In a room in the west of London--a room full of pictures and
bric-a-brac, of quaint and luxurious furniture, with volumes abundant,
with a piano in a shadowed corner, a violin and a mandoline laid
carelessly aside--two men sat facing each other, their looks expressive
of anything but mutual confidence. The one (he wore an overcoat, and
had muddy boots) was past middle age, bald, round-shouldered, dressed
like a country gentleman; upon his knees lay a small hand-bag, which he
seemed about to open. He leaned forward with a face of stern reproach,
and put a short, sharp question:
"Then why haven't I heard from you since my nephew's death?"
The other was not ready with a reply. Younger, and more fashionably
attired, he had assumed a lounging attitude which seemed natural to
him, though it served also to indicate a mood of resentful superiority.
His figure was slight, and not ungraceful; his features--pale, thin,
with heavy nose, high forehead--were intellectual and noteworthy, but
lacked charm.
"I have been abroad till quite recently," he said at length, his fine
accent contrasting with that of the questioner, which had a provincial
note. "Why did you expect me to communicate with you?"
"Don't disgrace yourself by speaking in that way, Mr. Glazzard!"
exclaimed the other, his voice uncertain with strong, angry feeling.
"You know quite well why I have come here, and why you ought to have
seen me long ago!"
Thereupon he opened the bag and took out a manuscript-book.
"I found this only the other day among Harry's odds and ends. It's a
diary that he kept. Will you explain to me the meaning of this entry,
dated in June of last year: 'Lent E. G. a hundred pounds'?"
Glazzard made no answer, but his self-command was not sufficient to
check a quivering of the lips.
"There can be no doubt who these initials refer to. Throughout, ever
since my nephew's intimacy with you began, you are mentioned here as
'E. G.' Please to explain another entry, dated August: 'Lent E. G. two
hundred pounds.' And then again, February of this year: 'Lent E. G. a
hundred and fifty pounds'--and yet again, three months later: 'Lent E.
G. a hundred pounds'--what is the meaning of all this?"
"The meaning, Mr. Charnock," replied Glazzard, "is indisputable."
"You astound me!" cried the elder man, shutting up the diary and
straightening himself to an attitude of indignation. "Am I to
understand, then, that _this_ is the reason why Harry left no money?
You mean to say you have allowed his relatives to believe that he had
wasted a large sum, whilst they supposed that he was studying soberly
in London"----
"If you are astounded," returned the other, raising his eyebrows, "I
certainly am no less so. As your nephew made note of these lendings,
wasn't he equally careful to jot down a memorandum when the debt was
discharged?"
Mr. Charnock regarded him fixedly, and for a moment seemed in doubt.
"You paid back these sums?"
"With what kind of action did you credit me?" said Glazzard, quietly.
The other hesitated, but wore no less stern a look.
"I am obliged to declare, Mr. Glazzard, that I can't trust your word.
That's a very strong thing to have to say to a man such as I have
thought you--a man of whom Harry always spoke as if there wasn't his
like on earth. My acquaintance with you is very slight; I know very
little indeed about you, except what Harry told me. But the man who
could deliberately borrow hundreds of pounds from a lad only just of
age--a simple, trustful, good-natured country lad, who had little but
his own exertions to depend upon--_such_ a man will tell a lie to
screen himself! This money was _not_ paid back; there isn't a word
about it in the diary, and there's the fact that Harry had got rid of
his money in a way no one could explain. You had it, and you have kept
it, sir!"
Glazzard let his eyes stray about the room. He uncrossed his legs,
tapped on the arm of his easy-chair, and said at length:
"I have no liking for violence, and I shall try to keep my temper.
Please to tell me the date of the last entry in that journal."
Mr. Charnock opened the book again, and replied at once:
"June 5th of this year--1879."
"I see. Allow me a moment." He unlocked a drawer in a writing-table,
and referred to some paper. "On the 1st of June--we were together the
whole day--I paid your nephew five hundred and fifty pounds in
bank-notes. Please refer to the diary."
"You _were_ together on that day, but there is no note of such a
transaction. 'With E. G. Much talk about pictures, books, and
music--delightful!' That's all."
"Have you added up the sums mentioned previously?"
"Yes. They come to what you say. How did it happen, Mr. Glazzard, that
you had so large a sum in bank-notes? It isn't usual."
"It is not unheard of, Mr. Charnock, with men who sometimes play for
money."
"What! Then you mean to tell me that Harry learnt from you to be a
gambler?"
"Certainly not. He never had the least suspicion that I played."
"And pray, what became of those notes after he received them?"
"I have no idea. For anything I know, you may still find the money."
Mr. Charnock rose from his seat.
"I see," he said, "that we needn't talk any longer. I don't believe
your story, and there's an end of it. The fact of your borrowing was
utterly disgraceful; it shows me that the poor boy had fallen in a
trap, instead of meeting with a friend who was likely to guide and
improve him. You confess yourself a gambler, and I go away with the
conviction that you are something yet worse."
Glazzard set his lips hard, but fell back into the lounging attitude.
"The matter doesn't end here," went on his accuser, "be sure of that! I
shall light upon evidence sooner or later. Do you know, sir, that Harry
had a sister, and that she earns her own living by giving lessons? You
have robbed her--think it over at your leisure. Why, less than a
fortnight after that day you and he spent together--the 1st of
June--the lad lay dying; yet you could deliberately plan to rob him.
Your denial is utterly vain; I would pledge my life on the charge! I
read guilt in your face when I entered--you were afraid of me, Mr.
