Chapter LXI. A walk with consequences
Clare had been in the bank more than a year, and not yet had Mr. Shotover discovered why he did not quite trust him. Had Clare known he did not, he would have wondered that he trusted him with such a precious thing as his little Ann. But was his child very precious to Mr. Shotover? When a man’s heart is in his business, that is, when he is set on making money, some precious things are not so precious to him as they might be—among the rest, the living God and the man’s own life. He would pass Clare and the child without even a nod to indicate approval, or a smile for the small woman. He had, I presume, sufficient regard for the inoffensive little thing to be content she should be happy, therefore did not interfere with what his clerks counted so little to the honour of the bank. But although, as I have said, he still doubted Clare, true eyes in whatever head must have perceived that the child was in charge of an angel. The countenance of Clare with Ann in his arms, was so peaceful, so radiant of simple satisfaction, that surely there were some in that large town who, seeing them, thought of the angels that do alway behold the face of the Father in heaven.
One evening in the early summer, when they had resumed their walks after five o’clock, they saw, in a waste place, where houses had been going to be built for the last two years, a number of caravans drawn up in order.
A rush of hope filled the heart of Clare: what if it should be the menagerie he knew so well! And, sure enough, there was Mr. Halliwell superintending operations! But if Glum Gunn were about, he might find it awkward with the child in his arms! Gunn might not respect even her! Besides he ought to ask leave to take her! He would carry her home first, and come again to see his third mother and all his old friends, with Pummy and the lion and the rest of the creatures.
Little Ann was eager to know what those curious houses on wheels were. Clare told her they were like her Noah’s ark, full of beasts, only real, live beasts, not beasts made of bits of stick. She became at once eager to see them—the more eager that her contempt of things like life that wouldn’t come alive had been growing stronger ever since she threw her doll out of the window. Clare told her he could not take her without first asking leave. This puzzled her: Clare was her highest authority.
“But if you take me?” she said.
“Your papa and mamma might not like me to take you.”
“But I’m yours!”
“Yes, you’re mine—but not so much,” he added with a sigh, “as theirs!”
“Ain’t I?” she rejoined, in a tone of protesting astonishment mingled with grief, and began to wriggle, wanting to get down.
Clare set her down, and would have held her, as usual, by the hand, but she would not let him. She stood with her eyes on the ground, and her little gray face looking like stone. It frightened Clare, and he remained a moment silent, reviewing the situation.
“You see, little one,” he said at length, “you were theirs before I came! You were sent to them. You are their own little girl, and we must mind what they would like!”
“It was only till you came!” she argued. “They don’t care very much for me. Ask them, please, to sell me to you. I don’t think they would want much money for me! How many shillings do you think I am worth, Clare? Not many, I hope!—Six?”
“You are worth more than all the money in your papa’s bank,” answered Clare, looking down at her lovingly.
The child’s face fell.
“Am I?” she said. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know I was worth so much!—and not yours!” she added, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very heart of her being. “Then you’re not able to buy me?”
“No, indeed, little one!” answered Clare. “Besides, papas don’t sell their little girls!”
“Oh, yes, they do! Gus said so to Trudie!” Clare knew that Trudie meant her sister Gertrude.
“Who is Gus?” he asked.
“Trudie calls him Gus. I don’t know more name to him. Perhaps they call him something else in the bank.”
“Oh! he’s in the bank, is he?” returned Clare. “Then I think I know him.”
“He said it to her one night in my nursery. Jane went down; I was in my crib. They talked such a long time! I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn’t. I heard all what he said to her. It wasn’t half so nice as what you talk to me!”
This was not pleasant news to Clare. Augustus Marway was, if half the tales of him were true, no fit person for his master’s daughter to be intimate with! He had once heard Mr. Shotover speak about gambling in such terms of disapprobation as he had never heard him use about anything else; and it was well known in the bank that Marway was in the company of gamblers almost every night. He was so troubled, that at first he wished the child had not told him. For what was he to do? Could it be right to let the thing go on? Clare felt sure Mr. Shotover either did not know that Marway gambled, or did not know that he talked in the nursery with his daughter. But, alas, he could do nothing without telling, and they all said none but the lowest of cads would carry tales! For the young men thought it the part of gentlemen to stick by each other, and hide from Mr. Shotover some things he had a right to know. But Clare saw that, whatever they might think, he must act in the matter. Little Ann wondered that he scarcely spoke to her all the way home. But she did not say anything, for she too was troubled: she did not belong to Clare so much as she had thought she did!
Clare reflected also as he went, how much he owed Ann’s sister for letting him have the little one. She had always spoken to him kindly too, and never seemed, like the clerks, to look down upon him because he had been a page-boy—though, he thought, if they were to be as often hungry as he had been, they would be glad to be page-boys themselves! For himself, he liked to be a page-boy! He would do anything for Miss Tempest! And he must do what he could for Miss Shotover! It would be wicked to let her marry a man that was wicked! He had himself seen him drunk! Would it be fair, knowing she did not know, not to tell? Would it not be helping to hurt her? Was he to be a coward and fear being called bad names? Was he, for the sake of the good opinion of rascals, to take care of the rascal, and let the lady take care of herself? There was this difficulty, however, that he could assert nothing beyond having seen him drunk!
He carried Ann to the nursery, and set out for the menagerie. When he knocked at the door of the house-caravan, Mrs. Halliwell opened it, stared hardly an instant, threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
“Come in, come in, my boy!” she said. “It makes me a happy woman to see you again. I’ve been just miserable over what might have befallen you, and me with all that money of yours! I’ve got it by me safe, ready for you! I lie awake nights and fancy Gunn has got hold of you, and made away with you; then fall asleep and am sure of it. He’s been gone several times, a looking for you, I know! I think he’s afraid of you; I know he hates you. Mind you keep out of his sight; he’ll do you a mischief if he has the chance. He’s the same as ever, a man to make life miserable.”
“I’ve never done him wrong,” said Clare, “and I’m not going to keep out of his way as if I were afraid of him! I mean to come and see the animals to-morrow.”
A great deal more passed between them. They had their tea together. Mr. Halliwell, who did not care for tea, came and went several times, and now the night was dark. Then they spoke again of Gunn.
“Well, I don’t think he’ll venture to interfere with you,” said Mrs. Halliwell, “except he happens to be drunk.—But what’s that talking? We’re all quiet for the night. Listen.”
For some time Clare had been conscious of the whispered sounds of a dialogue somewhere near, but had paid no attention. The voices were now plainer than at first When his mother told him to listen, he did, and thought he had heard one of them before. It was peculiar—that of an old Jew whom he had seen several times at the bank. As the talking went on, he began to think he knew the other voice also. It was that of Augustus Marway. The two fancied themselves against a caravan full of wild beasts.
Marway was the son of the port-admiral, who, late in life, married a silly woman. She died young, but not before she had ruined her son, whose choice company was the least respectable of the officers who came ashore from the king’s ships.
He had of late been playing deeper and having worse luck; and had borrowed until no one would lend him a single sovereign more. His father knew, in a vague way, how he was going on, and had nearly lost hope of his reformation. Having yet large remains of a fine physical constitution, he seldom failed to appear at the bank in the morning—if not quite in time, yet within the margin of lateness that escaped rebuke. Mr. Shotover was a connection by marriage, which gave Marway the privilege of being regarded by Miss Shotover as a cousin—a privilege with desirable possibilities contingent, making him anxious to retain the good opinion of his employer.
Clare heard but a portion here and there of the conversation going on outside the wooden wall; but it was plain nevertheless that Marway was pressing a creditor to leave him alone until he was married, when he would pay every shilling he owed him.
The young fellow had a persuasive tongue, and boasted he could get the better of even a Jew. Clare heard the money-lender grant him a renewal for three months, when, if Marway did not pay, or were not the accepted suitor of the lady whose fortune was to redeem him, his creditor would take his course.
The moment he perceived they were about to part, Clare hastened from the caravan, and went along the edge of the waste ground, so as to meet Marway on his road back to the town: at the corner of it they came jump together. Marway started when Clare addressed him. Seeing, then, who claimed his attention, he drew himself up.
“Well?” he said.
“Mr. Marway,” began Clare, “I heard a great deal of what passed between you and old Lewin.”
Marway used worse than vulgar language at times, and he did so now, ending with the words,
“A spy! a sneaking spy! Would you like to lick my boot? By Jove, you shall know the taste of it!”
“Nobody minds being overheard who hasn’t something to conceal! If I had low secrets I would not stand up against the side of a caravan when I wanted to talk about them. I was inside. Not to hear you I should have had to stop my ears.”
“Why didn’t you, then, you low-bred flunkey?”
“Because I had heard of you what made it my duty to listen.”
Marway cursed his insolence, and asked what he was doing in such a place. He would report him, he said.
“What I was doing is my business,” answered Clare. “Had I known you for an honest man I would not have listened to yours. I should have had no right.”
“You tell me to my face I’m a swindler!” said Marway between his teeth, letting out a blow at Clare, which he cleverly dodged.
“I do!”
“I don’t know what you mean, but bitterly shall you repent your insolence, you prying rascal! This is your sweet revenge for a blow you had not the courage to return!—to dog me and get hold of my affairs! You cur! You’re going to turn informer next, of course, and bear false witness against your neighbour! You shall repent it, I swear!”
“Will it be bearing false witness to say that Miss Shotover does not know the sort of man who wants to marry her? Does she know why he wants to marry her? Does her father know that you are in the clutches of a money-lender?”
Marway caught hold of Clare and threatened to kill him. Clare did not flinch, and he calmed down a little.
“What do you want to square it?” he growled.
“I don’t understand you,” returned Clare.
“What’s the size of your tongue-plaster?”
“I don’t know much slang.”
“What bribe will silence you then? I hope that is plain enough—even for your comprehension!”
“If I had meant to hold my tongue, I should have held it.”
“What do you want, then?”
“To keep you from marrying Miss Shotover.”
“By Jove! And suppose I kick you into the gutter, and tell you to mind your own business—what then?”
“I will tell either your father or Mr. Shotover all about it.”
“Even you can’t be such a fool! What good would it do you? You’re not after her yourself, are you?—Ha! ha!—that’s it! I didn’t nose that!—But come, hang it! where’s the use?—I’ll give you four flimsies—there! Twenty pounds, you idiot! There!”
“Mr. Marway, nothing will make me hold my tongue—not even your promise to drop the thing.”
“Then what made you come and cheek me? Impudence?”
“Not at all! I should have been glad enough not to have to do it! I came to you for my own sake.”
“That of course!”
“I came because I would do nothing underhand!”
“What are you going to do next, then?”
“I am going to tell Mr. Shotover, or Admiral Marway—I haven’t yet made up my mind which.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“That old Lewin has given you three months to get engaged to Miss Shotover, or take the consequences of not being able to pay what you owe him.”
“And you don’t count it underhand to carry such a tale?”
“I do not. It would have been if I hadn’t told you first. I would tell Miss Shotover, only, if she be anything of a girl, she wouldn’t believe me.”
“I should think not! Come, come, be reasonable! I always thought you a good sort of fellow, though I was rough on you, I confess. There! take the money, and leave me my chance.”
“No. I will save the lady if I can. She shall at least know the sort of man you are.”
“Then it’s war to the knife, is it?”
“I mean to tell the truth about you.”
“Then do your worst. You shall black my boots again.”
“If I do, I shall have the penny first.”
“You cringing flunkey!”
“I haven’t cringed to you, Mr. Marway!”
Marway tried to kick him, failed, and strode into the dark between him and the lamps of the town.
Chapter LXII. The cage of the puma
Marway was a fine, handsome fellow, whose manners, where he saw reason, soon won him favour, and two of the young men in the office were his ready slaves. Every moment of the next day Clare was watched. Marway had laid his plans, and would forestall frustration. Clare could hardly do anything before the dinner-hour, but Marway would make assurance double sure.
At anchor in the roads lay a certain frigate, whose duty it was to sail round the islands, like a duck about her floating brood. Among the young officers on board were two with whom Marway was intimate. He had met them the night before, and they had together laid a plot for nullifying Clare’s interference with Marway’s scheme—which his friends also had reason to wish successful, for Marway owed them both money. Clare had come in the way of all three.
Now little Ann was a guardian cherub to the object of their enmity, and he and she must first of all be separated. Clare had asked leave of Miss Shotover to take the child to Noah’s ark, as she called it, that evening, and Marway had learned it from her: Clare’s going would favour their plan, but the child’s presence would render it impracticable.
One thing in their favour was, that Mr. Shotover was from home. If Clare had resolved on telling him rather than the admiral, he could not until the next evening, and that would give them abundant time. On the other hand, having him watched, they could easily prevent him from finding the admiral. But Clare had indeed come to the just conclusion that his master had the first right to know what he had to tell. His object was not the exposure of Marway, but the protection of his master’s daughter: he would, therefore, wait Mr. Shotover’s return. He said to himself also, that Marway would thereby have a chance to bethink himself, and, like Hamlet’s uncle, “try what repentance can.”
As soon as he had put the bank in order for the night, he went to find his little companion, and take her to Noah’s ark. The child had been sitting all the morning and afternoon in a profound stillness of expectation; but the hour came and passed, and Clare did not appear.
“You never, never, never came,” she said to him afterward. “I had to go to bed, and the beasts went away.”
It was many long weeks before she told him this, or her solemn little visage smiled again.
He went to the little room off the hall, where he almost always found her waiting for him, dressed to go. She was not there. Nobody came. He grew impatient, and ran in his eagerness up the front stair. At the top he met the butler coming from the drawing-room—a respectable old man, who had been in the family as long as his master.
“Pardon me, Mr. Porson,” said the butler, who was especially polite to Clare, recognizing in him the ennoblement of his own order, “but it is against the rules for any of the gentlemen below to come up this staircase.”
“I know I’m in the wrong,” answered Clare; “but I was in such a hurry I ventured this once. I’ve been waiting for Miss Ann twenty minutes.”
“If you will go down, I will make inquiry, and let you know directly,” replied the butler.
Clare went down, and had not waited more than another minute when the butler brought the message that the child was not to go out. In vain Clare sought an explanation; the old man knew nothing of the matter, but confessed that Miss Shotover seemed a little put out.
Then Clare saw that his desire to do justice had thwarted his endeavour: Marway had seen Miss Shotover, he concluded, and had so thoroughly prejudiced her against anything he might say, that she had already taken the child from him! He repented that he had told him his purpose before he was ready to follow it up with immediate action. Distressed at the thought of little Ann’s disappointment, he set out for the show, glad in the midst of his grief, that he was going to see Pummy once more.
The weather had been a little cloudy all day, but as he left the closer part of the town, the vaporous vault gave way, and the west revealed a glorious sunset. Troubled for the trouble of little Ann, Clare seemed drawn into the sunset. The splendour said to him: “Go on; sorrow is but a cloud. Do the work given you to do, and the clouds will keep moving; stop your work and the clouds will settle down hard.”
“When I was on the tramp,” thought Clare, “I always went on, and that’s how I came here. If I hadn’t gone on, I should never have found the darling!”
As little as during any day’s tramp did he know how his reflection was going to be justified.
He wandered on, and the minutes passed slowly: it was wandering now with no child in his arms! He was in no haste to go to the menagerie; he would be in good time for the beasts; and the later he was, the sooner he would see his mother alone and have a talk with her!
At last, it being now quite dark, he turned, and made for the caravans.
A crowd was going up the steps, passing Mrs. Halliwell slowly, and descending into the area surrounded by the beasts. Clare went up, and laid his money on the little white table. The good woman took it with a smile, threw it in her wooden bowl, and handed him, as if it had been his change, three bright sovereigns. Clare turned his face away. He could not take them. He felt as if it would break one bond between them.
“The money’s your own!” she said, in a low voice.
“By and by, mother!” he answered.
“No, no, take it now,” she insisted, in an almost angry whisper; but the same moment threw the sovereigns among the silver, and some coppers that lay on the table over them.
Judging by her look that he had better say nothing, he turned and went down the steps. Before he reached the bottom of them, Glum Gunn elbowed his way past him, throwing a scowl on him from his ugly eyes at the range of a few inches.
The place was fuller than it had been all the evening, and with a rougher sort of company. The show would close in about an hour. It seemed to Clare not so well lighted as usual. Perhaps that was why he did not observe that he was watched and followed by Marway, with two others, and one burly, middle-aged, sailor-looking fellow. But I doubt whether he would have seen them in any light, for he had no suspicions, and was not ready to analyze a crowd and distinguish individuals.
He avoided making straight for Pummy, contenting himself for the moment with an occasional glimpse of him between the moving heads, now opening a vista, now closing it again, for he hoped to get gradually nearer unseen, so as to be close to the animal when first he should descry him, for he dreaded attracting attention by becoming, while yet at a distance, the object of an uproarious outbreak of affection on the part of the puma.
But while he was yet a good way from him, a most ferocious yell sprang full grown into the air, which the very fibres of his body knew as one of the cries of the puma when most enraged. There he was on his hind legs, ramping against the front of the cage, every hair on him bristling, his tail lashing his flanks. The same instant arose a commotion in the crowd behind Clare, a pushing and stooping and swaying to and fro, with shouts of, “Here he is! here he is!”
Filled with a foreboding that was almost a prescience, he fell to forcing his way without ceremony, and had got a little nearer to the puma, when, elbowing roughly through the spectators, with red, evil face, in drink but not drunk, Glum Gunn appeared, almost between him and the cage—once more, to the horror of Clare, holding by the neck his poor little Abdiel, curled up into the shape of a flea. The brute was making his way with him to the cage of the puma, whose wrath, grown to an indescribable frenzy, now blazed point-blank at the dog.
I think some waft of the wild odour of the menagerie must have reached the nostrils of the loving creature, brought back old times and his master, and waked the hope of finding him. That he had but just arrived was plain, for he had not had time to get to his master.
Clare was almost at the edge of the close-packed, staring crowd, absorbed in the sight of the huge raving cat. Breaking through its outermost ring in the strength of sudden terror, he darted to the cage to reach it before Glum Gunn. A man crossed and hustled him. Gunn opened the door of the cage, and flung Abdiel to the puma. Ere he could close it, Clare struck him once more a stout left-hander on the side of his head. Gunn staggered back. Clare sprang into the cage—just as Pummy spying him uttered a jubilant roar of recognition. His jumping into the cage just prevented the puma from getting out, and the crowd from trampling each other to death to escape The Christians’ Friend; but now that Clare was in, the cage-door might have swung all night open unheeded—so long, that is, as no dog appeared.
As for Abdiel the puma had forgotten him: the dog was out of his sight for the moment, though only behind him, while his friend and he were rubbing recognizant noses. Abdiel showed his wisdom by keeping in the background. The moment he was flung into the cage, he had got into a corner of it, and stood up on his hind legs.
His master believed that, knowing how the puma loved the human form divine, he thought to prejudice him in his favour by showing how near he could come to it. There he yet stood, his head sunk on his chest, watching out of his eyes for the terrible moment when his enemy should again catch sight of him.
The moment came. The puma’s delight had broken out in wildest motion. He sprang to the roof of his cage, and grappling there, looked down with retorted neck, and saw the dog. Poor Abdiel immediately raised his head, and in hope of propitiation all but forlorn, began a little dance his master had taught him.
What Pummy would have done with him, I fear, but I cannot tell. Clare sprang to the rescue, and the weight of the puma’s bulk descended, not on Abdiel, but on the shoulders of Clare who had the dog in his bosom. In a moment more it was evidenced that a common love, however often the cause of jealousy, is the most powerful mediator between the generous. The puma forgot his hate, the dog forgot his fear, and presently, to the admiration of the crowd, Clare and Pummy and Abby were rolling over and over each other on the floor of the cage.
Pummy had the best of the rough game. One moment he would be a bend in a seemingly unloosable knot of confused animality, the next he would be clinging to the top of his cage, where the others could not follow him. Perhaps to have a human to play with, was even better than dreams of loveliest frolics with brothers and sisters, and a mother as madly merry as they, in still, moonlit nights among the rocks, where neither sound nor scent of horse woke the devil in any of their bosoms!
Glum Gunn, too angry to speak, stood watching with a scowl fit for Lucifer when he rose from his first fall from heaven. He could do nothing! If he touched one, all three would be upon him! Experience had taught him what the puma would do in defence of Clare! He must bide his time!—But he must keep hold of his chance! He drew from his pocket his master-key, and at a moment when Clare was under the other two, slid it into the key-hole, and locked the door of the cage. He had him now—and his beast of a dog too! If he could have turned the puma mad, and made him tear them both to shreds, he would not have delayed an instant. But he must think! He must say, like Hamlet, “About, my brains!”
The man, however, who wishes to do evil, will find as ready helpers as he who wishes to do well: in the place were those who wanted Gunn’s aid, and would give him theirs.
He felt a touch on his arm, glanced sullenly round, and saw a face under whose beauty lay the devil. Marway, with eye and thumb, requested him to withdraw for a moment, and he did not hesitate. As he went he chuckled to himself at the thought of Clare when he found the door locked.
Marway’s three accomplices had drifted off one by one to wait him outside: he rejoined them with Gunn; and, retiring a little way from the caravans, the five held a council, the results of which make an important part of Clare’s history.
Clare seemed absorbed in his game with his four-footed, one-tailed friends, but he was wide awake: he had Abdiel to deliver, and kept, therefore, all the time, at least half an eye on Glum Gunn. He saw Marway come up to him, and saw them retire together: it was the very moment to leave the cage with Abdiel! He rose, not without difficulty, because of the jumping of his playmates upon him and over him, and went to the door.
The moment he did so, the crowd was greatly amused to see the puma turn upon the dog with a snarl, and the dog, at the fearful sound of altered mood, immediately put on the man, rise to one pair of feet, and begin to dance. The puma turned from him, went to the heel of his chosen master, and there stood.
In vain Clare endeavoured to open the gate. He had never known it locked, and could not think when it had been done. At length, amid the laughter of the spectators, he desisted, and the three resumed their frolics.
At this the admiration of the visitors broke out. They had seen the door made fast, and had kept pretty quiet, waiting what would come: they had thus earned their amusement when he sought in vain to open it. When his withdrawal confessed him foiled, the merrier began to mock and the ruder to jeer. But when they saw him laugh, and all three return to their gambols, they applauded heartily.
Just before this last portion of the entertainment, Mr. Halliwell, who had been looking on for a while, retired, not knowing the cage-door was locked. He went to his wife and said, that, if they had but the boy and his dog again, and were but free of that brother of his, the menagerie would be a wild-beast paradise. He would have had her go and see the pranks in the puma’s cage, but she was too tired, she said; so he strolled out with his pipe, and left his men to close the exhibition. Mrs. Halliwell fastened her door and went to bed, a little hurt that Clare did not come to her.
Gradually the folk thinned away; and at last only a few who had got in at half-price remained. To them the attendants hinted that they were going to shut shop, and one by one they shuffled out, the readier that Clare was now so tired that Pummy could not get up the merest tail of a lark more. He was quite fresh himself, and had he been out in the woods, would certainly not have gone home till morning. But he was such a human creature that he would not insist when he saw Clare was weary; and that he had no inclination to play with Abdiel when his master was out of the game, was quite as well for Abdiel, for Pummy might have forgot himself. When Abby, not free from fear, as knowing well he was not free from danger, crept to his master’s bosom, Pummy gave a low growl, and shoving his nose under the long body of the dog, with one jerk threw him a yard off upon the floor, whence Abdiel returned to content himself with his master’s feet, abandoning the place of honour to one who knew himself stronger, and probably counted himself better. So they all fell asleep in peace. For although Clare knew himself and Abdiel Gunn’s prisoners, he feared no surprise with two such rousable companions.