CHAPTER XXXV.
JESSIE'S BIRTHDAY.
The morning of Jessie's birthday rose bright and clear. How well I remember it, and every trivial feature connected with it, which, apparently but little noted at the time, impressed itself indelibly upon my mind! Often afterwards, in thinking of that day--and how many, many times have my thoughts dwelt upon it I--a rift of light has pierced the black cloud which overshadowed it, and I have seen myself, as I stepped into the street soon after sunrise, stooping to pick up a pin which lay on the pavement. I have awoke in the night, sobbing in bitterest grief, and this smallest and most uneventful of incidents has been the clearest thing I have seen in connection with that day. Other incidents as trivial are clear to me--a costermonger wheeling his barrow, loaded with fruit; a policeman standing by a lamp-post chewing a piece of straw; a woman who brushed past me humming a line of a song. I see the exact arrangement of the fruit in the costermonger's barrow; the face of the policeman is as familiar to me as if he had been an intimate friend; I hear the few words the woman hummed, with the precise and delicate intonations she gave to them. And yet, had these incidents occurred at the North Pole, they could not have been more utterly disconnected from the great and sorrowful event which made the day memorable to me.
My mother had not been well during the past week, and for a day or two had been compelled to keep her room. On one of these days I had gone to Mr. Rackstraw's office for Jessie, and had learned that she had left an hour before my arrival. Hastening home, I found her by my mother's bedside, nursing my mother. Hearing my step on the stairs, Jessie had come to the bedroom door, and had whispered to me indignantly:
'If I had been in your place I think I should have stopped at home with my mother, knowing what a comfort my presence was to her, instead of running after a foolish wilful girl.'
Before I had time for reply, my mother had called out, in her thin sweet voice:
'Jessie, what are you saying to Chris?'
Then Jessie had left us together, and my mother, drawing my head on her pillow, told me how kind and gentle Jessie had been to her, and made my pulses thrill with delight by her praises of the girl whom I loved with all my soul. Something noticeable had occurred within an hour after that. Going into the parlour downstairs, I noticed that Jessie had a pair of new gold earrings in her ears. Now I was sure that she had not worn them when she met me at the door of my mother's bedroom. They were of a pretty and graceful pattern, and became her. I had not given them to her; who had? I looked towards uncle Bryan----but, no; he was not the giver, for his eyes were fixed upon them suspiciously and disapprovingly. It hurt me to see them in her ears, but I would not ask her about them, preferring the pain which lay in ignorance. Besides, I would show Jessie what confidence I had in her, by waiting until she chose to tell me of her own accord who was the giver. But Jessie said not a word on the subject.
On Jessie's birthday my mother was better, although not quite well. We had arranged between us that there should be a little feast at home in the evening, in honour of Jessie, and that Jessie should not be told of it beforehand. I contemplated another surprise for Jessie, and I consulted my mother concerning it.
'Nothing would please Jessie so much as having one of her friends at our little party.'
My mother looked doubtfully at me. Since we had lived in uncle Bryan's house, no stranger had ever sat down at our table.
'I don't think uncle Bryan can possibly object,' I said. 'It is only Josey West, Jessie's best friend, and one of the kindest-hearted creatures in the world. Before you knew her five minutes you would love her, and I believe she would even take uncle Bryan's fancy, strange as he is.'
'Will you ask him, or shall I, my dear?'
'You had better,' I answered; 'you have more patience with him than I. If he refused me, I should quarrel with him perhaps. Tell him she's deformed, and as good as gold.'
A few hours afterwards my mother said,
'Your uncle says we can do as we please. He consents, my dear.'
'Ungraciously, of course,' I added; 'but never mind, so long as Josey is here. Not a word to Jessie, mother.'
I enjoined secrecy also on Josey West, who was really glad of the opportunity of making my mother's personal acquaintance.
'I shall throw my arms round her neck,' said Josey, and kiss her the moment I see her. And as for you,' she added, with a fair disregard of sequence in her speech, 'you are a wise young man. Now what made you think of me at all?'
'Because I knew it would please Jessie,' I answered honestly, 'and because I want to make Jessie's birthday the happiest day in her life and mine.'
She pinched my cheek merrily, as though she understood my meaning.
