Читать книгу Essential Science Fiction Novels - Volume 7 - Karel Čapek, August Nemo, John Dos Passos - Страница 37

THERE has been a late sitting in the House of Commons. A protracted debate on the crowded condition of the filthy alleys and slums in that most wonderful city of the world, London, has kept members fully occupied. But twelve o’clock, midnight, has struck, and the Commons are dispersing. It has been a great night for Hector D’Estrange. He has spoken for an hour and a half to a spell-bound audience; for does it not know full well that the subject of that night’s discussion is one in which he is no novice, it having been undertaken on his own motion?

He has spoken for an hour and a half, and has told them many things. Has he not a right to do so? None like him have dived into those terrible slums, have visited night after night, as he has done, those abodes of crime, of vice, of wickedness, and of misery. He knows them well, and has depicted them as they are, to the wondering representatives of a nation, in language of which he alone is master.

He has seen much, and knows much of the horrors which he has depicted so vividly, yet not even he knows some of the depths of infamy that exist in that cesspool of Modern Babylon. He has yet another experience to incur.

“Dear old Hector, that was a grand speech of yours!” exclaims the Duke of Ravensdale, who, having been an attentive listener during the debate, has run down to join his friend as the latter leaves the Commons. “Come across to Montragee House, and let us have a little supper. Wish you would stay there the night, old man!”

“I can’t, Evie,” replies Hector. “I have to go down to Windsor by an early train, and must go home and order my things to be packed up; but I’ll come across for half an hour or so and have a mouthful, as I went without my dinner.”

They walk along, linked arm-in-arm, towards White-hall, and as they do so Big Ben chimes out the hour of half-past twelve.

“How time flies, to be sure!” remarks the young duke thoughtfully. “Funny thing time is—eh. Hector?”

“It is,” answers this latter gravely; “a something without being, shape, or substance, and yet a thing that has been, is, and yet shall be.”

“What a happy chap you ought to be. Hector! I don’t suppose there’s an hour in your life which you can look back upon as having wasted or misspent, save in doing good and trying to help others,” exclaims his friend in an almost envious tone. “Would to God I could say the same of myself I”

“Hush, Evie! don’t try and make me vain; and don’t run yourself down before me. I won’t allow it. God knows you are earnest enough in your desire to do good, and, dear Evie, you have succeeded. I don’t suppose there’s another in your position who has done so much. I never had such a good true friend as you in all my undertakings, except one, and of course I except her.”

“Her !” exclaims his friend, in a somewhat surprised voice. “Whom, Hector?”

“My mother,” he answers quietly. “She has been my right hand through life. I could not have got on without her.”

“Your mother, Hector !” says the duke in a low voice. “Have you a mother alive?”

“Yes, Evie, and one of the best that ever lived. I will introduce her to you some day. She knows you well by hearsay, for I have often spoken of you to her. But a favour, dear old Evie; don’t ever mention her to any one; promise me.”

“Of course not. Hector. You know the simplest wish of yours is law to me. Well, here we are; we’ll finish our chat inside over some soup and oysters, and anything else you like to have.”

The duke’s hand is on the bell, but he pulls it very softly.

“Won’t do to peal it,” he remarks. “The sound would awaken Bernie, he’s such a light sleeper; and always will get up to welcome me if he awakes, dear little chap.”

“Let’s see, how old is he now?” queries Hector D’Estrange; “well nigh sixteen, is he not? He’s a dear lad, and I like him especially on account of his love for you. He does love you, Evie.”

“Yes,” answers the duke softly, “and I love him. Bernie is all I have got to love, unless it be you, Hector.”

He does not see the bright flush that rises to Hector

. D’Estrange’s beautiful face, or the passionate look in the sapphire eyes. It might have startled him if he had. But the great massive doors are unclosing now, and he enters, followed by his friend.

“Supper in my study, Repton, please,” he exclaims. “Is Lord Bernard asleep?”

“Fast, your Grace,” answers that individual confidentially, “His lordship wanted to sit up for your Grace, but when I gave him your Grace’s message he went straight to bed.”

“That’s right,” says the duke heartily. “Bernie’s a good lad. God bless him!”

The two have moved on into the duke’s study, and Repton has hurried off to command his Grace’s supper to be served immediately. He has pompous manners, has Repton, a high opinion of himself, and certain notions of his own importance and dignity, but he is a good servant nevertheless, and a faithful one. He is not of the Stuggins’ class. He would as soon dream of keeping his Grace waiting for his supper as of jumping over the moon.

The consequence is, that in the twinkling of an eye supper is served in the study. And the two friends, as they sit discussing it, wander off on some favourite theme, so that the time passes quicker than they think. Suddenly they are startled by hearing a bell peal. The duke springs to his feet.

“Good heavens! What can that be?” he exclaims nervously. “Is it Bernie’s bell; is the boy ill, I wonder? I must go and see. It’s past two o’clock.”

“It’s the front door bell, I think,” says Hector D’Estrange. “Hark, Evie I there are voices in the entrance hall. Open the door and listen.”

The duke does so. A woman’s voice is plainly distinguishable, appealing to Repton.

“For God’s sake,” he hears her saying, “let me see the duke. I must see him. It is a matter of life and death. If you tell him it is for Mr. D’Estrange he will see me, I know.”

“I have no orders from his Grace to admit you,” answers Repton pompously, “and certainly cannot disturb his Grace at this hour. You must write or call again tomorrow morning, and all I can do is to report your wish to his Grace.”

He bangs the door to as he speaks, but the next moment steps sound behind him, and Hector D’Estrange has seized the handle and pulled it open. His face is very white, and there is terror in his eyes.

“Rita!” he calls out, “is that you, Rita? My God! what brings you here?”

“Mr. D’Estrange!” she bursts out with a low, glad cry. “Oh, are you here? Thank God! thank God!”

She has rushed forward and seized him by the hand, and the duke, who has followed close behind him, recognises in the youthful, fair-featured girl the sad, haggard, careworn, starving creature whom but a few years back he had rescued from prostitution and degradation. Yet in what a terrible condition she seems. Her dress is torn and mudstained, her shoes likewise, her fair, soft hair dishevelled and hanging about her face and down her back, while her expression is that of one scared by a terrible fear.

“Come quick, come quick!” she cries imploringly, “before it is too late. Oh, Mr. D’Estrange! they have waylaid her, and carried her off. I saw her bound, with her poor cut bleeding hands, and could not help her; but I know where she is, and can guide you to the place, if you will only come.”

“Rita,” exclaims Hector D’Estrange, in a voice the very calmness of which fills her with awe, “come into the duke’s study for a minute, and explain yourself. Follow me.”

He leads the way with Evie Ravensdale following, and she close behind the duke. As for Repton, he is rigid with astonishment.

The three enter the study, and the door is closed. “Now, Rita,” queries Hector excitedly, “explain.”

“I will,” she cries again. “It is your mother. She was out in her favourite walk this evening about ten, and I was coming home rather late from Windsor. I saw her attacked by two men in the spinny, bound hand and foot, after having been knocked senseless. A carriage drove up, and they put her into it. My first impulse was to rush to help her and shout for assistance, but in a moment I reflected how useless that would be. I determined to hang on to the carriage behind, and see where they took her to. It was a terrible drive, but God helped me, and I succeeded, though I’m about done. I saw the house they took her into. I know the spot well; I can take you there straight now. But come, please come, or it will be too late.”

There is a look of fury and hatred so intense in Hector D’Estrange’s eyes, that the duke can hardly recognise him as the sweet, gentle-featured friend whom he loves so dearly.

“Evie,” he says in a strained, unnatural voice, “I can explain nothing now. It is impossible. But you can trust me, Evie. My mother, my precious mother, is in terrible danger. Will you help me to save her?”

The duke’s reply is laconic, but Hector knows its meaning. They are simple words, “I will.”

“Then come,” he exclaims feverishly; “lead on, Rita, brave, plucky Rita! I’ll never forget what you have done today.”

She does not reply, for they are hurrying out of the room. They are in the hall now, and both Hector and Evie Ravensdale have seized their hats. But the next moment the duke has slipped a loaded revolver into his pocket, and handed another to his friend.

“Take this,” is all he says, “You may want it.”

There is a four-wheeler at the door. They all three get in quickly. As Rita does so she gives the order, “Whitechapel. Quick,” she adds, “and you shall be paid well!”

The cab-horse trots swiftly along. The hope of a substantial fare has given the cabby wings. No well-bred brougham horse could go quicker. He flies along does that old cab-horse.

On the outskirts of Whitechapel Rita calls a halt. “We must get out here,” she observes. “Mr. D’Estrange, please give the cabman a sovereign, and tell him to wait.”

He obeys her. He can trust her, can Hector D’Estrange. Ever since the day when, at Evie Ravensdale’s request, he had appointed her as his own and his mother’s secretary, Rita Vernon has served him with a fidelity and painstaking exactitude of which he knows no parallel. She leads the way through dark, uninviting streets. She knows the locality well. She learnt it years ago, before Evie Ravensdale came there to save her from a doom far more terrible than death. She had declared then that she would willingly die for him. The same feeling animates her now. For Evie Ravensdale Rita Vernon would deem it a happiness to die.

They have passed through courts and filthy alleys, through streets well and ill-lighted. Very few people are about. Only a policeman or two on their beats pass them as they move along. Now they are turning into a sort of crescent or half square, with houses superior to those of the localities they have traversed. As they do so Rita turns to the two men following her, and pointing to a house at the further end, exclaims, “There !”

There are no lights in the windows; the place is silent and dark.

“How shall we get in?” asks the duke.

There is a bitter smile on Rita’s face as she replies.

“I will show you, but remember you must play your part. I shall pretend I am bringing you here, and that there’s another woman coming. I’ll order a room, and once in there I know how to find her.”

She says no more, but passes swiftly along the pavement, they close at her heels. On reaching the house she pulls the bell softly.

The door is opened cautiously, and a woman’s face peers out.

“What’s wanted?” she inquires suspiciously. “I’ve brought these gentlemen here,” answers Rita. “We want a room. Your best if it’s empty.”

“Can’t have you to-night,” replies the woman. “The whole house is took.”

She is about to shut the door when Rita springs into the opening. The next moment she has the woman by the throat. “Quick!” she cries in a low voice. “Gag her, tie her hands and feet!”

No need to speak further. Both Hector D’Estrange and Evie Ravensdale have obeyed. Three hand-kerchiefs suffice to gag the woman, tie her ankles together, and her wrists behind her. Then they look at Rita.

“Put her in here!” exclaims this latter, opening a door on the right. “It’s dark. Never mind; I know the place; she’s safe there.”

They lift her in, and lay her on the floor. Rita closes the door, and locks it. A dim light is burning in the hall, but no one is stirring; only in the distance they think they catch a sound of voices.

“Come on,” she says excitedly. “I am sure I can find them. They’ll be in the best room. Follow me.”

She goes up the stairs quietly, her companions as noiselessly following. On reaching the landing she turns down a passage to the right, and comes to a halt opposite a door.

“Listen,” she says in a low tone. “You two should know that voice.”

But she has no time to say more. Pale with fury, with murder in his eyes, Hector D’Estrange has burst open the door. A flood of light almost blinds him as he enters, but through it all he sees the mother that he loves.

Speranza de Lara is stretched on a sofa. Her ankles are still tightly secured, her wrists likewise. Around her, like a cloak of gold, falls her lovely hair. There is a mad, wild look in her eyes terrible to behold, but her lips are mute and speechless, for she is gagged. And beside her stands that monster, that petted roué of Society, that “fiend in human shape,”—the Earl of Westray.

There is a loud cry as a shot rings through the silent house.