If Mr. Robert Grantham, born in Leamington, Warwickshire, will call upon Messrs. Paxton and Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row, London, he will hear of something to his advantage.
To read so short an advertisement would occupy a man scarcely half a minute, but Mr. Fox-Cordery stood for several minutes at the window, with his back turned to John Dixon. Perhaps there was something in the prospect of the dreary back wall that interested him, for he stood quite still, and did not speak. His contemplation at an end, he faced his visitor, and handed back the paper.
"Have you anything to remark?" inquired John Dixon.
"Nothing."
"Close as wax, Fox, as usual. When I read the advertisement this morning it gave me a strange turn, and I came direct to your house to speak to you about it. Before I did so, I made myself acquainted with the nature of the business concerning which our firm desires to see Mr. Robert Grantham. It is a simple matter enough. An old lady has died in Leamington; she was aunt to poor Bob, and she has left him a small legacy of two hundred pounds. Not a fortune, but a useful sum to a man in low water."
"You are talking rubbish," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You know perfectly well that it is throwing money away to put such an advertisement in the papers. Is it in other papers as well as the _Times?_"
"Ah, ha, friend Fox!" said John Dixon. "Caught tripping for once. Actually betraying interest in the object of my visit, when indifference was your proper cue! No, it is not in other papers; the whole of the small legacy must not be eaten up in expenses. Had I been informed of this business before the insertion of the advertisement even in one paper, I should have suggested to Paxton and Freshfield the advisability of a little delay until I had made certain inquiries. Lawyers are practical people, and they would have recognized the absurdity of inviting by public proclamation a visit from a ghost. There is no mistake, I suppose, about poor Bob being dead?"
"You know he is dead."
"Softly, Fox, softly. I know nothing of poor Bob except what I have gathered from you. If Mrs. Grantham is a widow, why of course Robert Grantham is a dead man; if she is not a widow, why of course Robert Grantham is alive, and you stand small chance of stepping into his shoes, which I believe you are eager to do. It is hardly likely that she has seen the advertisement, but it must be brought to her notice very soon."
"By whom?"
"Naturally, in the first place, by you, as her business agent, because, in the event of Bob being dead, the legacy will fall to his heirs. Failing you, naturally by Paxton and Freshfield, who have this inconsiderable business in hand, and whose duty it is to attend to it. Probably we shall await some communication from you or Mrs. Grantham upon the matter. It may be that Paxton and Freshfield will expect something from you in the shape of a document, such, for instance, as proof of poor Bob's death; and they might consider it advisable to ask for certain particulars, such as the place and date of his death, where buried, etcetera. All of which you will be able to supply, being positive that Mrs. Grantham is a widow. Now, Fox, I have still a word or two to say to you in private. Call it an adventure, an impression, what you will; it occurred to me, and it would be unfair to keep it from Charlotte's brother. Until to-day I have not mentioned it to a soul. We have passed through a hard winter, as you know, and have established a record in fogs. I do not remember a year in which we have had so many foggy days and nights, and the month of March usurped the especial privilege of the month of November. I cannot recall the precise date, but it was about the middle of March when I walked from the Strand into Regent Street by way of the Seven Dials. It was one of the foggiest nights we had, and I had to be careful how I picked my steps. Men walked a yard or two ahead of you, and you could not see their faces, could scarcely distinguish their forms; but quite close, elbow to elbow, as it were, you might by chance catch a momentary glance of a face. A flash, and it was gone, swallowed up in Egyptian darkness. Two men passed me arm-in-arm, and, looking up, I could have sworn that I saw the face of Robert Grantham's ghost. I turned to follow it, but it was gone. That is all, Fox; I thought you would like to know."
If a face of the pallid hue of Mr. Fox-Cordery's could be said to grow white, it may be said of his at this revelation; otherwise he betrayed no sign of agitation. He made no comment upon it, and asked no questions; but the indefinite change of color did not escape John Dixon's observation.
"It is a pleasure to know that you have emptied your budget," he said. "Good-morning, Mr. Dixon."
"Good-morning, Fox," said John Dixon. "You will probably acknowledge that I had a sufficient reason for paying you this visit."
He did not wait for the acknowledgment, but took his departure without another word.
Mr. Fox-Cordery stood motionless by the window. There was writing on the dreary back wall, invisible to all eyes but his.
