_"MR. AND MRS. RUDGE."_
"PAULINE—my dearest!"
It was like a dream to Pauline. She came to herself quickly, conscious
of pain somewhere, but not yet able to localise it. Distant cries in
Nessie's voice reached her first; then a sob close at hand; then a deep
masculine utterance of wonderful words—"My dearest!" And she opened her
eyes to see the ruddy face she so well knew bending over her, almost
colourless.
"You are not hurt! Tell me," he implored hoarsely.
"It's nothing. I'll get up," said Pauline, and she actually pulled
herself to a sitting posture. There she had to pause and lean against
Viola, very white. "I'm a little—stunned, I think." she murmured. "Is
nobody else hurt?"
"Nobody else,—you dear, brave girl," said Viola. "Nessie is only
frightened. She won't come near, or let your father come."
"And Viola is safe!" Pauline looked at Rudge, smiling her
congratulation. "I've saved her—for you!" she said. Then remembrance
came of those words, "Pauline—my dearest!" And a sharp pain darted
somewhere,—she had to pause and think where. "My—arm, I believe," she
said.
"Only the arm,—nothing worse?"
Viola was feeling the arm gently. "Not broken, I hope," she said. "But
what are we to do? The carriage will come directly. We must get her up
the cliff, and take her home. She cannot walk, Leonard."
"O yes, I can!" and "Certainly not!" came together.
"Why, Pauline, my dear,—how is this?" demanded the uncertain tones of
Mr. Ogilvie, coming near. "Not really hurt, I hope? Poor dear! Nessie
is so alarmed. Don't you think we ought to get out of the way? A
further fall might take place. How did it all happen?"
"It happened that she saved me at risk to herself," Viola said, with
full eyes.
"Really!" uttered Mr. Ogilvie incredulously. He was so used to think
of Pauline as only a useful mender of stockings, that any touch of the
heroic in her life came as a surprise,—hardly even a pleasant surprise,
for people do not like to find themselves mistaken in their estimates
of others.
"Nothing else could have saved Viola," said Mr. Rudge, hoarse still
with strong emotion.
Pauline believed it to be an emotion of thankfulness for Viola's
escape, and yet—had she heard those words aright?—And if so, what did
they mean?
"Yes, we should get out of the cove as fast as possible," Rudge
continued. "I had no idea it was such an unsafe spot. Will you see to
your younger daughter, Mr. Ogilvie? I shall carry Pauline—Miss Ogilvie,
I mean—up the cliff. She cannot walk: no, certainly not."
Pauline protested, and found her feet slowly, every movement meaning
pain to the injured arm. "I would much rather walk," she said. "I am
only a little shaken—and bruised, I think."
She might as well have argued with a stone wall. "There is no time to
be lost," he said authoritatively. "Another fall of stone may take
place at any moment. Viola, get away as fast as possible. Look out and
see if the carriage is coming." Then without further ado, he lifted
Pauline, as if she had been a feather, and bore her swiftly over the
crunching shingle.
Nessie had already reached the foot of the path, which she ascended
with Viola; and Mr. Ogilvie followed alone some little way in the rear
of Leonard Rudge. Burdened as the latter was, he could not overtake the
girls, if indeed he meant to do so. Half-way up he paused, and Pauline
said,—"I wish you would let me walk. I would 'much,' rather."
"If it will make you happy. We are out of danger now, and need not
hurry."
"Thanks." Pauline was glad to find herself in a normal position. She
stood still to smooth her ruffled plumage, and winced.
"Ah, the pain is bad, I'm afraid."
"Yes. I suppose the stone came against that arm."
"No; the stone must have spent most of its force. It merely knocked
you down; and you fell upon your arm. You are not fit to walk, Miss
Ogilvie—or—" a pause—"will you give me the right to call you 'Pauline?'"
He had a startled look in answer. Pauline's was not usually a very
expressive face, but there was no mistaking its expression at that
moment.
"Is it too much to ask?" he asked, his face falling. "I have hoped—"
"But—but—Viola!" she said.
"Viola!" He stood still, looking down at Pauline's upturned face. "Is
it possible that you—was that what you meant just now? Surely you know
that Viola is engaged to my brother Percy!"
A flood of light was poured over Pauline, illuminating her past, her
present, her future. Of course! How stupid she had been. Anybody else
must have seen and understood. Perplexities fell to the ground.
"No—I had not heard," she said. "At least—I didn't understand. I—I
thought—"
"Thought Viola was engaged to me!" in astonished accents.
It was not Pauline's way to cry easily, but between disturbed nerves,
pain, and mental agitation, she was on the verge of tears. To escape
such a catastrophe, she hurried bluntly into speech, saying the first
words which came to mind,—"Oh, but you know—you did call her—'your'
Miss Primrose."
"In contradistinction to your father's Miss Primrose. To be sure,—ha!
ha!" laughed Mr. Rudge, but the laugh had a forced sound. "Well; and
she is mine—my cousin now, my sister to be. What matters that? She
could never be anything nearer—even if—"
"Even if—?" repeated Pauline enquiringly.
"Even if I had never met Pauline Ogilvie!"
After that, little more needed to be said, yet the saying of it
occupied some time. Never was a cliff more slowly ascended than by
those two. Mr. Ogilvie overtook them and passed by unnoticed. Wisely,
he made no remarks. Before Leonard Rudge landed Pauline at the summit,
he and she were promised, each to the other.
"You dear little goose, not to understand!" Viola exclaimed, when the
state of affairs was revealed. "Aunt Viola said she had told you, so
of course I didn't explain, and you asked no questions. But I'm sure I
must have talked of Percy a hundred times."
"Yes—and hardly ever of—Mr. Rudge," said Pauline. "I thought you were
shy."
"Shy! Ah, you don't know me, do you? Pauline, have you really, truly,
honestly believed all along that you were destined for my aunt's
companion?"
"Honestly," Pauline could aver.
"And you never saw through my little dodges? You never dreamt that I
guessed what Leonard was after down here, and that I wanted to see
what manner of choice he was making? Dear innocent old boy—he didn't
understand, of course? Don't be angry, Pauline, for he is wonderfully
innocent—and yet, I must confess, one never is quite sure how far he
does see, with those good-humoured eyes. Anyway, he lent himself to
my little schemes, and betrayed 'nothing to nobody!' A man can be
circumspect when he chooses, there's no doubt—and I don't believe he
half knew his own mind, till you were out of reach."
"I don't think I understand yet what made you and Mrs. Palmer send for
me."
"I'm not sure that I understand it fully myself," Viola answered
merrily. "One does a lot of things from sheer impulse. But anyhow, I'm
not sorry."
Nor could Pauline regret it. She was very happy. Things had indeed
"turned out well" for her, as foretold by Leonard Rudge a month
earlier—"well," not alone actually, but also apparently.
Had she shirked her plain duty, and remained at the seaside to be
near Rudge, results might have been different. At that time Leonard
Rudge had been, to say the least, uncertain as to his own feelings and
desires. Pauline's departure, the manner of their goodbye interview,
his sensations of loneliness in a dull watering-place without her, and
a succession of enthusiastic letters from warm-hearted Viola, all had
had a marked share in bringing him to the point.
Lastly, that point was attained through the accident on the beach,
which called out the heroic side of Pauline's nature, and finally
revealed to Rudge that he could not be happy without her. True, the
same accident entailed on Pauline some weeks of suffering in the
twisted arm, but it may well be believed that she would not have given
up the joy to escape ten times as much pain.
Before many months had passed, there was a double wedding: Pauline
becoming Mrs. Rudge of Wokingholme, Viola becoming Mrs. Percival Rudge.
Since a Miss Primrose no longer existed, my story naturally ends here.
It may, however, be added that Mr. Ogilvie and Nessie found a home near
Mrs. Palmer; that Nessie, under the pressure of necessity, developed
certain new and useful qualities, and that she grew in time to be a
prime favourite with the old lady, her father's friend, the quondam
"Miss Primrose."
