“Three dozen oysters, bread-and-butter, and bottled stout; a private room and a good fire.” Issuing these instructions, on his arrival at the tavern, Jervy was surprised by a sudden act of interference on the part of his venerable guest. Mrs. Sowler actually took it on herself to order her own supper!
“Nothing cold to eat or drink for me,” she said. “Morning and night, waking and sleeping, I can’t keep myself warm. See for yourself, Jervy, how I’ve lost flesh since you first knew me! A steak, broiling hot from the gridiron, and gin-and-water, hotter still—that’s the supper for me.”
“Take the order, waiter,” said Jervy, resignedly; “and let us see the private room.”
The tavern was of the old-fashioned English sort, which scorns to learn a lesson of brightness and elegance from France. The private room can only be described as a museum for the exhibition of dirt in all its varieties. Behind the bars of the rusty little grate a dying fire was drawing its last breath. Mrs. Sowler clamoured for wood and coals; revived the fire with her own hands; and seated herself shivering as close to the fender as the chair would go. After a while, the composing effect of the heat began to make its influence felt: the head of the half-starved wretch sank: a species of stupor overcame her—half faintness, and half sleep.
Phoebe and her sweetheart sat together, waiting the appearance of the supper, on a little sofa at the other end of the room. Having certain objects to gain, Jervy put his arm round her waist, and looked and spoke in his most insinuating manner.
“Try and put up with Mother Sowler for an hour or two,” he said. “My sweet girl, I know she isn’t fit company for you! But how can I turn my back on an old friend?”
“That’s just what surprises me,” Phoebe answered. “I don’t understand such a person being a friend of yours.”
Always ready with the necessary lie, whenever the occasion called for it, Jervy invented a pathetic little story, in two short parts. First part: Mrs. Sowler, rich and respected; a widow inhabiting a villa-residence, and riding in her carriage. Second part: a villainous lawyer; misplaced confidence; reckless investments; death of the villain; ruin of Mrs. Sowler. “Don’t talk about her misfortunes when she wakes,” Jervy concluded, “or she’ll burst out crying, to a dead certainty. Only tell me, dear Phoebe, wouldyouturn your back on a forlorn old creature because she has outlived all her other friends, and hasn’t a farthing left in the world? Poor as I am, I can help her to a supper, at any rate.”
Phoebe expressed her admiration of these noble sentiments by an inexpensive ebullition of tenderness, which failed to fulfill Jervy’s private anticipations. He had aimed straight at her purse—and he had only hit her heart! He tried a broad hint next. “I wonder whether I shall have a shilling or two left to give Mrs. Sowler, when I have paid for the supper?” He sighed, and pulled out some small change, and looked at it in eloquent silence. Phoebe was hit in the right place at last. She handed him her purse. “What is mine will be yours, when we are married,” she said; “why not now?” Jervy expressed his sense of obligation with the promptitude of a grateful man; he repeated those precious words, “My sweet girl!” Phoebe laid her head on his shoulder—and let him kiss her, and enjoyed it in silent ecstasy with half-closed eyes. The scoundrel waited and watched her, until she was completely under his influence. Then, and not till then, he risked the gradual revelation of the purpose which had induced him to withdraw from the hall, before the proceedings of the evening had reached their end.
“Did you hear what Mrs. Sowler said to me, just before we left the lecture?” he asked.
“No, dear.”
“You remember that she asked me to tell her Farnaby’s address?”
“Oh yes! And she wanted to know if he had ever gone by the name of Morgan. Ridiculous—wasn’t it?”
“I’m not so sure of that, my dear. She told me, in so many words, that Farnaby owed her money. He didn’t make his fortune all at once, I suppose. How do we know what he might have done in his young days, or how he might have humbugged a feeble woman. Wait till our friend there at the fire has warmed her old bones with some hot grog—and I’ll find out something more about Farnaby’s debt.”
“Why, dear? What is it to you?”
Jervy reflected for a moment, and decided that the time had come to speak more plainly.
“In the first place,” he said, “it would only be an act of common humanity, on my part, to help Mrs. Sowler to get her money. You see that, don’t you? Very well. Now, I am no Socialist, as you are aware; quite the contrary. At the same time, I am a remarkably just man; and I own I was struck by what Mr. Goldenheart said about the uses to which wealthy people are put, by the Rules at Tadmor. ‘The man who has got the money is bound, by the express law of Christian morality, to use it in assisting the man who has got none.’ Those were his words, as nearly as I can remember them. He put it still more strongly afterwards; he said, ‘A man who hoards up a large fortune, from a purely selfish motive—either because he is a miser, or because he looks only to the aggrandisement of his own family after his death—is, in either case, an essentially unchristian person, who stands in manifest need of enlightenment and control by Christian law.’ And then, if you remember, some of the people murmured; and Mr. Goldenheart stopped them by reading a line from the New Testament, which said exactly what he had been saying—only in fewer words. Now, my dear girl, Farnaby seems to me to be one of the many people pointed at in this young gentleman’s lecture. Judging by looks, I should say he was a hard man.”
