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

CHAPTER XVI

In the vast pile of buildings owned by James O'Donnell in Rathclare, by day several hundred men were employed, by night several score; for the steam mills were kept going day and night, and got no rest from year's end to year's end, save from twelve o'clock on Saturday night to six o'clock on Monday morning. In the portion of the buildings devoted to milling operations most of the night-men were employed. In fact, so far as active employment was concerned, no men were engaged anywhere else in the place. There were, however, three watchmen for the other portions of the building. One of these was outside in the yard fronting the river, another was on the ground-floor of the granaries, and it was the duty of the third to wander about the upper lofts and corridors. Of late these men had been cautioned to observe greater vigilance. It was well known in Rathclare that the strong-room of James O'Donnell always contained a large sum of money, and sometimes a very large sum. The man whose duty it was to examine the lofts passed along the corridor leading to the private office. All was right, so far. He always made it a habit to pause and listen at the door of the private room; for if an attempt was to be made upon the safe it should be from this place. The man went on in a leisurely way, ascended the next ladder he met, strolled along the lofts, ascended another ladder, sat down on a pile of empty sacks, and lit his pipe. Smoking was not, of course, allowed, but then there was no one to see him. When he had finished his pipe he ascended to the top loft and walked all round from one end of the building to the other, pausing now and then to listen at the head of a ladder or at a trap-door, or to look out of a window into the deserted street below. This took a long time, for there was no need of haste. It was an understood thing among the watchmen that each should speak to the other two about once an hour. Thus it would be known each hour that all was well throughout the building. The watchman now began to descend. He went down more rapidly than he came up. It was quite dark, and the silence was unbroken save by the noise of the machinery and the swirl of the river as it swept past the wharf and quays and ships below, and whispered among the chains and ropes. The three men generally met in fine weather such as this on the wharf. It was pleasant to the two men, whose business lay indoors, to breathe for a few moments the cool air by the river. From the wharf no portion of the offices could be seen. They looked into the great quadrangle round which the granaries were built. When the three men had stood and interchanged a few words they separated, each of the two going in his own direction, the third man remaining on the wharf. The man whose duty lay on the upper floors passed into the large quadrangle, round which the granaries stood. At first he noticed nothing remarkable; but when his eyes fell on the windows of James O'Donnell's office he started visibly, and uttered an exclamation of surprise under his breath. The windows were full of light! What should he do? What could this mean? He had, of course, heard of the misfortunes which had fallen upon his master's house that day, but he made no connection between that fact and this extraordinary appearance. The warning against possible burglars was uppermost in his mind. Although he was nearly sure no one was then in that office for an honest purpose, still he resolved to proceed with the greatest caution, and give no unnecessary alarm. He went out on the wharf and told the other man what he had seen. They both agreed that it would now be useless to try and overtake their other comrade, and that it would be best for the two of them to go to the office at once and see how matters stood there. When they got indoors they took off their boots and proceeded cautiously to the foot of the stairs leading to the offices. Each carried a stout stick in his hand, and each man was physically qualified to take care of himself in a scuffle. They agreed it wouldn't do to get some more of the hands from the mill and proceed to the office as though they were sure of finding burglars there; for how could they tell that it was not the manager, or their employer himself, who had been obliged to come back owing to some urgent business? They crept cautiously up the stairs and found themselves in the corridor, upon which the office door opened. Here all was dark and silent. Here they were confronted by a difficulty they had not anticipated. If it should be that the manager or the proprietor had come back at this unseasonable hour, the proper thing would be, of course, to knock at the door and ask if all were right. But supposing there were burglars inside, knocking at the door would be simply to put them on their guard, and enable them to take up a defensive or offensive position before the others could enter: What was to be done? As if by a common instinct, the two men retired to the further end of the passage to hold a brief council. There was no means of escaping from that room except by this passage or the window. That window was not barred, and nothing could be easier than to get from it by a ladder or a rope. The first thing, therefore, to be ascertained was-did a ladder or a rope lead from that window to the ground of the quadrangle? It was then agreed between the two that one of them should go down and examine the window from the outside, while the other waited in the passage here and watched, the door until his fellow came back. One of the men descended to the ground-floor, got out into the quadrangle, and looked at the window, and the ground near the window. It was a dark night, and one could not see small objects distinctly. The man was not content with the evidence of his eyes alone. He stole over under the window, and placing his hand against the wall, walked forward and backward, ascertaining by touch that neither ladder nor rope connected the window with the yard. When he was satisfied on this point, he stole back to his companion and communicated the fact to him. So far all was well. They had not now to think of any means of exit but the one before them. Still it was not easy to know what to do. Now it occurred to them for the first time that it was not at all consistent with the belief burglars were at work that the gas should be fully ablaze. Although there never had been an attempt to rob the mill on a large scale, or by violence, and the watchmen had no personal experience of burglars yet, it was their business to know something about how that predatory tribe carry on their operations. It was not likely such men would attempt to force the door of a strong-room, made on the very best principles, with the light turned fully up. A dark lantern and silent matches were more the manner of the midnight thief than the great openness and defiance of gas. It must surely be someone connected with the business. It was well they had not made a fuss about the matter, and now it would be well that they should delay no longer to prove their diligence by showing they had observed the unusual fact of the gas being burning. Yes, there could be no longer any doubt their manager or employer was behind that door. There would be something absurd in the fact of two fine strapping fellows like them going up to that door in their vamps. It would show they had suspected someone was there who had no right to be there, and this might give offence. It would be best for them to put on their boots before knocking; besides, if they knocked as they were now, whoever was inside might think they had been prying. When they reached the open air they put on their boots quickly. Then it occurred to them that, as they were now quite certain it was someone belonging to the business who was in the office, it would never do for two of them to appear at the door simultaneously. The duty of one man was to be on the wharf, and of the other to be on the lofts or in the passages, and if they had no suspicion wrong was going forward, why should the wharfman desert his post? They, therefore, agreed that the loftman alone should go back and prove his vigilance by knocking and saying that he had observed the light. The two parted. The loftman, starting with his usual measured tread, crossed the quadrangle, entered the dark passages, ascended the stairs, and knocked at the door. Two minutes after he rushed out upon the wharf, exclaiming in an undertone: "Do you know who's there?" "No. Who?" "No one. Come back with me and see if I am right. I can't believe my eyes. There isn't a soul there as far as I can see, in the office or in the passages." The two men went back to the passage, entered the private office, found the gas at full cock, and the place empty!

CHAPTER XVII

Mr. O'Donnell, towards the close of that unlucky day, found himself once more in his comfortable home at Rathclare. Within twenty-four hours, the life of his only son, the hope of his age, had been placed in danger; and all the earnings of a long and laborious life had been scattered to the winds by one tremendous blast of ill-fortune. He was not a communicative or demonstrative man. He took his pleasures soberly, gravely, and with little exterior show of delight. Outside his business, which was large and engrossing, he cared for little save his wife, and son, and home. He had few wants, and a limited mind; but, like all men with few wants and a limited mind, he must have what he wanted, or life would not be worth living. He did not sigh or burst into exclamations when the bad news reached him. He was reading a newspaper at the time. He put down his newspaper, and asked his managing man, who brought him the news, to repeat his words. Then, merely saying, "That is very bad news," he took down an account-book, and, having looked at how his affairs stood with the bank which had failed, put up the book in the safe, walked out of his office, and took the train to Glengowra, where his son lay hurt, and where his wife was already in attendance on the injured man. Now, he was back once more in his home alone. His wife was to stay that night at Maher's hotel. In the present condition of his business affairs he did not feel himself justified in absenting himself from head-quarters. Up to this he had very rarely been separated from his wife, even for a day. He seldom left his native town for more than a few hours, except when he went away for a week or so and took her with him. He sat in the deserted dining-room all alone. He always carried in his coat-pocket a small memorandum-book, in which he had jotted down the net results of all his business transactions, so that at any moment, and in any place, he could see pretty well how he stood. He seated himself in a large easy-chair, and having pulled down the gasalier, took out this book, and sat silently consulting the pages for a long while. By this time he had received full information from Dublin. He knew now the case of Vernon and Son was absolutely hopeless. He was going over his book, not in the hope of finding out anything cheerful about his own affairs, but just merely to convince himself through his sight of what he was already convinced through his reason. When he had reached the end of the written pages, and had made a few figures with his pencil and arrived at a total, he tore out the page on which he had made this last calculation, and then carefully and delicately tore the page into little bits. He put down his pocket-book on the table at his elbow, and then sat for a long time arranging and re-arranging the fragments of the paper into various figures on the table at his side. When it was about eleven o'clock, a servant came and asked him if he wanted anything. No, he wanted nothing. They might all go to bed. When the servant had retired, he re-began his work with the fragments of paper. At twelve o'clock he seemed to have made up his mind that there was no good in trying any longer to arrange the pieces in a satisfactory way. He pushed all the bits together, swept them into his hand, and placed them on a tray, on which were some glasses, which he had not used. He took up the pocket-book again, and quietly tore out all the blank leaves. "These may be of use to someone else," he said. "They can never be of any use to me." He placed the blank leaves on the table, far in from the edge. "The books at the office will show how my affairs stand. This can interest no one. It was only on account of the money I considered myself worth, over and above my liabilities. I'll burn it;" and then forgetting that it was summer time, and that there was no fire, he threw the book into the grate, and rose. He felt in his pocket, and found that he had his keys. Then he went into the hall, put on his hat, and left the house. He took his way to his principal place of business-the vast storehouse, wharf, and steam mill all combined. He opened a small postern in the main gate, trod a dark flagged passage, and reached the foot of a flight of stairs that led to the chief offices. This he ascended, and having reached his private room, lit the gas. For a while he stood in the middle of the room, looking vacantly round him. The office was luxuriously furnished; and in the wall opposite to the table at which Mr. O'Donnell usually sat, and facing him, was the door of the strong-room. He could hear the murmur of the water as it went by, if the engines had stopped. But the engines were going on at full speed, making money now-making money now for whom? That morning these twenty sets of stones had been whirling round, and at every rotation of each stone he, James O'Donnell, was the richer. These stones were going round still, making money still; but for whom now? It was a dismal thing to stand there realising the fact that the fruits of his forty years' hard work, sagacity, enterprise, thrift had all been squandered by someone else-had all been squandered by this Vernon, in whom he had reposed implicit confidence; who was so pious, so sleek, so plausible, and yet had led him on into this horrible position. He sat down in his chair, and his eyes fell upon the door of the strong-room. He had destroyed his pocket-book; his interest in his own private affairs was at an end. From what he had heard there was no chance of his saving a sixpence out of his large fortune. Some other man would work the mill no doubt, for it would be a valuable asset in the affairs of Vernon and Son. It was hard to think of this fine mill, for which he had made the trade, and which he had built up from the foundation, passing away from him, now that he was too old to begin life again. In that strong-room opposite him there were the books. They were all in perfect order. They had never been made the slaves of a false balance-sheet. They were the fair records of blameless transactions. Every line in them could be verified. Every shilling of expense could be accounted for. Soon, very soon, he knew not exactly when, strangers would come and examine these books, and go through all the vouchers, but they should find nothing in that strong-room of his except flawless records of honest trade-and- The vacant look left his eyes. All at once an intense, eager light burned in them. He grasped the back of the chair, and rose stealthily, as though to avoid the attention of someone acting as sentinel over him, and who was half asleep. He stole noiselessly in the bright gaslight across the room. With elaborate caution he took the keys out of his pocket and fitted one to the lock. With a dull, heavy sound the bolts fell back. He drew himself a foot away, as though he expected that door to be pushed open, and something to issue forth and seize him and do him deadly hurt. He paused, breathing heavily. The door did not stir. He stretched forth his arm and drew the door towards him. It yielded slowly and swung out into the bright, handsomely furnished office, until it stood at right angles to the wall. Again he paused, and peered into the dark cavity before him. He seized the outer edge of the door and steadied himself by it, leaned against it slightly so that it swayed slowly to and fro a little. His face was now flushed and covered with sweat. His hands clutched the door feverishly, frantically. His knees trembled so that he seemed in danger of sinking to the floor. "It would be a fit ending to my life. My life is of no further use to me or to those I love, or to the business I have made, nor even would it be any use to those whom I shall not be able to pay. For although no one could work the business as well as I, if things had not come to this pass, I am too old now to work for others where I have so long worked for myself." He let go the door and stood unsupported for a while. "If they should find in the strong-room of James O'Donnell nothing but the unimpeachable records of his honest life, and his bones!" He seemed to gather strength from the thought. He drew himself up to his full height. The look of intense excitement gradually faded from his face. The tension of his hands relaxed, and he looked around with something like majesty in his gaze. He was a lion at bay, but indifferent. He walked up and down the room two or three times calmly, deliberately, as if he were disturbed by a thought greater than the hourly commonplaces of a busy day. He ran the matter carefully over in his mind. When in thinking of this deed first, and saying to himself his creditors would find nothing in that place but books, papers, and-he had paused at the word revolver. It was occasionally necessary for some of his clerks to carry large sums of cash a distance from Rathclare, and when doing so the messenger always took with him his revolver. The lock by which the strong-door was finally secured could be turned only from the outside, but there was a strong latch of three large bolts which caught and kept the door closed when it was slammed. There were two keys to this door, but he had made it a rule never to entrust the second to anyone in his employment. When unable to be at his office at ten o'clock in the morning, or at closing time in the evening, he had always given the key he now carried with him to his manager, and had it left at his house the same night. The second key he had hidden behind some books in a bookcase which he always kept locked. But the three bolts which kept the door fast during the working hours of the day could be shot back from the outside by means of a key, a duplicate of which the manager had. In the strong-room that night there was a sum in cash of more than two thousand pounds. If he went into that strong-room and used that revolver, the sound would, in all likelihood, reach the ears of no one in the place, and nothing would be discovered for several days, as no one would suspect the main bolts were not shot, since he had been seen to lock the safe that day, and no one else could unlock it. He made up his mind that, come what might, he would end his life where his fortune had begun, and where now his ruin was complete. And still he could not think of bidding adieu for ever to the scene of his life-long labours without one more look at the books which had been so honestly kept, and which he had hoped to hand down unblemished to his son Eugene. He took up a lamp which lay on one of the side tables, lit it, stepped into the strong-room, and drew the door sharply after him. There was a loud bang. The three bolts shot into their places. He was now in the strong-room with the records of his honest life, a revolver, his power of retreat cut off, and the determination not to survive the night of ruin. He had forgotten to put out the gas in his office.

CHAPTER XVIII

The strong-room was about ten feet by fifteen, and no more than eight feet high. There were presses in it for the books, and an iron safe in which the cash and securities were kept. This safe, standing on tressels in a corner, was the one used by the house before the business expanded to its present dimensions. Upon it the old man set his lamp, and putting two deed-boxes one on the other, he placed them near the safe for a seat. Then he opened the safe, and taking out some of the securities it contained, placed them beside him. He adjusted his spectacles, and turned over the deeds and shares somewhat listlessly. The documents here represented a vast sum of money. Here were deeds on which he held mortgages, title-deeds, stocks, and shares. He did not undo the tapes. He knew them all by sight, when and how he had acquired them. This was the result of one speculation, that of another. In his will this and this were left for life to his wife, and afterwards to his son and his son's children. This and this and this were to go absolutely to his son. He went on thus through all the documents in the safe. There was no hurry. It was still many hours to daylight. If all were over with him before people were stirring, all would be well. He had cut off his retreat. He could not now get out of that room even if he wished it. He felt glad that he had come in here. This was a kind of antechamber to the other world. There was no going back now, and if he could derive any consolation from the contemplation of the past by the light of these records, he might do so without injuring anyone. Ay, these were for Eugene. What would be his boy's fate? No doubt he would recover from the hurt, for he was young and hearty. But then how would he get a living? All his life he had been used to good things, and looking forward to a career of remarkable prosperity. Now he was a beggar, an outcast from fortune. These properties and moneys had been intended for him. Now they would go to the greedy creditors of Vernon and Son. It was too bad that just at the very moment his boy had made up his mind to marry, everything should be swept away from them. For some years the only anxiety he had felt was that his boy should marry some good amiable girl, and settle down in Rathclare, so that he (the father) might feel that the successor to his business was at hand in case anything should happen to himself. He had not wished for money with the wife of his son. He had not wished for any social advancement. He was not a man who believed in family or society advancement. He wished his son to be an honest and prosperous trader in his native town, and when that sweet girl had been to their home a few times, he began to regard her as already his daughter. He had intended making her a wedding-present independent of what he was to do for Eugene. Here was what he had intended for her. These were the title-deeds of Rose Cottage, Glengowra, which would do the young people for their summer home. It was a famous cottage for flowers, and there was grass for a cow, and there was a paddock, and a little lawn, and a large garden. Just the thing altogether for a young couple in the summer time. Let him look at what the property consisted of. He read over slowly the recital of all the things that went with Rose Cottage, the measurements of the land, and so on, as though he were about to buy, and it was necessary to be careful. Then he folded up the paper softly, and tied it with the tape, and set it by him on the ground. He was not an imaginative man, but the few images which had visited him seemed all the more brilliant, because of their rareness. And one of the visions which had come to him lately, and which pleased him more than any other he had known for years, was that of Eugene and Nellie living in this Rose Cottage, and he and his wife coming out in the cool evening and having tea with them in the little arbour overlooking the sea. It would be strange and delightful, now that the vigour of his youth and the strength of his manhood had passed away for ever, to be the guest of his own son; to hear his son say, "Welcome, father," and to see this tall, fair girl, who had such bright and pleasant ways, tending to his good-hearted, kindly old wife, Mary. To see her placing the chair of honour for her, and making much of her, would be a thing to live for and enjoy. And then, later, there would be children who would call him grandfather, and, with their fresh young voices and gallant spirits, take away the feeling of toil and the weariness of years. What would Mary do? Mary, whom he had married long ago; and yet, now that he had come to the end of his life, it seemed but yesterday. He could see every event of their marriage-day more clearly than he could see what had happened yesterday; for his eyes had grown dim since then, and the magic charm of memory is that it forgets so well what it does not wish to retain. Bah! It would never do to think of those times, and of his old Mary left alone and poor upon the world. It would take the resolution out of him to think of her. It would rob him of his manhood to picture her destitute in the face of unsympathetic men. No. It would rob him of the last remains of vigour to fancy her standing alone and deserted, without a home or a meal. He had come into that room for the purpose of closing his life with his business career. Eugene was young and full of spirits, and had many friends, and would soon get something to do, and be able to give his mother a little, and to marry. He must not take a gloomy view of the future for those he was leaving behind. If he wanted to keep up his resolution he must think of the future he was losing in this great crash. It was of Eugene and Eugene's wife he must think. The fact that he could be of no further use to his son, or his wife, or his son's wife, was the thought to keep him to his resolution. If things had gone otherwise with him he could have made those young lives so happy as far as worldly gear was concerned. What further use was he on earth? Let him leave all at once. Why should he confront this trouble and disgrace-trouble unearned, disgrace unmerited? He took up the documents from the floor and replaced them all carefully in the safe. It was in this safe the money was kept. He pulled out the drawer containing it. A week ago he would have thought this a comparatively small sum. Now it seemed very large indeed. If it had been only so managed that this two thousand pounds could have been honestly saved from the wreck, it would have been sufficient to provide, in an humble way-but there! Let the thought go. Nothing could be saved-not a shilling. He closed the drawer, and then drew out the one next to it. This contained the revolver. The light of the lamp so fell that when the drawer was fully out only the barrel of the weapon was in the light. The old man stood looking at that glittering barrel. It was as though that barrel was a deadly snake slowly issuing from the darkness, and he was powerless to move, to avoid it. Once more all his strength forsook him. His face flushed, his limbs trembled; he clasped his hands convulsively. He drew back a pace and almost fell against the opposite side. He put his hand before his eyes and groaned. "Has it come to this with me," he said, "in my old age? Can it be possible, I, who never did a dishonest act, must fly from life because of the dishonesty of another?" He put his hand up to his neck and tore his shirt open. He dropped his hands, threw up his head and looked around him. "Great God! what is this?" The lamp was burning blue. His head was giddy. He was suffocating!