[Illustration]
_A Strange Will._
[Illustration]
A STRANGE WILL.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
_MAKING A WILL._
"THE blind lower, Sparks!"
"Yes, sir."
"Bring my watch to this table. Mind you don't take it away again.
Extraordinary that you never can remember! I can't see the clock,
lying here. My writing-case has gone too. Put it beside me. Mr. Harvey
promised to come, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was that a ring at the front door? Go down and see. Let me know who it
is—sharp! and don't dawdle."
Sparks vanished with his air of wooden composure, which might or might
not have meant patience; and Mr. Detroit lay under luxurious wraps on a
wide couch at the foot of the bed, breathing sonorously.
He looked very ill, oppressed, sunken, and pallid. Once upon a time,
Mr. Detroit had been a fine and well-built man, but old age had bowed
and shrunken his frame, and the iron grip of sickness had laid him low.
Neither old age nor suffering had been softening in their effects.
There were lines of weakness, but none of tenderness, around the cold
lips; and no gleams of changeful light were visible in the stern eyes.
Mr. Detroit stood singularly alone in the world. He was without kith
or kin, unless of the most distant description. He had made, in his
lifetime, few needless acquaintances, and fewer friends. His relations
with those who worked under and for him were purely business relations.
They did so much for him, and he paid them so much for the doing. That
was all. He took no interest in them personally; neither did he expect
them to take any personal interest in him.
Except from a business point of view, it mattered little to any human
being that he was ill. Nobody loved him; nobody had any cause to think
of his name with affection or gratitude. The "joy of doing kindnesses"
was a joy unknown to Gilbert Detroit. Not a man, woman, or child
was consciously the better for his seventy years' residence on this
earth. He had lived for himself, pleased himself and enriched himself
exclusively. Now life seemed to be drawing to a close, and a new
anxiety came upon him.
It was an anxiety which had not troubled him hitherto. Like most old
men in good health, while knowing himself old, he had reckoned on an
indefinite term of life. He had gone on carefully amassing wealth,
adding pound to pound, never worried by the question, What was the
use? For he had no child, no brother or sister, no nephew or niece, to
inherit the whole. That had not mattered while he was well. The mere
delight of money-getting had been sufficient in itself. To some natures
there is a keen delight in it, hardly to be understood by natures of
a different mould; and the higher cravings which exist originally
in every man may be so withered by long neglect, that at last they
actually die out, the lower and meaner satisfaction becoming all
sufficient—just for the time! Things were so with Gilbert Detroit.
But health failed, and death threatened; and then the question arose,
Whose should all this money be, which he had laboriously gathered
together?
The thought troubled him a good deal. It kept him awake at night, and
haunted him by day. No man likes to feel that his life's toil has been
thrown away. The object of Mr. Detroit's toil, through a goodly part
of seventy years, had been wealth, more and more wealth. Now he had
the wealth, and he might not stay to enjoy it. Then, whose should it
be? Who should enjoy the fruits of his labour? Relatives—he had none!
Friends—he had none! Servants and employés—well, he had, but he did not
care for them. The poor, the sick, the needy—Bah! Gilbert Detroit had
never given of his riches "in charity" during life; why should he so
give after death? He did not approve of people, poor or sick or needy.
It was their own fault, commonly: or if not, it ought to have been; and
in any case he had nothing to do with the matter.
At length he decided to send for his solicitor, Edmund Harvey, an
honourable and high-principled man, not wealthy and still young, but
doing well in his profession. Mr. Harvey was "sensible," the old man
told himself; and Mr. Harvey might see a road out of the perplexity.
This step taken, neither Sparks nor any other member of the household
knew five minutes' peace until Harvey arrived.
The room in which Mr. Detroit lay was large, airy, and replete with
comforts. Nothing which money could purchase had been spared, except
the touch of womanly fingers. Mr. Detroit trusted to Sparks, and
scorned the idea of a nurse. Sparks had not done badly for the sick
man, on the whole: but his arrangements were apt to be, like himself,
somewhat stiff and angular.
"Mr. Harvey, sir."
Sparks ushered in the expected visitor, and stolidly awaited orders.
"Mr. Harvey! How do you do?" the old man said, with no relaxation of
the rigid lines round his mouth. It might be that from long disuse of
the exercise, he had forgotten how to smile. "Excuse my getting up. I
am ill. Pray sit down. A chair, Sparks—no, not there. This side. How
stupid you are! Yes; now you may go; and mind you shut the door."
The new-comer, a slightly-made and not tall man, perhaps between
thirty-five and forty in age, in colouring pale, in manner frank and
gentleman-like, took the offered seat.
"Sparks told me of your indisposition," he said. "I am sorry to hear
it. A chill, I believe."
"A chill originally, perhaps. One theory is as good as another to
account for an illness."
"Are you feeling somewhat better?"
"Not better at all. Not likely to be so," was the tart response.
After a pause, Mr. Detroit continued—"I have seen a doctor, to please
my man. Quite useless, for I knew that nothing could be done. My
father died in the same manner, and I have no faith in physicking at
my age. But Sparks was urgent, and I consented to call in Sir William
Mann, just for an opinion. I told him plainly I didn't require any
medicine—didn't believe in medicine—and he told me quite as plainly
that in that case he could do nothing for me, and his coming again
would be useless. I like outspokenness, and I liked the man. We shook
hands over it, and I shall try something that he recommended, but it
will make no difference. I don't mean to say that there is immediate
danger, only it is the beginning of the end."
He spoke with a hard and chilly indifference still, as he might have
alluded to a necessary business journey.
"Life may be lengthened, even where full recovery is perhaps
impossible; and painful symptoms may be lessened," suggested Harvey.
"You are wise at least to try what can be done."
Mr. Detroit shook his head impatiently.
"Enough on that subject," he said. "I am too old to be argued out of
my way, and I require your help in another quarter. I wish to make my
will."
He fixed his leaden eyes upon the younger man. Harvey signified assent.
"You shall have the needful papers. Most of them are in yonder bureau.
If it is not troubling you too much, perhaps you would unlock the upper
half with this key. Thanks. There is a roll of papers in the right-hand
drawer—yes—those—if you will be so good as to bring them. You will find
all the information needed, as to investments, and so forth. The entire
amount at my disposal amounts to close upon £50,000. Not bad for one
who began life without sixpence in his pocket—eh?"
Mr. Detroit spoke complacently, and Harvey answered, "No, indeed!" with
a touch of surprise. He knew Mr. Detroit to be a man successful in
business, and successful too, of late, in certain speculations, but he
had not quite expected this.
"And you propose to leave the bulk of it to—"
"That is the question!" said Mr. Detroit. "I have nobody belonging to
me. I am at a loss what to do with the money."
CHAPTER II.
_A STRANGE DIFFICULTY._
HARVEY'S wonder grew as Mr. Detroit explained his difficulty. The state
of things seemed unusual.
"Your nearest relatives?" he suggested.
"I have no relatives—none at least that I care to acknowledge as such.
There are, perhaps, a few who might wish to put in a claim to distant
cousinship. Ridiculously distant. We are all cousins, I suppose, in
Adam. I am nothing to them, and they are nothing to me. Practically I
stand alone. Surely you were aware of this."
Harvey might have heard the fact before, but he had not grasped it. He
intimated as much.
"Well, it is true. I have never had brother or sister, uncle or aunt,
cousin or nephew or niece. My wife, who died three months after our
wedding, was in much the same position, and I have never married
again—why should I?"
"It is a remarkable case," the solicitor said.
"No doubt. The question now is—what to do with the money? Somebody must
have it."
"If you have no relatives to claim a share, what of your friends?"
"I have none," the old man curtly replied.
"None?"
"No."
"But you have had friends in the course of your life. Are there no
young people left in whom you are interested—the sons or daughters of
old friends? No young married couples, for instance, to whom a legacy
of a thousand pounds would be invaluable."
"Young people have no business to marry. I did not marry till I was
past thirty; and you are not married yet. That is sensible; but rushing
into married life without proper provision is not sensible. Besides, I
object to leave my money in mere driblets—a thousand here or a thousand
there. I will leave the whole in a lump, where I do leave it. As for
friends, I have never troubled myself to make intimacies. What is the
use? I do not believe in that sort of thing. Immense amount of humbug
is so-called 'friendship,' as you know well enough."
"There are exceptions, I hope. Was not Mr. Plunkett an exception?"
"Nathaniel Plunkett? Well—perhaps—yes. Good fellow—true as steel. Yes,
we liked one another; and he didn't try to get anything out of me. One
of your clients, was he not? You are aware that I was present when he
met his end."
"By drowning—"
"Ay; drowned within sight of land. Most unfortunate event. I was one of
the spectators. No help could reach him soon enough. That was—how long
ago? Dear me, time flies; why, it is over six years ago. But Plunkett
was a good fellow—well meaning, and so on."
"It must have been a great shock to you."
"It was a warning. A man past sixty has no business to get out of his
depth when bathing. Absurd! Yes, he went after a girl, I believe, and
lost his own life without saving hers. He should have left that sort of
thing to younger men."
"Mr. Plunkett left no children, I suppose?"
"Plunkett never married, and I have nothing to say to his brothers."
Difficulties seemed to thicken.
Harvey sat patiently, pencil in hand, waiting for something to note
down.
"Your servants," he suggested. "I believe most of them have been long
in your house. Probably you would wish to leave them legacies."
"Well—yes—I have no particular objection. Not much sense among them,
but they do tolerably well. Ten pounds apiece."
Harvey had expected to hear of one hundred pounds apiece, perhaps more
for Sparks.
"Your manager?" he proposed next, referring to Mr. Detroit's house of
business in the City. "He has served you faithfully, and work has told
upon his health. I have seldom come across a more worthy man than Mr.
Marson. You will, of course, wish to leave him some substantial token
of your regard."
"Well—yes," said Mr. Detroit.
"And the clerks. They have worked well for you. I know two or three
promising young fellows among them whose families are in straitened
circumstances."
"Well—well—yes," said Mr. Detroit peevishly.
"Would you like me to get a list of their names, and call again?"
"If you choose. Just as you choose," said Mr. Detroit. "You may put
them all down at ten pounds apiece."
"But Mr. Marson?"
"Put him down for one hundred pounds," with evident reluctance.
Then a pause came. The two or three hundred pounds thus bestowed would
make small inroads into the fifty thousand.
"I really don't see that you can do better than to leave the bulk of
your money to some charitable institution," Harvey said at length, a
further attempt in favour of Mr. Marson having failed. "The building
and endowing of a hospital, for instance—or of an asylum. Or, what
should you say to a church in some needy part of the East End?"
Mr. Detroit was not fascinated by the proposal. Plainly it was
distasteful. Through about seventy years of life he had existed purely
for self, had thought only of self, had ignored the claims of the poor
and suffering; and through the latter half of those seventy years,
he had not cared to darken the church doors on his own behalf. To
such a man, the bestowal of fifty thousand pounds—the fruits of his
life-work—upon hospitals, asylums, or church-building would naturally
seem only one degree removed from tossing the same into a gutter.
"I'll tell you what!" he said suddenly, with an air of relief. "I shall
leave it all to 'you,' and you may do what you think best with the
money. That will be my wisest plan. Why didn't I think of it before,
and save myself all this bother? Yes, yes—you shall have the whole."
Harvey stood up.
"I beg your pardon," he said gravely. "You are very good to form such a
plan, and I am far from ungrateful. But I could not accept so serious
an offer at a moment's notice. I must have time for consideration. Will
you let me say goodbye now, and call again to-morrow?"
"Certainly! Certainly! Good-bye. But my mind is made up," said Mr.
Detroit.
Edmund Harvey lingered one moment, looking down with pity upon the old
man in his wealth and dire poverty.
"Would you not like to see a clergyman?" he asked.
"A clergyman? What for?"
"It might be a comfort. You are ill, you know, and perhaps—"
"I shall be better now that weight is off my mind. Yes, I'll leave the
money to you, Harvey. It couldn't be put to a better use. Good-bye; be
sure you come again to-morrow. A clergyman!—no, thanks."
CHAPTER III.
_"MISS HARVEY."_
EDMUND HARVEY left the house of Mr. Detroit in a state of considerable
preoccupation. It is not often that fortunes of £50,000 go begging in
this style; or that a young solicitor has such an offer made him by a
client.
That Harvey should neither have hastily accepted nor hastily refused
the offer spoke well for him. He would not undertake such a trust
without weighing the matter well beforehand: yet a refusal might be
wrong. Somebody would have and use the money. Why should it not be in
his hands a power for good?
"Hallo!" a voice said, breaking into his reverie as he went along the
busy street, threading his way in the neat mechanical style of an
experienced Londoner.
Harvey came to a standstill, with nod and smile of greeting.
"Fine day!" he said.
"I was under the delusion that it had begun to drizzle, but of course
you know best," the other responded, with a comical glance at the
murky surroundings. He was five or six years Harvey's junior, tall and
blithe, with confident bearing and line outline of face—a man to be
liked and trusted at first sight.
A laugh answered him.
"I had not noticed the drizzle."
"Wits gone wool-gathering?"
"I had a knotty point to unravel. I say, Campion, come home with me to
dinner. My sister arrived yesterday."
"Thanks. I think I will. No engagement this evening, happily, and it is
an age since I saw your sister. Let me see—she lives at Portminster.
Yes, of course."
Harvey nodded.
He seemed still to be in a state of semi-abstraction, at which Campion
would have wondered less had he known the cause.
"I wish I could persuade my mother to make her home in London, but
nothing will induce her to leave the old neighbourhood."
Mr. Detroit was a tea-merchant. His gains had been not only through
the tea-business, however. He had also been a successful speculator,
in a small way, on the Stock Exchange; and much of his success in
that direction was due to the keen foresight and the prudence of his
"broker."
Arthur Campion was his broker. Rather singularly a personal friendship
existed, and had for some time existed, between Mr. Detroit's solicitor
and Mr. Detroit's broker.
Mr. Detroit's West End house being at a goodly distance from Harvey's,
the latter hailed a hansom, and the two friends were speedily set down
before a lofty and narrow dwelling, chocolate-tinted, in a highly
respectable quarter, having about it a generally well-to-do air.
Harvey opened the front door with his latchkey, and led the way
upstairs into a three-windowed drawing-room.
Campion had seen Harvey's sister before. He remembered her well: a busy
active woman, somewhere in those hazy middle-aged regions which are
supposed to follow directly after thirty, but which often wait a good
deal longer; the very embodiment of common-sense, with a round-about
little figure, plump face, and no particular features; also with powers
of talk to any extent on every imaginable subject. Campion never
counted Miss Harvey equal to her brother; still on the whole, he liked
her, when she did not quite overpower him with her excellent theories.
One may weary even of excellence, when it takes too obtrusive a form;
and no man over thoroughly admires a woman who is not at least as good
a listener as talker. But nobody expected Miss Harvey to condescend to
the position of a listener. Life was not long enough for all she had to
say.
So Campion entered the drawing-room, picturing to himself a homely
figure seated primly on the sofa, knitting perpetual stockings, and
ready to welcome with enthusiasm a new listener. He had actually shaped
his lips into the "How do you do, Miss Harvey? Any more reclaimed
vagabonds to the fore?"
But Campion never uttered those words. For the slender girl-figure,
tall and reed-like, springing from a lowly position on the rug, was by
no means that of the Miss Harvey whom he had known; neither were the
soft grey eyes and cherry lips those of thirty or forty years.
"Harvey's sister! Why, she can't be over twenty! A quarter of a century
between them," thought Campion, with perhaps excusable exaggeration,
for he was much surprised.
"I have brought a friend home to dinner, Gabrielle," Harvey was saying.
"Mr. Campion—my sister Gabrielle."
Gabrielle had evidently been playing with the kitten on the hearthrug,
for a small fluffy creature clung still to one shoulder, with its claws
in her fair hair.