"If he has betrayed me!" he muttered; "if he has betrayed me!" and pursued his thought no further in spoken words.
A quarter of an hour afterward he went to his mother.
"Have you given Charlotte her clothes?" he asked.
"Not yet, Fox," she replied. "What did that man want with you?"
"That man is my enemy!" he said, with fury in his voice and face; "my bitter enemy. Go, and give Charlotte her clothes immediately. And, mother, take her out and buy her one or two nicknacks--a silver brooch for a few shillings, a bit of ribbon. Be sweet to her. Curse her and him! Be sweet to her, and say I gave you the money to buy the presents. We need her on our side more than ever. Don't stop to argue with me; do as I bid you!"
"I will obey you in everything, my love," she said, gazing at him solicitously.
He motioned her away, and she stole from the room, wishing she possessed the malignant power to strike his enemy dead at her feet.
That same night, as Big Ben was striking the hour of nine, Mr. Fox-Cordery, spick and span as usual, and with not a visible crease upon him, crossed Westminster Bridge, Kennington way, bent on an errand of importance, and plunged into the melancholy thoroughfares which beset, but cannot be said to adorn, that sad-colored neighborhood. In some quarters of London the houses have a peculiarly forlorn appearance, as though life at its best were a poor thing, and not worth troubling about. If general cheerlessness and despondency had been the aim of the builders and speculators responsible for their distinguishing characteristics, they may be complimented upon their success, but certainly not upon their taste. It is as easy to make houses pretty as to make them ugly, and curves are no more difficult to compass than angles; facts which have not established themselves in the consciousness of the average Englishman, who remains stupidly content with dull, leaden-looking surfaces, and a pernicious uniformity of front--which may account for the dejection of visage to be met with in such streets as Mr. Fox-Cordery was traversing.
He paid no attention to the typical signs, animate or inanimate, he met with on his road, but walked straight on till he arrived at a three-storied house, in the windows of which not a glimmer of light was to be seen. Striking a match, he held it up to the knocker of the street door, beneath which the number of the house was painted in fast-fading figures; and convincing himself with some difficulty that he had reached his destination, he put his hand to the knocker to summon the inmates. But the knocker had seen its best days, and was almost past knocking. Rust and age had so stiffened its joints that it required a determined effort to move it from its cushion; and being moved, there it stuck in mid-air, obstinately declining to perform its office.
Failing to produce a sound that would have any effect upon human ears, Mr. Fox-Cordery turned his attention to the bells, of which there were six or seven. As there was no indication of the particular bell which would serve him, he pulled them all, one after the other. Some were mute, some gave forth the faintest tinkle, and one remained in his hand, refusing to come farther forward or to go back; the result of his pulling being that not the slightest attention was paid to the summons by anyone in the house. The appearance of a hobbledehoy promised to be of assistance to him. This hobbledehoy was a stripling of same thirteen summers; his shirt-sleeves turned(?) up, and he carried in his hand a pewter pot of beer which he occasionally put his lips, not daring to go deeper than the froth, from fear of consequences from the lawful owner.
"Mr. Rathbeal lives here, doesn't he?" inquired Mr. Fox-Cordery.
The hobbledehoy surveyed the gentleman, and became instantly lost in admiration. Such a vision of perfect dressing had probably never presented itself to him before. Open-mouthed he gazed and worshiped. Mr. Fox-Cordery aroused him from his dream by repeating the question.
"Lots o' people lives 'ere," he replied. "Who's Mr. What's-his-name, when he's at 'ome, and does 'is mother know he's out when he ain't?"
Mr. Fox-Cordery spelt the name, letter by letter--"R-a-t-h-b-e-a-l."
"Don't know the gent," said the hobbledehoy. "Is he a sport?"
No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a sport.
"Is he a coster?"
No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a coster.
"Is it sweeps?"
No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say it was sweeps.
"Give it up," said the hobbledehoy. "Arsk me another."
Another did not readily present itself to Mr. Fox-Cordery's usually fertile mind, and he stood irresolute.
"I tell yer wot," suggested the hobbledehoy. "Give me tuppence, and I'll go through the lot."
With a wry face, Mr. Fox-Cordery produced the coppers, which the hobbledehoy spun in the air, and pocketed. Then he conscientiously went through the list of the inmates of the house from basement to attic, Mr. Fox-Cordery shaking his head at each introduction.
