In such haste were the two girls to open the packet that they almost ran up the spiral-staircase to Mildred's bedroom, in which was a deep bay window.
In this recess they sat down.
Mildred's hand trembled as she tore open the packet.
It contained a long, closely-written letter, inside which was a folded sheet of paper that looked like a document of some kind.
This document dropped on the table, and was not examined at the moment.
The letter was dated on the previous day, but bore no address.
Ere she had read many lines, a mist seemed to gather over Mildred's vision. Unable to proceed, she laid the letter down.
“You terrify me,” cried Emmeline. “What has happened?”
“He meditates self-destruction,” replied Mildred. “But read the letter, dearest—I cannot.”
Mustering up all her courage, Emmeline read aloud as follows:
“This is the last letter you will ever receive from me, dearest sister, and, in bidding you an eternal farewell, I implore you to think kindly of me.
“With one exception you are the only person in the world whom I love, and my latest thoughts will be of her and you.
“You know her, and will easily guess her name, but I shall not confide it to this sheet of paper. In all respects she is superior to the artful and treacherous woman by whom I allowed myself to be deceived—superior in beauty and accomplishments, and amiable as beautiful. Had I been fortunate enough to wed her, I should have been a different man. Now it is too late, I see my folly, and comprehend my loss.”
“You see that he dearly loved you, Emmeline, for it is to you that he refers,” observed Mildred. “But proceed, I entreat you!”
“I have met with the basest ingratitude. Men who have received from me favours innumerable—hangers-on who have sponged upon me, and professed the greatest regard for me, have shrunk from me, and avoided me in my misfortunes—men who have fleeced me, who have ruined me, and driven me to desperation! My funds are almost exhausted, but they will last me out. I owe nothing, for I have paid that kind-hearted Sir Bridgnorth Charlton the exact sum he lent me. Had I not obtained it from him, I should have been called a defaulter. Fortune favoured me for the moment, for I won sufficient to discharge my debt to him. He would lend me more, I doubt not, but I will never borrow again. As to the woman who has robbed me of my inheritance, I have sworn I will accept nothing from her, and I will keep my oath. She will be responsible for her conduct before Heaven.”
Again there was a pause, but neither made a remark and Emmeline went on:
“Fear nothing, dearest sister. I have changed my name, and have taken such precautions that my retreat cannot be discovered. Nothing will be found upon me that can establish my identity. A body will be found; that will be all!”
“Gracious Heaven!” ejaculated Mildred. “Grant that this dreadful catastrophe may be averted!”
Emmeline's voice had been suffocated by emotion, but after a pause she proceeded:
“Mildred, I have been reckless and extravagant, and have led a most foolish and most useless life. I have been a gambler and have squandered large sums upon persons who profited by my follies; but I have done nothing dishonourable—nothing to tarnish my name as a gentleman. I think I could have retrieved my position, but it is not worth the trouble. I am weary of life; sick of the hollowness, the ingratitude, the perfidy of the world! Timon of Athens did not hate mankind more bitterly than I do. I would consent to live if I felt certain of revenge on some of those who have wronged me; but on no other condition. This is not likely to happen; so it is best I should go!”
“Alas, poor Chetwynd!” exclaimed Mildred. “His fancied wrongs have driven him to the verge of madness!”
“He seems extraordinarily sensitive, and to feel most acutely the slights shown him by his ungrateful associates,” said Emmeline.
“Is the letter finished?” asked Mildred.
“No,” replied Emmeline. “There is a farewell to you. But I cannot read it. My voice fails me!”
Mildred then took the letter, and went on with it:
“You know exactly how I am circumstanced, Mildred. I have nothing, that I am aware of, to leave; but I have made my will, and in your favour, and shall enclose it in this letter. I may have some rights of which I am ignorant; and if it should prove so, I desire that you may benefit by them.”
“Here is the will,” she remarked, taking up the little document and examining it. “I see he has observed all necessary formalities. Strange he should be able to do this at such a time!”
Though deeply affected, she resumed the perusal of the letter:
“And now farewell, dearest sister! Again I implore you to think of me kindly! My faults are inexcusable; yet do not judge me harshly. The world has done that, and with sufficient severity. Do not suppose these lines are written to move your compassion. Long before they meet your eye, I shall be indifferent to scorn, neglect, and treachery!
