It was part of the crafty policy of the tall-hatted Mr. Griffiths to keep his employer Mr. Effingham in good humour, and to show that he was worth seeing occasionally; and it was with this end in view that Mr. Griffiths had spoken so confidently of Mr. Lyons's undoubted knowledge of the whereabouts of the forged bill and of his (Griffiths's) intention of seeking an immediate interview with Lyons. But, in sober truth, Mr. Griffiths merely had a faint notion that Lyons, from his previous connection with Tony Butler and his general acquaintance with the shady transactions of the deceased, might possibly give a guess as to the hands in which the bill then was, while he had not the remotest idea where to find the redoubtable Mr. Lyons himself, with a view to obtain from him the necessary information.
For Mr. Lyons, as is the case with many gentlemen of his persuasion, did not confine his energies to the exercise of one calling, but dabbled in a great many. To some men he was known as a jeweller and diamond-merchant; to others as an importer of French clocks, whistling bullfinches, and German mustard; to some he was known in connection with the discounting of stamped paper; to others as a picture-dealer, a cigar-merchant, a vendor ofobjets d'artof a very peculiar kind. He had no residence--that is to say, he had a great many, but none particularly tangible or satisfactory. He would write to you dating from a number in Clement's Inn; and when you called there, you would find the name of Mr. Glubb over the door, with a painted square of tin by the letter-slit announcing that Mr. Glubb had removed to Great Decorum Street, and that letters for him were to be left with the porter; and lower still you would find a dirty scrap of paper, with "M. Lyons" faintly traced upon it; and on the door being opened, you would find M. Lyons in a room with one chair, one table, a blotting-pad, pen and ink, and a cheque-book. He was in the habit of making appointments at coffee-houses and taverns; and when he sent the clocks or the bullfinches, the cigars or theobjets d'art, to their purchasers, they arrived at night, being left at the door by mysterious boys, to whom they had been given, with the address and twopence, by a man whom they had never seen before, but who was just round the corner. There was, it was said, one permanent address which Mr. Lyons had kept up for a great number of years; but this was known only to those with whom in their relation with Mr. Lyons a melting-pot was associated, and these were very few in number.
Mr. Griffiths was getting desperate, for the last half-crown out of the ten pounds lay in his pocket, and his principal Mr. Effingham had already spoken to him rather sharply on the matter. He had been to all Mr. Lyons's known haunts; he had spoken to a dozen people who were known to be of his intimates; but he could obtain no tidings of him. Some thought he might be at Amsterdam, where the diamond-sale was going on; others had heard him mention his intention of visiting Frankfort about that period; some laughed, and wondered whether old Malachi had heard of the plate-robbery, "thalvers ath big round ath a cart-veel, and thpoonth, all new, not a bit rubbed!" which had lately taken place. But no one could give any precise information. And time was going on, and Mr. Effingham's patience and Mr. Griffiths's stock of ready-money were rapidly becoming exhausted.
One night, going into "Johnson's" as usual, Mr. Griffiths saw his principal seated at one of the tables, and not caring to confront him just then, was about quietly withdrawing as much of his tall hat as he had already protruded through the swing-door, when he was espied and called to by Mr. Effingham.
"Come in, there; don't think I didn't see you, because I did. What a slimy cove you are, Griffiths!--that's what I complain of; nothing fair and above-board in you."
"Who's to be fair and above-board," growled Mr. Griffiths, "if they're to be everlastingly growled at and badgered? What I come here for is to be quiet and 'ave a little peace, not to be worritted and downed upon. D'rectly I see you sittin' here, I knowed it'd be, 'Well, and wot's up?' and 'Ain't you got no news?' and 'Wot a feller you are, not to 'ave learned somethink!' so, as I didn't seem to care about that, I was goin' away agen."
"Poor feller," said Mr. Effingham with great contempt, "don't like being worried or having to work for your livin', don't you? I wonder you didn't get yourself a government berth, where pokin' the fire and whistlin' tunes is what they do when they're there, which is only the three winter months of the year. So you've brought no news?"
"Not a stiver, not a ha'porth, not a blessed word. There, you may as well take it all at once!" said Griffiths in desperation.
"And you've been everywhere likely?"
"Everywhere,--in every gaff and crib where there was the least chance of hearin' of the old boy; but not a word."
"Now you see what a thing luck is," said Mr. Effingham sententiously; "I believe that old City cove who said he couldn't afford to know an unlucky man was right after all; and I'm not at all sure I'm right, Master Griffiths, in not dropping your acquaintance, for certingly you're an unlucky buffer, if ever there was one."
"Well, p'raps I am, D'Ossay," said Griffiths, who began to see how the land lay; "perhaps I am in some things; but it ain't only luck,--I'm as lucky as most of 'em; but it's the talent as does it--the talent; and there's none of us has got that like you, D'Ossay, my boy."
"Well, luck or talent, or whatever it is," said Effingham, pulling the bell, "it helps me on.--Bring some brandy and hot water here.--I come in here to have a mouthful o' bread and cheese and a glass o' ale about two this afternoon, and Pollock was in here; Jack Pollock they call him,--the fellow that writes the plays, you know."
Mr. Griffiths, over his first gulp of brandy-and-water, nodded his head in acquiescence.
"Things is going on rather bad at the Garden," continued Mr. Effingham; "I don't know whether you've heard. Their pantomime's been a reg'lar failure this year, and Wuff's paper's beginning to fly again. I suppose old Lyons is in that swim, for Pollock says to me, 'Didn't I hear you askin' after Mr. Lyons?' he says. 'I did,' I says. 'I thought so,' he says; 'and I told him so when I saw him just now in Wuff's room at the Garden. And he says, "I've just come back from abroad, and I don't reckleckt Mr. Effingham's name," he says; "but if he's one of the right sort, he'll find me among the lemons on Sunday morning."' So I thanked Pollock, and winked my eye, and nodded my head, and made believe as though I knew all about it; but I don't."
