Blood-Money and other stories

Front matter

BLOOD-MONEY AND OTHER STORIES. BLOOD-MONEY AND OTHER STORIES By CHARLES GIBBON AUTHOR OF 'ROBIN GRAY,' ' THE GOLDEN SHAFT,' FTC. IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. I. ILontJon CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1889 [Thf rights of t ran stating and dramatising reserved.} To J. CEAWFOED WILSON, AUTHOR OF ' ELSIE, AND OTF1EK POEMS,' etc., etc., WITH SINCERE REGARD, FKOM HIS OLD FRIEND, CHARLES GIBBON. London, 1889. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. BLOOD-MONEY. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE TEMPTATION ...... 3 II. TWENTY YEARS AFTER . . . . .18 III. UNDER A BAN . . . . . .33 IV. ATONEMENT . . . . . .48 AT AXY COST. i, out of the deep . . . . .61 ii. willow hall . . . . . .68 iii. 'found drowned. name unknown'. . . 88 iv. alive or dead?. . . .. . .95 v. 'i cannot marry that man' . . . .116 vi. has the worst come ? . . . . . 129 vii. 'of hope bereft' ..... 143 viii. there can no longer be any doubt . . 152 ix. was she faithless? .....

CONTEXTS. VIII CHAPTER PAGE X. WHO IS MR. GRAY? . . . . .169 XI. THE STATEMENT OF LAURENCE MOWBRAY . . 177 XII. 'ALL RIGHT' . . . . . .189 A FAMILY SECRET. I. WHO IS SHE ?...... 195 II. A STRANGE STORY ..... BLOOD-MONEY. 1 VOL. I. BLOOD-MONEY. CHAPTEE I. THE TEMPTATION. Ned Altcarr sat late at night in the scantily furnished room of his cottage. The fire burned low, for coals were precious. A candle glimmered feebly in the gloom, and sputtered as the high wind whistled through the worn framework of the window. Signs of poverty appeared in everything, and he, with hands clasping his brow, was face to face with absolute want. A clerk out of work for two months, with a sick mother and a young sister to support. He had done his best, and now the last crust had been eaten. Even that crust had been supplied by charity.

The workhouse was the next step in the downward career — the workhouse or He started to his feet — there was someone cautiously tapping at the window, and calling in a shrill whisper : ' Ned, Ned — open, and let me in.' 1—2 BLOOD-MONEY. 4 He went to the door ; and a man, with the collar of a heavy overcoat drawn up over the lower part of his face, and a cap worn low over his brows, pushed his way in, closing the door quickly behind him. ' What's up, Jack? Is anybody chasing you ?' Jack was excited and out of breath ; but presently he answered huskily : ' I don't know ; I am not sure. But I want to stay here until to-morrow night.' ' Here ! Why, man, this is the first place the police searched for you. They have learned that we are old friends, and they have set a watch upon me.' ' If they came here first, they are less likely to come again soon.

Chapter I. Out Op The Deep

What was the man looking at so intently that he strained his sight to the utmost, and held his breath lest it should mar his vision ? He was standing on the outermost curve of the low-lying sandy shore of Scattbay. The time was the end of August, and the hour about four in the morning. The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, but had cast before it a broad mirror of amber flame, for which dark clouds made a ragged frame. The gray mist dulled the flame so that it made little light upon the sea, and it was surrounded by shadow and gloom. Out of the dark north, steamers crossed the mirror, their bare poles and funnels standing sharply up against the A T ANY COST. light, and the outlines of sailing vessels seemed like acutely defined silhouettes on the bright screen as they passed into the darkness, southward or northward.

Then the black clouds gradually changed into a steely blue sky, and the rising sun, casting forward stronger reflections of its fiery light, broke through the gray mist and brightened the waters. There, just in front of the amber screen floating on the slowly incoming tide, was one black speck ; and on it the man's eyes were fixed. It had no shape to indicate what it might be ; and yet he watched as eagerly as if it had been some treasure for which he was waiting to reach out his hand and snatch it from the greedy sea. The sun rose above the water and made a golden stream shoreward, dispelling the mist and enabling the watcher to make sure that the object which had attracted his attention was a human body floating quietly in on the gentle waves of that calm, almost windless autumn morning.