"There's the gent with the 'air on," he said, in conclusion; "and that finishes it."
Mr. Fox-Cordery's face lighted up.
"Long gray hair?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the hobbledehoy. "Could make a pair of wigs out of it."
"Down to here?" asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, with his hand at his breast.
"That's the wery identical. Looks like the Wizard of the North. Long legs and arms, face like a lion."
"That is the person I want," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"Third floor back," said the hobbledehoy; and, with the virtuous feeling of a boy who has earned his pennies, he walked into the house, with his head up; whereby Mr. Fox-Cordery learned that knockers and bells were superfluities, and that anyone was free of the street door, and could obtain entrance by a simple push. Following the instruction, he mounted the stairs slowly, lighting matches as he ascended to save himself from falling into a chance trap; a necessary precaution, for the passages were pitch dark, and the balustrades and staircases generally in a tumbledown, rickety condition. The third floor was the top of the house, and comprised one front and one back room. He knocked at the latter without eliciting a response, and knocked again with the same result. Then he turned the handle, which yielded to his pressure, and entered.
The room was as dark as the passages, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, after calling in vain, "Here, you, Rathbeal, you!" had recourse to his matchbox again; and seeing the end of a candle in a tall candlestick of curious shape upon the table, he lighted it and looked around. From the moment of his entering the room he had been conscious of a faint odor, rather disturbing to his senses, and now, as he looked around, he satisfied himself as to the cause. On a quaintly carved bracket were a bottle and a small box. The bottle was empty, but there was a little opium in the box.
"At his old game," he muttered. "Why doesn't it kill him? But I wouldn't have him die yet. I must first screw the truth out of him."
By "him" he meant the tenant of the room, who lay on a narrow bed asleep. Before disturbing him, Mr. Fox-Cordery devoted attention to the articles by which he was surrounded. The furniture of this humble attic was extraordinary of its kind, and had probably been picked up at odd times, in one auction-room and another. On the floor was an old Oriental rug, worn quite threadbare; the two chairs were antiques; the carved legs of the table represented the legs of fabulous animals; even the fire-irons were old-fashioned. There were several brackets on the walls, carved by the sleeping man, showing a quaint turn of fancy; and on each bracket rested an article of taste, here a small Eastern vase, here a twisted bottle, here the model of a serpent standing upright on two human legs. A dealer in old curiosities would not have given more than a sovereign or two for all the furniture and ornaments in the room, for none of them were of any particular value. But the collection was a remarkable one to be found in an attic in such a neighborhood; and, if it denoted nothing else, was an indication that the proprietor was not of the common order of English workingmen, such as one would have expected to occupy the apartment; if, indeed, he was an Englishman at all.
Mr. Fox-Cordery was not a gentleman of artistic taste, and he turned up his nose and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at these belongings. Then he devoted a few moments more to an examination of the room, opening drawers without hesitation, and running his eyes over some manuscripts on the table. The written characters of these manuscripts were exquisite, albeit somewhat needlessly fantastic here and there: and the manuscripts themselves furnished a clew to the occupation of the tenant, which was that of a copyist. There were no paintings or engravings on the walls, which, however, were not entirely devoid of pictorial embellishment. Four neatly cut pieces of drawing-paper were tacked thereon--north, south, east, and west--bearing each a couplet beautifully written within an illuminated scroll. The colors of the scrolls were green and gold, and the verses were written in shining Indian ink.
On the tablet on the north wall the lines ran:
He whose soul by love is quickened, never can to death be hurled;Written is my life immortal in the records of the world.
He whose soul by love is quickened, never can to death be hurled;
Written is my life immortal in the records of the world.
On the south wall:
Oh, heart! thy springtime has gone by, and at life's flowers has failed thy aim.Gray-headed man, seek virtue now; gain honor and a spotless name.
Oh, heart! thy springtime has gone by, and at life's flowers has failed thy aim.
Gray-headed man, seek virtue now; gain honor and a spotless name.
On the west wall:
Now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is brimming,And with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning.
Now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is brimming,
And with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning.
On the east wall:
If all upon the earth arise to injure myself or my friend,The Lord, who redresses wrong, shall avenge us all in the end.
If all upon the earth arise to injure myself or my friend,
The Lord, who redresses wrong, shall avenge us all in the end.
