A FRUITLESS ERRAND.
Matters with Philip Cleeve were not progressing quite to his
satisfaction. Upon going down to breakfast one morning, he was
surprised to find his mother down before him. A notable thing; for
Lady Cleeve was seldom able to rise early. Philip kissed her fondly.
"This is a rare treat, mother," he said. "It seems like old times come
back again."
She pressed his hand and smiled tenderly in his bright, handsome face.
"I want to have a little talk with you before you go out, Philip. I
sat up for you last night, but you came home late."
"Ah, yes, to be sure," replied Philip hurriedly, very conscious that
he was too often late. "I went round to George Winstone's lodgings,
and the time slipped away."
"So long as you were enjoying yourself, dear, it was quite right,"
answered Lady Cleeve. In her eyes Philip could do no wrong.
"And what is it, mother, that you have to say to me?" he asked,
carelessly taking up a piece of toast and playing with the
butter-knife. He was growing vaguely uneasy already.
"I met Mr. Tiplady yesterday," began Lady Cleeve: and Philip put down
the knife without using it. His heart sank within him. "I had to call
in at Wharton's about my broken spectacles, and there I found Mr.
Tiplady having a new key fitted to his watch. We came away together,
and I took the opportunity of reminding him of his promise, given so
long ago, to take you into partnership. He had by no means forgotten
it, he said, and was willing that the question should be brought to a
practical issue as soon as I pleased. Of course you will not take a
full share at present: he intimated that: only a small one. But it
will be a very great thing for you, Philip; and you can afford to
wait."
Philip made no comment upon this. Lady Cleeve continued.
"I thanked him for his generosity. It _is_ generous of him," she
added, "to admit you with only a poor thousand pounds----"
"He does not want money," interrupted Philip, resentfully. "Tiplady is
as rich as can be--and he has nobody to come after him."
"He is none the less generous; many men in his position would not take
in a partner under several thousands of pounds," returned Lady Cleeve.
"What I wanted to tell you was this, dear--that he will probably speak
to you to-day. There need not be any further delay. Mr. Daventry will
draw up the deed of partnership, and nothing will then remain but for
you to pay over the money."
Philip rose abruptly and pushed back his chair. Then he turned and
gazed through the window to hide his emotion. "You have not done
breakfast, dear," cried Lady Cleeve in dismay. "You have eaten
scarcely anything."
"I have done very well indeed, thank you, mother," he answered from
the window. "I have one of my headaches this morning."
"Poor boy! the news is a delightful surprise to him," thought Lady
Cleeve. "Philip is just as sensitive as he used to be."
Philip got away from his mother and the house as quickly as possible,
walking along the road like a man in a dream. The thousand pounds, or
the greater portion of what was left of it, had gone out of his hands
to Captain Lennox. Or, rather, to that blessed company that the
Captain was just now so eager over. Early though it was, Philip must
see him; and he bent his steps towards The Lilacs.
As he went along, the thought struck him that he had not seen Lennox
about very lately. The last time Philip called, he was told by the
man-servant that the Captain had gone out for the day, and Mrs. Ducie
was ill with a cold.
It was a servant-maid who answered Philip's nervous ring at the house
this morning. Her master was in London, she said.
"In London!" exclaimed Philip. "When did he go?"
"Rather more than a week ago, I think, sir," was the girl's answer.
"I want to see Captain Lennox particularly," rejoined Philip.
"I dare say he will be back soon now, sir. I've not heard that he
means to make a long stay this time."
Philip pondered.
"Can I see Mrs. Ducie? Ask her to pardon the early hour and see me for
a minute--if she will be so kind."
"Mrs. Ducie can't see you now, sir," dissented the maid; "she is not
yet up. Her cold keeps very bad, and she hardly comes down at all."
"Can you take a message to her?"
"Oh yes, sir, I can do that. Her breakfast is just gone up."
"Give my kind regards to Mrs. Ducie, and ask her if she will tell me
when the Captain will be at home."
The maid ran upstairs and soon came down with the return message. Mrs.
Ducie's very kind regards to Mr. Cleeve, and she had not the least
notion when. Not for a few days, she thought: as his last letter,
received yesterday, said nothing about it.
Philip turned away from The Lilacs as wise as he had gone, hardly
heeding which way he took, save that it was from the office instead of
to it. Knowing what he knew, he asked himself how it was possible for
him to face Tiplady's inquiries? Out of the twelve hundred pounds
given him by his mother so short a time ago, to be held by him as a
sacred trust, only a balance of eighty-five pounds remained in the
bank.
It is true that if Captain Lennox's prognostications respecting the
splendid future of the Hermandad Silver Mining Company should prove to
be correct, Philip Cleeve would more than recoup himself in the whole
sum which he was now deficient. When Lennox first bought the shares
for him, he had assured Philip that no further calls would be made:
but despite this assurance two heavy calls had since had to be met,
for "expenses;" calls which had gone far towards exhausting Philip's
remaining resources. Captain Lennox had made no secret of his own
disappointment and annoyance, but he was as sanguine as ever of
ultimate success, and he had put it so strongly to Philip whether it
would not be wiser to double his venture, rather than forfeit the sum
already invested, that the latter had agreed to meet the calls,
although not without a sadly misgiving heart.
As matters, however, had now turned out, he must find Lennox at once
and show him the necessity for the shares being disposed of without
delay. In that, Philip anticipated no difficulty, as the shares were
so much sought after. Or else he must get Captain Lennox to go with
him to Lady Cleeve and Mr. Tiplady, and explain to them how well the
money was invested, and persuade them that in view of the splendid
profits sure to accrue before long, it would be folly to sell out just
now. Evidently the first thing to be done was to find Captain Lennox.
A little comforted in mind by the fact of having arrived at some sort
of a decision, he made his way with hesitating steps to the office. It
was a relief to him to find that Mr. Tiplady had started by an early
train for Norwich, and would not be back till night. This gave Philip
breathing-time, for which he was thankful.
Getting his dinner away, he spent the evening with some friends; and
was careful not to reach home until sure his mother would be in bed.
That night, on his sleepless pillow, he decided on his plans.
Early in the morning, before Lady Cleeve could be downstairs, Philip
snatched a hasty breakfast and went out. He left a note for his
mother, in which he told her that he had to go suddenly to London on
business, and she was not to be surprised or alarmed if he did not
return till the evening of the following day. Then he despatched a
nearly identical note to Mr. Tiplady, which Philip thought a clever
hit. Lady Cleeve would take it that he was away on business connected
with the office; while Mr. Tiplady would be sure to imagine that it
was on some affairs of his mother he was despatched to London. Making
his way to the railway-station, Philip caught a passing train, and was
whirled away to the metropolis.
When in London, Captain Lennox generally stayed at his favourite
hotel, the Piazza, in Covent Garden; this Philip knew, and he drove
there direct from the station. The urbane individual who was fetched
to answer his inquiries, and who had more the look of a church
dignitary than of a head waiter, told Philip that, although Captain
Lennox was, as he surmised, frequently at the hotel, he had not been
there lately. For the past six weeks, or so, they had not seen him,
neither were they in a position to afford any information as to his
whereabouts. All that Philip could do was to dissemble his
disappointment and go.
This seemed to Philip a worse check than the one at The Lilacs the
previous morning. Halting in the street, he bethought himself what he
could do--where look for Lennox. Only one place presented itself to
his mind: and that was the office of the Hermandad Company. It was
situate in the City, New Broad Street. If he did not see the Captain
there, he should at least hear where he was to be found. But Philip
thought he most likely should see him.
Half an hour's drive in a hansom cab took him to Broad Street; and to
the proper number, at which the cabman readily drew up. But Philip
could not so easily find the office he was in search of. On a large
board outside the doorway were painted up the names of some thirty or
forty different firms or companies, each of them occupying offices in
the same building. Philip at length discovered the name he wanted, the
last but two on the list, and was directed to mount to the third
floor.
On the third floor--and a very dingy, unwholesome-smelling floor it
was, for the building was an old one--he found the Hermandad office.
Philip's imagination had led him to fancy the offices of so important
a company as rather grand and imposing: this did not look like it. The
door was shut, and he could not open it. He knocked again and again,
but without response. While wondering at all this, and standing to
think what he could do next, an opposite door was opened, and a
sharp-looking youth came out.
"Nobody at home here apparently," remarked Philip, pointing to the
door. "What's the best time to find them in?"
"Don't know," answered the youth, twisting his mouth into a grin.
"Nobody been here for a fortnight, but a boy to fetch letters."
"Nobody been here for a fortnight!" exclaimed Philip.
"Nobody else. Not likely. Silver-mining company, hey! Oh, Jemima!"
Philip could have wrung the boy's neck.
"Are you one of the green 'uns?" continued he. "Lots of 'em come. No
use, though; not a bit; only have to go away again. Fishy--awful! Next
akin to smashing up."
With these strange remarks, the boy shot off, sliding down the
banisters; leaving Philip feeling sick at heart.
The Hermandad mine had evidently failed, and its company come to
grief. A suspicion stole over Philip that Captain Lennox might be more
hardly hit than the world suspected, and was keeping out of the way.
What to do, he knew not. Was there anything that he could do next,
except go back home and reveal everything to his mother? He had tasted
nothing all day, save his morsel of breakfast; and, although he had no
appetite, he felt so faint that he knew he must take refreshment of
some kind if he did not wish his strength to break down. Turning into
the nearest restaurant, he called for a glass of wine, and tried to
study the carte; but the names of the different dishes conveyed no
definite ideas to his mind.
"Bring me anything you have ready." he said wearily to the waiter; "a
basin of soup will do." And then he lay back in his chair and shut his
eyes.
The waiter had just put some soup before him, and was about to take
off the cover, when Philip started to his feet with an exclamation.
"By heavens! I never thought of that!" Staring around, he sat down in
a little confusion: for the moment he had forgotten where he was. The
waiter looked askance at him, to discover whether he was mad.
But the fact was that Philip had had what seemed to him nothing less
than a flash of inspiration. He had suddenly remembered that there was
such a person as Freddy Bootle in existence. Why not go to him in his
trouble? Freddy was rich, and as kindhearted as he was rich; he was
not the sort of man to allow a friend to sink for want of a helping
hand: in any case Philip felt sure of his sympathy and advice. Eating
his soup with some degree of relish, he paid, and drove off in a
hansom to Mr. Bootle's rooms in Bond Street.
Philip felt desperate. Especially at the thought of having to reveal
his folly to his mother, and her consequent distress. That seemed
worse than the loss of the money itself. Never had his conduct, his
almost criminal weakness, presented itself to him in so odious a light
as now. Had the money been absolutely his own, had it been bequeathed
to him by will or come to him by any mode other than that by which it
had come, he could have borne to lose it with comparative equanimity.
But when he called to mind the fact that the sum which it had taken
him so short a time to dissipate was the accumulation of long years of
patient pinching and hoarding on the part of his mother, that it
represented many a self-denied luxury, many a harmless pleasure
ruthlessly sacrificed, and that all this had been done to ensure the
advancement in life of his worthless self, he was almost ready to
think that the sooner the world were rid of him the better for
everyone concerned. How could he ever bear to face again that mother
and her thoughtful love?--how witness her pained face when he should
declare his folly? _Must_ she be told? If only Freddy Bootle would
give him a help in this strait, what a different man he would be in
time to come!
It was a break in the bitterness of his thoughts when the cab drew up
at Mr. Bootle's lodgings. Philip was not kept long in suspense. An
elderly man answered his knock and ring. The elderly man was sorry to
say that Mr. Bootle was in Rome at present, and was not expected back
till after Christmas.
"Was there ever so unlucky a wretch as I?" murmured Philip to himself,
as he turned, more sick at heart than ever, from the door. His one and
only hope had failed him.
The short winter day was drawing to a close, and the lamps were being
lighted as he turned into Piccadilly. He wandered about aimlessly for
some time, into this street and that, stopping now and again to stare
into a shop-window, or at the unending procession of vehicles in the
busier streets, and then wandering on again without seeming to see
anything.
All at once he was startled into the most vivid life. Coming
towards him, but yet a little distance away, and with several of the
hurrying crowd between them, he saw Captain Lennox. The light from a
shop-window shone full on his pale, strongly-marked features, and
there could be no mistake. Philip sprang forward eagerly, and the
sudden movement seemed to have the effect of attracting the Captain's
glance towards him. For one brief moment there came, or Philip thought
there did, a gleam of recognition into those steel-blue eyes; the
next, they and their owner were alike hidden by the intervening crowd.
Philip Cleeve shouldered his way along more roughly than he had ever
done before; in a few seconds he was standing on the exact spot where
he had seen Lennox, but that individual was no longer visible. He had
vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up. Philip
stared about him, like a man suddenly moonstruck, unheedful of the
jostling and elbowing of the passersby. Up the street and down the
street he gazed, but no Captain Lennox was to be seen. What _could_
have become of him?
"Surely he need not hide himself from me!" thought Philip. "We are
both in the same boat."
Looking about for the Captain, in a sort of amazed doubt, Philip saw
that he stood close before the open door of a large drapery emporium,
Was it possible that Lennox had taken refuge inside? No sooner did the
thought flash across Philip's mind, than he marched boldly into the
shop. There were several people there, customers and assistants, but
no signs of the man he was seeking. A civil assistant came up to ask
what they could serve him with, and Philip frankly avowed the cause of
his entering. A friend--a gentleman--had suddenly disappeared before
he could reach him; he could only think he had entered the shop.
