IN THE TOILS.
Solomon started for Gethin on the ensuing morning; but his wife did not,
as usual, find his departure a relief, since Balfour remained behind.
Her last instructions from her husband were to treat this unwelcome
guest with marked consideration, and to let him have his way in every
thing. He also hinted, though it was scarcely necessary to insure her
obedience, at certain brilliant prospects which were about to present
themselves, through Balfour's means, if he were only kept in good-humor.
Harry would have much preferred to relinquish his favor at the price of
his absence; but not so her son. Notwithstanding the disparity in their
ages, he and this new acquaintance were already fast friends. The latter
had laid himself out to please the lad, and had succeeded; partly,
perhaps, from the very novelty of companionship, for Charley knew no one
in town, and was tired of taking his pleasure therein alone, but chiefly
through his store of agreeable anecdotes, all illustrative of the
enjoyments which wealth conferred, with which Balfour tickled his ears.
"In a few years--perhaps sooner, who knows?--all these things of which I
speak will be within your own means. You will be rich; and he who is so
can please himself in almost every thing. You can then marry your Agnes,
if you will, without fear of being disinherited; or, what is better and
more likely, you may choose from a score of Agneses, or even take them
all."
He had a light amusing way with him, this Balfour, that hid the cynicism
which would otherwise have jarred upon his young companion; for Charles,
though selfish and fond of pleasure, was good-natured, and had not
reached that period of life when our sherry must needs not only be dry,
but have bitters in it. He was genuinely fond of his mother; yet even in
this short time Balfour, as she well knew, had taught him to disobey
her; not setting her at open defiance, indeed, but regarding her advice
and remonstrances with a sort of tender contempt. She meant all for his
good, his Mentor admitted, but women had not much knowledge of the
world; and if a young man was not to be his own master at eighteen, he
must look to be in leading-strings all his life. Harry perceived her
darling's plastic nature changing daily for the worse in the hands of
this crafty potter; and though it was an admission humiliating to her,
as a mother, to make, she made it to Mrs. Basil in her sick-room.
"Mr. Balfour is doing my Charley harm," she said. "He is an altered boy
already, and yet my husband talks as though we are never to be rid of
the man. What money, what gain, can ever compensate for the
demoralization of our child?"
"Nothing, indeed," said Mrs. Basil, quietly. "But have a little
patience. Is not this gentleman going on Friday?"
"Yes; but he will come back again. It is only some business that calls
him into Midlandshire. He does not even take all his luggage away. I
have a great mind to tell him point-blank that his presence in this
house--at all events in Mr. Coe's absence--is unwelcome; but I dare not
do it; I am afraid."
"Yes, your husband would be very angry, without doubt," said Mrs. Basil,
thoughtfully.
"That is not it. I am afraid of the man himself. He reminds me of that
hateful creature--what is he?--in the opera, for which Mr. Aird gave us
the tickets, and which Agnes went with us to see--Mephistopheles."
"What a strange fancy! He is only a sour, pleasure-jaded man. If I was
not so ill I would speak to him myself; but you are right not to do so;
that is your husband's place, who has brought him here. Let things be as
they are till Friday."
Harry sighed, but perforce assented. Friday came, and Mr. Balfour went
as he had designed, but not without stating at breakfast his intention
of returning on the ensuing Monday or Tuesday at latest, and even making
an engagement with Charley to spend the latter evening with him at the
theatre.
"Do you happen to know when my husband will be home?" inquired Harry,
timidly.
"No, madam. He was good enough to say, however, that his absence was to
make no difference as to my remaining here as his guest."
This reply, which might easily have been made offensive, was delivered
with the most studied courtesy: it cut the hostess's ground from under
her; for it had answered the very objection which she had intended to
imply. She felt herself not only defeated, but reproved.
"Let us hope you will both return together," said she.
"I do not think that very probable," answered Mr. Balfour, slowly.
An hour later and he had departed, his hostess, under pretense of being
engaged with her sick friend up stairs, not having so much as shaken his
hand. Charles, indignant at this slight, would have accompanied him to
the railway station, but Balfour would not hear of it. For this he had
two reasons: in the first place, he was anxious to keep his route
secret; and secondly, it was a part of his system to give the young man
no sort of trouble or inconvenience on his account. He wished every
association that linked them together to be one of pleasure.
Mrs. Basil, as we have said, had not made her appearance that morning
below stairs; she was, in fact, no better, but rather worse: that news
from Lingmoor, outwardly borne so well, had shaken her to the core.
Still, no sooner had Balfour left than she made shift to rise, and even
came down to dinner. She discussed with Charley, who had a considerable
regard for her, the character of their late guest--not with hostility,
as his mother was wont to do, but with the air of one who asks for
information, and has confidence in the verdict which she seeks. The lad,
flattered by this implied compliment to his sagacity, answered her
questions readily enough. He praised his friend, of course, and thought
he praised him even when he spoke ill of him. He repeated his pungent
sayings, and served up his anecdotes--such of them as were adapted, at
least, for the ears of the ladies--anew. By this means he hoped to bring
his hearers to a better opinion of so capital a fellow; and in Mrs.
Basil's case he apparently succeeded. His mother still reiterated her
opinion that Mr. Balfour was a dangerous personage, and not a fit
companion for any young man. Charles smiled at this, for it was the
almost literal fulfillment of a prophecy which Balfour had made to him,
and believed in that gentleman's sagacity, accordingly, more than ever.
Women were so ludicrously prejudiced; the fact of Mrs. Basil's--"the
white witch"--not being so was an exception that proved the rule. She
had been evidently interested in his anecdotes, of one of which she had
even requested to hear the particulars twice over; not that, in his own
judgment, it was the best, but, being of a weird sort, it had probably
struck her fancy. It had lost in the telling, too--for he did not
pretend to have the gift of narrative, as Mr. Balfour had--and his
mother had seen in the story in question nothing at all.
Mrs. Basil came down stairs no more after that evening. She grew worse
and worse, and was not only confined to her room, but to her bed. Harry
was not much with her; she seized with avidity this opportunity of being
alone with Charley to undo, as far as she could, Mr. Balfour's work with
him. This was not hard, for the boy was a creature of impulse, and
swayed for good or ill with equal ease. But she discovered that it would
be useless to attempt henceforth to conceal from him the nature of his
future prospects. He was now firmly convinced that he was the heir to a
large fortune, and she regretted too late that she had left the
disclosure to a stranger. What grieved her much more, and with reason,
was that an attempt which she now made to bring the influence of Agnes
to hear upon him proved unsuccessful; the girl resolutely refused to
come to the house in the absence of its master, and contrary, as she
knew, to his express commandment. Charley himself, too, whose visits to
Mr. Aird's studio had been intermitted for some time, was received in
Soho with coldness. It was not in Harry's nature to understand this
independence of spirit, and she deeply deplored it on her son's account.
She had looked to this young girl to be his guardian angel, and had
never anticipated that she could possibly decline to watch over a charge
so precious. She would not allow, even to herself, that her son's own
conduct was as much the cause of this as her husband's ill favor; but
she saw in it, clearly enough, the mark of the cloven hoof, the work of
Balfour.
Sick Mrs. Basil could give her small comfort, though she did not attempt
to defend their late visitor, as she had so unwarrantably appeared to do
when discussing him with Charley.
"The man is gone, my dear," said she, wearily; "perhaps he may never
come back: let us not meet troubles half-way. Charley has a kind, good
heart"--for "the white witch" showed great favor to the lad at all
times--"and all will come right at last."
She seemed too ill and weary to argue the matter, and Harry left her, as
she thought, to repose. No sooner was she gone, however, than the closed
lids of Mrs. Basil were opened wide, and revealed a sleepless and
unutterable woe. Her sharp, pinched face showed pain and fear. Her
parched lips muttered unceasingly words like these, which were, perhaps,
the ravings of her fevered brain: "I am sure of it now, quite sure;
those stags, those stags! There is no room for hope. His heart has
become a stone, which no power can soften. It is no use to speak, or
rather I am like one in a dream who watches murder done, and can not cry
out."