CHAPTER CXXXVII.

TWO MORE OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

It was about eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when these

scenes took place, that an old man, coming from a northern direction,

entered the metropolis by the suburb of Pentonville.

He was upwards of seventy-four years of age,--tall--thin--and retaining

so much muscular vigour as only to stoop slightly in his gait. His

complexion was perfectly cadaverous in hue, ghastly and careworn, and

sinister in its expression. His attire was shabby, thread-bare, and

travel-soiled,--his dusty boots denoting that he had journeyed some

distance on foot. Nevertheless, there was about him a certain air

which, in spite of his repulsive features and his sordid garb, denoted

gentility; and an observer would have pronounced him to be, as indeed

he was, a decayed gentleman.

Having passed by the Model Prison, he struck out of the highway into

the fields where so many houses are now rapidly springing up, and which

lie in the immediate vicinity of the Barnsbury and Liverpool Roads.

It was evident, however, that he had no definite object in view--no

home whither he was proceeding; and he had turned into the fields

merely to rub off the dust from his boots in the long grass, and rest

himself for a few minutes in a secluded place.

At length he rose; and his wandering footsteps led him into the

vicinity of the detached rows of small houses and cottages which dot

the immediate neighbourhood of the Caledonian Road.

Once he stopped beneath a lamp; and taking his money from his pocket,

counted it slowly. And heaven knows that the amount of his pecuniary

property did not require long to reckon; for two shillings in silver

and a few halfpence constituted all the store.

“This will at least purchase me a meal and procure me a bed for

to-night,” he murmured to himself; “and then--to-morrow--I must present

myself to those who have not heard of me for so long a time.”

With these words, the old man resumed his slow and painful walk--for

he was wearied and exhausted by the length of his day’s journey. It

was evident that he had been absent many--many years from the capital;

for, though he had once known this neighbourhood well, yet now it was

so changed that he gazed around him with astonishment,--aye, and paused

to gaze around, too,--streets, rows of houses, and gardens having taken

the place of the open fields.

He had now reached a spot where the dwellings were more thinly

scattered, and where the path was as yet unpaved and the road was

thickly strown with flints.

It was now close upon nine o’clock; but the July evening was so

beautiful that it was far from dark--only dimly obscure;--and thus,

though there was no lamp in the neighbourhood where the old man was

pursuing his way, yet was it sufficiently light for him to obtain a

good view of objects, and even of the countenances of the few people

whom he met.

Not that he paid any particular attention to the latter:--still, a

stranger just arriving in London, or a person who returns to the

capital after a very long absence, observes and marks every thing and

every body with an earnest scrutiny at first.

The old man was passing by two small houses, forming one isolated

building, and standing back from the road, when he encountered an

individual whose face immediately struck him as being one which he had

formerly known full well; and in the next instant a light flashed in

upon his mind.

“Yes--’tis he!” he ejaculated to himself; and, laying his hand upon

the other’s shoulder, he said, “Mr. Howard, we meet at last--after a

separation of upwards of nineteen years!”

“My name is not Howard--and I know nothing of you, sir. Let me go!” was

the impatient reply, delivered by the individual whom the old man had

accosted, and who was himself well stricken in years--being now midway

between sixty and seventy.

“Were I on my death bed, I could swear that your name was _once_

Howard, and that you were an attorney in London--an attorney who

absconded, ruining thousands,” exclaimed the old man.

“What means this insolence?” asked the other, affecting a tone of deep

indignation mingled with surprise. “Pass on your way, sir--and let me

pursue mine!”

“Not till I have had recompense or vengeance,” growled the old man,

ferociously. “For a sum of money did I sell myself to a vile and

abandoned woman--a certain Mrs. Slingsby, whom you knew well;--and this

money was deposited with you, villain that you are! For you fled--and

the loss of that money was not the lightest of the myriad misfortunes

that fell upon me at the time. Now do you know who _I_ am, Mr.

Howard?--for I know _you_ full well!”

“You have spoken of a number of unintelligible things to me,

sir--mentioned names with which I never was acquainted--alluded to

circumstances entirely unknown----”

“Liar!” ejaculated Mr. Torrens--for he was the old man who had just

now so wearily entered the suburb of Pentonville: “liar!” he repeated,

seizing the other individual by the collar; “what should prevent me

from raising an alarm and giving you into custody? For though years

have elapsed, yet your offences have never been expiated----”

“Softly--softly, my good sir,” interrupted the person thus addressed,

and whose manner began to evince trepidation and alarm. “Let us adjourn

somewhere and talk amicably on this matter----”

“No!” cried Mr. Torrens. “How do I know but that you intend to inveigle

me into a den where you may perhaps silence my tongue for ever?”

“Fool--dotard!” muttered the other between his lips: “does he take me

for a murderer?”

“I believe you to be capable of any villainy,” returned the now

infuriated Torrens, whose ears had caught the sense of those low

mutterings. “But I shall not lose sight of you until I have received

full and complete satisfaction for the wrongs I endured at your hands

many years ago. And that you _are_ able to give such satisfaction, your

appearance proves full well,” he added, as his eye caught a glimpse of

the gold chain and massive seals which depended from the other’s fob.

“Mr. Torrens--I will no longer attempt to conceal a fact of which you

are so well assured. I _am_ the Howard to whom you allude: but, in

the name of God! do not ruin me--do not expose me. Here--this is my

dwelling,” he continued, pointing to one of the two houses in front

of which this colloquy took place: “walk in with me--and--and we will

converse at our ease----”

“Yes--I will accompany you,” said Mr. Torrens, in a laconic manner:

“lead the way, sir.”

Mr. Howard drew forth a small key from his pocket, and with it opened

the iron gate of the railings in front of the house. Torrens followed

him across the little enclosure; and with another and larger key he

opened the door of the dark and gloomy-looking dwelling. No domestic

appeared; and the lawyer, entering the parlour, groped about in the

dark until he found some lucifer-matches--Torrens remaining all the

while in the passage. At length a light was obtained; and the visitor

was requested to enter the room, which, by means of the one poor candle

that now threw a feeble gleam around, appeared to be but indifferently

furnished,--so that the aspect of the small and cheerless house

somewhat damped the hopes which Torrens had entertained of compelling

the individual whom he had thus accidentally encountered, to disgorge

the sum embezzled by him upwards of nineteen years previously.

“Do you live all alone here?” he demanded, taking the seat to which

Howard pointed.

“Yes--all alone,” was the reply. “I am too poor to keep a servant.”

“Too poor!” exclaimed Mr. Torrens, his heart sinking within him.

“Yes, indeed! How should I be possessed of any money?” said Howard,

glancing around with nervous anxiety, as if he were afraid of being

overheard. “From the moment that I was forced, by unexpected reverses

and sudden misfortunes, to fly from London, I have led a life of

continued struggles; and although, a few years ago, I was venturous

enough to return to the metropolis and settle in this little cottage,

which I got at a cheap rent as it was only just built,--yet my affairs

have not improved----”

“But you must have some means of subsistence?--you pursue some

avocation?--you doubtless continue to practise----”

“No--no,” interrupted Howard, hastily. “I have been compelled to change

my name--and it is as Mr. Percival--_poor Mr. Percival_--that I am

known in this neighbourhood.”

“You adopt strange precautions for a poor man,” said Torrens, pointing

to the strong iron bars that fastened the shutters of the window: then,

turning a look full of sardonic meaning upon Howard--or Percival, as

we shall call him,--he added, “And methinks that when you opened your

front door just now, a heavy chain rattled. Assuredly your little house

is well protected.”

“What would you infer from these facts?” demanded Percival: “that I

have money--that I have turned miser?” he cried, with a forced and

unnatural laugh. “Absurd! The person who lived here before me, had

those bars put up to the window-shutters, and that heavy chain to the

street door----”

“I thought you got the house cheap because it had only just been

built?” said Torrens, smiling with malignant incredulity.

“Yes--but I did not tell you that I was the first person who occupied

it,” exclaimed Percival, as if eager to explain away an inconsistency

in his statements and efface from the mind of his visitor the

disagreeable impression made there.

“This is mere child’s play, Mr. Howard--or Percival--or whatever your

name may be!” cried Torrens. “You have got money--and you wish me to

believe you poor. For myself, I _am_ poor--so poor that I have but

wherewith to obtain a meal and a bed for one night. It is true that I

have a daughter and a son-in-law in London;--and it is likewise true

that necessity--stern, imperious necessity has driven me at last to

this city to seek assistance at their hands. But for nine years have I

remained as one dead to them: for nine years have I wandered about the

world, caring not what might become of me, and wishing to be believed

dead in all reality by my daughter who suspects that I have been very

criminal, and by my son-in-law who knows that I have! Yes--yes: I

have purposely left them in uncertainty relative to me--unhappy man

that I am,--purposely left them so, I say, in order that they may

apprehend the worst! Stern want, however, was driving me to them when

I encountered you: to-morrow morning I should have appeared in their

presence,--in the presence of the daughter whom I do not love, and of

her husband whom I hate--_hate_, for his very virtues, and because

he knows me to be so vile!” added the old man, bitterly. “But now,

sir, that I have met with you, your purse must save me the pain--the

humiliation--the annoyance of encountering those beings face to face!

Come, Mr. Percival--I have spoken to you frankly: do you be equally

candid with me.”

“Candid in what?” demanded the individual thus addressed.

“In respect to your own means and resources,” returned Torrens. “I

do not wish to be hard upon you; but a portion of the money that you

robbed me of, I must and will have.”

“These are harsh words--and unavailing, too,” said Percival: “for

I have not a sixpence to bless myself with! But,” he added, with a

malicious grin, “if I cannot give you money, I may perhaps impart a

piece of agreeable intelligence.”

“What! to me?” exclaimed Torrens, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes--to you. What would you think if I were to tell you that your

dearly-beloved wife was in London at this very moment, and passing

under the aristocratic name of Fitzhardinge?”

“My wife!” repeated Torrens, turning positively livid as these words

struck upon his ears. “No--impossible! I would not meet that dreadful

woman for thousands of pounds!”

“Then if you remain here you will assuredly encounter her,” said

Percival; “for I received a note from her this evening announcing her

intention to honour me with a visit,” he added, intently watching the

effect which these words produced upon his companion.

“Villain! you are endeavouring to get rid of me as speedily as

possible!” cried Torrens, almost foaming at the mouth with rage.

“Should you recognise your wife’s handwriting?” demanded Percival, a

diabolical grin still distorting features which, once handsome, had

been marred and rendered repulsive by time and evil passions. “Though

she is now stricken in years and has become positively hideous in

personal appearance, that handwriting retains all the grace and fluency

which ever characterised it.”

With these words, he took a perfumed note from his pocket-book, and

handed it to Torrens, who, hastily glancing over its contents, read the

following words:--

“Mrs. Fitzhardinge presents her compliments to Mr. Percival,

and will call upon him between nine and ten o’clock this

evening on very particular business. She therefore hopes that

Mr. Percival will have the kindness to remain at home to

receive her.”

“Now are you satisfied?” demanded Percival, who perceived by the

workings of Torrens’ countenance that the handwriting had been fully

recognised.

“And on what matters is she--that vile woman--coming to you?” asked

Torrens, impatiently.

“I cannot answer the question. You perceive that she speaks only of

_particular business_ in a vague fashion. I met her by accident some

few days ago--and have not seen her since.”

“And she comes between nine and ten,” mused Torrens: “and it is already

close upon ten o’clock! I would not meet her for the world: ’twould

recall to my mind, with intolerable force, all the anguish--all the

sufferings----No--no,” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself and

starting from his chair; “I will not--I cannot meet her!”

“Then you had better depart at once,” said Percival, evidently most

anxious to see the unwelcome visitor turn his back upon the house.

“Yes--I shall depart indeed,” exclaimed Torrens: “but you must give me

money first. Nay--no more excuses: I am a desperate man----”

At that instant a double knock at the street door echoed through the

little dwelling.

“’Tis your wife!” said Percival.

“Hide me--or let me escape,” cried Torrens, manifesting a violent and

most unfeigned reluctance to encounter the woman whom for so many

reasons he loathed and abhorred.

“Here--by the back gate,” said Percival; and, taking the light in his

hand, he hastily conducted the almost bewildered Torrens along the

passage--down a few steps--and thence to a door opening upon a piece of

unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house.

At that instant the double knock was repeated--more loudly than before

and evidently with impatience.

“Good night, Mr. Torrens,” said Percival, scarcely able to subdue a

spice of lurking satire in his tone.

“Good night,” returned the other, savagely. “But I shall visit you

again to-morrow morning.”

Percival closed the back gate as if to shut out this intimation from

his ears; and, hurrying to the front door, he gave admittance to

Perdita and her mother.