“Should an opportunity ever occur of breathing my name to her I have loved, say that my chief regret was that I threw away the happiness that might have been mine!”
Emmeline uttered an exclamation of despair, but it did not interrupt Mildred:
“Trouble yourself no more about me. Search will be in vain. Nothing can arrest my purpose. Ere tomorrow morn I shall have ceased to breathe, and have quitted a world I hate. Neglect not my last request! Farewell, my sister! May you be happier than your unfortunate brother!”
“Heaven have mercy on his soul!” exclaimed Mildred, dropping on her knees, and praying fervently.
Emmeline, likewise, knelt down and prayed.
After awhile, they arose.
“Sit down for a moment, dearest Emmeline,” said Mildred; “I have something to tell you. I believe the fatal act was committed at one o'clock this morning.”
“Why at that precise hour?” inquired Emmeline.
“You shall hear. I was sleeping on yonder couch, and was awakened by the striking of the clock. The moon was shining brightly through the window, and I thought I saw a figure standing just where you are seated. I should have felt much more frightened than I did, if I had not been convinced it was Chetwynd; though how he came here at that time I could not imagine. I called out, but no answer was made, and I then became seriously alarmed. Suddenly, the figure, which had hitherto been looking down, raised its head, and fixed its mournful gaze upon me. I then saw that the features were those of Chetwynd, but pale as death! The phantom did not move from its position, but seemed to wave a farewell to me, and then melted away in the moonbeams.”
“And this phantom you beheld?” said Emmeline, who had listened with intense interest in the narrative.
“I saw it as plainly as I now see you,” replied the other. “Why it appeared to me, I now understand.”
The silence that ensued was broken by Mildred.
After carefully replacing the letter and the will in the envelope, she said: “Let us go down-stairs and communicate the sad news to Sir Bridgnorth. It is right he should know it.”
“True,” replied Emmeline. “But oh! dearest Mildred, I can never like Mrs. Calverley again. I look upon her as the cause of this dreadful event.”
“You do her an injustice, dear Emmeline,” said
Mildred, who, however, began to regard her stepmother with altered feelings.
“We shall see how she bears the intelligence,” said Emmeline; “and from that, some judgment may be formed.”
As the two girls entered the drawing-room, their changed appearance and mournful looks struck both Sir Bridgnorth and Mrs. Calverley, who were still seated on the sofa, conversing together earnestly.
Sir Bridgnorth immediately arose, and, advancing to meet them, said to Mildred:
“I am afraid you have not received very good news of Chetwynd?”
“Alas! no, Sir Bridgnorth,” she replied, in a sorrowful voice. “You need give yourself no further concern about my unfortunate brother!”
“Why not?” he interrupted, anxiously.
“He is gone!” she replied, sadly.
“You shock me greatly!” he ejaculated. “Mrs. Calverley and myself have been considering what could be done for him, and have just devised a scheme that we hoped might be successful.”
“All schemes for his benefit are now useless,” said Emmeline. “He no longer needs our aid.”
“Did I hear aright?” said Mrs. Calverley, starting up, and coming towards them. “It cannot be that Chetwynd is dead?”
“It is so,” said Emmeline.
“But how did he die?” asked Mrs. Calverley.
“By his own hand!” replied Emmeline, regarding her fixedly.
Mrs. Calverley looked aghast, and as if ready to drop.
“I did not understand he had destroyed himself,” said Sir Bridgnorth. “When did this sad event occur? Can you give me any particulars?”
“I can only state that he contemplated suicide,” replied Mildred. “This letter is a last farewell to me.”
“Ah! then we need not despair of beholding him again,” said Sir Bridgnorth, with a sensation of relief. “Many a man, now alive, has threatened to put an end to his existence. I hope it may turn out to be so in Chetwynd's case.”
“I sincerely hope so!” said Mrs. Calverley.
“I have no such belief,” observed Mildred, sadly.
“If you had read his most affecting letter, you would entertain no doubt as to his determination,” added Emmeline, with difficulty refraining from tears.
“We shall soon be able to ascertain the truth,” said Sir Bridgnorth.
