A Rough Shaking, George MacDonald [highly illogical behavior txt] 📗

had seen several times at the bank. As the talking went on, he began to think he knew the other voice also. It was that of Augustus Marway. The two fancied themselves against a caravan full of wild beasts.

Marway was the son of the port-admiral, who, late in life, married a silly woman. She died young, but not before she had ruined her son, whose choice company was the least respectable of the officers who came ashore from the king's ships.

He had of late been playing deeper and having worse luck; and had borrowed until no one would lend him a single sovereign more. His father knew, in a vague way, how he was going on, and had nearly lost hope of his reformation. Having yet large remains of a fine physical constitution, he seldom failed to appear at the bank in the morning-if not quite in time, yet within the margin of lateness that escaped rebuke. Mr. Shotover was a connection by marriage, which gave Marway the privilege of being regarded by Miss Shotover as a cousin-a privilege with desirable possibilities contingent, making him anxious to retain the good opinion of his employer.

Clare heard but a portion here and there of the conversation going on outside the wooden wall; but it was plain nevertheless that Marway was pressing a creditor to leave him alone until he was married, when he would pay every shilling he owed him.

The young fellow had a persuasive tongue, and boasted he could get the better of even a Jew. Clare heard the money-lender grant him a renewal for three months, when, if Marway did not pay, or were not the accepted suitor of the lady whose fortune was to redeem him, his creditor would take his course.

The moment he perceived they were about to part, Clare hastened from the caravan, and went along the edge of the waste ground, so as to meet Marway on his road back to the town: at the corner of it they came jump together. Marway started when Clare addressed him. Seeing, then, who claimed his attention, he drew himself up.

"Well?" he said.

"Mr. Marway," began Clare, "I heard a great deal of what passed between you and old Lewin."

Marway used worse than vulgar language at times, and he did so now, ending with the words,

"A spy! a sneaking spy! Would you like to lick my boot? By Jove, you shall know the taste of it!"

"Nobody minds being overheard who hasn't something to conceal! If I had low secrets I would not stand up against the side of a caravan when I wanted to talk about them. I was inside. Not to hear you I should have had to stop my ears."

"Why didn't you, then, you low-bred flunkey?"

"Because I had heard of you what made it my duty to listen."

Marway cursed his insolence, and asked what he was doing in such a place. He would report him, he said.

"What I was doing is my business," answered Clare. "Had I known you for an honest man I would not have listened to yours. I should have had no right."

"You tell me to my face I'm a swindler!" said Marway between his teeth, letting out a blow at Clare, which he cleverly dodged.

"I do!"

"I don't know what you mean, but bitterly shall you repent your insolence, you prying rascal! This is your sweet revenge for a blow you had not the courage to return!-to dog me and get hold of my affairs! You cur! You're going to turn informer next, of course, and bear false witness against your neighbour! You shall repent it, I swear!"

"Will it be bearing false witness to say that Miss Shotover does not know the sort of man who wants to marry her? Does she know why he wants to marry her? Does her father know that you are in the clutches of a money-lender?"

Marway caught hold of Clare and threatened to kill him. Clare did not flinch, and he calmed down a little.

"What do you want to square it?" he growled.

"I don't understand you," returned Clare.

"What's the size of your tongue-plaster?"

"I don't know much slang."

"What bribe will silence you then? I hope that is plain enough-even for your comprehension!"

"If I had meant to hold my tongue, I should have held it."

"What do you want, then?"

"To keep you from marrying Miss Shotover."

"By Jove! And suppose I kick you into the gutter, and tell you to mind your own business-what then?"

"I will tell either your father or Mr. Shotover all about it."

"Even you can't be such a fool! What good would it do you? You're not after her yourself, are you?-Ha! ha!-that's it! I didn't nose that!-But come, hang it! where's the use ?-I'll give you four flimsies-there! Twenty pounds, you idiot! There!"

"Mr. Marway, nothing will make me hold my tongue-not even your promise to drop the thing."

"Then what made you come and cheek me? Impudence?"

"Not at all! I should have been glad enough not to have to do it! I came to you for my own sake."

"That of course!"

"I came because I would do nothing underhand!"

"What are you going to do next, then?"

"I am going to tell Mr. Shotover, or Admiral Marway-I haven't yet made up my mind which."

"What are you going to tell them?"

"That old Lewin has given you three months to get engaged to Miss Shotover, or take the consequences of not being able to pay what you owe him."

"And you don't count it underhand to carry such a tale?"

"I do not. It would have been if I hadn't told you first. I would tell Miss Shotover, only, if she be anything of a girl, she wouldn't believe me."

"I should think not! Come, come, be reasonable! I always thought you a good sort of fellow, though I was rough on you, I confess. There! take the money, and leave me my chance."

"No. I will save the lady if I can. She shall at least know the sort of man you are."

"Then it's war to the knife, is it?"

"I mean to tell the truth about you."

"Then do your worst. You shall black my boots again."

"If I do, I shall have the penny first."

"You cringing flunkey!"

"I haven't cringed to you, Mr. Marway!"

Marway tried to kick him, failed, and strode into the dark between him and the lamps of the town.


Chapter LXII.

The cage of the puma.


Marway was a fine, handsome fellow, whose manners, where he saw reason, soon won him favour, and two of the young men in the office were his ready slaves. Every moment of the next day Clare was watched. Marway had laid his plans, and would forestall frustration. Clare could hardly do anything before the dinner-hour, but Marway would make assurance double sure.

At anchor in the roads lay a certain frigate, whose duty it was to sail round the islands, like a duck about her floating brood. Among the young officers on board were two with whom Marway was intimate. He had met them the night before, and they had together laid a plot for nullifying Clare's interference with Marway's scheme-which his friends also had reason to wish successful, for Marway owed them both money. Clare had come in the way of all three.

Now little Ann was a guardian cherub to the object of their enmity, and he and she must first of all be separated. Clare had asked leave of Miss Shotover to take the child to Noah's ark, as she called it, that evening, and Marway had learned it from her: Clare's going would favour their plan, but the child's presence would render it impracticable.

One thing in their favour was, that Mr. Shotover was from home. If Clare had resolved on telling him rather than the admiral, he could not until the next evening, and that would give them abundant time. On the other hand, having him watched, they could easily prevent him from finding the admiral. But Clare had indeed come to the just conclusion that his master had the first right to know what he had to tell. His object was not the exposure of Marway, but the protection of his master's daughter: he would, therefore, wait Mr. Shotover's return. He said to himself also, that Marway would thereby have a chance to bethink himself, and, like Hamlet's uncle, "try what repentance can."

As soon as he had put the bank in order for the night, he went to find his little companion, and take her to Noah's ark. The child had been sitting all the morning and afternoon in a profound stillness of expectation; but the hour came and passed, and Clare did not appear.

"You never, never, never came," she said to him afterward. "I had to go to bed, and the beasts went away."

It was many long weeks before she told him this, or her solemn little visage smiled again.

He went to the little room off the hall, where he almost always found her waiting for him, dressed to go. She was not there. Nobody came. He grew impatient, and ran in his eagerness up the front stair. At the top he met the butler coming from the drawing-room-a respectable old man, who had been in the family as long as his master.

"Pardon me, Mr. Porson," said the butler, who was especially polite to Clare, recognizing in him the ennoblement of his own order, "but it is against the rules for any of the gentlemen below to come up this staircase."

"I know I'm in the wrong," answered Clare; "but I was in such a hurry I ventured this once. I've been waiting for Miss Ann twenty minutes."

"If you will go down, I will make inquiry, and let you know directly," replied the butler.

Clare went down, and had not waited more than another minute when the butler brought the message that the child was not to go out. In vain Clare sought an explanation; the old man knew nothing of the matter, but confessed that Miss Shotover seemed a little put out.

Then Clare saw that his desire to do justice had thwarted his endeavour: Marway had seen Miss Shotover, he concluded, and had so thoroughly prejudiced her against anything he might say, that she had already taken the child from him! He repented that he had told him his purpose before he was ready to follow it up with immediate action. Distressed at the thought of little Ann's disappointment, he set out for the show, glad in the midst of his grief, that he was going to see Pummy once more.

The weather had been a little cloudy all day, but as he left the closer part of the town, the vaporous vault gave way, and the west revealed a glorious sunset. Troubled for the trouble of little Ann, Clare seemed drawn into the sunset. The splendour said to him: "Go on; sorrow is but a cloud. Do the work given you to do, and the clouds will keep moving; stop your work and the clouds will settle down hard."

"When I was on the tramp," thought Clare, "I always went on, and that's how I came here. If I hadn't gone on, I should never have found the darling!"