ALBAN REVISITS UNION STREET
Alban escaped from the Sporting Club at a quarter to eleven, sick of its
fetid atmosphere and wearied by its mock brutalities. He made no
apologies for quitting Willy Forrest--for, truth to tell, that merry
worthy was no longer capable of understanding them. Frequent calls for
whisky-and-soda, added to a nice taste for champagne at dinner, left the
Captain in that maudlin condition in which a man is first cousin to all
the world--at once garrulous and effusive and generally undesirable.
Alban had, above all things, a contempt for a drunken man; and leaving
Forrest to the care of others of his kind, he went out into the street
and made his way slowly eastward.
It was an odd thing to recall; but he had hardly set foot east of the
Temple, he remembered, since the day when the bronze gates of Richard
Gessner's house first closed upon him and the vision of wonderland burst
upon his astonished eyes. The weeks had been those of unending kindness,
of gifts showered abundantly, of promises for the future which might
well overwhelm him by their generosity. Let him but consent to claim his
rights, Gessner had said, and every ambition should be gratified. No
other explanation than that of a lagging justice could he obtain--and no
other had he come to desire. If he remained at Hampstead, the image of
Anna Gessner, of a perfect womanhood as he imagined it, kept him to the
house. He did not desire his patron's money; he began to discover how
few were his wants and how small the satisfaction of their gratification
could be. But the image he worshipped ever--and at its feet all other
desires were forgotten.
And now reality had come with its sacrilegious hand, warring upon the
vision and bidding him open his eyes and see. It was easy enough to
estimate this adventurer Willy Forrest at his true worth, less easy to
bind the wounds imagination had received and to set the image once more
upon its ancient pedestal. Could he longer credit Anna with those
qualities with which his veneration had endowed her? Must there not be
heart searchings and rude questionings, the abandonment of the dream and
the stern corrections of truth? He knew not what to think. A voice of
reproach asked him if he also had not forgotten. The figure of little
Lois Boriskoff stood by him in the shadows, and he feared to speak with
her lest she should accuse him.
Let it be said in justice that he had written to Lois twice, and heard
but lately that she had left Union Street and gone, none knew whither.
His determination to do his utmost for her and her father, to bid them
share his prosperity and command him as they would, had been strong with
him from the first and delayed only by the amazing circumstances of his
inheritance. He did not understand even yet that he had the right to
remain at "Five Gables," but this right had so often been insisted upon
that he began at last to believe in its reality and to accept the
situation as a _chose jugee_. And with the conviction, there came an
intense longing to revisit the old scenes--who knows, it may have been
but the promptings of a vanity after all.
It was a great thing, indeed, to be walking there in the glare of the
lamps and telling himself that fortune and a future awaited him, that
the instrument of mighty deeds would be his inheritance, and that the
years of his poverty were no more. How cringingly he had walked
sometimes in the old days when want had shamed him and wealth looked
down upon him with contempt. To-night he might stare the boldest in the
face, nurse fabulous desires and know that they would be gratified, peer
through the barred windows of the shops and say all he saw was at his
command. A sense of might and victory attended his steps. He understood
what men mean when they say that money is power and that it rules the
world.
He turned eastward, and walking with rapid strides made his way down the
Strand and thence by Ludgate Circus to Aldgate and the mean streets he
knew so well. It was nearly midnight when he arrived there, and yet he
fell in with certain whom he knew and passed them by with a genial nod.
His altered appearance, the black overcoat and the scarf which hid his
dress clothes, called for many a "Gor blime" or "Strike me dead." Women
caught his arm and wrestled with him, roughs tried to push him from the
pavement and were amazed at his good humor. In Union Street he first met
little red-haired Chris Denham and asked of her the news. She shrank
back from him as though afraid, and answered almost in a whisper.
"Lois gone--she went three weeks ago. I thought you'd have know'd it--I
thought you was sweet on her, Alban. And now you come here like
that--what's happened to you, whatever have you been doing of?"
He told her gaily that he had found new friends.
"But I haven't forgotten the old ones, Chris, and I'm coming down to see
you all some day soon. How's your mother--what's she doing now?"
The girl shrugged her shoulders and the glance she turned upon him
seemed to say that she would sooner speak on any other subject.
"What should she be doin'--what's any of us doin' but slave our bones
off and break our hearts. You've come to see Lois' father, haven't you?
Oh, yes, I know how much you want to talk about my mother. The old man's
up there in the shop--I saw him as I came by."
Alban stood an instant irresolute. How much he would have liked to offer
some assistance to this poor girl, to speak of real pecuniary help and
friendship. But he knew the people too well. The utmost delicacy would
be necessary.
"Well," he said, "I'm sorry things are not better, Chris. I've had a
good Saturday night, you see, and if I can do anything, don't you mind
letting me know. We'll talk of it when we have more time. I'm going on
to see Boriskoff now, and I doubt that I'll find him out of bed."
She laughed a little wildly, still turning almost pathetic eyes upon
him.
"Is it true that it's all off between you and Lois--all the Court says
it is. That's why she went away, they say--is it true, Alb, or are they
telling lies? I can't believe it myself. You're not the sort to give a
girl over--not one that's stood by you as well as Lois. Tell me it ain't
true or I shall think the worse of you."
The question staggered him and he could not instantly answer it. Was it
true or false? Did he really love little Lois and had he still an
intention to marry her? Alban had never looked the situation straight in
the face until this moment.
"I never tell secrets," he exclaimed a little lamely, and turning upon
his heel, he shut his ears to the hard laugh which greeted him and went
on, as a man in a dream, to old Boriskoff's garret. A lamp stood in the
window there and the tap of a light hammer informed him that the
indefatigable Pole was still at work. In truth, old Paul was bending
copper tubing--for a firm which said that he had no equal at the task
and paid him a wage which would have been despised by a
crossing-sweeper.
Alban entered the garret quietly and was a little startled by the sharp
exclamation which greeted him. He knew nothing, of course, of the part
this crafty Pole had played or what his own change of circumstance owed
to him. To Alban, Paul Boriskoff was just the same mad revolutionary as
before--at once fanatic and dreamer and, before then, the father of Lois
who had loved him. If the old fellow had no great welcome for the young
Englishman to-night, let that be set down to his sense of neglect and,
in some measure, to his daughter's absence.
"Good evening, Mr. Boriskoff, you are working very late to-night."
Alban stood irresolute at the door, watching the quick movements of the
shaggy brows and wondered what had happened to old Paul that he should
be received so coolly. Had he known what was in the Pole's mind he would
have as soon have jumped off London Bridge as have braved the anger of
one who judged him so mercilessly in that hour. For Boriskoff had heard
the stories which Hampstead had to tell, and he had said, "He will ruin
Lois' life and I have put the power to do so in his hands."
"The poor do not choose their hours, Alban Kennedy. Sit down, if you
please, and talk to me. I have much to say to you."
He did not rise from his chair, but indicated a rude seat in the corner
by the chimney and waited until his unwilling guest had taken it. Alban
judged that his own altered appearance and his absence from Union Street
must be the cause of his displeasure. He could guess no other reason.
"Do you love my daughter, Alban Kennedy?"
"You know that I do, Paul. Have we not always been good friends? I came
to tell you about a piece of great good fortune which has happened to me
and to find out why Lois had not written to me. You see for yourself
that there is a great change in me. One of the richest men in London
considers that I have a claim, to some of his money--through some
distant relative, it appears--and I am living at his house almost as
his own son."
"Is that why you forget your old friends so quickly?"
"I have never forgotten them. I wrote to Lois twice."
"Did you speak of marriage in your letters?"
The lad's face flushed crimson. He knew that he could not tell Paul
Boriskoff the truth.
"I did not speak of marriage--why should I?" he exclaimed; "it was never
your wish that we should speak of it until Lois is twenty-one. She will
not be that for more than three years--why do you ask me the question
to-night?"
"Because you have learned to love another woman."
A dead silence fell in the room. The old man continued to tap gently
upon the coil of tube, rapidly assuming a fantastic shape under the
masterly touch of a trained hand. A candle flickered by him upon a crazy
table where stood a crust of bread and a lump of coarse cheese. Not
boastfully had he told Richard Gessner that he would accept nothing for
himself. He was even poorer than he had been six weeks ago when he
discovered that his old enemy was alive.
[Illustration: "You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have
wished to forget my daughter."]
"You love another woman, Alban Kennedy, and you have wished to forget my
daughter. Do not say that it is not the truth, for I read it upon your
face. You should be ashamed to come here unless you can deny it. Fortune
has been kind to you, but how have you rewarded those for whom she has
nothing? I say that you have forgotten them--been ashamed of them as
they have now the right to be ashamed of you."
He put his hammer down and looked the lad straight in the face. Upon
Alban's part there was an intense desire to confess everything and to
tell his old friend of all those distressing doubts and perplexities
which had so harassed him since he went to Hampstead. If he could have
done so, much would have been spared him in the time to come. But he
found it impossible to open his heart to an alien,--nor did he believe
Paul Boriskoff capable of appreciating the emotions which now tortured
him.
"I have never been ashamed of any of my friends," he exclaimed hotly;
"you know that it is not true, Paul Boriskoff. Where are the letters
which I wrote to Lois? Why has she not answered them? If I had been
ashamed, would they have been written? Cannot you understand that all
which has happened to me has been very distracting. I have seen a new
life--a new world, and it is not as our world. Perhaps there is no more
happiness in it than in these courts and alleys where we have suffered
so much. I cannot tell you truly. It is all too new to me and naturally
I feel incapable of judging it. When I came to you to-night it was to
speak of our old friendship. Should I have done so if I had forgotten?"
Old Paul heard him with patience, but his anger none the less remained.
The shaggy eyebrows were at rest now, but the eyes were never turned
from Alban's face.
"You are in love with Anna Gessner," he said quietly; "why do you not
tell Lois so?"
"I cannot tell her so--it would not be true. She will always be the
same little Lois to me, and when she is twenty-one I will marry her."
"Ha--when she is twenty-one. That seems a long time off to one who is
your age. You will marry her, you say--a promise to keep her quiet while
you make love to this fine lady who befools you. No, Alban Kennedy, I
shall not let Lois imagine any such thing; I shall tell her the truth.
She will choose another husband--that is my wish and she will obey it."
"You are doing me a great injustice, Paul Boriskoff. I do not love
Anna--perhaps for a moment I thought that I did, but I know now that I
was deceiving myself. She is not one who is worthy of being loved. I
believed her very different when first I went to Hampstead."
"Tell me no such thing. I am an old man and I know men's hearts. What
shall my daughter and her rags be to you now that you have fine clothes
upon your back? You are as the others--you have knelt down at the shrine
of money and there you worship. This woman in her fine clothes--she is
your idol. All your past is forgotten immediately you see her. A great
gulf is set between you and us. Think not that I do not know, for there
are those who bring me the story every day. You worship Anna Gessner,
but you live in a fool's paradise, for the father will forbid you to
marry her. I say it and I know. Be honest and speak to my daughter as I
have spoken to you to-night."
He raised his hammer as though he would resume his work, and Alban began
to perceive how hopeless an argument would be with him while in such a
mood. Not deficient in courage, the lad could not well defend himself
from so direct an attack, and he had the honesty to admit as much.
"I shall tell Lois the truth," he said: "she will then judge me and say
whether you are right or wrong. I came here to-night to see if I could
help you both. You know, Paul Boriskoff, how much I wish to do so. While
I have money, it is yours also. Have not Lois and I always been as your
children? You cannot forbid me to act as a son should, just because I
have come into my inheritance. Let me find you a better home and take
you away from this dismal place. Then I shall be doing right to worship
money. Will you not let me do so? There is nothing in life half so good
as helping those we love--I am sure of it already, and it is only five
weeks since I came into my inheritance. Give me the right and let me
still call you father."
Old Paul was much affected, but he would not let the lad see as much.
Avoiding the question discreetly but not unkindly, he muttered, "No, no,
I need no help. I am an old man and what happens to me does not matter."
And then turning the subject swiftly, he asked, "Your patron, he has
left England, has he not?"
"He has gone to Paris, I believe."
"Did he speak of the business that took him there?"
"He never speaks of business to me. He has asked me once or twice about
the poor people down here and I have tried to tell him. Such a fortune
as his could redeem thousands of lives, Paul. I have told him that when
he spoke to me."
"Such a man will never redeem one life. All the money in the world will
never buy him rest. He has eaten his harvest and the fields are bare.
Did you mention my name to him?"
"I do not think that I have done so yet."
"Naturally, you would have been a little ashamed to speak of us. It is
very rarely that one who becomes rich remembers those who were poor with
him. His money only teaches him to judge them. Those who were formerly
his friends are now spendthrifts, extravagant folk who should not be
injured by assistance. The rich man makes their poverty an excuse for
deserting them, and he cloaks his desertion beneath lofty moral
sentiments. You are too young to do so, but the same spirit is already
leading you. Beware of it, Alban Kennedy, for it will lead you to
destruction."
Alban did not know how to argue with him. He resented the accusation
hotly and yet could make no impression of resentment upon the imagined
grievance which old Paul nursed almost affectionately. It were better,
he thought, to hold his tongue and to let the old man continue.
"Your patron has gone to Paris, you say? Are you sure it is to Paris?"
"How could I be sure. I am telling you what was told to me. He is to be
back in a few days' time. It is not to be expected that he would share
his plans with me."
"Certainly not--he would tell you nothing. Do you know that he is a
Pole, Alban?"
"A Pole? No! Indeed he gives it out that he was born in Germany and is
now a naturalized British subject."
"He would do so, but he is a Pole--and because he is a Pole he tells
you that he has gone to Paris when the truth is that he is at Berlin all
the time."
"But why should he wish to deceive me, Paul--what am I to him?"
"You are one necessary to his salvation--perhaps it is by you alone that
he will live. I could see when I first spoke to you how much you were
astonished that I knew anything about it, but remember, every Pole in
London knows all about his fellow-countrymen, and so it is very natural
that I know something of Richard Gessner. You who live in his house can
tell me more. See what a gossip I am where my own people are concerned.
You have been living in this man's house and you can tell me all about
it--his tastes, his books, his friends. There would be many friends
coming, of course?"
"Not very many, Paul, and those chiefly city men. They eat a great deal
and talk about money. It's all money up there--the rich, the rich, the
rich--I wonder how long I shall be able to stand it."
"Oh, money's a thing most people get used to very quickly. They can
stand a lot of it, my boy. But are there not foreigners at your
house--men of my own country?"
"I have never seen any--once, I think, Mr. Gessner was talking to a
stranger in the garden and he looked like a foreigner. You don't think I
would spy upon him Paul?"
"That would be the work of a very ungrateful fellow. None the less, if
there are foreigners at Hampstead--I should wish to know of it."
"You--and why?"
"That I may save your kind friend from certain perils which I think are
about to menace him. Yes, yes, he has been generous to you and I
wish to reward him. He must not know--he must never hear my name in
the matter, but should there be strangers at Hampstead let me know
immediately--write to me if you cannot come here. Do not delay or you
may rue it to the end of your days. Write to me, Alban, and I shall know
how to help your friend."
He had spoken under a spell of strong excitement, but his message
delivered, he fell again to his old quiet manner; and having exchanged a
few commonplaces with the astonished lad plainly intimated that he would
be alone. Alban, surprised beyond measure, perceived in his turn that no
amount of questioning would help him to a better understanding; and so,
in a state of perplexity which defied expression, he said "Good night"
and went out into the quiet street.