Mr. Simnel sat calmly over his breakfast in his rooms in Piccadilly, little dreaming of all that had occurred on the previous day in Saxe-Coburg Square. He skimmed the newspaper; he dallied with his toast; he laid down his knife and fork and paused in his meal, smiling to himself with the air of a man who had reason for self-gratulation. Such reason had Mr. Simnel. He had fought a very long and arduous and up-hill fight--a fight in which the odds were all against him, and which he had won entirely by patience and excellent generalship. And now the difficulties were surmounted; the land lay straight before him; and he was just about to clutch the prize which, with so much trouble, he had won. "You shall have it, Robert!" those were the last words which she had said to him; words which haunted his memory, which he found himself repeating over and aver again. The woman he had loved so long and so quietly, who at one time appeared far beyond the power of his grasp, had succumbed; he had won her honestly, and by his own tact and perseverance; and she would be his own! There would be a bar sinister in her escutcheon, but what of that? Against herself, against the propriety of her conduct, no one had ever dared to drop a hint. Her father should make such a settlement on her as, coupled with his own money, would relieve her from the necessity of pursuing her then occupation, of doing any thing but play her part as mistress of her house, and enjoy herself. What a fool was Beresford!--ah, that opened up a fresh vein of thought! He had said yesterday that, failing in his pursuit of Mrs. Schröder, should fall back on Kate Mellon, and try and patch up that severed alliance. Simnel's heart beat loudly as this recurred to his mind; he knew how deep had been the attachment which Kate had formed for Beresford, and he was not sure that she would not be even yet willing to listen to proposals of peace. She must not have the chance--that was what he determined; and he rang his bell hurriedly, and sat biting his nails until it was answered.
"You saw Mr. Scadgers?" he demanded of his servant.
"Yes, sir; he will be at your office at one o'clock."
"Good; now go over at once to Austin Friars to Mr. Townshend's office. Tell the head-clerk," said he, taking a telegraphic despatch from his pocket, "that his master will arrive at London Bridge at half-past one, and that he must send some one to meet him. Say that I shall be with Mr. Townshend at three sharp. You understand?" The valet answered in the affirmative and left the room, returning in a few minutes and ushering in Mr. Beresford. That gentleman looked any thing but happy; his face was of a dull leaden hue, his eyes were dull and red-rimmed, and the tell-tale muscles of his mouth were working visibly. He flung himself into, a chair, and as soon as the door closed, said: "Here's a devil of a go!"
"What's the matter, man?" asked Simnel. "Look here--you're all out of sorts--lips going and hands shaking--just steady yourself before you speak. Here!" and he unlocked a sideboard and placed a liqueur-stand before his friend.
"That's better!" said Beresford, draining a wine-glass of brandy. "I am all wrong, and enough to make me! Thought I'd catch you here before you went down to work. I've no end to tell you--"
"Tell on!" said Mr. Simnel; and, so encouraged, Beresford narrated every thing that had occurred between him and Barbara the preceding day, respecting the anonymous letter and the conversation that had ensued thereanent, word for word.
As Mr. Simnel listened his heart sunk within him, and it was with the greatest difficulty that he prevented himself from displaying his emotion. He succeeded, however, so admirably, that though the colour of his face might have gone a shade or two paler, not a muscle of it moved, and when Beresford stopped, he said, without a tremor in his voice, "What do you intend to do?"
"To do!" screamed Beresford--"well, upon my soul, Simnel, you are a wonderful man! I tell you this tremendous story, which, for heartless villany, beats any thing I ever heard--and done by a woman too!--and all you ask is, what I intend to do! Do!--I intend to punish that she-devil, cost what it may! to--"
"Steady, sir! you're using strong language--"
"Oh! what! Kate Mellon, I mean; not Mrs. Schröder--my mind's made up with regard to her! I shall--"
"Look here, Beresford; did you come here to rave and storm before me, or to ask my advice?--which?"
"I don't know what the deuce you mean by raving and storming! You'd do the same if you'd been treated in this way by a--there, never mind, I'll take your advice if--"
"If it agrees with your own plans! generous creature! Now look here; you're in a horrible state of rage and fever, in which you can do no good. My advice to you is, to go away straight at once. Go out of town somewhere for a fortnight, and then come back and see how the land lies."
"And so lose every chance I've got! No, thank ye. You know all that business yesterday was Mrs. Churchill, not Mrs. Schröder. I don't believe the widow knows a word about that cursed letter; and there may be a chance of getting over her yet, though that Churchill woman is as deep as the Whissendine. She and I always hated each other, I think, and I don't intend to let her beat me now; no! I've sent a line to Mrs. Schröder marked private, without any flummery of former days, or any thing of that sort,--simply begging her to meet me in the Row this afternoon and give me five minutes' talk. If she does that, I think I can put matters square; and if not--"
"And if not?"
"Well, if not, by George, Simnel, up goes the sponge, and no mistake. There are three writs out against me, and I fancy some of Sloman's people are on. There have been some fellows hanging about my door in South Audley Street; and I fancy, from what Stephens says, they were any thing but the right sort. What are you thinking about?"
"I was thinking," said Mr. Simnel slowly, "that if this Schröder business does not come off,--and I don't think it will,--you'd better send in a certificate from Prater or some one, and get away to the Continent for six months."
"Well, we'll wait and see what to-day brings forth, at all events. If it don't do, I'll very likely take your advice."
After Mr. Beresford had gone, Mr. Simnel sat with his feet on the fender, slowly rubbing his knee. "It must be hurried through at once," he said to himself. "I'll square the settlement to-day; and if Beresford fails with Mrs. Schröder, he must be got out of town and abroad. Vengeance, eh? no, not quite that, my fine fellow. Long before you come back, there'll be somebody with a right to interfere, if any thing like vengeance is threatened."
