SOME OLD ACQUAINTANCES GET INTO A CONJUGAL DIFFICULTY.
Lord Hope had a house in Belgravia, that could always be made ready for
the family at a day's notice. So Rachael, who could refuse nothing to
her brother, sent up her steward to make preparations one day, and
followed him the next with Lady Clara and Hepworth Closs; Margaret Casey
and other servants in attendance, of course.
These persons reached London on the very Saturday when Olympia was
stricken with dismay by finding an empty seat or two in her usually well
packed houses. When this discovery first broke upon the prima donna,
Hepworth Closs was sitting quietly in the pit, where he found himself,
as if by accident. They had reached town only in time for a late dinner,
when the ladies, being greatly fatigued, proclaimed their intention of
retiring early, which was, in fact, casting him adrift for the evening.
Being thus let loose upon the world, he very naturally brought up at the
opera, and was seated so near the stage that his eyes more than once
caught those of Olympia, who gave him one of those quick glances of
recognition, which seemed aimed at the whole audience, but hit only one
person.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but isn't she a stunner!" said a voice, as the
first act closed. Hepworth might not have recognized these words as
addressed to himself, but for the weight of a large hand which was laid
on his arm. As it was, he turned promptly, and encountered a stout,
heavy man, handsomely dressed, but for a massive gold chain which passed
across his bosom into his vest pocket, and drooped in glittering lengths
far down the rotundity of his capacious person, and a large diamond that
blazed on his plaited shirt bosom. From the chain and the diamond,
Hepworth's first thought was, that the person must be some Californian
or Australian acquaintance, belonging to his old mining days, but the
man soon set that idea aside.
"You don't happen to remember me, Mr. Hepworth, but I knew you at the
first sight. Ask my lady here. Didn't I say, Mrs. Stacy, that gentleman
with the coal-black mustacher, and them splendid eyes, is Mr. Hepworth,
if ever I set my two eyes on Mr. Hepworth, which I did many a time, when
he used to come to Forty-third street?"
Hepworth started. Forty-third street! Was he to be forever haunted by
the place and people connected with that awful tragedy? Why was this?
The guilt was not his, yet he could not feel himself near any person,
however remotely connected with it, without thrills of dread.
The man had been talking on, but Hepworth heard nothing at first, he had
been too painfully startled; when he did listen, these words fell on his
ear:
"That was an awful affair, Mr. Hepworth; most people was astonished, but
I never was; always had my suspicions of that old woman; believe she
robbed the house of lots and lots of things, after the lady was dead; in
fact, am sure of it. Mrs. Stacy here is of my opinion. There was a girl
in the house--perhaps you remember her, sir--Maggie we used to call her;
she and the old woman Yates was thick as thieves, and both laid their
heads together. It wasn't for nothing, let me tell you; their nests were
feathered, you may believe. There never was a sharper girl than Maggie
Casey."
"She was just a forerd, imperdent cretur as set her cap at you like a
fiery draggon," broke out the woman, who occupied a seat by the stout
man, and was evidently his wife; "a cretur as I wouldn't wipe my shoes
on, after a long walk--no, not if she'd give me fifty pair for doing of
it."
"I am not saying anything to the contrary, my dear, am I? That girl was
after me sharp enough, but I never encouraged her. Mr. Hepworth can
satisfy you on that point, my own Harriet, for I remember, as if it was
yesterday, he and I talking about it the very day afore that murder, and
we both agreed that her conduct was scandalous."
Hepworth shuddered. How well he remembered that artful conversation. How
hideous it appeared to him now.
"But I don't think Mr. Hepworth remembers us for positive, even now,"
said the woman; "just look in my face, young gent, and say if you do."
"Harriet, my dear, isn't that a little, just a little, promiscous?" said
the husband, as a broad, red face, with a pointed nose, turning up in
the centre, and two small leaden blue eyes looking across it, was bent
forward, and challenged Hepworth's inspection. "Remember, things have
changed since we knew this gentleman."
"In course they have changed, and I haven't no doubt that is just what
is a puzzling him now; but when I ask Mr. Hepworth if he remembers the
first punken-pie he ever eat in his born days, and who made it, he'll be
sure to remember Harriet, and I ain't ashamed to say that I am her, if I
do wear an Injur shawl, and if that diment in your bozzom is a flashing
right in his eyes. Self-made men, and women too, mayn't be of much
account in England, but in New York, the aristocracy are always a trying
to make out that they were born next door to the alms-house, and started
life with just twenty-five cents in their pockets, so you and I needn't
be ashamed."
