In which we make the acquaintance of Rathbeal.
That same night, as Big Ben was striking the hour of nine, Mr.
Fox-Cordery, spick and span as usual, and with not a visible crease
upon him, crossed Westminster Bridge, Kennington way, bent on an
errand of importance, and plunged into the melancholy thoroughfares
which beset, but cannot be said to adorn, that sad-colored
neighborhood. In some quarters of London the houses have a peculiarly
forlorn appearance, as though life at its best were a poor thing, and
not worth troubling about. If general cheerlessness and despondency
had been the aim of the builders and speculators responsible for their
distinguishing characteristics, they may be complimented upon their
success, but certainly not upon their taste. It is as easy to make
houses pretty as to make them ugly, and curves are no more difficult
to compass than angles; facts which have not established themselves in
the consciousness of the average Englishman, who remains stupidly
content with dull, leaden-looking surfaces, and a pernicious
uniformity of front--which may account for the dejection of visage to
be met with in such streets as Mr. Fox-Cordery was traversing.
He paid no attention to the typical signs, animate or inanimate, he
met with on his road, but walked straight on till he arrived at a
three-storied house, in the windows of which not a glimmer of light
was to be seen. Striking a match, he held it up to the knocker of the
street door, beneath which the number of the house was painted in
fast-fading figures; and convincing himself with some difficulty that
he had reached his destination, he put his hand to the knocker to
summon the inmates. But the knocker had seen its best days, and was
almost past knocking. Rust and age had so stiffened its joints that it
required a determined effort to move it from its cushion; and being
moved, there it stuck in mid-air, obstinately declining to perform its
office.
Failing to produce a sound that would have any effect upon human ears,
Mr. Fox-Cordery turned his attention to the bells, of which there were
six or seven. As there was no indication of the particular bell which
would serve him, he pulled them all, one after the other. Some were
mute, some gave forth the faintest tinkle, and one remained in his
hand, refusing to come farther forward or to go back; the result of
his pulling being that not the slightest attention was paid to the
summons by anyone in the house. The appearance of a hobbledehoy
promised to be of assistance to him. This hobbledehoy was a stripling
of same thirteen summers; his shirt-sleeves turned(?) up, and he
carried in his hand a pewter pot of beer which he occasionally put his
lips, not daring to go deeper than the froth, from fear of
consequences from the lawful owner.
"Mr. Rathbeal lives here, doesn't he?" inquired Mr. Fox-Cordery.
The hobbledehoy surveyed the gentleman, and became instantly lost in
admiration. Such a vision of perfect dressing had probably never
presented itself to him before. Open-mouthed he gazed and worshiped.
Mr. Fox-Cordery aroused him from his dream by repeating the question.
"Lots o' people lives 'ere," he replied. "Who's Mr. What's-his-name,
when he's at 'ome, and does 'is mother know he's out when he ain't?"
Mr. Fox-Cordery spelt the name, letter by letter--"R-a-t-h-b-e-a-l."
"Don't know the gent," said the hobbledehoy. "Is he a sport?"
No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a sport.
"Is he a coster?"
No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say he was a coster.
"Is it sweeps?"
No, Mr. Fox-Cordery could not say it was sweeps.
"Give it up," said the hobbledehoy. "Arsk me another."
Another did not readily present itself to Mr. Fox-Cordery's usually
fertile mind, and he stood irresolute.
"I tell yer wot," suggested the hobbledehoy. "Give me tuppence, and
I'll go through the lot."
With a wry face, Mr. Fox-Cordery produced the coppers, which the
hobbledehoy spun in the air, and pocketed. Then he conscientiously
went through the list of the inmates of the house from basement to
attic, Mr. Fox-Cordery shaking his head at each introduction.
"There's the gent with the 'air on," he said, in conclusion; "and that
finishes it."
Mr. Fox-Cordery's face lighted up.
"Long gray hair?" he asked.
"Yes," replied the hobbledehoy. "Could make a pair of wigs out of it."
"Down to here?" asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, with his hand at his breast.
"That's the wery identical. Looks like the Wizard of the North. Long
legs and arms, face like a lion."
