The same self-love in all becomes the cause
Of
what restrains him, government and laws.
For
what one likes, if others like as well,
What
serves one will, when many wills rebel?
How
shall he keep what, sleeping or awake,
A
weaker may surprise, a stronger take?
—Pope.
Mr. Grahame’s dissertation upon the improvement of land and the general economy and management of estates had been abruptly interrupted by the entrance of his daughter into the room where the guests and family were assembled. His apathetic and somewhat drowsy auditor, the young Duke, immediately on observing the approach of Helen Grahame, with a slight excuse to his host, emancipated himself from the dull topic droned into his ears, and advanced hastily to meet her.
Almost at the same moment, Whelks entered the apartment, with a printed card upon a silver salver. It was not an elegant production—the typography was bold and in effect smudgy, and the general get-up smacked rather loudly of the Seven Dials’ press.
It was dingy, too, and nibbled at the corners, indicating cogitation on the part of the person whom it represented, the pasteboard having been used unconsciously instead of the grimy thumb-nail.
The quick eye of Mr. Grahame caught sight of it almost the instant Whelks crossed the threshold of the door, carrying it very much with the air of one who had a huge slug on a plate, which he was seeking the earliest opportunity to dispose of.
Mr. Grahame’s eyes flashed fire. What could the idiot mean by bringing to him such a dun, drabby bit of card at such a moment. He glared at Whelks, who remained unaffected; his gaze was upon the soiled article he carried, and his reflections far away into the future, resting upon the rosy hour when, liberated from flunkeydom, he should, with Sarah the cook, unite hands and savings, and go into business. It was not, he thought, with such “a hinfamous fustian smelling objek” as that which rested on the silver salver, as though it had no business there, that he should make his business announcement to a British public, bursting with a desire to deal with him. And as he dreamed thus, he reached his master.
Mrs. Grahame and Margaret Claverhouse, both with an astonishment and indignation which their indomitable pride could barely repress, saw upon the silver salver, in the hands of Whelks, the offensively dusky, shabby card, and if glances could slay, Whelks’ remains would have been spread over the magnificently “Sang"-decorated walls. Hewas, however, as we have said, all unconscious of the effect he was creating upon the members of the household, and he reached Mr. Gra-hame only to perceive him glowering upon him like a tiger, inflamed with most sanguinary intentions.
With a low, guttural growl, he was about to make known to Whelks the nature of his convictions in having, at such an inopportune moment, thrust upon him so foul a communication, when his eye caught sight of the name—printed, according to the trade term, in fat-faced Egyptian—of Chewkle. He felt as if some one had suddenly smote him on the head with a club, and he broke into a cold sweat.
This man was in possession of his horrid secret; he was in his power; at any time he could blazon forth to the world that a Grahame, the proudest of a proud family, had committed a base act of forgery. He was now amenable to the law of transportation—liable to be torn from his present high position, and compelled to work and toil with thieves and scoundrels in a penal colony.
These reflections, none the less vivid for presenting themselves in that brilliantly lighted room, and in the presence of guests of high birth, made his face grow white, and his knees tremble.
He whipped up the card and thrust it into his pocket, hoping that it had escaped the eyes of all but himself.
Whelks delivered, then, an urgent message from Chewkle, and Mr. Grahame said, in a low tone—
“Where is he?”
“In the ’orl, sir,” returned the footman, with a perked-up nose.
“Show him into the library; I will come to him immediately,” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, in the same tone as before.
Whelks bowed, and departed to obey the instructions he had received, and then to discuss with Sarah the nature of the business of a “Kermission Agent,” as he styled Chewkle’s occupation, and wherefore it should, as it appeared to him that it most certainly did, obtain so great an influence over such a man as Mr. Grahame.
Mr. Grahame perceiving that Helen had absorbed the attention of the Duke and Lester Vane, glided out of the room into the library. As he entered it he became conscious of a strong smell of the “fragrant weed,” which, however, to his olfactory nerves had not “the scent of the rose,” and he saw Mr. Chewkle, with part of a truly British cheroot in his hand, standing near to the lamp upon the table, harassed by doubts as to the propriety of relighting it or the propriety of doing nothing of the sort.
Mr. Grahame bowed patronisingly, but said hastily—
“Not smoking, I hope, Mr. Chewkle!”
“No,” returned Chewkle; “it was out afore I came in, but I thought if you didn’t mind, you know——”
“But, indeed, I do mind!” responded Mr. Grahame, quickly, and then added most fiercely, as he perceived the red and begrimed face of his visitor, his dirty collar, his necktie and his hair disordered, all indicating the frequent quaffing and replenishment of “the glass which cheers” and does inebriate—“Pray tell me, Mr. Chewkle, to what circumstance I am to attribute your visit at, to me, a most inconvenient time?”
“Well, sir, things happens without particularly caring for our convenience,” answered Chewkle, with a hiccup, which left a strong odour of some beverage—not green tea—behind it. “We would all like things to fall out jest as we would wish ‘em, but they don’t, an’ it seems as if the more you wish ’em the more they won’t.”
“Well,” said Mr. Grahame, not liking this preface.
“Well,” continued Chewkle, “an’ when things run cross, we must, if we wants to right ’em, go to work at once, without caring about convenience. At least, them’s my sentiments, an’ that’s my way o’ doing business.”
“A very proper way, no doubt, my good friend,” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, growing yet more anxious, “but pray tell me what has happened.”
“Well, a very orkurd matter, as things stand,” replied Mr. Chewkle.
“What is it?—what is it?” cried Mr. Grahame, feverishly.
“Why, just this—old Wilton’s out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, out o’ quod.”
“Out—out—out of prison?” gasped Mr. Grahame, clutching at a chair for support.
“Nothing else,” replied Chewkle, placing his hands behind him, and rocking himself backwards and forwards on his toes and heels, in a very dangerous fashion for one in his state.
“Escaped—escaped?” inquired Mr. Grahame, his eyes almost starting out of their sockets.
“No such luck!” answered Chewkle, “if he had, he’d a’ soon been nabbed agen, and taken back to ha’ been kept closer than ever.”
“What do you mean?—speak out, man! you are inflicting upon me indescribable torture!” exclaimed Grahame, excitedly. “Is he—is he dead?”
“Dead! no; he’s got more lives than a cat, he has. No, sir; he’s out of quod because he’s been and paid all the money.”
“Paid the money!” echoed Mr. Grahame, incredulously.
“Every mag of it, sir—every farthing. He has wiped off the detainer lodged at the gate agen’ him, and he is free to roam about agen.”
