“I don’t know. She did come to me. But—I was not there, and she went away again.” Now his first fear, and the first terror he had ever known, rushed back into him like the plunge of steel.
“We’re trying to find her,” said Patrick, advancing and standing near the young man. He regarded Anthony with sparkling curiosity and some hidden amusement. He coughed, and touched his hand to his mouth and bent his head a little. “This is all somewhat disorderly, and very melodramatic. The little baggage, the clever little baggage! Well, I always liked her, anyway. I suppose this is not just the time and place to offer you my congratulations?”
Anthony was silent. He glanced at Rufus Hastings, who had apparently fallen into some vicious and hating reverie.
“Let’s be sensible,” resumed Patrick, taking command of the whole situation, which had elements of absurdity in it to him. “She can’t have gone far. Her mother is convinced she is ill. Perhaps she is; I thought so myself, tonight. Look here, we haven’t done anything to Adelaide. She was feverish. She imagined things. She took exception to a certain—business procedure between her father and us. What does a little baggage like that know of men’s affairs? She presumed that she did. It annoyed her. I never thought her very violent, and it could only be that she was sickening with something that made her burst out of the house without any one seeing her or attempting to restrain her.” He shrugged, spread out his hands in an eloquent and humorous gesture, as if inviting Anthony to join him in a tender smile at Adelaide’s expense.
But Anthony was staring at him fixedly. So, he thought, the poor child was quite right, in spite of everything. They’ve done this to him, and she suspected they would try it. And she came to me for help, in her terror and illness.
He forced himself to be calm. He looked only at Patrick, whom he knew as a rascal, but as a good-tempered and generous devil besides. One could not trust him on an impersonal basis, of course, especially where money was involved. But on the basis of human and personal equations, he could be all that was helpful and sympathetic.
“You have the names of her friends? No doubt she has gone to one of them. As you say, she can’t have gone far.”
But even as he said this, he felt a cold lump in his chest. Adelaide, alone, sick, in the rain and the windy night. She might have collapsed in some side street, some alley, and might remain there until morning before she was discovered.
John had forgotten them. He was staring emptily at the floor. If he was thinking anything at all, it was not evident.
He started when Patrick gently touched his arm.
“Look here, father, we’d better begin to search at once. It’s a nasty night. And, if Addy’s ill, we’d best get her home as soon as possible.”
He paused. He glanced at Rufus, and then at Anthony.
“I suggest we divide into pairs. You, father, go with Rufe. I’ll go with Tony.” He grinned, and slapped Anthony lightly on the chest with the back of his hand. “Well, ‘brother’?” he added.
John came slowly back to life with a sickened look. He stared at Anthony.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” he mumbled, with a vague gesture.
“Not now,” said Patrick, briskly, wrapping his muffler about his neck. “Later. When we bring Addy home.”
CHAPTER 55
Mr. Wilkins found Miss Beardsley’s house shut and dark and reared for the night. But in her upper chamber he saw a last light burning. Without the slightest qualm he set the knocker to thundering, awakening echoes in the dark street with its wet pavements and flickering lamps.
Miss Beardsley, who had been in the midst of her censorious and rigorous prayers, came downstairs to him in the cold bleak parlour. She had taken the time, as was proper, to comb and brush her hair, which she had removed from their thin gray plaits, and to knot it as usual on the back of her head. She had dressed, also. She entered, august, stately, withered and inflexible as ever, old now, but as ageless in her way as Mr. Wilkins. He might have been calling upon her in broad daylight, so composed was her manner, so unsurprised. She held out her hand to him.
“Well, Mr. Wilkins,” she said, in her harsh and brittle voice. “A very bad evening, it seems.”
He took her hand, gravely. “Indeed it is, ma’am,” he answered, with significance. Miss Beardsley felt a prickling all over her dried parchment skin. Nevertheless, with dignity and majesty, she motioned him to a seat, and sat down near him.
“Most unseasonable weather for this time of the year,” she said, in her best drawing-room manner. She observed that he had come hastily, not waiting for a carriage. His light brown greatcoat was streaked with black moisture. His polished boots were dulled with mud and water.
The room was as cold as a mausoleum. No fire had burned that day, or for days previous. Miss Beardsley observed the seasons by calendar rather than by temperature. There was a dankness, a chill and closeness in the air that struck at Mr. Wilkins’ bones. The cold had penetrated the very furniture, the sombre draperies, the rugs, the bric-a-brac, so that they exhaled a deathliness of their own. It was hard to imagine that this room was ever warm. The awakened servant had lit a single lamp in a distant shadowy corner, and it only enhanced the gloom and chill with a wan white glare.
Mr. Wilkins laid his hands on his umbrella, and leaned towards Miss Beardsley, who waited with a sense of arid excitement.
“It’s a long and nasty story that I’ve got to tell you, ma’am, about a certain young person.”
Miss Beardsley became straighter and more rigid than ever. She had folded her gaunt veined hands on her lap. Now, under her gray brows her eyes quickened, took on their old hard and virulent expression.
“Yes, Mr. Wilkins?” she murmured.
But Mr. Wilkins was silent for a moment. His big rosy face became excessively grave and still. His glassy hazel eyes shone like agates in the light of the distant lamps.
“It is Miss Adelaide Turnbull of whom I speak, ma’am,” he said at last.
Miss Beardsley made a slight movement. The malefic look about her mouth and sunken cheeks took on new life.
“Ah,” she breathed. “Something quite bad, I presume? I’ve always feared it, suspected it, warned her foolish mother against it. But what was one to do? It was useless, all the warnings and abjurations. No one would listen, least of all Lilybelle, who is an excessive fool. Now, at last it seems, I am justified.” All her hatred for Adelaide was like a phosphorescent glow on her face, and she smiled malevolently. “What is it, Mr. Wilkins? You are keeping me in such suspense. You are asking me to go to Lilybelle, and attempt to comfort her? What has Adelaide done? It must be very terrible indeed,” she added, with eager hope.
Mr. Wilkins stared at her massively. Then he said: “There’s a story I’ve got to tell you, ma’am, as will stir your heart, one I knows as is a good and virtuous heart.” He coughed gently. “There are those as believes, wrongly, that yours is a cold and indifferent heart.” He tapped himself softly on the breast, shook his head. “But those are them as ’ave never taken the time to consider you, or observe close like. But you never deceived me, ma’am, in spite of you being the perfect leddy. I’ve allus known that under it all there was virtue and sensibility and the tenderest feelin’s.”
Miss Beardsley bridled. A faint and unaccustomed blush passed over her cheeks. She simpered, inclined her head. “That is because you have understanding, Mr. Wilkins. That is because you are a true friend. Understanding comes only with intelligent friendship.” She made a motion as if to rise, and the motion was quick and lively, “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Mr. Wilkins, I’ll get my shawl and bonnet, and I’ll go with you to my poor dear Lilybelle. What a trial! What a tragedy! And it could all have been avoided, if my advice had been taken.”
Mr. Wilkins ignored all this. He was speaking as if thinking aloud: “When the trouble came to me tonight, ma’am, I was bewildered. I confess it: Bob Wilkins was bewildered. Didn’t know where to turn. A funny thing for Bob Wilkins! Then I says to meself: ??
?Who is the one that one’d naterally turn to in a crisis? Who is the one as ’as a heart of gold and goodness? Who is the friend?’ And then it came to me. ‘Bob Wilkins!’ I cried to meself, ‘it’s Miss Beardsley!’ And here I am.”
So sad, so sorrowful, so agitated and pleading was his manner, that Miss Beardsley was caught in the very act of rising. She subsided upon her chair with some impatience. But she said quietly: “Yes, Mr. Wilkins? Do tell me, please. You are quite overwhelming me.” She put her hand to her withered breast and drew a deep breath as if she was about to swoon with fear and concern.
“It’s a long story, ma’am. I’ll try to make it short. It seems, tonight, that Johnnie Turnbull decided as he was ill, and must go away for a rest. I suggested it; his doctor suggested it; his friends and loved ones suggested it. He was persuaded. All but the little lass, Adelaide. She suspected something very nasty, indeed. That her lovely sisters as were plottin’ with their ’usbands to take advantage of Johnnie, and do him in, while he rested comfortable somewheres.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Beardsley, in a tone of horror and anger and disgust. “That is just like Adelaide! I warned them! I warned them! What did the little hussy do? Please tell me, Mr. Wilkins!”
