Cassell's Family Magazine/A Missing Witness/Chapter 11

ORRIS came quickly back from the station—more quickly than I had ever yet seen him drive. And shortly after, I heard him call from the back:

“Maggie! com here, lass, and put nag in stable. Y'are good enough for that. An' when y'ave put un in stable, go in an' lock front door, an' don't 'ee open it to nubbudy till Ah tell 'ee.”

Then he came round to the front garden with his spade, and said to us, through the window—

“Don't 'ee be frighted, leddies; master's told me to take care of you, an' let no one get at you save Muster Philip, an' you trust me to do his biddin'.”

He set to work digging up the border, and had been thus occupied scarcely half an hour, when James Redmond swung open the gate and marched into the garden with the assurance of a bully who feels he has nothing to fear. Old Morris swung round and, barring the path with his spade, cried—

“”Hold on awhile, you there! where do 'ee think y'are goin'?”

“I'm going to see the young ladies in the house, feller,” replied Redmond.

“Then ye'll have to see 'em from t'other side yon hedge. Out ye go, sharp like, or Ah'll cleave thy skull with this shovel as lief as I'd brain a mad dog. Out with ye! Ah want no great fat-headed brutes o' thy kind in here; out with ye!” he shouted, throwing the formidable spade over his shoulder menacingly.

With the recollection of the treatment he had received from my father fresh on his mind, James Redmond backed out of the garden with all possible speed, and only waiting on the safe side of the gate to threaten the old man with speedy correction, he turned about and walked off discomfited.

Not long after his retreat, a boy brought a letter from him which Morris took, with more than needful precaution, considering the harmless look of the little lad, and delivered to Elsie. She read it, and after a few moments' reflection put the sheet of paper in my hand.

“Your father and mother has gone to London, thinking to give me the slip; in the same carriage I have sent a plain-close policeman with a warrant in his pocket for your father's arrest, and instrucsions from me to stick to your father like his shadder, communicate with me, and serve that warrant as soon as I wire him so to do. I might have arrested your father on the platform if I had chose to serve him accordin to his deserts for his skanderlers behaviour to me this morning. But considerin as I have ever been a true friend to por George, I determined to give you a last chance of savin him from ending his life in a convict prison. Now, Elsie, you've got to think of your duty towards your parents, and whether your father is to die in jail, your mother in the workhouse or lunatic asylum, and you and your sister to be cast on the streets beggars, for all your father's property will be confuscated by the law, or whether you're to make their future life a happy and peaceful one, and live in all the luxeries and opperlance that wealth can bestow. Now, mark this, Elsie: I swear by all that's holy as that plain-close policeman shall serve his warrant on your father to-morrow morning by nine o'clock if you refuse my offers, while on the other hand, I swear to get that warrant cancelled, and leave your fambly in peace—as I naterally should, if we're all to live united and happy—if you only meet me in a fairly reasonable sperit. I don't want anythin' out of the way or ungentlemanly; I won't ask you to marry me straight off, if you wish to put it off a month or two; only I must have a answer one way or the other at oncet. If you're for doin what's right towards your fambly, you will see me to-night after that beast of a gardener is abed. You will set a light in your father's workshop when all is safe, and you will open the shetter in the lane so as I may see it's all right, and you there alone, before I enter. And as no advantage to yourself is to be got by doin any act of vilence on me, and it is only worth your while to act ladylike and nice, I shall count on meeting you and settling all amicable and straightforard.

When I had read the letter I looked up at Elsie questioningly.

“I shall see him,” she said.

“But doesn't it look like a trap, dear? Is it safe? You see, he insists upon your being alone.”

“Do you think, Dolly,” she faltered, “do you think you would mind coming to the garden door with me and waiting outside?”

“Of course I shouldn't. I'll take father's gun if you like, and I'll fire it too if you cry for help. But what can you say to him? You can't consent to marry him.”

“Why not?” she asked in a voice which did not seem to he her own.

“Why not? Because it is too horrible, too loathsome to be thought of. Such a marriage would be a great crime. You do not realise what you say—cannot see what the consequences must be.”

“I cannot marry Philip,” she said piteously. “And if I do not marry him, what does it matter what becomes of me?”

