CHAPTER XXIX. — BEATRICE’S JOURNAL.
October 30, 1848.—My recovery has been slow, and I am still far from well. I stay in my room almost altogether. Why should I do otherwise? Day succeeds day, and each day is a blank.
My window looks on the sea, and I can sit there and feed my heart on the memories which that sea calls up. It is company for me in my solitude. It is music, though I can not hear its voice. Oh, how I should rejoice if I could get down by its margin and touch its waters! Oh how I should rejoice if those waters would flow over me forever!
November 15.—Why I should write any thing now I do not know. This uneventful life offers nothing to record. Mrs. Compton is as timid, as gentle, and as affectionate as ever. Philips, poor, timorous, kindly soul, sends me flowers by her. Poor wretch, how did he ever get here? How did Mrs. Compton?
December 28.—In spite of my quiet habits and constant seclusion I feel that I am under some surveillance, not from Mrs. Compton, but from others. I have been out twice during the last fortnight and perceived this plainly. Men in the walks who were at work quietly followed me with their eyes. I see that I am watched. I did not know that I was of sufficient importance.
Yesterday a strange incident occurred. Mrs. Compton was with me, and by some means or other my thoughts turned to one about whom I have often tried to form conjectures—my mother. How could she ever have married a man like my father? What could she have been like? Suddenly I turned to Mrs. Compton, and said:
“Did you ever see my mother?”
What there could have been in my question I can not tell, but she trembled and looked at me with greater fear in her face than I had ever seen there before. This time she seemed to be afraid of me. I myself felt a cold chill run through my frame. That awful thought which I had once before known flashed across my mind.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Compton, suddenly, “oh, don’t look at me so; don’t look at me so!”
“I don’t understand you,” said I, slowly.
She hid her face in her hands and began to weep. I tried to soothe her, and with some success, for after a time she regained her composure. Nothing more was said. But since then one thought, with a long series of attendant thoughts, has weighed down my mind. Who am I? What am I? What am I doing here? What do these people want with me? Why do they guard me?
I can write no more.
January 14, 1849.—The days drag on. Nothing new has happened. I am tormented by strange thoughts. I see this plainly that there are times when I inspire fear in this house. Why is this?
Since that day, many, many months ago, when they all looked at me in horror, I have seen none of them. Now Mrs. Compton has exhibited the same fear. There is a restraint over her. Yes, she too fears me. Yet she is kind; and poor Philips never forgets to send me flowers.
I could smile at the idea of any one fearing me, if it were not for the terrible thoughts that arise within my mind.
February 12.—Of late all my thoughts have changed, and I have been inspired with an uncontrollable desire to escape. I live here in luxury, but the meanest house outside would be far preferable. Every hour here is a sorrow, every day a misery. Oh, me! if I could but escape!
Once in that outer world I care not what might happen. I would be willing to do menial labor to earn my bread. Yet it need not come to that. The lessons which Paolo taught me have been useful in more ways than one. I know that I at least need not be dependent.
He used to say to me that if I chose to go on the stage and sing, I could do something better than gain a living or make a fortune. He said I could interpret the ideas of the Great Masters, and make myself a blessing to the world.
Why need I stay here when I have a voice which he used to deign to praise? He did not praise it because he loved me; but I think he loved me because he loved my voice. He loves my voice better than me. And that other one! Ah me—will he ever hear my voice again? Did he know how sweet his voice was to me? Oh me! its tones ring in my ears and in my heart night and day.
March 5.—My resolution is formed. This may be my last entry. I pray to God that it may be. I will trust in him and fly. At night they can not be watching me. There is a door at the north end, the key of which is always in it. I can steal out by that direction and gain my liberty.
Oh Thou who hearest prayer, grant deliverance to the captive!
Farewell now, my journal; I hope never to see you again! Yet I will secrete you in this chamber, for if I am compelled to return I may be glad to seek you again.
March 6.—Not yet! Not yet!
Alas! and since yesterday what things have happened! Last night I was to make my attempt. They dined at eight, and I waited for them to retire. I waited long. They were longer than usual.
{Illustration: “OH!” CRIED MRS. COMPTON SUDDENLY, “OH, DON’T LOOK AT ME SO; DON’T LOOK AT ME SO!”}
At about ten o’clock Mrs. Compton came into my room, with as frightened a face as usual. “They want you,” said she.
I knew whom she meant. “Must I go?” said I.
“Alas, dear child, what can you do? Trust in God. He can save you.”
“He alone can save me,” said I, “if He will. It has come to this that I have none but Him in whom I can trust.”
She began to weep. I said no more, but obeyed the command and went down.
Since I was last there months had passed—months of suffering and anguish in body and mind. The remembrance of my last visit there came over me as I entered. Yet I did not tremble or falter. I crossed the threshold and entered the room, and stood before them in silence.
I saw the three men who had been there before. He and his son, and the man Clark, They had all been drinking. Their voices were loud and their laughter boisterous as I approached. When I entered they became quiet, and all three stared at me. At last he said to his son,
“She don’t look any fatter, does she, Johnnie?”
“She gets enough to eat, any how,” answered John.
“She’s one of them kind,” said the man Clark, “that don’t fatten up. But then, Johnnie, you needn’t talk—you haven’t much fat yourself, lad.”
“Hard work,” said John, whereupon the others, thinking it an excellent joke, burst into hoarse laughter. This put them into great good-humor with themselves, and they began to turn their attention to me again. Not a word was said for some time.
“Can you dance?” said he, at last, speaking to me abruptly.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Ah! I thought so. I paid enough for your education, any how. It would be hard if you hadn’t learned any thing else except squalling and banging on the piano.”
I said nothing.
“Why do you stare so, d—n you?” he cried, looking savagely at me.
I looked at the floor.
“Come now,” said he. “I sent for you to see if you can dance. Dance!”
I stood still. “Dance!” he repeated with an oath. “Do you hear?”
“I can not,” said I.
“Perhaps you want a partner,” continued he, with a sneer. “Here, Johnnie, go and help her.”
“I’d rather not,” said John.
“Clark, you try it—you were always gay,” and he gave a hoarse laugh.
“Yes, Clark,” cried John. “Now’s your chance.”
Clark hesitated for a moment, and then came toward me. I stood with my arms folded, and looked at him fixedly. I was not afraid. For I thought in that hour of who these men were, and what they were. My life was in their hands, but I held life cheap. I rose above the fear of the moment, and felt myself their superior.
Clark came up to me and stopped. I did not move.
“Curse her!” said he. “I’d as soon dance with a ghost. She looks like one, any how.”
He laughed boisterously.
“He’s afraid. He’s getting superstitious!” he cried. “What do you think of that, Johnnie?”
“Well,” drawled John, “it’s the first time I ever heard of Clark being afraid of any thing.”
These words seemed to sting Clark to the quick.
“Will you dance?” said he, in a hoarse voice.
I made no answer.
“Curse her! make her dance!” he shouted, starting up from his chair. “Don’t let her bully you, you fool!”
Clark stepped toward me and laid one heavy hand on mine, while he attempted to pass the other round my waist. At the horror of his polluting touch all my nature seemed transformed. I started back. There came something like a frenzy over me. I neither knew nor cared what I said.
Yet I spoke slowly, and it was not like passion. All that I had read in that manuscript was in my heart, the very spirit of the murdered Despard seemed to inspire me.
“Touch me not,” I said. “Trouble me not. I am near enough to Death already. And you,” I cried, stretching out my hand to him, “THUG! never again will I obey one command of yours. Kill me if you choose, and send me after Colonel Despard.”
These words seemed to blast and wither them. Clark shrank back. He gave a groan, and clutched the arm of his chair. John looked in fear from one to the other, and stammered with an oath:
“She knows all! Mrs. Compton told her.”
“Mrs. Compton never knew it, about the Thug,” said he, and then looked up fearfully at me. They all looked once more. Again that fear which I had seen in them before was shown upon their faces.
I looked upon these wretches as though I had surveyed them from some lofty height. That one of them was my father was forgotten. I seemed to utter words which were inspired within me.
“Colonel Despard has spoken to me from the dead, and told me all,” said I. “I am appointed to avenge him.”
I turned and went out of the room. As I left I heard John’s voice:
“If she’s the devil himself, as I believe she is,” he cried, “she’s got to be took down!”
I reached my room. I lay awake all night long. A fever seemed raging in all my veins. Now with a throbbing head and trembling hands I write this. Will these be my last words? God grant it, and give me safe deliverance. Amen! amen!
CHAPTER XXX. — SMITHERS & CO.
The Brandon Bank, John Potts, President, had one day risen suddenly before the eyes of the astonished county and filled all men with curious speculations.
John Potts had been detestable, but now, as a Bank President, he began to be respectable, to say the least. Wealth has a charm about it which fascinates all men, even those of the oldest families, and now that this parvenu showed that he could easily employ his superfluous cash in a banking company, people began to look upon his name as still undoubtedly vulgar, yet as undoubtedly possessing the ring of gold.
His first effort to take the county by storm, by an ordinary invitation to Brandon Hall, had been sneered at every where. But this bank was a different thing. Many began to think that perhaps Potts had been an ill-used and slandered man. He had been Brandon’s agent, but who could prove any thing against him after all?
There were very many who soon felt the need of the peculiar help which a bank can give if it only chooses. Those who went there found Potts marvelously accommodating. He did not seem so grasping or so suspicious as other bankers. They got what they wanted, laughed at his pleasant jokes, and assured every body that he was a much-belied man.
Surely it was by some special inspiration that Potts hit upon this idea of a bank; if he wished to make people look kindly upon him, to “be to his faults a little blind, and to his virtues very kind,” he could not have conceived any better or shorter way toward the accomplishment of so desirable a result.
So lenient were these people that they looked upon all those who took part in the bank with equal indulgence. The younger Potts was considered as a very clever man, with a dry, caustic humor, but thoroughly good-hearted. Clark, one of the directors, was regarded as bluff, and shrewd, and cautious, but full of the milk of human kindness; and Philips, the cashier, was universally liked on account of his gentle, obsequious manner.
So wide-spread and so active were the operations of this bank that people stood astonished and had nothing to say. The amount of their accommodations was enormous. Those who at first considered it a mushroom concern soon discovered their mistake; for the Brandon Bank had connections in London which seemed to give the command of unlimited means, and any sum whatever that might be needed was at once advanced where the security was at all reliable. Nor was the bank particular about security. John Potts professed to trust much to people’s faces and to their character, and there were times when he would take the security without looking at it, or even decline it and be satisfied with the name.
In less than a year the bank had succeeded in gaining the fullest confidence even of those who had at first been most skeptical, and John Potts had grown to be considered without doubt one of the most considerable men in the county.
One day in March John Potts was sitting in the parlor of the bank when a gentleman walked in who seemed to be about sixty years of age. He had a slight stoop, and carried a gold-headed cane. He was dressed in black, had gray hair, and a very heavy gray beard and mustache.
“Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Potts?” said the stranger, in a peculiarly high, shrill voice.
“I’m Mr. Potts,” said the other.
The stranger thereupon drew a letter from his pocket-book and handed it to Potts. The letter was a short one, and the moment Potts had read it he sprang up and held out his hand eagerly.
“Mr. Smithers, Sir!—you’re welcome, Sir, I’m sure, Sir! Proud and happy, Sir, to see you, I’m sure!” said Potts, with great volubility.
Mr. Smithers, however, did not seem to see his hand, but seated himself leisurely on a chair, and looked for a moment at the opposite wall like one in thought.
He was a singular-looking old man. His skin was fresh; there was a grand, stern air upon his brow when it was in repose. The lower part of his face was hidden by his beard, and its expression was therefore lost. His eyes, however, were singularly large and luminous, although he wore spectacles and generally looked at the floor.
“I have but recently returned from a tour,” said he, in the same voice; “and my junior partner has managed all the business in my absence, which has lasted more than a year. I had not the honor of being acquainted with your banking-house when I left, and as I had business up this way I thought I would call on you.”
“Proud, Sir, and most happy to welcome you to our modest parlor,” said Potts, obsequiously. “This is a pleasure—indeed I may say, Sir, a privilege—which I have long wished to have. In fact, I have never seen your junior partner, Sir, any more than yourself. I have only seen your agents, Sir, and have gone on and done my large business with you by writing.”
Mr. Smithers bowed.
“Quite so,” said he. “We have so many connections in all parts of the world that it is impossible to have the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with them all. There are some with whom we have much larger transactions than yourself whom I have never seen.”
“Indeed, Sir!” exclaimed Potts, with great surprise. “Then you must do a larger business than I thought.”
“We do a large business,” said Mr. Smithers, thoughtfully.
“And all over the world, you said. Then you must be worth millions.”
“Oh, of course, one can not do a business like ours, that commands money, without a large capital.”
“Are there many who do a larger business than I do?”
“Oh yes. In New York the house of Peyton Brothers do a business of ten times the amount—yes, twenty times. In San Francisco a new house, just started since the gold discoveries, has done a business with us almost as large. In Bombay Messrs. Nickerson, Bolton, & Co. are our correspondents; in Calcutta Messrs. Hostermann, Jennings, & Black; in Hong Kong Messrs. Naylor & Tibbetts; in Sydney Messrs. Sandford & Perley. Besides these, we have correspondents through Europe and in all parts of England who do a much larger business than yours. But I thought you were aware of this,” said Mr. Smithers, looking with a swift glance at Potts.
“Of course, of course,” said Potts, hastily: “I knew your business was enormous, but I thought our dealings with you were considerable.”
“Oh, you are doing a snug business,” said Smithers, in a patronizing tone. “It is our custom whenever we have correspondents who are sound men to encourage them to the utmost. This is the reason why you have always found us liberal and prompt.”
“You have done great service, Sir,” said Potts. “In fact, you have made the Brandon Bank what it is to-day.”
“Well,” said Smithers, “we have agents every where; we heard that this bank was talked about, and knowing the concern to be in sure hands we took it up. My Junior has made arrangements with you which he says have been satisfactory.”
“Very much so to me,” replied Potts. “You have always found the money.”
“And you, I suppose, have furnished the securities.”
“Yes, and a precious good lot of them you are now holding.”
“I dare say,” said Smithers: “for my part I have nothing to do with the books. I merely attend to the general affairs, and trust to my Junior for particulars.”
“And you don’t know the exact state of our business?” said Potts, in a tone of disappointment.
“No. How should I? The only ones with which I am familiar are our American, European, and Eastern agencies. Our English correspondents are managed by my Junior.”
“You must be one of the largest houses in London,” said Potts, in a tone of deep admiration.
“Oh yes.”
“Strange I never heard of you till two years or so.”
“Very likely.”
“There was a friend of mine who was telling me something about some Sydney merchants who were sending consignments of wool to you. Compton & Brandon. Do you know them?”
“I have heard my Junior speak of them.”
“You were in Sydney, were you not?”
“Yes, on my last tour I touched there.”
“Do you know Compton & Brandon?”
“I looked in to see them. I think Brandon is dead, isn’t he? Drowned at sea—or something of that sort?” said Smithers, indifferently.
“Yes,” said Potts.
“Are you familiar with the banking business?” asked Smithers, suddenly.
“Well, no, not very. I haven’t had much experience; but I’m growing into it.”
“Ah! I suppose your directors are good business men?”
“Somewhat; but the fact is, I trust a good deal to my cashier.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Philips, a very clever man; a first-rate accountant.”
“That’s right. Very much indeed depends on the cashier.”
“He is a most useful and reliable man.”
“Your business appears to be growing, from what I have heard.”
“Very fast indeed, Sir. Why, Sir, in another year I expect to control this whole county financially. There is no reason why I shouldn’t. Every one of my moves is successful.”
“That is right. The true mode of success in a business like yours is boldness. That is the secret of my success. Perhaps you are not aware,” continued Mr. Smithers, in a confidential tone, “that I began with very little. A few thousands of pounds formed my capital. But my motto was boldness, and now I am worth I will not say how many millions. If you want to make money fast you must be bold.”
“Did you make your money by banking?” asked Potts, eagerly.
“No. Much of it was made in that way, but I have embarked in all kinds of enterprises; foreign loans, railway scrip, and ventures in stock of all sorts. I have lost millions, but I have made ten times more than ever I lost. If you want to make money, you must go on the same plan.”
“Well, I’m sure,” said Potts, “I’m bold enough. I’m enlarging my business every day in all directions.”
“That’s right.”
“I control the county now, and hope in another year to do so in a different way.”
“How so?”
“I’m thinking of setting up for Parliament—”
“An excellent idea, if it will not injure the business.”
“Oh, it will not hurt it at all. Philips can manage it all under my directions. Besides, I don’t mind telling a friend like you that this is the dream of my life.”
“A very laudable aim, no doubt, to those who have a genius for statesmanship. But that is a thing which is altogether out of my line. I keep to business. And now, as my time is limited, I must not stay longer. I will only add that my impressions are favorable about your bank, and you may rely upon us to any extent to co-operate with you in any sound enterprise. Go on and enlarge your business, and draw on us for what you want as before. If I were you I would embark all my available means in this bank.”
“Well, I’m gradually coming to that, I think,” said Potts.
“Then, when you get large deposits, as you must expect, that will give you additional capital to work on. The best way when you have a bank is to use your cash in speculating in stocks. Have you tried that yet?”
“Yes, but not much.”
“If you wish any thing of that kind done we will do it for you.”
“But I don’t know what are the best investments.”
“Oh, that is very easily found out. But if you can’t learn, we will let you know. The Mexican Loan just now is the most promising. Some of the California companies are working quietly, and getting enormous dividends.”
“California?” said Potts; “that ought to pay.”
“Oh, there’s nothing like it. I cleared nearly half a million in a few months.”
“A few months!” cried Potts, opening his eyes.
“Yes, we have agents who keep us well up; and so, you know, we are able to speculate to the best advantage.”
“California!” said Potts, thoughtfully. “I should like to try that above all things. It has a good sound. It is like the chink of cash.”
“Yes, you get the pure gold out of that. There’s nothing like it.”
“Do you know any chances for speculation there?”
“Yes, one or two.”
“Would you have any objection to let me know?”
“Not in the least—it will extend your business. I will ask my Junior to send you any particulars you may desire.”
“This California business must be the best there is, if all I hear is true.”
“You haven’t heard the real truth.”
“Haven’t I?” exclaimed Potts, in wonder. “I thought it was exaggerated.”
“I could tell you stories far more wonderful than any thing you have heard.”
“Tell me!” cried Potts, breathlessly.
“Well,” said Smithers, confidentially, “I don’t mind telling you something which is known, I’m sorry to say, in certain circles in London, and is already being acted on. One-half of our fortune has been made in California operations.”
“You don’t say so!”
“You see I’ve always been bold,” continued Smithers, with an air of still greater confidence. “I read some time since in one of Humboldt’s books about gold being there. At the first news of the discovery I chartered a ship and went out at once. I took every thing that could be needed. On arriving at San Francisco, where there were already very many people, I sold the cargo at an enormous profit, and hired the ship as a warehouse at enormous prices. I then organized a mining company, and put a first-rate man at the head of it. They found a place on the Sacramento River where the gold really seems inexhaustible. I worked it for some months, and forwarded two millions sterling to London. Then I left, and my company is still working.”
“Why did you leave?” asked Potts, breathlessly.
“Because I could make more money by being in London. My man there is reliable. I have bound him to us by giving him a share in the business. People soon found out that Smithers & Co. had made enormous sums of money in California, but they don’t know exactly how. The immense expansion of our business during the last year has filled them with wonder. For you know every piece of gold that I sent home has been utilized by my Junior.”
Potts was silent, and sat looking in breathless admiration at this millionaire. All his thoughts were seen in his face. His whole heart was laid bare, and the one thing visible was an intense desire to share in that golden enterprise.
“I have organized two companies on the same principle as the last. The shares are selling at a large premium in the London market. I take a leading part in each, and my name gives stability to the enterprise. If I find the thing likely to succeed I continue; if not, why, I can easily sell out. I am on the point of organizing a third company.”
“Are the shares taken up?” cried Potts, eagerly.
“No, not yet.”
“Well, could I obtain some?”
“I really can’t say,” replied Smithers. “You might make an application to my Junior. I do nothing whatever with the details. I don’t know what plans or agreements he may have been making.”
“I should like exceedingly to take stock. How do the shares sell?”
“The price is high, as we wish to confine our shareholders to the richer classes. We never put it at less than £1000 a share.”
“I would take any quantity.”
“I dare say some may be in the market yet,” said Smithers, calmly. “They probably sell at a high premium though.”
“I’d pay it,” said Potts.
“Well, you may write and see; I know nothing about it.”
“And if they’re all taken up, what then?”
“Oh—then—I really don’t know. Why can’t you organize a company yourself?”
“Well, you see, I don’t know anything about the place.”
“True; that is a disadvantage. But you might find some people who do know.”
“That would be very difficult. I do not see how we could begin. And if I did find any one, how could I trust him?”
“You’d have to do as I did—give him a share of the business.”
“It would be much better if I could get some stock in one of your companies. Your experience and credit would make it a success.”
“Yes, there is no doubt that our companies would all be successful since we have a man on the spot.”
“And that’s another reason why I should prefer buying stock from you. You see I might form a company, but what could I do?”
“Could not your cashier help you?”
“No, not in any thing of that sort.”
“Well, I can say nothing about it. My Junior will tell you what chances there are.”
“But while I see you personally I should be glad if you would consent to give me a chance. Have you any objection?”
“Oh no. I will mention your case the next time I write, if you wish it. Still I can not control the particular operations of the office. My control is supreme in general matters, and you see it would not be possible for me to interfere with the smaller details.”
“Still you might mention me.”
“I will do so,” said Smithers, and taking out his pocket-book he prepared to write.
“Let me see,” said he, “your Christian name is—what?”
“John—John Potts.”
“John Potts,” repeated the other, as he wrote it down.
Smithers rose. “You may continue to draw on us as before, and any purchases of stock which you wish will be made.”
Potts thanked him profusely. “I wish to see your cashier, to learn his mode of managing the accounts. Much depends on that, and a short conversation will satisfy me.”
“Certainly, Sir, certainly,” said Potts, obsequiously. “Philips!” he called.
Philips came in as timid and as shrinking as usual.
“This is Mr. Smithers, the great Smithers of Smithers & Co., Bankers; he wishes to have a talk with you.”
Philips looked at the great man with deep respect and made an awkward bow.
“You may come with me to my hotel,” said Smithers; and with a slight bow to Potts he left the bank, followed by Philips.
He went up stairs and into a large parlor on the second story, which looked into the street. He motioned Philips to a chair near the window, and seated himself in an arm-chair opposite.
Smithers looked at the other with a searching glance, and said nothing for some time. His large, full eyes, as they fixed themselves on the face of the other, seemed to read his inmost thoughts and study every part of his weak and irresolute character.
At length he said, abruptly, in a slow, measured voice, “Edgar Lawton!”
At the sound of this name Philips started from his chair, and stood on his feet trembling. His face, always pale, now became ashen, his lips turned white, his jaw fell, his eyes seemed to start from their sockets. He stood for a few seconds, then sank back into a chair.
Smithers eyed him steadfastly. “You see I know you,” said he, after a time.
Philips cast on him an imploring look.
“The fact that I know your name,” continued Smithers, “shows also that I must know something of your history. Do not forget that!”
“My—my history?” faltered Philips.
“Yes, your history. I know it all, wretched man! I knew your father whom you ruined, and whose heart you broke.”
Philips said not a word, but again turned an imploring face to this man.
“I have brought you here to let you know that there is one who holds you in his power, and that one is myself. You think Potts or Clark have you at their mercy. Not so. I alone hold your fate in my hands. They dare not do any thing against you for fear of their own necks.”
{Illustration: “AT THE SOUND OF THIS NAME PHILIPS STARTED FROM HIS CHAIR, AND STOOD ON HIS FEET TREMBLING."}
Philips looked up now in wonder, which was greater than his fear.
“Why,” he faltered, “you are Potts’s friend. You got him to start the bank, and you have advanced him money.”
“You are the cashier,” said Smithers, calmly. “Can you tell me how much the Brandon Bank owes Smithers & Co?”
Philips looked at the other and hesitated.
“Speak!”
“Two hundred and eighty-nine thousand pounds.”
“And if Smithers & Co. chose to demand payment to-morrow, do you think the Brandon Bank would be prompt about it?”
Philips shook his head.
“Then you see that the man whom you fear is not so powerful as some others.”
“I thought you were his friend?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Smithers & Co.,” said Philips, wearily.
“Well, let me tell you the plans of Smithers & Co. are beyond your comprehension. Whether they are friends to Potts or not, it seems that they are his creditors to an amount which it would be difficult for him to pay if they chose to demand it.”
Philips looked up. He caught sight of the eyes of Smithers, which blazed like two dark, fiery orbs as they were fastened upon him. He shuddered.
“I merely wished to show you the weakness of the man whom you fear. Shall I tell you something else?”
Philips looked up fearfully.
“I have been in York, in Calcutta, and in Manilla: and I know what Potts did in each place. You look frightened. You have every reason to be so. I know what was done at York. I know that you were sent to Botany Bay. I know that you ran away from your father to India. I know your life there. I know how narrowly you escaped going on board the Vishnu, and being implicated in the Manilla murder. Madman that you were, why did you not take your poor mother and fly from these wretches forever?”
Philips trembled from head to foot. He said not a word, but bowed his head upon his knees and wept.
“Where is she now?” said Smithers, sternly. Philips mechanically raised his head, and pointed over toward Brandon Hall.
“Is she confined against her will?”
Philips shook his head.
“She stays, then, through love of you?”
Philips nodded.
“Is any one else there?” said Smithers, after a pause, and in a strange, sad voice, in which there was a faltering tone which Philips, in his fright, did not notice.
“Miss Potts,” he said.
“She is treated cruelly,” said Smithers. “They say she is a prisoner?”
Philips nodded.
“Has she been sick?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Eight months, last year.”
“Is she well now?”
“Yes.”
Smithers bowed his head in silence, and put his hand on his heart. Philips watched him in an agony of fright, as though every instant he was apprehensive of some terrible calamity.
“How is she?” continued Smithers, after a time. “Has she ever been happy since she went there?”
Philips shook his head slowly and mournfully.
“Does her father ever show her any affection?”
“Never.”
“Does her brother?”
“Never.”
“Is there any one who does?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Compton.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“I will not forget that. No, I will never forget that. Do you think that she is exposed to any danger?”
“Miss Potts?”
Smithers bowed.
“I don’t know. I sometimes fear so.”
“Of what kind?”
“I don’t know. Almost any horrible thing may happen in that horrible place.”
A pang of agony shot across the sombre brow of Smithers. He was silent for a long time.
“Have you ever slighted her?” he asked at last.
“Never,” cried Philips. “I could worship her—”
Smithers smiled upon him with a smile so sweet that it chased all Philips’s fears away. He took courage and began to show more calm. “Fear nothing,” said Smithers, in a gentle voice. “I see that in spite of your follies and crimes there is something good in you yet. You love your mother, do you not?”
Tears came into Philips’s eyes. He sighed. “Yes,” he said, humbly.
“And you are kind to her—that other one?”
“I love her as my mother,” said Philips, earnestly.
Smithers again relapsed into silence for a long time. At last he looked up. Philips saw his eyes this time, no longer stern and wrathful, but benignant and indulgent.
“You have been all your life under the power of merciless men,” said he. “You have been led by them into folly and crime and suffering. Often you have been forced to act against your will. Poor wretch! I can save you, and I intend to do so in spite of yourself. You fear these masters of yours. You must know now that I, not they, am to be feared. They know your secret but dare not use it against you. I know it, and can use it if I choose. You have been afraid of them all your life. Fear them no longer, but fear me. These men whom you fear are in my power as well as you are. I know all their secrets—there is not a crime of theirs of which you know that I do not know also, and I know far more.
“You must from this time forth be my agent. Smithers & Co. have agents in all parts of the world. You shall be their agent in Brandon Hall. You shall say nothing of this interview to any one, not even to your mother—you shall not dare to communicate with me unless you are requested, except about such things as I shall specify. If you dare to shrink in any one point from your duty, at that instant I will come down upon you with a heavy hand. You, too, are watched. I have other agents here in Brandon besides yourself. Many of those who go to the bank as customers are my agents. You can not be false without my knowing it; and when you are false, that moment you shall be handed over to the authorities. Do you hear?”
The face of Smithers was mild, but his tone was stern. It was the warning of a just yet merciful master. All the timid nature of Philips bent in deep subjection before the powerful spirit of this man. He bowed his head in silence.
“Whenever an order comes to you from Smithers & Co. you must obey: if you do not obey instantly whatever it is, it will be at the risk of your life. Do you hear?”
Philips bowed.
“There is only one thing now in which I wish you to do anything. You must send every month a notice directed to Mr. Smithers, Senior, about the health of his daughter. Should any sudden danger impend you must at once communicate it. You understand?”
Philips bowed.
“Once more I must warn you always to remember that I am your master. Fail in one single thing, and you perish. Obey me, and you shall be rewarded. Now go!”
Philips rose, and, more dead than alive, tottered from the room.
When he left Smithers locked the door. He then went to the window and stood looking at Brandon Hall, with his stern face softened into sadness. He hummed low words as he stood there—words which once had been sung far away.
Among them were these, with which the strain ended:
“And the sad memory of our life below
Shall but unite us closer evermore;
No net of thine shall loose
Thee from the eternal bond,
Nor shall Revenge have power
To disunite us there!”
With a sigh he sat down and buried his face in his hands. His gray hair loosened and fell off as he sat there. At last he raised his head, and revealed the face of a young man whose dark hair showed the gray beard to be false.
Yet when he once more put on his wig none but a most intimate friend with the closest scrutiny could recognize there the features of Louis Brandon.