Jessie Trim

CHAPTER XLIV.

AT REHEARSAL.

As the curtain falls upon a scene in a drama, and when it rises again so many years are supposed to have elapsed, so between the closing of the last chapter and the opening of this six months must be supposed to have passed. We are again in London. My mother, thank God, is well, and I have within me the happy assurance that I have nursed her into health; the doctor has told me so, my mother herself has repeated it a hundred times, and I believe it and am humbly grateful.

We are living near to Paradise-row, but not in uncle Bryan's shop. My mother, knowing all that occurred on Jessie's birthday, showed no surprise when, on returning to London, I took her to some comfortable rooms I had engaged, and said that these were to be our home. She made only one remark--she hoped I would not have any objection to her going to the shop occasionally to see Josey West. I told her I should be glad if she went, and that I intended to go there myself very often.

We are as happy as we can reasonably expect to be. That we have sorrows is certain; but we refrain from speaking of them. We are as silent concerning our hopes, if we have any.

Nothing has been heard of uncle Bryan; Josey West conducts the business as though she had been born to it, and it is really prospering under her management. She is such a favourite with all the neighbours, that her customers increase every week, and the takings are nearly doubled.

'I think we shall be able to set up a plate window soon,' says Josey West, with a grand air. 'The sale of the pills is astonishing, my dear, astonishing! Do you know, Chris, I feel quite like a respectable member of society! I shall soon begin to turn up my nose at play-actors, who are nothing but vagrants, my dear, nothing but vagrants. And they're bad paymasters, Chris; I've two of them on my books already.'

When I ask her about Jessie, Josey says that she's all right, and that I have no occasion to bother myself about her. I can extract nothing more from her than this, and if I endeavour to press the subject further, she turns snappish.

My mother and I have had many conversations about uncle Bryan, and I think one great cause of her contentment is the altered state of my feelings towards him, which I do not disguise from her. I am prospering in a worldly sense, and when I feel most despondent I work the hardest; it is a relief to me. My name has appeared in print, connected with words of praise, and I often wonder whether Jessie has seen it. As for my mother, when I brought home the paper containing the two lines in which my work was spoken of favourably, I thought she would have gone wild with joy. I am afraid to say how many times she must have read the few ordinary words, but, knowing what a delight they are to her, I am glad that I have earned them for her sake.

In this way the months roll on. With reference to my feelings towards Jessie, I shall be almost as silent now as I was at home during that time. Sufficient to say that I never forgot her, and that I never loved her less; but her name is rarely mentioned at home.

There is one person, however, to whom I speak of Jessie freely--to Turk West. Turk is getting along capitally in his shop, and has already paid off more than half his debt to Mr. Glover. I see this gentleman occasionally in Turk's shop; Turk shaves him, and dresses his hair for him two or three times a week; whenever I go into the shop and see him there, I retire immediately. I have no wish to injure Turk's business, and when I reason calmly over matters I cannot see what tangible ground of complaint I have against Mr. Glover--which does not lessen my detestation of him.

'He is a good customer,' says Turk to me, 'and it will be best for more reasons than one not to offend him. I can't say that I like him--although I try to, Chris, my boy, let me tell you--but I know that he is the soul of honour.'

'How do you know it?' I ask.

Turk scratches his head. 'Well, he says it, Chris, my boy, and everybody says it who knows him. He comes from a highly-respectable family.'

I can say nothing in opposition, knowing nothing of his family.

'And it is something to be proud of, Chris?' says Turk.

'What is, Turk?'

'To be so respectably connected.'

'I suppose so,' I answer indifferently.

Old Mac is a constant visitor at Turk's shop; indeed, it appears to me that he spends most of his time there, for whenever I go westward and open Turk's door, his is the first familiar face I see. He keeps guard, as it were.

'Turk is inside,' he says; or 'Turk is upstairs, crimping a lady's hair.' For Turk has lady as well as gentleman customer's, and has become very skilful in the business. His flow of conversation and anecdote is of great assistance to him; he has always something to say, and, not having been born a barber and hairdresser, he seldom commences about the weather--which is a relief.

