'Look here. Of course I know you're only bluffing me, but I don't wish

to make myself disagreeable. You give me those papers you've been

talking about and my capital, and five per cent, interest, and you

shall have the bill.'

'Mr. Fraser----'

'I wish you wouldn't call me by that name. What's the good of it?'

'I'll tell you what I might be persuaded to do. You give me that bill,

and your word of honour that you will contradict any libellous stories

you may hear reflecting on the genuineness of my father's signature,

and so long as you refrain your own tongue from indiscretion I may

keep still.'

'And I'm to lose my money?'

'And save your life.'

'Don't talk silly nonsense. I'm not going to let you rob me with my

eyes open. Now I'll tell you what I'll do. You give me thirty thousand

pounds.'

'Mr. Fraser, if you don't hand over that bill in sixty seconds I ring

the bell. If I ring again, you pass into the hands of the police and

the law must take its course.'

'Give you the bill? You don't suppose I've got it on me?'

I stood with my watch in hand. 'Fifteen seconds.'

'My lord, you've had my money--you can't deny you've had my money! And

you've had it all these years! A great gentleman like you don't want

to rob a man like me!

'Thirty seconds.'

'My lord, listen to reason! I'm a poor man! I really am! I've had the

most frightful losses! I've had to do with a lot of thieves!'

'Forty-five seconds.'

'Have mercy, my lord, have mercy! Make it half the money! Say ten

thousand! Call it five! You don't want to leave me without a penny, my

lord!'

'Sixty seconds. What they call the Birmingham Mystery will now be

solved.'

'My lord, don't ring that bell.'

He caught me by the arm.

'Remove your arm.'

'You shall have the bill.'

'Give it me.'

He began to fumble with a pocket-book. 'My lord, I do ask you to

listen to reason! I'm sure you don't want----'

'If you say another word I ring.'

He handed me a slip of blue paper. It was a bill, dated some sixteen

years back, promising to pay thirty thousand pounds three months after

date. It was signed 'Sherrington.' An endorsement was scrawled across

it--'Twickenham.' That endorsement was the little accident which had

sent my double to San Francisco.

When I had gathered the purport of the document I looked at Mr.

Acrodato. Murder was in his eyes.

'What are you going to give me for it?'

'Your life.'

'You cursed thief?'

I didn't like the words, nor the way in which he said them. There are

occasions on which the devil enters into me. That was one.

I was a much smaller man than he, but I have physical strength

altogether beyond what the average stranger suspects, and a curious

mastery of what we will call certain tricks.

On a sudden I took him by the throat, beneath his beard, and with a

twist which I have reason to know almost broke his neck, I jerked him

back upon a chair. Driving his head against the back of it, I all but

choked the life right out of him. It was only when I felt it slipping

through my fingers that I thought it time to stop.

'Mr. Fraser, I'm afraid that one day I shall have to kill you. I've a

mind to do it now; only it would be difficult to explain your corpse.'

I never saw a man cut a more ludicrous figure. The pain he had

had to bear was no small thing. I shouldn't be surprised if for days

his neck was conscious of the twist I had given it. But his amazement

eclipsed his suffering. Not until that moment had he realised what a

change had taken place in his lordship's character, and in his

lordship's methods. For some seconds he gasped for breath--as was only

natural. When he shambled to his feet he shrank from me like some

panic-stricken, half-witted fool. While he was still staring at me, as

if I had been some uncanny thing, the door opened and Mr. Smith came

in.

'Surely it is Douglas Howarth! My dear Douglas, I am very glad to see

you. This is Mr. Acrodato. He tells me that some injurious reports

have been current with reference to a bill which my father backed at

my request. Here is the bill. He has undertaken, in future, to give

any such reports which may reach his ears the fullest contradiction.

Mr. Acrodato, you may go.'

He went--and, I believe, was glad to go, even though he left both his

bill and his money behind him.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE SCALES OF JUSTICE

I turned to Mr. John Smith--I should say to my old friend Douglas

Howarth; who had been staring from me to Mr. Acrodato, and from Mr.

Acrodato back to me, apparently wholly at a loss to understand the

situation. Funny how opaque some men can be.

'Conscience,' says the bard, 'makes cowards of us all.' The Prince of

Denmark wasn't quite so right as he supposed; but it had certainly

succeeded in making, in a marvellously short space of time, a wreck of

my dear old friend. Even the inexperienced eye could not fail to

perceive that he had aged both morally and mentally. I was willing to

bet a trifle that instead of scoring off the little game he had tried

to play, he had passed from the prime of life to old age in the course

of a single deal. He wasn't half the man who had called himself John

Smith. He had acquired a new stoop; and that stoop was typical of all

he had acquired. As he stared at me with astonished eyes it was clear

that he had not so much control over his nerves as he would have liked

to have had.

'As I just observed, I am glad to see you, my dear Douglas. My

relatives and friends have not flocked round me as I had hoped they

would. Am I to take it that this is a case of better late than never?'

'How did you get out?'

'How did I get out? Of what?'

'How did you get out of the coffin?'

'Out of----? My dear Douglas, aren't you well? Is that the explanation

of your laggard step?'

'You are Babbacombe!'

I shrugged my shoulders.

'So that bee's in your bonnet. Very well, I am Babbacombe. I've been

told it before; but no one has told me who Babbacombe is.'

'Don't--don't play any more tricks with me. Can't you see I've been

nearly driven mad? Tell me; aren't you that--that devil?'

'Douglas, I have learned, to my pain, that you have lately not cut a

very pretty figure. I am willing to excuse you on the charitable

supposition that, as you say, you have been nearly driven mad. But do

not let your madness go too far. Show some method in it, Douglas. Is

it money you're in want of? If so, I've plenty, and am quite content

that there should be some of it for you. What's the figure, man.'

'The figure?'

He looked as if his wits were wool-gathering. Going to a sideboard I

poured out some brandy into a glass.

'Come, Douglas, swallow this. A pick-me-up may do you good. It strikes

me that you ought to be in bed rather than abroad.'

He took the glass of brandy with a hand which trembled.

'It's a day of miracles.'

'Have you only just found that out? Surely you and I have reached an

age at which we ought to know that wherever we turn, a miracle stares

us in the face. What's the matter with you, my dear old chap?'

'Are you--are you Babbacombe?'

'My dear Douglas, I'm any one you please. Come, drink your brandy.' He

took a sip; then put the glass on the table? 'Now tell me, what's the

trouble? Is it money? If so, consider that I'm your banker and draw on

me.'

Although I fancy that the sip he had taken had done him good, it

still was sufficiently clear that the situation was beyond his

comprehension; at which, on the whole, I wasn't surprised.

'Either, Leonard, you're a very remarkable actor, or you're a very

remarkable man.'

'If you like we'll grant both hypotheses. And now may I ask you what

you mean?'

'Should you desire it, I am quite willing to ignore the fact that I

ever knew you as--anybody else, but I shouldn't like you to suppose

that I'm an utter fool.'

'Howarth, you oblige me to adopt a tone with you for which I have no

relish. Your words and manner convey an insinuation which I must ask

you to explain. What am I to understand by what you have just now

said?'

'Tell me, honestly. Have you not been masquerading as Montagu

Babbacombe?'

'I have not. Nor, until I returned to the bosom of my family, was I

aware that there was such a person in existence. Now tell me, in your

turn, why are you so anxious to confound me with the gentleman in

question?'

'If you never have assumed the name of Montagu Babbacombe, I beg your

pardon.'

'In what dirty waters have you been paddling together? I was a pretty

warm member when I was younger; I didn't expect to find you had

become, with advancing years, the sort of man you apparently are. You

have been attempting to do me out of my birthright; and now, as far as

I understand, you are trying to do me out of my identity, too.'

He put both hands up to his head, as if it ached.

'I'm doing nothing of the kind; I only repeat that this is an age of

miracles. When you meet Mr. Babbacombe--if you ever have so much good

fortune'--his words had an ironical intonation which I couldn't but

notice--'you'll understand the sense in which I use the words.'

'Douglas, what was there between this man and you?'

'I'll tell you. It will be at any rate a comfort to tell some one.'

He did tell me--the story with which I was even better acquainted than

he was. The course of action which I should have to pursue loomed

clearer and clearer as his tale proceeded. If I wished to stifle any

remaining doubts which he might have, I should have to make an example

of Mr. Howarth. Which I promptly proceeded to do.

I waited till he had reached the end of his pleasant little narrative,

and then I let him have it. I fancy that the confession, which was

good for his soul, was not received quite in the way he anticipated.

In matters of this kind the world is full of disappointments. When it

comes to confessing our sins, so few of us receive just the treatment

we consider ourselves entitled to expect.

'Howarth, your attitude presents a curious psychological study. You

tell your--I will flatter you by calling it amazing--story to me, as

if you had been the sufferer. On the same line of reasoning the man

who, having cut his father's throat, finds himself deserted by the

wretched creature whom he has incited to assist him in his crime may

pose as an injured martyr. Shall I inform you what I think? That you

are a skulking thief and a cowardly scoundrel--that most pestilent

type of blackguard whose one end and aim is to shift the onus of his

own filthy deeds on to another's shoulders.'

He started; as if plain speaking was as unexpected as it was

unwelcome. But I was only just beginning.

'According to your own statement you bribe a miserable mountebank to

play a part in so hideous a fraud that I am conscious of a sensation

of nausea when I think of it; and when with horrible fidelity the

wretch has played his part, what do you do? Do you play your part?

Lord, no! You're not that kind of man. Your one anxiety is to save

your own leprous skin--double-dyed cur and coward that you are. He at

least has trusted you; so you reward his faith by subjecting him to

the most terrible death the mind can contemplate--you bury him alive.

You have not even the courage of the common murderer. You crucify

yourself for your own crime. See what a pallid, shrinking, stammering

wretch you have become! Out! out! out! before I soil my hands by

taking you by the throat, and throwing you into the street.'

Mr. Smith didn't seem as if he was enjoying himself. As I came towards

him he seemed to shrink into a smaller and smaller compass, as if I

were an avenging spirit before whose anger he had perforce to dwindle

into nothing. I was wondering if I should play the farce right

through, and really deposit him in the gutter, when the advent of two

new-comers created a diversion. They were my affectionate brother,

Lord Reginald Sherrington, and a rather incongruous companion, in the

shape of Mr. Augustus FitzHoward. Fitz kept a little in the rear--as

if not altogether at his ease as to the sort of reception he might

receive; but the mere fact of his presence was proof enough that if I

wished to keep myself free from such intrusions in the future, mercy

was a quality against which, for the present at any rate, my heart

must be steeled. This was a case when the downfall of vice must be

carried to its legitimate conclusion.

So I gave Reggie the benefit of some candid criticisms on Mr. Smith.

'Reggie, you come at a convenient moment. You afford me an opportunity

of closing, once for all, an incident of which I never wish to hear

again. You see this nameless thing--this libel on our common manhood,

whom, I am ashamed to reflect, I once regarded as my friend? With what

sort of tale do you suppose he has been regaling me? He tells me that

by the promise of a payment of one thousand pounds, he suborned some

hard-driven wretch, who bore some real or imagined resemblance to

myself, and induced him to feign death. Think of it! He persuaded

the creature to simulate the greatest of all the mysteries, and to

pretend to pass into the valley of the shadows. And when he lay in a

coffin--actually in a coffin--think of it, ye gods!--waiting for

this--this thing, to fulfil his part of the bargain, and release him,

Mr. Howarth, deeming discretion to be the better part of honour,

caused him to be fastened in his prison house and buried alive. What

judgment would you pronounce upon so unique a gentleman?'

'Is this true?'

'Ask him. I tell you the story as I had it just now from his own

lips.'

'Douglas, is this true?'

Mr. Smith put his fingers inside his shirt collar, as if its tightness

worried him. It was some seconds before he spoke. Then it was in tones

which were curiously unlike his own.

'Yes, it's true--all true.'

'And you are not Montagu Babbacombe?'

This was Reggie to me.

'You ask me that, knowing that Babbacombe was the name of the wretch

who was his accomplice in the fraud of which you have just now

heard--is that so?'

'It's a question of resemblance.'

'Are you asking me if I'm the wretch in question? Answer!'

'When you put it that way it seems impossible; I recognise that. But

if you had seen his photograph----'

'Reggie, stop. I'll speak to you when we're alone. I have not your

capacity for forgetting that we are brothers.' I turned to Fitz. 'The

other day, sir, I presented you with the key of the street. Why are

you here again?'

Reggie answered.

'He came with me.'

'Allow the man to speak for himself. Why are you here?'

Straightway Fitz began to fidget; and, also, to stammer.

'The plain truth is, sir, I mean, my lord, that the likeness is so

striking that----'

'Well?'

For Fitz had stopped. When he continued he went off at a tangent----

'Of course I wasn't acquainted with what I've just now heard, or I

should have known that your lordship couldn't possibly be the--the man

I thought you were. But at the same time----'

'Well?'

For Fitz had stopped again.

'The fact is, my lord, I've become liable for Mr. Babbacombe in

certain directions, and his disappearance puts me in a hole.'

'Well?'

'He went home to his wife the other day----'

'His wife?'

'Yes, my lord, his wife; without saying where he had come from, or

where he was going to, or without mentioning a word about the

liabilities I had entered into on his behalf. So I--I--I----'

Fitz stopped short in a stutterer's quagmire. I perceived that next

time Mr. Merrett went home, Mr. FitzHoward's difficulties would have

to be attended to.

'Well? Continue, sir, if you please.'

'My lord, after what has transpired all that remains for me to do is

to apologise to your lordship for my intrusion, and to assure your

lordship that it shan't occur again. So, begging your lordship's

pardon, I wish you, my lord, good day.'

Fitz withdrew. I wondered what would be his mental condition when he

found himself in the street. I rang the bell, pointing, when a footman

appeared, to Mr. Smith, who sat crumpled up on a chair, as if his

backbone was broken.

'Throw that thing into the street.'

As I had expected, Reggie interposed with an air of shocked surprise.

'Twickenham!' He moved towards his invertebrate friend. 'Come,

Douglas, let me give you my arm.'

I struck in.

'Reggie, if you allow that man to touch you, you will go with him out

of this house, and I will never speak to you again. More! By to-morrow

morning he shall be standing in a felon's dock.' I fancy it was

because, in spite of himself, my dear brother was influenced by what

he saw upon my face, that he refrained from pressing on the other his

friendly offices. I turned again to the footman. 'Do you hear what I

say? Throw that thing into the street.'

Mr. Smith saved himself from that crowning humiliation--the pressing

persuasion of a servant's hand. He got upon his feet.

'I can take myself away.'

He did. As he shuffled towards the door I pushed his shoulder, so that

he stumbled into the footman's arms. As he cast a backward glance at

me I was reminded of a humorous picture I had seen somewhere,

representing St. Peter hurling a lost soul through the gates of

Paradise. One could not but feel that the Hon. Douglas Howarth had

brought his wares to an uncommonly bad market. Reggie moved as if to

offer him assistance; but I stood in his way so that he could not

pass.

When we were alone I endeavoured to explain to Reggie what was the

kind of brother with whom Providence had blessed him.

'There are men who are content to let their brothers live as long as

they conveniently can. You belong to the other class. Foster informs

me that for years you have been assuring him that the time had really

come for you to pick my bones. I can understand your disappointment at

finding that, after assisting at my death and burial, I still persist

in remaining alive. But I beg you, for your own sake, not to allow

your disappointment to carry you too far. For I assure you that if it

comes to my knowledge that you ever again attempt, by word, look, or

sign, to associate me with the accomplice of that scoundrel's

villainy, although I am your brother, I will chastise you physically,

and I will take steps to publicly brand you as the blackguard I shall

know you are.'

'Your threats are unnecessary. You speak as if I were to blame for

what has happened. I deny it wholly.'

'Explain yourself--with care.'

'Look at the way in which you have treated me, You had no right to

leave me for fifteen years in ignorance of whether you were dead or

alive.'

'Is that your reason for confounding me with this man Babbacombe?'

'The man's your living image.'

'Is that your reason?'

'I say it is a reason; if you saw the man yourself, you'd know it was

a reason.'

'I begin to perceive your point. You were of opinion that I could be

that sort of man; an accidental resemblance convinced you that I was.

I am obliged to you. I will instruct Foster to see that a sum of five

thousand pounds is paid to you annually, and Gayer that you are not to

enter this house again. I shall refuse to acknowledge you when we

meet; nor will I stay in any room in which you are. Now go.'

'I am sorry that you should take this tone. If I have done you an

injustice it has been unintentionally.'

'Go.'

'I am going. I only wished to apologise to you before I went. That's

all.'

And my affectionate brother followed his friends.

CHAPTER XXVII

A WHIPPING BOY

I had won all along the line. But I wasn't exhilarated. Fighting's fun;

and in a certain kind of row I'm happiest. I can lay my hand on my

heart and say I believe that I was born a fighting man. A forlorn hope

and a smile to my mind go together. And it's when I'm facing fearful

odds, not for the ashes of my fathers and the temples of my gods, but

for amusement only, that I'm surest I'm alive.

Yet when those gentlemen retired one after the other, leaving me in

possession of the field, I couldn't have bet sixpence that a glass of

brandy wouldn't have acted as a pick-me-up. And when a man's reduced

to alcoholic bracers there's something ails him somewhere.

The scrap with Acrodato was good business, and the capture of his

lordship's pen-slip was an unmitigated joy. Bluff; all bluff. An apt

example of how conscience can knock out the toughest subjects. I had

had reason to suspect the worst in that business down at Birmingham,

but I had never got beyond suspicion. The accessories were

invention--pure invention. If he had compelled me to produce that

statement, or the other trifles of which I had so boldly boasted, I

should have had to plead that a thief had broken in to steal; or that

they had got themselves mislaid.

Therefore the capture of that bill was a pure delight.

What worried me was the character of the man whose shoes I occupied.

In San Francisco I realised that he was trash, but only in the halls

of his fathers did it come home to me what trash he was. He couldn't

have been long in the world when he concluded to travel, but he had

been long enough to make his name, even after the lapse of fifteen

years, stink in men's nostrils. Yes; and women's. It was hard that

that man's reputation should be mine. It was because he was that kind

of man that people--including my own brother--were so ready to

conclude that I was Mr. Babbacombe--perceiving that the trick he had

played was quite in keeping with his lordship's character. Figuring as

the Marquis of Twickenham wasn't the soft snap I had hoped.

I felt that there wasn't a man or woman in the house, from old Gayer

downward, who didn't despise me; who couldn't tell some pretty tale to

my discredit. Foster regarded me as a mixture of clumsy rogue and

cowardly fool. When I gave him to understand that that was not a point

of view which I appreciated, although he gave no outward and visible

smile, I knew that at the bottom of his heart he smiled. I could have

kicked the man. But then if I had once started I should have had to

kick so many.

As the days went on the Twickenham romance was in all the papers. Some

of them made it quite a feature. I wished to goodness they wouldn't.

They showed how the Marquis had returned--after his family had

supposed that he was dead, and had actually buried some one else

instead of him. I'm not thin-skinned, but some of their comments made

me squirm. The Head of the House of Twickenham could not occupy his

proper place in the public eye, while the papers were suffered to

print such things of him.

One morning I took a bundle of them down to Foster.

'Have you seen these papers?' I inquired.

'I've seen some of them.'

'Isn't it nice reading?'

'If I were your lordship I should pay no attention to what appears in

the public prints.'

'Not when they leave me without a shred of character?'

'Your lordship's return is still a novelty. They may continue to make

copy of it for a time. Presently they will cease to speak of you at

all.'

'You have a pleasant way of putting things! Then, until they do choose

to treat me with silent contempt, I'm to allow them to say that I

cheat at cards, that I don't pay my debts, that I'm an evil liver of

the lowest type, and, in fact, an all-round beast and blackguard.'

Foster eyed me with a curiosity which was distinctly the reverse of

flattering.

'Your lordship will permit me to speak with that frankness which alone

can be of service?'

'My good man, be as frank as you choose.'

'Your lordship has surely not forgotten that there were incidents in

your youthful career which did not redound to the credit of your

character.'

'But when it comes to stating that I was kicked--literally

kicked!--down the steps of a club for cheating at cards!'

'It is not a savoury subject, but is that not what happened? I am not

aware that your lordship offered any contradiction at the time,

although a signed statement of what occurred was posted on the notice

board of the club in question. If your lordship will take my very

serious advice, you will endeavour to live down the recollection of

these things, and not, by legal or other action, drag them into the

public eye.'

How I writhed when I left my counsellor's presence. This was indeed to

be a whipping boy. Also this was the result of not being a student of

the British peerage. If I had known what kind of an ornament to it his

lordship really was, I rather fancy the Marquis would have stayed

away. That I am a sinner, the saints know well. I'll not say that I'd

be aught else if I had the choice. But this man appeared to have

committed all the sins for which I've no stomach. He was, before all

else, an unmanly man. Nothing mean, it seemed, he had left undone. In

none of his misdoings had he shown a spark of courage. Nor, so far as

I could learn, had he once remained to face the music. He had lied and

cheated, in all sorts of dirty fashions, blubbered and run away.

That was a nice character for a man who ever from his youth upward had

been a fighter to find himself possessed of. I did wish he had been a

sinner on some other lines. There are offences which a man, having

committed, may, as Foster suggested, live down. But none of them

seemed to have come his lordship's way. He had done the unforgivable,

and unforgettable, things--the things whose memory load a man with

ignominy long after he has rotted in his grave. One might as well talk

of flying as of living them down. Even though he attained to the years

of Methuselah, to the last hour of his life he'd be a pariah. Perhaps,

after all, his lordship had done the wisest thing in going away. It

was I who had been a fool in coming back.

The Marquis of Twickenham was a frost. The accidents of his position

only made that fact the more notorious. Though he had a million in

ready money, so huge a rent roll, lands and houses, decent folks would

have none of him. It was not necessary for me to have become such a

mangy knave if I desired to hobnob with the other sort. Not a

clean-smelling soul came near. But I had visits from various

representatives of the scum of the earth, who thought, even after

fifteen years, that they had a pull on me. Lord! how I enlightened

them. They all, with one accord, were struck by certain developments

in his lordship's character.

But I hadn't done this thing to convert the riff-raff, nor with any

intention of conveying to their benighted intelligence the elementary

fact that there's no fool like a certain kind of knave. I wasn't

happy.

Better Mary, and the kids, and Little Olive Street, a hundred thousand

times than this. The joke was when Foster, who saw how the shoe

pinched, suggested I should marry. I thanked him kindly, and asked

him, since he had gone so far, if he'd go a little further and name a

lady.

'For instance, have you a daughter of your own?'

'My lord, I remain a bachelor.'

'Then who has a daughter, or a sister, who you think would suit?'

'Undoubtedly there are many such.'

'Of my own degree?'

'There are good women of all degrees.'

'Meaning that the good women of my own degree would probably decline.'

'My lord, if you will allow me to say so, I think you take too

pessimistic a view of your own position. At first I thought your point

of view too optimistic. Now you appear to have gone to the other

extreme.'

'I didn't know then what I know now.'

'I don't understand.'

'Possibly not. You think me too pessimistic. Go on.'

'For one who has lived such a youth as your lordship it seems to me

that one very desirable course is open.'

'Suicide?'

'No, my lord, not suicide.'

'Murder? To be of the slightest service it would have to be on a

wholesale scale.'

'The course I would advise would be a new environment.'

'Meaning?'

'Let the past be past. Treat it as a closed book not to be reopened.

Cut it adrift. And let your lordship seek fresh acquaintances, and

fresh associations.'

'Without, I presume, making any reference to the contents of that

Bluebeard's Chamber, and hoping to goodness that no one else will

either.'

'There are, I am thankful to know, a large number of excellent

people--excellent in every sense--who, whatever your past may have

been, perceiving that it is your present intention to become a worthy

member of society----'

'Who says it is?'

'I am not so dull as not to perceive that such is your intention; and

I do so with the most heart-felt satisfaction.'

'You flatter me.'

'I intend to do no such thing. I say that there are many excellent

people who, recognising your intention, will be content, and proud, to

take you for what you are in the present, and intend in the future to

be.'

'Where are those persons to be found?'

'Wherever men and women are gathered together.'

'Let us come to the concrete. Would you suggest, for instance,

that I should go to a residential hotel at one of our English

watering-places, where sociability is made a feature of the

prospectus, and where respectable mothers are to be found with

respectable daughters?'

'Your lordship might do worse.'

'You think that at a place of the kind no questions would be asked,

and I should be made welcome.'

'I recognise the bitterness of your lordship's humour, but am

convinced that under such circumstances you might find more happiness

than you may be disposed to believe.'

'Suppose they find me out?'

'Let me tell you one thing, old bachelor though I am. If you win a

woman's love she'll forgive you much, especially those things you did

before you knew her. It should not be difficult for your lordship to

win such love as that.'

It was the wisest thing the old gentleman had said. It made me think.

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE GOING: AND THE COMING

I may mention, incidentally, that I had resolved to act on Foster's

advice before he offered it. Only, with a difference. I contemplated

seeking a new environment, in a sense which he had not suggested. The

Marquis of Twickenham was going on another little excursion, which

might endure for another fifteen years, or perhaps for ever.

To be plain, the game was hardly good enough. I was unable, even after

mature consideration, to explain to myself exactly what it was I

proposed to gain by assuming brevet rank, with the attendant

collaterals, but whatever it was I hadn't got it. That was a dead-sure

thing. I hadn't even got the fun of the fair. The joke fell flat.

About the business there wasn't even a flavour of adventure. No spice

at all. I had walked into the house as through my own front door, and

from the first moment no one had said me nay. The excitement wasn't

worth a tinker's curse.

All I had gained was a blackguard's name and his unspeakable

reputation, a property which no decent creature would approach while I

was near, and a shipload of money for which, under existing

circumstances, I had no use whatever. As it happens, my tastes are

simple. I like plain food, well cooked, and sound whisky. Those things

don't cost much. In the matter of personal adornment I'm not taking

anything. I'm not a tailor's block, and as for jewellery, I never wore

even a finger ring or a scarf pin--and never will. I've a respectful

admiration for the gentleman who plasters his money on his person, but

as a general rule I find that I prefer to look at him from the other

side of the room. I like a horse, and I'd always have good cattle. But

riding alone's no fun, and from driving with a groom for constant

company, the Lord preserve us! I've a pretty straight eye along the

barrel of a gun: but who wants to go shooting in one's own society?

I've a taste for the sea, but a yacht with only the crew aboard is

dull o'nights. There's no one round who's fonder of a gamble, but I do

bar sitting down with a job lot of men all with their eyes skinned to

notice when you first begin to cheat.

No; if I was to do these things I'd do them as the Marquis of

Twickenham should, or not at all. I'd be courted: I'd not court. I'd

not descend into the gutter to be hail-fellow-well-met with those to

whom my rank and fortune were everything, and who'd be willing, to my

face--I'd never dare to turn it away for fear of what they'd say

behind my back--to excuse my character on their account. My peers or

nothing; and they, at least, on equal ground. My Lord of Twickenham

was a great man; if he wasn't, he was nothing. As for living things

down, I hadn't the time to spare. I'd be dead before I was a hundred

years older; and, anyhow, it wasn't good enough.

It got borne in on me more and more, as I continued to reside in that

atmosphere of undignified dignity, that there was something that was

good enough, and that was just across the road. Mary and the kids. I

had only seen her that once, and I was starving for another sight. I

wasn't surrounded by trusting friends; and slipping from Twickenham

House to Little Olive Street and back again was a trick which might be

played once too often. If it was, Mary would find me out. And then--

I'd be a Marquis of Twickenham to her. The Lord forbid!

I had thought of a better way. The Marquis of Twickenham had placed

where he knew he'd always be able to find it a nice little sum of

money. I don't want to overload this part with details, so I won't say

just how much. It was enough. The interest would enable Mr. and Mrs.

Merrett to live the rest of their lives in something more than

comfort. Mary would think herself rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

God bless the girl!

The Marquis of Twickenham would just go out one morning, and Mr. James

Merrett would come home. This time for good. He'd announce that he had

had enough of leaving wife and children, and that he had therefore

resolved in future, wherever he went, to take them with him. I guessed

that Mary would be pleased. So Little Olive Street would soon be a

thing of the past, and presently a united family would be found in

quite another quarter.

It was a pretty programme, and I was bent on carrying it out. Foster's

notion of a new environment wasn't bad, but I was vain enough to think

that mine was better. I was going to learn from the best of all

teachers, experience, what being married to the woman you're in love

with really means. I didn't unduly hurry, but I lost no time. I made

all the arrangements I could think of; then I looked at them once or

twice all round, to see that they were made. It seemed to me they

were.

Then one evening his lordship stepped out of Twickenham House into St.

James's Square, bent on taking another excursion of some length. I had

said nothing to any one in the house. The servants did not even know

that I was going out. My goings and comings had nothing to do with

them. My notion was that I would send Foster, say, from Paris, a

letter containing no address. In it I would inform him that I was

about to act upon his hint, and seek a fresh environment. How long the

search would continue I could not say. Therefore I should be obliged

if he would see that during my absence certain arrangements, which I

would name, were carried out, so that my affectionate brother might

not think it necessary to have me buried by proxy a second time.

I was conscious as I left the house that it was a clear and pleasant

evening, and that the sky was peopled with many stars. At the foot of

the steps I paused and looked about me. It was not my intention to go

straight to Little Olive Street, but to spend that night, and probably

the following day, in transacting certain little business matters of

my own. As I stood there, my feelings were those of the boy who quits,

for ever, a hated school. A whimsical mood came over me. Wheeling

round, I shook my fist at the door, which had just been closed.

'I hope I'll never come through you again. The Marquis slips his

skin!'

Turning, I moved along the pavement. I hadn't gone a dozen yards when

I came upon a man who advanced from the direction in which I was

going. At sight, each, on the instant, recognised the other. We both

stopped dead.

It was my double--the man with a tongue whom I had seem at M'Croskay's

in San Francisco. His lordship's very own self. Simon Pure.

BOOK IV.--THE SINNER

THE AUTHOR THROWS LIGHT UPON AN

INTERESTING SITUATION

CHAPTER XXIX

BACK TO THE WORLD

The monks were working in the garden. A little apart, a man, whose

costume suggested that he had not yet taken the full monastic vows,

was going over a patch of ground with a rake. The patch was on a

slope. Here and there were currant-bushes. The rake loosened the soil

which was between them. Presently the man came to a piece of printed

paper, which apparently had been carried by the wind till it found

lodgment against a bush. He picked it up. It was part of a page of an

English newspaper, left, probably, by some sight-seeing Englishman,

who, mindful of the things which in that part of the world one ought

to do, had tasted of the monastic hospitality. The finder, glancing at

what he held, was about to crumple it up and throw it from him, when

his eye was caught by the heading of a paragraph--'Death of the

Marquis of Twickenham.'

When he perceived the words, for a moment his purpose was postponed.

He stared as if they conveyed to his mind something which filled him

with amazement. Then, remembering where he was, and looking about him

to see if he was observed, he crushed the piece of paper into a

pellet, which he placed within his cassock. Then he continued to rake

as if nothing had happened.

Presently the workers retired to their cells to prepare for vespers;

the monks first, the man with the rake at a respectful distance in the

rear. As soon as he was in his cell, and had closed the door, out came

the scrap of paper. He scanned what followed the heading which had

caught his eye with a show of eagerness which was distinctly

uncanonical. It was a brief statement to the effect that Leonard,

third Marquis of Twickenham, had died of congenital disease of the

heart on the preceding afternoon, at Cortin's Hotel, in the presence

of various members of his family; and was apparently going on to give

further particulars when the paper stopped short. It had been torn in

such a way that only the first three or four lines of that particular

paragraph remained. These the man read over and over again, as if

desirous of extracting from them the last shred of their significance.

'Died!--died!--died!--What does it mean?' He turned the piece of paper

over and over in his hands. 'There's nothing to show from what journal

it comes, but--I think--it's from one of the dailies. And nothing to

show the date. It isn't new. It's come from England; and looks as if

out in the garden there it had been buffeted by wind and rain. I

wonder how old it is; and what it means by saying that I died in the

presence of members of my family.'

He went down with the monks to vespers, occupied his usual place below

the board at supper, joined the fraternity in saying compline, then

retraced his steps towards the straw pallet on which he was supposed

to rest.

A few minutes afterwards he was standing in the presence of the Father

Superior. Without a word of introduction he laid upon the table at

which the Prior sat the scrap of paper which he had found beneath the

currant-bush. The monk glanced from it to his visitor.

'What is this, my son?'

'If you will look at that paper, father, you will see.'

They had spoken in French; but that the Prior understood English was

made clear by the evident ease with which he read the printed extract.

As his visitor had done, he gave it a second and a third perusal.

Looking down, he drummed with his fingertips upon the board. Then,

glancing up at the Englishman, he addressed him in his own language.

'Where did you get this?'

Its finder explained.

'What does it mean?'

'That is what I seek to know.'

'Nothing, probably--a canard.'

'I cannot say.'

'I'll have inquiries made, and you shall be acquainted with the

result.' The Englishman was still. 'Well, won't that content you?'

The reply was hardly to the question.

'I thank you, my father, for having forbidden me to take the vows.'

'You thank me--now? It's not so long ago since you were in despair,

being fearful lest by my refusal I had slammed the gates of heaven in

your face. How often have you besought me to let you enter on the holy

life? How long is it since you lay three nights upon the chapel

stones, broken-hearted, because I advised you still to meditate upon

its threshold? Answer me, my son.'

'I was wrong. You were right, my father--as you always are.'

'As I always am? Our Lady and the Blessed Saints know better. In only

one thing was I right--alas! that I should have to say it--I knew you

better than you did yourself. How long have you been with us?'

'Nearly five years.'

'So long? Are we so much nearer to the Day of Judgment? What were you

when you came?'

'A thing to mock at.'

'Ay, indeed, a thing to mock at; a thing to make the angels weep. And,

like many another, you desired to beat your head against the Cross,

hoping by a little agony to atone for a life of sin. And have you

raised yourself a little from the ditch?'

'Else were I a wretch indeed.'

'That are we all--miserable wretches! It has been my constant grief,

in your particular case, that it was written that the first-fruits of

your mother's womb should be unstable as water; that he should not

excel. May my grief be turned to joy! So you have been beneath this

holy roof five years? And now--what now?'

'I seek to leave you.'

'To leave us? You propose to join a fraternity in which the ordinance

is more severe?'

'I wish to go back into the world again.'

The Prior raised his hands with a show of surprise which was possibly

more feigned than real.

'To go back into the world again? You poor fool, you know not what you

say. My son, in reading what is on this piece of paper you were guilty

of offence. Punishment has followed fast. Already your eyes have been

shut out from the contemplation of heavenly things. Return to your

cell. Meditate. In a month, if you wish it, I will speak to you

again.'

'In a month? But, my father, I cannot wait so long.'

'What word is this--you cannot?'

'I am under no vow of obedience. You yourself refused to let me take

it. I am free to go or stay.'

'You are under no vow of obedience? And you have been here five years?

What fashion of speech is this?'

'It is true--I am under no vow. And I have to thank you, my father,

for my freedom.'

'My son, return to your cell.'

'If you desire it----'

'Desire!'

'But I came to tell you that I should leave you in the morning.'

'Leave us--in the morning! Are you mad, that you speak to me like

this?'

'What this house has been to me, and what I owe to you who have given

me so much more than shelter, is known only to God and to myself.

Don't let us part in anger, or my last state will be worse than my

first; but, father, I must go.'

'Must?'

'Yes, my father, must. Speed me on my way with some of those words of

help and comfort which you can speak so well; give me your blessing

before I go.'

The Prior put up his hand as if to screen his face from the other's

too keen observation.

'What is the meaning of this--I will not say unruly spirit--but

sudden, strange necessity?'

'That piece of paper.'

'But I have already told you that that may mean nothing; that I will

have inquiries made, with the result of which you shall be

acquainted.'

The Englishman continued silent for some moments, clasping and

unclasping his hands in front of him; plainly torn by a conflict of

emotions, to which he was struggling to give articulate utterance.

'My father, I believe that I see in that piece of paper the finger of

Heaven.'

'Men have supposed themselves to see the finger of Heaven in some

strange places; your obliquity of vision is not original, my son.'

'But, my father, don't you understand? It shows that my duty lies

outside these walls.'

'In supposing it to lie along the broad road, you have again had

predecessors.'

'My presence here may be the occasion of actual sin; indeed, if I

construe what is written there aright, it already is. If that

statement is correct, it points to fraud--to crime. Advantage has been

taken of my continued absence--my silence. An impostor has arisen.

Have I done right in allowing those who have charge of my possessions

to remain in ignorance? Have I not put temptation in their path, and

so sinned?'

'All this may be remedied by half-a-dozen lines upon a sheet of

paper.'

'My father, I must go. Without, I shall be as much your son as I am

within.'

'You think it.'

'I swear it.'

'Swear not at all. Oaths in your mouth are apt to be but vain

repetitions. What have you not sworn within the last five years? How

much more would you have sworn if I had sanctioned it?' The Englishman

was still. 'My son, I ask myself if you are an unconscious hypocrite.

Men say that hypocrisy is, in a peculiar sense, your national vice.

When I consider you, I wonder. I believe--I will give you so much

credit--I believe that you mean what you say; although I know, if you

don't, that you mean something altogether different.'

'I swear at least this much, that within a week of my reaching England

fifty thousand pounds shall be paid to your credit.'

'Fifty thousand pounds? It is a large sum of money. I know that your

family has riches, and that you are a great man in your own land. Your

country should be proud of you.'

'My father!'

'My son, you are so poor a creature that I know not how to speak to

you. You are like a sponge, quickly sodden, easily squeezed. These

five years I have been hoping against hope that I might pluck you as a

brand from the burning; at the least little flame, back you fall

again.'

'I am not what I was when I came.'

'No. Your physical health is better.'

'My father!'

'My son, is it not true? What guarantee have I that you will endow

Holy Church, and this her house, with the sum of which you speak?'

'I will give you my written bond.'

'Will that be a legal instrument in England?'

'Certainly. But do you think that in such a matter my word may not be

trusted?--that it will be necessary for you to invoke the law? If so,

I must indeed stand low in your eyes.'

'I have heard you vow, with tears of blood, using all the

protestations of which you were master, that you would never forsake

the shelter of this holy house. Do I understand that you propose that

your withdrawal shall be final.'

'I cannot say.'

'Nor I. I think it possible that you may return, when the devil has

fast hold of you again.' The Englishman put his hands up to his face

and shuddered. 'He always has his finger-tips upon your shoulder; you

only have to turn your head to see his face. I admit that in a

sense--your sense--you are free. Had you vowed a hundred vows, in your

sense you would still be free. It was because I knew it I desired to

save your soul from blasphemy. If you will suffer me I will make you a

suggestion, to which I beg that you will give serious consideration.'

'I am in your hands, my father.'

'Words, my son; words--words! I desire that you shall have as

travelling companion a discreet priest, whom I will recommend, and who

will attend to your spiritual welfare.' The other's silence

sufficiently hinted that the proposition did not commend itself to

him. 'In quitting these precincts your offence is grave. I presume you

do not wish to make it greater.'

'I will give you the fifty thousand pounds.'

'Is that so? You are indeed good. If you English crucified Christ

afresh, I imagine you would consider the Holy Father sufficiently

appeased by a pecuniary compensation. In your country you are the

Marquis of Twickenham?'

'I am.'

'You have been guilty of offences so rank, and so notorious, that you

fled your father's anger, and hid your face from your kith and kin.'

'I have suffered for my sin.'

'You have suffered? Wait for the wrath to come.

'My father!'

'Your family is Protestant?'

'Alas!'

'You are entitled, from your spiritual elevation, to pity heretics,

especially those of your own flesh and blood. Here are pens, ink, and

paper. Sit down and write the bond of which you have spoken.' His

lordship did as he was told. 'So far, so good. But do not imagine that

this is a quittance for the debt which you owe Holy Church. As you are

entrusted with this world's goods, so the Church demands from you her

tithes. On your property you will provide a sufficient religious

establishment. You will build churches and endow them. And in all your

affairs you will be advised by Holy Church. As you are seated, write

that also.'

'My father!'

'Obey. Or I will summon the fraternity, and in their presence I will

call down on you the curse of the Church and of the Holy Ghost, and

will chase you from the fold out into the darkness of the night, that

night which for you shall be unending. Do not think that because you

leave us, we leave you. The arm of the Church is long, and, as you

have learned from experience, the fires of hell burn from afar. Write

as I have said.' His lordship wrote. 'Do not imagine that this bond

which you have given me is but an empty form, any more than is your

promise to pay the fifty thousand pounds. You are of the Church, if

you are not in it, a leaf, if not a branch; and she will demand from

you exact and prompt payment of every jot and tittle which is her due.

Above all, do not neglect your religious duties, not for a single hour

of a single day.'

'But, my father, I cannot be a monk out in the world.'

'You will neglect them at your proper peril. Do not suppose I shall

not know. You will be in error.'

'Do you intend to have me spied upon?'

'We intend to have you kept in sight. You had better do as I advised,

and have a discreet priest as your companion.'

'But I am entitled to my freedom!'

'And is the presence of such an one incompatible with your ideas of

freedom? My son, you'll be on your knees calling for me within a

week.'

'At least--at least wait until I call.'

'In that case, take care lest you call in vain. Remember five years

ago. If you become again what you were then, it will be for ever, and

ever, and ever! You'll be but a voice perpetually calling out of

hell.'

'My father, I--I am stronger than I was then.'

'We will hope it. Though I seem to hear the devil laughing. Now, my

son, go!'

'Bless me, my father, before I go.'

'Yes, I will bless you. But be careful, O my son, lest, as Aaron's rod

was transformed into a serpent, by your own action my blessing becomes

a curse.'

His lordship knelt. The Prior blessed him. Then his lordship went to

bed, though the straw pallet on which he cast himself could hardly, on

that occasion at any rate, be described as a bed of rest.

CHAPTER XXX

THE ONE MAN--AND THE OTHER

There were peas in his lordship's shoes: unboiled.

For some time he had been arriving at the conclusion that he had no so

whole-hearted a leaning towards the religious life as he had once

imagined. The scrap of paper was the top brick; it crowned the edifice

of his discontent. More, it supplied him with the necessary courage to

confess his backsliding to his superior; that keen-sighted religious

being perhaps better prepared for the confession than the penitent

imagined. It is even possible that some expectation of the kind had

always been part and parcel of the Prior's plans. The Marquis of

Twickenham, who is at once a millionaire and a backboneless scamp, is

not the kind of bird which often drops into the monastic draw-net,

whether at home or abroad. When caught, he may be even more useful at

the end of a piece of string than in a cell.

Which explains the ease with which his lordship regained what he

fondly hoped would be his liberty. The truth being that persons of his

type are never free; owing to their habit of mistaking licence for

liberty placing them in continual bondage to some one or something.

There were peas in his lordship's shoes: unboiled. It is a fact that

on the homeward way he proposed to treat himself, in Paris, to what he

called a little amusement. Those peas spoilt all his pleasure. At the

Moulin Rouge, while the ladies whirled their skirts and leered, and

the music blared, the shadow of his monastic vigils obscured it all.

Wherever he turned he saw the white Figure on the huge black cross,

which had so often loomed down at him in the midnight darkness from

over the altar in the chapel; against which, as the Prior said, in his

frenzied fervour he had longed to dash his head. When, like a guilty

thing, he stole from the unfestive revels he saw a priest standing on

the pavement without; the sight of whom filled him with such

unreasoning terror that he took to his heels and ran.

Luck had always been against him. Not all the evil he had done had

been brought to light, but he was convinced that a most unfair

proportion had been dragged into the noontide glare. The majority of

men go with even their trivial peccadilloes undiscovered to the grave.

In his case seven dirty things out of every ten he did were sure to

get him into trouble. Did a man promise him a thrashing, dodge though

he might, he was sure to light upon that man at the very moment when

he least desired his presence. An instance of which aggravating

species of misfortune occurred upon his homeward way.

Hardly had the boat left Boulogne harbour than he ran against a man to

whom he had lost a bet--or two--which he had never paid. A bookmaker.

There were three or four items outstanding against him in that

particular book when the Viscount Sherrington--as his lordship then

was--encountered its owner in the ring at Doncaster, and expressed a

desire to once more back his fancy. The bookmaker would have none of

him until the Viscount protested, with many oaths, that if he lost he

would not only pay that particular bet, but all else he owed. But

although he lost he did not pay. Whereupon the bookmaker took an early

opportunity to inform him that wherever and whenever he met him he

would favour him with his candid opinion of his character.

The average declaration of the kind is merely a figure of speech--or

many gentlemen, who are now of the elect, would have to peep round

every corner before they turned into a street. It was more than

fifteen years since they had met, and during five of those years his

lordship had been a penitent of quite exceptional strength. In the

case of any other man there would probably have been a stare, a

muttering beneath the breath, and then an end. But his lordship was

not like any other man; his luck was his own. That bookmaker had a

most aggressive memory, and he had been drinking. So when he perceived

who it was who had all but trodden on his toe he addressed him much

above a whisper.

'What, yer? Slippery?'

'Slippery' was the nickname by which his lordship had been known in

certain circles once upon a time, but was not a style of address at

all suited to a person of pronounced piety who had just emerged from

prolonged cloistral seclusion.

Then and there, in the presence of quite a number of persons, that

bookmaker gave utterance to his loud-voiced opinion of the man who had

made that bet with him more than fifteen years before.

The Marquis set foot on his native soil with a distinct feeling of

depression. If he was going, to have many encounters of that kind,

better, after all, the religious life. In the cloister self-respect is

an offence, and self-abasement the order of the day. It is different

in the world. There men dislike to be kicked in public, nor do they

even wish to have people informed that they deserve a kicking. In that

respect, if in no other, his lordship was one of the crowd.

So, to raise his spirits, when he reached town he had a good dinner,

and a large quantity of wine. The result, again, was neither what he

expected nor desired. Seeking that feeling of conviviality which

should follow a feast, he got indigestion instead. As he paid the

reckoning he was painfully conscious that if the waiter would only

include a couple of liver pills with the change he would do him a

genuine service.

Hence he was hardly in a mood to make a triumphal return to the home

of his fathers, particularly as that return was attended with

circumstances which might be described as delicate. He had decided to

put in an appearance at St. James's Square that very night. When he

found himself in the street his resolution wavered. The glare and

tumult bewildered him. He was more than half afraid of the

kaleidoscopic crowd. When a man, who has crucified himself during a

period extending over years, drops off his cross, he is hardly in a

mood to appreciate at once London as it is at night. Besides, the

place was strange. He saw changes on every hand; and when he had at

last concluded to try and play the man, he had to ask his way to his

own home. And then he lost himself upon the road.

He found himself, however, when he entered the sombre purlieus of St.

James's Square. That was familiar ground. Wherever he had gone he had

carried a picture of it in his brain. So far as he could see, for the

place was more in shadow than in light, it was unchanged. He walked

right round. As he went, a backwater from the past rushed over him,

bearing him on its current to the days that were. He seemed to see

himself once more a lad. With uncomfortable clarity of vision, he saw

what kind of lad he was. He shuddered; and, as he neared his father's

house, drew back ashamed. It was almost as if an invisible barrier had

prevented his close approach. Round the square he went again. As,

coming from the other direction, he approached Twickenham House a

second time, he saw a man come through the door; a man who stood upon

the pavement for a moment to shake his fist at the building which he

had just quitted. Then, wheeling round upon his heels, he came smartly

forward. As his lordship observed the approaching figure he was

conscious of an odd sensation of amazement--of shock--as if he were

staring at something which was not to be explained by the ordinary

definitions which we use in our everyday experience, and which he more

than half suspected was a trick played him by his eyes.

When they came close together the two men stopped short. Each regarded

the other with surprise which, for a moment or two, was speechless.

Then the newcomer spoke.

'You're me. What price San Francisco? How goes it, my Lord Marquis?'

There was an interval before the answer came. This took the form of an

inquiry.

'What are you doing here?'

'Relinquishing the title. And you?'

'I'm returning home.'

Mr. Merrett whistled.

'Seems as if I might have known you were coming back from the husks

and swine, my dropping on to you like this. Anyhow, you're welcome.

You come along with me; I'll post you up to date.'

Mr. Merrett, slipping his hand through the other's arm, wheeled him

right round. His lordship offered no remonstrance. Not even when,

having entered a hansom which Mr. Merrett had hailed, that gentleman

directed the cabman to drive to an address in the Euston Road.

Scarcely a word was exchanged by the strange companions on the road.

Possibly each found his attention fully occupied by a mental revision

of this latest phase in the situation. The peer asked a single

question as the vehicle stopped.

'What place is this?'

'This is Parkinson's Private Hotel; strictly temperance, and

respectable to a fault.'

Mr. Merrett seemed well known in the establishment. He merely stopped

to greet a matronly female who met them in the hall, then, leading the

way upstairs, entered a spacious apartment on the first floor, which

was furnished as a bed- and sitting-room. The gas was lighted; a

bright fire burned in the grate. Mr. Merrett, locking the door, drew a

heavy curtain in front of it.

'Now, my dear Double, you and I will have a little pleasant

conversation.'

Their likeness to each other, as they stood face to face in the

well-lighted room, was an illustration of what nature can do when she

is in a freakish mood. In height, build, even in feature, there was so

close a resemblance that it was not difficult to understand the ease

with which either might be mistaken for the other. And yet in carriage

and expression there was so marked a difference that, when seen

together, it was the unlikeness rather than the likeness which struck

one most. Ease of bearing, strength, decision, boldness, were as

striking characteristics of the one man as they were wholly lacking in

the other. Quickness, resource, courage, were unmistakably attributes

of Mr. Merrett, just as plainly as hesitation, doubt, pliancy, were

the distinguishing marks of the prodigal peer.

Mr. Merrett's quick eye summed up his lordship in a trice.

'You haven't changed. Those developments haven't taken place in your

character which I've announced. It's a pity; so it is.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's to tell you what I mean that I've brought you here.'

Mr. Merrett told. As first one spoke, then the other, the same

peculiarity was noticeable in their voices as in their persons. The

unlikeness, with the likeness. The tone was the same; so that

frequently any one, standing outside the door, for instance, would not

have been able to say which of the twain was speaking. But Merrett

spoke with an odd clearness, looking the person whom he addressed

straight in the face; he had a trick of making his words convey their

full natural meaning and more. The peer's utterance, on the other

hand, was apt to be both rapid and indistinct; his glance continually

wandered; one suspected, as one listened, that words coming from his

mouth were both meaningless and valueless.

'And do you mean to tell me that you've been playing at being Marquis

of Twickenham in my place?'

'I do. It hasn't been much of a game, but, as Marquis, I'm worth about

a hundred and fifty thousand of you. That's the cold truth.'

'You don't lack assurance.'

'I do not. All I ask is to agree with you.'

'And you have the--the impudence to tell me that you've been making

free with my money?'

'Free's the word. And the amount's been named. It might have been

larger. But I'm a modest man. It will serve.'

'You are aware of the consequences to which you have made yourself

liable?'

Mr. Merrett took out, from a pocket-book, a slip of blue paper; which,

unfolding, he held out in front of him.

'See that? That's the bill on which you forged your father's name.

Now, sir, for a man who takes a liberty of that kind with his own

father I have no use. But a prison has. You've had a run for your

money--a fifteen years' run. Now that run's over. In a nice warm cell

in a police station you'll find your billet for to-night, and then

from one of His Majesty's jails you'll have no chance of running for

probably the next fifteen years.'

'Why do you talk to me like that? Do you--do you think you frighten

me?'

'I'm quite sure I frighten you. It can't be nice to come back to find

the danger staring you in the face from which you ran. A man finds

prison less cheerful at your time of life than when he was younger.'

'What do you want for the bill?'

'Nothing. It's not for sale. All I want is an understanding. We can't

be friends--I never could be friends with a man who forged his

father's name--but we can be on terms of common agreement.'

'You've placed me in a most awkward situation.'

'Not a bit of it. I've placed you in a better situation than you were

in all your life. The Marquis of Twickenham is more respected at this

moment than ever before. It's understood that he's turned over a new

leaf; that he's a reformed character; that his character has developed

in a manner which is altogether beyond the expectations of his

friends. And it's got to be generally known that any one who takes

liberties with him does so at his peculiar peril. You've only got to

go to Twickenham House, and enter the front door, letting them think

that you've come back from a stroll, to find yourself received with an

air of deference--which I'm sure that you'll find welcome. You'll have

no questions asked, especially no nasty ones. You'll just find

yourself on rollers.'

'Are you actually suggesting that I should carry on the fraud which

you initiated?'

'Depends on how you call it. This fraud'll drift into the paths of

virtue; as fraud sometimes does. You'll be in every way a fool if you

drop a word to cause any one to think that you haven't been the

Marquis all along. For one thing, you'll lose the good character I've

earned you; and, for another, you'll be in jail.'

'But I shan't be able to continue the deception for a moment.'

'Why not? If there's one thing you're good at, it is deception.'

'Suppose that I'm found out?'

'Then you may expect trouble--from me.'

'How did you come in possession of that--that acceptance?'

'For information on that point I refer you to Mr. Acrodato; though I

don't advise you to apply for it. So long as he continues to believe

that you are me all will be merry as a marriage bell; the moment he

suspects that he's been tricked the band will begin to play.'

'Give me that bill and I'll give you a quittance for the money you've

taken, and nothing shall be said of what you've done.'

'You'll do all that, and more--without my giving you the bill.'

'Are you proposing to blackmail me?'

'I'm proposing nothing of the kind. I'm proposing to keep that bill;

that's all. So soon as it comes to my ears that you've given any

one--it doesn't matter who--the least cause to suspect that it isn't

you who've been Marquis of Twickenham all the way along you'll hear

I've got it--not till.'

'But, Carruthers, or Babbacombe, or Merrett, or whatever your name

is----'

'My name, sir, is James Merrett; and don't you ever let on that you

knew me as Carruthers at San Francisco, or anywhere else.'

'It seems to me that between us we've got a good many things we don't

want people to know of.'

'You've hit it. That's the point to which I've been trying to bring

you. Let's sit on them together.'

'Merrett, I quite recognise that you're the stronger man.'

'Recognition's something.'

'But, whether you choose to admit it or not, you've got me in a hole.

While it is quite possible, and even probable, that in starting to be

Marquis on your own account you've cleared the ground for me in some

directions, in asking me to continue on your lines undiscovered, you

are setting me a task which is beyond my powers.'

'I see that you are trying to get somewhere. Get.'

'It is quite possible that I may become a monk.'

'A what?'

'A monk. For the past five years I've been living the life of a

religious.'

'You don't say! It sounds funny.'

'Therefore you will easily perceive that I am scarcely prepared to

take upon myself all at once the responsibilities of the position

which--you have arranged for me.'

'Get on. You do move slow.'

'Merrett, I want you to stand by me, and help me through the troubles

I see ahead.'

'What do you mean by standing by--and what's your idea of helping?'

'Can't you, with your fertile brain, see some means of rendering me

assistance without--compromising either of us?'

Again Mr. Merrett whistled.

'Your head isn't so much on the slant as some might perhaps be

thinking. Together we'll be a match for a world in arms. You see, it's

this way. There are persons who are foolish enough to think that I'm

myself. Between us we might manage to convince them that I'm not. You

slip round to Twickenham House. Then sometime to-morrow I'll appear as

the injured Merrett--red-hot with an indignant desire to know who has

had the cheek and impudence, peer or no peer, to get himself mistaken

for me. I shall see you; perceive, with amazement--kept within

judicious bounds--how like you are to me. Then I shall understand how

the mistake's arisen, and my indignation will tone down. We'll have a

little talk together. I may be of assistance to you--in other ways.

