VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWO.
THE LEGATEE.
If there is one quality in this world which its fortunate possessor isto be envied the enjoyment of, it is that of absolute _insouciance_. Idon't mean the spurious article known as "putting a bold face onthings," though this is a gift by no means to be despised; but thatdownright, thorough, devil-may-care way of taking the vicissitudes oflife, in such wise as these interfere neither with the appetite, sleep,nor temper, which is well-nigh as rare--at any rate among usEnglishmen--as the Little Bustard.
When Claverton entered Mr Smythe's office, he owned barely enoughsovereigns in the world to make a creditable jingle in his breechespocket; when he left the lawyer he walked out into the street a man ofindependent means. Yet the change, welcome and wholly unexpected as itwas, in no wise disturbed his mental equilibrium. He was conscious ofan increased feeling of complacency as he contemplated the world atlarge by the light of his own improved prospects; but he would permithimself no elation. While going through the hardest times he hadknown--and he had known some very hard ones indeed--he had cultivatedthe severest philosophy; and now it had become second nature to him."Bad luck--no use growling, won't last; good luck--no use crowing, maynot last," was his self-invented and favourite maxim.
At the time when we first make his acquaintance, Arthur Claverton stoodabsolutely alone in the world. I don't mean to say that he had norelatives, but they cold-shouldered him. A few of them were nearrelatives, others very distant; but the nearer they were, the more theycold-shouldered him. He was an only child and an orphan; his motherhaving died at his birth, and his father being killed in a railwayaccident sortie four years later, leaving him to the care of a guardian,one of the near relatives aforesaid. Near, too, in another sense of theword; for, though very comfortably off, and indeed wealthy, thisconscientious and benevolent guardian impounded the scanty substanceleft for the orphan's start in life, on the ground that his family was alarge one, and he could not afford the addition of his dead brother'schild.
His family certainly was a large one, which is to say that it was asupremely disagreeable and discordant one. The boys, rough and unruly,worried the girls and their father. The girls, underhand and spiteful,tormented the boys and their mother. Wrangling and mischief-making wasthe order of the day. After this it will not be surprising to learnthat it was a pious family, which is to say, that much attention wasgiven to morning and evening prayers; and that Sunday, jocosely termedthe day of rest, was to be employed getting up epistles and gospels byheart, with a slice of catechism or so thrown in, what time the wholemaster was not pent up in a square box undergoing edification at thelips of a prolix and Geneva-clad Boanerges, who seldom said "And now to"within an hour and a quarter from the enunciation of his text. By anodd coincidence, the day on which this exemplary piety had its fullscope--notably in the tabooing of all secular literature or any approachto levity of demeanour--the reign of strife, squabble, and jar seemed toreach its acme.
Such was the amiable family circle among which young Arthur's earlierlot was cast. But somehow he never assimilated. He was a species ofIshmael when "at home," which, by the way, was not often, for he spentmost of his holidays at school. All things considered, a good thing forhim? No. For it was not a nice school where his educational lines werecast. It was a very cheap and a very nasty school; one in which helearnt nothing but the art of getting into serious scrapes, and--perhapsthe only useful thing he did learn--the art of getting out of them. Abringing up of this kind would have been the ruin of most boys; but itwas not so with Arthur. He came of a splendid stock, and the wretchedassociations of his boyhood and youth, instead of destroying hischaracter, had the effect of forming it. They hardened him. True, theyrendered him cynical at an age when one looks for impulsiveness andgenerosity, and if they had inspired him with a disgust for religion,his mind was absolutely clear of cant. They had taught him utterly todespise sentiment, while leaving him capabilities of generosity and evengeniality. And if any one showed him a kindness, he never forgot it.
One day, when he was seventeen, the second master of his school, theclever son of an army Scripture reader, had the unwisdom to strike him.In about ten seconds that ill-advised pedagogue was picking himself upin a corner with a bleeding nose and otherwise in receipt of grievousbodily harm. Expulsion was imminent; but Arthur did not wait for it.He took the first train, went straight to his guardian and told him hewanted to emigrate.
His guardian looked acidly at the tall, handsome stripling before him,and began a severe lecture. He also looked uneasily; for it was evidentthat Arthur had somehow got to learn that his father had not left himabsolutely penniless, which meant that no appeal on the grounds ofgratitude would lie--for the expenses of the orphan's bringing up andeducation, such as it was, had by no means exhausted the sum which thedead man had left. Of this Arthur had gained a very shrewd idea; but hemerely asked for sufficient to pay his passage and a small sum towards anecessary outfit, for he intended to go to one of our colonies.
Then his guardian, unlocking a desk, handed Arthur the sum ofthirty-five pounds, and told him--metaphorically, of course, good piousman that he was, yet very plainly--to go to the devil.
He did not go to the devil; he went to the Cape.
Some of my readers may think this a distinction without a difference.Well, that is a matter of opinion. He turned his hand first to onething, then another; but nothing seemed to answer for long, possiblybecause he was young and restless. At last a small "coup" at theDiamond Fields set him up with a few hundreds. But fortune changedround again; and, in disgust, he resolved to return to England previousto trying his luck in some other colony.
He landed in his native country after several years of a hard,adventurous life; but there was not a soul to welcome him. Not long didhe stay; but, by the time he had taken his passage to Australia, notmuch remained of the proceeds of his Diamond Fields' enterprise. Thenon that eventful voyage he fell in with Herbert Spalding, and the restof his experiences we have heard from his own lips.
A few mornings after his interview with the lawyer, a card was broughtup to Claverton as he sat in his rooms.
"Rev George Wainwright," reading the name. "Now, who the deuce is theRev George Wainwright? Certainly not one of my kinsfolk oracquaintance."
There entered an elderly man with stiff, iron-grey hair, a very red faceand fierce brown eyes, peering aggressively from beneath a pair of bushybrows. He wore clerical attire, and in his hand carried a tall hat likeunto a stove-pipe. There was aggressiveness in his whole aspect,especially in the short, stiff bow with which he greeted Claverton.Farther, there was aggressiveness even in the knock and ring which hadheralded his arrival.
"A country rector," mused our friend, mentally reading off his visitor."In earlier life of the sporting order, now gouty and addicted to port.Domineering in his parish, tyrant in domestic circle. I know the breed.What the deuce can he want with me?" Then, aloud: "Pray be seated.Cold morning, isn't it?" and he drew a chair to the fire for hisvisitor.
"No doubt, Mr--er--Claverton, you will readily guess the object of myvisit," began the other, brusquely, leaning both, hands on the knob ofhis umbrella, and staring his interlocutor straight in the face.
"Excuse me, but I hardly do."
"What! You don't? Why, about this will--this will of Spalding's?"
"Spalding's will! My dear sir, I am afraid you have come to me bymistake. My poor friend's solicitor is Smythe of Chancery Lane. I'llgive you his address in full."
"No mistake at all--no mistake at all," rejoined the other, abruptly."I've just come from Smythe, it was he who referred me to you. I wantto know about that preposi--er--that bequest--the bequest to you. Doyou intend to avail yourself of it, may I ask?"
"Well, really, that is a most astonishing question--"
"You don't. No--of course you don't," came the angry interruption. "Noyoung man with any independence of spirit, could possibly take the moneyunder
such conditions. It would be preposterous if he did--preposterous."
"But, Mr Wainwright, I do intend to take the money."
"You do?"
"Every farthing of it--bar probate and succession dues."
The wrath struggling for suppression exhibited in the old man'scountenance beggars description.
"Well, well," he jerked out at last, "the case is a strange one--a verystrange one. Wills have been upset on less fishy grounds than this.Here you take this unfortunate man across the world and come backwithout him, but profiting substantially by his death. Putting itmildly, what will be said? Eh, sir, what will people say--what willthey say?" and, throwing out his hand, he glared at his interlocutor asif awaiting a reply.
"I don't know what they'll say. Equally certain is it that I don'tcare. As you remark, Mr Wainwright, wills have been upset, but Ihardly imagine there's any chance of this one being so dealt with.Anyhow, I'm ready to take what chance there is. However, you have nodoubt made yourself familiar with the conditions under which I inherit,"he went on good-humouredly, but with a wicked twinkle in his eyes."Don't you know, for instance, of some young woman attractive enough toinduce me to pay forfeit? She must be very attractive, mind; not tooyoung either--'teens mean selfishness; nor too passee--that carriestemper. I incline to the dark style of beauty, or something between thetwo. And I should be sure to capitulate at discretion, if only becauseit would be in a sense forbidden fruit."
The other sat speechless with anger. At last he exploded.
"I did not come here to trifle, sir. But, I tell you, this will bringyou no good. Ill-gotten gains never do. Ill-gotten gains, I say."And, with a final glare, he bounced out of the room.
"Poor old man," thought Claverton, watching him from the window. "Daresay he's rather sore, and it was a sin to chaff him. But then hebrought it upon himself by his bumptiousness. Likely I'm going to cutmy own throat for his benefit. The man must be a fool."
Had he but known it, his late visitor was at that very moment of thesame opinion, as, jolting along in the 'bus he had just hailed, a suddenidea struck him.
"By Jingo! What an ass I am! He thought _I_ was the one who wouldbenefit. I'll go back. Hi! Conductor--stop--stop! No use, though.The fellow has no sense of honour. Still, if I hadn't lost myconfounded temper, I might have induced him to yield. No, I shouldn't.The man's a scamp any way--an utter scamp."
Wherein the old gentleman was wrong. Had he entered upon the interviewwith a clear head and courteous manner, it is highly probable that thewhole course of this not uneventful narrative would have been changed.
Having got rid of his choleric visitor, Claverton went out. His facewas turned Citywards, and, as he walked, he pondered.
"Nine thousand pounds contingent on eight years of single blessedness.Well, the terms oughtn't to be difficult. Why, many a fellow would giveaway double the amount for the same privilege, if I know anything of myworld. But as I told that old parson in chaff just now--forbidden fruitis what attracts. Poor Spalding! What on earth made him clog theconcern with such a condition? The only thing is to turn the lot over--capitalise and double it as soon as possible; and, fortunately, I'm notparticular how. Grand thing, a careful training in a pious family."
An hour's walking, and he is in the heart of the City. Turning down alittle lane out of Fenchurch Street, he looks about him carefully.Through a doorway, then a couple of flights of stairs, and he ishammering at a door labelled "Mr Silas B. Morkum."
"Boss engaged," said the sharp boy who appeared.
"Of course he is. Take that pasteboard in at once."
Almost immediately the boy returned and ushered Claverton into an inneroffice. A thin, wiry-looking man, with a hooked nose and very keen greyeyes; advanced with outstretched hand.
"Well, Claverton, my boy," he began, with a slight Yankee drawl."Thought you'd turn up again some day. Devilish cold? Yes. Here'ssome stuff, though, to counteract that," and he produced awicker-covered bottle and glasses. "Fill up--that's right. Here's toold times. Now what can I do for you?"
Claverton laughed drily.
"That's so like you, Morkum. Can't you imagine any fellow looking youup purely for the fun of the thing?"
"Well, not many do--not many," answered the American in an apologetictone. "But--"
"But this time you've hit the right nail on the head. There _is_something you can do for me, if any one can. You can put me in the wayof doubling a given sum in the shortest possible time."
"That all?" answered the other, almost disappointedly. "Reckon I can--and I'd do more than that for you--as you know. Silas B. Morkum ain'tthe boy to forget--well, we know what. Now let's hear all about it."
Claverton told him. The tie of gratitude to which Morkum had referredwent back to the time of the former's earlier wanderings, when ourfriend had by the merest chance been able to do him a most importantservice, and the American had never forgotten it. He was a curiousunit. By profession broker, money-lender, and half-a-dozen otherthings; in reality, such of his dealings as were most remunerative wereknown only to himself and to those immediately concerned.
"Well, then," he said, reflectively, lighting up a long Havana andpushing the box across to his companion, "well, then--you want to turnover this sum and ain't particular how?"
"Not in the least."
"Then I can lay you on to something. But you are open to putting yourhide pretty considerably in pawn?"
"Quite open. What is it? Mines in Sonora?"
"No. 'Tain't that. Two years ago I sent a party on that lay.Twenty-three Western men, all well armed and mounted. Game chickens allround."
"What then?"
"They are there yet. No one ever saw or heard of them again. Beckonthe Apaches wiped 'em out. No. This is less risky; still, it isrisky--tarnation so."
"What is it?"
The other fixed his keen grey eyes upon Claverton for a moment. Then hedelivered himself of just three words.
"The devil!" exclaimed Claverton, astonished, "I thought that game wasplayed out long ago."
"No, it ain't; not a bit of it. And it's sure profits, quick returns;but-all-fired risk."
"Well, let's hear all about it."
The other left the papers which he had been sorting, and, drawing hischair to the fire, began to lay out his scheme. And at last the dingyoffice grew shadowy, and the boy came in to know if he shouldn't lockup.
"Yes," assented Morkum. "Come along and dine somewhere, Claverton, andyou shall tell me what you've been doing all this time. We can talkbusiness to-morrow."
The clocks were chiming a quarter to twelve as they separated at King'sCross Station.
"Going to walk home, are you?" said the American, reflectively. "Queercity, this. Many a man disappears, and is never more heard of by hisinquiring relatives."
"It would be a precious risky job for any enterprising spirits to tryand conceal my whereabouts. They'd get hurt," answered Claverton, witha meaning laugh.
"That's right," said the other, approvingly. "Never have your hand farfrom your coat-pocket, and you'll do. Good-night."
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The wind howls dismally round a cosy old country rectory on this gloomyMarch evening, but, within, all is snugness and warmth. From onewell-lighted room comes a sound of many cheerful voices; but passing bythis, let us take a look into the library, where sits a girl all alone.She is a lovely girl, as far as we can see by the uncertain firelight,and may be nineteen or twenty. Her well-shaped head is crowned with anabundance of soft, dark hair, tinted with strange lights as theflickering glow plays upon it. Her sweet, lustrous eyes are gazingpensively at the clock on the mantelpiece, while the rain rolls in gustsagainst the old-fashioned casement.
"Past six. Uncle George should be back by now. The train must be late.Ah, there he is!" as the sound of wheels is audible on the graveloutside.
She hears the occupant
s of the other room rush to the front door towelcome their father; but with a hasty kiss all round, the rector goesstraight to the library.
"Here I am, Uncle George," says the girl, meeting him in the doorway,for she heard him inquiring for her. "But do go and change first, youmust be very wet."
"No, I'm not, my dear; not in the least. Come in here and shut thedoor; I want to tell you about this."
Then he hesitates, clears his throat, manages to knock down the tongswith a hideous clatter, and jerks out:
"I could do nothing."
His niece waits for him to continue.
"Nothing. He says he intends to stick to the money, every penny of it.Why, when I put it to him fairly, he laughed in my face; made someill-chosen jest about it being only a question of time. He's a scamp, adownright scamp, and will come to no good. Mark my words."
"Who is he, Uncle George? What's his name?"
"Some adventurer. I was going to say _low_ adventurer, but he isn'tthat; the man's a gentleman by birth, unmistakably. Name! Why, blessmy soul, I've quite forgotten. What is it again? Clinton--Emerson--something like that--I forget exactly."
The girl stood silently gazing into the fire, with one arm on the oldman's shoulder. She was an orphan niece, whom he had welcomed to hishome, nominally until it could be decided what should be done with her;actually he had already decided this, and his decision was that thathome should be a permanent one. He was a very soft-hearted man, was theRev. George Wainwright, in spite of his quick temper and aggressiveexterior. But the girl, for her part, was equally determined in her ownmind not to remain a burden on him. He had a large family of his own,and she must manage to earn her own livelihood. Then came the news ofthe death of her distant cousin, Herbert Spalding, and of the legacywhich would revert to her, contingent upon the nuptials of a stranger.The rector, with characteristic hot-headedness, had voted thecontingency absolutely monstrous. No man of honour, he had said, couldpossibly accept a bequest subject to it, especially as by doing so hewould be robbing a penniless orphan--and had started for town there andthen with the intention of inducing the legatee to forego his claim. Inwhich laudable mission he had signally failed, as we have seen--afailure due in no small measure to his own hot temper and want of tact.
"Never mind, Uncle George; we are only where we were before, you see,and I think I shall get that situation I advertised for."
"No you won't, my dear. We shan't let you go away from us."
She kisses him affectionately. She is determined to carry her point,but does not press it to-night. "Now you must go and talk to theothers, Uncle George; I've been keeping you from them quite longenough." And with her arm still on the old man's shoulder she leads himto the door, and they join the family circle in the cheerful lamplight.