Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

“And Perry-Morton?”

“Hang Perry-Morton! Confound him for a contemptible, colourless bit of canvas – or, no, I ought to say brass, for the fellow has the impudence of a hundred. A man without a pretension to art in any way pretending to be a patron and connoisseur, and, above all, to be my brother-in-law. Hang the fellow! I hate him; Cynthia hates him; and we won’t have him at any price. No, dear boy, we want you, and if you don’t go in and win and wear Julia, why, it is your own fault.”

Magnus turned to the window, and stood looking out dreamily.

“Faint heart never won fair lady, Mag,” cried Artingale, merrily; “and how you, who have always been like a Mentor to this wandering Telemachus, can be such a coward about Julia, I can’t conceive. Not afraid of the brothers, are you?”

“Pish! Absurd! How can she help her brothers!”

“Well, then, what is it?” Magnus turned upon him slowly, and gazed at him fixedly.

“Harry,” he said, “you love Cynthia?”

“By George! yes, with all my heart,” cried the young man, enthusiastically.

“Yes,” said Magnus, “I am sure you do. Then it should be the easier for you to think of a love where a man looks up so to the woman he worships that he would sooner suffer than cause her a moment’s pain, when, knowing that she does not – that she cannot return his affection – ”

“Hold hard. Now look here, my dear Magnus, don’t let sentiment take the bit in its teeth and bolt with you, or else we shall have a smash. Now I say, look here, old man, why cannot Julia return your love?”

“It is impossible. She is engaged.”

“Bah! what has such an engagement to do with it? I tell you I believe that poor little Julia is perfectly heart-whole, and that the flower of her affection – I say, that’s pretty, isn’t it? – I told you not to let sentiment bolt with you, and I am talking like a valentine! But seriously, old fellow, I am sure that Julia detests Perry-Morton.”

“How can you be sure?” said Magnus, gloomily.

“Very easily, my cynical old sage. Don’t sisters indulge in confidences, and when one of the confidential sisters has a young man, as people in the kitchen call it, doesn’t she confide things to him?”

Magnus looked at him for a moment or two excitedly, but a gloom seemed to settle upon him directly after, and he shook his head.

“No,” he said, “it is hopeless; but all the same, Harry, we must, as you say, put a stop to this annoyance. What do you propose?”

“There are two courses open, as Parliamentary people say.”

“Yes; go on. You are so slow; you torture me.”

“Well, not to torture you then, my dear boy, one course is to get a private detective.”

“No, no; absurd. I’d sooner employ the genuine article.”

“The other is to make private detectives of ourselves, and quietly keep watch and ward over our treasures – eh? ‘Our treasures’ is good.”

“Yes, that seems the wiser plan,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “But it will be hard to manage.”

“Where there’s a will there’s a way, my dear boy. You join with me, and we’ll manage it.”

“You would not speak to Mr Mallow first?”

“No, my boy, we must take the matter in our own hands.”

“And if we find this fellow annoying – the – the ladies?” said Magnus, in a curiously hesitating way.

Artingale set his teeth hard, and spoke through them.

“The blackguard’s too big to treat like a black beetle. But let that rest, and remember the saying attributed to the celebrated Mrs Glasse of cookery fame – a saying, by the way, that I’m told is not to be found in her book – let us first catch our hare, which in this case is a fox, or rather I ought to say a wolf. We’ll decide afterwards how we will cook him.”

Magnus nodded, and walked up and down the room in a quick, nervous fashion.

“That’s right! that’s capital,” cried Artingale, merrily. “I thought my news would make that sluggish blood of yours begin to move. By George, there’s nothing like a genuine love to make a man of you.”

“Or a woman,” said Magnus, gloomily.

“Get out! Rubbish! Come, come, no retrograde movements: forward’s the word. Now the next thing is for the knight to meet the lady in whose defence he was wounded. I’ll manage a meeting, or Cynthy will, and if you don’t make good use of your time I’ll never forgive you. We’ll speak to the Rector after you have won a little on poor Julia. He’s a good fellow, and wants his girls to be happy. But by Jove, Magnus, there’s nothing like a rattling good crack on the head.”

“Why?”

“Excites sympathy. Young lady finds out your value. Why, my dear old boy, you look a hundred pounds better. Here, take your hat, and let’s go and have a ramble. The sea air and a bit of exercise will beat all the doctor’s tonics.”

