A FINE TIP.
THERE were many worse men in the world even then—and the number
increases with population—than the gallant Sir Cumberleigh Hotchpot.
The principal source of the evil in him was that he knew not wrong
from right. If he could have seen the difference, he might have been
tempted by the charms of virtue; but as that pure lady had never found
her way into his visiting list, it would be unfair to blame him for
neglecting her. He came of good family—in one sense—and a very bad
family, in another. For several generations, the Hotchpots had verified
their names, by making mixture of all moral doctrine. And the air of a
county, where the world is flat and oozy, may have helped to bring high
and low to one dead level.
That speculation is beyond the mark; though as everything is material
now, it may justly be accepted in plea for him. What is more to the
purpose, and less of problem, is the plain truth that evil blood was
in his veins, and there had never been anything to purify it. In his
early days, the influence of a strong, clear-headed, and resolute wife,
lifting him into self-respect, and sweetening his paltry bitterness,
might have saved him from his vile contempt, and made a decent man of
him. And such a chance had once been his; but he cast it by through his
own foul conduct, and it never came again. The lady married a better
man, who was able to lead her, as well as be led; and the man she had
escaped made a bitter grievance of his own miscarriage.
Now, he was one of that wretched lot—the elderly rakes, without faith
in women, respect for themselves, or trust in God. Even the coarser
advantages of life, the vigorous health, the good-will of the world,
the desire to rise, the power of wealth—all these had failed him; and
he was left with nothing but a feverish thirst for excitement, and
a dreary desire to say spiteful things, which his meagre wit seldom
gratified.
For this he was hated by Downy Bulwrag, who also despised him for aping
the vices which are so much easier to youth. However, it was Downy’s
object now to ingratiate himself with this “old party;” and Downy had
long acquired the art of quenching his sentiments in his object. So he
took a cab, that very night, when his mother’s hysterics were drowned
in Cognac, and presented himself at Sir Cumberleigh’s house, in a small
square of South Kensington. He had not been encouraged to call here
often; for the Baronet (who generally misplaced his shame) was shy of
the fact that he had let the better part of his house to a fashionable
artist, while he occupied the smaller rooms himself. The visitor found
him just returned from his club, and by no means in an amiable frame
of mind, for the cards had been adverse, and he could ill afford to
lose. And he did not scruple to show his annoyance, at this late and
unexpected call.
But Downy drew an easy-chair near the fire, gave a kick to the Hotchpot
terrier (who with sound instinct had made a dash at him), and spread
his fat legs along the fender, without saying a word, till his host
had done the grumbles. And he had his revenge in his own crafty way,
for he gazed round the room, noting everything, and lifting his yellow
eyebrows now and then, or pursing up his big lips, and stroking his
moustache, as if he were conning how much—or rather how little, the
pictures, and furniture, would fetch.
“Been any auctioneers in your family?” Sir Cumberleigh’s temper was
never very good, and this appraisement of his chattels made it very
bad indeed. His intention had been to have a quiet smoke, and his nip
or two of cordial by the fire, while he went through his tablets by the
latest lights. He had thrown off his wig, to cool his brain, and had no
time to clap it on again. Frank and cheerful baldness is no disgrace
to any man, and sometimes adds a crown of goodness to a pleasant
face; but this gentleman had not that reward of gentle life; and his
bulbous pate, when naked, was what ladies call “horrid.” His restless
and suspicious eyes, and sneering mouth with lines that looked as if
nature had constructed channels for the drainage of foul words, and the
sour crop of blotches on his welted cheeks, were more than enough to
countervail expansive brow, and noble dome of curls, if there had been
any. There were none; and even Downy Bulwrag thought—“What a bridegroom
for a lovely girl!”
“You are inclined to cut up rough, old boy;” said Bulwrag, after
listening long to much that never should be listened to. “Something
disagreed with you? It must be so, as we get on in life. Well, tell me,
when you are certain that you have done exploding. No hurry. Pleasure
first; business afterwards.”
Sir Cumberleigh carried on a little more with his condemnation of all
mankind, just to show that he was not at all impressed with this aspect
of the younger man. Then his temper prevailed, as the other kept quiet;
and he said—“Out with your business, if there is any!”
