THE HOUSE OF THE FIVE GABLES
It was six o'clock as the carriage passed Swiss Cottage station and ten
minutes later when they had climbed the stiff hill to the Heath. Alban
had not often ridden in a carriage, but he would have found his
sensations very difficult to set down. The glossy cushions, the fine
ivory and silver fittings, were ornaments to be touched with caressing
fingers as one touches the coat of a beautiful animal or the ripe bloom
upon fruit. Just to loll back in such a vehicle, to watch the houses and
the people and the streets, was an experience he had not hitherto
imagined. The smooth motion was a delight to him. He felt that he could
continue such a journey to the ends of the earth, resting at his ease,
untroubled by those never ended questions upon which poverty insisted.
"Is it far yet, sir--is Mr. Gessner's house a long way off?"
He asked the question as one who desired an affirmative reply. The
parson, however, believed that his charge was already wearied; and he
said eagerly:
"It is just over there between the trees, my lad. We shall be with our
good friend in five minutes now. Perhaps you know that you are on
Hampstead Heath?"
"I came here once with little Lois Boriskoff--on a Bank Holiday. It was
not like this then. If Mr. Gessner is rich, why does he live in a place
where people come to keep Bank Holiday? I should have thought he would
have got away from them."
"He is not able to get away. His business takes him into town every
day--he goes by motor-car and comes back at night to breathe pure air.
Bank Holidays do not occur every day, Mr. Kennedy. Fortunately for some
of us they are but four a year."
"Of course you don't like going amongst all those poor people, Mr.
Geary. That's natural. I didn't until I had to, and then I found them
much the same as the rest. You haven't any poor in Hampstead, I am
told."
Mr. Geary fell into the trap all unsuspectingly.
"Thank heaven"--he began, and then checking himself clumsily, he added,
"that is to say we are comparatively well off as neighborhoods go. Our
people are not idlers, however. Some of the foremost manufacturers in
the country live in Hampstead."
"While their work-people starve in Whitechapel. It's an odd world, isn't
it, Mr. Geary--and I don't suppose we shall ever know much about it. If
I had made a fortune by other people's work, I think I should like some
of them to live in Hampstead too. But you see, I'm prejudiced."
Sidney Geary looked at the boy as though he had heard a heresy. To him
the gospel of life meant a yearly dole of coals at Christmas and a bout
of pleasant "charity organizations" during the winter months. He would
as soon have questioned the social position of the Archbishop of
Canterbury as have criticised the conduct and the acts of the
manufacturers who supported his church so generously.
"I am afraid you have received some pernicious teaching down yonder," he
said, with a shake of his abundant locks. "Mr. Gessner, I may tell you,
has an abhorrence of socialism. If you wish to please him, avoid the
topic."
"But I do not wish to please him--I do not even know him. And I'm not a
socialist, sir. If Mr. Gessner had ever lived in Whitechapel; if he had
starved in a garret, he would understand me. I don't suppose it matters,
though, whether he does or not, for we are hardly likely to discuss such
things together."
"My dear lad, he has not sent for you for that, believe me. His
conversation will be altogether of a different nature. Let me implore
you to remember that he desires to be your benefactor--not your judge.
There is no kinder heart, no more worthy gentleman in all London to-day
than Richard Gessner. That much I know and my opportunities are unique."
Alban could make no reply to this; nor did he desire one. They had
passed the Jack Straw's Castle by this time, and now the carriage
entered a small circular drive upon the right-hand side of the road and
drew up before a modern red-bricked mansion, by no means ostentatious or
externally characteristic of the luxury for which its interior was
famed. Just a trim garden surrounded the house and boasted trees
sufficient to hide the picturesque gables from the eyes of the curious.
There were stables in the northern wing and a great conservatory built
out toward the south. Alban had but an instant to glance at the
beautiful facade when a young butler opened the door to them and ushered
them into a vast hall, panelled to the ceiling in oak and dimly lighted
by Gothic windows of excellent stained glass. Here a silence, amazing in
its profundity, permitted the very ticking of the clocks to be heard.
All sounds from without, the hoot of the motors, the laughter of
children, the grating voices of loafers on the Heath, were instantly
shut out. An odor of flowers and fine shrubs permeated the apartment.
The air was cool and clear as though it had passed through a lattice of
ice.
"Please to wait one moment, Kennedy, and I will go to Mr. Gessner. He
expects us and we shall not have long to wait. Is he not in the library,
Fellows--ah, I thought he would be there."
The young butler said "Yes, sir;" but Alban perceived that it was in a
tone which implied some slight note of contempt. "That fellow," he
thought, "would have kicked me into the street if I had called here
yesterday--and his father, I suppose, kept a public-house or a fish
shop." The reflection flattered his sense of irony; and sitting
negligently upon a broad settee, he studied the hall closely, its
wonderful panelling, the magnificently carved balustrades, the great
organ up there in the gallery--and lastly the portraits. Alban liked
subject pictures, and these masterpieces of Sargent and Luke Fildes did
not make an instantaneous appeal to him. Indeed, he had cast but a brief
glance upon the best of them before his eye fell upon a picture which
brought the blood to his cheeks as though a hand had slapped them. It
was the portrait of the supposed Polish girl whom he had seen upon the
balcony of the house in St. James' Square--last night as he visited the
caves.
Alban stared at the picture open-mouthed and so lost in amazement that
all other interests of his visit were instantly lost to his memory. A
hard dogmatic common-sense could make little of a coincidence so
amazing. If he had wished to think that the unknown resembled little
Lois Boriskoff--if he had wished so much last night, the portrait, seen
in this dim light, flattered his desire amazingly. He knew, however,
that the resemblance was chiefly one of nationality; and in the same
instant he remembered that he had been brought to the house of a Pole.