And how fared it with Kate Mellon all this while? what had happened to the pivot on which so many schemes of love and hate, of worship and revenge, were turning? In a bad way was Kate Mellon mentally and thence physically. The news of Mr. Schröder's death, which she had read accidentally in an "odds and ends" column of a cheap sporting-paper, had come upon her with a terrific shock. She had compared dates, and found that it had happened on the day after the despatch of her letter; and though there was nothing to create any connexion between the circumstances, she felt a kind of horrible impression that by her act she had hastened his end. This preyed upon her mind; and as she had no one in whom to confide--(had Simnel come up in the interval, it is probable that she would have told him all, for the sake of getting a scrap of consolation, of advice--of mere talk--so weightily did the retention of the secret lie on her),--she fretted and worried herself, and each day grew more feverish, more unsettled, more discontented. One horrible thought she had, which swallowed up all the rest--might not she unconsciously have helped her rival to her happiness! If this fair-haired woman cared for Charley, as had been stated (and as she had seen with her own eyes), she could not have cared for her husband. He was now removed, and there was nothing to prevent a marriage between them. Here was a phantom which nothing could lay; a spectre which would haunt her day and night, ever mocking and gibing at her; and she tossed in ceaseless torture, and grew paler and thinner, and took less interest in her business every day.
On the day on which Mr. Beresford and Mr. Simnel had the conversation just narrated, Kate Mellon lay on the sofa in her little drawing-room, listless and drowsy, as was her wont nowadays, and with her head buried in her hands. She roused herself at a loud knock at the door, and bade the person enter. It was old Freeman, the stud-groom.
"Here's Hockley, miss, just coom down from town staäbles. Black harse from Ireland, 'raived last neet."
"What horse, Freeman?"
"Waät harse, eh? Mai bairn, thee'rt gangin' daft wi' soommut; ai heeard not waät! Waät harse? why, black harse we bought of Markis Clonmel--black hoonter which Johnson wrote aboot last week."
"Ay, ay, I recollect! What does Hockley say of him?"
"Hockley says he's tearer! groom as browt him to steamer said as nowt could hold him! I'se warrant we teach him manners!"
"Yes; I'll do that myself, and at once too! I want a little rousing. Put a pair into the wagonette, Freeman, and drive me down to Down Street. I'll give this horse a turn at once!"
Besides her establishment at The Den, Kate Mellon had a set of stables near Piccadilly, which were mainly devoted to the reception of new arrivals from the country, and as temporary resting-places for the horses required for Rotten-Row pupils. These stables were equally perfectly appointed with The Den; and when the wagonette containing Kate and her head-groom drove in, she found a portion of her staff ready to receive her.
"What's this new Irish horse like, Tanner?" said she to her town manager.
"A bad 'un, miss; a rank bad 'un as ever stepped! Good 'oss, fine-made 'oss jump any think; good slopin' shoulders, and henormous quarters; but the temper of--savin' your presence--the devil! He pinned one of the men when he was a-dressin' him this morning, and his hi rolls fearful;" and Mr. Tanner, who, though a thorough horseman, was an undeniable Cockney, led the way towards the loose box where the new arrival was standing. "They calls 'im Balthazar," said he; "and if that means a out-an'-out bad 'un, they're right."
They found him in a loose box at the end of the yard, a big brown-black horse, sixteen and a half, six off, with a long lean head, deep neck, round barrel, deep chest, low back, short forehand, big broad foot. As the door of the box opened he turned his eye round, showing an inflamed white, put back his ears, and lashed out savagely.
"Hold on, mon!" said old Freeman; "steady, boy; let's look at thee;" and the old man went fearlessly up to the horse's head, and placing his hand in the head-collar, commenced turning him about.
"Send one of your men for my saddle, Tanner, and put No. 3 bridle on him. Is No. 3 the one with the deep port? Yes, that's it," said she, touching it with her whip. "I'll just see what he's made of in the Row."
"Miss," said old Freeman, coming up close to her, and whispering, "better wait till t'see waät's made of oop in tan-ride at whoom--naästy brute, I'm thinkin' 't 'ill prove."
"Ah, never mind, Freeman; there's room in the Row to give him a very good bucketing. Bring him out."
He came out with a bound, and backed and reared and kicked when any one approached him, so that fully five minutes had elapsed before Kate, with all her readiness and agility, found herself on his back. Once mounted he started off at once, pelting over the uneven stones, and slipping about in a manner that made old Freeman hold up his hands and curse the Paving Commissioners, with even more than his usual energy.
Down one incline of Piccadilly and up the other went Balthazar, now and then trying his chance of a buck-jump, occasionally manifesting his inclination to rear. So through the Arch and into the Row. There Kate thought he might have his fling; there was no one within sight; and "to take it out" of a brute like this was a feat in which at one time she would have taken infinite pleasure; even now it promised some excitement. So quietly drawing the curb and simultaneously touching him with her heel, she felt the big brute give one tremendous plunge and snort, and then dart off like lightning. And now Kate's colour came again, and her heart leapt within her as she felt once more the ecstasy of tearing speed. Away he goes, easy as a chair when once he has settled into his stride, and with more real go in him than she has felt in any horse she has ridden for months. Bravo, Balthazar! Whoop, boy! get along! and the blue habit floats behind, and the gravel flies round her, and she is going the real pace now, and no mistake! Who is this rider creeping out across her path from beneath the trees? Steady, boy, steady! by Jove, he's got the bit between his teeth, and there's no stopping him! Soho, soho, man! a shake--another; that's done it! the bit's free, and she pulls him up easily; and to her pulling him rides up a man, flushed, with working lips and scarlet face--Charles Beresford. She stares at him with starting eyes and compressed lips, through which comes the word "Charley!"
"Itisyou, you she-devil, is it?" said Beresford: "I thought it must be. This is fate that has sent you here to hear me curse you. I know what you've done, fast enough. You thought you could stab in secret, did you, you Jezabel? and without its being known where the blow came from! But I saw your infernal hand, and when I saw it, I cursed you as I curse you now!"