I had fully resolved that on that day I would ask Jessie to be my wife. Tortured almost beyond endurance by the doubts and difficulties which surrounded me, I had in some way gathered courage to look my position steadily in the face, and the moment I did so, the way seemed clear before me. I became strengthened immediately, and the fair promise which hope held forth appeared realised in anticipation. I set aside all obstacles for future consideration, and mentally leaped out of the entanglement of feeling which had brought so much discomfort into our lives. 'It is for me to speak,' I thought, 'and to speak plainly and manfully.' I painted the future in the fairest colours. My prospects of success were growing brighter and brighter; my sketches for the Christmas story which had been intrusted to me to illustrate were approved of by the author and the publisher, and I felt I only wanted opportunity to rise far above the sphere of life which, in the natural course of things, I could have expected to occupy. 'Jessie's love for the stage,' I thought, 'and her wish to become an actress, only arise from her thoughtfulness of her future, and from her state of dependence on uncle Bryan. Well, I can clear away all doubt; I can offer her a good home; and I can release her from uncle Bryan, and, if she wishes, can pay him what she thinks she owes him.' I resolutely closed the eyes of my mind on my mother's declaration, that wherever our home was, uncle Bryan must share it. I knew too well that it would be impossible for Jessie and me to be happy together, with him as a member of our household. All these things could be considered and settled by and by, when Jessie had promised to be my wife. I reproached myself that I had not spoken plainly to her before now; I had, as it were, driven her by my faint-heartedness to do what she might not have done, if she had had a protector whom she loved and who loved her. All this and other reasoning of the same nature I carried out exactly in the way which best suited my hopes, and at length I lay in my cloud-built castles at peace with myself; for it was not to be doubted that my dearest wishes would now be surely realised. I had an instinctive consciousness that Josey West was thoroughly acquainted with the position of affairs between Jessie and me, and knowing her to be my friend, I was convinced that she would have warned me if she had had any doubt of Jessie's affection for me.
So that it was all clear sailing. What would come, would come, but the bliss which I should presently taste of, knowing Jessie to be mine and mine only--the bliss which I was enjoying already in anticipation--was all sufficient. Outside our own two personalities there was nothing else to be considered. Nothing else? No one else? No; for this one greatest of all joys secured, all difficulties which once seemed to threaten to mar its fulfilment must melt away, as surely as snow melts before the sun. I pleased myself with this commonplace metaphor, and utterly overlooked the common sense of things (common sense, indeed, in this case being the very slave of sentiment)--utterly overlooked the possibility that the current of others' feelings, of others' likes and dislikes, of others' ideas of right and wrong, could run in a different direction from that down which I was sailing with my hopes realised. It is thus, I suppose, sometimes with other selfish natures than mine.
I was up and out early in the morning. I could not sleep the night before, and wishing to give Jessie a bouquet of fresh flowers, I had determined to walk to Covent-garden to buy them. I had a bouquet made of the sweetest and loveliest flowers, and I took it to our house by the back way, and hid it in my workroom. How many times I looked at it, and how in every delicate leaf I found a sentiment which formed a connecting link between me and Jessie, it is unnecessary here to describe. In the afternoon I had to go to the jeweller's for the watch for Jessie, the inscription on which could not be completed before; and when I held it in my hand and read the words, 'From Chris to Jessie, on her eighteenth birthday. With undying love,' I saw Jessie's beautiful eyes looking into mine, and I uttered an exclamation of delight which must have satisfied the jeweller that his work was approved of. Then there was the ivory brooch shaped in the form of a true lover's knot. Perhaps Jessie would allow me to fasten it in the bosom of her dress, as she had allowed me to take the ribbon from her neck, which was now round mine, with the locket she had given me on my birthday. No one but I had yet seen or knew of these offerings of love. It was to be a day of delightful surprises.
I was at home with my flowers before breakfast.
'What made you go out so early this morning, Chris?' Jessie inquired over breakfast.
'That's a secret,' I answered gaily; 'you shall know to-night.'
My mother had already questioned me in private, and I had easily satisfied her. Something unusual occurred when we had finished breakfast. Jessie went to uncle Bryan's side, and spoke to him.
'Do you know it's my birthday to-day, uncle Bryan?'
'I have heard so.' Then after a short pause: 'May it be a day of good remembrance to you!'
Nothing more; not a kiss, not even a hand-shake. And yet she invited it in the tenderest manner, as she stood before him, bright and beautiful, in a new light print dress, with a small lilac flower. I never see a dress with such a pattern without an odd sensation at my heart. She did not move from the spot until he, after some mental communing, I think, turned from her and went into the shop. I experienced a feeling very much like hatred towards him for his hardness and insensibility.
My mother took Jessie's hand.
'May your life be bright and happy, dear child!'
She hid her face in my mother's bosom for a little while in silence; then she raised her face, and they kissed each other. Ah, the world was bright with such a flower in it!
'And you, Chris?' she said presently, holding out her hand to me.
'I shall wish you nothing until to-night,' I said, with an effort of great self-restraint, 'except in my heart.'
