WHAT MRS. BELSWIN HAD TO SAY.
"The deeds we do, though done in heedless ways,
May have the shaping of our future lives;
And, stretching forth their long arms from the past,
May alter this and that in such strange fashion
That we become as puppets in their hands,
To play the game of life by old events."
Mr. Dombrain's office, situate in Chintle Lane, was a shabby little
place consisting of three rooms. One where his clients waited, another
occupied by three clerks constantly writing, and a third where Mr.
Dombrain himself sat, like a crafty spider in his web waiting for
silly flies. The three rooms were all bad, but Mr. Dombrain's was the
worst; a square, low-roofed apartment like a box, with a dim twilight
atmosphere, which filtered in through a dirty skylight in the roof.
This being the case, Dombrain's desk was lighted by a gas-jet with a
green shade, fed by a snaky-looking india-rubber tube attached to the
iron gas-pipe projecting from the wall above his head.
The heavy yellow light flaring from under this green shade revealed
the room in a half-hearted sort of fashion, illuminating the desk,
but quite unable to penetrate into the dark corners of the place. On
the writing-table were piles of papers, mostly tied into bundles with
red tape, a glass inkstand, a pad of pink blotting-paper, three or
four pens, all of which were arranged on a dingy ink-stained green
cloth in front of a row of pigeon holes, full of loose letters and
legal-looking documents.
In front of this table sat Mr. Dombrain in a heavy horsehair-covered
chair, and near him were two other chairs of slender construction for
the use of clients. Along the walls more pigeon holes crammed with
papers, a tall bookshelf filled with hard-looking law books, which had
a second-hand look of having been picked up cheap, a ragged carpet on
the well-worn floor, and dust everywhere. Indeed, so thickly lay the
dust on books, on floor, on papers, on desk, that the whole room
looked as if it had just been opened after the lapse of years. The
chamber of the Sleeping Beauty, perhaps, and Mr. Dombrain--well no, he
was not a beauty, and he never was sleeping, so the comparison holds
not. Indeed he was a singularly ugly man in a coarse fashion. A large
bullet-shaped head covered with rough red hair, cut so remarkably
short that it stood up stiffly in a stubbly fashion, a freckled face
with a coarse red beard clipped short, cunning little grey eyes,
rather bleared by the constant glare of the gaslight in which he
worked, and large crimson ears. Dressed in a neat suit of black
broadcloth, he appeared singularly ill at ease in it, and with his
large stumpy-fingered hands, with clubbed nails, his awkward manner,
his habit of stealthily glancing out of his bleared eyes, Mr. Dombrain
was about as unsuited a person for a lawyer as one could find. There
was nothing suave about him to invite confidence, and he looked as if
he would have been more at home working as a navvy than sitting behind
this desk, with his large red hands clumsily moving the papers about.
Three o'clock in the afternoon it was by Mr. Dombrain's fat-faced
silver watch lying on the table in front of him, and as the lawyer
noted the fact in his usual stealthy fashion, a timid-looking clerk
glided into the room.
"Yes?" said Dombrain interrogatively, without looking up.
"If you please--if you please, sir, a lady," stammered the timid
clerk, washing his hands with invisible soap and water, "a lady
about--about the situation, sir."
"Humph! I said the application was to be by letter."
"But--but the lady, sir?"
Mr. Dombrain looked complacently at his nails, but said nothing.
"But--but the lady, sir?" repeated the timid clerk again.
"I said the application was to be by letter."
The clerk, seeing that this was the answer he was expected to deliver,
went sliding out of the room; but at the door encountered the lady in
question, dressed in black, and closely veiled.
"Madam," he stammered, growing red, "the application was to be by
letter."
"I preferred to come personally."
As she spoke, low though her voice was, Mr. Dombrain looked up
suddenly with a startled look on his face.
"Can you see me, Mr. Dombrain?"
He arose slowly to his feet, as if in obedience to some nervous
impulse, and with his grey eyes looking straight at the veiled woman,
still kept silence.
"Can you see me, Mr. Alfred Dombrain?"
The lawyer's red face had turned pale, and looked yellow in the
gaslight. The hot atmosphere of the room evidently made him gasp, used
as he was to it, for he opened his mouth as if to speak, then, closing
it again, signed to the clerk to leave the room.
Left alone with his visitor, Dombrain, still maintaining the same
position, stood watching her with a mesmeric stare as she glided into
one of the chairs beside the table.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Alfred Dombrain?"
His face was suddenly suffused with a rush of blood, and he sat down
heavily.
"Madam! who are you?"
"Don't you know? Ah! what a pity; and you have such a good memory for
voices."
"I--memory--voices," he stammered, moving restlessly.
"Yes; why not, Mr. Damberton?"
"Hush! For God's sake, hush! Who are you? Who are you?"
The woman flung back her veil, and he recoiled from the sight of her
face with a hoarse, strangled cry.
"Jezebel Pethram!"
"Once Jezebel Pethram, now Miriam Belswin. I see you remember faces as
well as voices--and names also. Ah! what an excellent memory."
Mr. Dombrain _alias_ Damberton collected his scattered senses
together, and, going over to a small iron safe set in the wall,
produced a tumbler and a bottle of whisky. Mrs. Belswin looked at him
approvingly as he drank off half a glass of the spirit neat.
"That's right; you'll need all your Dutch courage."
Quite forgetting the demands of hospitality, Dombrain replaced the
bottle and glass in the respectable safe, and resumed his seat at the
table with his ordinary bullying nature quite restored to him by the
potent spirit.
"Now, then, Mrs. Pethram, or Belswin, or whatever you like to call
yourself," he said, in a harsh, angry tone, "what do you want here?"
"I want you."
"Ho, ho! The feeling isn't reciprocal. Leave my office."
"When I choose."
"Perhaps a policeman will make you go quicker," growled Dombrain,
rising.
"Perhaps he will," retorted Mrs. Belswin, composedly; "and perhaps
he'll take you along with him."
"Infernal nonsense."
"Is it! We'll try the experiment, if you like."
Mr. Dombrain resumed his seat with a malediction on all women in
general, and Mrs. Belswin in particular. Then he bit his nails, and
looked at her defiantly, only to quail before the fierce look in her
eyes.
"It's no use beating about the bush with a fiend like you," he growled
sulkily, making a clumsy attempt to appear at his ease.
"Not a bit."
"I wish you'd go away," whined Dombrain, with a sudden change of
front. "I'm quite respectable now. I haven't seen you for twenty
years. Why do you come now and badger me? It isn't fair to pull a man
down when he's up."
"Do you call this up?" sneered Mrs. Belswin, looking round the dingy
office.
"It's up enough for me."
The woman grinned in a disagreeable manner, finding Mr. Dombrain's
manner very amusing. She glanced rapidly at him with her fierce eyes,
and he wriggled uneasily in his chair.
"Don't look at me like that, you witch," he muttered, covering his
face with his large hands. "You've got the evil eye, confound you."
Mrs. Belswin, leaning forward, held up her forefinger and shook it
gently at the lawyer.
"It won't do, my friend; I tell you it won't do. You've tried
bullying, you've tried whining; neither of them go down with me. If
you have any business to do you've got to put it aside for me. If you
have to see clients you can't and won't see them till I choose. Do you
hear what I say, you legal Caliban? I've come here for a purpose, Mr.
Dombrain--that, I believe, is your present name--for a purpose, sir.
Do you hear?"
"Yes, I hear. What is your purpose?"
She laughed; but not mirthfully.
"To tell you a story."
"I don't want stories. Go to a publisher."
"Certainly. I'll go to the Scotland Yard firm. Hold your tongue, sir.
Sneering doesn't come well from an animal like you. I have no time to
waste."
"Neither have I."
"That being the case with both of us, sit still."
Mr. Dombrain stopped his wriggling and became as a stone statue of an
Egyptian king, with his hands resting on his knees.
"Now I'll tell you my story."
"Can't you do without that?"
"No, my good man, I can't. To make you understand what I want I must
tell you all my story. Some of it you know, some of it you don't know.
Be easy. It's short and not sweet. Listen."
And Mr. Dombrain did listen, not because he wanted to, but because
this woman with the fierce eyes had an influence over him which he,
bully, coarse-minded man as he was, could not resist. When he
recollected what she knew and what she could tell, and would tell if
she chose, a cold sweat broke out all over him, and he felt nerveless
as a little child. Therefore, for these and divers other reasons, Mr.
Dombrain listened--with manifest reluctance, it is true, but still he
listened.
"We will commence the story in New Zealand twenty years--say
twenty-two years ago. One Rupert Pethram, the younger son of a good
family, come out there to make his fortune. He made it by the simple
process of marrying a Maori half-caste, called Jezebel Manners. You
see I don't scruple to tell everything about myself, dear friend.