Mr. Fox-Cordery's judgment upon these couplets was that the writer's brain was softening; and considering that he had wasted sufficient time in making discoveries of no value, he stepped to the narrow bed, and contemplated the sleeper. The contrast between the two men was noteworthy, but it was the good or bad fortune of Mr. Fox-Cordery always to furnish a contrast of more or less interest when he stood side by side with his fellow-men. At this moment his clean, pallid face, with its carefully arranged hair and drooping mustache, wore an ugly expression singularly at odds with his diminutive stature.
It is not pleasant for a man with a thorough belief in his own supremacy to suspect that he has been tricked by one whom he gauges to be of meaner capacity than himself; but this had been Mr. Fox-Cordery's suspicion since his interview with John Dixon, and he had come hither either to verify or falsify it. The sleeper's age could not have been less than sixty years; he was a large-limbed man, six feet in height, and proportionately broad and massive. His full-fleshed eyelids with their shaggy eyebrows, his abundant tangled hair, and the noble gray beard descending to his breast, denoted a being of power and sensibility; and though he lay full length and unconscious beneath the little man who was gazing wrathfully upon him, he seemed to tower majestically above the pygmy form. Mr. Fox-Cordery shook the sleeper violently, and called:
"Rathbeal, you scoundrel; just you wake up! Do you hear? No shamming! Wake up!"
Rathbeal slowly opened his eyes, which like his hair were gray, and fixed them upon Mr. Fox-Cordery. Recognition of his unexpected visitor did not immediately come to him, and he continued to gaze in silence upon the intruder. Half asleep and half awake as he was, there was a magnetic quality in his eyes which did not tend to put Mr. Fox-Cordery at his ease; and in order to make a proper assertion of himself, he said, in a bullying tone:
"When you have had your stare out, perhaps you'll let me know."
The voice assisted Rathbeal, who, closing his eyes and with a subtle smile on his lips, murmured, in perfect English:
"The enemy thy secret sought to gain:A hand unseen repelled the beast profane."
"The enemy thy secret sought to gain:
A hand unseen repelled the beast profane."
"Beast yourself!" retorted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Here, no going off to sleep again! You're wanted, particularly wanted; and I don't intend to stand any of your infernal nonsense!"
But these lordly words, peremptorily uttered, did not seem to produce their intended effect, for Rathbeal, still with closed eyes, murmured:
"Be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone;All men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have sown."
"Be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone;
All men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have sown."
The couplet, being of the order of those affixed to the walls, conveyed no definite idea, and certainly no satisfaction, to Mr. Fox-Cordery's mind. He cried masterfully:
"Are you going to get up or not? I've something to say to you; and you've got to hear it, if I stay all night."
Then Rathbeal opened his eyes again, and there was recognition in them, as he said courteously:
"Ah, Mr. Fox-Cordery, your pardon; I was scarcely awake. You have taken me from the land of dreams. It is the first time you have honored me in this apartment. To see you here is a surprise."
"I dare say," chuckled Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and not an agreeable one either. Eh, old man?"
"If it were not agreeable," said Rathbeal, spreading out his hands, which were large and shapely, and in keeping with his general appearance, "I should not confess it. You are my guest."
"Guest be hanged!" exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery, resenting the suggestion as claiming equality with him. "Do you think I have come to partake of your hospitality? Not by a long way. Are you awake yet?"
"Wide, very wide," replied Rathbeal, rising calmly from his bed. "I have been in the spirit"--he consulted a silver watch--"nine hours. If you had not aroused me I should have been by this time conscious. Excuse me; I have no other apartment." There was a small shut-up washstand in a corner, and he opened it, and pouring out water, laved his hands. When he had dried them he combed out his noble beard with his fingers, and said, "I am now ready for work."
"People, as a rule, leave off at this hour," remarked Mr. Fox-Cordery, who for reasons of his own, which had suggested themselves since he entered the room, did not intend to rush into his grievance. Under any circumstances he might not have done so, absorbing as it was, for it was his method to lead up to a subject artfully in the endeavor to gain some advantage beforehand.
"I commence at this hour," said Rathbeal, "and work through the night. You have something to say to me?"
"A good deal, and you'll need all your wits. I say, you, Rathbeal, what are you?" His eyes wandered about the room, and gave point to his inquiry. "I have known you a pretty long time, but I have never been able to make up my mind about you. Not that I have troubled myself particularly; but since I have been here I have grown curious. That's frank, isn't it?"
"Very. What am I? You open up a vast field. What is man? Who has been sufficiently wise to answer the question? What is man? What is life? Some say a dream, and that it commences with death. Some say that the soul of man exists long before the man is born, and that it is enshrined in a human body for the purpose of overcoming the temptations and debasing influences of the material life. Successful, it earns its place in celestial abodes, Unsuccessful, it is forever damned."
"You think yourself precious clever," sneered Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"No, I am an enigma to myself, as all reflective men must be."
"Reflective men!" exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Hear him!"
"One thing I know," said Rathbeal, ignoring the taunt. "You, I, and all lesser and greater mortals, are part of a system."
"Hang your system, and your palaver with it! I'll tell you in a minute or two what I came here for, but I shall be obliged if you will first tell me something of yourself. I have the right to know your history."
"I have no objection. You wish to learn my personal history. It is soon told."
"None of your lies, you know; I shall spot them if you try to deceive me. I am as wide awake as you are."
"Wider, far wider. You have the wisdom of the serpent."
"Here, I say," cried Mr. Fox-Cordery, "none of your abuse. What do you mean by that?"
"You should receive it as a compliment." He pointed to the figure of a serpent on human legs standing on a bracket. "I compare you to the serpent in admiration. Shall I commence at the beginning of my life?"
"Commence where you like, only cut it short."
"My father was a Persian; my mother also. They came to England to save their lives. One week longer in Persia, and they would have been slain."
"A pity."
"That they did not remain in their native land? That they were not slain? Perhaps. Who shall say? But there is a fate. Who shall resist it? Safe in England, where I was born a week after their arrival, my parents lived till I was a youth. They imbued me with their spirit. As you see." He waved his hand around. "I live by the art of my pen. That is all."
"Quite enough; it is plain there is no getting anything out of you. Now, listen to me. You accepted a commission from me, which you led me to believe you fulfilled. If it is not fulfilled you practiced a fraud upon me for which the law can punish you."
"I am acquainted with the English law. I have a perception of a higher--the divine law. We will proceed fairly, for you have spoken of a serious business. Many years ago you desired some parchments copied, and, hearing I had some skill with the pen, you sought me out. I performed the work you intrusted to me, and from time to time you favored me with further orders. The engagement ended; you needed my pen no more. But you deemed me worthy to undertake a commission of another nature. You had a friend, or a foe, who was suffering, and whose presence in England was inconvenient to you."
"Lie number one," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"It is a true interpretation. You came to me and said, 'This man is dying; I wish his last hours to be peaceful. There are memories here that torture him. Make friends with him. Opium will relieve him; ardent spirits will assuage his pain; travel will beguile his senses. His constitution is broken. Go with him to Paris; I will allow you a small monthly stipend, and, when his pain is over, you shall have a certain sum for your labor.'"
"Lies, and lies, and yet more lies," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, watching Rathbeal's face warily. "You have a fine stock of them, and of all colors and shapes. Why, you would come out first in a competition."
"You compliment me," said Rathbeal, with a gentle smile. "Did those words exist only in my imagination? Yet, as you unfolded your wishes to me, halting and hesitating with a coward's reserve, I thought I heard them spoken. 'Do I know the unfortunate man?' I inquired, 'of whom you are so considerate, toward whom you are so mercifully inclined.' You replied that it was hardly likely, and you mentioned him by name. No, I had never heard of the gentleman. 'I must see him first,' I said, 'before giving you an answer.' You instructed me how to find him, and I sought him out, and made the acquaintance of a being racked with a mortal sorrow. You came to me the following day for an answer; I informed you that you had come too soon, and that I had not decided. 'Be speedy,' you urged. 'I am anxious to get the man out of my sight.'"
"Still another lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Not a word you have quoted was ever spoken by me."
"My imagination again," said Rathbeal, with the same gentle smile; "and yet they are in my mind. Perhaps I translated your thoughts as you went on. After a fortnight had passed I consented to your wishes, and your friend, or your foe, left England for the Continent in my company. It was expressly stipulated by you that no mention should be made by me of your goodness, and that if he asked for the name of the friend who was befriending him I was to answer guardedly that you wished to preserve it secret. Only once did he refer to you, and then not by name; but I understood him to say that he knew to whom he was indebted, and that there was only one man in the world who had not deserted him in his downfall."
