The Crime and the Criminal

  CHAPTER XII.

  SIR HASELTON JARDINE.

  Sir Haselton Jardine was a man whom I had rather been in the habit ofholding in awe. One never could be certain how much he knew. A mancould scarcely rise to the forensic heights which he had reachedwithout knowing something of almost every one. He was so quiet and soself-contained that it was impossible to gauge the extent of hisknowledge until too late.

  He was rather short, and he was very thin, and he stooped. He hadcolourless grey eyes, which you scarcely ever saw, though, if you hadyour wits about you, you felt that they all the time saw you. He had apeaked grey beard, too straggling to be Vandyke, and sandy hair, whichhe parted low down on the right-hand side. His voice was as soft andgentle as any girl's--when he was asking a jury to hang a man he wasalways the very pink of courtesy, and I wonder how many he had sentthat way in his time. He had beautiful hands, and he either braced histrousers too high or else it was a principle of his to have them madetoo short. Jardine's trousers were a standing joke--he always looked asif he had got into his younger, and distinctly smaller, brother's. Hewas a widower, and Dora was his only child.

  I always had had a tenderness towards Dora Jardine. I suspected that,under certain circumstances, she might not be ill-disposed towards me.It was Sir Haselton that I felt shy of. He had the reputation of beingrich, apart from his practice at the bar, and that was supposed to beworth fifteen thousand a year. Dora was pretty; he might very well haveeyes for an altogether bigger man than Reginald T. But somehow of lateI had begun to fancy that he himself had a partiality for me. He hadbecome quite fatherly. I was in a measure free of the house. On FridayI was to go down to his country place at Cockington to shoot; he hadquite made a point of my making an indefinite stay.

  Now there had been his note of the morning!

  Sir Haselton was not visible when I arrived. I found Dora alone in thedrawing-room. Very nice she looked. Not one of the new order of tallgirls, but tall enough, and straight as a dart. Brown hair, which,in certain lights looked golden, and which had a natural crinkle.Pouting lips--very pretty ones--good nose and chin. Her eyes wereher most remarkable feature, as was the case with her father. Blueeyes--laughing blue eyes I have heard them called--and innocent andgirlish too. But to me they were something else besides. I never knew aman or a woman with eyes like that who was deficient in grit. I will gofurther. If the women who have gone to the devil, and smiled when theymet him face to face, could be polled, I should be disposed to wagerthat the majority of them had eyes like Dora Jardine's. I am notinsinuating anything against her--quite the other way. Only I am astudent of women's eyes.

  She was standing by the fire as I went in. She turned, holding out herhand.

  "I am glad you have come," she said.

  I felt as I took her hand in mine--and I felt it not for the firsttime--that she and I were kindred spirits, and that, girl though shewas, she was stronger than I. I said something; I don't know what. ThenI looked at the fire. I felt that her eyes were on my face.

  "What a strange face you have, as though, in you, were the makings of aman."

  I don't know how she was in the habit of talking to other men; she wasalways saying that sort of thing to me. I laughed. "What sort of man?"

  She did not answer my question. She ran her conversation on lines ofher own.

  "What have you been doing since I saw you last--killing time?"

  "Unfortunately, Miss Jardine, I have nothing else to do."

  "Would you like to have something?"

  "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "On the something."

  "I see. I suppose that you will be doing something else on Saturday;you are going to kill papa's pheasants?"

  "You speak as though that was an improper thing to do."

  There was a slight movement of her shoulders.

  "I suppose that some men kill pheasants, and that other men ruleempires. I might like to do both things, but I confess that if I had tochoose I should prefer the empires."

  I looked at her. Quietly, and without any ostentation, she gave me backglance for glance. Something from her eyes seemed to get into my veins.

  "Suppose it was not yours to choose?"

  "It would be were I a man."

  "It certainly has never yet been mine."

  "Then you certainly are not a man."

  Her high-faluting amused me. That the little, brown-haired, blue-eyedthing should talk in such an inflated strain! And yet I felt that ifshe had been a man she would have gone for the gloves--nay, that thoughshe was a woman she might go for them still.

  She went on--

  "That is the very essence of being a man; that he can choose what hewill be and do."

  "You are on the wrong track. He might choose to win the Derby--plentyof them do--but the odds are he will fail."

  "He might try."

  "And come a cropper. Men of that sort get posted every settling day. Ifhe is a cautious man he will limit his range of choice to things whichare within his reach."

  "Are you a cautious man?"

  As I met her eyes I could not have told her. I seemed to see so clearlyin them something which was not caution, something which thrilled andkept time with a pulse of mine. While I hesitated Sir Haseltonappeared--his dress shoes making the shortness of his trousers stillmore conspicuous. Immediately after, dinner was announced.

  They always feed you well at Jardine's, and it seems to me that lawyersgenerally do. And, though to look at him you might not think it,Jardine can drink with any man--perhaps to counterbalance the drynessof his profession. And he has some stuff worth drinking. His guests cando as they please; he himself is old-fashioned--he sticks to the clothwhen the women are gone. That evening, bearing the hint in his note inmy mind, I stuck to it with him.

  I was curious to know what it was he wanted to say to me; it took meaback when it came.

  I lit up when Dora had gone--Jardine does not smoke--post-prandialwine-drinkers seldom do. As he leaned back in his chair a lean, driedup, insignificant little chap he looked; but whoever, on that account,would have liked to have tried a fall with him would have done well toget up early. The fingers of his left hand grasped the stem of hiswineglass, but, used though I was to his trick of peering through hishalf-shut eyes, I could not make out if he was looking at me or at theglass.

  "Townsend, I want to say something to you in confidence."