She nodded, and smiled, and then busied herself about the room, insisting that my mother should sit and rest while she did the work of the house. But my mother, laughing, said that she could not allow it, as Jessie would find out all her secrets; then ensued fond coaxing and teasing, which ended, as I was afraid it would do, in my mother whispering to Jessie that we were going to have a little feast that night in her honour, and that Josey West was coming to spend the evening with us.
'A nice one you are to keep a secret,' I called merrily after them as they went out of the room with their arms around each other's waist, like mother and daughter; 'it's a good job I didn't tell you everything.'
What with my work and other duties, I saw but little of Jessie during the day; and in the evening I dressed myself in my best, and went for a walk, with the intention of not coming home until past eight o'clock, when Josey West would be at our house, and when everything would be prepared to celebrate Jessie's birthday in a befitting manner. I carried out my programme faithfully, and entered the parlour with a beating heart and flushed face. The room was very bright. My mother had on her best cap and dress, and in the rapid glance I cast at uncle Bryan, who was behind the counter, as I walked through the shop, I fancied I detected some change for the better in his appearance; I fancied also that he expected to see some one with me. Josey West was in the parlour, and the dear little soul was holding my mother's hand in hers with tender feeling. They were already the best of friends. My mother stood on tiptoe to look over my shoulder.
'Whom for, mother?' I asked.
'I was looking for Jessie, my dear. Has she not been out walking with you?'
'No, mother.'
'Ah,' exclaimed Josey West briskly, 'she'll be in presently. I dare say she is going to surprise us with something.'
Unable to keep my secret any longer, I said that I had something to surprise Jessie with when she came in; and I brought the flowers from my workroom, and placed them on the table. Then I showed them the brooch and the watch; before I knew it, Josey had opened the case, and read the inscription, and pointed it out to my mother.
'And is it so, really?' Josey asked tantalisingly.
'Why, you knew it was so,' I answered, very hot and red.
And my mother left Josey, and came and pressed me fondly in her arms.
But where was Jessie? She was nowhere in the house.
'Perhaps she's at mine,' suggested Josey; 'run round, and bring her. I dare say she's waiting for you there.' This with the wickedest of laughs.
But Jessie was not at Josey West's house, nor was she at home when I returned. Our perplexity soon turned to alarm. We looked at each other, to see whether any one of us held the key of Jessie's absence; my suspicions lighted on Josey West, but a frank look assured me that I had no right to suspect her. For an hour I walked about the street watching for Jessie.
'Can anything have happened to her?' my mother asked.
Uncle Bryan was in the room when my mother spoke. He also, in his own way, shared our alarm.
'Mother,' I said, inspired by a sudden thought, if Jessie comes while I am away, do not let her go out again. I shall not be long.'
My thought was to go to Mr. Rackstraw's office to make inquiries, although I knew full well that the office was closed hours ago. But I could not remain still. As I turned to go from the room, a boy's voice in the shop arrested my steps. He was inquiring for Mr. Bryan Carey and my mother. Uncle Bryan, answering the lad, came in with a letter, addressed to my mother. I saw that the writing was Jessie's, and I took the letter from his hand.
'I must open it, mother,' I said. The letter contained these words:
'I have gone away, and shall not return. Forgive me for all the trouble I have brought among you, but I think I have not been entirely to blame. Do not be sorry that I have gone; I have caused you too much pain already. It will be useless, if you find where I am, endeavouring to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than enter the house again.
'Jessie.'
CHAPTER XXXVI.
I SPEAK PLAINLY TO UNCLE BRYAN.
The paper which I held in my hand became blurred in my sight, and for a few moments the only thing that was clear to me was that Jessie was lost to me, and that all possible happiness had gone out of my life.
There was no mistaking the meaning of Jessie's letter to my mother. It was intended to snap at once and for ever the bonds which united us. She had set herself free from her miserable thraldom, and she was not to be wooed back. 'It will be useless, if you find where I am, endeavouring to prevail upon me to return. I would starve rather than enter the house again.' I heard her speak these words in sharp incisive tones, and I knew too well that she was not to be turned from her purpose. All was over between us, and this day, which I had fondly imagined was to be the happiest in our lives, had sealed the destruction of all my hopes.
Two trivial circumstances recalled me to the realities of the scene. One was the ticking of the watch which I had intended as a birthday present for Jessie; the other was a slight rustling of paper. I had observed, when uncle Bryan entered the room with the letter for my mother, that he held another paper in his hand, which must have been addressed to himself. It was the rustling of this paper which now attracted my attention. Uncle Bryan had opened it, and was reading it. He could have read but a very few lines when a ghastly pallor overspread his features, and his hands trembled from excess of agitation. Every muscle in his face was quivering, and even in the midst of my own suffering these signs of suffering in him did not escape me. They did not move me to pity; they stirred me rather to a more bitter resentment against him. He, and he alone, was the cause of all my misery; he, and he alone, had brought this blight upon my life.
