Think not I love him, though I ask for him;
’Tis but a peevish boy;—yet he talks well:—
But what care I for words? yet words do well,
When he that speaks them pleases those that hear.
It is a pretty youth;—not very pretty:—
But, sure, he’s proud; and yet his pride becomes him.
Shakspere.
When Helen Grahame opened her eyes, after a somewhat protracted sleep, she looked around her for a minute in unutterable surprise. The morning previously, she had awakened in an agony of sorrow, it is true, but to look upon all the luxurious refinements and comforts which are to be met with in the sleeping chambers of the wealthy alone. Now she beheld herself in a small sitting-room; the bed appointments being evidently supplemental, and not fitly pertaining to the room. Clean they were, but vastly inferior in material and pattern to what she had been accustomed.
A fire was burning clearly in the small grate, and a kettle, steaming and singing cheerfully, stood upon the hob. Upon a table, at the foot of the bed, was spread the breakfast appurtenances; and at the window sat a young girl plying her needle with a rapidity and skill something magical in its character.
A moment more, and Helen Grahame realised her position.
She remembered her terrible conversation with Mrs. Truebody, her nurse, the latter’s charge, and her own fearful conviction of its truth. She remembered the sleepless horrors of that dreadful night; the simulated sleep at dawn, the absence of the nurse, the hasty dressing, the scribbled note, the slinking glide down the servants’ staircase, the swift dash into the garden, and the rapid exit—as it happened, unseen—by the private entrance.
She had a confused recollection of streets crowded with throngs of people, of the roar of carriages, the bewildering turmoil of active daily business life, and then faint and weak, of a long, long, dreamy rest upon a seat in an open park, of wild schemes for the future floating through her brain, without the power to reduce them to practicability, of a sinking foreboding sense of helplessness, a startling perception that she must starve and die.
And she shivered, and her teeth chattered as she remembered the grim water—remembered how, like a magnet, it drew her towards it; how it wooed her with a low dirge, the burden of which was that Hugh was there; how it offered her eternal repose, and stilled its surface so that calmness and peace seemed alone to be found within its placid bosom.
Then she remembered the small voice that rose up and made a claim on life; the agonized struggle that followed; the sudden interposition of a stranger; the deep voice of Lester Vane, being saved from his loathly arms; and on, on, incident by incident, until her eyes and thoughts rested upon the face of the young fair girl who sat at the window, her eyes bent fixedly upon her work, and her hand swiftly and unceasingly moving to and fro.
Then she remembered that she had made her her confidante; that she was now the only friend she had in the wide, wide world; and that, but for her, she would have been at this moment face to face with an offended Creator; that, but for her, she must now even become a wretched outcast.
She began to see that pride was a hollow phantom, powerless to serve at need; that selfishness slaughtered sympathy, and repelled friendship; that true worth and pure human philanthropy were to be found in the humble; that human creatures were human clay alike; and the distinctions of the world proved their shadowy nature by melting away at the first touch of adversity.
She saw that the young girl who had saved her was what the world calls humble; she involuntarily placed her hands before her eyes, and felt how humble she herself was by comparison in the eyes of God.
Presently she felt soft fingers gently drawing her hands from her eyes, and she heard a sweet, low voice.
It said—
“Do not weep, pray, do not, It will make you ill, and me so wretched. Tears are foes when they deter us from doing our duty to ourselves. Will you not rise and dress. We will talk of the future over breakfast. Do you know, miss, I have secured you the dearest little room, next to this, where nobody can intrude upon you, and where I will strive to make you as cheerful and as happy as I can, if you should feel depressed and lonely, as at times I daresay you will—but you know that you have had too much indulgence in grief just now, and so you must dry your eyes and exert yourself. Come, come, you will try to oblige me—will you not?”
Helen caught her hands in her own with a sudden clutch, and pressed them to her burning lips. Then she flung back her dark tresses from her face of marble hue, over which, escaped from their bands, they had straggled.
“I will exert myself,” she said; “I will face my trial; I will be firm, and meet the worst, as becomes a——No—no—no!—not that name; I must breathe that name no more.”
Once again she pressed her hands convulsively over her eyes, but she removed them quickly.
“Bear with me,” she said; “I will not distress you again by giving way to my sorrow; but, with patience and fortitude, I will look back on the past, and await the future.”
Lotte replied in hopeful language, and assisted her to dress. She saw, with an astonishment she could scarcely conceal, how much help her guest required, and how natural it seemed for her to expect it to be afforded her. Helen, on the other hand, could not avoid noticing how unused Lotte was to her task, and said, with a faint smile—
“I must learn to dress myself. It will serve to pave the way for the many changes I shall have to encounter. I shall, no doubt, be troublesome to you at first; but I trust, by persevering efforts, to acquire that selfreliance I now understand to be so essential to my new condition in life.”
And she kept her word, At first she looked upon every feature of her altered position with wonder; the novelty of the circumstances by which she was surrounded helped in some degree to alleviate her anguish, and served to teach her a lesson of life she could scarcely have obtained through any other medium. Everything about her was different to what she had been accustomed. Life itself seemed to be squeezed into such narrow limits. The rooms, the sparse furniture, the appointments at meals, even the meals themselves, with no one to wait at table to hand anything, all seemed small and poverty-stricken, and she kept wondering why the apartments should be so cramped, and why the comforts and the luxuries she had possessed at home were not here.
She even hinted so much to Lotte, who explained to her that the distinction was occasioned by the difference of income. Poor Lotte! she had flattered herself that her little room was a small terrestrial paradise. However, she did not spare herself, but went so much into her own circumstances as to show that, by incessant labour, she realised an income which, when fairly, justly, and economically apportioned, enabled her to accomplish—no more than Helen saw around her.
Helen heard the amount of her weekly earnings with an air of incredulity.
“Can it be possible, that you toil so long and so wearily for a sum so small?” she asked.
“Ah, but I am rather fortunate,” said Lotte, with a cheerful smile, and added with a grave and thoughtful face—“Oh, Miss Grahame, many, many hundred girls and women, some with families, work harder and longer hours than I do, for less than half that sum.”
“And I have, in a moment, squandered thrice that amount on the veriest trifles, upon which I have not looked a second time,” said Helen, with a deep sigh.
Lotte changed the conversation, and perceiving as well as conceiving how much Helen would feel the change from her splendid home to these humble apartments, did all in her power, by cheerfulness of manner and by paying her every attention, to lighten her care and to make her moments pass at least peacefully.
She had to work later at night and to submit to some small privations, of which Helen knew nothing, to accomplish her generous kindness; but she felt rewarded in seeing that Helen was softened by her considerate and thoughtful conduct, in noting too that the dull, settled cloud upon her brow was gradually passing away.
Helen’s nature was of that mixed kind found mostly in women of her class, because its faults are mainly those created by position and false teachers. She was gifted with all the tenderness pertaining to a gentle, loving creature, but she possessed also an indomitable haughtiness which had been fostered and cultivated by her proud mother. Her self-will had been permitted to have its course until it grew into a tyranny, because her weak, proud parent believed it to be a symbol of high breeding. She ruled all beneath her with a lofty domination, taught by those who alone claimed control over her actions that such a line of conduct became the eldest daughter of an ancient house. All the soft and endearing qualities which she possessed were pressed back and allowed few opportunities of appearing; they did now and then peep forth, like a gleam of sunshine from a sky overspread with a cold austere pall, but it was only when nature rebelled, and would make a sign to show that they had not been slain outright by harsh conventional forms.
Helen was at once high-minded, impassioned, and ambitious, but having given her self-will entire control she suffered impulses to govern her. Hence the whole of the circumstances which had transpired between her and Hugh Riversdale. She saw him and was struck with his handsome face and noble bearing, as he was by her beauty. He became the ardent wooer, but in secret. His burning looks, his fervid language, his tender adoration, created a new feeling in her breast. Love and passion sprang up in her soul together, and she suffered them to proceed in their course impetuously, without an attempt to arrest or check their career.
Her mother and her instructors taking their cue from her father, had been more careful to instil into her mind the doctrines and practices of pride, than the precepts of religion or the practice of morality.
She loved Hugh with all the fierceness of an ungovernable passion, and she let it have its way. They had met in secret, and the notion of having a secret pleased her—she kept it as such. It is just to her to say that she had no sense of having committed wrong, or any act of shame or sin. She had been from infancy taught and permitted to exercise her self-will, and she did it in this—with what result we have seen.
A veil had now fallen from before her eyes; she saw whither her faults had hurried her, and she prepared to undergo the penance imposed upon her without shrinking from its rigour, or attempting to evade its obligations. In the hurry of her flight, she had not thought of the means of providing for the future, and save a few pounds which happened to be in her purse, she had brought no money with her. It suggested itself to her now that she would need more when the trifle she possessed was gone, but where was it to come from?
She felt that Lotte would solve that problem for her. Apply to those whom she had quitted, she would not; but she had some skill with her needle, and she hoped to be able to assist her young benefactor at first, in order that ultimately she might be able to produce the means requisite for her own support.
Some two or three days had elapsed ere she had come to comprehend her position in its true light, but when she did, she applied herself to the work before her bravely.
Charles Clinton had called to see his sister, as he promised, upon the following day, and after a few inquiries respecting her companion of the previous evening, which Lotte answered evasively, he gave her a narrative of his rapid voyage to the United States and back, and prolonged it, hoping that her friend who, he understood, resided in the next room, would appear. He guessed that there was some mystery connected with her, and the surmise set him longing to know what it could be; but as Lotte did not volunteer a word about her, and he knew her firmness on certain points, he felt it would be useless to question her. The mysterious lady did not, notwithstanding that he spun his narrative out, present herself to his eyes; and as Lotte told him that he could not stay there all night, and that it was quite time he was at home, he rose laughingly, kissed her affectionately, took his departure, determining to return shortly and abruptly, that he might pop upon the strange lady in his sister’s apartment.
The day succeeding this, a smart ring at the bell conducted Lotte down to the street door, and there she saw Mr. Bantom standing glowing in his best clothes, and smiling over the edges of a tall white shirt-collar.
But he had a most unfavourable looking black eye, and strips of plaster were placed upon his nose, his cheekbone, and his forehead.
Lotte uttered an exclamation of surprise, but immediately welcomed him, and invited him up to her little room, asking, in rather a loud tone, as she ascended the stairs, how Mrs. Bantom and all the little Bantoms were—a signal which was responded to by her finding her room untenanted when she reached it.
She bade Mr. Bantom sit down, and begged him to excuse her working while he talked, for she could listen and stitch too. She had a presentiment that this was not a mere visit of ceremony, but it had reference to the disordered aspect of his visage—perhaps, her help was needed—and if it were so, so far as it was possible, she was ready and anxious to afford it.
But no; it turned out not to be the object of Mr. Bantom’s visit.
He explained that he had called upon her the night before the one preceding, and that, without giving him an opportunity to say who he was, and why he was in this locality, the police had seized upon him in the most tyranical manner, and bore him to the station-house.
“It took five on ’em to do it, miss,” he said, with a cunning and a satisfied smile; “and when I came to ’splain matters to the inspector, he said I ’ad been werry hardly used. He dismissed me at once, and suspended the policeman as first collared me, and I’m going to bring a action agin him, and the lawyer says I shall get swishing damages. But lor, miss, that ain’t no interest to you, that ain’t. Wot I’ve come about is becos it’s a matter consarning your good—a bit of good fortin for you, miss.”
“Good fortune!” echoed Lotte, in surprise. Then she added, with a smile, “Let me hear it Mr. Bantom. It will be very acceptable to me, you know.”
“An’ you deserves it—Lord bless your pretty face, you does. Hem!—I begs your parding, miss, but you knows I allus speaks my mind, p’raps when I shouldn’t.”
“But my good fortune, Mr. Bantom—tell me that, and never find my face,” returned Lotte, laughing, “I have heard you say that ‘handsome is that handsome does.’ You remember that, don’t you?”
“And I sticks to it!” cried Mr. Bantom, slapping his thigh. “You’ve done the thing that’s handsome to me, and to everybody, I’m sure; and you’re, as handsome a young beauty as ever walked, to my thinking; ah! and to others, too, as you’ll see.”
Lotte raised her finger, and, turning her soft, sweet, laughing eyes upon him, she said—
“Oh! Mr. Bantom, if you continue in this praiseful strain, I shall think you have come here only to court me; and what will Mrs. Bantom say to that, when I tell her?”
Mr. Bantom indulged in a short hyena-like howl. For him to court her would have been in his eyes an attempt to be palliated only on the ground of the wildest lunacy.
“I thinks, then,” said he, smoothing the long nap of his new beaver-hat carefully with his coat-sleeve, “that I’d better ’old ’ard on that pint, and at once let you know why I’ve come. You remember that orful night when you went out in the evening, and didn’t come back agin, miss.”
The tears sprang into Lotte’s eyes.
“I do, indeed,” she replied, in a low tone.
“Well,” he continued, “early the next morning a flunkey comes to me, dressed in pupple livery, and brings a fippun note in a letter from you. The Lord bless your thoughtful natur!”
“Pray go on. What of that circumstance?” said Lotte, with an aspect of wonder.
“Well,” said Mr. Bantom, “a few days ago that same pupple flunkey comes to me, and axes me a lot of questions about you.”
“About me!” ejaculated Lotte, astonished. “What could he wish to know about me? Miss Wilton, his mistress, is acquainted with my address, and would write here to me if she wished to see and speak with me.”
“Ah! it ain’t his young missus as wants to know, but his young master, I suxpexs,” observed Mr. Bantom, with a knowing nod.
“His young master,” said Lotte, turning a crimson. “Miss Wilton’s brother!”
“I only suxpexs, mind, jest as much as that. He said a gentleman—”
“What day did he come to you, did you say?”
Mr. Bantom counted on his fingers.
“Four days ago,” he replied; “Monday it vus.”
“It could not have been he,” said Lotte to herself, a sigh unconsciously escaping her lips.
Mr. Bantom proceeded.
“I wouldn’t answer nothin’ until I know’d what he wanted with you,” he observed.
“That was right and kind of you, Mr. Bantom!” responded Lotte, thoughtfully.
“No,” said the simple fellow, “but he told me that a gen’leman as he knew had taken a great interest in your welfare, and he didn’t like to think that such a pretty girl as you—I beg pardon, miss, them was his very words—should be working your eyes out o’ your ’ed when you orter be ridin’ in a carriage of your own, and therefore he wants to see you, and come to a arrangement with you, whereby he will give you a fortun’ and a carriage, and to make a lady on you, so that you should never ’ave to work no more.”
Lotte listened to him in breathless astonishment. Gradually, as he proceeded, she felt her neck, face, and brow burn as if a hectic fever raged there.
In the intensity of her scorn at this proposal, the purpose of which, with a woman’s quickness and penetration, she at once comprehended, her power of speech almost failed her, but, by an effort, she cleared her throat and said—
“Pray did the servant mention the gentleman’s name?”
“Well, no,” replied Mr. Bantom, not perceiving her emotion; “he wouldn’t do that; I axed him; but he said the gentleman ’ud do that hisself when he saw you.”
Lotte drew a long breath, and, fixing her eyes upon Bantom’s face with a steadfast gaze to read all that was passing within his mind, she said, gravely—
“When you heard this extraordinary offer made, Mr. Bantom, what did you think of it? What said you in reply?”
Mr. Bantom’s face brightened up.
“I said,” he answered, earnestly, “that you deserved all the good fortun’ the Lord could shower upon you in this life, and I told him it would be a ‘appy day for me when I know’d that you ’ad a fortun, and was a ridin’ in your own carridge.”
Lotte saw that Bantom, in his simplicity of heart, did not detect the intention disguised in this liberal offer, but that he believed it to be a genuine sample of philanthropy on the part of some wealthy, romantic individual.
“Did you mention my address?” she inquired anxiously.
“Mr. Pupple wanted that badly, he did,” returned Mr. Bantom, smoothing his rough though new beaver hat, “but my wife said no. It ’ud be best to leave all in your ’ands, ’cos she was quite sure you’d act the right down true thing.”
“Oh! Mr. Bantom,” said Lotte, laying her hand gently upon his arm, and looking him sadly in the face, “your wife was right in her suggestion, and you, too, in following it. I know not who the person is who has thus singled me out for cruel insult; but it is right that you should know the nature of the errand upon which you have been sent to me. You have seen at night, in the street, a poor frail creature wearing a hollow smile upon her painted face, daunting in a gaudy dress, shunned by the respectable of her own sex, and frequently harshly repelled of treated as a shameless object by numbers of yours. A being whose position is at once horrifying to the virtuously disposed, and a misery and a curse to herself. But the position of this poor abandoned outcast is less degraded than that of the ‘lady’ which the gentleman of whom you have spoken would make me; because into her sin and shame the first may have been driven by dreadful destitution, while the other voluntarily purchases her pollution by empty phantoms of luxury, but remains still an object of scorn and contumely.”
The truth struck Mr. Bantom now.
His face darkened until it became almost purple, the veins in his throat and forehead swelled like cords; he ground his teeth as if he would reduce them to powder, and he clenched his hands, burying his nails in the palms.
At length a groan burst from his heaving chest. He sprang to his feet, and cried hoarsely and rapidly—“Oh, that I should ha’ been picked out to come with such a object to you. I didn’t know it, miss. Oh! I didn’t know it—by the living Lord, I didn’t. You’ll never forgive me—you can’t—you oughtn’t—I don’t deserve it! But miss, I shall see Mr. Pupplesuit agen. I’ll nip him, I will; I’ll make him tell me who sent him to me about you; and when I’ve squeezed out of him the party’s name, I’ll drag the hound here, and force him on his bended knees to beg parding on you. I will—I will.”
Mr. Bantom, as he concluded, darted out of the room, without a word of farewell, he rushed down stairs into the street, and closed the door behind him with a loud bang, ere she could overtake him.
She followed him to the street, opened the door to look after him, and found herself face to face with Mark Wilton. They recognized each other instantly, and Lotte unconsciously for the moment forgot Mr. Bantom, for Mark smiled agreeably upon her, and she could not, somehow, help smiling pleasantly upon him in return. Mark put out his hand, and she placed hers in it—a commonplace salutation enough, but it did not convey to either in the present instance that impression.
Mark evidently wished to be invited to enter the house and Lotte, blushing like a rose, passed the compliment upon him, not feeling altogether sure that she was acting in accordance with the strict rules of rigid propriety.
However, Mark found himself seated in the little room, admiring its tasteful neatness, and chirruping to the little song bird, who hopped about his perch, laid his head knowingly on one side, and cried “sweet” to him almost as familiarly as it did to Lotte.
“I shall make no stranger of you, Mr. Wilton,” said Lotte, renewing her work. “I am very busy, and my work has to be finished at a stated time.”
“Don’t make a stranger of me, I beg,” responded Mark, somewhat earnestly, for after every inspection of Lotte’s figure and face, he grew more anxious for friendly relations with her. “I will talk, and you can work and listen.”
“And talk, too,” said Lotte, with a laugh. “My sex are not very good listeners, unless they have the power to interpolate frequently, you know; but I will try to be a model of attention and goodness. So commence, if you please, sir.”
“I am acquainted with your merits and your virtues,” returned Mark. “Your brother enlarged upon them as we came across the Atlantic together. I knew a great deal about you before I saw you, but I was not quite prepared, I confess, on meeting you, to find——”
“Him stand convicted of such gross exaggeration, as a result of his blind partiality,” interposed Lotte, quickly.
“There you err, Miss Clinton; what I intended to say——”
“Had reference to your sister and your father. You told me so, you know, Mr. Wilton, when you came in,” again interrupted Lotte; this time her cheek heightened its colour, and her smile gave place to rather a grave look.
Mark Wilton bowed.
“I feel your reproof, Miss Clinton,” he said, hastily; “pray acquit me of having any intention to offend you, and, believe me, I will not again give you cause to complain of the tone of my conversation.”
She turned upon him an expression of such beaming gratefulness, that he was amply repaid for the momentary pang her observation—recalling him to the object of his visit, and the grave look with which it was accompanied—occasioned him.
He saw at once that in her humble, isolated position, she demanded his respect; she perceived by the instant alteration in his manner, that he was ready sincerely to accord it, not but that he had at first involuntarily paid it, and was now only straying from it because he had been led away by the turn of the conversation, and his sense of the prettiness of her face.
As he saw the rising blush upon her clear, transparent cheek, he felt himself become red, too, and he thought it was very ridiculous. It was at this moment their eyes met, and he received her grateful glance with a glow of deep gratification, and she read a language in his gaze, which no words could have framed.
There was an embarrassing silence for a minute, and then Mark dashed abruptly at the subject of his visit.
It appeared from what he stated that, although he had been to his father’s late abode in the Regent’s Park, he had not made himself known there, because his father and sister had quitted for the country, but had contented himself by making a few inquiries, and in ascertaining their present address.
He said, too, that he had endeavoured to see his old friend and companion, Harry Vivian, but had not succeeded, as he, too, was away from home.
Some business he had to transact in London, he added, was likely to detain him about a week, and therefore, he told her that it had struck him that it would be as well if he could obtain some little account of the changes that had occurred during his absence from England to his relatives, that he might be somewhat prepared for the new condition in which he had been assured he should find them, and he looked to Lotte as the person most capable of affording him that information.
Now, ordinarily, there would be nothing of interest or importance likely to grow out of such an interview, and Mark might have put his questions, and Lotte replied to them, without anything arising to move them out of the even tenour of their way; but it happened that Lotte possessed charms of feature and person of a peculiarly attractive kind, and Mark was possessed of discrimination and taste. In addition to this, he was gifted with an extremely handsome face, being a sun-browned likeness of his sister Flora; and, as Lotte had taste and discernment, too, it is not difficult to imagine that during the questioning and the replies, that each should gradually confirm the favourable opinion of the other which they had in the first instance formed.
We are loth to confess it, but at least two hours flew by before Mark or Lotte had a notion of the length to which the interview had extended, and then Mark rose, quite aware that it was time to leave. He was very reluctant to do so, but he obtained permission to come again, if once—if only once, to say good bye to her.
And to convey a message to Flora. Ha! Lotte had forgotten that. He remembered it—that is to say, he conceived the suggestion, because it pointed to an opportunity of calling upon Lotte at some future time with her reply. Lotte was glad he had remembered it, she said she was, and in truth she was, for, without acknowledging so much to herself, she was pleased to think that there would be an opportunity of seeing him again soon.
At last he was gone, and Lotte sat down to her work to think of him, to ply her needle swiftly and mechanically, to have the material upon which she worked every now and then blotted out from her sight, and nothing left in its place but a rich brown face, and deep blue eyes.
Yet she was not so absorbed by her own pleasant thoughts that she wholly forgot one who needed her attention, and who she knew was making a brave effort to struggle with her trial of deep humiliation, to endure it with patience, and to frame herself to meet whatever further mortifications and privations she might have to undergo.
Lotte knew that to keep her in conversation, to look hopefully and in a sanguine spirit to the future, while a dead silence was preserved respecting the past, was the best mode of lifting her out of a killing despondency, and, therefore, much as she was harrassed by the incessant application her work demanded of her, she still, in her pure unselfishness, made the time and opportunity to keep the mind of Helen from dwelling upon the misery of her situation.
Thus, when sitting thinking of Mark Wilton, she remembered that Helen was alone, and though she really, justly, had not an instant to spare from her task, she ran lightly and briskly into her apartment, to tell her that she was again free from visitors, and to persuade her to come and sit with her, and tell her all about the beautiful places she had visited abroad.
She found Helen kneeling by her bedside, her face buried in the coverlet, and her hands clasped in anguish above her head.
She heard her sobs, and, bending over her, she raised her tenderly, and supported her in her arms—
“Come with me,” she said, softly; “come and sit with me. You must not remain alone, dear young lady. It makes you too sad. Come! come!”