Mr. Wilkins shook his head. “Miss Beardsley,” he said in a hollow voice. “It is nateral that one as ’as your heart would not suspect evil of any one. But,” he added, sombrely and slowly, “you are wrong. Wot Miss Adelaide suspected is true. I’ve my ways of finding out. It’s quite true, ma’am. The little lass knew it.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Miss Beardsley, looking very old and shocked. “I don’t believe it! It is one of Adelaide’s lies. She was always a liar. Mr. Wilkins, you don’t actually put credence in the words of a little nasty creature like that?”
Mr. Wilkins rose and stood before her, bending down upon her a shining and sorrowful look. “Miss Beardsley, I knowed as you would say that. Not from conviction, but from the evil works and lies to you of others, as I won’t name just now. You ’aven’t had much fondness for the little lass? Why? Not because it was your heart that turned against her, but because others tried to turn away that golden heart from one as ’as allus needed a friend, and understanding. Ma’am,” he continued, solemnly raising a finger and shaking it at her, “you’ve been deceived. You’ve been had. You’ve been lied to, and turned aside, and had your kindest feelin’s violated. There’s no punishment great enough for that, ma’am, the deceivin’ of a good kind heart and aturnin’ of its nateral milk of human kindness into gall.”
Now Miss Beardsley was a very shrewd lady indeed, and it took her only an instant to be advised by her own intelligence to go exceedingly slow here, and watch her every step. After a moment or two, she tossed her head primly.
“You are implying that I am a fool, Mr. Wilkins. Pardon me, allow me to finish, if you please. You are implying that others deceived me as to the true character of Adelaide Turnbull. I am not prepared to admit that. It hurts me, Mr. Wilkins, it hurts me excessively.” And again she pressed her hand to her breast, and let her shoulders sag under her black shawl. Her eyes implored him to enlighten her, to reassure her.
Mr. Wilkins shook his head dolorously, as he stood before her. He regarded her with compassion. In an indignant voice he resumed: “’Ow like you it is, ma’am, to say that, to repudiate the falseness of evil people! ’Ow easy it is for the good and the kind to be deceived, and given wrong impressions. Ma’am, I can forgive many things, but there is one as I can’t forgive: the deception practiced on generosity and goodness. Ma’am, it is you as ’as been the victim of bad people, you and Adelaide Turnbull.”
He struck his umbrella resoundingly on the bare polished floor. He seemed to expand with his righteous anger. He lifted one hand as if to invoke a malediction against all the evil in the world. He was inspired.
“But, ma’am, they’ll ’ave to reckon with Bob Wilkins! I warns you of that! They’ll ’ave to reckon with him, they as ’ave injured my little lass, and my best friend, Miss Amanda Beardsley! Bob Wilkins will avenge them!” And he shook his head at the ceiling in an ecstasy of passionate promise.
Miss Beardsley felt quite tremulous, quite maidenly, quite fragile and deliciously helpless, in the presence of her avenger. She clasped her hands to her breast. She closed her eyes. She rocked slightly on her chair, and moaned softly in her throat.
Mr. Wilkins had seated himself again, had dragged his chair close to hers. He leaned towards her, and she saw the glittering of his eyes, his wide and gloating smile. He began to whisper.
“Ma’am, I’ll tell you a secret as is known to only me and my lawyers. Little Addy is my heir. My heir to all I possess, and, ma’am, that’s not inconsiderable!” He nodded his head delightedly. “You’d be surprised, ma’am! And it’s all for the little lass, when Bob Wilkins is safely laid away, and at rest. All I possess. Ma’am, I can trust your discretion?”
Miss Beardsley was petrified. She stared at Mr. Wilkins, astounded, her bleak mouth fallen open in an imbecile expression. She was an image of shattered astonishment.
Mr. Wilkins appeared not to see this. He was grinning widely. “They’ll not go far this time, with Mr. Wilkins! Not after wot they’ve done. It’s justice Bob Wilkins is after. And I need you, ma’am, to help me.”
“I’m sure,” murmured Miss Beardsley, faintly, really shaken this time, “that you can depend upon me.” She sucked in her lips, let her eyelids tremble. “Poor little Adelaide. To think that I have been so deceived! She needs me, Mr. Wilkins, I who have been her teacher, her guide, her philosopher—?”
