THE DOG AND HIS MASTER.
Upon that same Christmas-eve Solomon Fewster sat in his room a moody
unhappy man. He was alone; but if angry thought could have found
palpable shape, the room would have been thronged with ugly forms. He
had refused the invitation which Mrs. Marvel had given him to join the
Christmas party, simply because, when she invited him, she happened to
say something in joyful tones of Joshua's expected return. The mere
mention of Joshua's name was sufficient to inflame him; and he had at
once refused her in a lofty manner, saying that he had another
engagement for the evening. The Lascar had done his work well. There
is no death for jealousy: it sleeps, but it never dies. And the Lascar
had been careful that even the temporary bliss of forgetfulness should
be denied to his master. Less force of cunning than he was endowed
with would have served his purpose with such a man as Solomon Fewster.
The good influence of the time did not touch Solomon Fewster's heart.
He was completely engrossed by two sentiments--love for Ellen, hate
for Joshua. The very circumstance that upon this Christmas-eve he had
wilfully deprived himself of the painful pleasure of being in Ellen's
company he laid to Joshua's door. Every happy face he saw that day
deepened the hate he bore to Joshua; for if it had not been for that
absent enemy, he would have been as happy as the best of them. Once
during the evening he went into the open space at the rear of his
house, and saw his neighbors' windows lighted up, and heard sounds of
merriment issue from the rooms. "Who is it that prevents me from being
as happy as they are?" he muttered. "Who is the cause of my remaining
here to-night, fretting my heart out, instead of sitting next to the
girl that I love more than my life?" He unlocked the gate in the rear
of his premises, and strolled along the narrow lane into which it
opened. The houses in the lane were mere hovels, yet there was not one
of them that was not brilliantly lighted, and the echoes of laughter
and singing floating from their walls denoted that care had been sent
to the right-about for that evening, at least. The sounds were so
displeasing to him that he returned to his room and resting his face
in his hands; raised up the picture of Ellen, fair and bright and
beautiful. He was a calculating, unfeeling man; and if it had so
happened that there had been no obstacle to the smooth course of his
love, he might have remained so to the end of his days, and might
never have suspected that there were points in his character which
would not bear to close a scrutiny. But the means by which we are
brought to a knowledge of ourselves are oftentimes very strange. The
majority of us go down to our graves without suspecting that there are
powerful forces hidden within us, which, had opportunity for display
been allowed them, would have materially altered the tenor of our
lives, whether for good or for evil. Solomon Fewster's love for Ellen
was the most ennobling feeling he had ever experienced. His hatred for
Joshua, and the thoughts and desires prompted by that hate were the
most villainous. It is strange that the hate which disgraced him, not
the love which ennobled him, should have made him conscious of his
defects. It was that very hatred that brought to him the knowledge
that he was not a good man; and that caused him to reflect that, if
his love were returned, it would be the means of making him better.
His thoughts were taking this direction now, and he was still sitting
with his face resting in his hands, when he was startled by the sound
of the gate being violently dashed aside. He remembered that he had
forgotten to fasten it. Before he had time to rise, the latch of the
door was lifted, and the Lascar glided in like a white spectre. With a
strange feverishness of manner, the Lascar turned the key in the door,
and at the same moment stooped and listened, holding up a warning
finger as a caution for Solomon Fewster to be silent. He remained in
that position for two or three minutes; then rose upright, and drew a
long breath.
"What now?" demanded Mr. Fewster angrily, and yet with a consciousness
that the Lascar had sufficient cause for his abrupt entrance. "What
thieves' trick have you been up to to-night, you dog! that you run in
here as if the police were at your heels?"
"They are not," said the Lascar, shaking the snow from his clothes,
dog-like; "and that's a good thing, master, for you and for me."
"For me, you dog! You dare to say that!"
"I forgot to close the gate," said the Lascar, taking no notice of Mr.
Fewster's exclamation. He went out, and having locked the gate,
re-entered; and, seeing a bottle on the table, said, "What's this?
Rum?" He did not wait to be invited, but helped himself freely, and
spread his cold hands before the fire. "I am numbed to the bone. It's
precious cold being out in the snow all day. I didn't hope to find you
at home, master. I thought you would be enjoying yourself like a
gentleman. I ran in here, finding the gate open, not knowing where to
run. It is snowing fast--that's one comfort--and my footsteps will
soon be filled up."
All the while he spoke he was busily occupied warming his fingers and
blowing on his knuckles.
"Now, explain the meaning of all this," said Mr. Fewster.
"Give me something to eat first, master. I haven't tasted food since
the morning."
Mr. Fewster pointed to the cupboard; and the Lascar took bread and
meat, and ate swiftly and ravenously.
"My service to you, master," he said, glass in hand, "and a merry
Christmas."
When he had emptied the glass, he threw a knife on the table. It was a
clasp-knife, and the blade was open. There was a triumphant
demonstrativeness in the action that instantly attracted Mr. Fewster's
attention. He saw blood upon the blade--blood scarcely dried. Whose
blood was it? A mist floated before his eyes. It was there but a
moment; but in that moment a picture presented itself to him in the
midst of a lurid cloud--a picture of a handsome sailor, smitten by an
assassin's hand, falling to the ground. Then the figures were lost in
a glare of bright blood and bright snow; and they, in their turn, were
lost in black shade. Although the vision lasted but a moment, it
produced the curious effect upon him of having been enveloped in
darkness for a long time; and the sudden awakening to consciousness
caused him to shade his eyes with his hand, as if the light in the
room were too strong for him. Awake again, the Lascar's familiar
action and bearing smote him with a sense of danger. The instinct of
self-preservation whispered to him that his good name might be
imperilled by further association with the man. It was clear that the
Lascar had done a desperate deed--a deed which, although he shuddered
to think of it, had perhaps removed his enemy from the scene. But if
so, it was murder. The merest whisper, the faintest breath of
suspicion, would be his ruin, not only with the world, but with Ellen.
He would pay for services--yes; but he would take no risk. It behoved
him to be wary.
"They've had a merry party down yonder," said the Lascar, with a
motion of his head in the direction of Mr. Marvel's house. "I made
certain you were there, master. I've been hanging about the street all
night in the cold. I've been on the watch; shall I tell you for whom?"
"No; I want to know nothing," replied Mr. Fewster, measuring his words
carefully. "Understand me once and for all. Whatever you do you do on
your own responsibility; and I will in no way be associated with it or
with you. If you presume to associate me with any acts of violence on
your part, I wash my hands of you. Nay, more: I will set those upon
you who will not let you escape easily."
"I understand you, master," said the Lascar, without the least show of
resentment. "But go on; you have more to say. I'll wait till you've
done."
"You dog, you! You break into my house as if you had a right here! You
tell me, as if I were interested in knowing, that the police are at
your heels, and that you are afraid of your very footsteps being
tracked! You have the presumption to say that it is a good job for me
that it is not so! You throw down this knife before me with blood upon
it! What is it to me whose blood it is, or what crime you have
committed? What if it were to be discovered that you had rendered
yourself liable to the law, and then had been seen to come here? If I
did my duty, I should go for a policeman, and hand you into his
charge, and so be rid of you."
The Lascar listened without the slightest sign of discomposure. He
even nodded approvingly as he said,--
"There's only you and me, master. You wouldn't speak so if anybody
else was by. Don't fear; I know what you mean well enough. There's no
chance of our misunderstanding each other, though you're a better
actor than I am, and that's a fact. Rest you easy. No one saw me come
here; and no one shall see me go out. As for the police, I know as
well as you that it would suit your game as little to set them on me
as it would suit my game for them to be set on. But you're right in
threatening me with them. It belongs to your part; for you are master.
And it belongs to my part to take what you say kindly; for I am a dog.
I am satisfied so long as I get enough to keep me; and I'm not greedy,
as you know."
Solomon Fewster was extremely disconcerted by the Lascar's coolness.
It proved to him that he was in the Lascar's power, and that the
Lascar knew it. He was disconcerted also by the conviction that forced
itself upon him, that the Lascar measured his indignation at its
proper worth. But he could not belie his nature. It was impossible for
him to be straightforward; even in his villainy he was compelled to be
cunning. He would take care that he committed himself as little as
possible by word of mouth. He was burning to hear what the Lascar had
to tell, but he would not ask. He drew his breath hard, and it was
with difficulty that he restrained his impatience during the long
pause that followed; for the Lascar was as determined as he not to be
the first to break the silence. At length, feeling that he was being
mastered, he turned wrathfully upon the Lascar, and questioned,
"Well?"
"Well!" was the quiet answer.
"If you have nothing more to say, you can go."
"I have something more to say, but I am waiting for permission to
speak."
There was an assumption of insolent humility in the Lascar's tone; and
Mr. Fewster bit his lip as he said, "Your tongue's your own; I can't
stop you."
"Thank you, master;" with a cringing expression of satisfaction for
the concession. "Since I was employed in my present service--I mean,
since a certain night when a kind-hearted gentleman gave me a flower,
the leaves of which I have kept carefully in paper, so that I
shouldn't forget what I had to do--I have been more watchful than ever
in the task I had set myself to perform. I have been better able to do
that than I used to be, because the same kind-hearted gentleman has
generously supplied me with money, so that I have had all my time at
my own disposal. He also supplied me with information. The task I had
to perform was to revenge myself upon Joshua Marvel for stepping
between me and my affairs, and for doing me injury. A little while ago
the gentleman told me that Joshua Marvel was expected home soon; and
then I determined that not a night should pass and find me lagging.
Not only my hate, but my faithful duty to my master, made me
determined in this. I set myself to watch for the return of the sailor
Joshua; and during my watch I discovered a curious thing. I discovered
that the gentleman in whose service I am appeared very often in the
street I was watching, and that he was in the habit of lingering
there late at night. He never did any thing else but look up at the
bedroom-window of a certain pretty girl, whose shadow I have often
seen on the blind; and he never went away until the light in her room
was extinguished. I was careful that he should not see me, for it was
no business of mine; and I know when I ought to keep in the
background. Besides, I admired him for it; for I knew that he loved
this girl, and that Joshua Marvel stood in his way. Regularly every
day I went to the docks to see if the Merry Andrew--Joshua Marvel's
ship--had arrived; and as good luck would have it, the ship came in
this very morning. When I learned that, I went back to my watch in the
street the gentleman is so mightily fond of. I knew that Joshua Marvel
wouldn't be able to get away from his ship directly it got into port;
and I guessed that it was more likely than not that he wouldn't let
his people at home know of his unexpected arrival. No; he would
surprise them. It would be so pleasant on Christmas-eve to break in
upon them suddenly, and be petted and kissed, especially by one"--
"The devil take you!" cried Solomon Fewster fiercely, grasping the
table with such force that it trembled with the trembling of his hand.
"Tell your story without preaching, can't you?"
"I'll try, master. I hung about the street the whole day, eating
nothing, and drinking very little. I might have been frozen, if my
purpose hadn't kept me warm. I didn't grumble because I had to wait. I
wanted him to come at night, and he came when I wanted. It isn't much
more than an hour ago"--here he dropped his voice to a whisper--"that
I saw a sailor turn the corner of the street where pretty Ellen Taylor
lives. He had an accordion under his arm, and a cage in his hand
covered with a blue pocket-handkerchief; and he stopped two or three
times to look at the houses, and nodded to them as if he was wishing
them a merry Christmas. I followed him, like a cat, and opened my
knife. He was singing--I couldn't catch the words--and to judge from
that and from the way he walked, I should say he was as happy a man as
any in London. He never once looked behind him; if he had, I would
have struck him down. He stopped before the house where his father and
mother lived, and stooped to the keyhole and listened. I was close
upon him--waiting! If he hadn't been so much occupied, he might have
smelt me at his back. But it wouldn't have saved him if he had seen
me; he would only have been struck down the sooner. While he was
listening at the keyhole, he laughed quietly, enjoying the surprise he
was going to give his people. When he had his laugh out, he knocked at
the door. Presently I heard a woman's voice inside the house ask,
'Who's there?' 'It's Josh,' said my man. I heard a cry of pleasure;
and as the door was being unfastened, I raised my knife, and stabbed
him in the back."
"And killed him?" cried Solomon Fewster involuntarily.
"I don't know. He fell; and as I ran off, I caught a glimpse of a
woman kneeling by him in the snow, and raising his head to her bosom."
Solomon Fewster groaned. Without another word he opened the door by
which the Lascar had entered, and walked into the open air. The
snow-fall had ceased, and the stars were shining. The moon, too, had
risen, and clouds of light and deep shade were gliding swiftly across
it, while everchanging shadows were playing on the snow. In the
distance he heard the waits; they were a long way off, and the strains
of music fell upon his ears chastened and mellowed. He was in danger;
he had allied himself with this man, who made so light of the shedding
of blood; and he had been made a confederate in perhaps a murder. Not
that he had any compunction; not that he had any pity. Nothing would
have rejoiced him more than to have heard that Joshua had been killed
in a mutiny, had been wrecked, or had lost his life on sea or on land
by any means, so that he was not implicated in it. The feelings that
disturbed him now were purely selfish; he had to save himself from
suspicion, supposing any discovery were made. Perhaps it would be
best, after all, to speak plainly to the Lascar. There were no
witnesses, and it did not matter much what he said. If Joshua were
dead, the Lascar must be got rid of at any sacrifice of money. Thus
resolving, he returned to the room. The Lascar was sitting patiently
before the fire, and did not even raise his eyes as Mr. Fewster
entered. "He did not know what I went out for," thought Mr. Fewster.
"I might have gone for a policeman, and if I had brought one in, he
would have declared I was his accomplice."
"Has it left off snowing, master?" asked the Lascar.
"Yes."
"Then it wouldn't be quite safe for me to go away to-night--safe for
you, I mean."
"You can stop here to-night."
"Thank you, master. Have I done well?"
"It doesn't matter whether I say you have done well or ill; so, to
save argument, suppose I say you have done well. Now, attend. If what
you have done to-night should turn out to be"--
"Say murder, master," said the Lascar, seeing that Mr. Fewster
hesitated to speak plainly. "I don't mind."
"If it should turn out to be that, have you considered that you are in
danger?"
"I haven't thought of it, master, and that's a fact. But if I am in
danger, so are you."
"That may or may not be. The only danger I am in is from what you
might say; and, supposing I had spoken to you only once in my life,
you would be free to say any thing of me, or of any one else, for that
matter. What you might say wouldn't be evidence, you know."
"True, master: but, at all events, I could ruin your chances with
pretty Ellen Taylor."
"What satisfaction would that be to you?"
"Every satisfaction," said the Lascar with a kindling eye. "If any one
hurts me, I hurt him."
"As you have hurt Joshua Marvel, because he hurt you."
"And because I am in your service," said the Lascar doggedly. "Don't
forget that, please; I don't intend to forget it. If this is to be a
fair argument, let it be fair. If it is to be acting, let it be
acting. What I have done to-night is half for me and half for you:
equal shares."
"I told you once that I would have no partnerships," said Mr. Fewster
in a steady voice, "and I will have none; but I don't mind coming to a
distinct understanding. If what you have done to-night should turn out
at its worst"--
"Or its best," interrupted the Lascar sneeringly.
"It will not be safe for you to remain in the country. To please you,
I will say it will not be safe for you or for me."
"Ah!" exclaimed the Lascar thoughtfully. "I think I understand you.
Well, in that case there are plenty of countries I shouldn't mind
going to; or I might go aboard ship again. How much will you give me?"
"A hundred pounds."
"Agreed, master,--if it should turn out at its worst, as you say. But
if it does not, I stay, mind you."
"That is your affair."
"As much yours as mine, master," said the Lascar with determination.
"What makes you harp upon that, you dog?" exclaimed Mr. Fewster,
firing up.
"Necessity," replied the Lascar coolly. He liked the life of indolence
he had been leading, and he did not intend to relinquish his hold of
Solomon Fewster. "I have no money, and no means of living. You have
acted fairly to me up to now, and you must continue to do so. You can
afford it, that's certain. I know what it is you fear. You fear that
it should be known that I am in your service. Well, no one shall know
it from me; and I will never come here again. You know where I stay.
What you have to give me, leave there for me; and when you want me,
send for me. I am your dog, ready to do your bidding. I can't speak
fairer. There's no occasion for any more palaver. I'm tired and
sleepy; I can sleep here, before the fire." He stretched himself on
the ground by the side of the fire. "Silence gives consent, they say.
If you don't speak, I shall understand that the affair is settled. You
wanted a distinct understanding, you know."
He closed his eyes, and listened for the answer. The answer came--in
silence; for Solomon Fewster spoke not another word that night. The
Lascar, made drowsy by the glare from the fire, courted sleep; and it
came to him, as it comes to better men. And Solomon Fewster sat,
looking down upon the form of the man who could blast his good name by
a word, and thought--What? Once during the night the Lascar awoke with
a shiver. The fire had gone out; but Solomon Fewster was still sitting
at the table with a haggard look upon his face, as if he had suddenly
grown old.