Magnus said nothing, but taking the cigar offered to him, he lit up, and the two young men strolled off together, along by the sea.

“Show me the place where you left Miss Mallow,” said Magnus at last.

“All right,” was the reply; “but wouldn’t it be better if we went up the cliff and walked along the edge? I want to see where that scoundrel came up; and we might meet him.”

James Magnus looked intently in his friend’s countenance, and could not help noticing how hard and fixed the expression had become.

“It would not tire you too much?” he said.

“Oh no,” replied Magnus, hastily, “let us do as you say.”

Artingale noted the flush that came into his companion’s face, and he could see that it was more due to excitement and returning health than to fever. And then, saying little but thinking a great deal of their plans, they strolled on and on, leaving town and castle behind, and having the glistening, ever-changing sea on one side, the undulating spread of well-wooded hills and valleys in the Sussex weald upon their left; but far as eye could reach no sign of human being.

“These cliffs are much higher than I thought for,” said Artingale at last, as he stopped for a moment to gaze down at the beach. “How little the people look. See there, Mag, those stones lying below, you would not think they were as high as you? Some of them weigh tons.”

“Was it on one of those you left Miss Mallow seated?” said Magnus, eagerly.

“Oh no, quite half a mile farther on, more or less. I don’t know, though, seashore distances are deceitful. That was the pile, I think,” he continued, pointing, “there, below where you see that dark streak on the face of the cliff.”

“I see,” said Magnus. “Come along.”

“All right, but don’t walk so close to the edge. You know, of course, that a false step means death.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Magnus, going close to where the weathered cliff suddenly ceased and there was a perpendicular fall to the rough stones beneath. “It looks an awful depth,” he continued, gazing down as if fascinated.

“Awful!” cried Artingale, “but hang it all, Mag, come away. You give a fellow the creeps. You are weak yet; suppose you turn giddy.”

“No fear,” said Magnus, quietly; “but do you know, Harry, whenever I look over from a height I quite realise how it is that some people end their wretched lives by jumping down. There always seems to be a something drawing you.”

“Yes, I dare say,” cried Artingale, with a shudder, “but if we are to play amateur detectives here goes to begin. Now then, young fellow, move on. It’s agin the law to jump off these here places.”

He spoke laughingly, and in supposed imitation of a constable, as he took his friend by the wrist, and pulled him away from the giddy edge of the cliff. But the next moment he was serious.

“Why, you wretched old humbug,” he cried, “what are you talking about? I’ve a good mind to go back.”

“No, no, let’s go on,” said Magnus smiling, “I was only speaking scientifically.”

“Indeed,” said Artingale, gruffly; “then don’t talk scientifically any more.”

They walked on for some little distance in silence, Artingale keeping on the dangerous side, as if he doubted his friend’s strength of mind, and looking down from time to time for the spot where they had found Julia, and the head of the cliff where Jock Morrison had made his ascent.

“What should we do if we met the fellow?” said Magnus suddenly.

“I don’t know quite,” said Artingale, shortly. “Let’s find him first. Here, look here, Magnus, those are the stones! No, no, those – the grey blocks; and that is where the blackguard got up. By George, however did he manage it? The place is enough to make one shudder – Eh? What?”

Magnus had laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder, and was pointing to where, about fifty yards away, a figure was lying, apparently asleep on the short turf, not ten yards from the edge of the cliff; and in an instant Artingale had sprung forward, recognising as he did the man of whom they were in search.

Part 2, Chapter IV.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The two young men had no thought of the consequences that might ensue, as they hurried over the short elastic turf towards where, almost a giant among his kind, Jock Morrison lay prone upon his broad back, his powerful arms crossed upon his chest, and his battered old soft felt hat drawn over his face to shade it from the sun – rather a work of supererogation, for the god of day would have had to work hard to tan it of a richer brown.

Artingale was first, but Magnus was close behind, and as they saw the man before them who had caused so much annoyance to, and so insulted those they loved, the feeling of indignation in their breasts bubbled up rapidly, and overflowed in hot passion before which that better part of valour known as discretion was swept away. Artingale looked upon the great fellow as something to be soundly thrashed, but Magnus, in spite of his weakness, seemed as if his rage had regularly mastered him. He saw in those brief instants, degrading as was the idea, a rival as well as an enemy, and panting and excited he strove to be there first, so as to seize the fellow by the throat, his weakness and suffering from his late illness being forgotten in the one stern desire to grapple with this man, and look at him face to face.

But Artingale was there first, and shouted to the fellow to get up, but without eliciting any reply.

“Do you hear? Get up!” cried Artingale.

Still the man did not stir, but Magnus noted a slight motion of the hairs of his thick beard, as if his lips had twitched slightly. In other respects he was motionless, his arms folded across the deep chest and the cap over his face.

“He’s not asleep, he’s shamming,” cried Artingale angrily; and bending down he snatched the hat from the fellow’s face and sent it skimming over the cliff, revealing a pair of fierce dark eyes glaring at him like those of some wild beast.

“Now then, young gentlemen! what’s the matter?” came now in a deep voice like a growl.

“You scoundrel!” began Magnus, but he had over-rated his strength. His illness had told upon him terribly, and he could neither speak, move, nor act, but pale and haggard stood there holding his hand pressed upon his breast.

“Who are you calling names?” said the fellow fiercely.

“Leave him to me,” cried Artingale. “I’ll talk to him.”

“Oh, two of you, eh?” exclaimed Jack; “two of you to a man as is down. Well, as I said before, and I say again, what’s the matter?”

“Look here, you dog!” cried Artingale, planting his foot upon the man’s broad chest, but without eliciting a movement, “I know everything about you, and where you come from.”

“Oh, do you?” said the fellow with a chuckle. “And so do I know you. You’re a game preserver from Lincolnshire.”

“Never mind who or what I am,” cried Artingale, who felt in his excitement as if he had never spoken worse in his life; “but just you listen to me, you scoundrel. I know how you have followed and insulted those two young ladies.”

“What two young ladies? I don’t know anything about two young ladies.”

“I know that you have watched for their coming, and, knowing that they were unprotected, you have tried to alarm them into giving you money, I suppose, and so far you have escaped the police.”

“Ho!” said the fellow, making Artingale’s foot rise and fall, as he indulged in a rumbling chuckle; “it’s a police case, then, after all? Lawford magistrates?”

“No, not now,” cried Artingale, angrily. “Keep back, Magnus, I’ll manage him,” he cried; “you’re not fit. I say, it is not a police case now.”

“Oh!” growled the fellow, laughing defiantly, “what may it be, then?”

“A thrashing, you dog, for if ever there was a time when a gentleman might dirty his hands by touching a blackguard it is now.”

“Ho! it’s a leathering is it, your lordship!”

“Yes,” cried Artingale, “it’s a thrashing now, you great hulking brute; and after that, if ever you dare approach those ladies again – if ever you speak to them, or look at them, or annoy them, directly or indirectly, either here or down at home, I’ll half kill you, and hand you over afterwards to the police.”

“Ho, you will, will you?” said the fellow, mockingly.

“And I – I – ” cried Magnus, bending down and approaching his pale, passion-distorted face to that of the great robust scoundrel at his feet.

“Yes, I see there’s two,” growled the fellow. “And what’ll you do?”

“I’ll shoot you like a dog!” There was something horrible in the intensity of hatred and passion contained in the low, hissing voice in which these few words were uttered; and as he lay there and heard them the great ruffian’s brown face became of a dirty grey. But the look of dread was gone on the instant, and his chest heaved as he indulged in a mocking burst of laughter.

“All right,” he said; “fire away, and if you do kill me, I’ll come when I’m a ghost and see you hung. There, be off both of you. This is free land. This isn’t Lawford, and I haven’t been taking any of your lordship’s rabbuds this time.”

“What are you doing here?” said Artingale.

“Doing here!” said Jock, musingly; “why don’t you know I’m a Lawford man?”

“Yes; I know that,” cried Artingale.

“Well, my parson’s down here; I miss him when he comes away.”

“Get up, you scoundrel!” cried Artingale, throwing off the brown velvet coat he was wearing, and taking off his watch and chain.

“Not I,” growled the fellow. “There’s lots o’ room for you to pass, man, and ’taint your path. That’s the gainest road back.”

“Get up?” roared Artingale, rolling up his sleeves over his white arms. “Do you hear?”

“Oh, ah! I can hear,” growled the fellow.

“Get up, then.”

“Not I. It’s comfortable here.”

“You cowardly ruffian, get up!” roared Artingale.

“Nay, it’s not me as is the coward,” said Jock, coolly. “You’re two to one. Besides, I don’t want to hurt your lordship.”

“Get up!” roared Artingale again, but Jock did not move, only lay there gazing mockingly in his face, making the young man’s blood seem to seethe with rage.

“Get up!” he roared once more.

“Weant!”

As the word left the ruffian’s lips, Artingale’s passion knew no bounds, and before his companion realised what he was about to do, he had given Jock Morrison a tremendous kick in the ribs.

The effect was instantaneous.

With a roar like that of an angry bull, the fellow scrambled to his feet, and as Magnus sprang forward to seize him, he struck the artist full in the chest, sending him staggering back to fall heavily, hors de combat, for he was as weak almost as a child.

It was the work of moments, for even as he struck Magnus he turned upon Artingale, receiving two heavy, well-directed blows, dealt in good scientific style right in the jaw and cheek, but making no more of them than if they had been slaps from the open hand of a boy, as he caught the young man in a tremendous grip like that of a wrestler, and swayed and struggled with his adversary to and fro, roused now to a pitch of rage that was murderous.

Artingale knew it. He read it in the fierce eyes so close to his, as he felt himself crushed against the great fellow’s chest. He read it in the grinding teeth, and felt it in the hot breath that came full in his face, and he put forth all his strength and all the cultured activity gained in lessons of the best athletic school. But it was all in vain, for he felt as helpless as a boy in the giant’s grip.

It was but the work of moments; a few struggles here and there, and the knowledge forced upon him of the scoundrel’s murderous aim before Artingale felt himself swung from his feet as they neared the cliff, and then, in spite of his manhood, he felt his blood turn cold.

He roused himself though for a supreme effort, and clutching his adversary with all his might, he strove to recover his foot-hold.

But no – he was mastered. He could do nothing but hold on with all his might, as he mentally swore that Jock Morrison should share his fate.

Vain oath, vain effort! There was a swing, a jerk, and what seemed to be a paralysing blow upon his muscles, as he was forced away from his hold, and the next instant he was falling headlong from the cliff-edge into the void beneath.

End of Volume Two

Part 2, Chapter V.

What Plan Next?

James Magnus had just struggled to his knees, feeling half mad with rage at his impotence, for it was only now that he fully realised how terribly he had been reduced by his illness. Here before him was the man whom he had to thank for his sufferings, and against whom for other reasons as well he nourished a bitter hatred; and yet, instead of being able to seize him by the throat and force the scoundrel to his knees, he was as helpless as a child.

“Dog! villain!” he panted, as he staggered up, and made at the fellow; but Jock Morrison gave him a contemptuous look for answer, and turned to him, but seemed to alter his mind, and as if alarmed at what he had done, started off at a brisk trot; while after vainly looking round for help, Magnus tottered towards the edge of the cliff, his eyes starting and the great drops of perspiration gathering upon his face.

For a few moments he dared not approach the extreme verge, for everything seemed to be swimming before his eyes, but at last, horror-stricken, and trembling in every limb, he went down on hands and knees, crept to the spot where Artingale had gone over, and peered down, expecting to see the mangled remains of his poor friend lying upon the stones beneath.

“Ahoy!” came from below, in the well-known voice of Artingale; and then, as Magnus saw his friend some twenty feet below, trying to clamber back, he uttered a low sigh, and sank back fainting upon the turf.

For in spite of Jock Morrison’s murderous intent, fate had been kind to Harry Artingale, who had been hurled over the edge in one of the few places where instead of going down perpendicularly, the friable cliff was broken up into ledges and slopes, upon one of which the young man had fallen and clung for his life to the rugged pieces of stone, slipping in a little avalanche of fragments some twenty or thirty feet farther than his first fall of about ten. Here he managed to check himself, while one of the largest fragments of stone that he had started in his course went on, and as he clung there he saw it leap, as it were, from beside him, and a few seconds after there came up a dull crash from where the stone had struck and splintered, two hundred feet below.

“I shall lose my nerve,” he thought, “if I stop here;” and rousing himself into action, he began to climb back, and was making his way up the steep slope without much difficulty, when he saw his friend’s ghastly face for a moment, peering over the edge, and then it disappeared.

