WHICH INTRODUCES SEVERAL RESIDENTS OF SEVENOAKS TO THE METROPOLIS AND A
NEW CHARACTER TO THE READER.
Harry Benedict was in the great city. When his story was known by Mrs.
Balfour--a quiet, motherly woman--and she was fully informed of her
husband's plans concerning him, she received him with a cordiality and
tenderness which won his heart and made him entirely at home. The
wonders of the shops, the wonders of the streets, the wonders of the
places of public amusement, the music of the churches, the inspiration
of the great tides of life that swept by him on every side, were in such
sharp contrast to the mean conditions to which he had been accustomed,
that he could hardly sleep. Indeed, the dreams of his unquiet slumbers
were formed of less attractive constituents than the visions of his
waking hours. He had entered a new world, which stimulated his
imagination, and furnished him with marvelous materials for growth. He
had been transformed by the clothing of the lad whose place he had taken
into a city boy, difficult to be recognized by those who had previously
known him. He hardly knew himself, and suspected his own consciousness
of cheating him.
For several days he had amused himself in his leisure hours by watching
a huge house opposite to that of the Balfours, into which was pouring a
stream of furniture. Huge vans were standing in front of it, or coming
and departing, from morning until night, Dressing-cases, book-cases,
chairs, mirrors, candelabra, beds, tables--everything necessary and
elegant in the furniture of a palace, were unloaded and carried in. All
day long, too, he could see through the large windows the active figure
and beautiful face of a woman who seemed to direct and control the
movements of all who were engaged in the work.
The Balfours had noticed the same thing; but, beyond wondering who was
rich or foolish enough to purchase and furnish Palgrave's Folly, they
had given the matter no attention. They were rich, of good family, of
recognized culture and social importance, and it did not seem to them
that any one whom they would care to know would be willing to occupy a
house so pronounced in vulgar display. They were people whose society no
money could buy. If Robert Belcher had been worth a hundred millions
instead of one, the fact would not have been taken into consideration in
deciding any social question relating to him.
Finally the furnishing was complete; the windows were polished, the
steps were furbished, and nothing seemed to wait but the arrival of the
family for which the dwelling had been prepared.
One late afternoon, before the lamps were lighted in the streets, he
could see that the house was illuminated; and just as the darkness came
on, a carriage drove up and a family alighted. The doors were thrown
open, the beautiful woman stood upon the threshold, and all ran up to
enter. She kissed the lady of the house, kissed the children, shook
hands cordially with the gentleman of the party, and then the doors were
swung to, and they were shut from the sight of the street; but just as
the man entered, the light from the hall and the light from the street
revealed the flushed face and portly figure of Robert Belcher.
Harry knew him, and ran down stairs to Mrs. Balfour, pale and agitated
as if he had seen a ghost. "It is Mr. Belcher," he said, "and I must go
back. I know he'll find me; I must go back to-morrow."
It was a long time before the family could pacify him and assure him of
their power to protect him; but they did it at last, though they left
him haunted with the thought that he might be exposed at any moment to
the new companions of his life as a pauper and the son of a pauper. The
great humiliation had been burned into his soul. The petty tyrannies of
Tom Buffum had cowed him, so that it would be difficult for him ever to
emerge from their influence into a perfectly free boyhood and manhood.
Had they been continued long enough, they would have ruined him. Once he
had been entirely in the power of adverse circumstances and a brutal
will, and he was almost incurably wounded.
The opposite side of the street presented very different scenes. Mrs.
Belcher found, through the neighborly services of Mrs. Dillingham, that
her home was all prepared for her, even to the selection and engagement
of her domestic service. A splendid dinner was ready to be served, for
which Mr. Belcher, who had been in constant communication with his
convenient and most officious friend, had brought the silver; and the
first business was to dispose of it. Mrs. Dillingham led the mistress of
the house to her seat, distributed the children, and amused them all by
the accounts she gave them of her efforts to make their entrance and
welcome satisfactory. Mrs. Belcher observed her quietly, acknowledged to
herself the woman's personal charms--her beauty, her wit, her humor, her
sprightliness, and her more than neighborly service; but her quick,
womanly instincts detected something which she did not like. She saw
that Mr. Belcher was fascinated by her, and that he felt that she had
rendered him and the family a service for which great gratitude was due;
but she saw that the object of his admiration was selfish--that she
loved power, delighted in having things her own way, and, more than all,
was determined to place the mistress of the house under obligations to
her. It would have been far more agreeable to Mrs. Belcher to find
everything in confusion, than to have her house brought into habitable
order by a stranger in whom she had no trust, and upon whom she had no
claim. Mr. Belcher had bought the house without her knowledge; Mrs.