"Very possibly," the young man replied; and as he was not to be seen
in it now, he might have passed through it, and left by the opposite
door.
Then Philip saw that the shop was what might be called a double one;
that is to stay, that it had a door and window opening into another
street. Had Lennox walked in at one door and out at the other, without
stopping to purchase anything? It was the conclusion Philip came to.
He recognised the uselessness of further pursuit of Lennox. It was
clear that the Captain had purposely evaded meeting him: the reason
for such evasion was not far to seek. Philip purchased a pair of
gloves, and then pursued his aimless way, weary and downcast.
Where should he go, and what should he do? He knew not, and he did not
greatly care. He was there alone in the huge wilderness of London,
without one living creature that knew him or that cared for him. It
was not too late to take the last train home; but he had a fixed
repugnance against doing so. Why hasten to meet his mother's
reproachful eyes, and Mr. Tiplady's incisive questionings? And yet, if
he stayed the night in London, he must face those ordeals on the
morrow. What could the morrow bring him, more than to-day had brought?
Still he wandered aimlessly on, through one mile of street after
another, his thoughts brimming over with bitterness at the
recollection of all his mad folly. What now to him but mad folly
seemed those nights at The Lilacs when, flushed with wine, he had
staked his mother's savings on the turn of a card, and had seen the
gold, hoarded by her for his sake, swept almost contemptuously into
the pockets of such men as Camberley and Lennox, who, the moment his
back was turned, probably sneered at him as a jay parading in
peacock's plumes? What now to him, but folly, seemed the spells which
he had allowed to be woven round him by the witcheries of Margaret
Ducie? In his heart of hearts he had never really cared for her,
however much at the time he might fancy that he had--not even when her
hold over him had seemed the strongest. And now, when he looked back,
she assumed in his thoughts the semblance of one of those specious
phantoms, lovely to look upon, but who seem sent only to lure
weak-minded fools to destruction.
Poor Philip! From the burning thoughts within him rose next another
phantom. Nothing specious about _her_, but pure and saint-like as a
lily steeped in dew--the image of Maria Kettle. Had he indeed lost
her? He knew now how much she was to him; that he had never loved but
her.
Yes, she was surely lost to him for ever. He would have no home to
take her to, and no prospect of winning a position for himself: a life
of commonplace drudgery, of separation from the only woman he had ever
loved, or could love, was all that now lay before him.
Still onward, ever onward, went he in his pain.
"Oh, my darling, you might have saved me if you would!" he cried. "You
might, you might!"
Still onward, ever onward. From tower and steeple the hours were
clanged out one after another, but he heeded them not. It was close
upon midnight when he found himself standing on one of the great
bridges that span the Thames. Far away into the blackness on either
side of him the great city spread itself out, seeming to his
imagination, at that hour, like some huge monster that was slowly
settling itself down to sleep. Silently below him ran the sullen
river, stealthily carrying its dread secrets down to the sea. Here and
there a few feeble lamps mocked the darkness.
Philip Cleeve stood and gazed over the parapet into the black-flowing
stream below. How many unhappy men might not have flung off life's
bitter burden at that very spot! How easy the process! A leap, a
plunge, a minute's brief struggle, and then the deep, deep sleep that
knows no waking. Could it be really wrong to throw away that which was
no longer of any value, that which had become a burden and for which
he no longer cared? The question kept coming back to him with a sort
of dreadful fascination. He could hear the faint lapping of the tide
against the piers; and, the longer he gazed down at the water, the
more it seemed to whisper to him of peace and rest, and a quiet ending
to all his troubles. Why not quit a world in which there no longer
seemed a place for him? Why not?
Suddenly there arose a sound behind him, as of the quick patter of
feet. Before Philip had time to interfere, before he well knew what
had happened, a female figure, scantily clad, and with hair flying to
the winds, had sprung on one of the stone seats, and thence on to the
parapet. For one brief instant she stood thus, dimly outlined against
the starlit sky; then, with hands clasped above her head, and a low,
wild cry, she sprang headlong to her death.
A little crowd gathered, as if by magic, where there had seemed to be
scarcely anyone a minute before. Faint at heart, dizzy with the sudden
horror of the thing, Philip Cleeve fell back from the rest. What were
his little troubles compared with those which must have driven that
poor desperate creature to destruction? The black, sullen river had
suddenly become hateful to him, and he made haste to leave it far
behind.