On a windy day in April, I visited Turk, and, as usual, found old Mac there. Turk, very busy over some theatrical wigs, looked up from his work, and asked me if I wanted to speak to him. No, I answered; I had merely dropped in as I passed. I had as little excuse for the visit as I had for many others; I only went in the vague hope of hearing something of Jessie. Turk understood this, without being told.

'Business good, Turk?' I inquired.

'First-class,' said Turk. 'I shall have to get an assistant, I expect. By the bye---- O, never mind!'

He suddenly interrupted himself, in a confused manner.

'By the bye, what, Turk?'

'Nothing,' he replied, bending over his work.

Old Mac looked at me somewhat significantly, and, rising, said he should take a stroll in Covent-garden Market.

'It does one good to walk up and down that arcade,' he said. 'One smells the country lanes there. How would it do to have it on the stage, Turk, with real hothouse fruit and flowers fresh from the market gardens every night? I daresay it will come to that, in time. The stage is not what it was, my sons.'

Winking at me, old Mac went out, and I, regarding the wink as an invitation to follow him, wished Turk good-morning.

'This is not the way to Covent Garden,' I said, as I joined him. 'Have you had your morning drain, Mac?'

'No, my son, no,' he replied cheerfully; 'and I know a place.'

Without more words he conducted me to the 'place,' where I paid for his morning drain twice over.

'You took my hint, my son,' he said, when he had drained his glass, and eaten his lemon; he always ate the slice of lemon after he finished his glass, saying humorously that it was a preparation for the next. 'You took my hint.'

'You wanted to speak to me I thought, Mac.'

'Well, not exactly wanted, my son; but I have something to communicate which may be interesting to you. I know what the tender passion is, and how it burns. I've had my day, and, faith! I'd like to have it over again! It wasn't all sugar, my son. There was one--ah, there was one, I do remember me, in my hot youth!--

But what cared I? I whistled her off, and took another, for they're as thick as mulberries, my son. And I'd like to have my time over again, pleasures, pains, and all. But this is not to the point, and yet it is, although the lines will not apply--that is to say, I hope not.'

I listened in anxiety; I was well acquainted with old Mac's character by this time, and I knew it would be useless to interrupt him and ask him to come to the point at once; he must come to it his own way.

'Old Mac can tell a hawk from a handsaw with half an eye,' he continued, 'and he has two good ones at his command. Old Mac says to himself, seeing a certain talented young friend whom he esteems--your health, my son. Ah, I forgot, my glass is empty'--(I was obliged to fill it again; I had no fear of Mac's getting tipsy on three glasses; he was too well seasoned)--'Old Mac says to himself, what does this talented young friend of his mean by coming so often to Turk West's establishment? Well, there would be nothing in that, but he comes in unseasonable hours--that is to say, in the hours during which he is supposed to be working for the public. What does that mean? says old Mac, in confidence to himself. Your health, my son. It can mean but one thing. Old Mac knows the signs. And that's why he winked at you to follow him. Do you follow me?'

'Not exactly,' I was obliged to confess, notwithstanding that I had a dim glimmering of what was coming.

Old Mac laughed.

'Well, not to beat about the bush--but I thought I'd lead up to it by easy stages--a certain fair friend of ours is at a certain place this morning, and I fancied you might like to see her.'

My heart beat violently; I knew that he referred to Jessie.

'Did she tell you to come for me?'

He dashed my hopes to the ground by hurriedly replying, 'No, no, my son; she knows nothing of it, and had best not know, perhaps. The fact is, our fair friend is about to make her first appearance on the boards, and she is now rehearsing her part. I know the box-keeper, and he will let us into the dress circle, where you can see her without her seeing you.'

I thanked him cordially, and we walked together to the theatre, and were admitted to the dress circle, which was in complete darkness. Certainly no one on the stage could distinguish us, but in the dim light I could see all the actors and actresses engaged in the rehearsal. Jessie was among them.

Eight months had passed since I last saw her, and I gazed on her with aching eagerness. It was a cold day, and she was warmly dressed; and the only change I could discern in her was that she appeared to have grown more beautiful. What pain and pleasure I felt as I heard her voice once more, fresh and sweet as ever, and saw the old familiar action of her hands, I cannot describe.

'Steady, my son, steady,' whispered old Mac warningly.

I controlled myself, without being aware what I had done to excite this remonstrance.

'When does she appear?' I asked in the same low tone.

'Next Monday week.'

'In her own name?'

'No; she has taken the name of Mathews. You will see the announcements outside the theatre. There's a good deal of curiosity excited about her already, for she plays an ambitious character; she commences at the top instead of at the bottom of the ladder. I should have liked her to begin a little lower down, or to have appeared in the provinces first. There's one great thing in her favour, though. She plays in a new piece, and can't be compared to other and more experienced actresses in the same character. There's somebody you know.'

He referred to Mr. Glover, whom I had seen before he had, and who, standing at the side wings, appeared to be on familiar terms with all the company; but I knew the lodestone which had drawn him there. When I first caught sight of him Jessie was engaged in a scene; presently she was free for a time, and then he approached her, and they talked together.

'Mac,' I said, in a whisper, 'I think you are a friend of mine.'

'I am proud to hear you say so, my son. I am your friend.'

'What does that mean?' And I pointed to Jessie and Mr. Glover.

He looked at my agitated face, and then at the two persons I was interested in; but he did not answer me.

'Why don't you speak, Mac? Why don't you answer me?'

'Because I don't quite understand you, my son.'

'When a person in Mr. Glover's position,' I said, 'pays attention to an actress commencing the world as Jessie is, what does it mean?'

'Speak a little lower, my son. It means that he is interested in her. There's nothing unusual in that.'

'But it may mean something more; it may mean that he is fond of her.'

'It may; and there would be nothing unusual in that. But it does not follow that she is fond of him. Beware of the green-eyed monster, my son. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend from jealousy! Take a lesson from an old stager.' (But what the lesson was he did not state.) 'Why don't you ask Turk about it?'

'I have my reasons; I would rather Turk should not know anything of this.'

'Well, I'll find out for you, quietly between ourselves. Old Mac knows the signs. He has seen a few things, old Mac has. Only don't you run away with the idea that there's anything wrong in a gentleman speaking to an actress. I daresay it's through him that my fair friend has got this chance. Well, why shouldn't she speak to him, then? I know what you feel, my son. I've felt the same myself, and wouldn't mind feeling so again. It comes in the regular course of things.'

I went outside the theatre with him, and made an excuse to get rid of him. Then I waited, in the hope of seeing Jessie; and bearing in mind Jessie's words, 'If we meet again it must be at my own time, and in my own way,' I resolved not to show myself to her. She came out in the course of half an hour, accompanied by Mr. Glover. I walked behind them at some distance on the opposite side of the road, making many shifts and pretences of looking in shop-windows, so that they should not see me. But Mr. Glover, happening to turn his head in my direction, caught sight of me. I saw the flash of recognition in his eyes. He must have uttered an exclamation, for Jessie turned, and also saw me. I hesitated for one moment; should I retrace my steps, or walk boldly on? Jessie decided the question for me, by running towards me. Her face was scarlet, but that might have been caused by her running too quickly, for her breath came fast.

'O Chris!' she cried, in the first excitement of the moment. 'How glad I am to see you! What brings you this way?'

She held out her hand eagerly, and I took it, and would have retained it, but that the appearance of Mr. Glover, who paused quite close to us, caused me to relinquish it.

'What brings him this way?' echoed Mr. Glover. Not accident, I'll be bound.'

'I came on purpose to see you, Jessie,' I said; 'I heard through a friend that you were rehearsing this morning, and I gained admission to the dress circle, and sat there for some time.'

'Was it Turk who told you?' she asked.

'No, not Turk. I think he would not tell me anything that you did not wish me to know.'

It was not without intention that I let this arrow fly. Jessie made no comment upon it, but said:

'And then you waited outside to see me, Chris?'

'Yes; I had no other purpose. But I did not intend that you should see me.'

No? But we'll not quarrel now that we have met. How is mother, Chris?'

'She is well, Jessie. You know that we were very nearly losing her.'

'I know; and you took her into the country, and nursed her.'

'Thank God, she is well now.'

If Mr. Glover had not been present, I should have spoken in a very different manner, but I could not show my heart while he stood by, with a look of cold contempt in his eyes.

'And you?--you are looking thinner, I think, Chris; but you are well and happy.'

'Yes,' I answered mechanically, 'I am well and happy, Jessie.' Although I strove to speak in an indifferent tone, it must have miserably belied my words.

'And you are getting along famously,' continued Jessie hurriedly; I read your name in the papers, and it made me very proud.'

'We shall read your name in the papers soon, Jessie.'

'I suppose so; if I have strength and courage to go through with it. I hope you will not come on the first night, Chris.'

I was silent, and she was generous enough not to exact the promise.

'At all events, then, if you do come I shall have one friend there,' she said.

'Not more than one, Jessie?' asked Mr. Glover, in a tone which made my heart throb violently.

Jessie, looking first at me and then at Mr. Glover, said that she must wish us good-morning, and with her parasol hailed an omnibus that was passing.

'Good-bye, Chris. Will you give my love to mother?'

'Yes, Jessie.'

She drew me aside, out of the hearing of Mr. Glover, and whispered, 'Don't quarrel with him, Chris.'

'I will not, Jessie. One moment. Are you happy?'

She cast a swift glance at me, and then turned her eyes to the ground. 'I think so, Chris; I am not sure.' With this singular answer, she pressed my hand, and left me. I watched her get into the omnibus, and when it was out of sight I turned homewards, without noticing Mr. Glover. But he was at my heels, speaking to me.

'How did you gain admission into the theatre, young man?' he said. 'Did you sneak in, or did you tell the doorkeeper a lie?'

'That is my business,' I replied calmly; for I was determined to keep my promise to Jessie.

'Especially your business, I should say--sneaking and lying. But unless you wish to find yourself in an unpleasant position, I should advise you not to make the attempt again. For Jessie's sake, who might not like to hear of your getting into trouble, I will look over the trespass this once.'

'You will overlook it!' I retorted, without any outward exhibition of anger. 'Is the theatre yours, then?'

'In your own words, that is my business. But I have authority there, believe me; so you must be careful. I should, if I were you, give over the spying business; you will gain nothing by it. Perhaps, however, you have not the manliness to see that the young lady has chosen for herself, and that, as she has removed herself from you and your common surroundings, there is distinct cowardice in your thrusting yourself upon her. Only a gentleman can entertain these proper sentiments----'

'Such a gentleman as yourself,' I interrupted.

'Yes, such a gentleman as I,' he said, with a frown; and not only that, but one who knows how to resent impertinence and blackguardly interference.'

I left him suddenly; if I had not done so he would have fastened a quarrel upon me. I saw clearly that this was his desire; but I disappointed him.

CHAPTER XLV.

OLD MAC EXPRESSES HIS OPINION OF MR. GLOVER.

The only person to whom I spoke of my interview with Jessie was my mother, and even to her I did not relate all that had passed.

'Is she coming to see us, my dear?' my mother asked.

I answered that she had given no hint of any such intention.

'Perhaps,' said my mother, 'Mr. Glover being by restrained her.'

'Perhaps,' I replied curtly.

As the tone in which I spoke denoted that I did not wish to continue the conversation, my mother said nothing more. Not that she had grown indifferent to the subject upon which we were conversing, but that she studied my moods more closely than ever. Her heart had never been stirred by such tender love for me as during this time; it showed itself in a thousand little undemonstrative ways, and with a delicate cunning which I am sure has never been excelled, she said and did precisely the things which were most comforting to me. I have only her to thank that my sorrow did not make a cynic of me.

My thoughts ran so much upon Mr. Glover, that I dreamt of him frequently in connection with some singular fancies. The principal persons who played parts in these dreams were we two and Jessie. In one of my dreams he was standing on a height, with his fingers to his mouth, curling his moustache into it as usual; I stood below, at a great distance from him; and Jessie was midway between us. He was beckoning to Jessie, saying in a boastful tone that he was a gentleman and a man of honour, and Jessie was walking towards him. In another of my dreams he was standing over me, preaching the same text. In another, Turk was very seriously impressing upon me the fact that Mr. Glover came from a highly-respectable family, and that it was a thing to be proud of. This was the leading idea of all my dreams.

I did not go again to see Jessie at the rehearsals. I knew I had no right to be in the theatre on those occasions, and I did not intend to give Mr. Glover a chance of placing me in an unpleasant position. I had scarcely a hope of seeing Jessie at our house; my mother thought differently, saying that in certain things she was seldom mistaken, and this was one of them. It was known to me that she had never ceased making inquiries for uncle Bryan, and that she had taken many and many a journey about London in the hope of finding him. I did not question her as to the result of these inquiries, and she herself was silent on the subject.

'Oh,' said Josey West to me, a couple of days after I had seen Jessie, 'so you've seen her.'

'Yes, Josey,' I replied, 'I have seen her.'

'And never told me!' she exclaimed.

'Why should I tell you, Josey? You have kept things from me which I think you might have told me, without doing any great harm.'

'Do you, my sweet child? How wise we are, to be sure! But I don't blame you. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I tell you what, Chris! On the first night that Jessie plays, you and I will go arm-in-arm to the theatre.'

'No, we will not.'

'Why, my sweet child?' she inquired, not in the least disturbed by my abrupt tone.

'Because I have not made up my mind whether I shall be there.'

'Oh, indeed!' she said, with a little laugh.

I was not ingenuous in my reply, for I had quite resolved to go, and to go early. During the days that intervened between my meeting with Jessie and her announced first appearance I was very busy with important work. This kept me close to my bench, and I did not have time even to visit Turk, but it did not prevent me from thinking constantly of Jessie. What would be the result if she made a great success? Would she grow into a fine lady, and would her picture be in all the shop-windows? What was the nature of the connection between her and Mr. Glover? What were her feelings now towards her father? I found a hundred different answers to these questions, not one of which brought any satisfaction or consolation to me. But I could not relinquish the consideration of them, and, in the usual way, I extracted from them as much unhappiness as they would fairly yield.

'My mother knew where I was going when I prepared myself on the evening that Jessie was to make her first appearance before the public, and as she kissed me she said she did not expect me home very early. I nodded, and left her. I could not trust myself to speak, for I felt as though my own fate were about to be definitely decided by the issue of this night's events. I arrived at the theatre before the time announced for the opening of the doors, and to my surprise, instead of finding, as I expected, a great mass of people pressing towards the entrances, I found a few scores of persons standing loosely about the closed doors, grumbling and wondering at notices which were pasted on the walls to the effect that in consequence of the indisposition of the new actress the opening of the theatre was postponed. The disappointment to those assembled was the greater because the play in which Jessie was to appear was the first dramatic work of a new author, who, although his name was not given on the bills, it was said was a nobleman well known in fashionable circles. While I was reading the notice, and tormenting myself with the idea that Jessie must be seriously ill, Turk accosted me.

'Hallo, Chris,' he said, hooking his arm in mine; 'this is a surprise, isn't it?'

'Is Jessie very ill, Turk?' I asked anxiously.

He looked at me inquiringly, seemingly in doubt as to whether I was in earnest in asking the question. I repeated it.

'I do not think so,' he replied.

'Have you seen her lately, Turk?'

'Not since Saturday, Chris; then she appeared to be well. That notice is only put up as an excuse. There's a hitch with the author, or the lessee, or the man who advances the money, I expect.'

'I should like to know if Jessie is really well,' I said.

'Go round to my shop, then; here's the key. I'll make inquiries and come to you soon.'

I went to the shop, and unlocked the door, and as it was dark inside, I lit the gas. I had not been in the place many minutes before old Mac poked in his head.

'I saw a light,' he said, entering, and closing the door behind him.

'Ah, Chris, my son; it's you, is it? This is a rum go, isn't it? Where's Turk?'

'He'll be here presently. You mean about the theatre, don't you?'

'I do, my son. So our fair friend doesn't make her appearance after all. Well, the loss is the public's. The stage is going to the dogs. Going! Gone, I should say. Not conducted on straight principles, my son. Elements introduced into the management of theatrical matters which have no business there at all. Where's your school for acting nowadays, I should like to know. How do men and women come to be actors and actresses? Where's the education for the profession? Once upon a time--ah, well, no matter. Drown dull care. Anything to drink about?' He looked around for the desired bottle. I could not assist him in his search, and did not desire to do so, for it seemed to me that he had already had a glass too much. 'Closed through the indisposition of the new actress!' he continued. 'That's the way the public is gulled. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in their philosophy. Look here, my son. A word in your ear.'

This word in my ear was a whispered request for a trifling loan of two shillings and sevenpence. He always asked for loans in a whisper, even when there was no third person near. It was not the first time I had lent old Mac small sums of money, and I pulled three shillings from my pocket, not having the coins for the exact sum. He gravely gave me fivepence change.

'Thank you, my son,' he said, 'and now, a word to the wise. On a certain morning you and I went to the Rialto--no, to a rehearsal in which our fair friend took part.'

'Yes.'

'You confided your woes to me, not in words perhaps, but in look, accent, manner. Old Mac knows the signs. The liquid eye, the tremulous tone, the sighs that come unbidden. I saw them all, my son, and my sympathising breast received them as a sacred deposit. You remember the lines I quoted: "Her lips to mine how often did she join!" But I see that you are impatient, my son. You said to me then that you believed that I was your friend. I answered in suitable terms. The word to the action, the action to the word. Shake hands, my son.' By this time I had fully made up my mind that old Mac was tipsy, although he was as steady as a rock; it was only his voice that betrayed him. 'To continue. You drew my attention to two persons who shall be nameless, one of whom was paying attentions to the other, and you asked what it meant. I replied in general terms, and after warning you to beware of the green-eyed monster, I said that I would find out, in a quiet way, what those intentions meant, and that I would let you know, in a quiet way. Am I correct, and do you follow me?'

I said that he was quite correct, and that I was following his words.

'I placed myself at once in communication with our fair friend----'

I was surprised into an exclamation by this information. In no way disturbed, old Mac went on.

'I did. I placed myself at once in communication with our fair friend----'

'You did not mention my name, I hope,' I could not help saying.

'Was I born yesterday, do you think, my son, or the day before? I had some slight acquaintance with our fair friend, as you know, and I threw myself in her way. That is what I mean when I say I placed myself in communication with her. I read her part for her, and gave her a hint or two, which she received and thanked me for in a manner very different from some lady stars I could mention, who think themselves above tuition because they have pretty faces, and because they happen to have made a third- or a fourth-rate success. They come to grief in the long-run, my son, these clever ladies. They shine for a little while, with much outside pushing and puffing, and then, Out, out, brief candle! Our fair friend is a different kind of creature. She is amiability, sweetness, and modesty combined, and when the old actor ventured to throw out a hint or two as to emphasis in certain places, as to appropriate action, as to where and how a point could be made, she received them with gratitude and deference. Damme, my son! the old actor could not help wishing he was a thirty years younger man; and then again he was glad he wasn't, because it might have interfered with the chances of a young friend of his, whom he sees before him now. But if I don't hurry on with my story, you will be applying to me Hamlet's words to Polonius, "These tedious old fools!" The old actor doesn't mind giving himself a rub, you see. Well, having fairly established himself in the sweet graces of the young lady, old Mac, from his point of observation, kept one eye steadily fixed upon a certain gentleman whose name commences with G, and who seems to have a habit of biting his nails--a sign of ill-temper, my son. Old Mac was on the watch, my son--"On the Watch," a fine title for a drama, and I wish I had time to write it. This gentleman whose name commences with G did not appear to relish the observation of the old actor, which was not, for that reason, relaxed, depend upon it. And now, old Mac has but few words to add. If, having reason to suspect the honesty of the intentions of this gentleman whose name commences with a G, the old actor sounded him artfully, and learnt enough to convince him that his suspicions were correct, and if, being thus satisfied or dissatisfied, the old actor gradually and delicately opened a certain young lady's eyes to the true state of affairs, you may depend that he did it partly out of the friendship he entertains for a fine young fellow--shake hands, my son--partly out of his contempt for a certain person whose fingers are always playing with his moustache, but chiefly out of his admiration for a young lady whose beauty, grace, virtue, and modesty are unparalleled in the experience of an old fellow who has seen the world, and knows the stuff that men and women are made of.'

Ambiguous as this speech was--and old Mac seemed to make it purposely mysterious, and to enjoy it--I thoroughly understood it, and I thanked the speaker cordially. My heart felt lighter after it, and when Turk returned--old Mac being gone--I met him with a smile on my face.

