A CHECK
So many things now began to open upon me, to do and to think of, that I
scarcely knew which to begin with. I used to be told how much wiser it
was not to interfere with any thing--to let by-gones be by-gones, and
consider my own self only. But this advice never came home to my case,
and it always seemed an unworthy thing even to be listening to it. And
now I saw reason to be glad for thanking people who advised me, and
letting them go on to advise themselves. For if I had listened to Major
Hockin, or even Uncle Sam for that part, where must I have been
now? Why, simply knowing no more than as a child I knew, and feeling
miserable about it. Whereas I had now at least something to go upon,
and enough for a long time to occupy my mind. The difficulty was to know
what to do first, and what to resolve to leave undone, or at least to
put off for the present. One of my special desires had been to discover
that man, that Mr. Goad, who had frightened me so about two years back,
and was said to be lost in the snow-drifts. But nobody like him had ever
been found, to the sorrow of the neighborhood; and Sylvester himself had
been disappointed, not even to know what to do with his clothes.
His card, however, before he went off, had been left to the care of
Uncle Sam for security of the 15,000 dollars; and on it was printed,
with a glazing and much flourish, “Vypan, Goad, and Terryer: Private
Inquiry Office, Little England Polygon, W.C.” Uncle Sam, with a grunt
and a rise of his foot, had sent this low card flying to the fire, after
I had kissed him so for all his truth and loveliness; but I had caught
it and made him give it to me, as was only natural. And having this now,
I had been quite prepared to go and present it at its mean address, and
ask what they wanted me for in America, and what they would like to do
with me now, taking care to have either the Major close at hand, or else
a policeman well recommended.
But now I determined to wait a little while (if Betsy Bowen's opinion
should be at all the same as mine was), and to ask Mr. Shovelin what
he thought about it, before doing any thing that might arouse a set of
ideas quite opposite to mine, and so cause trouble afterward. And being
unable to think any better for the time than to wait and be talked to,
I got Major Hockin to take me back again to the right number in European
Square.
Here I found Mrs. Strouss (born Betsy Bowen) ready and eager to hear a
great deal more than I myself had heard that day. On the other hand, I
had many questions, arising from things said to me, to which I required
clear answers; and it never would do for her to suppose that because
she had known me come into this world, she must govern the whole of my
course therein. But it cost many words and a great deal of demeanor
to teach her that, good and faithful as she was, I could not be always
under her. Yet I promised to take her advice whenever it agreed with my
own opinions.
This pleased her, and she promised to offer it always, knowing how well
it would be received, and she told all her lodgers that they might ring
and ring, for she did not mean to answer any of their bells; but if they
wanted any thing, they must go and fetch it. Being Germans, who are the
most docile of men in England, whatever they may be at home, they made
no complaint, but retired to their pipes in a pleasant condition of
surprise at London habits.
Mrs. Strouss, being from her earliest years of a thrifty and reputable
turn of mind, had managed, in a large yet honest way, to put by many
things which must prove useful in the long-run, if kept long enough.
And I did hear--most careful as I am to pay no attention to petty
rumors--that the first thing that moved the heart of Herr Strouss, and
called forth his finest feelings, was a winding-up chair, which came out
to make legs, with a pocket for tobacco, and a flat place for a glass.
This was certainly a paltry thought; and to think of such low things
grieved me. And now, when I looked at Mr. Strouss himself, having heard
of none of these things yet, I felt that my nurse might not have done
her best, yet might have done worse, when she married him. For he seemed
to have taken a liking toward me, and an interest in my affairs, which
redounded to his credit, if he would not be too inquisitive. And now
I gladly allowed him to be present, and to rest in the chair which had
captivated him, although last night I could scarcely have borne to have
heard in his presence what I had to hear. To-night there was nothing
distressful to be said, compared, at least, with last night's tale;
whereas there were several questions to be put, in some of which (while
scouting altogether Uncle Sam's low estimate) two females might, with
advantage perhaps, obtain an opinion from the stronger sex.
And now, as soon as I had told my two friends as well as I could what
had happened at the bank (with which they were pleased, as I had been),
those questions arose, and were, I believe, chiefly to the following
purport--setting aside the main puzzle of all.
Why did my father say, on that dreadful morning, that if his father was
dead, he himself had killed or murdered him? Betsy believed, when she
came to think, that he had even used the worse word of these two.
How could the fatal shot have been discharged from his pistol--as
clearly it had been--a pistol, moreover, which, by his own account, as
Betsy now remembered, he had left in his quarters near Chichester?
What was that horrible disease which had carried off all my poor little
brothers and sisters, and frightened kind neighbors and servants away?
Betsy said it was called “Differeria,” as differing so much from all
other complaints. I had never yet heard of this, but discovered, without
asking further than of Mr. Strouss, that she meant that urgent mandate
for a levy of small angels which is called on earth “diphtheria.”
Who had directed those private inquirers, Vypan, Goad, and Terryer, to
send to the far West a member of their firm to get legal proof of my
dear father's death, and to bring me back, if possible? The present
Lord Castlewood never would have done so, according to what Mr. Shovelin
said; it was far more likely that (but for weak health) he would have
come forth himself to seek me, upon any probable tidings. At once a
religious and chivalrous man, he would never employ mean agency. And
while thinking of that, another thought occurred--What had induced that
low man Goad to give Uncle Sam a date wrong altogether for the crime
which began all our misery? He had put it at ten, now twelve, years
back, and dated it in November, whereas it had happened in September
month, six years and two months before the date he gave. This question
was out of all answer to me, and also to Mrs. Strouss herself; but Herr
Strouss, being of a legal turn, believed that the law was to blame
for it. He thought that proceedings might be bound to begin, under the
Extradition Act, within ten years of the date of the crime; or there
might be some other stipulation compelling Mr. Goad to add one to all
his falsehoods; and not knowing any thing about it, both of us thought
it very likely.
Again, what could have been that last pledge which passed between my
father and mother, when they said “good-by” to one another, and perhaps
knew that it was forever, so far as this bodily world is concerned? Was
it any thing about a poor little sleeping and whimpering creature like
myself, who could not yet make any difference to any living being except
the mother? Or was it concerning far more important things, justice,
clear honor, good-will, and duty, such as in the crush of time come
upward with high natures? And if so, was it not a promise from my
mother, knowing every thing, to say nothing, even at the quivering
moment of lying beneath the point of death?
This was a new idea for Betsy, who had concluded from the very first
that the pledge must be on my father's part--to wit, that he had vowed
not to surrender, or hurt himself in any way, for the sake of his dear
wife. And to my suggestion she could only say that she never had seen
it in that light; but the landings were so narrow and the walls so soft
that, with all her duty staring in her face, neither she, nor the best
servant ever in an apron, could be held responsible to repeat their very
words. And her husband said that this was good--very good--so good as
ever could be; and what was to show now from the mouth of any one, after
fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, the years?
After this I had no other word to say, being still too young to
contradict people duly married and of one accord. No other word, I mean,
upon that point; though still I had to ask, upon matters more immediate,
what was the next thing for me, perhaps, to do. And first of all it was
settled among us that for me to present myself at the head-quarters of
Vypau, Goad, and Terryer would be a very clumsy and stupid proceeding,
and perhaps even dangerous. Of course they would not reveal to me the
author of those kind inquiries about myself, which perhaps had cost the
firm a very valuable life, the life of Mr. Goad himself. And while I
should learn less than nothing from them, they would most easily extract
from me, or at any rate find out afterward, where I was living, and
what I was doing, and how I could most quietly be met and baffled, and
perhaps even made away with, so as to save all further trouble.
Neither was that the only point upon which I resolved to do nothing.
Herr Strouss was a very simple-minded man, yet full of true sagacity,
and he warmly advised, in his very worst English, that none but my few
trusty friends should be told of my visit to this country.
“Why for make to know your enemies?” he asked, with one finger on his
forehead, which was his mode of indicating caution. “Enemies find out
vere soon, too soon, soon enough. Begin to plot--no, no, young lady
begin first. Vilhelmina, your man say the right. Is it good, or is it
bad?”
It appeared to us both to be good, so far as might be judged for the
present; and therefore I made up my mind to abstain from calling even on
my father's agent, unless Mr. Shovelin should think it needful. In that
and other matters I would act by his advice; and so with better spirits
than I long had owned, at finding so much kindness, and with good hopes
of the morrow, I went to the snug little bedroom which my good nurse had
provided.
Alas! What was my little grief on the morrow, compared to the deep and
abiding loss of many by a good man's death? When I went to the door at
which I had been told to knock, it was long before I got an answer. And
even when somebody came at last, so far from being my guardian, it was
only a poor old clerk, who said, “Hush, miss!” and then prayed that the
will of the Lord might be done. “Couldn't you see the half-shutters
up?” he continued, rather roughly. “'Tis a bad job for many a poor man
to-day. And it seems no more than yesterday I was carrying him about!”
“Do you mean Mr. Shovelin?” I asked. “Is he poorly? Has any thing
happened? I can wait, or come again.”
“The Lord has taken him to the mansions of the just, from his private
address at Sydenham Hill. A burning and a shining light! May we like
him be found watching in that day, with our lamps trimmed and our loins
girded!”
For the moment I was too surprised to speak, and the kind old man led me
into the passage, seeing how pale and faint I was. He belonged, like
his master, and a great part of their business, to a simple religious
persuasion, or faith, which now is very seldom heard of.
“It was just in this way,” he said, as soon as tears had enabled me to
speak--for even at the first sight I had felt affection toward my new
guardian. “Our master is a very punctual man, for five-and-thirty years
never late--never late once till this morning. Excuse me, miss, I ought
to be ashamed. The Lord knoweth what is best for us. Well, you threw him
out a good bit yesterday, and there was other troubles. And he had to
work late last night, I hear; for through his work he would go, be it
anyhow--diligent in business, husbanding the time--and when he came down
to breakfast this morning, he prayed with his household as usual, but
they noticed his voice rather weak and queer; and the mistress looked
at him when he got up from his knees; but he drank his cup of tea and
he ate his bit of toast, which was all he ever took for breakfast. But
presently when his cob came up to the door--for he always rode in to
business, miss, no matter what the weather was--he went to kiss his wife
and his daughters all round, according to their ages; and he got through
them all, when away he fell down, with the riding-whip in one hand, and
expired on a piece of Indian matting.”
“How terrible!” I exclaimed, with a sob. And the poor old man, in spite
of all his piety, was sobbing.
“No, miss; not a bit of terror about it, to a man prepared as he was.
He had had some warning just a year ago; and the doctors all told him he
must leave off work. He could no more do without his proper work than he
could without air or victuals. What this old established concern will
do without him, our Divine Master only knows. And a pinch coming on in
Threadneedle Street, I hear--but I scarcely know what I am saying, miss;
I was thinking of the camel and the needle.”
“I will not repeat what you have not meant to tell,” I answered, seeing
his confusion, and the clumsy turn he had made of it. “Only tell me what
dear Mr. Shovelin died of.”
“Heart-disease, miss. You might know in a moment. Nothing kills like
that. His poor father died of it, thirty years agone. And the better
people are, the more they get it.”