STRANGER THAN MIRACLE GOLD.
Grimsby Street, where Mrs. Grace, Edith's grandmother, had lodgings,
to which Edith Grace had been driven that morning from Victoria, is
one of the humble, dull, dingy, thoroughfares formed of small private
houses in Chelsea. The ground here is very low and very flat. The
houses have all half-sunken basements, bow windows on the first
floor and two floors above. They are all painted of the same light,
washed-out drab. They all have light drab Venetian blinds. All have
tiny areas paved with light drab flags; all three steps rising six or
eight inches each from the front gate to the front door. All have six
steps descending from the flagged passage to the dark drab, blistered
low house-door under the steps. The aspect of dull, respectable
mediocrity of the whole monotonous street is heart-breaking. The sun,
even of this cloudless June day, did not brighten it. The sun cannot
make washed-out drab look pleasant. From end to end is not a tree or
shrub or creeper, not even a single red brick to break the depressing
uniformity; the chimney-pots are painted drab too. The area-railings
are all black. All the doors are the colour of unpolished oak. The
knockers flat and shapeless and bulged with blistered paint.
Mrs. Grace lived at Number 28, half-way down the street. She rented
the first floor unfurnished. She had lost some money in the disaster
which swallowed up her granddaughter's little all. The utmost economy
now became necessary for the old woman, and she had resolved to give
up the tiny room until now Edith's.
Mrs. Grace was a tall, well-made woman, of seventy years, very upright
and youthful in manner for one of her years. She was of quick nature,
and looked upon all matters from an extremely optimist or pessimist
point of view. This disposition had little or no effect upon her
spirits. It afforded her as much satisfaction to consider the direst,
as the pleasantest, results. She was uniformly good-natured, and
always saw the hand of beneficent Providence in calamity.
That Thursday morning when Edith alighted from the cab, Mrs. Grace was
sitting in her front room window looking out at the placid, drab
street. With an exclamation of surprise and dismay she ran down
stairs, let the girl in, embraced and kissed her vehemently, crying,
"My darling! my darling child! What has happened? Is there no such
place at all as Eltham House, or has it been burned down?"
Edith burst into tears. She was not given to weeping, but the relief
at finding herself at home, after the anxiety and adventures through
which she had gone, broke her down, and, with her arm round the old
woman's waist, she led Mrs. Grace upstairs to the sitting-room.
"Sit down, dear. Sit down and have your cry out. Take off your hat and
rest yourself. Have you had your breakfast? Did you find Mrs. Leigh
dead? or has there been a railway accident? Have your cry out. I am
sorry I ever let you away from my sight. You are not hurt, are you?
Where is your luggage? I declare that cabman has driven off with it. I
must get someone to run after him. Did you take his number?"
"No, mother." Edith called her grandmother simply mother. It was
shorter than grandmother, and more respectful than granny. "I have no
luggage with me. I left it at Eltham House. No accident has happened.
Simply I did not like the place. I could not stop there. I felt
strange and lonely and afraid, and I came back. I ran away."
"And quite right too, dear. I am very, very sorry I ever let you go
away from me. I am sure I do not know how I have got on since you left
me. I thought of telegraphing you to come back. But it's all right now
that you are here again, and I shall take good care you do not go off
from me any more until some fairy prince comes for my child. We shall
be able to live some way together, dear. With a little economy we need
not be separated. Your room is just as you left it; nothing stirred. I
hadn't the courage to go into it. Go into your own room, pet, and take
off your things." She took Edith by the hand and led her to the little
room which had been hers so long, and which seemed so secure after
that large chamber in which she had spent so many minutes of anxiety
and fear at Eltham House.
Then, in few words, she told all to the old woman, omitting the visit
of Leigh to the room when he believed her to be gone. She explained
her flight by saying this Mr. Leigh had wearied her with attentions.
She said nothing about his having asked her to let him kiss her
patriarchally. She wound up by declaring she could not endure him and
his objectionable devotion, and that she had come away by the first
train, having left a note to say the place did not suit her, and that
her luggage was to be sent after her. Then she told of the loss of her
ticket and Mr. Leigh's opportune appearance, and last of all, of his
promise or threat of calling.
The story, as it met the ears of Mrs. Grace, did not show Leigh in a
very offensive light. No doubt he had been at Eltham House when Edith
arrived, and that gave the girl an unpleasant shock, for which she was
not prepared, and which coloured all her subsequent thoughts of him.
She had been a little put out, or offended, or frightened. She had
gone to her room, locked the door and slipped away back to London next
morning. That was all, and the old woman made much of getting the girl
home again, and dwelt little on the reason of her flight. She put down
the cause of flight to an over-sensitive young girl confronted for the
first time with vulgar admiration and the cold world beyond home.
Edith confessed to have eaten no breakfast, and slept nothing during
the night, so Mrs. Grace insisted upon her taking food, and lying down
awhile in her room. Then she came away, shutting the door softly
behind her, and sat in the window-place of the sitting-room to think
over the affair.
Thought with Mrs. Grace was never logical or consequential, and at the
present moment the delight of regaining Edith coloured her ideas with
pleasant hues. It had been sorely against her grain she allowed the
girl to go from her at all. Nothing but her granddaughter's emphatic
wish would have brought her to consent to it. Before they lost their
money they had had enough for modest luxury in these cheap lodgings.
All Edith's money had been engulfed, and some of her own. There was
still enough for the existence of two. Edith was not fit for the
world, and this experience afforded convincing evidence that no other
experiment of the kind should be tried.
When the little man, Leigh had come to arrange about Edith, she looked
on him with scant favour. He was about to take the child from her. He
had told Edith he would call later to-day to ask how she had got on.
She should receive him with pleasure. No doubt he had persecuted Edith
a little, and the girl had been put out and frightened. But was not
this very persecution the means of driving Edith back to her home? And
were not his attentions not only a proof, if proofs were needed, of
the girl's beauty, but also of the unadvisability of letting her stray
from her side? That argument would be conclusive with Edith when they
talked the matter over quietly. If a man of this man's appearance had,
under the potent spell of her beauty, so far forgotten himself as to
offer her marked attentions, how much more persistent and emphatic
would be the homage drawn towards her from other men. Her good looks
had turned the head of this Leigh until he forgot his deformities.
Could she expect other men, men of fair proportions, would be more
insensible or less persistent?
Mrs. Grace did not believe Edith had any insuperable objection to
marriage, or the notion of a suitor. But she knew the girl's pride of
family would prevent her ever attorning to the attentions of an
admirer who was not a gentleman. The Graces of Gracedieu, in
Derbyshire, had come over with the Norman William, and although her
own husband had been only the poor cadet of that house, and her son,
Edith's father, a lawyer, who died young, leaving little for his widow
and orphan, Edith was as proud of her lineage as though through her
veins ran "all the blood of all the Howards." Indeed Edith had
somewhat strained and fantastic theories of family and breeding and
blood. She had always impressed upon Edith that she was a lady by
birth and breeding. Edith was disposed to assume that she was a
duchess by descent. There was no haughtiness or arrogance in her
grand-daughter; the girl was extremely simple, and gentle, and
good-natured; but she kept aloof from the people round her, not out of
disdain, but because of the feeling that she was not of them, that
they would not understand her or she them, and that they by her
presence would only be made unhappy in reflecting on their own humble
origin.
When Edith first declared her resolution of earning her own bread, and
going out as a governess or companion, Mrs. Grace had made sure this
pride of family or birth would successfully bar the way to any
bargain, and when the bargain was struck with Mr. Leigh, she felt
confident the arrangement would not last long. The end had come sooner
than she had dared to hope, and she was delighted. She was thankful to
Leigh for being the cause of Edith's failure to rest from home.
Another aspect of the affair was that Edith had come away from Eltham
House suddenly, without leave, and without notice. This Mr. Leigh was
to call. If he chose to be disagreeable he might urge that breach of
contract and something unpleasant might arise from Edith's hasty act.
The best thing to do was to see the man when he came, and be polite to
him. If he had been a little impudent, over attentive, that was not a
very great fault, and all chance of repetition was past. He had been
most useful to Edith that morning when she found she had no ticket. Of
course, she should pay him the money back--that is, if she had it in
the house, which she doubted--and, of course, she should thank him for
his goodness to her darling daughter. No duties could be plainer than
these. Edith too must apologise for her flight, and thank Mr. Leigh
for his kindness to her this morning. That was obviously necessary,
and then all the unpleasantness would be as though it had never taken
place.
Off and on Mrs. Grace sat at the window until afternoon. At one
o'clock she ate a light luncheon; having by a visit to Edith's room
found that the girl slept, she let her sleep on. In health, after
fatigue and excitement, no one should be waked for food. When the old
woman had finished her meal, and the table was cleared by the
landlady's daughter who attended upon the lodgers, Mrs. Grace took her
work and resumed her place by the window.
Time slipped away, and she began to think that after all Mr. Leigh
might not come, when, lifting her eyes from her work, she saw two men
cross the road and approach the house. One of these was the dwarf, the
other a complete stranger to her, a tall, powerful-looking young man
in a frock-coat and low crowned hat. The two seemed in earnest
discourse. Neither looked up. The younger man leant over the elder as
if listening intently. They disappeared from view and Mrs. Grace heard
them ascend the steps and knock. She hastened to Edith, whom she found
just awake and told her Mr. Leigh had arrived. Then she went back to
the sitting-room and, when word came up that Mr. Leigh and a friend
wished to see her, sent down an invitation for the gentlemen to come
up. The two were shown in.
"I do myself, Mrs. Grace, the great pleasure and honour of calling
upon you to inquire after Miss Grace, and I have taken the liberty of
asking my friend to keep me company," said the little man, bowing
profoundly and sweeping the ground with his hat. His tones were most
respectful, his manner intensely ceremonious.
Mrs. Grace, waving her hand to a couple of chairs, said: "I am glad to
see you and your friend, Mr. Leigh. Will you, please, be seated."
"Mrs. Leigh, my friend, Mr. John Hanbury, whose fame as a public
speaker is as wide as the ground covered by the English language."
"Very happy, indeed, to make Mr. Hanbury's acquaintance, and very much
honoured by Mr. Hanbury's call," said the old lady bowing again, and
then sitting down with another gesture towards the chairs.
The two men sat down. Hanbury felt uncomfortable at Leigh's bombastic
introduction, but at the moment he was completely powerless. He felt
indignant at this man calling him a friend, but Leigh had it in his
power to make him seem ridiculous over a good part of London; there
was nothing for this but to grin and bear it.
"Mr. Hanbury and I happening to have business this way, and I
remembering my promise to call and enquire how Miss Grace is after her
journey this morning, I thought I'd presume on your kindness and bring
him with me."
Mrs. Grace said no apology was necessary, that she was glad Mr. Leigh
had brought his friend.
Hanbury winced again. What had this man brought him here for? What was
the meaning of his hocus-pocus talk about miracle gold. Was this poor
fellow as misshapen in mind as in body? Who was this old woman? Could
she be the woman he had spoken of? Nonsense. She was a lady, no doubt,
not the kind of woman you would expect to find in such a street of
Chelsea, but what then? What of her?
"I hope Miss Grace has taken no harm of her fright?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Leigh? I am sure I don't know what she would have
done only for your opportune appearance on the scene. Here she is, to
thank you in person."
The two men rose.
The door opened and Edith Grace, pale and impassive, entered the room.
Hanbury made a step forward, and cried, "Dora!"
The little man laid his hand on the young man's arm and held him back.
Hanbury looked down at the dwarf in anger and glanced quickly at the
girl.
"My grand-daughter, Miss Grace--Mr. John Hanbury, whose speeches I
have often asked you to read for me, Edith."
Hanbury fell back a pace and bowed mechanically like one in a dream.
He looked from the dwarf to the girl and from the girl to the dwarf,
but could find no word to say, had no desire to say a word. He was
completely overcome by amazement. The presence of five thousand
people, with eyes fixed in expectation upon him, would have acted as a
powerful stimulant to composed exaltation, but the presence of this
one girl half stunned him.
He was dimly conscious of sitting down and hearing a long explanation
about trains and disinclination to leave home and regrets and cabs,
but nothing of it conveyed a clear idea to his mind. He gathered
vaguely that this girl, who was one of the Graces of Gracedieu in
Derbyshire, had arrived in London that morning without ticket or
money, and the dwarf happened providentially to be in the same train
and paid the fare for her.
What he heard left little or no impression upon him except when she
spoke. All his attention was fixed in wondering regard upon her face
and form.
It was not until Leigh and he were in the street once more that he
recovered from the shock and surprise.
"That is the most marvellous thing I ever saw in all my life," said
he, as the two walked away.
"Yes," said Leigh, "the most marvellous."
