Book: In Luck at Last

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Lala Roy bowed again and spread his fingers.

Then Joseph went away. The door between the shop and the hall was half
open, and he looked in. A strange man was sitting in the outer shop, a
pipe in his mouth, and James was leaning his head upon his hands, with
wild and haggard eyes gazing straight before him.

"Poor devil," murmured Joseph. "I feel for him, I do indeed. He had
the key made--for himself; he certainly let me use it once, but only
once, and who's to prove it? And he's had the opportunity every day of
using it himself. That's very awkward, Foxy, my boy. If I were Foxy, I
should be in a funk, myself."

He strolled away, thinking that all promised well. Lotty most
favorably and unsuspiciously received in her new character; no one
knowing the contents of the packet; his grandfather gone silly; and
for himself, he had had the opportunity of advising exactly what he
wished to be done--namely, that silence and inaction should be
observed for a space, in order to give the holders of the property a
chance of offering terms. What better advice could he give? And what
line of action would be better or safer for himself?

If James had known who was in the house-passage, the other side of the
door, there would, I think, have been a collision of two solid bodies.
But he did not know, and presently Lala Roy came back, and the torture
began again. James took down books and put them up again; he moved
about feverishly, doing nothing, with a duster in his hand; but all
the time he felt those deep accusing eyes upon him with a silence
worse than a thousand questions. He knew--he was perfectly
certain--that he should be found out. And all the trouble for nothing!
and the Bailiff's man in possession, and the safe robbed, and those
eyes upon him, saying, as plain as eyes could speak, "Thou art the
Man!"

"And Joe is the man," said James; "not me at all. What I did was
wrong, but I was tempted. Oh, what a precious liar and villain he is!
And what a fool I've been!"

The day passed more slowly than it seemed possible for any day to
pass; always the man in the shop; always the deep eyes of the silent
Hindoo upon him. It was a relief when, once, Mr. Chalker looked in and
surveyed the shelves with a suspicious air, and asked if the old man
had by this time listened to reason.

It is the business of him who makes plunder out of other men's
distresses--as the jackal feeds upon the offal and the putrid
carcass--to know as exactly as he can how his fellow-creatures are
situated. For this reason such a one doth diligently inquire, listen,
pick up secrets, put two and two together, and pry curiously into
everybody's affairs, being never so happy as when he gets an
opportunity of going to the rescue of a sinking man. Thus among those
who lived in good repute about the lower end of the King's Road, none
had a better name than Mr. Emblem, and no one was considered to have
made more of his chances. And it was with joy that Mr. Chalker
received Joe one evening and heard from him the dismal story, that if
he could not find fifty pounds within a few hours, he was ruined. The
fifty pounds was raised on a bill bearing Mr. Emblem's name. When it
was presented, however, and the circumstances explained, the old
gentleman, who had at first refused to own the signature, accepted it
meekly, and told no one that his grandson had written it himself,
without the polite formality of asking permission to sign for him. In
other words Joseph was a forger, and Mr. Chalker knew it, and this
made him the more astonished when Mr. Emblem did not take up the bill,
but got it renewed quarter after quarter, substituting at length a
bill of sale, as if he was determined to pay as much as possible for
his grandson's sins.

"Where is he?" asked the money-lender angrily. "Why doesn't he come
down and face his creditors?"

"Master's upstairs," said James, "and you've seen yourself, Mr.
Chalker, that he is off his chump. And oh, sir, who would have thought
that Emblem's would have come to ruin?"

"But there's something, James--Come, think--there must be something."

"Mr. Joseph said there were thousands. But he's a terrible liar--oh,
Mr. Chalker, he's a terrible liar and villain! Why, he's even deceived
me!"

"What? Has he borrowed your money?"

"Worse--worse. Do you know where I could find him, sir?"

"Well, I don't know--" Mr. Chalker was not in the habit of giving
addresses, but in this case, perhaps Joe might be squeezed as well as
his grandfather. Unfortunately that bill with the signature had been
destroyed. "I don't know. Perhaps if I find out I may tell you. And,
James, if you can learn anything--this rubbish won't fetch half the
money--I'll make it worth your while, James, I will indeed."

"I'll make him take his share," said James to himself. "If I have to
go to prison, he shall go too. They sha'n't send me without sending
him."

He looked round. The watchful eyes were gone. The Hindoo had gone away
noiselessly. James breathed again.

"After all," he said, "how are they to find out? How are they to prove
anything? Mr. Joseph took the things, and I helped him to a key; and
he isn't likely to split, and--oh, Lord, if they were to find it!" For
at that moment he felt the duplicate key in his waistcoat-pocket. "If
they were to find it!"

He took the key out, and looked at the bright and innocent-looking
thing, as a murderer might look at his blood stained dagger.

Just then, as he gazed upon it, holding it just twelve inches in front
of his nose, one hand was laid upon his shoulder, and another took the
key from between his fingers.

He turned quickly, and his knees gave way, and he sunk upon the floor,
crying:

"Oh, Mr. Lala Roy, sir, Mr. Lala Roy, I am not the thief! I am
innocent! I will tell you all about it! I will confess all to you! I
will indeed! I will make atonement! Oh, what a miserable fool I've
been!"

"Upon the heels of Folly," said the Sage, "treadeth Shame. You will
now be able to understand the words of wisdom, which say of the wicked
man, 'The curse of iniquity pursueth him; he liveth in continual fear;
the anxiety of his mind taketh vengeance upon him.' Stand up and
speak."

The Man in Possession looked on as if an incident of this kind was too
common in families for him to take any notice of it. Nothing, in fact,
is able to awaken astonishment in the heart of the Man in Possession,
because nothing is sacred to him except the "sticks" he has to guard.
To Iris, the event was, however, of importance, because it afforded
Lala Roy a chance of giving Arnold that photograph, no other than an
early portrait of Mr. Emblem's grandson.




CHAPTER XII.

IS THIS HIS PHOTOGRAPH?


The best way to get a talk with his cousin was to dine with her.
Arnold therefore went to Chester Square next day with the photograph
in his pocket. It was half an hour before dinner when he arrived, and
Clara was alone.

"My dear," she cried with enthusiasm, "I am charmed--I am
delighted--with Iris."

"I am glad," said Arnold mendaciously.

"I am delighted with her--in every way. She is more and better than I
could have expected--far more. A few Americanisms, of course--"

"No doubt," said Arnold. "When I saw her I thought they rather
resembled Anglicisms. But you have had opportunities of judging. You
have in your own possession," he continued, "have you not, all the
papers which establish her identity?"

"Oh, yes; they are all locked up in my strong-box. I shall be very
careful of them. Though, of course, there is no one who has to be
satisfied except myself. And I am perfectly satisfied. But then I
never had any doubt from the beginning. How could there be any doubt?"

"How, indeed?"

"Truth, honor, loyalty, and candor, as well as gentle descent, are
written on that girl's noble brow, Arnold, plain, so that all may
read. It is truly wonderful," she went on, "how the old gentle blood
shows itself, and will break out under the most unexpected conditions.
In her face she is not much like her father; that is true; though
sometimes I catch a momentary resemblance, which instantly disappears
again. Her eyes are not in the least like his, nor has she his manner,
or carriage, or any of his little tricks and peculiarities--though,
perhaps, I shall observe traces of some of them in time. But
especially she resembles him in her voice. The tone--the
timbre--reminds me every moment of my poor Claude."

"I suppose," said Arnold, "that one must inherit something, if it is
only a voice, from one's father. Have you said anything to her yet
about money matters, and a settlement of her claims?"

"No, not yet. I did venture, last night, to approach the subject, but
she would not hear of it. So I dropped it. I call that true delicacy,
Arnold--native, instinctive, hereditary delicacy."

"Have you given any more money to the American gentleman who brought
her home?"

"Iris made him take a hundred pounds, against his will, to buy books
with, for he is not rich. Poor fellow! It went much against the grain
with him to take the money. But she made him take it. She said he
wanted books and instruments, and insisted on his having at least a
hundred pounds. It was generous of her. Yes; she is--I am convinced--a
truly generous girl, and as open-handed as the day. Now, would a
common girl, a girl of no descent, have shown so much delicacy and
generosity?"

"By the way, Clara, here is a photograph. Does it belong to you? I--I
picked it up."

He showed the photograph which Lala Roy had given him.

"Oh, yes; it is a likeness of Dr. Washington, Iris's adopted brother
and guardian. She must have dropped it. I should think it was taken a
few years back, but it is still a very good likeness. A handsome man,
is he not? He grows upon one rather. His parting words with Iris
yesterday were very dignified and touching."

"I will give it to her presently," he replied, without further
comment.

There was, then, no doubt. The woman was an impostor, and the man was
the thief, and the papers were the papers which had been stolen from
the safe, and Iris Deseret was no other than his own Iris. But he must
not show the least sign of suspicion.

"What are you thinking about, Arnold?" asked Clara. "Your face is as
black as thunder. You are not sorry that Iris has returned, are you?"

"I was thinking of my engagement, Clara."

"Why, you are not tired of it already? An engaged man, Arnold, ought
not to look so gloomy as that."

"I am not tired of it yet. But I am unhappy as regards some
circumstances connected with it. Your disapproval, Clara, for one. My
dear cousin, I owe so much to you, that I want to owe you more. Now, I
have a proposition--a promise--to make to you. I am now so sure, so
very sure and certain, that you will want me to marry Miss Aglen--and
no one else--when you once know her, that I will engage solemnly not
to marry her unless you entirely approve. Let me owe my wife to you,
as well as everything else."

"Arnold, you are not in earnest."

"Quite in earnest."

"But I shall never approve. Never--never--never! I could not bring
myself, under any circumstances that I can conceive, to approve of
such a connection."

"My dear cousin, I am, on the other hand, perfectly certain that you
will approve. Why, if I were not quite certain, do you think I should
have made this promise? But to return to your newly-found cousin. Tell
me more about her."

"Well, I have discovered that she is a really very clever and gifted
girl. She can imitate people in the most wonderful way, especially
actresses, though she has only been to a theater once or twice in her
life. At Liverpool she heard some one sing what she calls a Tropical
Song, and this she actually remembers--she carried it away in her
head, every word--and she can sing it just as they sing it on the
stage, with all the vulgarity and gestures imitated to the very life.
Of course I should not like her to do this before anybody else, but it
is really wonderful."

"Indeed!" said Arnold. "It must be very clever and amusing."

"Of course," said Clara, with colossal ignorance, "an American lady
can hardly be expected to understand English vulgarities. No doubt
there is an American variety."

Arnold thought that a vulgar song could be judged at its true value by
any lady, either American or English, but he said nothing.

And then the young lady herself appeared. She had been driving about
with Clara among various shops, and now bore upon her person the
charming result of these journeys, in the shape of a garment, which
was rich in texture, and splendid in the making. And she really was a
handsome girl, only with a certain air of being dressed for the stage.
But Arnold, now more than suspicious, was not dazzled by the gorgeous
raiment, and only considered how his cousin could for a moment imagine
this person to be a lady, and how it would be best to break the news.

"Clara's cousin," she said, "I have forgotten your name; but how do
you do, again?"

And then they went in to dinner.

"You have learned, I suppose," said Arnold, "something about the
Deseret family by this time?"

"Oh, yes, I have heard all about the family-tree. I dare say I shall
get to know it by heart in time. But you don't expect me all at once,
to care much for it."

"Little Republican!" said Clara. "She actually does not feel a pride
in belonging to a good old family."

The girl made a little gesture.

"Your family can't do much for you, that I can see, except to make you
proud, and pretend not to see other women in the shop. That is what
the county ladies do."

"Why, my dear, what on earth do you know of the county ladies?"

Lotty blushed a little. She had made a mistake. But she quickly
recovered.

"I only know what I've read, cousin, about any kind of English ladies.
But that's enough, I'm sure. Stuck-up things!"

And again she observed, from Clara's pained expression, that she had
made another mistake.

If she showed a liking for stout at lunch, she manifested a positive
passion for champagne at dinner.

"I do like the English custom," she said, "of having two dinners in
the day."

"Ladies in America, I suppose," said Clara, "dine in the middle of the
day?"

"Always."

"But I have visited many families in New York and Boston who dined
late," said Arnold.

"Dare say," she replied carelessly. "I'm going to have some more of
that curry stuff, please. And don't ask any more questions, anybody,
till I've worried through with it. I'm a wolf at curry."

"She likes England, Arnold," said Clara, covering up this remark, so
to speak. "She likes the country, she says, very much."

"At all events," said the girl, "I like this house, which is
first-class--fine--proper. And the furniture, and pictures, and
all--tiptop. But I'm afraid it is going to be awful dull, except at
meals, and when the Boy is going." Her own head was just touched by
the "Boy," and she was a little off her guard.

"My dear child," said Clara, "you have only just come, and you have
not yet learned to know and love your own home and your father's
friends. You must take a little time."

"Oh, I'll take time. As long as you like. But I shall soon be tired of
sitting at home. I want to go about and see things--theaters and
music-halls, and all kinds of places."

"Ladies, in England, do not go to music-halls," said Arnold.

"Gentlemen do. Why not ladies, then? Answer me that. Why can't ladies
go, when gentlemen go? What is proper for gentlemen is proper for
ladies. Very well, then, I want to go somewhere every night. I want to
see everything there is to see, and to hear all that there is to
hear."

"We shall go, presently, a good deal into society," said Clara
timidly. "Society will come back to town very soon now--at least, some
of it."

"Oh, yes, I dare say. Society! No, thank you, with company manners. I
want to laugh, and talk, and enjoy myself."

The champagne, in fact, had made her forget the instructions of her
tutor. At all events, she looked anything but "quiet," with her face
flushed and her eyes bright. Suddenly she caught Arnold's expression
of suspicion and watchfulness, and resolutely subdued a rising
inclination to get up from the table and have a walk round with a
snatch of a Topical Song.

"Forgive me, Clara," she murmured in her sweetest tone, "forgive me,
cousin. I feel as if I must break out a bit, now and then. Yankee
manners, you know. Let me stay quiet with you for a while. You know
the thought of starched and stiff London society quite frightens me. I
am not used to anything stiff. Let me stay at home quiet, with you."

"Dear girl!" cried Clara, her eyes filling with tears; "she has all
Claude's affectionate softness of heart."

"I believe," said Arnold, later on in the evening, "that she must have
been a circus rider, or something of that sort. What on earth does
Clara mean by the gentle blood breaking out? We nearly had a breaking
out at dinner, but it certainly was not due to the gentle blood."

After dinner, Arnold found her sitting on a sofa with Clara, who was
telling her something about the glories of the Deseret family. He was
half inclined to pity the girl, or to laugh--he was not certain
which--for the patience with which she listened, in order to make
amends for any bad impression she might have produced at dinner. He
asked her, presently, if she would play. She might be, and certainly
was, vulgar; but she could play well and she knew good music. People
generally think that good music softens manners, and does not permit
those who play and practice it to be vulgar. But, concerning this
young person, so much could not be said with any truth.

"You play very well. Where did you learn? Who was your master?" Arnold
asked.

She began to reply, but stopped short. He had very nearly caught her.

"Don't ask questions," she said. "I told you not to ask questions
before. Where should I learn, but in America? Do you suppose no one
can play the piano, except in England? Look here," she glanced at her
cousin. "Do you, Mr. Arbuthnot, always spend your evenings like this?"

"How like this?"

"Why, going around in a swallow tail to drawing-rooms with the women,
like a tame tom-cat. If you do, you must be a truly good young man. If
you don't, what do you do?"

"Very often I spend my evenings in a drawing-room."

"Oh, Lord! Do most young Englishmen carry on in the same proper way?"

"Why not?"

"Don't they go to music-halls, please, and dancing cribs, and such?"

"Perhaps. But what does it concern us to know what some men do?"

"Oh, not much. Only if I were a man like you, I wouldn't consent to be
a tame tom-cat--that is all; but perhaps you like it."

She meant to insult and offend him so that he should not come any
more.

But she did not succeed. He only laughed, feeling that he was getting
below the surface, and sat down beside the piano.

"You amuse me," he said, "and you astonish me. You are, in fact, the
most astonishing person I ever met. For instance, you come from
America, and you talk pure London slang with a cockney twang. How did
it get there?"

In fact, it was not exactly London slang, but a patois or dialect,
learned partly from her husband, partly from her companions, and
partly brought from Gloucester.

"I don't know--I never asked. It came wrapped up in brown paper,
perhaps, with a string round it."

"You have lived in America all your life, and you look more like an
Englishwoman than any other girl I have ever seen."

"Do I? So much the better for the English girls; they can't do better
than take after me. But perhaps--most likely, in fact--you think that
American girls all squint, perhaps, or have got humpbacks? Anything
else?"

"You were brought up in a little American village, and yet you play in
the style of a girl who has had the best masters."

She did not explain--it was not necessary to explain--that her master
had been her father who was a teacher of music.

"I can't help it, can I?" she asked; "I can't help it if I turned out
different to what you expected. People sometimes do, you know. And
when you don't approve of a girl, it's English manners, I suppose, to
tell her so--kind of encourages her to persevere, and pray for better
luck next time, doesn't it? It's simple too, and prevents any foolish
errors--no mistake afterward, you see. I say, are you going to come
here often; because, if you are, I shall go away back to the States or
somewhere, or stay upstairs in my own room. You and me won't get on
very well together, I am afraid."

"I don't think you will see me very often," he replied. "That is
improbable; yet I dare say I shall come here as often as I usually
do."

"What do you mean by that?" She looked sharply and suspiciously at
him. He repeated his words, and she perceived that there was meaning
in them, and she felt uneasy.

"I don't understand at all," she said; "Clara tells me that this house
is mine. Now--don't you know--I don't intend to invite any but my own
friends to visit me in my own house?"

"That seems reasonable. No one can expect you to invite people who are
not your friends."

"Well, then, I ain't likely to call you my friend"--Arnold inclined
his head--"and I am not going to talk riddles any more. Is there
anything else you want to say?"

"Nothing more, I think, at present, thank you."

"If there is, you know, don't mind me--have it out--I'm nobody, of
course. I'm not expected to have any manners--I'm only a girl. You can
say what you please to me, and be as rude as you please; Englishmen
always are as rude as they can be to American girls--I've always heard
that."

Arnold laughed.

"At all events," he said, "you have charmed Clara, which is the only
really important thing. Good-night, Miss--Miss Deseret."

"Good-night, old man," she said, laughing, because she bore no malice,
and had given him a candid opinion; "I dare say when you get rid of
your fine company manners, and put off your swallow tail, you're not a
bad sort, after all. Perhaps, if you would confess, you are as fond of
a kick-up on your way home as anybody. Trust you quiet chaps!"

Clara had not fortunately heard much of this conversation, which,
indeed, was not meant for her, because the girl was playing all the
time some waltz music, which enabled her to talk and play without
being heard at the other end of the room.

* * * * *

Well, there was now no doubt. The American physician and the subject
of the photograph were certainly the same man. And this man was also
the thief of the safe, and Iris Aglen was Iris Deseret. Of that,
Arnold had no longer any reasonable doubt. There was, however, one
thing more. Before leaving Clara's house, he refreshed his memory as
to the Deseret arms. The quarterings of the shield were, so far,
exactly what Mr. Emblem recollected.

"It is," said Lala Roy, "what I thought. But, as yet, not a word to
Iris."

He then proceeded to relate the repentance, the confession, and the
atonement proposed by the remorseful James. But he did not tell quite
all. For the wise man never tells all. What really happened was this.
When James had made a clean breast and confessed his enormous share
in the villainy, Lala Roy bound him over to secrecy under pain of Law,
Law the Rigorous, pointing out that although they do not, in England,
exhibit the Kourbash, or bastinado the soles of the feet, they make
the prisoner sleep on a hard board, starve him on skilly, set him to
work which tears his nails from his fingers, keep him from
conversation, tobacco, and drink, and when he comes out, so hedge him
around with prejudice and so clothe him with a robe of shame, that no
one will ever employ him again, and he is therefore doomed to go back
again to the English Hell. Lala Roy, though a man of few words, drew
so vivid a description of the punishment which awaited his penitent
that James, foxy as he was by nature, felt constrained to resolve that
henceforth, happen what might, then and for all future, he would range
himself on the side of virtue, and as a beginning he promised to do
everything that he could for the confounding of Joseph and the
bringing of the guilty to justice.




CHAPTER XIII.

HIS LAST CHANCE.


Three days elapsed, during which nothing was done. That cause is
strongest which can afford to wait. But in those three days several
things happened.

First of all, Mr. David Chalker, seeing that the old man was obdurate,
made up his mind to lose most of his money, and cursed Joe continually
for having led him to build upon his grandfather's supposed wealth.
Yet he ought to have known. Tradesmen do not lock up their savings in
investments for their grandchildren, nor do they borrow small sums at
ruinous interest of money-lending solicitors; nor do they give Bills
of Sale. These general rules were probably known to Mr. Chalker. Yet
he did not apply them to this particular case. The neglect of the
General Rule, in fact, may lead the most astute of mankind into ways
of foolishness.

James, for his part, stimulated perpetually by fear of prison and loss
of character and of situation--for who would employ an assistant who
got keys made to open the safe?--showed himself the most repentant of
mortals. Dr. Joseph Washington, lulled into the most perfect security,
enjoyed all those pleasures which the sum of three hundred pounds
could purchase. Nobody knew where he was, or what he was doing. As for
Lotty, she had established herself firmly in Chester Square, and
Cousin Clara daily found out new and additional proofs of the gentle
blood breaking out!

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