A Daughter of Israel E-Book

Fred M. White

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

A Crime on Canvas is a story about a rich Blantyres family, which is one of the richest families in England. A few years later, the influence of Blantyres does not disappear. They are just as influential in their environment. The eldest of the Blantyres family decided to rent out their mansion. However, many bad rumors go about him.

Leseprobe

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V. The Sweet Republican

VI. Well Met

VII. The Smoother Side

VIII. A Pleasant Surprise

IX. Light And Darkness

X. Overheard

XI. 2,458,160

XII. Turning The Screw

XIII.Magic

XIV. The First Fruits Of Sacrifice

XV. A Place Of Refuge

XVI. Revenge

XVII. Struck Down

XVIII. He Is The Man

XIX. Into That Silent Sea

XX. Confirmation Strong

XXI. Speedwell Goes

XXII. The Prompter’s Bell

I

All through the beauteous summer, with its sunshine and ruddy glow of warmth, there had been misery and despairing want among the countless toilers, the thousands of human bees in the smoky hive called Westport; but in the country there was peace and restfulness, a smell of innumerable flowers in the fields fragrant with blossoming, for the hay harvest had been gathered and the grain was shot with gold in the sloping cornlands above the ruby sea. In Westport the same silence lay; but it was the cascade of starvation, for the men were ‘out,’ and all the clang of countless hammers and whirr of machinery was still. At the street corners there stood sullen, moody crowds staring hunger in the face, and murmuring below their breath as the soldiery, with long step and jingling spurs, went by. The steam cranes no longer slid their heavy burdens into the deep holds of ships, for the docks were quiet as the streets, while in the tidal canal, with waters now pure as crystal, vessels lay waiting for the sea, with their tapering masts faint as gray needles in the ambient air. Now there was no hurry and bustle there, but only three children waving their feet in the lapping waters.

There were other children in the distance playing, yet with no zest in their recreations; but these three seemed to be apart from the others, for they were better clad and had no hollowness of eye or pinched natures as the others. There were two boys and a girl, the eldest boy perhaps sixteen, the others apparently his juniors by the brief span of two years. They did not look like English lads, for their faces were bolder cut and their eyes darker–the aquiline group of countenance which denotes the chosen people. The senior of the little group would have been handsome had it not been for a certain greedy, crafty look on his thin colourless lips, and the deformity between the shoulders. Abishai Abraham, conscious of his ugliness, conscious also of his crooked mind, cared but little for that, and took a pride in his own misfortune from his earliest years–for child he had never been–his hand had been against all men’s, and as against his. For the body has a tendency to warp the mind.

The other two–Hazael and Miriam–had the flashing eyes and inherent boldness of their ancestors; but no such curse spoilt the suppleness of their perfect limbs. In their mild gipsy beauty they would have made a study for an artist as they sat there bathing their feet; Hazael, with head thrown back, and long black hair sweeping from his forehead. But the girl sat upright, swinging her white feet backwards and forwards, with no shield from the fierce sun but her luxuriant ebon locks but looking straight before her with fearless, flashing eyes–a child in years, perhaps, but with a face and figure almost womanly, and from her low forehead to her scarlet mouth giving promise of a coming loveliness, such as Anthony fell down and worshipped, and for love of whom a kingdom fell.

Yet she had no consciousness of this, seated there playing in the crystal brine and looking down into the resplendent liquid; saw no beauty there or future triumph–nothing but the smiling, treacherous water.

“Miriam is admiring herself,” said Abishai, parting his lips in a faint sneer.

“Well, what then?” Hazael retorted, eager to defend his twin sister. “You don’t expect her to admire you, I hope. Miriam is going to be the most beautiful woman in Westport, and then you can walk out together for people to see the contrast.”

“And what is beauty, after all?” asked the cripple, usually unmoved, as he stirred the water with his crutch. “You can’t live on it; you can’t sell it.”

Miriam brought down her glowing eyes from the contemplation of a lofty mast pinnacle, where they upshot like a forest in the sky, and regarded the speaker with a look of infinite disdain.

“You would buy and sell everything,” she said. “And would imprison the sunshine and barter it over a matter. Why?”

“Because everything is valueless besides money. Where should we have been now, the seed of Abraham, if it had not been for our wealth; if we had not held together and helped one another? What chance would the chosen people have had beside the Gentiles but for their money. Why do they flatter us, and fawn upon us, when their extravagance has left them penniless?”

“And hate us because we take advantage of their misfortunes,” Hazael exclaimed. “That is the ban upon our race.”

