CHARLOTTE rose, work in hand, and went toward the door, they following her with their eyes, desiring her obedience and approving of it, and yet curious to ascertain what was passing in her mind. For that she was unusually stirred was evident from her manner, which was that of one who had been beaten down all her life, and in whom the seeds of rebellion were struggling to force themselves into light. Suddenly she turned and faced them, and they saw in her eyes the spirit of a brave resolve.
"You have spoken plainly to me," she said. "I must speak plainly to you."
"Go to your room this instant," sternly said her mother.
That the hard cold voice should have given her fresh courage, was a novel experience to them; generally it compelled obedience, but now it had failed. It seemed, indeed, as if she had burst the bonds of oppression which had held her fast for so many years.
"Not till I have said what I have to say, mother. It is something you ought to hear." She paused a moment before she continued. "It is three years ago this very day since we had our last conversation about Mr. Dixon."
"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery, and would have expressed herself more violently had not her son restrained her with a warning look, which meant, "Let her go on; she will be sure to commit herself."
"Mr. Dixon was in the habit for some time of coming regularly to the house, and his visits formed the pleasantest remembrances in my life, with the exception of the happy years when my dear father was alive."
"Your dear father, indeed!" was Mrs. Fox-Cordery's scornful comment.
"From the date of my dear father's death," said Charlotte steadily; she was speaking now calmly and resolutely, "Mr. Dixon is the only gentleman who has shown me any consideration, and who has made me feel that I have some claim to a higher position in this house than that of a menial. I am ignorant of the nature of his business with Fox----"
"I will enlighten you," interposed Mr. Fox-Cordery; "he was in my employ, a paid servant."
"He served you faithfully, I am sure; it is not in his nature to be otherwise than faithful in all that he undertakes. He was received here as an equal, and he treated me as such. Neither you nor my mother ever did. I have no memory of one kind look I have received from either of you; and it is hardly to be wondered at that I should have felt grateful to the gentleman who spoke to me in a kind and gentle voice, and who showed in his manner toward me that he regarded me as a lady. He awoke within me a sense of self-respect which might have slept till I was an old woman, whose life, since the death of my father, had never been brightened by a ray of love. He awoke within me, also, a sense of shame; and I saw how humiliating it was that I should be dressed as I am dressed now, in clothes which a common servant would be ashamed to wear. But I had no choice. You gave me food, and you gave me nothing else, not even thanks. You pay your servants wages; you might have paid me something so that I could have bought clothes in which I should not feel degraded. I have not a shilling I can call my own----"
"Don't stop me, Fox," cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, thoroughly enraged; "I must speak! You shameless creature, how dare you utter these falsehoods? You have a beautiful gown, and a hat, and boots, and everything a woman can wish for; and you stand there, and deny it to my face!"
"I do deny it, mother. Are these things really mine? If they are, why do you keep them locked up in your wardrobe, and why do you allow me to wear them only when I go out with you, or when any particular visitor comes to the house?"
"Because you are not fit to be trusted, you ungrateful child!"
"No, mother, it is not that. You allow me to put them on sometimes because you cannot with decency allow me to be seen as I am. You forget, mother; you have told me over and over again that the clothes I wear--even those I have on now--are not my own, and are only lent to me."
"And so they are. It was not your money that paid for them."
"It could not well have been, seeing I never had any. Will you give them to me to-day, so that I may put them on, and not feel ashamed when I look in the glass?"
"To enable you to go flaunting about, and disgracing yourself and us? No, I will not."
"You are at your shifty tricks again, Charlotte," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Finish with your Mr. Dixon."
"Yes, I will do so if you will let me. All the time he was visiting here you said nothing to me to show you did not wish me to be intimate with him."
"We were not aware of what was going on," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery.
"We concealed nothing from you. Three years ago he asked me to be his wife. I answered gladly, yes, and wondered what he could see in me to stoop so low."
"Upon my word!" ejaculated her mother. "And this from a Fox-Cordery!"
"He explained that he was not in good circumstances, and that I would have to wait till he could furnish a home. I said that I would wait for him all my life, and so we were engaged. Then he went from me to you, Fox, and to mother, and asked for your consent."
"And it so happened," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "that it was the very day on which I discovered that he was not fit to be trusted."
"He is above doing a dishonorable action," said Charlotte, with generous warmth, "and whatever it was you discovered it was not to his discredit."
"That is as good as saying," cried Mrs. Fox-Cordery, advancing a step toward Charlotte, and would have advanced farther if her son had not laid his hand upon her arm, "that the discovery your brother speaks of was to _his_ discredit, and that it was _he_ who was guilty of a dishonorable action. You shall be punished for making these comparisons between your brother and such a creature as Mr. Dixon. My dear Fox, have we not heard enough?"
"No," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery, smiling blandly upon his sister. "We must not give Charlotte the opportunity of saying that she is unfairly treated. Speak freely, Charlotte; you are unbosoming yourself to your best friends. Do not be afraid. We will protect and take care of you. Charlotte harbors none but the most affectionate feelings for us, mother. If in a moment of excitement she says something that is not exactly loving and dutiful, we will excuse her. She will be sorry for it afterward, and that shall be her punishment. Go on, my dear."
