Who Roxy was, what was his occupation, and whether he lived in a bygone age or was living at the present day, are matters which are not pertinent to our story, the course of which brings us, in a remote and indirect manner, to the knowledge that such a being once existed, or exists now. That he was responsible for the miserable dozen tenements known as "Roxy's Rents" may be accepted, as may be also the undoubted reason for his giving them the eccentric name they bore; the rents of the hovels he erected being lawfully his, if he could find tenants to occupy them.
A stranger to the wretched ways of life of thousands upon thousands of poor people in such a city as London might reasonably have doubted the wisdom of spending money in the erection of such hovels; but Roxy knew what he was about when he went into the speculation. A comprehensive knowledge of humanity's outcasts had taught him that the more dismal and wretched the habitations, the more likely it was that there would be numerous applicants for the shelter they afforded; and his wisdom was proved by the result, not a room in Roxy's Rents ever being empty longer than a day or two. The narrow blind alley lined by the hovels, half a dozen on each side, may be found to-day in all its desolation or wretchedness in the south of London, by any person with a leaning to such explorations. It is well known to the police, who seldom have occasion to go there, because, strangely enough, it is chiefly tenanted by people who work hard for a living, often without obtaining it.
Roxy himself, or his agent, who collects the rents regularly every Saturday night from eight o'clock till past midnight, is very particular in his choice of tenants, which he is able to be by reason of the delectable tenements being in demand. There are numbers of landlords in more favored localities who would like to stand in Roxy's shoes in this respect. The alley is some eight feet wide, and its one architectural embellishment is a kind of hood at its entrance, the only use of which is to deepen its darkness by day and night. There is no public lamp in Roxy's Rents, nor near it in the street, very little wider than the alley, in which it forms a slit; therefore the darkness is very decided in its character on foggy days and moonless nights. This has never been a subject of complaint on the part of the residents or the parish authorities--officers who, as a rule, have an objection to stir up muddy waters: by which inaction they show their respect for an ancient proverb, the vulgar version of which is, "Let sleeping dogs lie." To one of the hovels in Roxy's Rents the course of our story takes us.
The room is on the ground floor, the time is night, the persons in it are a woman and her child. The woman's name is Flower; the name of her child, a girl of eight or nine, is Prue, generally called "Little Prue." The apartment is used for every kind of living purpose--working, cooking, eating, and sleeping, It is furnished with an ordinary stove, one bed on the floor in a corner (a bedstead being a luxury beyond the means of the family), two wooden chairs, a child's low chair, the seat of which once was cane but now is hollow, a deal table, a few kitchen utensils, and very little else. On the mantelshelf are two or three cracked cups and saucers, a penny, and a much-faded photograph of two young women, with, their arms round each other's waists. There is a family likeness in their faces, and one bears a faint resemblance to Mrs. Flower. The paper on the walls hangs loose, and the walls themselves reek with moisture; the plaster on the ceiling has dropped in places, and bare rafters are visible. Not a palatial abode, but the Flowers have lived there for years, and it forms their Home--a mocking parody on a time-honored song. Mrs. Flower is standing at the table, ironing clothes. She takes in washing when she can get it to do, having but few garments of her own to wash.
Mrs. Flower was working with a will, putting her whole soul into the iron. The apartment was chiefly in shadow, the only light being that from one tallow dip, twelve to the pound. The candle was on the table, being necessary for the woman's work, and its rays did not reach Little Prue, who sat in the low hollow-seated chair by the bed. Mrs. Flower enlivened her toil by singing, or rather humming with bated breath, a most lugubrious air for which she was famous in her maiden days, but then it used to be given forth with more spirit than she put into it now. Occasionally she turned to her child, who was sitting quite still with her eyes closed. There was a faint sickly smell of scorching in the room, proceeding from a wisp of carpet on the floor before the fire, upon which Mrs. Flower tested her hot irons. It had served this purpose so long that it was scorched almost to tinder. Presently the woman broke off in her melancholy singing, and called softly:
"Prue!" No answer coming, she called again, "Prue!"
"Yes, mother," said the child, opening her eyes. Her voice was weak, as might have been expected from a child with a face so pale and limbs so thin.
"I thought you were asleep, Prue."
"So I was, mother. Why didn't you let me be?"
"Dreaming of things?"
"Oh, of sech things, mother! I was 'aving a feast of sheep's trotters." Mrs. Flower sighed. "There was a 'ole pile of 'em, and the 'ot pie man was giving pies away. I was just reaching out my 'and for one."
"Never mind, never mind," said Mrs. Flower, rather fretfully. "You talk as if I could get blood out of a stone."
"Do I, mother? I didn't know. I _am_ 'ungry!"
"What's the use of worriting? Didn't I promise you should have some supper? I'm going to ask Mrs. Fry to pay me for the washing when I take it home. I do hope she won't say there's anything missing. She always does; and when I ask her to look over the things again, she sends word she can't till the morning. That's how she puts me off time after time; but I'll be extra particular to-night. Three dozen at one and nine--that's five and three. She don't often give out so much; that's luck for us, Prue."
"I say, mother?"
"Well?"
"D'yer think father'll come 'ome? I 'ope he won't."
"He won't come home while he's got a copper in his pocket, that you may depend on. Go to sleep again, child, till I've finished."
But Little Prue, now wide awake, made no attempt to obey. Rising to her feet, she stealthily drew one of the large wooden chairs to the mantelshelf, and, mounting, craned her neck. The shelf was high, and Prue was a very small child. It was only by tiptoeing, and running the danger of tumbling into the fire, that she ascertained what she wished to know. Stepping down like a cat, she crept to her mother's side.
"There's a penny on the mantelpiece, mother."
"Don't worry; how can I get on with my work if you do? It's father's penny, for his supper beer; he put it there before he went out, so that he couldn't spend it till he came home." Aside she said, with a sidelong look of pity at Prue, "I daren't touch it!"
"I'm so 'ungry, mother!" pleaded Prue, plucking her mother's gown. "My inside's grinding away like one o'clock."
Mrs. Flower was seized with a fit of irresolution, and she muttered, "If I look sharp, I shall be back with the washing money before he comes in." Stepping quickly to the fireplace, she took the penny from the mantel, and thrust it into Prue's hand. "There; go and get a penn'orth of peas-pudding."
"Oh, mother, mother!" cried Little Prue joyfully, and was running out, when the door was blocked by the form of her father, who had returned sooner than he was expected.
Mr. Flower was slightly intoxicated--his normal state. However much he drank, he never got beyond a certain stage of drunkenness; by reason, probably, of his being so thoroughly seasoned.
"Hallo, hallo!" he cried, grasping his little girl by the shoulder. "Is the house on fire? Where are _you_ off to in such a hurry?"
"Nowhere, father," replied Prue, slipping her hand with the penny in it behind her back.
"Nowhere, eh? You're in a precious pelt to get there. What have you got in your hand?"
"Nothink, father!"
"Nothink, father!" he mocked, eyeing Prue with something more than suspicion.
"No, father. Wish I may die if I 'ave!"
Without more ado, Mr. Flower seized the little hand and, wresting the tightly-clenched fingers open, extracted the penny. Looking toward the mantelshelf, he said:
"Stealing my money, eh, you young rat? Who learnt you to tell lies?"
"You did!" replied Mrs. Flower, stepping between them. She had finished her washing, and was putting it together while this scene was proceeding. "You did, you drunken vagabond!"
"You shut up! As for you," he said, throwing Prue violently on the bed; "you stop where you are, or I'll break every bone in your body!"
"Lay a finger on her," cried Mrs. Flower fiercely, "and I'll throw the iron at your head! Don't mind him, Prue; I'll soon be back."
"Ah, you'd better!" said Mr. Flower, with a brutal laugh at his wife, who was looking at him in anger. "What are you staring at?"
"At you."
"Well, and what do you make of me?"
"What I've made of you ever since the day I married you."
"For better or worse, eh?"
"For worse, every minute of my life," she retorted. "I wonder why the Lord allows some people to live."
"Here, that's enough of your mag, with your Lord and your Lord! What's your Lord done for me? Off you go, now!"
But Mrs. Flower was not so easily disposed of.
"Have you brought home any money?" she asked.
"Money! How should I get money?"
"Why work for it, like other men, you----" She repressed herself, and, with a flaming face, arranged the clothes she had washed.
"Work for it!" he cried, with a laugh, and immediately afterward turned savage. "Well, ain't I willing?"
"Yes, you show yourself willing," said Mrs. Flower, bitterly; "hanging round public-houses, and loafing from morning to night!"
"Think I'm going to work for a tanner an hour?" demanded Mr. Flower. "Not me! I'll have my rights, I will!"
"While we starve!"
"Starve! When you can get washing to do, and live on the fat of the land! If I was a woman, I'd rejoice in such clean work."
"And don't I do it? Haven't I sat up night after night, wearing my fingers to the bone for you?"
"For me? Oh, oh! I like that!"
"Yes, for you," repeated Mrs. Flower, thoroughly roused. "And what's the good of it all? You drink away every penny I earn, you sot; and you call yourself a man!"
"I'll call you something, if you don't cut your stick! I wonder what I married you for?"
"I'll tell you. You married me to make me work for you; and you're not the only one that speaks soft to a woman till he's got her in his clutches. There ought to be a law for such as you."
"Law! Talk of what you understand. There was your sister Martha. Ah, she was a girl! Such eyes--such skin--such lips!" He smacked his own, in his desire to further aggravate her. "I was real nuts on her; and I'd have had her instead of you, if she hadn't took up with a swell. I hope she's found out her mistake by this time."
