The attractions of a yard peopled with ghosts, discontented figure-heads, and an old man, are great at first, but not likely to be lasting if one does not personally see or converse with the ghosts and if the old man becomes monotonous. We expect too much of old men. Considering their years, we think their recollections must be wonderful. One says, "Good heavens! Methuselah must recollect William the Conqueror and King John, and Sir John Falstaff, to say nothing of the battle of Waterloo!" As a matter of fact, Methuselah generally remembers nothing except that where Cheapside now stands was once a green field. As for Shakespeare, and Coleridge, and Charles Lamb, he knows nothing whatever about them. You see if he had taken so much interest in life as to care about things going on, he would very soon, like his contemporaries, have worn out the machine, and would be lying, like them, in the grassy inclosure.
Harry continued to go to the carver's yard for some time, but nothing more was to be learned from him. He knew the family history, however, by this time, pretty well. The Coppins of Stepney, like all middle-class families, had experienced many ups and downs. They had been churchwardens; they had been bankrupts; they had practised many trades; and once there was a Coppin who died, leaving houses—twelve houses—three apiece to his children—a meritorious Coppin. Where were those houses now? Absorbed by the omnivorous Uncle Bunker. And how Uncle Bunker got those belonging to Caroline Coppin could not now be ascertained, except from Uncle Bunker himself. Everywhere there are scrapers and scatterers; the scrapers are few, and the scatterers many. By what scatterer or what process of scattering did Caroline lose her houses?
Meantime, Harry did not feel himself obliged to hold his tongue upon the subject; and everybody knew, before long, that something was going on likely to be prejudicial to Mr. Bunker. People whispered that Bunker was going to be caught out; this rumor lent to the unwilling agent some of the interest which attaches to a criminal. Some went so far as to say that they had always suspected him because he was so ostentatious in his honesty; and this is a safe thing to say, because any person may be reasonably suspected; and if we did not suspect all the world, why the machinery of bolts and bars, keys and patent safes? But it is the wise man who suspects the right person, and it is the justly proud man who strikes an attitude and says: "What did I tell you?" As yet, however, the suspicions were vague. Bunker, for his part, though not generally a thin-skinned man, easily perceived that there was a change in the way he was received and regarded; people looked at him with marked interest in the streets; they turned their heads and looked after him; they talked about him as he approached; they smiled with meaning; Josephus Coppin met him one day, and asked him why he would not tell his nephew how he obtained those three houses and what consideration he gave for them. He began, especially of an evening, over brandy and water, to make up mentally, over and over again, his own case, so that it might be presented at the right moment absolutely perfect and without a flaw; a paragon among cases. His nephew, whom he now regarded with a loathing almost lethal, was impudent enough to go about saying that he had got those houses unlawfully. Was he? Very good; he would have such law as is to be had in England, for the humiliation, punishment, stamping out, and ruining of that nephew; aye, if it cost him five hundred pounds he would. He should like to make his case public; he was not afraid; not a bit; let all the world know; the more the story was known, the more would his contemporaries admire his beautiful and exemplary virtue, patience, and moderation. There were, he said, with the smile of benevolence and blush of modesty which so well become the good man, transactions, money transactions, between himself and his sister-in-law, especially after her marriage with a man who was a secret scatterer. These money matters had been partly squared by the transfer of the houses, which he took in part payment; the rest he forgave when Caroline died, and when, which showed his goodness in an electric light, he took over the boy to bring him up to some honest trade, though he was a beggar. Where were the proofs of those transactions? Unfortunately they were all destroyed by fire some years since, after having been carefully preserved, and docketed, and indorsed, as is the duty of every careful man of business.
Now by dint of repeating this precious story over and over again, the worthy man came to believe it entirely, and to believe that other people would believe it as well. It seemed, in fact, so like the truth, that it would deceive even experts, and pass for that priceless article. At the time when Caroline died, and the boy went to stay with him, no one asked any questions, because it seemed nobody's business to inquire into the interest of the child. After the boy was taken away it gradually became known among the surviving members of the family that the houses had long before, owing to the profligate extravagance of the sergeant—as careful a man as ever marched—passed into the hands of Bunker, who now had all the Coppin houses. Everything was clean forgotten by this time. And the boy must needs turn up again, asking questions. A young villain! A serpent! But he should be paid out.
A very singular accident prevented the "paying out" quite in the sense intended by Mr. Bunker. It happened in this way:
One day when Miss Messenger's cabinet-maker and joiner-in-ordinary, having little or nothing to do, was wandering about the Brewery, looking about him, lazily watching the process of beer-making on a large extensive scale, and exchanging the compliments of the season, which was near the new year, with the workmen, it happened that he passed the room in which Josephus had sat for forty years among the juniors. The door stood open, and he looked in, as he had often done before, to nod a friendly salutation to his cousin. There Josephus sat, with gray hair, an elderly man among boys, mechanically ticking off entries among the lads. His place was in the warm corner near the fire; beside him stood a large and massive safe; the same safe out of which, during an absence of three minutes, the country notes had been so mysteriously stolen.
The story, of course, was well known. Josephus' version of the thing was also well known. Everybody further knew that, until the mystery of that robbery was cleared up, Josephus would remain a junior on 30s. a week. Lastly, everybody (with the kindliness of heart common to our glorious humanity) firmly believed that Josephus had really cribbed those notes, but had been afraid to present them, and so dropped them into a fire, or down a drain. It is truly remarkable to observe how deeply we respect, adore, and venerate virtue—insomuch that we all go about pretending to be virtuous; yet how little we believe in the virtue of each other! It is also remarkable to reflect upon the extensive fields still open to the moralist, after all these years of preaching and exhorting.
Now, as Harry looked into the room, his eye fell upon the safe, and a curious thing occurred. The fragment of a certain letter from Bob Coppin (in which he sent a message by his friend to his cousin, Squaretoes Josephus) quite suddenly and unexpectedly returned to his memory—further, the words assumed a meaning.
"Josephus," he said, stepping into the office, "lend me a piece of paper and a pencil. Thank you."
He wrote down the words exactly as he recollected them—half destroyed by the tearing of the letter.
" ... Josephus, my cousin, that he will ... 'nd the safe the bundle ... or a lark. Josephus is a squaretoes. I hate a man who won't drink. He will ... if he looks there."
When he had written these words down he read them over again, while the lads looked on with curiosity and some resentment. Cabinet-makers and joiners have no business to swagger about the office of young gentlemen who are clerks in breweries, as if it were their own place. It is an innovation—a levelling of rank.
"Josephus," Harry whispered, "you remember your cousin, Bob Coppin?"
"Yes; but these are office hours. Conversation is not allowed in the juniors' room."
He spoke as if he was still a boy—as indeed, he was, having been confined to the society of boys, and having drawn the pay of a boy for so many years.
