Chapter XII: In St. Clement's Lane

It was the early dusk of a dull November day--a day in which there had not been even twilight in London--such days as are only to be seen there and in Archangel--when one of those awful black fogs prevail, when gas is lighted everywhere, when all wheel traffic is suspended, when cabs, 'buses, and drays cease to run, and sounds become curiously deadened or muffled.

Lord Cadbury, from narrow Lombard Street, turned into that narrower alley which lies between it and King William Street called St. Clement's Lane, from the ancient church dedicated to that saint some time prior to 1309, and for the rebuilding of which, after the great fire, the parish bestowed upon Sir Christopher Wren the curious fee of 'one-third of a hogshead of wine.'

Here now are the close, narrow, and in many instances mean and sordid-looking offices of merchants, insurance agents, bill-brokers, and others, who, however, turn over vast sums of money in their humble-looking premises.

To this curious quarter of the City Lord Cadbury had come, with his thoughts intent--strange to say--upon Alison Cheyne!

The girl's great loveliness and purity had fired his passion--pure love it was not, nor could it be--and a sentiment of jealousy, pique, and more than either--something of revenge--made him resolve, through her father's means, to bend, to bow, to crush her to the end he wished!

At his years he was more than ever exasperated by the thought of having a young and handsome rival like Bevil Goring to contend with; and much jealousy had thus made the elderly lover mad with spite and reckless of consequences; and as he knew that poverty and shame made Sir Ranald desperate he resolved to take his measures accordingly.

The longing to break her pride and to triumph over Goring made Cadbury meanly revengeful, and thus it was that on the day in question he went groping towards the office of Mr. Solomon Slagg, a bill discounter in this gloomy locality.

A narrow passage, closed by a green baize-covered swing door, led to a room, or rather den, in which a couple of clerks sat all day long, and often far into the night, perched on two high stools, writing in the same dreary ledgers by gaslight, for the blessed rays of the sun never found entrance there all the year round; and in a smaller den beyond, usually lighted, but dimly, by a curious arrangement of reflectors, sat Mr. Solomon Slagg, writing by the light of a single gas jet, minus shade or glass, but encircled by a wire guard.

The dingy room--the walls, ceiling, and bare floor were all of the same neutral kind of grey tint--had a little fire-place, wherein stood a meagre gas-stove. Above it on shelves were numerous mysterious-looking bottles containing samples of wine, and against the wall were numerous oil-paintings, placed there, not for ornament, but with reference to Mr. Slagg's multifarious modes of doing business and 'doing' the public.

His rather rotund but misshapen figure was wedged deep in a black leathern easychair at an ink-spotted desk, whereon lay piles of battered and greasy-looking ledgers and day-books. His bald head was sunk between his heavily-rounded shoulders; he had large, coarse ears, a nose like an inverted pear, pendulous cheeks, to which straggling grey whiskers were attached, and he had cunning little eyes that twinkled in deep and cavernous sockets.

Altogether Mr. Solomon Slagg was not a pleasant person to look upon, but his face, such as it was, lighted up when he saw his visitor, to whom he bowed low, without rising, and to whom he indicated a chair by a wave of his pen, with which he made a mark or sum total on a page, and, closing a small ledger, turned to Lord Cadbury.

'Stifling den this of yours,' grumbled the latter, as he lighted a cigar; 'no objections to smoking, I suppose?'

'None, my lord.'

'A vile day of fog--utter black fog. Had the devil's own trouble in making you out on foot from Moorgate Street Station; but, you got my letter, of course?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'And acted upon it?'

'Yes, my lord,' said Slagg, slowly, 'I was just about to write----'

'That you had got up all Cheyne's blue paper.'

'Yes, in obedience to your directions, I took up all the acceptances I could trace, and, as he has been more than once in the Black List, I wonder that he has been able to draw bills without some one to back them. There is some of his paper,' added Slagg, pointing to some very crumpled-looking slips.

'Renewed more than once apparently.'

'Oh! yes--again and again, in some instances.'

'Poor old devil!' said my Lord Cadbury, with reference to his prospective father-in-law; 'what is the "demmed total," as Mr. Mantilini would say?'

'About a couple of thousand.'

Cadbury smiled--the sum was a trifle to him; but its demand meant utter ruin to the impecunious Sir Ranald, who could no more meet his acceptances than fly.

'My pretty Alison will find that at Chilcote she has been living in a kind of fool's paradise,' thought he, as he tugged his long white moustache with very great complacency.

'You will put all the pressure you can upon Sir Ranald when these bills fall due--no more renewals at any risk; at the same time it must all appear as your affair, not mine--my name must not appear in the matter.'

'Of course not, my lord; if it did----'

'Don't even think of it, for in that case it would prove my ruin in a quarter where I wish to be well thought of.'

'Sir Ranald Cheyne seems to have been anticipating his income.'

'Till, I suppose, there is nothing more to anticipate.'

'Exactly.'

'Good--good!' exclaimed Cadbury, as he struck his gloved hands together; 'then you'll put the screw on him the moment you can do so.'

'Before this week is out, my lord. There is one acceptance there for £300 on which the three days of grace are yet to run, and then I shall act upon the whole. Your lordship gave me _carte blanche_ to acquire all these documents, and, having done so, your money must be repaid to you through me.'

'Precisely so.'

The two shook hands, and again Cadbury dived into the choking fog, to make his way westward to his club as best he might, feeling assured that an unexpected pressure would now be put upon the luckless Alison, by means of her father's mental misery and inordinate pride.

He knew how intense was the girl's devotion to the old man; he knew also that the latter, with all his love for his daughter, was not without a considerable spice of gross selfishness in his nature; that he loved the good things of this life very much, all the more that many were gone, and more might go, utterly beyond his reach, unless some one interposed to save him; and so Cadbury chuckled as he thought of the fatal ball he had set in motion with the aid of Mr. Solomon Slagg.

And that evening, when in the brilliantly lighted dining-room of his magnificent and luxurious club in Pall Mall, after a sybarite repast, with many curious and elaborate _entrées_, he drank his Clicquot Veuve and Schloss Johannisberg, not an atom of compunction occurred to him for the misery he was working the poor but proud old baronet, and the sweet girl, whom, _bon gré mal gré_, he had resolved to make his wife.