The same self-love in all becomes the cause
Of what restrains him, government and laws.
For what one likes, if others like as well,
What serves one will, when many wills rebel?
How shall he keep what, sleeping or awake,
A weaker may surprise, a stronger take?
--Pope.
Mr. Grahame’s dissertation upon the improvement of land and the general
economy and management of estates had been abruptly interrupted by the
entrance of his daughter into the room where the guests and family were
assembled. His apathetic and somewhat drowsy auditor, the young Duke,
immediately on observing the approach of Helen Grahame, with a slight
excuse to his host, emancipated himself from the dull topic droned into
his ears, and advanced hastily to meet her.
Almost at the same moment, Whelks entered the apartment, with a printed
card upon a silver salver. It was _not_ an elegant production--the
typography was bold and in effect smudgy, and the general get-up smacked
rather loudly of the Seven Dials’ press.
It was dingy, too, and nibbled at the corners, indicating cogitation on
the part of the person whom it represented, the pasteboard having been
used unconsciously instead of the grimy thumb-nail.
The quick eye of Mr. Grahame caught sight of it almost the instant
Whelks crossed the threshold of the door, carrying it very much with
the air of one who had a huge slug on a plate, which he was seeking the
earliest opportunity to dispose of.
Mr. Grahame’s eyes flashed fire. What could the idiot mean by bringing
to him such a dun, drabby bit of card at such a moment. He glared at
Whelks, who remained unaffected; his gaze was upon the soiled article he
carried, and his reflections far away into the future, resting upon the
rosy hour when, liberated from flunkeydom, he should, with Sarah the
cook, unite hands and savings, and go into business. It was not, he
thought, with such “a hinfamous fustian smelling objek” as that which
rested on the silver salver, as though it had no business there, that he
should make his business announcement to a British public, bursting
with a desire to deal with him. And as he dreamed thus, he reached his
master.
Mrs. Grahame and Margaret Claverhouse, both with an astonishment and
indignation which their indomitable pride could barely repress, saw upon
the silver salver, in the hands of Whelks, the offensively dusky, shabby
card, and if glances could slay, Whelks’ remains would have been spread
over the magnificently “Sang”-decorated walls. He was, however, as
we have said, all unconscious of the effect he was creating upon the
members of the household, and he reached Mr. Gra-hame only to perceive
him glowering upon him like a tiger, inflamed with most sanguinary
intentions.
With a low, guttural growl, he was about to make known to Whelks the
nature of his convictions in having, at such an inopportune moment,
thrust upon him so foul a communication, when his eye caught sight
of the name--printed, according to the trade term, in fat-faced
Egyptian--of Chewkle. He felt as if some one had suddenly smote him on
the head with a club, and he broke into a cold sweat.
This man was in possession of his horrid secret; he was in his power; at
any time he could blazon forth to the world that a Grahame, the proudest
of a proud family, had committed a base act of forgery. He was now
amenable to the law of transportation--liable to be torn from his
present high position, and compelled to work and toil with thieves and
scoundrels in a penal colony.
These reflections, none the less vivid for presenting themselves in that
brilliantly lighted room, and in the presence of guests of high birth,
made his face grow white, and his knees tremble.
He whipped up the card and thrust it into his pocket, hoping that it had
escaped the eyes of all but himself.
Whelks delivered, then, an urgent message from Chewkle, and Mr. Grahame
said, in a low tone--
“Where is he?”
“In the ’orl, sir,” returned the footman, with a perked-up nose.
“Show him into the library; I will come to him immediately,” exclaimed
Mr. Grahame, in the same tone as before.
Whelks bowed, and departed to obey the instructions he had received, and
then to discuss with Sarah the nature of the business of a “Kermission
Agent,” as he styled Chewkle’s occupation, and wherefore it should,
as it appeared to him that it most certainly did, obtain so great an
influence over such a man as Mr. Grahame.
Mr. Grahame perceiving that Helen had absorbed the attention of the Duke
and Lester Vane, glided out of the room into the library. As he entered
it he became conscious of a strong smell of the “fragrant weed,” which,
however, to his olfactory nerves had not “the scent of the rose,” and
he saw Mr. Chewkle, with part of a truly British cheroot in his hand,
standing near to the lamp upon the table, harassed by doubts as to the
propriety of relighting it or the propriety of doing nothing of the
sort.
Mr. Grahame bowed patronisingly, but said hastily--
“Not smoking, I hope, Mr. Chewkle!”
“No,” returned Chewkle; “it was out afore I came in, but I thought if
you didn’t mind, you know----”
“But, indeed, I do mind!” responded Mr. Grahame, quickly, and then added
most fiercely, as he perceived the red and begrimed face of his visitor,
his dirty collar, his necktie and his hair disordered, all indicating
the frequent quaffing and replenishment of “the glass which cheers” and
_does_ inebriate--“Pray tell me, Mr. Chewkle, to what circumstance I am
to attribute your visit at, to me, a most inconvenient time?”
“Well, sir, things happens without particularly caring for our
convenience,” answered Chewkle, with a hiccup, which left a strong odour
of some beverage--not green tea--behind it. “We would all like things to
fall out jest as we would wish ‘em, but they don’t, an’ it seems as if
the more you wish ’em the more they won’t.”
“Well,” said Mr. Grahame, not liking this preface.
“Well,” continued Chewkle, “an’ when things run cross, we must, if
we wants to right ’em, go to work at once, without caring about
convenience. At least, them’s my sentiments, an’ that’s my way o’ doing
business.”
“A very proper way, no doubt, my good friend,” exclaimed Mr. Grahame,
growing yet more anxious, “but pray tell me what _has_ happened.”
“Well, a very orkurd matter, as things stand,” replied Mr. Chewkle.
“What is it?--what is it?” cried Mr. Grahame, feverishly.
“Why, just this--old Wilton’s out.”
“Out?”
“Yes, out o’ quod.”
“Out--out--out of prison?” gasped Mr. Grahame, clutching at a chair for
support.
“Nothing else,” replied Chewkle, placing his hands behind him, and
rocking himself backwards and forwards on his toes and heels, in a very
dangerous fashion for one in his state.
“Escaped--escaped?” inquired Mr. Grahame, his eyes almost starting out
of their sockets.
“No such luck!” answered Chewkle, “if he had, he’d a’ soon been nabbed
agen, and taken back to ha’ been kept closer than ever.”
“What do you mean?--speak out, man! you are inflicting upon me
indescribable torture!” exclaimed Grahame, excitedly. “Is he--is he
dead?”
“Dead! no; he’s got more lives than a cat, he has. No, sir; he’s out of
quod because he’s been and paid all the money.”
“Paid the money!” echoed Mr. Grahame, incredulously.
“Every mag of it, sir--every farthing. He has wiped off the detainer
lodged at the gate agen’ him, and he is free to roam about agen.”
Mr. Grahame stood as if thunder-stricken.
“Impossible!” he ejaculated, like one in a dream.
“Fact, sir, all the same for that. I saw Scathe, the managing clerk
to your solicitor, and he told me all about it. The debts and costs is
paid, and Wilton is out. The money has been paid under protest, sir; so
you can’t touch a penny on it until you’ve proved your right to it by a
haction-at-law. Scathe says he don’t think anything o’ that, because the
firm holds a dockyment, which Wilton has signed in your favour, as ’ll
put him out o’ court slap. Now, what I wants to know is this--is the
dockyment he spoke of the same as----”
Mr. Grahame clutched his wrist, looked around him with trepidation, and
raised his finger warningly. Mr. Chewkle hiccuped again, and lowered his
tone, and added--
“Is it the same as--as--as you signed for him?”
Mr. Grahame drew a deep breath, but made no reply. Chewkle was a shrewd
reader of physiognomy, and obtained the information he sought from the
distorted workings of Mr. Grahame’s haggard features. He gave vent to
his sensations on learning what he sought to know, in a low, prolonged
whistle.
“Things is wuss than I took them to be,” he murmured. Then he addressed
Mr. Grahame. “Who do you think?” he asked, “it is as has been making
himself so very hactive in getting old Wilton out o’ Hudson’s Hotel *
--you won’t guess. Why it’s that little saffron-jawed imidge, who
dropped in so unexpected when you jest finished that bit o’ writing for
the hobstinate Wilton.”
* The Queen’s Bench.
“My God!” gasped Grahame, “has _he_ assisted Wilton?”
“Paid the money, I believe, sir; and is going to stand his friend in the
law case,” observed Chewkle, emphatically.
Grahame clasped his hands and paced the room in agitation, he passed
his feverish fingers convulsively over his temples. “What is to be
done--what is to be done?” he cried, “I have commenced to act upon that
accursed document. I thought he never, never would come out of prison,
but would die there; and urged by the frightfully pressing nature of my
necessity--my situation in connection with the estates to which I lay
claim--I lodged the deed with my lawyer, and ordered him to proceed
upon it. He has commenced--I know he has commenced; the deed is
registered--all will be discovered, and--oh, my God! what will ensue?”
“Transportation for life to a dead certainty,” replied Chewkle, in slow,
emphatic tones, “You’ll be called upon to prove the signatur--you can’t
do that; then, o’ course it’s a forgery. Well, who did it? You got to
show how you come by it--you can’t do that; and then you’ll be found
guilty, and sentenced for life. That’s clear, I think.”
Mr. Chewkle felt himself, at the conclusion of his speech, seized by the
throat.
“Villain,” cried Mr. Grahame, froth foaming and bubbling from his mouth.
“This was your hellish counsel; but for your infernal suggestion and
complicity, I should never have thought of it, but you shall share my
fate--my fate--transportation. Oh! horror, horror--my house--my family!
I--I--death--death--”
Mr. Chewkle felt the cold clammy fingers of his antagonist loosen, and
as the last words died on his lips, he saw him stagger back, and before
he could catch him, he fell to the ground in a fit.
Chewkle’s first impulse was to call for help, but instantly it flashed
across his mind that he should have a thousand questions to answer,
besides being regarded with looks of distrust and suspicion. He had
no wish, at that hour, and in the rather free style and state of his
costume, to have to encounter the family, to explain that which it was
so important should be left unexplained, and he proceeded to attempt
himself to play the part of a medical attendant. Mr. Chewkle was
stronger than he looked, and he had need of all his strength to pin Mr.
Grahame to the floor, during the violent paroxysms of the fit by which
he had been seized. He succeeded, by dint of tremendous exertion, in
overmastering the desperate struggles of the prostrate man, and when
they had ceased, he loosened his neckcloth, obtained some water from
a bottle upon the table, bathed his temples and lips with it until Mr.
Grahame opened his eyes, and gazed wildly around him, like one waking up
out of some dreadful dream.
After a few incoherent expressions, he became once more alive to his
position.
He walked up and down his library, wringing his hands, and displaying
the greatest possible mental anguish.
Suddenly he paused before Chewkle, and with a stern countenance, he
said--
“Through blindly following your counsel, I have placed myself in a
situation of awful peril. Tell me, what must be done to avoid the
dreadful degradation with which I am threatened--how is this frightful
false step to be retrieved?”
“Not by going on, sir, as if you’d gone stark, staring mad!” answered
Chewkle, rather brusquely. “There’s a good deal at stake, you know; and
there’s only one way to make the best of a bad game--that’s by being
as cool as hice, and as clear about the head-piece. You must be slow to
think and decide, but prompt to hact. You are in a mess, that’s
pretty certain; the only way to get out of it, is to be quite calm and
easy-like, to calculate your chances carefully, to say not a word to
nobody but them you must employ, and fight it out to the last, hinch for
hinch.”
This advice seemed tolerably sound, but Mr. Grahame could not reflect
calmly, nor calculate coldly; he could do nothing but have shifting
visions of the happy time of youth, when he was free from the cares and
responsibilities of life, and of the grim, shadowy, future, lying behind
a curtain of black and obscure vapour; they were mingled in one picture,
whirling and rioting through his aching brain, and incapacitating
him from sitting down to plan a scheme, by which he might escape the
consequences of the crime he had committed.
“It is useless,” he said, at length, impatiently, “to expect from me,
in my present excitement, any suggestion dictated by cool reflection.
My brain is in chaotic confusion; it is racked with agony. I feel that
something must instantly be done, but what--what, my good Chewkle,
cannot you devise something?--you are cooler than I am.”
“Well, you see, if the wust comes to the wust, sir,” responded Mr.
Chewkle, calculatingly, “I shan’t be hit so hard as you; I can afford to
be cooler; now my notion is, that the first thing to be done is to get
hold of that jeuced dockyment, and when got hold on, to drop it quietly
into the fire.”
“A good thought; I’ll send for it at once to my solicitor----”
“They won’t be at the hoffice now,” interposed Chewkle. “You must let
me manage it. I’ll be with ’em afore nine to morrow morning, so as to
bust upon ’em afore they opens their letters, or commences looking at
papers which have been served on ’em in different causes, an’ I’ll
be in such a fluster an’ hurry to get back to you, that I’ll get the
dockyment out of ’em, instead of being put off with a promise to look
it out and send it by a clerk. We can’t wait, you know; we _must_ have
it; and you’ll see I’ll bring it back with me all right.”
“My best of friends, how can I reward you?” said Mr. Grahame, clutching
at hope and relief from the scheme proposed.
“Well,” said Mr. Chewkle, “a tenner will do for me jest now; I ain’t
greedy, though I am short of money.”
Mr. Grahame was here made to understand that a ten pound note was
needed; he drew one promptly from his purse, and gave it to Chewkle, who
instantly transferred it to his badly worn portmonnaie, which he plunged
into the depths of his pocket.
“You must write a note--a strong note--to your solicitor, sir,” he
observed, when the money was stowed away, “directing him to give to _me_
the deed--mention my name--immediately on the receipt of your note--dash
under ‘immediately’--that will throw him off his guard; he will give the
dockyment to me; I’ll bring it to you, and then you can destroy it.”
“But it is registered, and that will afford proof that there was such a
document,” suggested Mr. Grahame, nervously.
“Yes, that there was, perhaps,” answered Chewkle; “but what
of that?--who’s to prove ’andwriting on a thing that ain’t
forthcoming?--who’s to substantiate a charge of forgery”----
“Hush! for Heaven’s sake!”
“Well, who’s to substantiate such a charge upon a thing as don’t
exist--that can’t be put in in support of the case. It can’t be done.”
“But--but what if proceedings have already commenced, and my lawyer is
prepared to put in that deed to bar the claim they will make?”
“But he musn’t.”
“But what if he has this very day? for I urged him to proceed with all
speed.”
“Well, then we must be prepared to prove that it _is_ Wilton’s
signature.”
“That it _is_ his?”
“’Zackly. I don’t want more in this affair than ourselves, but we
musn’t be beat while there is a chance of winning. Suppose I swears I
saw him sign the deed, and suppose old Jukes swears _he_ saw him do it,
and suppose his follerers, Sudds and dirty Nutty, swears they stood by,
and saw it signed--how then? There’s nothing can be brought against us
to invalidate our evidence, and what could the hother side do then? Old
Wilton will swear, of course, hard and fast, that he did not sign, but
what then?--you don’t appear in the matter? you commissioned me to
get it signed, and I brings forard three respectable men, who
swears--swears, mind--they saw him sign it; who’ll be believed then? he
wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. These men will be difficult to get, but
they’ve got their price, sir, and are to be had.”
All these remarks and suggestions, rascally as they were, afforded
comfort to Mr. Grahame. They conveyed to him a glimmering of hope that
the difficulty, after all, was not so desperate as he had presumed it
to be. He recoiled at the notion of having to work with such dirty
instruments--when, however, did dishonesty and crime ever work with
other tools?--but he did not recoil at the work itself.
To obtain a vast advantage, at the price of the misery and destruction
of another, would not have occasioned him a moment’s remorse, or in any
degree have ruffled his equanimity or serenity, but to accomplish
that task by the aid of a small knot of low rascals, was the source of
extreme annoyance and vexation to him. Still if the object could not be
obtained without such assistance, he elected to employ it rather than
forego his purpose; they were the means to the end at which he sought to
arrive, disagreeable enough, but necessary to the result--and, as such,
accepted.
The alternative of stoutly maintaining the forged signature of Wilton to
be genuine, had not struck him. The suggestion was a valuable one, and
he resolved to treasure it up. It occurred to him that his own word
would have weight in a Court of Justice, from the high position which he
held in society, and if he repudiated having had anything to do with the
signature, or of having been present when it was being signed--he would
in all probability be believed, not alone because it would seem the
natural course for him, wanting the signature, to have pursued to obtain
it, but because it would be considered incredible that he had descended
to any unworthy artifice or to crime even, to have possessed himself
of it. Its return to his own possession was, however, of the first
importance; its destruction would raise another question, to be settled
hereafter. So he sat down, and penned the letter to his solicitor, the
outlines of which Chewkle had supplied.
As he completed it, and inclosed it in an envelope, he said to Chewkle--
“I am disturbed to learn that Mr. Gomer has interested himself in
Wilton’s favour. That fact tells rather against my interests. He is a
singular man is Mr. Gomer.”
“Sing’lar, sir,” echoed Chewkle; “he’s as yallar as a canary; he’s
everywhere at once, and people says he’s as rich as ‘creeses,’ though
why _they_ should be called rich I never could understand, unless it is
they grows in profusion, an’ you get ’em at six bunches a penny.”
“He is a very extraordinary man,” said Grahame, musingly; “a very
extraordinary man--enormously wealthy. I fear the man--I fear him. I
don’t know why, but I feel terrified in his presence, and I shudder when
I think of him.”
“He is orful hugly, and that is the truth,” observed Chewkle,
emphatically, adding, “don’t talk about him, sir, or I’m blow’d if you
won’t find him at your elber. Shouldn’t be surprised to see him walk out
o’ the dark at the end of the room there.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with a slight shudder, as Chewkle jerked
his thumb over his left shoulder to the part of the room then in shadow.
To confess the truth, he would not have been surprised, though he might
have been appalled, to have seen the apparition of Nathan Gomer in the
spot pointed out, but he would not appear to acknowledge so much to
Chewkle.
He finished the superscription of the note, and handed it to his agent,
saying--
“You will deliver this to the principal of the firm, and I presume I may
expect you here about ten tomorrow morning?”
“It will all depend upon what time the principal comes to business in
the morning, sir,” answered, Chewkle, “but I shall be there afore the
postman, and I’ll have the deed safe enough, depend on it.”
“Of course it was this business alone that induced you to come here
to-night?” inquired Mr. Grahame, almost fearing to ask, in case there
might be further unpleasant communications for him to receive.
“Nothen’ else, sir,” returned Chewkle, although the bank note was the
principal occasion of his visit. “When I learned the news about Wilton,
I thought it my duty to lose no time in letting you know--knowing what I
knowed, you know.”
“Yes, yes, yes--quite right--you did quite right,” observed Grahame,
hastily. “Let me see you with the deed as early as you can in the
morning. Good night, Chewkle.”
Mr. Grahame rang for Whelks as he spoke, and was promptly answered by
the immediate appearance of his man, who had applied his ear to the
keyhole with most persevering zeal, in the hope to unravel the mystery
of Chewkle’s audiences with his proud and haughty master, but he had
caught nothing--but the ear-ache, which subsequently took him for a
walk up and down his bedroom all night, to the doctor’s in the morning,
afterwards to Covent Garden Market for poppy heads, and subsequently
it treated itself to scorching flannel, blistering fermentations, and
applications of hot and cold vinegar, until Whelks was nearly pickled.
On the disappearance of his servant and Chewkle, Mr. Grahame returned to
his guests with a smiling face and perfect serenity of manner, although
every one in the room noticed his haggard aspect and the ghastly
whiteness of his face. As he made no complaint, they were too well
bred to make any remark, and, exerting himself to please, his pallid
anxiousness passed without further observation.
In the meanwhile, Chewkle followed Whelks down stairs. The first twinges
of pain were introducing themselves to Whelks’ notice. A sensation as if
he was being repeatedly stabbed in the ear with a bradawl was the first
intimation he had of something unpleasant coming on. He had a dim notion
at the same time that Chewkle was addressing him as “guv’nor,” but
the lunges with the figurative brad-awl were so brisk when they once
commenced, that he was plunged into the wildest confusion, being for the
moment uncertain whether he was descending to the mat at the foot of the
stairs upon his highly-floured locks, or upon his tight patent pumps.
Chewkle, on reaching the hall, however, made him understand that he was
anxious to get change for a ten-pound note, and wished to know where
he could achieve it; Whelks, who was desirous of holding a little
conversation with him, in hopes to worm something out of him,
explanatory of the strange and anomalous influence he evidently
possessed with the head of the household, offered to accommodate him,
having, he said he believed, as much gold in his purse. He produced
it, and displayed to the greedy eyes of Chewkle some eighteen or twenty
sovereigns.
As Whelks counted out the gold, a storm of stabs set in on the inner
portion of his ear, so that he grew embarrassed and handed a number of
sovereigns to Chewkle, saying, as his eyes overran with water--
“See if they are right--ow! ow! ow! I’ve the dreadfullest pangs.”
Chewkle counted eleven sovereigns, and said the amount was quite right.
He handed the note to Whelks, and thrust the sovereigns into his pocket.
“I was goin’ to say to you, sir,” commenced Whelks, “that I should like
to have a ’arf-’our’s chat with you, if--ow! ow! ow! I never. Wheugh!
oh, my hear.”
“Bad thing,” said Chewkle, anxious to get off with the extra sovereign;
“I should ’ave it hout.”
“’Ave it hout?” echoed Whelks, “hits my hear, sir--ow! ow! ow!”
“Yes, yes,” responded Chewkle, inattentive to everything but getting
away, “’ave it hout by all means--get it done for a bob. Good night,
good night.”
He darted through the doorway, as the porter threw open the door to
admit a friend of his own, and made the best of his way to his home.
He lay awake, after getting to bed, for some time, busily plotting; and,
before he dropped asleep, he made up his mind how he would act.
By half-past eight in the morning, he appeared before the door of the
offices of Mr. Grahame’s solicitors. He knocked, and the laundress who
was setting the clerk’s office “to rights,” admitted him. He pretended
to be surprised that no clerk was there, but on his stating that he had
been sent, upon business of the utmost importance, by a client of
the firm, and that he must not go back without an answer, the woman
accommodated him with a seat.
He sat motionless, but watched her movements closely. He observed her
enter an inner apartment the consulting room of the principal. She
remained in there some little time, and when she returned, he engaged
her in conversation in a chatty, affable, familiar way, silently
observing, at the same time, that she placed the key of the inner
apartment in a particular spot.
Presently she was summoned to make the breakfast of one of _her_
clients, on another floor, and, telling Chewkle that the clerk would
shortly arrive, she left him alone. He watched her, through the keyhole,
ascend the stairs, then he heard a door above bang, and her foot
reverberating overhead.
With the greatest possible quickness he made for the spot where the key
was placed, and, securing it, unlocked the door of the inner apartment,
and glided into the room.
He gazed sharply around at the boxes on the shelves, and upon one
japanned, large and square, he saw printed in white letters, the name of
Grahame, and beneath it the date of the year. He made for it, and opened
it noiselessly. It was three parts full of papers. Upon the very top was
the deed for which he had come thither. He recognised the endorsement,
but he opened it, and at the bottom saw Wilton’s signature as Grahame
had written it. The sight of the name was sufficient. He carefully
closed the box, retreated from the room, replaced the key where he had
taken it from, put the deed beneath his waistcoat, and then buttoned his
coat over that up to his chin.
