CHAPTER XIII.
DAN DECLARES THAT IT IS LIKE A ROMANCE.
The old gentleman with the hour-glass who never sleeps does not look a day older, and yet four seasons have played their parts and have passed away. The white hairs in George Marvel's head are multiplying fast, and he grumbles at them as usual, but has given up the task of pulling them out. Great changes have taken place among Joshua's friends; and Dan, looking up from his work, remarks sometimes that it is almost like a romance. Judge if it is.
When Mr. Taylor was buried--when the shame of his death was forgotten and only sorrow for it remained--the children found themselves in one of those social difficulties from which many wiser persons than they are unable to extricate themselves. For the first three or four weeks after their father's death, Mrs. Marvel and Susan had between them managed to defray the small expenses of the house; but the tax was heavy--too heavy for them to continue to bear. One day, however, unexpected help came. George Marvel, in his quiet way, had conceived a great idea, and in his quiet way had carried it out. Here were these two children thrown upon the world. Not children exactly perhaps, for they were nearly seventeen years of age; but one was a cripple, and the other was a girl. They had been good children, and their character stood high in the neighborhood. Who ought to assist them? The neighbors. Some one must take it in hand, and why not he as well as any other person? No sooner had he made up his mind than he set to work. He went round to the neighbors personally, and told them what his errand was. Poor as they were, they gave their mites cheerfully, with scarcely an exception. When he had made the round of the neighbors, he went to the workshops, and the men there gave their penny each, and the boys their halfpence; and so swelled the total. His own employers and fellow-workmen were more liberal than any. He did not forget his tradesmen, his butcher and baker and grocer. They all gave; and the result was that, at the end of the three weeks during which he had been employed in his self-imposed task, he had a sum of not less than twelve pounds four shillings in his possession, to hand over to Dan and Ellen to assist them through their trouble. The night he made up his accounts, he told his wife what he had done, and she blessed him for it, and was silently and devoutly grateful that Providence had given her a husband with such a heart.
The following evening George Marvel visited the children, with his bag of money in his coat-tail pocket. Ellen was at work, and although she looked pale in her black dress, she looked very pretty. The goodness of the heart always shows itself in the face.
Now Dan had been thinking all day, and indeed for many previous days, that he ought to consult some mature person as to what he was to do. You must understand that Dan, notwithstanding that he was so much younger than Susan, considered himself the head of the family. He had his plans, but he wanted advice concerning them. Up to the present time, his business in trained birds had not flourished. It could not be said to have commenced, for he had not sold a bird. He had decided Mr. Marvel would be a proper person to ask advice of, and by good luck here Mr. Marvel was.
"Have you a few minutes to spare, sir?"
"Yes, surely, Dan," replied Mr. Marvel.
"I want to take your advice, sir," commenced Dan after a slight hesitation. "You know how we are situated, and how suddenly our misfortunes have come upon us. Well, sir, we must live; we must have bread-and-butter. Now the only scapegrace out of the lot of us is me--don't interrupt me, Ellen, nor you, sir, please. Susan is earning her bread-and-butter and something more. Ellen is earning enough to keep her; and I am the only idle one of all of us, and I am the only one who is eating bread-and-butter and is not earning it."
"But, Dan," interposed George Marvel.
"No, sir, please; let me go on. I have been eating the bread of idleness all my life, and I am eating it now. It isn't right that I should do so. I ought to earn my own living. But how? I am not like other boys, and cannot do what other boys can do. One thing is certain: I can't let Ellen work for me, and it would break my heart to part from her; and she would feel it quite as much as I should.--Yes, Ellen, keep your arm round my neck, but don't speak.--I tried to earn money, you know that. I trained some birds, and put them in the window, thinking that some one would buy them. But no one has. I haven't earned a penny-piece, and every bit of bread I put into my mouth has been paid for by Susan and Ellen."
Notwithstanding his eagerness, his tears choked him here, and he was compelled to pause before he resumed. In the mean time, obedient to his wish, neither Ellen nor Mr. Marvel spoke.
"Now, sir, this is my idea. I have got now twenty-two birds; they can do all sorts of tricks: they can whistle tunes; they can climb up ladders; some of them can march like soldiers and can let off guns; some of them can draw carts. Would it be considered begging, if I, a lame boy, who have no other way of getting bread-and-butter, made an exhibition of these birds, and got some one to wheel me about the streets, and stop now and then so that I might put the birds through their tricks? I shouldn't be ashamed to accept what kind persons might give me, or might drop into a little box which I would take care to have handy. I wouldn't do it in this neighborhood. I would go a long way off--three or four miles perhaps--into the rich parts of London, where people could better afford to give. But would it be considered begging? That is what I want to ask your advice upon, sir."
George Marvel's breath was completely taken away. The enthusiastic manner in which Dan had spoken, no less than his admiration of the proposed scheme, had caused him to forget his errand for the time. "Wait a minute," he said somewhat excitedly, "I must think; I must walk about a bit." But no sooner had he risen than the weight of the money in his coat-tail pocket brought him to his sober senses, and he sat down again.
"Dan," he said, taking the lad's hand affectionately in his, "you are a good boy, and I am glad that you are Joshua's friend. I will answer your question and give you my advice, as you ask it. In any other case than yours I think it would be begging; but I don't think it would be in yours."
"Thank you, sir," said Dan gratefully.
"Mind, I think even in your case it would not be exactly what I should approve of, if you had any other way of getting a living."
"You think as I do, sir; but I have tried, as you see, and I have not succeeded."
"Try a little longer, Dan."
"How about next week's rent, sir?"
"You can pay it," replied George Marvel, "and many more weeks' besides. I have a present for you in my pocket;" and he pulled out the bag of money and put it on the table. "In this bag is twelve pounds four shillings, which your friends--yours and your sisters'--have clubbed together for you, and that is what brought me here to-night."
"O sir!" cried Dan, covering his face with his hands.
"This money has been got together because all of us round about here love you. I sha'n't give it to you all at once. You shall have it so much every week; and I should advise you--as you ask for my advice--to continue training birds for sale and putting them in your window. Try a little while longer. A customer may come at any minute. And one customer is sure to bring another."
"How can I thank you and all the good people, sir?" said Dan, with a full heart.
"Never mind that now," said George Marvel.
If he had known that it would have been so difficult and painful a task, it is not unlikely he would have remitted it to his wife to accomplish. Pretending to be in a great hurry, he rose to go, and, pressing Dan's hand and kissing Ellen, went home to his wife and told her of Dan's wonderful idea.