"I dare say she has. We all do, whether we're married or not." She turned to Little Prue, who sat dumb during the scene, which presented no features of novelty to her; from her earliest remembrance she had been a witness of such. "I shan't be gone long," she whispered, kissing the child, "and then you shall have some supper."
"Mind you get the money for the washing, and bring it straight home!"--called Mr. Flower after her as she left the room. "Selfish cat!" He slammed the door to. "Never thinks of anyone but herself--never thinks of me! What are you sniveling at?" Prue, now that her mother had gone, began to cry. "Come here; I've got something to say to you. Ain't I your father?"
"Yes, father."
"And a good father?"
"Yes, father."
"And a kind father?"
"Yes, father."
"Very well, then. How old are you?"
"I don't know, father."
"You don't know, father! You're old enough to get your own living, and here you are passing your days in idleness and plenty. D'you see these!" He pulled some boxes of matches from his pocket.
"Yes, father."
"What are they?"
"Matches, father."
"Count 'em. D'you hear me? Count 'em." The child was reeling, and he shook her straight. "Count 'em."
"One--two--three--four--five--six."
"Six it is. Now, you've got to go out with these six boxes of matches, and bring home tenpence for 'em. How are you going to do it, eh?"
"I don't know, father."
"Don't give me any more of your don't knows. You've got no more sense than your mother; but I'm not going to let you grow up as idle and selfish as she is--not if I know it, I ain't. Stop your blubbering, and listen to me. You go to Charing Cross Station, you do, where all the lights are, and where everybody's happy. What are you shaking your head for?"
"I don't know--I mean, I can't find my way, father."
"I shall have to take you there; I'm only fit to be a slave. There you'll stand, with the lights shining on you. That'll be nice, won't it?"
"Yes, father."
"Nice and warm; and you get it for nothing, all for nothing. There's a treat I'm giving you! You stand in the gutter, mind that; and you ain't to look happy and bright. You're to try all you know to look miserable and hungry. Do you hear?"
"I'll try to, father."
"Ah, you'd better, or it'll be the worse for you! When an old gent or an old lady gives you a penny, don't you offer 'em a box; there's a lot of mean beasts that'd take it. You hold the boxes tight, and you bring me back not less than a bob for the six--not less than a bob, mind!"
"Yes, father."
"Here, I'll give you a lesson. Blest if we don't have a rehearsal! Stand there, in the gutter, and look miserable. I'm a gent. Hold out your hand. 'Here's a penny for you, little girl.' Take it--quick! and hold on tight to the matches. The gent goes away. I'm an old lady. 'My poor child, what brings you out at such an hour?' What do you say to the kind old lady?"
"Father sent me out, please; and told me to stand in the gutter----"
"Shut up! You're a born fool! What you say is this. Just you repeat after me. 'Kind lady----'"
"'Kind lady!'"
"'Father's dead----'"
"'Father's dead!'"
"'And mother's laying ill of a fever----'"
"'And mother's laying ill of a fever!'"
"'And baby's dying----'"
"'And baby's dying!'"
"''Cause we ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday----'"
"''Cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!'"
"That's more like it. And then you can begin to cry. Have you got that in your head?"
"Yes, father."
"Come along, then, and step out. I'll keep my eye on you to see how you do it."
Taking Little Prue by the hand, he led her out of Roxy's Rents into the wider thoroughfares, to play her part in the sad drama of poverty that runs its everlasting course from year's end to year's end in this City of Unrest.
As they issued from the hooded portal of Roxy's Rents, a woe-stricken woman approached the alley, and looked wearily around. Dark as was the night, and though years had passed since she had visited the locality, she had found her way without inquiry; but her steps faltered at the entrance to the narrow court, and her manner was that of one who was uncertain of the errand she had undertaken. To resolve her doubts, she accosted a young girl about to pass her:
"This is Roxy's Rents, isn't it?"
"Yes," replied the girl.
"Can you tell me if Mrs. Flower lives here?"
"Yes, the last house but one on the right; front room, ground floor."
"Is she at home, do you know?"
"I don't know."
"Thank you."
The girl went her way, singing; she was in her spring. The woman entered the alley, sighing; winter had come upon her too soon. When she arrived at the last house but one on the right, she seemed to be glad to see the glimmering of a light through the torn blind on the front window. The street door stood open, and she stepped into the dark passage, and paused before the door of the room in which Mrs. Flower lived.
"Janey!" she called, and listened for the answer. None reaching her ear, she entered without further ceremony. The candle, which Mr. Flower had inadvertently left alight, was burnt nearly to its socket, and the woman shivered as she noted the unmistakable signs of privation in the room.
"It _is_ Janey's place, I suppose!" she said, and looking toward the mantelshelf, saw there the faded photograph of herself and sister. "Yes, it's all right." She took down the photograph, and gazed at it with a curl of her lip as rueful as it was bitter. "Here we are together, Janey and me, before . . . ." A shudder served to complete the sentence. "How well I remember the day this was taken! We had a week at the seaside, and stood together on the sands, as happy as birds. The sun was shining, the children were playing and laughing. If I had known--if I had known! I never see children laughing now, and I sometimes wonder if the sun ever comes out. I was good-looking then, and nicely dressed, and no one could say anything against me. But what's the use of thinking about it? Thinking won't alter it."
She had contracted a habit of speaking to herself, and was scarcely conscious that she was uttering audible words.
"I don't mean to stand it long," she said presently. "I've come to London for something, and if he doesn't do what he ought to, I'll put an end to it. As I'm a living woman, I'll put an end to it! I don't care much which way it is. I've nothing to live for now!"
She sat down and covered her face with her hands; the candle had been spluttering and, being now at its last gasp, went out. The woman was left in darkness. It suited her mood. The sound of water slowly dropping outside attracted her attention. She removed her hands from her face, and listened; as she listened she followed the rhythm with the sound of her voice.
"Drip, drip drip! Drip, drip, drip!"
The pattering of the drops and her accompaniment fascinated her.
"Drip, drip, drip!" she continued to murmur, and did not stop till another sound diverted her attention. The door of the room was sharply opened, and Mrs. Flower entered. The woman stirred in her chair.
"Is that you, Prue?" asked Mrs. Flower. "Stop a minute; I'll get a light."
"No," replied the woman, "it isn't Prue."
"My God!" cried Mrs. Flower, "whose voice is that?"
She groped for the end of a candle, and lit it; holding it up, she looked at her visitor, who had risen, and was facing her.
"Martha!"
"Yes, Janey, it's me. You're not glad to see me, I dare say, after all these years."
"How can you say that? How long have you been here, and where's Prue?"
"I've been here--I don't know how long, and there was no one in the room when I came in. Who's Prue?"
"My little girl. Where can she have got to? I forgot, Janey. I didn't have a baby when----" She paused.
"Finish it," said Martha. "When I ran away and disgraced myself."
"O Martha!" said Mrs. Fowler, throwing her arms round her sister and kissing her, "don't think I'm hard on you. God knows I've no call to be hard on anyone, least of all on you. We all make mistakes."
"And have got to pay for them. Thank you for your welcome, Janey; it's more than I deserve."
"You're my sister, and I love you, Martha. Sit down, sit down, and tell me everything. How often I've wondered what had become of you! But I'm worried about Prue. I left her here with her father when I went out."
"Your husband's alive. That's a comfort."
"Is it? You wouldn't say so if he was yours. I suppose he's taken her into the streets with him. He's done it before, and got her to beg for him, the brute! It's no use my going out to find her; I shouldn't know where to look."
"That tells a tale, and I am sorry for you, Janey. I mightn't have come if I'd known; but I'd nowhere else to go to."
"Of course you came here. What a time it is since we saw each other!"
"We haven't improved much, either of us," said Martha. "I was hoping you were better off."
"I might have been if my husband was a man. The truth must be told: I couldn't be worse off than I am, I left my Prue hungry, and promised her some supper. I take in washing, Martha, and there was five shillings due to me, but the woman wouldn't pay me to-night; I've got to wait till to-morrow, so Prue will have to go to sleep on an empty stomach. It's hard lines on a sickly child, but what can I do?"
"I can't assist you, Janey. I've spent my last penny."
"There's no help for it, then; we're in the same boat. But tell me where you've been all these years."
"In Manchester. It's a puzzle to me how I got here, but I made up my mind to come to London, to try and screw something out of the man who took me away from home. I've got his address, and I went to his house this afternoon. He was away in the country, they told me, but I couldn't get them to tell me where. There was a man saw me standing at his door after they'd shut it in my face, and he came up and asked if he could do anything for me, and whether I would mind telling him what I wanted with Mr. Fox-Cordery, for that's the name of the villain that deceived me, but I said it was no business of his, and I walked away, and left him looking after me. I wandered about till it was dark, and then I thought I'd come and ask you to let me sleep here to-night. Must I turn out?"
"How can you ask such a thing? You're welcome to stop if you don't mind. This is the only room we've got, and I can't give you anything to eat because the cupboard's as empty as my pocket."
"Oh, I'm used to that! Your heart isn't changed, Janey."
"I couldn't be hard to you if I tried; and I'm not going to try. In Manchester you've been? You disappeared so suddenly and mysteriously----"
"Yes, yes; but we were carrying on together long before I went away. He wanted to get me out of London, away from him, you know: he was tired of me, and I wasn't in the best of tempers; he got frightened a bit, I think, because I said if he threw me over I'd have him up at the police court when my baby was born. He's a very respectable man--oh, very respectable!--and looks as soft and speaks as soft as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But he's clever, and cunning, and sly, for all that, and he talked me over. I was to go away from London, and he was to allow me so much a week. He did for a little while, and sent it on to me in Manchester. Janey, when he first pretended to get fond of me he promised to marry me."