“Philip will know what it is right to do. We must show him this letter.”

“Oh, no, no!” she cried, snatching up the letter. “He must not know.”

“Why, dear?”

“Because he would never consent to my doing this.”

“Isn't that a proof, dear, that it is wrong to do it?”

She sat for a moment silent, distracted between conflicting impulses; then, throwing her arms about my neck, she cried—

“Oh! what am I to do, Dolly? what am I to do?”

“Trust to Philip, Elsie. We know that no selfish interest will bias his decision. Trust to his love, his clear judgment, his high principles, to guide you in the right way.”

“That is what my heart tells me; but think of poor father, and dear little mother—think of their future.”

“I do think of them, dear, and I think of you as well. And I know that the cruellest suffering Redmond could bring upon them would be less hard to bear than the life-long sorrow you would cause by such a degrading sacrifice.”

We thought that Philip might come by the eight o'clock train, and we sent the chaise to the station to meet him, but Morris came home alone, with the disappointing news that the train had not brought him. The next train from York would not arrive before ten o'clock, so I went into the kitchen to put back the supper we had prepared. And I was taking my poor pigeon-pie from the oven, where it was browning beautifully, when Philip himself, coming stealthily behind me, slipped his arm round my waist and, bending over my shoulder, kissed my cheek.

“Why, Phil, dear!” I cried, “how did you come?”

“On my legs, from Elsham, and by a roundabout way, through the orchard, and so by the back-door here. I have reasons for wishing not to be seen,” he added, lowering his voice. “Do you know if that blackguard Redmond is still in the neighbourhood?”

“I am sure he is.”

“Thank heaven! I did well to take that precaution. Now, where's my Elsie?”

“In the dining-room, I think.”

But she had heard his voice, and met him in the passage. I think she had an idea of meeting him with some sort of reserve, as befitting their changed position; but all such vain purpose was banished the instant she faced her lover, and with a faint cry of joy and self-abandonment, she threw herself in his arms and gave up her ready lips to his. Then presently she began to sob hysterically upon his shoulder as he led her into the light of the dining-room, silent with the shock of finding her so worn and wasted.

“Philip, Philip!” she said, striving to master her agitation, and raising her eyes to his with strenuous earnestness, “I don't think we may love each other any more. You must not kiss me, dear—must not hold me in your arms. I have something terrible to tell. I did not mean to speak till after supper, but I feel I ought to tell you now—it's so dreadful!”

“You shall tell me all, love, at once, and get the dreadful thing out of your suffering mind. Come, sit down in the big chair here. Now let me get this thick coat off, so. And here I am, darling, at your side, prepared to hear the worst that you can tell me. You were saying—and that was dreadful enough to begin with—that we must not love each other any more. Why?”

“Because, Philip—I—I can never be your wife!”

“Can you tell me why, love? It's too hard, too terrible to tell, isn't it?” he asked, after a little pause. “Shall I try and help you? Shall I suppose that you have learnt some facts about your father that were before concealed from you? Shall we suppose that John Evans is your father—that he is a convicted murderer and an escaped convict?”

“Oh, Philip! who has told you that?”

“Your father himself, love—like an honest man as he is. He told me as we sat here smoking after you were gone upstairs—the first day we met, and the first opportunity that he had of speaking to me. We sat here till three in the morning, talking of that and nothing else.”

“And yet, when we met in the morning, you were unchanged, you loved me still.”

“Loved you still! Why, I loved you more than ever, if it were possible, for coming of such a stock. You don't fancy, Elsie, that I could think for one moment that such a man as your father could be guilty of a cowardly crime?”

“No, no. You couldn't do that, dear Philip. Yet, though we both know that my father is innocent, even then”

“Even then,” he said, coming to her aid again, “the world might think him guilty, and visit the sins of the father upon the children to the third and fourth generation. Is that what breaks your heart, dear?”

Elsie pressed her cheek closer to his arm for reply.

“And you think that a just argument against our marriage?” he asked.

“Yes, Philip, yes. I feel that it is just.”

“Then, before we marry, love, we must prove to all the world that your father is innocent.”