Glazzard! I understand now why you never came to see the lad on his
death-bed, though he sent for you--and of course I know why he was
anxious to speak to you. Oh, you have plenty of plausible excuses, but
they are lies! You felt pretty sure, I dare say, that the lad would not
betray you; you knew his fine sense of honour; you calculated upon it.
All your conduct is of a piece!"
Glazzard rose.
"Mr. Charnock, please to leave me.--I oughtn't to have borrowed that
money; but having paid it back, I can't submit to any more of your
abuse. My patience has its limits."
"I am no brawler," replied the other, "and I can do no good by talking
to you. But if ever I come across any of your acquaintances, they shall
know, very plainly, what opinion I have of you. Prosecute me for
slander, Mr. Glazzard, if you dare--I desire nothing better!"
And Mr. Charnock went hurriedly from the room.
For several minutes Glazzard kept the same attitude, his eyes fixed on
the floor, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into his
waistcoat. Then he uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and walked with
hurried, jerky step across the room; his facial muscles quivered
ceaselessly, distorting the features into all manner of grotesque and
ugly expressions. Again the harsh sound escaped him, and again he
changed his place as though impelled by a sudden pain. It was a long
time before he took a seat; on doing so, he threw up his feet, and
rested them against the side of the fireplace. His hands were thrust
into his trouser-pockets, and his head fell back, so that he stared at
the ceiling. At one moment he gave out a short mocking laugh, but no
look of mirth followed the explosion. Little by little he grew
motionless, and sat with closed eyes.
From the walls about him looked down many a sweet and noble
countenance, such as should have made the room a temple of serenity.
Nowhere was there a token of vulgar sensualism; the actress, the
ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art. On the dwarf
book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of old and
new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers. Fifteen years
had gone to the adorning of this sanctuary; of money, no great sum, for
Glazzard had never commanded more than his younger-brother's portion of
a yearly five hundred pounds, and all his tastes were far from being
represented in the retreat where he spent his hours of highest
enjoyment and endeavour. Of late he had been beset by embarrassments
which a man of his stamp could ill endure: depreciation of investments,
need of sordid calculation, humiliating encounters. To-day he tasted
the very dregs of ignoble anguish, and it seemed to him that he should
never again look with delight upon a picture, or feast his soul with
music, or care to open a book.
A knock at the door aroused him. It was a civil-tongued serving-woman
who came to ask if he purposed having luncheon at home to-day. No; he
was on the point of going forth.
Big Ben was striking twelve. At a quarter-past, Glazzard took a cab
which conveyed him to one of the Inns of Court. He ascended stairs, and
reached a door on which was inscribed the name of Mr. Stark, Solicitor.
An office-boy at once admitted him to the innermost room, where he was
greeted with much friendliness by a short, stout man, with gleaming
visage, full lips, chubby hands.
"Well, what is it now?" inquired the visitor, who had been summoned
hither by a note that morning.
Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his
friend's arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting
against a chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting.
"What have you to say to that?"
"The ugliest thing I've seen for a long time."
"But--but--" the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness--"but do
know whose it is?"
The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a
duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls.
"I know whose you _think_ it is," replied Glazzard, coldly. His face
still had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but
just opened after the oppression of nightmare. "But it isn't."
"Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy."
Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face
and tone that the connoisseur's dogmatism troubled him more than he
wished to have it thought.
"Winterbottom warrants it," he added, with a triumphant jerk of his
plump body.
"Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated. That is no Morland;
take my word for it. Was that all you wanted me for?"
Mr. Stark's good-nature was severely tried. Mental suffering had made
Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on
questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous.
"You're out of sorts this morning," conjectured his legal friend. "Let
Morland be for the present. I had another reason for asking you to
call, but don't stay unless you like."
Glazzard looked round the office.
"Well?" he asked, more gently.
"Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham. Any special reason?"
"Yes. But I can't talk about it."
"I was down there myself last Sunday. I talked politics with the local
wiseacres, and--do you know, it has made me think of you ever since?"
"How so?"
Mr. Stark consulted his watch.
"I'm at leisure for just nineteen minutes. If you care to sit down, I
have an idea I should like to put before you."
The visitor seated himself and crossed his legs. His countenance gave
small promise of attention.
"You know," resumed Mr. Stark, leaning forward and twiddling his
thumbs, "that they're hoping to get rid of Welwyn-Baker at the next
election?"
"What of that?"
"Toby Liversedge talks of coming forward--but _that_ won't do."
"Probably not."
The solicitor bent still more and tapped his friend's knee.
"Glazzard, here is your moment. Here is your chance of getting what you
want. Liversedge is reluctant to stand; I know that for certain. To a
more promising man he'll yield with pleasure.--St! st! listen to
me!--you are that man. Go down; see Toby; see the wiseacres and
wire-pullers; get your name in vogue! It's cut out for you. Act now, or
never again pretend that you want a chance."
A smile of disdain settled upon Glazzard's lips, but his eyes had lost
their vacancy.
"On the Radical side?" he asked, mockingly. "For Manchester and
Brummagem?"
"For Parliament, my dear boy! For Westminster, St. Stephen's,
distinction, a career! I should perhaps have thought of your taking
Welwyn-Baker's place, but there are many reasons against it. You would
lose the support of your brother and all his friends. Above all,
Polterham will go Liberal--mark my prediction!"
"I doubt it."
"I haven't time to give you all my reasons. Dine with me this evening,
will you?"
"Can't. Engaged to Quarrier."
"All right!" said the latter. "To-morrow, then?"
"Yes, I will dine to-morrow."
Mr. Stark jumped up.
"Think of it. I can't talk longer now; there's the voice of a client
I'm expecting. Eight sharp tomorrow!"
Glazzard took his leave.