She conducted Helen gently to her sitting-room, placed her upon the sofa, and sat by her side. She pillowed her head upon her own soft bosom, and she whispered in her ear—
“Your affliction is sore, indeed, but yet be comforted; for, if all that you have told me be true, and from my heart’s depths I believe you, there is a limit to your selfreproach. Bitter regret and wild despair should be the last emotions of a dying heart. He yet lives, be sure, and living, you are saved. Oh, did he but know that you called to him now with appealing arms, how he would fly to you! Look up, then, dear young lady, in strong conviction that God is merciful, and beneficent. His hand has been laid heavily upon you, but if It has pressed you down, believe that It will raise you up and sustain you in the time to come.”
By unremitting kindness and such generous sentiments, did Lotte seek to win her from the indulgence of her deep sorrow, and at other times, by simple questions about famous cities and spots, of which she had only heard and Helen had visited, she contrived to restore her to something like calmness.
It was while speaking—almost in a state of abstraction—that Helen’s eyes involuntarily fell upon a glass which reflected the door of the apartment; she uttered an exclamation of affrighted surprise, pressed her hands over her face to conceal it, and cowering, as if she should shrink into the place beneath at every step, tottered, rather than ran, out of the room.
At the same moment, Lotte was startled by hearing a voice, whose tones were quite unknown to her, exclaim—
“Beg pardon. Don’t let me disturb anybody. I want to see Miss Clinton.”
She turned round in her seat with the rapidity of lightning, and beheld, standing in the doorway, a young gentleman, who was to her an utter stranger.
For ’tis the sport to have the engineer
Hoist with his own petard, and it shall go hard,
But I will delve one yard below their mines,
And blow ’em at the moon.
Shakspere.
Mr. Chewkle, with a tolerably large sum of money in his pocket, felt quite a different man to the Mr. Chewkle hunted, like a fox, by a pack of policemen, or a fugitive slave—according to his own view of the matter—by bloodhounds. He was a cunning fellow was Mr. Chewkle. He had spoken truth when he stated that he had made use of—i.e., embezzled—the money entrusted to him by a benefit society, but he had carefully secreted their books when he left word that he was “gone into the country,” and he was now prepared to “arrive home,” produce his books carefully made up, hand over the balance, and commence actions at law for slander against every person worth sueing whom he could discover to have spoken prejudicially against him.
His place of abode was watched, but not so closely as to prevent his slinking into it, during a violent shower of rain, unobserved, and regaining his room.
Having carefully shut out every possibility of a light breaking through a chink or cranny, in shutter or door, he proceeded to light a lamp, to fetch out his books, to set them in order, and, when that was done, to sneak to bed. He woke with the dawn, and got away without attracting the attention of the man set to watch the premises, inasmuch as that individual was, at the moment, tightly hugged in the arms of Morpheus. Chewkle made his way to the residence of Jukes, who received him with a grin of felicitous surprise, as he knew there was a reward offered for his apprehension, and he instantly resolved to obtain it by handing his dear old pal, Chewk, over to the tender attentions of the police. This hope of aggrandisement was dispelled, however, by Chewkle confessing his knowledge of the charges made against him, and that the police were after him.
“But there’s the books to show all straightforward, Jukes,” he cried, snapping his fingers.
“And the ballence,” suggested Jukes, “you forget the little bal-lence?”
“That’s here,” cried Chewkle, slapping his pocket, “and the money’s here to bring fifty actions again’ them who has been calling me hard names an’ slandering my character, Jukes. I’ll serve every man on ’em with a writ, Jukes. And them as can pay, I’ll foller up; an’ them as is straw. I’ll screw some costs out on—eh, Jukes. There, d’ye see that!”
As he concluded, he produced a fifty pound note, given to him by Grahame.
“There’s lots more where that came from,” he cried, “and I’ll work up that mine until I’ve got a pretty trifle out on it.”
Jukes looked at the note with the eyes of a vulture, and bent towards Chewkle with the manner of a spaniel. He adored money, and reverenced those who possessed it. Being himself a myrmidon of the law, one of its harshest and most brutal, he feared its operation, because he only too well knew its power. He had been suffering his tongue to wag very freely in defamation of Chewkle, and the mention of an action made him sweat with nervous apprehension. He wrung Chewkle’s hand, as though he would twist it from the wrist.
“I am glad of this, old boy,” he said; “I’m precious glad o’ this, old Chewk; I’ve had a precious fight for you, old boy; I said you’d come back to shame ’em all.”
“And here I am,” said Chewkle, with the sternness of assumed innocence. “I’ll serve ’em out, you’ll see. But come, Jukes, I want this flimsy changed, and I want you to take it for me to the old gal in Threadneedle Street.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Jukes, looking blank, and by no means fascinated with the proposition, “ha! ha! its all re’glar, I s’pose, ha! ha! I say its all right and square, old Chewk, eh?”
“You ain’t one of ’em who ’s been speaking agin’ me behind my back, eh?” asked Chewkle in a very significant tone. Mr. Jukes laughed vacantly, and suggested that such a notion was utterly preposterous.
“Well,” said Chewkle, “then look there,” pointing as he spoke to a name written on the back of the note; “you see that name, ‘Grahame Regent’s Park,’ don’t you? now you can put the name and address of Chewkle on it, that will do, won’t it?”
Mr. Jukes did not think, he said, that half of that was necessary; the word of “old Chewk” was all he required; and he took the note, leaving Chewkle to await his return.
He returned with the money, and Chewkle, in pursuance of a plan he had formed, took some of his best clothes out of pledge, got shaved and scoured, for it required that labour to get his flesh cleaned; had his hair cut and brushed, his whiskers trimmed, and really came out quite smart, and looking very much, as of old—like an individual engaged in the recovery of small debts.
Making a variety of promises, largely interlarded with boasts to Juke, not one of which he intended to redeem, he made his way to his friend Scorper, a lawyer’s clerk, and, having secured his services, proceeded to face his creditors.
For three hours the turmoil was tremendous. He was given into custody, went before a magistrate, was charged with felonious embezzlement, produced his books and the balance, which he declared himself ready to hand over to a properly constituted person appointed by the society itself, satisfied the magistrate that he was a grossly ill-used individual, was discharged, and obtained subsequently, a list of persons, who, having called him with great truth and justice, a rogue and swindler, he instructed Scorper, to proceed against them all, for defaming his precious character.
Mr. Chewkle had a deep motive in all this. He knew sufficient of human nature to be aware that his present triumph, coupled with the actions at law, would cause people who had been busy in talking about him, speculating on his movements, or wondering to their friends what he was up to, to take no further notice of him whatever—to drop him, as he said to himself, “as if he was a hot ’tatur.”
He was going in now for a desperate stake, and he was especially anxious that his future movements should not attract attention.
He was pretty fairly acquainted with the nature of the property Grahame would obtain by the death of Maybee, or of Wilton, provided the latter had no son living. He speculated at first, whether he should gain most by keeping his word with Grahame, or by revealing all he knew to Wilton. But a little reflection soon decided him, that he could obtain more continuous gifts from Grahame than Wilton, because he should be able to put on a screw with the former by constant threats, while with the latter, it would be only by appeals to his gratitude, that he should be able occasionally, to obtain money after the first reward. He knew that men soon grow tired of being grateful when it costs them money—he did himself—so feeling a pretty sure conviction that he should be able by the pressure of threats to draw the largest income from Grahame, he decided upon adhering to his course, even though it laid the crime of murder upon his soul.
The spirit of acquisitiveness was, however, strong within him. It was evident to him that money was to be extracted from Wilton, by holding out the alluring promise of producing the missing evidence, necessary to secure to him the large property now in the clutches of Chancery. He might even go to the length of mentioning the name of Maybee, and other particulars, necessary to prove his ability to perform his promise, before he put the poor old prisoner out of the way of being produced by anybody.
Now he knew from two or three sources, that Nathan
Gomer had interested himself much in Wilton’s affairs no doubt, as Chewkle surmised, at a swinging profit; and it suggested itself to him that he would be the man to apply to in the matter; Nathan would listen to him with a ready ear, because no doubt profit was to be made out of the transaction; and Nathan had the ear of Wilton, so that what he suggested was likely to be carried out.
Accordingly Mr. Chewkle, one evening, directed his steps to the chambers of the remarkable little saffronfaced dwarf.
Mr. Chewkle had no favourable opinion of the individual he was about to visit; he had an uncomfortable sense that the satellites of Satan were, on certain conditions, permitted to visit the earth, to lure men to perdition, and that Nathan was one of the demoniacal crew. He pshaw’d the notion with a grim laugh every time it presented itself, but he could not drive the impression away.
In one of the dreariest bye-lanes in the city of London there is a narrow passage leading into what may be termed a duodecimo square. It contains twelve houses, the floors of which are let out in chambers; that is to say, they would be if tenants were rife; but only a few can boast of being occupied.
To one of the largest, gloomiest and dustiest, Mr. Chewkle advanced. Upon the door-post, in faded black letters, he saw, painted by the hands of a writer in his noviciate, the words—“Second Floor. Mr. N. Gomer.”
The hour was so far advanced, that lamps, in the streets, and in shop windows, were lighted; and, by contrast, the square was dark. Still Chewlde was able to decipher the words upon the door-post; but the staircase was uncomfortably obscure. However, he mounted the stairs.
He went up gently, as though, plunder being his object, he had no wish to arouse the attention of any inmate. He felt, he scarcely knew why, a strange apprehension that one of the closed doors he had to pass would; as he reached it; burst open; and some frantic individual; in a fit of wild frenzy; dash upon him, and seize him by the throat; on the assumption that he, Chewkle; had no business to be anywhere but in the station-house or at Dartmoor.
He paused; without any such event happening; before the door upon the second floor.
It was awfully dark here. He groped for a door, and found an outer one open. The inner door was closed; but it yielded to the pressure of his hand; and opened inwardly.
The room within was intensely dark. Mr. Chewkle gave a short dry cough; but it was not responded to.
“Gomer is out,” he thought to himself; “out; and has forgotten to lock his door.”
Mr. Chewkle paused to take breath; for his thoughts oppressed him.
His ideas, his speculations and impressions; respecting Nathan Gomer were interwoven with bank-notes and sovereigns; with gold-dust and diamonds; with Indian riches; with; in truth; wealth inexhaustible.
Mr. Gomer was an individual; in his estimation; who trusted none of his valuables to other people’s care; save such moneys as he advanced on undeniable security; and; consequently; the room in which he, Mr. Chewkle, was then standing must be the storehouse of fabulous wealth.
This storehouse; in an indiscreet moment; had been left unguarded—unprotected; open to the lustful hand of any lucky individual, like himself, who, dropping in promiscuously, as he had done, could enrich himself and disappear with his prize, swiftly and unobserved, leaving no trace behind him.
Mr. Chewkle broke out into a nervous perspiration, and instantly became active; he groped about for the table, which no doubt had a drawer where the keys of chests containing heaps of gold and notes were deposited.
He found a table, and felt for the coveted drawer.
Then he uttered a roar of fright.
In a corner of the room a light suddenly displayed itself. It shone brightly on the face of Nathan Gomer, grinning hideously at him.
In another moment his eyes were dazzled to blindness by the light being turned full upon his own face.
He heard Nathan, in his strange shrill voice, cry—
“Oh! Chewkle, is it? My good, industrious friend Chewkle come to pay me a visit, to serve me, of course, and himself slightly, perhaps? How do you do, Chewkle?”
Large drops of cold perspiration rolled down that individual’s forehead; he tried to speak, but for the minute he found his voice was gone, and he could only make one or two hoarse sounds in his throat.
Nathan Gomer, who had been lying screwed up in an arm chair, now rose up and lighted a lamp from a bull’s-eye lantern which he had in his hand, and then he motioned to Chewkle to be seated.
“I found the door open,” abruptly observed Chewkle, feeling that an explanation of his peculiar proceedings was due from him.
“I know you did,” said Gomer, with a grin. “I opened it for you—wire and spring simple enough.”
“Ah,” said Chewkle, “I thought you was out, and had left valuable property about.”
“He! he! and you were trying to find it out, so as to secure it, eh?” returned Nathan, with a grin.
“Hem!” coughed Chewkle. “I—I—it was very dark, and I was gropin’ about for—for—for——”
“The lucifer box, I suppose,” suggested Nathan, sarcastically.