“Oh, if we could do that!” cried Elsie, starting up with suddenly inspired strength.

“We will, Elsie: if surgery and common sense may count for anything,” he replied with vigour. “I've not been wasting these past precious days for nothing. You may be sure that something more than the getting of a few hundred pounds has kept me away from you all this time—eh, Dolly?” he asked, turning to me as I came in with my pie. “Oh, it will come all right, love, never fear,” he added, giving Elsie another kiss as he lifted her to her feet, “we'll talk it over after supper. Where's little mother, and your father?”

“They are gone, Philip. They went away this afternoon.”

“Gone!” he said, and a cloud fell upon his face.

“Father left this letter for you.”

He took the letter and laid it unopened on the table, still with that shade of disappointment; then, as if throwing off his regret, he said, in a gayer tone—

“We will see what he has to tell me after supper, dears. I'm hungry, and there's a lot of work before me.”

When we had eaten, he opened the letter, read it through, and laying it aside, said, with a sigh—

“I thought so.”

We did not question him; but Elsie put the letter she had received from Redmond in his hand.

“Ah, this is a man of a very different fibre,” he said, glancing at the signature, and he read the letter through with a contemptuous smile upon his lips.

“You have nothing to fear from this rascal,” he said as he finished it. “In all probability he never applied for a warrant. It's too dangerous a step for a man in his critical position to take. But if all that he says were true, he could never arrest your father.”

“Why not, Philip?”

“Because your father by this time is in Dartmoor, and has already given himself up to the governor of the prison. He took, as might have been expected of him, the bravest and, maybe, the best course. Anything would be better for his family at least than the life of terror which you must have endured under the persecutions of this wretch Redmond. You certainly, Elsie, are saved from the influence the man might have exercised upon your sentiment of generosity and devotion. Redmond can do nothing now.”

“But my father, Philip—think of it. He is in prison.”

“And we must get him out of it again,” said Philip quietly, as he glanced once more at Redmond's letter.

“Cunning villain,” he muttered; then suddenly looking up from the page, he asked Elsie if she could find the courage to meet Redmond as he proposed, if it were necessary.

“I am sure I could,” she answered. “I had intended to meet him, and Dol was going to stand outside the garden door with a gun.”

“Ah, well, perhaps it will answer as well if I stand outside with old Morris. You see, dear girls, it's not sufficient—at least, to my vengeful mind—to justify innocence, your father's, as I believe we shall; we ought to punish the guilty, and not let Redmond make his escape, the moment he discovers what I have been at during his absence from home.”

Elsie eagerly agreed to do all that was required of her, and, after careful consideration and due preparation, she went into the workshop about half-past ten, lit the big lamp, and unfastened the door opening into the lane. At the same time Morris, armed with a stick, making his way through the orchard, stationed himself in the lane below the workshop, while Philip and I stood upon the garden side of the workshop door—Philip holding my hand in his, and ready to make the descent at the right moment.

We stood there listening in breathless anxiety for four or five minutes; then we heard the click of a latch, followed by the sound of Redmond's voice as he said in an undertone—

“I ain't kept you waitin' long, missy.”

Almost simultaneously came the distant cry of a night-jar, imitated to perfection by old Morris.

At that sound, Philip opened the door and we entered. Elsie stood near us; Redmond was half-way across the workshop, coming towards her with a hideous grin on his face and rubbing his hands. At the sight of Philip his lower jaw fell, and he fell back rapidly towards the lane door. A heavy mallet lay on the bench beside him; he caught it up quickly, and cried with ferocious determination—

“If you come anear me, you feller, I'll brain you as”

“As you brained Pettigrew. We shall see about that,” said Philip, advancing quickly. Redmond swung the mallet back to strike, but before the blow could fall, old Morris, coming from the door at his back, slipped a corn sack over his head, and with a vigorous tug and considerable dexterity, drew it down over his burly shoulders. Philip helped to complete the capture, and in a few minutes Redmond was tripped up, thrown upon his back, the sack drawn down to his feet and securely tied. Redmond struggled and floundered in vain; the sack fitted too closely for him to raise his hands from his sides, and smothered his shouts for help, his furious oaths and imprecations. The dust in the sack got down his throat, and a violent fit of choking put an end to his cries and his struggles alike.

