Philip Winwood Part 29

She resolved to entrust nothing further to him, but to dispose of her ornaments herself, and to devote the proceeds to necessities alone, as he had wasted them in drink and gaming. When she acted upon this resolution, he behaved like a madman. Fearful quarrels ensued. He blamed her for defeating his plans, she upbraided him for alluring her to London. Recriminations and threats filled the hours when he was with her; loneliness and despondency occupied the periods of his absence. Finally, while she slept, he robbed her of money she had got upon a bracelet; then of some of the jewelry itself. She dared no longer sleep soundly, lest he might take away her last means of subsistence. She was in daily and nightly terror of him.

She made up her mind, at last, to flee to some other part of the town, and hide from him; that her few resources left might be devoted to herself alone, and thus postpone the day of destruction to the furthest possible time. After her last jewel, she might dispose of her dresses. It was on a moonlight night in spring that she came to this determination; and, as Ned had gone out in a mood apparently presaging a long absence, she set about packing her clothes into her trunks, so as to take them with her when she left by hackney-coach at early daylight to seek new lodgings.

Suddenly she heard the door below slam with a familiar violence, and a well-known heavy tread ascend the stairs. There was no time to conceal what she was at, ere Ned flung open the door, and stumbled in. He stared in amazement at her trunks and dresses.

"What's this?" he cried. "Why is all this trash lying around? Why, damme, you're packing your trunks!"

She had pa.s.sed the mood for dissembling. "Well," she retorted, "I may pack my trunks if I please. They're my trunks, and my things in 'em."

"What! You thankless hussy, were you going to run away?"

"'Tis no concern of yours, what I was going to do!"

"Oh, isn't it? We'll see about that! Begad, 'tis lucky I came back! So you were going to desert me, eh? Well, I'm d.a.m.ned if there was ever such ingrat.i.tude! After all I've done and suffered!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE FINALLY DREW BACK TO GIVE HER A MORE EFFECTUAL BLOW."]

She gave a derisive laugh, and defiantly resumed her packing.

"What! you're rebellious, are you?" quoth he. "But you'll not get away from me so easy, my lady. Not with those clothes, at least; for yourself, it doesn't much matter. I'll just put those things back into the press, and after this I'll carry the key. But your rings and necklace--I'll take charge of them first."

He stepped forward to lay hands upon the ornaments, which, for their greater security from him, she now wore upon her person at all times.

She sprang away, ready to defend them by every possible means, and warning him not to touch her. Her flashing eyes and fiery mien checked him for a moment; then, with a curse, he seized her by the neck and essayed to undo the necklace. Thereupon she screamed loudly for help.

To intimidate her into silence, he struck her in the face. At that she began to struggle and hit, so that he was hard put to it to retain hold of her and to save his face from her hands. Enraged by her efforts, he finally drew back to give her a more effectual blow; which he succeeded in doing, but at the cost of relaxing his grasp, so that she slipped from him and escaped by the door. She hastened down the stairs and into the street, he in wrathful pursuit. She fled toward the Strand.

At the corner of that thoroughfare, she ran into a trio of gentlemen who just at the moment reached the junction of the two streets.

"The deuce!" cried one of the three, flinging his arms around her.

"What have we here? Beauty in distress?"

"Let me go!" she cried. "Don't let _him_ take me."

"Him!" echoed the gentleman, releasing her. He was a distinguished-looking fellow of twenty-eight or so, with a winning face and very fine eyes. "Oh, I see. The villain in pursuit!"

"Egad, that makes you the hero to the rescue, d.i.c.k," said one of the young gentleman's companions.

"Faith, I'll play the part, too," replied d.i.c.k. "Fear not, madam."

"Thank you, sir, for stopping her," said Ned, coming up, panting.

"Pray, don't waste your thanks. What shall I do to the rascal, madam?"

"I don't care," she answered. "Don't let him have me."

"None of that, sir," spoke up Ned. "She's a runaway, and I'm her natural protector."

"Her husband?" inquired d.i.c.k.

"No--"

"I congratulate you, madam."

"I'm her brother," said Ned.

"And condole with you in the same breath," finished d.i.c.k, to Margaret.

"You're a lady, I see. Pardon my familiarity at first. Sure you needn't fear me--I have a wife as beautiful as yourself. As for this relation of yours--"

"He tried to rob me of my necklace and rings. We lodge yonder, where the light is in the window. He found me packing my trunks to leave him--"

"And leave him you shall. Shall she not, gentlemen?"

His two companions warmly a.s.sented. Ned savagely measured them with his eyes, but did not dare a trial of prowess against three. Moreover, their courtly address and easy manners disconcerted him.

"Oh, I sha'n't harm her," he grumbled. "'Twas but a tiff. Let her come back home; 'twill be all well."

But Madge was not for resigning herself a moment to his mercy. She briefly explained her situation and her wishes. The upshot of all was, that the young gentleman called d.i.c.k turned to his friends and said:

"What say you, gentlemen? Our friends at Brooks's can wait, I think.

Shall we protect this lady while she packs her trunks, find lodgings for her this very night, and see her installed in them?"

"Ay, and see that this gentle brother does not follow or learn where she goes," answered one.

"Bravo!" cried the other. "'Twill be like an incident in a comedy, d.i.c.k."

"Rather like a page of Smollett," replied d.i.c.k. "With your permission, madam, we'll accompany you to your lodgings."

They sat around the fireplace, with their backs to her, and talked with easy gaiety, while she packed her possessions; Ned having first followed them in, and then fled to appease his mind at an ale-house.

Finally d.i.c.k and one of the gentlemen closed her trunks for her, while the other went for a coach; wherein all three accompanied her to the house of a wigmaker known to d.i.c.k, in High Holborn; where they roused the inmates, made close terms, and left her installed in a decent room with her belongings.

As they took their leave, after an almost tearful burst of thanks on her part, d.i.c.k said:

"From some of your expressions, madam, I gather that your resources are limited--resources of one kind, I mean. But in your appearance, your air, and your voice, you possess resources, which if ever you feel disposed to use, I beg you will let me know. Pray don't misunderstand me; the world knows how much I am in love with my wife."[9]

When he had gone, leaving her puzzled and astonished, she turned to the wigmaker's wife, who was putting the room to rights, and asked:

"Pray what is that last gentleman's name?"

"Wot, ma'am! Can it be you don't know _'im?_"

"He forgot to tell me."

"Sure 'e thought as you must know already. Everybody in London knows the great Mr. Sheridan."

"What! Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the dramatist?"

"And manager of Drury Lane Theaytre. Didn't you 'ear 'im hoffer to put you on the stage, w'en 'e spoke about your looks and voice?"

Madge turned to the mirror; and saw, for the--first time in weeks, a sudden light of hope, a sense of triumphs yet in her power, dawn upon her face.