“They are not all so bad,” said Miriam, softly. “I sometimes think the blame is not entirely with them. If it had not been for Mr. Lockwood we should not be so happy and contented now.”

“And if it had not been for his friend, Sir Percival Decie, we should have no felon’s taint hanging over us either. We could have looked the whole world in the face and not been ashamed of our father.”

Miriam was silent for a moment; for there was a deeper shade on the clear olive skin, and a flush of pink painted on her cheek, as a blush rose deepens in the sun. Her recollection seemed to have gone back years to the time when she had yet another parent.

“I do not see how we can blame him,” she said, with a sense of justice so rare in woman. “Sir Percival was hard, perhaps, yet it seems to me that since father has gone we are happier.”

She said this hesitatingly, as one fears to utter praise. Hazael made a great splashing with his feet to show his approbation of this sentiment. But Abishai shut his thin lips the closer, and there came into his eyes a look merciless and vindictive, and strangely out of place for one so young.

“You think so because your memory is not so long or conscious as mine. But I remember, though I was only ten. Father never forgave an injury, and he will not forget this one. You wait and see.” And then the speaker sank his voice to the softest whisper. “A time will come when Sir Percival Decie shall regret his cruelty to the last day of his life.”

“You were always father’s favourite,” Hazael observed–“so Mother says.”

“He liked me best,” Abishai replied, with unconscious pride. “He knew I should grow up like him. He taught me to always save a penny where I could; how to deal and bargain, and how to tell precious stones. And I have profited by his teaching. None of you can show anything like this.”

Abishai, after some painful writhings, produced a little leathern bag from the recesses of a secret pocket, and, opening it, laid three stones upon the palm of his dusky hand. They glittered and sparkled in the sun like dew upon the hedgerows, but their shine was no brighter than the shimmer in the owner’s eyes. Hazael drew his breath with a sudden gasp of admiration, such as his race always have for diamonds; but Miriam drew no closer than she was impelled by a woman’s curiosity.

“Where did you get them?” Hazael faltered, in fascinated wonderment. “They are not your own, surely?”

“They are mine,” Abisahi replied. “When will you have anything so precious? Never. Look how they glitter in the sun; there is no falseness or deception there. That is what my father taught me. I bought these from a sailor: ay, so cheap, too. Only two pounds they cost me, but I would have had them if it had been ten times the money. Look at that white stone: how it gleams! I would not take fifty pounds for them now.”

“What are you going to do with them?” Hazael asked, still lost in admiration.

“They are the first step to fortune. I shall change them into money, and lend it out in small sums; I shall treble it in a year, and treble that in another year, until––”

Abishai’s eyes had commenced to glow as he conjured up this alluring prospect. In imagination he saw himself rich and powerful. This was his darling ambition. Then something splashed in the water, sending a wreath of silver spray over the earnest group; and, looking up, they saw a crowd had gathered round them. By them there stood two girls: one pale and frightened, the other with a cut upon her forehead and a thin purple streak on her face. Miriam turned to them with haughty disdain. The newcomers were of the same consanguinuity, but between them existed a deadly feud, not so tragic, but as lasting and bitter, as the feud of the Capulets and Montagus.

“Ruth and Aurora Meyer,” Miriam cried, “how could you come near us?”

“Do you think I wanted to come,” cried the wounded one, wiping her stained face. “I came to warn you. Look there!”

The crowd gathered round were mostly children, with the hard marks of hunger in their faces, but cruel and desperate as if they had been a besieging army. They came closer, throwing stones and dirt at those hated Jews; hated the more now that there was so painful a contrast between them. The gaunt hollow eyes and paled faces looked mischief, for they were desperate and cared not for gaol, for that at least meant food. Presently, one bolder than the rest threw a stone, striking Hazael upon the temple.

And the hot blood in his veins fired up at this stinging blow, for the hatred between the rival factions was normal. With a cry he sprang forward, and rushed briskly upon the opposing force.

The fray became general; for there was no pluck wasted on either side. Hazael, with every nerve in his body thrilling, and supported by Abishai, who used his crutch with disastrous effect, fought bravely on. Even the girls sank their enmity in face of this common danger and returned blow for blow.

But the opposing army had too genuine a contempt for the rules of war or difference of sex to disdain force in return, and by very stress of numbers were bearing down the little knot of dark-hued Hebrews. It was, classically speaking, horrid war between hunger and plenty, Jew and Gentile, Demos and Order, and the tribe of Abraham were getting the worst of it.

