicked, and she had tried to fight against it, she said; but she loved me with all her heart, because I had had pity on her, and had loved her as a woman should be loved before I had known she was married. We set to thinking what we should do under the circumstances, but all that I could think of was that she must get away from this fiend, her husband.”