"May I inquire," asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, "whether your companion let you into the secrets of his life--for we all have secrets, you know."
"Yes, every man, high and low. He did not; he preserved absolute silence respecting his history. We remained on the Continent a considerable time, supporting ourselves partly by your benefactions, partly by copying manuscripts, an art I taught him. I learned to love the gentleman to whom you had introduced me for some evil purpose of your own----"
"For an evil purpose! You are raving!"
"For some evil purpose of your own, which I could no more fathom than I could the nature of the sorrow that was consuming him. 'Try opium,' I said to him, 'it will help you to forget.' He refused. 'I will allow myself no indulgence.' And this, indeed, was true to the letter. He lived upon water and a bare crust. So did the monks of old, but their lives were less holy than his, for it was only of themselves and their own souls they thought, while he, with no concern for his own welfare, temporal or spiritual, thought only of others, and applied every leisure hour and every spare coin to their relief and consolation. He was a singular mixture of qualities----"
"Spare me your moralizings," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "I knew what he was, long before you set eyes on him. Keep to the main road."
"In the life of every man," said Rathbeal, "though he be evil and corrupt, there are byways wherein flowers may be found, and it was of such byways I was about to speak in the life of this man of sorrow, who was neither evil nor corrupt; but I perceive you do not care to hear what I can say to his credit, so I will keep to the main road, as you bid me. There dwelt in my mind during all the time we spent in foreign lands the words you addressed to me: 'When you tell me that I shall be troubled with him no more, you will lighten my heart.'"
"How many more versions are you going to give," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "of what I never said to you? You are a liar, self-confessed."
"Is that so? And yet, shrewd sir, I insist that the words are not of my sole coining. At length I was in a position to inform you that your desire was accomplished, and that your friend, or your foe, would trouble you no more; and so, upon my return to England--with the payment of a smaller sum than I expected from you, for you made deductions--all business between us came to an end. Upon your entrance into this room to-night I remarked that your presence was a surprise to me. I did not expect you, and I am puzzled to know how you discovered where I lodge."
"When I weave a web, Rathbeal," chuckled Mr. Fox-Cordery, "nothing ever escapes from it."
"An unfortunate figure of speech," said Rathbeal impressively, "for you liken yourself to a human spider. But there are other webs than those that mortals weave. Fate is ever at work; it is at work now, weaving a mesh for you, in spots invisible to you, in men and women who are strangers to you, and you shall no more escape from it than you shall escape from death when your allotted hour comes."
"Oh, I daresay. Go and frighten babies with your balderdash. What I have come to know is, whether you have obtained money from me under false pretenses. It is an offense for which the law provides----"
A movement on the part of his companion prevented him from finishing the sentence. Rathbeal had risen from his chair, and was standing by the door in the act of listening, and Mr. Fox-Cordery did not observe that he had slipped the key out of the lock. He was about to rise and throw open the door, in the hope of making a discovery which would bring confusion upon Rathbeal, when the latter, by a sudden and rapid movement, quitted the room. Mr. Fox-Cordery turned the handle of the door, with the intention of following him.
"Hanged if the beggar hasn't locked me in!" he cried, in consternation. "Here, you, Rathbeal, you! Play me any of your tricks, and I'll have the law of you! If you don't open the door this instant I'll call the police!"
No answer was made to the threat, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, seriously alarmed that he had fallen into a trap, and unable to open the door, though he shook it furiously, lifted the window-sash to call for help, but the room was at the back of the house, and when he put his head out of the window he could not pierce the dense darkness into which he peered. He screamed out nevertheless, and was answered by a touch upon his shoulder which caused him to tremble in every limb and to give utterance to a cry of fear. Turning, he saw Rathbeal smiling upon him.
"My shrewd sir," said Rathbeal, "what alarms you?"
Mr. Fox-Cordery recovered his courage instantly.
"Confound you!" he blustered. "What do you mean by locking me in?"
"Locking you in!" exclaimed Rathbeal, pointing to the key in the lock. "You are dreaming. I thought I heard a visitor ascending the stairs, and as I was sure you did not wish for the presence of a third party till our interview was over I went out to dismiss him."
"Or her," suggested Mr. Fox-Cordery, with malicious emphasis.