He nodded grimly. “Yes, ma’am, she needs you.
“Tonight, knowing wot it was all abaht, the poor little creature runs from her home for help, for her Papa as is a fool, and is abaht to be ruined. Now where would she run to, ma’am? To her friend, her lovin’ Uncle Bob, one as loves her like a father. She comes to me, all agitated like, wet and shivering and cold, bruised and not in her right mind. I sees it all at once. I see a lot more. I sees that the little lass is ill, besides her mind bein’ agitated. I ’as my old housekeeper put her to bed. I calls my good friend, Dr. Walker.” He paused, then resumed in a choked and trembling voice, in which there was now nothing but sincerity, and rage. “Ma’am, Dr. Walker informs me that the little lass is at death’s door. Lung fever. She must’ve ’ad it for a day or two, not knowin’, and the rain tonight, and the wind, and her state, ’ave brought her to a low pass. Only the lovin’ ministrations of her friends, their prayers, and the help of the Almighty, can save her now.”
“Gracious heavens!” cried Miss Beardsley, weakly. She clasped her hands in great agitation before her. “The poor child! The poor helpless little creature! Where are her parents, Mr. Wilkins, her unfeeling father, her foolish mother?” He became very grim. “They’ve not been informed, ma’am. Not yet. Let them suffer a bit. They deserves it. They’ll not know till tomorrow, and perhaps not then. They don’t know where she is. You see ’ow I trust you, ma’am? ’As she friends in her father’s ’ouse? I ask you, in all honesty, ma’am. And I knows your answer: ‘No.’”
“Oh, oh,” moaned Miss Beardsley. “Let us go to her at once, Mr. Wilkins! She needs us.”
Mr. Wilkins was silent for a short space. Then he leaned even closer to Miss Beardsley, and whispered: “There’s another piece of news I’ve got for you, ma’am. The little lass married Mr. Anthony Bollister this morning. Not a soul knows but you and me. Mr. Anthony Bollister, as is ’is Uncle Gorth’s heir, one of the richest men in Ameriky,”
Miss Beardsley thought she had passed the boundaries of astonishment, but now she was completely paralysed. She gaped blankly at Mr. Wilkins, who nodded gloatingly.
“Now then, ma’am, ain’t that a fine bright piece of news where we thought all was darkness? Ma’am, with my money, and her ’usband’s position, little Adelaide will be the greatest leddy in New York! ’Old that to your kind heart, ma’am! And I promises you you’ll never be forgotten by Bob Wilkins
.”
CHAPTER 56
Mr. Wilkins had sat there a long time in his carriage, near the Gorth mansion. But he had a long and deadly patience.
He listened to the sound of the dripping water splashing on the roof of his carriage from the glistening trees. He heard an occasional distant hollow footstep on the pavement. He watched the shadows of the lamps. He lay back on the seat of his carriage and stared fixedly at the street, waiting.
He had been there over an hour. Before that, he had been informed by the stricken William that Mr. Bollister had left home hastily over two hours ago, and had not yet returned.
Somewhere there was a dolorous clanging of a churchbell. One o’clock. Mr. Wilkins moved on the plush seat. He heard the weary lifting and dropping of his horse’s hoofs. Above him, the coachman coughed, muttered, slapped the reins, scuffled his feet.
No doubt the young devil had heard that Adelaide had called to see him, thought Mr. Wilkins. And then he had rushed off to find her. Well, he would look long and far, without the help of Mr. Wilkins.
Mr. Wilkins had other thoughts, also, and he chuckled over them evilly in the dark recesses of the carriage. His mind had never been so clear, so sharp, so swift. Ah, he had them all now! And what he would not do to them!
Then, he was silent. He pressed the head of his cane against his lips, and peered out into the darkness. His little lass! She dared not die, must not die, now. She was all he had. The little good creature, the little helpless thing, the foolish, heedless little baggage, whom he loved with such a strange and obscure passion!
He heard quick and disordered footsteps, running towards the house. Again, he peered out. Ah, yes, there was young Bollister, rushing homewards, perhaps to see if Adelaide had returned there for him. Mr. Wilkins saw his face in the struggling lamplight: white, drawn, distracted with fear, intent and thrust ahead of his racing body. He was alone.