a few days after the visits to cheltenham, described in the last chapters, harry annesley, coming down a passage by the side of the junior united service club into charles street, suddenly met captain scarborough at two o'clock in the morning. where harry had been at that hour need not now be explained, but it may be presumed that he had not been drinking tea with any of his female relatives.
captain scarborough had just come out of some neighboring club, where he had certainly been playing, and where, to all appearances, he had been drinking also. that there should have been no policemen in the street was not remarkable, but there was no one else there present to give any account of what took place during the five minutes in which the two men remained together. harry, who was at the moment surprised by the encounter, would have passed the captain by without notice, had he been allowed to do so; but this the captain perceived, and stopped him suddenly, taking him roughly by the collar of his coat. this harry naturally resented, and before a word of intelligible explanation had been given the two young men had quarrelled.
captain scarborough had received a long letter from mrs. mountjoy, praying for explanation of circumstances which could not be explained, and stating over and over again that all her information had come from harry annesley.
the captain now called him an interfering, meddlesome idiot, and shook him violently while holding him in his grasp. this was a usage which harry was not the man to endure, and there soon arose a scuffle, in which blows had passed between them. the captain stuck to his prey, shaking him again and again in his drunken wrath, till harry, roused to a passion almost equal to that of his opponent, flung him at last against the corner of the club railings, and there left his foe sprawling upon the ground, having struck his head violently against the ground as he fell. harry passed on to his own bed, indifferent, as it was afterwards said, to the fate of his antagonist. all this occupied probably five minutes in the doing, but was seen by no human eye.
as the occurrence of that night was subsequently made the ground for heavy accusation against harry annesley, it has been told here with sufficient minuteness to show what might be said in justification or in condemnation of his conduct,—to show what might be said if the truth were spoken. for, indeed, in the discussions which arose on the subject, much was said which was not true. when he had retired from the scuffle on that night, harry had certainly not dreamed that any serious damage had been done to the man who had certainly been altogether to blame in his provocation of the quarrel. had he kept his temper and feelings completely under control, and knocked down captain scarborough only in self-defence; had he not allowed himself to be roused to wrath by treatment which could not but give rise to wrath in a young man's bosom, no doubt, when his foe lay at his feet, he would have stooped to pick him up, and have tended his wounds. but such was not harry's character,—nor that of any of the young men with whom i have been acquainted. such, however, was the conduct apparently expected from him by many, when the circumstances of those five minutes were brought to the light. but, on the other hand, had passion not completely got the better of him, had he not at the moment considered the attack made upon him to amount to misconduct so gross as to supersede all necessity for gentle usage on his own part, he would hardly have left the man to live or die as chance would have it. boiling with passion, he went his way, and did leave the man on the pavement, not caring much, or rather, not thinking much, whether his victim might live or die.
on the next day harry annesley left london and went down to buston, having heard no word farther about the captain. he did not start till late in the afternoon, and during the day took some trouble to make himself conspicuous about the town; but he heard nothing of captain scarborough. twice he walked along charles street, and looked at the spot on which he had stood on the night before in what might have been deadly conflict. then he told himself that he had not been in the least wounded, that the ferocious maddened man had attempted to do no more than shake him, that his coat had suffered and not himself, and that in return he had certainly struck the captain with all his violence. there were probably some regrets, but he said not a word on the subject to any one, and so he left london.
for three or four days nothing was heard of the captain, nor was anything said about him. he had lodgings in town, at which he was no doubt missed, but he also had quarters at the barracks, at which he did not often sleep, but to which it was thought possible on the next morning that he might have betaken himself. before the evening of that day had come he had no doubt been missed, but in the world at large no special mention was made of his absence for some time. then, among the haunts which he was known to frequent, questions began to be asked as to his whereabouts, and to be answered by doubtful assertions that nothing had been seen or heard of him for the last sixty or seventy hours.
it must be remembered that at this time captain scarborough was still the subject of universal remark, because of the story told as to his birth. his father had declared him to be illegitimate, and had thereby robbed all his creditors. captain scarborough was a man quite remarkable enough to insure universal attention for such a tale as this; but now, added to his illegitimacy was his disappearance. there was at first no idea that he had been murdered. it became quickly known to all the world that he had, on the night in question, lost a large sum of money at a whist-club which he frequented, and, in accordance with the custom of the club, had not paid the money on the spot.