“Sit him up,” said Philip, taking a penknife from his pocket and opening the blade, “prop his back against the bench; we can't afford to let him go out of the world before his time. There,” he added, cutting a small round hole in the upper part of the sack, “there's a hole to breathe through while you keep quiet; if you make a noise we shall have to sew it up again.”

It was grotesquely ludicrous to see Redmond's great mouth come to the hole as he gasped for fresh air, and then his nose, and after that his little pale blue eye as he looked out to observe his captors. And with his piggy eye still visible, he muttered—

“Oh, you shall pay for this when I get out.”

“When you get out it is you, probably, who will have to pay a long outstanding debt to justice. Listen to me, James Redmond: since we last met I have occupied myself considerably in your affairs, and whilst you have been persecuting the man who put you on your legs when you were starving, a dozen years ago, and attempting to destroy the happiness of his family, I have been inquiring into your habits and ways in North Wales. You are not loved there. It is unanimously agreed that you are grasping, avaricious, and self-seeking. But in shining contrast to your habitual lack of charity, I found that for over ten years—nearly eleven years now—you have contributed almost everything to the; support of a poor demented man and his old mother. You have kept them in a secluded cottage within easy reach of your works, and have visited them regularly twice a week to inquire into the mental condition of that man, who seems to be a helpless idiot.

“Having your interest at heart, I availed myself of your absence to call upon your pensioners, and, having some knowledge of such cases, to make a particular examination of the poor man I speak of. I discovered that his want of reason was due to the pressure of a fractured bone upon a certain part of his brain. That fracture was caused by the blow of a hammer—the same hammer, probably, that a minute before had been used in killing Joseph Pettigrew—the hammer that belonged to George Heatherly. His name was burnt in the heft, and upon that evidence he was accused of having murdered Joseph Pettigrew to avenge the insult offered to his wife the previous day, and of attempting to murder William Yates, who had clearly come upon the scene at that moment, to destroy the evidence of his crime. When I heard the case, it struck me that a man avenging his wife would not act in that way; he himself would have sufficient self-respect to take the consequences of his act. It seemed to me more probable that a third party had done the deed from interested motives, and had craftily chosen a time when he could throw suspicion on another.

“That led me to make further inquiries into your past history, James Redmond, and I learnt that you were then Pettigrew's foreman, that you had the entire management of his affairs, his works, and his books, and knew more about them than he himself did. That after Pettigrew's death his accounts were so involved that his widow was compelled to dispose of the business for a very small sum, and that you speedily found means to raise that sum, to take over the business, and work it up into the paying concern it has been ever since.

“Now, who murdered Joseph Pettigrew? George Heatherly, who has been a prisoner at Dartmoor for ten years, or you, who have been living in clover all that time? The only man who can prove that is the man who witnessed the crime—William Yates—and he, you will tell me, is incapable of remembering anything that has happened in the past. That is true. But if the crime had occurred in London or any other centre, where William Yates would have received proper treatment instead of being certified incurable by a couple of incompetent medical practitioners, the piece of bone which pressed upon that part of the brain that records events—the seat of memory, we will call it—would have been raised, and he would have answered the question long ago. Some suspicion of such a possibility must have crossed your mind more than once for you to have shown such paternal interest in his welfare—the welfare of a man and his mother who had no claim whatever upon your generosity. You thought they were safe; so they were, while you were there to guard them. But they are no longer there; they are now at Elsham, and in an hour's time they will be here, under my protection. You thought that William Yates could never reveal who it was that killed Joseph Pettigrew; but again you are mistaken, for, with the help of God, that silent witness shall be made to speak!”

The glassy eye that had been riveted upon him up to this point, disappeared from the hole in the sack, and an audible groan came from it.

“I tell you this,” continued Philip, “that, if you escape, you may lose no time in getting away from this country and saving your wretched neck from the gallows.”

“No fear, Muster Philip,” growled old Morris. “He don't get out of that sack till p'liceman comes to put handcuffs on him. No, not if I has to watch him day and night here for a month to come!”