Dillingham had arranged it without her supervision. She seemed to
herself to be simply a child, over whose life others had assumed the
offices of administration.
Mrs. Belcher was weary, and she would have been delighted to be alone
with her family, but here was an intruder whom she could not dispose of.
She would have been glad to go over the house alone, and to have had the
privilege of discovery, but she must go with one who was bent on showing
her everything, and giving her reasons for all that had been done.
Mrs. Dillingham was determined to play her cards well with Mrs. Belcher.
She was sympathetic, confidential, most respectful; but she found that
lady very quiet. Mr. Belcher followed them from room to room, with wider
eyes for Mrs. Dillingham than for the details of his new home. Now he
could see them together--the mother of his children, and the woman who
had already won his heart away from her. The shapely lady, with her
queenly ways, her vivacity, her graceful adaptiveness to persons and
circumstances, was sharply contrasted with the matronly figure, homely
manners, and unresponsive mind of his wife. He pitied his wife, he
pitied himself, he pitied his children, he almost pitied the dumb walls
and the beautiful furniture around him.
Was Mrs. Dillingham conscious of the thoughts which possessed him? Did
she know that she was leading him around his house, in her assumed
confidential intimacy with his wife, as she would lead a spaniel by a
silken cord? Was she aware that, as she moved side by side with Mrs.
Belcher, through the grand rooms, she was displaying herself to the best
advantage to her admirer, and that, yoked with the wifehood and
motherhood of the house, she was dragging, while he held, the plow that
was tilling the deep carpets for tares that might be reaped in harvests
of unhappiness? Would she have dropped the chain if she had? Not she.
To fascinate, and make a fool of, a man who was strong and cunning in
his own sphere; to have a hand--gloved in officious friendship--in other
lives, furnished the zest of her unemployed life. She could introduce
discord into a family without even acknowledging to herself that she had
done it wittingly. She could do it, and weep over the injustice that
charged her with it. Her motives were always pure! She had always done
her best to serve her friends! and what were her rewards? So the
victories which she won by her smiles, she made permanent by her tears.
So the woman by whose intrigues the mischief came was transformed into a
victim, from whose shapely shoulders the garment of blame slipped off,
that society might throw over them the robes of its respectful
commiseration, and thus make her more interesting and lovely than
before!
Mrs. Belcher measured very carefully, or apprehended very readily, the
kind of woman she had to deal with, and felt at once that she was no
match for her. She saw that she could not shake her off, so long as it
was her choice to remain. She received from her no direct offense,
except the offense of her uninvited presence; but the presence meant
service, and so could not be resented. And Mrs. Belcher could be of so
much service to her! Her life was so lonely--so meaningless! It would be
such a joy to her, in a city full of shams, to have one friend who would
take her good offices, and so help to give to her life a modicum of
significance!
After a full survey of the rooms, and a discussion of the beauties and
elegancies of the establishment, they all descended to the dining-room,
and, in response to Mrs. Dillingham's order, were served with tea.
"You really must excuse me, Mrs. Belcher," said the beautiful lady
deprecatingly, "but I have been here for a week, and it seems so much
like my own home, that I ordered the tea without thinking that I am the
guest and you are the mistress."
"Certainly, and I am really very much obliged to you;" and then feeling
that she had been a little untrue to herself, Mrs. Belcher added
bluntly: "I feel myself in a very awkward situation--obliged to one on
whom I have no claim, and one whom I can never repay."
"The reward of a good deed is in the doing, I assure you," said Mrs.
Dillingham, sweetly. "All I ask is that you make me serviceable to you.
I know all about the city, and all about its ways. You can call upon me
for anything; and now let's talk about the house. Isn't it lovely?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Belcher, "too lovely. While so many are poor around us,
it seems almost like an insult to them to live in such a place, and
flaunt our wealth in their faces. Mr. Belcher is very generous toward
his family, and I have no wish to complain, but I would exchange it all
for my little room in Sevenoaks."
Mr. Belcher, who had been silent and had watched with curious and
somewhat anxious eyes the introductory passage of this new acquaintance,
was rasped by Mrs. Belcher's remark into saying: "That's Mrs. Belcher,
all over! that's the woman, through and through! As if a man hadn't a
right to do what he chooses with his money! If men are poor, why don't
they get rich? They have the same chance I had; and there isn't one of
'em but would be glad to change places with me, and flaunt his wealth in
my face. There's a precious lot of humbug about the poor which won't
wash with me. We're all alike."