Hepworth was not cosmopolitan, and managed to get the truth out of this
confusion of cockney, Irish, and Yankee dialect. In fact, at the first
moment, he had recognized Matthew Stacy and Harriet Long in the persons
who claimed his acquaintance, and they stung his memory like a nest of
serpents.
"You'll be glad to know," said Stacy, "that Harriet has been, in all
respects, up to the 'casion whenever I've made a rise in the world.
There's smartness in that woman, I can tell you. When I was elected
alderman of our ward, she just went into the saloon and dealt out licker
to my constituents with her own hand. There is no telling the number of
votes she got for me by that perseeding. You'd be astonished."
Here the curtain went up with a rush, and Stacy could only make himself
heard by sharp whispers, which reached Hepworth in fragments, when the
music sank lowest.
"Got into a first-rate thing. Mayor with us--street contracts--cut
through, widened--got hold of a dead charter--revived it--stock went up
like winking--kept the Irish vote of the ward in my fist--no counting
the presents that woman got. I never took one, of course; such a woman!"
Here Olympia's voice swept through the house, with an outpouring of
melody that brought the audience to its feet, but when the tumult
subsided, Hepworth found that the man had been talking on and on, with
an under-tow of political gossip, that reached him in words at last.
"They wanted the Legislature, which wasn't to be had without money, you
know; two or three men had been seen--nothing less than a hundred
thousand would do it. I was president of the board, went up myself, saw
the members, who sent me to their confidential men--jackals we call 'em,
ha! ha!--got it done for sixty thousand--said nothing, but divided the
rest--jackals got twenty, the other twenty--you understand. She got an
Inger shawl out of that operation, the very one she has on."
"No, it isn't nothing of the sort. This one was the other," whispered
Mrs. Stacy, holding up a corner of the magnificent shawl she wore.
Hepworth turned and gazed upon the shawl until his face grew white as
death, in the gaslight. The very sight of that rich garment made him
faint.
The mistake he had made had a silencing effect upon Stacy too. He had no
wish that the history of that garment should be produced, and when his
wife was about to speak, silenced her at once.
"My dear Harriet," he said, "how often have I told you that talking at a
theater or the operer is awfully vulgar. I wonder you can persist in
it, and Mr. Hepworth by. Just listen to that music! Haven't you no
taste? If you haven't, just take a look around the boxes. That young
feller there is the Prince of Wales."
Mrs. Stacy took a mother-of-pearl opera glass from her lap, and
obediently turned it upon the royal box.
Before the performance was over, and while Hepworth was drawn back, in
spite of himself, to the most painful scenes of his life, an usher came
down the nearest passage, and put a little twisted note into his hand.
It was from Olympia, inviting him to supper the next evening.
Hepworth crushed the pretty missive in his hand, while he turned to send
a verbal refusal, but the usher had withdrawn, and he had no other way
of sending a reply that night.
The opera was at its close now, and Hepworth left the house, irritated
and restless. Could he find no place in which this miserable past would
not haunt him? He had hardly made his way through the crowd when his arm
was seized, and Stacy almost wheeled him around on the pavement.
"My dear sir, this way. Mrs. Stacy is already in the carriage. Of course
we would not ride and let you go afoot. Have been a poor man myself
once--needn't deny that to you. Know what it is to keep up a show
without capital. But no old friend of mine shall go afoot while I have
the wherewith to pay for a carriage, and an empty seat in it. Shall set
in the back seat with Mrs. Stacy, upon my soul you shall, and that's an
honor I don't offer to every man. Now just tell me where you are putting
up."
Hepworth laughed, in spite of his annoyance. The patronizing fussiness
of the ex-alderman struck a keen sense of the ridiculous, which was
strong in his character.
"If you insist," he said. "But you are too generous."
"Not at all, not at all. When Alderman Stacy does a thing, he does it
handsomely. This way, this way!"
Hepworth seated himself in the carriage where Mrs. Stacy squeezed
herself in one corner, and gathered up her skirts to make room for him,
and Stacy had his foot on the step, when a new poster, just placed at
the door of the opera house, struck his attention, and he stepped back
to examine it.
"'First appearance of a young American, a protege of Olympia.' Just read
that poster, Mr. Hepworth, and tell me what you think of it," he said,
lifting himself into the carriage. "Mrs. Stacy, my dear, just look that
way, and tell me if you can guess who it is that will make a first
appearance Monday night? You know that young lady, and so does Mr.
Hepworth. Now, make a guess."
"How can you?" said Mrs. Stacy. "You know, Matthew, dear, I never was
good at conundrums and such like."
Matthew puffed himself out with a deep, long breath, and clasping two
huge hands encased in flame-colored gloves on his knee, leaned toward
Hepworth.