"Yes, they all do that, and women are fools enough to believe em."
"I was, and I used to remind him of his promise. That was while I was in London. When I was in Manchester he thought himself safe. Then my baby came, and it cost him a little. I had to write to him for every shilling almost, and he'd send me a postal order without a word of writing to say who it came from. That made me wild, and I wrote and said if he didn't write me proper letters I'd come back to London and worry his life out of him. That pulled him up, and he did write, but he never signed his name. He just put 'F.' at the bottom of his letters; I've got them in my pocket, every one of them. Well, then I got a situation as a shop-woman--they didn't know I had a baby, and I didn't tell them, you may be sure--and I put by a shilling or two. It was wanted, because his money dropped off. I lost my situation, and then I frightened him into coming to Manchester to see me. He was as soft and smooth as ever, and he swore to me that I should never want; he took his oath on it, and I told him if he didn't keep it I'd make it hot for him. Janey, you don't know the promises that man made to me when we first came together; it was a long time before I could bring myself to like him, but he spoke so fair that at last I gave way. And he played me false, after all. Don't think that I wanted to sponge on him; if I could have got my own living in an honest way.--and I never intend to get it any other way; I'm not thoroughly bad, Janey--I wouldn't have troubled him; but I couldn't. I have been in such misery, that if it had not been for my child I should have made away with myself long ago; but nothing keeps me back now. I have lost my child; it was buried by the parish."
"Hush, Martha, hush!"
"It's no use talking to me, Janey. I can't live this life any longer; and if the man that's brought me to it won't help me, I've made up my mind what to do. Nothing can change it--nothing. Look at me; I've hardly a rag to my back. It's a rosy look-out, to-morrow is. If I had decent clothes and a pound in my pocket, I might get into service; but who'd take me as I am?"
"You are changed from what you were, Martha; you used to be as merry as a lark."
"The lark's taken out of me long ago, and you haven't much of it left in you that I can see. I don't know that you're any better off than me, though you _are_ a respectable married woman; you've had to pay for your respectability. Much comfort it brings you, according to your own reckoning! What water is that dripping outside?"
She asked this question in the dark; the candle had gone out, and Mrs. Flower had no more.
"The water-butt leaks."
"Drip, drip, drip--and then it becomes a large pool--I see it spreading out--large enough to drown one's self in!"
"Martha!"
"Which would be best, Janey? That or what I shall be forced into if no one helps me? Supposing I'm alive! There it goes--drip, drip, drip! It might be drops of blood. There isn't a sheet of water I've seen since my child died that hasn't seemed to draw me to it, that hasn't whispered, 'Come, and end it!' When you wake up of a morning sometimes, aren't you sorry?"
"I am, God help me!"
"You've had a long sleep, and you've been happy; and you wake up--to this! Wouldn't it be better never to wake up? Drip, drip, drip! It's singing 'Come, come, come!' It drips just to that tune." She began to sing softly, with a pause between each word, to keep time to the water, "Come--come--come! Let me alone, Janey; don't lay hands on me. I'm all right for a day or two--I won't say for how much longer. I'll try and get some sleep."
On this same day Rathbeal had met with adventures. There was a coffee shop in his neighborhood to which he was in the habit of going, two or three times a week, to have a cup of coffee and play a game of chess with the hoary proprietor.
It belonged to a class of shops which once were a favorite resort for working people, but are now fast dying out; they are only to be found in second-class neighborhoods, and seem, as it were, to be striving to keep themselves out of sight, with a painful consciousness that they are relics of a bygone age, and have no business to be in existence. It cannot be said that they die hard, for there is a patient and sad resignation in their appearance, which in its humbleness and abasement is almost pathetic. The interior of these shops is as shabby and uninviting as their exterior. There are the narrow boxes which cramp the legs to sit in, the tables are bare of covering, the knives and forks are of ancient fashion, the crockery is in its last stage, and the once brilliant luster of the dominoes has quite disappeared, double one especially looking up with two hollow dead white eyes which cannot but have an inexpressibly depressing influence upon the players. The draughts and chessmen with their one wooden board are in a like condition of decay, and the games played thereon are the reverse of lively. There is another peculiarity which forces itself upon the attention. All the newspapers are old, some dating back several weeks, and they are allowed to lie about till they are in a condition so disgraceful that they are fit for nothing but lighting fires. These newspapers are never bought on the day of issue, but considerably later on, at less than a quarter their original price. Thus it was that in the coffee shop to which Rathbeal was in the habit of resorting there were always to be found two or three copies of the _Times_, of dates varying from one to two months ago.