Mr. Grahame stood as if thunder-stricken.
“Impossible!” he ejaculated, like one in a dream.
“Fact, sir, all the same for that. I saw Scathe, the managing clerk to your solicitor, and he told me all about it. The debts and costs is paid, and Wilton is out. The money has been paid under protest, sir; so you can’t touch a penny on it until you’ve proved your right to it by a haction-at-law. Scathe says he don’t think anything o’ that, because the firm holds a dockyment, which Wilton has signed in your favour, as ’ll put him out o’ court slap. Now, what I wants to know is this—is the dockyment he spoke of the same as——”
Mr. Grahame clutched his wrist, looked around him with trepidation, and raised his finger warningly. Mr. Chewkle hiccuped again, and lowered his tone, and added—
“Is it the same as—as—as you signed for him?”
Mr. Grahame drew a deep breath, but made no reply. Chewkle was a shrewd reader of physiognomy, and obtained the information he sought from the distorted workings of Mr. Grahame’s haggard features. He gave vent to his sensations on learning what he sought to know, in a low, prolonged whistle.
“Things is wuss than I took them to be,” he murmured. Then he addressed Mr. Grahame. “Who do you think?” he asked, “it is as has been making himself so very hactive in getting old Wilton out o’ Hudson’s Hotel * —you won’t guess. Why it’s that little saffron-jawed imidge, who dropped in so unexpected when you jest finished that bit o’ writing for the hobstinate Wilton.”
“My God!” gasped Grahame, “has he assisted Wilton?”
“Paid the money, I believe, sir; and is going to stand his friend in the law case,” observed Chewkle, emphatically.
Grahame clasped his hands and paced the room in agitation, he passed his feverish fingers convulsively over his temples. “What is to be done—what is to be done?” he cried, “I have commenced to act upon that accursed document. I thought he never, never would come out of prison, but would die there; and urged by the frightfully pressing nature of my necessity—my situation in connection with the estates to which I lay claim—I lodged the deed with my lawyer, and ordered him to proceed upon it. He has commenced—I know he has commenced; the deed is registered—all will be discovered, and—oh, my God! what will ensue?”
“Transportation for life to a dead certainty,” replied Chewkle, in slow, emphatic tones, “You’ll be called upon to prove the signatur—you can’t do that; then, o’ course it’s a forgery. Well, who did it? You got to show how you come by it—you can’t do that; and then you’ll be found guilty, and sentenced for life. That’s clear, I think.”
Mr. Chewkle felt himself, at the conclusion of his speech, seized by the throat.
“Villain,” cried Mr. Grahame, froth foaming and bubbling from his mouth. “This was your hellish counsel; but for your infernal suggestion and complicity, I should never have thought of it, but you shall share my fate—my fate—transportation. Oh! horror, horror—my house—my family! I—I—death—death—”
Mr. Chewkle felt the cold clammy fingers of his antagonist loosen, and as the last words died on his lips, he saw him stagger back, and before he could catch him, he fell to the ground in a fit.
Chewkle’s first impulse was to call for help, but instantly it flashed across his mind that he should have a thousand questions to answer, besides being regarded with looks of distrust and suspicion. He had no wish, at that hour, and in the rather free style and state of his costume, to have to encounter the family, to explain that which it was so important should be left unexplained, and he proceeded to attempt himself to play the part of a medical attendant. Mr. Chewkle was stronger than he looked, and he had need of all his strength to pin Mr. Grahame to the floor, during the violent paroxysms of the fit by which he had been seized. He succeeded, by dint of tremendous exertion, in overmastering the desperate struggles of the prostrate man, and when they had ceased, he loosened his neckcloth, obtained some water from a bottle upon the table, bathed his temples and lips with it until Mr. Grahame opened his eyes, and gazed wildly around him, like one waking up out of some dreadful dream.
After a few incoherent expressions, he became once more alive to his position.
He walked up and down his library, wringing his hands, and displaying the greatest possible mental anguish.
Suddenly he paused before Chewkle, and with a stern countenance, he said—
“Through blindly following your counsel, I have placed myself in a situation of awful peril. Tell me, what must be done to avoid the dreadful degradation with which I am threatened—how is this frightful false step to be retrieved?”
“Not by going on, sir, as if you’d gone stark, staring mad!” answered Chewkle, rather brusquely. “There’s a good deal at stake, you know; and there’s only one way to make the best of a bad game—that’s by being as cool as hice, and as clear about the head-piece. You must be slow to think and decide, but prompt to hact. You are in a mess, that’s pretty certain; the only way to get out of it, is to be quite calm and easy-like, to calculate your chances carefully, to say not a word to nobody but them you must employ, and fight it out to the last, hinch for hinch.”
This advice seemed tolerably sound, but Mr. Grahame could not reflect calmly, nor calculate coldly; he could do nothing but have shifting visions of the happy time of youth, when he was free from the cares and responsibilities of life, and of the grim, shadowy, future, lying behind a curtain of black and obscure vapour; they were mingled in one picture, whirling and rioting through his aching brain, and incapacitating him from sitting down to plan a scheme, by which he might escape the consequences of the crime he had committed.
“It is useless,” he said, at length, impatiently, “to expect from me, in my present excitement, any suggestion dictated by cool reflection. My brain is in chaotic confusion; it is racked with agony. I feel that something must instantly be done, but what—what, my good Chewkle, cannot you devise something?—you are cooler than I am.”
“Well, you see, if the wust comes to the wust, sir,” responded Mr. Chewkle, calculatingly, “I shan’t be hit so hard as you; I can afford to be cooler; now my notion is, that the first thing to be done is to get hold of that jeuced dockyment, and when got hold on, to drop it quietly into the fire.”
“A good thought; I’ll send for it at once to my solicitor——”
“They won’t be at the hoffice now,” interposed Chewkle. “You must let me manage it. I’ll be with ’em afore nine to morrow morning, so as to bust upon ’em afore they opens their letters, or commences looking at papers which have been served on ’em in different causes, an’ I’ll be in such a fluster an’ hurry to get back to you, that I’ll get the dockyment out of ’em, instead of being put off with a promise to look it out and send it by a clerk. We can’t wait, you know; we must have it; and you’ll see I’ll bring it back with me all right.”
“My best of friends, how can I reward you?” said Mr. Grahame, clutching at hope and relief from the scheme proposed.
“Well,” said Mr. Chewkle, “a tenner will do for me jest now; I ain’t greedy, though I am short of money.”