"You try, now."
Hepworth shook his head, and Stacy burst out with his mystery.
"It's the identical child that was brought up at the inquest in
Forty-third street--Daniel Yates' little daughter."
"No!" exclaimed Mrs. Stacy. "That little creature?"
"It ain't nobody else--you may bet high on that, Mrs. Stacy."
Hepworth kept perfectly still, but his heart fairly stopped beating.
"But how did you find out, Matthew, dear?"
"Oh! we aldermen find out everything. The girl was brought up in the
country, near Sing-Sing, in a cedar-post cottage that the executor
wanted to raise some money on. I went up to see it, and had a good look
at the girl. Yes, my dear, she was, to say, very handsome, but proud.
Daniel Yates had brought her up like a queen, and I give you my word she
looked it; but there was no mistake about it. The executor had just
gobbled up everything Yates left, and there was no one to look after
him, so that the girl was just nowhere financially. I found out that the
cottage could not be sold or mortgaged, nor let either, according to
law, though the executor tried it on hard, and came again and again
about it, especially after she left it. So I found out everything about
the girl. That primer donner took a fancy to her, and adopted her right
out of hand because of her voice, and to-morrow night you can both of
you see her, for I mean to have a box up among the British arrestocracy
that night, and I invite you both free gratis for nothing."
"Are you sure of this?" questioned Hepworth, who had not spoken till
now.
"Just as sure as I am that Alderman Stacy sits before you. But if you
don't believe it, ask the girl yourself. I mean to call on her, and Mrs.
Stacy will do likewise. You can go along. That is, we will call, if she
comes out first chop on Monday night."
"Mr. Stacy," said the superb matron in the back seat, drawing herself up
with wonderful dignity, "I don't mean to put on airs nor nothing because
I'm your lady and richer than some folks, or Mr. Hepworth wouldn't be an
honored guest in this here carriage; but I must set my foot square
aginst actresses and primmer donners--in short, theatre-clers in
general."
"Just you hear that," said Stacy, looking at Hepworth. "Isn't she coming
it down strong, and lifting of her head high?"
"It isn't that, Mr. Stacy, but because I am a wife and a--a woman--that
I feel called upon to stand between them creturs and the sect. Pay them
your money, Mr. Stacy--pay them any amount of money from the front--but
nothing beyond that, Mr. Stacy!"
"Oh, humbug," said Mr. Stacy; "that is putting it too strong,
Harriet--as if I couldn't pay money or not, just as I please."
"It isn't humbug, Mr. Stacy, but a question of benignant morality, which
it is every woman's duty to take up and hurl back, till she totters on
the brink, martyr-like, between heaven and earth! Don't you think so,
Mr. Hepworth?"
"Did you ever hear anything up to that?" exclaimed Stacy, swelling with
pompous satisfaction. "Harriet is the sort of woman that a man of
substance can depend on, morrerly, financierly, and--and--. Not that I'm
going to give in, you know; but it's satisfaction to know that your
money has lifted such a person into her proper spear."
"That's very kind of you, and I feel it, Stacy, dear; but when you speak
of lifting me up with _your_ money, who was it that owned the first five
hundred dollars you, or me, Mr. Stacy?"
"Harriet!"
"It's no use thundering out my baptismal name against me, Mr. Stacy, for
that's a thing I won't bear at no price! Truth is truth, Mr. Hepworth,
and rich as that man is, rolling over and over in gold, like a porpose
in salt water, it was my five hundred dollars that did it! Let him say
if I didn't own that much?"
"But didn't I marry you, and then didn't you own me? Would you set down
good looks, financial ability, and moral character A number one, at five
hundred dollars, and you--"
What was coming next Hepworth was destined never to learn, for Mrs.
Stacy, overcome by a fit of conjugal remorse, leaned forward and placed
one substantial hand in the flame-colored glove of her husband.
"Matthew, forgive me! I didn't mean it. That mention of the primmer
donner and her protager upset me; but I am your wife yet, Stacy,
dear--your true and lawful wife--just as ready to travel with you into
every tropical climate of Europe as I ever was."
Stacy would not clasp his flame-colored fingers around that hand, but
let it drop with ignominious looseness, while he drew a handkerchief
from his pocket and buried his face in it.
"Harriet! Harriet! you have hurt my feelings, mortified my--my manhood
before an old friend!"
It was in the night, the carriage was close, the lamps dim, and Hepworth
only knew that there a heap of drapery launched itself into the front
seat, that a voice came from the midst, saying:
"Oh, Matthew! Matthew!"
Then the white handkerchief dropped like a flag at half mast, and the
reconciliation was complete.