All went well in the Smethby circle, indeed things had never before
gone so smoothly in that not unprosperous group. Harriet, it is true,
did not get more manageable in the Robert Crewe direction; she was
perfectly ready to flatter and please the Australian cousin, and had
an eye to the main chance as keen as others; but the young doctor was
not to be jeopardised. Thus Harriet might be regarded as an exception;
so, of course, might Mr Crewe; but after all, as he does not actually
appear in our narrative, he need not count for much.
There were frequent indications that the ridiculous disguise, the
absurd plea of poverty, at first put forth by Styles was being
gradually discarded—was ‘peeling off,’ Mr Joe said, with a happy
touch of description. But Mr Smethby would not see all these
indications—pretended not to notice any flaws; he would humour his
cousin just as long as the latter chose.
The proposed investment was still in favour, was about to be made,
indeed; and so earnest was Cousin George in the matter, that when
Smethby said he had given notice at the bank for his money, he
confidentially told him that if there was any difficulty about getting
it, his friend would advance the sum for a week or two—or for a year,
if Smethby would like it. The latter thanked him, but declined. Of
course he could see through this, as he had seen through the other
flimsy screens.
The bank was good enough, he explained, and so it was, for the money
was duly paid to him; and it was proposed that they should go up to
town together, Smethby and Cousin George, where the latter would see
his friend’s broker and arrange for the purchase of this stock.
In a confiding mood, not usual with him, Smethby had proposed that
Styles should send a cheque up, or go up with it by himself, if going
up were necessary; but the latter declined to do this. He seemed to
have a strange dislike to cheques or drafts, and as he said: ‘It was
not their way at the diggings; a man liked to look after his own
business there.’ So Cousin Nick must go with him.
He, Cousin George, had also asked Harriet what kind of bracelet she
preferred; for his friend had desired him to consult some lady’s taste,
as he, the friend, was thinking of making a little present. Harriet was
not proof against this temptation, so explained that amethyst bracelets
with amethyst pendants—or sapphire and diamonds, if she _did_ have her
choice—was what she liked. Cousin George, with a highly expressive
wink on hearing this, said his friend would be much obliged by her
opinion. He should perhaps see him on the next day but one when he,
Styles, and her father went to London.
‘All which means, my dear,’ said Smethby, when he had a chance of
whispering to his daughter, ‘that this farce is about to end. He means
to present me with the whole of these twenty thousand shares, and you
will have a present also. Beyond this, you will have an offer in plain
language—his language has already been plain enough to show what he
means; so, be a sensible girl, and don’t lose a chance the like of
which will not occur again, if you live for a hundred years.’
Harriet did not reply; there was indeed a recurrence of the pouting and
flouncing; she could not resist the jewelry; but when Robert Crewe was
endangered, she exhibited some of the old perverseness.
In the morning, Cousin George took a stroll into the town, as was his
habit. Smethby knew quite well that his eccentric relative went to the
post-office, whither his letters, as every one knew, were directed.
No one, however, pretended to suspect anything like this arrangement,
which was just as shallow and easily penetrated as his other schemes.
On his return, he was in higher spirits than usual; a little fitful,
perhaps, but certainly more jocular and fuller of sly allusions than he
had hitherto allowed himself to be. This was evidence enough, to such
a man as Smethby, to show that the end of the scheme was approaching.
He broached a capital joke—he undoubtedly so considered it—in the way
of a question as to what his cousin Nick would have thought of and
said to him, Styles, if he had come back from the diggings loaded with
shiners—‘Not one or two, Nick, but some scores of thousands, eh!—what
then, Nick?’ he exclaimed.
Smethby was of course acute enough to seize such a palpable chance,
so replied with the utmost heartiness and frankness, that, delighted
as he should have been at such good fortune, it never could have made
any difference in his feelings to his old friend and cousin, George
Styles. The latter grasped his hand at this, and seemed for the moment
almost overcome by his feelings. He was indeed about to say something,
which Smethby expected would prove a clearing-up avowal; but he checked
himself, and saying abruptly, ‘No; wait a day or two,’ turned the
conversation.
