MOLKEN ON THE SCENT.
Now it had so happened that Mr. Molken had caught sight of Tom as
he returned from his visit to his mother, and had seen him go into
Mr. Fuller's house. His sailor's dress piqued the curiosity which he
naturally felt with regard to him; and as, besides, the rascal fed
upon secrets, gave him hope of still making something out of him if he
could but get him again in his power. Therefore he watched the house
with much patience, saw Mr. Fuller go out and return again with Lucy,
whom he knew by sight, and gave to the phenomenon what interpretation
his vile nature was capable of, concluding that Tom was in want of
money--as he himself generally was--and would get something out of
Lucy before they parted: he had stored the fact of the ring in his
usual receptacle for such facts. Besides, he had been in communication
with a lawyer, for he could see well enough that Mr. Sargent belonged
to that profession, concerning this very Thomas Worboise: perhaps he
_was wanted_, and if so, why should not he reap what benefit might be
reaped from aiding in his capture? With all these grounds for hope, he
was able to persevere in watching the house till Thomas came out alone
evidently in great haste and excitement. He accosted him then as he
hurried past, but Tom, to whom the sight of him recalled no cherished
memories, and who did not feel that he owed him any gratitude for
favors received, felt that it would be the readiest and surest mode of
procedure to cut him at once, and did so, although he could not prevent
Molken from seeing that he knew him, and did not choose to know him.
This added immeasurably to Molken's determination, for now his feelings
as a _gentleman_ were enlisted on the same side. He was too prudent, if
not too cowardly, to ask him what he meant; nor would that mode have
served his turn; it fitted his nature and character better to lurk and
watch. When Tom got into a cab, Molten therefore got into another,
and gave the driver directions to keep Tom's in sight, but not to
follow so closely as to occasion suspicion. He ran him to earth at the
Mermaid. There he peeped in at the door, and finding that he must have
gone into the house, became more and more satisfied that he was after
something or other which he wanted to keep dark--something fitted, in
fact, for Molken to do himself, or to turn to his advantage if done by
another. He entered the bar, called for a glass of hot gin and water,
and got into conversation with Mr. Potts. The landlord of the Mermaid,
however, although a man of slow mental processes, had instinct enough,
and experience more than enough, to dislike the look of Molken. He gave
him, therefore, such short answers as especially suited his own style,
refused to be drawn into conversation, and persisted in regarding him
merely as the purchaser of a glass of gin and water, hot with. On such
an occasion Mr. Potts's surly grandeur could be surpassed by no other
bar-keeper in England. But this caution completed Molken's conviction
that Thomas was about something dark, and that the landlord of the
Mermaid was in it, too; the more conclusively when, having, by way of
experiment, mentioned Thomas's name as known to Mr. Potts, the latter
cunningly repudiated all knowledge of "the party." Molken therefore
left the house, and after doubling a little, betook himself to a
coffee-shop opposite, whence he could see the door of the Mermaid from
the window, and by a proper use of shillings, obtained leave to pass as
much of the night there as he pleased. He thought he saw Thomas, with
a light in his hand, draw down the dingy blind of an upper window; and
concluding that he had gone to bed, Molken threw himself on one of the
seats, and slept till daylight, when he resumed his watch. At length
he saw him come out with another man in the dress of a sailor like
himself, but part with him at the door, and walk off in the direction
of the city. He then followed him, saw him go into the watchmaker's,
and come out putting something in his trousers' pocket, followed him
again, and observed that the ring, which he knew, and which he had seen
on his hand as he came behind him from Limehouse, was gone, as well as
his watch, which he had seen him use the night before, while now he
looked up at every clock he passed. Nor did he leave his track till
he saw him get into a train at King's Cross, accompanied by another
sailor, not the one he had seen in the morning, whom he met evidently
by appointment at the station. Here the condition of his own funds
brought Molten to a pause, or he would very likely have followed his
wild-goose chase to Newcastle at least. As it was, he could only find
out where they were going, and remain behind with the hope of being
one day called upon to give evidence that would help to hang him. Nor
had he long to wait before something seemed likely to come of all
his painstaking. For after a few days he had a second visit from Mr.
Sargent, to whom, however, he was chary of his information till bribed
by a couple of sovereigns. Then he told him all. The only point Mr.
Sargent could at once lay hold of was the ring. He concluded that he
had recovered the ring merely to show it to her, and again make away
with it, which must even in her eyes look bad enough to justify any
amount of jealousy as to the truth of his reformation. Acting on this
fresh discovery, he went to the watchmaker's--a respectable man who
did business in a quiet way and had accommodated Tom only for old
acquaintance' sake, not, however, knowing much about him. Mr. Sargent
told him who he was, gave him his card, and easily prevailed on him
to show the watch and the ring. The latter especially Mr. Sargent
examined, and finding quite peculiarity enough about it to enable him
to identify it by description, took his leave.
Now, had it not been for Thomas's foolish, half-romantic way of doing
things, no evil could have come of this. If, when he found that he had
still a little time, he had returned and fully explained to his friends
what his object was when he left them so suddenly, all would have been
accounted for. He liked importance, and surprises, and secrecy. But
this was self-indulgence, when it involved the possibility of so much
anxiety as a lengthened absence must occasion Lucy, and Mr. Fuller
too. They had a right, besides, to know everything that he was about,
after all that they had done for him, and still more from the fact that
they were both so unselfishly devoted to his best good, and must keep
thinking about him. Regarding his behavior in its true light, however,
and coming to the obvious conclusion between themselves that Tom had
a clew to some evidence, they remained at ease on the matter--which
ease was a little troubled when Lucy received the following note from
Mr. Sargent. Without the least intention of being unjust, he gave, as
people almost always do, that coloring to his representation which
belonged only to the colored medium of prejudication through which he
viewed the object:
"Dear Madam,--Perfectly aware that I am building an insurmountable
barrier between myself and my own peace, I am yet sufficiently
disinterested to have some regard for yours. If you will only regard
the fact as I have now stated it--that I have no hope for myself,
that, on the contrary, I take the position, with all its obloquy, of
the bringer of unwelcome tidings--you will, however you may regard
me, be a little more ready to listen to what I have to communicate.
From one of a certain gentleman's companions, of such unquestionable
character that he refused information until I bribed him with the
paltry sum of two pounds--(I at least am open, you see)--I learned
that he had again parted with the ring, the possession of which he had
apparently recovered only for the sake of producing it upon occasion
of his late interview with you. You will say such testimony is no
proof; but I will describe the ring which I found in the possession
of the man to whom I was directed, leaving you to judge whether it
is yours or not: A good-sized rose-diamond, of a pale straw color,
with the figures of two serpents carved on the ring, the head of each
meeting the body of the other round opposite sides of the diamond. Do
not take the trouble to answer this letter, except I can be of service
to you. All that it remains possible for me to request of you now is,
that you will believe it is for your sake, and not for my own, that I
write this letter. In God's name I beg that you will not give yourself
into the power of a man whose behavior after marriage has not the
benefit of even a doubt when regarded in the light of his behavior
before it. If you will not grant me the justice of believing in my
true reasons for acting as I do, I yet prefer to bear the consequences
of so doing to the worse suffering of knowing that there was one
effort I might have made and did not make for your rescue from the
worst fate that can befall the innocent."
"Your obedient servant,
"J. Sargent."
Lucy gave a little laugh to herself when she read the letter. There
was no doubt about the ring being hers; but if Thomas had set out on
the supposed errand it was easy to see that the poor fellow, having
no money, must have parted with the ring for the sake of procuring
the means of doing her justice. But if this was so plain, why was it
that Lucy sat still and pale for an hour after, with the letter in her
hand, and that when she rose it was to go to Mr. Fuller with it? It was
the source alone of Mr. Sargent's information that occasioned her the
anxiety. If he had been as explicit about that as he was about the
ring, telling how Molken had watched and followed Thomas, she would
not have been thus troubled. And had Mr. Sargent been as desirous of
being just to Thomas as of protecting Lucy, perhaps he would have told
her more. But there are a thousand ways in which a just man may do
injustice.
My reader must not suppose, however, that Lucy really distrusted
Thomas. The worst that she feared was that he had not quite broken with
his bad companions; and the very thought of Molken, returning upon her
as she had seen him that night in the thunder-storm, and coming along
with the thought of Thomas, was a distress to her. To be made thus
unhappy it is not in the least necessary that one should really doubt,
but that forms, ideas of doubt, should present themselves to the mind.
They cannot always be answered in a quiet, triumphant fashion, for
women have been false and men have been hypocrites in all ages; and the
mind keeps seeking the triumphant answer and cannot find it.
In something of this mood, and yet more vexed that such disquietude
should have any place in her mind, regarding it as vile unfaithfulness
on her part, she rose, and for the sake of hearing Mr. Fuller's answer
justify her own confidence, took him the letter.
Having read it, the first words Mr. Fuller spoke, were:
"The writer of this is honest."
"Then you think it is all true!" said Lucy, in some dismay.
"What he tells as fact, no doubt is fact," answered. Mr. Fuller.
"It does not follow, however, that his conclusions are in the least
correct. The most honest man is, if not as liable, yet as certainly
liable to mistake as the most dishonest. It is indubitable out of
regard for your welfare that he has written the letter; but you know
all the other side of which he knows nothing. You don't believe it
yourself, Lucy--the inference of Thomas's hypocrisy, I mean?"
"No, no," cried Lucy. "I do not."
"Facts are certainly stubborn things, as people say. But it is equally
certain that they are the most slippery things to get a hold of. And
even when you have got a hold of them, they can be used with such
different designs--after such varying fashions, that no more unlike
buildings can be constructed of the same bricks or hewn stones, than
conclusions arrived at from precisely the same facts. And this because
all the facts round about the known facts, and which keep those
facts in their places, compelling them to combine after a certain
fashion, are not known, or perhaps are all unknown. For instance,
your correspondent does not know--at least he does not give you to
understand that he knows--how his informant arrived at the knowledge
of the facts upon which he lays such stress. When I recall Thomas's
whole bearing and conduct I cannot for a moment accept the conclusions
arrived at by him, whatever may be the present appearance of the facts
he goes upon. Facts are like faces--capable of a thousand expressions
and meanings. Were you satisfied entirely with Thomas's behavior in the
talk you had with him?"
"Entirely. It left nothing to wish more, or different."
"Then you have far deeper ground to build upon than any of those facts.
They can no more overturn your foundation than the thickest fog can
remove the sun from the heavens. You cannot _prove_ that the sun is
there. But neither can you have the smallest real doubt that he is
there. You must wait with patience, believing all things, hoping all
things."
"That is just what I have been saying to myself. Only I wanted to hear
you say it too. I wanted it to come in at my ears as well as out of my
heart."
When a month had passed away, however, bringing no news of Thomas; when
another month had passed, and still he neither came nor wrote, hope
deferred began to work its own work and make Lucy's heart sick. But
she kept up bravely, through the help of her daily labor. Those that
think it hard to have to work hard as well as endure other sore trials,
little know how much those other trials are rendered endurable by the
work that accompanies them. They regard the work as an additional
burden, instead of as the prop which keeps their burdens from crushing
them to the earth. The same is true of pain--sometimes of grief,
sometimes of fear. And all of these are of the supports that keep the
weight of evil within us, of selfishness, and the worship of false
gods, from sinking us into Tophet. They keep us in some measure from
putting our trust in that which is weak and bad, even when they do but
little to make us trust in God.
Nor did this season of trial to Lucy pass by without bringing some
little measure of good to the poor, disappointed, fretful soul of
her grandmother. How much Widdles had to do with it--and my reader
must not despise Widdles; many a poor captive has been comforted by
a mouse, a spider, a rat even; and I know a lady who, leading a hard
life while yet a child, but possessing one little garret-room as her
own, with a window that opened on the leads, cultivated green things
there enough to feed a few pet snails, to each of which she gave
the name of one of her best friends, great names, too, and living
names, so that I will not, as she most innocently and lovingly did,
associate them with snails, though even thus they were comforters
to her brave heart;--how much Widdles had to do with it, I say, and
how much the divine help of time, and a sacred deprivation of that
hope in chance which keeps man sometimes from hoping in God, I cannot
tell; it was the work of the all-working Spirit, operating in and on
her mind mediately or immediately. She grew calmer, and began to turn
her thoughts a little away from what she fancied might have been if
things had not gone wrong so perversely, and to reflect on the fact,
which she had often expressed in words, but never really thought about
before--that it would be all the same a hundred years after--a saying
which, however far from true--although, in fact, taken logically as
it stands, absolutely false--yet has, wrapt up in it, after a clumsy
fashion, a very great and important truth. By slow degrees her former
cheerfulness began to show a little light over her hitherto gloomy
horizon; her eyes became less turbid; she would smile occasionally,
and her communications with Widdles grew more airy. I do most potently
believe that Widdles was, not only in the _similarity_, but in
the _infinitesimality_ (I am sorry to have to coin a word) of his
influence, homeopathically operative in working a degree of cure in the
troubled nature of the old woman.
