THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH CAPE.

BY J. B. BUCKSTONE.

CHAP. I.

ALFRED STOKES was a clerk in a Government-office, his salary was three hundred pounds per annum, his hours of attendance from eleven till four, consequently his evenings were entirely his own. He was one of the cleanest of clerks, compelled to have recourse to the Brompton Bus to take him daily to town; the dust from the straw, at the bottom of the vehicle settling upon his well-polished boots, was the only annoyance that he had to encounter. Happy clerk !-this was his sole trouble -his solitary vexation-awkward passengers, in tumbling to and fro, would leave foul stains upon his toes and insteps, and then-" Confound it!" His official labours were light; the perusal of the morning paper occupying the chief portion of his valuable time: if he visited the theatre at night, he would dine in town-if he intended to pass his evening at his lodgings, he would dine there, smoke his cigar, and doze over his Magazine. He was punctual in his payments, polite to his landlady, who was proud of him, and echoed his little observations on moral philosophy, and other matters, to her friends in the neighbourhood; always commencing the retailed aphorism with "As Mr. Stokes justly observes." Yet, in spite of this respect and comfort, Alfred was sometimes melancholy, and frequently ejaculating, "What the deuce is the matter with me?"-he wanted excitement-that was the secret. To obtain it he became one of an evening class established for the study of the French language; this occupied every Friday. And on the Wednesday and Saturday it was his custom to repair to a particular smartlooking house-the door of which was decorated with a brass nob and large plate of ditto metal, on which was inscribed, "Monsieur Jefferini, Teacher of Dancing, from the King's Theatre." Monsieur Jefferini (Anglice) Jefferis had been for a whole season one of the figurants in the ballet of that establishment-he had worn little Swiss jackets, very tight whites, with knee-buckles, and pumps; his shirt sleeves had been ornamented with ribands, and his face beautified with two little circular patches of rouge; he had danced in the mob. What more could be necessary to qualify him to instruct young ladies and gentlemen in the poetry of motion.

Alfred was very attentive both to the cultivation of his head and his heels-at length his French was neglected, and dancing became his only thought. Alas! he had fallen in love. On the Saturday, Monsieur's pupils, male and female, assembled to exhibit their progress under his instructions. At one of these weekly assemblies, appeared a young lady, of whom Alfred Stokes became seriously enamoured; he danced with her perpetually; he brought sweet cakes and comfits in his pockets for her; if she failed in her attendance at any one of the meetings, he was fidgety all the evening, would neglect his dancing, and rush impetuously to answer every double knock at Monsieur's door. In vain did the polite little professor, who carried the finest calves ever beheld, step up to him, leading some blushing Miss by the tip of her finger, for the purpose of decoying him into a quadrille-it would not do-Stokes was ill—he would sit in a corner by himself, unconsciously June.-VOL, L, NO, CXCVIII,

T

eating the sweetmeats that he had provided for his love, and splitting his kid gloves by the constant wringing of his hands. On these occasions, when the coming of the lady became hopeless, he left the halls of dazzling light, to watch the windows of his fair-one's apartment—then he would utter several sighs, and sneezing (for with all the carelessness of true passion, he would stand on the chill pavement, in his thin dancing shoes) wend his way to his " cabin hanged with care."

"I can't think what is the matter with Mr. Stokes," said his landlady one morning, with great concern to her husband, "he eats no breakfast he never smokes his cigar-which I am very glad of, because of the curtains; and when I took up the little copper kettle of hot water, for his toddy last night, he was dancing about the room in a state of great disorder; he did not stop when I went in-but merely stared at me-called out for The Lancers,' and then kicked his legs about like the little Fantoccini figures that we see in the street; I really begin to think that he's a little cracked." The good lady was right-Stokes was mad-madly in love with Miss Emily Brown. And who was Miss Emily Brown? She was a young person lodging in a respectable first floor in Sloane Street, independent, and kept her maid. To the country cottage of a poor farmer's widow, an elderly spinster, with a considerable sum in the funds, was recommended for the benefit of her health; Emily, the widow's daughter, by her patient attention to the invalid, so pleased the lady, that at her death, she bequeathed a great portion of her property to the surprised and delighted girl, who had so unremittingly administered to her wants. Shortly after this bright smile of fortune, Emily was left an orphan; her mother's last wish compelled her to remove to London, where, in the residence of a kind acquaintance that the widow had known for years, the bereaved girl found both protection and comfort. And this was Miss Emily Brown.

There was a mutuality in the cause that brought about the meeting of Alfred and Emily-both were too easy in their circumstances to be entirely happy, and both required excitement-and each had sought it in learning to dance. Alas! that so innocent a relaxation should have been so fatal to the serenity of Stokes. Though an ardent lover he was a timid one, and could only express the state of his feelings on sheets of the best satin paper; then it was that his clerkly acquirements became his excellent friends in need, letters were written to the lovely Emily in the finest hand imaginable: not an i was dotted out of the proper place-not a t went without its cross, the tails of his g's and y's were most exquisitely looped, and, as the little boys say, the writing altogether was "like copper-plate." He was a great admirer of penmanship, and sometimes thought that the disposition of a person might be discovered in his autograph: that the cramped and careful signature told of a slow and plodding mind; that the off-hand running sign manual, with an accompanying dash beneath, bespoke the rattling heedless fellow-who regarded not the items of his bills-who glanced but at the sum total-and paid-or never paid, as the case might be; letters formed by tremulous fingers, he either construed into timidity or habitual inebriety; while those that were clear, well-formed, and free, predisposed him in favour of their writer. Is it then to be wondered that such a caligraphic philosopher should be anxious to receive a note, however trifling, however brief, from the gentle Emily Brown?

He was a thriving wooer, and gradually advanced from the masked

battery of a letter, to the open field of verbal declaration. In one of those delicious moments, in which he escorted her from Monsieur's Saturday assemblies, Alfred corroborated by word of mouth the feelings that he had before expressed in his passionate epistles—and many and delightful were the lengthened strolls round Hans-place and Čadogan-square, in consequence. That Emily regarded Alfred with indifference is therefore not to be supposed. Yet, in her manner towards him, there seemed to be a constraint that our lover could not exactly comprehend an occasional reserve-a something on her mind, as elderly ladies say of people that are thoughtful. "What can be the cause of it?" ruminated Alfred-" perhaps she has experienced a first love-it is very difficult to find a girl of seventeen who has not had, what she considers, a first love-somebody to sigh about, that she was attached to, when she was but thirteen-or thought herself attached to, which amounts to the same thing. Yet she never alludes to any youthful connexion-I have never seen any one at her lodgings.-What the deuce can be the reason of her ill-concealed melancholy ?" Stokes accordingly became restless, then jealous, and to cure himself of that, he took to watching the house-looking through the key-hole of the street-doorhiding behind posts-and bobbing into door-ways, when any one came out of, or went into, the residence of Emily Brown. This conduct excited the suspicion of the police, and one of its functionaries followed him for several nights, and whenever he retreated into some dark corner, would shine him out again with his lantern. One evening he was actually in custody, and on his way to the station-house, which event was only prevented by the arrival of Emily's landlord, who recognized him, and assured the suspicious officer, that Mr. Stokes was a highly respectable young man, and frequently his visiter.

Alfred at length became miserable-Emily had ventured to explain her conduct, but had signally failed-the broken sentences that she then uttered were sufficient to convince Stokes that something indeed was on her mind. "I cannot tell you," said she, on that memorable occasion, "I have endeavoured to summon courage to confess all to you-but in vain-I think you would despise me, if you knew-perhaps the natural goodness of your heart, might lead you to make every allowance-I can say no more-I must not-cannot-dare not." Alfred rushed home, he fell upon the sofa, his brain throbbed; she had confessed enough to awaken the most terrible suspicions in his breast-fifty times he doubted, and fifty times he became convinced-in an agony of mind he penned a hasty note to Emily, imploring her to speak out-hinting, as delicately as he could, at what he concluded to be her direful meaning -to make him her friend-her confidant-to repose her sorrows in his sympathizing bosom; and if his conjecture was to be confirmed-then -oh, Heavens!-he meant that he should cut his throat. No answer was returned-what was to be done?-he had said too much-he had wounded her feelings-he was a wretch-and-he determined to watch the house again.

CHAP. II.

THE following night he took his station immediately opposite her windows, the holland blinds were drawn down, and two candles burning; but for a time nothing could he discern to heighten the anxiety of that feverish vigil-suddenly his heart sprang towards his mouth-and he

stared with breathless horror at the illuminated blinds. The gigantic shadow of a human head plainly appeared upon one of them-a prominent nose-a world of hair-the collar of a shirt-the tie of a cravat.'Twas the reflected face of a man!-and there it remained for more than five maddening minutes. Could it be the head of the landlord?—No! The landlord was bald-the shadow betrayed a head of hair-Emily Brown had no relations--had never mentioned that she was acquainted with any male creature whatever-and Stokes panted with the violence of his emotions. The gigantic shadow became restless-there was a shifting of the lights in the room-it suddenly shot upwards and disappeared, as if it had darted through the roof of the house. Alfred stirred not from his position, his eyes continued fixed upon those holland taletellers. Again, a new and more terrible phantasmagoria appeared to him-the head was again upon the blinds-smaller-blacker-more defined; and by its side-and face to face-was the shadow of the features-cap-and curls of Emily Brown. And, oh what a tumultwhat a tempest of emotions raged in the heart of Alfred. His first impulse was to catch up a huge stone, that lay at his feet, and hurl it at the windows-'twas in his gripe-his loaded hand was high in the air— a moment, and that action would have been followed by a sharp and splitting crash, that must have alarmed the neighbourhood. But a change in the spirit of this his hideous vision caused the stone to fall from his hands, and himself against the railings of an area, to whose friendly iron he then owed his support. The shadows appeared to merge into one-to meet-madness!-they were kissing-it might be caused by another disposition of the candles-but a jealous man regards only the worst side of matters, and Alfred was convinced that Emily Brown received the visits of a favoured rival. He stared at the house, he had no power to move his eyes-the street-door opened--and Mary the maid-the treacherous Mary, to whom he had given many a shilling, closed it upon a man! Alfred darted after him to catch a glimpse of this destroyer of his peace-a short Mackintosh cape enveloped his shoulders-its collar was erect, and concealed his features-his hat was drawn over his eyes, and he hurried with a quick step towards Knightsbridge-Alfred keeping pace with him on the opposite side of the roadhe ran-so did Alfred-whose foot was the fleetest-for he had passed the unknown, the better to cross over, and meet him face to face in the light of the gas. But Stokes was doomed to disappointment; a patent safety cab, suddenly drove up by the side of the Mackintosh cape-its wearer was quickly boxed up in the interior of the vehicle, and in vain did the bewildered Alfred look around for the dread substance of that unhallowed shadow, which had filled his heart and brain with miserable and maddening thoughts.

The night that Alfred passed was one of torture-every fair hope, every sunny picture of bliss and love, that his imagination had delighted to sketch, was suddenly dashed out by the pitchy-pound brush of despair. For three days he stirred not forth-no note arrived from Emily-she was not a hypocrite, her silence meant that she was already engaged that his attentions had pleased her, but no more; and the encouragement she had given him, he could only attribute to the common gratitude of every woman, not displeased at the homage of an admirer.

Stokes became ill, leave of absence was obtained from his office, and he sought for solace in a trip to Margate; change of scene he thought

might help to banish his misplaced affection, but absence that cures weak passions only strengthens the strong, and it gave to the one endured by Alfred the power of a giant. He shunned all society. Jenkins and Jones that six months ago were such droll fellows, and who encountered him on the jetty, he looked upon with disgust; he tried very hard to drive a donkey-chaise, but falling into a brown study, the sympathizing animal that he gently urged forward, gradually became as absorbed as Stokes, who frequently had to pay a considerable sum for sitting half a day in the centre of a field, in a very large cart, with a very small donkey attached to it. He neglected his person, wore his old clothes, and took to singing love-songs in the most plaintive falsetto ever heard; and one moonlight evening as he strolled along the cliffs, warbling the sweet and despairing ballad of "Alice Gray," he was so borne away by the sentiment of the composition and the heart-breaking state of his own feelings, that several people paused to listen, and one little gentleman, with a good deal of stomach, was observed to heave a deep sigh, and slip sixpence into the hand of the astonished Stokes. His holiday expired, and he returned to town more in love and more miserable than ever.

On arriving at his lodgings his landlady regarded him with a look of alarm. "Bless me, Sir, I always thought sea air good for people; you look worse than before you went out of town:" and she quitted Alfred, fully convinced that he was in the last stage of a pulmonary complaint. Stokes flung himself upon the sofa, heaved several bitter sighs, and opened his patent dressing-case-his razor met his view-he grasped it-the blade sprang from the handle by its own agency. Alfred's breathing became thick, he appeared suffocating; the perspiration hung in large drops upon his forehead-his eyesight became confused-the floor seemed to slide from beneath his feet-a second more and that brief delirium would have ended his mortal career—a moment more—if the

landlady had paused upon the stairs to pick up a crumb, hunch down the cat, or any other domestic duty that would have caused delayAlfred's jugular must have received a deadly incision; but tap, tap, came the sharp knuckles of the good lady on the room door, the weapon fell from his hand, the sound recalled Stokes to himself, and he convulsively gasped, "Come in." The good lady entered, and presented a letter. "A letter," said Alfred, starting forward and trembling from head to foot. "From whom-from whom?" "It came from Sloanestreet," was the reply, "and has been lying here more than a week." "More than a week!-why didn't you forward it to me at Margate?" "How could I, Sir, I did not know your address ?" True, true," replied Stokes, "that will do; go-go-" and he waved the good woman from the apartment. He tore open the letter, his heart fluttered, and he almost fainted as he read the following:

66

66

Dear Alfred,─What is the cause of your absence? Why have you ceased calling in Sloane-street? Believe me I feel hurt at your indifference-have I offended you? "Ever yours,

"EMILY."

All the passionate fondness of Alfred's disposition gushed forth at the perusal of this epistle. He wept-he danced-he kissed the writing a thousand times. "And Heavens !" exclaimed he, "what writing! How regular-how beautifully formed is every letter; surely the exquisite equidistance of each word, the feathery lightness of each upstroke,