Mr. Grahame was here made to understand that a ten pound note was needed; he drew one promptly from his purse, and gave it to Chewkle, who instantly transferred it to his badly worn portmonnaie, which he plunged into the depths of his pocket.
“You must write a note—a strong note—to your solicitor, sir,” he observed, when the money was stowed away, “directing him to give to me the deed—mention my name—immediately on the receipt of your note—dash under ‘immediately’—that will throw him off his guard; he will give the dockyment to me; I’ll bring it to you, and then you can destroy it.”
“But it is registered, and that will afford proof that there was such a document,” suggested Mr. Grahame, nervously.
“Yes, that there was, perhaps,” answered Chewkle; “but what of that?—who’s to prove ’andwriting on a thing that ain’t forthcoming?—who’s to substantiate a charge of forgery”——
“Hush! for Heaven’s sake!”
“Well, who’s to substantiate such a charge upon a thing as don’t exist—that can’t be put in in support of the case. It can’t be done.”
“But—but what if proceedings have already commenced, and my lawyer is prepared to put in that deed to bar the claim they will make?”
“But he musn’t.”
“But what if he has this very day? for I urged him to proceed with all speed.”
“Well, then we must be prepared to prove that it is Wilton’s signature.”
“That it is his?”
“’Zackly. I don’t want more in this affair than ourselves, but we musn’t be beat while there is a chance of winning. Suppose I swears I saw him sign the deed, and suppose old Jukes swears he saw him do it, and suppose his follerers, Sudds and dirty Nutty, swears they stood by, and saw it signed—how then? There’s nothing can be brought against us to invalidate our evidence, and what could the hother side do then? Old Wilton will swear, of course, hard and fast, that he did not sign, but what then?—you don’t appear in the matter? you commissioned me to get it signed, and I brings forard three respectable men, who swears—swears, mind—they saw him sign it; who’ll be believed then? he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. These men will be difficult to get, but they’ve got their price, sir, and are to be had.”
All these remarks and suggestions, rascally as they were, afforded comfort to Mr. Grahame. They conveyed to him a glimmering of hope that the difficulty, after all, was not so desperate as he had presumed it to be. He recoiled at the notion of having to work with such dirty instruments—when, however, did dishonesty and crime ever work with other tools?—but he did not recoil at the work itself.
To obtain a vast advantage, at the price of the misery and destruction of another, would not have occasioned him a moment’s remorse, or in any degree have ruffled his equanimity or serenity, but to accomplish that task by the aid of a small knot of low rascals, was the source of extreme annoyance and vexation to him. Still if the object could not be obtained without such assistance, he elected to employ it rather than forego his purpose; they were the means to the end at which he sought to arrive, disagreeable enough, but necessary to the result—and, as such, accepted.
The alternative of stoutly maintaining the forged signature of Wilton to be genuine, had not struck him. The suggestion was a valuable one, and he resolved to treasure it up. It occurred to him that his own word would have weight in a Court of Justice, from the high position which he held in society, and if he repudiated having had anything to do with the signature, or of having been present when it was being signed—he would in all probability be believed, not alone because it would seem the natural course for him, wanting the signature, to have pursued to obtain it, but because it would be considered incredible that he had descended to any unworthy artifice or to crime even, to have possessed himself of it. Its return to his own possession was, however, of the first importance; its destruction would raise another question, to be settled hereafter. So he sat down, and penned the letter to his solicitor, the outlines of which Chewkle had supplied.
As he completed it, and inclosed it in an envelope, he said to Chewkle—
“I am disturbed to learn that Mr. Gomer has interested himself in Wilton’s favour. That fact tells rather against my interests. He is a singular man is Mr. Gomer.”
“Sing’lar, sir,” echoed Chewkle; “he’s as yallar as a canary; he’s everywhere at once, and people says he’s as rich as ‘creeses,’ though why they should be called rich I never could understand, unless it is they grows in profusion, an’ you get ’em at six bunches a penny.”
“He is a very extraordinary man,” said Grahame, musingly; “a very extraordinary man—enormously wealthy. I fear the man—I fear him. I don’t know why, but I feel terrified in his presence, and I shudder when I think of him.”
“He is orful hugly, and that is the truth,” observed Chewkle, emphatically, adding, “don’t talk about him, sir, or I’m blow’d if you won’t find him at your elber. Shouldn’t be surprised to see him walk out o’ the dark at the end of the room there.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with a slight shudder, as Chewkle jerked his thumb over his left shoulder to the part of the room then in shadow. To confess the truth, he would not have been surprised, though he might have been appalled, to have seen the apparition of Nathan Gomer in the spot pointed out, but he would not appear to acknowledge so much to Chewkle.
He finished the superscription of the note, and handed it to his agent, saying—
“You will deliver this to the principal of the firm, and I presume I may expect you here about ten tomorrow morning?”
“It will all depend upon what time the principal comes to business in the morning, sir,” answered, Chewkle, “but I shall be there afore the postman, and I’ll have the deed safe enough, depend on it.”
“Of course it was this business alone that induced you to come here to-night?” inquired Mr. Grahame, almost fearing to ask, in case there might be further unpleasant communications for him to receive.
“Nothen’ else, sir,” returned Chewkle, although the bank note was the principal occasion of his visit. “When I learned the news about Wilton, I thought it my duty to lose no time in letting you know—knowing what I knowed, you know.”
“Yes, yes, yes—quite right—you did quite right,” observed Grahame, hastily. “Let me see you with the deed as early as you can in the morning. Good night, Chewkle.”
Mr. Grahame rang for Whelks as he spoke, and was promptly answered by the immediate appearance of his man, who had applied his ear to the keyhole with most persevering zeal, in the hope to unravel the mystery of Chewkle’s audiences with his proud and haughty master, but he had caught nothing—but the ear-ache, which subsequently took him for a walk up and down his bedroom all night, to the doctor’s in the morning, afterwards to Covent Garden Market for poppy heads, and subsequently it treated itself to scorching flannel, blistering fermentations, and applications of hot and cold vinegar, until Whelks was nearly pickled.
On the disappearance of his servant and Chewkle, Mr. Grahame returned to his guests with a smiling face and perfect serenity of manner, although every one in the room noticed his haggard aspect and the ghastly whiteness of his face. As he made no complaint, they were too well bred to make any remark, and, exerting himself to please, his pallid anxiousness passed without further observation.
