"That man is my enemy!" he said, with fury in his voice and face; "my bitter enemy. Go, and give Charlotte her clothes immediately. And, mother, take her out and buy her one or two nicknacks--a silver brooch for a few shillings, a bit of ribbon. Be sweet to her. Curse her and him! Be sweet to her, and say I gave you the money to buy the presents. We need her on our side more than ever. Don't stop to argue with me; do as I bid you!"
"I will obey you in everything, my love," she said, gazing at him solicitously.
He motioned her away, and she stole from the room, wishing she possessed the malignant power to strike his enemy dead at her feet.
[CHAPTER VI.]
In which we make the acquaintance of Rathbeal.
That same night, as Big Ben was striking the hour of nine, Mr. Fox-Cordery, spick and span as usual, and with not a visible crease upon him, crossed Westminster Bridge, Kennington way, bent on an errand of importance, and plunged into the melancholy thoroughfares which beset, but cannot be said to adorn, that sad-colored neighborhood. In some quarters of London the houses have a peculiarly forlorn appearance, as though life at its best were a poor thing, and not worth troubling about. If general cheerlessness and despondency had been the aim of the builders and speculators responsible for their distinguishing characteristics, they may be complimented upon their success, but certainly not upon their taste. It is as easy to make houses pretty as to make them ugly, and curves are no more difficult to compass than angles; facts which have not established themselves in the consciousness of the average Englishman, who remains stupidly content with dull, leaden-looking surfaces, and a pernicious uniformity of front--which may account for the dejection of visage to be met with in such streets as Mr. Fox-Cordery was traversing.
He paid no attention to the typical signs, animate or inanimate, he met with on his road, but walked straight on till he arrived at a three-storied house, in the windows of which not a glimmer of light was to be seen. Striking a match, he held it up to the knocker of the street door, beneath which the number of the house was painted in fast-fading figures; and convincing himself with some difficulty that he had reached his destination, he put his hand to the knocker to summon the inmates. But the knocker had seen its best days, and was almost past knocking. Rust and age had so stiffened its joints that it required a determined effort to move it from its cushion; and being moved, there it stuck in mid-air, obstinately declining to perform its office.
Failing to produce a sound that would have any effect upon human ears, Mr. Fox-Cordery turned his attention to the bells, of which there were six or seven. As there was no indication of the particular bell which would serve him, he pulled them all, one after the other. Some were mute, some gave forth the faintest tinkle, and one remained in his hand, refusing to come farther forward or to go back; the result of his pulling being that not the slightest attention was paid to the summons by anyone in the house. The appearance of a hobbledehoy promised to be of assistance to him. This hobbledehoy was a stripling of same thirteen summers; his shirt-sleeves turned(?) up, and he carried in his hand a pewter pot of beer which he occasionally put his lips, not daring to go deeper than the froth, from fear of consequences from the lawful owner.
"Mr. Rathbeal lives here, doesn't he?" inquired Mr. Fox-Cordery.
The hobbledehoy surveyed the gentleman, and became instantly lost in admiration. Such a vision of perfect dressing had probably never presented itself to him before. Open-mouthed he gazed and worshiped. Mr. Fox-Cordery aroused him from his dream by repeating the question.