One never knows.'

Mr. Merrett winked. His lordship smiled.

CHAPTER XXXI

AN INTERIOR

Mr. Merrett gently opened the door, then stood listening, the handle

in his hand. The sound of voices reached his ear. He stepped into the

passage. The door of the room upon his left was open; he peeped

through. A woman was sitting at a table with a pile of photographs in

front of her. Two children were standing at her knee; a boy and girl.

They regarded the photograph on which the woman's eyes were fixed.

'Shall I be like father when I grow up?' inquired the boy. 'I hope you

will; as like him as you can. O Jimmy, I would be proud if you were

like your father.'

'Will I be like him too?' This was the little girl. The boy derided

her. 'Girls aren't never like their fathers--never!'

The woman, stopping, put her arm about the young person's neck, and

said: 'You be your mother, Pollie; and love him with all your heart

and soul. Father'll like that just as well.'

'Father'll like it better!' observed Mr. Merrett, standing at the

door.

Mother and children started. They turned to see who it was had spoken.

The woman, dropping the photograph she held, ran towards the door,

uttering an exclamation that was like a long-drawn sigh.

'James!'

She threw her arms about his neck, he put his about her waist, and

they were still--until the children claimed their share of notice.

'To think that you should come home to-day!'

She spoke as if the day were sanctified by his coming. She was a woman

whose beauty was rare both in type and in degree. Small, there was

that about her which caused the defect, if defect it was, to go

unnoticed. She moved with a grace and freedom which dignified her

every gesture. The eye followed her with continual joy. Every change

of attitude was a fresh delight. Whether in movement or repose she

suggested the physical side of life at its highest and its best; she

seemed charged, to the finger-tips, with so delicious a vitality. The

thing about her face which struck one most was its expression of

perfect innocence. One wondered if such a being ever could grow old.

One felt sure that she would face whatever fortune fate might send her

with the same quaint illuminating smile, and that nothing would ever

shake her faith in the good that was to be.

Mr. Merrett had a child on either knee. His wife was kneeling beside

his chair, regarding him with a rapturous affection which it was

curious to contemplate. A man's capacity to win and retain a woman's

love is by no means necessarily dependent on his moral qualities.

Which is fortunate for some of us.

'James,' she whispered, from the post of vantage her head occupied

upon his shoulder, 'when you come home the whole world seems somehow

different.'

Her tongue betrayed her. Her speech was hardly that of an educated

woman, and yet her voice was such a sweet one, and her manner so

naturally refined, that one could not doubt that it needed but little

to make her command over the King's English greater than it was.

'Seems different, doesn't it? Now that's strange. Do you think, having

come, if I stayed it would keep on seeming different?'

'O James, if you would stay--a week.'

One could not but perceive that her sentence had changed between its

beginning and its end. He chose to construe the alteration in a

fashion of his own.

'A week! You don't think it would keep on seeming different if I

stayed longer than that?'

'If you--if you'd only try.'

Her voice dropped; as if alarmed at her own daring. This was one of

those foolish women who are fearful of saying anything which may be

contrary to the wishes of the man they love.

'I'm going to try; if try's the word which adequately expresses the

situation. I'm going to stay more than a week. I'm going to stay for

ever.'

She looked up at him with an expression of singular amazement.

'James, do you mean--that you've come--to stay with us--for good?'

'That's it; for good. I like your word better than mine. Then we'll

see how long the world will keep on seeming different.'

'It will keep on seeming different for ever. Stay with us always?

James, you--you don't know what that means.'

Back went her head upon his shoulder, and she was still. He put up his

hand to stroke her hair.

'It's in this way. After prolonged and arduous toil----'

He cleared his throat; as if the words stuck a little. She mistook the

cause of his hesitation.

'I'm sure you've worked too much.'

'I have worked hard--at times.' There was a grimness in his tone which

it is to be hoped she did not detect. 'As a result of my--labours, I

have amassed a small fortune which will relieve me, in the future,

from the necessity of making more money, and will enable me to devote

the whole of my attention to the claims of my wife and family.'

'Do you mean that you are rich?'

'Rich is a relative term, I hope that I have enough to provide us all

with bread and cheese for the remainder of our days.'

'Without working any more?'

'Without working any more.'

'James, shan't we be happy?'

I think we shall. It's about my idea of happiness to have you always

close at hand.'

'James!'

'My idea is to leave this part of the world behind us; and--what do

you say to a little travel?'

'Travel? I've always wanted to travel,--and with you! But it costs so

much.'

'I'll see that it doesn't cost more than I can afford, Then, when

we've had enough of travelling, we'll decide which of the places we

have seen we like best, and there we'll take up our abode.'

'James, how good God is to us!'

Mr. Merrett said nothing, His lips were wrinkled by a peculiar smile,

which it was perhaps as well for her peace of mind that she did not

see; and he smoothed the lady's lovely hair.

While the silence still remained unbroken the door opened--manners in

Little Olive Street are primitive--and Mr. Augustus FitzHoward stood

looking in.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE LAST JOURNEY TO TWICKENHAM HOUSE

The scene which met his eyes appeared to fill Mr. FitzHoward with an

access of amazement to which it was altogether beyond his power to

give adequate expression. Mr. Merrett, on the other hand, greeted him

with a smile of the heartiest kind.

'What you, Fitz! How goes it, my old pal?'

The fashion of the greeting seemed to render Mr. FitzHoward's

amazement greater. On a sudden words came tumbling from his lips.

'So you have come home. Well, I'm a Dutchman if this doesn't beat

anything!'

'Who says you're a Dutchman? You give me his name and address and I'll

pay him a call. Yes, Fitz, I have come home; and I hope you're as glad

to see me as I am to see you.'

'You weren't glad to see me a little while ago.'

'I should have been if I'd had the luck. But we don't always have the

luck. I hope, old man, that my presence hasn't caused you any

inconvenience?'

Mr. FitzHoward had his hands in his trousers' pockets; his agitation

was such that it caused him to agitate those garments in a way which

was peculiar.

'I don't know what kind of a fool you take me for. I know I'm a bit of

one, but I'm not the altogether you seem to think.'

'What's the matter with you, Fitz? Perhaps it's because I haven't seen

you for so long, but your manner appears to me to be a trifle odd.'

'I suppose you're not the Marquis of Twickenham now?'

'Not who? I say, have you--been beginning early?'

'I suppose you never were the Marquis of Twickenham? I suppose I'm not

to believe the evidence of my senses? Oh, dear no! If you tell me that

you're Jones to-day, and Brown to-morrow, and Robinson the day after,

and God knows who next week, I'm never to cast doubt upon your word by

suggesting that I ever knew you as anybody else. Is that the kind of

man you think I ought to be? Because, if so, although you mayn't like

it, I can only tell you that I'm not. I always have said that you were

the marvel of the age, but I'm only just beginning to realise what a

marvel you really are.'

'Mary, what does the fellow mean?'

She said something which was audible to him alone, When she had

finished, Mr. Merrett, lifting the children from off his knees, rose

to his feet.

'Mary, when I was here last you spoke of somebody who you seemed to

think had been masquerading as me. Fitz, your remarks apparently point

in the same direction. What does this person call himself?'

'He calls himself the Marquis of Twickenham--when he's not James

Merrett.'

'Is that meant to be funny? Because, if so, take my advice, and don't

try to be humorous in a wrong key. Where does he live?'

'His address is Twickenham House, St. James's Square--when it's not

Little Olive Street.'

'More humour? Pretty soon I'll give you leave to get in all the

laughter you have handy. You come right away along with yours truly,

and we'll interview the gentleman who's pretending to be me.'

'He's not pretending to be you; he's pretending that he isn't you.'

'That so? We'll investigate his pretensions anyhow. You just come

right along.'

Mr. FitzHoward stared.

'What new caper's this?'

'It's a caper that's going to show you just where the laugh comes in,

if you're ready.'

'James, you're not going to leave us?'

'You have tea upon that table at five o'clock; a good tea, mind; and

I'll be back for it; back for good. There seems to be some little game

going on over in St. James's Square which I'm going to take a hand at.

You remember my telling you about a man Jones saw who might have sat

for me? Looks as if he had come to life again, and was making trouble.

Now trouble of that kind is a thing I don't mean to have come into the

life which, from this time forward, you and I are going to live

together. So I'm going along with Fitz till tea-time to see that it

don't.'

As the two men went side by side along the pavement, Mr. FitzHoward

kept glancing at his companion as if he found something about him

which was not only strange but altogether beyond his comprehension.

Presently he asked a question.

'Well! What's the game now?'

'The game?' Mr. Merrett regarded the other with a glance of innocent

inquiry. 'That's what I'm after; that's what I'm going to find

out--what the game is.'

They went some little distance before Mr. FitzHoward ventured on

another remark.

'You have a face!'

'I hope so. I hope you have one too--even if it's not such an ornament

as mine.'

'Ornament!'

Mr. FitzHoward emitted a sigh which might have been intended to mark

the interjection. Mr. Merrett hailed a passing cab.

'Drive us to Twickenham House, St. James's Square. Now, Fitz, in you

jump.'

That gentleman appeared to hesitate:

'Look here. I don't know what your game is, you're beyond me

altogether, but don't you go kicking me out when we get there.'

'Kicking you? Out of what? The cab?'

'No, my Lord Marquis; out of your palatial abode. Because, if you do,

this time there'll be trouble.'

'Fitz, would you do me the favour to step into that cab, and don't

talk as if you had been let out of a lunatic asylum before your time?'

Thus adjured, Mr. FitzHoward did as he was requested. As the cab

bowled along he continued to regard his companion with glances which

were brimful of curiosity. But nothing was said. The cab reached

Twickenham House. When Mr. Merrett got out he looked the building up

and down.

'This the place?'

'Oh, yes, this is the place.'

'Don't look extra lively, does it? As if they kept a funeral on the

premises. Nodding plumes out of every window would give a finishing

touch. A bit too much in the big bow-wow style to suit me.'

'It does take a big man to properly fill it, as perhaps you found.'

'I found? Fitz, you're a fair treat. You'd better take something for

it before it goes too far.'

Mr. Merrett sounded a salute on the knocker and the bell. The door

flew open. A powdered footman stood within.

'Marquis of Twickenham at home?'

'His lordship is----' the footman began, then stopped to stare. 'I beg

pardon, I----' The man stopped again.

'Well? Get it out! You thought what! For pains in the back try Jujah!'

'I beg your lordship's pardon. I thought your lordship was engaged. I

wasn't aware your lordship was out.'

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE TWINKLE IN THE FATHER'S EYES

Mr. Merrett looked the man very straight in the face; as if he

suspected him of an intention to be humorous.

'Not so much "your lordship" about it, if you please. Is it the old

complaint? Try a bushel of pills before breakfast and a scuttleful at

lunch. A young man with a pair of legs like yours ought to have more

sense. He did really. For goodness gracious sake don't be a fool just

because you look it. Try to behave as if you'd left your face at home.

Did you hear me ask if the Marquis of Twickenham is at home, or are

you deaf both back and front?'

The footman plainly did not know what to make of the position.

'Your lordship----'

Mr. Merrett sprang up the steps. 'Look here, you perambulating

cauliflower, if you give me any more of "your lordship" I'll dot you

upon the frontispiece. Are you the only fool about the place? Or isn't

there any one who can give a civil answer to a civil question?'

Another footman advanced. Behind him the venerable Mr. Gayer. Both

stared with unmistakable surprise at Mr. Merrett. He returned them

stare for stare.

'Well? The charge for this entertainment is generally one shilling,

but really good-looking men are admitted free. Do you both of you want

a pass, upon your faces?'

He put his hand up to his mouth, and bawled:

'Is the Marquis of Twickenham at home? Sorry I didn't bring a foghorn

out with me, but perhaps that's loud enough for somebody to hear.'

'What name?'

'What's yours?'

'My name is Gayer.'

'Mine's Merrett; James Merrett, Esquire. Glad to meet you. We're

getting on nicely, Mr. Gayer, you and I. It's always a privilege to

meet a man who's got sense, even if you can't think where he keeps it.

Might I ask you if the Marquis of Twickenham is at home? My top notes

are a little rusty; I didn't know I should have had to do so much

shouting, or I'd have had them oiled before I came.'

'His lordship is engaged. He gave special instructions that he was not

to be disturbed.'

'Oh, he did, did he? Then his instructions are going to be

disturbed--and so I tell you. I'm going to see his lordship right now.

There's some game going on here which it's my intention to see the

bottom of. That fairy-like flower of the flock with the lily-white

hair has kept calling me his "lordship" more than I quite care for; so

I'm going to see what his lordship's like, for a lord's the very last

thing I wish to be. Now, Fitz, I'm going to call on the Marquis. You

come along and see me through.'

Mr. Gayer had placed himself in Mr. Merrett's way.

'Excuse me, sir!'

'Excuse me, my dear Mr. Gayer, but would you mind removing yourself to

a more convenient distance, unless you wish me to demonstrate that my

fighting weight is greater than you might think?'

On a sudden Mr. Merrett was across the hall, before Mr. Gayer was

prepared for him to make a move. Throwing open a door he looked into

the room which it disclosed.

'Hollo!' he exclaimed, 'what have we here?'

Two persons were within. One, a priest of the Roman Catholic Church,

was taking his ease in an armchair, the other was kneeling in front of

him with his hands held up to his face. At the sound of the opening

door this person withdrew his hands, and turned. It was the Marquis of

Twickenham.

Mr. Merrett stared at him with every appearance of the most profound

amazement. He plucked off his hat.

'I--I--I'm sure I beg pardon, but are you the Marquis of Twickenham?'

'I am.'

'D--d--d--does your lordship know how much you are like me?'

The man on his knees was still. The priest stood up; a fine, steady

figure; in striking contrast to the abject creature at his feet. He

regarded Mr. Merrett with twinkling eyes.

'There certainly is a resemblance. Is it to that fact that we are

indebted for the pleasure of your presence, unannounced?'

'Well, I was told that there was a gentleman here who was so like me

that father got taking me for him; and as this was promising to become

inconvenient, I thought I'd come and see.'

'And having seen?'

'I beg your pardon for having intruded, and hope I'll be excused.'

'Your name?'

'Merrett--James Merrett. And yours?'

'I am Father Anthony Coppard. Now that I regard you more attentively,

I perceive that the resemblance is greater than I at first realised.

You interest me, Mr. Merrett. May I ask you to favour me with your

address, so that, perhaps, I may have the pleasure of seeing you

again.'

'If you'll let me have yours, I'll come and call on you.'

'You prefer it that way? Well, as you please. I am content. Here is my

card, Mr. Merrett. Let me know when you are coming; and--be sure you

come.'

Father Anthony Coppard bestowed on Mr. Merrett, with his card, a

glance which was full of meaning.

As the two visitors were going down the steps, Mr. Merrett put up his

hand to smooth his chin. He appeared to be lost in a maze of wonder.

'Well, this beats anything I've ever heard of. If I hadn't seen him

with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it--that two men could be so

alike. Why, if I hadn't seen him in a looking-glass I might have

mistaken him for me.'

'I'm sure I apologise, Mr. Babbacombe, if I seem to have doubted

anything you may have said, but as you observed, I wouldn't have

believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Nobody could.'

'I'm not surprised that my wife mistook that man for me; and although

it seems to be against nature, upon my word I'm not surprised.'

'It would have been surprising if she hadn't.'

'You've hit it--it would. Mr. FitzHoward, you're a level-headed man,

and always have been, so that when you talked to me in the way you did

do, it was beyond me altogether. But now I understand what you were

driving at; and I find I have to thank you for affording me an

opportunity to throw light upon a matter which, had it remained

wrapped in mystery, might have been against me all my life--and

poisoned it, FitzHoward--poisoned it.'

'I'm sure, Mr. Babbacombe, you're welcome to anything I may have done,

and it's very handsome of you to put it in that way.'

'Don't mention it, Fitz, my dear old boy; don't mention it.'

Putting out his hand, Mr. Merrett squeezed Mr. FitzHoward's arm in a

way which was eloquent of what he felt. Presently he added another

remark:

'I wonder what he was saying to that priest?'

For the first time, perhaps, he spoke the truth. He really did wonder.

The twinkle which had been in the father's eyes he did not understand.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE PENITENT

That the Marquis of Twickenham lives a religious life is a matter of

public notoriety. His benefactions to the Church whose faith he had

adopted are in the mouths of every one. By far the larger portion of

his income must, in some form or other, go into priestly hands. His

family seat at Cressland is ordered almost as if it were a house of

the religious. Priests are everywhere. Both a convent and a monastery

have been established in the grounds. His days are ordered as if he

himself were one of the brotherhood. Prayer and fasting are his rules

of life. Strange stories are told of self-inflicted penances.

Thus he seeks, it would seem, to atone for the sins of his early life.

In the opinion of certain persons the penitential spirit came on him

with altogether unexpected suddenness. Mr. Stephen Foster, who had

charge of the family finances till they were transferred to the

custody of Roman Catholic administrators, to this day cannot

understand how the alteration came about. He declares that when the

truant peer first returned from his prolonged absence, his lordship

struck him as being very much more of a scoffer than a bigot. Yet all

at once he was in sackcloth and ashes. Mr. Foster cannot make it out

at all. He is persuaded that there is something curious somewhere.

Lord Reginald Sherrington keeps a keen eye upon his brother's

proceedings. His lordship's generosity has enabled him to marry Lady

Violet Howarth, and it is understood that the match is, on the whole,

a happy one; but he cannot rid himself of a feeling that the priestly

element which rules at Cressland requires attention and constant

observation. In which respect he is not impossibly correct.

Miss Desmond is still unmarried. Douglas Howarth is dead. The Marquis

seemed by his return to have signed his death warrant. He was never

again the man he used to be.

Mr. Merrett flourishes exceedingly. His wife is happy as the day is

long. She declares that since her James came home 'for good' she has

never known a shadowed hour. May the sunset for her be indefinitely

postponed!

Mr. Augustus FitzHoward, whose name is familiar to many of us as the

manager of one of our most popular London theatres, when speaking of

his friend James Merrett, still proudly proclaims him to be 'the

marvel of the age.'

Mr. Merrett sometimes assures Mr. FitzHoward, with a dry little smile,

that he has no notion how exact his definition is.

THE END

* * * * *

Printed by T. and A. Constable, (late) Printers to Her late Majesty

at the Edinburgh University Press