Yet, all through the day, there was an uneasiness in Cousin George’s
manner which could not escape the attention of those around him; and he
took several short strolls in the open air to soothe his nerves, which,
he admitted, seemed rather shaky. On the last occasion that he took his
saunter, it was in the twilight, and in the glance which he naturally
threw around him before entering the house, he could see, standing in
relief against the clear summer sky, the figures of two men, who were
apparently conversing earnestly as they paused on a knoll not far from
Mr Smethby’s residence.
Then Styles went in, and found the lamps were just lighted, the
curtains were drawn, while his host and his daughter, evidently in the
best of moods, were awaiting him. With a decision which was almost
like abruptness, Styles began about the visit to London on the morrow.
He explained, as he had done before, that until the transaction was
completed, he did not want any one, not even the broker, to know that
the stock was not entirely for his friend, who had promised to take
over all the disposable shares; and that was why he had asked Mr
Smethby to provide money instead of a cheque for the payment.
‘I understand,’ smiled Smethby; ‘and, as you know, I have arranged to
get notes in the morning. But here is the cheque, if that would suit
you—you can have it to-night, if you like.’
‘No; O no!’ returned Styles; but the response came so slowly, that it
seemed as if he had hesitated before deciding. ‘There will be no use in
that; so long as I can see the broker alone, that will do.’
‘Just as you please,’ said Mr Smethby. As he paused, a ring at the
street door was heard.
‘And now a word or two about that little villa my friend thought of
buying at Richmond,’ resumed Styles. ‘I had a letter this morning’——
‘If you please, sir,’ said the maid-servant, appearing at the door, ‘a
gentleman wishes to see you.’
‘To see me, or to see Mr Styles?’ asked her master. Another ring was
heard at the street door as he said this.
‘I believe I want to see both of you,’ said a voice behind the
servant, which voice being deep and harsh in its tone, and coming so
unexpectedly, made each person in the room start; ‘so I shall take the
liberty of coming in here,’ continued ‘the gentleman;’ then, suiting
the action to the word, he pushed past the attendant, and came close to
the table which filled the centre of the room.
All looked at him in amazement; while, before any one spoke, Mr Joe
and Mr Brooks, who had called just then to have a chat with Mr Styles,
also entered, and gazed at the stranger with as much astonishment as
was shown by their friends. The stranger was an elderly, grizzled, but
powerfully built man, with hard features, high cheek-bones, indented
nose, square jaws, hidden by his stiff iron-gray beard, and moustache.
‘You are Mr Smethby—Nicholas Smethby, I believe: in fact, I know it,’
said the man.—‘But may I ask who this is?’ pointing to Cousin George as
he spoke.
‘I really do not know what your business here is, or why you make this
inquiry,’ returned Smethby, a good deal nettled by the intrusion;
‘but I certainly am Nicholas Smethby, and this gentleman is Mr George
Styles. Have you any business with either of us?’
‘Did you ever see George Styles look like a cross between a
skittle-sharp and a stage smuggler?’ continued the visitor, ‘which is
what this fellow looks like.’
‘Do you mean’—— began Cousin George, but he spoke falteringly; while Mr
Joe and Mr Brooks, who stood behind the stranger, could see that the
speaker turned pale.
‘Yes; I do mean,’ interrupted the visitor; ‘and I mean a good deal
more than that, as you will find.’ He flourished an ugly-looking stick
which he carried, as if to give emphasis to these words.—‘As for you,
Nick Smethby, I am surprised and ashamed to think you could be such a
fool as to mistake a fellow like this for your own cousin—for _me_!’
Here every hearer started in reality; and Smethby, drawing a long
breath, looked from one to the other with an expression which clearly
showed that he did not mean to contest the announcement.
‘Do you think,’ resumed the new-comer, ