DARK CLOUDS ARE GATHERING.
During these troublous months in Phoebe's life matters pregnant with
momentous issues for weal or woe were progressing in the careers of
others who are playing their parts in this domestic drama. From a
worldly point of view Fred Cornwall was making rapid progress. He still
possessed but a scanty purse, but he saw before him an almost certain
prospect of success. He was making a reputation; his foot was on the
ladder. He was unhappy and sad at heart, and he took refuge in
desperately hard work, slaving day and night, as it is necessary for a
man to do if he desires to make his mark in life's tough battle. This
incessant labour and his visits to the Lethbridges--which were as
frequent as ever--were his only consolation. Faithfully did he cherish
Phoebe's image in his memory; he was as true to her as a true man
could be; and the esteem and affection which the Lethbridges entertained
for him deepened as time wore on. Many were the conversations, many the
consultations, which he and the Lethbridges held respecting the young
girl upon whose life had fallen so heavy a blow, and whose place in the
dear home in Camden Town was open for her if by any happy chance she
should come to claim it. That they received no letters from her, that
those they wrote to her should remain unanswered, distressed them, but
did not shake their faith in her.
"She has written," said Aunt Leth, "and her letters have been
intercepted. Ours have never reached her hands. Poor child! poor child!"
"What is the use of being a lawyer," exclaimed Fanny, "if you don't know
how to bring her back to us?"
Fred Cornwall smiled sadly. "God knows," he said, "I would risk and
sacrifice my life for her if any good could be done! A lawyer's skill is
powerless here. She is living with her father, under his protection. He
has a legal claim upon her which no action on our part can touch. If she
herself made some move we could act; but as it is, the lawful right is
on her father's side."
"Her father!" cried Fanny. "Her oppressor! her torturer, you mean!"
"I mean that," replied Fred; "but that does not help us. I have
consulted a dozen fellows, and they all agree that, as things stand,
nothing can be done. Her father has forbidden us his house; he has a
right to do so. To put a foot inside the grounds of Parksides would be a
trespass; we should only be bringing ourselves into trouble, and
bringing heavier trouble, most likely, upon Phoebe."
"If I were a man," Fanny declared, "I would do it! I would drag her from
that wretched, miserable hole; I would tear the hair out of Mrs.
Pamflett's head; I--I--"
"Fanny," said her mother, reprovingly, "you don't know what you are
saying."
Whereupon Fanny began to cry and express her wish that she lived in a
country where there was no law.
In the kitchen, as in the parlour, the principal topic of conversation
between Tom Barley and 'Melia Jane was Phoebe. Tom Barley, truly,
would have laid his life down for his young mistress; he sorrowed and
grieved, and if he could conveniently have got into a personal
difficulty with Jeremiah Pamflett which could have been decided by fists
or sticks, he would have courted the opportunity with alacrity. But
though he cudgelled his brains he could find no way to an issue so
agreeable and desirable. The number of times 'Melia Jane laid out the
cards to arrive at a proper understanding of Phoebe's future could not
be counted. Sometimes it was bad, sometimes it was good; and Tom
Barley's spirits rose and fell accordingly. There was always the dark
woman, Mrs. Pamflett, exercising her malevolent influence; there was
always the dark man, Jeremiah Pamflett, prowling around to do some
dreadful deed; there was always the fair man, Fred Cornwall, popping up
to circumvent the diabolical plots which surrounded poor Phoebe. The
result of the labour of scores of nights, with the heads of Tom Barley
and 'Melia Jane very close together bending over the cards, was
eventually 'Melia Jane's summing up that it all depended upon Tom
Barley.
"Yes, Tom," said 'Melia Jane, "it all depends upon you."
Tom Barley could not exactly see how this could be, but he set his wits
to work, and he came to the conclusion that it was his duty to go down
to Parksides as often as possible "to have a good look around," and to
be on the spot if he was required. His efforts in this direction were
circumscribed, for a very sufficient reason. Fred Cornwall was not the
only one who, despite the cloud which hung over him and the girl he
loved, was getting along in the world. The same may be said of faithful
Tom Barley. He had reached the height of his ambition. Through the
interest of friends, and the good character he had earned since he left
Parksides, he had succeeded in being taken on in "the force." He was now
a policeman. The pride he felt in obtaining this honourable position in
the service of his country, and the sense of importance which almost
overwhelmed him when he presented himself in his uniform to his friends,
would require a more powerful pen than mine to describe. At length he
had raised himself; at length he was "somebody"; at length he held a
place in the world and society.
"Behave yourself, 'Melia Jane," said he to that most estimable servant
of all work, "or I'll take you up."
"'Im take me up!" said 'Melia Jane in confidence to Aunt Leth. "Why, I
can twist 'im round my little finger!"
Which, if not taken literally, was exactly how the case stood.
"I 'ope he'll take somebody up," said 'Melia Jane, still in confidence
to her mistress; "'cause if he doesn't, what's the good of 'is being a
peeler?" A view of the case which is no doubt entertained by other
persons than 'Melia Jane.
That Tom Barley had a heart as tender as "a babe unborned," in 'Melia
Jane's estimation, was perhaps true enough, but he had a strong sense of
duty, and it will be seen that, common policeman as he was, he had in
him the stuff of which heroes are made. It is the fashion to dress
heroes in grand uniform and gold-lace, but the majority of them are
dressed in fustian.
Being a policeman, as has been stated, with a policeman's duties, was a
tax upon Tom Barley's time; in that respect he was not his own master;
but 'Melia Jane's verdict, that it all depended upon him, was not to be
disputed. Therefore, when he was on day duty, he sometimes went down to
Parksides at night, to try and find out something about his young
mistress, and whether he could be of service to her; and when he was on
night duty, he went down to Parksides during the day, bent on the same
errand. But he saw nothing; heard nothing. Nevertheless, he did not
relax his efforts. That they encroached upon the hours which should have
been devoted to sleep was of the smallest importance; he had a
constitution of iron and the strength of a lion, and, bent upon a task
to which his heart and soul were devoted, he could do with three hours'
sleep out of the twenty-four. You shall see presently of what else he
was capable. It is not revealing anything in this domestic drama which
at this point should not be revealed, by stating that, in the exercise
of his common policeman's duties, he did a deed which made all England
ring with admiration. It is simply leaving you in a pleasant state of
mystery.
His expenses to Parksides were not borne entirely by himself. Fred
Cornwall supplied him with part of the necessary funds, and would have
supplied him with the whole, but Tom would not have it so. His service
was a service of love and honour, not to be measured by pounds,
shillings, and pence.
Thus it will be seen that the lawyer and the policeman were on the road
to worldly prosperity. Not so the Lethbridges. A thunder-bolt was
forged, ready at the fatal moment to descend upon them and crush them.
This thunder-bolt was the acceptance for three hundred pounds which Mr.
Lethbridge had given to Kiss and Mr. Linton, the dramatic author, and
which they had negotiated with Jeremiah Pamflett. On the night that
Miser Farebrother drove his daughter with cruel blows from Parksides,
this acceptance was within three weeks of becoming due, and there was no
prospect of meeting it.
The cause of this is easily explained.
_A Heart of Gold_, on its first representation a failure, had been made
the talk of the town by Mr. Linton's extraordinary speech when the
audience insisted upon his appearing before the curtain. It has already
been described how the papers took it up, and how great was the interest
it excited. For two or three weeks the Star Theatre was crowded, and the
manager advertised that seats could be booked two months in advance.
Everybody concerned in the success of _A Heart of Gold_ was in high
feather. Kiss went about in a state of exultation; the company were in
raptures, discovering in the drama diamonds which they had looked upon
as paste; the author beamed, believing that his star had risen at last.
His wife was radiant; colour came into her cheeks, and she visited the
Lethbridges in her cotton frock with joyful hope blooming in her eyes.
Apart from this unexpected turn in her husband's fortunes, had she not
cause to rejoice? Her little boy was growing stronger. Friends had come
forward to assist Linton with loans of small sums of money, to be repaid
presently when the dramatic author touched his profits. Before that
fortunate day arrived there were the expenses of the getting up of the
play to be provided for; it was the arrangement made in the agreement
into which he had entered with the manager of the Star Theatre. A
month's good business would clear off these expenses, and the boat would
be trimmed and the winds would be fair for the haven of rest and hope.
But that month's good business did not become an accomplished fact. In
three weeks the interest which had been excited, and which had nothing
whatever to do with the merits of _A Heart of Gold_, slackened, and the
audiences followed suit. The flash of prosperity was but a flash in the
pan. The emphatic verdict of the first-night audience that the drama was
not a good drama was endorsed by the majority of those who flocked
afterward to the theatre to judge for themselves. From a hundred pounds
a night the receipts fell to eighty, sixty, fifty, forty, and then
dwindled down infinitesimally. _A Heart of Gold_ was not "in" for a long
run, as the elated ones declared; it was doomed.
Reviewing the play from a dramatic standpoint, Kiss, in a subsequent
conversation with Mr. Lethbridge, thus summed it up: "It is a good play;
its literature is of a high order; it has plenty of points; the plot is
strong enough; the opportunities given to the actors to create parts are
capital. But, my dear sir--_but_--and here comes in the fatal
blemish--it has no villain. I must have been blind not to have
discovered it in time, but I was misled by the reading. There is
absolutely no villain. In a pure comedy a mild villain is sufficient;
even that order of piece requires something disagreeable, something we
can condemn. But for a drama, my dear sir, for such a drama as _A Heart
of Gold_, not only is a villain required, but a strong villain--some
damned unscrupulous scoundrel that the audience would like to jump upon
and tear to pieces. Every character in Linton's piece is too good; they
are all too good. There is nothing to hate. What is the consequence?
There is no contrast; and, sir, a drama without strong contrasts will
not, cannot, please. Why? Because it is contrary to human nature. Never
mind the colour; never mind the improbability of the story. Give us
contrasts; and that is exactly what Linton has not done. Love
interest--yes? I do not know a play in which the love interest is
stronger than it is in _A Heart of Gold_; and yet it is a failure--and a
failure, my dear sir, upon assured and established grounds. I will just
ask you if play-goers sympathize with a pair of lovers because they are
lovers, because they are interesting, because they are all that is
sweet, because they are true to each other?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Lethbridge, in the innocence of his heart; "of course
they do."
"Not a bit of it, my dear sir," said Kiss--"not a bit of it. They
sympathize with the lovers because they are oppressed; because a villain
is trying to ruin their happiness, is trying to separate them, is trying
to blacken and damn the young fellow. That, my dear sir, is the secret
of the interest the love-story creates. Without it the audience would
regard it as so much wash--mere milk and water. The more the lovers are
oppressed, the more the audience sympathizes with them. Pile on the
agony; that is what a dramatist has to do. And a curious outcome of all
this is to be found in the fact that the villain is now really the most
popular character in a play. Presently he will command a larger salary
than the leading man."
All this was very well as a matter of observation and disputation, but
it did not provide for the meeting of the acceptance, and Mr. Lethbridge
looked forward to the due date with a feeling of terror. Kiss could not
meet the bill; Mr. Linton could not; and he could not.
He kept the trouble to himself, and all the more did it weigh upon him
with terrible effect. The home in which they had been so happy from the
first day of their marriage was slipping from him; the exposure would be
a disgrace; the chances were that he would lose his situation at the
bank; and what would become of him after that? He dared not think of it.
Unconsciously he paced the rooms of the dear home, gazing at the old
mementos with exaggerated affection. They were part of his life; to
every small item some story was attached which invested it with a sweet
and human interest. It was an additional torture that he had kept his
secret from his wife.
"My dear," said his wife to him while he was dressing in the morning,
"you were very restless last night."
"Was I?" he remarked, with a guilty air.
"Yes. You were tossing about for hours, and murmuring something about a
bill."
"Oh," he said, "the bank business. It is beginning to tell upon me,
perhaps."
"Nonsense," said Aunt Leth; "you want a little medicine."
"Yes," he said, meekly; "that must be it."
"I dreamt of Phoebe all night long," said Aunt Leth. "What would I not
give to see her dear face!"
"It is strange we hear nothing of her," he observed. "It is wearing upon
Mr. Cornwall."
"And upon all of us. Fanny is quite a changed girl. All her high spirits
seem to be going."
"It is terrible," said Mr. Lethbridge, absently. He loved Phoebe
devotedly, but he was thinking of the bill.
"Tom Barley is going to Parksides to-night. 'Melia Jane says he is
determined to get some news of the dear girl."
"I hope he will," said Mr. Lethbridge; and then they went down to
breakfast.
On his way to the bank that morning he made up his mind that before the
week was out he would confide his trouble to his wife.