CHAPTER XLVI.
A STRANGE DREAM.
My mother and I stopped up talking until very late on this night. The future was not mentioned; all our talk was of the past. My mother recalled the reminiscences of her younger days, and dwelt upon them with affection. She drew pictures of her home when she was a girl, and told me a great deal concerning her parents, and especially concerning my grandmother, of whom my own impressions were so vivid. As though she were living her life over again, she travelled from those days gradually to the day upon which she first saw my father, and in tender tones related many incidents of their courtship which I had never before heard. She required a great deal of coaxing before she would speak of her courting days, but I led her on artfully from one thing to another, and listened to her with delight. On such occasions as this my mother seemed to grow twenty years younger; her face grew fresher, rounder, and in her eyes the soft light of youth lived again. Then came the description of her wedding-day, and she laughed or grew pensive as she recalled the names of those who were present, stopping occasionally, until I said, 'Yes, mother, and then,'--upon which she took up my words, saying, 'And then, my dear,'--and proceeded with her descriptions. When, in the course of her narration, I came into the world, I was able to take a larger share in the conversation, and I added my experience to hers. We were by turns grave and merry, according to the nature of our reminiscences. My grandmother's peculiarities, her death, the search for the long stocking, and the picture of Snaggletooth ripping open the beds and the armchairs, and sitting on the floor with his hair full of feathers; then on to my father's burial, and my illness, and the removal farther and farther away from our native town until we found ourselves in London--scarcely anything, except what was painful, was left unspoken of.
'And there's an end to it all, mother,' I said, when we had brought the reminiscences up to the very night upon which we were conversing.
'No, my dear,' she replied, with a tender shake of her head, not an end; there are brighter pages to come in my darling's life.'
'Do you know, mother,' I said, as I stood by her side at the door of her bedroom, 'I have often thought of grandmother's long stocking, and fancied that one day we should find a treasure somewhere.'
My mother laughed.
'Why, my dear, where on earth would you look for it? We have not a thing left that belonged to your grandmother.'
'Yes, we have; you don't forget that brown monkey-man that used to stand on the mantelshelf and wag its head at us?'
'I remember it perfectly, dear child; you don't mean to say you have kept it all this time?'
'It is in my box now; I shall take it out to-night, and have a look at it.'
'You don't suppose the treasure is in that?' said my mother, laughing.
'No; though Jessie and I did think one day that we had made a discovery. Good-night, mother.'
'Good-night, dear child, and God bless you. Remember, my dear, there are brighter days to come, and your mother will live to see them.'
That, before she went to sleep, she prayed for those brighter days, I was certain, but I scarcely dared to hope that what she so fondly desired would ever take place.
Before I went to bed I took from my box the stone image of the brown monkey-man; it was at the very bottom of my box, which I had not opened for many months, for the reason that it contained all the sketches I had made of Jessie, and which I had put away when I lost her. But for these, and the tender thought which they excited, I should have given more attention to the stone image which looked uglier and more repulsive than ever. How such a hideous thing could be considered an ornament it puzzled me to think; but it occurred to me that there were more flagrant violations of art than this. On the previous day I had seen a ghastly death's-head pin in the cravat of a coxcomb, who seemed very proud of it. I set the image of the monkey-man on the mantelshelf, and slowly replaced the sketches in my box, lingering over them with fond regret.
Among them I found a sketch with the name of 'Anthony Bullpit' at the foot, and I remembered that it was a fancy drawing I had made of my grandmother's lover, after reading the account of his arrest by the detective Vinnicombe, elsewhere narrated; a sneaking figure was Anthony Bullpit, as I had represented him, with his hang-dog look and hypocritical face, gnawing at his finger-nails. I pushed it out of sight, and turned again to the contemplation of my sketches of Jessie, over which I spent a sad and tender quarter of an hour. Then, with a sigh, I closed the box and locked it, and went to bed. It was my habit of a night to lie awake for a few minutes with the candle alight on a chair close to my bed. Generally I passed these minutes in reading, but on this night 'I lay a-thynkinge,' and did not open my book. Directly opposite the head of my bed was the mantelshelf, with the smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone on it, and this was the last thing that presented itself to my sight before I blew out the light. Restless as I was with the events of the evening, and with the conversation which had taken place between my mother and myself, I was tired enough to fall asleep within a very few moments. But I was not too tired to dream; my body was asleep, but my imagination was never more active. To me, the most wonderful feature in the physiology of dreams has always been the fact that Time, the dominant and inexorable tyrant which rules and guides our course, and regulates the passions and emotions of life, is in our sleep utterly set at naught; a lifetime is compressed in a moment, as it were, and between waking and sleeping a hundred years of history are played out. I think I must have dreamt of every important event in my life, and of many in the lives of others; they presented themselves to me without coherence or sequence, and there was but one consistent feature in my fancies--the figure of the monkey-man, which was never absent. I dreamt of Snaggletooth and Snaggletooth's wife. She was relating the stories of the Cock-lane Ghost and Old Mother Shipton, as she had related them in the kitchen on the night my father lay dying upstairs, but in my dream she was not speaking to me, but to the monkey-image, which gravely wagged its head at her as she proceeded; Snaggletooth was running up and down the stairs, and poking in the oddest corners, in his search for the long