“I don’t suppose it matters much to you. You are rolling in money,
after going down to your audit, and all that sort of thing. You might
like to invest a cool five hundred in a loan to me, at five per cent.
Do it, and earn my everlasting gratitude.”
“You have something good to tell me, or to put me up to. Upon my soul,
Bulwrag, I shall be glad to know it. I have three bills falling due
to-morrow. I am on my last legs, and that makes me so grumpish.”
“You have been uncommonly grumpish, Pots; and I am not at all sure that
I shall tell you anything. I like to do a kindness to a friend; but you
hardly seem to be quite that, just now.”
“My dear fellow, you never go by words. You have seen too much of the
world for that. The real friend is the man who shows you his rough
side. I do that to you, Downy, because I like you.”
“Then you can’t have much left for your enemies, my friend. But my rule
is to take things as I find them, and the same is the golden rule,
according to the law and prophets. I will render good for evil, Pots; I
will tell you of a nice little windfall for you, if you have the pluck
to keep up with luck.”
“Downy, I am up for anything. All has been against me for the last ten
days, and I should like to have my revenge of it. It would take a big
fence to pound me.”
“There’s a big pot of money the other side,” said Downy, counting
slowly on his fingers; “eighteen and sixteen make thirty-four, and
twelve makes forty-six, and Chilian eight thousand four hundred, with
the market down, should be worth another twelve, when they go up. But
put it at present quotations, and you have between fifty-four and
fifty-five thousand pounds, payable on the nail, and no trustees. It
would come in pretty well to start with, Pots, after paying the fellows
that know no better. And you might lend me the odd four thousand upon
good security. I would give you eight per cent., old fellow, and pay
you like a church.”
“What is it, Downy? Or are you trying hocus? Nothing of that sort
ever comes my way now. I have been on the wrong horse ever since last
Goodwood. And now again at Lincoln. Those cursed tips have tipped me
over.”
“It has nothing to do with turf, or tips. What do you think of our
little Kitty coming into sixty thousand pounds, for it’s worth every
penny of that, they say, and nobody to look after it, but the lucky
cove that marries her?”
“Sweet Kitty! My sweet Kitty Fairthorn; I adore her for her own sake,
without a crooked sixpence. But it sounds too good to be true, my boy.
Take a suck, and tell us all about it.”
“The beauty of it is that she doesn’t know a word of it;” Bulwrag
began to unfold his roll of fiction very recklessly, which gave it the
crackle and flash of truth. “And if we can keep her in the dark, for
another ten days or fortnight, why, a bit of pluck and gumption, and
there the job is done! You know that my excellent mother considers it
one of her strictest duties to open all the letters that come to the
house for the younger and feminine branches. She keeps the key of the
letter-box, and no one else is allowed to go near it. When I first came
back, she began to open mine; but I stopped that, quick sticks, I can
tell you.”
“She is a strong party, and no mistake. I hope she won’t want to come
and cock over my crib, when I am spliced to the heavenly Kitty. I
should get the wrong side of the sixty thousand pounds.”
“Well, this morning there came a little billet for our Kitty, sealed,
and got up, and looking no end confidential. The Ma wasn’t going to
stand that, of course; it set up her hackles that any one should try
it. She took it to her own room, and found it so important that it was
not right to let the owner know a word about it, at least until the
subject had been well considered. But she called me into council, and
my advice was to keep it dark, and make the most of it. And here is all
there is of it.
“It seems that the old scientific bloke had a sister in the wilds of
Northumberland, to whom he gave fearful offence, years ago, by blowing
her cat up, or something of that sort, and she vowed he should never
have sixpence of hers. But being better off for cash than kindred,
which is not the usual state of things, she has left all her belongings
to his daughter, straight away, in the lump, with nothing to pay but
duty. Her father will be her trustee by law, I suppose, until she is of
age or marries. But if she marries, without having it settled, which
her father of course would insist upon, why, there you are—the happy
man is master of the money, though she may go in for a post-nuptial, or
what ever they call it, kind of settlement.”
“Downy, my boy, it sounds too good to be true,” said Sir Cumberleigh,
looking at him doubtfully, but the young man’s great bulky face and
round forehead were as tranquil as an orange; “who are the lawyers? It
came, of course, from the old lady’s men of law. Was it a London or a
country firm? I don’t want to be too inquisitive, you know. But in a
manner of this sort—”
“The less you know the better, so long as you are convinced. You were
eager to marry the girl without a penny; and what motive can I have
for deceiving you? In fact, I think I have been a fool to tell you.
We could let her get the money, and what chance would you have then?
Plenty of young swells, with rhino of their own, would be after such a
pretty girl with sixty thousand pounds. And I will tell you two things,
since you seem to doubt me. In the first place, I shall insist upon ten
thou. advanced upon my note of hand at five per cent. And again for
your comfort, my mother since she heard of it won’t hear another word
of you, beloved Pots, unless I can bring her round to it. She would
naturally prefer a young soft fellow, with a fine place of his own,
where she can go and govern, when she wants a little change, as she
governs everywhere. So that will be all you get, old chap, by doubting
yours truly. Good-night, my boy. I am sorry that I ever told you.”
“Don’t be so hot, my friend. I never doubted you. All that I doubted
was my own good luck. And upon my soul, Downy, if you had had such
luck as I have, you would never place any more faith in it. Here, my
dear fellow, have a Don Pintolado; there’s not such another weed to be
got in London. And here’s a rare drop of old brandy, such as perhaps
you never tasted. It’s as old as the hills, and as soft as oil. You
must never put a drop of water with it. It stands me in two hundred
and forty shillings a dozen, and I have never let any one see it but
myself. What do you think of that now? Roll it on your tongue. The best
liquor you ever nosed is not a patch upon it. You are a good judge,
give me your opinion.”
“I never tasted anything like it, Pots. Where the devil do you get it
from?”
“Ah, I’ll put you up to that some day. But now let us have a little
quiet chat. You need not be afraid of it. Have another glass. You see
I always take it in a very thin dock-glass, made on purpose for it. If
it had not been for that I should have gone to the dogs long ago with
all my troubles. However, let us hope for an end of them soon. Fifty
thou. would set me straight, and I could get back the old place, and
give up fast life, and turn quiet Country Squire. It is time for me to
get out of all this racket, and stick to one or two solid friends like
you. Now tell me, old chap, exactly what I am to do. I’ll give you any
undertaking you think fit. Only, of course, we must keep it dark.”
“Ah, and not be in any over-hurry;” Donovan Bulwrag breathed rings of
blue serenity from the grey-edged auricula of his fine cigar, and then
said slowly, “I remember some little box you used to have, about two
miles beyond Hounslow.”
“Yes, and I have got it still, because nobody would have it. They
wanted to turn it into a poultry-breeding place when that craze was on,
but they could not pay deposit. At any rate they didn’t; and I have it
still on hand.”
“All right. Have it aired. It will be very pretty, now that the
broom and all that is coming on again. In another week or so the
nightingales will be about. Could you have a snugger place on earth to
pass your honeymoon in?”
“Twig,” said Sir Cumberleigh, “twig’s the word, with a little quiet
prodding, and a special license. But won’t she cut up rough, my boy? We
must not have abduction. It has been done in my family; but the times
were better then.”
“Kitty is not the one to cut up rough. My mother has drilled her a lot
too well for that. And if I come with her, and you are not seen till
the last, there can be no talk about abduction. All little particulars
must be left to me. You can let me your crib, if it eases you down, and
produce the agreement, if there is any row. But there won’t be any row.
You know the rule with women—smoothe over everything, when the job is
done.”
“I should like to think over it a little, Downy. I am not like a
boy who has the world on his side, when he does a rash thing in his
passion. The world has been very hard on me, God knows; and I am rather
old to give it another slap in the face. Why shouldn’t I marry the
charming Kitty, with her mother’s consent, and all done in proper trim?
Then we could go down to my old house, and have bonfires, and bells,
and roast an ox, and all that. And she could have a settlement, why
not? My lawyers could do it, so as to leave me the tin?”
“Try it on that way, if you like. How can it matter to me, beloved
Potts? There are two little stodges for you to get over. Would Kitty
ever look at you if she knew she had this money? And my mother will not
hear of you, since she saw that letter.”
“That devil of a woman!” cried the other rather rudely, forgetting that
her son received the statement of the fact. “She has always had her own
way, and she always will. Thank God that she never married me. Perhaps
she would have done it if she had seen me soon enough. If she has
turned against me it is all up, without some such lay as yours, my boy.
