"I have heard plenty of this talk before," she replied. "You are a
sweet-hearted fool, and I love you for it. But I am a clear-headed
woman; my eyes are open, and I understand this man's hypocrisy. Did he
not come here to-day and pretend he would take a situation--pretend he
would share his hard-earned wages with us until you were well? Pretend!
It makes me furious! His wages! a share of his wages! That would have
been your pittance, that would have been your share of the Flying
Scud--you who worked and toiled for him when he was a beggar in the
streets of Paris. But we do not want your charity; thank God, I can work
for my own husband! See what it is to have obliged a gentleman. He would
let you pick him up when he was begging; he would stand and look on, and
let you black his shoes, and sneer at you. For you were always sneering
at my James; you always looked down upon him in your heart, you know
it!" She turned back to Jim. "And now when he is rich," she began, and
then swooped again on me. "For you are rich, I dare you to deny it; I
defy you to look me in the face and try to deny that you are rich--rich
with our money--my husband's money----"

Heaven knows to what a height she might have risen, being, by this time,
bodily whirled away in her own hurricane of words. Heart-sickness,
a black depression, a treacherous sympathy with my assailant, pity
unutterable for poor Jim, already filled, divided, and abashed my
spirit. Flight seemed the only remedy; and making a private sign to Jim,
as if to ask permission, I slunk from the unequal field.

I was but a little way down the street, when I was arrested by the sound
of some one running, and Jim's voice calling me by name. He had followed
me with a letter which had been long awaiting my return.

I took it in a dream. "This has been a devil of a business," said I.

"Don't think hard of Mamie," he pleaded. "It's the way she's made; it's
her high-toned loyalty. And of course I know it's all right. I know your
sterling character; but you didn't, somehow, make out to give us the
thing straight, Loudon. Anybody might have--I mean it--I mean----"

"Never mind what you mean, my poor Jim," said I. "She's a gallant little
woman and a loyal wife: and I thought her splendid. My story was as
fishy as the devil. I'll never think the less of either her or you."

"It'll blow over; it must blow over," said he.

"It never can," I returned, sighing: "and don't you try to make it!
Don't name me, unless it's with an oath. And get home to her right away.
Good by, my best of friends. Good by, and God bless you. We shall never
meet again."

"O Loudon, that we should live to say such words!" he cried.

I had no views on life, beyond an occasional impulse to commit suicide,
or to get drunk, and drifted down the street, semi-conscious, walking
apparently on air, in the light-headedness of grief. I had money in my
pocket, whether mine or my creditors' I had no means of guessing; and,
the Poodle Dog lying in my path, I went mechanically in and took
a table. A waiter attended me, and I suppose I gave my orders; for
presently I found myself, with a sudden return of consciousness,
beginning dinner. On the white cloth at my elbow lay the letter,
addressed in a clerk's hand, and bearing an English stamp and the
Edinburgh postmark. A bowl of bouillon and a glass of wine awakened in
one corner of my brain (where all the rest was in mourning, the blinds
down as for a funeral) a faint stir of curiosity; and while I waited the
next course, wondering the while what I had ordered, I opened and began
to read the epoch-making document.

"DEAR SIR: I am charged with the melancholy duty of announcing to you
the death of your excellent grandfather, Mr. Alexander Loudon, on
the 17th ult. On Sunday the 13th, he went to church as usual in the
forenoon, and stopped on his way home, at the corner of Princes Street,
in one of our seasonable east winds, to talk with an old friend. The
same evening acute bronchitis declared itself; from the first, Dr.
M'Combie anticipated a fatal result, and the old gentleman appeared to
have no illusion as to his own state. He repeatedly assured me it
was 'by' with him now; 'and high time, too,' he once added with
characteristic asperity. He was not in the least changed on the approach
of death: only (what I am sure must be very grateful to your feelings)
he seemed to think and speak even more kindly than usual of yourself:
referring to you as 'Jeannie's yin,' with strong expressions of regard.
'He was the only one I ever liket of the hale jing-bang,' was one of his
expressions; and you will be glad to know that he dwelt particularly
on the dutiful respect you had always displayed in your relations.
The small codicil, by which he bequeaths you his Molesworth and other
professional works, was added (you will observe) on the day before his
death; so that you were in his thoughts until the end. I should say
that, though rather a trying patient, he was most tenderly nursed by
your uncle, and your cousin, Miss Euphemia. I enclose a copy of the
testament, by which you will see that you share equally with Mr. Adam,
and that I hold at your disposal a sum nearly approaching seventeen
thousand pounds. I beg to congratulate you on this considerable
acquisition, and expect your orders, to which I shall hasten to give my
best attention. Thinking that you might desire to return at once to this
country, and not knowing how you may be placed, I enclose a credit for
six hundred pounds. Please sign the accompanying slip, and let me have
it at your earliest convenience.

"I am, dear sir, yours truly,

"W. RUTHERFORD GREGG."

"God bless the old gentleman!" I thought; "and for that matter God bless
Uncle Adam! and my cousin Euphemia! and Mr. Gregg!" I had a vision of
that grey old life now brought to an end--"and high time too"--a vision
of those Sabbath streets alternately vacant and filled with silent
people; of the babel of the bells, the long-drawn psalmody, the shrewd
sting of the east wind, the hollow, echoing, dreary house to which
"Ecky" had returned with the hand of death already on his shoulder; a
vision, too, of the long, rough country lad, perhaps a serious courtier
of the lasses in the hawthorn den, perhaps a rustic dancer on the green,
who had first earned and answered to that harsh diminutive. And I asked
myself if, on the whole, poor Ecky had succeeded in life; if the last
state of that man were not on the whole worse than the first; and the
house in Randolph Crescent a less admirable dwelling than the hamlet
where he saw the day and grew to manhood. Here was a consolatory thought
for one who was himself a failure.

Yes, I declare the word came in my mind; and all the while, in another
partition of the brain, I was glowing and singing for my new-found
opulence. The pile of gold--four thousand two hundred and fifty double
eagles, seventeen thousand ugly sovereigns, twenty-one thousand two
hundred and fifty Napoleons--danced, and rang and ran molten, and lit
up life with their effulgence, in the eye of fancy. Here were all things
made plain to me: Paradise--Paris, I mean--Regained, Carthew protected,
Jim restored, the creditors...

"The creditors!" I repeated, and sank back benumbed. It was all theirs
to the last farthing: my grandfather had died too soon to save me.

I must have somewhere a rare vein of decision. In that revolutionary
moment, I found myself prepared for all extremes except the one: ready
to do anything, or to go anywhere, so long as I might save my money.
At the worst, there was flight, flight to some of those blest countries
where the serpent, extradition, has not yet entered in.

     On no condition is extradition
     Allowed in Callao!

--the old lawless words haunted me; and I saw myself hugging my gold in
the company of such men as had once made and sung them, in the rude
and bloody wharfside drinking-shops of Chili and Peru. The run of my
ill-luck, the breach of my old friendship, this bubble fortune flaunted
for a moment in my eyes and snatched again, had made me desperate and
(in the expressive vulgarism) ugly. To drink vile spirits among vile
companions by the flare of a pine-torch; to go burthened with my furtive
treasure in a belt; to fight for it knife in hand, rolling on a clay
floor; to flee perpetually in fresh ships and to be chased through
the sea from isle to isle, seemed, in my then frame of mind, a welcome
series of events.

That was for the worst; but it began to dawn slowly on my mind that
there was yet a possible better. Once escaped, once safe in Callao, I
might approach my creditors with a good grace; and properly handled by
a cunning agent, it was just possible they might accept some easy
composition. The hope recalled me to the bankruptcy. It was strange, I
reflected: often as I had questioned Jim, he had never obliged me
with an answer. In his haste for news about the wreck, my own no less
legitimate curiosity had gone disappointed. Hateful as the thought was
to me, I must return at once and find out where I stood.

I left my dinner still unfinished, paying for the whole, of course, and
tossing the waiter a gold piece. I was reckless; I knew not what was
mine and cared not: I must take what I could get and give as I was able;
to rob and to squander seemed the complementary parts of my new destiny.
I walked up Bush Street, whistling, brazening myself to confront Mamie
in the first place, and the world at large and a certain visionary judge
upon a bench in the second. Just outside, I stopped and lighted a cigar
to give me greater countenance; and puffing this and wearing what (I
am sure) was a wretched assumption of braggadocio, I reappeared on the
scene of my disgrace.

My friend and his wife were finishing a poor meal--rags of old mutton,
the remainder cakes from breakfast eaten cold, and a starveling pot of
coffee.

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pinkerton," said I. "Sorry to inflict my
presence where it cannot be desired; but there is a piece of business
necessary to be discussed."

"Pray do not consider me," said Mamie, rising, and she sailed into the
adjoining bedroom.

Jim watched her go and shook his head; he looked miserably old and ill.

"What is it, now?" he asked.

"Perhaps you remember you answered none of my questions," said I.


"Your questions?" faltered Jim.

"Even so, Jim. My questions," I repeated. "I put questions as well as
yourself; and however little I may have satisfied Mamie with my answers,
I beg to remind you that you gave me none at all."

"You mean about the bankruptcy?" asked Jim.

I nodded.

He writhed in his chair. "The straight truth is, I was ashamed," he
said. "I was trying to dodge you. I've been playing fast and loose with
you, Loudon; I've deceived you from the first, I blush to own it. And
here you came home and put the very question I was fearing. Why did we
bust so soon? Your keen business eye had not deceived you. That's the
point, that's my shame; that's what killed me this afternoon when Mamie
was treating you so, and my conscience was telling me all the time, Thou
art the man."

"What was it, Jim?" I asked.

"What I had been at all the time, Loudon," he wailed; "and I don't know
how I'm to look you in the face and say it, after my duplicity. It was
stocks," he added in a whisper.

"And you were afraid to tell me that!" I cried. "You poor, old,
cheerless dreamer! what would it matter what you did or didn't? Can't
you see we're doomed? And anyway, that's not my point. It's how I stand
that I want to know. There is a particular reason. Am I clear? Have I a
certificate, or what have I to do to get one? And when will it be dated?
You can't think what hangs by it!"

"That's the worst of all," said Jim, like a man in a dream, "I can't see
how to tell him!"

"What do you mean?" I cried, a small pang of terror at my heart.

"I'm afraid I sacrificed you, Loudon," he said, looking at me pitifully.

"Sacrificed me?" I repeated. "How? What do you mean by sacrifice?"

"I know it'll shock your delicate self-respect," he said; "but what was
I to do? Things looked so bad. The receiver----" (as usual, the name
stuck in his throat, and he began afresh). "There was a lot of talk; the
reporters were after me already; there was the trouble and all about
the Mexican business; and I got scared right out, and I guess I lost my
head. You weren't there, you see, and that was my temptation."

I did not know how long he might thus beat about the bush with dreadful
hintings, and I was already beside myself with terror. What had he done?
I saw he had been tempted; I knew from his letters that he was in no
condition to resist. How had he sacrificed the absent?

"Jim," I said, "you must speak right out. I've got all that I can
carry."

"Well," he said--"I know it was a liberty--I made it out you were no
business man, only a stone-broke painter; that half the time you didn't
know anything anyway, particularly money and accounts. I said you never
could be got to understand whose was whose. I had to say that because of
some entries in the books----"

"For God's sake," I cried, "put me out of this agony! What did you
accuse me of?"

"Accuse you of?" repeated Jim. "Of what I'm telling you. And there being
no deed of partnership, I made out you were only a kind of clerk that
I called a partner just to give you taffy; and so I got you ranked
a creditor on the estate for your wages and the money you had lent.
And----"

I believe I reeled. "A creditor!" I roared; "a creditor! I'm not in the
bankruptcy at all?"

"No," said Jim. "I know it was a liberty----"

"O, damn your liberty! read that," I cried, dashing the letter before
him on the table, "and call in your wife, and be done with eating this
truck "--as I spoke, I slung the cold mutton in the empty grate--"and
let's all go and have a champagne supper. I've dined--I'm sure I don't
remember what I had; I'd dine again ten scores of times upon a night
like this. Read it, you blaying ass! I'm not insane. Here, Mamie," I
continued, opening the bedroom door, "come out and make it up with me,
and go and kiss your husband; and I'll tell you what, after the supper,
let's go to some place where there's a band, and I'll waltz with you
till sunrise."

"What does it all mean?" cried Jim.

"It means we have a champagne supper to-night, and all go to Napa Valley
or to Monterey to-morrow," said I. "Mamie, go and get your things on;
and you, Jim, sit down right where you are, take a sheet of paper, and
tell Franklin Dodge to go to Texas. Mamie, you were right, my dear; I
was rich all the time, and didn't know it."




CHAPTER XIX. TRAVELS WITH A SHYSTER.


The absorbing and disastrous adventure of the Flying Scud was now quite
ended; we had dashed into these deep waters and we had escaped again to
starve, we had been ruined and were saved, had quarrelled and made up;
there remained nothing but to sing Te Deum, draw a line, and begin on a
fresh page of my unwritten diary. I do not pretend that I recovered all
I had lost with Mamie; it would have been more than I had merited; and
I had certainly been more uncommunicative than became either the partner
or the friend. But she accepted the position handsomely; and during
the week that I now passed with them, both she and Jim had the grace
to spare me questions. It was to Calistoga that we went; there was
some rumour of a Napa land-boom at the moment, the possibility of stir
attracted Jim, and he informed me he would find a certain joy in looking
on, much as Napoleon on St. Helena took a pleasure to read military
works. The field of his ambition was quite closed; he was done with
action; and looked forward to a ranch in a mountain dingle, a patch of
corn, a pair of kine, a leisurely and contemplative age in the green
shade of forests. "Just let me get down on my back in a hayfield," said
he, "and you'll find there's no more snap to me than that much putty."

And for two days the perfervid being actually rested. The third, he was
observed in consultation with the local editor, and owned he was in two
minds about purchasing the press and paper. "It's a kind of a hold for
an idle man," he said, pleadingly; "and if the section was to open up
the way it ought to, there might be dollars in the thing." On the fourth
day he was gone till dinner-time alone; on the fifth we made a long
picnic drive to the fresh field of enterprise; and the sixth was passed
entirely in the preparation of prospectuses. The pioneer of McBride City
was already upright and self-reliant as of yore; the fire rekindled in
his eye, the ring restored to his voice; a charger sniffing battle and
saying ha-ha, among the spears. On the seventh morning we signed a deed
of partnership, for Jim would not accept a dollar of my money otherwise;
and having once more engaged myself--or that mortal part of me, my
purse--among the wheels of his machinery, I returned alone to San
Francisco and took quarters in the Palace Hotel.

The same night I had Nares to dinner. His sunburnt face, his queer and
personal strain of talk, recalled days that were scarce over and that
seemed already distant. Through the music of the band outside, and the
chink and clatter of the dining-room, it seemed to me as if I heard the
foaming of the surf and the voices of the sea-birds about Midway Island.
The bruises on our hands were not yet healed; and there we sat, waited
on by elaborate darkies, eating pompano and drinking iced champagne.

"Think of our dinners on the Norah, captain, and then oblige me by
looking round the room for contrast."

He took the scene in slowly. "Yes, it is like a dream," he said: "like
as if the darkies were really about as big as dimes; and a great big
scuttle might open up there, and Johnson stick in a great big head and
shoulders, and cry, 'Eight bells!'--and the whole thing vanish."

"Well, it's the other thing that has done that," I replied. "It's all
bygone now, all dead and buried. Amen! say I."

"I don't know that, Mr. Dodd; and to tell you the fact, I don't believe
it," said Nares. "There's more Flying Scud in the oven; and the baker's
name, I take it, is Bellairs. He tackled me the day we came in: sort of
a razee of poor old humanity--jury clothes--full new suit of pimples:
knew him at once from your description. I let him pump me till I saw his
game. He knows a good deal that we don't know, a good deal that we do,
and suspects the balance. There's trouble brewing for somebody."

I was surprised I had not thought of this before. Bellairs had been
behind the scenes; he had known Dickson; he knew the flight of the crew;
it was hardly possible but what he should suspect; it was certain if
he suspected, that he would seek to trade on the suspicion. And sure
enough, I was not yet dressed the next morning ere the lawyer was
knocking at my door. I let him in, for I was curious; and he, after some
ambiguous prolegomena, roundly proposed I should go shares with him.

"Shares in what?" I inquired.

"If you will allow me to clothe my idea in a somewhat vulgar form," said
he, "I might ask you, did you go to Midway for your health?"

"I don't know that I did," I replied.

"Similarly, Mr. Dodd, you may be sure I would never have taken
the present step without influential grounds," pursued the lawyer.
"Intrusion is foreign to my character. But you and I, sir, are engaged
on the same ends. If we can continue to work the thing in company,
I place at your disposal my knowledge of the law and a considerable
practice in delicate negotiations similar to this. Should you refuse to
consent, you might find in me a formidable and"--he hesitated--"and to
my own regret, perhaps a dangerous competitor."

"Did you get this by heart?" I asked, genially.

"I advise YOU to!" he said, with a sudden sparkle of temper and menace,
instantly gone, instantly succeeded by fresh cringing. "I assure
you, sir, I arrive in the character of a friend; and I believe you
underestimate my information. If I may instance an example, I am
acquainted to the last dime with what you made (or rather lost), and I
know you have since cashed a considerable draft on London."

"What do you infer?" I asked.

"I know where that draft came from," he cried, wincing back like one who
has greatly dared, and instantly regrets the venture.

"So?" said I.

"You forget I was Mr. Dickson's confidential agent," he explained. "You
had his address, Mr. Dodd. We were the only two that he communicated
with in San Francisco. You see my deductions are quite obvious: you
see how open and frank I deal with you, as I should wish to do with
any gentleman with whom I was conjoined in business. You see how much
I know; and it can scarcely escape your strong common-sense, how much
better it would be if I knew all. You cannot hope to get rid of me at
this time of day, I have my place in the affair, I cannot be shaken off;
I am, if you will excuse a rather technical pleasantry, an encumbrance
on the estate. The actual harm I can do, I leave you to valuate for
yourself. But without going so far, Mr. Dodd, and without in any way
inconveniencing myself, I could make things very uncomfortable. For
instance, Mr. Pinkerton's liquidation. You and I know, sir--and you
better than I--on what a large fund you draw. Is Mr. Pinkerton in
the thing at all? It was you only who knew the address, and you were
concealing it. Suppose I should communicate with Mr. Pinkerton----"

"Look here!" I interrupted, "communicate with him (if you will permit
me to clothe my idea in a vulgar shape) till you are blue in the face.
There is only one person with whom I refuse to allow you to communicate
further, and that is myself. Good morning."

He could not conceal his rage, disappointment, and surprise; and in the
passage (I have no doubt) was shaken by St. Vitus.

I was disgusted by this interview; it struck me hard to be suspected
on all hands, and to hear again from this trafficker what I had heard
already from Jim's wife; and yet my strongest impression was different
and might rather be described as an impersonal fear. There was something
against nature in the man's craven impudence; it was as though a lamb
had butted me; such daring at the hands of such a dastard, implied
unchangeable resolve, a great pressure of necessity, and powerful means.
I thought of the unknown Carthew, and it sickened me to see this ferret
on his trail.

Upon inquiry I found the lawyer was but just disbarred for some
malpractice; and the discovery added excessively to my disquiet. Here
was a rascal without money or the means of making it, thrust out of the
doors of his own trade, publicly shamed, and doubtless in a deuce of a
bad temper with the universe. Here, on the other hand, was a man with a
secret; rich, terrified, practically in hiding; who had been willing
to pay ten thousand pounds for the bones of the Flying Scud. I slipped
insensibly into a mental alliance with the victim; the business weighed
on me; all day long, I was wondering how much the lawyer knew, how much
he guessed, and when he would open his attack.

Some of these problems are unsolved to this day; others were soon made
clear. Where he got Carthew's name is still a mystery; perhaps some
sailor on the Tempest, perhaps my own sea-lawyer served him for a tool;
but I was actually at his elbow when he learned the address. It fell
so. One evening, when I had an engagement and was killing time until the
hour, I chanced to walk in the court of the hotel while the band played.
The place was bright as day with the electric light; and I recognised,
at some distance among the loiterers, the person of Bellairs in talk
with a gentleman whose face appeared familiar. It was certainly some one
I had seen, and seen recently; but who or where, I knew not. A porter
standing hard by, gave me the necessary hint. The stranger was an
English navy man, invalided home from Honolulu, where he had left his
ship; indeed, it was only from the change of clothes and the effects
of sickness, that I had not immediately recognised my friend and
correspondent, Lieutenant Sebright.

The conjunction of these planets seeming ominous, I drew near; but it
seemed Bellairs had done his business; he vanished in the crowd, and I
found my officer alone.

"Do you know whom you have been talking to, Mr. Sebright?" I began.

"No," said he; "I don't know him from Adam. Anything wrong?"

"He is a disreputable lawyer, recently disbarred," said I. "I wish I had
seen you in time. I trust you told him nothing about Carthew?"

He flushed to his ears. "I'm awfully sorry," he said. "He seemed civil,
and I wanted to get rid of him. It was only the address he asked."

"And you gave it?" I cried.

"I'm really awfully sorry," said Sebright. "I'm afraid I did."

"God forgive you!" was my only comment, and I turned my back upon the
blunderer.

The fat was in the fire now: Bellairs had the address, and I was the
more deceived or Carthew would have news of him. So strong was this
impression, and so painful, that the next morning I had the curiosity to
pay the lawyer's den a visit. An old woman was scrubbing the stair, and
the board was down.

"Lawyer Bellairs?" said the old woman. "Gone East this morning. There's
Lawyer Dean next block up."

I did not trouble Lawyer Dean, but walked slowly back to my hotel,
ruminating as I went. The image of the old woman washing that desecrated
stair had struck my fancy; it seemed that all the water-supply of the
city and all the soap in the State would scarce suffice to cleanse it,
it had been so long a clearing-house of dingy secrets and a factory
of sordid fraud. And now the corner was untenanted; some judge, like a
careful housewife, had knocked down the web, and the bloated spider was
scuttling elsewhere after new victims. I had of late (as I have said)
insensibly taken sides with Carthew; now when his enemy was at his
heels, my interest grew more warm; and I began to wonder if I could not
help. The drama of the Flying Scud was entering on a new phase. It had
been singular from the first: it promised an extraordinary conclusion;
and I, who had paid so much to learn the beginning, might pay a little
more and see the end. I lingered in San Francisco, indemnifying myself
after the hardships of the cruise, spending money, regretting it,
continually promising departure for the morrow. Why not go indeed, and
keep a watch upon Bellairs? If I missed him, there was no harm done, I
was the nearer Paris. If I found and kept his trail, it was hard if
I could not put some stick in his machinery, and at the worst I could
promise myself interesting scenes and revelations.

In such a mixed humour, I made up what it pleases me to call my mind,
and once more involved myself in the story of Carthew and the Flying
Scud. The same night I wrote a letter of farewell to Jim, and one of
anxious warning to Dr. Urquart begging him to set Carthew on his guard;
the morrow saw me in the ferry-boat; and ten days later, I was walking
the hurricane deck on the City of Denver. By that time my mind was
pretty much made down again, its natural condition: I told myself that
I was bound for Paris or Fontainebleau to resume the study of the arts;
and I thought no more of Carthew or Bellairs, or only to smile at my own
fondness. The one I could not serve, even if I wanted; the other I had
no means of finding, even if I could have at all influenced him after he
was found.

And for all that, I was close on the heels of an absurd adventure. My
neighbour at table that evening was a 'Frisco man whom I knew slightly.
I found he had crossed the plains two days in front of me, and this was
the first steamer that had left New York for Europe since his arrival.
Two days before me meant a day before Bellairs; and dinner was scarce
done before I was closeted with the purser.

"Bellairs?" he repeated. "Not in the saloon, I am sure. He may be in
the second class. The lists are not made out, but--Hullo! 'Harry D.
Bellairs?' That the name? He's there right enough."

And the next morning I saw him on the forward deck, sitting in a chair,
a book in his hand, a shabby puma skin rug about his knees: the picture
of respectable decay. Off and on, I kept him in my eye. He read a good
deal, he stood and looked upon the sea, he talked occasionally with his
neighbours, and once when a child fell he picked it up and soothed it. I
damned him in my heart; the book, which I was sure he did not read--the
sea, to which I was ready to take oath he was indifferent--the child,
whom I was certain he would as lieve have tossed overboard--all seemed
to me elements in a theatrical performance; and I made no doubt he was
already nosing after the secrets of his fellow-passengers. I took no
pains to conceal myself, my scorn for the creature being as strong as my
disgust. But he never looked my way, and it was night before I learned
he had observed me.

I was smoking by the engine-room door, for the air was a little sharp,
when a voice rose close beside me in the darkness.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodd," it said.

"That you, Bellairs?" I replied.

"A single word, sir. Your presence on this ship has no connection with
our interview?" he asked. "You have no idea, Mr. Dodd, of returning upon
your determination?"

"None," said I; and then, seeing he still lingered, I was polite enough
to add "Good evening;" at which he sighed and went away.


The next day, he was there again with the chair and the puma skin; read
his book and looked at the sea with the same constancy; and though there
was no child to be picked up, I observed him to attend repeatedly on a
sick woman. Nothing fosters suspicion like the act of watching; a man
spied upon can hardly blow his nose but we accuse him of designs; and
I took an early opportunity to go forward and see the woman for myself.
She was poor, elderly, and painfully plain; I stood abashed at the
sight, felt I owed Bellairs amends for the injustice of my thoughts, and
seeing him standing by the rail in his usual attitude of contemplation,
walked up and addressed him by name.

"You seem very fond of the sea," said I.

"I may really call it a passion, Mr. Dodd," he replied. "And the tall
cataract haunted me like a passion," he quoted. "I never weary of
the sea, sir. This is my first ocean voyage. I find it a glorious
experience." And once more my disbarred lawyer dropped into poetry:
"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!"

Though I had learned the piece in my reading-book at school, I came into
the world a little too late on the one hand--and I daresay a little
too early on the other--to think much of Byron; and the sonorous verse,
prodigiously well delivered, struck me with surprise.

"You are fond of poetry, too?" I asked.

"I am a great reader," he replied. "At one time I had begun to amass
quite a small but well selected library; and when that was scattered, I
still managed to preserve a few volumes--chiefly of pieces designed for
recitation--which have been my travelling companions."

"Is that one of them?" I asked, pointing to the volume in his hand.

"No, sir," he replied, showing me a translation of the _Sorrows of
Werther_, "that is a novel I picked up some time ago. It has afforded me
great pleasure, though immoral."

"O, immoral!" cried I, indignant as usual at any complication of art and
ethics.


"Surely you cannot deny that, sir--if you know the book," he said. "The
passion is illicit, although certainly drawn with a good deal of pathos.
It is not a work one could possibly put into the hands of a lady; which
is to be regretted on all accounts, for I do not know how it may strike
you; but it seems to me--as a depiction, if I make myself clear--to rise
high above its compeers--even famous compeers. Even in Scott, Dickens,
Thackeray, or Hawthorne, the sentiment of love appears to me to be
frequently done less justice to."

"You are expressing a very general opinion," said I.

"Is that so, indeed, sir?" he exclaimed, with unmistakable excitement.
"Is the book well known? and who was GO-EATH? I am interested in that,
because upon the title-page the usual initials are omitted, and it runs
simply 'by GO-EATH.' Was he an author of distinction? Has he written
other works?"

Such was our first interview, the first of many; and in all he showed
the same attractive qualities and defects. His taste for literature
was native and unaffected; his sentimentality, although extreme and a
thought ridiculous, was plainly genuine. I wondered at my own innocent
wonder. I knew that Homer nodded, that Caesar had compiled a jest-book,
that Turner lived by preference the life of Puggy Booth, that Shelley
made paper boats, and Wordsworth wore green spectacles! and with all
this mass of evidence before me, I had expected Bellairs to be entirely
of one piece, subdued to what he worked in, a spy all through. As I
abominated the man's trade, so I had expected to detest the man himself;
and behold, I liked him. Poor devil! he was essentially a man on wires,
all sensibility and tremor, brimful of a cheap poetry, not without
parts, quite without courage. His boldness was despair; the gulf behind
him thrust him on; he was one of those who might commit a murder rather
than confess the theft of a postage-stamp. I was sure that his coming
interview with Carthew rode his imagination like a nightmare; when the
thought crossed his mind, I used to think I knew of it, and that the
qualm appeared in his face visibly. Yet he would never flinch: necessity
stalking at his back, famine (his old pursuer) talking in his ear; and I
used to wonder whether I most admired, or most despised, this quivering
heroism for evil. The image that occurred to me after his visit was
just; I had been butted by a lamb; and the phase of life that I was now
studying might be called the Revolt of a Sheep.

It could be said of him that he had learned in sorrow what he taught in
song--or wrong; and his life was that of one of his victims. He was born
in the back parts of the State of New York; his father a farmer, who
became subsequently bankrupt and went West. The lawyer and money-lender
who had ruined this poor family seems to have conceived in the end a
feeling of remorse; he turned the father out indeed, but he offered,
in compensation, to charge himself with one of the sons: and Harry, the
fifth child and already sickly, was chosen to be left behind. He made
himself useful in the office; picked up the scattered rudiments of an
education; read right and left; attended and debated at the Young Men's
Christian Association; and in all his early years, was the model for a
good story-book. His landlady's daughter was his bane. He showed me
her photograph; she was a big, handsome, dashing, dressy, vulgar hussy,
without character, without tenderness, without mind, and (as the result
proved) without virtue. The sickly and timid boy was in the house; he
was handy; when she was otherwise unoccupied, she used and played with
him: Romeo and Cressida; till in that dreary life of a poor boy in a
country town, she grew to be the light of his days and the subject of
his dreams. He worked hard, like Jacob, for a wife; he surpassed his
patron in sharp practice; he was made head clerk; and the same night,
encouraged by a hundred freedoms, depressed by the sense of his youth
and his infirmities, he offered marriage and was received with
laughter. Not a year had passed, before his master, conscious of growing
infirmities, took him for a partner; he proposed again; he was accepted;
led two years of troubled married life; and awoke one morning to find
his wife had run away with a dashing drummer, and had left him heavily
in debt. The debt, and not the drummer, was supposed to be the cause of
the hegira; she had concealed her liabilities, they were on the point of
bursting forth, she was weary of Bellairs; and she took the drummer as
she might have taken a cab. The blow disabled her husband, his partner
was dead; he was now alone in the business, for which he was no longer
fit; the debts hampered him; bankruptcy followed; and he fled from city
to city, falling daily into lower practice. It is to be considered that
he had been taught, and had learned as a delightful duty, a kind of
business whose highest merit is to escape the commentaries of the bench:
that of the usurious lawyer in a county town. With this training, he was
now shot, a penniless stranger, into the deeper gulfs of cities; and the
result is scarce a thing to be surprised at.


"Have you heard of your wife again?" I asked.

He displayed a pitiful agitation. "I am afraid you will think ill of
me," he said.

"Have you taken her back?" I asked.

"No, sir. I trust I have too much self-respect," he answered, "and, at
least, I was never tempted. She won't come, she dislikes, she seems to
have conceived a positive distaste for me, and yet I was considered an
indulgent husband."

"You are still in relations, then?" I asked.

"I place myself in your hands, Mr. Dodd," he replied. "The world is very
hard; I have found it bitter hard myself--bitter hard to live. How
much worse for a woman, and one who has placed herself (by her own
misconduct, I am far from denying that) in so unfortunate a position!"

"In short, you support her?" I suggested.

"I cannot deny it. I practically do," he admitted. "It has been a
mill-stone round my neck. But I think she is grateful. You can see for
yourself."

He handed me a letter in a sprawling, ignorant hand, but written with
violet ink on fine, pink paper with a monogram. It was very foolishly
expressed, and I thought (except for a few obvious cajoleries) very
heartless and greedy in meaning. The writer said she had been sick,
which I disbelieved; declared the last remittance was all gone in
doctor's bills, for which I took the liberty of substituting dress,
drink, and monograms; and prayed for an increase, which I could only
hope had been denied her.

"I think she is really grateful?" he asked, with some eagerness, as I
returned it.

"I daresay," said I. "Has she any claim on you?"

"O no, sir. I divorced her," he replied. "I have a very strong sense of
self-respect in such matters, and I divorced her immediately."

"What sort of life is she leading now?" I asked.

"I will not deceive you, Mr. Dodd. I do not know, I make a point of
not knowing; it appears more dignified. I have been very harshly
criticised," he added, sighing.

It will be seen that I had fallen into an ignominious intimacy with the
man I had gone out to thwart. My pity for the creature, his admiration
for myself, his pleasure in my society, which was clearly unassumed,
were the bonds with which I was fettered; perhaps I should add, in
honesty, my own ill-regulated interest in the phases of life and human
character. The fact is (at least) that we spent hours together daily,
and that I was nearly as much on the forward deck as in the saloon. Yet
all the while I could never forget he was a shabby trickster, embarked
that very moment in a dirty enterprise. I used to tell myself at first
that our acquaintance was a stroke of art, and that I was somehow
fortifying Carthew. I told myself, I say; but I was no such fool as to
believe it, even then. In these circumstances I displayed the two chief
qualities of my character on the largest scale--my helplessness and my
instinctive love of procrastination--and fell upon a course of action so
ridiculous that I blush when I recall it.

We reached Liverpool one forenoon, the rain falling thickly and
insidiously on the filthy town. I had no plans, beyond a sensible
unwillingness to let my rascal escape; and I ended by going to the same
inn with him, dining with him, walking with him in the wet streets,
and hearing with him in a penny gaff that venerable piece, _The
Ticket-of-Leave Man_. It was one of his first visits to a theatre,
against which places of entertainment he had a strong prejudice; and his
innocent, pompous talk, innocent old quotations, and innocent reverence
for the character of Hawkshaw delighted me beyond relief. In charity to
myself, I dwell upon and perhaps exaggerate my pleasures. I have need of
all conceivable excuses, when I confess that I went to bed without one
word upon the matter of Carthew, but not without having covenanted with
my rascal for a visit to Chester the next day. At Chester we did the
Cathedral, walked on the walls, discussed Shakespeare and the musical
glasses--and made a fresh engagement for the morrow. I do not know, and
I am glad to have forgotten, how long these travels were continued. We
visited at least, by singular zigzags, Stratford, Warwick, Coventry,
Gloucester, Bristol, Bath, and Wells. At each stage we spoke dutifully
of the scene and its associations; I sketched, the Shyster spouted
poetry and copied epitaphs. Who could doubt we were the usual Americans,
travelling with a design of self-improvement? Who was to guess that one
was a blackmailer, trembling to approach the scene of action--the other
a helpless, amateur detective, waiting on events?

It is unnecessary to remark that none occurred, or none the least
suitable with my design of protecting Carthew. Two trifles, indeed,
completed though they scarcely changed my conception of the Shyster. The
first was observed in Gloucester, where we spent Sunday, and I proposed
we should hear service in the cathedral. To my surprise, the creature
had an ISM of his own, to which he was loyal; and he left me to go alone
to the cathedral--or perhaps not to go at all--and stole off down a
deserted alley to some Bethel or Ebenezer of the proper shade. When we
met again at lunch, I rallied him, and he grew restive.

"You need employ no circumlocutions with me, Mr. Dodd," he said
suddenly. "You regard my behaviour from an unfavourable point of view:
you regard me, I much fear, as hypocritical."

I was somewhat confused by the attack. "You know what I think of your
trade," I replied, lamely and coarsely.

"Excuse me, if I seem to press the subject," he continued, "but if you
think my life erroneous, would you have me neglect the means of grace?
Because you consider me in the wrong on one point, would you have me
place myself on the wrong in all? Surely, sir, the church is for the
sinner."

"Did you ask a blessing on your present enterprise?" I sneered.

He had a bad attack of St. Vitus, his face was changed, and his eyes
flashed. "I will tell you what I did!" he cried. "I prayed for an
unfortunate man and a wretched woman whom he tries to support."

I cannot pretend that I found any repartee.

The second incident was at Bristol, where I lost sight of my gentleman
some hours. From this eclipse, he returned to me with thick speech,
wandering footsteps, and a back all whitened with plaster. I had half
expected, yet I could have wept to see it. All disabilities were piled
on that weak back--domestic misfortune, nervous disease, a displeasing
exterior, empty pockets, and the slavery of vice.

I will never deny that our prolonged conjunction was the result of
double cowardice. Each was afraid to leave the other, each was afraid
to speak, or knew not what to say. Save for my ill-judged allusion at
Gloucester, the subject uppermost in both our minds was buried. Carthew,
Stallbridge-le-Carthew, Stallbridge-Minster--which we had long since
(and severally) identified to be the nearest station--even the name of
Dorsetshire was studiously avoided. And yet we were making progress all
the time, tacking across broad England like an unweatherly vessel on a
wind; approaching our destination, not openly, but by a sort of flying
sap. And at length, I can scarce tell how, we were set down by
a dilatory butt-end of local train on the untenanted platform of
Stallbridge-Minster.

The town was ancient and compact: a domino of tiled houses and walled
gardens, dwarfed by the disproportionate bigness of the church. From
the midst of the thoroughfare which divided it in half, fields and trees
were visible at either end; and through the sally-port of every street,
there flowed in from the country a silent invasion of green grass. Bees
and birds appeared to make the majority of the inhabitants; every garden
had its row of hives, the eaves of every house were plastered with the
nests of swallows, and the pinnacles of the church were flickered about
all day long by a multitude of wings. The town was of Roman foundation;
and as I looked out that afternoon from the low windows of the inn,
I should scarce have been surprised to see a centurion coming up
the street with a fatigue draft of legionaries. In short,
Stallbridge-Minster was one of those towns which appear to be maintained
by England for the instruction and delight of the American rambler;
to which he seems guided by an instinct not less surprising than the
setter's; and which he visits and quits with equal enthusiasm.

I was not at all in the humour of the tourist. I had wasted weeks of
time and accomplished nothing; we were on the eve of the engagement, and
I had neither plans nor allies. I had thrust myself into the trade of
private providence and amateur detective; I was spending money and I
was reaping disgrace. All the time, I kept telling myself that I must at
least speak; that this ignominious silence should have been broken
long ago, and must be broken now. I should have broken it when he first
proposed to come to Stallbridge-Minster; I should have broken it in the
train; I should break it there and then, on the inn doorstep, as the
omnibus rolled off. I turned toward him at the thought; he seemed to
wince, the words died on my lips, and I proposed instead that we should
visit the Minster.

While we were engaged upon this duty, it came on to rain in a manner
worthy of the tropics. The vault reverberated; every gargoyle instantly
poured its full discharge; we waded back to the inn, ankle-deep in
impromptu brooks; and the rest of the afternoon sat weatherbound,
hearkening to the sonorous deluge. For two hours I talked of indifferent
matters, laboriously feeding the conversation; for two hours my mind was
quite made up to do my duty instantly--and at each particular instant I
postponed it till the next. To screw up my faltering courage, I
called at dinner for some sparkling wine. It proved when it came to be
detestable; I could not put it to my lips; and Bellairs, who had as much
palate as a weevil, was left to finish it himself. Doubtless the wine
flushed him; doubtless he may have observed my embarrassment of the
afternoon; doubtless he was conscious that we were approaching a crisis,
and that that evening, if I did not join with him, I must declare myself
an open enemy. At least he fled. Dinner was done; this was the time
when I had bound myself to break my silence; no more delays were to be
allowed, no more excuses received. I went upstairs after some tobacco;
which I felt to be a mere necessity in the circumstances; and when I
returned, the man was gone. The waiter told me he had left the house.

The rain still plumped, like a vast shower-bath, over the deserted town.
The night was dark and windless: the street lit glimmeringly from end
to end, lamps, house windows, and the reflections in the rain-pools all
contributing. From a public-house on the other side of the way, I heard
a harp twang and a doleful voice upraised in the "Larboard Watch,"
"The Anchor's Weighed," and other naval ditties. Where had my Shyster
wandered? In all likelihood to that lyrical tavern; there was no choice
of diversion; in comparison with Stallbridge-Minster on a rainy night, a
sheepfold would seem gay.

Again I passed in review the points of my interview, on which I was
always constantly resolved so long as my adversary was absent from the
scene: and again they struck me as inadequate. From this dispiriting
exercise I turned to the native amusements of the inn coffee-room, and
studied for some time the mezzotints that frowned upon the wall. The
railway guide, after showing me how soon I could leave Stallbridge
and how quickly I could reach Paris, failed to hold my attention. An
illustrated advertisement book of hotels brought me very low indeed;
and when it came to the local paper, I could have wept. At this point, I
found a passing solace in a copy of Whittaker's Almanac, and obtained in
fifty minutes more information than I have yet been able to use.

Then a fresh apprehension assailed me. Suppose Bellairs had given me the
slip? suppose he was now rolling on the road to Stallbridge-le-Carthew?
or perhaps there already and laying before a very white-faced auditor
his threats and propositions? A hasty person might have instantly
pursued. Whatever I am, I am not hasty, and I was aware of three grave
objections. In the first place, I could not be certain that Bellairs was
gone. In the second, I had no taste whatever for a long drive at that
hour of the night and in so merciless a rain. In the third, I had no
idea how I was to get admitted if I went, and no idea what I should say
if I got admitted. "In short," I concluded, "the whole situation is the
merest farce. You have thrust yourself in where you had no business
and have no power. You would be quite as useful in San Francisco;
far happier in Paris; and being (by the wrath of God) at
Stallbridge-Minster, the wisest thing is to go quietly to bed." On the
way to my room, I saw (in a flash) that which I ought to have done long
ago, and which it was now too late to think of--written to Carthew, I
mean, detailing the facts and describing Bellairs, letting him defend
himself if he were able, and giving him time to flee if he were not.
It was the last blow to my self-respect; and I flung myself into my bed
with contumely.

I have no guess what hour it was, when I was wakened by the entrance of
Bellairs carrying a candle. He had been drunk, for he was bedaubed with
mire from head to foot; but he was now sober and under the empire of
some violent emotion which he controlled with difficulty. He trembled
visibly; and more than once, during the interview which followed, tears
suddenly and silently overflowed his cheeks.