CHAPTER XXXVII
The house of Paget Brothers was never more flourishing than during the spring and summer of 18 – . It was three years since the death of its junior partner, Gerald Wyndham, and three years since Mortimer Paget had paid away in full the trust money of eighty thousand pounds which he owed to George Carmichael, of the firm of Carmichael. Parr and Co., Calcutta. Although none of the parties concerned quite intended it, certain portions of the story of this trust got abroad, and became the subject of a nine days' gossip in the City and elsewhere. It had never even been whispered that Paget Brothers were in difficulties. Still such a sum would not be easy to find even in the wealthiest concern. Then the fact also trickled out that Wyndham's life had been insured, heavily insured, in three or four different offices. His death must have come in handily, people said, and they said no more – just then.
The fact was, that had one been even inclined to suspect foul play, Mr. Paget's dangerous illness at the time would have prevented their doing so. Surely no man ever before grieved so bitterly for a dead son-in-law as did this man. The blow had felled him with a stroke. For many months his mind gave way utterly. The words spoken in delirium are seldom considered valuable. What Mr. Paget did or said during the dark summer which followed Wyndham's death never got known. In the autumn he was better; that winter he went abroad, and the following spring he once more was seen in the City.
He looked very old, people said, but he was as shrewd and careful a business man as ever.
"I have to put things in order for my grandson," he would say.
Nobody ever saw him smile just then, but a light used to come into his sunken dark eyes when the child's name was mentioned.
Valentine and the boy spent most of their time in the old house in Park-Lane. She was very gentle with her father, but the relations they had once borne to each other were completely altered. He now rather shrank from her society. She had to seek him, not he her. He was manifestly ill at ease when in her presence. It was almost impossible to get him to come to see her in her own house. When he did so he was attacked by a curious nervousness. He could seldom sit still; he often started and looked behind him. Once or twice he perceptibly changed color, and on all occasions he gave a sigh of relief when he said good-bye.
The child visited his grandfather oftener than the mother did. With the child Mortimer Paget was absolutely at home and happy.
The third summer after Wyndham's death passed away. Valentine spent most of the time at Jewsbury-on-the-Wold. Mr. Paget went abroad, as he always did, during August and September. In October he was once more in town. Valentine came back to London, and their small world settled down for its usual winter routine.
On all sides there were talks of this special winter proving a hard one, the cold commenced early and lasted long. In all the poorer quarters of the great city there were signs of distress. Want is a haggard dame. Once known her face is dreaded. As the days grew short, the darkness deepened, and the fogs became frequent, she was often seen stalking about the streets. Poorly clad children, shivering women, despairing defiant-looking men all trembled and fled before her. The cold was intense, work became slack, and then, to increase all other evils, the great cruel monster, Strike, put down his iron heel. Want is his invariable handmaid. Between them they did much havoc.
It was on a certain short November day of this special winter that Mortimer Paget arrived early at his office. He drove there in his comfortable brougham, and stepped out into the winter cold and fog, wrapped up in his rich furs. As he did so a woman with two small children came hastily up, cast a furtive glance to right and left, saw no policeman near, and begged in a high piteous whining voice for alms.
Mr. Paget had never been known to give alms indiscriminately. He was not an uncharitable man, but he hated beggars. He took not the least notice of the woman, although she pushed one of the hungry children forward who raised two piteous blue eyes to the hard man's face.
"Even a couple of pence!" she implored. "The father's on strike, and they've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning."
"I don't give indiscriminate charity," said Mr. Paget. "If your case is genuine, you had better apply at the nearest office of the Charity Organization."
He was pushing open the outer office door when something arrested his attention.
A man came hurriedly up from a side street, touched the woman on the shoulder, lifted one of the hungry children into his arms, and the whole party hurried away. The man was painfully thin, very shabbily dressed, in a long frock coat, which was buttoned tight. He had a beard and moustache, and a soft slouch hat was pushed well forward over his eyes.
The woman's face lit up when she saw him. Both the children smiled, and the whole group moved rapidly away.
The effect of this shabby man's presence on those three helpless and starving creatures was as if the sun had come out. Mr. Paget staggered to his office, walked through the outer rooms as if he were dazed, sought his sanctum, and sat down shaking in every limb.
Since his strange illness of three years ago, Helps had been more like a servant and nurse to him than an ordinary clerk. It was his custom to attend his master on his first arrival, to see to his creature comforts, to watch his moods.
Helps came in as usual this morning. Mr. Paget had removed his hat, and was gazing in a dull vacant way straight before him.
"You are not yourself this morning, sir," said the clerk.
He pushed a footstool under the old man's feet, removed the fur-lined overcoat and took it away. Then standing in front of him he again said: —
"Sir, you are not yourself to-day."
"The old thing, Helps," said Mr. Paget. He shook himself free of some kind of trance with an effort. "The doctors said I should be quite well again, as well as ever. They are mistaken, I shall never be quite well. I saw him in the street just now, Helps."
"Indeed, sir?"
It was Helps' rôle as much as possible to humor his patient.
"Yes, I saw him just now – he takes many guises; he was in a new one to-day – a starved clerk out of employment. That was his guise to-day. I should not have recognized him but for his hand. Perhaps you remember Wyndham's hand, Helps? Very slender, long and tapered – the hand of a musician. He took a ragged child in his arms, and his hand – there was nothing weak about it – clasped another child who was also starved and hungry. Undoubtedly it was Wyndham – Wyndham in a new guise – he will never leave me alone."
"If I were you, Mr. Paget," said Helps after a pause. "I'd open the letters that are waiting for replies. You know what the doctor said, that when the fancy came you mustn't dwell on it. You must be sure and certain not to let it take a hold on you, sir. Now you know, just as well as I do, that you didn't see poor Mr. Wyndham – may Heaven preserve his soul! Is it likely now, sir, that a spirit like Mr. Wyndham's, happy above the sky with the angels, would come down on earth to trouble and haunt you? Is it likely now, sir? If I were you I'd cast the fancy from me!"
Mr. Paget raised his hand to sweep back the white hair from his hollow, lined face.
"You believe in heaven then, Helps?"
"I do for some folks, sir. I believe in it for Mr. Gerald Wyndham."
"Fudge; you thought too well of the fellow. Do you believe in heaven for suicides?"
"Sir – no, sir – his death came by accident."
"It did not; he couldn't go through with the sacrifice, so he ended his life, and he haunts me, curse him!"
"Mr. Paget, I hope God will forgive you."
"He won't, so you needn't waste your hopes. A man has cast his blood upon my soul. Nothing can wash the blood away. Helps, I'm the most miserable being on earth. I walk through hell fire every day."
"Have your quieting mixture, sir; you know the doctor said you must not excite yourself. There, now you are better. Shall I help you to open your letters, sir?"
"Yes, Helps, do; you're a good soul, Helps. Don't leave me this morning; he'll come in at the door if you do."
There came a tap at the outer office. Some one wanted to speak to the chief. A great name was announced.
In a moment Mr. Paget, from being the limp, abject wretch whom Helps had daily to comfort and sustain, became erect and rigid. From head to foot he clothed himself as in a mask. Erect as in his younger days he walked into the outer room, and for two hours discussed a matter which involved the loss or gain of thousands.
When his visitor left him he did so with the inward remark: —
"Certainly Paget's intellect and nerve may be considered colossal."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Esther Helps still took charge of her father's house in Acacia Villas. She was still Esther Helps. Perhaps a more beautiful Esther than of old; a little steadier, too, a little graver – altogether a better girl.
For some unaccountable reason, after that night at the theatre when Wyndham had sat by her side and taken her back from destruction to her father's arms, she had almost ceased to flirt. She said nothing now about marrying a gentleman some day, and as the men who were not gentlemen found she would have nothing to do with them, it began to be an almost understood thing among her friends that Esther, lovely as she was, would not marry. This resolve on her part, for it amounted to an unspoken resolve, was followed by other changes. She turned her attention to her hitherto sadly neglected mind. She read poetry with Cherry, and history and literature generally by herself. Then she tried to improve her mode of speech, and studied works on etiquette, and for a short time became frightfully stilted and artificial. This phase, however, did hot last long. The girl had really a warm and affectionate heart, and that heart all of a sudden had been set on fire. The flame never went out. It was a holy flame, and it raised and purified her whole nature.
She loved Wyndham as she might have loved Christ had He been on earth. Wyndham seemed to her to be the embodiment of all nobility. He had saved her, none knew better than she did from how much. It was the least she could do to make her whole life worthy of her savior. She guessed by instinct that he liked refinement, and gentle speech, and womanly ways. So it became her aim in life to seek after those things, and as far as possible to acquire them.
Then the news of his death reached her. Only Cherry knew how night after night Esther cried herself to sleep. Only Cherry guessed why Esther's cheeks were so sunken and her eyes so heavy. Her violent grief, however, soon found consolation. Gerald had always been only a star to be gazed at from a distance; he was still that. When she thought of heaven she pictured seeing him there first of all. She thought that when the time came for her to go there he might stand somewhere near the gates and smile to see how she, too, had conquered, and was worthy.
Now she turned her attention to works of charity, to a life of religion. It was all done for the sake of an idol, but the result had turned this flippant, worldly, vain creature into a sweet woman, strong in the singleness of her aim.
Esther cared nothing at all about dress now. She would have joined a Deaconess' Institution but she did not care to leave her father. She did a great deal of work, however, amongst the poor, and at the beginning of this severe winter she joined a band of working sisters in East London as an associate. She usually went away to her work immediately after breakfast, returning often not until late at night, but as she wore the uniform of the association, beautiful as she was she could venture into the lowest quarters, and almost come home at any hour without rendering herself liable to insult.
One night as Cherry was preparing supper she was surprised to hear Esther's step in the passage two or three hours before her usual time of returning. Cherry was still the same strange mixture of poet and cook that she had ever been. With the "Lays of Ancient Rome" in one hand and her frying-pan held aloft in the other, she rushed out to know what was the matter.
"Why, Essie," she exclaimed, catching sight of her cousin's face. "You're ill, Essie; come in and sit down by the fire. I do hope to goodness you haven't gone and caught nothing."
"I have caught nothing," said Esther. "I am not ill."
She untied her bonnet strings and loosened her long straight cloak.
"Is father in, Cherry? I want to see him the minute he returns."
"You'll have to wait then," said Cherry, turning away in a half offended manner. If Esther did not choose to confide in her she was not going to force confidence.
She resumed her cooking with vigor, reading aloud portions from the volume on her knees as she did so.
"The Lady Jane was tall and slim;
The Lady Jane was fair – "
"Essie, I wish you wouldn't fidget so. Whatever is the matter?"
"I want my father," repeated Esther.
"Well, he's not in. Uncle's never back till an hour after this. I tell him he's more and more of a nurse and less and less of a clerk every day of his life; he don't like it, but it's true. That old Mr. Paget is past bearing."
Esther rose with a sigh, folded her cloak, laid it on a chair, placed her bonnet on top of it, and going over to the fireplace gazed into the flames.
Cherry's cooking frizzled and bubbled in the pan, Cherry's own head was bent over her book.
"This is the rarest fun," she exclaimed suddenly. "Didn't Lady Jane pay Sir Thomas out? Lord, it were prime. You never will read the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' Esther. Now I call them about the best things going. How white you do look. Well, it's a good thing you are in time for a bit of supper. I have fried eggs and tomatoes to-night, browned up a new way. Why don't you take your cloak and bonnet upstairs, Essie, and sit down easy like? It fidgets one to see you shifting from one foot to another all the time."
"I'm going out again in a minute," said Esther. "I came in early because I wanted my father. Oh, there's his latch-key in the door at last. Don't you come, Cherry. I want to speak to him by myself."
Cherry's hot face grew a little redder.
"I like that," she said to herself. "It's drudge, drudge with me – drudge, drudge from morning till night; and now she won't even tell me her secrets. I never has no livening up. I liked her better when she was flighty and flirty, that I did – a deal better. We'll, I'll see what comes of that poor Sir Thomas."
Meanwhile Esther, with one hand on her father's shoulder, was talking to him earnestly.
"I want you to come back with me, father – back this very minute."
"Where to, child?"
"To Commercial Road. There's to be a big meeting of the unemployed, and the Sisters and I, we was to give supper to some of the women and children. The meeting will be in the room below, and the supper above. I want you to come. Some gentlemen are going to speak to them; it won't be riotous."
Helps drew a deep sigh. It was a damp drizzling night, and he was tired.
"Can't you let me be this time, Essie?" he said.
"No, father, no, you must come to-night."
"But I can't do nothing for the poor fellows. I pity them, of course, but what can I do?"
"Nothing, only come to the meeting."
"But what for, Essie?"
"To please me, if for no other reason."
"Oh, if you put it in that way."
"Yes, I put it that way. You needn't take off your great coat. I'll have my cloak and bonnet on again in a jiffy."
"What, child, am I to have no supper?"
Poor Helps found the smell from the kitchen very appetising.
"Afterwards, when you come back. Everything good when you come back. Now, do come. It is so important."
She almost dragged him away. Cherry heard the house door bang after the two.
"Well, I'm done," she exclaimed! "See if I'll cook for nobody another time."
Esther and her father found an omnibus at the corner of their street. In a little over half-an-hour they were in Commercial Road; a few minutes later they found themselves in the large barn-like building which was devoted to this particular mission.
The ground floor consisted of one huge room, which was already packed with hungry-looking men and half-grown boys.
"Stand near the door," said Esther, giving her father explicit directions. "Don't stay where the light will fall on your face. Stand where you can look but can't be seen."
"You don't want me to be a spy, child. What is the meaning of all this?"
"You can put any meaning you like on it. Only do what I tell you. I want you to watch the men as they come in and out of the room. Watch them all; don't let one escape you. Stay until the meeting is over. Then tell me afterwards if there is any one here whom you know."
"What is the girl up to?" muttered Helps.
But Esther had already slipped upstairs. He heard sounds overhead, and women and children going up the stairs in groups; he saw more than one bright-looking Sister rushing about, busy, eager, and hopeful. Then the sounds within the large lower room showed him that the meeting had begun, and he turned his attention to the task set him by his daughter.
Certainly Esther was a queer girl, a dear, beautiful girl, but queer all the same. In what a ridiculous position she had placed him in; a tired elderly clerk. He was hungry, and he wanted his supper; he was weary, and he sighed for his pipe and his easy-chair. What had he in common with the men who filled this room. Some of them, undoubtedly, were greatly to be pitied, but many of them only came for the sake of making a fuss and getting noticed. Anyhow, he could not help them, and what did Esther mean by getting him to stand in this draughty doorway on the chance of seeing an old acquaintance; he was not so much interested in old acquaintances as she imagined.
The room was now packed, and the gentleman who occupied the platform, a very earnest, energetic, thoughtful speaker, had evidently gained full attention. Helps almost forgot Esther in the interest with which he listened. One or two men offered to make way for him to go further into the room; but this he declined. He did not suppose any friend of Esther's would appear; still he must be true to the girl, and keep the draughty post she had assigned him.
At the close of the first address, just when a vociferous clapping was at its height, Helps observed a tall very thin man elbowing his way through the crowd. This crowd of working men and boys would not as a rule be prepared to show either forbearance or politeness. But the stranger with a word whispered here, or a nod directed there, seemed to find "open sesame" wherever he turned. Soon he had piloted his way through this great crowd of human beings almost to the platform. Finally he arrested his progress near a pillar against which he leaned with his arms folded. He was more poorly dressed than most of the men present, but he had one peculiarity which rendered him distinguishable; he persistently kept his soft felt hat on, and well pushed forward over his eyes.
Helps noticed him, he could scarcely himself tell why. The man was poor, thin. Helps could not get a glimpse of his face, but there was something in his bearing which was at once familiar and bespoke the gentleman.
"Poor chap, he has seen better days," muttered Helps. "Somehow, he don't seem altogether strange, either."
Then he turned his attention once more to watch for the acquaintance whom Esther did not want him to miss.
The meeting came to an end and the men began to stream out. Helps kept his post. Suddenly he felt a light hand touch his arm; he turned; his daughter, her eyes gleaming with the wildest excitement, was standing by his side.
"Have you seen him, father?"
"Who, child – who? I'm precious hungry, and that's the truth, Esther."
"Never mind your hunger now – you have not let him escape – oh, don't tell me that."
"Essie, I think you have taken leave of your senses to-night. Who is it that I have not let escape?"
"A tall man in a frock coat, different from the others; he has a beard, and he wears his hat well pushed forward; his hands are white. You must have noticed him; he is certain to be here. You did not let him go?"
"I know now whom you mean," said Helps. "I saw the fellow. Yes, he is still in the room."
"You did not recognize him, father?"
"No, child. That is, I seem to know something about him. Whatever are you driving at, Esther?"
"Nothing – nothing – nothing. Go, follow the man with the frock coat. Don't let him see you. Find out where he lives, then bring me word. Go. Go. You'll miss him if you don't."
She disappeared, flying upstairs again, light as a feather.
Helps found himself impelled against his will to obey her.
"Here's a pretty state of things," he muttered. "Here am I, faint for want of food, set to follow a chap nobody knows nothing about through the slums."
It never occurred to Helps, however, not to obey the earnest dictates of his daughter.
He was to give chase. Accordingly he did so. He did so warily. Dodging sometimes into the road, sometimes behind a lamp post in case the tall man should see him. Soon he became interested in the work. The figure on in the front, which never by any chance looked back, but pursued its course undeviatingly, struck Helps once more with that strange sense of familiarity.
Where had he seen a back like that? Those steps, too, the very way the man walked gave him a queer sensation. He was as poor looking a chap as Helps had ever glanced at, and yet the steps were not unknown – the figure must have haunted the little clerk in some of his dreams.
The pursuer and pursued soon found themselves in quarters altogether new to Helps. More and more squalid grew the streets, more and more ruffianly grew the people. There never was a little man less likely to attract attention than this clerk with his humble unpretentious dress and mien. But in these streets he felt himself remarkable. A whole coat, unpatched trousers, were things to wonder at here. The men and the women, too, took to jostling him as he passed. One bold-faced girl tilted his hat well forward over his eyes, and ran away with a loud laugh.
Helps felt that even for Esther's sake he could not proceed any further. He was about to turn back when another glance at the figure before him brought such a rush of dazed wonderment, of uncanny familiarity, that all thought of his own possible danger deserted him, and he walked on, eager as Esther herself now in pursuit.
All this time they had been going in the direction of the docks. Suddenly they turned down a very badly lighted side street. There was a great brewery here, and the wall of the brewery formed for a long way one side of the street. It was so narrow as to be little better than a lane, and instead of being a crowded thoroughfare was now almost deserted. Here and there in the brewery wall were niches. Not one of these niches was empty. Each held its human being – man, woman, or child. It seemed to be with a purpose that the tall stranger came here. He slackened his pace, pushed his hat a little back, and began to perform certain small ministrations for the poor creatures who were to pass the night on the cold damp pavement.
A little girl was asleep in one of the niches; he wrapped her shawl more closely round her, tucking it in so as to protect her feet. Her hair hung in a tangled mass over her forehead. He pushed it back with a tender hand. Finally he pressed into the little thin palm two lollypops; they would give comfort to the child when she awoke.
Helps kept behind, well in the shadow; he was absolutely trembling now with suppressed excitement. He had seen by the glitter of the flaring gas the white hand of the man as he pushed back the child's elf-locks. The two went on again a few steps. The man in front stopped suddenly – they were passing another niche. It had its occupant. A girl was stretched prone on the ground – a girl whose only covering was rags. As they approached, she groaned. In an instant the stranger was bending over her.
"You are very ill, I fear. Can I help you?"
"Eh? What's that?" exclaimed the girl.
She raised her head, stretching out something which was more like a claw than a hand.
"What's that noise?" she repeated.
The noise had been made by Helps. It was an amazed terrified outcry when he heard the voice of the man who was bending over the girl. The man himself had observed nothing.
"You are very ill," he repeated. "You ought to be in a hospital."
"No, no, none of that," she said, clutching hold of his hand. "I ha' lain down to die. Let me die. I wor starving – the pain wor awful. Now I'm easy. Don't touch me – don't lift me; I'm easy – I'm a-goin' to die."
The stranger knelt a little lower.
"I won't hurt you," he said. "I will sit here by your side. Don't be frightened. I am going to raise your head – a little – a very little. Now it rests on my knee. That is better."
"Eh, you're a good man; yes, that's nice."
Her breath came in great pants. Presently she began to wander.
"Is that you, mother? Mother, I've been such a bad gel – bad every way. The Almighty's punishing me. I'm dying, and He's a sending me to hell."
"No," said the quiet voice of the man. "No; you are the one He wants. He is seeking you."
"Eh?" she said. Once more her clouded brain cleared. "Eh, how my breath does go. I'm a-going to hell!"
"No. He has sent me to find you; you are not going there."
"How do you know?"
She turned herself an inch or two in her astonishment and stared up at him.
Something in his face seemed to fill her with astonishment.
"Take off your hat," she said. "Are you Jesus Christ?"
It was at this juncture that Helps turned and fled.
He ran as he never ran before in the whole course of his life. Nobody saw him go, and nobody obstructed him in his headlong flight. Presently he got back to the Mission Hall. The place was closed and dark. He was turning away when a woman came out of the deep shelter of the doorway and touched his arm.
"Essie, is that you? My God, Essie, I've seen a ghost!"
"No, father, no – a living man."
"This is awful, child. I'm shaking all over. I'd sooner be in my grave than go through such a thing again."
"Lean on me, father. We'll walk a bit, and soon find a cab-stand. We'll have a cab home. It's about time you had your supper. Don't talk a bit. Get back your poor breath."
As they were driving home a few minutes later, in a hansom, she turned suddenly.
"And you've got Mr. Wyndham's address?"
"Good heavens, Essie, don't say his name like that! I suppose it's a sign of the end that I should have seen a spirit."
"Nonsense, father, you saw no spirit. That's Mr. Gerald Wyndham in the flesh, as much as you and I are in the flesh. You saw no spirit, but a living man. I recognized him this morning, but I wasn't going to take my own word for it, so I got you to look him up. They call him Brother Jerome down here. Nobody knows anything at all about him, how he lives, nor nothing; only that he goes in and out amongst the people, and is always comforting this one or cheering that, and quieting down rows, and soothing people, and – and – doing more in a day than the Sisters or I could do in a week. I've heard of him for a month past, but I only saw him to-day. He's a mystery, and people wonder about him, and no one can tell how he lives, nor where he sleeps. I know, though. He sleeps out of doors, and he starves. He shan't starve any longer."