"It's a secret, so far. But don't think about it, Dick. I've got to please Hilarie first. The young man will have to be considered next."
"Well, if there's nothing fixed—— Molly, I don't like the fellow, I own. I don't like any of the lot who talk about outsiders and cads, as if they were a different order. Still, if it makes you happy—Molly, I swear there's nothing I wouldn't consent to if it would make you happy." The tears stood in his eyes.
"My dear Dick," she said. "There's nobody cares for me so much as you." And the tears stood in her eyes as well.
The young man let go her hand, and stood up. "That's enough, Molly—so long as we understand. Now tell me about the studies. Are you really working?"
"Really working. But, oh, Dick, my trouble is that the harder I work the more I feel as if it isn't there. I do exactly what I am told to do, and it doesn't come off."
"But when you used to sing and dance——"
"Oh, anybody could make people laugh."
The actor groaned. "She says—anybody! And she can do it! And they put her into tragedy!"
"Whenever I try to feel the emotion myself, it vanishes, and I can only feel myself in white satin, with a long train sweeping to the back of the stage, and all the house in love with me."
"This is bad; this is very bad, Molly."
"See, here, Dick, I'm telling you all my troubles. I am studying the part of Desdemona—you know, Desdemona who married a black man. How could she?—and of course he was jealous. I've got to show all kinds of emotion before that beast of a husband kills me."
"It's a fine part—none finer. Once I saw it played magnificently. She was in a travelling company, and she died of typhoid, poor thing! Yes, I can see her now." He acted as he spoke. "She was full of forebodings; her husband was cold; her distress of mind was shown in the way she took up trifles, and put them down again; she spoke she knew not what, and sang snatches of song; in her eyes stood tears; her voice trembled; she moved about uneasily; she clutched at her dress in agitation.
"'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow.'"
"'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow.'"
"'The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow.'"
"Why," cried the girl, "you make me feel it—you—only with talking about it! And I—alas! Have I any feeling in me at all, Dick?"
"Oh yes, it's there—it's there all right. There's tragedy in the most unpromising materials, if you know how to get at it. I think a woman's got to be in love first. It's a very fine thing for an actress to fall in love—the real thing, I mean. Then comes jealousy, of course. And after that, all the real tragedy emotions."
"Oh, love!" the girl repeated with scorn.
"Try again now; you know the words."
Molly began to repeat the lines—
"My mother had a maid called Barbara;She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,And forsook her; she had a song of 'Willow.'"
"My mother had a maid called Barbara;She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,And forsook her; she had a song of 'Willow.'"
"My mother had a maid called Barbara;She was in love, and he she loved proved mad,And forsook her; she had a song of 'Willow.'"
She declaimed these lines with certain gestures which had been taught her. She broke off, leaving the rest unfinished.
The effect was wooden. There was no pity, no sorrow, no foreboding in the lines at all. Dick shook his head.
"What am I to say to Hilarie?" she asked.
Dick passed his fingers through his hair. Then he sat down again, and began to laugh—laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"You a tragedy queen!" he said. "Not even if you were over head and ears in love. Now, on the other hand, if I had my fiddle in my hand, and were to play—so—that air which you remember"—he put out his legs straight and sat upright, and pretended the conduct of a fiddle and bow—"could you dance, do you think, as you used to dance two years ago?"
She stood before him, seeming to listen. Then she gently moved her head as if touched by the music. Then she raised her arms and began to dance, with such ease and grace and lightness as can only belong to the dancer born.
"Thank you, Molly." He stood up as if the music was over. "We shall confer further upon this point—and other points. When may I come again to visit Miss Molly Pennefather?"
He caught her head in his hands and kissed her gaily on her forehead—after all, he had no moremanners than can be expected of a tramp—and vanished.
"If Dick could only play 'Desdemona'!" she murmured, looking after him at the closed door. "Why, he actuallylookedthe part. I suppose he has been in love. If I could only do it so!" She imitated his gestures, and broke out into singing—
"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow."
"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow."
"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,Sing all a green willow."
"No," she said; "it won't do. I don't feel a bit like Desdemona. I am only myself, and I am filled with the most unholy longing for money—for riches, for filthy lucre, which we are told to despise."
Her eyes fell upon a newspaper, folded and lying on the floor. It had probably dropped out of Dick's pocket. She took it up mechanically, and opened it, expecting nothing. The sheet was one of the gossipy papers of the day, full of personal paragraphs. She glanced at it, thinking of the paragraphs about herself and her grand success, which would probably never appear, unless she could transform herself.
Presently her eye caught the word "millionaire," and she read—
"Among thenouveaux riches—the millionaires of the West—we must not, as Englishmen, forget to enumerate Mr. John Haveril, who has made his money partly by transactions in silver-mines, and partly by the sudden creation of a town on his own lands. He is said to be worth no more than two or three millions sterling, so that he is not in the very front rank of American rich men. Still, there is a good deal of spending, even in so moderate a fortune. Mr. Haveril is by birth an Englishman and a Yorkshireman. He was born about sixtyyears ago, and emigrated about the year '55. His wife is also of English origin, having been born at Hackney. Her maiden name was Alice Pennefather."
"Among thenouveaux riches—the millionaires of the West—we must not, as Englishmen, forget to enumerate Mr. John Haveril, who has made his money partly by transactions in silver-mines, and partly by the sudden creation of a town on his own lands. He is said to be worth no more than two or three millions sterling, so that he is not in the very front rank of American rich men. Still, there is a good deal of spending, even in so moderate a fortune. Mr. Haveril is by birth an Englishman and a Yorkshireman. He was born about sixtyyears ago, and emigrated about the year '55. His wife is also of English origin, having been born at Hackney. Her maiden name was Alice Pennefather."
Molly looked up in bewilderment. "There can't be two people of that name!" she said. She went on with the paper—
"They have no children to inherit their wealth. They have arrived in London, and have taken rooms at the Hôtel Métropole."
"They have no children to inherit their wealth. They have arrived in London, and have taken rooms at the Hôtel Métropole."
That was all. She put the paper on the table. "Alice Pennefather! Why, she must be the Alice who disappeared—Dad's first cousin! But Alice married an actor named Anthony; Dad gave her away. He often wondered what had become of her. This Mr. Haveril is a second husband, I suppose. And now she's a millionairess! I think I might go and call upon her at the Hôtel Métropole. I will."
The lady looked at the card. "Sir Richard Steele, M.D., F.R.S.," and in the corner, "245, Harley Street, W."
