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 Crown Svo., carefully printed on creamy paper, and tastefully bound in 
 cloth, for the Library, price 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. 
 
 Uspular £?torirs bw tyc best ^utfjorS. 
 
 Ready -Money Mortiboy. By Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice. 
 My Little Girl. By Walter Besant and 
 
 James Rice. 
 The Case of Mr. Lucraft. By Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice. 
 This Son of Vulcan. By Walter Besant 
 
 and James Rice. 
 With Harp and Crown. By Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice. 
 The Golden Butterfly. By Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice. 
 BY Celia'S ARBOUR. By Walter Besant 
 
 and James Rice. 
 The Monks of Thelema. By Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice. 
 'Twas IN TRAFALGAR'S Bay. By Walter 
 
 Besant and James Rice. 
 The Seamy Side. By Walter Besant and 
 
 James Rice. 
 ANTONINA. By Wilkie Collins. 
 BASIL. By Willie Collins. 
 HIDE AND SEEK. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins. 
 QUEEN OF HEARTS. By Wilkie Collins. 
 My Miscellanies. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Woman in White. Bv Wilkie Collins. 
 The Moonstone. Bv Wilkie Collins. 
 Man AND Wife. By Wilkie Collins. 
 Poor Miss Finch. By Wilkie Collins. 
 MlSS OR Mrs. ? By Wilkie Collins. 
 The New Magdalen. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Frozen Deep. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Law and the Lady. By Wilkie 
 
 Collins. 
 The Two Destinies. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Haunted Hotel. By Wilkie Collins. 
 The Fallen Leaves. By Wilkie Collins. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. By Wilkie Collins. 
 Deceivers Ever. By Mrs. H. Lovett 
 
 Cameron. 
 
 Juliet's Guardian. By Mrs. H. Lovett 
 
 Cameron. 
 Felicia. By M. Betham-Edwards. 
 OLYMPIA. By R- E. Francillon. 
 GARTH. By Julian Hawthorne. 
 In LOVE AND WAR. By Charles Gibbon. 
 WhatWilltheWorldSay? By Charles 
 
 Gibbon. 
 FOR the KING. By Charles Gibbon. 
 In Honour Bound. By Charles Gibbon. 
 Queen of the Meadow. By Charles 
 
 Gibbon. 
 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. By 
 
 Thomas Hardy. 
 
 THORNICROFT'S MODEL. By Mrs. Hunt. 
 FATED TO BE FREE. By Jean Ingelow. 
 THE QUEEN OF CONNAUGHT. By Harriett 
 
 Jay. 
 THE DARK COLLEEN. By Harriett Jay 
 Number Seventeen. By Henry Kingsley. 
 OAKSHOTT CASTLE. By Henry Kingsley. 
 The World Well Lost. By E. Lynn 
 
 Linton. 
 
 The Atonement of Leam Dundas. By 
 E. Lynn Linton. 
 
 Patricia Kemball. By E. Lynn Linton. 
 
 Under Which Lord? By E. Lynn Linton. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. By Jus- 
 tin McCarthy. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. By Justin 
 McCarthy. 
 
 Linley Rochford. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 A FAIR SAXON. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. By Justin 
 McCarthy. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. Byjustin McCarthy. 
 
 DONNA QUIXOTE. By Justin McCarthy. 
 
 LOST ROSE. By Katharine S. Macquoid. 
 
 The Evil Eye and other Stories. By 
 Katharine S. Macquoid. 
 
 Open I Sesame I By Florence Marryat. 
 
 TOUCH AND Go. By Jean Middlemass. 
 
 WHITELADIES. By Mrs. Oliphant. 
 
 The Best of Husbands. By James 
 
 Payn. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. By James Payn. 
 HALVES. By James Payn. 
 Walter's Word. By James Payn. 
 WHAT He COST HER. By James Payn. 
 Less Black than We're Painted. By 
 
 James Payn. 
 BY PROXY. By James Payn. 
 Under One Roof. By James Payn. 
 High Spirits. By James Payn. 
 Her Mother's Darling. By Mrs. J. H. 
 
 Riddell. 
 
 Bound to the Wheel. By John 
 
 Saunders. 
 Guy Waterman. By John Saunders. 
 One Against the world. By Jchn 
 
 Saunders. 
 The Lion In the Path. By John 
 
 Saunders. 
 The Way We Live Now. By Anthony 
 
 Trollope. 
 
 The American Senator- By Anthony 
 Trollope. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. By T. A. Trol- 
 lope. 
 
 CHATTO AND WIND US, PICCADILLY, W.
 
 TH 
 
 SEAMY SIDE
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE 
 
 2 Stow 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER BESANT AND JAMES RICE 
 
 AUTHORS OF 
 
 ' THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY,' ' THE MONKS OF THELEMA,' ' READY-MONEY MORTIBOY, 
 
 'BY CELIA'S ARBOUR,' 'THIS SON OF VULCAN,' * MY LITTLE GIRL,' 'THE 
 
 CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT,' ' WITH HARI' AND CROWN,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 ' ' i 
 
 
 - 
 
 
 A NEW EDITION 
 
 Hontion 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 

 
 
 ■
 
 £ 
 
 ,x 
 
 <V\o1 
 5- 
 
 i 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER PAGF ' 
 
 I. ANTHONY HAMBLIN 1 
 
 II. THE HAMBLIN DINNER 9 
 
 III. MISS NETHERSOLE - 15 
 
 IV. HOW THE PARTY BROKE UP - 24 
 
 V. THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE - - -29 
 
 VI. TO HIS RUIN OR HIS DEATH - - - - 40 
 
 VII. THE DAY AFTER 47 
 
 VIII. HOW THE PARTNERS MADE A PROPOSAL - - 5G 
 
 IX. HOW STEPHEN DREAMED A DREAM - - - 65 
 
 X. WHAT STEPHEN' PROPOSED T:i 
 
 XI. THE BIRCH-TREE TAVERN ----- 82 
 XII. HOW STEPHEN DECLARED HIS INTENTIONS - - 92 
 
 XIII. HOW STEPHEN ASKED FOR BARE JUSTICE, AND DID 
 
 NOT GET IT 102 
 
 XIV. THE VALLEY OF TEAKS - - - - -113 
 
 XV. HOW STEPHEN LEFT THE HOUSE ... 121 
 
 c - / y XVI. HOW A YOUNG MAN MAY PROSPER - - - 131 
 
 XVII. HOW THE BATTLE WAS BEGUN - 139 
 
 XVIII. HOW THE COURT WAS HARD TO PERSUADE - 148 
 
 XIX. HOW ALISON TOOK IT 1 5 r 
 
 XX. HOW YOUNG NICK SPENT HIS HALF HOLIDAY - 162 
 XXI. IIOW YOUNG NICK MADE A MOST SURPRISING DIS- 
 COVERY - - 175 
 
 XXII. HOW ANTHONY HAMBLIN LOOKED - - - 180 
 
 XXIII. HOW ADVERTISING PROVED A DISAPPOINTMENT - 189 
 
 XXIV. HOW STEPHEN SUNT AN AMBASSADOR- - - 200
 
 vifi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXV. HOW MISS NETIIERSOLE BECAME AN INSTRUMENT - 211 
 XXVI. HOW ALISON REMEMBERED A MANUSCRIPT - - 219 
 XXVII. HOW GILBERT READ THE MANUSCRIPT - - 22G 
 XXVIII. HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH - - - 235 
 XXIX. HOW MISS NETHERSOLE SOFTENED HER HEART - 24G 
 XXX. HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET - - - 256 
 XXXI. HOW JACK BAKER PROPOSED AN AGREEABLE COM- 
 PROMISE 266 
 
 XXXII. HOW STEPHEN STILL HAD DREAMS - - - 275 
 
 XXXIII. HOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS ... 283 
 
 XXXIV. HOW STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL - - - 291 
 XXXV. HOW YOUNG NICK FETCHED THE WRITING- 
 MASTER - 301 
 
 XXXVI. HOW YOUNG NICK ACHIEVED GREATNESS - - 310
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ANTHONY HAMBLIN. 
 
 It is the afternoon of a day in early January, a day which 
 recalls what foolish people mean by a good old winter. It is a 
 day, that is, which has been easily endured and even enjoyed 
 by polar bears, seals, Arctic foxes, people who skate, people 
 who are warmly clad, people who are well-fed, and all creatures 
 whose circulation is brisk. To the great majority of mankind 
 and animals the day has been one of torture. Men out of work 
 and low from insufficiency of food, women with babes crying 
 from cold and hunger, children imperfectly dressed, wish it 
 were not so cold. To the warm classes the day is a glorious 
 winding up of that Yule-tide which they have striven to make 
 glad. There is ice that will bear, there are branches bending 
 beneath their weight of snow, roads crisp and hard, and, 
 hanging over the eaves, icicles as long as a regulation sword. 
 The cold and hungry regard these things with different feelings. 
 To them the ideal day all the year round is warm, sunshiny, 
 and favourable for rest, talk, and the promotion of thirst. 
 Their pulses do not quicken even when King Christmas, who 
 reigns only over the children of the rich, comes with frost in 
 both his hands, bursts the pipes, stops out-door work, and puts 
 an end to wages, beer, and food. 
 
 The broad face of Clapham Common is covered with a thin 
 sheet of frozen snow, through which the bents and coarse 
 68 put li up their dry stalks, and assert for the first time in 
 their lives a distinct personality as seen against the white light 
 of the snow, even although it is already four o'clock, and in the 
 far-off south-west a lurid disk is sinking behind a fringe of 
 deepest red. All day long the ponds of the Common have been 
 covered with skaters; a bright sun without warmth has been 
 shining ; the glass has been six degrees below freezing-point in 
 
 1
 
 2 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 the shade, and there has been no wind. As we look around us 
 a change falls upon the scene ; the light has died out in the 
 east, and is fading in the west, but it seems to linger over the 
 snow and becomes unearthly. The straggling furze, ' fledged 
 with icy feathers,' looks, in the strange glimmer which rendei's 
 any wild supposition possible, like some outlying portion of a 
 great Canadian forest in winter garb ; the frequent ditches and 
 the fissures which everywhere cover the Common, planted there 
 by the beneficent hand of Nature for boys to jump over, become 
 wild ravines and deep canons of the Rocky Mountains, whose 
 steep cliffs and rugged sides are crowned with snow. On the 
 Mount Pond a few young fellows are still left, loth to tear 
 themselves away from a sport far more delightful than waltzing, 
 and much more rare. But the day is done ; the man who has 
 been driving a roaring trade with his hot coffee can is packing 
 up his cart ; the men who have filled their pockets with coppers 
 in reward for screwing on skates are marching off with their 
 chairs ; the two rival tradesmen, who deal in roasted chestnuts, 
 have put out their charcoal-fires, and are comparing notes ; and 
 the man who has chanted all day, not without profit, the warm- 
 ing qualities of his ginger-toffee, has covered up his basket, and 
 is thinking of what the day's returns will run to in the shape 
 of supper. Soon the last lingering skater will feel a sudden 
 chill of loneliness, and leave the pond with a feeling, as he 
 strides away across the crisp and frozen snow, as if the ghosts 
 of many departed citizens, who in generations past skated round 
 this little wooded islet on the mimic lake, will come, the moment 
 he is out of sight, to flourish goblin legs, perform spectral 
 figures of eight, and rush, with silent mockery of mirth, after 
 each other's ghostly forms. When the Common is quite de- 
 serted ; when not a single loiterer is left to clash his skates 
 together as he hastens homeward, like Cowper's postman, 
 
 4 Whistling as he goes, light hearted wretch, 
 Cold, and yet cheerful ;' 
 
 then the snow begins again with its soft and noiseless falling. 
 Presently the wind rises gently, and drives it about into drifts, 
 and fills up the tiny ravines, and buries the furze. 
 
 All round the Common stand the stately houses of sub- 
 stantial City merchants — such houses as warm men loved to 
 build early in the century — each standing in its own gardens, 
 and these not skimped and pinched of space ; no narrow 
 London slips of ground, but broad and spacious domains, 
 generous in lawn, flower-bed, and kitchen-garden ; stocked with 
 good old fruit-trees, which produce apples not to be bought in 
 Covent Garden, pears which would do honour to a Corporation 
 dinner, peaches and plums and apricots fit for a queen's table.
 
 ANTHONY HAM BUN. 3 
 
 They are large square houses, mostly built in two stories, with 
 attic rooms for servants. They all have ample stabling ; most 
 of them stand too close to the road for modern ideas — that 
 was because more was formerly thought of the view across the 
 Common than of the lawn. It was before the days even of 
 croquet or archery. Perhaps, too, that close proximity to the 
 road was designed in kindness to the young ladies of the family ; 
 for in those old times, so near to us and yet so far away, the 
 cribbed and cabined girls spent nearly all the tedious and 
 proper days of pras-nuptial life in the house, and knew the 
 world chiefly from seeing it through the window, or reading of 
 it in a novel of sentiment, or observing it from a pew in 
 church. 
 
 Come with me into one of these houses — that of Mr. Anthony 
 Hamblin, senior partner in the house of ' Anthony Hamblin 
 and Company,' of Great St. Simon Apostle, City, indigo 
 merchants. It is the most stately house of all. Before it 
 stand a noble pair of cedars, sighing for Lebanon in the cold 
 breeze, and stretching out black branches which seem about to 
 sweep away the snow from the thin turf below them. The 
 carriage-way curves behind them to the great porch, with 
 marble pillars, set in the middle of the house-front. Cross the 
 broad hall, with its bright fire, its old carved chairs and side- 
 board, its horns and antlers, and its old-fashioned curios, 
 brought home many years ago in one of Hamblin and Com- 
 pany's East Indiamen. On the right is the dining-room ; 
 behind it is the study : on the left is the drawing-room ; and at 
 the back of it, where we are going, is Miss Hamblin's own 
 room. 
 
 A heavy curtain hangs across the door, which stands half 
 open. There are voices within. 
 
 Let us lift the curtain softly and look in. 
 
 A lady of a certain age is sitting near the fire, a reading-lamp 
 le her, a book upon her knees. She wears a widow's cap, 
 but the lines of sorrow have long since left her face, which is 
 comely, and lit up by a soft light of comfortable benevolence, 
 as if, being well off herself, she would wish all the world, with- 
 out exception, to be in similarly desirable circumstances. She 
 is a woman who finds pleasure in plea: ant things. I am not 
 here speaking as a fool ; because, though it is bard to realise 
 the fact, there are many women, in fact a large minority of 
 women, who are incapable of receiving pleasure from things 
 int. Mrs. Cridland, or Aunt Flora, as Alison Hamblin 
 called her, b( actly to the happy majority, who delight 
 
 in things delightful ; loving, as far as the length of her t< 
 went — naturally not very far — good eating and drinking, society, 
 music, art, the happiness of young people. The shortnt- 
 
 1-2
 
 4 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 woman's tether deserves a special essay. Imagine the other sex 
 as catholic, as prodigal, as eager to seize, devour, and enjoy, as 
 critical in its tastes, as my own. Mrs. Cridland was Anthony 
 Hamblin's first cousin, and lived in his house as chaperon, guar- 
 dian, and best available substitute for a mother to his daughter 
 and only child. 
 
 Upon the hearthrug stand a pair — a man of middle age, and 
 a girl of nineteen or twenty. She has got her two hands clasped 
 upon his arm, and is looking up into his face with caressing 
 affection. 
 
 ' You skated to-day as well as any of the boys, as you call 
 them. Why, you dear old man, there were not half a dozen of 
 the boj T s fit to compare with you !' 
 
 ' That is what you say, Alison,' he replied, with a laugh. 
 ' All the same, I persist in the statement that I am growing old 
 and stiff.' 
 
 ' You will never grow old, and you shall never grow stiff,' 
 said Alison, patting his cheek with her dainty fingers. 
 
 ' And you, my love, you are not tired ?' asked her father. 
 ' Why, you began at ten this morning, and you skated till one ; 
 then you began again at two, and you skated till four. Alison, 
 I insist upon your being tired.' 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 ' Anyhow, dear, do not dance too much to-night. One thing, 
 at this party we begin so early that they are all ready to go at 
 twelve or one.' 
 
 ' I will own to being a little tiny bit tired, if you will not talk 
 about getting old and stiff, papa.' 
 
 She had thrown off her hat, which lay upon a chair, and one 
 of her gloves. She still had on the seal-skin jacket in which 
 she had been skating all the day. She was above the stature of 
 most women, a tall and shapely maiden. Her hair was a deep 
 dark brown ; so dark, that when the light was not upon it, you 
 would have called it black ; her eyes were a deep dark brown, 
 like her hair — they were steadfast eyes ; her complexion was 
 dark ; she was a pronounced brunette, of a type uncommon in 
 this realm of England. If her look, her attitude, the way in 
 which she curled her arm about her father's, betrayed a nature 
 affectionate and confiding, the firm lines of her mouth, the 
 shape of her chin, a little too square for perfect harmony with 
 the rest of her face, and the straight line of her dark eyebrows, 
 showed that she was a girl whose will was strong, and with 
 whom purpose meant resolution. 
 
 Over the mantelshelf hung a portrait, in water-colour, of 
 a young girl, in all the glorious ripeness of youthful beauty, 
 whom Alison strangely resembled. It was her grandmother, 
 the Sehora.
 
 ANTHONY HAM B LIN. 5 
 
 The first romance in the Hamblin family, unless the success 
 of the original Anthony be considered a romance, "was that of 
 Donna Manuela's elopement with Anthony the fifth (the man 
 on the hearthrug is her elder son, Anthony the sixth) from a 
 convent near Cadiz. All for love she gave up country, home, 
 and mother-tongue. For his dear sake she became a black 
 heretic, the only thing which ever troubled her after-life. She 
 is dead now, and her grand-daughter, Alison, has inherited her 
 face, her eyes, her hair, her strength of will, and her possibili- 
 ties of passion. 
 
 ' I believe, Alison,' said Mr. Hamblin, ' that you were sent into 
 the world to spoil your father. Certainly to grow old is un- 
 pleasant, and to grow stiff more unpleasant. Well, we shall 
 have more skating yet. Perhaps the Serpentine will bear to- 
 morrow. Thank you, child, I will take a cup of tea.' 
 
 ' Dinner at six to-night, auntie, remember,' cried Alison. 
 : Dancing to commence punctually at half-past eight. That is 
 the rule at the Hamblin dinner.' 
 
 ' As if I should forget, my dear,' said Mrs. Cridland. 
 
 1 The old-fashioned time for the old-fashioned party,' said Mr. 
 Hamblin. ' It was my father's time, and my grandfather's ; 
 although in his day to dine at six was considered presumptuous 
 in a plain London citizen. For fifty years in this house, and for 
 a hundred and fifty altogether, the 3rd of January, the birthday 
 of the founder, has been kept. We shall have a good gathering 
 to-night, Alison.' 
 
 ' About the same as usual,' replied his daughter. ' Cousin 
 Augustus Hamblin and his party, William the Silent, the 
 Colonel and his contingent, the Dean and his wife, Mr. 
 Alderney Codd of course ' — (here they all three smiled) — 'and 
 — and Mr. Gilbert Yorke is coming too. You asked him, you 
 know, papa.' 
 
 1 It was in a weak moment,' her father replied. ' Of course I 
 did not expect him to accept. What attractions can he find at 
 this house ?' (Alison blushed, and shook her head, as much as 
 to say, ' Alas, none !') ' Like the impudence of the boy, to come 
 to the Hamblin dinner without being one of the Hamblin kin.' 
 
 Alison laughed. ' And then there is Uncle Stephen,' she 
 added, with just the least possible change in her voice, which 
 showed that Uncle Stephen was not so acceptable a guest as the 
 young fellow she called Gilbert Yorke. 
 
 Mr. Hamblin put down his cup. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said drily, ' Stephen is coming.' 
 
 And on his voice as he spoke, and on his eyes, there fell a 
 strange change of expression, as if something of cheerfulness 
 had suddenly been taken away. Not much, but something. 
 
 ' Have you thought, auntie, about the taking in ?'
 
 6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Yes, dear, I have got it all drawn out. Here it is. Mr. 
 Hamblin of course takes in the wife of the second partner. 
 Augustus Hamblin takes you. The Dean takes ine. Mr. Stephen 
 takes the Colonel's wife.' She went on making up the roll. 
 Alison observed that, by the arrangement proposed, the young 
 man named Gilbert Yorke would sit on her left ; and she acqui- 
 esced with a smile. 
 
 As Mrs. Cridland finished reading her list, the curtain before 
 the door was pulled back noisily, in a masterful fashion, and a 
 boy appeared. 
 
 He was a small boy for his age, which was thirteen ; but he 
 was a remarkable boy, for he was an Albino. He possessed 
 perfectly white hair, thick white eyebrows, long white eyelashes, 
 and a pink complexion, having pink cheeks and pink hands. In 
 fact, he was pink all over. His eyes were sharp and very bright ; 
 his head was well shaped, with plenty of foi'ehead. He stood 
 for a moment in the door, surveying the group with an expres- 
 sion of mingled mischief, cunning, and self-satisfaction. He 
 looked as if he were either chuckling over one piece of mischief 
 or meditating another. 
 
 Mrs. Cridland changed in a moment at the sight of her son. 
 She sat up, and became at once the watchful and careful 
 mother. 
 
 ' My dear,' she cried, ' are you only now returned ? Come 
 and let me look at you.' 
 
 She meant : ' Let me see if your clothes are torn to pieces.' 
 
 The boy nodded to his parent, and lounged into the room 
 with his hands in his pockets. But he did not obey the com- 
 mand to go and be looked at ; obedience was not his strong 
 point. Nor was respect to persons older and superior to him- 
 self. 
 
 ' Well, Nicolas,' said Mr. Hamblin, ' I saw you on the ice this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Your uncle saw you, my dear,' said his mother, as if the 
 distinction was one to remember with gratitude. 
 
 ' Cats look at kings,' replied Nicolas the irreverent. ' I saw 
 you too, uncle ; and I saw you come that awful cropper. Ho, 
 ho ! Picked yourself up, and thought nobody saw it.' 
 
 ' You see, Alison,' said Mr. Hamblin, ' I am getting clumsy. 
 Go on, sweet imp.' 
 
 ' A man of your weight ought to be careful,' the boy con- 
 tinued. ' At my time of life, a fall now and again is no such 
 mighty matter.' 
 
 ' Why did you not help your uncle up again, Nicolas V asked 
 Mrs. Cridland. 
 
 The boy glanced at his uncle, who was looking at Alison.
 
 ANTHONY HA MB LIN. y 
 
 He therefore thrust his tongue in his cheek, and winked at his 
 mother. He really could be a very vulgar boy. 
 
 ' I was sliding,' he said, ' with a few other men. Casual 
 acquaintances, not friends. "We had an accident. I was at the 
 head of the line, and there were about twenty-five after me. 
 I fell down, and they all capsized, tm-ned turtle — heels up, nose 
 down — every man Jack, one after the other, over each other's 
 legs. Never saw such a mix. A common-keeper, who was in 
 the lot, got a heavy oner on the boko for his share.' 
 
 ' Boys,' said Mr. Hamblin, ' who use slang come to the 
 gallows. Boko is ' 
 
 ' Conk or boko,' said Nicolas the vulgar. ' It's all the same. 
 Took it home in a bag made out of a pocket-handkerchief.' 
 
 ' I believe he fell down on purpose, so as to bring all the 
 others down too,' said Alison. 
 
 The reputation of the boy was such that this unkind 
 suggestion was immediately adopted. Moreover, he was known 
 to cherish animosity towards common-keepers. 
 
 ' And how much of the half-crown that I gave you this morn- 
 ing is left V asked his uncle. 
 
 ' Nothing at all.' He dived into the deepest recesses of his 
 pockets, and pulled them inside out. They were quite empty. 
 " I've eaten it all ; and got good value for the money, too.' 
 
 ' My dear boy,' his mother interposed ; ' a whole half-crown's 
 worth of things to eat ? You can't have eaten all that !' 
 
 ' Every penny, mother — parliament, toffee, and gingersuck.' 
 
 ' Anything shared with friends ?' asked Mr. Hamblin. 
 
 ' Not a farthing,' replied the boy. ' I'm not like you, Uncle 
 Anthony, born with a silver spoon in my mouth. A man who 
 has his own way to make can't begin by going halves with 
 friends. Of course his friends may go halves with him : that's 
 quite another thing.' 
 
 ' A most selfish sentiment,' said Alison. 
 
 ' Pretty well,' said her father, laughing. 
 
 ' Nicolas, you ought to beg your uncle's pardon at once,' cried 
 the boy's mother. 
 
 He begged no one's pardon. His eyes twinkled and winked, 
 and his lips half parted, as if to smile, but changed their mind 
 and became grave again. 
 
 ' Let him give me his silver spoon, then,' he said, whilst 
 Uncle Anthony laughed, and Alison boxed his ears, but in 
 gentle and maidenly fashion, so that the chastisement only 
 imparted a pleasant tingling of the nerves, which acted as a 
 stimulant. 
 
 Presently the ladies went away to dress. 
 
 ' Uncle,' said the buy, ' do you know that I am fourteen next 
 birthday ?'
 
 8 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 A great age, Nicolas,' — Mr. Hamblin had taken Mrs. Crid- 
 land's easy-chair, and was stretching himself comfortably before 
 the fire — ' a great age. I almost wish I was fourteen again.' 
 
 ' What I mean,' said Nicolas, ' is — don't you think, uncle, I 
 may stay with the other men when the ladies go ?' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin laughed. Nicolas was privileged to come in . 
 with the dessert, but was expected to retire with the ladies. 
 This interval, while it gave him opportunity too brief for eating, 
 afforded none for conversation. Besides, it was below the 
 dignity of manhood to get up and go away with the inferior 
 sex just when real conversation was about to begin. 
 
 ' To-day is the family dinner,' said Mr. Hamblin. ' "We will 
 make an exception for to-day ; but it is not to be a precedent, 
 remember. If you had not already had your dinner, I would let 
 you dine with us, provided Alison could find you a place.' 
 
 The boy jumped to his feet with joy. 
 
 ' Already had my dinner !' he cried. ' Why, I've had just 
 exactly what you had : two helps of minced veal and two of 
 currant duff. What I call a simple lunch. And you had wine 
 too. I'll run and tell Alison I'm to dine.' 
 
 Then Mr. Hamblin, left alone, sat musing pleasantly. 
 
 He is a man of fifty-three or so, who looks no more than 
 forty. Around his clear and steady eyes there are no crows- 
 feet, across his ample forehead there are no lines ; his hair, of 
 a rich dark colour, is yet almost free from any silvering of 
 time ; his long full beard, of a lighter colour than his hair is, it is 
 true, streaked with grey ; his handsome face is that of a man 
 who habitually cherishes kindly thoughts ; nothing more dis- 
 torts and ages a man than hard and revengeful thoughts ; it 
 belongs also to one who has lived a healthy, temperate, and 
 active life. Needless to remind the intelligent reader that by 
 the time a man is fifty, his daily habits have made an indelible 
 mark upon his face. Mr. Hamblin's was a face which inspired 
 trust— a steady face. There was nothing shifty about his eyes 
 nor selfish about his lips ; a healthy, kindly, cheerful face, 
 which seemed to all men to be what it really was — the index to 
 his nature. It is by an instinct which never deceives that we 
 take a man for what his face, not his word of mouth, proclaims 
 him. The history of his life is written there in lines which no 
 limner can reproduce ; the level of his thoughts is indicated as 
 clearly as the height of a barometer ; his history is read at first 
 sight, and unless caught and remembered, perhaps never shows 
 itself again. 
 
 Mr. Hamblin's musings were pleasant as he sat with his head 
 in his hand, looking into the fire. I think they were of Alison. 
 As for himself, life could bring him no new pleasures. He had 
 enjoyed all, as a rich man can ; he had feasted on the choicest.
 
 ANTHONY HAMBLIN. 9 
 
 There is, it is true, no time of life when new pleasures may not 
 be found. Art, travel, study, these are ever fresh. Yet City 
 men neither cultivate art, nor do they generally travel, nor do 
 they study. To Anthony Hamblin of the City, the spring of 
 youth came back when he sat and thought — for Alison. At 
 twenty every rosy dawn is a goddess who comes laden with 
 fresh and delightful gifts At fifty the gifts of morning are 
 given again to the unselfish, but they are given in trust for the 
 children. That is the difference ; and it is not one over which 
 we need to groan and cry. 
 
 Presently carriage-wheels were heard. The earliest of the 
 guests had arrived. Anthony Hamblin started, sprang to his 
 feet, and ran up the stairs as lightly as a boy, to dress. 
 
 ' O papa !' cried Alison, coming from her room radiant in 
 white ; ' you very, very bad man, what have you been about ? 
 I can only give you a quarter of an hour.' 
 
 ' I was dreaming by the fire, my dear.' He kissed her as he 
 passed. ' I shall take only ten minutes.' 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE HAMBLIN DINNER. 
 
 The Hamblin dinner was served with civic magnificence. No 
 Company's banquet could have been more splendid, save that it 
 was much shorter in duration. On this occasion the ancient 
 silver-gilt plate originally made for the first Anthony Hamblin, 
 who founded the house, was displayed to gratify the pride, not 
 to excite the envy, of the cousinhood. ' It is an heirloom,' said 
 Alderney Codd, with pride, ' in which we all have a part.' 
 After dinner, Anthony Hamblin rose and invited his cousins to 
 drink with him, in solemn silence, to the memory of their illus- 
 trious ancestor, Anthony, the first of the name, twice Lord 
 Mayor of London. After this, Augustus, the second partner, 
 proposed ' Success to the house.' No one, it might have been 
 observed, threw more heart into the toast -which was received, 
 so to speak, prayerfully — than young Nick, unless, indeed, it 
 were Alderney Codd. This was at a quarter to eight. The 
 ladies withdrew after the toasts. At about half-past eight, the 
 twang of a harp, the scraping of a violin, and the blast of a 
 cornet proclaimed that the younger cousins had arrived, and 
 that dancing was about to begin. 
 
 The younger men left the table. Young Nick, who had been 
 eating continuously for two hours and more, remained, with a
 
 io THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 plate full of preserved fruit, for more conversation. He listened 
 and watched. He was divided in his mind whether to grow up 
 like Uncle Anthony, whose kindly manner illustrated the de- 
 sirability of wealth ; or to imitate the severity of Mr. Augustus, 
 which showed how wealth was to be guarded with diligence ; 
 or the taciturnity of Mr. William, commonly known as William 
 the Silent, which was in its way awful, as it seemed to indicate 
 power and knowledge in reserve. The example of Dean Ham- 
 blin, bland, courteous, and genial ; that of the Colonel, brusque, 
 short, and quick ; that of Stephen, the 'Black' Hamblin, gloomy 
 and preoccupied ; and that of Alderney Codd, who assumed for 
 this occasion only, and once a year, the manner and bearing of 
 a wealthy man, were lost upon young Nick : he only thought 
 of the partners. 
 
 When the gentlemen repaired to the drawing-room, young 
 Nick brought up the rear with an expression of importance and 
 pride twinkling in his bright eyes, and shining in his white 
 locks, which became immediately intolerable to the boys who, 
 by virtue of their cousinhood, assisted at the family gathering. 
 
 ' Here's young Nick !' they whispered, nudging each other. 
 ' Don't he look proud, having dinner with the gentlemen ? 
 Nick, what did you have for dessert ?' 
 
 ' Conversation,' replied the boy proudly, ignoring any refer- 
 ence to eating. ' We talked politics. After dinner, when the 
 ladies are gone, men always talk politics. I had a good deal to 
 say, myself.' 
 
 The weight of his superiority crushed the other boys, whose 
 joy was dimmed not entirely by envy, but by the fact that 
 young Nick — so called to distinguish him— held aloof from them 
 all the evening, and joined the groups of men, with whom he 
 stood as if he was taking part in the conversation, or at least 
 critically listening. He danced once or twice with grown-up 
 young ladies, to whom his conversation was marked by a peculiar 
 hauteur natural to a boy who had sat out the dinner, and ' come 
 in ' with the gentlemen. 
 
 ' No fun to be got out of young Nick to-night,' whispered one 
 boy to another. 
 
 ' No : remember last year, when he tied the string across the 
 stairs, and the footman tumbled up with a tray of ices.' 
 
 ' Ah !' replied the other, with tears in his eyes ; ' and when 
 he hitched the fish-hook into Mr. William's wig, and threw the 
 line over the door, and then slammed it.' 
 
 These reminiscences were gloomy. Supper alone was able to 
 dispel the sadness of comparison. 
 
 The second partner, Mr. Augustus, was a man who would 
 have been more impressive had his integrity been less strongly 
 ' accentuated,' as they say now, upon his features. As some
 
 THE HAMBLIN DINNER. n 
 
 men bear themselves bravely, some modestly, some braggartly, 
 Mr. Augustus bore himself honestly. He was a merchant of a 
 severe type. For very pride, if not from principle, he was in- 
 capable of meanness. It was he who conducted the most 
 responsible part of the business of the firm, in which he had 
 worked for forty out of his five and-fifty years. 
 
 The third partner, Mr. William, whom we have already heard 
 called "William the Silent, was at the head of the finance. He 
 certainly wore a wig, having had the misfortune to go bald 
 very early in life. There was, however, no pretence about his 
 peruque : it was impossible to mistake it for real hair. He, 
 too, was a first-cousin ; he was remarkable for a great gift of 
 silence. Augustus was married ; sons and daughters were here 
 to-night. "William was a bachelor. 
 
 There was one guest who had borne through the dinner a look 
 of constraint, out of harmony with the pleasant faces of the 
 rest, and who now stood before the fire looking infinitely bored. 
 This was Stephen Hamblin — ' Black ' Hamblin, as the romantic 
 among the younger cousins called him — younger and only brother 
 of Anthony. 
 
 Although eight years younger, he appeared older. That was 
 partly on account of his dark complexion, in which he resem- 
 bled his mother, and partly by reason of his life, which had 
 been, as the French say, stormy. Despite his complexion, he 
 seemed at first sight strangely like his elder brother. Later on, 
 one saw so many points of difference that it became wonderful 
 how two brothers could be so unlike ; for in Stephen's face those 
 lines were hard which in Anthony's were soft. His eyes were 
 set too close together, their expression was not pleasant, the}- 
 were embedded in crowsfeet innumerable ; the hair had fallen 
 off the temples ; he wore no beard, but a heavy moustache ; his 
 nose was long and rather aquiline . He had a gentle manner, which 
 was perhaps assumed ; he was a lamb who somehow gave one 
 the impre.-sinn that a wolf was beneath the skin. Reading his 
 history in his face, one would say, ' This man must have been 
 in his youth singularly handsome ; his life has not been one of 
 noble aims ; he has valued at their utmost the pleasures prof- 
 fered by the well-known triad ; he is capable, but his ways are 
 tortuous.' 
 
 He comes to this house am) meets the cousins once a year only, 
 on the occasion of the Hamblin dinner ; he greets them all with 
 cordiality, which is distrusted by the elder members of the 
 family ; and for the rest of the year lie goes his own way, 
 seeing no one of them all. except his brother Anthony. 
 
 He calls upon him in the City, and they have a great secret 
 which they keep almost entirely to themselves. It is none 
 other than this, that Stephen has long since dissipated, squan-
 
 12 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 dered, and gambled away every farthing of the fortune which 
 he inherited, and has been for some years living on his brother's 
 generosity. This dependence, which would be galling to some 
 thinkers, is quite comfortable for Stephen. Who, indeed, 
 should maintain him but his brother ? It is a sacred duty ; 
 Stephen would be the last to stand between any man and a 
 sacred duty. 
 
 If you look closely you will see that his eyes change their 
 expression when they rest upon Alison. He does not like her. 
 
 Standing beside him is another cousin, Mr. Alderney Codd — 
 a tall thin man about his own age. He is apparelled in a dress- 
 coat of great age, and he wears linen considerably frayed at the 
 wristbands and collar. His face has one salient peculiarity — it is 
 hopeful ; he looks as if he was looking for something, as indeed 
 he always is. What he is looking for is a fortune, of which he 
 dreams and for which he schemes all day long and evex*y day. 
 Meantime his sole source of income is a lay fellowship at St. 
 Alphege's, Cambridge, obtained three-and-twenty years ago, and 
 conferred upon him in obedience to the will of a mediaeval 
 foundress, who hoped so to advance for ever the cause of learn- 
 ing. In this case she has provided an annual income for a man 
 who, but for this provision, might have done something useful 
 to the world. It is said that the moiety of the fellowship is 
 retained by a certain firm of lawyers, and distributed annually 
 among a small band of once confiding persons, who have with 
 one consent removed their confidence from Mr. Alderney Codd. 
 He is the only member of the family who retains a kindly re- 
 gard for that dubious sheep of the flock, Stephen. Perhaps in 
 some respects their tastes are similar ; certainly the honest 
 Alderney is happier at the bar or smoking-room of the Birch- 
 tree Tavern than in a lady's drawing-room ; and the time has 
 gone by when female beauty, save when exhibited behind that 
 bar, might have drawn him by a single hair. 
 
 The young people are waltzing ; the young fellow called 
 Gilbert Yorke, a well-set-up handsome lad of three-and-twenty 
 — is dancing with Alison. They can both dance ; that is to say, 
 their waltzing is smooth, cadenced, and regular ; they dance as 
 if the music made them. Alison's eyes are sparkling with plea- 
 sure ; Gilbert, it must be owned, wears upon his face the ex- 
 pression of solemnity thought becoming to the occasion by all 
 Englishmen who dance, even by those who dance well. 
 
 ' Time was, Stephen,' said Alderney Codd, ' when you and I 
 liked these vanities.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' grumbled Stephen, ' that we have been as great 
 fools as these boys in our time.' 
 
 ' Eheu, Postume /' said Alderney. It was one of his pecu- 
 liarities to lug in well-worn quotations from the Latin, in order
 
 THE HAM BUN DINNER. 13 
 
 to illustrate his connection with the university. ' I wish that 
 time would come again.' 
 
 ' You were ignorant of whisky in those days, Alderney,' re- 
 turned the other. 
 
 Alderney was silent, and presently, giving reins to his imagi- 
 nation, entered into a lively conversation with Mrs. Cridland on 
 the responsibilities of wealth. In this atmosphere of solid and 
 substantial prosperity he easily fancied himself to have been 
 also born in the purple, and assumed, in spite of his frayed 
 wristbands, the burden and sadness belonging to great riches. 
 
 Then the waltz came to an end, and the dancers strolled 
 about in couples. People who had eyes might have concluded, 
 from many symptoms, that the young fellow they called Gilbert 
 Yorke — everybody knew him, and everybody called him Gil- 
 bert — was already well through the first stage of a passion, and 
 advanced in the second. The first stage begins with admiration, 
 goes on to jealousy, and ends in despair. The second begins 
 with resolution, and ends — everybody knows how. It is also 
 evident that they would make a very pretty pair. Such a pair 
 as Heaven intended when couples were first invented, a good 
 many years ago. He says something in a low voice ; she looks 
 up with a little light in her eyes ; he says something else, and 
 she blushes. Once, when I was young, I used to watch these 
 scenes with envy. What was it they said to each other ? What 
 amorous epigram, what sweet poetic thought, what flower of 
 speech, was that which brought the blush to the maiden's cheek, 
 and kindled a light in her eye ? I knew none such ; and it 
 seemed to me, in those days of youthful ignorance, as if I, like 
 Robinson Crusoe, was singled out for special misfortune, be- 
 cause from me these conceits of Cupid and vanities of Venus 
 were withheld. In truth, they say nothing ! There is no epi- 
 gram and no conceit ; only a word here and there which betrays 
 something of the heart, and so, being understood, makes both 
 happy. Why is not one always young ? Why, since one has to 
 die — which is a great nuisance — cannot sweet-and-twenty be 
 prolonged for a hundred years, so that when Azrael stays at our 
 window in his fatal flight, he may summon rosy youth from a 
 whole century of pleasant sports, tired, but not satiate ? I 
 wish some one would write a novel about a world in which 
 everything was always young. Fancy being always young, hand- 
 some, and rich ; fancy an endless succession of young and dis- 
 tractingly beautiful maidens— there would be, it is true, the 
 drawback of the constant arrival of new fellows, as clever and 
 as brave as ourselves. But the new-comers would naturally be 
 attracted by the older — I mean the more experienced — of the 
 Indies ; while the advanced juvenes, those whose years were ap-
 
 14 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 preaching ninety, would naturally fall victims to the fresh 
 young maidens. What a world ! 
 
 A happy New-year's party ; a collection of youth and joy in 
 a house where luxury, comfort, and ease seem stable, firmly 
 rooted, and indestructible. Look at the handsome owner of 
 this fair mansion. Saw one ever a more encouraging example 
 of human welfare ? Why, in the very age of gold itself, not a 
 single shepherd of them all at fifty could look more completely 
 contented with his lot, more solidly satisfied with the prospect 
 of many years' bliss and satisfaction than Anthony Hamblin. 
 
 Yet fortune is ever fickle. Call no man happy while he lives. 
 Even now, while we look, we may hear outside the rumble of 
 the wheels which bear to the house, in a four-wheel cab, a 
 messenger of woe. 
 
 ' Come,' said Mr. Hamblin, ' let us have a little music. Some 
 singing, Alison, for the New Year.' 
 
 For one thing it is good to have grown older. In the old 
 days, if a little singing was proposed, some ambitious weakling, 
 possessed of a thin baritone, would confidently stand at the 
 piano, and wrestle with ' Ever of thee,' or ' Good-bye, sweet- 
 heart ;' or a young lady, who mistook hard breathing for a good 
 voice, would delight us with an aria from Trovatore, then in its 
 first sprightly running. We could not treat them to the con- 
 tumely with which certain critics treat hapless mortals who 
 endeavour to depict this many-sided world in novels ; that is to 
 say, we could not tell them, as they tell these authors, the plain 
 unvarnished truth. We could not say, ' Young lady, young sir, 
 your singing grates upon the ear like the scratching of the finger- 
 nail on a slate. Go in again, and stay there.' No ; we had to 
 endure in silence ; and when the performance was happily 
 concluded, we had to applaud, and grin, and say, ' Thank you, 
 thank you !' 
 
 Now, so rapid has been the progress of art, this weak young 
 man has almost disappeared. Part-songs and choral societies 
 have smashed him. He knows that he cannot sing, and there- 
 fore he humbly takes his place as one among many, as he joins 
 the audience. 
 
 When Mr. Hamblin asked for a little singing he said a few 
 words to the professionals, who retired for supper, and Alison 
 sat down at the piano. They asked for five minutes to recover 
 after the dancing, Gilbert Yorke began to get out books and 
 music, and those who were to form the audience clustered 
 together about the fireplace, and immediately became grave of 
 aspect. Alderney Codd, who had as much ear for music as the 
 mock turtle, assumed for his own part a grave and critical air. 
 
 Then the singers ranged themselves about the piano — there 
 were a dozen in all — soprano, alto, tenor, and bass ; the oldest
 
 THE HAM B LIN DINNER. 15 
 
 of them was not three-and-twenty ; not one of the girls was so 
 aged as that ; and as they held their music before them, and 
 the light fell upon their fresh young faces, grave and earnest, 
 they looked like a row of angels painted by Blake. 
 
 Then they began Barnby's glee, ' Sleep, my pretty one, sleep.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin was standing close to the piano, facing the choir. 
 While they were singing, a card was brought him. Alison 
 noticed that as he read the name his face became suddenly 
 pallid, and he dropped the card. 
 
 ' Show the lady into the study,' he said. 
 
 When the glee was finished, Alison picked up the card lying 
 at her feet. On it was the name of ' Miss Rachel Xethersole, 
 Olivet Lodge.' 
 
 Who was Rachel Nethersole 1 Where was Olivet Lodge ] 
 She put the card upon the piano, and with a little uneasiness 
 began to talk about what they should sing next. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MISS NETIIEKSOLE. 
 
 The visitor was a tall bony woman between fifty and sixty. 
 She was dressed in black, with a thin shawl which seemed to 
 defy the weather ; she carried over her arm a black wri 
 of some soft stuff. She wore black cloth gloves, aud had with 
 her a small bag. 
 
 When the footman invited her to enter the study, she snorted 
 at him uncomfortably, and looked round her with a sort of con- 
 tempt or defiance. 
 
 The study lights had been lowered ; the man turned them 
 up. A bright wood fire, with three great logs, was burning on the 
 hearth, and threw a ruddy light over the dark old furniture. 
 On either side stood a long and deep easy-chair ; the walls were 
 lined with books ; heavy curtains hung before the windows ; 
 there were portfolios of engravings or water-colours on stands ; 
 a large cigar-box stood on ;i table near the right-hand chair ; 
 magazines and papers lay about. It was the study of a man 
 who, in a desultory and ral nte fashion, turned over 
 
 many pages, taking interest in many subjects, making himself 
 master of none, yet able to follow, in sonic way, pr in all. 
 
 The servant invil I range visitor to take a chair. 
 
 ' Xo, I shall not sit down,' she replied, in a hoarse and ill- 
 boding v., ire, 'in this house. ! shall land until Mr. Hamblin 
 lias heard what I have to tell him. He may sit, take :
 
 1 6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 in low chairs, and comfort his soul with extravagant wood fires 
 at a shilling a log, if he can.' 
 
 The man felt that it would be bad manners to attempt any 
 reply to so extraordinary a statement. He therefore stepped 
 softly out of the study, and communicated to the below-stairs 
 department the strange fact that there was an ugly customer 
 upstairs, and that a shindy — nature and cause of the row un- 
 known — was presumably imminent. 
 
 Had Mr. Hamblin been a notorious evil-liver, as the Prayer- 
 book hath it, or had he been a hard man or a harsh master, 
 there would have been no surprise, but rather the rapturous 
 joy with which one human soul generally regards the discom- 
 fiture of another. But, for such a man, such a visitor ! It was 
 wonderful. 
 
 ' Dressed in rusty black,' said Charles, describing the lady, 
 ' with a shawl over her arm, and a white collar on. As for her 
 face, it's like a door-scraper.' 
 
 Being reminded that the comparison was vague, conveyed no 
 accurate idea of the lady, and verged on poetry, he tried to 
 make himself clearer. 
 
 ' Which I mean that she's got thin lips set close together, and 
 eyes which would turn your creams sour, cook. As for her 
 voice — well, I shouldn't wonder if the beer didn't suffer by it. 
 We must taste it very careful to-night.' 
 
 The description was not of the exact kind which unimagina- 
 tive hearers require. Yet there was the merit of truth in it. 
 Miss Nethersole was certainly gaunt, elderly, straight, and, as 
 Charles the footman rightly stated, possessed of thin lips, which 
 she clasped tightly together, as if afraid that words of benevo- 
 lent weakness might inadvertently drop out. Her face was 
 long, thin, and oval ; her eyes were severe, an effect produced 
 partly by the fact that her thoughts, at the moment, were full 
 of bitterness, and partly by their steel-grey coldness. 
 When she was left alone she trembled and shook. 
 ' Give me strength,' she murmured, in mental prayer. ' It 
 seems cruel ; and yet, for my dead sister's sake — I am but an 
 Instrument. The arm of -the Lord is stretched forth to punish 
 the unrighteous. Slow are His judgments, but they are sure.' 
 
 Five minutes passed away ; then the door opened, and the 
 man whom she sought stood before her ; not with the easy, 
 happy cai'elessness with which, at peace with all the world, and 
 fearing nothing, he had been watching the dancers. Now he 
 wore an anxious, even a frightened, look. He shut the door 
 closely behind him, and advanced timidly, extending a hand. 
 
 ' Miss Nethersole,' he said, speaking in a sort of whisper. 
 ' what do you want with me, after these twenty years ?' 
 She refused his hand with a gesture.
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE. 17 
 
 ' Anthony Hamblin,' she said, setting her lips hard and firm, 
 ' let me look at you well. Ay ! The world has gone smoothly 
 with you. No unhappiness, no care, no, repentance. " Their 
 eyes swell out with fatness." ' This with an upturned glance, 
 as if she was acknowledging the handiwork of Providence. 
 ' You have sat at home among your garnered fruit and corn, 
 amid your barns, saying unto your soul, " Be merry." With 
 such as you it is often so permitted by heavenly wisdom. But 
 only for a time — only for a brief space.' 
 
 ' Have you come out on this cold winter's night, Miss Nether- 
 sole, to quote Scripture to me ? At least, I see that the old 
 fashion of speech survives.' 
 
 He spoke lightly, but he watched her face with an apprehen- 
 sive look. 
 
 ' I have not come out to waste the words of Holy Writ upon 
 scoffers, of whom you, I perceive, are still one, as of old. Not 
 at all.' She opened and closed her thin lips with a snap. ' I 
 come here, Anthony Hamblin, as the Instrument of vengeance ; 
 long deferred, but sure.' 
 
 ' Vengeance, vengeance !' muttered the man impatiently. 
 ' What do you mean by vengeance ?' 
 
 1 Let me recall the past.' 
 
 ' Let, rather, the dead past be forgotten,' he interrupted. 
 ' Do you think it pleases me to revive the memory of the — the 
 — events connected with our acquaintance ?' 
 
 ' I presume not. Even the most hardened criminal must 
 sometimes shudder when he looks back and reckons up, one by 
 one, the many downward steps in his guilty career.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Mr. Hamblin, sinking into his easy-chair, ' as 
 recalling the past is likely to be a long business, you may as 
 well sit down and have it out in comfort. Pray take that chair 
 opposite to me. It is late, and it is cold. Can I offer you any- 
 thing ?' 
 
 ' I neither sit, nor break bread, in this house of sin,' said 
 Miss Nethersole solemnly. ' I am here for a purpose. That 
 despatched, I go as I came.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin made no reply, but sat nursing his leg. Certainly 
 he had little of the look of a sinner about him, except that touch 
 of anxiety which wrinkled his ample forehead. The warm light 
 of the fire fell upon his healthy and ruddy features, seeming to 
 soften them still more, and to heighten the expression which 
 was certainly exactly the opposite of that which we generally 
 attribute to the habitual criminal. The popular idea of this 
 monster is, that he wears perpetually a grim look, made up of 
 despair, determination, and gloom. The actual fact, generalised 
 by myself from observation of a good many heads seen and 
 studied about Short's Buildings, Endell Street, is, that he has 
 
 2
 
 i8 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 a retreating forehead, which means low intelligence ; tremulous 
 lips, which means much bad drink ; a twitching cheek, which 
 means much bad tobacco ; and "a general expression of cretinism. 
 
 ' Twenty years ago,' she began — he sighed — ' there came to a 
 quiet little town, called Newbury, two brothers.' 
 
 ' We know exactly what happened twenty years ago, you and 
 I,' he said. ' Let us pass over the preamble — I will take it as 
 read — and come to the pi*esent. Why are you here ? what do 
 you threaten ? what do you want of me ? and what does it all 
 mean ?' 
 
 ' Two brothers,' she went on relentlessly, as if unwilling to 
 spare him one detail. ' One of them, some eight years older 
 than the other, was about thirty-two or three. That one was 
 you. The other, with whom I am not concerned ' 
 
 ' The Devil !' said Mr. Hamblin, sitting bolt upright and 
 staring her in the face. It was noticeable that the look of 
 apprehension changed at these words to bewilderment. 
 
 ' Not concerned,' she repeated, with an upward glance, as if 
 she appreciated the interjection in all its sinfulness. ' The 
 younger brother, I say, named Stephen, a wretched boy who 
 smoked tobacco and drank beer, was about four-and-twenty. 
 They were out together for some sort of godless holiday.' 
 
 ' In the name of Heaven, Miss Nethersole, why godless ? We 
 were on a fishing tour.' 
 
 ' They stayed in our town, they said, whatever was the truth, 
 because there was fishing. Every day they pretended to go 
 fishing, though I never heard that they caught any fish ; and the 
 sequel showed that they were fishers of souls, not of trout, and 
 employed in the service of the Devil, their master.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin uncrossed his legs, and lay back stroking his 
 beard. He looked less anxious now, and rather amused, as if 
 the narrative was not likely to concern him personally. 
 
 ' They made the acquaintance while at Newbury ' — she really 
 was getting slower than ever — ' of two maiden ladies, one of 
 whom ' 
 
 ' Was yourself, the elder of the two ; the other was your 
 sister, who was two-and-twenty years of age, pretty, attractive, 
 and sweet. It is not for me to interrupt you by drawing com- 
 parisons between her and her sister.' 
 
 This was rude, but Mr, Hamblin was getting vexed. She 
 only bowed, and went on : 
 
 'The younger was what the world— regardful only of the 
 outward seeming — called pretty.' Mr. Hamblin bowed and 
 waved his hand, as if he had already made that sufficiently 
 plain. ' She was also, to outward seeming, a consistent Christian 
 Walker.' Mr. Hamblin smiled. ' She was, in reality, though 
 her friends knew it not, singularly open to temptation, and
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE. 19 
 
 easily led astray by the vanities, riches, and earthly loves of this 
 sinful world ' 
 
 • Poor child !' sighed Anthony Hamblin ; ' she was indeed.' 
 
 Miss jNTethersole looked at him in some astonishment, mingled 
 with regret. Hardness of heart she could face — in fact, she ex- 
 pected it— with unrepentant scoffs ; but a contrite spirit might 
 disarm her and rob her of revenge ; she went on doubtfully, 
 holding herself more upright. 
 
 ' These two brothers, in some way or other, made the acquaint- 
 ance of the ladies, and were permitted to call. They came 
 again ; they came frequently : soon there was not a day when 
 they did not come to the house. They were received as gentle- 
 men, not as wild wolves, observe.' 
 
 ' They were,' said Mr. Hamblin gently. His sympathetic face 
 had grown sad, and his deep eyes gazed upon his visitor with a 
 melancholy which had nothing of the scoffing spirit in it. 
 
 ' In the end,' said Miss Nethersole, ' one of the brothers fell in 
 love with the girl. 
 
 ' Perhaps both, Miss Nethersole ; perhaps both of the men 
 loved that sweetest of tender and innocent country flowers.' 
 
 ' Both, if you please,' said Miss Nethersole. ' The elder 
 sought an interview with me ' — dropping into the first person — 
 ' and stated his case.' 
 
 ' Clumsily,' said Anthony ; ' so that you believed I was 
 making love to you. When you found out your mistake, you 
 took your — ' revenge, he was going to say, but he altered the 
 word — ' your own course.' 
 
 ' I replied,' said Miss Nethersole, ' that there could be no mar- 
 riage of my sister with the worldly, and I requested that our 
 acquaintance should cease. It did cease. The brothers called 
 at the house no more. I do not disguise the fact that for several 
 days there were tears, temper, and reproaches to put up with. I 
 hope I bore these with a Christian spirit. In a short time they 
 suddenly ceased, and I trusted that any light affection which 
 might have been awakened had vanished already. I supposed, 
 erroneously, that the young men had left the town. They 
 were, however, still fishing — for souls. A week after my inter- 
 view with you, both you and your brother left the town on tlio 
 same day ; and on that day, my sister, on the pretence of visit- 
 i ng ;m aunt at Hungerford, left my house. No one knows better 
 than you at whose invitation she went away, and why she never 
 came back.' 
 
 ' I certainly do know,' said Mr. Hamblin gravely. ' And since 
 we both know the facts, why repeat them ? We cannot undo 
 the past.' 
 
 She wrote to me,' Miss Nethersole went on stolidly, ' after 
 her departure. She said that she was happy with her hus- 
 
 2—2
 
 20 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 band. She sent me her address, and begged my forgiveness* 
 To all her letters I returned but one answer. I told her 
 that she might draw upon me on the first of every January 
 for the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds ; that, I said, was 
 all that I would do for her. It was, in fact, all that I could 
 afford to do. I never inquired if her husband was rich or 
 poor. I never wished to hear about her affairs again. I pro- 
 mised her my prayers, and I let her go.' 
 
 ' You were then, as you are now, a cruel and unfeeling woman,' 
 said Mr. Hamblin sharply. 
 
 Miss Nethersole enjoyed the momentary triumph of having 
 roused her victim to wrath. 
 
 ' Then I heard no more from her. For eight years, however, 
 I continued to receive the draft for a hundred and fifty pounds, 
 and to honour it.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin started in his chair and sat bolt upright. 
 'For how long ?' he cried. 
 
 ' For eight years. Ah, you know now why I am here !' 
 ' I know now ?' he repeated, as if incredulous. 
 ' You pretend astonishment ? That is because you have been 
 found out. Surely I am but an Instrument. The judgments 
 are slow, but they are very sure.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin sank back in his chair and grasped the arms as 
 if he wanted physical as well as moral support. ' Eight years !' 
 he gasped. 
 
 ' You know what it means. Come, Mr. Hamblin, have the 
 courage to tell me what that means.' 
 
 ' It means,' he said, with white lips — ' it means — forgery.' 
 ' Forgery,' she repeated, with manifest enjoyment. ' That is 
 exactly what it means. I kept all those drafts, never thinking 
 what might happen. When the ninth first of January came 
 and brought no draft, I knew that my sister was dead. I had 
 the blinds down and went into mourning. But last week I 
 made a discovery. I found out that my sister had been dead 
 six years before the last of those drafts were sent me.' 
 Mr. Hamblin was silent. 
 
 ' I made more than one discovery,' she continued. ' I learned 
 from a safe and trustworthy source that the man, her husband, 
 behaved to her with brutal unkindness. It was his systematic 
 neglect, his cruelty, which hurried her, poor and frail, unfit to 
 die, into her grave. She left behind her a kind of journal, 
 which my informant brought to me. I have a copy here for 
 your own private reading. You will have so little time for read- 
 ing that I advise you to read it at once — to-night.' 
 
 She opened her bag and took from it a roll of paper tied 
 round with black ribbon. 
 
 ' This is a document,' she said grimly, ' which will revive
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE. 21 
 
 many memories for you. 'It will perhaps serve,' she added, 
 ' to inspire you with penitential thoughts while you are endur- 
 ing your punishment.' 
 
 ' My punishment ?' He looked up, as he took the papers, 
 as if with a mild surprise. 
 
 'Your punishment,' she repeated firmly. 'The papers be- 
 long to the past, the punishment belongs to the future. All 
 punishment does. The whole unending future to you if you 
 do not repent, and to the greater part of mankind, will most 
 certainly be one long wail of despair as you suffer your punish- 
 ment. But having regard to the immediate future, I have pre- 
 pared the facts with such care as my poor abilities have enabled 
 me to bestow upon them. My lawyer, a most able and skilful 
 lawyer, well acquainted with every point of the criminal law, 
 has got the papers in his hands, and will— next Monday, not 
 to-morrow, because I wish you to have two clear days for re- 
 pentance — apply for a warrant for your arrest on a charge of 
 forgery. You will be charged with six distinct forgeries, each 
 for the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds. The forged 
 drafts will be presented in evidence ; it will be proved that the 
 signature in each is an imitation of my deceased sister's writing. 
 It will be proved that her death to^k place two years after her 
 marriage. Portions of the journal the evidence of the dead 
 wife against her husband, will be read, to show that the pri- 
 soner in the dock— the wretched prisoner in the shameful dock' 
 — she repeated this very slowly, so as to bring out and enjoy the 
 full flavour of the words—' was as cruel as he was unscrupulous.' 
 She paused, while Mr. Hamblin regarded her with troubled 
 bewilderment. ' Before taking these steps,' the woman went 
 on, ' I made inquiries about you. I learned who and what you 
 are— a rich merchant, respected by your friends, successful in 
 the world, living an outwardly respectable life, with ties and con- 
 nections in your home. I gathered from my cautious inquiries 
 that such a charge against such a man would create the greatest 
 astonishment. The higher the place, the greater the fall ' 
 
 • This is like a horrible dream,' said Mr. Hamblin, pulling 
 himself together. ' How am I to answer this woman ?' 
 
 ' You need not trouble about an answer to me,' she replied. 
 ' I want no answer. The sight of you, after many years, is 
 enough for me.' 
 
 'A cruel and revengeful woman this,' said Mr. Hamblin, for 
 the second time. 
 
 ' I see you — your sin found out and brought home to you — 
 cowering in despair before me. Is not that answer enough ? 
 Think of the days, twenty yeara ago, when, in your insolent 
 May, you laughed at the woman whom you had lured on to 
 betray weakness '
 
 22 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 Indeed I did not langh at you. I was anxious, it is true, to 
 let you understand clearly that I had never the least intention 
 of making love to you.' 
 
 She shook her head. ' It is too late now,' she said. ' All is 
 arranged. You have a little time before you in which you may 
 pass over in mental review the things you have done, the things 
 you have enjoyed, and the things you are going to endure. 
 You have a few hours in which to say farewell to your life of 
 ease and luxury, farewell to honour, farewell to friendship. 
 Think of what you have before you : years in a convict prison ; 
 years in convict garb, on convict's fare, doing convict's work. 
 And when you come out again, not a man in all the world to 
 take you by the hand and call you friend ! Do you tremble ?' 
 
 He certainly did not. His face was pained, but not terrified. 
 His look was troubled, but not with fear. 
 
 ' Why should I tremble ?' he asked, smiling. ' You believe 
 that your case has no flaw.' 
 
 ' Flaw ?' she cried quickly. ' What flaw can it have ? When 
 I tell you that I have spent weeks in following it up, step by 
 step, writing it out, getting my documents in order. Why, 
 man, to gain more time I have even abstained from the week- 
 day services in the chapel !' 
 
 ' Really !' he murmured, smiling. ' Such devotion ' 
 
 ' Miserable man !' She drew herself erect, and shook her 
 finger with extended arm — an attitude worthy of Rachel. 
 ' Miserable man ! You are trembling on the verge of dishonour 
 and shame ! A prison's doors are opening to you ! And you 
 dare to scoff and sneer ! I will have no mercy on you, because 
 of my sister, whom you wiled away from me ; because of the 
 cruelty which killed her ; because of the forgery of these drafts 
 — you and no other ! O hypocrite !' 
 
 She did not finish the sentence begun so well. Her wrath 
 overpowered her. 
 
 ' Come/ he said ; ' I am wrong to take that tone with you. 
 You are right to be angry ; you are not right in one or two 
 other points. There are things— shall I call them extenuating 
 circumstances ? No, they are facts of which you are ignorant, 
 which make it most important that this matter should pi'oceed 
 no further.' 
 
 ' Facts, indeed ! What facts other than those I know ? As 
 if they were not sufficient !' 
 
 ' They are sufficient in themselves ; but there are other 
 things. I will tell you what they are, if ' 
 
 ' If what ?' Because he hesitated. 
 
 ' If you will destroy those — those forged drafts first. Miss 
 Nethersole, I implore you to pause before you proceed in a case 
 which on your side is and can be nothing else than pure revenge.
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE. 23 
 
 Believe me, it is a revenge which will recoil on your own head 
 — your own, mind — in a way of which you know and suspect 
 nothing. Destroy those forgeries, and I will tell you all.' 
 
 She stared at him, taken altogether aback by an appeal which 
 contained a threat. Was there anything she had overlooked ? 
 No, there could be nothing. It was a miserable subterfuge to 
 deceive her and stay further proceedings. She set her lips 
 firm, and answered nothing. 
 
 ' It is for others' sake, Miss Nethersole, that I plead. Destroy 
 those papers. Do not confound human revenge with divine 
 justice.' 
 
 ' I am the Instrument,' she repeated, hard and stern. ' I will 
 pursue this matter to your ruin or your death. I am appointed 
 to this work.' 
 
 ' Will nothing move you ?' he asked. ' Will no assurances be 
 believed ? Miss Nethersole, I swear to you, by all that I hold 
 most sacred, that if you take this case before a court of law 
 you will repent, and go in mourning all the days of your life.' 
 
 ' I have no choice,' she said coldly. ' As the Instrument, I 
 do not move — I am moved.' 
 
 ' I give you till to-morrow morning to think about it,' said 
 the man. ' If I do not hear to-morrow morning that you have 
 abandoned your purpose, I, too, must take my steps ; and I 
 venture to promise that you will never recover the surprise of 
 those steps, and that you will rue the day so long as you live.' 
 
 ' My purpose is decided,' she said. ' The way before me is 
 very clear. What may follow after, it is not for me, a blind 
 mortal, to inquire. I follow up this forgery to your ruin or 
 your death.' 
 
 ' To my ruin or my death,' he repeated, rising from his chair. 
 ' So be it. You have, I believe, told me all you came to tell ?' 
 
 ' I have.' 
 
 ' In that case, Miss Nethersole, our interview may be con- 
 cluded.' 
 
 ' When next I see you, Anthony Hamblin,' she said, drawing 
 on her glove, and shutting up her black bag with a snap, ' you 
 will be in the dock as a prisoner. I shall be in the witness-box 
 giving evidence.' 
 
 He shook his head, and laughed. Yes ; the man actually 
 laughed, to her unbounded indignation and astonishment. 
 
 ' Your revengeful spirit,' he said. ' will not have that satis- 
 faction. Allow me to wish you good-night.' 
 
 He opened the door. As she stood for a moment in the hall, 
 adjusting her shawl, the voices of the young singers in the 
 drawing-room broke out fresh and clear : 
 
 - 
 
 1 Sing out the false, ring in the true !'
 
 24 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Some of those are your children, perhaps,' she said, with a 
 malignant smile. ' The sins of the fathers are visited upon 
 the children to the third and fourth generation. My sister's 
 wrong shall be upon you and yours like a scourge of scor- 
 pions.' 
 
 She stepped out, and left him standing at the open doorway. 
 The cold wind beat furiously upon his bare head, driving the 
 frozen snow upon his face and great brown beard. He took no 
 heed for a while. When he shut the door his eyes were swollen 
 with an unwonted tear. 
 
 ' Poor Alison !' he sighed. ' Poor child ! Must she, then, 
 learn all ?' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HOW THE PARTY BROKE HP. 
 
 Anthony Hamblin closed the door and sought the study 
 again ; he stood there before the fire, all the sunshine gone from 
 his face, and sought to put the situation into words. ' Nothing 
 like words,' he said to himself, with a wintry smile, ' for present- 
 ing the real facts, the whole truth.' 
 
 On the table lay the journal of the woman, dead twenty years 
 ago. His hand trembled as he laid it in a drawer and locked it 
 up, for greater safety. 
 
 ' Now I must put on a bold front,' he said, ' and face them all, 
 Stephen among the number, who know nothing and suspect 
 nothing. How to break the thing to Alison ?— with what words 
 
 can I go to her and say, " Your " I cannot do it. And it 
 
 must all come out, the shameful story — it must be published in 
 the papers ; she must learn what all the rest of the world will 
 learn. Poor Alison ! — poor girl !' 
 
 The odd thing was, as Miss Nethersole had observed, connect- 
 ing the fact naturally with an obdurate and unrepentant heart, 
 that Anthony Hamblin spoke as if this thing was only to be 
 regretted because some third person would be affected by it. 
 Therefore, the good lady went away with an uncomfortable 
 feeling ; much as if, being an Instrument of Heaven, she had 
 made the mistake of sticking the knife into somebody else, not 
 the victim ordained. 
 
 The surprise and disgust of an exposed criminal she had 
 marked in his countenance. So far that was satisfactory ; but 
 she could not observe the slightest trace of terror or remorse. 
 The criminal looked at the crime and its consequences from an 
 outside point of view, and dared to discuss it with her as if it
 
 HOW THE PARTY BROKE UP. 25 
 
 concerned some one else. This unexpected way of receiving her 
 intelligence was exasperating. It made the Instrument the 
 more resolved upon carrying out her revenge to the utmost 
 extent permitted in a truly Christian land. No lamentation at 
 all — no repentance— no terror. Why, it was as if a murderer on 
 the way to Tyburn Tree were openly to lament the lot of another 
 unfortunate going to be hanged beside him for the same crime. 
 
 In his study, Anthony Hamblin reflected on a new aspect of 
 the case. There were others to consider besides Alison ; there 
 was the respectability of the family. The parent trunk had 
 many branches, and there was not one rotten bough among 
 them. Disgrace and shame would fall upon the name for the 
 first time, the unhappy man reflected, through the main branch, 
 the most respected of all, and there was no hope of averting the 
 blow : the hard and determined face of the woman, triumphant 
 in the prospect of her revenge, forbade that hope. The blow 
 would fall, as she promised, on the Monday following. 
 
 Here his thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock at the 
 door. He started, as if it was the knock of a police constable 
 already arrived with a warrant for his arrest, and handcuffs. 
 
 It was Alison herself ; she had grown anxious about the pro- 
 tracted absence of her father. 
 
 ' What is it, papa dear ?' she asked. ' Has anything hap- 
 pened ? See, you dropped the card of your visitor, and I picked 
 it up — "Rachel Nethersole, Olivet Lodge." Who is Rachel 
 Nethersole, papa ? and where is Olivet Lodge ?' 
 
 This is one of those critical moments which abound in life, 
 but of which we take at the time so little heed. Had he taken 
 the girl in his arms and told her everything — hiding nothing — 
 the future misery might yet have been spared. But he did not. 
 It was in the nature of Anthony Hamblin to avoid the infliction 
 of pain even when it was most necessary and just that pain 
 should be inflicted. He missed this opportunity. 
 
 ' Miss Nethersole, Alison, is a lady whom I once knew inti- 
 mately. I have not seen her for many years. She revived the 
 memory of a very painful business which happened before ever 
 you were born. Let us forget it, and go upstairs.' 
 
 The young men and maidens were dancing another waltz. 
 They always do drop into continuous waltzing, these young 
 people of the present day, unless restrained by the severer sense 
 of their elders. Mr. Stephen Hamblin, upon whom his brother's 
 eyes fell with a strange expression, was standing by the fire, 
 looking into it with a dark and dour gaze, as if to justify his 
 epithet among the ladies of the Hamblin cousinhood, the 
 ' Black ' Hamblin. Near him stood Mr. Alderney Codd, talking 
 to one of the partners. His animated face still reflected the
 
 26 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 consciousness of wealth. This, to a man of imagination, was 
 difficult to avoid in a house which breathed of wealth. 
 
 ' All this is nothing, Augustus,' he was saying airily. ' We 
 who wish to increase our wealth have but to look round us, and 
 the opportunities come of themselves. How many good things 
 have I not chanced upon, for instance ?' 
 
 Augustus Hamblin glanced involuntarily at the frayed shirt- 
 cuffs and ragged collar of the speaker. Did he really mean it ? 
 But no one was ignorant of Alderney Codd's actual poverty. 
 
 ' I look round,' he continued, cheerily, ' and watch the market. 
 I see my opening. It may be a modest ten thousand, worth the 
 picking-up ; it may be a colossal fortune, which wants nothing 
 but capital to start it and intelligence to direct it.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes. Very true, indeed. But you must persuade your 
 capitalist, Alderney, and you must find your intelligence.' 
 
 ' The intelligence,' said Alderney, tapping his bosom, ' is here. 
 
 The capitalist ' Just then Anthony came back with Alison. 
 
 ' The capitalist, cousin Augustus ' He gently raised his 
 
 voice. 
 
 ' Another scheme, Alderney ?' said Anthony, forcing a smile. 
 ' Let us consider it in the morning.' 
 
 And then a constraint fell upon the party. Everybody saw 
 that Anthony Hamblin, the giver of the feast, was nervous and 
 agitated. He spoke fast, but he did not talk well. Alison 
 watched him furtively. The mirth went out of the party, even 
 down to the boys, who yawned and wished it was supper-time. 
 The dancing languished ; the laughter was forced ; the singing 
 lost its freshness. When supper-time came, everybody was 
 relieved. 
 
 Two or three days later Augustus Hamblin, talking over the 
 event that had just happened, remarked that it seemed that 
 night as if the shadow of fate was upon his unfortunate cousin. 
 
 ' I almost begin,' he said, ' to believe in prognostics, second 
 sight, all that sort of thing. Poor Anthony became melan- 
 choly in a sudden way that night, and he never rallied. He 
 forced himself to talk ; he drank a great deal of champagne ; 
 he made a little speech ; but it was impossible not to feel that 
 there was something wrong with him. It was the impending 
 sword, and he saw its shadow before him. At least, that is what 
 my wife says.' 
 
 The hour for separation arrived. The guests were departing. 
 In the conservatory still lingered a couple alone : the young 
 man who had been hovering about Alison all the evening, and 
 Alison herself. He was holding her hand, and his eyes, falling 
 on the graceful head of the girl, were full of the tenderness of 
 love newly-awakened. 
 
 ' Alison !' he whispered ; ' my darling, my own !'
 
 1W THE PARTY BROKE UP. 27 
 
 H- 
 
 She was silent, but she did not withdraw her hand. 
 
 ' To-morrow,' he went on, ' I shall see your father. He is the 
 kindest-hearted of men. He will not refuse his consent. Good- 
 night.' 
 
 He pressed his lips upon her forehead hurriedly, and was 
 gone. The host was in the hall exchanging farewells with his 
 guests, most of whom were already gone. Gilbert Yorke waited 
 about until there were only three left — himself, Mr. Alderney 
 Codd, and Stephen Hamblin. 
 
 ' I want to see you to-morrow,' said Anthony, sharply, to his 
 brother. Gilbert Yorke noticed how his fingers nervously 
 plucked at the kid glove he had taken off. ' I want to see you 
 very particularly.' 
 
 ' On business ?' asked Stephen, looking at him suspiciously ; 
 ' what business ?' 
 
 The only business he could think of between himself and his 
 brother was that of borrowing money. Did Anthony propose 
 to lend him more, and without being asked, or was he going to 
 be mean and say ungenerous things ? That, however, was un- 
 like Anthony. 
 
 ' I will call at your chambers to-moiTow at three. It is most 
 important that you should be alone.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Stephen, ' you will find me there. Good- 
 night.' He held out his hand, but his brother turned as if he 
 had not seen the proffered hand. Gilbert saw the action, and 
 wondered what was meant. Everybody knew very well that 
 the only member of the family who kept up friendly relations 
 with Stephen was his brother. 
 
 Stephen buttoned up his coat, drew on his gloves, and stepped 
 out into the night without a word. 
 
 There were then left only Mr. Alderney Codd and Gilbert 
 Yorke. 
 
 ' Dear me !' said Alderney, who had been looking among the 
 coats, ' i.s Stephen gone ? I depended upon him for a lift.' He 
 was very thinly clad with an overcoat which would have been 
 insufficient even for an April night. ' Which is your way, Mr. 
 Yorke ?' 
 
 ' I am afraid not yours ; I am going to stay at the hotel over 
 the Common.' 
 
 ' Ah ! well, it is a fine night, though cold ; I shall walk.' He 
 laughed airily. He would have liked to go to the hotel too, but 
 there were reasons why that could not be. It was unfortunate 
 that it was only a week since he had borrowed five pounds of 
 Anthony. 'After all,' he went on, 'a walk in this crisp and 
 bracing air will do one good.' 
 
 Anthony interposed: 'With thin boots, Alderney ? You 
 must do nothing of the kind. Go over to the hotel with Yorke.
 
 23 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 You are both my guests, tell the landlord. And you cannot go 
 into the cold with that ridiculous thing. Call that an overcoat ?' 
 
 ' I warm myself inside with good old port,' said Alderney, the 
 rich but eccentric. 
 
 ' Anyhow,' said Anthony, ' borrow this.' He took down an 
 ample and magnificent garment, lined with costly fur. ' You 
 can send it back to me at the office.' 
 
 Alderney put it on, and at once became a rich man. No one 
 but a rich man could possibly walk in such a coat. 
 
 ' Take a cigar, Alderney, and a glass of brandy and water 
 before you go.' 
 
 Alderney found both cigars and brandy in the study. He 
 helped himself to a handful of Anthony's choicest, and a glass 
 of stiff brandy and water, while Gilbert Yorke stayed to say a 
 few words to Mr. Hamblin. 
 
 The brandy and water despatched — he had already got 
 through a couple of bottles of champagne with the supper — 
 Alderney Codd announced himself ready to go. 
 
 ' An excellent coat,' he said, with warm approbation, while 
 he buttoned it up. ' I shall get one exactly like it for my own 
 use ' — it only cost about a hundred and fifty guineas, being 
 lined with the very best of skins — ' black, too, in case of sudden 
 mourning.' 
 
 Ominous words, he recollected afterwards. 
 
 Meanwhile Gilbert Yorke had timidly taken the first step of 
 the accepted lover. 
 
 ' May I see you, Mr. Hamblin,' he stammered, ' about — a — a 
 matter most important to myself ?' 
 
 Anthony smiled. Then, as if a painful thought had struck 
 him, his face suddenly became overcast. 
 
 ' Come on Sunday,' he said. ' No — no — make it Tuesday, if 
 you still feel inclined to say what I suppose you wish to say.' 
 
 ' Your words, sir, give me hope.' The words might be hopeful, 
 but the face was very far from showing any of the cheerfulness 
 we associate with the emotion of hope. 
 
 ' Hope ?' he echoed. ' Yes — have hope. Everybody may have 
 hope — except myself.' 
 
 ' What could he mean ?' 
 
 The door closed upon the two last guests. 
 
 Mr. Hamblin stood irresolutely in the hall. 
 
 Then he became aware that young Nick was there too, look- 
 ing attentively at him from his white lashes and pink eyes. 
 
 ' You not gone to bed, boy ?' he asked, with a guilty feeling 
 that this boy, too, must learn the dreadful story. 
 
 ' No, uncle ; I wished to see you before I went to bed. You're 
 not well. You've got something wrong somewhere. Confide 
 in me. Let me advise.'
 
 HOW THE PARTY BROKE UP. 29 
 
 ' Nonsense, boy,' said Anthony, smiling. ' Go to bed at once.' 
 
 ' If there is to be no confidence, as between man and man,' 
 said young Nick, grandly, ' there is no more to be said. Re- 
 member, however, that I offered my advice. It's no fault of 
 mine if you won't take it.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin retreated to his study. The footman turned 
 down the lights in the hall, and the house was silent. But 
 there was one more interruption. It was Alison. She had on 
 a long white dressing-grown ; her bare feet were thrust into 
 slippers, worked in some soft woollen stuff ; her long black 
 hair was hanging over her shoulders: she looked like the dream 
 of some great painter — a perfect maiden. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, throwing her arms round his neck, ' I cannot 
 sleep, and I have come to tell you ' 
 
 ' What, my dear ? Suppose I guess already.' He drew her 
 more closely to him, and kissed her forehead. 
 
 She burst into tears. 
 
 ' Why, Alison, why?' 
 
 ' It is happiness, papa. I am too happy, to have so much 
 love. Good-night again, dear.' 
 
 Ominous tears, she thought afterwards. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 Antitony Hamblin was left alone with the manuscript^ 
 
 He sat down in his easy-chair, and, from force of habit, took 
 a cigar from a box which contained many kinds of cigars. But 
 he did not light it. Instead, he took the manuscript in his 
 hand and held it irresolutely, as if he was afraid of it. 
 
 In fact, he was afraid of it . He was about to reopen a chapter 
 in his life which he fondly hoped, and had hoped for twenty 
 years, was closed for ever. 
 
 There hung over the mantel-shelf the portrait of a lady. It 
 was the same lady whoso effigies, taken in her younger days, we 
 have seen in Alison's room, the Sehora ; but this portrait figured 
 her in her later years, when trouble had fallen upon her. The 
 blac! the black hair, was with her still ; but the look of 
 
 confidence was gone : and in place of the possibilities of love, 
 passion, jealousy, tenderness, wrath, in the portrait of her 
 younger days, there was seen an expression of sadness, wonder, 
 and i<-i'jii;iH'>ii. The deep black eyes of the portrait met those 
 of her son Anthony ; and as he looked into them, their sadness
 
 3 o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 grew deeper, their wonder more marked, their resignation moro 
 troubled. 
 
 As the chief of the house of Hamblin sat there, looking in 
 that face, there passed across his brain, in a few moments, as 
 happens in great crises of life, the events belonging to many 
 generations and many years. 
 
 There was once a certain Anthony Hamblin who, in the 
 seventeenth century, when Englishmen first began to trade with 
 the marvellous East, was sent out to India on board a merchant- 
 man as supercargo. In this capacity he made several voyages 
 and no little money ; when he had made enough money and 
 plenty of friends he established himself in London as an indigo 
 merchant. He prospered greatly. His son, Anthony the second, 
 equally prudent and equally able, prospered also : his grandson, 
 Anthony the third, prospered. The house grew and increased 
 continually. The eldest son, Anthony always succeeded as 
 principal partner ; the junior partners were taken from the 
 cousins ; the younger sons sought their fortunes elsewhere. 
 Some of them succeeded, and some failed. Whether in suc- 
 cess or failure, they were proud of their race. The poorer 
 branches, especially, regarded the regnant Anthony in the light 
 of Providence, as much to be approached by prayer and as un- 
 certain. "When their case was decided on its actual merits, they 
 were wont to curse him altogether. 
 
 If Anthony Hamblin thought of the origin, the respectability, 
 and the position of the house, it was in contrast with this 
 danger of disgrace which now threatened it. And thus his 
 thoughts carried him to scenes of his own life. Far back first, 
 to the time when he was a boy of ten. 
 
 A day in summer : a garden — the vei'y garden on which his 
 study-windows looked: a lady leading by the hand a little child 
 of two. 
 
 ' You must never forget, Anthony,' said the lady — his heart 
 sank, as he recalled the sweet foreign accent and the soft voice 
 in which his mother spoke — ' You must never forget that little 
 Stephen is your younger brother. He will look to you for an 
 example : no one lives for himself alone : as the elder brother 
 governs himself, so will the younger imitate him.' 
 
 The little child, a dark, almost a swarthy child, held up both 
 his arms, and Anthony carried him, running and singing, round 
 and round the garden. 
 
 Or, ten years later. He was twenty years of age and already 
 in the house, learning by slow degrees to get a grasp over the 
 working of a great firm. His father one morning received a 
 letter addressed to him in the City, which agitated and distressed 
 him. He sent for Anthony and showed it to him. 
 
 ' Go, Anthony,' he said. ' Take the boy away : remove him
 
 THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE. 31 
 
 at once to another school. But never let his mother know why 
 he was taken away.' He remembered how reports followed 
 each other of his brother's misconduct at the new school. He 
 was the model bad boy, the awful example. He never learned 
 anything, never showed himself open to the influences of emu- 
 lation, admonition, or example. Anthony kept back what he 
 could from his father, and everything from his mother. The 
 worst part of the business was that Stephen was unpopular 
 among the boys themselves. Now boys are always ready to 
 admire a plucky breaker of rules, so that there must have been 
 something which did not appear in school reports. 
 
 His father died while Stephen was still at school. 
 
 Then Anthony remembered another and a more touching 
 death-bed, when the mother, clinging to him, implored him 
 with tears never to desert his brother ; always, whatever he 
 did, to pardon him; always to help him. 
 
 ' I have known more than you thought, my dear,' she said. 
 ' You hid things from me which others told. He has begun 
 badly — oh ! very badly. But he is young, O son of mine who 
 never gave my heart a stab — God bless you ! — he is young, and 
 may reform.' 
 
 Then Anthony remembered the promise, sacred by the 
 memory of his mother's last tears, which he solemnly pro- 
 nounced. 
 
 There was another scene. It was in the house, in Great St. 
 Simon Apostle. His partners came to him one morning. They 
 were grave and embarrassed. One of them, with words of 
 hesitation, told him a story. The elder brother, left alone, 
 sent for the younger. 
 
 ' You must leave the house,' he said. ' After what has been 
 done, you can look for no employment from my partners. All 
 that can be done is for you to go away, knowing that silence 
 will be kept. Take money, and when I see you again, in a 
 month's time, tell me what you propose to do.' 
 
 He was getting nearer to the present. 
 
 He remembered then how Stephen, who had become nomi- 
 nally an indigo broker, received on obtaining his majority his 
 portion, and how this provision, ample for a younger brother, 
 vanished in two or three years, so that he presently returned to 
 his elder brother and to his profession. 
 
 And then his thoughts leaped over ten years, and he saw 
 himself— whom all the world considered a bachelor, and con- 
 firmed in that happy condition of life — bringing home a girl of 
 ten, and confessing that the world had been deceived, for lo ! 
 he was a widower, and this was his daughter Alison, whose 
 mother had died in childbirth. He smiled as he thought of the 
 mystery with which the cousinhood surrounded the affair, and
 
 3 2 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 talked for days, even nine times nine, about it : how they came 
 and petted little Alison, and tried to pump her ; and how 
 Stephen's face dropped and his dark eyes glowered when he 
 heard the news, because he was no longer heir. 
 
 ' That was something like a surprise,' thought Anthony, ' the 
 mystery of the good boy. Had it been Stephen, no one would 
 have wondered. But for the good boy of the family ! And 
 here ' — he opened the manuscript — ' here awaits a greater sur- 
 prise still. Cousins mine, how will you look on Monday evening, 
 when the paper reports Rachel Nethersole's application for a 
 warrant ?' 
 
 He spoke bitterly, but there was still a marked absence of 
 what the good Rachel so much wished to see — terror. 
 
 The manuscript was not very bulky, and it was written all in 
 one hand, a woman's hand of the Italian style. He knew it for 
 the handwriting of Rachel Nethersole, and groaned as he looked 
 at it. 
 
 ' To think that she once thought I was in love with her — 
 with her,' he said, smiling ; ' why, she was always as grim and 
 as repulsive as she is now, or very nearly ; nobody could fall in 
 love with such a woman. Poor Rachel ! she is happy : she is 
 going to have her revenge.' 
 
 He lighted the cigar which had been lying on the table, and 
 sat down to what seemed a philosophic endurance of the re- 
 venge. 
 
 The manuscript was headed with the words ' My Story.' 
 
 ' It is right,' the paper began, ' that you should know how I 
 found out the exact date and the circumstances attendant on 
 the death of my murdered sister — by what providential guidance 
 I was led to the discovery, and so have been enabled to put 
 together, piece by piece, the indictment which will be the means 
 of your punishment upon this earth.' 
 
 Mr. Hamblin nodded his head, took the cigar out of his 
 mouth, and leaned back, considering. Presently he went on 
 with the reading. 
 
 ' In October last I was laid up, having been all my life sin- 
 gularly strong and healthy, with a severe cold, which gradually 
 took the form of some pulmonary complaint, the nature of 
 which concerns you not at all.' 
 
 ; What I dislike about this style,' said Anthony to himself, 
 ' is, that it takes such a devil of a lot of words. Why couldn't 
 she begin by saying that she had a bad cough ?' 
 
 ' After many visits from my medical adviser, and much fruit- 
 less expense, I was advised to try a visit to a southern seaside 
 place, where I was to pass the winter. 
 
 ' It is not my custom to travel from place to place, especially 
 when the pulpit privileges are uncertain .; I therefore took
 
 THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE. 33 
 
 counsel of my pastoral guide, before deciding on the place 
 where I was to seek bodily health. 
 
 ' We discussed several places. Brighton, which was proposed 
 by the doctor, was immediately rejected as too worldly : St. 
 Leonards and Hastings, Worthing and Southsea, for the same 
 valid reason, were also rejected : Torquay, which in respect of 
 climate seemed to offer exceptional advantages, proved unworthy 
 on closer investigation. It seemed as if I should be unable to 
 leave my own home without peril to higher considerations than 
 those of mere health. At last, however, my adviser recom- 
 mended me to think of Bournemouth. You understand that 
 the place was not suggested by myself at all. The suggestion 
 came to me from the outside. This was the first link in the 
 chain of evidence which proves that I am an Instrument. 
 
 ' Accordingly, I went to Bournemouth. 
 
 ' Before going, I wrote to a house agent, to whom I had been 
 recommended (this is link number two), and received from him 
 a choice of lodgings, any one of which, he said, would seem to 
 suit me well. Observe that I took no personal action in the 
 matter. I was driven to Bournemouth : I was led to this house 
 agent : I was guided to my lodgings. 
 
 ' Those that I selected were a first floor, front and back, for 
 myself, and a second floor back for Jane, whom you may, or 
 may not, remember. It is Jane's privilege to consider herself 
 working under me as also an Instrument. Why should not 
 servants be chosen as well as mistresses ? The rooms were kept 
 by a Mrs. Peglar, a church member in the Baptist Connection, 
 who, though exorbitant in her charges, appeared to be clean 
 and respectable. 
 
 ' Bournemouth is a dull place, especially when one cannot 
 go outside the door in rainy weather. It rained every day, and 
 in consequence I was compelled to remain in the house. As I 
 was never given to the frivolous and vain fashion of reading 
 novels to pass the time, holding, as I do, the opinion that one's 
 own responsibilities are quite enough to occupy one's whole 
 attention without engaging upon those of others, I found the 
 hours between breakfast and dinner, dinner and tea, tea and 
 supper, sufficiently long. Jane is never good at conversation, 
 and besides was now torn from all those scenes which in New- 
 bury furnished her with subjects of thought and topics of talk ; 
 tuse, if she looked out of doors, she knew nobody, not even 
 the butcher's boy or the milkman, with whom she could exchange 
 a word of news. I therefore fell back upon Mrs. Peglar and 
 her experiences. 
 
 : These, spiritually, were interesting, as such experiences 
 usually are. I imparted mine to her, and we communicated to 
 each other certain tracts, which seemed to each to suit the case 
 
 3
 
 34 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 of the other. I may say that mine, which bore upon the honesty 
 due by Christians to those of the bousehold, produced no effect 
 upon the next week's bill, in which the overcharge for coals, 
 candles, firewood, and such trifles as salt and pepper, was un- 
 worthy of a Professed Church Member. However, this, to a 
 man of your spendthrift habits, will appear irrelevant.' 
 
 ' Dear me !' sighed Anthony, laying down the paper. ' This 
 is very dreary reading.' 
 
 ' Having exchanged spiritual experiences, we proceeded to 
 talk about things temporal. Mrs. Peglar has had trials out of 
 the common. It is nothing in Bournemouth for lodgers to die, 
 because most of them go there for that purpose, and when 
 (speaking as a lodging-house-keeper) you have got a good 
 invalid in the place, one who pays his way without too many 
 questions and lasts a long time, you are much better off than 
 when you get a mere healthy family down for the summer 
 holidays. " Give me," said Mrs. Peglar, very justly, " give me 
 a good long consumption." She was good enough, it is true, to 
 make an exception in favour of persons like myself, which may 
 have been sincere, as between Church members, or may not. 
 
 ' We talked a good deal, having nothing better to do, over the 
 stories of these lodgers. Mrs. Peglar's experience in the last 
 days and weeks of dying people is very great. Her manner of 
 describing them is powerful ; if she seems sometimes to lack 
 sympathy, it must be remembered that, like the doctor, her inte- 
 rests are concerned in keeping them alive. And I confess to 
 sympathising with Mrs. Peglar, when she declared to me that 
 most of the lodgers who died in her rooms did so from sheer 
 cowardice and want of determination. " I said to them," she 
 declared to me ; " I told them every day that what they wanted 
 was to pluck up — to have a good heart ; oysters and a good 
 heart. None ever died of consumption and decline yet, till they 
 got tired of fighting." She considers that this lack of courage, 
 which might be remedied by careful education, has cost her hun- 
 dreds of pounds already. And she rightly pointed out what a 
 dreadful loss this makes in the aggregate every year, " when you 
 come to consider what a many lodging-house-keepers there are 
 in the different watering-places in England." 
 
 Thus tales of her defunct lodgers occupied all our evenings ; 
 and at night my mind used to run upon the memories of the 
 poor creatures who had died in the bed in which I lay, so that 
 at last I was obliged to have a bedroom candle alight all night, 
 while Jane grew nervous to such a degree — thinking of ghosts 
 while I thought of souls — that nothing would do but the maid 
 of all work must sleep with her as a protection. 
 
 'Naturally, Mrs. Peglar's experiences began with last year,
 
 THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE. 35 
 
 and went back, year by year, until we arrived at a period twenty 
 years ago, and one morning she said to me : 
 
 ' " And now I have got to tell you about my beautif ullest 
 patient of all — the poor young lady that died in your very bed 
 one and twenty years ago." 
 
 ' I had by this time heard so many stories of dying lodgers, 
 that the announcement did not at the moment awaken any 
 sympathy. You will perceive, in a moment, how much it inte- 
 rested me, after a while. She told me — I spare you her own 
 account, which was lengthy and full of digressions — that exactly 
 twenty years before last October, as near as she could recollect. 
 a young lady, looking not more than twenty-two or so, was 
 brought to her house by a gentleman. The lady, who wore a 
 wedding-ring, called the gentleman Anthony, or dear Anthony. 
 He called her Dora, or dear Dora. Their name was Hamblin. 
 She was very weak, and unable to speak much or sit up . The 
 gentleman was unremitting in his attentions, watched by her 
 side all the day, left her only at night, and anticipated all her 
 wants. Her face was shrunken (Mrs. Peglar said) as if she had 
 suffered a good deal : and her mind was wandering. She could 
 not recollect what had happened the day before, but talked a 
 good deal about things that had happened long ago. Her talk 
 was rambling, but it was full of Rachel, Stephen, and Anthony. 
 Sometimes she would look wildly about the room and cry, " Oh ! 
 where is he ! where is he ! What have I done that he does not 
 come to me ?" and then the gentleman would take her hand and 
 soothe her, and say, " Hush, Dora dear, I am here — I am here." 
 Then she would lay back her poor head on the pillow and go to 
 sleep. 
 
 ' Recall the memory of that time, and of your victim, and let 
 it be upon your conscience as a red-hot iron upon the flesh. 
 
 ' Mrs. Peglar, seeing that I was interested, went on to tell mo 
 what you know : how there was no chance from the beginning ; 
 how her head never grew quite right, but kept wandering as if 
 her husband was away from her, while he — meaning you, 
 Anthony Hamblin — was by her bedside. For three weeks she 
 lay on her bed of death ; and one morning, being still in the 
 same brain-cloud, still wondering why her husband did not come 
 to her, still hoping to see him once more before she died, if only 
 to say that she forgave him and prayed God to forgive him, she 
 suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. 
 
 ' Mrs. Peglar said that Mr. Hamblin behaved in a most liberal 
 and generous manner. He gave her everything that the de- 
 ceased p< I except a ring and a bundle of letters. Sho 
 was buried in Bournemouth churchyard, where a marble cross, 
 with her initials and the date of her death, was put up by his 
 orders to mark her grave. 
 
 3-2
 
 36 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' While Mrs. Peglar continued her narrative I said nothing, 
 except to ask a question or two by way of keeping her to the 
 point, and preventing her from mixing up one deceased lodger 
 with another, as one is naturally apt to do who has to look after 
 a succession of consumptives. 
 
 ' At this point, however, I interrupted her, and asked what 
 the deceased lady had left behind her, and if Mrs. Peglar had 
 any of the things still in her possession. She said that they 
 were principally clothes, long since worn out ; but that there 
 was a small desk in which were a watch and chain, a locket, a 
 bracelet, and a few other gauds of like nature, with some sort 
 of a journal, or diary. She had kept the jewellery, she said, 
 intending to sell it when she might be in want of the money. 
 The rainy day had never yet arrived, and the things were with 
 her still. Mark the hand of Providence. The prosperity of 
 Mrs. Peglar was continued in order that I might bring this sin 
 home to you. 
 
 ' I asked her to let me see the things. She went away, and 
 presently returned with a little writing-desk. Of course I knew 
 already who the dead woman was, but I preserved my calmness. 
 I confess, however, that the sight of the writing-desk gave me a 
 shock. It was one I had presented to Dora years before as a 
 reward for some school-girl successes ; a little desk in rosewood, 
 with velvet face when you opened it. As I took it in my hands, 
 the memory of the past came back to me in a full flood, so that 
 for a space I could not speak. 
 
 ' Within the desk were the things of which she had told me. 
 The watch and chain had also been a present from myself . The 
 bracelet and locket, I suppose, were from you. There was a 
 packet of papers tied round with green ribbon. "It is her 
 journal, poor soul," said Mrs. Peglar. There was, I knew, a little 
 secret drawer in the desk — there generally is in these things — I 
 pressed a spring and it came out. Within were two portraits, 
 one of myself, and the other — not of you, as I expected. I took 
 that of myself, and showed it to Mrs. Peglar. It was a small 
 portrait in water-colour, at least five-and- twenty years old, taken 
 when the cares of this life had not yet hardened my features. 
 " Of whom does this remind you, Mrs. Peglar ?" I asked, hold- 
 ing it up. She recognised it immediately, and cried out that it 
 was the very image of me ; adding expressions of wonder and 
 astonishment natural to the situation, and clothed in language 
 common among people in her rank in life. " It is a likeness of 
 myself, Mrs. Peglar," I said. " That unfortunate young lady 
 was my sister ; that wretch who hung over her death-bed was 
 her husband, the man who induced her to leave her happy and 
 Christian home to become the wife of a worldling." She stared 
 at me in amazement. Presently she remarked that if I pleased
 
 THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE. 37 
 
 I was quite welcome to the portraits and to the papers ; but as 
 to the jewellery, that was all her own, given to her by the hus- 
 band of the poor lady. I reassured her on this point. I even 
 offered to buy the watch and chain, and the desk, leaving her 
 the things which came from you. 
 
 ' My own astonishment was so great, that for some time I 
 did not realise the deception which had been practised upon 
 me. Nor was it until next day, when I stood in the cemetery 
 beside her grave, and read the date of her death, that it suddenly 
 came upon me, like a thunderclap, that I had been robbed, for 
 six long years, of a hundred and fifty pounds a year.' 
 
 Here Anthony Hamblin laid down the paper, and stroked 
 his beard. 
 
 ' Ay,' he murmured. ' There is the rub. We might get over 
 most things, but forgery — forgery is a deuced awkward matter. 
 You can't get over forgery.' 
 
 Then he resumed his reading. 
 
 ' I think there is nothing more left to tell you,' the manu- 
 script went on. 
 
 ' The moment I realised this robbery, I perceived, being at 
 that moment by the grave of my sister, that I was clearly 
 pointed out and selected to be the Instrument of wrath. Be- 
 cause I had in my safe at home every one of those receipts for 
 a hundred and fifty pounds each, with poor Dora's signature 
 forged on seven of them. There was a clear road open to me, 
 a road which led me directly and without trouble to the punish- 
 ment of evil-doers and the retribution due to myself and the 
 memory of my sister. Standing beside that grave, I firmly 
 resolved that nothing, no tears, no repentance, no protestation, 
 should sta- my purpose. It was not revenge that I sought ; it 
 was the execution of a punishment in which I was to be the 
 chief Instrument. 
 
 'Having read so far, you may now, Anthony Hamblin, read 
 the journal of your victim. It is a copy of the original, which 
 is reserved to be read aloud in public, and to be quoted in all 
 the papers at your trial.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Anthony, irrelevantly, ' that she did not 
 consult the register of deaths. I rather wish, on the whole, 
 that she had.' 
 
 He laid down the manuscript, and fell a-thinking. 
 
 After a space, he took it up again, and resumed his reading. 
 The house— it was two o'clock in the morning — was so quiet 
 that he could hear the clock in the hall, and its steady ticking 
 jarred upon his ears. Outside, the wind had risen, and whistled 
 among the branches in the trees. He looked about him ner- 
 vously, as if the room was haunted. 
 
 Then he began to read the second part of the manuscript. 
 

 
 38 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 It was a copy, still in the same Italian hand, and a less volumi- 
 nous document than the first. 
 
 It was headed, ' Fragments of a Journal found among my 
 sister's papers.' 
 
 ' I wonder/ said Anthony, ' what the poor girl found to write 
 about, and how I came to leave the papers behind.' 
 
 There were no dates at all ; and the journal, such as it was, 
 ran on in unconnected paragraphs. 
 
 ' It is very lonely here,' it began ; ' I sit, or walk, or read, 
 chiefly by myself. The daughter of the lodging-house-keeper, 
 a girl about my own age, is kind, and sometimes bears me com- 
 pany. But for her, I think I should go mad. 
 
 ' My husband wrote to me yesterday. He is still in London, 
 and says that his affairs keep him there. Why cannot I, too, 
 go to London, and stay with him ?' 
 
 ' I have been sitting on the shingle at the bottom of Stair 
 Hole all the morning. The wind was high, outside the rock, 
 and the waves came tearing through the vaulted passage between 
 the cove and the sea as if they were mad to tear down the rock 
 and to get at me. I was frightened at last, and went back 
 home, where Eliza was waiting for me. with dinner, 
 ***** 
 
 ' It is nearly the end of my second year of married life. 
 What life ! fie never comes now : he has not seen me for six 
 months : he says nothing about coming any more. Always 
 business : always some excuse. If it were not for one thing, I 
 should go mad. 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' I have written again, and asked, for the ninth time, why I 
 cannot go to London and live hidden there, if I must be hidden] 
 Why should I be hidden % why should my husband be ashamed 
 of me ] Yet he replies that family reasons prevent him from 
 acknowledging his marriage ; that he has to consider his brother 
 who must not know anything about it, and his mother who has 
 other views for him. I suppose that the daughter of a dissent- 
 ing tradesman would not please Mrs. Hamblin for her son's 
 wife. Yet I think I could overcome even that prejudice if I 
 had a fair trial. I suppose I must have patience. But why 
 does he not come down to see me ? It is only four hours from 
 London. He might come, if he cared for me, if but from 
 Saturday to Monday. 
 
 ' But he does not care for me any longer. Each letter is 
 colder and harder. If I think of it, I seem to remember that 
 every day, while we were together, saw him become colder and 
 more indifferent. Did he ever love me at all ? 
 
 *****
 
 THE JOURNAL OF A DESERTED WIFE. 39 
 
 ' It is now five months since he has seen me, and three weeks 
 since he has written to me. I have not told him — I do not 
 dare to tell him— what is going to happen. I dread to think of 
 what he will say. Already he says he must reduce the allow- 
 ance of three guineas a week to two, and that I had better 
 content myself with one room instead of having both a bed- 
 room and a sitting-room. Was it for this that I gave up my 
 home, and ran away from Eachel? 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' I have been ill, and have consulted the doctor. He says 
 that I live too much alone, and that my nerves are giving way. 
 He has prescribed iron, but says that my husband ought to 
 come down and see me oftener. I was afraid to tell him that 
 he has not seen me for six months. I have written to him, and 
 told him what the doctor says. But I have not told him — what 
 I have kept a secret. That shall be a surprise for him. If he 
 is pleased, I shall be happy. If he is angry and discontented, I 
 have made up my mind what to do — I will go back to Rachel, 
 and tell her all. She will forgive me, in spite of what she 
 wrote. 
 
 ' My husband has written me another letter, colder and more 
 cruel than any he has ever sent me before. He upbraids me 
 with bringing him into poverty, says that he cannot any longer 
 support the expenses of a wife, and tells me that I must look 
 about for work of some kind to do. Work ! 
 
 ' If only he knew what chance there is of my being able to 
 do any work ! Has he a heart at all — this man, whom once I 
 loved? Does he remember? Do men's words and promises 
 mean nothing at all ? Do they think that women can be taken 
 up, petted for a week, and then thrown aside? If I dared, I 
 would go to Rachel at once. But I do not dare. Let me wait, 
 if I can, for a few weeks yet — till my story is complete. 
 ***** 
 
 ' I have been very ill indeed, they tell me. My husband has 
 written me another cruel and peremptory letter. He can no 
 longer afford me more than a guinea a week, and 1 am in debt 
 already to doctor and to landlady. What shall I do ? What 
 shall I do ?' 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' Anthony has come. It was a thought inspired surely by my 
 Heavenly Father, which prompted me to ask him to forgive all 
 — to forget it, if he could, and to come to m\ help. He has 
 come. He forgives me everything. Oh, how have I sinned 
 towards bim ! and yet I hardly knew it in my blind infatuation. 
 He has c< me — come like an angel from heaven, bringing gifts 
 of love and forgiveness with him. I am almost happy. I shall
 
 40 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 never want for sympathy and love any more, now that I have 
 Anthony to take care of me. 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' I am moved out of the one room in which I had taken 
 refuge. I am lying on a sofa in the best room of the house. 
 Anthony is inexpressibly thoughtful and kind to me. There is 
 nothing for me to do now, but to wait in patience. He reads to 
 me ; anticipates my smallest wish ; calls for me ; treats me just 
 as he used to in the dear old days, like a little child whose 
 moods are of no account except as an amusement. How sweet 
 it is ! The time slips backwards, and sometimes I think I am 
 still at Olivet Lodge, playing, in too much happiness, sometimes 
 with Anthony, and sometimes with Stephen, and waiting for 
 Rachel to come and scold me for laughing. Poor Rachel ! She 
 thinks that all laughter must be turned into mourning.' 
 ***** 
 
 This was the last, the very last, of the entries. 
 
 When Anthony Hamblin laid down the paper, his tears were 
 flowing freely. He sat gazing into the decaying embers, while 
 he cried like a girl. 
 
 ' Poor Dora !' he said. ' Poor, neglected flower ! It was 
 right that a time should come for punishment, I confess it. 
 And yet, for Alison's sake, that punishment should be averted. 
 Thank Heaven ! I have still time. I have Saturday and Sunday 
 before me ; a great deal may be done in forty-eight hours. 
 Rachel, I think your victim will escape you yet !' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 TO HIS RUIN OR HIS DEATH, 
 
 When, next morning, Anthony Hamblin appeared in the break- 
 fast-room, his daughter, for the first time in her life, realised 
 that her father might some day grow old. For he looked already 
 ten years older. 
 
 A single sleepless night, the trouble into which he had fallen, 
 the memory of that tearful journal, the revival of so sad and 
 terrible a death-bed, had already stamped his eyes with crows- 
 feet and drawn a line across his forehead. 
 
 ' My dear,' cried the girl, ' are you ill ? Is.it still the trouble 
 of last night ?' 
 
 ' Always the trouble of last night,' he said, kissing her. ' Give 
 me a day or two to shake it off, if ever I can.'
 
 TO HIS RUIN OR HIS DEATH. 41 
 
 She poured out tea for him. and he made a pretence at break- 
 fast, but his hand shook, and his appetite failed. 
 
 Presently he rose abruptly and went into his study ; here he 
 sat down and took up the thread of his thought at the point 
 where dressing and breakfast had interrupted him. 
 
 He was to see his brother at three ; before then— or should it 
 be after? perhaps better before — he would see his lawyers. 
 Yes, better before. Then he could go to his brother with that 
 sense of strength, consolation, or hope, which a talk with a 
 lawyer always confers upon a man. 
 
 Then he thought of that woman with hard face and revengeful 
 eyes. Was the spirit of wrath in her wholly due to her sister's 
 wrongs, and not at all to the memory of that unlucky mistake 
 when she took his pleadings on behalf of Dora for honest wooing 
 addressed to herself ? Perhaps, he thought, with a smile, there 
 was something of the spretce injuria formce. He pictured to 
 himself the application before the magistrates, the charge, the 
 trial, the excitement among his acquaintances, the consternation 
 of his friends, and lastly, the sorrow, shame, and agony of 
 Alison. 
 
 ' It was for this,' he said, ' that I brought her up in ignorance 
 and in happiness. Now she must learn all, and who will tell 
 her, and in what language will it be told ?' 
 
 Alison would not leave him long undisturbed. She broke in 
 upon his study, and tried to lead his thoughts in a happier 
 direction. She was so happy herself in the conscious possession 
 of her new secret — shared at present with no other than Gilbert 
 himself — that her father's disquietude jarred upon her. 
 
 ' Papa,' she said, standing before him just as, long before, she 
 used to stand and repeat poetry, with her hands behind her, 
 and depths of wisdom in her steadfast eyes — ' papa, can you 
 say begone dull care, for a little half-hour, and let me talk 
 to you ?' 
 
 ' Talk, my dear,' said her father ; ' give me your hands — both 
 of them.' He took one in each of his, in his fond caressing 
 way. ' Talk to me till dull care flies away of her own accord. 
 If you cannot drive her away, no one can. Forgive me that I 
 am so moody. Now tell me, did you have a pleasant party last 
 night ?' 
 
 She shook her head, and turned rosy red. 
 ' I do not want to talk about the party, but about something 
 else. Papa, did — did Mr. Yorke speak to you last night ?' 
 Anthony Hamblin remembered. 
 
 ' Ifo is to speak to me to-morrow, after church — no, on 
 Tuesday.' 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, and sat upon his knees, 
 whispering:
 
 42 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' It is — about me, papa.' 
 
 He kissed her, and said nothing for a while. 
 
 ' Gilbert Yorke is so old a friend, my dear, that you know 
 what I think. Tell me of yourself : Do you think that you 
 can love him — quite in the right way, I mean — with respect 
 and admiration?' 
 
 ' I am sure I can, papa.' 
 
 ' His people are proud of their family — if they should object 
 — should anything be discovered ' 
 
 What did he mean, as he spoke in a disconnected way ? What 
 were his thoughts? 
 
 ' Why, dear,' said Alison, laughing, ' our family is as good as 
 Gilbert's, I should think. Are we beginning to be ashamed of 
 old Anthony Hamblin's first indigo venture ?' 
 
 Her father recovered himself. 
 
 ' Why, no,' he replied. ' It was not of that I was thinking — 
 not at all. Well, Alison child, you will have your own way, I 
 hope, though at present I don't see how. But what shall I do 
 without you ? I think I shall give you up this house to your- 
 selves, and ask for a couple of rooms at the top, where I can 
 stay and watch you .' 
 
 More they talked in this same light fashion, behind which 
 lay those depths of affection and feeling which we English 
 people love to keep hidden, happy in knowing that each by 
 each they are divined and known, and account is taken. Pass 
 it over. Remember only that every word spoken by the girl 
 sank deep into the heart of the father. 
 
 This talk lightened for awhile the trouble which lay at the 
 man's heart. He half forgot the interview which he was to 
 have with his solicitor at two, his brother at three, and the 
 magistrates on Monday morning. He was a man who could 
 easily forget. Those who suffer greatly and quickly, through 
 the ill deeds of themselves or others, have not uncommonly this 
 compensating gift of forgetfulness. 
 
 The girl grew happier in seeing the cloud roll away from her 
 father's face. It was, to be sure, a most unaccustomed cloud — 
 almost the first she had ever seen upon that contented brow. 
 Not quite the first, because Uncle Stephen had more than once 
 occasioned an evening of gloom. 
 
 Then that unlucky inspiration, which some philosophers call 
 the Devil, entered into Alison's mind. She should have stayed 
 with her father ; she should have watched beside him, chased 
 the spirit of gloom from his mind, enabled him to look things 
 in the face, and confront the inevitable with courage. Un- 
 luckily she thought that exercise would do him good, and ordered 
 him to go out. 
 
 ' Take your skates,' she said in her peremptory way, ' and go
 
 TO HIS RUIN OR HIS DEATH. 43 
 
 on to the Mount Pond. I will come after you presently, and 
 we will skate all the morning.' 
 
 He obeyed, and left the house with the usual smile on his 
 lips and in his kindly eyes. Alison watched him as he crossed 
 the lawn, walking, in spite of his fifty years, with the elasticity 
 and spring of youth. 
 
 ' Why,' sighed Alison, ' should there not be a country where 
 we could send such relations as Uncle Stephen into distant exile, 
 with plenty to eat and nothing to do \ It should be called 
 Prodigal Son Land.' 
 
 Then her eyes fell upon the manuscript which her father had 
 left upon the table. On the right-hand corner were written 
 the words ' Private and Confidential.' She rolled it up, and 
 took it into her own room, where she locked it up in a drawer. 
 
 It was not much that Alison knew of the wickedness of the 
 world, but that little she had accustomed herself, somehow, to 
 connect with her Uncle Stephen. The pomps and vanities of 
 this wicked world, the pride of the eye, and all the rest of it, 
 were mere phrases of empty sound to this innocent and simple 
 girl— represented something outside her own world in which 
 her father had no part or share. As whatever vexation came 
 to the house seemed caused by her uncle, it was not unnatural 
 that he should become her ideal of the wicked man who turneth 
 not away from his wickedness ; and therefore, on this occasion, 
 she assumed, without right or reason, that Uncle Stephen had 
 been doing something more than usually wicked. 
 
 Outside the house, Anthony Hamblin set off at a brisk walk 
 to the Mount Pond, where he was to be joined by his daughter. 
 The Common was covered with snow, and the turf was crisp 
 and hard. The furze-bushes seemed to be huddling together, 
 in spite of their prickles, for warmth beneath their white 
 covering. The sky was clear and bright overhead, but in the 
 south there was mist and the sun shone like a burnished disk. 
 The snow rounded off the roughness of the old Common. 
 
 Anthony walked on cheerfully, brushing away the snow and 
 swinging his skates as he went. For the moment he had for- 
 gotten the dreaded appointment with his brother. He would 
 spend the morning on the ice, and strengthen his nerves with 
 exercise. He came to the Mount Pond, crowded with skaters, 
 and stood there awhile watching. Suddenly his cheerfulness 
 vanished, and his heart sank within him. He remembered a 
 day — long ago, thirty years a<, f o — when he had stood, then still 
 a youth, beside his mother, and watching one boy skating among 
 the rest, the handsomest of them all. He remembered the 
 mother's pride ; he remembered how she pressed his arm, and 
 whispered that she thanked God for both her sons. Then he 
 could bear the place no longer, but turned away, sad and sorry,
 
 44 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 and walked from the pond and the Common, still carrying his 
 skates. 
 
 He forgot that Alison was coming to skate with him ; he 
 forgot everything except that he had to see his solicitor and 
 reveal things to him which would cover himself with shame 
 and that respectable adviser with astonishment. He did not 
 look about him, but wandered mechanically along roads and 
 streets. 
 
 Presently he remembered that time must be getting on : he 
 looked at his watch — it was only half-past eleven. Yet in his 
 thoughts he had lived over again every year of his life since he 
 left the Common. Half-past eleven — what could he do to pass 
 the time before two ? 
 
 He looked around him : he was at Victoria ; he had walked 
 all the way from Clapham Common to Victoria without know- 
 ing it ; he could not even remember by what streets he had 
 come. 
 
 ' After all,' he said, ' perhaps I am a fool to distress myself 
 so much. We shall manage to square it.' 
 
 A strange thing to say, considering what it was that was 
 hanging over his head. Then he pulled himself upright and 
 walked along with a brighter air. Presently, he found himself 
 at Hyde Park Corner, and followed in the stream of people 
 which was pouring into the Park, most of them carrying skates. 
 
 ' Alison said I was to skate,' he murmured ; ' I will, though on 
 the Serpentine instead of Clapham Common.' 
 
 The Long Water and the Serpentine were crowded. There 
 were skaters who plunged and struck out, and splashed about 
 with arms and legs, bending low forward and making little 
 headway ; there were men who wore the old-fashioned skate 
 with projecting curve and straight heel, the Dutch skate — these 
 men, with long stroke and easy roll of the body, swung swiftly 
 down one side of the water, and returned in the same way up 
 the other ; there was the skater who could do anything on the 
 ice that science can teach or skill contrive ; there was the young 
 fellow who imitated him, but failed to catch his ease and missed 
 his grace ; there were the girls who were learning, trying not to 
 fall, and burning to move easily and gracefully ; there was the 
 girl who really could skate, and looked like enjoying it ; there 
 were her young sisters taking first lessons, and tumbling about 
 like little kittens ; there was the rough with his pals, uneasily 
 conscious that the eyes of many policemen were about ; there 
 were shoals of schoolboys, and thousands of those men and 
 women of the lower classes who never seem to have anything 
 to do, who crowd the parks with equal readiness for a parade, 
 a drawing-room, a review, the arrival of a distinguished visitor, 
 or the rare occasion of the ice proving strong enough to bear.
 
 TO HIS RUIN OR HIS DEATH. 45 
 
 A mighty mob it was, but a good-humoured mob. And the 
 banks were as crowded as the ice. All along the edge were 
 rows of the men who turned the nimble penny by screwing on 
 skates, lending chairs, and other useful arts. Then there were 
 the men of the Royal Humane Society, ready with boats, ladders, 
 and drags : they had a tent in one place with a fire in it, and 
 crafty restoratives for those who might have the ill hap to 
 tumble in. Standing before this tent was a man known to 
 Anthony. He was neatly and serviceably dressed, in boots up 
 to his hips, and a beautiful doublet or overcoat of cork. 
 
 ' Good-morning, sir,' he said, touching his hat. ' Going on, 
 like the rest of 'em ?' 
 
 1 1 don't know,' said Mr. Hamblin. 
 
 ' Better have a turn, sir,' said the man ; ' the weather is on 
 the turn. This is the last day, belike. Give me your heavy 
 coat ; I will take care of it for you. There's no wind, and 
 you'll be all the better without it.' 
 
 Anthony complied. He took off the heavy overcoat, and gave 
 it to the man, who laid it over a chair at the door of the tent. 
 
 ' There, sir, it's quite safe with me. You'll find me here 
 when you come off.' 
 
 Anthony Hamblin left him and strolled down to the water's- 
 edge. Again another sinking of the heart, another strange fit 
 of irresolution and fear. He could not go on the ice. He could 
 do nothing except think. 
 
 'Poor Alison !' he said for the fiftieth time. 'That which 
 she thought would be her happiness will only bring her greater 
 misery. How shall she escape ? What can I do to save her 
 from this blow ? Any way, any way,' he repeated drearily. 
 ' Because whatever I do, whether I speak or whether I hold my 
 tongue, that woman means to go on. She intends revenge. 
 And her revenge means unhappiness to Alison. How if I were 
 to write and tell the poor girl all ? But that would only pre- 
 cipitate things. No ; there is nothing left but to go to Stephen 
 — he must know — tell him who has called upon me, and for 
 what ; and trust to forty-eight hours' start — and flight.' 
 
 Here his meditations were disturbed. Right in front of him, 
 in the middle of the Serpentine, where the stream was deepest 
 and jet the crowd thickest, there was a sudden report, like the 
 discharge of a cannon, followed by the scattering of the crowd 
 in all directions ; while everywhere the treacherous ice broke 
 beneath the flying feet, and plunged them in the cold water 
 below. Was it possible ? Where the people had been crowded, 
 skating and running, Anthony gazed upon a great open space, 
 in which a hundred and fifty people were struggling in the water 
 among the broken blocks of ice for very life, amid the shrieks 
 aud cries of spectators helpless to do anything.
 
 46 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 In a moment, the Society's men were out upon their ladders, 
 and ready with their boats, their ropes, and their life-belts. 
 Dripping forms of men and women were dragged from death, 
 and hurried across to warm fires and dry towels. The crowd 
 surged down to the edge of the water with cries and shouts, as 
 eager to watch the fight for life as if it were a show of gladiators. 
 Anthony felt his own pulses quicken, and the blood flow swiftly, 
 as one after the other the victims were rescued. He was rudely 
 torn from his own troubles, and, for the moment, foi'got them. 
 "When it was all over, when it seemed as if the men in the boat 
 with the drags had nothing more to do, he bethought him of his 
 coat, and that it was getting cold. He left the shore and went 
 back to the hut. 
 
 His friend, the man with the corks, was gone. Doubtless he 
 was one of those -with the ladders. A policeman was left in 
 charge. He was talking to a girl of his acquaintance. 
 
 ' It isn't them as is drowned,' he was saying, ' that the crowd 
 cares about — they go down quick, and they don't come up no 
 more. It's them as is saved.' 
 
 ' How many should you think is drowned ?' asked the girL 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 
 ' Who can tell ? We shall go on fishing of them up one by 
 one. In the summer perhaps, if they let the water down, we 
 shall find a body or two we never suspected. And for the next 
 month or so, if a young fellow has bolted or a girl has run away, 
 they will make inquiries here and say he was drowned on the 
 ice. Lord bless you ! it's a regular godsend to bolters and run- 
 aways, is an accident like this.' 
 
 ' Ah !' replied the girl, ruminating over this statement. 
 ' Here's a coat, now,' she said presently, taking up Anthony 
 Hamblin's overcoat ; ' I suppose that belongs to a skater.' 
 
 ' Yes, it does. Harris told me he was taking care of it for a 
 gentleman he knew, who had gone on the ice.' 
 
 ' I wonder if he's one of them as went in the ice,' said the girl. 
 ' Shall I look to see if he has left a name. No ; you look.' 
 
 The policeman put his hand in the pocket and drew out a 
 pocket-book full of letters. 
 
 ' Here we are, sure enough. Letters addressed to Anthony 
 Hamblin — Anthony Hamblin — cards — Anthony Hamblin. You 
 are all right, Mr. Anthony Hamblin, Clapham Common. If 
 you are drowned, all we have got to do is to carry this coat 
 home to your family, and it will break the news for us, a deal 
 better than we can do it for ourselves.' 
 
 ' Lor !' cried the girl, ' ain't it horrible ? And do you really 
 
 think that the coat belongs to a that poor Mr. Hamblin is 
 
 actually drowned ? Good gracious ! Why I couldn't never 
 touch the coat again.'
 
 TO HIS RUIN OR HIS DEA TH. 47 
 
 Silly,' said the guardian of the peace. ' How do I know if 
 he's drowned or not ? If he is, he will never come and ask for 
 his coat. If he is not, why. then he will be round here in a 
 minute or two with a shilling for Harris for taking care of it. 
 Don't you fill your head with nonsense.' 
 
 The man listening to this talk, the real owner of the coat, 
 was trembling as rf with cold. It was not the cold, however, 
 but the eagerness of his thoughts which agitated him. The 
 words of the policeman inspired him with a sudden idea. 
 
 He saw a way of escape. 
 
 He had been praying in a despairing mood for a way — any 
 wav. Here was one suddenly, unexpectedly, offering itself. 
 
 He said, in his mind, ' She will pursue me to ruin or to death. 
 What if I were really dead ? Then nothing would ever be in- 
 vestigated ; nothing would ever be found out. Alison would 
 shed a few tears, it is true, but she would dry them soon ; she 
 would marry young Yorke. A few years more and Rachel 
 Nethersole would be dead too, and with her all memory of this 
 thing. Her revenge would be ended, because death brings an 
 end to all. The honour of the house would be saved. Alison 
 would be saved from disgrace. "Why, it seems no sacrifice at all, 
 considering what there is at stake.' 
 
 He turned from the Serpentine and walked resolutely straight 
 across the Park towards the east. 
 
 ' She said, to my ruin or my death. Very well, then, I am 
 
 DEAD.' 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE DAY AFTER. 
 
 WHEN Anthony Hamblin rashly jumped at the conclusion that 
 by effacing himself he could remove all trouble at one stroke 
 and enable everybody else to live happy ever after, he calculated 
 on that one trouble alone. Now the network of human miseries 
 is so artfully constructed that when you have got rid of the most 
 pressing and troublesome by some clever coup-de-mam, you find 
 you have only opened the door to other unsuspected causes of 
 suffering. The earth is like that island seen by Lucian, which was 
 planted everywhere with knives, swords, daggers, pikes, lances, 
 and spears, so that the wretched inhabitants constantly spiked, 
 lacerated, gashed, and ripped open their unlucky skins. Nature 
 is always ready to stick in the knife in some place where we 
 i expect it. At any rate, to run away never helps : assume 
 rather a bold front, and buy a pennyworth of court-plaster.
 
 48 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 As every copybook which has room on the text-hand page says ; 
 ' Temerity dismays the Foe.' 
 
 Yet it seems so easy simply to run away. Fighting is trouble- 
 some and exciting. It requires physical activity ; it prevents 
 the solid enjoyment of meals; it interrupts the calm flow of 
 ideas ; it makes a Christian man angry, inclined to evil thought, 
 and harsh speech, and desire of revenge. You run away, and 
 there is no troublesome fight at all. To be sure, you may find 
 that your self-respect has been left on the field of battle. In 
 Mr. Hamblin's case that would not matter, because there was 
 not going to be an Anthony Hamblin any more. There are, 
 too, so many situations in fife when flight would seem desir- 
 able : when you have become so clogged and bemired with 
 debts that there is no help but in a complete change 
 of identity: when you have done something, and it is going 
 to be found out ; when you have got into a mess of a 
 domestic kind, and are threatened with a breach-of -promise 
 case : when you are let out of prison : when your conscience — 
 this case is very, very rare — smites you for having given your 
 relations so much trouble, and you resolve that they shall have 
 heard the last of you, lent their last five -pound note to you, 
 written the last letter of remonstrance, appeal, and indignation, 
 and forgiven you for the last, the four hundred and ninetieth 
 time : when you find that you have been on a wrong tack — 
 another rare case — and have advocated mischievous and mis- 
 taken doctrines : when you find that your marriage has proved 
 a failure and that the poor woman tied to you would be cer- 
 tainly happier as a widow, and perhaps happier with another man: 
 when you consider how detestable a father, husband, brother, 
 son, cousin, and distant relation you have been, and how very 
 satisfactory it would be to the whole family to put on mourning 
 for you. ' He is gone, poor fellow ; but one cannot feel other- 
 wise than relieved. When a man is irreclaimable, he is better — 
 under the sod.' You would hear this said, being in reality 
 alive, although hidden away. 
 
 It is possible to multiply such cases indefinitely. There are 
 indeed many men, of my own personal acquaintance, who may 
 perhaps take a hint, should they read these pages, and consider 
 how much better it would be for everybody if they were only 
 as good as dead. I believe, indeed, that there must be whole 
 townships, with gay billiard-saloons, churches, and daily papers, 
 somewhere in the States, in which all the inhabitants are men 
 who have disappeared. There is somewhere a subterranean 
 population, so to speak, of buried folk ; they are ghosts in the 
 flesh ; they are cousins, brothers, uncles, nephews, long since 
 mourned as dead, now gambling and drinking under new names. 
 Some day I will visit such a place and get their secrets out of
 
 THE DA Y AFTER. 49 
 
 the men over Bourbon whisky, under promise of inviolable 
 secrecy, In England there are no such townships of refuge ; 
 but Alsatia exists, and has always existed. It used to be some- 
 where about Blackfriars — it is now, I believe, somewhere east 
 of Thames Tunnel. The unburied dead — those who have 
 generously disappeared — when they do not go to America, take 
 refuge in the vast, unexplored, monotonous East-end. Here 
 all alike live and die in a grey and sunless obscurity ; here a 
 man may pass a hundred years forgotten and unsuspected. 
 
 Mr. Hamblin never returned to claim his great-coat. The 
 policeman waited ; as long as she could, the girl waited too, 
 attracted by the singular fascination of a coat that in all proba- 
 bility had belonged to a drowned man. Presently, the Humane 
 Society's officer, Harris, came back, his work of dragging and 
 rescuing over for the present ; then the girl went away, and the 
 two men waited. The scared and terrified skaters had all left 
 the ice. 
 
 The afternoon came on ; policemen and officers were still at 
 their posts ; the banks were crowded with those who came to 
 gaze on the gap in the ice, the sudden grave of so many ; the 
 early evening closed in, but Mr. Hamblin appeared not. 
 
 When Harris carried back his tent to the office of the Society, 
 and his day's work was done, he, with the policeman, made 
 their way to Clapham Common, and delivered up the coat and 
 told their story. 
 
 It was then nearly six o'clock. Reporters had already got 
 hold of lists, so far as they could be arrived at. One or two 
 had learned from Harris that the owner of the coat, by which 
 he kept so steady a watch, was a great City magnate, chief 
 partner in the well-known firm of ' Anthony Hamblin and Com- 
 pany ;' and in the later editions of the evening papers it was 
 rumoured that Mr. Anthony Hamblin was among the missing. 
 Yet no word of this report went down to the house in Clapham 
 Common, where Alison, wondering a little why her father had 
 not kept his appointment on the Mount Pond, sat in quiet 
 happiness, expecting no evil, and dreaming of Gilbert Yorke. 
 
 When the two men came to the house in the evening, they 
 were like unto Joseph's brethren when they brought with them 
 their false piece de conviction, inasmuch as they bore a coat, 
 paying, ' This have we found ; know now whether it be thy 
 father's coat or no.' 
 
 Surely, surely, had her father thought of Alison's grief and 
 terror, he would have spared her the cruel blow. Had he 
 thought of her long watches in the night, of her agony, her 
 hoping against hope, he might have found some better way. 
 
 And yet, he might have said, ' Suffering is better than shame. 
 
 4
 
 5o 
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 What are the tears of a night, of a week, of a season, compared 
 to the wound which never heals, the scar which cannot be 
 hidden, the mantle of disgrace which must be worn like the 
 canvas suit of a lifelong convict — till death brings an end '?' 
 
 When the coat came, they sent messengers and inquiries 
 everywhere. Mr. Hamblin had not been to the City ; his 
 partners had not seen him at all that day ; he had kept none of 
 his appointments. 
 
 On Sunday morning, when messages came from all quarters 
 to ask whether Mr. Hamblin had returned, there were no news 
 of him ; but Miss Hamblin was like a wild thing, they reported, 
 for grief and anxiety, and Mrs. Cridland could do nothing to 
 ease or soothe her. 
 
 The latest editions of the evening papers added to the first 
 brief account of the accident lists of the drowned, as accurately 
 as could be obtained. Among them was the name of Mr. 
 Anthony Hamblin. 
 
 ' It is generally feared,' said the Globe, ' that among those 
 who have met a sudden end in this dreadful disaster is Mr. 
 Anthony Hamblin, senior partner in the house of Anthony 
 Hamblin and Co., of Great St. Simon Apostle, City. The un- 
 fortunate gentleman was last seen and spoken to by an officer 
 of the Royal Humane Society — Harris by name — to whom he 
 was well known as a liberal supporter of the Institution. Mr. 
 Hamblin expi'essed his intention of going on the ice for an hour, 
 and enti'usted to the man's care a heavy overcoat. He had 
 skates with him. This was about half-an-hour before the 
 breaking of the ice. He did not return for his coat. As yet, 
 the body has not been identified among those recovered. We 
 learn by telegram that he had not up to six o'clock returned to 
 his residence on Clapham Common. Mr. Hamblin, who was 
 greatly respected in private life, was a widower, and leaves one 
 daughter.' 
 
 Stephen Hamblin had been in his chambers all the afternoon, 
 waiting for his brother, who did not keep the appointment. 
 He was anxious to see Anthony for one or two special reasons 
 of his own, connected with that shortness of cash we have 
 already alluded to. It was not usual with Anthony to miss an 
 engagement, nor was it, on the other hand, a common thing 
 with him to seek one with Stephen. What was it he wanted 
 to talk about ? There could surely be no unpleasantness about 
 past and future advances ; that was altogether unlike Anthony. 
 Some slight anxiety, however, weighed on the mind of the 
 younger brother. He had a foreshadowing of something dis- 
 agreeable. So that it was almost with a sense of relief that at 
 half-past five he gave up the hope of seeing Anthony, and re- 
 solved to wait for him no longer.
 
 THE DA Y AFTER. 5 1 
 
 Stephen went to the reading-room of his club. There was 
 no one in the place whom he knew. All along the streets he 
 had heard the boys shouting as they brandished their papers : 
 ' Dreadful accident on the Serpentine ! List of the drowned !' 
 
 Things like domestic calamities, national misfortunes, or the 
 affairs of other nations, troubled Stephen very little. He had 
 not the curiosity to buy an evening paper : at the club he had 
 not the curiosity to look at one. He sat by the fire with a 
 French novel in his hand, one of a school which is now un- 
 happily coming to the front. The author was determined on 
 being more than realistic ; he would spare the reader nothing ; 
 he invented details. When Stephen had read and fully realised 
 all the dreadfulness of a low and small workshop crammed 
 with work-girls ; when he had read their talk ; when he saw 
 them before him in all their squalor ; when he was beginning 
 to think that the other sex had better never have been invented, 
 the clock struck seven, and he remembered that his luncheon 
 had been scanty and early. He threw away the novel, which 
 he never afterwards finished, took an evening paper, and de- 
 scended to the dining-room There is one thing about a good 
 dinner which I do not remember to have seen noticed anywhere 
 — it demands a fitting successor ; you cannot, without doing a 
 violence to the best and most gastric impulses of our humanity, 
 follow up a great and glorious dinner by a common steak. 
 Stephen, though he did not put his thought into words, felt 
 this. He ordered a little puree, a red mullet, a cutlet, and a 
 golden plover. He said he would take a bottle of champagne, 
 Heidsieck — a bottle, not a pint. And then, while the soup was 
 being brought, he sat down and began the evening's news. 
 
 He threw down the paper with an oath. ' Always my cursed 
 luck,' he said. ' Just when I wanted him worse than ever.' 
 
 Some men have been known to shed tears at hearing of a 
 brother's sudden death ; some have instinctively considered how 
 the calamity would affect his widow and children. Stephen 
 and a certain American boy (he, on learning that his father was 
 drowned, lamented that his own pocket-knife was gone with 
 him) are the only two of whom I have ever heard that they 
 immediately thought of their personal and selfish interests. 
 Some feeling of regret might have been looked for, some ex- 
 pression of sorrow for a brother who had done so much for him. 
 But there was none. He scowled at the paper : he brooded 
 over the news. It spoiled his dinner ; it took the sparkle out 
 of the champagne, the flavour out of the plover. "When he had 
 finished, he walked quickly to his chambers in Pall Mall, packed 
 up some things, and drove to Clapham Common. The partners 
 were there ; Gilbert Yorke was there ; they were looking in 
 each other's faces, dismayed. Mrs. Cridland was somewhere 
 
 4—2
 
 52 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 weeping with Alison ; the boy was standing by the fire in the 
 study, ready to run wherever he might be sent, awed and 
 tearful. 
 
 ' Stephen,' said Augustus, taking him by the hand, ' I am glad 
 you are come. This is your proper place in the present dreadful 
 anxiety.' 
 
 'Yes,' he said loudly and defiantly. 'Tell Miss Hamblin, 
 Charles ' — this to the footman — ' or better, Mrs. Cridland, that 
 I have arrived. Yes, Augustus, this is my place, with my 
 niece. I shall remain here for her protection.' 
 
 No one went to bed in the Hamblin household. Alison walked 
 up and down all night, starting at the merest sound, rushing to 
 the door if she thought she heard the sound of wheels. With 
 her watched Mrs. Cridland and the boy. Stephen sat in the 
 study. He had no thought of sleep ; his mind was strangely 
 agitated ; from time to time he took a glass of brandy and 
 water ; and as the night went on, when the hands of the clock 
 pointed to those small hours when, if a man be awake, his con- 
 science tells him all the real truth about the past, and his 
 terrors preach most of the possible truth about the future, his 
 despondency became so extreme that he could not bear to sit 
 still. 
 
 When, at length, the long winter's night was over, and the 
 slow dawn appeared, Stephen began to take a little comfort. 
 
 ' He must,' 1 he said, ' have left me something. He would not 
 give everything to that girl. He could not leave me absolutely 
 dependent on her whims.' 
 
 In the kitchen sat the servants, watching in silence. If one 
 of the younger maids dropped off, she was awakened by the 
 others and accused, in whispers, of betraying a hard and un- 
 feeling nature. 
 
 At eight, Harris came and saw Stephen. 
 
 ' There's eight-and-twenty bodies,' he said, ' waiting identifica- 
 tion, but not one like Mr. Hamblin.' 
 
 ' What do you think ?' asked Stephen. 
 
 ' What is a man to think ?' replied the man. ' It was a cold 
 day. If Mr. Hamblin did not go down with the rest, why 
 didn't he come back for the coat ? The body will be recovered, 
 likely, to-day.' 
 
 But it was not. 
 
 The news was heard by Mr. Alderney Codd at eight o'clock, 
 as he was sitting among a circle of friends at a certain tavern 
 near Fleet Street. They were as yet only beginning their 
 whisky and water, and the night was young. Generally the 
 conversation on Saturday nights turned on various projects of 
 ambitious financing, histories of coups which had been made.
 
 THE DA Y AFTER. 53 
 
 and of others, much grander, which had been missed. It is 
 always so : the things in which we fail are ever so much 
 greater than the things in which we succeed. Yet it gives a 
 feeling of superiority to have missed an event greater than any 
 that has fallen in the way of your friends. 
 
 When Alderney Codd had partly recovered the first shock of 
 the sad news, he became at once the hero of the evening. He 
 proceeded to relate, with many digressions and dramatic touches 
 which seemed to brighten the situation, how, only the very night 
 before, he had borrowed of his cousin, Anthony Hamblin, that 
 very coat, f ur-lined, wondrous, which now, an object of venera- 
 tion, hung upon the wall before them for all eyes to see. He 
 said that he was tempted to retain that coat in memory of the 
 lender, and as a special mark of his cousin's affection and esteem 
 for him. He gave free scope to his imagination in discoursing 
 on the greatness of the Hamblin family, and on his own con- 
 nection with the cousinhood. And he naturally assumed 
 additional importance as a possible, nay, a probable, legatee. 
 It was later — in fact, next morning, when the glow of the 
 whisky and water had departed — that honest Alderney reflected 
 with sadness on his own personal loss, not only of a kind friend, 
 but of a ready lender. And it was with a heart unfeignedly 
 sad that he walked over to Clapham, and watched awhile with 
 Stephen. 
 
 There was another man, more deeply interested in the event 
 than either, who read the news with a strange feeling of cold- 
 ness, as if he were indeed dead. This was Anthony himself. 
 He had taken a cheap lodging over a small coffee-house in the 
 Commercial Road, and saw the news in the Sunday morning 
 paper, while eating the richly- flavoured egg and dubious butter 
 which they brought him for breakfast. He had already so 
 changed himself in appearance, by cutting off his beard and 
 presenting smoothness of chin and cheek to the eyes of man- 
 kind, that it would have been difficult for his nearest friends to 
 recognise him. It is a moot question among gentlemen of the 
 burgling and other professions which require ready disguise, 
 whether the bearded man who shaves, or the smooth man who 
 puts on a false beard, has the better chance. I think the feeling 
 is in favour of the former. As regards Anthony Hamblin, he 
 added, for greater security, a pair of green spectacles. Instead 
 of his usual hat he had a billycock, and instead of a frock-coat 
 he wore a nondescript garment of the pea-jacket kind, only 
 longer, such as might have been sported by a racing-man or a 
 publican of broad views. There was not in all Scotland Yard a 
 single officer able to recognise him without close scrutiny. 
 
 He read the paragraph in the paper with great care and 
 attention. Then he laid it down, and began to consider.
 
 54 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 After breakfast, be went to tbe bedroom which was his for 
 the day, and considered again. Yet there was nothing to con- 
 sider about, so far as Alison was concerned, because the coup 
 was struck. ' What was done,' he said to himself, ' could not be 
 undone.' Yet, with regard to himself, there was ample ground 
 for meditation. He had not provided for the step. He had 
 little money with him, only the three or four pounds which a 
 man may generally carry in his pocket ; he had drawn no cheque, 
 and it was now too late. In addition to his little purse, he 
 possessed, he reflected, his diamond studs, his one ring, his gold 
 shirt-links, and his watch and chain. The watch alone had 
 cost him four-and-twenty guineas. But after the proceeds of 
 all these gauds were spent, what was he to do next ? 
 
 Anything, except one thing. He would never return home. 
 
 Another person heard the news, but not until Monday, because 
 that person, who was Rachel Nethersole, never dreamed of the 
 iniquity of looking at a Sunday paper. 
 
 She was deeply disappointed — not so much shocked as dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 ' I told him,' she said to the faithful servant who followed her 
 to the modern Babylon, ' that I was compelled— being an Instru- 
 ment — to follow him to his death or to his ruin. I little thought 
 — but the Judgments are swift — that his death was so near. I 
 imagined ' — she sighed plaintively, as if she meant that she 
 hoped — ' that it was his ruin which was imminent. We are 
 purblind mortals ; and yet he warned me, being so near his end, 
 when men are sometimes granted a vision of the future, that if 
 I continued to pursue the case I should entail consequences the 
 nature of which I little dreamed. Such consequences came as 
 he little dreamed. What a pity !' 
 
 She sniffed violently and with temper. However, at the hour 
 appointed, she repaired to her lawyer. 
 
 ' I should like,' she said, to his intense astonishment — ' I 
 should like the warrant for the apprehension of Anthony 
 Hamblin to be taken out all the same.' 
 
 ' Good heavens !' he cried, 'you cannot ask for the arrest of 
 a dead man !' 
 
 \ 1 wish to show the world the real nature of his character.' 
 
 This was revenge indeed. But Miss Nethersole had to yield 
 to her legal adviser's representations. He said that he refused 
 to make himself and her ridiculous. 
 
 ' What you feel, no doubt,' he said blandly, ' to be a con- 
 scientious measure dictated by pure justice, other people would 
 call revenge.' 
 
 ' I am the Instrument ' she began in her stern cold manner. 
 
 ' Madam,' the lawyer interrupted, ' no doubt — no doubt ; but 
 death has removed your victim. Heaven has interfered. Your
 
 THE DAY AFTER. 55 
 
 instrumentality is no longer required. As for this claim, it be- 
 comes a money-matter. Leave it as such with me ; and I will 
 present it, at proper time and place, to the deceased gentleman's 
 executors.' 
 
 ' So that they will know him — as he was — in his real light !' 
 
 ' Undoubtedly ; they will know all that I tell them — all that 
 I have learned from you. If your claim be disputed, we can 
 .hen seek a remedy in an action at law.' 
 
 ' So that then all the world would know ?' 
 
 ' All the world,' he echoed. ' In that case, which is not at all 
 l.kely to happen, all the world would know.' 
 
 Rachel Nethersole went away. She retired to her house at 
 Newbury, where she resumed the Exercises peculiar to her sect, 
 and tried to feel satisfied with the result of her instrumentality. 
 
 But she was not. She was profoundly dissatisfied ; she had 
 looked for nothing less than going to the police-courts and 
 crying : ' Your dead man, whose virtues you extol, was a 
 common cheat and forger. Here are the proofs. Had it not 
 been for his death, I should have had him arrested on this 
 criminal charge.' And now she was told that she could do 
 nothing — nothing at all ; and the world would go on ascribing 
 virtues to this citizen cut off so suddenly. Her home, which 
 for three months had been glorified, so to speak, by the lurid 
 light of coming revenge, was dull and quiet now that light had 
 gone out of it : her daily life had lost its excitement, and was 
 monotonous. The old pleasures pleased no more. 
 
 She had been so certain of revenge ; she had with her own 
 eyes gloated over her enemy as she announced to him the 
 things which were to befall him ; and now — and now, to think 
 that he had escaped her clutches by an accident which had never 
 entered into her calculations. Why, if John of Leyden had 
 hanged himself, or John Huss died suddenly in the night before 
 the day appointed for torture, the same kind of disappointment 
 would have been felt by the judges. Nor was there so much 
 consolation as might be at first supposed, in the thought that 
 her prey had been cut off in all his sins. Some, no doubt. 
 She would have preferred to think that he was alive still and 
 in prison, clad in convict garb, fed on convict fare, doing con- 
 vict work. A hard, revengeful woman.
 
 56 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HOW THE PARTNERS MADE A PROPOSAL. 
 
 They began by advertising. That was the only thing to dc. 
 They advertised everywhere in newspapers ; outside police- 
 stations — side by side with the proclamations of a hundred 
 pounds reward for the discovery of murderers ; on hoardings, 
 wherever the eye of a passer-by might be caught. For there 
 was one slender chance. Alison told how her uncle had left her 
 in the morning distrait, troubled about something. What could 
 he be troubled about ? Everything had gone well with him ; his 
 business interests were flourishing ; his investments were sound ; 
 he had no annoyances, unless it was that caused by his visitor : 
 he was at peace with the only member of the family who had 
 ever troubled him. 
 
 The partners whispered a word to each other ; their wives 
 and daughters whispered it to Alison. Sudden madness. Such 
 a thing was unknown in the Hamblin family, but not unknown 
 in the history of humanity. Such a thing was possible. It was 
 almost the only explanation possible, except that of death. 
 Anthony Hamblin might have been robbed and murdered. That 
 crime, also, is unhappily not unknown, but rare in London : he 
 could not have been robbed and shut up. Therefore he was 
 either dead or insane. 
 
 In a story told by one of our best English novelists, a man, 
 formerly the skipper of a ship, loses his reason, but retains his 
 sailor instinct, and ships himself before the mast as an able sea- 
 man. This story came back to Alison's mind, and she dwelt 
 upon it. 
 
 ' He left me,' she said to Gilbert Yorke, ' my poor dear left 
 me trying to look cheerful : but he was not. He was troubled 
 in his mind. Painful recollections of things long since for- 
 gotten had been revived in his mind. He could not sleep that 
 night after our party ; he could not take his breakfast ; he was 
 uncertain in his manner, and went backward and forward. 
 Gilbert, I am sure that he is not dead, but living — somewhere, 
 with his poor brain full of some dreadful hallucination.' 
 
 ' It may be, Alison,' said Gilbert, willing to encourage her. 
 It may be so, but then you must consider how we have adver- 
 tised him, how minutely we have described him, and how the 
 papers have talked about it. Why, I should say that half the 
 people in this country know that Mr. Anthony Hambliu is miss-
 
 THE PARTNERS MAKE A PROPOSAL. 57 
 
 ing, and what he is like. The partners began by offering a re- 
 ward of one hundred pounds ; now they have made it a 
 thousand. Why, what a chance for a man who thinks he re 
 cognises the missing man in a stranger !' 
 
 ' Then,' said Alison, ' he must be somewhere among the other 
 half, the people who have never heard of him. Gilbert, do 
 not discourage me,' she went on, her deep eyes filling with tears. 
 ' To think that he is not dead, but living ; to dream at night 
 that his step may be upon the road near the house ; that he is 
 coming back to us all again — it fills me with comfort and hope: 
 but to think otherwise would — oh! I must think that he is 
 living. When they brought home the coat of Joseph to his 
 father, Jacob rent his clothes and mourned. Yet Joseph was 
 not dead, and presently he was restored to his father and his 
 brethren. Oh, Gilbert, some day my father will wake up from 
 his madness, and come back to us all in his right mind.' 
 
 This speculation found no f avonr with Stephen. His brother 
 was dead. That was a fact which admitted of no doubt. 
 
 Certainly, the silence which followed the advertisements 
 boded little hope for Alison's theory. There was hardly any 
 attempt at response. Here and there a letter came, mostly ill- 
 spelt and ill-written, stating that the writer knew such a man 
 as was described, namely, with long brown beard, of whom he 
 knew nothing else. There was that single fact of a beard — 
 could he be the missing Anthony Hamblin ? And, if so, the 
 advertisers would bear in mind the claim of the writer to the 
 reward. But this sort of clue led to nothing. Either, then, 
 Anthony Hamblin was dead, or he was living, as Alison sug- 
 gested, among that half of the English people who had not even 
 heard of his disappearance. Again, a gentleman, who dated 
 from a public-house in the High Street of Islington, wrote once 
 offering confidently to produce Mr. Anthony Hamblin, if the 
 advertisers would first advance ten pounds for preliminary ex- 
 penses, leaving the rest of the reward open until the restoration 
 of the missing gentleman. And another worthy wrote, calling 
 himself the representative and guardian of a boy, whose father 
 was Anthony Hamblin. This philanthropist, on being inter- 
 viewed by a clerk from the solicitor's office, first offered to square 
 the claim for fifty pounds down, and then, being threatened 
 with conspiracy, abruptly bolted. 
 
 At last, Alison consented to put on the garb of mourning. 
 But it was in deference to the wishes of her cousins. For her- 
 self, she would have preferred to continue in the belief that the 
 missing man was not dead but living, and would return some 
 day and ere long to his daughter's arms. 
 
 Stephen, naturally, remained in the house. That course 
 suited him perfectly, first, because he was short of ready-money,
 
 53 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 and free quarters meant great economy ; secondly, because the 
 free quarters were excellent, meaning wine of the very noblest 
 crus, cigars of the finest brands, and a really splendid cook ; 
 thirdly, because it gave him an opportunity of producing a 
 favourable impression on Alison, which might eventually be 
 useful ; and lastly, for a purpose of his own, which was con- 
 ceived later on, by whisper of the devil, and which rapidly grew 
 upon him and became an over-mastering passion. 
 
 He was not a lady's man. He was not altogether at his ease 
 with his cousin Flora Cridland and his niece Alison. He re- 
 joiced, therefore, when he found that they preferred an early 
 dinner with the boy, and allowed him to dine alone in the study. 
 The breakfast hour, again, was early. He would breakfast in 
 the study. After breakfast he inquired ceremoniously after 
 the health of his niece, whom he seldom saw. He interfered 
 with none of the arrangements of the house ; went to town 
 every day after breakfast, came back most days to dine by him- 
 self, and, after dinner, either read a French novel or put up his 
 feet, smoked cigars, drank brandy-and-soda, and reflected. The 
 quarters were so good that he had not the least intention of 
 turning out. 
 
 If he met Alison in the house, he was gravely deferential, 
 sympathetic, but not obtrusive ; if he met his cousin, Flora 
 Cridland, he was more sprightly, but kind and thoughtful ; if 
 he met the boy, he would pat his cheek gently, and ask, with a 
 sigh of real feeling, how he was getting on with his Latin verses. 
 He gave no trouble, assumed no air of command, and gained 
 every kind of credit, solely because he did nothing. And, really, 
 when one considers how reputations are made, whether by 
 statesmen, governors of provinces, able editors, or original 
 dramatists, one is inclined to think that the art of doing nothing 
 has hitherto been most successfully practised and most grossly 
 underrated. Had you, dear reader, never done anything except 
 follow in a groove, you would doubtless have been, ere now, 
 F.R.S., C.B., C.M.G., K.C.B., K.C.M.G., and perhaps Baronet. 
 Whereas, in consequence of your perpetual activity, you are 
 now no better than myself, plain Mister, le Sieur, Esquire by 
 courtesy, with never a title to your back. 
 
 Stephen's courteous and considerate demeanour was due 
 mainly to a grievous doubt which constantly afflicted and pos- 
 sessed him. Panurge was not a greater martyr to a doubt than 
 Stephen Hamblin. 
 
 Consider his position. He had been for nearly twenty years 
 dependent on his brother. Anthony never offered to make 
 him any allowance. He seemed perfectly to realise that Ste- 
 phen's pretence at business, financing or broking, was only the 
 shallowest form ; and there was the understanding between
 
 THE PARTNERS MAKE A PROPOSAL. 59 
 
 them that when Stephen wanted any money he was to write for 
 it, or call for it, and have it. 
 
 Only one man, Mr. Billiter, the family solicitor, knew of 
 those loans, though the partners suspected them. 
 
 Anthony being dead, who was going to have the honour of 
 maintaining Stephen ? 
 
 There was absolutely no form of labour by which he could 
 earn his daily bread ; there was none by which he meant to 
 try. He called himself an indigo broker, but he had done that 
 for twenty years and more. He sometimes dabbled in small 
 financing schemes with his cousin Alderney Codd, but that 
 would not do for a permanent prop. And his private account 
 in the bank was next to nothing. 
 
 The great doubt, therefore, was how Anthony had disposed 
 of his property by testament. And really, considering every- 
 thing, Stephen seems justified in being anxious. 
 
 He might have satisfied himself upon the point by the simple 
 means of calling at the solicitor's office. There were reasons, 
 however, why he hesitated. In the first place, there were asso- 
 ciations of an extremely disagreeable character connected with 
 the one room in that firm's offices into which he was always 
 shown. It was the room of the senior partner, Mr. Billiter. 
 Stephen, although now in his forty-fifth year, was afraid of 
 that old man. It had been Mr. Billiter's duty to confer with 
 him in connection with a good many episodes of his career 
 which he was desirous of forgetting. Now Mr. Billiter, a man 
 with old-fashioned notions about repentance, had an unpleasant 
 way of recalling these little matters. Again, Mr. Billiter was 
 the only man who knew the secret which Stephen and Anthony 
 kept between themselves — the fact of Stephen's absolute de- 
 pendence on the elder brother. 
 
 At first he thought that he might be dispossessed from his 
 self-constituted post of guardian, in favour of one of the cousins, 
 presumably Augustus or AVilliam Hamblin, appointed by the 
 will. But time passed on, and no such intimation was sent to 
 him. Had, then, Anthony actually appointed him the guardian 
 of his daughter ? It seemed incredible, considering the history 
 of the past. And yet he was Anthony's only brother. 
 
 And even if he were appointed guardian, there was the anxiety 
 about the future. What provision, if any, had his brother 
 made for him ? Surely some ; otherwise he would have literally 
 to beg his daily bread of his niece. The facts might be pre- 
 sented, he thought, in graceful, pathetic, and attractive form. 
 But influences might be brought to bear on the girl, against 
 which he would be powerless. There were his cousins, the 
 partners ; they were not friendly. There was that young 
 fellow Yorke, always about the place, no doubt anxious to hang
 
 6o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 up his hat in the house, and marry the heiress. Of course 
 Alison's husband would not desire to diminish his wife's income 
 by a permanent charge. Yet how could he live under eight 
 hundred a year, or so ? Why, his dinners cost him three hun- 
 dred a year, at least. Anthony had never counted what he 
 bestowed ; or, if he did practise that meanness, had the grace 
 to hide it. How should he persuade Alison that nothing under 
 a thousand a year would adequately represent his brother's 
 affection ? And what if the will contained a provision ridicu- 
 lously small ? 
 
 He wrestled with these doubts for six weeks and more. 
 During that time the advertising went on ; and they all kept up 
 some show of pretence that perhaps Anthony would return 
 unexpectedly, recovered from that hallucination in which 
 Alison believed so firmly. 
 
 One day, however, Stephen received a letter from Mr. Billiter, 
 the family solicitor, officially and stiffly worded, requesting the 
 honour of an interview at a stated time. 
 
 Mr. Billiter, who perhaps knew more family secrets than any 
 other man of his profession in London, was not, as we have 
 said, popular among the prodigal sons with whose career he was 
 acquainted. He had a great, a profound dislike for scattering, 
 wasting, idleness, and debauchery of all kinds, being himself a 
 man of great common sense, holding a just view of the propor- 
 tion of things, and incapable, at all times in his life, of being 
 allured by the imaginary pleasures of riot. Having this dislike 
 to the doings of Comus, he showed it in a certain contemptuous 
 treatment of those prodigals who came to him to know the 
 intentions of the family ; and whether he gave them a cheque, 
 or told them they were to be pitchforked into some unfortunate 
 colony with a ten-pound note, or announced another act of 
 forgiveness, he put the facts so plainly that the youth, whether 
 repentant or not, went away with a sense of humiliation and 
 shame very disagreeable to a high-toned, whole-souled pro- 
 digal. 
 
 He held Stephen Hamblin in especial dislike, as a prodigal of 
 five-and-twenty years' standing, which was really extending the 
 rope beyond all precedent. Stephen was irreclaimable. It was 
 hard to look on, and see the waste of s"o much money on so bad 
 a subject. 
 
 He was in appearance a shrivelled-up man, between sixty 
 and seventy years of age ; a thin, small man, with grey hair, 
 still strong, and thick, pointed chin, keen bright eyes, and a 
 sharp nose. 
 
 He received Stephen without offering to shake hands with 
 him, coolly nodding, and going on with the papers before him. 
 Stephen took a chair by the fire, and waited. Presently the
 
 THE PARTNERS MAKE A PROPOSAL. 61 
 
 old man jerked his head sideways, and said, without taking the 
 trouble to look at his visitor : 
 
 ' This is a bad business for you, Stephen. What do you pro- 
 pose to do ?' 
 
 There was a twinkle in his eye, caught by Stephen, which 
 seemed to mean that the worse the business turned out, the 
 better he would be pleased. 
 
 Then he pushed away his papers, leaned back in his wooden 
 chair, with his elbows on the arms, and looked round. 
 
 ' That depends upon my brother's testamentary dispositions,' 
 said Stephen, reading the twinkle in that sense, and tentatively. 
 
 ' I am coming to that presently. Meantime, you see, you 
 are left without any resources at all. And to work you are 
 ashamed.' 
 
 Stephen laughed. He was resolved on keeping his temper if 
 possible. 
 
 ' Can I dig ?' he asked, ' or shall I beg ?' 
 
 1 When I recall,' continued this disagreeable old man, ' the 
 various occasions on which you and I have conversed in this 
 office ' 
 
 ' Thank you.' Stephen made an impatient gesture. ' I have 
 not the least wish to be reminded of them again. Great 
 heavens ! is it impossible for you to forget those old schoolboy 
 scrapes ?' 
 
 ' Quite,' replied Mr. Billiter, ' unless the schoolboy repents 
 and reforms. Of repentance I have as yet seen no trace. I 
 fear you have never experienced that salutary discipline.' 
 
 ' If I had, you would not have heard of it,' said Stephen, his 
 face growing dark. 
 
 • Nay, nay ; I should have had ocular demonstration. We 
 know the tree by its fruits.' 
 
 This was an unpromising beginning. The lawyer, doubtless 
 for some reason of his own, went on to recall in detail, one after 
 the other, the whole of his previous interviews with his visitor. 
 When he had quite finished, Stephen's face wore an expression 
 of wrath suppressed with difficulty, which would have delighted 
 his enemies. 
 
 ' I believe,' he said at last, ' that I have now reminded you of 
 everything that has previously passed between us. If I have 
 omitted any important point, it is from no desire to spare your 
 feelings.' 
 
 ' That I can believe,' said Stephen, with a ghastly grin. 
 
 'Hut from forgetfulness. I am growing old, and some of the 
 details may have escaped my memory.' 
 
 ' So much the better,' said Stephen. 
 
 ' All this, however,' the old man went on, ' is a preamble.
 
 62 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 I am now coming to the real business of the day. I asked you 
 to call upon me because ' 
 
 ' I thought,' said Stephen, ' you -were going to confine your- 
 self to the pleasure of reviving the business of the past. That 
 is a part of our interview which has always afforded you so 
 much gratification.' 
 
 ' Not at all, Stephen, not at all. I merely sketched out some 
 of the past because it is as well that men should know some- 
 times the light in which others regard their actions. Fortunately 
 for you, I am the only man in possession of all the facts. Yet 
 the partners in the house know some of them.' 
 
 ' Would you mind proceeding straight to the point ?' Stephen 
 cried, impatiently. 
 
 ' I am doing so.' 
 
 Here Mr. Billiter pushed back his chair and rose. A standing 
 position gives one a certain advantage— stature has nothing to 
 do with it. 
 
 ' Do you think, Stephen Hamblin,' he asked, shaking a judicial 
 forefinger, ' that a man of your antecedents is a fit person to be 
 the guardian of a young lady ?' 
 
 ' Do you mean that I shall rob her, or ill-treat her, or beat 
 her with a stick, or murder her, then ?' 
 
 ' That is not an answer to my question, which is, are you a 
 proper person for such a charge ?' 
 
 ' I really think that I am not called upon to answer that 
 question.' 
 
 ' You will see directly why I put it. I only want you to 
 acknowledge the justice of the proposal I am about to make to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you are going to make a proposal ? Well, I am ready 
 to listen.' 
 
 ' I must remind you that you have no money and no income, 
 that you were dependent on your brother until his death, that 
 you have drawn upon him of late years for a very large amount 
 — many hundreds every year, and that, unless you get some- 
 thing out of the estate, you will be reduced to the painful 
 necessity of working or starving. Your cousins in the firm, as 
 I dare say you know very well, will certainly do nothing for 
 you.' 
 
 ' You have put the case plainly. It is a perfectly correct state- 
 ment, and the situation has been before my eyes for six weeks. 
 Now for your proposal.' 
 
 ' Of course my statement of the facts is perfectly correct. 
 Remember, then, your position.' 
 
 ' I want to know, however, what my brother's will directed.' 
 
 ' My dear sir, the surviving partners feel so strongly in the 
 matter, that, had his will named you as guardian and trustee,
 
 THE PARTNERS MAKE A PROPOSAL. 6 
 
 j 
 
 they would have opposed your appointment in open court as an 
 unfit person for the trust ; and then those facts would have 
 come out which are better hidden.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to my cousins,' said Stephen. ' They are, 
 and always have been, my very dear friends. I am very much 
 obliged to them.' 
 
 ' You ought to be, when you learn what they propose.' 
 1 But my brother's will — what does that say ? "Why is it not 
 produced ?' 
 
 ' Because, my dear sir ' (the lawyer spoke very slowly and dis- 
 tinctly), ' your brother Anthony, in spite of his great wealth, 
 could never be persuaded to make a will at all. He always put 
 it off. There is no will.' 
 
 ' No will !' Stephen stared in amazement ; ' my brother made 
 no will ?' 
 
 ' None. There is, of course, the slender chance that some 
 other firm of lawyers have drawn it up for him. We have 
 searched his private safe at the office ; we have searched his 
 
 private papers at Clapham ' 
 
 ' After I went there ?' 
 
 ' The day after, while you were away. All business docu- 
 ments and securities were removed by myself, and brought here. 
 The papers left in his desk and drawers are nothing but old 
 accounts, diaries, and letters. There is no will.' 
 
 ' No will ?' Stephen repeated. It was not till afterwards that 
 he waxed indignant over the want of confidence which caused 
 the partners to remove the papers. 
 
 ' No will ; consequently no bequests for anyone. Do you 
 understand your position ? Miss Hamblin is sole heiress to the 
 whole property.' 
 
 Stephen remained silent. This was, indeed, the very worst 
 thing that could possibly have happened to him. 
 
 ' You now understand the general situation,' continued the 
 lawyer, sitting down again, and are prepared no doubt to meet 
 my proposal in a favourable spirit ?' 
 ' What is your proposal ?' 
 
 ' It is one which was suggested by Mr. Augustus Hamblin in 
 the first place, and put into shape by me. It is this. Miss 
 Hamblin wants about fifteen months before she comes of age. 
 That is a very short period of guardianship. We are willing, so 
 as to avoid all suspicion of scandal, that you should be nomi- 
 nally the guardian, and that letters of administration, if they 
 are granted at all during the minority, shall bo taken out in 
 your name. We, however, shall relieve you of all your duties. 
 You will have nothing whatever to do with the management of 
 the estates. You will continue to live at Clapham, if you 
 plua.se, or until your residence becomes distasteful to Alison ;
 
 64 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 and for your trouble, whatever trouble the arrangement may 
 cause you, we are prepared to offer you the sum of five hun- 
 dred pounds. If Miss Hamblin consents, as her cousins will 
 advise her to do, that sum will be continued afterwards for 
 your lifetime as an annual charge upon the estate, subject to 
 good behaviour.' 
 
 ' What is good behaviour ?' Stephen asked, looking as amiable 
 as a hyena. 
 
 ' If you raise money upon it or sell it, as if it were an actual 
 annuity of your own, or disgrace yourself in any way, the 
 allowance will be stopped.' 
 
 ' Have you anything more to say ?' added Stephen, rising. 
 
 ' Nothing more,' said the lawyer, pleasantly. ' Let me see ; 
 we have recapitulated the facts, have we not ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; you have raked up all the mud.' 
 
 ' And I've given you to understand my opinion about your 
 conduct ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; you've certainly told me that.' 
 
 • And — and — yes, I really think that is all.' 
 
 ' In that case I can go, I suppose.' Stephen put on his hat. 
 ' Is it not a very remarkable thing, Mr. B Miter, that at every 
 interview I have ever had with you, I should desire vehemently 
 to kill you ?' 
 
 ' It really is remarkable, Stephen Hamblin,' answered the 
 lawyer, with a hard smile ; ' it shows how admirable are our 
 laws that you are deterred from carrying your wish into effect. 
 By the way, you accept the conditions, I suppose ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I accept ; of course I accept. If you had offered me 
 a hundred a year, I must have accepted. I suppose the outside 
 world will not know. Alison will not know, for the present.' 
 
 ' I see no reason why anyone should know. Augustus 
 Hamblin does not talk. And, Stephen,' — just as the door was 
 closing — ' what a very sad pity it is that you never could run 
 straight ! When are you going to begin repentance ? Time is 
 getting on, and the rope will be quite played out some day.'_ 
 
 Stephen slammed the door, and strode away with rage tearing 
 at his heart. 
 
 He walked all the way, because he was in such a rage, to 
 Clapham Common. By the time he got there, he had walked 
 himself into a good temper. Why, what did it matter what the 
 old man said? Five hundred a year, not so much as he had 
 always managed to get out of Anthony, but still something ; 
 still a good round sum for a bachelor, and for a year at least the 
 run of the fraternal cellar. Not at all bad. 
 
 He sent word to Alison that he would like to see her if she 
 was quite disengaged. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, taking her by the two hands — he had never
 
 THE PARTNERS MAKE A PROPOSAL. 65 
 
 called her before by any other term of endearment — ' my dear, 
 I have to-day been with your poor father's lawyer. They have 
 invited me, with the concurrence of your cousins, and for the 
 brief space which remains before you attain your majority, to 
 act as your guardian. I hope you will not object to me.' 
 
 He still held her two hands, gazed sentimentally into her eyes, 
 and went on before she had time to reply : 
 
 ' We have not seen so much of each other as we might have 
 done in the old days. That was entirely my fault. My partial 
 estrangement from you, and from the rest of the family, was 
 my fault altogether. But your father and I were never es- 
 tranged. One heart always. Perhaps I took offence because 
 certain youthful peccadilloes were too severely visited. Perhaps 
 I showed offence too readily, and have been forgiven with diffi- 
 culty. But never mind. Those things are now like old songs. 
 You have no fear of any more wild oats, Alison ?' 
 
 ' Not at all, uncle.' 
 
 She smiled in his face, as he held her hands. She was too 
 young to see that the light in his eyes was unreal and the smile 
 on his lips forced. 
 
 • Then that is settled. You will do what you like, go where 
 you like, have all you wish to have. That will be my sole care 
 as your guardian. That is my idea of looking after you for 
 the next fifteen months or so. When yon come of age, you 
 • turn me into the street, and sit down to enjoy, all the rest 
 of your life, this wealth of your father. Happy girl! 1 wish 
 I was only twenty. And I wish I was going to have, like you, a 
 ;er of a million of money !' 
 
 This part of his speech, at any rate, was sincere. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HOW STEPHEN DREAMED A DREAM. 
 
 Tins good understanding was celebrated after the English 
 hion. Stephen dined with the ladies in the evening. Nicolas 
 was permitted to assist at this little banquet, which was, the 
 boy observed with pleasure, the first cheerful meal since the 
 and he hoped it was the presage of better things. It 
 . in reality, only the lifting of the clouds for a brief moment. 
 phen had never shown himself more kindly, more thought- 
 ful, more sympathetic, than on this occasion. Alison won- 
 di red bow they had all come to overlook these fine qualities of 
 aiality and tenderness. They accounted fully, she concluded, 
 
 5
 
 66 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 for her father's steady affection for him. By what sad accident 
 was it that the cousins regarded the Black Hamblin, and had 
 taught her to regard him, with so much dislike and suspicion ? 
 What was it in him, what had he done, that her father should 
 so often ha^e been rendered moody for days together? Why, 
 this spendthrift, this prodigal, this man Avho was the Awful 
 Example quoted by Aunt Flora to young Nicolas in a solemn 
 warning, was a delightful companion, full of anecdote, of ready 
 sympathy, quick to feel, of kind heart, and wide experience. 
 Occasionally something was said which jarred. That, however, 
 was due no doubt to his inexperience of the calm, domestic life. 
 
 Thinking thus, while Stephen talked, Alison caught the eyes 
 of young Nick, who blushed immediately with an unwonted 
 confusion. They were both thinking the same things. 
 
 Mrs. Cridland was not so ready to accept the new aspect of 
 things without suspicion. She naturally reserved her opinions 
 until they were in the drawing-room. 
 
 ' Stephen,' she said, when arrived there, ' reminds me of what 
 he used to be five-and-twenty years ago, when he wanted to 
 get anything out of his mother. Poor soul ! he would cajole 
 and caress her, until she gave it him, and then he was away at 
 once and back to his profligate courses in town. A heartless 
 and wicked boy !' 
 
 ' My dear auntie,' Alison expostulated, ' surely we ought to 
 forget old stories if we can. I suppose my uncle is no longer 
 what you say he was.' 
 
 ' I don't know, my dear,' said her aunt, sharply. ' We never 
 nquired into Stephen's private life after his mother died. He 
 may be repentant, but I doubt it.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Alison, ' every one was hard upon him for the 
 follies of his youth.' 
 
 ' I do not know whether they were unduly hard upon him. 
 He caused them terrible anxiety. However, that is all over. 
 Let us, as you say, forget it. What a strange thing it is, child, 
 that you are so like him ! Sometimes, when I see you side by 
 side, it seems as if you are more like Stephen than your poor- 
 father. You have the Hamblin face, of course — we all have 
 that '—it was a theory among the cousins, who perhaps no 
 more resembled each other than any other set of cousins, that 
 there was a peculiar Hamblin face, common to all — ' but you 
 are wonderfully like your grandmother, the Sehora, just as 
 Stephen is. 
 
 At this moment the door flew open, and young Nick appeared, 
 his hands in his pockets, his cheeks flushed, tears standing in his 
 eyes. 
 
 ' What is the matter, my boy ?' cried his mother. ' I thought 
 you were with your Uncle Stephen.'
 
 HOW STEPHEN DREAMED A DREAM. 67 
 
 ' He is not my uncle ; I will never call him by that name 
 again !' cried the boy, bursting into tears. ' He is only a first 
 cousin once removed.' 
 
 'Why—' 
 
 ' First cousin, once removed,' he repeated ; ' let him be proud 
 of that, if he likes. Never mind, mother. I'll be even with 
 him.' The prospect of retributive justice pleased the boy so 
 much that he instantly mopped up his tears, and though he sat 
 in a corner with an assumption of resentment, he had really 
 resumed his cheerfulness. 
 
 In fact, Stephen, after the ladies left him, did not observe 
 that Nicolas remained behind, and was seated beside the fire 
 with a plate of preserved ginger before him. Stephen, with 
 his shoulder turned towards the boy, and thinking himself alone, 
 began to meditate. His meditations led him, presumably, into 
 irritating grooves, for presently he brought his fist down upon 
 the table with a loud and emphatic ' D — — 11 ? 
 
 Young Nick had just finished his preserved ginger, and was 
 considering what topic would be best to begin upon with this 
 genial successor of Uncle Anthony, when the ejaculation startled 
 him. 
 
 ' Birds in their little nests agree,' said the boy, softly, ' to do 
 without the wicked D.' 
 
 Stephen turned round sharply. 
 
 ' What the Devil,' he cried, springing to his feet, ' do you 
 mean by watching me ? Go away ! go to your mother ! get 
 out, I say !' 
 
 The injunction, being enforced by a box on the ear, left no 
 room for doubt ; and Nicolas, outraged, insulted, and humiliated, 
 retreated, as we have seen, to a place where lie could evolve a 
 stroke of revenge. But his confidence in Stephen Hamblin was 
 rudely destroyed, and it never returned. 
 
 Stephen, with bland smile, presently appeared, and asked for 
 a cup of tea. He took no notice of the boy, who turned his 
 back, and pretended to be absorbed in a book. He was con- 
 sidering whether cobbler's wax, popguns, powder in tobacco, 
 apple-pie beds, nettle-beds, watered beds, detonating powders, 
 booby-traps, deceptive telegrams, alarming letters, or anony- 
 mous post-card libels would give him the readiest and most com- 
 plete revenge, and his enemy the greatest annoyance. 
 
 His indignation was very great when, his cup of tea finished, 
 Stephen invited Alison to go with him to the study. 
 
 'Like him,' he cried, when the door was shut. 'Old lady, 
 it's clear that you and me will have to pack up. You think 
 this house big enough to hold Stephen the First Cousin once 
 removed — bah ! — and you and me, do you ? That's your green- 
 ness. Mark my words. Bunk it is.'
 
 6S THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Nicolas, deal', pray do not use those vulgar words. At the 
 same time, if I only knew how far Stephen is sincere.' 
 
 The words were wrung out of the poor lady by anxiety on 
 her own account, and not from the habit of discussing delicate 
 affairs with her only son. Nicolas, indeed, could not know that 
 his mother's only income had been that granted her by Anthony 
 Hamblin for acting as housekeeper, duenna, companion, and 
 first lady of the establishment for Alison his daughter. And 
 as yet she did not know, and was still prayerfully considering, 
 the possible limitations of the new guardian's powers. 
 
 ' I am going to ask you, Alison,' said Stephen, ' to assist me 
 in going through some of your father's letters and papers. We 
 must do it, and it will save me the feeling of — of — prying into 
 things if you will help me with the letters. Not to-night, you 
 know. It will take several days to go through them all.' 
 
 Alison acceded, and Stephen began opening the drawers and 
 desks and taking out the papers, to show her the nature of the 
 task before them. 
 
 A man of fifty, if he be of methodical habits, has accumulated 
 a tolerable pile of papers, of all kinds. A City man's papers 
 are generally a collection of records connected with money. 
 Anthony Hamblin was no exception to the rule. He had kept 
 diaries, journals, bills, and receipts with that thoughtfulness 
 which belongs especially to rich men. They have already made 
 their money, they know what it is worth, they are careful not 
 to lose it, and they are determined to get good value for it if 
 they can. Men who are still piling up the dollars are much less 
 careful. The bulk of the papers consisted of such documents. 
 Besides them, there were bundles of Alison's letters. 
 
 ' Alison,' said Stephen, softly, ' here ai'e your early letters 
 tied up. Take them. It would be like prying into your little 
 secrets to read them.' 
 
 She laughed, and then sighed. 
 
 ' Here are more bills,' she said, ' and here are papers marked 
 "10 U." As for my letters, anybody might read them.' 
 
 ' Of course — of course. At the same time, you may give me 
 those I O U's.' 
 
 He exchanged a bundle of childish letters for a roll, docketed 
 and endorsed, which Alison gave him. 
 
 He opened the packet with a curious smile. 
 
 ' Ah !' he said, ' twenty years old.'' He rapidly selected those 
 which bore his own name, and placed them aside. ' These are a 
 form of receipt. I see your cousin Alderney Codd's name 
 among them. He was one of those who abused your father's 
 kindness shamelessly, I think.' 
 
 Presently Stephen grew tired of sorting the papers. He
 
 HOW STEPHEN DREAMED A DREAM. 69 
 
 leaned back in his chair, sighed, and asked if he might take a 
 cigar without Alison running away. She explained that her 
 father had always smoked a cigar in the evening. 
 
 Then they drew chairs to the fire— it had been a cold day of 
 east wind— and sat opposite each other below the portrait of 
 the Sehora. And they were both so like her ! Alison thought 
 her grandmother's eyes were resting sadly on Stephen. 
 
 ' Did Anthony, your father,' asked Stephen, after a pretty 
 long silence, ' ever speak to you about his testamentary disposi- 
 tions ?' 
 
 ' No, never.' 
 
 ' He never told you of his intention as regards myself — you 
 know that it was always intended that the injury done me under 
 my father's will should be repaired by Anthony.' 
 
 ' I did not know,' said Alison, ' that there had been any 
 injury ; ' but I suppose my cousin Augustus knows.' 
 
 ' There seems to have been no will, so that the carrying out 
 of your fathers wishes ' — Stephen said this carelessly, as if there 
 could be no doubt what they were — ' will devolve entirely upon 
 you. Fortunately, I have a note, somewhere, of his proposed 
 intentions.' 
 
 It was an inspiration, and he immediately began to consider 
 how much he might ask for. 
 
 ' Of course my father's wishes will be law to me,' Alison said, 
 with a little break in her voice. 
 
 ' Naturally. ' Stephen replied, with solemnity. 'You know, I 
 suppose, something of the fortune which you will inherit ?' 
 
 ' No ; I have never asked.' 
 
 ' I know ' — Stephen had pondered over it for years — ' the 
 personalty will be sworn under two hundred and fifty thousand 
 pounds. The real property consists of the little estate in Sussex, 
 this house and garden, and a few other houses. Then there are 
 the pictures, furniture, books, and collections : you are a very 
 
 fortunate girl. If I had all the money ' He stopped and 
 
 hesitated. ' If I had had it twenty years ago, when Alderney 
 Codd and I were young fools together, I dare say it would have 
 gone on the turf, or m lansquenet, baccarat, and hazard. A 
 very good thing, Alison, that the fortune Avent to the steady 
 one.' 
 
 He laughed and tossed his head with so genial and careless a 
 grace that Alison's heart was entirely won. She put out her 
 hand timidly, and took his. 
 
 'Dear Uncle Stephen,' she said, ' he did not sec enough of 
 you in the old days. We were somehow ei tranged. You did 
 not let us know you. Promise me that you will relieve me of 
 some [tart of this great load of money.' 
 
 ' Poor Alison!' Stephen replied, blowing a beautiful hori-
 
 70 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 zontal circle of blue smoke into the air, 'you overrate the 
 spending capacities of your fortune. They are great, but not 
 inexhaustible. Still I am not above helping you. provided my 
 demands fall well within your father's expressed intentions.' 
 
 What could be more honourable than this ? and who was to 
 know that Stephen was at the very moment considering at what 
 figure he could put those intentions ? 
 
 Then he changed the subject. 
 
 ' I hope,' he said softly, ' that we may find something among 
 all these papers that will tell us of your mother.' 
 
 ' My father never spoke of her,' said Alison. ' It seems hard 
 that I am never to- know anything about my own mother and 
 her relations — not even to know when and how she died/ 
 
 ' It is hard,' replied Stephen. ' And your father never spoke 
 of her, not even to you ?' 
 
 ' Never, except once, when he warned me solemnly that I 
 must never speak of her.' 
 
 ' It is very strange !' Stephen sat up and laid aside his cigar. 
 ' Tell me your earliest recollections, Alison. Let us see if some- 
 thing cannot be made out.' 
 
 ' I remember,' said the girl, ' the sea, and Brighton, and Mrs. 
 Duncombe. Nobody ever came to see me except papa. We 
 knew no one. Mrs. Duncombe did not tell me anything except 
 that my mother was dead. Then, when I was ten years of age, 
 papa came and took me away.' 
 
 ' Why did he hide you so long ?' 
 
 ' I did not ask him. I was too happy to be with him always. 
 Yes, he said that he could not get on without me any longer. 
 That made me happier still.' 
 
 ' I see,' Stephen answered reflectively. ' Of course it did. 
 Naturally. But it made you no wiser 
 
 'I suppose papa had a reason. I have sometimes thought 
 that he must have married beneath him, and that he did not 
 wish me to know my mother's relations.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that is possible.' 
 
 He mused in silence for a while, and presently lifted his 
 head. Somehow his face was changed. The light had gone 
 out of his eyes ; they were hard : his voice was harsh and grating ; 
 his manner was constrained. 
 
 ' I have kept you too long over business details,' he said, 
 rising and holding out his hand. 'Good-night, Alison. If I 
 find any documents that will interest you, I will set them aside. 
 Take your own letters. I shall learn nothing from them, that 
 is very certain.' 
 
 It was the old, harsh, ungracious Stephen Hamblin whom she 
 had always known. What was the matter with him ? 
 
 When Anthony, ten years before, brought home with him
 
 HOW STEPHEN DREAMED A DREAM. 71 
 
 unexpectedly, and Avithout preparing anybody's mind for such 
 an apparition, a little girl whom he introduced as his daughter, 
 there was no one more surprised than Stephen, or more dis- 
 gusted. He had regarded himself as the heir to the Hamblin 
 estates and wealth. He had pleased his selfish spirit in imagin- 
 ing himself the successor : only one life between himself and 
 this great fortune. His brother was eight years his senior. 
 He might drop off any day, though it is not usual for men in 
 their forties to drop off suddenly. Still it was on the cards, 
 and Stephen Hamblin was by no means above desiring the death 
 of any man who stood between himself and the sun. And 
 then came this girl, this unlooked-for, inopportune girl, with 
 the ungrateful assurance that Anthony was a widower, and 
 this was his child. It was not in nature that such a man should 
 receive in a spirit of meekness such a blow. Stephen hated the 
 girl. As he grew older, and became, through his own waste- 
 fulness, entirely dependent on his brother, he hated her more 
 and more, daily saying to himself that if it had not been for 
 her he would have been the heir. Yet he might have known 
 that no insurance company, which could have got at the facts, 
 wovdd consider his life as so good as his brother's, although 
 there were eight years between them. 
 
 At first he accepted Anthony's statement. The girl was his 
 child ; his wife was dead : no use asking any more questions. 
 There was nothing left but to sulk. 
 
 Then suspicions awakened in his mind. Who was the girl's 
 mother ? When had Anthony married her ? 
 
 He had encouraged these suspicions, and brooded over them, 
 until they assumed in his mind almost the shape and distinct 
 outline of certainty. He was wronged and cheated by his 
 brother, because, he declared to himself, his brother could never 
 have been married at all. Such a man could never have had 
 such a secret. But time passed on, and he forgot his old sus- 
 picions. At his brother's death they did not at first return. 
 
 He belonged, by nature, to the fine old order of murdering 
 uncles. He could, have been a rival Richard the Third ; yet 
 the softening touch of civilisation prevented him from so dis- 
 posing of his niece. Then the partners' proposal seemed to 
 offer some sort of compromise ; and he thought he would 
 arrange with his niece, on her coming of age, for some solid 
 grant, ' in accordance with her father's expressed intentions.' 
 Plenty of time to put them on paper. Plenty of time. 
 
 Now, the old dream came back-to him. It returned suddenly. 
 The talk with Alison revived it. He lay back in his easy-chair 
 when she was gone, and gave the reins to a vigorous imagina- 
 tion. He saw, in his dream, the girl dispossessed, because her 
 father was never married : he saw her taken away by somo
 
 72 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 newly-found relations, quite common people who let lodgings, 
 say, at Ford or Hackney. And he saw himself in actual 
 possession : a rich man, with the way of life still stretching far 
 before him. 
 
 ' Forty-five,' he said, ' is the true time for enjoyment. Hang 
 it ! Ave take our fling too early ; if we only knew, we should 
 reserve ourselves till five-and-thirty at earliest. Why do they 
 let the young fellows of one-and-twenty fling themselves away, 
 waste and spend, get rid of their money and their health, before 
 they know what pleasure means ? One must be forty before 
 the full flavour comes into the cup of life. I shall enjoy — I 
 shall commit no excesses, but I shall enjoy.' 
 
 ' I suppose I shall be senior partner in the house. Well, I 
 will stay there long enough to sack those respectable Christians, 
 my cousins. They shall go out into the cold, where they sent 
 me.' 
 
 He helped himself to soda and brandy, and took a fresh cigar. 
 His imagination still flowed along in a rich and copious stream. 
 ' As for this house, I shall sell it up. What is the good of such 
 a house to me ? Pictures, bric-ii-brac, water-colours, engravings, 
 plate — I shall get rid of all. I want nothing but my set of 
 chambers in Pall Mall, with a private hansom and a smart boy. 
 Alderney Codd may come to see me, now and then. None of 
 the rest. Flora Cridland and her pink and white brat may go 
 to the devil. And as for Alison, I suppose I shall have to make 
 her an allowance. Yes. I will certainly make her an allow- 
 ance.' 
 
 He felt so virtuous as he made this resolution that he became 
 thirsty again, and proceeded no further until he had taken off 
 the greater portion of a second soda and brandy. 
 
 Then he sat down and resumed his dream. 
 
 ' Yes. Alison shall have an allowance. The world shall not 
 say that I am stingy and treat her badly. How much ? I should 
 say five hundred a year, paid quarterly, would well meet the 
 case. Just what they propose to give me.' 
 
 He thought a little over this, because it was an important 
 thing to decide, and drank more brandy and soda. 
 
 ' These cigars of Anthony's are quite the best I ever smoked,' 
 he said. ' I shall not sell them. Nor the wine. Nor the 
 brandy, by Jove !' He filled another glass of brandy and soda. 
 ' Five hundred a year is too much, altogether too much for a 
 girl in such a position. I think anybody will say I have done 
 the thing handsomely if I make it three. Yes, three hundred 
 a year will be an ample — a generous allowance.' 
 
 Then he went on thinking and drinking alternately. The 
 dream was the most delicious flight of fancy he had ever 
 essayed.
 
 HOW STEPHEN DREAMED A DREAM. 73 
 
 ' Three hundred r {* he murmured sweetly. ' Too much. It 
 "would only tempt adventurers on the look-out for a girl with 
 money. What she requires is to have her actual wants supplied. 
 And that,' he said with firmness, 'is what Alison, poor girl! 
 shall have from me. Her position is certainly not her own 
 fault. A hundred pounds a year. Two pounds a week ! Why, 
 it means more than three thousand pounds at three per cent. 
 Three thousand pounds ! Quite a large slice out of the cake. 
 A really handsome sum. 1 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 WHAT STEPHEN PROPOSED. 
 
 This was the dream of a night. Morning, especially if it be 
 cold, rainy, and uncomfortable morning, brings awaking and 
 reality. Stephen awoke and realised. He remembered the 
 evening's dream with a shudder which came of shame. He 
 looked upon leaden clouds, rain-beaten, bare branches, and 
 plashy lawns, and he was ashamed of his ready enthusiasm. 
 
 Morning always found Stephen Hamblin sad. It is the way 
 with men whose joys belong entirely to the town. In the morn- 
 ing he was at his worst in looks and in temper. The bald 
 temples seemed to cover a larger area of skull, the tuft of black 
 hair which remained in the middle seemed smaller, and his eyes 
 seemed closer together. Morning, with such men, is the time 
 for evil deeds. 
 
 He breakfasted alone, and then dragged out all the papers 
 and spread them before him. He would, at least, learn all that 
 was to be learned, and at once. Absurd to go on dreaming im- 
 possibilities. 
 
 And yet, in one form or the other, the dream had been with 
 him so long that it was hard to put it aside. 
 
 The documents divided themselves into three classes. There 
 were the letters — Alison had already taken away her own : 
 there were the papers relating to private accounts, small but 
 continuous loans to Alderney Oodd, himself, and others ; and 
 there were the diaries and journals year by year. The lawyers 
 had gone through them before and taken away the more im- 
 portant papers. But still there was a great pile left. 
 
 Stephen had already carelessly turned over the letters. He 
 now devoted himself to a rigid and thorough reading of every 
 scrap of paper. 
 
 This took him more than one day. At the close of the firsb
 
 74 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 day's work he laid down the last read paper with a sigh of satis- 
 faction, because he had as yet arrived at nothing. The results 
 he wished to secure were chiefly negative results. There was 
 not one hint, so far as he had got, of any love business at all. 
 If there were letters from women, they were letters from people in 
 distress, asking for money : if there were any reference at all to 
 marriages, they were those of persons entirely unconnected with 
 the matter which interested Stephen. 
 
 Stephen was, in one sense, disappointed. "What he would 
 have rejoiced to find — evidence of an amourette without a ring — 
 he had not found. But, on the other hand, there was no evidence 
 of any love-passages at all, which was clear gain. 
 
 He went up to town, dined at the club, sat late after dinner, 
 slept at his chambers in Pall Mall, and returned to Clapham on 
 the following morning. 
 
 Here he renewed his researches. 
 
 This day he spent among the miscellaneous documents. Here 
 were his own early I O U's — of late years this unmeaning cere- 
 mony had been abandoned — for prudence' sake, he tied these 
 all up together and placed them in his own pocket. Nothing 
 so hopelessly valueless as one of his own I O U's, and yet, for 
 many reasons, nothing more desirable to get hold of. There 
 were several, too, from Alderney Codd, which he also put 
 together by themselves for future use. Alderney might be 
 influenced by means of them, he thought, with some shadowy 
 idea about threatening that most impecunious of men and 
 fellows. 
 
 The same day he began the study of the voluminous diaries. 
 
 Anthony Hamblin, brought up under the strict rule of an 
 old-fashioned merchant, was taught very early to be methodi- 
 cal. He became, by long practice, methodical in all his ways. 
 He not only kept carefully, and endorsed all receipts, letters, 
 and documents, down to the very play-bills, the dinner-bills, 
 the hotel-bills, the luncheon-bills, but he actually entered in a 
 big diary, one of the biggest procurable, all the simple daily 
 occurrences of his life. Thus, the record of the day would 
 appear as follows : 
 
 ' April 1, 18—. — Letters : from Stephen, asking for a loan of 
 £25— sent the cheque : from the vicar, urging a continuance of 
 my subscription to the schools — wrote to renew it : from the 
 Secretary of the Society for Providing Pensions for Aged 
 Beadles — put the letter in the basket : from the Hospital for 
 Incurable Cats — sent half a guinea — see disbursements for 
 month. Promised Alison a box at the opera : into town : saw 
 Augustus on business matters : lunched at the City Club — 
 more champagne than is safe in the middle of the day : saw 
 Alderney Codd. Lent him £10 for a fortnight : took his 10 U
 
 WHA T STEPHEN PROPO SED. 7 5 
 
 for the amount : did no work in the afternoon : walked all the 
 way home : strolled on the Common with Alison till dinner- 
 time : the dean and his daughters to dinner. Study at eleven : 
 read till twelve.' 
 
 This was the harmless chronicle of small things kept by the 
 great City merchant. It was the journal of a man who was 
 contented with life, was anxious about nothing, hoped for 
 nothing strongly, had always found the road smooth, and was 
 conscious that his lot was an enviable one. In Stephen's eyes 
 it had one special merit : it accounted for every hour of the 
 day. All Anthony Hamblin's life was there. 
 
 There were six-and-thirty of these volumes. Anthony had 
 begun the first under the supervision of an exact and methodical 
 father, when he entered the office at sixteen. What Stephen 
 looked for and feared to find, would probably occur somewhere 
 about the sixteenth volume. Yet, taking every precaution, 
 Stephen began with the earliest and read straight on. 
 
 The expression of his face as he toiled through page after 
 page of these journals, suggested contempt and wonder. With 
 his dark eyes, almost olive-tint, and once clear-cut features, now 
 rather swollen, he looked something like Mephistopheles, gone 
 a little elderly, and showing signs of an indulgent life. Cer- 
 tainly that hero of the stage could not more unmistakably have 
 shown his contemptforsucha record. Some menwouldhave been 
 moved to admiration at a life so blameless ; others would have 
 been moved to love and gratitude, finding their own name con- 
 stantly mentioned, and always accompanied by a gift ; others 
 would have felt sympathy with so much paternal affection as 
 appeared in the later volumes. Stephen, for his part, was un- 
 consciously engaged in comparing his own life, step by step, as 
 he went on, with that before him. He rejoiced in the contrast : 
 on the one side were peace and calm, on the other red-hot 
 pleasures : the 'roses and rapture of life ' for himself, and the 
 insipidity of domestic joy for Anthony. History, to be sure, is 
 not made by men of Anthony's stamp, because history is entirely 
 a record of the messes and miseries incurred by people in con- 
 luence of their ignorance and the wickedness of their rulers. 
 One thing of importance : there was no mention at all of any 
 love-passages, to say nothing of any marriage. Yet Alison must 
 have had a mother, and there could be no doubt that she was 
 Anthony's own daughter. The resemblance to his mother was 
 enough to prove it. 
 
 Presently the reader came upon a line which interested him. 
 ' By Jove !' he said, ' I wonder what he says about Newbury ?' 
 
 There was a good deal about Newbury, but not apparently 
 what the reader expected.
 
 7 6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' I thought he would have -written something more about 
 Dora,' said Stephen. 
 
 He now read more carefully, as if he suspected something 
 might happen about this time. To begin with, it was now only 
 a year before Alison's birth, yet nothing was said. The entries 
 were candid and frank ; there was no hint at concealment ; 
 there seemed nothing to be concealed. The reader turned over 
 page after page in anxiety which was fast becoming feverish. 
 The holiday at Newbury seemed terminated, like all the rest, 
 by return to London ; not a word afterwards about Dora 
 Nethersole. The autumn and winter were spent at Clapham 
 and in the City as usual ; in the spring Anthony went for a 
 month to the south of France, his companion being that most 
 respectable of the cousins, the dean. He returned in early 
 summer ; in the autumn he went to Bournemouth. The reader's 
 face clouded. He read on more anxiously. There was a gap 
 of four weeks, during which there was no entry. You who 
 have read Miss Nethersole's manuscript know how the time was 
 spent. After that interval the journal went on. ' Returned to 
 tuwn. saw Stephen, told him what I thought fit.' 
 
 ' What he thought fit !' echoed Stephen. ' Then he kept 
 something back. What could that be V 
 
 Then the journal returned to its accustomed grooves, save 
 that there was an entry which appeared every month, and 
 seemed mysterious. ' Sent £8 to Mrs. B.' Who was Mrs. B. ? 
 In the journal, S. stood for Stephen, A. C. for Alderney Codd, 
 F. for Mrs. Cridland, and so on. But who was Mrs. B. ? 
 
 This entry was continued with no further explanation for 
 three years. Then there appeared the following : 
 
 ' June 13. — Went to fetch away A. Took her by train to 
 Brighton. Gave her over to the custody of Mrs. D.' 
 
 ' A.' must have been Alison. 
 
 After that the references made to ' A.' became so frequent as 
 to leave no doubt. He went to Brighton to see ' A.' She was 
 growing tall ; she was growing pretty ; she was like his mother. 
 Not a word said about her own. She had the Hamblin face. 
 And so on. 
 
 There was certainly small chance of finding anything in the 
 later diaries, but there might be some mention of the deceased 
 wife's relations. Stephen persevered. 
 
 There was none. The book was full of Alison. The man's 
 affection for his daughter was surprising. To Stephen it seemed 
 silly. 
 
 He laid down the last of the volumes wrth a sigh of relief. 
 
 So far, in a set of thirty journals and diaries carefully kept 
 from day to day, there was only one gap, a modest little four 
 weeks' interval in which Anthony had been to Bournemouth.
 
 WHAT STEPHEN PROPOSED. 77 
 
 * "What,' thought Stephen again, ' did he hide when he told me 
 about his Bournemouth journey ?' 
 
 Then he thought of another chance. 
 
 He remembered the great family Bible, bound in solid leather, 
 which contained the whole genealogy of the Hamblins from 
 the birth of the earliest Anthony. 
 
 He knew where to find it, and opened it with a perceptible 
 beating of the heart. 
 
 There were the names of Anthony and himself, the last two 
 of the elder line. No addition had been made. There was no 
 entry of Anthony's marriage. The two brothers stood on the 
 page with space after them to record their respective marriages 
 and death. Bat there was no further record. Like the journals, 
 the Bible was silent. 
 
 ' Alison,' he said, ' is certainly Anthony's child. For that 
 matter, no one ever doubted it. For some reason, he wished t 1 
 hide the place of her birth and the name of her mother. "Why ? 
 Two reasons suggest themselves. One, that he was never 
 married at all. Unlike Anthony, that. The second, that he 
 desired to conceal the marriage. Why, again ? Possibly, be- 
 cause he was ashamed of his wife's people. Unlike Anthony ; 
 very much unlike Anthony. Or he might have married under 
 an assumed name ; also uniike Anthony. In which case,' — here 
 Stephen smiled gratefully and benignantly — ' it might be ab- 
 solutely impossible to prove the marriage.' 
 
 But mostly Stephen inclined to the no-marriage theory. A 
 secret liaison commended itself to him as the most probable 
 way of accounting for the whole business. To be sure, one 
 easily believes what is the best for one's own interest. 
 
 ' Anthony,' he said, ' would be eager to destroy, as effectually 
 as possible, every trace of the presumably brief episode. No 
 doubt he wished that no one should even suspect its existence. 
 That is the way with your virtuous men. But he could not 
 efface his own daughter, and did not wish to try. Hence the 
 shallow artifice of pretending that her mother had died in child- 
 birth. And that must be the reason, too, of Anthony's disin- 
 clination to make a will, in which he would have had to declare 
 the whole truth.' 
 
 At this point of the argument Stephen grew red-hot with 
 indignation. Xo Roman satirist, no vehement orator of elo- 
 quent antiquity, could be more wrathful, more fiery with passion, 
 than himself. His face glowed with virtue. He was the Chris- 
 tian who did well to be angry. 
 
 • What an impudent, what a shameful attempt,' he cried, 
 ' to defraud the rightful heir ! Was it possible that an elder 
 brother could be so base? But he was mistaken,' said Stephen, 
 rubbing his hands. ' He was mistaken 1 He reckoned without
 
 7 8 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 me. He did not count on my suspicions. He thought he 
 should hoodwink me with all the rest of them. Why, I knew 
 it all along. He forgot that he had to do with a man of the 
 world.' 
 
 Certainly Stephen knew one side of the world extremely 
 well : it was the Seamy Side. 
 
 After this examination there was no longer any doubt in his 
 mind ; he was resolved. At the fitting moment, after a little 
 preparation, he would present himself in the character of sole 
 heir and claimant of the whole estate. But there must be a 
 little preparation first. 
 
 ' As for what my cousins say or think,' he said, ' I care not 
 one brass farthing. Nor, for that matter, do I care for what 
 all the world says and thinks. But it is as well to have 
 general opinion with one.' 
 
 It would be well, he thought, to begin, after the manner of 
 the ancients, the German political press and Russian diplo- 
 matists, by scattering abroad ambiguous words. 
 
 He made no more appearances at the domestic circle as the 
 benevolent guardian. And he ceased sending polite messages 
 to Alison. 
 
 He began to sow the seeds of distrust in the mind of honest 
 Alderney Codd, who, but for him, would certainly have never 
 suspected evil. Of all the many classifications of mankind, 
 there is none more exhaustive than that which divides humanity 
 into those who do not and those who do think evil, those who 
 believe in motives noble and disinterested, and these who 
 habitually attribute motives low, sordid, and base. Needless to 
 say that Stephen belonged, in his capacity of man of the world, 
 to the latter. There are sheep, and there are gcats : the man 
 of the world prefers the goats. 
 
 He invited Alderney to dine with him at Clapham, stating 
 that it would be a bachelor's dinner for themselves. In fact, 
 dinner was served in the study. Alderney arrived, clad still in 
 the gorgeous coat with the fur lining. He was punctual to 
 time-- half -past seven — and found Stephen apparently hard at 
 work behind a great pile of papers on a side-table. 
 
 ' These are a few,' he said, looking up and greeting his cousin, 
 just a few of the papers connected with the estate, which I 
 have to go through.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Alderney, with sympathy. ' Poor Anthony will 
 cut up, I hear, better than was expected even.' 
 
 Stephen nodded mysteriously. 
 
 ' You have heard, perhaps, that I am to take out letters of 
 administration. There was no will, but of course I am the 
 nearest friend of this poor bereaved girl.' 
 
 Alderney was rather astonished at this expression of sym-
 
 WHA T STEPHEN PROPOSED, 79 
 
 pathy and so much grief, after an interval of so many weeks. 
 Many brothers dry up, so to speak, in a fortnight at latest. 
 Most brothers cease to use the language of grief after a month. 
 
 ' Yes ; it is very sad, but Alison won't go on crying for ever, 
 I suppose?' 
 
 ' Don't be brutal, Alderney. Pretend to sympathy if you 
 can't feel any. You were always inclined to look on things 
 from so hard a point of view.' 
 
 This, again, was astonishing. Alderney sat down meekly, 
 and began to wish that dinner would come. 
 
 ' I thought,' he said presently, while Stephen went on making 
 notes and turning over leaves, ' that the lawyers relieved you of 
 all the work.' 
 
 ' My dear fellow !' with gentle surprise. ' Impossible. They 
 take care of the details, and do the necessary legal work. I 
 have, however, to master the general situation. The guardians, 
 executors, and trustees have all the responsibility, nearly all the 
 work, and none of the profit.' This was ungrateful, considering 
 the five hundred a year. ' But of course, for the poor child's 
 sake, one must not flinch from undertaking it.' 
 
 Alderney was more surprised than ever. The last time 
 Stephen spoke to him of Alison he called her a little devil. But 
 that, to be sure, wa3 late in the evening, when he was lamenting 
 her existence. 
 
 ' It is very creditable to you,' said Alderney, warmly. ' You 
 have the same kind heart as your brother. I feared from what 
 you said once before that you bore poor Alison a grudge for 
 ever having been born, which is a thing that no girl should be 
 blamed for.' 
 
 ' Alderney,' said Stephen, ' you ought to know better than to 
 rake up an old thing said in a bad temper. Alison has now 
 become my especial, my sacred charge.' 
 
 Alderney Codd stroked his chin, noticing as he did so that 
 the frayed condition of his cuffs was really beyond everything 
 — and began to be more confounded than ever. He wished they 
 would bring dinner. That Stephen Hamblin should acknow- 
 ledge any duty, and act upon that recognition ; that he should 
 acknowledge anything sacred, and square his conduct accord- 
 ingly, was to Alderney like a new revelation ; and yet Stephen 
 appeared in perfect health. So he only coughed — an involun- 
 tary expression of incredulity — and said nothing. 
 
 ' What a task,' said Stephen, ' what a melancholy, yet profit- 
 able, task it is going through the simple records of a blameless 
 life like my brother Anthony's. You think with me, Alderney, 
 that his life was really a blameless one ?' 
 
 ' Surely,' said Alderney, almost ready by this time to believe 
 that Stephen must be an awakened and converted vessel, and
 
 So THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 feeling some natural anxiety on his own personal behalf lest 
 the complaint might be contagious — ' surely The very best 
 man -who ever lived. Many is the fiver I have borrowed of him. 
 So far even as a tenner went, indeed. I always regarded Anthony 
 as a safe draw ; but. as a regular rule, not more than that at a 
 time, and not more than once a month or so. And it was best 
 to vary the place, the time, and the emergency. Dear me ! 
 to think that I have borrowed the last fiver from him that I 
 shall ever get ! "Where shall we find another lender so free and 
 so forgetful ?' 
 
 ' You can always rely on me. Alderney,' said Stephen, slowly 
 and sadly, ' for that amount at least.' 
 
 •God bless my soul!' cried Alderney. bewildered beyond 
 power of control by this sudden conversion. ' Has anything 
 happened to you, Stephen '? You haven't got some internal com- 
 plaint ?' 
 
 Stephen was still sitting at the table, with a three-quarter face 
 lit by the fire. The room was dark, and his hard features, 
 suffused by the rosy fight, looked gentle and kind. Who. up till 
 now, had ever heard of Stephen Hamblin lending anyone a single 
 penny *? 
 
 ' I have been searching among these papers.' he went on. still 
 in the same slow, sad way, without noticing Alderney's extraor- 
 dinary question, ' for some evidence — say. rather, some record — 
 of my brother's marriage. Alison is nearly twenty years of 
 age. " Here, for instance, is a bundle of papers which refer to a 
 time before her birth. Plenty of diaries of that date are here 
 before me. Oddly enough. I find here no mention of any mar- 
 riage. Yet Anthony was a most methodical man, and one would 
 think must have made somewhere a careful record of an impor- 
 tant event such as his marriage. Here again ' — he took up a 
 thick volume and opened it at random — ' is a diary of that 
 time. Anything seems set down. "Advanced to Alderney 
 Codd, £25." And here is even your I O U.' 
 
 • Really !' cried Alderney. springing to his feet. ' Let me see 
 that document. My own I O U ! And for five-and-twenty ! I 
 remember it well. It was twenty years ago. "We went to 
 Paris, you and I, with the money, and we stayed there for a 
 week. " "When it was all gone, you had to write to Anthony for 
 more, to bring us home. I remember — I remember. Now this 
 is really touching. I borrowed that money twenty years ago. 
 Think of one's good deeds seeing the light again after so many 
 years ! It was indeed a casting of bread upon the water. I 
 never expected to be rewarded in this manner/ 
 
 His face flushed, especially his nose, and he spoke as if his 
 own borrowing had been the good deed thus providentially 
 brought to light.
 
 U 'HA T STEPHEN PROPOSED. 8 i 
 
 Then the dinner was brought up. Alderney, like all thin 
 men, was blessed with a regular and trustworthy appetite. 
 There was little conversation during the dinner, which was 
 good. "When it was all over, and nothing more remained but the 
 wine, the two men turned their chairs to the fire, and fell to 
 quiet talk over a bottle of 1856, out of Anthony's capacious 
 ■cellar. 
 
 • I suppose,' said Stephen presently, harking back to the 
 subject of his brother, ' that you have a very distinct recollec- 
 tion of poor Anthony's regular habits ?' 
 
 ' Why, any man would remember so regular a life as his.' 
 
 ' True, the most methodical of men. It seems to me, Alderney, 
 as if he knew on any day and at any time what he was then 
 doing. This is really admirable port. I should like a bin of it.' 
 
 ' Of course, Anthony moved like the hands of a clock. It is 
 good wine — Falernian.' 
 
 ' And yet I cannot remember, nor can I find a trace of. any 
 week or month during which he could have gone away to be 
 rried. Take another glass, Alderney.' 
 
 1 Xot that it takes a week,' said Alderney, ' to be married in. 
 You may leave the office and find a church within a stone's 
 throw, if you like. Gad ! Stephen, the thing is so easy that I 
 wonder you and I have never been let in for it. Thank yon. 
 The decanter is with you. Full of body, isn't it ?' 
 
 • The ceremony is not everything. The nosegay of this wine 
 is perfect. You" have to court your bride, I suppose : and all 
 that takes time. And what sort of a wife would that be. con- 
 tent with a five minutes squeezed here and there out of the 
 
 ■e day? Alderney, I know every holiday he ever to- 
 ere he went, with whom he went, and what he did. Ah, 
 at a colour ! For the life of me, I cannot understand when 
 he was married.' 
 
 • It does seem odd,' said Stephen, ' now one begins to think of 
 it. This is the inner flask. "Why can't a man drink a couple 
 of bottles of this divine liquor without getting drum,. 
 
 ' Then the death of his wife. Did he go about as if nothing 
 had happened ? How is it there is no word about it in the 
 diaries ? "We can have another bottle up. And the birth of 
 daughter ? Why is not that event entered ?' 
 
 • It does seem odd.' 
 
 - > odd, Alderney, that I am going to investigate it. Do 
 have some more port. If Anthony had been any other kind of 
 man. if we were not all sure, quite sure in our own minds, that 
 his life was always beyond reproach — if we could not all agree 
 in this, I should say that he had never been married at all." 
 As Stephen said these words '-low!;,-, i. . ! his head i 
 
 : . and gazed Badly into the fire. 
 
 G
 
 82 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Alderney did not reply at first. He was taking another glass 
 of port. Wine stimulates the perceptive faculties, but some- 
 times confuses the powers of speech. Presently he said, rather 
 thickly : 
 
 ' Quite — quite impossible. Anthony's the best man in the 
 world, and there's no better port out of Cambridge.' 
 
 Alderney called next day at the offices in the city. Augustus 
 Hamblin, apparently willing to waste a quarter of an hour 
 with him, which was not always the case, received him and let 
 him talk. 
 
 Alderney expatiated on the virtuous attitude of the new 
 guardian. 
 
 ' Richard the Third,' said Augustus, ' was equally full of love 
 for his nephews.' 
 
 ' Nay, nay,' cried Alderney, reproachfully, ' Stephen is in 
 earnest. He is a new man.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Augustus. ' We have, however, cut his nails 
 pretty short. New man or old, he Avill do no mischief to the 
 estate.' 
 
 ' Well,' Alderney went on, ' it is very odd, but Stephen can 
 find no trace of Anthony's marriage, which was always, you 
 know, a very mj-sterious affair. lie must have married some- 
 body.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Augustus confidently, though his brow clouded ; 
 ' of course, somebody. What does it matter ?' 
 
 ' Stephen says that if Anthony had been a different kind of 
 man, unless we were all agreed that he was the best of men, we 
 might be inclined to think that he was never married at all.' 
 
 The words went home. Augusta felt a sudden pang of fear 
 and surprise. Stephen would in that case be the sole heir. 
 
 ' A changed man. is he ?' he asked. ' Upon my word, Alder- 
 ney, I suspect he is exactly the same man as he always has 
 been : not changed a bit.' 
 
 CHAPTER XT. 
 
 THE BIBCII-TEEE TAVERN. 
 
 Among the City clubs is a Fmall and little-known association 
 which meets informally on every day of the week and all the 
 year round, between the hours of two and five in the after- 
 noon.
 
 THE BIRCH-TREE 1 AVERX. S3 
 
 There are no rules in this club : it has no ballot-box : nobody 
 is ever blackballed, nobody is ever proposed, nobody is ever 
 elected : there is no subscription — if there were, the club would 
 instantly dissolve : and it is nameless. It is, however, felt by 
 the members to be a very real and existing club, a place where 
 they may be sure of meeting their friends, an institution to 
 which only those resort who are bound together by the common 
 ties of like pursuits. 
 
 This place of meeting is the Birch-Tree Tavern, which stands 
 in one of the narrow streets leading southwards out of Coin- 
 hill. Its situation, therefore, is central, in the very heart of 
 London. It is a simple house of refreshment, which, like all 
 the City places, is full of life between one and three, and before 
 or after those hours is dull and empty. When the hungry 
 clerks have all disappeared, when the jostling waiters have left 
 off carrying, taking orders, and bawling, when the boys have 
 ceased to balance among the mob their piles of plates and dishes, 
 when the compartments are all empty, a great calm falls upon 
 the place, broken only by the buzz of conversation of the men 
 who are always lounging over a London bar : by the occasional 
 click of the billiard balls, and by the distant murmur from the 
 in where the members of the club are holding their daily 
 conference. If you ask for anything at this place after four, 
 the waiters collect together to gaze upon you in pity ; and if at 
 half-past five, they receive your orders with contumely or even 
 eject you with vi< knee. 
 
 The Birch-Tree Tavern, the glories of which belong perhaps 
 to the times when the new and splendid restaurant was un- 
 known, consists of several houses, or parts of houses. Many 
 years ago these had behind them little yards, each four feet 
 broad by twenty long, where rubbish could be shot, where cats 
 could practise gymnastics, and where the melancholy moss, which 
 can live without sunshine, dragged on a monotonous existence. 
 But the walls of the yards arc taken down, the space between the 
 houses roofed over, and the ground thus reclaimed has been 
 made into a bar and a luncheon-table. If you go upstairs and 
 turn to the left hand, first door on the first floor, you will find your- 
 self in the room affected by the members of this nameless club. 
 
 They arrive between one and two o'clock in the day ; they 
 find a row of tables on one side of the room, spread with table- 
 cloths, which are white on Monday ; here they dine. After 
 dinner tiny adjourn to a row of tables without table-cloths, on 
 the other side, near the windows, which are adorned with nothing 
 but lucifer-matches in their native caskets. Here they join 
 their friends, and sit talking over fragrant tobacco, and whisky- 
 and-water, till afternoon deepens into evening — in other words, 
 until the waiter turns them out. 
 
 C-2
 
 ?4 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Where do they go when they leave the Birch-Tree Tavern ? 
 
 That is a question to which there is no reply. They used to 
 show a man at the Stilton Cheese who sat in that place every 
 day of his life from four o'clock till seven, except on Sunday, 
 when he was supposed to lie in bed till six ; he then went to 
 the Coach and Four, where he remained until nine ; after that, 
 he repaired to the Albion, where he finished his monotonous 
 day of perpetual thirst, for during the whole of that time he 
 drank whisky-and-water gaily. 
 
 The members of this club began to drink earlier than this 
 hero. In all probability, therefore, they left off earlier. It 
 does not seem in nature, for instance, to drink whisky-and- 
 water from two till six, and then to finish with another sitting 
 from six till eleven afterwards. Perhaps they went home and 
 had tea and read good books ; perhaps they went to bed at 
 once ; perhaps they sat in solitude and reflected ; perhaps they 
 sat like mediums waiting for a communication. I do not know, 
 nor did the members of this club knoAv, because their acquaint- 
 ance with each other began and ended at the tavern, what they 
 did in the evening. 
 
 Men who pursue secret, tortuous, or mysterious methods of 
 making money, always meet their fellow-labourers in certain 
 taverns. One class of ingenious adventurers, which turns its 
 attentions to the fluctuations of foreign stock, may be seen 
 whispering together — they all whisper — in a certain underground 
 place where they keep wonderful sherry at eighteen-pence a 
 glass; it is a sherry which unlocks all hearts. Others, who 
 take an interest in the railways of the foreigner, may be seen 
 at the Whittington, an agreeable little place, where they put 
 you into little boxes, four feet square, with walls eight feet 
 high. Here the guests sit like conspirators and discuss their 
 secrets ; sometimes you may see one more suspicious than the 
 rest, peering over the partition-wall to see if the occupiers of 
 the next place are likely to be listeners. At Binn's again, you 
 will find in the ordinary compartments, German Jews who can 
 tell you all about the price of diamonds and the rise of bullion. 
 They are safe from listeners because they are talking their own 
 language which is Schmoozum, and no one understands that 
 except themselves. 
 
 The men who used the Birch-Tree Tavern were all of them 
 engaged perpetually in the formation, the promotion, the float- 
 ing of new companies. To conceive the idea of a new company ; 
 to give it such a name as would attract ; to connect it with 
 popular objects ; to draw up a flaming prospectus, showing 
 how the profits must be five-and- twenty, and would most likely 
 be cent, per cent. ; to receive fully paid up shares, in reward 
 for the idea and the preliminary work ; to realise upon them
 
 THE BIRCH-TREE TAVERN. 85 
 
 ■when the shares were at their highest, and before the smash — 
 this was the golden dream of men who frequented that first- 
 floor room. They were always occupied with designs— hatching 
 new ideas, abandoning old. They listened with the utmost 
 eagerness to each other's ideas. They believed in them more 
 than in their own, envied their possession, marvelled at their 
 own bad luck, in not hitting upon them for themselves ; and 
 they pleased themselves with stories about great strokes of good 
 fortune. 
 
 They are not an unkindly set of men. They do not steal 
 each others ideas, or try to anticipate them. Their faces lack 
 the hawk-like look of professional turf men and gamblers. 
 They all love to lounge and talk. Their calling makes them 
 perhaps inclined to be dreamy and imaginative. One would 
 not claim for them the highest standard of moral excellence, 
 but certainly when the imagination is allowed fair play, the 
 habits of the bird of prey are seldom found. Now the rook is 
 an eminently practical, and not an imaginative, bird. 
 
 I am far from asserting that these gentlemen are models of 
 morality. On the contrary, they have no morality ; such a 
 thing does not exist in the lower flights of financing, whatever 
 may be the case with the higher. They are positively without 
 morals on this side of their character. They consider nothing 
 about a company, except to inquire how the idea can be so pre- 
 sented as to attract the general public. Whether it is a snare 
 and a delusion, whether the formation of such a company is a 
 dishorn ; ; ng on the credulity of the ignorant, whether the 
 
 traffic in its shares is not a mere robbery and plunder— these 
 are things which the small projectors neither inquire into nor 
 care for, nor would understand. 
 
 One of the most regular frequenters of the tavern was Mr 
 Alderney CaAA. Since the age of eight-and-twenty— since the 
 time, that is. when lie made that little arrangement, of which 
 wehav 1. with his creditors— he ha- been engaged in the 
 
 active, but hitherto unsuccessful, pursuit of other people's 
 money, by the promotion of risky companies. How he fell into 
 this pn Ees ion, by what successive steps this lav fellow of St. 
 Alphege's became a promoter of companies, it is needless 1 ■■ re 
 to tell. He was in the profession, which is the important thing, 
 and he was greatly respected in it, partly on account of his 
 fertile imagination, which perpetually led him to devise new 
 openings, an 1 partly b he was suppo ed able to 'influ- 
 
 ence 1 capital. Next to a capitalist comes the man who can 
 influence capital. Was he not cousin to the Eamblins of Great 
 St. Simon A.postle? Was he not hand-in-hand with Stephen, 
 the younger brother, who was not in the firm, yet was supposed 
 to be possessed of great wealth, and was always hanging about
 
 86 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 in the city? Was he not, again, a private friend of the suc- 
 cessful Mr. Bunter Baker, commonly known as Jack Baker ? 
 
 It was nothing that Alderney Codd was shabby and poor : 
 they were all poor, and most of them were shabby. The im- 
 portant thing was that he could influence capital directly, while 
 the rest of them had to work crab-fashion towards the attain- 
 ment of their objects — to crawl up back stairs, to take into 
 their confidence a go-between, whose commission sopped up 
 most of their profits. Another thing in Alderney's favour was 
 that he was undoubtedly a University man, a Fellow of his 
 college, reputed to be a great scholar — a thing which always 
 commands respect. Lastly, Alderney had once, some years 
 before, actually made a great coup. He always told the story 
 at the tavern whenever any stranger appeared in the circle — it 
 was a privilege accorded to him ; and the rest were never tired 
 of hearing the story. 
 
 ' It was in the early days of trams,' he said, when he had led 
 the conversation artfully to the right moment for introducing 
 the story ; ' the early days of trams. Not but what there is a 
 good deal to be done in trams, even now, by a man who keeps 
 his eyes open ; and I would recommend anybody here who has 
 time in his hands, and a little money for preliminary expenses ' 
 (here their jaws fell), 'to consider the subject of trams applied 
 to our towns. My town was no other than— Valparaiso.' 
 Alderney Codd at this point would look round with an air of 
 triumph, as if real genius was shown in the selection of a town 
 so remote from Cornhill. ' Valparaiso. It is a city which has 
 a fine trade, and — and — well, I thought the idea of a tram in 
 Valparaiso would possibly attract. Had it been Bristol, or 
 Birmingham, no one would have touched it; but to lend money 
 to a foreign enterprise in those good days Avhen people were 
 credulous — ah, well !' Alderney Codd sighed, ' we may well, like 
 Horace, praise the past time, because it will never come again.' 
 Alderney's allusions to the classical authors, like his quotations, 
 would not always bear inspection. ' I conceived this idea, how- 
 ever. I have, as our friends know, some little influence over 
 capital. I drew up the prospectus of that company ; I intro- 
 duced that company in certain quarters ; I floated that com- 
 pany ; I received five thousand pounds in fully-paid shares ; the 
 shares were taken ; they ran up ; I had the happiness to sell 
 out when they were at seventy per cent, premium, a fortnight 
 before the company smashed. As for the tram, gentlemen, ic 
 never was made, in consequence of a dispute with the munici- 
 pality. However, it was not my fault ; and I believe, gentle- 
 men, I may call that transaction, business — " quocunque modo, 
 rem" as Horace says.' 
 
 Alderney generally stopped here. Had he gone on, he would
 
 THE BIRCH-TREE TAVERX. 87 
 
 "have to explain that it was Stephen Hamblin who helped in 
 starting this disastrous company, the name of which still brings 
 tears of rage and bitterness to the eyes of many a country 
 clergyman and poor maiden lady ; he would have explained, 
 further, that it was in consequence of acting further on 
 Stephen"s advice that he subsequently lost the whole. For he 
 invested it in a new American railway. The prospectus, beau- 
 tifully emblazoned with arms of the State, mottos, gilded 
 emblems and effigies of the almighty dollar, set forth that this 
 line of Eldorado, this railway of Golconda, this iron road of 
 Ophir, ran through diamond fields, silver mines, gold mines, rich 
 ranchos boasting of ten thousand cattle ; past meadows smiling 
 — nay, grinning — with perpetual crops ; through vineyards 
 whose grapes were better for pressing and fermenting than any 
 on the Johannisberg or belonging to the Chateau Lafitte ; and 
 among a population numerous as the ants in an ant-hill, pros- 
 perous as an Early Engineer, and as rich as Xebuchadnezzar, 
 Yanderbilt, or Mr. Stewart. It ran, or passed, from one place 
 not marked in any English map to another not marked on any 
 English map — from one to another world-centre, both shame- 
 fully passed over and neglected by Mr. Stanford's young men. 
 It was elaborately explained that, beside the enormous pas- 
 senger traffic in this densely-populated country, there would 
 be expected from the extraordinary wealth of the territory, as 
 above indicated, a great and rapidly-increasing goods business. 
 Figures showed that the least which holders of ordinary stock 
 in this railway could expect would be twenty-five per cent. 
 The shares of the new railway were placed upon the markets. 
 Alderney Codd's money was all, by Stephen's advice, invested 
 in them. He unfortunately let go the golden opportunity, 
 which Stephen embraced, of selling all ho held when the shares 
 were at their highest, and was involved in the general ruin 
 when it was discovered that there was no town at all within 
 hundreds of miles of the place, that there were no people ex- 
 cept one or two in a log hut. that there would be no passenger 
 traffic, and no conveyance of goods. Alderney, unfortunately, 
 like all his friends, believed in other people's companies. He 
 promoted what he knew to be a bubble, but he accepted all 
 other bubbles for what they professed to be. And bubbles 
 always profess to be solid pudding : such is their playful way. 
 
 Peri ia] is Alderney's popularity was due in great measure to 
 his personal qualities. He was a good-hearted man ; he never 
 ascribed evil, or thought evil, though his manner of life would 
 have been, had Providence allowed him to float many of his 
 bubble companies, as mischievous, tortuous and shady as that 
 of an Egyptian Viceroy. He took everybody into his confi- 
 dence, and, with a sublime trust in human nature winch nothing
 
 83 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 could ever destroy, he imparted profound secrets to the 
 acquaintance of an hour, who in his turn not unfrequently 
 revealed mysteries of the most startling and confidential de- 
 scription to him. Men who talk to strangers at bars have few 
 secrets, and are very candid. Then Alderney never forgot a 
 face or a friend ; he had an excellent memory ; he was always 
 cheerful, even sanguine, and was never mean. To be sure he 
 was a lavish borrower, a very prodigal in borrowing ; he would 
 ask for a ten-pound note and take a crown piece ; and he never, 
 unless when he borrowed among his own set, remembered to> 
 repay. 
 
 Perhaps, again, part of his popularity was due to his face. 
 This was thin and clean shaven. The mouth had an habitual 
 smile lurking in the corners ; the nose was just touched with 
 red, which, when not carried too far, imparts benevolence of 
 aspect ; and the eyes were kindly, so that young children and 
 old ladies were encouraged to ask him the way. 
 
 Alderney was a philanthropist whom fortune had made an 
 enemy of mankind ; he perpetually schemed and planned 
 methods by which his fellow-creatures were to be ruined, being 
 himself the readiest dupe, the most willing victim, in the world. 
 Men may despise dupes, but they like the ready believer. It is 
 delightful to find even among hawks the simplicity of the 
 pigeon. The quack doctor buys a plenary indulgence of Tetzel, 
 while he, in his turn, purchases a pill of the quack. The vendor 
 of beef-fat for butter gets her fortune told by the gipsy ; the 
 gipsy buys the beef-fat on the word of the immoral young 
 person who sells it for butter. 
 
 About the beginning of every quarter, Alderney Codd 
 would be absent from his regular haunts ; the circle at the 
 Birch-Tree would miss him ; it might be rumoured that he had 
 gone down to Cambridge, where these honest speculators sup- 
 posed that his society was still greatly in request, by reason of 
 his being so massive a scholar. The real reason of his absence 
 was, that he drew his hundred a year quarterly, and lay in bed 
 half the day for two or three weeks after it. That was Alder- 
 ney's idea of enjoying life if you were rich — to lie in bed. 
 "While in the first flush and pride of that five-and-twenty pounds r 
 Alderney got up about one o'clock every day. Naturally there- 
 fore, he dined late. During this period he ceased to devise 
 schemes ; his imagination rested ; his busy brain had time to 
 turn to practical things ; and such renovation in his apparel as 
 the money ran to was accomplished during this period. When 
 it Mas over, he would cheerfully return to the stand-up dinner, 
 the half-pint of beer, and the Scotch whisky with pipes and 
 conversation among his fellows. 
 
 Every one of the circle had a history. To be sure that is
 
 THE BIRCH-TREE TAVERN. 89 
 
 sadly true of all mankind. I mean that these men were all out 
 of the ordinary grooves of life. They were adventurers. 
 Formerly they would have joined a band of free lances, to fight 
 and plunder under the flag of a gallant knight of broken for- 
 tunes ; or they would have gone a -buccaneering, and marooned 
 many a tall ship, without caring much whether she carried 
 Spanish colours or no. Or they might have gone skulking 
 among the woods and shady places of England, where Saver- 
 nake, Sherwood, or the New Forest, gives on to the high-road, 
 lying in wait for unarmed travellers, in guise, as the famous 
 dashing highwayman. Nowadays, for men of some education, 
 no money, and small principle, there are few careers more 
 attractive, though few less generally known, than that of small 
 finance. 
 
 There were nine or ten of them at the tavern one afternoon 
 in March ; they had the room entirely to themselves because it 
 was Saturday, and the general public had gone away for their 
 half-holiday. There was, therefore, a sense of freedom and 
 enlargement : they need not whisper. 
 
 They sat round the largest table, that under the middle 
 window. Outside it was a charming and delicious day in very 
 early spring, a day when the first promise comes of betn:' 
 times, when the air is soft and fragrant, and one reckons, like 
 the one confiding swallow, that the winter is gone. 
 
 In this tavern the atmosphere was always the same : no 
 fragrance of spring ever got there, no sunshine could reach the 
 room ; if the windows were ever opened, they would let in 
 nothing but a heavy wave of air equally laden with the funics 
 of tobacco, spirits, and roasted meats. The men at the table, 
 however, cared little for the breath of meadows ; they loved 
 the City air which always seemed charged with the perfumes of 
 silver ingots and golden bars. 
 
 Among them this afternoon was one whom all regarded with 
 a feeling which had something of awe in it ; more of awe than 
 of envy ; because he was one who had succeeded. He was 
 still a comparatively young man, rather a handsome man of 
 two or three and thirty, with strong features, which w : ero 
 rather too coarse, a crop of curly brown hair, a clear complexion, 
 and bright eyes. He was dressed with more display than quiet 
 men generally like, but hi 1 □ and chains seemed to suit his 
 confident braggart air. He spoke loudly, asserted himself, and 
 in all companies pushed himself at once to the front. He was 
 that Phoenix among City 111011, the man who has made everything 
 out of nothing, the successful man. He has a little to d<> with 
 this story, and we will presently tell how he rose to greatness. 
 His friends addressed him familiarly :;> Jack ; everybody spoke 
 of him behind his back as Jack Baker; on his cards wr.s the
 
 SO THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 name of Mr. J. Banter Baker. ' Not plain Baker,' he -would 
 say ; ' we are of the Bunter Bakers, formerly of Shropshire. 
 The arms of the two families are, however, different.' 
 
 The other men were sitting over whisky-and-water, with 
 pipes. Jack Baker, half sitting, half leaning on the top rail of 
 the back of his chair, was smoking a cigar, and had called for a 
 pint of champagne. It was rumoured among his admirers that 
 he drank no other wine except champagne. 
 
 Alderney Codd, who was still attired in the magnificent fur- 
 lined coat, was laying down the law. 
 
 ' Capitalists tell me,' he was saying, as he was on intimate 
 terms with a great many capitalists, ' that if you have got a 
 good thing — you w r ill bear me out, Jack — you can't do better 
 than bring it out. Nonsense about general depression ; there 
 is plenty of money in xhQ world that longs to change hands.' 
 
 ' Quite right,' said Mr. Bunter Baker. ' Plenty of money.' 
 
 ' And plenty of confidence,' said Alderney. ' Now I've got in 
 my pocket — here — at this actual table — a thing good enough to 
 make the fortune of a dozen companies.' 
 
 Every project advanced at that table possessed the merit of a 
 great and certain success — on paper. 
 
 He produced a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. All 
 bent their heads eagerly while he toyed with the string, willing 
 to prolong the suspense. 
 
 There is a certain public-house in Drury Lane where you 
 will find, on any Sunday evening that you like, an assemblage 
 of professional conjurors. They go there chiefly to try new 
 tricks on each other, and they judge from the first exhibition 
 before their skilled brethren, of the effect which they will 
 produce on an uncritical public. So with Alderney. He was 
 about to propound a new scheme to a critical circle, and he 
 naturally hesitated. Then he turned to Mr. Bunter Baker 
 before opening the parcel. 
 
 ' I ask you, Jack, what is the first rule for him who w r ants 
 to make money ? Nobody ought to know better than yourself 
 — come. 
 
 ' Find out where to make it,' said Jack. 
 
 ' No, not at all ; make it by means of the millions. Go to the 
 millions. Never mind the upper ten thousand. Satisfy the 
 wants of the millions. One of those wants, one of the com- 
 monest, is appealed to by the contents of this parcel. We seek 
 to catch the mutabilis aura, the changeable breath, of popular 
 favour. The invention which I hold in my hand is so simple 
 that the patent cannot be infringed — -flecti, non frangi ; it will 
 be as eagerly adopted by those who drink tea, the boon of those, 
 who, as Horace says, love the Persicos apparatus, or Chinese 
 tea-tray, as by those who drink toddy ; it will be used as freely
 
 THE BIRCH-TREE TAVERN. 91 
 
 at the bar— I Jo not here allude to the Inns of Court — as at the 
 family breakfast-table.' 
 
 ' You need not quote your own prospectus,' said Mr. Baker. 
 ' Get to the point, man. Let us into your secret.' 
 
 !STo one was really in a hurry to learn it, for, like true artists, 
 they were criticising the manner of putting the case. 
 
 ' There's nothing like a good prospectus,' said a keen and 
 hungry-eyed man, who was listening attentively. 
 
 ' And a well-placed advertisement in the Times] observed a 
 little man, whose only known belief was in the form of such an 
 advertisement. When he had one, of his own composition, it 
 was a red-letter day ; when he had a long one, it seemed like a 
 fortune made. Once he was so happy as to make the acquaint- 
 ance of a man who reported for the Times. He lent that man 
 money in perfect confidence ; and though his advances were 
 never repaid, his admiration for the paper remained un- 
 bounded. 
 
 ' Cheap things for the people,' said another, with a sigh. 
 * See what a run my sixpenny printing-press had, though I was 
 dished out of the profits.' 
 
 A curious point about these men was that they were always 
 dished out of the profits whenever anything came off. 
 
 ' But what is it ?' asked another, taking out a notebook. 
 
 He was, among other things, connected with a certain ' prac- 
 tical ' weekly, and was supposed to give ' publicity ' to the 
 schemes whenever he was allowed. I fear the circulation of 
 the paper was greatly exaggerated with the view of catching 
 advertisers. 
 
 ' It is,' said Alderney, untying the parcel, ' nothing less than 
 the substitution of glass for silver spoons. Honest glass ! not 
 pretended silver : not worthless plate. You drop one : it breaks : 
 very good. A penny buys another.' 
 
 All eyes turned on Mr. Baker. He took one of the glass 
 spoons : he dropped it : it was broken. 
 
 Very true indeed,' he said. ' It is broken.' 
 
 ' There arc,' Alderney continued, ' seven millions of house- 
 holds in England ; each household will require an average of 
 fifty-five spoons : three hundred and eighty-five millions of 
 spoons ; original demand, three hundred and eighty-five mil- 
 lions of pence : a million and a half sterling. Not bad that, I 
 think, for a company newly starting. Nobody can reckon the 
 breakages — we may estimate them roughly at twelve millions a 
 Think how maids bang spoons about.' 
 
 The newspaper correspondent made further notes in his 
 pocket-book. A great hush of envy fell upon the audience. 
 <Jne of them seemed in for a good thing. Their eyes turned on 
 Mr. Baker. He, too, was making a note.
 
 9 2 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 i 
 
 I have in my pocket,' said another, a man with a face so 
 hard and practical-looking that one wondered how he had failed 
 in making an immense fortune — ' I have in my pocket a little 
 scheme which seems to promise well.' 
 
 Everybody listened. Mr. Baker looked up from his note- 
 book with curiosity. This emboldened the speaker. 
 
 ' You all know,' he said, ' that the highways of England are 
 studded with iron pumps, set up by beneficent governments to 
 provide for waggon and cart-horses in the old days. I have 
 made a calculation that there are about a hundred thousand of 
 them ; they pump no water, and they are no longer wanted. I 
 propose to buy up these pumps — they can be had for a mere 
 song — and sell them for scrap iron, eh ? There is money in 
 that, I think.' 
 
 Nobody replied. Mr. Baker, to whom all eyes turned, finished 
 his champagne and went away, with a nod to Alderney. 
 
 'I must say,' said one of them angrily, 'that when we do 
 get a capitalist here it is a pity to drive him away with a cock 
 and a bull scheme for rooting up old pumps.' 
 
 1 None of the dignity of legitimate financing about it.' said 
 Alderney, grandly ; ' we do not meet here to discuss ti*ade ; we- 
 do not stoop to traffic in scrap iron.' 
 
 Then the} 7 all proceeded to sit upon the unfortunate practical 
 man who had driven away the capitalist. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 HOW STEPHEN DECLARED HIS INTENTIONS. 
 
 After sowing the seeds of suspicion in the mind of the private- 
 town-crier, Alderney Codd, Stephen remained quiet for a time. 
 Alderney the talker would unconsciously help him. This, 
 indeed, happened ; in less than a fortnight the Hamblin enemies 
 were, with one accord, whispering to each other that no one 
 knew where and when Anthony had been married, or, as the 
 elder ladies added, significantly, if at all. But for the moment 
 none of these whispers reached the ears of Alison. 
 
 Meantime Stephen was busy all day among the diaries and 
 letters. He read and re-read ; he examined them all, not once 
 or twice, but ten times over, in constant fear of lighting on 
 some clue which might lead to the reversal of his own opinion. 
 But he found nothing. 
 
 One day, in the middle of March, about a fortnight after his
 
 STEPHEN'S INTENTION S. 93 
 
 dinner with Alderney Codd, he met his cousin Augustus Ham- 
 biin in the City. Since the appointment of Stephen as guardian 
 it had been tacitly understood that there was to be a show of 
 friendliness on both sides. The past was to be forgotten. 
 
 ' I am glad to meet you,' said Stephen, shaking hands with a 
 show of great respect for the senior partner of the house. ' Are 
 you so busy that you cannot give me a few minutes ?' 
 
 ' Surely,' replied Augustus, ' I can give you as many as you 
 please.' 
 
 He noticed, as they walked side by side in the direction of 
 •Great St. Simon Apostle, that Stephen's face looked thoughtful, 
 and his eyes rested on the ground. In fact, he was mentally 
 revolving how to state the case most effectively. At present he 
 only intended to follow up the slight uneasiness produced by 
 Alderney's artless prattle. 
 
 ' I have been intending to consult you for some time,' he 
 began, when they were in the office. ' but things prevented.' 
 
 ' Yes ; pray sit down ; what is it ? Alison continues quite 
 well. I hope ?' 
 
 ' Quite well, poor girl, thank you. I w r anted to confer with 
 you on the subject of my brother's marriage.' 
 
 Stephen looked straight in his cousin's face — a disconcerting 
 thing to do if your friend wishes to dissemble his thoughts. 
 Augustus changed colour. Alderney, therefore, had, as he ex- 
 pected, aroused a feeling of uneasiness. 
 
 ' My brother's marriage,' he repeated. ' Can you tell me 
 when and where it took place ?' 
 
 ' I know nothing about it,' said Augustus ; ' no more than 
 you know yourself. We none of us know anything about it.' 
 
 ' Do you,' continued Stephen solemnly, as if this was a very 
 great point, ' do you remember any time, from twenty to five- 
 and-twenty years ago, when Anthony went away, say on a sus- 
 picious holiday, or behaved like a man with a secret, or departed 
 in any way from his usual open way of life ?' 
 
 ' ]ST — no ; I cannot say that I do. He had a holiday every 
 year in the summer or autumn. Sometimes he went away in 
 the spring. Of course, he must have managed his marriage in 
 one of those excursions.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that is not what I mean. I know the history of all 
 those holidays. I want to find a time, if possible, when no one 
 knew where he went. It must have been out of the usual 
 holiday-time.' 
 
 ' I remember no such time,' said Augustus 'But of course 
 one did not watch over Authony's movements. He might have 
 been married as often as Bluebeard without our suspecting a 
 word of it.' 
 
 'No,' said Stephen, shaking his head. All this time hq was
 
 94 
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 observing the greatest solemnity. ' I should have suspected it. 
 You forget the intimacy between us. Anthony had no secrets 
 from me, poor fellow ! nor I any from Anthony.' (This was a 
 sentimental invention which pleased Stephen and did not impose 
 upon Augustus, who knew that Stephen's life had many secrets.) 
 ' Had Anthony hidden anything from me, his manner would 
 have led to my suspecting. Again, I have read through his 
 private journal, and there is nothing, not one word, about any 
 marriage— no hint about any love affair at all ; nothing is 
 altered or erased ; he tells his own life hour by hour. This is 
 very mysterious.' 
 
 ' Better let the mystery sleep,' said Augustus, quietly. ' No- 
 one will disturb it if you do not.' 
 
 ' What !' said Stephen, with a show of virtuous indignation, 
 ' when the legitimacy of Alison is at stake '? Do' you not per- 
 ceive how extremely awkward it would be if the judge, when 
 we come to ask for letters of administration, were to ask a few 
 simple questions ?' 
 
 ' The judge is not likely to ask anything of the kind.' said 
 Augustus. 
 
 ' But he might,' Stephen persisted. ' He might say that 
 although the deceased brought up this young lady as his 
 daughter — a relationship proved, besides, by her great resem- 
 blance to him and other branches of the family— he left nothing 
 behind him to prove that she is, in the eyes of the law, his 
 daughter. What should we say then ?' 
 
 ' I think we can afford to wait till the difficulty arrives,' 
 replied Augustus, quietly. 
 
 'Nay, there I differ from yon. It is not often, cousin 
 Augustus, that a man like myself can venture to differ from 
 one of your business experience and clear common-sense ; but 
 in this case I do differ. None of us question Alison's legitimacy, 
 but we would like to see it established. Let me, for Alison's 
 own sake, clear this mystery. Besides,' he smiled winningly, 
 ' I own that I am anxious to know something about this wife of 
 Anthony's, kept so cunningly in the background.' 
 
 ' For Alison's sake,' Augustus continued, ' I think you had 
 better let it alone. You do not know what manner of un- 
 pleasantness you may rake up.' 
 
 ' Why,' replied Stephen quickly, ' you would not surely in- 
 sinuate that Alison ' 
 
 ' I insinuate nothing. All I say is that Anthony had, pro- 
 bably, very good reasons of his own for saying nothing of his 
 marriage. He probably married beneath him ; he may have 
 wished to keep his daughter from her mother's relations ; the 
 marriage may have been unhappy; the memory of his wife s 
 death may hLve weighed upon him. There are many possible
 
 STEPHEN'S INTENTIONS. 9- 
 
 reasons. Let ns respect your brother's memory by inquiring no 
 further into them.' 
 
 ' If that were all,' Stephen sighed, ' I should agree with you. 
 I wish I could agree with you ; but, in the interests of Alison, 
 I fear I must pursue my researches. Why, what harm if we do 
 unearth a nest of vulgar relations ? We can always keep them 
 away from Alison. I will let you know the result of my re- 
 searches, Augustus. And now good-bye.' 
 
 Augustus waited till the steps of this good guardian were 
 heard at the foot of the stairs. Then he sought William the 
 silent, and repeated the conversation. 
 
 William shook his head. 
 
 ' Do you see the cloven foot, William ? What a mistake we 
 made in letting the man into the house ! Why did we leave 
 him the diaries '? Why did we let it be possible to raise the 
 question ? After all these years, we should have known our 
 cousin better. What can we do ?' 
 
 ' Wait,' said William. 
 
 ' Do you know who would be the heir if 
 
 ' I know,' said William. 
 
 > 
 
 In Alison's own interests. That was the way to look at I 
 question. Stephen felt that he had now completely cleared the 
 ground for action. Everybody was awakened to the fact that 
 Anthony's marriage was still an unsolved mystery. Everybody 
 would very shortly learn that Stephen the benevolent, in his 
 ward's interest, was at work upon the problem. No one but 
 the partners and the family lawyer would bo likely to guess 
 what issues might spring of these researches. 
 
 He began by questioning Mrs. Cridland. He invited her into 
 the study one morning, placed her in a chair, frightened her by 
 . a . bag that he had some quest inns of the greatest importance to 
 ask her, and then, standing over her, pocket-book in hand, with 
 knitted brows and judicial forefinger, he began his queries. 
 
 Mrs. Cridland knew nothing. Anthony, when he brought 
 Alison home, wanted a lady to take charge of her. Mrs. Dun- 
 combe, he explained, her previous guardian, was trustworthy, 
 and thoughtful as regards the little girl's material welfare, but 
 she lacked refinement. What was very well for a child of three 
 or four, would no longer be sufficient for a great school-girl. 
 So Anthony looked round, and chose — a cousin. Mrs. Cridland 
 was a Hamblin by birth ; her husband was dead ; she had no 
 money, and was at the moment actually living on an allowance 
 made her by the most generous of cousins. She was delighted 
 to accept the post of governess, duenna, and companion to this 
 girl, with a home for herself and her white-haired boy, and a 
 reasonable salary.
 
 95 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Ah !' said Stephen at this point. ' Yes, a reasonable salary. 
 What, may I ask, Flora, did my brother consider reasonable ? 
 He was not always himself a reasonable lender.' 
 
 This was unkind of Stephen. 
 
 ' We agreed,' replied Mrs. Cridland, with a little flutter of 
 anxiety, ' that the honorarium should be fixed at three hundred 
 pounds a year.' 
 
 ' Three hundred a year !' Stephen lifted his eyes, and 
 Avhistled. ' And board and lodging, of course. My poor brother 
 was very, very easily cajoled. Even washing, too, I dare say.' 
 
 ' If you mean that I cajoled him,' cried the lady, in great 
 wrath, ' you are quite wrong ! It was he who offered the sum. 
 Cajoled, indeed !' 
 
 ' Three hundred a j-ear for ten years means, I should say, 
 three thousand put by. You must have made a nice little pile 
 by now, Flora. However — to return. Then Anthony told you 
 nothing about the girl's mother '?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he told me that she was long dead, and that he wished 
 no questions to be asked at all.' 
 
 ' And did you allude then, or at any other time, to the surprise 
 felt by all his friends at such a discovery ?' 
 
 ' Of course at the time I told him how amazed we were to 
 learn that he whom we regarded as a confirmed bachelor should 
 actually turn out to be a widower. He said, with a laugh, that 
 people very often were mistaken, and that now, at any rate, they 
 would understand why he had not married.' 
 
 ' He used those words ? He said, " People will understand 
 now why I have not married ?" Take care, Flora ; your words 
 may be very important.' 
 
 ' Good gracious, Stephen, don't frighten me ! Of course he 
 used those words. I remember them perfectly, though it is 
 ten years ago.' 
 
 Stephen made a careful note of the words, repeating under 
 his breath, ' why he had not married.' Then he looked as if 
 he were grappling with a great problem. 
 
 ' Thank you, Flora,' he said at length, coldly. ' I believe you 
 have done your best to confess the whole truth in this extremely 
 difficult matter.' 
 
 ' What difficult matter ? and what do you mean by " con- 
 fessing " '?' 
 
 ' Is it possible, Flora, for a sensible woman like yourself to 
 be blind to the probability that Anthony was never married at 
 all ?' 
 
 'Stephen,' she cried in sudden indignation, 'it is impossi- 
 ble!' 
 
 ' It is difficult, Flora, not impossible ; I am endeavouring to 
 prove that Anthony was married. But as yet I have failed.
 
 STEPHEN'S INTENTIONS. 97 
 
 When did he marry ? "Where did he marry ? Whom did he 
 marry ? Find out that if you can, Flora.' 
 
 ' But then — there is no will either — and Alison would not be 
 the heiress even.' 
 
 ' Xot of a single penny.' 
 
 * And who would have all this money ?' 
 
 ' I myself. Flora ; now you see why I am trying to prove the 
 marriage. It is in Alison's interests, not my own, that I take 
 all this trouble.' 
 
 ' You, Stephen, you ?' All her instinctive dislike was roused. 
 She stared at him in horror and astonishment. ' You ? Then 
 God help us all.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Flora,' he returned coldly, playing with a paper- 
 knife : ' that was kindly and thoughtfully said. I shall re- 
 member that.' 
 
 ' Remember it on my account as much as you please, only do 
 not visit my words on that poor child.' 
 
 • I do not intend to do so. Had it not been for the resolute 
 way in which all my cousins have continued to misunderstand 
 me, I might have expected some small credit for the pains I 
 have taken for these months in clearing up this mystery.' 
 
 ' Oh !' she cried, firing up, like the honest little woman that 
 she was, ' I understand it all now— why you came here, why 
 you tried to coax and flatter the poor girl, why 3-ou sat all day 
 searching in papers — you wanted to test your own abominable 
 suspicions — you wanted to persuade yourself that there are no 
 proofs of Anthony's marriage — you wanted to rob your niece 
 and get your brother's fortune into your own hands. And 
 r, God help us all ! But there are your cousins, and. 
 there is Mr. Billiter, to stand by her.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Flora. To such a speech there is but one reply : 
 I give you a day's notice to go. You shall be paid your salary 
 up to date, and you shall leave the house at once.' 
 
 Here a sudden difficulty occurred. His account at the bank 
 was reduced to a few shillings — how was he to pay this salary ? 
 
 ' I refuse to accept this notice. I will not go, unless I am 
 told to go by Mr. Billiter, or by Mr. Augustus Hamblin. You 
 are a bad and a dangerous man, Stephen Hamblin. We have 
 done right to suspect you. Oh ! my poor Alison !' 
 
 ■ Vl-iv well, madam, very well indued. We shall see. Now 
 go away, and tell Alison I want to say a few words to her.' 
 
 He looked blacker and more dangerous than she had ever 
 seen him, and ho held the paper-knife as if it had been a 
 dagger. 
 
 Mephen, you are not going to tell Alison what you suspect? 
 You are not going to be so cruel as that ?' 
 
 ■ I have a g 10 I mind to tell her, if it were only to punish 
 
 V
 
 9 S THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 you for your confounded impudence. But you always were a 
 chattering magpie. Anthony was quite right when he used to 
 say that for downright idiotic gabble, Flora Cridland's con- 
 versation was the best specimen he knew. Go, and send Alison 
 to me. 
 
 Anthony had never said anything of the sort. But it was 
 the way of this genial and warm-hearted person to set people 
 against each other by the simple process of repeating what had 
 not been said. 
 
 Mrs. Cridland knew in her heart that Anthony could not 
 have said words so unkind, but the thing pained and wounded 
 her all the same, and she retired with trembling hands and lips. 
 She had reason to tremble at the prospect. To begin with, 
 she had lost, or would probably lose, her comfortable post and 
 salary ; she would have to fall back upon her little savings, and 
 live in poverty and pinching ; and then there was Alison and 
 the terrible calamity which seemed hanging over her. 
 
 Tt was not Stephen's present intention to tell Alison of his 
 suspicions. As yet he would only alarm her and make her 
 anxious. 
 
 He received her with the same grave and judicial solemnity 
 which he had observed towards Mrs. Cridland. He was seated 
 now, and had before him a bundle of papers which he looked at 
 from time to time as he spoke. Alison remained standing. 
 
 ' Pray excuse me, Alison,' he began. ' In my capacity as ad- 
 ministrator of these estates I have to trouble you from time to 
 time with matters of business. Tell me, please — I asked yon 
 this once before — all you know about your — your mother.' 
 
 ' I know nothing.' 
 
 ' At least her name.' 
 
 He began to make notes of her answers. This irritated 
 Alison. 
 
 ' Not even her name. Papa once told me — it was the only 
 occasion on which he seemed to speak harshly — that I was never 
 to ask him any questions about her.' 
 
 He took this down in writing. 
 
 ' But — the lady with whom you lived before you came here 
 — Mrs. Duncombe. Did she never speak to you about your 
 mother ?' 
 
 ' She knew nothing about her. I was brought to her a year- 
 old child by papa. That is all she knew.' 
 
 'And the trinkets — nothing to connect you with your 
 mother?' 
 
 ' Nothing except a little coral necklace, which was found in 
 a box of baby-clothes which came with me.' 
 
 ' A coral necklace is nothing.' said Stephen, making a careful, 
 note of it. ' And that was all ?'
 
 STEPHEN'S INTENTIONS. 
 
 99 
 
 1 That was all, indeed. Why do you ask ? Is there anything 
 depending on my mother's name ?' 
 
 ' There may be, Alison. A great deal may depend upon it. 
 Be assured that I shall do nry best to find out the truth. Of 
 course I mean in your interests.' 
 
 Alison retired, confused and anxious. In the breakfast-room 
 she found Mrs. Cridland in tears. 
 
 ' Oh ! what has he said to you, Alison ?' she cried, clasping 
 her hands together. ' "What has the horrid, wicked man been 
 saying ?' 
 
 ' Uncle Stephen ?' asked Alison in surprise. ' Yv 7 hy is he horrid 
 and wicked auntie '? He has said nothing. He only asked me 
 for the second time what I knew of my poor dear mother, whom 
 I never saw. To be sure, he wrote down nry replies. But then, 
 as I know nothing about her, ther* -sras not much to be said. 
 And he had an odd way with him toi/. "What is the matter ?' 
 
 Mrs. Cridland breathed more freely on Alison's account. Hero 
 was at any rate a respite for her. She did not know, as jet, the 
 miserable thing that was waiting for her, to be revealed at the 
 man's good pleasure. So she replied with reference to her own 
 troubles. 
 
 ' My dear,' she said, wiping her eyes, ' we are to leave the 
 house, Nicolas and I. Stephen has ordered us to go. AVe are 
 to leave as soon as the money which is due to me has been paid. 
 He says I must have cajoled your poor father ' 
 
 ' But what does he mean ? What excuse has he ?' 
 
 ' None that I know, except that I said a thing which angered 
 him. And then there is the expense of keeping Nicolas and 
 me. To be sure, the poor boy has got a large appetite.' 
 
 ' Wait,' said Alison, ' I will know the reason of this.' She had 
 no notion of a guardian's duties extending to the dismissal of 
 her friends and companions. 
 
 ' Oh, Alison !' Mrs. Cridland sprang forward and caught her 
 by the arm. ' Don't go near him. He is dangerous. You will 
 only make matters worse.' 
 
 Alison tore herself away. 
 
 ' Alison, dear Alison, do not, for heaven's sake, do not anger 
 him!' 
 
 But Alison was already in the study. 
 
 ' Uncle Stephen,' she cried, with an angry spot on either 
 cheek, ' will you be kind enough to tell me why you have ordered 
 Aunt Flora out of the house '?' 
 
 Stephen was already far advanced in one of his most brilliant 
 and uncontrollable attacks of evil temper. 
 
 'I shall certainly not tell you, Alison,' he replied curtly. 
 
 ' Not tell me V But you shall tell me !' 
 
 Stephen remarked, while he felt that he was about to mca- 
 
 7-2
 
 ioo THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 sure swords with an antagonist worthy of himself, that Alison 
 had never before so strongly reminded him of his mother, espe- 
 cially at those moments while the Sefiora allowed herself to be 
 overcome with wrath. These moments, thanks to her son, were 
 neither few nor far between. 
 
 ' I shall tell you, shall I V he replied. ' You order me to tell 
 you, do you ? Come, this is rather good. Be assured, young 
 lad} r , that I have my reasons that Flora Cridland and her little 
 devil of a boy shall turn out of this, without any delay, and 
 that, as to my reasons, they are my own business.' 
 
 ' No,' replied Alison, ' they are my business. You are my 
 guardian, I know. But in a twelvemonth you will be guardian 
 no longer. Let us understand one another, Uncle Stephen. 
 You have certain powers for a limited time. Remember, how- 
 ever, that it is but a very limited time.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Stephen, looking dark and angry ; ' you are going 
 to lecture me on my duties as a guardian, are you ?' 
 
 ' No, I am not. But I am ready to tell you that if Aunt 
 Flora leaves this house I shall go with her. I do not under- 
 stand your duties to extend to depriving me of my companion 
 and protector.' 
 
 ' She is an heiress, this girl,' said Stephen. He had left the 
 chair and his papers, and was standing upon the hearth-rug in 
 one of his old familiar rages ; one of those with which he 
 would confront his mother in the old times. His bald temples 
 were flushed, and his black eyes glittered. ' She thinks she is 
 an heiress. She is a grande dame. Very good. She tries to 
 hector jie. Very good indeed. She shall learn a lesson. 
 Listen, Alison. You may threaten anything you like. At one 
 word from me, at one single word, all this wealth of yours 
 vanishes. Learn, that if I choose, say, when I choose, you will 
 step out of this house a penniless beggar.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Remember every one of my words. They mean exactly 
 what they say. You depend at this moment on my forbearance. 
 And, by Heaven ! that has come very nearly to the end of the 
 rope.' 
 
 ' You think that I am in your power. Is that it ?' 
 
 ' That is exactly what I think.' 
 
 ' Then, Uncle Stephen ' — Alison stepped up to him and looked 
 him full in the face. Like her uncle, she was flushed with 
 excitement and indignant surprise, but her eyes expanded while 
 his contracted under their emotions — ' do not think that by 
 anything you can say, or by any facts of which I know nothing, 
 that I can be brought into your power. I used to wonder how 
 two brothers could be so unlike each other as you and my dear 
 father. Henceforth I shall be more and more thankful for the
 
 STEPHEN'S INTENTIONS 101 
 
 •want of resemblance. Meantime you will find that I shall not 
 want protestors.' 
 
 She left nim, and shut the door. 
 
 ' Have I been precipitate ?' Stephen thought, when he had 
 had time to calm down ; : perhaps a little. Yet, after all, what 
 matters '? Sooner or later, the blow must have fallen.' 
 
 He rang the bell again. 
 
 ' Give my compliments to Miss Hamblin,' he said ; ' ask her 
 if she will favour me with one minute more.' 
 
 Alison returned. ' You are going to explain what you said ?' 
 
 ' I am,' he said ; ' if your abominable temper will allow you 
 to be calm for five minutes. Listen. Since your father's 
 death, I have been diligently hunting in your interests for any 
 record of his marriage. There is none. Do you understand 
 what that means ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' If no proof can be found, Anthony had no children ' 
 
 ' No children ? But I am his daughter.' 
 
 ' He said so. Prove your — your descent, by proving your 
 father's marriage. The law does not recognise likeness as proof 
 of descent.' 
 
 Still Alison did not comprehend. 
 
 'You will find out what all this means in the course of time. 
 For the moment, the only things you need umlerstand are that 
 your father was never married : he never had a wife ; he there- 
 fore never had a child, in the eyes of the law. He made no 
 will : y. a cannot, therefore, inherit one penny. The sole heir 
 to all his property— this house, and all that is in it ' — he swept 
 round his arm with an air of comprehensive proprietorship — ' is 
 myself.' 
 
 ' You.' 
 
 ' Myself. No other. In your interests I have been doing 
 what I could to find proof of the. marriage. There are none. 
 Everybody has always suspected this. I have always known it. 
 In your interests and out of consideration to your own feelings, 
 I have been silent all this time.' 
 
 ' In my interests !' she repeated. 
 
 She had indeed the spirit of his mother, her quick perceptions 
 and her fearlessness. With all his assumed exterior calm, 
 Stephen felt that the girl was stronger than himself, as she 
 faced him tliis time with every outward sign oL' outraged honour, 
 flashing eyes, flushed cheeks, and panting breast. 
 
 ■ I ii my interests !' There were scorn and passion in her tones, 
 beyond the power of an Englishwoman. 
 
 Mr . I iridland, who had Btolen timidly after the girl, fearful 
 that this impious slanderer of his dead mother might insult her, 
 stood within the door, trembling, yet admiring. Behind her, the
 
 132 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 pink-faced boy with the heavy white eyebrows, who had just 
 come home from school, gazed with curiosity, wonder, and 
 delight. Uncle Stephen was catching it. This was better than 
 pie. Alison — she really was a splendid fellow, he said to him- 
 self — was letting him have it. ' No one, after all,' thought 
 young Nick, ' when it comes to real slanging, can pitch in like a 
 girl in a wax.' 
 
 ' In my interests !' she pointed her finger at his scowling face 
 and downcast eyes. ' He pretends that my father was a de- 
 ceiver of women ; he pretends that my father threw away his 
 honour, and my mother her virtue : he pretends that I am a 
 cheat and an impostor : he pretends that everybody has always 
 suspected it : he pretends that I have no right to the very name 
 Ibear. This man alone, of all the world, has been base enough 
 to think such a thing of my father, he alone has dared to say it. 
 In my interests he searches private papers for a secret which 
 would not be there, and rejoices not to find it. In my interests 
 he seeks to prove that he is himself my father's heir.' 
 
 She paused a moment. 
 
 'Alison!' whispered Mrs. Cridland, 'it is enough. Do not 
 drive him to desperation.' 
 
 ' He shall be no guardian of mine,' the girl went on. ' Hence- 
 forth, he shall be no uncle of mine. Oh ! father — father — •' 
 she burst into sobs and crying, ' my poor dead father ! Is there 
 no one to call this man a liar, and give you back your honour ?' 
 
 Stephen answered never a word. 
 
 Mrs. Cridland drew the girl passively away. 
 
 But young Nick rushed to the front. His eyes were lit with 
 the light of enthusiastic partisanship. His white eyebrows 
 stood out like the fur of a cat in a rage. He brandished his 
 youthful fists in Stephen's face. 
 
 ' I will, Alison,' he cried. ' You hear — you. You are a liar 
 and a coward.' Here he dodged behind a chair. ' Wait till I 
 get older, Uncle Stephen. Youve caught it to-day from Alison, 
 and you'll remember it. But that's pancakes — mind — to what 
 you are going to catch when I grow up. Only you wait. 
 Pancakes, it is, and parliament, and baked potatoes.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HOW STEPHEN ASKED FOR BAKE JUSTICE. AND DID NOT GET IT. 
 
 The die was cast, then. Stephen had committed all his for- 
 tunes to one hazard, the chance of his being right.
 
 STEPHEN ASKS FOR BARE JUSTICE. 103 
 
 The great, quiet house — his oira, he said to himself — became 
 •almost intolerable to him. The face of the indignant girl, so 
 like, so reproachfully like his mother, haunted him, and re- 
 mained with him. Above the mantelshelf, the Senora gazed 
 down upon him with sorrowful eyes of deep black, like Alison's, 
 which followed him wherever he moved. The girl's very ges- 
 tures recalled to his mind his mother, her Spanish blood, and her 
 Spanish ways. It wa3 not pleasant, again, to feel that, some- 
 where, the two ladies were conversing together, indignant and 
 humiliated, in wrath, shame and misery: it was not an agreeable 
 reflection that not only then, but ever afterwards, he would be 
 regarded as the author of all the sorrow. One may be an im- 
 penitent spendthrift : one may be the black sheep of the family: 
 but one never likes to be thought the cause and origin of trouble, 
 arid this Stephen had brought upon his own back. Besides, he 
 would have been the blackest of villains, indeed, had he been 
 able altogether to forget Anthony, the generous brother who 
 had maintained him in luxury for so many years, and whom he 
 was going to repay in this — this very disagreeable way, so very 
 disagreeably put by Anthony's daughter. People do not so 
 much mind the sin of ingratitude, as being reminded of it. 
 
 Stephen took no notice whatever of the boy's impertinence: that 
 was nothing: he hardly heard it ; for the moment he was wholly 
 overpowered by a sense of his own audacity. His mother, from 
 her picture ; his brother, from every corner of the room, from 
 every trifle about it, from every book, from every chair— for all 
 was full of his memory ; his brother's daughter, with her ges- 
 tures of surprise, contempt, and loathing ; his cousin, timid and 
 gentle enough as a rule, with her tearful face of sorrow and 
 -. separately and together, reminded Stephen that 
 he had staked his all upon one event, and prepared him for 
 opposition and indignation. 
 
 He tried to shake oif the impression produced by this con- 
 tempt and wrath. It was useless. An hour before, he had 
 been a strong man, walking with the firm tread of strength. 
 Now, he felt small and weak : he walked, or thought he walked, 
 with bent knees: he seemed to tremble as he stood ; and when 
 he looked at his mother's portrait, her eyes, which to him had 
 always been so full of pity and of love, were turned, like those 
 of Alison, into loathing. One never, you see, estimates quite 
 justly, beforehand, the consequences of one's actions. 
 
 I lut he had done it. It was too late to go back. 
 
 No future words of his could ever destroy those which had 
 p: sed between himself and his niece. They could never be re- 
 called. There could be, he said, no reconciliation for himself 
 and Alison; there could be nothing between them for the 
 future but a duel a ice. On her side would be his cousins,
 
 io 4 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 all the family. On his own, the mystery — the impenetrable- 
 mystery — of her birth. 
 
 The battle was inevitable : the victory, he tried to persuade 
 himself, was certain. Yet he hesitated. He wished he had been 
 more gentle : he wished he had kept his temper : he wished he 
 had weighed his words. One thing he could do: he would leave 
 the house. There was no necessity for him to continue under 
 the same roof with his brother's daughter : he could hardly 
 turn her out: he would leave it himself, at all events for a time,, 
 until the first shock of the row should wear off a little. 
 
 His nerves were shaken, and he was glad to find an excuse for 
 getting out of the place. The issue was so important, the 
 stake so great, the associations of the house so strong, that he 
 wanted the solitude of his own chambers. He told the footman 
 that he should not be back for a day or two, and left the house. 
 In reality, he ran away from Alison, whom he feared to meet 
 again. 
 
 Alison, for her part, outraged and stricken down by this cruel 
 and wholly unexpected blow, took refuge in her own room, 
 trying to understand it, if she might. She was too wretched for 
 tears. She threw herself upon the bed and buried her face in 
 her hands, moaning with agony and shame. Everything was 
 torn away at once : the dream of a fond and worthy mother,, 
 the belief in a noble and honourable father. 
 
 Had Anthony Hamblin foreseen this sorrow ? Had there been 
 no middle way possible, by which the girl could have been spared 
 at once the shame of her father's sin, and the agony of her 
 mother's dishonour ? 
 
 ' Grief,' said young Nick, when the clock pointed to half-past 
 one, which was dinner-time, ' grief, with waxiness, makes a man 
 hungry. Call down Alison, mother. Dinner will be on the table 
 in a minute or two. As for the first cousin once removed,, 
 he's gone. I saw him out of the house myself ten minutes ago.' 
 
 Mrs. Cridland went to call her niece. She returned after a 
 few minutes, her eyes heavy with tears. Alison would not come 
 down at all. 
 
 Young Nick shook his head sagaciously. 
 
 ' Girls,' he said, ' are good at a slanging match. Their tongues 
 hang free, and their cackle is continuous. Men are nowhere. 
 Still, men don't shirk their grub because they've had a fight. 
 None such fools. It's only girls who don't see when it comes to- 
 keeping up the pecker, that the pecker must be kept up by more 
 than the usual amount of grub, and break down. One short 
 burst, good enough while it lasts, is the most they can manage. 
 Then it is all over.' 
 
 When dinner was served, he took Alison's place at the head 
 of the table and assumed the carving-knife and fork with con-
 
 STEPHEN ASKS FOR BARE JUSTICE. 105, 
 
 siderable increase of glory. Whatever might happen, he had 
 covered himself with glory as the defier of villainy. Besides, 
 it is not every day that a boy of fourteen is trusted to carve. 
 
 ' Boiled rabbit, mother ' — he brandished the carving-knife 
 with ostentations dexterity — ' boiled rabbit, smothered in onions, 
 and a little piece of pickled pig. Ah ! and a very fair notion. 
 of a simple dinner, too ; what we may call a reasonable tuck-in 
 for a hungry man : not a blow-out, like the Hamblin Dinner ; 
 but a dinner that a man can do justice to, particularly if there's 
 no falling off when the pudding comes. Let me give you a 
 slice off the back. I say, mother '—there was a twinkle in his 
 eye as he stuck the carving-knife into the vertebra? — ' I say, I 
 wish the bunny's back was Uncle Stephens, and my knife was in 
 it ? Wouldn't I twist it ! And suppose we had him before us 
 actually smothered in onions !' 
 
 He took a more than ample meal, because, as he explained, 
 be bad now hurled defiance at his uncle, and a gentleman's 
 glove once thrown down had to be fought for ; therefore he 
 must hasten to grow and get strong. With which object he 
 must eat much more meat than was heretofore thought prudent, 
 and a great deal more pudding. He begged his mother to re- 
 member that for the future. 
 
 'Fig pudding, old lady!' he cried, presently, with beaming 
 eyes, having the dish set well before him. ' Figs made into 
 pudding are recommended by doctors. They are said to be 
 comforting after trouble.' He cut a slice for his mother, and 
 then placed a very large one on his own plate. ' This,' he said, 
 with a sigh, ' is for Alison, poor girl ! She can't eat any. This,' 
 he added another massive lump, ' is for myself. I will do the 
 best I can and eat up her slice for her. She must not be all' >wed 
 to lower the system.' His white eyedjrows glittered like a 
 diamond-spray as he rapturously contemplated the double 
 ration. 
 
 As for Stephen, he was driving to town in a cab. 
 
 As he had been so hasty, as the thing had been told, as the 
 cousins w r ould most certainly hear of it immediately, it was Ear 
 better, he thought, to go to them himself and tell the story first. 
 At present, too, he had accepted the post of guardian, and 
 thereby put himself in a ful-e position. He ought not to have 
 taken it ; he ought to have asserted his claim from the begin- 
 ning, in a modest, but firm, way ; he should have communicated 
 his suspicions. But then Stephen could never run straight. 
 jMcantime he must go and tell his story, whatever the result. 
 
 The result ? Outside the house he began to shake off some 
 of the whipped-hound feeling which oppri ssed him beneath the 
 triple influence of which 1 have spoken. The result? What 
 11 suit could there be ? His brother had never married. Why,
 
 jo6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 justice was on his side ; he asked for nothing but plain and 
 simple justice : let bare justice be done to every man alike. 
 What could his cousins, what could the world, object to in his 
 claim for simple justice ? 
 
 Yet there was once a man, a younger son, who laid a claim 
 to a great title and great estate, held by his elder brother, on 
 much the same grounds as he was about to advance. And 
 though he had justice on his side, though it Avas clearly proved 
 that he was the heir, the world condemned that man for raking 
 up old scandals, for dishonouring the name of his mothei', and 
 the credit of his father. Stephen thought of that case, but he 
 hardened his heart. Besides, he said it was done now ; he had 
 spoken the fatal words, he must go on. To tell Alison, for 
 instance, that he intended to let her hold the estates by his 
 gracious favour would never console her for the trouble he had 
 brought upon her, would never heal the wound he had inflicted, 
 would never lead her to forgive him who had cast a blot upon 
 the fair name of her father. And again, it was absurd to sup- 
 pose that he was going to let her hold the estates when they 
 were his own. 
 
 If no man suddenly becomes the basest of men. it is also true 
 that no man, brought up as Stephen Hamblin was brought up, 
 can at any time, after however long a course of selfish pamper- 
 ing to his own appetites, contemplate an action of the basest 
 kind without some sort of hesitation. No one would deny that 
 this man was one eminently untrustworthy. Most of those 
 who knew him best trusted him least. There was, in the opinion 
 of his cousins, no wickedness of which he was not capable. 
 They would not, for instance, have believed that this deed, 
 perpetrated with such apparent calm deliberation, could have 
 «ost him so much hesitation and self-abasement. When we 
 plan out a line of action for a knave, we are generally right, 
 but we forget how much battling with his knavish conscience 
 it costs him. 
 
 In truth, Stephen, by much brooding over the thing, had got 
 to the level of hallucinations, a very common level with all sorts 
 of people whom the world condemns. 
 
 He thought people would sympathise with him. In imagina- 
 tion, he took up the attitude of one who calmly, firmly, and 
 without heat of passion, claims his own, standing out for the 
 simple, the barest justice. 
 
 Alison showed him, with her swift contempt, how the world 
 would really regard his action, what he would really seem. 
 With her spear of Ithuriel she changed him from the upright 
 figure of a wronged and injured man to a crawling, sneaking 
 spy, who had crept into the house under false pretences, and 
 made use of his opportunities to pry into the secrets of his
 
 STEPHEN ASKS FOR BARE JUSTICE. 107 
 
 "brother, discover the weak points and nakedness of the land, 
 and. in his own interests, search into all the secret documents. 
 
 This view of the matter was not so pleasant to contemplate, 
 and Stephen put it behind him as much as possible. 
 
 He deposited his bag in his chambers at Pall Mall, took a late 
 lunch, with a single pint of champagne, at his club, and then 
 drove into the City. Since the thing had to be done, let it be 
 done quickly. 
 
 He presented himself at his cousin's private office, with an 
 air which struck Augustus Hamblin as of ill omen. His dark 
 eves were bloodshot and more shifty than usual . They were 
 ringed with black, the result of midnight potations, not of 
 villainy, and they seemed more crow's-footed than usual ; his 
 dress, which was t hat of a young man of five-and-twenty, seemed 
 more than usually incongruous ; he held between his lips the 
 remaining half of a great cigar — men of Stephen Hamblin's 
 stamp are seldom without a cigar between their lips — and 
 .smoking, especially in the day-time, was always an abomination 
 to Augustus Hamblin. Lastly, Stephen's cousin noticed that 
 his cheek was twitching— a sign of nervousness — and that his 
 hands shook, which might be the effect of villainous intention, 
 or of late hours, or it might be drink. It must be understood 
 that Augustus put none of these observations into words. They 
 remained inarticulated thoughts. 
 
 • You here, Stephen ?' he asked, not very cordially. ' Is any- 
 thing wrong with your ward V 
 
 ching is wrong with my ward. 1 replied Stephen. ' It is 
 not about her, or at least only indirectly, that I have come to 
 see you.' 
 
 ' Is it on business ? Then we will ask my partner to be 
 present. Two heads are better than one, or three better than 
 two.' 
 
 He whistled down a tube, and sent his message. 
 Augustus Hamblin spoke cheerfully, but he remembered 
 what Alderney Codd had told him, and he felt uneasy. William 
 the Silent presently came, and nodded to Stephen. But he, 
 too, looked meaningly towards his partner. The two sat like 
 a judicial bench behind the table. Stephen, like a criminal, 
 »od before them. He laid down the cigar, and looked from 
 cne to the other with a certain embarrassment. 
 
 'You will remember,' he said presently, producing a po< •' 
 book full of papers, but this was only a pretence — 'You will 
 remember that when I was here last, Augustus, I asked you 
 what you knew about my brother Anthony's marriage.' 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ; Since then I have been employing myself, in Alison's inte- 
 rests, in trying to clear up the mystery.'
 
 io3 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 Yes, though you might as well have left it alone.' 
 
 ' I might as well, so far as her interests go, as it seems,' said 
 Stephen, clearing his throat. His face was pale now, but his 
 attitude was firm and erect. He was about to fire the fatal shot. 
 
 ' I might as well, because I have made a remarkable discovery 
 
 among Anthony's papers — a most surprising discovery ; a thing 
 which alters the whole complexion of affairs and puts me in a 
 most awkward position.' 
 
 One of Stephen's least pleasant traits was a certain liability 
 to inspiration of sudden falsehood, just as some men are apt to 
 be inspired by sudden bursts of generosity and lofty purpose. 
 It would have been better for him had he stated the truth, that 
 he suspected no marriage, and found in the papers no proof of 
 marriage. But it occurred to him at the moment that he would 
 strengthen his case if he asserted that he had found proof of no 
 marriage, a very different thing. 
 
 ' What is your discovery ?' asked Augustus, with a presenti- 
 ment of something wrong. 
 
 ' It is nothing less than the fact — you will be both more sur- 
 prised than I was — nothing less— I am a man of the world and 
 take these things as quite common occurrences — than the fact 
 that my brother Anthony Avas never married at all. 
 
 ' Stephen !' cried Augustus, ' can this be true ?' 
 
 ' Patience,' said William the Silent. ' Let him tell us the 
 nature of the proof.' 
 
 ' Oh ! pardon me,' said Stephen. ' The nature of the proof I 
 hold in my own hands. It is among these papers, and will be 
 produced if necessary by my own lawyer, at the proper time 
 and place. Anthony was never married.' 
 
 There was silence for a space. 
 
 ' I leave to you,' said Stephen, ' if you like to undertake it, 
 the task of proving that there was a marriage. I should advise 
 you not to try. It will, I assure you, be labour lost.' 
 
 Again, neither spoke, and Stephen was obliged to go on. 
 
 ' The consequences of this discovery,' he said. ' will be very 
 serious. It makes me the Head of the House. Alison, my 
 brother's daughter, is entitled to nothing. I shall, of course, 
 take my brother's position as chief partner in this firm.' 
 
 ' No !' said William, decidedly. 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Augustus. ' Whatever happens, you will 
 never, I assure you, be a partner in this firm.' 
 
 Stephen nodded carelessly. ' We shall see. When it comes 
 to taking me in or taking the consequences — however, I can 
 afford to overlook a little natural surprise. Now, before I ga 
 before the Court of Probate, I am anxious to obtain your 
 approval, your acknowledgment that my course is absolutely 
 forced upon me. Remember, you invited me to be guardian : in.
 
 STEPHEN ASKS FOR BARE JUSTICE. 109 
 
 that capacity I went into residence at Clapham : in that capa- 
 city I made inquiries in Alison's interest : still in that capacity 
 — still in her interest — I searched through the old papers and — 
 I made this discovery. She has no legal right to more than 
 the clothes she stands in. All the rest is mine. I am the sole 
 heir. I ask you, as business men, what I am to do. I bring 
 to you, as my cousins and hers, the first intelligence of the 
 discovery.' 
 
 He did not wait for an answer, being, perhaps, afraid that 
 they might either repeat that question as to the nature of the 
 discovery, or counsel him to go and burn it. 
 
 ' What would either of you do ? It is, I know, absurd to ask. 
 You would advise me at once to ask for bare justice. My just 
 and legal claim is for the whole estate. This is my inheritance. 
 When that claim is granted, I am prepared to consider the 
 claim of my brother's daughter. What do you say?' 
 
 He looked from one to the other, but received no answer for 
 the moment. 
 
 Then Augustus, in his dry and solemn way, asked : 
 
 ' Pray, how much does Alison know of this — this alleged dis- 
 covery ?' 
 
 Stephen tried to look unembarrassed, but failed. 
 
 • She knows all,' he replied. ' My hand was forced, by some 
 attempted interference with me. I told her the exact truth ; I 
 disclosed her true position.' 
 
 ' Poor girl !' said Augustus. 
 
 ' However,' said Stephen, ' pity will not alter facts. I wait for 
 an expression of your opinion.' 
 
 Augustus looked at his partner. William the Silent nodded 
 his head suggestively, in the direction of the door. 
 
 • We refer you,' said Augustus, ' to Mr. Billiter. You may 
 go and see him. Tell him, if you please, what you have told 
 us. Our offer made a few weeks ago is, of course, withdrawn. 
 You can no longer act as Alison"s guardian. Henceforth, it will 
 be better for you to communicate with us, who will assume the 
 
 ition of the young lady's protectors, through your solicitors. 
 We express no opinion on what you have done : we do not ven- 
 ture to give you any advice. Good-morning.' 
 
 The cold contemptuous tone of his cousins was almost as in- 
 tolerable as the indignation of Alison. Stephen left the office 
 without a word. 
 
 When he was gone, the partners looked at each other and 
 shook their heads. 
 
 ' He may be lying,' said Augustus. ' He may be speaking the 
 truth. What do you think ?' 
 
 ' Lies !' said William, whose opinion of Stephen was extremely 
 low : ' lies somewhere !'
 
 no THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Perhaps in either case we lose nothing by waiting. Could 
 Ave have thought Anthony capable of such deception ?' 
 
 ' Lies !' said William again, stoutly. 
 
 Augustus Hamblin, himself a man of the strictest principle, 
 had known his cousin Anthony from boyhood : had worked be- 
 side him : knew, as he thought, every action of his life. Yet he 
 seemed ready, on the bare unsupported statement of Stephen, 
 to believe that a man whose youth and manhood, open to all 
 alike, were honourable and honoured, was a profligate, a de- 
 ceiver of women, a secret libertine. There is no man so good 
 but that the worst shall be believed of him. The Just man of 
 Athens would never have been exiled had his countrymen been 
 able to rake up a scandal against him. For my own part, when 
 I consider the position, I am amazed that Aristides did not 
 himself grow weary of provoking his countrymen by the exhi- 
 bition of a virtue to which nothing short of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury can show a parallel, and openly go and break half a dozen 
 at least of the commandments, and so regain a hold upon the 
 affections of sympathetic humanity. 
 
 William Hamblin would doubtless have been equally ready to 
 believe this thing, but for his suspicion and distrust of Stephen. 
 
 The latter, only half satisfied with his reception by the 
 cousins, drove straight away to the family lawyer. He would 
 have it out at once — state his case, throw down the glove, and 
 defy them to do their worst. 
 
 Mr. Billiter thought he was come to sign the agreement, 
 according to their proposal, by which he was to undertake the 
 name of guardian, receive an honorarium, and leave the conduct 
 of affairs entirely in the hands of the partners. But Stephen 
 pushed it aside. 
 
 ' You may tear that thing up,' he said rudely. ' The time has 
 gone by when that sort of thing could be signed. I have come 
 to tell you that I have made a discovery — whether you knew it 
 all along or not I do not know ; perhaps you did ; very likely 
 you did — a discovery of so important a nature that it entirely 
 alters the position both of myself and of Alison.' 
 
 'Indeed!' The old lawyer's tone changed, and his sharp, 
 bright eyes glittered as he raised them to look at Stephen. 
 ' Indeed ! What is this discovery ? Have you got it in your 
 pocket ?' 
 
 ' It is nothing less than the fact that my brother Anthony 
 was never married at all.' 
 
 This was indeed a facer. 
 
 ' What do you think of that ?' asked Stephen, triumphantly. 
 
 ' I never allow myself to think of anything until the proofs 
 are before me. Produce your proofs.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' replied Stephen, tapping his breast, where lay
 
 STEPHEN ASKS FOR BARE JUSTICE. in 
 
 his pocket-book — ' not at all. If there was a marriage, produce 
 your proofs.' 
 
 The ferret-like eyes lit up with a sharpness which Stephen 
 did not like. 
 
 ' We assume the marriage,' said the lawyer. ' The presump- 
 tion is in favour of the marriage. You have to disprove it. 
 "Where are your proofs ?' 
 
 ' As I said before/ Stephen answered, ' I reserve them. You 
 will find that the lav/ assumes that there was no marriage, and 
 will call upon you for the proofs.' 
 
 ' In that case, I give no opinion. This document, then ' — he 
 took up the agreement—' is so much waste paper.' 
 
 ' It is. I refuse to sign it. I am going to claim the whole 
 estate, as sole heir.' 
 
 'A bold game, Stephen. A desperately bold game. You 
 give up the provision we offered you ; you risk all in a single 
 coup. Your proofs have need to be strong. You will want 
 them as strong as they can be made.' 
 
 Stephen sat down upon the table familiarly — on the awful 
 table, before which, as a boy, he had so often trembled. 
 
 ' I begin to wonder,' he said, with as much rudeness as could 
 be thrown into words and manner, ' whether you have been a 
 dupe or an accomplice. Anthony had plenty of dupes. He 
 must have wanted an accomplice.' 
 
 'Dear me!' said the lawyer, not in the least ruffled by this 
 insult. ' Here is a turning of tables. So I am an accomplice, 
 ami? Well?' 
 
 ' You pretend not to know what I mean. And yet there are 
 only you and myself in the room.' 
 
 'Perhaps it is not prudent to be without witnesses when you 
 are here ; but still, you see. i risk it.' 
 
 ' I have been treated,' said Stephen, ' since my brother's death, 
 with the greatest contumely by yourself and my cousins. You 
 have offered me the post of guardian, coupled with degrading 
 conditions. Yet I have held my hand, knowing what I knew. 
 The time has come when I shall hold it no longer. I am now 
 prepared to strike.' 
 
 ' I clearly perceive, Stephen,' the lawyer observed, ' that you 
 have been meditating all along a stroke worthy of your former 
 reputation.' 
 
 'Your age protects you,' replied Stephen. ' You know that 
 you can say whatever you ple:ise.' 
 
 ' I have known you all your life, Stephen Hamblin, and I have 
 never yet known you do a straightforward action. Now tell me, 
 if you like, what you propose to do.' 
 
 ' This, at all events, is straightforward. I am going to take 
 out letters of administration, not for Alison, but fur myself. I
 
 1 1 2 THE SEA M V SIDE. 
 
 shall put in an immediate claim on the estate, as the sole heir of 
 my brother, who left no will, and was never married.' 
 
 He tried to look the old lawyer steadily in the face, but his 
 eyes quailed. 
 
 ' I see,' said the old man. ' this is your manoeuvre, is it ? 
 Well, Stephen, we shall fight yon. I don't believe a word of 
 your discovery. It is bounce and suspicion, and a hope that 
 because we do not know where Anthony was married, we can- 
 not find out. Meantime, you must of course live on your own 
 resources. You will have no help from us.' 
 
 ' That,' said Stephen, ' I anticipated.' 
 \*' You will get nothing from the estate until the case is 
 o* c decided ; and, of course, we shall only communicate with you 
 '-~> u . ^° through your solicitors. I have nothing more to say.' 
 <■)*•* ^, He turned his chair round and took up some papers. Stephen 
 „ i n*- c - >/r ac lingered a moment. His face was dark and lowering. 
 
 VW*^ ,\\ 'I hope that I have made myself sufficiently clear,' he said, 
 /<** -J*- stammering. ' I ask for nothing but justice. I am the heir. 
 P ^ I assert that my brother never married.' 
 
 ^j v ' You are quite clear,' said Mr. Billiter, without looking up ; 
 
 f) w^ / ' I am perfectly aware of what you mean.' 
 f ' I only claim my rights. Do you, a lawyer, dare to call that 
 
 dishonourable ?' 
 
 ' Stephen Hamblin,' replied Mr. Billiter, laying down his 
 papers and leaning back in his chair, and tapping his knuckles 
 with his glasses, ' I said just now that I had never known you 
 do one single good action. But you have done so many bad ones 
 that I am never surprised at anything you do.' 
 
 ' As for the bad actions, as you are pleased to call them — it 
 is absurd, I suppose, to remind you of the exaggerations 
 
 made ' 
 
 ' Ta — ta— fa,' said the lawyer. ' We know. Your brother on 
 whose generosity you lived being dead, you proceed to reward 
 that generosity by proclaiming to the world the illegitimacy of 
 his daughter, which you suspect, and hope to be true, but cannot 
 prove. That is, indeed, the act of a high-toned, whole-souled 
 gentleman.' 
 
 ' It is in a lawyer's office,' said Stephen, as if with sorrow, ' I 
 am upbraided in my intention of claiming what is justly due to me. 
 So far, however, as Alison is concerned, your own injustice and 
 the misrepresentations of my cousins will produce no effect. I 
 shall provide for her : so far as a yearly hundred or two, I am 
 
 willing ' 
 
 'Get out of my office, man!' cried the ferret-faced little 
 lawyer, pointing to the door. ' You propose to rob your niece 
 of a quarter of a million, and you offer her a hundred a year ! 
 ■Go, sir, and remember you have not got the money yet.'
 
 STEPHEN ASKS FOR BARE JUSTICE. 113 
 
 Stephen had done it now. He felt rather cold as he walked 
 nway from Bedford Row. It was like parting with power in 
 reserve. As for the wrath of his cousins and the old lawyer, 
 that troubled him, after the first unpleasantness, very little. 
 One thing only seriously annoyed him. Why had he not drawn 
 the proffered yearly allowance of five hundred pounds before 
 announcing his intentions ? It was awkward, because Anthony, 
 his sole source of income, being dead, and his balance at the 
 bank being reduced to less than fifty pounds, it might become 
 a difficulty to provide the daily expenses. However, long before 
 that difficulty presented itself, he should, he thought, have 
 gained a decision of the Court in his favour. 
 
 He went to his club in the evening, and dined there with his 
 friend Jack Baker, whom we have already met at the Birch- 
 Tree Tavern. 
 
 Stephen was melancholy, and inattentive to the claret. 
 
 ' You are hipped old man,' said Jack. ' What is the matter ?' 
 
 ' A discovery I made the other day has rather knocked me 
 over,' said Stephen. ' A discovery that obliges me to take 
 action, in a painful way, with my own people.' 
 
 ' In your own interests ?' 
 
 ' Very much, if we look at it only from a money point of 
 view,' Stephen said, with a sigh. 'It is connected with my 
 brother's estate, in fact. The estate, you know, is worth, one 
 way and the other, something like three hundred thousand 
 pounds.' 
 
 • All ! Ho left no will, did he ?' 
 
 ' None ; and up to the present moment my niece, his daughter, 
 has been supposed to be the sole heiress. Now, however, we 
 
 have discovered that the sole heir is But it will all come 
 
 out in the Courts, before very long. No need to talk about it. 
 This is very fine Leoville ; let us have another bottle.' 
 
 ' And you are his only brother,' said Jack Baker, thought- 
 fully. 'Why ' 
 
 If Stephen had searched about all over London for the best 
 method of spreading a report abroad, he could hardly have hit 
 upon a better one than that of hinting to his friend Jack Baker 
 t something was in prospect. Perhaps he knew this. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Till) VALLEY OF TEARS. 
 
 Tin; pudding was finished and the tablecloth removed before 
 Alison appeared. She was calm now, but there was a burning 
 
 8
 
 ii 4 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 spot in each cheek, and a glow in her dark eyes, from which an 
 enemy would have augured ill. 
 
 She sat down and wrote two letters : one of them was to 
 Gilbert, the other to Augustus Hamblin. To the latter she 
 related, as exactly as she could, what had taken place. The 
 former she simply invited to call and see her as soon as he con- 
 veniently could. 
 
 She sent Nicolas with this note to the Temple, and posted 
 the former. The boy understood that the letter meant the 
 beginning of war : and his enthusiasm in the cause was roused. 
 He acquired, too, a considerable accession of self-importance, 
 from considering the fact of his own share in the struggle. 
 
 He took the omnibus to Blackfriars very soberly, playing no 
 pranks at all on the way, and turning neither to right nor to 
 left until he found himself in Gilbert's chambers in Brick Court. 
 The young barrister was engaged in some devilling, that in- 
 genious method by which the briefless delude themselves into 
 the belief that they are getting on. He looked up and nodded 
 cheerfully. 
 
 ' How is young Nick ? What seeks he here ?' he asked. 
 
 Nicolas shook his head and looked mighty grave. 
 
 ' What has happened ?' 
 
 ' Villainies/ replied the boy, in a hollow voice ; ' villainies, 
 conspiracies, and a kick-up. Here's a note for you. Alison 
 wants you to come at once. You are not to delay one moment, 
 she says, not even to part your hair down the middle.' — The 
 young man's middle parting was always remarkably clear and 
 well-defined. — '"Tell him," she says, "if he wants anymore 
 spooning, he'd better step out and get down at once." 
 
 'I must, at least, change my coat. Now, boy,' emerging 
 from his bedroom, ' just tell me, in a few words, what has 
 happened.' 
 
 ' Uncle Stephen — no, I forgot, he is no longer to be an uncle 
 — first-cousin-once-removed Stephen has been staying with us 
 for a week or so, as you know. He's been mighty civil to 
 Alison, I must own. But the artfulness ! It was all to poke 
 about among the papers. And then he has a row with my 
 mother, and then with Alison, and then he tells her that she's 
 no right to the fortune at all, and it's all his. Think of that ! 
 " Oh ! yes," he says, " you think it's yours, do you ? Much. 
 I'm the owner, I am. As for you, you are nobody. You may 
 go. Nicolas Cridland," he went on, " may go too. With the 
 old lady." ' 
 
 ' Not the heiress ? What does he mean ?' 
 ' Here comes in the villainy. Because, he says, Uncle Anthony 
 was never married. That's the reason. Well : when Alison 
 heard him say that — she's got a fine temper of her own, once
 
 THE VALLEY OF TEARS. 115 
 
 get her back up ; you 'will discover it some day : so don't say I 
 didn't warn you — she went at him with ' — he looked round him 
 in doubt — ' with the tongs.' 
 
 ' Nonsense.' 
 
 ' I backed her up. When she'd quite finished I let the first- 
 cousin-once-removed have a bit of the rough side of my tongue, 
 too. I don't pretend to be a patch on Alison, because when a 
 girl — a strong girl, mind yon — gets her back up and her tongue 
 well slung, she can let out in a way to make a man's hair stand 
 on end. His hair stood up, all that's left of it. He hadn't a 
 word to say.' 
 
 The boy stopped, waiting for applause. None came. 
 
 ' I say, I suppose you envy me, don't you ? Wish you had 
 been in my place to cowhide him ?' 
 
 ' Why, you don't mean to say that you ' 
 
 ' I "promised^ which is the same thing,' said Nicolas proudly. 
 ' Let him wait till I am one-and-twenty. Then he shall feel 
 how spry a curly one about the legs will make him. But, I 
 say, you're a private and particular friend of Alison's. I don't 
 mind taking you in. It's seven years to wait, you see, and then 
 no telling what may happen. AVe'll stand in together, if you 
 like.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Gilbert ; ' and where is he ?' 
 
 ' Oh, ran away ! Didn't stop to reflect that he's got seven 
 years to wait. Ran away at once. Alison wouldn't have any 
 dinner, though there was — never mind. Came down when we'd 
 finished, quite quiet, but looking dangerous — handy with her 
 heels, you know — and wrote two letters. One was yours. J 
 was rather glad to get out of the house myself. No telling 
 whether she mightn't have rounded on me, as she's done once or 
 twice before.' 
 
 The boy, in answer to Gilbert's questions, stuck to the 
 substantial basis of his story, although he embellished it by 
 features which changed with each narration. Alison was not 
 the heiress, because her father was never married. And this 
 statement had been made coarsely and even brutally. 
 
 Could it be true ? And if so, what was Alison's position ? 
 
 Gilbert lost no time in getting down to Clapham, leaving the 
 boy behind to saunter through the streets and follow at his 
 leisure. 
 
 He found Alison standing at the window of her own room, 
 impatient and restless. She was transformed. The girl whom 
 he had last seen, only a day or two before, soft, shrinking, 
 gentle, stood before him with lips set firm, defiant pose, and 
 in which the glow of love and douce pensSe had given place 
 to a hard and cold light. 
 
 lie took her hand and wanted to kiss her. 
 
 8-2
 
 n 6 7 HE SEA M Y SIDE. 
 
 ' No, Gilbert,' she said harshly, ' It was not to listen to love- 
 stories that I sent for you. Perhaps, most likely, all that is 
 over. You have heard — did the boy tell you? — what has 
 happened ?' 
 
 ' He did tell me. Stephen Hamblin seeks to rob you of your 
 inheritance.' 
 
 ' And of my name, and of my father's honour, and of my 
 mother's honour. He will try to rob me of all at once. There 
 will be nothing left.' Her voice failed her, but it was not to 
 sob or cry that she broke down. ' Tell me first, Gilbert, if 3-ou, 
 too, were one of those who all along suspected this thing ? My 
 uncle says that everybody suspected it.' 
 
 ' It is false, Alison. Nobody, so far as I know, ever suspected 
 such a thing. I the least of all men.' 
 
 ' But he said,' 1 she repeated, ' he said that everybody alwaj-s 
 suspected.' 
 
 ' It is false again, Alison — a thousand times false ! Believe 
 me. no one ever dreamed of suspecting such a thing.' 
 
 She seemed not to hear him. 
 
 ' So that I have been living for ten years in a fool's paradise, 
 while people scoffed at me behind my back, and at my mother, 
 and said hard things about my father. What a life for us both ! 
 and we never knew it.' 
 
 ' Alison ! Do not believe, do not think such things.' 
 
 ' But if such things are true — and, whether I think them or 
 not, they may be true. And one thing seems true, that my 
 poor father left no will, and, unless I can prove his marriage, 
 which — he — says never took place, I am a beggar in fortune, as 
 well as in honour. I have nothing.' 
 
 ' Yes, Alison ' — he took her hand in his, and held it in the 
 firm man's grasp which brought her comfort for the moment — 
 ' yes, Alison, you have something left. You have me ; you have 
 love. You have plenty of others who love you, but not so well. 
 We shall only have to wait a little longer. You will not be able 
 to hear your husband called a fortune-hunter. That is what 
 it means, if it is true — all it ever shall mean to you and to me.' 
 
 She shook her head, and the tears ran to her eyes. For some 
 moments she could not speak. Then she conquered herself, 
 drew back her hand, dashed the tears away, and became hard 
 again. 
 
 ' It means more, Gilbert. It means a great deal more. I am 
 — illegitimate.' 
 
 She did not blush nor wince, but boldly pronounced the 
 word, as if she would face the thing at once. 
 
 ' I must be ashamed of my mother ; I must be ashamed of 
 my father ; I must never, never think of marriage or of love. 
 This must be my farewell to you, dear Gilbert.'
 
 THE VALLEY OF TEARS. 117 
 
 He seized her in his arms, and kissed her again and again, 
 until she broke away from him. 
 
 ' My darling ! Do you think I should let you go ? Why, 
 what is it ? You have lost your name ; all the more reason for 
 taking another. And as for — for your father, you must try not 
 to think unkindly ' 
 
 ' Not unkindly,' she said. ' Never unkindly, only sorrowfully, 
 because I thought him blameless.' 
 
 Each time her lover ceased to touch her, she became hard 
 and defiant again. 
 
 ' Do not think of it at all in connection with him,' ur 
 Gilbert. ' Let your thoughts dwell only on the happy past, 
 which can never be forgotten. Think if he did you a great 
 wrong, he did all he could to repair it.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' she murmured impatiently. ' It is of — the other — 
 that I think — the man who has done the mischief to me. 
 Yesterday I knew nothing. Yesterday I was proud of my 
 father, and of myself. I had everything that a girl wants, 
 except him whom I had lost. I had a lover ' 
 
 ' You have still, Alison. I will not be denied that title. I 
 am your lover, whatever may happen.' 
 
 ' You are kind, Gilbert,' she said ; ' but you must not love me 
 any longer. I will not think of love any more. I will not drag 
 you down. I mean it. I am resolved in this. I will not marry. 
 I will not endure to feel that your own people would have to 
 apologise for me, that perhaps my own children would have to 
 blush for their mother's birth. Sparc me that, Gilbert, if you 
 love me, as I think you do. 
 
 ' The misfortune has fallen on both of us alike,' she went on, 
 releasing herself a third time from Gilbert's hands. 'Ii 
 been sweet for me to feel that I was loved, especially since my 
 father's death. It is dreadful to give you up, Gilbert. But I 
 am resolved. When my uncle told me, this morning, my firs I 
 thought was that I must give you up. Ever since then I have 
 been thinking about it.' 
 
 She drew a ring from her finger — the ring of her engagement. 
 ' Take it back, Gilbert. Our engagement is at an end. I give 
 you back your vows with this ring. You shall marry no base- 
 born girl.' 
 
 1 1 e refused to take the ring. 
 
 ' I will take back neither vows nor ring, Alison. I am your 
 lover. I swear that I will never be released unless you marry 
 another man.' 
 
 ' I shall marry no one,' she said. ' Go away, Gilbert. 
 must see me no more. I forbid you the house, my poor Gil- 
 bert, as long as I have a hou.se at all. Soon 1 shall have no 
 house.'
 
 1 1 3 THE SEAM Y SIDE. 
 
 ' Alison,' cried the young man, ' do not be cruel ! I will not be 
 sent away. Remember, I am always your lover.' 
 
 She shook her head. There was resolution in every line of her 
 figure, as she stood before him. He saw that remonstrance, en- 
 treaties, and prayers were useless — for the moment. 
 
 ' You must not try to see me any more, Gilbert. Remember 
 that every time I see you will bring me fresh pain and misery. 
 I will go away somewhere — I dare say my cousins will not let 
 me starve — and hide myself and all this shame. I only sent to 
 you, to tell you that it was all over. Poor boy !' Her hard 
 eyes softened and became beautiful again, as she laid her hand 
 upon his sleeve. 'You feel it now, but you will forget. You 
 will go about in the world and do great work, and so learn to 
 forget, and then you will find some other girl whom you will 
 love as much as ever you loved me — and who will have a — a — 
 story that can be told without shame.' 
 
 ' Stay !' cried Gilbert, ' stay, Alison. "We are going far too 
 quickly. Ail is not over yet. Whose word have you beside 
 your uncle's ?' 
 
 'No one's. He would not dare to say such a thing unless it 
 were true.' 
 
 ' He says, Nicolas tells me, that he has proof that there was no 
 marriage. We shall believe that story when we see the proofs.' 
 
 ' There must be proofs.' 
 
 ' Let us first leara what they are. Until we can examine the 
 proofs for ourselves, I for one, Alison, shall disbelieve the state- 
 ment. What would the proof be ? Are we to believe that your 
 father deliberately left a paper among his private documents, 
 stating that he was never married ? This seems ridiculous. 
 What other proof has he, or can he have ? 
 
 ' I believe,' Gilbert continued, ' that the statement is a pure 
 fabrication. See, Alison, Mr. Stephen Hamblin is, and always 
 has been, a man of low principle. It is his interest to make out 
 this charge. He knows that there is no will. He knows, further, 
 that your father was unwilling, for some reason best known to 
 himself, to talk about his married life ; and so he calmly frames 
 this gigantic lie, in hope that it will be believed.' 
 
 Alison shook her head. 
 
 ' Let us not be the first to believe it. Until it is proved — and 
 it never can be proved — let us — if only you and I remain loyal 
 — go on believing in the honour of your father. My dear, you 
 must believe it.' 
 
 ' You say so, Gilbert, to comfort me.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, partly to comfort you ; but I believe solemnly that 
 it is the truth. Surely it is more easy to believe that your 
 father was always what you knew him to be in every relation of 
 life — a good man — than that he lived perpetually in an atmo-
 
 THE VALLEY OF TEARS. 119 
 
 sphere of deceit and treachery. Shake off that distrust, Alison. 
 It is a nightmare born of the base insinuations and suggestions 
 of that man. Hold up your head and face the world. Let us 
 say simply: " Anthony Hamblin could not have done this thing." 
 And even if the law allows him, which I do not think, to lay his 
 unrighteous hand upon your fortune, go on in your belief and 
 loyalty to your father.' 
 
 ' They are brave words, Gilbert,' she said. ' You are a strong 
 man : you can dare and do. I am only a weak woman. When 
 things are said, the words are like daggers and pierce my heart. 
 But you are right. I am fallen indeed if I can cease to believe 
 in the goodness of my father.' 
 
 ' And this ring, Alison ?' He held up the engaged ring. 
 
 ' No, 3 she said, ' I am resolved upon that. You and I, Gilbert, 
 will believe in my father ; you, because you are loyal to the 
 memory of a man who loved you ; and I, because it will be all 
 my comfort. But I will not put on that ring again until it has 
 been proved to all the woi'ld that I need not blush with shame 
 when my mother's name is mentioned.' 
 
 Gilbert hesitated for a moment, thinking what to say, what 
 comfort to bring. 
 
 'In that case,' he said at length, with a forced smile, "we 
 must try to penetrate the mystery and find the truth about 
 your father's marriage. At least you will let me work for you.' 
 
 ' I shall be deeply grateful to you,' she replied, holding out 
 her hand to him. The hard light in her eyes was gone, but the 
 lip trembled still : ' I shall be grateful, even if you find nothing. 
 But you must remember one thing, Gilbert — until you have 
 found out — what we seek — there must be no word of love ; and 
 if we never find out, there must never be word of love between 
 us. Do you promise not to break this rule ?' 
 
 ' It is a very hard promise, Alison. If you knew how I love 
 you, you would not ask it of me.' 
 
 ' It is because I do know, and because — oh, Gilbert ! — because 
 it is as hard for me to ask as for you to promise, and because, 
 whatever happens, I must try to keep my self-respect. Pro- 
 mise me.' 
 
 He promised, at length, kissing her fingers. 
 
 ' And now,' he said, ' I shall go to your cousins and offer my 
 services to unravel the mystery. I shall do nothing else until 
 we have learned the truth,' 
 
 ' Oh, Gilbert !' She was going to have one devoted friend, at 
 least. To be sure she had known that he would be her knight. 
 ' But you must not ruin your practice at the Bar for my sake.' 
 
 The young member of the Inner Temple laughed sarcastically. 
 
 • My practice?' he asked. 'What does not exist cannot be 
 very well ruined, my dear child. I have no practice. No doubt
 
 T20 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 I shall get some in course of time, if I go on. At present, 
 solicitors do not know my name, and I am briefless. Do not be' 
 disturbed about my practice.' 
 
 Meantime Nicolas had found his way home and discovered his 
 mother again in tears. This was disagreeable. It was still 
 more disagreeable, when he inquired the cause, to learn that, if 
 Alison lost her inheritance, his mother would lose that three 
 hundred pounds a year which formed, as Nicolas for the first 
 time learned, her sole income. 
 
 ' I suppose we shall all three go to the workhouse,' the poor 
 lady sobbed. 
 
 ' No, mother,' said Nicolas. ' You and Alison may go there T 
 if you like, and if you prefer skilly to chops. I shan't. Come, 
 old lady ' — he rammed his hands into his pockets, and stood with 
 his legs apart — ' come, cheer up. Workhouse, indeed ! Haven't 
 you got me ? For the present, I suppose, I must enlist. I can 
 have stoppages made for you and Alison out of the pay. That 
 will cany you on till I'm old enough — provided I am not in the 
 meantime killed in action — to enter the Firm. The least they 
 can do for me after cheeking Uncle Stephen— and, of course, I 
 shall horsewhip him when the time comes— is to give me a 
 desk. Then I can support you both in comfort, with boiled 
 rabbit and onions and pickled pig every day. That fellow 
 Yorke, unless I am greatly mistaken in the man, which isn't 
 usual with me, will want to cry off when he hears! that Alison 
 has got no money. I don't much like that style of man : blue 
 eyes, curly brown hair, regular features — barber's-block features, 
 long legs, and broad shoulders. I hope she won't take it toe 
 much to heart. After all, it will be only waiting for me. I'm. 
 the sort of man to make her really happy. I feel it in me. 
 Cheer up, old lady.' 
 
 He kissed his mother and patted her cheek. I think Mrs. 
 Cridland was greatly comforted by the thought that her boy 
 would be so great a stay and prop to her. 
 
 Then the boy heard Gilbert's step in the hall, and ran out. 
 
 ' Done with Alison ?' he asked. ' Come this way.' He led 
 him into the study, where there stood a rack of choice canes, 
 walking-sticks, and bamboos, brought to the Head of the House 
 from foreign parts. It was a really valuable and beautiful col- 
 lection, which Anthony had been accumulating for many years. 
 
 ' This way.' He stood before the rack and examined the 
 contents critically. ' I will find something that will just do for 
 you, Yorke. See : don't take this Malacca, because it is too» 
 light for serious business : Malaccas are apt to break in the hand. 
 Here's a Penang Lawyer, which I should like to lend you if I 
 could trust your temper. But I can't, and you might kill your 
 man. This Persuader is from Singapore, but they've loaded it
 
 THE VALLEY OF TEARS.. m 
 
 with lead, and we must stick to the legitimate thing. The 
 Tickler at your left hand is from Shanghai : it has tickled many 
 a Chinaman into an early grave. But we don't want to give 
 him anything luxurious. This is a lovely thing from Mauritius, 
 see : clouded and mounted ; it's trustworthy, too, and heavy ; 
 but I'm not going to treat such a fellow as that to anything 
 expensive. He'd boast of it afterwards. Common ware, sir, 
 and tough, and apt to curl about the legs. That's all he shall 
 get from me.' 
 
 Gilbert looked on in amazement. What did the boy mean ? 
 
 ' Now here ' — he took down a thin and longish bamboo. 
 ' This is the very thing. Common and cheap, effective, and 
 tough. You can lay on with this without fear of its breaking. 
 It's^as springy, too, as india-rubber. That thing, sir, judicioi 
 handled, will raise the most Enormous weals, and hurt like 
 winkin'. Phew ! Ey— oh !' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' You've been spooning again.' said Xicolas. severely, ' and it's 
 made you go silly. Didn't I promise you should stand in with 
 me about the cowhiding ? Very well, then. Take and go and 
 doit.' 
 
 ■ Oh ! nonsense. There's to be no cowhiding.' 
 
 ' Xo cowhiding ?' Young Nick almost shrieked with indig- 
 nation. • Why. I promised him. You're not going to do it ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 The boy's face fell. This was bitter disappointment. 
 
 'Go away,' he said; 'I thought better of you. If I had a 
 ! who'd been treated as Alison has been treated, I'd cowhide 
 man first and pepper and salt him next. You'll do as 
 please.' He replaced i :k with a sigh. ' Of course, all the 
 
 real work, as usual, is laid upon my shoulders.' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ;;.\ I EPr THE HOI 
 
 Stephen slept at his chambers that night. I Jut in the morning 
 tin: strange feeling of nervous terror, under the influence of 
 which he had left the house at Clapham, had disappeared with 
 the impression produced by Alison's eyes and words. He began 
 to i t it was prudent to retract from the strong- 
 
 hold of cod I cuctive possession. 
 
 It was matter of simple evidence thai he wenl to the house 
 on the very day of his brother's death : that might be with tho
 
 122 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 view of assuming the guardianship, which naturally devolved 
 npon him, or that of asserting his own claim. He had lived 
 there for three months, by tacit acknowledgment, he might say, 
 the master. And yet, on the day when he distinctly laid his 
 pretensions before the partners, he returned to his own cham- 
 bers. Perhaps that would look something like distrust of his 
 own claims. 
 
 This knotty point gave him uneasiness. He really did not 
 wish to return : he was afraid of meeting his niece : he was 
 afraid of those black eyes in the portrait which followed him 
 round the room with reproachful gaze ; but, on the other hand, 
 he was bound to show a bold front. He had taken up a posi- 
 tion from which there was no retreat. He had gone beyond 
 the truth in asserting that he held written proof that there 
 never had been any marriage at all ; whereas all that he could 
 really prove was that he had found no mention of any marriage. 
 And there was always the. terrible doubt in the background 
 that, after all, there might have been a secret marriage, a mar- 
 riage under an assumed name which further search might reveal. 
 If it were discovered, he would be indeed ruined. 
 
 It was more than possible : it even seemed probable, now 
 that it was too late, now that he had incurred the wrath of the 
 other side and played his trump cards. Why was it that it 
 seemed so impossible the day before ? 
 
 Given a man of absolutely unblemished character, living a 
 life open for all the world to see ; given the fact of a child 
 strongly resembling him, and even more strongly resembling 
 his mother ; add to these the open production and acknowledg- 
 ment of the girl as his own daughter : these things made up a 
 very strong case ; so strong, that when Stephen put them 
 together he felt cold, and began to wish that he had not been 
 so precipitate. 
 
 It became, therefore, the more necessary to maintain the 
 boldest bearing. He would go back to the house, install himself 
 there, and let the servants know that he was master. As for 
 Alison, it was her part, not his, to turn out. 
 
 The house, when he admitted himself with a latch-key, was 
 perfectly silent. The two ladies were in the breakfast-room : 
 Nicolas was at school : the servants were engaged in the light 
 and leisurely occupations which they called work. They made 
 no noise ; if they talked it was in low tones, so as not to disturb 
 the silence which, for three months, save for the voice and the 
 steps of Nicolas, had been almost unbroken. He stepped 
 hurriedly, as if afraid of meeting someone, into the study. 
 The eyes of his mother's portrait met his as he closed the door, 
 and again the odd feeling of cold, as if the dead were reproach- 
 ing him. fell upon him. He threw down his bag : took a cigar
 
 HOW STEPHEN LEFT THE HOUSE. 123 
 
 from the box nearest, lit it, and Avent out of this silence, which 
 was sepulchral and oppressive, into the gardens. 
 
 The morning was delightful : the lilacs, almonds, peaches, 
 white-thorn, and laburnum, for it was an early season — were all 
 blossoming together : the air of the young spring was heavy 
 with perfume : a blackbird was singing in the garden : all round 
 him were the delicate leaves of spring, the young foliage, yellow 
 rather than green : a broad horse-chestnut over the stables was 
 showing on its branches the great sticky cone, oozing all over 
 with gum, out of which would shortly spring blossom and leaf : 
 the dark cedars of Lebanon showed black beyond it. At his 
 feet were all the spring flowers that he remembered of old — the 
 London-pride, the pale primrose, the wall-flower, the violet, the 
 auricula, the polyanthus, the narcissus, and the jonquil. 
 
 The memory of those accusing eyes of the portrait followed 
 Stephen into the garden : the lawns and flower-beds, the lilacs 
 and laburnums, awakened unexpected associations. 
 
 ' I have not seen the old garden,' he murmui'ed. ' for twenty 
 years. It is not changed at all. My mother might be on the 
 lawn now, as she was one morning — just such a morning— thirty 
 years ago and more, when I was a boy ' 
 
 As he spoke, Alison, coming from the vineiy, crossed the lawn 
 on her way to the house. She paused for a moment, and stand- 
 ing on the springy turf, not seeing her uncle, she looked round 
 her and breathed the soft sigh of contentment which the early 
 summer air pours into the heart of maidenhood. She had tied 
 a handkerchief round her head. Her black eyes were full of 
 softness, heavy with the sweet influences of the hour : her lips 
 were parted : her head drooped a little, like a flower too happy 
 in the sun ; her figure, svelte et gracieuse, seemed soft and 
 yielding, a very figure of Venus — how different from the wrath- 
 ful eyes, the angry voice, the set lips, of yesterday ! 
 
 Stephen dropped his cigar. 
 
 ' My God V he said, ' I thought it was my mother ! How 
 like her she is !' 
 
 He dropped into thought, standing where he was, gazing 
 through the shrubs upon the vacant lawn, peopled again in 
 imagination by just such a woman as Alison, only older, by a 
 child of five or six, himself, and a tall, raw schoolboy, his brother. 
 
 ' Anthony !' he murmured, with something like a choke in his 
 throat. He saw again in his imagination the little boy running 
 backwards and forwards, shouting, laughing, dancing, while the 
 elder boy played for him and with him, and the lady with her 
 black mantilla watched them both with soft and loving eyes. 
 
 Stephen's own eyes softened as he recalled the pretty scene, 
 so old, so long gone by, himself the only survivor. 
 
 Now, to what length this softening process might have gone.
 
 124 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 had it not been interrupted, I do not know. One can only 
 speculate. It was, in point of fact, stopped, ruined, and hope- 
 lessly destroyed, all in a moment, and in the very bud and 
 opening. For just then a stable-boy — this was on the way to 
 the stables — who was engaged in polishing harness, became 
 suddenly possessed by the devil. I think, indeed, that he was 
 the devil himself. He laughed aloud, a strident, mocking laugh, 
 which seemed to Stephen as if his one newly-conceived germ of 
 ■ — call it a tendency to a readiness to accept the softening 
 influence of repentance, were the object of the stable-boy's 
 derision . 
 
 Stephen's temper was arbitrary ; his own personal submission 
 to that temper was abject. He stepped hastily into the stable- 
 yard, and cursed that young assistant, who, to outward view, 
 was as meek as Moses, till he trembled and shook in his 
 shoes. 
 
 Then Stephen entered the stables themselves, and began to 
 examine them. The profitable vision of the lawn had already 
 faded from his mind. When the wicked man turneth away 
 from his wickedness, even in imagination, and for a few brief 
 moments only, he does not like to be laughed at. He would rather 
 relapse. Stephen relapsed. He remembered too that he was 
 there to show himself as the master. He therefore cursed the 
 groom a second time. 
 
 ' Two fat coach-horses, and two riding-horses, and a pony$' 
 said Stephen, standing at the door of the stable, while the 
 groom trembled outside, ' and four lazy scoundrels to wait on 
 them ! You, groom fellow, take a month's notice. Tell the 
 coachman to take a month's notice. Tell the other men to 
 take a month's notice. I am going to sell off all the horses. 
 Do you hear ? And this coach, and the pony-carriage. A 
 hansom cab is good enough for me. Such mad expenditure,' 
 he added, ' would swamp the income of a Rothschild !' 
 
 The groom made no reply, resolving to lay the whole case 
 immediately before the young lady. Miss Hamblin's riding- 
 horse, Master Nicolas's pony, and all to be sold off ! And the 
 coachman, grown old in the Hamblin service, to be dismissed I 
 And himself to take a month's notice, who hoped to remain, like 
 the coachman, among the Hamblins all his life ! ' Why,' 
 thought the boy, watching Stephen's receding figure, ' who's 
 Mr. Stephen, to come and order people out of the house ?' But 
 he was alarmed. 
 
 Stephen passed through the shrubs, and came into the garden 
 itself. Alison was sitting at the window cf her own room, 
 called the breakfast-room, and saw her uncle. Instantly the 
 day became cold to her, and the sunshine paled. She pulled 
 down the blind, but the sight of him brought back the horror
 
 HO IV STEPHEN LEFT THE HOUSE. 125 
 
 of the day before, and her brief joy in the season of spring was 
 ■destroyed. 
 
 The garden, both broad and long, had a great lawn, set with 
 flower-beds, immediately behind the house. At the back of the 
 lawn was a goodly show of glass, with vinei'ies, conservatories, 
 hot-houses, every kind of luxurious garden-house. And at the 
 back of the glass-houses lay the kitcheu-garden. 
 
 Most of the glass-houses were new to Stephen. He began 
 to reckon up the expense of keeping them up, and resolved on 
 one more economy. It is curious to observe how jealous the 
 prodigal son has'ahvays shown himself over the reckless ex- 
 travagance of his brother. 
 
 ' Who are you ?' he asked a man without a coat, who was 
 pottering among some plants, set out to enjoy the morning 
 sun. The man was tall and spare ; he had red hair ; his cheek- 
 bones were high. They called him Andrew, and he never boasted 
 any other name. 
 
 ' Who are you ?' he repeated, because the man only looked 
 at him, and replied not. In fact, Andrew did not know Stephen 
 by sight, and was just slowly beginning to make out that the 
 strauger bore a resemblance to Miss Hamblin. ' Who are you, 
 and what are you doing here ?' 
 
 ' I'm head gardener,' replied Andrew, with dignity, ' and 
 "that's what I'm doing.' 
 
 ' Head gardener ? Why, how many of you are there ?' 
 
 ' Three !' said Andrew. ' Myself, a man and a boy.' 
 
 ' Three !' Stephen echoed. ' And four lazy devils for the 
 stables. What a household ! What reckless profusion !' 
 
 Andrew looked stolidly at him. 
 
 ' I suppose ' — Stephen addressed the chief of this watchful 
 band of three — ' I suppose you think that this extravagance 
 will be allowed to continue ?' 
 
 ' It's accordin' to the young leddy,' said Andrew. ' You and 
 me, we've just got to do what she says.' 
 
 ' You and I ?' cried Stephen. ' What the devil do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Dinna swere,' said Andrew. ' What I mean is that the 
 young leddy is the maister since poor Mr. Hamblin got drouned. 
 If ye don't like this extravagance, go and tell her, and leave 
 me and my wark.' 
 
 ' I tell you what,' cried Stephen, in a rage, and again obedient 
 to that hard task-master — his temper ; ' I'll soon show you who's 
 master here. Go and put on your coat ; you shall have a month's 
 wages instead of notice.' 
 
 ' Eh ? eh ?' said Andrew, no way disconcerted. ' I reckon I'll 
 just wait till the young leddie tells me go.' 
 
 1 You scoundrel !' cried Stephen, raising his stick, ' I'll break 
 every bone in your insolent body.'
 
 126 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Andrew quietly allowed the spud in his hand to assume a hori- 
 zontal position, so that it became at once a spear levelled at vital 
 parts. 
 
 ' Aweel,' he said, with a smile of resolution, ' if there's ony 
 breaking of bones, there's always the spud.' 
 
 Stephen turned away. Hitherto, he had not gained much by 
 assuming the air of the master. 
 
 He returned sulkily to the study, where he sat down, angry, 
 ashamed, and unquiet, to examine and turn over for the tenth 
 time those diaries of Anthony's life. 
 
 The day was not destined to be a propitious one for him. He 
 had not been more than half an hour at his work, when he be- 
 came aware of a most intolerable and exasperating noise. 
 
 Unfortunately, it was Wednesday. 
 
 Any misfortunes which might happen in that household on 
 that day were always, from a rude instinctive recognition of the 
 principles of cause and effect, associated with the fact that it 
 was young Nick's half-holiday. 
 
 He was wont on Wednesdays to return home a little bef oi'e 
 one o'clock, with idle hands and a mind free from care, and 
 therefore ready for the reception of temptation ; in fact, anxious 
 to be tempted. 
 
 Let us do the boy justice. On this occasion he thought that 
 Stephen had left the house, after the awful row, for good, and 
 was not coming back any more. Otherwise he would have pro- 
 ceeded with more discretion. Thus, he would not certainly have 
 whistled so loudly as he ran up the steps which led from the 
 garden entrance into the hall ; nor would he, on arriving in the 
 hall, have followed up the rich and creamy notes of his whistling 
 — he always chose those airs which most madden and drive wild 
 the adult hearer — by singing the same melody at the top of a 
 voice which was not by nature musically soft, and was strident 
 in the upper notes. 
 
 Had he known, too, that the great coat hanging in the hall 
 belonged to his uncle Stephen, and not to the family doctor, 
 who, he presumed, was at the moment in conversation with his 
 mother, he would have hesitated before drawing from his pocket 
 a small case containing needles and thread and sewing up the 
 lining of the sleeves. This, however, he did, lightly, but with 
 judgment, about six inches above the cuff, so that the arm on 
 reaching the obstacle would have acquired a certain amount of 
 momentum. Nicolas had not yet studied Dynamics, but he 
 knew that the greater the force with which a human arm 
 meets such an impediment in the sleeve, the greater is the shock 
 to the system. Young Nick, therefore, executing his task with 
 the sweet smile of anticipated delight, which he proposed to 
 enjoy from ambush, sewed up the sleeves very low down.
 
 HOW STEPHEN LEFT THE HOUSE. 127 
 
 This done, still in ignorance of his uncle's presence, he began 
 to whistle again, and bethought him of a certain double-shuffle 
 which he had seen at the Christmas pantomime, and had prac- 
 tised without success ever sinco. The noise caused by a double- 
 shuffle on canvas is in itself far from soothing to the nerves. 
 After the dance he proceeded to tiy a new figure in gymnastics, 
 which also necessitated a good deal of inharmonious sound. He 
 had just inverted himself, and was balancing on his two hands, 
 trying to acquire complete control over his feet, when the door 
 of the study opened, and Stephen came out. He had been 
 goaded almost to madness by the stamping, dancing, and 
 whistling combined. He had borne it for a quarter of an hour. 
 When it became intolerable he rushed out. The boy, thinking 
 it was one of the footmen, began at once to spar at him with 
 his feet. 
 
 ' You little devil !' roared Stephen, em-aged at this last insult. 
 1 Get up at once, and I'll break your neck for you.' 
 
 Young Nick sprang to his feet, and was instantly collared by 
 the angry Stephen and dragged into the study. He realised in a 
 moment the danger of the situation : he was hurried thither 
 because there was the choice collection of canes to which ho 
 had himself only the day before introduced Gilbert Yorke. 
 ' How swift,' observes the poet of Olney, ' is a glance of the 
 mind !' In a moment the boy remembered every cane in the 
 rack, and wondered whether he should be operated upon by 
 Penang Lawyer, by Malacca cane, by Singapore Persuader, or 
 by Chinese Tickler. For the moment he gave himself up for 
 lost. Yesterday's defiance would also be reckoned in. A caning, 
 grim and great, was imminent. It was, however, only for a 
 moment that young Nick abandoned hope. Stephen dragged 
 him across the room, making swiftly for the sticks. There was 
 not an instant to be wasted in reflection. Suddenly Stephen 
 found the boy's legs curled round and mixed up with his own. 
 He staggered, let go the collar of his prisoner's jacket, and fell 
 heavily, tripped up by the craft and subtlety of the artful 
 youth. The next moment there was a mighty crash, as the 
 heavy tablecloth, with all its books, inkstands, papers, cigar- 
 cases, and heterogeneous litter which piled it, was dragged down 
 upon him. AVhen, after a few moments of struggle, he disen- 
 gaged himself and stood upright among the aibris, the boy 
 i gone. What was worse, he had locked the door. Young 
 Nick had escaped. It would have been a flying in the face of 
 Providence had he not seized the happy chance and turned the 
 key upon his enemy. 
 
 This done, the fugitive sat down upon the floor of the canvas, 
 drumming his heels with delight and waiting the course of 
 events. He had not long to wait. The next moment he
 
 1 2 S THE SEA M V SIDE. 
 
 heard the scuffling of his victim as he freed himself from the 
 table-cloth, the angry turning of the door-handle, the discovery 
 that the door was locked, and the ringing of the bell. Upon 
 this, young Nick sprang to his feet, and rushed to the stair- 
 head. He met the footman leisurely mounting the stairs to 
 answer it. 
 
 ' You need not disturb yourself, Charles,' he said softly ; ' go 
 on with your dinner. I know what my uncle wants.' 
 
 Charles descended. Young Nick watched him till he had 
 returned to the kitchen, and then, sliding noiselessly down the 
 banister, mounted a chair and unshipped the study bell. 
 
 ' Now he can ring as long as he likes,' said the boy. 
 
 After this, he composed his features and went upstairs to his 
 mother, who was sitting sadly with Alison, both of them far 
 too dejected to have noticed the small disturbance which had 
 just taken place. Here he took a book and sat reading sweetly, 
 in silent calculation as to the time during which his uncle would 
 remain a prisoner. 
 
 Presently there was heard a noise as of one kicking or ham- 
 mering against a door, with a roaring like unto that of an angry 
 wild beast. The two ladies did not for some time notice this 
 disturbance. Young Nick, who did, put up the book before 
 his face to hide the unbidden smile of satisfaction. It was 
 Uncle Stephen kicking at the study-door, and swearing at the 
 top of his voice. 
 
 ' Dear me !' cried Mrs. Cridland, at length, ' what can be the 
 matter ? Who can be making this terrible noise ?' 
 
 ' It may be the gardener,' said Nicolas, sweetly ; ' I will go 
 and see.' 
 
 It was time that he went, because the footmen, who had now 
 finished their dinner, were becoming aware of something singular 
 going on overhead, and in two minutes Stephen might have 
 been free, and upon him with a cane in his hand. Now, in the 
 open, in the garden, young Nick felt himself a match for any 
 man, armed or not. He therefore retreated to the top of the 
 stairs which led to the garden, there to await events. 
 
 At this moment a carriage drove up. Charles, the footman, 
 arriving in the hall, alarmed by the kicking at the study-door, 
 and the awful explosion of wrath which threatened vengeance 
 on the whole house, opened the hall-door first. The visitors 
 were the two partners of the firm, Augustus Hamblin and 
 William the Silent, with Mr. Billiter, the family solicitor. 
 Young Nick, at the top of the stairs, in readiness for flight, 
 observed the arrival of this group with considerable curiosity. 
 Something important was in the wind. He connected it with 
 the row of the day before. 
 
 Kick— kick. ' Open this door !' roared Stephen, adding a
 
 HO W STEPHEN LEFT THE HOUSE. 129 
 
 volley of oaths strong enough to throw into shudders the im- 
 mortal gods who heard them. ' Open this door !' 
 
 ' Really,' said Augustus, ' this is very scandalous language in 
 a house where there are ladies. What is the meaning of it ?' 
 
 The footman tried the handle of the door. It was locked, 
 but the key was in it. He caught sight of young Nick as he 
 turned the key, and at once divined the whole history. He, 
 too, had the presence of mind, as Stephen emerged, raging, 
 cursing, and swearing, to retreat behind the portly form of Mr. 
 Augustus Hamblin. 
 
 For a moment Stephen, who was blind and speechless with 
 wrath, did not see who were grouped before him, as he stood 
 and stamped, hurling incoherent oaths at all the world. Young 
 Xick had dropped down to the lowest step of the stairs, which 
 just left his eyes half-an-inch above the level of the hall floor. 
 Thus, from a comparatively safe spot, he enjoyed a complete 
 view of the proceedings, which interested him profoundly. 
 
 ' What does this mean ?' asked Augustus. ' Is the man 
 mad?' 
 
 ' What do you want here ?' returned Stephen, foaming at the 
 mouth. ' This is my house.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' said Augustus. ' It is not your house until the 
 Court awards it to you. It is Alison's house. We are hei-e to 
 protect her, and to see that you leave the place immediately.' 
 
 ' Leave the place ? Leave my own house ?' cried Stephen. 
 
 ' Certainly. It is presumably Alison's until you have suc- 
 ceeded in acquiring a legal title to it. You must go away, and 
 that at once. We shall remain here until you do.' 
 
 Stephen hesitated. It was a strange thing that a man so 
 versed in all the ways of the world should have jumped to the 
 conclusion that all he had to do was to step at once into his 
 brother's place, and stay there. 
 
 ' Understand, pray,' said Mr. Billiter, ' you have no more 
 power to occupy this house than you have to receive your 
 brother's rents and dividends. After the announcement you 
 made to us all yesterday, we have come to the conclusion that 
 it is no longer becoming or decent that you should be allowed 
 to remain here, under the same roof as Miss Hamblin.' 
 
 ' A nd if I choose to remain ?' 
 
 Black Hamblin looked dark as midnight. Mr. Billiter 
 laughed, and rubbed his hands. 
 
 ' Really,' he said, ' one hardly likes to contemplate such an 
 emergency. You see, nothing is yours until you prove your 
 Meantime, everything is presumably ours. It makes one 
 think of physical force. No doubt — but it is absurd — no doubt 
 tlie footman, gardener, and grooms could, between them, bo 
 able to effect an— ha ! ha ! — an ejectment.' 
 

 
 i 3 o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' I go,' said Stephen, ' but under protest. I go from here to 
 my own lawyers. If I am advised that I am entitled to live 
 here, I shall return.' 
 
 Young Nick slowly mounted the stairs. A delicious surprise 
 awaited him. The coat which he had mistaken for the doctor's 
 belonged to Stephen. Here was a joyful chance ! 
 
 Stephen, with a face as full of dignified remonstrance as 
 could be compassed on so short a notice, and after half-an-hour 
 of such unrestrained wrath, took down his coat, and began, in a 
 slow and stagelike way, to put it on. The action in itself is 
 capable of being filled with ' business ' and effect, as my readers 
 have often observed upon the stage. 
 
 ' You will all of you,' said Stephen, taking the coat by the 
 collar, and adjusting it with the right hand, so as to bring the 
 left sleeve into position, ' you will all of you regret the tone 
 which you have been pleased to adopt towards me.' Then he 
 thrust his hand into the sleeve half-way, and brought the coat 
 round with a swing to the right. ' I claim, as any man would, 
 his bare rights. Let justice be done.' Here he thrust his right 
 arm into the corresponding sleeve. ' I am met with unworthy 
 and undeserved accusations.' Then he hitched the coat higher 
 up, and perceived, but without alarm for the moment, that there 
 was some obstacle in both the sleeves. 
 
 The faces of his three opponents watched him with grave 
 and solemn looks. 
 
 It was the grandest spectacle which this world offers — that 
 of baffled villainy. The virtuous, rejoicing in their virtue, were 
 for the moment triumphant. Nothing better can ever be in- 
 vented in fiction than this situation of real life. And to think 
 that it was completely fooled away by such a paltry trick as 
 sewing up a coat-sleeve. 
 
 Having delivered himself, Stephen wished only to retreat 
 with dignity. There was only one drawback. He could not 
 get his arms through the sleeves. The unrelenting three gazed 
 upon him with cold and severe eyes, while he scowled as fiercely 
 as any villain in stage-story. But there comes a time when 
 severity must relax and scowling becomes oppressive. The 
 more Stephen plunged at his coat-sleeves, the more they re- 
 sisted. 
 
 ' Damn the coat !' he cried, losing his patience. 
 Charles, the footman, came to his assistance. 
 He it was, instructed by experience, who discovered the 
 truth. 
 < ' I think it's Master Nicolas, sir,' he said ; ' he's sewed you up, 
 
 sir. If you have a penknife ' 
 
 The two partners smiled : the lawyer smiled : severity 
 vanished. Stephen swore ; the partners laughed aloud ; the
 
 110 IV STEPHEN LEFT THE HOUSE. 131 
 
 dignity of the revengeful bravo disappeared. It was with a 
 very poor flourish that he finally put on his hat and left the 
 house. 
 
 ' You will understand, Charles,' said Augustus, ' that under 
 no circumstances is Mr. Stephen allowed to enter this house 
 again, until you hear from us or from Mr. Billiter.' 
 
 He led the way into Alison's room. 
 
 'You had m;,- letter, Cousin Augustus — you have heard the 
 dreadful news ?' asked the girl, who was standing at the window, 
 wondering what all the talk and noise in the hall meant. 
 
 ' I have heard, my dear. "We are here, your cousins, to pro- 
 tect you. Your uncle Stephen has left the house, and will not 
 return to it.' 
 
 ' Oh ! tell me you do not believe it— what he says !' 
 
 ' We certainly do not,' said Augustus. ' We do not know 
 what case he has, if any ; but we hold his position to be im- 
 possible. We believe in your late father, my dear : we are con- 
 iident that we shall establish your claims to be what he always 
 led us to believe you, his legal daughter and his heiress.' 
 
 He kissed her on the forehead, a rare distinction with a man 
 so grave as Augustus Hamblin. 
 
 ' I concur,' said "William the Silent, and kissed her too. 
 
 ' And as for me,' said Mr. Billiter, taking her hand, ' you see 
 in me, my dear young lady, your most faithful and obedient 
 servant. Never doubt that we shall succeed.' 
 
 ' And am I and my boy to be turned out ?' asked poor Mrs. 
 Cridland. 
 
 ' Certainly not, Flora.' replied Augustus. ' We want you to 
 continue your kind services to ' — he made a profound bow — ' to 
 my late cousin's heiress, Anthony's daughter, Alison Hamblin.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 HOW A YOUNG MAN MAY PROSPER. 
 
 MENTION has been made of one Jack Baker, capitalist, successful 
 merchant, and private friend of Stephen Hamblin, envied and 
 admired by the coterie of the Birch-Tree Tavern. In the 
 capacity of Stephen's adviser and confidant, he has something to 
 do with this story, which is an excuse for relating the history of 
 his rise and greatness. Another excuse is that it is a most 
 instructive history. Marmontel was nowhere more moral. It 
 is so moral that it has half a dozen morals. And as I have ever 
 held it a great mistake to put the moral at the end instead of 
 
 9—2
 
 132 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 the beginning, I append all six morals in this place so that my 
 readers may see how beautifully this Jack, who killed the 
 monstrous giant of poverty and servitude, may be moralised to 
 suit the special difficulties of these latter days. 
 
 The first moral is that everything is possible to him who 
 dares. 
 
 The second, that the world at large, and especially the genial 
 and confiding manager of your bank, is ready to meet you half 
 way in taking you at your own estimate. 
 
 The third, that in this world you only have to help yourself. 
 Piles of money are lying about ; the man who makes his own 
 pile is invariably succeeded by a fool who asks for nothing but 
 a certain originality of audacity in the adventurer who deprives 
 him of his share. 
 
 The fourth, that the proverb ex nihilo nihil fit only applies to 
 natural philosophy, the properties of matter, and so forth. It 
 has nothing whatever to do with credit. The man who wants 
 most gets most. It is the bold pauper who becomes rich, if he 
 begins early. Further proof of this axiom may be sought in 
 the chronicles of the City. 
 
 The fifth, that smartness still lingers among the English, and 
 still commands success. 
 
 There is a sixth which we reserve for the sequel. It is left 
 for the readers of the Higher Thought, as Paul Rondelet says, 
 to find out for themselves. 
 
 Jack Baker was at this time about two-and-thirty years of 
 age, a good dozen years younger than Stephen Hamblin. His 
 father began and ended as an employe in a great City house. 
 He was a model clerk ; he possessed all the clerical virtues ; he 
 was respectful, punctual, obedient, honest, trustworthy ; as he 
 was never called upon to take any serious responsibility, he was 
 never troubled with ideas : yet his talk was entirely about 
 money, and he admired financial coups much as a stage-carpenter 
 admires a play, being perfectly ignorant how they were designed 
 and carried through. He brought up his only son — most City 
 clerks have at least a dozen sons — to regard the City as the only 
 arena profitable for English youth. The professions, the army, 
 the navy, the colonies, had no attraction for young Jack Baker : 
 he was ' to go into the City,' for that he was specially set apart 
 in infancy ; he had no sympathy for deeds of daring adventure 
 and heroism : his heart never warmed for self-sacrifice or 
 patriotism : as a child he turned aside from St. George and the 
 Dragon, and loved to hear of Dick Whittington. When he 
 grew older, his favourite reading was of men who have made 
 their fortunes in the City from small beginnings. And when 
 he was old enough to understand things better, he recognised 
 the fact that the lord mayor was a poor creature, stripped of
 
 HOW A YOUNG MAN MAY PROSPER. 133 
 
 his civic robes of office, compared with such a man as Mr. 
 Anthony Hamblin, whose house on Clapham Common he saw 
 every half -holiday when he played upon that hospitable heath. 
 
 When Jack was fifteen, and was a tolerable proficient in arith- 
 metic, commercial English, and clerkly handwriting, he fulfilled 
 the purposes of his birth and existence by entering as a junior 
 clerk, the house of Sandal, Wood and Company, silk-merchants. 
 
 For twelve years he remained a clerk in this establishment. 
 His life during this period resembled that of most other City 
 clerks, except that he indulged in no wild courses : did not bet, 
 did not drink, did not scatter and lavish his little income, did 
 not fall into debt, did not acquire a bad reputation ; on the con- 
 trary his reputation steadily grew in the house and out of it : he 
 became known for a shrewd, trustworthy young fellow who could 
 manage a thing without making himself a fool over it: and he was 
 unlike many of his fellows in this respect, that he did not marry 
 when his salary reached the magnificent sum of a hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year. As regards his manner of living, it was 
 necessarily simple, yet he managed to secure as much enjoyment 
 as could well be got out of so limited an income. He did not 
 waste his money in joining any young men's improvement 
 society, nor his time in following any line of study, and he 
 cared nothing at all for lectures, scientific, literary, political, or 
 musical. His tastes lay in quite a contrary direction. He knew 
 many barmaids, haunted many billiard-rooms, was frequently 
 seen at music-halls, and smoked a meerschaum pipe all the even- 
 ing. This was the kind of life he liked after office-hours. It 
 did him no harm, because in these places he was on his natural 
 level, higher than which he never cared to rise ; and because, 
 being a young man of no imagination, strong common-sense, 
 and rather a cold temperament, he never exceeded and never 
 committed any of those follies which cling to a mans reputation, 
 are not easily shaken off, and sometimes drag him down in the 
 Long-run, Topsy at the Green Dragon, or Polly at Quclch's, or 
 Lotty at the Princely, sometimes thought, no doubt, that Jack 
 Baker was so carried away by admiration as to be ready to make 
 a serious offer. But the young lady was greatly mistaken, for 
 Jack was not such a fool. At the same time the society of 
 Topsy, Polly, or Lotty, always, of course, with the bar between 
 them, was pleasant to this young man of the City, and supplied 
 the pla.ee of ladies' society. For with ladies Jack was nut at 
 his ease. 
 
 Moreover he nourished ambitions, which was another reason 
 why he should not commit the usual clerkly error of an early 
 marriage. 
 
 His lather was old : there was a good sum put In' : with that 
 sum he would perhaps be able to start for himself , if only in
 
 134 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 a small way. Meantime he was rising in the firm ; he knew the 
 country customers ; he knew the travellers and the commission 
 agents ; he was known to the merchants of Shanghai and their 
 clerks ; he knew men who could introduce business, and he had 
 the sense to hold his tongue and keep his own counsel. 
 
 When Jack was twenty-seven or so, his father died, leaving 
 him the sole heir of his little savings. These he found, all 
 charges deducted, to amount to the sum of £3,142 Gs. 10d., 
 which he placed, at first, on deposit-account in the London, 
 Scuthwark, and Stepney Joint Stock Bank. He then resigned 
 his post in Sandal, Wood and Company, and taking a small 
 office in a court leading out of Eastcheap, started for himself 
 as a silk-merchant. He passed a very active first year : he ran 
 about asking for orders like an advertising tout : he hunted up 
 the country customers whom he had met at Sandal and Woods: 
 he remembered that an old schoolfellow was a clerk in-Shanghai 
 and wrote to him : be lived with the greatest frugality : and 
 though he did very little business, he was cheerful, relied on 
 promises, and hoped for better times. 
 
 After a year, be made up his books and found that he had 
 lost a little by the first twelve months. This was discouraging. 
 
 In those days he used to go to the Birch-Tree Tavern for 
 early dinner, and there made acquaintance with Alderney Codd 
 and his friends. He greatly admired their ingenuity, and 
 puzzled himself to discover why it was that with so much talent 
 there was not a decent hat among them all, nor a shirt-collar 
 whose edges were not frayed. 
 
 They were undoubtedly clever, these ingenious contrivers of 
 schemes and companies. He used to sit silent among them 
 listening. Nothing, however, was ever let fall by any of them 
 which could be of practical benefit to himself in the silk trade. 
 Unluckily, no one of the whole set had ever turned his attention 
 to silk. 
 
 One afternoon, however, the man who looked like a sailor pro- 
 pounded sententiously the following proposition. He said : 
 
 ' Whoever wishes, in this world, to succeed wants only one 
 thing.' He looked round to see if any were rash enough to dis- 
 agree with him. ' If it is to be President of a South American 
 Republic, which is open to any man with cheek enough to bowl 
 over the man in the chair and sit in it himself, or to become a 
 great merchant, or to be thought a great financier, it's the same 
 thing that is wanted, and that is — pluck.' 
 
 Jack received this theory without criticising it, and went back 
 to his office. 
 
 Among his papers was a three months' acceptance that morn- 
 ing received from a country draper. He took this to the bank 
 and asked to have it discounted.
 
 H0 W A YOUNG MAN MA Y PROSPER. 135 
 
 ' You may leave it,' said the manager, dubiously. ' I will 
 tell you to-morrow. But it can't be done under 4J.' 
 The bank-rate was 3i. 
 
 Jack had still on deposit most of his £3,000. He concluded, 
 therefore, to let the bill wait. 
 
 When he got home he found an answer to his letter to the 
 old friend at Shanghai. Friend had gone into business as a 
 broker on his own account. He wrote facetiously, regretting 
 that Jack -was not in a position to back him ; if so, what a game 
 they could have on, they two together ; he at Shanghai and Jack 
 in London ! That silk was going up for a certainty, and now 
 was the time — and so on. 
 
 Jack read the letter, put it down with a sigh, and spent his 
 usual evening with Lotty and Polly and Topsy,_ who served 
 him with his moderate potations, and exchanged with him those 
 epigrams, those quaint and original conceits, those madrigals in 
 prose, those quips and merry jests which constitute the charm 
 and poetry of barmaid conversation. Then he went home and 
 retired to bed and to sleep. It was not unusual with him to 
 go to sleep, but in this case it led to important results. 
 
 At two o'clock he sat up with a start, and looked about the 
 room half -frightened. He had been awakened by a dream. He 
 dreamed that the man who looked like a sailor had come all 
 the way from the Birch-Tree Tavern to his bedside in order 
 to repeat to him, with warning finger, ' Whether you want to 
 be President of Bolivia, or a great and successful merchant, 
 all you want is— pluck V 
 
 He rubbed his eyes and stared in the darkness. He could 
 see nothing but the dim outlines of furniture. The man who 
 looked like a sailor was not there. No one was there ; but the 
 voice of his dreaming still rang in Jack's ear. He slept no 
 more. At six he rose, feverish and dazzled. He had been 
 ' alone with his thought ' for four hours ; it was too much for 
 him. He was not an imaginative young man, and yet perhaps 
 for that very reason, because he had so seldom contemplated 
 anything beyond the present, the prospect dazzled him. 
 
 At half-past ten, with cheeks a little white, but with assured 
 and confident bearing, Jack walked boldly through the outer 
 office of the bank into the manager's room. Yesterday he had, 
 so to speak, sneaked in with his country draper's little bill at 
 three months. 
 
 ' I want,' he began, in a clear, ringing voice, very different 
 from the grovelling hesitation of a man who presents a doubtful 
 little bill for discount, ' I want a credit of £20,000. I am ship- 
 ping silk at Shanghai.' 
 
 ' Sit down, Mr. Baker,' said the manager, blandly. ' Yes — 
 you are shipping silk. Yes — our terms are 8 per cent.'
 
 136 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 That was all. In one moment, without hesitation or ques- 
 tions, the business was as good as concluded. Jack walked out 
 of the bank with reddened cheek and brightened eye. He 
 wanted to get into his own office, and sit down to realise that 
 his fortune was made or marred by this bold venture. 
 
 The nature of the transaction was simple. Jack did not 
 borrow £20,000 at 8 per cent. Not at all : no money was 
 exchanged ; he borrowed credit at that rate : he bought and 
 shipped to England silk to the amount of £20,000 in his own 
 name ; if silk went up there would be a profit, if silk went 
 down there would be a loss ; if the former, he would pay the 
 bank £1,600 and pocket the rest ; if the latter, he would pay 
 the differences and the £1,600 out of his own capital of £3,000. 
 It will be seen that the margin for safety in case of a fall was 
 small. 
 
 There was no loss : Jack's correspondent was right : there 
 was a large profit, for silk went up. 
 
 Jack was prudent : he let the profit remain in the bank : 
 continued to live frugally ; but next time he asked for a credit 
 of £30,000, which was also granted him. 
 
 That operation was again successful. 
 
 Another and yet another succeeded. Jack's name became 
 favourably known. Jack's capital was trebled. His ventures 
 were larger. 
 
 He took larger offices and engaged more clerks. He had 
 made already a good business of the speculative kind, which 
 report magnified into a great business of the safe kind. 
 
 He next gave up the modest lodgings in Bloomsbury which 
 had hitherto contented him, took chambers in the West End, 
 joined a new proprietary club (where he made the acquaintance 
 of Stephen Hamblin), took to playing whist there, and of course, 
 because his temperament was cool and his memory good, and 
 he never forgot a card, always won ; bought a horse and rode 
 in the Park ; remembered that he had a second name, and wrote 
 on his card : Mr. J. Bunter Baker. In other matters he lived 
 exactly as he had always done, without the least desire for the 
 society of ladies, conversing with Polly, Lotty, and Topsy afore- 
 said, and raising golden visions in the minds of those young 
 persons ; and even continuing on affable terms with his old 
 associates, still mostly clerks, and envious beyond measure of a 
 success which their want of pluck made impossible for them. 
 At his West-End chambers he gave little dinners, to which he 
 invited his new friends, Stephen Hamblin, the manager of the 
 London, Southwark and Stepney Bank, and others. The wine 
 he gave them was choice ; after dinner, it was not unusual to 
 have a little lansquenet, baccarat, loo, or perhaps an ecarte
 
 HOW A YOUNG MAN MA Y PROSPER. 137 
 
 pool. But Jack Baker was too wary to lose his head over 
 cards, and generally came out of the melee a winner. 
 
 To these dinners, it is needless to add, Mr. J. Bunter Baker 
 did not invite his former friends. It was enough that he should 
 stand them drinks at the bar : it was, indeed, all they asked. 
 Tears rose to the eyes of those honest fellows when they thought 
 of the magnificence to which one of their number had soared. 
 Like Bater pere, deceased, they were satisfied to contemplate 
 success from afar, without dreaming that it might be their own 
 case. But then they never had that vision of the night — they 
 never heard that voice which said : ' Whether you wish to be 
 President o? a South American Republic or a successful mer- 
 chant, one thing only is wanted — pluck.' 
 
 It is, indeed, one of the most remarkable circumstances 
 attendant on success, that while all the world envies the suc- 
 cessful man, not one in a hundred considers how he himself 
 might win that same success by following parallel lines. 
 
 As for the Birch-Tree Tavern, Jack Baker, as we have seen, 
 did not forsake that festive place. Luncheon was to be had 
 there as well as anywhere else, and perhaps a wrinkle might be 
 picked up among those inventors of schemes and contrivers of 
 companies. And it was not unpleasant for a man of Jack 
 Baker's coarse fibre to be received with deference : a respect 
 due to the man who has made money was paid him in full 
 measure, and even ostentatiously ; the newest schemes were 
 explained, the latest ideas were aired, for his benefit ; the house, 
 so to speak, played up to the capitalist ; Jack Baker who had 
 made his own fortune, was ready to make that of everybody 
 else. When will men understand that he who wants to make 
 his fortune must do it by himself ? 
 
 Stephen Ilamblin did not commit the error common among 
 vulgar practitioners of his school. He did not, that is, confide 
 his case to the hands of a pettifogging solicitor. He took it to 
 a firm of the utmost respectability, told the whole exact truth, 
 and only asked that the affair should be pushed on as rapidly 
 as possible. This done, he felt easier. The fight would come 
 off ; the sooner the better. Let it come. About the issue he 
 felt generally, though there were times of doubt, pretty con- 
 fident. 
 
 He dined at his club with Jack Baker. After dinner, in the 
 smoking-room, he talked darkly about what was going to 
 happen. Presently he opened up the matter more fully. 
 
 ' What I mean,' he said, ' what I meant yesterday, is that I 
 am myself the claimant to the whole of my late brother's pro- 
 perty.'
 
 i 3 8 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Phew !' Jack Baker whistled. ' The whole ? Why it is— 
 how much — a quarter of a million ?' 
 
 ' More,' said Stephen. ' We have now found out that he 
 never married. It is, of course, hard upon the girl.' 
 
 ' Oh, hang the girl !' Jack replied, with his ready laugh. 
 ' Number one comes first. And, of course, if it isn't her own 
 she can't have it. When do you come into possession ?' 
 
 ' That I do not know. My lawyers will ask for letters of 
 administration. The other side may possibly ask for time, in 
 order to prove the marriage, or they may choose not to fight. 
 I cannot tell.' 
 
 ' Oh — h !' Jack's face fell. ' They may choose to fight. 
 And suppose they win ?' 
 
 Stephen lay back in his chair, crossed his legs, and laughed 
 gently. 
 
 ' My dear boy, how can they win, when I hold in my hands 
 proof — not documentary proof, which would satisfy a court of 
 law, but moral proof —that my brother never was married at 
 all?' 
 
 ' Have you ? Then that's all right, and I congratulate you 
 with all my heart.' 
 
 They shook hands. 
 
 ' You have not done so badly yourself, Jack.' 
 
 ' Well, no,' he replied, stroking his chin. ' Not so very bad, 
 considering my opportunities. But a quarter of a million ! 
 Mon Dew ! as the French say. Who can compare with that ? 
 What I complain of, however, is having anything to do at all. 
 Why weren't we all born rich ? Why don't we live in the good 
 old days when they had slaves, and all they had to do was to 
 enjoy life ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' Stephen suggested gloomily, ' we might have been 
 born slaves ourselves.' 
 
 ' That,' Jack acknowledged, ' would have been the very 
 devil.' 
 
 ' Now, Jack,' said Stephen, leaning forwards, and speaking 
 seriously, ' I have told you of my prospects. Let me tell you 
 something more. This is, of course, perfectly confidential.' 
 
 The club smoking-room was quite empty at their end of it. 
 
 ' Go on, old man.' 
 
 ' Anthony's death came at an awkward time for me. He and 
 I were in a good big thing together, though his name was not 
 mentioned, and it's come to grief. My money is locked up here 
 and there. I have lost a devil of a lot lately ; and, in fact, I 
 want to raise money until I get possession.' 
 
 ' Security ?' 
 
 ' First of all, the estate itself. If that won't do, any amount 
 of bonds and scrip.'
 
 HOW A YOUNG MAN MA Y PROSPER. 139 
 
 It is almost needless to say that Anthony had never specu- 
 lated with Stephen in his life, and equally needless to say that 
 the only ' scrip ' in Stephen's possession consisted of ' pictures,' 
 chiefly "from Honduras, certain South American Republics, and 
 sundry bogus American Railways, got up by pirates on both 
 sides of the Atlantic. 
 
 ' I would rather not go to my banker's,' Stephen went on. 
 ' Can you help me to a private lender — anybody — a friend of 
 your own would do ?' 
 
 Jack nodded, and went on quietly sucking his cigar in silence 
 for a few minutes. Then he made up his mind, and spoke. 
 
 ' I don't suppose,' he said, ' that a sensible man like yourself, 
 and a man of the world like yourself, would go in for a claim 
 which you weren't pretty sure of carrying through. Nothing 
 ■short of certainty would justify you in breaking with your 
 family, supposing, as you say, they consider the thing as an act 
 of hostility. I believe, on your own showing, that you are 
 bound to win. And I don't mind risking something. Still, it is 
 a risk. You will have to pay for the risk.' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' I will lend you a thousand, Hamblin,' he went on slowly, 
 ' on condition of your paying me back two thousand on the day 
 that you get your brother's estate.' 
 
 Stephen laughed. 
 
 ' Only cent, per cent.,' he said. ' Xever mind. I don't want 
 any one to know how my affairs have been dipped of late. I 
 accept, Jack. You can make it a couple of hundred in cash, and 
 eight hundred in a three months' bill. My dear boy,' he added 
 with feeling, ' when I do come into my brother's money, we will 
 have such a caper, you and I together, with a friend or two, as 
 you shall remember all your life. Hang it ! One must be five- 
 and-forty to enjoy things properly.' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 HiAV TIIK BATTLE WAS BEGUN. 
 
 ALDERNE1 Codd, the news of Stephen's claim having reached 
 him, fell into a doubt and quandary the like of which he had 
 never before experienced, because he saw that he must take a 
 .side. For quiet people, trimmers, friends of both camps, un- 
 decided thinkers, uncertain reasoners, and philosophers who 
 change their views with tin: wind, it is most grievous to have to 
 take a side. Suppose, for instance, they were to disestablish the
 
 i 4 o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Church : suppose there was to be a civil war between republicans- 
 and royalists : suppose your paternal uncle, from whom you 
 had expectations, held one view firmly, while your maternal 
 aunt, from whom also you had expectations, took the other side 
 forcibly, what then, reader, would your own feelings be ? Such, 
 however, was Alderney Codd's position. On the one hand, his 
 long and early friendship with Stephen ; the memory of a thou- 
 sand youthful freaks and extravagances ; the habit acquired in 
 youth, and still maintained, of regarding Stephen as an adviser, 
 and, in a sense, his superior ; the familiarity of his associations 
 with him — these were on one side : on the other were his respect 
 and his loyalty to the Hamblin name, gratitude to the memory 
 of Anthony, duty to his daughter, and the belief that Stephen's 
 position was a wrong one. 
 
 He was torn with conflicting emotions. If he considered the 
 thing from a practical point of view, it was difficult to discern 
 which was the safe side to take. For if Stephen gained the 
 day, and he should be found in the enemy's camp, what then ? 
 Or if Alison should be victorious, and he were a partisan of 
 Stephen, with what face could he greet her again ? 
 
 He was finally determined by perfectly disinterested con- 
 siderations. The sight of Anthony's coat hanging before his 
 eyes determined him. 
 
 He lost no time in acting upon his resolution. First, he 
 repaired to Clapham, where he sought an interview with Alison 
 and tendered his allegiance ; this once offered and accepted, he 
 felt easier and more comfortable in his mind, and sought Stephen 
 at his chambers. 
 
 Poor Alderney ! He had been so many times to those fami- 
 liar chambers ; he had spent so many evenings in them ; he had 
 smoked so many pipes, cigars, and cigarettes ; he had imbibed 
 in them so prodigious a quantity of intoxicating drinks ; he had. 
 been always welcome there. And now he was about to say that 
 he could never come there any more. Stephen, he knew, was 
 not, from a high moral point of view, a good man. Quite the 
 contrary. But then Stephen was always a friend of Alderney 's, 
 and one forgives a great deal in those whose friendship has 
 lasted for thirty years or so. Perhaps, too, his own standard 
 of morality was not of the highest. And Stephen was one of 
 the Hamblins, to know whom Avas to gain a certain distinction 
 at the Birch-Tree. Now, all that fabric of friendship, pride,, 
 and distinction was to be rudely shattered. 
 
 ' Come in, Alderney,' cried Stephen in his most cheery voice ; 
 ' come in, man. I haven't seen you for a month, have I ? Come 
 in.' 
 
 Alderney turned very red. 
 
 ' The fact is, Stephen,' he stammered, ' I have come — have
 
 HOW THE BATTLE WAS BEGUN. 141 
 
 •come — in fact, to tell you that I have heard of your claim, and 
 that I — in fact — I entirely disapprove of it.' 
 
 ' Do you, Alderney, and why ?' 
 
 ' Because Alison is Anthony's daughter ; because out of grati- 
 tude ' 
 
 Stephen's face clouded over. 
 
 ' Come, Alderney ; don't be sentimental, and don't be Quixotic. 
 No one would be such a fool as to let go a quarter of a million 
 of money— his own, too.' 
 
 ' But it is not your own : it is Alison's.' 
 
 ' I say that it is my own. I say that Alison's mother was 
 never married.' 
 
 ' You cannot prove it.' 
 
 ' It is for her, on the other hand, to prove the contrary. If 
 there was a marriage it can be proved with the greatest ease. 
 But there was none.' 
 
 For an instant Alderney wavei'ed. 
 
 Stephen saw his look of irresolution. 
 
 ' I suppose,' he said, ' that you feel you ought to support 
 Anthony's daughter. Well, the feeling does you credit. Sup- 
 port her, by all means. But not to the extent of injustice, 
 Alderney. Don't you see that the estate, since there was no 
 marriage, is all mine ? Can you blame me for merely taking 
 what is mine ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Alderney, plucking up his spirits ; ' I blame you 
 for bringing scandal upon the family ; what need to rake up the 
 past ? Even supposing your allegation to be true, which I do 
 not believe, what good does it do to let all the world know it ? 
 Why, I hear they offered you five hundred a year for life, solely 
 for taking charge of Alison for one year. I'd have done that 
 job, Stephen, for a quarter of the money. Five hundred pounds 
 a year !' 
 
 ■ A splendid sum, isn't it ?' Stephen sneered. ' A fair equiva- 
 lent for ten thousand a year. Don't be an ass, Alderney. 
 Scandal on the family, too ; because one of them is proved 
 never to have married. Rubbish !' 
 
 ' Then I will say more, Stephen. I think that respect for 
 Anthony's memory, if not consideration for his child, ought to 
 have prevailed upon you to prevent this misery from falling 
 upon her.' 
 
 Alderney folded his arms firmly as he took his stand. 
 
 Stephen, as usual, lost bis temper. 
 
 ' Very well,' he said ; ' I've heard what you came to say, and 
 now, if you have nothing more to say, you may go. Of course 
 you understand, Alderney, that any little assistance which I 
 could have offered as the head of the Hamblin family will be 
 withhold if you choose to ally yourself with my enemies.'
 
 142 
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' I understand,' Alderney replied sadly, thinking of his poor 
 hundred pounds a year, and wondering how that little income 
 was to be supplemented for the future. ' Good-bye, Stephen ; 
 shake hands before I go, old man. I am more sorry than I can 
 tell you to be obliged to take this line. But Anthony and his 
 daughter must come first. You will change your mind yet, and 
 withdraw your claim.' 
 
 ' I will do nothing of the kind.' 
 
 ' Then, Stephen, I hope to God that you will be defeated. 
 That would be better for you than to win, and to feel all the 
 rest of your life that you were eating the bread of Anthony's 
 orphan.' 
 
 Stephen made an impatient gesture. 
 
 ' Come, shake hands,' Alderney repeated, holding out his own. 
 
 ' No,' said Stephen, turning his back upon him ; ' I only shake 
 hands with my friends.' 
 
 Alderney Codd withdrew. His lifelong friendship with 
 Stephen was at an end. More than that, he reflected with 
 bitterness that Stephen held in his hands the whole scheme for 
 the formation of the Great Glass Spoon Company, by which he 
 had hoped to make another coup. Well, it could not be helped. 
 No doubt Stephen would float that company and do well 
 with it. 
 
 For reasons which will presently appear, Stephen did not 
 float the company. 
 
 Alderney next went into the City, and called at the office in 
 Great St. Simon Apostle. He could not have arrived at a more 
 lucky moment, for a great family council, called together in 
 haste, was just meeting to consider the best course to pursue. 
 The Dean was there, the Colonel was there, the two partners, 
 the family lawyer, and Gilbert Yorke. Alderney sent in his 
 name, and was invited to join the Hamblin parliament. 
 
 The proceedings were opened by Augustus, in the private 
 office of Anthony Hamblin, deceased, in a little speech. 
 
 ' You all know,' he said, ' that our cousin Anthony left no 
 will : you all know that he maintained a profound silence on 
 the subject of his marriage. We have now to tell you, Dean, and 
 you, Colonel, that Stephen Hamblin, asserting that there was 
 never any marriage at all, is about to claim the whole estate. 
 We have asked you together in order to confer on the best 
 manner of meeting that claim. Mr. Billiter is so good as to give 
 us the benefit of his legal opinion. Mr. Gilbert Yorke has as 
 good a right to be present as any of us, for he is engaged to 
 Alison ■' 
 
 ' Pardon me,' said Gilbert, reddening to the roots of his hair. 
 ' Alison will not hear of any engagement, she says, until she can 
 meet the world without having to blush for her mother.'
 
 HOW THE BATTLE WAS BEGUN. 143 
 
 'That does her credit,' said Augustus, and the Dean ap- 
 plauded. ' Very well, cousins, we think that an effort may be 
 made to establish the fact of this marriage ; and of that fact, I 
 am sure, no one here can entertain the least doubt.' 
 
 Kb one did. 
 
 _ ' Mr. Yorke has very kindly offered,' he went on. ' to give up 
 his whole time for the search, which may possibly be long and 
 tedious. He abandons his practice at the Bar ' 
 
 ' Pardon me again,' said Gilbert, ' my practice is nothing. I 
 have no practice. All I give up is the waiting all day long in 
 chambers for briefs which never come.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Mr. Billiter, with a twinkle in his ferret-like 
 eyes, ' well, there's a very pretty fortune depending upon the 
 success of that search. Don't fire up, young man : lovers never 
 do think of fortunes. We all know that ; and Miss Hamblin is 
 a most beautiful and well-conditioned young lady ; and we give 
 you credit for entirely disinterested feelings.' 
 
 'Allow me. too,' saidAlderney, 'to offer my own humble services. 
 In the present depressed state of the City, my usual financial 
 work has almost stopped. I have not engineered a new company 
 for a twelvemonth.' Everybody smiled ; Alderney's companies 
 were well known. ' I am comparatively free, and shall be glad to 
 give whatever services I can to the cause of my benefactor's 
 daughter. I never knew her mother ; but we may say, I am 
 sure, in the words of the poet, " Matre pulchrd, filia pulchrior." ' 
 
 Alderney had touched the right cord. Anthony Hamblin, 
 the worthy Head of the House, had been, in one way or the 
 other, a benefactor to everybody in the room. The Dean thought 
 of days before the Deanery came to him, when his boys would 
 certainly not have gone to Marlborough but for Anthony ; the 
 Colonel thought how his two boys, in the Engineers and 
 Artillery, would certainly never have got to Woolwich had it 
 not been for Anthony ; the two partners thought of number- 
 less acts of kindness in the old days when all were young 
 together ; even the old lawyer owed something to this universal 
 benefactor, this dispenser of kindliness, this secret doer of good 
 deeds. A hush fell upon them for a moment. Then the Dean 
 cleared his throat, which had gone suddenly a little husky 
 
 ^ ' We must accept your oiler with gratitude, Cousin Alderney. 
 Yes — yes— our benefactor's daughter must not look in vain to 
 her cousins for help." 
 
 1 1 concur,' said William the Silent. 
 
 ' I have just come from seeing my cousin Stephen,' Alderney 
 went on. ' I thought it right, before breaking off the friend- 
 ship which has always existed between us, to go and make some 
 ■it of appeal to his better nature. I know,' he added, with a 
 blush, ' that our friendship has been marked by many a youth-
 
 M4 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ful folly, which one may repent of, but which one — one — in 
 fact — always looks back to with some degree of pleasure.' The 
 Dean looked professionally grave. ' I told him then, that I 
 would have neither part nor lot with him in this matter.' 
 
 'Very good,' said Augustus, approvingly. 
 
 ' When I considered,' Alderney went on, ' that I actually had 
 on at that moment the very coat which Anthony lent me, I 
 could have no other feeling but indignation and astonishment. 
 And, in addition to the coat,' — he drew out a leather pocket- 
 book full of papers — ' I had with me, come back to me after 
 many days, an actual I.O.U. of my own, given by me to Anthony 
 twenty years ago— twenty— years— ago ' — he repeated this with 
 great pathos — ' for five-and-twenty pounds.' He handed it to 
 Augustus with pride. ' Stephen found it among the papers. 
 It is not often that one's good deeds return in such a manner. 
 Gentlemen, I give you my word that at this moment I only 
 regret that the document represents so small a sum. I wish it 
 had been for ten times the amount. However, at the time I 
 did my best.' 
 
 There was a beautiful confusion between self-interest and 
 the finest kind of generosity which moved all present. 
 _ ' Very good,' said Augustus. ' Now let us consider the posi- 
 tion from a common-sense point of view. Here is Mr. Billiter 
 to correct us if we are led astray by an over-natural prejudice 
 in favour of poor Anthony. We have this fact against us : 
 there is not anywhere the slightest mention of marriage or love 
 affair in Anthony's letters or diaries. Yet the latter are kept 
 with the greatest care, and in the most minute detail.' 
 
 ' As there must have been at least love-passages of some 
 kind,' said the Colonel, ' does not that prove intentional omis- 
 sion ?' 
 
 ' I think it may. We need not. therefore, be discouraged at 
 the outset by this omission. As the Colonel says, there must 
 have been love-passages, probably letters. These are all pro- 
 bably destroyed ; concealment was intentional.' 
 
 ' Men in my profession,' said Mr. Billiter, ' are not likely to 
 believe blindly in anybody. It is the seamy side which we 
 generally have placed before us. At the same time, I knew 
 Anthony Hamblin from his childhood upwards. I seem, like 
 yourselves, to have known him most intimately — say from hour 
 to hour. And if I were going to choose a man in whose virtue 
 and honour I would believe, that man would be Anthony 
 Hamblin.' 
 
 ' I concur,' said William the Silent, for the second time. 
 
 ' Having said so much,' Mr. Billiter went on, ' I come to the 
 next point. Are we ready to carry this investigation through- 
 out ? Are we prepared for whatever may turn up ? Of course,
 
 HOW THE BATTLE WAS BEGUN. 145 
 
 something will. It is impossible that a child should be born, a 
 mother die, a man marry, without leaving some trace or other, 
 which we shall be able to light upon after careful investigation ! 
 Are you prepared, young man ' — he fixed his bright eyes upon 
 Gilbert, who bore the shock without flinching — ' to face all con- 
 sequences ?' 
 
 'I am!' Gilbert replied. 'The truth cannot be so bad for 
 Alison to bear as the present uncertainty, when eveiy chance 
 allusion, every thought, any accident, puts the doubt before her, 
 and makes a fresh demand upon her faith in her father. Let 
 us, in Heaven's name, learn the truth.' 
 
 ' Good !' said the Dean. 
 
 ' Very well, then.' observed Mr. Billiter, dryly, ' we are all 
 agreed, we think, that Anthony Hamblin will come well out of 
 it ; we hope he will. If he does not, we are prepared to sur- 
 render the high opinion we had formed of his virtue, and accept 
 the consequences. You, gentlemen,' he turned to the partners, 
 ' you are more deeply concerned than even Alison herself ?' 
 
 • We are,' said Augustus. ' But the House would stand even 
 such a shock as that which you contemplate.' He meant if 
 Stephen should withdraw his money. 
 
 ' Then we return to the question,' said Mr. Billiter : ' What 
 are we to do ?' 
 
 Nobody spoke for a time. Then Alderney lifted up his 
 voice : 
 
 ' Advertise !' he said. ' Go on advertising !' 
 
 Augustus groaned. 
 
 ' We advertised everywhere when Anthony was drowned. 
 One would like to avoid the agony column of the Times if we 
 could.' 
 
 ' There is no possible avoidance of publicity,' said Mr. Billiter. 
 ' The Court of Probate will be asked for letters. We shall 
 have to oppose. We shall have to state why we oppose. The 
 Court does not sit with closed doors. There will be a great 
 deal of talk about it before we have done, I fear. Of course, it 
 is disagreeable to quiet people to be talked of in every news- 
 paper in the kingdom.' 
 
 Alderney was already at work with paper and pencil. 
 
 ' It is nothing less than horrible,' said Augustus, ' that our 
 name — the name of Anthony Hamblin — should be mixed up 
 in such a vulgar difficulty as an uncertain marriage.' 
 
 He spoke as if the fierce sunlight of fame should shine upon 
 every action of a Hamblin and make it known to the people. 
 
 4 Nothing in the world like an advertisement,' said Alderney, 
 working away. ' You spend a guinea in the Times, and another 
 ■guinea in the Gv«ulian. All the parish clerks in all the parishes 
 in the country are immediately set to work in hope of getting 
 
 10
 
 146 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 the reward. You ought to stimulate them by offering a high 
 reward. Now, then, will this do ? 
 
 ' " Two Hundred Pounds Reward !" That is not too 
 much, is it ? No ! " Two Hundred Pounds Reward.— Wanted, 
 the Certificate of Marriage of Anthony Hamblin, merchant, of 
 Great St. Simon Apostle, City of London, and Clapham 
 Common, with some person unknown. It is believed that the 
 marriage took place in or near London, about twenty to twenty- 
 three years ago. The above reward will be paid on receiving 
 a certified copy of the register." That sounds well,' said 
 Alderney. ' Two hundred pounds will make them work. But 
 that is not enough. We must have another advertisement to 
 find out Alison's mother. Here it is : 
 
 "'Two Hundred Pounds Reward. —Whereas Anthony 
 Hamblin, deceased, formerly merchant, Great St. Simon 
 Apostle, City of London and Clapham Common, is believed 
 to have contracted marriage some twenty to twenty-two or 
 three years ago, with a person unknown ; the above reward is 
 offered to anyone who will give such information as will lead 
 to the discovery of the person and the place and date of mar- 
 riage ; and any persons who are cognisant of the marriage, who 
 are connected with the wife of Anthony Hamblin, or who lost 
 any female relation by flight, elopement, abduction or disappear- 
 ance about that time, are requested to communicate full par- 
 ticulars to the undersigned.' 
 
 Here followed the name and address of the solicitors. 
 'There,' said Alderney, with great satisfaction, 'that will 
 fetch the house — I mean, wake up the church.' 
 
 ' Very clearly put,' said Mr. Billiter. 'It is a pity that you 
 were not made a lawyer, Mr. Codd.' 
 
 Alderney smiled. This was the sort of tribute to his intellect 
 that he enjoyed. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Billiter. But— quid Bomce faciam ? Yet, 
 if ripe scholarship and an intimate acquaintance with Latin 
 literature could be of any use in that profession— but I fear it 
 is too late.' 
 
 ' There was a Mrs. Duncombe,' said Gilbert, ' who took charge 
 of Alison for six or eight years, should we not get hold of her'?' 
 ' Good,' cried the intelligent Alderney, grasping more paper : 
 ' the very thing. Mrs. Duncombe by all means. Another adver- 
 tisement. Two hundred— no, hang it .'—Five pounds reward will 
 do for her. Mrs. Duncombe will be easy enough to find. There 
 is no mystery about her, at any rate. " Five Pounds Reward. 
 — Wanted, the present address of Mrs. Duncombe, who for 
 eight years had charge of a little girl at Brighton— initials, 
 A. H." And now I look upon our case as complete — quite 
 complete.'
 
 HOW THE BATTLE WAS BEGUN. 147 
 
 Alderney looked about him as if the work was already done. 
 
 ' We will advertise, then,' said Augustus. ' Is there no other 
 wav of working ? Can we not use some private inquiry office '?' 
 
 They all had the old-fashioned respect for detectives, think- 
 ing they could solve any mystery. But Alderney shook his 
 head. His faith was not so great. 
 
 ' They can do nothing more than other men,' he said. ' Gil- 
 bert Yorke and I will be your best detectives. They get up 
 the facts of a case just as we have done, and then advertise. 
 That is just exactly what we are doing. And then they sit 
 down and wait for replies — anyone can do that.' 
 
 ' And now,' said Gilbert, ' for our own individual work. If 
 Mr. Billiter will allow me, I will receive all the answers to the 
 advertisements and report progress whenever any discovery 
 takes place.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Alderney, ' will begin at once a private search in 
 all the London parish registers. When I have gone through 
 those, I will tackle the suburban churches. After that — but 
 that is as far as we shall get.' 
 
 'All this, Alderney,' said Augustus, ' will require money. You 
 must not give us your time for nothing — at least, you must let 
 us pay your expenses.' 
 
 Poor Alderney blushed. He really had no employment for 
 his time at the moment, for no one, up to the present, had shown 
 any desire to join in the promotion of the Great Glass Spoon 
 Company. And there were five weeks to Quarter Day, and, to 
 meet all expenses for those five-and-thirty days, there was no 
 more than the sum of five-and-thirty shillings, with a silver 
 watch, a gold chain, a gold medal once won at college for a theo- 
 logical essay, and two rings. These articles of jewellery spent 
 the latter part of every Quarter-day in charge of an obliging 
 person who received them in trust, so to speak. Sometimes 
 they remained ' in ' for a good six months, during which interval 
 Alderney only knew the time by looking in bakers' shops, or the 
 stations of the Underground Railway ; by the pangs of hunger, 
 and by the diurnal phenomena of nature. 
 
 Had it not been such an unfavourable time for him, ho 
 would rather have done the work for nothing. But poor men 
 cannot do generous and self-sacrificing things. He could not 
 refuse the proffered money. And when Augustus, at parting, 
 pressed into his hand a piece of paper which, as a rapid glance 
 showed Alderney, was worth exactly fifty pounds, he was 
 affected almost to tears. 
 
 ' Your resemblance, Cousin Augustus,' he said, ' to our poor 
 Cousin Anthony deceased, becomes every day more marked. 
 si sic omnea /' 
 
 10-2
 
 143 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 CHAPTEE XVIII. 
 
 HOW THE COURT WAS HARD TO PERSUADE. 
 
 The tendency of humanity in this its fallen state to helieve 
 everything that is evil of each other has been often illustrated 
 by the ingenious tribe of poets and novelists. The Hamblin 
 cousinhood may, in all future ages, be cited as another and very 
 remarkable case in point. The thing had only to be asserted in 
 order to be immediately believed ; and yet it was in direct con- 
 tradiction to everything the world had previously held and 
 acknowledged. Stephen said it was so. Stephen had always 
 been the black sheep : Anthony had always been the respected 
 chief of the House ; yet Anthony's character was swept away 
 by one single assertion of Stephen's. Enjoyment of the kind 
 which is caused by surprise was also felt in the situation. 
 Here was a striking example of the uncertainty of fortune : 
 here was a turning of the wheel : here was a sudden sprawling 
 in the mud of those who had been perched in apparent security 
 on the highest point. No such reverse of fortune had ever be- 
 fallen the Hamblin family except, perhaps, in the case of that 
 member of it who, being on a voyage of adventure in the 
 Indian Ocean, had his ship scuttled, and was himself made to 
 walk a most uncomfortable and suicidal plank laid down for 
 him by pirates of Sumatra. It was something, the cousins felt, 
 but did not express the feeling in words, something for the 
 annals of the family, in the interests of morality and philo- 
 sophy, to show such a beautiful example of the instability of 
 human greatness as that of Alison Hamblin. The case of 
 Croesus himself, although he saved himself at the last moment 
 by an artful conundrum, could not have furnished his cousins, 
 nephews, nieces, and marriage-connections with a more fertile 
 topic of daily talk than the situation of Alison, the once fortu- 
 nate, the beautiful Alison, provided for the family circle. 
 
 The female cousins pretended not to believe the story, out of 
 deference to the partners, who were stout in their repudiation 
 of Stephen's claim. But they did believe it at heart, and they 
 whispered to each other words of doubt, pity, and suspicion, 
 which served as an encouragement in belief. And the more 
 they opened their eyes, raised their eyebrows, made round O's 
 of their mouths, shook their heads, wagged their curls, lifted 
 their shoulders, spread out their hands, and whispered words, 
 the more they came to regard the story as not only probable, 
 but certainly true.
 
 THE COURT HARD TO PERSUADE. 149 
 
 No one liked Stephen. It was a fashion in the family to 
 regard him as their least enviable possession. For his sake, and 
 by means of his example, all Spaniards were supposed by the 
 Hamblins to be profligate ; how else to account for his extra- 
 ordinary divergence from the recognised standards ? All other 
 Hamblins had done well : there were Hamblins in the Church, 
 Hamblins in the Army and Navy, Hamblins at the Bar, Ham- 
 blins in Medicine — it was a part of the family tradition that a 
 Hamblin should turn out well. And here was one who had 
 never done any good at all. No Hamblin could contemplate 
 Avithout emotion the picture of Stephen the prodigal, Stephen 
 the spendthrift, Stephen who was actually not satisfied with one 
 fatted calf, but went on working his unrepentant way through 
 a dozen of those toothsome creatures. 
 
 It was, however, instructive to mark the difference which the 
 new position of things produced. One may not love the Heir 
 Presumptive, but one must pray for the King. It became a 
 subject of serious, even prayerful, consideration with the 
 cousins whether they ought not to call upon Stephen, so long 
 neglected. One or two did actually leave cards at his chambers 
 in Pall Mall. Stephen found them and threw them behind the 
 fire. He was completely indifferent to the action of his rela- 
 ti< ins. They had long since passed out of his thoughts ; they did 
 not enter into any part or relation of his life. If he thought of 
 them at all, it was as forming part of the family which had 
 treated him with neglect, and whom in return he would humble 
 if he could. 
 
 He lost no time, however, after the final interviews and 
 explanations with the partners, in putting his case into the 
 bands of a firm of solicitors, who were known to be able and 
 active men. 
 
 ' I want.' he said, after putting the points as clearly as pos- 
 sible, ' I want the business pushed on with all despatch. You 
 understand I claim the whole of my brother's estate as his sole 
 heir.' 
 
 ' Yes, the case, as you present it, has weak points, Mr. Ham- 
 blin.' 
 
 ' You mean that my brother may have married. Eest assured, 
 that he never did. Let them search every register in England, 
 i Jcnow that lie never married. I am ascertain as that 1 am 
 standing here.' 
 
 • But— the young lady— she must have had a mother.' 
 Account for her mother as you will. My brother never 
 married.' 
 
 Not king short of the clea I documentary proof could shake 
 Stephen's belief on this point. So far, he was perfectly and 
 entirely sine
 
 i 5 o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 There is another point. The Court, when we ask for Letters 
 of Administration, may refuse to consider your brother's death 
 as proved. Let us, however, make out the Affidavit.' 
 
 They went before the nearest commissioner, when Stephen 
 took the necessary oath, and filled up the form. 
 ' In the goods of Anthony Hamblin deceased, 
 1 1, Stephen Hamblin, of Sandringham Chambers, Pall Mall, 
 Gentleman, applying for Letters of Administration of the per- 
 sonal estate and effects of Anthony Hamblin, late of Great 
 St. Simon Apostle, City of London, and Hooghly House, 
 Clapham Common, deceased, do hereby make oath that the 
 said deceased was drowned on the 3rd day of January, one 
 
 thousand eight hundred and , in the River Serpentine, 
 
 Hyde Park, and that the personal estate and effects of the said 
 deceased, which he anyway died possessed of, or entitled to, and 
 for or in respect of which Letters of Administration are to be 
 granted, exclusive of what the said deceased may have been 
 possessed of or entitled to as a Trustee for any other person or 
 persons, and not beneficially including the leasehold estate or 
 estates for years of the said deceased, whether absolute or 
 determinable on a life or lives, and without deducting anything 
 on account of the debts due and owing from the said deceased, 
 are under the value of three hundred thousand pounds to the 
 best of my knowledge, information, and belief.' 
 
 To which was appended the signatures of claimant and 
 witnesses. 
 
 ' This application,' said the lawyer, ' must be lodged on 
 Thursday. Fortunately Ave are in time, and on Tuesday week 
 we shall make our motion in Court. You will give us as many 
 particulars as possible, Mr. Hamblin. We must make our case 
 a strong one at the outset.' 
 
 It was then Tuesday. There was, therefore, a fortnight to 
 wait. Stephen, tolerably ignorant of the English law, thought 
 he had only to ask for the Letters of Administration, and then 
 to step at once into possession. At the worst, he fancied the 
 Court might possibly grant a short delay of two or three months, 
 Avhile the other side looked about for proofs of the marriage. 
 He waited impatiently for a fortnight to pass. 
 
 The day came at last. He found himself in the Court. 
 Counsel for the complainant, in opening the case, said that, 
 as had been stated in the affidavit, the deceased, Anthony 
 Hamblin, had met with his death at the late deplorable accident 
 on the 3rd of January last, when, by the breaking of the ice, 
 fifty persons had been suddenly drowned. The case presented 
 the peculiarity that the body was never, and had not up to the 
 present moment been recovered. The Court might, therefore, 
 be of opinion that the death was not proved. But the family,
 
 THE COURT HARD TO PERSUADE. 151 
 
 in the hope that he had not been drowned, had taken every 
 possible step, offering very large rewards, and advertising in the 
 most likely manner to attract the attention of people. Mr. Ham- 
 blin was a man of strongly-marked individuality, easily recog- 
 nisable ; it was impossible that he should be still living unknown 
 and unrecognised. He left his home on the morning of the 3rd 
 of January : he told his servants that he should be home to 
 dinner as usual : he was seen on the banks of the Serpentine 
 half an hour or so before the occurrence of the accident : he 
 was carrying his skates with him : he spoke to an officer of the 
 Royal Humane Society, of which institution he was a liberal 
 supporter : he announced his intention of going on the ice : he 
 took off his heavy coat, and gave it to the man to keep for him : 
 and he went away in the direction of a man who let chairs and 
 adjusted skates for hire. Half an hour after his conversation 
 with this officer the ice gave way, and two hundred people were 
 suddenly submerged. A great many were drowned, and a great 
 many bodies were subsequently recovered, but Mr. Anthony 
 Hamblin's body, as already stated, was not found. In the 
 evening the man carried the coat to his private residence, but he 
 had not come home. There was no ground for any other sup- 
 position than that of death. He was a man universally respected 
 and loved, a man of great wealth, a most successful merchant, 
 a man of very steady and regular habits, no longer young ; a 
 man of happy disposition, with no enemies, no anxieties, no 
 mental troubles ; a man who enjoyed life, a man possessed of 
 strong physique, free from ailments or sickness of any kind. 
 
 Stephen Hamblin, his client, the only brother of the deceased, 
 on hearing the sad news, at once took up the position of guardian 
 to his brother's child. With regard to this child, there had 
 always been a mystery about her. Anthony Hamblin, until ten 
 years before, was believed by all to be a bachelor. He suddenly, 
 however, at that time, appeared at home with a little girl aged 
 nine years, whom he introduced simply as his daughter. He 
 
 Gained that her mother had been dead for many years, and 
 offered no other explanation on the subject. Nor was any 
 other asked : and if his cousins had misgivings, these were 
 easily appeased by consideration of the blameless life always 
 led by the deceased. 
 
 On his death, however, the discovery that there was no will 
 led to an attempt on the part of Stephen Hamblin to clear up 
 the mystery connected with Miss Hamblin's birth. This in- 
 tigation, commenced at first in the interests of tin- young 
 lady, and after consultation with her, led Mr. Stephen Hamblin 
 to surprising results. He found from the diaries and journals 
 of the deceased, which, coupled with his own recollections of 
 his brother's life, accounted fully for almost every hour of tho
 
 Is2 
 
 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 past thirty years, that there could have been no marriage at all. 
 In that case, Stephen Hamblin was sole heir, and Miss Hamblin 
 had no legal claim to any portion of the estate. 
 
 When these facts were fully established in his own mind, and 
 not before, Stephen Hamblin sought his late brother's partners, 
 and communicated them in a friendly spirit. He was not re- 
 ceived, however, with the spirit that he expected. However, 
 whether the petition was to be opposed or not, his client, in 
 asking for Letters of Administration, desired it to be clearly 
 understood that his intention, after acquiring the property to 
 which he was entitled, was to recognise his brother's child, and 
 to provide for her with liberality. 
 
 The counsel went on to describe the property in general 
 terms. The real property consisted of a large house and grounds, 
 known as Hooghly House, standing on Clapham Common, and 
 a house standing in a small park in Sussex. There was also a 
 considerable estate in house property, partly in the City of 
 London, where the Hamblins had been merchants for two hun- 
 dred years, and partly in the southern suburbs. Mr. Anthony 
 Hamblin also, as chief partner in the firm, had a very large 
 stake in the business. The personal property amounted to 
 about two hundred and fifty thousand pounds in various stocks, 
 securities, and investments. In addition, there was a valuable 
 library, a collection of pictures, with furniture, objects of art, 
 bric-a-brac, and so forth, the results of several generations of 
 wealth. The whole would probably be sworn under three hun- 
 dred thousand pounds. 
 
 The counsel for the petitioner then summed up his case. The 
 proofs, which he held sufficient to the mind of any unprejudiced 
 person, that there never had been any marriage, were found in 
 the very careful and minute diaries kept by Anthony Hamblin, 
 in which every detail of expense, occupation, employment and 
 engagement was scrupulously entered. These not only con- 
 tained no mention of any marriage, but left no room for any 
 marriage. Although his death had been announced in every 
 paper, and, by reason of the accident which caused it, had ob- 
 tained the widest publicity, no one had as yet stepped forward 
 to claim relationship with the young lady on her mother's side. 
 The great Family Bible, in which were entries of the births 
 and deaths of six generations of Hamblins, which formed, in 
 fact, a complete genealogical table of the family, contained no 
 entry of the marriage of Anthony or the birth of his daughter 
 Alison. This omission was very extraordinary. 
 
 There were a few witnesses to call. The first was the man 
 Harris, whose evidence was simple and straightforward. He 
 believed Mr. Hamblin was drowned with the rest. He could 
 not see how anyone could think otherwise. The body had
 
 THE COURT HARD TO PERSUADE. 153 
 
 never been found. It might have been among the rest, but he 
 did not think that likely. There were two or three bodies un- 
 identified, but their clothes had been kept. 
 
 Then the footman, Charles, deposed that his master had told 
 him in the morning, before he went out, that he should be at 
 home as usual. 
 
 Augustus Hamblin testified to the regular habits and freedom 
 from care of his late cousin. He, too, expressed his conviction 
 that Anthony Hamblin had been drowned. 
 
 The Court did not want to hear any more evidence on the 
 subject. The Court would pass on to consider the nature of 
 the claim set up by Mr. Stephen Hamblin. 
 
 Then the counsel for the other side was able to begin. 
 
 He said that up to a certain point he was prepared to acknow- 
 ledge all the statements made by his learned brother. There 
 was no will to be found ; most likely none had been executed. 
 There was no mention anywhere of a marriage. There was not 
 any entry of his own marriage or the birth of his daughter in 
 the Family Bible. All this was quite true. As regarded the 
 disinterested action of Mr. Stephen Hamblin, in seeking to 
 prove himself the heir to so large a property, he was only de- 
 sirous to state that Mr. Stephen Hamblin had proved his liberal 
 intentions by offering this young lady, brought up to regard 
 herself as the heiress of a very large fortune, a hundred pounds 
 a year. But as regards the silence, he would submit that the 
 question was altogether begged by his learned brother. There 
 was one point quite undisputed by all : Miss Hamblin was the 
 undoubted daughter of Anthony Hamblin. Not only did she 
 possess certain strongly marked peculiarities common to all 
 the Hamblins, but she was most curiously and remarkably like 
 her grandmother, Mr. Hamblin's mother, who had been a 
 Spanish lady. Very well, then. Here was a daughter, acknow- 
 ledged as such by all ; here was an intentional and marked 
 omission of all mention of the child's mother in diaries and 
 family records. What were they to infer ? Two things were 
 possible. The one view which his learned brother had adopted, 
 and one which, he would submit to the Court, was the more 
 probable because the more honourable. It was this : The late 
 Mr, Anthony Hamblin had been from boyhood of singular 
 purity of life. Few men could look back upon a course so 
 blameless, so free from reproach, as his. It was a life open to 
 the eyes of all. There Avas nothing to conceal, nothing to be 
 ashamed of. Above all, there could be no skeleton in the cup- 
 board. 1 1 is friends believed, one and all, implicitly in the purity 
 and nobility of the life which had been so suddenly and fearfully 
 taken from their midst. They believed that Anthony Hamblin 
 was married. They were confident that if investigation were
 
 1 54 THE SEAM Y SIDE. 
 
 made, proofs would be found. They put forward the daughter, 
 Alison Hamblin, as the heiress, and they asked that time should 
 be allowed to enable them to make the research. 
 
 The Judge said that this was a case in which he was not 
 called upon to grant time for the purpose asked : viz., to prove 
 the marriage. It did appear remarkable, and in some men it 
 would be suspicious, that no mention had been made at all of 
 the young lady's mother. On the other hand, the supposed 
 deceased gentleman had evidently borne the highest character. 
 Why, then, had he thought proper to leave unexplained the 
 circumstance of his daughter's birth ? Meantime, however, he 
 was not satisfied with the proof of the death of Anthony Ham- 
 blin. He should require further proof. 
 
 Stephen's counsel asked how long a period would satisfy his 
 lordship. 
 
 The Court replied that he could not tie himself down to any 
 time ; there had been cases in which men had been missed for 
 years and had returned ; cases in which men had gone to sea, 
 run away from debts or imagined annoyance, taken assumed 
 names. _ There were many possible reasons for hiding. No 
 man's life was wholly known : no man's sanity could be alto- 
 gether relied on. He would adjourn the case ; the parties could 
 come before him at any time should they get additional or con- 
 clusive evidence. If no more was found, he would hear them 
 again in a twelvemonth, or perhaps two years. The estate 
 could be in the meantime administered by Mr. Anthony Ham- 
 blin's solicitors, the houses and gardens kept up as before, and 
 a sufficient sum allotted for the young lady. And he would 
 advise that the most diligent search should be made by both 
 sides, if they could act in concert, for the discovery of the 
 name and connections of the missing mother. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 HOW ALISON TOOK IT. 
 
 To gain time is generally the next best thing to gaining the 
 victory. Alison had gained time. Gilbert threw himself into 
 a hansom, and carried the good news faster than any that was 
 ever brought into Ghent, to the house on Clapham Common. 
 
 ' So far,' he said, ' we have been successful. Unless anything 
 new turns up, Letters of Administration will not be granted for 
 a year at least. During that time, we shall have made out our 
 own case. Courage, Alison !'
 
 HOW ALISON TOOK IT. 155 
 
 This was one of Alison's bad days. She had lost the old 
 confident bearing, the insolence which sits so well on happy 
 youth : she was dejected ; the ready smile was gone ; her lips 
 were set and her eyes were hard. She was of those who have 
 a quarrel with fate. It is not unusual : sooner or later we all 
 mistrust the unaccountable rulings of destiny, but it is sad when 
 the quarrel begins so early in life. 
 
 ' Thank you, Gilbert,' she said, when he had delivered him- 
 self of his message and his prophecy of encouragement. ' Thank 
 you, Gilbert. You are all very kind about me. A year to wait, 
 you say ? Then I shall be of age, and I shall want no more 
 guardians. Then I shall go to my uncle — no, I will write to 
 him, because I can never see him again — and say, " If it is only 
 the money you want, take it, and leave my father's memory in 
 peace." I suppose he will do that ; anything is better than 
 this dragging of his dear name before the courts.' 
 
 1 The application will be reported in the papers,' said Gilbert. 
 ' A few people who know the name will read it : your own 
 cousins will read it, no one else.' 
 
 Gilbert reckoned without the special London correspondent 
 who got hold of the story and retailed it, with additions of his 
 own, for the benefit of the country papers. In fact, all England 
 was interested in the destination of this vast fortune. Who 
 would not be interested in the disposal of more than a quarter 
 of a million of money ? The mere mention of such a sum 
 stimulates the imagination. What years of careful thought — 
 what generations of success — what abilities — what prudence — 
 what swiftness of vision, clearness of brain, sacrifice of present 
 pleasure, are represented by so gigantic a pile ! The vastness 
 of the sum bewilders the poor wretch whose only hope is to be 
 a little ' before ' the world, so that should that calamity, known 
 as anything,' happen, his widow and the children may be 
 hedged round by the resource of a few hundreds. So that the 
 writers of the ' London letter,' most of whom belong to the 
 order of those who save little and spend little when they would 
 gladly save much and spend more, seized upon the story and 
 dressed it up. Happy Stephen ! Unhappy Alison ! Those 
 who had rich relatives reflected with sorrow that there could 
 never be any doubt about their marriage ; those who had none 
 built castles in the air, and speculated on the chance of unex- 
 pected legacies. Of all dreams which flesh is heir to, that of 
 unexpected fortune is, I believe, the commonest. It is so much 
 more pleasant to dream than to work ; it is so much more de- 
 lightful to look forward to an old age of comfort and ease, than 
 to one of hard work and collar to the end. I once knew an old 
 gentleman, industrious, religious, moral to the highest point, an 
 excellent father, a model husband, whose whole life proclaimed
 
 156 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 to the world his acquiescence with the Church Catechism, and 
 the state of life to which he was born. After his death it was- 
 discovered that for thirty years he had annually purchased a 
 ticket in the Austrian lottery. He had no rich relations ; he 
 could not expect an accession of fortune from any source what- 
 ever, yet he dreamed of wealth and bought his ticket every 
 year. 
 
 ' You will not be allowed to throw away your fortune, 
 Alison,' Gilbert went on. ' You owe it to yourself, to your 
 father, to fight the battle out. But courage ! Long before a 
 year we shall have managed to get at the truth. Why, do you 
 think that marriages are not registered, and that registers are 
 not kept ? If Stephen Hamblin has any reason to wish that 
 the truth should not be discovered, I have every reason to make 
 me work at its recovery. My dear,' — he took her unresisting 
 hand — ' every hope of my life is bound up with it. It shall be 
 found. Consider, Alison, you must have had a mother some- 
 where. You must have been born somewhere, registered 
 somewhere, christened somewhere. "VVe know the date of your 
 birth, that is something.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Alison, trying to respond to her lover's eagerness, 
 ' unless Mrs. Duncombe was wrong, I was born twenty years 
 ago, on the fifth day of June. There are two facts for you. Can 
 you make anything out of them ?' 
 
 'By themselves, very little. But I have thought how to use 
 them. With the aid of the registers, I can make everything 
 out of them. Listen, Alison : we shall put our advertisements 
 in the papers, we invite everybody— clergymen, and parish 
 clerks, and country doctors — to look for a certain register of birth 
 on such a day. When I have got that register, it will be time 
 to consider what next. Perhaps your father married under an 
 assumed name. We may, by the help of the register, get hold 
 of that name. It will lead us to further discoveries. Why, 
 those two facts, the year and the day, may prove invaluable. I 
 think we may safely assume that the marriage took place in the 
 South of England, probably in the neighbourhood of London, 
 because the diaries show clearly — and Mr. Augustus Hamblin 
 distinctly recollects, that in the year of your birth, and the two 
 years before that, your father was never far away from London. 
 Thus, in the summer of your birth he went to Bournemouth by 
 himself, and remained there three weeks — very likely on busi- 
 ness connected with yourself. The year before that he took a 
 holiday early in the summer with his brother Stephen, and went 
 fishing. For some weeks he wrote from Newbury. The year 
 before that, he spent the whole summer with his mother, who 
 was ill at the time, at Brighton. So you see, as Stephen Ham- 
 blin very clearly saw, there is no room in the page, so to
 
 HOW ALISON TOOK IT 157 
 
 speak, for liim to have been married anywhere far away from 
 London.' 
 
 Alison sighed. 
 
 ' You come to me, Gilbert, and you raise hopes in my mind 
 which make me for the moment happy. Oh, if I could but 
 clear my father's name ! It is so dreadful to think that all the 
 world is jeering and making merry over the accusation brought 
 by his own brother — my dear father, so good, so kind, so noble ! 
 Why, I should have thought there was not a single creature 
 of all who knew him in all the world, too low and degraded to 
 acknowledge his goodness. It made other people good, while he 
 lived, only to be with him and near him. It made me good, then.' 
 
 ' You are always good, Alison.' 
 
 She shook her head sadly. 
 
 ' I am always full of regrets, of wicked thoughts, Gilbert. I 
 used to be good, when you fell in love with me. That was the 
 reason, I suppose.' 
 
 She would have no recognition of an engagement, and yet she 
 spoke to her lover frankly. There was no doubt, at all events, 
 in her own mind. Gilbert loved her. If she could, she would 
 marry him. She trusted and she distrusted with the same en- 
 tire abandonment. To trust in full, to doubt and distrust in 
 full, came from her Spanish blood. She was like the Sehora, her 
 grandmother, in mind as well as in face. 
 
 ' Do you mean that I fell in love with you because you were 
 good ?' asked Gilbert, laughing. ' No, it was not. I do not 
 think that a man asks himself when he falls in love, whether 
 the girl is very good ; she seems good to her lover ; he believes 
 in her goodness ; if he did not, he would persuade himself that 
 he could make her good. I suppose that after marriage hus- 
 bands like their wives to be good-tempered, at least. Before, 
 it does not matter so much.' 
 
 ' It is wonderful.' said Alison, ' how men ever fall in love with 
 girls at all.' 
 
 ' Do not dispai'age your sex,' said Gilbert. 
 
 ' Oh ! we are weak. We can do nothing by ourselves ; we 
 take our ideas from men ; we look to men for our religion, our 
 manners, our thoughts. And yet men fall down at a woman's 
 feet and worship her. As for me, there has been nothing good 
 in me at all since the day when my uncle told me — what he was 
 pleased to call the truth. I think there will never any more be 
 anything good in me at all. I am devoured by evil passions, 
 .1 ii'l hatreds, and wicked thoughts. I find it difficult, sometimes, 
 to believe in my father. Yet, if I cannot believe in him, there 
 is nothing. And I think of my uncle with a loathing which 
 makes me sick.' 
 
 ' Faith, Alison ! Have faith.'
 
 158 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 Ah ! Gilbert, so long as you are here I find it easy to have 
 faith. I feel strong and hopeful then. Your brave words en- 
 courage me. When you are gone I begin to doubt again, and if 
 you are long away I begin to despair.' 
 
 'Poor child ! I must come oftener to see you.' 
 
 ' I do not know whether it is worse to be in the house or to 
 be out of it. At home my aunt sits and watches me all day 
 long, asking every half -hour if I feel better ; and it seems as if 
 I were having an operation performed, and they were watching 
 curiously to see how I was bearing it. To be sure, the suspense 
 is worse than the operation. Even the boy troubles me with 
 his sympathy, his eagerness to do everything he can think of for 
 me — he who was formerly so careless and selfish — and his de- 
 light in assuring me, whenever he can find an opportunity, of 
 his protection. You see, the very things one used to laugh at 
 and enjoy are become fresh causes of trouble to me. Poor 
 Nicolas ! He means so well, too. But that shows how wrong- 
 headed these things have made me. If I go out, perhaps it is 
 worse, because then I think as I go along that everybody is say- 
 ing, " There goes Miss Hamblin, as she calls herself, though she 
 has no real right to bear the name." Or else I hear them whisper 
 as I pass — this jealousy of mine makes me hear the lowest 
 whisper — " That is Miss Hamblin, who was once so proud, 
 and thought herself so rich, and held up her head so high above 
 all the rest of us. Now she has been found out, and she is 
 going to be turned into the street, without a penny to call her 
 own, and not even a name to her back. What a come-down !" 
 Even in church I am not free, but I think I feel the people's 
 eyes on me when they ought to be on their books or on the 
 clergyman in the pulpit. They are saying, " That is Miss 
 Hamblin ; she was proud enough a year ago ; she is humbled 
 now, poor girl ! She has no longer got anything to be proud 
 of." So, everywhere and all day long, I am watched, and 
 mocked, and scorned.' 
 
 Gilbert caught her hand, and kissed the unresisting fingers 
 a hundred times. 
 
 ' No, child, no ! There is no scorning of you. The world is 
 better hearted than you think. There can be nothing but pity 
 and respect for you.' 
 
 ' I know, I know,' she replied, with tears in her eyes. ' But if 
 the evil thoughts are in your own mind you think they are in 
 other people's, and my mind is full of mockery and scorn. 
 Everything mocks at me : this garden, the very flowers, the 
 house, even the furniture. They all have faces, and they all 
 laugh and flout at me, because I pretended to be the heiress, 
 who am nothing at all but a nameless girl. They know me for 
 an impostor.'
 
 HOW ALISON TOOK IT. 159 
 
 What could Gilbert say in comfort ? He muttered some 
 commonplace. You might as well try to persuade a man with a 
 gaping sword wound that he is not hurt. The girl wandered 
 restlessly to and fro upon the lawn. It was with her as she told 
 her lover. She was haunted day and night by two ghosts, who 
 never left her. One of them was the Shade of her former 
 happiness, the other was the Shade of her present low estate. 
 One was the ghost of a maiden, proud, defiant, self-reliant, 
 looking out upon the future with the confidence of one for 
 whom Fortune has nothing in store but her choicest gifts. She 
 was dressed in silks and satins, this young princess ; she rode a 
 stately horse ; at her feet the young men fell down, with adoring 
 eyes, and knelt ; as she passed, flowers grew up beside the way ; 
 only to look at her. she felt as she gazed upon this ghost, wai'med 
 the heart ; the children ran after her, and shouted and laughed ; 
 the poor came out of their cottages and blessed her. She was 
 like a benevolent fairy, who is not an old woman at all, but 
 young and beautiful as the day, and not capricious or uncertain, 
 but always faitbtul, loyal, and true. And she was full of the 
 most tender and precious Christian thoughts, this shadow. It 
 seemed as if the things against which she prayed, just because 
 it was her duty as a Christian, and enjoined by the Church — the 
 evils of hatred, wrath, malice, and so forth — had no more to do 
 with her than the gross impossibilities of drunkenness and the 
 like. The contemplation of so much religion, pure and un- 
 dented, in this perfection of a ghost filled Alison's heart with 
 bitterness. 
 
 As for the other Shade, it presented a sad contrast. For this 
 ghost was that of a mere beggar-girl. She went barefoot, and 
 was clothed in nothing but old rags and duds, and odds and 
 ends. She shook her head, and cried, with shame and rage, at 
 her own misery. Some moaned, and wept, and lamented, be- 
 cause she had nothing at all of her own. The poorest gipsy girl 
 had something, but she had nothing. The pitiless, unsym- 
 pathising children hooted at her as she went ; the poor people 
 came out of their cottages and jeered her, because she was so 
 very poor and ragged ; the wayfarers flouted her, because she 
 was so very lonely and miserable. Every mocking gibe was like 
 a knife that went straight to her heart. And that was not the 
 worst of it ; for, this wretched, ragged girl, who was so poor in 
 worldly goods, was stripped of all religion as well. She was full 
 of hatred and wrath ; she thought well of none ; she suspected 
 all ; she was bitter and envious. In her heart there were none 
 of the sweet blossoms of faith, hope, and charity, which flourish 
 so well in the congenial soil of the heart of a happy English girl. 
 Alison looked on this shadow with shuddering and loathing, as 
 she looked on the other with envy and jealousy.
 
 160 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Such as they were, they remained by her side, and never left 
 
 her. 
 
 ' Courage, Alison !' said Gilbert. He had spoken to her half 
 a dozen times, but she returned no answer, being occupied with 
 these phantoms. ' Courage, Alison ! Think of brighter things.' 
 ' There are no brighter things,' she cried bitterly. ' There is 
 nothing but misery and shame. Oh, Gilbert !' breaking into a 
 passionate gesture, ' why trouble any more about me ? Let me 
 go away and be forgotten. Let them do what they like with 
 the money ; if you search any further you may find out some 
 secret more shameful than any that has been suspected — if that 
 is possible ; you may find out why my father hid away, and 
 would tell to no one the story of my birth.' 
 
 She broke from him and ran, hiding her face with a gesture 
 of shame, into the house. 
 
 Gilbert remained in the garden. A quarter of an hour later 
 she returned, the fit of passion over, calm and cold. 
 
 ' Forgive me,' she said, holding out her hand ; ' I do not often 
 give way. To-day, the thought of my case being pleaded in 
 open court, my name being bandied about among all those 
 people, maddened me. I will try to bear it. But Gilbert, be 
 wise ; do not waste your precious time upon me. I am content 
 to let all go, so that there be no further questioning/ 
 
 ' That is not the faith we want to see in you,' said Gilbert. 
 ' Why, that would be treachery to the very name you want to 
 see unsullied. Have confidence, dear Alison ! we will carry the 
 matter through, and we shall not fail to see the name of 
 Anthony Hamblin pass through the ordeal triumphantly. Only 
 have faith.' 
 
 ' I wish I could,' she murmured. 
 
 Here they were joined by Alderney Codd. He had come 
 down by the humbler conveyance— the omnibus. His thin face 
 was wreathed with smiles. 
 
 ' You have heard the news, Alison ?' he began. ' Of course 
 you have— Gilbert has told you. Well, so far, we have every 
 reason to be satisfied. Time — time : that is what we want.' 
 
 ' You see, Alison,' said Gilbert, ' we are all agreed. With a 
 little time we shall, we must succeed.' 
 
 ' Time to prove things,' Alderney added, ' that is all ; to 
 prove things which we know already. We know them, I say, 
 all but the names. God bless my soul ! It is a matter of 
 faith.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Cousin Alderney,' said Alison ; ' I am rich in 
 friends, if in nothing else.' 
 
 ' Why,' said Alderney, planting himself firmly, ' whenever I 
 put on that coat which your poor father lent me, and which I 
 have retained out of respect to his memory, I feel a glow of
 
 HOW ALISON TOOK IT 161 
 
 ■gratitude, more warming than a pint of port. Of course I am 
 ready to work for you. Outside the court ' — he laughed at the 
 recollection — ' I met Stephen himself, looking his very blackest. 
 It went to my heart to treat him so — my cousin and my oldest 
 friend. But I thought of Anthony, and I cut hini — dead. Jack 
 Baker was with him. Ah ! theyVe got my prospectus of the 
 Great Glass Spoon Company. After thirty years' friendship, 
 after so many good times as we have had together, it seemed 
 hard ; and to lose the Great Glass Spoon Company as well. 
 But gratitude, Alison, gratitude stood between us. Gratitude 
 said, " You cannot know any longer the man who is trying to 
 rob your benefactor's orphan." ' 
 
 ' But,' said Alison, ' can you not even know my uncle Stephen ? 
 must you break altogether with him ?' 
 
 ' I must,' said Alderney, gloomily. ' I cannot serve two in- 
 terests. I cast in my lot, Alison, with yours.' 
 
 I think I have omitted to state that Alderney had been 
 requested by the partners to take the position of guardian, or 
 vice-guardian. He was, in fact, promoted to that post of dignity, 
 vice Stephen Hamblin, cashiered, on the strength of which he 
 gave himself airs of importance in the Birch-Tree Tavern. He 
 slept at the house : in the morning, such was his zeal, he rose 
 at six, breakfasted early, and set off on his quest among the 
 London parish registries, both official and ecclesiastical. He 
 carried a big pocket-book with a pencil in readiness to make 
 entries, should any bearing on the subject be found. But for 
 some time nothing at all was discovered in London churches. 
 
 He returned to Clapham about half-past six or seven, and 
 dined with the ladies. He cheered the banquet by anecdotes 
 of his past experiences, revealed a new world — a series of new 
 worlds, to Alison, by describing how he had rowed, played 
 cricket, sung songs at supper, and otherwise distinguished him- 
 self at Cambridge ; how, with Stephen, he once stayed for six 
 months in the Quartier Latin of Paris : how he had sojourned, 
 by himself, among the students of Heidelberg : how he had 
 lost his little fortune and mortgaged half his little income to 
 ■ off his creditors, and how he had become a person of great 
 (li-tinction in the world of finance. 
 
 It was all wonderful : the contemplation, at second-hand, of 
 life under so many new aspects distracted Alison, and turned 
 her thoughts from her present anxieties. Alderney, too, had a 
 powerful imagination ; his stories were touched with that light 
 which is neither of heaven nor of earth, of unreality desirable 
 and beautiful, which only a man with some touch of genius 
 knows how to infuse : and he understood how to place himself 
 .as the central figure in the group. 
 
 About one or two things she was uncertain. It was not clear 
 
 11
 
 1 62 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 when her cousin could find the time to become the profound 
 scholar which he loved to represent himself ; nor was it quite 
 apparent to her that the real objects and aims of the Universi- 
 ties of Cambridge, Heidelberg, and Paris were best arrived at 
 by such a life as he described as common among the students. 
 Finally, she could not understand that it was altogether right 
 to promote the establishment of companies whose only object 
 seemed to be to enable their founders to sell out Avhen the 
 shares were high, and then to collapse. But Alderney assured 
 her that she could not comprehend financial morality. It re- 
 sembled, he said, diplomacy ; everyone knew that if diplomacy 
 were to be stripped of brag, bounce, lies, and pretence, the 
 trade of diplomatists would be gone, and we might transact the 
 affairs of nations by means of guileless girls or conscientious 
 curates. 
 
 As for Nicolas, he utilised the presence of so great a scholar 
 for his own purposes : he read novels, in fact, while Alderney 
 Codd wrote his exercises for him. 
 
 ' Your Latin subjunctive moods,' said the boy, ' are sound ; 
 but your French past participles are shaky. If you go on living 
 here till the end of the half, I shall have a shy at the Latin 
 verse prize. Now then — Exercise forty-three. On the ob- 
 lique narrative. Here's Balbus again — no getting rid of that 
 chap anyhow.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 HOW" YOUNG NICK SPENT HIS HALF-HOLIDAY. 
 
 On a warm and pleasant morning in May, about a week after 
 the Hamblin case was heard in Court, the boys of the Clapham 
 Grammar School came flocking from the class-rooms as the 
 clock struck twelve. After the nature of boys they ran, jumped, 
 shouted, and laughed. One among them all neither ran, nor 
 jumped, nor shouted. He only walked. And he was a boy 
 with white hair and pink eyes. He dug his hands into his 
 pockets, wore his hat a little tilted over his forehead, which 
 conveys the idea of a thoughtful nature, and calmly surveyed 
 the mob of contemporaries with the eye of a philosopher. 
 
 Young Nick, in fact, was not a clubbable boy. He went his 
 own way. Nobody ever saw him in a cricket-field, nor was he 
 ever in the ' worry ' of a foot-ball match. If he saw a game of 
 cricket going on upon Clapham Common, he gave the players 
 a wide berth ; the Common was broad enough for him and 
 them. If he saw the foot-ball come bounding over the rough
 
 YO UNG NICK >S HALF-HOLIDA V. 1 63 
 
 surface in his direction, he retired, laterally, so as to avoid the 
 crowd which came after it. The common gauds which delight 
 boyhood gave no joy to Nicolas. The silver cups, offered for 
 competition at athletics, he valued at their weight in silver, 
 and no more. This was not much, and so he rarely entered 
 his own name in any trial of skill, strength, or speed. Yet, 
 after the sports were over, he might have been observed, had 
 he been watched, going through every one of the events by 
 himself, one after the other, and making careful comparisons 
 of his own results with those obtained by the winners. If he 
 held aloof from his schoolfellows out of hours, in school he was 
 still more self-contained. Nothing moved him, no spirit of 
 emulation possessed him ; he never cared to be high in his. 
 form, nor was he depressed if his place was low. He was abso- 
 lutely unmoved by any of the exhortations, incitements, 01* 
 satiric remarks of his masters. He neither took nor pretended 
 to take the smallest interest in the routine school- work, and he 
 valued a prize, as he valued a silver-cup, at exactly the sum it 
 cost at the bookseller's. 
 
 'Greek !' he would say contemptuously. ' What is the use 
 of Greek in the City ? Who wants Greek in the army ? Greek 
 is invented for schoolmasters to pretend to be able to read it. 
 Catch them reading Greek when no one's looking, and for their 
 own pleasure. Yah ! They can't do it. Latin again. Do the 
 partners in the great City Houses write Latin verses? Do 
 they grind out exercises in the subjunctive mood ? Do they 
 make their clerics say the irregular verbs and the rules of syntax 
 every morning ? Gammon !' 
 
 Euclid was another branch of education for which he enter- 
 tained the most profound contempt, holding that the City 
 required no geometry of a young man. But arithmetic, writing, 
 drawing, French, German, and geography, were subjects which 
 he plainly saw to have a solid commercial value, and he worked 
 at them with zeal and vigour ; so much so, indeed, that on more 
 than one occasion he found himself presented with a prize for 
 proficiency in these branches. 
 
 There were other things, not generally taught in schools, at 
 which this remarkable youth worke I hard, in those hours when 
 his comrades were running wild about the Common. He had 
 conceived the very just idea that deportment, manners, ease in 
 society, and a good tone, were of more use to a young man in 
 the City than anywhere else. Accordingly, he had begged 
 Alison to consider him as her pupil, and in these departments 
 he became voluntarily subject to her as his mistress. He could 
 be, and frequently was. as we have already seen, as vulgar a. 
 boy as ever walked. Yet the lessons had their effect, and the 
 
 11-2
 
 j 64 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 boy's slang was only affected, just as other boys' fine manners 
 are put on for the occasion. 
 
 He was a handy boy, too, and practised small arts. He had 
 a lathe with which he could make all sorts of things ; and he 
 could carve in wood ; and he could execute fret-work ; and he 
 could take a watch to pieces, and once nearly succeeded in put- 
 ting it together again. And he worked steadily at shorthand, 
 always with a view of becoming more useful in the City. In 
 short, he intended to present himself, at the age of sixteen or 
 seventeen, as an accomplished young clei'k, ready for any kind 
 of work— the perfect clerk, whose undoubted destiny is a part- 
 nership. I believe it was Socrates who first explained how useful 
 and excellent a thing it is that man should resolve on perfection 
 in his own line, so that if he be a carpenter he will be the best 
 possible carpenter, and if a statesman the best possible states- 
 man, and so forth. It is by such men that success is achieved : 
 such a carpenter, Socrates pointed out, wins the wreath of car- 
 pentering, which is made of the shavings. 
 
 In addition to these virtues of resolution and industry, young 
 Nick possessed that of silence ; no one ever suspected him of 
 serious intentions, except Alison, who watched him, gave him 
 advice, and to whom he confided in a way his projects and his 
 scheme for the conduct of life. 
 
 This reduction of education to its practical uses was not with- 
 out effect upon the boys with whom young Nick worked. They 
 were all boys connected with the City ; they all— except one 
 every year, who took the annual scholarship and went up to 
 Oxford or Cambridge, looked to the City as the scene of their 
 future labours and triumphs : they were all taught at home to 
 regard ' business ' as the noblest profession, because it brings in 
 most money : the clever boy who carried off the prizes became 
 captain of the school, went up to Cambridge and distinguished 
 himself, was regarded with a sort of pity, because the City 
 would be closed to him. He might take a good degree : he 
 might achieve greatness as a preacher or a lawyer or a writer ; 
 but, poor beggar ! he would never have any money. 
 
 So that young Nick's teaching fell upon rich soil, and took 
 root and flourished. Yet, as always happens, there were none, 
 except himself, who advanced beyond the grumbling stage, and 
 struck out a practical line for himself. 
 
 A boy so singular in appearance, so original in his manner of 
 regarding life and its duties, so self-contained, and with that in- 
 geniously mischievous leaning to which attention has been 
 already drawn, was, of course, a noticeable feature in the school. 
 At prize-giving days it pleased the boy to overhear other boys 
 whispering to their sisters, ' That's young Nick : there he is, 
 Avith the white hair.'
 
 YOUNG NICK'S HALF-HOLIDAY. 165 
 
 On this particular morning lie first looked up into the sky and 
 observed that the day was bright ; then he felt in his pocket and 
 found that the eighteenpence •which constituted all his wealth 
 was safe in the corner, in three sixpences. Then he reflected 
 gravely : 
 
 ' I did tell the old lady that I might have business at Anthony 
 Hamblin and Company's. She won't mind if I don't go home for 
 dinner, and it's only cold roast beef, and eighteenpence will 
 get me a good deal better dinner than cold roast beef. Then 
 where am I to get the next eighteenpence ] Uncle Anthony, 
 we all miss you. Eighteenpence — well, I can walk in, and if 
 the money runs to it, I can get back on a bus.' 
 
 For an active boy of thirteen, a walk from Clapham to 
 London Bridge is not far, and it is full of interest. First the 
 way lies along a broad and open road, with substantial villas on 
 either side as old as the great houses in the gardens round the 
 Common ; there is a nonconformist church with pillars and 
 pediment almost as magnificent as anything that Athens could 
 ever show ; there is the Swan, a roadside public-house with its 
 water-trough in front, and always carts of hay standing about,, 
 thirsty horses drinking, drivers talking and passing round the fre- 
 quent pewter, stable-boys dawdling about, so that the place pre- 
 sents somewhat of the rusticity which it boasted fifty j-ears ago 
 when first it was founded. Presently you pass what was once the 
 village of Stockwell, where there was a famous, but not at all a 
 fearful, ghost. Then begin shops. Then another stretch of road 
 with terraces, but no longer great gardens, and some of the ter- 
 races, are dingy ; then more shops ; then Kennington Church, 
 ugly, and yet venerable by reason of its vast churchyard, where 
 lie the bones of so many thousand citizens. To young Nick, the 
 church was a sort of half-way house. Besides, there was a 
 clock in the tower. Beyond the church is the park, as large as- 
 my lady's pocket-handkerchief, ornamented with a lodge which 
 does infinite credit to its architect — the late Prince Consort. 
 
 After the park, the Horns Tavern, regai'ded by boys from 
 Clapham as the real frontier-post of Town, and then shops, 
 more shops, and yet more shops. 
 
 ' Why,' asked young Nick, ' don't they knock them all into one 
 mighty great shop, and then take turns to keep it, so that they 
 would have six days' holiday out of the seven, at least ?' 
 
 The question was asked some little time ago, but no practical 
 answer has yet been given, and I think there are still about as 
 many sliop.^ as ever. 
 
 Arrived at the Horns, young Nick trudged on with lighter 
 step. He was about to enter the golden ground — Tom Tidler's 
 ground, where one day he, too, would be enabled to stoop and 
 gatli' r tin' yell »w nuggets. His white hair, white eyebrows, and
 
 1 65 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 >■ 
 
 pink complexion made the people turn and stare at him. That 
 be did not mind. It "was a kind of tribute to his greatness ; 
 personal merit, he argued to himself, made him an Albino. He 
 only held his head higher, and walked with more assurance. 
 The meanness of the shops in Newington Causeway affected him 
 painfully. Trade ought to be majestic, he thought. Presently 
 the sight of an immense block of buildings overshadowing the 
 Tabernacle cheered him. It was consecrated to the cordwain- 
 ing mystery. ' Thei*e is Money,' said young Nick, ' in Boots.' 
 
 Presently he came to London Bridge. Here he halted, to 
 lean over the low parapet, and gaze down the river upon the 
 forest of masts in the Pool, the steamers threading their way 
 up and down the tortuous highway of the river, which was by 
 no means silent, but exasperatingly noisy, with the bells, the 
 whistles, the steam-escapes of the boats, and the oaths of the long- 
 shore men, who, all of them three-fourths drank, were taking 
 the empty ships down the river, from London Port to Leith. 
 
 ' They bring their cargoes,' said young Nick, thoughtfully, 
 ' to the Docks. There is indigo, and cochineal, and dates, and 
 figs, and silk, and tea, and coffee, and corn, and brandy, and 
 palm-butter, and all sorts, such as ostrich feathers, and 
 elephants' tusks, and porpoise skins, and bacon, and cheese, and 
 apples. They come from all the corners of the world. They 
 unload at the Docks ; aud then we, the merchants of London, 
 begin to make our money out of the cargoes. Aha ! That is 
 where the fun begins. The niggers toil and moil, growing the 
 stuff, and weeding it, and picking it, getting horribly licked with 
 rattan-canes all the while — ho ! ho ! then the sailors stow it 
 away, and bring it home, going up aloft in all weathers, tumbling 
 overboai'd, and getting drowned — ha ! ha ! then the dock- 
 labourers, at eighteenpence a day — ha ! ha ! ho ! ho ! — put it 
 ashore in the docks ; and then our turn comes. What a beau- 
 tiful thing it is to be a British merchant, and in the City of 
 London ! We sit at our ease before our desks ; our travellers 
 go about for us among the retail traders, getting orders ; the 
 clerks receive them ; we have got just nothing to do, except to 
 divide the profits. Oh, what a pity, what a thousand pities, 
 that poor Uncle Anthony got drowned before I was old enough 
 to go into the House !' 
 
 Perhaps some incident in morning school had irritated him, 
 for he went on : 
 
 ' Bah ! As if the subjunctive mood would ever help a man to 
 a partnership ! Balbus feared that it was all up with the army, 
 did he ? Then what a white-livered, cowardly sneak Balbus 
 must have been ! I hope he was with the army, and it was all 
 up with him! But one never knows what became of Balbus, 
 because he always turns up again, and always pretending to
 
 YO UNG NICK 'S HALF-HOLIDA Y. i 67 
 
 ■smile, and always funking something. Certainly Balbus must 
 have been a great humbug, and I am quite sure that he got into 
 such an Almighty Funk at last, that he forgot all about his tenses 
 and moods, mixed up the subjunctive and the indicative, and used 
 the imperfect for the present.' 
 
 More he would have meditated, but that he looked round and 
 perceived that he was the object of earnest contemplation on the 
 part of an old lady, apparently of failing eyesight, because she 
 held a pair of glasses close to her eyes. She was gazing on his 
 white hair, and certainly either did not see, or could not under- 
 stand the jacket. And she thought he was meditating suicide. 
 
 ' Aged man !' she murmured, in impassioned accents. ' do not, 
 do not, I entreat you, destroy your life !' 
 
 ' O Lord !' cried young Nick, ' here's a precious game !' 
 
 He was in one of those embrasures, retreats, upon London 
 Bridge, where one can sit breezily and contemplate the passing 
 crowd, or the argosies of the Port. 
 
 ' Here's a game !' be cried. Regardless of the small crowd 
 which gathered round in a moment, he amazed the poor old lady, 
 who was feeling in her bag for a tract, by executing before her 
 a pas scul, a reminiscence of a hornpipe, with an agility and 
 grace surprising in one so old. While she was still staring 
 aghast, he had finished, and descending from the little semicircle, 
 he squared his elbows and pushed through the mob which had 
 gathered round, with a good-humoured ' Now then, can't you let 
 a man pass ?' 
 
 It will be seen that young Nick already understood the true 
 art of making points. You must be unexpected, brisk, confident, 
 and brief. Before the old lady had half realised that the snowy 
 locks belonged to a boy and not an old man at all, and before 
 the crowd had half understood the full humour of the situation, 
 which they would take home and gradually evolve, the hero of 
 it was gone, vanished in the crowd, never more to be seen by 
 the greater part. 
 
 The boy, greatly rejoicing at the discomfiture of the old Lady, 
 proceeded on his walk. He first repaired to the central office at 
 < . i eat St. Simon Apostle. He knew all the clerks in the place, 
 and they all knew that his first ambition was to have a desk 
 among them. His last ambition, Nick kept to himself. He had 
 purposed, as part of to-day's amusement, dining in company with 
 some of his friends among the junior clerks. Everybody in the 
 house, indeed, r< garded the boy as one of themselves. For him 
 it was splendid to sit among the diners at Crosby Hall, to call 
 grandly for what he chose from the list, to ask for a half-pint 
 old and bitter, mixed, boiled beef, 'underdone, Lizzie, and 
 not too much fat ' with carrots, potatoes, and new bread ; to 
 have the dinne served up in hot plates, each with its tin cover,
 
 1 63 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 brought in a delightful pile ; to inquire tenderly, just like a 
 regular clerk, after Lizzie's health and spirits that morning, and 
 to congratulate the young lady on her looks ; to consider the 
 question of college-pudding or cheese, and to feel that the day 
 must be marked by the exhibition of the former ; to ask for the 
 bill, to dally with the half-pint as if it were a decanter of 
 sherry, and as if you were not pressed for time, oh dear no, not 
 at all, and could get back to the office whenever you felt so dis- 
 posed ; to pay your money, exchanging the compliments of 
 the season with the young lady (of more severe aspect) who 
 takes the money at the door ; help yourself to a tooth-pick, and 
 stroll with dignity down the street in the direction of the work- 
 shop, quickening gradually as you approached the portals, and 
 entering briskly and with the appearance of zeal. All this was 
 a very delightful change after the irresponsible meals at home. 
 It made young Nick feel as if he were already a clerk in the 
 office, already had a desk of his own, already had placed his foot 
 on the lowest rung of the ladder up which he meant to climb 
 until he stood in the dizziest heights with Augustus the Great 
 and William the Silent. That, however, was in the far distance. 
 For the present he envied every one in the Firm, from the office- 
 boy at five shillings a week, to the senior clerks and managers of 
 departments. 
 
 To-day, to the boy's disappointment, it was already half -past 
 one when he got to Great St. Simon Apostle, and the young 
 clerks, his friends, were dispersed, multivious, in quest of food. 
 
 So he resolved to dine by himself, and rambled about the office, 
 from one room to another, trying the stools, and wondering which 
 were the most comfortable desks. When he had finished a hasty 
 inspection of the clerks' room, he made his way upstairs. There 
 were the rooms of the senior clerks and of the partners. ' Mr. 
 Augustus Hamblin,' on one door : ' Mr. William Hamblin,' on 
 another door : and alas ! on another the name of Mr. Anthony 
 Hamblin. 
 
 Young Nick sorrowfully turned the handle, and peeped in. 
 No one was there, and he entered the room, softly closing the 
 door behind him. Everything was just as Anthony had left it, 
 except that the safe stood open, with all the papers taken out. 
 The chair before the table ; the table itself ; an office-coat hang- 
 ing behind the door ; the cupboard where the sherry and biscuits 
 were kept, with a box or two of cigars ; the big screen in the 
 corner ; the grimy windows ; the wax candles ; the great plated 
 inkstand ; the massive pad of blotting-paper — all reminded the 
 boy of his uncle. 
 
 * Oh ! Uncle Anthony,' he said, for the second time that day,, 
 sitting in the dead man's chair, ' what a pity, Avhat a thousand 
 pities, that you were drowned before I was old enough to come
 
 YOUNG NICK'S HALF-HOLIDAY. 169 
 
 into the House ! But I will get in somehow ; and, before all is 
 done, I will sit in this chair as a partner. See if I don't V 
 
 There was something uncanny about this empty room, full of 
 associations ; and the boy quickly left it, shutting the door very 
 softly behind him. He did not dare to visit the partners' rooms, 
 nor those of the chief clerks ; and, after a little exchange of 
 facetke with the porters, he left the house, and turned his face 
 in a south-easterly direction, which led him, by way of Grace- 
 church Street and Eastcheap, to Tower Hill. He had forgotten 
 that he was hungry, and was making in the direction of the 
 place he loved next best to Great St. Simon the Apostle, the 
 Docks. 
 
 Tower Hill always pleased him mightily. There are great 
 warehouses there, with cranes, waggons, and other signs of 
 business ; there is the Mint, always engaged in manufacturing 
 sovereigns for the reward of successful merchants ; there is the 
 Trinity House, which keeps an ever-watchful eye over the 
 safety of the mercantile marine. There are, as many people 
 know, other associations connected with Tower Hill. Young 
 Kick had read about some of these, or, rather, had learned about 
 them in history lessons ; but they did not stick, any more than 
 the Latin subjunctive. He had no leanings towards historical 
 associations. He was not, like some among us, haunted by the 
 ghost of the Past. Not at all. He looked at the White Tower, 
 on which the sun was shining splendidly, as it has shone for 
 eight hundred years, and murmured, ' What a beautiful place 
 for the head offices of the House ! and plenty of room all about 
 for our own warehouses.' But then, he would have gazed upon 
 the walls of the Holy City itself without emotion. 
 
 He went on, turning to the right, and came upon the usual 
 little crowd of merchant sailors, standing about on the pavement 
 opposite the Board of Trade Office, waiting to be hired. They 
 are a curious body of men, these mercantile Jacks. They lack 
 the independence and careless ease of their brethren of the 
 Royal Navy. They are not clean like them ; nor do they take 
 a pride in the smartness of their dress; nor are they con- 
 spicuous for the appearance of physical activity. They are not 
 spry ; they have no joviality ; their cheeks are mostly bloated 
 with bad liquor ; their eyes are dull ; their gait is heavy ; their 
 attire is a mixture of sea-going and shore-going togs ; their 
 hands are in their pockets ; they look ashamed of themselves. 
 They seem to say, ' Behold us, you who have neglected us, and 
 left us to be the prey of greedy shipowners and piratical crimps. 
 See what we are, the descendants of the gallant heroes who 
 Bailed Westward-Ho ! with R^aleigh, and Drake, and Hawkins. 
 Around us are the land-sharks who plunder us, the black-eyed 
 sirens — most all of them have one black eye at least — who
 
 iyo THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 destroy us, the office where we sign articles whicn enslave us. 
 Beyond us are the craft which take us to our doom — ill-found, 
 ill-rigged, the cheating venture of a cheating shipper. On board 
 them we are fed with rancid pork and weevily biscuit. There 
 are not enough of us to navigate her even in smooth seas. We 
 are knocked down by mate or skipper with anything handy, a 
 rope's end or a marline-spike. On board there is no safety, nor 
 respite of work, nor any comfortable thing at all. On shore 
 there is the madness of rioting and drink, which is the only joy 
 we know. We are for ever on the frying-pan or in the fire. 
 Your navy-men you watch over. For them you have chaplains, 
 doctors, schools, homes, societies, and pensions. You forbid 
 their officers to ill-treat them ; you provide them with good and 
 abundant food ; you train them, educate them, and you find 
 your ships well. But for us you do nothing ; and we all reel, 
 blind, and deaf, and careless, and uncared for, into the abyss.' 
 
 They did not speak so, however, to young Kick, who regarded 
 them with enthusiasm. 
 
 ' Splendid fellows !' he said. ' They don't mind how much 
 hard work they do. They don't mind how bad the weather is, 
 nor how cold. They like to feel that they are bringing money — 
 heaps of money — home to the partners of the great City firms, 
 making them richer every day. I couldn't feel like that, myself. 
 But then I'm not a sailor. 
 
 Then he came to the gates of St. Katharine's Docks. 
 
 Cerberus, in shape of three policemen, stands at those gates : 
 young Nick, whom the three knew perfectly well, and all about 
 him, always made a point at these gates of going through a 
 little comedy of intrigue. He pulled a leather book from his 
 jacket pocket, extracted, standing without the gates, a couple 
 of documents which were in reality Latin exercises, examined 
 them with great care, pulled his hat over his eyes, and marched 
 through the portals with the air of one who has important 
 business, not to be delayed a moment, in connection with dock 
 warrants. He assumed, in fact, the character of a junior clerk. 
 He did not for a moment deceive the policemen, who knew that 
 he was in some way connected with the family of Hamblin, the 
 great Indigo merchants, and that he was only here to prowl 
 round and look about him. It is against the rules to admit any- 
 one except on business, but this boy was an exception. Besides, 
 on this occasion, when he came out again, they had their re- 
 venge. 
 
 Once within the Docks, the boy can go where he likes un- 
 disturbed. There are the great ships in the basin, some un- 
 loading with the aid of mighty derricks and steam-cranes, and a 
 great ' yeo heave oh !' and a running of chains and a dropping 
 of ropes and a deft stowing in their places on the wharves of
 
 YO UNG NICK >S HALF-HOLIDA Y. 171 
 
 cases, casks, bags, and boxes, while the busy feet trample and 
 boatswains whistle, and the laden men run backwards and for- 
 wards as if they were mei-ry-making instead of furnishing an 
 illustration of the primeval curse. There ai*e the officers who 
 seem never tired of looking on and checking the delivery of 
 cargo told out for them as it goes overboard ; there are the piles 
 of bales under the sheds which seem to groVf larger and larger ; 
 there are rows of the inexhaustible ships which are for ever 
 pouring out their contents. 
 
 Young Nick knows better than to venture near one of the 
 vessels which are loading or unloading. He stands afar off and 
 watches these ; well out of the reach of men who, if boys get in 
 their way, are capable of a cuff which not only hurts, but also 
 humiliates, as well as of an oath which may even please if it be of 
 strange and novel construction. Now mates of merchantmen 
 show great ingenuity in blasphemy. 
 
 He walked slowly round the Docks, till he came to a ship 
 which he knew, a ship which brought home indigo, and was now 
 waiting to take cargo before going off again, outward bound. 
 He ran across the plank which served as a bridge to the wharf, 
 and jumped upon the deck. Nobody was on board except a 
 quartermaster who knew him, ami grinned a salute. 
 
 ' Hope you're well, Master Nick,' said the man, touching his 
 hat. 
 
 ' Quite well, thank you. Quartermaster,' replied the boy. 
 Here was dignity ! To be saluted on the hurricane-deck : what 
 a pity that there was no one by to witness this gratifying mark 
 of respect ! ' What sort of voyage did you have ?' 
 
 ' So — so, sir ! Weather terrible bad in the Bay.' 
 
 ' Ah ! I think I'll overhaul her,' said Nick, with more gran- 
 deur than he had ever assumed before in his life. 
 
 He proceeded, alone and unaided, to overhaul the ship. That 
 is to say, he examined the cabins, the saloons, and the sleeping 
 bunks for'ard ; he inspected the cook's galley, the carpenter's 
 cabin, descended into the engine-room, and peered down into 
 the impenetrable darkness of the hold. 
 
 ' She draws seven-and-twenty feet when she's loaded,' said tho 
 boy. ' Twenty-seven feet deep, all full of indigo for Anthony 
 Hamblin and Company. What a heap of money they must be 
 making !' 
 
 He returns to tho deck, and nods encouragingly at the quarter- 
 master. ' All right below,' he says, as officially as if ho were 
 an Elder Brother of the Trinity House. 'All right below.' 
 Then he shuts one eye, and turns the other up aloft, to inspect 
 the rigging and the masts. 
 
 'A serviceable craft, Quartermaster. A 1, first-class, and 
 ivdl found.
 
 172 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 Ay, ay, sir !' replied the man, without a smile. 
 
 Young Nick, -well-pleased with his official inspection of the- 
 steamer, returned to the wharves, where, for a quarter of an. 
 hour more, he wandered among those sheds which receive dates, 
 tamarinds, and sugar. If a stray date found its way to his 
 mouth, he stood in the critical attitude of a taster while he ate 
 it. When it was gone, he shook his head sadly, as if dates 
 were no longer what he remembered dates to have been. All 
 these acres covered with merchandise ; all these ships, perpetu- 
 ally coming home laden and going out laden ; everything 
 wanting the hand of the merchant before it can be moved or 
 sold, or even grown. 
 
 ' Why,' cried young Nick to his soul, in an accent of fine 
 rapture, ' why, the very first Anthony Hamblin that ever was, 
 he who began the business, hadn't a half, nor a quarter, nor a. 
 hundredth part the chance that the juniorest clerk — ' positive, 
 juvenis, young ; comparative, junior, younger ; superlative, 
 wanting ' (quoting a favourite passage from the Latin Gram- 
 mar) ; ' juniorest is the word — the juniorest clerk in the House 
 has nowadays, if he knows how to take it. Fortunately, most 
 of them are blind and deaf, owing to having had too much 
 Latin subjunctive, which is enough to make any man a fool. 
 
 " Balbus feared that it would be all over " Bah ! W'ait 
 
 till my turn comes.' 
 
 He finishes his tour of inspection through the Docks by 
 visiting the great house of many stories in which he is most, 
 interested. He always ends with this house, j ust as a Chinaman, 
 working his way through a pile of rice, tasteless and uninterest- 
 ing by itself, ends with the bonne louche, the morsel of ' snook,' 
 which lies at the top. It is the Indigo House. 
 
 The dyes are arranged together, in a sort of order of merit, 
 if you can make it out. Beyond the indigo shed are sheds in 
 which are long, oblong, brick-like parcels, brown in colour, 
 oozing clammy juices and irrepressible moistnesses through the 
 pores of their wrappers. Close to the indigo house itself one 
 becomes aware of strange men. They bring to the mind, at 
 first sight, a reminiscence of St. Alban's Church. That is be- 
 cause they wear cassocks and a biretta cap. But they are not 
 Ritualistic clergy, not at all ; nor are they officially affiliated to 
 guild, brotherhood, or mopus-mock-monkery of any kind what- 
 ever. Look again. Your mind, if you be differently constituted 
 to young Nick, finds itself ra-vished backwards up the stream 
 of time. You forget the ecclesiastical man-milliners. You are 
 far away in sunny Castile ; you are assisting at a grand Func- 
 tion, blessed by Church and Pope. The purification of doc- 
 trine is presented to your eyes by the outward and visible 
 ceremony of burning heretics. The garments and the cap worn
 
 YOUNG NICK'S HALF-HOLIDAY. 173 
 
 at the Auto da Fe seem to have descended to the employes of 
 the indigo storehouses. They are no longer painted over with 
 devils, it is true. One misses, and regrets the loss of, the devils ; 
 but they are of the same cut. I believe that when the Inqui- 
 sition came to a sudden and untimely end, some commercial 
 adventurer bought up all its stage properties, and sold them to 
 the Directors of St. Katharine's Docks. If research were pro- 
 perly endowed, as it should be, I would investigate the history 
 of those caps and smocks. 
 
 The sight of them always filled the heart of the boy with a 
 sort of painful yearning. He loved them ; and he could not as 
 yet feel, as he would if he entered the House, as if they partly 
 belonged to himself. 
 
 ' We import,' he said, with a smack of his lips, as if he was 
 detailing a list of things good to eat, ' we import indigo ' (smack) ; 
 * then myrobolans ' (smack), ' and cochineal ' (smack). ' Great 
 profits in all the departments : but give me indigo.' 
 
 The Indigo House is a great fire-proof building, with massive 
 ■stone staircase. The steps, of course, were once white ; the 
 walls were once whitewashed ; both walls and steps are now a 
 deep permanent blue ; the ceiling is believed to have been ori- 
 ginally white — that, too, is.now a dark and beautiful blue. At 
 every stage, a door opens upon a vast, low hall, everyone filled, 
 or gradually filling, with boxes and cases containing indigo, and 
 everyone provided with an open window, or door, at which the 
 indefatigable crane delivers its messages in the shape of boxes. 
 The floor of each is blue, the walls are blue, the ceiling is blue ; 
 the very desk at which the clerks enter the number of packages 
 is blue, and they spread a fresh sheet of brown paper over it 
 every morning, so that the writer may lay his book upon it 
 without making that blue as well. Where there is a knot in 
 the wood, either in the floor or in the desks, it stands out, 
 shining, as if it were a cobble of blue-stone used for washing. 
 
 Young Nick climbs steadily and gravely up the stairs, looking 
 into every room. There are six or seven floors ; each is exactly 
 like the one below it, except that each one seems bluer than 
 the one below, probably because the eye itself becomes gradu- 
 ally incapable of seeing any other colour. The top floor of all 
 is the sales-room, only used four times a year. Once young 
 Nick had been privileged to behold it on one of the great days. 
 Long tables ran from side to side, provided with little paper 
 trays, each with its wall an inch and a half high, containing 
 samples. The merchants and buyers went up and down curiously 
 studying the contents of the trays, comparing them with a 
 sample they had in a box, and every now and then making an 
 entry in a catalogue. That was real responsibility, Nick thought, 
 sighing for the time when he, too, might be trusted to purchase
 
 1 7 4. THE SEA M Y SIDE. 
 
 for the firm. Outside the sales-room, on that day only, cooks 
 were frying toothsome chops and succulent steaks for the lun- 
 cheon of the buyers. 
 
 Ah ! happy, grand, glorious, and enviable lot, to be a merchant 
 of London City and port — and happiest lot of all, to be a mer- 
 chant in the Indigo trade. 
 
 The Docks had no more to show the boy, who descended the 
 stairs slowly and came out into the sunshine, which for a while 
 was blue, like the walls of the place he had left. He had seen 
 the loading and the unloading ; he had overhauled a ship en- 
 tirely by himself, and on his own responsibility ; he had seen 
 the smocks and biretta caps again, and had visited once more 
 those vast walls of the Indigo House which, gloomy and dark 
 as they were, seemed to him more delightful than the Crystal 
 Palace, more sunny than Clapham Common. 
 
 As he approached the gates, the three merry policemen who 
 guarded them winked each with his left eye, and ranged them- 
 selves before the portals. 
 
 ' Now, sir,' said the first, ' we'll see what you're carrying out, 
 if you please.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said the second jocular one, ' a hundredweight or so of 
 cigars, I dessay.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the third mad wag, ' or a hogshead o' brandy, I 
 shouldn't wonder. Now, sir.' 
 
 Young Nick was not frightened : not at all : he was delighted. 
 This was an adventure which he had not suspected. It would 
 be grand to tell the boys next day. He feigned terror. 
 
 ' O Lord !' he cried, 'this is dreadful. You don't think, really, 
 I've got any cigars, do you, gentlemen ?' 
 
 He was so thin, and his trousers and jacket were so tight, that 
 even a solitary cigarette would have been detected in any of his 
 pockets. 
 
 The policemen scowled : the merry policemen frowned. 
 
 ' We shall see,' they said. 
 
 ' And brandy, too ?' asked young Nick. ' Oh ! what would 
 they do if you found I had brandy '?' 
 
 _ ' Fifteen years for brandy,' said the first jester ; ' come, young 
 sir, we must search you.' 
 
 ' This way, young gentleman,' said the second, leading the way 
 into the lodge. 
 
 ' What will you take to square it ?' asked the boy, with earnest 
 eyes under his white eyelashes. 
 
 ' Square it ?' replied the third policeman ; ' that's bribery and 
 corruption. Your words must be took down, young gentleman.' 
 
 ' Must they ?' said Nick ; ' then there's nothing for it ' — he 
 gathered himself ready for a spring — 'but to — cut it.' Here he 
 darted under the arm of the third policeman, and scudded swiftly
 
 YOUNG NICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 175 
 
 down the street, turning to the right for about a hundred yards, 
 when finding that no one followed, he stopped running, and began 
 to whistle. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK MADE A MOST SURPRISING DISCOVERY. 
 
 Quite sure that no one was following him, the boy recollected 
 that he was hungry. It was half -past two, a good hour beyond 
 his regular dinner-time. He resolved on looking about for a 
 place where he could dine. 
 
 He was in a district interesting to many kinds of people — the 
 clergyman, the policeman, the philanthropist, the total abstinence 
 man, and the doctor. The street was as much given over to mer- 
 cantile Jack as any Quartier in a mediceval city was given over 
 to a special trade. Every other house was devoted to the in- 
 terests of eating or drinking, or both, outside the office of the 
 Board of Trade. These houses were all full of the ' splendid 
 fellows ' whose appearance had afforded young Nick such un- 
 feigned satisfaction. They had finished their dinner and were 
 now sitting ' over their wine ;' that is, they were drinking and 
 smoking. Young Nick could not go into one of these houses, 
 that was quite certain. Besides, the sailors were not alone : with 
 them were women who frightened the boy ; it was not so much 
 that their complexions were purple, red, or ghastly pale, nor that 
 their eyes rolled horribly like the eyes of a hungry wild beast ; 
 but they were swearing loudly, drinking copiously, and their 
 voices were hoarse and rough. To all conditions of men, at any 
 age, such women are a terror. I believe that even mercantile 
 Jack regards their companionship as one of the horrible circum- 
 stances attending his joyless lot. 
 
 Young Nick held on, and presently found himself in a long 
 and narrow street called Cable Street, where the presence of 
 the sailor was less overwhelming. The street was full of shops, 
 and of people going up and down buying or pretending to buy. 
 It is quite a leading street, a sort of Westbourne Grove to the 
 district. The things offered for sale are calculated, as in all 
 markets, according to the demand. The butchers' shops contain 
 fhi( lly what are known to the trade as 'ornamental blocks,' 
 with sheeps' heads and those less-esteemed portions of the 
 animal which are not eagerly bought up by a voluptuous 
 aristocracy. The fishmongers have nothing but herrings, in 
 their various branches, such as bloaters, ' soldiers,' and kippered 
 herrings, with salt-fish and sprats ; there are more than the
 
 i 7 6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ordinary number of pawnbrokers, and there are shops peculiar 
 to the locality, and suggestive. In one window, for instance, 
 young Nick observed a centipede hanging in a bottle full of 
 spirits, the skin of a snake, a gruesome case full of tarantulas 
 and scorpions, a handful of soiled ostrich feathers, a child's caul 
 (but this was only advertised), and a collection of bamboo canes. 
 
 At the end of Cable Street the boy turned to the left and 
 found himself in a very respectable and even genteel street. It 
 was broad and clean : it had no shops, or hardly any: the houses 
 were small, but the tenants seemed to take pride in their ap- 
 pearance. Considerable variety was shown in the painting of 
 the doors, which were red, yellow, or green, according to the 
 taste of the tenant ; all of the houses had clean white blinds. 
 
 In the East End there are hundreds of streets like this : who 
 the people are, where they find employment, one cannot even 
 guess. In the window of every tenth house one sees an announce- 
 ment that dressmaking in all its branches is carried on there : 
 this is an open confession of poverty. Occasionally, a card pro- 
 claims the fact that a room is to be let, which is another open 
 acknowledgment of insufficiency. Yet most of the houses are 
 rented by responsible people, who are able to pay their rent out 
 of their incomes. 
 
 If, again, it is difficult to imagine how so many hundreds of 
 thousands do somehow pick up a little income, the brain reels 
 when one tries to understand what the amusements of these 
 people can be. They have no theatres, except, perhaps, White- 
 chapel-house for melodrama ; they have no picture-galleries, no 
 concert-halls, no parks ; they have not only no means of 
 acquiring the civilisation of the West End, but they have 
 absolutely no means of instituting comparisons and so becoming 
 discontented. I believe that these people, provided they earn 
 enough for beef and beer, are absolutely contented. In the 
 summer they run down to Southend by cheap excursions ; they 
 throng the pleasure-boats to Gravesend. In the winter they 
 vegetate : go to the daily work, come home in the evening, 
 smoke a pipe, and go to bed. On Sundays they have the Church 
 and Chapel, the latter for choice. Except for the organisation 
 of their chapels, they have no society at all, and know no one 
 except their own relations. No country town is so dull, and so 
 devoid of society, distraction, and amusement, as the East End 
 of London. 
 
 There ought to be a prefect of the East End : he should be 
 one of the royal princes ; he should build a palace among the 
 people : there should be regiments of soldiers, theatres, picture- 
 galleries, and schools, to wake them up and make them dismally 
 discontented about their mean surroundings. The first step in 
 the elevation of a people is to make them discontented.
 
 YOUNG NICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 177 
 
 Another thing — the East End covers a level which stretches 
 for miles : it includes all those places which, not being so squalid 
 as "Whitechapel and the neighbourhood of Cable Street, are yet 
 as destitute of the means of artistic grace. From the East End 
 of London there has never come any prophet at all, either in art, 
 in music, in preaching, in acting, in prose, in poetry, or in. 
 science. Prophets cannot come from a level so dead and a 
 society so dull. Country towns, the fields, the hillside, can show 
 prophets ; the West End has produced prophets by hundreds : 
 only the East End has no one. Perhaps if one were to arise, he 
 would be so little understood, so rudely reminded that he was 
 out of the grooves of respectability, that he would speedily 
 cease to prophecy, and presently droop and die, before the 
 world was able to become aware of him. 
 
 Lastly, if one wanted to hide, to go away for a term of years, 
 or altogether, what better place could be found than a quiet 
 street south of Whitechapel ? It is not an Alsatia — not at all : 
 it is a highly respectable place. There are no habitual criminals, 
 unless you reckon in that class the sailors who are habitually 
 drunk when they are at home. People would not begin by 
 suspecting a stranger who could show that he had means of 
 earning a livelihood : he might live among them for years, with- 
 out being known or inquired after : none of his West End 
 friends would ever come near the place ; no one would seek for 
 him here. 
 
 Later on, young Nick would always declare that such thoughts 
 as these were running through his brain on that day. But I 
 doubt. Mankind is apt to remember little things which are too 
 picturesque, and group themselves too easily to be altogether 
 probable. Nature is generally flat in her composition, and a 
 clever arrangement is not so common with her as quite in- 
 artistic grouping. So that I suspect young Nick of romancing 
 when he narrates the events of this remarkable day. 
 
 He was really getting quite wonderfully hungry : he tightened 
 his waistband, having heard that it affords relief to shipwrecked 
 mariners, when they have been without food for a month or 
 two, to do so. He was desperately hungry, and wondering how 
 much farther he would have to go — it was already close on three 
 o'clock — when he passed a coffee-house. 
 
 The place looked clean : there was a white blind in the 
 window : before it, three eggs in a plate, a lump of butter, a 
 piece of streaky bacon, and two mutton-chops uncooked. There 
 was also suspended before his eyes a tariff of prices. The boy 
 read it carefully. He had his eighteenpence intact. He could 
 have a mutton-chop for fivepence, potatoes for one penny, bread 
 the same, an egg for twopence, butter for one penny, and 
 -so on. 
 
 12
 
 I? S THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 He hesitated no longer, but opened the door and walked in. 
 
 The place was empty except for one man who was sitting in 
 the box opposite to that in which young Nick sat down. The 
 man was reading the paper and was leaning back in the corner 
 with the sheet before him, so that Nicolas did not see his face. 
 He sat down, looked about him, took off his hat, rapped the 
 table with his stick and called ' Waiter !' as loud as he dared. 
 
 The waiter was a girl, neat and quick. 
 
 < Bring me, if you please,' said Nicolas, ' as quickly as you can, 
 a chop— yes '—ticking up the cost mentally — ' and potatoes, and 
 bread and an egg to follow, and butter — that makes tenpence, 
 and a'cup of coffee, that will be a shilling.' He remembered 
 afterwards that it looks shabby to add up the bill for yourself 
 out loud while you are ordering the meal. However, the great 
 thing was not to go beyond that eighteenpence. ' And bring 
 me to-day's paper— the half with the money-market intelligence, 
 please ; I am anxious to read the money market news.' 
 
 The man with the newspaper started when he heard the boy's 
 voice, and glanced furtively from behind his paper. Then his 
 fingers, when they held the paper, began to tremble. The paper 
 brought, Nicolas took a great deal of time and trouble to fold 
 it, so that it should rest easily against the cruet-stand, and thus- 
 allow itself to be read while he was taking his dinner. He was 
 not really so oppressed with a craving for intellectual food as to 
 want to read while he was eating, but he had frequently observed 
 the clerks in Crosby Hall take dinner and the Daily Telegraph 
 at the same time, the murders with the meat and the paragraphs 
 with the pudding, and he thought the eagerness to lose no time 
 helped to distinguish the complete clerk. So he spread out the 
 paper with the money-market news outside, and had just got it 
 fairly in position when the chop came. It was a generous five- 
 pennyworth, that chop ; it must have been cut from a larger 
 and nobler specimen of the mutton-providing animal than 
 ordinary— Nicolas felt grateful to the sheep— a chop with a due 
 proportion of fat, not a lump as big as your fist to be cut away, 
 and then nothing but a bit of lean the size of a pigeon's egg. 
 He made to himself these observations as he went on. ' The 
 potatoes might be mealier,' he murmured, ' but when a man's 
 hungry, what odds does a waxy one make ? None at all.' He 
 forgot the money-market news in his hunger, and cleared off 
 the whole of that chop down to the bone without reading a 
 word. Then he waited two minutes or so for the egg and 
 coffee, and began to read half aloud, for the benefit of the 
 stranger opposite to him. 
 
 'Hum! Russians down. Don't wonder. Whydo they keep up 
 
 at all ? Great Westerns up again, and Brighton A's firm— ha !' 
 
 He enjoyed this little comedy because he had perceived, with
 
 YOUNG NICK MAKES A DISCOVERY. 179 
 
 those sharp eyes of his, that the stranger was interested in him 
 and, when he was not looking that way, was taking hurried 
 glances at him from the corner of his paper. Now, the interest 
 which young Nick everywhere excited as an Albino made him 
 callous as regards these little attentions, but he was in hopes 
 that by the wisdom of his remarks he might cause the stranger 
 to admire his business qualities as much as he did those phy- 
 sical attributes, of which he felt that it would be wrong to be 
 too proud. 
 
 Then the egg and coffee were brought and despatched. When 
 the repast was quite finished, young Nick laid clown the paper 
 and called the waiter. 
 
 1 My bill,' be asked grandly. 
 
 It amounted, as he had estimated, to one shilling. He still 
 had sixpence left. ' Should he walk home, and so leave himself 
 free to spend that sum in cakes, or should he — which would be 
 a more sensible course — make his way back to London Bridge, 
 and then take the omnibus to Clapham ?' 
 
 While he turned this difficulty over in his mind, a rustling of 
 the paper showed him that the other occupant of the coil'ee- 
 e was watching him again. 
 
 This became more interesting. Nicolas had no objection to 
 be watched if the scrutiny meant admiration. It is not every 
 boy of fourteen who has white hair, white eyebrows, and a deli- 
 cately pink complexion. These things are not so common, if 
 you please ; a boy who owns them must as much expect to be 
 looked at wherever he shows himself, as a reigning beauty when 
 she goes to a garden-party. He was pleased to be able to gratify 
 this laudable curiosity. If he had been asked to do so he would 
 even have stood upon a chair, so that everybody might see 
 him. 
 
 But this furtive curiosity, this sneaking behind a copy of the 
 Daily Telegraph, this prying over a corner when he himself was 
 looking another way, was disquieting. Why couldn't the stranger 
 lay down the paper and look at him as one man at another ? 
 And this modest Paul Pry, whether he had taken his dinner or 
 not, called for nothing, and yet seemed in no hurry to go away. 
 Nicolas, for his part, felt that it was high time for him to go, 
 and yet was loth to go without to some extent solving the mys- 
 tery of the stranger. 
 
 They were quite alone now, because the girl, seeing they had 
 taken and paid for all they were likely to want, had left the 
 room and gone away. 
 
 The man wore a tall and rather seedy hat, which was visible 
 above the paper ; his fingers — those of them, at least, which 
 were visible — were white, not at all the fingers of a working 
 man ; and his boots were worn down at heel. Presumably he
 
 180 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 was some quite poor clerk. But why did he go on in that ridi- 
 culous fashion, holding the paper before him ? 
 
 Presently the boy was seized with an inspiration. He gently 
 took his penknife from his pocket, and opened it noiselessly. 
 The paper was held, stretched out tight, well up before the mys- 
 terious reader's face. Young Nick put on his hat, took his 
 stick in the left hand, and his penknife in the right. He then 
 carefully measured with his eye the space between himself and 
 the door, and concluded that being already in the passage be- 
 tween the tiers of boxes, he had a sufficient start. This decided, 
 he advanced cautiously to the stranger, and without saying one 
 word, ripped the paper with his penknife from top to bottom. 
 
 ' That's the way with these penny papers,' he said coolly. 
 1 They go at the least thing. All made up of old paper and 
 Esparto grass ! Give me the Ti ' 
 
 Here the stranger raised his head, and the boy reeled back- 
 wards, faint and sick. 
 
 ' Oh, oh, oh ! It's a ghost without a beard ! Oh, oh, oh ! 
 It's — it's — it's— Uncle Anthony !' 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 HOW ANTHONY IIAMBLIN LOOKED. 
 
 No other than Uncle Anthony ! 
 
 "When the boy, recovering from the first shock, had made up 
 his mind, by much staring, that it really was his deceased uncle 
 come to life again, only without his beard, he tried to pull him- 
 self together, and to assume, with indifferent success, his usual 
 air of importance. 
 
 ' This,' he said, with a little stammer and a natural quiver in 
 the voice, ' is a pretty Go ! A very pretty Go, it is !' 
 
 Anthony Hamblin stared blankly at the boy, with reddened 
 cheeks. No criminal, caught in flagrante delicto, red-handed, 
 knife in fist, with the spoil under his arm, actually lifting the 
 swag, ever showed so hangdog a countenance. He said nothing. 
 
 ' Now, Uncle Anthony,' the boy continued, feeling every 
 moment firmer as to head and legs, and awakened to the com- 
 prehension that this was the noblest opportunity that ever came 
 to mortal boy, ' considering that a public coffee-house is not the 
 best place to discuss family secrets, and that I at least am accus- 
 tomed to more respectable places of appointment, we had better 
 go to your own house or lodgings, if you have any, and talk 
 things over there. If you are ready, we will go at once. If
 
 HO IV ANTHONY HAMBLIN LOOKED. iSr 
 
 not, I will wait. As for waiting, I don*t care how long I wait. 
 I can send a telegram to relieve tbe old lady. And as for that, 
 the ice has melted long ago, and she won't think I've followed 
 your example. Bah ! You and your ice. Oh, the cunning ! 
 For such an oh-be-joyf ul occasion as the present I could wait all 
 night, and go home with my eyes skinned in the morning with 
 Alison to tell the news to. 
 
 Anthony Hamblin moved one foot. Nicolas interpreted the 
 motion, wrongly and hastily, as indicative of a desire for flight. 
 
 ' No,' he said firmly, ' you don't. Give up that idea. You've 
 bolted enough already. You know me, Uncle Anthony, and my 
 character for determination. If you run, I run too. And if I 
 run after you there may be— I don't say there will — but there 
 may be such a crowd, and such a howling, and such a diving 
 after a middle-aged elderly bolter and a younger man with 
 white eyebrows, as you never heard before in all your life. Be- 
 sides, if you were to get away, I've only got to go to the House 
 and tell the partners that you're not drowned at all, but living 
 at the far-end of Cable Koad, which leads to the western ex- 
 tremity of nowhere. Then they will just come oyer and catch 
 you somewhere or other in the very act, as I did. Think of 
 that. Because you must eat, Uncle Anthony.' 
 
 Anthony Hamblin. with pale and shamefaced cheek, sighed, 
 rose, and led the way. Nicolas followed closely at his heels. 
 
 Anthony turned to the left, and walked slowly along the 
 pavement. Nicolas saw that he looked older. His shoulders 
 stooped ; his hair had gone greyer ; his beard, as we have seen, 
 was quite gone. Also, he was very shabby in his dress— his 
 hat was rusty at the edges ; his boots were down at heel. 
 
 Notwithstanding these symptoms of distress, the boy felt 
 inclined to the most rapturous joy. He was fain to give out- 
 ward and visible expression to it by a double-shuffle, a wild 
 contortion of the limbs, a cracking of the fingers, as he followed 
 his prisoner, so that he looked like some grim old caricature of 
 the devil, as carved on a cathedral wall, capering behind a vic- 
 tim. No victim, even under the melancholy circumstances 
 imagined by mediaeval freemasons, could have looked more 
 miserable than Anthony, who walked on with hanging head 
 and downcast demeanour, as if he were going— anywhere — 
 where those victims were going. Suddenly the boy stopped 
 and began feeling his pockets. 
 
 Stop, Uncle Anthony !' he cried. ' Stop, I say. We've got 
 to turn back.' 
 
 • What is it ?' 
 
 'My knife— left it at the coffee-house. Now, then, right 
 about. You go first. A new knife— three blades— real buck's- 
 horn.'
 
 182 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 They observed the same order in returning to the coffee-house, 
 where the knife was found on the floor ; and, in coming back 
 again, the boy prepared, by turning up cuffs and squaring his 
 shoulders, for precipitate action, if necessary. 
 
 About half-way down Cannon Street Road, which was the 
 name of this retreat, and next door to a small dissenting chapel, 
 Anthony Hamblin stopped, and pulled out a latch-key. The 
 house was, like all its neighbours, small, having four or six 
 rooms only. The door was painted a rich, a flaunting red. In 
 the window of the ground-floor was a large card, on which 
 Nicolas read the following announcement : 
 
 Mr. A. Hampton, 
 Teacher of Writing, Arithmetic, and Free-hand Drawing. 
 
 Below this legend, and on either side of it, was drawn, with 
 many an artful flourish and crafty curve, in freehand, and ap- 
 parently with a quill pen, gigantic quills, whose feathers were 
 like the branches of a palm for richness and redundancy. 
 Nicolas recollected, all at once, that his uncle had often, in the 
 old daySj delighted himself with such caligraphic exercises. 
 
 Anthony Hamblin, crestfallen and shamefaced, opened the 
 door, and led the way into the ground-floor front. Arrived 
 there, he sat down before the window in a hopeless, resigned 
 sort of way, as if he would do no more, but must, unresisting, 
 let fate go on. 
 
 ' Upon my word,' said the boy, looking round, ' upon — my — 
 word, this is a very pretty sort of lodging for the head of the 
 House ! Gone a Writing-mastering, too.' 
 
 ' I am no longer head of the House,' said Anthony humbly ; 
 ' I am a dead man.' 
 
 It certainly was not such a room as once sheltered the head 
 partner in the firm. It was only about twelve feet square. Its 
 furniture consisted of one arm-chair and two cane-bottomed 
 chairs, of which one had lost a leg ; there was a table and a 
 sort of sideboard pratique in the wall beside the fireplace ; on 
 it stood half a dozen books, the whole of Anthony Hamblin's 
 library. There was a cupboard en the other side of the fire- 
 place. Nothing else. No pictures on the wall, no decorations 
 of any kind, except a couple of wooden pipes on the mantel- 
 shelf, and a tobacco-pouch. There were no curtains, but only 
 a clean white blind. 
 
 ' This is my one room,' Anthony explained, while the boy 
 curiously examined every article of the furniture ; ' my only 
 room. Here I live. My bed is in that cupboard ; at night I 
 drag it down.' 
 
 The boy examined every portion of the furniture minutely, 
 and then turned to his uncle.
 
 HOW ANTHONY HAMBLTN LOOKED. 183 
 
 ' You look thin, Uncle Anthony. Your boots are gone at 
 the heels ; your coat is shabby — the cuffs are frayed ; your hat 
 is seedy ; and you don't look happy ; and — and ' 
 
 Here this remarkable boy choked, and seized his uncle by the 
 hand, and burst into a fit of sobbing and crying. 
 
 ' Don't, boy !' cried Anthony Hamblin, much more deeply 
 moved by this passion of grief than he had been by the boy's 
 bounce and arrogance. ' Don't, Nicolas ; crying will do no good. 
 Tell me — tell me about Alison.' 
 
 Nicolas stopped crying almost as suddenly as he began. 
 
 ' Every man,' he said presently, by way of apology to himself 
 for his weakness, and while still mopping up the tears, ' has his 
 weak point. You find that out, uncle, when you've got an 
 enemy, and then you can stick pins into him all day long.' 
 
 A thought struck him here. He went to the door, locked it, 
 and put the key in his pocket. 
 
 ' Now,' he said, ' the door's locked. You can't get out till I 
 let you, and I don't intend to let you till I know what this little 
 game means.' 
 
 He sat on the table, one leg dangling and the other resting 
 across it ; an elbow on the leg, and his chin in his hand. He 
 had taken off his hat, and with his white eyebrows, the knowing 
 light in his eyes, and the smile of pride which he naturally felt 
 in the situation, he looked more like an imp than seemed pos- 
 sible in living boy. 
 
 ' Nicolas,' said Anthony, sitting before him like a culprit, 
 ' you have, by accident, discovered a great secret.' 
 
 ' Under Providence, uncle, as the old lady would say, I have.' 
 
 ' Is it possible for a boy to keep a secret ?' 
 
 ' I have lived in his house,' said Nicolas, addressing the furni- 
 ture, which was very unsympathetic in its scantiness ; ' I have 
 lived in his house for thirteen years and more, and he doubts 
 my power of keeping a secret !' 
 
 ' Doy,' said the man risen from the dead, sternly, ' no fooling ! 
 This is no matter for laughing. Can you and will you keep a 
 secret V 
 
 ' I can, Uncle Anthony,' replied young Nick, with a sudden 
 change of manner ; ' I can and I will.' 
 
 There was something reassuring about the boy's manifest 
 resolution of honestly keeping the secret. He enjoyed it too 
 much, in fact, to reveal it, at least immediately. Yet Anthony 
 Hamblin, filled with shame and dismay, looked upon the boy 
 with suspicion. Was his sacrifice to be worthless after all ? 
 Did it depend solely on the discretion of a child so volatile ? 
 
 ' Living at the East End,' said Nicolas, as if desirous to change 
 the subject, ' is all very well for a man who, like me, takes an 
 interest in the Docks, in indigo stores, and shipping ; but for
 
 1 84 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 you, Uncle Anthony, -who never put on a canvas coat, nor wore 
 a cap to keep off the blue dust in your life, I can't understand' 
 the attraction. All very well if a man wanted to write a novel 
 of dull life, and came here to see what dulness really means ; 
 but you don't write novels, and you used to like cheerfulness. 
 Or if you wanted to find out how poor people lived, and what a 
 beastly thing it is to be poor ; but you never wanted to know 
 that. Silver-spoon babies never do. The taste, I suppose, is- 
 so different from pewter that they don't feel a yearning for 
 change, nor a curiosity to taste any other kind of metal. And 
 yet if you don't like the Docks, didn't care for poor people, and 
 weren't curious about their ways, what was it drove you away 
 from home ? It wasn't any row, that I know of. You and 
 Alison hadn't quarrelled, had you ?' 
 
 Anthony shook his head dejectedly. 
 
 ' As for me,' the boy went on, stroking his chin, ' I can't re- 
 member that I ever said or did anything that could induce you 
 to run away. I was always kind to you, I believe.' 
 
 ' Always,' echoed Anthony, without the ghost of a smile . 
 
 ' Then,' said young Kick, getting down from the table to get 
 better vantage-ground, standing with his feet well apart, his 
 hands rammed down into his pockets as far as they would go, 
 and his shoulders raised — this gave him an expression of won- 
 derful sagacity, combined with the deepest cynical knowledge 
 of human natui*e — ' then, Uncle Anthony, I am sorry to say 
 that there remains only one supposition. It pains me to say it, 
 but I must. Why does a rich man, with a comfortable home 
 and people who are fond of him, suddenly bolt ? — leaving his 
 coat behind him, too, as if he was Joseph in the pit, to prove 
 that his goose was already cooked and his bucket kicked. Why, 
 I say ? Oh, Uncle Anthony, who would have thought it of you ? 
 Because he's done something — I don't know what — some- 
 thing ! Somebody must have given you the straight tip in 
 good time. You thought you had better bolt, so as to avoid 
 the row.' 
 
 Anthony made no reply. Nicolas resumed his seat on the 
 table. 
 
 ' If you like to confide in me,' Nicolas went on, ' I'll give you 
 the best advice in my power. Perhaps it isn't too late.' 
 
 Still Anthony was silent ; but he rose from his chair, and 
 began to walk up and down the room. 
 
 ' Everything,' said Nicolas, encouragingly, ' can be squared for 
 money. Give me money and the name of the party, and I'll 
 undertake to square him.' 
 
 Anthony laughed. He was at last moved to laugh. The boy's 
 importance and confidence were too absurd. 
 
 4 You, boy ! What could you do ?'
 
 HOW ANTHONY HAMBLIN LOOKED. 185 
 
 ' Now, here's prejudice again !' he expostulated. ' After 
 knowing me intimately for thirteen years, my uncle can't trust 
 me for a confidential piece of work because I've got a jacket on 
 instead of a coat ! I thought better of you, Uncle Anthony.' 
 
 Anthony stopped in his walk, and regarded his youthful ad- 
 viser meditatively. . 
 
 1 Boy,' he said gravely, ' I cannot tell you the reasons of my 
 disappearance ; that is impossible. Nor can I ever reappear 
 again ; that is equally impossible.' 
 
 ' Quite impossible ? Oh, Uncle Anthony, surely money will 
 square it !' 
 
 ' No ; money cannot do everything.' 
 
 ' Can't anything be done ?' 
 
 4 Nothing? 
 
 ' Think of Alison, uncle— think how she's cried her eyes out.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! poor child !' 
 
 He turned his face to the window, and there was silence for a 
 space. 
 
 ' Think of me !' said Nicolas. ' Think of my ruined prospects 
 if you don't come back. How do I know that Mr. Augustus 
 will take me into the House V 
 
 ' I think he will,' said Anthony ; ' at any rate I hope he will. 
 Nothing can be done, Nicolas. You have found me. I shall 
 go away from here, for fear that some one else may find me. But 
 you must keep the secret.' 
 
 ' I will keep it if you promise to let me know always where 
 to find you. Let me write to you ; and I say, uncle — O Lord ! 
 what a game we will have— what a game ! I didn't tell you 
 how Uncle Stephen is going on.' 
 
 'No. What is Stephen doing ?' 
 
 Anthony stopped now to listen. 
 
 « He— well, first of all he came to Clapham, and took up his 
 
 quarters there; smoked your cigars in the study, slept in your 
 
 bed, and took your place at dinner. Oh, it was beautiful at the 
 
 go-off. "My poor Alison! my dear child! My dear Flora!' 
 
 — that to the old lady, you know ; and to me it was, " Nicolas, 
 
 my boy — Nicolas, my son," till we began to think that Black 
 
 Stephen hadn't got horns and a tail after alL Wait a bit, though ! 
 
 All of a sudden his manner changes. First he orders me and 
 
 the old lady to pack up and be off out of the house ; then he 
 
 ups and tells Alison that she wasn't your heiress after all, be- 
 
 36 you never were married/ 
 
 • What ?' cried Anthony, with a sudden hot flush on his cheek. 
 
 'Steady, steady! Wait a bit. I thought when it came to 
 
 t he old lady and me being ordered into the street, that would 
 
 fetch you, as nothing ever fetched you before. It shows your 
 
 proper feeling, uncle, and I like you the betterfor it. Let me go
 
 1 86 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 on. Then he goes to the partners, and tells them that he — Uncle 
 Stephen — was the real heir to everything ; and then he goes 
 to the Court of Probate, and demands letters to carry on the 
 estate. " Oh, Jeminy !" says the judge — crafty old man, that ! 
 — " here's artfulness !" — said he'd be blowed if he'd write him 
 any letter at all — said he didn't believe you were dead, but 
 only gone away somewhere on a lark, as had happened to his 
 own brothers more than once — said Alison was to go on enjoy- 
 ing the estate, and eating as much as ever she possibly could, 
 till such time as it was proved, first, that you were really dead 
 and gone, whereas here you still live and kick ; and second, that 
 Alison was not your heiress, whereas everybody always knew 
 that she was.' 
 
 ' Tried to rob Alison of her inheritance !' murmured Anthony, 
 with livid face. ' The scoundrel V 
 
 ' Now you see, uncle,' pursued Nicolas, ' here^we are in a cleft 
 stick, on the horns of a dilemma, and in a quandary such as 
 you never thought was coming out of it, I'm sure. What is to 
 be done ?' 
 
 ' Tell me more about Alison.' 
 
 ' Alison's very jolly,' the boy replied — ' eats hearty and sleeps 
 well. That fellow Gilbert Yorke is always about the place 
 since Uncle Stephen first showed the horns. He seems to con- 
 sider that Alison looks pretty in black. I don't. That is to say, 
 you know, it's a matter of opinion. A dark girl wants the 
 relief of a bit of colour. However, Alison is a fine girl, dress 
 her how you like ; and if she'd wait for me, I might think of 
 her in ten years' time. After all, she'd be gone off a good 
 deal by the time I was four-and-twenty. Worst of girls, that 
 is — no last.' 
 
 ' Then she doesn't fret much. She has forgotten her father.' 
 
 ' Well, she does — that's the uncomfortable part. You never 
 know when she won't break out again. Spoiled a really good 
 pudding yesterday by crying in the middle of a plateful — her 
 pipes always burst when you least expect it. And then the old 
 lady chimes in. A man can't enjoy his meals if he's rained on 
 that way. It's all your fault. If we'd had a regular funeral, 
 with mourners and hat-bands and that, as we had every right 
 to expect in a respectable family, we should have got through 
 our crying, and adone with it once for all. How's a man, I 
 should like to know, to feel comfortable over his grub, when 
 first it's Alison, and then it's the old lady, crying in chorus ? 
 Might as well sit down to dinner, with your umbrella up, in 
 a shower-bath. It was a roll-jam-pudding, too !' 
 
 ' I wish I could trust you,' said Anthony, laying his hands on 
 the boy's shoulders. ' Will you promise not to betray me ?' 
 
 ' I promise faithfully, uncle. I will say nothing, on two con-
 
 HOW ANTHONY HAMBLIN LOOKED. 187 
 
 ditions, which I'll tell you presently. But are you going to let 
 Alison be dished out of all her money ?' 
 
 ' No, I am not. That is the one thing, the only thing, that 
 will force me out of my seclusion. That is the one thing. If 
 Stephen -wins his case, he will find that he has reckoned without 
 — his dead brother.' 
 
 ' You will come back again, in that case, and in spite of every- 
 thing ?' 
 
 ' I will, in spite of everything.' 
 
 Nicolas breathed freely. This was good news, indeed. In 
 any case Alison was safe. And if Alison was provided for, then 
 he himself would not be forgotten. The bright eyes beneath 
 those long white eyebrows twinkled with delight. 
 
 'Very well, uncle. Then we understand one another. If 
 things go wrong you'll turn up at the right moment, frustrate 
 his politics, make him sing out like bricks, and confound his 
 knavish tricks. But, I say, why not tell me just now where 
 3-ou were married ? — just for curiosity, and because we are both 
 enjoying the same jolly game.' 
 
 ' No, Nicolas ; I shall not tell you that. I shall tell you no 
 more ; and now you must go.' 
 
 ' Well, if you won't let me square the other side, and if you 
 won't tell me all about your marriage, I suppose I must. Still ' 
 (he got off the table again, and put on his hat slowly), ' I don't 
 half like it. You have promised to interfere at the last moment, 
 j ust when Uncle Stephen thinks he's going to grab it all. That's 
 satisfactory so far : but how do I know that you won't bolt 
 yourself the moment you are out of my sight ?' 
 
 ' If I trust my secret in your keeping,' said Anthony, ' is not 
 that a sufficient guarantee V 
 
 ; Well, no,' said Nicolas ; ' because the truth is that you didn't 
 trust it. I found it — I took it ; you couldn't help yourself.' 
 
 ' Well — well !' said Anthony, impatiently. 
 
 ' Now, then, for my conditions. I keep your secret, Uncle 
 Anthony, faithfully, if you promise me two things. They are 
 — first, don't bolt.' 
 
 ■ I will not, unless I have cause for suspecting you.' 
 
 ' Second, when \ ou come back to the House — because of course 
 you will ; Uncle Stephen can't be endured much longer — you 
 will take me into it. I'm not a fool, Uncle Anthony ' (the boy 
 became here almost solemn in his earnestness) — ' no Albino ever 
 was a fool yet, so far as Universal history books (with dates) 
 can inform the class. I'm always trying to learn things that will 
 make me fit for a City life. There's nothing in all the world I 
 would rather have, after a bit, than a partnership in the House. 
 Not at first, you know ; I am content to work my way right up 
 from the very bottom, only let me have the chance.'
 
 1 88 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' My dear boy,' said Anthony, his kind eyes softening, and 
 laying his hands on the lad's shoulders, ' I shall never be able to 
 give you the chance, I shall not be there.' 
 
 ' But promise, uncle.' 
 
 ' I promise, if I am there.' 
 
 ' That's quite enough,' said Nicolas, resuming his habitual 
 manner. ' Some fellows — suspicious fellows — would require a 
 stamped agreement. Between man and man, I say, if men's 
 words are worth anything, a verbal agreement is enough.' 
 
 ' You may come to see me sometimes, if you like,' said Anthony. 
 ' Come on half -holidays, when no one suspects you. Come and 
 tell me about Alison.' 
 
 1 1 will, uncle,' said the boy ; ' and about the old lady and 
 myself. Oh, I'll keep you lively ! And you shall tell me how 
 you like writing-mastering. And remember your promise— fain 
 larks — no bolting ! Here's your key.' 
 
 Nicolas shook hands with head erect, but his hands were a 
 little shaky, and outside the house he put his knuckles into his 
 eyes for a moment. Then, because a boy in the street who was 
 passing by laughed at him, he chucked that boy's hat into a 
 passing cab, and gave him one to remember him on the left ear. 
 The necessity of recovering the cap prevented the boy from 
 retaliating, although he was bigger. After that, Nicolas went 
 on his way in a serene and even joyous frame ox mind. 
 Presently, thinking over the convivial side of the new discovery, 
 over all the possibilities of this delightful game of hide-and-seek, 
 and how it would light up and illumine the summer months, and 
 how it would eventually glorify and immortalise himself, he- 
 grew more than joyous — he became rapturous. ' He could no 
 longer walk, but began to dance. He danced behind and beside 
 nervous old gentlemen, so that they were fain to stop and beg 
 him to pass on ; he danced beside grave matrons and elderly 
 single women as if he were their frisky son ; he mingled in the 
 ranks of girls' schools, and danced among the girls, as if he 
 were a frivolous pupil ; he chanced upon a pale and unhappy 
 two-by-two belonging to a commercial academy, and danced 
 among the spiritless boys as if he dared the usher to box his 
 ears ; he overtook a heavily-laden and very stout old lady going 
 home from shopping, and danced all round her, whistling loudly 
 the while. This figure, if it is executed properly, with the back 
 presented to the victim's face, and plenty of double-shuffle, is 
 really expressive, and disconcerts old ladies excessively. It was 
 a favourite feat, I believe, with the Mohocks and Scourers of 
 old. This old lady, for her part, was so much put out by it that 
 she dropped all the things she was carrying — her bag, her basket, 
 her parcels, her gloves, her shawl, her umbrella, her spectacles, 
 and her thimble — anything that could possibly tumble from her.
 
 HOW ANTHONY HAMBLIN LOOKED. 189 
 
 These spread as they fell, till the whole pavement was strewn 
 with the wreck. She is still, I believe, engaged in picking up 
 her property. But long before she realised the extent of the 
 calamity, the boy, whose good spirits prompted him to so great 
 activity, was out of sight, still dancing and still whistling as he 
 went. 
 
 He arrived at Clapham about half-past five. He was bois- 
 terous, he was joyful in that house of subdued melancholy. 
 He boldly suggested champagne instead of tea ; he spoke vaguely 
 about great things in the way of festivities to come ; he de- 
 clined altogether to learn his lessons for the next day ; he led 
 his mother to think that he was going to have something — the 
 measles, a fit, or perhaps the mumps, which are said sometimes 
 to begin with an accession of supernatural and unaccountable 
 hilarity. 
 
 When he got Alison quite by herself for a moment, he assumed 
 a mysterious manner and winked and nodded. 
 
 ' How are they getting on for you, Alison ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Nothing has been found yet, I am sorry to say.' 
 
 ' "Well, I am not a man who promises rashly ; only, the 
 moment you think the game is up, you give me the tip straight 
 away. ' 
 
 ' Give you the tip ?' 
 
 ' Tip it to me. Then you shall see — hey ! presto ! up goes 
 Uncle Stephen, horns and tail and all, blown to little smithereens, 
 and Alison comes home in triumph ! Ring the bells ! beat the 
 drums ! and hooray for writing-masters all !' 
 
 For several days after that the boy maintained, with Alison, 
 a running fire of obscure allusions to writing-masters. He 
 talked about the great amount of their gains, their enviable 
 position in the social scale, their enjoyable work, their content 
 and happiness. What did he mean ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 HOW ADVERTISING PROVED A DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 TriK advertisements were all put into the papers, and the cousins 
 waited impatiently for the result. 
 
 There were no results at all after a week. ' They are search- 
 ing the registers,' said Gilbert. 
 
 They waited another week ; there were no results still. 
 
 ' Give me time to look through the London registers,' said 
 Alderney Codd, hopefully.
 
 i go THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Alison shook her head. She was not sanguine of success, even 
 in her brightest moods, when she continually thought about that 
 story of the ship's captain, who went off his head and signed 
 articles as an able seaman. 
 
 ' He may come back,' she said, foolishly dwelling on this 
 dream — fortunately, it was not often that she permitted herself 
 so great a happiness. ' He may come back. Perhaps he will 
 come back. I shall never give up that hope. What is the good 
 of trying to discover what he wanted to conceal ? You had 
 better give it up, Gilbert, and give the other man all the money, 
 and let me go away somewhere and be forgotten.' 
 
 'Give it up !' he cried ; ' why we have only just begun.' 
 
 ' It is useless,' she replied despondently; 'you are only making 
 yourself and me more unhappy than we need be. Give it up, 
 and me too, and go back to your chambers and your law- work.' 
 
 Alison's despondent view was not the only disheartening thing 
 about the work which Gilbert had set himself to do. It was 
 impossible to deny the difficulty which presented itself at the 
 very beginning. Why was all mention of the marriage, if there 
 was a marriage, suppressed in the diaries ? Even a courtship 
 takes time. Why was even the courtship concealed and sup- 
 pressed ? Why did a man who was frank and candid as the 
 da} r in everything else, keep a guarded silence in what was pro- 
 bably his only love affair ? and, silence or not, what opportunity 
 could be found for love-making ? What room was there in that 
 busy life, so faithfully recorded in the diaries, for love, court- 
 ship, and wedlock '? 
 
 Many young men live in chambers ; whatever their occupa- 
 tions during the day, they have at least their evenings free : 
 they are not generally supposed to record in diaries' the 
 menus plaisirs of those evenings. Other young men live at 
 home, but do not always, as their mothers would wish, spend 
 the evening at home : nor do they always truthfully explain in 
 the morning where they have been and what they did the night 
 before : deception, supjoressio veri, is practised. Anthony Ham- 
 blin did not have chambers, nor did he spend his evenings 
 abroad. Not at all : he devoted himself, with the devotion of 
 a Frenchman, to his mother. He never showed the least incli- 
 nation to any kind of profligacy, wastefulness, or fastness. He 
 was that very rare creature, a young man who is ' steady,' and 
 yet not a prig in morals. Had he been, for instance, a young 
 man of the present day, he would have made himself an athlete, 
 and kept himself in constant training. The only athletics in 
 his day were those games which a late lamented dean once stig- 
 matised as 'immoral, because athletic,' — whist and cricket. 
 Billiards there was also, but the dean never heard of that game. 
 Football was for boys ; young men scorned to run races ; no
 
 ADVERTISING. 191 
 
 one would have gone a yard out of the way to see the longest 
 jump, the highest jump, the farthest shy, the fastest run. 
 Anthony Hamblin, up to the age of three or four and thirty, 
 went home every evening to dinner, and stayed at home. He 
 was the constant companion, the solace, the prop of his mother. 
 He was passionate in his love for her. Stephen it was who early 
 broke away from the domestic coop : Stephen it was who lived 
 in chambers, paid duty visits, borrowed money, squandered and 
 scattered. _ It was Anthony who cheered the last years of his 
 mother's life, and, for her sake, not because he was a passion- 
 less young prig, was content to forego his own pleasures — the 
 ordinary and innocent gaieties of early manhood. 
 
 How then could he find time to get married ? 
 
 These doubts, when they arose, Gilbert pushed into the back- 
 ground. Before Alison he was confident, brave, and cheerful. 
 Everything, he declared, would happen just exactly as they 
 wished. 
 
 As regards the rest of the family, there was division. The 
 two partners remained staunch. So did the Colonel and the 
 Dean, and the rest of the male cousins who belonged to the 
 generation of Anthony. The younger members, accustomed in 
 these latter days to the contemplation of a laxer code of morals, 
 generally took the more gloomy view ; one or two openly de- 
 clared themselves of the Black Hamblin faction. Female 
 cousins called on Alison, and hinted at compromise, while there 
 was yet time. If these hints were such as she could take hold 
 of, Alison astonished those cousins, as she had gratified young 
 Nick, by the mightiness of her wrath and the free hanging of 
 her tongue. What they did not see, when they retired, con- 
 fused and beaten down like the long grass after a thunder- 
 storm, was the humiliation which fell upon their cousin, and the 
 bitter tears which these doubts wrung from her when she knew 
 that they could not see them. 
 
 Compromise ! No ; nothing that could show belief in her 
 uncle's theory ; nothing that should allow the bare possibility of 
 that theory ; nothing that did not admit to the full her father's 
 honour, her mother's honour, and all that these involved. 
 
 Nothing is more certain than that, if you advertise long 
 enough, you are sure to get something out of it. I was once 
 assured by a stranger, whom I afterwards discovered to be con- 
 nected with the advertising interests, that for twelve thousand 
 pounds he would undertake to float anything, from a quack 
 pill or a saline mixture to a daily paper. Thinking over this 
 assertion, I had a dream, in which I thought I was a millionaire, 
 that my money was all divided into little heaps of twelve thou- 
 sand pounds each, and that I was devoting the whole of my 
 vast wealth, by means of giving this philanthropic stranger one
 
 I9 2 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 of these heaps at a time, to floating pills, papers, theatres, saline 
 draughts, books, music, pictures, and artistic furniture. I woke 
 up before I reached the last heap, and I do not know how far I 
 advanced the world. 
 
 As for the Hamblin advertisements, the first result of them 
 was to bring Mrs. Duncombe to light. 
 
 She called herself at the office in Bedford Row, and sent up 
 her name, with a great air of mystery, in a folded piece of 
 paper, which, she instructed the clerk, was not to be opened, 
 on any account, by anybody except Mr. Billiter himself. 
 
 She was a florid lady, between middle and elderly age, with 
 a fat, good-natured face, much resembling an overblown cab- 
 bage-rose. She looked about her with suspicion. A lawyer's 
 office has something fearsome about it, even to those who ' ought 
 to know better ;' to a woman of Mrs. Duncombe's social stand- 
 ing it is simply terrible. The appearance of the sharp-visaged 
 old gentleman who received her, with his bright eyes and pointed 
 chin, did not reassure her. 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mr. Billiter, looking her all over with suspicion, 
 ' you are Mrs. Duncombe, are you ? You are the lady for 
 whom we advertised, are you ? And you are come for your 
 reward, I suppose. Very well. Of course we do not pay any- 
 thing until we are satisfied that there is no imposture. So you 
 will be good enough to sit down and answer a few questions.' 
 
 Mrs. Duncombe obeyed, though she regarded the very chairs 
 with distrust. Still, she obeyed. Her breath was short too, 
 and getting up the stairs had tired her. 
 
 ' I am Mrs. Duncombe,' she said presently, and without wait- 
 ing for the questions — indeed, the old lawyer had gone on 
 writing, as if no one was in the office at all, which was his 
 pleasant way of giving sinners time for meditation and repent- 
 ance — ' and I am here in answer to an advertisement which my 
 nephew read to me. Because I don't read papers myself, as a 
 general rule, my eyes not being so good as they were, and the 
 news not up to what it used to be and one has a right to expect.' 
 She paused for a moment only. ' There may be, perhaps, two 
 Mrs. Duncombes in the world. But there can't be two in con- 
 nection with the sweet flower, which her initials were A. H.' 
 
 ' Tell me, if you please,' said Mr. Billiter, ' what those initials 
 stand for ?' 
 
 ' Aha !' she replied, with a look of profound caution, which 
 sat comically upon her jovial and easy face. ' And suppose 
 you want to find out the dear young lady yourself, and you've 
 got designs upon her, and you've sent to me to help you do a 
 mischief to my dear darling ?' 
 
 ' Shall we divide the name into syllables then ?' asked Mr.
 
 ADVERTISING. 193 
 
 Billiter. ' That will be fair. I will begin. Now, then, A, L— 
 Al.' 
 
 ■ There you are with your Al,' responded the lady, pleased 
 with this ingenious manoeuvre. ' Al. I, i — there you are with 
 your All' 
 
 ' S, O, N — son,' Mr. Billiter went on gravely. 
 
 ' And there you are with your Alison,' she added. ' That's 
 the Christian name right enough, and the only girl I ever met 
 with such a name out of a printed two-penny book. Now the 
 surname. H, A. M — Ham ; there you are with your Ham.' 
 
 ' B,' Mr. Billiter added, emphasizing with his forefinger. 
 
 ' B,' taking the word out of his mouth ; ' there you are with 
 your B — Ham-bee,' as if it was a syllable. 
 
 ' L, I, N — lin ; which completes the name.' 
 
 ' There you are with your Hamblin — there you are with your 
 Alison Hamblin. Lord help you, sir, I taught that little dear 
 to spell myself, though rather rusty after all these years, and a 
 spelling-bee not to my taste, nor a prize likely at my time of 
 life. There you are with your Alison Hamblin. To think that 
 [ should ever have spelt her name turn-about with a lawyer ! 
 Well, sir, you haven't told me what you want to do to the dear 
 child.' 
 
 ' No harm, Mrs. Duncombe— quite the contrary. We want 
 to do her as much good as possible. We want to protect her 
 against a man who is trying to keep her out of her property.' 
 
 ' Is he now ? The pretty dear ! And a goodish bit of pro- 
 perty, too, I shouldn't wonder.' 
 
 'It is a goodish bit, indeed. Now for our questions, Mrs. 
 Duncombe.' 
 
 ' As many as you like, sir ; but not too fast, through the 
 breath being shorter than it was twenty years ago, when first I 
 set eyes on that most blessed of little girls.' 
 
 ' Yes. When did you make the acquaintance of Mr. Anthony 
 Hamblin ?' 
 
 ' A fortnight before he brought me the child. I answered 
 an advertisement for a careful person who would take charge 
 of a child ; references required. I referred to the parish doctor 
 — the same who attended my husband in his last illness — and 
 the vicar, the same who buried him. They spoke to my re- 
 spectability, and Mr. Hamblin took me on at a truly liberal 
 salary, being a most generous and open-handed gentleman, 
 though never, seemingly, knowing the real value of money, and 
 too liberal to the poor — a thing which does them more harm 
 than good in the long-run ' 
 
 ' Pray excuse me. Mr. Hamblin engaged you, on the strength 
 of those references, to take care of the child ?' 
 
 ' He did. sir. He placed me in a house furnished with every- 
 
 13
 
 i 9 4 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 thing you could wish, except that the cabinets and the chests 
 of drawers were new and used to crack of a night, which is 
 fearsome to a lonely widow woman ; and a fortnight later he 
 brought me the prettiest child, of a year old or thereabouts, 
 that ever laughed in a nurse's eyes, or said " Ta," for a piece of 
 sponge-cake.' 
 
 ' He brought you the child ? Did you not, then, go for it 
 yourself ?' 
 
 ' No ; he brought her. He came by the train.' 
 
 'Where did he come from'?' 
 
 ' Surely it was not my place to ask ? He had no servant with 
 him ; he brought the infant in his own arms.' 
 
 ' That is odd. Had the child any linen ?' 
 
 ' Yes, a basketful ; but there was no mark on any of it. And 
 she had a coral necklace. That was all she had.' 
 
 'Pray tell me more.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hamblin said her name was Alison Hamblin, and that 
 her mother was dead ; then he went away. In a fortnight he 
 came again. In a little while he used to make me send a daily 
 report to his office in London of the child's health and progress ; 
 and he used to run down from Saturday to Monday when she 
 got a little older. He had a bedroom in the house — his own 
 house it was.' 
 
 ; Ay,' said Mr. Billiter, ' we remember that he used to go 
 down to Brighton.' 
 
 ' The little maid grew up much like her father, only dark- 
 complexioned ; and that fond of him as she couldn't bear to 
 say good-bye, and was always reckoning up the days to Satur- 
 day. Well, the time went on, and I was sorry indeed, I can 
 tell you, when the day came that Mr. Hamblin said he thought 
 the sea-air had made her a strong child, and that he intended 
 taking her to live with him in London. So we had to part ; 
 and it was terrible 
 
 The good woman paused, while hot tears ran down the furrows 
 of her nose. 
 
 ' It does you credit, Mrs. Duncombe,' said Mr. Billiter refer- 
 ring, perhaps, to the present rather than to the past tears. 
 ' Mr. Hamblin, then, took her away. What did he do for you ?' 
 
 ' He bought me an annuity, sir ; one hundred pounds a year it 
 is, and a permanent income for a woman that would otherwise 
 have been in the workhouse in her old age. Wherefore I say 
 every day. " G-od bless him and magnify his name !" ' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mrs. Duncombe. But he is dead — yes, Mr. 
 Anthony Hamblin was drowned in the Serpentine in that acci- 
 dent of January last.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear me !' she sighed ; ' poor dear gentleman ! This 
 is more trouble. And Miss Alison, sir ?'
 
 ADVERTISING. 19 J 
 
 1 She is well. But her succession and title to the estates are 
 disputed. We want to find, Mrs. Buncombe — we must find out 
 somehow, when and where, and to whom, Mr. Hamblin was 
 married. We were in hopes that you would know something 
 about it. Can you not tell us where the child came from ? Was 
 there no mark at all upon her clothes ? Was there no railway- 
 label on her box ? Think ; even the least hint might be of 
 use.' 
 
 But she shook her head. 
 
 ' I know nothing, sir — no more than I have told you. A child 
 was brought to me, and I took care of her for nine years or 
 thereabouts. Where she came from I know no more than the 
 baby herself knew.' 
 
 ' Then, Mrs. Duncombe, I am afraid you are no use to us. 
 But you shall have the advertised reward for producing your- 
 self.' 
 
 ' And the dear young lady, sir — may I see her ?' 
 
 ' Assuredly ; here is her address.' Mr. Billiter wrote it down 
 for her. ' Go whenever you please. I think she will like to 
 see you again. And — and — Mrs. Duncombe, if you stay in the 
 house a day or two, you might look round. Perhaps that very 
 same box may be lying in some attic — there is always a box-room 
 in these big houses — and you might find the railway-label ; or 
 — or if you can pick up anything, or remember anything, or find 
 out anything, let me know. Now, good-morning.' 
 
 It was, indeed, very little to go upon — a coral necklace. 
 Gilbert had already ascertained its existence, and that it was 
 safe, and in Alison's custody ; but no amount of searching could 
 find the box in which, twenty years before, the child's clothes 
 were despatched. Mrs. Duncombe, exuberant in her demon- 
 1 ions of affection and anxiety to help, herself conducted the 
 search in the trunk-room, lumber-room, and every garret and 
 attic where was hidden away the accumulated worthlessness of 
 half a dozen generations. Many curious things were found, but 
 no such box as they wanted. 
 
 So far, therefore, the advertisements had not proved a success. 
 Gilbert waited, like the Earl of Chatham, longing to be at 'em ; 
 or like Charles the Wrestler, wondering if his antagonist would 
 come on ; or like a knight-errant who wanted nothing so much 
 1 go out instantly and slay the loathly worm, if that crafty 
 creature, safe and snug in its cave, would only come forth to do 
 battle and be killed. 
 
 I' irhaps the parish clerks had not seen the advertisements. 
 ' All parish clerks,' Gilbert thought, ' do not take in daily papers.' 
 He iiit upon a novel device of a more searching and thorough 
 character. He sent a circular to every beneficed clergyman in 
 the country, asking him to make special search. There are 
 
 13 2
 
 196 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 about twelve thousand parishes and district churches. The 
 thing made a capital job for an agency, which charged sixpence 
 a hundred for addressing the envelopes, and paid the women 
 who did the work fourpence-halfpenny. This shows what a 
 good thing it is to have middle-men, and proves the beneficence 
 of Providence in multiplying them so mightily that they cut 
 each other's throats, instead — as they would do were their 
 number less — of waxing strong, devouring the rest of mankind, 
 getting all the money into their own hands, consuming the 
 harvests, eating up the butter, bread, oil, honey, wine, fruit, 
 corn, cattle, and all the fat of the land. Yet, though many 
 women worked, several days passed before the circulars could 
 be issued and answers received. 
 
 This time the recipients of the circular did answer ; at least 
 a good many of them sent answers. They were all to the same 
 effect. Search had been made, and no such marriage had been 
 discovered. Some sent useless returns, finding the marriage of 
 a certain Hamblin a hundred years back, and demanding the 
 reward by return of post. When it did not come, they wrote 
 again, asking indignantly for the cause of delay, and threatening 
 legal proceedings. Others, while admitting that their search 
 had been fruitless, took the opportunity of advocating the 
 claims of their Restoration Fund ; their Increase of Beneficed 
 Clergy Stipend Fund ; their Soup Kitchens ; their Pickled 
 Onions Fund ; their Fund for enabling the Clergy to see their 
 way out of It ; their Deaconesses' Aprons Fund ; their Sisters' 
 Cold Shoulder of Mutton Fund ; their Schools ; their Im- 
 poverished Bishops' Fund ; their Homes ; their Penitentiaries ; 
 and their Grand National Society for the Pauperisation of the 
 British People, officered entirely by the Bishops and Clergy of 
 the Church of England, and embracing the aims and objects of 
 all the preceding minor societies. No fewer than twenty-five 
 sent in a bill for time spent in conducting the search. Eight 
 hundred and thirty-seven curates, answering for their Rectors 
 and Vicars, hinted at the patronage of the Hamblins (which 
 consisted of one small living), and their own unappreciated 
 merits. Three hundred and sixty-five asked for nominations to 
 City schools for their boys. One hundred and fifty-two asked 
 for scholarships on the City Companies' Foundations for sons 
 about to go to Oxford or Cambridge, All alike addressed the 
 advertisers in terms of affectionate intimacy, as if they were all 
 round grateful, personal friends, who could refuse each other 
 nothing. And most of them exhibited a proficiency in men- 
 dacity to be equalled in no other profession. 
 
 This was gratifying so far ; and Gilbert, who opened and 
 read the letters, felt that this universal confidence in the 
 generosity of a stranger had taught him to love his fellow-
 
 ADVERTISING. 197 
 
 creatures mora deeply. At the same time, there was no dis- 
 covery. 
 
 He then hit upon a third plan. If he could not find proof of 
 the marriage, he might get upon the trace of the unknown 
 mother. 
 
 He drew up a crafty advertisement, in which, after a brief 
 preamble addressed to the relations and friends of missing 
 people, he stated that at some unknown period, probably about 
 twenty-one or two years before the date of the advertisement, 
 a young lady, name unknown, was believed to have contracted 
 a secret marriage, presumably under an assumed name, with a 
 certain A. H. ; that she was believed to have died within two 
 years of the marriage ; that she had left one daughter, whose 
 initials were also A. H. ; that information which would prove 
 the marriage was now being sought, and would be very liberally 
 rewarded. 
 
 This masterpiece he inserted in all the papers, and waited for 
 a reply. There were hundreds of answers. 
 
 Observe that Gilbert's advertisement gave certain data — pro- 
 bably date, marriage, birth of a daughter, death, initials of hus- 
 band, initials of child ; six in all. Obviously, therefore, the 
 replies which fell short in any one of these data would certainly 
 be useless ; or, as one or two of them might have been missed 
 by unlearned readers, it was reasonable to suppose that some at 
 least would be considered. But the mind of the middle and 
 lower class Briton is illogical. He considers one fact at a time. 
 Therefore when the advertisement appeared, everybody from 
 whose hearth daughter, sister, aunt or great-aunt had eloped, dis- 
 appeared, or run away any time during the last fifty years wrote 
 in reply. It was astonishing, first, to mark how common an in- 
 cident in family life of a certain rank this misfortune must be ; 
 secondly, to see how long and with what keenness it is remem- 
 bered ; and lastly, how ready a large proportion of the bereaved 
 are to make money out of the calamity, should a way seem 
 open. 
 
 This time, Gilbert's opinion of human nature was lowered and 
 not raised at all by the correspondence which ensued. For some, 
 writing as if with a bludgeon in the left hand, ready for transfer 
 to the right when the pen was dropped, called Heaven to wit- 
 ness that the villain had been found at last, and demanded com- 
 pensation — large and liberal compensation. Others, adopting a 
 more Christian line, thanked Providence that the sinner was 
 repentant, and asked what sum the advertiser proposed to pay for 
 loss of services, anxiety, wounded honour, hope deferred, affections 
 blighted, and lacerated feelings. Others, again, still with an eye 
 \o business, wrote to say that they held in their hands informa- 
 tion which would prove of the highest value, but could no!
 
 198 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 with it without a proper understanding beforehand. One or two 
 informed the advertiser that the young person named was not 
 dead at all, but alive, and quite ready to forgive the past in re- 
 turn for an annuity of proper settlement. Some concurred in 
 demanding that the daughter should be restored to her mother's 
 people, of course with liberal compensation and large annual 
 allowance for her keep. Every side of human selfishness seemed 
 laid bare in their correspondence. 
 
 Yet there was another side, else it would have been too con- 
 temptible. Dozens of letters came, written while the ej'es were 
 blurred with tears, and the mind was sick with sadness at the 
 revival of past unhappiness. These went to the young man's 
 heart, and brought the tears to his own eyes as he read them. 
 They came from old ladies, from middle-aged ladies, from women 
 of all classes. They were written in forlorn hope : they all told 
 the same monotonous tale, how a girl had wandered from the 
 fold and never come back again ; how the mother, aged now, 
 or her sisters, were waiting still in hope that the prodigal daugh- 
 ter might return. They gave their own particulars, and they 
 asked if these would suit the story of the girl about whom the 
 advertisers were inquiring. 
 
 ' It is a great and bottomless gulf, this London,' thought Gil- 
 bert. ' Are there, every year, hundreds of girls who listen to 
 the voice of the tempter ? Are there, yearly, hundreds of homes 
 saddened irretrievably by the flight of one ? Anthony Hamblin 
 could not have been such a man. It could not be,' he repeated, 
 ' that Anthony Hamblin was a vulgar and selfish deceiver of 
 girls. Yet Alison's mother must have had an existence. Sup- 
 pose they found her relations among the canaille who burned to 
 make money out of their own shame ! Better, almost, that her 
 friends should be found among those who still wept for the loss 
 of their sister. It must be owned that at this period doubts 
 assailed the young man. He found himself sometimes in the 
 Slough of Despond, sometimes on the Hill Difficulty, sometimes 
 in the Castle of Despair. Yet he met Alison with brave eyes, 
 and words of courage. He would not dishearten her. To 
 Alison, indeed, it seemed as if the arrival of Mrs. Duncombe 
 was all that was wanted to prove her own case. 
 
 The confidence of the partners in the power of advertising 
 rapidly diminished. They sent secretly to one Theodore Bragge, 
 formerly of the Metropolitan Detective Police, and, unknown to 
 Gilbert, sought his advice. 
 
 Mr. Bragge's appearance was disappointing. Nothing of the 
 sleuth-hound about him at all. No more intelligence inhis face 
 than in that of any ordinary police-constable. ' But a solid face,' 
 said Augustus Hamblin. Solidity, in fact, was the one virtue
 
 ADVERTISING. 199 
 
 Mr. Bragge's face could boast. He was clean-shaven, rather 
 red in the nose, and looked like a butler out of place. 
 
 When the case was thoroughly put before him — it was curious 
 that a man of such remarkable acuteness should be so slow in 
 mastering facts — Mr. Bragge sat down and tapped his nose. 
 Anybody can execute that simple feat. It is only when Thau- 
 mast, Panurge, and Theodore Bragge perform it, that one is 
 struck by the boundless capabilities of so simple an action. 
 
 ' This will be, likely, a longish case.' 
 
 ' But do you think you can unravel it ?' 
 
 Mr. Bragge smiled superior. 
 
 ' There is no case, gentlemen,' he said, l that I would not un- 
 dertake.' (Which was strictly true.) ' I called this a longish 
 case, not a difficult one. You have heard, perhaps, of the great 
 Shottover case ? I was the man who unravelled that. How- 
 ever, I do not boast.' 
 
 He proceeded to point out how expensive a process is detective 
 work, and then, armed with a cheque on account, went away to 
 begin his work at once. 
 
 He began it by a preliminary meditation, which commenced 
 in a neighbouring tavern immediately after his interview with 
 the partners, and lasted till eleven o'clock in the evening. It 
 was interrupted by a whisky-and-water hot at four, a steak at 
 five with a pint of stout, six whiskys-and-water between six and 
 eleven, and an animated conversation during the evening with a 
 few friends. 
 
 An English Secret Service officer tries clumsily to do what the 
 Continental secret police are supposed, I do not know how truly, 
 to do cleverly. It sends men to watch, spy, and ask questions. 
 The men always get found out in their watching at the very be- 
 ginning of their investigations. They are not good actors ; they 
 cannot disguise themselves ; they are not generally clever ; they 
 are not always commonly intelligent. But people believe in the 
 private inquiry man ; they think that he who owns such an office 
 must have sources of information at his command not to be got 
 at by anybody else ; they believe that he can discover a criminal, 
 unearth a lover, prove a marriage, or find a will, when all the rest 
 of the world have failed. 
 
 Let us. in justice to these gentlemen, acknowledge that they 
 do nothing to undermine or lessen this belief. Quite the con- 
 trary : they accept the position assigned to them. They are 
 professors of Sagacity. In a sense they are Professors of the 
 Science of Human Nature. This science rests upon two or 
 three axioms, according to these savants. 
 
 1. Everybody is, has been, or will one day be, engaged in 
 some crime.
 
 200 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 2. There is nothing, in reality, but the Seamy Side. The 
 rest is pretence. 
 
 3. Truth is to be sought, not in a well, which would be 
 foolishness ; but behind and beneath the walls and roofing of 
 lies which it is necessary to build round her in order to protect 
 her against the wicked world's shower of gold. 
 
 4. Good men are those who only lie in the way of business. 
 
 5. Suspect every friend ; look on every stranger as an enemy. 
 
 6. The booniest companion is often he whom you should trust 
 least. Virtue does not necessarily accompany good fellowship. 
 
 7. If there is a choice of motives, choose the worst. 
 
 8. In any case, never suppose a motive which is not in some 
 way based upon personal interest. 
 
 9. Friendship means common interest ; pals are those who 
 run in couples ; friendship ceases when a man can work by 
 himself. 
 
 10. It is generally thought better to work in the dark than 
 in the daytime. 
 
 I have gathered these maxims from a hitherto incomplete 
 work by Theodore Bragge himself. They form the introduc- 
 tion to his unwritten treatise on the ' Philosophy of Human 
 Nature.' Meantime, he cheerfully undertook the search. He 
 wrote on the third day that he had found a clue. On the sixth 
 day he said they were following up the clue. On the tenth day 
 he said, darkly, that other paths were opening, and that more 
 money would be necessary. This was as exciting, if it should 
 prove as unprofitable, as the search for the Philosopher's Stone. 
 The partners, rejoicing in their secret, sent more money. ' It 
 was,' said Augustus, ' trained intelligence against the brute 
 force of advertising ; and, in the long-run, trained intelligence 
 must win.' 
 
 The man with the solid face received the money, and followed 
 up his clues. Trained intelligence, acting on the decalogue of 
 scientific maxims quoted above, quickly jumped at the conclu- 
 sion that there never had been any marriage at all, which was 
 not what the partners wanted. ' But we can find, perhaps, the 
 young lady's mother She must have had a mother.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 HOW STEPHEN SENT AN AMBASSADOR. 
 
 One evening, Stephen met Jack Baker, which was not unusual, 
 at the club. They dined together. Jack's manner was mys»
 
 STEPHEN SENDS AN AMBASSADOR. 201 
 
 terious. He whispered that he had something to communicate 
 after dinner. He hurried through the meal with a haste quite 
 unusual with him, and, as soon as possible, led Stephen into a 
 little room, never used till much later in the evening, called the 
 Strangers' card-room. 
 
 ' Sit down, Hamblin.' 
 
 ' What the deuce is the meaning of all this mystery, Jack ?' 
 
 ' This. They've found something.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 Stephen turned pale. 
 
 ' You know they have been advertising and offering rewards? 
 Very well, then. Something has come out of it. A clerk of 
 mine knows a clerk in Hamblin's. The clerks there are tre- 
 mendously excited about the business. My man is to learn 
 whatever goes on. He reports to-day that an old woman called 
 and sent up her name in an envelope, saying she had come in 
 answer to an advertisement.' 
 
 ' Pooh !' said Stephen. ' What had she got to tell ? I say 
 there never was any marriage.' 
 
 ' I say that possibly there was. Hew about false names ? 
 It's always the old women one has got to fear most. One must 
 trust them ; they know everything ; they make up what they 
 are not told ; they never die, and they turn up at the wrong 
 moment, just when they are not wan ted, and let it all out. 
 Hamblin, I wish I hadn't stood in with you.' 
 
 ' Hang it, man ! you are not afraid o £ your paltry thousand, 
 are you ?' 
 
 ' Well, if you come to that, a thousand is a thousand, and it 
 takes a mighty long time to make.' 
 
 ' And you stand to win a thousand.' 
 
 'I want to know what this old woman had to tell,' Jack 
 Baker went on doggedly. 
 
 ' Man alive ! Let the old woman go to the devil.' 
 
 But Stephen's cheek continued pale. He was not easy about 
 that old woman. Had the men known that she was plain Mrs. 
 Duncombe, once nurse to Alison, their apprehensions would 
 have been calmed. 
 
 ' Look here, old man,' said Jack, ' let us smooth matters a 
 bit. Why not make it a friendly suit ? Hang it ! if I had a 
 month's start I would prove a marriage somehow, if it was only 
 a Scotch marriage.' 
 
 ' Too late, Jack,' said Stephen. ' We have had one row. I 
 got into a rage, and so did she. She's got a temper like mine — 
 -.jot it from her grandmother. These things very often pass 
 jver part of a generation. The temper passed over her father. 
 She reminded me of my mother. Gad ! what blazing rows we 
 used to have in the old days !'
 
 202 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Come, Hamblin. I will make a little compromise with you. 
 Make it up. if you can, with the girl. If things go against you, 
 you can then get my thousand out of her, with whatever you 
 want for yourself. Your own affairs may be straighter then, 
 no doubt.' 
 
 ' Oh, my own affairs — yes — yes. They are pulling round,' 
 said Stephen, forcing a smile. 
 
 ' Very well, then. If the thing goes in your favour, you can 
 let all the world see what a magnanimous creature you've been. 
 Don't you see ? If the worst happens, you can always reckon 
 on getting a slice of the cake ; if the best, then it will be all in 
 your own hands, to do what you please with.' 
 
 ' I think you are right,' said Stephen, with an effort. ' I am 
 sure you are right. Jack. I ought never to have quarrelled 
 with the little spitfire, but she would have it. We always did 
 hate each other, you know. I wonder if she ever suspected 
 what I knew. Perhaps she did. Girls are more craft} r than 
 anyone who doesn't know the nature of women would believe 
 possible.' 
 
 He got up and found writing materials. 
 
 ' I suppose it will be better to write to her than to call upon 
 her. Yes, certainly better. I used to be able to pitch a very 
 decent letter in the old days. Let me try my hand again.' 
 
 This letter took him some time to write. He wrote it. in 
 fact, at least three times, and even then he was not satisfied 
 with it. At last he brought the third draft to his friend, and 
 submitted it for consideration. 
 
 ' Listen, Jack,' he said. ' I think this will do as well as a longer 
 letter. Of course, we shall keep a copy, and send one to the 
 cousins. 
 
 ' " My dear Alison, 
 
 ' " I have for some time been trying to write to you. 
 The memory of hard words, and perhaps bitter thoughts, on 
 one or the other side, has hitherto prevented me. I have no 
 desire to excuse myself. In fact, I can find no excuse. My 
 unfortunate temper alone is to blame. To that, and to that 
 alone, I would ascribe the misfortune that I have been made to 
 appear to you in a light of hostility " ' 
 
 ' Don't like that,' said Jack, slowly ; ' say " made me assume, 
 apparently, an attitude of hostility." ' 
 
 ' Think so ? Yes. Perhaps that will be better.' Stephen 
 made the correction in pencil. ' " Made me assume an apparent 
 attitude of hostility. Nothing, really, was farther from my 
 thoughts, my wish, or my intention. Will you do me the 
 justice of believing that I, for my own part, am most anxious, 
 most desirous, to do my utmost to prove the truth, that you
 
 STEPHEN SENDS AN AMBASSADOR. 203 
 
 may rely upon my most sincere co-operation in any serious 
 effort to ascertain the truth ; and that, in the discovery of any 
 fact which may convince me, yourself, and our cousins of your 
 title to the estate, I am ready to withdraw my claim at once. 
 I beg you to believe that I should refuse to take any advantage 
 of legal technicalities. At the same time, in justice to my own 
 birth, to my position, to my brother's position, I ask that the 
 truth should be fairly and fearlessly investigated. The future 
 of the Hamblin House must not be open to the questions or the 
 doubts of any who wish to throw a stone, or cast a slur. I am 
 aware, very sorrowfully I own it, that the investigation which 
 I ask — it is all I ask — may possibly prove disastrous to yourself. 
 At all events, you are a Hamblin. You would not wish to be 
 rich at the expense of others, whose right you were usurping ? 
 
 ' " For the moment, I think I had better not attempt to see 
 you. I send you this letter by the hand of a personal friend, 
 Mr. Bunter Baker." ' 
 
 ' Hallo !' cried Jack ; ' I say, you don't mean me to take it ?' 
 
 '"Who will be able, I trust,"' Stephen read on quickly, 
 '"to persuade you, as I, with my unhappy impetuosity, am 
 unable to do, that I am a friend and not an enemy, that I am 
 most anxious not to be regarded as an enemy. Sooner or later, 
 this question, which in everybody's mind " ' 
 
 ' I say,' said Jack. ' I suppose it isn't, really ?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Stephen ; ' I don't suppose anybody outside the 
 Hamblin lot troubles his head about it. But, you see, it has 
 been very much in my head, which is the great thing. Where 
 are we ? — " everybody's mind must have been raised. Was it 
 not better that it should be raised by myself, in a spirit of 
 inquiry, without animosity, or would you have preferred that 
 it should be raised later on, perhaps when your children's 
 fortunes might be blighted and their pride brought low ?" ' 
 
 1 That's devilish good,' said Jack. 
 
 ' Yes ; I think I can manage the patter on occasion,' said 
 Stephen. ' Well — " You will be told, perhaps, that my action 
 in the case was dictated by a selfish desire to obtain, wrong- 
 fully, your inheritance. Alison, solemnly, that is not the case. 
 It is quite the contrary. My first thought was in your interest, 
 my first action was for your safety. You have to thank your 
 friends, my cousins, and no others, for the turn that has been 
 given to the thing. Read this carefully, and if you find any 
 point or points of objection, do not be satisfied with the counsel 
 of your present advisers, but have the courage and the con- 
 fidence to ask explanations of me 
 
 ' " Your affectionate uncle, 
 
 '" Stephen Hamblin."
 
 204 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 And anyhow, it will show it is an act of kindness on my part. 
 They will think I am not afraid. For that matter,' he added, 
 with a dash of gasconade, ' I am not the least afraid. Let them 
 do their level worst.' 
 
 ' Level worst !' To bid a man do that is to throw the glove 
 in earnest, and to throw it with the superiority of the better 
 position. Jack Baker felt it. He was going as ambassador into 
 the enemy's camp, not with the sneaking consciousness of 
 defeat, but in the proud position of one who holds an olive- 
 branch in one hand, and with the other invites the enemy to 
 do his level worst. He forgot, for the moment, the mysterious 
 old woman whose visit had disquieted him, and he only saw 
 himself clothed in the grandeur of a plenipotentiary, dictating 
 terms to a sulky and plain young woman, easily reduced to 
 reason, and open, like most of her sex, to the influences of 
 terror, respect, and awe, which are induced by the voice, and 
 the presence, and the majesty of a Man ! 
 
 In fact, Jack Baker, armed with this letter, did pay that 
 visit the very next day. He went to Clapham Common in his 
 own private hansom, hoping devoutly that Miss Hamblin might 
 be sitting at the window when he drove to the door. Of 
 course his horse was showy, and his tiger small. Of course, too, 
 he was attired with the greatest magnificence permitted to City 
 men by a very liberal fashion. No young fellow had more gold 
 about him ; no one wore better gloves ; no one was more daring 
 in the matter of neckties ; no one more shiny of hat, neat of 
 boot, or original in waistcoat. To men of this generation very 
 few things are permitted in dress compared with what young 
 men used to be allowed in the good old days when ribbons, lace, 
 gorgeous doublets, slashed sleeves, pearl-embroidered pour- 
 point, silk stockings, sword-belt, sash, diamond buckles, and 
 red-heeled shoes set off to advantage a young fellow who could 
 boast a reasonably fine figure and shapely leg. Yet the present 
 fashion allows something for the imagination to work upon ; 
 and the imagination of Jack Baker, which was not occupied 
 with thoughts of heroic deed, brave saying, or generous emprise, 
 naturally found employment in the invention of new braveries. 
 He was still, though now past thirty, on that level of civilization 
 where men take the same view of maidens as the peacock takes 
 of the peahens, and imagine that, by spreading gorgeous 
 plumage, and strutting with braggart air, they can awaken the 
 admiration of the weaker sex. 
 
 He expected to be received by a small, timid girl, who might 
 possibly show temper, but who would begin, at least, by being 
 enormously afraid of him. This was unfortunate at the outset. 
 He was unprepared, too, for the magnificence of the house, 
 which surpassed anything of which he had ever dreamed. The
 
 STEPHEN SENDS AN AMBASSADOR. 205 
 
 private houses of rich men and gentlemen were not, as a rule, 
 thrown open to this successful speculator in silk. A club 
 drawing-room was Jack's most exalted idea of a well-furnished 
 apartment. 
 
 He was shown into the study, whither in a few moments 
 Alison came to him. And then Jack's cheek paled, and his 
 heart sank, for, instead of the insignificant and spiteful little 
 animal he had dreamed of, the poor creature whom Stephen 
 Hamblin generally spoke of as ' that little devil,' there stood 
 before him a young lady, whose beauty, dignity, and self-posses- 
 sion overwhelmed him and crushed him. 
 
 She bowed and looked again at the card : 'Mr. J. Bunter 
 Baker.' It is the day of double names. Smith is nothing unless 
 he is differentiated by a prasnomen other than the Christian 
 name. Jones belongs to the Porkington Joneses. Jack Baker, 
 as we have seen already, on arriving at success, remembered that 
 he, too, had a second name, given him by his godfather, a most 
 respectable clerk in a wholesale tea- warehouse. Mr. Bunter was 
 now no more, but his name served to give his godson additional 
 importance, and in his own eyes, at least, to elevate him in the 
 social scale. 
 
 ' " Mr. J. Bunter Baker,"' she repeated. 
 
 ' I — I am Mr. Bunter Baker,' he replied. 
 
 Here he was so unlucky as to drop his hat, which, on recover- 
 ing, he placed on the table. 
 
 ' May I ask, Mr. Baker,' she went on, ' what is the meaning of 
 your visit ?' 
 
 ' I come,' he replied, ' with a letter to you from Mr. Stephen 
 Hamblin.' 
 
 1 My uncle can have nothing to write to me,' said Alison, ' that 
 I would wish to hear. I cannot receive any communications from 
 him. Is that all you have to say to me ?' 
 
 Jack Baker began to wish he had not consented to act as am- 
 bassador. But he plucked up courage. 
 
 ' My friend, Miss Hamblin,' he said, ' who is a gentleman of 
 extraordinary sensitive nature, as perhaps you know, has been 
 rendered extremely unhappy by the position in which he finds 
 himself unavoidably placed towards you.' 
 
 ' Why !' cried Alison, ' he has deliberately insulted the 
 memory and character of my father. Unavoidably V 
 
 1 There were reasons, Miss Hamblin,' Jack went on, trying to 
 speak grandly, ' why he was bound to go on against his wish. 
 Had his cousins listened to him at the outset, there would have 
 been probably no publicity — no litigation.' 
 
 ' I know nothing of any motives,' said Alison ; ' I judge only 
 by his actions. My uncle is my enemy. I want to have no com-
 
 2 o6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 munication of any kind with him. I mistrust him, and I sus- 
 pect him.' 
 
 ' At least, you will read his letter ?' Jack produced it, and 
 tendered it with a winning smile. But Alison was very far from 
 thinking of his manner of smiling. ' Do not let me go away and 
 tell my friend, Mr. Stephen Hamblin, that you refused to receive 
 a letter from him, even after I told you that it was conciliatory.' 
 
 ' Conciliatory !' she echoed, ' as if I did not well to be angry. 
 Well, sir, I will read your letter.' 
 
 She took it, and sat down without inviting her visitor to take 
 a chair, which was rude. Jack, therefore, remained standing. 
 He felt conscious that he was not looking to advantage. To 
 stand without your hat in your hands, without the aid even of an 
 umbrella or walking-stick, before a lady, while she reads a letter, 
 makes one feel like a schoolboy about to say a lesson which he 
 does not know. 
 
 ' He offers,' says Alison, ' to withdraw his claim, as soon as 
 anything has been discovered which will convince him that he is 
 wrong. That is very noble in him, considering that we shall force 
 him to withdraw as soon as that has been discovered. Why did 
 he write me this letter, sir ? You say you are his friend. Have 
 you seen the letter ?' 
 
 ' I have. I think it is a most friendly letter. Nothing could 
 be more so, I am sure ; most creditable to the writer.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Why did he write it ?' 
 
 ' Pure good feeling,' said Jack. ' He is a man of wonderful 
 good feeling ; that, when you come to think of it, is his strong 
 point.' 
 
 ' Why did he write it ?' asked Alison again, but this time of 
 herself ; ' what does he expect to get by writing it ?' 
 
 ' What can he get ?' said the ambassador, craftily. ' He knows 
 very well that the estate is as good as his own already. He wants 
 to make friends with you.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to him,' replied Alison ; ' I can never be 
 friends with him. He is, and will always be, my most bitter 
 enemy. My only hope is that I may never again see him, never 
 again speak to him.' 
 
 ' Now that's very hard,' said Jack. ' And what is the good of 
 standing in your own light ? Why, I look on this letter — 
 though he didn't say so, mind, and it's entirely between you and 
 me, and not to go any farther ' — he really, Alison thought, was 
 a most vulgar young man — ' as the foundation of a friendly 
 arrangement.' 
 
 ' I will consent to no friendly arrangement.' 
 
 ' We will suppose for a moment,' continued Jack, gradually 
 feeling his way, ' that my friend Mr. Stephen Hamblin is
 
 STEPHEN SENDS AN A MB ASS A DOR. 207 
 
 anxious to put an end to this unnatural contest between two 
 very near relations.' 
 
 1 It is very easy for him to put an end to it,' said Alison ; ' he 
 has only to withdraw his pretensions. He has only to cease in- 
 sulting my father's memory.' 
 
 ' Pardon me. That is not at all his intention or his object. 
 You are a lady, Miss Hamblin, and you do not feel, as men do, 
 the necessity of securing for every man his right. Prove your 
 right, and Stephen Hamblin retires. Until you do, he is the 
 heir-at-law. But ' — he raised his finger, for Alison was going to 
 burst in with an indignant denial — ' suppose that he was to meet 
 you half-way. Suppose that he was ready to say, " Let us 
 arrange this dispute. Let your friends agree upon a present 
 settlement for you. Let me succeed without opposition : I shall 
 not marry ; you will be my sole heiress." Now, could anything 
 be more agreeable and comfortable for all parties ?' 
 
 Alison rose. 
 
 ' This is quite idle,' she said grandly ; ' I will make no such 
 arrangement.' 
 
 Jack Baker confessed to himself on the spot, that all his 
 previously conceived ideas of feminine beauty would have to 
 be modified. He had never seen anyone at all comparable with 
 this magnificently beautiful creature on the stage, which, in com- 
 mon with many young City men, he confidently believed to be 
 the natural home and harbour of the highest types of English 
 beauty ; nor behind the bar, where those fair ones who cannot 
 play burlesques delight to display their loveliness for all to 
 behold who possess the ' price of half a pint.' Nor could any 
 music-hall in London show such a face, such deep black eyes, 
 such splendid black hair, such lips, such a warm rosy cheek, such 
 a figure. It was a new lesson for him ; he felt an unaccustomed 
 glow about the pericardium ; a yearning all over ; a conscious- 
 ness of higher things than he had as yet imagined ; a sudden 
 weariness of Topsy and Lottie, and their drink-dispensing 
 friends : he choked ; he blushed ; he stammered ; he was 
 penetrated with the majesty of a beauty far beyond his dreams ; 
 he was so deeply struck with the shock of this revelation that 
 he actually forgot himself and his own peacockery. Then he 
 suddenly remembered his mission. 
 
 • Surely,' he pleaded, with a last effort, ' surely it would be 
 better to come to an arrangement than to carry on a long and 
 fruitless opposition. It can't do anybody good : nothing will 
 come of it, except disappointment. All this time they've been 
 searching and advertising, and offering rewards — and what's 
 come ? Nothing.' 
 
 He puts this out as a feeler, but Alison's face showed no 
 change, so that he was sure nothing had been found.
 
 2o8 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Not the least discovery, has there now ?' 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 ' Why, if we could have a little agreement come to, all your 
 troubles would stop at once.' 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Alison. ' On the contrary, all the trouble 
 would begin. You cannot understand, I suppose, that my 
 father's honour is dear to me. My Uncle Stephen cannot under- 
 stand. Nothing, nothing !' — she stamped with her foot and 
 looked so resolute that Jack trembled — ' nothing would ever 
 persuade me to sacrifice the good name of my father. I will 
 make no such bargain as you suggest. I would rather, believe 
 me. sir, I would far rather go out from this house a beggar.' 
 
 Her black eyes burned with so fierce a light, and her lips were 
 set so firm after she said this, that the ambassador felt sin- 
 gularly small. 
 
 ' In that case,' he said, ' I have nothing more to say. You 
 quite understand that this last proposal is my own suggestion, 
 not Mr. Hamblin's, though I am quite satisfied of his desire to 
 be on good terms with his niece and to benefit her.' 
 
 ' That I do not believe,' said Alison. ' Good-morning, sir.' 
 
 She looked superb. Jack Baker thought of his own balance 
 at the bank and his ventures on the high seas, and took heart. 
 
 ' In any case, Miss Hamblin,' he said, with an ingratiating 
 smile, ' I am not my principal in this affair, and I hope you will 
 not consider me as rowing in the same boat with him. Of 
 course, I can hardly discuss his conduct with you, as he is my 
 friend. But I cannot, I am sure, regret it, since it has enabled 
 me to introduce myself to a young lady who — I must say — 
 
 who ' Here he broke down, because she stared at him with 
 
 cold and wondering eyes. ' And I hope, Miss Hamblin, that 
 when we meet in the City — I mean in the streets, and in society, 
 and at dinners, and so on, that you will let me consider myself 
 a friend. And if I might be permitted to call again ' 
 
 ' Sir !' The tone of her voice froze him. ' I have already 
 wished you good-morning. Stay ! you may tell your principal, 
 as you call him, that I have torn up his letter.' 
 
 She did so, in fact. No actress on the stage ever did a little 
 piece of business more effectively, because it was done so 
 quietly. 
 
 The fragments of the letter lay at his feet. 
 
 ' Humph !' said Jack, doubtfully. ' Well, we've taken the 
 precaution to keep a copy. That will be proof of our intentions. 
 6WZ-morning, Miss Hamblin ;' he bowed in his very best style. 
 ' I would meet with another failure, willingly, for the pleasure 
 of seeing you again.' 
 
 He smiled his sweetest, while she looked at him in speechless 
 indignation. What did the man mean ? When she had found
 
 STEPHEN SENDS AN AMBASSADOR. 209 
 
 some words in which to express her sense of his impertinence, 
 he was gone. 
 
 ' Now,' murmured Jack the experienced, ' if it was any of the 
 bar lot, I should understand that standoffishness. I'm up to 
 their gag, anyhow. They'd like to get the chance of Mr. J. 
 Bunter Baker, wouldn't they ? Just. But with a bit o' muslin 
 like this Hamblin girl, I suppose it's different. Perhaps I took 
 her a little aback at first, though she can't really mean that she 
 don't want to see me again. Gad ! that's too ridiculous. A 
 girl's a girl, all the world over. And it must be mighty dull 
 down here, all by herself. I'll find another opportunity and 
 call again. Give her line for a bit, J. double-B.' 
 
 He sought the shelter of his cab, and drove back to town, 
 seeking solace for his wounded heart in cigars. And in the 
 evening he met Stephen at the club, and they dined together. 
 Jack was radiant and boisterous. 
 
 ' By Jupiter Omnipotent and Christopher Columbus !' he 
 cried, in an ecstasy. ' You never told me what she is like — that 
 niece of yours, Hamblin. Kept it for a surprise. She's splen- 
 did, she is : she's magnificent : she's a goddess, that's what she 
 is. Hang me if she isn't a goddess ! And you to call that 
 gorgeous creature a little devil ! Little ? why, she's five feet 
 eight if she's an inch. And her face, and her figure ! Come, 
 Hamblin, I can make allowance for the feelings of a man who 
 has anyone standing between him and such an almighty pile ; 
 but "little devil" -I say— it really is — Here, waiter 1' this 
 young man habitually bawled as loudly in a club dining-room 
 as he had been accustomed to do in City shilling dining-places 
 years before. ' Waiter, come here. Bring me a bottle of Perrier 
 Jouet sec— not the Tres sec. It's the least I can do for her, to 
 drink her health in Perrier Jouet.' 
 
 1 1 suppose uncles are not expected to fall in love with their 
 nieces,' said Stephen, carelessly. ' I never said that Alison was 
 ugly or small.' 
 
 ' You called her a little devil, that's all I know. Well, old 
 man, here's her jolly good health and a lover, and I shouldn't 
 mind if it was me, J. double-B., yours truly.' 
 
 ' Well ' — Stephen listened with natural impatience to this 
 enthusiasm — ' well, how did you get on, and what did she say ?' 
 
 • No use, my boy, thinking of anything friendly in that quarter. 
 But keep your copy of the letter, which may be useful later on. 
 I did my best for you : I said you were a man of the most 
 sensitive feelings — ho! ho! — and I said that you were most 
 unhappy about the position you had been obliged to assume — 
 ha ! ha ! Might just as well have tried the hostile line, because 
 she's as savage as Bhe is beautiful. She will want a man, not a 
 thread-paper, for a husband, that girl. J. double-B. would 
 
 14
 
 zio THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 about meet the case. I think. By the way, I found out one 
 thing ; whoever the old woman was who called at their office. 
 they haven't made any discovery yet.' 
 
 • If she won't be friendly, she needn't,' said Stephen. ' Any- 
 how, I've done the regular thing, and it will be worse for her in 
 the long-run. Let her go to ' 
 
 ' No, Hambhn : don't couple any more the name of such an 
 angelic creature with that of the devil I wonder what you 
 ■were like before the thatch came off your pretty brows ? She 
 reminded me of you at once. Here's her health again, and if 
 there was any better wine in the club, I would drink it in 
 
 that." 
 
 ' She takes after my mother, the Sefiora,' said Stephen. ' All 
 the Hamblins are like each other : but she has got her grand- 
 mother's complexion, like me. She can't help being like me, 
 though she would rather not, I dare say. Let her go, Jack.' 
 
 News came, presently, to the cousinhood that Stephen had 
 written a letter, and had hinted at an arrangement. The family 
 were divided in opinion. For while some thought that Ah son 
 showed the proper Hamblin spirit in rejecting all overtures 
 short of absolute submission, others thought that perhaps she 
 had no right to possess any portion of the Hamblin spirit at all, 
 until ' things ' were proved ; so that, in fact, the refusal to- 
 make any compromise was a sort of impertinence in her. 
 Undoubtedly the feeling was growing stronger in the family 
 that Stephen was very likely right. Gilbert Yorke. however, 
 agreed with Alison that a compromise was an impossibility. 
 It was remarkable, considering that she was so resolute never 
 to marry unless her father's name was cleared, how Alison 
 comforted and guided herself by the opinion of this young 
 man. 
 
 But his vision of perfect beauty abided with Jack Baker, so 
 that he began to feel how conversation at bars, admiration of 
 actresses, talk about ballet people, might all lose their charm, 
 compared with the society of the one perfect woman he had ever 
 seen. Perhaps it was as well for Gilbert Yorke's tranquillity 
 that he could not tell how this rising young City merchant 
 thought more about Alison than his speculations, more about her 
 deep dark eyes than about his silks.
 
 THE INSTRUMENT, 21 i 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 HOW MISS NETHERSOLE BECAME AN INSTRUMENT'. 
 
 Now while Gilbert and Alderney Codd were floundering in the 
 dark, groping here and there with uncertain steps and finding 
 nothing ; while Mr. Theodore Bragge was ' following up ' one 
 clue after another, and asking continually for more cheques ; 
 while Nicolas was hugging to his bosom the new and delightful 
 secret with which he intended one day to make such a coup as 
 would make the ears of them who heard of it tingle, and set 
 the hearts of all boys, wherever the English tongue is spoken, 
 aflame ; while the partners were doubtful and despondent ; 
 while the cousins daily became as uncertain over the event as 
 the English public once were over the identity of a certain 
 claimant, Miss Nethersole, this time an instrument without 
 knowing it, voluntarily communicated the very fact which they 
 were all anxious to find. 
 
 We have seen how this lady, her enemy being dead, and her 
 lawyer stubbornly refusing to ask for the indictment of a dead 
 man, betook herself to her country villa, and sat down to enjoy 
 comfortably the settled gloom which may arise in woman's 
 heart equally from love, disappointment, or the baffling of re- 
 venge. The forgeries were put away with her plate in a box 
 which for greater safety she kept screwed to the floor under 
 her own bed. And for a time she submitted herself to the in, 
 evitable, and tried to be resigned under the Ruling which had 
 torn her enemy from her grasp. 
 
 You cannot, to be sure, execute any revenge upon a dead 
 man which shall have the true flavour about it. You may — as 
 many great monarchs, gourmets in revenge, have done — hang up 
 the limbs, cut into neat joints, upon gibbets, or stick them on 
 pikes, or paint them beautifully with tar, and then sling them 
 up with chains on a gibbet to dangle in the wind ; and yet, 
 after all, nothing satisfies. You may gaze with pleasure on the 
 gallows-tree, but there is always the uneasy feeling that the 
 man himself, who has joined the majority, may be laughing at 
 you all the while. Miss Nethersole would perhaps have liked, 
 could she be persuaded that it was a Christian thing, to have 
 decorated Temple Bar with Anthony Hamblin in bits. I mean 
 that her bitterness was so savage, so deeply rooted, that she 
 would have caught at any chance of satisfying the hunger of 
 her soul. She was a woman who, on this subject, was raging. 
 
 14—2
 
 212 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 This man had robbed her of her sister, and of her money. 
 Worse than that, he had robbed her of her heart. She was no 
 older than he. When he came to Newbury she was still young, 
 two-and-thirty or so ; he was handsome ; he was gentle in his 
 manner, courteous and attentive ; she had not had many oppor- 
 tunities of meeting such a gallant gentleman, this daughter of 
 a successful Nonconformist tradesman : she mistook his polite- 
 ness for something more real, and because he was deferent and 
 courteous, she thought he was in love. She was not hard- 
 featured in those days, nor hard-minded ; the honey in her 
 nature still predominated over the vinegar ; and although her 
 oval face was rather thin, and her chin a little pointed, she was 
 not yet without womanly charms. It was not absurd for her 
 to suppose that she might be loved by man— when is it so late 
 as to be absurd ? She was deceived in the most cruel way, sho 
 said. The man began by making love to her, and then came 
 and asked for her sister — this chit of eighteen, more than a 
 dozen years younger than himself. That wrong, though she 
 did not say so, was harder to forgive than the other two. Money 
 she might be robbed of ; she might even lose her sister, and vet 
 in time get over both those losses. But the contempt of her- 
 self, the quiet way in which the man, when he at length com- 
 prehended her interpretation of his suit, put it aside courteously, 
 and yet as if it were absurd — these were things which could 
 never be forgotten. 
 
 Twenty years ago ? Why, the whole scene was as fresh in 
 her mind as if it had been yesterday. Twenty years ago ? Why 
 it seemed not a week since ; when the man left her, she locked 
 the door and gave way to that fit of despairing wrath and 
 sorrow which had been ever afterwards the great sin of her life 
 to look back upon, and yet it was not repented. 
 
 Seeing, therefore, the manifest impossibility of getting any 
 pleasantness out of revenge upon a dead man, Miss Nethersole 
 at first collapsed altogether : nor was it till many weeks after- 
 wards that a thought came to her which went straight to her 
 very heart and remained there, growing daily stronger, and 
 taking every day more definite shape. Why, she thought, 
 should she lose the money she had paid on the forged receipts ? 
 There were six of them. Their dates were twenty, nineteen, 
 down to fifteen years old. Each one was worth, at compound 
 interest, more than double the amount it represented. Say 
 only double. There was a sum of two thousand pounds, at 
 least, waiting for her. She had only to ask it. That meant 
 an increase to her income of eighty pounds a year. Surely it 
 would be a flying in the face of Providence, and a despising 
 of gifts, were that sum suffered to be lost or thrown into the 
 capacious coffers of the Hamblins.
 
 THE INSTRUMENT. 213 
 
 And then, by going to the office of the firm, by merely claim- 
 ing it, she would be able to inform the family of the deceased 
 forger what manner of man the head of the House had been. 
 
 ' It is a Christian duty,' she said, persuading herself. 
 
 Perhaps it was ; but it took her several weeks before she 
 could resolve on actually carrying the project into execution. 
 Finally, she arrived at the desired pitch of resolution, and came 
 up to town by herself, bringing her precious irieces de conviction 
 with her. 
 
 She consulted her solicitor, but more as a matter of form, 
 because she expected little of a low-spirited caitiff who had re- 
 fused to ask the magistrates for a warrant because the criminal 
 was dead. She was right. He behaved in the meanest manner 
 possible ; there was nothing vigorous about the man. After 
 all, as she found afterwards, he was only a member of the 
 Establishment. What could be expected from a hanger on to 
 that dry branch ? 
 
 ' The man is dead,' said this creature of compromises. ' You 
 can have no revenge out of him. You cannot even prove, after 
 this lapse of time, that the papers are written by him. Even 
 if the first part, the form of receipt, was written by him, you 
 cannot prove that the signature is his. To me the signature 
 looks genuine. The money was paid over the counter. Who 
 is to say, after fourteen years, who received it ? All the good 
 you will get, Miss Nethersole, by proceeding in this ungrateful 
 and thankless business, will be the character of a vindictive 
 woman.' 
 
 ' What does that matter,' she replied, ' provided I can show 
 him to the world as he was ?' 
 
 She looked thinner, harder, more determined than ever. The 
 death of the enemy, the solicitor thought, had only intensified her 
 desire for revenge. 
 
 ' Just so,' said the man of law. ' But suppose you only succeed 
 in showing him to the world as the world has always accepted him, 
 and in showing yourself as a revengeful person endeavouring by 
 every means, fair or foul, to compass the disgrace of an honourable 
 name ?' 
 
 She closed her thin lips more tightly together. 
 
 ' I am vindictive,' she said ; ' I am revengeful, because I wish 
 to vindicate the memory of my sister ' 
 
 ' 13y blackening the memory of her husband. Pardon me, 
 Miss Nethersole ; but I am unable to enter into those curious 
 subtleties, by which you distinguish the duties of a Christian 
 from that of the avenger of a blood-feud. I cannot act for you 
 in this matter. I must, I fear, request you to find another 
 itor. 1 wish you a good-morning.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole closed her black bag with a snap and went
 
 2 1 4 THE SEAM Y SIDE. 
 
 away. But she was not vanquished. A woman who has lived 
 and acted herself for thirty years is not to be moved out of her 
 course by the disapproval of a solicitor. 
 
 What did she want with a solicitor ? She could very well act 
 alone ; she knew what she had to do, and she could do it, she 
 thought, better without a lawyer's aid than with one. Acting 
 alone, too, she could act quickly. 
 
 She was staying at the Queen's Hotel, St. Martin's le Grand, 
 a central place, well removed from the soul-destroying gaieties 
 of the West, and within access of several faithful chapels. She 
 returned to the room, sat down for awhile to collect her thoughts, 
 and presently, after a cup of tea, which brought back her courage 
 together with her vindictiveness, she made hard her upper lips, 
 and set out for Great St. Simon Apostle. It was then five o'clock 
 in the afternoon. The clerks were putting things together ; the 
 porters and servants were yawning, expectant of the close of 
 day ; the two partners, Augustus and William, were talking to- 
 gether in the room of the former, hats on and umbrellas in hand 
 ready to go, when Miss Nethersole's card was brought in by a 
 clerk in waiting. 
 
 ' Miss Rachel Nethersole, OlivetLodge,' read Augustus. 'Do 
 you know her, Cousin William ?' 
 
 The man of few words shook his head. 
 
 ' Nor I. Ask her, Jennings, what she wants, and whether to- 
 morrow will do ? Another of the replies to our advertisements, 
 I suppose, William, or perhaps a messenger from Mr. Bragge. 
 That man means work, mind you.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole sent up word that to-morrow would not do, 
 and that if the partners refused to hear what she had to say to 
 them confidentially, she would send up the purport of her mes- 
 sage by word of mouth, a course which she advised them not to 
 adopt. 
 
 ' This is a very curious message,' said Augustus. ' It looks 
 like threatening us, William. Is she a young woman, Jennings ?' 
 
 ' Oh dear, sir, no ! Not at all. She looks more than fifty. 
 A lady dressed in black, with a black bag.' 
 
 ' Very odd,' said Augustus, 'extremely odd. Perhaps she is 
 the sister of a young lady who disappeared thirty years ago, a 
 mother — no — that can hardly be.' Augustus glanced at the card. 
 ' Show her up, Jennings. Perhaps she is only a person connected 
 with schools, or guilds, or nunneries, or societies of some kind, 
 in search of donations, which she shall not get.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said William the Silent. 
 
 She was not, however, connected with any begging enterprise 
 whatever, as she quickly showed. She entered the room, looked 
 round, and glared upon the partners in silence.
 
 THE INSTRUMENT. 215 
 
 1 Pray, madam,' asked Augustus, ' will you be kind enough to 
 tell us how we can serve you ?' 
 
 ' You cannot serve me.' 
 
 Then will you be kind enough to tell us what gives us the 
 pleasure of seeing you here ?' 
 
 ' It is no pleasure at all, either for you or for me.' 
 
 ' Really ! Then will you please tell us, at once, who you 
 are?' 
 
 ' I am your late cousin Anthony Hamblin's sister-in-law.' 
 
 Both the partners started, and gazed at her with curiosity. 
 
 'His sister-in-law? Then you must be— you must be the 
 sister of his wife ?' cried Augustus, considering rapidly the 
 meaning of the relationship. ' Permit us, my dear Miss Nether- 
 sole, to make your acquaintance, to shake hands with you. 
 This is my partner and cousin, Mr. "William Hamblin. Anthony's 
 sister-in-law. Good heavens ! The very person, or next to the 
 very person, whom we have been trying to hnd for so long. 
 Are you really aware, madam, how much depends on the proof 
 of this marriage ? Really, this is — this is — this is Providential. 
 Pray, pray, Miss Nethersole, take a chair — pray sit down and let 
 us converse ! Most Providential, I am sure !' 
 
 She obeyed, and sat down. But her eyes were not encouraging. 
 They showed no inclination to respond to the friendly advances 
 of her brother's cousins. 
 
 ' I do not understand compliments. I come to ' 
 
 ' We have been hunting everywhere.' Augustus went on, ' to 
 find out whom Anthony married, /assure you, Miss Nethersole, 
 we have spared no trouble. May I ask, did you come in answer 
 to our advertisements, or did Mr. Bragge ' 
 
 ' Neither, she replied surlily ; ' and as for marriage, he married 
 my sister Dora.' 
 
 ' He married her sister Dora ?' echoed Augustus ; 'he married 
 Miss Dora Nethersole, Cousin William, of — of — of — what town, 
 madam ?' 
 
 ' Of Newbury in Wiltshire.' 
 
 ' Of Newbury in Wiltshire,' he repeated. ' Of course, of 
 Newbury in Wiltshire — we are getting on famously. Why, 
 Miss Nethersole, you have been of more use to us in five minutes 
 than all our advertisements, and circulars, and secret service 
 people, in four months. Anthony Hamblin was married to Dora, 
 Miss Dora Nethersole, of Newbury in Wiltshire. Were you 
 yourself present at the marriage, madam ? But of course you 
 were. No doubt you were a bridesmaid.' 
 
 ' Of course I was not. Mr. Hamblin preferred to elope with 
 my sister. That was his idea of Christian Wedlock. He carried 
 her away with him. Naturally, I never saw her again.' 
 
 ' But you know that they were married '; You have proof
 
 21 6 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 that they were married ? You can tell us where thev were mar- 
 ried V 
 
 ' Sir !' Her voice was more than severe. ' Do I hnow that they 
 were married ? Enow that they were married f You are speak- 
 ing of my sister — my sister, sir.' 
 
 ' That is the reason why I say that you have, no doubt, proof 
 of the marriage. You know where it took place, for instance.' 
 
 ' That is not what I came to speak about,' she replied. ' It is 
 clear to me that your cousin Anthony Hamblin was even more 
 wicked than I believed him to be. It seems now that he hid 
 this marriage from you, his partners.' She looked as if this 
 additional proof of wickedness gratified her beyond measure. 
 
 ' Pardon me,' said Augustus, ' he did tell us, later on, of his 
 marriage ; he informed us that your sister, his wife, was dead. 
 He did not wish to speak of his wife, whose early death, doubt- 
 less, was too recent a sorrow, and we respected his silence. 
 There is no wickedness there, so far as I can understand. You, 
 of course, have no reason to conceal the fact of the marriage. 
 Where did it take place ?' 
 
 ' I do not know,' said Miss Nethersole, simply. 
 
 ' You do not know ?' Both partners stared blankly. ' You 
 do not know ?' 
 
 'I do not !' She pulled the strings of her black bag impa- 
 tiently. ' They eloped.' 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Augustus. ' They eloped, did they ? Can you 
 understand this, William ?' 
 
 The taciturn partner shook his head. Anthony Hamblin 
 elope ! As well expect an archbishop to elope. 
 
 ' They eloped,' she went on, and my sister wrote next day to 
 say that she was married. It was not my business to ask where 
 or when. She had left me, and was no more my sister.' 
 
 ' Where did she write from ?' 
 
 ' From a place called Lulworth, in Dorsetshire.' 
 
 Augustus Hamblin made a note of the place, and waited for 
 more information. 
 
 ' As for the reasons why Anthony Hamblin concealed his 
 marriage,' Miss Nethersole went on, ' I think I can find you, at 
 least, six. They are here.' 
 
 She opened her bag and drew forth a little bundle of papers, 
 carefully tied up. 
 
 From the bundle she extracted half-a-dozen documents, all 
 written on half sheets of note-paper, and on one side. She 
 selected one and handed it across the table to Augustus. 
 
 ' Have the goodness to read that,' she said. 
 
 Augustus read : 
 
 Received, this day, January the first, 18 , of Messrs.
 
 THE INSTRUMENT. 217 
 
 Child and Company, the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds 
 sterling. 
 
 '£150 Os. Od. 
 
 ' Dora Hamblin.' 
 
 The signature, in a sloping Italian hand, ran across a receipt 
 stamp. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Augustus, returning the paper, ' there is 
 nothing remarkable about a stamped and signed receipt.' 
 
 ' Read the next,' she said. 
 
 It was the same as the first, but dated a year later. 
 
 She gave him a third, a fourth, and up to an eighth. Augustus 
 read them all, handed them to his cousin, who also read them, 
 and gave them back to Miss Nethersole. 
 
 ' You looked at the dates ?' she asked, with a wintry smile. 
 The moment of her triumph, such as it was, was about to begin. 
 
 ' We did.' 
 
 ' I paid that hundred and fifty pounds to my sister for eight 
 long years,' she said. ' It was my allowance to her. Her husband 
 starved her, while he took the allowance.' 
 
 ' Anthony Hamblin starved his wife ?' 
 
 ' He neglected her, and starved her. He was a murderer, 
 because she died of hi3 neglect.' 
 
 ' Good heavens !' cried Augustus ; ' do you know what you 
 are saying ?' 
 
 ' He was more than a murderer ; because while my sister 
 died less than two years after her marriage, these drafts were 
 drawn by him, and the signatures forged, for six years later.' 
 
 'Let me look at them again,' said Augustus, with troubled 
 face. 
 
 She handed them across the table, but one by one. They 
 were all in the same handwriting, except the signature. After 
 examining them once more, with greater care, Augustus rose 
 and opened his private safe ; from this he extracted a book, full 
 of letters and papers pasted in, and carefully indexed. He 
 turned over the leaves, found what he wanted, and laid it before 
 bis partner, and one of Miss Nethersole's receipts beside it, 
 without saying a word. 
 
 William looked, compared, nodded. 
 
 Augustus returned the receipt. 
 
 ' Thank you, Miss Nethersole,' he said ; ' we are satisfied that 
 your statement is correct. The papers are forged.' 
 
 ' Anthony Hamblin was the forger.' 
 
 ' Pardon me ; that is quite another affair. How are you 
 going to prove that ?' 
 
 ' How am I going to prove that ?' she sat bolt upright and 
 stared him full in the face. ' Did I not pay the money ?'
 
 2i 8 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Doubtless it was paid for you ! but who received it f 
 
 ' Who should, except Anthony Hamblin himself ?' 
 
 ' But you forget, or perhaps you do not know, that Anthony 
 Hamblin at that time was in the enjoyment of at least twenty 
 thousand pounds a year.' 
 
 Rachel Nethersole was staggered. 
 
 ' Twenty thousand pounds a year ? and he refused my sister 
 more than two pounds a week ! And when I saw him last, and 
 taxed him with the crime, he did not deny it. I went to Clap- 
 ham on purpose to see him : it was the day before he was 
 drowned. I showed him these papers. I informed him that 
 my purpose was to prosecute him criminally. He did not, he 
 could not, deny his guilt ; he had not the impudence to deny it, 
 though he tried to brazen it out.' 
 
 ' He did not deny it ?' 
 
 ' No ; on the contrary, he implored me to pause. He said 
 that consequences, of which I knew nothing, but which I should 
 regret all my life, would follow if I persevered. I left him un- 
 repentant, yet troubled. In this awful attitude of convicted 
 guilt, he was called away the next day.' 
 
 ' This is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard,' said 
 Augustus. ' We do not disbelieve you, Miss Nethersole, but 
 we are convinced that you are mistaken. Anthony Hamblin 
 could not have acknowledged his guilt.' 
 
 ' He did not say, in so many words, " I did forge those sig- 
 natures,' it is true,' said Miss Nethersole ; 'but he acknowledged 
 that he had done it by implication. What did he mean by 
 saying that I did not understand the consequences which would 
 follow ?' 
 
 4 1 do not know,' said Augustus. ' Come, Miss Nethersole, 
 you have clearly been defrauded of this money. It matters 
 nothing, now, whether this dead man did the thing or not. 
 We feel certain that he did not. You will keep your own con- 
 clusions.' 
 
 ' Certainly : that the forger was Anthony Hamblin.' She 
 nodded, and set her thin lips firm. 
 
 ' As you please. I think my partner agrees with me that we 
 ought to buy back these receipts.' 
 
 ' At compound interest,' said the lady. 
 
 ' At compound interest. We are ready to buy them of you 
 to pi'event a scandal. We cannot allow our late partner and 
 cousin to be accused or suspected of such a crime. Besides, 
 there are others to consider. We will buy those papers of you, 
 Miss Nethersole.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' she said. ' Of course the money will be useful 
 to me. It is a large sum to lose. At the same time, if I give
 
 THE INSTRUMENT. 219 
 
 up the papers I give up the proofs of that man's abominable 
 perfidy and wickedness.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' Augustus replied. ' These papers are not proofs 
 at all. You would find it as impossible to prove that it was he 
 who drew the money as that it was he who forged the signa- 
 tures.' 
 
 She was silent, but not convinced. She rose, and put the 
 papers back into her bag. 
 
 ' I will not sell them, then,' she said . ' I will keep them. 
 You would not want to buy them unless it was to screen your 
 late partner. You are deceiving me ; I shall keep them, and I 
 shall bide my time.' 
 
 ' We are not deceiving you, Miss Nethersole. Remember, 
 however, that our offer is always open. We will buy the papers 
 whenever you please to sell them.' 
 
 ' Then I will go,' she said, ' as I came. At least, you know 
 the truth.' 
 
 ' One moment,' said Augustus. ' We may wish to correspond 
 with you. Your address is on this card — Olivet Lodge, New- 
 bury. That will always find you ? Thank you. It occurs to 
 me — perhaps a foolish doubt — that while you were not informed 
 of your sister's place of marriage, you were wrongly informed 
 of her death.' 
 
 ' No.' said Miss Nethersole. ' There, at least, I am on firm 
 ground. Because I have seen her grave. She is buried in 
 Bournemouth cemetery. At her head is a cross with her initials, 
 " D. H.,' and the date of her escape from the tyranny and neg- 
 lect of a seducer, a liar, a forger, and a thief !' 
 
 She shook all over with the vehemence of her wrath. Then 
 she gathered up her bag and her umbrella, laid over her arm the 
 black shawl which completed her costume, and which she always 
 carried as if she were a waiter and the shawl a napkin, and 
 went away without a word of adieu, slamming the door after 
 her. 
 
 ' What a woman !' cried Augustus, with a sigh of relief. 
 ' And now, William, what are we to make of it ?' 
 
 ' No doubt about the handwriting,' said William. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 HOW ALISON REMEMBERED A MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 Rachel NETHERSOLE was gone, and the partners, left alone, 
 held long and serious counsel. It seemed best, on the whole, to
 
 22o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 send for Gilbert Yorke and tell him everything, except one 
 thing, which the cousins kept to themselves, the secret of the 
 handwriting. Mr. Theodore Bragge was busy ' following up a 
 clue ' of his own. In fact, he was at the moment exchanging 
 ideas on current politics with a friend in a Fleet Street tavern. 
 Alderney Codd. the most diligent of workers, was hunting down 
 strange Hamblins, no relations at all, into queer dens and cribs, 
 where they generally assailed him with demands of backsheesh. 
 Gilbert Yorke was the most trustworthy agent, and they sent 
 for him and told him all that they had learned from Miss 
 Nethersole. 
 
 ' What we have actually learned,' said Augustus, is the name 
 of Anthony's wife, the statement made by her of an actual mar- 
 riage, the place where she lived, and the place and date of her 
 death. It will be your duty to visit these places, to find out 
 anything that can be learned further ; and, if possible, to ascer- 
 tain the place of marriage, whether under a false name or not. 
 Should you like Alderney Codd to go with you, or instead of 
 you?' 
 
 The young man blushed ingenuously. Should he surrender 
 to Alderney Codd any portion of the glory and pride of re- 
 covering Alison's name ? 
 
 ' There is another thing. Miss Nethersole does not seem to 
 know that there was any issue of the marriage. You may call 
 upon her after your investigations, and tell her of the child, of 
 Alison. You will find her bitter against the memory of Anthony, 
 and she will show you some receipts. I think that Yorke should 
 know about the receipts ?' He turned to his partner, who 
 nodded. ' She gave her sister a sum of a hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year ; the sister died two years after marriage ; the 
 money was drawn for eight years.' 
 
 ' But not by Mr. Hamblin.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' Augustus replied with decision, ' certainly not. 
 The receipts are forgeries, but the forging is not his ; of that 
 you may, if you please — but use your own judgment in the 
 matter — assure Miss Nethersole.' 
 
 ' I may tell Alison ?' 
 
 Augustus Hamblin hesitated. 
 
 ' Use your own judgment there as well,' he said at length ; 
 ' but she is to tell no one, not even Mrs. Cridland.' 
 
 This permission granted, Gilbert hastened to Clapham Com- 
 mon with his news. Here, indeed, was a clue. Let Mr. Theo- 
 dore Bragge follow up his clues ; let Alderney Codd run down 
 one Hamblin after another: he had the name of the wife ; he 
 knew where she was buried. Alison's mother was found. 
 
 He found her in the garden among the flowers ; it was a quiet 
 morning in very early June. The lilacs and laburnums were
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT. 22I 
 
 still in full blossom ; the earlier and old-fashioned flowers — the 
 wall-flowers, London-pride, polyanthus, columbine — were in 
 their first pride and glory ; the turf was crisp and fresh. The 
 garden was quiet, young Nick having not yet returned from 
 school. Not far off a man was sharpening something on a 
 wheel, and the monotonous sound made one think of the road- 
 side and the country. Overhead, larks sang ; in the trees there 
 was a blackbird, a thrush, and a chiff-chaff, besides all sorts of 
 other songsters — a whole choir of songsters, as Addison would 
 have called them. 
 
 ' You here, and so early, Gilbert ?' Alison cried, as her lover 
 sprang across the lawn to greet her. 
 
 ' Yes, Alison ; I have news for you— good news, my dear — 
 the best news— the news you have long wanted to hear.' 
 
 ' Gilbert !' — she clutched his arm with her two hands ; her 
 cheek was very pale, but her lips were firm — ' you know what I 
 want most. Is it — is it that V 
 
 ' It is, Alison. Courage, dear ; we have but one step to take, 
 and all will be cleared up. Meantime, we are certain — mind, we 
 are certain — for we have found your mother.' 
 
 ' My mother,' she murmured, with a strange smile ; ' what does 
 not that mean to most girls ? But to me it means more — for it 
 means my father, too.' 
 
 ' "VVe know,' said Gilbert, ' that he was married ; we have his 
 wife's statement to that effect, the day after they eloped. Yes 
 — one reason why your father wished to keep the marriage 
 secret was, I suppose, because it was a runaway marriage ; and 
 why it was runaway, I cannot tell you. I am going to-day to 
 visit your mother's grave.' 
 
 ' My mother's grave,' she repeated, her dark eyes filling with 
 tears ; ' where is it, Gilbert ? Surely I may go along with 
 you ?' 
 
 Why should she not ? But it was at Bournemouth. 
 
 ' Mrs. Duncombe will come with me,' Alison went on. ' I can 
 be ready in half an hour. Let me go with you, Gilbert !' 
 
 Her preparations took her less than half an hour, and they 
 had time to talk before they started for the train. 
 
 ' Are you happier, dear Alison ?' asked Gilbert. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said ; ' at least, I feel as if I am going to be happier. 
 My faith has been sorely tried, at times, Gilbert. The sky has 
 been dark indeed. I have had sometimes to school myself not 
 to think of him as dishonoured, and yet I have never been able 
 to think of him as dead. It always seems as if one day — some 
 day — the old familiar step will be heard in the hall, and I shall 
 be in bis arms again.' 
 
 Her eyes filled again with the tears that were now so ready 
 to pring.
 
 222 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' And you know, Alison, what this discovery means to me ?' 
 
 ' Hush, Gilbert ! I know,' she said, with her sweet grave way, 
 ' I know, but I must not think of those things now. I have to 
 restore my father's name, to show my cousins, those who would 
 persuade me to make a compromise, that he was no hypocrite, 
 skulking behind a fair reputation. That is what I must think 
 about for the present — that, and the memory of my unknown 
 mother.' 
 
 ' She is known now,' said Gilbert. ' Your mother is known ; 
 you shall stand beside her grave ; you shall see her sister.' 
 
 ' Who is her sister ?' asked Alison, with sudden interest. A 
 dead mother whom she could not remember was like some pale 
 and sorrowful shade of the past, to be contemplated with pity, 
 but yet without suffering ; but a mother's sister — that was 
 tangible ; that was something to bring home to her the reality 
 of a mother. Perhaps, as she was now, so her mother might 
 have been, in the old time. ' Who is her sister ?' she asked. 
 
 ' Her name is Miss Rachel Nethersole,' said he. ' What is 
 the matter, Alison ?' 
 
 For the girl started to her feet with a cry. 
 
 ' Rachel Nethersole !' she repeated ; ' Olivet Lodge ? She is 
 the lady who called the night before — it happened — while we 
 were all singing. Do you remember, Gilbert ? Ah ! no. You 
 would not have noticed it. They brought a card to him, which 
 he dropped when he went out to see her. I picked it up, and 
 gave to him afterwards. Her visit troubled him. He said she 
 revived old and painful memories — they must have been those 
 of his married life and early loss. No wonder he was sad next 
 morning, and strange in his manner.' 
 
 ' Only the night before ?' asked Gilbert. ' And she has never 
 been here since ?' 
 
 ' Never ; but I remember — oh, Gilbert, how foolish I have 
 been ! — that when my father went away he left a manuscript on 
 the table, which she had given him. I took it, and laid it in 
 my own desk, and I forgot all about it till this moment. Wait ! 
 it may tell us all that we want to know.' 
 
 She ran upstairs, and opened her desk, which was full of the 
 little things accumulated by the girl in her progress through 
 life : photographs of her friends, mementoes of the places she 
 had visited, the elementary jewels of her childhood, the silver 
 crosses and little golden lockets given her by her father. Lying 
 on the top of all these things there was the manuscript. As 
 she took it out, her finger caught in a string, and drew out with 
 the paper a little red coral necklace. It was the one thing which 
 connected her with babyhood, the one ornament which Mrs. 
 Duncombe had found upon her neck when Mr. Hamblin brought 
 her, a child of two years old, to Brighton. The necklace, too,
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT. 223 
 
 was old, and some of the beads were broken. It could not have 
 been bought for her, a baby. She carried downstairs both 
 manuscript and coral. 
 
 ' Here is the manuscript,' she said. ' It is marked " Private," 
 but you may read it. And see — here is the one thing which I 
 have received from my mother. You may take it, to show my 
 aunt — Miss Nethersole.' 
 
 Gilbert took both, and placed them in his pocket. 
 
 ' If these are secrets,' he said, ' they shall be safely kept by 
 me. There can be nothing of which your father has cause to 
 be ashamed.' 
 
 He spoke stoutly, but he had misgivings. What was the 
 meaning of this sudden melancholy, caused by a simple visit 
 from his dead wife's sister ? And what were the contents of 
 the paper headed ' Private and Confidential ' ? 
 
 Whatever they were, he put them away for the present. 
 They could wait. Meantime he was going to travel with 
 Alison : to sit beside her for three short hours, to see her for 
 the first time since the day of disaster bright and animated, to 
 find great joy for himself, in the fact that it was himself who 
 had been the messenger of glad tidings. Gilbert was only five- 
 and-twenty or so, he was in love, and since the fatal fourth of 
 January there had been no passages of love possible, only pro- 
 testations on the maiden's part that unless she could bring her 
 lover an unsullied name, she would never come to him at all. 
 These protestations did not present love in its most cheerful 
 and most favourable aspect. 
 
 Mrs. Duncombe was good enough to drop off into a comfort- 
 able and easy sleep in her own corner. She was a lady who 
 ' did ' with a good deal of sleep ; the rumble of the carriage 
 soothed her : and there was a young man with her young lady 
 to take good care of her. 
 
 He did ; he took such good care of her that he held her by 
 the hand the whole way ; he never lost sight of her face for a 
 moment, and he had so much to say that long before he came to 
 the end of his confidences the train had left Southampton far 
 behind, and was running through the green glades of the New 
 Forest ; past the hoary oaks and stretches of coarse grass where 
 the ponies find a rude and rough pasture ; past rural stations 
 planted lonely among the coppice ; past the wild hills and 
 barren heaths of Ringwood ; past the stately minster of Christ 
 Church, and gliding softly into the station of Bournemouth. 
 
 ' It has been such a short journey,' said Gilbert, sighing. 
 
 Alice laughed happily. It was delicious to hear her laugh 
 again ; her spirits had come back to her : away from the old 
 house, so full of sad associations, so troubled with fears, it was 
 possible to remember that one was young, that there was still
 
 224 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 sunshine in the world, and that one had a lover. Moreover, the 
 cloud which had so long hung over her soul had lifted ; her 
 self-abasement and shame were gone, because she had found her 
 mother, even though she found her dead. 
 
 She waited at the hotel while Gilbert went to make search for 
 the first thing, the grave of Dora Hamblin. Presently he came 
 back with a grave set face, very different from that with which 
 he had looked in her eyes all the way from "Waterloo Station. 
 
 ' I have found it, Alison,' he said. ' Come, a surprise awaits 
 you.' 
 
 She walked with him trembling. "What was the surprise ? 
 
 Of all sea- side cities, watering-places, retreats, hospitals, con- 
 valescent houses, or bathing-places, Bournemouth is the most 
 remarkable. There was once a forest of pines. Somebody 
 made a clearing and built a house just as if he was in Canada. 
 Then another man made another clearing and built another 
 house, and so on. The pines stand still between the houses, 
 along the roads, in the gardens, on the hills, and round the town. 
 The air is heavy with the breath of the pine. The sea is nothing ; 
 you are on the sea-shore, but there is no fierce sea-breeze, no 
 curling line of waves, no dash of foam and spray. The waters 
 creep lazily along the beach, and on the pier the fragrance of the 
 pines crushes out the smell of the salt sea. 
 
 When the settlements were cleared, and the houses built, and 
 rows of shops run up, thei*e arose a great unknown genius who 
 said : ' We have slopes, streams, and woods ; we have a town 
 planted in a forest by the sea-side ; let us make a garden in our 
 midst.' And they did so : a garden of Eden. Hither come, 
 when the rest of the world is still battling with the east wind 
 and frost, hollow-cheeked young men and drooping maidens to 
 look for the tree of life in that garden, and to breathe those 
 airs. They do not find that tree, but the air revives them for a 
 while, and they linger on a little longer, and have time to lie in 
 the sunshine and see the flowers come again before they die. 
 This is the city of Youth and Death. Every house amid these 
 pines is sacred to the memory of some long agony, some bitter 
 wrench of parting, some ruthless trampling down of hope and 
 joy. From every house has been poured the gloomy pageant of 
 death, with mourners who followed the bier of the widow's only 
 son, the father's cherished daughter. 
 
 Then that great genius who laid out the garden said : ' They 
 come here to die : let us make death beautiful.' And they did 
 so. They built a church upon a hill ; they left the pines to 
 stand as cypresses ; they ran winding walks and planted flower- 
 ing shrubs ; they put up marble crosses on the graves of the 
 youthful dead ; they brought flowers of every season, and all 
 sorts of trees which are sweet and graceful to look upon ; they
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT. 225 
 
 refused to have any rude and vulgar monuments ; they would 
 have nothing but white marble crosses. Some stand in rows all 
 together on an open slope, bounded and sheltered by the whis- 
 pering pines with saffron-coloured cones ; some stand each in 
 its own little oblong, surrounded by plants and trees, shaded and 
 guarded for ever. They bear the names of those who lie 
 beneath ; they are all of young men and girls : one is twenty- 
 four, one is eighteen, one is twenty. Here and there you find 
 an old man who has stumbled into the graveyard by accident. 
 It jars upon the sense of right ; it is a disgrace for him to have 
 lived till seventy ; he ought not to be here ; he should have been 
 carried five miles away, to the acre where the venerable pile 
 of Christ Church guards the heaped-up dust of thirty genera- 
 tions, and the river runs swiftly below ; but not here, not among 
 the weeping girls and sad-faced boys. Let them all rise together, 
 at the end, this army of young martyrs, with never an old man 
 among them, to find with joyful eyes a fuller life than that from 
 which they were so soon snatched away. 
 
 Thither Gilbert brought Alison. He said nothing, for, in 
 truth, his own heart was filled with the sadness and beauty of 
 the place. He led her up the slope to the most retired part of 
 the churchyard, where the graves, those of twenty years back, 
 were not so close together, and where each had its generous space 
 with amplitude of breadth, such as is accorded to abbots and 
 bishops in cathedrals. Quite at the farthest boundary, where 
 the pines are the thickest, surrounded, too, by silver beeches, 
 stripling oaks, and rhododendrons, stood the cross they came to 
 see ; and behind it were the flowers of summer, tended and 
 cared for as if the poor young mother had never been forgotten 
 by her child. There were only the initials ' D. H.,' with the 
 date of her death and her age. 
 
 Alison sank at the foot of the grave, and Gilbert left her 
 there. 
 
 It was a solemn moment, the most solemn in her life. To 
 kneel beside that grave was in itself an act of thanksgiving and 
 gratitude. For in it lay not only her mother, but the honour of 
 her father. She thought of him more than of the mother whom 
 she had never seen. Her tears fell for him, more than for the 
 young life cut off so early. Was there ever a father so kind, so 
 thoughtful, so untiring in generous and self- denying actions ? 
 Was there ever one so entirely to be loved by a daughter ? And 
 for four months she had been bearing about with her the bitter 
 thought that perhaps this man — this good, religious, and Chris- 
 tian man — was what she never dared to put to herself in words. 
 
 ' But that was all over now,' she said. ' No one henceforth 
 would dare to whisper a word against his sacred memory.' 
 
 And then she sat and tried to realise that, like other girls, she 
 
 15
 
 226 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 could now speak and think of her own mother lying dead at her 
 feet. 
 
 Presently she returned to the hotel, and they passed a quiet, 
 silent evening, walking on the sea-shore, or the pier, while the 
 summer sun went down in splendour, and in the opal breadths 
 of twilight sky they saw the silver curve of the new moon. 
 
 It was no time for love. Alison talked in whispers of her 
 mother ; what she was like ; why her father had kept silence 
 about her. Gilbert listened. The place was very quiet ; in 
 June most of the people have left Bournemouth ; they were 
 alone on the pier ; there was a weight upon both their hearts, 
 and yet the heart of one, at least, was full of gratitude and joy. 
 But needs must that he who stays in the City of Death feels the 
 solemn presence of Azrael. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 
 HOW GILBERT READ THE MANUSCRIPT., 
 
 When Alison left him, Gilbert, after the fashion of his gene- 
 ration, began to soothe his soul with tobacco, on the road which 
 runs along the cliff down to the beach. So far, all promised 
 well : here was the grave of the mother, but where was the 
 proof of her marriage ? Perhaps, after all, his difficulties were 
 only beginning. 
 
 Gilbert was in love. He would have been just as much in 
 love had Alison been penniless ; but it must be owned that to a 
 briefless young barrister, fully alive to the advantages possessed 
 by him who possesses a fortune, the fact of her splendid heri- 
 tage heightened the charms of the young lady, and gave a last- 
 ing stability to his passion. And he could not avoid asking 
 himself what would happen if this fortune were to be with- 
 drawn ? Married love on three hundred a year (which I fear 
 represented the whole of Gilbert Yorke's fortune) would be de- 
 lightful, with Alison for bride, could those superfluities of life 
 which custom has rendered necessary for most of us be abolished. 
 For dinner, a beefsteak and a glass of beer ; for breakfast, tea, 
 stale eggs, cheap butter ; for lunch, a sandwich and a glass of 
 beer : no society, no driving, no silks and pretty things for the 
 wife ; no wine, cigars, new books, pictures, little excursions in 
 the country, stalls at the theatre, or clubs for the husband. To 
 live like a wretched City clerk in a rickety box — one of a thou- 
 sand rickety boxes — somewhere about Brixton or Stockwell. 
 That might be the life.
 
 GILBERT READS THE MANUSCRIPT. 227 
 
 Somehow, the spirit of the place depressed him. He tried to 
 look on things from a more cheerful point of view : he be- 
 thought him that he was young and strong ; he remembered 
 that the whole world was open to him to go where he pleased, 
 and to try his fortune in whatever way should seem possible. 
 They would go together — he and Alison — hand in hand, and 
 buy a farm in Xew Zealand — Canada — somewhere. 
 
 The sunny side of things would not last ; depression and 
 gloom returned ; he went back to the hotel, and gloomily went 
 to bed. 
 
 ' I shall have a good night's rest,' he said, laying h;s head 
 upon the pillow, 'and wake up in better spirits to-morrow.' 
 
 Nothing is easier than to promise one's self a good night's 
 rest ; nothing, however, is more uncertain. There is one man, 
 and only one, who never fails to get it ; he is the man who is 
 going to be hanged early the next morning. Those unfortu- 
 nates — the bulk of mankind — who cannot look forward to a 
 quiet and comfortable execution at break of day, have nothing 
 for it but to meet their pillows with a nightly sense of doubt. 
 
 Generally, Gilbert had no trouble in the matter of sleep ; but 
 to-night he felt strangely restless and wakeful. The excitement 
 of the day, the long talk with Alison, the strange feeling that 
 she was under the same roof with him, kept him awake. And 
 then he thought of the place itself, so full of sorrowful memo- 
 ries, and the churchyard so crowded with those whom Death 
 had called too soon, and ere their prime. 
 
 He went through the usual steps or phases of sleeplessness, 
 trying first one side and then another : anon lying on his back ; 
 heaping up the pillows, and then tossing them aside. The night 
 was profoundly silent ; he could not even hear the murmur of 
 the water as it washed the stones a hundred feet away ; there 
 was no wind in the air ; there was no footfall in the street 
 below ; and he grew more wide awake every moment. At last 
 he sprang up in a rage, and resolved to try the remedy recom- 
 mended by Franklin the Eminent. Benjamin, as everybody 
 knows, recommends the sufferers in such cases to get out of 
 bed, fold back the clothes, smooth the pillow, walk about a little, 
 and then try the pillow again. Gilbert did so : that is, he got 
 out of bed, and began to walk up and down the narrow limits 
 of the room. But it was perfectly dark ; he did not know the 
 position of the furniture ; and when he had barked his elbows, 
 broken his shins, scraped his nose, and blackened one eye by 
 unexpected contact with different pieces of furniture, he finally 
 drove sweet sleep far away by treading on the business end of a 
 small tin-tack. The difficulty and pain of extracting the nail 
 naturally made him more wakeful than ever. He sat upon the 
 bed, and wondered what he should do next. The second remedy, 
 
 15-2
 
 228 THE SEAM Y SIDE. 
 
 first recommended by some anonymous philosopher, is to drink 
 a glass of water and lie down again. He found the carafe, 
 drank half of it, and lay down again. The immediate re- 
 sult of this internal aspersion was to make him feel as if every 
 limb wei*e separately hung upon wires, and either would not, or 
 could not, keep still. When your arms and legs begin to jerk 
 about independently, and without your own control, it is high 
 time to sit up and consider what to do next. Gilbert pacified 
 his limbs by letting them walk about until they agreed to give 
 up independent action. 
 
 The third remedy is perhaps the best and most certain : it is 
 to read very carefully, and with great attention, the dullest book 
 you can find. I keep some of the works of a very eminent 
 modern writer by my own bedside always with that object, and 
 it never fails. In this instance it was impossible, because there 
 were no books in the room. 
 
 There remained the fourth and last remedy known to the 
 acuity. It is to begin counting and go on until you fall 
 asleep. It is currently believed that no one ever yet got as far 
 as a thousand. Gilbert reached twelve hundred and thirty- two, 
 then he stopped in disgust, for it seemed as if he were going to 
 pass the rest of his life in counting. 
 
 So he sat up again and tried to persuade himself that he had 
 got through a good part of the night. 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, there came over him a curious 
 shivering accompanied by a nervous terror, the like of which he 
 had never before experienced. 
 
 I have observed that if you put the question delicately, so as 
 not in any way to hurt a man's self-respect, or arouse a suspicion 
 of ridicule, you will in every case and from every man extort a 
 consession that at some time or place he has been afraid of 
 g Hosts. Remark that I do not say ' feel supernatural terrors ' or 
 any circumlocution of that kind ; I say simply ' afraid of ghosts.' 
 
 Bournemouth is naturally chock full of ghosts. Gilbert had 
 been wandering in the place of tombs ; his thoughts therefore 
 turned to the subject. He was not a man who generally gave 
 much heed to the unseen occupants of the air ; but to-night 
 he felt them, they became importunate, they would not be de- 
 nied. As he sat on the bed in the dark they fanned his cheek 
 and played soft airs upon his hands. 
 
 He thought against his will of those who had come to the 
 place, like Dora Hamblin, to die ; he thought of the multitu- 
 dinous crosses in the cemetery, the graves of young lives cut 
 off in their first promise and early flower ; he thought of the 
 great cloud of sorrow which was for ever enveloping this city 
 of slow Death, like the cloud which day and night hangs over 
 Sheffield.
 
 GILBERT READS THE MANUSCRIPT. 229 
 
 More salutary reflections would have followed, because he 
 was quite in the mood to meditate, ' like anything,' or, like 
 Young. Hervey, and Drelincourt, when he was suddenly arrested 
 by the recollection that there were matches in his pocket, and 
 that he had not yet looked at the manuscript given him by 
 Alison. 
 
 Going gingerly, for fear of another tin-tack point upwards, he 
 found the matches and lit his candle. Every ghost in the room 
 instantly flew away in disgust. Which shows the value of a 
 candle. He then looked for the manuscript in his portmanteau, 
 put the candle on a chair by the bedside, arranged the sheets so 
 that in case of his going to sleep suddenly — a thing which he 
 fully expected to do while reading the paper — the candle would 
 be unable to fall over and set fire to everything. It was Sydney 
 Smith, I think, who anticipated me in calling attention to the 
 malignant behaviour of bedside candles in this respect. 
 
 We know the contents of the manuscript. It was that which 
 Rachel Xethersole had given to Anthony Hamblin. 
 
 Gilbert did not go to sleep suddenly and unexpectedly. On 
 the contrary, he sat up and read the papers through with no 
 abatement of interest to the very end, but, on the other hand, 
 with an excitement which increased until he had fairly finished 
 the last word. Then he laid the papers down on the bed, and, 
 between his lips, cursed the name and the memory of a man. 
 
 Of all men in the world, that Anthony Hamblin should have 
 been so inconceivable a villain ! That he, whom all alike loved 
 to honour and reverence, the very model of a blameless man, 
 should have left in this cruel and heartless manner the poor 
 young wife : that he should have descended to the meanness — 
 he, with his practically boundless wealth — of actually cutting 
 down her miserable weekly allowance — why, it was astounding ; 
 it was beyond all belief and all precedent. 
 
 "When one tried to look the matter fairly in the face, the 
 difficulty was only increased. If a man leads two lives, one for 
 his household and the world, and the other for himself alone, 
 there is always some vague rumour concerning him which gets 
 about, and spreads, as noiselessly as an ivy, around his name. 
 The wife and daughters do not know ; the sons learn something 
 of it, and after passionately denying the thing, sorrowfully 
 accept it ; the outside fringe of cousinhood learn something of 
 it ; it is impossible for a man to conceal altogether his secret 
 vices, because there must be some accomplices whose interest in 
 keeping them secret is not so strong as his own, and whose 
 shame at their discovery would be, perhaps, just nothing at all, 
 a tiling not worth considering. Gilbert was a man who knew 
 the world ; that is, he knew about as much of the seamy side as 
 a young man of five-and-twenty or so, not of vicious habits,
 
 230 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Baturally acquires by conversation and intercourse with his 
 fellows. This kind of knowledge, in fact, is a part of the 
 armour in which we have to fight the battle of life. With many 
 men it does duty for the whole armour of light. 
 
 Had Anthony Hamblin been a man secretly addicted to evil 
 courses, some one would have known it : there would have been 
 a breath upon that shining mirror ; but there was none. And 
 yet the man who at fifty was so admirable in all the relations 
 of life must have been, by plain showing of his own deserted 
 wife, base and mean, at thirty, beyond all belief ! The wonder 
 grew more and more. Could one with any sense of continuity 
 pass back from Anthony Hamblin at fifty, living wholly for the 
 happiness of his daughter, to Anthony Hamblin at thirty, 
 leaving his wife to pine away forgotten and despised, coming to 
 her bedside only at the last moment, when she called him, in 
 despair, when she was dying of neglect and cruelty ? In the 
 case of ordinary sinners one can trace the same man through all 
 his downward course : if he repents and leads a new life, he is 
 still visibly and demonstrably the same man ; but it was im- 
 possible to recognise in the later Anthony Hamblin any resem- 
 blance to the demon of selfishness who, twenty years before, 
 had borne the same name. Gilbert remembered one or two old 
 stories. There was a certain King of Sicily whose body was 
 once occupied by an angel for three whole years, during which 
 all brigands became penitent, the burglar lay down with the 
 policeman, and the jail-bird with the judge. The real king, 
 meantime, went in rags, and got kicked because he was poor. 
 There was another story, too, of a nun who wanted to see the 
 world, and went out of her convent and carried on anyhow for 
 nineteen years, until she repented (being no longer beautiful), 
 and returned (being desperately hard up) to the convent. She 
 naturally thought that in spite of repentance she would catch 
 it, but what was her surprise to find that her absence during 
 all these years had been unknown to the sisters, because an 
 angel had been doing her work and personating her ? So she 
 repented in very truth, and was pardoned, and died in sanctity. 
 
 But this was just a contrary case. The devil had certainly 
 occupied the body of Anthony Hamblin for a time. How did 
 he get in ? By what contract, temptation, or promise, was he 
 admitted ? How long did he stay ? What other devilry did he 
 work? Was there any record of his pranks and villainies? 
 How was he finally got rid of ? Alas ! Anthony Hamblin 
 himself, who alone could reveal this secret, was dead, and the 
 story of the new demoniac could never, therefore, be given to 
 the world in its entirety. For this paper, no doubt, contained 
 but a single episode. 
 
 ' It is wonderful,' said G ilbert,looking round. ' Good heavens !
 
 GILBERT READS THE MANUSCRIPT. 251 
 
 If one had been asked for the name of the most upright, the 
 most kind-hearted, the most unselfish man in London, every 
 one who knew Anthony Hamblin would have named him ; and 
 see what he was ! 
 
 ' Most to be pitied is Alison. She must never know how her 
 idol has been shattered. Kachel Nethersole must not tell her. 
 In comparison with this father of hers, even Black Stephen 
 shows in rosy colours. Poor Alison ! poor child !' 
 
 These were, so to speak, the last words of Anthony himself. 
 
 Just then, the candle, which had been flickering in the socket, 
 suddenly went out. Gilbert rose and pulled up the blind. The 
 day was already breaking, and there was promise of a bright 
 and splendid morning ; he opened the window and breathed the 
 cool air, and then — then— I think — nay, I am sure that he went 
 to sleep, and had a dream, in spite of what he says himself. 
 Because, as for what followed, his own account is silly, as you 
 shall judge for yourselves. 
 
 First of all, it was not dark ; a cloudless night in June is 
 never dark ; then it was not a ghost-like room, but a singularly 
 prosaic and matter-of-fact kind of room, a modern, square, newly 
 built hotel bedroom, and yet to the heated imagination of the 
 young man, it suddenly became full of ghosts. 
 
 Some years ago, there was a controversy about ghosts. A 
 eapient philosopher thought he demolished all but naked ghosts 
 — a very, very small minority, I am happy to say — by the 
 simple axiom that you cannot expect the ghost of a coat, a 
 gown, a pair of gloves, in fact, not the ghost of any article of 
 clothing at the time at all. This maxim was thought so pro- 
 found that men quarrelled as to who was its founder. For my 
 own part, I denied the proposition. I asked for proof, and I 
 put a question which has never yet been answered, and I think 
 it never will. I said, ' Why not ?' 
 
 This bedroom of Gilbert's, as if to demolish the sagacious 
 demolisher of ghosts, became suddenly crammed with ghosts of 
 clothes, furniture, vessels and instruments, men and women. 
 There was a soft light in the room by which you could see 
 clearly through everything belonging to the room, and the hotel 
 had disappeared. 
 
 Before the eyes of the watcher appeared a sofa, on which lay 
 the figure of a girl, young and beautiful, but hollow-eyed, wasted 
 and wan of cheek, with eyes too bright and full, and fingers too 
 fragile. As Gilbert gazed she turned her face towards him. 
 Her eyes were red, because she had been weeping. They were 
 something like the eyes of Alison, but not so dark, and Gilbert 
 knew the spectre for that of Dora Hamblin. 
 
 She was quite alone, deserted, and dying. If one is to die 
 suddenly and swiftly ; if with a single touch Azrael calls us
 
 222 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 away, it is better to be alone ; when one has to die day by 
 day, slowly, to envisager Death while as yet he is afar off, to 
 expect him from morning to morning, to dread him in the 
 night watches, to call faith and fortitude to your help many 
 weeks before the time, it is well to have some one beside you, 
 if it is only to smooth the wasted cheek, and to press with a 
 little sympathy the worn hand. 
 
 Quite alone, deserted by her husband, left to the tender 
 mercies of lodging-house harpies and strangers, reduced to a 
 pittance, dying. Her husband meanwhile earning by his upright 
 walk among his fellow-citizens the character of a blameless^ 
 just, and honourable merchant. 
 
 ' Scoundrel !' thought Gilbert, ' if you were not lying dead at 
 the bottom of the Serpentine, and if Alison were not your 
 daughter, it would be my sacred duty to horse-whip you from 
 Aldgate Pump to Temple Bar.' 
 
 And then he saw her eyes light up, and a look of joy return 
 to her face because Anthony Hamblin was beside her. And the 
 tears were in his eyes, too. 
 
 ' Ah, crocodile !' murmured Gilbert. 
 
 Everything vanished, and Gilbert, rubbing his eyes, found 
 that it was broad daylight, and past six in the morning. Ima- 
 gination had played strange tricks with him. Yet for the rest 
 of his life he will seem to know poor Dora Hamblin, what she- 
 was like, and will remember her, wasted and dying, alone and 
 in tears upon the spectral couch. 
 
 ' Poor Alison !' he thought again. ' What a father to have 
 had!' 
 
 Then he began to think uncomfortably about hereditary pro- 
 clivities. 
 
 ' It must have been the Devil,' he said, ' who had temporary 
 hold of him. And if not, why, she has inherited all his good 
 qualities and none of his bad ones. Children copy what they 
 see. Alison — bless her ! —only saw the virtues which her father 
 easily assumed. She copied them, and is — what he pretended 
 to be. After all, mock-turtle has its uses. It imposes on some, 
 and makes us admire the real thing profoundly.' 
 
 ' What a skeleton for a gentleman's private cupboard !' he 
 murmured. ' When we all thought the righteous man was gone 
 into his study, or closet, as the preachers say, to meditate over 
 his righteousness, by the aid of a choice Havana, and some ex- 
 cellent old brandy, he must have been occupying himself in 
 grimly contemplating this picture of the past, his own cruelty, 
 his desertion, his incredible meanness. I wonder if he repented 
 and went about secretly in sack-cloth with a hair-shirt ; nothing 
 but a hair-shirt with innumerable ends sticking into him would 
 have met his case. And how is one ever to believe in a man
 
 GILBERT READS THE MANUSCRIPT. 233 
 
 again ? Have the archbishops skeletons in their cupboards ? 
 Is there no virtue anywhere ? Is everyone, including myself, 
 capable of deliberate cruelty, treachery, and villainy, only to 
 gratify a whim ? In that case, we had better dismiss the clergy, 
 save all the money we spend on them, pull down the churches, 
 double the police, and give up expecting any good in any man. 
 Human life is truly a wonderful thing. Rien nest sur que Vim- 
 2)revu : every man is what he does not seem ; all the creatures 
 which pretend to be sheep are goats ; we eat leg of goat and 
 call it leg of mutton ; roast quarter of lamb is quarter of wolf ; 
 if Anthony Hamblin was an unsuspected devil, then Black 
 Hamblin is no doubt an unregarded angel. I wonder, by the 
 way, if his Blackness knew about the little establishment at 
 Lulworth ? I should think not. He could not have known ; 
 and yet, he knew Dora. Well— the thing is getting mixed.' 
 
 He dressed himself and went to the beach, where he bathed 
 in the sea, and shook off his nervous terrors. Bat he had passed 
 through one of those nights of which the memory remains green 
 in a man's mind all his life. 
 
 After breakfast he walked with Alison, who, if she had seen 
 any ghosts, did not speak of them, to the churchyard. She 
 walked, this wood-nymph of Clapham Common, with an elasti- 
 city and strength surprising to the residents of Bournemouth. 
 
 On the way they passed a chair, in which sat a young girl 
 pale and weak. By the delicate bloom upon her hectic cheek, 
 by the brightness of her eyes, by the weakness with which she 
 sat, it was evident that the end was not far off. Beside her 
 walked her brother, a lad of twenty, with narrow chest, stoop- 
 ing shoulders, and frequent cough. For him, too, would come 
 a speedy end. 
 
 The poor girl looked at Alison as she passed. She sighed 
 and whispered to her brother : 
 
 ' See, she is young and beautiful ; and she is well ; and she is 
 with her lover. Oh, Charlie ! what have we done — you and I ?' 
 
 What had they done, indeed ? 
 
 Gilbert left Alison at the lych-gate, and went in search of 
 the registrar's office. 
 
 That was easy to find. He gave the date and was shown the 
 entry. 'Dora Hamblin, of consumption !' Dora Hamblin — and 
 here his eye fell upon a word which so startled him that he was 
 fain to grasp the table for support, to rub his eyes, to read 
 again and again, and to ask himself what was the meaning of 
 this new surprise. 
 
 The revelation of the night which would blacken for ever tho 
 memory of a man whom he had worshipped from boyhood, 
 staggered him, but not so much as this new discovery. Could 
 it be a falt>e entry ? Had Anthony, being still in the power of
 
 234 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 the devil, actually added to his former wickedness by deli- 
 berately making a lying statement ? 
 
 He copied it into his pocket-book with as much care as if he 
 wished to preserve a facsimile of the writing, which would not 
 have helped him, because it was the writing of the clerk. And 
 then, turning over the pages again, and referring back to the 
 entry, he closed the book and went away. 
 
 He avoided the hotel, because he wanted to avoid Alison, 
 until he could think quietly over this new discovery. He went 
 away by himself, and sat under the cliff, trying to think what 
 was best to be done. 
 
 At last he resolved upon a course of action. He would say 
 nothing at present about this extraordinary entry, which pro- 
 mised to upset and ruin everything. He would keep it a 
 profound secret. 
 
 He returned to the hotel, and read the manuscript again — 
 twice. 
 
 ' It is wonderful,' he murmured. ' If it is true it is wonderful. 
 But I cannot understand. It cannot be true. And yet — and 
 yet ' 
 
 He laid down the paper, and sought Alison, who was sitting 
 beside her mother's grave, thoughtful and quiet, but not un- 
 happy. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, ' I want you, in the presence of your 
 mother, to renew your engagement to me.' 
 
 She rose, and gave him her hand without a word. Above the 
 grave they kissed each other solemnly. 
 
 ' Alison,' he went on, ' I claim this of you because there is 
 now no doubt that your mother was a wedded wife — poor 
 thing !' 
 
 ' Why do you say " poor thing," Gilbert ?' she asked. 
 ( Because my mother died young ?' 
 
 ' Partly,' he replied. ' But partly because her marriage was 
 not happy. She ran away with your father ; she went with 
 him to a place called Lul worth, not far from here ; they did not 
 agree ; they separated.' 
 
 ' Oh ! how could anyone quarrel with my dear father ?' 
 
 ' He went back to town ; she remained at Lulworth, where 
 you were born. She grew weaker ; they thought of bringing 
 her here for a change ; and here she died. That is most of her 
 story.' 
 
 ' My poor mother ! But, Gilbert, was my father with her ?' 
 
 ' She died, as she wished to die, in the arms of Anthony 
 Hamblin,' Gilbert replied. 
 
 In the afternoon Alison and Mrs. Duncombe went back to 
 town, while Gilbert pursued his way to Lulworth.
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH. 235 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH. 
 
 Bournemouth is within fifteen miles of Lulworth. That is 
 the first reason why it takes longer to get from one of these 
 important centres to the other, than to either from London. 
 You may, I believe, if you get up very early in the morning, 
 manage to travel from Bournemouth to Poole Junction, and 
 from Poole Junction to Wareham, all in one day. But after 
 that you have got to find your way from Wareham to Lulworth, 
 which is quite another thing, and a long journey of eight miles 
 by itself, and may require a second day. It is like a pilgrimage 
 from Bayswater to Highgate. A cab will take you there in 
 half an hour. The rapid locomotive will whirl you there, 
 breathless, as they used to say forty years ago, in four hours 
 and a half, allowing for changes, and for waiting at Willesden 
 Junction, where the directors feel it their duty to detain all 
 passengers for at least three quarters of an hour. 
 
 Gilbert got over the difficulty of the trains by travelling after 
 the manner of our grandfathers. He posted, at the expense of 
 Anthony Hamblin and Company. 
 
 He had to do two things. First, to examine the register of 
 births for that of Alison. Next, to find out, if that were 
 possible, the people with whom the unhappy mother was left, 
 and to learn from them what could be learned. 
 
 The chance that a lodger should be remembered at a sea-side 
 place after twenty years, seemed slender. But there was one 
 fact of which Gilbert did not think. 
 
 It was this, which helped him very naturally. 
 
 Twenty years ago, Lulworth was as yet unknown. I mean 
 that no lodgers went there at all : tourists and people who 
 always leave their homes for change of air, and betake them- 
 selves somewhere for a month of physical discomfort, bad 
 dinners, hard beds, narrow rooms, inefficient attendance, robbery, 
 sea air, dulness, absence of books, friends, society, and amuse- 
 ments, had never heard of Lulworth. 
 
 Even the commercial travellers, who, poor souls, are never 
 permitted to contemplate the beauties of Nature, save in the 
 vicinity of shops, did not, and do not now, include Lulworth in 
 their circuit. There are no shops there at all, and the modest 
 wants of the little place are supplied by means of some mii : 
 man of Corfe, Swanage, Wareham or even the aristocratic 
 Weymouth.
 
 236 THE SEAMY SIDE 
 
 Lulworth, cove and town, which is hardly yet actually dis- 
 covered, being much less known to the average Briton than 
 Ujiji in Central Africa, and less visited by the average traveller 
 than the Falls of the Zambesi, was in those days of Dora's 
 marriage, an absolutely unknown place. If a man were to go 
 round searching for a spot in which to bury his head, either 
 during the brief space of a honeymoon, or for a prolonged 
 period of financial embarrassment, creditors being incapable of 
 even suspecting such a retreat, or even for a lifetime — oubliant, 
 oublie — there was, in those days, no village in all the realm of 
 England so fit for the purpose. Nobody, in the time when 
 Dora Hamblin, a blushing and happy bride, was taken there by 
 her husband, had ever heard of it. Nor can I at all understand 
 how her husband found it out. The place was originally dis- 
 covered, however, some years before Doi'a's honeymoon, by a 
 stray traveller of inquiring and curious mind, who wandered 
 eastwards along the shore from Weymouth, when George the 
 Third was not only king, but was actually staying in that 
 tranquil watering-place. This pedestrian, boi'n before his time, 
 mentioned it to one or two friends, and got the place put upon 
 the county map. The Ordnance Survey officers afterwards found 
 it there. And once the Bishop of Winchester heard of it, and 
 went there, and found a church or two, and a congregation or 
 two, who had never before beheld a bishop, and thought all 
 bishops went about in mitre and crosier, and were disappointed 
 to find a mild old man in apron and lawn sleeves, who said, 
 ' Dear, dear !' when he heard that no one had ever been con- 
 firmed, and at once confirmed the whole village, Dissenters and 
 all, without more ado. 
 
 People who cannot afford posting, get there chiefly by way of 
 Swanage. There is a steamer which runs backwards and for- 
 wards between Lulworth Cove and Swanage Bay. The voyage 
 is one of those traps for tourists, set by frolicsome persons at 
 every seaside place. Outside Swanage Bay there is always what 
 the jocose captain of the Heather Bell calls a ' bit of a bobble.' 
 The vessel, which is rather smaller than a penny river steam- 
 boat, rolls, in fact, joyously. The course through the furrows, 
 over the rolling way which can by no means be called silent, 
 carries you under the face of perpendicular cliffs, which rise 
 like a great wall over the sea,, with never a break. You round 
 a cape, at whose feet the waves are tearing and roaring, and 
 still the wall stretches ahead as far as eye can reach. The 
 people, mostly lying helpless on the deck, look up with green 
 and glassy eyes, and contemplate the endless precipice with a 
 deadly sinking at the heart. Is there any Lulworth at all ? 
 Has the whole of the past life been a dream ? Is there to be 
 no future, but this eternal roll in a little boat upon a chopping
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH. 237 
 
 sea ? Suddenly, while they are wondering if anything in the 
 next world could be worse than this, her head is turned. 
 Courage. There is the narrowest cleft in the rocks, a mere 
 doorway just broad enough for the Heather Bell to steam 
 through. Get up, good people : shake yourselves : call for 
 things to eat : we are in smooth water : we are in the little 
 circular bay cut out of the rocks, which they call Lulworth 
 Cove : you may land if you like and see Lulworth village. 
 
 There is a little beach of sand, with a boat or two : there are 
 a few houses : there is an inn and a church, and a school. 
 Beyond the houses, when you have climbed the hill, you may 
 turn to the left and go down again. You will find two more 
 little coves side by side, into one of which the waves force their 
 angry way through a dark and jagged cavern. From the roof 
 hang great clusters of rough, luxuriant sea- weed ; its sides are 
 dark with recesses, in which the waters rage madly, and roar 
 with a kind of unmeaning rage. Here the prieuve lurks with 
 long and hungry arms, wondering if the next man she catches 
 will know the secret of blinding her eyes with the hood pro- 
 vided for the purpose by beneficent Nature. The second cove 
 has a doorway, so to speak, of its own, cut right through the 
 cliff from top to bottom, a narrow passage across which two 
 men might shake hands, and where every entering wave does 
 battle with that which entered before it, at the very portals of 
 the cove. Within, it is an ever-agitated churn. 
 
 That is the whole of Lulworth ; but you may spend a long 
 summer holiday in the place, and never tire of it, if you get 
 fine weather ; and if you should tire, there is Dungy Head be- 
 yond, with Durdle Bay and the Barn Door. 
 
 Gilbert proceeded at once to business. 
 
 First the register of births. 
 
 This was not difficult to find. 
 
 The entry in the Bournemouth register of Dora Hamblin's 
 death contained one word, as we have seen, which startled the 
 reader. The word haunted him ; it followed him like that 
 persistent fly which teased the unhappy despot to madness : 
 it buzzed in his ears : it refused to leave him. A word which 
 was so surprising that it seemed to upset everything in the 
 whole wide word : a word which made a new departure abso- 
 lutely necessary: a word which made everything unintelligible. 
 
 What was more surprising still, the same word was repeated 
 in the entry of Alison's birth in the parish register. There was 
 either fraud or else . . . what else ? What was the mean- 
 ing of it? 
 
 II': searched the church register of christenings. The same 
 word was repeated. 
 
 He made copies of the two entries in his pocket-book.
 
 238 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Then he climbed down the rocks to the wild little coves 
 mentioned above, and sat there a couple of hours, trying to put 
 things together. 
 
 Then it occurred to him to read again the ' Journal of a De- 
 serted Wife.' 
 
 Presently he thought he saw daylight. A theory, which 
 seemed the only theory possible, suggested itself to him. 
 
 ' Poor Alison !' he said, ' who shall tell her the truth ?' 
 
 He sat there a-thinking while the time went on, and pre- 
 sently he felt hungry, and went back to the hotel for dinner. 
 For the good of the house, and in order to conciliate the land- 
 lord, whom he intended presently to cross-examine, he ordered 
 a pint of port after dinner. Being one of the degenerate strain 
 of British youth, who cannot drink the ardent port of country 
 inns, he poured the contents of the bottle into a pot of migno- 
 nette in the window, and after a decent interval, during which 
 the flowers waggled their heads sadly and then drooped and died, 
 he sallied forth, and assailed the landlord with a proposal of 
 pipes and brandy-and-water. 
 
 He was a biddable sort of man, the landlord : advanced in 
 life ' gifted with a profound thirst : and ruled by a wife, much 
 younger than himself, who seldom allowed that thirst to be 
 quenched as he desired. His heart warmed to the young fellow, 
 who, after drinking quantities of beer with his dinner, and a 
 pint of port after it — no one knew better than himself the 
 amount of brandy in that port— coolly proposed brandy-and- 
 water as if he had had nothing. Generally after serving a guest 
 with a little pint of that generous beverage, he had been enabled 
 to observe symptoms of intoxication, such as cheek flushing, 
 speech thickening, legs tying themselves into knots, shoulders 
 lurching, temper quickening, and so forth. This gallant young 
 gentleman carried his handsome head and curly locks as if he 
 had not taken a single glass : he did not grumble : he did not 
 lurch : he did not, like the last guest who drank of that 
 brew, tell the landlord that his port had poisoned him — not at 
 all : he said, ' Let us have a pipe and some brandy-and-water.' 
 O most remarkable young man ! If he could hold out as well 
 over spirits and water as over spirits and elderberry wine, the 
 landlord thought he saw his way to a pleasant evening such as 
 rarely came in his way. 
 
 It is, of course, understood that the good wife saw no objec- 
 tion to her husband making himself as drunk as a hog, provided 
 he did it at some one else's expense. 
 
 The evening was chilly, and the bar-parlour looked comfort- 
 able. Gilbert proposed that they should take their pipes beside 
 the fire. The landlady offered no objection, and hovered about, 
 anxious to take her part in the conversation.
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH. 239 
 
 'I suppose,' said Gilbert, when the preliminaries were arranged, 
 the tumblers filled, and the pipes lit, feeling the way cautiously 
 — ' I suppose you do not remember much about your visitors 
 when they are gone ?' 
 
 ' Well,' replied the landlord, now completely comfortable, 
 before a full glass of the mixture which was generally denied 
 him — ' well, we do and we do not. Them as come and go, for 
 instance, the bed-and-breakfast-and-bring-your-bill lot, and the 
 pint-of-beer-with-a- knapsack-gentleman-tramp, we mostly forget 
 as soon as they go. But we remember some — ay ! we remember 
 some. I could tell you a story or two now of our visitors, I 
 des-say, if I was to think a bit.' 
 
 • Tell the gentleman about Captain Roscommon,' said his wife. 
 
 'Captain Roscommon? Ay ! that was a start. One never 
 heard of a more singular start, so to speak, than that of Captain 
 Roscommon.' 
 
 Gilbert saw that the only way was to work his way to Dora 
 Hamblin through Captain Roscommon, and forbore from inter- 
 ruption, save of the sympathetic and interjectional kind. 
 
 Then the old man went on : 
 
 ' Captain Roscommon, the coastguard officer down our way. 
 A youngish man he was, about five-and-forty years of age, and 
 first-lieutenant in the Royal Navy too. And as active he was, 
 as if the whole of the revenue depended on him. Well, there 
 always was a good deal of smuggling in these parts, though 
 nothing to what it was in the days of the long war, when old 
 Dan Gulliver worked the whole of the French coast from Lyme ; 
 the farmers were in it : the clergy were in it : the magistrates 
 were in it : the innkeepers were in it. Lord ! sometimes I 
 think I might have been in it myself. The captain's prede- 
 cessor, he was a good, easy sort of man, oldish, and tired of 
 fighting. He was in it, too. Many is the gallons of right good 
 stuff the old man found in his cellar, and never asked — as why 
 should he ? — why or where ? But he kept quiet till he died, 
 and Captain Roscommon came after him. 
 
 ' My word ! There was mighty little smuggling after he 
 came. Early and late, day and night, the boat was off the 
 cliffs, and the men were on the look-out. Two years it lasted. 
 The farmers and poor landlords, like myself, were most ruined 
 for want of stuff ; all the old stuff was gone, and no new stuff 
 coming in : the customers were grumbling : and the whole 
 country-side was in an unchristian rage. Well, sir, you'd hardly 
 believe it, but one night, Captain Roscommon, going home over 
 there by Dungy Head, the evening being fine and a bright moon, 
 though late in the year and chilly, he met eight men with 
 blackened faces. They didn't speak ; but though he fought 
 hko ten tomcats, they just chucked him over the cliff.
 
 240 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' In the morning he was found there, but all of a mash, and 
 never spoke again. After he was gone things improved, and we 
 got more neighbourly and religious-like to each other. For the 
 next officer was a different kind of man, and the stuff came 
 over again as of old. And the chuckers-over, they were never 
 found out.' 
 
 ' That is a very remarkable story,' said Gilbert. ' Take some 
 more brandy-and-water after it. And how, if one may criticise 
 so good a story, did anyone ever know, since the poor man was 
 senseless when he was found, that there were eight men, and 
 that their faces were blackened ?' 
 
 The landlord shook his head solemnly, but there was a twinkle 
 in his eye. 
 
 ' It is one of the things,' he replied, ' that no one ever under- 
 stood. We all knew there were eight men ; likewise that their 
 faces were blackened. But nobody knew how we knew. The 
 poor captain was very much regretted, except for his activity.' 
 
 ' So I should say,' replied Gilbert. ' Now carry your memory 
 twenty- one years back or so, and tell me if you recollect any- 
 thing happening then.' 
 
 ' There was the tiger,' said the landlord's wife, interposing. 
 ' That was twenty years ago. Tell him about the tiger.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay — about the tiger. That was twenty years ago, sure.' 
 The old man paused, refilled his pipe, and lit it, stretched out 
 his legs, drank half a glass of brandy-and-water, and began the 
 tiger story. 
 
 I am sorry that there is insufficient space here to admit of 
 that story being related at length. It was a very good story, 
 from a rustic point of view. It told how a tiger belonging to a 
 travelling menagerie got out of his cage and took shelter in an 
 empty stable, and how — this was the wonderful thing, and the 
 real point of the story — it was most fortunate that one John, 
 known everywhere as a devil of a fellow, one who stood at 
 nothing, was out of the way, providentially gone to the nearest 
 market-town on an errand, or else he would have gone for that 
 tiger. Gilbert listened with a dazed feeling ; there was no end 
 to the story. He could not make out how the tiger was caught, 
 if ever he was caught, or how many rustics he killed, supposing 
 that he did slaughter rustics ; he had a nightmare upon him 
 while he listened, as if Providence forcibly, and even visibly, 
 was hauling back John by the back hair, so that he should not 
 know, until too late, where that tiger was. 
 
 ' Have some more brandy-and water,' he murmured feebly. 
 Then he remembered that this story belonged to the year 
 about which he wished to learn further particulars, and he pulled 
 himself together. 
 ' Come.' he said, ' I call that a good memory which remembers
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH. 241 
 
 so far back. I wonder if you can remember anything more 
 about that year ?' 
 
 The landlord hesitated. Then he appealed to his wife. 
 
 ' Twenty years ago, wife,' he said ; ' what happened twenty 
 years ago ? Besides the tiger, I mean. Ah, lucky thing it was 
 that that John ' 
 
 4 There was the tiger, and you've told that ; then there was the 
 wet summer, you can't have forgotten that !' 
 
 ' Ah, the wet summer !' The old fellow sat up and seemed as 
 if he was going to begin another awful story, worse than about 
 the tiger. ' Surely you're too young to remember about that wet 
 summer !' 
 
 1 Yes,' said Gilbert. ' I fear I am. Never mind the wet sum- 
 mei\ Did nobody come to the inn that summer ?' 
 
 ' I can't say,' replied the old man. ' We weren't then, as one 
 may say, what we are now. People didn't come over from 
 Swanage in the Heather Bell nor from Weymouth in the 'bus. 
 And artists didn't come and paint the cove, nor the caves, nor 
 the rocks, as they do now. Yet the cove and the caves were there 
 all the time.' 
 
 ' It was the summer when I was married,' the woman struck 
 in. She had been going backwards and forwards perpetually 
 with a duster and a glass, and she was now brandishing the same 
 glass apparently and the same duster which she had been using 
 for the last two hours. But these glasses and dusters are very 
 much turned out on the same lines. And Gilbert's brains were 
 a little addled after the two stories of Captain Roscommon and 
 the tiger. ' It was the year I was married.' She spoke as if it 
 was not her own husband but somebody else's, who was sitting 
 in the arm-chair before her. ' My husband, he was an old man 
 compared to me.' 
 
 ' Nay. nay,' said her husband. ' Two score and five is not old. 
 I were two score and five when I married thee.' 
 
 ' And I was twenty. Well, wilful gell will have her own way; 
 While we were courting, if you call that courting when him as 
 is old enough to be your father wants to be your husband, 
 there came to this inn a newly -married couple.' 
 
 'Ay. said Gilbert. ' Pray take some more brandy-and- water.' 
 It seemed to him as if the only way to the memories of these 
 people was through diluted spirits. 
 
 The woman drank off the contents of her husband's glass. 
 She was one of that very common class of women who, when 
 they get to forty or thereabouts, show a rosy face full of good- 
 nature and kindliness, mixed with an expression which betrays 
 the love of creature-comforts. 
 
 ' There isn't much to tell,' she said. ' They came to this inn. 
 They stayed a week. I was not in the inn at the time, nor for 
 
 16
 
 ? 4 2 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 a year afterwards. Then they asked for lodgings, and they 
 came to us. We had the only lodgings in the town.' 
 
 ' Pray go on,' said Gilbert. ' I think these mav be people I 
 am interested in. Tell me more about them. What was their 
 name ?' 
 
 ' They were Mr. and Mrs. Hamblin,' said the woman. ' And 
 now, sir, if you please, before we go any further — for I see, by 
 the flushing of your handsome cheek, that it is the party you 
 want to hear about, and no other — we will understand each 
 other.' 
 
 The women in this part of the country, thought Gilbert, are 
 cleverer than the men. This woman's husband would have 
 told everything just as it occurred to his memory, without a 
 thought of the consequences. His wife, however, had the sense 
 to see that so many questions were not prompted by idle curiosity 
 alone, but that this young fellow, with the frank eyes and 
 honest face, had a reason for his curiosity. 
 
 ' Hamblin is the name,' said Gilbert. ' I am anxious to find 
 out all about that young couple. You may have heard that 
 there is a reward offered for ' — he stopped and checked himself 
 — ' for certain information connected with them.' 
 
 ' In that case, sir,' said the woman, ' I shall say no more, until 
 you tell me what sort of information is wanted ; and if my 
 husband says anything, he is a greater dolt than I ever took 
 him for ; and as for the matter of that, it is his bed-time. 
 And to be sure he's had more than enough drink by this time.' 
 
 This resolute female seized her husband by the arm and 
 dragged him, unresisting, out of the room. Ten minutes or so 
 later, the interval being just enough to admit of his being 
 crammed into bed and the clothes dragged over him, she came 
 down again and seated herself before Gilbert. 
 
 ' Now, sir,' she said, ' you and me can do business together. 
 When a young gentleman like yourself comes over to Lulworth 
 in a post-chay, when he goes to the church to consult registers, 
 when he calls for a pint of good port and wastes it all in the 
 mignonette-pot, which he might have thought of other people's 
 flowers ' 
 
 ' Ah, you saw that, did you ?' said Gilbert, a little ashamed. 
 
 ' When he tries to get round the landlord with pipes and 
 brandy, — why, then, I think it is time for a body with a head 
 upon her shoulders to look about her. Now then, sir, what do 
 you want ?' 
 
 ' I want, first, the certificate of marriage of Dora Hamblin 
 with her husband.' 
 
 ' Very good.' She sat down and clasped her hands over her 
 knees. ' And how much may that be worth ? Mind you, it 
 isn't in this parish church nor in the next.'
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LUL WORTH. 243 
 
 c Yesterday morning I would have offered you five hundred 
 pounds for it. This morning I made a discovery, confirmed by 
 the register of this parish, which materially alters the value of 
 the information. Still it is valuable, and I will give you, or 
 send to you, fifty pounds for the proof of marriage.' 
 
 ' Fifty pounds ?' cried the woman. ' Why, I can give you the 
 proof now at once, on the instant minute. Fifty pounds !' 
 Then her face became suddenly suspicious. ' But how do I 
 know that you would give it when you'd got the information ? 
 And how do I know what use you want to make of it ? And 
 how shall I get the money, so that he ' — she pointed with her 
 finger to the upper part of the house, to make it clear that it 
 was her husband she meant — ' how shall I get it so that he shan't 
 know nothing about it ?' 
 
 ' I will make all clear for you,' said Gilbert. ' You shall have 
 the money paid you in gold and secretly, to do what you like 
 with. And as for the use I am going to make of the informa- 
 tion, that shall be proved to you to be the very best possible. 
 Come now.' 
 
 ' Wait till to-morrow,' said the woman. ' I must think it 
 over.' 
 
 In the morning, after breakfast, when the landlord had strolled 
 away to have a crack with the boatman on the beach, when the 
 village was quite still, or only pleasantly full of such musical 
 noises as belong to a village — the droning of a mill-wheel, the 
 crowing of cocks, the gurgle of the rising tide in the cove, the 
 roll of the ever-vexed waves in the perforated rocks, the bray 
 of a donkey, or the grinding of a cart over the road — the laud- 
 lady, in the quiet seclusion of the garden, told Gilbert all she 
 had to tell. 
 
 ' She was a sweet young thing, and he was a brute ' — that 
 was the way in which she began her narrative — ' a brute he 
 was, though at first butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. They 
 came here from Newbury, where she had been living with her 
 sister ; father and mother dead. They had rooms at the inn 
 here for a week, and then came to us. After two months he 
 went away, and left her alone, with no one in the wide world 
 but me to talk to. She told me all about herself. 
 
 ' Well, she loved him, that was quite certain ; though what 
 she found to love in a man so cross and suspicious I never 
 could find out — a nasty brute ! 
 
 ' He went away, as I said ; but he came back a few days 
 later, and stayed a good long time, the best part of two months 
 more, being the whole of that time in a temper. A grumpy 
 brute ! Nothing was good enough for him. If it was the beer 
 and the wine we got him from the inn here, he called it swill 
 only fit for pigs ; and if it was the baker's bread and fresh 
 
 16—2
 
 244 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 butter for his breakfast, he snarled and growled at his wife : it 
 ■was all her fault that he wasn't in London living off the best. 
 And she, poor thing, had to bear it all, and did like a lamb. 
 
 ' She hadn't the spirit to reply. When he growled she said 
 nothing. When he walked about the room and cursed and 
 swore, she only cried. When he went out for a walk, I used 
 to find her, pretty lamb, sitting on the sofy, crying all to her- 
 self.' 
 
 Gilbert thought of his ghosts, at Bournemouth. 
 
 ' I knew this couldn't last, and it did not. One day he went 
 away, and I heard him tell her that he should be gone three 
 months at least, and that it was very important and particular 
 business. He went away— oh ! be joyful, and we had peace. 
 The young lady took to me, and we had walks together, and I 
 sat with her in the evening. And one day she told me some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' Well, her husband never came back at all. Mind you, never 
 at all. And when he wrote he scolded. He began by allow- 
 ing her three pounds a week, which was little enough for a lady 
 like poor Mrs. Hamblin : then he made it two pounds : and 
 lastly he made it one pound, which was no more than she wanted 
 for her simple food and lodging. And she fretting and crying 
 all the time for a sight of his face— his ugly, scowling face.' 
 
 The woman was silent awhile. It was not only the prospect of 
 the reward which inspired her to tell everything ; but the indig- 
 nation of her heart. 
 
 ' If ever a woman was murdered, she was murdered. If ever 
 a man deserved hanging for wilful murder, it was the man 
 Hamblin.' 
 
 Gilbert started ; he had almost forgotten of whom they were 
 
 speaking. , . 
 
 ' You may take a cudgel, and beat out a body s brains at one 
 blow, and you are less wicked than the man who stabs you a 
 thousand times, and stabs you every day until your life is slowly 
 driven out of you. And this I saw done, and could do nothing 
 to prevent it. 
 
 ' One thing I did. I persuaded her, as her husband had de- 
 serted her, to say nothing about the baby. I wanted her to 
 keep the baby as a surprise. If that wouldn't soften his heart, 
 nothing would.' 
 
 ' The baby ?' Gilbert had forgotten Alison for the moment. 
 
 'Of course. There was a baby. I suppose,' the woman 
 added with asperity, ' that there is nothing uncommon about a 
 baby, though I've got no children myself. Yes ; the baby came, 
 and a lovely and beautiful child she was, though dark of skin. 
 She never told her husband the baby was coming. And she did 
 not tell him the baby was come. And he never asked why she
 
 HOW GILBERT WENT TO LULWORTH. 245 
 
 didn't write for three weeks. I think that when she had the 
 baby, she left off pining for him, and gave up all her love for 
 the child. 
 
 ' A pretty picture she made with her little baby. I think I 
 see her now. We christened the child at the church here, and I 
 was her godmother, because she said, poor lady, that I was her 
 only friend. We called her by a strange, outlandish name, too. 
 It was her mother's — Alison. What's the matter, sir ?' 
 
 ' Nothing,' said G ilbert, turning his head. ' Go on.' 
 
 ' After the baby was born, her strength began to go away 
 from her, slowly at first, and then quickly. I ought to have 
 written to tell her husband, but I hated him too much ; and be- 
 sides. I thought she might get better. 
 
 ' She never did. Oh, me ! she got worse and worse. The 
 doctor said that perhaps a change of air would set her up a 
 little. Then at last, but it was too late, Mr. Anthony Hamblin 
 came and took her away. It was arranged that they were to go 
 to Bournemouth, and when she was settled, to have her baby 
 with her. But the baby was never sent to her, because as soon 
 as she got to Bournemouth she lost her head, and then got worse, 
 and lay down and died.' 
 
 There was silence for a space, while the woman wiped her 
 streaming eyes. 
 
 ' And the baby ?' asked Gilbert. 
 
 ' Mr. Anthony came after the death, and took the baby away. 
 He said she was going to be brought up at Brighton — pretty 
 dear !' 
 
 ' Would you like to see her again ?' 
 
 ' Would I ? Tell me, sir, do you know where she is ?' 
 
 ' What would you say,' asked Gilbert, ' if I were to bring her 
 here myself, and show her the place where her mother lived and 
 found kind friends ?' 
 
 ' She really is alive and well then, the pretty baby ?' 
 
 ' Really alive and well ; and the loveliest young lady in all 
 the world, and the best.' 
 
 The woman looked at him sharply, and then laughed. 
 
 ' It's easy to see that you think so, sir,' she said ; ' and I wish 
 you joy with all my heart : and I'm suro she'll have a good 
 partner.' 
 
 ' And now describe to me what her father was like, if you re- 
 member him.' 
 
 She described as best she could. Gilbert had cea?ed to wonder 
 now. But his heart sank as he thought how the story would 
 have to be told. 
 
 ' I want but one thin? more,' he said, presently. ' I know all 
 except where they were married.' 
 
 Why, I can tell you that as well,' said the woman. ' She told
 
 246 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 me herself. It was at Hungerford. They were married by 
 special license, two days before they ran away. He drove her 
 over in a dog-cart, married her in the church, and had her back 
 again to Newbury, while her sister thought she had gone to 
 spend the morning with her cousin. That was where they were 
 married.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 HOW MISS NETHERSOLE SOFTENED HER HEART. 
 
 Gilbert confided his surprising discoveries to his pocket-book, 
 but made no other confidant. He left Lulworth in the morn- 
 ing with renewed promises that Alison should speedily visit the 
 place of her birth, and made his way across country as speedily 
 as possible to the little town of Hungerford. Here it was not 
 difficult to find the marriage certificate. The entry, which sur- 
 prised him no longer, corresponded with those of Bourne- 
 mouth and Lulworth, and finally completed his chain of evi- 
 dence. Everything, in fact, was made out at last, and proved 
 beyond the shadow of a doubt. Dora's marriage ; the birth and 
 baptism of the child: Dora's death and burial at Bournemouth ; 
 the removal of the infant by Anthony Hamblin — not a single 
 point was missing. 
 
 Then, how to make the best use of his knowledge ? 
 First of all, he would go on to Newbury and see Miss Nether- 
 sole herself. Then, the forged receipts — it would be well if he 
 could get those into his own hands. He had now the great advan- 
 tage of a complete knowledge of the case. He knew what to 
 tell, and what to conceal. He was master of a secret almost as 
 important as that possessed by young Nick himself ; and, like 
 him, he was naturally anxious that it should not be fooled 
 away. 
 
 The town of Newbury, which has nothing but its two battles, 
 now rather dim and faded in men's memories, to connect it with 
 the history of this realm of England, is only some nine miles 
 from Hungerford. In that part of the country the towns are 
 all placed about nine miles from each other — which means that 
 four miles and a half is as far as the old-fashioned farmer cared 
 to drive his pack-horses to market. As soon as that distance, as 
 a maximum, was accomplished, he sat down, unloaded his 
 animals, spread out his wares for sale, waited for customers, 
 and so founded a market town. That is the real origin, only 
 history-books will not own it, of all our market towns. Benefi- 
 cent Nature, when the town was founded and a church built,
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE'S HEART SOFTENS. 247 
 
 proceeded to start a river, which should run through the town, 
 and carry barges up and down. Thus the place was completely 
 fitted. At Newbury there is not only a stream, but it contains 
 fish ; and there is an inn of the old-fashioned kind where the 
 landlord will take you to the likeliest places, show you trophies 
 of the rod, tell you stories such as Izaak Walton would have 
 loved to hear, and provide you with a bottle of port to help 
 your listening. Gilbert fortunately lighted on this inn. Olivet 
 Lodge, he discovered, stands on the high road to Hungerford, 
 about a quarter of a mile from the town. It is a small square 
 house of red brick, standing in its own gardens. These are 
 extensive for so small a house, but formal and stiff of aspect, 
 so that the visitor would probably feel a sense of disappoint- 
 ment if anything about the place were out of order, if there 
 were visible a single blade of grass on the gravel walk, a single 
 stray weed in the flower beds, or a presumptuous daisy, to say 
 nothing of a dandelion, on the lawns. Also, Gilbert would have 
 been disappointed had the drawing-room, into which he was 
 shown by a middle-aged servant, who seemed astonished at 
 seeing a stranger at the door, been otherwise than oppressively 
 neat and tidy. The room had the close smell which belongs to 
 a place never used, whose windows are only open two or three 
 times a week. It was furnished in the ancient manner, with 
 fancy cane chairs of fragile build, heavy chairs in leather and 
 gold, a round table, at which were disposed, at regular intervals, 
 old keepsakes, books of sermons, and little cases of daguerreo- 
 types. Nothing in the room showed marks of wear, but every- 
 thing was touched with years faded and out of date : the carpet, 
 the hearth-rug, the cover of the sofa, the gilt frames of the 
 pictures, the paper on the wall, the very ornaments of the 
 mantelshelf had lost their early colours, and seemed to have 
 mournfully accepted a common neutral tint, a faded hue which, 
 somehow, as the eye wandered from one thing to the other, 
 harmonized with the old-fashioned room, though the blurred 
 combination was no colour at all, but like the mess which a 
 schoolboy would make upon the palette after he had been 
 painting engravings with a box of water-colours. 
 
 Gilbert had plenty of time to meditate on the flight of time 
 and the joylessness of faded furniture, because Miss Nethersole 
 was taking tea, and thought it consistent with her dignity to 
 continue the meal without hurrying herself. A strange young 
 man, probably sent on some charitable quest, might surely wait. 
 He waited, therefore ; when he had finished examining the 
 room, he transferred his attention to his own boots, which he was 
 disgusted to find were covered with dust, and, therefore, very 
 much out of keeping with the prim and clean surroundings. 
 When the mistress of the house came at last, too, she was so
 
 248 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 completely in harmony with her own house, that Gilbert blushed 
 still more to think of his dusty boots, and hoped she would not 
 notice them. She was dressed in black ; her features were 
 worn and pale ; her hair was brushed with a curious neatness ; 
 she wore a black lace scarf round her neck. Her face had that 
 inward look upon it which comes to those who sit alone a great 
 deal and think, not of things worldly and ambitious, but of 
 themselves and their own folk. People in the country do con- 
 tinually think of themselves and their own peculiarities and 
 eccentricities ; their greatness, their importance, and their posi- 
 tion. In their own eyes, the family which has never produced 
 a single man of more than ordinary capacity, which has never 
 once been heard of outside the parochial bounds, becomes in- 
 vested with a profound and singular interest. All the world 
 must be acquainted with it ; all the world must wonder at it ; 
 all the world must be glad to hear the details of its history. 
 Miss Nethersole by no means belonged to a county family, but it 
 is not necessary to be well-born to possess family pride. She 
 thought highly of her name, she shared the weaknesses of those 
 who were socially above her, and was proud of herself and of 
 her people, though her father made his money in trade, and her 
 cousins, still making more, were not ashamed of the counter and 
 the till. 
 
 ' You are Mr. Gilbert Yorke '?' she asked ; ' the name carries 
 no associations with it, that I can remember. May I ask your 
 business ?' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Gilbert. ' I suppose that you have never 
 heard my name before, and that matters very little. I am here, 
 however, on business of the highest importance.' 
 
 ' Will you state that business ?' 
 
 She remained standing, and did not offer him a chair. 
 
 ' It is connected with two visits which you paid in London. 
 One of them was to Mr. Anthony Hamblin, the day before his 
 
 death, when you left with him a written statement this. 
 
 I have brought it with me.' 
 
 He produced the roll, which Miss Nethersole opened and 
 looked at. 
 
 _ ' " The Journal of a Deserted Wife." Yes ; I left it with 
 him. You can keep it ; you can read it. You are welcome to 
 lend it to all his friends and relations. Let all the world read 
 it ; so that there may not be one who shall not learn what manner 
 of man this Anthony Hamblin — hypocrite and murderer — was.' 
 
 Gilbert received the roll of paper from her, and went on, with 
 admiration of a hatred so lively, and so unaffected : 
 
 ' The second visit was one which you made to the office of 
 Anthony Hamblin and Company in the City. You there saw
 
 MISS NETHERSOLES HEART SOFTENS. 249 
 
 the two partners. Messrs. Augustus and William Hamblin, and 
 made a statement to them.' 
 
 ' I did. Have they communicated to you the particulars of 
 that interview ?' 
 
 ' I believe so.' 
 
 1 They told you about the forged receipts ?' 
 
 'I know all about the forged receipts,' said Gilbert. 
 
 ' Then with that manuscript, and that little story in your 
 hands, you have ample materials to amuse yourself and your 
 brother clerks. I presume you used to respect your master, 
 Mr. Anthony Hamblin, very much ?' 
 
 ' I respected him very much,' Gilbert replied, passing over the 
 supposition that he was a City clerk. ' I respect him still : 
 even after reading this document and hearing about the forged 
 receipts.' 
 
 'In that case.' she returned, with a look of asperity, 'you 
 would respect Judas Iscariot himself.' 
 
 Gilbert laughed. 
 
 ' Well, sir, you who respect forgers and wife-murderers, what 
 have your masters sent yon to tell me ?' 
 
 Gilbert reddened. It is pardonable for a member of the 
 Inner Temple not altogether to like being taken for a messenger 
 from a City house. 
 
 ' It is quite immaterial, of course,' he said meekly, ' and a 
 mere matter of unimportant detail. But I am not one of the 
 clerks ; I am a barrister, and am acting in this business merely 
 as a friend of the family.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir ; it does not concern me whether you are a 
 clerk or not. Pray go on. Have you come to offer me the 
 money of which I was robbed ? I paid for each of those six 
 pieces of forged writing, one hundred and fifty pounds. I make 
 four per cent, on my investments, and I have calculated out my 
 loss at compound interest. It comes to £1,398 10s. 4d. I shall 
 look to receive that amount from the estate of the deceased 
 robber and forger.' 
 
 ' Very well, Miss Nethersole ; I am sure that your claim will 
 be fully considered when the time comes, and that you will be 
 satisfied by the conduct of Mr. Anthony Hamblin's executors. 
 Justice will of course be done.' 
 
 _ ' That, alas, is impossible !' said Miss Nethersole, with a heavy 
 sigh; 'the only justice that would meet this case would be 
 fourteen years in Portland Prison. The accident on the ice 
 prevented that.' 
 
 Gilbert made no reply. This persistent harping on the lost 
 revenge jarred upon him. 
 
 ' But if you have not brought the money,' she asked, ' what 
 are you here for ? Is it only to tell me that you have not
 
 250 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 brought it ? And remember, I have not promised to give up 
 the papers.' 
 
 ' i am here, first of all, to tell you that I have been to Bourne- 
 mouth on the part of the family, and verified your statement 
 as to the grave of Mrs. Hamblin.' 
 
 ' Did the man think I invented the story of the grave ? This 
 is mere childishness.' 
 
 ' By no means. But it was only necessary to proceed step 
 by step. You forget that when you saw the partners in the 
 firm you were unable to tell them where the marriage took 
 place.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Miss Nethersole, ' that it would be easy to 
 find out. But what is the good of looking for it ? I am the 
 only person interested, and I am quite content with my sister's 
 statement that she was married.' 
 
 ' We had not even that assurance,' said Gilbert. ' Will you 
 kindly show it to me ?' 
 
 ' Why should I ?' asked the lady ; ' I have no interest in the 
 matter. I have failed in getting justice.' 
 
 There was, however, one reason why she should yield. Before 
 her stood a young man of singularly pleasing and attractive ap- 
 pearance. His eyes were fixed on hers. They were eyes which 
 had depths of possible pleading in them ; and his voice was low 
 and musical, a sweet baritone ; the kind of young man whom 
 young women delight to tease, but whom no middle-aged woman 
 can resist. 
 
 ' You would show me your sister's letter ; you would even 
 give me the letter, if you knew all,' said Gilbert ; ' I assure you 
 that you have a great deal to learn— how much I cannot tell 
 you yet.' 
 
 The lady opened a desk which stood on a cabinet behind 
 her, and took out a little bundle of faded and yellow docu- 
 ments. 
 
 ' What can there be to learn,' she asked, ' beyond the dread- 
 ful truth which I know already ? How can I tell that you are 
 not deceiving me ?' 
 
 ' I am not, indeed,' said Gilbert ; ' very shortly you will ac- 
 knowledge that. Help me to make it quite clear by showing 
 me whatever letters you may possess from your sister after her 
 marriage.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole took a paper from the bundle, and held it in 
 her hand, looking at it with eyes which seemed as if they only 
 wanted tears to make them beautiful. Poor wasted woman- 
 hood of fifty-five ! It must be hard to give up the possession 
 of beauty and comeliness. Some men are always handsome ; 
 but only those women who have achieved marriage and mother- 
 hood, and receive reflected life from children, handsome sons
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE'S HEART SOFTENS. 251 
 
 and beautiful daughters. She held the letter in her hand, and 
 looked at it with lingering and softened eyes. 
 
 ' This was the very room,' she murmured, ' in which, one-and- 
 twenty years ago, the two young men, my sister Dora, and I, 
 used to sit in the summer evenings, when they came here to 
 talk, and sing, and tell us of the world of which we knew so 
 little, and steal away a woman's heart.' 
 
 Gilbert said nothing ; he let her go on recalling the past ; he 
 watched her soften under the influence of memory. 
 
 ' It was in July. We were all young together. Anthony 
 Hamblin was about my age, or a little older. Stephen, his 
 brother, the young man who smoked tobacco, was twenty-four, 
 Dora was a great deal younger, she was nothing but a mere 
 child. I never suspected that for such a girl ' 
 
 She stopped and blushed. Gilbert thought this hard-featured 
 woman must have been pretty once. 
 
 ' Well, I was deceived ; they ran away, Anthony and Dora. 
 They left me, and two days afterwards I received this letter. 
 Yes, you may read it.' 
 
 Gilbert read. It was as follows, and was dated from Lul- 
 worth ; a quite simple, girlish, inexperienced letter : 
 
 ' Dearest Rachel, 
 
 ' I write to tell you that I have taken the irrevocable 
 step, which you will, I hope, forgive when you understand that 
 it means happiness to me. Perhaps at first you will disapprove 
 because I ran away ; I hope, however, you will soon come round. 
 and receive us with a sisterly affection. We are staying here 
 together in the most delightful, and most quiet place in the 
 world. My husband joins with me in asking your forgiveness. 
 ' I remain, 
 
 ' Always your affectionate sister, 
 
 'Dora Hamblin. ' 
 
 1 May I borrow it of you ?' he asked, folding it up again ; 
 ' you shall have it back.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole hesitated. 
 
 ' Tell me first,' she said, ' what you mean by having things to 
 tell me.' 
 
 'No,' Gilbert replied, 'I cannot tell you yet. Mav I keep 
 this letter?' J H 
 
 ' When my sister went away, when I understood that she 
 was really gone for good,' said Miss Nethersole, ' I came into 
 this room and I put everything just as it was on the day befort 
 she left me — the books on the table, the chairs in their places, 
 the curtains half drawn. I said : " This room shall remind mo 
 of Dora ; it shall cry out always against the man who robbed
 
 252 7 HE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 me of her." I have never used the room since that day. You 
 are the only man who has been in it for twenty years and more, 
 and when I have come into the room it has been to recall the 
 memory of the betrayer of women : Anthony Hamblin.' 
 
 ' Give me that letter,' Gilbert persisted. ' I tell you again, 
 that you have much to learn. I have a great surprise for you.' 
 
 ' What is it, your great surprise ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you yet,' he replied. ' It may be many days 
 before I tell you ; but give me that letter. I do not want it 
 to complete my case, but I should like to have it to show one to 
 whom your sister's memory is very dear.' 
 
 She handed him the letter almost meekly. She could not 
 resist this young man with the soft voice and the pleading eyes. 
 
 ' Take it,' she sighed. ' How foolish I am to trust any man 
 after my experience, and you a complete stranger.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' he said ; ' you have long since forgiven your sister ?' 
 
 ' Long since ; I prayed for her morning and night at family 
 devotions. It would have been unchristian not to forgive so 
 great a sinner. I prayed for her unwittingly, even six years 
 after her death. I hope the Papistic superstition of praying 
 for the dead will not be laid to my charge.' 
 
 ' I am sure,' said Gilbert, wondering at the remarkable reli- 
 gion of this good lady, 'I am sure it will not. At least, I wish 
 I had no greater sins upon my soul than praying for the dead. 
 But as for her husband, can you not forgive him too ?' 
 
 ' I do not know.' Truth for the moment overcame the cant 
 of her party. ' I do not know. I hope I can. Only,' she added, 
 in justification of herself, ' when I learned at Bournemouth the 
 death of my sister, when I found the journal, when I under- 
 stood his miserable wickedness, when I discovered the six years' 
 forgeries, I felt the old resentment rise in my heart, and then I 
 knew that I was called and chosen — as an Instrument.' She sat 
 down wearily. ' I expected to be an Instrument for a great and 
 signal punishment.' 
 
 ' I see ; but you were, perhaps, mistaken.' 
 
 ' No, not all. I was permitted to see him, to point out to him 
 his awful condition, to reason with him as one reasons with 
 unrepentant sinners, to be faithful to him. It was the last 
 word, the last chance. Perhaps— it may be — he repented in 
 the night.' 
 
 Gilbert laid the letter in his pocket-book. 
 
 ' I will tell you something, Miss Nethersole,' he said. c But 
 remember, this is not all I have to tell you, later on. I have 
 here your sister's register of marriage, I have this letter to you, 
 and I have the proof of her death. I have — and that is the 
 most important thing I can tell you to-day — I have also the 
 register of the birth of her daughter.'
 
 MISS NETHERSOLE'S HEART SOFTENS. 253 
 
 • Of what ?' Miss Nethersole sprang from her chair. ' Of 
 
 what? 
 
 ' Of a daughter. Did you not know that your sister had a 
 daughter ?' 
 
 ' No, I did not. Dora's child ? Her daughter ? I heard 
 nothing about any child at Bournemouth.' 
 
 ' Unfortunately,' said Gilbert, ' your sister became light- 
 headed when she got there, and died without quite recovering 
 her mind, so that she never talked about her child. I have 
 brought with me,' he added, diving into his pocket, ' a little 
 thing, the only thing, which the child inherited from her mother.' 
 He produced the coral necklace. 
 
 Miss Nethersole took it with trembling fingers. There were, 
 then, fountains of tears behind those hard eyes. 
 
 ' It was my sister's,' she said. ' She used to wear it always. 
 She was so fond of gauds and trinkets, poor child ! I know it 
 we ll — oh ! I know it.' The tears came to her eyes, and she was 
 fain to sob. 
 
 ' Go on,' she said, almost fiercely. ' Tell me more about the 
 child — Dora's child.' 
 
 ' The child was taken away from Lulworth by Anthony 
 Hamblin ' 
 
 ' The wife -murderer and forger !' 
 
 ' And brought up first of all at Brighton — afterwards at his 
 house on Clapham Common. That night when you called upon 
 him she was there too, with a party of children and cousins, 
 singing and dancing.' 
 
 1 1 heard them singing,' murmured Miss Nethersole, with 
 softened voice. ' Her voice, too, I suppose I heard. Tell me, 
 was there any difference made between her and Anthony Ham- 
 blin's other children V 
 
 1 What other children ?' 
 
 ' His children by his second marriage.' 
 
 1 But he made no second marriage. Anthony Hamblin lived 
 alone in his house with your niece and his cousin, a lady who 
 was her governess and companion.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole was silent for a few moments, reflecting. 
 Here was an upsetting of the ideas which had filled her mind 
 and fed her spirit of revenge for so long a time. She had pic- 
 tured Anthony Hamblin the husband of a happy and comfort- 
 able wife, with a distinct leaning in the direction of luxury. 
 She had thought of him as the father of a large family. She 
 thought the singers whom she had heard on the night of her 
 visit were the sons and daughters. In hor blind yearning for 
 revenge she dwelt with complacency on the misery and shame 
 which would fall upon the children when she struck the father. 
 Now it all came home to her. If she was, as she began to doubt,
 
 254 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 with a horrible, cold feeling, as if there was no reality left in 
 the world, and everything was mockery, an Instrument, it was 
 a weapon for the punishment of the innocent with the guilty, the 
 poor child who would have called Dora mother, with the man 
 who was her father. 
 
 ' What is her name ?' she asked presently, abashed and con- 
 fused. 
 
 ' She is named Alison,' said Gilbert ; ' the register of her bap- 
 tism is in the church at Lulworth.' 
 
 ' Alison, that was my mother's name,' said Miss Nethersole. 
 
 She was silent again. 
 
 Then Gilbert went on pleading with his deep, earnest eyes, 
 and his soft, earnest voice : 
 
 'You did not know of this, else you would have gone to 
 Anthony Hamblin in sorrow, not in anger. You would have 
 appealed to his love for Alison, to the girl's love for him, to all 
 that was kind and tender in his nature ; you would have suffered 
 the past to be forgotten ; you would not have written that intro- 
 duction to this " Journal of a Deserted Wife ;" you would have 
 asked for an explanation.' 
 
 ' No explanation,' said Miss Nethersole, quickly, ' was wanted. 
 There, at least, I was right. The paper explained itself.' 
 
 ' I am prepared, but not to-day, with quite another explana- 
 tion,' said Gilbert. ' You would, if you had known what you 
 know to-day, have paved the way for a reconciliation by means 
 of Alison. You would have learned by loving your niece, to 
 forgive her father.' 
 
 ' I never could ! That is, as a Christian I must, as a woman 
 of course I could not.' Like many estimable people, Miss Nether- 
 sole separated Christianity from humanity. ' Why, Mr. Yorke, 
 you cannot forget, you surely cannot forget the forgeries ?' 
 
 ' I do not,' he replied ; ' I am coming to them. You would, 
 out of consideration for your niece, not only have abstained from 
 acting in the matter ; you would not only have resolved to say 
 nothing about them to the outside world, but you would have 
 given him an opportunity for explaining the whole thing.' 
 
 ' Explaining ! How can you explain a forgery ?' 
 _ ' There are many ways. I can give you a complete explana- 
 tion, but not yet. Remember, however, what you have told me 
 he said when you went away. That if you persisted in the 
 course you proposed to take, you would go in sorrow and re- 
 pentance all the days of your life. You have not persisted. 
 But knowing now that you have a niece, that she lived with 
 Anthony Hamblin and loved him tenderly, can you doubt that 
 he was right ?' 
 
 ' But he was a forger ! a forger ! a forger !' 
 
 ' Miss Nethersole, he was not P Gilbert held out a warning
 
 MISS NETHER SOLE'S HEART SOFTENS. 255 
 
 finger. ' He ivas no forger / I shall not explain now. This is 
 not" the time for explanation ; there are many things to do first. 
 But I tell you solemnly, on the word of a gentleman, on the word 
 of a Christian, that Anthony Hamblin was not, could not be, the 
 criminal you think him.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole shook her head, but not unkindly. Only she 
 could not understand. 
 
 ' And pray,' she said, ' who are you that take so keen an 
 interest in this affair ?' 
 
 ' I am engaged to Alison.' said Gilbert, simply. ' Miss Nether- 
 sole,' he took her hand and kissed it, ' I hope before long to call 
 you my aunt.' 
 
 The" poor lady was quite broken down by this last touch of 
 human kindness. 
 
 ' I have been working,' he said, ' to restore to Alison her own 
 good name, which has been threatened. I have had to establish 
 the fact that her mother was married.' 
 
 ' Why. -who could have doubted that?' asked Miss Nethersole. 
 
 ' It is a long story. However, so far, that is established. 
 The poor girl will not have to blush for her mother, at least ; 
 whether she will have to be ashamed of her father depends upon 
 you. my dear lady.' 
 
 ' On me ? You mean about those forgeries ?' 
 
 'Surely.' 
 
 Miss Xethersole hesitated. 
 
 ' Do you want me to give them up? But you have not ex- 
 plained.' 
 
 ' I cannot explain at this moment. Entrust them to me and 
 they shall be placed in the ca~e of Mr. Augustus Hamblin, 
 senior partner in the same, house. Believe me, Miss Nether- 
 sole, if you give them to me, you wdl never repent it.' 
 
 Miss Nethersole was fast melting. 
 
 ' What is she like— my niece ?' 
 
 1 She is the best and most beautiful of girls.' replied Gilbert, 
 with natural warmth ; ' she is a Rose of Sharon, a Lily of 
 Jericho.' 
 
 ' Do not quote Scripture irreverently, young man,' said Miss 
 Nethersole, with a smile in those eyes of hers which had been 
 so hard. ' You are, I suppose, in love with her, and you fancy 
 that she is an angel. No woman is an angel, sir. However, 
 you shall have the receipts.' She said this with an obvious 
 effort. • I will give them to you— for Alison's sake, when I have 
 made the acquaintance of my niece. Meantime you may take 
 the photographic And now, sir, God requite you as you 
 
 and yours deal with her.' 
 
 She choked, and sat down with her handkerchief to her eyes. 
 
 ' Givu me a. few davs, my dear lady,' said Gilbert ; 'yet a few
 
 256 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 days and I will ask you to make her acquaintance, and to hear 
 the explanation of what at present you do not understand. My 
 Alison shall thank you. Miss Netbersole, you have this day 
 exercised the highest of Christian virtues. You have forgiven 
 and forgotten. The young life, the newly-born love, has drawn 
 out the old death — the old hatred.' 
 
 Gilbert returned to London that same evening, his task com- 
 pleted, his work done. 
 
 Was it well done ? What would be the end ? What would 
 Alison think ? 
 
 One thing alone remained. 
 
 Early next morning he paid a visit to the bank where the re- 
 ceipts had been exchanged for cash. He had an interview with 
 one of the managers. There were references to old books, and 
 examination of certain senior clerks. The sequel appeared to 
 be satisfactory, for when Gilbert left the bank his face was more 
 than usually sunny. 
 
 Finally, he sought the office of Anthony Hamblin and Co., 
 and set forth in detail the whole of his discoveries. 
 
 And then there was a discussion long and serious. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET. 
 
 The consciousness of possessing all to himself so great a secret 
 gave young Nick a sense of superior importance most enjoyable. 
 He hugged it to his bosom, took it to bed with him, and dreamed 
 of it, never let it go out of his thoughts. His mother observed 
 with some alarm that her son was changed during those days. 
 He was sobered ; he carried himself responsibly ; his white eye- 
 brows were charged with a burden of duty. 
 
 The change was certainly for the better, but she looked for 
 some physical cause to account for his sudden abandonment of 
 those impish moods which had once kept her in continual alarm. 
 It might be impending measles ; in fact, the boy was completely 
 weighed down by his knowledge. The writing-master of Jubilee 
 Road was too much in his mind. Whenever he saw Alison he 
 thought of him ; if he went out of the town he reflected that 
 the Clapham Road, followed due north, leads to London Bridge, 
 and that from London Bridge to Jubilee Road is but a step ; if 
 he came home, he passed the door of his uncle's study, and in- 
 voluntarily compared the mean lodging at the East End with
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET. 257 
 
 that stately room ; if he heard his mother lamenting the wicked- 
 ness of Stephen, he chuckled, thinking how that wicked man 
 would be, and should be, some day brought to shame, and his 
 wiles defeated ; if he heard Alison whispering despondently 
 that nothing had been as yet discovered, he rubbed his hands 
 together, and laughed inwardly, winking both eyes alternately, 
 as he thought of what he himself had discovered ; if he con- 
 templated his own future prospects, his thoughts turned to the 
 refugee whose return was to mark the commencement of his own 
 fortunes. 
 
 The thing was overwhelming. All day he pondered over it, 
 now with exultation, now with anxiety. His performances at 
 school grew every day more lamentable ; the subjunctive mood 
 ceased to interest him, and he neglected the past participle ; 
 even the things which would certainly become of real use to 
 him when he had his desk in Great St. Simon the Apostle, his 
 arithmetic, his French, his handwriting, became irksome. For 
 as the weary hours of work crept on, his mind was always away 
 in that dingy house of Jubilee Road, and his thoughts were 
 always turning to the Great Secret. 
 
 How was it to be disclosed in the most useful and, at the 
 same time, the most striking manner ? Suppose some one else, 
 a clerk in the house, for instance, should find out the writing- 
 master of Jubilee Road. His uncle, Nicolas reflected with 
 severity, was extremely thoughtless ; he might even, on a 
 Saturday half-holiday, stroll as far west as the entrance to the 
 docks, and there be observed by the policemen at the doors, and 
 then all his own share in the discovery would be actually fooled 
 away. 
 
 These were difficult and interesting problems, but they were 
 too much for the young brain. While Nicolas thought them 
 over, which was all day long, in school and out, the book before 
 him became a blank page ; the common he wandered over, as 
 any Robinson Crusoe, was as if it did not exist ; the shouts of 
 the boys at play, or the hum of the boys at work, fell on deaf 
 ears. His school performances during this period were in the 
 monthly report described as disgraceful. He cared nothing 
 about Cassar's triumphs in Gaul ; he could not be roused to any 
 interest in any subject whatever ; the ceaseless admonitions of 
 his masters produced no more effect than the lowing of distant 
 cattle ; if Cridland was called, Cridland had to be jogged by his 
 nearest neighbour ; if Cridland was asked a question, his reply 
 betrayed not only ignorance of the subject, but gross inatten- 
 tion. The consequences were inevitable. 
 
 Must one go on ? At that school they caned, but only in 
 cases of continued inattention and idleness. 
 
 "When the patience of the authorities was quite exhausted, 
 
 17
 
 253 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Cridland received orders to remain after twelve o'clock. It 
 need scarcely be observed that the fact of such a boy as young 
 Nick, the crafty, the subtle, the hitherto successful invader of 
 rules, being about to undergo the last extremity of the law, 
 excited an interest so lively as to be akin to joy. In fact, it was 
 joy — rapturous joy. When the hour of fate struck, the boys, 
 instead of rushing off to play as usual, congregated about the 
 door, listening in silence. Would young Nick take it plucky, 
 or would young Nick funk ? Would he cry out, or would he be 
 silent ? 
 
 They watched him march, with pale face, but head erect, into 
 the operating-room ; they listened while, after a pause, during 
 which, as the more experienced knew, the head-master was 
 delivering himself of the preliminary jaw. At last, the sound 
 of the Instrument was heard : swish ! swish ! swish ! No other 
 sound, no cry, no trampling of feet. 
 
 ' I always run round and round,' said young Featherbrain, 
 who was caned once a fortnight regularly. 
 
 ' Nine cuts,' said Lackwit secundus ; ' two more than I got 
 last time.' 
 
 But, throughout, a dignified silence. 
 
 Then the door opened, and young Nick came out. His head 
 was as erect as usual, though his cheek was a little flushed, and 
 his eyes brighter, perhaps. The boys made a lane. Young 
 Nick looked neither to the right nor to the left, though a murmur 
 of sympathetic admiration greeted him as he emerged ; but 
 taking his hat from the peg, he walked away with pride, capping 
 the head-master at the gate with a dignified smile, which seemed 
 to say : 
 
 ' You have done your duty ; I forgive you. Let us agree in 
 forgetting the late deplorable scene.' 
 
 Then the boys fell to discussing their own experiences, and 
 the punishment of young Nick served for the rest of the day as 
 a fillip or stimulus to the activity of the school life. 
 
 That night, after dark, any curious passer-by might have 
 noticed a small, thin figure creep through the iron railings, and 
 flit rapidly across the gravel to the back of the school. There 
 was a window at that part of the building which might be 
 opened from the outside, did one know the secret. Through 
 that window the thin figui'e crept. 
 
 The next day, which was Wednesday, and a half -holiday, was 
 a day of rebuke. The masters were late at prayers, and a 
 general feeling rapidly spread that something was going to 
 happen. In fact it had been discovered that the gowns had been 
 sewn together with such great artfulness that they could not 
 be separated without much labour and time. The masters 
 appeared, therefore, without them. The head-master was ob-
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET. 259 
 
 served to put less heart than usual into the petition for forgive- 
 ness. After prayers he announced that an outrage had been 
 committed on the sacred magisterial robes, and that he would 
 give the offender until twelve to confess. The eyes of all in- 
 voluntarily turned to young Nick, who only gazed upwards 
 thoughtfully, and shook his head with sadness. Worse things 
 happened : it was immediately afterwards found that the 
 masters' seats had been plentifully studded with small pieces of 
 cobbler's wax ; that the ink for all the desks had been powdered 
 with chalk, that the nibs of all the pens had been cut or broken 
 off ; that butter, or some such foreign substance, had been rubbed 
 upon the black-boards ; that mark-books had been shamefully 
 treated, and the records of impositions mutilated. 
 
 Three boys were caned, for minor offences, at twelve ; no con- 
 fessor appeared at that hour ; the whole school was detained 
 till one ; the whole school was also deprived of its half-holiday ; 
 three more were caned at five. Young Nick continued grave 
 and sad ; he shook his head from time to time ; but in the 
 afternoon he recovered his spirits, showed a cheerfulness strange 
 to the rest, and displayed the greatest alacrity in his work. At 
 five o'clock, when they were dismissed, he laughed. This episode 
 cheered him for the moment, but he relapsed, and became 
 mysteriously preoccupied again. His thoughts were not with 
 his studies : he lost the good opinion of his masters — a con- 
 sequence of sin, the true awfulness of which has been revealed 
 by the author of ' Eric ' — he made his fellows think he was 
 going silly, because a young Nick who had no more mischief in 
 him, who never said or did anything worthy of his former 
 reputation, who had gone quite silent and sluggish, was not the 
 young Nick whom they had formerly admired. That boy had 
 gone, vanished into the Ewigheit. There was left in his place a 
 quiet lad with white hair and eyebrows, pink face, and downcast 
 look, who moved among them as speechless as a ghost, who 
 never listened, who was always dreaming or asleep, who made 
 no fuss, played no pranks, and took no notice. Quite a stupid 
 and commonplace boy. Indeed the secret was too much for 
 him. Had its exclusive possession been much longer prolonged, 
 I believe the boy would have suffered some kind of brain affec- 
 tion. 
 
 There were moments when the story presented itself to him 
 in its comic aspect. The reflection that the man for whom so 
 many tears had been shed, whose death had caused so much 
 unexpected trouble, was really alive and well, stimulated Nicolas 
 to dance and sing, to utter dark sayings, to construct enigmas, 
 and to behave in Puck-like fashion towards Alison. She had 
 no suspicion of his meaning, but she began to feel every day 
 that the boy had some secret, and meant something real. And 
 
 17-2
 
 260 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 what did he mean by his constant allusions to the writing- 
 master ? 
 
 In those days he made a ' Ballad of the Writing-master,' of 
 which I only venture to quote the first two verses ; would that 
 all poets were content with publishing only the first two verses ! 
 
 * The Writing-master sings upon his way, 
 
 Of Gillott, J., soft nib, and pliant quill; 
 His Round and Text like twins together play ; 
 
 His frolic Small-hand keeps him happy still. 
 He sings all day about his merry task ; 
 
 He dances on the curbstone when he's free ; 
 Give me his lot, should you the question ask : — 
 
 A writing-master's is the life for me. 
 
 ' He loves his boys — their master they adore ; 
 
 He rolls in wealth, his reputation's such : 
 At five o'clock when he can work no more, 
 
 Often the Lord Mayor asks him out, and much. 
 " There goes the Writing-master !" cry the girls, 
 
 " Oh ! great, and grand, and rich, and proud is he. 
 Let others wed for rings and things and pearls : 
 
 'Tis, oh ! a writing-master's wife to be." ' 
 
 There were many more verses hammered out by this young 
 poet on the same subject ; but I refrain from quoting those 
 that followed. He sang the whole right through one afternoon 
 for Alison's pleasure, pretending he did not know she was in 
 the room. He was, indeed, very crafty in those minor pretences 
 which deceived no one. 
 
 ' Will you tell me, you tiresome boy,' asked Alison, worried 
 by his iteration, ' what you mean by perpetually talking about 
 writing-masters ?' 
 
 ' If you chose a profession,' the boy replied, with another 
 question, ' wouldn't you like that ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Alison. ' I would prefer anything, 
 almost, to such a profession. What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Not be a writing-master ? Why, of all the unreasonable 
 girls ! If you only knew — consider, Alison.' 
 
 He began to sing his song again. 
 
 The boy would give no fuller explanation. 
 
 Another remarkable circumstance. He took to coming home 
 late for tea on Saturdays, and sometimes did not appear until 
 supper was the only meal possible. And although he grew 
 absolutely grasping after pocket-money, he never spent any on 
 ' tuck,' and yet never seemed to have any. 
 
 One Sunday — it was the first Sunday after they put up the 
 tablet to the memory of Anthony Hamblin in the parish church 
 — he disgraced the family altogether, for at sight of the tablet 
 this ill-behaved and unfeeling boy began to laugh. That was 
 at the commencement of the service ; he laughed again when
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET. 261 
 
 they stood up for the Psalms, he choked loudly several times 
 during the sermon, and he laughed till the tears ran down his 
 cheeks all the way home across the Common. Alison had never 
 been so angry with him. Why he laughed the boy would 
 not, or could not, tell. But he refused to go to church for 
 the evening service, on the ground that he felt it coming on 
 again. 
 
 The reason why he came home late on Saturdays, and had no 
 pocket-money, was, first that he spent that afternoon with his 
 uncle, and secondly, that he used all his pocket-money in pur- 
 chasing little presents to cheer his solitude and poverty. And 
 I declare that although the boy was as selfish as most boys of 
 fourteen, and although he looked to his uncle's return for the 
 foundation of his own fortune, he was in this respect entirely 
 disinterested. He could never think of those shabby boots, 
 that worn coat, without a choking at the throat, and something 
 like a tear in his eye, signs of emotion which he was fain to hide 
 or efface as speedily as might be. 
 
 For his own part, Anthony, having quickly learned to trust 
 the boy, looked forward to his weekly visit as to a break in the 
 desolate monotony in his new existence. He sat at home and 
 waited for him, growing anxious if he was late, and when 
 he arrived there was a formal sort of catechism to be gone 
 through. 
 
 ' How is Alison ?' asked her father. 
 
 ' Chirpy,' said young Nick ; ' takes her meals hearty.' 
 
 ' Have they made any discovery yet ?' 
 
 ■ Not yet,' replied the boy ; ' and I hope they never will.' 
 
 That meant that the search, so far as he could tell, was as 
 yet unsuccessful : so far, therefore, the chances were in favour 
 of Stephen. This was just what the boy wanted. 
 
 Then they would sit down and talk about other things, the 
 possibility of return being always in both their minds. The 
 old relations between them were a great deal changed. The 
 man and the boy thus thrown together under changed condi- 
 tions were on the same level, in conversation. Young Nick 
 never let his uncle forget that his secret gave him authority, so 
 to speak ; nor could Anthony ever forget that his present work 
 and position afforded a striking contrast to his former. Indeed, 
 Anthony's reverses might be compared with those of Hecuba, 
 Croesus, and other fallen monarchs, some of whom taught in 
 schools. Louis Philippe and Dionysius, for instance. But 
 then Louis Philippe went back again. He might, had he chosen, 
 have taken a high moral line, and pointed out to Nicolas that 
 the misfortunes of one man should be taken as a warning to 
 other men. He omitted the opportunity, however, and the 
 moral lesson was loot.
 
 262 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Tell me how you like your work, Uncle Anthony,' said the 
 boy with a grin. ' Your work ! — ho, ho !' 
 
 It was the one disagreeable thing to Anthony about these 
 interviews, that young Nick would persist in alluding to his 
 occupation. 
 
 Anthony grunted. 
 
 ' Do you find your principal always — ahem ! — what a gentle- 
 manly principal ought to be ?' 
 
 Anthony preserved silence. 
 
 ' Do you like your boys ? Are they a pleasant lot of fel- 
 lows with a good tone and above meanness or falsehood ?' 
 
 Anthony shook his head. 
 
 ' Well, then, tell me what you do.' 
 
 ' You mean the day's routine ?' He blushed almost like a 
 boy, this man of fifty and more, while he related the daily 
 duties of an usher in a commercial academy. ' We begin at 
 nine : there are two assistants, Mr. Merkin and myself. The 
 principal takes the senior class, which does Latin. I do the 
 writing, drawing (which is an extra— for the principal), and 
 the geography and English. Mr. Merkin, who is young, and 
 will probably succeed the principal, takes the French and the 
 book-keeping, the history, the lower Latin, and the mathematics. 
 There are sixty boys in the school, and they pay six pounds a 
 year each for their education without extras, which are French, 
 drawing, and book-keeping — a guinea a year each for those.' 
 
 ' I see,' said young Nick. ' Boss pockets extras. Go on.' 
 4 We work from nine to twelve, and from two to five. In the 
 morning there is punishment school from twelve to one, and on 
 Wednesday afternoons.' 
 
 ' And what do they pay you for all this ?' 
 
 ' Seventy-five pounds a year, non-resident. You see, Nicolas, 
 I have been used*^o live pretty much as I liked, and I preferred 
 to be free in the evening. Then I have to look over exercises ; 
 but at least I can go to bed when I like, and smoke a pipe if I 
 please.' 
 
 This poor dole of independence, this limited portion of 
 freedom, produced a great wave of pity in the heart of the boy. 
 
 ' As for the boys,' Anthony continued, with a sigh, ' I must 
 own that they are wearying. Unfortunately, one cannot expect 
 the ideas of gentlemen in the — the East End of London. How- 
 ever, all boys are alike, I dare say. One tries to inspire them 
 with something like principle and morality ' 
 
 ' Might as well teach an oyster to climb a tree,' said young 
 Nick, speaking from his own experience of boys ; ' clout 'em 
 and cuff 'em. Go on, uncle.' 
 
 ' But it is uphill work. As for the teaching, there are, I think, 
 some boys who really want to learn.'
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET. 263 
 
 ' They know it pays,' observed Nick the sagacious. ' I'm one 
 of those boys. Teach me what will pay, and I will learn. Not 
 past participles — yah !' 
 
 ' Then there are the punishments. The principal conducts 
 them personally.' 
 
 ' Like Cook and Gaze,' said Nicolas, poetically. ' I should 
 like to conduct him personally, and one or two more principals 
 that I know.' 
 
 This dark and unintelligible reflection was probably due to the 
 still fresh — too fresh — recollection of his own recent sufferings. 
 
 ' I wish,' continued Anthony sadly, ' that there were more 
 judgment shown in inflicting the punishments, and perhaps 
 more dignity in the manner of operation. But one has no right 
 to talk openly of the conduct of one's employers. You will for- 
 get, Nicolas, that I mentioned these things. It might do me 
 serious injury if you talked.' 
 
 1 All right, uncle,' said Nicolas, grinning. ' I won't mention 
 it. Keep steaming ahead.' 
 
 ' There is nothing more to be said. We are having a little 
 difference just now, the principal and myself, because he wants 
 me to undertake some of the canings. And I — well, I would 
 rather not' 
 
 ' Naturally,' said Nicolas, wagging his head. ' Uncle Stephen 
 might be told off to do that. Of course you couldn't.' 
 
 Anthony, reminded by mention of his brother's name that he 
 was not by deliberate choice and training a writing-master, re- 
 lapsed into silence. 
 
 This was the kind of conversation which they held with each 
 other every Saturday, varied by the latest talk about Clapham, 
 and the views of Nicolas on things universal. 
 
 One day, about a month after the discovery, Anthony con- 
 fessed to the boy that he had a burning desire to see the old 
 place again, and his daughter. 
 
 ' Take me down with you to-night,' he said. ' Place me so 
 that I can see without being seen, and then bring out Alison so 
 that I may, if only for the last time, look upon her face.' 
 
 ' As for its being the last time,' said Nicolas, ' that's gammon, 
 and you know it. I am going to bring you home in triumph, 
 while the bells do ring and the drums do beat. As for trotting 
 her out for you to look at her, that's easy done. As for putting 
 you where she can't see you, that's not so easy. Let me think!' 
 
 He reflected seriously for a few moments. 
 
 ' To-day,' he said, 'is Saturday. Gilbert Yorke will very likely 
 turn up to-night, with his pocket-book full of no news. You 
 must not come to-night. But on Monday he will be off again. 
 He travels about the country and finds nothing, while Alderney 
 Codd goes round the town and finds nothing. Now, if the/
 
 264 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 had only come to Me in the first place, I could have shown them 
 how to go to work. See what I've found You !' 
 
 He spoke as if his discovery was entirely due to his superior 
 intelligence and forethought. 
 
 ' Well — Monday. Shall I venture to Clapham on Monday 
 evening ?' 
 
 ' On Monday evening you be about the place. Let me see — 
 you mustn't be in the gardens or in the front of the house. It's 
 awfully dangerous. Buy a false nose and a moustache — put on 
 the green goggles — tie a red comforter round your throat. Lord ! 
 suppose anybody was to see you ! Why, where would my credit 
 be ? Be outside the house, in the road, or on the Common in 
 front, but not far off, as the clock strikes nine. I will do what 
 I can for you, but I can't promise.' 
 
 On the following Monday evening, which was fortunately fine, 
 Anthony, observing every possible precaution in the way of dis- 
 guise, walked once more over the old familiar Clapham Common. 
 He felt terribly guilty and was full of apprehensions. Every 
 passer-by seemed to scrutinise him with suspicion ; the policeman 
 turned his lantern upon him ; the men whom he met edged away 
 from him ; in fact, the effect of the green spectacles, the red 
 handkerchief, and the slouched hat was theatrically suggestive. 
 No brigand in a burlesque looked more ostentatiously dis- 
 guised. 
 
 It was nine o'clock as he drew near the old house. 
 
 For a moment he felt as if the past four months was all a 
 delusion and a dream. He was going to walk in as of old. He 
 would find the study fire lit, his slippers in their old place, his 
 box of cigars ready to hand, his book upon the table, and Alison 
 to talk to him. Involuntarily he drew himself up, stepped out 
 quickly, and gained the garden-gate. There he was arrested by 
 the boy, whose white locks gleamed in the twilight. 
 
 ' Hush !' whispered young Nick, looking about him with 
 jealousy, though he greatly enjoyed the intrigue ; no one is 
 about now, but there's precious little safety. William, the 
 groom, keeps company with Anne, the kitchenmaid ; sometimes 
 they're in the scullery, and sometimes they're about the stables, 
 and they may be prowling round, as they were last night, in the 
 road ; there's no telling. You walk very gently to the other gate., 
 while I look round again. I'll meet you there.' 
 
 The boy made a rapid reconnaissance. While he examined the 
 shrubs in the front garden, Anthony stood outside the railings, 
 and looked upon what had been his own. The front door was 
 wide open, and the blaze of light looked to the hungry exile like 
 an invitation to return to home, and love, and Alison. 
 
 ' Come,' said Nicolas, catching him by the wrist, ' you stand 
 behind the trunk of the cedar, that's the blackest place in the
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET. 265 
 
 garden. You can see into the drawing-room from there. I'll 
 bring Alison to the window ; you wait quiet and don't move. 
 If William and Anne come spooning here to-night, interrupting 
 things, I'll give them cold pig or something worse, see if I don't.' 
 
 The boy left his uncle planted by the tree, and retreated to 
 the house. Alison was sitting with his mother, reading by the 
 light of a single small lamp ; there was a small fire on the 
 hearth, and no other light in the place. Nicolas immediately 
 mounted on a chair, and lit up all the burners nearest the 
 window. 
 
 ' More light,' he said ; ' I want to tackle the subjunctive mood. 
 It's what the novelists call a dark mood, a moody mood, a melan- 
 choly mood, that wants all the light we can get.' 
 
 Then he opened the shutters, drew back the curtains, and 
 threw up the window. 
 
 'More air,' he said; 'that's for the past participle.' Pre- 
 sently he whispered — it was rather a loud whisper — ' Alison !' 
 
 ' What is it, Nicolas ?' 
 
 She laid down the book and lifted her head. 
 
 ' Come here.' 
 
 ' I am too comfortable, thank you. Pray shut the window. 
 And you cannot want all that glare of light.' 
 
 1 You would come — I think — if you knew who was outside, 
 and wanted to see you. But don't come unless you like ; he 
 won't care really, whether he sees you to-night or not. It's 
 nothing to him ; oh no !' 
 
 ' Don't be silly, Nicolas.' 
 
 But she smiled and listened. 
 
 ' 6 — i — 1. There you are with your Gil.' 
 
 Alison sprang from her chair and ran to the window. The 
 light was full upon her face as she stood there looking out into 
 the garden, right before the branches of the great dark cedar, 
 so that a man beneath the tree could almost reach out his hand 
 and touch her. 
 
 ' Gilbert is not there,' she said to young Nick, drawing back 
 disappointed. 
 
 ' I didn't say he was,' replied the boy, shutting the window 
 and the shutters ; ' I only said G— i— 1, Gil. That's alL You 
 made up the rest.' 
 
 ' You are a mischievous little imp,' she said, ' and you ought 
 to have your ears boxed.' 
 
 She went back to her book. Nicolas turned down some of the 
 lights and went out of the room. No one ever ventured to in- 
 terfere with his movements. 
 
 He found his uncle Anthony still under the cedar. 
 
 ' Come,' whispered the boy, ' you mustn't be found here. It 
 is not only William and Anne, it's Robert the gardener, and
 
 2 66 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Eliza the cook, as well. Lord ! what I've had to look after 
 since you ran away ! You ought to have thought of me before 
 you did it. Now then ; you've seen Alison, and I can't have 
 you loitering about here, getting caught, and you had better get 
 away back to Jubilee Road as fast as you can.' 
 
 Anthony touched the boy's cheek with his finger, and said 
 nothing. By the light of the gas in the hall, Nicolas saw that 
 his eyes were heavy with tears. 
 
 ' She looks more beautiful than ever,' he replied. 
 
 ' Now you see what you've given up, uncle, and I hope you're 
 properly sorry,' said Nicolas with severity. ' You've just chucked 
 away and lost the most scrumptious girl in all Clapham— your 
 own daughter, too ; the best house in the place, the best cellar 
 of wine, and my society.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' Anthony replied ; ' I know, I know. 
 
 ' There's still a door open. Come back to us. I, for one, will 
 never say a word to reproach you, or recall the past. Remem- 
 ber, uncle, there's always a knife and fork ready for you.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 HOW JACK BAKER PROPOSED AN AGREEABLE COMPROMISE. 
 
 Alison returned home with greater lightness of heart than she 
 had felt since her father's death. It was far more to her than 
 to other girls to have stood beside her mother's grave. She had 
 received an assurance which would at once stay the hand of her 
 enemy, and stop the tongues of those who maligned her father's 
 memory ; her lover was come back to her, and again the ring 
 of engagement decorated the third finger of her left hand. Her 
 pride, her self-respect returned to her, and when she ran up the 
 steps of the old house it was with a step as elastic and a face as 
 bright as any that had ever rejoiced the face of her father. 
 
 ' Dear old house,' she cried, ' I shall not have to leave you 
 after all.' 
 
 ' Then,' said young Nick, who was there to welcome her, ' I 
 suppose you have squared it at last with Uncle Stephen. A very 
 sensible thing too. Mind, I always offered to square it for you, 
 but you were so uncommonly taken up with that fellow Yorke. 
 Now, I suppose, he's come round to my opinion, and pretends it 
 is his own idea. What's the figure ?' 
 
 'You are a horrid boy !' Alison would tell him no more. 
 
 Said Nicolas, bursting into song,
 
 AN AGREEABLE COMPROMISE. 267 
 
 ' Let others wed for rings and things and pearls, 
 'Tis oh ! a Writing-master's wife to be — ee — ee — ee ; 
 A Writing-master's wife — or daughter — or female relation of some kind — 
 to be. 
 
 ' You want the writing-master, Alison, my dear ? Wait a 
 little — wait a little ; he's coming.' 
 
 But she was not to be allured into asking any questions, even 
 about the writing-master. She was too happy to be curious. 
 
 Her manner excited the boy's liveliest curiosity. At dinner 
 he listened for information, but none was given. After dinner 
 he made haste to spread out all his volumes and dictionaries, 
 and pretended rapt absorption in his studies, hoping that 
 Alison would be betrayed by his assumed concentration of 
 thought into dropping some hint of what had happened. But 
 she did not. She made no mention whatever of her journey 
 and its results. Only she was happy again, happy as a child, and 
 Mrs. Cridland waited patiently to hear the cause. She was 
 told, but not before her son went to bed. 
 
 Nicolas was greatly disgusted with this want of confidence ; 
 and next day, too, a half -holiday, when he might have told the 
 secret to the writing-master. As it was, he contented himself 
 with a letter in which he merely wrote these words : 
 
 ' Something up. They've found it out, but they haven't told 
 me yet. Keep up pecker. — N. C 
 
 The situation — had Mr. Bunter Baker realised what it meant 
 — was unpromising for him to reopen those negotiations which 
 had already been entered upon. They had, however, with one 
 or two other matters, been greatly in his mind for some time. 
 Stephen Hamblin, growing gloomy over the threatened delay, 
 and perhaps suspicious about the movements of the other side, 
 was dogged, and even violent, in his assertions of confidence. 
 
 ' I tell you,' said Jack, ' they've found out something. She 
 went into the country the other day mysteriously. What did 
 she go for ?' 
 
 ' For change of air, perhaps,' said Stephen. ' What do I care 
 what she went for ? Man, there's nothing to find out.' 
 
 ' I don't know.' Jack shook his head sagaciously. ' I met 
 Alderney Codd the other day. He said that you were going to 
 be crumpled up.' 
 
 'Alderney Codd be hanged ! Mind, Jack, I know very well 
 what I am doing. I tell you again that Anthony couldn't have 
 been married.' 
 
 Stephen looked worried, but his manner was defiant. In fact, 
 the more uncertain of his own position he became, the moro 
 positively he asserted it. 
 
 ' Ah ! well,' Jack went on, ' there are several ways of " crump- 
 ling up." If they do not find out the proof of the marriage
 
 263 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 they may induce you to retire from the contest ; they may buy 
 you out ; or they may ' — he hesitated a moment, but delicacy 
 of feeling was not one of his strong points — ' they may threaten 
 you out.' 
 
 ' What the devil do you mean ?' cried Stephen, his face ablaze. 
 ' Threaten out ? Threaten me out ?' 
 
 ' Don't fly into a rage.' Jack spoke in his usual loud, yet 
 leisurely fashion. ' I learn a good deal as I go about. For 
 instance, things are being discussed by the clerks at Hamblins' 
 just now, and your name seems to be taken pretty free. Of 
 course I don't know what they say. If I hear I forget. Most 
 likely they are lies. At the same time, Hamblin ' — he turned 
 and faced him, looking him straight in the eyes — ' I suppose 
 there are few men who have hung about town so long as you, 
 who can't have something raked up.' 
 
 ' Well ?' asked Stephen, sullenly, ' and what then ?' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing ; only these things don't look well if you have 
 got to go into a witness-box, do they ?' 
 
 ' It depends upon the things,' Stephen replied, restlessly 
 pacing the room ; ' they may rake what they like, so far as I 
 am concerned.' 
 
 ' That's all right then, and you need not fear. By-the-way, 
 why did you leave the house when you might have stayed in it 
 and become a partner ?' 
 
 Stephen's face became darker. 
 
 ' We had a quarrel,' he said ; ' a family quarrel.' 
 
 * Ah, very likely ; only that is not what they say.' 
 
 ' Confound it, man, let them say what they like ! Tell me if 
 it is anything outrageous, and I will have them up for libel.' 
 Stephen looked, however, as if he cared a great deal. ' Of 
 course,' he said, stopping in his walk, ' I should not like my 
 whole life trotted out for public inspection. No man would. 
 Fortunately, however, nobody knows all the shady places except 
 myself. Who knows yours ?' 
 
 1 Nobody at all,' said Jack Baker ; ' thank goodness, nobody. 
 I keep the seamy side in. Now you, old fellow, I am afraid, 
 have kept your seamy side a good deal exposed to view. You've 
 gambled, you've gone on the turf, you've been a man about 
 town, you've been a speculator ; you've dabbled in finance, 
 you've been mixed up with companies in which the shareholders 
 don't bless the names of the promoters ; all these things stick 
 to a fellow. Now I, my dear friend, with the deepest sympathy 
 for your pursuits, have done the same thing, but more quietly ; 
 and I'm ten years younger than you, so that I haven't had the 
 time to commit so much wickedness as you. My game has 
 always been to show up as the steady City merchant, respect- 
 able and substantial.'
 
 AN AGREEABLE COMPROMISE. 269 
 
 ' Well, well, what are we talking about ?' 
 
 ' I have been thinking,' Jack went on in his most business- 
 like way, ' that my thou, looks devilish like being lost. Excuse 
 me disbelieving your statement, Hamblin, which seems to me as 
 if it rested on your own unsupported opinion. I don't see my 
 way to getting that thou, back again ; and as for your affairs 
 getting into a more satisfactory state, I have reason to believe, 
 my dear boy, that they ceased to be in any state at all a good 
 while ago. Don't swear, and fly into a rage, because I'm not 
 going to round on you, and I'm not going to say anything a bit 
 nastier than I can help ; but if that money is to be paid back 
 out of this Hamblin estate, I think I shall have to whistle for 
 it. Mind I don't precisely know what Alderney Codd means, 
 but I do know that though he is an ass he is not a liar. If he 
 says you are going to be crumpled up, the crumpling -will take 
 place as sure as eggs is eggs. Besides, in any case, the judge 
 may keep you waiting for seven years. How are you to live 
 for seven years ?' 
 
 ' You seem determined to drive me mad between you,' said 
 Stephen. ' What does it matter what that infernal ass, Alder- 
 ney Codd, says or thinks ? That won't hurt. As for seven 
 years, of course it is nonsense. Next year we make another 
 application, win the case, and pocket the money. Marriage ? 
 That be hanged !' 
 
 ' I wish I could share your confidence, Hamblin.' Jack's 
 tone became very serious. ' Now I have been turning this over, 
 and I am anxious to see a compromise.' 
 
 Stephen groaned. 
 
 ' A compromise, I say. Listen a moment. That niece of 
 yours is a very pretty girl : she's the finest, prettiest, pluckiest 
 girl I ever set eyes on, or dreamed of. It's a shame that she 
 should be kicked out because she can't find her mother ; a 
 shame, by Gad ! And yet, of course, old man,' he added, with 
 a touch of the City common-sense, ' one can't blame you. Go 
 
 she must, unless However, what I propose is this. You 
 
 shall withdraw your claim altogether ; you shall, in point of 
 fact, acknowledge her legitimacy ; you shall abandon all right 
 to the estate. In return, you shall receive half the personal 
 property — half, you see : that is a hundred and fifty thousand 
 pounds — good heavens ! what a pile ! — and I ' 
 
 ' Oh ! you are to come in, are you ?' 
 
 Stephen sat down in a kind of desperation, and turned his 
 dark face upon his friend. 
 
 1 Of course I am. Do you think I ever interest myself for 
 nothing ? J. double-B. is going to romp in gaily. My share 
 in the business is to marry the girl, and take the other half of 
 the pile.'
 
 2>o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 1 Oh,' said Stephen, ' this is a very pretty sort <u proposal. I 
 am to give you half of my estate, am I ?' 
 
 ' It isn't yours yet. Very likely it never will be yours. You 
 are to exchange quarrelling and fighting for friendship, doubt for 
 certainty, claim for possession. Why, I think it is too much 
 that I offer you. We should say a third, not a half — and J. 
 double-B. takes the girl off your hands, marries her, gives out 
 that you've behaved noble, and sets your character up for life. 
 Think of that now.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she won't have you,' said Stephen, evidently soften- 
 ing. 
 
 ' Ha — h'm !' Jack replied, with a sweet smile, stroking his 
 chin and smoothing his moustache, which was a fine full growth. 
 ' We shall see. If a man is not absolutely repulsive, he always 
 has a chance. Hang it, Hamblin, you ought to know the sex.' 
 
 Evidently Jack Baker thought he knew it himself. He looked 
 so irresistible, with his confident pose, and his air as of a pea- 
 cock brandishing an enormous tail, that Stephen laughed aloud. 
 
 ' Go in and win, if you can,' he said. ' Get engaged to the 
 girl, and then make your terms with me. You may, if you like, 
 feel your way to a compromise. I don't want to be unreason- 
 able. Give me three-fourths or so, and let the thing slide.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Jack, ' I should think you would let the thing slide 
 for three-fourths. That means over two hundred thousand. 
 Why, there's spending in that for forty years if you managed 
 it properly. You'll be under the turf in twenty. If Alderney 
 meant anything, it is not three-fourths nor one-fourth either 
 that you'll get.' 
 
 As a matter of fact, Alderney meant nothing except an ex- 
 pression of profound conviction. Gilbert had not told any one, 
 as yet, the nature and extent of his discoveries. Even Alison 
 only knew that she had stood by the grave of her mother, for 
 whom she might shed tears of sorrow unmixed with shame. 
 
 A second time, therefore, Jack Baker drove to the house on 
 Clapham Common. On this occasion, however, he had a secret 
 and private purpose of his own, which made him rather nervous. 
 
 Miss Hamblin received him with less frigidity than before. 
 In fact, the girl was so happy that she felt benevolent even to 
 an emissary of her uncle. 
 
 On the previous visit her eyes had been heavy with tears, and 
 her cheek pale from insulted pride. Now she felt herself once 
 more her father's very daughter, the rightful heiress. A softer 
 light glowed in her face, the light of sunshine ; her cheek was 
 rosy, her lips were smiling, her dark eyes were soft and limpid 
 when she lifted them to greet her visitor. 
 
 Jack Baker thought he saw the light of welcome in those 
 eyes, and took courage. He was more splendidly attired than
 
 AN AGREEABLE COMPROMISE. 271 
 
 on his former visit. The season of early summer admitted the 
 gorgeousness of white waistcoat, light dust-coat, scarlet tie, 
 lavender gloves, white hat. His coarsely handsome face, marred 
 by the tokens of indulgence, was not unpleasant. To be sure, 
 Alison thought, comparing him mentally with her own lover, 
 the man cannot help not being a gentleman : that is his mis- 
 fortune, not his fault. But she thought he looked good- 
 tempered, cVun bon naturel. 
 
 ' I come again, Miss Hamblin,' said Jack, with the sunniest 
 of smiles and an airy wave of his hand, ' as an ambassador from 
 your uncle, who still, I need hardly tell you, deplores the contest 
 in which he has become unavoidably engaged.' 
 
 ' Really,' said Alison, ' I am surprised to learn it. To be sure, 
 he can always retire from it.' 
 
 ' I am here to make another proposal, or rather, to sound you 
 as to your own views, if you will honour me by confiding them 
 to me.' Jack dropped his voice, and tried to look insinuating. 
 
 The man, thought Alison, looks like a draper's assistant 
 offering a shawl. 
 
 ' Had you not better sit down and make the proposal in com- 
 fort, Mr. Baker ?' she said, smiling. It was really pleasant to 
 think of receiving proposals for a compromise when everything 
 was settled and proved. 
 
 ' Thank you, Miss Hamblin,' said Jack, taking a chair. It 
 was more encouraging to be asked to sit down, but, somehow, 
 he felt less at his ease. The room overpowered him : it was so 
 full of flowers, dainty pictures, embroidery, and all the little 
 things with which a young lady who need not consider cost loves 
 to surround herself. 
 
 ' Mr. Stephen Hamblin has never, I beg you to believe, been 
 indifferent to your feelings in this matter,' Jack began. ' He 
 has often lamented to me the hard position to which you might 
 be reduced, if ' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Alison. ' Never mind my hard position. 
 Let us come to the offer. Do not you think, however, that it 
 would be best to make it in writing to my guardians ?' 
 
 ' No ; certainly not. Mr. Hamblin would wish to deal with 
 you direct,' said the ambassador. ' It is with his niece, not with 
 his cousins, that he wishes to restore a good understanding.' 
 
 ' Very well. Pray let me hear his proposal.' 
 
 ' It is hardly a proposal ; only a suggestion. What do you 
 think of his withdrawing his claim, not because it is an unjust 
 claim, but in your own interests, and out of consideration to 
 yourself ? In withdrawing it, he would naturally look to com- 
 pensation.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Alison, smiling. ' Yes ; I suppose, compensation 
 for having set up an unjust claim.'
 
 272 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' One would say a half of the whole estate — something of that 
 sort.' 
 
 ' I see,' said Alison. ' I should have to give him half in order 
 to get anything.' 
 
 ' Quite so,' said Jack. ' Should you consider that proposal a 
 liberal one ?' 
 
 ' What did I tell you when you came here last, Mr. Baker ?' 
 she asked quietly. ' Let me remind you. I said that I would 
 hear nothing of any compromise until my father's name was 
 vindicated. That must be my answer again. My uncle was 
 the only man who dared to assail the memory of that most 
 honourable and upright man. Nothing could make me sur- 
 render my right to defend it. I will have all, or nothing.' 
 
 ' Is that your determination, Miss Hamblin V 
 
 1 It is, and I am sorry you have taken the trouble to come 
 here on a fruitless errand.' 
 
 ' My own trouble, Miss Hamblin,' said Jack, ' in your cause 
 is nothing, absolutely nothing.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Alison, ' that if my uncle had asked me in 
 January last, as he had so little and I so much, to give him 
 money, I should have given it. Now, however, the case is 
 altered. I have been publicly branded in an open court ; I go 
 about the world with a stain upon my birth. I have been 
 charged with having no right or title to my father's estate. Do 
 not you see what a difference that makes ?' 
 
 ' But,' said Jack, ' think of the money. Think of the tre- 
 mendous pile of money you are throwing away.' 
 
 ' You cannot understand,' said Alison. ' You cannot, un- 
 fortunately, see that it has always been impossible for me to 
 make any kind of compromise. If I said that three months 
 ago, in my shame and despair, I must surely say it again and all 
 the more, now that ' 
 
 She stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' They have found something,' thought Jack. 
 
 ' But will you credit him with good intentions ?' he asked 
 softly and sweetly. 
 
 ' Certainly not,' said Alison, in a hard voice. ' Certainly not ; 
 his intentions have always, from the very first, been as bad as 
 they could be. I wish never to see my uncle again, never to 
 hear from him. However,' she rose, and her face changed with 
 a smile, ' that is nothing to you, Mr. Baker. Our business is over, 
 I think.' 
 
 Now here was his chance. It came and found him unprepared, 
 because he had not expected that it would take this form. All 
 the way down in the cab he had been thinking how he could best 
 open the business. He had encouraged himself by little exhor- 
 tations, such as, ' Go in and win, J. double-B. . . . Don't be
 
 AN AGREEABLE COMPROMISE. 273 
 
 afraid, — she is but a woman. All women are alike. You're not 
 so bad-looking, my boy , you've got a manner of your own with 
 them ; you've got the dibs ; lots of girls would give their back- 
 hair to get J. double -B.' and so on, little epigrammatic sen- 
 tences of encouragement thus delicately and feelingly put. 
 
 Now the time was come, and he hardly seemed equal to the 
 occasion. Only a woman before him — all women are alike ; yet 
 Miss Hamblin, somehow, was not quite the same as Lotty, and 
 Polly, and Topsy, who had, as previously stated, been called to 
 the inner bar, and ' taken silk ;' and it came upon him with 
 rather a crushing force, that he had never seen any woman like 
 Miss Hamblin before. But he was not without pluck, and he 
 began to stammer, turning very red, and looking uncomfortable. 
 
 1 1 could hope, Miss Hamblin, that so far as I am personally 
 concerned, the — the intimacy of myself and Mr Stephen 
 Hamblin may be no bar to my — my — friendship with your- 
 self.' 
 
 ' Your friendship, Mr. Baker?' What could the man mean ? 
 ' Why, I was not aware that we were even acquaintances ' 
 
 ' I mean, that is,' said Jack, getting more hot in the nose. 
 ' That when we meet in society, you will allow me ' 
 
 ' It is not at all likely that we shall ever meet in society,' said 
 Alison quickly. Then she thought she had said a rude thing, 
 and added — ' Because I go so little into any kind of society.' 
 
 ' But if we were to meet, Miss Hamblin — and besides, I will 
 try to meet you — people who have the will, you know.' Here 
 he smiled, and looked so knowing, that Alison longed to box his 
 ears. ' After church, say — I'm not much of a hand at church 
 myself — but I could turn up when the sermon was over, you 
 know.' 
 
 Alison began to grow indignant. 
 
 ' I think I would rather not meet you " when the sermon is 
 over," ' she said quietly 
 
 1 If you would let me call upon you/ Jack went on, thinking 
 he was progressing famously, ' I should like it best. We could 
 talk here, you know, or in the gardens and conservatories. I 
 dare say you are pretty dull in this great house all by yourself. 
 I could cheer you up, perhaps. Let me try, Miss Hamblin.' 
 
 ' Cheer her up ?' she looked in amazement. 
 
 ' I'm not a bad sort,' he continued, warming to his work. 
 ' Come to know me, I am rather a good sort ; at least they tell 
 me so.' He assumed a smile of satisfaction which made her 
 shudder. ' I may have my faults like most men. To begin with, 
 I am not come, like you, of a great City House. I had my own 
 business to make, and I've made it. The dibs are all of my own 
 piling '—he thought this might sound vulgar — ' and when I say 
 " dibs,'' of course I mean the money, because I began as nothing 
 
 18
 
 274 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 but a clerk. You wouldn't think that. Miss Hamblin, would 
 you. to look at me now ? However, here I am — just as you see 
 me. I've got a big business in tea ; really, a big business. 
 There's my cab at the door for you to see the kind of hack I 
 can afford — cheap at a hundred ; and I'm quite a young man 
 still, Miss Hamblin, and perhaps not so bad looking as seme — 
 eh ? Handsome Jack I have been called. We should run well 
 together ; and the long and the short is that, if you will let me 
 pay my attentions to you, I am ready, money or no money.' 
 
 Alison burst out laughing. She was so happy in her mind 
 that she was amused rather than offended. The man's vulgarity, 
 his impudence, his mock humility, his personal conceit, his in- 
 tense belief in himself, amused her. She clapped her hands to- 
 gether as delighted as any schoolgirl at a joke, and burst into 
 merry peals of laughter, which utterly routed and discomfited 
 the wooer. 
 
 ' Pay your attentions to me, Mr. Baker ?' she cried ; ' oh, I am 
 so sorry, because I am obliged to decline that delicate offer, so 
 delicately made. Another girl, Mr. Baker, must have the happi- 
 ness of receiving your attentions. And oh ! I really feel what 
 I am giving up : the big business in tea, and the cheap hack, 
 and the — the dibs, and the young man, still young, called Hand- 
 some Jack. But there are many other girls, I am sure, who take 
 a deep interest in tea. and expensive hacks, and dibs, and Hand- 
 some Jacks. You will have better luck with them, no doubt. 
 Good-morning, Mr. Bunter Baker.' 
 
 She laughed in his face, and left him there standing, hot and 
 flushed. His knees felt shaky, and monosyllables trembled on 
 his lips. 
 
 He wiped his forehead, and asked himself if she meant it. 
 For really, this derisive way of receiving his suit had not pre- 
 sented itself to his mind as a possibility. She might refuse him, 
 he thought ; that was possible, but not probable, considering his 
 big business, and his — well, his handsome person — why not 
 acknowledge the truth ? Often persons of the opposite sex 
 called him Handsome Jack — all women are alike — why not Miss 
 Hamblin ? 
 
 Hang it ! was there anything ridiculous in him ? Couldn't 
 the girl say ' no ' without laughing in his face ? Perhaps, after 
 all, she was only egging him on. How if he were to try the 
 very next Sunday morning and hang about the doors of the 
 church when the congregation were coming out ? 
 
 She was gone ; the door stood open. As he gathered up his 
 hat and gloves he became aware that in the doorway stood a 
 boy, with white hair and pink cheeks, who appeared to be en- 
 joying some excellent joke. That is, he was laughing from ear 
 to ear when Jack turned round, and on being observed, he
 
 AN AGREEABLE COMPROMISE. 275 
 
 pulled out a pocket-handkerchief, and went through a panto- 
 mime of sorrow, which inspired Mr. J. Bunter Baker with a 
 strong desire of horsewhipping that boy. Had he been listen- 
 ing ? 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! oh !' cried the pink boy, retreating warily in the 
 direction of the pantry, ' Oh ! oh*! what a dreadful thing ! 
 She won't have him ; she throws away his dibs and despises his 
 tea : our full-flavoured at two-and-four, and our reelly choice at 
 three and two. She won't have him, even though they call him 
 Handsome Jack. Ho ! ho ! Handsome Jack !' 
 
 Mr. Baker rushed at the boy. Young Xick threw himself 
 into the pantry and locked the door. He heard his baffled 
 enemy immediately afterwards retreating, and opening the door, 
 began a prolonged and most unearthly yell as of agony, at which 
 Mr. Baker fled hurriedly, and all the household rushed to see 
 what was the matter, headed by Mrs. Cridland. 
 
 ' It's all right, old lady,' said her son, tranquilly ; ' he's gone, 
 I perceive.' 
 
 ' Who ?' asked his mother. 
 
 'Handsome Jack. Oh, Alison !' he went on, 'what a pity! 
 You've thrown him away ! He's gone for good. 
 
 * " Let others wed for rings, and things, and pearls, 
 'Tis oh ! a Writing-master's wife to be — ee — 00 oa " ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 HOW STEPHEN STILL HAD DREAMS. 
 
 A little cloud in the sky, no bigger than a man's hand. Stephen 
 saw it in the heavens when Jack Baker quoted Alderney Codd's 
 words. H Jack, who never looked skywards, had seen it. it 
 Would have spread over the whole horizon, and obscured the 
 sun long before he returned from his embassy. He sought his 
 friend immediately. 
 
 ' It is all up,' he reported ; ' I am certain they have found out 
 everything.' 
 
 • What have they found out ?' asked Stephen. 
 
 ' I don't know. She didn't tell me. But I am certain ' 
 
 ' Hang it, man ! be reasonable,' Stephen said. ' What makes 
 you certain ?' 
 
 ' Look here, Hamblin. I find the young lady happy, radiant, 
 not cast down at all. She is all smiles and happiness ; she isn't 
 the least afraid of vou. When I suggested a companion, she 
 
 18—2
 
 276 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 first laughed and then she smiled. You know their cunning 
 way when they have got a secret all to themselves and like to 
 hug it ; and then she became grave, and tried to work herself 
 into a rage, but couldn't see her way, even though she talked 
 about you. But what she said afterwards was more important 
 still.' 
 
 ' What was that ?' 
 
 ' " Tell my uncle," she said, "that if I refused any compromise 
 three months ago, when I was in doubt and despair, ten times 
 
 as much would I refuse to make any now, when " And 
 
 then she broke off short. Make what you like out of that, 
 Hamblin. To me it means fighting, with plenty of evidence 
 in the background. And I wish I saw my way clear to that 
 thou. — that I fooled away on your representations.' 
 
 ' Come, Jack,' said Stephen, trying to make a show of con- 
 fidence which he did not feel— 'come, don't be alarmed about 
 your little venture. It's as safe as the Bank ; I tell you for the 
 hundredth time that they cannot have found anything, because 
 there is nothing to find. My brother never married. Let them 
 do their worst. And as for the money, it doesn't matter to 
 you how long you wait.' 
 
 ' Doesn't it ?' said Jack. ' I can tell you then that's nonsense. 
 Why, there's scarcely a House in London that can let an out- 
 standing thousand go like that. Hang it ! it takes long enough 
 to make. And one never knows what may happen. I've got 
 the biggest thing on at the present moment— but never mind 
 that.' 
 
 So the great speculator in tea had his personal anxieties, a re- 
 velation which brought some comfort to Stephen's soul. 
 
 ' Another thing,' Jack went on, smoothing his moustache and 
 speaking with a little hesitation, ' you may attach no importance 
 to it, but I do. When a girl who is going to be a pauper gets 
 an offer of marriage from a man — well, a man like myself — she 
 don't as a rule burst out laughing in his face.' 
 
 i Was that what happened to you, Jack ?' Stephen asked, 
 sm iling. 
 
 ' Yes, it was. I don't mind, to you, owning that it was. She 
 laughed in my face. Yet I actually proposed to her, although 
 she may not have a penny. What do you think of that, Ham- 
 blin ?' 
 
 ' Think of your proposal ? Why, I suppose it was on the 
 same principle as that on which you lent me the thousand 
 pounds. You thought there was money behind — eh ? From 
 me or my niece, one or the other, you would stand to win.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' said Jack ; ' but why did she laugh ? that's what 
 I want to know. I'm not a man accustomed to be laughed at.
 
 STEPHEN DREAMS. 277 
 
 What is there ridiculous about me ? Isn't a Bunter Baker as 
 good as a Hamblin ?' 
 
 ' Can't say, I'm sure,' replied Stephen. ' If you attach any 
 importance to the whims and fancies of a girl like that, you had 
 better ask her for a reason. So she wouldn't have you. Ah ! 
 you see, my boy, it is very well to talk about a girl going to be 
 a pauper; but Alison isn't a pauper yet, and she doesn't quite 
 understand what poverty means. Go and ask her this time 
 next year.' 
 
 I You think you will have the estate, then ?' 
 
 I I am sure I shall. And I need not tell you> Jack Baker, 
 that unless that little ' 
 
 ' Stop !' cried Jack ; ' I tell you again that I won't have that 
 magnificent creature — who ought to be on the boards, by Gad ! 
 in black velvet, and she'd outshine the lot — called a little devil.' 
 
 ' Very good,' said Stephen, ' call her what you like. What I 
 mean is, that unless she submits and eats humble pie, she shall 
 not have one brass farthing out of me, whether you marry her 
 or whether you do not.' 
 
 Stephen, alternating between fits of despondency and elation, 
 was now in the latter stage. He was confident, he was ready 
 to mete out punishment or reward to his enemies or friends, as 
 they deserved it. 
 
 Jack Baker went away to the City. Stephen continued in this 
 hot fit of confidence. No harm could come to him ; his case 
 was strong and sound ; yet a little while, and the enemy would 
 give in. Everybody knows the state of mina which, as super- 
 stitious folk hold, precedes some great calamity. The victim is 
 foolishly, childishly, recklessly confident and happy ; he dis- 
 regards those warnings which used to play so large a part in the 
 lives of our ancestors : magpies, black cats, crows, hares, run 
 across his path unheeded ; screech-owls hoot and he hears them 
 not ; brindled cats mew and he only laughs ; knives are crossed, 
 salt is spilled, dreams are told before breakfast, and he recks 
 not ; the visions of the night have brought him squalling babies, 
 and he forgets them ; he stumbles at the threshold and thinks 
 nothing of it ; the day is Friday, the thirteenth, and he regards 
 it not ; every kind of miraculous warning is lavished upon that 
 man, and he goes on to his doom, laughing and careless. Stephen 
 was that reckless man : his dream had but one more day to run, 
 and, as if anxious to make the most of it, he revelled, and 
 lolled, and hugged himself in the contemplation and imagination 
 of his coming wealth. 
 
 ' They have been searching, advertising, running here and 
 there for six months,' he said to himself ; ' nothing has come of 
 it, because there has been nothing to come. Why, I know that 
 Anthony was never married. As for Alison's mother, thoy
 
 278 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 must find one for her, and I dare say they will. And as 
 Anthony was never in Scotland, I am not afraid of any attempt 
 being made to prove a marriage. Old Billiter hates me, but then 
 old Billiter is not a common rogue„ That is very certain.' 
 
 It was a fine afternoon in June. From his chambers in Pall 
 Mall he looked up and down that street, and rejoiced in the 
 sight of the rich, who enjoyed, though they hardly appeared to 
 enjoy, the wealth which was about to be his. 
 
 ' They were born to it,' he murmured, sitting in an easy-chair 
 at the open window, and watching the jeunesse doree, as, splendid 
 in raiment, knightly in bearing, they went up and down the 
 steps of the clubs, or sauntered along the pavement ; ' they 
 were born to it ; they never knew anything else, I suppose. 
 Why the devil do they look so melancholy ? They should 
 have been hungry after unattainable pleasures, like me, to 
 know what money can bring, what it is worth, even at five-and- 
 forty. They should have been sons of a methodical and frugal 
 London merchant, who would keep them to a starvation allow- 
 ance of pocket-money, would look on every little outburst as a 
 mortal sin, would inculcate the most rigid views of religion, and 
 then leave almost everything to an elder brother, who didn't 
 know how to spend, and hadn't a spirit above his indigo bags. 
 Then they would look more contented than they do now. 
 
 ' I had some spending out of those few thousands : they 
 lasted a couple of years, I think, if I remember right. Then 
 came my mother's little fortune, all her savings ; not much, 
 but something to give a man another little fling. There was no 
 occasion to save it, because Anthony himself told me he had 
 promised my mother never to give me up. Why, it would have 
 been unchristian not to have accepted that most sacred trust. I 
 did accept it. I said to myself : "Stephen, old boy, you are 
 your brother's charge ; you are the desolate orphan for whom 
 he has pledged himself to find the comforts and the luxuries as 
 well as the necessaries of life." And I must say that Anthony 
 behaved like a trump in every way except one — he had no 
 business to bring that girl home. 
 
 ' She's done all the mischief. If it had not been for her, I 
 should have stepped without a question into the property. 
 And her impudence ! no compromise, if you please. Why, I 
 only meant to bring her to an offer, and then to throw it back 
 in her face. Sorry she refused Jack Baker, though. That 
 young man thinks I am likely to let her have half, does he ? 
 Ho ! ho ! what a sell for him when he had got her, when it was 
 too late, when he had found out her temper, and when he really 
 knew that she wasn't going to have a penny. You, Miss Alison 
 Hamblin, or whatever you may choose to call yourself, may go 
 to the devil. As for making you an allowance, I'd rather chuck
 
 STEPHEN DREAMS. 279 
 
 the money into the Thames. I shall have her here on her knees 
 before long. 
 
 ' The partners, too : I wonder how much of Anthony's money 
 was locked up in the House. Sure to be a very large sum. 
 "Well, I shall get them here on their knees too. And then I 
 shall withdraw it all, and smash the House. What do I care 
 for the House ? I've got the money, and I'm going to spend 
 it. Time that the Hamblins left off saving. 
 
 ' There is Alderney Codd, what shall I do with him ? Let 
 him go on his knees, too, and I will see. He is a useful sort of 
 man, one of those who go up and down and talk ; I think I 
 shall forgive Alderney, and lend him money occasionally. A 
 man is better for a jackal or two to run about at his bidding.' 
 
 Then he closed his eyes, and went off into a vision of im- 
 possible joys which the money was to purchase him. They were 
 chiefly the joys which come from watching other people's envy 
 and admiration, because, as a matter of fact, Stephen had all 
 his life enjoyed almost everything that a rich man can command. 
 One thing, however, was wanting : he could not boast of pos- 
 session. He was always dependent. 
 
 Well, that was over now ; he was free : he was rich, or was 
 going to be in a very little while : he was going to step before 
 the world as the undoubted possessor of a princely fortune. 
 
 He was roused from his reverie by a modest knock at his 
 door. 
 
 It was, to his amazement, no other than Alderney Codd him- 
 self, who had abstained from calling since the day of his joining 
 the side of the enemy. 
 
 ' You, Alderney !' 
 
 1 Yes, Stephen,' replied Alderney, meekly. ' May I come in T 
 
 1 Come in, man, come in,' said Stephen. ' Why, your new 
 friends seem to treat you better than your old ones. When 
 you and I went about together, you never could afford such 
 coats and hats. How do you do it, Alderney?' 
 
 Stephen spoke quite pleasantly. This encouraged Alderney. 
 
 ' I have been engaged in regular work,' he said, ' for the 
 partners in the House.' 
 
 ' He speaks as if there was only one House in the world.' 
 
 ' There is but one for me,' replied Alderney, simply. ' I have 
 been engaged in making researches in parish- registers.' 
 
 ' And what have you found ?' 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Alderney. 
 
 ' Of course you have not found anything. And you never 
 will. Are you going to give up a wild-goose chase and come 
 back to your old friends ? I forgive you, old boy, and you may 
 return whenever you like.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Stephen,' said Alderney, with great humility ;
 
 28o THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' that is very good of you. And I always said you had a good 
 heart. I have found nothing. And I fear I cannot much 
 longer venture to draw upon the House for time spent in 
 reading registers. But if I have found nothing, Gilbert Yorke 
 has.' 
 
 Stephen started and turned pale, for Alderney looked round 
 the room and whispered these words. 
 
 ' What do you mean, Alderney ?' 
 
 ' I do not know They haven't told me yet. They will tell 
 me, of course, presently ; but I know nothing except that 
 Alison is happy, and that Gilbert Yorke has written letters 
 which have put your cousins Augustus and William in excellent 
 spirits.' 
 
 ' What have they found ?' 
 
 ' I tell you I do not know. One thing only I heard. The 
 last words which Augustus said to his partner were these : " So 
 then, after all, Alison need not blush for her mother." This 
 morning another letter came from him, the purport of which I 
 do not know. And he has now arrived at the office and is 
 closeted with the chiefs.' 
 
 Stephen sprang to his feet. 
 
 ' " So, then, Alison need not blush for her mother ?" That 
 was what you heard. " Need not blush ? " What construction 
 do you put upon those words, Alderney ?' 
 
 ' What can be put ? Stephen, for the sake of old time?> 
 give in. There is yet time. No one knows that I have called 
 here ; no one will ever suspect that I heard those words, or that 
 I came here to warn you. There is time ; sit down. For 
 heaven's sake, don't stare at me in that way. Sit down, and 
 write to Augustus. Withdraw your claim : say that you are 
 sorry , say that you will not stand between Alison and her 
 father's fortune. Stephen, if you do this, all may yet be 
 well.' 
 
 Stephen's lips were parched, and his throat dry. 
 
 ' Don't chatter, Alderney,' he said. ' Let me think. " She 
 need not " Why, it may mean anything. You have no- 
 reason for believing it to bear the construction that you want 
 me to put upon it.' 
 
 ' No. Yet I am certain, from the satisfaction of both, that 
 the words do bear that construction.' 
 
 Stephen laughed ; yet his laughter had no mirth in it. 
 
 ' You are not a bad fellow, Alderney, though you have gone 
 over to the wrong side. But you are not, in this instance, par- 
 ticularly wise. You believe, I dare say, that there is something 
 found out at last.' 
 
 'I am sure of it/ 
 
 'And you come to warn us. Very good. I am obliged to
 
 STEPHEN DREAMS. 281 
 
 you, Alderney ; but I shall remain as I am. No surrender : 
 my whole claim or nothing.' 
 
 ' Then, Stephen,' said Alderney, sighing, ' it will be nothing.' 
 
 ' That is my look-out.' 
 
 1 Stephen, think how the whole matter may be amicably 
 arranged before it is too late. You have made your cousins, 
 your niece, the whole family, your enemies. When they triumph, 
 you will have no mercy shown you. Out of your brother's 
 estate you will have nothing. I do not know the extent of 
 your own fortune, but I do know that it is very heavily dipped, 
 and I doubt whether you can live as you have been accustomed 
 to live upon your private resources.' 
 
 ' That too, Alderney, is my look-out.' 
 
 1 Another thing,' persisted Alderney, ' your brother Anthony 
 intended — there can be no doubt whatever that he intended to 
 leave the bulk of his estate to his daughter ; you cannot deny 
 that.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, I do not know what my brother's inten- 
 tions were. He never confided them to me.' 
 
 ' He was so good a fellow, Stephen, that you ought to respect 
 his wishes. What do you honestly think he meant to do ?' 
 
 ' I believe that he proposed leaving me, not Alison, the for- 
 tune which should be mine by law, and making an adequate 
 provision for his daughter. Acting on this belief, I have twice 
 sent an ambassador to Alison, offering a compromise. Twice 
 my message has been received with scorn, and my messenger 
 insulted.' 
 
 ' Then I can say no more,' said Alderney. ' As we say with 
 the Classic, " Quem Deus vult perdere, prius dementat." Your 
 brain is turned, Stephen.' 
 
 ' Come, Alderney, I will not discuss the thing with you any 
 more. It is absurd ; I shall not surrender anything ; and I 
 will bring that girl to submission before I have done.' 
 
 ' You will not do that, Stephen, if I know Alison Hamblin. 
 She is as determined as yourself.' 
 
 ' We shall try,' said Stephen, smiling unpleasantly. 
 
 Alderney withdrew. He had done his best, and things must 
 take their own course. But he was troubled. There would 
 now be no such pleasant family reconciliation as he had looked 
 forward to. 
 
 He returned to the City, and sought his cousin Augustus. 
 
 ' Tell me,' he said, 'if you have found anything.' 
 
 Augustus got up, and shut the door carefully. 
 
 ' Alderney,' he said, ' I thought this morning that we had got 
 out of the mess. I find now, after an interview with Gilbert 
 Yorke, that wo have only got into one.' 
 
 ' A mess ! — what kind of a mess ?'
 
 282 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' I wish we had never looked into the thing at all. I almost 
 wish we had let Stephen have the estate and do what he liked 
 with it.' 
 
 ' But what is it ?' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you till to-morrow. I can only say that the 
 greatest surprise, the greatest consternation, has fallen upon 
 
 us' 
 
 ' But I overheard you this morning saying that Alison need 
 not blush for her mother.' 
 
 ' I did say so. That was in consequence of a letter from 
 Gilbert. Her mother's marriage is clearly established.' 
 ' Then I do not understand.' 
 
 ' Never mind now, Alderney,' said Augustus ; ' we have to 
 consider what is best to be done. You had better leave us now. 
 Say nothing, guess nothing. Come here if you like to-morrow 
 at twelve— we have invited Stephen to confer with us at that 
 time— then you will learn all.' 
 
 He quietly pushed Alderney out of the room, and returned 
 to his desk, where he sat with his paper before him, puzzled 
 and bewildered. 
 
 Presently his partner, "William the Silent, came into the 
 room, and sat on the other side of the table. Both shook their 
 heads without speaking. 
 ' Augustus,' said William, 
 ' William,' said Augustus. 
 
 Both shook their heads again, and then William got up and 
 went out again as silently as he had entered. 
 
 Stephen's golden dream was disturbed ; tranquillity, which is 
 a necessary for golden dreams, had deserted him. He left his 
 chambers and wandered to his club ; he tried to play billiards, 
 but his hand shook. Three old fogies who played whist every 
 afternoon asked him to take a hand ; he did ; he revoked, and 
 saw no Blue Peters, and trumped his partner's trick, and forgot 
 the cards, and committed every atrocity that a whist-player can 
 commit : he broke the whole code of Cavendish. After seeing 
 a double bumper fooled away, his partner rose in silent dignitv, 
 and left the house. 
 
 Then Stephen tried to read the papers, and found no inte- 
 rest in any. He wandered about the streets, torn by a doubt 
 whether he had better not even now agree with his adversary 
 quickly. 
 
 At dinner-time he expected Jack Baker, but that worthy did 
 not appear. He dined alone : he sat in the smoking-room with 
 a magazine before him, which he did not read, thinking over 
 what might happen, and taking a gloomy view of things 
 which even the claret had not been able to remove. At nine 
 he went home to his chambers.
 
 STEPHEN DREAMS. 283 
 
 Two letters were on his table. The first was from Jack 
 Baker. 
 
 ' My dear Hamblin,' he said. 
 
 ' Send me over at once as much as you can spare of the 
 thousand pounds I lent you ; or raise money somehow, and let 
 me have it all. I suppose you have heard what has happened ? 
 There has not been so sudden a fall in prices in the memory 
 of man. I am hit, but I shall weather the storm somehow, I 
 dare say. Let me have the money to-morrow. 
 
 ' Yours ever, 
 
 'J. B. B.' 
 
 ' He's smashed,' said Stephen, putting down the letter ; 
 ' smash is the meaning of that letter. Well, he has had his 
 day. As for the rest of the thousand, I had better stick to it.' 
 
 He opened the other letter. It was from his cousin, Augustus 
 Hamblin. 
 
 ' My dear Cousin,' (Stephen laughed), 
 
 ' We shall be glad if you will call upon us in Great St. 
 Simon Apostle, at twelve o'clock to-morrow morning. We have 
 a most important communication to make to you : a discovery 
 which we have only this morning learned. 
 ' Yours sincerely, 
 
 ' Augustus Anthony Hamblin.' 
 
 Stephen put the letter down, and began to think what it 
 might mean. Presently he extinguished the light and sat be- 
 side the window. The prospect was gloomy now, indeed. An 
 important discovery ; what could this mean ? The ground was 
 slipping away from under his feet. As he had been confident in 
 the morning, so he was despairing now. He saw before him a 
 vagabond and poverty-stricken old man, subsisting on the alms 
 of his cousins, wandering from place to place, hungering after 
 the enjoyments which he could not afford, sinking lower and 
 lower, becoming daily more and more pinched, more wretched, 
 more dependent. A miserable outlook : a wretched dream. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 nOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS. 
 
 ' I had almost forgotten Mr. Bragge,' said Augustus, opening 
 one of his letters the next morning. 
 
 This was a note from the private detective, stating that the
 
 234 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 last clue which promised remarkably well had terminated with 
 no useful result ; in fact, it ended with a labouring man who 
 was suffering from delirium tremens. He regretted that his re- 
 search had turned out so badly ; but, he added, another clue 
 had been discovered, the nature of which he would for the 
 moment keep secret. He proposed to follow this up vigorously; 
 he had no doubt that it would lead to a complete solution of the 
 case. Meanwhile, he enclosed an account of his expenditure 
 up to date, and would be obliged if Mr. Hamblin would send 
 him another cheque for twenty pounds on account. 
 
 It was a dreadful blow for Mr. Theodore Bragge when he re- 
 ceived a settlement in full of his account, with the information 
 that the case was now closed, and his services would be no more 
 required. He had long made up his mind that there was nothing 
 to find out, and that he might go on for the rest of his natural 
 life, following up clues with a large salary at a percentage, so 
 to speak, on his expenditure. Meat and drink — especially drink 
 — the case had been to him. He will never, he owns with tears, 
 again find employers so generous as the firm of Anthony Ham- 
 blin and Co. 
 
 The day was Wednesday, which was young Nick's half- 
 holiday. 
 
 He resolved to spend it with the writing-master, but thought 
 he would drop in at the office first. In fact, after taking a turn 
 round Lower Thames Street, Idol Lane, Eastcheap, Rood Lane, 
 and a few other places dear to a boy of imagination, where the 
 stream of Pactolus runs with the deepest, strongest, and 
 yellowest current, he found himself in the square of Great St. 
 Simon Apostle, about half -past two in the afternoon. He ex' 
 changed a few compliments in whispers with the junior clerks, 
 and then mounted the broad stairs, and began to ramble idly 
 about the passages. He passed with reverence the doors of 
 Mr. Augustus and Mr. William Hamblin, the partners, and pre- 
 sently stood before that on which was still to be read the name 
 of Mr. Anthony Hamblin. He shook his head gravely at sight 
 of this. Then his eyes lit up, and his white eyebrows lifted, 
 and his pink face shone with mirth and mischief, and he laughed 
 in silence, shaking all over in enjoyment of the imaginary situa- 
 tion. 
 
 ' If they knew,' he murmured ; ' if they only knew !' 
 
 Then he turned the handle softly, and looked into the room. 
 
 No one was there : the room had not been used since the death 
 of its owner: the familiar furniture was there, the old-fashioned, 
 heavy, oaken table, without cover, which had probably been 
 built for the very first Anthony, remained in its old place, with 
 the wooden chair in which the last Anthony had been wont to 
 sit, and the blotting-pad which he had used, before it. In one
 
 HOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS. 2S5 
 
 corner stood a low screen of ancient workmanship, also a family 
 heirloom. There were portraits of successive Anthonys on the 
 wainscoted walls, and there was a cabinet in massive mahogany, 
 with glass doors ; but the contents of the cabinet were kept 
 secret by means of curtains which had once been green. 
 
 In spite of the boy's possession of so great a secret, he felt a 
 ghostly feeling creep on him as he softly closed the door behind 
 him, and entered the room on tiptoe. He shuddered, as one 
 shudders when reminded of a dead man. Then he recovered 
 himself again, and began curiously to examine the room and its 
 contents. First he opened the drawers : in the one immediately 
 before the chair was a novel — ' Ho ! ho ! that was the way in 
 which Uncle Anthony spent his time in the City, was it ?' — in 
 the other two he found a heterogeneous mass of things — cigar- 
 cases, portraits of Alison, memorandum-books, lettei*s, menus of 
 dinners, cards of invitation to civic banquets, and so forth ; 
 things which the boy turned over with interest. Then he 
 thought that he would at last discover the contents of the 
 mysterious cabinet. He opened it ; three of the shelves con- 
 tained Indian curios, covered with dust : they had been brought 
 home on one of the earlier voyages by the first Anthony, and 
 had never left the office. But on one shelf stood a decanter, 
 still half filled with sherry, and a box of biscuits. 
 
 When there was nothing more to see, the boy solemnly seated 
 himself in Anthony's chair, and, after a 6ilent but enjoyable 
 laugh, proceeded to meditate. 
 
 His reflections turned naturally upon the importance of the 
 secret which he carried about with him, and of the grandeur 
 which would be his whenever he chose to disclose it. Grandeur 
 unheard of, grandeur never before achieved by mortal boy : the 
 part, indeed, played in history by boys, save and except the 
 drummer boy, the call boy, and the printer's devil, has always 
 been ludicrously out of proportion to the number of boys 
 existing at any period. Grandeur ? Why it would be spread 
 all over the House how he, Nicolas Cridland, had not only 
 discovered the secret, alone and unaided, but also kept it until 
 the right time came. When would that time come ? Surely, 
 soon. Would Uncle Anthony resolve upon continuing his 
 disguise as a teacher of writing while he, Nicolas, was received 
 as a clerk in the House ? while he rose gradually higher and 
 higher, even in the distant days when he should be received as 
 a partner? Surely the day must some time come when he 
 should be able to stand proudly before the partners, Augustus 
 and William, and lay his hand upon his heart and say : ' Anthony 
 Hamblin is not dead, but living. I alone have known it all 
 along.' Then Mr. Augustus would get up from that chair in 
 which the boy was sitting — he rose from the chair himself, and
 
 286 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 acted it in dumb show— and say : ' Young Nick— no, Nicolas 
 Cridland, whom we are proud to call cousin — you have shown 
 yourself so worthy of confidence, that we instantly appoint you 
 principal buyer and manager at the dock sales, for the firm. 
 You will attend the next sale on Thursday afternoon, with the 
 samples in your pocket.' 
 
 The boy had got through this speech— always in dumb show 
 — and was thinking how to reply with a compliment at once to 
 the sagacity of the firm in selecting him for such responsible 
 business, and to his own extraordinary discretion, prudence, and 
 secrecy, when he heard steps outside. The room was at the end 
 of a long passage, so that the persons to whom the feet belonged 
 were clearly proposing to visit the room. The vision of greats 
 ness instantly vanished, and the boy rushed for shelter behind 
 the screen. It was a low screen, about five feet three high, 
 quite incapable of hiding Lady Teazle, had she been of the 
 average height of English women, but high enough to shelter 
 the boy, who, indeed, sat upon the floor with his hat off, and 
 looked through the chinks where the screen folded. 
 
 The party which entered the room consisted of the two 
 partners, Mr. Billiter, and Gilbert Yorke. To the boy's terror, 
 the old lawyer, after looking about for a place to set down his 
 hat, placed it on an angle of the screen. Fortunately he did not 
 look over. Then they all sat down, Augustus Hamblin at the 
 head of the table. Gilbert Yorke placed before the chairman a 
 bundle of papers. Everybody looked at his watch, and all wore 
 an air of grave importance. 
 
 ' Lord,' said the boy to himself, ' now, if I were only to jump 
 up like Jack-in-the box, and tell them who was teaching what, 
 where he was teaching it, and for how much, and who was 
 getting his boots downer at the heel every day, how they would 
 stare ! I've half a mind to do it, too.' 
 
 But he did not, because just then his interest in the situation 
 grew more absorbing ; for the party was completed by the arrival 
 of none other than Stephen Hamblin himself. 
 
 He arrived in the midst of an observation which was being 
 made by Mr. Billiter, as if following up a conversation. 
 
 ' Life,' he said, ' is a succession of blunders, chiefly committed 
 through laziness, and a foolish desire to avoid present trouble. 
 Come in, Stephen, and sit down. I was saying that most crimes 
 are the result of laziness. You are going to be told of a most 
 amazing blunder which has led us all astray.' 
 
 ' He looks mighty black,' young Nick murmured, gazing in- 
 tently through the chink ; ' almost as black as when he was 
 turned out of the house. Lord ! if lie knew. Shall I jump up 
 and tell them all ? I would if I thought that Anthony wouldn't 
 go mad.'
 
 HOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS, 287 
 
 ' I am here,' said Stephen, who did indeed look black, ' with- 
 out my solicitor. The course is unusual, but the interview 
 must be considered privileged. One thing, however, before we 
 begin, if Mr. Billiter is going to revive old stories in his usual 
 pleasant manner, I shall go away at once.' 
 
 ' I have nothing to say at this interview,' said the lawyer ; 
 1 at least, I think I have nothing to say.' 
 
 ' The communication we have to make to you, Stephen,' said 
 Augustus, ' is of so grave a nature, so important, and so un- 
 expected, that we have invited Anthony's solicitor, your father's 
 solicitor, to be present. You will acknowledge that we were 
 right ?' 
 
 ' Important and unexpected ? Then you have, I suppose, 
 found out that Anthony was never married ?' 
 
 These were brave words, but Stephen was evidently ill at 
 ease. In fact he had passed an uneasy time. Alderney Codd's 
 warning, which he had met with bravado, came back to him in 
 the dark hours. And after a sleepless night he kept his appoint- 
 ment with shaken nerves. 
 
 ' We have decided,' Augustus continued, ' on at once telling 
 you everything.' 
 
 'That is so far candid. Probably you have concluded be- 
 tween you that it will be to your advantage to tell me every- 
 thing ?' 
 
 ' You shall judge of that yourself, Cousin Stephen.' Augustus 
 was very grave, and spoke slowly. ' We have known you all 
 your life. It was in this room that you received dismissal from 
 the House in which you might even have become a partner.' 
 
 He spoke as if no higher honour, no greater earthly happi- 
 ness, could befall any man than to become a partner in the 
 House of Anthony Hamblin and Company. 
 
 The boy, looking through the chink of the screen, shook his 
 head solemnly. 
 
 ' D the partnership, and the House too !' said Stephen. 
 
 ' I told you that I would not listen to the revival of old stories. 
 If that is all that you have to say ' 
 
 He rose and seized his hat. 
 
 ' It is not all ; pray sit down again. We have to go back 
 twenty years. Carry your memory back for that time. Whore 
 are you ?' 
 
 ' I am waiting to hear,' said Stephen, sullenly. 
 
 Then Augustus told Stephen the same story which Miss 
 Nethersole had told Anthony ; almost, too, in the same words. 
 He told how two men had visited a little town when on a fishing 
 excursion, how one of them eloped with a girl of eighteen, named 
 Dora Nethersole, and how she had died deserted and neglected 
 at Bournemouth.
 
 288 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Stephen listened with unmoved countenance. 
 
 ' This is the sort of information,' he said, ' which one gets 
 from advertising, and church registers, and that sort of thing. 
 How does it bear upon the case ?' 
 
 ' You shall hear immediately, Stephen. The man who eloped 
 with the girl, who was married to her at Hungerford, who lived 
 with her at Lulworth, and who deserted her thei*e, leaving her 
 to starve and die of neglect and sorrow, was not — Anthony at 
 all. It was no other than yourself, Stephen.' 
 
 ' I allow you to put the case your own way,' said Stephen, 
 ' because I am anxious for you to get to the point, if any, which 
 bears upon present business.' 
 
 ' It was you, and not Anthony, who deserted Dora Hamblin ; 
 it was Anthony, and not you, who soothed her last moments, 
 and consoled her in the hour of death. Here is a copy of her 
 last journal, which you may take away and meditate upon.' 
 
 ' I know all about her death,' said Stephen, callously ; 
 ' Anthony told me of that. It is an old, old story : twenty 
 years old, and forgotten. What has it to do with the business 
 in hand, and the claims of that girl ?' 
 
 ' Everything ; because you have been quite right all along — 
 Anthony was never married ' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Stephen, a sudden flush of joy and relief crossing 
 his face. 
 
 ' Was never married at all, and he left no will.' 
 
 ' Then I am the heir of all.' 
 
 He raised himself upright, and looked round with an air of 
 mastership. 
 
 ' You are the heir of all,' repeated Augustus, solemnly. 
 
 ' Good. I give you notice that I will do nothing for the girl 
 — nothing at all.' 
 
 ' Stop,' said Augustus ; ' more remains to be told. When 
 Anthony wrote to you that your wife was dead, he did not 
 inform you of what he thought you unworthy to know — that 
 she left a child.' 
 
 ' A child !' 
 
 ' A girl. She became Anthony's care. He brought her up to 
 consider herself his daughter. Alison Hamblin is the daughter 
 of you, Stephen, and of Dora, your wife.' 
 
 ' My gum !' This was the whispered utterance of the boy 
 behind the screen. 
 
 Stephen's face became darker still. He gazed with hard eyes 
 at the speaker. 
 
 ' My daughter !' he said slowly. ' Alison is my daughter ? 
 Have you proof of this ?' 
 
 ' We have — we have ample proof.' 
 
 'Mind, I will not accept her as my daughter without it I
 
 HOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS. 2S9 
 
 •want no daughter. I shall require the most exact corrobora- 
 tion of this extraordinary statement.' 
 
 ' You shall have it,' said Augustus. 
 
 1 You are not worthy ' cried Gilbert, springing to his feet 
 
 at the same moment. 
 
 ' Sit down, young man,' said Mr. Billiter ; ' there is more to 
 say.' 
 
 ' There is something very much more serious to say,' continued 
 Augustus Hamblin. ' Remember, Stephen, that Miss Nether- 
 sole, in answering your wife's letter, offered her an allowance 
 of one hundred and fifty pounds a year, payable on the first 
 day of every year. How often did you draw that money ?' 
 
 Stephen started. 
 
 ' How often ? till she died.' 
 
 ' We have here,' he went on very slowly, ' copies — they are 
 copies only, and you can have them to look at if you please — of 
 eight receipts, all drawn by you. Two of them are signed by 
 your wife : six of them are forgeries — by yourself.' 
 
 ' It's a lie !' shouted Stephen, bringing his fist down upon 
 the table. 
 
 ' You did not, then, receive the money ?' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 1 Unfortunately,' said Augustus, ' the clerk who honoured the 
 draft every year knows you by sight, and is ready to swear to 
 you ; the experts who have examined the signatures swear that 
 they are all in your writing ; the lady who suffered the loss of 
 the money is ready to prosecute criminally. You will be charged 
 with the crime ; you will be tried for the crime. You now 
 know why I reminded you, at the outset, of the cause of your 
 dismissal from the House.' 
 
 Stephen said nothing. He looked round him stupidly. This 
 was a blow, indeed, which he did not expect. 
 
 ' We have anxiously considered whether we should commu- 
 nicate these things to Alison, your daughter. We would 
 willingly have spared her all knowledge of them ; but, out of 
 respect for the memory of the man whom she will always regard 
 as her father, we must tell her that it was not he who killed 
 his young wife by neglect and ill-treatment. We shall have t > 
 let her know that it was the man who was always called her 
 uncle who did this thing. As regards the forgeries, we think 
 we have a simple means of keeping the matter in the back- 
 ground altogether.' 
 
 ' What is that ?' asked Stephen, eagerly. 
 ' It is this : Go away at once. Execute a deed of gift in 
 favour of your daughter. Never return to England, and draw 
 upon us for any reasonable amount of annuity.' 
 
 Stephen was so dismayed by the prospect as presented by his 
 
 19
 
 2QO THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 cousin, that he made as if he would accede to these terms. 
 His face was not pretty to look at. 
 
 ' If I do not accede ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Then Miss Nethersole will find out — she must be told— who 
 it was that robbed her of so much money : and she is a hard 
 woman. It seems to me, Stephen, that the choice is one which 
 does not admit of much consideration. Fourteen years in a 
 convict's prison is not to any man's taste ; you would get small 
 enjoyment out of your wealth, if it were to be purchased at 
 such a price. Disgrace and shame are before you on the one 
 hand : on the other, safety and silence. If you care to think 
 of such a thing in addition, you may consider that your daughter, 
 who would otherwise know nothing of this episode in your 
 career, would begin her new relationship with the horror of 
 such a crime, and the disgrace of such a conviction.' 
 
 ' My daughter,' murmured the unhappy man. ' Yes, I had 
 forgotten ; that is, I had not thought about my daughter.' 
 
 ' It is in your daughter's interests that we have told you the 
 whole truth. Otherwise we might have been tempted to let 
 things take their own course, in which case you would probably 
 have been arrested in a few days, without receiving the slightest 
 warning.' 
 
 'I should, however,' said Mr. Billiter, sweetly, 'suggest Spain. 
 It is a country which, under all circumstances, is likely to prove 
 attractive to you for a long time.' 
 
 Stephen grunted a response. 
 
 ' All this,' murmured young Nick, behind the screen, ' is real 
 jam — blackbeiTy jam. I wouldn't have missed this for pounds. 
 Wonder if they will find me out ? Wonder if I'm going to 
 sneeze ?' 
 
 He held his nose tight to prevent such a fatal accident, and 
 listened and peeped harder than ever. 
 
 ' Mr. Augustus,' he said, ' has got him in a cleft stick. My ! 
 if he isn't the miserablest of sinners. Some sense in going to 
 church if you are such a sinner as Uncle Stephen. Looks it 
 too, all over ; every inch a sinner.' 
 
 ' It is absurd,' said Stephen, ' to deny a thing which you de- 
 clare you can prove. If the thing demanded it, if it were neces- 
 sary, the charge would be met with a complete answer.' 
 
 ' But it is not necessary,' said Mr. Billiter. 
 
 'As it is,' said Stephen, trying to smile, 'all fhave to say is 
 that — you have won. I retire. I am ready to renounce, in the 
 interests of my daughter — if she is my daughter — the — the — 
 bulk of this fortune to which I am now the undoubted heir. 
 When can the papers be signed ?' 
 
 ' You can come to my office to-morrow morning,' said Mr. 
 Billiter, cheerfully ; ' I will promise to make no allusions to
 
 HOW STEPHEN HEARD THE NEWS, 291 
 
 the past, and you can draw a cheque in advance to meet and 
 pay any outstanding liabilities before you go abroad.' 
 
 ' As I am going abroad,' said Stephen, with a simplicity 
 which did him great credit, ' it would be quite absurd to pay 
 any of my debts.' 
 
 He put on his hat and walked out of the room ; his shoulders 
 were bent, and though he tried to walk with his old swagger, he 
 had something of the appearance of the whipped hound. This 
 is inevitable under such disagreeable circumstances. 
 
 The other four, left alone, congratulated each other on the 
 success of their diplomacy. 
 
 Then they broke up and went away. Mr. Billiter took up 
 his hat without looking over the screen, and the boy was left 
 alone. 
 
 He remained there, not daring to move, for five minutes ; 
 then he slowly got up, and danced a little double -shuffle round 
 the chair in which Stephen had sat. 
 
 ' I'm the luckiest boy in all the world !' he cried, though his 
 face was pale at the sudden shock of this discovery. ' I know 
 all their little secrets all round. But oh !' — he stopped dancing, 
 and became very grave — ' what an awful example, to a future 
 partner in the house, is the history of Stephen Hamblin ! If he 
 wasn't Alison's father — and there's another start of the very 
 rummiest— if he wasn't Alison's father, and so it had to be 
 kept dark, I would write that history out fair for use in schools. 
 It should be set to music — 1 mean, to Latin exercises— and it 
 would be a great deal more useful than the doings of the im- 
 postor Balbus. " The Wicked Hamblin," it should be headed. 
 Ahab and Ahaziah — both of them— were saints with rings 
 
 round their heads, compared to Uncle Stephen. And even ' 
 
 he hesitated for another historical example — ' even Jehoram 
 was an angel of light.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV, 
 
 nOW STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL. 
 
 Stephen Hamblin went home to his chambers. The time was 
 four o'clock. He bore with him the manuscript which his 
 cousin had given him. His step was weary, and the lines in his 
 dark face were heavily marked. 
 
 There was a note lying on his table : it was a second letter 
 from Jack Baker, urging immediate repayment of the money. 
 
 19—2
 
 292 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Stephen threw it aside impatiently: Baker's troubles mattered 
 little to him : he had other things to think of. 
 
 He sat down presently, and tried to think. 
 
 He could not arrange his thoughts. He could not put things 
 together in anything like sequence. They had discovered what 
 he thought could never be found out — the forgeries of the re- 
 ceipts: they had found, too, what he never suspected or dreamed 
 of — the existence of a daughter. Anthony told him that his 
 wife was dead. Anthony told him with cold voice, but with- 
 out a word of reproof, that his wife was buried in the cemetery 
 of Bournemouth. Anthony had not told him, nor had he sus- 
 pected, that there was a child. 
 
 Why had Dora kept that secret from him ? Why had Anthony 
 kept that secret ? He laughed aloud as he recalled a thing long 
 since forgotten — how Anthony had gone, himself, and spoken 
 to Rachel Nethersole about her sister, while he and Dora were 
 actually plotting and planning for their secret marriage at Hun- 
 gerford. No doubt Anthony was in love, and remained in love 
 long after he, Stephen, had come out of it ; no doubt he kept 
 this child as a sort of souvenir of that dead and hopeless passion. 
 Poor old Anthony ! he always was a soft-hearted sort of man : 
 little better than a fool when it came to the commoner emotions 
 of humanity. Why, he himself could always get round Anthony. 
 
 A daughter. 
 
 Alison Hamblin, the girl whom he had been accustomed to 
 hate, to plot against, and to curse, was his daughter ; that was 
 a very surprising circumstance. For his own part, he had 
 never felt in the slightest degree a paternal instinct towards 
 her — quite the contrary. He had always regarded her with 
 sentiments of extreme dishke ; he hated her like sin, he said, 
 untruthfully, because he was not one of those who hate sin. 
 She came between himself and a possible succession. How 
 could he avoid hating her ? Even now, when he was told with 
 one breath that she was his daughter, he was ordered with the 
 other to resign his rights in her favour, or else 
 
 That was it — or else He turned this alternative over 
 
 and over in his mind. That, at least, was clear enough. The 
 documents were forged : in his own chambers he could acknow- 
 ledge so much ; he had himself — being pressed for money, and 
 being quite sure that his brother would never go to Newbury, 
 where awkward inquiries might be made — written those papers, 
 signed them, and — most fatal error ! — presented them himself. 
 Why, if only he had observed the common precaution of getting 
 another man to hand them in across the counter — if only he had 
 sent a clerk or some other irresponsible person ! But to go 
 himself — to forget that his name belonged to a great city House, 
 and was sure to attract attention — he must have been mad.
 
 HOW STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL. 293 
 
 To be sure it was not wise to forge the things at all. But 
 then he was so hard up at the time ; he had private ex- 
 penses which he could not well explain to Anthony ; he had 
 lost his own money : he wanted everything he could lay his 
 hands on ; that hundred and fifty every year seemed like a little 
 windfall, providentially sent. We need not imagine that 
 Stephen was at all repentant about the crime ; he was only 
 sorry that it had been found out. Hardened persons, habitual 
 criminals, go off in two directions : they are very sorry when 
 things are discovered, and they are angry when they think of 
 the necessities of the moment which made the crime absolutely 
 unavoidable. But neither state of mind is at all akin to what 
 the good chaplain of the prisons means by a heartfelt re- 
 pentance. 
 
 ' How much goes to a " reasonable " annuity ?' he thought, 
 reflecting on the proposal ; ' the estate is worth twelve thousand 
 a year, at the very least. I shall be reasonable on two. Yes, 
 two thousand will do for me.' 
 
 ' As for that woman, Rachel Nethersole, she must be five-and- 
 fifty. Perhaps she will go off suddenly : some of these old cats 
 do when they are not too venomous. Then I could get back 
 to England. 
 
 ' Things might be worse. Considering what a tremendous pull 
 they've got, things might be worse. I suppose that fighting is 
 out of the question. A man can't fight, unless he is obliged, 
 with the prospect of a — a — suit of yellow and grey, and no 
 tobacco, and no drink, and no companionship. Hang it all ! 
 
 ' Gad !' he brightened up a little ; ' there are plenty of fellows 
 knocking about the Continent under a cloud : good fellows, too, 
 who have got hard up, and done something which has been 
 found out. One pull for me that I shall know their little 
 histories and they won't know mine. I know them all already. 
 I shall meet the Honourable Major Guy Blackborde, who 
 cheated at Monaco when I was there, and was turned out of 
 the army : and Captain de Blewdeville, who got into the little 
 mess at the Burleigh Club when I was a member, and had to 
 go. By Gad ! I shall enjoy it. And with two thousand a year 
 one will be cock of the walk. 
 
 ' Of course I shall not stay in Spain : the cookery is too 
 disgusting. The old woman will forget all about me, or she 
 will relent, or something, and then I shall go to Paris, and so 
 back to London. And as to Alison, why — why ' 
 
 Here he stopped, then he went on to consider what he should 
 start with. Two thousand a year, say. That means more than 
 a hundred and fifty a month, five thousand francs a month : a 
 great deal may be done with that. Then there was still seven 
 hundred or so left out of Jack Baker's thousand. Of course he
 
 294 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 was not going to pay that away. Then there was the furniture 
 of his chambers, which was good, with the pictures and statuettes, 
 which were not good, having been taken chiefly with money 
 advances : furniture and pictures could be sold by private con- 
 tract ; altogether he would begin the new life, outre mer, with a 
 thousand pounds of capital, in addition to two thousand a year 
 income. That was better than in the old days. And if things 
 went wrong, there was always his daughter, he thought, to fall 
 back upon. 
 
 Lastly, there was one thing more : he might marry. A man 
 of his means was an eligible parti ; there were plenty of widows 
 with good incomes on the Continent ; if their reputations were 
 a little cracked, what matter ? so was his. 
 
 It will be seen that this was the meditation of a perfectly 
 selfish man. Stephen Hamblin rose to great heights of selfish- 
 ness. He had divested himself, as much, perhaps, as man can 
 do so, who is not Caesar, Kaiser, Czar, of any consideration for 
 any other human being whatever. He was unto himself a god. 
 He laughed, thinking of matrimony. And then he remem- 
 bered the manuscript which his cousin had placed in his hands. 
 He opened it and read it. 
 
 ' The Journal of a Deserted Wife.' 
 
 We have read this tearful document. We have seen how it 
 affected a man of middle age, and a very young man, both of 
 whom carried their hearts ever in the right place. This man 
 was not affected at all, although he was the person chiefly in- 
 terested in it. He read it right through slowly and carefully, 
 without betraying the slightest emotion. When he had quite 
 finished it, he tossed the paper on the table. 
 
 ' That's done with,' he said. ' Hang it ! it was done with 
 twenty years ago. Rachel seems to have developed a fine 
 thirst for revenge. Luckily she thought it was Anthony : 
 luckier still that Anthony got drowned. I suppose it was this 
 document that he was going to communicate to me when he 
 made that appointment which he never kept. It would have 
 been deucedly unpleasant. I should have had to get away at 
 once, while he informed the magistrate that it was not he, but 
 his brother, who had married Dora Nethersole. 
 
 ' So Anthony took the child ; and I never knew there was a 
 child at all. Just like Dora, not to tell me. A little mystery ; 
 something to hide ; something to make her important. How 
 6he did exasperate me ! And what a relief it was to feel free ! 
 and what an almighty ass I was not to let Anthony marry her 
 at the very beginning, when he wanted to ! That was my in- 
 fernal conceit. I wanted to cut out the model brother ; and 
 the end of it is that I've got a daughter who turns up, after 
 twenty years, and cuts me out.'
 
 HOW STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL. 295 
 
 He took up the manuscript again, and read the concluding 
 paragraph. 
 
 ' She knew she was going to die, and she couldn't take the 
 trouble to write and tell me so. Her husband wasn't to know 
 it. Must needs write to Anthony. It's all of a piece. That is 
 what she called wifely obedience. As for the letters she did 
 write to me at that time, they were dismal enough, but not a 
 word about dying. 
 
 ' They hand me over this precious journal in order to soften 
 the hardness of my heart, I suppose. Well, my heart is pretty 
 tough by this time. The tears of a woman — especially if the 
 tears are twenty years old — are not likely to trouble it. What 
 does soften a man's heart is to be caught in a cleft stick, as I 
 have been caught — to have the ball in my hands, and be com- 
 pelled to drop it. Good heavens ! here I am, the undoubted 
 owner of a quarter of a million of money, besides all the land 
 and houses, and I've got to go away for life on an annuity, or 
 
 else — or else why, it seems almost worth fighting for. One 
 
 might get off ; these things are not easy to prove ; the evidence 
 would rest entirely on the clerk who knew me. But then there 
 are the papers ; they are in my handwriting ; and it would be a 
 deuced uncomfortable thing to stand in the dock under such a 
 charge, and more uncomfortable still to get quodded — hang it ! 
 
 one might be in for fourteen no — no — I can't fight. I must 
 
 submit. I will go to-morrow.' 
 
 The idea of the convict garb made his hands to tremble. He 
 sought and found consolation in a small glass of brandy neat. 
 
 ' My last appearance to-night in the club, I suppose, or any- 
 where else. I feel as if I were going to die and be buried. 
 Well, there are one or two places I know of in Paris, and Naples, 
 and Vienna. A man with a couple of thousand a year may get 
 along anywhere.' 
 
 He was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was his friend, 
 Jack Baker. 
 
 The honest Jack looked down on his luck. He showed it by 
 a red cheek, a twitching lip, an anxious eye, and apparel slightly 
 disordered. Stephen, on the contrary, showed few outward 
 and visible signs of discomfiture. His cheek was paler than 
 usual : his eyes were hard and glittering ; but he was not dis- 
 mayed nor cast down : he met the reverses of fortune with 
 anger, not with despondency. 
 
 ' Did you get any notes ?' asked Jack. 
 1 What notes ?' 
 
 Stephen's mind was full of more important things. 
 'My notes of last night and this morning.' 
 ' Oh ! yes— yes.' He searched among the letters on the table. 
 ' Excuse me, I had forgotten them — ah ! you asked me to pay
 
 296 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 into the bank the thousand pounds you advanced me— do 
 you ?' 
 
 ' I did last night. This morning — Hamblin,' breaking in with 
 a sudden eagerness of manner, ' you haven't paid it into my 
 bank yet, have you ?' 
 
 ' No, certainly not ; I have been busy all day.' 
 ' Good — don't ; pay it to me in notes and gold.' 
 ' What's the matter, Jack ?' For his voice and manner both 
 betokened something disastrous. 
 
 Mr. Bunter Baker tried to laugh, but the effort was not suc- 
 cessful. 
 
 'A check in the flow of prosperity,' he said — 'just a slight 
 check. As I said in my letter, there has been a most unpre- 
 cedented and most sudden fall. All my calculations were upset, 
 and I had the biggest thing on, too. Hamblin, if it bad turned 
 up trumps, I might have gone out of business to-day with a 
 hundred thousand pounds. As it is — well — as it is — all the 
 trade know already, and all the world will know to-morrow. I 
 am — for the moment only — compelled to suspend ' 
 
 So here was another man come to grief. Stephen stared un- 
 sympathetically. It was as he thought. The thought crossed 
 his mind that perhaps he might meet Mr. Bunter Baker on the 
 Continent in an extreme condition of shabbiness. 
 
 ' The Bank will have to meet the differences this time,' Jack 
 went on. ' Well ! they have had a very pretty penny out of 
 me, one way and another.' 
 
 ' And what will you do ?' 
 
 The man of self-reliance tossed his head. 
 
 ' A man like me,' he said, ' falls light. I shall lay by for a 
 bit while the liquidators take hold of the estate and get what 
 they can for themselves first, and the creditors next, out of it. 
 When things have blown over, I shall come back again and 
 carry on the same old game. That thousand will come in 
 mighty handy. I saw the directors to-day, and had it out with 
 them. They said nasty things, but, as I told them, they couldn't 
 expect me to be a prophet. I wanted prices to go up. I always 
 do. I did my little best to keep them up. And after all, 
 they've been paying sixteen per cent, for the last eight years, 
 and can afford a little loss. They take the risk and share the 
 profits. I don't grumble, why should they ?' 
 
 He sat down and hurled this question at Stephen as if he was 
 personally concerned in the success of the bank. 
 
 ' I knew there would be a smash some day,' he went on ; ' at 
 least, I thought there might be. I went for big things, and 
 they came off one after the other, beautiful ; and for bigger, 
 and they came off ; and then I went for the very biggest thing
 
 HOW STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL. 297 
 
 possible, and it hasn't come off. Very well, then — You can let 
 me have that thousand back, Hamblin, can you ?' 
 
 ' You remember, Jack, the conditions on which it was 
 borrowed ?' 
 
 ' Hang the conditions !' 
 
 ' By no means. You were to have three thousand when I 
 came into the estate. Very good ; I have come into the estate.' 
 
 ' Nonsense !' This was something like news. 
 
 ' It has been ascertained that my brother never married. Do 
 not ask me any questions, because the rest is family business. 
 My brother never married, as I always told you. There- 
 fore ' 
 
 ' Therefore, the three thousand are mine,' cried Jack with 
 great delight, clapping Stephen on the shoulder. ' When shall 
 you be ready to part ?' 
 
 ' That I cannot say. But I suppose there will be no further 
 opposition to my raising money on the estate. Meantime, my 
 dear boy, I cannot let you have your original thousand back, 
 because it is all spent.' Stephen looked quite youthful and ex- 
 pansive as he uttered this genial string of falsehoods. ' How- 
 ever, as I suppose a little ready money would be handy just 
 now ' 
 
 ' It would,' said Jack ; ' lend me what you can.' 
 
 ' I will give you,' replied Stephen, taking his cheque-book, 
 ' seventy-five. That will be something for you to go on with. 
 Another hundred, if you want it, in a week or two. You can 
 depend upon me, my dear fellow. Stephen Hamblin never for- 
 gets a friend.' 
 
 They shook hands warmly. That was the sort of sentiment 
 which went home to the heart of Jack. 
 
 'No more,' he said, ' does J. double-B., especially,' pocketing 
 the cheque, ' when he's got some of the ready to remember him 
 by.' 
 
 Fully satisfied with the advance, and the assurance of further 
 help, Jack took his leave. After all, he had done pretty well 
 with his venture. Three thousand to come in after he had made 
 his composition with creditors was not a bad sum to begin again 
 upon. And he always had his reputation for luck to fall back 
 upon. 
 
 As he went out he passed, in the door, Miss Hamblin. He 
 took off his hat as she passed up the stairs to her uncle's cham 
 bers. Her face was pale and anxious. 
 
 ' Ah,' thought Jack, ' she has found out by this time, and 
 she's going to make things square with her uncle. Well, she'll 
 find him in good temper. And now I think she'll begin to be 
 sorry that she didn't have me! Laughed at me, by Gad !' 
 
 He turned as he passed through the door, to look once more
 
 293 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 at the tall and graceful figure of the most splendid girl he had 
 ever known. 
 
 Alison mounted the stairs, and found herself for the first time 
 knocking at Stephen Hamblin's door. 
 
 He had lit a cigar, and was making a few calculations in 
 pencil, when she opened the door and timidly stole in. 
 
 He put down the cigar, and rose with surprise, and a feeling 
 of pain and shame. Before him, with crossed hands and down- 
 dropped eyes, stood — his daughter. 
 
 ' You here, Alison, of all places in the world ? I thought at 
 least I should have been spared this.' 
 
 ' I have just now learned the truth,' she said, with trembling 
 voice ; ' my cousin Augustus told me — what you know — what 
 they have found out.' 
 
 ' Did they invite you to come here and see me ?' 
 
 ' No ; I thought you would like to see me, and say something 
 — if only that you may forgive me for the hard things that I 
 have said and thought about you.' 
 
 'Oh, come, Alison !' cried the man, impatiently, ' we do not 
 want sentiment, you and I. Be reasonable. You don't sup- 
 pose I jump for joy because you are my daughter. You 
 don't suppose that I expect you to fly into my arms because they 
 say I am your father. Don't let us be fools.' 
 
 The tears came into the girl's eyes. She had been a fool ; 
 she had deluded herself into the belief, as she drove into town, 
 that he would be touched by the discovery ; she thought they 
 would exchange words of regret and reconciliation ; she looked 
 for some words of endearment ; and this was the way in which 
 she was met. 
 
 ' Sit down, then, and talk. But don't begin to cry, and don't 
 talk sentiment. First of all, what did Augustus tell you ?' 
 
 ' That you are my father, and that you did not know that 
 yt i had a child at all.' 
 
 ' Good — that is true. What else did he tell you ?' 
 
 'Nothing else — yes: he said that you had renounced your 
 claim to the estate and were going away. I came to ask 
 you ' 
 
 ' He did not tell you why,' Stephen interrupted. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Since he did not, I shall not,' he said, with the air of a man 
 who had been doing good by stealth. ' Sufficient that it is so. 
 I am going to travel, and to forget in travel, if possible, all the 
 annoyances I have had in this business. I hardly blame you, 
 Alison. It would be absurd to blame you, altogether, for the 
 attitude you assumed. When I became quite certain that my 
 brother had never married, I resolved to befriend you. I made 
 two distinct offers to you, which you refused with scorn and
 
 HOW STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL. 299 
 
 contumely. You remember that — I do not, I say, reproach you ; 
 that is all over. Now that I learn the truth, I recognise the fact 
 that my brother desired that you should never find it out, and 
 that he wished you to inherit his property. Therefore, I retire.' 
 
 This was very grand, and Alison was greatly affected. 
 
 ' But it is all yours,' she said. 
 
 ' It is all mine, until I have signed a deed of transfer — to you,' 
 he replied, waving his hand as one who confers a kingdom. 
 
 She could not reply. 
 
 'I will tell you more,' her father went on. 'I believe the 
 reason why my brother kept this thing a secret was, that I mar- 
 ried the girl with whom he was in love. He spoke to her sister, 
 Miss Nethersole, about her : I, meantime, spoke to the young 
 lady herself. As Miss Nethersole refused to listen to the match 
 proposed by the elder brother, on some religious ground, I be- 
 lieve, the younger brother thought it was no use for him to try 
 that way. So he persuaded the girl into a secret marriage, and 
 the day after they were married they eloped. 
 
 ' Well ' — he went on, carefully folding up the ' Journal of a 
 Deserted Wife.' and putting it into his breast-pocket, to prevent 
 the chance of her seeing it — ' we were not suited to each other. 
 Put it, if you please, that I was too young to be married — that 
 I have never been what is called a marrying man ; we were un- 
 happy together. I said that it would be well to part for a time: 
 I left her — it was by her own wish and choice — at the seaside : 
 you were born : she told me nothing about it : she fell ill : she 
 wrote to my brother when she became worse : she died : he 
 told me of the death, but not of the birth : I forgot all about 
 my marriage : it was just exactly as if I had never been mar- 
 ried at all.' 
 
 This was a rendering of the history which had somehow a 
 false ring about it ; it was too smooth and specious. But 
 Alison tried to believe it. 
 
 ' Mind,' he said, ' I do not attach any blame to my wife ; I 
 should be unwilling for you to think that she was to blame. 
 Let all the blame, if there is any, fall on me. Some, perhaps, 
 on my brother, but not much. No doubt, poor Anthony acted 
 for the best, and persuaded himself that the wisest thing for 
 you was to bring you up in ignorance of your parentage ; later 
 on, he became fond of you, and grew more unwilling still to 
 part with you. So he invented the fiction of your being his 
 daughter. It was clever of him, but it has led us all into 
 strange paths. Things would have been different with me, and 
 with you too, if we had known all along what we were to each 
 other.' 
 
 1 And now,' asked Alison. ' can there never be anything be- 
 tween us but formal friendship ?'
 
 3oo THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Never,' said Stephen, shaking his head and putting his hands 
 into his pockets, as if he was afraid that his daughter might 
 offer to fondle them. ' Never. Do not let us pretend to try. 
 Why, we could not begin all at once to bill and coo to each 
 other. I could never endure, for instance, such endearments 
 as you used to lavish on your supposed father.' 
 
 ' No,' said Alison, sadly, ' that would be impossible. But 
 kindness of thought ' 
 
 ' Rubbish, Alison. You will marry some day, I suppose ' 
 
 ' I am going to marry Gilbert Yorke.' 
 
 ' Ah !' He started. Gilbert Yorke was the young man who 
 had been present at the family council. ' Ah ! you will marry 
 him ! That makes it doubly impossible for us ever to be friends. 
 You are going to marry a man — well, never mind. No more 
 sentiment, Alison. You have got a father, and I have got a 
 daughter. It is a relationship which begins to-day. Let it end 
 to-day.' 
 
 It was harsh, but Alison somehow felt a little relieved. She 
 would have liked a few words of sympathy, of hope, of kind- 
 ness. She could not contemplate without a shudder the simple 
 operation of kissing her ' uncle,' Stephen the Black. And she 
 was humiliated to find that one whom she had always regarded 
 as the Awful Example was actually her father. 
 
 ' By-the-way,' he went on, pleasantly, ' I think I have got one 
 or two things here which you might like to have.' He opened 
 a desk and began to rummage among the papers. ' I know that 
 Anthony sent the things to me when Dora died. I put them 
 away, and I haven't looked at them since. Ah ! here they 
 are.' 
 
 He handed to Alison a small packet containing a portrait of 
 a sweet-faced girl, with light hair and blue eyes, very different 
 to her own ; and another containing one or two books of devo- 
 tion : this was all that remained of Dora Hamblin. 
 
 ' Now go, Alison,' said Stephen. ' You may cry over them at 
 home if you like. Good-bye. You will not see me again for a 
 very long time — perhaps never.' 
 
 Alison took them tearfully. 
 
 ' Now go, Alison,' repeated Stephen, in his harshest voice ; 
 ' go, I say ; cry over them at home as much as you please. 
 Have you anything more to tell me ?' 
 
 ' No,' she replied. ' Stay, I have a message from my aunt 
 Rachel.' 
 
 ' From Rachel Nethersole ?' Stephen became suddenly and 
 deeply interested. ' She is with you, is she ? She knows ? 
 What does that excellent lady say ? What did she tell you ?' 
 
 ' When I told her what I had learned, she cried, and said that she 
 wanted nothing now but to ask pardon of my father — I mean,
 
 HO W STEPHEN DEFIED THEM ALL. 301 
 
 your brother. When I said I was coming here, she kissed me, 
 and bade me tell you that for my sake she would forgive you 
 all. " All," she told me to say.' 
 
 ' Did she ?' cried Stephen, as a new light came into his eyes. 
 1 Did she ? She will forgive all, will she ? A brave old girl. 
 That is right — and — and— Alison, I think I shall reconsider that 
 question of the transfer.' He looked his daughter in the face 
 with a sudden change of manner which startled and terrified 
 her. ' Perhaps it will be best to arrange things differently. I 
 shall see. I shall think things over. Go now.' 
 
 He almost pushed her out of his room. 
 
 Then, left quite alone, he gave way to every external sign of 
 joy. These signs were undignified, and we therefore pass them 
 over. 
 
 ' I've done them again !' he cried. ' By Gad ! I've done them 
 again. And I shall have the handling, all to myself, of the 
 whole big pile.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK FETCHED THE WRITING-MASTER. 
 
 The boy remained behind the screen, as we have seen, until 
 the footsteps in the passage were silent. Then he emerged 
 from his hiding-place. His face was scared, though his move- 
 ments, as we have seen, indicated joy. The occasion had come, 
 then, at last. This was the day, the very day, for which he had 
 so longed — the day of greatness. On no other occasion could 
 Anthony Hamblin be so dramatically, so usefully restored to his 
 own people ; in no other way could the discomfiture of Stephen 
 be so complete. He had been proved to be a forger ; that 
 would be a blow to Alison, should the fact be told her : by 
 Anthony's intervention the thing might be hidden. He was to 
 be the heir to the whole estate ; he was to go away on a large 
 annuity : very good, he would have to go on nothing. 
 
 He rapidly reviewed the arguments for immediate action, and 
 then, resolved to lose no time, he slipped cautiously out of the 
 room, passed with noiseless step by the doors of the two partners, 
 and ran down the broad staircase. 
 
 In the doorway he found Gilbert Yorke, who was waiting for 
 a cab to take him to Clapham. 
 
 ' Well ?' asked young Nick, with his usual twinkle, ' have you 
 found anything ? Have you got the marriage ?' 
 
 Gilbert laughed, and nodded. 
 
 ' You shall hear all about it,' he said, ' in good time.'
 
 302 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Ah !' replied the boy, ' now you think you've been mighty 
 deep, I suppose. Mark my words, Gilbert Yorke. You'll own, 
 before long, that there's one who has been deeper. Where are 
 you going now ?' 
 
 ' I am going to Clapham, to tell Alison something.' 
 
 ' Oh, very good. Yes ; ycur exertions have been creditable, 
 I'm sure. But my turn will come later on, and then, if you 
 find your nose out of joint, don't say I did not warn you.' 
 
 Gilbert laughed again. 
 
 ' What did I say once ?' the boy went on, folding his arms, and 
 leaning against the doorpost ; ' " Just when you think every- 
 thing is cleared up, you turn to me and I will astonish you." 
 That is what I said. Now is everything cleared up ?' 
 
 ' It is. I can tell you so much. Alison will learn all from 
 me in half an hour. This evening there is going to be a sort of 
 family council at the House.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Please tell the partners, with my compliments — Mr. 
 Nicolas Cridland's compliments — that if they think everything 
 is cleared up, they are mightily mistaken. And as for Alison, 
 remind her that the writing-master leads a happy life. Now 
 don't botch that message, young man. Give it her in full, just 
 as I have told you.' He began to look positively demoniac, 
 dancing on the pavement, and twinkling with his pink eyes 
 under his white eyebrows. ' Oh, ah ! Yes ; all cleared up. 
 Ha ! ha ! ho ! ho ! what a jolly game it will be, to be sure.' 
 
 Gilbert began to think young Nick was off his head. There 
 could be nothing more to know. 
 
 ' I'm the man in the play who turns up at the last moment, 
 and pardons the conspirator for love of the lady he wants to 
 marry. I'm the man who comes home with a pocket full of 
 money, and pays off the wicked lawyer. I'm the man who draws 
 aside the curtain with a " Houp-la ! Hooray ! There-you-are- 
 and-who'd-a- thought-it ?" ' 
 
 Then the cab came up. 
 
 ' If you want to see larks — if you want to be taken aback as 
 you never were so taken aback in all your born days before — if 
 you want to see me in the proudest moment of my life — you turn 
 up at the house to-night about nine o'clock or thereabouts. 
 Oh ! and if you are going there now, you may tell the old lady 
 that I've got important business in the City, and shall not come 
 home to tea — that's all. Ta-ta !' 
 
 He pulled his hat farther over his forehead and strode out of 
 Great St. Simon Apostle with as much noise and importance 
 as boots at fourteen can produce. When he got to the end of 
 Carmel Friars, he turned to see if by any chance Gilbert was 
 following him. He was not. 
 
 Then he pursued his way as rapidly as possible down Grace-
 
 THE WRITING-MASTER. 303 
 
 church Street, Eastcheap, to Tower Hill, past the entrance to 
 the docks, through Cable Street to Jubilee Road, where he 
 knocked at the door of the house in whose window was the 
 advertisement of Mr. Hampton, Writing-master. 
 
 Mr. Hampton was not in. He would return, perhaps, at five 
 or so, but the woman could not tell. 
 
 This was extremely annoying, because, all the way along, 
 Nicolas had been arranging in his own head a little drama 
 between himself and Anthony. He was to assume the Grand 
 Style which Mr. Matthew Arnold so much admires ; he was to 
 be calmly, impressively judicial : he was not to argue, but to 
 command. And Anthony was not to argue either, but to obey 
 the superior will of the boy. Young Nick possessed a lively 
 imagination, and really worked up a very fine scene, something 
 on the lines of a well-known situation in A thalie, which he had 
 been reading lately at school. 
 
 All this was completely spoiled, because the drama was in- 
 complete without two performers, and one of them was away. 
 
 Nicolas haunted the hot street all the afternoon, growing 
 every moment more impatient, and continually losing more of 
 the Grand Style, till at last there was none of it left at all. 
 
 At five o'clock the writing-master had not returned. Then 
 the boy went to the coffee-house where he had first made his 
 wonderful discovery, and ordered tea, with shrimps and water- 
 cresses. He had great joy in the independence of this meal, 
 but he was anxious to bring off his grand coup, and could not 
 linger. After it he went again to the house, and being tired of 
 walking up and down on the shady side of the pavement, asked 
 permission to wait in Mr. Hampton's room. 
 
 He sat down in Anthony's arm- chair, and presently, being 
 tired, went fast asleep. When he awoke it was nearly eight 
 o'clock, and already in the badly-lighted room it was growing 
 dark. Before him stood his uncle. 
 
 Young Nick sprang to his feet, and clutched him by the arm. 
 
 'f've been waiting for you all the afternoon,' he cried, re- 
 proachfully. ' Where have you been idling about ?' 
 
 ' I've been keeping punishment school,' said Anthony humbly ; 
 ' my turn comes once a month.' 
 
 ; Lord!' the boy ejaculated with infinite disgust; 'he's 
 been keeping punishment school, while I've been looking for 
 him. However, you've come at last — sit down. Have you had 
 your tea ?' 
 
 1 I've had some tea and bread and butter with the boys,' re- 
 plied his uncle. 
 
 ' Well ! you shall have some champagne and grilled chicken 
 for your supper,' the boy told him encouragingly. ' A spread
 
 3 04 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 eagle and champagne for supper you shall have, or I'll know 
 the reason why.' 
 
 ' What on earth do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Exactly what I say. The game's finished ; it is all found 
 out, and you may put on your hat and come home with me as 
 soon as ever you like.' 
 'All found out?' 
 
 ' Part ferreted out, part made out. Gilbert Yorke had a lot 
 of things told him by Miss Nethersole, and fished up the rest. 
 He's not a bad sort, that young man, if he didn't fancy himself 
 too much. I suppose I ought not to grumble because he's cut 
 me out with Alison. What a donkey you've been, Uncle 
 Anthony, to be sure ! What a donkey ! Fancy wanting to 
 screen Uncle Stephen ! You see I know the whole story — 
 forged receipts, runaway marriage — all. So don't pretend any 
 more. What a donkey !' 
 
 ' It was for Alison's sake,' pleaded the donkey. ' I wanted 
 to save her.' 
 
 ' And the end of it is, that you haven't saved her. She knows 
 who her father is by this time, and might just as well have 
 known before. A pretty father for a young woman who re- 
 spects the fifth commandment.' He looked at his watch. ' A 
 quarter past eight,' he said ; ' plenty of time. I told him about 
 nine o'clock.' 
 
 ' You told whom ?' 
 
 ' Gilbert Yorke. Told him to look out for games of a most 
 surprising kind at nine o'clock. Now just you listen, and don't 
 say a word till I tell you to speak.' If it was not the Grand 
 Style, it was the Cocky style, which has been overlooked by 
 critics, and is yet sometimes extremely effective. ' All you've 
 got to do is to listen to me, and behave accordingly. Sit down.' 
 The writing-master humbly took a chair. By this time he 
 had got disreputably shabby, and it was not so dark but that 
 the condition of his boots was apparent, though the shininess 
 of his coat-sleeves was partly hidden. The heels had long been 
 down. Now they were gone at the toes, and chinks in the leather 
 revealed on either foot a patch of white. 
 
 ' You don't look as if your salary was paid regularly,' said 
 the boy sternly, pointing to the boots. 
 
 ' It's such a very small salary,' replied the poor man ; ' and 
 eating costs such a lot. One must eat, you know. It is not 
 altogether the profession one would choose for a son, that of 
 writing-master in a private academy.' 
 
 ' No,' said Nicolas, with severity ; ' it certainly is not. How- 
 ever, you can get your hat, and come away to Clapham with 
 me, because that fooling is over.' 
 
 'Nonsense !' said Mr. Hampton ; ' what should I do that for?
 
 THE WRITING-MASTER. 3°5 
 
 Clapham? I never heard of that place. All that to me is 
 gone and forgotten. I am nothing now but a half -starved usher, 
 and I shall never be anything else.' 
 
 ' And Alison, is she forgotten too ? What you did for her 
 sake, Uncle Anthony, five months ago, you will have to undo 
 for her sake.' 
 
 ' Boy ! tell me what has happened !' 
 
 Young Nick laughed. He was entire master of the whole 
 situation. It belonged to him. He held the strings of Destiny. 
 He was the Deus ex machind whose functions he had that very 
 morning, with contempt for the mercantile uselessness of Latin, 
 painfully construed. 
 
 He looked at his watch again. 
 
 ' We've got a few minutes to spare.' Then he began his 
 narrative, of which he delivered himself slowly and with im- 
 portance, reflecting that this would certainly be regarded ever 
 after as the greatest day of his life, and desirous of leaving 
 nothing to regret in its history, no shortcoming, no failure, no 
 lack of power to rise to the dignity of the situation. 
 
 ' It began last week, when Alison took Mrs. Duncombe ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Duncombe ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! she's been staying with us since we found her 
 out. But she was no good, and knew nothing ; you took care 
 of that. Your craft and subtlety about that baby, Uncle 
 Anthony, astonished everyone. Nobody more than myself, I 
 must own, though perhaps I ought to know the world by this 
 time. 
 
 ' However,' he went on, after a little pause, during which he 
 shook his head in a modest depreciation of himself, ' that is 
 nothing. Alison and Mrs. Duncombe went off to Bournemouth. 
 Of course, Gilbert Yorke went with them. I was not invited 
 to go, so I stayed at home and took care of the old lady. We 
 had Normandy pippins. Of course I suspected that something 
 was up, and when Alison came back, two days later, crying and 
 laughing both together, I was quite certain. Well, I listened, 
 and I made out. They'd found out where Alison's mother was 
 buried, and taken her to see the grave. That was why she was 
 crying. The reason why she laughed was because Gilbert Yorke 
 had begun the kissing all over again. However, as Alison 
 wouldn't wait for me, I can't object. There's a mighty lot of 
 kissing going on now, down at the House. The old lady and 
 Alison are at it all the morning, with a — " Oh, my dear ! how 
 glad I am !" and " Oh, auntie ! how happy I am !" And in the 
 afternoon it's Aunt Rachel's turn ; I shouldn't care much about 
 kissing Aunt Bachel myself, but girls will kiss anything.' 
 
 1 Aunt Rachel V 
 
 Anthony Hamblin began to feel in a dream. 
 
 20
 
 o 
 
 06 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' Why, of course, Miss Nethersole. It's raining uncles and 
 aunts. Do be quiet, and don't interrupt ; time's getting very 
 short.' The boy considered a minute—' Oh ! about the kissing. 
 Aunt Rachel meets Alison and takes her hand gingerly, as if 
 she was something that must be handled, for fear of breaking, 
 like a Richmond maid-of -honour. " My niece," she says — that's 
 all — and kisses her on the forehead. In the evening Gilbert 
 arrives, and Alison and he go into the garden and kiss each 
 other in the conservatories. I know where I can stand and see 
 them, and they don't know. Then they come back and pretend 
 they haven't had their arms round each other. And to think 
 of the way that girl used to pound away about truth and fibs ? 
 when I was a boy !' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Anthony, presently, ' that we shall get some- 
 thing coherent in time.' 
 
 ' It's coming,' replied Nick ; ' where shall I begin ? After 
 the Bournemouth expedition, letters and telegrams came thick 
 from Gilbert, and Alison carried on in a most agitating way. 
 Meals went anyhow. Several times I had to order the pudding 
 myself. We knew she'd got a new aunt, and we made as much 
 fuss over her as if it was a new baby. 
 
 ' Very good. Gilbert came back, and there was a tremendous 
 talking. It was then that kissing set in with such vigour. And 
 one evening I heard him tell Alison that he had kept back part 
 of the story, and would tell her afterwards. He has told her, 
 I suppose, by this time, for I left him on his way to Clapham 
 Common — in a hansom cab, if you please ! I've got to travel 
 on the knife-board. The day after he came back — it was in 
 the evening : Alison was playing, and Gilbert was sitting by 
 her whispering soft things in her ear : my mother was asleep : 
 I was beginning one of those exercises, " The letters which I 
 have received. The letters which my cousin (feminine) says 
 she has burned " — you know — when the door opened, and a lady 
 appeared. She just marched in, without being announced. 
 She was in black, and she had a black bag with her — a lady with 
 sharp chin, and a mouth that looked a little bit like the useful 
 end of a pair of scissors. She set eyes on me first, and stared. 
 It isn't manners, but I don't mind it much, because it isn't 
 every day that people get a chance of seeing an Albino. So I 
 nodded to encourage her, and then she looked at the old lady, 
 who was fast asleep with her mouth open ; then she saw Alison, 
 who rose to meet her. " You are Alison Hamblin ?" she asked ; 
 " you are more like your uncle than your father. I am your 
 aunt, Rachel Nethersole. Let us try to be friends." Then 
 kissing set in, and I was introduced, and Gilbert did a lot of 
 talking.' 
 
 ' Poor Alison,' said Anthony, hoarsely.
 
 THE WRITING-MASTER. 307 
 
 The boy was glad to see these signs of emotion, and turned 
 his head. 
 
 ' You see, uncle, Miss Nethersole didn't know everything. 
 You and I know better than that.' 
 
 1 How do you know ? What do you know ?' 
 
 * I know now as much as you do,' replied the boy. ' I wish I 
 had known it five months ago. You and your writing-master- 
 ing !' 
 
 ' Does anybody else know ?' 
 
 ' We all know everything — except that one thing that you 
 and I know. And you've got to tell that to-night. Let me 
 go on. 
 
 ' Miss Nethersole agreed to stay, and they fetched in her 
 things. Presently we had something hot — a kidney it was — for 
 supper. I needed it. Evenings like that tell upon the strongest 
 man. Three women to be comforted all at once is a large 
 order.' 
 
 Nicolas shook his white locks en philosophe, and went on : 
 
 ' After supper — Aunt Rachel did pretty well with the kidneys, 
 but I had to lead the way, as usual — we all sat round, while 
 Alison held her new relation's hand — you know their silly way 
 — and we began to talk about you. The new aunt does not 
 like you, uncle, and I saw her make faces while Alison and the 
 old lady went on about your having been such a good man. I 
 crammed my handkerchief in my mouth. O Jiminy ! 
 
 ' That was yesterday. And as if there wasn't enough to tell 
 you, something else more important still happened to-day. 
 Now, listen, with all your might. As it was a half -holiday I 
 came up to town after dinner, to see what news there was in 
 the City. Mighty little doing, as I found out from a little 
 conversation with the senior clerks. However, as I was coming 
 on to see you, I thought I would just drop in and look at your 
 old room. Nobody has ever used it ; your name is on the 
 door ; the furniture is untouched ; there's your old blotting-pad, 
 covered all over with heads in ink, in front of your own old 
 chair. And there's the cabinet with the glass doors ; I always 
 wondered what you kept in that cabinet, uncle. Once I thought 
 it was piles of money ; then I thought it must be skeletons ; 
 then I thought very likely it was specimens of indigo. Well, 
 to make quite sure, I opened the doors and found what it is 
 you do keep there. Fie, uncle ! I thought better of you. A 
 decanter full of sherry and a couple of glasses ! also a box of 
 cigars, and half a dozen boxes of cigarettes. Call that business ? 
 When I had satisfied myself upon that point, I went and sat 
 down in your chair, just to feel what it was like to be a rich 
 man ; and then I made myself a little speech, nobody being 
 there to hear. I was getting along first-rate, thinking what a 
 
 20—2
 
 3oS THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 clever sort of a man I was going to turn out, when I heard foot- 
 steps, and as I didn't wish to be caught, and look as much like 
 a fool as it is possible for this young man to look, I nipped 
 behind your old screen — you remember it, uncle — and sat down 
 and listened. Mean, wasn't it ? Wait till you hear what I 
 found out, then you will jump for joy — and — oh ! Jerusalem ! 
 
 ' There was Mr. Augustus first, and then Mr. William — he's 
 had his wig put into black on your account — and then Mr. 
 Billiter. Last came Gilbert Yorke, looking mighty important. 
 A regular procesh, only they didn't sing a hymn. While they 
 were disposing themselves in attitudes round the table like 
 head-masters before a caning, or like ambassadors and pleni- 
 potentates at least, in marches Uncle Stephen.' 
 
 ' What did they want with him ?' 
 
 ' Now, uncle, do not interrupt. That spoils every man's 
 style. Csesar, when he was writing his Commentaries for the 
 Third Form, would never allow any interruption ; nor would 
 Cornelius Nepos when he hammered out his biographies for the 
 Second. Mr. Augustus it was who went for him. " It's all 
 found out," he says ; " there was never any marriage, and you 
 are the heir to the whole estate !" " Oh my gum !" said Uncle 
 Stephen, turning very red ; " then I suppose you are all going 
 to apologise, are you ?" " Devil a bit," said Mr. Augustus. 
 Are you interested now, uncle ?' 
 
 ' Go on, boy — go on.' 
 
 Anthony Hamblin was pacing the little room, showing every 
 sign of agitation. 
 
 ' Then Uncle Stephen looked surprised. " You hardened 
 villain !" says your cousin, looking like a judge on the bench, 
 " there was no marriage of your brother, but there was of your- 
 self. And who was your wife, and where is your daughter ?" 
 " What daughter ?" says Stephen. " Alison," says Augustus. 
 Well, Stephen was a bit staggered at that, as you may suppose. 
 " And don't you think," says Augustus, " that we are going to 
 sit down quietly and see you chuck the money. Quite the other 
 way about and contrariwise. You've got to give it up and go 
 away on a pound a week for the rest of your life." " Am I ?" 
 says Stephen. " You are," says Augustus. " Don't you wish 
 you may get it?" says Stephen. "I do," says Augustus, " or 
 
 else " " Else what ?" says Stephen. " Else," says Augustus, 
 
 " we shall have to remind you of six little bits of paper bear- 
 ing a dead woman's signature. Her sister will prosecute for 
 forgery — f or-ge-ry, Stephen ; and it means fourteen years' quod, 
 with skilly and cold water. How will you like that, Cousin 
 Stephen ?" Then they all chimed in, like a chorus in a play, 
 " How will you like that, Cousin Stephen ?" I thought of 
 joining in myself, but didn't. Stephen took it quite comfort-
 
 THE WRITING-MASTER. 309 
 
 ably. He's a desperate wicked chap, that Stephen. Fancy- 
 going about with six forgeries on your conscience — a most awful 
 wicked chap. He never said he was sorry: never said he wished 
 he hadn't done it — not at all. He only growled ; and then he 
 said something about going abroad on a pension ; and then he 
 put on his hat and walked out of the room.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ?' 
 
 ' So now you see. You ran away : you left me, your little 
 comforts, and your home, in order to save Alison from finding 
 that her father wasn't you at all, but the other fellow, and from 
 learning what a desperate bad lot he is. And now, she will 
 ]earn it all, and there will be the most terrific row that ever was 
 heard of. Stephen Hamblin will very likely be charged with 
 forgery — that's a very pretty thing to happen in the family — 
 and Alison Hamblin will learn that he is her father. That's 
 what has been brought about by your running away, to say 
 nothing of the awful expense in crape.' 
 
 Anthony stood irresolute. 
 
 'What shall I do?' he cried. 'The very worst has come to 
 pass — the very thing that most I dreaded. I thought to avert 
 this blow. I thought that my own death would do it. I thought 
 that sorrow was bettev than disgrace ; and Alison has had the 
 sorrow, and now will have the disgrace.' 
 
 ' She need not if you will return, because then Uncle Stephen 
 will be coopered, and Aunt Rachel can be squared. You can 
 stop the prosecution. Come, Uncle Anthony ; they won't mind 
 your boots.' 
 
 1 It isn't the boots I'm thinking of,' said Anthony, gravely. 
 
 ' Is it the feeling that you will look such an ass ?' asked the 
 boy with ready sympathy. ' No one could look a bigger donkey 
 — that's true — if he was to try with all his might. But never 
 mind that ; the servants are all in mourning still — ho ! ho ! — 
 and the old lady's got a new cap trimmed with crape home yes- 
 terday — ho ! ho ! — and there's the black band round my hat — 
 ho ! ho ! ho ! — and there's the tablet in the church — ho ! ho ! 
 ho ! ho ! What a game it will be ! You'll have to pay the bill 
 for everything but your own funeral. I wish we could hire a 
 mourning coach for us to go home in — I wonder if my pocket- 
 money would run to it.' 
 
 The b6y, who was half hysterical by this time, broke into in- 
 extinguishable laughter, which naturally led to choking and 
 to tea 
 
 ' Come, Uncle Anthony.' He wiped his eyes, and put his 
 
 uncle's hat on for him. ' What a shocking bad hat !' He took 
 
 him by the hand, and led him unresisting into the street. ' I've 
 
 shillings in my pocket, that will take us to Clapham 
 
 Common. Wu will walk up to the door. I will smuggle you
 
 3 1 o THE SEA M Y SIDE. 
 
 into the study. Then I will go away and bring you ' His 
 
 voice broke again into a sob. ' Poor Alison !' he cried ; then he 
 brushed away his tears, ' First thing you must do, is to put on 
 a pair of new boots. Any other man but myself would be 
 ashamed to be seen walking in company with such beasts of 
 boots. I always used to keep you respectable in the old time, 
 and I mean to again, remember that.' 
 
 CHAPTER THE LAST. 
 
 HOW YOUNG NICK ACHIEVED GREATNESS. 
 
 When Stephen Hamblin saw his daughter fairly out of the room, 
 and got through those manifestations of joy of which we have 
 spoken, he began, once more, to reconsider everything. Now 
 the message which Miss Nethersole sent him by means of his 
 daughter was nothing short of an Evangel, a Blessed Gospel, to 
 him. It relieved him, at one stroke, of all anxiety on the one 
 side where his armour was weak ; and even while he thought of 
 the opportuneness of this truly Christian message, a way 
 occurred to him by which he might, even without it, face the 
 worst and challenge his enemies to do their worst. 
 
 ' Augustus and the crew,' he thought, ' rejoiced to have that 
 trump card in reserve. They knew that I did not suspect its 
 existence, and was not prepared to answer it. They played it 
 fairly well, considering. But not so well — no, not so well as I 
 mean to play my trump card, presently. It is not only forgive- 
 ness, but justification.' 
 
 This message of Rachel's, too, showed him how wrong he had 
 been in his treatment of Alison. He should not have met her 
 approaches with coldness : he should not have received her 
 timid advances with a snub ; he should have welcomed her : 
 held out his arms : tried, at least, to kiss her : and, without a 
 murmur, should have submitted to any endearments which the 
 girl might offer. To be sure, the style and title of daughter 
 no more commanded his affection than that of niece : his heart, 
 which had long since ceased to feel any warmth towards 
 Alison's mother, by no means leaped up at the meeting with 
 Dora's daughter. Quite the reverse. He felt that the whole 
 thing was a gene • he would very much have preferred Alison to 
 have continued Anthony's daughter. 
 
 You cannot, however, by wishing, reverse the current of 
 affairs. That is an axiom in the First Book of Fate ; and the
 
 YO UNG NICK A CHIE VES GREA TJVESS. 3 1 1 
 
 wise man makes the best of materials in his hands. The mate- 
 rials in Stephen's hands was a girl ready to acknowledge him 
 as her father, and do her best to enact the part of Christian 
 daughter ; a sister-in-law who had been deeply wronged, and 
 who, for the sake of that daughter, was ready to forgive and 
 forget the past : a little knot of conspirators, eager to get rid 
 of him, to push him off the scene, to land him, once and for all, 
 across the Channel. 
 
 Very good : but one thing they had forgotten. Not only did 
 Miss Nethersole forgive, which they either did not know or 
 took care not to mention, but in striking at him they would strike 
 at A lison. Yes, and at themselves ; at the family name, at 
 everything held dear by the Hamblins. 
 
 The more he turned the matter over in his mind, the more 
 he became convinced that to strike the flag at once was impolitic 
 and — still more— useless. A change of front was not only pos- 
 sible, but advisable. 
 
 ' Why,' asked this just man, ' should I abandon what is mine 
 because they threaten ? What can they do ? What can they 
 prove ? Would they dare to try it ? And since the woman 
 sends me that message, why there is nothing more to be feared. 
 I will stay.' 
 
 After dinner he thought the thing over again, and became so 
 convinced that his best course was to take advantage of Rachel 
 Nethersole's forgiving disposition, that he sent for a cab and 
 drove to Clapham, to 'my own place,' he said to himself. ' And 
 I dare say,' he continued, being now very cheerful over the 
 new prospects, ' I dare say that the time will come when I may 
 endure the girl's affectionate ways as Anthony used to. Pre- 
 tend to like them, too. It's awkward becoming a father when 
 you least expect it. A grown-up girl, too, with a temper of 
 her own, one with whom you have had rows ; it is a very em- 
 barrassing position, and requires a great deal of presence of 
 mind. This afternoon I was a fool. I've been a fool all day, 
 I think. Things came upon me too unexpectedly. A man 
 can't stand a big fortune, and a grown-up daughter, and 
 threatenings of criminal proceedings all at once. However, I 
 have cooled down, and shall play my next card very much 
 better, as my dear friends and cousins will shortly discover.' 
 
 It was somewhat unfortunate that he chose that evening to 
 carry out his purpose, because it was the time which the part- 
 ners, accompanied by Mr. Billiter, had chosen for their family 
 council. 
 
 Gilbert Yorke, Alderney Codd, Mrs. Cridland, and Miss 
 Nethersole all assisted on this occasion, the importance of which 
 was realised by no one so much as by Alderney Codd. The 
 fur coat was necessarily discarded owing to the return of sum-
 
 312 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 mer, but its place was worthily taken by broadcloth of the best 
 and newest, while the condition of wristbands, front, and collar 
 showed what an excellent thing a little steady occupation is for 
 a man. True, his work was over ; there was no more employ- 
 ment for him in rummaging among registers : but he had not 
 yet realised that the suspension of work meant cessation of 
 income. At present he was entirely filled with a sort of holy 
 joy on account of Anthony's rehabilitation, and he had thought 
 of a beautiful verse from Horace which he intended to quote 
 as soon as he could find an opportunity. It was not entirely 
 novel, but then Alderney's scholarship was not entirely fresh — 
 over-ripe, perhaps. The effort to lug in the lines somehow 
 proved unsuccessful for the first half -hour or so, during which 
 Augustus was explaining the new position of affairs, how 
 Stephen had resolved on leaving his daughter in undisputed 
 possession — taking only an annuity out of the estate. These 
 dry details gave no opportunity for Horatian sentiment. 
 
 Augustus Hamblin took the opportunity of reminding Alison 
 — this was a precautionary measure, in case she should allow 
 herself to fall in love, so to speak, with her father, and then 
 find out about the receipts, and be humiliated — that the dis- 
 covery of her parent need not lead to any alteration in her own 
 feelings concerning him, because he was going away for good. 
 The observance of the fifth commandment, he explained, bind- 
 ing upon all Christians, would in her case be effected by the 
 pious memory of the man who had stood in loco parentis, in the 
 place of a parent to her. Here Alderney thought he saw his 
 chance, and struck in, ' Quis desiderio,' but was interrupted by 
 a gesture from his cousin, who went on to set forth that in her 
 real father Alison had before her an example which her friends 
 would not advise her to follow, and although filial piety would 
 not dwell upon his "faults, it was impossible to hide them alto- 
 gether ; and, in fact, it had always been a thorn in the side of 
 the family generally, that this member of it had turned out so ill. 
 
 ' Things being so,' Augustus concluded, ' we could not but 
 feel that for you and your fortune to be at the mercy of a man 
 who has never shown even the most common prudence in money 
 matters, would be a very disastrous thing. And it was with 
 the greatest joy that we received from him an assurance that 
 he was willing to accept an annuity, and not to take upon him- 
 self the responsibilities of paternity. In other words, my dear 
 child, you will be in exactly the same position as if you were 
 really Anthony's daughter.' 
 
 ' I have seen him,' said Alison, quietly. ' He has told me 
 that he does not want a daughter. He can never feel any affec- 
 tion for me ; it is better that we should part,' 
 
 ' Much better,' said Augustus,
 
 YOUNG NICK ACHIEVES GREATNESS. 313 
 
 ' I confess that it would be impossible for me to practise the 
 same respect and obedience towards him as to my dear fath — I 
 mean my uncle Anthony ' . 
 
 ' Always your father, Alison,' said Gilbert. 
 
 ' Quis desiderio, 1 by Alderney again, when the door was thrown 
 open, and the new father appeared 
 
 He was acting elaborately ; he had thrown aside the dark and 
 down look with which he received Alison in the afternoon ; he 
 had assumed an expression of candour mixed with some kind of 
 sorrowful surprise, as if he was thinking of the past ; his dark 
 eyes were full, as if charged with repentance. 
 
 'Alison,' he said, looking about the room, ' I see you are with 
 my cousins, my very good friends, and Mr. Billiter. my well- 
 wisher from youth upwards. I have disturbed a family gather- 
 ing. May I ask, my child, what poison concerning your father 
 they have poured into your ears ? Miss Nethersole ! Is it 
 possible ?' 
 
 Aunt Rachel shook her head violently, and pushed her chair 
 back. But Stephen thought of the message. 
 
 Alison sprang to her feet, but was silent. She tried to speak, 
 but could not. Gilbert held her hand. 
 
 ' Stephen,' cried Augustus, ' what is the meaning of this lan- 
 guage ? You have already forgotten the interview of this 
 morning. Must we tell your daughter all ?' 
 
 1 All that you please,' said Stephen, airily ; ' you are free to 
 tell Alison whatever you like.' He took her hand and drew her 
 gently from Gilbert. ' Alison, my daughter, let me repeat your 
 own words : " We have thought hard things, we have said hard 
 things of each other. That was because we did not know the 
 truth. Now we know it, let us not be separated." 
 
 ' I was wrong this afternoon, because I had not yet realised 
 what it meant to me, this gift of a daughter. I have thought 
 it over since, and have resolved that it will be better for me, 
 and for you too, if I renounce my scheme of living abroad, and 
 instead, become your father, guardian, and best friend. As for 
 my former life, it has been, I admit, devoted to pleasure ; that 
 is all finished. I was then a man without ties, and therefore, to 
 a certain extent, a selfish man. Now I have you, my daughter, 
 I have some one else in the world to live for. My brother 
 Anthony acted, no doubt, for the best, but he acted wrongly 
 towards me. Had I known, had I suspected, that you were my 
 ■ did, my course would have been different indeed ; perhaps it 
 would have been as blameless as that of my cousin, Alderney 
 Uodd.' 
 
 Alderney jumped in his chair and changed colour. It was to 
 be hoped that Stephen was not going to begin revelations at this 
 mvenient time.
 
 314 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 ' I say so much, Alison,' Stephen went on, while Mrs. Crid- 
 land sat clutching Miss Nethersole's hand in affright, and the 
 partners with the old lawyer stood grouped together — Gilbert 
 retained his position behind Alison — ' I say so much because you 
 ought to know both sides. It matters little, now, why my 
 cousins have become my enemies. You see that they are. I 
 come here to-night proposing new relations. I take blame for 
 the things I said this afternoon. Forgive me, my child. Your 
 father asks for his daughter's forgiveness.' 
 
 ' Oh !' cried Alison, moved to tears by this speech of the 
 jtere prodigue, ' do not speak so. Do not talk of forgiveness. 
 There is nothing to forgive.' 
 
 ' Together, my dear, we can face our enemies, and bid them 
 do their worst.' 
 
 He drew her to his side and laid her hand on his arm, in a 
 manner as paternal and as true to nature as an amateur heavy 
 father at private theatricals. 
 
 ' This is truly wonderful,' said Mr. Billiter. 
 
 ' Let them do their worst,' continued Stephen 
 
 ' Why, in Heaven's name ' began Augustus, but was 
 
 stopped by Stephen, who went on without taking the least 
 notice of him. 
 
 ' Miss Nethersole,' he said, ' I owe to you an explanation of a 
 very important kind. I have read to-day the journal of my 
 late wife, with feelings of the deepest sorrow. My neglect was 
 not wilful, but accidental ; the reduction of my wife's allowance 
 was due to a heavy pecuniary loss : our separation was by- 
 mutual consent : I never received any letters from her at all. I 
 concluded that she had carried her threat into execution and 
 left me. When I had my remittances returned from Lulworth, 
 I concluded that she had gone away from me altogether.' 
 
 ' But, man,' said Rachel Nethersole, puzzled with this glib 
 show of explanation, ' you went on drawing her allowance 
 from me.' 
 
 ' I did,' said Stephen, frankly — ' I did ; and the hardest, the 
 most cruel, the most unjust accusation ever made against any 
 man was made against me this morning by my own cousin. 
 Alison, you shall hear it, unless, indeed, they have already told 
 you.' 
 
 ' What we have spared your daughter,' said Augustus, 
 solemnly, ' you, too, would do well to spare her.' 
 
 ' Spare her !' Stephen repeated. ' It was out of no considera- 
 tion for me. Rachel Nethersole, I drew that hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year for six years after my wife's death. She could 
 not, poor thing, receive any of it. But how was I to know 
 that ? Who told me of her death ? What did I know ?' 
 
 ' This is truly wonderful !' said Mr. Billiter again.
 
 YOUNG NICK ACHIEVES GREATNESS. 315 
 
 ' Dora, before we parted to meet no more, signed a number of 
 receipts. It was understood that she was not to be troubled in 
 the matter. I heard no more. I went on presenting the re- 
 ceipts. I drew the money. That money, Rachel Nethersole 
 has been strictly and honourably laid up ever since, to be re- 
 turned to you when occasion should serve. I first laid it up for 
 Dora, but, after six years, I heard from Anthony that she was 
 dead, and then resolved to hand it over to you. But my life 
 has been, as I said before, a selfish one. The money was there, 
 but the occasion never came. At the same time, Rachel, I 
 thank you most heartily for the message of forgiveness sent me 
 by Alison. Although there was nothing to forgive, I accept 
 the message as a token of goodwill.' 
 
 Rachel stared at him, as one dumbfounded, 
 ' Am I,' she asked, ' out of my senses ? Is this true ?' 
 Mr. Billiter laughed in his hard, dry way. 
 ' Quite as true, madam,' he said, ' as any other of the state- 
 ments you have heard. Pray go on, Stephen.' 
 
 ' No ; I shall not go on. I have said all I had to say to 
 Alison, my daughter, and to Miss Nethersole, my sister-in-law. 
 To them explanations wei'e due. To you, my cousins, and to 
 you, lawyer of the Devil, I have nothing to say except that, as 
 this is my house, you will best please me, its owner, by getting 
 out of it at once.' 
 
 The position was ludicrous. They who had come to tell 
 Alison gently how her father, having been such a very bad 
 specimen of father or citizen, had acquiesced in their proposal 
 and was going to the Continent for life, never again to trouble 
 anybody, stood looking at each other foolishly, the tables turned 
 upon them. They were quite powerless. The master of the 
 situation was Stephen. He was quite certainly the heir to the 
 great estate : everything, including his daughter, was his, and 
 in his power. The difficulty about the Letters of Administra- 
 tion could not any longer stand in his way : the crime was 
 forgiven for the daughter's sake : and what, in Heaven's name, 
 would be the end of the great Hamblin estate, grown up and 
 increased through so many generations, developed by patient 
 industry and carefulness to its present goodly proportions, 
 fallen into the hands of a profligate, a black sheep, a prodigal 
 son, who would waste, dissipate, lavish, squander, and scatter 
 in a few years what it had cost so many to pi'oduce ? 
 
 ' It is a sad pity,' said Mr. Billiter, speaking the thoughts of 
 all. 
 
 ' Stephen,' said Alderney, ' if you are really going to take 
 
 the whole estate for yourself ' 
 
 ' I certainly am,' Stephen replied with a short laugh. 
 
 ' Then there are one or two things that you must do. As a
 
 J 
 
 16 THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 man of honour and generosity, you must do them. There is 
 Flora Cridland, for instance ; you must continue to behave 
 towards her as Anthony did.' 
 
 ' Go on, Alderney.' 
 
 ' Here is Gilbert Yorke, engaged to Alison.' 
 
 1 Go on.' 
 
 His face expressed no generous determination to do anything 
 at all. 
 
 ' Well,' said Alderney, his nose becoming suffused with a 
 pretty blush, ' if you cannot understand what you have to do, I 
 cannot tell you.' 
 
 ' I know what you mean. I am to continue to give my cousin, 
 Flora Cridland, a lavish allowance for doing nothing. Flora, 
 you know my sentiments. I am to take, with my daughter, all 
 the hangers on and lovers who may have hoped to catch an 
 heiress. Mr. Yorke, at some future time you may have an 
 interview with me, in order to explain your pretensions. Lastly, 
 Alderney, I am to lend you as much money as Anthony did, 
 ami?' 
 
 ' I was not thinking of myself,' said Alderney meekly. ' I 
 only thought, as the poet says : " Suave est ex magno tollere 
 acervo. u It is delightful to help yourself from a big pile. 
 However ' 
 
 But Alison broke away from her father's arm, and caught 
 the protective hands of Gilbert. ' 
 
 ' No,' she said, with brightening eyes, ' Gilbert will not need 
 to ask your permission ; he has my promise. And he had the 
 encouragement of my — my uncle Anthony.' 
 
 ' Right, girl,' said Rachel Nethersole ; ' you are right. If he 
 turns you out, you shall come to me.' She too crossed over to 
 her niece, and a pretty group was formed of Alison in the 
 middle, Gilbert at her right, and Rachel at her left. 
 
 Stephen's face darkened : but he forced himself to be genial. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, with a smile, ' one cannot expect daughters 
 like mine to become obedient in a moment. Marry whom you 
 please, Alison. Your husband, however, must look to please 
 me before any settlements are arranged. Rachel Nethersole, I 
 am sorry to see that your usual common-sense has failed you 
 on this occasion.' 
 
 Rachel shook her head. She mistrusted the man by instinct. 
 
 ' If I could believe you,' she murmured : ' if only I could 
 believe you ' 
 
 There happened, then, a strange sound in the hall outside — 
 shuffling steps — a woman's shriek — the voice of young Nick, 
 shrill and strident, ordering unknown persons to be silent ; in 
 fact, they were William the under-gardener, and Phoebe the 
 under-housemaid, and he was entering the house with his captive
 
 YOUNG NICK A CHIE VES GREA TNESS. 3 1 7 
 
 when they rushed tip the steps and Phoebe screamed, thinking 
 . in the twilight of the June night that she was looking upon the 
 face of a ghost. 
 
 ' Silence, all of you !' cried young Nick, excitedly, trying not 
 to speak too loud ; ' you chattering, clattering, jabbering bundle 
 of rags, hold your confounded tongue ! Take her away, Wil- 
 liam, stop her mouth with the handle of the spade — choke her, 
 if you can. Now, then.' 
 
 They hardly noticed the noise in the study. It happened 
 just when Miss Nethersole was expressing her doubts as to 
 Stephen's perfect veracity. Everybody was discomfited. Mrs. 
 Cridland was miserably wiping her eyes, thinking of the days 
 of fatness, gone for ever : Miss Nethersole was uncomfortably 
 suspicious that the man had not told her anything like the 
 truth : the two partners were silent and abashed — they felt like 
 conspirators who had been found out : Gilbert was hot and 
 angry, yet for Alison's sake he was keeping control of his temper. 
 Stephen himself was uncomfortable, trying to devise some 
 method of restoring confidence, cursing Alderney for forcing 
 his hand. Alderney was ready to sit down and cry : Mr. 
 Billiter was apparently saying to himself for the third time : 
 
 ' This is truly wonderful !' 
 
 And then Alison broke from Gilbert and Rachel, and, stand- 
 ing like a startled deer, cried : 
 
 ' I hear a step — I hear a step.' And for a moment she stood 
 with her hands outspread, listening. 
 
 Stephen took no notice of his daughter's extraordinary ges- 
 ture. He addressed himself to Rachel, having his back to the 
 door. 
 
 ' I repeat, Rachel,' he said, ' that you have nothing to suspect 
 or to disbelieve. I did not know for six years and more of the 
 death of my wife ' 
 
 He did not hear the door open behind him : he hardly ob- 
 served how Alison, with panting breast and parted lips, sprang 
 past him : he did not hear the cry of astonishment from all, 
 but he felt his dead brother's hand upon his shoulder : he 
 turned and met his dead brother face to face, and he heard 
 him say : ' Stephen, that is not true ; you knew it a week after 
 her death.' 
 
 All the pretence went out of him : all the confidence : all the 
 boastfulness : he shrunk together : his cheek became pallid : 
 his shoulders fell and were round : his features became mean : 
 he trembled. 
 
 'Go,' said Anthony, pointing to the door — 'go! I know all 
 that you have done and said — go ! let me never see you more, 
 lest I forget the promise which I made by the deathbed of our 
 mother.'
 
 jjiS THE SEAMY SIDE. 
 
 Stephen passed through them all without a word. 
 
 In the general confusion, no one noticed Alderney. 
 
 He waited a moment and then crept furtively out, and caught 
 Stephen at the door. 
 
 ' Courage/ he said ; ' Anthony will come round. All is not 
 yet lost.' 
 
 ' You stand by a fallen friend, Alderney ?' said Stephen, 
 bitterly. ' Nay, man, go back and get what you can. I am 
 ruined.' 
 
 ' Dives eram dudum,' replied the Fellow of the College. ' Once 
 I was rich. Fecerunt me tria nudum — three things made me 
 naked : Aha, vina, Venus. You are no worse off, Stephen, 
 than you were.' 
 
 As Stephen walked rapidly away across the common, it was 
 some consolation to think that at this, the darkest moment of 
 his life, he could reckon on the friendship of one man in the 
 world — and on the promise made at a deathbed by another. 
 As for the game — he had played for a high stake — he stood to 
 win by long odds — and he lost. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear ! my dear !' cried Alison, forgetting her father 
 altogether, as she clung to Anthony, and kissed him a thousand 
 times. ' Oh, my dear ! I said you would come back to me some 
 time — somehow. I said you would come back.' 
 
 * # # # 
 
 Ten minutes later, when the confusion was over, young Nick 
 touched his uncle on the arm, and whispered : 
 
 ' It's all right about that desk in the office, of course ? Very 
 good. And now if I was you, I would sneak upstairs and 
 change my boots, and put on another coat. I'll amuse Alison 
 
 while you are gone Old lady,' he stood in the 
 
 full light of the gas, with his right hand modestly thrust into 
 his bosom, and his left hand on his thigh — ' Old lady, and every- 
 body hei'e present, I give notice that I am about to change my 
 name. Henceforth I mean to be known as Nicolas Cridland 
 Hamblin, Esquire, about to become, as soon as I leave school, a 
 clerk in the firm of Anthony Hamblin and Company, Indigo 
 Merchants, Great St. Simon Apostle, City. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD,
 
 October, 1880. 
 
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 CHATTO <&* W INDUS, PICCADILLY. 21 
 
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 22 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
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 CHATTO &* W INDUS, PICCADILLY. 
 
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