Ellen and Dan were very happy the next morning, and set about their work cheerfully and hopefully. Dan wrote a new announcement concerning the birds, and the windows were cleaned, and presented a regular holiday appearance. In the midst of his work, Dan, looking up, saw a face at the window that he recognized. It was that of a young man who had been in the habit of looking in at the window nearly every day for the last week, and of whom Dan had observed more than once, that he looked like a customer.
"There he is again, Ellen," said Dan; "the same man. Why doesn't he come in and ask the price of them?"
He had no sooner spoken the words than the man's face disappeared from the window, and a knock came at the street-door.
"Run and open the door, Ellen. I shouldn't wonder if he has made up his mind at last." Dan's heart beat loud with excitement. "How much shall I ask for them?" he thought. "Oh, if he buys a couple of them, how happy I shall be!"
The parlor-door opened, and the man entered; decidedly good-looking, dark, with a fresh color in his face, and with black hair curling naturally. The first impression was favorable, and Dan nodded approvingly to himself. The man had curiously flat feet, which, when he walked, seemed to do all the work without any assistance from his legs; and although his eyes were keen and bright, they did not look long at one object, but shifted restlessly, as if seeking a hiding-place where they could retire from public gaze.
"I have been attracted by the birds in the window," he said, coming at once to to the point, much to Dan's satisfaction. "Can they really perform what the paper says? Can they really sing 'God save the King,' and draw up their own food and water?"
"They can do all that sir; but you shall see for yourself.--Ellen! Where is Ellen?" Dan called; for he wanted her to assist him, and she had not followed the stranger into the room.
"Ah, Ellen," said the stranger, dwelling on the name. "Is that the young lady who opened the door for me?"
"Yes, sir.--Ellen!" Dan called again.
"Allow me," said the stranger; and he went to the door, and called in tones which slipped from his throat as if it was oiled, "Ellen! Ellen!" Then he turned to Dan, and questioned: "Your sister?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ah," said the man greasily, "she is extremely like you. Allow me. I will bring the cage to the table."
He brought the cage from the window, and placed it before Dan. At that moment Ellen entered the room. The man's eyes wandered all over her as she took her seat at the table. She did not return his gaze, but bent her head modestly to her work.
"Your sister's name is Ellen," he said, "and yours?"
"Daniel," said Dan; "Daniel Taylor."
"Daniel; a scriptural name. Mine is also a Scriptural name: Solomon, Solomon Fewster. Solomon was a wise man; I hope I take after him."
"I hope so, I am sure, sir," said Dan somewhat impatiently; for he was anxious to get to business. "Now, sir, if you will please to look and listen."
He blew through the tin whistle; and the bullfinches piped "God save the King."
"Very pretty, very pretty," said Solomon Fewster, nodding his head to the music. "And you taught them yourself?"
"Yes, sir. But it isn't as if they will only sing for me; they will sing for you, or for Ellen, or for any one who blows the whistle."
"And they will sing for Ellen if she breathes into the whistle?" said Solomon Fewster. "Will Ellen breathe into the whistle with her pretty red lips? Allow me."
He took the whistle from Dan and handed it to Ellen; and she reluctantly gave the signal to the birds, who willingly obeyed it. Fewster took the whistle from her and blew; and the birds for the third time piped the air. Then Dan directed his attention to the wooden whistle, and to the wonders performed by the birds at its dictation. Nothing would please Mr. Fewster but that Ellen should place the wooden whistle between her "pretty red lips," as he called them again, and "breathe into it." He said that "breathe" was more appropriate to Ellen's pretty lips than "blow." He, using the whistle after her, cast upon her such admiring looks, that he really made her uncomfortable. The performance being over, Dan gazed at Mr. Fewster with undisguised anxiety. He had intended to be very cunning, and to appear as if he did not care whether he sold the birds or not; but the effort was unsuccessful.
"Well, well," said Mr. Fewster; "and they are really for sale? Poor little things! I asked the price of bullfinches yesterday at a bird-fancier's, and the man offered to sell them for four pence each. Not that these are not worth a little more. There is the trouble of training them; of course that is worth a trifle. Still bullfinches are bullfinches all the world over; and bullfinches, I believe, are very plentiful just now--quite a glut of them in the market." He paused, to allow this information to settle in Dan's mind, before he asked, "Now what do you want a pair for these?"
"What do you think they are worth, sir?" asked Dan, much depressed by Mr. Fewster's mode of bargaining.
"No, no, Daniel Taylor," said Mr. Fewster, in a bantering tone, "I am too old a bird for that; not to be caught. Remember my namesake. You couldn't have caught him, you know; even the Queen of Sheba couldn't catch him. I can't be buyer and seller too. Put your price upon the birds; and I will tell you if they suit me."
"You see, sir," said Dan frankly, "you puzzle me. The training of these birds has taken me a long time. You would be surprised if you knew how patient I have to be with them. And you puzzle me when you make so light a thing of my teaching, and when you tell me that bullfinches are a glut in the market. If the bullfinches you can get in the market will suit you, sir, why do you not buy them?"
"Well put, Daniel, well put," said Mr. Fewster good-humoredly. "Still, you must fix a price on them, you know. How much shall we say?"
"Fifteen shillings the pair," said Dan boldly.
Mr. Fewster gave a long whistle, and threw himself into an attitude of surprise. Dan shifted in his seat uneasily.
"A long price," said Mr. Fewster, when he had recovered himself; "a very long price."
"I couldn't take less, sir," said Dan.
"Not ten shillings? Couldn't you take ten shillings?" suggested Mr. Fewster, throwing his head on one side insinuatingly.
There was something almost imploring in the expression on Dan's face as he said,--
"No, sir, I don't think I could. You haven't any idea what a time they have taken me to train. I hoped to get more for them."
"I tell you what," said Mr. Fewster, with sudden animation. "Ellen shall decide with her pretty red lips. What do you say, Ellen? Shall I give fifteen shillings for them?"
"They are worth it, I am sure, sir," said Ellen timidly.
"That settles it," said Mr. Fewster gallantly. "Here is the money."
And laying the money on the table, Mr. Fewster took the cage, and shaking hands with Dan, and pressing Ellen's fingers tenderly, bade them good-morning.
Dan's delight may be imagined. It was intensified a few day's afterwards, when Mr. Fewster called again, and bought another pair of birds; Mr. Fewster at the same time informed Dan that it was likely he might become a constant customer; and so he proved to be.
In the course of a short time, Dan found himself in receipt of a regular income. Other customers came, but Dan could not supply them all, as Mr. Fewster bought the birds almost as soon as they were trained. Very soon Dan thought himself justified in making a proposal to Susan. The proposal was that they should all live together in the house where Dan carried on his business. The only obstacle to the carrying out of the arrangement was Susan's determination not to leave Basil and Minnie Kindred. But why should not Basil Kindred and his daughter come as well? asked Dan; there was plenty of room for them, and it would be such company. And after the lapse of a little time, the result that Dan wished for was accomplished, and Basil and Minnie and Susan were living with them. They were a very happy family. The parlor-window had been altered to allow more space for the bird-cages; and Dan, looking around sometimes upon the group of happy faces, would remark that it was almost like a romance.