"Who is Sir Richard Steele?"
Her visitor came upstairs. He stood before her and bowed.
"I was right," he said. "I remember your face perfectly. But you do not appear to remember me, Lady Woodroffe."
"Indeed, Sir Richard. But if you will refresh my memory——"
"I have to recall to you an incident in your life which happened four and twenty years ago."
"That is a long time ago." So far she suspected nothing.
"Yes; but you cannot have forgotten it. I have called, Lady Woodroffe, against my wish, to remind you of a certain adoption of a child a few days after the death of your own boy, at Birmingham, just about four and twenty years ago. It is impossible that you have forgotten the incident. I see that you have not." For the suddenness of the thing fell upon her like a paralytic stroke. She sat motionless, with parted lipsand staring eyes. "You have not forgotten it," he repeated.
"Sir," she said, forcing herself to speak, "you talk of things of which I know nothing. What child? What adoption? Why do you come here with such a story?"
"Let me remind you again. You were passing through Birmingham with your child and an Indian ayah. The child was taken ill, and died. You called at my surgery—I was then a small general practitioner in a poor quarter of Birmingham—you asked me if I could procure a child for adoption. I understood that it was, perhaps, for consolation; I guessed that it was, perhaps, for substitution. You told me that the child was to have light hair and blue eyes; and for age it was to correspond tolerably nearly with that of your own lost child, whose birth-date you gave me—December the 2nd, 1872. I have the date in my note-book. Now do you remember anything about it?"
"Nothing," she replied, with pale face and set lips; "nothing."
"I found you out, only yesterday, by means of this date. I was reminded of the date, and I suspected substitution. I therefore looked through the Red Book, and I came to the name of the present baronet. He was born, it is stated, on December 2, 1872—the exact date on which your own child was born. I looked out your address; I am here. I remember you perfectly. And I now find that my suspicions were correct."
"Do you accuse me of substituting a strange childfor my own?" She spoke in words of indignation, but in a voice of terror.
"I merely state what happened—a transaction in which I took part. That is all, so far."
"Where is your proof? I deny everything. Prove what you say."
"It is very easy. I recognize in you the lady who conducted the business with me. I took the child myself to the railway station. I gave the child to the ayah, who took it to the carriage in which you were sitting."
"Proof! What kind of proof is that? You look in the Red Book, you find a date, and you make up a story."
"A man in my position does not make up stories. I am no longer a general practitioner; I am one of the leaders of my profession. I am no longer either obscure or poor. I have nothing whatever to gain by telling this story."
"Then, sir, why do you come to me with it at all?"
"Partly out of curiosity. I was curious to ascertain whether chance had directed me to the right quarter. I am satisfied on that score. Partly I came in order to warn you that the story may possibly be brought to light."
"How? how?"
"Since you are not concerned, it doesn't matter, does it? I may as well go." But he did not move from his chair.
"So far as I am concerned, there is no truth in it."
"In that case, I can do nothing except to tell the person who is inquiring what I know. I can sendher to you. Consider again, if you please. There is no reason for me to hide my share in the transaction—not the least. And if you continue to declare that you are not the purchaser of the baby, I am freed from the promise I made at the time, to maintain silence until you yourself shall think fit to release me from my promise."
"Who is inquiring, then?"
"Is the story true?"
The lady hesitated; she quailed. The physician looked her in the face with eyes of authority. His voice was gentle, but his words were strong.
"You must confess," he said, "or I shall leave you. If you continue to deny the fact, I repeat that I shall feel myself absolved from my promise."
"It is true," she murmured, and buried her face in her hands.
"I only wanted the confirmation from your own lips. Now, Lady Woodroffe, be under no anxiety. I hope that this is the only occasion on which we shall discuss a subject naturally painful to you."
She sat without reply, abashed and humiliated.
"I remember," he said, "speaking to you then on the subject of heredity. Let me ask you if the boy has turned out well?"
"No. He turned out badly."
"About his qualities, now. His father was artistic in a way. He could sing, play, and act."
"This boy plays pretty well; he makes things which he calls songs, and smudges which he calls paintings. He is a prig of bad art, and consorts with other young prigs."
"His mother was, I remember, tenacious, honest, and careful."
"The boy is obstinate and ill-conditioned."
"Her qualities in excess. His father was handsome, selfish, and unprincipled."
"The boy is also handsome, selfish, and unprincipled."
"Humph! You speak bitterly, Lady Woodroffe."
"You know what I am, what I write, what I advocate."
"The whole world knows that."
"Imagine, then, what I suffer daily. Oh, how strong must be the force of hereditary vice when it breaks out after such an education!"
"It should make you a little more lenient, Lady Woodroffe. Your last papers on the exceeding wickedness of man would be less severe if you looked at home."
"This is my punishment. I must bear it till I die. But"—she turned sharply on her accomplice—"he must remain where he is. There must be no scandal. I cannot face a scandal. But for that he should have gone, long ago, back to his native kennel."
"Let him remain. No one but you can turn him out."
"Doctor—Sir Richard—can I really trust you?"
"Madam, hundreds of people trust me. I am a father confessor. I know all the little family secrets. This is only one secret the more. It is interesting to me, I confess, partly because I was concerned in the business, and partly because I was curious to know what kind of man would emerge from thisboy's birth, and his education, and the general conditions of his life."
"I may rely upon that promise?"
The doctor spread out his hands. "Other people do rely upon my secrecy: why not you?"
"And you will not tell the boy? For that matter, if you tell him, I would just as soon that you told the whole world."
"I have long since promised that I would reveal the matter to no one unless you gave me leave."
She sighed. She leaned her head upon her hand. She sighed again.
"Let it be so," she said. "Consider me, then, as one of your patients. Let me come to you with this trouble of mine, which disturbs me night and day. It is not repentance, because I would do it again and again to shield that good and great man, my late husband, from pain. No; it is not repentance; it is fear of being found out. It is not the dread of seeing this young man turned out of the position he holds—I care nothing about him—it is fear of being found out myself."
"Madam, you can never be found out. There is only one person who knows the lady in question, and that is myself. I have only to continue the attitude which, till yesterday, was literally true—that I knew nothing about the lady, neither her name, nor her place of residence, nor anything at all—and you are perfectly safe. No one can find out the fact; no one even can suspect it."
"How has the question arisen, then? What do you mean by inquirers?"
"There is only one inquirer at present. She is certainly an important inquirer, but she is only one."
"She! Who is it?"
"The mother of the child."
"Quite a common creature, was she not?"
"I don't know what you call common; say undistinguished, born in the lower middle class—a nursery governess, married to a comedian first, and to an American adventurer next, who is now a millionaire. She called upon me, and began to inquire."
"Well, but what does she know?"
"Nothing, except that she parted with her boy when she was poor, and she would give all the world to get him back now that she is rich."
"He would not make her any happier. I can assure her of that."
"Perhaps not. She saw a young man somewhere, who reminded her of her husband. This made her remember things. She heard my name mentioned, and came to see if I was the man she knew in Birmingham."
"And then?"
"All I could say was—truthfully—that I knew nothing about the lady."
"What will she do?"
"I don't know. But she can discover nothing. Believe me, she can do nothing—nothing at all. It was well, however, to warn you—to tell you. The young man she saw may have been your son. It was at the theatre."
"He goes a good deal to the theatre—to see the girls on the stage."
"His true father was also, I believe, inclined that way. The best way, I take it, if I may advise——"
"Pray advise."
"One way, at least, would be to take the bull by the horns and bring them together. When she finds that the young man so like her husband is your son, she will at least make no further investigation in this direction."
"Do what you like," said the lady, sinking back in her chair. "I desire nothing except to avoid a scandal—such a scandal, Sir Richard; it would kill me."
"There shall be no scandal. The secret is mine." Sir Richard rose. "I promise, once more, to keep this secret till you give me permission to reveal it."
"Will you ever have to ask my permission?"
"On my honour, I believe not. I cannot conceive any turn of the wheel which would make such a permission desirable."
"My death, perhaps, might set you free; and it would rid society of a pretender."
"No. For then the scandal would be doubled. Your husband's name would be charged with the thing as well as your own. Rest easy, Lady Woodroffe. I will make her acquainted, however, with the young man."
The hall of a West End hotel on a fine afternoon, even in October, not to speak of June, is a spectacle of pious consolation in the eyes of those who like the contemplation of riches. Many there are on whose souls the sight of wealth in activity, producing its fruits in due season, pours sweet and balmy soothing. All those lovely costumes flitting across the hall, the coming and the going of the people in their carriages, the continual arrival of messengers with parcels, the driving up to the hotel or the driving off, the hotel porters, the liveries, the haughty children of pride and show who wear them—these things in a desert of longing illustrate what wealth can give, and how much wealth is to be envied; these things make wealth appear boundless and stable. Surely one may take such wealth as this to the halls of heaven! Inexhaustible it must be, else how could the hotel bills be paid? The magnificent person in uniform, with a gold band round his cap, makes wealth all-powerful as well as beautiful, else how could he receive a wage at all adequate to his appearance and his manners? The noble perspective of white tables through the doors on the right, and of velvet sofasthrough the doors on the left, proves the illimitable nature of the modern wealth of the millionaire, else how could those sumptuous dinners be paid for? The American accent which everywhere strikes the ear further indicates that the wealth mostly belongs to another country, which makes the true philanthropist and the altruist rejoice. "Non nobis, Domine," he chants, "but to our neighbours and our cousins." So long as there is accumulated wealth, which enables us to run these big hotels, and to maintain these costly costumes, and to keep these messengers on the trot, why should we grumble? All the world desires wealth. It is only at such places as the entrance-hall of a great hotel that the impecunious can really see with their own eyes, and properly understand, what great riches can actually do for their possessor. What can confer happiness more solid, more satisfying, more abiding, than to buy your wife a costume for two hundred guineas, and to live in such a hotel as this, with the whole treasures of London lying at your feet, and waiting for your choice?
About half-past four, when the crush of arrivals was greatest, and the talk in the hall was loudest, another carriage and pair deposited at the hotel an elderly couple. The man was tall and thin; his features were plain, but strongly marked; his hair was grey, and his beard, which he grew behind his chin, was also grey. You may see men like him in face and figure, and in the disposition of his beard behind his chin, in every Yorkshire town—in fact, he was a Yorkshireman by birth, though he had spent the last forty years of his life in the Western States.His face was habitually grave; he spoke slowly. This man, in fact, was one of that most envied and enviable class—the rich American. In those lists which people like so much to read, the name of John Haveril was generally placed about halfway down, opposite the imposing figures 13,000,000 dollars. Reading these figures, the ordinary average Briton remarked, "Dollars, sir; dollars. Not pounds sterling. But still, two millions and a half sterling. And still rolling, still r-r-r-rolling!" The city magnate, reading them, sighs and says, "He cannot spend a quarter of the income. The rest fructifies, sir—fr-r-r-ructifies!"
John Haveril arrived at this pinnacle of greatness by methods which I believe are perfectly well understood by everybody who is interested in the great mystery of making money. It is a mystery which is intelligible, easy, and open to everybody. Yet only a very few—say, one in twenty millions—are able to practise the art successfully. A vast number try to cross that stormy sea which has no chart by which they can navigate their barques; rocks strike upon them and overwhelm them; hurricanes capsize and sink them. Disappointment, bankruptcy, concealment for life, flight, ruin, cruel misrepresentation, even open trial, conviction, sentence, and imprisonment are too often the consequences when persons who, perhaps, possess every quality except one—or all the qualities but one or two—in imperfection. Corners, rings, trusts, presidencies, the control of markets, monopolies, the crushing of competition, the trampling down of the weaker, disregard of scruple,tenderness, pity, sympathy, belong to the success which ought to have made John Haveril happy.
The fortunate possessor of thirteen millions—dollars—got out of the carriage when it stopped. He looked round him. On the steps of the hotel the people drew back, hushed and awed. "John Haveril!" he heard, in whispers. He smiled. It is always a pleasuremonstrari digito. He marched up the steps and into the hall, leaving his wife to follow alone.
This lady, whom we have already met in the doctor's consultation-room, was dressed in the splendour that belonged to her position. It is useless to have thirteen millions of dollars if you do not spend some of them in proclaiming the fact by silks and satins, lace and embroidery, chains of gold and glittering jewels. Mr. Haveril liked to see his wife in costly array. What wife would not willingly respond to such a pleasing taste in a husband? On this point, at least, the married couple's hearts beat as one—in unison. Mrs. Haveril, therefore, ought to have enjoyed nothing so much as the triumphal march across the hall, with all the people gazing upon her as the thrice happy, the four times happy, the pride of her country, the millionairess.