He did not shudder or grow pale, for such objects were too common on this dangerous east coast line to be much of a surprise, although they always excite sympathy, and inspire activity in the hope of rendering help. He turned quickly towards the small boat, near which he had been standing; and as he did so, saw a burly figure in a blue guernsey and high boots, into which the legs of his trousers were stuffed, approaching. OUT OF THE DEEP. 63 ' Never thought you could ha' been here afore me, Master Mowbray,' said the fisherman, as he plunged through the sand. ' Never mind, Whitby ; the boat is ready, and there is somebody drowning or drowned out yonder.' ' Whereabout ?' Mowbray pointed. Whitby shaded his eyes with a big brown hand, took a survey in the direction indicated, and his skilled vision presently caught sight of the body.

Without a word he gripped one side of the boat, Mowbray took the other, and they easily ran it down over the smooth sand into the water. Mowbray jumped in as soon as the prow floated ; Whitby pushed at the stern until he was up to the boot-tops in water ; then he scrambled on board, and slipped his scull into the rowlock. Mowbray had already got his oar in readi ness, and in silence they rowed with all their might towards the object — man or woman — they desired to rescue from the deep. Laurence Mowbray was a stalwart fellow of about thirty. He had a farm in the neighbourhood of Scattbay, and had arranged with Whitby on the previous afternoon that they should go out fishing in the early morning. He had arrived at the place before the appointed hour, and, whilst looking seaward, congratulating himself upon the pleasant sport which the quiet morning promised, had observed the object which not only altered his whole plans for the morning, but materially affected the plans of his future.

As he sturdily handled his oar, however, he was not thinking of himself, but of the friends of the poor creature who was beyond the reach of any kindness save that of securing for him a resting place on shore, and affording his relatives, if he had any, the sad satisfaction of knowing his fate. ' Look out, master !' said Whitby, in a low voice; ' it'll be across our bow in a minute. The tide's coming in fast, an' bringin' it along toward us.' ' Steady,' answered Mowbray, as, with a long-drawn breath, after a quick look behind, he shipped his oar and leaned over the side, whilst the boat rocked with the swell of the waves and his sudden movement. ' Steady ; I have got him !' He had caught hold of the collar of a reefer jacket, and a roll of the sea turned the body over on its back, so that the placid face was revealed to them. ' Good God ! it is young Belton ! and his mother and sister are waiting for him to comeback,' exclaimed Mowbray in horror, as he sank backward, almost losing his grip of the coat. ' Keep a hold, mate.

Let's get him ashore afore we talk,' said Whitby, in his cbmmonsense way. ' Steady now, or we'll be in along o' him.' They dragged the body into the boat and pulled to the shore, Whitby thinking of the bright youth who had gone OUT OF THE DEEP. 65 away five years ago, driven from his home by an angry father, and swearing that he would never return until his parent was quiet in the grave ; Mowbray busy thinking that he was to be the bearer of this bad news to the sister of the drowned man and the mother. He thought of the sister first because he loved her : he thought of the mother last because he knew she disliked him. Why she disliked him he did not know, for he was fairly well to do, and consider ing that Eva Belton would have no fortune, even in the event of her brother's death, it was impossible to guess why she should have such an objection to him as a suitor for her daughter's hand.

Perhaps she would change her mind now that the unexpected had happened, and the son being dead, the whole property of Willow Hall and the personal estate of the late owner, Hardwicke (or ' Hardfist,' as he was popu larly designated) Belton, would go to Ealph Fourneaux, a nephew of the deceased, to the exclusion of the widow and daughter. Surely now, when she found herself reduced to what everybody declared to be a most niggardly allowance, and obliged to quit the Hall, Mrs. Belton must see the advantage it would be to have her daughter comfortably settled as the wife of Laurence Mowbray, a man of good means and the very best of characters. These thoughts and surmises were passing in a confused way through his mind whilst he was pulling with all his might to the shore, with that sad thing lying before him vol. 1. covered by a tarpaulin.

He had some feeling of shame at the idea of considering how the poor youth's death was to affect his own position; but he could not help it. The thoughts and speculations came without any power on his pa.rt to control or suppress them. Self-interest will assert tspilf at such critical moments in the most generous minds. As soon as the keel touched the sand, Mowbray and Whitby jumped out and pulled the boat up the beach. They were now joined by several fishermen and coastguards. The body was carried up to the lifeboat . house and placed on a hastily extemporised bier. ' Look here, master,' observed Whitby, as he paused for a moment to scan the swollen features of the drowned man before again covering him with the tarpaulin, ' are you sure this be Alf Belton ? Of course, it ben't easy to make out who a body may be after lying in the water two or three days as this seem to have been ; but I ought to know Alf pretty well, and I have a doubt, I have.

What say you mates?' ' That be Alf Belton, an' no mistake,' said a sturdy gray beard, named Sol Ditton, emphatically. ' There's the mole on his left cheek that I'd swear to any day.' ' Well, if you be so mortal sure on't, you had best take the news to Willow Hall,' said Whitby, anxious to escape that duty, and not disposed to dispute the identity of the body. OUT OF THE DEEP. 67 ' Stop yeow, there, mates,' said Sol Ditton. ' Here be Master Mowbray, an' it appear to me that he ought to be the party to go up to the Hall.' Mowbray had expected the proposal, and was prepared for it. ' Very well, lads, I will go. The job is not one that any of us can like to do, but someone must do it.' So he pulled his cap tightly over his brow, and, unmindful of his reeking wet nether garments, set out at a smart pace for Willow Hall, whilst Whitby went in search of the doctor and the constable. 5—2 CHAPTEE II.

WILLOW HALL. The Hall was about two miles from the shore, and nestled on a piece of rising ground amidst trees, which, although of a dwarf appearance, were rich in foliage, and the ground sloped down on the one side — the slope being so gentle that it was only perceptible to a person accustomed to the flat lying marshes of the county — to a broad sheet of water margined by reeds and willows. The Hall was a commonplace-looking building of red brick, part of which had beer allowed to fall into ruins. There were two gables overhung with creepers, and beyond them a dismantled wall indicating that in past times the house had been one of some importance in the county. But ' Hardfist ' had allowed the orna mental part of the building to fall into decay, and thf* inhabited part was only inhabitable because the bricks and mortar held well together.

The pretty flower-gardens whicli had once surrounded the house were utterly neglected ; grass and weeds grew on the avenues ; and the only spot which appeared to receive the least attention was a corner WILLO W HALL. 69 of what had once been the lawn, tended by Eva Belton's own hands. The state of dilapidation into which the private grounds of Willow Hall had been allowed to fall for years would have puzzled all the neighbourhood, if it had not found a ready explanation in the known miserly character of the proprietor. The curious thing was that he should allow about fifty acres to remain neglected whilst every other inch of ground that could be profitably cultivated was carefully attended to, and brought to the highest state of produc tiveness. When ' Hardfist ' died, everybody thought that the widow would speedily alter this state of affairs ; that the house would be put in order, and the fifty acres turned to as good account as might be for pleasure or profit.

Everybody was mistaken, consequently surprised, and in a measure aggrieved, as everybody is apt to be when somebody fails to act in ac cordance with their preconceived notions of how he or she ought to have acted under particular circumstances. No alterations were made, and there was no indication of any being contemplated. Mrs. Belton and her daughter continued to lead the same monotonous life they had been so long accustomed to. They daily took a regulation drive in the pony-chaise — the car riage had been long ago dispensed with by old 'Hardfist ' — duly appeared in church on Sundays in regulation mourning garb, and with painfully punctilious care observed all the formalities supposed to be incumbent on them by reason of their recent bereavement. But what amount of sorrow underlay the outward seeming of grief no one could guess.

Mrs. Belton's handsome face had been always pale and sad, and it naturally looked paler and sadder now in her widow's weeds. Everybody, however, was convinced that the death of her husband was to her a release from cruel bondage, for they had long come to the conclusion that she had been held down, and denied the ordinary amenities of life which a woman in her position — and still beautiful after passing her fiftieth year — had a right to expect, considering the wealth of her husband. As for Miss Eva, she had been so entirely overlooked by her father, so entirely shut out from any friendship with him, that everybody found it difficult to believe that she could feel his loss very keenly. The general conclusion was — and eveu the venerable vicar secretly agreed with it — that whatever grief the ladies ex perienced was on account of the absent son and brother.

He had been heard of from Africa, San Francisco, Australia, and lastly from Norway. He seemed to have traversed the globe in search of excitement and adventure. But when he came home, as master of Willow Hall and heir to the untold wealth which old ' Hardfist ' was popularly supposed to possess, there would be a mighty change in all the arrangements of the dilapidated house and grounds. There would be work for labourers, and harvest and Christmas revels, as in the old days, longingly and affectionately remembered by many men and women still no more than middle-aged, of the former squire of Willow Hall. That former squire, having been too free-handed, trustful, and utterly reckless, had allowed his estates to be grabbed up by the avaricious, cunning lawyer and money-lender, Hardwicke Belton.

The son had something — thanks to his mother, no doubt, who came from an ancient county stock — of the genuine nobility about him — the nobility being understood by the countryfolk as indicated by a nature too easy-going to pry closely into how work was done or how money was spent. When he came home the good old times would be revived ; the village and the neighbourhood would be prosperous and merry again. So for his return everybody was waiting eagerly, and for his return the mother and sister were long ing. A letter had been sent to him at Christiania — that being the latest address he had given to his mother — intima ting his father's death and requiring his return home with the least possible delay. A reply had been received from him ; his rooms had been prepared, and his arrival was daily expected and anxiously awaited.

All this was known to Laurence Mowbray, and intensified the pain he felt in being the bearer of news which would wring the hearts of the mother and daughter. However much Mrs. Belton might have disliked him before, she must dislike him still more now as the harbinger of evil when ha delivered the sad message that her son was dead. Might not Eva — true as he knew her love to be — shudder at sight of him when she heard his fatal announcement ? With one word he was to destroy all the fond hopes they must have beon cherishing of the change which was to be wrought in their melancholy lives ' when Alf came home.' The poor fellow had come home, but in such fashion as to bring new grief instead of joy to those he loved. Laurence made a desperate effort to hope that Whitby's doubt of the identity of the body might turn out to be well founded ; but Sol Ditton's discovery of the mole on the left cheek rendered it almost impossible even to hope, much as he wished to do so, that there might be a mistake.

His own first glance at the dead face had been too convincing to per mit him to doubt even without Sol's decisive indication of identity. Still, he tried to doubt — for Eva's sake and for the mother's sake. He was not helped to a more hopeful mood by the cheer less surroundings of Willow Hall, which, in the gray mist that now obscured the sun, looked more desolate than ever. It was still so early that there was no sign of human activity about the place as he tramped along the short avenue, with its covering of grass and weeds. Early as it was, he expected to find someone astir at the back part of the house ; and as he approached the stable he heard a querulous voice saying : ' Drat them dirty roads ! They do mud the wheels so that there be no keepin' them clean, do what a man may !' This was spoken by Teddy Orm, who was man-of-all-work at Willow Hall, and who was at present swishing water over an upraised wheel of the low pony-chaise as it revolved in obedience to his vigorous arm.

He ceased work as soon as he saw Laurence. ' What bring yeow here so early in the mornin', master ?' he inquired curiously. 'Business, Teddy — and anything but pleasant business. Are any of the womenfolk about yet ?' ' Maybe, but not likely. Mornin' be cold, and bed be warm. What do yeow want ?' ' To see Mrs. Belton as quickly as possible. Tell one of the women to say I have come with a message which must be delivered at once.' Teddy thoughtfully put down his mop, and, being lame in one leg, slowly hobbled to the kitchen-door. Thrusting his head in, he shouted : ' Hie, Dolly — d'yeow hear ? Tell missus that Master Mowbray want to 6ee her par-tic-ular. D'yeow hear?' ' A deaf'un would hear a bull roarin' at side ov the head,' answered Dolly, almost as loudly as Teddy, and so close to his ear that he started back as if a gun had been fired.

Dolly was a stout, bustling, middle-aged woman, and it had long been a simple joke between her and Teddy for each to pretend that the other was deaf. ' Yeow needn't hollo at a man as though he had no hearin'.' ' No more need yeow wake the ladies with yeowr owl screech. What do Master Mowbray want at this hour ov the mornin' ?' Laurence advanced to interrupt the playful bickering between the man and woman, which was to him so painful under the circumstances. ' Please tell your mistress that I wish to see her. She will understand that I would not be here at this hour except on business of special importance. Say it relates to her son. Both Dolly and Teddy felt the note of anxiety in his voice, and now saw how troubled was the expression of his face. Their mirth vanished at the reference to Alf Belton : instinctively they realized that some calamity had befallen their young master, and the woman hastened off to the bed room of her mistress.

Presently she returned. ' Missus will be with yeow, sir, in a minute or two. She be dressin' as fast as she can.' Without apology Dolly led him through the kitchen along a dark passage till they reached the entrance-hall, which was dimly-lighted by a narrow window on each side of the doorway. She showed him into the dining-room, and hastily threw open the shutters, making a clatter with the spring alarm-bells as she lifted them from their niches in the bars. The dull misty light revealed a long, low-roofed, cold looking room, with wood-panelled walls, which had grown dark with age and smoke from the huge fire that in other days used to blaze cheerfully in the big fireplace under the massive overhanging mantelpiece. There were two windows, but they were comparatively small for the size of the chamber, and faced westward, so that even when the sun was at its height the place, with its heavy oak furniture, had a gloomy aspect to a stranger.

Yet when the dozen sconces around the walls were filled with lighted candles, the lamps on the table, and the fire on the hearth ablaze, there could not have been found a brighter scene for the high revels in which the former squire of Willow Hall had indulged. But the place had only known such brilliance once since it fell into the possession of Hardwicke Belton. To Laurence the present gloom of the place was in sym pathetic accord with his mission. Mrs. Belton did not leave him time to plan the best way of breaking the news to her. She was a tall woman, with a graceful form, and in her long dressing-gown looked taller than she was in reality. Years had not yet unmercifully thinned her brown hair, or dimmed the brightness of her clear, though sad gray eyes ; and, despite the paleness of her face and the lines which sorrow had drawn upon it, one had no difficulty in understanding that in the heyday of youth she had been very beautiful . ' Tell me your message, Mr. Mowbray,' she said, in an apprehensive undertone, without any of the usual prelimi naries of greeting. ' I am sorry to be the bearer of it,' he responded gravely and sympathetically. ' What is it ?' she demanded. 'The worst you can anticipate.' ' W7ell ?

Let me know the worst. Your news is bad, I know. My son is ill — very ill. . . . But it cannot be that he is — dead !' She forced herself to utter the word, for the messenger seemed to falter, so that she could not wait for him to speak it. He bowed his head, but uttered no word. The sign was understood. She did not cry out, but stood silent, motionless, her lips closed tightly, and her eyes staring vacantly on the man who brought this direful news. Then in a husky whisper she said : ' How ?' ' Drowned.' He gave the answer in a subdued tone, but firmly. It was clear to him that she would be best pleased by the plainest speech. He had always regarded her as a woman blessed with a powerful control of her emotions ; but the deathly stillness with which she received his announcement awed and frightened him.

