“Does her wretched relation attempt to regain her?”
“Her relation! No; she is no more—she died about two years since! Poor Mary! I—well, this is folly. But Fanny is at present in a convent; they are all kind to her, but then I pay well; if I were dead, and the pay stopped,—again I ask, what would become of her, unless, as I before said, my father—”
“But you are making a fortune now?”
“If this lasts—yes; but I live in fear—the police of this cursed city are lynx-eyed; however, that is the bright side of the question.”
“Why not have the child with you, since you love her so much? She would be a great comfort to you.”
“Is this a place for a child—a girl?” said Gawtrey, stamping his foot impatiently. “I should go mad if I saw that villainous deadman’s eye bent upon her!”
“You speak of Birnie. How can you endure him?”
“When you are my age you will know why we endure what we dread—why we make friends of those who else would be most horrible foes: no, no—nothing can deliver me of this man but Death. And—and—” added Gawtrey, turning pale, “I cannot murder a man who eats my bread. There are stronger ties, my lad, than affection, that bind men, like galley-slaves, together. He who can hang you puts the halter round your neck and leads you by it like a dog.”
A shudder came over the young listener. And what dark secrets, known only to those two, had bound, to a man seemingly his subordinate and tool, the strong will and resolute temper of William Gawtrey?
“But, begone, dull care!” exclaimed Gawtrey, rousing himself. “And, after all, Birnie is a useful fellow, and dare no more turn against me than I against him! Why don’t you drink more?