Sandra Belloni (originally Emilia in England). Complete

Emilia listened attentively, replying with a flying glance to the squeeze of his hand. He was astonished to see her so little disconcerted. But now the gradual fall of Mr. Marter’s voice gave them warning.

“My lover?” breathed Emilia, hurriedly and eagerly; questioning with eye and tone.

“My darling!” returned Wilfrid.

She sat down to the organ with a smile. He was careful to retreat before the conclusion of the service; somewhat chagrined by his success. That smile of hers was inexplicable to him.

CHAPTER XXIV

Mr. Pole was closeted in his City counting-house with Mr. Pericles, before a heap of papers and newly-opened foreign letters; to one of which, bearing a Russian stamp, he referred fretfully at times, as if to verify a monstrous fact. Any one could have seen that he was not in a condition to transact business. His face was unnaturally patched with colour, and his grey-tinged hair hung tumbled over his forehead like waves blown by a changeing wind. Still, he maintained his habitual effort to look collected, and defeat the scrutiny of the sallow-eyed fellow opposite; who quietly glanced, now and then, from the nervous feet to the nervous fingers, and nodded to himself a sardonic outlandish nod.

“Now, listen to me,” said Mr. Pericles. “We shall not burst out about zis Riga man. He is a villain,—very well. Say it. He is a villain,—say so. And stop. Because” (and up went the Greek’s forefinger), “we must not have a scandal, in ze fairst place. We do not want pity, in ze second. Saird, we must seem to trust him, in spite. I say, yeas! What is pity to us of commerce? It is contempt. We trust him on, and we lose what he pocket—a sossand. We burst on him, and we lose twenty, serty, forty; and we lose reputation.”

“I’d have every villain hanged,” cried Mr. Pole. “The scoundrel! I’d hang him with his own hemp. He talks of a factory burnt, and dares to joke about tallow! and in a business letter! and when he is telling one of a loss of money to that amount!”

“Not bad, ze joke,” grinned Mr. Pericles. “It is a lesson of coolness. We learn it. But mind! he say, ‘possible loss.’ It is not positif. Hein! ze man is trying us. So! shall we burst out and make him desperate? We are in his hand at Riga, you see?”

“I see this,” said Mr. Pole, “that he’s a confounded rascal, and I’ll know whether the law can’t reach him.”

“Ha! ze law!” Mr. Pericles sneered. “So you are, you. English. Always, ze law! But, we are men—we are not machine. Law for a machine, not a man! We punish him, perhaps. Well; he is punished. He is imprisoned—forty monz. We pay for him a sossand pound a monz. He is flogged—forty lashes. We pay for him a sossand pound a lash. You can afford zat? It is a luxury like anozer. It is not for me.”

“How long are we to trust the villain?” said Mr. Pole. “If we trust him at all, mind! I don’t say I do, or will.”

“Ze money is locked up for a year, my friend. So soon we get it, so soon he goes, from ze toe off.” Mr. Pericles’ shining toe’s-tip performed an agile circuit, and he smoothed his square clean jaw and venomous moustache reflectively. “Not now,” he resumed. “While he hold us in his hand, we will not drive him to ze devil, or we go too, I believe, or part of ze way. But now, we say, zat money is frozen in ze Nord. We will make it in Australie, and in Greek waters. I have exposed to you my plan.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Pole, “and I’ve told you I’ve no pretensions to be a capitalist. We have no less than three ventures out, already.”

“It is like you English! When you have ze world to milk, you go to one point and stick. It fails, and you fail. What is zat word?”—Mr. Pericles tapped his brow—“pluck,—you want pluck. It is your decadence. Greek, and Russian, and Yankee, all zey beat you. For, it is pluck. You make a pin’s head, not a pin. It is in brain and heart you do fail. You have only your position,—an island, and ships, and some favour. You are no match in pluck. We beat you. And we live for pleasure, while you groan and sweat—mon Dieu! it is slavery.”

Mr. Pericles twinkled his white eyes over the blinking merchant, and rose from his chair, humming a bit of opera, and announcing, casually, that a certain prima-donna had obtained a divorce from her husband.

“But,” he added suddenly, “I say to you, if you cannot afford to speculate, run away from it as ze fire. Run away from it, and hold up your coat-tail. Jump ditches, and do not stop till you are safe home—hein? you say ‘cosy?’ I hear my landlady. Run till you are safe cosy. But if you are a man wis a head and a pocket, zen you know that ‘speculate’ means a dozen ventures. So, you come clear. Or, it is ruin. It is ruin, I say: you have been playing.”

“An Englishman,” returned Mr. Pole, disgusted at the shrugs he had witnessed—“an Englishman’s as good as any of you. Look at us—look at our history—look at our wealth. By Jingo! But we like plain-dealing and common sense; and as to afford, what do you mean?”

“No, no,” Mr. Pericles petitioned with uplifted hand; “my English is bad. It is—ah! bad. You shall look it over—my plan. It will strike your sense. Next week I go to Italy. I take ze little Belloni. You will manage all. I have in you, my friend, perfec’ confidence. An Englishman, he is honest. An Englishman and a Greek conjoined, zey beat ze world! It is true, ma foi. For zat, I seek you, and not a countryman. A Frenchman?—oh, no! A German?—not a bit! A Russian?—never! A Yankee?—save me! I am a Greek—I take an Englishman.”

“Well, well, you must leave me to think it over,” said Mr. Pole, pleasantly smoothed down. “As to honesty, that’s a matter of course with us: that’s the mere footing we go upon. We don’t plume ourselves upon what’s general, here. There is, I regret to say, a difference between us and other nations. I believe it’s partly their religion. They swindle us, and pay their priests for absolution with our money. If you’re a double-dyed sinner, you can easily get yourself whitewashed over there. Confound them! When that fellow sent no remittance last month, I told you I suspected him. Who was, the shrewdest then? As for pluck, I never failed in that yet. But, I will see a thing clear. The man who speculates blindfold, is a fowl who walks into market to be plucked. Between being plucked, and having pluck, you’ll see a distinction when you know the language better; but you must make use of your head, or the chances are you won’t be much of a difference,—eh? I’ll think over your scheme. I’m not a man to hesitate, if the calculations are sound. I’ll look at the papers here.”

“My friend, you will decide before zat I go to Italy.” said Mr. Pericles, and presently took his leave.

When he was gone, Mr. Pole turned his chair to the table, and made an attempt to inspect one of the papers deliberately. Having untied it, he retied it with care, put it aside, marked ‘immediate,’ and read the letter from Riga anew. This he tore into shreds, with animadversions on the quality of the rags that had produced it, and opened the important paper once more. He got to the end of a sentence or two, when his fingers moved about for the letter; and then his mind conceived a necessity for turning to the directory, for which he rang the bell. The great red book was brought into his room by a youthful clerk, who waited by, while his master, unaware of his presence, tracked a name with his forefinger. It stopped at Pole, Samuel Bolton; and a lurking smile was on the merchant’s face as he read the name: a smile of curious meaning, neither fresh nor sad; the meditative smile of one who looks upon an afflicted creature from whom he is aloof. After a lengthened contemplation of this name, he said, with a sigh, “Poor Chump! I wonder whether he’s here, too.” A search for the defunct proved that he was out of date. Mr. Pole thrust his hand to the bell that he might behold poor Chump in an old directory that would call up the blotted years.

“I am here, sir,” said his clerk, who had been holding deferential watch at a few steps from the table.

“What do you do here then, sir, all this time?”

“I waited, sir, because—”

“You waste and dawdle away twenty or thirty minutes, when you ought to be doing your work. What do you mean?” Mr. Pole stood up and took an angry stride.

The young man could scarcely believe his master was not stooping to jest with him. He said: “For that matter, sir, it can’t be a minute that I have been wasting.”

“I called you in half an hour ago,” returned Mr. Pole, fumbling at his watch-fob.

“It must have been somebody else, sir.”

“Did you bring in this directory? Look at it! This?”

“This is the book that I brought in, sir.”

“How long since?”

“I think, not a minute and a half, sir.”

Mr. Pole gazed at him, and coughed slowly. “I could have sworn…” he murmured, and commenced blinking.

“I suppose I must be a little queer,” he pursued; and instantly his right hand struck out, quivering. The young clerk grasped it, and drew him to a chair.

“Tush,” said his master, working his feverish fingers across his forehead. “Want of food. I don’t eat like you young fellows. Fetch me a glass of wine and a biscuit. Good wine, mind. Port. Or, no; you can’t trust tavern Port:—brandy. Get it yourself, don’t rely on the porter. And bring it yourself, you understand the importance? What is your name?”

“Braintop,” replied the youth, with the modesty of one whose name has been too frequently subjected to puns.

“I think I never heard so singular a name in my life,” Mr. Pole ejaculated seriously. “Braintop! It’ll always make me think of brandy. What are you waiting for now?”

“I took the liberty of waiting before, to say that a lady wished to see you, sir.”

Mr. Pole started from his chair. “A foreign lady?”

“She may be foreign. She speaks English, sir, and her name, I think, was foreign. I’ve forgotten it, I fear.”

“It’s the wife of that fellow from Riga!” cried the merchant. “Show her in. Show her in, immediately. I suspected this. She’s in London, I know. I’m equal to her: show her in. When you fetch the Braintop and biscuit, call me to the door. You understand.”

The youth affected meekly to enjoy this fiery significance given to his name, and said that he understood, without any doubt. He retired, and in a few moments ushered in Emilia Belloni.

Mr. Pole was in the middle of the room, wearing a countenance of marked severity, and watchful to maintain it in his opening bow; but when he perceived his little Brookfield guest standing timidly in the doorway, his eyebrows lifted, and his hands spread out; and “Well, to be sure!” he cried; while Emilia hurried up to him. She had to assure him that everything was right at home, and was next called upon to state what had brought her to town; but his continued exclamation of “Bless my soul!” reprieved her reply, and she sat in a chair panting quickly.

Mr. Pole spoke tenderly of refreshments; wine and cake, or biscuits.

“I cannot eat or drink,” said Emilia.

“Why, what’s come to you, my dear?” returned Mr. Pole in unaffected wonder.

“I am not hungry.”

“You generally are, at home, about this time—eh?”

Emilia sighed, and feigned the sad note to be a breath of fatigue.