I do not think that she ever, under any circumstances, got the full flavour out of her wealth. You have seen her with the doctor; a constant anxiety weighed her down; she was weak in body and troubled in mind. She was no happier with the millions than if they had been hundreds. Moreover, she was always a simple woman, contented withsimple ways—one to whom footmen, waiters, and grand dinners were a weariness. With her pale, delicate face, and sad soft eyes, she looked more like a nun in disguise than a woman rolling in gold.
Their rooms were, of course, on the first floor; such rooms, so furnished, as became such guests. Parcels, opened and unopened, were lying about on the tables and chairs, for they had only as yet been two or three days in London, and, therefore, had only begun to buy things. Tickets for theatres, cards of visitors, invitations to dinner, had already begun to flow in.
A waiter followed them upstairs, bearing a tray on which were cards, envelopes with names, and bits of paper with names. Mrs. Haveril turned them over.
"John," she said, "I do believe these are my cousins. They've found us out pretty soon."
It was, in fact, only the day after the arrivals were put in the papers.
John turned over the cards. "Humph!" he said. "Now, Alice, before these people come, let us make up our minds what we are going to do for them. What brings them? Is it money, or is it love?"
"I'm afraid it's money. Still, when one has been away for five and twenty years, it does seem hard not to see one's cousins again. 'Tisn't as if we came back beggars, John."
"That's just it. If we had, we shouldn't have been in this hotel. And they wouldn't be calling upon us."
"They're all waiting down below."
"Let 'em wait. What are we to do, Alice? They want money. Are you going to give 'em money?"
"It isn't my money, John. It's yours."
"'Tis thine, lass," the Yorkshireman replied. "If 'tis mine, 'tis thine. But leave it to me." He turned to the waiter who had been present, hearing what was said with the inscrutable face of one who hears nothing, "Send all these chaps and women up," he said. "Make 'em come up—every one. And, Alice, sit down and never move. I'll do the talking."
They came up, some twenty in number. One of the blessings which attend the possession of great wealth is its power in bringing together and uniting in bonds of affection the various members of a family. Branches long since obscure and forgotten come to the light again; members long since supposed—or hoped—to be gone away to the Ewigkeit appear alive, and with progeny. They rally round the money; the possessor of the money becomes the head of the family, the object of their most sincere respect, the source of dignity and pride to the whole family.
They trooped up the broad staircase, men and women, all together. They were old, and they were young; they presented, one must acknowledge, that kind of appearance which is called "common." It is not an agreeable thing to say of any one, especially of a woman, that he—or she—has a "common" appearance. Yet of Mrs. Haveril's cousins so much must be said, if one would preserve any reputation for truth. The elder women were accompanied by younger ones, their daughters, whose hats were monumental and their jackets deplorable: the ladies, both old and young, while waiting below, sniffed when they looked around them. They sniffed, and theywhispered half aloud, "Shameful, my dear! and she only just come home!"—deploring the motives which led the others, not themselves, to this universal consent. The men, for their part, seemed more ashamed of themselves than of their neighbours. Their appearance betokened the small clerk or the retail tradesman. Yet there was hostility in their faces, as if, in any possible slopping over, or in any droppings, from the money-bag, there were too many of them for the picking up.
They stood at the door, hesitating. The splendour of the room disconcerted them. They had never seen anything so magnificent.
Mrs. Haveril half rose to greet her cousins. Beside her stood her husband—of the earth's great ones. At the sight of this god-like person an awe and hush fell upon all these souls. They were so poor, all of them; they had all their lives so ardently desired riches—a modest, a very modest income—as an escape from poverty with its scourge, that, at the sight of one who had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, their cheeks blanched, their knees trembled.
One of them boldly advanced. He was a man of fifty or so, who, though he was dressed in the black frock which means a certain social elevation, was more common in appearance, perhaps, than any of the rest. His close-set eyes, the cunning in his face, the hungry look, the evident determination which possessed him, the longing and yearning to get some of the money shown in that look, his arched back and bending knees, proclaimed the manner of the man, who was by nature a reptile.
He stepped across the room, and held out his hand. "Cousin Alice," he said softly, even sadly, as thinking of the long years of separation, "I am Charles—the Charlie of your happy childhood, when we played together in Hoxton Square." He continued to hold her hand. "This is, indeed, a joyful day. I have lost no time in hastening here, though at the sacrifice of most important business—but what are my interests compared with the reunion of the family? I say that I have lost no time, though in the sight of this crowd my action might possibly be misrepresented."
"You are doing well, Charles?" asked Mrs. Haveril, with some hesitation, because, though she remembered the cousinship, she could not remember the happy games in Hoxton Square.
"Pretty well, Alice, thank you. It is like your kind heart to ask. Pretty well. Mine is a well-known establishment. In Mare Street, Hackney. I am, at least, respectable—which is more than some can say. All I want," he stooped and whispered, "is the introduction of more capital—more capital."
"We cannot talk about that now, Cousin Charles." Mrs. Haveril pushed him gently aside; but he took up a position at her right hand, and whispered as each came up in turn.
The next was a man who most certainly, to judge by his appearance, was run down pretty low. He was dressed in seedy black, his boots down at heel, his tall hat limp.
He stepped forward, with an affectation of a laugh. "I am your cousin Alfred, Alice. Alf, you know." She did not remember; but she offered him her hand."I had hoped to find you alone. I have much to tell you."
"A bankrupt, Alice," whispered Charles. "Actually a bankrupt! And in this company!"
"If I am," said Fortune's battered plaything, "you ought to be, too, if everybody had his rights."
Cousin Charles made no reply to this charge. Do any of us get our deserts? The bankrupt stepped aside.
Then a pair of ladies, old and young, stepped forward with a pleasing smile.
"Cousin Alice," said the elder, "I am Sophy. This is my daughter. She teaches in a Board school, and is a credit to the family, as much as if she had a place of business in Mare Street, I'm sure."
"Pew-opener of St. Alphege, Hoxton," whispered Cousin Charles.
And so on.
While the presentation was going on, a young lady appeared in the door. She saw the crowd, and held back, not presenting herself. She was none other, in fact, than Molly. Strange that a little difference in dress and in associates should make so great a difference in a girl. Molly was but the daughter of a tenth-rate player, yet she was wholly different from the other girls in the room. She belonged to another species of humanity. It could not be altogether dress which caused this difference. She looked on puzzled at first, then she understood the situation, and she smiled, keeping in the background, waiting the event.
When they were all presented, Mrs. Haveril turned to her husband.
"John," she said, "these are my cousins. Will you speak to them, and tell them that we are pleased to see them here?"
John Haveril possessed three manners or aspects. The first was the latest. It was the air and carriage and voice of one who is in authority, and willing to exercise it, and ready to receive recognition. A recently created peer might possess this manner. The second was the air and carriage and voice of one who is exercising his trade. You may observe this manner on any afternoon near Capel Court. The third manner was quite different. It was his earliest and youngest manner. In this he seemed to lose interest in what went on, his eyes went out into space, he was for the time lost to the place and people about him.
On this occasion John Haveril began with the first manner—that of authority.
"Cousins," he said, "you are welcome. I take it you are all cousins, else you wouldn't have called. You don't look like interviewers. My wife is pleased to see you again, after all these years—five and twenty, I take it."
There was a general murmur.
"Very well, then. Waiter, bring champagne—right away—and for the whole party. You saw, ladies and gentlemen, a paragraph in the papers about Mr. and Mrs. John Haveril. Yes, and you have come in consequence of that notice. Very well."
"That's true," cried Cousin Charles, unable to resist the expression of his admiration. "To think that we should stand in the presence of millions!"
"And so you've come, all of you," said John of the thirteen millions, "to see your cousin again. Out of love and affection?"
"Some of us," said Cousin Charles. "I fear that others," he cast one eye on the bankrupt and one on the pew-opener, "have come to see what they can get. Humanity is mixed, Mr. Haveril. You must have learned that already. Mixed."
"Thank ye, sir. I have learned that lesson."
"To see our cousin Alice once more, to desire, Mr. Haveril, to see you—to gaze upon you—is with some of us, laudable, sir—laudable."
"Quite so, sir. Highly laudable."
"As for me," said the bankrupt, abashed, "I did hope to find Cousin Alice alone."
"And if Mr. Charles Pennefather," said the pew-opener, "means that he wants nothing for himself, let him go, now that he has seen his Cousin Alice! Let him go on down-trodding them poor girls in his place of business."
At this point, when it seemed likely that the family would take sides, the waiter appeared, bearing in his arms—I use the word with intention—a Jeroboam of champagne. He was followed by two boys, pages, bearing trays; and on the trays were glasses.
A Jeroboam! The sight of this inexhaustible vessel suggests hospitality of the more lavish: generosity of the less calculating: it contains twomagnums and a magnum contains two bottles. Can one go farther than a Jeroboam? There are legends and traditions in one or two of the older hotels—those which flourished in the glorious days of the Regent—of a Rehoboam, containing two Jeroboams. But I have never met in this earthly pilgrimage with a living man who had gazed upon a Rehoboam. At the sight of the Jeroboam all faces softened, broadened, expanded, and began to slime with a smile not to be repressed. Cousin Charles thrust his right hand into his bosom, and directed his eyes, as if for penance, to the cornice.
"Now," said Mr. Haveril, "you came here to see your cousin again. You shall drink her health—all of you. Here she is. Not so hale and hearty as one could wish; but alive, after five and twenty years, or thereabouts. Now, boys, pass it round."
The glasses went round—the wine gurgled and sparkled. Cousin Charles gave the word.
"Cousin Alice!" he cried. "All together—after me!" He raised his glass. "Cousin Alice!" He emptied it at one draught.
"I think," said the pew-opener, in an audible whisper to her daughter, "that it would have been more becoming to offer port wine. I don't think much of this fizzy stuff."
"Hush! mother." The daughter had more reading, if less experience. "This is champagne. It's rich folks' drink, instead of beer."
The waiter and the boys went round again. The second glass vanished, without any toast. Eyes brightened, cheeks flushed, tongues were loosened.
"Cousin Alice," said the bankrupt, emboldened. "If I could see you alone——"
"Don't see him alone," whispered Cousin Charles. "Don't see anybody alone. They all want your money. They are leeches for sucking and limpets for sticking. Turn 'em over to me. I'll manage the whole lot for you. Very lucky for you, Cousin Alice, that I did call, just this day of all days, to stand between you and them."
But Cousin Alice made no answer. And they all began whispering together, and the whisper became a murmur, and the murmur a babble, and in the babble voices were raised and charges were made as of self-seeking, pretence, hypocrisy, unworthy motives, greed of gain, deception, past trickeries, known meannesses, sordidness, and so forth. And there was a general lurch forward, as if the cousins would one and all fall upon Alice and ravish from her, on the spot, her husband's millions.
But Cousin Charles, self-elected representative, stepped forward and held up his hand.
"We cannot part," he said. "It is impossible for you to leave me with my Cousin Alice——"
"Ho!" cried the pew-opener, "you alone with Cousin Alice!"
"See you alone, Alice," whispered the bankrupt, on whose weak nerves and ill-nourished brain the champagne was working.
"—without drinking—one more toast. Wemustdrink," he said, "to our cousin's illustrious, noble, and distinguished husband. Long may he continue to enjoy the wealth which he so well deserves and whichnone of us envy him. No, my friends, humble and otherwise, none of us envy him. Mr. Haveril, sir, I could have wished that the family—your wife's family—which is, as you know, one of eminent respectability—an ancient family, in fact, of Haggerston——"
"Grandmother was a laundress," said the pew-opener. "Everybody knows that all the Haggerston people were washer-women in the old days."
"—had been better represented on this occasion by a limited deputation of respectability—say, by myself, without the appearance of branches, which should not have been presented to you, because we have no reason to be proud of them." He glanced at the decayed branch. "Sir, we drink your prolonged health and your perpetual happiness. We are proud of you, Mr. Haveril. The world is proud of you."
With a murmur, partly of remonstrance with the speaker's arrogance and his insinuations against their respectability; and partly meant for a cheer, the family drank the health of Mr. John Haveril.
"Thank ye," he said, with no visible emotion. "Now, take another glass—send it round, waiter—while I say something. It's just this." As he spoke his manner insensibly changed. He became the man of business, hard as nails. "I take it that some of you are here to see your cousin again, and some of you are here to get what you can, and some for both reasons. It's natural, and I don't blame anybody. When a body's poor, he always thinks that a rich man can make him rich, too. Well, he can't—not unless he makes over half his pile. And I'lltell you why. A chap is poor because he's foolish or lazy. Either he can't see the way or he won't stir himself. You can't help a blind man—nor you can't help a lazy man. If you give either of them what he wants, he spends it all, and then holds out his hand and asks for more." The bankrupt dropped his head, and sank into a chair. The champagne helped him to apply this maxim to his own case. "The best thing that can be done for any one is to dump him down in a new country where he'll sink or swim. You, sir," he pointed a minatory finger to Cousin Charles, "you would like more capital, would you?"
