The astute and determined person mentioned at the close of our last chapter, had long been bent upon securing one object—namely, access to Mr. Aubrey's family circle, for reasons which have been already communicated to the reader. That Mr. Aubrey was, at all events, by no means anxious for such a favor, had been long before abundantly manifest to Gammon, and yet not in a way to give him any legitimate, or excusable, grounds of offence. The Aubreys had, he acknowledged, and especially in their present circumstances, an unquestionable right to receive or reject, as they thought fit, any overtures to acquaintance. Nothing, he felt, could be more unexceptionably courteous than Mr. Aubrey's demeanor; yet had it been such as to satisfy him, that unless he resorted to some means of unusual efficacy, he never could get upon visiting terms with the Aubreys. The impression which Miss Aubrey had originally produced in his mind, remained as distinct and vivid as ever. Her beauty, her grace, her elevated character, (of which he had heard much on all hands,) her accomplishments, her high birth—all were exquisitely appreciated by him, and conspired to constitute a prize, for the gaining of which he deemed no exertion too great, no sacrifice too serious, no enterprise too hazardous. He had, moreover, other most important objects in view, to which a union with Miss Aubrey was in fact essential. She was, again, the only person, the sight of whom had in any measure given vitality to his marble heart, exciting totally new thoughts and desires, such as stimulated him to a fierce and inflexible determination to succeed in his purposes. He was, in short, prepared to make almost any sacrifice, to wait any length of time, to do or suffer anything that man could do or suffer, whether derogatory to his personal honor or not—in order either to secure the affections of Miss Aubrey, or, at all events, her consent to a union with him. Having early discovered the spot where Mr. Aubrey had fixed his residence, Mr. Gammon had made a point of lying in wait on a Sunday morning, for the purpose of ascertaining the church to which they went; and having succeeded, he became a constant, an impassioned, though an unseen observer of Miss Aubrey, from whom he seldom removed his eyes during the service. But this was to him a highly unsatisfactory state of things: he seemed, in fact, not to have made, nor to be likely to make, the least progress towards the accomplishment of his wishes, though much time had already passed away. He was so deeply engrossed with the affairs of Titmouse—which required his presence very frequently at Yatton, and a great deal of his attention in town—as to prevent his taking any decisive steps for some time in the matter nearest his heart. At length, not having seen or heard anything of Mr. Aubrey for some weeks, during which he—Gammon—had been in town, he resolved on a new stroke of policy.
"Mr. Quirk," said he one day to his excellent senior partner, "I fancy you will say that I am come to flatter you; but, Heaven knows!—if there is a man on the earth with whom I lay aside disguise, that man is my friend Mr. Quirk. Really, it does seem, and mortifying enough it is to own it, as if events invariably showed that you are right—that I am wrong"—(Here Mr. Quirk's appearance might have suggested the idea of a great old tom-cat who is rubbed down the right way of the fur, and does everything he can to testify the delight it gives him, by pressing against the person who affords him such gratification,)—"especially in financial matters"——
"Ah, Gammon, Gammon! you're really past finding out!—Sometimes, now, I declare I fancy you the very keenest dog going in such matters, and at other times, eh?—not particularly brilliant. When you've seen as much of this world's villany, Gammon, as I have, you'll find it as necessary as I have found it, to lay aside one's—one's—I say—to lay aside all scrup——that is—I mean—one's fine feelings, and so forth; you understand, Gammon?"
"Perfectly, Mr. Quirk"——
"Well—and may I ask, Gammon, what is the particular occasion of that screwed-up forehead of yours? Something in the wind?"
"Only this, Mr. Quirk—I begin to suspect that I did very wrong in recommending you to give an indefinite time to that Mr. Aubrey for payment of the heavy balance he owes us—by Heavens!—see how coolly he treats us!"
"Indeed, Gammon, I think so!—Besides—'tis an uncommon heavy balance to owe so long, eh?—Fifteen hundred pounds, or thereabouts?—Gad, it's that, at least!"—Gammon shrugged his shoulders and bowed, as if resigned to any step which Mr. Quirk might think proper to take.
"He's a villanous proud fellow, that Aubrey, eh?—Your tip-top debtors generally are, though—when they've got a bit of a hardship to harp upon"——
"Certainly we ought, when we had him in our power"——
"Ah!—D'ye recollect, Gammon? the thumbscrew? eh? whose fault was it that it wasn't put on? eh? Tell me that, friend Gammon! Are you coming round to old Caleb Quirk's matter-of-fact way of doing business? Depend on't, the old boy has got a trick or two left in him yet, gray as his hair's grown."
"I bow, my dear sir—I own myself worsted—and all through that absurd weakness I have, which some choose to call"——
"Oh Lord, Gammon! Bubble, bubble and botheration—ah, ha!—Come, there's nobody here but you and me—and eh? old Bogy perhaps—so, why that little bit of blarney?"
"Oh! my dear Mr. Quirk, spare me that cutting irony of yours. Surely when I have made the sincere and humiliating submission to which you have been listening—but, to return to business. I assure you that I think we ought to lose not a moment in getting in our balance, or at least coming to some satisfactory and definite arrangement concerning it. Only pinch him, and he'll bleed freely, depend on it."
"Ah, ha! Pinch him, and he'll bleed! That's my thunder, Gammon, ah, ha, ha!—By Jove! that's it to a T!—I always thought the fellow had blood enough in him if we only squeezed him a little. So let Snap be off and have a writ out against Master Aubrey."
"Forgive me, my dear Mr. Quirk," interrupted Gammon, blandly—"we must go very cautiously to work, or we shall only injure ourselves, and prejudice our most important—and permanent interests. We must take care not to drive him desperate, poor devil, or he may take the benefit of the act, and"——
"What a cursed scamp he would be to"——
"Certainly; but we should suffer more than he"——
"Surely, Gammon, they'd remand him! Eighteen months at the very least."
"Not an hour—not a minute, Mr. Quirk," said Gammon, very earnestly.
"The deuce they wouldn't? Well, Law's come to a pretty point! And so lenient as we've been!"
"What occurs to me as the best method of procedure," said Gammon, after musing for a moment—"is, for you to write a letter to him immediately—civil but peremptory—just one of those letters of yours, my dear sir, in which no living man can excel you—suaviter in modo, fortiter in re, Mr. Quirk."
"Gammon, you're a gentleman, every inch of you—you are, upon my soul! If there is one thing in which I——but you're a hand at a letter of that sort, too! And you have managed these people hitherto; why not go on to the end of the chapter?"
"Mr. Quirk, I look upon this letter as rather an important one—it ought to come from the head of the firm, and to be decisively and skilfully expressed, so as at once to——eh? but you know exactly what ought to be done."
"Well—leave it to me,—leave it to me, Gammon: I think I do know how to draw up a teaser—egad! You can just cast your eye over it as soon as"——
"If I return in time from Clerkenwell, I will, Mr. Quirk," replied Gammon, who had, however, determined not to disable himself from saying with literal truth that he had not seen one line of the letter which might be sent! and, moreover, resolving to make his appearance at Mr. Aubrey's almost immediately after he should, in the course of the post, have received Mr. Quirk's communication:—with every appearance and expression of distress, agitation, and even disgust; indignantly assuring Mr. Aubrey that the letter had been sent without Mr. Gammon's knowledge—against his will—and was entirely repudiated by him; and that he would take care, at all hazards to himself, to frustrate any designs on the part of his coarse and hard-hearted senior partner to harass or oppress Mr. Aubrey. With this explanation of precedent circumstances, I proceed to lay before the reader an exact copy of the elegant letter of that old cat's-paw, Mr. Quirk, to Mr. Aubrey, the arrival of which had produced the sensation to which I have already alluded.
"Saffron Hill, 30th September 18—.
"Sir,—We trust you will excuse our reminding you of the very large balance (£1,446, 14s. 6d.) still remaining due upon our account—and which we understood, at the time when the very favorable arrangement to you, with respect to Mr. Titmouse, was made, was to have been long before this liquidated. Whatever allowances we might have felt disposed, on account of your peculiar situation, to have made, (and which we have made,) we cannot but feel a little surprised at your having allowed several months to elapse without making any allusion thereto. We are satisfied, however, that you require only to be reminded thereof, to have your immediate attention directed thereto, and to act in that way that will conduce to liquidate our very heavy balance against you. We are sorry to have to press you; but being much pressed ourselves with serious outlays, we are obliged to throw ourselves (however reluctantly) upon our resources; and it gives us pleasure to anticipate, that you must by this time have made those arrangements that will admit of your immediate attention to our over-due account, and that will render unnecessary our resorting to hostile and compulsory proceedings of that extremely painful description that we have always felt extremely reluctant to, particularly with those gentlemen that would feel it very disagreeable. We trust that in a week's time we shall hear from you to that effect, that will render unnecessary our proceeding to extremities against you, which would be extremely painful to us.—We remain, sir, yours, most obediently,
"Quirk, Gammon, & Snap.
"Charles Aubrey, Esq.
"P. S.—We should have no objection, if it would materially relieve you, to take your note of hand for the aforesaid balance (£1,446, 14s. 6d.) at two months, with interest, and good security. Or say, £800 down in two months, and a warrant of attorney for the remainder, at two months more."
As soon as they had finished reading the above letter, in the way I have described, Mrs. Aubrey threw her arms round her silent and oppressed husband's neck, and Kate, her bosom heaving with agitation, returned to her seat without uttering a word.
"My own poor Charles!" faltered Mrs. Aubrey, and wept.
"Never mind, Charles—let us hope that we shall get through even this," commenced Kate; when her emotion prevented her proceeding. Mr. Aubrey appeared to cast his eye again, but mechanically only, over the dry, civil, heart-breaking letter.
"Don't distress yourself, my Agnes," said he, tenderly, placing her beside him, with his arm round her—"it is only reasonable that these people should ask for what is their own; and if their manner is a little coarse"——
"Oh, I've no patience, Charles!—it's the letter of a vulgar, hard-hearted fellow," sobbed Mrs. Aubrey.
"Yes—they are wretches!—cruel harpies!" quoth Kate, passionately—"they know that you have almost beggared yourself to pay off by far the greater part of their abominable bill; and that you are slaving day and night to enable you to"——here her agitation was so excessive as to prevent her uttering another word.
"I must write and tell them," said Aubrey, calmly but with a countenance laden with gloom—"it is all I can do—that if they will have patience with me, I will pay them all."
"Oh, they'll put you in prison, Charles, directly"—said Kate, almost frantically; and rising, she threw herself into his arms, and kissed him with a sort of frenzied energy. "We're very miserable, Charles—are we not? It's hard to bear indeed," she continued, gazing with agonizing intensity on his troubled features. Mrs. Aubrey wept in silence.
"Are you giving way, my brave Kate, beneath this sudden and momentary gust on the midnight sea of our trouble?" inquired her brother, proudly but kindly gazing at her, and with his hand gently pushing from her pale cheeks her disordered hair.
"Human nature, Charles, must not be tried too far—look at Agnes, and the darling little loves"——
"I am not likely to consult their interests, Kate, by yielding to unmanly emotion—am I, sweet Agnes?" She made him no reply, but shook her head, sobbing bitterly.
"Pray what do you think, Charles, of your friend Mr. Gammon, now?" inquired Kate, suddenly and scornfully. "Oh, the smooth-tongued villain! I've always hated him!"
"I must say there's something about his eye that is anything but pleasing," said Mrs. Aubrey; "and so I thought when I saw him at York for a moment."
"He's a hypocrite, Charles—depend upon it, and in this letter he has thrown off the mask"—interrupted Kate.
"But is it his letter? How do we know that he has had anything to do with it?" inquired her brother, calmly—"It is much more probable that it is the production of old Mr. Quirk alone, for whom Mr. Gammon has, I know, a profound contempt. The handwriting is Mr. Quirk's; the style is assuredly not Mr. Gammon's; and the whole tone of the communication is such as satisfies me that neither was the composition of the letter, nor the idea of sending it, his; besides, he has really shown on every occasion a straightforward and disinterested"——
"Oh, Charles, it is very weak of you to be so hood-winked by such a fellow; I shudder to think of him! One of these days, Charles, you will be of my opinion, and recollect what I now say!"—While she thus spoke, and Mrs. Aubrey was, with a trembling hand, preparing tea, a double knock was heard at the street door.
"Heavens, Charles! who can that possibly be, and at this time of night?" exclaimed Kate, with alarmed energy.
"I really cannot conjecture"—replied Mr. Aubrey, with an agitation of manner which he found it impossible to conceal—"we've certainly but very few visitors—and it is so late." The servant in a few minutes terminated their suspense, and occasioned them nearly equal alarm and amazement, by laying down on the table a card bearing the name of Mr. Gammon.
"Mr. Gammon!" exclaimed all three, in a breath, looking apprehensively at each other—"Is he alone?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, with forced calmness.
"Yes, sir."
"Show him into the study, then," replied Mr. Aubrey, "and say I will be with him in a few moments' time."
"Dear Charles, don't, dearest, think of going down," said his wife and sister, with excessive alarm and agitation; "desire him to send up his message."
"No, I shall go and see him, and at once," replied Mr. Aubrey, taking one of the candles.
"For Heaven's sake, Charles, mind what you say to the man: he will watch every word you utter. And, dearest, don't stay long; consider what tortures we shall be in!" said poor Mrs. Aubrey, accompanying him to the door, and trembling from head to foot.
"Rely on my prudence, and also that I shall not stop long," he replied; and descending the stairs, he entered the study. In a chair near the little book-strewn table sat his dreaded visitor—suggesting to his disturbed vision the idea of a deadly snake coiled up before him. Instantly, on seeing Mr. Aubrey, Gammon rose, with distress and agitation visible in his countenance and deportment. Mr. Aubrey, with calmness and dignity, begged him to resume his seat; and when he had done so, sat down opposite to him, with a sternly inquisitive look, awaiting his visitor's errand. He was not kept long in suspense.
"Oh, Mr. Aubrey!" commenced Mr. Gammon, with a somewhat tremulous voice, "I perceive, from your manner, that my fears are justified, and that I am an intruder—a dishonorable and hypocritical one I must indeed appear; but, as I have done nothing to forfeit my right to be treated as should be one gentleman by another, I request you to hear me. This visit appears indeed unseasonable; but, late this afternoon, I made a discovery which has shocked me severely, nay, I may say, disgusted me beyond expression. Am I right, Mr. Aubrey, in supposing that this evening you have received a letter from Mr. Quirk, and about the balance due on our account?"
"I have, sir," replied Mr. Aubrey, coldly.
"I thought as much," muttered Gammon, with suppressed vehemence—"execrable, heartless, sordid old——And he knew," continued Gammon, addressing Mr. Aubrey in an indignant tone, "that my word was solemnly pledged to you."
"I have no intention of making any complaint, or uttering any reproaches, sir," said Mr. Aubrey, eying his agitated companion searchingly.
"But I have, Mr. Aubrey," said Gammon, haughtily. "My senior partner has broken faith with me. Sir, you have already paid more than will cover what is justly due to us; and I recommend you, after this, to have the bill taxed. You will thereby get rid of every farthing of the balance now demanded; and I give you this recommendation bon fide, and upon the honor of a gentleman." Notwithstanding the air of sincerity with which this was uttered, a cold thrill of apprehension and suspicion passed through Mr. Aubrey's heart, and he felt confident that some subtle and dangerous manoeuvre was being practised upon him—that he was urged to take some hostile step for instance—which would be unsuccessful, and yet afford a pretext to Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, to treat him as one guilty of a breach of faith, and warrant them in proceeding to extremities. He regarded Mr. Gammon's words as the hissing of a serpent, and shuddered.
"I have no intention, sir, to do anything of the kind," said Mr. Aubrey. "The original agreement between us was, that your bill should not be taxed. I adhere to it; and whatever course you may feel disposed to adopt, I shall take no steps whatever of the kind you mention. At the same time it is utterly impossible for me to pay"——
"Mr. Aubrey!" interrupted Gammon, imploringly.
"And what you do intend to do, for Heaven's sake, sir, do quickly, and keep me not in suspense."
"I perceive, Mr. Aubrey, that notwithstanding what I have said, I am distrusted," replied Gammon, with a somewhat proud and peremptory tone and manner.—"I excuse it; you are justly irritated, and have been insulted: so have I, too, sir; and I choose to repeat to you, upon my sacred word of honor as a gentleman, and in the sight of Heaven, that I entirely disown and scout this whole procedure; that I never knew anything about it till, accidentally, I discovered lying on Mr. Quirk's desk, after his departure this evening from the office, a rough draft of a letter which I presumed you had received; especially as, on a strict inquiry of the clerks, I found that a letter had been put into the post, addressed to you. Nay, more; Mr. Quirk, whose rapacity increases—I grieve to own—with his years, has been for many weeks harassing me about this detestable business, and urging me to consent, but in vain, to such an application as he has now meanly made behind my back, regardless of the injury it was calculated to do my feelings, and, indeed, the doubt it must throw over my sincerity and honor, which I prize infinitely beyond life itself. Only a fortnight ago, Mr. Aubrey, this old man solemnly pledged himself," continued Gammon, with suppressed fury, "never to mention the matter to either me or you, again, for at least a couple of years, unless something extraordinary should intervene!—If the letter which you have received be a transcript of the rough draft which I have read, it is a vulgar, unfeeling, brutal letter, and contains, moreover—for why should I keep faith with even my senior partner, who has so outrageously broken faith with me?—two or three wilfully false statements. I therefore feel it due to myself to disavow all participation in this miserable product of fraud and extortion—and if you still distrust me, I can only regret it, but shall not presume to find fault with you for it. I am half disposed, on account of this, and one or two other things which have happened, to close my connection with Mr. Quirk from this day—forever. He and I have nothing in common; and the species of business which he and Mr. Snap chiefly court and relish, is perfectly odious to me. But if I should continue in the firm, I will undertake to supply you with one pretty conclusive evidence of my sincerity and truth in what I have been saying to you—namely, that on the faith and honor of a gentleman, you may depend upon hearing no more of this matter from any member of our firm, except from me, and that at a very remote period. Let the event, Mr. Aubrey, speak for itself."—While Gammon was speaking with eloquent earnestness and fervor, he had felt Mr. Aubrey's eye fixed on him with an expression of stern incredulity—which, however, he at length perceived, with infinite inward relief and pleasure, to be giving way as he went on.
"Certainly, Mr. Gammon"—said Mr. Aubrey, in a very different tone and manner from that which he had till then adopted—"I will not disguise from you that the letter you have mentioned, has occasioned me—and my family—deep distress and dismay; for it is utterly out of my power to comply with its requisitions: and if it be intended to be really acted on, and followed up"—he paused, and with difficulty repressed his emotions, "all my little plans are forever frustrated—and I am at your mercy—to go to prison, if you choose, and there end my days."—He paused—his lip trembled, and his eyes were for a moment obscured with starting tears. So also was it with Mr. Gammon, who looked for some time aside. "But,"—resumed Mr. Aubrey,—"after the explicit and voluntary assurance which you have given me, I feel it impossible not to give you implicit credence. I can imagine no motive for what would be otherwise such elaborate and dreadful deception!"
"Motive, Mr. Aubrey! The only motive I am conscious of, is one supplied by profound sympathy for your misfortunes—admiration of your character—and my sole object is, your speedy extrication from your very serious embarrassments. I am in the habit, Mr. Aubrey," he continued in a lower tone, "of concealing and checking my feelings—but there are occasions"—he paused, and added with a somewhat faltering voice—"Mr. Aubrey, it pains me inexpressibly to observe that your anxieties—your severe exertions—I trust in God I may not rightly add, your privations—are telling on your appearance. You are certainly much thinner." It was impossible any longer to distrust the sincerity of Mr. Gammon—to withstand the arts of this consummate actor. Mr. Aubrey held out long, but at length surrendered entirely, and fully believed all that Gammon had said:—entertaining, moreover, commensurate feelings of gratitude, towards one who had done so much to protect him from rapacious avarice, and the ruin into which it would have precipitated him; and of respect, for one who had evinced such an anxious, scrupulous, and sensitive jealousy for his own honor and reputation, and resolute determination to vindicate it against suspicion. Subsequent conversation served to strengthen his favorable disposition towards Gammon, and the same effect was also produced when he adverted to his previous and unwarrantable distrust and disbelief of that gentleman. He looked fatigued and harassed; it was growing late; he had come, on his errand of courtesy and kindness, a great distance: why should not Mr. Aubrey ask him up-stairs, to join them at tea? To be sure, Mr. Aubrey had hitherto felt a disinclination—he scarce knew why—to have any more than mere business intercourse with Mr. Gammon, a member of such a firm as Quirk, Gammon, and Snap—and, moreover, Mr. Runnington had more than once let fall expressions indicative of vehement suspicion of Mr. Gammon; so had the Attorney-General; but what had Gammon's conduct been? Had it not practically given the lie to such insinuations and distrust, unless Mr. Aubrey was to own himself incapable of forming a judgment on a man's line of conduct which had been so closely watched as that of Gammon, by himself, Aubrey? Then Miss Aubrey had ever, and especially that very evening—expressed an intense dislike of Mr. Gammon—had avowed, also, her early and uniform disgust—'twould be extremely embarrassing to her suddenly to introduce into her presence such an individual as Gammon: again, he had promised to return quickly, in order to relieve their anxiety: why should he not have the inexpressible gratification of letting Mr. Gammon himself, in his own pointed and impressive manner, dispel all their fears? He would, probably, not stay long.
"Mr. Gammon," said he, having balanced for some moments these conflicting considerations in his mind, "there are only Mrs. Aubrey, and my sister, Miss Aubrey, up-stairs. I am sure they will be happy to see me return to them in time for tea, accompanied by the bearer of such agreeable tidings as yours. Mr. Quirk's letter, to be frank, reached me when in their presence, and we all read it together, and were distressed and confounded at its contents." After a faint show of reluctance to trespass on the ladies so suddenly, and at so late an hour, Mr. Gammon slipped off his great-coat, and with intense but suppressed feelings of exultation at the success of his scheme, followed Mr. Aubrey up-stairs. He was not a little flustered on entering the room and catching a first glimpse of the two lovely women—and one of them Miss Aubrey—sitting in it, their faces turned with eager interest and apprehension towards the door, as he made his appearance. He observed that both of them started, and turned excessively pale.
"Let me introduce to you," said Mr. Aubrey, quickly, and with a bright assuring smile, "a gentleman who has kindly called to relieve us all from great anxiety—Mr. Gammon: Mr. Gammon, Mrs. Aubrey—Miss Aubrey." Mr. Gammon bowed with an air of deep deference, but with easy self-possession; his soul thrilling within him at the sight of her whose image had never been from before his eyes since they had first seen her.
"I shall trespass on you for only a few minutes, ladies," said he, diffidently, approaching the chair towards which he was motioned. "I could not resist the opportunity so politely afforded me by Mr. Aubrey of paying my compliments here, and personally assuring you of my utter abhorrence of the mercenary and oppressive conduct of a person with whom, alas! I am closely connected in business, and whose letter to you of this evening I only casually became acquainted with, a few moments before starting off hither. Forget it, ladies; I pledge my honor that it shall never be acted on!" This he said with a fervor of manner that could not but make an impression on those whom he addressed.
"I'm sure we are happy to see you, Mr. Gammon, and very much obliged to you, indeed," said Mrs. Aubrey, with a sweet smile, and a face from which alarm was vanishing fast. Miss Aubrey said nothing; her brilliant eyes glanced with piercing anxiety, now at her brother, then at his companion. Gammon felt that he was distrusted. Nothing could be more prepossessing—more bland and insinuating, without a trace of fulsomeness, than his manner and address, as he took his seat between these two agitated but lovely women. Miss Aubrey's paleness rather suddenly gave way to a vivid and beautiful flush; and her eyes presently sparkled with delighted surprise on perceiving the relieved air of her brother, and the apparent cordiality and sincerity of Mr. Gammon. When she reflected, moreover, on her expressions of harshness and severity concerning him that very evening, and of which he now appeared so undeserving, it threw into her manner towards him a sort of delicate and charming embarrassment. Her ear drank in eagerly every word he uttered, so pointed, so significant, so full of earnest good-will towards her brother. Their visitor's manner was that of a gentleman; his countenance and conversation were those of a man of intellect. Was this the keen and cruel pettifogger whom she had learned at once to dread and to despise? They and he were, in a word, completely at their ease with one another, within a few minutes after he had taken his seat at the tea-table. Miss Aubrey's beauty shone that evening with even unwonted lustre, and appeared as if it had not been in the least impaired by the anguish of mind which she had so long suffered. 'Tis quite impossible for me to do justice to the expression of her full beaming blue eyes—an expression of mingled passion and intellect—of blended softness and spirit—such as, especially in conjunction with the rich tones of her voice, shed something like madness into the breast of Gammon. She, as well as her lovely sister-in-law, was dressed in mourning, which infinitely set off her dazzling complexion, and, simple and elegant in its drapery, displayed her exquisite proportions to the greatest possible advantage. "Oh, my God!" thought Gammon, with a momentary thrill of disgust and horror: "and this is the transcendent creature of whom that little miscreant, Titmouse, spoke to me in terms of such presumptuous and revolting license!" What would he not have given to kiss the fair and delicate white hand which passed to him his antique tea-cup! Then Gammon's thoughts turned for a moment inward—why, what a scoundrel was he! At that instant he was, as it were, reeking with his recent lie. He was there on cruel, false pretences, which alone had secured him access into that little drawing-room, and brought him into contiguity with the dazzling beauty beside him—pure, and innocent as beautiful;—he was a fiend beside an angel. What an execrable hypocrite was he! He caught, on that memorable occasion, a sudden glimpse even of his own real inner man—of his infernal SELFISHNESS and HYPOCRISY—and involuntarily shuddered! Yes—he was striving to fascinate his victims!—those whom he was fast pressing on to the verge of destruction—against whom he was, at that moment, meditating profound and subtle schemes of mischief! At length they all got into animated conversation.
Though infinitely charmed by the unaffected simplicity and frankness of their manners, he experienced a sad and painful consciousness at not having made the least way with them. Though physically near to them, he seemed yet really at an unapproachable distance—and particularly from Miss Aubrey. He felt that the courtesy bestowed upon him was accidental, the result merely of his present position, and of the intelligence which he had come to communicate. It was not personal—'twas nothing to Gammon himself; it would never be renewed, unless he should renew his device! There was not the faintest semblance of sympathy between them and him. Fallen as they were into a lower sphere, they had yet about them, so to speak, a certain atmosphere of conscious personal consequence, derived from high birth and breeding—from superior feelings and associations—from a native frankness and dignity of character, which was indestructible and inalienable; and which chilled and checked undue advances of any sort. They were still the Aubreys of Yatton, and he in their presence, still Mr. Gammon of the firm of Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, of Saffron Hill—and all this, too, without—on the part of the Aubreys—the least effort, the least intention, or even consciousness. No, there had not been exhibited towards him the faintest indication of hauteur. On the contrary, he had been treated with perfect cordiality and frankness. Yet, dissatisfaction and vexation were, he scarce knew at the moment why, pervading his whole soul. Had he accurately analyzed his own feelings he would have discovered the real clause—in his own unreasonable, unjustifiable wishes and intentions! But to return, they talked of Titmouse, and his mode of life and conduct—of his expected alliance with the Lady Cecilia, at the mention of which Gammon's quick eye detected a passing smile of scorn on Miss Aubrey's fine countenance, that was death to all his own fond and ambitious hopes. After he had been sitting with them for scarcely an hour, he detected Miss Aubrey stealthily glancing at her watch, and at once arose to take his departure with a very easy and graceful air, expressing an apprehension that he had trespassed upon their kindness. He was cordially assured to the contrary; but at the same time was not invited either to prolong his stay, or renew his visit. Miss Aubrey made him, he thought, as he inclined towards her, rather a formal courtesy; and the tone of voice—soft and silvery—in which she said "good-night, Mr. Gammon," fell on his eager ear, and sank into his vexed heart, like music. On quitting the house, a deep sigh of disappointment escaped him. As he gazed for a moment with longing eyes at the windows of the room in which Miss Aubrey was sitting, he felt profound depression of spirit. He had altogether failed; and he had a sort of insupportable consciousness that he deserved to fail, on every account. Her image was before his mind's eye every moment while he was threading his way back to his chambers in Thavies' Inn. He sat for an hour or two before the remnant of his fire, lost in a revery; and sleep came not to his eyes till a very late hour in the morning.
Just as the tortuous mind of Gammon was loosing hold of its sinister purposes in sleep, Mr. Aubrey might have been seen taking his seat in his little study, having himself spent a restless night. 'Twas little more than half-past four o'clock when he entered, candle in hand, the scene of his early and cheerful labors, and sat down before his table, which was covered with loose manuscripts and books. His face was certainly overcast with anxiety, but his soul was calm and resolute. Having lit his fire, he placed his shaded candle upon the table, and leaning back for a moment in his chair, while the flickering increasing light of his crackling fire and of the candle, revealed to him, with a sense of indescribable snugness, his shelves crammed with books, and the window covered with an ample crimson curtain, effectually excluding the chill morning air—he reflected with a heavy sigh upon the precarious tenure by which he held the little comforts yet thus left to him. Oh, thought he—if Providence saw fit to relieve me from the frightful pressure of liability under which I am bound to the earth, at what labor, at what privation would I repine! What gladness would not spring up in my heart!—But rousing himself from vain thoughts of this kind, he began to arrange his manuscripts; when his ear caught a sound on the stair—'twas the light stealthy step of his sister, coming down to perform her promised undertaking—not an unusual one by any means—to transcribe for the press the manuscript which he expected to complete that morning. "My sweet Kate," said he, tenderly, as she entered with her little chamber light, extinguishing it as she entered,—"I am really grieved to see you stirring so early—do, dearest Kate—go back to bed." But she kissed his cheek affectionately, and refused to do any such thing; and telling him of the restless night she had passed, of which indeed her pale and depressed features bore but too legible evidence, she sat herself down in her accustomed place, nearly opposite to him; gently cleared away space enough for her little desk, and then opening it, was presently engaged in her delightful task—for to her it was indeed delightful—of copying out her brother's composition. Thus she sat, silent and industrious—scarce opening her lips, except to ask him to explain an illegible word or so—opposite to her doting brother, till the hour had arrived—eight o'clock—for the close of their morning toil. The reader will be pleased to hear that the article on which they had been thus engaged—and which was the discussion of a question of foreign politics, of great difficulty and importance—produced him a check for sixty guineas, and excited general attention and admiration. Oh, how precious was this reward of his honorable and severe toil! How it cheered him who had earned it, and those who were, alas! entirely dependent upon his exertions! And how sensibly, too, it augmented their little means! Grateful, indeed, were all of them for the success which had attended his labors!
As I do not intend to occupy the reader with any details relating to Mr. Aubrey's Temple avocations, I shall content myself with saying that the more Mr. Weasel and Mr. Aubrey came to know of each other, the more Aubrey respected his legal knowledge and ability, and he, Aubrey's intellectual energy and successful application; which, indeed, consciously brought home to Aubrey its own reward, in the daily acquisition of solid learning, and increasing facility in the use of it. His mind was formed for THINGS, and was not apt to occupy itself with mere words, or technicalities. He was ever in quest of the principles of law—of its reason, and spirit. He quickly began to appreciate the sound practical good sense on which almost all its chief rules are founded, and the effectual manner in which they are accommodated to the innumerable and ever-varying exigencies of human affairs. The mere forms and technicalities of the law, Mr. Aubrey often thought might be compared to short-hand, whose characters to the uninitiated appear quaint and useless, but are perfectly invaluable to him who has seen the object, and patiently acquired the use of them. Whatever Mr. Aubrey's hand found to do, while studying the law, he did it, indeed, with his might—which is the grand secret of the difference in the success of different persons addressing themselves to legal studies. Great or small, easy or difficult, simple or complicated, interesting or uninteresting, as might be the affair submitted to him, he made a point of mastering it thoroughly, and, as far as possible, by his own efforts; which generated, early, a habit of self-reliance which no one better than he knew the value of—how inestimable, how indispensable, not to the lawyer merely, but to any one intrusted with the responsible management of affairs. In short, he secured that satisfaction and success which are sure to attend the exertions of a man of superior sense and spirit, who is in earnest about that which he has undertaken. He frequently surprised Mr. Weasel with the exactness and extent of his legal information—with his acuteness, clear-headedness, and tenacity in dealing with matters of downright difficulty: and Mr. Weasel had once or twice an opportunity of expressing his very flattering opinion concerning Mr. Aubrey to the Attorney-General. The mention of that eminent person reminds me of an observation which I intended to have made some time ago. The reader is not to imagine, from my silence upon the subject, that Mr. Aubrey, in his fallen fortunes, was heartlessly forgotten or neglected by the distinguished friends and associates of former and more prosperous days. It was not they who withdrew from him, but he who withdrew from them; and that, too, of set purpose, resolutely adhered to, on the ground that it could not be otherwise, without seriously interfering with the due prosecution of those plans of life on which depended not only his all, and that of those connected with him—but his fond hopes of yet extricating himself, by his own personal exertions, from the direful difficulties and dangers which at present environed him—of achieving, with his own right hand, independence. Let me not forget here to state a fact which I conceive infinitely to redound to poor Aubrey's honor—viz. that he thrice refused offers made him from very high quarters, of considerable sinecures, i. e. handsome salaries for purely nominal services—which he was earnestly and repeatedly reminded would at once afford him a liberal maintenance, and leave the whole of his time at his own disposal, to follow any pursuit or profession which he chose. Mr. Aubrey justly considered that it was very difficult, if not indeed impossible, for any honorable and high-minded man to be a sinecurist.—He who holds a sinecure, is, in my opinion, plundering the public; and how it can be more contrary to the dictates of honor and justice, deliberately to defraud an individual, than deliberately and audaciously to defraud that collection of individuals called the public, let casuists determine. As for Mr. Aubrey, he saw stretching before him the clear, straight, bright line of honor, and resolved to follow it, without faltering or wavering, come what come might. He resolved that, with the blessing of Providence, his own exertions should procure his bread, and, if such was the will of Heaven, lead him to distinction among mankind. He had formed this determination, and resolved to work it out—never to pause, nor give way, but to die in the struggle. Such a spirit must conquer whatever is opposed to it. What is difficulty? Only a word indicating the degree of strength requisite for accomplishing particular objects; a mere notice of the necessity for exertion; a bugbear to children and fools; an effective stimulus to men.
Mr. Gammon experienced little trouble in wheedling Mr. Quirk out of his purpose of enforcing payment, by Mr. Aubrey, of the balance of his account; demonstrating to the old gentleman the policy of waiting a little longer. He pledged himself, when the proper time came, to adopt measures of undoubted efficacy—assuring his for some time sullen senior, in a low tone, that since his letter had reached Mr. Aubrey, circumstances had occurred which would render it in the last degree dangerous to press that gentleman upon the subject. What that was, which had happened, Mr. Gammon, as usual, refused to state. This was a considerable source of vexation to Mr. Quirk: but he had a far greater one, in the decisive and final overthrow of his fondly-cherished hopes concerning his daughter's alliance with Titmouse. The paragraph in the Aurora, announcing Mr. Titmouse's engagement to his brilliant relative, the Lady Cecilia, had emanated from the pen of Mr. Gammon; who had had several objects in view in giving early publicity to the event. Happening(!) on the morning on which it appeared, to be glancing over the fascinating columns of the Aurora at a public office, (the paper taken in at their own establishment being the Morning Growl,) he made a point of purchasing that day's Aurora; and on returning to Saffron Hill, he inquired whether Mr. Quirk were at home. Hearing that he was sitting alone, in his room—in rushed Mr. Gammon, breathless with surprise and haste, and plucking the newspaper out of his pocket,—"By Heavens, Mr. Quirk!"—he almost gasped as he doubled down the paper to the place where stood the announcement in question, and put it into Mr. Quirk's hands,—"this young fellow's given you the slip, after all! See!—The moment that my back is turned"——
Mr. Quirk having, with a little trepidation, adjusted his spectacles, perused the paragraph with a somewhat flushed face. He had, in fact, for some time had grievous misgivings on the subject of his chance of becoming the father-in-law of his distinguished client, Mr. Titmouse; but now his faintest glimmering of hope was suddenly and completely extinguished, and the old gentleman felt quite desolate. He looked up, as soon as he had finished reading, and gazed ruefully at his indignant and sympathizing companion.
"It seems all up, Gammon, certainly—don't it?" said he, faintly, with a flustered air.
"Indeed, my dear Mr. Quirk, it does! You have my sincerest"——
"Now comes t'other end of the thing, Gammon! You know every promise of marriage has two ends—one joins the heart, and t'other the pocket; out heart, in pocket—so have at him, Gammon—have at him, by Jove!" He rose up and rubbed his hands as he stood before the fire. "Breach of promise—thundering damages—devilish deep purse—special jury—broken heart, and all that! I wish he'd written her—by the way—more letters! Adad, I'll have a shot at him by next assizes—a writ on the file this very day! What d'ye think on't, friend Gammon, between ourselves?" quoth Mr. Quirk, heatedly.
"Why, my dear sir—to tell you the truth—aren't you really well out of it? He's a miserable little upstart—he'd have made a wretched husband for so superior a girl as Miss Quirk."
"Ay—ay! ay! She is a good girl, Gammon—there you're right; would have made the best of wives—my eyes, (between ourselves!) how that'll go to the jury! Gad, I fancy I see'em—perhaps all of'em daughters of their own."
"Looking at the thing calmly, Mr. Quirk," said Gammon, gravely—apprehensive of Mr. Quirk's carrying too far so very absurd an affair—"where's the evidence of the promise?—Because, you know, there's certainly something depends on that—eh?"
"Evidence? Deuce take you, Gammon! where are your wits? Evidence? Lots—lots of it! A'n't there I—her father? A'n't I a competent[31] witness? Wait and see old Caleb Quirk get into the box. I'll settle his hash in half a minute."
"Yes—if you're believed, perhaps."
"Believe be——! Who's to be believed, if her own father isn't?"
"Why, you may be too much swayed by your own feelings!"
"Feelings be——! It's past all that; he has none—so he must pay, for he has cash! He ought to be made an example of!"
"Still, to come to the point, Mr. Quirk, I vow it quite teases me—this matter of the evidence"——
"Evidence? Why, Lord bless my soul, Gammon," quoth Quirk, testily, "haven't you had your eyes and ears open all this while? Gad, what a crack witness you'd make! A man of your—your intellect—serve a friend at a pinch—and in a matter about his daughter? Ah, how often you've seen'em together—walking, talking, laughing, dancing, riding—writ in her album—made her presents, and she him. Evidence? Oceans of it, and to spare! Secure Subtle—and I wouldn't take £5,000 for my verdict!"
"Why, you see, Mr. Quirk," said Gammon, very seriously—"though I've striven my utmost these six months to bring it about, the artful little scamp has never given me the least thing that I could lay hold of, and swear to."
"Oh, you'll recollect enough, in due time, friend Gammon, if you'll only turn your attention to it; and if you'll bear in mind it's life and death to my poor girl. Oh Lord! I must get my sister to break it to her, and I'll send sealed instructions to Mr. —— Weasel, shall we say? or Lynx? ay, Lynx; for he'll then have to fight for his own pleadings; and can't turn round at the trial and say, 'this is not right,' and 'that's wrong,' and, 'why didn't you have such and such evidence?' Lynx is the man; and I'll lay the venue in Yorkshire, for Titmouse is devilish disliked down there; and a special jury will be only too glad to give him a desperate slap in the chops! We'll lay the damages at twenty thousand pounds! Ah, ha! I'll teach the young villain to break the hearts of an old man and his daughter. But, egad," he pulled out his watch, "half-past two; and Nicky Crowbar sure to be put up at three! By Jove! it won't do to be out of the way; he's head of the gang, and they always come down very liberally when they're in trouble. Snap! Amminadab! hollo! who's there? Drat them all, why don't they speak?" The old gentleman was soon, however, attended to.
"Are they here?" he inquired, as Mr. Amminadab entered.
"Yes, sir, all three; and the coach is at the door, too. Nicky Crowbar's to be up at three, sir"——
"I see—I know—I'm ready," replied Mr. Quirk, who was presently seated in the coach with three gentlemen, to whom he minutely explained the person of Mr. Nicky Crowbar, and the place at which it was quite certain that Mr. Crowbar could not have been at half-past eleven o'clock on Tuesday night the 9th of July, seeing that it did so happen that at that precise time he was elsewhere, in company with these very three gentlemen—to wit, at Chelsea, and not at Clapham! In short, this was a first-rate ALIBI.
Though Mr. Gammon thus sympathized with one of the gentle beings who had been "rifled of all their sweetness," I grieve to say that the other, Miss Tag-rag, never occupied his thoughts for one moment. He neither knew nor cared whether or not she was apprised of the destruction of all her fond hopes, by the paragraph which had appeared in the Aurora. He felt, in fact, that he had really done enough, on the part of Mr. Titmouse, for his early friend and patron, Mr. Tag-rag, on whom the stream of fortune had set in strong and steady; and, in short, Mr. Gammon knew that Mr. Tag-rag had received a substantial memento of his connection with Tittlebat Titmouse. How truly disinterested a man was Mr. Gammon towards all with whom he came in contact! What had he not done, as I have been saying, for the Tag-rags? What for Mr. Titmouse? What for the Earl of Dreddlington? What for Mr. Quirk, and even Snap? As for Mr. Quirk, had he not been put in possession of his long-coveted bond for £10,000? of which, by the way, he allotted £1,000 only to the man—Mr. Gammon—by whose unwearying exertions and consummate ability he had obtained so splendid a prize, and £300 to Mr. Snap! Then, had not Mr. Quirk also been paid his bill against Titmouse of £5,000 and upwards, and £2,500 by Mr. Aubrey? And, governed by the articles of their partnership, what a lion's half of this spoil had not been appropriated to the respectable old head of the firm? Mr. Gammon did undoubtedly complain indignantly of the trifling portion allotted to him, but he was encountered by such a desperate pertinacity on the part of Mr. Quirk as baffled him entirely, and caused him to abandon his further claim in disgust and despair. Thus, the £20,000 obtained by Mr. Titmouse, on mortgage of the Yatton property, was reduced at once to the sum of £5,000;—but out of this handsome balance had yet to come, first, £800, with interest, due to Mr. Quirk for subsistence-money advanced to Titmouse; secondly, £500 due to Mr. Snap, for moneys alleged to have been also lent by him to his friend Titmouse at different times, in the manner which has been already explained to the reader—Snap's demand for repayment being accompanied by verbatim copies—such he stated them to be—of between forty and fifty memoranda—many of them in pencil—notes of hand, receipts, I. O. U.'s, &c., in whose handwriting the figures representing the sums lent, and the times when, could not be ascertained, and did not signify: it being, in point of law, good prim facie evidence for Snap, in the event of a trial, simply to produce the documents and prove the signature of his friend Mr. Titmouse.[32] That gentleman discharged a volley of imprecations at Snap's head, on receiving this unexpected claim, and referred it to Mr. Gammon; who, after subjecting it to a bon fide and very rigorous examination, found it in vain to attempt to resist, or even diminish it; such perfect method and accuracy had Snap observed in his accounts, that they secured him a clear gain of £350; the difference between that sum and £500, being the amount actually and bon fide advanced by him to Titmouse. Deducting, therefore, £1,300, (the amount of the two minor demands of £800 and £500 above specified,) there remained to Mr. Titmouse out of the £20,000 the sum of £3,700; and he ought to have been thankful; for he might have got nothing—or even have been brought in debtor to Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap. I say that Mr. Gammon would seem, from the above statement of accounts, not to have been dealt with in any degree adequately to his merits. He felt such to be his case; but soon reconciled himself to it, occupied as he was with arduous and extensive speculations, amid all the complication of which he never for a moment lost sight of one object, viz.—himself. His schemes were boldly conceived, and he went about the accomplishment of them with equal patience and sagacity. Almost everything was at present going on as he could have wished. He had contrived to place himself in a very convenient fast-and-loose sort of position with reference to his fellow-partners—one which admitted of his easily disengaging himself from them, whenever the proper time should have arrived for taking such a step. He was absolute and paramount over Titmouse, and could always secure his instant submission, by virtue of the fearful and mysterious talisman which he occasionally flashed before his startled eyes. He had acquired great influence, also, over the Earl of Dreddlington—an influence which was constantly on the increase; and had seen come to pass an event which he judged to be of great importance to him—namely, the engagement between Titmouse and the Lady Cecilia. Yet was there one object which he had proposed to himself as incalculably valuable and supremely desirable—as the consummation of all his designs and wishes; I mean the obtaining the hand of Miss Aubrey—and in which he had yet a fearful misgiving of failure. But he was a man whose courage rose with every obstacle; and he fixedly resolved within himself, to succeed, at any cost. 'Twas not alone his exquisite appreciation of her personal beauty, her grace, her accomplishments, her lovely temper, her lofty spirit, her high birth—objects all of them dazzling enough to a man of such a powerful and ambitious mind, and placed in such circumstances in life as Gammon. There were certain other considerations, intimately involved in all his calculations, which—as may possibly become apparent hereafter—rendered success in this affair a matter of vital consequence—nay, indispensable. Knowing, as I do, what had passed at different times between that proud and determined girl and her constant and enthusiastic lover, Mr. Delamere, I am as certain as a man can be of anything that has not actually happened, that, though she may possibly not be fated to become Mrs. Delamere, she will certainly NEVER become—Mrs. Gammon!—Loving Kate as I do, and being thoroughly acquainted with Gammon, I feel deep interest in his movements, and am watching them with great apprehension:—she, lovely, innocent, unsuspicious; he, subtle, selfish, unscrupulous, desperate! And he has great power in his hands: is he not silently surrounding his destined prey with unperceived, but apparently inextricable meshes? God guard thee, my Kate, and reward thy noble devotion to thy brother and his fallen fortunes! Do we chide thee for clinging to them with fond tenacity in their extremity, when thou art daily importuned to enter into that station which thou wouldst so adorn?
Gammon's reception by the Aubreys, in Vivian Street—kind and courteous though it had surely been—had ever since rankled in his heart. Their abstaining from a request to him to prolong his stay, or to renew his visit, he had noted at the time, and had ever since reflected upon it with pique and discouragement. Nevertheless, he was resolved at all hazards to become at least an occasional visitor in Vivian Street. When a fortnight had elapsed without any further intimation to Mr. Aubrey concerning the dreaded balance due to the firm, Gammon ventured to call upon him, for the purpose of assuring Mr. Aubrey that it was no mere temporary lull; that he might divest his mind of all uneasiness on the subject; and of asking whether he (Gammon) had not told Mr. Aubrey truly that he both could and would restrain the hand of Mr. Quirk. Could Mr. Aubrey be otherwise than grateful for such active, effectual, and manifestly disinterested kindness? Again Gammon made his appearance at Mrs. Aubrey's tea-table—and was again received with all the sweetness and frankness of manner which he had formerly experienced from her and Miss Aubrey. Again he called, on some adroit pretext or another—and once heard Miss Aubrey's rich voice and exquisite performance on the piano. He became subject to emotions and impulses of such a sort as he had never before experienced; yet, whenever he retired from their fascinating society, he was conscious of an aching void, as it were, within—he perceived the absence of all sympathy towards him; he felt indignant—but that did not quench the ardor of his aspirations. 'Tis hardly necessary to say, that on every occasion, Gammon effectually concealed the profound and agitating feelings which the sight of Miss Aubrey called forth in him; and what a tax was this upon his powers of self-control! How he laid himself out to amuse and interest them all! With what racy humor would he describe the vulgar absurdities of Titmouse—the stately eccentricities of the Dreddlingtons! With what eager and breathless interest was he listened to! Few men could make themselves more completely agreeable than Gammon; and the ladies really took pleasure in his society; Kate being, all the while, about as far from any notion of the real state of his feelings, as is my fair reader of what is at this moment going on in the dog-star. Her reserve towards him sensibly lessened; why, indeed, should she feel it, towards one of whom Dr. Tatham spoke so highly, and who appeared to justify his eulogium? Moreover, Mr. Gammon took special care to speak in the most unreserved and unqualified manner of the mean and mercenary character of Mr. Quirk—of the miserable style of business in which he, Mr. Gammon, was compelled, for only a short time longer, he trusted, to participate, and which was really revolting to his own feelings. He did his best, in short, to cause himself to appear a sensitive and high-minded man, whose unhappy fate it had been to be yoked with those who were the reverse. Mr. Aubrey regarded him from time to time with silent anxiety and interest, as one who had it in his power, at any instant he might choose, to cause the suspended sword to fall upon him; at whose will and pleasure he continued in the enjoyment of his present domestic happiness, instead of being incarcerated in prison; but who had hitherto evinced a disposition of signal forbearance, sincere good-nature, and disinterestedness. They often used to speak of him, and compare the impression which his person and conduct had produced in their minds; and in two points they agreed—that he certainly exhibited anxiety to render himself agreeable; and that there was a certain something about his eye which none of them liked. It seemed as though he had in a manner two natures; and that one of them was watching the effect of the efforts made by the other to beguile!