Mrs. Dillingham shook her lovely head.
"You men are so hard," she said; "and Mrs. Belcher has the right
feeling; but I'm sure she takes great comfort in helping the poor. What
would you do, my dear, if you had no money to help the poor with?"
"That's just what I've asked her a hundred times," said Mr. Belcher.
"What would she do? That's something she never thinks of."
Mrs. Belcher shook her head, in return, but made no reply. She knew that
the poor would have been better off if Mr. Belcher had never lived, and
that the wealth which surrounded her with luxuries was taken from the
poor. It was this, at the bottom, that made her sad, and this that had
filled her for many years with discontent.
When the tea was disposed of, Mrs. Dillingham rose to go. She lived a
few blocks distant, and it was necessary for Mr. Belcher to walk home
with her. This he was glad to do, though she assured him that it was
entirely unnecessary. When they were in the street, walking at a slow
pace, the lady, in her close, confiding way, said:
"Do you know, I take a great fancy to Mrs. Belcher?"
"Do you, really?"
"Yes, indeed. I think she's lovely; but I'm afraid she doesn't like me.
I can read--oh, I can read pretty well. She certainly didn't like it
that I had arranged everything and was there to meet her. But wasn't she
tired? Wasn't she very tired? There certainly was something that was
wrong."
"I think your imagination had something to do with it," said Mr.
Belcher, although he knew that she was right.
"No, I can read;" and Mrs. Dillingham's voice trembled. "If she could
only know how honestly I have tried to serve her, and how disappointed I
am that my service has not been taken in good part, I am sure that her
amiable heart would forgive me."
Mrs. Dillingham took out her handkerchief, near a street lamp, and wiped
her eyes.
What could Mr. Belcher do with this beautiful, susceptible, sensitive
creature? What could he do but reassure her? Under the influence of her
emotion, his wife's offense grew flagrant, and he began by apologizing
for her, and ended by blaming her.
"Oh! she was tired--she was very tired. That was all. I've laid up
nothing against her; but you know I was disappointed, after I had done
so much. I shall be all over it in the morning, and she will see it
differently then. I don't know but I should have been troubled to find
a stranger in my house. I think I should. Now, you really must promise
not to say a word of all this talk to your poor wife. I wouldn't have
you do it for the world. If you are my friend (pressing his arm), you
will let the matter drop just where it is. Nothing would induce me to be
the occasion of any differences in your home."
So it was a brave, true, magnanimous nature that was leaning so tenderly
upon Mr. Belcher's arm! And he felt that no woman who was not either
shabbily perverse, or a fool, could misinterpret her. He knew that his
wife had been annoyed at finding Mrs. Dillingham in the house. He dimly
comprehended, too, that her presence was an indelicate intrusion, but
her intentions were so good!
Mrs. Dillingham knew exactly how to manipulate the coarse man at her
side, and her relations to him and his wife. Her bad wisdom was not the
result of experience, though she had had enough of it, but the product
of an instinct which was just as acute, and true, and serviceable, ten
years earlier in her life as it was then. She timed the walk to her
purpose; and when Mr. Belcher parted with her, he went back leisurely to
his great house, more discontented with his wife than he had ever been.
To find such beauty, such helpfulness, such sympathy, charity,
forbearance, and sensitiveness, all combined in one woman, and that
woman kind and confidential toward him, brought back to him the days of
his youth, in the excitement of a sentiment which he had supposed was
lost beyond recall.
He crossed the street on arriving at his house, and took an evening
survey of his grand mansion, whose lights were still flaming through the
windows. The passengers jostled him as he looked up at his dwelling, his
thoughts wandering back to the woman with whom he had so recently
parted.
He knew that his heart was dead toward the woman who awaited his return.
He felt that it was almost painfully alive toward the one he had left
behind him, and it was with the embarrassment of conscious guilt that
he rang the bell at his own door, and stiffened himself to meet the
honest woman who had borne his children. Even the graceless touch of an
intriguing woman's power--even the excitement of something like love
toward one who was unworthy of his love--had softened him, so that his
conscience could move again. He felt that his eyes bore a secret, and he
feared that his wife could read it. And yet, who was to blame? Was
anybody to blame? Could anything that had happened have been helped or
avoided?
He entered, determining to abide by Mrs. Dillingham's injunction of
silence. He found the servants extinguishing the lights, and met the
information that Mrs. Belcher had retired. His huge pile of trunks had
come during his absence, and remained scattered in the hall. The sight
offended him, but, beyond a muttered curse, he said nothing, and sought
his bed.
Mr. Belcher was not in good humor when he rose the next morning. He
found the trunks where he left them on the previous evening; and when he
called for the servants to carry them upstairs, he was met by open
revolt. They were not porters, and they would not lift boxes; that sort
of work was not what they were engaged for. No New York family expected
service of that kind from those who were not hired for it.
The proprietor, who had been in the habit of exacting any service from
any man or woman in his employ that he desired, was angry. He would have
turned every one of them out of the house, if it had not been so
inconvenient for him to lose them then. Curses trembled upon his lips,
but he curbed them, inwardly determining to have his revenge when the
opportunity should arise. The servants saw his eyes, and went back to
their work somewhat doubtful as to whether they had made a judicious
beginning. They were sure they had not, when, two days afterward, every
one of them was turned out of the house, and a new set installed in
their places.
He called for Phipps, and Phipps was at the stable. Putting on his hat,
he went to bring his faithful servitor of Sevenoaks, and bidding him
find a porter in the streets and remove the trunks at Mrs. Belcher's
direction, he sat down at the window to watch for a passing newsboy. The
children came down, cross and half sick with their long ride and their
late dinner. Then it came on to rain in a most dismal fashion, and he
saw before him a day of confinement and ennui. Without mental
resource--unable to find any satisfaction except in action and
intrigue--the prospect was anything but pleasant. The house was large,
and, on a dark day, gloomy. His humor was not sweetened by noticing
evidences of tears on Mrs. Belcher's face. The breakfast was badly
cooked, and he rose from it exasperated. There was no remedy but to go
out and call upon Mrs. Dillingham. He took an umbrella, and, telling his
wife that he was going out on business, he slammed the door behind him
and went down the steps.
As he reached the street, he saw a boy scudding along under an umbrella,
with a package under his arm. Taking him for a newsboy, he called;
"Here, boy! Give me some papers." The lad had so shielded his face from
the rain and the house that he had not seen Mr. Belcher; and when he
looked up he turned pale, and simply said: "I'm not a newsboy;" and then
he ran away as if he were frightened.
There was something in the look that arrested Mr. Belcher's attention.
He was sure he had seen the lad before, but where, he could not
remember. The face haunted him--haunted him for hours, even when in the
cheerful presence of Mrs. Dillingham, with whom he spent a long and
delightful hour. She was rosy, and sweet, and sympathetic in her morning
wrapper--more charming, indeed, than he had ever seen her in evening
dress. She inquired for Mrs. Belcher and the children, and heard with
great good humor his account of his first collision with his New York
servants. When he went out from her inspiring and gracious presence he
found his self-complacency restored. He had simply been hungry for her;
so his breakfast was complete. He went back to his house with a mingled
feeling of jollity and guilt, but the moment he was with his family the
face of the boy returned. Where had he seen him? Why did the face give
him uneasiness? Why did he permit himself to be puzzled by it? No
reasoning, no diversion could drive it from his mind. Wherever he turned
during the long day and evening that white, scared face obtruded itself
upon him. He had noticed, as the lad lifted his umbrella, that he
carried a package of books under his arm, and naturally concluded that,
belated by the rain, he was on his way to school. He determined,
therefore, to watch him on the following morning, his own eyes
reinforced by those of his oldest boy.
The dark day passed away at last, and things were brought into more
homelike order by the wife of the house, so that the evening was cozy
and comfortable; and when the street lamps were lighted again and the
stars came out, and the north wind sounded its trumpet along the avenue,
the spirits of the family rose to the influence.
On the following morning, as soon as he had eaten his breakfast, he,
with his boy, took a position at one of the windows, to watch for the
lad whose face had so impressed and puzzled him. On the other side of
the avenue a tall man came out, with a green bag under his arm, stepped
into a passing stage, and rolled away. Ten minutes later two lads
emerged with their books slung over their shoulders, and crossed toward
them.
"That's the boy--the one on the left," said Mr. Belcher. At the same
moment the lad looked up, and apparently saw the two faces watching him,
for he quickened his pace.
"That's Harry Benedict," exclaimed Mr. Belcher's son and heir. The words
were hardly out of his mouth when Mr. Belcher started from his chair,
ran down-stairs with all the speed possible within the range of safety,
and intercepted the lads at a side door, which opened upon the street
along which they were running.
"Stop, Harry, I want to speak to you," said the proprietor, sharply.
Harry stopped, as if frozen to the spot in mortal terror.
"Come along," said Thede Balfour, tugging at his hand, "you'll be late
at school."
Poor Harry could no more have walked than he could have flown. Mr.
Belcher saw the impression he had made upon him, and became soft and
insinuating in his manner.
"I'm glad to see you, my boy," said Mr. Belcher. "Come into the house,
and see the children. They all remember you, and they are all homesick.
They'll be glad to look at anything from Sevenoaks."
Harry was not reassured: he was only more intensely frightened. A giant,
endeavoring to entice him into his cave in the woods, would not have
terrified him more. At length he found his tongue sufficiently to say
that he was going to school, and could not go in.
It was easy for Mr. Belcher to take his hand, limp and trembling with
fear, and under the guise of friendliness to lead him up the steps, and
take him to his room. Thede watched them until they disappeared, and
then ran back to his home, and reported what had taken place. Mrs.
Balfour was alone, and could do nothing. She did not believe that Mr.
Belcher would dare to treat the lad foully, with the consciousness that
his disappearance within his house had been observed, and wisely
determined to do nothing but sit down at her window and watch the house.
Placing Harry in a chair, Mr. Belcher sat down opposite to him, and
said:
"My boy, I'm very glad to see you. I've wanted to know about you more
than any boy in the world. I suppose you've been told that I am a very
bad man, but I'll prove to you that I'm not. There, put that ten-dollar
gold piece in your pocket. That's what they call an eagle, and I hope
you'll have a great many like it when you grow up."
The lad hid his hands behind his back, and shook his head.
"You don't mean to say that you won't take it!" said the proprietor in
a wheedling tone.
The boy kept his hands behind him, and shook his head.
"Well, I suppose you are not to blame for disliking me; and now I want
you to tell me all about your getting away from the poor-house, and who
helped you out, and where your poor, dear father is, and all about it.
Come, now, you don't know how much we looked for you, and how we all
gave you up for lost. You don't know what a comfort it is to see you
again, and to know that you didn't die in the woods."
The boy simply shook his head.
"Do you know who Mr. Belcher is? Do you know he is used to having people
mind him? Do you know that you're here in my house, and that you _must_
mind me? Do you know what I do to little boys when they disobey me? Now,
I want you to answer my questions, and do it straight. Lying won't go
down with me. Who helped you and your father to get out of the
poor-house?"
Matters had proceeded to a desperate pass with the lad. He had thought
very fast, and he had determined that no bribe and no threat should
extort a word of information from him. His cheeks grew hot and flushed,
his eyes burned, and he straightened himself in his chair as if he
expected death or torture, and was prepared to meet either, as he
replied:
"I won't tell you."
"Is your father alive? Tell me, you dirty little whelp? Don't say that
you won't do what I bid you to do again. I have a great mind to choke
you. Tell me--is your father alive?"
"I won't tell you, if you kill me."
The wheedling had failed; the threatening had failed. Then Mr. Belcher
assumed the manner of a man whose motives had been misconstrued, and who
wished for information that he might do a kind act to the lad's father.
"I should really like to help your father, and if he is poor, money
would do him a great deal of good. And here is the little boy who does
not love his father well enough to get money for him, when he can have
it and welcome! The little boy is taken care of. He has plenty to eat,
and good clothes to wear, and lives in a fine house, but his poor father
can take care of himself. I think such a boy as that ought to be ashamed
of himself. I think he ought to kneel down and say his prayers. If I had
a boy who could do that, I should be sorry that he'd ever been born."
Harry was proof against this mode of approach also, and was relieved,
because he saw that Mr. Belcher was baffled. His instincts were quick,
and they told him that he was the victor. In the meantime Mr. Belcher
was getting hot. He had closed the door of his room, while a huge coal
fire was burning in the grate. He rose and opened the door. Harry
watched the movement, and descried the grand staircase beyond his
persecutor, as the door swung back. He had looked into the house while
passing, during the previous week, and knew the relations of the
staircase to the entrance on the avenue. His determination was
instantaneously made, and Mr. Belcher was conscious of a swift figure
that passed under his arm, and was half down the staircase before he
could move or say a word. Before he cried "stop him!" Harry's hand was
on the fastening of the door, and when he reached the door, the boy was
half across the street.