“That’s just what he is—hard as iron! Looks at his servants as if they were dirt under his feet; and never speaks a kind word to them from one year’s end to another.”
“Suppose I guess again? He’s not particularly free-handed with his money—is he?”
“He! He will spend anything on himself and his grandeur; but he never gave away a halfpenny in his life.”
Jervy pointed to the fireplace, with a burst of virtuous indignation. “And there’s that poor old soul starving for want of the money he owes her! Damn it, I agree with the Socialists; it’s a virtue to make that sort of man bleed. Look at you and me! We are the very people he ought to help—we might be married at once, if we only knew where to find a little money. I’ve seen a deal of the world, Phoebe; and my experience tells me there’s something about that debt of Farnaby’s which he doesn’t want to have known. Why shouldn’t we screw a few five-pound notes for ourselves out of the rich miser’s fears?”
Phoebe was cautious. “It’s against the law—ain’t it?” she said.
“Trust me to keep clear of the law,” Jervy answered. “I won’t stir in the matter till I know for certain that he daren’t take the police into his confidence. It will be all easy enough when we are once sure of that. You have been long enough in the family to find out Farnaby’s weak side. Would it do, if we got at him, to begin with, through his wife?”
Phoebe suddenly reddened to the roots of her hair. “Don’t talk to me about his wife!” she broke out fiercely; “I’ve got a day of reckoning to come with that lady—” She looked at Jervy and checked herself. He was watching her with an eager curiosity, which not even his ready cunning was quick enough to conceal.
“I wouldn’t intrude on your little secrets, darling, for the world!” he said, in his most persuasive tones. “But, if you want advice, you know that I am heart and soul at your service.”
Phoebe looked across the room at Mrs. Sowler, still nodding over the fire.
“Never mind now,” she said; “I don’t think it’s a matter for a man to advise about—it’s between Mrs. Farnaby and me. Do what you like with her husband; I don’t care; he’s a brute, and I hate him. But there’s one thing I insist on—I won’t have Miss Regina frightened or annoyed; mind that! She’s a good creature. There, read the letter she wrote to me yesterday, and judge for yourself.”
Jervy looked at the letter. It was not very long. He resignedly took upon himself the burden of reading it.
“DEAR PHOEBE,
“Don’t be downhearted. I am your friend always, and I will help you to get another place. I am sorry to say that it was indeed Mrs. Ormond who found us out that day. She had her suspicions, and she watched us, and told my aunt. This she owned to me with her own lips. She said, ‘I would do anything, my dear, to save you from an ill-assorted marriage.’ I am very wretched about it, because I can never look on her as my friend again. My aunt, as you know, is of Mrs. Ormond’s way of thinking. You must make allowances for her hot temper. Remember, out of your kindness towards me, you had been secretly helping forward the very thing which she was most anxious to prevent. That made her very angry; but, never fear, she will come round in time. If you don’t want to spend your little savings, while you are waiting for another situation, let me know. A share of my pocket-money is always at your service.
“Your friend,
“REGINA.”
“Very nice indeed,” said Jervy, handing the letter back, and yawning as he did it. “And convenient, too, if we run short of money. Ah, here’s the waiter with the supper, at last! Now, Mrs. Sowler, there’s a time for everything—it’s time to wake up.”
He lifted the old woman off her chair, and settled her before the table, like a child. The sight of the hot food and drink roused her to a tigerish activity. She devoured the meat with her eyes as well as her teeth; she drank the hot gin-and-water in fierce gulps, and set down the glass with audible gasps of relief. “Another one,” she cried, “and I shall begin to feel warm again!”
Jervy, watching her from the opposite side of the table, with Phoebe close by him as usual, had his own motives for encouraging her to talk, by the easy means of encouraging her to drink. He sent for another glass of the hot grog. Phoebe, daintily picking up her oysters with her fork, affected to be shocked at Mrs. Sowler’s coarse method of eating and drinking. She kept her eyes on her plate, and only consented to taste malt liquor under modest protest. When Jervy lit a cigar, after finishing his supper, she reminded him, in an impressively genteel manner, of the consideration which he owed to the presence of an elderly lady. “I like it myself, dear,” she said mincingly; “but perhaps Mrs. Sowler objects to the smell?”
Mrs. Sowler burst into a hoarse laugh. “Do I look as if I was likely to be squeamish about smells?” she asked, with the savage contempt for her own poverty, which was one of the dangerous elements in her character. “See the place I live in, young woman, and then talk about smells if you like!”
