“You see it is as well I acted with more forethought, and did not
send for our Irish friend,” said Grenfell, as he sat at breakfast with
Ladarelle. “We shall probably not want him.”
“I suspect not,” said the other; “the last news of her was
unfavourable.”
Grenfell stole a look at the speaker, and, quick as the glance was, it
bespoke a mingled aversion and contempt. The men who have arrived at
middle age, either to form a poor opinion of their fellows, or to feign
it--it is hard exactly to say which--feel a sort of detestation for
younger men who entertain the same sentiments. Whether it be that
to have reached that cynicism has cost years of patient study and
endurance, and that they are indignant at the pretension that would
assume to have acquired the knowledge without the labour, or that,
and this more probable, they really do not fully trust their own
heartlessness--whatever the cause, I can answer for the effect; and
that cold, ungenial man now looked upon his younger companion with a
sense of little less than disgust.
“So that her death would not shock you?” said Grenfell, as he stirred
his tea, without looking up.
“I don’t exactly say that. She’s a fine girl, young, and very good
looking.”
“Beautiful.”
“Well, beautiful if you like, though I’ll show scores just as handsome
any day in Rotten Row. But the question is, Does she, or does she not,
stand between me and a fine estate? You yourself thought that opinion of
Palmer’s went against me.”
“No doubt of it. Palmer concurs with the Attorney-General; indeed, he
seems astonished that any other view was ever taken, as he says, ‘No
provision of a will can override the law.’”
“Which means, that the old cove may marry; and his heir, if he have one,
may inherit the property?”
“Just so.”
“And then, in the face of that, you ask me if her life is of such
consequence to me?”
“No; I asked if her death would shock you?” “I don’t well know what
you mean by being shocked! If there was a suspicion abroad that I
had poisoned her, to get her out of the way, then perhaps I might be
shocked.”
“Shocked at the imputation, not the consequences?” “I can’t split
hairs--I never could. If you want subtle distinctions and fine-drawn
differences, you must try elsewhere. What I want to say is simply this:
I have no ill will to the girl; I wish no harm to her; but I’d rather
she wasn’t _there_.” “By _there_, you mean, alive?”
“Well, if there was no other alternative--yes, I do mean that. I’m
certain old Wardle would never look out for another, and the great
probability is, he’d not trouble us much longer; and, as Tom Scott
says, by ‘nobbling’ one horse, you get rid of the whole stable. You look
greatly disgusted, are you horrified at my wickedness, Grenfell?”
“No,” said he, slowly. “I have met a fair number of young fellows like
you, and who fancied, that to know life they must begin at the lowest of
it; the great misfortune was, that they never emerged from it after.”
“That’s severe, I take it,” said Ladarelle, as he lighted a cigarette
and began to smoke.
“Feigning virtue will never make a saint,” said Grenfell, rising from
the table; “but mock wickedness will always end by making a man a
rascal!” He left the room as he spoke, and sauntered out unto the lawn;
and now Ladarelle began to commune with himself--what notice he ought
to take, if any, of these words. Were they to be considered as a moral
sentiment of general application, or were they addressed specially
to himself? The context favoured this latter supposition; but then
he uttered them as a great truth; he had a trick of that sort of
“preaching,” and the moment the word preaching crossed him, his anger
was dispelled, for who minded preaching? Who was ever the better or the
worse for it? Who ever deemed its denunciations personal?
The entrance of his man, Mr. Fisk, cut short his reflections, for he
had sent him over to Dalradern, with his compliments, to ask after
Mademoiselle O’Hara.
“Sir Within’s respects, Sir, the young lady is better; passed a good
night, and seems much refreshed.”
“Here’s news, Grenfell,” cried Ladarelle, opening the window, and
calling out to Grenfell--“here’s news; she has had a good night, and is
better.”
Grenfell, however, had just received his letters from the post, and was
already too deeply engrossed by one of them to mind him.
“I say, come here, and listen to the bulletin,” cried Ladarelle again;
but Grenfell, without deigning the slightest notice to his words, thrust
his letters into his pocket and walked hastily away.