He had calculated on smoothing over the rough places of the interview,
and preparing a better report of the visit of the lad's friends on the
other side of the avenue, but the matter had literally slipped through
his fingers. He closed the door after the retreating boy, and went back
to his room without deigning to answer the inquiries that were excited
by his loud command to "stop him."
Sitting down, and taking to himself his usual solace, and smoking
furiously for a while, he said: "D---n!" Into this one favorite and
familiar expletive he poured his anger, his vexation, and his fear. He
believed at the moment that the inventor was alive. He believed that if
he had been dead his boy would, in some way, have revealed the fact.
Was he still insane? Had he powerful friends? It certainly appeared so.
Otherwise, how could the lad be where he had discovered him? Was it
rational to suppose that he was far from his father? Was it rational to
suppose that the lad's friends were not equally the friends of the
inventor? How could he know that Robert Belcher himself had not
unwittingly come to the precise locality where he would be under
constant surveillance? How could he know that a deeply laid plot was not
already at work to undermine and circumvent him? The lad's reticence,
determined and desperate, showed that he knew the relations that existed
between his father and the proprietor, and seemed to show that he had
acted under orders.
Something must be done to ascertain the residence of Paul Benedict, if
still alive, or to assure him of his death, if it had occurred.
Something must be done to secure the property which he was rapidly
accumulating. Already foreign Governments were considering the
advantages of the Belcher rifle, as an arm for the military service, and
negotiations were pending with more than one of them. Already his own
Government, then in the first years of its great civil war, had
experimented with it, with the most favorable results. The business was
never so promising as it then appeared, yet it never had appeared so
insecure.
In the midst of his reflections, none of which were pleasant, and in a
sort of undefined dread of the consequences of his indiscretions in
connection with Harry Benedict, the bell rang, and Mr. and Mrs. Talbot
were announced. The factor and his gracious lady were in fine spirits,
and full of their congratulations over the safe removal of the family to
their splendid mansion. Mrs. Talbot was sure that Mrs. Belcher must feel
that all the wishes of her heart were gratified. There was really
nothing like the magnificence of the mansion. Mrs. Belcher could only
say that it was all very fine, but Mr. Belcher, finding himself an
object of envy, took great pride in showing his visitors about the
house.
Mrs. Talbot, who in some way had ascertained that Mrs. Dillingham had
superintended the arrangement of the house, said, in an aside to Mrs.
Belcher: "It must have been a little lonely to come here and find no one
to receive you--no friend, I mean."
"Mrs. Dillingham was here," remarked Mrs. Belcher, quietly.
"But she was no friend of yours."
"No; Mr. Belcher had met her."
"How strange! How very strange!"
"Do you know her well?"
"I'm afraid I do; but now, really, I hope you won't permit yourself to
be prejudiced against her. I suppose she means well, but she certainly
does the most unheard-of things. She's a restless creature--not quite
right, you know, but she has been immensely flattered. She's an old
friend of mine, and I don't join the hue and cry against her at all, but
she does such imprudent things! What did she say to you?"
Mrs. Belcher detected the spice of pique and jealousy in this charitable
speech, and said very little in response--nothing that a mischief-maker
could torture into an offense.
Having worked her private pump until the well whose waters she sought
refused to give up its treasures, Mrs. Talbot declared she would no
longer embarrass the new house-keeping by her presence. She had only
called to bid Mrs. Belcher welcome, and to assure her that if she had no
friends in the city, there were hundreds of hospitable hearts that were
ready to greet her. Then she and her husband went out, waved their
adieus from their snug little coupe, and drove away.
The call had diverted Mr. Belcher from his somber thoughts, and he
summoned his carriage, and drove down town, where he spent his day in
securing the revolution in his domestic service, already alluded to, in
talking business with his factor, and in making acquaintances on
'Change.
"I'm going to be in the middle of this thing, one of those days," said
he to Talbot as they strolled back to the counting-room of the latter,
after a long walk among the brokers and bankers of Wall street. "If
anybody supposes that I've come here to lie still, they don't know me.
They'll wake up some fine morning and find a new hand at the bellows."
Twilight found him at home again, where he had the supreme pleasure of
turning his very independent servants out of his house into the street,
and installing a set who knew, from the beginning, the kind of man they
had to deal with, and conducted themselves accordingly.
While enjoying his first cigar after dinner, a note was handed to him,
which he opened and read. It was dated at the house across the avenue.
