Story 5--Chapter II.

Under Temptation.

There is, and there always was, about Walbrook something of an exasperating nature. I don’t care whether you journey upon wheels, or by means of your nature-given supports, you shall always find an obstruction. The pathways are as narrow and awkward as the road; and while there is always a perky, impudent-looking, heavily-laden truck, with its handle either cocked up in defiance, or pointed down insultingly, as it obstructs the horse-drawn traffic, there is sure to be some one carrying a box of stationery, or a bale of paper-hangings, or something or another with hard, harsh corners, to come in contact with your front or your back, to injure your hat, or tear your coat with a ragged nail, or jostle you off into the gutter. It don’t matter when you go down Walbrook, passing by the sombre Mansion House, and seeking to be at peace in the quiet shades of Budge-row, or Watling, you shall certainly have your feathers ruffled, mentally of course; therefore, it was not surprising that Frank Marr, a sturdy young fellow of goodly aspect, and some eight-and-twenty years, should look angry and frowning as he sought the house of old John Richards.

Not that it was at all surprising for people either going to or coming from John Richards’ office to look lowering of brow, for interviews with that gentleman were none of the most pleasant; they had too much to do with interest, and renewing, and bill stamps, and too little to do with hard cash—unless it were for repayments—to be gratifying to any one.

But Frank Marr’s business, as he thought, did not relate to money; and without hanging about the passage in the hope of catching sight of May Richards, his old playmate and boyhood’s love, he asked to be, and was shown at once into the presence of old John Richards,—“Grab-all,”—“Grind-’em,”—“Screw-bones,”—“Publican,”—for by all these pleasant sobriquets was the money-lender known.

But Frank Marr, merchant, who had just passed through the Bankruptcy Court, after five years’ hard struggle with unforeseen difficulties, and paid ten shillings in the pound, after all the expenses had come out of his estate—Frank Marr knew that he had chosen a bad morning for his visit. John Richards’ enemy had him by the leg; and swathed and bandaged, suffering terribly from gout, but transacting business all the same, as many a trembling client knew to his cost, he sat with a curious smile upon his face as the young man entered.

“Now for a fierce volley of rage and curses,” thought Frank; “he shall hear me, though, all the same!” But to his great surprise the old man greeted him most civilly.

“Well, Mr Marr, what’s in the wind, eh? Little accommodation bill, eh? Whose names?”

“No, Mr Richards,” said Frank, dashing at once into the subject nearest his heart, “I have not come about money.”

“Indeed!” said the money-lender, grinning with pain, but still speaking suavely. “Pray what is it, then?”

“I have had news this morning, Mr Richards.”

“Good, I hope. An opening, perhaps, for business?”

“No, sir! Bad news—vile news—cruel news!” cried the young man excitedly.

“Sorry, very sorry,” said Richards, quietly. “Pray what is it, then?”

“It is the news of slave-dealing in this city, sir,” said Frank. “Of a father making a contract with a rich purchaser for the sale and delivery of his only child, as if she were so much merchandise, and I come, old man, to tell you to your face that it is cruel, and a scandal to our civilisation. But I beg pardon, Mr Richards; I am hot and excited. I am deeply moved. You know I love May, that we have loved from childhood, and that we are promised to one another. Don’t interrupt me, please.”

“I’m not going to,” said the old man, still quietly, to the other’s intense astonishment.

“I know what you would say to me if I were to advance my pretensions now. But look here, Mr Richards—I am young yet, May is young. I have been very unfortunate. I have had to buy experience, in spite of my endeavours, in a very dear school; but there is time for me to retrieve my position. I shall get on—I feel assured. For heaven’s sake, then, let this cruel affair be set aside: give me a few years to recover myself, and all will yet be well, I am sure. You will break her heart if you force her to marry this old man.”

“Who told you of this?” said John Richards, still calmly.

“I cannot tell you,” said Frank.

“Did May write to you?”

“No,” said Frank warmly; “she promised you, sir, that she would not. I, too, promised you that while my affairs were in such a state I would not hold communication with her. We have kept our words, sir, even as we intend to keep those upon another point. I have neither spoken to nor heard from May for months.”

“Only gone to church to sit and stare at her,” said John Richards quietly.

“It were hard indeed, sir, if that poor gratification were not afforded me,” said Frank. “But now, sir, pray hear me—pray listen to me. Think of the misery you would inflict.”

“Stop now, and hear me,” said the old money-lender quietly, though his lips quivered with pain. “Your name is Frank; now be frank with me. You are at the present time penniless, are you not?”

Frank had hard work to suppress a groan as he bowed his head and thought of how, had he been given time, he could have paid every creditor in full, and had to spare, instead of his poor assets being more than half swallowed up in costs.

“You came here expecting a stormy interview, did you not?”

“I did!” said Frank.

“To be sure! and now I am going to show you that old Grab-all is not so black a devil as he is painted.”

“Good heavens, sir!” cried Frank joyfully.

“Stop a bit—stop a bit—don’t be rash, young man; for perhaps I am not going to favour you in the way you may expect, though I do feel disposed to help you. Now look here: I suppose five hundred pounds would be a great help to you just now?”

“It would start me in life again, sir,” said Frank, sadly; “but I should not feel justified in commencing upon borrowed capital at high interest.”

“Did I say a word about borrowed capital or high interest?”

“No, sir, but—”

“Yes, yes—of course—I know—old Grind-’em will have sixty per cent, they say, eh? But look here, suppose I were to give you five hundred pounds to start with!”

“Give! give! Give me five hundred pounds in hard cash, sir! Mr Richards, why do you play with my feelings?”

“Play, young man?” said the money-lender quietly. “I am not playing—I am in earnest. I tell you that I will give you, now, this minute, five hundred pounds. There,” he said, “give me that cheque book,” and he pointed to a safe in the wall. “I’ll write you one now this instant; and with five hundred pounds you have the key to a fortune. You may die rich as I am, Frank Marr.”

“But you have a condition: you wish to buy something with this five hundred pounds, Mr Richards,” said Frank sternly.

“I only want five minutes of your time,” said the old man.

“What to do?”

“To write half a dozen lines at my dictation.”

“And to whom?”

“To my daughter.”

“Their purport?”

“That you break with her, and set her free, now and for ever.”

“If I do,” cried Frank fiercely, “may God in heaven bring down—”

“Stop, stop, you rash, mad fool!” cried the old man excitedly. “Look here, Frank Marr: you have not a penny; your mother is almost starving; you are living together in a beggarly second-floor room at a tallow-chandler’s. You see I know all! You are suffering the poor old lady’s murmurs day by day, and she reproaches you for wasting her little all in your business. Look here: be a man, and not a love-sick boy. I’ll be frank with you. Mr Brough has proposed, and I approve of him for a son-in-law. He is elderly, but a better-hearted man does not exist; and you will have the satisfaction of knowing that May has gone to a good home; while you have the chance, and at once, of doing your duty by your old mother. She wants change of air, Frank, and more nourishment. Five hundred pounds clear, Frank, to start with, and on your obtaining one name, one respectable name, beside your own, I’ll advance you five hundred more—at five per cent, Frank, my good fellow—at five per cent.—a thing I never before did in my life. I’ll do it at once, this very hour, and you can pay the cheque into a banker’s, start a new account, and a prosperous one. There, I’ll find you a name—your uncle, Benjamin Marr; I’ll take him; he’s a respectable man, and good for five hundred pounds. He’ll do that for you. Now, my good lad, sit down and accept my offer.”

“Does the devil tempt men still in human form?” gasped Frank, as with veins starting he stood panting for breath before the old man.

“Pooh! nonsense! absurd! Now, how can you talk such silly book-trash, Frank Marr? I thought five years with me as clerk would have made another man of you. You ought never to have left me. Throw all that folly aside, and look the matter in the face like a man. Now you see how calm and how lenient I am. I might play the tyrant, and say that May shall be Mr Brough’s wife, and all that sort of thing; but I want to spare everybody’s feelings. I don’t want any scenes. Come, now: you give her up; you will write to her, eh?”

Frank Marr’s voice was hoarse as he spoke; for he had felt the old man’s words burning as it were into his brain, as scene after scene presented itself to his imagination. There on one side wealth, prosperity, comfort for the old and ailing woman whom he had, as he told himself, in an evil hour robbed of the comforts of her declining years; a new career, and the means to pay off that other ten shillings in the pound, so that he could once more hold up his head amongst his fellow-men. On the other side, the sweet, loving face of May Richards, whom he thought he loved as man never yet loved. He told himself that without a moment’s hesitation he should defy the temptation to gain a hold; but for all that he temporised, and John Richards saw it, and stretched out his hand to take a pen.

“But you will give me time to recover myself?” said Frank.

“What for? I don’t understand,” said Richards.

“For May’s sake,” pleaded Frank.

“Stop! Not another word!” cried the old man, now speaking fiercely. “I told her last night that I’d sooner see her dead than your wife. I tell you the same. But I will not be angry, nor yet harsh—I was put out last night. Now, once more look here: Five hundred pounds in cash—a free gift, mind—and five hundred more as an easy business loan, renewable year after year during my life, so long as the interest is punctually paid. Nothing can be easier for you. Think now, to give up a boy’s milk-and-water love I offer you what to a man in your present position is a fortune—a thousand pounds. And you will take it?”

Frank tried to speak, but he seemed to be choking.

“A thousand pounds, which means future prosperity—which means, as well, a score of rich and beautiful women to choose from.”

Frank had not heard a door open behind them; he had not seen May, pale as ashes, standing motionless listening to every word; he could only hear the words of the tempter, and the scratch, scratch of a cruel pen, sharp as a needle, dipped apparently in some subtle venom, writing the words one thousand pounds on his heart at the same time as in that little slip-book, while the poison was coursing through his veins, making them to beat and throb.

“One thousand pounds, John Richards; payable to Frank Marr, Esquire, or his order,” said the old man aloud, but as if speaking to himself; “and all for giving up a boy-and-girl love affair. Pish! I am getting into my dotage. Look here, Mr Marr,” he said, speaking up, “I only want you to write the few lines I dictate, and to get that name to the bill, and here is the cheque ready. You’ll get on, now, I feel sure,” he said, in cool, business-like tones, but watching his victim like a cat the while. “Bought wit is better than taught wit. Shall I order you a gloss of wine?”

“God help me!” groaned Frank Marr as, making an effort to speak, he tore at his throat for an instant, snatched at his hat, and then rushed out of the house.

“Expensive, but safe!” said John Richards, with a bitter smile, as he pinned the cheque to its duplicate. “What, you here?”

“Father!” cried May, coming forward and speaking in tones that should have pierced even his heart, had it not been stony to the very core; “O, father, what have you done?”

“Spent hundreds of my hard-earned pounds to free you from a bankrupt lover—a scoundrel whose every thought was on my cash, whose every calculation was as to how many years I should be before I died; upon a man who had not the heart to stand up for you, who valued you at less than five hundred pounds; and yet you reproached me with wishing to sell you to a rich husband, when he is a pure, sterling, true-hearted man, the only one I know that I could trust—a man you have known from a child, and one who has long loved you. Suppose he is grey-headed, what then? You can trust in his experience and—eh? What? Why? What the deuce! talk of the—How are you, Brough? glad to see you. Got the gout awful this morning. Don’t stop; I’m bothered and sick with pain. Take May up-stairs. My dear, give Mr Brough some lunch.”

Then, in an undertone, he spoke to the new-comer:

“I’ve done it for you, Brough; smoothed the way, and the day’s your own. Bought him off for five hundred.”

“And has he taken it?” said the new-comer, a handsome, florid, elderly man.

“As good as taken it. It’s all right, I tell you. She knows it too. Go and comfort her up, Brough; comfort her up.”

“Poor child, poor child,” muttered Mr Brough, taking a cold stony hand in his; and the tears rose to his eyes as he read in the despairing look directed at him the truth of the old money-lender’s words. The next minute he had led May Richards up-stairs and was seated by her on one of the sofas, gazing pityingly at her, for with her face covered by her hands the poor girl wept as though her heart would break.