“Not so,” replied Mildred. “He has taken such precautions that his fate will remain a mystery.”
Sir Bridgnorth shook his head.
“I can't believe that possible,” he said. “It will be important, on several accounts, to have proof of his death. He may have made a will.”
“Hehasmade a will, and has sent it me in this letter,” replied Mildred.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Calverley, surprised. “But he had nothing to leave.”
“He seems to have thought otherwise,” said Mildred. “He fancied he had certain rights and claims, and those he has left to me.”
The slight shade that passed over Mrs. Calverley's countenance was not unnoticed by Emmeline.
“This shows it will be absolutely necessary to establish the fact of his death,” observed Sir Bridgnorth. “What is the date of the letter you have received?”
“It was written yesterday,” replied Mildred. “But he is not alive now,” she added, solemnly.
“You believe he destroyed himself last night?” asked Mrs. Calverley.
“I firmly believe so,” she rejoined.
Mrs. Calverley then turned to Sir Bridgnorth, and with a coldness that appeared revolting to Mildred and Emmeline, said:
“Is any case of suicide reported in the papers this morning?”
“I have seen none,” he replied. “But it might have escaped me. I seldom read such cases.”
Emmeline rang the bell, and desired the butler to bring the newspapers.
The order was promptly obeyed, and search made, but no “mysterious death” or “supposed suicide” could be discovered.
“It is needless to ask if any address is given with your letter,” remarked Sir Bridgnorth to Mildred.
“It is not likely there would be.”
“And nothing mentioned that could serve as a guide?”
“Nothing.”
Sir Bridgnorth then bade them all a formal adieu, and made a final attempt to give them comfort.
“I hope Chetwynd may have changed his mind at the last moment,” he said. “I believe it will turn out so. To-morrow I shall set out on my melancholy errand, and institute inquiries. You shall hear from me as soon as I have anything to communicate; and I promise you one thing—I will not remain idle. It shall not be my fault if the facts of this painful affair are not discovered.”
Nearly at the same date as the incident related in the foregoing chapters, and about two hours past midnight, a strongly-built, middle-aged man, whose garb proclaimed him a mechanic, took his way across Westminster Bridge.
He was not walking very fast, but when the hour was tolled forth from the lofty tower, he began to mend his pace, glancing occasionally at the sullen river that swept on beneath him.
The bridge was completely deserted. The last policeman he had seen was standing near New Palace Yard, and the belated mechanic was thinking how strange and solitary the usually crowded footway appeared, when he descried a figure leaning over the low parapet.
He had heard many tales of suicide, and something in the attitude of the figure caused him to hurry on.
As he advanced, he perceived, by the light of the lamp, that it was a young man, bare-headed, for a felt hat was lying on the pavement.
The person was muttering to himself, and his demeanour was altogether so wild, that the mechanic was convinced that his suspicions were correct, and he, therefore, called out.
He instantly turned at the cry, and exhibited a haggard visage; but instead of replying, made an attempt to spring upon the parapet.
But the workman was too quick for him, and seized him before he could execute his desperate purpose.
The intended suicide quite shook in the grasp of his powerful preserver.
He was a young man, and his brown hair and beard made the ghastly hue of his countenance yet more striking by the contrast. Moreover, he had the look of a gentleman, but it was difficult to judge of his condition from his grey tweed habiliments.
He offered very little resistance to his friendly captor, his strength apparently being gone.
“Let me go!” he said in a hoarse voice. “I don't wish to live!”
“Madman!” cried the mechanic. “What's the matter, that you would throw away life thus?”
“What's the matter?” echoed the other, with a laugh that had nothing human in it. “I am ruined—utterly ruined! Had you let me alone, my troubles would have been ended by this time!”
And he made another ineffectual attempt to free himself.
“Don't think to get away!” said the mechanic. “I'm sorry for you, but it's my duty to prevent you from committing this wicked act. I shall hold you till a policeman comes up!”
“No; don't do that!” cried the wretched man. “Though I don't know where to turn for a night's lodging, I don't want to be locked up! Leave go your hold; I promise not to make the attempt again!”
“Well, I'll trust you,” replied the mechanic, releasing him.
They looked at each other for a few moments, and both seemed satisfied with the scrutiny.
The intended suicide was apparently about three or four and twenty; tall, handsome, well-proportioned. As already intimated, he had brown locks and a brown beard, and was dressed in such manner that no precise idea could be formed of his rank.
In regard to his preserver, there could be no mistake. His working attire and cap proclaimed his station. He had an honest, manly countenance. In age he might be about forty-five.
“Here's your hat, sir,” he said picking it up. “I should like to have a word with you before we part. Perhaps I may be warranted in asking you a question or two, especially as my motive is a good one. I'm not influenced by mere curiosity. I'll begin by telling you my name. It's Joe Hartley. I'm a stonemason by trade, and live in Lambeth Palace Road—at least, close beside it. The reason I'm out so late is that I've been doing a job at Paddington. But I don't regret it, since I've been the humble instrument of saving a fellow-creature. Now you know all you may care to learn about me, and, in return, I should like to hear something about you.”
“I can't tell you who I am, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, “nor can I acquaint you with my strange history. You may guess that I must have been brought to a desperate pass.”
His voice changed as he went on.
“What's a poor fellow to do when he's utterly ruined? I've spent all my money, pawned my watch, my ring, and another little trinket. I've nothing left—not a sou.”
“But have you no relatives—no friends?” inquired Hartley, kindly.
“Yes; I've relatives, but I've quarrelled with them, and would die rather than go near them!” he cried, in a bitter, desperate tone, that left no doubt of his fixed determination. “Friends I have none!”
“Well, well, I won't argue with you about that,” said Hartley. “But there is no occasion for one so young as you are to starve. There are hundreds of ways in which you may earn a living. Amongst others, you might 'list for a soldier. I'm much mistaken if you don't stand six feet two. They'd take you at the Horse Guards in a minute.
“I did think of that; and, perhaps, might have done it, but I was goaded to this desperate act by a circumstance on which I won't dwell. I think I must have been mad. Very likely I shall enlist tomorrow.
“But you want rest, and have nowhere to go. Come home with me,” said the stonemason.
“You are very good, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, much affected. “This is real kindness, and I feel it—feel it deeply!”
“Come along, then,” cried Hartley. “There's a policeman moving towards us, and he'll wonder what we are about. You won't tell me your name, I suppose?”
“Call me Liddel—Walter Liddel,” replied the other. “It's not my real name, though I have a right to use it. At any rate, I mean to be known by it henceforward, and it will serve me with the recruiting sergeant.”
“It will serve you with me as well,” said Hartley. “So come along, Mr. Walter Liddel.”
Presently they encountered the policeman, who eyed them rather suspiciously, but was satisfied with a few words from Hartley.
On quitting the bridge, the stonemason turned off on the right, into Lambeth Palace Road.
They walked on in silence, for Liddel did not seem inclined to talk.
Gradually the street became wider, and Hartley, noticing that his companion began to walk very feebly, told him he had not much further to go.
Their course seemed to be stopped by the high wall of the palace grounds; but Hartley turned into a narrow street on the left, called Spencer's Rents, and halting before the door of a neat little habitation, said:
“Here we are!”
Walter Liddel replied, in a faint voice, that he was glad of it.
Hartley then knocked softly at the door, which was presently opened by his wife.
Perceiving that some one was with her husband, Mrs. Hartley was about to beat an immediate retreat, but Hartley stopped her, and after a short colloquy between the pair, the stonemason entered with his companion.
Mrs. Hartley had disappeared, but there was a light in the kitchen, into which Walter Liddel was introduced.
The hospitable stonemason begged him to sit down, and, opening a cupboard, took from it some cold meat and bread, which he set before him, and bade him fall to.
Next proceeding to the scullery, Hartley drew a jug of beer. Walter Liddel ate as voraciously as a famished wolf.
Leaving him to enjoy the first good meal he had made for some days, Hartley went up-stairs, and his voice could be heard in consultation with his wife.
Evidently, some little preparation for their unexpected guest had to be made by the worthy couple, but it was completed before he had finished his meal. He was still engaged when Hartley reappeared.
“Glad to see you getting on so well, Mr. Liddel,” observed the stonemason. “It ain't often we've a spare bed, but it so happens that our daughter Rose is away, so you can have her room.”