He had expected and dreaded it, but he did not shrink like a coward from
its persual. It read thus:
"MR. ROBERT BELCHER: I have been informed of the shameful manner in
which you treated a member of my family this morning--Master Harry
Benedict. The bullying of a small boy is not accounted a dignified
business for a man in the city which I learn you have chosen for your
home, however it may be regarded in the little town from which you came.
I do not propose to tolerate such conduct toward any dependent of mine.
I do not ask for your apology, for the explanation was in my hands
before the outrage was committed. I perfectly understand your relations
to the lad, and trust that the time will come when the law will define
them, so that the public will also understand them. Meantime, you will
consult your own safety by letting him alone, and never presuming to
repeat the scene of this morning.
"Yours, JAMES BALFOUR,
"Counselor-at-Law."
"Hum! ha!" exclaimed Mr. Belcher, compressing his lips, and spitefully
tearing the letter into small strips and throwing them into the fire.
"Thank you, kind sir; I owe you one," said he, rising, and walking his
room. "_That_ doesn't look very much as if Paul Benedict were alive.
He's a counselor-at-law, he is; and he has inveigled a boy into his
keeping, who, he supposes, has a claim on me; and he proposes to make
some money out of it. Sharp game!"
Mr. Belcher was interrupted in his reflections and his soliloquy by the
entrance of a servant, with the information that there was a man at the
door who wished to see him.
"Show him up."
The servant hesitated, and finally said: "He doesn't smell very well,
sir."
"What does he smell of?" inquired Mr. Belcher, laughing.
"Rum, sir, and several things."
"Send him away, then."
"I tried to, sir, but he says he knows you, and wants to see you on
particular business."
"Take him into the basement, and tell him I'll be down soon."
Mr. Belcher exhausted his cigar, tossed the stump into the fire, and,
muttering to himself, "Who the devil!" went down to meet his caller.
As he entered a sort of lobby in the basement that was used as a
servants' parlor, his visitor rose, and stood with great shame-facedness
before him. He did not extend his hand, but stood still, in his seedy
clothes and his coat buttoned to his chin, to hide his lack of a shirt.
The blue look of the cold street had changed to a hot purple under the
influence of a softer atmosphere; and over all stood the wreck of a good
face, and a head still grand in its outline.
"Well, you look as if you were waiting to be damned," said Mr. Belcher,
roughly.
"I am, sir," responded the man solemnly.
"Very well; consider the business done, so far as I am concerned, and
clear out."
"I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher."
"I believe you; and you'll excuse me if I say that your appearance
corroborates your statement."
"And you don't recognize me? Is it possible?" And the maudlin tears came
into the man's rheumy eyes and rolled down his cheeks. "You knew me in
better days, sir;" and his voice trembled with weak emotion.
"No; I never saw you before. That game won't work, and now be off."
"And you don't remember Yates?--Sam Yates--and the happy days we spent
together in childhood?" And the man wept again, and wiped his eyes with
his coat-sleeve.
"Do you pretend to say that you are Sam Yates, the lawyer?"
"The same, at your service."
"What brought you to this?"
"Drink, and bad company, sir."
"And you want money?"
"Yes!" exclaimed the man, with a hiss as fierce as if he were a serpent.
"Do you want to earn money?"
"Anything to get it."
"Anything to get drink, I suppose. You said 'anything.' Did you mean
that?"
The man knew Robert Belcher, and he knew that the last question had a
great deal more in it than would appear to the ordinary listener.
"Lift me out of the gutter," said he, "and keep me out, and--command
me."
"I have a little business on hand," said Mr. Belcher, "that you can do,
provided you will let your drink alone--a business that I am willing to
pay for. Do you remember a man by the name of Benedict--a shiftless,
ingenious dog, who once lived in Sevenoaks?"
"Very well."
"Should you know him again, were you to see him?"
'I think I should."
"Do you know you should? I don't want any thinking about it. Could you
swear to him?"
"Yes. I don't think it would trouble me to swear to him."
"If I were to show you some of his handwriting, do you suppose that
would help you any?"
"It--might."
"I don't want any 'mights.' Do you know it would?"
"Yes."
"Do you want to sell yourself--body, soul, brains, legal knowledge,
everything--for money?"
"I've sold myself already at a smaller price, and I don't mind
withdrawing from the contract for a better."