"Charley! Charley! oh, for God's sake; oh, if ever you cared for me--"
"Cared for you! I never did! I told you so--told you at least as plainly as a man could tell a woman; and then in sheer revenge--in dirty, low, mean revenge--you do this; but I'll be even with you. I'll--stand off, curse you! take your hand off, I say--"
She had laid her hand on his arm. He shook it off roughly, and in shaking it off raised his whip-hand spasmodically, and struck Balthazar sharply in the mouth. The Irish horse reared up on end straight as a dart, forced to his feet, plunged for an instant, and then started off in a mad gallop. Kate sat like a rock, pulling--pulling without the slightest effect. Then looking down she saw he had his eye turned back towards her, and held the bit in a firm grip between his teeth. This time the shake was no use; he would not loose his grip, and the bit was useless. They are nearing the end of the Row, and she remembers, shudderingly, the heavy iron gates, between which it would be impossible to steer him. If she could but turn him into the Drive, and so head up towards the Serpentine bridge! A touch with her leg and a sharp tug at the rein; the Irish horse rises like a bird at the iron bars, but touches them with his fore-feet, and falls headlong into the Drive, rolling over on to his rider, who lies there crushed and motionless.
When Mr. Scadgers walked into the lobby of the Tin-Tax Office soon after noon on the day on which Mr. Beresford had announced to Mr. Simnel his intention of taking some decisive step in the Schröder business, he asked to be shown to Mr. Simnel. The abruptness and audacity of this demand struck dismay into the breasts of the attendant messengers; they could scarcely believe their ears. Mr. Scadgers was not unknown in the classic regions of Rutland House: in all the various departments of that grand governmental hive he drove a roaring trade; and though it was mostly carried on by correspondence, or through agents, yet he occasionally appeared in person on the scene, notably on Quarter-days, for the purpose of "bouncing" an instalment out of recalcitrant debtors. So, had he inquired for any of the junior clerks, or for any recognised black sheep of higher standing, he would have been quietly shown into the waiting-room apportioned for the reception of the public, and a light-heeled Mercury would have been torn from the perusal of the newspaper, and, with his tongue in his cheek, have been started off to summon the indebted one. But when Mr. Simnel's name was mentioned, it was quite a different thing. The head messenger, who had never before attended to Mr. Scadgers, condescended to listen to what he had to say, at the same time deadening any hopes which might have been entertained with a chilling shoulder-shrug. "I'll see, sir," said he,---"I'll see; but I think the Seckittary is partic'lar engaged just now: if you'll take a seat, sir, I'll let him have your name; but--" "That's all; you tell him I'm here," said Mr. Scadgers, simply; "I'll stand the racket about his seeing me or not." The chief messenger shook his head as he walked slowly towards the secretarial apartment: he knew that no business in Mr. Scadgers's peculiar line could be on foot between that worthy and Mr. Simnel; for did not he, the chief messenger, take the Secretary's pass-book to the bank; did he not pay-in moneys, and get cash for his master's cheques; and was he not consequently aware that a very capital balance was always standing in Mr. Simnel's name? What could it be? The chief messenger's astonishment was increased when he received his orders to show the "party of the name of Scadgers" in at once to the secretarial presence; was at its height when, bidden to send for a cab, he saw the Secretary and Mr. Scadgers drive away together.
Arrived at Austin Friars, Mr. Simnel bade his companion wait in the outer office, while he himself was shown into the sanctum. He found Mr. Townshend somewhat aged and broken, but invested with all such relics of his former haughtiness as he could command. He received his visitor with studied cold politeness, pointed him to a chair, and waited for him to speak.
"I was sorry," began Simnel, "to be compelled to ask you to return home; but the fact is that the business was urgent, and I had no alternative. You comprehend?"
"I comprehend, sir," answered Mr. Townshend, "that the last time I saw you you proved yourself possessed of a secret, on the keeping of which depends my--almost my life! The possession of this secret enables you to dictate terms to me at your own convenience. Your convenience is now. You ordered me to come here to hear your terms, and I am here. Isn't that so?"
"You put matters a little harshly, Mr. Townshend; as, when you have heard what you are pleased to call my terms, I think you will allow. I do not come merely to dictate terms to you, as I at one time thought I should. There are wheels within wheels in my scheme; and I must take off the front, and show you the whole scheme at work before you will be able to see the mechanism of it. The last time I had the pleasure of talking with you, you asked me what I wanted; I told you nothing. Since then I have made up my mind. I want justice!"
"Justice!" echoed the old man, turning deadly white; "justice!"
"Justice!" said Simnel; "notonany one though, merelyforsomebody. Pardon my again asking about that door. Nobody to listen, eh? All right! Last time I was here I had a notion in my head, which has since resolved itself into a certainty, and into the pivot on which all my action turns. I must bore you with old memories once more, I'm afraid. You recollect that, while you were at Combcardingham with our old friends Piggott and Wells, you formed an acquaintance with a very pretty girl--a 'hand' in one of the factories? You shake your head, eh? itisa long time since, and these sort of things get pushed from one's mind by other affairs, and--however, I think you'll recollect her when I mention her name. Does the name Ann Moore convey to you--Ah! I thought so! I'll wait a minute, if you please; there's no hurry."
"Go on, sir; go on!" said Mr. Townshend, whose face was hidden in, and supported by, his hands.
"An attachment sprung up between you and Ann Moore, I think, which was the cause of great distress to her only relation, a brother, with whom she lived. This brother and you exchanged words--if not blows--on this subject, and the result was that the girl left her brother and went to live with you. Did you speak?"
If he had spoken, he did not repeat what he had said, but sat there still and silent.
"She had been living with you for about a year when that unfortunate affair of the acceptance happened. You were obliged to leave Combcardingham; but you were not obliged, so far as I can make out, to leave it as you did--without giving her the least notion of your intention; without leaving her one shilling to support herself or your little child! She could not go back to the factory; she had not been there since the child's birth; and she was weak and ill, and unable to do the work. So she and the child starved."
"Great God!" cried the old man, looking up in horror--"starved?"