"You don't?"
"Not a bit of it; I'm as far off as ever, save for knowing that the old man's in England."
"You ain't fly to what's meant by 'among the lemons,' eh?"
"Not a bit of it, I tell you. What are you grinning and chuckling away at there, Griffiths? That's one of your disgustin' ways,--crowin' over me because you know something which I don't."
"Don't be riled, D'Ossay; don't be riled, old feller. It's so seldom that I get a chance of findin' anything that you don't know, young though you are, that I make the most of it, I confess."
"Well, there, all right. Now do you know what he meant by 'among the lemons'?"
"Of course I do."
"And what does it mean?"
"'Among the lemons' is magsman's patter for 'Houndsditch.' There's a reg'lar gatherin' of sheenies there every Sunday mornin', where they have a kind of fair, and sellin' all sorts of things,--clothes, and books, and pictures, and so on."
"Well, but old Lyons is a cut above all that sort of thing."
"I should think he was."
"He wouldn't be found there."
"Well, not sellin' anything; but he might be on the lookout for some magsmen as work for him, and who may have had the office to be about there. But if he's not there, I'd know where to lay hands on him, I'd take my oath."
"Where's that?"
"At the Net of Lemons, a public where sheenies of all kinds--diamond-merchants, fences, all sorts--meet on the Sunday."
"Do you know the place?"
"Know it! I should think so, and Mr. Eliason as keeps it; as respectable an old gent as walks."
"They'd let you in?"
"Ah, and you too, if I squared it for you."
"Very well, then; we'll hunt up old Lyons on Sunday morning."
Mr. Effingham was so pleased with his chance of success, that Mr. Griffiths thought he might borrow half-a-sovereign; and what is more, he got it.
On the following Sunday morning Mr. Effingham found himself by appointment opposite Bishopgate Church as the clock struck ten, and Mr. Griffiths there waiting for him. As he approached, Mr. Effingham took stock of his friend's personal appearance, and mentally congratulated himself that it was at the East and not at the West end of London that they were to be seen in company together; for those mysterious means by which Mr. Griffiths went through "the fever called living" had not been very productive of late, and his wardrobe was decidedly seedy. The tall hat shone so as to give one the idea that its owner had forgotten to remove it when he applied the morning macassar to his hair, and the suit of once-black clothes looked as if they had been bees-waxed. Mr. Effingham must have allowed his thoughts to be mirrored in his expressive countenance, for Mr. Griffiths said as he joined him:
"Looking at my togs, D'Ossay? Well, they ain't as nobby as yours; but you see, I don't go in to be a 'eavy swell. They'll do well enough for the caper we're on to-day, though; better perhaps than your gridironed kickseys."
At another time Mr. Effingham might have shown annoyance at thus having his check trousers sneeringly spoken of; but something which Griffiths had said had rather dashed him, and it was with a little hesitation that he asked:
"They--they ain't a very rough lot that we're going amongst, are they?"
"Well, there's more rough nor smooth hair among 'em; but they won't do you no harm; I'll look after you, D'Ossay. Shovin you won't mind, nor elbers in every part of your body at once. Oh, and I say, don't leave any-think in your 'ind-pockets, and put your fogle in your 'at. Like this, look. I carry most things in my 'at."
And Mr. Griffiths whipped off the tall hat, and showed in it a handkerchief, a greasy parcel suspiciously like a ham sandwich, a pocket comb, and a paper book with the title "The Olio of Oddities, or the Warbling Wagoner's Wallet of Wit and Wisdom."
Mr. Effingham took his friend's advice, and transferred all his portable property from the tail-pockets of his coat to other less patent recesses, and the pair started on their excursion.
Crossing Bishopgate, and turning short round to the right up a street called Sandy's Row, past a huge black block of buildings belonging to the East India Company, and used as a store-house for costly silks, round which seethed and bubbled a dirty, pushing, striving, fighting, higgling, chaffering, vociferating, laughing mob, filling up the narrow street, the small strips of pavement on either side, and what ought to have been the carriage-way between them. It was Sunday, and may have been observed "as such" elsewhere, but certainly not in Sandy's Row or Cutler's Row. There were shops of all kinds, and all at work: tool-shops,--files, saws, adzes, knives, chisels, hammers, and tool-baskets displayed in the open windows, whence the sashes had been removed for the better furtherance of trade; hatters', hosiers', tailors', bootmakers' shops, the proprietors of which had left the calm asylum of their counters and stood at the doors, importuning the passers-by with familiar blandishments; for in the carriage-way through which Effingham and Griffiths slowly forced a passage, were peripatetic vendors of hats, hosiery, clothes, and boots,--hook-nosed oleaginous gentry with ten pairs of trousers over one arm, and five coats over the other, with enormous boots, a few hats, and a number of cloth caps. Mr. Effingham soon learned the value of his friend's advice, for there were thieves of all kinds in the motley crowd; big burly roughs, with sunken eyes and massive jaws, sulkily elbowing their way through the mass, and "gonophs" or pickpockets of fourteen or fifteen, with their collarless tightly-tied neckerchief, their greasy caps, and "aggerawater" curls. Delicate attention was paid to Mr. Effingham before he had been five minutes amongst them. The hind-pockets of his coat were turned inside out, and he was "sounded" all over by a pair of lightly-touching hands. Whether Mr. Griffiths was known, or whether his personal appearance was unattractive and promised no hope of adequate reward, is uncertain; but no attempt was made on him.
While Mr. Effingham was vaguely gaping about him, staring at everything and thoroughly impressed with the novelty of his situation, Griffiths had been taking stock of the crowd, and keeping a strict lookout for Mr. Lyons. Jews were there in shoals, and of all kinds: the grand old Jewish type, dignified and bearded, than which, when good, there is nothing better; handsome sensual-looking men, with bright eyes, and hook-noses, and scarlet lips; red frizzy-headed Jews, with red eyelids, and shambling gait, and nasal intonation; big flat-headed, stupid-looking men, with thick lips, and tongues too large for their mouths, and visibly protruding therefrom;--all kinds of Jews, but Mr. Lyons not among them.
So they pushed on, uncaring for the chaff of the mob, which was very facetious on the subject of Mr. Effingham's attire, saluting him as a "collared bloke," in delicate compliment to his wearing a clean shirt; asking whether he was a "Rooshan;" whether he were not "Prince Halbut's brother," and other delicate compliments,--pushed on until they arrived at the Clothes-Exchange, a roofed building filled round every side and in the centre with old-clothes stalls. Here, piled up in wondrous confusion, lay hats, coats, boots, hob-nailed shoes, satin ball-shoes, driving-coats, satin dresses, hoops, brocaded gowns, flannel jackets, fans, shirts, stockings with clocks, stockings with torn and darned feet, feathers, parasols, black-silk mantles, blue-kid boots, belcher neckerchiefs, and lace ruffles. More Jews here; salesmen shrieking out laudations of their wares, and frantically imploring passers-by to come in and be fitted: "Here'th a coat! plue Vitney; trai this plue Vitney, ma tear." "Here'th a vethkit for you, thir!" shouted one man to Effingham; "thuch a vethkit! a thplendid vethkit, covered all over with blue-and-thilver thpright." Mr. Effingham cast a longing eye at this gorgeous garment, but passed on.
No Lyons here, either among sharp-eyed vendors or leering buyers. Mr. Griffiths was getting nonplussed, and Mr. Effingham growing anxious. "We must find him, Griffiths," he said; "we must not throw away this chance that he's given us; he may be off to the Continent, Lord knows where, to-morrow. Why the devil don't you find him?"
Mr. Griffiths intimated that so far as eye-straining could be gone through, he had done his best; and suggested that if the man they sought were not there, all the energy in the world would not discover him. "But there's the Net of Lemons yet," he said; "that's, after all, the safest draw, and we're more likely to hit upon him there than anywhere else."
So they pushed their way through the steaming, seething, struggling crowd, and found themselves in a quiet dull little square. Across this, and merely glancing at several groups of men dotted here and there in its midst, loudly talking and gesticulating with energy which smacked more of the Hamburg Börsenhalle or the Frankfort Zeil than the stolid reticence of England, Mr. Griffiths led his companion until they stopped before the closed door of a public house, aloft from which swung the sign of "The Net of Lemons." At the door Mr. Griffiths gave three mystic raps, at the third of which the door opened for about a couple of inches, and a thick voice said, "Who is it?"
"All right, Mr. Eliason. Griffiths, whom you know. Take a squint, and judge for yourself."
Mr. Eliason probably followed this advice, and finding the inspection satisfactory, opened the door to its extent, and admitted the pair; but raising his bushy brows in doubt as to Mr. Effingham, Griffiths said, "A friend of mine--come on partickler business, and by appointment with Mr. Lyons. Is he here?"
The reference was apparently satisfactory, for Mr. Eliason, a fat good-looking big man in a soft wideawake hat, said, "You'll find him inside;" and shut the door behind them.
Mr. Effingham walking through, and following his conductor, found himself in a low-roofed, square-built, comfortable room, round three sides of which were ranged tables, and on these tables were placed large open trays of jewelry. There they lay in clusters, thick gold chains curled round and round like snares; long limp silver chains such as are worn by respectable mechanics over black-satin waistcoats on Sundays; great carbuncle pins glowing out of green-velvet cases; diamond rings and pins and brooches and necklaces. The best emeralds in quaint old-fashioned gold settings nestled by the side of lovely pale opals; big finger-rings made up after the antique with cut cornelian centrepieces; long old-fashioned earrings; little heaps of rubies, emeralds, and turquoises set aside in the corners of the trays; big gold and silver cups and goblets and trays and tazzas; here and there a clumsy old epergne; finger-rings by the bushel, pins by the gross; watches of all kinds, from delicate gold Genevas to the thick turnipy silver "ticker" of the schoolboy; and shoals of watchworks without cases. On this Tom Tidler's ground were crowds of customers, smoking strong cigars, walking about without let or hindrance, and examining--ay, and handling--the jewels without creating the least consternation in the breasts of their vendors.
There was a slight movement among the company at the entrance of the new-comers; but Griffiths seemed to be known to a few, with whom he exchanged salutations, and the appearance of Mr. Eliason with them settled any wandering doubts which might have arisen in the minds of the others. As for Mr. Effingham, he began to think he was in the cave into which Aladdin descended to get the lamp at the bidding of the magician; and he went moving round, gazing first on one side, then on the other, lost in wonder. But Mr. Griffiths, to whom the scene was tolerably familiar, went at once to business, scrutinizing with keen glance the buyers and sellers, poking his nose into the groups of domino-players in the corners, hunting about with admirable patience and forbearance, but for a long time with no result.
At last he stopped before a group of three. One of these was an old Jewish gentleman, with strongly-marked features, overhanging bushy eyebrows, hooked nose, and long white beard. He held in his hand a blue paper, such as generally contains seidlitz-powders, but its contents were diamonds. These were being carefully inspected by the other two men, each of whom had a bright steel pair of pincers, with which he selected a specimen from the glittering heap, breathed upon it, watched it carefully, and in most instances finally laid it on one side for purchase. When this transaction had been gone through and was at an end, the old gentleman folded up his paper with such diamonds as remained in it, placed it in his waistcoat-pocket, and was calmly walking away, when Griffiths touched him on the arm, saying interrogatively, "Mr. Lyons?"