'Has any one been here, Chris?' he asked, as he entered.

'Only old Mac; it is scarcely two minutes since he left.'

'No one else?'

'No, Turk. Have you found out about Jessie?'

'I have reason to believe she is quite well,' replied Turk, and that the notice is only a blind. I thought Mr. Glover might have called.'

'No; he has not been here. Did you expect to see him?'

Turk, without replying to my question, commenced to walk up and down his shop, which unusual proceeding on his part caused me to observe him more closely. A strange expression of trouble and perplexity was on his face, and I questioned him concerning it.

'I asked you once,' he said, somewhat awkwardly, 'if you were in trouble. You will remember it--on the anniversary of Jessie's birthday.'

'I remember, Turk.'

'Yours, you said, was not a money trouble.'

'But yours is, Turk?'

'Yes; chiefly. Partly my own, partly another person's. Chris, if I speak vaguely, it is because I am on my parole; I mustn't break my word. Now we can trust one another, I think?'

'I am sure I can trust you, Turk.'

'And that is just what I want,' he said, with a perplexed look.

'What is?

'Trust. It is a tremendous misfortune, sometimes, to be a poor hard-up devil, not to be able to lay one's hand on a five-pound note. Generally, it doesn't matter; as a rule, I am happy enough with half a crown in my pocket, and owing no man anything. Chris, I want a large sum of money. Can you tell me where to borrow it on my word of honour?'

'How much, Turk?'

'Eighty pounds.'

I had more than that saved out of my earnings.

'I can lend it to you, Turk,' I said quite gladly.

'You, Chris! Your own money?'

'My own money--money that I have saved.'

'And you will lend it to me on that security?'

'What better do I want from you, Turk?'

He resumed his walk, and was silent for a few moments. When he paused before me, there was a soft bright light in his eyes.

'It's good to have a friend. But, first, let me tell you. Only twenty pounds of the eighty are for myself. I want that sum to pay off my debt to Mr. Glover. The other sixty is for another person; and I shall be quite twelve months in paying you back.'

'I am satisfied, and more so, because you will be free, and out of Mr. Glover's clutches. I can give you the money to-night. Mother has it.'

'Is it all you have saved, Chris?'

'No; I shall have a little left.'

'Then, when I've paid Mr. Glover, I can give you a bill of sale over my stock.' He looked round upon his wigs and other theatrical property. 'It is worth the money.'

'I can't lend to you upon that security, Turk. The first you mentioned is the only security I can accept.'

He laughed a little huskily.

'All right, Chris, my boy. I'll borrow the money on those terms. This may be a good night's work for all of us. I never thought that Turk West's word would be good for eighty pounds. But stranger things than that might occur, eh, Chris?'

I acquiesced, although I had not the slightest idea of his meaning.

'If you knew,' he continued, 'the relief it will be to me to get out of Mr. Glover's clutches, as you called it, you would be surprised.'

I was sufficiently surprised at the change that was apparent in his tone concerning Mr. Glover, whom he had hitherto extolled so highly.

'Curse all professional moneylenders, I say!' he exclaimed excitedly. 'And if ever I believe again in a man with a handle on the top of his head, my name's not Turk West.'

I could not help laughing at these singular words.

'Ah, you may laugh, Chris; but when he sat in that chair--the very one you are sitting in now, Chris, my boy--for the first time last week, and asked me to shampoo him, and I felt the knob, it made me curious. I thought he had been fighting, or had knocked his head against something, but he told me he was born with it. That sort of thing runs in families, I should say. If he had it, his father must have had it before him. Look here, Chris; you are good at figures--I never was. See how I stand with him.'

He produced some papers and receipts, all of which bore reference to the account he had with Mr. Glover. I examined them, and found that he had paid Mr. Glover a large interest for the money he had borrowed. He had already paid the full sum of seventy-five pounds advanced, and there were still, as he himself had calculated, twenty pounds odd to be paid before he could call himself free. I made out a clear statement, and gave it to Turk.

'Mr. Glover has managed to make a large profit out of you, Turk.'