Was it possible, might he dare to imagine that Paul Boriskoff's
friendship had contrived this strange adventure. Some excitement
possessed him at the thought, for his spirit had ever been adventurous.
He could not but ask himself to whose house had he come then and for
what ends? And why did he find a portrait of the Polish girl therein?
Alban's eyes were still fixed upon the picture when the young butler
returned to summon him to the library. He was not a little ashamed to be
found intent upon such an occupation, and he rose immediately and
followed the man through a small conservatory, aglow with blooms, and so
at once into the sanctum where the master of the house awaited him.
Perfect in its way as the library was, Alban had no eyes for it in the
presence of Richard Gessner whom thus he met for the first time. Here,
truly, he might forget even the accident of the portrait. For he stood
face to face with a leader among men and he was clever enough to
recognize as much immediately.
Richard Gessner was at that time fifty-three years of age. A man of
medium height, squarely built and of fine physique, he had the face
rather of a substantial German than of the usually somewhat cadaverous
Pole. A tousled black beard hid the jowl almost completely; the eyes
were very clear and light blue in color; the head massive above the neck
but a little low at the forehead. Alban noticed how thin and fragile the
white hand seemed as it rested upon a strip of blotting-paper upon the
writing-table; the clothes, he thought, were little better than those
worn by any foreman in Yarrow's works; the tie was absolutely shabby and
the watch-chain nothing better than two lengths of black silk with a
seal to keep them together. And yet the mental power, the personal
magnetism of Richard Gessner made itself felt almost before he had
uttered a single word.
"Will you take a seat, Mr. Kennedy--I am dining in the city to-night and
my time is brief. Mr. Geary, I think, has spoken to you of my
intentions."
Alban looked the speaker frankly in the face and answered without
hesitation:
"He has told me that you wish to employ me, sir."
"That I wish to employ you--yes, it is not good for us to be idle. But
he has told you something more than that?"
"Indeed," the curate interrupted, "very much more, Mr. Gessner. I have
told Kennedy that you are ready and willing to take an interest, the
greatest possible interest, in his future."
The banker--for as such Richard Gessner was commonly known--received the
interjection a little impatiently and, turning his back slightly, he
fixed an earnest look upon Alban's face and watched him critically while
he spoke.
"Mr. Kennedy," he said, "I never give my reasons. You enter this house
to confer a personal obligation upon me. You will remain in that spirit.
I cannot tell you to-night, I may be unable to tell you for many years
why you have been chosen or what are the exact circumstances of our
meeting. This, however, I may say--that you are fully entitled to the
position I offer you and that it is just and right I should receive you
here. You will for the present remain at Hampstead as one of my family.
There will be many opportunities of talking over your future--but I wish
you first to become accustomed to my ways and to this house, and to
trouble your head with no speculations of the kind which I could not
assist. I am much in the city, but Mr. Geary will take my place and you
can speak to him as you would to me. He is my Major Domo, and needless
to say I in him repose the most considerable confidence."
He turned again toward Mr. Geary and seemed anxious to atone for his
momentary impatience. The voice in which he spoke was not unpleasant,
and he used the English language with an accent which did not offend.
Rare lapses into odd and unusual sentences betrayed him occasionally to
the keen hearer, but Alban, in his desire to know the man and to
understand him, made light of these.
"I am to remain in this house, sir--but why should I remain, what right
have I to be here?" he asked very earnestly.
The banker waved the objection away a little petulantly.
"The right of every man who has a career offered to him. Be content with
that since I am unable to tell you more."
"But, sir, I cannot be content. Why should I stay here as your guest
when I do not know you at all?"
"My lad, have I not said that the obligation is entirely on my side. I
am offering you that to which you have every just claim. Children do not
usually refuse the asylum which their father's door opens to them. I am
willing to take you into this house as a son--would it not be a little
ungrateful to argue with me? From what I know of him, Alban Kennedy is
not so foolish. Let Mr. Geary show you the house while I am dressing. We
shall meet at breakfast and resume this pleasant conversation."
He stood up as he spoke and began to gather his papers together. To
Alban the scene was amazingly false and perplexing. He was perfectly
aware that this stranger had no real interest in him at all; he felt,
indeed, that his presence was almost resented and that he was being
received into the house as upon compulsion. All the talk of obligation
and favor and justice remained powerless to deceive. The key to the
enigma did not lie therein; nor was it to be found in the churchman's
suavity and the fairy tale which he had recited. Had the meeting
terminated less abruptly, Alban believed that his own logic would have
carried the day and that he would have left the house as he had come to
it. But the clever suggestion of haste on the banker's part, his hurried
manner and his domineering gestures, left a young lad quite without
idea. Such an old strategist as Richard Gessner should have known how to
deal with that honest original, Alban Kennedy.
"We will meet at breakfast," the banker repeated; "meanwhile, consider
Mr. Geary as your friend and counsellor. He shall by me so be appointed.
I have a great work for you to do, Mr. Kennedy, but the education, the
books, the knowledge--they must come first. Go now and think about
dinner--or perhaps you would like to walk about the grounds a little
while. Mr. Geary will show you the way--I leave you in his hands."
He folded the papers up and thrust them quickly in a drawer as he spoke.
The interview was plainly at an end. He had welcomed a son as he would
have welcomed any stranger who had brought a letter of introduction
which decency compelled him to read.