The old man turned in an instant, and threw a sharp look of inquiry over his interlocutor, as he said: "Yes, ma tear sir, that's mai name; not ashamed to own it any veres. Vot might you vant with me?" As he spoke he had covered his waistcoat-pocket with his hand, and stood prim and spry.
"This gentleman--Mr. Effingham--has been looking for you some little time. You told a friend of his--Mr. Pollock--that you would be here to-day, and we've come on purpose to meet you."
"Effingham! Pollock!" said the old man, musing. "O yes, Pollock, who writes those funny burlesques for my friend Wuff; O yes--Effingham," he said. "How do you do, ma tear? Now vot is it? A leetle advance, or something you've got that you don't know how to get rid of, and think I might fancy it, eh?"
"Well, it ain't either, Mr. Lyons," said Effingham. "Its a little information you're in possession of that you might be inclined to give us, and--"
"You're not traps?" asked Mr. Lyons, turning pale.
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Lyons," said Griffiths, striking into the conversation. "Quite different from that. You and I have done business before. I was with--" and here he whispered into Lyons's ear.
"Ah, I reckleckt," said the old gentleman. "That vos a very good plant, and bothers them all in Scotland Yard to this day. Ha, ha! I reckleckt. Now vot did your friend say? Information? Veil, you know, I nevergiveinformation."
"No, no, of course not," said Griffiths, winking at Effingham.
"O no, sir," said that worthy. "I'm prepared to pay, of course, anything reasonable for what I require."
"Vell, vell, ma tear, let's know vot it is."
"You were great pals with my brother, I believe?"
"No. Effingham? No;--never heard the name."
"No, no; not Effingham. That's merely--you understand?"
"O ah! O yes! I qvite understand; but votisthe name?"
"Butler! You knew Tony Butler well?"
"Knew him vell; I should rather think I did. A good fellow; a clever fellow; oh, a very clever fellow, ma tear."
"Yes; well, I'm his brother."
"Not like him," said Mr. Lyons. "More dressy, and not so business-like. A rare fellow for business, Tony."
"That may or may not be," said Effingham, slightly offended. "Now, when he died, you cleared off his traps."
"Only a few sticks; very poor sticks. Ah, ma tear, vot I lost by that transaction! Vy, there vosn't enough to clear me in a sixth part of vot I'd advanced to Tony."
"Well, I'm not here to enter into that--that was your lookout. But amongst what you took away there was a desk."
"Vos there? 'Pon my soul I can't reckleckt; not that I'm goin' to gainsay you. Vos there a desk, now?"
"And in it," continued Effingham, not seeming to heed him, "there was an over-due bill for twenty-five pounds accepted by Walter Burgess."
"Lord now! Vos there indeed?"
"Look here, Mr. Lyons. If you don't know anything, all right. We won't waste our time or our money, but we'll go to those who can help us."
"Vot a headstrong boy it is! Who said I couldn't help you? Go on now,--a bill accepted by Walter Burgess?"
"Exactly. Now that bill's no use to any one, and we want you to give it to us."
"Ha, ha! clever boys, clever boys! Vot large-hearted fellows too, to want to buy a bill that ain't of any use to any vun! O, vot generous boys!"
"It's no use, Griffiths," said Effingham angrily; "he either don't know or won't say anything about it."
"Steady," said Griffiths. "Come, Mr. Lyons, say you've got the stiff, and name your price."
"Accepted by Walter Burgess, eh?" said the old gentleman; "yes, I reckleckt that bill; O yes, I reckleckt him."
"Well now, bring your recklecktion into something practical, and I'll give you this for that bill," said Mr. Effingham, producing a five-pound note.
The old Jew's eyes glistened at the sight of the money; and then his face fell, and he looked horribly disappointed.
"You should have it for that," said he; "you should have it for that, and velcome; only there's vun little reason vy I can't make it over to you."
"What's that?" cried Effingham.
"Vell, it's a strong reason, as you'll allow ven I tell it to you. I can't let you have the bill, because--because I haven't got it myself."
Mr. Effingham swore a sharp oath, and even Mr. Griffiths looked disconcerted.
"Come along," said the former,--"we've wasted time enough with the pottering old fool, who's only selling us, and--"
"Vait a minute," said Mr. Lyons, laying his hand on the other's arm,--"vait a minute, ma tear. Though I haven't got the leetle bill myself, perhaps I know who has."
"That's likely enough," said Griffiths, "well, who has?"
"Ah, that's tellings, ma tear. I shall vant--just a leetle something to say."
"I'll give this," said Effingham, producing a sovereign.
"Vell, it ain't enough; but you're such headstrong fellows. There!" said Mr. Lyons, slipping it into his pocket; "now do either of you know a gal who was under Tony Butler's thumb at vun time, but who hated him mortal, and vos very sveet on vun of Tony's friends?"
"I do!" cried Griffiths; "Lizzie Ponsford."
"That's the same; a fine gal too, a reg'lar fine gal. Vell, I'd no sooner got Tony's traps over at my place than that gal comes to me, and she says, 'You've got a desk that b'longed to Tony Butler,' she says. And ven I says 'yes,' she offered me a pound for it. It vosn't vuth five shillings; so I knew there vos something in it she vanted, though I'd hunted it through and found nothin' but old diaries and memorandums and such-like. 'I von't sell it,' I says. 'May I look at it?' she says. 'You may,' I says; and vith that I fetched it down; and ven she see it, she touched a spring, and out flew a secret drawer vith this bill in it. 'Hands off,' I says, for she vos going to clutch it at vunce. 'Let me have it,' she says; 'I'll pay for it.' So I looked at it, and saw it had been overdue eighteen months, and reckleckted hearin' it was all wrong; so I says, 'Vot'll you give?' 'A sovereign,' she says. 'Make it two, and it's yours,' I says. So, after a little, she give me two skivs, and she took the bill and valked away vith it."
Mr. Effingham looked at Griffiths, and the latter returned the glance.
"It would be almost worth another crown to know if these are lies you are telling us, old gentleman," said the former; "but it sounds something like truth. Now one question more. Where is Lizzie Ponsford?"
"Ah, that beats me. A reg'lar clever gal; nice-looking and reg'lar clever. I'd have given something to find out myself; but it vos all of no use. She vent avay from all the old haunts, and hasn't been heard of for a long time. I've all sorts of people about, and they'd tell me, bless you, if she'd ever show'd up. But she's gone, and no vun can find her."
"Very good," said Effingham; "now you take this commission from me. If you hear of her within the next month, and can let me know where she is, find out Griffiths at Johnson's, and it'll be a fiver in your pocket. You understand?"
Mr. Lyons made no verbal reply, but struck his forefinger against his nose and looked preternaturally sagacious.
"All right! now goodbye;" they shook hands and parted.
When they got into the street again Mr. Effingham said, "So Lizzie Ponsford has the bill. What the deuce made her want it? unless some day to revenge herself on Mitford. But she's not likely to have heard of his having turned up such trumps. Now, Mr. Griffiths, our pursuit begins again. Lizzie Ponsford has that bill. Your business and mine is to find out Lizzie Ponsford, and by some means or other--no matter what--get that bill from her."
Sir Charles Mitford was up betimes the next morning, for he had a twenty-miles' drive before him. The weather was bright, clear, and frosty; Sir Charles's spirits were high; he was radiant and buoyant, and thoroughly in good temper with himself and everybody else. He was specially kind and affectionate to Georgie, and after breakfast insisted upon seeing her commence her day of work before he started on his day of pleasure; and he complimented Mrs. Austin on the progress her pupil had made under her directions, and on the care, cleanliness, and order observable throughout the house, and by his few words made a complete conquest of the old lady, who afterwards told Georgie that though Sir Percy had been an upright man and a good master, it was all in a strait-laced kind of way, and no one had ever heard him say a kind word to herself, let alone any of the servants. And then when the chestnuts had been brought round in the mail-phaeton, and were impatiently pawing at the gravel in front of the hall-door, and champing at their bits, and flecking with foam their plated harness and their sleek sides, Sir Charles gave his wife an affectionate kiss and drove away in great glee.
Mrs. Austin's instruction of her mistress was shortened by full five minutes that morning--five minutes during which Lady Mitford was occupied in leaning out of the window and watching her husband down the drive. How handsome he looked! in his big heavy brown driving-coat with its huge horn buttons, his well-fitting dogskin gloves, and his natty hat--wideawakes had not then been invented, but driving-men used to wear a hat low in the crown and broad in the brim, winch, though a trifle slangy, was in some cases very becoming. The sun shone on his bright complexion, his breezy golden whiskers, and his brilliant teeth, as he smiled his adieu; and as he brought the chestnuts up to their bearings after their first mad plunges, and standing up got them well in hand and settled them down to their work, Georgie was lost in admiration of his strong muscular figure, his pluck and grace. It was a subject on which she would have been naturally particularly reticent, even had there been any one to "gush" to; but I think the tears of pleasure welled into her eyes, and she had a very happy "cry" before she rejoined Mrs. Austin in the still-room.
And Sir Charles, what were his thoughts during his drive? Among all the wonderful revelations which the publication of the Divorce-Court trials has made public, the sad heart-rending misery, the brutal ruffianism, the heartless villany, the existence of which could scarcely have been dreamed of, there is one phase of life which, so far as I have seen--and I have looked for it attentively,--has never yet been chronicled. The man who leaves his wife and family to get on as they best can, while he revels in riot and debauchery; the man who is the blind slave of his own brute passions, and who goes headlong to destruction without any apparent thought save for his own gratification; the man who would seem in the iteration of his share of the marriage-service to have substituted "hate" for "love," and who either detests his wife with savage rancour, or loathes her with deep disgust, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, until the Judge-Ordinary does them part; the respectable man, so punctual in the discharge of his domestic duties, so unswerving in the matter of family-prayers, whose conjugal comfort is one day wrecked by the arrival of a clamorous and not too sober lady with heightened colour and blackened eyelids:--with all these types we are familiar enough through the newspaper columns; but there is another character, by no means so numerously represented, nor so likely to be brought publicly under notice, who yet exists, and with specimens of which some of us must be familiar. I mean the man who, with great affection for his wife and strong desire to do right, is yet so feeble in moral purpose, so impotent to struggle against inclination, such a facile prey to temptation, as to be perpetually doing wrong. He never grows hardened in his vice, he never withdraws his love from its proper object--for in that case it would quickly be supplanted by the opposite feeling; he never even grows indifferent: after every slip he inwardly upbraids himself bitterly and vows repentance; in his hour of remorse he institutes comparisons between his proper and improper attractions, in which the virtues of the former are always very bright and the vices of the latter always very black; and then on the very next occasion his virtuous resolutions melt away like snow, and he goes wrong again as pleasantly as possible.
Sir Charles Mitford was of this class. He would have been horrified if any one had suggested that he had any intention of wronging his wife; would have said that such an idea had never crossed his mind--and truthfully, as whenever it rose he immediately smothered it; would have declared, as he believed, that Georgie was the prettiest, the best, and the dearest girl in the world. But he was a man of strong passions, and most susceptible to flattery; and ever since Mrs. Hammond had seemed to select him for special notice, more especially since she had assumed the habit of occasionally looking pensively at him, with a kind of dreamy languor in her large eyes, he had thought more of her, in both senses of the phrase, than was right. He was thinking of her even then, as he sat square and erect in his phaeton, before he passed out of Georgie's gaze; thinking of her large eyes and their long glances, her full rounded figure, a peculiar hand-clasp which she gave, a thrill without a grip, a scarcely perceptible unforgettable pressure. Then his horsey instincts rose within him, and he began to take coachman's notice of the chestnuts; saw the merits and demerits of each, and almost unconsciously set about the work of educating the former, and checking the latter; and thus he employed himself until the white houses of Torquay came within sight, and glancing at his watch he found he should have done his twenty miles in an hour and forty minutes.
Mrs. Hammond had told him that he would be sure of finding their address at the Royal Hotel; so to the Royal Hotel he drove. The chestnuts went bounding through the town, attracting attention from all the valetudinarians then creeping about on their shopping or anteprandial walks. These poor fellows in respirators and high shawls, bending feebly on sticks or tottering on each other's arms, resented the sight of this great strong Phoebus dashing along with his spinning chariot-wheels. When he pulled up at the door of the Royal, a little crowd of invalids crept out of sunny nooks, and sheltered corners, where they had been resting, to look at him. The waiter, a fat greasy man, who used to let the winter-boarders tear many times at the bell before he dreamt of answering it, heard the tramp of the horses, and the violent pull given to the door-bell by Sir Charles's groom, and in a kind of hazy dream thought that it must be summer again, and that it must be some of the gents from the yachts, as was always so noisy and obstreperous. Before he could rouse himself sufficiently to get to the door, he had been anticipated by the landlord, wit° had scarcely made his bow, before Dr. Bronk, who had noticed the phaeton dashing round the corner, fancied it might be a son or a nephew on the lookout for quarters--and medical attendance--for some invalid relative, came into the portico, and bestowed the greatest care in rubbing his shoes on the hall-mat.
Mr. Hammond? No, the landlord had never heard the name. Constant change of faces renders landlords preternaturally stupid on this point, they can never fit names to faces or faces to names. Hammond? no, he thought not. John! did John know the name of Hammond? But before John could sufficiently focus his wits to know whether he did or not, Dr. Bronk had heard all, had stepped up to the side of the phaeton, had made a half-friendly, half-deferential bow, and was in full swing.
Mr. Hammond? a middle-aged gentleman,--well, who perhaps might be described as rather elderly, yes. Bald,--yes. With a young daughter and a very charming wife? Yes, O yes; certainly he knew them; he had the honour of being their medical attendant,--Dr. Bronk of the Paragon. Lately had come down to Torquay, recommended to him by his--he was proud to say--old friend and former fellow-pupil, Sir Charles Dumfunk, now President of the College of Physicians. Where were they? well, they had been really unfortunate. Torquay, my dear sir, every year rising in importance, every year more sought after,--for which perhaps some little credit was due to a little medical brochure of his,Torquay and its Climate,--Torquay was so full that when Mrs. Hammond sent down that admirable person, Miss Gillespie,--whom of course the gentleman knew,--there was only one house vacant. So the family had been forced to content themselves with a mansion--No. 2, Cleveland Gardens, very nice, sheltered, and yet with a charming sea-view. Where was it? Did the gentleman see the bow-windowed shop at the corner? Second turning to the right, just beyond that--"Se-cond turn-ing to the right!" This shouted after Sir Charles, who, with a feeling that the chestnuts were too rapidly cooling after their sharp drive, had started them off the minute he had obtained the information.
The second turning to the right was duly taken, and No. 2, Cleveland Gardens, was duly reached. It was the usual style of seaside-house, with stuccoed front and green veranda, and the never-failing creeper which the Devonians always grow to show the mildness of their climate. The groom's thundering knock produced a smart waiting-maid, who acknowledged that Mrs. Hammond lived there; and the sending in of Sir Charles Mitford's card produced a London flunkey, on whom the country air had had a demoralizing influence, so far as his outward appearance was concerned. But he acknowledged Sir Charles's arrival with a deferential bow, and begging him to walk in, assured him that his mistress would come down directly. So the groom was sent round, to put up his horses at the stables of the Royal, and Sir Charles followed the footman into the drawing-room.
It was not an apartment to be left alone in for long. No doubt the family of the owner, a younger brother of an Irish peer, found it pleasant and airy when they were down there in the summer, and the owner himself found the rent of it for the spring, autumn, and winter, a very hopeful source of income; but it bore "lodging-house" on every scrap of furniture throughout it. Sir Charles stared round at the bad engravings, at the bad old-fashioned artists on the walls; looked with concentrated interest on a plaster-model of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and wondered whether the mortar shrinking had warped it; peeped into two or three books on the table; looked out of the window at the promenading invalids and the green twinkling sea; and was relieved beyond measure when he heard a woman's step on the staircase outside.
The door opened, and a woman entered--but not Mrs. Hammond. A tall woman, with sallow cheeks and great eyes, and a thickish nose and large full lips, with a low forehead, over which tumbled waves of crisp brown hair, with a marvellous lithe figure and a peculiar swinging walk. Shifty in her glance, stealthy in her walk, cat-like in her motions, her face deadly pale,--a volcano crumbled into ashes, with no trace of its former fire save in her eyes,--a woman at once uncomfortable, uncanny, noticeable, and fearsome,--Miss Gillespie.
The family of the younger brother of the Irish peer owning the house prided themselves immensely on certain pink-silk blinds to the windows, which happened at that moment to be down. There must have been some very peculiar effect in the tint thrown by those blinds to have caused Sir Charles Mitford to stare so hard at the new-comer, or to lose all trace of his ordinary colour as he gazed at her.
She spoke first. Her full lips parted over a brilliant set of teeth as with a slight inclination she said, "I have the pleasure of addressing Sir Charles Mitford? Mrs. Hammond begs me to say that she is at present in attendance upon Mr. Hammond, who is forbidden to-day to leave his room; but she hopes to be with you in a very few minutes."
