The Secretary hesitated; he could not speak; he was very faint and nervous.
“Ah, you’ve had nothing to eat, I dare say.”
The bell was rung, and was answered immediately.
“Bring some bread and cheese and beer.”
The bread and cheese and beer were brought.
“Sit down there and have something; I will go on with my work, and we will finish our talk afterwards.”
The Secretary could not eat much bread and cheese, but he drank the beer greedily.
When he had finished the clerk left the room. The Commissioner—for he was one of the Commissioners of His Majesty’s Treasury—followed him to the door, closed it, not without satisfying himself that the constable was at his post outside, returned to his seat, opened his drawer, saw that a pistol and five guineas were there, and then began:
“Now, look here, my dear sir, let me speak plainly with you and come to an understanding. We have made inquiries about you; we believe you to be a good sort of fellow, and we are not going to prosecute you. We do hope, however, that, should you hear anything which is—well—really treasonable, you will let us know. Treason, I am sure, is as dreadful to you as it is to me. The Government, as I said before, are most desirous of helping those who really deserve it; and to prove this, as I understand you are out of work, just accept that little trifle.”
The guineas were handed to Mr. Secretary, who looked at them doubtfully. With the beer his conscience had returned, and he broke out:
“If you want me to be a d⸺d spy, d⸺d if I do!” The Commissioner was not in the least disconcerted. “Spy, my man!—who mentioned the word? The money was offered because you haven’t got a sixpence. Haven’t I told you you are not required to give up a single principle? Have I asked you to denounce a single companion? All I have requested you to do, as an honest citizen, is to give me a hint if you hear of anything which would be as perilous to you as to me.”
The Secretary after his brief explosion felt flaccid. He was subject to violent oscillations, and he looked at the five guineas again. He was very weak—weak naturally, and weaker through a long course of alcohol. He was, therefore, prone to obscure, crooked, silly devices, at any rate when he was sober. Half drunk he was very bold; but when he had no liquor inside him he could not do what was straight. He had not strength sufficient, if two courses were open, to cast aside the one for which there were the fewer and less conclusive reasons, and to take the proper path, as if no other were before him. A sane, strong person is not the prey of reasons: a person like Mr. Secretary can never free himself from them, and after he has arrived at some kind of determination is still uncertain and harks back. With the roar of the flames of the Cities of the Plain in his ears, he stops, and is half afraid that it was his duty after all to stay and try and put them out. The Secretary, therefore, pondered again. The money was given on no condition that was worth anything. For aught he knew, the Commissioner had his books and papers already. He could take the guineas and be just as free as he was before. He could even give a part of it to the funds of the Friends. There obtruded, moreover, visions of Newgate, and his hands slowly crept to the coins.
“I am a Radical, sir, and I don’t mind who knows it.”
“Nothing penal in that. Every man has a right to his own political creed.”
The fingers crept closer and touched the gold.
“If I thought you wanted to bribe me, I’d rot before I had anything to do with you.”
The Commissioner smiled. There was no necessity to say anything more, for the guineas were disappearing and finally, though slowly, chinked down into Mr. Secretary’s pocket.
The Commissioner held out his hand.
The Secretary before he took it looked loftier than ever.
“I hope you understand me, sir, clearly.”
“I do understand you clearly.”
The Secretary shook the hand; the Commissioner went with him to the door.
“Show this gentleman downstairs.”
The constable, without a look of surprise, went downstairs, and Mr. Secretary found himself in the street.
Mr. Commissioner drank another glass of wine, and then pencilled something in a little memorandum book, which he put under the pistol. The drawer had two locks, and he carefully locked both with two little keys attached to a ribbon which he wore round his neck.
V
The Horizon Widens
Jean Caillaud, shoemaker, whom we have met before, commonly called John Kaylow, friend of the Major and member of the Society of the Friends of the People, was by birth a Frenchman. He had originally come to this country in 1795, bringing with him a daughter, Pauline, about four or five years old. Why he came nobody knew, nor did anybody know who was the mother of the child. He soon obtained plenty of employment, for he was an admirable workman, and learned to speak English well. Pauline naturally spoke both English and French. Her education was accomplished with some difficulty, though it was not such a task as it might have been, because Jean’s occupation kept him at home; his house being in