"It is scarcely possible," said Charlotte, with a look of repugnance at her brother, "that we can be always right, not even the best of us; sometimes we are mistaken in our judgment, and Fox is when he speaks harshly of Mr. Dixon."
"Convince me of it, my dear," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, nodding genially at her, "and I will make the handsomest apology to him. I will have it written out and illuminated, and he shall hang it, framed, in his room. You cannot complain that I am unfair, after that."
"I was not present when Mr. Dixon spoke to you about our engagement, but I heard high words pass between you."
"Listening at keyholes!" exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery scornfully. "What next?"
"No, no, mother," expostulated Mr. Fox-Cordery; "be just. It was quite natural that Charlotte should listen. Everybody would not have done so, but then Charlotte is not everybody."
"My happiness was at stake," said Charlotte, "and I was anxious."
"You hear, mother. Charlotte was anxious."
"I was not eavesdropping," said Charlotte. "I was downstairs, and your voices forced themselves upon me. Shortly afterward Mr. Dixon came down and told me that there had been a disagreeable scene between you, and that you would not listen to what he had to say about our engagement. 'But I will not give you up,' he said, 'unless you turn away from me.' I answered that it depended upon him, and that I should be very unhappy if our engagement were broken. He said it should not be broken, and that if I would remain true to him he would remain true to me."
"It has a pastoral sound," observed Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Such charming simplicity!"
"He suggested that, before he left the house, we should speak to you together of an agreement we had entered into, and we came up to you. You cannot have forgotten what passed at that interview."
"You were informed that we would not sanction the engagement."
"And Mr. Dixon, speaking for himself and for me, told you that we held to it, and that we had agreed not to think seriously of marriage for three years, during which time he hoped to so improve his position that he would be able to make a home for me. We bound ourselves to this in your presence, and Mr. Dixon said that he would not visit the house without some strong inducement. He has not done so. When he calls this afternoon you will learn why he has come now. During these three years we have corresponded, and have met occasionally in the streets, and have spoken together."
"I believe," remarked Mr. Fox-Cordery, "that servants and their young men are in the habit of meeting in this way."
"I have been no better than a servant," retorted Charlotte, "and many a poor girl has left service to enter into a happy marriage."
"As you are going to do?"
"I do not know. What I wish you and mother to understand is that the three years have expired, and that we do not consider ourselves bound to you any longer."
"Never in the whole course of my life," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, "did I listen to anything so unladylike and indelicate."
"What it is necessary for you to understand," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "is that Mr. Dixon will not be permitted to visit you here."
"He will not come to see me here."
"Where, then?"
"I prefer not to tell you."
"You have some idea of a place of meeting?"
"I have something better than an idea, Fox; I have almost a hope."
He repeated her words thoughtfully, "almost a hope," and fixed his eyes upon her face; but he could not read there what he desired to read.
"Have you given any consideration," he asked, "to your circumstances? Do you think that any man would receive you--as you are?"
It was a cruel taunt, and she felt it.
"Yes, I have thought of it," she answered sadly, "and it is a deep trouble to me. If I dared to make an appeal to you----"
"Make it," he said, during the pause that ensued.
"I am your sister, Fox. I have done nothing to disgrace you--nothing of which I should be ashamed. If Mr. Dixon tells me he has a home ready for me, how can I go to him--as I am?"
She looked down at her feet, she spread out her hands piteously, and the tears started to her eyes.
"Well?"
"I think," she said, in an imploring tone, "if father could have seen the future he would have made some provision for me, ever so little, that would enable me to enter a home of my own in a creditable manner."
"What is it, dear Charlotte, that you wish me to do for you?"
"Give me a little money, Fox, to buy a few decent clothes for myself."
"In other words," he said, "furnish you with the means to act in direct opposition to our wishes, to what we are convinced is best for your welfare."
"It is a hard way of expressing it, Fox."
"It is the correct way, Charlotte. I perceive that you are speaking more humbly now. You are not so defiant. You recognize, after all, that you cannot exactly do without us."
"You are my brother. Mother has only you and me."
"Your brother," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, in a tone of relentless severity, "has been a blessing to me. It is more than I can say of you."
"I have worked hard, mother; I have had few pleasures; I have not cost you much."
"You have cost us too much. We have been overindulgent to you, and in return you insult your brother and set yourself in direct opposition to us. When your father died he left his property wisely. He knew you were not to be trusted; he knew that your ungrateful, willful nature would bring irreparable mischief upon us if it were left uncontrolled. He said as much to me. 'Charlotte will need a strong hand over her,' he said, 'to prevent her bringing shame to your door.'"
"No, no, mother!"
"His very words. I have never repeated them to you because I wished to spare your feelings. 'To prevent her bringing shame to your door. Keep a strict watch over her for all your sakes.' We have done so in fulfillment of our duty, and now it has come to this."
Mr. Fox-Cordery knew that these words had never been uttered by his father, and that there was not a grain of truth in them, but he thoroughly approved of the unworthy device. When he was working to gain a point, there was no trick that was not justifiable in his eyes; and although upon the present occasion he did not exhibit any consciousness of his mother's duplicity, neither of them was deceived by it or ashamed of it.
Charlotte was dismayed by this pretended voice from the grave. Was it possible that it could be true? Had the words really been spoken by the kind father who had left with her a cherished memory of kindness and love? But her experience of her mother was of such a nature that the doubt did not remain long to torture her. She swept it away; and except for the brief period of pain it caused her, it passed, and left no sting behind. She turned to her brother for a response to her appeal.
"Is the hope you referred to," he asked, "the hope of getting money out of me?"
"No," she replied.
"Oblige me by informing me what it is."
"Not till you answer me," she said firmly.
"Take your answer, then. You shall not have a farthing, not one farthing. Now for your hope, please."
"Will nothing move you, Fox?"
"Nothing."
"You leave me no alternative; I must appeal elsewhere. I think I know someone who will extend a helping hand to me. On the few occasions she has been here, and on which you have allowed me to see her, she has spoken to me with such unvarying kindness that I feel confident she will assist me. She has a tender heart, I am sure, and she will feel for me. I hope you will be happy with her; I hope it from my heart----"
She was not allowed to finish. Her brother, striding forward, seized her by the wrist so fiercely that she gave utterance to a cry of pain. The next moment she released herself--not a difficult matter, for, woman as she was, her strength exceeded his. Mr. Fox-Cordery had so effectually schooled himself that he had an almost perfect command over his features, and it was seldom that he was so forgetful as to show the fury of his soul. Even now, when a tempest was raging within him, there was little indication of it in his face, and but for the glittering of his blue eyes there was no evidence of his agitation. In a cold voice he said:
"No further subterfuge. Name the lady."
"Mrs. Grantham."
Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother exchanged glances.
"Do you mean," he asked, "that you would go to her and beg?"
"I would go to her," replied Charlotte, "and relate the story of my life--of my outward and inward life, Fox--from beginning to end. If I do, it will be you who drive me to it."
"We now fully realize, my dear mother," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, seating himself and crossing his legs, "Charlotte's character. At length she has revealed her true nature."
"I have nourished a serpent in my bosom," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery.
"She would destroy the hope of my life," continued Mr. Fox-Cordery; "she would blight my happiness forever. Knowing that I love the lady she has named, and that it is the one wish of my heart to make her my wife, she would deliberately blacken my character with her lies, and, under the pretense of a womanly appeal to that lady's feelings, would do her best to wreck my future."
"If my cause is not a just one," said Charlotte, "no appeal of mine will avail with Mrs. Grantham. God forbid that I should step between you and her; but I have my future to look to, as you have yours, and I am weary of the life I have led. A happier life is offered to me, and I cannot relinquish it at your bidding without an effort. If I tamely submitted to your will I should be unworthy of the gentleman who has honored me with his love."
"We will leave that gentleman, as you call him, out of the question. The contention lies between you and me, and I am free to confess that you have the advantage of me. I am no match for you, Charlotte. You are far too clever and cunning for me, and the feelings I entertain for the lady whose name has been dragged into this unhappy discussion place me at your mercy. I have made no secret of these feelings; I have foolishly bared my breast to you and you tread upon it. I yield; I hold out a flag of truce. You will give me time to consider your proposition? It comes upon me as a surprise, you know. I was not prepared for it."
"Yes, Fox, I will give you time," said Charlotte, somewhat bewildered at finding herself master of the situation. She had not expected so sudden a victory. "But there is one thing I wish you would ask mother to do at once."
"What is it, Charlotte?"
"Let me have my clothes that are in her wardrobe. I am wretched and miserable in these."
"You will give them to her, mother," said Mr. Fox-Cordery; and his mother, taking the cue, replied:
"She can have them; I have only kept them in my room to take proper care of them."
"There, Charlotte, you have nothing now to complain of."
"But you have not answered me yet, Fox," said Charlotte, resolved not to lose sight of the main point.
"About the money you ask for? May I inquire if you are in a great hurry to get married?"
"I am not in a great hurry, Fox," said Charlotte rather awkwardly. "It rests with Mr. Dixon."
"What does he say about it?"
"He thinks we might get married in two or three months."
"There is no particular hurry, then; we have time before us to conquer the repugnance we feel toward him. After all, it will make you happier if you marry with our sanction."
"Much happier, Fox."
"Mother and I will talk over the matter together dispassionately, and if we can bring ourselves to look upon him with friendly eyes we will do so. That is fair speaking, is it not?"
"Yes," said Charlotte, hesitating a little, "I think so."
She was drifting from the advantageous position she had gained, and she was weakly sensible of it; but her brother's manner was so conciliatory, and her own desire for peace so strong, that she could scarcely help herself.
"The money you require is not required immediately, and just now I am rather embarrassed with calls upon me. You would not wish to injure me financially, Charlotte?"
"No, Fox; indeed I would not."