On the day in question, Rathbeal, while the hoary proprietor was fetching the chessmen and board, happened to take up one of these sheets and run his eyes down the columns. It was not news he was glancing at, but advertisements, and he was conning the first page of the newspaper. When the proprietor of the shop took his seat opposite to him and arranged his men, Rathbeal, folding the paper neatly, laid it beside him on the table. Then he proceeded to place his warriors, and the game was commenced. The proprietor was a slow player, Rathbeal moved very quickly; thus it was that he had plenty of leisure to glance from time to time at the newspaper by his side. "Check," he called, and turned his eyes upon the paper. A sudden color flushed into his face, caused by an advertisement he had up to this time overlooked. This was what he read:
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.
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.
Rising hastily, he upset the chessboard. The proprietor looked up in surprise.
"Your game," said Rathbeal, and then consulted the date of the newspaper. It was nearly seven weeks old. Permission being given to him to make a cutting from the paper, he cut out the advertisement very neatly, and asked the proprietor whether he had a London Directory in the shop.
"I have one," said the proprietor, "but it is twelve years old."
"That will do," said Rathbeal. "Lawyers are rocks."
Turning over the pages of the Directory, he found the number in Bedford Row at which Paxton and Freshfield carried on their practice. Wishing the proprietor good-day, he left the shop, and went straight to Robert Grantham's lodging. Grantham was at home.
"I have something to ask you, Robert," he said, without beating about the bush. "Were you born in Leamington?"
"Yes," replied Grantham.
"Leamington in Warwickshire?"
"Yes."
"Then this concerns you," said Rathbeal, and handed him the cutting.
The expression on Robert Grantham's face was not one of pleasure; to be thus publicly advertised for seemed to cause him discomfort. He read the advertisement, and offered no remark upon it.
"It was by chance," said Rathbeal, "using your own term, for I do not admit that chance is a factor in our lives, that I came across it. The paper I cut it from is nearly two months old. What are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing," said Grantham.
"Something to your advantage, it says. That sounds like money. You cannot afford to neglect it, Robert."
"I would rather have nothing to do with it."
"Gently, friend. How much coin have you in your pocket at the present moment?"
"Two small silver pieces and a few pennies. To be exact, one shilling and tenpence."
"Your rent is due to-morrow."
"I shall earn it."
"Do not be too sure. If this advertisement means money for you, it becomes your duty to claim it."
"How so?"
"Remember the penance you imposed upon yourself. You would spend for your own necessities only what was requisite for the plainest food; any money you had remaining should be devoted to the children of misery. You have nobly carried out your resolution. Do you consider you have atoned for the sins and errors of the past?"
"I could not atone for them if I lived twice my allotted span."
"Then the right is not yours to throw away this money. It belongs, not to you, but to the poor, whose sufferings it would alleviate. Neglect of the opportunity which now presents itself would become a crime. And why do you desire to let the matter rest? To save yourself a possible personal annoyance, you shrink from publicity; you tremble at the idea that some old friend or acquaintance may learn that you still live. I did not think you capable of such weakness."
"I am reproved, Rathbeal; but still I would rather not appear in the matter until the last moment, until it is certain that my appearance is necessary, and would benefit others. Will you take this office of friendship upon yourself, and make inquiries for me at the lawyer's?"
"Willingly, if you will give me full powers. I must be prepared to show that I am acting for you."
"Draw up a paper, Rathbeal. I will sign whatever you write."
In his neat handwriting Rathbeal drew out something in the shape of a power of attorney, which Robert Grantham signed. Before he went upon his mission Rathbeal made an appointment to meet Grantham at nine o'clock that night; the appointment would have been made for an earlier hour, but Grantham had some copying to finish and deliver, and the work could not be neglected.
When Rathbeal arrived at the offices of Paxton and Freshfield he asked to see one of the principals, and he heard a clerk tell another to see if Mr. Dixon was in. Mr. Dixon was not in, but Mr. Paxton was, and would see Mr. Rathbeal.
"I have come about this advertisement," he said, showing the cutting to an old gentleman wearing gold spectacles.
Mr. Paxton glanced at the advertisement, and said:
"Our partner, Mr. Dixon, has taken it in hand; he will return at four o'clock."
"I will wait for him," said Rathbeal, "but meanwhile you can perhaps give me some information concerning it."
"I know very little about it," said the lawyer, cautiously. "Mr. Dixon is in possession of the full particulars. You are not Mr. Grantham?" He referred to the card Rathbeal had sent in.
"No, I am Mr. Grantham's friend and agent. I have authority to act for him." He produced the document Grantham had signed. "It is drawn out and signed to-day, you see."
"I see. How is it that so long a time has elapsed before answering the advertisement?"
"It only came to Mr. Grantham's knowledge a couple of hours ago. Would you object to inform me whether it is really something to his advantage, whether it means money?"
"There is a small legacy left to Mr. Grantham, I believe, which he can obtain if the proofs are clear."
A clerk knocked at the door, and entered. "Mr. Dixon has come in, sir."
"Show this gentleman to his room."
Being introduced to Mr. Dixon, Rathbeal opened up his business, and observed signs of agitation in John Dixon's face, which he construed unfavorably. With the signed document before him--which he examined, Rathbeal thought, with suspicious attention--John Dixon schooled himself presently to a more strictly professional method, but he did not immediately make any observation.
"The document is genuine, sir," said Rathbeal. "It was signed in my presence."
"Upon that point," said John Dixon, with studious brows, "I must be quite certain. You are a stranger to me, and your name is strange; and you bring me startling news, Mr. Rathbeal. Why did not Mr. Grantham come himself? Are you aware that it is believed by his friends that he is dead?"
"I know that it was his wish to be thought so, and I am acquainted with his reasons for a course of conduct which, without proper explanation, must be viewed with mistrust. As to the trouble I am taking, it is, I assure you, sir, not actuated by selfish motives. He has a strong disinclination to appear personally in the matter, and his motives could only be disclosed to friends in whom he has the most thorough confidence. I can satisfy you as to my respectability----"
"I throw no doubt upon it, Mr. Rathbeal: you do not seem to understand that the intervention of a second party is quite useless. The principal must appear himself."
"I accept your word, sir, but I would ask you whether the affair could not be conducted confidentially--without publicity, I mean. I have learnt that a small legacy has been left to Mr. Grantham. However small it is, it will be of great value to him: he is very poor, as I am myself."
John Dixon did a singular thing here. Motioning Rathbeal not to proceed at present, he arranged the papers on his table, put others in a desk, which he locked, opened a shut-up washstand and laved his hands, brushed his hair, put on his hat, and then asked Rathbeal to give him the favor of his company in his private chambers, which were situated in Craven Street, Strand. Rathbeal consenting, they walked together from the office, and John Dixon called a cab, in which they rode to Craven Street. On the road Rathbeal would have continued to speak of the mission he had undertaken, but John Dixon said, "Wait till we get to my rooms; these confounded wheels make conversation difficult." His voice, as he made this observation, was entirely different from the professional voice he had adopted in the office; there was a frank heartiness in it which attracted Rathbeal favorably, and he deferred to his companion's wish and said nothing more till they arrived at Craven Street.
"Sit down, Mr. Rathbeal," said John Dixon. "Let me offer you a cigar. Now we can speak openly; I am no longer a lawyer; I am Robert Grantham's friend. You look surprised. I have a very close interest in the news you have brought me, and if you have spoken the truth--pardon me for saying this; I am justified by the nature of the circumstances--I may be able to serve him, and shall be glad to do so. If I understand aright, you and he are intimate friends."
"We have been intimate friends for years. There is no man living for whom I have a greater affection."
"You state that the signature to the document empowering you to act for him is in his handwriting."
"I saw him write it."
"This very day?"
"This very day. The date is on the paper."
"Could you take me to him?"
"I could, but I would not do so without his permission."
"We are both on guard, as it were, Mr. Rathbeal. I was Robert Grantham's schoolfellow."
"That is a piece of news," said Rathbeal, and added significantly, "He had other schoolfellows."
"Shall we say one especially?"
"Yes, we will say that."
"Whose name you know?"
"Whose name I know."
"I am tempted to make a curious proposition to you, which if you accede to, and it turns out successful, may satisfy each of us that we may work together on behalf of one whose career has been unfortunate and unhappy."
"Make your proposition, sir."
"One other of Robert Grantham's schoolfellows has been referred to. We will each write down his name on separate pieces of paper, which we will exchange. If the name is the same, we can proceed with our conversation with less reserve."
"I agree, sir," said Rathbeal, and wrote the name that was in his mind.
John Dixon did the same, and when they exchanged papers they saw that the name they had penciled was "Fox-Cordery."
"Could we exchange opinions of this gentleman on the same plan?" asked John Dixon.
"I will give you mine, sir, byword of mouth. The gentleman, as you call him, is a reptile in human shape. To touch his hand in friendship is a degradation."
"The terms are strong, but he has proved deserving of them. The peculiar circumstances of my connection with him would have made the expression of my opinion more temperate. You must be aware of the imperative necessity of carrying the disclosure of the existence of Robert Grantham to other ears, even though he persists in keeping himself in concealment."
"No, sir, I am aware of no such necessity," said Rathbeal. "For reasons best known to himself, Mr. Fox-Cordery desired the death of Mr. Grantham. Some short time since, disturbed probably by something that had come to his ears, he paid me a visit to assure himself that Mr. Grantham was not of this world. I refused to betray the confidence reposed in me by my friend, and Mr. Fox-Cordery went away no wiser, for any information he received from me, than he came."
"Are you quite honest," said John Dixon rather sternly, "in saying that you are not aware of the necessity for Mr. Grantham making his existence known to certain persons?"
"Perfectly honest, sir. Mr. Grantham is alone in the world; no one has the least claim upon him, and whatever judgment you may pass upon him, he has a distinct right to do as he pleases with himself and his identity."
"Have you no thought for his wife and child?" asked John Dixon. "Do you really maintain that a husband and a father has the right to assist by his own premeditated action in the lie that his wife is a widow and his child an orphan?"
"I should be sorry to maintain an assumption so monstrous. We cannot assist each other by playing at cross-purposes, which is what we appear to be doing. Mr. Grantham, I repeat, is alone in the world. He has no wife and child."
"He has no wife and child!" exclaimed John Dixon, in amazement.
"Unhappily, he has lost them, and it is the distressing circumstances of this sad loss that has made him what he is--an outcast on the face of the earth. As we have gone so far, sir, I may tell you that Mr. Grantham has no secrets from me. He has revealed to me all the sorrowful circumstances of his life, and he has drained the bitter cup of agony and remorse. I trust to you, sir, to keep this confidence sacred. You have wrung it out of me, and it must go no farther. If Mr. Grantham consents to see you, and if then he confides to you what he has confided to me, you will receive from him a full verification of my statements. Will you now, sir, give me the particulars of the legacy that has been left to him?"
It was impossible for John Dixon to doubt that Rathbeal was speaking without guile or deceit. His manly, sympathetic voice, the frankness of his manner, and his honest look carried conviction with them.
"We will speak of the legacy presently," he said. "There is a mystery here which must first be cleared up. From whom did you receive the information that Mr. Robert Grantham's wife and child were dead?"
"From his own lips."
"How did he obtain the information?"
"It came through Mr. Fox-Cordery."
"Do you tell me this seriously," asked John Dixon, pale with excitement, "or are you inventing a fantastic and horrible tale for some purpose of your own?"
"I have no purpose of my own to serve," replied Rathbeal. "I am here to serve a noble and suffering man, who erred grievously in years gone by, and who is now passing his life in the work of expiation. Your words, your manner, point to a mystery indeed--a mystery it is out of my power to pierce. I scarcely know what to say, what to think. You could not demand from me a sacrifice I would be unwilling to make if I could assist in bringing comfort to my friend's heart. Trust me, sir; I am worthy of trust. Do not speak to me in metaphor; but explain to me the meaning of words I cannot at present understand."
During the last few moments there had dawned upon John Dixon a light in which Mr. Fox-Cordery's villainous duplicity was to some extent made clear, and he resolved to avail himself of Rathbeal's assistance to bring him to justice. A husband who believed that those he loved were in their grave, a wife who believed herself widowed, a child who believed she was an orphan--the figures of these three wronged beings rose before him, and appealed to him to take up their cause and bring the truth to light.
"If I were to tell you," he said slowly, "that I have this day written to Robert Grantham's wife, informing her of the legacy left to her husband, and asking for her instructions thereon, what would you say?"
Hitherto Rathbeal had preserved his calmness, but it was his turn now to exhibit agitation.
"You have written to Robert Grantham's wife!" he exclaimed. "To Robert Grantham's wife, who is in her grave!"
"She lives," said John Dixon, "and is now, with her child, in Mr. Fox-Cordery's house."
"The child's name, Clair?"
"The child's name, Clair," said John Dixon. "The time for concealment is over; plain-speaking is now the order of the day, and Justice our watchword. Tell me all you know; you shall receive a like confidence from me."
Thereupon the men related to each other all they knew of husband, wife, and child; and when their stories were told Mr. Fox-Cordery's wiles were fully exposed. Uncertain on the spur of the moment what action it was advisable to take, they pledged each other to secrecy for two days, by which time they would have devised a plan to unmask the traitor. Their reason for resolving not to communicate their discoveries immediately to Robert Grantham was that they feared he would do some rash action which would put Mr. Fox-Cordery on his guard, and give him an opportunity to crawl out of the net he had woven around these innocent beings, and which now was closing round himself. Cooler brains than his should devise a fitting means of exposure, and should bring retribution upon the traitor and schemer. This decided, they talked of minor matters affecting the main issue. John Dixon expressed a wish to see Robert Grantham without himself being seen--for even now at odd moments a kind of wondering doubt stole upon him whether all he had heard was true--and Rathbeal, ripe in expedients, suggested the way to this.
"At ten o'clock to-night," he said, "come to the entrance to Charing Cross Station, and I will pass you in the company of Robert Grantham; then you will have an opportunity of seeing him. Do not accost us; but having satisfied yourself, take your departure. I can easily manage to bring Grantham to the spot, and to-morrow I will call upon you at any hour you name."
Upon this understanding they separated, Rathbeal well satisfied with his day's work, and glowing with anticipation of the enemy's overthrow.
"You do wrong to make enemies, shrewd sir" (thus his thoughts ran); "they are more zealous against you, more determined for victory, when they scent the coming battle. You are a fool, shrewd sir, for all your cleverness. Your sun is setting, and you see not the shadows beyond. But the veil shall soon be drawn by willing hands. With what truth could Robert say: