In spite of Sprats’s sermon in the little café-restaurant, Lucian made
no effort to follow her advice. He was at work on a new tragedy which
was to be produced at the Athenæum in the following autumn, and had
therefore no time to give to considerations of economy, and when he was
not at work he was at play, and play with Lucian was a matter of as much
importance, so far as strenuous devotion to it was concerned, as work
was. But there came a morning and an occurrence which for an hour at
least made him recall Sprats’s counsel and ponder rather deeply on
certain things which he had never pondered before.
It was ten o’clock, and Lucian and Haidee were breakfasting. They
invariably spent a good hour over this meal, for both were possessed of
hearty appetites, and Lucian always read his letters and his newspapers
while he ate and drank. He was alternately devoting himself to his plate
and to a leading article in the _Times_, when the footman entered and
announced that Mr. Pepperdine wished to see him. Lucian choked down a
mouthful, uttered a joyous exclamation, and rushed into the hall. Mr.
Pepperdine, in all the glories of a particularly horsy suit of clothes,
was gazing about him as if he had got into a museum. He had visited
Lucian’s house before, and always went about in it with his mouth wide
open and an air of expectancy--there was usually something fresh to see,
and he never quite knew where he might come across it.
‘My dear uncle!’ cried Lucian, seizing him in his arms and dragging him
into the dining-room, ‘why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Have
you breakfasted? Have some more, any way--get into that chair.’
Mr. Pepperdine solemnly shook hands with Haidee, who liked him because
he betrayed such ardent and whole-souled admiration of her and had once
bought her a pair of wonderful ponies, assured himself by a careful
inspection that she was as pretty as ever, and took a chair, but not at
the table. He had breakfasted, he said, at his hotel, two hours earlier.
‘Then have a drink,’ said Lucian, and rang the bell for whisky and soda.
‘How is everybody at Simonstower?’
‘All well,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine, ‘very well indeed, except that
Keziah has begun to suffer a good deal from rheumatism. It’s a family
complaint. I’m glad to see you both well and hearty--you keep the roses
in your cheeks, ma’am, and the light in your eyes, something wonderful,
considering that you are a townbird, as one may say. There are country
maidens with less colour and brightness, so there are!’
‘You said that so prettily that I shall allow you to smoke a cigar, if
you like,’ said Haidee. ‘Lucian, your case.’
Mr. Pepperdine shook his head knowingly as he lighted a cigar and sipped
his whisky and soda. He knew a pretty woman when he saw her, he said to
himself, and it was his opinion that Mrs. Lucian Damerel was uncommonly
pretty. Whenever he came to see her he could never look at her enough,
and Haidee, who accepted admiration on principle, used to smile at him
and air her best behaviour. She was sufficiently woman of the world to
overlook the fact that Mr. Pepperdine was a tenant-farmer and used the
language of the people--he was a handsome man and a dandy in his way,
and he was by no means backward, in spite of his confirmed bachelorhood,
of letting a pretty woman see that he had an eye for beauty. So she made
herself very agreeable to Mr. Pepperdine and told him stories of the
ponies, and Lucian chatted of various things, and Mr. Pepperdine, taking
in the general air of comfort and luxury which surrounded these young
people, felt that his nephew had begun life in fine style and was
uncommonly clever.
They went into Lucian’s study when breakfast was over, and Lucian
lighted a pipe and began to chat carelessly of Simonstower and old times
there. Mr. Pepperdine, however, changed the subject somewhat abruptly.
‘Lucian, my boy,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what’s brought me here: I want
you to lend me a thousand pounds for a twelvemonth. Will you do that?’
‘Why, of course!’ exclaimed Lucian. ‘I shall be only too pleased--for as
long as ever you like.’
‘A year will do for me,’ answered Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll explain
matters,’ and he went on to tell Lucian the story of the Bransby
defalcations, and his own loss, and of the late Lord Simonstower’s
generosity. ‘He was very good about it, was the old lord,’ he said: ‘it
made things easy for me while he lived, but now he’s dead, and I can’t
expect the new lord to be as considerate. I’ve had a tightish time
lately, Lucian, my boy, and money’s been scarce; but you can have your
thousand pounds back at the twelvemonth end--I’m a man of my word in all
matters.’
‘My dear uncle!’ exclaimed Lucian, ‘there must be no talk of that sort
between us. Of course you shall have the money at once--that is as soon
as we can get to the bank. Or will a cheque do?’
‘Aught that’s of the value of a thousand pounds’ll do for me,’ replied
Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I want to complete a certain transaction with the money
this afternoon, and if you give me a cheque I can call in at your bank.’