“That’s jest it; I thought to myself that you had left——”
“But I never do, Mr. Chewkle; I am not of an absent or forgetful nature; I am a methodical man; and do everything systematically. Well, now we have a light; you are seated, and so am I. You have come to me with some purpose, and minutes are more precious than gold. Mr. Chewkle, to your business at once.”
“Mr. Gomer, that’s jes’ what I likes, and that’s why I preferred comin’ to you to goin’ direct to Mr. Wilton.”
“Mr. Wilton?”
“Yes, sir; he ’as was lately in the Bench, and is now at Harleydale Manor, Devon. A friend of yourn I believe, sir.”
“Your business is directly, then, with him?”
“He is directly affected by it,” returned Chewkle, dropping his eyes, unable to endure the bright gaze of the little golden-hued money-lender.
“And you desire to negociate the matter through me,” continued Gomer, as Chewkle paused.
“I do,” he answered.
“Proceed,” said Gomer, laconically.
“Mr. Wilton is claimant to a large property in Devonshire and elsewhere,” said Chewkle. “As I have been concerned for Mr. Grahame, of course you know I am aware of that.”
Nathan Gomer nodded.
“It is about that property I want to speak to you, sir,” he added.
“Go on,” observed Nathan, drily.
“I have some information about it—some information very important to Mr. Wilton, I can assure you.”
“Ha! hem! Have you had a quarrel with Mr. Grahame?” inquired Nathan, sharply.
“Quarrel, sir? No, sir,” returned Chewkle. “He’s a very good friend to me, he is.”
“How will this information of which you speak affect his interest with regard to his claim to the Devonshire property?” asked Nathan Gomer, regarding Chewkle with a fixed gaze.
“Floor him there, sir,” responded Chewkle; “quite knock him out of time.”
“Yet, my good Chewkle, you suggest that he is your very kind friend—eh?”
“So for the matter o’ that he is, sir. But you, sir, are a man of the world—I says a distinguished man of the world—am I right?”
“I am prepared to concede that point to save time,” responded Nathan Gomer, with a grin.
“Well, sir, the very vallyble information I possess couldn’t make Mr. Grahame inherit that property, though he still prefers a claim to it, but it will actually put Mr. Wilton into possession of it.”
“What?”
“It will completely establish his claim to it!” exclaimed Chewkle, striking the table with his fist, adding, “That’s information worth having, I should think.”
“Clearly,” said Nathan Gomer, coolly. “Mr Wilton has had in his day many such offers, but they turned out moonshine, all of them. How is he to know that your information is any better than that which has already proved worthless?”
“’Cos I’ll explain why, in a very few words,” answered Chewkle.
“Do so,” said Nathan.
“You know, sir, p’raps better than I do, that the marriage of Mr. Wilton’s father and mother is a pint in dispute.”
“I do.”
“That their register of marriage was cut out o’ the parish book, and the cetiffykit has never been found; but it was supposed to be in the possession of a cousin, who has a claim to some part of the property.”
“Very true—very correct,” responded Gomer, still cool, but nevertheless edging his chair a little closer to Chewkle.
“Now this man disappeared many years ago.”
“He did, good Chewkle.”
“And if he can be found and produced, all the property will become Mr. Wilton’s.”
“I don’t quite see the force of that conclusion, friend Chewkle.”
“Don’t you? Look here—this man Maybee——”
“Ha! Maybee—that is his name.”
“Yes, Maybee. This Maybee——”
“John Maybee, I think?”
“No, Joshua Maybee.”
“Oh, Joshua—ah! yes—Joshua.”
“The old fellow, among his pals in Spike Hotel, is called Josh Maybee.”
“To be sure, very probable; go on, good Chewkle,” said Nathan Gomer, with glittering eyes and a glowing face, but just now without a grin upon his features.
“Now if this cousin is brought forward, he can produce, no doubt, the cetiffykit of the marriage of Wilton’s father and mother, and by proving his legitimacy, substantiate his claim to the property.”
“True—true, very feasible. But suppose he can’t produce the certificate, my Chewkle? What then?”
“He was present at the marriage; he can prove that by bringing forward witnesses who were present as well as himself, and, therefore, establish the fact beyond a doubt.”
“Hem! very strong, I confess. But how is it, my good Chewkle, that this man—what is his name——”
“Never mind his name, sir,” said Chewkle, vexed with himself to find he had let it slip out.
“How stupid in me to forget his name!” said Nathan Gomer, tapping his forehead; “but, no matter, how is it that this man does not himself come forward. He must be well aware that in helping Mr. Wilton to obtain his rights, he would be securing his own, eh! Chewkle, how do you explain that?”
“It’s a secret I cannot tell without putting you in the same position as myself, and then you know my claim for giving you the information wouldn’t be worth much, and I want a stiff sum, I do,” responded Chewkle, with a marked emphasis upon the last sentence.
“I suppose I may ask how you came to find this man out, and how you obtained from him the information you have already given to me?” asked Gomer, regarding him with a penetrating glance.
“Yes,” said Chewkle, assuming an indifferent tone, although he was aware he was treading on delicate ground; “I employed the man to carry some messages for me, and other little matters, and one day I treated him to some beer. Over the drink he repeated some of the things as had occurred to him years ago. While he was talking, I found the circumstances he related tallied with what Mr. Grahame and old Wilton wanted to clear up, and then I went quickly to work, and sucked him as dry as a pump that’s given it’s last drop.”
“You hinted to him, of course, that what he was telling to you might turn out of value to both,” suggested Gomer.
“Not a word,” returned Chewkle, with a wink. “No, no; if I’d put him up to that I might have hook’d for my share of the—the——”
“Plunder,” supplied Gomer, with a grin.
Chewkle grinned too.
“Not ’zactly that,” he said, “but the price of producing the man and giving a large fortune to Mr. Wilton.”
“Then he remains still in ignorance of the service he might be to Mr. Wilton,” said Gomer as if thoughtfully. “Strange, that, very strange.”
“Not strange, when you remembers that Wilton’s father and mother were married in disguised names,” said Chewkle.
Nathan Gomer felt greatly disposed to give way to a whistle, but he restrained his feelings, and though he felt astonished he looked composed.
After a minute’s reflection, he said to Chewkle—
“When can you produce Mr.———? What did you say his name was?”