A polite but sufficiently ordinary speech; certainly not in itself calculated to call forth Mitford's rejoinder--"In God's name, how did you come here?"
"You still keep up that horrid habit of swearing!Autre temps, autres moeurs, as I teach my young lady from the French proverb-book. What was it you asked?"
"How did you come here? what are you doing here?"
"I came here through the medium of the Ladies' Association for Instructors, to whom I paid a registration-fee of five shillings. What am I doing here? Educating youth, and making myself generally useful. I am Miss Gillespie, of whom I know you have heard."
"You have seen me before this, since--since the old days?"
"I don't know what is meant by 'old days.' I was born two years ago, just before Mrs. Hammond married, and was christened Ruth Gillespie. My mother was the Ladies' Association for Instructors, and she at once placed me where I am. Except this I have no past."
"And your future?"
"Can take care of itself: sufficient for the day, &c.; and the present days are very pleasant. There is no past for you either, is there? so far as I am concerned, I mean. I first saw Sir Charles Mitford when I was sitting in Mrs. Hammond's phaeton in the Park with my Shetland veil down, I recollect; and as I had heard the story of the romantic manner in which he had succeeded to the title and estates, I asked full particulars about him from--well--my mistress. I learned that he had married, and that his wife was reported to be very lovely--oh, very lovely indeed!" she almost purred as she said this, and undulated as though about to spring.
"Be good enough to leave my wife's name alone. You say there is no past for either of us. Let our present be as wide asunder as possible."
"That all rests with you."
"I wonder," said Sir Charles, almost below his breath, "what infernal chance has sent you here!"
"If 'infernal' were a word to be used by a lady--I doubt whether it should be used in a lady's presence; but that is a matter of taste--I should reiterate your sentiment; because, if you remark, you are the interloper and intruder. I am going on perfectly quietly, earning my living, giving every satisfaction to my employers,--living, in fact, like the virtuous peasant on the stage or in the penny romances,--when chance brings you into my line of life, and you at once grumble at me for being there."
"You can understand fast enough, I suppose," said Sir Charles, sulkily, "that my associations with my former life are not such as I take great pleasure in recalling."
"If a ladymightsay such a word, I should say, upon my soul I can't understand any such thing. Though I go quietly enough in harness, and take my share of the collar-work too, they little think how I long sometimes to kick over the traces, to substitute Alfred de Musset for Fénelon in my pupil's reading, or to let my fingers and voice stray off fromAdeste FidelesintoEh, ioup, ioup, ioup, tralala, lala!How it would astonish them! wouldn't it?--the files, I mean; not Mrs. Hammond, who knows everything, and I've no doubt would follow on withMon père est à Parisas naturally as possible."
Sir Charles was by no means soothed by this rattle, but frowningly asked, "How long do you mean to remain here?"
"How long? Well, my movements are of course controlled by Mrs. Hammond. It is betraying no confidence to say that I know she is expecting an invitation to Redmoor (you see I know the name of your place); and as this house is not particularly comfortable, and your hospitality is boundless, I conclude, when once we get there, we shall not leave much before we return to town for the season."
"We!" exclaimed Sir Charles; "why, do you mean to say thatyouare coming to stay at my house?"
"Of course I am. Mrs. Hammond told me that she gave you distinctly to understand that she must bring Miss Gillespie with her when she came to stop at Redmoor."
"True; but then--"
"Then you did not know Miss Gillespie. Well, you'll find she's not a bad fellow, after all."
"Look here," said Mitford with knitted brows and set teeth: "there's a point to which you may go, but which you sha'n't pass. If you dare to come into my house as my guest, look to yourself; for, by the Lord, it shall be the worse for you!"
"The privileges of the salt, monseigneur!" cried Miss Gillespie, with a crisp laugh; "the salt, 'that sacred pledge, which once partaken blunts the sabre's edge.' You would never abuse the glorious rites of hospitality?"
"You were always fond of d--d stage-jargon; but you ought to have known me long enough to know that it would have no effect on me. Take the warning I've given you in good part, and stay away."
"And take the warning I give you in good part and in good earnest, Charles Mitford," said Miss Gillespie, with a sudden change of voice and manner; "I've been tolerant to you hitherto for the sake of the old times which I love and you loathe; but don't you presume upon that. I could crush you like a snail: now this is no stage-jargon, but simple honest fact. You'll recollect that though perhaps a little given to rodomontade, in matters of business I was truthful. I can crush you like a snail; and if you cross me in my desires,--which are of the humblest; merely to be allowed to continue my present mode of life in peace,--so help me Heaven, I'll do it!"
All claws out here.
"You mean war, then?
"Hush! not a word; here's Mrs. Hammond coming down. Idomean war, under circumstances; but you won't drive me to that. Yes, as you say, Sir Charles, it is the very place for an invalid."
As she spoke Mrs. Hammond entered the room, looking very fresh and pretty; her dark-blue merino dress with its close-fitting body displaying her round figure, and its sweeping skirts, and its tight sleeves, with natty linen cuffs. She advanced with outstretched hand and with a pleasant smile, showing all her fresh wholesome teeth.
"So you've come at last," she said; "it's no great compliment to say that we have anxiously expected you--for anything like the horror of this place you cannot imagine. Everybody you meet looks as if that day were their last, and that they had just crawled out to take farewell of the sun. And there's not a soul we know here, except the doctor who's attending Mr. Hammond, and he's an odious little chatterbox. And how is dear Lady Mitford? and how did you find the house? and did Captain Bligh make the arrangements as nicely as we thought he would? Come, sit down and tell me all about it."