At this fateful moment, startled by the din of combat from the dim shade where he had been sleeping, a lad appeared and, taking in the situation at a glance, bore down upon the fray. His limbs were lithe, and spoke of power, though upon his pale, clear-cut features there was no trace of sympathy or passion.

With quick resolution he decided to throw his influence into the weaker scale, not from any love of fair play, but rather that instinct which impels most of us to reside with the more respectable cause. Unseen, he approached the group, and with a few dexterous twists slipped through the crowd and stood by Hazael’s side.

The effect of this unexpected aid was speedily felt. The stranger wasted little time in unnecessary diplomacy, but singling out the plebeian leader, attacked him with such force and fury that he was fain to lie down and cry for mercy. Abishai marked the weight of their ally’s blows, delivered not so much in honest fight, but struck with a nervous weight which delighted the hunchback’s vindictive soul.

He whirled the crutch round his head with renewed vigour; gradually the crowd fell back, and then, with a parting jeer and a volley of stones, melted away. For a time the victors regarded their preserver in breathless silence. It was Miriam who came forward at length, holding out her hand as a queen might extend her fingers for a favourite courtier to kiss.

“We thank you,” she said. “This is very good of you.”

“I have done nothing,” the youth replied. “Anything is better than lying down yonder almost asleep and starving.”

He was leaning a granite block listlessly, with his left hand hanging inertly by his side. His face they saw was paler than its wont, as if he was undergoing some acute pain, which served to intensify the refinement of his features. His head was held with a certain easy carriage; the eyes were fearless, the lips were thin and cruel, and spoilt an otherwise pleasant countenance.

And yet in his tattered garments he looked almost a gentleman. Abishai propped the crutch under his chin, and regarded the stranger earnestly from under his deep-set eyebrows.

“You fight well,” he croaked, with a pleased recollection of the ringleader’s discomfiture. “I am strong, but I cannot strike like that.”

“I am used to it,” the stranger replied, carelessly. “One does get used to it in knocking about the country. I used to travel the fairs with a company of pugilists. I was the infant wonder, you mind. Sometimes I got badly hurt; but I learnt something, too.”

He raised his hands in an attitude of self-defence, but dropped them again in a sudden spasm of pain. Miriam, with a woman’s quick intuition, saw that he was hurt, and, coming to his side, took his hand in hers.

“You have broken your wrist,” she said. “Why did you not say so before?” She turned to the other two girls, who were still standing in the background. “Ruth and Aurora Meyer, how dare you stay here? Go! Boy, what is your name?”

“My name?” he laughed, slowly. “I have no name yet. But you may call me Speedwell–Philip Speedwell, for want of a better.”

“Then, Philip Speedwell, you must come with me.”

She turned and led the way, beckoning him to follow her. Hazael said nothing, but Abishai crept alongside Miriam with a scowl upon his face.

“Are you going to take him home?” he asked, incredulously.

“Of course. Has he not fought for us, and been injured in our cause? Mother can see to his wound, and give him something to eat. Ah! even then, Abishai, there will be enough for you.”

“Abishai would steal the food from a dog,” Hazael exclaimed, turning to the stranger, who had listened to this dialogue with a faint smile. “He has no gratitude. No wonder men hate our people.”

“We always hate those who are better off than ourselves. I thought you were Jews when I heard your names. So your brother would steal the bone from a dog? Well, at present, so would I. But he should have a little feeling for me, because on my mother’s side I, too, am one of you.”

II

Had the haughty families, Montagu and Capulet, been next door neighbours–to use our homely idiom–the disasters of the unhappy lovers would probably have been still more intensified in those good old days when gentlemen carried rapiers and were hypersensitive of their name and honour. But in the broad light of the nineteenth century, the exigencies of Society demand a different method of maintaining a respectable family feud, and the belligerents may live side by side without danger of mortal combat and the slitting of wizends. Certain it is that the Abrahams and Meyers hated one another with the same rancour as their more patrician prototypes, though they dwelt side by side, and pursued the same occupation of general dealers and pawnbrokers. The houses, low-browed and half-timbered, with beetling gables, had originally been one shop, standing in Horton-street, and were, perhaps, the only relics of the Middle Ages at present remaining in Westport. The shops were dark and stuffy, by reason of the kind of trade carried on there, and in the back part of the premises, the portion devoted to pawnbroking, there were sundry little boxes where the more timid might retire to bargain with Rebecca Abraham for a loan on any valuable they might be fortunate enough to possess, to say nothing of the advantage of a side door leading into a lane, thus ensuring privacy and protection against the nagging of slanderous tongues. Another lane ran by the side of Meyer’s establishment, and their private boxes were situated in exactly the same place, with a few holes bored in the wainscot for ventilation, so that anyone of a curious turn doing business in one place could hear what was being transacted in the other. On the broad, shallow landing, four bedrooms led out on either side, except one, where a partition had been erected when the houses had been made into two; and here was a door, connecting the two establishments, but which now had been carefully barred for years.