In the meanwhile, Chewkle followed Whelks down stairs. The first twinges of pain were introducing themselves to Whelks’ notice. A sensation as if he was being repeatedly stabbed in the ear with a bradawl was the first intimation he had of something unpleasant coming on. He had a dim notion at the same time that Chewkle was addressing him as “guv’nor,” but the lunges with the figurative brad-awl were so brisk when they once commenced, that he was plunged into the wildest confusion, being for the moment uncertain whether he was descending to the mat at the foot of the stairs upon his highly-floured locks, or upon his tight patent pumps.
Chewkle, on reaching the hall, however, made him understand that he was anxious to get change for a ten-pound note, and wished to know where he could achieve it; Whelks, who was desirous of holding a little conversation with him, in hopes to worm something out of him, explanatory of the strange and anomalous influence he evidently possessed with the head of the household, offered to accommodate him, having, he said he believed, as much gold in his purse. He produced it, and displayed to the greedy eyes of Chewkle some eighteen or twenty sovereigns.
As Whelks counted out the gold, a storm of stabs set in on the inner portion of his ear, so that he grew embarrassed and handed a number of sovereigns to Chewkle, saying, as his eyes overran with water—
“See if they are right—ow! ow! ow! I’ve the dreadfullest pangs.”
Chewkle counted eleven sovereigns, and said the amount was quite right. He handed the note to Whelks, and thrust the sovereigns into his pocket.
“I was goin’ to say to you, sir,” commenced Whelks, “that I should like to have a ’arf-’our’s chat with you, if—ow! ow! ow! I never. Wheugh! oh, my hear.”
“Bad thing,” said Chewkle, anxious to get off with the extra sovereign; “I should ’ave it hout.”
“’Ave it hout?” echoed Whelks, “hits my hear, sir—ow! ow! ow!”
“Yes, yes,” responded Chewkle, inattentive to everything but getting away, “’ave it hout by all means—get it done for a bob. Good night, good night.”
He darted through the doorway, as the porter threw open the door to admit a friend of his own, and made the best of his way to his home.
He lay awake, after getting to bed, for some time, busily plotting; and, before he dropped asleep, he made up his mind how he would act.
By half-past eight in the morning, he appeared before the door of the offices of Mr. Grahame’s solicitors. He knocked, and the laundress who was setting the clerk’s office “to rights,” admitted him. He pretended to be surprised that no clerk was there, but on his stating that he had been sent, upon business of the utmost importance, by a client of the firm, and that he must not go back without an answer, the woman accommodated him with a seat.
He sat motionless, but watched her movements closely. He observed her enter an inner apartment the consulting room of the principal. She remained in there some little time, and when she returned, he engaged her in conversation in a chatty, affable, familiar way, silently observing, at the same time, that she placed the key of the inner apartment in a particular spot.
Presently she was summoned to make the breakfast of one of her clients, on another floor, and, telling Chewkle that the clerk would shortly arrive, she left him alone. He watched her, through the keyhole, ascend the stairs, then he heard a door above bang, and her foot reverberating overhead.
With the greatest possible quickness he made for the spot where the key was placed, and, securing it, unlocked the door of the inner apartment, and glided into the room.
He gazed sharply around at the boxes on the shelves, and upon one japanned, large and square, he saw printed in white letters, the name of Grahame, and beneath it the date of the year. He made for it, and opened it noiselessly. It was three parts full of papers. Upon the very top was the deed for which he had come thither. He recognised the endorsement, but he opened it, and at the bottom saw Wilton’s signature as Grahame had written it. The sight of the name was sufficient. He carefully closed the box, retreated from the room, replaced the key where he had taken it from, put the deed beneath his waistcoat, and then buttoned his coat over that up to his chin.
He reseated himself in pretty much the same position as that he had taken when the laundress left him, and upon his face he wore a blank expression, leaving it a debateable point whether he was more stupid than innocent.
The clock of a neighbouring church struck nine!
About ten minutes afterwards the door opened, and a young man about two and twenty entered. He started on seeing Chewkle, and looked as disconcerted as a man who comes suddenly upon a creditor whom he cannot pay, the said creditor being inexorable and rapacious, and money his only pacificator. If such were the clerk’s feelings, his apprehensions were relieved by Chewkle stating the object of his visit.
“Governor won’t be here till ten,” replied the clerk; “I can’t open his letters: and if I did I don’t dare give up any papers. You must wait till he comes.” He gave Chewkle back the letter and told him to take his seat again, which Chewkle did.
About half-past nine Chewkle said, suddenly, that he wanted to make a call at no great distance off, and he thought he might as well go on that business as sit there doing nothing until ten, by which hour he could certainly be again at the office. The clerk said he thought so too. So Chewkle went leisurely away.
No sooner out of sight of the office than he jumped into a cab, and drove to his own house, and in a secret place deposited in an iron chest, with other articles of value, the deed he had purloined. He locked the chest safely, and once more made his way to the street, where he hired another cab, rattled back to the neighbourhood of the lawyer’s office, discharged it, and entered the office at three minutes to ten.
“Governor not here yet,” said the clerk; “sit down.”
Chewkle obeyed, looking vacant; laughing stupidly when the eye of the clerk caught his. “What a pump,” thought the young man.
Chewkle felt slightly uneasy, for fear the managing clerk Scathe should make his appearance and recognise him, but he calculated he was engaged at Westminster, in a cause, and would be hunting up witnesses before he made his appearance at the office.
As the thought passed through his mind, the door was flung open, and the principal of the firm entered. Chewkle rose up and handed him the letter.
“From Mr. Grahame, Regent’s Park,” he said.
“Oh!” said the solicitor, with a smile. “An answer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pray be seated. I will give you one immediately.”
The clerk handed to his principal the key of his room; he took it, unlocked the door, and, passing in, closed it after him.
Chewkle sat and waited for the dènouèment, as if he was engaged counting the letters in the printed notices of sittings in term, stuck up over the fireplace.
Presently a bell rang, and the clerk entered the room, closing the door after him, Chewkle still reading the printed paper. Some time elapsed.
“Somethin’s happened, shouldn’t wonder,” muttered Chewkle, still staring at the printed bill.
By and by the clerk made his appearance, and said o Chewkle—
“Step in, please.”
He led the way into the inner apartment, and Chewkle saw the solicitor with a flushed face and excited countenance, going through the papers in the box with the name of Grahame painted upon it.
“Your name is Chewkle, I believe,” said the solicitor, as Chewkle approached him.
“That is my name, and no other, sir,” he replied. “Hem! You were sent hither for a deed by Mr. Grahame—eh?” inquired the lawyer.
“A deed, sir—why, he said ’twas to be a paper packet,” returned Chewkle.
“Yes—yes. Do you know what the paper was about?”
“Me, sir?—no, sir.”
“Nor why Mr. Grahame is so anxious to have it?”
“Me, sir?—no, sir?”
“Um!—very odd—very remarkable, indeed.”
“Mr. Scathe must have got it, or put it somewhere,” suggested the clerk.
“I can furnish no other solution of the mystery,” answered the principal in the same tone. “But if that is the case, Mr. Scathe is very much to blame, and will not fail, to be made acquainted with my opinion to that effect.” Then raising his voice, he addressed Chewkle. “Be good enough to tell Mr. Grahame that I will send the deed up to him by one of my clerks.”
“He told me to say, sir, that he couldn’t wait for that, so I was to bring it with me.”
“He could not wait for that! What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, I s’pose he thought you might be busy and would put off sending the packet to him until it suited your convenience.”
“Ah! I see—um! Well, deliver the message I have given you.”
“But he said I warn’t to go without it.”
“Return to Mr. Grahame, my man, and say I will send it up to—him—by—my—clerk!” exclaimed the solicitor, speaking, under increasing irritation, with marked emphasis.
“Can’t go back without it, sir, on no consideration,” persisted Chewkle, assuming a dogged manner, “them’s my instructions.”
The solicitor looked fiercely at him, and raising his voice, said—
“You can’t have it. I say—you—can’t—have it. It is not come-at-able at this moment! do you understand?”
Chewkle quite understood that. It was certainly not come-at-able, unless some one picked the lock of his iron safe, but he appeared not to comprehend anything, except that he was ordered not to return without a paper.
“Dolt!” growled the solicitor, angrily.
He sat down and penned a note to Mr. Grahame, stating that his managing clerk—as the business was being pushed on—had the deed under his charge; he was at the moment down at Westminster engaged upon a cause, but that on his return the deed should be forwarded to Mr. Grahame.
Folding up his note, and directing it, he gave it to Chewkle, saying—
“Deliver that to Mr. Grahame;” turning sharply to his clerk, he added, “Mr. Crumpler, show him out.”
Mr. Crumpler caught Chewkle by the coat sleeve, drew him into the outer office, and pointed significantly to “the way out.” Chewkle exhibited his teeth—no mistaking them for pearls—to Mr. Crumpler, and obeyed the sign. He descended the stairs rapidly, and moved along the footway of the street, quivering in the throes of what he considered an immense triumph.
“A hincome for life,” he muttered, “that deed will be as good as a ’nuity to me. I can bleed Grahame of jest whatever I pleases by threatening of him. I ain’t agoin’ to let him know I’ve got the forged hinstru-ment, but I shall, in good time, ’int as I knows where it is, and I can keep it dark, or blow it, jest whichever I likes. ‘Find it and send it up,’ ha! ha! by Mr. Walker I s’pose. They little thinks I nabbed it, none of ’em will ever dream o’ that—I could lay a ’undred to one about that, I could.”
As he offered to lay these very long odds, he ran up against Nathan Gomer.
The visage of the little man shone like burnished gold. His eyes danced and sparkled, and he chuckled as if animated by the most pleasurable emotions.
“Aha! friend Chewkle,” he exclaimed, placing his cold, fishy hand upon Chewkle’s fevered wrist; “you are active this morning—full of business—away from home to a lawyer’s office—then hurrying back in a cab to your charmingly retired abode—away in a cab back to the solicitors, and now, ha! ha! eh? I’ll be sworn to Mr. Grahame’s, in the Regent’s Park, with a communication—I say a communication, he! he! Brisk fellow, sharp fellow, smart dog.” He poked Chewkle in the ribs, and Chewkle felt as if the dent his finger made remained, and would continue a hole for the rest of his life. “Oh” continued Nathan, “I am so partial to sharp fellows, especially when they move about so nimbly to serve others, without a thought of serving themselves, eh, friend Chewkle?—I say without one thought of doing themselves a small turn.”
Chewkle tried to laugh, but no sound issued from his distended jaws. He felt his flesh crawl and creep over his bones, and his marrow vibrate; his scalp seemed to have the “pins and needles,” and his hair to rise slowly up, dust and all, threatening to tilt his hat into the mud.
Nathan grinned at him like a Hindoo idol, nodded, and, diving among the flowing stream of persons ceaselessly passing on, disappeared. Chewkle shuddered, and drew a long breath. “I believe he’s the devil hisself,” he groaned, and slowly—now doubtfully—pursued his way to Grahame’s abode, made very uneasy by the conviction that the secret of his morning’s performance was not exclusively confined to himself.
Tra.—I pray, sir, tell me—is it possible
That love should of a sudden take such hold?
Luc.—Oh, Tranio, till I found it to be true,
I never thought it possible or likely;
But see while idly I stood looking on,
I found the effect of love in idleness.
—Shakspere.
When Hal Vivian and Flora Wilton, summoned by Nathan Gomer, rejoined old Wilton, prior to his departure from the Queen’s Bench, they found him at the gate, leading into the ante-chamber or cage, through which every incomer or outgoer must pass, awaiting them.
He appeared, in the eyes of both Flora and Hal, to have become another being.
He was yet meanly clad, his face was still furrowed, and bore the lines of care and sorrow, and his hair straggled loosely and wildly; but there was a brilliancy in his eye, recently so dim; there was a hectic flush upon his cheek, of late wan and pallid; and his figure, some few hours past drooping, the symbol of hopeless wretchedness, was now erect, firm, and that of a gentleman.
Even the tone of his voice had undergone a change. It had been sharp, though weak and querulous—it was now round and clear, indicating a heart purified and emancipated from the destroying influences of despair.
His manner, which had been that of a grateful and respectful recipient of services, now assumed the character of the power to confer them, not haughtily nor patronisingly, but gently and kindly, still marked by conscious elevation of position.
The golden key, used by some, as yet unknown, good angel, had shot back the bolts of the prison to let Eustace Wilton pass into the free world beyond. The gatekeepers had an instinctive respect for a man who could pay two thousand pounds after so short a detention, so they cast away their brusque, sharp, extraofficial impertinence of manner, and obsequiously congratulated him upon his early departure. They expressed their full and decided conviction that he would not quit “Hudson’s Hotel” without remembering those attached to the establishment, because, as the spokesman forcibly rather than elegantly observed—
“It was the custom o’ gentlemen, as was gentlemen, to act as sech, and to behave accordingly.”
Wilton had not forgotten the poor debtors’ box, and in the elation of his spirits, could not resist the appeal thus made to him. To the manifest astonishment of Hal Vivian, and to the marvel of Flora, he took from his purse two sovereigns, and handed them to the gatekeeper, who accepted the amount with a smile, which extended to the visages of two of his brother officers, who were at his elbow prepared to divide the gift as soon as Wilton’s back was turned. Nathan Gomer witnessed the act with undisguised disgust, and muttered—
“Ghouls! They fatten on the flesh and blood of the destitute and the wretched.”
He took Wilton by the arm as he spoke, and hurried him through the cage to the entrance, where a cab was waiting to receive the party.
Here Nathan Gomer, after a brief private conference with Wilton, took his leave, and the cab departed for the residence of Mr. Harper.
Wilton was compelled to proceed there; his own dwelling was now a heap of charred and blackened ruins; but he had no intention of staying beneath the roof of Mr. Harper one hour longer than was necessary. He was grateful in his acknowledgments to the good goldsmith and his wife. Once more he also assured Hal that the obligation he had conferred upon him by saving Flora from destruction, was one which he could never repay, and that he should consider himself bound in the future to perform for him any service within his power, when called upon by him to do so.
For two days, old Wilton was constantly occupied abroad. His manner was peculiar and mysterious; he volunteered no explanations, and answered questions with, reserve. He never alluded to the circumstances of his sudden liberation from prison, nor was even Flora made by him acquainted with the means by which it had been effected.
Upon the evening of the second day, he returned to Mr. Harper’s residence, and laconically informed the old goldsmith that he had been successful in securing a furnished house; he proposed, therefore, at once to remove himself and his daughter thither, that they might no longer prove a burden to those who had so unexpectedly such an addition made to their numbers, but who had played the part of Samaritans so nobly.
The announcement was listened to with regret by at least one person present, but no objection could be interposed, and before the hour of midnight had arrived, Flora found herself wooing the coy embraces of slumber upon a down bed, in an elegantly furnished bed-chamber, one of a suite in a handsome villa mansion in the Regent’s Park.
She had parted with Hal quietly: neither had displayed emotion: what they felt was concealed from the eyes of all present. Their words were few, but each seemed to wish the other to understand that lightly to forget would not be possible.
It was some compensation to Hal for the rude shattering of the ideal fabric he had so blissfully reared, to receive from Mr. Wilton the assurance that the doors of his house would ever be open to him, that he had a right to enter whenever he pleased, and that he might, in fact, view it as a second home.
“The saviour of my child deserves no less at my hands,” he added.
When Hal Vivian encountered poor Lotte Clinton, he had therefore no hesitation in conveying her direct to the new residence of Flora Wilton. Flora had frequently inquired after her, and had hoped that she would visit her, for she had not forgotten her display of womanly sympathy when she was distracted by a combination of troubles, and she was anxious to express her grateful sense of Lotte’s kindheartedness, and her hope that some day she might be able to repay it.
But Lotte came not. Flora imagined that her brother had conveyed her to some place of residence near his own, and though at times uneasy thoughts would rise and suggest that she might have escaped the horrors of the burning house only to fall into new dangers, still she hoped that she should see her again, smiling and cheerful, as she had been, and in a better position than ever.
Hal knew this, and decided that he could not do better than conduct Lotte to her when he found her in a condition of despair and destitution which had given up all other hope of relief but what self-destruction would afford.
As the cab pursued its way, Lotte sat with her face buried in her hands, weeping. She wished to restrain the violence of her emotions—to attain a calmness which would enable her to speak to Hal with some degree of steadiness—but in vain; she had not power to resist the torrent—the floodgates were borne away, and she could only lean in the corner of the vehicle, and let her tears pursue their impetuous course.
It was not that new hopes were awakened, or that she doubted the result of her meeting with Hal. She knew instinctively it would lift her for the moment out of her despairing destitution, but it still rendered her future shadowy and undefined. She must accept pecuniary obligations from him. She shrank from them—needlessly enough—but her fears had by reflection been aroused, and her desperate situation had magnified them into unnatural proportions.
After all, her thoughts were of a very uncertain, half-formed character; she was too prostrated to think much. She had, with a mind worked up to a pitch of frenzy, stood upon the verge of eternity—a moment more, and she had precipitated herself into the obscure and misty regions of that unmapped land. She had been suddenly held back to renew the battle of life—upon what terms was hidden from her, but the revulsion of feeling occasioned by this recall overmastered all faculties but that of weeping, and left her, as we have stated, absorbed in tears.
Hal sought not to check them. It would be time enough to speak to her when the paroxysm had ceased, or at least abated somewhat of its violence. He hoped then for the return of better feelings; not that he intended to read her any homily upon the folly and the wickedness of the crime into the commission of which she was hurrying, because he believed that more powerful suggestions than any he could offer would present themselves to her, and because, also, from what little he knew of her nature, he felt fully convinced that the incitement to leap out of life into the dread unknown must have been of a description exceeding the sustaining powers of others gifted even with a higher capacity of endurance than she possessed.
So, for a considerable distance, they rode on in silence.
Her low-drawn sobs had grown gradually wider in the interval of their inspirations, and ultimately the painful sound ceased entirely. Having satisfied himself that she had not fainted, he made a few commonplace observations. Yet not altogether unconnected with the circumstances under which he had fallen in with her at a moment of such intense importance, in order to prove to her that it was a direct interposition of Providence in her behalf.
A faint monosyllable, uttered now and then, was all she returned in reply; for she felt her helpless position most acutely, however grateful she ought to have been for her rescue from an attempt to commit self-destruction, and she was glad when the cab stopped at the address which Hal had given to the driver.
Having dismissed the vehicle, Hal led Lotte up the gravelled path leading to the door of Mr. Wilton’s new residence, and gave a summons at the door with the hand of one who felt he had a right of entree in that house at any time. He was ushered into the hall promptly. It was his first visit. A glance told him the style in which Mr. Wilton—so recently a humble gold-worker to his uncle’s establishment—had commenced to live. The hall-porter who opened the door turned his inquiring eyes upon the new comers, uncertain whether to be civil or calmly insulting to them. He had yet to learn the description of visitors whom his new master delighted to honour.
Hal, sensitive, and restive under suspicion as to his status in society, drew a card from his card-case, and in a very decided tone, which sounded like command, said, as he handed the small piece of thin pasteboard to him—
“You will please to say that I am desirous of seeing Miss Wilton, and that I shall esteem it a favour if she will grant me an interview at once and alone.”
The hall-porter instantly summoned a man-servant, dressed in a livery of deep violet hue, and gave him the card and the message.
Scarcely a minute elapsed ere the man reappeared, and bade him follow him.