"Everything will come right," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "In a month or two I hope to set myself straight. Meanwhile, as we have agreed, we will enter into a truce. There shall be no more unpleasantnesses between us. We have had a family disagreement, that is all; I blow it away." He made a motion with his lips, as though he were blowing away a cloud. "So, for two months, we will say nothing more concerning the affair. If you have had something to complain of in the past, it is perhaps due to the anxieties by which I have been overwhelmed. You do not know what a man's troubles are, fighting with the world and with people who are trying to get the advantage of him. Be thankful that you are a woman, and are spared these trials. You shall have nothing to complain of in the future."
"Thank you, Fox."
"I have your promise, Charlotte, that the matter shall rest for two months, when, no doubt, you will have everything you wish for."
"Yes, I promise," said Charlotte, feeling rather helpless.
"And you will say nothing to Mrs. Grantham about our little disagreement till that time has expired, when there will be no occasion whatever to humiliate yourself and us? That, of course, is agreed."
"Yes, Fox."
"It is a sacred promise, mind."
"I have given it, and I will keep to it."
"Very well; we are good friends again, and always shall be. By the way, Charlotte, I am going to take a house on the Thames for the summer months."
"I heard mother mention it."
"Partly to give you some pleasure and relaxation. We will have pleasant times there."
"I hope so, Fox."
"Mother," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, as if the idea had just occurred to him, instead of having been in his mind for several weeks, "you might invite Mrs. Grantham to pay us a visit there, and to remain with us a little while. It will be company for Charlotte."
"I will write to-day if you wish, my love," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery, responding to his suggestion immediately, as she always did. These two perfectly understood each other.
"Not to-day, mother; we must wait till I have taken the house. The one you spoke of will do capitally, if it answers to the description in the letter. And, Charlotte, when mother writes to Mrs. Grantham, you might write also, saying how glad you will be if she comes to us--a nice letter, Charlotte, with as many pretty things in it as you can think of. You see the confidence I place in you, my dear."
"I will write when you tell me, Fox. It will be a great pleasure to me if she comes."
"That is what I want--to give you as much pleasure as possible. Now, my dear, go to your room. I am very glad our little misunderstanding has ended so amicably."
He smiled affection upon Charlotte, and she left mother and son together. For a few moments there was silence--he chewing the cud of savage reflection, she throbbing with affection for him and with anger at her daughter's presumption.
"What made you so smooth with her, Fox?" asked Mrs. Fox-Cordery.
"It was the only way to muzzle her," he replied. "If she had done what she threatened it would have ruined all."
"She would never have dared," said Mrs. Fox-Cordery.
"She would have dared, egged on by that scoundrel Dixon, and by her love for him."
"Love!" muttered Mrs. Fox-Cordery, contemptuously.
"Or what she fancies is love; but I think she really loves the man, and I know what love will dare."
"For Heaven's sake," exclaimed Mrs. Fox-Cordery, "don't institute comparisons between you and her! She is not fit to black your shoes."
"She has polished them often enough," he remarked grimly; "but that is coming to an end now. A good job; I'm sick of the sight of her; I'm sick of myself; I'm sick of everything, and everybody."
"Not everybody, my love," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder fondly.
He shook her off, and she did not murmur. They resembled each other most wonderfully, but there was a marked difference in the quality of their affection. She--cold, hard, and ungenerous to all but him--was nobler than he, for she was ready and willing to sacrifice herself for him. It had been so from his birth, and her love had grown into a passion which nothing could affect, not even ingratitude and indifference from the son she adored. In her eyes he was a paragon; his vices were virtues, his meanness commendable, his trickery the proof of an ingenious mind. He could do no wrong. Quick to discover the least sign of turpitude in others, she discerned none in him; she was morally blind to his defects, and the last thing she would have believed him capable of was the Judas kiss.
Far different was it with him. He was conscious of all his mother's faults, and he excused her for none. His absorbing vanity so clouded his mind that it was only the baser qualities of those with whom he was associated that forced themselves upon his attention, and these being immediately accepted the door was closed upon the least attribute which rendered them worthy of respect and esteem. His chronic suspicion of his fellow-creatures did not spring from his intellect, but from those lower conditions of the affections in which the basest qualities of mankind occupy the prominent places. Theophrastus says that the suspicious man imputes a fraudulent intention to everyone with whom he has to do, and this was the case with Mr. Fox-Cordery, who viewed his mother--the one being in the world who, though he stood universally condemned and execrated, would have shed the last drop of her blood in his defense and vindication--in the same light as he viewed those who were as ready to spurn him in the day of his prosperity as in the day of his downfall, should such a day ever dawn upon him.
"Follow my lead," he said to his mother, "in your treatment of Charlotte. She has declared war, and war it shall be, though she shall not see it till the proper time. Just now she is necessary to me. Strange as it may sound, her good word will be of assistance to me with Mrs. Grantham. I cannot account for it, and I am not going to trouble myself about it; the only thing that troubles me is that the lady I have loved for so many years should still hold off, should still refuse to speak the word that will make me happy. What am I taking a country house for except to further the dearest wish of my heart? I think of no one but her; I dream of no one but her. She was snatched from me once, and I had to bear it; and then fortune declared itself in my favor, and still I could not obtain the prize I have been so long working for."
"You are a model of constancy, my love," said his mother, affectionately and admiringly. "No woman in the world is good enough for my dear son."