"Well--for all you had to do with it! You're just as much a murderer as if they actually had perished of want, leaving them as you did But they didn't. Neighbours found them out only just in time; found out her brother; and he, when he found you'd gone off, came round and took his sister to his heart again. He was a printer just starting for himself, and he took his sister--she'd always been his favourite--to his new home; and there she died three weeks after her arrival."
"Died? Ann died? not of--"
"No, not of starvation, if you mean that; they said she died of a broken heart at having been deserted by the man she worshipped; but we know by medical science that that's an impossibility--don't we? At all events, she died; and then the printer, who was a rising man, looked after the little girl. He looked after her in an odd way. He had a foster-brother, who was a rider in a circus; and when the little girl was six years old he placed her with the circus-people, where she remained until he started her in life on her own account."
"She lived, then?"
"Oh dear, yes; lived considerably; lives now and flourishes, and does extremely well. You have heard of a riding-mistress and horsebreaker, Miss Kate Mellon?"
"I have heard of such a person; and I have not heard--"
"Steady, please! Kate Mellon is Ann Moore's daughter. I need not point out her relationship to you. You shake your head. Proofs of course you want? I've taken the liberty of ringing the bell. Be good enough," added Mr. Simnel, to the clerk who appeared, "to tell that person who is waiting outside to step in. Do you recognise him?" he asked of Mr. Townshend, as Scadgers entered the room.
Mr. Townshend, shading his eyes with his hand, looked long at the new-comer, and then said, "It is George Moore!"
"Right enough, sir," said Mr. Scadgers; "though it's many a long day since we met; and we're neither of us so young as then. Lord bless me! when I look at the Runner--we used to call him the 'Runner' because of Townshend of Bow Street, which was a nickname for him," added he, turning to Mr. Simnel,--"when I look at the Runner, and think how long it is since I left my mark on him about--"
"We won't trouble you for details," interrupted Mr. Simnel; "this gentleman acknowledges you as George Moore. Will you state whether you are the brother of Ann Moore; and if so, what became of her and her child?"
"Ann Moore was my sister," said Scadgers in a low voice, "as this man knows well enough. After he left the town suddenly and without giving her any notice, without leaving her any money, without--there, though it's so long ago, it makes me mad now when I think of it. When he left her starving and penniless, I took such care of her and the little one as best I could. Then--poor Ann died, and the child came to me. Young Phil Fox was my foster-brother; and he saw the little girl, and his wife took a sort of fancy to her, having none of their own. So I apprenticed her to old Fox, and she was with him for years, until I had got on in life and made some money; and then I thought I'd do what was right by the child, not letting myself be known in the matter, for I couldn't get over poor Ann's disgrace; and I fetched her away and had her put to business for herself."
"You didn't have her called by her mother's or her father's name, I believe?"
"No; her mother's name was shame to me; her father's would have been worse; so I called her Kate Mellon, after my mother's people; and by that name she's gone ever since."
"Thank you. You hear this testimony, Mr. Townshend; you--"
"I hear! I hear!" said the old man testily. "I hear what may possibly be a clever story arranged between two men for the purposes of extortion--"
The black cloud settled on Mr. Simnel's face; but before he could speak, Scadgers burst in: "Extortion: if I'd wanted any thing of you, Mr. George Townshend, shouldn't I have had it years ago? I've known where you've been and what money you've been making for the last eighteen years; and if I'd wanted any thing of you, I could have come down on you at any time. But I scorned it for me or for my sister's flesh and blood, just as I scorn it now! Extortion! why--"
"There! you're very naturally annoyed and excited, my good sir; but I think we shall bring Mr. Townshend to reason," said Mr. Simnel. "I don't think I need detain you any longer. I shall see you in a very short time, and, I hope, have some satisfactory news to communicate. Good-day!" and Mr. Simnel shook hands with Mr. Scadgers, who made a very curt bow to Mr. Townshend, and departed. Then Simnel turned to the old man, and said, "I make every allowance for your annoyance in this matter, Mr. Townshend; but you can no longer really doubt the truth of this statement."
"And suppose I admit it, sir; what then? To what end have you hunted up this story and--and the other, which you holdin terroremover me? What views of yours am I to meet: What price am I to pay for past follies?"
"Follies is an easy word," said Simnel, with a grim smile; "but I don't think my proposition is a hard one. I am attached to Miss Moore--Kate Mellon--call her what you like--your daughter, I mean--honourably attached to her; but you, as a man of the world, will see that it would be impossible for me to marry a girl who is simply known for her eccentricity and her daring; who has no position in society--no relations--no any thing which the world demands, save money, and even of that she has not sufficient. You follow me?"
"Yes, sir, yes," said Mr. Townshend, who had again buried his face in his hands.
"Well, then, what I propose," said Simnel, who was getting annoyed at the old man's manner, "and what, moreover, I intend, by means of the hold which I have over you, to carry out, is this: you must acknowledge this young lady as your daughter; take her to your house, and let her live there for a month or two; let our wedding--a formal wedding, with all friends invited--take place from there; and you must give her ten thousand pounds."
"I refuse!" said Mr. Townshend; "I entirely refuse; I--"
"Oh, no, you don't," interrupted Mr. Simnel; "you'll think better of it. Why shouldn't you? You gave Mrs. Schröder, who didn't want it at all, twenty thousand; but you're not so well off just now, I know."
"How do you know that, you who are so well-informed on all my affairs?"
"Well, I think I know pretty nearly every shilling you have out," said Simnel, rubbing his knee; "and Cotopaxis and Tierra del Fuegos have gone down like water lately. No; as matters stand, I'll be content with ten thousand."
"I did not so much mean about the money. I do not say that I would not pay the sum you name to be rid of the annoyance; but I will never undergo the humiliation of acknowledging that connexion."
"Better that than the humiliation of standing in the Old-Bailey dock! Better that than stone-quarrying at Portland at your time of life, sir, I can tell you, besides humiliation. Nonsense! It is not as if the acknowledging this daughter would hurt the prospects of the other. She has done with you now. If she marries again, it will be as Mr. Schröder's widow, without reference to you. Don't you understand?" ("He didn't like that allusion to Portland," said Simnel to himself. "I distinctly heard his teeth chatter as I said the word.")
"I did not so much mean about the money. I do not say that I would not pay the sum you name to be rid of the annoyance; but I will never undergo the humiliation of acknowledging that connexion."
"Better that than the humiliation of standing in the Old-Bailey dock! Better that than stone-quarrying at Portland at your time of life, sir, I can tell you, besides humiliation. Nonsense! It is not as if the acknowledging this daughter would hurt the prospects of the other. She has done with you now. If she marries again, it will be as Mr. Schröder's widow, without reference to you. Don't you understand?" ("He didn't like that allusion to Portland," said Simnel to himself. "I distinctly heard his teeth chatter as I said the word.") "And suppose I were to consent to this proposition, sir," said the old man in a tremulous voice, "what guarantee have I that you might not come upon me at some future time for more money, or the gratification of some other wish; and that, on my refusal, you might not betray that horrible secret which you hold?"
"Now, my dear sir, there your usual sound common-sense has for once deserted you. Is it likely that, when once you are my father-in-law, I should proclaim a gentleman whose connexion with me I had taken so much pains to make public, as--pardon me--as a felon?"
Mr. Townshend cowered back in his chair, as Simnel, leaning forward to impart additional earnestness to his manner, uttered these last words. For a minute or two there was a dead silence; then the old-man, with a terrible effort at collecting himself, asked, "When do you require an answer to this demand?"
"An answer? Immediately! I cannot conceive that there can be any question as to the answer to be returned. I am sure that you, my good sir, could not be mad enough to object to what is, under all the circumstances, really a very reasonable proposition. I merely want you to pass your word to agree to what I have placed before you, and we will then settle the time for carrying the arrangement into effect."
"What delay will you grant me?"
"Now, upon my word, Mr. Townshend," said Simnel, in a semi-offended tone, "this is scarcely polite. You ask for delay, as though you were ordered for execution, instead of having what might have been a very unpleasant affair settled in a thoroughly satisfactory manner."
"You must pardon me, sir," said Mr. Townshend; "I am an old man now. I am broken with illness; and this interview has been too much for me. Pray end it as speedily as possible." Indeed he looked as wan and haggard as a corpse.
"Poor devil!" thought Simnel, "I pity him thoroughly. But there must be no shrinking now, and no delay, or that Schröder-Beresford business may fall through; and then--" "I must get you to act at once, then, Mr. Townshend, if you please," he said aloud. "Your daughter had better come to you at once, and we can then be married in a month or six weeks' time."
Mr. Townshend bowed his head. "As you please, sir; perhaps you will see me again to-morrow, or the day after. Just now I can settle nothing; my head is gone." And so the interview ended.
"I must keep him to it, by Jove!" soliloquised Mr. Simnel; "and pretty tight too, or it will fall through yet. He looked horribly ill, and he'll be going off the hooks without any recognition or any settlement, and then we should be neatly in the hole; for, of course, not one single soul would believe the story of Kitty's birth, though told by me and sworn to by Scadgers. And now I must let her know the whole truth, and ask for the reward. It's been a hard fight, and it isn't won yet."
A crowd gathered round her in an instant. A nursery-maid, with her shrieking, frightened, inquisitive charges; a man who had been reading a book, and who still retained it open in his hand; a Life-guardsman who, jauntily striding along with a cane under his arm, had seen the horse jump and fall, and had him by the bridle so soon as he staggered to his feet, after rolling; a few vagrant boys, who came whooping from under the trees where they had been at play; and two old gentlemen, who had been silently pacing up and down together. Flecked with foam, covered with gravel, and bleeding at the knees and mouth, Balthazar stood trembling all over; and now and then looking down in wonder at his mistress who lay there, her head supported on a man's knee, her face deadly white, with one small thread of blood trickling down her forehead. The man on whose knee she lay passed his hand rapidly down her side and in the region of her heart. He was a park-keeper--a big brown-bearded man, whose decorated breast showed what deadly service he had seen--a stalwart giant with the heart of a child, for the tears were in his eyes, and his voice was any thing but steady as he looked up and said, "It beats yet!" It was to the guardsman he said it--the guardsman, who gave Balthazar's bit a wrench, and who muttered hearty curses on the horse for spoiling the beauty of such a comely lass.
"All your fault, you blunder-headed brute, it was! The lady sat him like a bird, but he got the bit between his teeth and came bolting down the Row; and when she tried to turn him over the rails, he jumped short, the beast, and went slap on to his head. Yarr!" and he gave the horse another chuck in the mouth, and looked as if he would have liked nothing so well as to punish him on the spot.
As he spoke, a carriage drawn by a pair of horses came whirling down the Drive. It contained two ladies, one of whom, seeing the crowd, sat up, and pointed it out to her companion. Then they both looked eagerly out, and checked the coachman just as they reached the spot. By his mistress's orders the footman descended, inquired what had happened, and returned to the carriage to report. The next minute Alice Schröder, closely followed by Barbara Churchill, was kneeling by Kate Mellon's side.
What was it?--how had it happened?--who was the lady?--did any one know her?--had a doctor been sent for? These questions were asked in a breath, and almost as speedily answered. The story of the accident, so much of it at least as had been witnessed, was narrated. The park-keeper knew the lady by sight as a constant rider in the Row, always splendidly mounted, generally with other ladies, who, he thought, were pupils like; real ladies, the latter, and no doubt about it; for he thought he saw a glimmer of distrust in Barbara's eye; and this poor lady regularly like one of themselves. Poor lady! always so affable, giving "Good morning" to him and the other park-keepers--never knew her name, no; but no harm in her--one of the right sort, take his word for it. Had a doctor been sent for? Yes; two of the vagrant boys had been started off by the man with the book to fetch the nearest surgeon; but in the mean time several other persons had come up; among them a tall thin gentleman on an old white horse. This gentleman dismounted at once, quietly pushed his way through the crowd, knelt down by poor Kate Mellon's senseless body, and placed his finger on her pulse; then, looking up with a grave, thoughtful, professional smile into Mrs. Schröder's face, said:
"You are a friend of this lady's?"
"Only in my desire to serve her," said poor little Alice, who was the best-hearted little creature in the world, and who was bursting with philanthropy. "Why do you ask?"
"Simply that she must be moved to the nearest house as quietly and as quickly as possible. I am Dr. B.," continued the gentleman, naming a well-known physician; "but this is a surgeon's case, and should be seen by a surgeon at once. I fear St. George's is almost too far off."
"St. George's!" said Alice. "Oh, she must not go to an hospital; she--"
"My dear lady," said the old physician, "she could not go to any place so good; but it is a little far off."
"Then let her go to my house," said Alice. "I live close here--in Saxe-Coburg Square--just through Queen's Gate. Let us take her there at once, and--"
"My dear young lady," said Dr. B., "you scarcely know what trouble you are entailing on yourself. This poor girl is in a very bad way, I am sure, from the mere cursory examination I have been able to make. And--and, pardon me," he added, glancing at Alice's widow's-cap, "but you, surely, have seen enough trouble already for one so young."
"Will you be kind enough to superintend her being lifted into the carriage?" was all Alice said in reply. And the doctor bowed, and looked at her with a wonderfully benevolent expression out of his keen gray eyes.
Where had Barbara been during this colloquy? Where, but at the side of the prostrate figure, staunching the little stream of blood that welled slowly from the wound in the forehead, and bathing the deadly-cold brow and the limp hands with water that had been fetched from the neighbouring Serpentine. And then, at the doctor's suggestion, the park-keeper fetched a hurdle from the enclosure, and this they stretched across the seats of the carriage, and, covering it with Shawls and cloaks and wraps, lifted on to it the prostrate form of Kate Mellon, and with Alice and Barbara attendant on her, and the doctor riding close by, they drove slowly away.
Informed by the doctor that it would be dangerous to attempt to carry the patient upstairs, Mrs. Schröder had sent the footman on with instructions; and by the time they arrived at the house they found that a bed had been prepared in the library, a room on the ground floor, unused since Mr. Schröder's death. As they passed through Queen's Gate Dr. B. had cantered off, promising to return in a minute, and they had scarcely laid poor Kitty on the bed before he appeared, followed by a handsome bald-headed man, with a keen eye and a smile of singular sweetness, wham he introduced as Mr. Slade, the celebrated surgeon of St. Vitus's.
"I thought I recognised Slade's cab standing at a door in Prince's Terrace. He drives the most runaway horse in the most easily over-turned vehicle in London; but I suppose he thinks he can set his own neck when he breaks it, which he is safe to do sooner or later; so I rode round, and fortunately caught him just as he was coming out. And now I'll leave the case in his hands; it would be impossible to leave it in better." And so saying, Dr. B. bowed to the ladies, exchanged a laugh and a pinch of snuff with his brother-professional, and took his leave.
Mr. Slade then approached the bed, and made a rapid examination of the patient, the others watching him anxiously. His face revealed nothing, nor did he speak until he sent one of the servants for a small square box, which was, he said, in his carriage. While waiting for this, Alice took heart to speak to him, and ask him if the case was very serious.
"Very," was his quiet reply. "Could scarcely be worse."
"But thereishope?"
"There is always hope," said the old man, his lace lighting up with his sweet grave smile; "but this is a very bad case. The poor girl's ribs are severely fractured, and there is concussion here," pointing to the head, "which causes her insensibility. The box--thank you. Now, ladies, will you kindly leave the room, and I will join you presently."
When he came into the drawing-room, he said, "It is a compound fracture, and of a very bad kind. I fear she will never pull through; if she does, she must never dream of work again. I presume you ladies have been pupils of hers?"
"Pupils!" said Alice; "no, indeed; was she a governess?"
"We do not even know this poor lady's name," said Barbara; "we saw the accident, and Mrs. Schröder had her brought here at once."
"Mrs. Schröder is an angel of mercy," said Mr. Slade, with an old-fashioned bow. "This poor girl lying downstairs is Miss Mellon, a riding-mistress; a most correct and proper person, I've always heard, and one who had a great deal to do in breaking and training horses. I've often seen her in the Park; she rode splendidly; and I cannot conceive how this accident occurred."
"Do you think her senses will return--that she will be able to express any wishes--before--"
"I should think so," said Mr. Slade, not permitting Barbara to finish the sentence; "I think she will probably recover from the concussion, and then she will be sensible. It is the fracture I fear. I'll send a man to her place in Down Street, to let them know where she is, and I'll look round again this evening."
SO there Kate Mellon lay helpless, senseless, motionless, watched over unconsciously by two women, one of whom she hated deeply, and by the other of whom she was held in the greatest detestation. There she lay through the dreary afternoon, through the long evening,--when Mr. Slade came again bringing with him one of the hospital-nurses,--and through the dead solemn night. Very early the next morning, between seven and eight, Barbara, on her way from her bedroom to the library, was surprised to see Mr. Slade enter the hall, and expressed her surprise.
"Well, itisearly," said the kind-hearted surgeon; "but, my dear Mrs. Churchill, I've taken a great interest in this poor girl; and as I always take a constitutional round the Park before breakfast, I thought I'd just run across and see her.--Well, nurse, what news? None, eh? Just raise that curtain the least bit--that'll do. Hm! she'll get rid of the concussion; but--hm! well, well, not our will, but Thine; hm, hm! Any body come after her yesterday?"
"An old bailiff or stud-groom," said Barbara, "came down in the evening, and entreated to be allowed to see his Mistress. I told him that was impossible, and explained the state of things to him myself. Poor fellow, he was dreadfully overcome, the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he bemoaned his mistress's fate most bitterly."
"Hm! right not to let him see her then; could have done no good. But she'll probably come to her senses during the day, and then, if she asks to see any body--well, send for them. The refusal might irritate her, and--and it can make very little difference."
"You think then she is--in danger?" asked Barbara.
"My dear young lady," said he, taking her hand, "in the greatest danger. If inflammation of the lungs sets in, as I much fear it will, nothing can save her.--Nurse, I'll write a prescription for a cordial. If she speaks, and sends for any one, give it to her just before they come. It will revive her for a time."
About midday, when Alice had gone out for a little air, and Barbara was left alone with the nurse and the patient, there came a groan from the bed, and running up together, they found Kate with her eyes open, staring vaguely before her. After a few minutes she spoke, in a hoarse strange voice.
"What's this?" she said. "Have I missed my tip at the ribbons and had a spill? Lord, how old Fox will give it me! A-h, my side! This must have been a bad cropper, eh? Hollo! I was fancying I was at the old circus, again. Where am I? who are you? what has happened?"
"You are, with friends," said Barbara, kneeling by the bed; "you have had an accident, and--"
"Ah, now I recollect! the Irish horse bolted and blundered at the rails! How long ago was it?"
"Yesterday, about this time."
"And I was brought here--to your house! What a kind voice you've got! and I'm bad, eh? I know I must be from the pain I'm in; my side hurts me most awful. Has the doctor seen me? what doctor?"
"Mr. Slade: you've heard of him?"
"Oh, yes, seen him often; drives a rat-tailed bay in a D'Orsay cab; goes the pace; often wondered he didn't break his neck. What does he--oh! my side!" She groaned deeply, and while groaning seemed to drop off into a heavy stertorous slumber.
When she roused again Mr. Slade was standing over her holding her pulse. "Well," he asked in a gentle voice, "you know me? Ah, of course you do! I've seen you taking stock of my old rattletrap, as you've spun by me, and laughing at my nag. Pain still? kind of pressure, eh? Yes, yes, my poor lass, I know what you mean; so dreadfully weak too; yes, yes. What, danger? Wen, my dear, there's always danger in these cases; and one never knows. Not afraid? no, my brave girl, I know your courage; but--well, there's no harm in settling any little matters which--eh? if in God's will we come all right, there's no harm done, and,---yes, yes; rest now a bit; I'll see you again to-night." And Mr. Slade hurried into his carriage, blowing his Rose very loudly indeed with his red-silk pocket-handkerchief, and with two large tears on his spectacle-glasses..
When the door had shut behind him, Kate called the nurse in a feeble voice, and bade her send for the lady to whom she had previously spoken. In answer to this call, Barbara was speedily by the bedside.
"You--you don't mind my sending for you! do you, dear?" asked Kate, in a low tremulous voice.
"Mind, my poor child,--mind! of course not. What is it, dear?"
"I want you to--do you mind, giving me your hand? I can't reach it myself--so, dear; thank you. I want you to do something for me. I--I'm dying, dear--oh, don't shrink from me--I know it; he tried to hide it from me, that kind old man, and bless him for it! but I saw how he looked at the nurse, and I heard her whispering to him behind the screen. I don't fear it, dear. I know--well, never mind! I want to see two people before I go; and I want you to send for them and let them come here, and let me talk to them--will you, dear?"
"Why, of course, of course," said Barbara, the tears streaming down her cheeks; "but you mustn't talk in this way,--you mustn't give way so--no one can tell how this will turn out."
"Ican," said Kate quietly. "I seemed to know it when I heard the click of that horse's shoes against the iron railing. It all rose before me in an instant, and I knew I was a dead woman. You can't conceive--I haven't said much--but you can't conceive what torture I'm going through with my side. It burns and burns, and presses--there! I won't say any more about it. Now, dear, will you put down the names of the people who are to be sent to?"
"I shall recollect them; tell me now."
"Well, Mr. Simnel, Tin-Tax Office, Rutland House--"
"Yes; and--"
"And Frank Churchill, Esq.--oh, how your grasp tightens on my hand! Frank Churchill, Esq.,Statesmannewspaper-office--in the City somewhere--they'll find it. What is the matter, dear? You heard me?"
"Yes," said Barbara faintly; "they shall be sent for at once."
"At last," said she to herself when she had regained her own room, after despatching the messenger--"at last I shall be enabled to fathom this horrible mystery, and to show those who have doubted, that I was not wrong, after all, in taking the decisive step which I did. If this wretched creature prove to be--as I suppose she will--Frank's correspondent both at Bissett and at home; if--and yet Mr. Slade said he believed her to be a perfectly correct and proper person, else he would not have permitted her to be received here. Mr. Slade's belief--what is that worth? Is it possible that--no! Here is a woman, poor creature, believing herself to be on her deathbed, and sending for my husband,--a woman of whose existence I have never heard, who is obviously not a person of society, and yet who--great Heavens, if it be proved!--if the worst that I have dared to imagine be proved! And yet lately I have felt that that is impossible, in thinking over Frank's character and ways of life, in thinking over all he has said of dishonour and deception, I have felt certain that--and yet here is this woman sending for him not to his private house,--'Statesmanoffice, somewhere in the City--they'll find it.'StatesmanOffice! That's where the first letter was addressed, and redirected to Bissett; and the second letter,--the envelope, I mean,--now I think of it, was sent to the same place. Itmustbe the same. And yet how sweet, and patient, and resigned she is! how quiet and calm, and--Frank Churchill, Esq.--no mistake in both the names! Who is the other man, I wonder? Frank Churchill! what an extraordinary fate has planned this for us! I'll see their interview, and hear all that she has to say; and then if--of course it can't be otherwise--what other solution can there be? If Frank has intrigued with this--and she going to die too; lying there at the point of death, and looking up into my face with so much gratitude and affection--oh, Heaven direct me! I'm at my wits'-end!" and Barbara threw herself on her bed and wept bitterly.