He reseated himself in pretty much the same position as that he had
taken when the laundress left him, and upon his face he wore a blank
expression, leaving it a debateable point whether he was more stupid
than innocent.
The clock of a neighbouring church struck nine!
About ten minutes afterwards the door opened, and a young man about
two and twenty entered. He started on seeing Chewkle, and looked as
disconcerted as a man who comes suddenly upon a creditor whom he cannot
pay, the said creditor being inexorable and rapacious, and money his
only pacificator. If such were the clerk’s feelings, his apprehensions
were relieved by Chewkle stating the object of his visit.
“Governor won’t be here till ten,” replied the clerk; “I can’t open his
letters: and if I did I don’t dare give up any papers. You must wait
till he comes.” He gave Chewkle back the letter and told him to take his
seat again, which Chewkle did.
About half-past nine Chewkle said, suddenly, that he wanted to make a
call at no great distance off, and he thought he might as well go on
that business as sit there doing nothing until ten, by which hour he
could certainly be again at the office. The clerk said he thought so
too. So Chewkle went leisurely away.
No sooner out of sight of the office than he jumped into a cab, and
drove to his own house, and in a secret place deposited in an iron
chest, with other articles of value, the deed he had purloined. He
locked the chest safely, and once more made his way to the street, where
he hired another cab, rattled back to the neighbourhood of the lawyer’s
office, discharged it, and entered the office at three minutes to ten.
“Governor not here yet,” said the clerk; “sit down.”
Chewkle obeyed, looking vacant; laughing stupidly when the eye of the
clerk caught his. “What a pump,” thought the young man.
Chewkle felt slightly uneasy, for fear the managing clerk Scathe should
make his appearance and recognise him, but he calculated he was engaged
at Westminster, in a cause, and would be hunting up witnesses before he
made his appearance at the office.
As the thought passed through his mind, the door was flung open, and
the principal of the firm entered. Chewkle rose up and handed him the
letter.
“From Mr. Grahame, Regent’s Park,” he said.
“Oh!” said the solicitor, with a smile. “An answer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pray be seated. I will give you one immediately.”
The clerk handed to his principal the key of his room; he took it,
unlocked the door, and, passing in, closed it after him.
Chewkle sat and waited for the _dènouèment_, as if he was engaged
counting the letters in the printed notices of sittings in term, stuck
up over the fireplace.
Presently a bell rang, and the clerk entered the room, closing the door
after him, Chewkle still reading the printed paper. Some time elapsed.
“Somethin’s happened, shouldn’t wonder,” muttered Chewkle, still staring
at the printed bill.
By and by the clerk made his appearance, and said o Chewkle--
“Step in, please.”
He led the way into the inner apartment, and Chewkle saw the solicitor
with a flushed face and excited countenance, going through the papers in
the box with the name of Grahame painted upon it.
“Your name is Chewkle, I believe,” said the solicitor, as Chewkle
approached him.
“That is my name, and no other, sir,” he replied. “Hem! You were sent
hither for a deed by Mr. Grahame--eh?” inquired the lawyer.
“A deed, sir--why, he said ’twas to be a paper packet,” returned
Chewkle.
“Yes--yes. Do you know what the paper was about?”
“Me, sir?--no, sir.”
“Nor why Mr. Grahame is so anxious to have it?”
“Me, sir?--no, sir?”
“Um!--very odd--very remarkable, indeed.”
“Mr. Scathe must have got it, or put it somewhere,” suggested the clerk.
“I can furnish no other solution of the mystery,” answered the principal
in the same tone. “But if that is the case, Mr. Scathe is very much to
blame, and will not fail, to be made acquainted with my opinion to that
effect.” Then raising his voice, he addressed Chewkle. “Be good enough
to tell Mr. Grahame that I will send the deed up to him by one of my
clerks.”
“He told me to say, sir, that he couldn’t wait for that, so I was to
bring it with me.”
“He could not wait for _that!_ What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, I s’pose he thought you might be busy and would put off
sending the packet to him until it suited your convenience.”
“Ah! I see--um! Well, deliver the message I have given you.”
“But he said I warn’t to go without it.”
“Return to Mr. Grahame, my man, and say I will send it up
to--him--by--my--clerk!” exclaimed the solicitor, speaking, under
increasing irritation, with marked emphasis.
“Can’t go back without it, sir, on no consideration,” persisted Chewkle,
assuming a dogged manner, “them’s my instructions.”
The solicitor looked fiercely at him, and raising his voice, said--
“You can’t have it. I say--you--can’t--have it. It is not come-at-able
at this moment! do you understand?”
Chewkle quite understood that. It was certainly not come-at-able,
unless some one picked the lock of his iron safe, but he appeared not to
comprehend anything, except that he was ordered not to return without a
paper.
“Dolt!” growled the solicitor, angrily.
He sat down and penned a note to Mr. Grahame, stating that his managing
clerk--as the business was being pushed on--had the deed under his
charge; he was at the moment down at Westminster engaged upon a cause,
but that on his return the deed should be forwarded to Mr. Grahame.
Folding up his note, and directing it, he gave it to Chewkle, saying--
“Deliver that to Mr. Grahame;” turning sharply to his clerk, he added,
“Mr. Crumpler, show him out.”
Mr. Crumpler caught Chewkle by the coat sleeve, drew him into the outer
office, and pointed significantly to “the way out.” Chewkle exhibited
his teeth--no mistaking them for pearls--to Mr. Crumpler, and obeyed the
sign. He descended the stairs rapidly, and moved along the footway of
the street, quivering in the throes of what he considered an immense
triumph.
“A hincome for life,” he muttered, “that deed will be as good as a
’nuity to me. I can bleed Grahame of jest whatever I pleases by
threatening of him. I ain’t agoin’ to let him know I’ve got the forged
hinstru-ment, but I shall, in good time, ’int as I knows where it is,
and I can keep it dark, or blow it, jest whichever I likes. ‘Find it and
send it up,’ ha! ha! by Mr. Walker I s’pose. They little thinks I nabbed
it, none of ’em will ever dream o’ that--I could lay a ’undred to
one about that, I could.”
As he offered to lay these very long odds, he ran up against Nathan
Gomer.
The visage of the little man shone like burnished gold. His eyes danced
and sparkled, and he chuckled as if animated by the most pleasurable
emotions.
“Aha! friend Chewkle,” he exclaimed, placing his cold, fishy hand
upon Chewkle’s fevered wrist; “you are active this morning--full of
business--away from home to a lawyer’s office--then hurrying back in
a cab to your charmingly retired abode--away in a cab back to the
solicitors, and now, ha! ha! eh? I’ll be sworn to Mr. Grahame’s, in the
Regent’s Park, with _a_ communication--I say _a_ communication, he! he!
Brisk fellow, sharp fellow, smart dog.” He poked Chewkle in the ribs,
and Chewkle felt as if the dent his finger made remained, and would
continue a hole for the rest of his life. “Oh” continued Nathan, “I am
so partial to sharp fellows, especially when they move about so nimbly
to serve others, without a thought of serving themselves, eh, friend
Chewkle?--I say without one thought of doing themselves a small turn.”
Chewkle tried to laugh, but no sound issued from his distended jaws. He
felt his flesh crawl and creep over his bones, and his marrow vibrate;
his scalp seemed to have the “pins and needles,” and his hair to rise
slowly up, dust and all, threatening to tilt his hat into the mud.
Nathan grinned at him like a Hindoo idol, nodded, and, diving among the
flowing stream of persons ceaselessly passing on, disappeared. Chewkle
shuddered, and drew a long breath. “I believe he’s the devil hisself,”
he groaned, and slowly--now doubtfully--pursued his way to Grahame’s
abode, made very uneasy by the conviction that the secret of his
morning’s performance was not exclusively confined to himself.