Lucian produced his cheque-book and wrote out a cheque for the amount
which his uncle wished to borrow. Mr. Pepperdine insisted upon drawing
up a formal memorandum of its receipt, and admonished his nephew to put
it carefully away with his other business papers. But Lucian never kept
any business papers--his usual practice was to tear everything up that
looked like a business document and throw the fragments into the
waste-paper basket. He would treasure the most obscure second-hand
bookseller’s catalogue as if it had been a gilt-edged security, but
bills and receipts and business letters annoyed him, and Mr.
Pepperdine’s carefully scrawled sheet of notepaper went into the usual
receptacle as soon as its writer had left the room. And as he crumpled
it up and threw it into the basket, laughing at the old-fashioned habits
of his uncle, Lucian also threw off all recollection of the incident and
became absorbed in his new tragedy.
Coming in from the theatre that night he found a little pile of letters
waiting for him on the hall table, and he took them into his study and
opened them carelessly. There was a long epistle from Mrs. Berenson--he
read half of it and threw that and the remaining sheets away with an
exclamation of impatience. There was a note from the great actor-manager
who was going to produce the new tragedy--he laid that open on his desk
and put a paper-weight upon it. The rest of his letters were
invitations, requests for autographs, gushing epistles from admiring
readers, and so on--he soon bundled them all together and laid them
aside. But there was one which he had kept to the last--a formal-looking
affair with the name of his bank engraved on the flap of the envelope,
and he opened it with some curiosity. The letter which it enclosed was
short and formal, but when Lucian had read it he recognised in some
vague and not very definite fashion that it constituted an epoch. He
read it again and yet again, with knitted brows and puzzled eyes, and
then he put it on his desk and sat staring at it as if he did not
understand the news which it was meant to convey to him.
It was a very commonplace communication this, but Lucian had never seen
anything of its sort before. It was just a brief, politely worded note
from his bankers, informing him that they had that day paid a cheque for
one thousand pounds, drawn by him in favour of Simpson Pepperdine,
Esquire, and that his account was now overdrawn by the sum of £187, 10s.
0d. That was all--there was not even a delicately expressed request to
him to put the account in credit.
Lucian could not quite realise what this letter meant; he said nothing
to Haidee of it, but after breakfast next morning he drove to the bank
and asked to see the manager. Once closeted with that gentleman in his
private room he drew out the letter and laid it on the desk at which the
manager sat.
‘I don’t quite understand this letter,’ he said. ‘Would you mind
explaining it to me?’
The manager smiled.
‘It seems quite plain, I think,’ he said pleasantly. ‘It means that your
account is overdrawn to the amount of £187, 10s. 0d.’
Lucian sat down and stared at him.
‘Does that mean that I have exhausted all the money I placed in your
hands, and have drawn on you for £187, 10s. 0d. in addition?’ he asked.
‘Precisely, Mr. Damerel,’ answered the manager. ‘Your balance yesterday
morning was about £820, and you drew a cheque in favour of Mr.
Pepperdine for £1000. That, of course, puts you in our debt.’
Lucian stared harder than ever.
‘You’re quite sure there is no mistake?’ he said.
The manager smiled.
‘Quite sure!’ he replied. ‘But surely you have had your pass-book?’
Lucian had dim notions that a small book bound in parchment had upon
occasions been handed to him over the counter of the bank, and on others
had been posted by him to the bank at some clerk’s request; he also
remembered that he had once opened it and found it full of figures, at
the sight of which he had hastily closed it again.
‘I suppose I have,’ he answered.
‘I believe it is in our possession just now,’ said the manager. ‘If you
will excuse me one moment I will fetch it.’
He came back with the pass-book in his hand and offered it to Lucian.
‘It is posted up to date,’ he said.
Lucian took the book and turned its pages over.
‘Yes, but--’ he said. ‘I--do I understand that all the money that has
been paid in to my account here is now spent? You have received
royalties on my behalf from Mr. Robertson and from Mr. Harcourt of the
Athenæum?’
‘You will find them all specified in the pass-book, Mr. Damerel,’ said
the manager. ‘There will, I presume, be further payments to come from
the same sources?’
‘Of course there will be the royalties from Mr. Robertson every
half-year,’ answered Lucian, turning the pages of his pass-book. ‘And
Mr. Harcourt produces my new tragedy at the Athenæum in December.’
‘That,’ said the manager, with a polite bow, ‘is sure to be successful.’
‘But,’ said Lucian, with a childlike candour, ‘what am I to do if you
have no money of mine left? I can’t go on without money.’
The manager laughed.
‘We shall be pleased to allow you an overdraft,’ he said. ‘Give us some
security, or get a friend of stability to act as guarantor for
you--that’s all that’s necessary. I suppose the new tragedy will bring
you a small fortune? You did very well out of your first play, if I
remember rightly.’
