FATHER AND SON.
While Gilbert Fenton was deliberating what steps to take next in his
quest of his unknown enemy, a gentleman arrived at a small hotel near
Charing Cross--a gentleman who was evidently a stranger to England, and
whose portmanteaus and other travelling paraphernalia bore the names of
New York manufacturers. He was a portly individual of middle age, and was
still eminently handsome. He dressed well, lived expensively, and had
altogether a prosperous appearance. He took care to inform the landlord
of the hotel that he was not an American, but had returned to the land of
his birth after an absence of something like fifteen years, and after
realizing a handsome fortune upon the other side of the Atlantic. He was
a very gracious and communicative person, and seemed to take life in an
easy agreeable manner, like a man whose habit it was to look on the
brighter side of all things, provided his own comfort was secured. Norton
Percival was the name on this gentleman's luggage, and on the card which
he gave to the waiter whom he desired to look after his letters. After
dining sumptuously on the evening of his arrival in London, this Mr.
Percival strolled out in the autumn darkness, and made his way through
the more obscure streets between Charing Cross and Wardour-street. The
way seemed familiar enough to him, and he only paused now and then to
take note of some alteration in the buildings which he had to pass. The
last twenty years have not made much change in this neighbourhood, and
the traveller from New York found little to surprise him.
"The place looks just as dull and dingy as it used to look when I was a
lad," he said to himself. "I daresay I shall find the old court unchanged
in all these years. But shall I find the old man alive? I doubt that.
Dead more likely, and his money gone to strangers. I wonder whether he
had much money, or whether he was really as poor as he made himself out.
It's difficult to say. I know I made him bleed pretty freely, at one time
and another, before he turned rusty; and it's just possible I may have
had pretty nearly all he had to give."
He was in Wardour-street by this time, looking at the dimly-lighted shops
where brokers' ware of more or less value, old oak carvings, doubtful
pictures, and rusted armour loomed duskily upon the passer-by. At the
corner of Queen Anne's Court he paused, and peered curiously into the
narrow alley.
"The court is still here, at any rate," he muttered to himself, "and I
shall soon settle the other question."
His heart beat faster than it was wont to beat as he drew near his
destination. Was it any touch of real feeling, or only selfish
apprehension, that quickened its throbbing? The man's life had been so
utterly reckless of others, that it would be dangerous to give him credit
for any affectionate yearning--any natural remorseful pang in such a
moment as this. He had lived for self, and self alone; and his own
interests were involved in the issue of to-night.
A few steps brought him before Jacob Nowell's window. Yes, it was just as
he remembered it twenty years before--the same dingy old silver, the same
little heap of gold, the same tray of tarnished jewelry glimmered in the
faint light of a solitary gas-burner behind the murky glass. On the
door-plate there was still Jacob Nowell's name. Yet all this might mean
nothing. The grave might have closed over the old silversmith, and the
interest of trade necessitate the preservation of the familiar name.
The gentleman calling himself Percival went into the shop. How well he
remembered the sharp jangling sound of the bell! and how intensely he had
hated it and all the surroundings of his father's sordid life in the days
when he was pursuing his headlong career as a fine gentleman, and only
coming to Queen Anne's Court for money! He remembered what an incubus the
shop had been upon him; what a pursuing phantom and perpetual image of
his degradation in the days of his University life, when he was
incessantly haunted by the dread that his father's social status would be
discovered. The atmosphere of the place brought back all the old
feelings, and he was young again, a nervous supplicant for money, which
was likely to be refused to him.
The sharp peal of the bell produced Mr. Luke Tulliver, who emerged from a
little den in a corner at the back of the shop, where he had been engaged
copying items into a stock-book by the light of a solitary tallow-candle.
The stranger looked like a customer, and Mr. Tulliver received him
graciously, turning up the gas over the counter, which had been burning
at a diminished and economical rate hitherto.
"Did you wish to look at anything in antique silver, sir?" he asked
briskly. "We have some very handsome specimens of the Queen Anne period."
"No, I don't want to look at anything. I want to know whether Jacob
Nowell is still living?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Nowell is my master. You might have noticed his name upon
the door-plate if you had looked! Do you wish to see him?"
"I do. Tell him that I am an old friend, just come from America."
Luke Tulliver went into the parlour behind the half-glass door, Norton
Percival following upon him closely. He heard the old man's voice saying,
"I have no friend in America; but you may tell the person to come in; I
will see him."