"Never mind rules—tell me all about Bob."
"He was a drinker and a spendthrift—that's enough about him."
Josephus spoke in a whisper, being anxious not to discuss the family disgrace among his fellow-clerks.
"Good! Were you a friend as well as a cousin of his?"
"No, I never was—I was respectable in those days, and desirous of getting my character high for steadiness. I went to evening lectures and taught in the Wesleyan Sunday-schools. Of course, when the notes were stolen, it was no use trying any more for character—that was gone. A young man suspected of stealing £14,000 can't get any character at all. So I gave up attending the evening lectures, and left off teaching in the school, and going to church, and everything."
"You were a great fool, Josephus—you ought to have gone on and fought it out. Now then, on the day that you lost the money, had you seen Bob—do you remember?"
"That day?" the unlucky junior replied; "I remember every hour as plain as if it was to-day. Yes, I saw Bob. He came to the office half an hour before I lost the notes. He wanted me to go out with him in the evening, I forget where—some gardens, and dancing, and prodigalities. I refused to go. In the evening I saw him again, and he did nothing but laugh while I was in misery. It seemed cruel; and the more I suffered the louder he laughed."
"Did you never see Bob again?"
"No; he went away to sea, and he came home and went away again; but somehow I never saw him. It is twenty years now since he went away last, and was never heard of, nor his ship—so, of course, he's dead long ago. But what does it matter about Bob? And these are office hours; and there will, really, be things said if we go on talking—do go away."
Harry obeyed, and left him; but he went straight to the office of the chief accountant and requested an interview.
The chief accountant sent word that he could communicate his business through one of the clerks. Harry replied that his business was of a nature which could not be communicated by a clerk—that it was very serious and important business, which must be imparted to the chief alone; and that he would wait his convenience in the outer office. Presently he was ushered into the presence of the great man.
"This is very extraordinary," said the official. "What can your business be, which is so important that it must not be intrusted to the clerks? Now come to the point, young man—my time is valuable."
"I want you to authorize me to make a little examination in the junior clerks' room."
"What examination, and why?"
Harry gave him the fragment of the letter, and explained where he found it.
"I understand nothing. What do you learn from this fragment?"
"There is no date," said Harry, "but that matters very little. You will observe that it clearly refers to my cousin Josephus Coppin."
"That seems evident—Josephus is not a common name."
"You know my cousin's version of the loss of those notes?"
"Certainly—he said they must have been stolen during the two or three minutes that he was out of the room."
"Yes—now" (Harry wrote a few words to fill up the broken sentences of the letter) "read that, sir."
"Good heavens!"
"My cousin tells me, too," he went on, "that this fellow, Bob Coppin, was in the office half an hour before the notes were missed—why, very likely he was at the time hanging about the place—and that in the evening, when his cousin was in an agony of distress, Bob was laughing as if the whole thing was a joke."
"Upon my word," said the chief, "it seems plausible."
"We can try the thing at once," said Harry. "But I should like you to be present when we do."
"Undoubtedly I will be present—come, let us go at once. By the way, you were the young man recommended by Miss Messenger; are you not?"
"Yes. Not that I have the honor of knowing Miss Messenger personally."
The chief accountant laughed. Cabinet-makers do not generally know young ladies of position; and this was such a remarkably cheeky young workman.
They took with them four stout fellows from those who toss about the casks of beer. The safe was one of the larger kind, standing three feet six inches high, on a strong wooden box, with an open front—it was in the corner next to Josephus' seat. Between the back of the safe and the wall was a space of an inch or so.
"I must trouble you to change your seat," said the chief accountant to Josephus, "we are about to move this safe."
Josephus rose, and the men presently, with mighty efforts, lugged the great heavy thing a foot or two from its place.
"Will you look, sir?" asked Harry. "If there is anything there, I should like you, who know the whole story, to find it."
The chief stooped over the safe and looked behind it. Everybody was now aware that something was going to happen; and though pens continued to be dipped into inkstands with zeal, and heads to be bent over desks with the devotion which always seizes a junior clerk in presence of his chief, all eyes were furtively turned to Josephus' corner.
"There is a bundle of papers," he said. "Thank you."
Harry picked them up and placed them in his hands.
The only person who paid no heed to the proceedings was the most concerned.
The chief accountant received them (a rolled bundle, not a tied-up parcel, and covered inch deep with black dust). He opened it and glanced at the contents—then a strange and unaccountable look came into his eyes as he handed them to Josephus.
"Will you oblige me, Mr. Coppin," he said, "by examining those papers?"
It was the first time that the title of "Mr." had been bestowed upon Josephus during all the years of his long servitude. He was troubled by it, and he could not understand the expression in his chief's eyes; and when he turned to Harry for an explanation he met eyes in which the same sympathy and pity were expressed. When he turned to the boys, his fellow-clerks, he was struck by their faces of wondering expectation.
What was going to happen?
Recovering his presence of mind, he held out the dusty papers and shook the dust off them.
Then he began slowly to obey orders, and to examine them.
Suddenly he began to turn them over with fierce eagerness. His eyes flashed—he gasped.
"Come, Josephus," said his cousin, taking his arm, "gently—gently. What are they, these papers?"
The man laughed, a hysterical laugh.
"They are. Ha! ha! they are—ha! ha! ha!"
He did not finish because his voice failed him; but he dropped into a chair, with his head in his hands.
"They are country bank-notes and other papers," said Harry, taking them from his cousin's hands—he had interpreted the missing words rightly.
The chief looked round the room. "Young men," he said solemnly, "a wonderful thing has happened. After many years of undeserved suspicion and unmerited punishment, Mr. Coppin's character is cleared at last. We cannot restore to him the years he has lost, but we can rejoice that his innocence is established."
"Come, Josephus," said Harry, "bear your good fortune as you have borne the bad—rouse yourself."
The senior junior clerk lifted his head and looked around. His cheeks were white. His eyes were filled with tears; his lips were trembling.
"Take your cousin home," said the chief to Harry, "and then come back to my office."
Harry led Josephus unresisting home to the boarding-house.
"We have had a shock, Mrs. Bormalack. Nothing to be alarmed about—quite the contrary. The bank-notes have been found after all these years, and my cousin has earned his promotion and recovered his character. Give him some brandy and water, and make him lie down for a bit."
For the man was dazed—he could not understand as yet what had happened.
Harry placed him in the armchair, and left him to the care of the landlady. Then he went back to the brewery.
The chief brewer was with the chief accountant, and they were talking over what was best to be done; said very kind things about intelligence, without which good fortune and lucky finds are wasted. And they promised to represent Harry's conduct in a proper light to Miss Messenger, who would be immediately communicated with; and Josephus would at once receive a very substantial addition to his pay, a better position, and more responsible work.
"May I suggest, gentlemen," said Harry, "that a man who is fifty-five, and has all his life been doing the simple work of a junior, may not be found equal to more responsible work."
"That may be the case."
"My cousin, when the misfortune happened, left off taking any interest in things—I believe he has never opened a book or learned anything in all these years."
"Well, we shall see." A workman was not to be taken into counsel. "There is, however, something here which seems to concern yourself. Your mother was one Caroline Coppin, was she not?"
"Yes."
"Then these papers which were deposited by some persons unknown with Mr. Messenger—most likely for greater care—and placed in the safe by him, belong to you; and I hope will prove of value to you."
Harry took them without much interest, and came away.
In the evening Josephus held a reception. All his contemporaries in the brewery—the men who entered with himself—all those who had passed over his head, all those with whom he had been a junior in the brewery, called to congratulate him. At the moment he felt as if this universal sympathy fully made up for all his sufferings of the past. Nor was it until the morning that he partly perceived the truth—that no amount of sympathy would restore his vanished youth, and give him what he had lost.
But he will never quite understand this; and he looked upon himself as having begun again from the point where he stopped. When the reception was over and the last man gone, he began to talk about his future.
"I shall go on again with the evening course," he said, "just where I left off. I remember we were having Monday for book-keeping by single and double entry; Tuesday for French; Thursday for arithmetic—we were in mixed fractions; and Friday for Euclid. Then I shall take up my class at the Sunday-school again, and shall become a full church-member of the Wesleyan connection—for though my father was once churchwarden at Stepney church, I always favored the Wesleyans myself."
He talked as if he was a boy again, with all his life before him, and, indeed, at the moment he thought he was.
Harry thought nothing about the papers which were found among the notes that evening, because he was wholly engaged in the contemplation of a man who had suddenly gone back thirty-five years in his life. The gray hairs, thin at the top and gone at the temples, were not, it is true, replaced by the curly brown locks of youth, though one thinks that Josephus must always have been a straight-haired young man. But it was remarkable to hear that man of fifty-five talking as if the years had rolled backward, and he could take up the thread of life where he had dropped it so long ago. He spoke of his evening lectures and his Sunday-school with the enthusiasm of a boy. He would study—work of that sort always paid: he would prepare his lessons for the school beforehand, and stand well with the superintendent: it was good for men in business offices, he said, to have a good character with the superintendent. Above all, he would learn French and bookkeeping, with mensuration, gauging, and astronomy, at the Beaumont Institute. All these things would come in useful, some time or the other, at the brewery; besides, it helps a man to be considered studious in his habits. He became, in fact, in imagination a young man once more. And because in the old days, when he had a character to earn, he did not smoke tobacco, so now he forgot that former solace of the day, his evening pipe.
"The brewery," he said, "is a splendid thing to get into. You can rise: you may become—ah! even chief accountant: you may look forward to draw over a thousand a year at the brewery, if you are steady and well conducted, and get a good name. It is not every one, mind you, gets the chance of such a service. And once in, always in. That's the pride of the brewery. No turning out: there you stay, with your salary always rising, till you die."
In the morning, the exultation of spirits was exchanged for a corresponding depression. Josephus went to the brewery, knowing that he should sit on that old seat of his no longer.
He went to look at it: the wooden stool was worn black; the desk was worn black; he knew every cut and scratch in the lid at which he had written so many years. There were all the books at which he had worked so long: not hard work, nor work requiring thought, but simple entering and ticking off of names, which a man can do mechanically—on summer afternoons, with the window open and an occasional bee buzzing in from Hainault Forest, and the sweet smell of the vats and the drowsy rolling of the machinery—one can do the work half asleep and never make a mistake. Now he would have to undertake some different kind of work, more responsible work: he would have to order and direct; he would have a chair instead of a stool, and a table instead of a desk. So that he began to wish that he had in the old days gone further in his studies—but he was always slow at learning—before the accident happened; and to wonder if anything at all remained of the knowledge he had then painfully acquired after all these years.
As a matter of fact, nothing remained. Josephus had become perfectly, delightfully, inconceivably stupid. He had forgotten everything, and could now learn no new thing. Pending the decision of Miss Messenger, to whom the case was referred, they tried him with all sorts of simple work—correspondence, answering letters, any of the things which require a little intelligence. Josephus could do nothing. He sat like a helpless boy and looked at the documents. Then they let him alone, and for a while he came every day, sat all day long, half asleep, and did nothing, and was much less happy than when he had been kept at work from nine o'clock in the morning till six o'clock at night.
When Harry remembered the packet of papers placed in his hand, which was on the following morning, he read them. And the effect of his reading was that he did not go to work that morning at all.
He was not a lawyer, and the principal paper was a legal instrument, the meaning of which it took him some little time to make out.
"Hum—hum—um—why can't they write plain English. 'I give to my said trustees, John Skelton and Benjamin Bunker, the three freehold houses as follows: that called number twenty-nine on Stepney Green, forty-five in Beaumont Square, and twenty-three in Redman's Row, upon trust to apply the rents and income of the same as in their absolute discretion they may think fit for the maintenance, education, and benefit of the said Caroline, until she be twenty-one years old or until she marry, and to invest from time to time the accumulations of such rents and income as is hereintofore provided, and to apply the same when invested in all respects as I direct concerning the last above-mentioned premises. And when the said Caroline shall attain the age of twenty-one, or marry, I direct my said trustees to pay to her the said rents and income and the income of the accumulation of the same, if any during her life, by four equal quarterly payments for her sole and separate use, free from the debts and engagements of any husband or husbands she may marry; and I direct that on the death of the said Caroline my said trustees shall hold and stand possessed of all the said premises for such person or persons and in such manner in all respects as the said Caroline shall by deed or will appoint. And in default of such appointment and so far as the same shall not extend upon trust'—and so on—and so on."
Harry read this document with a sense, at first, of mystification. Then he read it a second time, and began to understand it.
"The houses," he said, "my mother's houses, are hers, free from any debts contracted by her husband: they are vested in trustees for her behalf; she could not sell or part with them. And the trustees were John Skelton and Benjamin Bunker. John Skelton—gone to Abraham's bosom, I suppose. Benjamin Bunker—where will he go to? The houses were tied up—settled—entailed."
He read the document right through for the third time.
"So," he said. "The house at number twenty-nine Stepney Green. That is the house which Bunker calls his own; the house of the Associated Dressmakers; and it's mine—mine." He clinched his fist and looked dangerous. "Then the house at twenty-three Redman's Row, and at forty-five Beaumont Square. Two more houses. Also mine. And Bunker, the perfidious Bunker, calls them all his own! What shall be done to Bunker?"
"Next," he went on, after reading the document again, "Bunker is a fraudulent trustee, and his brother trustee too, unless he has gone dead. Of that there can be no doubt whatever. That virtuous and benevolent Bunker was my mother's trustee—and mine. And he calmly appropriates the trust to his own uses—Uncle Bunker! Uncle Bunker!"
"I knew from the beginning that there was something wrong. First, I thought he had taken a sum of money from Lord Jocelyn. Then I found out that he had got possession of houses in a mysterious manner. And now I find that he was simply the trustee. Wicked Uncle Bunker!"
Armed with his precious document, he put on his hat and walked straight off, resolution on his front, toward his uncle's office. He arrived just when Mr. Bunker was about to start on a daily round among his houses. By this frequent visitation he kept up the hearts of his tenants, and taught them the meaning of necessity; so that they put by their money and religiously paid the rent. Else——
"Pray," said Harry, "be so good as to take off your hat, and sit down and have five minutes' talk with me."
"No, sir," said Bunker, "I will not. You can go away, do you hear? Be off; let me lock my office and go about my own business."
"Do take off your hat, my uncle."
"Go, sir, do you hear?"
"Sit down and let us talk—my honest—trustee!"
Mr. Bunker dropped into a chair.
In all the conversations and dramatic scenes made up in his own mind to account for the possession of the houses, it had never occurred to him that the fact of his having been a trustee would come to light. All were dead, except himself, who were concerned in that trust: he had forgotten by this time that there was any deed: by ignoring the trust he simplified, to his own mind, the transfer of the houses; and during all these years he had almost forgotten the obligations of the trust.
"What do you mean?" he stammered.
"Virtuous uncle! I mean that I know all. Do you quite understand me? I mean really and truly all. Yes: all that there is to know—all that you hide away in your own mind and think that no one knows."
"What—what—what do you know?"
"First, I know which the houses are—I mean my houses—my mother's houses. The house in Stepney Green that you have let to Miss Kennedy is one; a house in Beaumont Square—do you wish to know the number?—is another; and a house in Redman's Row—and do you want to know the number of that?—is the third. You have collected the rents of those houses and paid those rents to your own account for twenty years and more."
"Go on. Let us hear what you pretend to know. Suppose they were Caroline's houses, what then?" He spoke with an attempt at bounce; but he was pale, and his eyes were unsteady.
"This next. These houses, man of probity, were not my mother's property to dispose of as she pleased."
"Oh! whose were they, then?"
"They were settled upon her and her heirs after her; and the property was placed in the hands of two trustees: yourself, my praiseworthy; and a certain John Skelton, of whom I know nothing. Presumably, he is dead."
Mr. Bunker made no reply at all. But his cheek grew paler.
"Shall I repeat this statement, or is that enough for you?" asked Harry. "The situation is pretty, perhaps not novel: the heir has gone away, probably never to come back again; the trustee, sole surviving, no doubt receives the rents. Heir comes back. Trustee swears the houses are his own. When the trustee is brought before a court of law and convicted, the judge says that the case is one of peculiar enormity, and must be met by transportation for five-and-twenty years; five—and—twenty—years, my patriarch! think of that, in uniform and with short hair."
Mr. Bunker said nothing. But by the agitation of his fingers it was plain that he was thinking a great deal.
"I told you," cried Harry. "I warned you, some time ago, that you must now begin to think seriously about handcuffs and prison, and men in blue. The time has come now, when, unless you make restitution of all that you have taken, action will be taken, and you will realize what it is that people think of the fraudulent trustee. Uncle Bunker, my heart bleeds for you."
"Why did you come here?" asked his uncle, piteously. "Why did you come here at all? We got on very well without you—very well and comfortably, indeed."
This seemed a feeble sort of bleat. But, in fact, the Bunker's mind was for the moment prostrated. He had no sound resistance left.
"I offered you," he went on, "twenty-five pounds—to go. I'll double it—there. I'll give you fifty pounds to go, if you'll go at once. So that there will be an end to all this trouble."
"Consider," said Harry, "there's the rent of Miss Kennedy's house—sixty-five pounds a year for that; there's the house in Beaumont Square—fifty for that; and the house in Redman's Row at five-and-twenty at least: comes to a hundred and forty pounds a year, which you have drawn, my precious uncle, for twenty-one years at least. That makes, without counting interest, two thousand nine hundred and forty pounds. And you want to buy me off for fifty pounds!"
"Not half the money—not half the money!" his uncle groaned. "There's repairs and painting—and bad tenants; not half the money."
"We will say, then," lightly replied his nephew, as if nine hundred were a trifle, "we will say two thousand pounds. The heir to that property has come back; he says, 'Give me my houses, and give me an account of the discharge of your trust.' Now"—Harry rose from the table on which he had been sitting—"let us have no more bounce: the game is up. I have in my pocket—here," he tapped his coat-pocket, "the original deed itself. Do you want to know where it was found? Behind a safe at the Brewery, where it was hidden by your brother-in-law, Bob Coppin, with all the country notes which got Josephus into a mess. As for the date I will remind you that it was executed about thirty-five years ago, when my mother was still a girl and unmarried, and you had recently married her sister. I have the deed here. What is more, it has been seen by the chief accountant at the Brewery, who gave it me. Bunker, the game is up."
He moved toward the door.
"Have you anything to say before I go? I am now going straight to a lawyer."
"What is the—the—lowest—O good Lord!—the very lowest figure that you will take to square it? Oh! be merciful; I am a poor man, indeed a very poor man, though they think me warm. Yet I must scrape and save to get along at all."
"Two thousand," said Harry.
"Make it fifteen hundred. Oh! fifteen hundred to clear off all scores, and then you can go away out of the place; I could borrow fifteen hundred."
"Two thousand," Harry repeated. "Of course, besides the houses, which are mine."
"Besides the houses? Never. You may do your worst. You may drag your poor old uncle, now sixty years of age, before the courts, but two thousand besides the houses? Never!"
He banged the floor with his stick, but his agitation was betrayed by the nervous tapping of the end upon the oil-cloth which followed the first hasty bang.
"No bounce, if you please." Harry took out his watch. "I will give you five minutes to decide; or, if your mind is already made up, I will go and ask advice of a lawyer at once."
"I cannot give you that sum of money," Bunker declared; "it is not that I would not; I would if I could. Business has been bad; sometimes I've spent more than I've made; and what little I've saved I meant always for you—I did, indeed. I said, 'I will make it up to him. He shall have it back with——'"
"One minute gone," said Harry, relentlessly.
"Oh! this is dreadful. Why, to get even fifteen hundred I should have to sell all my little property at a loss; and what a dreadful thing it is to sell property at a loss! Give me more time to consider, only a week or so, just to look round."
"Three minutes left," said Harry the hardened.
"Oh! oh! oh!" He burst into tears and weeping of genuine grief, and shame, and rage. "Oh, that a nephew should be found to persecute his uncle in such a way! Where is your Christian charity? Where is forgiving and remitting?"
"Only two minutes left," said Harry, unmoved.
Then Bunker fell upon his knees: he grovelled and implored pardon; he offered one house, two houses, and twelve hundred pounds, fifteen hundred pounds, eighteen hundred pounds.
"One minute left," said Harry.
Then he sat down and wiped the tears from his eyes, and in good round terms—in Poplar, Limehouse, Shadwell, Wapping, and Ratcliff Highway terms—he cursed his nephew, and the houses, and the trust, and all that therein lay, because, before the temptation came, he was an honest man, whereas now he should never be able to look Stepney in the face again.
"Time's up," said Harry, putting on his hat.
In face of the inevitable, Mr. Bunker showed an immediate change of front. He neither prayed, nor wept, nor swore. He became once more the complete man of business. He left the stool of humiliation, and seated himself on his own Windsor chair before his own table. Here, pen in hand, he seemed as if he were dictating rather than accepting terms.
"Don't go," he said. "I accept."
"Very good," Harry replied. "You know what is best for yourself. As for me, I don't want to make more fuss than is necessary. You know the terms?"
"Two thousand down; the three houses; and a complete discharge in full of all claims. Those are the conditions."
"Yes, those are the conditions."
"I will draw up the discharge," said Mr. Bunker, "and then no one need be any the wiser."
Harry laughed. This cool and business-like compromise of felony pleased him.
"You may draw it up if you like. But my opinion of your ability is so great, that I shall have to show the document to a solicitor for his approval and admiration."
Mr. Bunker was disconcerted. He had hoped—that is, thought—he saw his way; but never mind. He quickly recovered and said, with decision:
"Go to Lawyer Pike, in the Mile End Road."
"Why? Is the Honorable Pike a friend of yours?"
"No, he isn't; that is why I want you to go to him. Tell him that you and I have long been wishing to clear up these accounts, and that you've agreed to take the two thousand with the houses." Mr. Bunker seemed now chiefly anxious that the late deplorable scene should be at once forgotten and forgiven. "He said the other day that I was nothing better than a common grinder and oppressor. Now, when he sees what an honorable trustee I am, he will be sorry he said that. You can tell everybody if you like. Why, what is it? Here's my nephew comes home to me and says, 'Give me my houses.' I say, 'Prove your title.' Didn't I say so? How was I to know that he was my nephew? Then the gentleman comes who took him away, and says, 'He is your long-lost nephew;' and I say, 'Take your houses, young man, with the accumulations of the rent hoarded up for you.' Why, you can tell everybody that story."
"I will leave you to tell it, Bunker, your own way. Everybody will believe that way of telling the story. What is more, I will not go out of my way to contradict it."
"Very good, then. And on that understanding I withdraw all the harsh things I may have said to you, nephew. And we can be good friends again."
"Certainly, if you like," said Harry, and fairly ran away for fear of being called upon to make more concessions.
"It's a terrible blow!" The old man sat down and wiped his forehead. "To think of two thousand down! But it might have been much worse. Ah! it might have been very, very much worse. I've done better than I expected, when he said he had the papers. The young man's a fool—a mere fool. The houses let for £150 a year, and they have never been empty for six months together; and the outside repairs are a trifle, and I've saved it all every year. Ha! now a hundred and fifty pounds a year for twenty years and more, at compound interest only five per cent., is close on £5,000. I've calculated it out often enough to know. Yes, and I've made five per cent. on it, and sometimes six and seven, and more, with no losses. It might have been far, far worse. It's come to £7,000 if it's a penny. And to get rid of that awful fear and that devil of a boy with his grins and his sneers at £2,000, why, it's cheap, I call it cheap. As for the houses, I'll get them back, see if I don't."
Mr. Pike, the solicitor of the Mile End Road, does not belong to the story—which is a pity, because he has many enviable qualities—further than is connected with Harry's interview with him.
He read the documents and heard the story from beginning to end. When he had quite mastered all the details he began mildly to express astonishment and pity that any young man could be such a fool. This was hard, because Harry really thought he had done a mighty clever thing. "You have been taken in, sir," said Mr. Pike, "in a most barefaced and impudent manner. Two thousand pounds! Why, the mere rent alone, without counting interest, is three thousand. Go away, sir; find out this fraudulent impostor, and tell him that you will have nothing to do with him short of a full account and complete restitution."
"I cannot do that," said Harry.
"Why not?"
"Because I have passed my word."
"I think, young man, you said you were a cabinet-maker—though you look something better."
"Yes, I belong to that trade."
"Since when, may I ask, have cabinet-makers been so punctilious as to their promises?"
"The fact is," said Harry gravely, "we have turned over a new leaf, and are now all on the side of truth and honor."
"Humph! Then there is nothing to do but to give the man a receipt in full and a discharge. You are of age; you can do this if you like. Shall I draw it up for you, and receive the money, and take over the houses?"
This was settled, therefore, and in this way Harry became a rich man, with houses and money in the funds.
As for Bunker, he made the greatest mistake in his life when he sent his nephew to Mr. Pike. He should have known, but he was like the ostrich when he runs his head into the sand, and believes from the secure retreat that he is invisible to his hunters. For his own version of the incident was palpably absurd; and, besides, Mr. Pike heard Harry's account of the matter. Therefore, though Bunker thought to heap coals of fire upon his enemy's head, he only succeeded in throwing them under his feet, which made him kick—"for who can go upon hot coals and his feet not be burned?" The good man is now, therefore, laboring under a cloud of prejudice which does not seem to lift, though perhaps he will live it down. Other events have happened since, which have operated to his prejudice. Everybody knows how he received his nephew; what wicked things he said everywhere about him; and what rumors he spread about Miss Kennedy: everybody knows that he had to disgorge houses—actually, houses—which he had appropriated. This knowledge is common property; and it is extremely unpleasant for Mr. Bunker when he takes his walks abroad to be cruelly assailed by questions which hit harder than any brickbat: they are hurled at him by working-men and by street boys. "Who stole the 'ouse?" for instance, is a very nasty thing to be said to a gentleman who is professionally connected with house property. I know not how this knowledge came to be so generally known. Certainly Harry did not spread it abroad. People, however, are not fools, and can put things together; where the evil-doings and backslidings of their friends are concerned they are surprisingly sharp.
Now when the ownership of the house in Stepney Green became generally known, there immediately sprang up, as always happens on occasions of discovery, rooting-out of facts, or exposure of wickedness, quite a large crop of old inhabitants ready to declare that they knew all along that the house on Stepney Green was one of those belonging to old Mr. Coppin. He bought it, they said, of Mr. Messenger, who was born there; and it was one of three left to Caroline, who died young. Who would believe that Mr. Bunker could have been so wicked? Where is faith in brother man since so eminent a professor of honesty has fallen?
Mr. Bunker suffers, but he suffers in silence; he may be seen any day in the neighborhood of Stepney Green, still engaged in his usual business; people may talk behind his back, but talk breaks no bones; they don't dare talk before his face; though he has lost two thousand pounds, there is still money left—he feels that he is a warm man, and has money to leave behind him; it will be said of him that he cut up well. Warmth of all kinds comforts a man; but he confesses with a pang that he did wrong to send his nephew to that lawyer, who took the opportunity, when he drew up the discharge and receipt, of giving him an opinion—unasked and unpaid for—as to his conduct in connection with the trust. There could be no mistake at all about the meaning and force of that opinion. And, oddly enough, whenever Mr. Bunker sees the queen's omnibus—that dark painted vehicle, driven by a policeman—pass along the road, he thinks of Mr. Pike, and that opinion returns to his memory, and he feels just exactly as if a bucket of cold water was trickling down his back by the nape of the neck. Even in warm weather this is disagreeable. And it shows that the lawyer must have spoken very strong words indeed, and that although Mr. Bunker, like the simple ones and the scorners, wished for none of the lawyer's counsel, unlike them he did not despise their reproof. Yet he is happier, now that the blow has fallen, than he was while he was awaiting it and dreaming of handcuffs.
We anticipate; but we have, indeed, seen almost the last of Mr. Bunker. It is sad to part with him. But we have no choice.
In the evening Harry went as usual to the drawing-room. He stayed, however, after the girls went away. There was nothing unusual in his doing so. "Girls in my position," said the dressmaker, "are not tied by the ordinary rules." To-night, however, he had something to say.
"Congratulate me," he cried, as soon as they were alone. "I have turned out, as the story-books say, to be the heir to vast sums of money."
Angela turned pale. She was reassured, however, on learning the extent of the heritage.
"Consider my romantic story," said Harry. "Instead of finding myself the long-lost heir, strawberry-mark and all, to an earldom, I am the son of a sergeant in the Line. And then, just as I am getting over the blow, I find myself the owner of three houses and two thousand pounds. What workman ever had two thousand pounds before? There was an under-gardener I knew," he went on meditatively, "who once got a hundred; he called it a round hundred, I remember. He and his wife went on the hospitable drink for a fortnight; then they went to hospital for a month with trimmings; and then went back to work—the money all gone—and joined the Primitive Methodists. Can't we do something superior in the shape of a burst or a boom, for the girls, with two thousand pounds?"
"Tell me," said Angela, "how you got it."
He narrated the whole story, for her instruction and amusement, with some dramatic force, impersonating Bunker's wrath, terror, and entreaties, and final business-like collapse.
"So that," said Angela, "you are now a man of property, and will, I suppose, give up the work at the brewery."
"Do you think I should?"
"I do not like to see any man idle, and"—she hesitated—"especially you."
"Thank you," said Harry. "Then I remain. The question of the two thousand pounds—my cool two thousand—I am the winner of the two thousand—in reserve. As for this house, however, decided steps must be taken. Listen, Queen of the Mystery of Dress! You pay Bunker sixty-five pounds a year or so for the rent of this house; that is a good large deduction from the profits of the Association. I have been thinking, if you approve, that I will have this house conveyed to you in trust for the Association. Then you will be rent-free."
"But that is a very, very generous offer. You really wish to give us this house altogether for ourselves!"
"If you will accept it."
"You have only these houses, and you give us the best of them. Is it right and just to strip yourself?"
"How many houses should I have? Now there are two left, and their rent brings in seventy pounds a year, and I have two thousand pounds which will bring in another eighty pounds a year. I am rich—much too rich for a common cabinet-maker."
"Oh!" she said, "what can we do but accept? And how shall we show our gratitude? But, indeed, we can do nothing."
"I want nothing," said Harry. "I have had so much happiness in this place that I can want for nothing. It is for me to show my gratitude."
"Thank you," she replied, giving him her hand. He stooped and kissed it, but humbly, as one who accepts a small favor gratefully and asks for no more.
They were alone in the drawing-room; the fire was low; only one lamp was burning; Angela was sitting beside the fire; her face was turned from him. A mighty wave of love was mounting in the young man's brain; but a little more, a very little more, and he would have been kneeling at her feet. She felt the danger; she felt it the more readily because she was so deeply moved herself. What had she given the girls, out of her abundance, compared with what he had given out of his slender portion? Her eyes filled with tears. Then she sprang to her feet and touched his hand again.
"Do not forget your promise," she said.
"My promise? Oh! how long——"
"Patience," she replied. "Give me a little while—a little while—only—and——"
"Forgive me," he said, kissing her hand again. "Forgive me."
"Let me go," she went on. "It is eleven o'clock." They put out the lamp and went out. The night was clear and bright.
"Do not go in just yet," said Harry. "It is pleasant out here, and I think the stars are brighter than they are at the West End."
"Everything is better here," said Angela, "than at the West End. Here we have hearts, and can feel for each other. Here we are all alike—workmen and workwomen together."
"You are a prejudiced person. Let us talk of the Palace of Delight—your dream."
"Your invention," said Angela.
"Won't my two thousand go some way in starting it? Perhaps, if we could just start it, the thing would go on of its own accord. Why, see what you have done with your girls already."
"But I must have a big Palace—a noble building, furnished with everything that we want. No, my friend, we will take your house because it is a great and noble gift, but you shall not sacrifice your money. Yet we will have that Palace, and before long. And when it is ready——"
"Yes, when it is ready."
"Perhaps the opening of the Palace will be, for all of us, the beginning of a new happiness."
"You speak in a parable."
"No," she said, "I speak in sober earnestness. Now let me go. Remember what I say; the opening of the Palace may be, if you will—for all of us——"
"For you and me?"
"For—yes—for you—and for me. Good-night."
Lady Davenant had now been in full enjoyment of her title in Portman Square, where one enjoys such things more thoroughly than on Stepney Green, for four or five weeks. She at first enjoyed it so much that she thought of nothing but the mere pleasure of the greatness. She felt an uplifting of heart every time she walked up and down the stately stairs; another every time she sat at the well-furnished dinner table; and another whenever she looked about her in the drawing-room. She wrote copious letters to her friend Aurelia Tucker during these days. She explained with fulness of detail, and in terms calculated to make that lady expire of envy, the splendor of her position; and for at least five weeks she felt as if the hospitality of Miss Messenger actually brought with it a complete recognition of her claim. Her husband, not so sanguine as herself, knew very well that the time would come when the Case would have to be taken up again and sent in to the proper quarter for examination. Meantime he was resigned, and even happy. Three square meals a day, each of them abundant, each a masterpiece of art, were enough to satisfy that remarkable twist which, as her ladyship was persuaded, one knows not on what grounds, had always been a distinguishing mark of the Davenants. Familiarity speedily reconciled him to the presence of the footmen; he found in the library a most delightful chair in which he could sleep all the morning; and it pleased him to be driven through the streets in a luxurious carriage under soft, warm furs, in which one can take the air and get a splendid appetite without fatigue.
They were seen about a great deal. It was a part of Angela's design that they should, when the time came for going back again, seem to themselves to have formed a part of the best society in London. Therefore she gave instructions to her maid that her visitors were to go to all the public places, the theatres, concerts, exhibitions, and places of amusement. The little American lady knew so little what she ought to see and whither she ought to go, that she fell back on Campion for advice and help. It was Campion who suggested a theatre in the evening, the Exhibition of Old Masters or the Grosvenor Gallery in the morning, and Regent Street in the afternoon; it was Campion who pointed out the recognized superiority of Westminster Abbey, considered as a place of worship for a lady of exalted rank, over a chapel up a back street, of the Baptist persuasion, to which at her own home Lady Davenant had belonged. It was Campion who went with her and showed her the shops, and taught her the delightful art of spending her money—the money "lent" her by Miss Messenger—in the manner becoming to a peeress. She was so clever and sharp, that she caught at every hint dropped by the lady's-maid; she reformed her husband's ideas of evening-dress; she humored his weaknesses; she let him keep his eyes wide open at a farce or a ballet on the understanding that at a concert or a sermon he might blamelessly sleep through it; she even began to acquire rudimentary ideas on the principles of art.
"I confess, my dear Aurelia," she wrote, "that habit soon renders even these marble halls familiar. I have become perfectly reconciled to the splendor of English patrician life, and now feel as if I had been born to it. Tall footmen no longer frighten me, nor the shouting of one's name after the theatre. Of course the outward marks of respect one receives as one's due, when one belongs, by the gift of Providence, to a great and noble house."
This was all very pleasant; yet Lady Davenant began to yearn for somebody, if it were only Mrs. Bormalack, with whom she could converse. She wanted a long chat. Perhaps Miss Kennedy or Mrs. Bormalack, or the sprightly Mr. Goslett, might be induced to come and spend a morning with her, or a whole day, if only they would not feel shy and frightened in so splendid a place.
Meantime some one "connected with the Press" got to hear of a soi-disant Lord Davenant who was often to be seen with his wife in boxes at theatres and other places of resort. He heard, this intellectual connection of the Press, people asking each other who Lord Davenant was; he inquired of the Red Book, and received no response; he thereupon perceived that here was an opportunity for a sensation and a mystery. He found out where Lord Davenant was living, by great good luck—it was through taking a single four of whiskey in a bar frequented by gentlemen in plush; and he proceeded to call upon his lordship and to interview him.
The result appeared in a long communique which attracted general and immediate interest. The journalist set forth at length and in the most graphic manner the strange and romantic career of the condescending wheelwright; he showed how the discovery was made, and how, after many years, the illustrious pair had crossed the Atlantic to put forward their claim; and how they were offered the noble hospitality of a young lady of princely fortune. It was a most delightful godsend to the paper in which it appeared, and it came at a time when the House was not sitting, and there was no wringle-wrangle of debates to furnish material for the columns of big type which are supposed to sway the masses. The other papers therefore seized upon the topic and had leading articles upon it, in which the false Demetrius, the pretending Palæologus, Perkin Warbeck, Lambert Simnel, George Psalmanazar, the Languishing Nobleman, the Earl of Mar, the Count of Albany, with other claims and claimants, furnished illustrations to the claims of the Davenants. The publicity given to the Case by these articles delighted her ladyship beyond everything, while it abashed and confounded her lord. He saw in it the beginning of more exertion, and strenuous efforts after the final recognition. And she carefully cut out all the articles and sent them to her nephew Nicholas, to her friend Aurelia Tucker, and to the editor of the Canaan City Express with her compliments. And she felt all the more, in the midst of this excitement, that if she did not have some one to talk to she must go back to Stepney Green and spend a day. Or she would die.
It was at this juncture that Campion, perhaps inspired by secret instructions, suggested that her ladyship must be feeling a little lonely, and must want to see her friends. Why not, she said, ask them to dinner?
A dinner-party, Lady Davenant reflected, would serve not only to show her old friends the reality of her position, but would also please them as a mark of kindly remembrance. Only, she reflected, dinner at Stepney Green had not the same meaning that it possesses at the West End. The best dinner in that locality is that which is most plentiful, and there are no attempts made to decorate a table. Another thing, dinner is taken universally between one o'clock and two. "I think, Clara Martha," said his lordship, whom she consulted in this affair of state, "that at any time of day such a Feast of Belshazzar as you will give them will be grateful; and they may call it dinner or supper, which ever they please."
Thereupon Lady Davenant wrote a letter to Mrs. Bormalack inviting the whole party. She explained that they had met with the most splendid hospitality from Miss Messenger, in whose house they were still staying; that they had become public characters, and had been the subject of discussion in the papers, which caused them to be much stared at and followed in the streets, and in theatres and concert-rooms; that they were both convinced that their case would soon be triumphant; that they frequently talked over old friends of Stepney, and regretted that the distance between them was so great—though distance, she added kindly, cannot divide hearts; and that, if Mrs. Bormalack's party would come over together and dine with them, it would be taken as a great kindness, both by herself and by his lordship. She added that she hoped they would all come, including Mr. Fagg and old Mr. Maliphant and Mr. Josephus, "though," she added with a little natural touch, "I doubt whether Mr. Maliphant ever gave me a thought; and Mr. Josephus was always too much occupied with his own misfortunes to mind any business of mine. And, dear Mrs. Bormalack, please remember that when we speak of dinner we mean what you call supper. It is exactly the same thing, only served a little earlier. We take ours at eight o'clock instead of nine. His lordship desires me to add that he shall be extremely disappointed if Mr. Goslett does not come; and you will tell Miss Kennedy, whose kindness I can never forget, the same from me, and that she must bring Nelly and Rebekah and Captain Sorensen."
The letter was received with great admiration. Josephus, who had blossomed into a complete new suit of clothes of juvenile cut, declared that the invitation did her ladyship great credit, and that now his misfortunes were finished he should be rejoiced to take his place in society. Harry laughed, and said that of course he would go. "And you, Miss Kennedy?"
Angela colored. Then she said that she would try to go.
"And if Mr. Maliphant and Daniel only go too," said Harry, "we shall be as delightful a party as were ever gathered together at one dinner-table."
It happened that about this time Lord Jocelyn remembered the American claimants, and his promise to call upon them. He therefore called, and was received with the greatest cordiality by her little ladyship, and with wondrous affability, as becomes one man of rank toward another, by Lord Davenant.
It was her ladyship who volubly explained their claim to him, and the certainty of the assumption that their Timothy Clitheroe was the lost heir to the same two Christian names; her husband only folded his fat hands over each other, and from time to time wagged his head.