Not a dog can tuck his ear up without her knowing why. You could never
get your sister down there, without her knowing it.”
“She is not my sister,” said Downy very hotly; “or do you think I would
let her marry such a man as you? But the devil of a woman, as you
politely call her, goes down to my Grandfather in Wales next week, and
takes my two sisters with her.”
“Oh, then the coast will be clear, my dear boy! That makes all the
difference. You might have told me that, half an hour ago. I see my
way out of it now, clear enough. The main point will be to keep the
country lawyers quiet. Unless they get an answer to their letter pretty
sharp, they’ll be sending up a junior partner, or their London agent,
for fear of some other lawyer’s finger in the pie. That would upset
your pot. How are you to help it?”
“Nothing easier. For a few days at any rate. And that is why the job
must be tackled pretty smart. We shall send an acknowledgment in
Kitty’s name to-morrow, saying that she wishes to consult her father’s
lawyers—name of the firm of course omitted—from whom Messrs. So-and-so
will hear very shortly; and that will keep them quiet for a bit. Those
fellows make a point of never hurrying one another.”
“Capital! I know what they are too well. By-the-bye, did you tell me
the name of the gang in Northumberland? I might make a note of it.
Though I must not let them guess that I have heard of them, of course.”
“You would cut your own throat, if you did, Pots. I can tell you, if
you like, and get the letter perhaps to show you. But you had better
be able to swear, if there should be any rumpus, that you had never so
much as heard of them. And then, if you were pressed, you might admit
that you had heard some vague rumour, but paid no attention to it, as
it came from a source you had very little faith in.”
“Certainly. I could swear that without much harm. Don’t show me the
letter; I don’t want to see it. Have another drop of this wonderful
stuff. It wouldn’t hurt a child. It is as soft as milk.”
“No, not a drop. I am too late as it is. You had better keep away from
our place for the present. It would not be so well for you to receive
the sack, you see, before the great stroke comes off, next week. And
the mother might be apt to administer it, in her hasty way, you know.
Send a line to say you have got a cold, or something. And then run down
to the cottage, and begin at once to get it into spick and span. I
shall come to you every night, and report progress. Sixty thousand is a
good stake to run for.”
“But when is it to be, Downy, when is it to be? My nerves are not what
they used to be. And I shall not get a wink, till the race is pulled
off.”
“Oh yes, you will, if you go in for hard work. How can I tell the day,
till I have seen the mother off? The sooner the better, when she has
made tracks. There’s an old buffer coming to see the house, and keep
our Kitty in order. But I can do what I like with her. She’s smashed
taters after the real thing. Be of good cheer, Pots; I should say next
Wednesday, or Thursday, would see you a reformed and happy character.
Ta, ta, and remember me in your prayers.”
“I say, Downy, just one little thing,” said Sir Cumberleigh, recalling
him with some hesitation. “You must not be offended, old fellow; but
I should be so much obliged, if you would drop your habit of calling
me ‘Pots’ so frequently. It sounds so personal; although of course it
has no application to me as yet. Why, you might even do it before your
sister, and then it would be so—so unromantic. You see what I mean; no
offence, you know.”
“I tell you I won’t have her called my sister. She is no sister of
mine, nor in any way connected. If you call her my sister any more, I
shall look upon it as an insult.”
“A very great compliment, I should say,” Sir Cumberleigh pondered,
when his visitor was gone; “what the deuce makes him get in such a wax
about it? A fellow with such a batter-pudding face might be proud to
call such a girl his sister. Oh, I see why it is, what a thick I must
be! If she were his sister, he would be ashamed to be a party to this
little plant. I don’t like the look of it, and that’s all about it.
But such a poor devil must not stick at trifles. Sixty thousand pounds
would set me on my legs again. And it is not to be had by lying down
and rolling. And the sweetest girl in London, too without any cheek or
high faluting. I can soon break her in to any pace I choose. I am not
a bad fellow, only so unlucky. If this comes off, I’ll go to church
every Sunday. But I’ll take uncommon good care all the same that Master
Johnny Dory does not collar too much of the rhino. I hate that young
fellow, he is just like a yellow slug crawling in a mop.”