“Don’t flurry yourself about his name,” returned Chewkle; “it’s the man you want. Let me see, Thursday, Friday, Saturday—in ten days from this I can do it.”
“You can?”
“I can.”
“And will?”
“If I am well paid for it.”
“How much does that mean—open your mouth?” exclaimed Nathan, with a grin.
“A hun—two—a—a thousand pounds,” cried Chewkle, with a sudden bound from the sum he purposed at first asking.
“And worth it, I should say,” returned Mr. Nathan
Gomer, with a contortion which was something between a yawn and a horrifying convulsion. “But there is Mr. Wilton’s consent to be obtained to the payment of this large sum,” he added, “and the terms upon which it is to be paid to be arranged.”
“That I admits,” returned Chewkle, with a cunning leer; “but I must have something in hand, you know, before I goes from here to-night, Mr. Gomer.”
“Not a farthing,” returned Nathan Gomer, coolly; I shall not be a shilling the richer, nor a penny-piece the poorer, whether the man is produced or kept perdu. All you have been telling me may be lies, you know, my Chewkle; I don’t mean to insinuate that such is the case, but when one is called to pay down for bare assertion, then it is necessary to be cautious.”
“I’ve told you truth, sir,” replied Chewkle, with earnestness, and then, thoughtlessly, as the forged deed flashed through his mind, he said, “And I could tell you some information about Mr. Grahame as you’d like to have.”
“Not you,” said Nathan Gomer, coolly.
“You have lent him a heap of money, haven’t you?” inquired Chewkle, with a tone as much as to say, “I know you have.”
“I am well secured,” said Gomer, apathetically; “and, therefore, Chewkle, it is of no use your trying it on with me in that quarter.”
“Ain’t it?”
“No.”
“You’re sure o’ that?”
“Quite. Mr. Grahame has borrowed money. Many a prouder man than he has done the same thing, but he has given security for it. There is nothing out of the ordinary routine of worldly circumstances in that. He may be in difficulties now—perhaps he is——”
“No, he ain’t.”
“Well, he might be. There is nothing, however, that Mr. Grahame has done, or is likely to do, but what would be strictly honorable; and, therefore, nothing you can say about him can affect me.”
“Nor Mr. Wilton?”
“Nor Mr. Wilton.”
“There you’re wrong. I could tell you a trifle about a forged deed, as would uncurl your ’air, and make it quiver like that of a ’lectrified cat, if I liked.”
“Pshaw! What could you tell me?”
All! What? That question restored Mr. Chewkle to his equilibrium, which Nathan Gomer’s taunts were fast pulling him out of. He bit his lips, and mentally called himself a fool of great magnitude for having permitted himself to be so far drawn out. So, to prevent further trips of speech, he rose up, and prepared to go.
“If you will not give me anything down, Mr. Gomer,” he said, “the thing’s off. I shan’t come agen. It won’t be worth my while.”
“Perhaps you would like to go to Mr. Wilton and see him. You can ask him if he will put down the large sum you ask upon the mere faith of your promise to produce the man of whom you have spoken. The proposition is so very reasonable.”
Chewkle thought for a moment; then he fixed his eyes upon the face of Nathan inquiringly, and said—“What then is your idea of that matter, to be fair between man and man?”
“My proposition is this;” replied Gomer, “I have no objection to give you a sovereign now, and to meet you to-morrow morning at nine, and then either give you a further sum and enter into an agreement with you, or tell you that I intend to take no further steps in the affair.”
Chewkle reflected for an instant. He should be sure of a pound at least, perhaps he might get more; the offer appeared, also, too reasonable, if he wished it to be thought he intended to act honestly, to refuse; so he intimated his readiness to consent to it, and Nathan gave to him a sovereign, saying to him—
“You must meet me exactly at nine to-morrow morning, at the Paddington Station of the Great Western Railway; I will see you at that hour, or as shortly after as possible, in the waiting-room, for if I decide upon purchasing your information, I shall proceed immediately afterwards, direct to Harleydale Manor, to Mr. Wilton!”
“Mind!” said Chewkle, quietly, “I tell you I can’t produce the man for ten days.”
“Very true, but you will want the money you ask, and I must obtain the authority to give it you. You understand?”
“All right,” replied Chewkle.
“Be punctual. Good night!” exclaimed Nathan Gomer, and laying hold of a button of Chewkle’s coat, he led him to the outer door, nodded and grinned at him with so elfish an expression, that Chewkle was really glad to get away.
He saw Nathan close his outer door, and heard him lock it; he heard him double lock and bolt the inner door, and then he groped his way down into the street.
“He’s a queer little imp of old Nick’s,” he muttered to himself; then he chuckled, “I’ve done him, I think,” he said, “I shall have that money, and he may hook for the evidence, for I shall be off for a little while for the benefit of my health, likewise in the neighbourhood of Harleydale, but not for the benefit of old Wilton’s health. I don’t think he’ll rapidly improve, after I get’s down about his ’ouse.”
He turned into the bye-lane and so on into a crowded thoroughfare.
In the meantime, Nathan Gomer, on returning to his easy chair, drew up his knees to his chin, and went through some extraordinary evolutions. He rubbed his yellow hands with delight, and his golden visage glistened and beamed with felicity.
“Cunning Chewkle!” he cried—“cunning, cunning Chewkle. Ho! ho! ho! such a cunning fellow! Mr. Josh Maybee is the man, eh? Confined in Spike Hotel, which is the Queen’s Prison. I will be closeted with him while Mr. Chewkle is admiring the carpetbags, and longing to secure the heaviest in the waiting-room of the railway. Having settled my business with Mr. Maybee, I shall turn my attention to the forged deed executed, I suppose, by Grahame, and stolen, I suspect, by Chewkle. Ay! on that very morning I watched him to and from his lodgings, and the chambers of Grahame’s solicitors. It will come right at last!—all come right at last! Flora, from your bright abode in heaven, your gentle eyes may witness that I have striven truly and honestly to keep the solemn vow I have made; and though, on earth you regarded me with emotions of distaste, or sad compassionateness only, you may bend on me a smile of tenderness denied to me on earth. Alas! alas!”
He placed his hands over his eyes, and, with a strange shivering convulsion of the frame, sobbed aloud.