And so indeed it was, notwithstanding that the scene was laid in the humblest of humble localities.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE STRANGE COURSES OF LOVE.
Perhaps one of the most absurd questions that could be put to a person would be to ask him how old he was when he was born. Yet the little old-men's faces possessed by some babies might furnish an excuse for such a question. The shrewd look, the cunning twinkle, the pinched nose, the peaked chin, the very wrinkles--you see them all, though the child be but a few weeks old. All the signs of worldly cunning and worldly wisdom are there, ready made, unbought by worldly experience; and as you look at them and wonder how old the little child-man really is, the object of your curiosity returns your look with scarcely less speculation in his eye than you have in yours. You are conscious that you are no match, except in physical strength, for the little fellow lying in his mother's lap or sprawling in his cradle; and a curious compound of pity and humiliation afflicts you in consequence.
Some such a child as this was Solomon Fewster before he attained to the dignity of boyhood; his parents and their friends agreed in declaring that he was a cunning little fellow, a knowing little fellow; they would poke their fingers in the fat creases of his neck, and would sportively say, "Oh, you cunning little rogue!" "You knowing little rogue!" and he would crow and laugh, and endeavor to utter the words after them. He was so accustomed to the phrase, and grew to be so fond of it, that when he was old enough to understand its meaning, his chief desire seemed to be to prove himself worthy of it. It falls to the lot of but very few of us to compass our desires. Solomon Fewster was one of the fortunate exceptions. He was dubbed a cunning little rogue, before he knew what such praise meant; and (could it be that he was unwilling to trade under false pretences?) when he did know, he educated himself to deserve it, and succeeded. A small percentage of the old-men babies retain their old-men's looks as they grow to boyhood; specimens of these can be seen any day in our courts and alleys. This was not the case with Solomon Fewster; as he grew, the old-man's look faded from his face, and the spirit of "a cunning little rogue" took root in his heart, and flourished there. His parents dying when he was a child, he was left to the charge of a bachelor uncle, an undertaker by trade, who adopted and educated him. When he was taken from school--where he was the cunningest boy of them all--he was initiated into the mysteries of the undertaking business, and when he was of age he was intrusted with a responsible position, and his uncle made a will leaving every thing to him. He proved himself an invaluable ally; was grieved to the heart at the losses sustained by his uncle's customers; wept when he assisted at measurements; was broken-hearted when the clay was taken from the house; and sobbed with an almost utter prostration of spirit when he receipted the account, and signed Payment in Full. He entered heart and soul into the business, and thoroughly enjoyed it. Whether it was because he looked upon himself as the future master of the establishment, or because it was congenial to his nature, he strove by every means in his power to extend the connection; and being as acute and sensible as a man of double his age, his efforts were successful and the business flourished. Death was most obliging to him, and waited and fawned upon him at every step he took. If his spirits became depressed because trade was slack, a fortunate epidemic restored him to his usual cheerfulness, and orders poured in; and it is no disparagement of him, as an undertaker, to state that he buried his friends and acquaintances with melancholy satisfaction. When he was twenty-three years of age his uncle died. He paid the old gentleman every possible mark of respect: had the coffin lined with white satin; wept till his face was puffed; entered the expense of the funeral in the ledger to the debit of the deceased, and wiped off the amount at once as a bad debt. Then he set to work vigorously upon his own account. He had his name painted over the door, and issued circulars to every house for miles round. In those circulars he announced that he undertook and conducted funerals cheaper than any other undertaker in London; said that one trial would prove the fact; and respectfully solicited the patronage of his friends and the public. His appeal was successful; his trade increased; and Solomon Fewster was generally spoken of as a man on the high-road to prosperity.
When Solomon Fewster first saw Ellen, she was seventeen years of age, and he was seized with a sudden admiration for her pretty face and graceful figure. He had never seen a girl so winsome; and when they met again, he followed her admiringly to her home, and saw the exhibition of the bullfinches in Dan's window. Here was an opportunity to stare at her; and he enjoyed the cheap pleasure again and again until Dan noticed his face at the window. Then a happy thought entered Mr. Fewster's mind. The birds certainly were wonderfully intelligent, and their clever tricks would most likely render them easy of disposal. He entered into communication with a West-end fashionable bird-fancier--the farther away from Dan the better, he thought--and the bird-fancier (who had a connection among fine ladies) informed him that if the birds could really do all that he stated, a profitable trade might be established between them. "What a fine opportunity," thought Solomon Fewster, "of introducing myself to the pretty girl in the light of a benefactor!" Then came the first interview and the first purchase. The pair of bullfinches he bought for fifteen shillings he sold for thirty; and the following week the fashionable bird-fancier asked for more. Thus it was that Solomon Fewster made his growing passion for Ellen a means of putting money in his purse; and thus it was that he came to be looked upon as a privileged visitor to the house.
The Old Sailor also found his way to the house. He was not as frequent a visitor as Mr. Fewster, but he was a more welcome one. The Old Sailor might have been a child, his heart was so green; and he had such a fund of stories to tell, and he told them with such simplicity and enthusiasm, believing in them thoroughly, however wild they were, that his hearers would hang upon his words, and laugh with him, and sorrow with him according to the nature of his narrative. They spent the pleasantest of pleasant evenings together, and when Praiseworthy Meddler told his sea-stories, Minnie would sit very quiet on the floor--a favorite fashion of hers--listening eagerly to every word that dropped from his lips. Then Basil Kindred would read Shakspeare when he could be coaxed into the humor, and would keep them spell-bound by his eloquence. He had ceased wandering in the streets and begging for his living. Necessity was his master there. He was stricken down with rheumatic fever, which so prostrated him that he was unable to pursue his vagrant career. They had a very hard task in inducing him to remain with them.
"Live upon you, my dear lad!" he exclaimed loftily. "No; I will perish first!"
"There is enough for all, sir," replied Dan. "Do not go. I would take from you--indeed, indeed I would!--could we change places. And there is Minnie, sir,"--with such a wistful tender glance towards Minnie, who was growing very beautiful,--"what would she do? But not for her nor for you do I ask this, sir. It is for me; for Ellen and Susan and Joshua. How happy he will be to find you here when he returns! You and Minnie, that he talked of so often, and with such affection! Then think, sir. You would not like to be the means of breaking up our little happy circle; and it is happy, isn't it, Minnie?"
