WHEN Joseph Wylie disappeared from the scene, Nancy Rouse made a
discovery which very often follows the dismissal of a suitor--that she
was considerably more attached to him than she had thought. The house
became dull, the subordinate washerwomen languid; their taciturnity
irritated and depressed Nancy by turns.
In the midst of this, Michael Penfold discovered that Helen had come back
safe. He came into her parlor, beaming with satisfaction, and told her of
the good news. It gave her immense delight at first. But, when she had
got used to her joy on that score, she began to think she had used Joe
Wylie very ill. Now that Helen was saved, she could no longer realize
that Wylie was so very much to blame.
She even persuaded herself that his disappearance was the act of a justly
offended man; and, as he belonged to a class of whose good sense she had
a poor opinion, she was tormented with fears that he would do some
desperate act--drown himself, or go to sea; or, worst of all, marry some
trollop. She became very anxious and unhappy. Before this misfortune she
used to go about singing the first verse of a song, and whistling the
next, like any plowboy; an eccentric performance, but it made the house
gay. Now both song and whistle were suspended! and, instead, it was all
hard work and hard crying; turn about.
She attached herself to Michael Penfold because he had known trouble, and
was sympathetic. And these two opened their hearts to one another, and
formed a friendship that was very honest and touching.
The scene of their conversation and mutual consolation was Nancy's
parlor; a little mite of a room she had partitioned off from her
business. "For," said she, "a lady I'll be--after my work is done--if it
is only in a cupboard." The room had a remarkably large fireplace, which
had originally warmed the whole floor, but now was used as a ventilator
only. The gas would have been stifling without it. As for lighting a fire
in it, that was out of the question.
On a certain evening, soon after Mr. Penfold's return from Scotland, the
pair sat over their tea, and the conversation fell on the missing
sweetheart. Michael had been thinking it over, and was full of
encouragement. He said:
"Miss Rouse, something tells me that, if poor Mr. Wylie could only know
your heart, he would turn up again directly. What we ought to do is to
send somebody to look for him in all the sailors' haunts--some sharp
fellow-- Dear me, what a knocking they keep up next door!"
"Oh, that is always the way when one wants a quiet chat. Drat the woman!
I'll have her indicted."
"No, you won't, Miss Rouse. She is a poor soul, and has got no business
except letting lodgings; she is not like you. But I do hope she will be
so kind as not to come quite through the wall."
"Dear heart!" said Nancy, "go on, and never mind her noise, which it is
worse than a horgan-grinder."
"Well, then, if you can't find him that way, I say--Advertise."
"Me!" cried Nancy, turning very red. "Do I look like a woman as would
advertise for a man?"
"No, ma'am. Quite the reverse. But what I mean is, you might put in
something not too plain. For instance: If J. W. will return to N. R., all
will be forgotten and forgiven."
"He'd have the upper hand of me for life," said Nancy. "No, no; I won't
advertise for the fool. What right had he to run off at the first word?
He ought to know my bark is worse than my bite by this time. You can,
though."
"Me bite, ma'am?" said the old gentleman.
"Bite? no. Advertise, since you're so fond of it. Come, you sit down and
write one; and I'll pay for it, for that matter."
Michael sat down, and drew up the following: "If Mr. Joseph Wylie will
call on Michael Penfold, at No. 3 E. C., he will hear of something to his
advantage."
"To his advantage?" said Nancy, doubtfully. "Why not tell him the truth?"
"Why, that is the truth, ma'am. Isn't it to his advantage to be
reconciled to an honest, virtuous, painstaking lady, that honors him with
her affection--and me with her friendship? Besides, it is the common
form; and there is nothing like sticking to form."
"Mr. Penfold," said Nancy, "any one can see you was born a gentleman; and
I am a deal prouder to have you and your washing than I should him as
pays you your wages. Pale eyes--pale hair--pale eyebrows--I wouldn't
trust him to mangle a duster."
"Oh, Miss Rouse! Pray don't disparage my good master to me."
"I can't help it, sir. Thought is free, especially in this here
compartment. Better speak one's mind than die o' the sulks. So shut your
ear when my music jars. But one every other day is enough. If he won't
come back for that, why, he must go, and I must look out for another;
there's as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it. Still, I'll not
deny I have a great respect for poor Joe. Oh, Mr. Penfold, what shall I
do! Oh, oh, oh!"
"There, there," said Michael, "I'll put this into the _Times_ every day."
"You are a good soul, Mr. Penfold. Oh--oh, oh!"
When he had finished the advertisement in a clerkly hand, and she had
finished her cry, she felt comparatively comfortable, and favored Mr.
Penfold with some reflections.
"Dear heart, Mr. Penfold, how you and I do take to one another, to be
sure. But so we ought; for we are honest folk, the pair, and has had a
hard time. Don't it never strike you rather curious that two thousand
pounds was at the bottom of both our troubles, yourn and mine? I might
have married Joe, and been a happy woman with him; but the Devil puts in
my head-- There you go again hammering! Life ain't worth having next door
to that lodging-house. Drat the woman, if she must peck, why don't she go
in the churchyard and peck her own grave; which we shall never be quiet
till she is there. And these here gimcrack houses, they won't stand no
more pecking at than a soap-sud. Ay, that's what hurts me, Mr. Penfold.
The Lord had given him and me health and strength and honesty; our
betters had wed for love and wrought for money, as the saying is; but I
must go again Nature, that cried 'Come couple'; and must bargain for two
thousand pounds. So now I've lost the man, and not got the money, nor
never shall. And, if I had, I'd burn-- Ah--ah--ah--ah--ah!"
This tirade ended in stifled screams of terror, caused by the sudden
appearance of a human hand, in a place and in a manner well adapted to
shake the stoutest laundress's nerves.
This hand came through the brick-work of the chimney-place, and there
remained a moment or two. Then slowly retired, and as it retired
something was heard to fall upon the shavings and tinsel of the
fireplace.
Nancy, by a feminine impulse, put her hands before her face, to hide this
supernatural hand; and, when she found courage to withdraw them, and
glare at the place, there was no aperture whatever in the brick-work;
and, consequently, the hand appeared to have traversed the solid
material, both coming and going.
"Oh, Mr. Penfold," cried Nancy; "I'm a sinful woman. This comes of
talking of the Devil arter sunset;" and she sat trembling so that the
very floor shook.
Mr. Penfold's nerves were not strong. He and Nancy both huddled together
for mutual protection, and their faces had not a vestige of color left in
them.
However, after a period of general paralysis, Penfold whispered:
"I heard it drop something on the shavings."
"Then we shall be all in a blaze o' brimstone," shrieked Nancy, wringing
her hands.
And they waited to see.
Then, as no conflagration took place, Mr. Penfold got up, and said he
must go and see what it was the hand had dropped.
Nancy, in whom curiosity was beginning to battle with terror, let him go
to the fireplace without a word of objection, and then cried out:
"Don't go anigh it, sir; it will do you a mischief; don't touch, it
whatever. _Take the tongs."_
He took the tongs, and presently flung into the middle of the room a
small oilskin packet. This, as it lay on the ground, they both eyed like
two deer glowering at a piece of red cloth, and ready to leap back over
the moon if it should show signs of biting. But oil-skin is not
preternatural, nor has tradition connected it, however remotely, with the
Enemy of man.
Consequently, a great revulsion took place in Nancy, and she passed from
fear to indignation at having been frightened so.
She ran to the fireplace, and, putting her head up the chimney, screamed,
"Heave your dirt where you heave your love, ye Brazen!"
While she was objurgating her neighbor, whom, with feminine justice, she
held responsible for every act done in her house, Penfold undid the
packet, and Nancy returned to her seat, with her mind more at ease, to
examine the contents.
"Bank-notes!" cried Penfold.
"Ay," said Nancy incredulously, "they do look like bank-notes, and feel
like 'em; but they ain't wrote like them. Bank-notes ain't wrote black
like that in the left-hand corner."
Penfold explained.
"Ten-pound notes are not, nor fives; but large notes are. These are all
fifties."
"Fifty whats?"
"Fifty pounds."
"What, each of them bits of paper worth fifty pounds?"
"Yes. Let us count them; 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14,
15, 16, 17, 18--Oh, Lord!--20. Why, that is two thousand pounds--just two
thousand pounds. It is the very sum that ruined me; it did not belong to
me, and it's being in the house ruined my poor Robert. And this does not
belong to you. Lock all the doors, bar all the windows, and burn them
before the police come."
"Wait a bit," said Nancy--"wait a bit." They sat on each side of the
notes; Penfold agitated and terrified, Nancy confounded and perplexed.