Between the long, narrow counters Miriam led the way, followed by the stranger, Hazael coming close behind, and Abishai lingering after him, banging his crutch with an angry jerk upon the floor, and scowling hideously. The guide led the way to a little room behind, where an elderly woman was seated, with a pile of silver lying on the table before her. These she was polishing in a loving, tender fashion with a chamois leather. Her hair was quite white, and there were lines upon her face graven by years of care and trouble. Her eyes were still full and flashing, her nose such as you see only in one race.

“Mother,” said Miriam, “I have brought you a friend.”

Rebecca Abraham looked up swiftly, then down again, saying nothing in reply.

She had a bracelet in her hand, rubbing the tarnished surface with her long, polished fingers. Abishai tapped with his crutch again, and gazed at his mother in fond expectation, waiting for her to speak.

“A friend in the land of the Gentile is like the mirage of the desert, bringing hope only to increase despair. We have no friends: for is not our hand against every man’s, and every man’s against us!”

She pushed back the white masses of hair from her forehead. There was a foreign accent in the words, as one who speaks a tongue not her own. Then, as if the matter were dismissed, she ran her long lithe fingers round the ornament again, till it shone like a white gleam in the gloom. The stranger stood looking on totally unmoved. It was all one to him whether he was sleeping under the shade of a sail by the quay or resting in one of the carven chairs with their tarnished crimson furniture.

“You are wrong, mother,” Miriam spoke again.

Then, without waiting for any reply, she told the story of the battle by the docks. Rebecca listened to the tale, though her hands were never idle. When it was finished, she swept the heap of silver aside, and taking a fair, white cloth, placed it upon the table and set out food.

“You are hungry?” she asked. “Then sit down and eat.”

Nothing loth, for hunger conquers all feelings of diffidence, Speedwell took his seat, and turned with a wolfish look to the cold meats before him.

He had eaten nothing since the previous afternoon, but from stern experience he knew the effects of ravenous feeding. So, in a meditative way, he ate slowly and deliberately, and presently his eyes began to wander round the place in easy contemplation. Miriam, without seeming to notice his gratitude, waited upon him, cutting up his meat, for his injured hand lay upon the table helpless. Then, with a contented sigh, he lay back, and, from force of habit and an aptitude for finding comfort in strange places, he fell asleep.

“A good meal,” said Abishai, regarding the scraps regretfully; “an enormous meal. Nearly enough to keep us for a day. But Miriam was always wasteful and thoughtless. If it had been me––”

“If it had been you!” Miriam exclaimed, in ineffable disdain: “you would have left him to stave and rot for all you cared. Yes; and he may have saved your life. And our own flesh and blood, too.”

In the dim room it was almost too dark to distinguish the slumbering lad’s features. Rebecca Abraham drew closer and peered eagerly into his face, like one who has been searching for a thing long and hopes to have found it.

“It was not in the eyes,” she said, speaking to herself. “No, I cannot see it. Miriam, my child, how do you know this?”

“He told me he was one of us, mother, though his name is not one of ours. You are not angry that I brought him here?”

“No, I am not angry, my child. We must try to pay our debts, even those of gratitude, though ‘tis poorly expressed. The lad is homeless, you say; but we are too poor to have a burden laid upon us.”

“You need not fear for that,” answered Miriam. “He will not stay here, being one of the wanderers from place to place, living on the bread of charity.”

“A thief maybe; perhaps one who knows the inside of a gaol,” Abishai observed, his head still propped upon his crutch; “a common, ragged vagabond, who comes here to spy out the house, and rob us in the night.”

The shrill voice seemed to rouse the sleeping lad, for he stirred in his chair and opened his eyes. He fixed them upon the hunchback with a glare which caused him to start back affrighted, fearful lest his words had been heard. The outcast smiled bitterly.

“I have been starved and beaten,” he said. “I have slept in the open air, when I might have known warmth and comfort; but I am no thief, neither do I know the inside of prison walls. Yes, I heard you; the sleep of one who moves from place to place is light, like that of the curs he herds with. But I am no thief, Abishai Abraham.”

“How do I know that?” asked the cripple, glancing suspiciously, yet shrinking back, somewhat abashed. “How can you prove that?”