"Ah, yes, Dan!" replied Minnie, with an anxious look at her father. "Only one is wanting to make it perfect."
"And that one is Joshua," said Dan, divining whom she meant, and grateful to her for the thought.
"And that one is Joshua," she repeated softly, placing her shell to his ear. "Do you hear it? Is it not sweet, the singing of the sea?"
But all argument and entreaty would have been thrown away upon Basil if it had not been for Minnie. It was she who, when they were alone, prevailed upon him to stay.
"Your mother suffered for me and died for me," he said to her, as he lay upon his bed of pain. "How like her you are growing, Minnie! Well, well, one is enough. I will stay, child, for your sake."
And she kissed him and thanked him, and whispered that he had made her happy.
The next day she told Dan in a whisper that father was not going away; and Dan clapped his hands, and quietly said, "Bravo!"
"And Joshua used to speak about us?" she remarked, with assumed carelessness.
"Often and often, Minnie," answered Dan.
"And really speak of us affectionately?"
"Ah if you had only heard him! You know what a voice he has--like music."
A sudden flush in her face, a rapid beating at her heart, a rush of tears to her eyes. None of which did Dan notice, for her eyes were towards the ground. A little while afterwards she was singing about the house as blithe as a bird. Dan, stopping in the midst of his work, listened to the soft rustle of her dress in the passage, and to her soft singing as she went up the stairs; and a grateful look stole into his eyes.
"Not to hear that!" he said. "Ah, it would be worse than death! But she is going to stay, birdie," nodding gayly to one of his pets; "she is going to stay!"
Dan told Minnie of the pretty fancies he had in connection with his friend; of the manner in which his love had grown, until it was welded in his heart for ever and ever; of Joshua's care and self-devotion towards him, the poor useless cripple. He told her of his fancy about the dream-theory, and how he had believed in it, and of the experiments he had made. And Minnie listened with delight, and sympathized with Dan--ay, and shed tears with him--and showed in every word she uttered how thoroughly she understood his feelings.
"I have dreamed of him over and over again," said Dan; "but of course I don't know, and indeed I can't believe, that I have dreamed of him as he is. He is a man by this time, Minnie; and--let me see!--he is standing on his ship, with his bright eyes and handsome face"--
"Yes!" interrupted Minnie eagerly. "Made brighter and handsomer by living on the open sea and away from narrow streets. I can see the spray dashing up into his eyes, and he shaking it off laughing the while."
"Yes, yes!" said Minnie enthusiastically. "You can see him too, Minnie. I feel that you can. Is he not handsome and brave? I can hear him say, as he looks round upon the grand sea and up at the beautiful clouds,--I can hear him say, 'Dan is here with me, although I cannot see him.' He has me in his heart, as I have him. It was a compact. We were to be always together, and we are. Dear Jo!" He paused a while, and Minnie, her hands clasped in her lap, gazed before her, and saw the picture painted by Dan's words. Many such conversations they had, and the theme was always the same.
Shortly after the death of Mr. Taylor the Old Sailor came to see the children. He did not know of the loss they had sustained; and when he heard that both father and mother were dead, he was much grieved. The news so disconcerted him that he rose to go three or four times, and each time sat down again, as if he had something on his mind he wished to get rid of first. As a proof that he was mentally disturbed, he dabbed his face more frequently than usual with his blue-cotton pocket-handkerchief, folding it up carefully before he put it in the breast of his shirt, as if he were folding up his secret in it, and afterwards taking it out and unfolding it, as if he had made up his mind at last to disclose what that secret was. When he found courage to speak, Dan learned that the bullfinches which Joshua and he had presented to the Old Sailor were dead.
"Died yesterday morning, my lad," said the Old Sailor; "died just as we were beginning to understand each other. Sailor birds they were, and they could climb ropes as well as any bird in the service."
"I am sorry they are dead, sir," said Dan; "but I can give you another pair."
"No, Dan, no. I'll not have any more; they wouldn't be safe."
"Not safe?"
"There was a mutineer in the crew, my lad," said the Old Sailor, dropping his voice. "It comes awkward for me to tell you; but you ought to know--and duty before every thing. The pretty birds were poisoned."
"Who could have been so cruel as to poison the innocent creatures?" asked Dan sorrowfully.
"That damned copper-colored eon of a thief who cooked for me!" replied the Old Sailor excitedly. "You saw him when you were on my ship. He had rings in his ears."
"I remember. He was a Lascar, you told us."
"The treacherous dog!" exclaimed the Old Sailor wrathfully, dabbing his face. "But I did what was right to him. I flogged him with a rope's end till he couldn't stand."
"He knew that Joshua gave you the birds, sir?"
"Ay, he knew it. To tell you the truth, my lad, I christened the birds Josh and Dan, and used to call them by their names. They were as sensible as human beings, and I gave them decent burial. I sewed them in canvas, and weighted it with shot, and slipped it off a plank. I'll not have any more of them, Dan. That lubberly thief would crawl on board one night and murder them too. No, no, my lad; no more birds for me."
"Well, then, I'll tell you what we'll do," said Dan. "I will give you another pair of birds, and I will keep them for you, and you will come here sometimes and see how they are getting along. That's a good idea, isn't it, sir?"
The Old Sailor admitted that it was, and thus it fell out that he became a visitor to the house. Dan bought a toy ship, with sails and masts and slender ropes all complete, and taught the birds to climb the ropes and masts, which they did deftly, although not in sailor fashion, hand-over-hand; and his thoughtful conceit filled the Old Sailor with infinite delight.
It was Susan's good fortune not to meet the Lascar for many months after the eventful occurrence in which Joshua had played so prominent a part. But one evening, when she and Ellen were returning home, she met him face to face.
"Stop!" cried the Lascar, noticing Susan's agitation with secret pleasure. "You don't forget me, do you?"
Ellen, raising her eyes, saw and recognized the Lascar, and was recognized by him at the same moment.
"Ah!" he said, "I remember you. You came one day with a lame boy and that young thief Joshua Marvel--curse him!--to see Mr. Meddler's boat."
Ellen tried to hurry Susan along, but the Lascar stood directly in their path.
"Not yet, my beauty. You are about the prettiest girl I've ever seen. What's your name?"
Ellen was not so overcome with fear as to entirely lose her self-possession. Had she been alone, she would have run away. But Susan was clinging to her, almost fainting with terror. On the opposite side of the road she saw a man walking towards them.
"Help!" she cried; but she could have bitten her lip with vexation when she found that it was Solomon Fewster who responded to her appeal. However, there Solomon Fewster was, ready to grapple with the enemy and to die in Ellen's defence. The occasion for a display of heroism was as good as he could have desired.
"Where is he?" he cried valiantly; "where's the villain who has dared to frighten my pretty Ellen?"