The voice trembled a little; and the silversmith had raised himself from
his chair, and was looking eagerly towards the door as Norton Percival
entered, not caring to wait for any more formal invitation. The two men
faced each other silently in the dim light from one candle on the
mantelpiece, Jacob Nowell looking intently at the bearded face of his
visitor.
"You can go, Tulliver," he said sharply to the shopman. "I wish to be
alone with this gentleman."
Luke Tulliver departed with his usual reluctant air, closing the door as
slowly as it was possible for him to close it, and staring at the
stranger till the last moment that it was possible for him to stare.
When he was gone the old man took the candle from the mantelpiece, and
held it up before the bearded face of the traveller.
"Yes, yes, yes," he said slowly; "at last! It is you, Percival, my only
son. I thought you were dead long ago. I had a right to consider you
dead."
"If I had thought my existence could be a matter of interest to you, I
should hardly have so long refrained from all communication with you. But
your letters led me to suppose you utterly indifferent to my fate."
"I offered you and your wife a home."
"Yes, but on conditions that were impossible to me. I had some pride in
those days. My education had not fitted me to stand behind a counter and
drive hard bargains with dealers of doubtful honesty. Nor could I bring
my wife to such a home as this."
"The time came when you left that poor creature without any home," said
the old man sternly.
"Necessity has no law, my dear father. You may imagine that my life,
without a profession and without any reliable resources, has been rather
precarious. When I seemed to have acted worst, I have been only the slave
of circumstances."
"Indeed! and have you no pity for the fate of your wife, no interest in
the life of your only child?"
"My wife was a poor helpless creature, who contrived to make my life
wretched," Mr. Nowell, alias Percival, answered coolly. "I gave her every
sixpence I possessed when I sent her home to England; but luck went dead
against me for a long time after that, and I could neither send her money
nor go to her. When I heard of her death, I heard in an indirect way that
my child had been adopted by some old fool of a half-pay officer; and I
was naturally glad of an accident which relieved me of a heavy incubus.
An opportunity occurred about the same time of my entering on a tolerably
remunerative career as agent for some Belgian ironworks in America; and I
had no option but to close with the offer at once or lose the chance
altogether. I sailed for New York within a fortnight after poor Lucy's
death, and have lived in America for the last fifteen years. I have
contrived to establish a tolerably flourishing trade there on my own
account; a trade that only needs capital to become one of the first in
New York."
"Capital!" echoed Jacob Nowell; "I thought there was something wanted. It
would have been a foolish fancy to suppose that affection could have had
anything to do with your coming to me."
"My dear father, it is surely possible that affection and interest may
sometimes go together. Were I a pauper, I would not venture to present
myself before you at all; but as a tolerably prosperous trader, with the
ability to propose an alliance that should be to our mutual advantage, I
considered I might fairly approach you."
"I have no money to invest in your trade," the old man answered sternly.
"I am a very poor man, impoverished for life by the wicked extravagance
of your youth. If you have come to me with any hope of obtaining money
from me, you have wasted time and trouble."
"Let that subject drop, then," Percival Nowell said lightly. "I suppose
you have some remnant of regard for me, in spite of our old
misunderstanding, and that my coming is not quite indifferent to you."
"No," the other answered, with a touch of melancholy; "it is not
indifferent to me. I have waited for your return these many years. You
might have found me more tenderly disposed towards you, had you come
earlier; but there are some feelings which seem to wear out as a man
grows older,--affections that grow paler day by day, like colours fading
in the sun. Still, I am glad to see you once more before I die. You are
my only son, and you must needs be something nearer to me than the rest
of the world, in spite of all that I have suffered at your hands."
"I could not come back to England sooner than this," the young man said
presently. "I had a hard battle to fight out yonder."
There had been very little appearance of emotion upon either side so far.
Percival Nowell took things as coolly as it was his habit to take
everything, while his father carefully concealed whatever deeper feeling
might be stirred in the depths of his heart by this unexpected return.
"You do not ask any questions about the fate of your only child," the
old man said, by-and-by.
"My dear father, that is of course a subject of lively interest to me;
but I did not suppose that you could be in a position to give me any
information upon that point."
"I do happen to know something about your daughter, but not much."
Jacob Nowell went on to tell his son all that he had heard from Gilbert
Fenton respecting Marian's marriage. Of his own advertisements, and
wasted endeavours to find her, he said nothing.
"And this fellow whom she has jilted is pretty well off, I suppose?"
Percival said thoughtfully.
"He is an Australian merchant, and, I should imagine, in prosperous
circumstances."