‘I can easily procure a guarantor,’ answered Lucian. His thoughts had
immediately flown to Darlington. ‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I think we shall
have a long run--longer, perhaps, than before.’
Then he went away, announcing that he would make the necessary
arrangements. When he had gone, the manager, to satisfy a momentary
curiosity of his own, made a brief inspection of Lucian’s account. He
smiled a little as he totalled it up. Mr. and Mrs. Lucian Damerel had
gone through seventeen thousand pounds in four years, and of that amount
twelve thousand represented capital.
Lucian carried the mystifying pass-book to his club and began to study
the rows of figures. They made his head ache and his eyes burn, and the
only conclusion he came to was that a few thousands of pounds are soon
spent, and that Haidee of late had been pretty prodigal with her
cheques. One fact was absolutely certain: his ten thousand, and her two
thousand, and the five thousand which he had earned, were all gone,
never to return. He felt somewhat depressed at this thought, but
recovered his spirits when he remembered the value of his pictures, his
books, and his other possessions, and the prospects of increased
royalties in the golden days to be. He went off to seek out Darlington
in the city as joyously as if he had been embarking on a voyage to the
Hesperides.
Darlington was somewhat surprised to see Lucian in Lombard Street. He
knew all the details of Lucian’s business within ten minutes, and had
made up his mind within two more.
‘Of course, I’ll do it with pleasure, old chap,’ he said, with great
heartiness. ‘But I think I can suggest something far preferable. These
people don’t seem to have given you any particular advantages, and there
was no need for them to bother you with a letter reminding you that you
owed them a miserable couple of hundred. Look here: you had better open
two accounts with us; one for yourself and one for Mrs. Damerel, and
keep them distinct--after all, you know, women rather mix things up.
Give Robertson and Harcourt instructions to pay your royalties into your
own account here, and pay your household expenses and bills out of it.
Mrs. Damerel’s account won’t be a serious matter--mere pinmoney, you
know--and we can balance it out of yours at periodic intervals. That’s a
much more convenient and far simpler thing than giving the other people
a guarantee for an overdraft.’
‘It seems to be so, certainly,’ said Lucian. ‘Thanks, very many. And
what am I to do in arranging this?’
‘At present,’ answered Darlington, ‘you are to run away as quickly as
possible, for I’m over the ears in work. Come in this afternoon at
three o’clock, and we will settle the whole thing.’
Lucian went out into the crowded streets, light-hearted and joyous as
ever. The slight depression of the morning had worn off; all the world
was gold again. A whim seized him: he would spend the three hours
between twelve and three in wandering about the city--it was an almost
unknown region to him. He had read much of it, but rarely seen it, and
the prospect of an acquaintance with it was alluring. So he wandered
hither and thither, his taste for the antique leading him into many a
quaint old court and quiet alley, and he was fortunate enough to find an
old-fashioned tavern and an old-world waiter, and there he lunched and
enjoyed himself and went back to Darlington’s office in excellent
spirits and ready to do anything.
There was little to do. Lucian left the private banking establishment of
Darlington and Darlington a few minutes after he had entered it, and he
then carried with him two cheque-books, one for himself and one for
Haidee, and a request that Mrs. Damerel should call at the office and
append her signature to the book wherein the autographs of customers
were preserved. He went home and found Haidee just returned from
lunching with Lady Firmanence: Lucian conducted her into his study with
some importance.
‘Look here, Haidee,’ he said, ‘I’ve been making some new business
arrangements. We’re going to bank at Darlington’s in future--it’s much
the wiser plan; and you are to have a separate account. That’s your
cheque-book. I say--we’ve rather gone it lately, you know. Don’t you
think we might economise a little?’
Haidee stared, grew perplexed, and frowned.
‘I think I’m awfully careful,’ she said. ‘If you think----’
Lucian saw signs of trouble and hastened to dispel them.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I know, of course, that you are. We’ve
had such a lot of absolutely necessary expense, haven’t we? Well,
there’s your cheque-book, and the account is your own, you know.’
Haidee asked no questions, and carried the cheque-book away. When she
had gone, Lucian wrote out a cheque for £187, 10s. and forwarded it to
his former bankers, with a covering letter in which he explained that it
was intended to balance his account and that he wished to close the
latter. That done, he put all thoughts of money out of his mind with a
mighty sigh of relief. In his own opinion he had accomplished a hard
day’s work and acquitted himself with great credit. Everything, he
thought, had been quite simple, quite easy. And in thinking so he was
right--nothing simpler, nothing easier, could be imagined than the
operation which had put Lucian and Haidee in funds once more. It had
simply consisted of a brief order, given by Eustace Darlington to his
manager, to the effect that all cheques bearing the signatures of Mr.
and Mrs. Damerel were to be honoured on presentation, and that there was
to be no limit to their credit.