“My children were innocent of wrong to Grahame,” said Wilton, harshly, “but he spared them not.”
“You are not a Grahame!” cried Gomer, in a startling voice. “You do not take his infamous conduct as your standard of action—do you?”
Wilton shrank back, and felt the colour spring into his cheeks, as he beheld the glittering eyes of the little man fixed upon his features, as if to read, by their expression, what was passing in his heart.
With an effort he assumed a cold demeanour, and said—
“Tell me, what is the exact position of the family at the present moment?”
“I have done so,” said Gomer, with a manner as cold as his own. “I will repeat it. Grahame has fled, it is not known whither, although a hot search has been made for him. The sheriff is in possession of his house in London, at my suit. His eldest daughter fled from his house and became a mother before she knew she was a wife; his second daughter has eloped with the Duke of St. Allborne, and is now his kept mistress. The proud mother—the destroyer of her husband, and, so far as she could be, the cause of her children’s ruin—-is confined to her bed with a wasting illness and a crushed brain; she is a hopeless idiot. The son is in prison, arrested at the suit of a tailor, who has been discounting bills for him, which he has dishonoured. That is the condition of the proud Grahames. I ask you, are you satisfied? Are your feelings of revenge glutted by this wholesale wreck of the family?”
“There—there was, I think, another daughter,” said Wilton, in a low, hesitating tone. “You do not mention her.”
Nathan shrugged his shoulders, and said, tartly, “You mean the youngest, Evangeline, a simple, artless, innocent girl, with a foolishly affectionate nature She is pretty and engaging, and has been giving clandestine meetings to a young lawyer’s clerk. If he happens to be a scoundrel, it is not difficult to prophecy what will be her fate. Again I ask you, are you satisfied?”
Old Wilton rose up; he pressed his clenched fist upon his heart. In a hoarse voice, he exclaimed—
“I am shocked, I am horrified, Gomer. I contemplated this situation with a vile satisfaction. I am terrified at its realization. My vengeance! ugh! it is gorged. We must interpose—stay the further progress of their misery. We will save this child—this Evangeline, and rescue, too, the rest from destitution and perdition. Oh, pride! accursed pride! it has triumphed over the reason and the conscience of both Grahame and his wife. Had they listened to the gentle pleadings of nature, rather than to the dictates of an overweening, selfish, unfeeling, arrogant pride, home and family-might at this moment have been to them a source of the purest domestic felicity. What is it now?—I shudder to reflect upon it. The happiness of their children could never have been an element in their worldly calculations; on the contrary, they have trampled on the natural affections, and have considered their offspring rather as appendages to their state than as children part and parcel of themselves. Oh, it is terrible! it is terrible!”
“Ho! ho!” shouted Nathan Gomer; and springing up, he caught Wilton by the wrist, saying, with vehement earnestness, “‘Before all things, truth; and truth at all times!’ Why, pride does this for you, Wilton; pride makes you determine to trample on the natural affections. You—you would break your daughter’s heart rather than she should not give her hand to a most dishonourable Honourable. You would, at the inspiration of pride, stamp out her truthfulness, by compelling her to swear at the altar to love and honour a man she could never love and never honour. Pride urges you to crush all your only son’s hopes of earthly happiness, rather than he should mate with one who possesses a rare combination of human virtues, but is not garbed in fine linen, and cannot disport her dainty limbs in a handsome carriage. Go to! have you not one excuse for Grahame’s frailty?”
Old Wilton groaned aloud, and buried his face in his hands.
Invention is ashamed,
Against the proclamation of thy passion,
To say thou dost not: therefore tell me true;
But tell me then ’tis so;—for, look, thy cheeks
Confess it, th’ one to th’ other; and thine eyes
See it so grossly shown in thy behaviour,
That in their kind they speak it.
--Shakespere.
When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions.
--Ibid.
The night of the great and last party at Grahame’s mansion in the Regent’s Park was, in the anticipation of Mrs. Grahame, to have proved a crowning triumph of calculation. Upon this night she expected the Duke of St. Allborne to propose to her daughter, Margaret. He did propose, and his offer was accepted, but not in accordance with Mrs. Grahame’s plan. This night of splendid triumph, as it was to have been, proved to her a night of horror. The presence of Lester Vane threw her into a state of nervous apprehension and agitation, for fear that he would disclose the conduct and disappearance of her daughter, Helen. She observed, however, with as much gratification as she could feel in such a condition of flurry and alarm, that the Duke maintained a position close to Margaret during the early part of the evening, and devoted himself to her. She saw them retire into the garden, and she believed her hopes would be fulfilled. She had no conception of what was about to happen.
The music played joyously, the dancers whirled around in festive enjoyment, and the absence of Lester Vane for a time gave to Mrs. Grahame’s perturbed mind great relief; but Lester Vane again returned, and in spite of her manouvres he contrived to elude the proximity to him which she strove to keep up. She was, however, once more soothed by seeing him depart. Shortly, however, after he had gone she noticed a decided movement in her guests; one by one they disappeared, and rapidly too. In corners of the handsome saloon groups gathered and stood whispering, until she approached them; then they separated, and coolly bowed to her as they passed, but they unmistakeably at the same time left the house.
Evangeline approached her, and whispered to her—
“What has happened to Margaret, mamma? and why do some of these haughty people speak in terms of contempt of her?”
A flash of lightning seemed to dart through Mrs. Grahame’s brain. The blood rushed back to her heart; her eyes seemed filled with blood; she gazed with hazy vision round the room—to do so was a tremendous effort, but, though it had slain her, she must have done it.
Margaret was not present, nor the Duke of St. Allborne. They must have been absent hours.
“Send your papa to me, Eva!” exclaimed Mrs. Grahame, in a broken, guttural voice.
“Papa has not been in the room for a long time,” she replied; “he quitted before Margaret went into the garden with the Duke.”
“Send servants into the garden, and bid your sister return instantly hither; let her know her absence has occasioned remark.”
Mrs. Grahame staggered to a seat as she spoke, and Evangeline quitted the saloon to obey her.
The unhappy woman sat alone—sick, dizzy, agonised.
After all, a volcano existed beneath the surface of ice.