"Not in the presence of this multitude, Mr. Haveril," Cousin Charles replied.
"Those who want capital, either here or anywhere else, have got to make it for themselves."
"So true—so true," said Cousin Charles. "Listen to this, all of you."
"Make it for themselves. Same as I did. How much capital had I to start with? Just nothing. Whatever you want, make it for yourself by your own smartness. There's nothing else in the world to get a man along but smartness. In whatever line you are, cast about for the prizes in that line and look out for opportunities. If you can't see them, who can help you? As for you, sir," he addressed the bankrupt, "you want money. Well, if I give you money you will eat it up, and then come for more. What's the use, I ask any of you?"
He looked round. Nobody answered. Cousin Charles, perspiring at the nose, murmured faintly,"So true—so true," but not with conviction. Some of the women wiped away a tear—they had taken four glasses of champagne, but fortunately a waiter does not quite fill up the glasses.
"Not one of you would be a bit the better off, in the long run, if I gave him a thousand pounds."
"Not to give, but to advance," said Cousin Charles.
"Not a bit the better off," John Haveril repeated. "Not a bit. We've got to work in this world—to work, and to think, and to lay low, and to watch. Those who can do nothing of all this had better sit down quiet in a retired spot. My friends, there's nothing shameful in taking a back seat. Most of the seats are in the back. Make up your mind that such is your lot, and you may be happy, though you've got no money. I've been poor, and now I'm rich. Seems to me I was just as happy when I was poor and looking out."
He paused for a moment.
"Alice doesn't want to throw you over. What then? Why—this. Any one of you who came to ask for something may do it in writing. Let him send me a letter—and tell me all about it. If it's a thing that will do you no harm, I'll do it for you. But I don't expect it is, only to feel that you've got somebody who'll give you what you ask for just because you ask for it. Why, there can't be in all the world anything worse for him. Remember that you've got to work for a living, to begin with; harder if you make your fortune, and harder still if you want to keep it. That's the dispositions of Providence, and I'm not going to stand in the way of the Lord.Go home, then. Take example by me, if you can. But if you came to coax dollars out of Alice, give it up."
The audience looked at each other ruefully. They did not know what to say in reply. Nor did they know how to get off. Nobody would move first. Cousin Charles stepped forward.
"Mr. Haveril," he said, "in the name of the family, worthy or unworthy, as the case may be; greedy or disinterested, as it may be; I thank you. Whatever words may drop from you, sir, will be treasured. What you have said are golden words. We shall, I hope, write them down and engrave them on the marble tombstones of our hearts. They will be buried with us. My friends," he addressed the family, "you can go."
"Not without you," said the pew-opener—"you and your respectability."
"Some of us will prepare that little note, I dare say—I fear so, Mr. Haveril," Cousin Charles went on. "In business, as you know, the introduction of capital is not a gift nor a charity; but I will explain later on, when these have gone."
"Not without you," said the lady pew-opener, planting her umbrella firmly on the carpet.
There was so much determination in her face that Cousin Charles quailed; he bent, he bowed, he submitted.
"On another, a more favourable occasion, then, when we can be private," he said. "Good-bye, Cousin Alice. You look younger than ever. Ah, if these friends present could remember you as I can,in the spring-time of youth and beauty, among the laurels and the laburnums and the lilacs of Hoxton Square! Love's young dream, cousin; love's young dream." He grasped her hand, his voice vibrating with emotion. "Alice," he said, "on Sunday evenings we gather round us a little circle at South Hackney. Intellect and respectability. Supper at eight. I shall hope to see you there soon and often."
He then seized Mr. Haveril's hand. "If I may, sir—if I may."
"You may, sir—you may." He held out a hand immovable, like a sign-post.
"As men of business—men of business—we shall understand each other."
"Very like, very like," said Mr. Haveril, with distressing coldness.
He had fallen into his third manner, and his eyes were far off. He spoke mechanically.
Cousin Charles clapped his hat on his head and walked out. He was followed by the lady pew-opener, who called out after him over the broad balustrade—
"You and your respectability, indeed! Go and sweat your shop-girls! You and your respectability!"
"They are all gone, John," said Alice. "Oh, what a visit! I am ashamed! I never thought my people could have gone on so! As for Cousin Charles, he's just dreadful!"
One was left. The unfortunate bankrupt, overcome by the champagne, was asleep in his chair. John Haveril dragged him up by the collar.
"Now then, you, sir! What do you mean by going to sleep here?"
The unfortunate rubbed his eyes and pulled himself together. Presently he remembered where he was.
"Cousin Alice," he said, "are we alone?" He whispered confidentially. "They all want your money—particularly Charles. He's the most grasping, greedy, cheeseparing, avaricious, unscrupulous, bully of a cousin that ever had a place of business. Don't give him anything. Give it to me. I'm starving, Alice. I haven't eaten anything all day. It's true. I've got no work and no money."
"John, give him something."
"It's no good," said John. "He'll only eat it, and then ask for more."
"But give him something. Let him eat it."
John plunged his hand into his pocket. After the manner of the eighteenth century, it was full of gold.
"Well, take it." He transferred a handful to the clutch of the poor wretch. "Take it. Go and eat it up. And don't come back for more."
The man took it, bowed low, and shambled off. It made Alice ashamed only to see the attitude of the poor hungry creature, and the abasement of poverty.
"Well, Alice," said John, "we've seen the last of the family, until their letters begin to come in. Halloa! Who's this?"
For John became aware of the girl who had been standing beside the door, unnoticed. When all were gone, she stepped in lightly.
"Mrs. Haveril," she said—"I ought to call you Cousin Alice, but I am afraid you have had cousins enough. My name is Pennefather—Molly Pennefather."
"Why, I was a Pennefather—same as Charles, who's just gone out, and the ragged wretch who was Cousin Alfred."
"Yes; and others of the truly dreadful people who have just gone out. I don't know any of them. Fortunately, they wouldn't have anything to do with my poor old dad, because he disgraced the family and went on the stage. If they hadn't been so haughty, I might have had to know them now."
"Your father? Is he Willy Pennefather?"
"He was. But he died five years ago."
"He died? Poor Willy! Oh, John, if you'dknown my cousin Will! How clever he was! And how bright! Dead, is he?"
"He was never a great success, you know, because he couldn't settle down. And at last he died. And I—— Well, I'm studying for the stage myself."
"Oh, you are Willy's daughter! My dear, you look straight. But there's been such a self-seeking——"
"I don't want your money, indeed!"
"Oh, but have you got money, my dear?"
"No; but some day I suppose I shall have—by my Art. That's the way to talk about the profession nowadays. Well, I mean that I don't want your money, Cousin Alice."
"If you haven't got any money and don't want any——" John began.
"You see, we are not all built like Mr. John Haveril," she interrupted, with a sweet smile. "Art, I am told, makes one despise money. When I am furnished with my Art, I dare say I shall despise money."
"Oh, coom now, lass!" From time to time, but rarely, John Haveril became Yorkshire again. "Despise the brass?"
"Not the people who have the brass. That is an accident."
"I don't know about accidents."
"Well, you've got money; once you hadn't. You're John Haveril all the same—see? Besides, it's quite right that some people should have money. They can take stalls at theatres. If you will let me be friends with you, Mr. Haveril, and won't look so dreadfully suspicious——"
"Well, I don't care," he said. "You look as if——"
"As if I was telling the truth. Shake hands, then."
Mrs. Haveril gave her a hand, and then, looking in her face, threw her arms round her neck.
"My dear child," she said, "you're the very picture of your father—Cousin Will. I thought there must be some one in the family fit to love." She hugged and kissed the girl with a sudden wave of affection. "Oh, Molly, my dear, I am sure I shall love you!"
"I'm so glad. Well, may I call you Alice? I will tell you what theatres to go to. Oh, I shall make myself very useful to you!" She clasped her hands, laughing—a picture of youth and truth and innocence. "Some time or other you shall seemeon the stage."
"We get lots of actors out in the West—and actresses too. Some of them are real lovely," said John Haveril.
She laughed. "Oh! There are actresses and actresses. And some elevate their Art, and some degrade it. Now, let me see. Oh, father is dead, poor dear! I told you. And the rest of the family—— Well, you saw for yourself, cousin, they are not exactly the kind of people for a person of your consideration. You should lend them all some money—not much—and make them promise to pay it back on a certain day—next Monday week, at ten o'clock. It's a certain plan. Then you'll have no further trouble with them. Otherwise, they'll crowd round you like leeches."
"I can't let my own flesh and blood starve."
"Starve! Rubbish! They won't starve! What have they been doing while you've been away? Unless you encourage them not to work." And now she sank gracefully upon a footstool, and took her cousin's hands. "Oh," she said, "it is so nice to have a relative of whom one may be proud, after all those cousins. Oh, it must be a dreadful thing to have such lots of money! Why, I've got nothing!"
"You've had no champagne," said Cousin John, lifting his Jeroboam.
"Thank you, Cousin John, I don't drink champagne. Well, now, what can I do for you this afternoon?"
"I don't know, my dear. We neither of us know much about London, and we just wander about, for the most part, or drive about, and wonder where we are."
The girl jumped up. "Order a carriage and pair instantly. I shall drive you round and show you the best shops. You are sure to want something. As for me, remember that I want nothing. An actress appears in costume which the management finds. You, however, Alice, are different. You must dress as becomes your position."
"My dear child," said Alice, in the very first shop, "youmustlet me give you a dress—you really must."
"I don't want it, I assure you," she laughed. "But if it pains you not to give me one, why, I will take it."
Shedidtake it. That evening there arrived at the boarding-house, addressed to Miss Pennefather,first a bonnet, for which five guineas would be cheap; a dress, the price of which the male observer could not even guess; a box of kid gloves, a mantle, and two or three pairs of boots.
"And, oh," said the girl, when she left the hotel that night, "what alovelything it is to feel that there will be no horrid mercenary considerations between us! You will admire my Art, but I shall not envy your money. Cousin John, admit that I am better off than you—one would rather be admired than envied."
She reached home. In her room lay the parcels and the packages. She opened them all. She put on the bonnet, she stroked the soft stuff with a caressing palm, she gazed upon the gloves, she held up the boots to the light.
"Am I a dreadful humbug?" she said. "I must be—I must be. What would Dick say? But one cannot—— No, one cannot refuse. I am not a stick or a stone. And Cousin Alice actually enjoyed the giving! But no money. Molly, you must not take their money."
It was a few days later, in the forenoon. John Haveril was gone into the City on the business of keeping together what he had got—a business which seems to take up the whole of a rich man's time and more, so that he really has no chance of looking for the way to the kingdom of heaven. His wife sat at the window of her room in the hotel, contemplating the full tide of life below. She was not in the least a philosopher—the sight of the people, and the carriages, and the omnibuses, did not move her to meditate on the brevity of life as it moves some thinkers. It pleased her; she thought of places where she had lived in Western America, and the contrast pleased her. Nor was she moved, as a poet, to find something to say about this tide of life. The poet, you know, looks not only for the phrase appropriate, but for the phrase distinctive. Mrs. Haveril had never heard of such a thing. She only thought that there was nothing like it in the Western States, and that she remembered nothing like it in the village of Hackney. Molly was lying on the sofa, reading a novel.
One of the hotel pages disturbed her dreamery, which was close upon dropping off, by bringing up in a silver salver a dirty slip of paper, on which was written in pencil—
"Mr. Alfred Pennefather. For Mrs. Haveril. Bearer waits."
"Is it a man in rags? Is he a disgrace to the hotel?"
"Well, ma'am, heisin rags. As for his being a disgrace—he says he's your cousin." Here he laughed, holding the silver salver before his mouth.
"I wouldn't laugh at a poor man, if I were you. Why," said Mrs. Haveril, drawing a bow at a venture, "you've got cousins of your own in the workhouse. Send him up, right away," she added.
The man came in. The page shut the door quickly behind him, to conceal the figure of rags not often seen in that palatial place.
It was Alfred the Broken; strange to say, though it was less than a week since he had received that gift of golden sovereigns, the appearance of the man was as seedy as ever; his hat—a ridiculously tall silk hat with a limp brim—can anything look more forlorn?—his coat with ragged wrists; his boots parting from the soles; a ragged and decayed person, more ragged, more decayed, than before.
"Well?" the lady's voice was not encouraging. "You came here last week with the rest of them."
"I did, Alice—I did."
"You had champagne with the rest; you heard what my husband had to say: when the rest were gone, he gave you money. What have you done with that money? What do you want now?"
"I want to have a quiet talk with you."
