MORS JANUA VITÆ
ON the following morning, as I was glancing at the newspaper, I noticed
a paragraph, headed "Death of Mr. Harcourt Whinney, the millionaire
stockbroker."
The sight of this name brought to my mind an almost forgotten incident.
Amongst my father's papers, I had found a copy of a letter addressed
to this Mr. Whinney. It was a somewhat singular composition—an appeal,
indeed, to this man whose death had just taken place. In it my father
wrote respecting a large sum of money which he had been induced to
lend on security of shares nominally of great value, but really almost
worthless. Mr. Harcourt Whinney was a sharebroker who had obtained the
money for a railway contractor on the verge of bankruptcy, and when
this man failed, my father was left with script apparently representing
ten times the amount of his loan, but not marketable at any price.
He must have been almost desperate when he wrote in these terms to Mr.
Whinney:
"You well knew the circumstances of the man for whom you borrowed my
money, and were also well aware that had I known his position, or the
true nature of the so-called securities placed in my hands, I should
not have advanced a farthing. I was grossly, cruelly deceived, and—must
I add this?—intentionally, for you could not be ignorant of what you
were doing, though I was. You ruined me and made my son a beggar, only
to stave off the exposure from another client, which you knew could
only be delayed, not averted. I can compel no restitution. If I were
to speak of your conduct, I should gain only a contemptuous pity, and
be told that a simple countryman like myself should not have dabbled
in things of this kind, and of which he knew nothing. You, I hear,
have become rich, but though it would cost you little to restore that
of which I have been robbed, you treat my letters with contempt and
silence. It was not so when I first made your acquaintance. I have no
expectation of present redress at your hands, but I hope and pray that
when your days are drawing to a close, and you can no longer hold the
wealth you have accumulated, you will be moved to make restitution
wherever you have acted as you have done to me."
Mr. Burford had explained the meaning of this letter to me when we read
it over together. He knew all about the loan. It was what deprived me
of my patrimony. I asked if he thought Mr. Whinney had really done
wrong in the matter, and he replied, "I have no doubt he pocketed an
immense percentage on the amount, probably one half, for obtaining the
other."
"But if he really knew how worthless the scrip was, the whole affair
was a conspiracy to defraud," I said.
"As you and I would look at it, Jack, it was. But I have no doubt Mr.
Whinney would merely regard it as a good stroke of business. Your
father was not the only one who suffered at the same time, and even to
a greater extent."
"Did no one try to get their money back?" I asked.
"How could they? The actual borrower became bankrupt, and died soon
after. Mr. Whinney was only an agent; and, depend on it, no one knew
what remuneration he received, though many might guess, as I have done."
"My poor father wrote this letter to try and move him; but, of course,
he would make no restitution."
"He has not done so far, Jack; and, unless it should come as a proof
of a deathbed repentance, I am afraid you will never be the richer for
this effort."
"I should be foolish indeed to spend a thought on the man," I replied,
"but I shall keep this copy of the letter. It is in my father's
handwriting, and it was just an outcome of his own upright nature."
As I read the newspaper paragraph which enlarged on the splendid
business talents of Mr. Harcourt Whinney, my thoughts naturally
reverted to my father's dealings with him. The one had lost all,
according to the world's verdict. The other had died a millionaire; and
yet I would rather have cast in my lot with the poor than the rich man.
My quiet life helped to make me thoughtful and observant, and very
often I took stock, so to speak, of the surroundings and circumstances
of the rich whom I knew. I invariably came to one conclusion, which
was, that if I must take all that accompanied the wealth in any single
case—age, health, position, family, and responsibility—I would refuse
the money, if it were offered me.
These cogitations did not make me less contented with my lot, humble
though it might be; and indeed I had great cause not only for
contentment, but thankfulness.
I heard the same evening that, so far as guests were concerned, Miss
Flint was once more alone. The Burford girls had been staying with her
for some days before Herbert Kenningham left, and Nelly was to have
remained, but her grandfather's illness prevented this.
Jane Cartwright told us, she having taken early advantage of the lull
at the Hall to visit the cottage.