“When you bought those diamonds last night, in that quiet place down by the docks, how easy it would have been to rob you then. You did not know how close I was to you; it was easily done. You will think better of me when you know me as your father does.”

Rebecca dropped the bracelet she was noiselessly polishing, and gazed at the speaker with wild, affrighted eyes.

“You have seen him?” she faltered.

Miriam and Hazael turned to one another almost fearfully. Abishai had folded his hands upon his crutch, his eyes bright and exultant; but in their different emotions they did not heed the strange ague which seemed to have smitten their mother in every limb.

“I have known him some weeks now,” the stranger said, lowering his voice to an impressive whisper. “Never mind how. Partly because he was kind to me, I did all I could for you to-day. We parted some time ago.”

“This is some strange mistake,” Rebecca said, with uneven voice, “because the father of my children is not––”

“At liberty, you would say. Strange you have not heard. Saul Abraham escaped nearly two months ago from Portland.”

For some moments there was a painful silence, broken only by the sound of laboured breathing. Rebecca turned away, so that the declining red rays of sunlight falling through the dim panes should not show the white, despairing agony of her face.

“It matters not how we met,” Speedwell continued, “but we were useful to one another. Then we parted, little expecting to meet again, till I saw him last night.”

“Here in this very place?” Rebecca asked.

“Yes; down by the docks. Abishai there almost touched us as he passed.”

“The will of Heaven will be done!” she murmured; “for whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. I have prayed that after all these years––What is that?”

She pressed her hand to her heart, which was beating wildly. There was a sound of a heavy step in the shop coming towards them. They sat almost afraid to move, till the latch was raised, and the new-comer entered. Fresh from the bright sunshine, he could see nothing but a group of silhouettes, and so their emotion was lost upon him.

The deepening light showed them a man of more than medium height, with a benevolent face, clean-shaven, and fringed with silvery hair. He wore upon his head a broad felt hat, which he had not removed on entering. He had on a long waistcoat reaching almost to his knees, a ruffled shirt-front, and a full-skirted coat of sombre brown. His nether man was clad in homespun breeches, finished off with gray knitted hose and heavy shoes latched with steel buckles. As he stood there, with his large white hands folded behind him, he might have posed for the embodiment of prosperity, in which, indeed, his looks would not have belied him, for Mark Lockwood was reputed to be the wealthiest manufacturer in Westport; a generous friend, a good master, albeit an uncompromising Quaker.

By this time Rebecca had recovered herself. She came forward with a gesture of humility almost Oriental, and placed a chair for the new-comer. Then raising the skirt of his coat to her lips, she kissed it reverently, and, folding her hands, waited for him to speak.

“I have come, friend Rebecca, because I hear that some of my people have been molesting thee,” said Mr. Lockwood. “They are a wild lot, and take great delight in the maltreating of innocent persons. They have been assaulting thy children. I trust no grievous harm has been wrought.”

“No harm, I thank you, master,” Rebecca answered. “You know how they hate us always, and how much the more now that my children are well nourished while they are starving.”

“The stiff-necked will not hearken to the voice of reason,” returned the manufacturer. “Verily, this strife between master and man grieves me sorely. Even my mediations have failed to heal the breech, and yet we must have justice as well as they. But it was an evil day for Westport when the labourer listened to the voice of the charmer. But thou hast not told me, friend, how thy children came off unscathed.”

In a few words Rebecca told the simple story. Abishai stood gloomily in the background, but Miriam and Hazael drew their champion forward, where the light might fall upon his face. Mark Lockwood clasped his hands round one knee, and regarded the lad not unkindly for a brief space.

“Thou’rt well-favoured, boy,” he said, at length, “and I like the expression of thy face. Tell me thy name, please.”

“I am called Speedwell,” was the haughty reply. “What is yours?”

“Nay; but I did not mean to wound thy feelings,” Mr. Lockwood observed, with a gentle smile, “nor do I seek to pry into thy affairs. But I like spirit in a lad. Art willing to work?”

“I am willing to do anything to get an honest living, sir. The question is, are you willing to give me the chance?”

The merchant rubbed his chin, looking meanwhile into his questioner’s face with shrewd, smiling gray eyes. He was too natively independent himself to despise that spirit in others. But the spindles were silent now, the workshops empty. It was no time to seek for work in Westport.

“Thy question is a fair one,” he answered, at the same time taking a purse from his pocket, “though it is somewhat difficult to answer. But this unfortunate strife cannot last long, and then I can do something for thee. Art thou willing to tarry here?”