As the hour of eight drew near on Wednesday evening, Mrs. Westerfield"s anxiety forced her to find relief in action of some kind. She opened the door of her sitting-room and listened on the stairs. It still wanted for a few minutes to eight o"clock, when there was a ring at the house-bell.
She ran down to open the door. The servant happened to be in the hall, and answered the bell. The next moment, the door was suddenly closed again.
"Anybody there?" Mrs. Westerfield asked.
"No, ma"am."
This seemed strange. Had the old wretch deceived her, after all? "Look in the letter-box," she called out. The servant obeyed, and found a letter. Mrs. Westerfield tore it open, standing on the stairs. It contained half a sheet of common note-paper. The interpretation of the cipher was written on it in these words:
"Remember Number 12, Purbeck Road, St. John"s Wood. Go to the summer-house in the back garden. Count to the fourth plank in the floor, reckoning from the side wall on the right as you enter the summer-house.
Prize up the plank. Look under the mould and rubbish. Find the diamonds."
Not a word of explanation accompanied these lines. Neither had the original cipher been returned. The strange old man had earned his money, and had not attended to receive it--had not even sent word where or how it might be paid! Had he delivered his letter himself? He (or his messenger) had gone before the house-door could be opened!
A sudden suspicion of him turned her cold. Had he stolen the diamonds?
She was on the point of sending for a cab, and driving it to his lodgings, when James came in, eager to know if the interpretation had arrived.
Keeping her suspicions to herself, she merely informed him that the interpretation was in her hands. He at once asked to see it. She refused to show it to him until he had made her his wife. "Put a chisel in your pocket, when we go to church, to-morrow morning," was the one hint she gave him. As thoroughly worthy of each other as ever, the betrothed lovers distrusted each other to the last.
At eleven o"clock the next morning they were united in the bonds of wedlock; the landlord and the landlady of the public-house in which they had both served being the only witnesses present. The children were not permitted to see the ceremony. On leaving the church door, the married pair began their honeymoon by driving to St. John"s Wood.
A dirty printed notice, in a broken window, announced that the House was To Let; and a sour-tempered woman informed them that they were free to look at the rooms.
The bride was in the best of humors. She set the bridegroom the example of keeping up appearances by examining the dilapidated house first.
This done, she said sweetly to the person in charge, "May we look at the garden?"
The woman made a strange answer to this request. "That"s curious," she said.
James interfered for the first time. "What"s curious?" he asked roughly.
"Among all the idle people who have come here, at one time or another, to see this house," the woman said, "only two have wanted to look at the garden."
James turned on his heel, and made for the summer-house, leaving it to his wife to pursue the subject or not as she pleased. She did pursue the subject.
"I am one of the persons, of course," she said. "Who is the other?"
"An old man came on Monday."
The bride"s pleasant smile vanished.
"What sort of person was he?" she asked.
The sour-tempered woman became sourer than ever.
"Oh, how can I tell! A brute. There!"
"A brute!" The very words which the new Mrs. Bellbridge had herself used when the Expert had irritated her. With serious misgivings, she, too, turned her steps in the direction of the garden.
James had already followed her instructions and used his chisel. The plank lay loose on the floor. With both his big hands he rapidly cleared away the mould and the rubbish. In a few minutes the hiding-place was laid bare.
They looked into it. They looked at each other. There was the empty hole, telling its own story. The diamonds were gone.
9.--The Mother.
Mrs. Bellbridge eyed her husband, prepared for a furious outbreak of rage. He stood silent, staring stupidly straight before him. The shock that had fallen on his dull brain had stunned it. For the time, he was a big idiot--speechless, harmless, helpless.
She put back the rubbish, and replaced the plank, and picked up the chisel. "Come, James," she said; "pull yourself together." It was useless to speak to him. She took his arm and led him out to the cab that was waiting at the door.
The driver, helping him to get in, noticed a piece of paper lying on the front seat. Advertis.e.m.e.nts, seeking publicity under all possible circ.u.mstances, are occasionally sent flying into the open windows of vehicles. The driver was about to throw the paper away, when Mrs.
Bellbridge (seeing it on the other side) took it out of his hand. "It isn"t print," she said; "it"s writing." A closer examination showed that the writing was addressed to herself. Her correspondent must have followed her to the church, as well as to the house in St. John"s Wood.
He distinguished her by the name which she had changed that morning, under the sanction of the clergy and the law.
This was what she read: "Don"t trouble yourself, madam, about the diamonds. You have made a mistake--you have employed the wrong man."
Those words--and no more. Enough, surely, to justify the conclusion that he had stolen the diamonds. Was it worth while to drive to his lodgings?
They tried the experiment. The Expert had gone away on business--n.o.body knew where.