“Poor old fellow, it has made him giddy,” muttered Artingale, as he drew himself up higher and higher, clinging close to the face of the slope and placing his feet cautiously till he found himself with his hands resting upon a ledge only a few feet below the top of the cliff.

If he could only get upon this ledge the rest would be easy, but unless he could draw himself up by the strength of his muscles, he felt that he must wait for help, and the task was one of no little difficulty, for there was no firm hold for his hands.

He knew that if he waited for help he must lose his nerve by thinking of his perilous position, while if he tried to draw himself up and did not succeed in reaching the ledge he felt that he must fall.

He dared not pause to think of the consequences of that fall, for though he had escaped so far, it was not likely that he would be so fortunate again.

He was standing now with his feet on a piece of crumbling sandstone, which was likely enough to give way if he tried to make a spring upwards.

Still, there was nothing else to be done, and drawing in a deep breath, he remained perfectly motionless before making the supreme effort.

His hands were only a few inches above his head, and he began searching about with them now for a crevice into which he could thrust his fingers, but the blind search was vain, and feeling that this was hopeless, he let his eyes fall to scan the surface of the rock below his chest for some fresh foothold; but there was none, unless he cut a niche in the soft sandstone, and he had no knife. If he climbed to the right he would be in no better position; if to the left, he would be in a worse; so once more drawing a long breath, he began cautiously to draw himself up higher and higher by sheer force of muscle, till his eyes were level with the edge of the shelf; then an inch or two higher, and then he felt that his hands were giving way – that he was falling – that all was over, and that he must dashed to pieces, when, in his agony, he saw an opening, a mere crack, across the shelf, but it was sufficient for him to force in the fingers of one hand with a desperate effort, and then, how he knew not, he placed the other beside it.

He could cling here and force feet and knees against the face of the rock, and in the struggle of the next few moments he raised himself higher, scrambled on to the ledge, rose panting and with every nerve in his body quivering, seized hold of a stone above him, thrust his feet into a niche or two, gained the top of the cliff, and, unable to keep up the tension longer, he loosed the strain upon his nerves and sank down beside his friend, trembling in every limb.

This, however, did not last many moments, for, shaking off the feeling of his own horror, Artingale rose, drew down and buttoned his wristbands, looking pityingly the while at his friend, and then caught up his coat and threw it on.

The next moment he was kneeling beside Magnus, who soon after opened his eyes.

“Ah, Harry,” he said, feebly, “you didn’t know what a miserable reed you had for a friend.”

“Nonsense, man! How are you? Did the blackguard hurt you?”

“No, scarcely at all. I’m weak as a rat. But you!”

“Oh, I’m all right. Only a little skin off my elbows and varnish off my toes. Which way did the brute go?”

“Over the hill yonder,” said Magnus. “Where he may go,” said Artingale, “for hang me if I go after him to-day. Why, confound him, he’s as strong as a bull. I couldn’t have thought a man could be so powerful. But let’s get back, old fellow. Can you walk?”

“Oh yes, I’m better now,” said Magnus feebly; “but I shall never forgive myself for failing you at such a pinch.”

“Never mind the failing, Jemmy: but pinch it was; the blackguard nearly broke my ribs. One moment: let me look down.”

He walked to the edge and looked over the cliff, realising more plainly now the terrible risk he had run, for his escape had been narrow indeed, and in spite of his attempt to preserve his composure, he could not help feeling a peculiar moisture gathering in the palms of his hands. But he laughed it off as he took Magnus’s arm, and drew it through his own, saying, —

“It’s a great blessing, my dear boy, that I took off this coat. It would have been completely spoiled.”

“You had an awfully narrow escape.”

“Yes; and it is almost a pity the brute did not kill me,” said Artingale, coolly.

“Harry!”

“Well, if he had, the police would have hunted the scoundrel down, then he would have been hung, and little Julie could have rested in peace.”

“And Cynthia?” said Magnus, with a sad smile.

“Ah, yes! poor little darling, she would have broken her heart. But I say, old fellow, it’s a pity the scoundrel got away. What are we to do?”

“He must be taken,” exclaimed Magnus, “at any cost. It was a murderous attempt on your life.”

“Humph! yes, but he might swear that I tried to throw him over first. It was a fight, old fellow, and I got the worst of it.”