CHAPTER XX.
SHOWS HOW THE PURSE FOUND ITS WAY INTO PAUL
SOMERTON’S BOX.
In this world the victory is not always with the good and the true. It has shaken many a man’s faith before now to see the wicked and the selfish thrive, whilst the noble, and the generous, and the pure, were beggars.
Suppose there were no hereafter? What would compensate us for the unequal justice which, judged by the world’s standard, is meted out? What would hinder the unfortunate and poverty-stricken from making their quietus with a bare bodkin? What would reconcile the man bound to work on, and toil on, and sweat and drudge in misery, from eating his very life out with envy of the rich? What would prevent the wealthy man who, willing to help his poorer brethren to the fullest extent, finds individual help like his of comparatively little use—what would there be left for him but to put down the unequal distribution of riches to gross injustice? How could we reconcile it with a good and beneficent Creator, that some are born and bred in poverty and wretchedness, and are doomed to wear the chain of want all their lives; whilst others inherit all the luxuries of purple and fine linen, and chairs of state and command? What else but a future of rewards and punishments would enable us to live and endure all this, rich and poor, good and bad, selfish and generous?
Honesty is the best policy in the end, so far as personal happiness is concerned. It is a selfish way of preaching honesty nevertheless; but how often, in a worldly sense, does the axiom seem to be reversed. On the Stock Exchange there were certain men who were dishonest. They lied wilfully and designedly about the credit of banks and companies; they propagated scandalous reports about certain establishments; they sent out thousands of lying letters throughout the country, cautioning people against concerns which they knew to be safe. Then they went into the market and sold shares which they did not possess, and secured low quotations in the newspapers. This frightened people who had invested their money honourably, and they began to sell. Confidence was shaken, and the “bears” made money. Their lies and dishonesty ruined hundreds of honest people; but men like young Tallant and Mr. Gibbs profited by the transactions. They bought and sold at pleasure, and in the midst of the general panic selected what concern they liked for ruin.
It is true that by degrees the gentlemen known as “bears” created a storm which they could not control, and that some fell by their own thunder—some were caught in their own snares; whilst others thrived and waxed rich, and retired on handsome fortunes, many of them made by purchasing at a low figure shares which they had assisted to depreciate.
Young Tallant was amongst those who made large sums of money. He was fortunate in all he undertook; and on that very morning when he was denounced at the great City meeting, his “bearing” speculations represented a profit to the tune of many thousands. It was in this wise: he was a director of the Mercantile Finance Bank. On the previous day the shares had been run down by false reports to ten shillings a share—scrip upon which twenty pounds had been paid. Young Tallant bought two thousand shares at the close of the market. The next day the Times contradicted the rumours, the directors made a statement, confidence was restored in a few hours, and the director who knew that such would be the case, sold his two thousand at an average of more than seven pounds a share.
Since the row at the Ashford Club he had acted more upon his own account, and had avoided Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs, who, left to his own machinations, had been a little too clever in his stock-jobbing operations; he had sold largely shares which had rallied, and were likely to stand all future assaults. But he still had schemes on hand which seemed likely to bear substantial monetary fruits. He was rich enough, as the readers of this history will no doubt have guessed, to encompass his revenge against Paul Somerton.
The plot had been well and skilfully managed. Thomas Dibble had led a life of dreadful misery since his loss of the five hundred pounds, and Mr. Gibbs had aggravated his torture with a thumb-screwish perfection of cruelty. The shares which Thomas Dibble had bought carried a future responsibility of fifteen hundred pounds. So that his loss, instead of being five hundred, might really have been increased to two thousand.
Mr. Gibbs, by degrees, explained this to the wretched Dibble, who had lain awake during long weary nights, beside the partner of his bosom, suffering all sorts of agonies, and without daring to explain his misery to Mrs. D., who said enough every day and night about the five hundred pounds to have broken down more sensitive minds than Dibble’s.
“I do really think I shall go mad,” he said to Mr. Gibbs, on the day when that gentleman had tortured him up to the last pitch necessary for making Dibble his tool.
“Then I must save you,” said Mr. Gibbs, at length.
“Oh, Mr. Gibbs, dont ’e trifle with my feelings,” said Thomas.
“Not I, my friend; I intended to have assisted you when I advised you to buy those shares, and I am sorry they have not turned out so well as we had a right to expect,” said Mr. Gibbs, tapping his tight little boots with a cane, and looking up at the lamp under which Dibble had accosted him in the street.
“No, no—the best intentions sir; but dear, dear, bad be the best this time.”
“Come to my chambers in an hour, Dibble, and I will see if I can put the thing right.”
