In which John Dixon informs Mr. Fox-Cordery
that he has seen a Ghost.
It is an article of belief that every Englishman's private residence
must include an apartment which, by a polite fiction, is denominated a
study. This apartment, which generally smells of musty bones, is, as a
rule, extremely small, extremely dark, and extremely useless. Dust
lies thick upon the shabby furniture, by reason of the housemaid never
being allowed to enter it with duster and broom; and the few volumes
on the shelves of the parody of a bookcase lean against each other at
a drunken angle, with a dissipated air of books that have lost all
respect for themselves. To add to the conspicuous cheerlessness of the
room, its one insufficient window looks out upon a dreary back wall, a
constant contemplation of which would be likely to drive a man's
thoughts in the direction of suicide. Provided with the necessary
cupboard, no more suitable hiding-place could be found for the
proverbial family skeleton, without which no well-regulated
establishment can be said to be complete.
Into such an apartment was John Dixon shown when he was informed that
Mr. Fox-Cordery would receive him.
This cold welcome was a sufficient indication that the master of the
house did not regard his visitor in the light of a friend; but, clear
as was the fact to John Dixon, it did not disturb him. With his
rubicund face, his bright eyes, and his genial manners, he presented
the appearance of a man not easily disturbed, of a man who accepted
the rubs of life with equanimity, and made the best of them. He was in
his prime, a well-built gentleman, with nothing particularly serious
on his conscience, and when Mr. Fox-Cordery entered the room the
advantage was on John Dixon's side, physically and morally.
They glanced at each other inquiringly, and with a certain curiosity,
for it was long since they had met face to face. Mr. Fox-Cordery was
disappointed; he had hoped to see signs of wear and tear in his old
friend, in the shape of crows'-feet, wrinkles, and gray hairs, but
none were visible. On the contrary, there was an assertion of robust
youth and good health about John Dixon which gave positive pain to Mr.
Fox-Cordery.
"Good-day, Fox," said John Dixon cordially.
Mr. Fox-Cordery did not respond to the salutation. Stiffening his
little body--an action which brought a broad smile to John Dixon's
lips--he said in his iciest tone:
"To what may I ascribe the----"
"The honor of this visit," broke in John Dixon heartily. "I'll come to
it soon. You don't seem comfortable, Fox."
"Whether I am comfortable or not," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, who would
have administered a dose of poison to his visitor with the greatest
pleasure in life, "cannot possibly concern or interest you."
"Oh! but I beg your pardon. Everything appertaining to Charlotte's
brother must concern and interest me. It stands to reason. We shall
one day be brothers-in-law. Brothers-in-law! Good Lord! Don't shift
your legs so, Fox. Keep still and straight, as you were a moment ago.
To a little man like you repose is invaluable."
"Your familiarity, Mr. Dixon----"
"Come, come," interrupted John Dixon, with a genial shake of his head;
"why not John? I shall not take offense at it."
"Have you paid me an unwelcome visit to force a quarrel upon me?"
"By no means. I know that my visit is an unwelcome one. You don't like
my company, Fox."
"Your room would be preferable."
"It is a treat to hear something honest from you. There, there, man,
don't fume! You can't alter me any more than I can alter you. What is
bred in the bone, you know. And let me tell you, Fox, you can't expect
to have everything your own way. Who plays at bowls must be prepared
for rubbers."
"Let me tell _you_, Mr. Dixon," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, becoming
suddenly calm, "that I will submit to none of your impertinence."
He was about to continue in this strain when he suddenly recollected
that he had assumed a new attitude toward Charlotte, and that, if her
lover represented to her that he had been insulted by him, it might
interfere with his plans. It was advisable, therefore, that not a word
that passed at the present interview should reach Charlotte's ears,
and he saw a way to compass this. Changing front instantly, he said
slyly:
"I should like to know if we are speaking in confidence?"
"In strict confidence," said John Dixon readily. "For your sake, Fox,
not for mine."
"Never mind for whose sake. You have your opinions, I have mine. I
take your word, and shall be outspoken with you. You had the
presumption to pay a visit to my sister this morning----"
"No, no, Fox, to you; though I must confess I was delighted to see
her, and have a chat with her."
"It was for that purpose you came. As we have met in perfect
confidence, and as nothing that we say to each other will be repeated
by either of us outside this room--that is a perfectly honorable
engagement, is it not?"
"It is on my side," said John Dixon gravely.
"I have bound myself, Mr. Dixon, and am therefore free to warn you
that you must cease from persecuting Charlotte with your addresses. I
speak in her name."
"Not true, Fox; you speak in your own. Why, if she herself uttered
those words to me I should not believe they came from her heart; I
should know that you forced her to speak them. But there is no fear of
anything of that sort occurring. Charlotte and I understand each
other; and, oppressed and ground down as she has been in your house,
she has a higher courage than you give her credit for. I am proud of
having won her love, and I will make her a happy woman, as truly as I
stand here. However, it is not to tell you what you already know that
I have come to see you; it is for a different reason altogether."
"You speak defiantly, Mr. Dixon. It is not the way to conciliate me."
"Conciliate you! I am not such an ass as to try. I will try my own
way. If I can manage it, you shall fear me."
"If you can manage it!" said Mr. Fox-Cordery, a little uneasy at his
visitor's confident tone. "Yes, if you can manage it. I should imagine
you will find it a difficult task. If you think you can frighten me by
your bullying you are mistaken."
"Oh! I don't want to frighten you. I am going to play my cards openly,
knowing perfectly well that you will not expose one of yours. Shall we
proceed to business?"
"Say what you have to say," exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery blandly, "and
the devil take you!"
John Dixon laughed.
"When you speak softly, Fox, you are most deadly. It was just the same
when you, I, and Robert Grantham were at school together in the
country. Poor Bob! What a careless, reckless, generous fellow he was!
What a tool he was in your hands, and how you worked him and played
upon him!"
"You lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, in a passionless voice.
Few persons acquainted with him would have suspected how deeply he was
agitated by this reference to his old schoolmate.
"The scapegoat of the school," proceeded John Dixon, as if Mr.
Fox-Cordery had not spoken. "As easily led as a fly in harness. We
three were differently circumstanced. My people were poor, and could
allow me very little pocket-money; Bob Grantham's people were rich,
and he had a liberal supply. What your people allowed you no one knew.
You kept your affairs very secret, Fox; you were always a sly, vain,
cautious customer. Poor Bob was the soul of frankness; he made no
secret of anything, not even of his weaknesses, which he laughed at as
freely as some others did. Regularly every fourth Monday his foolish
people sent him ten pounds, and quite as regularly on the very next
day he had not a penny of his ten pounds left. Where did his money go
to? Who, in the course of a few short hours, had got hold of it? Some
said he gave it away to any poor man or woman he happened to meet.
Some said he chucked it into the pond out of dare-devilry. When he was
questioned, he turned it off with a laugh. You used to be asked about
it, and you used to answer, 'How should I know?' It was a mystery, and
Bob never blabbed--nor did you, Fox!"
"How could I supply information," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "upon a matter
so mysterious; and what is the meaning of all this rhodomontade?"
"I suppose," continued John Dixon, still as if Mr. Fox-Cordery had not
spoken, "that most boys set up for themselves a code of honor which
they stick to, more or less, according to their idea of things. I
remember I did; I am quite sure poor Bob Grantham did; I don't know
whether you did, because you were so secretive, so very secretive. I
leave you out, Fox, for a cogent reason. I guess, as our American
cousins say, you are not in it when I speak of honor; and in making
this observation you will perceive that I have no desire to conciliate
you or to win your favor. Now, old fellow, there were only three boys
in the whole of that school--and there were thirty-five of us--who
knew what became of Bob Grantham's money."
"Three persons!"
"Just three persons, and no more. The first was poor Bob himself, the
second was Fox-Cordery, the third was John Dixon."
"Indeed! You?"
"I, on the honor of a gentleman."
Mr. Fox-Cordery's lips curled in derision as he remarked:
"No man in the world would give you the credit of being one. And pray,
where did Mr. Grantham's money go to?"
"Into your pockets, Fox, as regularly as a clockwork machine."
"A precious secret, truly," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, flicking a speck of
dust off his sleeve, "and a most valuable one for you to have
preserved all these years. I presume if a man, or a schoolboy, is weak
enough to lend his money he has a right to receive it back."
"An indubitable right; but in this case there is no question of
borrowing and paying back. Would you like to hear how I came into a
knowledge of this mystery?"
"I have no desire; it is quite immaterial to me."
"It was an accidental discovery. You and Bob Grantham were bosom
friends. It was touching to observe how deeply attached you were to
him; and, in these circumstances, any friendship he formed being on
his part sincere, it was natural that you should be much in each
other's society. Now, it was noticeable that every fourth Monday
evening you and he disappeared for an hour or two, and it was for this
reason that you used to be asked what Bob Grantham did with the ten
pounds he received regularly on that day. On one of these Monday
evenings I happened to be taking a lonely walk in a pretty bit of
forest about two miles from the schoolhouse. There was a nook in the
forest which was very secluded, and one had to go out of one's way to
get to it. I went out of my way on that particular Monday evening, not
because I wanted to reach this secluded nook, because I did not know
of it, but aimlessly and without any special purpose. I heard voices,
and peeping through a cluster of trees, I saw you and Bob sitting on
the grass, playing cards. A white handkerchief was spread between you,
and on this handkerchief were the stakes you were playing for--Bob's
money and your own. I waited, and observed. Sovereign after sovereign
went into your pocket. You were quiet, and cool, and bland, as you are
now, though I dare say something is passing inside of you. What a rare
power you have of concealing your feelings, Fox! Some people might
envy you; I don't. Bob Grantham, all the time he was losing, laughed
and joked, and bore his losses like a man; and he kept on losing till
he was cleaned out. Then he rose, and laughingly said: 'You will give
me my revenge, Fox?' 'When you like, old fellow,' you answered; 'what
bad luck you have.' 'Oh, it will turn,' he said; 'all you've got to do
is to stick to it.' That is how I discovered where poor Bob's money
went to, Fox."
"Well, and what of it?" said Mr. Fox-Cordery, with a sneer. "He was
fond of a game of cards, and he played and lost. That there was
nothing wrong in it was proved by your silence. And that is what you
have come here to-day to tell me! You are a fool for your pains, John
Dixon."
"I was silent," said John Dixon, "because Bob pledged me to secrecy.
My intention was to expose you to the whole school, and so put an end
to--what shall we call it? Robbery?"
"You would not dare to make that charge against me in public. There
are no witnesses present, and you, therefore, know you are protected
against an action for libel."
"You are losing sight of your compact of silence, Fox. Tiled in as we
are, we can call each other what names we please, and there is no
obligation upon us to be choice in our language. Pull yourself
together, my little man; I have no desire to take you at a
disadvantage. What do you say, now, to our agreeing that this meeting
shall not be confidential, and that when we part we shall each of us
be free to reveal what passes?"
"My word once given," replied Mr. Fox-Cordery, putting on his loftiest
air, "I never depart from it."
"For all that," said John Dixon, "I will give you the opportunity of
challenging me in public, and of seeing whether I will not give you
the chance of bringing an action for libel against me. Having made up
my mind what to do I considered it right to tell Bob of my intention.
He turned white with anger; he called me a treacherous dog; he said
that I had sneaked my way into a secret which had nothing whatever to
do with me, and that I should be playing a base part by revealing it.
We had some warm words about you, Fox, and he defended you tooth and
nail. Upon my word, after our quarrel I had a greater admiration for
poor Bob than ever. The end of it was that he bound me down, upon
honor, to keep the secret from any but our three selves, and that is
why it never leaked out."
"Mr. Grantham had his good points," observed Mr. Fox-Cordery; "there
was something of the gentleman in him; that is why I chummed with him.
May I inquire how it was that, entertaining such an opinion of me,
you, a good many years after we all left school, accepted the offer of
employment I made you--which never would have been made, I need hardly
say, if I had known you then as I know you now?"
"I was down in the world; things had gone badly with me, and it was
necessary for me to get something to do without delay. You are aware
that I have an old mother to support: and when needs must--I need not
finish the old saying. When, meeting by chance, as we did, you made me
the offer, I did not tell you I was in low water, or you would have
screwed me down without mercy. I intended to remain with you only long
enough to save a few pounds, but getting to know Charlotte, and
growing fond of her, I could not tear myself away from her. I will
continue the story of poor Bob. The discovery I made did not alter
things in the least; it rather improved them for you. Bob and you
became more and more attached to each other, and you left school firm
friends. I never could understand what he saw in you, but you have the
faculty of inspiring confidence in some people--worse luck for them in
the long run."
"I am waiting for your insults to come to an end," said Mr.
Fox-Cordery, "and to have the pleasure of hearing the street door
close on you."
"All in good time, Fox; I told you I should not try conciliatory
methods. Our school-days over, we lost sight of each other, that is to
say, I lost sight of you and Bob, and what I have now to speak of has
come to my knowledge in various ways. After leaving school a series of
family adventures befell Robert Grantham. His parents died, his elder
brother died, a rich uncle died, and to Bob's share fell a larger
fortune than he expected to inherit. His good luck must have
bewildered him, for he appointed you his agent. The next point of
interest to touch upon is the introduction of a lady in your lives.
Her maiden name, Lucy Sutherland. Correct me if I am making any
misstatement."
"I decline to make myself responsible for any statement of yours,
whether it be correct or otherwise. Your introduction of this lady's
name is a gross impertinence."
"Not at all; it belongs to the story, which, without it, is
incomplete. I have not the pleasure of this lady's acquaintance, and,
to my knowledge, have never seen her, but I have heard of her, through
you and Charlotte."
"Through me!"
"To be sure," continued John Dixon, "you never mentioned her to me by
that name, but by the name she now bears, Mrs. Grantham. Probably you
would never have mentioned her to me at all had it not been that she
was concerned in the business you set me to do during my service with
you. You had the management of her financial affairs, as you had the
management of her husband's. But I am running ahead of my story. As a
maiden lady she had many suitors, which is not to be wondered at, for
though she had terrible anxieties and trials she is still, as I learn
from Charlotte, very beautiful, and as good as she is beautiful. I
trust Charlotte's judgment in this as in all things. Only two of these
suitors for her hand did Miss Sutherland smile upon. One was poor Bob
Grantham, the other yourself. But you did not hold an equal place in
her regard. She smiled upon poor Bob because she loved him, she smiled
upon you because you were the bosom friend of the gentleman she loved.
Into the sincerity of your feelings for her I do not inquire; I pass
over what does not concern me, and I come to the commencement of an
important chapter in this lady's life, which opens with her marriage
with Robert Grantham."
"You pass over what does not concern you," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"What, then, is your object in dragging the lady's name into the
conversation?"
"You will learn presently. The chapter opens brightly, but we have
only to turn a leaf and we see clouds gathering. Mark you; from all I
can gather these two loved each other with a very perfect love; but
poor Bob had one besetting vice which darkened his life and hers, and
which eventually ruined both. He was an inveterate gamester. The seeds
of this vice, which you helped to nourish in our school days, were
firmly implanted in him when he grew to manhood. He was, as I have
already said, weak, and easily led, and no doubt the harpies who are
always on the watch for such as he encouraged him and fattened upon
him. He had not the strength to withstand temptation, and he fell
lower and lower. Observe, Fox, that in the narration of the story I am
merely giving you a plain recital of facts."
"Or what you suppose to be facts," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"A plain recital of facts," repeated John Dixon, "the truth of which
can be substantiated. I do not ask you whether you took a hand in poor
Bob's ruin, and profited by it. That some harpies did is not to be
doubted, because in the end poor Bob lost every penny of his fortune,
which all found its way into their pockets, as the weak schoolboy's
ten pounds found their way regularly every month into yours. I do not
seek to excuse poor Bob; there is a thin line which separates weakness
and folly from sin, and Bob was one of the many who stepped over this
line. I have reflected deeply upon his wretched history. Knowing the
goodness of his heart and the sweetness of his disposition, I have
wondered how he could have been so blind as not to see that he was
breaking the heart of the woman he loved and had sworn to protect; her
nature must also have been one of rare goodness that she did not force
it upon him, that she did not take the strongest means to show him the
miserable pit he was digging for them. I have wondered, too, how,
through another influence than that of his wife, he himself should not
have awakened from his fatal infatuation. They had a child, a little
girl, and his instinctive tenderness for children should have stepped
in to save him. I am not myself a gambler, and I cannot realize the
complete power which the vice obtains over a man's moral perception,
sapping all that is noble and worthy in him, and destroying all the
finer instincts of his nature. Happily Mrs. Grantham had a fortune in
her own right over which her husband had no control; some portion of
it went, I believe, to save him from disgrace--and then the end came.
I have related the story in its broad outlines; there must have been
scenes of agony between husband and wife of which I know nothing, but
it is not difficult to imagine them. During the whole of these
miserable years, Fox, you remained the close friend and associate of
this unhappy couple, and you know what the end of it was."
"What I know I know," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and I do not propose to
enlist you in my confidence."
"I do not ask you to do so. It was probably during these years that
Mrs. Grantham learned to rely upon you and to trust to your counsel
and judgment. You have maintained your position to this day."
"Well?"
"In the course of the business I transacted for you I became somewhat
familiar with Mrs. Grantham's pecuniary affairs. You are, in a certain
sense, her trustee and guardian; you have the management of her little
fortune; it was partly with respect to the investments you made for
her that we severed our connection."
"That I dismissed you from my service," corrected Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"You had the presumption to suppose that you had the right to
interfere in my management. I opened your eyes to your position, and
sent you packing."
"As it suited me to accept employment when you offered it to me, so it
suited me to leave your service at the time I did. A better situation
was open to me, with the prospect of a future partnership. On the day
I left you I went to my new situation, and have been in it ever since.
In a short time I shall become a partner in the firm of Paxton and
Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row."
"It is not of the slightest interest to me, Mr. Dixon, whether you
become a partner in this firm or go to the dogs. I can forecast which
of the two is the more likely."
"Had you the disposition of my future I know pretty well what it would
be; but I promise you disappointment. Although you take no interest in
the circumstances of my becoming a partner in Paxton and Freshfield I
will leave our address with you, in case you may wish to consult me."
He laid a card upon the table, of which Mr. Fox-Cordery took no
notice.
"This, then," he said, "is the reason of your intrusion. To solicit my
patronage? You would have made a good commercial traveler."
"You are miles from the truth. I do not think we would undertake your
business. I leave my card for private, not for professional reasons.
What I have stated to you leads directly to the object of my visit. I
have hitherto asked you no questions; perhaps you will not object to
my asking you one or two now?"
"Say what you please. I can answer or not, at my discretion."
"Entirely so; and pray take it from me that I am not here in a
professional capacity, but solely as a private individual who will
certainly at no distant date be a member of your family, whether you
like it or not; or," he added, with a slight laugh, "whether I like it
or not. In conveying to you my regret that I shall have a relationship
thrust upon me which I would very gladly dispense with, my reference
is not to Charlotte. A relationship to you, apart from other
considerations, is no credit; but, so far as Charlotte and I are
concerned, I would prefer it without the additional drawback of a
public scandal. Many singular pieces of business fall into the hands
of Paxton and Freshfield. One of such a nature came into the office a
short time since, but it was not brought before my notice till to-day.
Have you seen the _Times_ this morning?"
"I decline to answer idle questions."
"Whether you have seen it or not, an advertisement in its personal
columns has certainly escaped your attention, or you would not have
met this particular question so calmly. The advertisement, as you will
see--I have brought the paper with me--was inserted by my firm. It
will interest you to read it."
He took the _Times_ from his pocket, and offered it to Mr.
Fox-Cordery, pointing to the advertisement of which he spoke; Mr.
Fox-Cordery hesitated a moment, and then, paper in hand, stepped to
the dusty window, and read the advertisement, which ran as follows:
If Mr. Robert Grantham, born in Leamington, Warwickshire, will call
upon Messrs. Paxton and Freshfield, solicitors, Bedford Row, London,
he will hear of something to his advantage.
To read so short an advertisement would occupy a man scarcely half a
minute, but Mr. Fox-Cordery stood for several minutes at the window,
with his back turned to John Dixon. Perhaps there was something in the
prospect of the dreary back wall that interested him, for he stood
quite still, and did not speak. His contemplation at an end, he faced
his visitor, and handed back the paper.
"Have you anything to remark?" inquired John Dixon.
"Nothing."
"Close as wax, Fox, as usual. When I read the advertisement this
morning it gave me a strange turn, and I came direct to your house to
speak to you about it. Before I did so, I made myself acquainted with
the nature of the business concerning which our firm desires to see
Mr. Robert Grantham. It is a simple matter enough. An old lady has
died in Leamington; she was aunt to poor Bob, and she has left him a
small legacy of two hundred pounds. Not a fortune, but a useful sum to
a man in low water."
"You are talking rubbish," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "You know perfectly
well that it is throwing money away to put such an advertisement in
the papers. Is it in other papers as well as the _Times?_"
"Ah, ha, friend Fox!" said John Dixon. "Caught tripping for once.
Actually betraying interest in the object of my visit, when
indifference was your proper cue! No, it is not in other papers; the
whole of the small legacy must not be eaten up in expenses. Had I been
informed of this business before the insertion of the advertisement
even in one paper, I should have suggested to Paxton and Freshfield
the advisability of a little delay until I had made certain inquiries.
Lawyers are practical people, and they would have recognized the
absurdity of inviting by public proclamation a visit from a ghost.
There is no mistake, I suppose, about poor Bob being dead?"
"You know he is dead."
"Softly, Fox, softly. I know nothing of poor Bob except what I have
gathered from you. If Mrs. Grantham is a widow, why of course Robert
Grantham is a dead man; if she is not a widow, why of course Robert
Grantham is alive, and you stand small chance of stepping into his
shoes, which I believe you are eager to do. It is hardly likely that
she has seen the advertisement, but it must be brought to her notice
very soon."
"By whom?"
"Naturally, in the first place, by you, as her business agent,
because, in the event of Bob being dead, the legacy will fall to his
heirs. Failing you, naturally by Paxton and Freshfield, who have this
inconsiderable business in hand, and whose duty it is to attend to it.
Probably we shall await some communication from you or Mrs. Grantham
upon the matter. It may be that Paxton and Freshfield will expect
something from you in the shape of a document, such, for instance, as
proof of poor Bob's death; and they might consider it advisable to ask
for certain particulars, such as the place and date of his death,
where buried, etcetera. All of which you will be able to supply, being
positive that Mrs. Grantham is a widow. Now, Fox, I have still a word
or two to say to you in private. Call it an adventure, an impression,
what you will; it occurred to me, and it would be unfair to keep it
from Charlotte's brother. Until to-day I have not mentioned it to a
soul. We have passed through a hard winter, as you know, and have
established a record in fogs. I do not remember a year in which we
have had so many foggy days and nights, and the month of March usurped
the especial privilege of the month of November. I cannot recall the
precise date, but it was about the middle of March when I walked from
the Strand into Regent Street by way of the Seven Dials. It was one of
the foggiest nights we had, and I had to be careful how I picked my
steps. Men walked a yard or two ahead of you, and you could not see
their faces, could scarcely distinguish their forms; but quite close,
elbow to elbow, as it were, you might by chance catch a momentary
glance of a face. A flash, and it was gone, swallowed up in Egyptian
darkness. Two men passed me arm-in-arm, and, looking up, I could have
sworn that I saw the face of Robert Grantham's ghost. I turned to
follow it, but it was gone. That is all, Fox; I thought you would like
to know."
If a face of the pallid hue of Mr. Fox-Cordery's could be said to grow
white, it may be said of his at this revelation; otherwise he betrayed
no sign of agitation. He made no comment upon it, and asked no
questions; but the indefinite change of color did not escape John
Dixon's observation.
"It is a pleasure to know that you have emptied your budget," he said.
"Good-morning, Mr. Dixon."
"Good-morning, Fox," said John Dixon. "You will probably acknowledge
that I had a sufficient reason for paying you this visit."
He did not wait for the acknowledgment, but took his departure without
another word.
Mr. Fox-Cordery stood motionless by the window. There was writing on
the dreary back wall, invisible to all eyes but his.
"If he has betrayed me!" he muttered; "if he has betrayed me!" and
pursued his thought no further in spoken words.
A quarter of an hour afterward he went to his mother.
"Have you given Charlotte her clothes?" he asked.
"Not yet, Fox," she replied. "What did that man want with you?"
"That man is my enemy!" he said, with fury in his voice and face; "my
bitter enemy. Go, and give Charlotte her clothes immediately. And,
mother, take her out and buy her one or two nicknacks--a silver brooch
for a few shillings, a bit of ribbon. Be sweet to her. Curse her and
him! Be sweet to her, and say I gave you the money to buy the
presents. We need her on our side more than ever. Don't stop to argue
with me; do as I bid you!"
"I will obey you in everything, my love," she said, gazing at him
solicitously.
He motioned her away, and she stole from the room, wishing she
possessed the malignant power to strike his enemy dead at her feet.