  I nodded; though I don't mind owning that I felt a bit uneasy. He mighthave wanted to say all sorts of things to me in what he calledconfidence--and he was the sort of man to say them too. His next words,however, reassured me.

  "I am not a man of strong likes or dislikes"--I should rather say hewasn't, being about the most bloodless creature going!--"but I likeyou, if you will excuse me, Townsend."

  "Excuse you, sir? You flatter me too much."

  He smiled--if the wrinkling of his thin lips could be called a smile.

  "Flatter you? I hardly think I flatter you. I will tell you why I likeyou, Townsend."

  He paused. I waited. The old fox kept twisting the stem of hiswineglass round and round between his thin white fingers.

  "I like you, Townsend, because, although you are out of the common run,you are not sufficiently so to be unpleasantly conspicuous. You havewhat I lack, passion. You are as likely to ascend to the top of thetree as to the top of the gallows. I hardly think I flatter you."

  "You at least credit me with having aspirations."

  "I believe, Townsend, that your wealth scarcely exceeds the dreams ofavarice--eh?" The remark had so little connection with anything thathad gone before, that I think I stared. He favoured me with one ofthose lightning flashes which are among the tricks of his trade--thenyou can see what eyes he really has. "I said I wanted to speak to youin confidence."

  "Precisely. You only flatter me too much."

  Again that wrinkling of the lips which he, perhaps, intended for asmile. I wondered what the
dickens he was at.

  "You see, Townsend, things reach my ears which do not come to othermen. May we take it, Townsend, that you are not a millionaire?"

  "You may certainly take it, sir, at that."

  "Pressed, now and then, for ready-money, perhaps."

  What was he driving at? Was he going to develop into a sixty per cent.and offer me a loan?

  "I believe that most men are."

  "Yes--they are." It struck me that there was something about the pausehe made which was anything but complimentary. I was beginning to feellike throwing something at him. "You have a brother, Townsend." How didhe know that? "Have you seen him lately?"

  "This afternoon."

  "So recently? Is he doing well?"

  "He said he was."

  "There is nothing clogs a man so much as a brother of a certain kind."

  "I take care that my brother does not clog me."

  "I believe, Townsend, that you do." What did he mean by the inflectionwith which the words were uttered? "You are wondering why I talk to youlike this. I will explain."

  He took a sip from his glass. Then held it up in front of him,connoisseur fashion.

  "I am something of a curiosity. I have lived my own life. In my way, Ihave enjoyed it. But I have one thing with which to reproachProvidence. He has not bestowed on me a son." He emptied his glass."Townsend, why don't you drink? I can recommend this port. Drink up,and let me fill the glasses." I let him. "That a son is not always anunmixed blessing I am aware. On the other hand, Dora has been a modelchild. Still, a daughter can hardly do for a father what a son can. SoI still am hoping for a son."

  What did the old beggar mean? He was still so long that I thought hehad forgotten to go on. But I did not feel that it was my cue to breakthe silence. And at last he condescended to remember.

  "You have in you the makings of the sort of son that I should like tohave."

  "I? Sir Haselton, did I not say you flattered me?"

  "I hardly think I do. I think I know you pretty well. Dora seems tothink she knows you even better." Now I began to see his drift.

  "Townsend, what do you think of Dora?"

  "I have sometimes feared, sir, that I have thought of her too much."

  "Indeed." The word, as it came from between his lips, was a gentlymurmured sneer.

  "I should not have imagined that you were that kind of man. Townsend,would you like to marry?"

  "It has been my constant dream."

  "Has it? And about Lily Langdale and others?"

  What did he know about Lily, and the rest of them? I would have givensomething to have learned just how much the old sleuth-hound did knowabout everything or anything. I felt all the time that he had me at astrong advantage. When I am in his presence I always do feel like that.

  "You yourself, sir, have been a bachelor."

  "True--I have. I take it, Townsend, that when you marry you will ceaseto be a bachelor."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "What would you say to ten thousand pounds a-year?"

  "Sir!"

  "When Dora marries she will have that income to commence with. Shouldher marriage prove a happy one, it will be increased."

  He paused, as if for me to speak. I deemed silence to be the betterpart of wisdom.

  "The man who marries Dora will have to have a clean slate, if it has tobe cleaned for the occasion. I shall require him to give me a correctstatement of his position. I will see that his house is set in order.He will have to take my name; Dora shall always be a Jardine. He willhave to enter public life."

  "Public life?"

  "Have you any objection?"

  "It depends upon what you mean, sir, by public life; it is an elasticterm."

  "He will have to enter Parliament. Means will be furnished to enablehim to do so. As a country gentleman he will have to take an interestin local and in county government. He will have to play a prominentpart on the stage of national politics. He will have to aim at the topof the tree. Dora has ambitions; her husband must have them too."

  When he paused I was silent again. There was a cut-and-dried way abouthis fashion of settling things which nettled me.

  "Have you no ambitions, Townsend?"

  "I have such ambitions as a poor man may have."

  "A poor man is entitled to have the same ambitions as a rich one--if heis strong enough. I was poor once upon a time. I did not allow mypoverty to hamper my ambition. What do you think of the programme whichI have drawn up for Dora's husband?"

  "I think it an alluring one."

  "For a strong man it has possibilities. You may take it from me that,properly backed, you are strong enough to be able to say, with truth,that few things are beyond your reach."

  "I think myself that, given the opportunity, I might find the man."

  "I think so too. You shall have the opportunity. You have heard on whatconditions. That is what I wanted to say to you. We shall see you atCockington at the end of the week. Perhaps, before you leave us, youmay have something to say to me."

  "I trust, sir, that I may have something to say to you that will bepleasant to us both."