“Anywhere will do for me,” replied Walter, who by this time had devoured all the meat and bread, and emptied the jug of beer.
“Come on, then,” said Hartley, taking up the candle, and signing to his guest to follow him.
A short, narrow staircase brought them to a landing, whence two or three doors opened, one of which admitted them to a small chamber, simply but very neatly furnished. It breathed an atmosphere of purity and innocence, with which Walter, exhausted as he was, could not help being struck.
“There's your bed,” said Hartley, pointing to the neat little couch, the patchwork quilt of which being turned down, revealed the snowy sheets.
“Thank you, my good friend; I couldn't wish for a better,” replied Walter, squeezing the mason's horny hand. “Heaven bless you for your kindness to me.”
“Don't disturb yourself too soon,” observed Hartley. “I'm not going out early myself to-morrow. I'll call you. Good night.”
So saying, he retired, and closed the door after him.
As soon as he was alone, the penitent knelt down, and besought Heaven's forgiveness for the sinful act he had attempted, and which had been so fortunately frustrated. His contrition was sincere, and his resolution to lead a better life heartfelt.
His prayers ended, he took off his attire, and, lying down in the little couch in which innocence alone had hitherto reposed, almost instantly fell asleep.
His slumbers were sound, and he had not stirred when Hartley had entered the room on the morrow.
On opening his eyes, Walter could hardly make out where he was; but by degrees the recollection of all that occurred returned to him.
“Don't think any more of last night,” said Hartley, noticing the pained expression of his countenance. “It's nearly noon, but if you feel tired I'll come again later on.”
“Nearly noon!” cried Walter, preparing to spring out of bed. “I ought to have been up hours ago!”
Thereupon, Hartley retired, and his guest proceeded to make his toilette with a care that showed he had not forsaken early habits.
While thus employed he could not help casting his eyes round the chamber, and was more than ever struck by its extreme simplicity and neatness. Everything seemed in its place. It appeared like a profanation to invade such a temple of purity.
On going down-stairs, he found Mrs. Hartley, a middle-aged, matronly woman, decently attired as became her station, and still comely.
It was too late for breakfast, and the cloth was spread for dinner. On the table was a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes.
Mrs. Hartley greeted him very kindly, and, with great good feeling and good taste, made no allusion to the circumstances that had brought him to the house, though she could not have been ignorant of them. But his appearance prepossessed her in his favour.
“Don't say a word about being so late, sir,” she observed with a kindly smile. “I'm glad to see you looking so well. You must be content to make breakfast and dinner together to-day, sir.”
While Walter was making a suitable reply, Hartley came in, and seemed quite surprised and delighted at his guest's improved appearance.
“A few hours' rest has done wonders with you, Mr. Liddel,” he said. “This is my wife,” he added; “and I will say it to her face, that no man could have a better.”
“A good husband makes a good wife, Joe, as I always tell you,” she replied, smiling. “Pray sit down, sir,” she added, to Walter.
Both Hartley and his guest had good appetites, and a large hole was made in the shoulder of mutton before they had finished their meal. Far from begrudging Walter, Mrs. Hartley seemed pleased.
“Now, Mr. Liddel,” said Hartley, as he laid down his knife and fork, “I must go to my work. The missis will take care of you till my return. We may have company in the evening.”
“I must go and look after some employment,” said Walter.
“Time enough for that to-morrow,” rejoined the mason. “We'll have some talk together on the subject to-night. Meantime, keep quiet.”
And the worthy fellow went about his business.
Mrs. Hartley showed her guest into the little parlour, and when she had cleared away the things, joined him there, and they had a little chat together; but whatever curiosity she felt, she restrained it.
Limited as was her knowledge of the world, she felt convinced that Walter was a gentleman. She talked to him in a kindly, motherly tone, that soon drew him out.
At last, after beating about the bush, she said, in a straightforward way:
“You must excuse me, sir, if I take upon me to give you advice, but don't you think you had better go back to your friends?”
“Never!” he replied. “I will never go back to them. If you knew all, you would agree that I have been infamously treated! No, Mrs. Hartley, my resolution is taken. I am down, but I will make my way up in the world. To mount the ladder, one must begin at the lowest step.”