"I was bound to come as soon as I could, Betsy," said Jane, "for you
were looking so poorly the last time I called that I could not get you
out of my head. I am glad you are so much better."
"Yes, I am better, thank you; but, well or ill, you always come at the
right time, Jane."
"I shall get in oftener now, unless our lady takes a fresh fancy,"
replied Jane. "I doubt she'll feel lonesome, losing all her visitors
at once, but I'm thinking she must be going to have more, for the
covers are to be kept off the furniture, and she keeps on using the
best plate. I sometimes wish we hadn't so much silver about, for it's a
great charge. You know Miss Flint bought all the plate that belonged to
your father, Mr. John, so as it might not go out of the family."
I assented, and then asked Jane if she had heard anything about old Mr.
Burford.
"He is not expected to get better, and I am sorry to hear it, for
such-like men are scarce. Mrs. Burford and Miss Nelly are gone to him,
and Miss Rose is staying with her brother, for he could not be left by
himself. The boy is really mending, they say. Our old miss will have
him to fuss after whilst his mother is away, and a good thing too. She
is kind enough where she takes, and she has taken to him for certain;
indeed, she seems fond of all Mrs. Burford's young people now."
"Have you managed to drive away Sarah's young man?" I inquired.
"I had no hand in driving him, Mr. John. I could never get near enough
for that, but I think he must be gone, seeing that Sarah stops in of
a night now. He was no young man. Any way, she is not fretting after
him, though she has sulked with me for two days because of what I said.
She is trimming up her Sunday bonnet, and will be showing off in it by
daylight, instead of going out at dark to meet that vagabond under the
trees."
This news was welcome to me, and I was sure it was equally so to Jabez
and Betsy. Perhaps, after all, I might not have occasion to speak to
Mr. Burford about George Harwood's visit until I could mention it as a
matter that had made me uneasy, but was now a thing of the past.
I left Jane Cartwright with the Harwoods, and went to the piano, where
my happier mood found vent in lively music. According to custom, the
doors of my room and the kitchen were left ajar, so that the old people
and their visitor could hear it.
The next day, I passed the old cottage on my way home to tea, and found
Jabez in the garden.
I went to him, but he showed no uneasiness at my presence, except when
I said, "I should like to go into my old home, Jabez. I believe I have
not crossed the threshold since the last night we slept here. Have you
the key?"
"No, Mr. John. I am only the gardener. Betsy keeps the key, and goes in
and out now and then. There's nothing to see inside."
"It was only a fancy. I will come with Betsy some day," I answered
carelessly, and turned away, but did not at once leave the garden.
I was not surprised that the key was in Betsy's possession, for there
would probably be traces of recent occupancy in the nondescript
apartment formerly used as a bedroom by her and Jabez; or some
tell-tale articles of bedding might still be there.
As I strolled round the garden, I looked keenly into every corner for
something that might help me to understand the new aspect of affairs.
At length I caught sight of a strip of note-paper, partly hidden in the
hedge, and held fast by its thorns. It was only half a page, which had
been unequally torn across, but I quickly detached and pocketed it for
future examination. I then resumed my stroll, in the hope of finding
the remainder of the sheet, for some words on that which I had secured
were sufficiently suggestive.
I sought in vain, however, for the other part of the sheet of paper
from which mine had been torn. And when I reached home, I tried to
decipher the writing on the soiled piece taken from the hedge. This was
not very easy, as one side had been washed by the rain, and only a few
words were legible on the other. Of these I could make no sense, as the
writing and spelling were equally bad, but the signature left no doubt
as to the authorship.
"Yure affecshanut Sarah" pointed to the girl at the Hall, whose doings
had excited Jane Cartwright's wrath. There were allusions to a "cross
old cat," probably Jane, since Miss Flint had chosen to take an
opposite view of Sarah's doings, and a promise to be "ready in good
time" and go "tords the stashun."
These words caused me no uneasiness. They had probably been written
to the stranger man at a time when Jane's vigilance rendered
meetings under the trees near the Hall less easy, and very likely
to be interrupted. For the foolish girl's sake, I hoped this unwise
correspondence had been closed, and that Sarah might see George
Harwood's ill-favoured face no more.
Since I witnessed that cruel attempt to strike at poor old Betsy from
the open window, I had felt more indignant than ever against the
wretch, and would have given much to ensure his perpetual absence from
the neighbourhood.
For nearly a week all went on as usual. I saw Mr. Burford at the
station, when he paid a hurried visit to the office to transact
important business.
I heard from him of the hopeless condition of his father and of the
steady improvement in that of Magnus.
"We believe now that our dear boy will be spared, though I suppose he
can hardly be counted 'out of the wood' yet. He may not go to see his
grandfather, as the double excitement of the journey and the meeting
might do him harm. It is rather hard for his mother, who wants to be
in two places at once. Rose will return with me, but only for a night,
after which it is not unlikely that she and Magnus will go to Miss
Flint for a while. He is quite at home with her, and she has been very
good to him."
I knew this, and had always felt glad to think that Cousin Dorothy's
hardness was but partial, and that, if she showed a stern front to me,
she could display a kindly one to those she liked.
"How is Nelly?" I asked. "I suppose she is with her grandfather still?"
"Yes; and she must remain. My father cannot spare Nelly. He says he has
lost far too much out of her girl-life by her long absence at school.
They are great friends, and it is really beautiful to see how the dear
old face brightens as she approaches his bedside. His room is a little
heaven, Jack. If you young folk want to know the value of religion, you
should stand by the deathbed of a man like my father. There is no test
like this."
I could well believe it, and I said so. Then I sent messages to Nelly
and her grandfather, which Mr. Burford promised to deliver.
"My father is always pleased to have good news of you, my boy. I
suppose everything is going on satisfactorily at your place. We must
try to get you a further rise in due time, but it is too soon yet."
"I do not expect any further advance for some time," I replied. "There
was a matter about which I wanted badly to see you a few days ago, but—"
"I would never defer anything of real consequence to you, Jack, but if
this can be put off, I should prefer its waiting," said Mr. Burford.
"It can now, I am glad to say; indeed, I hope it is done with
altogether."
"That is well. By the way, did you see that Mr. Harcourt Whinney is
dead? I fear you will not come into a fortune by way of restitution."
"As I never hoped for anything, I shall not be disappointed, Mr.
Burford. I have often wondered that my father should have been sanguine
enough to write, in the hope of moving Mr. Whinney to do anything
either for himself or me."
"Most people would agree with you, but it is wonderful how such an
appeal will sometimes work on the superstitious nature of a man when
conscience fails utterly. I have known very curious results in the
course of my practice as a maker of wills."
At this moment a gentleman, for whom Mr. Burford had been waiting on
the platform, joined him, and they went away together. This was on
Friday.
On Monday I heard that my kind old friend was dead, and would be
interred at Oakhill on the Thursday following.
It was from Mr. Burford himself I received the news, and, to my great
surprise, an invitation to attend the funeral.
"It was my father's wish that you should come and represent your
father, who was his friend and mine. He talked about you, Jack, not
very long before the end came, and in referring to those he loved, and
asking for them all good, he did not forget you. He said, too, that I
must always be your friend—a needless injunction, perhaps, but one that
you will not think lightly of."
I was not likely to do that. When I heard of it, I felt as a son of one
of the old patriarchs must have done when his father's hands were laid
on his head and his dying lips blessed him.
I attended the funeral, and was paired with Mr. Gordon. Then, without
exchanging any after-word with a member of the Burford family, I went
back to my duties; though I found subsequently that I had been expected
to return to the house with the rest. Mr. Gordon said as much, but I
thought he must be mistaken.
"I know Mr. Burford's goodwill towards me, but I should never presume
upon that to intrude upon the rest of the family at such a time," I
replied.
I did not hint that I was sure my presence would be most unwelcome to
Mrs. Burford, but I felt it none the less, and resolved to keep out of
her sight.
There were many friends and a few relatives from a distance who had
attended the funeral, and these returned by train later in the day.