the fatal monday had come round, and the money undoubtedly was not paid. then he was declared a defaulter, and in due process of time his name was struck off the club books, with some serious increase of the ignominy hitherto sustained.
during the last fortnight or more captain scarborough's name had been subjected to many remarks and to much disgrace. but this non-payment of the money lost at whist was considered to be the turning-point. a man might be declared illegitimate, and might in consequence of that or any other circumstance defraud all his creditors. a man might conspire with his father with the object of doing this fraudulently, as captain scarborough was no doubt thought to have done by most of his acquaintances. all this he might do and not become so degraded but that his friends would talk to him and play cards with him. but to have sat down to a whist-table and not be able to pay the stakes was held to be so foul a disgrace that men did not wonder that he should have disappeared.
such was the cause alleged for the captain's disappearance among his intimate friends; but by degrees more than his intimate friends came to talk of it. in a short time his name was in all the newspapers, and there was not a constable in london whose mind was not greatly exercised on the matter. all scotland yard and the police-officers were busy. mr. grey, in lincoln's inn, was much troubled on the matter. by degrees facts had made themselves clear to his mind, and he had become aware that the captain had been born before his client's marriage. he was ineffably shocked at the old squire's villany in the matter, but declared to all to whom he spoke openly on the subject that he did not see how the sinner could be punished. he never thought that the father and son were in a conspiracy together. nor had he believed that they had arranged the young man's disappearance in order the more thoroughly to defraud the creditors. they could not, at any rate, harm a man of whose whereabouts they were unaware and who, for all they knew, might be dead. but the reader is already aware that this surmise on the part of mr. grey was unfounded.
the captain had been absent for three weeks when augustus scarborough went down for a second time to tretton park, in order to discuss the matter with his father.
augustus had, with much equanimity and a steady, fixed purpose, settled himself down to the position as elder son. he pretended no anger to his father for the injury intended, and was only anxious that his own rights should be confirmed. in this he found that no great difficulty stood in his way. the creditors would contest his rights when his father should die; but for such contest he would be prepared. he had no doubt as to his own position, but thought that it would be safer,—and that it would also probably be cheaper,—to purchase the acquiescence of all claimants than to encounter the expense of a prolonged trial, to which there might be more than one appeal, and of which the end after all would be doubtful.
no very great sum of money would probably be required. no very great sum would, at any rate, be offered. but such an arrangement would certainly be easier if his brother were not present to be confronted with the men whom he had duped.
the squire was still ill down at tretton, but not so ill but that he had his wits about him in all their clearness. some said that he was not ill at all, but that in the present state of affairs the retirement suited him. but the nature of the operation which he had undergone was known to many who would not have him harassed in his present condition. in truth, he had only to refuse admission to all visitors and to take care that his commands were carried out in order to avoid disagreeable intrusions.
"do you mean to say that a man can do such a thing as this and that no one can touch him for it?" this was an exclamation made by mr. tyrrwhit to his lawyer, in a tone of aggrieved disgust.
"he hasn't done anything," said the lawyer. "he only thought of doing something, and has since repented. you cannot arrest a man because he had contemplated the picking of your pocket, especially when he has shown that he is resolved not to pick it."
"as far as i can learn, nothing has been heard about him as yet," said the son to the father.
"those limbs weren't his that were picked out of the thames near blackfriars bridge?"
"they belonged to a poor cripple who was murdered two months since."
"and that body that was found down among the yorkshire hills?"
"he was a peddler. there is nothing to induce a belief that mountjoy has killed himself or been killed. in the former case his dead body would be found or his live body would be missing. for the second there is no imaginable cause for suspicion."
"then where the devil is he?" said the anxious father.
"ah, that's the difficulty. but i can imagine no position in which a man might be more tempted to hide himself. he is disgraced on every side, and could hardly show his face in london after the money he has lost. you would not have paid his gambling debts?"
"certainly not," said the father. "there must be an end to all things."
"nor could i. within the last month past he has drawn from me every shilling that i have had at my immediate command."
"why did you give 'em to him?"
"it would be difficult to explain all the reasons. he was then my elder brother, and it suited me to have him somewhat under my hand. at any rate i did do so, and am unable for the present to do more. looking round about, i do not see where it was possible for him to raise a sovereign as soon as it was once known that he was nobody."
"what will become of him?" said the father. "i don't like the idea of his being starved. he can't live without something to live upon."
"god tempers the wind to the shorn lamb," said the son. "for lambs such as he there always seems to be pasture provided of one sort or another."
"you would not like to have to trust to such pastures," said the father.
"nor should i like to be hanged; but i should have to be hanged if i had committed murder. think of the chances which he has had, and the way in which he has misused them. although illegitimate, he was to have had the whole property,—of which not a shilling belongs to him; and he has not lost it because it was not his own, but has simply gambled it away among the jews. what can happen to a man in such a condition better than to turn up as a hunter among the rocky mountains or as a gold-digger in australia? in this last adventure he seems to have plunged horribly, and to have lost over three thousand pounds. you wouldn't have paid that for him?"
"not again;—certainly not again."
"then what could he do better than disappear? i suppose i shall have to make him an allowance some of these days, and if he can live and keep himself dark i will do so."
there was in this a tacit allusion to his father's speedy death which was grim enough; but the father passed it by without any expression of displeasure. he certainly owed much to his younger son, and was willing to pay it by quiescence. let them both forbear. such was the language which he held to himself in thinking of his younger son. augustus was certainly behaving well to him. not a word of rebuke had passed his lips as to the infamous attempt at spoliation which had been made. the old squire felt grateful for his younger son's conduct, but yet in his heart of hearts he preferred the elder.
"he has denuded me of every penny," said augustus, "and i must ask you to refund me something of what has gone."
"he has kept me very bare. a man with so great a propensity for getting rid of money i think no father ever before had to endure."
"you have had the last of it."
"i do not know that. if i live, and he lets me know his whereabouts, i cannot leave him penniless. i do feel that a great injustice has been done him."
"i don't exactly see it," said augustus.
"because you're too hard-hearted to put yourself in another man's place. he was my eldest son."
"he thought that he was."
"and should have remained so had there been a hope for him," said the squire, roused to temporary anger. augustus only shrugged his shoulders. "but there is no good talking about it."
"not the least in the world. mr. grey, i suppose, knows the truth at last. i shall have to get three or four thousand pounds from you, or i too must resort to the jews. i shall do it, at any rate, under better circumstances than my brother."
some arrangement was at last made which was satisfactory to the son, and which we must presume that the father found to be endurable. then the son took his leave, and went back to london, with the understood intention of pushing the inquiries as to his brother's existence and whereabouts.
the sudden and complete disappearance of captain scarborough struck mrs. mountjoy with the deepest awe. it was not at first borne in upon her to believe that captain mountjoy scarborough, an officer in the coldstreams, and the acknowledged heir to the tretton property, had vanished away as a stray street-sweeper might do, or some milliner's lowest work-woman. but at last there were advertisements in all the newspapers and placards on all the walls, and mrs. mountjoy did understand that the captain was gone. she could as yet hardly believe that he was no longer heir to tretton: and in such short discussions with florence as were necessary on the subject she preferred to express no opinion whatever as to his conduct. but she would by no means give way when urged to acknowledge that no marriage between florence and the captain was any longer to be regarded as possible. while the captain was away the matter should be left as if in abeyance; but this by no means suited the young lady's views. mrs. mountjoy was not a reticent woman, and had no doubt been too free in whispering among her friends something of her daughter's position. this florence had resented; but it had still been done, and in cheltenham generally she was regarded as an engaged young lady. it had been in vain that she had denied that it was so. her mother's word on such a subject was supposed to be more credible that her own; and now this man with whom she was believed to be so closely connected had disappeared from the world among the most disreputable circumstances. but when she explained the difficulty to her mother her mother bade her hold her tongue for the present, and seemed to hold out a hope that the captain might at last be restored to his old position.
