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GEOFFREY HAMPSTEAD
_A NOVEL_
BY THOMAS STINSON JARVIS
Consider the work of God: for who can make
that straight, which he hath made crooked?
_Ecclesiastes vii, 13._
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1890
COPYRIGHT, 1890,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
GEOFFREY HAMPSTEAD.
CHAPTER I.
I do not think
So fair an outward, and such stuff within,
Endows a man but he.
_Cymbeline._
The Victoria Bank, Toronto, is on the corner of Bay and Front Streets,
where it overlooks a part of the harbor large enough to gladden the eyes
of the bank-clerks who are aquatic in their habits and have time to look
out of the windows. Young gentlemen in tattered and ink-stained coats,
but irreproachable in the matter of trousers and linen, had been known
to gaze longingly and wearily down toward that strip of shining water
when hard fate in the shape of bank duty apparently remained indifferent
to the fact that an interesting race was being rowed or sailed. This,
sometimes, was rather a bad thing for the race; for the Victoria Bank
had, immured within its cut stone and plate glass, some good specimens
of muscular gentility; and in contests of different kinds, the V. B. had
a way (discomforting to other banks) of producing winners. The amount of
muscle some of them could apply to a main-sheet was creditable, while,
as to rowing, there were few who did not cultivate a back and thigh
action which, if not productive of so much speed as Hanlan's, was
certainly, to the uninitiated, quite as pleasant to look upon; so that,
in sports generally, there was a decided call for the Vics.; not only
among men on account of their skill, but also in the ranks of a gentler
community whose interest in a contest seemed to be more personal than
sporting. The Vics. had adopted as their own a particular color, of
which they would wear at least a small spot on any "big day"; and, when
they were contesting, this color would be prevalent in gatherings of
those interested personally. And who would inquire the reasons for this
favoritism? "Reasons! explanations!--why are men so curious? Is it not
enough that those most competent to decide have decided? What will you?
Go to!" Indeed, the sex is very divine. It is a large part of their
divinity to be obscure.
Perhaps these young men danced with the ease and self-satisfaction of
dervishes. Perhaps their prowess was unconsciously admired by those who
formerly required defenders. But the most compelling reason, on this
important point, was that "ours" of the Victoria Bank had established
themselves socially as "quite the right sort" and "good form"--and thus
desirable to the Toronto maiden, and, if not so much so to her more
match-making mother, the fact that they were considered _chic_ provided
a feminine argument in their favor which had, as usual, the advantage of
being, from its vagueness, difficult to answer; so that the more
mercantile mother grew to consider that a "detrimental" who was _chic_
was not, after all, as bad as a "det." without leaven.
It has been said that bank-clerks are all the same; but, while admitting
that, in regard to their faultless trousers and immaculate linen, there
does exist a pleasing general resemblance, rather military, it must be
insisted that there are different sorts of them; that they are complete
in their way, and need not be idealized. The old barbaric love for
wonderful story-telling is still the harvest-ground of those who live
by the propagation of ideas, but must we always demand the unreal?
There was nothing unreal about Jack Cresswell. As he stood poring over
columns of figures in a great book, one glance at him was sufficient to
dispel all hope of mystery. He was inclosed in the usual box or
stall--quite large enough for him to stand up in, which was all he
required (sitting ruins trousers)--and his office coat was all a
bank-clerk could desire. The right armpit had "carried away," and the
left arm was merely attached to the body by a few ligaments--reminding
one of railway accidents. The right side of the front and the left arm
had been used for years as a pen-wiper. A metallic clasp for a patent
pencil was clinched through the left breast. The holes for the pockets
might be traced with care even at this epoch, but they had become so
merged in surrounding tears as to almost lose identity with the original
design.
The bank doors had been closed for some time, after three o'clock, on
this particular day in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred
and blank, and Jack Cresswell had been puzzling his brains over figures
with but poor success. Whether his head was dull, or whether it was
occupied by other things, it is hard to say--probably both; so, on
hearing Geoffrey Hampstead, the paying-teller, getting ready to go away,
he leaned over the partition and said, in an aggrieved tone:
"Look here, Geoffrey, I'm three cents out in my balance."
A strong, well-toned voice answered carelessly, "That is becoming a
pretty old story with you, Jack. You're always out. However, make
yourself comfortable, dear boy, as you will doubtless be at it a good
while." Then, as he put on his hat and sauntered away, Geoffrey added a
little more comfort. "If you really intend to bring it out right, you
had better arrange to guard the bank to-night. You can do both at once,
you know, and get your pay as well, while you work on comfortably till
morning."
"I'll tell you what I'll do. If you'll get these three cents right for
me, I'll stand the dinners."
"Much obliged. Mr. Hampstead has the pleasure of regretting. Prior
engagement. Has asked Mr. Maurice Rankin to dine with him at the club.
But perhaps, even without your handsome reward, we might get these
figures straightened out for you." Then, taking off his coat, "You had
better take a bite with us if we can finish this in time."
Geoffrey came up to the books and "took hold," while Jack, now in
re-established good humor, amused himself by keeping up a running fire
of comments. "Aha! me noble lord condescends to dine the poor legal
scribe. I wonder, now, what led you to ask Maurice Rankin to dine with
you. You can't make anything out of Morry. He hasn't got a cent in the
world, unless he got that police-court case. Not a red shekel has he,
and me noble lord asks him to dinner--which is the humor of it! Now, I
would like to know what you want with Rankin. You know you never do
anything without some motive. You see I know you pretty well. Gad! I
do."
Geoffrey was working away under this harangue, with one ear open, like a
telegraph operator, for Jack's remarks. He said: "Can not a fellow do a
decent thing once in a way without hearing from you?"
"Not you," cried Jack, "not you. I'll never believe you ever did a
decent thing in your life without some underground motive."
Geoffrey smiled over the books, where he was adding three columns of
figures at once, lost the addition, and had to begin at the bottom
again; and Jack, who thought that never man breathed like Geoffrey,
looked a little fondly and very admiringly at the way his friend's back
towered up from the waist to the massive shoulders--and smiled too.
Jack's smile was expansive and contagious. It lighted up the whole
man--some said the whole room--but never more brightly than when with
Hampstead. Geoffrey had a fascination for him, and his admiration had
reached such a climax after nearly two years' intercourse that he now
thought there was but little within the reach of man that Geoffrey could
not accomplish if he wished. It was not merely that he was good looking
and had an easy way with him and was in a general way a favorite--not
merely that he seemed to make more of Jack than of others. Hampstead had
a power of some kind about him that harnessed others besides Jack to his
chariot-wheels; and, much as Cresswell liked to exhibit Geoffrey's seamy
side to him when he thought he discovered flaws, he nevertheless had
admitted to an outsider that the reason he liked Hampstead was that he
was "such an altogether solid man--solid in his sports, solid in his
work, solid in his virtues, and, as to the other way--well, enough
said." But the chief reason lay in the great mental and bodily vigor
that nearly always emanated from Geoffrey, casting its spell, more or
less effectively, for good or evil. With most people it was impossible
to ignore his presence; and his figure was prepossessing from the
extraordinary power, grace, and capacity for speed which his every
movement interpreted.
It was his face that bothered observant loungers in the clubs. For
statuary, a sculptor could utilize it to represent the face of an angel
or a devil with equal facility--but no second-class devil or angel. Its
permanent expression was that which a man exhibits when exercising his
will-power. The tenacious long jaw had a squareness underneath it that
seemed to be in keeping with the length of the upper lip. The high, long
nose made its usual suggestions, two furrows between the thick eyebrows
could ordinarily be seen, and the protuberant bumps over the eyes gave
additional strength. The eyes were light blue or steel gray, according
to the lights or the humor he was in. An intellectual forehead, beveled
off under the low-growing hair, might suggest that the higher moral
aspirations would not so frequently call for the assistance of the
determination depicted in the face as would the other qualities shown in
the width and weight of head behind the ears.
But Jack did not believe what he said in his tirades, and his good-will
makes him lax in condemnation of things which in others he would have
denounced. What Geoffrey said or did, so far as Jack knew, met, at his
hands, with an easy indifference if culpable, and a kindling admiration
if apparently virtuous. The two had lived together for a long time, and
no one knew better than Geoffrey how trustworthy Jack was. Consequently,
he sometimes entered into little confidences concerning his experiences,
which he glossed over with a certain amount of excuse, so that the moral
laxity in them did not fully appear; and what with the intensity of his
speech, his word painting, and enthusiastic face, a greater stoic than
poor Jack might have caught the fire, and perhaps condoned the offense.
Jack thought he knew Hampstead pretty well.
On the other side, Hampstead, though keen at discerning character,
confessed to himself that Jack was the only person he could say he knew.