Hal pressed the arm of Lotte as he felt her cower by his side, overwhelmed by what her dim eyes beheld, and he led her gently in the direction the man had taken. She tottered, and could hardly find strength to walk.
“Courage! courage! Lotte, my good girl: my life for it, you will be tenderly received,” he whispered gently to her.
Oh! she was grateful to him for those encouraging words. But all this grandeur! She could have met Flora readily, if she were as she had until now known her, but to come before her—so hapless a wretch as she deemed herself to be—in the midst of all this luxury and wealth, was only a new trial. She said not a word, but she feared her reception; to be pitied and to be patronised now would be to slay her.
The man ushered them into a small but elegantly furnished apartment: a lamp burned brightly upon the table. Near to it stood Flora Wilton, dressed as Hal had never seen her before. Her attire was such as a princess might have worn—and with pride, for it was costly in its value, and in its taste unimpeachable.
As the light fell full upon her face and form, Hal turned faint. Flora smiled sweetly, and said in a tone musical, half joyous, yet half reproachful—
“I am so glad to see you, Hal!—Mr. Vivian—I—I thought you would have come before; I quite ex——”
She paused, for she suddenly perceived Lotte, who had tremblingly shrunk behind Hal, wishing from the depths of her aching heart she had never, never been induced to come here.
Hal followed the direction of her eyes, and he said, hastily—
“I am grateful, Miss Wilton, for your kind reception, but to-night, at least, I do not claim it for myself. I have one poor sorrowful heart here with me for whom I entreat your warm interest; she needs it. To ensure your sympathy, I may only suggest that Lotte Clinton”——
Not a word more.
Flora was at the side of Lotte in an instant, with her arm round her waist. The bright rays of the lamp fell upon the thin, white, wasted features of the poor, half-fainting creature. Flora had last seen her a roundfaced, pretty, lively, laughing girl. What a dreadful change did she now behold!
She burst into tears.
She twined her arms about Lotte’s shoulders; she laid her cold wan face upon her own warm bosom.
“Oh Lotte, Lotte, dear, dear Lotte, what has happened?” she murmured, through her streaming tears; “why are are you so dreadfully changed? Confide in me as in a sister—pray, pray do; oh, my heart aches to see you thus; indeed, Lotte, it does; in very truth, it does.”
Why, had Flora been grand, had she played the lady, had she offered to take the case presented to her by Hal at an early moment, and promised to do something, Lotte might have been pierced to the heart—but she would then have stood up bravely and haughtily—have declined the intended favour, though she consigned herself to destitution by the act; but to be caught thus to Flora’s heart—to be embraced—to have poured into her ears expressions of tender sympathy—to feel upon her cheeks the tears of human pity, which had the essence of divine pity—to feel, to be convinced that the tender commiseration which Flora—though unknowing the circumstances—had exhibited for her was sincere—it was all—all!—more than she could bear; she sank at Flora’s feet, embraced her knees, tried to ejaculate her gratefulness, tried to tell that now, indeed, she felt herself lifted out of despair and degradation; but exhausted nature refused to do more, and she fell back upon the carpet in a swoon.
Hal, who had walked to the end of the apartment, half choked in his efforts to repress the tears which would flow into his eyes, now, at a sudden cry from the lips of Flora, rushed forward, and raised Lotte from the ground, while Flora rang the bell, which brought into the apartment her maid—a young, but strong, good looking, and seemingly good-humoured girl.
Flora beckoned to her.
“Help me to bear this young lady into my dressing-room,” she said; “she has fainted; be very gentle and tender in your movements, Mercy, for she is very ill.”
“Poor dear young lady,” said the girl, gazing upon Lotte’s ghastly features. “She do look bad, surely.”
She received her from Hal’s custody, and lifting her up in her arms as if she had been a child, she bore her tenderly to Flora’s chamber, and laid her gently on the bed. As Flora was following, Hal detained her, and in a few brief words, acquainted her with the circumstances which had attended his meeting with Lotte; he left her to obtain the rest from her own surmises, or from any communications Lotte might make, and he took the opportunity of bidding her farewell, promising that he would pay a more formal visit, and make a more protracted stay, within a few days.
“Do not fail,” said Flora with some earnestness, “for my father is very anxious to see you here; he has made many inquiries respecting you, and I—I—do hope you will come soon.”
She need have been under no apprehension that he would stay away. Her beauty was a magnet which would have drawn visitors loving her far less passionately than he.
He made his way home, defiantly challenging the ideal to produce such exquisite and perfect loveliness as the real had that night presented to him.
Flora hurried to her chamber, where poor Lotte yet lay senseless. She was too ill that night to leave her bed. She was placed under the careful skill of an eminent physician, who at once declared her illness to be occasioned solely by mental distress, and treated her accordingly.
We may here mention that Mrs. Bantom grew very uneasy when nine o’clock came and Lotte had not come back, and by ten Mr. “Jeems” Bantom was dispatched in search of her, with strong injunctions not to go about his task as if he was anxious to give her into the custody of the police on a charge of petty larceny, or to act in such a way as to induce persons to believe that he was on the prowl with the view of dishonestly possessing himself of property which “wasn’t his’n,” but to proceed at once, and make his inquiries in a clear and straightforward manner.
“Jeems” Bantom fortunately possessed the address of the knave for whom Lotte had worked without obtaining her earnings, and he went there direct. He quickly found that the place was shut up, and that the proprietor had “bolted.”
“The gal’s been done out of her wages,” he said, to himself, “and is afeard to come back. She’s a hiding of herself somewheres, an’ I must find her, else she’ll be goin’ and doin’ somethen foolish. I’d keep that gal jes’ the same as I would one of my own kids, rather than any harm should come to her—that I would; ’cos I’m sure she is honest, straightfor’ard, and hard-working. Ah! I’m blessed if ever I saw anyone, woman or man, work so hard as she did over them faddle-daddies wimmen will have, without carin’ a farden how many of their own blessed sort they kills in the makin’ on ‘em. I jes’ wish I could get hold o’ that cove that got the poor gal to do all that work, and then hooked it. I’d jes’ scrag him. I’d make a korps on him, or my name ain’t Jem Bantom.”
The chances are that if Mr. Bantom had fallen in with him, at the moment, he would have kept his word, or at least have so severely trounced him that his most intimate friends would, for a lengthened period, have been unable to recognise him.