I did not know, until I attempted to move towards him, that my mother's arms were round me. I had no distinct intention of raising my hand against him, but it might have occurred, and my mother feared it and clung to me convulsively. I released myself from her arms, and I stood before him, barring the way, for I detected in him a desire to leave the room unobserved. He gazed at me in a weak uncertain manner; all his old strength and sternness of character seemed to have deserted him, and he was suddenly transformed into a weak and worn old man. That his sorrow-stricken face should have won sympathy from my mother and Josey West--as I saw clearly it had--I construed into an additional wrong against myself, committed not by them, but by him. It inflamed me the more; I felt that my passion must have vent, and that it was impossible for me to be silent.
'Let me pass.'
I did not hear the words, for his throat was parched, and refused to give them utterance; but I knew that he had striven to speak them.
'Not till you have heard what I have to say,' was my reply, as I stood before him.
My mother crept to my side, but I was not to be turned from my purpose. I could hear and feel the rapid beating of her heart against my hand, which she had taken in hers and pressed to her bosom, but the selfish intensity of my own grief made me deaf and blind to everything else. Uncle Bryan did not answer me; he strove feebly to pass me again, but I prevented him from doing so. Something in my attitude caused Josey West to place herself between us.
'I hope you are satisfied,' I said. 'You have driven her from us. What is the next thing you intend to do?'
I paused for his reply, but he did not speak.
'I intended to ask Jessie to-night to be my wife. I don't know what her answer would have been, but I think I know what it might have been but for your systematic cruelty. Will it add to your satisfaction to know that I had set all my hopes of happiness upon her, and that you have driven these from my heart, as you have driven her from your door? I loved her with all my soul. I was not worthy of her; she is far above me and every one here; but I loved her most truly and sincerely, and you have stepped between us and parted us for ever. Does it please you to be assured of this?----Nay, mother, I will speak. I have been silent until now, out of my love for you, and because I knew that you had given even him a place in your tender heart. He has requited you nobly for it. If I had spoken openly before now, things might have been different, but I held my tongue, like a coward, and because I had some latent notion that he deserved respect from me. I think so no longer. On my last birthday,' I continued, addressing him, 'you gave me certain advice which I believed to be good; among other things you said that it is seldom a man can look back upon his life with satisfaction. You drew that from your own experience. With what kind of satisfaction do you look back upon your own life? A man with any tenderness for others in his nature would shrink with horror from the contemplation of such a life as yours. But perhaps you find it a pleasant task to blight the hopes and happiness of those who have the misfortune to come in contact with you. Having no children of your own upon whom you could practise in this way, you turned your attention to others, and you have succeeded most thoroughly. You said to me, when I was of age, that I was a man, with a man's responsibility, and a man's work to do, and you bade me do it faithfully. I have tried to do it--my mother knows that, and so does Miss West, I think--in the hope that it would lead to a good result. But when you addressed those words to me, did you think of yourself, and the example of your own life? They sounded well, but did you think of your own responsibility--or did you think that you, apart from all other men in the world, had no responsibility which it behoved you to look to? You brought Jessie here, a friendless, helpless girl--a girl whom nobody but you could help loving for the goodness that is in her. She brought sunshine into this house, which was gloomy enough without her. She had no mother, no father, no friends, and you were her only protector. How have you fulfilled your duty towards her? Shall I answer for you? You have behaved like a tyrant, in whom all human feeling was deadened. When she strove to love you, you compelled her, by harsh words and cold looks and repellent acts, to hate you. She has good cause for her feelings towards you now, for you did your best to make every hour and every day of her life a misery to her. She told me herself that she was only happy out of the house; so that you did your work well. If you saw faults in her which no one else saw, and which had their birth in your own hard unfeeling nature, what right had you to torture her in the way you did? She was but a child, and you are an old man. Why could you not have dealt tenderly and gently by her? Ask my mother--ask Miss West--ask any of her friends--if there is anything in her character that might not be turned to good account? But you could not see it. Lightheartedness and an innocent flow of spirits are crimes in your eyes. You made her pay bitterly for the shelter you gave her; you have shown the generosity of your nature in its fullest light by making her say, after a long experience of you, that she would starve rather than enter your house again. When you told us the story of your life, you said you wished me to hear it because I might learn something from it. I have learnt something--but not the lesson you wished me to learn. I have learnt that such a life as yours, such a nature as yours, brings desolation upon every life and nature within its influence, and that it would be a happier fate for me to drop down dead this minute than live as you have lived, a torture to all around you.'
'Chris, Chris!' implored my mother, with streaming eyes, and with a gesture of entreaty towards uncle Bryan, who sat before me now, with his head bowed upon his hands. Remember, my dear child, remember!'
'Remember what, mother?' I cried pitilessly. 'That he has robbed me of all that can make life dear to me--of all that is dear to me? You should ask me rather to forget when you point to him, whom I would teach a different lesson if he were not an old man, with one foot in the grave. Shall I remember that he has no belief in goodness here or hereafter--that he believes neither in God nor man? Will such remembrances as these plead in his favour? One thing I will and do remember--that I owe him money for the food he has given me and you. But I will pay him to the last farthing, so that nothing may remain between us but what I owe him for having brought misery into my life. That is a debt that can never be wiped out. And Jessie will pay him also; she told me she would. But for that resolve she would not, for a long time past, have eaten a meal at his expense. Are these the things you wish me to remember?'
I knew that I was striking him hard with every word I uttered, but I would not spare him. I ransacked my mind to hurt him.
'And you, mother,' I said pitilessly, do you think you are just to me in pleading for him, and in disguising the opinion you have of him? When, knowing that all my hopes were set on Jessie, and that it was impossible for her and him to live happily in the same house, I proposed to make a home elsewhere where we could live in happiness without him, did you show your love for me by saying that we must never leave him, and that, wherever our home was, he must share it? When he told us his story, for the purpose, as I now see, of setting us more and more against Jessie, and I asked you afterwards if you would like me to look on things as he does, what was your answer? "God forbid!" you said; "it would take all the sweetness out of your life."' (Uncle Bryan removed his hand from his eyes at this, and raised them for one moment to my mother's white face; there was no reproach in them, but a look of humble grateful affection.) 'In what was Jessie wrong that she should have been driven from us? In wishing him to go to church with us? Ask your own heart, mother, for an answer to that, and remember what occurred on the first Sunday night we were in this house. If I had known then what I know now, I would have starved rather than have accepted the shelter of his roof. Remember how, for days and weeks together, Jessie has been submissive and tender to him, striving by every means in her power to win his affection; and remember how her efforts were received and rewarded. But for him Jessie might have been my wife; you loved her, and she loved you. How often have you told me that you saw nothing in her but what was good! I think at one time she would have consented to share my lot, but that dream is over now. There was an influence strong enough to turn love into hate, and to poison all our lives. I will remember that to my dying day, which I hope may not be far off. I have nothing worth living for. But one thing I am resolved upon--that while I live, those who love me shall choose between me and him.'
Josey West caught my arm suddenly and sharply.
'Are you mad?' she cried. 'Learn the lesson you want to teach others. Look at your mother.'
She let go my arm, and stepped swiftly to my mother's side, in time to save her from falling to the ground. Uncle Bryan made a movement towards her, but I stood before him, and he shrank back. My mother's strength had given way, and she had fainted. I supported her in my arms, while Josey West loosened her dress and bathed her face. She opened her eyes presently, and, recognising me, pressed me convulsively to her breast.
'O my child, my child,' she sobbed, 'my heart is almost broken!'
I looked round for uncle Bryan; he was gone.
'What I did,' moaned my mother, 'I did for the best. I prayed and hoped that time would set all things right. I see now that it was impossible, and that I was a weak foolish woman. But I loved you, my darling, and I would shed my heart's blood for you. What sin have I committed that I should be punished by the loss of my dear child's love?'
'No, no, mother,' I cried remorsefully, 'you must not say that. You have not lost it. God forbid that it should ever be so!'
I think she did not hear me, for she slid from my arms and knelt before me, imploring me with sobs and broken words to forgive her. Many minutes passed before I succeeded in calming her, and then Josey West and I assisted her upstairs to her room, to the room which Jessie had made bright by her innocent devices.
'Jessie will never sleep here again,' I thought, with a choking sensation in my throat. This was her room, Josey,' I said aloud.
Josey nodded gravely, and whispered to me that my mother must go to bed, and that she ought to see a doctor. 'I hope she will not have a fever,' said Josey.
My mother's eyes were wandering around her in a strange way; once or twice she looked at me as if she did not know me. The simple sound of my voice, however, recalled her to herself.
'Yes, dear child,' she said, with a smile so sad and sweet as to bring the tears into my eyes.
'Mother,' I whispered, 'you know what has occurred?'
She considered for a moment or two; I assisted her memory.
'Jessie,' I said.
'I know now,' she replied, with a look of distress. 'Jessie has gone.'
'Will you be strong for my sake, mother?'
'I will do anything you tell me, my darling child,' she said humbly.
'First I will go and send a doctor to you. Then I want to try and find Jessie.'
'Dear child, do you know where she is?'
'No; and I have no hope of inducing her to return. I know she will never come back, but I cannot rest without doing something. I shall go mad if I stop in the house all night and make no effort to discover her.'
'Go, then, dear child,' she said; and added imploringly, You will come back, my darling, will you not? You will not desert me after all these years?'
'How can you think it, mother? I will come back, but it may be late.'
'I will keep awake for you, my darling. Say nothing more to your uncle. Promise me that, dear child.'
'I will not speak another word to him.'
I turned to Josey West; she divined what I was about to say.
'I'll stop with your mother, if you must go. Run round to my house first, and say I sha'n't be home to-night. And look here. If Turk's there, you'd best take him with you. I suppose you are going to Mr. Rackstraw's?
'That was my intention,' I said.
'Of course you know the office will be closed; but I daresay it will relieve your feelings to thump at the door.' She spoke fretfully; but her tone changed when she said, 'Don't think only of yourself. Have some thought for your mother.'
'One word, Josey. You have no idea where Jessie is?'
'Not the slightest,' she replied. 'And you didn't know she was going away?'
'I had no more idea of it than you had.'
'That night,' I said hesitatingly, 'when Mr. Glover was at your house----'
'Oh,' she interrupted in a sharp tone, Mr. Glover! Well, what night?'
'A little while ago, when Jessie was there, and I was not. Did he pay her great attention?'
'Of course he did.'
'Did he seem fond of her?'
'It wouldn't have been natural otherwise,' she replied, with a suspicious look at me. 'Of course he seemed fond of her. Anything more?'
'No,' I said, with a sigh; 'that's all.'
I kissed my mother, and left the room. Her loving eyes followed me to the door.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
TURK MAKES A CONFESSION.
I found Turk at his sister's house. He jumped up at once on my proposing that he should take a walk with me.
'I am glad of the opportunity, Chris, my boy,' he said; 'for I want to talk to you.'
I answered, in as lively a tone as I could command, that I was at his service.
'Like a true friend as you are. The subject I want to talk about is spelt with four letters--s-e-l-f. Such a subject needs no overture; up with the curtain, then. I start with a self-evident proposition. A man must live. What do you say to that?'
I had nothing to say in contradiction.
'Very well, then. To live, one must have money; to have money (barring the silver spoon), one must work for it. Granted?'
'Granted,' I assented listlessly. He looked at me in surprise at my despondent tone.
'Ah,' he said, 'there's more in that than meets the eye.'
'More in what, Turk? In your proposition?'
'No, Chris, my boy. In your face. You are in trouble.'
'I am, Turk; in the deepest, most terrible trouble. I am utterly, utterly wretched. I have nothing in the world worth living for.'
'It's bad when it comes to that,' he said, with an expression of deep concern. 'Money?'
'No, Turk.'
'Heart?'
My silence was a sufficient answer.
Is the trouble of such a nature that it may be confided to a friend--to a friend with a kindred soul, Chris, my boy?'
'I will tell you about it presently, Turk. Go on with your own story first.'
'In one act, then. Without detail. Since that ever-to-be-remembered night when a strong verdict was pronounced against me on the other side of Temple Bar--in which direction, by the bye, I see we are walking now--and when I determined to relinquish the profession in which I glory--I do, Chris, I glory in it; and you can hardly have an idea of the sacrifice I have made in giving it up--I have been looking about me. Not having been born with that silver spoon in my mouth, I can't afford to be idle. Well, to be brief, something that will suit me has come in my way, and I have snatched at the chance. The affair will be settled to-morrow. Near the theatre in which I made my first and last appearance in the new and original drama which was played for the first and last time is a theatrical wig and hair shop, with a shaving connection attached. To-morrow that shop and that connection will be mine. That's the head and front of my story. But there's something more. I have a friend of yours to thank for it all.'
'A friend of mine!'
'Two, I may say--one fair, one dark. I do perceive here a divided duty. But we'll speak of that anon.'
'No; tell me now. What friends do you mean? I haven't many.'
'You have one who stands for a host. If she were such a friend to me, I wouldn't call the king my uncle.'
'She!'
'I see you must hear it. Briefly, then, this was the way of it. The business was for sale, Chris, my boy. Money had to be paid for it--not much, but too much for a poor actor whose purse has always resembled a sieve. I had saved a little, but not more than half what was required for the purchase of the goodwill. I mention this in the presence of these friends of yours----'
I interrupted him.
'Don't let us have any mystery, Turk. Who are they?'
'Jessie the peerless and Mr. Glover.'