"Ah, Widdles, Widdles!" she would say, as she rubbed the unavailing
Balm of Columbia on his blue back, "you and I know what trouble is!
Don't we, old bird?"
She began to have a respect for her own misfortunes, which indicated
that they had begun to recede a little from the point of her vision. To
have had misfortunes is the only distinction some can claim. How much
that can distinguish one man from another, judge, oh Humanity. But the
heart that knows its own bitterness, too often forgets that there is
more bitterness in the world than that.
Widdles would cock his magnificent head and whiskers on one side, and
wink with one eye, as much as to say, "I believe you, old girl." Then
he would turn his denuded, featherless back upon her, as much as to
add, with more solemnity: "Contemplate my condition, madam. Behold me.
Imagine what I once was, that you may understand the spite of fortune
which has reduced me to my present bareness. Am I not a spectacle to
men and angels? And am I not therefore distinguished above my fellows?"
Perhaps, however, I am all wrong in giving this interpretation to
the actions of the bird. Perhaps the influence that flowed from him
into the heart of Mrs. Boxall was really such as, put in words, would
amount to this: "Here I am without a feather to hide my somewhat skinny
proportions; but what the worse am I? Who cares? So long as you don't,
I don't. Let's turn about once more. My dancing days are over; but life
is life, even without feathers."
If Mrs. Boxall had had her way with Widdles, he would have turned out
a resplendent bird in spite of fate. But if you had told her not to be
distressed at his nakedness, for God cared for Widdles, not as much,
but as well as for her, she would have judged you guilty of something
like blasphemy. Was it because the bird was comical, as even she
admitted, that you must not speak of God's care in relation to him?
Certainly, however, he sowed not neither did he reap; and as for a barn
to store his winter-grain in--poor Widdles! Yet, was he forgotten? Mrs.
Boxall was the last person who could say so, with her sugar, her nuts,
her unguents of price--though the latter, clearly a striving against
Providence, were not of so much account in the eyes of the bird. I dare
say he found them soothing, though.
However all these things may have been, one thing is certain, that
Mrs. Boxall began to recover her equanimity, and at length even her
benevolence toward men in general--with one class exception, that of
lawyers, and two individual exceptions, those of old Worboise and
young Worboise. I believe she had a vague conviction that it was one
of the malignant class above mentioned that had plucked Widdles. "Ah,
my poor Widdles! Them lawyers!" she would say. "You would have been a
very different person indeed, Widdles, if it hadn't been for them. But
it'll be all the same in a hundred years, Widdles. Keep up heart, old
bird. It'll all be over soon. If you die before me, I'll put you on a
winding-sheet that'll be a deal more comfortable than dead feathers,
and I'll bury you with my own hands. But what'll you do for me, if I
die first, you little scarecrow? You'll look about for me, won't you?
That's about all you can do. And you'll miss the bits of sugar. Mattie,
my dear, mind that Widdles has his sugar, and everything regular after
I'm dead and gone."
She began to take to Mattie again, and even to make her read to her of
a Sunday. But this, as of old, gave rise to much difference of opinion
between them, which, however, resulted in the old woman's learning
something from the child, if not in the immediate case, yet in the next
similar case. For it often happens that a man who has opposed another's
opinion bitterly in regard to the individual case that occasioned the
difference, will act entirely according to that others judgment in the
next precisely similar case that occurs; although if you were to return
to the former, he would take up his former position with an access of
obstinacy in the reaction from having yielded to argument. Something
like this took place between Grannie and Mattie. It was amusing to
hear now the former would attribute all the oddities of the latter to
the fact that she belonged to the rising generation, never seeming
to suspect that Mattie was an exception to children in general, as
peculiar as Widdles in relation to birds.