No one came and sat down by her; her guests appeared to shun her. She heard one heartless woman exclaim, “A cold night for a journey, even with love to warm it.” She heard a man say, “I don’t dislike the spirit which made her go off with such éclat!” and another utter a taunt in reference to the boldness of St. Allborne. She had a dim comprehension of what it all meant, but was powerless to act. She was transfixed by a whirl of thoughts—horrifying thoughts; she lost consciousness of what was going on about her; she seemed to be burdened by a frightful nightmare, which, while it presented the most horrible visions to her distracted eyes, refused her the power to move a limb—she appeared frozen to her seat.
She was at length restored to the no less horrible reality, by Evangeline—who, rousing her by her tearful embrace, pointed out to her the fact that every guest was gone; that the most active search had failed to discover Margaret, and that Mr. Grahame was not in the house, though no one had seen him leave it.
Mrs. Grahame fell down in a swoon, and was borne to her bed insensible.
The next day she was a raving maniac, and subsequently the most terrible delirium gave place to a babbling idiocy.
Still nothing was heard of Mr. Grahame, nor Margaret, nor Helen. Evangeline alone had the trial to endure. She had the aid of a physician, and that of Mrs. Truebody, the nurse to her mother—that was all. Her father did not return. A week elapsed; still he came not, nor came there any communication from him.
A few days more, and Mr. Jukes made his appearance as representative of the Sheriff of Middlesex. Mr. Grahame had put in no appearance to the writs with which he had been served. Judgment went by default, and execution was obtained. Mr Jukes levied, and placed both Nutty and Sudds in possession.
Evangeline did not understand what it meant; and, in her distress, she thought of Charles Clinton. She wrote to him, and made an assignation with him; for she feared, she knew not wherefore, to ask him to come to the house.
The appointment was kept, and she told him all. She implored him to advise her how to act, and to explain to her how it was that strange, dirty men, could force themselves into the house, stay there, and it was not in her power to call in policemen and have them turned out. He made all clear to her; assigned the reason of the flight of her father to his fear of arrest for debt, or want of moral courage to face the disgrace of his fall being proclaimed to the world. He explained to her that, in a few days, the whole contents of the mansion would be sold, and that she and her mother would be turned, homeless and penniless, into the street. He counselled her to write to the wealthiest of her near relatives, lay bare all the facts, and ask them to come forward to assist her in her cruel and unhappy condition. He undertook to manage to delay the return of the writ of execution until she could get an answer; and, with soothing words and sanguine prophecies, with earnest entreaties to keep a good heart, he accompanied her to her home, and parted with her under a promise to meet again as soon as her application to her Scotch relations was answered.
In three days she received it. There was no delay in the reply. The cold-hearted and selfish, who spontaneously refuse to help those in distress, are usually prompt in announcing their purpose. Evangeline received a reply, expressing great surprise and indignation at what had happened, and, under the circumstances, at the application. If Mr. Grahame had not thought fit to provide for his children in his prosperity, it was not to be expected that his relations would do so in their distress. The writer lamented the events but hoped it would terminate less unfavourably than she had expected &c., &c.
She wept bitterly when she read the note; it almost broke her heart. She was frightened to distraction at the prospect before her. What could she do, not alone for herself, but for her most miserable parent?
She met Charley again; she could not speak to him, but sank upon his breast and wept. She seemed to him as a bird nestling in his bosom. Surely, he thought there is no worldly distinction between us now; and he would upon the impulse have pressed her to his heart.
No!
She was still as much his superior by birth and therefore by station as she had ever been. Her affliction instead of levelling her, he perceived, ought to elevate her in his respect. Now, least of all, was a time for him to break through the barrier which conventional usages placed between them; and he bowed to the dictates of his honour no less than his conscience, and his manner to her became more deferential and respectful than ever.
He listened, when she could speak, to her sorrowful communication silently; and he read the letter she handed to him with a bitter smile of contempt. Then he said to her—
“I at least have better news for you. I have communicated with the plaintiff in the suit against your father. I have stated to him the very, very painful position in which you are placed, and I urged upon him to delay for a short time the last proceedings in this unhappy affair. In a kind and feeling letter, I have his instructions to keep everything as it is until further notice. I am not to permit a single article in the household to be touched. I am to remove one of the men, and the one remaining is to be placed where he will not be seen; and I am further directed personally to see that the terrible condition of Mrs. Grahame is not injured by anything that may hereafter occur.”
Evangeline pressed his hand warmly. “Your intelligence is welcome indeed,” she said, with emotion; “I feared that we should be cast upon the wide world to perish, with no pitying soul to hold forth a hand to save us.”
“Yes, one—I hope one,” said Charley, gently. “Who?” she asked, in simple surprise.
He hesitated for a moment, and then he replied in a low tone, which gradually grew earnest—
“I could not have seen you placed in so distressful a position without proffering my humble aid. I would have done my best to have secured you from the worst pangs of friendless privation. My dear, dear sister Lotte would have welcomed you, and shared her home with you. It would have been a long remove from the splendour of your own, but in the sincerity of heart, and the earnestness of desire to make you happy, to have been found within its walls, it would at least have equalled it.”
Evangeline again pressed his hand, but her heart was too full to speak.
“I shall see you at your own abode to-morrow morning, Miss Grahame,” he said; “and be assured, so far as lies in my power, every effort to remove all trace of the presence of the individuals whose office is so offensive shall be made, so that, however unhappy the circumstances may be which still surround you, that annoyance shall be withdrawn from you.”
“I can never forget your kindness, Mr. Clinton,” murmured Evangeline. “I cannot hope to repay it but by offering up my prayers for your welfare and your happiness.”
As the last word escaped her lips, Evangeline was struck by the thought that the task of administering to that happiness would be delightful to the happy, happy woman to whom it would be entrusted. She sighed. Oh! that it might be her lot. But no! The frowns of fortune were upon their house, and she had but to look forward to a life of secret sorrow, passed in tending her mother through all the miserable phases of her terrible affliction, which the most eminent physicians had pronounced incurable.
She sighed again and cast her sweet eyes upon Charley. Ah! it was impossible for him to misunderstand the soft, dreamy expression of that gaze, but it was equally impossible for him to forget or abuse the confiding trustfulness she had reposed in him; therefore he preserved towards her still the same respectful, gentle deference he had shown hitherto.
