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In Luck at Last, a novel by Walter Besant |
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Chapter 12. Is This His Photograph? |
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_ CHAPTER XII. IS THIS HIS PHOTOGRAPH? The best way to get a talk with his cousin was to dine with her. Arnold therefore went to Chester Square next day with the photograph in his pocket. It was half an hour before dinner when he arrived, and Clara was alone. "My dear," she cried with enthusiasm, "I am charmed--I am delighted--with Iris." "I am glad," said Arnold mendaciously. "I am delighted with her--in every way. She is more and better than I could have expected--far more. A few Americanisms, of course--" "No doubt," said Arnold. "When I saw her I thought they rather resembled Anglicisms. But you have had opportunities of judging. You have in your own possession," he continued, "have you not, all the papers which establish her identity?" "Oh, yes; they are all locked up in my strong-box. I shall be very careful of them. Though, of course, there is no one who has to be satisfied except myself. And I am perfectly satisfied. But then I never had any doubt from the beginning. How could there be any doubt?" "How, indeed?" "Truth, honor, loyalty, and candor, as well as gentle descent, are written on that girl's noble brow, Arnold, plain, so that all may read. It is truly wonderful," she went on, "how the old gentle blood shows itself, and will break out under the most unexpected conditions. In her face she is not much like her father; that is true; though sometimes I catch a momentary resemblance, which instantly disappears again. Her eyes are not in the least like his, nor has she his manner, or carriage, or any of his little tricks and peculiarities--though, perhaps, I shall observe traces of some of them in time. But especially she resembles him in her voice. The tone--the timbre--reminds me every moment of my poor Claude." "I suppose," said Arnold, "that one must inherit something, if it is only a voice, from one's father. Have you said anything to her yet about money matters, and a settlement of her claims?" "No, not yet. I did venture, last night, to approach the subject, but she would not hear of it. So I dropped it. I call that true delicacy, Arnold--native, instinctive, hereditary delicacy." "Have you given any more money to the American gentleman who brought her home?" "Iris made him take a hundred pounds, against his will, to buy books with, for he is not rich. Poor fellow! It went much against the grain with him to take the money. But she made him take it. She said he wanted books and instruments, and insisted on his having at least a hundred pounds. It was generous of her. Yes; she is--I am convinced--a truly generous girl, and as open-handed as the day. Now, would a common girl, a girl of no descent, have shown so much delicacy and generosity?" "By the way, Clara, here is a photograph. Does it belong to you? I--I picked it up." He showed the photograph which Lala Roy had given him. "Oh, yes; it is a likeness of Dr. Washington, Iris's adopted brother and guardian. She must have dropped it. I should think it was taken a few years back, but it is still a very good likeness. A handsome man, is he not? He grows upon one rather. His parting words with Iris yesterday were very dignified and touching." "I will give it to her presently," he replied, without further comment. There was, then, no doubt. The woman was an impostor, and the man was the thief, and the papers were the papers which had been stolen from the safe, and Iris Deseret was no other than his own Iris. But he must not show the least sign of suspicion. "What are you thinking about, Arnold?" asked Clara. "Your face is as black as thunder. You are not sorry that Iris has returned, are you?" "I was thinking of my engagement, Clara." "Why, you are not tired of it already? An engaged man, Arnold, ought not to look so gloomy as that." "I am not tired of it yet. But I am unhappy as regards some circumstances connected with it. Your disapproval, Clara, for one. My dear cousin, I owe so much to you, that I want to owe you more. Now, I have a proposition--a promise--to make to you. I am now so sure, so very sure and certain, that you will want me to marry Miss Aglen--and no one else--when you once know her, that I will engage solemnly not to marry her unless you entirely approve. Let me owe my wife to you, as well as everything else." "Arnold, you are not in earnest." "Quite in earnest." "But I shall never approve. Never--never--never! I could not bring myself, under any circumstances that I can conceive, to approve of such a connection." "My dear cousin, I am, on the other hand, perfectly certain that you will approve. Why, if I were not quite certain, do you think I should have made this promise? But to return to your newly-found cousin. Tell me more about her." "Well, I have discovered that she is a really very clever and gifted girl. She can imitate people in the most wonderful way, especially actresses, though she has only been to a theater once or twice in her life. At Liverpool she heard some one sing what she calls a Tropical Song, and this she actually remembers--she carried it away in her head, every word--and she can sing it just as they sing it on the stage, with all the vulgarity and gestures imitated to the very life. Of course I should not like her to do this before anybody else, but it is really wonderful." "Indeed!" said Arnold. "It must be very clever and amusing." "Of course," said Clara, with colossal ignorance, "an American lady can hardly be expected to understand English vulgarities. No doubt there is an American variety." Arnold thought that a vulgar song could be judged at its true value by any lady, either American or English, but he said nothing. And then the young lady herself appeared. She had been driving about with Clara among various shops, and now bore upon her person the charming result of these journeys, in the shape of a garment, which was rich in texture, and splendid in the making. And she really was a handsome girl, only with a certain air of being dressed for the stage. But Arnold, now more than suspicious, was not dazzled by the gorgeous raiment, and only considered how his cousin could for a moment imagine this person to be a lady, and how it would be best to break the news. "Clara's cousin," she said, "I have forgotten your name; but how do you do, again?" And then they went in to dinner. "You have learned, I suppose," said Arnold, "something about the Deseret family by this time?" "Oh, yes, I have heard all about the family-tree. I dare say I shall get to know it by heart in time. But you don't expect me all at once, to care much for it." "Little Republican!" said Clara. "She actually does not feel a pride in belonging to a good old family." The girl made a little gesture. "Your family can't do much for you, that I can see, except to make you proud, and pretend not to see other women in the shop. That is what the county ladies do." "Why, my dear, what on earth do you know of the county ladies?" Lotty blushed a little. She had made a mistake. But she quickly recovered. "I only know what I've read, cousin, about any kind of English ladies. But that's enough, I'm sure. Stuck-up things!" And again she observed, from Clara's pained expression, that she had made another mistake. If she showed a liking for stout at lunch, she manifested a positive passion for champagne at dinner. "I do like the English custom," she said, "of having two dinners in the day." "Ladies in America, I suppose," said Clara, "dine in the middle of the day?" "Always." "But I have visited many families in New York and Boston who dined late," said Arnold. "Dare say," she replied carelessly. "I'm going to have some more of that curry stuff, please. And don't ask any more questions, anybody, till I've worried through with it. I'm a wolf at curry." "She likes England, Arnold," said Clara, covering up this remark, so to speak. "She likes the country, she says, very much." "At all events," said the girl, "I like this house, which is first-class--fine--proper. And the furniture, and pictures, and all--tiptop. But I'm afraid it is going to be awful dull, except at meals, and when the Boy is going." Her own head was just touched by the "Boy," and she was a little off her guard. "My dear child," said Clara, "you have only just come, and you have not yet learned to know and love your own home and your father's friends. You must take a little time." "Oh, I'll take time. As long as you like. But I shall soon be tired of sitting at home. I want to go about and see things--theaters and music-halls, and all kinds of places." "Ladies, in England, do not go to music-halls," said Arnold. "Gentlemen do. Why not ladies, then? Answer me that. Why can't ladies go, when gentlemen go? What is proper for gentlemen is proper for ladies. Very well, then, I want to go somewhere every night. I want to see everything there is to see, and to hear all that there is to hear." "We shall go, presently, a good deal into society," said Clara timidly. "Society will come back to town very soon now--at least, some of it." "Oh, yes, I dare say. Society! No, thank you, with company manners. I want to laugh, and talk, and enjoy myself." The champagne, in fact, had made her forget the instructions of her tutor. At all events, she looked anything but "quiet," with her face flushed and her eyes bright. Suddenly she caught Arnold's expression of suspicion and watchfulness, and resolutely subdued a rising inclination to get up from the table and have a walk round with a snatch of a Topical Song. "Forgive me, Clara," she murmured in her sweetest tone, "forgive me, cousin. I feel as if I must break out a bit, now and then. Yankee manners, you know. Let me stay quiet with you for a while. You know the thought of starched and stiff London society quite frightens me. I am not used to anything stiff. Let me stay at home quiet, with you." "Dear girl!" cried Clara, her eyes filling with tears; "she has all Claude's affectionate softness of heart." "I believe," said Arnold, later on in the evening, "that she must have been a circus rider, or something of that sort. What on earth does Clara mean by the gentle blood breaking out? We nearly had a breaking out at dinner, but it certainly was not due to the gentle blood." After dinner, Arnold found her sitting on a sofa with Clara, who was telling her something about the glories of the Deseret family. He was half inclined to pity the girl, or to laugh--he was not certain which--for the patience with which she listened, in order to make amends for any bad impression she might have produced at dinner. He asked her, presently, if she would play. She might be, and certainly was, vulgar; but she could play well and she knew good music. People generally think that good music softens manners, and does not permit those who play and practice it to be vulgar. But, concerning this young person, so much could not be said with any truth. "You play very well. Where did you learn? Who was your master?" Arnold asked. She began to reply, but stopped short. He had very nearly caught her. "Don't ask questions," she said. "I told you not to ask questions before. Where should I learn, but in America? Do you suppose no one can play the piano, except in England? Look here," she glanced at her cousin. "Do you, Mr. Arbuthnot, always spend your evenings like this?" "How like this?" "Why, going around in a swallow tail to drawing-rooms with the women, like a tame tom-cat. If you do, you must be a truly good young man. If you don't, what do you do?" "Very often I spend my evenings in a drawing-room." "Oh, Lord! Do most young Englishmen carry on in the same proper way?" "Why not?" "Don't they go to music-halls, please, and dancing cribs, and such?" "Perhaps. But what does it concern us to know what some men do?" "Oh, not much. Only if I were a man like you, I wouldn't consent to be a tame tom-cat--that is all; but perhaps you like it." She meant to insult and offend him so that he should not come any more. But she did not succeed. He only laughed, feeling that he was getting below the surface, and sat down beside the piano. "You amuse me," he said, "and you astonish me. You are, in fact, the most astonishing person I ever met. For instance, you come from America, and you talk pure London slang with a cockney twang. How did it get there?" In fact, it was not exactly London slang, but a patois or dialect, learned partly from her husband, partly from her companions, and partly brought from Gloucester. "I don't know--I never asked. It came wrapped up in brown paper, perhaps, with a string round it." "You have lived in America all your life, and you look more like an Englishwoman than any other girl I have ever seen." "Do I? So much the better for the English girls; they can't do better than take after me. But perhaps--most likely, in fact--you think that American girls all squint, perhaps, or have got humpbacks? Anything else?" "You were brought up in a little American village, and yet you play in the style of a girl who has had the best masters." She did not explain--it was not necessary to explain--that her master had been her father who was a teacher of music. "I can't help it, can I?" she asked; "I can't help it if I turned out different to what you expected. People sometimes do, you know. And when you don't approve of a girl, it's English manners, I suppose, to tell her so--kind of encourages her to persevere, and pray for better luck next time, doesn't it? It's simple too, and prevents any foolish errors--no mistake afterward, you see. I say, are you going to come here often; because, if you are, I shall go away back to the States or somewhere, or stay upstairs in my own room. You and me won't get on very well together, I am afraid." "I don't think you will see me very often," he replied. "That is improbable; yet I dare say I shall come here as often as I usually do." "What do you mean by that?" She looked sharply and suspiciously at him. He repeated his words, and she perceived that there was meaning in them, and she felt uneasy. "I don't understand at all," she said; "Clara tells me that this house is mine. Now--don't you know--I don't intend to invite any but my own friends to visit me in my own house?" "That seems reasonable. No one can expect you to invite people who are not your friends." "Well, then, I ain't likely to call you my friend"--Arnold inclined his head--"and I am not going to talk riddles any more. Is there anything else you want to say?" "Nothing more, I think, at present, thank you." "If there is, you know, don't mind me--have it out--I'm nobody, of course. I'm not expected to have any manners--I'm only a girl. You can say what you please to me, and be as rude as you please; Englishmen always are as rude as they can be to American girls--I've always heard that." Arnold laughed. "At all events," he said, "you have charmed Clara, which is the only really important thing. Good-night, Miss--Miss Deseret." "Good-night, old man," she said, laughing, because she bore no malice, and had given him a candid opinion; "I dare say when you get rid of your fine company manners, and put off your swallow tail, you're not a bad sort, after all. Perhaps, if you would confess, you are as fond of a kick-up on your way home as anybody. Trust you quiet chaps!" Clara had not fortunately heard much of this conversation, which, indeed, was not meant for her, because the girl was playing all the time some waltz music, which enabled her to talk and play without being heard at the other end of the room. * * * * * Well, there was now no doubt. The American physician and the subject of the photograph were certainly the same man. And this man was also the thief of the safe, and Iris Aglen was Iris Deseret. Of that, Arnold had no longer any reasonable doubt. There was, however, one thing more. Before leaving Clara's house, he refreshed his memory as to the Deseret arms. The quarterings of the shield were, so far, exactly what Mr. Emblem recollected. "It is," said Lala Roy, "what I thought. But, as yet, not a word to Iris." He then proceeded to relate the repentance, the confession, and the atonement proposed by the remorseful James. But he did not tell quite all. For the wise man never tells all. What really happened was this. When James had made a clean breast and confessed his enormous share in the villainy, Lala Roy bound him over to secrecy under pain of Law, Law the Rigorous, pointing out that although they do not, in England, exhibit the Kourbash, or bastinado the soles of the feet, they make the prisoner sleep on a hard board, starve him on skilly, set him to work which tears his nails from his fingers, keep him from conversation, tobacco, and drink, and when he comes out, so hedge him around with prejudice and so clothe him with a robe of shame, that no one will ever employ him again, and he is therefore doomed to go back again to the English Hell. Lala Roy, though a man of few words, drew so vivid a description of the punishment which awaited his penitent that James, foxy as he was by nature, felt constrained to resolve that henceforth, happen what might, then and for all future, he would range himself on the side of virtue, and as a beginning he promised to do everything that he could for the confounding of Joseph and the bringing of the guilty to justice. _ |
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