It was still early in the morning, when a loud knock sounded at the
house-door, and I heard the landlady calling to the servant: "A
gentleman to see the gentleman who came in last night." The moment the
words reached me, my thoughts recurred to the letter of yesterday--Had
Mannion found me out in my retreat? As the suspicion crossed my mind,
the door opened, and the visitor entered.
I looked at him in speechless astonishment. It was my elder brother!
It was Ralph himself who now walked into the room!
"Well, Basil! how are you?" he said, with his old off-hand manner and
hearty voice.
"Ralph! You in England!--you here!"
"I came back from Italy last night. Basil, how awfully you're changed!
I hardly know you again."
His manner altered as he spoke the last words. The look of sorrow and
alarm which he fixed on me, went to my heart. I thought of
holiday-time, when we were boys; of Ralph's boisterous ways with me;
of his good-humoured school-frolics, at my expense; of the strong bond
of union between us, so strangely compounded of my weakness and his
strength; of my passive and of his active nature; I saw how little
_he_ had changed since that time, and knew, as I never knew before,
how miserably _I_ was altered. All the shame and grief of my
banishment from home came back on me, at sight of his friendly,
familiar face. I struggled hard to keep my self-possession, and tried
to bid him welcome cheerfully; but the effort was too much for me. I
turned away my head, as I took his hand; for the old school-boy
feeling of not letting Ralph see that I was in tears, influenced me
still.
"Basil! Basil! what are you about? This won't do. Look up, and listen
to me. I have promised Clara to pull you through this wretched mess;
and I'll do it. Get a chair, and give me a light. I'm going to sit on
your bed, smoke a cigar, and have a long talk with you."
While he was lighting his cigar, I looked more closely at him than
before. Though he was the same as ever in manner; though his
expression still preserved its reckless levity of former days, I now
detected that he had changed a little in some other respects. His
features had become coarser--dissipation had begun to mark them. His
spare, active, muscular figure had filled out; he was dressed rather
carelessly; and of all his trinkets and chains of early times, not one
appeared about him now. Ralph looked prematurely middle-aged, since I
had seen him last.
"Well," he began, "first of all, about my coming back. The fact is,
the morganatic Mrs. Ralph--" (he referred to his last mistress)
"wanted to see England, and I was tired of being abroad. So I brought
her back with me; and we're going to live quietly, somewhere in the
Brompton neighbourhood. That woman has been my salvation--you must
come and see her. She has broke me of gaming altogether; I was going
to the devil as fast as I could, when she stopped me--but you know all
about it, of course. Well: we got to London yesterday afternoon; and
in the evening I left her at the hotel, and went to report myself at
home. There, the first thing I heard, was that you had cut me out of
my old original distinction of being the family scamp. Don't look
distressed, Basil; I'm not laughing at you; I've come to do something
better than that. Never mind my talk: nothing in the world ever was
serious to _me,_ and nothing ever will be."
He stopped to knock the ash off his cigar, and settle himself more
comfortably on my bed; then proceeded.
"It has been my ill-luck to see my father pretty seriously offended on
more than one occasion; but I never saw him so very quiet and so very
dangerous as last night when he was telling me about you. I remember
well enough how he spoke and looked, when he caught me putting away my
trout-flies in the pages of that family history of his; but it was
nothing to see him or hear him then, to what it is now. I can tell you
this, Basil--if I believed in what the poetical people call a broken
heart (which I don't), I should be almost afraid that _he_ was
broken-hearted. I saw it was no use to say a word for you just yet, so
I sat quiet and listened to him till I got my dismissal for the
evening. My next proceeding was to go up-stairs, and see Clara.
Upstairs, I give you my word of honour, it was worse still. Clara was
walking about the room with your letter in her hand--just reach me the
matches: my cigar's out. Some men can talk and smoke in equal
proportions--I never could.
"You know as well as I do," he continued when he had relit his cigar,
"that Clara is not usually demonstrative. I always thought her rather
a cold temperament--but the moment I put my head in at the door, I
found I'd been just as great a fool on that point as on most others.
Basil, the scream Clara gave when she first saw me, and the look in
her eyes when she talked about you, positively frightened me. I can't
describe anything; and I hate descriptions by other men (most likely
on that very account): so I won't describe what she said and did. I'll
only tell you that it ended in my promising to come here the first
thing this morning; promising to get you out of the scrape; promising,
in short, everything she asked me. So here I am, ready for your
business before my own. The fair partner of my existence is at the
hotel, half-frantic because I won't go lodging-hunting with her; but
Clara is paramount, Clara is the first thought. Somebody must be a
good boy at home; and now you have resigned, I'm going to try and
succeed you, by way of a change!"
"Ralph! Ralph! can you mention Clara's name, and that woman's name, in
the same breath? Did you leave Clara quieter and better! For God's
sake be serious about that, though serious about nothing else!"
"Gently, Basil! _Doucement mon ami!_ I did leave her quieter: my
promise made her look almost like herself again. As for what you say
about mentioning Clara and Mrs. Ralph in the same breath, I've been
talking and smoking till I have no second breaths left to devote to
second-rate virtue. There is an unanswerable reason for you, if you
want one! And now let us get to the business that brings me here. I
don't want to worry you by raking up this miserable mess again, from
beginning to end, in your presence; but I must make sure at the same
time that I have got hold of the right story, or I can't be of any use
to you. My father was a little obscure on certain points. He talked
enough, and more than enough, about consequences to the family, about
his own affliction, about his giving you up for ever; and, in short,
about everything but the case itself as it really stands against us.
Now that is just what I ought to be put up to, and must be put up to.
Let me tell you in three words what I was told last night."
"Go on, Ralph: speak as you please."
"Very good. First of all, I understand that you took a fancy to some
shopkeeper's daughter--so far, mind, I don't blame you: I've spent
time very pleasantly among the ladies of the counter myself. But in
the second place, I'm told that you actually married the girl! I don't
wish to be hard upon you, my good fellow, but there was an
unparalleled insanity about that act, worthier of a patient in Bedlam
than of my brother. I am not quite sure whether I understand exactly
what virtuous behaviour is; but if _that_ was virtuous
behaviour--there! there! don't look shocked. Let's have done with the
marriage, and get on. Well, you made the girl your wife; and then
innocently consented to a very queer condition of waiting a year for
her (virtuous behaviour again, I suppose!) At the end of that
time--don't turn away your head, Basil! I _may_ be a scamp; but I am
not blackguard enough to make a joke--either in your presence, or out
of it--of this part of the story. I will pass it over altogether, if
you like; and only ask you a question or two. You see, my father
either could not or would not speak plainly of the worst part of the
business; and you know him well enough to know why. But somebody must
be a little explicit, or I can do nothing. About that man? You found
the scoundrel out? Did you get within arm's length of him?"
I told my brother of the struggle with Mannion in the Square.
He heard me almost with his former schoolboy delight, when I had
succeeded, to his satisfaction, in a feat of strength or activity. He
jumped off the bed, and seized both my hands in his strong grasp; his
face radiant, his eyes sparkling. "Shake hands, Basil! Shake hands, as
we haven't shaken hands yet: this makes amends for everything! One
word more, though, about that fellow; where is he now?"
"In the hospital."
Ralph laughed heartily, and jumped back on the bed. I remembered
Mannion's letter, and shuddered as I thought of it.
"The next question is about the girl," said my brother. "What has
become of her? Where was she all the time of your illness?"
"At her father's house; she is there still."
"Ah, yes! I see; the old story; innocent, of course. And her father
backs her, doesn't he? To be sure, that's the old story too. I have
got at our difficulty now; we are threatened with an exposure, if you
don't acknowledge her. Wait a minute! Have you any evidence against
her, besides your own?"
"I have a letter, a long letter from her accomplice, containing a
confession of his guilt and hers."
"She is sure to call that confession a conspiracy. It's of no use to
us, unless we dared to go to law--and we daren't. We must hush the
thing up at any price; or it will be the death of my father. This is a
case for money, just as I thought it would be. Mr. and Miss Shopkeeper
have got a large assortment of silence to sell; and we must buy it of
them, over the domestic counter, at so much a yard. Have you been
there yet, Basil, to ask the price and strike the bargain?"
"I was at the house, yesterday."
"The deuce you were! And who did you see?--The father? Did you bring
him to terms? did you do business with Mr. Shopkeeper?"
"His manner was brutal: his language, the language of a bully--?"
"So much the better. Those men are easiest dealt with: if he will only
fly into a passion with me, I engage for success beforehand. But the
end--how did it end?"
"As it began:--in threats on his part, in endurance on mine."
"Ah! we'll see how he likes my endurance next: he'll find it rather a
different sort of endurance from yours. By-the-bye, Basil, what money
had you to offer him?"
"I made no offer to him then. Circumstances happened which rendered me
incapable of thinking of it. I intended to go there again, to-day; and
if money would bribe him to silence, and save my family from sharing
the dishonour which has fallen on _me,_ to abandon to him the only
money I have of my own--the little income left me by our mother."
"Do you mean to say that your only resource is in that wretched
trifle, and that you ever really intend to let it go, and start in the
world without a rap? Do you mean to say that my father gave you up
without making the smallest provision for you, in such a mess as
your's? Hang it! do him justice. He has been hard enough on you, I
know; but he can't have coolly turned you over to ruin in that way."
"He offered me money, at parting; but with such words of contempt and
insult that I would have died rather than take it. I told him that,
unaided by his purse, I would preserve him, and preserve his family
from the infamous consequences of my calamity--though I sacrificed my
own happiness and my own honour for ever in doing it. And I go to-day
to make that sacrifice. The loss of the little I have to depend on, is
the least part of it. He may not see his injustice in doubting me,
till too late; but he _shall_ see it."
"I beg your pardon, Basil; but this is almost as great an insanity, as
the insanity of your marriage. I honour the independence of your
principle, my dear fellow; but, while I am to the fore, I'll take good
care that you don't ruin yourself gratuitously, for the sake of any
principles whatever! Just listen to me, now. In the first place,
remember that what my father said to you, he said in a moment of
violent exasperation. You had been trampling the pride of his life in
the mud: no man likes that--my father least of any. And, as for the
offer of your poor little morsel of an income to stop these people's
greedy mouths, it isn't a quarter enough for them. They know our
family is a wealthy family; and they will make their demand
accordingly. Any other sacrifice, even to taking the girl back (though
you never could bring yourself to do that!), would be of no earthly
use. Nothing but money will do; money cunningly doled out, under the
strongest possible stipulations. Now, I'm just the man to do that, and
I have got the money--or, rather, my father has, which comes to the
same thing. Write me the fellow's name and address; there's no time to
be lost--I'm off to see him at once!"
"I can't allow you, Ralph, to ask my father for what I would not ask
him myself--"
"Give me the name and address, or you will sour my excellent temper
for the rest of my life. Your obstinacy won't do with _me,_ Basil--it
didn't at school, and it won't now. I shall ask my father for money
for myself; and use as much of it as I think proper for your
interests. He'll give me anything I want, now I have turned good boy.
I don't owe fifty pounds, since my last debts were paid off--thanks to
Mrs. Ralph, who is the most managing woman in the world. By-the-bye,
when you see her, don't seem surprised at her being older than I am.
Oh! this is the address, is it? Hollyoake Square? Where the devil's
that! Never mind, I'll take a cab, and shift the responsibility of
finding the place on the driver. Keep up your spirits, and wait here
till I come back. You shall have such news of Mr. Shopkeeper and his
daughter as you little expect! _Au revoir,_ my dear fellow--_au
revoir._"
He left the room as rapidly as he had entered it. The minute
afterwards, I remembered that I ought to have warned him of the fatal
illness of Mrs. Sherwin. She might be dying--dead for aught I
knew--when he reached the house. I ran to the window, to call him
back: it was too late. Ralph was gone.
Even if he were admitted at North Villa, would he succeed? I was
little capable of estimating the chances. The unexpectedness of his
visit; the strange mixture of sympathy and levity in his manner, of
worldly wisdom and boyish folly in his conversation, appeared to be
still confusing me in his absence, just as they had confused me in his
presence. My thoughts imperceptibly wandered away from Ralph, and the
mission he had undertaken on my behalf, to a subject which seemed
destined, for the future, to steal on my attention, irresistibly and
darkly, in all my lonely hours. Already, the fatality denounced
against me in Mannion's letter had begun to act: already, that
terrible confession of past misery and crime, that monstrous
declaration of enmity which was to last with the lasting of life,
began to exercise its numbing influence on my faculties, to cast its
blighting shadow over my heart.
I opened the letter again, and re-read the threats against me at its
conclusion. One by one, the questions now arose in my mind: how can I
resist, or how escape the vengeance of this evil spirit? how shun the
dread deformity of that face, which is to appear before me in secret?
how silence that fiend's tongue, or make harmless the poison which it
will pour drop by drop into my life? When should I first look for that
avenging presence?--now, or not till months hence? Where should I
first see it? in the house?--or in the street? At what time would it
steal to my side? by night--or by day? Should I show the letter to
Ralph?--it would be useless. What would avail any advice or assistance
which his reckless courage could give, against an enemy who combined
the ferocious vigilance of a savage with the far-sighted iniquity of a
civilised man?
As this last thought crossed my mind, I hastily closed the letter;
determining (alas! how vainly!) never to open it again. Almost at the
same instant, I heard another knock at the house-door. Could Ralph
have returned already? impossible! Besides, the knock was very
different from his--it was only just loud enough to be audible where I
now sat.
Mannion? But would he come thus? openly, fairly, in the broad
daylight, through the populous street?
A light, quick step ascended the stairs--my heart bounded; I started
to my feet. It was the same step which I used to listen for, and love
to hear, in my illness. I ran to the door, and opened it. My instinct
had not deceived me! it was my sister!
"Basil!" she exclaimed, before I could speak--"has Ralph been here?"
"Yes, love--yes."
"Where has he gone? what has he done for you? He promised me--"
"And he has kept his promise nobly, Clara: he is away helping me now."
"Thank God! thank God!"
She sank breathless into a chair, as she spoke. Oh, the pang of
looking at her at that moment, and seeing how she was changed!--seeing
the dimness and weariness of the gentle eyes; the fear and the sorrow
that had already overshadowed the bright young face!
"I shall be better directly," she said, guessing from my expression
what I then felt--"but, seeing you in this strange place, after what
happened yesterday; and having come here so secretly, in terror of my
father finding it out--I can't help feeling your altered position and
mine a little painfully at first. But we won't complain, as long as I
can get here sometimes to see you: we will only think of the future
now. What a mercy, what a happiness it is that Ralph has come back! We
have always done him injustice; he is far kinder and far better than
we ever thought him. But, Basil, how worn and ill you are looking!
Have you not told Ralph everything? Are you in any danger?"
"None, Clara--none, indeed!"
"Don't grieve too deeply about yesterday! Try and forget that horrible
parting, and all that brought it about. He has not spoken of it since,
except to tell me that I must never know more of your fault and your
misfortune, than the little--the very little--I know already. And I
have resolved not to think about it, as well as not to ask about it,
for the future. I have a hope already, Basil--very, very far off
fulfilment--but still a hope. Can you not think what it is?"
"Your hope is far off fulfilment, indeed, Clara, if it is hope from my
father!"
"Hush! don't say so; I know better. Something occurred, even so soon
as last night--a very trifling event--but enough to show that he
thinks of you, already, in grief far more than in anger."
"I wish I could believe it, love; but my remembrance of yesterday--"
"Don't trust that remembrance; don't recall it! I will tell you what
occurred. Some time after you had gone, and after I had recovered
myself a little in my own room, I went downstairs again to see my
father; for I was too terrified and too miserable at what had
happened, to be alone. He was not in his room when I got there. As I
looked round me for a moment, I saw the pieces of your page in the
book about our family, scattered on the floor; and the miniature
likeness of you, when you were a child, was lying among the other
fragments. It had been torn out of its setting in the paper, but not
injured. I picked it up, Basil, and put it on the table, at the place
where he always sits; and laid my own little locket, with your hair in
it, by the side, so that he might know that the miniature had not been
accidentally taken up and put there by the servant. Then, I gathered
together the pieces of the page and took them away with me, thinking
it better that he should not see them again. Just as I had got through
the door that leads into the library, and was about to close it, I
heard the other door, by which you enter the study from the hall,
opening; and he came in, and went directly to the table. His back was
towards me, so I could look at him unperceived. He observed the
miniature directly and stood quite still with it in his hand; then
sighed--sighed so bitterly!--and then took the portrait of our dear
mother from one of the drawers of the table, opened the case in which
it is kept, and put your miniature inside, very gently and tenderly. I
could not trust myself to see any more, so I went up to my room again:
and shortly afterwards he came in with my locket, and gave it me back,
only saying--'You left this on my table, Clara.' But if you had seen
his face then, you would have hoped all things from him in the time to
come, as I hope now."
"And as I _will_ hope, Clara, though it be from no stronger motive
than gratitude to you."
"Before I left home," she proceeded, after a moment's silence, "I
thought of your loneliness in this strange place--knowing that I could
seldom come to see you, and then only by stealth; by committing a
fault which, if my father found it out--but we won't speak of that! I
thought of your lonely hours here; and I have brought with me an old,
forgotten companion of yours, to bear you company, and to keep you
from thinking too constantly on what you have suffered. Look, Basil!
won't you welcome this old friend again?"
She gave me a small roll of manuscript, with an effort to resume her
kind smile of former days, even while the tears stood thick in her
eyes. I untied the leaves, glanced at the handwriting, and saw before
me, once more, the first few chapters of my unfinished romance! Again
I looked on the patiently-laboured pages, familiar relics of that
earliest and best ambition which I had abandoned for love; too
faithful records of the tranquil, ennobling pleasures which I had lost
for ever! Oh, for one Thought-Flower now, from the dream-garden of the
happy Past!
"I took more care of those leaves of writing, after you had thrown
them aside, than of anything else I had," said Clara. "I always
thought the time would come, when you would return again to the
occupation which it was once your greatest pleasure to pursue, and my
greatest pleasure to watch. And surely that time has arrived. I am
certain, Basil, your book will help you to wait patiently for happier
times, as nothing else can. This place must seem very strange and
lonely; but the sight of those pages, and the sight of me sometimes
(when I can come), may make it look almost like home to you! The room
is not--not very--"
She stopped suddenly. I saw her lip tremble, and her eyes grow dim
again, as she looked round her. When I tried to speak all the
gratitude I felt, she turned away quickly, and began to busy herself
in re-arranging the wretched furniture; in setting in order the
glaring ornaments on the chimney-piece; in hiding the holes in the
ragged window-curtains; in changing, as far as she could, all the
tawdry discomfort of my one miserable little room. She was still
absorbed in this occupation, when the church-clocks of the
neighbourhood struck the hour--the hour that warned her to stay no
longer.
"I must go," she said; "it is later than I thought. Don't be afraid
about my getting home: old Martha came here with me, and is waiting
downstairs to go back (you know we can trust her). Write to me as
often as you can; I shall hear about you every day, from Ralph; but I
should like a letter sometimes, as well. Be as hopeful and as patient
yourself, dear, under misfortune, as you wish me to be; and I shall
despair of nothing. Don't tell Ralph I have been here--he might be
angry. I will come again, the first opportunity. Good-bye, Basil! Let
us try and part happily, in the hope of better days. Good-bye,
dear--good-bye, only for the present!"
Her self-possession nearly failed her, as she kissed me, and then
turned to the door. She just signed to me not to follow her
down-stairs, and, without looking round again, hurried from the room.
It was well for the preservation of our secret, that she had so
resolutely refrained from delaying her departure. She had been gone
but for a few minutes--the lovely and consoling influence of her
presence was still fresh in my heart--I was still looking sadly over
the once precious pages of manuscript which she had restored to
me--when Ralph returned from North Villa. I heard him leaping, rather
than running, up the ricketty wooden stairs. He burst into my room
more impetuously than ever.
"All right!" he said, jumping back to his former place on the bed. "We
can buy Mr. Shopkeeper for anything we like--for nothing at all, if we
choose to be stingy. His innocent daughter has made the best of all
confessions, just at the right time. Basil, my boy, she has left her
father's house!"
"What do you mean?"
"She has eloped to the hospital!"
"Mannion!"
"Yes, Mannion: I have got his letter to her. She is criminated by it,
even past her father's contradiction--and he doesn't stick at a
trifle! But I'll begin at the beginning, and tell you everything. Hang
it, Basil, you look as if I'd brought you bad news instead of good!"
"Never mind how I look, Ralph--pray go on!"
"Well: the first thing I heard, on getting to the house, was that
Sherwin's wife was dying. The servant took in my name: but I thought
of course I shouldn't be admitted. No such thing! I was let in at
once, and the first words this fellow, Sherwin, said to me, were, that
his wife was only ill, that the servants were exaggerating, and that
he was quite ready to hear what Mr. Basil's 'highly-respected' brother
(fancy calling _me_ 'highly-respected!') had to say to him. The fool,
however, as you see, was cunning enough to try civility to begin with.
A more ill-looking human mongrel I never set eyes on! I took the
measure of my man directly, and in two minutes told him exactly what I
came for, without softening a single word."
"And how did he answer you?"
"As I anticipated, by beginning to bluster immediately. I took him
down, just as he swore his second oath. 'Sir,' I said very politely,
'if you mean to make a cursing and a swearing conference of this, I
think it only fair to inform you before-hand that you are likely to
get the worst of it. When the whole collection of British oaths is
exhausted, I can swear fluently in five foreign languages: I have
always made it a principle to pay back abuse at compound interest, and
I don't exaggerate in saying, that I am quite capable of swearing you
out of your senses, if you persist in setting me the example. And now,
if you like to go on, pray do--I'm ready to hear you.' While I was
speaking, he stared at me in a state of helpless astonishment; when I
had done, he began to bluster again--but it was a pompous, dignified,
parliamentary sort of bluster, now, ending in his pulling your unlucky
marriage-certificate out of his pocket, asserting for the fiftieth
time, that the girl was innocent, and declaring that he'd make you
acknowledge her, if he went before a magistrate to do it. That's what
he said when you saw him, I suppose?"
"Yes: almost word for word."
"I had my answer ready for him, before he could put the certificate
back in his pocket. 'Now, Mr. Sherwin,' I said, 'have the goodness to
listen to me. My father has certain family prejudices and nervous
delicacies, which I do not inherit from him, and which I mean to take
good care to prevent you from working on. At the same time, I beg you
to understand that I have come here without his knowledge. I am not my
father's ambassador, but my brother's--who is unfit to deal with you,
himself; because he is not half hard-hearted, or half worldly enough.
As my brother's envoy, therefore, and out of consideration for my
father's peculiar feelings, I now offer you, from my own resources, a
certain annual sum of money, far more than sufficient for all your
daughter's expenses--a sum payable quarterly, on condition that
neither you nor she shall molest us; that you shall never make use of
our name anywhere; and that the fact of my brother's marriage
(hitherto preserved a secret) shall for the future be consigned to
oblivion. _We_ keep our opinion of your daughter's guilt--_you_ keep
your opinion of her innocence. _We_ have silence to buy, and _you_
have silence to sell, once a quarter; and if either of us break our
conditions, we both have our remedy--_your's_ the easy remedy, _our's_
the difficult. This arrangement--a very unfair and dangerous for us; a
very advantageous and safe one for you--I understand that you finally
refuse?' 'Sir,' says he, solemnly, 'I should be unworthy the name of a
father--' 'Thank you'--I remarked, feeling that he was falling back on
paternal sentiment--'thank you; I quite understand. We will get on, if
you please, to the reverse side of the question.'"
"The reverse side! What reverse side, Ralph? What could you possibly
say more?"
"You shall hear. 'Being, on your part, thoroughly determined,' I said,
'to permit no compromise, and to make my brother (his family of course
included) acknowledge a woman, of whose guilt they entertain not the
slightest doubt, you think you can gain your object by threatening an
exposure. Don't threaten any more! Make your exposure! Go to the
magistrate at once, if you like! Gibbet our names in the newspaper
report, as a family connected by marriage with Mr. Sherwin the
linen-draper's daughter, whom they believe to have disgraced herself
as a woman and a wife for ever. Do your very worst; make public every
shameful particular that you can--what advantage will you get by it?
Revenge, I grant you. But will revenge put a halfpenny into your
pocket? Will revenge pay a farthing towards your daughter's keep? Will
revenge make us receive her? Not a bit of it! We shall be driven into
a corner; we shall have no exposure to dread after you have exposed
us; we shall have no remedy left, but a desperate remedy, and we'll go
to law--boldly, openly go to law, and get a divorce. We have written
evidence, which you know nothing about, and can call testimony which
you cannot gag. I am no lawyer, but I'll bet you five hundred to one
(quite in a friendly way, my dear Sir!) that we get our case. What
follows? We send you back your daughter, without a shred of character
left to cover her; and we comfortably wash our hands of _you_
altogether.'"
"Ralph! Ralph! how could you--"
"Stop! hear the end of it. Of course I knew that we couldn't carry out
this divorce-threat, without its being the death of my father; but I
thought a little quiet bullying on my part might do Mr. Shopkeeper
Sherwin some good. And I was right. You never saw a man sit sorer on
the sharp edges of a dilemma than he did. I stuck to my point in spite
of everything; silence and money, or exposure and divorce--just which
he pleased. 'I deny every one of your infamous imputations,' said he.
'That's not the question,' said I. 'I'll go to your father,' said he.
'You won't be let in,' said I. 'I'll write to him,' said he. 'He won't
receive your letter,' said I. There we came to a pull-up. _He_ began
to stammer, and _I_ refreshed myself with a pinch of snuff. Finding it
wouldn't do, he threw off the Roman at last, and resumed the
Tradesman. 'Even supposing I consented to this abominable compromise,
what is to become of my daughter?' he asked. 'Just what becomes of
other people who have comfortable annuities to live on,' I answered.
'Affection for my deeply-wronged child half inclines me to consult her
wishes, before we settle anything--I'll go up-stairs,' said he. 'And
I'll wait for you down here,' said I."
"Did he object to that?"
"Not he. He went up-stairs, and in a few minutes ran down again, with
an open letter in his hand, looking as if the devil was after him
before his time. At the last three or four stairs, he tripped, caught
at the bannisters, dropped the letter over them in doing so, tumbled
into the passage in such a fury and fright that he looked like a
madman, tore his hat off a peg, and rushed out. I just heard him say
his daughter should come back, if he put a straight waistcoat on her,
as he passed the door. Between his tumble, his passion, and his hurry,
he never thought of coming back for the letter he had dropped over the
bannisters. I picked it up before I went away, suspecting it might be
good evidence on our side; and I was right. Read it yourself; Basil;
you have every moral and legal claim on the precious document--and
here it is."
I took the letter, and read (in Mannion's handwriting) these words,
dated from the hospital:--
"I have received your last note, and cannot wonder that you are
getting impatient under restraint. But, remember, that if you had not
acted as I warned you beforehand to act in case of accidents--if you
had not protested innocence to your father, and preserved total
silence towards your mother; if you had not kept in close retirement,
behaving like a domestic martyr, and avoiding, in your character of a
victim, all voluntary mention of your husband's name--your position
might have been a very awkward one. Not being able to help you, the
only thing I could do was to teach you how to help yourself. I gave
you the lesson, and you have been wise enough to profit by it.
"The time has now come for a change in my plans. I have suffered a
relapse; and the date of my discharge from this place is still
uncertain. I doubt the security, both on your account, and on mine, of
still leaving you at your father's house, to await my cure. Come to me
here, therefore, to-morrow, at any hour when you can get away
unperceived. You will be let in as a visitor, and shown to my bedside,
if you ask for Mr. Turner--the name I have given to the hospital
authorities. Through the help of a friend outside these walls, I have
arranged for a lodging in which you can live undiscovered, until I am
discharged and can join you. You can come here twice a week, if you
like, and you had better do so, to accustom yourself to the sight of
my injuries. I told you in my first letter how and where they had been
inflicted--when you see them with your own eyes, you will be best
prepared to hear what my future purposes are, and how you can aid
them.
R. M."
This was evidently the letter about which I had been consulted by the
servant at North Villa; the date corresponded with the date of
Mannion's letter to me. I noticed that the envelope was missing, and
asked Ralph whether he had got it.
"No," he replied; "Sherwin dropped the letter just in the state in
which I have given it to you. I suspect the girl took away the
envelope with her, thinking that the letter which she left behind her
was inside. But the loss of the envelope doesn't matter. Look there:
the fellow has written her name at the bottom of the leaf; as coolly
as if it was an ordinary correspondence. She is identified with the
letter, and that's all we want in our future dealings with her
father."
"But, Ralph, do you think--"
"Do I think her father will get her back? If he's in time to catch her
at the hospital, he assuredly will. If not, we shall have some little
trouble on our side, I suspect. This seems to me to be how the matter
stands now, Basil:--After that letter, and her running away, Sherwin
will have nothing for it but to hold his tongue about her innocence;
we may consider _him_ as settled and done with. As for the other
rascal, Mannion, he certainly writes as if he meant to do something
dangerous. If he really does attempt to annoy us, we will mark him
again (I'll do it next time, by way of a little change!); _he_ has no
marriage certificate to shake over our heads, at any rate. What's the
matter now?--you're looking pale again."
I _felt_ that my colour was changing, while he spoke. There was
something ominous in the contrast which, at that moment, I could not
fail to draw between Mannion's enmity, as Ralph ignorantly estimated
it, and as I really knew it. Already the first step towards the
conspiracy with which I was threatened, had been taken by the
departure of Sherwin's daughter from her father's house. Should I, at
this earliest warning of coming events, show my brother the letter I
had received from Mannion? No! such defence against the dangers
threatened in it as Ralph would be sure to counsel, and to put in
practice, might only include _him_ in the life-long persecution which
menaced _me._ When he repeated his remark about my sudden paleness, I
merely accounted for it by some common-place excuse, and begged him to
proceed.
"I suppose, Basil," he said, "the truth is, that you can't help being
a little shocked--though you could expect nothing better from the
girl--at her boldly following this fellow Mannion, even to the
hospital" (Ralph was right; in spite of myself, this feeling was one
among the many which now influenced me.) "Setting that aside, however,
we are quite ready, I take it, to let her stick to her choice, and
live just as she pleases, so long as she doesn't live under our name.
There is the great fear and great difficulty now! If Sherwin can't
find her, we must; otherwise, we can never feel certain that she is
not incurring all sorts of debts as your wife. If her father gets her
back, I shall be able to bring her to terms at North Villa; if not, I
must get speech of her, wherever she happens to be hidden. She's the
only thorn in our side now, and we must pull her out with gold pincers
immediately. Don't you see that, Basil?"
"I see it, Ralph!"
"Very well. Either to-night or to-morrow morning, I'll communicate
with Sherwin, and find out whether he has laid hands on her. If he
hasn't, we must go to the hospital, and see what we can discover for
ourselves. Don't look miserable and downhearted, Basil, I'll go with
you: you needn't see her again, or the man either; but you must come
with me, for I may be obliged to make use of you. And now, I'm off for
to-day, in good earnest. I must get back to Mrs. Ralph (unfortunately
she happens to be one of the most sensitive women in the world), or
she will be sending to advertise me in the newspapers. We shall pull
through this, my dear fellow--you will see we shall! By the bye, you
don't know of a nice little detached house in the Brompton
neighbourhood, do you? Most of my old theatrical friends live about
there--a detached house, mind! The fact is, I have taken to the violin
lately (I wonder what I shall take to next?); Mrs. Ralph accompanies
me on the pianoforte; and we might be an execrable nuisance to very
near neighbours--that's all! You don't know of a house? Never mind; I
can go to an agent, or something of that sort. Clara shall know
to-night that we are moving prosperously, if I can only give the
worthiest creature in the world the slip: she's a little obstinate,
but, I assure you, a really superior woman. Only think of my dropping
down to playing the fiddle, and paying rent and taxes in a suburban
villa! How are the fast men fallen! Good bye, Basil, good bye!"