recognise him; this is the Monsieur whom le petit Pichot was following. And why? He is not a pick-pocket" (he divided the words scrupulously) "this young Alexis? Who knows? And what share has la Mère Pichot in this matter? We shall see." He went out into the street.
Not far from the shop a gentleman was getting into a cab.
"Freer Street, Soho," he said to the cabman.
"Is it worth while to follow? or have I made myself to know enough for the present?" Monsieur Chose asked himself, smiling blandly the while.
CHAPTER XIV. A PARTING.
Wilford Hadfield re-entered the house in Freer Street. He had with him the key of the street door, so that he was able to return without noise. But he saw by the light in the first-floor windows that Violet had not yet retired for the night; she was probably sitting up, expecting his coming back; and in the hall he encountered Sally the Rembrandt.
"Lawks! it's you, is it!" she cried out. She was never ceremonious in her greetings, nor indeed in her speech generally. "How you frighten one coming in so quiet, for all the world like a thief."
"I thought you'd have been in bed by this time, Sally!" said Wilford, apologetically.
"Lawks, no!" Sally retorted, "it's little I care about going to bed. It seems to me it's hardly worth while going to bed at all; life ain't long enough for such waste of time; and all the trouble of putting one's things off and on, and washing and that; I think one could get on just as well without it all."
Certainly the Rembrandt seemed to be inclined to carry out her own views in this respect as fully as possible. She was always very late retiring for the night, and was fond of entering upon lengthy occupations at most unseasonable hours. She had been known more than once to be busy washing the door-steps or cleaning the windows at midnight; while the sounds of boot and knife polishing had frequently been heard at one o'clock in the morning; she was certainly the earliest riser in the house, and to be found groping about on pitch-dark winter mornings, wakeful and active, when the other residents at Mr. Phillimore's were probably in the enjoyment of their first sleep. A strange, ugly, not clean-looking, rude-mannered, hard-working, kindly old woman, very valuable to Mr. Phillimore's household, and that quite apart from her pictorial qualifications. Was she conscious of these? Anyhow, she was always putting herself into advantageous positions—considering her as a work in the Rembrandt manner—"fetching out her chiar' oscuro" effects, Mr. Phillimore termed it. A most picturesque bundle, eminently Flemish in style, she was fond, it seemed, of crouching over her kitchen fire—the red light gleaming on her shrivelled, corrugated face in a wonderful way; and she was prone to hold a swaling, flaring candle high above her head as she moved about the house, her eyes thrown by such means into dense warm brown fog, while her knotted projecting nose cast down a deep shadow that nearly hid her lips. Contemplating her gnarled visage under these aspects, the picture-dealer grew quite warm with satisfaction at his possession of such a treasure, and could only, by the exercise of the most extraordinary self-restraint, be stayed from doubling her wages on the spot, or insuring her life instantly, for an enormous amount.
"Lawks, how pale the man is!" cried Sally, her eye falling on Wilford's white face. "Are you cold? Ain't you well? Lawks me! I never saw nothing like it. What's the matter?"
"Hush, Sally; there's nothing the matter. Stay. Who left that letter you gave me as I went out a little while ago?" The question was rather nervously asked.
"That letter? Why, I told you—a boy."
"What sort of boy?"
"What sort of boy? Ain't they all alike? Imperent warmints!—throwing stones, and calling names, and dirting the door-steps, and flinging muck down the airies. I'd pay 'em out well, I would, if I was their mothers, which thank God I ain't, and never will be."
"Was he English?"
"Well, now you mention it, I don't know as he was. But, bless you! he was off afore you could wink a'most—shoves the letter into my hand bold as brass, and off goes my lord. No, I don't think he were English, from what I could see of him, which wasn't much. Leastways, there was a queer look about him, and he had a funny-shaped cap on. I shouldn't wonder now but what he was one of them furriners!"
Wilford mounted the stairs quickly, and entered the drawing-room.
He was much excited, but it was evident that he was doing all that he possibly could to command himself. It seemed as though he had determined upon a certain line of conduct, and that with the determination strength had come to him to carry it out thoroughly. He had concentrated all his energies to play out the part he had prescribed to himself. Thus he managed to place a restraint upon his feelings, and to suppress a nervous agitation which, however natural, would have interfered with his plans.
"My dearest Violet," he said, advancing to his wife. Some strangeness in his voice must have struck her: she started up.
"Has anything happened?"
"What should happen?" and he looked at her for a moment suspiciously.
"Your hand quite trembles, Wil," she said. "Are you well? Is anything wrong with you?"
He released his hand from her grasp, with an effort at a laugh that was not very successful.
"Listen, wife mine," he said, still with a feeble attempt at mirth. "Sit down quietly, and I'll tell you all."
She obeyed him at once, with assumed calmness, for there was something in his manner that alarmed her—she knew not why.
"How curiously things fall out sometimes," he said. "Do you remember what you were saying at dinner-time, when Martin was here, that you wished me to desist from work for a little—to leave London—to take a holiday?"