Edmund Harvey, unlike many men, was a patroniser of cats. She put up
one little hand to disentangle the creature, laughing, blushing, and
bowing in response to the introduction.
"Had a very lonely day?" asked Harvey, depositing himself in an
armchair.
"O no, not at all. Mrs. Wiseman took me in the morning for a shopping
expedition, as you know, and this afternoon Mrs. Taylor drove me
through the Park. I enjoyed that, of course. If only the good people
there did not look so terribly bored, one might think they liked it
too."
"They are taking their pleasure in their own way—English fashion," said
Campion.
"It seemed to me a sad fashion. I could almost have counted the smiling
faces on my fingers."
"This is Gabrielle's first visit to town," explained Harvey.
"Indeed! Then you have still to be initiated into the fashionable
boredom of London life."
"But I never was bored, and I mean never to be," she retorted merrily.
"Yes, I am only a country cousin; this is my first sight of London.
They all said I ought to come, and Ted—Edmund, I mean—would not let me
off. I like it all immensely, of course; everything is so new to me.
And the Park was perfectly delightful—for a variety. I think I should
soon get tired of the monotony, if it came every day."
"Monotony is commonly supposed to be the exclusive privilege of country
folks."
"But I am sure I had a glimpse of it to-day, for the first time in my
life."
Gabrielle presently vanished to dress for dinner, and Campion
exclaimed—"This is another sister, not the one I have seen."
"She is my half-sister, a good deal younger than Mary and myself. Did
you not know there was a second marriage?"
"I didn't take in the fact of a daughter, somehow, or at least that she
was like—"
Campion came to a pause.
"Like this? She is a pretty creature, certainly. I have hardly begun to
realise that she is leaving childhood behind. My stepmother is never
content to have Gabrielle out of her sight. Otherwise, she would often
have been here. My dear fellow, you must have heard her name a hundred
and one times!"
Campion was not sure.
"Well, yes—her name, certainly, now I think of it," he said. "I had a
sort of idea of a little school-girl—"
"Which she was until six months ago."
"A niece, or adopted child, or something of that sort?"
"Is a step-sister 'something of that sort?' Anyhow, she is a
particularly nice girl. Perhaps one ought not to mention school in
connection with Gabrielle. Mary has been responsible for her education."
Campion could have groaned aloud in pity for the pupil. Yet he only
knew one side of the matter; and Gabrielle had been better off than
he in his ignorance supposed. Mary Harvey, letting off a volley of
theories for the enlightenment of a masculine hearer, and Mary Harvey
in the quiet round of daily home duties, were two very different people.
CHAPTER IV.
_"A COUNTER-PROPOSAL."_
HARVEY had not so much to say as usual during dinner, which, by-the-by,
was well served, with all the particularity of a bachelor household.
His thoughts were much occupied still with Mr. Detroit.
But Gabrielle and Campion allowed few conversational gaps, and his
occasional abstraction was hardly noticed.
Gabrielle was a well-read and well-informed girl, quite able to hold
her own in touch with another's mind; and the graceful union of girlish
freshness with womanly thought fascinated Campion. He had never come
across anybody like her before.
Somewhat later in the evening Harvey's absence of mind became more
marked. They had returned to the drawing-room, and Campion jested him
on a prolonged fit of silence, demanding the cause.
"I was speculating at that moment," Harvey answered, "as to what you or
I would do if fifty thousand pounds came suddenly into our hands."
"Shouldn't have the slightest objection," Campion said lightly.
Gabrielle's face took a serious set.
"Would you be puzzled what to do with the money, Ted?"
"I might be. The case I am supposing is of money left to one in trust,
to be used wisely for others."
"H'm, that alters the case materially."
"I know what 'I' would do," Gabrielle said, with her pretty girlish
decisiveness. "I would build a hospital for Portminster. It is needed
so terribly. I do think that ought to come first in our charities.
Able-bodied men may know what it is to be poor and have trouble, but
they can work; they are not helpless. It is when illness comes that
want is most dreadful; and I don't see how one can expect to do good
to them—to their minds and hearts—unless one does good to their bodies
first. Isn't that the Christ-like way? I would build and endow a
hospital, and would give free admission to anybody or everybody in real
need—not, of course, to stingy well-to-do people, who just want to save
their shillings for their own pleasures."
"Why, Gabrielle, you are eloquent," her brother remarked, smiling.
"I think I could supplement Miss Harvey's hospital with something not
less needed," Campion said, falling into Gabrielle's line of thought.
"I should like to start a country or seaside home, to lessen the number
of the hospital patients. No, not a convalescent home, but a place
where one might send the worn-out city poor at little or no cost—the
deserving poor, I mean. Hardworking fathers and toiling mothers, for
instance, just to give them the change they need before they break
down."
"I like that idea," murmured Gabrielle.
"Hospitals and convalescent homes are well enough, but they come after
the breakdown," pursued Campion, warmed by her sympathy. "I would try
in some cases to forestall the need for either. There are poor fellows
whom I know at this moment, going on hard and fast for a crash. They
can't get away, can't afford journeys or lodgings. A fortnight in the
country might set them up for months, and they can't have it. Just the
old story, you know—the bread-winner failing, everything depending on
him, and nothing to be done."
Harvey sat in thought as the others talked. A new idea had dawned upon
him.
Next day, he found his way once more to the bedroom of Mr. Detroit, and
was greeted with the abrupt observation—
"My mind is still made up. I hope you have no objection to offer."
Harvey shook hands, asked after the old man's health, sat down, and
presently said:—
"I am going to make a counter-proposal. Will you leave the money to
Campion and me jointly, to be used in such a manner as may seem best to
us both? I should prefer this to the sole responsibility."
"Campion! Campion! Why Campion particularly? But I don't know that I
have anything to urge against the plan, if you wish it. Campion will do
well enough, jointly with yourself. Yes—if you like."
The matter was arranged thus. The will was in due time drawn up—not, of
course, by Harvey himself—signed, and witnessed. With the exception of
a few small legacies, the whole sum which lay at Mr. Detroit's disposal
was left between Edmund Harvey and Arthur Campion, to be employed by
them as their united wisdom should dictate. "For charitable purposes"
was rather implied than stated, and rather by Harvey's wish than by Mr.
Detroit's.
But after all these preliminaries, Mr. Detroit did not die.
Whether from the removal of a weight from his mind, whether from the
medicine he had consented to "try," or whether from his native force of
constitution, instead of getting worse, he began to improve.
At first he refused to believe in the possibility of a change for the
better. Having doggedly made up his mind that death was inevitable,
he hardly cared to be disturbed in the belief. It upset his plans, so
to speak. Nevertheless, as days went on, there could be no denial of
the fact. He was stronger, he suffered less, he had a better appetite.
By-and-by he could leave his room; then he was able to drive out.
And at length, he might once more be seen in his counting-house, or
hovering about the regions of the Stock Exchange.
He was not, of course, sorry to come back to life. Few men are, even
when they have treasure in another world; and Mr. Detroit had no
treasure there. Had he gone, he would have left behind him all that he
cared for. Perhaps this fact dawned upon him faintly; at all events, as
he became stronger, his love of life returned.
Mr. Marson, his head-manager, a thin, worn, gentle-mannered man, was
glad to see his employer back, though Mr. Detroit bestowed upon him no
kind words or looks. Long experience had taught him to expect none. Yet
his face showed pleasure when he congratulated the old man on recovery.
The clerks ventured upon no such congratulations. In Mr. Detroit's
eyes, they were merely a set of human scribbling machines. He would
have been very much astonished at any show of feeling on their part.
CHAPTER V.
_THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS._
IT became evident that Mr. Detroit was a good deal changed by his
illness. His hair was whiter, and the furrows on his face had deepened.
Moreover, he walked with a somewhat trembling gait, and seemed
altogether unstrung—not so entirely master of himself as he wished
always to appear.
In another respect also there was a marked alteration. He grew more
chatty, more garrulous, more disposed to let slip whatever happened to
be in his mind.
Mr. Marson was the first to remark upon the new phase of affairs.
A quiet man, given to few needless words, scrupulously exact and
honourable in all his dealings, Marson was just one of those toiling
and worn-out fathers who might be benefited by such a scheme as the
one Campion had suggested to Gabrielle. He had an invalid wife, one
daughter, and numerous boys.
During many years he had not been out of the City, except for a day.
How should he? Prolonged and hopeless ill-health in his wife was a
ceaseless drag upon his resources, and the needs of his young growing
family seemed never to be satisfied. Although Marson's position under
Mr. Detroit was a responsible one, involving heavy work, the salary he
received was by no means large. Mr. Detroit habitually ground down his
subordinates to the lowest possible terms.
"What did they want with more?" he sometimes asked.
And though of late, when seemingly about to quit this world, Mr.
Detroit had found a difficulty in settling what to do with his wealth,
yet now that he had come back to a measure of strength, he showed
himself as keen as ever in business, as eager to amass more money, as
resolutely bent upon saving. "The ruling passion" would be strong even
in death with him.
"I had a curious talk with Mr. Detroit this afternoon," Mr. Marson
observed one evening to his daughter. They were together in the shabby
small drawing-room of a small house.
The younger boys were in bed; the elder boys were learning their
lessons elsewhere. Mrs. Marson could seldom come downstairs. All the
cares of housekeeping and of nursing devolved upon the shoulders of
this slim pale girl with large wistful eyes—grey eyes, not unlike those
of Gabrielle in colour and size, but how different in expression!
Ella was only seventeen, a whole year younger than the fair and
light-hearted Gabrielle. She might have been ten years older, if one
judged by her prematurely burdened and serious look.
"With Mr. Detroit?" she repeated, looking up from the child's sock over
which her fingers were busy.
"He kept me quite a long while, chatting about his own affairs. Mr.
Detroit never used to be so communicative."
"What was it all about?" Ella asked, and then she flushed up for a
moment, the bright colour fading quickly. "If he thought rather more
about your affairs, father, it wouldn't be so very surprising, after
all these years."
She could be resentful for others under the long pressure of daily
life, and she had not attained to her father's enduring patience.
"My dear, Mr. Detroit counts me amply repaid for all my services. He
has said as much to me. But it was curious," Mr. Marson continued,
unheeding a slight exclamation from Ella, "very curious. He spoke
of his illness, and of the extreme perplexity he had felt as to the
disposal of his money. The matter seems really to have weighed upon
him. After a good deal of hesitation, he decided to leave the whole to
Mr. Harvey and Mr. Campion, with the exception of a few small legacies.
You see he has no near relatives—no relatives at all, some say—and
has made his own fortune. He is, of course, perfectly free. But the
decision struck me as—well, rather singular."
"I know who has made a great deal of his fortune for him!"
"I have tried to do my duty, Ella; that is all."
"And he has not done his; so that ought not to be all!"
"It is well that we are alone," Matson observed. "But you would not
say this to another. Mr. Detroit has kept strictly to the original
agreement. I have no just cause for complaint. Some in his place,
prospering as he has prospered, might perhaps—but I see no use in
suppositions. If I were a younger man, I should press for an increase
of salary. As things are now, I hardly dare to venture. Many an
unencumbered man would gladly step into my place on my present terms;
and if I lost the work, it might be hard to find another opening
equally good. I am not the man that I was."
"If not, it is work for Mr. Detroit that has worn you out, father."
"Come—I shall be sorry that I have told you so much. I did not mean to
excite you. My dear, this must not go any further. Mr. Detroit made no
mention of secrecy: still it ought not to become known through us."
Ella promised silence, and kept her word. The thing did become known,
however—not through the Marsons, but through Mr. Detroit's own new-born
talkativeness. He went about telling everybody of his will-making,
his difficulty and its solution, his lack of relatives and his chosen
heirs, till the story became a leading topic of conversation among his
acquaintances. Certain needy individuals of the "sharper" class, whose
tie of consanguinity with Mr. Detroit existed probably in Japhet, began
thereupon to prick up their ears.
Many months had slipped by since Mr. Detroit's illness, and it happened
that for about a quarter of a year Harvey had held no intercourse with
the old gentleman. He had been very busy; time had gone fast; and he
had no especial call in that direction.
One murky February afternoon, as he passed rapidly along the crowded
pavement of Cornhill, and turned down a side street, blocked with huge
vans and patient dray-horses, Harvey narrowly escaped "colliding" with
his friend Campion. Each exclaimed "Hallo!" and each recoiled.
"The very person I wanted to see!" burst simultaneously from two mouths.
"You first," Harvey said, smiling. "Mine is not business—merely
about—But go on."
Campion wore a disturbed look.
"Merely about—? Yes. Pray tell me. I hope—I hope your sister is well."
"Mary? Oh, perfectly well. I'll tell her you kindly made enquiries.
What had you to say?"
Campion seemed for a moment to have forgotten. "Do you know that Matson
is ill?" he asked, after a pause.
"No; poor fellow."
"I don't know what is the matter. Over-work and under-feeding, I
suspect. And how on earth they are to get on, I don't know either. Mrs.
Marson has been worse lately—suffers terribly. And that poor girl—it's
enough to kill her."
"I'll look in and see them. Something ought to be done. I have a great
respect for Marson."
"There's something else. Mr. Detroit has broken down again."
"Seriously?"
"Hopelessly, I am told. Not many weeks to live."
Harvey was pursuing his way along the quieter side street, Campion
having turned to accompany him.
"When did you hear?" asked the former.
"Two days since. Met the old housekeeper. The breakdown seems to have
been unexpected, but from her account, he evidently hasn't been himself
for a month or so. Sparks is turned off, and a new man installed. The
old woman is very indignant, of course."
"H'm!" said Harvey.
Campion lowered his voice.
"If I were you, I would look up the poor old fellow. I hear from
another source that a set of harpies are after his money, getting him
to make a new will. Nephews and cousins innumerable have suddenly
turned up, and he believes it all. A regular organised attack. He won't
see a doctor, so there's nobody to interfere—except you."
"He has no nephews, and no cousins within four or five degrees."
"There may be cousins of the fiftieth degree. They are laying claim to
some sort of connection—so I am told. You had better test the truth
of the report, and see that the poor old chap isn't swindled out of
everything he has. They would find him a tough enough customer in
health, but things are different now. I have no more to tell you. What
had you to say?"
"Nothing much. My sister is coming again."
"Your sister—ah!—the eldest, of course?"
"No; Gabrielle."
"O indeed!" and Campion endeavoured not to seem too delighted.
"Mary is your favourite, no doubt—that stands to reason. She is such a
good deserving creature. I like her to be appreciated; and Gabrielle is
a mere chicken. My dear fellow, don't look so furious. You are coming
out of your way, I'm afraid. Don't take another step. I'll tell you all
about Gabrielle another day. You must come to meet her—though she isn't
Mary!—and meantime Mary shall be sure to hear of your kind inquiries.
I'll write to fix an evening. Good-bye."
Harvey walked laughingly off in one direction, and Campion strolled
dreamily in the other. Business, noise, crowds, murky sky—all were
forgotten. He walked through light and trod upon air the rest of the
day.
CHAPTER VI.
_NATHANAEL PLUNKETT._
"MR. DETROIT! Yes, sir—certainly, sir. He is seeing friends, though not
able to leave his room. Pray step in, sir."
Harvey stood at the front door of Mr. Detroit's house. The servant
who opened the door to him was young and sharp-eyed, manifestly a new
importation. Was this Sparks' successor? Sparks had not been wont
commonly to answer the door-bell.
"Will you please, sir, to wait your turn in the dining-room?"
The man moved in that direction.
"Wait my turn! What for? Stop!" Harvey said. "I don't understand."
For a moment he wondered whether he could have come absently to the
wrong house-to a dentist's, for example—but the surroundings were too
familiar.
The man gave him a keen glance.
"Then you're not another of Mr. Detroit's relations, sir?"
Harvey saw through the tangle at once.
"No relation at all, but an old friend. You were not here when I called
last?"
"No, sir; there's been a lot of changes, and there's like to be a lot
more. Everybody's new except the housekeeper, and she's only staying on
because she can't be got to go. I've been three weeks, and I'm going at
the month's end. And the butler's new too, and 'he's' going. I'm just
answering of the door for him now while he's out."
Harvey stood considering. He could not quite read the man's expression.
"Mr. Detroit has had callers lately, you say—relatives."
"Cousins and nevvys by the dozen, sir. Never knew an old gentleman
who'd got such a lot of kind relations, all a-wanting to ask about his
health. And he won't have one refused. He sees 'em all in turn, up in
his room. The housekeeper says it's killing of him, but he won't stop.
I thought at first you was maybe another nevvy, sir."
The man's tone, though not rude, was free.
"You were mistaken," Harvey answered gravely, and he subsided.
"Anyways, I've got to obey orders," he said, with more meekness. "Would
you please to wait here?" and he opened the dining-room door.
Harvey had not made up his mind what to do. He stepped forward, and
took a good look round.
Several individuals were present; some belonging apparently to
the "shabby-genteel" class, the shabbiness predominating over the
gentility; some more flashy in appearance. One gentleman in checked
trousers sat upon the table, taking pains to display a diamond ring
upon the little finger of his left hand. Others lounged about in easy
chairs or on couches. Wine and spirits stood on a side table, and
half-emptied cups of tea were about. A certain amount of talking and
laughing went on. Harvey knew instantly that a good many of these
gentry were not strangers to one another. His first thought was, "Is
this an organised conspiracy?" his second, "Have I misjudged that man's
look?"
Then his resolution was taken.
"Ah! I am afraid I cannot wait so long to-day," he said aloud quietly,
and drawing back, he shut the door.
"Now," he said, in a low voice, "I am a busy man, with no time to
waste, and I wish for a few words with Mr. Detroit. Is he alone?"
"Bless you! No, air. There's a pack of 'em with him now—always is."
"That can't be helped. If you will manage to take me upstairs at once,
I will make it worth your while."
The man rubbed his cheek dubiously. "Well, sir, it's against orders,
and strict orders too, for Mr. Detroit is a very particular sort of a
gentleman, and no mistake. But I don't know as it matters to me if he
is put out. I'm leaving in a week."
"He will not be 'put out.' I am an old friend of Mr. Detroit's."
"I shouldn't wonder if he'd ought to see you," the man said. "There's
something that isn't as it should be; and the old gentleman's in
a state to be easy imposed on. That's what I say. If he's got any
friends, they 'd ought to see him—if 't isn't too late, that's to say.
For he's been and gone and done it now—signed the new will this very
morning. And I suppose his cousins and nevvys is all come to thank him,
and to make sure as nobody meddles."
"No doubt they will be the gainers by this new will."
"No doubt, sir. And if they 'was' his near relations—if so, be that's
all true—why there's nothink to be said agin it."
"Certainly not. Thanks for your information."
Harvey had an impression that the man was straightforward, though by no
means averse to making capital out of the said information.
"You're welcome, sir. Fact is, I don't like to see a poor old gentleman
put upon, and nobody to help him through. No, I don't like it, and
that's a fact. They do say as his last will was a queer 'un, but I
shouldn't wonder if this was a queerer."
"Will you tell someone to answer the door in your absence. I should
rather wish you to be present as a witness during the interview. What
is your name?—ah, Blake. I think I may trust you, Blake. You mean well
by my old friend."
His penetrating glance was met frankly. "I hope as I do, sir," Blake
answered. "Yes, I'll give orders, and I'll stay. One moment, please."
He was speedily back, adding, "This way."
Harvey followed him up the broad staircase to the first floor. "A set
of harpies!" he muttered. "Nephews and cousins, indeed."
Mr. Detroit lay once more on the couch, in the guise of a complete
invalid. He was much changed, his features having a sunken and dark
look; and his voice was weak and piping, as if all strength were gone.
The housekeeper stood in the background, with a face of grim
disapproval; while three individuals—gentlemen in dress and by
courtesy—were grouped around the couch. One stood upright; one leant on
the footboard of the big bedstead; one sat in a dégagé attitude astride
a chair, facing its back, as he joked his invalid "uncle."
Harvey bowed slightly. He knew these people by sight, and was
acquainted with their character. Covert glances exchanged among the
three showed that they also know him.
The alteration in the old man really grieved Harvey. The hand of coming
Death had already drawn legible strokes on that poor withered face. But
Mr. Detroit did not seem to be depressed. He was laughing when Harvey
approached—a weak continuous laugh.
"How do you do?" Harvey said kindly. "Not so well lately, I am afraid."
Mr. Detroit showed no surprise at his unexpected visitor. He glanced
vaguely once or twice in his direction, then beckoned him nearer.
"I say,—" he beckoned again, till Harvey bent over the couch; "I say,"
and the old face assumed a childish cunning, while he spoke in a
mysterious undertone; "I say, I've seen Nathanael Plunkett."
"Indeed!" Harvey answered.
"Yes, I've seen Nathanael Plunkett. Came yesterday."
A silence had fallen on the others. Harvey held the old man's attention.
"You saw him—how?"
"I say," beckoning again and laughing feebly, "I saw Nathanael Plunkett
yesterday. You know! Plunkett himself. He came in and stood just
there—where you are. I've seen him!" Mr. Detroit nodded two or three
times in confirmation of his own words.
Harvey stood up and glanced round significantly.
"Gentlemen, you will please to note this. You may not be aware that Mr.
Plunkett died nearly seven years ago, and that our friend Mr. Detroit
witnessed his death by drowning. Mr. Detroit now declares positively
that he saw yesterday, in this room, a man whom he knows to have been
seven years dead."
The faces grew longer, and there was no response.
Mr. Detroit, after muttering again, "Nathanael Plunkett—yes, I saw
him—came in here," turned aside and seemed disinclined for further talk.
Harvey took his leave, not forgetting to reward Blake as he went.
CHAPTER VII.
_BROKEN ICE._
ONCE more Gabrielle Harvey had come to her brother's house.
Somebody besides Harvey was more than glad to see again that fair young
face. Campion had lived upon recollections of it month after month.
Time had deepened rather than lessened the impression made on him. He
could have no manner of doubt now about the state of his own feelings
towards her, and indeed nobody else could have any doubt about them
either. But Gabrielle's state of mind towards him remained still an
unknown quantity in calculations as to future events.
She had come earlier this year than last, and a late frost held London
in its grip. Two days after her arrival, the brother and sister sallied
forth to watch the crowds of skaters in the park. A low grey sky
contrasted with the white ground, but despite the greyness, people
were full of merriment—much more gay, Gabrielle thought, than when
performing the stately carriage circuit on balmier afternoons.
Her own face, sparkling with enjoyment, won a good deal of attention.
She was rather shy of skating in so large a concourse, though quite
capable of it. Looking on was perhaps the more amusing to her
unaccustomed eyes.
As she clung to her brother's arm, chatting, she presently noted three
little boys in well-patched knickerbockers sliding in a retired corner,
while a tall girl stood watching them—a girl of any age, Gabrielle
thought, she had so young and yet so old a face. It was a pretty
outline of feature, seen sideways from Gabrielle's position, with long
lashes drooping over sorrowful grey eyes, and a patient curve of the
full lips. The girl's dress was very plain, yet neatly and gracefully
worn. She had no furs like Gabrielle; only an old cloth jacket, and a
knotted silk scarf, and a small brown bonnet of unknown age.
"But what a sweet look!" Gabrielle burst out softly, as the finale of
her cogitations.
"That young lady? Yes, I know her—the daughter of Mr. Detroit's
manager." Gabrielle noticed an unusual interest in Harvey's tone.
"Marson is an excellent fellow—I have the greatest esteem for him."
"She is too young to look so very serious. I should like to see her
smile."
"Poor girl! I am afraid there is cause enough. Small means and large
family. The mother incurably ill, and the father just broken down."
"Ted! And you can tell me so quietly! Why isn't something done? Why
don't you help them?"
"How?"
"I don't know. Give them what they need."
"My dear child, it is not so easy. One gentleman can't walk in upon
another, and present him with a cheque for two or three hundred
pounds—even if he had it to spare. Marson is a thorough gentleman by
birth and breeding—well connected, I believe."
"She is very lady-like—one can see that at a glance. And such pretty
eyes—if only they were not so sad. Why don't you speak to her?"
"We are mere acquaintances. I have spoken to Miss Marson twice or three
times. If she would glance this way—"
"She won't. I believe she doesn't choose. Or perhaps she has forgotten
who you are. You must get me to know the Marsons—do, Ted."
As she spoke, Campion stood before her. He and she had met the day
before, but for a few minutes only.
Campion had dragged since through interminable hours of alternate hope
and despair. Hope struggled uppermost, as he met her sunny glance.
For the moment she lost sight of the Marsons and their troubles.
"Don't you skate, Miss Harvey?"
"Yes, in the country—but not here. I'm not used to such a crowd; and it
is such fun seeing all the people. Don't let us keep you off the ice."
Campion had not the least desire to skate that day, and he said so.
Gabrielle was kind enough to seem unconscious of the skates dangling
from his left hand.
"By-the-by, have you heard the news?" he inquired suddenly of Harvey.
"No. What news?"
"Mr. Detroit's death."
"No!"
"Quite sudden, this morning. Nobody expected it so soon. I heard by
accident."
The sad-faced girl, watching her little brothers, happened at this
moment to be within earshot. She turned sharply, with a blank and
startled look, as if to listen.
"I had no idea—I wish I had called again," Harvey said in a troubled
manner. "Poor old man!"
"You have been so busy," Gabrielle observed.
She drew his attention to Ella Marson's scared face, and his hat was
immediately lifted. But Ella Marson did not seem to notice the gesture,
or to recognise him. Her wide-open grey eyes were gazing into vacancy,
as if in piteous appeal against some threatened ill. Gabrielle's own
eyes grew moist.
"How unhappy she looks!—So terribly distressed. What can it mean?"
whispered Gabrielle.
And Campion asked, "Who is that?"
"Marson's daughter. I am afraid Mr. Detroit's death may be a serious
matter to the Marsons. If the business passes into fresh hands, a
younger man is likely to be preferred in Marson's place."
Harvey spoke low.
"He is very dependable. It is not impossible that he may be kept on,"
said Campion.
A shriek arose—shrill, sudden, and echoed by many voices.
While Ella Matson had been absorbed in attention to what was said, and
then had been lost in her own thoughts, one of her little brothers,
Jemmie, had taken the opportunity to slide past a certain warning-post,
which told of danger beyond.
For three seconds he enjoyed the forbidden delight. Then the ice
yielded beneath him, and with a piercing cry, he went down out of sight.
CHAPTER VIII.
_A RESCUE._
NO sound escaped Ella's lips as she rushed over the slippery surface
towards that perilous neighbourhood. But another was quicker. As she
sped along, Campion dashed ahead, and Harvey's hand came upon her arm
with a firm grasp.
"No use for two to go. Wait—" as she struggled wildly to escape—"wait,
Miss Marson—"
"No! No!—I must," panted Ella. "I ought to have been looking! O, how
could I forget? O Jemmie, Jemmie—"
"They are bringing ropes and planks," Harvey said, encouragingly. "See,
Campion is getting near, and you could not do more. The weight of a
second would only break through, and make matters worse."
She gave him one mute glance of agony, which stirred him as Harvey was
not often stirred, and then allowed herself to be led to his sister's
side.
"Keep Miss Marson here, Gabrielle," he said briefly. "I must see if I
can help."
The girls stood side by side, not speaking, only Gabrielle's little
hand stole into Ella Marson's, and the two hands remained locked
together. Until that moment utter strangers, they seemed suddenly
to have become one in fear and hope. But they did not even exchange
glances. Both pairs of grey eyes were strained towards the black water.
Campion, lying flat, worked his way over the bending ice till close
to the hole. A little dark head could be seen there, floating on the
surface, and Campion's outstretched hand grasped it. There was a shout
from the on-lookers, suddenly stilled. For the ice upon which Campion
lay shivered beneath him into fragments. Instantaneously both he and
the child went down.
One long scream rang out in a woman's voice—not Ella's voice, for Ella
made no sound. Those around knew that the cry came from the lips of
Gabrielle Harvey. She did not hear it herself. She looked like a frozen
statue, rigid and white.
Help was close at hand: if it might be in time. Neither Campion nor
Jemmie could be seen.
Planks were pushed over the ice, and men were at work with ropes and
axes, above all with willing hands. The ice had to be broken away,
cautiously, yet fast. Harvey had gone to offer his services. He came
back presently to the two girls, standing still side by side with
locked hands where he had left them. Gabrielle's clutch was like that
of a vice.
Ella could not free herself, could not get away. She looked very white,
but was not shedding tears. And even in that moment of suspense, she
could notice pityingly the wordless horror of her companion. Long
training in early life had taught her self-command and self-neglect.
Harvey would not soon forget this which he saw in Ella Marson.
Self-absorption would have been more likely at such a time in any other
girl of his acquaintance.
When he came up, she said steadily, "I think you ought to see to your
sister. She is—" and then huskily, "O, tell me! Are they saved?"
"They were under the ice. They are taken out," Harvey said hurriedly.
"You must come away, both of you. Come with me. Take my arm, Miss
Marson—and you, Gabrielle: can you walk? Yes; this way—make haste. I
hope all will be right."
He hardly knew yet what to say, what to expect, only he was bent upon
not letting them see the two unconscious death-like forms.
"Everything will be done at once that ought to be done. A doctor is
there. This direction, Miss Marson."
"Why may I not stay with Jemmie? O, let me stay!" implored Ella.
But he urged her on. "No, not yet—presently. They are being brou—they
are coming to. Quick, if you please."
Gabrielle obeyed like one in a dream, not speaking. It was as if some
wild creature were clutching at her throat, preventing utterance. The
overwhelming distress which she felt, startled herself.
"No one must see—no one must guess," a voice in her heart kept, saying.
"I must be calm—I must keep calm," and she thought herself successful.
But if so, it was only because Harvey was, for once, too much absorbed
in another to give her needful attention.
A house was reached, Gabrielle had no idea where. She only knew that
somebody took her in, somebody held water to her lips, somebody bade
her wait there quietly, somebody tried to keep Ella also, and failed.
Ella had the right to go, and Gabrielle had no right. What cause had
she to grieve if Campion died, more than over the loss of a casual
acquaintance? But he was more to her than a casual acquaintance, and
she knew it now.
She had to wait, as bidden, for she might not go to ask how matters
stood. Rather it was needful that she should school herself to merely
the expression of a kind and gentle anxiety. Campion's sudden death
would be indeed a grievous thing in the eyes of anybody, and Gabrielle
had to take it outwardly just as "anybody" might.
Standing up, she walked to the fireplace, and there her glance met the
reflection of a wax-like face, absolutely devoid of colour, the blue
eyes fixed in wretchedness.
Then the door opened, and somebody again came in. Gabrielle dared not
glance up—dared not let her eyes be seen. She only turned slowly,
listening, expecting the worst.
"My dear Gabrielle!" Harvey exclaimed, appalled by the change in her
look.
Gabrielle's lips moved with a voiceless question.
"I ought to have seen—I did not understand that you were feeling so
acutely. Miss Marson said something, but—cheer up, Gabrielle. It will
all be well now, I trust, thank God. We were very much afraid for a
time that all was up with the child, but he has come to himself. Miss
Marson has behaved nobly—she might be a woman of thirty, so composed
and ready. My dear girl, you really are too sensitive!" This was for
the benefit of another auditor just entering. "Come, try to give me a
smile, and be natural again."
Gabrielle could not hear, could not understand what he said. She
listened in vain for Campion's name. Would Edmund never go on—never say
another word? What could this dreadful pause mean—except—the worst? The
pause lasted two seconds only, but to Gabrielle it seemed endless. She
was strung up to the highest pitch of endurance.
"Miss Harvey! Gabrielle! You are ill!" another voice exclaimed, in a
tone of deep concern.
Gabrielle could not help herself. She turned towards Campion, held out
both hands with one low cry of relief, and then burst into a passion of
weeping.
"Come—come—come!" Harvey said, shaking one arm gently as if to rouse
her. "My dear child, you are quite hysterical. What does it all mean?
The shock, I suppose. Yes, I ought not to have left you so long alone.
Did you fancy Campion was drowned? Come now, I must get you home as
fast as possible."
But Campion had the two little hands in his grasp, and seemed by no
means anxious to give them up. "Would you have cared very much if I
'had' been drowned?" he asked softly.
CHAPTER IX.
_WASTE PAPER._
HARVEY saw his sister safely home, having rather hurried her away
from Campion. It was very easy to see whither things were tending,
but he did not particularly wish a dénouement to take place just
then, during a time of general excitement. The drive was silent and
not long. Gabrielle began already to feel ashamed of the feelings she
had betrayed: only, side by side with the shame was a dawning of new
happiness.
Harvey said nothing till they reached his house. He went indoors with
Gabrielle, spoke a few kind bracing words, advised two hours' rest
in her own room, and re-entered the hansom. Ten minutes brought him
to the porch of a goodly West End mansion, inhabited by a friend of
Harvey's—more strictly speaking, a friend of his father's—who was also
an eminent judge.
Harvey alighted, dismissed his chariot, and made his way to the front
door.
The eminent judge was at home, and very much engaged. Harvey's card,
however, proved potent, and the dignified butler led him across the
hall to a shut door, within which he speedily found admission.
There a huge fire blazed merrily, and piles of books and papers upon
the writing-table almost hid from view the undersized slight man
beyond. Harvey could see only the expansive forehead, overshadowing a
pair of deep-set and critical eyes.
"Ha, my friend Harvey! How do you do? Quite well?" asked the judge,
with his inviolable air of composure. "Yes, very busy, but I can spare
you a few minutes."
"I will not take up much of your time," Harvey said apologetically.
"There is a certain point on which I should be glad of your opinion."
"By all means," and he was motioned to a chair, the judge resuming his
own seat.
Harvey thought for three seconds—not longer—how to open what he had
to say. He had already decided to present the case in supposititious
terms. When he began, it was without preamble.
"An old man, worth some fifty thousand pounds, falls into ill-health,
and makes his will. He has no living relatives, and he leaves the
whole between two of his friends,—two at least in whom he feels a kind
interest. Nearly a year later, he again falls ill. He then makes a new
will—no matter under whose influence—entirely subversive of the last.
This will receives his signature; and on the same day a singular thing
occurs. The old man has once known intimately a certain individual—John
Smith, let us say—and several years earlier has with his own eyes
witnessed the death of John Smith by drowning. Upon the day that the
new will is signed, a friend calls to see him, and, in the presence of
three other gentlemen and two servants, he seriously assures his friend
that, the day before, this same John Smith has paid him a visit in that
very room. The assertion is repeated, and insisted on."
Harvey paused, then asked, "Would the new will stand?"
The eminent judge put a few brief questions, receiving brief replies.
When his opinion came, there was about it no tinge of hesitation. "Such
a will would be worth no more than waste paper."
"If you were a legatee by the first will, you would contest the second?"
"Undoubtedly I should."
Harvey thanked his friend, apologised again for the interruption, and
withdrew.
"As I expected!" he said to himself, passing down the stone steps. "But
it has been touch and go. If I had not called exactly when I did, the
machinations of that miserable crew would have succeeded. It was mere
chance, as one talks of chance, that I met Campion there and then. I do
not believe in chance, however. May it not be 'meant' that the money
should go to some better purpose?"
Even then Harvey did not return home. He stepped into an omnibus, and
went some distance before alighting, thereafter finding his way on foot
to the Marsons' home.
It was only natural, he told himself, that he should call to see how
they were getting on, and whether the parents were the worse for
hearing of their little boy's peril. But it appeared that Ella, with
a thoughtfulness beyond her age, had guarded them from any needless
shock. They were only much moved and very thankful. Ella was suffering,
he could see, she looked so pale and hollow-eyed, but she had no
leisure to think of her own feelings, or to rest. When he spoke a word
of sympathy, she nearly broke down, and begged him not to go on—yet
somehow, he fancied that she liked it from him. She asked him to see
her father, and Harvey came away from the interview, touched with the
man's quiet endurance of trouble.
If this money should come to him and Campion, the first consideration
would be the question of Mr. Marson's due. Harvey made up his mind on
that point. As he had told Gabrielle, he could not walk in to present
the Marsons with a cheque for their necessities, but it would be quite
another matter if, in making use of Mr. Detroit's accumulated hoards,
they were to weigh the just claims of those who had long worked under
the old man for an inadequate return.
Harvey could not get Ella's young sad face out of his mind. It haunted
him incessantly.
Campion came next day to dinner; not, however, to hear of the
interview with the eminent judge. Harvey said nothing about it, and no
recollections seemed to trouble Campion of the merchant dying in his
wealthy old age, alone and friendless. Campion's mind was full of other
matters.
He found Gabrielle quite restored to her usual girlish beauty, and
to more than her usual girlish dignity. For, in dismay at her own
lack of self-control the day before, she had sternly resolved to keep
Mr. Campion now "quite at a distance." Nobody should ever say that
Gabrielle was too easily won.
So a very uncomfortable evening was passed by the three; Gabrielle
being cold and distant, Campion shy and miserable, Harvey perplexed
what to make of them both.
The dénouement might have been postponed indefinitely. But at the very
last moment, Gabrielle relaxed. "Good-bye," she said gently; "I hope—I
hope you are not any the worse for your adventure." And the pretty
lips, proudly set hitherto, trembled like those of a child.
Harvey was considerate enough to walk out of the room on some flimsy
pretext, and Campion was prompt to use his opportunity.
Thus before nightfall Gabrielle and Arthur were engaged.
Days passed, and each will was put in claim. After many days, the
opinion of the eminent judge proved to be correct.
The last will was found to be literally "worth no more than waste
paper." That one feeble utterance of the old man about his quondam
friend, Nathanael Plunkett, defeated all the false claims of his
would-be legatees.
The large sum of fifty thousand pounds falling thus within the absolute
power of Harvey and Campion might well have proved no small temptation
to them. Had they spent at least part upon themselves, some observers
would scarcely have been astonished. For they were not strictly bound
to devote the whole to charitable purposes, although in a measure this
was implied by the terms of the will.
But they rose superior to the temptation; and it speaks well for human
nature—not human nature unaided—that they did.
The much-needed hospital for Portminster was built by Harvey; and some
such scheme as Campion had devised for city toilers was carried out by
Campion.
Before these greater matters received attention, however, the needs of
the Marson family came up. Through the strenuous exertions of Harvey,
Mr. Marson kept his situation, and not only kept it, but had his salary
raised, under the new heads of the business. Moreover, he was persuaded
to accept from "The Detroit Fund" a cheque in additional payment for
his past services—not, indeed, very large, but yet enough to go far
towards ending the bitter poverty from which he and his had suffered so
severely in time past.
It was remarkable how often Harvey found it needful to call at the
Marsons' house, and to discuss plans with Ella Matson. Gabrielle
wondered first, and then was delighted. She did all she could to help
the matter on, sure in her heart that Ella would be the very girl to
"make Ted happy."
That consummation came about in the end, though not quickly. After due
waiting, two weddings took place, not far apart. It would be hard to
say which of the two young wives, Gabrielle Campion or Ella Harvey,
found greater interest thereafter in helping forward the benevolent
uses of the fund, which had so strangely fallen to the keeping of their
husbands.
If any are disposed to think that Harvey and Campion acted with an
extreme and unlikely disinterestedness, I can only answer that the main
particulars in this story of an old man's will are not fancy, but fact.