Mr. Belcher summoned a servant, and ordered something to eat for his
visitor. While the man eagerly devoured his food, and washed it down
with a cup of tea, Mr. Belcher went to his room, and wrote an order on
his tailor for a suit of clothes, and a complete respectable outfit for
the legal "dead beat" who was feasting himself below. When he descended,
he handed him the paper, and gave him money for a bath and a night's
lodging.
"To-morrow morning I want you to come here clean, and dressed in the
clothes that this paper will give you. If you drink one drop before that
time I will strip the clothes from your back. Come to this room and get
a decent breakfast. Remember that you can't fool me, and that I'll have
none of your nonsense. If you are to serve me, and get any money out of
it, you must keep sober."
"I can keep sober--for a while--any way," said the man, hesitatingly and
half despairingly.
"Very well, now be off; and mind, if I ever hear a word of this, or any
of our dealings outside, I'll thrash you as I would a dog. If you are
true to me I can be of use to you. If you are not, I will kick you into
the street."
The man tottered to his feet, and said: "I am ashamed to say that you
may command me. I should have scorned it once, but my chance is gone,
and I could be loyal to the devil himself--for a consideration."
The next morning Mr. Belcher was informed that Yates had breakfasted,
and was awaiting orders. He descended to the basement, and stood
confronted with a respectable-looking gentleman, who greeted him in a
courtly way, yet with a deprecating look in his eyes, which said, as
plainly as words could express; "don't humiliate me any more than you
can help! Use me, but spare the little pride I have, if you can."
The deprecatory look was lost upon Mr. Belcher. "Where did you get your
clothes?" he inquired. "Come, now; give me the name of your tailor. I'm
green in the city, you see."
The man tried to smile, but the effort was a failure.
"What did you take for a night-cap last night, eh?"
"I give you my word of honor, sir, that I have not taken a drop since I
saw you."
"Word of honor! ha! ha! ha! Do you suppose I want your word of honor? Do
you suppose I want a man of honor, anyway? If you have come here to talk
about honor, you are no man for me. That's a sort of nonsense that I
have no use for."
"Very well; my word of dishonor," responded the man, desperately.
"Now you talk. There's no use in such a man as you putting on airs, and
forgetting that he wears my clothes and fills himself at my table."
"I do not forget it, sir, and I see that I am not likely to."
"Not while you do business with me; and now, sit down and hear me. The
first thing you are to do is to ascertain whether Paul Benedict is dead.
It isn't necessary that you should know my reasons. You are to search
every insane hospital, public and private, in the city, and every
alms-house. Put on your big airs and play philanthropist. Find all the
records of the past year--the death records of the city--everything that
will help to determine that the man is dead, as I believe he is. This
will give you all you want to do for the present. The man's son is in
the city, and the boy and the man left the Sevenoaks poor-house
together. If the man is alive, he is likely to be near him. If he is
dead he probably died near him. Find out, too, if you can, when his boy
came to live at Balfour's over the way, and where he came from. You may
stumble upon what I want very soon, or it may take you all winter. If
you should fail then, I shall want you to take the road from here to
Sevenoaks, and even to Number Nine, looking into all the alms-houses on
the way. The great point is to find out whether he is alive or dead, and
to know, if he is dead, where, and exactly when, he died. In the
meantime, come to me every week with a written report of what you have
done, and get your pay. Come always after dark, so that none of
Balfour's people can see you. Begin the business, and carry it on in
your own way. You are old and sharp enough not to need any aid from me,
and now be off."
The man took a roll of bills that Mr. Belcher handed him, and walked out
of the door without a word. As he rose to the sidewalk, Mr. Balfour came
out of the door opposite to him, with the evident intention of taking a
passing stage. He nodded to Yates, whom he had not only known in other
days, but had many times befriended, and the latter sneaked off down the
street, while he, standing for a moment as if puzzled, turned, and with
his latch-key re-entered his house. Yates saw the movement, and knew
exactly what it meant. He only hoped that Mr. Belcher had not seen it,
as, indeed, he had not, having been at the moment on his way upstairs.
Yates knew that, with his good clothes on, the keen lawyer would give
but one interpretation to the change, and that any hope or direct plan
he might have with regard to ascertaining when the boy was received into
the family, and where he came from, was nugatory. He would not tell Mr.
Belcher this.
Mr. Balfour called his wife to the window, pointed out the retreating
form of Yates, gave utterance to his suspicions, and placed her upon her
guard. Then he went to his office, as well satisfied that there was a
mischievous scheme on foot as if he had overheard the conversation
between Mr. Belcher and the man who had consented to be his tool.