He would have been relieved to hear her cry or sob. But she stood like a statue, or like a being suddenly petrified. This condition, however, endured only for a brief space. She drew a long breath that might have been called a heart-tearing sob, but half-suppressed by a strong effort, and seemed suddenly to awaken from a state of dream. She was again the calm, self-possessed lady who had not many weeks ago told Laurence that she would not consent to his union with her daughter. ' Will you explain, Mr. Mowbray ?' she said in a low voice. He told her how the body had been discovered, and how he had recognised it at the first glance. Gloom settled upon her features as she listened. Then he told her of Whitby's doubt, and her face brightened. It darkened again when he said that old Sol Ditton felt sure that the body was that of Alf, owing to the mole on the left cheek.

But the shade passed in a moment. ' There is a doubt, and I will cling to that.' The craving for hope against the worst was natural ; but there was something in the tone of his voice which suggested that the woman was resolved to regard the doubts as certainty, and to refuse credence to the evidence of identity. ' I wish with all my heart that it had been possible for me to hope that you are right in sharing Whitby's doubt,' he said, regretfully and earnestly, feeling that it would be cruel to encourage her in the delusion she seemed determined to cherish. ' But when you see him ' ' See him !' she interrupted, a perceptible shudder passing over her. ' Will — will that be necessary ?' He was surprised by the question. He could understand her desire to doubt that it was her son who had been found drowned, and that she should shrink from the spectacle she would have to witness in the lifeboat-house ; but he fancied that a mother would have been eager to satisfy herself on the subject one way or the other at once, no matter what pain it caused her — or, rather, without any consideration of the pain at all.

He had seen the fishermen's wives rush from their homes at the first note of alarm that a boat had been wrecked or that a body had been found, to assure themselves whether or not they had suffered loss. Of course Mrs. Belton was not, like them, accustomed to the thought of such a calamity happening any day. Still, he would have expected her to be anxious to satisfy herself when she was told that a man supposed to be her son was lying dead on the shore. ' I think your evidence as to the identity will be required by the coroner,' he answered, somewhat awkwardly, for he was not sure what he ought to say. She was silent for a few moments, gazing out through the window as if trying to read something in the mist. Then, looking straight at him again, she said quietly : ' Very well, Mr. Mowbray ; if you are quite sure that it is necessary, I will go and see this unfortunate man.

I am conscious that you would not ask me to do so unless you had been moved by a very strong conviction that this is my i poor son. ' I do not ask you to come, Mrs. Belton,' he said uneasily. ' Having told you what has happened, my painful task is done, and I only undertook it in the hope that the news would be delivered less roughly by me than it might have been by another.' ' I am grateful, and thank you. It was kind of you, and the more kind as I think the conversation we had lately about my daughter would have inclined most men to be cruel rather than kind.' There was something in the tone which suggested that Mrs. Belton was not quite sure that there was not an element of cruelty in his haste to be the bearer of the ill-tidings. At any rate, the over-sensitiveness of the lover made him feel it so ; and his cheeks grew red.

But he answered, calmly and manfully : ' On that subject, Mrs. Belton, we are agreed. You have A T ANY COST. told me frankly that you disapprove of my engagement with your daughter, although you refuse to give me any satisfac tory reason for your disapproval. I have told you frankly that Eva is of an age to choose for herself, and I mean to accept her decision — which is, to be my wife. But in deference to you we have agreed to wait for one year more, in the hope that your objection, whatever it may be, will in that time be overcome. So far, we perfectly understand each other in this matter, and there is no need for us to talk about it now.' ' You are right,' she said coldly, as if mortified that he should have reminded her, even unintentionally, of there being a matter of more immediate importance to consider than his marriage with her daughter.