University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
WHICH INTRODUCES SEVERAL RESIDENTS OF SEVENOAKS TO THE
METROPOLIS AND A NEW CHARACTER TO THE READER.

Harry Benedict was in the great city. When his story
was known by Mrs. Balfour—a quiet, motherly woman—and
she was fully informed of her husband's plans concerning
him, she received him with a cordiality and tenderness which
won his heart and made him entirely at home. The wonders
of the shops, the wonders of the streets, the wonders of the
places of public amusement, the music of the churches, the
inspiration of the great tides of life that swept by him on
every side, were in such sharp contrast to the mean conditions
to which he had been accustomed, that he could hardly
sleep. Indeed, the dreams of his unquiet slumbers were
formed of less attractive constituents than the visions of his
waking hours. He had entered a new world, which stimulated
his imagination, and furnished him with marvelous materials
for growth. He had been transformed by the clothing of the
lad whose place he had taken into a city boy, difficult to be
recognized by those who had previously known him. He
hardly knew himself, and suspected his own consciousness of
cheating him.

For several days he had amused himself in his leisure hours
by watching a huge house opposite to that of the Balfours,
into which was pouring a stream of furniture. Huge vans
were standing in front of it, or coming and departing, from
morning until night, Dressing-cases, book-cases, chairs,
mirrors, candelabra, beds, tables—everything necessary and

elegant in the furniture of a palace, were unloaded and
carried in. All day long, too, he could see through the large
windows the active figure and beautiful face of a woman who
seemed to direct and control the movements of all who were
engaged in the work.

The Balfours had noticed the same thing; but, beyond
wondering who was rich or foolish enough to purchase and
furnish Palgrave's Folly, they had given the matter no attention.
They were rich, of good family, of recognized culture
and social importance, and it did not seem to them that any
one whom they would care to know would be willing to
occupy a house so pronounced in vulgar display. They were
people whose society no money could buy. If Robert Belcher
had been worth a hundred millions instead of one, the fact
would not have been taken into consideration in deciding
any social question relating to him.

Finally the furnishing was complete; the windows were
polished, the steps were furbished, and nothing seemed to
wait but the arrival of the family for which the dwelling had
been prepared.

One late afternoon, before the lamps were lighted in the
streets, he could see that the house was illuminated; and just
as the darkness came on, a carriage drove up and a family
alighted. The doors were thrown open, the beautiful woman
stood upon the threshold, and all ran up to enter. She
kissed the lady of the house, kissed the children, shook hands
cordially with the gentleman of the party, and then the doors
were swung to, and they were shut from the sight of the
street; but just as the man entered, the light from the hall
and the light from the street revealed the flushed face and
portly figure of Robert Belcher.

Harry knew him, and ran down stairs to Mrs. Balfour, pale
and agitated as if he had seen a ghost. “It is Mr. Belcher,”
he said, “and I must go back. I know he'll find me; I must
go back to-morrow.”

It was a long time before the family could pacify him and assure

him of their power to protect him; but they did it at last,
though they left him haunted with the thought that he might
be exposed at any moment to the new companions of his life
as a pauper and the son of a pauper. The great humiliation
had been burned into his soul. The petty tyrannies of Tom
Buffum had cowed him, so that it would be difficult for him
ever to emerge from their influence into a perfectly free boyhood
and manhood. Had they been continued long enough,
they would have ruined him. Once he had been entirely in
the power of adverse circumstances and a brutal will, and he
was almost incurably wounded.

The opposite side of the street presented very different
scenes. Mrs. Belcher found, through the neighborly services
of Mrs. Dillingham, that her home was all prepared for her,
even to the selection and engagement of her domestic service.
A splendid dinner was ready to be served, for which Mr. Belcher,
who had been in constant communication with his convenient
and most officious friend, had brought the silver; and
the first business was to dispose of it. Mrs. Dillingham led
the mistress of the house to her seat, distributed the children,
and amused them all by the accounts she gave them of her
efforts to make their entrance and welcome satisfactory. Mrs.
Belcher observed her quietly, acknowledged to herself the
woman's personal charms—her beauty, her wit, her humor,
her sprightliness, and her more than neighborly service; but
her quick, womanly instincts detected something which she
did not like. She saw that Mr. Belcher was fascinated by her,
and that he felt that she had rendered him and the family a
service for which great gratitude was due; but she saw that
the object of his admiration was selfish—that she loved power,
delighted in having things her own way, and, more than all,
was determined to place the mistress of the house under obligations
to her. It would have been far more agreeable to
Mrs. Belcher to find everything in confusion, than to have
her house brought into habitable order by a stranger in whom
she had no trust, and upon whom she had no claim. Mr.

Belcher had bought the house without her knowledge; Mrs.
Dillingham had arranged it without her supervision. She
seemed to herself to be simply a child, over whose life others
had assumed the offices of administration.

Mrs. Belcher was weary, and she would have been delighted
to be alone with her family, but here was an intruder whom
she could not dispose of. She would have been glad to go
over the house alone, and to have had the privilege of discovery,
but she must go with one who was bent on showing
her everything, and giving her reasons for all that had been
done.

Mrs. Dillingham was determined to play her cards well
with Mrs. Belcher. She was sympathetic, confidential, most
respectful; but she found that lady very quiet. Mr. Belcher
followed them from room to room, with wider eyes for Mrs.
Dillingham than for the details of his new home. Now he
could see them together—the mother of his children, and
the woman who had already won his heart away from her.
The shapely lady, with her queenly ways, her vivacity, her
graceful adaptiveness to persons and circumstances, was sharply
contrasted with the matronly figure, homely manners, and
unresponsive mind of his wife. He pitied his wife, he pitied
himself, he pitied his children, he almost pitied the dumb
walls and the beautiful furniture around him.

Was Mrs. Dillingham conscious of the thoughts which possessed
him? Did she know that she was leading him around
his house, in her assumed confidential intimacy with his wife,
as she would lead a spaniel by a silken cord? Was she aware
that, as she moved side by side with Mrs. Belcher, through
the grand rooms, she was displaying herself to the best advantage
to her admirer, and that, yoked with the wifehood
and motherhood of the house, she was dragging, while he
held, the plow that was tilling the deep carpets for tares that
might be reaped in harvests of unhappiness? Would she have
dropped the chain if she had? Not she.

To fascinate, and make a fool of, a man who was strong and

cunning in his own sphere; to have a hand—gloved in officious
friendship—in other lives, furnished the zest of her unemployed
life. She could introduce discord into a family without
even acknowledging to herself that she had done it wittingly.
She could do it, and weep over the injustice that charged her
with it. Her motives were always pure! She had always
done her best to serve her friends! and what were her rewards?
So the victories which she won by her smiles, she made
permanent by her tears. So the woman by whose intrigues
the mischief came was transformed into a victim, from whose
shapely shoulders the garment of blame slipped off, that society
might throw over them the robes of its respectful commiseration,
and thus make her more interesting and lovely
than before!

Mrs. Belcher measured very carefully, or apprehended very
readily, the kind of woman she had to deal with, and felt at
once that she was no match for her. She saw that she could
not shake her off, so long as it was her choice to remain. She
received from her no direct offense, except the offense of her
uninvited presence; but the presence meant service, and so
could not be resented. And Mrs. Belcher could be of so
much service to her! Her life was so lonely—so meaningless!
It would be such a joy to her, in a city full of shams, to have
one friend who would take her good offices, and so help to
give to her life a modicum of significance!

After a full survey of the rooms, and a discussion of the
beauties and elegancies of the establishment, they all descended
to the dining-room, and, in response to Mrs. Dillingham's
order, were served with tea.

“You really must excuse me, Mrs. Belcher,” said the beautiful
lady deprecatingly, “but I have been here for a week,
and it seems so much like my own home, that I ordered the
tea without thinking that I am the guest and you are the mistress.”

“Certainly, and I am really very much obliged to you;”
and then feeling that she had been a little untrue to herself,

Mrs. Belcher added bluntly: “I feel myself in a very awkward
situation—obliged to one on whom I have no claim, and one
whom I can never repay.”

“The reward of a good deed is in the doing, I assure you,”
said Mrs. Dillingham, sweetly. “All I ask is that you make
me serviceable to you. I know all about the city, and all
about its ways. You can call upon me for anything; and now
let's talk about the house. Isn't it lovely?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Belcher, “too lovely. While so many
are poor around us, it seems almost like an insult to them to
live in such a place, and flaunt our wealth in their faces. Mr.
Belcher is very generous toward his family, and I have no wish
to complain, but I would exchange it all for my little room in
Sevenoaks.”

Mr. Belcher, who had been silent and had watched with
curious and somewhat anxious eyes the introductory passage
of this new acquaintance, was rasped by Mrs. Belcher's remark
into saying: “That's Mrs. Belcher, all over! that's the
woman, through and through! As if a man hadn't a right to
do what he chooses with his money! If men are poor, why
don't they get rich? They have the same chance I had; and
there isn't one of 'em but would be glad to change places
with me, and flaunt his wealth in my face. There's a precious
lot of humbug about the poor which won't wash with me.
We're all alike.”

Mrs. Dillingham shook her lovely head.

“You men are so hard,” she said; “and Mrs. Belcher has
the right feeling; but I'm sure she takes great comfort in
helping the poor. What would you do, my dear, if you had
no money to help the poor with?”

“That's just what I've asked her a hundred times,” said
Mr. Belcher. “What would she do? That's something she
never thinks of.”

Mrs. Belcher shook her head, in return, but made no reply.
She knew that the poor would have been better off if Mr.
Belcher had never lived, and that the wealth which surrounded

her with luxuries was taken from the poor. It was this, at
the bottom, that made her sad, and this that had filled her for
many years with discontent.

When the tea was disposed of, Mrs. Dillingham rose to go.
She lived a few blocks distant, and it was necessary for Mr.
Belcher to walk home with her. This he was glad to do,
though she assured him that it was entirely unnecessary.
When they were in the street, walking at a slow pace, the
lady, in her close, confiding way, said:

“Do you know, I take a great fancy to Mrs. Belcher?”

“Do you, really?”

“Yes, indeed. I think she's lovely; but I'm afraid she
doesn't like me. I can read—oh, I can read pretty well.
She certainly didn't like it that I had arranged everything,
and was there to meet her. But wasn't she tired? Wasn't
she very tired? There certainly was something that was
wrong.”

“I think your imagination had something to do with
it,” said Mr. Belcher, although he knew that she was
right.

“No, I can read;” and Mrs. Dillingham's voice trembled.
“If she could only know how honestly I have tried to serve
her, and how disappointed I am that my service has not been
taken in good part, I am sure that her amiable heart would
forgive me.”

Mrs. Dillingham took out her handkerchief, near a street
lamp, and wiped her eyes.

What could Mr. Belcher do with this beautiful, susceptible,
sensitive creature? What could he do but reassure her?
Under the influence of her emotion, his wife's offense grew
flagrant, and he began by apologizing for her, and ended by
blaming her.

“Oh! she was tired—she was very tired. That was all.
I've laid up nothing against her; but you know I was disappointed,
after I had done so much. I shall be all over it in
the morning, and she will see it differently then. I don't

know but I should have been troubled to find a stranger
in my house. I think I should. Now, you really must
promise not to say a word of all this talk to your poor wife.
I wouldn't have you do it for the world. If you are my friend
(pressing his arm), you will let the matter drop just where it
is. Nothing would induce me to be the occasion of any differences
in your home.”

So it was a brave, true, magnanimous nature that was leaning
so tenderly upon Mr. Belcher's arm! And he felt that
no woman who was not either shabbily perverse, or a fool,
could misinterpret her. He knew that his wife had been annoyed
at finding Mrs. Dillingham in the house. He dimly
comprehended, too, that her presence was an indelicate intrusion,
but her intentions were so good!

Mrs. Dillingham knew exactly how to manipulate the coarse
man at her side, and her relations to him and his wife. Her
bad wisdom was not the result of experience, though she had
had enough of it, but the product of an instinct which was just
as acute, and true, and serviceable, ten years earlier in her life
as it was then. She timed the walk to her purpose; and
when Mr. Belcher parted with her, he went back leisurely to
his great house, more discontented with his wife than he had
ever been. To find such beauty, such helpfulness, such sympathy,
charity, forbearance, and sensitiveness, all combined
in one woman, and that woman kind and confidential toward
him, brought back to him the days of his youth, in the excitement
of a sentiment which he had supposed was lost beyond
recall.

He crossed the street on arriving at his house, and took an
evening survey of his grand mansion, whose lights were still
flaming through the windows. The passengers jostled him as
he looked up at his dwelling, his thoughts wandering back to
the woman with whom he had so recently parted.

He knew that his heart was dead toward the woman who
awaited his return. He felt that it was almost painfully alive
toward the one he had left behind him, and it was with the

embarrassment of conscious guilt that he rang the bell at his
own door, and stiffened himself to meet the honest woman who
had borne his children. Even the graceless touch of an intriguing
woman's power—even the excitement of something like
love toward one who was unworthy of his love—had softened
him, so that his conscience could move again. He felt that
his eyes bore a secret, and he feared that his wife could read
it. And yet, who was to blame? Was anybody to blame?
Could anything that had happened have been helped or
avoided?

He entered, determining to abide by Mrs. Dillingham's injunction
of silence. He found the servants extinguishing the
lights, and met the information that Mrs. Belcher had retired.
His huge pile of trunks had come during his absence, and remained
scattered in the hall. The sight offended him, but,
beyond a muttered curse, he said nothing, and sought his bed.

Mr. Belcher was not in good humor when he rose the next
morning. He found the trunks where he left them on the
previous evening; and when he called for the servants to
carry them upstairs, he was met by open revolt. They were
not porters, and they would not lift boxes; that sort of work
was not what they were engaged for. No New York family
expected service of that kind from those who were not hired
for it.

The proprietor, who had been in the habit of exacting any
service from any man or woman in his employ that he desired,
was angry. He would have turned every one of them out of
the house, if it had not been so inconvenient for him to lose
them then. Curses trembled upon his lips, but he curbed
them, inwardly determining to have his revenge when the opportunity
should arise. The servants saw his eyes, and went
back to their work somewhat doubtful as to whether they had
made a judicious beginning. They were sure they had not,
when, two days afterward, every one of them was turned out
of the house, and a new set installed in their places.

He called for Phipps, and Phipps was at the stable. Putting

on his hat, he went to bring his faithful servitor of Sevenoaks,
and bidding him find a porter in the streets and remove the
trunks at Mrs. Belcher's direction, he sat down at the window
to watch for a passing newsboy. The children came down,
cross and half sick with their long ride and their late dinner.
Then it came on to rain in a most dismal fashion, and he saw
before him a day of confinement and ennui. Without mental
resource—unable to find any satisfaction except in action
and intrigue—the prospect was anything but pleasant. The
house was large, and, on a dark day, gloomy. His humor
was not sweetened by noticing evidences of tears on Mrs.
Belcher's face. The breakfast was badly cooked, and he rose
from it exasperated. There was no remedy but to go out and
call upon Mrs. Dillingham. He took an umbrella, and, telling
his wife that he was going out on business, he slammed the
door behind him and went down the steps.

As he reached the street, he saw a boy scudding along under
an umbrella, with a package under his arm. Taking him
for a newsboy, he called: “Here, boy! Give me some
papers.” The lad had so shielded his face from the rain and
the house that he had not seen Mr. Belcher; and when he
looked up he turned pale, and simply said: “I'm not a newsboy;”
and then he ran away as if he were frightened.

There was something in the look that arrested Mr. Belcher's
attention. He was sure he had seen the lad before, but where,
he could not remember. The face haunted him—haunted
him for hours, even when in the cheerful presence of Mrs.
Dillingham, with whom he spent a long and delightful hour. She
was rosy, and sweet, and sympathetic in her morning wrapper
—more charming, indeed, than he had ever seen her in evening
dress. She inquired for Mrs. Belcher and the children, and
heard with great good humor his account of his first collision
with his New York servants. When he went out from her
inspiring and gracious presence he found his self-complacency
restored. He had simply been hungry for her; so his breakfast
was complete. He went back to his house with a mingled

feeling of jollity and guilt, but the moment he was with his
family the face of the boy returned. Where had he seen
him? Why did the face give him uneasiness? Why did he
permit himself to be puzzled by it? No reasoning, no diversion
could drive it from his mind. Wherever he turned
during the long day and evening that white, scared face obtruded
itself upon him. He had noticed, as the lad lifted
his umbrella, that he carried a package of books under his
arm, and naturally concluded that, belated by the rain, he
was on his way to school. He determined, therefore, to
watch him on the following morning, his own eyes reinforced
by those of his oldest boy.

The dark day passed away at last, and things were brought
into more homelike order by the wife of the house, so that
the evening was cozy and comfortable; and when the street
lamps were lighted again and the stars came out, and the
north wind sounded its trumpet along the avenue, the spirits
of the family rose to the influence.

On the following morning, as soon as he had eaten his
breakfast, he, with his boy, took a position at one of the windows,
to watch for the lad whose face had so impressed and
puzzled him. On the other side of the avenue a tall man
came out, with a green bag under his arm, stepped into a passing
stage, and rolled away. Ten minutes later two lads
emerged with their books slung over their shoulders, and
crossed toward them.

“That's the boy—the one on the left,” said Mr. Belcher.
At the same moment the lad looked up, and apparently
saw the two faces watching him, for he quickened
his pace.

“That's Harry Benedict,” exclaimed Mr. Belcher's son
and heir. The words were hardly out of his mouth when
Mr. Belcher started from his chair, ran down-stairs with all
the speed possible within the range of safety, and intercepted
the lads at a side door, which opened upon the street along
which they were running.

“Stop, Harry, I want to speak to you,” said the proprietor,
sharply.

Harry stopped, as if frozen to the spot in mortal terror.

“Come along,” said Thede Balfour, tugging at his hand,
“you'll be late at school.”

Poor Harry could no more have walked than he could have
flown. Mr. Belcher saw the impression he had made upon
him, and became soft and insinuating in his manner.

“I'm glad to see you, my boy,” said Mr. Belcher. “Come
into the house, and see the children. They all remember
you, and they are all homesick. They'll be glad to look at
anything from Sevenoaks.”

Harry was not reassured: he was only more intensely
frightened. A giant, endeavoring to entice him into his cave
in the woods, would not have terrified him more. At length
he found his tongue sufficiently to say that he was going to
school, and could not go in.

It was easy for Mr. Belcher to take his hand, limp and
trembling with fear, and under the guise of friendliness to lead
him up the steps, and take him to his room. Thede watched
them until they disappeared, and then ran back to his home,
and reported what had taken place. Mrs. Balfour was alone,
and could do nothing. She did not believe that Mr. Belcher
would dare to treat the lad foully, with the consciousness that
his disappearance within his house had been observed, and
wisely determined to do nothing but sit down at her window
and watch the house.

Placing Harry in a chair, Mr. Belcher sat down opposite
to him, and said:

“My boy, I'm very glad to see you. I've wanted to know
about you more than any boy in the world. I suppose you've
been told that I am a very bad man, but I'll prove to you that
I'm not. There, put that ten-dollar gold piece in your pocket.
That's what they call an eagle, and I hope you'll have a great
many like it when you grow up.”

The lad hid his hands behind his back, and shook his head.

“You don't mean to say that you won't take it!” said the
proprietor in a wheedling tone.

The boy kept his hands behind him, and shook his head.

“Well, I suppose you are not to blame for disliking me;
and now I want you to tell me all about your getting away
from the poor-house, and who helped you out, and where
your poor, dear father is, and all about it. Come, now, you
don't know how much we looked for you, and how we all
gave you up for lost. You don't know what a comfort it is
to see you again, and to know that you didn't die in the
woods.”

The boy simply shook his head.

“Do you know who Mr. Belcher is? Do you know he is
used to having people mind him? Do you know that you're
here in my house, and that you must mind me? Do you
know what I do to little boys when they disobey me? Now,
I want you to answer my questions, and do it straight. Lying
won't go down with me. Who helped you and your
father to get out of the poor-house?”

Matters had proceeded to a desperate pass with the lad.
He had thought very fast, and he had determined that no
bribe and no threat should extort a word of information from
him. His cheeks grew hot and flushed, his eyes burned, and
he straightened himself in his chair as if he expected death
or torture, and was prepared to meet either, as he replied:

“I won't tell you.”

“Is your father alive? Tell me, you dirty little whelp? Don't
say that you won't do what I bid you to do again. I have a
great mind to choke you. Tell me—is your father alive?”

“I won't tell you, if you kill me.”

The wheedling had failed; the threatening had failed.
Then Mr. Belcher assumed the manner of a man whose
motives had been misconstrued, and who wished for information
that he might do a kind act to the lad's father.

“I should really like to help your father, and if he is poor,
money would do him a great deal of good. And here is the little

boy who does not love his father well enough to get money
for him, when he can have it and welcome! The little boy
is taken care of. He has plenty to eat, and good clothes to
wear, and lives in a fine house, but his poor father can take
care of himself. I think such a boy as that ought to be
ashamed of himself. I think he ought to kneel down and
say his prayers. If I had a boy who could do that, I should
be sorry that he'd ever been born.”

Harry was proof against this mode of approach also, and
was relieved, because he saw that Mr. Belcher was baffled.
His instincts were quick, and they told him that he was the
victor. In the meantime Mr. Belcher was getting hot. He
had closed the door of his room, while a huge coal fire was
burning in the grate. He rose and opened the door. Harry
watched the movement, and descried the grand staircase
beyond his persecutor, as the door swung back. He had
looked into the house while passing, during the previous week,
and knew the relations of the staircase to the entrance on the
avenue. His determination was instantaneously made, and
Mr. Belcher was conscious of a swift figure that passed under
his arm, and was half down the staircase before he could
move or say a word. Before he cried “stop him!” Harry's
hand was on the fastening of the door, and when he reached
the door, the boy was half across the street.

He had calculated on smoothing over the rough places of
the interview, and preparing a better report of the visit of
the lad's friends on the other side of the avenue, but the
matter had literally slipped through his fingers. He closed
the door after the retreating boy, and went back to his room
without deigning to answer the inquiries that were excited by
his loud command to “stop him.”

Sitting down, and taking to himself his usual solace, and
smoking furiously for a while, he said: “D—n!” Into
this one favorite and familiar expletive he poured his anger,
his vexation, and his fear. He believed at the moment that
the inventor was alive. He believed that if he had been

dead his boy would, in some way, have revealed the fact.
Was he still insane? Had he powerful friends? It certainly
appeared so. Otherwise, how could the lad be where he had
discovered him? Was it rational to suppose that he was far
from his father? Was it rational to suppose that the lad's
friends were not equally the friends of the inventor? How
could he know that Robert Belcher himself had not unwittingly
come to the precise locality where he would be under
constant surveillance? How could he know that a deeply laid
plot was not already at work to undermine and circumvent him?
The lad's reticence, determined and desperate, showed that he
knew the relations that existed between his father and the proprietor,
and seemed to show that he had acted under orders.

Something must be done to ascertain the residence of
Paul Benedict, if still alive, or to assure him of his death,
if it had occurred. Something must be done to secure the
property which he was rapidly accumulating. Already foreign
Governments were considering the advantages of the
Belcher rifle, as an arm for the military service, and negotiations
were pending with more than one of them. Already
his own Government, then in the first years of its great civil
war, had experimented with it, with the most favorable
results. The business was never so promising as it then appeared,
yet it never had appeared so insecure.

In the midst of his reflections, none of which were pleasant,
and in a sort of undefined dread of the consequences of his
indiscretions in connection with Harry Benedict, the bell
rang, and Mr. and Mrs. Talbot were announced. The factor
and his gracious lady were in fine spirits, and full of their
congratulations over the safe removal of the family to their
splendid mansion. Mrs. Talbot was sure that Mrs. Belcher
must feel that all the wishes of her heart were gratified. There
was really nothing like the magnificence of the mansion.
Mrs. Belcher could only say that it was all very fine, but Mr.
Belcher, finding himself an object of envy, took great pride
in showing his visitors about the house.

Mrs. Talbot, who in some way had ascertained that Mrs.
Dillingham had superintended the arrangement of the house,
said, in an aside to Mrs. Belcher: “It must have been a little
lonely to come here and find no one to receive you—no friend,
I mean.”

“Mrs. Dillingham was here,” remarked Mrs. Belcher,
quietly.

“But she was no friend of yours.”

“No; Mr. Belcher had met her.”

“How strange! How very strange!”

“Do you know her well?”

“I'm afraid I do; but now, really, I hope you won't permit
yourself to be prejudiced against her. I suppose she
means well, but she certainly does the most unheard-of things.
She's a restless creature—not quite right, you know, but she
has been immensely flattered. She's an old friend of mine,
and I don't join the hue and cry against her at all, but she
does such imprudent things! What did she say to you?”

Mrs. Belcher detected the spice of pique and jealousy in
this charitable speech, and said very little in response—nothing
that a mischief-maker could torture into an offense.

Having worked her private pump until the well whose waters
she sought refused to give up its treasures, Mrs. Talbot
declared she would no longer embarrass the new house-keeping
by her presence. She had only called to bid Mrs. Belcher
welcome, and to assure her that if she had no friends in the
city, there were hundreds of hospitable hearts that were ready
to greet her. Then she and her husband went out, waved
their adieus from their snug little coupé, and drove away.

The call had diverted Mr. Belcher from his somber thoughts,
and he summoned his carriage, and drove down town, where
he spent his day in securing the revolution in his domestic
service, already alluded to, in talking business with his factor,
and in making acquaintances on 'Change.

“I'm going to be in the middle of this thing, one of those
days,” said he to Talbot as they strolled back to the counting-room

of the latter, after a long walk among the brokers and
bankers of Wall street. “If anybody supposes that I've come
here to lie still, they don't know me. They'll wake up some
fine morning and find a new hand at the bellows.”

Twilight found him at home again, where he had the supreme
pleasure of turning his very independent servants out
of his house into the street, and installing a set who knew,
from the beginning, the kind of man they had to deal with,
and conducted themselves accordingly.

While enjoying his first cigar after dinner, a note was
handed to him, which he opened and read. It was dated at
the house across the avenue. He had expected and dreaded
it, but he did not shrink like a coward from its persual. It
read thus:

“Hum! ha!” exclaimed Mr. Belcher, compressing his lips,
and spitefully tearing the letter into small strips and throwing
them into the fire. “Thank you, kind sir; I owe you one,”
said he, rising, and walking his room. “That doesn't look
very much as if Paul Benedict were alive. He's a counselor-at-law,
he is; and he has inveigled a boy into his keeping,

who, he supposes, has a claim on me; and he proposes to
make some money out of it. Sharp game!”

Mr. Belcher was interrupted in his reflections and his soliloquy
by the entrance of a servant, with the information that
there was a man at the door who wished to see him.

“Show him up.”

The servant hesitated, and finally said: “He doesn't smell
very well, sir.”

“What does he smell of?” inquired Mr. Belcher, laughing.

“Rum, sir, and several things.”

“Send him away, then.”

“I tried to, sir, but he says he knows you, and wants to
see you on particular business.”

“Take him into the basement, and tell him I'll be down
soon.”

Mr. Belcher exhausted his cigar, tossed the stump into the
fire, and, muttering to himself, “Who the devil!” went down
to meet his caller.

As he entered a sort of lobby in the basement that was used
as a servants' parlor, his visitor rose, and stood with great
shame-facedness before him. He did not extend his hand,
but stood still, in his seedy clothes and his coat buttoned to
his chin, to hide his lack of a shirt. The blue look of the
cold street had changed to a hot purple under the influence
of a softer atmosphere; and over all stood the wreck of a good
face, and a head still grand in its outline.

“Well, you look as if you were waiting to be damned,”
said Mr. Belcher, roughly.

“I am, sir,” responded the man solemnly.

“Very well; consider the business done, so far as I am
concerned, and clear out.”

“I am the most miserable of men, Mr. Belcher.”

“I believe you; and you'll excuse me if I say that your
appearance corroborates your statement.”

“And you don't recognize me? Is it possible?” And
the maudlin tears came into the man's rheumy eyes and

[ILLUSTRATION]

“I am the most miserable of men.”

[Description: 590EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man with a scruffy beard and long hair and a well dressed, slightly portly man. The scruffy man has his hat in his hand.]

rolled down his cheeks. “You knew me in better days, sir;”
and his voice trembled with weak emotion.

“No; I never saw you before. That game won't work, and
now be off.”

“And you don't remember Yates?—Sam Yates—and the
happy days we spent together in childhood?” And the man
wept again, and wiped his eyes with his coat-sleeve.

“Do you pretend to say that you are Sam Yates, the lawyer?”

“The same, at your service.”

“What brought you to this?”

“Drink, and bad company, sir.”

“And you want money?”

“Yes!” exclaimed the man, with a hiss as fierce as if he
were a serpent.

“Do you want to earn money?”

“Anything to get it.”

“Anything to get drink, I suppose. You said `anything.'
Did you mean that?”

The man knew Robert Belcher, and he knew that the last
question had a great deal more in it than would appear to the
ordinary listener.

“Life me out of the gutter,” said he, “and keep me out,
and—command me.”

“I have a little business on hand,” said Mr. Belcher, “that
you can do, provided you will let your drink alone—a business
that I am willing to pay for. Do you remember a man
by the name of Benedict—a shiftless, ingenious dog, who
once lived in Sevenoaks?”

“Very well.”

“Should you know him again, were you to see him?”

`I think I should.”

“Do you know you should? I don't want any thinking
about it. Could you swear to him?”

“Yes. I don't think it would trouble me to swear to him.”

“If I were to show you some of his handwriting, do you
suppose that would help you any?”

“It—might.”

“I don't want any `mights.' Do you know it would?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to sell yourself—body, soul, brains, legal
knowledge, everything—for money?”

“I've sold myself already at a smaller price, and I don't
mind withdrawing from the contract for a better.”

Mr. Belcher summoned a servant, and ordered something
to eat for his visitor. While the man eagerly devoured his
food, and washed it down with a cup of tea, Mr. Belcher went
to his room, and wrote an order on his tailor for a suit of
clothes, and a complete respectable outfit for the legal “dead
beat” who was feasting himself below. When he descended,
he handed him the paper, and gave him money for a bath and
a night's lodging.

“To-morrow morning I want you to come here clean, and
dressed in the clothes that this paper will give you. If you
drink one drop before that time I will strip the clothes from
your back. Come to this room and get a decent breakfast.
Remember that you can't fool me, and that I'll have none of
your nonsense. If you are to serve me, and get any money
out of it, you must keep sober.”

“I can keep sober—for a while—any way,” said the man,
hesitatingly and half despairingly.

“Very well, now be off; and mind, if I ever hear a word
of this, or any of our dealings outside, I'll thrash you as I
would a dog. If you are true to me I can be of use to you.
If you are not, I will kick you into the street.”

The man tottered to his feet, and said: “I am ashamed to
say that you may command me. I should have scorned it
once, but my chance is gone, and I could be loyal to the devil
himself—for a consideration.”

The next morning Mr. Belcher was informed that Yates
had breakfasted, and was awaiting orders. He descended to
the basement, and stood confronted with a respectable-looking
gentleman, who greeted him in a courtly way, yet with a

deprecating look in his eyes, which said, as plainly as words
could express; “don't humiliate me any more than you can
help! Use me, but spare the little pride I have, if you can.”

The deprecatory look was lost upon Mr. Belcher. “Where
did you get your clothes?” he inquired. “Come, now;
give me the name of your tailor. I'm green in the city, you
see.”

The man tried to smile, but the effort was a failure.

“What did you take for a night-cap last night, eh?”

“I give you my word of honor, sir, that I have not taken
a drop since I saw you.”

“Word of honor! ha! ha! ha! Do you suppose I want
your word of honor? Do you suppose I want a man of
honor, anyway? If you have come here to talk about honor,
you are no man for me. That's a sort of nonsense that I
have no use for.”

“Very well; my word of dishonor,” responded the man,
desperately.

“Now you talk. There's no use in such a man as you
putting on airs, and forgetting that he wears my clothes and
fills himself at my table.”

“I do not forget it, sir, and I see that I am not likely to.”

“Not while you do business with me; and now, sit down
and hear me. The first thing you are to do is to ascertain
whether Paul Benedict is dead. It isn't necessary that you
should know my reasons. You are to search every insane
hospital, public and private, in the city, and every alms-house.
Put on your big airs and play philanthropist. Find
all the records of the past year—the death records of the city
—everything that will help to determine that the man is dead,
as I believe he is. This will give you all you want to do for
the present. The man's son is in the city, and the boy and
the man left the Sevenoaks poor-house together. If the man
is alive, he is likely to be near him. If he is dead he probably
died near him. Find out, too, if you can, when his boy
came to live at Balfour's over the way, and where he came

from. You may stumble upon what I want very soon, or it
may take you all winter. If you should fail then, I shall want
you to take the road from here to Sevenoaks, and even to
Number Nine, looking into all the alms-houses on the way.
The great point is to find out whether he is alive or dead, and
to know, if he is dead, where, and exactly when, he died. In
the meantime, come to me every week with a written report
of what you have done, and get your pay. Come always
after dark, so that none of Balfour's people can see you.
Begin the business, and carry it on in your own way. You
are old and sharp enough not to need any aid from me, and
now be off.”

The man took a roll of bills that Mr. Belcher handed him,
and walked out of the door without a word. As he rose to
the sidewalk, Mr. Balfour came out of the door opposite to
him, with the evident intention of taking a passing stage. He
nodded to Yates, whom he had not only known in other days,
but had many times befriended, and the latter sneaked off
down the street, while he, standing for a moment as if puzzled,
turned, and with his latch-key re-entered his house.
Yates saw the movement, and knew exactly what it meant.
He only hoped that Mr. Belcher had not seen it, as, indeed,
he had not, having been at the moment on his way upstairs.

Yates knew that, with his good clothes on, the keen lawyer
would give but one interpretation to the change, and that any
hope or direct plan he might have with regard to ascertaining
when the boy was received into the family, and where he
came from, was nugatory. He would not tell Mr. Belcher
this.

Mr. Balfour called his wife to the window, pointed out the
retreating form of Yates, gave utterance to his suspicions,
and placed her upon her guard. Then he went to his office,
as well satisfied that there was a mischievous scheme on foot
as if he had overheard the conversation between Mr. Belcher
and the man who had consented to be his tool.