There might perhaps, he thought, come a time when he could speak to her without impropriety the true language of his heart—could address her in the fervent terms which his deep devotion for her would be sure to suggest, but until that time she was to him a young and gentle lady in affliction, who in full confidence in his honour had applied to him for counsel and direction; and he revered his honour too religiously to evade its stern dictates at the promptings of a passionate love—even though there was the temptation of a sweet, yielding, loving nature, which saw not the wide gap in their social grade with the same eyes as he did to aid those promptings. No! he curbed his strong inclinings and contented himself—a melancholy content it was—with the reflection that if events favoured his wishes he should propose to her and wed her in honour, fairly anticipating the felicity which would possibly attend such an union. If, however, fate decided against him, he would devote himself only still closer to the abstruse study of the law; strive to make a happy lady of Lotte, and die a bachelor—for marry another than Evangeline he resolved never to do.
Conducting Evangeline like a preux chevalier attending a high-born dame to her castle home, he left her within sight of it, so that he might know she regained it unmolested; then he turned slowly away to go home and dream all kinds of lovely things about her.
Every day after this he visited the abode of Evangeline to carry out the instructions of Nathan Gomer. During one of these visits, while seated talking to Evangeline, who was looking tenderly into his clear, dark eyes, and listening in deep attention to the words which fell from his lips—not that they were of themselves of much interest, but there was a tone in the voice which uttered them that had a music in her ear far surpassing that ever given by instrument—the door suddenly opened and the rustling of silk was heard.
Both looked up; and Evangeline, with a cry of passionate joy, leaped from her seat and threw herself into the arms of a lady who stood upon the threshold.
“Helen!—dearest Helen!” she cried, with intense emotion; “Helen, Helen, such affliction, such trouble has befallen——”
She hid her face, sobbing upon her sister’s shoulder.
Charley glided at once out of the room; and the two sisters, after the first burst of emotion was over, sat down, and then Evangeline related, interrupted only with hysteric sobs, all that had happened, dwelling upon the mysterious absence of her father, of whom not a single trace had been discovered, though every effort had been made, and upon the pitiable condition to which their mother had been reduced.
Helen, in the midst of their talk, rose up, and said, with a strong inspiration of her breath—
“Evangeline, I will see my mother now. Lead me to her.”
Evangeline took her hand, and together they entered the darkened chamber where the wreck of the proud woman lay in hopeless imbecility.
Helen grew pale as ashes as she entered the room. Her heart throbbed painfully. She found herself face to face with old Mrs. Truebody; and, as the good old creature started and wrung her hands, she felt her breath come and go in short hysteric gasps.
With a strong effort she drew the curtain aside and beheld the white, pinched, and drawn features of her mother screwed up into a smile—such a smile! Anything more terribly vacant it is impossible to conceive. Her eyes, divested of all expression, roamed to and fro without any apparent object. She gibbered, and babbled, and clutched at the bedclothes with her fingers. Sometimes she nodded her head, and then a short, screeching laugh would be heard.
Helen, with a burst of anguish, fell upon her knees, and said, in accents of acute mental suffering—
“Mother! mother! look upon me—speak to me—I am Helen, your penitent child, come back to strive to compensate you for the pangs and shame I have occasioned you. Mother! for mercy sake recognise me! See, I am Helen—she of whom you were so proud, and who so crushed all the hopes you raised. Look at me; speak to me; if only to spurn me; but speak to me, mother—in the name of Heaven’s holy charity, speak to me!”
Mrs. Grahame at the sound of her voice, turned her head, but she only laughed vacantly, and nodded, and screeched again.
Helen wept frantically. She took her mother’s hand and kissed it wildly. She bent over her and caressed her in the throes of the deepest emotion, but without eliciting one single token of recognition.
Mrs. Truebody at length came forward and took Helen by the arm and waist—
“I pray you to retire, my dear young lady,” she said, speaking with firmness. “You are unintentionally only doing ill. Your unhappy mother is beyond all power of recognition. There is only one hope of a restoration of her senses, and that will be immediately preceding the moment when Heaven pleases to call her hence. Now you are disturbing and making her feverish, because she cannot understand your actions or comprehend your grief. You are injuring your own health, when its preservation is needful, and you are afflicting your dear young sister beyond her power to endure it. Pray, pray exert your self-command. I do assure you, Mi—madam, that your best fortitude and courage are needed now.”
With one agonised look at the expressionless face of her mother, Helen turned to depart. She caught Evangeline in her arms and kissed her tear-bedewed cheeks with fervent earnestness, and then, with her arm folded around her waist, she quitted the chamber. Not a word or look at Mrs. Truebody. She could not trust herself to say a word to her now. She had not forgotten her. She had prepared a suitable reward for her; but at this moment the sight of her face raised too many unhappy recollections for her to be able even to speak to her.
Once more alone in the sitting room, Helen inquired of Evangeline where her sister Margaret was, and upon what plea she had quitted the scene of affliction.
Evangeline simply recounted the circumstances connected with the mysterious elopement with the Duke of St. Allborne, and expressed her wonder that Margaret should not have stopped at home, and been married in the proper and usual fashion. Helen, with burning cheeks and suffocating emotion, rose up and paced the room, placing her hands upon her beating temples. Suddenly she turned round and said—
“Where was Malcolm, that he did not follow them?”
“Malcolm told me that the Honorable Mr. Vane advised him not to do so. He said that it was a mere romantic flight to Gretna Green, and that it would all come right at last.”
“Villain! atrocious villain!” muttered Helen; and then said, sharply, “but where is Malcolm now? Why should he, my poor Evangeline, have deserted you in this dreadful crisis?”
“He is in prison!” returned Evangeline, with, a shudder. “A gentle’—I—I mean it was explained to me that he had incurred debts and did not pay them, and therefore the creditor, by help of the law, put him into prison until he can make some arrangement.”
Helen clasped her hands.
“This is an abject fall for pride, indeed!” she exclaimed, with bitterness.
As her eye fell upon Evangeline’s sweet, artless face, in gratitude that at least she had escaped the heavy visitations which had fallen on the other members of her family, she observed that her skin—so rarely delicate and white in its accustomed aspect—was suffused with crimson, and that she seemed strangely confused.
“It was explained to me,” suddenly recurred to Helen, as a sentence Evangeline had uttered with some embarrassment. Then it flashed through her mind that she had found her tête-à-tête with a young and handsome man, whose face she did not at the moment recognise—like as he was, in his general contour, to Lotte Clinton.
A pang went to her heart. What! was not even her simple, innocent sister to be saved?
She sat her down and questioned Eva closely; she elicited from her a confession of all the clandestine meetings she had granted to Charles Clinton with the purpose of learning tidings of her sister, or of obtaining guidance and counsel under the great affliction with which the whole household was overwhelmed.
Helen wiped the clammy moisture from her brow and moistened her parched lips. She fixed her gaze upon Evangeline’s still crimsoned features and her downcast eyes, and then placing her cold hand upon her sister’s, and clutching it firmly, she said—
“Eva, you love this man!”
A thousand thousand thoughts rushed through Eva’s mind. Love him! in truth she did with her whole heart, her whole soul! Her cheeks burned more fiercely than ever. She threw herself upon her sister’s neck and hid her face, but did not utter a word.
Helen felt as if she should swoon away, but she conquered, by a powerful effort, her sudden sickening faintness, and releasing her sister’s arms from about her neck, she bade her be seated, and herself set the example.
She again took Evangeline’s hand in her own, and pressed it.
“Eva, darling,” she said, with fervent impressiveness, “I ask you—I implore you—to confide in me; to be truthful and unreserved. I will not judge you harshly; be this the proof. I have erred, sinfully, shamefully erred, and my grievous error has brought with it no light punishment. Listen! Like you, I was by accident thrown into the society of one who was personally and strikingly handsome, and whose tone of thought it seemed to me closely resembled my own in all things. As we were then situated, to have been constantly in each other’s society in the presence of friends would have excited remark. We were both young and sensitive, and were desirous of evading the jests of those by whom we were surrounded, especially as observations respecting our liking for each other were floating about among those who were eager to make most thoughtless use of them. As, however, we had a fondness for each other’s society, we eluded what we feared by contriving clandestine meetings. Alas! alas! Eva, the dreadful consequences of those secret meetings; the promptings of passion and love for each other, cast, in one fatal moment, the rules of purity and innocence aside, and I became the victim of my selfwill; a victim of that departure from truth and clear integrity which commits no action the light of day may not shine upon. Clandestine meetings forced upon me a dreadful secret; clandestine meetings made me fly my home; clandestine meetings plunged me into trial and affliction; horrors of which you can have no conception. Oh, my dear, dear Eva! by the mercy of Heaven, I have been relieved from the worse consequences of my sin and from the madness of an ignoble pride; let me implore you, upon my knees, no more to consent to a secret interview with anyone in man’s form again. What it may be necessary for him to say or you to hear, should be said, after he, in the face of all who are deeply interested in your welfare, has frankly acknowledged his affection for you and honourably asked permission to address you, that he may win and wear you before the whole world; then, indeed, he is worthy of your love; then, indeed, may you in secret listen to the ardent whispers of his passion. But oh, Eva, dear! not till then—not till then.”
Eva, still embarrassed and confused, only wept, and, in so doing, yet more affrighted Helen. She stole her arm about her waist, and said to her, in a low, soft voice—
“You love this person, Eva, whoever he may be, that I see; now tell me, darling, how and when he first declared his love for you, and induced you to give him your heart?”
Eva looked up a little surprised.
“He never declared any love for me Helen, dear,” she replied, faintly. “He does not love me; it is not likely he would.”
“Not love you?” asked Helen, with surprise.
“Oh, no!” she answered, “he never breathed one word about love to me.”
“But how has he treated you?” inquired Helen, with an astonished look.
“Gently and respectfully; oh, so very respectfully so painfully respectfully, Helen,” replied Evangeline, with more animation. “In all innocence, I am sure I arranged with him to meet me. I—I don’t think he asked me to do so—I am sure I do not recollect that he did. No, I was so very, very anxious to learn tidings of you, that, in fear of papa, I think I said I would come where I could hear what he had to communicate unheard by any one but myself. He always met me and treated me as one, oh, so far superior to himself; and now that we have all been thrown into such deep distress, he is yet more deferential and respectful than ever. Not distant, Helen, but as if he thought me a princess now, if I had been a lady before. Nay, he would not have deserted me and mamma, though we had have been thrust forth by the cruel officers into the street, for he said he would have provided a home for us”——
“A home!” echoed Helen, hoarsely; she believed the realization of her fears was coming now.
“Yes, with his sister Lotte—you know her well, Helen—she is very amiable, I believe; but you, who lived with her for some time, can best tell.”
Helen looked upon Eva perfectly astounded.
“This—this young man’s name is——?” she asked, pausing at the last word.
“Clinton,” replied Eva, softly.
Helen drew a long breath, rose and paced the room again. After a few turns, she took her sister in her arms, and said—
“He is worthy of your love, Eva; for I doubt not that you have won his heart”——
“Oh, Helen!”
“I think it is clear; and, in such a case, he has acted nobly. I owe a debt to his dear sister, which, though it is my intention to endeavour to acknowledge to the best of my ability, is yet one that can never be repaid; and for her loved and loving brother Charley—well, Eva, when this cloud which has settled upon our house has passed away—the storm is in its intensity now—we shall see, darling”——
There was a gentle knock at the door as she concluded; and, on the permission to enter being given, the subject of their conversation entered.
His face was pale, as though he had suffered a great shock; his mien was sad, even solemn. Both Eva and Helen noticed it; instantly, together, they exclaimed—“In Heaven’s name, what has happened?”
“I am the bearer of most distressing news to you, young ladies,” he replied, in a grave, subdued tone. “It costs me great pain to fulfil the office, but I have undertaken it, that the announcement may have nothing added to its poignancy by abrupt thoughtlessness.”
The two sisters clung to each other, and looked upon him affrighted.
“Let me prepare you,” he said, “to receive painful intelligence respecting your father.”
“Dead!” broke from Helen’s lips, with a groan.
Charley bowed his head; and the sisters burst into tears, though their lamentations bore no outward violence of gesture.
“It is not all,” said Charley, sadly; “since his mysterious disappearance an experienced detective was engaged to endeavour to find him, and, after most arduous labour, succeeded in tracing him to the vicinity of Hendon, where his body had been discovered lifeless upon the earth. Nothing was found upon him to tell who he was; and, after a coroner’s inquest was held, bills describing the body and the circumstances under which it had been found were put forth; one accidentally caught the eye of the detective, and he prosecuted inquiries in that neighbourhood. He found that interment had taken place under the direction of the parish authorities, and nothing, therefore, was left to identify the unknown but his clothes and a handkerchief. Mr. Grahame’s man has recognised them, and thus has placed beyond doubt his sad his dreadful fate.”