I started. Turk continued:
'I mention this in their presence, and lament my impecuniosity. Jessie sympathises with me--wishes that she had money, so that she might help me. She has a heart of gold, Chris, my boy, a heart of gold. Two or three days afterwards, Mr. Glover sends for me--says he has been considering the matter, and that he is disposed to assist me. He goes further than being disposed to do it--he does it. In short, he provides half the purchase-money, and there we are. It is a matter of business, Chris, my boy. I asked him to make a matter of business of it, and he said he intended to do so; and he has. Mr. Glover is a moneylender, and he lends me the money at ten per cent. But there's one thing I'm certain of. He wouldn't have done it but for Jessie.'
I reflected with some bitterness on this information.
'Are you certain of that, Turk?'
'Morally certain, that is all. For when I thanked Jessie, she modestly averred that all that she did was to express a wish that she had a friend who would assist me. And now, Chris, my boy, unbosom yourself. What's your trouble?'
'Jessie has left our house, Turk.'
He gave me a look of deep concern. 'What do you mean by that, Chris, my son?'
'She has left us, never to return--left us suddenly, without explanation.'
And then I narrated to him, in detail, all that had occurred, omitting only what had passed between me and uncle Bryan. Still when I mentioned his name, which was necessary several times in the course of my narration, I spoke of him with sufficient bitterness to make Turk aware of the terms upon which we stood to each other.
Turk, growing more and more serious as I proceeded, listened to me without interruption, and pondered deeply. By the time I had finished he had become very serious indeed, and there was an air of gloom upon him which somewhat soothed me.
'There is more in this than meets the eye,' he said; and added, somewhat unnecessarily as I thought, 'Bear with me a little while, Chris, my boy,' for I felt that such a request more properly belonged to me than to him. But he explained his meaning presently.
'You have given me your confidence, Chris, my boy, and you want me to stand by you.'
'I do, Turk.'
'And I will stand by you, as you have stood by me--I don't forget the big stick you bought, Chris, to assist me on a certain eventful night'--(here I was stung reproachfully by the remembrance of my cowardly behaviour on that night); 'nor other occasions at the Royal Columbia when you led the applause like a true friend. I'll stand by you, my boy, but you must first hear my confession.'
I did not wish to hear his confession; I wished to continue talking only of myself and Jessie, but I was bound to listen.
'As before, Chris, in a very few words. I knew that you loved Jessie, but I scarcely thought that your passion was as strong as it is--as powerful, as deep----'
'No words can express its strength and depth, Turk,' I said, in a tone of gloomy satisfaction.
He nodded, as if he fully understood me, and continued: Well, others may love as well as you, Chris.' I looked at him in jealous curiosity. 'I shouldn't be true to you nor to myself if I didn't confess it before we proceed to the consideration of the state of affairs. I love her, also.'
I started, and let go his arm.
'Don't do that, Chris, my boy,' said the honest fellow; 'it's nobody's fault but my own. I know that I can't stand in comparison with you. You are ten years younger than I am--you are handsome, clever, bright; and I--well, I am a failure. That's what I am, Chris; a failure. Even if you were out of the way, which I don't for one moment wish, curious as it may sound, I think I should stand but a poor chance with such a beautiful creature as she is. I am not a hundredth part good enough for her.'
'No one is, Turk,' I said, somewhat mollified.
'No; I won't say that. I think that some one whom I know is good enough' (he pressed my arm sympathisingly); 'and besides, you have a claim upon her. You mustn't be surprised or hurt at my loving her, Chris; I could mention half a dozen others who are in the same boat. You see, one can't help loving her, she is so bright and winsome. Why, if she were mine--which she isn't, and never will be--I think I should take a pride in knowing it, for it would make her all the more precious to me. That is how the matter stands with me, Chris, and I think it's right that you should know it. I give her up, not without a pang, my boy, but freely; I am used to disappointments, and I shall bear this as I have borne others.'
'But you never had any hope, Turk,' I said, disposed, after his magnanimous conduct, to argue the matter with him.
'No, not to speak of,' he replied, with a melancholy sigh. 'If I can't be Jessie's lover--don't be angry with me for using the word--I can be her friend, and yours. It rests with you to say the word. If you know enough of Turk West to trust him, say so, Chris, and he pledges himself to act faithfully in your interest. He may be of more use to you than you imagine. Well?'
'I should be an ungrateful brute not to say that I accept your offer thankfully, Turk.'
'That's settled, then. Shake hands on it. And now, Chris, we'll be silent for just two minutes, and then we'll go into the matter.'
At the end of that time he resumed.
'I said that there was more in your story than meets the eye, Chris, my boy; and there is. Jessie disappears on your birthday, suddenly, without any forewarning. This morning everything was nice and pleasant with all of you at home.'
'With the exception of uncle Bryan,' I interrupted; 'you mustn't forget that.'
'I don't forget it, but then he is the same as he usually is, and there's nothing unusual in that. She is affectionate to you; she is affectionate to your mother; and I think that she couldn't have avoided seeing that there was to be a little celebration of her birthday to-night. Well, it is plain to me that this morning she had no idea of going away. Now what has occurred since this morning to cause this sudden change in her? That's the first thing to consider.'
I could not think of anything. Jessie had not been out of our house.
'There's something I have not told you, Turk, but I don't see what it can have to do with Jessie's going from us. We were talking together once, when Jessie said that she wondered that I had never asked her any questions about herself--she meant about herself before she came to live with us. I answered that mother had desired me not to do so, because uncle Bryan might not like it.'
'What had he to do with it? asked Turk.
'I don't know, but mother said he might have secrets which he would not wish us to discover. When I told this to Jessie, she said that she had a secret, but didn't then know what it was. It was in a letter which she was not to open until she was eighteen years of age--until to-day. Then she said she would tell me everything.'
'There's a mystery somewhere,' said Turk, pondering; in that letter perhaps.'
But I could not agree with him. Eager as I was to receive any impressions which would divert my suspicions from the current in which they were running, I could not see the slightest connection between the circumstance I had just mentioned and Jessie's absence. By this time we were at Temple Bar.
'Where are we going?' asked Turk.
'To Mr. Rackstraw's,' I answered. 'Jessie has been taking lessons of him, you know. He may be able to tell us something about her.'
Turk shook his head. 'There are two strong reasons against the realisation of that expectation, Chris. First, Jessie has not been there to-day, according to your own statement; second, Mr. Rackstraw's office closes at five o'clock.'
But we may be able to discover where Mr. Rackstraw lives.'
'Well?'
'Well?' I echoed, irritated at his seeming discouragement of my plan. 'Turk, can't you see that I'm almost mad with misery. I thought you were a friend----'
'And am I not? That's news to Turk. What good can you do by finding out Mr. Rackstraw's private address?'
'He may tell me where Mr. Glover lives.'
'And then?' demanded Turk, in a grave and sorrowful tone.
I turned from him petulantly. 'If you do not care to understand me,' I said, 'I had best go alone.'
I walked swiftly onwards towards Mr. Rackstraw's office, Turk following me at a distance of a few paces.
Mr. Rackstraw's office was situated in a quiet narrow street in the rear of Covent-garden. It was closed, as I expected it would be, and although I rang all the bells on the door for fully ten minutes, I received no answer. Turk stood quietly near me, without speaking. I was heartily ashamed of myself for my treatment of him, and I made an attempt at reconciliation by holding out my hand to him as I turned disconsolately from Mr. Rackstraw's door. He took my hand with affectionate eagerness.
'I can't find it in my heart,' he said with rough tenderness, 'to be angry with you; but I ought to be.'
'I am ashamed of myself for behaving so badly to you, Turk, but I couldn't help it. I think I am ready to do any mad or foolish thing.'
'Oh, I don't care about myself. I have a stronger reason for being angry with you. Who of we two should be Jessie's champion? You, I should say. Yet I am obliged to defend her from your suspicions. If you were ten years older than you are, I should quarrel with you, Chris; I would with any other man who dared to say a word against her.'
'Who has said anything against her?' I demanded hotly.
'You, in coupling her name with Mr. Glover--you, even in the expression of the idea that Mr. Glover has had anything to do with her disappearance. I don't want you to be ashamed of yourself for treating me badly, but you ought to be for your suspicions of her.'
'You don't know what I know, Turk. I am bringing no charge against Jessie--God forbid that I should; I love her too well, and think of her too highly. But Mr. Glover has been paying court to her from the first day he set eyes on her.'
'What if he has? Is that her fault? Aren't you old enough yet to know that there are hundreds of men always ready to run after a pretty girl? Now, I daresay it has hurt you to hear that Mr. Glover has helped me into my new business because Jessie expressed a wish that she had a friend who would assist me. Why, what was more natural than that she should say so, out of her kind heart, and what was more natural than that he should be glad of the opportunity of obliging her, and of doing a fair stroke of business at the same time? It isn't a large sum that he advances--a matter of seventy-five pounds only, and he has a bill of sale, and goodness knows what, all for security. Now you are better satisfied perhaps. I can't say that I am over-fond of Mr. Glover, but he is said to be an honourable, straightforward man. I'll tell you what I'll do, if you must see him----'
'I must,' I said firmly.
'I don't know where he lives, but I'll take you to a theatre that he often pops into of an evening; he may be there. The acting-manager is one of my new friends, and will pass us in, I daresay, or will be able to tell us if Mr. Glover is in the theatre.'