He was a remittance man, who received each month from his father, a
Dorset parson, a letter and a cheque. The letter was not a source of
pleasure to the son, and does not concern us; the cheque made five
pounds payable to the order of Richard Beaumont Carteret, known to
many men in San Lorenzo county, and some women, as Dick. Time was when
Mr. Carteret cut what is called a wide swath, when indeed he was
kowtowed to as Lord Carteret, who drove tandem, shot pigeons, and
played all the games, including poker and faro. But the ten thousand
pounds he inherited from his mother lasted only five years, and when
the last penny was spent Dick wrote to his father and demanded an
allowance. He knew that the parson was living in straitened
circumstances, with two daughters to provide for, and he knew also
that his mother's fortune should in equity have been divided among the
family; but, as he pointed out to his dear old governor, a Carteret
mustn't be allowed to starve; so the parson, who loved the handsome
lad, put down his hack and sent the prodigal a remittance. He had
better have sent him a hempen rope, for necessity might have made a
man out of Master Dick; the remittance turned him into a moral idiot.
A Carteret, as you know, cannot do himself justice upon five pounds a
month, so Dick was constrained to play the part of Mentor to sundry
youthful compatriots, teaching them a short cut to ruin, and sharing
the while their purses and affections. But, very unhappily for Dick,
the supply of fools suddenly failed, and, lo! Dick's occupation was
gone. Finally, in despair, he allied himself to another remittance
man, an ex-deacon of the Church of England, and the two drifted slowly
out of decent society upon a full tide of Bourbon whisky.
Tidings must have come to the parson of his son's unhappy condition,
or possibly he decided that the Misses Carteret were entitled to the
remittance. It is certain that one dreadful day Dick's letter
contained nothing but a sheet of note-paper.
"I can send you no more cheques" (wrote the parson), "not another
penny will you receive from me. I pray to God that He may see fit to
turn your heart, for He alone can do it. I have failed ..."
Dick showed this letter to his last and only friend, the ex-deacon,
the Rev. Tudor Crisp, known to many publicans and sinners as the
'Bishop.' The two digested the parson's words in a small cabin
situated upon a pitiful patch of ill-cultivated land; land
irreclaimably mortgaged to the hilt, which the 'Bishop' spoke of as
"my place." Dick (he had a sense of humour) always called the cabin
the rectory. It contained one unplastered, unpapered room, carpetless
and curtainless; a bleak and desolate shelter that even a sheep-herder
would be loth to describe as home. In the corners were two truckle
beds, a stove, and a large demijohn containing some cheap and fiery
whisky; in the centre of the floor was a deal table; on the rough
redwood walls were shelves displaying many dilapidated pairs of boots
and shoes, also some fly-specked sporting prints, and, upon a row of
nails, a collection of shabby discoloured garments, ancient "hartogs,"
manifesting even in decay a certain jaunty, dissolute air, at once
ludicrous and pathetic. Outside, in front, the 'Bishop' had laid out a
garden wherein nothing might be found save weeds and empty beer
bottles, dead men denied decent interment. Behind the cabin was the
dust-heap, an interesting and historical mound, an epitome, indeed, of
the 'Bishop's' gastronomical past, that emphasised his descent from
Olympus to Hades; for on the top was a plebeian deposit of tomato and
sardine cans, whereas below, if you stirred the heap, might be found a
nobler stratum of terrines, once savoury with _foie gras_ and
Strasbourg _pâté_, of jars still fragrant of fruits embedded in
liqueur, of bottles that had contained the soups that a divine loves--
oxtail, turtle, mulligatawny, and the like. Upon rectory, glebe, and
garden was legibly inscribed the grim word--ICHABOD.
"He means what he says," growled Dick. "So far as he's concerned I'm
dead."
"You ought to be," said the 'Bishop,' "but you aren't; what are you
going to do?"
This question burned its insidious way to Dick's very vitals. What
could he do? Whom could he do? After a significant pause he caught the
'Bishop's' eye, and, holding his pipe as it might be a pistol, put it
to his head, and clicked his tongue.
"Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.
The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflected
mournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance that
kept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought sent
him to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.
"No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think.
Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we could
start a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it,
more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don't
you say something, you stupid fool?"
He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheery
happy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playing
fields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Other
figures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage. God
in heaven, what a fool he had been!
The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancing
from time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but the
whisky warmed him into speech.
"Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one is
enough for two. We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the times
mend."
Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at the
squat, ungainly 'Bishop.'
"You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and-good-bye."
"Why, where are you going?"
"Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."
Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dick
was reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him. Yet he had wit
enough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his, whisky and
waited.
"It's no use craning at a blind fence," continued Dick. "Sooner or
later we all come to the jumping-off place. I've come to it to-night.
You can give me a decent funeral--the governor will stump up for that
--and there will be pickings for you. You can read the service,
'Bishop.' Gad! I'd like to see you in a surplice."
"Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.
"He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued Dick. "You can do the
thing handsomely for half that."
"For God's sake, shut up."
"Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start us
nicely in the saloon business, and----"
He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor. Now he stopped, and
his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.
"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."
The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.
"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, and
slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he
spoke grimly.
"What does the apostle say--hey? We must die to live. A straight tip!
Well--! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die
to-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish. I'm going
to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all
the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes
on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect
gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man
who was, and is, and is to be."
"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You
mean to be your own undertaker."
"I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an
hour's peace."
But the hour passed and found Dick still composing. The 'Bishop'
watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribe
flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows--
"The Rectory, San Lorenzo,
"_September 1,_
"To the Rev. George Carteret.
"Dear Sir,--I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, of
the sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died at
my house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly. You
will find enclosed the doctor's certificate, the coroner's report, and
the undertaker's bill _paid and receipted_.
"I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored a
misspent youth. But I rejoice to say that poor Dick lived long enough
to heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins against
himself. He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to the
sacrifices you had made on his behalf--sacrifices that he confessed
were far greater than his deserts.
"I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral of
a gentleman. The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full,
including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery. Should
you see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money;
if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matter
drop. I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.
"It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of the
grave. A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about two
hundred dollars. If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, I
will give it my earnest attention.
"I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road,
Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.
"Very truly yours,
"Tudor Crisp (The Rev.)."
"There," exclaimed Mr. Carteret, "that will do the trick. The bills
and other documents we'll forge at our leisure to-morrow."
"I don't quite like the use of my name," protested the Rev. Tudor
Crisp.
Dick explained that his reverence would be entitled to half the
plunder, and that discovery was almost impossible. Still, despite
Dick's eloquence, the 'Bishop' submitted that such a cruel fraud was
"tough" on the old gentleman.
"On the contrary," retorted the other. "He will assume that I died in
the odour of sanctity, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms of
a parson. He'll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or my
future. This is the turning-point of our fortunes. Don't look so glum,
man. Here--hit the demijohn again."
But the 'Bishop' declined this invitation, and betook himself to his
blankets, muttering inarticulate nothings. Dick relighted his pipe,
and refilled his glass. Then he walked to the mantelshelf and gazed
long and critically at three framed photographs of his father and two
sisters. These were almost the only property he possessed. It is
significant from an ethical point of view that Dick kept these
pictures where he could see them. The 'Bishop' had photos also, but
they lay snug at the bottom of an old portmanteau. His reverence was
sensible that he was not worthy to keep company with even the pictures
of honourable and respectable persons. No such qualms affected Dick.
He regarded these photos as credentials. His father had a charming
face--one of those human documents whereon are inscribed honour,
culture, benevolence, and the wisdom that is not of this world. The
sisters, too, had comely features; and strangers introduced to the
family group always felt more kindly disposed to the prodigal so far
from such nice people. Dick had impetrated more than one loan, using
these portraits as collateral security. Did his heart soften as he
bade them farewell? Who can tell?
* * * * *
Within six weeks the Rev. Tudor Crisp received a cheque from distant
Dorset, and the proceeds were duly invested in a saloon in San
Clemente, a town some twenty miles from San Lorenzo. Moreover, the
business prospered from the start. The partners, Crisp and Cartwright
(Dick deemed it wise to alter his name), kept no assistants, so there
was no leakage from the till. They understood that this liquor traffic
was a shameful trade, but they pronounced themselves unable to follow
any other. Curiously enough the work proved a tonic to the 'Bishop.'
He allowed himself so many drinks a day, and observed faithfully other
rules to his physical and financial betterment. He started a reading-
room in connection with the bar, for he had had experience in such
matters when a curate at home; and the illustrated papers sent
regularly by his maiden aunt were in great demand. Indeed, the mere
reading about football matches and the like created an unquenchable
thirst in cowboys and sheep-herders. Moreover the 'Bishop' enforced
order and decorum, being a muscular Christian, and the boys learned to
curb obscene tongues in his presence. Dick marvelled at the change in
his partner, but he was shrewd enough to see that it brought grist to
the gin-mill.
"Once a parson, always a parson," Dick would say; and the Rev. Tudor
would blush and sigh. He never spoke of his clerical days, but once
Dick caught him furtively examining a picture of himself in surplice
and cassock. Each week a division of the profits was made. The
'Bishop's' share was deposited in the local bank, but where Dick's
dollars went it would be indiscreet to tell. He had no stomach for
economies, and observed no rules. When he apprehended the general
drift of things he was content to let the 'Bishop' have his way and
say in regard to the conduct of the business. His reverence bought the
cigars and liquors. Dick could hardly be called a sleeping partner,
for he took the night watch, but the 'Bishop' did most of the work,
and kept the books. Before two years had passed a capital restaurant
was added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chops
might be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price.
Dick never knew it, but the 'Bishop' wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp and
begged her to send no more cheques. He told his kind auntie very
modestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped one
day to thank her in person for all she had done for him.
Towards the close of the third year the 'Bishop' told Dick that it
would be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a small
hotel then offered for sale. Dick told his old friend to go ahead. His
reverence supplied Dick's share of the purchase-money, and the saloon
knew them no more. But the hotel, under the 'Bishop's' management,
proved a tiny gold mine.
All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helped
to play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory. He feared
that Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; for
in the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, of
The Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor 'Bishop' read with
quickening pulses, and then showed to Dick.
"My very dear Sir" (it began), "a curious change in my fortunes
enables me to carry out a long-cherished plan. I purpose, D.V., to pay
a pilgrimage to my poor son's grave, and shall start for California
immediately. Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a couple
of days at the rectory. It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meet
one who was kind to my dear lad.
"I will write to you again from San Francisco.
"Very gratefully yours,
"George Carteret."
If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the 'Bishop'
would have manifested far less consternation. He raved incoherently
for nearly ten minutes, while Dick sat silent and nervous beneath a
storm of remorse.
"I'll meet your father in San Francisco," said the unhappy Crisp, "and
make a clean breast of it." "That spells ruin," said Dick coldly. "The
governor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper. He
would make this place too hot for you and too hot for me. I've a voice
in this matter, and for once," he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, "I
propose to be heard."
"What do you mean to do?"
"If necessary I'll resurrect myself. I'll play the hand alone. You've
no more tact than a hippopotamus. And I'll meet the governor. Don't
stare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth-
faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, the
colour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable. It may be
necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him down
here. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."
"What?"
"I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return to
England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And you
would give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright,
the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not for
that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten
minutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellow
you were."
"Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.
But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deuce
did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"
* * * * *
The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms
at the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet not
unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty. It
seemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches should
have come to him--riches from a distant kinsman who, living, had
hardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson. Five thousand pounds a
year was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numbered
as many hundreds. And--alas! his son was dead. Not that the parson
loved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadet
of an ancient family he had a Tory squire's prejudice in favour of a
Salique Law. With the thousands went a charming grange in the north
country and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to a
male Carteret. If--futile thought--Dick had only been spared!
Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card. The parson placed his
glasses upon a fine aquiline nose.
"Ahem! Mr.--er--Cartwright. The name is not familiar to me, but I'll
see the gentleman."
And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers. Dick
fluently explained the nature of his errand. Mr. Carteret's letter had
been given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp's
estate. He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret's
name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.
"And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"
Dick admitted that he had known himself--slightly.
"A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." Dick pulled his beard.
"Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, I
fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm not
trespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can
of him. What good, I mean."
Dick kept on pulling his beard.
"Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend,
Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said Dick had no enemies but
himself."
Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had
expected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men are
strangely inconsistent. Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful of
them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to
him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared
not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. The
parson sighed and pressed the matter no further. He desired, he said,
to see Dick's grave. Then he hoped to return to England.
Now Dick had made his plans. In a new country, where five years bring
amazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards. In
the San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the sexton
chanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read nor
write. So Dick identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place,
and told the sexton that a marble cross would be erected there under
his (Dick's) direction. Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument,
taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained. There are scores
of such in every marble-worker's yard. Upon it were cut Dick's
initials, a date, and an appropriate text. Within three days of the
receipt of Mr. Carteret's letter, the cross was standing in the
cemetery. None knew or cared whence it came. Moreover, Dick had passed
unrecognised through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily as
Lord Carteret. He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obvious
reasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus death
and burial.
Thus it came to pass that Dick and his father travelled together to
San Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery.
Presently Dick walked away; and then the old man knelt down,
bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes. Later, the father
pointed a trembling finger at the initials. "Why," he demanded
querulously, "did they not give the lad his full name?" And to this
natural question Dick had nothing to say.
"It seems," murmured the old man mournfully, "that Mr. Crisp, with all
his kindness, felt that the name should perish also. Well, amen, amen.
Will you give me your arm, sir?"
So, arm in arm, they passed from the pretty garden of sleep. Dick was
really moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make full
confession there and then. But he strangled it, and his jaw grew set
and hard. As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father's
fortunes. Mr. Carteret assumed none of the outward signs of
prosperity. He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowed
along the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, but
babbling of no Pactolian sands. And then, quite suddenly and simply,
he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wished
to set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended as
the experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.
"You--you are a rich man?" faltered Dick.
"My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand a
year."
Dick gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season.
Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret's immediate
plans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbara
on the morrow. Dick had determined not to let his father stray from
his sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he told
himself that he must confer with the 'Bishop' at once. The 'Bishop'
must act as go-between; the 'Bishop,' by Jove! should let the cat out
of the bag; the 'Bishop' would gladly colour the facts and obscure the
falsehoods. So he bade his father good-bye, and the old gentleman
thanked him courteously and wished him well. To speak truth, Mr.
Carteret was not particularly impressed with Mr. Cartwright, nor sorry
to take leave of him. Dick soon secured a buggy, and drove off. _En
route_ he whistled gaily, and at intervals burst into song. He
really felt absurdly gay.
The 'Bishop,' however, pulled a long face when he understood what was
demanded of him. "It's too late," said he.
"Do you funk it?" asked Dick angrily.
"I do," replied his reverence.
"Well, he must be told the facts before he goes south."
Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father was
already in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick's
departure, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church,
chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at San
Clemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greater
historical interest and in finer preservation than any north of Santa
Barbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente,
kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisp
tickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were any
relation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near San
Lorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and the
same, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violent
exclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev.
Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who is
Cartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a man
who knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappy
father realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his suffering
it becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to be
said.
He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and both
Dick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell back
panic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slipped
aside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.
"Is your name Crisp?"
"Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'
"The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"
"I--er--once held deacon's orders."
"Can I see you alone?"
The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy to
the bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The
'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other,
who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel,
carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.
"Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what have
you to say to me?"
The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quite
truthfully.
"You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"