This was indelicate. Phoebe picked a last oyster out of its shell, and kept her eyes modestly fixed on her plate. Observing that the second glass of gin-and-water was fast becoming empty, Jervy risked the first advances, on his way to Mrs. Sowler’s confidence.
“About that debt of Farnaby’s?” he began. “Is it a debt of long standing?”
Mrs. Sowler was on her guard. In other words, Mrs. Sowler’s head was only assailable by hot grog, when hot grog was administered in large quantities. She said it was a debt of long standing, and she said no more.
“Has it been standing seven years?”
Mrs. Sowler emptied her glass, and looked hard at Jervy across the table. “My memory isn’t good for much, at my time of life.” She gave him that answer, and she gave him no more.
Jervy yielded with his best grace. “Try a third glass,” he said; “there’s luck, you know, in odd numbers.”
Mrs. Sowler met this advance in the spirit in which it was made. She was obliging enough to consult her memory, even before the third glass made its appearance. “Seven years, did you say?” she repeated. “More than twice seven years, Jervy! What do you think of that?”
Jervy wasted no time in thinking. He went on with his questions.
“Are you quite sure that the man I pointed out to you, at the lecture, is the same man who went by the name of Morgan, and had his letters addressed to the public-house?”
“Quite sure. I’d swear to him anywhere—only by his eyes.”
“And have you never yet asked him to pay the debt?”
“How could I ask him, when I never knew what his name was till you told me to-night?”
“What amount of money does he owe you?”
Whether Mrs. Sowler had her mind prophetically fixed on a fourth glass of grog, or whether she thought it time to begin asking questions on her own account, is not easy to say. Whatever her motive might be, she slyly shook her head, and winked at Jervy. “The money’s my business,” she remarked. “You tell me where he lives—and I’ll make him pay me.”
Jervy was equal to the occasion. “You won’t do anything of the sort,” he said.
Mrs. Sowler laughed defiantly. “So you think, my fine fellow!”
“I don’t think at all, old lady—I’m certain. In the first place, Farnaby don’t owe you the debt by law, after seven years. In the second place, just look at yourself in the glass there. Do you think the servants will let you in, when you knock at Farnaby’s door? You want a clever fellow to help you—or you’ll never recover that debt.”
Mrs. Sowler was accessible to reason (even half-way through her third glass of grog), when reason was presented to her in convincing terms. She came to the point at once. “How much do you want?” she asked.
“Nothing,” Jervy answered; “I don’t look toyouto pay my commission.”
Mrs. Sowler reflected a little—and understood him. “Say that again,” she insisted, “in the presence of your young woman as witness.”
Jervy touched his young woman’s hand under the table, warning her to make no objection, and to leave it to him. Having declared for the second time that he would not take a farthing from Mrs. Sowler, he went on with his inquiries.
“I’m acting in your interests, Mother Sowler,” he said; “and you’ll be the loser, if you don’t answer my questions patiently, and tell me the truth. I want to go back to the debt. What is it for?”
“For six weeks’ keep of a child, at ten shillings a week.”
Phoebe looked up from her plate.
“Whose child?” Jervy asked, noticing the sudden movement.
“Morgan’s child—the same man you said was Farnaby.”
“Do you know who the mother was?”
“I wish I did! I should have got the money out of her long ago.”
Jervy stole a look at Phoebe. She had turned pale; she was listening, with her eyes riveted on Mrs. Sowler’s ugly face.
“How long ago was it?” Jervy went on.
“Better than sixteen years.”
“Did Farnaby himself give you the child?”
“With his own hands, over the garden-paling of a house at Ramsgate. He saw me and the child into the train for London. I had ten pounds from him, and no more. He promised to see me, and settle everything, in a month’s time. I have never set eyes on him from that day, till I saw him paying his money this evening at the door of the hall.”
Jervy stole another look at Phoebe. She was still perfectly unconscious that he was observing her. Her attention was completely absorbed by Mrs. Sowler’s replies. Speculating on the possible result, Jervy abandoned the question of the debt, and devoted his next inquiries to the subject of the child.
“I promise you every farthing of your money, Mother Sowler,” he said, “with interest added to it. How old was the child when Farnaby gave it to you?”
“Old? Not a week old, I should say!”
“Not a week old?” Jervy repeated, with his eye on Phoebe. “Dear, dear me, a newborn baby, one may say!”
The girl’s excitement was fast getting beyond control. She leaned across the table, in her eagerness to hear more.
“And how long was this poor child under your care?” Jervy went on.
“How can I tell you, at this distance of time? For some months, I should say. This I’m certain of—I kept it for six good weeks after the ten pounds he gave me were spent. And then—” she stopped, and looked at Phoebe.
“And then you got rid of it?”
Mrs. Sowler felt for Jervy’s foot under the table, and gave it a significant kick. “I have done nothing to be ashamed of, miss,” she said, addressing her answer defiantly to Phoebe. “Being too poor to keep the little dear myself, I placed it under the care of a good lady, who adopted it.”
Phoebe could restrain herself no longer. She burst out with the next question, before Jervy could open his lips.
“Do you know where the lady is now?”
“No,” said Mrs. Sowler shortly; “I don’t.”
“Do you know where to find the child?”
Mrs. Sowler slowly stirred up the remains of her grog. “I know no more than you do. Any more questions, miss?”
Phoebe’s excitement completely blinded her to the evident signs of a change in Mrs. Sowler’s temper for the worse. She went on headlong.
“Have you never seen the child since you gave her to the lady?”
Mrs. Sowler set down her glass, just as she was raising it to her lips. Jervy paused, thunderstruck, in the act of lighting a second cigar.
“Her?”Mrs. Sowler repeated slowly, her eyes fixed on Phoebe with a lowering expression of suspicion and surprise. “Her?” She turned to Jervy. “Did you ask me if the child was a girl or a boy?”
“I never even thought of it,” Jervy replied.
“Did I happen to say it myself, without being asked?”
Jervy deliberately abandoned Phoebe to the implacable old wretch, before whom she had betrayed herself. It was the only likely way of forcing the girl to confess everything. “No,” he answered; “you never said it without being asked.”
Mrs. Sowler turned once more to Phoebe. “How do you know the child was a girl?” she inquired.
Phoebe trembled, and said nothing. She sat with her head down, and her hands, fast clasped together, resting on her lap.
“Might I ask, if you please,” Mrs. Sowler proceeded, with a ferocious assumption of courtesy, “how old you are, miss? You’re young enough and pretty enough not to mind answering to your age, I’m sure.”
Even Jervy’s villainous experience of the world failed to forewarn him of what was coming. Phoebe, it is needless to say, instantly fell into the trap.
“Twenty-four,” she replied, “next birthday.”
“And the child was put into my hands, sixteen years ago,” said Mrs. Sowler. “Take sixteen from twenty-four, and eight remains. I’m more surprised than ever, miss, at your knowing it to be a girl. It couldn’t have been your child—could it?”
Phoebe started to her feet, in a state of fury. “Do you hear that?” she cried, appealing to Jervy. “How dare you bring me here to be insulted by that drunken wretch?”
Mrs. Sowler rose, on her side. The old savage snatched up her empty glass—intending to throw it at Phoebe. At the same moment, the ready Jervy caught her by the arm, dragged her out of the room, and shut the door behind them.
There was a bench on the landing outside. He pushed Mrs. Sowler down on the bench with one hand, and took Phoebe’s purse out of his pocket with the other. “Here’s a pound,” he said, “towards the recovery of that debt of yours. Go home quietly, and meet me at the door of this house tomorrow evening, at six.”
Mrs. Sowler, opening her lips to protest, suddenly closed them again, fascinated by the sight of the gold. She clutched the coin, and became friendly and familiar in a moment. “Help me downstairs, deary,” she said, “and put me into a cab. I’m afraid of the night air.”
“One word more, before I put you into a cab,” said Jervy. “What did you really do with the child?”
Mrs. Sowler grinned hideously, and whispered her reply, in the strictest confidence.
“Sold her to Moll Davies, for five-and-sixpence.”
“Who was Moll Davis?”
“A cadger.”
“And you really know nothing now of Moll Davis or the child?”
“Should I want you to help me if I did?” Mrs. Sowler asked contemptuously. “They may be both dead and buried, for all I know to the contrary.”
Jervy put her into the cab, without further delay. “Now for the other one!” he said to himself, as he hurried back to the private room.
Some men would have found it no easy task to console Phoebe, under the circumstances. Jervy had the immense advantage of not feeling the slightest sympathy for her: he was in full command of his large resources of fluent assurance and ready flattery. In less than five minutes, Phoebe’s tears were dried, and her lover had his arm round her waist again, in the character of a cherished and forgiven man.
“Now, my angel!” he said (Phoebe sighed tenderly; he had never called her his angel before), “tell me all about it in confidence. Only let me know the facts, and I shall see my way to protecting you against any annoyance from Mrs. Sowler in the future. You have made a very extraordinary discovery. Come closer to me, my dear girl. Did it happen in Farnaby’s house?”
“I heard it in the kitchen,” said Phoebe.
Jervy started. “Did any one else hear it?” he asked.
“No. They were all in the housekeeper’s room, looking at the Indian curiosities which her son in Canada had sent to her. I had left my bird on the dresser—and I ran into the kitchen to put the cage in a safe place, being afraid of the cat. One of the swinging windows in the skylight was open; and I heard voices in the back room above, which is Mrs. Farnaby’s room.”
“Whose voices did you hear?”
“Mrs. Farnaby’s voice, and Mr. Goldenheart’s.”
