_Tra_.--I pray, sir, tell me--is it possible
That love should of a sudden take such hold?
_Luc._--Oh, Tranio, till I found it to be true,
I never thought it possible or likely;
But see while idly I stood looking on,
I found the effect of love in idleness.
--Shakspere.
When Hal Vivian and Flora Wilton, summoned by Nathan Gomer, rejoined
old Wilton, prior to his departure from the Queen’s Bench, they found
him at the gate, leading into the ante-chamber or cage, through which
every incomer or outgoer must pass, awaiting them.
He appeared, in the eyes of both Flora and Hal, to have become another
being.
He was yet meanly clad, his face was still furrowed, and bore the lines
of care and sorrow, and his hair straggled loosely and wildly; but there
was a brilliancy in his eye, recently so dim; there was a hectic flush
upon his cheek, of late wan and pallid; and his figure, some few hours
past drooping, the symbol of hopeless wretchedness, was now erect, firm,
and that of a gentleman.
Even the tone of his voice had undergone a change. It had been sharp,
though weak and querulous--it was now round and clear, indicating
a heart purified and emancipated from the destroying influences of
despair.
His manner, which had been that of a grateful and respectful recipient
of services, now assumed the character of the power to confer them,
not haughtily nor patronisingly, but gently and kindly, still marked by
conscious elevation of position.
The golden key, used by some, as yet unknown, good angel, had shot back
the bolts of the prison to let Eustace Wilton pass into the free world
beyond. The gatekeepers had an instinctive respect for a man who could
pay two thousand pounds after so short a detention, so they cast
away their brusque, sharp, extraofficial impertinence of manner, and
obsequiously congratulated him upon his early departure. They expressed
their full and decided conviction that he would not quit “Hudson’s
Hotel” without remembering those attached to the establishment, because,
as the spokesman forcibly rather than elegantly observed--
“It was the custom o’ gentlemen, as was gentlemen, to act as sech, and
to behave accordingly.”
Wilton had not forgotten the poor debtors’ box, and in the elation
of his spirits, could not resist the appeal thus made to him. To the
manifest astonishment of Hal Vivian, and to the marvel of Flora, he took
from his purse two sovereigns, and handed them to the gatekeeper, who
accepted the amount with a smile, which extended to the visages of two
of his brother officers, who were at his elbow prepared to divide the
gift as soon as Wilton’s back was turned. Nathan Gomer witnessed the act
with undisguised disgust, and muttered--
“Ghouls! They fatten on the flesh and blood of the destitute and the
wretched.”
He took Wilton by the arm as he spoke, and hurried him through the cage
to the entrance, where a cab was waiting to receive the party.
Here Nathan Gomer, after a brief private conference with Wilton, took
his leave, and the cab departed for the residence of Mr. Harper.
Wilton was compelled to proceed there; his own dwelling was now a heap
of charred and blackened ruins; but he had no intention of staying
beneath the roof of Mr. Harper one hour longer than was necessary. He
was grateful in his acknowledgments to the good goldsmith and his wife.
Once more he also assured Hal that the obligation he had conferred
upon him by saving Flora from destruction, was one which he could
never repay, and that he should consider himself bound in the future to
perform for him any service within his power, when called upon by him to
do so.
For two days, old Wilton was constantly occupied abroad. His manner was
peculiar and mysterious; he volunteered no explanations, and answered
questions with, reserve. He never alluded to the circumstances of his
sudden liberation from prison, nor was even Flora made by him acquainted
with the means by which it had been effected.
Upon the evening of the second day, he returned to Mr. Harper’s
residence, and laconically informed the old goldsmith that he had been
successful in securing a furnished house; he proposed, therefore, at
once to remove himself and his daughter thither, that they might no
longer prove a burden to those who had so unexpectedly such an addition
made to their numbers, but who had played the part of Samaritans so
nobly.
The announcement was listened to with regret by at least one person
present, but no objection could be interposed, and before the hour of
midnight had arrived, Flora found herself wooing the coy embraces of
slumber upon a down bed, in an elegantly furnished bed-chamber, one of a
suite in a handsome villa mansion in the Regent’s Park.
She had parted with Hal quietly: neither had displayed emotion: what
they felt was concealed from the eyes of all present. Their words were
few, but each seemed to wish the other to understand that lightly to
forget would not be possible.
It was some compensation to Hal for the rude shattering of the ideal
fabric he had so blissfully reared, to receive from Mr. Wilton the
assurance that the doors of his house would ever be open to him, that
he had a right to enter whenever he pleased, and that he might, in fact,
view it as a second home.
“The saviour of my child deserves no less at my hands,” he added.
When Hal Vivian encountered poor Lotte Clinton, he had therefore no
hesitation in conveying her direct to the new residence of Flora Wilton.
Flora had frequently inquired after her, and had hoped that she would
visit her, for she had not forgotten her display of womanly sympathy
when she was distracted by a combination of troubles, and she was
anxious to express her grateful sense of Lotte’s kindheartedness, and
her hope that some day she might be able to repay it.
But Lotte came not. Flora imagined that her brother had conveyed her
to some place of residence near his own, and though at times uneasy
thoughts would rise and suggest that she might have escaped the horrors
of the burning house only to fall into new dangers, still she hoped that
she should see her again, smiling and cheerful, as she had been, and in
a better position than ever.
Hal knew this, and decided that he could not do better than conduct
Lotte to her when he found her in a condition of despair and destitution
which had given up all other hope of relief but what self-destruction
would afford.
As the cab pursued its way, Lotte sat with her face buried in her hands,
weeping. She wished to restrain the violence of her emotions--to attain
a calmness which would enable her to speak to Hal with some degree of
steadiness--but in vain; she had not power to resist the torrent--the
floodgates were borne away, and she could only lean in the corner of the
vehicle, and let her tears pursue their impetuous course.
It was not that new hopes were awakened, or that she doubted the result
of her meeting with Hal. She knew instinctively it would lift her for
the moment out of her despairing destitution, but it still rendered her
future shadowy and undefined. She must accept pecuniary obligations
from him. She shrank from them--needlessly enough--but her fears had by
reflection been aroused, and her desperate situation had magnified them
into unnatural proportions.
After all, her thoughts were of a very uncertain, half-formed character;
she was too prostrated to think much. She had, with a mind worked up to
a pitch of frenzy, stood upon the verge of eternity--a moment more, and
she had precipitated herself into the obscure and misty regions of that
unmapped land. She had been suddenly held back to renew the battle of
life--upon what terms was hidden from her, but the revulsion of feeling
occasioned by this recall overmastered all faculties but that of
weeping, and left her, as we have stated, absorbed in tears.
Hal sought not to check them. It would be time enough to speak to
her when the paroxysm had ceased, or at least abated somewhat of its
violence. He hoped then for the return of better feelings; not that he
intended to read her any homily upon the folly and the wickedness of the
crime into the commission of which she was hurrying, because he believed
that more powerful suggestions than any he could offer would present
themselves to her, and because, also, from what little he knew of her
nature, he felt fully convinced that the incitement to leap out of life
into the dread unknown must have been of a description exceeding the
sustaining powers of others gifted even with a higher capacity of
endurance than she possessed.
So, for a considerable distance, they rode on in silence.
Her low-drawn sobs had grown gradually wider in the interval of their
inspirations, and ultimately the painful sound ceased entirely. Having
satisfied himself that she had not fainted, he made a few commonplace
observations. Yet not altogether unconnected with the circumstances
under which he had fallen in with her at a moment of such intense
importance, in order to prove to her that it was a direct interposition
of Providence in her behalf.
A faint monosyllable, uttered now and then, was all she returned in
reply; for she felt her helpless position most acutely, however
grateful she ought to have been for her rescue from an attempt to commit
self-destruction, and she was glad when the cab stopped at the address
which Hal had given to the driver.
Having dismissed the vehicle, Hal led Lotte up the gravelled path
leading to the door of Mr. Wilton’s new residence, and gave a summons
at the door with the hand of one who felt he had a right of _entree_ in
that house at any time. He was ushered into the hall promptly. It was
his first visit. A glance told him the style in which Mr. Wilton--so
recently a humble gold-worker to his uncle’s establishment--had
commenced to live. The hall-porter who opened the door turned his
inquiring eyes upon the new comers, uncertain whether to be civil
or calmly insulting to them. He had yet to learn the description of
visitors whom his new master delighted to honour.
Hal, sensitive, and restive under suspicion as to his status in society,
drew a card from his card-case, and in a very decided tone, which
sounded like command, said, as he handed the small piece of thin
pasteboard to him--
“You will please to say that I am desirous of seeing Miss Wilton, and
that I shall esteem it a favour if she will grant me an interview at
once and alone.”
The hall-porter instantly summoned a man-servant, dressed in a livery of
deep violet hue, and gave him the card and the message.
Scarcely a minute elapsed ere the man reappeared, and bade him follow
him.
Hal pressed the arm of Lotte as he felt her cower by his side,
overwhelmed by what her dim eyes beheld, and he led her gently in
the direction the man had taken. She tottered, and could hardly find
strength to walk.
“Courage! courage! Lotte, my good girl: my life for it, you will be
tenderly received,” he whispered gently to her.
Oh! she was grateful to him for those encouraging words. But all this
grandeur! She could have met Flora readily, if she were as she had until
now known her, but to come before her--so hapless a wretch as she deemed
herself to be--in the midst of all this luxury and wealth, was only
a new trial. She said not a word, but she feared her reception; to be
pitied and to be patronised now would be to slay her.
The man ushered them into a small but elegantly furnished apartment:
a lamp burned brightly upon the table. Near to it stood Flora Wilton,
dressed as Hal had never seen her before. Her attire was such as a
princess might have worn--and with pride, for it was costly in its
value, and in its taste unimpeachable.
As the light fell full upon her face and form, Hal turned faint. Flora
smiled sweetly, and said in a tone musical, half joyous, yet half
reproachful--
“I am so glad to see you, Hal!--Mr. Vivian--I--I thought you would have
come before; I quite ex----”
She paused, for she suddenly perceived Lotte, who had tremblingly shrunk
behind Hal, wishing from the depths of her aching heart she had never,
never been induced to come here.
Hal followed the direction of her eyes, and he said, hastily--
“I am grateful, Miss Wilton, for your kind reception, but to-night, at
least, I do not claim it for myself. I have one poor sorrowful heart
here with me for whom I entreat your warm interest; she needs it. To
ensure your sympathy, I may only suggest that Lotte Clinton”----
Not a word more.
Flora was at the side of Lotte in an instant, with her arm round her
waist. The bright rays of the lamp fell upon the thin, white, wasted
features of the poor, half-fainting creature. Flora had last seen her
a roundfaced, pretty, lively, laughing girl. What a dreadful change did
she now behold!
She burst into tears.
She twined her arms about Lotte’s shoulders; she laid her cold wan face
upon her own warm bosom.
“Oh Lotte, Lotte, dear, dear Lotte, what has happened?” she murmured,
through her streaming tears; “why are are you so dreadfully changed?
Confide in me as in a sister--pray, pray do; oh, my heart aches to see
you thus; indeed, Lotte, it does; in very truth, it does.”
Why, had Flora been grand, had she played the lady, had she offered to
take the case presented to her by Hal at an early moment, and promised
to do something, Lotte might have been pierced to the heart--but she
would then have stood up bravely and haughtily--have declined the
intended favour, though she consigned herself to destitution by the act;
but to be caught thus to Flora’s heart--to be embraced--to have poured
into her ears expressions of tender sympathy--to feel upon her cheeks
the tears of human pity, which had the essence of divine pity--to
feel, to be convinced that the tender commiseration which Flora--though
unknowing the circumstances--had exhibited for her was sincere--it was
all--all!--more than she could bear; she sank at Flora’s feet, embraced
her knees, tried to ejaculate her gratefulness, tried to tell that now,
indeed, she felt herself lifted out of despair and degradation; but
exhausted nature refused to do more, and she fell back upon the carpet
in a swoon.
Hal, who had walked to the end of the apartment, half choked in his
efforts to repress the tears which would flow into his eyes, now, at a
sudden cry from the lips of Flora, rushed forward, and raised Lotte from
the ground, while Flora rang the bell, which brought into the apartment
her maid--a young, but strong, good looking, and seemingly good-humoured
girl.
Flora beckoned to her.
“Help me to bear this young lady into my dressing-room,” she said; “she
has fainted; be very gentle and tender in your movements, Mercy, for she
is very ill.”
“Poor dear young lady,” said the girl, gazing upon Lotte’s ghastly
features. “She do look bad, surely.”
She received her from Hal’s custody, and lifting her up in her arms as
if she had been a child, she bore her tenderly to Flora’s chamber, and
laid her gently on the bed. As Flora was following, Hal detained her,
and in a few brief words, acquainted her with the circumstances which
had attended his meeting with Lotte; he left her to obtain the rest from
her own surmises, or from any communications Lotte might make, and he
took the opportunity of bidding her farewell, promising that he would
pay a more formal visit, and make a more protracted stay, within a few
days.
“Do not fail,” said Flora with some earnestness, “for my father is very
anxious to see you here; he has made many inquiries respecting you, and
I--I--do hope you will come soon.”
She need have been under no apprehension that he would stay away. Her
beauty was a magnet which would have drawn visitors loving her far less
passionately than he.
He made his way home, defiantly challenging the ideal to produce such
exquisite and perfect loveliness as the real had that night presented to
him.
Flora hurried to her chamber, where poor Lotte yet lay senseless.
She was too ill that night to leave her bed. She was placed under the
careful skill of an eminent physician, who at once declared her illness
to be occasioned solely by mental distress, and treated her accordingly.
We may here mention that Mrs. Bantom grew very uneasy when nine
o’clock came and Lotte had not come back, and by ten Mr. “Jeems” Bantom
was dispatched in search of her, with strong injunctions not to go about
his task as if he was anxious to give her into the custody of the police
on a charge of petty larceny, or to act in such a way as to induce
persons to believe that he was on the prowl with the view of dishonestly
possessing himself of property which “wasn’t his’n,” but to proceed at
once, and make his inquiries in a clear and straightforward manner.
“Jeems” Bantom fortunately possessed the address of the knave for whom
Lotte had worked without obtaining her earnings, and he went there
direct. He quickly found that the place was shut up, and that the
proprietor had “bolted.”
“The gal’s been done out of her wages,” he said, to himself, “and is
afeard to come back. She’s a hiding of herself somewheres, an’ I must
find her, else she’ll be goin’ and doin’ somethen foolish. I’d keep that
gal jes’ the same as I would one of my own kids, rather than any
harm should come to her--that I would; ’cos I’m sure she is honest,
straightfor’ard, and hard-working. Ah! I’m blessed if ever I saw anyone,
woman or man, work so hard as she did over them faddle-daddies wimmen
will have, without carin’ a farden how many of their own blessed sort
they kills in the makin’ on ‘em. I jes’ wish I could get hold o’ that
cove that got the poor gal to do all that work, and then hooked it. I’d
jes’ scrag him. I’d make a korps on him, or my name ain’t Jem Bantom.”
The chances are that if Mr. Bantom had fallen in with him, at the
moment, he would have kept his word, or at least have so severely
trounced him that his most intimate friends would, for a lengthened
period, have been unable to recognise him.
Bantom was checked at the very place where he expected to obtain
information. None of the persons living near to the house where Lotte
had called for her money had seen her, and he had to start off to find
a clue to her as best he could. He inquired at police-stations, at
hospitals, and at cab-ranks, but without gaining any tidings of her; and
the night had worn away when he returned to report his ill success.
Mrs. Bantom wrung her hands.
“The poor young lonesome thing ’as drownded herself,” she cried,
“all along o’ the cussed money she told me she owed us. She said she
would!--she said she would.”
Poor Mrs. Bantom sobbed bitterly as she uttered the last words.
Bantom looked upon Lotte very much as he would upon a dog which he had
picked up, brought home, found to possess good qualities, and had grown
into a pet. He had found and brought Lotte home, and he felt a personal
interest in her, which could not have been created in his breast under
any other circumstances. When, therefore, he heard his wife’s surmise,
he seized his hat, put it on his head, and, tired as he was, prepared to
sally forth again.
“Keziah” he said, in a husky tone, “I likes to know the wust, I does--I
purfers it. I’m off to the river, I am, jes’ to show you you’re wrong.
Keep up your pluck, old gal, I’ll be back as quick as ever I can.”
He went; traversed both sides of the river between London and
Westminster bridges, and crawled home in the morning exhausted, as the
clock was striking seven. He threw himself into a chair despondent as
ever man in this world was, and said--
“I told you, Keziah, you wus wrong; nobody has drownded themselves this
blessed night. I’ve been both sides of the river, from Billin’sgate to
Lambeth.”
A loud knock at this instant was given at the street-door. Mr. and Mrs.
Bantom came into collision at the lock, and both pulled at it together.
It was not Lotte who had knocked, and their countenances fell, for, with
hearts beating high with hope, they had fully persuaded themselves she
had come “home” at last.
A footman in violet livery met their gaze instead.
He looked at husband and wife, and, with the air and manner of a cabinet
minister in his court dress, he said, inquiringly--
“Bantom?”
“That’s me!” exclaimed husband and wife together.
The footman produced a letter, and handed it to Bantom.
“See if it’s all right,” he said.
Mr. Bantom could read, but not with ease and rapidity; he could write,
too, but his hand was bold and slightly irregular. He was very nervous
this morning and the handwriting of the superscription was so delicate a
fairy might have penned it. He looked at his wife, opened the envelope,
and took out a sheet of delicate note paper, which he unclosed. It
contained a Bank of England note, which, with trembling fingers, Bantom
spread wide.
“A fi’pun note, ’ep my goodness!” he exclaimed, with astonishment.
He mechanically handed the paper which had contained the note to the
footman.
“You looks like a good scholard,” he observed;”’jes’ read that pretty
writing for me.”
The footman, with a supercilious smile, not sorry to be put in
possession of the contents of the note, read asfollows:--
_Lotte sends her “kindest love to Mr. and Mrs. Bantom, and begs them to
forgive her for any uneasiness she may have occasioned them. She desires
to assure them that though ill, she is quite safe._”
“A-hah-ha-ah!--ah-a-hah-a!” burst from Bantom’s lips, sounds composed
of hysterical laughter, and a genuine cry, although the latter was the
offspring of joy alone. Mrs. Bantom flung her apron over her head, that
the tears she shed might not be visible to the strange young man
in violet. She had small need to be ashamed of the honest tears of
happiness at the communication thus received of Lotte’s safety.
The footman was rather indignant at this interruption, he saw nothing as
he said to “’owl at,” and he requested them to be quiet while he read
the remaining’ contents of the note. They obeyed him, an occasional sigh
and sniff from Mrs. Bantom being the only further interruption. The note
went on to say that Lotte would see them shortly, but in part payment of
what she was indebted to them, she inclosed the note, hoping they would
believe she would never forget their kindness to her.
There was joy in Bantom’s house that day. His shop was better stocked
than usual, and many of the very poor were allowed to have credit,
which, under ordinary circumstances, Bantom could not have afforded.
Lotte, on being recovered from her swoon, though very feeble and under
strong injunctions not to speak, could not rest until she had unfolded
her true condition to Flora, and begged her to let the Bantoms, at
least know that she was safe; that her mysterious absence, as nearly
as possible, might be accounted for. We have seen in what manner Flora
complied with her wish.
A few days and the tender care and kindness of Flora Wilton were
rewarded by the rapidly returning strength of Lotte. She was able to
leave her room and to walk in the garden with Flora. These walks in the
soft fresh air did much to revive her; the garden was so prettily
laid out, the flowers so profuse and beautiful--she loved flowers
passionately--that it afforded her considerable pleasure to stroll there
in company with her kind friend.
Besides, while most grateful for the affectionate sympathy and
generosity of Flora, she had no notion of remaining dependant. She had
far too brave a spirit for that, and she felt that these daily walks
among the flowers in the bright clear air were bringing back to her
health and strength, to renew the labour of breadwinning.
One lovely morning, while strolling with Flora, she said to her
lightly--
“The garden adjoining this appears to be extremely beautiful, although
it is hardly possible to get a glimpse at it.”
Flora smiled.
“I have discovered already the mysteries of this garden, Lotte. There
are several little secret nooks, of which you would never dream, if you
had not searched them out. I will take you to one where you can have an
unimpeded view of the next garden, and you will say when you see it that
it is beautiful indeed.”
Flora at once turned from the path into a narrow alcove of young alder
and beech trees, and Lotte followed her. They pursued a winding course
for a short distance, and were stopped by a wire fence.
The adjoining garden lay spread out before them in all its cultivated
beauty.
But also before them, face to face, within five or six feet, were a
party of ladies and gentlemen--
“Good gwacious, Vane,” exclaimed suddenly a tall, bulky, fair young man,
“did you evaw in youaw wemembwance see an angel’s face so wavishingly
beautiful?”
The eyes of the whole party were turned at once upon Flora Wilton.
“Lovely, indeed!” ejaculated Lester Vane, for he, with Helen, Margaret,
and Evangeline Grahame, were of the party.
Helen Grahame turned her large dark eyes upon Flora. It was impossible
not to acknowledge the extreme loveliness of the fair young face
upon which her gaze rested, but a pang of mortification and jealousy
penetrated her bosom, for Vane’s words rang in her ears, and a glance
told her that his eyes were riveted upon Flora’s face with an expression
of passionate admiration.
The scene lasted but a moment. Flora, abashed and almost terrified,
shrank back and hurried away, closely followed by Lotte, who felt like
being detected in a somewhat mean act of espionage, though in this she
was not just to herself or to her friend.
All that day and night Lester Vane could not forget the face he had
momentarily seen. It was before him in the flowers, in the fleecy
clouds, in the waters of the fountain, in the shadows of the night.
When his eyes in thoughtfulness closed, it was like a star in the misty
gloom. Turn which way he would, direct his thoughts to any channel,
still the face floated before his vision.
Who was that young and lovely creature--what her name, condition,
character?
He determined to ascertain as quickly as he could. He knew that he
should be restless and unhappy until he had acquired this information at
least.
Had he conceived a sudden absorbing passion for her? Was this love at
first sight?