Both sisters were in a convulsion of grief, and Charley felt most distressed, for he knew not how to offer them consolation. But as he knew of the forged deed, and of the worst crime—the incitement of Chewkle to commit the murder of old Mr. Wilton, he could only say to them——
“Let it be some consolation to you, ladies, to know that, unhappy and dreadful as this event proves, it is better under all circumstances that it has so happened.” So, Grahame had after all died a pauper’s death and had received a pauper’s funeral. Such was the end of an imperious pride, unsustained by the principles of religion and morality.
Yet more grief for the afflicted girls.
Mrs. Truebody made her appearance abruptly in the room. She tottered rather than walked to the two sisters, yet weeping in each other’s arms. She pressed her hands lightly upon their shoulders and said, in weeping tones—-
“Dear, dear young ladies, the terrible intelligence you have just heard comes not alone—evils seldom do. The sad news I hear can but add to a grief, violent enough without it—of that I am aware, but it does not come without a consolation. If it has pleased Heaven to remove suddenly your afflicted mother from this world, it has released her also from suffering, and a calamity which must have been a grief to all who were near and dear to her. Poor, dear, afflicted young ladies, your mother is no more.”
Helen sank fainting on a chair.
Charley had already caught Evangeline in his arms, as she suddenly became bereft of all consciousness.
Of all the causes which conspire to blind
Man’s erring judgment, and misguide the mind,
What the weak head with strongest bias rules,
Is Pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever Nature has in worth deny’d,
She gives in large recruits of needless Pride!
For, as in bodies thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swell’d with wind.
—Pope.
If Nathan Gomer had constructed a plan for the accomplishment of the matrimonial hopes of Flora and Mark Wilton, the reading a homily to Mr. Wilton, upon the cruelty of forcing the hand to be given without the heart, formed no portion of it. He was content with having produced a striking effect; and he suddenly—as abruptly as he had spoken—rose up and quitted the room.
He did not, however, remain away long; but returned to the library, accompanied by Mr. Wilton’s solicitor and old Josh Maybee.
During the interval of his absence, Mr. Wilton, shocked by the disclosures made by him respecting the fate of the Grahame family, had certainly had some grave reflections pass through his mind upon the mutability of human affairs, as well as upon the vanity of human pride; but these newly-awakened sentiments were quickly put to flight by an inspection of law papers placed before him by his solicitor, and by some revelations made by old Maybee, who also produced those documents which were needful to identify Wilton as the actual legal claimant to the Eglinton estates. He put in, as well, his own proofs of a title to a portion of the property in question, which Wilton directed his solicitor to examine with scrupulous closeness.
Deeds, plans, statements of accounts, registers, &c., were spread over the library table; and an abstract was handed to Wilton, which he devoured with avidity, for it gave him a more clear and definite notion of the value and extent of the property to which he was about to succeed than he had before been able to obtain.
The vastness of the possessions and the largeness of the revenues were made clear in this paper, and the contemplation of it fascinated him. He closed his eyes, and lo! a fair vision of a highly cultivated district was spread out before him. The woods and vales, the sloping hills, the park, the plantations, the pastures and farm-lands, the villages, and a numerous tenantry bowing to him as sole owner of this lordly domain, successively presented themselves to him.
When he opened his eyes again, the reflections inspired by Nathan Gomer’s observations were no more remembered. Once more he was inflated with vain glory; elated by his accession of wealth; unmindful of past services received; oppressed with a torrent of schemes of future grandeur; and more than ever unprepared to accept high moral principles and genuine personal worth in lieu of birth and rank, in whatever prospective matrimonial contract might be formed with any member of his family.
The perusal of that document was too much for his strength of mind. Evidences of its effects upon him were to be seen on his flushed cheek, in the excited, restless expression of his eye, and the dignified tone he gradually assumed to his “man of business.” Then, too, Josh Maybee, received by him in a frank, familiar manner, suddenly perceived that he was being patronised with the loftiest air imaginable, a style and manner which Wilton continued, when addressing him, with such unvaried uniformity, that the poor old fellow began to imagine and ultimately to believe that through a long course of years he must have been under the deepest obligations to him—barred windows, prison walls, and an age of griping penury, nevertheless—that he was now only too much honoured in being permitted to be the actual instrument of establishing the Wilton claim. He certainly felt mystified; but the imperial manner of Wilton towards him assured him that it must be all right.
Then, too, he was so graciously condescending to Nathan Gomer—waved his hand to him, and smiled as a sovereign, receiving homage while seated upon his throne. This last ebullition rather disconcerted Nathan; he grinned not pleasantly—more as a hyena preparing to spring upon a victim.
“Ho! ho!” screeched the little man, as he retired to a window, and looked out. “Ho! ho! he condescends to me—me, who have done so little for him. Ho! ho! so good of him—ho! ho! so beneficent of him. How prostrated with thankfulness I ought to be. I ain’t, not a bit of it, not a morsel; I must be a fiend of ingratitude. His heart, once as soft as pudding, is becoming steel; I’ll steep it in vinegar, and see whether that will dissolve it.”
He turned back to where Wilton was seated erect, listening to expositions made by his solicitor, and regarding with an attentive scrutiny some of the documents before him, especially those which had reference to the rent-roll.
Nathan’s features had assumed an expression such as they seldom wore—one hard, disagreeable, and unfriendly. He addressed the solicitor, suggesting that, in Mr. Wilton’s weak condition, it would be prudent to defer until the following day further proceedings. Such signatures as were immediately required he had obtained, “and altogether,” he said, looking hard at Wilton, “he thought a very satisfactory progress had been made.”
Wilton loftily assented, and as loftily begged Nathan Gomer to do the honours of the table for him to his man of business, and “that good creature Maybee,” as he did not then feel that he possessed the strength necessary for such proper courtesy—such very proper courtesy. Nathan displayed his teeth, and accepted the post of honour. He conducted the pair to the dining-room, where he introduced them to Mark Wilton and Flora. He whispered a few words into Mark’s ear, and then returned to the library.
Old Josh Maybee gazed after him as he disappeared, and said to Mark—
“An awfully singular, elderly little gentleman. Pray do you know who he really is?”
“Ay!” added the solicitor, musingly, “a singularly peculiar personage, indeed. I never could make out who he was, or is, or will turn out to be.”
“Strange little fellow enough,” responded Mark, “but you pose me when you ask me who he is. I often ask myself that question.”
“He appears to be very kind-hearted, and to have a generous spirit,” said Flora. “I should like to know who he really is. He comes and departs so mysteriously; he seems to be acquainted with everything that has happened or is about to take place; papa says he is very wealthy——”
“E—nor—mously wealthy,” chimed in the solicitor, speaking emphatically.
“He possesses great influence over individuals,” continued Flora, “and, seemingly, over circumstances. I have great faith in anything he may predict, and—and I really should like to know who he is.”
The object of their speculations was at this moment alone with Wilton; on entering the library, he strode rather than walked up to where Wilton was seated, still poring over the abstract. He threw himself into a seat with a sudden violence which made Wilton start, then to elevate his eyebrows, then to frown.
This person—this Mr. Gomer, was assuming a familiarity, which he now thought it would be proper to check. He screwed up his eyes and affected a distant manner.
“You have something to communicate to me, Gomer, I apprehend, by your speedy return,” he observed, with his eyes fixed upon the paper he held in his hand.
“I have, Wilton,” he said curtly; “a very good time too, I think, to say it, now that you are all but installed owner of your large property.”
Mr. Wilton coldly inclined his head.
“Proceed!” he exclaimed.
Nathan made a grimace.
“Hem!” he coughed, “the gap is wide which separates the Queen’s Bench from Eglinton Park, Mr. Wilton.”
Mr. Wilton’s cheek flushed at the suggestion. He coughed too.
“Um—a—Gomer,” he said, “those are contrasts which only vulgar minds draw. Wonder is the offspring of ignorance—um—a—don’t repeat, I pray, such observations.”
“And Pride is the parent of evil,” chuckled Gomer. “Ah, I used to write that in a copy-book. However, I have not come here to make reflections, or to bring disagreeable reminiscences before you. I came to inform you that, the day after to-morrow, you will have to appear against our cunning friend, Mr. Chewkle, who very nearly rendered the possession of the Eglinton estates a matter of no importance to you.”
“The atrocious assassin,” exclaimed Wilton. “I wonder how I escaped the villain’s bullet upon such favourable terms.”
“Do you not know?” asked Gomer, eyeing him keenly. “Um—a—well, by the providence of Heaven, his aim was bad, and my gamekeepers were at hand,” said Wilton, reflectively. “Truly it was a fortunate circumstance that they were near, or the wretch would have slain me. I have a faint remembrance of his kneeling upon my chest——”
“And of him whose hand clutched the scoundrel by the throat and dragged him off at the moment his hand was raised to terminate your existence?”
“Um—a—no, I do not recollect that. My senses left me: but I shall reward that individual liberally—in short I will place that matter in your hands, Gomer, to give to him whatever you may think will satisfy him—um—a—with my thanks.”
“Are you serious, Wilton?” asked Gomer, almost jeeringly.
“Sir!—-a—um-Mr. Gomer, pray inform me what there is in my manner or tone which implies that I have descended to jest on this subject?” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, with hauteur.
Nathan Gomer laughed and rubbed his hands.
“I asked the question because I suspect that you would not endorse my award,” he replied.
“I do not comprehend you, Mr. Gomer!” responded Wilton, still in the same distant tone. “If I appoint you to manage an affair for me, giving you a carte blanche to act in the matter, I consider it a reflection upon my honour to assume that I should be dissatisfied with your award.”
“Listen, Wilton!” exclaimed Gomer, striking the table a sharp, angry blow. “The individual who saved your life at the most critical instant of its jeopardy would spurn a money compensation.”
Mr. Wilton opened his half-closed eyes.
“I suspect that, although it was at the risk of his own life he saved yours, he attaches but little credit to his deed,” continued Gomer, “for he would have acted precisely in the same way to save the meanest wretch in existence.”
“Oh!—a—well, if he attaches no importance to the act,” said Wilton, shrugging his shoulders with the air of one who considered his dignity reflected on, “why of course, I——”
“Must!” suggested Gomer, with emphatic shrillness, “for his gallant rescue was everything in the world to you—children, Harleydale, Eglinton, all—all. Therefore, though he may view his conduct with disinterested eyes, you cannot, and you should reward him fittingly.”
“But—a—I must suggest that there is a wide distinction between the meanest wretch in existence and a—a—the owner of——”
“Yourself, you mean,” interrupted Gomer, bluntly; “that is exactly why you should reward him as becomes your position.”
“I empower you to do so,” said Wilton, with a most dignified gesture.
“Softly,” said Gomer. “You are also indebted to him, not only for the life, but the preservation of your daughter’s honour.”
Wilton started, and fixed upon him an incredulous stare.
“Your condition, after you received your wound, prevented your being told what really occasioned the illness of your daughter Flora,” said Gomer, impressively; “let me briefly explain. The details you shall be made acquainted with hereafter, Your late guest, Colonel Mires, who began life by plunging from gambling into forgery, and whom you saved from destruction by timely repairing the consequences of his crime, who, in turn, obtained Harleydale for you, conceived a passion for your daughter Flora——”
“I had some such suspicion,” ejaculated Wilton, looking aghast, as if he feared what was about to follow.
“He, sir, finding that the field was occupied,” continued Gomer—“that he should never gain your consent to marry her, nor her consent to have him, acted independently of both, and carried her off.”
“Carried her off?”
“Precisely. In accordance with a most skilfully devised plot he bore her off on the morning on which that knave Chewkle fired at you. The same active spirit that interfered so opportunely in your favour discovered the abduction, and pursued the ravisher. He succeeded in overtaking, in rescuing, and restoring your daughter safely to her home again.”
There was a pause for a minute.
Then Nathan Gomer said, drily—
“Not a fellow this to receive a money compensation.”
Mr. Wilton made two or three efforts to speak; at length, by a desperate exertion, he said—
“The name of this person—a—um—is——”
“Mr. Henry Vivian,” replied Nathan Gomer, in a clear, sonorous voice.
Mr. Wilton sank back in his chair.
Was it possible to be afflicted with more vexatious or annoying intelligence than this? Had it been anyone else, his liberality would have known no bounds; but to be indebted to this parvenu, who aspired to an alliance with his house, for the lives of himself and daughter was intolerable.
What to say—what to do, he could not conceive, his brain was in a whirl. He remained silent.
Nathan Gomer fixed his bright, dancing eyes upon him.
“My award, Wilton, to Mr. Vivian, for his earnest services to you and your daughter, would have been to bestow the hand of the damsel upon him, in accordance with the maxim, that the ‘brave deserve the fair.’ But I presume, as I said before, that you would not endorse my award, though I more than half suspect the young lady would herself do so with a ready pen.”
Wilton quitted his chair, and paced his room, a movement he usually resorted to when his mind was agitated; suddenly he paused and stood before Gomer, and said, in an excited manner—
“You were correct, Gomer, in supposing that I should not endorse any such award—perfectly correct; such a notion is preposterous, wild, romantic,—a—a—foolery. I—a—I am—a—on a ship with my daughter—-a—we both fall into the sea—a—a—a brave sailor jumps in and saves us both; am I—am I to give my daughter’s hand to that sailor. I admire him, I honour his bravery, and would reward it—a—but with my daughter’s hand—a—never. I never heard of anything so astoundingly—why—a—Gomer, you do not look much like a susceptible romantic personage, you can hardly feel it your business——”
“To make two young hearts beat in happy unison,” interrupted Gomer, sharply. “Yes, I do. Why not? Why should I not, eh? Permit me to ask why I should not? I can’t help my looks. A diamond, you know, has an ugly crust; but because I am a dwarf, and look as if I performed ablutions in turmeric, it does not necessarily follow that I should have a lump of granite for a heart.”
“But, Gomer, you are—a—rich—and a—a—man of the world—a—” responded Wilton.
“I am both,” answered Gomer, emphatically. “I am a man of the world, and I see that, like boys after butterflies, the majority of my kind pursue objects as gaudy and as useless when caught. I see the hollowness of most human purposes, the eagerness with which they are pursued, and the wretched, vexed vanities they prove to be when possessed. I am rich, Wilton; but I apprehend the true purpose of riches to be something different to self-deifying aggrandisement. The world is full of woe—the mission of wealth is to alleviate it: also, to assist and to elevate human worth, and to plant happiness where it has not been wont to bloom. Such have been the objects of my life-labours; and such, I trust, they will continue to be. I do not, however, pretend to attempt to control your actions, or guide you in the performance of your duties. That must be your own task. I simply reiterate what my award to Mr. Vivian would have been; and now I expect you will take upon yourself the office of acknowledging the debt of gratitude you owe to him—rather a heavy obligation to my thinking—and the consideration of the meet reward you will bestow upon him.”
Wilton, after a little reflection, said—
“It appears to me, in looking back on the past, Gomer, that—a—that you have exercised a considerable, I might say a very considerable influence over my actions, and have directed generally the course of my inclinations, a—a—and my intentions. Even now, a—though disclaiming such purpose, it seems to me that you are occupied—I—a—should say, actively occupied in forcing me to swallow a potion most repugnant to—a—to—to my nature, seeking to impel me by honeyed words concerning the good which a—a—must result from my acquiescence—a. Stay, don’t interrupt me now. I would fain acknowledge that you have hitherto shown the greatest interest in my personal affairs; that, I say, I think is undoubtedly clear. It is also plain and undeniable that your—a—um—your interference hitherto has been attended with the best possible result; that I admit. It might in the present instance—I say it might—I am by no means supposed to think it would, but it might operate beneficially if it succeeded in making me believe that it would be at least proper to bestow the hand of my daughter upon Mr. Vivian. But before I consent to re-open the case, and listen to a repetition of your arguments, be good enough to tell me who you are, and explain to me why you, a comparative stranger—merely the landlord of a house I once inhabited—should have mixed yourself up with my affairs, and now take upon yourself to direct me in the disposal of my children in marriage.”
Nathan Gomer rubbed his hands briskly over his chin and mouth, and champed with his teeth, as though his tongue and lips were parched. Presently he spoke; his voice grated harshly at first.
“Ha! ha! very true,” he said, with a grim chuckle; “I never reflected upon that very grave consideration—-my title to interfere in your affairs; it did not occur to me, I grant you I have been impertinent, officious. I ought to have left you to—no no”—he checked himself with a sudden dignity—“I must not permit myself to be betrayed into a weakness. Mr. Wilton, you have smitten me on one cheek; before I permit you to smite the other, I will inform you who I am, not at this moment, but at the proper time. It will come to your ears with sufficient speed when it does come. Farewell.”
“Hem—a—Gomer—stay!” cried Wilton, hurriedly. But Gomer was gone. The old man would have followed him, but a servant entered the library, followed by the Honorable Lester Vane.
Vane was dressed with studied elegance; his garb was in the highest style of fashion, and fitted him to perfection. Having quite recovered his health, of which, recently, he had purposely taken the greatest possible care, he looked, as he walked with an elevated gait—affected, and acquired by practice—a very handsome and polished specimen of the aristocracy.
Wilton was immediately struck by his appearance and manner. The words “Honorable Mr. Lester” rang in his ears, too, as the servant announced him. He had before noticed the superiority of mien and attire displayed by Vane, but, under existing circumstances, they now made a stronger impression than ever upon him.
Here evidently was the son-in-law proper to his own and his daughter’s condition in life. Nathan Gomer might preach as much as he pleased about two young hearts beating in happy unison, but was it possible that such would be the result of an unequal match? It was far more likely that Flora, wedded to a young, elegant fellow like Lester, and moving, after her marriage with him, in a high circle, would be much gayer and happier than if mated with one who had been accustomed only to the atmosphere of a workshop, and to mix with very moderate people. Wilton felt decided upon the point, and accordingly greeted Lester Vane with evident pleasure, which that astute personage responded to with consummate artifice. By his observations and his inquiries, he led Wilton to the conclusion that he possessed a noble spirit and unaffected kindness of heart. He even offered to give back to Wilton the promise he had received from him of Flora’s hand, and assured him, with well-simulated earnestness, that however deeply painful, and even heart-breaking, it might be to him to forego the honour of Miss Wilton’s alliance, he would rather sacrifice his eternal happiness than be the occasion of one moment’s grief to her. He had come down, he said, with the object of either being able to disabuse Flora’s mind of its false idea in respect to Vivian, and to win her love, or to resign her hand and retire from the field altogether—an alternative which old Wilton rather vehemently “pooh-poohed.”
The measured manner in which Vane expressed himself, and the earnestness which led old Wilton to be explicit in his views and wishes, occasioned some time to be consumed before the latter could fulfil his intention—floating through his mind all the while he was talking with his new guest—not to suffer Gomer abruptly to depart, and in anger, too. So, as soon as he could conveniently take the opportunity, he rang his bell, and bade his servant acquaint Mr. Gomer that he should be glad of a few words with him.
“He’s gone, sir, and taken t’other old gentleman with him,” replied the man.
“The other old gentleman?” repeated Mr. Wilton, with surprise.
“Yes, sir, one of they two that came with him, sir,” replied the man.
“Which?” asked Wilton, startled.
“I don’t know which,” replied the man, with a stupid expression of countenance; “but Mr. Mark, he do, sir; because Mr. Gomer spoke to him before he left the hall, sir.”
“Send Mr. Mark to me!” exclaimed Mr. Wilton, sharply.
The man disappeared, and, in a few minutes, Mark Wilton made his appearance. He greeted Lester Vane with stern and haughty coldness—conduct his father viewed with irritation, though he made no remark then in reference to it, but confined himself to the matter upon which he had sent for him.
“I hear, Mark,” he said “that Gomer has left the Hall for the railway station, is it so?”
“Surely, sir,” answered Mark, with surprise, “you are aware of that fact. He informed me that he had parted with you.”
“Parted with me?”
“Yes, sir; he expressed himself, I thought, rather emphatically; but he appeared to be in a very great hurry, and took that singular companion of his, Mr. Maybee, with him.”
“Maybee!” echoed Wilton, in a tone of alarm.
He looked hastily over the papers still on the table, but all the documents which Maybee had produced needful to support Wilton’s claim to the large estates in Chancery were yet there. What, then, could Gomer mean by withdrawing him?
“My solicitor is still here,” he exclaimed, addressing Mark.
“I left him in conversation with my sister, sir,” replied Mark.
“He will dine with us—in fact he does not return to London until the morning,” said his father. “Mr. Vane will also be our guest for a—for a—for the present. You will conduct him to your sister and Mr. Charlock, my excellent man of business—quite a gentleman, I assure you, Mr. Vane.”
The “Honorable” bowed.
“A wealthy man, and of high standing in his profession,” added Mr. Wilton.
Vane bowed again.
“I have a high esteem for men of the legal profession,” he said; “they are agreeable company—they are acute men, intelligent, full of anecdote, and, from the very character of their position and acquirements, respectable.”
Mr. Wilton rubbed his hands, he was pleased with the reply.
“I am desirous of a little quiet just now,” he observed; “I shall therefore have an hour or so to myself in my sanctum here alone, but I will join you at dinner. It was not my intention to have done so, but I feel equal now to the pleasure I shall enjoy. Mark, I place Mr. Vane under your charge; I am sure you will pay him every attention.”
Mark made a cold inclination of the head and left the library, followed by Vane, who perceived his coolness, but he had too great a game at stake to appear to do so, or to appear to be affected by it. He himself assumed a proud nonchalant air, and took his way after Mark Wilton, who walked with a quick step at an easy, leisurely pace.
Mark again wondered where he had seen Vane and under what circumstances. He felt morally convinced that they had met before, and that the impressions left behind were not favourable to Lester. In vain he endeavoured to solve the difficulty; his memory would not serve him in this.
Again Lester Vane and Flora were face to face, but under different conditions. She received him—although her heart beat, for she knew he was her father’s favoured suitor for her hand—with a quiet, firm manner, as though his arrival was an incident of ordinary character; and she listened to his well-turned hyperboles, as if they were but common-places. She replied by a silent inclination of the head, and resumed her conversation with Mr. Charlock with an unembarrassed ease which affected Vane more keenly than any studied slight would have done. He could have supplied a motive for that, and have surmounted, or have attempted to have surmounted it hopefully, for it would have shown to him that he was not an object of indifference; but to be received as Flora had met him was to satisfy him that she was in no doubt as to the disposal of her preference, or that it would be adhered to.
He felt by her manner that he was accepted by her as a guest of her father’s, whose coming and going could have no influence or effect upon her.
He mentally determined to change this state of things at any risk.
“Her uncouth booby of a brother cuts me,” he mused.
“I care nothing for that—but she shall not do so with impunity. I will have her. No risk shall daunt me, no obstacle deter me, for it is not alone her wealth I need, but I have conceived a passion for her.”
Such were his thoughts as he gazed upon her while she was speaking to her father’s solicitor. She was so beautiful, so very, very beautiful, that the more his eyes perused her fair lineaments, the more deep became his determination not to be shaken off.
But she never turned her eyes towards him; and when, by her quietly dropping her share in the conversation, it rested between him and Mr. Charlock, she silently glided from the room.
Had it not been for the presence of Mr. Charlock, Mark would have followed her example; as it was, he spoke but seldom to Vane, who treated him with corresponding carelessness.
It was a relief to Mark when they separated to dress for dinner; and on reassembling, Flora did not appear. She complained of not being well, and they had to proceed without her. Mark confined his observations to Mr. Charlock; and Mr. Wilton, irritated, angry, and feverish, was compelled to keep Vane in countenance as well as he could.
The task was too much for him; and he found himself compelled from weakness to retire to his chamber the moment the cloth was cleared. The solicitor was an abstemious and an early man; and as he was compelled to quit Harleydale for London at an early hour in the morning, he rose from the table almost as soon as the wine was circulated; after a short interview with Mr. Wilton, and obtaining possession of all the valuable legal papers, he retired to rest.
Mark and Vane were thus left alone. A silence of at least ten minutes elapsed. Neither spoke. Several times Vane had cast furtive glances at Mark, and felt convinced he was thinking about him.
Presently, he placed his hand upon the decanter before him, and said—
“A little wine with you would be very agreeable, Mr. Wilton.”
Mark bowed slightly, and sipped his wine.
Again a silence ensued; and soon Mark’s thoughts were far away. Lotte’s quiet, pale, sad face rose up before him, and her thoughtful eyes seemed to be turned appealingly upon him for help and aid.
Suddenly a flush of heat passed across his features, his eye kindled brightly, and his brow lowered.
He turned to Lester Vane, and in a sharp tone said—
“We have met before.”
Vane looked at him, somewhat surprised at the suddenness of his remark and at its tone. With equal quickness, it occurred to him that Mark recollected only at this moment the scene in Hyde Park. He was prepared for what was coming, and replied, quietly—
“Unquestionably, on my last visit here.”
“Before, sir, we encountered each other in this house. Look at my face well, sir; listen to the tone of my voice; and then tell me if your memory does not furnish you with the circumstances under which we, on a former occasion, confronted each other.”