“Now, sir, be good enough to state your business,” he began when the door was closed.
“My business isn’t with you, sir, but with your daughter, if she is your daughter,” said Stanton. “One thing is certain—she’s my master’s wife; there an’t no use in her denying it, and the best thing she can do is to speak out to her ’usband penitent-like, and he’ll forgive her, poor thing, and do the best he can for her, which will be better than what that uncle of hers ’as been doin’ for her, draggin’ her about everywhere and driving the poor creature crazy. That’s what I’ve got to say, sir, and I ’ope you’ll see as it’s sense and reason.”
The occupant of the velveteen slippers listened to this speech with eyes that grew rounder and rounder as it proceeded; then he threw back his head and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
“My good man, there’s some mistake! You’ve mistaken my daughter for somebody else; she never was married in her life, and she has no uncle that ever I heard of. Ha! ha! ha! It’s the best joke I ever heard in my life!”
“Excuse me; it an’t no joke at all!” protested Stanton, nettled, and resolved not to be shaken by the ring of honesty there was in the man’s laugh. “You mayn’t know the person that calls himself her uncle, but I do, sir. Mayhap you are duped by the rascal yourself; but it’ll all come out now. I have it all in the palm of my hand.” And he opened that capacious member and closed it again significantly. “Your daughter must either come away with me quietly, or I’ll call the police and have her taken off whether she will or no!”
“I tell you, man, you are under some preposterous mistake,” said the gentleman, his blandness all gone, and his choler rising. “My name is Honey. I am a clerk in H—— Bank, and my daughter, Eliza Jane Honey, has never left me since she was born. She is an artist, a singer, and gives lessons in singing in some of the first houses in London!”
“Singer! Singing lessons! Ha! Just so! I know it all,” said Stanton, his mouth compressing itself in a saturnine smile. “I know it all, and I tell you I don’t leave this ’ouse without her.”
“Confound your insolence! What do you mean? You’d better be gone this instant, or I’ll call the police and give you into custody!
“No, sir, don’t try it; it won’t answer,” said Stanton, imperturbable. “It ’ud only make more trouble; the poor thing has enough on her already, and I’m not the one to make more for her. If you call in the police I’ve something ’ere,” slapping his waistcoat pocket, “as ’ud settle at once which of us was to be took up.”
Before Mr. Honey could say anything in answer to this, a voice came carrolling down the stairs, singing some air from an opera, rich with trills and fioriture.