"Perhaps not, perhaps not," he muttered; "but I will die before I am thwarted. When did I give up an object upon which I set my heart? Never, and I will not give up this. Mark the hour that makes Mrs. Grantham my wife, and you will see me a changed man. She shall be my slave then, as I am hers now. During her visit to us I will conquer her irresolution, her obstinacy. Let Charlotte understand that her happiness depends upon mine; that will win her completely to my side. I will be the most affectionate of brothers; you shall be the most affectionate of mothers. Charlotte will say to herself, 'I have been mistaken in them; it is I who have been at fault all these years.' This will tell in my favor when she and Mrs. Grantham are talking together confidentially. We rob her, you see, of her power of detraction. You, I know, will do your best, and Charlotte shall do her best instead of her worst. She has defied me; she shall be made to pay for it. I have her promise for two months, and she is at my mercy. Do you understand now why I was so smooth with her?"
"Yes, my love. Depend upon me to do everything in my power."
"Before those two months have gone Mrs. Grantham and I shall be man and wife; and then, mother, Charlotte may go to the----"
"Exactly so, my love," said his mother.
It is an article of belief that every Englishman's private residence must include an apartment which, by a polite fiction, is denominated a study. This apartment, which generally smells of musty bones, is, as a rule, extremely small, extremely dark, and extremely useless. Dust lies thick upon the shabby furniture, by reason of the housemaid never being allowed to enter it with duster and broom; and the few volumes on the shelves of the parody of a bookcase lean against each other at a drunken angle, with a dissipated air of books that have lost all respect for themselves. To add to the conspicuous cheerlessness of the room, its one insufficient window looks out upon a dreary back wall, a constant contemplation of which would be likely to drive a man's thoughts in the direction of suicide. Provided with the necessary cupboard, no more suitable hiding-place could be found for the proverbial family skeleton, without which no well-regulated establishment can be said to be complete.
Into such an apartment was John Dixon shown when he was informed that Mr. Fox-Cordery would receive him.
This cold welcome was a sufficient indication that the master of the house did not regard his visitor in the light of a friend; but, clear as was the fact to John Dixon, it did not disturb him. With his rubicund face, his bright eyes, and his genial manners, he presented the appearance of a man not easily disturbed, of a man who accepted the rubs of life with equanimity, and made the best of them. He was in his prime, a well-built gentleman, with nothing particularly serious on his conscience, and when Mr. Fox-Cordery entered the room the advantage was on John Dixon's side, physically and morally.
They glanced at each other inquiringly, and with a certain curiosity, for it was long since they had met face to face. Mr. Fox-Cordery was disappointed; he had hoped to see signs of wear and tear in his old friend, in the shape of crows'-feet, wrinkles, and gray hairs, but none were visible. On the contrary, there was an assertion of robust youth and good health about John Dixon which gave positive pain to Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"Good-day, Fox," said John Dixon cordially.
Mr. Fox-Cordery did not respond to the salutation. Stiffening his little body--an action which brought a broad smile to John Dixon's lips--he said in his iciest tone:
"To what may I ascribe the----"
"The honor of this visit," broke in John Dixon heartily. "I'll come to it soon. You don't seem comfortable, Fox."
"Whether I am comfortable or not," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, who would have administered a dose of poison to his visitor with the greatest pleasure in life, "cannot possibly concern or interest you."
"Oh! but I beg your pardon. Everything appertaining to Charlotte's brother must concern and interest me. It stands to reason. We shall one day be brothers-in-law. Brothers-in-law! Good Lord! Don't shift your legs so, Fox. Keep still and straight, as you were a moment ago. To a little man like you repose is invaluable."
"Your familiarity, Mr. Dixon----"
"Come, come," interrupted John Dixon, with a genial shake of his head; "why not John? I shall not take offense at it."
"Have you paid me an unwelcome visit to force a quarrel upon me?"
"By no means. I know that my visit is an unwelcome one. You don't like my company, Fox."
"Your room would be preferable."
"It is a treat to hear something honest from you. There, there, man, don't fume! You can't alter me any more than I can alter you. What is bred in the bone, you know. And let me tell you, Fox, you can't expect to have everything your own way. Who plays at bowls must be prepared for rubbers."
"Let me tell _you_, Mr. Dixon," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, becoming suddenly calm, "that I will submit to none of your impertinence."
He was about to continue in this strain when he suddenly recollected that he had assumed a new attitude toward Charlotte, and that, if her lover represented to her that he had been insulted by him, it might interfere with his plans. It was advisable, therefore, that not a word that passed at the present interview should reach Charlotte's ears, and he saw a way to compass this. Changing front instantly, he said slyly:
"I should like to know if we are speaking in confidence?"
"In strict confidence," said John Dixon readily. "For your sake, Fox, not for mine."
"Never mind for whose sake. You have your opinions, I have mine. I take your word, and shall be outspoken with you. You had the presumption to pay a visit to my sister this morning----"
"No, no, Fox, to you; though I must confess I was delighted to see her, and have a chat with her."
"It was for that purpose you came. As we have met in perfect confidence, and as nothing that we say to each other will be repeated by either of us outside this room--that is a perfectly honorable engagement, is it not?"
"It is on my side," said John Dixon gravely.
"I have bound myself, Mr. Dixon, and am therefore free to warn you that you must cease from persecuting Charlotte with your addresses. I speak in her name."
"Not true, Fox; you speak in your own. Why, if she herself uttered those words to me I should not believe they came from her heart; I should know that you forced her to speak them. But there is no fear of anything of that sort occurring. Charlotte and I understand each other; and, oppressed and ground down as she has been in your house, she has a higher courage than you give her credit for. I am proud of having won her love, and I will make her a happy woman, as truly as I stand here. However, it is not to tell you what you already know that I have come to see you; it is for a different reason altogether."
"You speak defiantly, Mr. Dixon. It is not the way to conciliate me."
"Conciliate you! I am not such an ass as to try. I will try my own way. If I can manage it, you shall fear me."
"If you can manage it!" said Mr. Fox-Cordery, a little uneasy at his visitor's confident tone. "Yes, if you can manage it. I should imagine you will find it a difficult task. If you think you can frighten me by your bullying you are mistaken."
"Oh! I don't want to frighten you. I am going to play my cards openly, knowing perfectly well that you will not expose one of yours. Shall we proceed to business?"
"Say what you have to say," exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery blandly, "and the devil take you!"
John Dixon laughed.
"When you speak softly, Fox, you are most deadly. It was just the same when you, I, and Robert Grantham were at school together in the country. Poor Bob! What a careless, reckless, generous fellow he was! What a tool he was in your hands, and how you worked him and played upon him!"
"You lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, in a passionless voice.
Few persons acquainted with him would have suspected how deeply he was agitated by this reference to his old schoolmate.
"The scapegoat of the school," proceeded John Dixon, as if Mr. Fox-Cordery had not spoken. "As easily led as a fly in harness. We three were differently circumstanced. My people were poor, and could allow me very little pocket-money; Bob Grantham's people were rich, and he had a liberal supply. What your people allowed you no one knew. You kept your affairs very secret, Fox; you were always a sly, vain, cautious customer. Poor Bob was the soul of frankness; he made no secret of anything, not even of his weaknesses, which he laughed at as freely as some others did. Regularly every fourth Monday his foolish people sent him ten pounds, and quite as regularly on the very next day he had not a penny of his ten pounds left. Where did his money go to? Who, in the course of a few short hours, had got hold of it? Some said he gave it away to any poor man or woman he happened to meet. Some said he chucked it into the pond out of dare-devilry. When he was questioned, he turned it off with a laugh. You used to be asked about it, and you used to answer, 'How should I know?' It was a mystery, and Bob never blabbed--nor did you, Fox!"
"How could I supply information," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "upon a matter so mysterious; and what is the meaning of all this rhodomontade?"
"I suppose," continued John Dixon, still as if Mr. Fox-Cordery had not spoken, "that most boys set up for themselves a code of honor which they stick to, more or less, according to their idea of things. I remember I did; I am quite sure poor Bob Grantham did; I don't know whether you did, because you were so secretive, so very secretive. I leave you out, Fox, for a cogent reason. I guess, as our American cousins say, you are not in it when I speak of honor; and in making this observation you will perceive that I have no desire to conciliate you or to win your favor. Now, old fellow, there were only three boys in the whole of that school--and there were thirty-five of us--who knew what became of Bob Grantham's money."
"Three persons!"
"Just three persons, and no more. The first was poor Bob himself, the second was Fox-Cordery, the third was John Dixon."
"Indeed! You?"
"I, on the honor of a gentleman."
Mr. Fox-Cordery's lips curled in derision as he remarked:
"No man in the world would give you the credit of being one. And pray, where did Mr. Grantham's money go to?"
"Into your pockets, Fox, as regularly as a clockwork machine."
"A precious secret, truly," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve, "and a most valuable one for you to have preserved all these years. I presume if a man, or a schoolboy, is weak enough to lend his money he has a right to receive it back."
"An indubitable right; but in this case there is no question of borrowing and paying back. Would you like to hear how I came into a knowledge of this mystery?"
"I have no desire; it is quite immaterial to me."
"It was an accidental discovery. You and Bob Grantham were bosom friends. It was touching to observe how deeply attached you were to him; and, in these circumstances, any friendship he formed being on his part sincere, it was natural that you should be much in each other's society. Now, it was noticeable that every fourth Monday evening you and he disappeared for an hour or two, and it was for this reason that you used to be asked what Bob Grantham did with the ten pounds he received regularly on that day. On one of these Monday evenings I happened to be taking a lonely walk in a pretty bit of forest about two miles from the schoolhouse. There was a nook in the forest which was very secluded, and one had to go out of one's way to get to it. I went out of my way on that particular Monday evening, not because I wanted to reach this secluded nook, because I did not know of it, but aimlessly and without any special purpose. I heard voices, and peeping through a cluster of trees, I saw you and Bob sitting on the grass, playing cards. A white handkerchief was spread between you, and on this handkerchief were the stakes you were playing for--Bob's money and your own. I waited, and observed. Sovereign after sovereign went into your pocket. You were quiet, and cool, and bland, as you are now, though I dare say something is passing inside of you. What a rare power you have of concealing your feelings, Fox! Some people might envy you; I don't. Bob Grantham, all the time he was losing, laughed and joked, and bore his losses like a man; and he kept on losing till he was cleaned out. Then he rose, and laughingly said: 'You will give me my revenge, Fox?' 'When you like, old fellow,' you answered; 'what bad luck you have.' 'Oh, it will turn,' he said; 'all you've got to do is to stick to it.' That is how I discovered where poor Bob's money went to, Fox."
"Well, and what of it?" said Mr. Fox-Cordery, with a sneer. "He was fond of a game of cards, and he played and lost. That there was nothing wrong in it was proved by your silence. And that is what you have come here to-day to tell me! You are a fool for your pains, John Dixon."
"I was silent," said John Dixon, "because Bob pledged me to secrecy. My intention was to expose you to the whole school, and so put an end to--what shall we call it? Robbery?"
"You would not dare to make that charge against me in public. There are no witnesses present, and you, therefore, know you are protected against an action for libel."
"You are losing sight of your compact of silence, Fox. Tiled in as we are, we can call each other what names we please, and there is no obligation upon us to be choice in our language. Pull yourself together, my little man; I have no desire to take you at a disadvantage. What do you say, now, to our agreeing that this meeting shall not be confidential, and that when we part we shall each of us be free to reveal what passes?"
"My word once given," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery, putting on his loftiest air, "I never depart from it."
"For all that," said John Dixon, "I will give you the opportunity of challenging me in public, and of seeing whether I will not give you the chance of bringing an action for libel against me. Having made up my mind what to do I considered it right to tell Bob of my intention. He turned white with anger; he called me a treacherous dog; he said that I had sneaked my way into a secret which had nothing whatever to do with me, and that I should be playing a base part by revealing it. We had some warm words about you, Fox, and he defended you tooth and nail. Upon my word, after our quarrel I had a greater admiration for poor Bob than ever. The end of it was that he bound me down, upon honor, to keep the secret from any but our three selves, and that is why it never leaked out."
"Mr. Grantham had his good points," observed Mr. Fox-Cordery; "there was something of the gentleman in him; that is why I chummed with him. May I inquire how it was that, entertaining such an opinion of me, you, a good many years after we all left school, accepted the offer of employment I made you--which never would have been made, I need hardly say, if I had known you then as I know you now?"
"I was down in the world; things had gone badly with me, and it was necessary for me to get something to do without delay. You are aware that I have an old mother to support: and when needs must--I need not finish the old saying. When, meeting by chance, as we did, you made me the offer, I did not tell you I was in low water, or you would have screwed me down without mercy. I intended to remain with you only long enough to save a few pounds, but getting to know Charlotte, and growing fond of her, I could not tear myself away from her. I will continue the story of poor Bob. The discovery I made did not alter things in the least; it rather improved them for you. Bob and you became more and more attached to each other, and you left school firm friends. I never could understand what he saw in you, but you have the faculty of inspiring confidence in some people--worse luck for them in the long run."
"I am waiting for your insults to come to an end," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and to have the pleasure of hearing the street door close on you."
"All in good time, Fox; I told you I should not try conciliatory methods. Our school-days over, we lost sight of each other, that is to say, I lost sight of you and Bob, and what I have now to speak of has come to my knowledge in various ways. After leaving school a series of family adventures befell Robert Grantham. His parents died, his elder brother died, a rich uncle died, and to Bob's share fell a larger fortune than he expected to inherit. His good luck must have bewildered him, for he appointed you his agent. The next point of interest to touch upon is the introduction of a lady in your lives. Her maiden name, Lucy Sutherland. Correct me if I am making any misstatement."
"I decline to make myself responsible for any statement of yours, whether it be correct or otherwise. Your introduction of this lady's name is a gross impertinence."
"Not at all; it belongs to the story, which, without it, is incomplete. I have not the pleasure of this lady's acquaintance, and, to my knowledge, have never seen her, but I have heard of her, through you and Charlotte."
"Through me!"
"To be sure," continued John Dixon, "you never mentioned her to me by that name, but by the name she now bears, Mrs. Grantham. Probably you would never have mentioned her to me at all had it not been that she was concerned in the business you set me to do during my service with you. You had the management of her financial affairs, as you had the management of her husband's. But I am running ahead of my story. As a maiden lady she had many suitors, which is not to be wondered at, for though she had terrible anxieties and trials she is still, as I learn from Charlotte, very beautiful, and as good as she is beautiful. I trust Charlotte's judgment in this as in all things. Only two of these suitors for her hand did Miss Sutherland smile upon. One was poor Bob Grantham, the other yourself. But you did not hold an equal place in her regard. She smiled upon poor Bob because she loved him, she smiled upon you because you were the bosom friend of the gentleman she loved. Into the sincerity of your feelings for her I do not inquire; I pass over what does not concern me, and I come to the commencement of an important chapter in this lady's life, which opens with her marriage with Robert Grantham."