Bantom was checked at the very place where he expected to obtain information. None of the persons living near to the house where Lotte had called for her money had seen her, and he had to start off to find a clue to her as best he could. He inquired at police-stations, at hospitals, and at cab-ranks, but without gaining any tidings of her; and the night had worn away when he returned to report his ill success.
Mrs. Bantom wrung her hands.
“The poor young lonesome thing ’as drownded herself,” she cried, “all along o’ the cussed money she told me she owed us. She said she would!—she said she would.”
Poor Mrs. Bantom sobbed bitterly as she uttered the last words.
Bantom looked upon Lotte very much as he would upon a dog which he had picked up, brought home, found to possess good qualities, and had grown into a pet. He had found and brought Lotte home, and he felt a personal interest in her, which could not have been created in his breast under any other circumstances. When, therefore, he heard his wife’s surmise, he seized his hat, put it on his head, and, tired as he was, prepared to sally forth again.
“Keziah” he said, in a husky tone, “I likes to know the wust, I does—I purfers it. I’m off to the river, I am, jes’ to show you you’re wrong. Keep up your pluck, old gal, I’ll be back as quick as ever I can.”
He went; traversed both sides of the river between London and Westminster bridges, and crawled home in the morning exhausted, as the clock was striking seven. He threw himself into a chair despondent as ever man in this world was, and said—
“I told you, Keziah, you wus wrong; nobody has drownded themselves this blessed night. I’ve been both sides of the river, from Billin’sgate to Lambeth.”
A loud knock at this instant was given at the street-door. Mr. and Mrs. Bantom came into collision at the lock, and both pulled at it together. It was not Lotte who had knocked, and their countenances fell, for, with hearts beating high with hope, they had fully persuaded themselves she had come “home” at last.
A footman in violet livery met their gaze instead.
He looked at husband and wife, and, with the air and manner of a cabinet minister in his court dress, he said, inquiringly—
“Bantom?”
“That’s me!” exclaimed husband and wife together.
The footman produced a letter, and handed it to Bantom.
“See if it’s all right,” he said.
Mr. Bantom could read, but not with ease and rapidity; he could write, too, but his hand was bold and slightly irregular. He was very nervous this morning and the handwriting of the superscription was so delicate a fairy might have penned it. He looked at his wife, opened the envelope, and took out a sheet of delicate note paper, which he unclosed. It contained a Bank of England note, which, with trembling fingers, Bantom spread wide.
“A fi’pun note, ’ep my goodness!” he exclaimed, with astonishment. He mechanically handed the paper which had contained the note to the footman.
“You looks like a good scholard,” he observed;“’jes’ read that pretty writing for me.”
The footman, with a supercilious smile, not sorry to be put in possession of the contents of the note, read asfollows:—
Lotte sends her “kindest love to Mr. and Mrs. Bantom, and begs them to forgive her for any uneasiness she may have occasioned them. She desires to assure them that though ill, she is quite safe.”
“A-hah-ha-ah!—ah-a-hah-a!” burst from Bantom’s lips, sounds composed of hysterical laughter, and a genuine cry, although the latter was the offspring of joy alone. Mrs. Bantom flung her apron over her head, that the tears she shed might not be visible to the strange young man in violet. She had small need to be ashamed of the honest tears of happiness at the communication thus received of Lotte’s safety.
The footman was rather indignant at this interruption, he saw nothing as he said to “’owl at,” and he requested them to be quiet while he read the remaining’ contents of the note. They obeyed him, an occasional sigh and sniff from Mrs. Bantom being the only further interruption. The note went on to say that Lotte would see them shortly, but in part payment of what she was indebted to them, she inclosed the note, hoping they would believe she would never forget their kindness to her.
There was joy in Bantom’s house that day. His shop was better stocked than usual, and many of the very poor were allowed to have credit, which, under ordinary circumstances, Bantom could not have afforded.
Lotte, on being recovered from her swoon, though very feeble and under strong injunctions not to speak, could not rest until she had unfolded her true condition to Flora, and begged her to let the Bantoms, at least know that she was safe; that her mysterious absence, as nearly as possible, might be accounted for. We have seen in what manner Flora complied with her wish.
A few days and the tender care and kindness of Flora Wilton were rewarded by the rapidly returning strength of Lotte. She was able to leave her room and to walk in the garden with Flora. These walks in the soft fresh air did much to revive her; the garden was so prettily laid out, the flowers so profuse and beautiful—she loved flowers passionately—that it afforded her considerable pleasure to stroll there in company with her kind friend.
Besides, while most grateful for the affectionate sympathy and generosity of Flora, she had no notion of remaining dependant. She had far too brave a spirit for that, and she felt that these daily walks among the flowers in the bright clear air were bringing back to her health and strength, to renew the labour of breadwinning.
One lovely morning, while strolling with Flora, she said to her lightly—
“The garden adjoining this appears to be extremely beautiful, although it is hardly possible to get a glimpse at it.”
Flora smiled.
“I have discovered already the mysteries of this garden, Lotte. There are several little secret nooks, of which you would never dream, if you had not searched them out. I will take you to one where you can have an unimpeded view of the next garden, and you will say when you see it that it is beautiful indeed.”
Flora at once turned from the path into a narrow alcove of young alder and beech trees, and Lotte followed her. They pursued a winding course for a short distance, and were stopped by a wire fence.
The adjoining garden lay spread out before them in all its cultivated beauty.
But also before them, face to face, within five or six feet, were a party of ladies and gentlemen—
“Good gwacious, Vane,” exclaimed suddenly a tall, bulky, fair young man, “did you evaw in youaw wemembwance see an angel’s face so wavishingly beautiful?”
The eyes of the whole party were turned at once upon Flora Wilton.
“Lovely, indeed!” ejaculated Lester Vane, for he, with Helen, Margaret, and Evangeline Grahame, were of the party.
Helen Grahame turned her large dark eyes upon Flora. It was impossible not to acknowledge the extreme loveliness of the fair young face upon which her gaze rested, but a pang of mortification and jealousy penetrated her bosom, for Vane’s words rang in her ears, and a glance told her that his eyes were riveted upon Flora’s face with an expression of passionate admiration.
The scene lasted but a moment. Flora, abashed and almost terrified, shrank back and hurried away, closely followed by Lotte, who felt like being detected in a somewhat mean act of espionage, though in this she was not just to herself or to her friend.
All that day and night Lester Vane could not forget the face he had momentarily seen. It was before him in the flowers, in the fleecy clouds, in the waters of the fountain, in the shadows of the night. When his eyes in thoughtfulness closed, it was like a star in the misty gloom. Turn which way he would, direct his thoughts to any channel, still the face floated before his vision.