"You are the first of my husband's brother peers," she said, "who has called upon us. We shall not forget this kindness from your lordship."
"But I am not a peer at all," he explained; "I am only a younger son with a courtesy title. I am quite a small personage."
"Which makes it all the kinder," said her ladyship; "and I must say that, grand as it is, in this big house, one does get tired of hearin' no voice but your own—and my husband spends a good deal of his time in the study. Oh! a man of great literary attainments, and a splendid mathematician. I assure your lordship not a man or a boy in Canaan City can come near him in algebra."
"Up to a certain point, Clara Martha," said her husband, meaning that there might be lofty heights in science to which even he himself could not soar. "Quadratic equations, my lord."
Lord Jocelyn made an original remark about the importance of scientific pursuits.
"And since you are so friendly," continued her ladyship, "I will venture to invite your lordship to dine with us."
"Certainly. I shall be greatly pleased."
"We have got a few friends coming to-morrow evening," said her ladyship, rather grandly. "Friends from Whitechapel."
Lord Jocelyn looked curious.
"Yes, Mr. Josephus Coppin and his cousin Mr. Goslett, a sprightly young man who respects rank."
"He is coming, is he?" asked Lord Jocelyn, laughing.
"And then there is Miss Kennedy——"
"She is coming too?" He rose with alacrity. "Lady Davenant, I shall be most happy to come, I assure you."
It was most unfortunate that next day Miss Kennedy had such a dreadful headache, that she found herself prevented from going with the rest. This was a great disappointment, and at the last moment old Mr. Maliphant could not be found, and they had to start without him.
How they performed the journey, how Harry managed to let most of the party go on before, because of his foolish pride, which would not let him form one of a flock all going out together, and how he with Captain Sorensen and Nelly came on after the rest, may be passed over.
When he got to Portman Square, he found the first detachment already arrived, and, to his boundless astonishment, his guardian. Lady Davenant, arrayed in her black velvet and the jewels which Angela gave her, looked truly magnificent. Was it possible, Mrs. Bormalack thought, that such a transformation could be effected in a woman by a velvet gown? She even looked tall. She received her friends with unaffected kindness, and introduced them all to Lord Jocelyn.
"Mrs. Bormalack, your lordship, my former landlady, and always my very good friend. Professor Climo, your lordship, the famous conjurer. And I'm sure the way he makes things disappear makes you believe in magic. Mr. Fagg, the great scholar; of whom, perhaps, your lordship has heard. Mr. Josephus Coppin, who has been unfortunate." Lord Jocelyn wondered what that meant. "Miss Rebekah Hermitage, whose father is minister of the Seventh Day Independents, and a most respectable connection, though small in number. Captain Sorensen, your lordship, who comes from the Trinity Almshouse, and Nellie his daughter; and Mr. Goslett. And I think that is all; and the sooner they let us have dinner the better."
Lord Jocelyn shook hands with everybody. When it came to Harry, he laughed, and they both laughed, but they did not say why.
"And where is Miss Kennedy?" asked her ladyship. And there were great lamentations. "I wanted your lordship to see Miss Kennedy. Oh, there's nobody like Miss Kennedy—is there, Nelly?"
"Nobody," said Nelly. "There can be nobody like Miss Kennedy." Lord Jocelyn was struck with the beauty of this girl, whom he remembered seeing at the dressmakery. He began to hope that she would sit next to him at dinner.
"Nobody half so beautiful in all Stepney, is there?"
"Nobody half so good," said Rebekah.
Then the dinner was announced, and there was confusion in going down, because nobody would go before Lord Jocelyn, who, therefore, had to lead the way. Lord Davenant offered his arm to Mrs. Bormalack, Harry to Nelly, and Captain Sorensen to Rebekah. The professor, Mr. Fagg, and Josephus came last.
"To be sure," said Mrs. Bormalack, looking about her, thankful that she had put on her best cap, "magnificence was expected, as was your lordship's due, but such as this—no, young man, I never take soup unless I've made it myself, and am quite sure—such as this, my lord, we did not expect."
She was splendid in her beautiful best cap, all ribbons and bows, with an artificial dahlia in it of a far-off fashion—say, the forties; the sight of the table, with its plate and flowers and fruit, filled her with admiration, but, as she now says in recalling that stupendous feed, there was too much ornament, which kept her mind off the cooking, so that she really carried away no new ideas for Stepney use. Nelly did sit next to Lord Jocelyn, who talked with her, and found that she was shy until he touched upon Miss Kennedy. Then she waxed eloquent, and told him marvels, forgetting that he was a stranger who probably knew and cared nothing about Miss Kennedy. But Nelly belonged to that very numerous class which believes its own affairs of the highest interest to the world at large, and in this instance Miss Kennedy was a subject of the deepest interest to her neighbors. Wherefore he listened while she told what had been done for the workgirls by one woman, one of themselves.
Opposite, on Lady Davenant's left, sat Captain Sorensen. In the old days the captains of East Indiamen were not unacquainted with great men's tables, but it was long since he had sat at such a feast. Presently Lord Jocelyn began to look at him curiously.
"Who is the old gentleman opposite?" he whispered to Nelly.
"That is my father; he was a captain once, and commanded a great ship."
"I thought so," said Lord Jocelyn. "I remember him, but he has forgotten me."
Next to the captain sat Rebekah, looking prepared for any fate, and not unduly uplifted by the splendor of the scene. But for her, as well as for nearly all who were present, the word dinner will henceforth have a new and exalted meaning. The length of the feast, the number of things offered, the appointments of the table, struck her imagination; she thought of Belshazzar and of Herod; such as the feast before her were those feasts of old; she tasted the champagne, and it took away her breath; yet it seemed good. Mr. Goslett seemed to think so too, because he drank so many glasses.
So did the others, and, being inexperienced in wine, they drank with more valor than discretion, so that they began to talk loud, but that was not till later.
"Do people—rich people—always dine like this?" asked Nelly of her neighbor.
"Something like this; yes, that is, some such dinner, though simpler, is always prepared for them."
"I was thinking," she said, "how differently people live. I would rather live in our way—with Miss Kennedy—than in so much grandeur."
"Grandeur soon becomes a matter of habit. But as for Miss Kennedy, you cannot live always with her, can you?"
"Why not?"
"Well, she may marry, you know."
Nelly looked across the table at Harry.
"I suppose she will; we all of us hope she will, if it is to stay with us; but that need not take her away from us."
"Do you know Miss Messenger?"
"No," said Nelly; "she has been very kind to us; she is our best customer, she sends us all sorts of kind messages, and presents even; and she sends us her love and best wishes; I think she must be very fond of Miss Kennedy. She promises to come some day and visit us. Whenever I think of Miss Messenger, I think, somehow, that she must be like Miss Kennedy; only I cannot understand Miss Kennedy being rich and the owner of this great house."