;^.-. ;..-T^>j.^^ .\ S-V-xv >s^ \N>5--:\^JWJ5»v\\^\<>;«SNW $^mg$jm»!y^?y?^;?; y?^^ ^^^^^jjl^^^^^^^^^^^l^\i^^^i^^v^^^^^^j^^U^^^^^^i^^^^^jl^^^^^^^^j^ ^\vv;\^.^.V^■X..'^■\^ ipW<»WWiiil*i*i "'0.-ov-^;^vo^.\^ ->^ ■ •■■■^N:- M(^'«C ' LIBRARY, 186, STRAND, LONDON, AND AT THE RAILVV^Y BOOKSTALLS. — ■ '■ — ^ :; NOVELS ARE ISSUED TO AND RECEIVED FR^M/SUBSCRIBERS IN SETS ONLY. ^ ^-7* TERIjPS. FOR SUBSCRIBERS OBTAININfi THEIRvSOtflCar^FROM A COUNTRY BOOKSTALL— -v }' / 6 Months. iSllontbx. For ONE Volume at ^ Jjlm* V — • •• £0 12 .. 1 10 (NoveU m more ihau One' yolikne ai't^ availobUfor this class of Subscription.) For TWO Volume/ > ^, " .. *\ .. 17 6 .. 1 11 6 (Novels in more ihan Two^ HpiuMes are ftot available /or this class of Subscription.) For THREE Volumes <^' .. .. .. 130. .220 For FOUR „ „ 1 8 .. 2 10 For SIX „ , 1 15 .. 3 3 For TWELVE „ „ 3 .. 5 5 <^ <> ■.jt^am^siSt^ ^ IN LETTERS OF GOLD. VOL. I. NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBRAEIES LIKE LUCIFER. By Denzil Vane. 3 vols. THE BETRAYAL OF REUBEN HOLT. By Barbara Lake. 1 vol. THE POWER OF GOLD. By George Lambert. 2 vols. A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS. By Jane Stanley. 2 vols. LUCIA. By Mrs. Augustus Craven, author of ' A Sister's story,' &c. Translated by Lady Herbert of L^a. 2 vols. HURST & BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET /.^~ IN LETTERS OF GOLD BY THOMAS St. E. HAKE • Gone she is, And what's to come of my despised time Is nought but bitterness.' IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1886. All rights reserved ?^3 v.) m LETTERS OF GOLD. CHAPTEE I. FOOTSTEPS. ^ On the river side of Thames Street, with- in a large court-yard, there stands an old ^ mansion. Over the doorway hangs a huge, shell-shaped canopy, or roof: it is fashioned out of dark oak, and fantas- '^ tically carved. It is like an angry brow ^^frowning down upon the dim lamp be- queath it. ' One night, early in autumn, two men VOL. I. B 2 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. were standing under this lamp. The court- yard was surrounded by lofty wharves and warehouses. The only sound, which stole about in whispers, was the low mut- tering of the tide, ebbing, or flowing, with a soft gurgling noise among the barges hard by : the current was seldom unheard. The lamp over the doorway of the man- sion was the only light within the yard. The reflection of street lamps, struggling at the entrance of the court, penetrated no further than the gateway. From the river there were no direct rays of light, except at moments when the moon broke from black clouds, and flung a glitter across the water resembling the flash of a dark lantern. It was a silent, shadowy, deserted place. ' You can hear it now, Nedlicott, can't you ?' said the elder of the two, peering FOOTSTEPS. 3 fiercely into the shadows, and then listen- ino- with the keenness of a watch-dog:. ' That's her footstep ! That's what has been troubling me, by niojht and by day, for fifteen years. Ay, ay. By night,' he repeated, with a haunted look, ' by night and by day, Nedlicott, for fifteen long years/ He was leaning heavily against the iron railings in front of the house. His ap- pearance, threadbare and dejected, was like that of a wretched being who had been stranded by the last tide. Nedli- cott was a good-looking man of twenty- eight or nine. He was clad in a brown velvet coat, and a low-crowned felt hat. As he stepped close to the other, and placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder, something theatrical in the manner was whimsically expressed. b2 4 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. » * Wildrake/ said he, 'your brain is full of odd fancies to-night : you want rest/ *I want sleep,' muttered Wildrake^ * what I want is sleep.' As he spoke, his head began to sink down until it found a pillow on the broken spikes : he then closed his eyes. With a shrug of the shoulders Nedlicott turned away, walking up and down the echoing court-yard in front of the man- sion. The old house stood in sombre shadows. In the roof there were several gables : and a group of tall, crook- ed chimneys grotesquely rose up behind them. On each side of the massive door- way were two large windows, with rows of five windows on the stories above, all as destitute of light as the dark walls. FOOTSTEPS. O iN'ecllicott stopped opposite to Wildrake and looked at him attentively. ' Drifting, ' he soliloquised, ' always drifting ; faster every day — faster and faster.' As thouorh he had heard Nedlicott's voice, Wildrake, without opening his eyes, muttered some inarticulate words, like a person talking in his sleep. ' It's a long time,' Nedlicott still medi- tated aloud, ' a lonor time to be driftinor. Pifteen years ! It seems to me a very long time indeed. What can it mean?' At this moment the old church clocks, in the neighbourhood of Thames Street, be^an chiminof and strikinof in clamorous confusion : but this discord was soon drowned by the droning sound of the great clock of St. Paul's. * Two !' exclaimed Xedlicott. b IN LETTERS OF GOLD. He approached Wildrake and laid his hand upon his arm. * Give me your latch-key/ said he, ^ and let me open the door.' Wildrake raised his head, and stared at Nedlicott drowsily. He fumbled in his pockets and succeeded in producing a bunch of keys which he regarded with some bewilderment. * Don't you trouble, Ned. I can manage myself.' Ascending the steps he rattled the keys as he stumbled forward. Nedlicott stood watching him, as one watches a ventur- some child. Wildrake bent down. He groped about with a key around a wide circum- ference of the key-hole. In the midst of this operation he stopped suddenly and listened. The bunch of keys fell from his FOOTSTEPS. 7 grasp, jingliug upon the flag-stone at his feet. ' Hark ! That's her — she is coming back,' he whispered, * my daughter is com- ing back! I never heard her footsteps like that before — never so distinctly as I hear them now. Eh ? Wait, Nedlicott, wait 1 A moment longer : only a moment. She is coming back to me at last.' He spoke in a low, awe-stricken tone as he leant forward and listened, gripping the railings convulsively with his long lean finofers. There was a briorht flash in his habitually dull eyes, and his lips were parted and trembling : every feature in his wrinkled face seemed on the alert : his whole attitude was that of eagerness, and all absorbing expectation. Nedlicott stoop- ed down and picked up the keys. ' Let me open the door,' said he. 8 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Wildrake, as though stricken with ague, was now shaking from head to foot. * Wait, Nedlicott, wait !' he repeated, in a piteous tone, ' only one moment.' But Nedlicotfc had by this time turned the lock. The door opened slowly, groan- ing on its rusty hinges. A large hall was disclosed, where an oil lamp was burning I feebly in a corner. Wildrake's manner changed. He stood up, and, exerting a ghastly effort to master his emotion, stepped into the hall. The door was shut behind him ; and Nedlicott was gone. 9 CHAPTER 11. AN OLD CUSTOMER. Leading from Queenbitlie to St. Paul's, in a steep and narrow street, was a small dwelling wedged in between two lofty warehouses, which gave it a thin and pinch- ed appearance. It was three stories high : on the ground floor was a little shop, like a ship's cabin ; and over the shop door, in faded letters, was painted : Nedlicoitj Tobacconist. Behind the shop there was a parlour : a snugly-furnished room, with a cheerful lire 10 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. burning in the grate. In this parlour Nedlicott was seated on the morning after his night with Wil drake. A woman, with a pleasing, though slightly worn face, was moving actively about the room. She frequently cast a look through the little window of the door which communicated with the shop, as though distracted by the shadows of customers outside the threshold. But her glances were still more frequently directed towards Nedlicott, her son, as he sat near the fire pensively smoking his pipe. ' Teddie,' said the woman, laying a hand gently on Nedlicott's shoulder, * shall I tell you your thoughts ?' ' Yes, mother.' * You have met that man Wildrake again. You are th ^f him.' AN OLD CUSTOMEE. 11 Nedlicott looked up and nodded. 'He puzzles me,' said be, 'more and more every time I meet him.' After smoking for a moment in silence, he went on, musingly, ' A secret trouble is wearing out the man's life. What can it be ? His broken- down condition is caused by this trouble : I am convinced of that. He has known brighter days.' * You told me,' said the mother, quietly,. * that he drank.' 'Yes,' said Nedlicott. 'But I doubt if drink began it. He has been drinking to drown this trouble — a trouble which has weighed upon his mind for fifteen years.' *Ah,' said Mrs. Nedlicott, 'troubles are neighbour's fare. Think of your poor 12 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. father dying, when you were only ten, and leaving me almost penniless. I did not give way, my dear : did I ?' ' No, mother/ said Nedlicott. ' You had me to look after.' Mrs. Nedlicott drew closer to her son and placed her hand caressingly on his shoulder. ' But Wildrake,' Nedlicott continued, * Wildrake is alone. That's why I pity him. He is, as far as I can find out, quite friendless.' ' He has my son,' said the widow. Nedlicott answered, in a thoughtful tone : * No ; he had been drifting too long when I ran against him.' The widow 'smiled, and said, with tenderness : * I sometimes think, my dear, that you AN OLD CUSTOMER. 13 take other people's troubles too much to heart.' * Do you ?' said Nedlicott, in a tone of surprise. ' I don't think, mother, if you had seen "Wildrake last nio-ht, and had heard his strange Tvords, that you would have been less touched than I was.' • What strange words ?' ' He spoke,' said Nedlicott, ' of footsteps which haunted him : the footsteps of a daughter. Is it not possible that this daughter, perhaps years ago, left her home and has never since had the courage to return ? Is it not possible,' he added, ' that her life is too degraded, if she still lives, to permit her ever to look her father again in the face ?' The mother folded her hands upon her knees, and stared thoughtfully at the fire. 14 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * Let US hope, my dear boy/ said she, *that the trouble is nothing so bad as that.' At this moment the entrance to the shop was darkened by the figure of a little old man. His expression was an odd mixture of shrewdness and benevolence. He had a Jewish type of countenance. His beard was long and white ; and his eyes, al- though sometimes penetrating in their glance, were habitually directed into space, as if visions were passing before him. Mrs. Nedlicott, having caught sight of his shadow through the little window, was already behind the counter as he came forward, with a swift and kindly greet- ing, and put down a quaint old silver snuff-box. While the widow was replenish- ing it, he said : AN OLD CUSTOMER. 15 * May I ask, ma'am, whether Xed's at home?' ' Yes, Mr. Isaacs. "Will you step in?' ' Most willingly : T should like to have a word with him.' The widow led the way into the parlour, followed by Mr. Isaacs. ' Good-morning, Nedlicott,' said the old Jew, giving the young man his hand. * Good-morning. Not disturbing dramatic work, I hope ?' *Not in the least,' Nedlicott asserted, laying aside a manuscript. ' Won't you sit down?' Mr. Isaacs took a seat in a remote corner, if such a term can be applied to Mrs. Nedlicott's diminutive parlour, and began to tap his snuff-box. * Nedlicott,' said he, ' I want your advice. 16 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. You should know something, if anyone does, about my troublesome lodger.' ' Wildrake ? .We were just talking about him.' ' The bad one ! Yes, Nedlicott. That's the one I mean. Have you often met men like him ?' * Not often.' ' I should think not !' said the Jew. ' Dear me, no : it's not possible. What with his late hours, and his intemperate habits, he is the worst man I ever knew. You do your best, as I'm aware, to get him into my house before midnight ; and I am grateful : I am indeed. But how can you always be at his elbow to coax or drive him home? It's not to be expected. You have enough to do to look after the comedies, that's clear. You can't be always bothered with such a dismal sub- AN OLD CUSTOMEK. 17 ject as the bad one. He's not merry enough for you : he's out of your line.' * Perhaps,' said Nedlicott, thoughtfully, * perhaps you are right. Though it's not so cheerful behind the scenes of a theatre, let me tell you, as you imagine ! Wildrake interests me. Besides, he has, as I was just now saying, no friends.' ' None,' said the Jew, with emphasis. ^ If he had they would come honestly forward, and pay the renfc for that third floor front which has been so long overdue. I think the bad one begins to imagine that I ought to assign the room to him for life. At any rate, I never get a shilling — never ! And, when I ask him why he doesn't settle up like a man, he becomes indignant, and insults me. He calls me Shylock. What can I do ? I haven't the heart to turn him into the streets. Although,' the Jew VOL. I. C 18 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. added, with anger in his tone, ^ such a bad one deserves no better treatment. I suppose it wouldn't be possible to find out anything about him ?' * I doubt it,' said Nedlicott. * He has been drifting for so many years that I question if he remembers from what point he started.' * You have known him, Nedlicott, for a long time.' ^Yes. Ten years,' said Nedlicott, Hen years at least. Our first meeting, I recol- lect, was at the '^Loafers' Tavern," or Discussion Hall, as it is called. He was playing the same part then as he played last night. I see no change.' ' He's what they call chairman, or presi- dent at this tavern, is he not ?' ' He occupies that honourable position,' said Nedlicott. 'He has a gift of the AN OLD CUSTOMER. 19 gab. His loquacity amuses the customers, or "loafers,*' as they are styled, who fre- quent the house.' ' Isn't he paid ?' ' Yes, in kind,' said ISTedlicott, ' though not in coin. He is an attraction. The tavern-keeper, who appreciates his mag- netic qualities, supplies him with as much meat and drink as he can swallow. His consumption of the latter article is, as there is no need to tell you, by no means small. He is in fact what we call in theatrical parlance a "draw." He creates no end of discussion ; and if — no doubt that is how the tavern-keeper argues — he chooses to drink himself to death that's his own affair.' The old Jew shook his head distressfully and took a pinch of snufE by way of con- solation. o2 20 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * What a bad one. to be sure/ he said. * Dear me, dear me ! what a bad one ! If he stops much longer in my house, I shall lose all my lodgers, I know I shall. It's not respectable, Nedlicott : and, what's more, I can't afford it. His room is worth ■five shillings a week to me. I've told him so until I'm tired. He'll have to find ten pounds somehow, and very soon too, or seek a lodging elsewhere. He will indeed. You cannot blame a poor man like me, Nedlicott, for looking a little after the rent.. I've stood the bad one's nonsense some time. I cannot stand it much longer.' * Wait, Mr. Isaacs, wait awhile,' urged Nedlicott, * we must see what can be done; I dread to think what would become of Wildrake if he had not your roof to shel- ter him. I'd rather pay his rent myself than see him turned out. He is drifting AN OLD CUSTOMEE. 21 fast enough already. He would drift out of sight at once if jou denied him a lodg- ing in that old garret of yours in Gable Court. Wait awhile, Mr. Isaacs, wait awhile.' ' Well, well,' replied the Jew, relentingly, ' I don't want to be hard on the bad one. But at the same time, as you must ow'n, it's not to be expected that I should sub- mit to insulting language, especially from a man who is not worth a straw. Dear me, no; it's not to be expected.' This earnest conversation was now in- terrupted by the entrance into the little shop of a telegraph-boy, who delivered a telegram with two double raps upon the counter. ' From Mr. Cheadle,' said Nedlicott, as fioon as he had removed the envelope. The telegram ran as follows : 22 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * Come to Tarmouili hy the first train,^ Ted Nedlicott was Mr. Cheadle's secre- tary. His duties were not, as the world goes, onerous, but he was expected to hold himself in readiness to obey orders at all hours of the day. Mr. Edwin Cheadle was a dramatic author, who was frequently seized with inspirations, for which there was only one remedy. At such mo- ments he telegraphed to Nedlicott, who went without loss of time, and, by the aid of shorthand, effectually relieved him. * I must be off at once,' said the secre- tary, putting sundry MSS., bound in brown paper, into a small black bag. At an early age Nedlicott had developed a talent for histrionic affairs. As soon as he could read and write he had been AN OLD CUSTOMER. 23 placed in a lawyer's office. Every penny that could be spared out of his earnings was expended in tickets to the galleries of theatres, and before many years he had gained a thorough knowledge of the capa- city of every actor on the London boards. What first brought him under the notice of Mr. Cheadle was his caligraphy. The dramatist was struck with the handwriting of a letter which he received one day from his lawyers, and he asked leave to employ the writer to copy manuscript. By this means Nedlicott was brought into direct communication with Mr. Cheadle, who, gradually discovering his aptitude for stage business, offered him the post of secretary. In the course of events Nedlicott became stage-manao^er at the theatre where Mr. Cheadle's comedies were produced, and 24 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. this was Ill's position at the present time. * You will return this evening ?' said Mrs. Nedlicott, embracing her son. * My dear mother ! did I ever leave you alone in the house all night ?' ' You are a good son,' replied the mother. * What time I shall be back/ said Nedli- cott, ' must rest with Mr. Cheadle. It is quite evident/ he added, ' that the sea-air at Tarmouth has invigorated his dramatic faculties. Depend upon it, he has hit upon some new and original idea for a comedy. I may be late.' Nedlicott hastened out into the street, accompanied by the old Jew. As they walked along the great thoroughfare lead- ing towards London Bridge, he must have compared the effect upon his senses of AN OLD CUSTOMER. 25 the deafening roar of the heavy traffic, which DOW fell upon his ears, with the cleep silence which had reigned in the same neighbourhood on the preceding night. While taking leave of Wildrako's land- lord at the gateway, he glanced up at the old mansion in Gable Court : and the pain- ful scene in which Wildrake had figured under the lamp was vividly recalled. 26 CHAPTER III. THE NAME OF VALROT. Mr. Edwin Cheadle, the author of numer- ous plays, is pacing up and down a bright^ airy room which presents an inspiring view of the sea. The sound of the waves breaking against the low cliff, close under the windows of the chalet, seems to delight his dramatic soul, for his look constantly melts into a jovial smile. Outside the windows there is a balcony, towards which Mr. Cheadle now directs THE NAME OF VALROY. 27 his eyes. At the edge of the balcony a girl is standing ; her face is turned steadfastly seaward. Between this girl and the horizon there is a small yacht leaping over rough waves : sometimes in a sunlit patch of sea, some- times in a cloud-shadow, with showers of spray springing high against the bow. But, in shade or in sunshine, whether the sail be darkened by a cloud, or bright- ened by a flash of light, the boat always holds a steady, tacking course towards the harbour. ' What a heroine !' says the dramatist, stepping out upon the balcony. The girl turns her head. She is tall and beautiful. ' I mean/ says Mr. Cheadle ; ' the hero- ine for a comedy.' A lady, languid in manner, crosses- 28 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. from anotber window, and enters on the scene. 'I think, Edwin,' says she, raising her face to Mr. Cheadle's, ' that it would not be very difficult to point out the hero.' ' The one on the sea ?' Mr. Cheadle de- mands, darting a glance at the yacht. ' No. On the shore.' . The dark figure of a man is approaching from the cliff. Mr. Cheadle darts a glance towards this figure. 'Roy Yalroy?' ' Yes.' Mr. Cheadle's face becomes even more expressive. He strides up and down the balcony ; nods at the yacht ; shakes his bead playfully at Marion, and beams upon the languid lady, bis young wife, who has seated herself, in a drooping attitude, be- side the girl. The dramatist, advancing THE XAME OF VALEOY. 2^ to tlie balcony-stair, greets Roy Yalroy, who ascends. Yalroy's face and manner are attractive : he is dark, and handsome, and looks about thirty. Shaking hands with the little group, he remarks, in a grave tone : * I have come — I am sorry to say ' (this with a glance at Marion) — *to bid you good-bye.' Mr. Cheadle's face grows serious. ' Yalroy/ he protests, * let us be candid ! This situation — from a dramatic point of view — pleases me. In comedy, an effec- tive exit is not to be neglected : you agree with me, I know. Something exciting, I hope, calls you away ?' ^ A letter from my brother.' * Mystifying, I'll be bound; eh?' *No. The letter is perfectly lucid in 30 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. every line. My brother is on his way home.' ' Sir Michael coming to England? In- comprehensible !' Mr. Cheadle takes Roy Valroy's arm. He leads him to a seat, apart from, the ladies, at the other end of the balcony. ' This news,' says he, * suggests the comedy I want.' He sits down, motioning his friend to a place at his side. * The opening scene,' he continues, ' is, let us say, a balcony at Tarmouth. Yacht in the background ; heroine in the fore- ground : enter hero. We need not at present,' adds Mr. Cheadle, * mention names.' .A ray of sunlight, at this moment, flash- ing upon the yacht, the single sail glitters as if washed with silver: the little flag flaps THE NAME OF VALROY. 31 rapidly, and the boat leaps forward with greater speed. Mr. Cheadle glances at it, and then resumes. ' The heroine's father,' says he, ' hates the very name of the hero. The conse- quence is that the course of true love, in this comedy, will not run smooth — which leads me to hope,' adds the dramatist, * that the play will be a success.' ' Cheadle,' says Yalroy, ' don't carry your joke too far.' 'What?' Cheadle retorts. 'Why, I mean to play a part myself : the hero's friend ! The heroine's father I know well. Capital character! IVe introduced him into one comedy already. There will be scenes between yourself and me. You know the part you will play ?' Roy Valroy rises from his seat beside the dramatist. 32 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * The part I shall play,' he says, ^ will be to start for London. If you suppose/ adds Valroy, ' that any young lady of our acquaintance . . / ' We shall see/ says Mr. Cheadle, with a prophetic nod. The yacht, while they are speaking, reaches the entrance to the harbour. It begins to lower its sail. Lying in the stern, in a lazy attitude, is a young man in nautical attire, who scarcely seems to observe anything beyond the yacht. But suddenly he catches sight of Marion. Thereupon he springs nimbly to his feet, and, raising his eyes towards the balcony, salutes the girl with a courteous wave of the cap. The yacht glides into the harbour. Marion Aldershaw stands motionless, her hands clasped, her face still as earnest as THE NAME OF VALROY. 33 when she was looking at the boat leaping over the waves far out at sea. EoyValroy directs an angry glance to- wards the yacht. Then he turns with impatience towards Mr. Cheadle. * It is time,' says he, * that I took my leave.' Yalroy had no sooner gone, than Nedli- cott, the secretary, arrived at the chalet, greatly to Mr. Cheadle's satisfaction. The scene changes. An old-fashioned dining-room, with windows that look out upon a great heath, in a suburb near London, is fast growing sombre ; for the twilight is passing out of the sky. On the dark oaken walls hang the portraits of men and women of various periods. A grave judge of the eighteenth century in his judicial robes has an expression VOL. I. D 34 IN LETTERG OF GOLD. of severity, as though pronouncing sen- tence on some unhappy prisoner at the bar ; while a cavalier of Charles the First's time stands in a threatening attitude, his hand upon the hilt of his sword ; even the smile upon the bewitching face of a lady, amongst this ancestral group, is serious, as though in sympathy with the faces around her. Before the fire in an arm-chair is seated a small man with his handkerchief over his face. His hands are folded idly upon his lap, and his head is thrown backwards, so that the chin is pointed tow^ards the ceiling. His slow respiration and the slow ticking of an old clock on the mantelshelf are the only sounds to be heard, chasing each other, as it were, over the space of silence. In another chair sits Roy Valroy, looking moodily at the fire with knit THE NAME OF VALEOY. 35 brow. The strong resemblance which he bears to more than one portrait on the sombre walls is noticeable even in tbis twilight. Eising from his seat from time to time, lie looks out of the window on the scene. Through the reddening leaves of autumn can be caught glimpses of the heath. The sun has gone down for an hour or more beyond this broad, open space ; but the reflections in the sky, at the edge of the horizon, are brilliant still, though rapidly changing into fainter colours ; while the heath, like a face from which life is passing away, becomes dusky, and then dark, as the shadow of night gradually spreads over it. The small man raises the handkerchief from his face. He looks vacantly around him. ' How restless you are, my learned friend,' he remarks. D 2 36 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Valroy, turning from the window, throws himself into a chair. * As restless, Ludlaw,' says he, * as a caged lion. I would go away to-night if my brother was not coming home. I want thorough change. I should like to start for Switzerland, and cross the Alps.' ^ Why,' says Ludlaw, ^ you have just had a change : did not the sea-air agree with you ?' ^ That's a question which I cannot an- swer yet ; I have no fixed opinion except about the Alps. Life seems purposeless, absolutely not worth living.' ' A wretched sentiment,' Ludlaw de- clares, ^ and one unworthy of you. Come,' he adds, 'if there is a lady in the question, why not say so ?' Yalroy makes no reply. THE NAME OF VALEOY. 37 ' Be candid ! If you could win her, heart and hand, would that keep you from climbing up Mont Blanc ?' Eoy Valroy leans back in his chair. ' I believe, Ludlaw, that you have guess- ed the truth.' Ludlaw turns his keen eyes upon Val- roy's face. ' In that case, my friend, may I be allowed to put one or two direct ques- tions ?' Valroy nods carelessly at the fire. * Consider yourself placed,' says Lud- law, bending over an arm of his chair, *in the witness-box. Now, tell me, are you what is called a briefless barrister ?' Again Valroy nods. ' I must request my learned friend to answer me. Yes, or no T ^ * Yes, I am.' 38 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. *You are. Now — did you or did you not absent yourself from your chambers, and take a trip to the sea-side ?' 'I did; * Do you remember the name of the town ?' ' Tarmouth.' * And why,' says Ludlaw, ' why, I must inquire, of all sea-side towns in the world, did you select Tarmouth ? ' I think . . .' ' No, my friend, you do not think f You either know, or else you do not know. Why did you choose Tarmouth ? now, be careful/ ' Why did I choose Tarmouth. Be- cause I had a friend staying there.' * A lady or a gentleman ?' ' A gentleman.' * Married or single ?' THE NAME OF VALROY. 39 * Married.' ^ All ! Can you recall his name ?' ' Edwin Cheadle.' At this point in the cross-examination Ludlaw rises from his seat, and, stand- ing with his back to the fire, leans towards Roy in a droll manner, and con- tinues : *Now, on your oath,' says he, beating time to his words impressively with his forefinger, ' on your oath, sir ! Did you, or did you not, know that Mr. and Mrs. Cheadle counted among their relations or friends, no matter which, a certain Miss Marion Aldershaw, a young lady eminently prepossessing, highly accomplished, and the daughter of a merchant prince ?' * Yes. I have often heard Mrs. Cheadle speak of Miss Aldershaw as her cousin.' * Very good. Now, has Mrs. Cheadle 40 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ever invited you to meet this said cousin at her house in London ?' ' Frequently.' ' Have you ever accepted ?' * Never.' * Now, one question more. Had you, or had you not, the slightest suspicion, when you started for Tarmouth, that Miss Marion Aldershaw was staying at that sea-side town on a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Cheadle ?' ' No, certainly not.' *Now, be careful,' admonishes Ludlaw, * and remember that you are still on your oath. If, sir, you had had the slightest suspicion that Miss Marion Aldershaw was at Tarmouth, would you have gone there ?' *No!' * That will do ;' and Ludlaw resumes his seat. THE NAME OF VALROY. 41 As Ludlaw sits down, Valroj gets up and again begins to walk restlessly before the windows, looking out upon the lamps •on the road over the common which shine brightly now. * I would rather have gone,' Roy Valroy presently bursts forth, in a passionate tone, *to the Antipodes than have met that girl ! Can I be in my right senses ? It is impossible to think of anything but her : she is always in my thoughts. If Cheadle were to invite me back to Tarmouth, I should not have the strength to resist. In fact . . / ' That will do, my learned friend. Sit <3own and permit me to sum up.' Yalroy at once throws himself into his chair, and leaning forward, with his hands supporting his head, stares steadfastly at the fire once more. 42 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * I will try,' Ludlaw begins, looking" round upon the portraits as though thej were an impaneled jury, ' I will try to put the matter clearly before you : and, I need not add, without bias. You can then decide for yourself whether you have any chance of winning the hand of Miss Marion Aldershaw.' After this short prelude Ludlaw pauses. Presently he resumes, in a low and im- pressive voice, * In my opinion,' says he, * a great obstacle stands in the way. What — you naturally ask me — should cause an obsta- cle ? An affair which before visiting Tar- mouth wafe not, as far as you were con- cerned, worth recalling. But now it be- comes one which must be referred to, and never forgotten. Shall we start from the time when Paul Aldershaw and your THE NAME OF VALROY. 43 brother were ou terms of friendship T Roy Yalroy ans^yers with a nod, never changing his attitude. ' Well, then, to begin ! It so happens that there is in the city of London a great merchant prince named Paul Aldershaw. Not many years ago Mrs. Aldershaw, his wife, a brilliant woman as well as a beauty, reigned in Tyburnia like a queen.' Folding his arms, and throwing back his head, Ludlaw adds, with a glance at Yalroy : * And if Miss Marion Aldershaw resem- bles her mother I am not surprised to hear that you find her irresistible.' Yalroy shows a slight sign of impa- tience. *In Tyburnian society,' Ludlaw con- tinues, * your brother. Sir Michael Yal- roy, constantly appeared. He was a 44 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. youDg baronet then, who had seen the world, who knew everybody, and every- thing worth talking about. Of course the merchant prince welcomed him warmly. For was it not remarked that when Sir Michael Valroy was among the guests Mrs Aldershaw was most brilliant ? Paul Aldershaw's friends were delighted ; they could talk about the beautiful Mrs. Alder- shaw, and about Sir Michael too, as people will talk about each other in society. You know what I mean/ Pausing again and looking round upon the portraits, whose faces seemed to grow more solemn, as the fire threw reflections less frequently upon the walls, Ludlaw presently proceeds : *This satisfactory state of Tyburnian society continued for two or three seasons. The gossip went on about Mrs. Aldershaw, THE NAME OF VALROY. 45- though it was beginning to lose its fresh- ness. But one morning a startling re- port reached many of the Tyburnian breakfast-tables. Mrs. Aldershaw — so ran the rumour — had disappeared.' The fire in the hearth grows duller now — the faces of the portraits still more solemn. ^Society,' pursues Ludlaw, 'watched from its windows that morning, with eager faces for the merchant prince. He appeared : as if nothing had happened Paul Aldershaw stepped into his carriage, some said, with a firm step ; but others declared that his manner was unsteady and that his face showed signs of distress. As if nothing had happened, he continued to drive away, every morning, to the city. Yes ! even when the rumour of Mrs. Aldershaw's disappearance was confirmed.* 46 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Once more Ludlaw pauses^ as though expecting some word from Roy Vah^oy ; but, as his friend still remains with his head between his hands, Ludlaw resumes : * To describe the disappointment in Ty- burnia, when nothing serious resulted from this affair, would be difficult indeed! A duel, somewhere on the French coast, be- tween Paul Aldershaw and Sir Michael Valroy was talked of for some days ; and then Tyburnia began to listen for the report of the pistol with which Paul Alder- shaw was expected to blow out his own brains : and, finally, Tyburnia glanced down the newspaper columns, hoping at least to discover something spicy about this mysteri- ous business. But no satisfactory explana- tion was forthcoming. Society had to be satisfied with its own knowledge that Paul Aldershaw had begun to lead a retired life. THE NAilE OF VALKOY. 47 He was seldom seen, except when he entered his carriage to drive to his oflBce in the City ; and so people gradu- ally ceased to take any special interest in him. The matter was soon forgotten ; and the elderly gentleman, with grey hair and a slight stoop in his shoulders, was no longer talked about, or even observed, except as a merchant prince who had suffered a " blight " in his prime, but who was giving all his attention to business, and accumulating wealth for an only daughter to inherit.' Looking at Roy Yalroy again, as if ex- pecting some comment, Ludlaw finds him still in the same attitude. He shows by the expression on his face that he is listening, and that is all. *Now, the question is,' Ludlaw asserts, *has Paul Aldershaw forgotten that affair? 48 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Has he forgotten his wife, and, above ally has he forgotten the name of Valroy? All T can say about it is this : I knew Mr. Aldershaw intimately; and, judging from what I could of his character, I should be inclined to predict that the affair lives in his memory as freshly as if it bad just happened. If you, as the brother of Sir Michael Valroy, went to him, and demanded his daughter's hand in marriage, he would not only refuse to give his consent, but he would convince you before the interview was over that he would rather see his daughter in her grave than the wife of any relation of the man who had done him so irreparable a wrong ! He would not be influenced by any argument which you might bring for- ward to justify your right as a free citizen, who had never sinned against society, to THE NAME OF VALROY. 49 fall in love with his daughter. You bear the name of Yalroy ! That would be enough to create a prejudice against you which would destroy all sense of justice. My advice to you, therefore, my learned friend, is to forget as soon as possible that you have ever met the girl. Take a philosophical view of the subject, and go abroad ; if you think such a severe remedy is necessary to effect a cure. But visit Paris, not the Alps. You will be back before a month is over, and laughing at your own folly. You will be as happy, in fact, and just as contented as you were before you met Miss Marion Aldershaw!' With these words, Ludlaw falls back in his arm-chair, settles himself into a comfortable attitude, and covers his head once more with his handkerchief ; and he is soon breathing with the same regularity VOL. I. E 50 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. as before ; while the old clock on the mantel-shelf seems suddenly to gain a hearing, and to be beating time to the breathing, though always running im- patiently ahead and then falling back to start anew. The shadow thrown upon the portraits appears to have gathered over the face of Eoy Yalroy too. He sits, his head still resting on his hands, looking into the red glow of the fire like one who expects to find the solution of a problem hidden somewhere there. Meanwhile, along the road across the heath, where the lamps can be seen from the windows shining at long intervals, comes the carriage, at a rapid pace, which is bringing Sir Michael Valroy home after an absence from England of many years. 51 CHAPTER IV. ENLIGHTENED. In the neighbourhood of St. Mary Axe, in the Citv of London, there was — and indeed still is — a dark and desolate old square; a place which is sombre from morning till night. Even at noon the sunlight never lingers very long upon the paved quadrangle ; for, when entering between these tall and gloomy walls, the shadows are always ready to advance from nooks and corners to chase away the weak and straggling rays. From a lofty store- e2 inDAD\/ 52 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. house the deepest shadows fall over a rusty iron crane with an iron pulley and chains, not unlike a gibbet. Opposite stands a stable, in shape re- sembling a gigantic barn, but it is as completely in ruins from roof to floor as though it had been shaken by an earthquake. On the other two sides of the square, facing each other, are old dwelling-houses, discoloured by many coat- ings of dust and smoke ; houses which might be the haunts of men's ghosts rather than of men, for they retain no longer any appearance of homely comfort. The win- dows of these two rows of houses have a vacant stare which they direct towards each other. There are two staring win- dows on the ground-floor, on a level with the doorway, three upon the first floor, and three upon the second ; and there are ENLIGHTENED. 53 two round garret-windows above, like sleepless eyes, with chimneys on each side, like ears which seem to be listening: for the chimes from the old clock in the tower of St. Andrew Undershaft hard by. It was a wintry night. In the centre of the square, in the midst of the shadows, a solitary lamp glimmered, but so dimly that it looked like the apparition of an extinguished light. The glass frame which surrounded it was broken and besmeared with mud, and around the feeble light the heaviest shadows seemed to congregate ; and when a fitful gust of wind, which con- stantly rushed through the archway under the great store-house, swept round the square, and threatened to put out the flame, the shadows crept closer still, as though they were the shadows of huge wings. 54 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. With one of these fitful gusts, which passed more frequently through the arch- way into the square as the evening ad- vanced, there came a man whose strange way of conducting himself gave the im- pression that he was being blown in against his will. His behaviour towards the gusts of wind was resentful ; he turned upon them sharply with a savage frown, and with clenched fists, sparring as though he were preparing for a pugilistic encoun- ter. Dancing a few steps forward and then a few steps backward, sometimes giving his adversary his face and some- times his back, he presently reached the second house to the right of the archway; and there he stopped, leaning against the railings to recover breath. By a glance at his face these signs of eccentricity were explained : the features,. ENLIGHTE2sT]D. 55 as well as tlie arms and legs, seemed to be carrying on a fight, for there was a mental struofo'le at work in the man to resfain a sober expression of countenance. His coat was threadbare, and his hands were lean ; and his fingers, long and thin with a nervous wriggling motion, like snakes, were contiuuallj twitching at his coat- collar. Having somewhat conquered his features, and steadied himself by striking his breast several times with his clenched hand, he went in at the open door facing him, on which was written in large letters on the centre panel : Aldershaw^ Grimwade and Company, The office was small and gloomy; but the clerks were numerous. They sat on imposingly high stools at a long desk, with the light of shaded lamps reflected on 56 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. tbeir busy faces. Beyond this desk there was an elevated enclosure, through the wooden bars of which could be seen, seated under his own particular lamp a person with a tawny beard and with quick, bright eyes, who more closely resembled a playful lion than an industrious human being. He had several ledgers with him in the cage ; and he was turning over the leaves briskly, and at intervals tugging at his beard. When his head went down he began to write in one of the books, and the fluttering would cease ; but when his head went up the writing would stop, and the fluttering would begin again, as though the leaves had been caught in a sudden draught. As nobody seemed to pay any attention to the entrance of the visitor, he took the opportunity of having another facial struggle. He took ofl his hat and placed EXLIGHTEXED. 57 it on the counter before him, and his snaky fingers came stealthily out of his pockets and crept into his hair. Catching sight of this individual standing at the counter, the person in the cage stopped suddenly in the midst of a conflict with the leaves of the ledgers, and glared through the bars. * Is Mr. Paul Aldershaw within?' the visitor ventured to enquire. A boy with long legs, who was seated on a, stool at a separate desk in a corner, on hearing a voice, jumped down and came up to the counter. ' What is it?' he demanded, curtly. The visitor put his hand in his pocket, BS thouofh searchino: for a card-case ; but nothinof resultinof he ofave his collar a nervous tug, and said : * My name is Wildrake.' 58 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. At the mention of these words, all the clerks raised their eyes with sudden curi- osity, while the boy opening a door close at hand, on which was inscribed Mr. Grimwade in rusty letters, said, with more respect in his tone : ' This way, sir, if you please.' The room which Wildrake now entered was more like a mausoleum than an office. Upon a low shelf, which was ranged round the walls, were placed document-boxes, black with dust and age. On these boxes, to be deciphered with difficulty, were certain abbreviated inscriptions, having hieroglyphic reference to the documents within. In the centre of the office stood a desk, over which was suspended a shaded lamp ; and at this desk, it was evident, Mr. Grimwade had sat at some period in the history of ENLIGHTENED. 59 the firm. On a wooden stand, by itself, was another box, larger, more dusty, and more black than the others ; and the inscription was so faint upon it that the words looked more like ' sacred to the memory of Elijah Grimwade ' than any- thing else. Wildrake was still staring thought- fully at these curious figurings on the boxes, when the ojQfice-boy peeped in at a side door and invited him to step that way. ' Give Mr. Wildrake a chair ' — the voice came from behind a pile of papers as the visitor entered an adjoining room — ' give Mr. Wildrake a chair.' Wildrake sat down and looked at a bald head, which was all that he could see of the gentleman who was writing at the table, and who continued to write 60 IN LETTEBS OF GOLD. ^ for some minutes without raising his face. Wildrake waited patiently. At length the gentleman laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair, and looked up inquiringly at his visitor. * Now, John Wildrake/ said he, * what can we do for you V Moving nervously in his chair, Wildrake made no reply. He looked at his hat meditatively, and then at his boots ; but he did not appear to gain any help from either. ^ The old story, I suppose. Eh, Wild- rake T 'No, Mr. Aldershaw,' said Wildrake, ' not the old story, sir. Not, at least, if you mean that I have called upon you to- day to put your hand in your pocket. No, sir, not that.' ENLIGHTENED. 61 Mr. Aldershaw, who had a pale face with a passionless expression, except in his grey eyes, which were keen and rest- less, was in outward appearance as full of repose as if he had been a statue. His white hair lay on each side of his bald head, like closed wings. His chin ap- peared behind a collar which might have belonged to a marble bust. He sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair, clasp- ino^ his hands, as thouo^h the reference which his visitor had made to a pocket prevented him from assuming any other attitude. * What I mean is,' Wildrake continued, throwing his head on one side, ' what I mean is that I've called to suggest some- thing which the age wants badly.' ' Money ?' remarked Mr. Aldershaw,. promptly. 62 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. *No,' said Wildrake, *not money. That is not what I mean. The age wants re- forming : the rising generation does not open its mouth.' * Surely/ said Mr. Aldershaw, ^ that is as it should be.' 'What I mean is,' Wildrake repeated, nervously, ^ the rising generation does not speak out distinctly : no articulation ! On that account, Mr. Aldershaw, it's a failure.' ' Possibly,' said the merchant, with im- patience, ^ and if my time . . .' Wildrake leaned slightly forward, and raised his hand. ' Permit me, Mr. Aldershaw,' said lie, 'to make one remark. I am influ- enced entirely by philanthropic motives. Otherwise,' he added, 'I would not for a moment trespass upon your time. I ENLIGHTENED. 63 have only one question to ask. Why, I demand, why is the rising generation a failure?' He paused with his head on one side, as though waiting for the reply with breathless expectation. ' Because,' he answered himself, in a persuasive tone, * it is not taught elocution.' TVildrake looked at Mr. Aldershaw. But that o^entleman maintaininof silence he continued : ' Now my plan,' said he, ' is very simple. I intend, as philanthropist, to aid the rising generation. I contemplate giving lessons.' As Mr. Aldershaw had nothing to say against this communication, Wildrake, who did not appear to require encouragement, went on : 64 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * In a house,' be said, * out of Thames Street, in fact in Gable Court, I have a third-floor front. The room has the merit, though not handsomely furnished, of being commodious ; plenty of space, sir, for the voice. The landlord, who has no articulation worth mentioning, has asked me to pay my rent. He is an ignorant and most insolent person. He has refused to accept my pamphlet on elocution. He declares that he has no faith in words. I have even offered him lessons gratis, sir, actually gratis. But nothing will satisfy him, except a ten-pound note.' Mr. Aldershaw pressed a hand-bell on the desk at his side. * Tell Mr. Snowby,' said he, when a clerk appeared, * that I wish to speak to him.' Snowby, who was the person Wildrake ENLIGHTENED. 65 had observed in the cage with the large ledofers, entered the room with an air of suppressed importance. He looked inquiringly from Mr. Aldershaw to Wild rake. ' Snowby,' said the merchant, with a wave of his hand, ' this is Mr. Wildrake. You may possibly have heard the name.' Snowby assented with a slight inclination of the head. * Mr. Wildrake,' the merchant continued, * is a man of enterprise. He is established in Gable Court, in the neighbourhood of Thames Street. But, as I understand, the necessary capital — for reasons which it is needless to mention — does not appear to be forthcoming. The consequence is, Snowby,' said Mr. Aldershaw, 'that we must put the affair in your hands, and ask you to tide over this temporary VOL. I. F ^Q IN LETTERS OF GOLD. inconvenience for Mr. "Wildrake. What do you say ?' Snowby looked searchingly into Mr. Aldershaw's face ; suppressed a smile, and replied promptly : * I can only say, sir, that if Mr. Wild- rake will walk into Mr. Grimwade^s room, I have no doubt that I shall be able to arrange something satisfactory.' As he spoke, Snowby went towards Mr. Grimwade's door. He opened it and looked in. * One moment, Snowby/ said Mr. Alder- shaw, lifting his hand. * It is only right that I should say a word in Mr. Wild- rake's favour. He is a man of busi- ness. I found him here, a clerk in this very office, when I left college and was taken into partnership by my father some thirty-five years ago. John ENLIGHTENED. 67 Wildrake/ he continued, glancing to- ■wards his visitor, ' might have been taken into the house also. He would, in fact, when my father died, have filled the place of junior partner, if he had chosen to remain with us. But he preferred a posi- tion which was — well, more independent. And whose fault is it if it has not proved more lucrative ? Not John Wildrake's. No, surely not ! I have always been so ac- customed to look upon Mr. Wildrake as a thorough man of business that I cannot persuade mj^self that he would have resigned his position in a house like ours unless he was confident as anyone can be that, in some other enterprise, he would become more quickly a millionaire.' Mr. Aldershaw's words seemed to make a painful impression upon Wildrake ; for, as the merchant proceeded, he changed colour, f2 68 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. and his nervous manner increased. He had risen from his seat, biit, instead of now following the manager, he turned to Mr. Aldershaw, and said, in a shaky voice, 'Allow me, sir, to say one word.' He glanced at Snowby and added, ^ I will fol- low this gentleman immediately.' At a nod from Mr. Aldershaw, the manager retired into Mr. Grimwade's room. As soon as they were alone. Wild- rake turned quickly towards the merchant. * If you knew,' said he, ' and I have never doubted until now that you did know, why I became incompetent to retain my place in your house, you would not have spoken as you did a moment ago.' Wildrake uttered these words rapidly : he was trembling with agitation. * I think,' said Mr. Aldershaw, * that we both know the reason well enough.' ENLIGHTENED. 69 Wildrake placed his hand upon the back of a chair to steady himself, and replied : ^ You mean that I took to drinking ?' The merchant remained significantly silent. *Yes, Mr. Aldershaw/ said "Wildrake, * there is truth in that : but there was another reason. I drank to forget my grief.' * If you were in difficulties, Wildrake,' said Mr. Aldershaw, kindly, ' you had only to mention them to me.' ' That,' Wildrake quickly assented, * I have every reason to believe. But there are troubles which men shrink from men- tioning to their best friends — even after many years.' A slight shade passed over Mr. Alder- fihaw's face. 70 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * You may remember, sir/ said Wildrake, * that I bad a daughter.' The merchant looked up with surprise. * Why, surely,' said he, * you have not lost her?' * Yes. She is lost.' * Why,' said Mr. Aldershaw, ' you told me, years ago, that your daughter was married.' * I told everyone the same — happily married, Mr. Aldershaw, were my words.' As he spoke, a look of dreadful pain came into Wildrake's face. * But,' said the merchant, * do you mean to say that she is dead ?' ' No, not dead, sir,' said Wildrake, ^ not dead.' There was a pause. Then he added^ looking strangely round the room, * I know that she is not dead, although ENLIGHTENED. 71 I never see her. I know that she is not dead, sir, because I sometimes hear her footstep. It haunts me/ He again looked strangely about. Sud- denly a fierce and fixed look gathered in his eyes. ' Now,' he muttered, with clenched fists — * I hear her footstep now.' He stepped softly, as though fascinated, towards the window, and moved the blind aside. He peered out into the dark square. * Why do I never see her r' he demanded, in a low, distracted tone. * I know it's her footstep which I hear. I listened to it when she was a child.' He came slowly back to where he had stood, still deeply moved. 'When she first left me,' he said, twitch- ing nervously at his coat collar, ' I so 72 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. often heard her footstep that I could not believe that she had gone. But gradually the truth forced itself upon me. I gave up all hope ; I knew that she was lost.' Mr. Aldershaw looked earnestly at Wild- rake, and then thoughtfully bent his head. 'I never heard anything of this/ said he. Wildrake made no reply. The merchant continued : ' I recollect your daughter perfectly/ said he. * She was a very handsome and well-educated girl. She had the voice of 2i> prima donna, I remember that she sang at our receptions. When you told me/ he added, * that she was married, I naturally concluded that she had made a good match, as I always believed she would.' ENLIGHTENED. 73 ' Her ambition was to marry a baronet/ said Wildrake, significantly. ' It was her one fault : sbe looked above her station in life; He moved a step nearer to Mr. Alder- sbaw, and added : * We went into society a good deal. One evening — I remember it well — she met the man who has caused me this grief. She met him at your house/ Mr. Aldershaw rose slowly from his chair. He looked at Wildrake with a stern face. ' At my house ?' said he ; and there was anorer in his tone. ' What was his name ?' Wildrake glanced round him rapidly. Then, in a broken voice, and scarcely above a whisper, he said : ' Sir Michael Valroy.' 4 4 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. The name seemed to strike upon Mr. Aldershaw's ear as though he had received a blow. He bent his head, and his passion- less face shrank and wrinkled with pas- sion. Even Wildrake grew alarmed at the sudden chano^e in the merchant prince. Paul Aldershaw sank into his chair. With a wave of his hand he dismissed Wildrake, who, casting a meaning glance at the merchant, stepped into the late Mr. Grim wade's office, and softly closed the door. He found Snowby, the manager, standing there, with a searcTiing look in his eyes, waiting to arrange the small matter of business which his employer had placed in his hands. 75 CHAPTER V. M AEIO n's H E art. It was an hour or more after Wildrake had gone that Paul Aldershaw left his office. But as he descended the dark staircase, and passed out into the dismal old square, he glanced about him nervous- ly, as though expecting at every step to encounter the grief-stricken, drunken face of his old clerk. He peered among the dense shadows which seemed to have deepened in every nook and corner as the night had closed in ; while the lamp, in 76 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. the centre of the place, looked as though it had been lost in a thick fog. The merchant's carriage stood at the entrance to the square, under the archway below the great storehouse. Paul Aldershaw took his seat with a certain sense of relief ; although, as he was driven through the crowded streets towards Tyburnia, he fancied more than once that he saw the figure of Wildrake at gloomy corners, bent in a listening attitude, as he had seen him when haunted by the sound of his daughter's footstep. Paul Aldershaw had invited a few peo- |)le to dinner. The party was composed of some half-a-dozen men : two or three City magnates, a captain in the Horse Guards, and Lord Mounthaw and his son Viscount Dwyver. The Earl of Mounthaw was an old jmarion's heart. 77 friend. His property in Yorkshire ad- joined an estate which Paul Aldershaw's father had purchased years ago. As young men, therefore, the present Lord Mount- haw and Paul Aldershaw had met every autumn, during the shooting season, and had become intimately acquainted. As time went on, a tacit understanding came to exist between the two men that their children — viz. : Marion Aldershaw and Viscount Dwyver — should some day form a matrimonial alliance. Before the first guest was announced, Paul Aldershaw had taken up his position on the hearthrug in the great drawing- room with his back to the fire, as if warming himself up for the reception. But he looked almost as cold as marble, if not as pale ; for his face had regained its passionless expression, and there was no 78 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. indication, except in his unquiet eyes, that his mind had been so seriously disturbed scarcely an hour ago. If Wildrake's words, or his troubled look, still gave him uneasiness, he had concealed the fact from himself for the time being. He was the wealthy Mr. Aldershaw now, a man who acknowledged no worldly anxieties, no cares. Before long the guests arrived. They were welcomed courteously by the mer- chant prince, though no trace of a smile escaped his lips. ' I hear,' he said, turning to Yiscount Dwyver, soon after they were all assem- bled at dinner, ' I hear that you saw something of my daughter while you were at Tarmouth with your yacht ?' Dwyver was a good-looking man of twenty-four, or thereabouts, with all the Marion's heart. 79 brightness and energy of youth expressed in every feature : and, to judge from his manner and his mode of conversation, he took a superlative view of everything and everybody claiming his attention. * I had,' said he, * the pleasure of meet- ing Miss Aldershaw every day. I was absolutely enchanted, I assure you. Im- mensely gratified.' ' She was looking well ?' ' In a most perfect state of health,' said Dwyver. 'Positively perfect.' One of the City magnates now asked Dwyver some questions about his yacht, which led to a long discussion — princi- pally carried on between the viscount and the Horse Guards-man — on the subject of regattas. When Mr. Aldershaw at length managed to wedge in a word, he turned the current of conversation by asking 80 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Lord Mounthaw what he thought of the prospects of the shooting season this au- tumn in Yorkshire. Lord Mounthaw was a square-built man, with a fresh complexion ; he had the strong ruddy appearance of a Yorkshire squire. He was a true sportsman, with a quick eye and a steady hand. * The season/ said he, * will be good. I hope,* he added, Hhat we shall see you and Marion at Mounthaw Castle on the first.' The merchant prince could not promise. He had given up shooting, as Lord Mount- haw was aware. But he should be 'at Oaklands' (his seat in Yorkshire), he said, ' before the end of the season.* That was certain. The conversation then drifted into sport, and from sport into politics : and, iviaeion's heart. 81 before the leading questions before parlia- ment bad been exhaustively discussed, the merchant prince proposed an adjourn- ment to the smoking divan adjoining the billiard-room. During a billiard match, which was played between Dwyver and the captain, Lord Mounthaw and the merchant prince found themselves alone. The divan was a room furnished in Oriental fashion with luxurious lounges, and with rugs and carpets which Paul Aldershaw had bought in Turkey during one of his visits to the East. The two friends sat on a lounge looking out upon a conservatory filled with sub-tropical plants. After smoking for some minutes in silence, Lord Mounthaw turned to the mer- chant, and said : VOL. I. G 82 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * So Marion is still at Tarmouth ?' 'Yes. Still with her cousios, you know, the Cheadles.' ' She has been away some weeks ?' * Several weeks/ said the merchant. * Ah !' said the earl, ' Lady Mounthaw was saying to me, only this afternoon, how disappointed she was not to have seen anything of Marion this season.' ' Lady Mounthaw,' said the merchant, * is very kind.' ' Why should you say that ? The affec- tion which Lady Mounthaw has for Marion is, as you must be aware, very deep. You must not forget that she has known her since she was a child. If Marion were Lady Mounthaw's daughter she might be more demonstrative, but her affection could not be more sincere.' * 1 cannot doubt that.' IVIARION S HEART. 83 « 'Lady Mountliaw/ continued the ear], *lias more than once begged me to talk to jou, my dear Aldershaw, about Marion. You see, we have got a son, an only son. He is a good fellow, as you will be the first to admit. But he is so restless. He is so disinclined to settle down. Now supposing, let us say supposing, that he showed signs of an attachment for Marion, would such a contingency meet with your approval ? I need scarcely assure you,' Lord Mounthaw hastened to add, ' that it would meet with Lady Mounthaw's and mine.' ' Mounthaw,' said the merchant, holding out his hand, ' it would not only meet with my approval : anything that I can possibly do in order to promote Lady Mounthaw's wishes in this matter shall be done. Of course/ pursued Paul Alder- g2 84 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * sbaw, diplomatically, ' I cannot answer for Marion's heart. But I have every reason to believe that it is free ; and, if your son can win her, I shall be the first to con- gratulate him, and to assure him that there is no man livinoj to whom I would more willingly intrust my daughter's happi- ness.' The ice was broken. The merchant prince and Lord Mounthaw could now freely converse together on a subject which was of such vital interest to both. ' I've a great mind/ said Mr. Aldershaw, when Lord Mounthaw was on the point of taking his leave, ' I've a great mind to run down to Tarmouth to-morrow. It would be a pleasant little surprise for Marion.' 'Ab/ said the earl, ^it would indeed. Marion's heart. 85 May I tell Lady Mounthaw,' he added, ' that you are going to bring Marion back with you ?' ' I think so, ' said the merchant, reservedly. ' Yes, I really think yoa may.' Long after his guests had left him that night, Paul Aldershaw sat in his oriental room, singularly thoughtful for a man who seldom indulged in dreams. For a brief hour not even the remembrance of Wildrake's visit to his office, and the hate- ful name he had mentioned there, could disturb him. He was mentally gloating over the brilliant future which this con- templated alliance with the earl's family foreboded. The two properties in York- shire, as he had long and earnestly desired, would ultimately become one superb es- tate; and his daughter Marion, his only 86 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. child, would some day be the Countess of Mounthaw. Paul Aldershaw had. it is true, inherited a large fortune. But, since the year in which he found himself the sole surviving- partner in the great house, he had vastly developed the business of the firm. Ho had of late years given his undivided attention to commerce, though in former days he had shown a great interest in art: himself an artist, he had filled his house with valuable works by old masters ; nor did he fail to patronise the modern school. But, since domestic troubles had overtaken him, from morning until night he had been immersed in city affairs. Art was forgotten : the merchant's one idea was to become a millionaire. His talents as a financier were known and acknow- ledged throughout Europe; and yet he aiARION's HEART. 87 Lad laboured, and gained this position, less for the sake of accumulating riches than as a necessary diversion. But he now began to perceive that he had un- consciously laboured for some more worthy end, and that the power which his wealth had brought him would be turned to good account. On the following day Paul Aldershaw drove to the City with a brighter look upon his face than had been seen there for years. Snowby, the manager, who had a better opportunity than most men of watching the changes in the merchant's countenance, was puzzled to account for it until towards the afternoon, when, being called into the private office, he had some reason to imagine that he might take all the credit of this alteration to himself. 88 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ' By-the-by, Snowby/ said the merchant, * it is time we were thinking of changing your position in the office. You are a man in whom I ha,ve for a long time placed very great confidence. Something must be done.' Snowby could not utter a word. * To-day/ said Mr. Aldershaw, 'I have not a moment to spare. I am going out of town : to Tarmouth, in fact. But we must have a little talk together some day. Something shall be done. That room,' he added, * of the late Mr. Grim wade's might be dusted. You shall occupy his office. I wish to recognise your devotion to the firm.' It was not the first time that Paul Aldershaw had referred to the dusting of , Mr. Grimwade's room ; its neglected, gritty condition had evidently impressed liarion's heart. 89 itself upon his mind, and Snowbj, wlio was as quick to interpret the raerchant's sliorhtest utterance as he was to read his face, saw himself, the present manager, in the dim future installed at the late Mr. Grimwade's desk, a junior partner in the great house. He thanked Mr. Aldershaw in appropriate words, and was stepping towards the door when the merchant stopped him. * Snowbj,' said he, ^ have you seen "Wild- rake again ?' ' No, sir,' said Snowby, ' I have seen nothing of him.* ' Have you his address ?' ' Yes. It is on the draft, which he gave me, for the ten pounds.' ' How is the bill dated ?' * At one month.' The merchant reflected for a moment. 90 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ' When it falls due/ said he, ' arrange to call for payment yourself.' ' Certainly,' said the manager. ' But/ he added, with a shrewd look, ' I doubt if it will be met.' ' It will not be met,' said Paul Aldershaw. ' In fact, it is possible that Wildrake will borrow more money. If he does,' added the merchant, ' you can let him have some. Indeed, I should be glad if you would look after him now and then.' ' It shall be done, sir,' said Snowby. ' Y"es. Look after him,' repeated the merchant, abstractedly. ' A man of John Wildrake's character demands it. He is dangerous to society.' Snowby assented. * Now it appears/ said the merchant, con- fidentially, 'that Wildrake has, or fancies imarion's heart. 91 that he has, a grievance against somebody : a very heavy grievance.' Pausing, for a moment with a graver look on his face, he added : ' In fact, the fellow will be communica- tive : drunkards always are. He will tell you about a daughter who has been led astray ; and there may be some truth in his story. He is therefore to be pitied. Besides/ Paul Aldershaw concluded, * as a former clerk in this house, it is our duty to look after him. In plain words, Snowby, if the thing is possible we must keep him out of mischief.' When Paul Aldershaw left his office he drove to his club, instead of returning to Tyburnia. Here he dined, before start- ing for Tarmouth, mindful of his in- tention, as he had declared to Lord Moun- 52 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. thaw, to give Marion a pleasant little surprise. At Tarmouth it is a moonlight night. The windows of Mr. Cheadle's room at the <3h^let are wide open ; the sea-breeze, blow- ing from the south, is as mild as in mid- summer. The stars are brilliant, for there is scarcely a cloud in the sky. Mr. Cheadle is seated at his table, pen in hand, engaged in constructing his new comedy. But he is not so deeply absorbed but that he can frequently find time to casta meaning glance towards the balcony. His pretty wife is asleep in an arm-chair, in a dark corner of the room, with a novel on her lap. She never disturbs Mr. Cheadle^s dramatic inspirations. On the balcony, side-by-side, are Marion Aldershaw and no other than Eoy Valroy. maeion's heart. 9^ The path of light upon the water, reach- ing from the horizon towards the beach, divides the waves into two restless seas. The white breakers are dashing monoton- ously against the cliff below the balcony. No other sound can be heard along the shore. * While I was away,' Yalroy is saying to Marion, in a low voice, * I was thinking deeply, very deeply, of something which I cannot any longer keep from you. Some- thing which I had intended speaking of when I saw you last. "Will you listen to me now V He looks into Marion's face. There is a quivering of her lips, but no word reaches Yalroy's ear. ' I do not wish,' Valroy pursues, con- scious of her distress, * to give you pain. But when shall we be alone again, as we 94 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. are now? This may be the last time for many months to come. I cannot let the chance go by without telling you that I love you.' She bends her head, and turns it from him. But she raises her hand slowly, as though groping in the dark. Valroy seizes the hand and holds it in his own. He whispers very softly : * Do you love me ?' Marion looks round. The moonlight trembles in her dark eyes as she raises them to Valroy's face. ' Yes,' says she, in a whisper like his own. *No one but you.' The tone in which he answers, ^Dear Marion !' makes her heart beat fast. For a while thev are both silent. Marion's eyes are bent intently upon the moonlit path over the waves as though it were jviaeion's heart. 95 the way, in a dream, to some splendid destiny. * Why did you say just now/ Marion 2oresently inquires, in a subdued voice, Hhat this might be the last time that we should meet for many months to come ?' Yalroy feels a pang at his heart. * Do you wish to know to-night ? You will learn that soon enough, Marion, with- out me.' Marion becomes thoughtful. ^ It is not wrong to love you ?' says she. ' Is it, Eoy ?' This is the first time that she has called him by his Christian name. It is a new sensation to him : it is so sweetly and so timidly pronounced. ' No, Marion/ * And yet,' Marion confesses, ' I have a 96 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. strange presentiment. Something seems to tell me that in loving you I shall dis- please my father. But it is too late now,' she hastens to add, ' to think of that — too late/ While speaking, Marion has kept her eyes fixed upon the sea. Suddenly sho hears a voice in Mr. Cheadle's room : a voice which startles her. She looks quick- ly round. She sees her father : he is stepping to- wards the dramatist, who, with a genial smile, takes his hand. ' Where is Marion ?' This is his first question as he glances about the room. * Balcony/ says Mr. Cheadle, curtly, and with a wave of his hand towards the win- dows. * Sea in the background. Moon- light.' jmarion's heart. 97 Marion's father frowns. ^ But,' says be, with surprise, ' my daugh- ter is not alone.' * No,' says Mr. Cheadle. ' That— from a dramatic point of view — would never do.' ' What do you mean ? Speak plainly.' There is anger in the father's voice. He quickly adds : ' Is it Lord Dwyver ?' ^No.' ' Who, then ?' Marion sees Mr. Cheadle give a rapid glance towards the balcony, and then into her father's face. ' Sit down, Aldershaw/ says he, sooth- ingly, ' and I will tell you who.' Her father slowly takes a. seat and regards the dramatist with sternness and suspicion. VOL. I. H 98 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. TU not attempt,' says Mr. Cheadle, ^to deceive you. I'm a slave — from a dra- matic point of view — to situation. I must, so to speak, breathe an atmosphere of comedy. It's necessary to my existence. I've invited some one to my house whom you — except from a dramatic point of view — could not desire your daup^hter to meet.' Marion sees her father's face grow sterner. * Don't try my patience, Cheadle. I have asked you to tell me his name.' * One moment,' says the dramatist ; ' I am coming to that. You will be justly indignant ; and I wish you to understand that I am to blame : no one else. I plead guilty and crave your pardon. His name is Roy Valroy.' Marion sees her father's face wrinkle iviaeion's heart. 99 and grow dark : slie can scarcely recog- nise it, so disfigured does it become with passion. He springs from bis chair and takes a step towards the windows. But he has not time to cross the room before Marion is at his side. He looks at her with cruel severity, falls back and sinks into his chair. Mr. Cheadle closes the windows and draws the curtains with great dramatic promptness, and stands before the drapery with folded arms. h2 100 CHAPTER VI. THE MANAGER AT HOME. The interest in John Wildrake which Snowby began to experience as soon as the responsibiHty of ' keeping him out of mischief was imposed upon him by the merchant prince, was equalled only by his concern regarding the precious dust which had been so long preserved in the late Mr. Grimwade's office. These two subjects frequently demanded serious reflection. On his way home to Brixton the manager could think of no- THE MAXAGER AT HOME. 101 thing else ; tliey were subjects which threatened to become of supreme import- ance to him, and in some inexplicable man- ner, as it seemed, fatally connected ; for, without any logical reason for drawing such a conclusion, Snowby argued that, if Wildrake ' came to grief ' through neglect on his part, the dust would be let to go on accumulating; but that if no disaster over- took the old clerk, Mr. Grimwade's * dust ' would eventually be got rid of, and the faded name upon the panel outside his door would be removed, and his own name written there instead. The ' little place,' as Snowby called his villa at Brixton, was among a row of de- tached little places with square gardens in front, and with gravel walks and flower- beds like toy parks. So closely did these bijou residences resemble each other in 102 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. every detail, on both sides of the road^ that looking from end to end was like peeping into opposite mirrors ; for they were mere reflections, the one row of the other. The trees which were planted at regular intervals on each side of the way^ in the style of a boulevard, were not re- markable for luxuriant growth ; but there were enough branches to attract number- less sparrows, that twittered loudly, as if satisfied that by some accident they had found their way into the country. * Where is Miss Kate ?' said Snowby^ meeting the servant-girl in the hall, as he let himself into his villa with his latch- key. * With Madame Helene, sir.' Snowby nodded approvingly as he stepped into his sitting-room, and then added : THE MANAGER AT HOME. 103 * Tell Miss Kate that I have come home.' The room which Snowby entered was small. It was connected, however, by folding-doors with another of the same size. From the windows of the front one there was a view of the * boulevard ;' but from the other was to be seen, over an oblong garden, an extensive area of cabbage fields beyond which the sun was setting behind an atmosphere of London smoke. Snowby had scarcely taken a turn across the room when a young girl made her appearance, and ran like a child into his arms. She was about eighteen years of age, and one of the brightest looking girls imaginable. She had large, laughing eyes, a perfect rosebud of a mouth, and brown wavy hair lit up with a golden tint 104 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. which seemed to be stray sunshine. Her features were small and delicately formed, and her figure was so well pro- portioned that she appeared smaller than she actually was. There was something indescribably expressive in her hands ; they attracted almost as much attention as her face. They were such busy hands, so con- stantly in motion, so white and long, and dimpled too like her cheeks. ' Father,' said she, with her hands placed tenderly on Snowby's shoulders and with her red lips raised for a kiss, ' what a good- tempered face you have brought home this evening. Has anything remarkable happen- ed at the office ?' *Why, yes, Kate, my dear,' said her father, * something remarkable has, or I should say, is going to happen.' Kate placed her arm in her father's, and THE MANAGER AT HOME. 105 clasping her hands, and glanced up laugh- ingly, she said : ' Come down into the " snuggery," and tell me all about it while I make the tea.' The ' snuggery,' as Kate called it, was a little parlour below stairs, next to the kitchen. It was half above ground and half below, so that standing at the window you found your eyes on a level with the front garden, with a small railed area intervening. When Kate had placed her father in the arm-chair, and had given the kettle a play- ful bump on the top of a cheerful fire, she began to lay the cloth in a busy, bustling manner, singing snatches of songs. She took from the cupboard sundry cups and saucers and plates, not forgetting to give her parent a smile each time she caught 106 IN LETTEES OF GOLD. his eye. During one of these expeditions Snowby, impatient with his news, com- menced by saying : * Well, Kate, my dear, the fact is . . . .* ' Wait a minute, father,' cried Katie, * IVe forgotten the teapot ;' and she hasten- ed into the kitchen to search for that im- portant commodity. When she presently returned, he began again. ' The fact is, my dear . . . .' ^Now, let me make the tea first,' said Kate, glancing at the kettle, * the water is boiling ; and if your news is very surprising I shall scald myself as sure as fate. Only wait half-a-minute now, father, and I will come and sit down, with nothing to do but to pour out your tea and to listen to the latest news.' When these preparations were at last TEE MANAGER AT H0:ME. 107 completed, and Kate had cut the bread and poured out the tea, she settled down with a merry look, and said : *I am ready now, father, to give you all my attention.' Snowby stirred his tea, and then fixed his eyes earnestly upon his daughter. *What should you say,' he demanded, ' what should you say to an important change : to a change, my dear, in our social, indeed, I may say in our financial position ?' Kate glanced up quickly with a puzzled face. * What should I say, father ?' ' Ay, Katie,' said he, ' what should you say supposing that instead of living as we do in a small house, and letting our first floor, we had a fine house in the west-end in one of the squares, and a box at the 108 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. opera for tbe season ? What should you say if, instead of the Brixton bus, we had our own carriage, drove in Hyde Park, and received no end of company?' * I do not understand,' said Kate. ' Then,' said Snowby, * I will explain my- self more clearly. All this has been offer- ed in prospective : all that a man can desire in the way of wealth has been promised me to-day by Mr. Paul Alder- shaw. In a word : Mr. Grimwade's room is going to be dusted.' As he finished speaking Snowby's eyes sparkled, and he looked triumphantly into his daughter's face to watch the effect of his last words. Katie did not even smile. After a pause, she simply said : * Is that all, father ?' Snowby's face expressed sudden surprise. THE MANAGER AT HOME. 109' ' All, my dear?' said he. ' Does not the news content you ?' Katie made no reply. * Why, there is scarcely a man on 'Change,' said her father, ' who will not grow envi- ous when he hears about it. Ever since Mr. Grimwade's death, which occurred^ you know, more than half-a-century ago, the great question on 'Change has been : who will occupy the vacant place in Grim- wade, Aldershaw and Company's office ? It is the direct road to wealth. It means that if I live to reach Mr. Paul Alder- shaw 's age — no very great age to reach, after all — I shall be, like him, a very rich man, and you, Kate, an heiress. Why^ Katie,' he concluded, ^what more would you have?' Still Katie did not answer. * You will, of course,' her father went on^ 110 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ■with enthusiasm, ^ marry a man of position. There is no reason, when we have a house in Belgrave Square, why you should not. Such things have happened. Why not again ?' Katie's eyes were bent thoughtfully to the ground : she did not even raise them when her father paused as though expect- ing some reply. ' Your education has not been neglected,' pursued Snowby, reflectively, 'and you are beginning to improve your music and your French in the society of Madame Helene. And as to beauty,' he added, with a look of pride, ' I defy anyone to point me out a prettier girl.' Eising at last from her seat, Katie went to her parent's side, and leaned over him with her arm around his neck. 'Father,' said she, 'I am more than con- THE ^lANAGER AT HOilE. Ill tented bere. I wisli for nothino: better than to live in this little home with you, where we have lived alone so Ions: and so happily/ She touched his forehead with her lips, and then slowly sat down before the fire at his feet and rested her arm upon his knee. *In a grand house,' she pleaded, in a low voice, 'we should never be to- gether like this. There would be serv- ants waiting upon us, and watching our movements at every step, until we grew ashamed to own that we loved each other. There would be visitors to entertain, and dinner-parties to give ; and the people would not care for us, any more, I am afraid, than we should care for them. I should grow weary of life, f-ather ; would not you ?' A look of disappointment crossed Snow- 112 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. by's face, but he answered his daughter in a cheerful voice, as he stroked her hair caressingly. ' Well, well, my dear/ said he, ' you are young, still very young; there is plenty of time. You do not understand yet the advantages of being rich. You do not understand. Besides,' he added, 'nothing definite has been settled. Mr. Grimwade's room cannot be dusted in a day. It will be early enough to question our good fortune after the deed of part- nership has been signed. Meanwhile, Katie, you can talk over the subject with Madame H^lene. She is evidently a woman of the world.' *That may be,' said Katie, thought- fully ; ' but no argument would convince me that all the wealth of London would make us happier than we are now.* THE JVIANAGER AT HO^^IE. 113 Not wishing, apparently, to urge the matter further, Snowbj changed the sub- ject by inquiring, * How do you like our new lodger ?* * I think Madame Helene charming,* said Katie, ' and we are great friends al- ready. She seems quite delighted at the idea of helping me with my music. We have been playing and singing together all the afternoon.' ' She has a fine voice,' said Snowby, ' certainly, a very fine voice/ * Yes, father,' said Kate ; ' singing is her profession.' indeed!' * So she told me to-day,' said Kate. 'In fact, she has been quite confi- dential.' * Ah !' ■ said Snowby. ' Now, I wonder who she is.' VOL. I. I 114 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. 'She did not precisely tell me that,' said Kate. *But she told me that she was alone in the world, and that she had lived many years in Paris, where she had made her living by singing' and by teaching music* *But you do not know who she is?' * No, father,' said Kate. ' Beyond this, she told me nothing : but I am sure from her manner and her conversation that she is a lady.' * Unquestionably, my dear,' said Snow- by. ' She referred me to her bankers in Paris. I believe Madame H61ene to be highly respectable.' 'No one could have doubted that, fa- ther,' said Kate. * There, my dear,' said Snowby, ' you are wrong. In business, we doubt that people are respectable until we have been THE MANAGER AT HOME. 115 furnished with their credentials. Our first floor apartments were to let : Ma- dame Hel^ne applied for them. I sug- gested that it was customary to exchange references. Madame Helene was quite agreeable. The references satisfied both parties, and the matter was settled ; and,' added Mr. Aldershaw's manag^er, 'I am very pleased to think it has ; for I have wished for some time past that my little girl could find a suitable companion during the hours I am compelled to be away from home.' Katie now rose from her place at her father's feet, and gave him a playful embrace. * Shall we pay Madame Helene a visit this evening?' said she. 'I know that she would be delisfhted — indeed, she said she should — if we went to her room and i2 116 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. had a little music. She admires your voice very much, father. In fact, I should make you quite vain if I told you half she has said about it/ Snowby chuckled with delight. After his day in the city, the manager's greatest pleasure was to hear his own voice. Scarcely an evening went by without some music ; for Katie was as willing to accom- pany her father upon the piano as he was to sing his songs : the consequence was that Snowby had a repertoire sufficiently varied and extensive to have satisfied a tenor at the opera. He readily agreed to Kate's proposal that they should ^ go up '^ to Madame Helene's 'apartments/ as he called them ; and they presently mounted the staircase arm-in-arm and knocked modestly at their lodger's door. Madame Helene, who was seated at the THE MANAGER AT HOME. 117 piano when they entered, rose to welcome her visitors. She was not very young : thirty-five may have been about her age, for her handsome features were marked with that strength of expression which only makes its stamp upon a woman's face with time ; and seldom even then unless she has seen the world and suffered. Her eyes were still bright and beautiful ; but what a depth of sadness seemed to lie buried there even when she smiled ! *We have come,' said Snowby, when they were seated, * we have come to peti- tion you to sing to us, Madame Helene. Music, as you know, is my hobby after business hours ; so, since you have given us some encouragement, you must be prepared to find us rather troublesome.' Madame Helene assured him that his visits could not be too frequent : that what 118 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. she wanted was an appreciative audience. * But,' she added, ' I shall not be satis- fied, Mr. Snowby, unless you sing on all occasions when you come to see me.' Snowby laughingly declared that he would not hide his talent under a bushel : and thus a pleasant evening commenced, Katie played and sang in her homely style with taste and simplicity : a little nervous in the presence of Madame Hel^ne, but this was a charm rather than a defect. Then with what pride she played the accompaniments to her father's songs ! and with what confidence he sang them ! How energetically he raised him- self on tiptoe when he appeared in danger of not reaching the high notes, and how careful he was to bend down, with his nose almost on a level with the music,, when he came to the low ones ! THE iM/VNAGER AT HOME. 111^ Then, what could liave surpassed their rapture when Madame H^lene sat down to the piano and began that song which has touched so many hearts, that simple melody of ' Home, Sweet Home !' They listened to a true artist whose emotion seemed to them so real that tears started into their eyes as she proceeded ; perhaps all the more readily because they knew the music and the words so well and acknow- ledged the song to be their favourite air. When it was finished, and Madame Hel^ne had closed the music-book, neither ventured to utter a word. Snowby was the first to break the silence. * By-the-by,* said he, * talking of " Home, Sweet Home," reminds me, Katie, that I shall be out one evening soon until some- 120 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. what later than usual. For the fact is, I have undertaken a little private business for Mr. Aldershaw. A little matter, Madame Helfene/ he explained, turning towards his lodger with an apologetic air, * a little matter relating to an old clerk whom Mr. Aldershaw was compelled to discharge some years ago — before inj time, in fact — on account of a tendency he had to drink.' A slight change came over the face of Madame Helene. ' An old clerk of Mr. Aldershaw's ?' she said, quietly. ' A clerk, Madame Helene,' said Snowby, with earnestness, * who might have been a partner in the house ; but, owing to his sad propensity, he is now, I have reason to fear, almost destitute. He professes to teach elocution; but all that, I should THE .AIAXAGER AT HOME. 121 imagine, is mere talk. I have been €ommissioned to look after him, and to prevent him, if possible, from falling into 3, more helpless condition. He had . . .' The change in Madame Helene's face, although a shade more marked, would not have been observed except by such watch- ful eyes as Kate Snowby's. * Are you il], Madame Helene ?' The shoulders of Madame Helene ap- peared to shiver. * It is nothing,' she said, seating herself nearer the fire. ' I am a little cold, I think : that is all. You were saying,Mr.Snowby . . . ?' *I was merely going to observe,' re- marked Snowby, still apologetically, 'that my reason for taking a peculiar interest in this man, is that he had a daughter who was not what a daughter should be. She left her home years ago. "Wild- 122 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. rake, as he is called, has gone from bad to worse since then. He leads the life of a drunkard ; and for this his heartless daughter is, in my opinion, responsible.' ' You are severe, Mr. Snowby,' said Ma- dame Helene. in a low voice. ' Is it possible,' said Snowby, ^to speak too severely of a woman who has, by her conduct, ruined his prospects in life, and made him a disgrace to society — even dangerous — as Mr. Aldershaw justly re- marked.' ' Still, Mr. Snowby,' pleaded Madame Helene, 'you must admit that what may appear unnatural on the daughter's part is sometimes possible of explana- tion. The strangest things happen. This woman may not be so heartless, so very wicked, as you suppose. She may have been more sinned against than sinning.' THE MANAGER AT HOME. 123 ' That,' said Snowbj, ' I cannot deny. For I am as ignorant at present of the details of this affair as you are, Madame H^I^ne. I am judging of this woman's conduct from the little I have learnt through Mr. Paul Aldershaw. He has told me simply that she was led astray, and I conclude that this broke her father's heart. If it is true — and there is, I understand, no reason to doubt it — surely that is enough to justify my condemnation ? I question if I could find any term sufficiently severe to express my opinion of a cliild of mine if she treated me so cruelly. I should curse her ! though. I own that I might be sorry for it afterwards.' ' Father !' said Katie, with her arms thrown suddenly around his neck, * why are you so earnest about a trouble that can never come to you ? We shall always live 124 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. happily together, you know we shall, whether it be in Belgrade Square, as you have fancied, or in this quiet little home. Why, there are tears in your eyes I Do you think it possible I could leave you ?' There were tears in Madame Helene's eyes too, as she rose in a restless manner and went over to the piano, and began to touch the chords, as though to con- <3eal what sounded strangely like a sob. 125 CHAPTER VII. CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. Pump Couet, Temple, is one of those sanctuaries within a sanctuary where silence still retains a stronghold, although it is only a few short paces from one of the most deafening thoroughfares in London. All noises belonorinor to the outer world are excluded from its precincts : or, if they enter there, are solemnly entombed. At one end there is a sombre, covered way which leads into courts not less effectually protected against sounds: at the other, through a narrow opening, there are courts again 126 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. where the timid splash of the temple fountain can be heard, hard by. The silence indeed would sometimes seem as though guarded by the disembodied spirits of lawyers who had once resided there : for occasionally people passing in and out of Pump Court appear anxious not to dis- turb the echoes even of their own foot- steps ; and as they ascend, or descend, the old wooden staircases, through the arch- ed and open doorways, they converse in confidential voices, as though fearing the representatives of the law who live there still. The echoes were awakened, one morning, by the light step of a lady who was closely veiled, and who entered Pump Court as if half disposed to hastily retreat again from a place where the silence was so embarrass- ing. But, after stopping and reflecting for COXSCIENCE STRICICEN. 127 a moment, she decided to ascend one of the creaking staircases. She knocked at a dark oaken door across which was written : Mi\ Horace Ludlaw. Mr. Roy Valroy. A thin, tall youth, with a gloomy coun- tenance, answered the summons. He belonged to the common official species : too large for an errand boy, and too small for a clerk. He was, in fact, going throuo'hthe transformation stao^e from one to the other. The lady presented her card and said : * I wisli to see Mr. Ludlaw.' The youtb opened a door in the passage opposite to the entrance. ' At present,' said he, ' Mr. Ludlaw is engaged. But,' he added, condescendingly, 'if you will step in here, we will send in your name.' 128 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. The room was small and dull. It looked like a little prison : there was only one tiny window crossed with iron bars, and covered with dust. The furniture consisted of an inky table, a chair, and an old copying press for taking the im- pressions of legal letters. After offering the chair to the lady the youth retired,, closing the door softly. With the lady's card between his finger and thumb, the youth entered a room at the end of the passage, where he knew that Mr. Ludlaw was deeply engaged in smoking a cigarette in his arm-chair before the fire, enveloped in his loose morning costume, his small body almost lost among soft cushions. On the table at his elbow, amidst a pile of documents, lying loosely together or tied with red tape, was his half finished break- fast. On the floor around his chair were CONSCIENCE STEICKEN. 129 the morning papers. Documents covered half his desk near one of the windows, and some of the chairs against the walls were heaped up with others. There were docu- ments open on his lap : but he was not reading. His whole attention appeared to be devoted to the cigarette. The youth took a winding path across the room, and presented the card. Lud- law read the name with an angry frown : Madame Helene, Rose Villa, The Boulevard^ Brixton. He continued to look so long and so earnestly at the card that the youth ven- tured to suggest : * The lady is waiting, sir, in the oflBce.* VOL. I. K 130 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Ludlaw turned the card about absently and threw it on the table. ' Grubby/ said he to the youth, while pouring himself out a cup of coffee, * will you oblige me by vanishing T Grubby skipped between tbe documents and disappeared. Ludlaw drank his coffee and smoked his cigarette with great deliberation, show- ing no signs of haste or uneasiness in his manner, except an occasional repetition of the frown. When he had finished, and had sat for some minutes with an undecided air, he stood up with his back to the fire, and, with his eyes on the rug, remarked in a low tone, as though he were summing up his thoughts : ' Now I wonder what this woman wants with me?' He touched the hand-bell on the table. Grubby entered. COXSCIEXCE STRICKEN. 131 ' Clear away tlie breakfast, and open the windows for a moment,' said he ; ' the room is full of tobacco-smoke. Will you be kind enough to look sharp?' While the boy was obeying these orders briskly, Ludlaw went into an adjoining room to make his toilet. He gave care to every detail in his dress, and then, returning to liis seat at the table, began to busy himself with his papers, throwing them, if it were possible, into greater disorder. After a while he ao^ain rano^ his bell. * There is some one waiting to see me, I think you said ?' remarked Ludlaw, absent-mindedly. ' Yes, sir,' said the youth — ' a lady. * Show the lady in.' Ludlaw was so absorbed in reading documents when Madame Helene entered 132 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. that he did not immediately look up. She raised her veil and waited patiently. *You are still engaged, Mr. Ludlaw?' said she at last, to attract his attention. Ludlaw rose slowly from his seat with an air of greater abstraction in his face. 'Ah!' said he, 'my dear Lady ... I should say Madame H^l^ne,' — he corrected himself with a glance at her card — ' how do you do ?' Madame Helene held out her hand. * What a long time — how many years,' Ludlaw continued, with the hand in his, * since I had the pleasure of seeing you ?' 'Many years indeed,' said Madame Helene. Ludlaw removed some documents from a chair which he placed for his visitor. *Let me see,' he observed, reseating himself and hunting among his papers CONSCIENCE STKICKEN. 133 ■with an increased appearance of preoccu- pation — ' let me see : you have called, you say, to ask my advice about Sir Michael Yalroy ?' * No, I did not say that.' Ludlaw looked up with surprise. ' Did you not ?' said he. ' How muddled I am this morning ! I really must beg your pardon.' Madame Helene played nervously with her gloved fingers. Ludlaw watched her under his eyebrows. He seldom looked at anyone straight in the face for more than a second. ' I have ventured to come and see you/ said the lady, in a trembling voice, ' about my father.' Ludlaw's face expressed bewilderment. 'I'm afraid,' said he, apologetically — •* I'm afraid — it's so many years, you know 134 IN LETTEES OF GOLD. — I'm afraid I've forgotten his name/ 'Mr. John Wildrake/ said Madame Helene. * To be sure !' said Ludlaw, brightening. * How could I have forgotten ? But it is so many years ago. Pray tell me, is Mr. Wildrake still living ?' ' Yes,' said Madame Helene, with tears starting into her eyes, * still living.' There was a slight pause, during which Ludlaw trifled with a paper-knife upon which he kept his eyes attentively fixed. 'You once showed yourself to be my friend,' said Madame Helene. *May I count upon your friendship still ?' ' My dear Lady . . . Madame Helene, I should say . . . can you doubt it ?' Thus encouraged to speak, Madame Helene hesitated no longer. * You can do me a service,' she said, 'a CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. 135 most inestimable service. You can bring about a meeting, perhaps a reconciliation, between my father and me. I have come to ask you, as a great favour, to do this.' With an air of painful distraction Lud- low got up, and cast his eyes around the room: first upon the documents upon the table, then upon the chairs, then upon the desk, and finally upon those lying in distinct heaps upon the floor. ' One moment,' said he, ^ one moment.' His eye settled upon a pile in a corner near a bookshelf. From beneath he ex- tracted a tin box, and from this box he produced some papers. ' Ah r said he, selecting a small bundle, bound round with red tape. * Here we are ! '' Valroy — Wildrake," ' he continued, reading the superscription, ^ '*correspon- 136 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. dence, matrimonial agreement.'* I took the precaution, as you perceive, to seal this packet.' He sat down again ; and, after having read one or two pages here and there, and made several pencil notes on the margins, he looked up and said : ' The whole affair had escaped my memory ! You were saying . . . But stay,' he suddenly added, ' perhaps it will simplify matters if first of all I put one or two questions. Will you permit me ?' Madame Helene readily assented. ' You were saying that Mr. Wildrake is still alive,' commenced Ludlaw, scrutiniz- ing the legal deed, instead of the face of Madame Hel5ne. ' Have you seen, or, in fact, held any communication with that gentleman since the date of your marriage with . . .' CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. 137 'None whatever, Mr. Ludlaw,' said Ma- dame Helene. ' Indeed . . .* ' Yery good. You gave your promise, — did you not — never to hold any commu- nication with Mr. Wildrake, never to mention to him, in fact, that you were married, without the written consent oE Sir Michael Yalroy?' ' Yes, I promised,' said Madame Helene, in a tone of distress. ' I promised. But . . .' ' Confine yourself for the moment, if you will be so good,' said Ludlaw, firmly, though with marked politeness, ' to an- swering my questions. You promised, you say, never to hold any communication with Mr. Wildrake, without Sir Michael's consent. As a matter of form, I must -ask you : have you kept that promise ?' ' Yes.' 138 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * Absolutely ?' * Yes.' ^ But you wish now to have that promise a D nulled?' ' Indeed I do.' ^ You desire, in fact, to gain the per- mission of Sir Michael Yalroy to have an interview or interviews with your father ?' ' Yes ; if you think, after all these years,' said Madame Helene, ' that it is necessary to obtain my husband's consent.' * If / think it necessary,' repeated Lud- law ; ' surely, madame, you would not ask me to be a party to a meeting unless I had the consent of Sir Michael in black and white.' ' Can it possibly be obtained ?' said Ma- dame Helene. Ludlaw tapped his fingers thoughtfully with the paper-knife before replying. CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. 139 *I cannot say,' said he, 'but I will try what I can do.' ' Shall you see him soon ?' said Madame Helena, eagerly ; ' shall I have to wait many days ?' ' Sir Michael Valroy is in England,' said Ludlaw, * as perhaps you are aware . . .' ' Yes.' ' I will see to it very soon,' said Ludlaw, cautiously ; ' and you shall hear from me. But,' he added, ' what, may I ask, is your reason for desiring to see Mr. Wildrake after so many years, you know ?' ' Can you not guess, Mr. Ludlaw ?' Ludlaw's face broke into a provoking smile. 'Eeally, madame,' said he, *you must not expect a man in the legal profession 140 IN LETTERS OF GOt^D. to do that. Answer my question, if you please.' * I wish to tell him,' said she, ^ what he should have been told long ago : that I am the wife of Sir Michael Valroy. I wish to meet my father here, if you will allow me, and explain to him that I was forced by my husband to conceal from him my marriage. I wish to gain, if possible, his forgiveness . . .' ' I understand,' Ludlaw repeated, as thouo^h it were a mere business matter. ' His forgiveness.' ^My long absence from England,' con- tinued Madame Helene, ^ and my separa- tion from my husband, is perhaps but ^ poor excuse for my conduct. But had I thought, had I even dreamed, that what I have done could have caused so much misery, I should have tried long, COXSCIEXCE STRICKEN. 141 long ago to put these family matters right. Is it too late?' she added. ^I sometimes fear, Mr. Ludlaw, that it is. The news that I have gathered about my father makes me shrink with dread from this meeting which must be arranged between us, even if I fail 'to obtain the consent of Sir Michael Yalroy.' ' It can never take place here,' said Ludlaw, firmly, ^ without Sir Michael's permission. It is better that you should at once understand that.' 'But,' pleaded Madame Helene, 'my father is leading a most unhappy life — the life of a drunkard ! He is living in some poor garret in the City. I dare not go near him there. He would not listen to me. It is only here, in your presence, with all the legal proofs at hand to place before his eyes, that I can ever 142 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. hope to convince bim that I am married, or hope to find once more a place in his heart.' Ludlaw lent an attentive ear, though he still kept his eyes fixed upon the paper-knife. 'You hear, then, of Mr. Wildrake,' Ludlaw suggested, ' through some friend, perhaps ?' *My landlord, Mr. Snowby,' Madame Helene explained, ' is now Mr. Paul Al- dershaw's chief clerk.' ' Indeed !' said Ludlaw. ., ' Then Mr. Wildrake has left the firm, I conclude ?' ' Years ago,' said Madame Helene ; ' but Mr. Aldershaw supplies him with money, I believe, indirectly. In fact, it is Mr. Snowby who has been deputed by the merchant to visit my father. I have learnt much through him : and it is almost more CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. 143 than I can bear. Mr. Snowby little thought, when he spoke the other even- ing of John Wildrake's sad life, who was listening to the story ! If I had the courage to face my father, I would go to that poor garret in the City, and implore him to turn from his evil ways.* ' Without the consent of Sir Michael Valroy ?' said Ludlavv. ' Surely not.' •' I sometimes think so,' said Madame Hel^ne, with an air of desperation. ' I sometimes think my duty lies there, at my father's side. Indeed, can there be any doubt that it is so ?' *Yes,' said Ludlaw. 'You must not give way to impulse. It is your duty, now, to wait.' He placed the deed and the bundle of letters, as he spoke, in their former order, tying them again with the red tape. He 144 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. now laid them beside him on the table. ' I will be guided by your advice/ said Madame Helene, with a sigh, as she rose and held out her hand. * Yes, I am impul- sive, Mr. Ludlaw, I know. But I am sure, under the circumstances, that you will not criticise my conduct too severely.' After this interview with Ludlaw, it seemed to Madame H^lene as though the deep trouble which had for many years weighed upon her conscience was begin- ning to grow lighter. A sense of hope, even of happiness, already opened out before her at the prospect of seeing her father, and bestowing upon him a care and affection which she had so long and so undutifully withheld. Bound by an agreement, as sacred as an oath, to keep her marriage with Sir Michael Yalroy a COXSCIEXCE STRICKEX. 145 secret, she was too proud, or perhaps too broken in spirit, through grief and disap- pointment, when a separation from her husband took place, to demand a release from her promise. Under the pseudonym of ' Madame Helene,' she had commenced her career as a singer. Her success had proved greater than she had anticipated. She became a favourite with the public : her beauty pleased as much as her voice. This sudden and complete change in her life had had the effect, as frequently hap- pens, of altering her character. The past, when recurring to her mind, presented such a dismal picture that she had not the fortitude to face that portion of it which it was still possible to rectify. For ten years and more she had left undone that which she was trying her best to do now. Her inclination had been VOL. I. L 146 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. often strong, but at the eleventh hour her courage had always failed her. Instead of completing her good intention while the impulse lasted, she found in her art a pre- text for procrastination ; and her good purpose, gradually growing weak, was abandoned, and then forgotten in the midst of her brilliant achievements before the footlights. Until she found her home with the Snowbys, Madame Hel5ne was even ignor- ant that her father was no longer a clerk in the great house of Aldershaw, Grim- wade, and Company. That he was leading a miserable life, as Snowby had described it in her presence, was now first made known to her as something almost impos- sible to realise. She had purposely taken up her residence with the manager, hoping to gain news of her parent. It had come CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. 147 with a swiftness she had not anticipated. But instead of learning, as she expected to do, that he was a partner in the firm, she was told that he was destitute, living in a wretched garret in some crowded part of the old city ! The discovery had stricken her with remorse. Her resolution was taken, and her interview with Ludlaw had been the result. It was with feverish impatience that she awaited the decision which must come from Sir Michael Valroy before she could move another step : to gain recognition and forgiveness from her father was now her one thought. The days passed slowly : they seemed longer than those unheeded years which had gone since she had fled from home. She was beset with many fears. Would her husband bind her to the promise to L 2 148 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. keep their unhappy union a secret? She could not conceal from herself the dis- quietude which a refusal would awaken in her heart ; to restrain the impulse which bid her rebel against Sir Michael Yalroj, should he design to hold her to that promise still, seemed contrary to tho promptings of her woman's nature. But for the consolation which her young companion, Kate Snowby, unconsciously bestowed by her cheerful presence in her apartments, it is doubtful if Madame Hel^ne could have quietly endured the painful situation a single day. She re- cognised qualities in the character of the girl which gave her courage ; while talking with her, or teaching her, she was herself learning a lesson which enabled her to bear her distress with more submission. Watching Katie late one afternoon, as COXSCIENCE STEICKEX. 149 she stood looking oat of the window upon the leafless * boulevard,' Madame Helene called her presently to her side by the fire. * Is it not early,' said she, ' to be expect- ing your father's return ?' ' I think not,' Katie answered, glancing at the clock, ' if it was his intention to come straight home from the City. But I was wondering whether it was not just possible that he had gone to-night to visit that poor old clerk/ Madame Helene suppressed a sigh while asking, in a low voice : * Did he say that he should go there this evening ?' 'No,' said Katie. 'But he told me he should 2:0 some evenino^ soon.' For a little while Madame Helene was silent. Then she looked up and said, 150 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * Katie, you have a very kind father/ With the brightest smile upon her face Katie replied : * He is the best and dearest in the world.' ' Ah !' said Madame Helene, meditatively, ' what will he do without you ?' * Without me?' repeated Katie, with surprise, ^ I never intend to leave him. We made up our minds, I think it must have been when I was a baby, when my mother died, that we would always live together.' * My dear child,' said her friend, with earnestness, ' such a resolution might be weakened to-morrow by the presence in your tender young heart of a deeper affection than the love you bear towards your father.' Katie looked almost sad. CONSCIENCE STRICKEN, 151 * I know what you mean,' said she. * Then is it wise,' said Madame Helene, ^ to indulge in ideas which some day may bring needless pain ? Perhaps you have already had some cause to suffer in your heart . . .' ' No, indeed,' said Katie, * my deepest love has always been, and still is, for my father. I know no other love; I do not wish to know another.' Madame Helene bent her head and clasped her hands as though she were suffering pain at Katie's words. ' So I thought and felt, my child, not many years ago.' For a moment Kate was silent, but her thoughtfulness increased. ' The only thing that sometimes troubles me,' the girl presently confessed, * is that father will not be content, when Mr. 152 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Grimwade's room is dusted, and he be- comes a partner in the firm, to remain in this neighbourhood, where we are so quiet and so happy, but will move into the West- end, where, as he seriously believes, my future husband is waiting for me among the upper ranks of society. I hardly know,' she added, with a smile, * whether to laugh or whether to cry when I think about it, as I often do; for to marry anyone above me in station could, I am quite sure, only lead to unhappiness.' ' No one,' said Madame Helene, ' knows that better than I do.' ' For this reason,' continued Kate, * I prefer to be always what I am now : his little housekeeper. If I married some one in high life, I should not please my- self ; and, if I married some one in my own position, I should not, 1 fear, please CONSCIEXCE STRICIvEN. 153 my father. This is all that I meant, dear madame, when I said that it was my wish and my intention never to leave him.' Madame Helene looked approvingly into the girl's face. 'Your good sense, Katie,' said she, * will always guide you rightly. Though most women with your beauty would show signs of restlessness and discontent : would, indeed, expect to be admired, petted, and spoilt. If such women are sometimes happier than you are, they sometimes suffer more ; far more, my child, than will ever, I hope, fall to your lot in life to suffer. They find out when too late, let us suppose, that they have married a man above them in station, with ideas of domestic life utterly different to their own. Perhaps,' added Madame Helene, in a low voice, * perhaps a separa- 154 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. tioD, or something even worse, is the result. Perhaps the marriage, in some instance, has been so contrary to the "wishes of her friends that the woman has chosen her husband without the consent, even without the knowledge, of her parents. Thus, at a moment's notice, she may be thrown upon the world with nothing but her own abilities to aid her in facing it/ *That is a sad picture,' said Katie, in a low voice. ' But that, my child,' Madame Helene pursued, ' is not always all. Even if the wife, separated from her husband and her friends, is fortunate enough to support herself, or even grow rich, the time may come when she longs to see her parents again : a father, like your own , dear Katie, after years have passed, may still bo living.' CONSCIENCE STRICKEN. 155 ^ It is never, I hope, too late,* said Katie, ' to go and receive his forgive- ness T 'No, no,' was the reply, * never too late, I sincerely hope and pray/ The evening had grown dusk while they were talking, and the room was so dark now that Katie could only see the face of Madame H^lene by the light of the fire. It wore a look which made her heart beat faster : a look that half revealed a secret which the young girl shrank from sur- mising when she thought that she would perhaps soon be forced to share it with her friend. 156 CHAPTER VIII. ELOCUTION. One dark evening, Snowby found himself standing on tbe steps of the old mansion in Gable Court, where John Wildrake lived. A sense of strange curiosity, not unmixed with alarm at the gloomy aspect of the place, and of the river beyond, took possession of Mr. Aldershaw's trusty manager. He paused for a moment with a certain degree of indecision. For it was not altogether his uneasiness, when he glanced at the entrance, which caused him hesitation before demanding ELOCUTION. 157 admittance. The numbei' of bell-handles on both sides of the door, ranged beneath each other like stops in an organ, puzzled him greatly. Under one bell-handle he read, on a small brass-plate, the word 'Engraver,' under another, 'Printer,' un- der another, ' Midwife'; but none of them, out of a dozen or more, suggested John Wildrake, nor even elocution. Noticing at last one handle which had no profes- sional plate beneath it, Snowby took courage, gave a sharp pull, and waited the result with impatience. After an interval of some minutes, he heard footsteps approaching : the door was slowly opened, and before liim there stood an old man, in a skull-cap, with a long white beard. * Does Mr. Wildrake live here ?' Without replying to this question, Mr. 158 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Isaacs, the landlord (for ifc was Nedlicott's friend, the Jew), held the door open still wider, and, with a slight wave of the hand, invited Snowby to enter. The hall into which the manager obe- diently stepped bore a striking resem- blance to the chancel of an old church or chapel. It was paved with stone, worn in many parts, like the steps outside. The panelled walls, sombre in colour through age, were hung with tablets. These tablets were cased in quaint, orna- mental frames filled with scriptural pas- sages. Two large frames, extending frotn the ceiling almost to the floor, held, in letters of gold, the ten commandments. They stood out in bold relief against the dark background. The only light was an oil-lamp placed in a corner at the foot of the broad open staircase. ELOCUTION. 159 ' May I inquire, sir,' said the old man, * whether you are a friend of Mr. Wild- rake's ?* ' Yes,' said Snowby, after a moment's reflection — ' a friend/ ' In that case/ replied the Jew, * you will find his door facing you at the top of the third staircase. But if you are not a friend, sir, if you are one of Mr. Wildrake's creditors, and think that there is any chance of getting your money, let me advise you not to waste your time by going up. I doubt if he has sixpence in the world.' ^Indeed!' The old man shook his head slowly and sorrowfully. 'Yes,' said he, 'I doubt it very much. My name,' he went on to explain, ' is Benjamin Isaacs, and I am Mr. Wildrake's 160 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. landlord ; and, to be perfectly candid witli you, I doubt if he has even a penny.' * That's not very satisfactory,' said Snowby. * Do you think so T ' I do not think so,' said the old man, with decision. 'It does not look, for example,' said Snowby, * as if elocution was a very pay- ing profession.' 'Elocution?' said the old man, scorn- fully. ' Mr. Wildrake is mad.' With some anger in his voice, but with the visionary look in his eyes, he con- tinued : ' Elocution ! I wonder what next ? He has always some scheme in his head for improving the condition of the rising generation, as he calls it. If he invented some scheme for improving his own con- dition, and left the rising generation alone, ELOCUTION. 161 which is quite capable of taking care of itself, he would soon be a more prosper- ous man. If you are his friend,' added he, ' tell him so to his face, as I have told him over and over again.' He took the quaint silver snufE-box from a deep waistcoat pocket, and then resumed. ' You may think,' said he, tapping the box meditatively — 'you may think, sir, that all this is no business of mine ; that if Mr. Wildrake chooses to waste his time in what I consider senseless schemes, he has a right to do so. But I take an interest in my lodgers ; I call them my children.' He paused to take a pinch of snuff with a self-satisfied, patriarchal air, and then turned his gaze towards the tablets on the walls. VOL. I. M 162 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ' This is our trade,' he pursued, in a lower tone, and with a wave of the hand towards the frames containing the ten commandments ; ' we decorate the holy places, and we reserve the ground-floor here for our workshops and our dwelling. The rest we let out unfurnished. The house is always full. My children are very good children, as a rule. The third floor front is the only bad one in the house at present ; the only really bad one. But he is very bad indeed, sir, very bad indeed,' repeated the old man, in a trem- bling voice, as he slowly walked towards a door behind the wall leading to a small yard where there was a shed crowded with working materials — * very bad indeed. You will find his door facing you, if you. will walk upstairs. The third floor front, sir — the third floor front.' ELOCUTION. 163 While uttering these words the old Jew disappeared. With his curiosity by no means di- minished, Snowby mounted the dark stair- case. He knocked softly at the door indicated — no answer. Ho knocked again some- what louder : still no answer. So he ven- tured to turn the handle. The room, on first entering, appeared to Snowby to be empty. It was large, and had three windows, the blinds of which were drawn down. A guttering candle stood upon a low chest of drawers, near the door. The furniture was very scanty : a small table under the window, a couple of chairs, and a wooden bed in a shady corner near the fire-place. Upon this bed Snowby perceived, as he stepped towards it, a man lying full length, wrapped in a m2 164 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. long, grey dressing-gown, with his face towards the wall. Snowby stood, somewhat embarrassed, in the centre of the room, coughed, and then uttered Wildrake's name. The man moved himself upon his elbow, with his head in a listening attitude, and his face still to the wall. ' Hush !' he whispered, ' whose footsteps are those ? Don't you hear them ? 1 hear them, all day and all night long. But I -never see her ; I never see her face.' Snowby took a step nearer to the bed. 'Mr. Wildrake,' said he, 'I have called to pay you a visit. My name is Snowby.* ' Snowby ?' repeated Wildrake, turning his face towards his visitor, and shading his eyes with his hand. ' Snowby ? I've a bad memory for names unless they are creditors. What I mean is , . .' ELOCUTION. 165 ' I'm Mr. Paul Aldershaw's manager,' explained Mr. Snowby. ' You may recol- lect that, when you were last at the ofi&ce, we arrano^ed a small transaction too^ether in Mr. Grimwade's room.' John "Wildrake looked searchingly into Snowby's face. He then rose from the bed, thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of his dressino-.o^own, and beo^an to walk up and down the room, hugging himself, and witli his head bent thought- fully to the ground. Presently he stopped and said, witli a motion of the shoulder, * Sit down.' At the same time he seated himself opposite to Snowby, at the edge of his bed. * I have had it on my mind,' said he, ' for some days past, to settle that little affair, I have indeed. But I have had so 166 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. many engagements, and I have had so many expenses since I announced my intention of giving lessons in elocution, that I have found it next to impossible to give that bill a thought. If my memory does not mislead me/ he added, * it was a draft at one month's sight for ten pounds^ ten shillings, and no pence r' ' Precisely,' said Snowby, taking out a pocket-book, ' precisely.' ' Ah !' said Wildrake, * I see you have the draft with you. That's business. Would you allow me to glance over it ?' Snowby handed the document to Wild- rake, who looked at it for a moment in silence. ' I perceive,' said he, raising his eyes, ' I perceive that it is already due.' ' Yes,' said Snowby, * it is due to-day.' • And you have been put to the trouble,* ELOCUTION. 167 said Wildrake, with some concern, *jou have been put to the inconvenience of calling for payment.' Snowby smiled complacently. ' I have been put to no inconvenience/ said he. * In fact, as a former clerk in the house of Aldershaw, Grimwade and Com- pany, you are aware that we are always in the habit, like other houses, of presenting our drafts when they fall due. It is a mere matter of business. It is not a question of convenience. The question is, can you meet the bill to-day ?' ' To tell you the truth,' said Wildrake, * I cannot.' * Then,' said Snowby, ' perhaps you will consent to leave the matter in my hands. In a word,' added he, ' if you will agree to endorse the bill over to me, Mr. Wildrake, I will undertake to meet it for you.' 168 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. John Wildrake looked at Snowbj with surprise. Then rising from his seat upon the edge of the bed he went over to his visitor and gave him his hand. * I should be very much obliged to you,' said he, * very much obliged if you would. But,' he added, with his eye again on the paper, *but let us clearly understand each other. I shall be, it would appear, no longer in debt to the house in the old square. I shall be in debt to you and for the same amount, neither more nor less, namely : ten pounds, ten shillings, and no pence ?' * That,^ said Snowby, ' is precisely the situation.' *Ahr John Wildrake again glanced at Snow- by and again at the paper. Then, thrusting his hands once more into his pockets, he gave himself another hug, and began to ELOCUTIOX. 169 walk up and down the large carpetless room, deep in tliouglit. ^ Now, I am wondering,' said he, after a long pause, ' whether I understand you rightly. I am wondering whether you, as one of the rising generation, take any interest in elocution ; whether you recog- nise its importance in the nineteenth cen- tury. If you do, sir, I need scarcely remind you that the man w^ho is master of the art of speaking, in public or in private, holds the secret of success in life ; that to "be able to express oneself with aptitude fluency, and precision, is to be able to triumph over the human race.' ' He walked to the end of the chamber and back to where Snowby was seated, and then continued : 'Now, let us choose a profession,' said he. • Let us take any calling in life you 170 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. like. Let us take the law. A man is accused wrongfallj of crime. He looks out for a lawyer who has mastered the art of elocution. If he does not find one possessing aptitude, fluency, and precision, what happens ? He is hanged !' Wildrake again paused and looked at the manager as though to study the effect of his words. Then with a wave of his hand he continued : * Or,' said he, ' let us take commerce. A manufacturer wishes to introduce a new article to the trade. It is the very com- modity, let us suppose, that the public is waiting for. It combines the minimum of price with the maximum of durability. But the manufacturer knows nothing of elocution ; he cannot speak with aptitude, fluency, and precision. He has not a ' spark of eloquence. What is the result ? ELOCUTIOIT. 171 The article is a drug in the market !' Pausing once more with his eyes fixed on Snowby's face, Wildrake then con- cluded. ^Now, what I propose,' said he, 'is this. I owe you ten pounds. Shall I pay you this amount at my earliest convenience ? or,' he added, as though he had received a sudden inspiration, ' will you take some lessons in elocution and allow me in that way to balance our account?' ' Some lessons in elocution,' said Snow- by, with promptness, ' would cancel the debt.' *Ah ! Then we'll commence at once,' said Wildrake, with energy. ' But, first of air — and he looked down into a large pewter pot on the mantel-shelf — ' what can I offer you r' The manager expressed his thanks, but 172 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. declared that he did not feel thirsty. * The bitter beer over the road, in Thames Street,' said Wildrake, jerking his thumb towards the windows, 'is not bad. The brandy is excellent. You had better take something/ Snowby, thus appealed to, said, ^ Well, then, a glass of bitter.' ^ Good !' said Wildrake ; and he immedi- ately plunged his hands into his pockets. But, apparently failing to discover that of which he was in search, he went over to a coat which hung behind the door, like a scare-crow, under his hat. He examined the pockets with a result equally unsatisfactory. At this moment, the candle on the chest of drawers splut- tered and went out. ' Good !' he repeated, with cheerfulness. ' Y\\ strike a light.' ELOCUTION. 17^ Wildrake began to grope about the room. Presently he came across a box of matches, and a flat, tin candlestick. As soon as the lucifer was applied, the candle guttered down one side, as the other had done. Wildrake, with this gloomy light in his hand, walked towards the door. After standing pensively for some moments, he turned suddenly to- wards Snowby, and said briskly : 'You haven't half-a-crown, have you, which you could lend me ?' Snowby took the coin from his purse, and handed it to Wildrake. ' Good r said he, ' very good.' He then went out into the passage, and called up the staircase persuasively : ' Mimosa ?' Not a sound. ' Are you there,' repeated Wildrake, still 174 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. more persuasively, ^ Mimosa ! Are you there ?' As Wildrake repeated the name the third time, a scuffling was heard on the landing above, and something seemed to fall down a flight of stairs and arrive, somewhat out of breath, at Wildrake's door. ' Come in. Mimosa I Have you hurt yourself ?' Something came into the room sideways — something which might have been an old woman or a young girl. The individual was short and thin, and somewhat bent in the shoulders. Her dress was a loose, cotton gown ; and her hair, which was in a very dishevelled condition, was twist- ed up in a loose knot behind. She had sleepy eyes, and a pale, thin face, relieved by patches of black. Altogether, she ELOCUTION. 175 looked as thouo^li she bad been awakened out of a sound nap on a bed of coals. ' Have you hurt yourself ?' 'Lor ! no, sir. I ain't hurt myself.' Her expression was vacant. She had entered the room with her mouth open, and she kept it opeu, to let out the words, without moving her lips. The sound came from somewhere within, as it might have come from the mouth of a telephone. ' That girl, sir, falls up and downstairs at all hours of the day. She never hurts herself,' said Wildrake, pointing her out to Snowby as though she were some re- markable automaton. ' Did you ever hurt yourself in'your life, Mimosa ?' ' Lor ! no. sir ; not me.' 'I want you to run an errand. Take these,' said Wildrake, handing the girl the half-crown, the pewter pot, and the black 176 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. bottle. ' Take these, and get me a pint of bitter, six of brandy, a screw of tobac- co, and two clay pipes.' She disappeared almost before he had ceased speaking, as though she knew the message already by heart. The next mo- ment, a noise, which sounded like an ex- citing race between ' Mimosa,' the pewter pot, and the black bottle, was heard down the staircase, step by step, in quick suc- cession, until the front-door was shut with a slam. John Wildrake now divested himself of his dressing-gown, and put on the black coat, the only other article of wearing apparel, except the hat, to be seen in the room. He now began to assume all the airs of a host. From a cupboard in the panelled wall he brought forth two tum- blers and placed them on the table with as. ELOCUTION. 177 much ceremony as if he were preparing a banquet. He filled a water-jug with water from a tap on the staircase, and set that on the table also, regarding it side- ways with an ironical smile. He had just completed these preliminaries when the unmistakable sound of Mimosa, the pewter pot, and the black bottle, falling rapidly upstairs was heard. Thereupon Wildrake immediately hastened out, candle in hand, to meet them, with an expression of some anxiety. * Now, the first lesson I shall give you in elocution,' said John Wildrake, pouring out a glass of ale for Snowby with a sparkling head of froth at the finish, ' will be at the Loafers' Hall, in Fleet Street. Have you ever been there ?' Snowby said he had never even heard of the Loafers' Hall. VOL. I. N 178 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ^ All !' said Wildrake, in a regretful tone, * the rising generation has much to learn.* Snowby could not deny that there was considerable truth in Mr. Wildrake's remark. *The ''Loafers' Hall/" Wildrake ex- plained, while assisting himself to brandy out of the black bottle, and sprinkling it cautiously with drops of water, Hhe Loafers' Hall is a hall for discussion, and the men who speak there are men of intellect and learning. They are men who are thorough masters of elocution. You will gain more knowledge of the art of speaking, in public or private, with apti- tude, fluency, and precision, by spending one evening with me there than I could possibly teach you in a month in my own apartments.' ELOCUTION. 179 ' How often,' said Snowbj, ' do you ■discuss ?' ' Three times a week,' said Wildrake, lighting his clay pipe at the candle. ' There is a discussion to-night. The sub- ject is " Capital Punishment." ' Snowby expressed, as his opinion, that the question was one which could nob be discussed too often. ' Then come,' said Wildrake, ^ and take your first lesson to-night. I will introduce you to men with such intellects as you don't meet with every day. Their language, during the debates, may sometimes not be what one might call parliamentary ; but you will soon discover that there is more than one genuine Cicero among them. Their eloquence is, at times, most extra- ordinary.' Snowby declared himself interested. n2 180 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ' But,' he added, ^ I am so much engaged. I see so little of ** life." My duties in the City keep me there all day : and in the evening I generally remain at home witb my daughter, who . . .' Wildrake looked up quickly into Snow- by's face. 'You have a daughter,* said he, in a low voice. * Yes. But she has at last found a suitable companion,' said Snowby. ^ This is a great relief to me. I can now see something, perhaps, of the world. Until our lodger, Madame Helene, came to live with us, I seldom stirred from home in the evening without my Kate. I never had the heart to leave her alone. Some men would. I never could, never !' * So,' said Wildrake, watching a cloud of tobacco from his pipe, — 'so you have a daughter.' ELOCUTIOX. 181 ' Yes ; ^' one fair daughter," ' said Snow- bj, with a smile. While Snowby was speaking, the ex- pression on Wildrake's face was under- going a marked change : and he began to pass his long fingers over his features nervously, and to look around the room with his head on one side as though some sound had reached his ears which troubled him. He leaned towards Snowby after a short pause, and, touching his arm with the end of his clay pipe, said, with a look of suppressed fierceness in his eyes, */had a daughter once.' * Indeed ?' ' Hush !' said Wildrake. ' Listen.' He rose from his seat and walked softly towards the door. ' Listen !' he repeated. ' Do you hear footsteps outside ?' 182 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ' On the staircase ?' *Yes; * No/ said Suowbj, 'not a sound.' ' I hear them,' said Wildrake. ' They're my daughter's footsteps. I hear them all day — all night long. But I never see her face now — I never see her face.' He began to pace up and down the room slowly like a hunted animal, stop- ping to listen at every turn, and passing his hands nervously over his face. ' When I lie down at night, I hear her footsteps most distinctly. The sound is always there,' said he, touching his ears. * It haunts me ; I cannot sleep. I know how it will end,' he added, leaning his elbows on the mantelshelf and burying his face in his hands. * I know how it will end, unless I can get rest. I know how it will end.' ELOCUTION. 183 Snowbj, thinking to rouse him from these melancholy thoughts, got up from his chair, and said, in a cheerful tone : ' Come, Mr. Wildrake, we were talking of visiting the Loafers' Hall to-night. Is it not time to go ?' Wildrake started : he recovered his former manner at the mention of Loafers' Hall as though by magic. ' Ah,' said he, buttoning his coat tightly to his neck, * to be sure ! the lesson in elocution. What time is it? It must be getting late.' He emptied out into his glass what re- mained of the brandy, and drank it off. * Half-past eight/ said Snowby, referring to his watch. Wildrake put on his hat and said : ' Then let us start at once. The debate begins at nine.' 184 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. He took up the candle, and opened the door to lead the way. Lifting his long, trembling fingers above the flame, Wild- rake threw a shadow on the wall as they descended the staircase — a shadow which reminded Snowby of a thing like a large spider crawling after them. 185 CHAPTER IX. DEBATING. The clock ovrer the small platform or rostrum in the Loafers' discussion liall was striking nine when John Wildrake seated himself at a table as the chairman- elect. The room was not crowded. About a dozen men who supported the * chair ' sat at the centre table placed in front of this elevated spot, and a few scattered individuals, who looked as if they had opinions exclusively their own, which they had no intention of expressing, occupied tables near the walls. 186 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Snowby retired to a place among these neutral 'loafers.' In sbape the hall re- sembled a saloon on board ship. There were no windows, the ceiling being cov- ered with a skylight. The floor was freshly sanded, and the furniture was of dark-coloured mahogany, presenting a very tempting picture of old-fashioned ccziness. Wildrake opened the discussion on capital punishment, appealing strongly for reformation. He was listened to with attention. His earnestness was im- posing, and his strange manner, and still stranger mode of expressing him- self, awakened an interest in him as well as in the subject. With his face flushed with drink, his watery eyes flashing with indignation, his trembling hand out- stretched, and his long forefinger fre- DEBATING. 187 quently pointed as tliougli at some phan- tom which rose up before him in the hall, he demanded of the gentlemen there assembled whether any of them had do- mestic hearths, and, if so, whether they had wives or daughters. This was the most impressive part of his oration. ^ These are sacred charges ! We guard them with our last drop of blood,' said he, in a deep, fierce tone; 'and the vil- lain,' he added, stabbing with his finger at the phantom, 'the villain who steals into our homes and robs us of one of these should be treated like a dog. Would you, then, hang the man who takes the law into his own hands and slays this hound ? would you hang him ?' For an hour or more Wildrake continued illustrating his words with examples, point- ing at his phantom as the cause of every 188 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. <5rime. Everyone appeared satisfied with the entertainment : the room was soon enveloped in clouds of tobacco smoke from the long clay pipes ; and the waiter never ceased to pass in and out from the bar conveying refreshments to the customers ; and sometimes, getting in the way of Wild- rake's pointed finger, he created a burst ■of merriment. But at last, when Wildrake showed no signs of bringing his speech to a conclusion, a gentleman with a fiery face and red whiskers began to grow impatient, and rose from his seat, uttering protests against the * chair.' Each time he got upon his legs, there was an uproar. In the midst of one of these interruptions, Wild- rake, who had been kept well supplied by the waiter with glasses of ^ brandy hot,' sat down, and resting his head on his arm went off into a sort of lethargy. The DEBATING. 18& gentleman with the fiery face and red whiskers profiting by this incident jumped up and continued on his legs until he succeeded in gaining a hearing. He principally addressed abusive remarks to- wards the ' chair,' who replied by breathing heavily, as though he were being suffocated. At length Wildrake, like a man attempting to exhibit in his own person a scene on the scaffold, began to lean over the edge of his hio'h table as thougrh he were beine hanged ; and finally he dropped to the ground as if he had been cut down by the executioner. The 'chair' being now vacated, and moreover it being nearly midnight, an adjournment of this debate on capital punishment was proposed, seconded, and carried unanimously. The Loafers began to disperse : but a few 190 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. liagered on their way out of the tavern to have a parting glass at the bar. Mean- while Snowbj had assisted the eccentric chairman to rise from his undignified position. *What I want/ said Wildrake, in a dis- satisfied tone, looking wearily round, * what I want is sleep. I want rest.' He took a step, as he spoke, towards an old-fasioned arm-chair which stood tempt- ingly near, sat down, and closed his eyes. Snowby regarded him with perplexity. Under any circumstances he would not have left Wildrake to find his way home in his present condition without some com- punction. But, having undertaken to keep the old clerk out of mischief, it was clearly his duty, he considered, to see Wildrake safely lodged inside that old DEBATING. 191 mansion in Gable Court. He began to think, too, of Katie, and the anxiety his absence might cause her. He had not anticipated remaining so late with Wild- rake. In the midst of these embarrassing reflections the door leading from the bar was opened. Nedlicott, Mr. Cheadle's secretary, stepped into the room. He raised his hat in his brisk manner on perceiving a stranger, and, looking from Wildrake to Snowby, he said, in a polite tone : ' The " chair " has been making merry this evening, it would seem, sir T ' Yes. Rather too merry,' answered Snowby, smiling sadly. Nedlicott placed his hand gently upon Wildrake's shoulder. ' Do you happen/ said he, looking with 192 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. curiosity into Snowby's face, ^ do you happen to know anything about this gentleman ?' 'Yes: Nedlicott again looked at Snowby, and with deeper curiosity this time. ' May I ask,' said he, ' whether he has found a friend ?' ' I hope so,' was Snowby's cautious reply. ' Ah,' said Nedlicott, stroking his chin, that's good news. Though I fear that friendship comes too late to be of benefit. He's drifting.' Wildrake moved in his chair without raising his head. * What I want,' he muttered, in a thick voice, ' what I want is rest.' * He's drifting fast,' Nedlicott continu- ed ; 'and, when a man like this begins to DEBATING. 193 drift, you may keep him afloat, but you can't turn him back on his course. He will go on drifting ; nothing will prevent it.' ' Rest,' said "Wildrake, passing his fingers over his face in his nervous manner. ' I want rest !' ' I've seen a good deal of this sort of thing,' Nedlicott declared, with another glance at Wildrake, and a jerk of his head at the world in general. ' They often drift more quickly. We keep them afloat ; that's all. They go on drifting.' *Eest,' repeated Wildrake. ^Now, this man/ ISTedlicott went on, ^ this man has had a trouble, and it often affects him here;' and Nedlicott touched his forehead with his finger ; ' and often after these debates he is somewhat trouble- some to get home.' VOL. I. 194 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. *But/ said Snowby, with some impa- tience, 'be must be got there somehow. What would you suggest ? A cab ? The fact is,' added he, consulting his watch with an anxious face, ' the fact is, I am pressed for time/ * In that case, said Nedlicott, ' leave him to me.' ' You're very good,' said Snowby. * In- deed, you would be doing me a great favour if you would undertake to see him on his way. His address . . .' * Gable Court, Thames Street,' said Nedlicott, with a smile. ' This is not the first time that I have accompanied Mr. Wildrake to his lodgings : not the first time by any means. We are old friends,' added he, again placing his hand on Wildrake's shoulder ; * friends of some years' standing, eh, old man ?' DEBATING. 195 Snowby began to button up liis coat as lie moved towards the door. * Then, I will wish you good-evening, sir,' said he, raising his hat to IN'edlicott ; "* and,' he added, ' many thanks for taking this responsibility off my shoulders to- night.' 'Don't mention it,' said Nedlicott; * I generally look in here on debating nights, after we have finished at our theatre — the " Frivolity," you know — and if Wildrake needs an arm I give it him. Perhaps,' he continued, walking with Snowby towards the door of the tavern, ' perhaps I shall have the pleasure of see- ing you here again some night?' 'I should not be surprised,' said Snow- by; ' indeed, I think it is very probable.' Nedlicott took out a pocket-book, and said: o 2 196 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * Will you accept my card ? The fact is,' he added, half apologetically, *you are the first who, to my knowledge, has shown the slightest interest in this unfortunate man. I should really like to meet you again. That is my name.' Snowby took the card : upon it was- written : Mr. Edward Nedlicott Fresco Club. 'Next Saturday,' said JSTedlicott, 'is a musical night at the " Fresco." I shall be there at eleven p.m. Perhaps you could find time to drop in. The music is not bad ; mostly professional.' Snowby said he should be delighted. Next Saturday, he declared, would suit him admirably. 'Besides,' he added, 'music is my hobby.' DEBATING. 197 ^Then/ said Nedlicott, with cordiality, ^ I shall expect you. Good-night.' When Nedlicott returned to the dis- cussion hall, Wildrake was seated in the same attitude. He was breathing in a sonorous tone. His hat had fallen for- ward, almost hiding his face, and his hands hung helplessly over the arms of the chair. * Come,' said Nedlicott, bending down, and touching him gently. ' Come, Wild- rake ! It is time to start. You will not find her by sitting here. Come,' he re- peated, closer to his ear. ' Come and look for her — your daughter.'' Nedlicott's last words had a strange effect. Wildrake started, clenched his fists, opened his eyes, and stared about him. Then he looked up into his friend's face. 198 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. *Ned/ said he, clutching Nedlicott's arm. *Ned, I heard her footsteps to- night ; I heard them more distinctly than I have heard them for many a day.' * Come then,' said Nedlicott ; ^ come at once.' Wildrake rose from his seat, and, fum- bling with the buttons of his coat in his nervous manner, said : 'I'm ready, Ned, I'm ready.' He put his hat straight, steadied him- self, and walked out into the bar, fol- lowed by Nedlicott, with a gleam of pur- pose in his eyes. There were still a few ^ loafers ' stand- ing round the counter talking with the landlord, a stout man, with a round face, closely shaved, and small, twinkling eyes. 'Mr. Wildrake,' said the tavern-keeper^ DEBATING. 199 turning to the chairman, ^ give it a name, sir. What shall it be ? Brandy ?' ' Brandy,' said Wildrake, looking round his collar towards Nedlicott anxiously. 'Brandy hot.' ' Mr. JSFedlicott,' continued the landlord, 'you'll join us in a glass, sir, before you go?' Then he added, looking round upon his customers : *Eh, gentlemen? Let us drink Mr. Wildrake's health !' Everyone echoed the landlord's senti- ments, in which Nedlicott joined, although he looked serious and stroked his chin. ' What I want,' said Wildrake, respond- ing to the toast by leaning against the bar, and grasping his tumbler, with his inanimate condition creeping over him again. ' What I want is sleep.' 200 IN LETTEES OF GOLD. *Not you!' said the gentleman with the fiery face and the red whiskers, who was among the loitering loafers' at the bar. * Not you ! It is a fact recognised by the medical profession that we sleep too much.' *I know/ said Wildrake, eyeing the leader of the opposition with anger. 'I know, sir, what I'm talking about.' The waiter here began to move about in a confidential manner. * Time, gentlemen,' said he, looking at the clock. ^ If you please, gentlemen, time !' ' Your speech to-night,' said the opposi- tion, frowning at this interruption, * was eloquent. But that you know what you are talking about is a question which we will discuss when we resume the debate on capital punishment.* DEBATING. 201 ' We will !' said Wildrake, emptying his glass of brandy at a gulp. ' We will ! As, in fact/ he added, ' I have expressed to-night my opinion. I will repeat, sir, that there are some men — I say some — who ought to be hanged.' 'Ah,' said the leader of the opposition, in an insinuating tone. The waiter here began to lower the gas. ' If you please, gentlemen,' said he, persuasively ; * if you please.' 'But there are other men,' continued Wildrake, ' there are other men to whom the law should show mercy. For how,' he added, looking around him and striking his fist upon the counter until the glasses rattled again, ' how can we always govern our passions !' . * True,' said the opposition leader, ' very 202 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. true ! We sleep too mucli : we eat too much. I may say, indeed, we drink too much. Quite right, Mr. Wildrake, quite right !' * Drink ?' said Wildrake, again striking the counter with his fist. * I hate it. I want sleep. What I want is rest.' He leaned forward against the countery and his head fell heavily upon his arm. * Time, gentlemen/ the waiter repeated, holding the principal tavern door tempt- ingly open, 'if you please.' * Come, Wildrake,' said Nedlicott, touch- ing the drunkard's arm, ' come along.' ^I'm ready, Ned,' answered Wildrake rousing himself. ^I'm ready.' The waiter now began to mancBuvre as if the customers were a flock of sheep. He endeavoured to induce one to pass out at the door as though satisfied that the rest T DEBATING. 203 would follow. After several atterapts his method succeeded, and the ' loafers ' went laughing and talking into the street, where l^edlicott bid them good-night, and, taking Wildrake's arm, led him through dark by-ways and alleys towards Gable Court. . John Wildrake impeded progress at every turning. Sometimes he leaned against a post at the corner of a street ; sometimes sat down upon a doorstep, refusing to stir. But they reached the court at last ; when the noise of the traffic had ceased, and the chimes of the old church clocks sounded like the voice of the great metropolis murmuring in its- sleep. Wildrake tottered against the rail- ings in front of the old house and reposed his head upon the spikes, as he had often done before. 204 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. * I want rest,' he repeated, turning over uncomfortably on these broken spikes ; ' what I want is rest.' ' Then, why don't you go to bed ?' said Nedlicott, impatiently. 'Bed?' said Wildrake, with contempt. ' I get no rest there. Footsteps,' he groan- ed, ' footsteps all night long.' * Give me your latch-key.' Wildrake slowly obeyed, and then sat down upon the doorstep with his head between his hands. Nedlicott opened the door, and, bidding Wildrake good-night, walked away. Either a wholesome terror of encounter- ing the old Jew, or the consciousness that the responsibility of mounting to his bed- chamber had fallen upon his own shoulders now that Nedlicott had left him, may account for the partial soberness which DEBATING. 205 Wildrake regained. He rose, and stumbled into the strange old hall, making repulsive grimaces at the expiring lamp. Here and there the words written upon the tablets in letters of gold upon the walls were readable, but for the most part hidden in shade : a solemn place even by daylight, but in the dead of night the solemnity seemed intense, almost awful, with this weird figure in the centre. Presently Wildrake took a step forward, and then another, pausing at each stride to pass his long fingers over his face, and to make fresh grimaces at the light. By this eccentric process he reached his can- dle, applied it to the lamp, and then com- menced to ascend, balancing himself like a man upon a tight-rope who seems bent, body and mind, on preventing himself from falling. 206 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. He gained his room at last. Placing his guttering candle on the table, among the empty glasses which still stood there, he changed his coat for his old grey dressing-gown, and threw himself upon his bed. For some time he lay quite still, breath- ing heavily, and muttering incoherently, like one who is troubled with restless dreams. But suddenly he started up, leaned on his elbow, and listened. There was an expression of complete wakefulness in his eyes, and his hand shook as though attacked by palsy. Still listening, he went softly towards the door and bent down with his trembling fingers on the latch, as if he expected every moment that some one would enter. Turn- ing away presently with a look of disap- pointment, he began to pace to and fro, DEBATING. 207 stopping to listen at every turn. At length he fell into a chair, and, flinging his arms upon the table with a groan, covered his face with his hands, as though to shut out something: intolerable, something over- mastering. He rose after a while, and, opening the cupboard near the fire-place, took down a large bluish bottle and poured a colourless liquid into a glass and drank it hastily. Then he again sank wearily upon his bed, listening still, but gradually closing his eyes, as though overcome by the weight of an overpowering sleep. By this time the candle on the table, having burnt down to the socket, went out, and the dawning light of a foggy day stole into the room and reached the figure of Wildrake. He was resting his head upon his arm with his face turned towards the 208 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. wall; and sleeping so soundly now, and lying- so motionless, that, but for his low regular breathing, one might have believed him dead. 209 CHAPTER X. DISCLOSURES. "With her hands pressed tightly together, Madame Helene, standing near one of the windows of her room, waited anxiously for the return of Snowby from his visit to John Wildrake. The look on the hand- some, passionate face was intensely pain- ful : her cheeks were feverish, and her eyes filled frequently with hot tears as a picture rose before her of a miserable garret in the old city where her father, whom she had so thoughtlessly forsaken, dragged out his wretched life. She was VOL. I. P 210 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. restlessly impatient to learn whether he was actually so destitute and broken-hearted as Paul Aldershaw had described him to his manager : it seemed to her to need strong confirmation before she could re- alize such a sad fatality. It was past midnight. In an arm-chair by the fire, tired out at last, Katie had fallen fast asleep. There were no marks of care upon her dimpled cheeks, and the expression about her lips was playful ; no sorrow had yet touched her young heart. While watching the girl sleeping there, without one real trouble on her conscience, Madame Helene prayed fervently that she might never know such grief as that which had overtaken her, and destroyed all her own happiness in life. At last the sound of wheels reached her ears ; and next moment a cab came rat- DISCLOSUKES. 211 tling down the boulevard and stopped at Eose Villa. Madame Helene put her hand quickly to her side, and sank into a chair. Katie started up with a dreamy look in her eyes. ' Did father call me ?' said she. ' No, Katie. But he has come home : I hear him on the staircase. Don't leave me ; ask him to come in. It is cold, and the fire in the parlour must have gone out hours ago.' Kate ran to the door and met her father, as she always did, with open arms when he reached the top of the stairs. A touching scene at any time for Ma- dame Helene to witness, but never so affecting as now. But she conquered her emotion, as she had been forced to do so often before an audience, and advanced to welcome the manager into her sitting- p2 212 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. room without a visible trace of agitatioD^ except in her voice, which trembled slightly. * Katie has been keeping me company/ said she. ^ I hope I have not done wrong to let her sit up so late ?' Snowby drew his daughter near him, and placed his arm round her neck. ' I am afraid, Madame H^lene/ he said, ' that I am most to blame. But the fact is I have been kept in town much later than I expected. Much later/ Madame H615ne looked swiftly into the manager's face. ' Not, I hope/ she said, ' for any reason which you consider serious ?' The managers expression became sud- denly grave. * I will tell you,' said he, ^ in two wordSy if it will not be tiring you ?[ DISCLOSURES. 213 Hastening to assure Snowby that she was not in the least fatigued, Madame Hel^ne wheeled a chair for him nearer the fire, and then sat down opposite with her back turned to the light. Katie placed herself upon the rug at her father's feet, and looked up with deep interest express- ed in her young face. ' What Mr. Aldershaw stated to me,' the manager began, in a thoughtful tone, 'about his old clerk, John Wildrake, is only too true ; for as to the flight of a daughter from her father's home some years ago, and as to the drunken life which it was believed that Wildrake was leading, there can be no shadow of a doubt. 1 have been to-night to the com- fortless garret, a room in an old house out of Thames Street, in which he lives. I have seen him with a strange look in his 214 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. face, wliicli I shall never forget, when listening as he fancied to the footsteps of his daughter. I have seen him drink until he fell senseless from his chair : for I went with him to a tavern which he frequents : I went on purpose to judge what he was with my own eyes. No argument can, in my opinion, have any effect upon him now. He is beyond all hope ; a shattered, ruined man.' Madame Helene clasped her hands and said: ^Can no one save him ?' ' No one.' * Not even his daughter ?' The tone of distress in which she spoke brought a puzzled look to Snowby's face. ' If she returned T said he. ' Yes.' DISCLOSURES. 215 * That would be more likely, now,' said Snowbj, ' to kill him.' ' Not if lie knew all/ ^ All ?' said the manager, with a start, * all what?' ' All that I, miserable woman that I am, alone could tell him.' ' You, madame ?' *Yes.' * I do not understand,' said Snowbj, still more perplexed. * I am the one for whose footsteps he listens/ said Madame Helene, in a low tone, ' the wretclied daughter whom he has lost.' Snowbj stared blanklj at his lodger; then he rose slowlj from his chair. ' Come,' said he, in a stern voice, and with a glance at Kate, as he moved to- wards the door. 216 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. Katie stood on the heartli-rug motion- less, with her head bent. * Come,' her father repeated. ' This is not the place for you.' Madame Helene, rising hastily, appealed to the manager in a supplicating tone. ' Do not judge me unheard,' she pleaded. * Listen, for pity's sake ! If I have done wrong, I have suffered deeply for my wickedness.' Thus appealed to, Snowby returned to the fireside, and, when Madame Helene had resumed her seat, he again sat down, intimating that he was prepared to listen as she wished. Katie again threw herself at her father's feet, but with her eyes now turned with a wondering look in them towards her friend. ' Not more than fifteen years ago,' Madame Helene began, ' mj life was full DISCLOSUKES. 217 of happiness and promise. My poor father had very much the same position, as you know, which you now have in Mr. Aldershaw's firm. I received an excellent education, and my voice, which seemed to astonish everyone who heard it even when I was a child, was carefully trained, and, when I grew up, we were asked out a good deal. I sang wherever I went. I was fond of company, and liked being petted and admired. Among •the grand houses to which we were in- vited, Mr. x\ldershaw's was the one we went to perhaps most of all. It was there I met the man with whom I was mad enough to fall in love. It was indeed a madness, for I married him without my father's consent, even without his know- ledge.' For a moment Madame Helene was 218 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. silent. The recollection of tliose days in which she met Sir Michael Valroy at the merchant prince's mansion in Tyburnia seemed to trouble her greatly. But she soon overcame these signs of distress, and continued. ' I promised,' said she, ' never to men- tion the marriage to living soul. It was secretly performed in London, and we started for the Continent the same day. A lawyer, a great friend of my husband's, was our witness. The clergyman who married us is dead.' '"What reason,' Snowby thoughtfully demanded, ^ could your husband have for secresy ?' * No reason,' said Madame Heleue, 'except that he disliked my father, or perhaps, as I sometimes think, feared him. My husband occupies a position in DISCLOSURES. 219 society above the one in which I was born. He is proud, quick-tempered, and very exacting. We have been separated for some years.' * He is still alive ?' said Snowby, with surprise. ' Yes.' * And still holds you to your promise ?' 'Let me explain. From the day I became this man's wife,' resumed Madame Helene, ^I seldom had the courage even to think about my father. We led a life of constant gaiety, which made it easier for me to forget the past. We travelled all over Europe, never resting a month in one place. If I had had enough strength of mind to reflect, I might have acted differently. Time went on, and the separation came at last. I refused the allowance my husband offered me through his lawyer, this friend 220 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. who witnessed our marriage. I chose the stage as a profession, and succeeded. It became still easier to forget my father : for, when my thoughts reverted to the past, I threw my whole soul into the work which must be done to gain public approbation.' Madame Helene sighed deeply, and then concluded : ' But I was growing weary,' said she, ^ weary at last of the nightly sounds of applause, which I had at first so eagerly courted, when an incident happened which led me to form a resolution that, even if I could not see my father, I would at least find out whether he was alive and still prosperous. I heard of you, Mr. Snowby, through a lady in Paris. She told me that you were a clerk in Mr. Aldershaw's house, in London. She had lived in your r* DISCLOSURES. 221 house, 1 think, at one time. At any rate she knew that you wished to let part of your villa to some one who would be a suit- able companion for your daughter. I made further enquiries through my bankers, and then wrote to you, as you know. I saw that by residing with you I could easily hear all I wished to hear without attracting suspicion. I was prepared ta learn that my father was unhappy, or in ill-health. I even feared he might be dead. But I was not prepared for news of him such as you have brought home to-night.' * And yet,' said Snowby, ^ I have only confirmed what I mentioned about Mr. Wildrake in this very room several days- ago. You could then have taken steps to see him . . .' * Indeed I did/ said Madame Helene. * I went at once to this lawyer, who lives 222 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. in London, and implored him to gain my husband's consent to a meeting between my father and me. He promised to do his best. But he has neither written nor been to see me yet. Now/ she added, in a low voice, ' I have told you all.' That night, long after the manager and his daughter had retired, Madame Hel^ne sat with a wakeful look in her eyes, ponder- ing over the various scenes in her life since the time when she quitted her father's home to become the wife of Sir Michael Yalroy. How quickly the years had gone by ! They were years in which she had satisfied a foolish ambition. She was now reaping her harvest, with a wretched sense of reproachf ulness and guilt. During those years she had been stepping thoughtlessly into every path in which she perceived a DISCLOSURES. 223 gleam of sunshine, while her father was being daily driven by grief and shame into darkened ways. Was it too late to make some amends for the misery her conduct had occasioned ? She had waited with impatience for several days for a response to her appeal, through Ludlaw, to Sir ' ^Michael Yalroy. She could wait no longer. It was her duty to take some steps more stringent and decisive, in order to gain the consent of her husband to see her father. Xo reason that could be deemed justi- fiable occurred to her mind which Sir jMichael might put forward to bind her still to the promise she had made without purpose or reflection. Years had now passed : the necessity for action was des- perately urgent. It was a matter of life and death. No obstacle should stand in 224 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. the way which would prevent her from rescuing her father from the ignominious plight into which he had fallen. She was comparatively rich : she would provide an agreeable home. For the rest of his life, she would devote herself to him. In some quiet spot, where they could regard their trouble as something half forgotten in the past, she would give him an earnest proof of her desire to gain his full forgiveness. The dawn of the morning which found John Wildrake lying upon his bed, and sleeping so soundly, with his head resting on his arm, never grew much brighter upon that dull wintry day. A thick, W"ovember fog was hanging over the river when the sun rose; and when it set, to- wards four o'clock in the afternoon, the DISCLOSURES. 225 fog was still impenetrable and motionless over the dismal city. Wildrake never stirred. From day- break until the sun again went down, he lay in the same attitude, insensible to all that was going on in the world outside his gloomy garret. The noise of the heavy traffic lumbering through Thames Street to and from the docks failed to awaken him : he was deaf to the shrill whistle of steamers or of steam-tugs on the Thames, towing long black chains of barges against the tide, which never ceased its ebb and flow beneath his win- dows ; nor could the cries which some- times rose in the midst of other sounds succeed in rousing him. And when all these noises began to die out on the ' si- lent highway ' and in the great thorough- fares, the fog thickened, and the night VOL. I. Q 226 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. became intensely chilly and dark. Still Wildrake slept on, with a peaceful look on his wrinkled face, and with the quiet breathing of a young child. All day long he had lain in his bed- chamber undisturbed. Had he been dead his isolation could not have been greater. Seemingly, he was entirely forgotten. Not entirely : for, when it had been dark for some hours, and there was not a sound within the old mansion, nor with- out, Wildrake's door was slowly opened, and Mimosa — the black patches on her face and a candle in her hand — crept in on tip-toe, and looked about with staring eyes, and with a mouth gaping wide, as though searching for something to fill the gap. She placed the candle on the table between the windows, and, stepping across DISCLOSURES. 227 the room towards the bed, put her hand timidly on Wildrake's shoulder. ^ Master,' she whispered, ' are you asleep?' He was so sound asleep, that he neither answered nor even moved a muscle. Mi- mosa glanced blankly around her, as though frightened. Then she began to shake Wildrake violently, as if she were seized with a panic. But, as soon as she ceased shaking him, he lay quite motion- less as before. * It's the fog,' said this strange little woman, suddenly fixing her eyes upon the candle. ' It's been and stifled him !' The fog had certainly entered the room : it was hovering about and hanging over the candle like a dim cloud. Mimosa, with sudden energy, hurried out upon the land- ing and soon came back with shavings and q2 228 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. lumps of coal in a shovel. She knelt down before the fireplace and began to lay the fire in a nervous manner, fre- quently adding; to the black patches on her cheeks. Then she applied the candle to the shavings, and soon succeeded in pro- ducing a cheerful blaze. The fog in the room began to diminish, and Mimosa look- ed as hopefully towards the figure lying on the bed as her automatic face would per- mit. She then drew a chair in front of the hearth, and sitting down with her feet raised upon the fender she folded her arms and gazed vacantly at the flames. So lost was she in thought — if such a condition of mind can be applied to one who seemed to be constantly more or less wanting — so dreamy, or abstracted, that when the door presently creaked she did not turn round. The old Jew, Mr. Isaacs, DISCLOSUKES. ' 229 was looking into tbe room with only bis head visible from tbe black skull-cap to tbe long white beard. ' Mimosa 1' Tbe little woman started and jumped up from her chair. 'What's the matter?* the Jew de- manded. She jerked her elbow towards the figure on the bed, and answered, in a whisper : 'Sometbing's up.' The Jew stepped into the room, and takino^ tbe candle in his hand held it over Wildrake, and bending down peered closely into his face. ' He is a bad one !' Mr. Isaacs emphatic- ally declared, as he directed his gaze into the distance, and solemnly shook his head. . ^ He has been playing one of his old tricks. 230 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. He'll play them once too often some day. It's a strong dose this time ; as strong as he can stand, and perhaps stronger. I never did come across such a bad one^ never.' ' It ain't the fog then, ain't it ?' The old Jew looked at Mimosa, and placed his hand on her shoulder. ' Something worse than that, my girl,' said he, ' something even worse than drink.' * What's that ?' Mr. Isaacs pointed towards the mantel- shelf where the bluish bottle still stood,, out of which Wildrake had drunk a certain colourless liquid on the preceding night. ' A deadly draught,' said the Jew, im- pressively. ^ When he thinks he can't sleep^ he goes and gets it there.' * Does he ? I'll throw it away.' DISCLOSURES. 231 *!N"o. He may never wake,' the Jew TDredicted. ' Touch nothino^.' Mimosa gaped at the bluish bottle and then at the figure on the bed. ' Touch nothing,' repeated the Jew, with emphasis, 'but remain here until I return. I shall not be gone long.' Once more he held the candle over Wild- rake, and again looked keenly into bis face. Then, placing the candle back upon tie table, he hastened from the room. A few minutes afterwards, Mimosa heard the heavy slam of the front door. She ran to the window and looked out eagerly into the night. The distant lamps down the dark river towards London Bridge showed only like blurred spaces of light which seemed to add intenseness to the thick, foggy atmosphere on every side. Peering down into Gable Court, the girl 232 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. observed a misty figure suddenly expand upon the pavement close under the door lamp, and then disappear ; at the same time a hurried footstep caught her ear which almost instantly died away under* neath the archway in the direction in which the figure had vanished. She turned from the window in alarm, and crept softly back to the hearth. Resum- ing her seat in front of the fire, she frequently cast a startled look over hqr shoulder towards the prostrate figure pf Wildrake. The figure which Mimosa had seen from the window to expand on the pave- ment under the door-lamp in Gable Court, and then to disappear, was that of the old Jew. Enveloped in a thick pea-jacket, and with a rough fur cap down to his DISCLOSURES. 233 -eyebrows and over his ears, Mr. Isaacs was hastening out into Thames Street, and making his way eastward through the thick fog. It was not late ; but being a Saturday, and the night thoroughly uncongenial, the streets in the City were almost deserted. Those among the busy people who still remained abroad were passing with haste within the limited spaces of light under the lamps, and then as rapidly dwindling into misty phantoms. Everyone seemed anxiously bent upon discovering the near- est way, out of the damp and suffocating atmosphere, to their own homes. Crossing Thames Street, and turning into one of the lanes leading towards St. Paul's, Mr. Isaacs presently reached the door of the little tobacco-shop where Xedlicott lived. 234 IN LETTEES OF GOLD. Stepping in, he found Mrs. Nedlicott behind the counter. ' Is your son at home ?' * Walk in, Mr. Isaacs,' said Nedlicott's mother, with a smile of recognition. Mr. Isaacs took off his fur cap, and, turning down the collar of his coat as though to let out the fog, passed through the shop and entered the parlour. Nedli- cott was seated over a cup of tea reading a manuscript in a brown-paper cover. ' Anything amiss ?' inquired Mr. Chea- dle's secretary, looking up from his work into the Jew's anxious face. The old man gave him a significant nod. ' Sit down, Mr. Isaacs,' said Nedlicott, placing a chair near the fire. ' No, thank you ; T can't stop a minute/ said he ; ' but I thought you would like to know.' DISCLOSURES. 235 ' What ?' * He has swallowed another dose.' ^ A strong one ?' ' Very strong. We can^t wake him this time.' * That's bad,' Nedlicott replied. ' What says the doctor ?' ' I'm on my way there now,' said the Jew. *I thought I'd look in upon you * first : I was afraid you might be gone, if I didn't. You may be wanted, you know.' 'Yes : I understand.' ' Can you come with me ?' ' To see Wildrake ?' said l^edlicott. ' Yes.' ' Impossible ! I've got an appointment with Mr. Cheadle.' * Still at Tarmouth ?' said the Jew. * No. He has returned to town.' 236 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. ' Ah ! Then you'll look in later.' " * Yes. Though I fear/ said the secre- tary, * that it won't be much before mid- night. It's my eveniog, you see, at the "Fresco." I'm expected.' 'At midnight, then/ said the Jew, moving towards the door, * you'll step over, eh?' ' You may count upon that,' said Nedli- cott, 'on my way home I shall not fail to call.' At the door the Jew looked back, and said, 'You haven't seen Wildrake's friend again, have you ?' ' Snowby ?' said Nedlicott, The Jew nodded in his solemn manner. ' No. But I expect to meet him at the Fresco Club to-night.' ' That's lucky,' said Mr. Isaacs, gazing DISCLOSURES. 237 thoughtfully into the distance, 'for, you see, Mr. Nedlicott, if my bad one yonder never wakes, as it's possible he may never do . . .' 'Qaite possible, Mr. Isaacs.' 'Why, then, Mr. Snowby will be also wanted, eh ?' 'I understand,' Nedlicott repeated, as before, in an expressive tone. The Jew put on his fur cap and looked with keenness at Nedlicott. ' My bad one, you know,' said he, with his finofers on the door-handle, * has found a friend in Mr. Snowby, or what seems to me like one. Mr. Snowby has only called once ; but he has given him money, or lent it to him, which is the same thing. What can it mean ? Not charity. There is some motive in the business. Men don't give away their money to such a one 238 IN LETTERS OF GOLD. as Wildrake without an object : not they.' ' There is a good reason for Mr. Snow- bj's interest in your lodger, Mr. Isaacs, I firmly believe,' said the secretary. ' I hope so,' the Jew replied, in a suspicious tone. ' But we must keep this friend in sight if we want to find out who the bad one is. For Mr. Snowby, depend upon it, knows all about him.' ^ We shall see,' said JS"edlicott. ' If Wildrake has such friends,' the Jew surmised, ' or even friends who can afford to pay half the sum which is owing for rent, I should like to know somethiog a.'^av«.