"Hullo! Markworth. How lucky! Why you are just the man I want; you're
ubiquitous, who'd have thought of seeing you in town?" said Tom
Hartshorne, of the --th Dragoons, cheerily, as he sauntered late one
summer afternoon into a private billiard-room in Oxford-street, where a
tall, dark-complexioned, and strikingly-handsome man, was knocking the
balls about in his shirt-sleeves, and trying all sorts of fancy shots
against the cushions--The sole occupant of the room was he, with the
exception of the marker, who was looking on in a desultory sort of way
at the strokes of the player from his thronelike chair underneath the
scoring board.
"Hullo! Tom, by all that's holy! And what brings you to Babylon? I
left Boulogne last week, and ran up to see what the `boys' were after;
so here I am, quite at your service. What can I do for you, Tom? Are
you hard up, in a row, or run away with your neighbour's wife? Unbosom
yourself, _caro mio_."
"No, I'm all right, old chap; but nothing could be better. By Jove!
it's the very thing!"
"Who? Why? What? Enlighten me, Tom."
"Well, you see, Markworth, I've got to go down to-morrow for my annual
week to my mother's place in Sussex. It will be so awfully slow; just
fancy, old chap, a whole week in that dreary old country house, with no
company, no shooting, no fishing, no anything! Why, it's enough to kill
a fellow!"
"Poor Tom," observed Markworth, sympathisingly.
"Yes; but that's not the worst either, old chap. My mother is very
cranky, you know, and the house itself is as dull as ditch-water. You
have to go to bed and get up by clockwork; and if one should be late at
dinner, or in turning in, why, it is thought more of by the ruling
powers than the worst sin in the decalogue. Besides, I have to keep
straight and humour the old lady--for I am quite dependent on her until
I come of age; and, though she's very fond of me in her sort of way, she
cuts up rough sometimes, and would stop supplies in a moment if I should
offend her."
"Dutiful infant! I pity your sorrows, Tom; but what can I do to help
you?"
"I'm just coming to that; but we may as well have a game by the way,
while we're talking."
"Certainly; how many points shall I give you? The usual number, eh?
Score up, fifteen to spot, marker," he said, turning to the little man,
who, with a face of dull impassiveness, was sitting bolt upright, like
Neptune with his trident, holding the billiard-rest in a perpendicular
position, apparently hearing nothing, although his eyes twinkled every
now and then. "You lead, Tom, of course."
"All right, here goes; but, to return to what we were speaking about.
You can help me very much, Markworth."
"Can I? That's a good cannon, you mustn't play all through like that,
Tom, or you'll beat me easily; but, go on, and tell me what you want."
"Ha! yes--you see I've got one saving clause in my predicament. My
mother says I may bring some one down with me, and I don't know who the
deuce to take--for any of our fellows would ruin me in half a day with
the old lady, by talking slang, or flirting with the maids, or something
else."
"And you want me to go and victimise myself for a week? Much obliged,
I'm sure."
"Nonsense, Markworth. By Jove! that's a ripping hazard in the middle
pocket; you've got the red in baulk, too, and the game's all in your
hands. You are really the only fellow I'd ask, and it would be a
perfect godsend to have you. It won't be so dull for the two of us
together, and I'm sure you'll be able to pull me out of many a scrape
with the old lady, for she's just your sort, and you can tackle her like
one o'clock; only talk to her about the `Ologies' old country families,
and the peerage, and you'll be all right. She never speaks of anything
else. Besides, there's a Miss Kingscott down there--a governess, or
companion, or something of the sort to my sister--whom I've never yet
seen, as she only came there this year. I daresay you can make love to
her."
"Thank you, especially after the warning about the maids!"
"But you'll come, won't you?"
"I can't promise, Tom. There, that stroke ends the game; let's finish
billiards: they're too slow. What are you going to do to-night, Tom?"
"A lot of us are going to have a quiet little dinner party at Lane's.
The old colonel has been awfully jolly, and let away nearly the whole
squad on leave together. Will you come? There'll be Harrowby, Miles--
in fact all the boys. We'll have lansquenette afterwards, and then you
and I can talk over about running down to the country. Do come, there's
a good fellow."
"Well, I will; what time do you dine?"
"Sharp seven; so don't be late."
"I'll be there. Ta-ta, now, for I've got a lot of letters to write.
I'm stopping at the `Tavistock' by the way, in case I don't turn up and
you want to find me."
They had emerged from the billiard-room, and now stood in the street.
"But you must come, I shall expect you and will take no excuse. I'm
going to call on some jolly girls whom I met at the Woolwich hop last
night. So good-bye till seven--sharp, mind!"
"All right," answered the other, as Tom Hartshorne hailed a hansom, and
was quickly whirled off to his destination in Bruton Street, where the
Miss Inskips, two pretty and fast young ladies of the period, dwelt with
their mamma, a widowed dame.
Allynne Markworth was not so much a type, as a specimen, of a curious
class of men constantly to be met with in London society, and of whom
society knows next to nothing. No one knew where he came from, who were
his progenitors, or what he did; and yet he suffered in no respect from
this self-same ignorance of the world around him, in which he lived and
moved and had his being, as any other of its more regular units.
He always dressed well, lived well, and seemed to have a fair share of
the loaves and fishes which Providence often so unequally bestows.
Having the _entree_ of good houses, he knew "everybody," and everybody
knew him; but if you asked any of the men who knew him, and were
constantly meeting him about, who Markworth was, the general answer you
would get would be, "'Pon my soul, I don't know." Perhaps Tom
Hartshorne knew more about him and was more intimate with him than
anyone else, but even he had long ceased to puzzle his budding brains
over any analysis of his friend: he was a "good fellow," and "a clever
fellow, by Jove," and that was enough for him. Tom, however, never
dreamt of calling Markworth by his Christian name, and no one else could
have approached that phase of intimacy.
To tell the truth Allynne Markworth lived by his wits. He was a
_Chevalier d'Industrie_ in a certain sense of the term, although in a
slightly more moral degree; and ran the race set before him by preying
on the weaknesses, follies, and ignorances of human nature in the
abstract, as evinced amongst his fellows in the concrete.
He was a good billiard player, and knew as well when to hide his play as
"any other man." Many a stray sovereign did he pick up in lives after
pool at Phillipps', even when he could not get a bet on, which he was
never loth to take. The Hanover Square Club acknowledged his supremacy
at whist, and happy was he who was his partner when guinea points were
the rule. Being a good judge of horseflesh, he of course kept a book on
the principal events of the year: rare in "hedging" he was seldom known
to come out a loser.
With all these little strings to his bow, it is no wonder that Markworth
managed to get along pretty comfortably; and although he toiled not nor
yet did he spin, I much question whether King Solomon if clad _en regle_
to the nineteenth century would have been better dressed, taking Poole
as a criterion. Add to this that Allynne Markworth was a well-bred,
handsome man of thirty to thirty-five--although his right age would have
been rather hard to discover--and had a certain plausibility of manner
which prevented one at first from noticing the somewhat sinister
expression about his eyes and mouth; and the surprising thing would have
been that he did _not_ get on. Generally he had plenty of money; and
when he had not he absented himself from society until his coffers were
replenished in some secret way or other.
At this time, however, he had been for some months undergoing a run of
ill-luck. The year had opened badly by the failure of a bubble company
in which he was deeply interested; then, again, men were fighting shy of
him at billiards, and it cost him more work for a sovereign than it was
worth, and guinea points at whist were becoming rare events even amongst
the most reckless _habitues_ of the club; to climax his misfortunes, he
had made a very losing book on the Derby, and although he paid it up--
for to be a defaulter would have ruined him in his set--he had to leave
London early in the season in consequence of not having the wherewithal
to prosecute the war.
When he had gone away at the end of May he told Tom Hartshorne that he
would be detained away on the continent on business for months; and yet
here he was back again before the end of July. The fact was he came
back money-hunting, and was so pressed now that he hardly knew where to
turn. He had made up his mind that unless he married a fortune,
discovered a gold mine, or tumbled into some wonderful luck, that his
"little game," as he expressed it, would be "all up." He was glad to
meet Tom Hartshorne so very opportunely at the present juncture, for he
thought that he might be put in the way of some plan for changing
events--and at the worst a little good card playing in the evening might
place him in the position of being able "to look about him."
Punctually at seven o'clock he showed himself up at Lane's Hotel, where
some half-a-dozen men of Tom's regiment were assembled in a cosy little
room up-stairs, well lighted, and with snow-white-cloth-covered-table,
all duly prepared and laid out for the contemplated feast.
Dragoon officers or "Plungers"--indeed, all cavalry men--are pretty much
alike, and unlike the remainder of the Army List. The mild, "gushing"
comet, dashing "sub," and massive captain, full-fledged and silky as to
hair and drooping moustache--not forgetting general apathy of
expression--of one troop, or regiment, resemble those of another, even
as the proverbial "two peas," and it would sorely tax one's powers of
diagnosis to discriminate between the members of a party like those
assembled for the present "quiet little dinner, you know."
Tom Hartshorne--no one who ever spoke two words with him could call him
anything else but "Tom"--was the only exception to this rule; the others
were all men of a class, "classy," without any distinctive
individuality. He, however, was of a different stamp. Of
middle-height, thick-set, fair-haired, and open face--Saxon all over--
his was the native mould, thorough British metal, that makes our strong
and plucky athletes of the Isis and the Cam, who struggle each year for
aquatic supremacy, like the strong _Gyas fortisque Cloanthus_ of
Virgil's Aenead--that long line of heroes celebrated for every deed of
daring, from Richard the "Lion-hearted" down to the last gallant
recipient of the Victoria Cross: men of which stamp, thank God, live yet
among us!
A thorough gentleman, his nature was as open as the day, which you could
readily see for yourself by one glance into his truthful face, and clear
blue eyes, although perhaps concealed partly by that slight upper-crust
or veneer of egotism and affectation, which generally hides the better
qualities of young men on first entering into life, and just released
from their "mother's apron string" and the trammels of home and school.
Tom Hartshorne was little more than nineteen, and it was a wonder, with
his bringing up, that he was what he was; but nothing could altogether
taint the sterling stuff of which he was composed. He was one who could
pass through the lighter follies of military life unscathed, and only
wanted some strong impetus, some ardent motive to bring him out in his
true colours. Tom Hartshorne had made the acquaintance of Markworth
about a year previous to the meeting with which the story opens--in fact
just after he had been gazetted to his cornetcy, and had taken to him at
once--and Markworth had apparently taken to him, a sort of chemical
affinity of opposing forces.
It may be thought strange that natures so dissimilar should agree, but
so it was. The Latin proverb is often curiously wrong; instead of
_similes similibus curantur_, the prefix _dis_ should be added, and then
the axiom would be complete. When Tom first met Markworth, who had
received an invitation to the mess of the --th, he was struck with him,
and on introduction came to like him greatly, for he was so clever, so
agreeable, so different to the men he had previously met that he could
not fail to be impressed; you always find young men take to a man of the
world, particularly if he be like such a man as Markworth was.
The little dinner at Lane's passed off well, and the young Plungers
enjoyed themselves to their heart's core, now that they were not under
the jaundiced eye of their stern major, who envied them all their strong
digestions and perfect livers; and, it is to be feared, they drank a
little more champagne than was good for some of them. At the table
Markworth was placed alongside a brother sub of Tom's, who was most
communicative over his wine, talking in a low confidential voice with
his elder companion, whom he wished to convince of his "mannishness," of
horses, dogs, and women, as befitted a noble young soldier.
During a pause in the conversation Markworth thought he might gain some
information, and having an opportunity of putting in a word, asked--
"By the way, do you know any of Tom's people?"
"Know them? By Jove! yes. Catch me there again, that's all!"
"Why--how--what's the matter?" asked Markworth. "I thought everybody
liked Tom?"
"So they do; he's a brick. But Tom ain't his mother and his sister."
"Certainly not," answered the other, agreeing with the indisputable
fact; "but what of them?"
"Well, the fact is Tom asked me down there last Christmas, and I never
spent such a time in my life. They are very well connected, but see no
people at all. The mother is a regular Tartar. There is also a sort of
half idiot sister older than Tom. She has a pile of money left her, by
the way; not a bad chance for any one in search of an heiress, who
doesn't care about beauty and brains, and that sort of thing!"
"The devil she has?"
"Yes, by Jove! a regular pot of money; twenty thou' or more, I'm told.
There's no elder son and nobody else, so Tom will inherit all the
property when the old lady hooks it. There you have the family. I
stopped with them two days, but it nearly killed me. Men of the world
like us, you know, can't stand that sort of thing. Of course I had to
plead regimental business, and get away. I remember the old lady--a
regular she cat by Jove!--saying that she hoped my mamma--curse her
impudence--would teach me better manners before she let me go out again.
Did you ever hear of such a thing?"
"Ha! ha! ha! a pleasant old lady, Harrowby; I do not wonder at your
dignity being hurt. I must look out for her if I ever tackle her."
"What, are you thinking of going down? Take my advice, don't: you'll be
sick of it."
"Yes, I may. Tom asked me, and perhaps I'll see some fan," responded
Markworth--and there the conversation dropped.
Later on, when he wished Tom Hartshorne "good-night," in reply to his
repeated invitation, he promised to go.
"And we'll start on Friday," said Tom, gleefully; "that will be the day
after to-morrow, you know."
"All right, I'm your man. Call for me at the `Tavistock' at twelve, and
we can start as soon after as you like."
"Done. That will just give us time to catch the 2:30 train.
Good-night, old fellow!"
And they parted.
The next morning Mr Allynne Markworth took a solitary walk citywards.
After passing through Temple Bar and the then--undesolated--Fleet
Street, he ascended the hill of Ludgate; and turning into a thin row of
straggling and seedy old buildings, found himself within the precincts
of Doctor's Commons, sacred to the archives of marriage--one cannot
always say love--and death!
Here, having previously invested the sum of one shilling in current coin
of the realm, he received permission to examine the "Last will and
testament of one Roger Hartshorne, deceased, of the county of Sussex,
gentleman," the perusal of which document appeared to give him much
internal satisfaction. His task did not take him long, and he was soon
retracing his steps.
On the day after he went down to Sussex, as agreed, with Tom Hartshorne.
Volume 1, Chapter II.