"That is the person I want," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"Third floor back," said the hobbledehoy; and, with the virtuous
feeling of a boy who has earned his pennies, he walked into the house,
with his head up; whereby Mr. Fox-Cordery learned that knockers and
bells were superfluities, and that anyone was free of the street door,
and could obtain entrance by a simple push. Following the instruction,
he mounted the stairs slowly, lighting matches as he ascended to save
himself from falling into a chance trap; a necessary precaution, for
the passages were pitch dark, and the balustrades and staircases
generally in a tumbledown, rickety condition. The third floor was the
top of the house, and comprised one front and one back room. He
knocked at the latter without eliciting a response, and knocked again
with the same result. Then he turned the handle, which yielded to his
pressure, and entered.
The room was as dark as the passages, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, after
calling in vain, "Here, you, Rathbeal, you!" had recourse to his
matchbox again; and seeing the end of a candle in a tall candlestick
of curious shape upon the table, he lighted it and looked around. From
the moment of his entering the room he had been conscious of a faint
odor, rather disturbing to his senses, and now, as he looked around,
he satisfied himself as to the cause. On a quaintly carved bracket
were a bottle and a small box. The bottle was empty, but there was a
little opium in the box.
"At his old game," he muttered. "Why doesn't it kill him? But I
wouldn't have him die yet. I must first screw the truth out of him."
By "him" he meant the tenant of the room, who lay on a narrow bed
asleep. Before disturbing him, Mr. Fox-Cordery devoted attention to
the articles by which he was surrounded. The furniture of this humble
attic was extraordinary of its kind, and had probably been picked up
at odd times, in one auction-room and another. On the floor was an old
Oriental rug, worn quite threadbare; the two chairs were antiques; the
carved legs of the table represented the legs of fabulous animals;
even the fire-irons were old-fashioned. There were several brackets on
the walls, carved by the sleeping man, showing a quaint turn of fancy;
and on each bracket rested an article of taste, here a small Eastern
vase, here a twisted bottle, here the model of a serpent standing
upright on two human legs. A dealer in old curiosities would not have
given more than a sovereign or two for all the furniture and ornaments
in the room, for none of them were of any particular value. But the
collection was a remarkable one to be found in an attic in such a
neighborhood; and, if it denoted nothing else, was an indication that
the proprietor was not of the common order of English workingmen, such
as one would have expected to occupy the apartment; if, indeed, he was
an Englishman at all.
Mr. Fox-Cordery was not a gentleman of artistic taste, and he turned
up his nose and shrugged his shoulders contemptuously at these
belongings. Then he devoted a few moments more to an examination of
the room, opening drawers without hesitation, and running his eyes
over some manuscripts on the table. The written characters of these
manuscripts were exquisite, albeit somewhat needlessly fantastic here
and there: and the manuscripts themselves furnished a clew to the
occupation of the tenant, which was that of a copyist. There were no
paintings or engravings on the walls, which, however, were not
entirely devoid of pictorial embellishment. Four neatly cut pieces
of drawing-paper were tacked thereon--north, south, east, and
west--bearing each a couplet beautifully written within an illuminated
scroll. The colors of the scrolls were green and gold, and the verses
were written in shining Indian ink.
On the tablet on the north wall the lines ran:
He whose soul by love is quickened, never can to death be hurled;
Written is my life immortal in the records of the world.
On the south wall:
Oh, heart! thy springtime has gone by, and at life's flowers has
failed thy aim.
Gray-headed man, seek virtue now; gain honor and a spotless name.
On the west wall:
Now on the rose's palm the cup with limpid wine is brimming,
And with a hundred thousand tongues the bird her praise is hymning.
On the east wall:
If all upon the earth arise to injure myself or my friend,
The Lord, who redresses wrong, shall avenge us all in the end.
Mr. Fox-Cordery's judgment upon these couplets was that the writer's
brain was softening; and considering that he had wasted sufficient
time in making discoveries of no value, he stepped to the narrow bed,
and contemplated the sleeper. The contrast between the two men was
noteworthy, but it was the good or bad fortune of Mr. Fox-Cordery
always to furnish a contrast of more or less interest when he stood
side by side with his fellow-men. At this moment his clean, pallid
face, with its carefully arranged hair and drooping mustache, wore an
ugly expression singularly at odds with his diminutive stature.
It is not pleasant for a man with a thorough belief in his own
supremacy to suspect that he has been tricked by one whom he gauges to
be of meaner capacity than himself; but this had been Mr.
Fox-Cordery's suspicion since his interview with John Dixon, and he
had come hither either to verify or falsify it. The sleeper's age
could not have been less than sixty years; he was a large-limbed man,
six feet in height, and proportionately broad and massive. His
full-fleshed eyelids with their shaggy eyebrows, his abundant tangled
hair, and the noble gray beard descending to his breast, denoted a
being of power and sensibility; and though he lay full length and
unconscious beneath the little man who was gazing wrathfully upon him,
he seemed to tower majestically above the pygmy form. Mr. Fox-Cordery
shook the sleeper violently, and called:
"Rathbeal, you scoundrel; just you wake up! Do you hear? No shamming!
Wake up!"
Rathbeal slowly opened his eyes, which like his hair were gray, and
fixed them upon Mr. Fox-Cordery. Recognition of his unexpected visitor
did not immediately come to him, and he continued to gaze in silence
upon the intruder. Half asleep and half awake as he was, there was a
magnetic quality in his eyes which did not tend to put Mr. Fox-Cordery
at his ease; and in order to make a proper assertion of himself, he
said, in a bullying tone:
"When you have had your stare out, perhaps you'll let me know."
The voice assisted Rathbeal, who, closing his eyes and with a subtle
smile on his lips, murmured, in perfect English:
"The enemy thy secret sought to gain:
A hand unseen repelled the beast profane."
"Beast yourself!" retorted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Here, no going off to
sleep again! You're wanted, particularly wanted; and I don't intend to
stand any of your infernal nonsense!"
But these lordly words, peremptorily uttered, did not seem to produce
their intended effect, for Rathbeal, still with closed eyes, murmured:
"Be my deeds or good or evil, look thou to thyself alone;
All men, when their work is ended, reap the harvest they have
sown."
The couplet, being of the order of those affixed to the walls,
conveyed no definite idea, and certainly no satisfaction, to Mr.
Fox-Cordery's mind. He cried masterfully:
"Are you going to get up or not? I've something to say to you; and
you've got to hear it, if I stay all night."
Then Rathbeal opened his eyes again, and there was recognition in
them, as he said courteously:
"Ah, Mr. Fox-Cordery, your pardon; I was scarcely awake. You have
taken me from the land of dreams. It is the first time you have
honored me in this apartment. To see you here is a surprise."
"I dare say," chuckled Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and not an agreeable one
either. Eh, old man?"
"If it were not agreeable," said Rathbeal, spreading out his hands,
which were large and shapely, and in keeping with his general
appearance, "I should not confess it. You are my guest."
"Guest be hanged!" exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery, resenting the suggestion
as claiming equality with him. "Do you think I have come to partake of
your hospitality? Not by a long way. Are you awake yet?"
"Wide, very wide," replied Rathbeal, rising calmly from his bed. "I
have been in the spirit"--he consulted a silver watch--"nine hours. If
you had not aroused me I should have been by this time conscious.
Excuse me; I have no other apartment." There was a small shut-up
washstand in a corner, and he opened it, and pouring out water, laved
his hands. When he had dried them he combed out his noble beard with
his fingers, and said, "I am now ready for work."
"People, as a rule, leave off at this hour," remarked Mr. Fox-Cordery,
who for reasons of his own, which had suggested themselves since he
entered the room, did not intend to rush into his grievance. Under any
circumstances he might not have done so, absorbing as it was, for it
was his method to lead up to a subject artfully in the endeavor to
gain some advantage beforehand.
"I commence at this hour," said Rathbeal, "and work through the night.
You have something to say to me?"
"A good deal, and you'll need all your wits. I say, you, Rathbeal,
what are you?" His eyes wandered about the room, and gave point to his
inquiry. "I have known you a pretty long time, but I have never been
able to make up my mind about you. Not that I have troubled myself
particularly; but since I have been here I have grown curious. That's
frank, isn't it?"
"Very. What am I? You open up a vast field. What is man? Who has been
sufficiently wise to answer the question? What is man? What is life?
Some say a dream, and that it commences with death. Some say that the
soul of man exists long before the man is born, and that it is
enshrined in a human body for the purpose of overcoming the
temptations and debasing influences of the material life. Successful,
it earns its place in celestial abodes, Unsuccessful, it is forever
damned."
"You think yourself precious clever," sneered Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"No, I am an enigma to myself, as all reflective men must be."
"Reflective men!" exclaimed Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Hear him!"
"One thing I know," said Rathbeal, ignoring the taunt. "You, I, and
all lesser and greater mortals, are part of a system."
"Hang your system, and your palaver with it! I'll tell you in a minute
or two what I came here for, but I shall be obliged if you will first
tell me something of yourself. I have the right to know your history."
"I have no objection. You wish to learn my personal history. It is
soon told."
"None of your lies, you know; I shall spot them if you try to deceive
me. I am as wide awake as you are."
"Wider, far wider. You have the wisdom of the serpent."
"Here, I say," cried Mr. Fox-Cordery, "none of your abuse. What do you
mean by that?"
"You should receive it as a compliment." He pointed to the figure of a
serpent on human legs standing on a bracket. "I compare you to the
serpent in admiration. Shall I commence at the beginning of my life?"
"Commence where you like, only cut it short."
"My father was a Persian; my mother also. They came to England to save
their lives. One week longer in Persia, and they would have been
slain."
"A pity."
"That they did not remain in their native land? That they were not
slain? Perhaps. Who shall say? But there is a fate. Who shall resist
it? Safe in England, where I was born a week after their arrival, my
parents lived till I was a youth. They imbued me with their spirit. As
you see." He waved his hand around. "I live by the art of my pen. That
is all."
"Quite enough; it is plain there is no getting anything out of you.
Now, listen to me. You accepted a commission from me, which you led me
to believe you fulfilled. If it is not fulfilled you practiced a fraud
upon me for which the law can punish you."
"I am acquainted with the English law. I have a perception of a
higher--the divine law. We will proceed fairly, for you have spoken of
a serious business. Many years ago you desired some parchments copied,
and, hearing I had some skill with the pen, you sought me out. I
performed the work you intrusted to me, and from time to time you
favored me with further orders. The engagement ended; you needed my
pen no more. But you deemed me worthy to undertake a commission of
another nature. You had a friend, or a foe, who was suffering, and
whose presence in England was inconvenient to you."
"Lie number one," said Mr. Fox-Cordery.
"It is a true interpretation. You came to me and said, 'This man is
dying; I wish his last hours to be peaceful. There are memories here
that torture him. Make friends with him. Opium will relieve him;
ardent spirits will assuage his pain; travel will beguile his senses.
His constitution is broken. Go with him to Paris; I will allow you a
small monthly stipend, and, when his pain is over, you shall have a
certain sum for your labor.'"
"Lies, and lies, and yet more lies," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, watching
Rathbeal's face warily. "You have a fine stock of them, and of all
colors and shapes. Why, you would come out first in a competition."
"You compliment me," said Rathbeal, with a gentle smile. "Did those
words exist only in my imagination? Yet, as you unfolded your wishes
to me, halting and hesitating with a coward's reserve, I thought I
heard them spoken. 'Do I know the unfortunate man?' I inquired, 'of
whom you are so considerate, toward whom you are so mercifully
inclined.' You replied that it was hardly likely, and you mentioned
him by name. No, I had never heard of the gentleman. 'I must see him
first,' I said, 'before giving you an answer.' You instructed me how
to find him, and I sought him out, and made the acquaintance of a
being racked with a mortal sorrow. You came to me the following day
for an answer; I informed you that you had come too soon, and that I
had not decided. 'Be speedy,' you urged. 'I am anxious to get the man
out of my sight.'"
"Still another lie," said Mr. Fox-Cordery. "Not a word you have quoted
was ever spoken by me."
"My imagination again," said Rathbeal, with the same gentle smile;
"and yet they are in my mind. Perhaps I translated your thoughts as
you went on. After a fortnight had passed I consented to your wishes,
and your friend, or your foe, left England for the Continent in my
company. It was expressly stipulated by you that no mention should be
made by me of your goodness, and that if he asked for the name of the
friend who was befriending him I was to answer guardedly that you
wished to preserve it secret. Only once did he refer to you, and then
not by name; but I understood him to say that he knew to whom he was
indebted, and that there was only one man in the world who had not
deserted him in his downfall."
"May I inquire," asked Mr. Fox-Cordery, "whether your companion let
you into the secrets of his life--for we all have secrets, you know."
"Yes, every man, high and low. He did not; he preserved absolute
silence respecting his history. We remained on the Continent a
considerable time, supporting ourselves partly by your benefactions,
partly by copying manuscripts, an art I taught him. I learned to love
the gentleman to whom you had introduced me for some evil purpose of
your own----"
"For an evil purpose! You are raving!"
"For some evil purpose of your own, which I could no more fathom than
I could the nature of the sorrow that was consuming him. 'Try opium,'
I said to him, 'it will help you to forget.' He refused. 'I will allow
myself no indulgence.' And this, indeed, was true to the letter. He
lived upon water and a bare crust. So did the monks of old, but their
lives were less holy than his, for it was only of themselves and their
own souls they thought, while he, with no concern for his own welfare,
temporal or spiritual, thought only of others, and applied every
leisure hour and every spare coin to their relief and consolation. He
was a singular mixture of qualities----"
"Spare me your moralizings," interrupted Mr. Fox-Cordery. "I knew what
he was, long before you set eyes on him. Keep to the main road."
"In the life of every man," said Rathbeal, "though he be evil and
corrupt, there are byways wherein flowers may be found, and it was of
such byways I was about to speak in the life of this man of sorrow,
who was neither evil nor corrupt; but I perceive you do not care to
hear what I can say to his credit, so I will keep to the main road, as
you bid me. There dwelt in my mind during all the time we spent in
foreign lands the words you addressed to me: 'When you tell me that I
shall be troubled with him no more, you will lighten my heart.'"
"How many more versions are you going to give," said Mr. Fox-Cordery,
"of what I never said to you? You are a liar, self-confessed."
"Is that so? And yet, shrewd sir, I insist that the words are not of
my sole coining. At length I was in a position to inform you that your
desire was accomplished, and that your friend, or your foe, would
trouble you no more; and so, upon my return to England--with the
payment of a smaller sum than I expected from you, for you made
deductions--all business between us came to an end. Upon your entrance
into this room to-night I remarked that your presence was a surprise
to me. I did not expect you, and I am puzzled to know how you
discovered where I lodge."
"When I weave a web, Rathbeal," chuckled Mr. Fox-Cordery, "nothing
ever escapes from it."
"An unfortunate figure of speech," said Rathbeal impressively, "for
you liken yourself to a human spider. But there are other webs than
those that mortals weave. Fate is ever at work; it is at work now,
weaving a mesh for you, in spots invisible to you, in men and women
who are strangers to you, and you shall no more escape from it than
you shall escape from death when your allotted hour comes."
"Oh, I daresay. Go and frighten babies with your balderdash. What I
have come to know is, whether you have obtained money from me under
false pretenses. It is an offense for which the law provides----"
A movement on the part of his companion prevented him from finishing
the sentence. Rathbeal had risen from his chair, and was standing by
the door in the act of listening, and Mr. Fox-Cordery did not observe
that he had slipped the key out of the lock. He was about to rise and
throw open the door, in the hope of making a discovery which would
bring confusion upon Rathbeal, when the latter, by a sudden and rapid
movement, quitted the room. Mr. Fox-Cordery turned the handle of the
door, with the intention of following him.
"Hanged if the beggar hasn't locked me in!" he cried, in
consternation. "Here, you, Rathbeal, you! Play me any of your tricks,
and I'll have the law of you! If you don't open the door this instant
I'll call the police!"
No answer was made to the threat, and Mr. Fox-Cordery, seriously
alarmed that he had fallen into a trap, and unable to open the door,
though he shook it furiously, lifted the window-sash to call for help,
but the room was at the back of the house, and when he put his head
out of the window he could not pierce the dense darkness into which he
peered. He screamed out nevertheless, and was answered by a touch upon
his shoulder which caused him to tremble in every limb and to give
utterance to a cry of fear. Turning, he saw Rathbeal smiling upon him.
"My shrewd sir," said Rathbeal, "what alarms you?"
Mr. Fox-Cordery recovered his courage instantly.
"Confound you!" he blustered. "What do you mean by locking me in?"
"Locking you in!" exclaimed Rathbeal, pointing to the key in the lock.
"You are dreaming. I thought I heard a visitor ascending the stairs,
and as I was sure you did not wish for the presence of a third party
till our interview was over I went out to dismiss him."
"Or her," suggested Mr. Fox-Cordery, with malicious emphasis.
"Or her, if you will. Sit down and compose yourself. You were saying
when I left the room that I had obtained money from you on false
pretenses, and that it is an offense for which the law provides. It is
doubtless the case--not that I have obtained your money falsely, but
that the law could punish me if I had. Explain yourself. You came
hither to speak to me, and yet it is I who have chiefly spoken. You
have heard me; let me hear you."
"What I want to know," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, "and what I will know, is
whether you have given me false information."
"Upon what subject, shrewd sir?"
"Upon the subject you have been speaking of."
"You must be more explicit. If I choose not to admit that I understand
you when you speak in vague terms it is because of the attitude you
have assumed toward me, which you will excuse me for remarking is
deficient in politeness. Speak clearly, shrewd sir, and you shall have
like for like. I will not be behindhand with you in frankness."
"All right. I wished to serve a friend who was in a bad way. He was
broken down, and needed change of air and scene; I provided the means,
and sent you with him as a companion who might have a beneficial
effect upon him. I did not expect him to recover; he was too far gone,
his health being completely shattered. As a matter of course I did not
wish the thing to go on forever, and I desired to be kept posted how
it progressed, and, if it came to the worst, to be informed at the
earliest moment. You informed me that all was over, that my poor
friend was dead, and I paid you handsomely for your personal attention
to the matter. Am I to understand that the information you gave me was
true?"
"I pin you to greater clearness, shrewd sir, or you will obtain no
answer from me."
"The devil seize you! Is it true that the man I speak of is dead?"
"Did I so inform you?"
"You did."
"I have no recollection of it. You have my letter. Produce it. The
written words are--I can recall them--'Rest content. Your desire is
compassed; you will be troubled no more.' Pay a little attention now
to me, shrewd sir. You have spoken to me in unmannerly fashion; you
have threatened me with the law. I despise your threats; I despise
you. Profit by a lesson it will be well for you to learn in this
humble room. Never make an enemy of a man, not even of the meanest
man. You never know when he may help to strike you down. When I worked
for you as a copyist you formed an estimate of my character upon
grounds shaped by yourself for your own private purposes--purposes
into which, up to the present moment, I have made no active inquiry,
though I have pondered upon them. I do not engage myself to be in the
future so practically incurious and retiring."
"Bully away," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, inwardly boiling over with rage.
"I have nothing to fear from you."
"You said to yourself, 'Here is a man of foreign origin who will do
anything for money,' and this opinion emboldened you to proceed with a
scheme which needed an unscrupulous agent, such as you supposed me to
be, to insure success. Unsolicited you introduced your scheme to me,
not in plain words, for which you could be made directly accountable,
but in veiled allusions and metaphors which needed intellectual power
to comprehend. Intellect is required for the success of base as well
as of worthy ends. Your mock compassion amazed me, and I made a mental
study of you, as of something new--a confession which perhaps will
surprise you. Not I the dupe, shrewd sir, but you. Men of my nation
have a habit of expressing themselves in metaphor, and are taught to
grasp a meaning, not from what is said, but from what is not said; and
I, though I have never been in my parents' native land, acquired this
habit from them. I divined your wish, but saw not, and see not now,
the springs which prompted it. Plainly, it was a crime you proposed to
me, and left the means at my discretion; and after making the
acquaintance of the gentleman whose end you hired me to compass, I
accepted the commission, nothing being farther from my mind than to
assist in its accomplishment. Not I, but fortune, favored you. You
were troubled by a mortal's existence; you were released from your
trouble, and your end was attained. Thus much I tell you, and will
tell you no more. Be content, and go."
"Come now," said Mr. Fox-Cordery, drawing a long breath of relief,
"you have talked a lot of infernal bosh, and told any number of lies;
but I will excuse you for everything if you will inform me where it
took place."
"Not one word will I add to those I have already spoken."
"Hang it! I have a right to know. You could be forced to tell!"
"Make the attempt. For the second time, I bid you go."
He threw open the door, and stood aside to give his visitor
unobstructed passage. Recognizing the uselessness of remaining any
longer, Mr. Fox-Cordery laughed insolently in Rathbeal's face, and,
feeling his way down the dark stairs, reached the lower landing in
safety, and passed into the street.
Although he was not in the most amiable of humors, his mind was
greatly relieved. Robert Grantham was dead. Of that he had been
assured by Rathbeal; not, certainly, in such plain words as he would
have preferred to hear, but in terms that left no doubt in his mind.
"I put his back up," he muttered, as he walked along, "and that is why
he wouldn't speak out. Besides, he wasn't going to criminate himself.
I was an idiot to take the trouble I did over the affair. Grantham was
quite broken down at the time, and couldn't have lasted long under any
circumstances. There isn't an office in England that would have taken
a year's insurance on his life. He was done for; death was in his
face. They have all played into my hands, every one of them."
But notwithstanding the relief he experienced, the events of the day
were not of a nature to afford him pleasant reflection. He had been
three times defied. First by Charlotte, then by John Dixon, then by
Rathbeal. Charlotte he did not fear as an enemy; despite her outbreak,
he had been too long accustomed to dominate her to be apprehensive of
her. She was in his power, and had pledged herself to silence for two
months. John Dixon and Rathbeal stood on a different platform; but
even from them he had little if anything to fear. As to John Dixon's
account of having seen Robert Grantham's face in a fog, he snapped his
fingers at it. It was, at best, a clumsy invention; had he been in
Dixon's place, he would have done better. His enemies had put him on
his guard--that was all the good they had done for themselves.
When he reached the middle of Westminster Bridge, he paused and looked
down into the water. The darkness had lifted a little, and a few stars
had come out and were reflected in the river. The lamps upon the banks
formed a long line of restless, shifting light, converging to a point
in the far distance. An imaginative mind could have woven rare fancies
out of the glimmering sheen in the river's heart, which seemed to
pulse with spiritual life. Cathedral aisles, with dusky processions
winding between, descending into the depths to make room for those
that crowded behind. Lights upon a distant battlefield, a confused
tangle of horses and fighting men, the wounded and dying crawling into
the deep shades. A wash of the waves, and a wild _mèlée_ of dancers
was created, lasting but a moment--as, indeed, did all the
pictures,--and separating into peaceable units with the broadening out
of the water. A ripple, almost musical in its poetic silence, bearing
bride and bridegroom to love and joy. A band of rioters, upheaving,
with waving limbs inextricably mingled, replaced by an orderly line of
hooded monks, gliding on with folded arms.
None of these pictures presented themselves to Mr. Fox-Cordery's
imagination. He saw only two figures in the water: one of a dead man
floating onward to oblivion; the other of a woman with peaceful,
shining face, inviting him, with smiling eyes, to come to her embrace.
The wish was father to the thought, and the figures were there as he
had conjured them up. The face of the dead man brought no remorse to
his soul; he was susceptible only of those affections in which his own
personal safety and his own personal desires were concerned. It was
for the death of this man and the possession of this woman that he had
schemed and toiled. The man he hated, and had pursued to his ruin; the
woman he loved and would have bartered his soul for. His passion for
her had grown to such a pitch as to make him reckless of consequences;
or, more properly speaking, blind to them. Had she yielded to his
wooing in years gone by, he would have made a slave of her, and have
tyrannized over her as he did over all with whom he had dealings. But
she had not favored him, except in the way of friendship, and had
given herself to the man he hated and despised. It can scarcely be
said that a nature so mean and cruel as his was capable of pure and
honest love; but passion and baffled desire took the place of love,
and had obtained such complete possession of his senses that he was
not master of himself where she was concerned. At his age the fever of
the blood should have been cooled, but opposition and disappointment
had produced a kind of frenzy in him; and, in addition, he had always
been a law unto himself, ready to put his foot upon the neck of any
living creature who ventured to obstruct his lightest wish.
A black cloud blotted out the stars; the beautiful face disappeared.
Awaking from his reverie, Mr. Fox-Cordery proceeded to cross the
bridge. Staggering toward him in the opposite direction was a lad in
the last stage of want and destitution; a large-eyed, white-faced lad
literally clothed in rags. His trousers were held up by a piece of
knotted string, crossing his breast and back; he had no cap on his
matted hair; his naked toes peeped out of his boots. That he was faint
and ill was evident from his staggering gait, and indeed he hardly
knew where he was going, so genuinely desperate was his forlorn
condition. It chanced that he stumbled against the dapper form of Mr.
Fox-Cordery, who, crying, "What's your game, you young ruffian?" gave
him a brutal push, and sent him reeling into the road. The lad had no
strength to save himself from falling. Gasping for breath, he clutched
at the air, and fell, spinning, upon the stones. Passing callously on,
Mr. Fox-Cordery did not observe, and was not observed by a man who,
seeing the lad fall, ran forward to assist him. Stooping and raising
the lad's head, the man looked into his face.
"Why, Billy!" cried the man compassionately.
The lad opened his eyes, smiled faintly, and answered, "Yes, it's me,
Mr. Gran "; and then the dark clouds seemed to fall upon him, and he
lay limp and insensible in the man's arms.