CHAPTER IV.—THE FORGERY.
Would’st thou do such a deed for all the world?
Why, would not you?
No, by this heavenly light!
By my troth, I think I should.
—Shakspere.
Charley had barely re-entered the room when Mr. Jukes burst into it with a sudden crash, followed by Sudds and Nutty, A noisy and angry colloquy instantly ensued, but Charley was too well acquainted with the character of the men he had to deal with either to permit himself to be bullied or browbeaten, and he had no intention that they should maintain their standing upon illegal documents.
Authorised by Flora Wilton, and in the name of her father, he demanded to see the warrant of execution upon the goods. Jukes refused; he had come back to take them away, and had a van at the door for that purpose. Charley, however, would on no account allow this. He defied Jukes to remove the furniture until the proper return had been made to the sheriff, or until the claims of the landlord had been satisfied. He interposed other legal objections, and raised points of a technical description on the face of the warrant, which Jukes had at length produced, until even that astute personage became mystified, and consented to leave things in statu quo until the morning, when, having obtained advice from the solicitor by whom he had been employed, he should be prepared to act with more determined vigour than now.
It must be borne in mind that Mr. Jukes had been promised a handsome remuneration if he succeeded in obtaining old Wilton’s signature to a document confessed to be of great importance, and he knew that it was not exactly his best course to act in such a manner as to drive the man frenzied with rage by the harsh and heartless proceedings he was instructed to take. He was well aware that a strong pressure must be applied to bring the obstinate old gold-chaser to compliance with the demand now made upon him, but he was also shrewd enough to surmise that an overpressure would have the contrary effect to that desired, and, instead of disposing old Wilton to sign, would render him more firmly than ever fixed on his refusal.
The warrant was, therefore, with due ceremony, handed to Mr. Nutty, and he was instructed to remain until either the claim, under which possession was held, had been paid, or he was directed to quit. He received it with a grim smile of satisfaction, and prepared to go on with his inventory with an inflexible resolve that the most treasured article of affection should not after this escape being recorded in his list.
But even now things were not to remain as thus arranged. The door of the apartment, which had been closed, was once more unceremoniously thrown open.
An old man, with a shrivelled face of a deep turmeric hue, as if the yellow jaundice had been for years his favourite complaint, stalked rather than walked into the room. He was a singular-looking man, with a certain peculiarity in his mien which would prevent the possibility of his going anywhere in society without his being stared at. He wore a violet-coloured cloth frock coat, a buff waistcoat, as yellow as his own face, and chocolate trousers, almost tight enough to be pantaloons; upon his feet, which were small, were polished boots, and upon his head a bright, black, carefully brushed beaver hat, very much turned up at the brim.
He was followed by a small man, dressed all in black, save his cravat; his whiskers and his hair were
White with the whiteness of what is dead,
and formed a strange contrast to his garb.
The yellow-visaged old gentleman, on gaining the middle of the room, turned a pair of jet black, brilliant eyes upon Mr. Jukes and smiled, not auspiciously but cynically, and yet triumphantly.
“The wrong room?” ejaculated Mr. Jukes, suggestively.
“Not at all,” replied the old man, exhibiting a row of teeth, which appeared ghastly in that golden visage. “My name is Nathan Gomer; this house is mine; I am the landlord, and my claim upon the contents of these apartments takes precedence of yours. I think it does—I say I believe it does.”
“If you are the landlord?” said Mr. Jukes, eyeing him doubtfully.
“I can prove that, Jukes,” said the owner of the white whiskers. “You know me, Jukes?”
“I do, Mr. Graba,” responded Jukes.
“I am Mr. Gomer’s agent.”
“And a sworn broker,” added Nathan Gomer. “Not less than one hundred pounds is owing to me for rent.”
“For how long?” asked Jukes.
“Twelve months,” replied Nathan Gomer. “Mr. Wilton rented the whole house, and has not paid me the last year’s rent. There is not more than enough here to satisfy my claim. I think so—I say I believe there is not.”
“There isn’t,” gruffly muttered Jukes.
“Produce your warrant of execution upon these goods, Mr. Graba!” said Mr. Nathan Gomer. “I think you’ll find it formal and proper.”
“P’raps you’d like to look at it?” said Mr. Jukes to Charley.
“I should,” he answered; “give it to me.”
Nathan Gomer looked at him with inquiring eyes, and watched him read every word in the document with careful attention from the first to the last.
When he had ended his perusal, Nathan Gomer smiled.
“Nothing informal or contrary to law there?” he exclaimed.
“Nothing!” said Charley with a sigh.
“This is dreadful!” murmured Lotte.
Flora, however, was not further distressed—at least she displayed no additional grief at this new incident. She had, in fact, been so stunned and overwhelmed by the first event of the morning—that which involved the compulsory absence of her father—that any circumstance of a minor description could neither add to nor diminish her sorrow.
Nathan Gomer turned to Mr. Jukes.
“You can go,” he said “and you may take your myrmidons with you.”
“And return the writ to the sheriff with nully bony on it, I s’pose?” exclaimed Mr. Jukes, chagrined.
“Whatever you please,” returned Nathan; “my name, if it suits you.”
“No thank ye. Your name will be handed in to Messrs. Squeege and Drain, solicitors, Old Jewry,” replied Jukes, with a most significant nod of the head, which implied a threat.
“That will do as well,” said Nathan; “they know me; they stand indebted to me in a good round sum.”
The nether jaw of Jukes slightly dropped; he gave a steadfast look at Nathan Gomer; his eyes then slowly ran round the room, and settled on Flora, who, pale as marble, stood as though she were in a trance, all unconscious of what was passing around her. He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. A sudden flash illumined his eyes, indicating that a new idea had taken possession of him, and then he turned to his followers and said—
“Now then, Sudds; come along, Nutty, Good day, Mr. Gomer; it’s your turn this time.”
“Good day—good day, Jukes—as you say, I think it is my turn this time—I believe I may say it is my turn this time,” answered Nathan, rubbing his hands.
Mr. Jukes hastened out of the room, closely attended by his satellites, Nutty looking especially chop-fallen, as his possession money would in all probability be returned “nully bony” as well as the writ.
When these men had fairly slammed the street-door after them, and the sound had risen up through the house, Nathan Gomer, who had listened attentively for it, surveyed the persons of both Charley and Lotte, and then addressing Flora, said—
“Miss Wilton, are these young persons friends of yours?”
Flora, upon hearing her name, started and slightly shuddered, as one rousing from a painful reverie: Lotte gave her no time to answer, for she said hastily—
“Oh, yes, sir; new friends, it is true; but not the less, disposed warmly to serve her in her present terrible affliction, so far as our humble means will permit.”
“And pray what are your means?” demanded Nathan.
Lotte for a moment hung her head, and a bright flush mounted to her cheek and forehead, then she flung up her face, and with her clear bright eyes looked steadfastly at the little old man with the golden visage.
In a few rapid words she sketched the position of herself and her brother, and the bright, youthful, sanguine hopes they both entertained of their future.
“Bravo Lotte—well said, my pet!” cried Charley, patting her affectionately and approvingly upon the shoulder. “And as for what I can do, why somehow I’ll see you through it; a book or two less, and a——” dinner, he was about to say, but he checked himself and substituted—“a pleasure the fewer I sha’n’t miss, and I would not forego the happiness of witnessing your gratification at being able to serve a friend in distress, for something far beyond such sacrifices as those.”
“Bah!” cried Nathan Gomer to Lotte. “Your eighteen-pence a day, for eighteen hours at cap-front making”—
“Two shillings sometimes!” she interposed, boastfully.
“Two shillings always, if you will,” continued Nathan, “gives you no margin for doing anything but starving and slaving, if you pay your way—and you, my friend” he added, turning to Charley, “if you have made up your mind to achieve to the bar, have not a farthing to waste upon even the luxury of seeing your sister destroy herself, in an attempt to accomplish a feat which is not only impracticable, but impossible. No, no; go on as you have been going on, and let us see what time will bring forth.” He paused, and then after running his eye over the warrant, he addressed Flora, saying—“Miss Wilton, I place this warrant in your keeping—impressing upon you that you must always have it in your possession in safe custody, except when you leave home for a short time, then you must entrust it to some friend who will hold it here until your return. So long as you do this, no person like Jukes can disturb or remove your furniture. You will keep it until you see me again, or until you hear from me. I am a stranger to you, not prepossessing in my appearance, but I am not quite so hard-hearted as I have been represented to be, nor quite so selfish in my nature as you may hereafter be led to believe. Now mark what I say. You have been left in a position of great trust in the midst of a heavy calamity; much will be demanded of your energy and self reliance; remember ‘God helps those who help themselves’, therefore, while you are grateful for, place no reliance in, promises. Farewell!—we shall meet again. May it be when you will not need my assistance!”
With a wave of the hand, he hurried out of the room, closely followed by Mr. Graba, leaving Flora, no less than Lotte, in a state of bewildered astonishment.
Neither of the girls had seen Nathan Gomer before, and his sudden appearance, together with the power he had assumed, and the kindness, which in a cold abrupt manner he had displayed, completely astounded them; they knew not what to make of it, nor, so far as Lotte was concerned, how to talk enough about it.
But though she talked briskly, she acted smartly, and rousing Flora into action, proceeded to “put things straight,” and to render the aspect of the place pretty much what it had been before Mr. Jukes made his most unwelcome appearance.
Leaving her and Flora to the task to which they had devoted themselves, let us follow the movements of Nathan Gomer.
He stood alone at the door of Mr. Grahame in the Regent’s Park, very shortly after he had quitted Wilton’s residence, and he sent in his card, in a rather peremptory manner, by the same individual who had announced Mr. Chewkle. He took no heed of the representations made to him that—
“Mr. Grahame were engaged, and when he were engaged, his instructions was that no person should be admitted to interrupt him.”
“Give him my card—he’ll see me,” said Nathan, emphatically. “If you refuse,” he added, as the man hesitated, “I will walk up into the library where you say he is engaged with some one, and obtain your dismissal by acquainting your master with your refusal to announce me.”
There was something in the manner of Nathan that Whelks, the head footman, did not approve of, especially as he felt himself overawed by it, in spite of the affront to which he was called upon to submit. It was evident that in the eyes of the little visitor his importance was sadly underrated, and that he should have to put in his pocket the threat of dismissal which had been held out to him, and which, though he turned his nose up at it, caused him to take the card and proceed into the library, as the word “forgery” issued from his master’s lips.
He took no heed of it, for his mind was filled with Nathan Gomer—not favourably.
“Sir! he exclaimed, in the affected strain he usually adopted when addressing his master, “ther is a pesson below”——
“How dare you, scoundrel, intrude, when I am especially and privately engaged with any gentleman?” cried Mr. Grahame, leaping to his feet and speaking passionately, while his eyes sparkled with fury.
Whelks started back, and his wig sent up a small cloud of flour. He was so startled by the sudden action of Mr. Grahame, that he could hear his own heart beat against his ribs.
“I ask pardon, sir,” he faltered out, “but the pesson below”——
“Curse the person below!” cried Mr. Grahame, forgetting in his rage that dignified pride which never permitted an ebullition of anger.
Whelks heartily echoed the sentiment, but dared not so express himself—he only bowed affirmatively.
“Have I not repeatedly told you, sir,” continued Mr. Grahame, sternly, “that I will only be seen by those of whom I have some knowledge, or whom I desire to see? Another infringement of my order, and you shall be summarily dismissed.”
It struck Whelks that his master spoke in much the same strain when he saw Chewkle; he, therefore, handed to him Nathan’s card.
Mr. Grahame snatched the card from the salver, on which Whelks presented it, and on reading it, passed his hand over his face to hide any emotion which might betray itself. He sank down into his chair, and laid himself back, plunged in intense thought. Then he looked at the card, and appeared to read it a dozen times. At length he turned to Whelks, and said—
“Go! say I shall be happy to have the honour of receiving this gentleman.”
Whelks, with an expression of surprise on a countenance incapable of displaying any very distinct phase of emotion, descended to the hall to obey his commands.
“Mr. Chewkle,” said Mr. Grahame, when Whelks had disappeared, “may I ask you to favour me by stepping into this chamber for a few minutes? My visitor—a very wealthy and distinguished person, I assure you—will not detain me long, and then I shall have the pleasure of renewing our important conversation.”
Mr. Chewkle expressed his happiness at having the opportunity of obliging Mr. Grahame in any fashion, and promptly dived into a small room overlooking the park, and connected with the library. He heard Mr. Grahame lock the door, securing him in his little retreat, but he carefully placed his ear to the keyhole, in anticipation of picking up something worth hearing and retaining—if he was paid handsomely for secrecy.
Mr. Grahame had scarcely resumed his seat when Nathan Gomer entered the library. He returned the bow, graciously performed, with which he was greeted, and placing his hat and gloves upon a chair, seated himself upon another, and commenced speaking in rather a louder key than Mr. Grahame thought quite desirable.
“Mr. Grahame,” he began, “we have not met before, but you are not unacquainted with my name.”
“Oh, dear no—of course it is most familiar to me,” observed Mr. Grahame.
“Or my money?” continued Nathan Gomer. “Assuredly not,” returned Mr. Grahame, a little confused.
“You have made me fresh proposals?”
“For a short term—I hope you understand that!”
“Quite so. But I want to know upon what foundation you base your expectation of returning the sums demanded?”
“The whole, sole, entire possession of an enormous property; vast estates, yielding a splendid income, and a very considerable amount in cash, the accumulation of years.”
“It is in Chancery!”
“It is.”
“A link is wanting, I think, to perfect your claim?”
“Ah! my dear sir, a mere nothing—such as it is, we are prepared to supply it.”
“Ah! You are, eh?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“You are quite clear about that?”
“Nothing was ever more certain.”
“Hem! That is satisfactory, to be sure; but stay, is there not another person who has something to do with it?—one—one—dear me, what is his name!—one——Pshaw! how absurd in me to forget it.”
“I know of no person, save myself, Mr. Gomer, who has the shadow of a claim to any portion of it.”
“Indeed!”
“Not a soul!”
“Then I have been misinformed. I was given to understand that a person named—named—I do not often forget names—cannot you help me, Mr. Grahame, to the name of the individual who claims the property of which you have spoken, as well as you?”
“Who?—I, sir-no.”
This was said with an air of offended dignity, and the manner of a man who, having made a positive assertion, sees that it is doubted, and wishes it to be thought that the incredulity is unjust.
The glittering eye of Nathan Gomer seemed to play over every feature of Mr. Grahame’s countenance. Suddenly he said, with startling abruptness—
“Ah! I remember it. I have it. Wilton is the name. Wilton, who follows the occupation of a gold-plate chaser. Has he not a claim—also wanting a link—to this property?”
It might have been fancy, but the sound of a whistle appeared to issue from the vicinity of a key-hole in the door of the ante-chamber overlooking the park.
“Wilton! Wilton!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, assuming an air of reflection, to hide his embarrassment. “Wilton! no, oh no! I know nothing of any such claim.”
“You do not!”
“No.”
“Nor the man himself?”
“No.”
“A gold-worker, living in Clerkenwell?”
“Certainly not. Where is Clerkenwell?”
“Hem! ugh! ugh!”
Nathan Gomer was seized with a cough. He rose up, took his hat and gloves, and put them on with slow precision.
His glittering eye once more perused every feature in Mr. Grahame’s face.
“Mr. Grahame,” he said, slowly, “you shall hear from me.”
“Thank you, thank you, my dear sir,” replied Mr. Grahame, rubbing his hands. “Let me hope in a manner agreeable to my wishes and in accordance with your known liberality.”
“It will be one of two things, Mr. Grahame: either to comply with your proposition, or to issue process for the recovery of the money now due by you to me. Good morning, Mr. Grahame!”
He seemed to glide out of the room down the staircase, and presented himself at the elbow of Whelks, before that personage had any conception that his services were required to show out the “little yellow ob-jek, which,” he was just informing the hall-porter, “he had a few minutes before shown in to the libree.”
In a sharp, shrill, tone, Nathan requested to be let out, and ‘Whelks, taking upon himself the duty of the inert porter, threw open the street-door wide, and closed it with a loud bang, thankful, he knew not wherefore, that the “yaller objek” was out of the house.
Mr. Grahame looked after Nathan as he moved rapidly but noiselessly down the stairs, and returned into the library, feeling that the interview had been of a very unsatisfactory character. He experienced an uneasy impression with respect to the inquiries made by Nathan Gomer respecting Wilton. He cursed the name of the old gold-chaser; but for him he might be in secure possession of the wealth he coveted, and which—there was no disguising it—he imperatively needed. The man’s obstinacy, while it did not benefit himself, was very likely to send him, Grahame, headlong to ruin for want of—what? Only a signature—a simple signature.
Ah! Chewkle’s suggestion flashed through his brain. It was but to attach a name to a bond: who would know that he had done it but Chewkle? and would not money buy any man’s tongue? With Chewkle’s aid it might be done.
Who else could know it?
Wilton, starving, dying, in prison, shattered by grief, want, and toil; his children outcasts in the streets, driven, perhaps, into dens of infamy, how could they prosecute a claim against him? If they did, should he not have the wealth to defeat every such attempt? could he not buy off or suborn all witnesses against him? The possessions and the money he should acquire by that single signature would enable him to cope with the most greedy demands for bearing false witness. Shallow reasoning enough, but conclusive in his eyes.
His train of thought having conducted him to this point, the fact that he had Chewkle locked up in the small ante-chamber overlooking the park, presented itself. Had the man overheard what had transpired between him and Nathan Gomer? A flush of heat crossed his brow at the supposition. For the moment he forgot all the dictates of his pride, lost utterly his austere bearing, and crept on tip-toe to the door of the little chamber. He softly removed the key, and peered through the keyhole, but without catching sight of Mr. Chewkle.
He replaced the key without a sound, and turning the well-oiled lock noiselessly, he flung the door open suddenly.
Mr. Chewkle, with his arms folded, was standing in a contemplative attitude, gazing out of the window, and watching the sportive movements of some wild fowl upon the lake.
“Hem! a—Mr. Chewkle, I am at liberty now!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, recovering his pompous manner, and feeling convinced that his conference with Nathan Gomer had not been overheard by the commission agent.
Mr. Chewkle professed himself to be quite ready to proceed to business, and begged Mr. Grahame, when he made apologies for detaining him while he transacted important matters, not to mention it. Indeed, there was no necessity, as Chewkle’s quick ear, applied in the right place, had heard every word that passed.
“And so the poor old fool, Wilton, continues obstinate, does he?” exclaimed Grahame to Chewkle, when they were both seated.“’Ard as hadamant,” returned Mr. Chewkle.
“He is only doing himself harm,” suggested Mr. Grahame.
“And nobody else no good,” added Chewkle.
“He certainly is not acting in a manner to entitle him to consideration,” observed Mr. Grahame, reflectively.
“Not a bit of it,” responded Mr. Chewkle; “nothen is to be got out of ’is sort; you may as well try to get butter out o’ flint; so if I was you, sir, I should just say nothen to anybody—but me—and go an’ do it at once—now’s a good time—by-and-by never comes.”
Mr. Grahame grew cold and white, and his teeth chattered. FORGERY!
It was a tremendous act.
The punishment, penal servitude for life.
How the words rang in his ears!
A moment more, and the threat of Nathan Gomer boomed through his brain like the minute guns of a ship of war announcing an approaching execution. “Issue process for the recovery of the money now due.”
He shivered as though he had come out of a cold spring bath.
He placed his trembling fingers upon the handle of a drawer, and opened it. He turned over some papers, and drew forth a letter. It bore the signature, “E. Wilton,” in a bold hand.
“There is his handwriting,” he said to Chewkle, in a hoarse voice, and with a sickly smile.
“Bless my wig!” said Mr. Chewkle, as he gazed on it with admiring eyes. “A prime clear sort of writing.”
He drew from his pocket a parchment.
“What is that?” inquired Mr. Grahame, with chattering teeth.
“The deed that Wilton wouldn’t sign,” responded Chewkle. “Have you got a piece of thin paper?” he asked.
Mr. Grahame, with a beating heart and trembling hand, gave him half a sheet of thin post.
“That will just do,” he said.
He then put his hand into his side pocket and produced a small phial containing a thin fluid with a pink tinge; he produced a camel-hair pencil, and, steeping it in the liquid, painted over the back of that portion of the note which contained the signature of Wilton. Mr. Grahame, with eyes starting out of their sockets, watched him without breathing. After waiting for a minute, he examined Wilton’s sign-manual carefully, and then laying it upon the thin paper which he had previously damped, he slightly burnished the back, and there appeared upon the thin paper the signature of Wilton reversed. This he, in turn, laid upon the deed, on the place for the name of the person signing the deed to appear, and again using the burnisher with more firmness, he reproduced, though somewhat faintly, the name of Wilton upon the deed.
“Now,” said he to Mr. Grahame, “there it is; you have only to mark over it carefully, and the name will be there with such exactness the man himself couldn’t swear it wasn’t his’n.”
“You do it, my good friend Chewkle—you take the pen and write over it,” gasped Grahame, convulsively.
“Oh, no, I beg your pardon, I think I’ve done a good deal. The winnings will be yourn, and yourn must be the venter.”
“But my hand trembles so.”
“Well, ring for a little brandy—that will put you to rights.”
“No, no, I cannot do it!”
“Very good. You know the konsequences o’ not doin’ it best, you know.”
“Give me the pen!”
“That’s it—mind, gently does it!” advised Mr. Chewkle. “’Old your pen ’ard with your thum’ and press it against your middle finger top, and then you’ll mark it firmly. Steady she goes—that’s it—beautiful! Dot that hi—l, t, o, n—good! Now for that little bit o’ flourish—that’s it—it’s done, an’ capitally you’ve done the FORGERY!”
Mr. Grahame uttered a groan, and sank back in his chair. Mr. Chewkle caught him with a sudden grip by the wrist.
“It is a dreadful secret I have of yourn,” he growled, “let me ’int to you that you’ll have to be generous to me to make me keep it dark.”
“Man! witness of my infamy, your most avaricious wishes shall be gratified,” hissed Mr. Grahame through his teeth. “You have only to be silent.”
“As the grave,” said Chewkle, placing his finger to his lip.
Suddenly Mr. Grahame uttered a shout of horror: his eye fell upon Nathan Gomer, who, a few paces from him, was standing watching him attentively.
“My God! Mr. Gomer—how—what—why are you here?” he exclaimed, gasping for breath.
Chewkle, in an instant, spread a newspaper, which was on the table, over the deed.
“Do not alarm yourself, Mr. Grahame,” replied Nathan Gomer, with the coolest self-possession. “I merely returned to say, after a brief reflection, that I have decided on entertaining your proposals. You had better, therefore, put your solicitor in connection with mine. Good morning, Mr. Grahame.”
Nathan’s eye glittered on Chewkle for an instant, so as to make that person feel most uncomfortable. Then he moved swiftly and noiselessly out of the room.
Mr. Grahame, pale as death, sank back in his chair. Mr. Chewkle gazed in the direction which Nathan Gomer had taken, and ejaculated—
“Well, I’m blowed!”