"let them restore him ever so much, he would never be anything to me, mamma." then mrs. mountjoy would only shake her head and purse her lips.
on the evening of the day after the fracas in the street harry annesley went down to buston, and there remained for the next two or three days, holding his tongue absolutely as to the adventure of that night. there was no one at buston to whom he would probably have made known the circumstances. but there was clinging to it a certain flavor of disreputable conduct on his own part which sealed his lips altogether. the louder and more frequent the tidings which reached his ears as to the captain's departure, the more strongly did he feel that duty required him to tell what he knew upon the matter. many thoughts and many fears encompassed him. at first was the idea that he had killed the man by the violence of his blow, or that his death had been caused by the fall. then it occurred to him that it was impossible that scarborough should have been killed and that no account should be given as to the finding of the body. at last he persuaded himself that he could not have killed the man, but he was assured at the same time that the disappearance must in some sort have been occasioned by what then took place. and it could not but be that the captain, if alive, should be aware of the nature of the struggle which had taken place. he heard, chiefly from the newspapers, the full record of the captain's illegitimacy; he heard of his condition with the creditors; he heard of those gambling debts which were left unpaid at the club. he saw it also stated—and repeated— that these were the grounds for the man's disappearance. it was quite credible that the man should disappear, or endeavor to disappear, under such a cloud of difficulties. it did not require that he and his violence should be adduced as an extra cause. indeed, had the man been minded to vanish before the encounter, he might in all human probability have been deterred by the circumstances of the quarrel. it gave no extra reason for his disappearance, and could in no wise be counted with it were he to tell the whole story, in scotland yard. he had been grossly misused on the occasion, and had escaped from such misusage by the only means in his power. but still he felt that, had he told the story, people far and wide would have connected his name with the man's absence, and, worse again, that florence's name would have become entangled with it also. for the first day or two he had from hour to hour abstained from telling all that he knew, and then when the day or two were passed, and when a week had run by,—when a fortnight had been allowed to go,—it was impossible for him not to hold his tongue.
he became nervous, unhappy, and irritated down at buston, with his father and mother and sister's, but more especially with his uncle. previous to this his uncle for a couple of months had declined to see him; now he was sent for to the hall and interrogated daily on this special subject. mr. prosper was aware that his nephew had been intimate with augustus scarborough, and that he might, therefore, be presumed to know much about the family. mr. prosper took the keenest interest in the illegitimacy and the impecuniosity and final disappearance of the captain, and no doubt did, in his cross-examinations, discover the fact that harry was unwilling to answer his questions. he found out for the first time that harry was acquainted with the captain, and also contrived to extract from him the name of miss mountjoy. but he could learn nothing else, beyond harry's absolute unwillingness to talk upon the subject, which was in itself much. it must be understood that harry was not specially reverential in these communications. indeed, he gave his uncle to understand that he regarded his questions as impertinent, and at last declared his intention of not coming to the hall any more for the present. then mr. prosper whispered to his sister that he was quite sure that harry annesley knew more than he choose to say as to captain scarborough's whereabouts.
"my dear peter," said mrs. annesley, "i really think that you are doing poor harry an injustice."
mrs. annesley was always on her guard to maintain something like an affectionate intercourse between her own family and the squire.
"my dear anne, you do not see into a millstone as far as i do. you never did."
"but, peter, you really shouldn't say such things of harry. when all the police-officers themselves are looking about to catch up anything in their way, they would catch him up at a moment's notice if they heard that a magistrate of the county had expressed such an opinion."
"why don't he tell me?" said mr. prosper.
"there's nothing to tell."
"ah, that's your opinion—because you can't see into a millstone. i tell you that harry knows more about this captain scarborough than any one else. they were very intimate together."
"harry only just knew him."
"well, you'll see. i tell you that harry's name will become mixed up with captain scarborough's, and i hope that it will be in no discreditable manner. i hope so, that's all." harry in the mean time had returned to london, in order to escape his uncle, and to be on the spot to learn anything that might come in his way as to the now acknowledged mystery respecting the captain.
such was the state of things at the commencement of the period to which my story refers.
