"I, as thou knowest, went forth, and my heart with sorrow oppressed,Where ruthless Fate had bestowed what I needed for life and rest.
"I, as thou knowest, went forth, and my heart with sorrow oppressed,
Where ruthless Fate had bestowed what I needed for life and rest.
We are but instruments in the hands of Fate. Sooner or later the ax shall fall."
He had an idle hour before his appointment with Robert Grantham, and instinctively he had turned his steps in the direction of Mr. Fox-Cordery's house. As he walked on the opposite side of the street he saw a miserably-clad woman, whose face, equally with her dress, was a melancholy index to her woeful state, standing at the door, exchanging words with a servant who had responded to her knock. Crossing the road, he heard something of what was passing between them, and learned that Mr. Fox-Cordery was in the country. Closer contact with the woman disclosed more plainly to him that she was destitute and in sore trouble, and he was particularly struck at the half-defiant and wholly reckless tone in which she spoke. The door was shut upon her, and she was left standing in the street. Then he observed that she directed a threatening and despairing look at the house; and, as she was walking slowly away, he went up and asked her if he could be of any assistance to her, and whether she would tell him what she wanted with Mr. Fox-Cordery. It was Martha he accosted, but she would have nothing to say to him. Bidding him sullenly to mind his own business, she quickened her steps to a run and disappeared. He reproached himself afterward for not hastening after her, and tempting her with a bribe; for he felt that the woman had some bitter grievance against Mr. Fox-Cordery, and that she could have been of assistance in bringing him to bay. But he shrugged his shoulders, muttering "What is, is; what will be, will be," and followed in the direction she had taken, without, however, seeing her again.
At ten o'clock that night Rathbeal and Robert Grantham were at Charing Cross Station, as he had engaged they should be. He had no difficulty in wooing Grantham to the neighborhood, in which they had taken many a stroll on leisure nights. He had given his friend an unfaithful version of his interview with the lawyers, saying there was a difficulty in obtaining the information he required, and that he was to call upon them again to-morrow.
"There is a small sum of money attaching to the business," he said, "but we must wait for the precise particulars. It is likely you will have to put in an appearance."
"I will do whatever you advise," said Grantham, "but assist in keeping me out of it till the last moment."
Rathbeal promised, and they strolled to and fro, westward to Trafalgar Square, eastward not farther than Buckingham Street, conversing, as was their wont, on the typical signs of life that thronged this limited space. Robert Grantham was always deeply impressed by these signs which, in their contrasts of joy and misery, and of wealth and poverty, furnish pregnant pictures of the extremes of human existence. Grantham was saying something to this effect when he paused before a white-faced, raggedly-dressed child--no other than Little Prue--who had some boxes of matches in her hands, and was saying to a woman who had also paused to observe her:
"Kind lady! Father's dead, and mother's laying ill of a fever, and baby's dying 'cause we ain't 'ad nothink to eat since yesterday!"
The woman gave Little Prue a penny, and the next moment a man stepped to her side and snatched the penny from her hand, the child making no objection.
"A suggestive scene," said Rathbeal. "The brute is the girl's father, I suppose, and she stands there in the gutter by his directions, probably repeating the speech he has drilled into her. Does not such a picture tempt you not to give? Is it not almost a justification for the existence of institutions which contend that beggary is a preventable disease?"
"Not in my eyes," replied Robert Grantham. "I have no sympathy with anti-natural societies, organized for the suppression of benevolent impulse. The endeavor to deaden charitable feeling, and to inculcate into kindly-hearted people that pity must be guided by a kind of mathematical teaching, is a deplorable mistake. Carry such a teaching out to its natural end, and the sweetest influences of our nature would be lost. Seeing what I have seen, I would not give to that poor child, but I would take her away from the brute: and the first thing I would do would be to set her down before a hot, wholesome meal. Poor little waif! See, Rathbeal, the brute is on the watch on the opposite side. Now, if Providence would take him in hand, and deal out to him what he deserves, we might give the child a foretaste of heaven."
Rathbeal, looking to the opposite side of the road, saw John Dixon approaching them, and in order that he should have a clear view of Grantham he took his friend's arm, and proceeded onward a few yards to a spot which was brilliantly lighted up. John Dixon passed them slowly, and exchanged a look of recognition with Rathbeal, which Grantham did not observe.
"It is time to get home," said Rathbeal, who, now that John Dixon was gone, saw no reason to linger.
"A moment, Rathbeal," said Grantham. "I can't get that child out of my head. Is there no way of doing her an act of kindness without the intervention of the brute?"
Little Prue had just finished another appeal in a weak, languid voice, addressed to no one in particular. She appeared to be dazed as the words dropped slowly from her bloodless lips. She could scarcely keep her eyes open; her frail body began to sway.
"She is fainting," said Rathbeal hurriedly; "the child is overpowered by want and fatigue."
The brute on the opposite side saw this also, and he started forward, not impelled by pity, but with the intention of keeping Little Prue's strength in her by means of threats. A judgment fell upon him. It was as if Providence had heard what Robert Grantham said, and had taken him in hand; for as he was crossing the road in haste he got tangled in a conflict of cabs and omnibuses, and was knocked to the ground. Rathbeal darted forward to see what had happened to him, while Grantham, taking Little Prue's hand, said some gentle words to her, which she was too exhausted to understand. A great crowd had assembled on the spot where the brute had fallen, and Rathbeal, returning, whispered to Grantham that he had been run over.
"What are they doing with him?" asked Grantham.
"They are carrying him to Charing Cross Hospital."
"He will be all right there. If we want to inquire after him we can do so to-morrow. Let us look after the child."
She needed looking after; but for Grantham's sustaining arm she would have sunk into the gutter.
"I know the hospital to take her to," said Grantham, "and the medicine she needs."
With Little Prue in his arms, he plunged into a narrow street, accompanied by Rathbeal, and entered a common restaurant, where he ordered a pot of tea, bread and butter, and a chop. The swift motion through the air had done something to revive Little Prue, the tea and food did the rest; and presently she was eating and drinking as only one who was famished could. The men looked on in wondering pity, and did not interrupt her engrossing labors. It was not until nature was satisfied that she thought of her father; a look of terror flashed into her eyes.
"What's the matter, child?" asked Robert Grantham.
"Father'll be the death of me!" she replied.
"Don't be frightened; he will not hurt you."
"Are you sure, sir? You don't know father!"
"I am quite sure; we have seen him."
This satisfied Little Prue, and the look of terror changed to one of gratitude.
"Thank yer kindly, sir," she said. "I think I should 'ave died if I 'adn't 'ad somethink to eat. It's a long time since I had sech a tuck-out. I couldn't eat another mouthful if I tried."
"And now, child, tell us where you live, and whether you have a mother."
"Oh, yes, sir, I've got a mother; and I live in Roxy's Rents."
"I've heard of the place," said Rathbeal; "it's in Lambeth. We will see the little one home."
"Thank yer, sir. I don't think I could find my way without father. Oh!" she cried, looking about distressfully, "where's my matches?"
They had dropped from her hands when she was falling, and the friends had not stopped to pick them up.
"Never mind your matches."
"But father'll wollup me if I don't sell 'em before I go 'ome! I can't go 'ome till I've got a shilling!"
"You shall have the shilling. Here it is. We will take care of it till we get to Roxy's Rents, and you shall give it to your mother. What is your name, child?"
"Prue, sir; Little Prue."
Robert Grantham laid his hand on Rathbeal's arm.
"Little Prue!" he said. "That is poor Billy's sweetheart, that he spoke of with his dying breath."
He addressed the child:
"Did you know a poor boy called Billy?"
"Oh, yes, sir; we used to play together. He sed he'd marry me when he grew up, if he could get a suit of clothes. What's become of Billy, sir? I ain't seen 'im for a long time."
"He is happier than he was, my child," said Grantham; "all his troubles are over."
"I'm glad to 'ear that, sir. I wish mine and mother's was."
"They will be, one day. Now, child, we must be moving."
Little Prue rose and put her hand in Grantham's and they left the restaurant. They rode to Lambeth by 'bus and tram, and then, being in streets familiar to her, Little Prue conducted them to Roxy's Rents. Her mother's room was in darkness.
"Are yer coming in, sir?"
"Yes; we will see your mother before we leave you."
"Mother, mother!" cried Prue, opening the door.
Mrs. Flower started up and, running to the door, caught her child in her arms.
"O Prue, Prue! where have you been? I was afraid you were lost!"
"I should 'ave been, mother, if it 'adn't been for the gentlemen."
"The gentlemen?"
She could not see them.
"Do not be alarmed," said Robert Grantham. "Your little one was not well, and we brought her home. She is all right now."
"You're very good, sir; I'm ever so much obliged to you."
"Oh, mother, I've 'ad sech a supper! Did yer get the money for the washing?"
She was accustomed to take her part in these domestic matters, which were, in a sense, vital.
"Don't worry, child, before the gentlemen."
"But did yer, mother?" persisted Little Prue, thinking of the chances of food for to-morrow.
"No. There, child, let me alone."
"Have you a candle in the place?" asked Grantham, suspecting the state of affairs.
"No, sir. I am really ashamed----"
"We owe your little one a shilling for some matches," said Grantham, pitying her confusion, and slipping the money into her hand. "Is it too late to buy some candles?"
He would have taken his departure under these awkward circumstances, but he considered it his duty to tell Mrs. Flower of the accident that had happened to her husband.
"One of the lodgers will sell me one, sir, if you don't mind waiting."
"We will wait."
"Martha!" called Mrs. Flower; but Martha was asleep, and did not speak. "It's my sister, sir; I thought she might be awake. I won't be gone a minute."
She ran to another room, and obtaining the candle, returned with it alight. Her visitors sighed at the misery it displayed. Martha's arms were spread upon the table, and her head rested upon them. Prue pulled her mother's dress.
"Who is she, mother?"
"Your aunt Martha."
Prue went to the sleeping woman, and tried to get a glimpse of her face.
"I have bad news to tell you about your husband," said Grantham, speaking low, so that the child should not hear. "He has met with an accident, and has been taken to Charing Cross Hospital."
He broke the news to her in a gentle voice, and she received it without emotion. Her husband had crushed all love for him from her breast long since, and she had felt for years that it would be a happy release if he were dead.
"Is he much hurt, sir?" she asked, with tearless eyes.
"I do not know. He was knocked down by a cab, and was carried to the hospital at once. He will be better cared for there than here."
"Yes, sir; I have no money to pay for doctors. Did Prue see the accident?"
"She knows nothing of it."
"Drip--drip--drip! Oh, God! will it never stop?"
It was Martha who was speaking. The men were awed by the despairing voice.
"It's my sister, sir; I told you, I think. She came upon me quite sudden to-night. I haven't seen her for years. She's in trouble. Martha, Martha!"
She shook the woman, who started wildly to her feet and looked this way and that with swift glances, more like a hunted animal than a human creature.
Rathbeal uttered an exclamation. It was the woman he had seen that afternoon standing at Mr. Fox-Cordery's door.
"Fate!" he said, and advanced toward her.
A violent spasm of fear seized Martha, and shook her in every limb. Crazed perhaps by her dreams, or terrified by the suspicion of a hidden evil in the appearance of Rathbeal, whom she instantly recognized, and who must have tracked her down for some new oppression, she retreated as he advanced, and watching her opportunity, rushed past him from the room, and flew into the dark shelter of the streets. They gazed after her in astonishment, and then followed her into the alley, and thence into the wider thoroughfare, but they saw no trace of her.
"Her troubles have driven her mad," said Mrs. Flower, "and no wonder. How she's lived through them is a mystery. She's in such a state that I'm afraid she'll do herself a mischief."
"I intended her no harm," said Rathbeal. "I saw her once before to-day, and if my suspicions are well founded, it may be in my power to render her a service, even to obtain some kind of justice for her, if her troubles are caused by a man."
"A man, you call him!" said Mrs. Flower, with bitter emphasis.
"Do you know him?"
"I heard his name for the first time to-night."
"Is it Fox-Cordery?"
In the dark he felt Robert Grantham give a start, and he pressed his arm as a warning to be silent.
"That's the villain that's brought her to this; that took her away from her home and disgraced her, and then left her to starve. If there's justice in heaven, he ought to be made suffer for it."
"There's justice in heaven," said Rathbeal, "and it shall overtake him. Your sister needs a man to champion her cause; I offer myself as that man. Without a powerful defender, the reptile who has brought this misery upon her will spurn and laugh at her. It is too late to talk together to-night; your child is waiting for you, and your sister may return at any moment. After a night's rest, she will listen to me--will believe in me. May I call upon you to-morrow morning early?"
"Yes, sir, as early as you like. I get up at six. You speak fair, and you've been kind to Prue. God bless you for your goodness! I shall have to go to the hospital in the morning, but I'll wait at home till ten for you."
"Very well. Meanwhile, this may be of service to you."
He gave her two shillings, and wishing her goodnight, the friends took their departure.
"What does all this mean, Rathbeal?" asked Robert Grantham. "I am wrapt in mystery."
"You trust me, Robert?"
"I would trust you with my life."
"Then believe that I have my reasons for keeping silence to-night. Before long the mystery shall be explained to you. I am working for your happiness, Robert."
"For my happiness?" echoed Grantham, with a groan.
"You are not a skeptic? You believe in eternal mercy and justice?"
"I do, God help me!"
"Hold fast to that belief. The clouds are breaking, and I see a light shining on your life. Do you remember poor Billy's last prayer?' O Lord God, give Mr. Gran all he wants, and a bit over!' The Lord of the Universe heard that prayer. Ask me no questions, but before you go to bed to-night pray with a thankful heart; for the age of miracles is not yet over, Robert, my friend."
Rathbeal presented himself at Mrs. Flower's room as the clock struck nine. In anticipation of his visit, the woman had "tidied" up the apartment, and Little Prue looked quite neat, with her hands and face washed, and her hair properly combed and brushed. Rathbeal's two shillings had enabled them to have a sufficient breakfast, and the child, naturally shy, raised her eyes gratefully to her benefactor.
"Well, little one," he said, pinching her cheek, "do you feel better this morning?"
"Oh, ever so much, sir!" replied Little Prue.
He looked round for Martha, and Mrs. Flower told him sorrowfully that her sister had not come back.
"I shall be worried out of my life till I see her, sir," she said.
"We will try and find her for you," he said. "And now tell me everything you know concerning her."
She related all that she had learned from Martha; and when she had done he plied her with questions, which she answered freely. Having obtained all the information it was in her power to give him, and leaving his address with her, he rode to Craven Street, his appointment with John Dixon having been made for an early hour. He was received with cordiality all John Dixon's suspicions being now quite dispelled.
"I recognized Robert Grantham the moment I saw him," he said, "thanks to his wearing no hair on his face; but it bears the marks of deep suffering."
"He has passed through the fire," said Rathbeal. "I have more news for you. Another weapon against Mr. Fox-Cordery is placed in our hands."
With that he gave an account of his adventures with Martha and Little Prue, to which John Dixon listened with grave attention, and then said he had also news to impart.
"It will be necessary, I think," he said, "to strike earlier than we expected. You will be surprised to hear that I expect shortly to be connected with Mr. Fox-Cordery by marriage. I have no wish to spare him on that account, but for the sake of my intended wife I should wish, if possible, to avoid a public exposure. Justice must be done to Robert Grantham and his wife and child--that is imperative; and if we can compel Mr. Fox-Cordery privately to make some reparation to the poor woman who has so strangely been introduced into this bad business, so much the better. It is likely, however, that she will disappear from the scene; my opinion is that she will not return to her sister. So far as she is concerned, there is no law to touch her betrayer: her case, unhappily, is a common one, and he can snap his fingers at her; and, moreover, if she personally annoy him, he can prosecute her. But he may be willing to sacrifice something to prevent his name being dragged into the papers. As for any punishment he may have incurred for his infamous conduct toward the Granthams, the choice of visiting it upon him must be left to your friend. Speaking as a lawyer, we have no standing in the matter: it is not us he has wronged; we are simple lookers on."
"May I ask how you expect to be connected with Mr. Fox-Cordery by marriage?"
"There is now no secret about it. He has a sister, whom he has oppressed after his own brutal fashion since she was a child. That two natures so opposite as theirs should be born of the same parents is a mystery beyond my comprehension, but so it is. She is the personification of sweetness and charity, but I will not dilate upon her virtues. It is enough that I am engaged to be married to her, and that the engagement is viewed with intense dislike by her brother and her mother, both of whom would, I have not the least doubt, he rejoiced to hear that I had met my death in a railway accident or by some equally agreeable means. It is, I believe, chiefly because of her liking for my intended wife that Mrs. Grantham accepted the invitation of Mr. Fox-Cordery to become a guest in the house by the river which he has taken for the summer months. Besides, you must bear in mind that he is Mrs. Grantham's business agent, and that she is ignorant of his true character. I have an idea that her eyes are being opened, for I have received a letter from my intended this morning in which she informs me that Mrs. Grantham is in great trouble, and wishes to consult me privately. She asks me to meet her to-night near her brother's house, when I shall hear what the trouble is. I am prepared for some fresh villainy on the part of Mr. Fox-Cordery, who has entertained a passion for Mrs. Grantham for years. He knew her in her maiden days, and would have paid open suit to her, but her love was given to Robert Grantham."
"Do you tell me that he desires to marry her now?"
"I understand from Charlotte--the name of my intended; I cannot speak of her as Miss Fox-Cordery, there is something hateful in the name--that it is his ardent wish, and that he has set his heart upon it. That may be the reason for his taking the house by the river and for his wish to make Mrs. Grantham his guest there. Part of a plan--and his plans are generally well laid. He hoped to bring his suit to a happy ending, for him, before the termination of her visit."
"But Robert Grantham lives!" exclaimed Rathbeal.
"He believes him to be dead, remember; you yourself told me so."
"Yes, yes; I was forgetting for the moment. I see now why he came to me; the motive of all his actions is clear. But this must not be allowed to go on any longer. In justice to her, in justice to Robert, the truth must no longer be withheld."
"My own opinion: there has been but little time lost; it is only yesterday that you and I first met. My idea is, to bring matters to a conclusion this very night. I shall go to meet my intended, and hear what she has to say. I am not sure whether Mrs. Grantham will be with her. If she is not, I will not leave without an interview in which she shall learn the solemn truth. It will be a difficult task to prepare her for it, but it is a duty that must be performed. Meanwhile you must prepare Robert Grantham for the wonderful happiness in store for him. Do you think it advisable that we shall go down together?"
"It will be best; and on our way we can determine upon our course of action. I imagine that we shall have to keep in the background until we receive an intimation from you to appear; but we can talk of all that by-and-by. I have paved the way with Robert already, and he is now impatiently awaiting me. Ah-ha! Mr. Fox-Cordery, when you weave a web, nothing ever escapes from it! A stronger hand than yours has woven for you a web, and scattered yours to the four winds of heaven. I have tortured him already with letters, trusting to Fate to aid me, and he stands, unmasked, defeated, disgraced for evermore."
This outburst was enigmatical to John Dixon, but time was too valuable for him to ask for an explanation. There was much to do, and every minute of the day would be occupied. He made an appointment to meet Rathbeal and Grantham in the evening, and they parted to go upon their separate tasks.
Mr. Fox-Cordery had made the move he had thought of to insure success. On the morning of the day that Charlotte wrote to John Dixon to come to her, he sent word to Mrs. Grantham that he wished to see her upon business of importance, either in his room or hers. She sent word back that she would see him in her apartment, and he went there to deal a master-stroke. Her child Clair was with her, and Charlotte also; and he drew Clair to him, and spent a few moments in endearments which manifestly did not give the girl any pleasure. He had not succeeded in making himself a favorite with her, and as soon as she could she escaped from him and ran to her mother's side. He was quite aware that Clair was not fond of him, but he made no protest; the future should pay him for all. Mrs. Grantham and Charlotte were both employed in needlework, and they did not lay it aside when he entered.
"Charlotte!" he said, sternly.
"Yes, Fox," she answered.
He motioned with his head to the door, indicating that she was to leave the room. Charlotte rose immediately.
"Where are you going, Charlotte?" asked Mrs. Grantham.
He replied for her.
"I wish to speak to you alone," he said. "Take Clair with you, Charlotte, and go and gather some flowers."
"You can speak before them," said Mrs. Grantham; "they will be very quiet."
"Yes, mamma," said Clair, "we will be very quiet."
"What I have to say is for your ears alone," he said, and he motioned again to the door. The masterfulness of the order did not escape Mrs. Grantham. She moved her chair to the window, which looked out upon the lawn, and from which she could also see the bridge.
"Go with Charlotte, my dear," she said to Clair, "but keep on the lawn, so that I can see you."
"Yes, mamma."
"My dear Mrs. Grantham," commenced Mr. Fox-Cordery, in a bland voice of false pity, "I have deplorable news to convey to you. A short time since, when I had the honor of making a proposal to you----"
The look she gave him stopped him. "If you are about to renew that proposal, Mr. Fox-Cordery, I must ask you to go no further. I gave you my answer then; it would be my answer now."
"I am unfortunate in my choice of words," he said, losing the guard he had kept upon himself during her visit. "I did not wish to shock you too suddenly by disclosing abruptly what it is my duty, as your man of business, to disclose."
"To shock me too suddenly!" she said, pausing in her work.
"It was my desire. Believe me, I am your friend, as I have ever been; make any call you like upon me, and you will not find me unwilling to respond. But to come down so low in the world, to lose one's all, to be suddenly beggared----"
He put his hand to his eyes, and watched slyly through his fingers. Her work dropped into her lap; her mouth trembled, but she did not speak.
"It might have been borne with resignation," he continued, "if one did not have a beloved child to care for and protect from the hardships of a cruel world. In your place I can imagine how it would affect me, how I should tremble at what is before me. Love is all-powerful, but there are circumstances in which it brings inexpressible grief to the heart. How shall I tell you? I cannot, I cannot!"
He rose from his chair, and paced the room with downcast head, but he kept his stealthy watch upon her face all the time. He was disconcerted that she did not speak, that she uttered no cry of alarm. He expected her to assist him through the scene he had acted to himself a dozen times. He had put words into her mouth, natural words which should by rights have been spoken in the broken periods of his revelation; but she sat quite silent, waiting for him to proceed.
"Still, it must be told, and should have been told before. I grieve to say that you have lost your fortune, and that, unless you have resources with which I am unacquainted--and with all my heart I hope you have--your future and the future of your dear child is totally unprovided for."
And having come to this termination, he threw himself into his chair with the air of a man whose own hopes and prospects were utterly blighted. She found her voice.
"How have I lost my fortune, sir?" she asked with dry lips. Her throat was parched, and her husky voice had a note of pain in it which satisfied him that he had succeeded in terrifying her. "You had the sole control of it."
"Alas, yes! How ardently do I wish that it had been in the control of another man, to whom you were indifferent, and who could have told you calmly what it shakes me to the soul to tell! I have also lost, but I can afford it; it is only a portion of my fortune that has gone down in wreck. I have still a competence left that makes me independent of the buffets of the world, that enables me to provide a home for those I love."
"I fail to understand you, sir," she said, glancing from the window at her child, who was walking on the lawn with Charlotte, and who, seeing her mother looking at her, smiled and kissed her hand to her. "You have not yet informed me how I have lost my fortune."
"You made investments----"
"Acting upon your advice, sir."
"True; I believed my advice to be good, and I invested part of my money also in the same stocks and shares. Unhappily the papers you have signed----"
"Always by your directions, sir. You informed me that the investments were good, and that I need have no anxiety."
"I cannot deny it; I was wrong, foolishly, madly wrong. I thought your fortune would be doubled, trebled. It has turned out disastrously, every shilling you possessed is lost. And, unhappily, as I was saying, the papers you have signed have involved you beyond the extent of your means. It racks me to think of what is before you, unless you accept the assistance which a friend is ready to tender you. A life of poverty, of privation for you and your dear child--it maddens me to think of it!"
"For how long have you known this?" she asked faintly.
It was the question he wished her to put to him.
"I knew it," he said humbly, "when I made the proposal which you rejected. I knew then that you were ruined, and it was my desire to spare you. Had you answered as my heart led me to hope you would have done, I still should have kept the secret from your knowledge until the day that made you mine, to love, to shelter, to protect. It is the truth, dear Mrs. Grantham--it is the truth, on the word of an honorable gentleman."
He put his hand to his heart, and sighed heavily.
"I cannot but believe you," said Mrs. Grantham, pondering more upon his manner than the words he uttered; it seemed to her as if a light had suddenly descended upon her, through which she saw for the first time the true character of the man she had trusted. "I cannot but believe you when you tell me I am ruined, and that starvation lies before me and my child."
"Alas!" he put in here. "Your child, your dear Clair!"
"I had no understanding of business, and I relied implicitly upon you. I never questioned, never for a moment doubted."
"Nor I," he murmured. "Am I not a sufferer, like yourself? Does that not prove how confident I was that I was acting for the best? Call me foolish, headstrong, if you will; inflict any penance you please upon me, and I am by your side to bear it."
She shivered inwardly at the insidious tenderness he threw into his voice, but she was at the same time careful to conceal this feeling. She was in his power; her whole future was in his hands, and with it the future of her beloved Clair. She had no other friend; she could not think of another being in the world whom she could ask for help at this critical juncture. It seemed as if the very bread she and her child ate from this day forth might depend upon him who had brought ruin upon them.
"Yes," he continued, "I will not desert you. A single word from your lips, and your misfortune will become a blessing."
"Is nothing left, sir?" she asked. "Have I really lost everything?"
"You are cruel to make me repeat what I have said, what I have endeavored to make clear to you. You have not only lost everything, but are responsible for obligations it is, I am afraid, out of your power to discharge. Mrs. Grantham, will you listen to me?"
"I have listened patiently, sir. Have you any other misfortunes to make clear to me?"
"None, I am thankful to say. You know all; there is nothing to add to the sad news I have been compelled to impart. Think only of yourself and your dear child."
"I am thinking of her, sir."
"She is not strong; she has not been accustomed to endure poverty. Can we not save her from its stings? Is it not a duty?"
"To me, sir, a sacred duty, if I can see a way."
"Let me show you the way," he said eagerly. "Dear Mrs. Grantham, my feelings are unchanged. Even in your maiden days I loved you, but stifled my love and kept it buried in my breast when I saw that another had taken the place it was the wish of my heart to occupy. You gave to another the love for which I yearned, and I looked on and suffered in silence. Is not my devotion worthy of a reward? It is in your power to bestow it; it is in your power to save dear Clair from a life of misery. I renew the offer I made you. Promise to become my wife, and the grievous loss you have sustained need not give you a moment's anxiety."
The artificial modulation of his tones, his elaborate actions, and his evident desire to impress her with a sense of the nobility of his offer, filled her with a kind of loathing for him. It was as though he held out an iron chain, and warned her that if she refused to be bound she was condemning her child to poverty and despair. But agonizing as was this reflection, she could not speak the words he wished to hear; she felt that she _must_ have time to think.
"What you have told me," she said, "is so unexpected, I was so little prepared for it, that it would not be fair to answer you immediately. My mind is confused; pray do not press me; in a little while I shall be calmer, and then----"
"And then," he said, taking up her words and thinking the battle won, "you will see that it is the only road of happiness left open to you, and you will give me a favorable answer. We will tread this road together, and enjoy life's pleasures. Shall we say this evening?" She shook her head. "To-morrow, then?"
"Give me another day," she pleaded.
"Till the day after to-morrow, by all means," he said gayly. "It would be ungallant to refuse. But, dear Mrs. Grantham--may I not rather say dear Lucy?--it must be positively the day after to-morrow. I shall count the minutes. To be long in your society in a state of suspense, or in the knowledge that you refuse to be mine, would be more than I can bear."
She silently construed these words; they conveyed a threat. If in two days she did not give him a favorable answer, she and Clair would have to leave the house at once, and go forth into the world, stripped and beggared.
"And now I will leave you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it. "Do not look at the cloud, dear Lucy--look only at the silver lining."
He was about to go, when she said:
"Mr. Fox-Cordery, if I wish to speak to a friend, can I do so here, in your house?"
"Why, surely here," he replied, wondering who the friend could be, and feeling it would be best for him that the meeting should be an open and not a secret one. "Where else but in the home in which you are mistress?"
She thanked him, and he kissed her hand again, and looked languishingly at her lips, and then left her to her reflections.
She locked her door, and devoted herself to a consideration of her despairing position. She tried in vain to recollect what papers she had signed; there had been many from time to time, and she had had such confidence in the man who had managed her husband's affairs, and since his death had managed hers, that when he said, "Put your name here, where my finger is, Mrs. Grantham," she had grown into the habit of obeying without reading what she signed. The longer she thought, the more she grew confused. There was but little time for decision, scarcely two days. Where could she turn for counsel? Where could she find a friend who might be able to point out a way of escape? She stood at the window as she asked these questions of herself, and as her eyes wandered over the prospect they lighted upon Charlotte. The moment they did so she thought of John Dixon. The questions were answered. She would implore Charlotte to bring about an interview with him.
Under ordinary circumstances she would not have dreamt of asking a sister of Mr. Fox-Cordery to assist her in opposing his wishes, but the circumstances were not ordinary. These last few days Mr. Fox-Cordery and his mother had thrown off the mask in their treatment of Charlotte, and Mrs. Grantham had noticed with pain the complete want of affection they displayed. She had spoken sympathetically to Charlotte of this altered behavior, and Charlotte had answered wearily that she had been accustomed to it all her life. The pitiful confession made Mrs. Grantham very tender toward her, and she consoled Charlotte with much feeling. Then Charlotte poured forth her full heart, and it needed but little persuasion to cause her to relate the story of her lifelong oppression. The bond of affection which united the women was drawn still closer, and they exchanged confidences without reserve. Now, in her own hour of trouble, Mrs. Grantham sought Charlotte, and confided to her the full extent of the misfortune that had overtaken her.
"If I could see your John," she said, "he might be able to advise me perhaps."
"I will write to him," said Charlotte impulsively; "he will come at once."
And so it was arranged. A little later, Mrs. Grantham said:
"I must not anger your brother by meeting John secretly. You shall meet him, and ask him to come and speak to me here in my own room."
"But may he?" inquired Charlotte.
"Your brother has given me permission to receive in this house any friend I wish to consult. There is no one else in the world whose advice I can rely upon; I am sure your John is a true and sincere gentleman. Will it make any difference to you, Charlotte, if your brother discovers that you have assisted to bring about this meeting?"
"None," replied Charlotte, in a decided tone. "I ought to know him by this time. He made me a half-promise that he would give me a little money to buy a few clothes, but the way he has behaved to me lately proves that he has no intention of helping me. I shall have to go to John as I am."
Then the women spent an hour in mutual consolation, and exchanged vows that nothing should ever weaken their affection for each other.
"John will be your true friend," said Charlotte, "remember that. You may believe every word he says. Oh, my dear, I hope things will turn out better than they look!"
"I put my trust in God," said Mrs. Grantham solemnly, and, clasping her hands, raised her eyes in silent prayer.