“I approve of your resolution, sir,” she rejoined, kindly; “and if you are determined, you cannot fail of success. You have youth, strength, good looks. I dare say, now,” she added, unable to repress her desire to know something more of him, “I dare say you think you have been wronged?”
“I have had great injustice done me,” he replied. “But you must not ask me any questions, Mrs. Hartley. I shall never speak of what I have been, unless——”
“You reinstate yourself,” she supplied.
“Exactly, And many years may elapse before I can do that.”
“Ah! you don't know,” she replied with an encouraging smile. “But you must excuse me. I have got the house to attend to. You may like to see the paper?”
Having spent some little time over the daily paper which she gave him, Walter took up his hat, and went out.
Strolling leisurely along, he came to Lambeth Palace, and standing near the pier at the foot of the bridge, he watched the boats arriving and departing—landing passengers and carrying them away.
The lively scene served to amuse him. Among those who were embarking, he noticed a tall, thin man, dressed in black, whose sharp features were familiar to him.
The individual in question was only just in time, and as soon as he got on board, the boat was cast off, and took its course towards the other side of the river.
It had not gone far, when the tall, thin man, approaching the stern, descried Walter, and almost started at the sight of him.
They remained gazing at each other as long as the steam-boat continued in view, but no sign of recognition passed between them.
The sight of this person, whoever he might be, seemed to awaken a train of painful reflections in Walter's breast.
He sat down on a bench on the little esplanade, and remained there for some time contemplating the busy scene on the river.
By degrees he recovered his serenity, and it was in a more cheerful frame of mind that he returned to the house in Spencer's Rents.
The tea equipage was set out in the little parlour, and Walter enjoyed a cup of bohea with Mrs. Hartley very much, and passed the evening with her in tranquil converse. He began to feel a great regard for the good dame, and listened to her advice.
Hartley did not return till nearly supper time, and brought with him a friend—a neighbour—whom he introduced as Mr. Tankard.
Rather an important personage in his way was Mr. Tankard—stout, short, red-faced, possessing a rich mellow voice, consequential in manner, and respectably dressed in black. Some of his friends called him “Silver Tankard,” but Hartley took no such liberty. Mr. Tankard had been a butler before setting up in business in the Lambeth Road, where he now kept a large china and glass shop.
Though generally distant and proud, Mr. Tankard unbent towards Walter, and was unusually civil to him.
“I like the looks of that young man,” he observed, in a very loud whisper to Hartley.
Mrs. Hartley deemed it necessary to apologise to Mr. Tankard for the poorness of the supper, and told him if she had expected the honour and pleasure of his company she would have provided something better; but he begged her condescendingly not to mind—“he wasn't at all partickler.”
Mrs. Hartley knew better. She knew he was exceedingly particular. However, she did the best that circumstances would allow, and as a finish to the rather scanty meal, gave him a dish of stewed cheese, and a jug, not a “tankard,” of ale with a toast in it. With this he was tolerably well satisfied.
After supper, Hartley asked his guest if he would like to smoke, to which proposal Mr. Tankard made no sort of objection. A flask of Scotch whisky was likewise set on the table.
Scarcely were the pipes lighted, when the party was increased by the arrival of Mr. Pledger Dapp and Mr. Larkins, who it seems were expected by Hartley, though he had said nothing about them to his wife.
Pledger Dapp, a brisk little man, was a cook and confectioner in the York Road, and Larkins was a greengrocer in the same neighbourhood, and likewise went out to wait. They worked together with Mr. Tankard, and each recommended his friends whenever he had the opportunity.
More glasses were placed on the table, and more hot water, and everybody was puffing away.
The room was soon so full of smoke that Mrs. Hartley could stand it no longer, and retired to the kitchen.
A great deal of merriment prevailed among the company, and they laughed heartily at each other's stories. These related chiefly to their customers.
At last, Hartley contrived to bring Walter forward by making a direct allusion to him.
“I want to have your opinion about my young friend, gentlemen,” he observed, taking the pipe from his mouth. “He thinks of joining the cavalry, but I think it is a pity such a fine young man should throw himself away. What do you say, gentlemen?”
After a sip of whisky and water, the person chiefly appealed to replied:
“I think it would be a thousand pities. No doubt he would make a very fine Life Guardsman, but in my opinion, he would do much better as a figure footman.”
“Much better,” echoed Pledger Dapp and Larkins.
“I'm not ashamed to say I began life as a page,” pursued Mr. Tankard; “and you see what I've arrived at.”
“It's no secret that I was a cook in a gentleman's family before I set up for myself as a confectioner,” said Pledger Dapp.
“And I was a gardener before I became a greengrocer,” said Larkins. And he added, with a laugh, “I'm a gardener now, though no longer in service.”
“Take the advice we all of us give you, sir, and become a footman,” said Tankard. “I'll answer for it we'll soon find you a place.”
“But I've no qualifications,” replied Walter. “I don't know the duties—that is, I know what a footman ought to be—”
“Well, that's quite enough,” interrupted Pledger Dapp. “You'll soon learn all the rest.”
“It just occurs to me that Lady Thicknesse, of Belgrave Square, is in want of a footman,” observed Tankard. “That would be a very good thing. It's a first-rate place.”
“Lady Thicknesse! I think I've heard of her,” remarked Walter. “A widow, isn't she?”
“Widow of Sir Thomas Thicknesse—middle-aged and rich. Besides her town residence, she has got a country house in Cheshire.”
Walter reflected for a few minutes.
The proposition had taken him by surprise. The notion of becoming a flunky amused him vastly, and he could hardly entertain it seriously. However, there seemed to be no difficulty in assuming the part.
The result of his cogitations was that he felt inclined to adopt the expedient, and he told Mr. Tankard so.
“But I cannot offer myself under any false pretence,” he said. “Lady Thicknesse must be made aware that I have never served in this capacity before.”
All his auditors, except Hartley, laughed loudly at his scruples.
“Bless you, my dear fellow, you needn't be so diffident,” cried Mr. Tankard. “If Lady Thicknesse is satisfied, that's all you need mind. I'll set about the business to-morrow. In a week I expect you'll thank me for my pains.”
“You'll have a first-rate situation, if you get it, I promise you,” remarked Pledger Dapp.
“Very handsome livery and powder,” observed Larkins.
“Powder!” exclaimed Walter, in dismay. “Is it necessary to wear powder?”
“Indispensable,” replied Tankard. “But you'll find it very becoming,” he added, with a laugh. “Powder will suit your hair. You're above six feet in height, eh?”
“Six feet two,” replied Walter.
“Capital!” cried Tankard. “Stay! One thing mustn't be neglected,” he added, rubbing his chin expressively. “You must get rid of that handsome brown beard.”
“S'death! must I shave?” cried Walter, amid the general merriment.
“Certainly, my dear fellow,” replied Tankard. “Whoever heard of a footman in a beard? Follow my instructions, and you may make yourself quite easy about the place. I'll engage you shall obtain it.”
“But I've not quite decided myself,” said Walter.
“Pooh! nonsense! you can't do better,” cried Tankard. “Can he, gentlemen?”
Everybody concurred with him in opinion.
Partly in jest, partly in earnest, Walter assented. So much, in fact, was said in favour of the plan, that he began to grow reconciled to it.
As the clock struck eleven, Mrs. Hartley came in, and her appearance was the signal for the breaking up of the party.
While shaking hands with Walter, Mr. Tankard renewed his promises, and said:
“I'm a man of my word. What I say I'll do. Tomorrow I'll go to Belgrave Square, and see my friend, Mr. Higgins, Lady Thicknesse's butler. On my return I'll call and tell you all about it.”
“Really, Mr. Tankard, you are taking a vast deal of trouble——”
“Not in the least, my dear fellow!” replied the other. “It is a pleasure to me—a very great pleasure.”
“And if you knew him as well as I do, you'd feel that it must be, or he wouldn't do it,” observed Hartley, laughing.
In another minute the company were gone, and shortly afterwards the whole of the little household had retired to rest.
Visions of his new life floated before Walter as he laid his head on the pillow. He slept soundly enough, but on awakening next morning he rather regretted the promise he had given.
“I don't like the idea of turning flunky,” he thought; “but the livery will serve as a disguise.”