The newspaper came as usual on Friday morning. To Mrs. Bellbridge"s amazement it set the question of the theft at rest, on the highest authority. An article appeared, in a conspicuous position, thus expressed:
"Another of the many proofs that truth is stranger than fiction has just occurred at Liverpool. A highly respected firm of shipwreckers in that city received a strange letter at the beginning of the present week.
Premising that he had some remarkable circ.u.mstances to communicate, the writer of the letter entered abruptly on the narrative which follows: A friend of his--connected with literature--had, it appeared, noticed a lady"s visiting card on his desk, and had been reminded by it (in what way it was not necessary to explain) of a criminal case which had excited considerable public interest at the time; viz., the trial of Captain Westerfield for willfully casting away a ship under his command.
Never having heard of the trial, the writer, at his friend"s suggestion, consulted a file of newspapers--discovered the report--and became aware, for the first time, that a collection of Brazilian diamonds, consigned to the Liverpool firm, was missing from the wrecked vessel when she had been boarded by the salvage party, and had not been found since. Events, which it was impossible for him to mention (seeing that doing so would involve a breach of confidence placed in him in his professional capacity), had revealed to his knowledge a hiding-place in which these same diamonds, in all probability, were concealed. This circ.u.mstance had left him no alternative, as an honest man, but to be beforehand with the persons, who (as he believed) contemplated stealing the precious stones.
He had, accordingly, taken them under his protection, until they were identified and claimed by the rightful owners. In now appealing to these gentlemen, he stipulated that the claim should be set forth in writing, addressed to him under initials at a post-office in London. If the lost property was identified to his satisfaction, he would meet--at a specified place and on a certain day and hour--a person accredited by the firm and would personally restore the diamonds, without claiming (or consenting to receive) a reward. The conditions being complied with, this remarkable interview took place; the writer of the letter, described as an infirm old man very poorly dressed, fulfilled his engagement, took his receipt, and walked away without even waiting to be thanked. It is only an act of justice to add that the diamonds were afterward counted, and not one of them was missing."
Miserable, deservedly-miserable married pair. The stolen fortune, on which they had counted, had slipped through their fingers. The berths in the steamer for New York had been taken and paid for. James had married a woman with nothing besides herself to bestow on him, except an inc.u.mbrance in the shape of a boy.
Late on the fatal wedding-day his first idea, when he was himself again after the discovery in the summer-house, was to get back his pa.s.sage-money, to abandon his wife and his stepson, and to escape to America in a French steamer. He went to the office of the English company, and offered the places which he had taken for sale. The season of the year was against him; the pa.s.senger-traffic to America was at its lowest ebb, and profits depended upon freights alone.
If he still contemplated deserting his wife, he must also submit to sacrifice his money. The other alternative was (as he expressed it himself) to "have his pennyworth for his penny, and to turn his family to good account in New York." He had not quite decided what to do when he got home again on the evening of his marriage.
At that critical moment in her life the bride was equal to the demand on her resources.
If she was foolish enough to allow James to act on his natural impulses, there were probably two prospects before her. In one state of his temper, he might knock her down. In another state of his temper, he might leave her behind him. Her only hope of protecting herself, in either case, was to tame the bridegroom. In his absence, she wisely armed herself with the most irresistible fascinations of her s.e.x. Never yet had he seen her dressed as she was dressed when he came home. Never yet had her magnificent eyes looked at him as they looked now. Emotions for which he was not prepared overcame this much injured man; he stared at the bride in helpless surprise. That inestimable moment of weakness was all Mrs. Bellbridge asked for. Bewildered by his own transformation, James found himself reading the newspaper the next morning sentimentally, with his arm round his wife"s waist.
By a refinement of cruelty, not one word had been said to prepare little Syd for the dreary change that was now close at hand in her young life.
The poor child had seen the preparations for departure, and had tried to imitate her mother in packing up. She had collected her few morsels of darned and ragged clothing, and had gone upstairs to put them into one of the dilapidated old trunks in the garret play ground, when the servant was sent to bring her back to the sitting-room. There, enthroned in an easy-chair, sat a strange lady; and there, hiding behind the chair in undisguised dislike of the visitor, was her little brother Roderick.
Syd looked timidly at her mother; and her mother said:
"Here is your aunt."
The personal appearance of Miss Wigger might have suggested a modest distrust of his own abilities to Lavater, when that self-sufficient man wrote his famous work on Physiognomy. Whatever betrayal of her inner self her face might have presented, in the distant time when she was young, was now completely overlaid by a surface of a flabby fat which, a.s.sisted by green spectacles, kept the virtues (or vices) of this woman"s nature a profound secret until she opened her lips. When she used her voice, she let out the truth. n.o.body could hear her speak, and doubt for a moment that she was an inveterately ill-natured woman.
"Make your curtsey, child!" said Miss Wigger. Nature had so toned her voice as to make it worthy of the terrors of her face. But for her petticoats, it would have been certainly taken for the voice of a man.
The child obeyed, trembling.