stocking, and the monkey-man was assisting him frantically, running at his heels, and tearing things open with fiendish haste; I was in the mourning coach, following my father's body to the churchyard, and the monkey-man was sitting opposite to me, grinning at me; Snaggletooth was carrying me out of the churchyard, and as I opened my eyes, the monkey-man, squatting on Snaggletooth's shoulder, squinted at me. In the same way the image presented itself in every incident connected with Jessie and my mother and uncle Bryan; and when I lay trembling in bed, and Jane Painter stood in my bedroom in the dark telling me stories of blood and murder, the monkey-man prowled about the floor, and dropped from the ceiling, and crept from under my bed, and sat on my pillow with its ugly face illumined. When Jessie knocked at the shop-door, as she had done years ago for the first time, and my mother opened it, the monkey-man entered first, and jumped on to the table; and on the night of the amateur performance at Josey West's the monkey-man was among the audience, seated in a place of honour. Suddenly all this chaos of persons and circumstances came to an end, and there were only my grandmother, and I, and the monkey-figure sitting together. I was in my little low chair, my grandmother, very stately and grand, was in her armchair, and the monkey-man was on the mantelshelf. Said my grandmother in my dream, in a very distinct tone, 'He had a knob on the top of his head, and was always eating his nails.' I looked at the monkey-man for confirmation of her words, and it said, in a stony voice, 'He had a knob on the top of his head, and was always eating his nails.' After this confirmation, my grandmother continued, 'And the last time I set eyes on him was on my wedding-day.' Again I looked at the monkey-man, and again it confirmed my grandmother's statement, but with a slight difference this time, 'And the last time we set eyes on him was on our wedding-day.' Which inference on the part of the monkey-man of being my grandfather somewhat disturbed me. Now, at this point of my fancies, what on earth brought old Mac, the actor, into the scene? There he was, however, face to face with the monkey-man, who questioned him as a lawyer would have done. 'What do you say his name commences with?' asked the monkey-man? 'It commences with a G,' replied old Mac. 'And what is that habit of his that you say is a sign of ill-temper?' asked the monkey-man. 'Biting his nails,' replied old Mac; 'he is always at it.' By this time my dream has resolved itself into a court of inquiry; the monkey-man is dressed in a wig and gown, which do not hide his ugliness; my grandmother, very broad and portly, sits as judge, and I, it seems, am in some way the criminal whose case is being tried, for my grandmother nods her head at me continually, and says, 'Perhaps you will believe me now; all these things happened on my wedding-day.' Old Mac fades away, and is replaced by Turk West. 'Curse all professional moneylenders, I say,' he cries; 'and if ever I believe again in a man with a handle on the top of his head, my name's not Turk West' 'Hold your tongue,' calls out the monkey-man; 'who wants to know what your name is? We'll come to names presently. 'When did you first discover the handle?' It isn't a handle,' says Turk, in correction, 'it's a knob.' My grandmother nods in confirmation. 'He had a knob on the top of his head,' she says, 'and he was always biting his nails.' 'I don't know about that,' says Turk, 'but his fingers are always at his moustache, and he is the soul of honour and comes from a highly-respectable family.' 'That he does,' adds my grandmother. 'Poor Anthony! He proposed and wished to run away with me, but my family stepped in and prevented him.' 'Very wrong,' says Turk gravely; 'wasn't his family respectable enough for them? The soul of honour!' 'Quite so,' says my grandmother. 'He told me, after I had accepted this child's grandfather' (at this point of my dream I become suddenly a child, in a pinafore), 'that life was valueless to him without me, and that as he had lost me, he would be sure to go to the devil.' 'Did he go?' asks the monkey-man. 'I always found him a man of his word,' replies my grandmother. 'Now attend to me, sir,' cries the monkey-man, in a bullying tone, turning suddenly upon Turk; 'when did you say you first discovered this knob?' 'Last week,' replies Turk, 'when he sat in that chair' (the chair comes into the dream) 'and told me to shampoo him.' 'You were surprised when you felt it?' asks the monkey-man. 'I was,' says Turk, 'and I asked him if he had knocked his head against something. He said, no, that he was born with it.' 'And what was the remark,' continues the monkey-man, levelling a threatening finger at me, 'you made to the prisoner at the bar?' 'I said,' says Turk, 'that that sort of thing runs in families, and that if he had it, his father must have had it before him.' Suddenly, and as if it were quite in the natural order of things, we are all listening to the statement of a new witness who has risen in Turk's place. 'I am an officer in the detective force, and my name is Vinnicombe. From information received, I went to Liverpool, and tracked Anthony Bullpit on board the Prairie Bird, bound for America. "It's no use making a noise about it," I says to him, as I slipped the handcuffs on him; "I want you, Anthony Bullpit. You sha'n't be done out of a voyage across the sea, but Botany Bay's the place as'll suit you best, I should think." Here my grandmother brindles up, 'You're an infamous designing creature,' she screams. 'He is no more guilty than I am.' 'He pleads guilty at all events,' is the detective's reply. 'That is to spite me,' says my grandmother, 'and to prove that he's a man of his word.' Then, by quite an easy transition, the court and the crowd fade away, and my grandmother, I, and the monkey-figure are again in the little parlour, and she is saying to me, 'Your grandfather has much to answer for, child. Mr. Bullpit was transported for twenty-one years. Some wicked people said it was a mercy he wasn't hanged. If he had been, I should never have survived it. Poor Anthony!' 'You would like to have a peep at him, I daresay,' says the monkey-man to me, my grandmother having disappeared; 'come along, I'll show him to you.' And in the same moment we are peeping through the keyhole of Turk West's shop-door at the figure of Mr. Glover, who sits in the chair with his fingers at his lips. Here a sudden movement or noise partially awakes me.
