With Wellington in Spain: A Story of the Peninsula

  CHAPTER I

  Septimus John Clifford & Son

  No cooler spot could be imagined on the hottest midsummer day thanthe picturesque forecourt of the premises occupied by Septimus JohnClifford & Son, wine merchants, importers and exporters.

  Behind the forecourt, crowding the latter closely towards the edge ofthe River Thames, some few hundred yards below the point where thestream swept and swirled through the arches of the bridge, stretchedan irregular block of buildings, that portion farthest from the courtpresenting a somewhat severe frontage to the river, its many floors,its narrow windows, and its winches and hoists dangling outsideserving to show that it was there that Septimus John Clifford & Sonstored their goods from oversea. Huge doors leading by wide, shallowsteps to the basement hinted that it was through these easy portalsthat the wines of France, of Spain, and of Portugal found access tothe vast vaults stretching away behind the muddy bank of the river.

  The forecourt and its immediate background bore a very differentappearance, for the garden, encompassed by moss-grown walls, wasablaze with flowers, while one huge mulberry tree reared its foliagebefore the main entrance of the building, its leaves rustling againstthe curious old dormer windows and strangely shaped balconieswhich adorned the front. Beneath the grateful shade cast by thatmulberry tree lay Septimus John Clifford himself, at full lengthin a capacious basketwork chair, oblivious of his surroundings,careless even of the persistent flies that hovered about the gaudysilk handkerchief with which he had covered his head. Mr. Septimuswas asleep. Clerks in the busy office within the huge bay window, notfive yards from him, turned the leaves of musty ledgers with patheticcare lest they should awake the ruler of this establishment. Theoffice boy, an urchin with round, rosy cheeks, swelled to the pointof bursting, gathered up his feet upon the staves of his chair whenthe head clerk admonished him for shuffling them, and cast an anxiouseye out through the wide-open window. Marlow, the clerk nearest tothat sleeping form, almost held his breath; for he was apt to gruntand expand his lungs with a hiss that was exasperating.

  "One hour, I think," observed Huggins, a white-haired clerk, whoseemed to be the head of the office, consulting a silver watch whichwas as large as a good-sized turnip. "One hour precisely, I make it."

  "And four minutes," ventured his assistant, a thin, lanky man,white-haired like his comrade. "It is time to wake him."

  "Yes, now; he would not forgive delay."

  Huggins rose silently from the high stool on which he was seated andcrossed to the door on tiptoe. He descended the picturesque stepsleading from the main entrance to the place with as much care ashe would have employed had he been stepping over hot bricks, andadvanced to the side of his master, as if determined to leave himasleep till the very last possible moment. For that was the spiritwhich pervaded the establishment of Septimus John Clifford & Son. Agood master was served by loyal and grateful clerks, of whom nonewere more loyal and thoughtful than Huggins, the stout, clean-shaven,white-haired man who had spent thirty years of his peaceful life inthe office.

  "Hem! Three o'clock," said Huggins, coming to a standstill andcasting his eyes first at the sleeping form of his master, then atthe waving foliage of the mulberry tree, and later out across theriver to the southern shore, then almost devoid of houses. For wedo not speak of London in this year of grace 1913, but of London in1810, a city of huge proportions even then, but small and puny whencompared with the mass of buildings which now stretch far and wide.Smoke stacks and chimneys belching forth huge billows of dark cloudwere not then such a feature of the giant capital. Green fieldsand waving trees came close up to the opposite bank of the Thames,while the few houses there were, the open country, and the stretchof shimmering water, with its quaint river craft, made a picturethat was fascinating. From the shade and shelter of the forecourtthe view was perfectly enchanting, and for a little while held allHuggins's attention, even though he looked out upon it every day ofhis life. Then he hemmed again, and gently touched the sleeve of thesleeper. Mr. Septimus stirred, then, hearing a cough beside him, satup briskly, drew the handkerchief from his head, and, folding it withcare, placed it in his pocket.

  "Three o'clock, sir," said Huggins.

  "No more?" asked Mr. Septimus.

  "Five minutes past."

  "Four," declared Mr. Septimus, consulting his own watch--one, too, ofvast proportions. "The post has come?"

  Huggins nodded.

  "From Spain?"

  "There are four letters."

  "And from Portugal?" asked Mr. Septimus eagerly.

  "One only."

  "Drat the war!" cried Mr. Septimus, sitting forward with energy."First this Bonaparte, Emperor of the French, disturbs all trade bypouring his soldiers into the Peninsula, and then he keeps up thedisturbance by refusing to agree that he's beaten. He's beaten, ain'the, Huggins?"