“Mrs. Farnaby?” Jervy repeated, in surprise. “Are you sure it wasMrs.?”
“Of course I am! Do you think I don’t know that horrid woman’s voice? She was saying a most extraordinary thing when I first heard her—she was asking if there was anything wrong in showing her naked foot. And a man answered, and the voice was Mr. Goldenheart’s. You would have felt curious to hear more, if you had been in my place, wouldn’t you? I opened the second window in the kitchen, so as to make sure of not missing anything. And what do you think I heard her say?”
“You mean Mrs. Farnaby?”
“Yes. I heard her say, ‘Look at my right foot—you see there’s nothing the matter with it.’ And then, after a while, she said, ‘Look at my left foot—look between the third toe and the fourth.’ Did you ever hear of such a audacious thing for a married woman to say to a young man?”
“Go on! go on! What didhesay?”
“Nothing; I suppose he was looking at her foot.”
“Her left foot?”
“Yes. Her left foot was nothing to be proud of, I can tell you! By her own account, she has some horrid deformity in it, between the third toe and the fourth. No; I didn’t hear her say what the deformity was. I only heard her call it so—and she said her ‘poor darling’ was born with the same fault, and that was her defence against being imposed upon by rogues—I remember the very words—‘in the past days when I employed people to find her.’ Yes! she said‘her.‘I heard it plainly. And she talked afterwards of her ‘poor lost daughter’, who might be still living somewhere, and wondering who her mother was. Naturally enough, when I heard that hateful old drunkard talking about a child given to her by Mr. Farnaby, I put two and two together. Dear me, how strangely you look! What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m only very much interested—that’s all. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. What had Mr. Goldenheart to do with all this?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, I tell you now. Mrs. Farnaby is not only a heartless wretch, who turns a poor girl out of her situation, and refuses to give her a character—she’s a fool besides. That precious exhibition of her nasty foot was to inform Mr. Goldenheart of something she wanted him to know. If he happened to meet with a girl, in his walks or his travels, and if he found that she had the same deformity in the same foot, then he might know for certain—”
“All right! I understand. But why Mr. Goldenheart?”
“Because she had a dream that Mr. Goldenheart had found the lost girl, and because she thought there was one chance in a hundred that her dream might come true! Did you ever hear of such a fool before? From what I could make out, I believe she actually cried about it. And that same woman turns me into the street to be ruined, for all she knows or cares. Mind this! I would have kept her secret—it was no business of mine, after all—if she had behaved decently to me. As it is, I mean to be even with her; and what I heard down in the kitchen is more than enough to help me to it. I’ll expose her somehow—I don’t quite know how; but that will come with time. You will keep the secret, dear, I’m sure. We are soon to have all our secrets in common, when we are man and wife, ain’t we? Why, you’re not listening to me! Whatisthe matter with you?”
Jervy suddenly looked up. His soft insinuating manner had vanished; he spoke roughly and impatiently.
“I want to know something. Has Farnaby’s wife got money of her own?”
Phoebe’s mind was still disturbed by the change in her lover. “You speak as if you were angry with me,” she said.
Jervy recovered his insinuating tones, with some difficulty. “My dear girl, I love you! How can I be angry with you? You’ve set me thinking—and it bothers me a little, that’s all. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Farnaby has got money of her own?”
Phoebe answered this time. “I’ve heard Miss Regina say that Mrs. Farnaby’s father was a rich man,” she said.
“What was his name?”
“Ronald.”
“Do you know when he died?”
“No.”
Jervy fell into thought again, biting his nails in great perplexity. After a moment or two, an idea came to him. “The tombstone will tell me!” he exclaimed, speaking to himself. He turned to Phoebe, before she could express her surprise, and asked if she knew where Mr. Ronald was buried.
“Yes,” said Phoebe, “I’ve heard that. In Highgate cemetery. But why do you want to know?”
Jervy looked at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said; “I’ll see you safe home.”
“But I want to know—”
“Put on your bonnet, and wait till we are out in the street.”
Jervy paid the bill, with all needful remembrance of the waiter. He was generous, he was polite; but he was apparently in no hurry to favour Phoebe with the explanation that he had promised. They had left the tavern for some minutes—and he was still rude enough to remain absorbed in his own reflections. Phoebe’s patience gave way.
“I have told you everything,” she said reproachfully; “I don’t call it fair dealing to keep me in the dark after that.”
He roused himself directly. “My dear girl, you entirely mistake me!”
The reply was as ready as usual; but it was spoken rather absently. Only that moment, he had decided on informing Phoebe (to some extent, at least) of the purpose which he was then meditating. He would infinitely have preferred using Mrs. Sowler as his sole accomplice. But he knew the girl too well to run that risk. If he refused to satisfy her curiosity, she would be deterred by no scruples of delicacy from privately watching him; and she might say something (either by word of month or by writing) to the kind young mistress who was in correspondence with her, which might lead to disastrous results. It was of the last importance to him, so far to associate Phoebe with his projected enterprise, as to give her an interest of her own in keeping his secrets.