The letter he had opened was from Vyner, and even in the first few lines
had so far engaged his interest, that, to read it undisturbed, he set
out to gain a little summer-house on a small island--a spot to which
Ladarelle could not follow, as there was but one boat on the lake.
Having reached his sanctuary, he took forth the epistle, which, from
Vyner, was an unusually long one, and began to read. It is not necessary
that I should ask the reader’s attention to the whole of it. It opened
by an apology for not having written before:
“I am ashamed to think, my dear Grenfell, how many of your questions
remain unanswered; but as the Cardinal’s private secretary wrote to
express the grief his Eminence felt at being obliged to die instead of
dine out, so I must ask your patience for not replying to you, as I was
occupied in being ruined. It is a big word, George, but not too big for
the fact. When I gave up politics, for want of something to do, I took
up speculation. A very clever rascal--I only found out the rascality
later--with whom I made acquaintance at Genoa, induced me to make some
railroad ventures, which all turned out successes. From these he led me
on to others of a larger kind in Sardinia, and ultimately in Morocco. A
great London banking firm was associated with the enterprise, which, of
course, gave the air of stability to the operations, and as there was
nothing unfair--nothing gambling in the scheme--nothing, in fact, that
passed the limits of legitimate commercial enterprise, at the same time
that there was everything to interest And amuse, I entered into it with
all that ardour for which more than once your prudent temperament has
rebuked me. I have no patience to go over the story; besides that the
catastrophe tells it all. The original tempter--his name is
Gennet--has fled, the great bankers have failed, and I am--I have
ascertained--engaged to the full amount of all I have in the world--that
is, nothing remains to us but my wife’s settlement to live on. A great
blow this; I am staggering under it still. It was precisely the sort of
misfortune I had thought myself exempt from, because I never cared much
about money-getting; I was richer than I really needed to be; but, as
the Spanish proverb says, ‘The devil never goes out to fish with only
one sort of bait in his boat.’ I imagined I was going to be a great
philanthropist. If I was to get lead from the Moors, I was to give them
civilisation, culture, Heaven knows what cravings after good things
here and hereafter. Don’t laugh, George; I give you my word of honour I
believed it. Mr. Ridley Gennet was a great artist, and from the hour he
waved his wand over me, I never really awoke ‘till I was beggared.’ Now,
I do believe that you yourself, with all the craft you boast of, would
not have come scathless out of his hands. These fellows are consummately
clever, and in nothing more than in the quick reading of the characters
they are placed in contact with. You can answer for it that I never was
a gambler. I have played, it is true; but with no zest, no passion
for play. That man, however, knew more of me than I did of myself; he
detected a sort of combative spirit in my nature, which gives results
very much like the love of play. It prompts to a rash self-confidence
and a dogged resolution not to be beaten--no matter how heavy the odds
against one. I say, he saw this, and he determined to make use of it.
There was a time at which, at the loss of about twenty-eight or thirty
thousand pounds, I might have freed myself of every liability; and,
indeed, I was more than half inclined to do it; but the devil, in
this fellow’s shape, hinted something about being poor-spirited and
craven-hearted; said something about men who bore reverses ill, and
only spread canvas when the wind was all astern; and that, in fact, the
people who carried the day in life were exactly those who never would
accept defeat. All he said met a ready concurrence from my own heart,
and in I went after my thirty thousand, which soon became eighty.
Even then I might have escaped--a heavy loser, of course, but not
crushed--but he persuaded me that the concern was the finest
enterprise in Europe, if emancipated from the influence of two powerful
shareholders--men who, since they had joined us, had gone deeply into
other speculations, whose prospects would be severely damaged by our
success. One of these was La Marque, the Parisian banker, and a great
promoter of the ‘Crédit Mobilier;’ the other an English contractor,
whose name I may mention one of these days. They were, he said, to be
bought out, and then I should stand the representative of four-sixths
of the whole scheme. It reads like infatuation now that I go calmly over
it; but I acceded. I commissioned Gennet to treat with these gentlemen,
and gave him blank bills for the sums. For a while all seemed to go
on admirably. La Marque himself wrote to me; he owned that his other
engagements had not left him at liberty to develop the resources of
our company to their full extent, and confessed that there were certain
changes in the management that must lead to great advantage. With,
however, what I thought at the time a most scrupulous honour--though I
have come to regard it differently--he hinted to me that while Mr. G.’s
position in the ‘world of affairs’ was above all reproach, the fact
of his conducting a transaction with blank acceptances was totally
irregular and unbusiness-like; and he begged that I would give him a
regular assurance, in a form which he enclosed, that I authenticated
G.’s position, and held myself responsible, not merely commercially,
but as a man of honour, for such engagements as he should contract in my
name. I made a few trifling alterations in the wording of this document,
and sent it back with my signature. On the third day after, the London
firm smashed, and on the evening that brought the news, G. bolted, and
has not since been heard of.
“Since then, every post from England tells me of the steps at which my
ruin advances. M’Kinlay, overwhelmed, I think, by the calamity, acts
with less than his usual skill and cleverness, and continues to
insist that I must repudiate my pledge to La Marque, whom he calls a
confederate of G.’s; and, indeed, declares that if we could but secure
that fellow’s person, we should save a large remnant of the property.
These are _his_ views; they are not _mine_. I cannot consent to remedy
my folly at the cost of my character; and though I have agreed to the
despatch of detectives to hunt Gennet, I will not, by any act, dishonour
my signature.
“It is at this stage we are now arrived. Whether I am to be drowned by
six inches over my head, or six fathoms, is not, I opine, a matter of
much consequence. Lady Vyner knows it all, and bears it--as I knew she
would--nobly. Her sister, too, has shown a fine spirit. Of course, we
have kept so much as we can of the calamity from Mrs. Courtenay; but
she is more cast down than any of us. As for Ada, she sustains us all. I
declare I never knew her before; and if it were not that the misfortune
is to outlive me, I’d say it was worth being ruined to discover the
boundless wealth of that dear girl’s heart.
“I could fill pages with little traits of her thoughtful affection,
evincing a nature, too, that actually seemed to need an opportunity to
show it was made for higher and better things than to float along in an
existence of indulgence.
“You are impatient to hear how practical we can be. Well, you shall.
We have given up our grand palazzo, and retired to a little place about
twenty miles off, near Chiavari, where we found a small house to suit
us. We have sent off all the servants but three. I doubt if we shall
keep old Morris; but it would break his heart to discharge him with the
others. I have despatched my horses to be sold at Turin. The yacht is
already disposed of. Not bad this in four days, besides writing about a
hundred and fifty letters, and giving solemn audience to Mr. Pengrove,
of the detective force, come out specially to get from me a detailed
description of G.’s person, size, dress, accent, and manner. I vow, till
I had the happiness of this gentleman’s acquaintance, I never knew by
how many traits a human creature could stamp his identity; and the
way in which he pushed his inquiries, as to matters utterly beyond the
realms of all the disguises in use, perfectly amazed me.
“It was not, perhaps, a very acute question of mine, but it dropped from
me half unawares. I asked whether he thought G. had fled to America
or Australia? He replied, ‘No, sir; he never had any dealings in those
parts. When men bolt, they always follow out some previously-formed
train of circumstances; he’ll be somewhere on the African coast--I mean
to try Tunis first.’
“You know now, my dear George, more than I really meant to inflict on
you of our sad story; but I was, in a measure, forced into some details.
First of all, one’s friends ought to be in a position to contradict
false rumours, and I take it I shall have my share of them; and
secondly, you may be disturbed in your present tenure, for the Cottage
as well as the Castle goes to the creditors.
“There is, however, a small business matter in which I must have more
than your advice--I want your assistance. You may remember that when, on
our Irish tour----”
There comes here a sudden stop in the epistle, but, in a hurried and
tremulous hand, it was continued in this wise:
“Another great misfortune! Poor Luttrell’s boy is drowned. My wife has
just brought me the news. A despatch boat of the Italian navy has picked
up at sea an English sailor on a spar, the last of the crew of the
American barque _Squashy_ commanded by a Captain Dodge. They were
attacked by pirates when becalmed off the Riff coast, and the Yankee,
rather than surrender, blew up the ship. This man remembers nothing
beyond his having leaped overboard when he saw the captain make for the
magazine. He was, indeed, insensible when picked up, and even yet his
mind wanders at times. So far as his memory would serve he has given the
names of the crew, and Luttrell’s was amongst them. He said, too, that
he saw Luttrell leaning against the tiller-wheel, with his arms folded,
and looking quite calm, a moment or two before he jumped over. The
Italian steamer returned to the place and cruised for an entire day, in
the hope of saving some others, but none were met with, and there is no
doubt now that all have perished. I thought only an hour ago that there
were few in the world as unfortunate as myself; but what is my loss
compared to poor Luttrell’s? If I could possibly leave home now, it
would be to go over to Ireland and see him. What is to be done? Can you
suggest how the tidings could be best broken to him? Would you undertake
the charge yourself? If not, M’Kinlay must do it, though, for every
reason, I prefer you. I know, my dear Grenfell, that you shrink from
painful tasks, but it is _my_ load that you will bear on this occasion,
and it will strengthen you to remember that you are helping a friend in
his great hour of need.
“If you are not able to go, and if M’Kinlay should also be unable,
forward the enclosed note to Luttrell.
“I have just seen Martin the sailor. He has told us much about young
Luttrell, who seems to have been actually beloved on board the ship; his
courage, his daring, his coolness, and his unfailing high spirits, made
him the idol of the crew; and this fellow declares, that if Luttrell’s
advice had been listened to, the ship might have been saved; but the
American lost his head; and, swearing that the pirates should never have
a timber of her, rushed below with a portfire, and blew her up.
“I am ashamed to send off all the selfish details that fill the
first part of this letter. In the presence of such a calamity as poor
Luttrell’s, _my_ sorrows are unworthy and contemptible; but who knows
when I could have the time or the temper to go over my dreary story
again? and so you shall have it as it is.
“I am not able to read over again what I have written, so that I am not
sure whether I have answered all your questions. You will, I am sure,
however, forgive me much at such a season; for, though I had screwed
up my courage to meet my own disasters, I had no reserve of pluck to
sustain me against this sad blow of Luttrell’s.
“Do not refuse me, George, this service; believe me, the poor fellow is
worthy of all the kindness you can show him. More than ever do I feel
the wrong that we have done him, since every misfortune of his life has
sprung from it.
“I must finish to catch the post. I enclose you a copy of the deposition
of the seaman made before the consul at Genoa, and an extract from the
log of _St. Genaro_, the despatch-boat. If you do go--indeed, in any
case--write to me at once, and believe me, meanwhile,
“Your faithful friend,
“Gervais Vyner.
“A hearty letter from Lord B. has just come. He says he has just heard
of my smash, and offers me my choice of something at home, or in the
Colonies. Time enough to think of this; for the present, we shall have
to live on about what my guardian allowed me at Christ-church. Address,
La Boschetta, Chiavari.”
With much attention, Grenfell read this letter to the end, and then
re-read it, pondering over certain parts as he went. He was certainly
grieved as much as he could well be for any misfortune not his own.
He liked Vyner as well as it was in his nature to like any one; not,
indeed, for his fine and generous qualities, his manliness, and his
rectitude--he liked him simply because Vyner had always stood by _him_.
Vyner had sustained him in a set, which, but for such backing, would not
have accepted him. Every real step he had made in life had been through
Vyner’s assistance; and he well knew that Vyner’s fall would extend its
influence to himself.
Then came other thoughts: “He should have to leave the Cottage, where
he had hoped to have remained for the cock shooting at least, perhaps
a little longer; for this same Welsh life was a great economy. He was
living for ‘half nothing;’ no rent, no servants to pay; horses, a fine
garden, a capital cellar, all at his disposal. What, in the name of all
foolishness, could make a man with double what he could spend, go and
squander the whole in rotten speculations? He says he did not want to be
richer! What _did_ he want then? How can men tell such lies to their own
hearts? Of course, he intended to be a Rothschild. It was some cursed
thirsting after enormous wealth--wealth, that was to be expressed by
figures on paper--not felt, not enjoyed, nor lived up to; _that_ was the
whole sum and substance of the temptation. Why not have the honesty to
say so? As for Luttrell, I only wonder how he can think of _him_ at such
a time. I imagine, if I were to awake some fine morning to hear I was
a beggar, I should take all the other calamities of the world with a
marvellous philosophy. It’s a bore to be drowned, particularly if there
was no necessity for it; but the young fellow had the worst of it; and
after all, I don’t see that he had a great deal to live for. The island
that formed his patrimony would certainly never have seduced _me_ into
any inordinate desire to prolong existence. Perhaps I must go there. It
is a great annoyance. I hate the journey, and I hate the duty; but to
refuse would, in all probability, offend Vyner. It is just the time men
are unreasonably thin-skinned, fancying that all the world has turned
its back on them, because they have sent off their French cook. Vulgar
nonsense! Perhaps Vyner would not take that view; but his women would,
I’m certain!”
Now, Mr. Grenfell knew nothing whatever of “the women” in question,
and that was the precise reason that he included them in his spiteful
censure.
“And then to fancy that his money-seeking was philanthropy! Was there
ever delusion like it! Your virtuous people have such a habit of
self-esteem; they actually believe the thing must be right, because they
do it.”
Grumbling sorely over that “Irish journey,” he sauntered back to
the house, in the porch of which Ladarelle was standing, with an open
letter in his hand.
“I say,” cried he, “here’s a go! The house of Fletcher and David, one of
the oldest in London, smashed!”
“I know it,” said Grenfell, dryly.
“Then you know, perhaps, how your friend, Sir Gervais Vyner, has let
them in for nigh a quarter of a million?”
“I know more; for I know that _you_ know nothing of the matter; but,
to turn to something that concerns ourselves. I must start by the mail
train to-night for Holyhead.”
“Which means, that I must evacuate my quarters. I must say, you give
your tenants short notice to quit.”
“Stay, by all means. All I have to say is, that I cannot keep you
company. Rickards will take excellent care of you till I come back.”
“Which will be----?”
“I can’t name the day; but I hope it will be an early one.”
“A mysterious journey--eh?”
“No; but one which it is not at all necessary to take an opinion upon.”
“By the way, you wrote the letter to that Irish fellow the other
evening--what did you do with it?”
“It is on the writing-table.”
“And I suppose I may make use of it, if I need it?”
“Yes; it’s a matter that other things have driven out of my head; but
the letter is yours, if you wish.”
“And you will stand by me, I hope, if I get into a scrape?”
“Don’t count on me. I’m a capricious fellow, and whenever a thing does
not come off at once, I never can vouch for the spirit in which I may
resume it.”
“That’s hearty, at all events!”
“No; but it is unmistakable.--Rickards, hurry the cook, if he will let
you, and order the carriage for eight o’clock.”
“And posters for me for Dalradern at the same hour,” said Ladarelle.
“Grog is worth a score of such fellows!” muttered he below his breath,
as he strolled to his room. “Grog would never strike out a plan, and
leave a man in the lurch afterwards.”
When they met at dinner, Grenfell took care that the conversation should
be as general as possible, never by a chance alluding to any subject of
personal interest to either of them; and, as the clock struck eight, and
he heard the tramp of the horses on the gravel, he arose and said:
“Don’t forget to say all sorts of things to Sir Within for me, and to
Mademoiselle, too, when she is visible. Good-by, and ‘bonne chance!’”
“Good-by! I wish I could have had a few words with you before you
started. I wish you would have told me something more definite about the
plan. I wish----” What he continued to wish is not on record, for once
more Grenfell uttered his good-by, and the next moment he was gone.