"I can scarcely believe it even yet," said Hanbury in a tone of
reverie.
"When you fainted in Welbeck Place," began the dwarf with great
emphasis and deliberation.
"Ay," said Hanbury with a start and in a voice of sharp and painful
wakefulness. For a while he had forgotten why he had so uncouth a
companion.
"When you fainted in Welbeck Place," repeated Leigh coldly, steadily,
"I went over to where you were lying, took off my hat to your young
lady----"
"Eh?" interrupted Hanbury, with a grimace. "Great Heavens," he
thought, "is Dora Ashton, grand-daughter of Lord Byngfield, to be
called 'my young lady' by this creature? Why doesn't he call her my
young woman, at once? Ugh!"
"I was saying when you interrupted me," said Leigh sternly (it was
plain to Hanbury this man was not going to overlook any point of
advantage in his position) "that when you were lying in a dead faint
in Welbeck Place, and I went to offer help, I took off my hat to your
young lady and said, 'Miss Grace, can I be of any use?' or words to
that effect."
"I do not wonder." He forgot for a moment his annoyance and disgust.
"It is the most astonishing likeness I ever saw in all my life. It may
be possible to detect a difference between the two when they are side
by side, but I could not tell one from the other when apart."
"Hah! You could not tell one from the other. I could not when I first
saw your young lady----"
"May I ask you to say Miss Ashton, or if you would still further
oblige me, not to speak of the lady at all."
"Oh-ho! That's the sort of thing it is, is it? Hah! Sly dog! Knowing
shaver! Hot 'un!"
Hanbury's face blazed, and for a moment he seemed about to forget
himself, turn on the dwarf and rend him. Making a powerful effort he
controlled his rage. "You are disastrously wrong, and you give me
great pain."
"Very good. I'll do you a favour and take your word for it. Hah!"
This insolence was intolerable, and yet--and yet--and--yet it must be
borne with for a while.
"I was saying, when you interrupted me a second time, that I could not
tell the difference between the two, when I saw Miss Ashton this
afternoon. _Now_ I could."
"Indeed?" said Hanbury, with frigid politeness. At first this wretched
creature had been all silky fur and purring sounds; now he seemed all
claws and hisses.
"Yes. Miss Ashton has more go more vitality, more vigour, more
_verve_, more enterprise, more enthusiasm, more divinity."
Hanbury turned round and gazed at the hunchback with astonishment.
There was the hurry of eloquence in his words, and the flash of
enthusiasm in his eyes. This man was not an ordinary man, physically
or intellectually. Hanbury instantly altered his mental attitude
towards the dwarf. He no longer assumed the pose of a superior, the
method of a master. He recognised an equal. As Leigh had named the
qualities of Dora, one by one, Hanbury had felt that thrill which
always goes through a man of eloquent emotions when listening to
felicitous description. In the judicious and intelligent use of a term
there is freemasonry among intellectual men. It is by the phrase, and
not the thought, that an intellectual man recognises a fellow. Thought
is common, amorphous; with words the intellectual man models it into
forms of beauty.
"I do not understand you," said Hanbury. "How do you connect vigour
and divinity? The great gods did nothing."
"Ay, the great gods of the Greeks did nothing. But here in the North
our gods are hard-working. You, I know, are a Tory."
"Well, it is somewhat doubtful what I am."
"I am for the people."
"So am I."
"But we differ _in toto_ as to the means by which the people may be
helped."
"Yes, _in toto_."
"Now then, here is the position: You are a Tory and I am a Radical."
"I do not call myself a Tory. Indeed, I came into this neighbourhood
to-day in the democratic interest, if I may put it in that way. But
shall we get anything out of a political discussion?"
"I daresay not."
"Then shall we say good-bye to one another here? I may rely on your
keeping this whole affair quiet?"
"But you have not heard my request yet. I told you I could show you
something more wonderful than mystery gold. I told you I could show
you a more wonderful thing than even miracle gold. I have shown that
to you. Now I want my hush money."
"What is it?"
"An introduction to Miss Ashton."
"An introduction to Miss Ashton!"
"Yes. Ah, look! That is the first poster of an evening paper I have
seen to-day. How dull the evening papers are, to be sure."
"When do you wish to meet Miss Ashton?"
"Now. There never was any time past or future as good as the present."
"Come with me."