'Yes, and I don't know how it has been done. I was to pay ten per cent for the money, I understood; but what with one thing and another--lawyer's charges, drawing up of deeds that were not required, I am sure, signing of printed papers, inquiry fees, and a dozen other things--it has come to a deal more.'

'I see that you only received sixty-five pounds,' I said, busy over another calculation.

'That is all.'

'So that,' I continued, having finished my calculation' which I handed to Turk, when you pay the balance to-morrow, Mr. Glover will have received at the rate of at least sixty per cent per annum for the loan. Not much of a friend in that, Turk?'

'No, I should say not; I have only rightly understood this, and other things in connection with Mr. Glover as well, within the last week.'

'Perhaps,' I ventured to say, 'you do not now think me so unreasonable in the dislike I took to him.'

'It is I who was wrong, Chris, my boy. I see that now.'

'Do you know, Turk, it pleases me in some way to be convinced that he is not the soul of honour, as you tried to make me believe.'

'There, there, Chris--let's say no more about him.'

'We'll be done with him presently. I don't know how it was, but I suspected and disliked him from the first. That trick of his of curling his moustache into his mouth--old Mac told me he bites his nails----'

'I cannot tell what it was that made me pause suddenly here, but pause I did, and the sentence was not concluded.

'Do you know where Jessie lives, Turk?'

'Yes, Chris, but you mustn't ask me to tell you. I am on my parole.' He repeated this statement with a certain air of enjoyment.

'Very well,' I said. But can you tell me when Jessie is likely to make her appearance----'

He interrupted me, and asked me as a favour to change the subject; and as I saw that I made him uneasy by my questions, I discontinued them. He walked home with me, and I gave him the money.

'I wonder,' he said, as he pocketed it, 'that you haven't asked me what I wanted the other sixty pounds for.'

'I have been going to ask half a dozen times,' I replied, 'but I thought it might be another of your secrets.'

'It is a secret,' he said with a smile. 'And if you had asked, I shouldn't have told you.'

Certainly, Turk was playing a most mysterious part; but I trusted him thoroughly, knowing what a good fellow he was.

My mother was surprised to see me home so early, and more so when she heard what had taken place.

'I have a presentiment, my dear,' she said, 'that this is going to turn out a fortunate night for us.'

We went to the shop in the course of the night, and there was Josey West behind the counter, as busy as a bee, serving the customers, and chattering away like any magpie. Uncle Bryan would scarcely have known the shop. Josey had had it cleaned and painted, and the scales and counter, and nests of drawers in which the spices and more valuable commodities were kept, had been so smartened up that they looked like new. You could see your face in every bit of brass about the place. During a lull in the business, Josey came into the little parlour where we were sitting.

It's wonderful,' she said; 'we've taken eleven shillings already for pills and mixture. I'm beginning to get frightened. If an inspector of something or other were to come in and analyse us, I should drop down in a fit. Turk says there's nothing to be afraid of, but I'm not so sure of that.' Presently, however, she derived consolation from the reflection that, after all, the medicine could not possibly do any one any harm.

'Have you been to the theatre, Josey?' I asked.

'If you ask no questions, my sweet child,' was her reply, 'you'll be told no stories. Theatres! As if I haven't something a thousand times more important to attend to!'

For all that, she found time to have a quiet chat with Turk, and when he went away she called me into the shop, and saying she had something very particular to whisper to me, kissed me instead of making any communication; by which sign I knew that Turk had told her of the money I had lent him. She shut up the shop earlier than usual, and we had supper together. I had not had a meal in the little parlour for many months, and my mind was filled with the memorable incidents in my life with which the room was connected. It was just such a night as that on which Jessie had tapped at the door, years ago, when uncle Bryan was asleep, and my mother and I were sitting quietly together. I remembered the story I was reading, Picciola, and during a silence I raised my head to the door, with something of expectation in my mind. I dismissed the fancy instantly, but it was not unpleasant to me to think of what had occurred on that night--the conversation in the shop between Jessie and my mother, the awaking of uncle Bryan, and the first passage-at-arms between the child and the old man. My mother must have divined the current in which my thoughts were running, for she took my hand under the table, and held it fondly in hers.

'I can't help liking the little room after all, mother,' I said.