The Last Call: A Romance (Vol. 1 of 3)

CHAPTER XIII

Foe a while Dora Harrington and Lionel Crawford were silent, he still with the look of an enraptured visionary on his face, she perplexed, wondering, disturbed. What could this secret be which he, the man to whom she was engaged, never told her? One thing appeared plain to her, it was not a secret in which Dominique was directly concerned. It was the old man's secret, communicated by him to her lover. Yet it was not pleasant to think that Dominique, who seemed so candid, so outspoken, so open, should have something which he had concealed from her. The notion of a secret was cold and dire. He had one: he might have many, as he had never even told her that he owned this queer tower, standing all alone in those dark, forbidding ways by the river. Of late Dominique had not written to her as often or as affectionately as of old. True, he was not in good spirits about his worldly prospects. She had told him over and over again, when he asked her, that she would marry him on anything or nothing. Who or what was this old man, that he should be mixed up with Dominique's affairs long ago; that he should have stood between her and the Thames to-night? Was it possible this old man would tell her nothing more? He had excited in her curiosity, vague fears. Would he do nothing to allay either? Thus to be saved from the fate she intended for herself that night, to find in her protector a friend of his, and then to be confronted with a mystery in which Dominique had a part, were, surely, enough things to make this night ever memorable. "Mr. Crawford," said the girl, "I can never forget the service and the kindness you have done me. Will you not do me an additional favour by telling me something of this secret which affects him?" The girl had finished the tea and eaten some bread by this time. "Take off your hat," he said. "Lean back and rest yourself, and I will tell you something more. "Ten years ago I was as lonely a man as I am now. All my family had drifted away from me. Most of them were dead. Some of them had married, I know not whom. My studies always occupied me, and after the death of my wife, whom I tenderly loved, I went deeper than ever into my books. "Most of my children left me when they were young, and went abroad. I had six children in all. From time to time one left me until all were gone, and ten years ago I had no more clue to the whereabouts of any than I have to-day, except that I knew some were in the grave. "I was then better off than I am now; but I have still enough to live on, and to buy a book now and then. My books are all above. All my interest lies in one direction, all my books treat of the same subject-the history of the past, the history of the men and women and places of old times. My interest in the present closed with the death of my wife. But, somehow or other, since the time of which I speak, ten years ago, I think I have grown less exclusively devoted to my favourite pursuit than I was at the time of the dispersion of my family. "I do not often speak to anyone except to those of whom I want to buy; but I cannot help thinking there is a link between you and me, for are you not betrothed to him who owns this tower, and has not this tower for ten years been the chief object of my attention, of my solicitude? Was it not to him I first told the secret which I had carried with me eight years? Is he not now the only person who knows my secret, and when the time comes for divulging that secret to a few, are not you to be the first to hear it? "Well, ten years ago I was, as I have said, as much alone in the world as now. I had always a notion that something was to be discovered in connection with this Porter Street. Here and there in my books there were vague hints, misty statements, that in this street had taken place something of the greatest importance, something which might in the greatest degree excite the interest of an archaeologist. But you see, the street is long, a mile long, I dare say, and to search every inch of a street a mile long would be altogether out of the question. "At that time I was living close by. There were certain old book-shops, between Longacre and the Strand, which I visited almost daily. Here, one evening, I picked up a battered old volume for a few pence. It was dated 1625. It turned out to be of no great interest; but on bringing it home, I was struck by two facts-first, that the book, although battered, was complete; and, second, it contained some memoranda in manuscript, one bearing these startling words: 'A great fire has broken out, and is spreading towards us. There is not a minute to be lost. What can be removed is to be removed to Kensington. What cannot be removed is to be left where it now is.' "This memorandum was dated: 'Daybreak, 3rd September, 1666.' "It was, of course, in the spelling of the period. Underneath this memorandum appeared the words and figures: 'Speght's Chaucer, page 17, lines 17 to 27.' "I have told you already that I had something like a hint of what I wished to find out. I am not free to tell you why the first of these memoranda interested me profoundly, and shone before me like a revelation. I seemed to be on the point of a great discovery, a discovery of the utmost importance to me, a discovery which had fascinated my imagination for years. "I am free to tell you why the second memorandum filled me with despair. It was essential that the book referred to in memorandum number two should be found. The clue in my possession was absolutely of no value without a copy of Chaucer. Before giving way to despair, I had looked over the passage in the reference. I had read over twenty lines above and below without being able to find the slightest hint to a clue. It was evident from this fact that the text of the poet threw no light on the subject, and that the intention of the man who had written the memorandum was that reference should be made, not only to the particular edition specified, but to an individual copy of that edition. "My despair was all the greater because I seemed to be half-way towards success. I could not rest indoors. I wandered forth into the streets without any definite object in view. To the average student of history, the discovery of this volume containing a reference to the Great Fire, written at the very moment it was raging, would have been inestimable; but to one who was in quest of a particular object, and had come within a measurable distance of it, without being able to touch it, this book was a curse. "Before I knew where I was I found myself standing in front of the identical shop where I had bought the volume. I went listlessly over all the other books exposed for sale in front of the window. I saw nothing corresponding to the object of my search. "Then suddenly a thought struck me. The book I had bought was valueless. A copy of this particular edition of Chaucer would fetch money. I went inside, and asked the man if he had any other books belonging to the lot among which the one I had purchased was. "He told me he had several; that he bought the lot in an old, tumble-down house in Wych Street, where the books had lain for ever so long, and that they were reputed to be salvage from the Great Fire. "Imagine my excitement, my delight, when I found a copy of Speght's edition, and upon opening the volume, and referring to the passage indicated, I discovered writing on the margin. This writing was briefer than that in the former volume. It was simply: 'St. Prisca's Tower. See Mentor on Hawking, 1625.' This was the book I had bought a short time previously. The chain was now complete. The area of inquiry was absolutely limited to the ground upon which this tower now stands. In the Great Fire of Charles's reign the church and tower of St. Prisca had been attacked by the flames, and the church had been completely destroyed. The lower portion of the tower, however, was found by Wren to be sufficiently good for the purposes of rebuilding, and so, about ten feet above the ground of these walls belong to the old tower. Later on the modern church was pulled down; but for some reason, I cannot find out, the tower has never been interfered with since. "These books had evidently been carried away from the region of the fire to the fields where Kensington now stands; and then, when the fire was subdued, carried back to Wych Street, where they had remained until the bookseller who sold them to me had bought them about ten years ago." Here the old man finished his narrative, which had been delivered in a monotonous tone. His eyes were fixed, staring intently before him, and he seemed to be wholly oblivious of the fact that Dora was listening to him. He was not, however, unmindful of her presence; for no sooner had he concluded, than he looked at her directly and said: "I have told you all I can; all I may. Dominique Lavirotte and I are the only persons who know the rest, and you know more than anyone else in the world except him and me. You must be tired now. I never told this story before, and, in all likelihood, I never shall again." It was now close to two o'clock in the morning. To the opening words of the old man Dora had given little attention. In fact the events of that night, until she had begun to feel refreshed by the rest and tea, had left a very weak impression on her mind, and she would have found it hard to say whether the occurrences had been real or figments of her brain. As the story advanced, she had felt a more lively interest in it, and towards the end she found that she was listening with awakened curiosity. The old man said: "I will bring you down a rug, and then you must try and get a little sleep. I shall have to work a couple of hours yet in this welcome rain." He brought the rug and spread it over her, and then emerged once more upon the roof.

CHAPTER XIV

When Crawford reached the roof it was still dark. The intense darkness of a few hours ago had passed away, and it was possible on the roof to see dimly the figure of the old man, the parapet, and the lead. Towards each of the four corners of the lead the roof sloped gently, and in each corner was a shoot leading to a pipe. In each of the four corners, but so placed as not to obstruct the shoot wholly, and yet to impinge upon it, lay a heap of something. To each of those heaps the old man went in succession, moving the heaps so as to make them impinge a little more upon the gutter. When this was done he put down his spade, resting it against the parapet, and leaned out of one of the embrasures. All was still as death below. The darkest hour is the hour before the dawn; the most silent hour is the hour before the reawakening. It was raining heavily now. The old man did not heed the rain. His eyes were turned vacantly towards the east. He was watching for the dawn, not with eyes busily occupied on the dim outline of the huge stores and warehouses before him. His gaze was directed to the east simply because he knew that in the east the sun would rise, and that as the light grew broad, and the top of the tower was overpeered by lofty buildings on higher ground, he must, soon after daylight, intermit his work on the roof if he would keep his secret. When the gray had moved up in the east, the old man went his rounds once more, spade in hand. The rain still continued. When he had finished, he paused and leaned once more at the embrasure he had formerly occupied. "I always," he thought, "take care to keep the clay heaps about the same size. Rain is very good, no doubt. It works off more than wind, except the wind is very high. The worst of the rain is that when the clay gets soaked through and cakes, I have to take it down to dry the minute the weather gets fine, and bring up more sieved earth, for the wind would have no effect on the hardened clay. At first I thought of putting all I excavated on the lofts; but I found them so old, and weak and shaky, that I durst not trust them beyond a little each. There, I have put all the large stones too big to carry out and leave quietly here and there. There are tons and tons of stones upon the lofts, and I am afraid the floors will bear very little more. It would never do to overload the lofts and have the labour of my two years all undone. The rain has stopped. It will help me no more. Heaven send the wind. Here is the day." It was now bright enough to see that the roof of the tower was covered all over with a coating of thin mud, washed into streaks here and there by the rain. In each corner lay a heap of clay. There were a basket and a large pail also on the roof. The old man now began to work energetically. He filled the pail with the mud, and in four journeys down to the first loft, succeeded in removing all that had been on the roof. Then he carried up four large baskets of finely-sifted clay, and put one basket in each corner near the shoots, so that those who had seen the roof of the tower from afar off the previous day would notice very little, if any, difference, even with the aid of a glass; for the nearest building that overlooked the tower was a mile distant. It was now broad daylight, and as the old man stood, his work completed, all round him rose the muffled murmurs of awaking day. He was wet through, but he did not care for this. He was used to it. The rain and the wind were his great friends, and he hailed their advent with delight. It was plain what his object was. By day he worked in the base of the tower, at which the ground stood now twelve feet higher than at the time of the Great Fire, and twelve feet below this was the foundation of the tower. For two years Lionel Crawford had slaved in the daylight digging down towards the foundation. He had a pickaxe and shovel and sieve. When he had dug up some earth and rubbish, he sifted this on a piece of old carpet and carried the sittings up to the top loft, there to dry and become friable for the purpose of being got rid of on the roof. Everything that would not go through the sieve, he carried out with him, and dropped here and there as occasion offered, and the larger stones, which he never put on the sieve at all, he carried up to the lofts. When he had wind instead of rain he stood on the tower in the dark, and when all was quiet, threw away the sifted earth to leeward, handful by handful. So that although he might thus in a night get rid of several hundred pounds weight of earth, no trace whatever of it appeared below the tower. When he was not helped by rain or wind he could not dispose of more than fifty or sixty pounds weight a night, without drawing attention to his operations. This quantity he got rid of by throwing handful after handful out of the embrasure all round the tower. When he found himself on the loft where he slept he took off his wet clothes, hung them up, and then lay down and slept. It was late in the forenoon when he awoke. He dressed himself and went down to what may be called the sitting-room. Here he found Dora awake. "If it would amuse you, child," he said, "you may light the fire and make the tea. It may be a novelty to you, and it will surely be a novelty to me if you do." Dora arose with alacrity and busied herself about the simple preparations for breakfast. "It is a long time," said he, "since I had anyone-man, woman, or child-at a meal with me. Sometimes I go out and have my dinner or supper or breakfast in the poor eating-houses around here; but that is not often. I have learned to shift for myself as well as Robinson Crusoe did in his time." When the breakfast was ready, Dora said: "I am sure you will forgive me, but the excitement and confusion of last night have made me forget your name. Yet I remember that when you mentioned it, it seemed familiar to me." "Lionel Crawford, my dear; Lionel Crawford is my name." "Crawford," she said, musingly resting her chin upon her hand. "I do not know how I could have forgotten that name, for Crawford was my mother's name before her marriage. It is not a very uncommon name in England, is it?" "Not very," he said. "There are several families of the name in London alone." They were now sitting at breakfast. No contrast could be much stronger than that between the young, soft, gentle, beautiful girl and the leather-hued, gnarled-browed old man. The bright sunlight fell through two long, narrow windows high up in the thick walls of the tower. It tinged the white hand of the young girl lying listlessly on the table. It lit up from behind the rich curve of her cheek. It touched with gleaming, grave bronze the outline of her dark hair. The old man sat at the other side of the small table, looking with abstracted eyes at the partly illumined head of the young girl opposite. "Ay," said the old man, "Crawford is not an uncommon name. There were several of us brothers when I was young. I was the only one that married, and I believe all my children are dead by this time. Their mother was sickly. She was everything to me while she was alive. No, Crawford is not an uncommon name." "We used not to consider it a common name in Canada," the girl said. The sunlight was gradually encroaching upon the mass of dark hair. "Ah," he said, still with the abstracted air, "you were in Canada. One of my daughters when she was young, a child of fourteen or fifteen, went to the United States." "How strange," said Dora, shifting her position, and bringing all her head under the influence of the summer sunlight. "No," he said, "not very strange. A great lot of people from these parts go to the United States, and, as I tell you, Crawford is not an uncommon name." "What I meant," said the girl, with a somewhat puzzled look on her face, "was that it is strange your daughter, whose name was Crawford, should have gone to the United States when young. My mother went to the United States when young. She married there and then moved up to Canada." "And you tell me your name is Harrington, Dora Harrington? My girl's name was Dora, too, and I heard she married a man named Harrington. What was your mother's Christian name?" "Dora was her name," said the girl, rising. "What do you think, sir, of all this?" The girl was now standing, so that from crown to heel the full sunlight shone upon her. "It is extremely strange," said he, still in his absent-minded way, "for I heard that my daughter moved up after her marriage." Suddenly the old man's eyes fixed themselves upon the illuminated figure of the girl. "I had not a good look at you before, child, and my eyes are dim with overmuch study. Yes! As heaven hears me, there is a look of my dead wife about you, child. Did they ever tell you you were like your mother? Do you remember your mother?" "I remember her very little, sir. I was very young when she died. They told me I was not like her." "Ay, ay. That is all in favour of my hopes, my child, for Dora was not like my wife, and you are. Marvellously like! I seem to feel the coil of forty years falling away from me." His eyes once more took the abstracted, faraway look of the lions. "Forty years ago," he said, "I was young and blithe, strong-limbed, and not repulsive as I am now. I wooed my Dora then, not in smoky London, but amid the green fields, and when the primroses were fresh with the early spring weather, and all the air was sweet with moist dews and fresh songs of birds. The leaves were all unsheathed, and each pulse of the wind brought a new perfume of the season. My Dora!" "And you think me like her?" said the girl. "Oh, if it should be, sir!" Suddenly the old man lost his abstracted look. He rose and stretched out his arms towards her, looking keenly at her the while. "You are she," he cried. "You are my Dora, my dead darling's grand-daughter. For her own daughter, whose child you are, was like me, all said." "Oh, sir," cried the girl, "it is too much happiness for me to believe this true." "I want some happiness now, my child," said he, "and no happiness greater than this could come to me, for I am tired of loneliness. Come to me, Dora." The illuminated figure of the girl moved, passed out of the sunlight into the gloom of the room-into the gloom of the old man's arms.

CHAPTER XV

The police of Glengowra were very inquisitive about the affair of that night. The town was exceedingly quiet, as a rule, and the fact that two well-dressed men had been engaged at midnight in a deadly encounter was unique and fascinating to the police mind. There was no doubt in the town or village, for it was indifferently called either, that the two men had fought, and that jealousy was at the bottom of the encounter. But both O'Donnell and Lavirotte held impregnable silence on the matter. Neither would make any statement. Lavirotte said they might ask O'Donnell, and O'Donnell said they might ask Lavirotte; and it was known that no matter what may have occurred the previous night, the friendship of the men was now re-established. This last fact was gall and wormwood to the police. It was sheerly the loss to them of a golden opportunity. To think that the biggest crime which had been committed for years in the town should not be made the subject of a magisterial inquiry, was heartbreaking. What was the good of having crimes and policemen cheek by jowl, if they were not to come into contact? A policeman lounged all day about the door of Maher's hotel, affecting to take an interest in the cars and carts passing by, and in the warm baths opposite, and to be supremely unconscious of the existence of Maher's. Nothing came of this. Supposing each man should say his hurt was the result of an accident, there would be no evidence to prove the contrary, and the police would only get into trouble and be laughed at if they stirred in the affair. A fussy and blusterous Justice of the Peace made it his business to call at the hotel, see Maher, and impress upon him the absolute necessity of doing something. Dr. O'Malley absolutely forbade any "justices of the peace, policemen, or such carrion," entering either of the sick rooms. He said to the magistrate: "Don't you bother about this affair. I promise you, on the word of a man of honour, to let you know if either of the men is in danger of death, so that a deposition may be taken; and I promise you my word, as a man of the world, that if anyone goes poking his nose into this affair, one or both of these young men will have something unpleasant to say to that nose when they get about." This speech made the worthy magistrate extremely wroth. He stamped and fumed for a while, and muttered something about puppies, and left the hotel in dudgeon. Still later in the day the sub-inspector of the district, who was a friend of O'Malley's, and happened, by a miracle in which few will believe, to be a man of gentlemanly instincts and manners-called at O'Malley's house, spoke of the weather, the regatta, the price of beasts at the last horse fair, the desirability of building a pier for the fishing-boats in the cove, the hideous inconveniences of not being able to get ice in Glengowra in such roasting weather, the interesting case at the last Quarter Sessions, and finally, he said: "By-the-way, O'Malley, if you do know anything about what occurred last night on the Cove Road, and if you can do so without any breach of good faith, tell me what you know?" "I don't know all about it," said O'Malley, briskly; "and what I do know I am bound to keep to myself. The part of the case about which I am game to speak is the medical aspect of it, and of that I am free to tell you there is no cause to fear either of the men will die. Now, that is all you want to know, because you're a good sort of fellow; you're not more than a thousand years old yourself. Boys will be boys. Have a cigar." Thus the young sub-inspector left O'Malley's house scarcely any wiser than he came. In the phrase, "Boys will be boys," O'Malley had conveyed to him an unmistakable impression that the theory of the fight was the correct one, and at the same time he recognised the skilful way in which O'Malley avoided any breach of confidence. Directly opposite Maher's hotel were the warm baths, and a little to the right of these a shop, famous in the history of Glengowra, and called by the pretentious name of the Confectionery Hall. This title was ludicrously out of proportion with the appearance of the place. The "Hall," that is, the place open to the general public, was not more than twelve by fifteen feet. Here were displayed on a counter, presided over by a thin-featured maiden lady of long ago ascertained years, cakes of various kinds and sorts and ages, sweetmeats of universal dustiness and stickiness, ginger-beer, lemonade, and bottled Guinness and Bass. Sherry might, too, be obtained here in genteel quantities out of a cut-glass decanter, but the inhabitants of Glengowra had a national antipathy to the spirit known as sherry and when they wanted anything stronger than Bass or Guinness, they asked for whisky. Now, the great feature of the Confectionery Hall, as opposed in principle to a mere public-house, was that whisky could not be obtained at the counter. If a man wanted that form of mundane consolation, he was obliged to enter an inner penetralia, where not only could he have the "wine of the country," but an easy-chair to sit in and tobacco for his perturbed mind. Towards the close of the evening of the day following the occurrence on the Cove Road, two young men were seated in this cave of nicotine discussing the event of the day, nay, of the year. Both were out from Rathclare for the cool evening by the sea, and in order to enjoy the most perfect coolness of the sea, they had retired to this back room, which was heavier to the senses and less open to the air than the stuffiest back slum of Rathclare. Both had of course heard the great Glengowra news, and the great Dublin news of the day. It happened that one of these young men was in the employment of the State-to wit, the Post Office, and the other in that of a public company-to wit, the railway. "I can't make it out," said the Railway, "how it is that Lavirotte should have fought O'Donnell about Nellie Creagh, because a fellow told me that a good while ago-a couple of years, I think-when Lavirotte was over in London, he had made it all right with some other girl there." "I don't like Lavirotte, and I never did," said the Post Office; "but this I am sure of-that he had some great friend in London, and that his friend was not a man. Of course I don't wish this mentioned, and I tell you it in confidence. I remember his coming over here. We make up the bags from Glengowra at Rathclare, and when he came here first, and I met him and knew his writing, I saw a letter from him to a Miss Somebody (I will not tell you her name) in London, and this letter went two or three times a week." "Who was she?" inquired the others, inquisitively. "I won't tell. I have already told you more than I should. You must not mention the matter to anyone. I know you so long, old fellow, I am sure I may rely on you." "Well," said the other, "I don't want to seem prying. In all likelihood I shall never see Lavirotte or O'Donnell again. I am off next week." "I am very sorry to lose you; but you're sure to come back to see the old ground shortly." "I don't think I shall," said the other, carelessly. "It costs a lot for the mere travelling, and you know none of my people live here about. Anyway, when I get to London, supposing I am curious, which I am not, I can find out all about it; for I know an artist there who told me all about Lavirotte and the girl." "How on earth did you find anything out about one man in such a big place as London?" "My dear fellow, London is at once the biggest and the smallest place in the world. You have never been there?" "No, never." "Well, you see, most of the nationalities and arts and professions live in districts, chiefly inhabited by themselves; and when they do not, they have clubs and other places of resort where they meet. So that, in the case of Lavirotte, who was then thinking of being a figure-painter, but hadn't got the talent, there was nothing unlikely in his meeting other men of similar ambition, and so it was he came across there the artist I know, who happened to have a studio in the house I lodged in." "I have often looked at the map of London and wondered how it was anyone ever found out where anyone else lived, even when he had the address. But I cannot understand how two friends can fall across one another accidentally in such a tremendously large place." "You have never been in Dublin even, I believe?" said the Railway. "No, never," said the other. "Well, then, all I can tell you is, that if you walk from the College of Surgeons in Stephen's Green to the Post Office in Sackville Street three times a day, you will meet any stranger who may happen to be in the city." For a little while both men were silent. Then the Post Office said: "Well, as there is but a week between you and finding out all about this girl and Lavirotte, I may as well tell you, in strict confidence, that her name is Miss Harrington. I forget her address. She changed it often, but it did not seem a swell address to me. At first he wrote to her two or three times a week; but of late his letters have not gone nearly so often, although some one in London, I suppose this Miss Harrington, wrote him twice a week regularly. Within the past two months I don't think he has written to her at all." While this conversation was going on in the back parlour of the Confectionery Hall, the policeman, who had during the day devoted most of his attention to the vehicles passing in front of Maher's hotel and to the warm baths opposite, was relieved, and came over to the "Hall" for a small bottle of Guinness. It so happened that he had overheard, through the glass-door from the shop to the parlour, most of the conversation which had passed between the two friends. He heard the two friends rise to leave. Before the handle of the door turned he was out of the shop. In a few minutes he was back in the police-station. "Well, any news?" said the sergeant, gloomily. "I have heard something that may be useful," said the constable; and he detailed the conversation. "And we have found something which may be useful," said the sergeant. "After a long search among the stones we came upon the knife Lavirotte stabbed O'Donnell with. Here it is, with Lavirotte's name and O'Donnell's blood upon it. It will go hard with us if we can't get Lavirotte seven years on this alone."