“I have not the least wish,” he resumed, “to conceal any thing from you. So far as I can see my way at present, you shall see it too.” Reserving in this dexterous manner the freedom of lying, whenever he found it necessary to depart from the truth, he smiled encouragingly, and waited to be questioned.
Phoebe repeated the inquiry she had made at the tavern. “Why do you want to know where Mr. Ronald is buried?” she asked bluntly.
“Mr. Ronald’s tombstone, my dear, will tell me the date of Mr. Ronald’s death,” Jervy rejoined. “When I have got the date, I shall go to a place near St. Paul’s, called Doctors’ Commons; I shall pay a shilling fee, and I shall have the privilege of looking at Mr. Ronald’s will.”
“And what good will that do you?”
“Very properly put, Phoebe! Even shillings are not to be wasted, in our position. But my shilling will buy two sixpennyworths of information. I shall find out what sum of money Mr. Ronald has left to his daughter; and I shall know for certain whether Mrs. Farnaby’s husband has any power over it, or not.”
“Well?” said Phoebe, not much interested so far—“and what then?”
Jervy looked about him. They were in a crowded thoroughfare at the time. He preserved a discreet silence, until they had arrived at the first turning which led down a quiet street.
“What I have to tell you,” he said, “must not be accidentally heard by anybody. Here, my dear, we are all but out of the world—and here I can speak to you safely. I promise you two good things. You shall bring Mrs. Farnaby to that day of reckoning; and we will find money enough to marry on comfortably as soon as you like.”
Phoebe’s languid interest in the subject began to revive: she insisted on having a clearer explanation than this. “Do you mean to get the money out of Mr. Farnaby?” she inquired.
“I will have nothing to do with Mr. Farnaby—unless I find that his wife’s money is not at her own disposal. What you heard in the kitchen has altered all my plans. Wait a minute—and you will see what I am driving at. How much do you think Mrs. Farnaby would give me, if I found that lost daughter of hers?”
Phoebe suddenly stood still, and looked at the sordid scoundrel who was tempting her in blank amazement.
“But nobody knows where the daughter is,” she objected.
“You and I know that the daughter has a deformity in her left foot,” Jervy replied; “and you and I know exactly in what part of the foot it is. There’s not only money to be made out of that knowledge—but money made easily, without the slightest risk. Suppose I managed the matter by correspondence, without appearing in it personally? Don’t you think Mrs. Farnaby would open her purse beforehand, if I mentioned the exact position of that little deformity, as a proof that I was to be depended on?”
Phoebe was unable, or unwilling, to draw the obvious conclusion, even now.
“But, what would you do,” she said, “when Mrs. Farnaby insisted on seeing her daughter?”
There was something in the girl’s tone—half fearful, half suspicious—which warned Jervy that he was treading on dangerous ground. He knew perfectly well what he proposed to do, in the case that had been so plainly put him. It was the simplest thing in the world. He had only to make an appointment with Mrs. Farnaby for a meeting on a future day, and to take to flight in the interval; leaving a polite note behind him to say that it was all a mistake, and that he regretted being too poor to return the money. Having thus far acknowledged the design he had in view, could he still venture on answering his companion without reserve? Phoebe was vain, Phoebe was vindictive; and, more promising still, Phoebe was a fool. But she was not yet capable of consenting to an act of the vilest infamy, in cold blood. Jervy looked at her—and saw that the foreseen necessity for lying had come at last.
“That’s just the difficulty,” he said; “that’s just where I don’t see my way plainly yet. Can you advise me?”
Phoebe started, and drew back from him.“Iadvise you!” she exclaimed. “It frightens me to think of it. If you make her believe she is going to see her daughter, and if she finds out that you have robbed and deceived her, I can tell you this—with her furious temper—you would drive her mad.”
Jervy’s reply was a model of well-acted indignation. “Don’t talk of anything so horrible,” he exclaimed. “If you believe me capable of such cruelty as that, go to Mrs. Farnaby, and warn her at once!”
“It’s too bad to speak to me in that way!” Phoebe rejoined, with the frank impetuosity of an offended woman. “You know I would die, rather than get you into trouble. Beg my pardon directly—or I won’t walk another step with you!”
Jervy made the necessary apologies, with all possible humility. He had gained his end—he could now postpone any further discussion of the subject, without arousing Phoebe’s distrust. “Let us say no more about it, for the present,” he suggested; “we will think it over, and talk of pleasanter things in the mean time. Kiss me, my dear girl; there’s nobody looking.”