“Yes, sir,” said Dibble, touching his cap; the two parted, and in an hour Dibble was sitting on the edge of a chair in Mr. Gibbs’ private room.
“Business is business,” said Mr. Gibbs; “I will take the shares from you, and here is a cheque for five hundred pounds.”
“God bless ’e, God bless ’e!” began Dibble, in an ecstasy of delight.
“Stop a little; there is a small condition,” said Mr. Gibbs, placing his hand upon a purse which he laid upon the table.
Dibble looked at Mr. Gibbs for explanation, but quite prepared in his own mind to buy peace at home at any sacrifice.
“You must put this purse secretly into Paul Somerton’s box, in his bedroom.”
Dibble looked puzzled, and Gibbs fixed him with his fishy eye.
“It is a very simple thing. Take it without examination, and find an opportunity to-night to put it carefully in the lowest corner, underneath his clothes or papers, or whatever else he has in his box.”
“Yes, it be simple,” said Dibble, patting his forehead, and looking at his boots; “it be very simple, that’s true.”
“Do it, and to-morrow morning give me your shares and I give you five hundred pounds; here is one hundred on account to-night, in proof of my sincerity.”
“Oh, that be all right, sir—I can trust to what you says; but what be the meaning of this business about the purse?”
“I like your question—nothing like being open and straightforward with each other. That’s my motto,” said Gibbs.
“And it be a good un, too,” said Thomas.
“Paul Somerton has done me a serious injury, and I am determined to punish him; he is a conceited, proud young fellow, and I mean to take him down.”
“He be proud, that’s true,” said Dibble, remembering how Paul had dropped his companionship of late.
“I hate and detest him, he is a thief and a scoundrel; and I could have him transported if I liked.”
“Could you now?” said Dibble, staring in amazement at Mr. Gibbs, who, despite his efforts to appear calm, had clenched his fist, and looked particularly ugly.
“I shall punish him by means of this purse. If you do what I require you will have your five hundred pounds, and have no liability beyond it; and you will be able to live comfortably and happily again with Mrs. Dibble. And if you don’t, you will have fifteen hundred pounds to pay beyond the five hundred; you will be sold up and turned out of house and home, and be done up root and branch.”
Dibble groaned aloud at this picture, and jumping from his seat, said, “Give me the purse, give it me; I’ll do it.”
“And you swear on your oath—go down on your knees—there, that will do; now you swear that whatever may take place you will never confess that you know anything about the purse, or ever saw it in your life before.”
“I swear it all,” said Dibble.
“So help you, heaven!” said Gibbs, holding his hand aloft, and Dibble repeated the imprecation.
“If you should break your oath you will not only go to the devil,” said Gibbs, solemnly, “but you will before that be taken by the police as a thief, and transported. Now, here are ten ten-pound notes, and here is the purse; in the morning early I shall know if you have done your work properly. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” said Dibble, slinking away in a perspiration of fear and happiness, of doubt and hope; afraid of his own shadow, yet less afraid of Mrs. Dibble than he had been a few hours before.
And this is how the purse came to be in Paul Somerton’s box; and this is how it was that Mrs. Dibble’s joy at seeing her five hundred pounds on the table before her was neutralised by Paul Somerton’s apprehension, and the insulting manner of the policeman towards both herself and her establishment.
That night of Paul’s apprehension and remand was a terrible one for poor Dibble; for during the evening there arrived Paul’s father and sister Amy, and he was witness of their distress and trouble. He sat there and listened to Amy’s stories of his goodness, and he saw the silent sorrow of his fine manly father. He heard Mrs. Dibble speak of Paul as the best and kindest young man; and he felt that she was speaking nothing but the truth when she said she would rather have lost a thousand pounds than such a thing should have happened.
And by-and-by Mr. Williamson, the barrister who had spoken up for Paul, came to the house in a cab, bringing Paul with him; which was such a blow to Dibble that he had not the heart to join in the general expressions of delight at the poor young fellow’s appearance. He sat there looking on, so pale and woe-begone, that Mrs. Dibble was struck with his appearance, and pitied him for taking the thing so much to heart.
There was quite a scene between Amy and Paul, neither of them expecting to see each other. Amy rushed into his arms and sobbed on his shoulder, until Paul could hardly help crying himself; and Mrs. Dibble burst every hook-and-eye she had left. And Dibble could stand it no longer; so he slunk away into the back kitchen, with serious thoughts of putting his head into the water-butt, and keeping it there until he was dead. After five minutes’ consideration he changed his mind, and returned to the little parlour calmer and more contented, and sufficiently at ease to shake hands with the released prisoner, for whom Mr. Williamson had succeeded in giving bail.