The House of Cobwebs and Other Stories Part 26

'What's that, Mr. Lott?'

'If I were you I wouldn't go to see Bowles. Better for me to do that. We've only gossip to go upon, and we know what that often amounts to. Leave Bowles to me, and go and see your son.'

'But I don't even know where he's living.'

'You don't? That's awkward. Well then, come along with me to Bowles's place of business; as likely as not, if we find him, he'll be able to give you your son's address. What do you say to my idea, Mr. Daffy?'

The tailor a.s.sented to this arrangement, on condition that, if things were found to be as he had heard, he should be left free to obey his conscience.

The stopping of the train at an intermediate station, where new pa.s.sengers entered, put an end to the confidential talk. Mr. Daffy, breathing hard, struggled with his painful thoughts; the timber-merchant, deeply meditative, let his eyes wander about the carriage. As they drew near to the London terminus, Mr. Lott bent forward to his friend.

'I want to buy a present for my eldest nephew,' he remarked, 'but I can't for the life of me think what it had better be.'

'Perhaps you'll see something in a shop-window,' suggested Mr. Daffy.

'Maybe I shall.'

They alighted at Liverpool Street. Mr. Lott hailed a hansom, and they were driven to a street in Southwark, where, at the entrance of a building divided into offices, one perceived the name of Bowles and Perkins. This firm was on the fifth floor, and Mr. Daffy eyed the staircase with misgiving.

'No need for you to go up,' said his companion. 'Wait here, and I'll see if I can get the address.'

Mr. Lott was absent for only a few minutes. He came down again with his lips hard set, knocking each step sharply with his walking-stick.

'I've got it,' he said, and named a southern suburb.

'Have you seen Mr. Bowles?'

'No; he's out of town,' was the reply. 'Saw his partner.'

They walked side by side for a short way, then Mr. Lott stopped.

'Do you know _my_ idea? It's a little after eleven. I'm going to see my daughter, and I dare say I shall catch the 3.49 home from Liverpool Street.

Suppose we take our chance of meeting there?'

Thus it was agreed. Mr. Daffy turned in the direction of his son's abode; the timber-merchant went northward, and presently reached Finsbury Park, where in a house of unpretentious but decent appearance, dwelt Mr. Bowles.

The servant who answered the door wore a strange look, as if something had alarmed her; she professed not to know whether any one was at home, and, on going to inquire, shut the door on the visitor's face. A few minutes elapsed before Mr. Lott was admitted. The hall struck him as rather bare; and at the entrance of the drawing-room he stopped in astonishment, for, excepting the window-curtains and a few ornaments, the room was quite unfurnished. At the far end stood a young woman, her hands behind her, and her head bent--an att.i.tude indicative of distress or shame.

'Are you moving, Jane?' inquired Mr. Lott, eyeing her curiously.

His daughter looked at him. She had a comely face, with no little of the paternal character stamped upon it; her knitted brows and sullen eyes bespoke a perturbed humour, and her voice was only just audible.

'Yes, we are moving, father.'

Mr. Lott's heavy footfall crossed the floor. He planted himself before her, his hands resting on his stick.

'What's the matter, Jane? Where's Bowles?'

'He left town yesterday. He'll be back to-morrow, I think.'

'You've had the brokers in the house--isn't that it, eh?'

Mrs. Bowles made no answer, but her head sank again, and a trembling of her shoulders betrayed the emotion with which she strove. Knowing that Jane would tell of her misfortunes only when and how she chose, the father turned away and stood for a minute or two at the window; then he asked abruptly whether there was not such a thing as a chair in the house. Mrs.

Bowles, who had been on the point of speaking, bade him come to another room. It was the dining-room, but all the appropriate furniture had vanished: a couple of bedroom chairs and a deal table served for present necessities. Here, when they had both sat down, Mrs. Bowles found courage to break the silence.

'Arthur doesn't know of it. He went away yesterday morning, and the men came in the afternoon. He had a promise--a distinct promise--that this shouldn't be done before the end of the month. By then he hoped to have money.'

'Who's the creditor?' inquired Mr. Lott, with a searching look at her face.

Mrs. Bowles was mute, her eyes cast down.

'Is it Charles Daffy?'

Still his daughter kept silence.

'I thought so,' said the timber-merchant, and clumped on the floor with his stick. 'You'd better tell me all about it, Jane. I know something already.

Better let us talk it over, my girl, and see what can be done.'

He waited a moment. Then his daughter tried to speak, with difficulty overcame a sob, and at length began her story. She would not blame her husband. He had been unlucky in speculations, and was driven to a money-lender--his acquaintance, Charles Daffy. This man, a heartless rascal, had multiplied charges and interest on a small sum originally borrowed, until it became a crus.h.i.+ng debt. He held a bill of sale on most of their furniture, and yesterday, as if he knew of Bowles's absence, had made the seizure; he was within his legal rights, but had led the debtor to suppose that he would not exercise them. Thus far did Jane relate, in a hard matter-of-fact voice, but with many nervous movements. Her father listened in grim silence, and, when she ceased, appeared to reflect.

'That's _your_ story!' he said of a sudden. 'Now, what about the horse-racing?'

'I know nothing of horse-racing,' was the cold reply.

'Bowles keeps all that to himself, does he? We'd better have our talk out, Jane, now that we've begun. Better tell me all you know, my girl.'

Again there was a long pause; but Mr. Lott had patience, and his dogged persistency at length overcame the wife's pride. Yes, it was true that Bowles had lost money at races; he had been guilty of much selfish folly; but the ruin it had brought upon him would serve as a lesson. He was a wretched and a penitent man; a few days ago he had confessed everything to his wife, and besought her to pardon him; at present he was making desperate efforts to recover an honest footing. The business might still be carried on if some one could be induced to put a little capital into it; with that in view, Bowles had gone to see certain relatives of his in the north. If his hope failed, she did not know what was before them; they had nothing left now but their clothing and the furniture of one or two rooms.

'Would you like to come back home for a while?' asked Mr. Lott abruptly.

'No, father,' was the not less abrupt reply. 'I couldn't do that.'

'I'll give no money to Bowles.'

'He has never asked you, and never will.'

Mr. Lott glared and glowered, but, with all that, had something in his face which hinted softness. The dialogue did not continue much longer; it ended with a promise from Mrs. Bowles to let her father know whether her husband succeeded or not in re-establis.h.i.+ng himself. Thereupon they shook hands without a word, and Mr. Lott left the house. He returned to the City, and, it being now nearly two o'clock, made a hearty meal. When he was in the street again, he remembered the birthday present he wished to buy for his nephew, and for half an hour he rambled vaguely, staring into shop-windows.

At length something caught his eye; it was a row of riding-whips, mounted in silver; just the thing, he said to himself, to please a lad who would perhaps ride to hounds next winter. He stepped in, chose carefully, and made the purchase. Then, having nothing left to do, he walked at a leisurely pace towards the railway station.

Mr. Daffy was there before him; they met at the entrance to the platform from which their train would start.

'Must you go back by this?' asked the tailor. 'My son wasn't at home, and won't be till about five o'clock. I should be terribly obliged, Mr. Lott, if you could stay and go to Clapham with me. Is it asking too much?'

The timber-merchant gave a friendly nod, and said it was all the same to him. Then, in reply to anxious questions, he made brief report of what he had learnt at Finsbury Park. Mr. Daffy was beside himself with wrath and shame. He would pay every farthing, if he had to sell all he possessed!

'I'm so glad and so thankful you will come with me Mr. Lott. He'd care nothing for what _I_ said; but when he sees _you_, and hears your opinion of him, it may have some effect. I beg you to tell him your mind plainly!

Let him know what a contemptible wretch, what a dirty blackguard, he is in the eyes of all decent folk--let him know it, I entreat you! Perhaps even yet it isn't too late to make him ashamed of himself.'

They stood amid a rush of people; the panting tailor clung to his big companion's sleeve. Gruffly promising to do what he could, Mr. Lott led the way into the street again, where they planned the rest of their day. By five o'clock they were at Clapham. Charles Daffy occupied the kind of house which is known as eminently respectable; it suggested an income of at least a couple of thousand a year. As they waited for the door to open, Mr. Lott smote gently on his leg with the new riding-whip. He had been silent and meditative all the way hither.