Well, Mr. and Mrs. Pethram got on very well together for a time, but
she grew tired of being married to a fool. He was a fool, wasn't he?"
She waited for a reply, so Dombrain, against his will, was forced to
give her one.
"Yes, he was a fool--to marry you."
"The wisest thing he ever did in his life, seeing what a lot of
property I brought him. But I couldn't get on with him. My mother was
a pure-blooded Maori. I am only half a white, and I hated his cold
phlegmatic disposition, his supercilious manners. I was--I am
hot-blooded, ardent, quick-tempered. Fancy a woman like me tied to a
cold-blooded fish like Rupert Pethram. Bah! it was madness. I hated
him before my child was born; afterwards I hated him more than ever.
Then the other man came along."
"There always is another man!"
"Naturally! What would become of the Divorce Court if there wasn't?
Yes, the other man did come along. A pink and white fool. My husband
was a god compared to Silas Oates."
"Then why did you run away with Oates?"
"Why indeed! He attracted me in some way, I suppose, or I was sick of
my humdrum married life. I don't know why I left even Rupert Pethram
for such a fool as Silas. I did so, however. I gave up my name, my
child, my money, all for what?--for a man that tired of me in less
than six months, and left me to starve in San Francisco."
"You didn't starve, however."
"It is not my nature to act foolishly all my life. No, I did not
starve. I had a good voice, which I managed to get trained. I had also
a good idea of acting, so I made a success on the operatic stage as
Madame Tagni."
"Oh! are you the celebrated Madame Tagni?"
"I was. Now I am Mrs. Belswin, of no occupation in particular. I sang
in the States; I sang in New Zealand----"
"You didn't sing in Dunedin?"
"No, because my husband was there. Do you know why I came to New
Zealand--a divorced, dishonoured woman? No, of course you don't. I
came to see my child. I did see her, unknown to Rupert or to the child
herself. I was in New Zealand a long time watching over my darling.
Then I went again to the States, but I left friends behind me--good
friends, who kept me posted up in all the news of my child Kaituna.
Since I left her twenty years ago like a fool, I have known everything
about her. I heard in New York how Rupert had lost all his money,
owing to the decrease in the value of property. I heard his elder
brother had died, and that he had come in for the title. He is Sir
Rupert Pethram; I ought to be Lady Pethram."
"But you're not," sneered Dombrain, unable to resist the opportunity.
She flashed a savage glance at him and replied quietly.
"No, I am Mrs. Belswin, that's enough for me at present. But to go on
with my story. I heard how my husband had brought our child home to
the old country, and leaving her there had returned to New Zealand on
business. When this news reached me, I made up my mind at once and
came over here. I found out--how, it matters not--that my husband's
legal adviser was an old friend of mine, one Alfred Damberton----"
"Hush! not that name here!"
"Ah, I forgot. You are the respectable Mr. Alfred Dombrain now. But it
was curious that I should find an old friend in a position so likely
to be of use to me."
"Use to you?" groaned Dombrain, savagely.
"Yes; I have seen your advertisement in the paper for a companion for
a young lady. Well, I have come to apply for the situation."
"You?"
"Yes. Personally, and not by letter as you suggested in print."
Mr. Dombrain felt that he was in a fix, and therefore lied, with
clumsy malignity.
"That advertisement doesn't refer to your daughter."
"Doesn't it?" said Mrs. Belswin sharply. "Then, why refer to my
daughter at all just now?"
"Because!--oh, because----"
"Because you couldn't think of a better lie, I suppose," she finished,
contemptuously. "It won't do, my friend, I tell you it won't do. I'm
not the kind of woman to be played fast and loose with. You say it is
not my daughter that requires a chaperon."
"I do! yes I do!"
"Then you lie. What do you think private detectives are made for? Did
you think I came here without having everything necessary to meet an
unscrupulous wretch like you!"
"I thought nothing about you. I thought you were dead."
"And wished it, I daresay. But I'm not! I'm alive enough to do you an
injury--to have your name struck off the roll of English solicitors."
"You can't!" he retorted defiantly, growing pale again. "I defy you."
"You'd better not, Mr. Damberton! I'm one too many for you. I can tell
a little thing about your past career which would considerably spoil
the respectable position you now hold."
"No one would believe you against me. A respectable solicitor's word
is worth a dozen of a divorced woman."
"If you insult me I'll put a knife in you, you miserable wretch!" said
Mrs. Belswin, breathing hard. "I tell you I'm a desperate woman. I
know that you have advertised for a chaperon for my daughter, and
I--her mother--intend to have the situation under the name of Mrs.
Belswin."
"But your husband will recognise you."
"My husband is out in New Zealand, and will be there for the next few
months. When he returns I will deal with him, not you. This matter of
the chaperon is in your hands, and you are going to give the situation
to me. You hear, gaol-bird--to me!"
Dombrain winced at the term applied to him, and jumped up with a
furious look of rage.
"I defy you! I defy you!" he said in a low harsh voice, the veins in
his forehead swelling with intense passion. "You outcast! You Jezebel!
Ah, how the name suits you! I know what you are going to say. That
twenty years ago I was in gaol in New Zealand for embezzlement. Well,
I own it--I was. I was a friend of your lover, Silas Oates--your lover
who cast you off to starve. I lost money betting. I embezzled a large
sum. I was convicted and sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Well, I
worked out my term! I left the colony where, as Alfred Damberton, I
was too well known to get a chance of honest employment, and came to
England through America. I met you again in America. I was fool enough
to think Silas Oates might help me for old time's sake. I found he had
left you--left you alone in 'Frisco. You were little better than a
vile creature on the streets; I was a gaol-bird. Oh, a nice pair we
were! Outcasts, both you and I."
He passed his handkerchief over his dry lips as he paused, but Mrs.
Belswin made no sign in any way, but simply sat looking at him with a
sneer.
"When I left you," resumed Dombrain, hurriedly, "I came to England--to
my father. He was a lawyer in the country. He received me well--took
me into his office and admitted me into partnership. When he died I
came up to London, and have prospered since. I have changed my name to
Alfred Dombrain, and am respected everywhere. Your husband does not
know my story. He was recommended to me by a friend, and he has
employed me for some years. I have his confidence in every way. I am a
respectable man! I have forgotten the past, and now you come with your
bitter tongue and spiteful mind to tear me down from the position I
have so hardly won."
He dropped down exhausted into a chair; but Mrs. Belswin, still
smiling, still sneering, pointed to the safe.
"Take some more whiskey. You will need it."
"Woman, leave me!"
"Not till I leave as chaperon to my child."
"That you shall never have."
"Oh yes, I shall!"
"I say you shall not! You can go and tell my story where you please; I
shall tell yours; and we'll see who will be believed--Alfred Dombrain,
the respectable, trusted lawyer, or Mrs. Belswin, the divorced woman!
Bah! You can't frighten me with slanders. There is nothing to connect
Dombrain the solicitor with Damberton, the convict."
"Indeed! What about this?"
She held up a photograph which she had taken out of her pocket--a
photograph resembling Mr. Dombrain, but which had written under it--
_Alfred Damberton_.
"You may alter your face," said Mrs. Belswin maliciously, "but you
can't very well alter your handwriting. And now I look at you, I
really don't think there is much alteration. A beard when there used
to be only a moustache, more wrinkles, less smiles. Oh, I think any
one will recognise this for you."
Dombrain made a snatch at the photograph, but she was too quick for
him.
"Not quite. This is my evidence against you. I heard in America,
through my useful detectives, that you were lawyer to my husband; so,
thinking I might require your help, and knowing I shouldn't get it
without some difficulty, I took the trouble of writing to New Zealand
for a full report of your very interesting case. You've cost me a good
deal of money, my dear sir; but they pay well on the opera-stage, so I
don't mind. I have all the papers telling your little story. I have
this photograph with your own signature, proving the identity of
Damberton with Dombrain; so taking all things into consideration, I
think you had better do what I ask."
She had so completely got the better of Mr. Dombrain that she had
reduced him to a kind of moral pulp, and he leaned back in his chair
utterly crushed.
"What do you want?" he asked feebly.
"I want the situation of chaperon to Miss Kaituna Pethram.
"If I give it to you, as I can, will you hold your tongue
about--about--my past life?"
"Yes, certainly; provided that you never disclose that the divorced
Mrs. Pethram has anything to do with the respectable Mrs. Belswin."
"I agree to all you say."
"You will give me the situation?"
"Yes."
"I am engaged, then?"
"You are."
"As chaperon to Miss Pethram?"
"Yes; as chaperon to Miss Pethram."
Mrs. Belswin arose with a smile of triumph and took her leave.
"Beaten all along the line, I see. Let this be a lesson to you, my
dear friend, never to put your thick head against a woman's wits!"