He said this with such a presumptuous air of being her defender by natural right, that Ellen was annoyed and displeased. But she could not be uncivil to him. She thanked him for coming to their help, and he asked to be allowed to see them home. But Ellen refused, and although he pleaded hard, she was firm.
She was especially angry because of his calling her his pretty Ellen. Glad as she would have been of a protector, she rightly thought that it would be giving Mr. Fewster encouragement if she allowed him to assume that office. So, with many distressingly-tender protestations, he took his departure, congratulating himself upon the adventure, and Susan and Ellen walked homewards.
Ellen was very anxious to know all about the Lascar, and why Susan was frightened at him. Susan told her all, and Ellen's face glowed with delight at Joshua's courage.
"Brave Joshua!" she exclaimed. "Isn't he a hero, Susan?"
Notwithstanding that she had not recovered from her fright at meeting the Lascar, Susan could not help smiling at Ellen's enthusiasm.
"He was to be away a year," said Ellen, "and it is now two years and four months."
"And how many weeks, and how many days, and how many hours?" interrupted Susan, half gayly. "You could tell, I dare say. Ellen, couldn't you, if you were put to it?" Ellen looked shyly at Susan. "What a change he will find in you, my dear!" Susan continued tenderly. "In the place of a plain little girl he will find a very pretty woman."
"O Susey! calling me a woman!"
"Well, you are, dear, or you will be when he comes back. I wonder"--
But Susan did not say what it was she wondered at, but stopped, most unaccountably, in the middle of the street and kissed Ellen in a motherly kind of way. The caress set Ellen a-blushing, and she fell into a state of happy musing. They were very near home when a voice at their side said,--
"You thought you had escaped me, eh?"
It was the voice of the Lascar, who had dogged them until he found an opportunity of speaking to them without attracting attention. Their hearts beat fast, but they did not turn their heads.
"Don't say a word," whispered Ellen, "don't speak, don't stop, don't look! We shall be home directly."
"So Joshua Marvel hasn't come back yet," he said with bitter emphasis. "He is a long time gone; but wait till he comes. I go every day to see the cross I put against him, and it grows brighter and brighter. I curse him every night. Perhaps he thinks that I forget. He shall see if I do." He gasped this at intervals, for the girls were now almost running in their terror. "Tell him," hissed the Lascar, "when he comes that that I poisoned at old thief's birds because Joshua gave them to him, and because the old thief used to call one of them by his name. Curse him! And you!" he exclaimed savagely, touching Susan's arm. "See you--remember! My shadow follows you from this day, you damned witch! for it was because of you that he came across me. Oh, you live there, do you? Dream of my shadow, you cat, to-night. It shall stand at your bedside. Blot it out if you can."
He had worked himself into a horrible rage; his passion made a madman of him; yet he did not attempt to stop them as they darted in at the door, but stood aside and looked at the house, and marked it and lingered about it for half an hour afterwards. In the mean time Ellen and Susan had run into their bedroom and locked the door. It was a long time before they recovered from their agitation. Susan was in an agony of terror; all her old fears came with stronger force upon her. She pressed her fingers upon her eyes and threw herself upon the ground, shuddering and moaning.
"Do you see his shadow, Ellen?" she moaned. "Do you see it?"
"There is nothing in the room but you and me, dear Susey," said Ellen, smoothing Susan's hair, and striving by every means to soothe her. "Why, I am braver than you, and I am ever so much younger. What have we to be afraid of? A drunken man! You stupid Susey! And as for shadows, who believes in them?"
"I do. I have seen them and felt them. I have heard them creeping after me in the dark, and I have been frightened to turn. I have felt their breath upon my face--and it is like death--like death!"
All Ellen's efforts to tranquillize her were unavailing. Susan did not leave her room again that evening, and during the night that followed she awoke a dozen times, and her fevered imagination conjured up the shadow of the Lascar standing at her bedside, pointing to a cross of blood which shone with cruel distinctness in the midst of the darkness.
CHAPTER XV.
SOLOMON FEWSTER GIVES THE LASCAR A FLOWER.
Early in the new year letters from Joshua reached home. With what joy they were read! In one of them he wrote: "I remember saying that I should be home in twelve months; but that time has passed, and another twelve months, and nearly another, and still there is no talk of returning. If I stay away much longer you won't know me when you see me. Upon my word, I think if I were to open the door now and walk in suddenly, you would be puzzled to know whether I was really myself or somebody else."
When they read this they all raised their heads and looked towards the door, wishing that Joshua would turn the handle and walk into the room.
The evening of the day on which the letters arrived was spent in grand state in Dan's house. Every member of the Marvel family was there, and the Old Sailor, and Solomon Fewster as well; so that the little parlor was quite full, and all the chairs had to be brought from the bedroom and the kitchen to provide seats for the company. The letters were read aloud, and commented upon and rejoiced over.
"It isn't as good as Joshua's being here," said Dan, looking round with a happy face; "but it is next door to it. I tell you what pleases me almost as much as any thing in the letters--it is that Jo's a favorite with the men. Hear what he says: 'I play to them on my accordion two or three times a week, and according to them I am a splendid musician--which I am not, you know, for I only play simple tunes. Last week the captain sent for me and told me that some passengers who were on board wanted to dance, and wished me to play for them. Of course I fetched the accordion at once. You should have seen us! I played for them twice after that night; and yesterday when we arrived at Sydney--Oh, Dan such a lovely place, with such a bay!--they gave me a sovereign, which I put into Ellen's purse. Tell Ellen that!'"
A blush came into Ellen's face, and her heart beat more quickly, when she heard that Joshua was so careful of the purse she had worked for him.
Filled with such like matter, the letters could not fail to be a source of delight. Dan was commissioned to give Joshua's love to Ellen, and Ellen was asked to pay a visit to the Old Sailor, and to tell him that Joshua was doing hie duty. Susan received messages for Basil and Minnie, and was to tell Minnie that Joshua would bring her some beautiful shells--"shells in which Minnie can hear the waves singing to each other in whispers," Joshua wrote, almost poetically.
Minnie, sitting in her corner, scarcely spoke a word; she was thinking of the sailor-lad who had been so kind to her, and she was looking with the eyes of her mind upon the picture which Dan had painted of Joshua, with his handsome face and free waving hair, standing on the deck, and laughingly shaking the spray from his eyes.
The Old Sailor nodded approval as the letters were read, and then traced Joshua's course on a map which he had brought with him, stopping many times to tell the eager on-lookers of the wonders and the glories of the beautiful South Pacific. The map was spread on the table, and it was not an unattractive picture to see them all clustered round the Old Sailor, peeping over his shoulders and under his arms, as with his great forefinger he followed the ship from port to port. Mrs. Marvel, who had taken to spectacles, found them of but little use to her on this occasion, for the obstinate tears came into her eyes and dropped into the ocean which the Old Sailor's forefinger was ploughing. Minnie leaned over Dan's shoulder, and the table was so small that she had to put her arm round Dan's neck and to put her face close to his, so that she might see. A strange feeling of happiness came upon Dan as her cheek nestled close to his; a feeling of happiness so exquisite that all his senses were merged in it. The common parlor, the eager faces peering at the map, the pleasant voice of the Old Sailor explaining the route, all faded from before him, and he was conscious of nothing but Minnie's presence. He felt the warm contact of a soft hand; it was Minnie's hand, which in her eager abstraction she had placed on his. He folded it in his, and she allowed it to rest there. It was like a dream. He feared to move and held his breath lest he should awake. A sudden murmur of voices--voices that sounded for a moment as if they came from afar off--aroused him; he looked into Minnie's face, and saw it lighted up with a happiness that seemed to be a reflex of his own; and as she turned her eyes to his, so luminous a beauty dwelt in them that he could have fallen at her feet and worshipped her. But the dream was at an end--the blissful silence which had encompassed him was invaded. Minnie had returned to her corner, and his friends were speaking together, and laughing and appealing to him upon some point which he had not heard. Dan still felt the warm pressure of Minnie's hand and the soft contact of her cheek; and unobserved he rested his lips upon the palm which had clasped hers, and kissed it softly and wonderingly.
There was only one person in the party who did not feel happy. That one was Solomon Fewster. Directly he entered the room he had been greeted with the joyful tidings; and understanding that he was expected to share in the general excitement of pleasure, he professed a delight which he did not experience. That afternoon he had purchased a rare flower, which it was his intention to present to Ellen. He had brooded over the idea for several days, and had decided that it would be a good thing to do. As he entered the room with the flower in the button-hole of his coat, he was already primed with a few complimentary words which he had learned by heart to say to Ellen, when he presented his gift. Ellen had never before looked so pretty, he thought. Her eyes were brighter, and there was a more joyous animation than usual in her manner. She greeted him with a smile so much more gracious than he was accustomed to receive from her, that he congratulated himself upon the purchase of the flower. She gave him her hand with more than her usual warmth, and when he ventured gently to press it, she did not resent the liberty. The fact was, she did not notice it. She was full of joy, and, as is the case with all amiable natures, she dispensed gleams of her happiness to all with whom she came in contact. Unless we are too much engrossed in our own special cares, we sometimes meet with such like happy faces in the streets--faces which seem to say, "We are happy; be happy with us"--faces which, although quite strange to us, which we have never seen before and may never see again, will kindle with a smile of welcome upon the smallest encouragement.
But Solomon Fewster was terribly discomfited when he learned the reason of her cheerfulness and animation; it was because letters had been received from Joshua. He determined not to present his flower just then, for he read something in Ellen's blushes that sorely galled him. He could not help thinking that the fuss they were making about a common sailor-boy, and the laughing and the crying they indulged in over Joshua's stupid letters, were utterly ridiculous, and in a sort of way derogatory to himself, Dan's best patron.
As the night wore on, his anger and uneasiness increased; and yet he lingered until the last moment, torturing himself with all kinds of speculations as to what was the nature of the feeling that Ellen entertained for Joshua. Every expression of gladness that fell from her lips concerning Joshua and Joshua's career was painful to him, and it was with a bitter heart that he left the house, with the flower still in his coat. He was hot and feverish as he closed the street-door behind him, and he was not sorry to find that a heavy rain was falling. He took off his hat and bared his head to the rain. Within the house he had been compelled to repress expression of his feelings; it was a relief to him now to feel that no one was by, and that he could speak out at last. And the first words he uttered, as he smoothed his wet hair and put on his hat, were, "Damn Joshua Marvel! I would give money to drown him!" As he spoke the words aloud, he was conscious of a slouching figure at his side. Although it was raining, the night was not quite dark there was enough light for him to notice that the man who had approached him was in rags--most probably a beggar. Muttering that he had nothing to give, Solomon Fewster walked on. But the man was not to be so easily shaken off, and Mr. Fewster being in an eminently quarrelsome mood turned upon him, and repeated in no civil tone that he had nothing to give.
"I have not asked you for any thing," said the man, surlily, "though if I had, you might speak to me more civilly, Mr. Fewster."
They were passing a lamp-post, and, attracted by the utterance of his name, Mr. Fewster stopped and said,--
"How do you know my name?"
"I know it; that is enough," was the answer.
"Ah!" said Mr. Fewster, regarding the Lascar with curiosity and recognizing him, "I have seen you before, my man."
"That is not saying much against me, master," said the Lascar, rather sneeringly. "I have seen you before; so we're equal.
"And whenever I have seen you, it has been in this street," continued Mr. Fewster.
"And pretty well whenever I have seen you, it has been in this street," retorted the Lascar; "you seem to be as fond of it as I am."
"And generally of a night."
"The same to you master; and what then? The street is free to me as it is to you. Look you. I know more than you are aware of. If it comes to that, why do you go so often to that house?" The sudden look of discomposure that flashed into Mr. Fewster's face was not lost upon the Lascar, who had seen him walking by Ellen's side more than once, and who had stealthily followed them on every occasion. "Look you, master. What one man does for love, another man does for hate."
"Hate of whom? What do you mean?"
"The people in that house have received letters from Joshua Marvel to-day."
"Well, what of that?"
"What of that!" cried the Lascar, in a voice of suppressed passion, and yet with a cunning watchfulness of Mr. Fewster's face, as if he were watching for a cue to speak more plainly. "Well, nothing much, master; except that I should like to know when the cub is coming home."
Mr. Fewster could not help an expression of satisfaction passing into his eyes as he heard Joshua spoken of as a cub, and the Lascar saw it and took his cue from it.
"What do you want to know for? What is Joshua Marvel to you?"
"He is this to me," cried the Lascar, the dark blood rushing into his face and making it darker; "that if I had him here, I would stamp upon him with my feet, and spoil his beauty for him! He is this to me, that if I could twist his heart-strings I would do it, and laugh in his face the while! See me now, master; look at me well. I did not ask you for money, for I know you, and I know you don't give nothing for nothing. But I might have asked you, and with reason, for I want it. Look at my feet" (Mr. Fewster noticed, for the first time, that the Lascar's feet were bare); "Look at my clothes--rags. That old thief, Praiseworthy Meddler, kicked me off his barge where I've lived and slept this many a year. And every blow he struck at me went down to Joshua Marvel's account, and makes it heavier against him. See you; the Lascar dog never forgets. I've sworn an oath, and I'll keep it. I've put a cross against him, and he shall see it when he is dying."
Solomon Fewster looked at the wretch before him, quivering with passion and shivering with cold, and deliberately cracked his fingers one after another. When the operation was concluded, he said, lightly, as taking no interest in what the Lascar had said,--
"That is your business, my friend; not mine. I will tell you as far as I know about this young gentleman who has served you so well. He is not coming home yet a while, I believe--not before the end of the year, perhaps. I dare say you'll manage to see him when he does come home."
"Yes, I'll manage to see him then," said the Lascar, with a sudden quietude of manner and with a furtive rook at Mr. Fewster's face--a look which said, "You are trying to deceive me, master; let us see who is the more cunning--you or I." Then aloud, "Thank you for answering my question. You say it is not your business, this hate of mine for Joshua Marvel. Yet there may be something in common between us for I've seen you walking with the girl who worships Joshua Marvel."
"How do you know that she worships him?" demanded Mr. Fewster, thrown off his guard, his heart beating loud and fast.
"Because I am not blind. I know that as well as I know that you have as much cause to hate him as I have. I am like a cat; I watch and watch. You are too young, my master, to mask your face; and I have seen that in it that you wouldn't like to speak."
"Mind what you are saying," said Mr. Fewster, with his knuckles at his teeth; "you are on dangerous ground."
"Why should I mind?" questioned the Lascar, with a curious mixture of fierceness and humility in his voice. "My tongue's my own. I have nothing to lose: judge you if you have any thing to gain. Mind you, I stop at nothing. I am not squeamish. You are a gentleman; I am a vagabond. I can do what you daren't. I can help you to what you want, perhaps; and you can help me."
The cunning of the Lascar was too deep for Mr. Fewster. The Lascar saw as clearly as if he had been told that Solomon Fewster loved Ellen Taylor, and he seized instinctively upon Ellen's love for Joshua as the lever by which he was to gain power over Mr. Fewster. In the present conversation the men were not evenly matched; the Lascar had all the advantage on his side. Subtle as Mr. Fewster was, his love blinded his judgment, and his hate led him to consider that this man might be useful to him.
"I can help you, you tell me," he said. "How?"
"I am cold to the bone," said the shivering wretch. "Treat me to some rum."
They walked until they reached a public-house; then Mr. Fewster gave the Lascar money.
"Go in and drink, but don't get drunk."
"Ain't you coming in, master?"
"No," said Mr. Fewster, with a look of contempt at the Lascar's tatters. "You can buy a bottle of rum, and bring it out with you. And mind, when you come out, don't walk by my side; follow me."
Five minutes afterwards they were walking in single file towards Mr. Fewster's place of business, where he lived. When they arrived at the door, Mr. Fewster hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Lascar, to get out of him all he knew about Ellen and Joshua; yet, looking at the Lascar, he hesitated. The man divined what was in his mind, and said,--
"There is a policeman coming along on the other side of the way. Go to him and say, 'Look at this man; I have occasion to speak to him on a matter of business; but he is a disreputable dog, and I want you to watch the house. Knock in an hour, and if I don't answer, or if you hear any noise, force open the door.' Say that to him, or something like it, and give him a pint of beer, and you will be all right."
"Come along," said Mr. Fewster, stung by the Lascar's quiet sneer; "I am not frightened of you."
"You have no need to be, master. You can use me like a dog, if you give me to eat and drink."
"Like a dog!" echoed Mr. Fewster, with a laugh. "Well, suppose I regard you in that light; it may be useful."
Mr. Fewster struck a light in the shop, in which there were at least a score of coffins--respectable coffins, solemnly black as coffins should be, with respectable nails to match.
"Waiting for tenants," he remarked, pleasantly, to the Lascar. "The cheap ones--common deal--are in the workshop at the back." Mr. Fewster put the candle down upon a coffin, and looked complacently upon his wares. "Handsome, are they not? This one, now, with lacquered handles and silvered plate for name, age, and virtues, what should you say to that?"
"Shouldn't care much for it," said the Lascar, with evident repugnance. "It would be more suitable for such as you, master. A cheap one--of common deal--will be good enough for me, when my turn comes."
"Quite good enough, I should say."
"You are not going to stop here talking, are you?" inquired the Lascar, seeing that Mr. Fewster evinced no disposition to move.
"Why, don't you like it, you dog?" retorted Mr. Fewster, with a spice of his native humor.
"No, I don't; it smells of worms."
With a pleasant laugh Mr. Fewster led the way into his sitting-room, and set light to the fire and lit a second candle.
"This is better," said the Lascar, huddling before the fire. "Ah, this is good, this warmth; it is life! Have you ever slept out in the cold, master?"
"No, you dog," answered Mr. Fewster.
He had recovered his self-possession and much of his usual equanimity.
"I have; in the cold and wet, for two or three nights together."
"There was the Union," suggested Mr. Fewster.
"I have been there often enough. Sometimes I was too late; sometimes there were too many of us; sometimes I didn't care even for that shelter."
"Would you like to sleep in my shop? I think I could trust you there."
"I think you might. I shouldn't be likely to steal a coffin. I shouldn't care to sleep there, master, and that's flat. If I woke up in the dark, I should see dead men lying in the coffins. I wouldn't mind it so much if the coffins were plain deal ones; but black--ugh!"
Mr. Fewster laughed loud and long. Coffins were playthings to him--toys symbolical of the joys of life. He laughed merrily as he set food on the table, the Lascar watching him with greedy eyes the while. "Fall to, you dog!" said Mr. Fewster; and like a dog, devoid though of a dog's generous nature, the Lascar fell to, and devoured the bread and cheese. Meanwhile Mr. Fewster helped himself to a large glass of rum. He was one of the soberest of undertakers, who, as a rule, are not the soberest of men. He drank but very rarely; but when he did, all the worst part of his nature disported itself, in revenge for being generally kept so much under control. Now as he drank his rum--and he drank it neat--he became savage, vengeful, desperate. He had never felt till now how deeply he loved Ellen Taylor. He had loved her in a light way from the first, and his love had grown quietly, and had been fed by her avoidance of his attentions. Her behavior towards him had deepened his love and intensified it. Yet all along, notwithstanding that he felt he was not as agreeable in her eyes as he would wish to be, he thought that to have he had only to ask. "They, poor working people," he thought, "earning just enough to keep them, living as it were from hand to mouth, must feel flattered and honored by my attention--by the attention of a man who has a prosperous business and an account at the bank." As for marriage, he had not thought of that till lately. But Ellen had so firmly and so steadily repulsed him in any advances he had plucked up courage to make, that he had resolved to lower himself and ask her to be his wife. Having determined to make the sacrifice, he considered that the road was clear to him. He reasoned with himself thus: "She thought perhaps that I did not mean honorably by her, and that is the cause of her treating me so coldly; but when she learns my real intentions she cannot but feel flattered, and must accept me."