With all the details of this strange dream in my mind I lay for a few moments half asleep and half awake, endeavouring to bring the confused particulars into some kind of order; but the only thing that was clear to me was the connection that had been created between Anthony Bullpit and Mr. Glover. As I gradually returned to full consciousness, this connection seemed to become something more than a fancy. That the knob on Anthony Bullpit's head, of which I heard so much from my grandmother's lips in my young days, was reproduced, according to Turk West's testimony, on the head of Mr. Glover, was certainly no fancy; Anthony Bullpit bit his nails; Mr. Glover had the same objectionable habit. Stranger discoveries were made every day than the discovery that Mr. Glover was Anthony Bullpit's son. If this were so, what became of Mr. Glover's boast that there was not a stain upon his good name, and that his character and the character of all his family were above reproach? It occurred to me here that his ardent desire to make people believe this sprang from the fact that he had something disreputable to conceal. What made me so anxious in the matter was, that if there were a solid foundation to the suspicion, and if I could prove a connection between Mr. Glover and Anthony Bullpit the convict, then I had a lever in my hands which I could use to good effect against Mr. Glover--a lever which I believed would cause him at once to cease his attentions to Jessie. That he had laid her under an obligation to him was evident, and he might be inclined to persecute her in consequence. The lever I speak of was the printed account by Vinnicombe, the detective, of the arrest and conviction of Anthony Bullpit for the robbery from the bank.
I rose and lit the candle, and taking the mouldy old paper from the hollow of the stone monkey-figure, I read it carefully. I was particularly struck in the reading by the description given by the detective of the peculiarity in Anthony Bullpit's teeth. If that peculiarity existed in the teeth of Mr. Glover, it would be almost impossible to resist the conviction that he was Anthony Bullpit's son. I set to work at once, and made a fair copy of the 'Remarkable Discovery of a Forger by the Celebrated Detective, Mr. Vinnicombe.' At nine o'clock in the morning I was in Turk West's shop, with the manuscript in my pocket.
CHAPTER XLVII.
EXIT MR. GLOVER.
Turk regarded me with surprise.
'An early visitor, Chris,' he said.
'Yes,' I answered; 'I have come on some very particular business. When do you pay the balance of your debt to Mr. Glover?'
'I expect him here at twelve o'clock. I shall pay him then.'
'Can you give me half an hour or so of your undivided attention, Turk?'
'Certainly I can: a couple of hours, if you want them.'
'Then sit down, and read this quietly,' I said, handing him the Remarkable Confession, 'and don't make a remark upon it until you have finished.'
He read it attentively, and returned it to me with a thoughtful look.
'It is cut from an old newspaper, printed a good many years ago, Turk. Do you find anything singular in it?'
'I do; something very singular indeed; but how on earth did you come across it, Chris?'
'I will tell you another time. First, I want to know what it is that strikes you as singular in the account.'
'Well, Chris, there's the knob in this Bullpit's head----'
'Yes, Turk.'
'Mr. Glover has one precisely similar on his head.'
I could scarcely restrain the expression of my satisfaction at this proof that, without prompting, his thoughts were taking the same direction as mine.
'Yes, you told me so, Turk; and that sort of thing runs in families, you said.'
'I did say so, and I think so.'
'Mr. Glover said he was born with it.'
'Yes, he told me so distinctly,' said Turk, with a puzzled look.
'That's all right, then. What else do you find singular in it, Turk?'
'Well, there's that habit of Anthony Bullpit's of biting his nails. Mr. Glover does the same.'
'Yes; anything else?' I asked eagerly.
'Well, Chris, the teeth. Mr. Glover's two middle teeth in his top jaw have just the kind of slit between them that caused the detective to discover Anthony Bullpit, for all his disguise.'
I uttered an exclamation of triumph. 'Now, what do you make of all this, Turk? Do you think it possible that such remarkable peculiarities can exist in two men without there being a relationship between them? Turk, as sure as I stand here, Mr. Glover is Anthony Bullpit's son. Don't interrupt me. If he is a convict's son, what becomes of his good character and his unblemished name, of which he is always preaching, as you know? He trades upon it, Turk--he trades upon it; and if it were made public that his father was a forger and a convicted thief, it would be the greatest blow he could receive. This man is a scoundrel, Turk; a scoundrel and a hypocrite.'
I believe he is, Chris,' said Turk, carried away probably by my hot words; but what good can come of exposure--what good to you, I mean?
'Why, Turk, are you blind? Can't you see that I can make the best use in the world of this strange discovery?'
I told him rapidly what had passed between old Mac and me, and the opinion which the old actor entertained of Mr. Glover, and then I developed my own plan of action.
'It is very simple, Turk. I want Mr. Glover immediately to cease his attentions to Jessie, whose eyes, according to old Mac's account, have only lately been opened to his real character. Jessie, I have no doubt, is under obligations to him; and he may take advantage of this to persecute her. If he does this, I shall expose him; but I shall first give him a chance of withdrawing himself voluntarily. I think there will be no reason to fear that he will prove an active enemy; the proof that I hold will take the sting out of him----'
'But,' interposed Turk, 'what if these personal marks should be mere coincidences, and no relationship exists between Anthony Bullpit and Mr. Glover?'
'We shall learn that very soon,' I replied. 'I shall send him this copy of the Remarkable Discovery with a few words of my own. If he is quiet after their receipt, we may be sure that our suspicions are correct. I know that he is a scoundrel--I have been convinced of that all along, Turk, notwithstanding your defence of him--and I believe him to be a coward. We shall see. Will you let me be present while you are paying him the balance you owe him?'
'I have no objection, Chris.'
'And if I happen to say something to him--something to the point--you'll not mind, perhaps.'
'Say whatever you like, Chris, my boy.'
'I want a promise from you, Turk. Not a word of all this to Jessie.'
'All right, Chris.'
Exactly at twelve o'clock Mr. Glover entered the shop. I was in the back-room, and I listened quietly to the few words that passed, in the course of which Turk told Mr. Glover that he was enabled to pay him the balance of the account between them. Mr. Glover said that it might stand, if Turk wished, but Turk insisted on paying him, and produced the money. As Mr. Glover was signing the receipt to the bond, Turk threw open the door of the room in which I was sitting, and said,
'Chris, perhaps you would not mind witnessing Mr. Glover's signature.'
Mr. Glover looked up with anger in his face, and our eyes met. I quietly placed my name on the paper as a witness, and then, with a glance at Mr. Glover's signature, I handed the paper to Turk.
'So now, Turk,' I said, with a smile, 'I am your creditor instead of Mr. Glover.'
I saw that Turk did not understand why I made this apparently unnecessary statement.
'Oh,' said Mr. Glover, with a sneer, 'it is your money, then, with which Turk West has paid his debt!'
'Yes,' I replied. 'Turk is safer in my hands than in the hands of a moneylender who charges sixty per cent. What was it you said yesterday, Turk? Curse all professional moneylenders, wasn't it? So say I.'
Mr. Glover glanced from me to Turk, and from Turk to me, while his face grew dark with passion.
'I have been thinking, Turk,' I continued, regarding Mr. Glover steadily, what would be the value of a receipt for money paid, supposing the name of the person at the foot of the paper is not his own. How would it stand in law, Mr. Glover? Supposing a person whose real name was Bullpit----'
I saw instantly that the shot had taken effect The dark shade of passion disappeared from Mr. Glover's face, which was now quite white. Added to this, the startled exclamation which escaped him was a sufficient confirmation.
'You shall hear from me,' he said, in a thick voice, as he turned to leave the shop.
'You shall hear from me first,' I replied; within two hours I will leave a letter for you at your house.'
I wrote my letter at once in Turk's shop. The substance of it was that I enclosed a copy of an account of the arrest and conviction of a criminal well known in Hertford many years ago; that this criminal had on his person peculiar marks which were almost certain to be transmitted to his children; that the history of this criminal was known only to me and Turk West; that the secret of it would be faithfully kept if the person to whom my letter was addressed would immediately cease to honour with his attentions any of the lady friends of the writer; and that if this condition were not accepted and carried out in its full letter and spirit, means would be immediately adopted for making public the Remarkable Discovery, and the subsequent history of the forger and thief. I did not mention any names, but Turk West said that Mr. Glover would understand my meaning. I left the letter with its enclosure at Mr. Glover's house, and received no answer. Three days afterwards Turk came to tell me that Mr. Glover had left on a tour to Germany.
'I have other news for you as well,' he said; the theatre in which Jessie was to have appeared is let to a French Company for three months.'
I asked Turk no questions, remembering what he had said as to his being on his parole, but I worked that day with a heart less sad than it had been for many a long month past.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
JOSEY WEST LAMENTS HER CROOKED LEGS.