So he made peace with his sweetheart, and secured to himself, at the same time, the full liberty of future action of which he stood in need. If Phoebe asked any more questions, the necessary answer was obvious to the meanest capacity. He had merely to say, “The matter is beset with difficulties which I didn’t see at first—I have given it up.”
Their nearest way back to Phoebe’s lodgings took them through the street which led to the Hampden Institution. Passing along the opposite side of the road, they saw the private door opened. Two men stepped out. A third man, inside, called after one of them. “Mr. Goldenheart! you have left the statement of receipts in the waiting-room.” “Never mind,” Amelius answered; “the night’s receipts are so small that I would rather not be reminded of them again.” “In my country,” a third voice remarked, “if he had lectured as he has lectured to-night, I reckon I’d have given him three hundred dollars, gold (sixty pounds, English currency), and have made my own profit by the transaction. The British nation has lost its taste, sir, for intellectual recreation. I wish you good evening.”
Jervy hurried Phoebe out of the way, just as the two gentlemen were crossing the street. He had not forgotten events at Tadmor—and he was by no means eager to renew his former acquaintance with Amelius.
Rufus and his young friend walked together silently as far as a large square. Here they stopped, having reached the point at which it was necessary to take different directions on their way home.
“I’ve a word of advice, my son, for your private ear,” said the New Englander. “The barometer behind your waistcoat points to a downhearted state of the moral atmosphere. Come along to home with me—you want a whisky cocktail badly.”
“No, thank you, my dear fellow,” Amelius answered a little sadly. “I own I’m downhearted, as you say. You see, I expected this lecture to be a new opening for me. Personally, as you know, I don’t care two straws about money. But my marriage depends on my adding to my income; and the first attempt I’ve made to do it has ended in a total failure. I’m all abroad again, when I look to the future—and I’m afraid I’m fool enough to let it weigh on my spirits. No, the cocktail isn’t the right remedy for me. I don’t get the exercise and fresh air, here, that I used to get at Tadmor. My head burns after all that talking to-night. A good long walk will put me right, and nothing else will.”
Rufus at once offered to accompany him. Amelius shook his head. “Did you ever walk a mile in your life, when you could ride?” he asked good-humouredly. “I mean to be on my legs for four or five hours; I should only have to send you home in a cab. Thank you, old fellow, for the brotherly interest you take in me. I’ll breakfast with you to-morrow, at your hotel. Good night.”
Some curious prevision of evil seemed to trouble the mind of the good New Englander. He held Amelius fast by the hand: he said, very earnestly, “It goes against the grit with me to see you wandering off by yourself at this time of night—it does, I tell you! Do me a favour for once, my bright boy—go right away to bed.”
Amelius laughed, and released his hand. “I shouldn’t sleep, if I did go to bed. Breakfast to-morrow, at ten o’clock. Goodnight, again!”
He started on his walk, at a pace which set pursuit on the part of Rufus at defiance. The American stood watching him, until he was lost to sight in the darkness. “What a grip that young fellow has got on me, in no more than a few months!” Rufus thought, as he slowly turned away in the direction of his hotel. “Lord send the poor boy may keep clear of mischief this night!”
Meanwhile, Amelius walked on swiftly, straight before him, careless in what direction he turned his steps, so long as he felt the cool air and kept moving.
His thoughts were not at first occupied with the doubtful question of his marriage; the lecture was still the uppermost subject in his mind. He had reserved for the conclusion of his address the justification of his view of the future, afforded by the widespread and frightful poverty among the millions of the population of London alone. On this melancholy theme he had spoken with the eloquence of true feeling, and had produced a strong impression, even on those members of the audience who were most resolutely opposed to the opinions which he advocated. Without any undue exercise of self-esteem, he could look back on the close of his lecture with the conviction that he had really done justice to himself and to his cause. The retrospect of the public discussion that had followed failed to give him the same pleasure. His warm temper, his vehemently sincere belief in the truth of his own convictions, placed him at a serious disadvantage towards the more self-restrained speakers (all older than himself) who rose, one after another, to combat his views. More than once he had lost his temper, and had been obliged to make his apologies. More than once he had been indebted to the ready help of Rufus, who had taken part in the battle of words, with the generous purpose of covering his retreat. “No!” he thought to himself, with bitter humility, “I’m not fit for public discussions. If they put me into Parliament tomorrow, I should only get called to order and do nothing.”
He reached the bank of the Thames, at the eastward end of the Strand.
Walking straight on, as absently as ever, he crossed Waterloo Bridge, and followed the broad street that lay before him on the other side. He was thinking of the future again: Regina was in his mind now. The one prospect that he could see of a tranquil and happy life—with duties as well as pleasures; duties that might rouse him to find the vocation for which he was fit—was the prospect of his marriage. What was the obstacle that stood in his way? The vile obstacle of money; the contemptible spirit of ostentation which forbade him to live humbly on his own sufficient little income, and insisted that he should purchase domestic happiness at the price of the tawdry splendour of a rich tradesman and his friends. And Regina, who was free to follow her own better impulses—Regina, whose heart acknowledged him as its master—bowed before the golden image which was the tutelary deity of her uncle’s household, and said resignedly, Love must wait!
Still walking blindly on, he was roused on a sudden to a sense of passing events. Crossing a side-street at the moment, a man caught him roughly by the arm, and saved him from being run over. The man had a broom in his hand; he was a crossing-sweeper. “I think I’ve earned my penny, sir!” he said.
Amelius gave him half-a-crown. The man shouldered his broom, and tossed up the money, in a transport of delight. “Here’s something to go home with!” he cried, as he caught the half-crown again.
“Have you got a family at home?” Amelius asked.
“Only one, sir,” said the man. “The others are all dead. She’s as good a girl and as pretty a girl as ever put on a petticoat—though I say it that shouldn’t. Thank you kindly, sir. Good night!”
Amelius looked after the poor fellow, happy at least for that night! “If I had only been lucky enough to fall in love with the crossing-sweeper’s daughter,” he thought bitterly,“shewould have married me when I asked her.”
He looked along the street. It curved away in the distance, with no visible limit to it. Arrived at the next side-street on his left, Amelius turned down it, weary of walking longer in the same direction. Whither it might lead him he neither knew nor cared. In his present humour it was a pleasurable sensation to feel himself lost in London.
The short street suddenly widened; a blaze of flaring gaslight dazzled his eyes; he heard all round him the shouting of innumerable voices. For the first time since he had been in London, he found himself in one of the street-markets of the poor.
On either side of the road, the barrows of the costermongers—the wandering tradesmen of the highway—were drawn up in rows; and every man was advertising his wares, by means of the cheap publicity of his own voice. Fish and vegetables; pottery and writing-paper; looking-glasses, saucepans, and coloured prints—all appealed together to the scantily filled purses of the crowds who thronged the pavement. One lusty vagabond stood up in a rickety donkey-cart, knee-deep in apples, selling a great wooden measure full for a penny, and yelling louder than all the rest. “Never was such apples sold in the public streets before! Sweet as flowers, and sound as a bell. Who says the poor ain’t looked after,” cried the fellow, with ferocious irony, “when they can have such apple-sauce as this to their loin of pork? Here’s nobby apples; here’s a penn’orth for your money. Sold again! Hullo, you! you look hungry. Catch! there’s an apple for nothing, just to taste. Be in time, be in time before they’re all sold!” Amelius moved forward a few steps, and was half deafened by rival butchers, shouting, “Buy, buy, buy!” to audiences of ragged women, who fingered the meat doubtfully, with longing eyes. A little farther—and there was a blind man selling staylaces, and singing a Psalm; and, beyond him again, a broken-down soldier playing “God save the Queen” on a tin flageolet. The one silent person in this sordid carnival was a Lascar beggar, with a printed placard round his neck, addressed to “The Charitable Public.” He held a tallow candle to illuminate the copious narrative of his misfortunes; and the one reader he obtained was a fat man, who scratched his head, and remarked to Amelius that he didn’t like foreigners. Starving boys and girls lurked among the costermongers’ barrows, and begged piteously on pretence of selling cigar-lights and comic songs. Furious women stood at the doors of public-houses, and railed on their drunken husbands for spending the house-money in gin. A thicker crowd, towards the middle of the street, poured in and out at the door of a cookshop. Here the people presented a less terrible spectacle—they were even touching to see. These were the patient poor, who bought hot morsels of sheep’s heart and liver at a penny an ounce, with lamentable little mouthfuls of peas-pudding, greens, and potatoes at a halfpenny each. Pale children in corners supped on penny basins of soup, and looked with hungry admiration at their enviable neighbours who could afford to buy stewed eels for twopence. Everywhere there was the same noble resignation to their hard fate, in old and young alike. No impatience, no complaints. In this wretched place, the language of true gratitude was still to be heard, thanking the good-natured cook for a little spoonful of gravy thrown in for nothing—and here, humble mercy that had its one superfluous halfpenny to spare gave that halfpenny to utter destitution, and gave it with right good-will. Amelius spent all his shillings and sixpences, in doubling and trebling the poor little pennyworths of food—and left the place with tears in his eyes.
He was near the end of the street by this time. The sight of the misery about him, and the sense of his own utter inability to remedy it, weighed heavily on his spirits. He thought of the peaceful and prosperous life at Tadmor. Were his happy brethren of the Community and these miserable people about him creatures of the same all-merciful God? The terrible doubts which come to all thinking men—the doubts which are not to be stifled by crying “Oh, fie!” in a pulpit—rose darkly in his mind. He quickened his pace. “Let me let out of it,” he said to himself, “let me get out of it!”