Midnight Webs

“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.

Story 5-Chapter III.

Tom Brough

For a good quarter of an hour no word was spoken; then again taking one of the unresisting hands in his, May’s new courtier talked long and earnestly, telling of how, with no ardent passion, but with the chastened love of one who had known a bitter disappointment, he had long watched her and waited.

“And now, at last, May, I ask you to be an old man’s wife,” he said. “Yours shall be no life of slavery; but there, you have known me long, and for some time past,” he said tenderly; “I have not been without hope that you loved me in return.”

“Mr Brough,” sobbed May, throwing herself on her knees at his feet, “I do love you, I have loved you ever since I was a child – loved you as one should love a dear father. Have I not often come to you with my girlish troubles; but you surely never can mean this – you cannot wish what you say? How can I be your wife, when you know how long – how long – O, Frank, Frank, Frank!” she cried, with a wail of despair that seemed to thrill through her suitor’s heart, and raising her in his arms he kissed her tenderly – as lovingly as might a father – and placed her on a sofa at his side, drawing her nearer to him in spite of a slight resistance, as he tried to whisper a few words in his endeavour to soothe the fierce burst of despair that shook the poor girl’s frame.

“There, May – my child,” he said at last, “try and command yourself,” when a thought seemed to strike him, and, though evidently troubled and reluctant, he rose to go, tenderly taking leave of the weeping girl.

But before he could reach the door, May had him by the hand.

“Dear Mr Brough,” she said beseechingly, “I cannot think that you would wish to make me unhappy for life.”

“Indeed, no,” he said gently, as he held both her hands in his. “I would devote my life to making you happy.”

“But you know – for some time – Mr Frank Marr – ”

Then the recollection of what she had heard and seen that morning seemed to flash across her brain, scathing her as it passed, and with a wild look she sought to withdraw her hands, but they were fist held.

“Nay, my child,” said Mr Brough tenderly, “I love you too well to wish to give you pain. I would sooner suffer myself than cause a pang to your gentle little heart. Show me that Frank Marr is worthy of you – that is, that your father’s words which he told me were either untrue, or that he had been deceived; tell me, in fact, that by waiving my claims I can give you happiness, and I will do so, and at once, even though – ” His voice trembled as he spoke, and then he added hastily: “But you are much agitated; I will go. Only one question before a painful subject is buried for ever – Are you aware that Frank Marr was with your father this morning?”

May bowed her head, for the words would not come.

“And you know of the offer made and accepted? Good God, what a brute I am!” he exclaimed, as he had just time to catch May in his arms, and save her from falling.

“That’s just what you are!” exclaimed a harsh voice, and the visitor became aware of the presence of Keziah Bay, who indignantly caught the fainting girl from him, and apparently without much effort bore her from the room.

It was with a quiet, thoughtful face that Tom Brough, the well-known wealthy, charitable sugar-baker, made his way to one of the City chop-houses, and sat down in a dark box to think for quite an hour, with a newspaper before his face, a newspaper that the impatient waiter swooped down at a good half-dozen times, but never asked for on account of its being in the hands of so excellent a customer. But never a word read Tom Brough; it was only a blind behind which he wished to think on that eventful morning; and he thought till his countenance lightened, for it seemed to him that his way ahead was very clear, and in that way ahead he saw himself a happy man, cheered by May’s smiles, in spite of his years, and playing with her children; and at last, his own eyes dewy and twinkling, his bright grey hair glistening, and the ruddy hues of his open countenance ruddier than ever, he laid aside the paper just at a moment when, unable to bear it any longer, the waiter was swooping down with the fell intent of striking and bearing off the sheet. But just as he stooped to seize it, the paper was dropped, and he was standing face to face with the old and regular attendant at the place.

“Charles,” said Mr Brough, “I think I’ll take a chop.”

“And hysters, sir?” said Charles.

“And oysters,” said Tom Brough.

“Port or sherry, sir?” said Charles respectfully.

“Pint of port – yellow seal,” said Tom Brough with a sigh of content, and then he leaned back and looked up at the dingy soot-darkened skylight, till the hissing hot chop was brought, moistening his lips from time to time with the glass of tawny astringent wine, seeing, though, no yellow glass, no floating blacks, nothing but a bright future; and then he ate – ate like a man who enjoyed it, finished his fifth glass of port, and walked to his office, brisk, bustling, and happy.

“Gentleman been waiting to see you two hours, sir,” said a clerk.

“Bless my soul, how tiresome!” he muttered. “I wanted to do as little as possible to-day; and if news came that the sugar crops were a failure to a cane, I believe I’m so selfish that I shouldn’t care a – ”

But, whatever might have been the proper finish of that sentence, it was never uttered; for, bustling forward with an easy elastic step, the pleasant countenance suddenly became grave as opening the door of his inner office Tom Brough stood face to face with pale, stern-looking Frank Marr.

Story 5-Chapter IV.

Hopeless

If there is anything obstinate in this life it is Time, whom poets and painters are so fond of depicting as a goose-winged, forelocked, bald-headed, scraggy old gentleman, exceedingly hard up for clothes, but bearing an old, overgrown egg-boiler, and a scythe with a shaft that, however well adapted for mowing in his own particular fields, would, for want of proper bend and handles, if he were set to cut grass in some Essex or Sussex mead, make that old back of his double down in a grander curve than ever, and give him such a fit of lumbago as was never suffered by any stalk of the human corn he delights to level. Just want the hours, weeks, and months to seem extended, and they shrink like fourteen-shilling trouser legs. Just want the days to glide by so that some blissful moment may be swift to arrive, and one might almost swear that the ancient hay-maker had been putting his lips to some barrel, and was lying down behind a hedge for a long nap. He had been busy enough though at Walbrook, as many a defaulting bill acceptor knew to his cost, and small mercy was meted to him by John Richards. The time, too, with May seemed to speed by, as evening after evening it brought her December, in the shape of Tom Brough – always pleasant, cheerful, and apparently happy, if he gained one sad pleasant smile.

For there was a sadness in May Richards’ face that was even at times painful; but she seemed to bear her cares patiently. Only once had she sought to talk to her father, to find him even gentle.

“You had better throw it all aside,” he said. “Take my advice, child, you will find it better.”

“But I must see those papers, father,” she said hoarsely.

She had followed the old man into his office, and stood facing him as he laid one hand upon his great iron safe.

He did not seem to heed her for a few minutes; but at last he spoke.

“You will not destroy them?” he said. “No.”

The next minute the great iron door opened with a groan, and he had placed a cancelled cheque bearing frank Marr’s name on the back, and a couple of other documents before her.

She stood there and read them through, word for word, twice, and then they dropped from her hand, and gazing straight before her she slowly left the place.

He had sold her, then. He had preferred worldly prosperity to her love, and she had been deceived in him as hundreds of others were every day deceived by those in whom they trusted. But one document she held to still – the one in her desk, the little desk that stood by her bed’s head, and that letter she had read night after night, and wept over when there was none to see, till the blistering tears had all but obliterated the words on the paper. But no tears could wash them out from her heart, where they were burned in by anguish – those few cold formal words dictated by her father – that he, Frank Marr, feeling it to be his duty, then and there released her from all promises, and retained to himself the right without prejudice to enter into any new engagement.

She had been asked to indite a few lines herself, setting him free on her part, but she could not do it; and now, after the first month of agony, she was striving hard to prepare herself for what she felt to be her fate.

But all seemed in vain, and one day, almost beside herself with the long strain, Keziah found her pacing the room and wringing her thin hands.

“You sha’n’t marry him, and that’s an end of it!” cried Keziah fiercely. “I’ll go over and see him to-night and talk to him; and if I can’t win him round my name isn’t Bay. I’ll marry him myself if it can’t be done any other how, that I will. Cheer up, then, my darling. Don’t cry, please, it almost breaks my heart to see you. He’s a good old fellow, that he is; and I’m sure when he comes to know how you dread it all he’ll give it up. If I only had that Mr Frank – What? Don’t, my little one? Then I won’t; only it does seems so hard. Married on the shortest day, indeed! I daresay he’d like to be. There’s no day so short nor so long ever been made that shall see you Tom Brough’s wife, so I tell him. Now, only promise me that you’ll hold up.”

“Don’t talk to me, please. I shall be better soon,” sobbed May; and then after an interval of weeping, “’Ziah, I know you love me: when I’m dead, will you think gently of me, and try to forgive all my little pettish ways?”

“When you’re what?” cried Keziah.

“When I’m dead; for I feel that it can’t be long first. I used to smile about broken hearts and sorrow of that kind, but, except when I’m asleep and some bright dream comes, all seems here so black and gloomy that I could almost feel glad to sleep always – always, never to wake again.”

“O, O, O!” cried Keziah, bursting into a wail of misery, but only to stop short and dash away a tear right and left with the opposite corners of her apron. “There, I won’t have it, and if you talk to me again like that, I’ll – I’ll – I’ll go to Mr Brough at once. No, my child, I’m not going to sit still and see you murdered before my very eyes if I know it. But though I don’t want to be cruel I must tell you that your poor affections really were misplaced; for that Frank Marr is as well off now and as happy as can be. He lodges, you know, at Pash’s, and they’ve got all the best furnished rooms that he got ready for me; not that I was going to leave you, my pet; and he’s making money, and taking his mother out of town, and all sorts, I can tell you.”

It did not escape Keziah’s eye how every word was eagerly drunk in, and feeling at last that she was but feeding and fanning a flame that scorched and seared the young life before her, she forbore, and soon after left the room.

“But if I don’t see Mr Tom Brough, and put a stop to this marriage, and his preparations, and new house, and furnishing,” she cried, “my name isn’t Keziah Bay?”

And Keziah kept her word.

Story 5-Chapter V.

Mr Pash Looks Green

Keziah Bay had made up her mind to go to Mr Tom Brough, and, attended by Peter Pash as her faithful squire, she started, loading him to begin with in case of rain, for on one arm Peter carried a large scarlet shawl, and under the other a vast blue-faded gingham umbrella, with a great staghorn beak and a grand ornamental brass ferule.

But Peter Pash looked proud at the confidence placed in him, and, following rather than walking by the side of his lady, he accompanied her to Finsbury-square, in one corner of which place lived Tom Brough.

All the same, though, Peter Pash was not comfortable, for he did not know the object of Keziah’s mission. What was she going to Mr Brough’s for? It was not because she was sent – she had declared that before starting, and when pressed for her reason she said that she was “going because she was going,” and Peter did not feel satisfied. In fact, before they were half-way to Finsbury, Peter was fiercely jealous, and telling himself that he was being made a fool of.

“You’d better let me carry that umbrella if you are going to bring it down thump at every step like that,” said Keziah.

“No, thank you, I can manage it,” said Peter, as, tucking it once more beneath his arm, he trotted on by her side, trying to make up his mind how he should find out the truth of his suspicions.

“It only wants a little looking into,” said Peter to himself, “and then you can find out anything. I can see it all now. And do they think they are going to deceive me? No, I’ve boiled down and purified too much not to be able to separate the wrong from the right. She’s going to ask him if he means to marry her instead of Miss Richards, and if he don’t, she’ll fall back on me. But she won’t, for I don’t mean to be fallen on, and so I tell her.”

“Here we are,” said Keziah, stopping short in front of Mr Brough’s house.

“Yes, here we are,” said Peter, with what he meant for a searching look.

“Now, look here, Peter,” said Keziah, “I’m going to see Mr Brough, and you’ll wait outside till I come back.”

“But what are you going for?” said Peter.

There was no reply save what was conveyed in a hitch of Keziah’s shawl, and then, her summons being responded to, she entered, leaving Peter perspiring on the door-step, brandishing the great umbrella and peering at the door with eyes that threatened to pierce the wood – varnish, paint, and all.

Meanwhile, Keziah was ushered into the room where Tom Brough was seated, rosy and hearty, over his decanter and glass.

“Well, Keziah,” he said, “and how are all at home? Take a chair.”

The visitor did not condescend to reply until the door was shut, when, folding her arms, she stood looking at him with a fierce uncompromising aspect.

“I’ve come about that poor girl,” she said at last.

“About what poor girl?” said Tom Brough.

“That poor girl whose heart’s being broken up into tiny bits by you and him – her father,” cried Keziah, fiercely, “and I’ve come to know if you ain’t ashamed of yourself. There, hold your tongue, and listen to what I’ve got to say; I haven’t said anything to him at home, because it’s like talking to stone and marbles. But I’ve come to talk to you.”

“Talk away, then,” said Tom Brough, pleasantly.

“I’m going to,” said Keziah, angrily, “and don’t you think, Mr Brough, that you’re going to get rid of me like that, because you are not, so now then. This marriage can’t go on.”

“Why not?” said Tom Brough, offering a glass of wine, which was refused.

“Because I’m not going to see my darling that I’ve nursed and tended ever since she was a baby driven into her grave to please you. There, keep off – gracious, if the man isn’t mad!”

Keziah half shrieked the last words, for, leaping from his seat, Tom Brough made a rush at her, chased her round the table with an activity hardly to have been expected from one of his years, followed her out on to the landing as she hastily beat a retreat, down the stairs, along the passage, and caught her on the door-mat, where, after a sharp scuffle, he succeeded in imprinting a couple of sounding kisses upon her cheek before she got the door open, and, panting and tumbled, rushed out nearly to the oversetting of Peter Pash, who, with his eye to the keyhole, had seen the chase in part, heard the scuffle in full, and now stood gazing grandly at the panting object of his affections.