SOLOMON FEWSTER GIVES THE LASCAR A FLOWER.
Early in the new year letters from Joshua reached home. With what joy
they were read! In one of them he wrote: "I remember saying that I
should be home in twelve months; but that time has passed, and another
twelve months, and nearly another, and still there is no talk of
returning. If I stay away much longer you won't know me when you see
me. Upon my word, I think if I were to open the door now and walk in
suddenly, you would be puzzled to know whether I was really myself or
somebody else."
When they read this they all raised their heads and looked towards the
door, wishing that Joshua would turn the handle and walk into the
room.
The evening of the day on which the letters arrived was spent in grand
state in Dan's house. Every member of the Marvel family was there, and
the Old Sailor, and Solomon Fewster as well; so that the little parlor
was quite full, and all the chairs had to be brought from the bedroom
and the kitchen to provide seats for the company. The letters were
read aloud, and commented upon and rejoiced over.
"It isn't as good as Joshua's being here," said Dan, looking round
with a happy face; "but it is next door to it. I tell you what pleases
me almost as much as any thing in the letters--it is that Jo's a
favorite with the men. Hear what he says: 'I play to them on my
accordion two or three times a week, and according to them I am a
splendid musician--which I am not, you know, for I only play simple
tunes. Last week the captain sent for me and told me that some
passengers who were on board wanted to dance, and wished me to play
for them. Of course I fetched the accordion at once. You should have
seen us! I played for them twice after that night; and yesterday when
we arrived at Sydney--Oh, Dan such a lovely place, with such a
bay!--they gave me a sovereign, which I put into Ellen's purse. Tell
Ellen that!'"
A blush came into Ellen's face, and her heart beat more quickly, when
she heard that Joshua was so careful of the purse she had worked for
him.
Filled with such like matter, the letters could not fail to be a
source of delight. Dan was commissioned to give Joshua's love to
Ellen, and Ellen was asked to pay a visit to the Old Sailor, and to
tell him that Joshua was doing hie duty. Susan received messages for
Basil and Minnie, and was to tell Minnie that Joshua would bring her
some beautiful shells--"shells in which Minnie can hear the waves
singing to each other in whispers," Joshua wrote, almost poetically.
Minnie, sitting in her corner, scarcely spoke a word; she was thinking
of the sailor-lad who had been so kind to her, and she was looking
with the eyes of her mind upon the picture which Dan had painted of
Joshua, with his handsome face and free waving hair, standing on the
deck, and laughingly shaking the spray from his eyes.
The Old Sailor nodded approval as the letters were read, and then
traced Joshua's course on a map which he had brought with him,
stopping many times to tell the eager on-lookers of the wonders and
the glories of the beautiful South Pacific. The map was spread on the
table, and it was not an unattractive picture to see them all
clustered round the Old Sailor, peeping over his shoulders and under
his arms, as with his great forefinger he followed the ship from port
to port. Mrs. Marvel, who had taken to spectacles, found them of but
little use to her on this occasion, for the obstinate tears came into
her eyes and dropped into the ocean which the Old Sailor's forefinger
was ploughing. Minnie leaned over Dan's shoulder, and the table was so
small that she had to put her arm round Dan's neck and to put her face
close to his, so that she might see. A strange feeling of happiness
came upon Dan as her cheek nestled close to his; a feeling of
happiness so exquisite that all his senses were merged in it. The
common parlor, the eager faces peering at the map, the pleasant voice
of the Old Sailor explaining the route, all faded from before him, and
he was conscious of nothing but Minnie's presence. He felt the warm
contact of a soft hand; it was Minnie's hand, which in her eager
abstraction she had placed on his. He folded it in his, and she
allowed it to rest there. It was like a dream. He feared to move
and held his breath lest he should awake. A sudden murmur of
voices--voices that sounded for a moment as if they came from afar
off--aroused him; he looked into Minnie's face, and saw it lighted up
with a happiness that seemed to be a reflex of his own; and as she
turned her eyes to his, so luminous a beauty dwelt in them that he
could have fallen at her feet and worshipped her. But the dream was at
an end--the blissful silence which had encompassed him was invaded.
Minnie had returned to her corner, and his friends were speaking
together, and laughing and appealing to him upon some point which he
had not heard. Dan still felt the warm pressure of Minnie's hand and
the soft contact of her cheek; and unobserved he rested his lips upon
the palm which had clasped hers, and kissed it softly and wonderingly.
There was only one person in the party who did not feel happy. That
one was Solomon Fewster. Directly he entered the room he had been
greeted with the joyful tidings; and understanding that he was
expected to share in the general excitement of pleasure, he professed
a delight which he did not experience. That afternoon he had purchased
a rare flower, which it was his intention to present to Ellen. He had
brooded over the idea for several days, and had decided that it would
be a good thing to do. As he entered the room with the flower in the
button-hole of his coat, he was already primed with a few
complimentary words which he had learned by heart to say to Ellen,
when he presented his gift. Ellen had never before looked so pretty,
he thought. Her eyes were brighter, and there was a more joyous
animation than usual in her manner. She greeted him with a smile so
much more gracious than he was accustomed to receive from her, that he
congratulated himself upon the purchase of the flower. She gave him
her hand with more than her usual warmth, and when he ventured gently
to press it, she did not resent the liberty. The fact was, she did not
notice it. She was full of joy, and, as is the case with all amiable
natures, she dispensed gleams of her happiness to all with whom
she came in contact. Unless we are too much engrossed in our own
special cares, we sometimes meet with such like happy faces in
the streets--faces which seem to say, "We are happy; be happy with
us"--faces which, although quite strange to us, which we have never
seen before and may never see again, will kindle with a smile of
welcome upon the smallest encouragement.
But Solomon Fewster was terribly discomfited when he learned the
reason of her cheerfulness and animation; it was because letters had
been received from Joshua. He determined not to present his flower
just then, for he read something in Ellen's blushes that sorely galled
him. He could not help thinking that the fuss they were making about a
common sailor-boy, and the laughing and the crying they indulged in
over Joshua's stupid letters, were utterly ridiculous, and in a sort
of way derogatory to himself, Dan's best patron.
As the night wore on, his anger and uneasiness increased; and yet he
lingered until the last moment, torturing himself with all kinds of
speculations as to what was the nature of the feeling that Ellen
entertained for Joshua. Every expression of gladness that fell from
her lips concerning Joshua and Joshua's career was painful to him, and
it was with a bitter heart that he left the house, with the flower
still in his coat. He was hot and feverish as he closed the
street-door behind him, and he was not sorry to find that a heavy rain
was falling. He took off his hat and bared his head to the rain.
Within the house he had been compelled to repress expression of his
feelings; it was a relief to him now to feel that no one was by, and
that he could speak out at last. And the first words he uttered, as he
smoothed his wet hair and put on his hat, were, "Damn Joshua Marvel! I
would give money to drown him!" As he spoke the words aloud, he was
conscious of a slouching figure at his side. Although it was raining,
the night was not quite dark there was enough light for him to notice
that the man who had approached him was in rags--most probably a
beggar. Muttering that he had nothing to give, Solomon Fewster walked
on. But the man was not to be so easily shaken off, and Mr. Fewster
being in an eminently quarrelsome mood turned upon him, and repeated
in no civil tone that he had nothing to give.
"I have not asked you for any thing," said the man, surlily, "though
if I had, you might speak to me more civilly, Mr. Fewster."
They were passing a lamp-post, and, attracted by the utterance of his
name, Mr. Fewster stopped and said,--
"How do you know my name?"
"I know it; that is enough," was the answer.
"Ah!" said Mr. Fewster, regarding the Lascar with curiosity and
recognizing him, "I have seen you before, my man."
"That is not saying much against me, master," said the Lascar, rather
sneeringly. "I have seen _you_ before; so we're equal.
"And whenever I have seen you, it has been in this street," continued
Mr. Fewster.
"And pretty well whenever I have seen you, it has been in this
street," retorted the Lascar; "you seem to be as fond of it as I am."
"And generally of a night."
"The same to you master; and what then? The street is free to me as it
is to you. Look you. I know more than you are aware of. If it comes to
that, why do you go so often to that house?" The sudden look of
discomposure that flashed into Mr. Fewster's face was not lost upon
the Lascar, who had seen him walking by Ellen's side more than once,
and who had stealthily followed them on every occasion. "Look you,
master. What one man does for love, another man does for hate."
"Hate of whom? What do you mean?"
"The people in that house have received letters from Joshua Marvel
to-day."
"Well, what of that?"
"What of that!" cried the Lascar, in a voice of suppressed passion,
and yet with a cunning watchfulness of Mr. Fewster's face, as if he
were watching for a cue to speak more plainly. "Well, nothing much,
master; except that I should like to know when the cub is coming
home."
Mr. Fewster could not help an expression of satisfaction passing into
his eyes as he heard Joshua spoken of as a cub, and the Lascar saw it
and took his cue from it.
"What do you want to know for? What is Joshua Marvel to you?"
"He is this to me," cried the Lascar, the dark blood rushing into his
face and making it darker; "that if I had him here, I would stamp upon
him with my feet, and spoil his beauty for him! He is this to me, that
if I could twist his heart-strings I would do it, and laugh in his
face the while! See me now, master; look at me well. I did not ask you
for money, for I know you, and I know you don't give nothing for
nothing. But I might have asked you, and with reason, for I want it.
Look at my feet" (Mr. Fewster noticed, for the first time, that the
Lascar's feet were bare); "Look at my clothes--rags. That old thief,
Praiseworthy Meddler, kicked me off his barge where I've lived and
slept this many a year. And every blow he struck at me went down to
Joshua Marvel's account, and makes it heavier against him. See you;
the Lascar dog never forgets. I've sworn an oath, and I'll keep it.
I've put a cross against him, and he shall see it when he is dying."
Solomon Fewster looked at the wretch before him, quivering with
passion and shivering with cold, and deliberately cracked his fingers
one after another. When the operation was concluded, he said, lightly,
as taking no interest in what the Lascar had said,--
"That is your business, my friend; not mine. I will tell you as far as
I know about this young gentleman who has served you so well. He is
not coming home yet a while, I believe--not before the end of the
year, perhaps. I dare say you'll manage to see him when he does come
home."
"Yes, I'll manage to see him then," said the Lascar, with a sudden
quietude of manner and with a furtive rook at Mr. Fewster's face--a
look which said, "You are trying to deceive me, master; let us see who
is the more cunning--you or I." Then aloud, "Thank you for answering
my question. You say it is not your business, this hate of mine for
Joshua Marvel. Yet there may be something in common between us for
I've seen you walking with the girl who worships Joshua Marvel."
"How do you know that she worships him?" demanded Mr. Fewster, thrown
off his guard, his heart beating loud and fast.
"Because I am not blind. I know that as well as I know that you have
as much cause to hate him as I have. I am like a cat; I watch and
watch. You are too young, my master, to mask your face; and I have
seen that in it that you wouldn't like to speak."
"Mind what you are saying," said Mr. Fewster, with his knuckles at his
teeth; "you are on dangerous ground."
"Why should I mind?" questioned the Lascar, with a curious mixture of
fierceness and humility in his voice. "My tongue's my own. I have
nothing to lose: judge you if you have any thing to gain. Mind you, I
stop at nothing. I am not squeamish. You are a gentleman; I am a
vagabond. I can do what you daren't. I can help you to what you want,
perhaps; and you can help me."
The cunning of the Lascar was too deep for Mr. Fewster. The Lascar saw
as clearly as if he had been told that Solomon Fewster loved Ellen
Taylor, and he seized instinctively upon Ellen's love for Joshua as
the lever by which he was to gain power over Mr. Fewster. In the
present conversation the men were not evenly matched; the Lascar had
all the advantage on his side. Subtle as Mr. Fewster was, his love
blinded his judgment, and his hate led him to consider that this man
might be useful to him.
"I can help you, you tell me," he said. "How?"
"I am cold to the bone," said the shivering wretch. "Treat me to some
rum."
They walked until they reached a public-house; then Mr. Fewster gave
the Lascar money.
"Go in and drink, but don't get drunk."
"Ain't you coming in, master?"
"No," said Mr. Fewster, with a look of contempt at the Lascar's
tatters. "You can buy a bottle of rum, and bring it out with you. And
mind, when you come out, don't walk by my side; follow me."
Five minutes afterwards they were walking in single file towards Mr.
Fewster's place of business, where he lived. When they arrived at the
door, Mr. Fewster hesitated. He wanted to talk to the Lascar, to get
out of him all he knew about Ellen and Joshua; yet, looking at the
Lascar, he hesitated. The man divined what was in his mind, and
said,--
"There is a policeman coming along on the other side of the way. Go to
him and say, 'Look at this man; I have occasion to speak to him on a
matter of business; but he is a disreputable dog, and I want you to
watch the house. Knock in an hour, and if I don't answer, or if you
hear any noise, force open the door.' Say that to him, or something
like it, and give him a pint of beer, and you will be all right."
"Come along," said Mr. Fewster, stung by the Lascar's quiet sneer; "I
am not frightened of you."
"You have no need to be, master. You can use me like a dog, if you
give me to eat and drink."
"Like a dog!" echoed Mr. Fewster, with a laugh. "Well, suppose I
regard you in that light; it may be useful."
Mr. Fewster struck a light in the shop, in which there were at least a
score of coffins--respectable coffins, solemnly black as coffins
should be, with respectable nails to match.
"Waiting for tenants," he remarked, pleasantly, to the Lascar. "The
cheap ones--common deal--are in the workshop at the back." Mr. Fewster
put the candle down upon a coffin, and looked complacently upon his
wares. "Handsome, are they not? This one, now, with lacquered handles
and silvered plate for name, age, and virtues, what should you say to
that?"
"Shouldn't care much for it," said the Lascar, with evident
repugnance. "It would be more suitable for such as you, master. A
cheap one--of common deal--will be good enough for me, when my turn
comes."
"Quite good enough, I should say."
"You are not going to stop here talking, are you?" inquired the
Lascar, seeing that Mr. Fewster evinced no disposition to move.
"Why, don't you like it, you dog?" retorted Mr. Fewster, with a spice
of his native humor.
"No, I don't; it smells of worms."
With a pleasant laugh Mr. Fewster led the way into his sitting-room,
and set light to the fire and lit a second candle.
"This is better," said the Lascar, huddling before the fire. "Ah, this
is good, this warmth; it is life! Have you ever slept out in the cold,
master?"
"No, you dog," answered Mr. Fewster.
He had recovered his self-possession and much of his usual equanimity.
"I have; in the cold and wet, for two or three nights together."
"There was the Union," suggested Mr. Fewster.
"I have been there often enough. Sometimes I was too late; sometimes
there were too many of us; sometimes I didn't care even for that
shelter."
"Would you like to sleep in my shop? I think I could trust you there."
"I think you might. I shouldn't be likely to steal a coffin. I
shouldn't care to sleep there, master, and that's flat. If I woke up
in the dark, I should see dead men lying in the coffins. I wouldn't
mind it so much if the coffins were plain deal ones; but black--ugh!"
Mr. Fewster laughed loud and long. Coffins were playthings to
him--toys symbolical of the joys of life. He laughed merrily as he set
food on the table, the Lascar watching him with greedy eyes the while.
"Fall to, you dog!" said Mr. Fewster; and like a dog, devoid though of
a dog's generous nature, the Lascar fell to, and devoured the bread
and cheese. Meanwhile Mr. Fewster helped himself to a large glass of
rum. He was one of the soberest of undertakers, who, as a rule, are
not the soberest of men. He drank but very rarely; but when he did,
all the worst part of his nature disported itself, in revenge for
being generally kept so much under control. Now as he drank his
rum--and he drank it neat--he became savage, vengeful, desperate. He
had never felt till now how deeply he loved Ellen Taylor. He had loved
her in a light way from the first, and his love had grown quietly, and
had been fed by her avoidance of his attentions. Her behavior towards
him had deepened his love and intensified it. Yet all along,
notwithstanding that he felt he was not as agreeable in her eyes as he
would wish to be, he thought that to have he had only to ask. "They,
poor working people," he thought, "earning just enough to keep them,
living as it were from hand to mouth, _must_ feel flattered and
honored by my attention--by the attention of a man who has a
prosperous business and an account at the bank." As for marriage, he
had not thought of that till lately. But Ellen had so firmly and so
steadily repulsed him in any advances he had plucked up courage to
make, that he had resolved to lower himself and ask her to be his
wife. Having determined to make the sacrifice, he considered that the
road was clear to him. He reasoned with himself thus: "She thought
perhaps that I did not mean honorably by her, and that is the cause of
her treating me so coldly; but when she learns my real intentions she
cannot but feel flattered, and must accept me."
He thought over these things as he sat before the fire entirely
engrossed by love for Ellen and hate for Joshua. The Lascar had helped
himself to the spirits, and as Mr. Fewster sat studying the fire, he
sat studying his host. That it was a study that interested him and
pleased him was evident from the satisfied expression in his face, and
from the satisfied manner in which he rubbed his hands gently over one
another.
"Well, you dog!" exclaimed Mr. Fewster insolently.
"Well, master?" replied the Lascar meekly.
"Have you had enough, you dog?"
"Plenty, thank you, master."
The Master took another drink of rum, and the Dog followed suit. The
Master regarded the Dog with a contemptuous assumption of superiority.
The Dog regarded the Master with becoming humbleness. But the Dog had
the best of it, although he did cast down his eyes.
"Look up, you dog," said Mr. Fewster.
The Dog looked up.
"What would you do to Joshua Marvel if you had him here, with no one
by?"
The Lascar, who had been playing idly with the knife with which he had
cut his supper, raised it, and with a fierce action struck at the air.
Then, springing to his feet, he threw aside his chair, and kneeling on
the ground, made motions with his fingers as if he were strangling an
enemy.
"H-m!" exclaimed Mr. Fewster, looking at the upturned face, blazing
with vindictiveness, that fronted his. "Dangerous."
"That's my business. I'll risk the danger of it. See you--shall I
speak plainly?"
"Yes."
"This girl that you love worships the man that you and I hate"--
"Say that _you_ hate, you dog," interrupted Mr. Fewster. "I'll have no
partnership. I am master."
"I ask your pardon, master. The girl that you love worships the man
that I hate. She is waiting for him to come home; so am I. I have
sworn death to him. When he comes home, the girl that you love will
have no eyes for any one but him. What chance will you have with her
then?"
"Stop. You are too fast. Speak of yourself and of them without
reference to me. Don't iterate with your damnable tongue about the
girl that _I_ love. The girl that I love, I'll have"--
"So you shall, master, if I can help you."
"When I want your help, I'll ask for it. Now go on with your story,
and heed my caution."
With ready wit the Lascar fell into Mr. Fewster's humor.
"This girl that I speak of--as pretty a picture of flesh and blood as
eyes ever saw--is loved by a gentleman who in a sort of way has
lowered himself to think of her. But the gentleman has made up his
mind to have her, and when a gentleman makes up his mind, who shall
stop him? He goes one night to the house where this pretty girl
lives--I shouldn't wonder if the very flower that the gentleman wore
in his button-hole wasn't intended for her"--
"You are a clever dog, you!" said Mr. Fewster, half in anger, half in
admiration.
"Thank you, master. With the flower in his button-hole the gentleman
goes to the house where his pretty girl lives, and there he spends the
evening, and hears read, I dare say, some letters, which she has
received from his rival, who is a sailor--I only speak from fancy,
master; set me right if you can."
"How can I set you right when I know nothing about it, you dog, except
by saying that I shouldn't think it likely _she_ received any
letters?"
"Thank you, master. My fancy was wrong, I've no doubt. The gentleman,
then, is obliged to listen to some letters which have been received
from abroad, and is obliged to listen to affectionate words uttered by
the girl he loves for his rival far away--mind, master, I don't know
this, I only suspect it--and he sees, too, in her face, that when her
sailor-boy comes home, she will open her arms to his rival, to his
enemy, whom he hates, and would like to see put out of the way."
"How do you know that last?"
"I have seen it in his face; I have heard it in his voice. I happened
to see the gentleman come out of his sweetheart's house one rainy
night, not long ago; and I happened to hear the gentleman mutter that
he would give money if that sailor-lover was drowned."
"If were the gentleman, and you told me this to my face, I should say
that you lied."
"Of course you would; but what should you know of it? Still, master,
confess that the story is a likely one as far as it has gone."
"There is more of it to come, then?" asked Mr. Fewster, who had turned
his back so that the Lascar should not see his face.
"There is more of it to come. But say, first, it is a likely story as
far as I have told it," said the Lascar a little doggedly.
"It is likely enough. I have heard stories more strange."
"Where did I leave off? Oh! about my hearing this gentleman say, as he
stood bareheaded in the rain, that he wished his rival were dead. Now
that was a fortunate hearing for me. Not that I should take advantage
of what I heard; not that I should go to the pretty girl's brother,
and then tell him what I had heard the gentleman say about his
sailor-friend; not that I should go to the pretty girl herself and
say, 'Beware of the gentleman; he means mischief; if he can ruin your
lover he will.' That would be a mean thing to do; for it would upset
the gentleman's chances with the girl that he loves. No; I should go
to the gentleman and say, 'I hate this absent lover, and any thing
that I could do to make him suffer, I would do cheerfully. You would
do the same. But you are a gentleman, and I am a dog. You mustn't be
seen in the matter. What you want done do through me. Never mind how
mean it is, how dirty it is; do it through me. And all the return I
want for it is enough to buy food and shelter, and perhaps a drop of
grog and a bit of tobacco.' That wouldn't be much to ask in return for
what I may be able to do for him."
"But no gentleman would compromise himself by entering into a bargain
with a--a"--
"A dog, master--say a dog; it is good enough for me," interposed the
Lascar with a careless laugh.
"With a dog like you. I don't see how the affair could be arranged
with a proper understanding as to what was expected to be done."
"It could be arranged easily enough, master. I might ask the
gentleman, supposing he had a flower in his button-bole, to give me
that flower, and not say another word. That would be a proper
understanding for both of us."
Mr. Fewster rose, and put aside the curtain of the window. The rain
was coming down hard and fast, and the wind was tearing furiously
through the streets.
"A fine storm for a ship to be in near rocks, master," said the
Lascar, who had risen, and was standing by his side.
"It is time for you to be going," said Mr. Fewster, turning abruptly
away from the window.
"In such a night as this!" exclaimed the Lascar. "And I with no place
to put my head in?"
"You are homeless, then?" The Lascar nodded. "Well, I take you into my
service. It would be hard if no one could be found to do a good turn
for a poor devil like you."
"That it would, master," said the Lascar, standing in an attitude of
expectation; "and thank you. Could you spare that flower out of your
coat?"
Blinded by passion, inflamed by jealousy, Mr. Fewster detached the
flower, and threw it to the Lascar, whose eyes gleamed with
satisfaction as he put it in his pocket.
"You can sleep in the out-house," said Mr. Fewster; "and as every dog
should have a kennel, I dare say you can find a coffin to lie in."
"No, thank you, master; I will lie on the ground." He poured what
remained of the rum into his glass, and raised it to his lips. "Here's
luck, and my faithful service to you. You may depend upon me, for my
heart is in my work."