Mr. Burford came to the station with two of the latter, and after they
left, spared a minute or two for me.
"I should have been glad to see you at the house, Jack," he said. "Had
you come, you would have received a little piece of good news the
sooner. My poor father has left you a small legacy—a thousand pounds."
"How very kind of him!" I exclaimed. "But I hardly feel as if it would
be right to take it, when there are so many of his own family."
"You can do nothing else, my dear boy; and you may be sure no member of
the family will wish to deprive you of it. My father was very rich, and
though he gave largely, his quiet mode of life favoured accumulation.
He has left thirty thousand pounds to each of my children, to be theirs
absolutely as they come of age, and more at my death. So, you see, your
odd thousand is a mere drop in the bucket, about which you need have
no conscientious qualms. My father knew about your nest-egg of five
hundred, and that you were prudently saving a little in addition, so he
wished this sum to be added to your capital, in the hope that you might
see an opening to use the whole advantageously some day."
What I said may be easily imagined, and perhaps some who read this
will realise that I went home that night feeling both richer and
poorer—richer by a thousand pounds, poorer for Nelly's wealth, which
would separate us and leave us farther apart than ever. In a year's
time, she would be absolute mistress of a large sum, with the prospect
of much more. I was creeping up the ladder of fortune far more rapidly
than I could have expected, but Nelly had been lifted to the topmost
rung at one bound, and I could never hope to stand beside her on equal
terms. If an attachment existed between her and Herbert Kenningham,
whose means were not large, and who hoped to make his way as a
professional man, this legacy would smooth all obstacles; and I doubted
not that Miss Flint would do her best to facilitate their union.
As I look back, I can see what an ungrateful fellow I was to indulge in
such thoughts, and that I deserved to suffer for being so ingenious in
self-torment, both at this and at other times.
I did, however, tell Jabez and Betsy of my legacy, and their comments
brought me to a better state of mind.
"Eh, Mr. John! I am glad and thankful for you. A thousand pounds! What
a fortune that is, when you come to think about it!" exclaimed Betsy.
"Why, you would be so full when you heard about it, you wouldn't know
how to speak to Mr. Burford. You would be just thanking God with all
your heart."
I hope I had not been unthankful, and yet poor Betsy had rather
pictured what ought to have been than what was filling my heart, for
the other wretched thoughts that I have told about occupied too great a
share of my mind.
"Yes, Mr. John," said Jabez, "you are getting rich fast, and I begin
to hope that I may be spared to see you at Lint Hall again. This money
will take you a step nearer."
I smiled and said, "I have learned to be very happy at Rose Cottage.
For me to think of Lint Hall again, would be like a child stretching
out its hands for the moon. My father had at one time several thousands
a year."
"Mr. John," said Betsy after a pause, "would you mind doing a sum for
me?"
"What is it? I will do it if I can."
"Just reckon up how many weeks it would take Jabez to earn a thousand
pounds at fifteen shillings a week."
I did so, and told her it would be 1333 weeks and a day or two over.
"Eh, but that is a many! I can't quite get hold of the time when the
figures are so big. Could you put them into years, Mr. John?"
"Twenty-five years and about thirty-three weeks towards another," I
replied.
"Hear that, Jabez! It would take you more than five-and-twenty years,
with never a day off, to earn the thousand pounds that are coming to
Mr. John all at once. We've got something to thank God for, haven't we?"
Dear unselfish soul, which overleaped every thought of discontent in
connection with a life of ceaseless toil, and all envy of my better
fortune, and thanked God on my behalf, as if the legacy had come
straight to her and her old partner, instead of to me.
I was glad that Betsy had set me that sum to do. It did more than
satisfy her thirst for information; it set me thinking much of the good
providence of God, and how it had been manifested on my behalf, and
made me alike more humble and grateful.
Could Betsy have guessed what was in my mind? It may be. Unselfish
souls are far-sighted. She may have wished to draw my attention to two
sides of the subject uppermost in my thoughts. Any way, I had cause to
thank her for that question in arithmetic.