"Or her, if you will. Sit down and compose yourself. You were saying when I left the room that I had obtained money from you on false pretenses, and that it is an offense for which the law provides. It is doubtless the case--not that I have obtained your money falsely, but that the law could punish me if I had. Explain yourself. You came hither to speak to me, and yet it is I who have chiefly spoken. You have heard me; let me hear you."
"What I want to know," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and what I will know, is whether you have given me false information."
"Upon what subject, shrewd sir?"
"Upon the subject you have been speaking of."
"You must be more explicit. If I choose not to admit that I understand you when you speak in vague terms it is because of the attitude you have assumed toward me, which you will excuse me for remarking is deficient in politeness. Speak clearly, shrewd sir, and you shall have like for like. I will not be behindhand with you in frankness."
"All right. I wished to serve a friend who was in a bad way. He was broken down, and needed change of air and scene; I provided the means, and sent you with him as a companion who might have a beneficial effect upon him. I did not expect him to recover; he was too far gone, his health being completely shattered. As a matter of course I did not wish the thing to go on forever, and I desired to be kept posted how it progressed, and, if it came to the worst, to be informed at the earliest moment. You informed me that all was over, that my poor friend was dead, and I paid you handsomely for your personal attention to the matter. Am I to understand that the information you gave me was true?"
"I pin you to greater clearness, shrewd sir, or you will obtain no answer from me."
"The devil seize you! Is it true that the man I speak of is dead?"
"Did I so inform you?"
"You did."
"I have no recollection of it. You have my letter. Produce it. The written words are--I can recall them--'Rest content. Your desire is compassed; you will be troubled no more.' Pay a little attention now to me, shrewd sir. You have spoken to me in unmannerly fashion; you have threatened me with the law. I despise your threats; I despise you. Profit by a lesson it will be well for you to learn in this humble room. Never make an enemy of a man, not even of the meanest man. You never know when he may help to strike you down. When I worked for you as a copyist you formed an estimate of my character upon grounds shaped by yourself for your own private purposes--purposes into which, up to the present moment, I have made no active inquiry, though I have pondered upon them. I do not engage myself to be in the future so practically incurious and retiring."
"Bully away," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, inwardly boiling over with rage. "I have nothing to fear from you."
"You said to yourself, 'Here is a man of foreign origin who will do anything for money,' and this opinion emboldened you to proceed with a scheme which needed an unscrupulous agent, such as you supposed me to be, to insure success. Unsolicited you introduced your scheme to me, not in plain words, for which you could be made directly accountable, but in veiled allusions and metaphors which needed intellectual power to comprehend. Intellect is required for the success of base as well as of worthy ends. Your mock compassion amazed me, and I made a mental study of you, as of something new--a confession which perhaps will surprise you. Not I the dupe, shrewd sir, but you. Men of my nation have a habit of expressing themselves in metaphor, and are taught to grasp a meaning, not from what is said, but from what is not said; and I, though I have never been in my parents' native land, acquired this habit from them. I divined your wish, but saw not, and see not now, the springs which prompted it. Plainly, it was a crime you proposed to me, and left the means at my discretion; and after making the acquaintance of the gentleman whose end you hired me to compass, I accepted the commission, nothing being farther from my mind than to assist in its accomplishment. Not I, but fortune, favored you. You were troubled by a mortal's existence; you were released from your trouble, and your end was attained. Thus much I tell you, and will tell you no more. Be content, and go."
"Come now," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, drawing a long breath of relief, "you have talked a lot of infernal bosh, and told any number of lies; but I will excuse you for everything if you will inform me where it took place."
"Not one word will I add to those I have already spoken."
"Hang it! I have a right to know. You could be forced to tell!"
"Make the attempt. For the second time, I bid you go."
He threw open the door, and stood aside to give his visitor unobstructed passage. Recognizing the uselessness of remaining any longer, Mr. Fox-Cordery laughed insolently in Rathbeal's face, and, feeling his way down the dark stairs, reached the lower landing in safety, and passed into the street.
Although he was not in the most amiable of humors, his mind was greatly relieved. Robert Grantham was dead. Of that he had been assured by Rathbeal; not, certainly, in such plain words as he would have preferred to hear, but in terms that left no doubt in his mind.
"I put his back up," he muttered, as he walked along, "and that is why he wouldn't speak out. Besides, he wasn't going to criminate himself. I was an idiot to take the trouble I did over the affair. Grantham was quite broken down at the time, and couldn't have lasted long under any circumstances. There isn't an office in England that would have taken a year's insurance on his life. He was done for; death was in his face. They have all played into my hands, every one of them."