He thought over these things as he sat before the fire entirely engrossed by love for Ellen and hate for Joshua. The Lascar had helped himself to the spirits, and as Mr. Fewster sat studying the fire, he sat studying his host. That it was a study that interested him and pleased him was evident from the satisfied expression in his face, and from the satisfied manner in which he rubbed his hands gently over one another.
"Well, you dog!" exclaimed Mr. Fewster insolently.
"Well, master?" replied the Lascar meekly.
"Have you had enough, you dog?"
"Plenty, thank you, master."
The Master took another drink of rum, and the Dog followed suit. The Master regarded the Dog with a contemptuous assumption of superiority. The Dog regarded the Master with becoming humbleness. But the Dog had the best of it, although he did cast down his eyes.
"Look up, you dog," said Mr. Fewster.
The Dog looked up.
"What would you do to Joshua Marvel if you had him here, with no one by?"
The Lascar, who had been playing idly with the knife with which he had cut his supper, raised it, and with a fierce action struck at the air. Then, springing to his feet, he threw aside his chair, and kneeling on the ground, made motions with his fingers as if he were strangling an enemy.
"H-m!" exclaimed Mr. Fewster, looking at the upturned face, blazing with vindictiveness, that fronted his. "Dangerous."
"That's my business. I'll risk the danger of it. See you--shall I speak plainly?"
"Yes."
"This girl that you love worships the man that you and I hate"--
"Say that you hate, you dog," interrupted Mr. Fewster. "I'll have no partnership. I am master."
"I ask your pardon, master. The girl that you love worships the man that I hate. She is waiting for him to come home; so am I. I have sworn death to him. When he comes home, the girl that you love will have no eyes for any one but him. What chance will you have with her then?"
"Stop. You are too fast. Speak of yourself and of them without reference to me. Don't iterate with your damnable tongue about the girl that I love. The girl that I love, I'll have"--
"So you shall, master, if I can help you."
"When I want your help, I'll ask for it. Now go on with your story, and heed my caution."
With ready wit the Lascar fell into Mr. Fewster's humor.
"This girl that I speak of--as pretty a picture of flesh and blood as eyes ever saw--is loved by a gentleman who in a sort of way has lowered himself to think of her. But the gentleman has made up his mind to have her, and when a gentleman makes up his mind, who shall stop him? He goes one night to the house where this pretty girl lives--I shouldn't wonder if the very flower that the gentleman wore in his button-hole wasn't intended for her"--
"You are a clever dog, you!" said Mr. Fewster, half in anger, half in admiration.
"Thank you, master. With the flower in his button-hole the gentleman goes to the house where his pretty girl lives, and there he spends the evening, and hears read, I dare say, some letters, which she has received from his rival, who is a sailor--I only speak from fancy, master; set me right if you can."
"How can I set you right when I know nothing about it, you dog, except by saying that I shouldn't think it likely she received any letters?"
"Thank you, master. My fancy was wrong, I've no doubt. The gentleman, then, is obliged to listen to some letters which have been received from abroad, and is obliged to listen to affectionate words uttered by the girl he loves for his rival far away--mind, master, I don't know this, I only suspect it--and he sees, too, in her face, that when her sailor-boy comes home, she will open her arms to his rival, to his enemy, whom he hates, and would like to see put out of the way."
"How do you know that last?"
"I have seen it in his face; I have heard it in his voice. I happened to see the gentleman come out of his sweetheart's house one rainy night, not long ago; and I happened to hear the gentleman mutter that he would give money if that sailor-lover was drowned."
"If were the gentleman, and you told me this to my face, I should say that you lied."
"Of course you would; but what should you know of it? Still, master, confess that the story is a likely one as far as it has gone."
"There is more of it to come, then?" asked Mr. Fewster, who had turned his back so that the Lascar should not see his face.
"There is more of it to come. But say, first, it is a likely story as far as I have told it," said the Lascar a little doggedly.
"It is likely enough. I have heard stories more strange."
"Where did I leave off? Oh! about my hearing this gentleman say, as he stood bareheaded in the rain, that he wished his rival were dead. Now that was a fortunate hearing for me. Not that I should take advantage of what I heard; not that I should go to the pretty girl's brother, and then tell him what I had heard the gentleman say about his sailor-friend; not that I should go to the pretty girl herself and say, 'Beware of the gentleman; he means mischief; if he can ruin your lover he will.' That would be a mean thing to do; for it would upset the gentleman's chances with the girl that he loves. No; I should go to the gentleman and say, 'I hate this absent lover, and any thing that I could do to make him suffer, I would do cheerfully. You would do the same. But you are a gentleman, and I am a dog. You mustn't be seen in the matter. What you want done do through me. Never mind how mean it is, how dirty it is; do it through me. And all the return I want for it is enough to buy food and shelter, and perhaps a drop of grog and a bit of tobacco.' That wouldn't be much to ask in return for what I may be able to do for him."
"But no gentleman would compromise himself by entering into a bargain with a--a"--
"A dog, master--say a dog; it is good enough for me," interposed the Lascar with a careless laugh.
"With a dog like you. I don't see how the affair could be arranged with a proper understanding as to what was expected to be done."
"It could be arranged easily enough, master. I might ask the gentleman, supposing he had a flower in his button-bole, to give me that flower, and not say another word. That would be a proper understanding for both of us."
Mr. Fewster rose, and put aside the curtain of the window. The rain was coming down hard and fast, and the wind was tearing furiously through the streets.
"A fine storm for a ship to be in near rocks, master," said the Lascar, who had risen, and was standing by his side.
"It is time for you to be going," said Mr. Fewster, turning abruptly away from the window.
"In such a night as this!" exclaimed the Lascar. "And I with no place to put my head in?"
"You are homeless, then?" The Lascar nodded. "Well, I take you into my service. It would be hard if no one could be found to do a good turn for a poor devil like you."
"That it would, master," said the Lascar, standing in an attitude of expectation; "and thank you. Could you spare that flower out of your coat?"
Blinded by passion, inflamed by jealousy, Mr. Fewster detached the flower, and threw it to the Lascar, whose eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he put it in his pocket.
"You can sleep in the out-house," said Mr. Fewster; "and as every dog should have a kennel, I dare say you can find a coffin to lie in."
"No, thank you, master; I will lie on the ground." He poured what remained of the rum into his glass, and raised it to his lips. "Here's luck, and my faithful service to you. You may depend upon me, for my heart is in my work."