by Fitzgerald Molloy, author of "A Modern Magician," "That Villain Romeo," etc.
As published in Strange Doings in Strange Places (Cassell & Company, Ltd.; 1890), originally published in Cassell's Saturday Journal.
I.
Bob Cheddar was usually referred to by his friends as one of the best fellows in the world; a phrase which a cynic might regard as covering a multitude of mental and moral shortcomings in the person described. Standing over six feet in height, broad shouldered, muscular, well built, with large, round blue eyes, regular features, and bright, curly hair, he was universally regarded as handsome. Those who recognised signs of weakness in his receding chin and his irresolute eyes, overlooked these blemishes because of the frank, guileless, and good-natured expression of his face. All women loved him at first sight; all men liked him on acquaintance.
Even at school, that little world in which a boy's character first asserts itself for good or evil, Bob Cheddar, or, as he was called, "Cheese," was noted for his good nature. The hampers packed for him by his mother at the close of the Christmas, Easter, or Midsummer vacations were completely emptied on the first nights of his return, and the whole school retired to rest in a highly satisfied but utterly bilious condition.
When occasional rebellions against lawful authorities were organised, he was readily persuaded to take a leading part; and when the ruling powers asserted their strength, he consequently suffered penalties in silence and submission whilst the real conspirators escaped the birch. For this he earned the goodwill, if not the respect, of his companions: for boys at school, and mankind at large, hold strength, mental and physical, as the highest of attributes; and strength of character was not amongst his possessions. The worship of force is universal.
He had just passed nineteen when he went up to Oxford. He entered All Souls' College with a light heart, unconscious that the turning point in his life was at hand. His father, the Rev. Samuel Cheddar, rested in possession of a snug rectory in Devonshire, presented to him by an old friend. Removed from the cares and dissensions of the world, surrounded by the blessings and luxuries of life, the rector appreciated his position, and hoped that his only son, who resembled him in many points, might succeed him in his living.
It was therefore decided Bob should enter the Church. Glad that his future profession, concerning which he had been unable to arrive at a conclusion, was finally settled, he bowed to his father's desire, and went up to Oxford that he might study theology and fit himself for ordination. Had the Rev. Samuel Cheddar wished his son to enter the Navy or go on the stage, Bob would have, with equal calmness and indifference, striven to obey his behests. Not only was he without strength of character, but he was likewise wholly devoid of ambition. He was a straw with which the winds of circumstance might sport at will: a puppet in the hands of fate.
As it had been at school, so was it at college: he was a universal favourite. A giant in stature, a child at heart, he was foremost amongst all lovers of sport: a crack batsman, the stroke oar of the chosen eight, a personage of note in the tennis court. He attached himself to no special clique, but mixed with all kinds and conditions of men. His bright, frank face and honest, hearty laugh were seen and heard at the wine parties of divers sets.
The one man whom of all others he regarded as his friend was Harold Eyreton, a slightly-built, dark-complexioned, strong-featured youth, who was Bob's senior by two years. The circumstances which cemented their friendship were slight: the result of their friendship was important to both.
Bob had known Eyreton but slightly when the latter entered his rooms one afternoon towards dusk, and stationed himself at one of the windows, holding in his hands a syringe and a bag of flour. His object was soon apparent, for presently, when a particularly obnoxious don came ambling along, Eyreton raised the window, drenched him with water, and then taking aim, flung at his head the bag of flour, which, striking a corner of his cap, fell in a shower upon his face, beard, and gown. Though the injured don's fright, agitation, and wrath were great, he noted the window from which this outrage had been perpetrated, and held the tenant of the rooms to which it belonged as responsible for the indignity.
Bob neither denied nor affirmed that he was guilty. He was threatened with expulsion. This, as he knew, would ruin his whole career, but he still kept silence, until, on the eve of his departure, Eyreton came forward and acknowledged himself the author of the deed, and through interest escaped the penalty Cheddar would have paid.
This little episode drew them together. Eyreton appreciated the generous nature of the man who would have suffered for his sake; Bob admired the brilliant talents of the young debater, who was determined on making his name at the Bar and eventually sitting on the woolsack. A hearty liking sprang up between them, which resulted in Bob introducing Eyreton to Cicely Morland, the only child of her mother, the widow of a dean.
II.
Mrs. Morland and her daughter lived in a small villa on the outskirts of Oxford. The little house, with its garden at the back blooming with roses, and sheltered by high red walls; its pretty drawing-room, fragrant with flowers, and bright with curtains of Eastern hues; its walls hung with etchings and water-colours; its corners crowded with statuettes and curios; its floor scattered with fleecy rugs, was a shrine Bob considered suited to the divinity he worshipped. This divinity was rather tall and well formed, her figure plump and developed, her face oval and radiant with health, her eyes dark grey, set wide apart, her lips full and red, her hair chestnut, with a fiery glow in its undertints. Her voice was singularly sweet; its low tones were pure music. The sirens who sang to the sailors of old had accents none sweeter than she.
Many men had looked upon her with eyes of admiration, but in Bob Cheddar's glances there was love. For him, no such woman walked the world as Cicely Morland; none other had previously captured his heart, which he surrendered unrestrainedly. She was the centre of his happiness, the object of his hope, the disposer of his fate. To her all this was plain as daylight. Though he spoke no word which expressed his feelings, his open countenance, the frank look in his eyes, the tremor of his voice when he addressed her ear alone, told the state of his heart.
This knowledge brought her satisfaction and regret. Like a true woman, she felt proud of her conquest--gained, too, without exertion on her part; but, like a true woman, she likewise felt grieved that the man who loved her must experience pain and disappoint- ment, for she felt powerless to bestow on him the affection he sought. Her esteem, admiration, and friendship she freely gave him; but he failed to inspire her with that subtle feeling known as love, which none may command or none withhold. As well might the candle be blamed for consuming the moth, or the magnet for attracting the needle. In a thousand ways she sought to delicately convey the state of her feelings; but love is proverbially blind. Naturally she withheld from inflicting grief, and naturally she likewise felt grateful for his boon; and he, reading her motives by the light of the flame which consumed him, believed his love returned.
Bob Cheddar, therefore, introduced his best friend to the girl who held his heart; to her whom he believed would one day become his wife. Eyreton, quick to observe, saw that Bob lived in a fool's paradise, but wisely refrained from striving to drive him from that happy land.
Delighting in the study of character, he began to analyse what it was in Cicely's temperament that prevented her from responding to Cheddar's affection. The analysis continued for some time, and eventually led to an unforeseen conclusion--namely, that he had himself imperceptibly fallen in love with her. The next question which presented itself to his consideration was if he also dwelt in a fool's paradise; but the decision he arrived at was that she returned his ardour.
He was now both happy and miserable: happy because he had wakened to a new life, in comparison to which the old was dull, colourless, and uneventful; miserable, because, if ever the bliss he hoped for became his lot, Bob Cheddar must become wretched. He withheld from visiting or encountering Cicely for a fortnight, but this absence made him the more anxious to see her, and the reproachful look in her eyes at their next meeting filled him with joy. She had missed him. He must not wreck the happiness of two lives. He resolved to tell Bob what had happened, and for that purpose invited him to dinner at his rooms. When dessert was laid on the table and the servant had retired, he said—
"Dear old chap, I have a confession to make. I have fallen in love with Cicely Morland." Cheddar burst into a hearty laugh.
"I knew you would," he replied, proudly. "What man could help it?"
"But I am quite serious. You have not proposed to her; are you quite sure she loves you?"
"I think there can be little doubt on that head," replied Bob; but his voice was less confident than before. "Have you?" he gasped, after a moment's pause.
"I have never spoken a word to her that I might not have said to any other woman. But we must end this matter. To each of us the suspense we endure without learning her choice will become intolerable. You had better ask her at once to be your wife."
"You are a good fellow, Eyreton, but I cannot take that advantage of you." He was quite assured Cicely loved him.
"Nonsense. You were earliest in the field, and have a right to speak first," said Eyreton, having little doubt of the answer his friend should obtain. "I insist upon this. If you receive the reply you desire, I shall submit to my fate. If--if she refuses you, I shall approach her with an easier conscience."
Bob turned pale at the mere thought of his rejection. "Let us draw lots," he said, the words almost choking him, "to see which of us will first ask her."
"No. Yours is the right, and you shall ask her first."
"Very well. I shall learn my fate to-morrow, and meanwhile here's to the health of the successful suitor," he said; and they emptied their glasses.
Late in the afternoon of the succeeding day, Eyreton was alone in his rooms when Bob strode into them. His face was deadly pale, his eyes were dull and haggard, no smile brightened his face. There was no need for him to speak. Eyreton stood up, walked across the room, and put his hand in his friend's. Bob was trembling.
"Have some brandy, old chap, and pull yourself together," Eyreton said.
"Thanks," he replied, and when he had swallowed the greater part of the contents of the glass held out to him, he added, "It's all over. I have asked her, and--and--she has refused me."
"It's a fate that may happen to me to-morrow."
"You are my rival, and I suppose I should hate you," Bob said, looking at the strong, dark face of the man before him.
"You are too good a fellow to hate any one."
"Life is too short for hatred, and my friends are too few to admit the loss of you, old man."
"Why, your friends are legion."
"My acquaintances are, but my friends are few. Somehow I cannot keep my grasp on them; I am not strong enough. Here is the woman whom I sought to bind to myself; I was powerless."
"What are you going to do?"
"I am going home for a few weeks. I cannot stay here where every association would remind me of my loss. I suppose," he added, striving to smile, "I shall get over it eventually: 'tis said time cures all things, but then there's the weary waiting until the cure is made. Eyreton, I cannot tell you how miserable I am; how utterly lonely I feel."
He walked to the window to hide his face. Eyreton followed, and, placing a hand upon his shoulder, said, "Remember I am always your friend."
Next day Bob Cheddar left Oxford for the Devonshire rectory. He arrived to find his father, who had suddenly been struck by apoplexy, in a dying condition. A month later Mrs. Cheddar, now a widow, removed with her son to a small house in the northern suburbs of London. Her husband, who had lived liberally, died penniless. His life had, however, been heavily insured, and with the policy she purchased an annuity which enabled her and Bob to live in comfort.
The latter had not returned to Oxford, and had now abandoned all idea of entering the Church. Deprived of his father, who had been the rudder of his life, he knew not in which direction to steer his future course. One day found him resolved on seeking his fortune in the gold fields of South Africa; another on going out to mind sheep in Australia; a third on enlisting in the Life Guards. On hearing these proposals his poor, weak mother's eyes filled with tears which completely melted Bob's plans.
III.
Months passed away, and left him yet undecided as to what path he should pursue. His life was uneventful, but its monotony did not pall upon him. He rose late, read in a desultory fashion, and smoked till dinner, after which it was his custom to spend some hours in a quiet tavern known as the Seventeen Lions, where he played billiards and cards, drank whisky, and indulged in cigars till midnight.
About nine o'clock one evening he left his mother's house, intent on taking his way to the Seventeen Lions. The suburban road which he traversed was lonely and quiet; now and then he caught sounds of a piano coming from the front bow-windowed parlours of semi-detached villas on either side; and here and there lights shone from nurseries and dining-rooms. The hasty footsteps of a postman, followed by his sharp knock, fell upon the ear; the yellow flames of gas lamps shone at regular distances. As Bob came to a corner of the road, a tall, sinewy man, with a powerful chest, close-shaven face, and round head almost rushed against him. He then retreated a step, looked at Bob sharply, and recognising him as one with whom he had frequently played a game of billiards at the quiet tavern, exclaimed, "Why, Mr. Cheddar, is it you? Going to the Seventeen?"
He was almost out of breath, and there was a certain excitement in his manner which could scarcely be the result of a hasty walk. He was known to the frequenters of the tavern as Richard Morton, and was supposed to be an authority on the Stock Exchange.
"Yes," replied Bob. "I suppose you are on your way too?"
"Exactly. If we find our friends there we might have a rubber or a game of poker," he suggested, slackening his speed so as to keep pace with Bob's easy gait.
"Don't mind," replied Cheddar.
On arriving at the Seventeen Lions, they walked through the bar and entered a small, cosy room--held sacred to a few habitués of the tavern--which they found occupied by one individual, who was sipping brandy and water. Morton greeted him coldly, and then, when Bob was not looking, winked at him twice with his left eye. A close observer would have concluded some friendlier relations existed between them than they were desirous of betraying. They had exchanged but a few words when another man, low-sized, with a smiling, bland face, entered. He was known to the other three, and greeted them in a civil, though distant, manner. In a short time it was proposed they should have a game of cards. A bottle of brandy and some soda water were ordered by Morton; the barman was requested not to let anyone intrude upon their privacy, and the four sat down to play poker. The stakes were at first small. Bob, who was proverbially lucky, won; the stakes were doubled, but his run of luck continued. The brandy bottle was passed round frequently, the faces of the players were flushed with excitement, and the uttermost good fellowship existed between them.
"You have won again," said Morton to Cheddar, "and I haven't a shilling left: but I'll stake this watch against your winnings."
"Done!" replied Bob. The cards were shuffled; a small, handsome gold watch, set with pearls, was laid on the table. In a few minutes it was in Cheddar's possession.
Morton laughed: his luck was against him, he said, but he was sure it would turn. And borrowing a couple of sovereigns the play began again.
Suddenly the door of the room was noiselessly flung open and three policemen entered. Morton snatched a pistol from his pocket, but he was too late: in a couple of seconds the four men were handcuffed and driven to the nearest police station. On being searched, a quantity of valuable jewellery stolen that evening from a house in the suburbs was found on them; and in Bob Cheddar's pocket was discovered a gold watch, set with pearls, which its owner easily identified. A few weeks later they were prosecuted for burglary. In vain Bob protested his innocence, but stolen goods had been found on his person, and he was in the company of thieves on whom the police had had an eye for some time. To do them justice, they swore he was in no way connected with them; they were not believed. Eyreton had an uncle a famous light at the Bar, and, at his nephew's earnest request, this luminary undertook Bob's defence; but the case was hopeless, and Bob Cheddar was with his companions sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.
On his release he sought his mother, the sole tie which now bound him to his kind, the one face into which he could look for perfect belief in his innocence. She was resting in her grave.
Hopeless, penniless, a released convict, with the eyes of all men turned on him in suspicion, with the hands of all men closed against him, he knew not which way to turn. Those through whose instrumentality ruin had overtaken him befriended him. He bore them no ill will, but accepted their kindnesses; he associated with and was persuaded to join them in fresh undertakings. The world had turned against him; they were his only friends; he must live.
It was decided by lot that he should at midnight enter a house in a northern suburb--not far from where he had lived--and force open a safe in the dining-room, which, it was ascertained through an indiscreet servant, contained valuable plate. His three companions were to watch and wait outside, and receive the booty from him. This was the first burglary in which he was actively concerned; previously he had merely acted as a scout, to give notice of approaching policemen.
IV.
It was a cold winter's night; rain and sleet were falling heavily when, armed with a revolver, a dark lantern, and a jemmy, Bob crept over the wall at the back of the house, and stealthily moved towards a lobby window. There was no light visible; no sound audible. Dexterously forcing the latch, he raised the window, listened for a moment, and noiselessly swung himself on to the lobby. Soft carpets were under his feet; he had studied a plan of the house, and took his way to the dining-room, at one end of which, and firmly built into the wall, he saw the safe.
Again he listened, and then laid his revolver by his side, the dark lantern on the floor, and, taking the jemmy in his hands, knelt down to begin his work. Unaccustomed to the use of the instrument, his efforts were awkward and unsuccessful; he became anxious and absorbed, and seemed on the point of forcing the lock when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder.
Instantly he seized his revolver, and, more intent on frightening than on murdering the intruder, discharged it well above his head. In an instant a blow on the arm made it drop from his hand, and the two men were struggling fiercely. With a heavy thud they fell to the ground; as they lay there the light of the lantern fell on Bob's face. His assailant relaxed his hold, and, rising up, cried out, "Good heavens! Cheddar, can this be you?"
"Eyreton!" said Bob, not venturing to move from the ground.
Profound silence followed, which was suddenly interrupted by a long low whistle. Bob jumped to his feet.
"It means danger," he said.
Two clear, sharp whistles now sounded.
"The police! the police! I am lost!" he cried out; and in a second all the misery, humiliation, and grief he had known for seven long years rose as a picture before him.
"Not lost. I'll save you if there's time," answered Eyreton.
At that instant the dining-room door opened and Eyreton's wife and brother, looking white and scared, stood upon the threshold holding lights. Eyreton led Bob towards them, but when his eyes fell on Cicely he lowered his head and stood still.
"Dick," Eyreton said to his brother, "put him in your bed and cover him up; the police are coming; he must be saved; quick!" Dick Eyreton rushed upstairs, dragging Bob after him. In a little while Cicely, trembling and white-faced, followed. She met her brother-in-law descending.
"It's all right," he said.
She timidly knocked at the bedroom door, and, receiving no answer, pushed it open and entered. Then approaching the bed, she sat down at its head, feeling weak, miserable, and pitiful.
"Cicely," a voice said in a low, hoarse whisper; "Cicely, will you let me take your hand, for the sake of old times?"
Without a word she placed her hand within his. Presently he felt a tear fall upon his fingers, and then another.
"Do you cry for me?" he asked, in a choking voice.
She merely pressed his hand: she dared not trust herself to speak.
"I am happy at last," he said; "perfectly happy."
She sobbed.
They heard the tread of her husband and a police-man ascending the stairs.
"He must be in the house," said a strange voice, "for our men are surrounding it, and they would have seen him make his escape if he tried."
"For all that he has got clear away," replied Eyreton. "We had a tussle in the dining-room; before I recovered myself he had gone."
"Let us look into this room, sir," the policeman said, stepping into the chamber where Bob lay, his head sunk in the pillows. A faint light burned in one corner.
"Softly," said Eyreton. "There is an invalid there; and, see, my wife is sitting up with him; if any one entered the room she would be sure to cry out."
"Beg pardon, I'm sure," said the constable, stepping out into the passage.
The house was examined from basement to garret, but the missing burglar was not to be found; and with great reluctance the police departed after more than an hour's search. When they had gone, Eyreton rushed to the bedroom occupied by Bob.
"It's all over; thank Heaven you have escaped!" he said, bending over his friend. "You must stay with us until you begin life anew."
"I think he has fallen asleep: he has not moved for some time," Cicely remarked, her voice trembling. Her eyes were wet with tears.
Eyreton pulled down the sheet from around Bob's head. Something in the pallid, fixed look of the face, and the glassy stare of the half - closed eyes, startled him. He placed his ear above the open mouth, and then laid his hand above Bob Cheddar's heart.
It was stilled for ever!