It was at this period, and before they seated themselves, that Miss Gillespie said she thought she would go and see what Alice was doing. And Mrs. Hammond asked her to tell Newman that Sir Charles Mitford would dine with them; and that as he had a long drive home, they had better say six-o'clock dinner. And charged with these messages, Miss Gillespie retired.
Then Mrs. Hammond sunk down into a pleasant ottoman fitted into a recess close by the glowing fire, and Sir Charles Mitford, looking round for a seat, obeyed the silent invitation conveyed to him in her eyes and in the movement of her dress, and seated himself by her side.
"Well, you must have a great deal to tell me," she commenced. "I saw in thePostthat you had left town, and therefore imagined that Captain Bligh's arrangements were concluded. And how do you like Redmoor?"
"It's a glorious place, really a glorious place, though I've been rather bored there for the last two or three days--wanted people there, you know, and that sort of thing. But the place itself is first-rate. I've chosen your rooms. I did that the first day."
"Did you?" said she, her eyes sparkling with delight; "and where are they?"
"They are in the south wing, looking over the civilized side of the country, and are to my thinking the very best rooms in the house."
"And you chose them for us, and thought of us directly you arrived! How very, very kind of you! But suppose we should be unable to come?"
"What! unable to come! Mrs. Hammond, you're chaffing me, eh?"
"No, indeed. Mr. Hammond's health is in that wretched state, that I doubt whether Dr. Bronk would sanction his being moved, even to the soft air and all the luxuries of Redmoor."
"Oh, do him good, I'm sure; could do him no possible harm. He should have everything he wanted, you know; and the doctor could come spinning over there every day, for the matter of that. But at any rateyouwon't disappoint us?"
"I don't think my not coming would be keenly felt by many."
"It would by me," said Mitford in a low voice.
She looked him full in the face for an instant. "I believe it would," said she; "frankly I believe it would;" and she stretched out her hand almost involuntarily. Sir Charles took it, pressed it, and would have retained it, but she withdrew it gently. "No, that would never do. Mrs. Grundy would have a great deal to say on the subject; and besides, my place is at his side." If "his side" were her husband's, Mrs. Hammond was far more frequently out of place than in it. "My place is by his side," she repeated. "Ah, Sir Charles, you've no idea what a life I lead!"
He was looking at her hand as she spoke, was admiring its plumpness and whiteness, and was idly following with his eye the track of the violet veins. There is a something legible in the back of a hand, something which chiromancy wots not of, and Sir Charles Bell has left unexplained. Mitford was wondering whether he read this problem aright when the last words fell on his ear; and feeling it was necessary that he should reply, said, "It must be dull, eh?"
"Dull! you've no conception how dull. And I often think I was meant for something different,--something better than a sick-man's nurse, to bear his whims, and be patient under his irritability. I often think--But what nonsense I'm talking!--what are my thoughts to you?"
"A great deal more than you know of. Go on, please."
"I often think that if I had been married to a man who could understand me, who could appreciate me, I should have been a very happy and a good woman. Good and happy! God knows very different from what I am now."
With her right hand she touched her eyes with a delicate little handkerchief. In her left hand she had held a small feather fan, with which she had screened herself from the fire; but the fan had fallen to the floor and lay there unnoticed, while the hand hung listlessly by her side close by Sir Charles. Gradually their hands touched, and this time she made no effort to withdraw hers from his clasp.
There was silence for a few moments, broken by her saying, "There, there is an end of that! It is but seldom that I break down, and show myself in my true colours; but there is something in you which--inexplicably to myself--won my confidence, and now I've bored you with my troubles. There, let me go now, and I'll promise never to be so silly again." She struggled to free her hand, but he held it firmly.
"Leave it there," said he; "you have not misplaced your confidence, as you know very well. Oh, you needn't shake your head; you know that I would do anything to serve you."
He spoke in a low earnest voice; and as she looked up at him with one of her long deep dreamy looks, she saw a sudden thrill run through him, and felt his hand which held hers tremble.
"Idoknow it," she said; "and we will be the best, the very best of friends. Now let us talk of something else."
He was with her the whole of that day in a state of dreamful happiness, drinking in the music of her voice, watching her graceful motions, delighted with a certain bold recklessness, a contempt for the conventional rules of society, a horror of obedience to prescribed ordinances, which now and then her conversation betrayed. They saw nothing more of Miss Gillespie, save at dinner, when Mitford noticed that Mrs. Hammond made no alteration in her manner towards him, unless indeed it was a little moreprononcéthan when they had been alone. Miss Gillespie did not appear to remark it, but sat and purred from time to time in a very amiable and pleasant manner. She retired after dinner, and then Sir Charles's phaeton was brought round, and it was time to say adieu.
He said it in the little library, where the brother of the Irish peer kept his boots and his driving-whips, as he was lighting a cigar for which Mrs. Hammond held a cedar-match. As he bent over her, he felt her breath upon his face, and felt his whiskers touch her scented hair. He had not been inattentive to some Burgundy, which the invalid upstairs had specially commended to him in a message, and his blood coursed like fire through his veins. At that moment Miss Gillespie appeared at the open door with a glove which she had found in the hall, and with her dark-green eyes gleaming with rage. So Sir Charles only took Mrs. Hammond's hand, whispering "Friends?" receiving a long pressure and "Always!" for answer; and passing with a bow Miss Gillespie, whose eyes still gleamed ferociously sprang into his phaeton and drove off.
That last pressure of Mrs. Hammond's hand was on his hand, that last word of hers rung in his ear all the way home. All the way home his fevered fancy brought her image alluringly before him--more frequently, more alluringly than it had been in his morning's drive. But there was another figure which he had not thought of in the morning, and which now rose up;--the figure of a woman, green-eyed, pale-faced, cat-like in her motions. And when Sir Charles Mitford thought of her, he stamped his foot savagely and swore.