I’ll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
--Shakspere.
Sunshine still!
Sunbeams making a golden palace of a Gothic mansion in the Regent’s
Park, gilding its fretted roof, its traceries, and its triple arched and
ornamented windows, tinting the graceful trees which gently waved in the
gardens before and behind it, scattering golden stars upon the lake, and
investing the flowers and shrubs with a beauty which rendered the place
around little less than an earthly paradise.
Sunshine and sunbeams in all places without the walls of the
mansion--shadows within.
In a room, magnificently furnished, containing every appliance a morbid
attention to personal comfort could need, or the invention of luxurious
imagination could devise, were seated an elderly gentleman, his wife and
three daughters.
One of these girls was a beauty--all had pretensions to good looks, but
she was strikingly handsome.
The name of the owner of this mansion was Grahame. He was a pale,
stern-looking man. A dress suit of black, and a white cravat, which
seemed to have the effect of being unpleasantly and rather dangerously
tight about his neck, added to the austerity of his aspect.
His wife, an intensely proud woman, whose pride was apparent in her air,
her dress, her features, sat like an imperious creature whose foible had
no other quality than the worst species of haughtiness.
Like the very frankest person in the world, she wore--
Her heart upon her sleeve,
and displayed its entire sentiment in the material of which her attire
was made, in its fashion, and in the style in which it was worn. The
jewellery upon her wrists, her arms, her fingers, about her neck, and
at her waist, betrayed the only feeling of which she was capable. She
lived, moved, breathed in an atmosphere of inordinate, unreasoning
pride--no other; and the “people” who came in contact with her felt it
before she uttered a word to or glanced at them. In her eyes they were
pottery of the commonest earthen material, whilst the clay of which she
was herself formed, produced a porcelain of the rarest kind. So she sat;
to be looked at, not touched.
Her husband, outwardly was of the same stamp.
Within, he was begrimed with cowardly meanness, granite selfishness,
a cringing obsequiousness to the wealthy and the powerful, and an icy
haughtiness to all whom he understood to be his inferiors in position.
By his standard, pride was measured as honour and nobility of soul, gold
as the essence of all virtue.
His daughters, brought up under such guidance, could hardly fail to be
impregnated with the principles--or, rather, lack of principle--by which
their parents were governed. Yet exercised upon the youngest, their
influence failed to win a proselyte. Her organisation had not been
adapted by nature to receive the impressions the authors of her being
laboured to create, and, therefore, when she hazarded an opinion
favourable to the purest sympathies of a kindly nature, or displayed an
emotion which betrayed that she had a heart, she was called a fool,
and treated as a pariah by the whole family. She had been christened
Evangeline, but her imperial mamma frequently informed her it was a
misnomer--that, in truth, her name should have been Gosling, which she
had somewhere heard, meant a young goose, truly a young silly goose.
The second daughter resembled her mother in all things--was, in fact,
her counterpart; she even bore her dualistic name, Margaret Claverhouse,
and like her maternal parent, was supremely proud and hateful in all her
characteristics.
The eldest girl, the beauty of the family, was composed of somewhat
discordant elements. In person she was eminently attractive, her figure
was tall and commanding, and its outline was as graceful as its air was
majestic. Her face, as we have said, was extremely beautiful, but he
must have a bold heart, who, falling in love with it, would woo her
in the expectation that he could win her with ease and retain her by
indifference. Her features were regular, her eyes large, glittering, and
of that deep brown which is often mistaken for black; her eyelids were
full, and her eyelashes so long as really to form a fringe to the lid.
Her eyebrows were arched, her hair was darker than her eyes, and not
less brilliant. Her mouth was small, yet it had a sensual fulness, no
less apparent then the scornful curl which ever seemed to keep it in a
state of unrest. As the hand of her maid was skilled, and incessantly in
requisition, the arrangement of her tresses--that wondrous ornament
to woman--may be said to have been faultless. Her attire was admirably
chosen to assist her beauty, and its fit was a triumph of the
_modiste’s_ art. Her mother had instilled into her a belief that she was
a queen of beauty, and she looked, thought, moved, as though she were an
empress.
As yet it was supposed that her affections had not been touched; from
infancy she had been tutored to believe that to be human in feeling was
to descend to the level of the common herd--that the world and what it
contained were made for her, not she for the world. She was gifted with
all the elements of which energy and passion are composed, and she was
capable of loving with a force not often allotted even to woman; but her
passions, her energies, her tenderness, had been rendered dormant by the
counsels of worldly pride, as the warm, gushing, health-giving stream is
converted by a slow frost into a silent, motionless block of ice.
Should there come before her eyes the man whose physical beauty and
whose mental intelligence woke up her heart from its icy dream into
passionate life, and that love should prove to be unrequited--woe! woe!
to her! and possibly to him! She had been named Helen after a maternal
relative, from whom the most exaggerated expectations were entertained,
and she bore it as though she, in virtue of it, already possessed the
vast inheritance it was understood to foreshadow.
This family were engaged--while the broad sunshine was gladdening
the poor and the respectable, promenading in the park, into which the
windows of the mansion looked--in discussing the conduct of the only son
of the house of Grahame, who, instead of having obtained at college a
“double first” for the honour of the family, had forwarded home a packet
of tradesmen’s accounts, the gross total of which considerably exceeded
the handsome allowance placed to his credit by his father. Mr. Grahame
spoke with considerable dissatisfaction of the course his son must have
pursued to have plunged thus largely into debt; and, though it was in
accordance with his wish that his son had for his college companions
and intimate acquaintances, the Duke of St. Allborne, the young Earl
of Carlton, and the experienced Lord Suedmuch, yet he thought that even
their intimacy, at the price his son had paid for it, or rather that
which _he_ was called upon to pay, much too dear, and he expressed
himself on the subject with an emphasis which his pride rendered
unusual.
Mrs. Grahame turned upon him a sidelong glance with her half-closed
eyes, and, said coldly and contemptuously--
“He is a Grahame! The members of that race are not used to measure their
wants, their pleasures, or even their caprices, by miserable
considerations of economy. I said to Malcolm, when we parted--‘Remember,
always, that you are a Grahame. If those with whom you associate act as
though their wealth ran a stream whose source is inexhaustible, let your
expenditure be no less illimitable than theirs, even to represent, in
wealth, a river whose’”----
“Confluence is a sea of dissipation and of debt,” sharply exclaimed
Mr. Grahame, taking a pinch of snuff out of a gold, diamond-studded
snuff-box.
“Mr. Grahame, your sense of the dignity of your position is becoming
impaired,” responded the stately lady, wholly closing her eyes.
“No, madam,” he returned, “pardon me, I simply, object to unnecessary
and preposterous extravagance.”
An expression of ineffable disdain passed over the lady’s features.
“Claver’se Grahame,” she remarked, in a frigid tone, “have you, at a
moment, become poor?”
The face of Mr. Grahame instantly changed to a brilliant scarlet hue,
then to a purple, finally it became livid. Globules of cold perspiration
gathered thickly upon his brow. He thrust his chair back a few paces,
and there was something of an affrighted expression in his eyes as he
gazed upon hen. Her eyelids were yet close down over her pale gray eyes
as he wiped the deathly damp from his brow.
Helen Grahame turned her bright dark eyes upon him with a scornful look.
In her estimation, the concentration of meanness of soul was to place a
limit upon lavish expenditure. She did not utter a word, but she tried
to balance in her own mind which of the two occasioned her father the
most terror--her mother’s cold displeasure or Malcolm’s extravagance.
Margaret thought with her sister that economy was but another word for
a despicable narrowness of soul. Not but that she was economical
enough when called upon for an exercise of charity; but for any selfish
purpose, a compulsory contraction of expenditure would have
been regarded by her as an example of the lowest and most vulgar
niggardliness. She listened with disdain to her parent, and thought that
it was incumbent upon her father to give like a Grahame, in order that
her brother Malcolm should lavish it like a Grahame.
Evangeline, to whom the conversation had been distressing observing that
her father had become suddenly silent; raised her soft eyes and marked
the expression that passed over his features. In alarm she hastily left
her seat, and in a low, affectionate tone, said, as she took his hand
and leaned over him--
“Dear sir, you are not well, you are agitated, can I”----
“Keep your seat, Evangeline;” he exclaimed hoarsely; as he drew his hand
from her petulantly. “I am not agitated--I am well--you are obtrusive
and impertinent.”
Evangeline retreated to her place at the window; she took up the
embroidery on which she had been engaged, and went on with it in
silence, but a tear dropped upon her work; no one heeding the “young
silly goose,” it passed unnoticed.
Mrs. Grahame spoke again.
“Malcolm is coming home,” she said, “and he has invited two of his
college companions--the young Duke of St. Allborne, and the Honourable
Lester Vane to accompany him here on a visit. No doubt Mr. Grahame, you
will not lose so valuable an opportunity to impress upon your son, in
the presence of his spendthrift associates, that your narrow income
forbids your meeting claims which”----
“Madam,” interrupted Mr. Grahame, tartly, “it is you who are losing a
sense of your position now. Let us change the subject. I will speak with
Malcolm upon his return. A proper maintenance of his position, and the
honour of his House is one thing: a disreputable squandering of his
income quite another. In that spirit I speak now--in that spirit will I
address myself to him.”
“Who is the Honourable Lester Vane?” inquired Margaret Grahame of her
mother.
“A young man of an ancient and high family,” replied Mrs.
Grahame--“immensely rich.”
“And very handsome,” exclaimed Helen; adding, “so at least Malcolm
writes me. He praises him highly, declares that he possesses great
personal attractions, and is sure--I--we shall all like him much.”
“He did not name him in the few lines he wrote to me,” said Margaret.
“But he did to you, Eva, did he not?” remarked Helen, turning her
brilliant eyes with a mocking glance upon her youngest sister.
A gush of tears came again into the eyes of Evangeline. She did not
raise them from her employment, that her emotion might be seen by her
sisters. She answered with a quivering lip, and in a low, faltering
tone.
“I suppose Malcolm had not time to write to me. I have had no letter
from him since he has been gone.”
Margaret smiled. She was not accustomed to laugh.
“You! Absurd! do you think he would write to you? what conceit!” she
observed, with a gesture of contempt.
What other feeling should she entertain for a sister who possessed
merely the cardinal virtues, and was utterly deficient in an
appreciation of worldly pomps and vanities?
At this part of the conversation, there was a tap at the door of the
apartment; it opened at the same moment, and an individual, attired in
a suit of black of the most approved court dress cut, advanced into
the room. The eyes of the family were turned upon him, but he scarcely
appeared to be disposed to collapse under that honour. His neck was
garnished with an unexceptionable cravat, which was arranged with
such precision that it seemed to be wrought in alabaster and carved
elaborately. His wig--for as he confessed to admiring _confreres_,
he had dispensed with his “own ’air”--looked as though it had been
subjected to a severe storm of whitewash and had been violently brushed.
He approached his master, and, bending over him, said, in a confidential
manner, yet with a gesture of grave but humble deference.
“Thet pesson is come, sir!”
“Who?--what person?” inquired Mr. Grahame with the air of one who denied
the right of any “person” to seek an audience with him.
“The pesson concerning which you gave me hin-structions, sir--I asked
’im into the libree, sir.”
“Into my library, man?” cried Mr. Grahame, rising up, angrily. “Pray
what does the fellow mean? How dare you ask any ‘person’ into my library
without my instructions to that effect?”
“He said he were Mr. Chewkle, sir, and if you please to remember”----
The face of Mr. Grahame turned as pale as death, and then changed to an
intense crimson.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!” he cried hurriedly, altering his tone; “return
to him--say I will come to him immediately.”
The man bowed, and quitted the room.
Mr. Grahame walked to the window and looked out into the sunlight. It
lay upon the grassy lawn, upon the sloping meads, upon the waving
trees, like gleaming gold dust. The soft breeze made the leaves flutter
merrily, birds darted to and fro in the clear air, singing gaily, and
brilliantly attired ladies and children moved over the open places in
the broad park, animated by the beauty of the scene, and the glory of
the sunshine. Mr. Grahame looked distastefully upon it, it ill-assorted
with the feelings at war within his breast, and he turned from it with
an impatient exclamation. He set his teeth together, drew a long breath,
and, with his features more pallid than usual, strode out of the room.
Mrs. Grahame--too much occupied with visions of her own dignity, when
she thought at all, which was not often--took no notice of the disturbed
manner of her husband. If she had seen it, she would not have credited
the evidence of her own eyes. A Grahame disturbed or agitated, the thing
was impossible.
Neither did Helen, who was sketching fancy portraits of the Honourable
Lester Vane; nor Margaret, who was not even troubled by an effort
of imagination, observe him; but Evangeline perceived his inward
perturbation, and not daring to offer a word, or breathe a hope that she
might aid in alleviating it, sat sadly at her needlework, filled with
a foreboding that something foreshadowed trial and affliction to the
House.
Mr. Grahame descended to his library. In one corner of it, upon the edge
of a chair, under which his hat was placed, sat, with his knees close
together, and his toes poised on the floor, a strange looking personage,
a sort of hybrid between a fast banker’s clerk, and an undertaker.
It was Mr. Chewkle.
Mr. Chewkle was an agent; a commission agent. He undertook any
description of business, no matter what. He sold coals and coffee, he
introduced distracted tradesmen to usurious bill-discounters. He offered
two shillings and sixpence in the pound to indignant creditors for
unhappy insolvents. He would supply you with a good article in tea, at
two and eight. He raised money on mortgage and _post obit_, having a
friend who did that sort of thing for spendthrifts who needed it.
He laid out money on fancy horses for fast individuals, with imaginary
betting-men, though the horses he backed for them were rarely landed
winners at the post. He knew all the good investments in mines, and
would obtain shares for anybody, at a comparatively low price, though
some day they “might” be at fabulous premiums. He--but he would
undertake anything whatever, clean or dirty, if paid his commission, and
“ask no questions,” when the remunerator was liberal.
He rose up as Mr. Grahame entered, and made him a bow.
“Good morning, Chewkle,” said Mr. Grahame, loftily; “well, what
success?”
“We’ve got our man, safe, sir,” he replied, with a feeble grin.
“Where?”
“Spunging-house, sir.”
“And the family?”
“At the apartments, sir, but we shall move the goods to-morrow, for sale
by the sheriff, and then they must go out you know, sir.”
“Into the streets.”
“Into the streets, sir, or the work’us. They’ve no resources, as I
sees.”
“Well, then, of course he has signed the undertaking?”
“A--a--not yet, sir.”
“But he will?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
Mr. Grahame had seated himself with the air of a Mogul emperor giving
audience to a Hindoo slave. He rose to his feet as if a pistol-shot had
been discharged at him.
“Not! Nonsense!” he cried with fierce astonishment; “under such
pressure, the man cannot possibly refuse.”
“But he does, sir, and swears he will not sign if he has to starve and
rot in prison.”
Mr. Grahame passed his hand over his mouth, and gulped as if he would
choke.
“What is to be done?” he asked.
“Do without it, sir,” suggested Chewkle, mildly.
“Ridiculous! His signature must be to the deed.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Chewkle, slowly, and looking carefully round the
room to see that no other person was present, “so it may be there on the
deed.”
Mr. Grahame looked at him steadfastly.
“How?” he asked.
Mr. Chewkle reduced his voice to a whisper.
“You have got his name on a letter, I s’pose?”
“Well, sir?”
“Not very difficult to write like it, I fancy.”
“Chewkle!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with dilated eyes, “what do you
counsel?”
“Nothing, sir. I merely suggests that if the signature must be there on
the deed, no obstinate old fool should prevent its being placed there
and, where money is not a hobject, it can easily be managed.”
Mr. Grahame’s teeth chattered, as if he had been suddenly transported
into a frosty atmosphere.
“Chewkle,” he said, grimly, “do you know what the law declares such an
act to be?”
Mr. Chewkle nodded with perfect self-possession.
“It must be done, sir,” he rejoined emphatically. “Your position depends
on it. You must balance beggary, destitution, ruin, against rank,
fortune, dignity”----
“Forgery!” groaned Mr. Grahame, sinking into his chair, and pressing his
hands over his eyes.