"Foolish girl! And this Holbrook is no doubt an adventurer, or he would
scarcely have married her in such a secret way. Have you any wish that
she should be found?"
"Yes, I have a fancy for seeing her before I die. She is my own flesh and
blood, like you, and has not injured me as you have. I should like to see
her."
"And if she happened to take your fancy, you would leave her all your
money, I suppose?"
"Who told you that I have money to leave?" cried the old man sharply.
"Have I not said that I am a poor man, hopelessly impoverished by your
extravagance?"
"Bah, my dear father, that is all nonsense. My extravagance is a question
of nearly twenty years ago. If I had swamped all you possessed in those
days--which I don't for a moment believe--you have had ample time to make
a fresh fortune since then. You would never have lived all those years in
Queen Anne's Court, except for the sake of money-making. Why, the place
stinks of money. I know your tricks: buying silver from men who are in
too great a hurry to sell it to be particular about the price; lending
money at sixty per cent, a sixty which comes to eighty before the
transaction is finished. A man does not lead such a life as yours for
nothing. You are rolling in money, and you mean to punish me by leaving
it all to Marian."
The silversmith grew pale with anger during this speech of his son's.
"You are a consummate scoundrel," he said, "and are at liberty to think
what you please. I tell you, once for all, I am as poor as Job. But if I
had a million, I would not give you a sixpence of it."
"So be it," the other answered gaily. "I have not performed the duties of
a parent very punctually hitherto; but I don't mind taking some trouble
to find this girl while I am in England, in order that she may not lose
her chances with you."
"You need give yourself no trouble on that score. Mr. Fenton has promised
to find her for me."
"Indeed! I should like to see this Mr. Fenton."
"You can see him if you please; but you are scarcely likely to get a warm
reception in that quarter. Mr. Fenton knows what you have been to your
daughter and to me."
"I am not going to fling myself into his arms. I only want to hear all he
can tell me about Marian."
"How long do you mean to stay in England?"
"That is entirely dependent upon the result of my visit. I had hoped that
if I found you living, which I most earnestly desired might be the case,
I should find in you a friend and coadjutor. I am employed in starting a
great iron company, which is likely--I may say certain--to result in
large gains to all concerned in it; and I fancied I should experience no
difficulty in securing your co-operation. There are the prospectuses of
the scheme" (he flung a heap of printed papers on the table before his
father), "and there is not a line in them that I cannot guarantee on my
credit as a man of business. You can look over them at your leisure, or
not, as you please. I think you must know that I always had an
independent spirit, and would be the last of mankind to degrade myself by
any servile attempt to alter your line of conduct towards me."
"Independent spirit! Yes!" cried the old man in a mocking tone; "a son
extorts every sixpence he can from his father and mother--ay, Percy, from
his weak loving mother; I know who robbed me to send you money--and then,
when he can extort no more, boasts of his independence. But that will do.
There is no need that we should quarrel. After twenty years' severance,
we can afford to let bygones be bygones. I have told you that I am glad
to see you. If you come to me with disinterested feelings, that is
enough. You may take back your prospectuses. I have nothing to embark in
Yankee speculations. If your scheme is a good one, you will find plenty
of enterprising spirits willing to join you; if it is a bad one, I
daresay you will contrive to find dupes. You can come and see me again
when you please. And now good-night. I find this kind of talk rather
tiring at my age."
"One word before I leave you," said Percival. "On reflection, I think it
will be as well to say nothing about my presence in England to this Mr.
Fenton. I shall be more free to hunt for Marian without his co-operation,
even supposing he were inclined to give it. You have told me all that he
could tell me, I daresay."
"I believe I have."
"Precisely. Therefore no possible good could come of an encounter between
him and me, and I shall be glad if you will keep my name dark."
"As you please, though I can see no reason for secrecy in the matter."
"It is not a question of secrecy, but only of prudential reserve."
"It may be as you wish," answered the old man, carelessly. "Good-night."
He shook hands with his son, who departed without having broken bread in
his father's house, a little dashed by the coldness of his reception, but
not entirely without hope that some profit might arise to him out of this
connection in the future.
"The girl must be found," he said to himself. "I am convinced there has
been a great fortune made in that dingy hole. Better that it should go to
her than to a stranger. I'm very sorry she's married; but if this
Holbrook is the adventurer I suppose him, the marriage may come to
nothing. Yes; I must find her. A father returned from foreign lands is
rather a romantic notion--the sort of notion a girl is pretty sure to
take kindly to."