The man had that sketchy irresolute face which foretells, in certain levels of life, social wreck. Not an evil face, exactly—the man with the evil face very often gets on in life—but with a weak face. You may see such a face any day in a police-court. First, it is a charge connected with the employer's accounts, then it is generally a charge of petty robbery. The last case I saw myself was one of boots snatched from an open counter. Between the first charge and the second there is a dreadful change in the matter of clothes; but there is never any change in face. As for Alfred Pennefather, one could understand that he had once been the gay and dashing Alf among his pals; that he had heard the midnight chimes ring; that he knew by experience the attractions of the public billiard-room, and the joys of pool; that he read the sporting papers; that he put a "bit" on his fancy; that whatever line of life he might attempt, therein he would fail; and that repeated failures would place him outside the forgiveness of his friends. For repeated misfortunes, as well as repeated follies, we can never forgive.
"You can talk," said his cousin. "This—young lady"—she was going to say "cousin of yours"—"does not count. Go on."
"I hoped, the other day, Alice, to find you alone. In that crowd of greedy impudent beggars and flatterers, I could not. I assure you I was ashamed of being in such company. As for Cousin Charles, if it had not been for you——"
"Go on to something else, please. You all camefor what you could get; now, what do you want?"
"I'll sit down." He took the most comfortable chair in the room, and stretched out his legs. "This is the lap of luxury. Alice, you're a happy woman."
"Oh! Go on."
"The world has been against me, Alice, from the beginning. Look at these boots. Ask yourself whether the world has not been against me. Don't believe what they say. Scandalous, impudent liars, all of them, especially Charles. No fault of mine. No, Alice. It's the world."
"What do you want, again?"
"I want an advance."
"Then do what my husband told you—write to him. What has become of the money he gave you? Is that spent already?"
"Don't call it spent, Alice. Debts paid, common necessaries bought."
"Debts! Who would trust you? Necessaries! Why, you are shabbier than ever."
"Well, I can prove to you, Alice, that the money was well laid out."
When, after many days, the man at the bottom of the ladder gets a few pounds in gold, the first temptation is to make a night of it. What? We are not money-grabbers. To-morrow for a new rig-out; to-morrow for the weary business of finding employment; to-night for joy and the wine-cup. When the morrow dawns the wine-cup still lingers in the brain—but the gold pieces—where are they? Gone as a dream—a splendid dream of the night. Thus, aftera little sleep and a little slumber, poverty cometh again as a robber: and want as an armed man.
"Don't let's talk about money spent," he said cheerfully. "Let's talk about the future. I'm right down at the bottom of the ladder, Alice. Help me up."
If a man says that he is at the bottom of the ladder, he generally speaks the truth. It is one of those little things about which we are agreed not to tell lies. And when he asks to be helped up, he always speaks with sincerity.
"I have no money of my own."
"You've things that make money." His eyes fell on a bracelet lying on the table.
Alice shook her finger at him. "Cousin Alfred," she said, "if you mean that I am going to give you my husband's presents for you to take to a pawnbroker, I will have you bundled out of the house. Now, tell me what you came for, before I ring the bell for the waiter."
He began to cry. He really was underfed and very miserable. "Oh! she's got a hard heart—and all I want is forty pounds—for the good will and stock-in-trade of a tobacconist—to become a credit to the family."
"I have no money of my own," Alice repeated. "If that is all you have to say, go away. My husband may come back at any moment."
"He won't. I watched. He's gone into the City on the top of a 'bus. With all his money, rides outside a 'bus. He's gone, and I mean, Alice——"
Molly rose and put down her novel. Then sheadvanced and seized the man, taking a combined handful of shirt-collar and coat-collar, which she twisted in her strong hand. He spread out his legs and hands; he struggled; the grip tightened; he rolled over; the coat-collar came off in her hand.
"Get up and go, you miserable creature!" she cried.
He rose slowly.
"Go!" said Molly.
"No coat-collar would stand such treatment," he said. "Pay me for the damage you have done to my wardrobe."
"Give him a shilling, Molly, and let him go."
"Wait a minute—wait a minute. Oh, don't be violent, Alice! I've got a secret. If you knew it, you'd give me money. I'll sell it for forty pounds."
"Sell it to my husband."
He got up feeling for his injured coat-collar. "This girl's so impetuous. May I sit down again?"
"No," said Molly. "Stand. If you don't tell your secret in two minutes, out you go."
"It's about your marriage, Alice. You were married about twenty-six years ago—it was in 1871, I remember. You married a play-acting fellow—Anthony by name——"
"That's no secret."
"Which wasn't his real name, but his theatrical name. His real name was Woodroffe."
"That is no secret, either."
"Your family wouldn't stand by you, being proud of their connections, although the only gentleman of the lot was myself—and I was in a bank."
"Oh, get on to your secret!"
"But, Cousin Will—Charles's brother—he stood by you, because he was in the play-acting line himself, and he got the boot, too, from the family. Will gave you away. You were married in South Hackney Church. After the wedding you went away. Will met me that same day; I remember I was a little haughty with him, because a bank clerk can't afford to know a common actor. He told me about it."
"What is your secret?"
"Two or three years later I met Will again, and borrowed something off him. Then he told me you had gone off to America."
"That is no secret."
"I'm coming to the secret. Don't you be impatient, Alice. It's my secret, not yours. Now, then. About fifteen years ago, I met a fellow at a billiard-table. He wouldn't play much, and he had some money, and so I thought—well—I got him to lodge with us. Mother kept lodgings in Myddleton Square in those days. He came; he said his name was Anthony, and he was a comedian from the States. We are coming to the secret now. Well, he stayed with us there a few weeks, and I took some money off him at pool; but he never paid his rent, and went away."
"Go on."
"That was your husband, Alice—your husband, I say—your husband." His voice fell to a mysterious whisper.
"Well; and why not?"
"Well—if you will have it—I'll say it out loud. That was your husband. You married John Haverilbecause you thought your husband was dead. Perhaps you hoped he would never find you out. Very well. He's alive still. I've seen him. That's my secret."
"I care nothing whether he is alive or dead."
"That's bluff. He's alive, I say; and I know where he is at this very minute."
"Now you have told your secret, you may go," said Molly.
"I tell you," said Alice, "that I do not care to know anything at all about that man."
"Well—but—if he is living, how can you be anybody else's wife? Look here, Alice. I'm telling the truth. John Anthony, whose name is Woodroffe, is in London. Last week I met him by accident, but he doesn't remember me. We were engaged in the same occupation. Why should I conceal the poverty to which I am reduced by the hard hearts of wealthy friends? We were carrying boards in Oxford Street. At night we used the same doss-house."
"I tell you that I do not wish to hear anything about that man. If he is in poverty and wickedness, he deserves it."