The house of Paget Brothers was never more flourishing than during the
spring and summer of 18--. It was three years since the death of its
junior partner, Gerald Wyndham, and three years since Mortimer Paget
had paid away in full the trust money of eighty thousand pounds which
he owed to George Carmichael, of the firm of Carmichael, Parr and Co.,
Calcutta. Although none of the parties concerned quite intended it,
certain portions of the story of this trust got abroad, and became the
subject of a nine days' gossip in the City and elsewhere. It had never
even been whispered that Paget Brothers were in difficulties. Still
such a sum would not be easy to find even in the wealthiest concern.
Then the fact also trickled out that Wyndham's life had been insured,
heavily insured, in three or four different offices. His death must
have come in handily, people said, and they said no more--just then.
The fact was, that had one been even inclined to suspect foul play, Mr.
Paget's dangerous illness at the time would have prevented their doing
so. Surely no man ever before grieved so bitterly for a dead son-in-law
as did this man. The blow had felled him with a stroke. For many months
his mind gave way utterly. The words spoken in delirium are seldom
considered valuable. What Mr. Paget did or said during the dark summer
which followed Wyndham's death never got known. In the autumn he was
better; that winter he went abroad, and the following spring he once
more was seen in the City.
He looked very old, people said, but he was as shrewd and careful a
business man as ever.
"I have to put things in order for my grandson," he would say.
Nobody ever saw him smile just then, but a light used to come into his
sunken dark eyes when the child's name was mentioned.
Valentine and the boy spent most of their time in the old house in
Park-Lane. She was very gentle with her father, but the relations they
had once borne to each other were completely altered. He now rather
shrank from her society. She had to seek him, not he her. He was
manifestly ill at ease when in her presence. It was almost impossible
to get him to come to see her in her own house. When he did so he was
attacked by a curious nervousness. He could seldom sit still; he often
started and looked behind him. Once or twice he perceptibly changed
color, and on all occasions he gave a sigh of relief when he said
good-bye.
The child visited his grandfather oftener than the mother did. With the
child Mortimer Paget was absolutely at home and happy.
The third summer after Wyndham's death passed away. Valentine spent
most of the time at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. Mr. Paget went abroad, as he
always did, during August and September. In October he was once more in
town. Valentine came back to London, and their small world settled down
for its usual winter routine.
On all sides there were talks of this special winter proving a hard
one, the cold commenced early and lasted long. In all the poorer
quarters of the great city there were signs of distress. Want is a
haggard dame. Once known her face is dreaded. As the days grew short,
the darkness deepened, and the fogs became frequent, she was often seen
stalking about the streets. Poorly clad children, shivering women,
despairing defiant-looking men all trembled and fled before her. The
cold was intense, work became slack, and then, to increase all other
evils, the great cruel monster, Strike, put down his iron heel. Want is
his invariable handmaid. Between them they did much havoc.
It was on a certain short November day of this special winter that
Mortimer Paget arrived early at his office. He drove there in his
comfortable brougham, and stepped out into the winter cold and fog,
wrapped up in his rich furs. As he did so a woman with two small
children came hastily up, cast a furtive glance to right and left, saw
no policeman near, and begged in a high piteous whining voice for alms.
Mr. Paget had never been known to give alms indiscriminately. He was
not an uncharitable man, but he hated beggars. He took not the least
notice of the woman, although she pushed one of the hungry children
forward who raised two piteous blue eyes to the hard man's face.
"Even a couple of pence!" she implored. "The father's on strike, and
they've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning."
"I don't give indiscriminate charity," said Mr. Paget. "If your case is
genuine, you had better apply at the nearest office of the Charity
Organization."
He was pushing open the outer office door when something arrested his
attention.
A man came hurriedly up from a side street, touched the woman on the
shoulder, lifted one of the hungry children into his arms, and the
whole party hurried away. The man was painfully thin, very shabbily
dressed, in a long frock coat, which was buttoned tight. He had a beard
and moustache, and a soft slouch hat was pushed well forward over his
eyes.
The woman's face lit up when she saw him. Both the children smiled, and
the whole group moved rapidly away.
The effect of this shabby man's presence on those three helpless and
starving creatures was as if the sun had come out. Mr. Paget staggered
to his office, walked through the outer rooms as if he were dazed,
sought his sanctum, and sat down shaking in every limb.
Since his strange illness of three years ago, Helps had been more like
a servant and nurse to him than an ordinary clerk. It was his custom to
attend his master on his first arrival, to see to his creature
comforts, to watch his moods.
Helps came in as usual this morning. Mr. Paget had removed his hat, and
was gazing in a dull vacant way straight before him.
"You are not yourself this morning, sir," said the clerk.
He pushed a footstool under the old man's feet, removed the fur-lined
overcoat and took it away. Then standing in front of him he again
said:--
"Sir, you are not yourself to-day."
"The old thing, Helps," said Mr. Paget. He shook himself free of some
kind of trance with an effort. "The doctors said I should be quite well
again, as well as ever. They are mistaken, I shall never be quite well.
I saw him in the street just now, Helps."
"Indeed, sir?"
It was Helps' _role_ as much as possible to humor his patient.
"Yes, I saw him just now--he takes many guises; he was in a new one
to-day--a starved clerk out of employment. That was his guise to-day. I
should not have recognized him but for his hand. Perhaps you remember
Wyndham's hand, Helps? Very slender, long and tapered--the hand of a
musician. He took a ragged child in his arms, and his hand--there was
nothing weak about it--clasped another child who was also starved and
hungry. Undoubtedly it was Wyndham--Wyndham in a new guise--he will
never leave me alone."
"If I were you, Mr. Paget," said Helps after a pause. "I'd open the
letters that are waiting for replies. You know what the doctor said,
that when the fancy came you mustn't dwell on it. You must be sure and
certain not to let it take a hold on you, sir. Now you know, just as
well as I do, that you didn't see poor Mr. Wyndham--may Heaven preserve
his soul! Is it likely now, sir, that a spirit like Mr. Wyndham's,
happy above the sky with the angels, would come down on earth to
trouble and haunt you? Is it likely now, sir? If I were you I'd cast
the fancy from me!"
Mr. Paget raised his hand to sweep back the white hair from his hollow,
lined face.
"You believe in heaven then, Helps?"
"I do for some folks, sir. I believe in it for Mr. Gerald Wyndham."
"Fudge; you thought too well of the fellow. Do you believe in heaven
for suicides?"
"Sir--no, sir--his death came by accident."
"It did not; he couldn't go through with the sacrifice, so he ended his
life, and he haunts me, curse him!"
"Mr. Paget, I hope God will forgive you."
"He won't, so you needn't waste your hopes. A man has cast his blood
upon my soul. Nothing can wash the blood away. Helps, I'm the most
miserable being on earth. I walk through hell fire every day."
"Have your quieting mixture, sir; you know the doctor said you must not
excite yourself. There, now you are better. Shall I help you to open
your letters, sir?"
"Yes, Helps, do; you're a good soul, Helps. Don't leave me this
morning; he'll come in at the door if you do."
There came a tap at the outer office. Some one wanted to speak to the
chief. A great name was announced.
In a moment Mr. Paget, from being the limp, abject wretch whom Helps
had daily to comfort and sustain, became erect and rigid. From head to
foot he clothed himself as in a mask. Erect as in his younger days he
walked into the outer room, and for two hours discussed a matter which
involved the loss or gain of thousands.
When his visitor left him he did so with the inward remark:--
"Certainly Paget's intellect and nerve may be considered colossal."