CHAPTER II.—THE WORM UPON THE LEAF.
I’ll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And wheresoe’er this foot of mine doth tread
He lies before me. Dost thou understand me?
—Shakspere.
Sunshine still!
Sunbeams making a golden palace of a Gothic mansion in the Regent’s Park, gilding its fretted roof, its traceries, and its triple arched and ornamented windows, tinting the graceful trees which gently waved in the gardens before and behind it, scattering golden stars upon the lake, and investing the flowers and shrubs with a beauty which rendered the place around little less than an earthly paradise.
Sunshine and sunbeams in all places without the walls of the mansion—shadows within.
In a room, magnificently furnished, containing every appliance a morbid attention to personal comfort could need, or the invention of luxurious imagination could devise, were seated an elderly gentleman, his wife and three daughters.
One of these girls was a beauty—all had pretensions to good looks, but she was strikingly handsome.
The name of the owner of this mansion was Grahame. He was a pale, stern-looking man. A dress suit of black, and a white cravat, which seemed to have the effect of being unpleasantly and rather dangerously tight about his neck, added to the austerity of his aspect.
His wife, an intensely proud woman, whose pride was apparent in her air, her dress, her features, sat like an imperious creature whose foible had no other quality than the worst species of haughtiness.
Like the very frankest person in the world, she wore—
Her heart upon her sleeve,
and displayed its entire sentiment in the material of which her attire was made, in its fashion, and in the style in which it was worn. The jewellery upon her wrists, her arms, her fingers, about her neck, and at her waist, betrayed the only feeling of which she was capable. She lived, moved, breathed in an atmosphere of inordinate, unreasoning pride—no other; and the “people” who came in contact with her felt it before she uttered a word to or glanced at them. In her eyes they were pottery of the commonest earthen material, whilst the clay of which she was herself formed, produced a porcelain of the rarest kind. So she sat; to be looked at, not touched.
Her husband, outwardly was of the same stamp.
Within, he was begrimed with cowardly meanness, granite selfishness, a cringing obsequiousness to the wealthy and the powerful, and an icy haughtiness to all whom he understood to be his inferiors in position. By his standard, pride was measured as honour and nobility of soul, gold as the essence of all virtue.
His daughters, brought up under such guidance, could hardly fail to be impregnated with the principles—or, rather, lack of principle—by which their parents were governed. Yet exercised upon the youngest, their influence failed to win a proselyte. Her organisation had not been adapted by nature to receive the impressions the authors of her being laboured to create, and, therefore, when she hazarded an opinion favourable to the purest sympathies of a kindly nature, or displayed an emotion which betrayed that she had a heart, she was called a fool, and treated as a pariah by the whole family. She had been christened Evangeline, but her imperial mamma frequently informed her it was a misnomer—that, in truth, her name should have been Gosling, which she had somewhere heard, meant a young goose, truly a young silly goose.
The second daughter resembled her mother in all things—was, in fact, her counterpart; she even bore her dualistic name, Margaret Claverhouse, and like her maternal parent, was supremely proud and hateful in all her characteristics.
The eldest girl, the beauty of the family, was composed of somewhat discordant elements. In person she was eminently attractive, her figure was tall and commanding, and its outline was as graceful as its air was majestic. Her face, as we have said, was extremely beautiful, but he must have a bold heart, who, falling in love with it, would woo her in the expectation that he could win her with ease and retain her by indifference. Her features were regular, her eyes large, glittering, and of that deep brown which is often mistaken for black; her eyelids were full, and her eyelashes so long as really to form a fringe to the lid. Her eyebrows were arched, her hair was darker than her eyes, and not less brilliant. Her mouth was small, yet it had a sensual fulness, no less apparent then the scornful curl which ever seemed to keep it in a state of unrest. As the hand of her maid was skilled, and incessantly in requisition, the arrangement of her tresses—that wondrous ornament to woman—may be said to have been faultless. Her attire was admirably chosen to assist her beauty, and its fit was a triumph of the modiste’s art. Her mother had instilled into her a belief that she was a queen of beauty, and she looked, thought, moved, as though she were an empress.
As yet it was supposed that her affections had not been touched; from infancy she had been tutored to believe that to be human in feeling was to descend to the level of the common herd—that the world and what it contained were made for her, not she for the world. She was gifted with all the elements of which energy and passion are composed, and she was capable of loving with a force not often allotted even to woman; but her passions, her energies, her tenderness, had been rendered dormant by the counsels of worldly pride, as the warm, gushing, health-giving stream is converted by a slow frost into a silent, motionless block of ice.
Should there come before her eyes the man whose physical beauty and whose mental intelligence woke up her heart from its icy dream into passionate life, and that love should prove to be unrequited—woe! woe! to her! and possibly to him! She had been named Helen after a maternal relative, from whom the most exaggerated expectations were entertained, and she bore it as though she, in virtue of it, already possessed the vast inheritance it was understood to foreshadow.
This family were engaged—while the broad sunshine was gladdening the poor and the respectable, promenading in the park, into which the windows of the mansion looked—in discussing the conduct of the only son of the house of Grahame, who, instead of having obtained at college a “double first” for the honour of the family, had forwarded home a packet of tradesmen’s accounts, the gross total of which considerably exceeded the handsome allowance placed to his credit by his father. Mr. Grahame spoke with considerable dissatisfaction of the course his son must have pursued to have plunged thus largely into debt; and, though it was in accordance with his wish that his son had for his college companions and intimate acquaintances, the Duke of St. Allborne, the young Earl of Carlton, and the experienced Lord Suedmuch, yet he thought that even their intimacy, at the price his son had paid for it, or rather that which he was called upon to pay, much too dear, and he expressed himself on the subject with an emphasis which his pride rendered unusual.
Mrs. Grahame turned upon him a sidelong glance with her half-closed eyes, and, said coldly and contemptuously—
“He is a Grahame! The members of that race are not used to measure their wants, their pleasures, or even their caprices, by miserable considerations of economy. I said to Malcolm, when we parted—‘Remember, always, that you are a Grahame. If those with whom you associate act as though their wealth ran a stream whose source is inexhaustible, let your expenditure be no less illimitable than theirs, even to represent, in wealth, a river whose’”——
“Confluence is a sea of dissipation and of debt,” sharply exclaimed Mr. Grahame, taking a pinch of snuff out of a gold, diamond-studded snuff-box.
“Mr. Grahame, your sense of the dignity of your position is becoming impaired,” responded the stately lady, wholly closing her eyes.
“No, madam,” he returned, “pardon me, I simply, object to unnecessary and preposterous extravagance.”
An expression of ineffable disdain passed over the lady’s features.
“Claver’se Grahame,” she remarked, in a frigid tone, “have you, at a moment, become poor?”
The face of Mr. Grahame instantly changed to a brilliant scarlet hue, then to a purple, finally it became livid. Globules of cold perspiration gathered thickly upon his brow. He thrust his chair back a few paces, and there was something of an affrighted expression in his eyes as he gazed upon hen. Her eyelids were yet close down over her pale gray eyes as he wiped the deathly damp from his brow.
Helen Grahame turned her bright dark eyes upon him with a scornful look. In her estimation, the concentration of meanness of soul was to place a limit upon lavish expenditure. She did not utter a word, but she tried to balance in her own mind which of the two occasioned her father the most terror—her mother’s cold displeasure or Malcolm’s extravagance.
Margaret thought with her sister that economy was but another word for a despicable narrowness of soul. Not but that she was economical enough when called upon for an exercise of charity; but for any selfish purpose, a compulsory contraction of expenditure would have been regarded by her as an example of the lowest and most vulgar niggardliness. She listened with disdain to her parent, and thought that it was incumbent upon her father to give like a Grahame, in order that her brother Malcolm should lavish it like a Grahame.
Evangeline, to whom the conversation had been distressing observing that her father had become suddenly silent; raised her soft eyes and marked the expression that passed over his features. In alarm she hastily left her seat, and in a low, affectionate tone, said, as she took his hand and leaned over him—
“Dear sir, you are not well, you are agitated, can I”——
“Keep your seat, Evangeline;” he exclaimed hoarsely; as he drew his hand from her petulantly. “I am not agitated—I am well—you are obtrusive and impertinent.”
Evangeline retreated to her place at the window; she took up the embroidery on which she had been engaged, and went on with it in silence, but a tear dropped upon her work; no one heeding the “young silly goose,” it passed unnoticed.
Mrs. Grahame spoke again.
“Malcolm is coming home,” she said, “and he has invited two of his college companions—the young Duke of St. Allborne, and the Honourable Lester Vane to accompany him here on a visit. No doubt Mr. Grahame, you will not lose so valuable an opportunity to impress upon your son, in the presence of his spendthrift associates, that your narrow income forbids your meeting claims which”——
“Madam,” interrupted Mr. Grahame, tartly, “it is you who are losing a sense of your position now. Let us change the subject. I will speak with Malcolm upon his return. A proper maintenance of his position, and the honour of his House is one thing: a disreputable squandering of his income quite another. In that spirit I speak now—in that spirit will I address myself to him.”
“Who is the Honourable Lester Vane?” inquired Margaret Grahame of her mother.
“A young man of an ancient and high family,” replied Mrs. Grahame—“immensely rich.”
“And very handsome,” exclaimed Helen; adding, “so at least Malcolm writes me. He praises him highly, declares that he possesses great personal attractions, and is sure—I—we shall all like him much.”
“He did not name him in the few lines he wrote to me,” said Margaret.
“But he did to you, Eva, did he not?” remarked Helen, turning her brilliant eyes with a mocking glance upon her youngest sister.
A gush of tears came again into the eyes of Evangeline. She did not raise them from her employment, that her emotion might be seen by her sisters. She answered with a quivering lip, and in a low, faltering tone.
“I suppose Malcolm had not time to write to me. I have had no letter from him since he has been gone.”
Margaret smiled. She was not accustomed to laugh.
“You! Absurd! do you think he would write to you? what conceit!” she observed, with a gesture of contempt.
What other feeling should she entertain for a sister who possessed merely the cardinal virtues, and was utterly deficient in an appreciation of worldly pomps and vanities?
At this part of the conversation, there was a tap at the door of the apartment; it opened at the same moment, and an individual, attired in a suit of black of the most approved court dress cut, advanced into the room. The eyes of the family were turned upon him, but he scarcely appeared to be disposed to collapse under that honour. His neck was garnished with an unexceptionable cravat, which was arranged with such precision that it seemed to be wrought in alabaster and carved elaborately. His wig—for as he confessed to admiring confreres, he had dispensed with his “own ’air”—looked as though it had been subjected to a severe storm of whitewash and had been violently brushed. He approached his master, and, bending over him, said, in a confidential manner, yet with a gesture of grave but humble deference.
“Thet pesson is come, sir!”
“Who?—what person?” inquired Mr. Grahame with the air of one who denied the right of any “person” to seek an audience with him.
“The pesson concerning which you gave me hin-structions, sir—I asked ’im into the libree, sir.”
“Into my library, man?” cried Mr. Grahame, rising up, angrily. “Pray what does the fellow mean? How dare you ask any ‘person’ into my library without my instructions to that effect?”
“He said he were Mr. Chewkle, sir, and if you please to remember”——
The face of Mr. Grahame turned as pale as death, and then changed to an intense crimson.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!” he cried hurriedly, altering his tone; “return to him—say I will come to him immediately.”
The man bowed, and quitted the room.
Mr. Grahame walked to the window and looked out into the sunlight. It lay upon the grassy lawn, upon the sloping meads, upon the waving trees, like gleaming gold dust. The soft breeze made the leaves flutter merrily, birds darted to and fro in the clear air, singing gaily, and brilliantly attired ladies and children moved over the open places in the broad park, animated by the beauty of the scene, and the glory of the sunshine. Mr. Grahame looked distastefully upon it, it ill-assorted with the feelings at war within his breast, and he turned from it with an impatient exclamation. He set his teeth together, drew a long breath, and, with his features more pallid than usual, strode out of the room.
Mrs. Grahame—too much occupied with visions of her own dignity, when she thought at all, which was not often—took no notice of the disturbed manner of her husband. If she had seen it, she would not have credited the evidence of her own eyes. A Grahame disturbed or agitated, the thing was impossible.
Neither did Helen, who was sketching fancy portraits of the Honourable Lester Vane; nor Margaret, who was not even troubled by an effort of imagination, observe him; but Evangeline perceived his inward perturbation, and not daring to offer a word, or breathe a hope that she might aid in alleviating it, sat sadly at her needlework, filled with a foreboding that something foreshadowed trial and affliction to the House.
Mr. Grahame descended to his library. In one corner of it, upon the edge of a chair, under which his hat was placed, sat, with his knees close together, and his toes poised on the floor, a strange looking personage, a sort of hybrid between a fast banker’s clerk, and an undertaker.
It was Mr. Chewkle.
Mr. Chewkle was an agent; a commission agent. He undertook any description of business, no matter what. He sold coals and coffee, he introduced distracted tradesmen to usurious bill-discounters. He offered two shillings and sixpence in the pound to indignant creditors for unhappy insolvents. He would supply you with a good article in tea, at two and eight. He raised money on mortgage and post obit, having a friend who did that sort of thing for spendthrifts who needed it.
He laid out money on fancy horses for fast individuals, with imaginary betting-men, though the horses he backed for them were rarely landed winners at the post. He knew all the good investments in mines, and would obtain shares for anybody, at a comparatively low price, though some day they “might” be at fabulous premiums. He—but he would undertake anything whatever, clean or dirty, if paid his commission, and “ask no questions,” when the remunerator was liberal.
He rose up as Mr. Grahame entered, and made him a bow.
“Good morning, Chewkle,” said Mr. Grahame, loftily; “well, what success?”
“We’ve got our man, safe, sir,” he replied, with a feeble grin.
“Where?”
“Spunging-house, sir.”
“And the family?”
“At the apartments, sir, but we shall move the goods to-morrow, for sale by the sheriff, and then they must go out you know, sir.”
“Into the streets.”
“Into the streets, sir, or the work’us. They’ve no resources, as I sees.”
“Well, then, of course he has signed the undertaking?”
“A—a—not yet, sir.”
“But he will?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
Mr. Grahame had seated himself with the air of a Mogul emperor giving audience to a Hindoo slave. He rose to his feet as if a pistol-shot had been discharged at him.
“Not! Nonsense!” he cried with fierce astonishment; “under such pressure, the man cannot possibly refuse.”
“But he does, sir, and swears he will not sign if he has to starve and rot in prison.”
Mr. Grahame passed his hand over his mouth, and gulped as if he would choke.
“What is to be done?” he asked.
“Do without it, sir,” suggested Chewkle, mildly.
“Ridiculous! His signature must be to the deed.”
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Chewkle, slowly, and looking carefully round the room to see that no other person was present, “so it may be there on the deed.”
Mr. Grahame looked at him steadfastly.
“How?” he asked.
Mr. Chewkle reduced his voice to a whisper.
“You have got his name on a letter, I s’pose?”
“Well, sir?”
“Not very difficult to write like it, I fancy.”
“Chewkle!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with dilated eyes, “what do you counsel?”
“Nothing, sir. I merely suggests that if the signature must be there on the deed, no obstinate old fool should prevent its being placed there and, where money is not a hobject, it can easily be managed.”
Mr. Grahame’s teeth chattered, as if he had been suddenly transported into a frosty atmosphere.
“Chewkle,” he said, grimly, “do you know what the law declares such an act to be?”
Mr. Chewkle nodded with perfect self-possession.
“It must be done, sir,” he rejoined emphatically. “Your position depends on it. You must balance beggary, destitution, ruin, against rank, fortune, dignity”——
“Forgery!” groaned Mr. Grahame, sinking into his chair, and pressing his hands over his eyes.