Exactly three weeks had passed since Mr. Glover's departure, and I here take the opportunity of mentioning that, although I have seen the gentleman subsequently on two or three occasions, we have avoided each other by mutual consent--a state of things with which I am perfectly contented. The connection between him and Turk West is also completely severed, so that he has, as it were, dropped out of our lives. During the above-mentioned interval, nothing of importance transpired; my mind was busy with possibilities, but I saw no clear way of playing an active part in their development. My mother during this time, and especially during the past week, had been out a great deal. I guessed that she was still searching for uncle Bryan, and I should have been happy to learn from her lips that she had been successful in finding him. Within a few days of the time of which I am writing, I entertained a suspicion that she had found a clue, for when she came home her eyes were bright, and there was an expression of great happiness in her face; but I said nothing to her. I knew that I should soon hear good news if she had any to tell. The special direction of my thoughts may easily be understood by an observation I made to my mother one afternoon at the end of the three weeks.
'Mother,' I said, 'I think you ought to go and see Jessie.'
She looked up with glad eyes.
'Some feeling with regard to myself,' I continued, 'may prevent Jessie from coming to you here, and I think it would be a good thing for you to go to her. I know she loves you and would be glad to see you, and you may be able to counsel and advise her. Turk West knows where she lives, and, although he would not tell me if I asked him, I believe he would tell you readily.'
'Do you think so, dear child?' she asked. 'Then I will go to him, and tell him what you say.'
The voice is a great tell-tale, and I knew by the tune in which my mother spoke that my suggestion had given her pleasure.
'There is no time like the present,' I said.
My mother rose immediately, and put on her bonnet.
'I shall leave off work at eight o'clock,' I said, so that she might understand I did not wish her to hurry back, and then I shall go round to Josey West for an hour.'
She nodded, and stood looking over my shoulder as I worked.
'If I see Jessie,' she said, and paused.
'Yes, mother, if you see her---- I hope you will see her.'
'I hope so too, dear child. Shall I give her any message from you?'
'Not unless she asks after me, mother; then you may give her my love.'
There was the merest trembling in my voice as I said this, but it was sufficient to agitate my mother's soul. I laid my graver aside, and said,
'You see how it is, mother; I cannot do or act otherwise. Jessie could not know more about me and my feelings if I stood at her door all day long. I never loved her more than I do now, and I believe I shall never love her less; it would not be true if I said I was happy, but I am far happier than I deserve to be. My mother is still left to me, thank God!'
'Dear child! dear child!' she murmured, with tender caresses.
'And you must not think it strange, mother, if I don't ask you questions when you come back. You will tell me whatever is worth telling. Now, one other word, and then you must run away, for I have work to finish. Should you meet with uncle Bryan----'
'Would you wish me to, my dear?' she asked wistfully.
'Yes,' I answered; I should like you to find him. If you do, give him my love also, and say that I should like to come to see him, if he will not come to us. And, remember, mother, if he wants for anything, all that I have is his; but for him I should not have been in my present position. As for the past, let bygones be bygones. As Americans would say, I should be truly happy to shake hands with him on that platform.'
My mother kissed me, and went out of the room. I thought she had started on her errand, but she returned in a quarter of an hour, with a bunch of wallflowers in her hand.
'I only came in to show you these, my dear,' she said; 'smell them--they are very sweet. You have not studied the language of flowers, have you, my dear?'
'No, mother.'
'Then you don't know what wallflowers stand for,' she said, with a bright smile. 'Now this is for you, my dear; it is the first rose I have seen;' and placing on my table a small rose embedded in moss, she left the room again. I watched her from the window as she walked down the street; she walked almost like a girl.
On my way to Josey West in the evening, I passed the house in which I had first made her acquaintance. The door being opened, I entered, and found the place in an unusual bustle. Florry and her younger sisters were dusting and cleaning up, and putting the rooms in order. In explanation, Florry told me that their eldest brother, Sheridan, was coming to live there with his wife and children.
'They come in next week,' said Florry; and I daresay Clarance and his family will follow them; they have always lived together, and they won't like to be parted now. There's plenty of room for them all.'
'The place will look like its old self again,' I said to Josey West, a few minutes later on; and I added, with a sigh, 'and you'll be having the jolly old times over again, I shouldn't wonder.'
'I shouldn't wonder, either,' replied the little woman briskly. 'Do you know, Chris, there's one thing I do miss--the Sunday evenings we used to have in the old house. Now that Sheridan is coming, we'll revive the Sunday-night suppers. You'll come, won't you, and bring your dear mother. She's never been to one of our parties. Upon my word, I feel quite happy only in thinking of them. There's Sheridan and his seven youngsters, and Clarance with his five--another one added, Chris, a fortnight ago--the sweetest little thing! Well, I do love to have a lot of children about me. When I die, an old woman--I shall be the queerest little old woman you ever set eyes on, Chris!--well, when I die, an old, old woman, I should like to see heaps of children round me, so that I might take the memory of their bright little faces away with me. It isn't often that I talk seriously, but I've got that fancy.'
'You ought to have children of your own, Josey.'
Josey was stitching and mending some of the youngsters' clothes, and, at my remark, she paused and looked at me pensively; but the next moment she gave such a vicious dig with her needle that she broke it, and cried,
'Ought to have! Ought to have! Me, with my crooked legs! No, my dear, never, never, never! Little witches don't have children. Never, never, never!' And for the first time in my experience of her, Josey West burst out crying. Her passion did not last long; she conquered it within a couple of minutes, and, as she wiped her eyes, exclaimed,
'There! A nice little fool you'll think me now, Chris!'
I gave her a kiss, and in a little while she was herself again, rattling away as usual.
'I'm going to sleep in the old house every night,' she said, until Sheridan takes possession; and Turk is coming here to sleep, and to mind the shop, if I want to get away a bit earlier. I wish Turk would marry. I should like to take care of his children. He's a real good sterling fellow is Turk, and deserves a happy home. Your mother was here this afternoon, Chris. She told me all that you said to her.'
'You guess, I daresay, what my reason is in wishing her to see Jessie.'
Josey West laughed. 'I guess, you daresay! Well, yes, I can guess, although I am not in love.'
I shook my head. 'I don't think you have guessed, Josey. It is not for myself that I want mother and Jessie to come together again.'
'What other reason can you have, my sweet sensitive child?'
'Oh, I don't mind your bantering me, Josey. Do you remember sending me a letter from uncle Bryan addressed to mother, when we were away at Hertford?'
'Yes; and I wondered at the time what such a thick letter could be all about.'
'It contained a great secret, Josey, and a very wonderful story concerning Jessie.'
'Indeed!' said Josey, with a cautious look at me.
'I think there is no harm in telling you, especially as you'll not speak of it.'
'Oh, you may trust me, Master Chris.'
'It is a story concerning Jessie and her father.'
'Indeed! So Jessie has a father.'
'You would never guess who her father is, Josey.'
'Then I won't break my head over it; but I shall know if you tell me.'
Uncle Bryan is her father; so that you see Jessie and I are cousins.'
Josey did not express the surprise I expected she would; an expression of thoughtfulness was in her face.
'Go on, Chris; I am waiting to hear more.'
'Well, neither Jessie nor uncle Bryan knew of the relationship existing between them until the day that Jessie went away from this house, and then it came upon them both like a thunderbolt. It was because Jessie discovered that uncle Bryan was her father that she ran away from him.'
'That sounds very dreadful, Chris.'
'There is a dreadful story attached to it--which I mustn't tell you nor anybody, Josey. They are both very much to be pitied; but I am not sure that I don't pity uncle Bryan more than I do Jessie. However, there it is; they are father and daughter, and they are separated. Never mind what has passed, I ask you is this right--is it natural? Uncle Bryan is an old man, and cannot have many years to live. That he repents many things he has been unconsciously guilty of in the past, I am certain.'
'That's a curious phrase,' interrupted Josey, with her thoughtful manner still upon her. 'Unconsciously guilty.'
'It is a correct one. His has not been conscious guilt; what was bad in his character was stamped in him, and was almost forced to take root by the unfortunate circumstances in his early life; what was good never had a chance. We all have good and bad in us, Josey, and surrounding circumstances have much to do in making one or the other predominate in our characters. What is that thought that crossed your eyes just now, Josey?'
'I was thinking that you have grown into a perfect philosopher, Chris. Go on.'
'Say that uncle Bryan had been blessed with such a mother as my mother is--he would have been a different man; he couldn't have helped being a better man. He would have believed in God, in goodness; he would not have grown into a misanthrope. Josey, if there is anything good in me--and I hope I am not all bad--I have mother only to thank for it. It makes me tremble to think that I was so nearly losing her, and that her love for me was very nearly her death; and I know, to my sorrow, that for a long time I repaid her affection with indifference. Well, but that is all over now, thank God. If uncle Bryan had had a good, tender, considerate mother, many unhappy things would not have occurred to him, and it might have been better for Jessie also. As I said, it is dreadful to think of father and daughter being separated as they are, and to think that uncle Bryan might die without a word of affection passing between them. Well, that was the thought in my mind when I said to mother to-day that she ought to go to Jessie; for if mother finds uncle Bryan--and I have an idea that she will--no one but she can bring him and Jessie together.'
'But you didn't tell your mother this, Chris?'
'No; mother did not need telling. She knew my meaning well enough. Words are not required between us now, Josey, to make us understand one another.'
'And so, and so, and so,' said Josey, with tender gaiety, when I had concluded, 'everything having been made right, they lived happily together for ever afterwards.'
It was with sadness I remembered that those were the very words which Jessie had spoken to me in the little parlour in which Josey and I were now conversing.
'Now I'm a witch,' cried Josey, 'and I'll give you three wishes. What are they?'
I looked at her reproachfully, but she did not heed me. She hobbled about as witches are in the habit of doing on the stage, and waved the poker over my head, and conducted herself generally in a ridiculous manner.
'Halo!' cried Turk, poking his head in at the door. 'What are you about with your pokers? What a pity I didn't come in a minute later! There's an account I could have written for the papers! "The first thing that met Our Correspondent's view was the distended"--distended is good, Chris, my boy; I've seen it used so--"was the distended form of the unfortunate victim on the ground, winking his last gasp. Over him stood the infuriated figure of a woman, who, with glistening eyes and rage in her countenance, was brandishing the murderous weapon--an enormous crowbar, weighing fifty-three pounds--preparatory to giving a last fell stroke to the prostrate form at her feet." That's the style, Chris; a penny a line. Spin it out--must have at least two columns. "Upon inquiry among the neighbours, who stood in clusters about the building in which the murderous deed was perpetrated, Our Correspondent learned that jealousy was the cause of the fatal assault. It appears that thirteen years ago there lived in a certain street, called et cetera, et cetera, et cetera." Now, after that, Chris, if you start an illustrated paper, and don't employ me as Special Correspondent, I shall have a bad opinion of your judgment.'
I was relieved by this diversion, and upon Turk proposing that we should pay a visit to the Royal Columbia Theatre, in which he had played the first villain for so long a time, I gladly assented.
I left a message for my mother, desiring her to wait with Josey until I returned, and Turk and I strolled to the theatre. I found not the slightest alteration either in the theatre, the audience, or the performance; they were all the same--the same atmosphere, the same fashions, the same pieces with different names. The very dresses were the same; but I was bound to confess that the First Villain was vastly inferior to Turk, who, I learned, had left a reputation behind him which would last while the walls held together. We did not stay longer than an hour, and then, as we had done on the occasion of my first visit to the Royal Columbia, we visited a neighbouring bar, and over our pewter pots listened and took part in a precisely similar conversation to that which I had listened to with such respectful admiration and attention after the performance of the thrilling drama of The Knight of the Sable Plume. The decadence of the drama, the low ebb of dramatic literature, the glorious days of Garrick and Kemble, the inferior parts which men and women of genius were compelled to play upon the mimic stage, the false positions which pretenders were puffed into by venal critics who ignored real talent--these were the themes touched upon; and I began to reflect whether this state of things was chronic in the profession, and whether, when the golden age of the drama is in its full meridian, the decadence of the drama will not be spoken of as mournfully as it is in the present day.
My mother was waiting for me when I returned; but although she was exceptionally bright and happy, and although there was a tenderly joyous significance in her words and manner towards me, she said nothing of the result of her visit to Jessie.
CHAPTER XLIX.
UNCLE BRYAN AGAIN.
'Chris,' says my mother to me, on the following day, can you leave off work an hour earlier this evening?'
'Yes, mother,' I replied; 'at six o'clock if you like.'
'Then at six o'clock,' she says gaily, 'I shall take possession of you.'
As the hour strikes, she comes to my side, dressed for walking. 'No tea, mother?' I ask.
'We are going out to tea, my dear,' she answers.
I keep her waiting but a very few minutes, and presently we are in the streets. I know that something of importance is about to be disclosed to me, and that it will please my mother to be allowed to disclose it in her own way; therefore I hazard no conjectures, and we talk on indifferent subjects. But this does not prevent me from working myself into a state of agitation as to the precise nature of our errand. We take the omnibus to Holborn, and from there we walk towards Bedford-square. My mother leads the way down a clean narrow street, and we pause before a small three-storied house.
'Somebody lives here that we know,' says my mother, as she knocks at the door.
'Can it be Jessie?' I ask of myself, as I glance upwards. There are flowers on the window-sills of the first and third floor; those on the first floor are especially fine, and almost entirely cover the windows. It is on the third floor we stop when we enter the house.
'Remember what you said to me, my dear,' my mother whispers as we enter the room. There is no one to receive us, but my Mother goes into an inner room, and comes out of it presently, and motions me with a tender smile to go in. I enter alone; an old man with white hair is standing by the window, looking towards the door. A grave expression is on his face, which is deeply lined; I recognise uncle Bryan immediately, although he is much changed. I had had in my mind a lingering hope that my mother was taking me to see Jessie; but in the pleasure of seeing uncle Bryan I lose sight for a few moments of my disappointment.
'Uncle,' I say, as I advance towards him with outstretched hand. He meets me half-way, and clasps my hand eagerly in his, and then turns aside with quivering lips, still holding my hand. I know that he has noticed both my pleasure and my disappointment, and I hope it is not the latter that causes him to turn aside.
I have said that he is changed, but I find it difficult to explain in what way he is different from what he was. It is not that his hair has grown quite white during the months that we have been parted, it is not that his form is bowed, or that his features are more deeply-lined; the same shrewd thoughtful expression is there, but in some undefinable way it is softened, and although the old look of self-reliance is in his eyes, it is less hard than it was. As I silently note these changes, I am reminded of a passage I read a few days before this meeting, in which a man is said to have had in his face an expression which might have been brought there by the touch of angel fingers on his eyelids while he slept.
'I received your message yesterday, my dear boy,' he says presently. 'Your mother brought it straight to me. It gladdened my heart inexpressibly.'
Then I know that my mother must have been in the habit of visiting him for some time; it does not surprise me to learn this; every day of her life brings me fresh proofs of her goodness.
'How long ago was it, uncle,' I ask, 'since mother discovered where you were living?'
'Quite a month, my dear boy,' he replies, and adds quickly, 'it was my wish that she should say nothing to you until I gave her permission.'
I smile softly at this defence of her.
'She can do nothing wrong,' I say. 'I think I know the spirit that lives in the hearts of angels.'
My mother, who is preparing tea for us, peeps in here.
'Do you forgive me, my dear?' she says. 'You never thought your mother would deceive you, I daresay.'
'I shall have to consider very seriously,' I say, kissing her, 'before I can pronounce an opinion on your conduct. There are some things that take a long time in learning.'
She stands between us, embracing us, glancing with tearful eyes from one to the other.
'But I must make haste, and get tea ready,' she cries, running away from us; 'there! the kettle's boiling over.'
'Which is the better kind of wisdom, uncle,' I say; 'that which comes from the head or the heart?'
He answers: 'That which touches us most deeply, which makes us kinder, more tender and tolerant, less harsh and dogmatic, more charitable and merciful, must be the better kind of teaching. All this springs from the heart. You said to your mother just now that some things take a long time in learning. I have been all my life learning a lesson, and have but now, when I am near my grave, mastered it. In plays, in poems, in stories, in songs, those words and sentiments which appeal to the heart are invariably most effective. You see, my dear boy, my views are changed.'
After this he asks me about myself, and I tell him what has passed, and he listens with pleasure and patience, as though he had not already heard it all from my mother's lips--but I do not think of this at the time.
'You have not mentioned Jessie's name,' he says, 'thinking perhaps it would pain me; but I can speak of her without grief, if not without sadness. I have only one wish in life now, my dear lad.'
Believing that he refers to a reconciliation between himself and Jessie, and having full faith in my mother's power to bring this about, I say that I earnestly hope it will be fulfilled, and that I believe it will be. He gazes at me with a soft light in his eyes.
'You know in what relation she stands to me, Chris?'
'Yes, uncle.'
If I could give her to you, my dear boy----'
But I stop him here, and beg him in scarcely distinct words not to continue the subject.
'But one word, Chris,' he says; 'you love her still?'
'With all my heart, uncle, and shall all my life. But it hurts me to speak of her; I can bear it better in silence.'
My mother calls out that tea is ready, and once more we three sit down together.
'I miss the little parlour,' my mother says; 'how many happy years we lived there!'
She forgets all the sorrow and pain we experienced there, and recalls only the tenderest reminiscences. Occasionally a flash of uncle Bryan's old humour gives piquancy to the conversation, but there is now no bitterness or cynicism in what he says. At eight o'clock my mother puts on her bonnet; I am surprised that we are going so early, but she says it is a fine night and that she feels inclined for a walk.
'Uncle Bryan will walk with us,' I say.
My mother shakes her head, smilingly, and says she does not want him. I look towards uncle Bryan; he does not seem in the least disturbed.
'We shall see each other again soon,' he says, as he shakes hands with me on the doorstep of his house.
'You will come to us, then,' I say eagerly. 'I want to show you my work.'
'Yes, I will come very soon; but your mother will see to everything, Chris.'
'There is one thing I want particularly to ask you, uncle, if you'll not mind.'
'Say it, my dear boy.'
'Living here, all alone, as you are doing,' I say, and I pause somewhat awkwardly.
He assists me.
'Yes, my dear boy--living here all alone, as I am doing----'
'I was thinking it must be very lonely for you, uncle.'
'It is a lonely life, Chris, living by oneself.'
'And without any friends near you.'
'Yes, my dear boy.'
'I want you to give up these rooms, uncle, and come and live with us, or if you wouldn't like to do that, to go back to your shop.'
His eyes brighten; my mother's eyes also are beaming.
'It would be a pity to take the shop away from that good little woman, Josey West. And you would really like me to come and live with you again?'
'It would make us very happy--mother especially. Look at her face.'
'With all my eccentricities and oddities, you would still wish me to come?'
'Ah, but you are altered now.' He makes a grimace. 'Well, even if you were not, I should be very, very glad if you will come. You can give me lessons in flower-growing.'
I glance up to the windows in which the flowers were blooming. His eyes follow mine.
'Which do you think the best, Chris; those on the first or those on the third floor?'
'On the first floor certainly, and I am surprised at it. I thought no one could beat you. Mother was never so successful as you were. Your flowers were always the finest.'
He rubs his hand, and says,
'Well, we shall see, we shall see.' And then, more earnestly, 'I am glad you have asked me, Chris; I was wishing for it. Good-night now; we'll talk of it by and by.'
As he seems evidently wishful to get rid of us, and as my mother seems no less anxious to go, I take my leave. On our way home we pass a theatre, and my mother expresses a wish to enter; we go into the pit, and witness a French comic opera done into English. The performance is a good one, but is spoilt by the unnecessary introduction of some foreign dancers, whose coarse vulgarity and outrageous disregard for decency shock my mother. It is seldom that my mother goes to a theatre, and she says, as we come out,
'If that is to become the fashion in theatres, I am more than glad that Jessie is not going on the stage.'
'Then she is not going?' I ask eagerly.
'Well, my dear,' replies my mother, with sudden reserve, 'it almost looks as if she had given up the idea.'
At home I find a letter on the table. I open it and read: