DAN'S WIFE

Charlotte watched Wilson out of the square, then she slowly followed him. The numbness of that dead youth was still oppressing her heart and brain. But she remembered that the carriage must be waiting for her on the Embankment, also that her father--she gasped a little as the thought of her father came to her--that her father would have returned from the city; that he might ask for her, and would wonder and grow uneasy at her absence. She must go home, that was her first thought. She hurried her steps, anxious to take the first turning which would lead to the Embankment.

She had turned down a side street and was walking rapidly, when she heard her name called suddenly and eagerly, and a woman, very shabbily dressed, came up to her.

"Oh, Miss Harman--Miss Harman--don't you know me?"

Charlotte put her hand to her brow.

"Yes," she said, "I know you now; you are Hester Wright. Is your husband out of prison yet?"

"He is, Miss, and he's dying; he's dying 'ard, 'ard; he's allers saying as he wants to see either you or his master. We are told that the master is ill; but oh! miss, miss, ef you would come and see him, he's dreadful anxious--dreadful, dreadful anxious. I think it's jest some'ut on his mind; ef he could tell it, I believe as he'd die easy. Oh! my beautiful, dear young lady, every one has a good word for you. Oh! I was going to make bold to come to Prince's Gate, and ask you to come to see him.

You'll never be sorry, miss, if you can help a poor soul to die easy."

"You say he is really dying?" said Charlotte.

"Yes, indeed, indeed, miss; he never held up his head since he saw the inside of the prison. He's dying now of a galloping waste, so the doctors say. Oh! Miss Harman, I'll bless you for ever if you'll come and see him."

"Yes, I will come," said Charlotte. "Where do you live?"

"Away over at Poplar, miss. Poor place enough, and unfit for one like you, but I'll come and fetch you my own self, and not a pin's worth of harm shall come to you; you need have no cause to fear. When shall I come for you, my dear, dear young lady?"

"The man is dying, you say," said Charlotte. "Death doesn't wait for our convenience; I will come with you now. My carriage is waiting quite near, I must go and give directions to the coachman: you can come with me: I will then get a cab and drive to see your husband."

After this the two women--the rich and the poor--walked on side by side, quickly and in silence. The heart of the one was dry and parched with the sudden fire of that anguish and shame, the heart of the other was so soothed, so thankful, that soft tears came, to be wiped stealthily away.

"Ain't she an angel?" she said to herself, knowing nothing, guessing less, of the storm which raged within her companion's soul; "and won't my poor Dan die easy now?"

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

AN OLD WEDDING-RING.

Once in Charlotte's life before now, she had remembered her father doing what she considered a strangely hard thing. A valet in whom he had always reposed full confidence had robbed him of one hundred pounds. He had broken open his master's desk at night and taken from thence notes to that amount. The deed had been clumsily done, and detection was very easy. The name of this valet was Wright. He was young and good-looking, and had been lately married; hitherto he had been considered all that was respectable. When his crime was brought home to him, he flew to seek Charlotte, then a very young girl; he flung himself on his knees in her presence, and begged of her to ask her father to show mercy to him.

Scarcely half a dozen words of pa.s.sionate, terrified entreaty had pa.s.sed his trembling lips, before there came a tap at the door and the young wife rushed in to kneel by his side. Together they implored; their words were poor and halting, but the agony of their great plea for mercy went straight to the young generous heart they asked to intercede for them.

Charlotte promised to do what she could. She promised eagerly, with hope in her tones.

Never afterwards did she forget that day. Long indeed did the faces of those two continue to haunt her, for she had promised in vain; her father was obdurate to all her entreaties; even her tears, and she had cried pa.s.sionately, had failed to move him. Nothing should save Wright from the full penalty of his crime. He was arrested, convicted, and sent to prison.

From that moment the Harmans lost sight of the couple. Charlotte had tried, it is true, to befriend Hester Wright, but the young woman with some pride had refused all a.s.sistance from those whom she considered strangely hard and cruel. It was some years now since anything had been heard of either of them. Charlotte, it is true, had not forgotten them, but she had put them into a back part of her memory, for her father's conduct with regard to Wright had always been a sore puzzle to her. And now, on this day of all days, she was driving in a cab by the side of Hester Wright to see her dying husband. She had sent a message home by the coachman which would allay all immediate anxiety on her account, and she sat back in the cab by the side of the poor and sad woman with a sense of almost relief, for the present. For an hour or two she had something outside of herself and her home to turn her thoughts to. After what seemed a very long drive, they reached the shabby court and shabbier house where the Wrights lived.

Charlotte had heard of such places before, but had never visited them.

Shabby women, and dirty and squalid children surrounded the young lady as she descended to the pavement. The children came very close indeed, and some even stroked her dress. One mite of three years raised, in the midst of its dirt and neglect, a face of such sweetness and innocence, that Charlotte suddenly stooped down and kissed it. That kiss, though it left a grimy mark on her lips, yet gave the first faint touch of consolation to her sorely bruised heart. There was something good still left on G.o.d's earth, and she had come to this slum, in the East end of London, to see it shine in a baby's eyes.

"Ef you please, Miss, I think we had better keep the cab," said Hester Wright; "I don't think there's any cabstand, not a long way from yere."

Charlotte spoke to the cabby, desired him to wait, then she followed Hester into the house.

"No, I have no children," said the woman in answer to a question of the young lady's; "thank G.o.d fur that; who'd want to have young 'uns in a hole like this?"

By this time they had reached their destination. It was a cellar; Hester was not so very far wrong in calling it a hole. It was damp, dirty, and ill-smelling, even to the woman who was accustomed to it; to Charlotte it was horrible beyond words. For a time, the light was so faint she could distinguish nothing, then on some straw in a corner she saw a man.

He was shrunken, and wasted, and dying, and Charlotte, prepared as she was for a great change, could never have recognized him. His wife, taking Charlotte's hand in hers, led her forward at once.

"You'd never ha' guessed, Dan, as I'd have so much luck," she said. "I met our young lady in the street, and I made bold to 'ax her and come and see you, and she come off at once. This is our Miss Harman, Dan dear."

"Our Miss Harman," repeated the dying man, raising his dim eyes. "She's changed a goodish bit."

"Don't call me yours," said Charlotte. "I never did anything for you."

"Ay, but you tried," said the wife. "Dan and me don't furget as we heerd you cryin' fit to break yer heart outside the study door, and him within, wid a heart as hard as a nether mill-stone, would do nought. No, you did yer werry best; Dan and me, we don't furget."

"No, I don't furget," said the man. "It wor a pity as the old man were so werry 'ard. I wor young and I did it rare and clumsy; it wor to pay a debt, a big, big debt. I 'ad put my 'and to a bit of paper widhout knowing wot it meant, and I wor made to pay for it, and the notes they seemed real 'andy. Well, well, I did it badly, I ha' larnt the right way since from some prison pals. I would not be found out so easy now."

He spoke in an indifferent, drawling kind of voice, which expressed no emotion whatever.

"You are very ill, I fear," said Charlotte, kneeling by his side.

"Ill! I'm dying, miss dear."

Charlotte had never seen death before. She noticed now the queer shade of grey in the complexion, the short and labored breath. She felt puzzled by these signs, for though she had never seen death, this grayness, this shortness of breath, were scarcely unfamiliar.

"I'm dying," continued the man. "I don't much care; weren't it fur Hetty there, I'd be rayther glad. I never 'ad a chance since the old master sent me to prison. I'd ha' lived respectable enough ef the old master 'ad bin merciful that time. But once in prison, always in prison fur a friendless chap like me. I never wanted to steal agen, but I jest 'ad to, to keep the life in me. I could get no honest work hanywhere; then at last I took cold, and it settled yere," pointing to his sunken chest, "and I'm going off, sure as sure!"

"He ain't like to live another twenty-four hours, so the doctor do say,"

interrupted the wife.

"No, that's jest it. Yesterday a parson called. I used ter see the jail chaplain, and I never could abide him, but this man, he did speak hup and to the point. He said as it wor a hawful thing to die unforgiven. He said it over and over, until I wor fain to ax him wot I could do to get furgiven, fur he did say it wor an hawful thing to die without having parding."

"Oh, it must be, it must be!" said Charlotte, suddenly clasping her hands very tightly together.

"I axed him how I could get it from G.o.d h'Almighty, and he told me, to tell him, the parson, first of all my whole story, and then he could _adwise_ me; so I hup and telled him heverything, hall about that theft as first tuk me to prison and ruined me, and how 'ard the old master wor, and I telled him another thing too, for he 'ad sech a way, he seemed to draw yer werry 'art out of you. Then he axed me ef I'd furgiven the old master, and I said no, fur he wor real, real 'ard; then he said so solemn-like, 'That's a great, great pity, fur I'm afraid as G.o.d can't furgive you, till you furgives.' Arter that he said a few more words, and prayed awhile, and then he went away. I could not sleep hall night, and to-day I called Hetty there, over, and she said as she'd do her werry best to bring either the old master yere, or you miss, and you see you are come; 'tis an awful thing to die without parding, that's why I axed you to come."

"Yes," said Charlotte very softly.

"Please, miss, may a poor dying feller, though he ain't no better nor a common, common thief, may he grip, 'old of yer and?"

"With all my heart."

"There now, it don't seem so werry 'ard. _Lord Jesus, I furgives Mr.

Harman._ Now I ha' said it. Wife dear, bring me hover that little box, that as I allers kep' so close."

His wife brought him a tiny and very dirty cardboard box.

"_She_ kep' it when I wor locked up; I allers call it my bit o' revenge.