  "If not quite, then nearly, sir," came the respectful answer. "Butthey say that Wellington has cleared Portugal of the French. Stocksof wines are coming through more freely."

  The reminder seemed to hearten the master of this establishment;his face assumed a cheerful expression. Not that it had appearedseamed with care before, for Septimus was the personification of goodhumour. He was a short, stout little man, bald headed and slightlybandy legged. Round, inquisitive goggles sat on a broad nose thatspoke of good temper. A white muffler and stock, together with aneven whiter waistcoat, covered a frame which may be described asdecidedly ample, while shapely legs--shapely even though proneto bandiness--were clad in snuff-coloured overalls, which fittedlike the proverbial glove, and set off a figure that was decidedlyattractive and gentlemanly.

  He stretched out a hand and took the letters which his clerk hadbrought for him. Then, selecting the one from Portugal, he opened itwith the blade of his penknife.

  "From Dom Juan de Esteros," he said, extracting the sheet within theenvelope. "Ha! That is good news. The tide of war turns to Spain, andwines are accumulating at Oporto. That is good, Huggins. Our clientswill be glad to hear that we can soon replenish their cellars.Business will look up."

  Huggins nodded, while his sallow features reddened a trifle; forwhat concerned the house of Septimus John Clifford & Son concernedhim, not from the pecuniary point of view, seeing that he was paid asteady salary whether business were good or bad, but because of hissympathetic interest in the firm.

  "We can do with it, sir," he said. "Things have been a little slowin the office. There has been little work after three o'clock. Theclerks have been inclined to become sleepy."

  "And no wonder," responded Septimus, looking up with a laugh. "Likemaster, like man, Huggins. Can't blame 'em for sleeping after dinnerif I do. It's a bad habit, Huggins, a bad habit. All the same, Ibelieve it helps one wonderfully. Couldn't get through these hotdays if it weren't for the forty winks I snatch. But let's see.Dom Juan--ah! he thinks the time has come for us to have a directrepresentative in Oporto. Talks of indifferent health caused by theanxieties of the war. Asks us to send someone."

  "Ahem! Yes, sir," came from Huggins suggestively.

  "To send someone," repeated Septimus. "A representative, Huggins. Eh?"

  "Master Tom," came promptly from the clerk. "And son, sir--Clifford &Son."

  He laid special emphasis on the last two words, causing Mr. Septimusto look up at him and discover the old servant's face glowing. As forthe owner of this successful business of wine merchants, we can onlysay that he, too, looked enthusiastic.

  "And son--yes, Huggins," he said. "How long is it since there was ason?"

  "Seventeen years three months and two days, sir," was the answer."Master Tom's age exactly."

  "To the minute almost," laughed Septimus. "He's the one; he shallrepresent the firm at Oporto."

  By the interest and attention these two gave to the affair one wouldhave imagined that it was an entirely novel subject of discussion,whereas, to be precise, this quaint pair had long since settledthe matter. For the "& Son" had become a feature of the business.Two centuries earlier Cli
fford & Son had first hung their tradesign outside those same premises, only in those days the house wasexceedingly small and unpretentious. Still, there had been a sonin the business, and thereafter, as the years passed, a successionof sons, while Septimus John had become, as it were, part of thestock-in-trade of this old house which boasted of the "& Son" alwaysattached to it. However, in latter days, there had come a time whenthat old boast had almost failed them, for Mr. Septimus had succeededhis father at the age of thirty, exactly and precisely one dayafter the birth of his own boy. It was this same infant, christenedSeptimus John Esteros Thomas Clifford, who was now under discussion.

  "You'll send him, of course, sir," exclaimed Huggins.

  "Of course. He'd have gone two years ago if it hadn't been for thewar. Drat the war, Huggins!" cried Septimus peevishly. "It has upsetall my plans and ruined business. Here's Master Tom kicking his heelsabout the place and attempting to learn Spanish and Portuguese,when he should be in Oporto learning the languages simply becausehe couldn't help doing so, and at the same time attending to thebusiness. I did that. I went out when I was sixteen, and came homefor good at thirty. The son in this firm has been wanting ever since,for always the father has managed here in London, while the son hasworked the business in Oporto. Tom shall go, and quickly too; I'llsee him. What's that?"

  Both heads were raised promptly, while Mr. Septimus and his clerkremained in their respective attitudes listening intently. From theroom behind the wide bay window where the office staff worked therecame not so much as a sound. Doubtless the white-haired junior clerkand his helpers still pored over their ledgers, while the fat officeboy still sat with his legs curled around the supports of his stool.But from a room overhead there came the sound of strife. A girl'svoice was heard, then came that of some young fellow, piercing andhigh pitched and querulous. The noise of a blow followed, a dull,heavy sound, which gave one the impression that a fist had descendedon someone's jaw. A thud telling of a tumble came to the ears of thelisteners almost immediately afterwards.

  Mr. Septimus rose to his feet with agility and gathered up hisletters. There was a severe look on his face as he made towards thesteps leading into the house.

  "Those two quarrelling," he said over his shoulder.

  "Then it isn't Master Tom's doing," declared Huggins, with decision."That Master Jose's always at him. He's sly, he is; he's jealous ofhis cousin."

  "Then it'll be a good thing when they're separated. Ah! There again!"cried Mr. Septimus, as the sound of other blows came to his ears,as well as a scream of rage. "I'll go to them; this conduct isdisgraceful!"

  He bounded up the steps at a speed that would have surprised thosewho did not know him; for, as we have explained, the head of the firmof wine merchants was distinctly stout, and his appearance beliedall suggestion of activity. But Septimus could move quickly when heliked, while his business hours were characterized by bustle. Hestepped hurriedly across the hall and went up the wide oak staircasetwo steps at a time. He was panting just a little when he reached thedoor of the apartment wherein the scuffle was taking place and threwit wide open. And there he stood for a little time, breathing deeply,regarding the people in the room with wide-open eyes, which seemed tofill the whole area of his spectacles and take in everything.

  "Stop this instantly!" he commanded, seeing two lads strugglingtogether in the far corner. "I have never seen anything moredisgraceful."

  The scene before him might well have drawn such words from the lipsof the head of such a decorous firm as Septimus John Clifford & Son;for the room was in confusion. A heavy desk, occupying the centre,that would have been upset but for its weight, had been jerked out ofposition and now stood at an angle. A chair lay on its back, whilean inkpot of large dimensions lay against the near wall with a widepuddle of ink about it, and the panelled wall itself was splashed inall directions with the same dark fluid. A young girl some sixteenyears of age gripped one side of the desk, and stood there watchingthe contest with staring eyes that were decidedly frightened. Twolads occupied the centre of the picture, and as Septimus enteredthey were locked together in a firm embrace, each one endeavouringto belabour the other. But at the voice of command they broke away,one of them, a youth of medium height, promptly turning from hisantagonist toward the door. The movement was the signal for the otherto strike out swiftly, sending his fist crashing against the other'shead, and following the cowardly movement by a kick which cut thefeet of his opponent from beneath him, and brought the lad with athud to the floor.

  "That was a coward's blow!" declared Septimus hotly, advancing intothe room; "the kick was contemptible. Stand away in that corner,Jose. I will thrash you severely if you attempt another movement."

  He closed the door quietly behind him, placed a seat at the desk sothat he could see all three within the room, then slowly wiped andadjusted his glasses.

  "Please explain," he began icily, when finally his glasses wereadjusted. "I left you here at two o'clock. You had work sufficient tolast you till the evening. What is the meaning of this disgracefulinterruption? You, Tom, answer."

  He looked closely at each of the lads in turn, and then fixed hiseyes upon the one who had been struck in such a cowardly manner bythe other. In doing so Septimus Clifford looked upon the counterpartof himself. For before him was the son who was of so much importanceto the house of Clifford, the son who was to represent the firm inOporto--the one, in fact, whom the reader will already have observedwas particularly favoured by Huggins. Tom was of middle height, aswe have remarked, well built and solidly put together. In spite ofhis ruffled hair and his flushed face there was something undoubtedlyattractive about the young fellow, so much so that Septimus could notfail but note it.

  "Looks me square in the face and eye," he muttered beneath hisbreath. "That's the way with the Cliffords. Knows he's probably infor a licking, and yet don't funk it. He's ready to receive what he'searned, and ain't going to lie to lessen the punishment. Well?" heasked severely, for Septimus was not the one to show favour.

  But Tom made no answer. He stood squarely facing his father, hischaracter clearly shown upon a face that was decidedly pleasing ifnot exactly handsome.

  "Well?" demanded Septimus again, more curtly if anything.

  "Ask him, sir," came the reply, while Tom jerked his head at the ladover in the far corner where Septimus had ordered him.

  "Then you," exclaimed the stout little man, turning to the secondyouth, he who had delivered the cowardly blow and kick. "What haveyou to answer?"

  "He started it," came abruptly from the one questioned. "Tom calledme names and struck me."

  "Ah!" exclaimed Septimus, regarding the youth coldly, till the latterreddened beneath his scrutiny. "He started it, Jose, you say. Why?"

  The youth addressed reddened even more at the question, while hiseyes shifted from the face of his interrogator to Tom's, and thenacross to the girl's. Contrasting the two young fellows, Tom andJose, one could not compliment the latter; for he seemed to be thevery opposite of Tom. A year his senior, perhaps, he was lanky andlean, while his arms and legs and body seemed to writhe and twist ashis eyes shifted from corner to corner. The chin disclosed weaknessof character and want of firmness, to which thin lips and wateryeyes added nothing. In short, Jose was anything but attractive.

  "Why did Tom start this quarrel?" asked Septimus relentlessly, hisglasses turned on Jose all the while.

  "I don't know," came the surly answer. "He's always quarrelling."

  "Then you began the matter?" said Septimus, turning upon Tom the sameclose scrutiny. "Why?"

  "He didn't!" came abruptly from the girl, who was standing a fewpaces from him. "Jose is not telling the truth. Even though he is mybrother, I can't remain quiet and know that he is blaming Tom forwhat is really his own fault."

  Jose's eyes gleamed as his sister spoke. His brows were knit togetherand his thin lips pursed, as is the case with one in anger. At thatmoment this unattractive youth looked as if he would willingly havestruck his own sister.
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  "She favours him," he cried angrily. "She's always on his side."

  "Silence!" commanded Septimus sternly. "Now, Marguerite, tell meabout it."

  "He started to tease me," declared the girl, nodding towards herbrother. "He splashed the letter I was writing with ink, and thenthrew some over my needlework. Tom asked him to stop, and then calledhim a bully. Jose threw the inkpot at him promptly."

  "Ah!" came from the man seated in the centre. "And then?"

  "Tom knocked him down twice; then they began to struggle together."

  "It's a lie!" shouted Jose, beside himself with rage, his pale lipstrembling.

  "Eh?" asked Tom curtly, advancing a pace towards him, and lookingthreatening.

  "Stop!" ordered Septimus, lifting a hand. "By rights I ought to leaveyou two to settle the matter between you. I have no fears as to whatthe result would be; for a man or youth who accuses his sister oflying deserves a thrashing, while you, Jose, deserve it twice over.You have lied yourself, and I myself saw you deliver a cowardly blow.You will remain here and go on with your work; Tom will come belowwith me. For the future try to be friendly to one another, at leasttill you are parted."

  "Parted?" asked Tom curiously, while a scowl showed on Jose's face.

  "Yes, parted," repeated Septimus. "The time has come for you to go toOporto, Tom, there to act as representative of this business."

  Jose's face was a study as he listened to the words and saw thepride and enthusiasm with which Tom was so obviously filled. EvenMarguerite was regarding her cousin as if he were a hero, and,indeed, that was the light in which she was wont to look at him. Forever since he was a little fellow Tom had been Marguerite's specialprotector, and often and often had he saved her from her brother'sill treatment. Jose was, in fact, a bully. Sneaking and mean bynature, he was the very opposite of his sister, and ever since thetwo had been brought to the house he had been jealous of his cousinTom. That was the secret of their ill feeling from the beginning.Provided Jose treated Marguerite fairly, Tom was prepared to liveon good terms with him. But always Jose regarded Tom as a fortunaterival, as his future master; for was not Tom the son attached to thefirm? And now to hear that he was to go to Oporto, there to rulethe roast, filled Jose with envy and hatred. He could see Tom hisown master, with clerks to do his bidding, while he, Jose, the lessfortunate, was slaving at a humble desk in England. It roused his irewhen he recollected that were there no Tom he himself would fill hisplace, and would one day be the head of the firm of Septimus JohnClifford & Son.

  The scowl on Jose's face had deepened as Septimus spoke. Tom's happyfeatures incensed him to the point of bursting. A moment or so later,when the door had closed between him and the other three, and whiletheir steps still resounded in the passage, Jose gave full vent tohis hatred and anger. He pranced up and down the room. He glared outthrough the window as Tom appeared, and if looks could have killed,that young fellow would have ceased to exist forthwith. Then Joseflung himself petulantly on to a chair, buried his face in his hands,and remained in that position for some few minutes, his restlesslimbs writhing and twitching meanwhile.

  Suddenly, however, he sat up and stared hard at the wall opposite.

  "Why not?" he asked himself, as if apropos of nothing, while acunning leer bent his lips. "If there were no Tom, Jose would go toOporto. And who would carry out the work more fittingly? Tom shallnot go there. I swear that I will prevent him."

  He was poring over a book half an hour later when Septimus enteredthe room again with the intention of having a serious conversationwith him, and to all appearances Jose was a different individual. Hewas sorry for the anger he had shown, sorry that he had insulted hissister, and eager to be friendly with everyone. But, then, Jose was acrafty individual. That night as he lay in bed within ten feet of ourhero he was concocting plans whereby to defeat the aims of Septimus,and bring about the downfall of Tom, his cousin.