The short dim twilight had faded into dusk before the cab containing the messenger and the two gentlemen whom he had been sent to fetch arrived at the house. They were ushered at once into the dining-room, where they were received by Pilkington the butler, who produced refreshment. That being declined, they were shown into the library. In the middle of the room stood the bed in deep shadow; across the far end of the room stood a large folding screen, almost hidden by which was a woman with her back to them, bending over a table and apparently engaged in compounding some medicine or drink. A shaded lamp placed on a table between the bed and the screen shed a dim light throughout the room. As the door opened, Mr. Simnel entered first, with a faltering step, strode swiftly to the bedside, and then dropped on to his knees, burying his face in his hands. Kate moved her arm with great difficulty until her hand rested on his head, and then she said, half trustingly, half reproachfully, "Robert!" There was no spoken reply, but the man's big strong frame heaved up and down convulsively, and the tears came rushing thick as rain through his closed fingers.
"Robert, my poor fellow! you must not give way so; you'll break me down. I hadn't a notion you--and yet how faithfully you've served! I saw it, Robert; I knew it long ago, when--ah, well, all over now; all over now, Robert, eh?--What, Guardy, you here too! That's well. Ah, I feel so much more composed now I see your dear solemn old face. You came at once."
"Came at once, my poor child--my poor dear child--" and Churchill's voice failed him and he stopped.
"Now, Guardy, come! You won't have much more trouble with your bothering charge, and you must be steady now. It gives me fresh courage, I declare, to hear your solemn voice and to know that you're at my very side for all sorts of serious advice.--Now, Robert, you know that I'm in a bad way; that I'm going to--no, no, be a man, Robert; you'll upset me, if you give way so,--Guardy, this gentleman, Mr. Simnel, has been very, very kind to me for a long, long time. He wanted to marry me, Guardy; and wanted me to have a proper place as his wife, and so he's been hunting up all about my friends and my birth and that, and he's found out a lot. But he doesn't know about you, Guardy; and as I wanted to tell him about that, and to settle one other thing, I sent for you both to-night. The--the medicine!--ask nurse--I'm a little faint!"
Both men rose; but Simnel was nearest, and it was into his hand that the woman behind the screen placed the glass. When Kate had swallowed the cordial, she said, in firmer tones:
"I told you, Robert, that when I left old Fox's circus I was fetched away by two gentlemen, an old fellow and another. This is the other. When we got to the hotel that night, the old man said to me, 'Never you mind who I am, my lass; you won't see me any more after I've once started you in town; but you will see this gentleman, and you'll have to send to him whenever you want advice or any thing else. He's your guardian,' he said, 'and he'll look after you.' I recollect I laughed, and said he looked very young, and giggled out some girl's nonsense; but he--I can see you now, Guardy!--put his hand on my head and told me he was much older than I, and that he'd had plenty of experience to teach him the ways of the world. I've never seen the old man since; but, oh, how often I've sent for Guardy! I've worried him day and night, written to him whenever I wanted to know any thing: how to treat swells who wouldn't pay, or who were getting troublesome in other ways; when I wanted the landlord seen, or fresh land bought; when--good Lord! when I lost heart over--something--and thought of giving the place up, and selling off and going away, he's kept me as straight as a die; he's never shown the least ill-temper with all my worryings and fidgettings; he's always shown me what to do for the best--and has been my kindest and least selfish and best friend."
"You say too much, Kate," said Churchill; "any thing I have done you have repaid long since by your good sense and docility."
"You could never be repaid, sir, I see plainly enough," said Simnel; "there are few men who would have so acquitted themselves of each a charge, and I shall ever honour and esteem you for it. But may I ask how you came to be known to the other person of this story, who from some knowledge I guess to be Scadgers the bill-discounter?"
"It is easily explained. When I arrived in London from Germany, and determined to make my bread by literature, I wrote where I could, and for what I could get. Some article of mine was seen by Mr. Scadgers. who then owned, amongst other lucrative speculations, a weekly newspaper and a cheap periodical. Pleased with what he had read--or had recommended to him more likely--he sent for me, and after a little discussion, made me editor and manager of both his literary speculations. He paid liberally, and seemed pleased with all I did; then wanted me to undertake the management of others of his affairs, which I declined. But one night in his office he told me the story of this girl--incidentally, as a suggestion for a tale for the paper, I believe; and so interested me that I suggested his removing her from the life she was then leading, and giving her a chance of doing something for herself. After some discussion he agreed, on the understanding that he should never appear in the matter; but that if he provided the necessary funds, I would manage the whole business and undertake a kind of guardianship of the girl. I hesitated, until I saw her at the circus; then, being somewhat of a physiognomist, and thinking I saw in her face promise of what was wanted--honesty, endurance, and a power of keeping straight in front of adverse circumstances--I consented. The rest you know."
"Will you take my hand, Mr. Churchill?" said Simnel in a low voice; "God Almighty bless you for--for your kindness and your trust!"
"That's right!" said Kate on whom the action had not passed unobserved--"shake hands, you two, good fellows both of you! And now look here--but one word! I didn't catch all you said, Guardy, but you and Robert seem to have made it all right. And now I want to tell you about something--about--when I'm gone, you know--oh, you silly fellow, Robert, how can I speak if you go on so!--I've put away some money, you know; and I want you to have it, Guardy. You're married, some one told me; and you'll want all that; and you won't despise it, eh? You know it's all honestly come by, and you've seen how it's been made--my accounts, you know, you used to say they were very decently kept; and there'll be no shame in taking it--your wife, I mean, and that sort of thing; you can tell her about it. I wonder what she's like. I should have liked to have seen her, Guardy, though perhaps she wouldn't have cared for such as I. Oh, poor old Freeman and the men at The Den--let them have a year's wages; I've put it all regular in a will which I made last year; you'll find it in the desk; and sell the stud--high prices, most of them. I--my side's awful now; don't go yet; let me have a little--just a little rest. I'm faint, and in such--such dreadful pain!"
She fell back exhausted. Simnel still knelt by the bedside convulsed with grief; but Frank Churchill looked round the screen to summon the nurse. No one was there, so he went to the door and called softly. The nurse responded at once and passed by him; but as he turned back he saw the butler, who beckoned to him.
"Will you please to step this way, sir?" said the man; "you're wanted in the dining-room."
Churchill followed him; and as the dining-room door shut behind him, found himself face to face with his wife.