But notwithstanding the relief he experienced, the events of the day were not of a nature to afford him pleasant reflection. He had been three times defied. First by Charlotte, then by John Dixon, then by Rathbeal. Charlotte he did not fear as an enemy; despite her outbreak, he had been too long accustomed to dominate her to be apprehensive of her. She was in his power, and had pledged herself to silence for two months. John Dixon and Rathbeal stood on a different platform; but even from them he had little if anything to fear. As to John Dixon's account of having seen Robert Grantham's face in a fog, he snapped his fingers at it. It was, at best, a clumsy invention; had he been in Dixon's place, he would have done better. His enemies had put him on his guard--that was all the good they had done for themselves.
When he reached the middle of Westminster Bridge, he paused and looked down into the water. The darkness had lifted a little, and a few stars had come out and were reflected in the river. The lamps upon the banks formed a long line of restless, shifting light, converging to a point in the far distance. An imaginative mind could have woven rare fancies out of the glimmering sheen in the river's heart, which seemed to pulse with spiritual life. Cathedral aisles, with dusky processions winding between, descending into the depths to make room for those that crowded behind. Lights upon a distant battlefield, a confused tangle of horses and fighting men, the wounded and dying crawling into the deep shades. A wash of the waves, and a wild _mèlée_ of dancers was created, lasting but a moment--as, indeed, did all the pictures,--and separating into peaceable units with the broadening out of the water. A ripple, almost musical in its poetic silence, bearing bride and bridegroom to love and joy. A band of rioters, upheaving, with waving limbs inextricably mingled, replaced by an orderly line of hooded monks, gliding on with folded arms.
None of these pictures presented themselves to Mr. Fox-Cordery's imagination. He saw only two figures in the water: one of a dead man floating onward to oblivion; the other of a woman with peaceful, shining face, inviting him, with smiling eyes, to come to her embrace. The wish was father to the thought, and the figures were there as he had conjured them up. The face of the dead man brought no remorse to his soul; he was susceptible only of those affections in which his own personal safety and his own personal desires were concerned. It was for the death of this man and the possession of this woman that he had schemed and toiled. The man he hated, and had pursued to his ruin; the woman he loved and would have bartered his soul for. His passion for her had grown to such a pitch as to make him reckless of consequences; or, more properly speaking, blind to them. Had she yielded to his wooing in years gone by, he would have made a slave of her, and have tyrannized over her as he did over all with whom he had dealings. But she had not favored him, except in the way of friendship, and had given herself to the man he hated and despised. It can scarcely be said that a nature so mean and cruel as his was capable of pure and honest love; but passion and baffled desire took the place of love, and had obtained such complete possession of his senses that he was not master of himself where she was concerned. At his age the fever of the blood should have been cooled, but opposition and disappointment had produced a kind of frenzy in him; and, in addition, he had always been a law unto himself, ready to put his foot upon the neck of any living creature who ventured to obstruct his lightest wish.
A black cloud blotted out the stars; the beautiful face disappeared. Awaking from his reverie, Mr. Fox-Cordery proceeded to cross the bridge. Staggering toward him in the opposite direction was a lad in the last stage of want and destitution; a large-eyed, white-faced lad literally clothed in rags. His trousers were held up by a piece of knotted string, crossing his breast and back; he had no cap on his matted hair; his naked toes peeped out of his boots. That he was faint and ill was evident from his staggering gait, and indeed he hardly knew where he was going, so genuinely desperate was his forlorn condition. It chanced that he stumbled against the dapper form of Mr. Fox-Cordery, who, crying, "What's your game, you young ruffian?" gave him a brutal push, and sent him reeling into the road. The lad had no strength to save himself from falling. Gasping for breath, he clutched at the air, and fell, spinning, upon the stones. Passing callously on, Mr. Fox-Cordery did not observe, and was not observed by a man who, seeing the lad fall, ran forward to assist him. Stooping and raising the lad's head, the man looked into his face.
"Why, Billy!" cried the man compassionately.
The lad opened his eyes, smiled faintly, and answered, "Yes, it's me, Mr. Gran "; and then the dark clouds seemed to fall upon him, and he lay limp and insensible in the man's arms.