ANOTHER RECOGNITION.
The same day which had witnessed the departure from Homburg of Mr. and
Mrs. Carruthers, and the commencement of the journey which had London
for its destination, beheld that city in an unusually agreeable aspect
in point of weather. The sun was warm and bright; the sadness and
sweetness of autumn filled the air, and lent their poetical charm to
the prosaic streets, and impressed themselves sensibly and
unacknowledged upon the prosaic dwellers therein. People who had no
business or pleasure, or combination of both, to call them abroad,
went out on that day, and rode or drove or walked, because the rare
beauty and charm of the day imperatively required such homage. Women
and children were out in the Parks, and, but for the fallen leaves
upon the ground, and the peculiar sigh which made itself heard now and
again among the trees--a sound which the ear that has once learned to
distinguish it never fails to catch when the summer is dead--the
summer might be supposed to be still living.
The brightest thoroughfare in London, Piccadilly, was looking very
bright that autumn day, with all the windows of the few houses which
can lay claim to anything of the beauty of grandeur glittering in the
sun, and an astounding display of carriages, considering the season,
enlivening the broad sloping road. The Greek Park was dotted over with
groups of people, as in the summer-time, and along the broad path
beyond the iron railings solitary pedestrians walked or loitered,
unmolested by weather, just as it suited their fancy. The few and
far-between benches had their occupants, of whom some had books, some
cigars, and some babies. Perambulators were not wanting, neither were
irascible elderly gentlemen to swear at them. It was happily too hot
for hoops.
This exceptional day was at its best and brightest when Harriet Routh
came down the street in which she lived, crossed Piccadilly, and
entered the Park. She was, as usual, very plainly dressed, and her
manner had lost none of its ordinary quietude. Nevertheless, a close
observer would have seen that she looked and breathed like a person in
need of free fresh air, of movement, of freedom; that though the
scene, the place in which she found herself, was indifferent to her,
perhaps wholly unobserved by her, the influence upon her physical
condition was salutary. She did not cross the grass, but walked
slowly, and with her eyes turned earthwards, along the broad path near
the railings. Occasionally she looked up, and lifted her head, as if
to inhale as much as possible of the fresh air, then fell into her
former attitude again, and continued her walk. Her face bore an
expression of intense thought--the look of one who had brought a
subject out with her in her mind, which subject she was resolved to
think out, to look at in every aspect, to bring to a final decision.
She kept a straight, clear course in her walk, looking neither to the
right nor to the left, pondering deeply, as might have been seen by
the steady tension of her low white forehead and the firm set of her
lips. At last she paused, when she had traversed the entire length of
the walk several times, and looked about her for an unoccupied seat.
She descried one, with no nearer neighbour than the figure of a boy,
not exactly ragged, but very shabby, extended on the grass beside it,
resting on his elbows, with a fur cap pulled down over his eyes,
leaving the greater portion of a tangled head exposed to view, and a
penny illustrated journal, whose contents, judging by the intentness
with which he was devouring them, must have been of a highly
sensational character, stretched out on the ground before him. Harriet
took no notice of the boy, nor did he perceive her, when she seated
herself on the bench by which he lay. She sat down noiselessly, folded
her hands, and let her head fall forward, looking out with the distant
absorbed gaze which had become habitual to her. She sat very still,
and never for a moment did the purpose in her face relax. She was
thinking, she was not dreaming.
After a while she looked at her watch, and rose. At the first step
which she made on the grass, and towards the railings, her silk dress
rustled over the outspread paper from which the boy was reading. She
looked down, apologetically; the boy looked up angrily, and then Mr.
James Swain jumped up, and made the movement which in his code of
manners passed for a bow to Harriet.
"Ah, is it you, Jim?" she said. "Are you not busy to-day?"
"No, mum, I ain't," said Jim. "Mr. Routh hadn't no messages this
mornin', and I ain't been lucky since."
"It's a nice day for you to have a little time to yourself," said
Harriet. "I hope you got all the commissions I left for you."
"I did, mum, and thank'ee," said Jim. Harriet had remembered the
street-boy when she was leaving home, and had charged her servants to
employ him. She had not the slightest suspicion of the extensive use
which Routh was in the habit of making of his services.
"The windows is to be cleaned," said Jim, suggestively. "There warn't
time, mum; you come home so unexpected."
"Very well," said Harriet. "I suppose you can clean them, can't you?"
"Mr. Harris said as I might try," returned Jim. Mr. Harris was the
irreproachable man-servant attached to Routh's modest establishment in
Mayfair.
Harriet moved on, and Jim Swain stood still, looking after her. She
was a puzzle to him, and an object of constant interest. By little and
little Jim had come to know a good deal about Stewart Routh and his
daily life, and he had abandoned the first theory which had presented
itself to his mind, and which had owed its inspiration to the
illustrated penny literature which formed his intellectual food. He no
longer believed Harriet a persecuted victim of her husband's
groundless jealousy. For reasons of his own, equally strong and
secret, Mr. James Swain had taken a lively interest in George Dallas,
had experienced certain emotions on seeing him, and had taken very
kindly to the business of espionage in which Routh had engaged his
services, without affording him any indication of its purpose. At
first the boy had conceived an idea that Dallas was the object of
Harriet's supposed preference and Routh's supposed jealousy, but he
abandoned that notion very speedily, and since then he had not
succeeded in forming any new theory to his satisfaction. From the
conversation of the servants, Jim had learned that Mr. Dallas and Mr.
Felton, with whose personal appearance the boy was equally familiar,
had gone to the same place in foreign parts as that to which Mr. and
Mrs. Routh had gone a little later, and knowing this, Jim thought more
and more frequently over certain circumstances which he had kept to
himself with extraordinary discretion--discretion, indeed, which
nothing but the strongest possible sense of self-interest, as
inseparable from its observance, could have enabled him to preserve.
"He don't like him," Jim would say to himself, with frequent
repetition, "he don't like him, can't abear him; I knows that precious
well. And he can't be afraid of him, as I can see, for he certainly
warn't neither in nor near _that_ business, and I'm blest if he knows
anythin' about it. Wotever can he want to know all about him for, and
keep a-follerin' him about? It ain't for no good as _he_ follers
anybody, I'll take my davy." And Mr. James Swain's daily reflections
invariably terminated with that formula, which was indeed a simple and
accurate statement of the boy's belief. His abandonment of his
theories concerning Harriet had worked no change in his mind towards
Routh. His familiarity with Routh's servants, his being in a manner
free of the house--free, but under the due amount of inspection
and suspicion justified by his low estate--enlightened him as to
Harriet's domestic position, and made him wonder exceedingly, in his
half-simple, half-knowing way, how "the like of her could be spoony on
sich a cove as him," which was Mr. James Swain's fashion of expressing
his sense of the moral disparity between the husband and wife.
This was the second time that Jim had seen Mrs. Routh since her return
from the trip which he had been told was specially undertaken for the
benefit of her health. The first time was on the day of her arrival,
when Jim had fortunately been "handy," and had helped with the
luggage. He had made his observations then upon Harriet's appearance
with all his native impudence; for though the element of suspicion,
which lent his interest in Harriet something tragic, had died out of
it, that interest continued lively; but he had admitted that it was
pardonable that she should look "precious blue and funky" after a
journey.
But looking at her more attentively on this second occasion, and when
there was no journey in the case, Jim arrived at the conclusion that
whatever had "ailed" Mrs. Routh before she left home ailed her still.
"Uncommon ill she do look, to be sure," he said to himself, as he
crumpled up the exciting fiction which he had been reading, and which
"left off" at a peculiarly thrilling crisis, and wedged the
illustrated journal into his cap; "uncommon ill. Wot's the good of all
them baths and things, if she's to come back lookin' like this--a deal
worse, _I_ call it, and much miserabler in her mind? Wotever ails
her?"
At this point in his cogitations Jim began to move on, slowly indeed,
and keeping his eye on Harriet, who had reached one of the gates of
the Park opening into Piccadilly, had passed through it, and was just
about to cross to the opposite side. She stood for a moment
irresolute, then turned, came through the gate again, and rapidly
approached Jim, beckoning him towards her as she came.
She stood still as the boy ran up to her, and pointed to one of the
smaller but much decorated houses on the opposite side of the way.
"Jim," she said, "you see that house, where the wide windows are, all
one pane, and the bright balconies there, the house with the wide
door, and the heavy carved railings?"
"Yes, mum, I see," said Jim.
"Go to that house, and ask if anything has been heard from Mr. Felton.
Ask when he is expected--he has taken lodgings there--whether any
other gentleman is expected to come with him--and, Jim, be sure to ask
in particular whether any letters have been received for Mr. Felton,
and sent on to him."
Jim Swain looked at Harriet. There was something strange as well as
intelligent in the look, but she saw only the intelligence. It
harmonized with the thought in her own mind, and she replied to it:
"You think, perhaps, they may not like to tell you," she said.
"Perhaps they may not. But you may tell whoever answers you that Mr.
Felton's sister wishes to know--" Jim still looked at her, and Harriet
felt that he did so, but this time she did not catch his eye. "Be
quick," she said, "and bring me the answer yonder." She pointed to the
bench on which she had been sitting, and which was beyond the reach of
observation from the house she had indicated, and walked away towards
it as she ceased speaking. "It cannot be helped," she said. "The risk
is a trifling one at worst, and must be run. I could not put Harris in
communication with any one on a false pretext, and I can trust this
boy so far not to say he has asked this question for me. I cannot bear
it any longer. I must know how much time there is before me. I _must_
have so much certainty; if not, I shall go mad."
She had reached the bench now, and sat down in the former attitude.
"Once before I asked myself," she muttered, "if I was going mad. I did
not feel more like it then than now--not so like it, indeed. I knew
what he was doing then, I had found him out. But I don't know now--I
don't know now. I am in the dark, and the tide is rising."
Jim came back from his errand. He had been civilly answered by a
woman-servant. Mr. Felton was expected in a few days; the exact day
was not yet named. No letters had been received for him. He had sent
no orders relative to the forwarding of any. Having delivered his
message so far, Jim Swain hesitated. Harriet understood the reticence,
and spared a momentary thought for passing wonderment at this little
touch of delicacy in so unpromising a subject for the exhibition of
the finer emotions.
"Did the person who answered you ask you any question?" she said.
"No, mum," said Jim, relieved. Harriet said no more, she knew he had
not made the false statement which had proved to be needless, and
something assured her that there was no necessity that she should
caution Jim to say nothing concerning this commission. Now she went
away in reality--went home. She ascended the stairs to her room, and
looked at her face in a glass as she took her bonnet off, and thought,
"I wonder if people can see in my face that I am turning into a
coward, and am going mad? I could not knock at that door and ask that
simple, natural question for myself--_I could not_: and a little while
ago, _since_--ay, _long-since_--I could have done anything. But not
now--not now. When the time comes, when the waiting is over, when the
suspense is ended, then I may be strong again, if indeed I am not
quite mad by then; but now--now I cannot do anything--I cannot even
_wait_."
The fixed look had left her face, and was succeeded by a painful
wildness, and an expression almost like that of some present physical
terror. She pressed her hands upon her temples and rocked herself to
and fro, but there was no wild abandonment of grief in the gesture.
Presently she began to moan, but all unconsciously; for catching the
sound after a little, she checked it angrily. Then she took up some
needlework, but it dropped from her hands after a few minutes. She
started up, and said, quite aloud, "It's no use--it's no use; I _must_
have rest!" Then she unlocked her dressing-case, took out a bottle of
laudanum, poured some of the contents into a glass of water, drank the
mixture, and lay down upon her bed. She was soon in a deep sleep which
seemed peaceful and full of rest. It was undisturbed. A servant came
into the room, but did not arouse her, and it was understood in the
house that "master" would probably not return to dinner.
Mr. James Swain turned his steps in the direction of the delectable
region in which his home was situated. He was in so far more fortunate
than many of his class that he had a home, though a wretched one. It
consisted of a dingy little room at the back of the third story in a
rickety house in Strutton-ground, and was shared with a decrepit
female, the elder sister of the boy's dead mother, who earned a
frightfully insufficient subsistence by shoe-binding. More precarious
than ever was this fragile means of living now, for her sight was
failing, as her strength had failed. But things had been looking up
with Jim of late, odd jobs had been plenty, his services had reached
in certain quarters the status of recognized facts, and the street-boy
was kind to his old relative. They were queer people, but not
altogether uninteresting, and, strange to say, by no means unhappy.
Old Sally had never been taught anything herself but shoe-binding, or
she would have imparted instruction to Jim. Now Jim had learned to
read in his mother's lifetime, and before his father had "come to
grief" and been no more heard of, and it was consequently he who
imparted instruction to his aunt. She was as fond of penny romances as
the boy himself, and was wonderfully quick at discovering the
impenetrable mysteries and unwinding the labyrinthine webs of those
amazing productions. So Jim, cheered by the prospect of a lucrative
job for the morrow, purchased a fresh and intensely horrible
pennyworth by the way, and devoted himself for the evening to the
delectation of old Sally, who liked her murders, as she liked her tea
and her snuff, strongly flavoured.
The pennyworth lasted a good while, for Jim read slowly and
elaborately, and conversational digressions occurred frequently. The
heroine of the story, a proud and peerless peeress, was peculiarly
fascinating to the reader and the listener.
"Lor, Jim," said old Sally, when the last line had been spelled over,
and Jim was reluctantly obliged to confess that that was "all on
it"--"lor, Jim, to think of that sweet pretty creetur, Rorer."--the
angelic victim of the story was known to mortals as Aurora,--"knowing
as how her ladyship 'ad been and done it all, and dyin' all alone in
the moonshine, along o' thinkin' on her mother's villany."
Ordinarily, when Jim Swain lay down on his flock bed in the corner, he
went to sleep with enviable rapidity; but the old woman's words had
touched some chord of association or wonder in his clumsily arranged
but not unintelligent mind; so that long after old Sally, in her
corner of her little room, was sound asleep, Jim sat up hastily, ran
his hands through his tangled hair, and said aloud:
"Good Lord! that's it! She's _sure_ she knows it, she knows he did it,
and she hidin' on it, and kiverin' of it up, and it's killing her."
The stipulated hour in the morning beheld Jim Swain engaged in the
task of window-cleaning, not very unpleasant in such weather. He
pursued his occupation with unusual seriousness; the impression of the
previous night remained upon him.
The back parlour, called, of course, the "study" in Routh's house,
deserved the name as much or as little as such rooms ordinarily merit
it. The master of the house, at least, used the room habitually,
reading there a little, and writing a great deal. He had been sitting
before a bureau, which occupied a space to the right of the only
window in the apartment, for some time, when Harriet came to ask him
if the boy, who was cleaning the windows, might go on with that one.
"Certainly," said Routh, absently; "he won't disturb me."
It would have required something of more importance than the presence
of a boy on the other side of the window to disturb Routh. He was
arranging papers with the utmost intentness. The drawers of the bureau
were open on either side, the turned-down desk was covered with
papers, some tied up in packets, others open: a large sheet, on which
lines of figures were traced, lay on the blotting-pad. The dark
expression most familiar to it was upon Stewart Routh's face that
morning, and the tightly compressed lips never unclosed for a moment
as he pursued his task. Jim Swain, on the outside of the window, which
was defended by a narrow balcony and railing, could see him
distinctly, and looked at him with much eagerness while he polished
the panes. It was a fixed belief with Jim that Routh was always "up
to" something, and the boy was apt to discover confirmation in the
simplest actions of his patron. Had another observer of Routh's
demeanour been present, he might, probably, have shared Jim's
impression; for the man's manner was intensely preoccupied. He read
and wrote, sorted papers, tied them up, and put them away, with
unremitting industry.
Presently he stretched his hand up to a small drawer in the upper
compartment of the bureau; but, instead of taking a paper or a packet
from it, he took down the drawer itself, placed it on the desk before
him, and began to turn over its contents with a still more darkly
frowning face. Jim, at the corner of the window furthest from him,
watched him so closely that he suspended the process of polishing; but
Routh did not notice the cessation. Presently he came upon the papers
which he had looked for, and was putting them into the breast-pocket
of his coat, when he struck the drawer with his elbow, and knocked it
off the desk. It fell on the floor, and its contents were scattered
over the carpet. Among them was an object which rolled away into the
window, and immediately caught the attention of Jim Swain. The boy
looked at it, through the glass, with eyes in which amazement and fear
contended. Routh picked up the contents of the drawer, all but this
one object, and looked impatiently about in search of it. Then Jim,
desperately anxious to see this thing nearer, took a resolution. He
tapped at the window, and signed to Routh to open it and let him in.
Routh, surprised, did so.
"Here it is, sir," said Jim, not entering the room, but sprawling
over the window-sill, and groping with his long hands along the border
of a rug which sheltered the object of Routh's search from his
observation--"here it is, sir. I see it when it fell, and I knowed
you couldn't see it from where you was."
The boy looked greedily at the object in his hand, and rolled it about
once or twice before he handed it to Routh, who took it from him with
a careless "Thank you." His preoccupied manner was still upon him.
Then Jim shut down the window again from the outside and resumed his
polishing. Routh replaced the drawer. Jim tried very hard to see where
he placed the object he had held for a moment in his hand, but he
could not succeed. Then Routh locked the bureau, and, opening a door
of communication with the dining-room, Jim caught a momentary sight of
Harriet sitting at the table, and went to his breakfast.
The seriousness of the previous night had grown and deepened over the
boy. Abandoning the pursuit of odd jobs precisely at the hour of the
day when he usually found them most plentiful, Jim took his way
homewards with headlong speed. Arrived within sight of the wretched
houses, he paused. He did not wish any one to see what he was going to
do. Fortune favoured him. As he stood irresolute at one end of the
narrow street, his aunt came out of the door. She was going, he knew,
to do her humble shopping, which consisted, for the most part, in
haggling with costermongers by the side of their carts, and cheapening
poor vegetables at the stalls. She would not be coming back just
yet. He waited until she had turned the opposite corner, and then
plunged into the open doorway and up the dark staircase. Arrived at
the room which formed his sole habitation, Jim shut the door, and
unceremoniously pulled away his flock bed, rolled up neatly enough in
a corner, from the wall. This wall was covered with a paper once
gaudy, now dreary with the utter dreariness of dirt charged on bright
colour, and had a wooden surbase about a foot in depth. Above the
surbase there was a hole, not so large as to be easily remarked in a
place where dilapidation of every sort was the usual state of things,
and in this hole Jim insinuated his hand. There was suggestive
dexterity in the way he did this; the lithe fingers had suppleness and
readiness, swiftness and accuracy of touch, which, if there had been
any one to care for the boy, that one would doubtless have noticed
with regret. If he were not already a thief, Jim Swain possessed some
of the physical requisites for that profession. Presently he withdrew
the lithe hand, and looked steadfastly at the object which it had
extracted from the hole in the wall. He turned it over and over, he
examined it within and without, then he put it back again in the
hiding-place, and replaced his bed.
Old Sally was much surprised, when she returned from her "marketing,"
to find her nephew at home. The apparition of Jim in the daytime,
except on stray occasions, when, fortune being unpropitious, he would
come home to see what his aunt could do for him in the way of dinner,
was exceedingly rare. But he explained it now by saying he was tired,
and had been well paid for a job he had done that morning. He proposed
that he should get something choice that day for dinner, and stay "in"
until evening.
"There's a new play at the 'Delphi to-night," said Jim, "and there'll
be plenty of jobs down that way, callin' cabs and helpin' visitors to
the hupper circles, as can't afford 'em, across the street. They're
awful bewildered, mostly, when they come out of the theayter, and
dreadful timid of the 'busses."
Very silent, and apparently sleepy, was Mr. James Swain all day; and
as his old aunt sat patiently toiling by the window, he lay upon his
bed with his knees up, and his hands crossed on the top of his tousled
head. Allowing for the difference created by refinement, education,
and the habit of thinking on a system, only possible to the educated,
there was some resemblance in the expression of the boy's face to that
which Harriet Routh's had worn yesterday, when she had carried the
burden of her thoughts, under the clear sky and the sunshine, in the
Green Park. Jim Swain, too, looked as if he alone, unaided as she, was
thinking it out.
The new play at the Adelphi was very successful. The theatre was
crowded; the autumnal venture had turned out admirably; and though the
audience could not be called fashionable, it was perhaps rather more
animated and satisfactory in consequence. Jim Swain's most sanguine
hopes were realized. The night was fine; people did not mind waiting a
few minutes; good humour and threepenny-pieces were abundant. A
tolerable sprinkling of private carriages relieved the plebeian
plenitude of cabs, and these vehicles were called up with an energy to
which, in the season, human nature would hardly have been equal. Tim
was extremely active in summoning them, and had just returned
breathless to the portico of the theatre to catch another name, and
rush away again to proclaim it to the listening flunkies, when he was
arrested by the sight of a gentleman whose face he knew, who was
standing under the garish light of the entry with a lady, whose hand
rested on his arm, and whose face was turned upward towards him, so
that the full glare of the light fell upon it. Her tall figure, the
splendour of her dress, the careless grace of her attitude, the
appearance of unconsciousness of the general observation she was
attracting, even in that self-engrossed crowd--pardonably
self-engrossed, considering that it was occupied with the care of
getting home as soon as possible--would have made her a sufficiently
remarkable object to attract Jim's attention; but there was more than
perception of all these things in the look which he fixed upon her. He
stood still, a little in the shade. Routh did not see him. The lady
was looking at him, and he saw nothing but her face--nothing but the
brilliant dark eyes, so bright for all the world, so soft for only
him; nothing but the crimson lips, which trembled; the rose-tinted
cheek, which paled only at his words--only under his glance.
Her carriage was called. She walked towards it with her dress sweeping
round her, and the other people fell back, and let her pass,
naturally, and not by the urgency of the dingy officials who brawl and
fight on such occasions. When she had taken her seat in the carriage,
Routh followed her, and then Jim started forward. There was no
footman, so the man with the badge and the lantern, well known and
prized of unprotected females with a taste for theatre-going, asked,
"Where to?" Jim, quite close, and totally unobserved, listened
eagerly. The lady's voice replied, "Home."
"Home," said the man with the lantern, and instantly turned his
attention to the next departures. Jim Swain glanced at the carriage;
it had no rumble, only a footboard. As it drove off slowly, for the
Strand was crowded, he dashed into the jumble of cabs and omnibuses
and followed it, running desperately, but dexterously too, and
succeeded in keeping up with it until, at a point of comparative
obscurity, he clambered up on the footboard.
The carriage rolled westward, and carried Jim Swain with it until it
reached one of the small so-called squares which are situated between
Brompton proper and Chelsea. Then it stopped before a house with a
heavy stone portico and a heavy stone balcony. Jim slid lightly to the
ground, and hid himself in the shelter of the heavy stone portico of
the adjoining house. Routh got out of the carriage; and when the
house-door was opened, and a flood of light issued from it, he handed
out the lady. She stood breathing the sweet air a moment, and the
light once more touched her face and her dress with a rich radiance.
"It's her," said Jim. "It's her--_her_ and _him_."
"What a lovely night!" said Mrs. Ireton P. Bembridge, and then the
door closed on her and Routh, and Jim stood still in his hiding-place
until the carriage had slowly departed to the adjacent mews. Then he
emerged from the portico, went up the steps of the house the lady and
her companion had entered, and looked at the number on the door,
distinctly visible by the light of the gas-jet within.
"Number four," said Jim; "now for the name of the square;" and he
crossed the road, skirted the railings of the enclosed patch of brown
ground and stunted shrubs, and took the opposite side of the way. The
night was clear and bright, and the name of the square was distinctly
legible.
"Hollington-square," said Jim. "They called Mrs. Bembridge's carriage.
I have not a bad head for names, but I'll get Teddy Smith to write
these down. And I can't stand it any longer; I must do something. I'll
try and get Mr. Dallas to let me speak to him when he comes from
abroad, and then I'll tell him all about it. I suppose," said Jim very
ruefully, "if he thinks right to tell, they'll lag me; but it can't be
helped. Almost every one as I've knowed gets lagged some time or
other."