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.