"You pass over what does not concern you," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "What, then, is your object in dragging the lady's name into the conversation?"
"You will learn presently. The chapter opens brightly, but we have only to turn a leaf and we see clouds gathering. Mark you; from all I can gather these two loved each other with a very perfect love; but poor Bob had one besetting vice which darkened his life and hers, and which eventually ruined both. He was an inveterate gamester. The seeds of this vice, which you helped to nourish in our school days, were firmly implanted in him when he grew to manhood. He was, as I have already said, weak, and easily led, and no doubt the harpies who are always on the watch for such as he encouraged him and fattened upon him. He had not the strength to withstand temptation, and he fell lower and lower. Observe, Fox, that in the narration of the story I am merely giving you a plain recital of facts."
"Or what you suppose to be facts," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"A plain recital of facts," repeated John Dixon, "the truth of which can be substantiated. I do not ask you whether you took a hand in poor Bob's ruin, and profited by it. That some harpies did is not to be doubted, because in the end poor Bob lost every penny of his fortune, which all found its way into their pockets, as the weak schoolboy's ten pounds found their way regularly every month into yours. I do not seek to excuse poor Bob; there is a thin line which separates weakness and folly from sin, and Bob was one of the many who stepped over this line. I have reflected deeply upon his wretched history. Knowing the goodness of his heart and the sweetness of his disposition, I have wondered how he could have been so blind as not to see that he was breaking the heart of the woman he loved and had sworn to protect; her nature must also have been one of rare goodness that she did not force it upon him, that she did not take the strongest means to show him the miserable pit he was digging for them. I have wondered, too, how, through another influence than that of his wife, he himself should not have awakened from his fatal infatuation. They had a child, a little girl, and his instinctive tenderness for children should have stepped in to save him. I am not myself a gambler, and I cannot realize the complete power which the vice obtains over a man's moral perception, sapping all that is noble and worthy in him, and destroying all the finer instincts of his nature. Happily Mrs. Grantham had a fortune in her own right over which her husband had no control; some portion of it went, I believe, to save him from disgrace--and then the end came. I have related the story in its broad outlines; there must have been scenes of agony between husband and wife of which I know nothing, but it is not difficult to imagine them. During the whole of these miserable years, Fox, you remained the close friend and associate of this unhappy couple, and you know what the end of it was."
"What I know I know," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and I do not propose to enlist you in my confidence."
"I do not ask you to do so. It was probably during these years that Mrs. Grantham learned to rely upon you and to trust to your counsel and judgment. You have maintained your position to this day."
"Well?"
"In the course of the business I transacted for you I became somewhat familiar with Mrs. Grantham's pecuniary affairs. You are, in a certain sense, her trustee and guardian; you have the management of her little fortune; it was partly with respect to the investments you made for her that we severed our connection."
"That I dismissed you from my service," corrected Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You had the presumption to suppose that you had the right to interfere in my management. I opened your eyes to your position, and sent you packing."
"As it suited me to accept employment when you offered it to me, so it suited me to leave your service at the time I did. A better situation was open to me, with the prospect of a future partnership. On the day I left you I went to my new situation, and have been in it ever since. In a short time I shall become a partner in the firm of Paxton and Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row."
"It is not of the slightest interest to me, Mr. Dixon, whether you become a partner in this firm or go to the dogs. I can forecast which of the two is the more likely."
"Had you the disposition of my future I know pretty well what it would be; but I promise you disappointment. Although you take no interest in the circumstances of my becoming a partner in Paxton and Freshfield I will leave our address with you, in case you may wish to consult me."
He laid a card upon the table, of which Mr. Fox-Cordery took no notice.
"This, then," he said, "is the reason of your intrusion. To solicit my patronage? You would have made a good commercial traveler."
"You are miles from the truth. I do not think we would undertake your business. I leave my card for private, not for professional reasons. What I have stated to you leads directly to the object of my visit. I have hitherto asked you no questions; perhaps you will not object to my asking you one or two now?"
"Say what you please. I can answer or not, at my discretion."
"Entirely so; and pray take it from me that I am not here in a professional capacity, but solely as a private individual who will certainly at no distant date be a member of your family, whether you like it or not; or," he added, with a slight laugh, "whether I like it or not. In conveying to you my regret that I shall have a relationship thrust upon me which I would very gladly dispense with, my reference is not to Charlotte. A relationship to you, apart from other considerations, is no credit; but, so far as Charlotte and I are concerned, I would prefer it without the additional drawback of a public scandal. Many singular pieces of business fall into the hands of Paxton and Freshfield. One of such a nature came into the office a short time since, but it was not brought before my notice till to-day. Have you seen the _Times_ this morning?"
"I decline to answer idle questions."
"Whether you have seen it or not, an advertisement in its personal columns has certainly escaped your attention, or you would not have met this particular question so calmly. The advertisement, as you will see--I have brought the paper with me--was inserted by my firm. It will interest you to read it."
He took the _Times_ from his pocket, and offered it to Mr. Fox-Cordery, pointing to the advertisement of which he spoke; Mr. Fox-Cordery hesitated a moment, and then, paper in hand, stepped to the dusty window, and read the advertisement, which ran as follows: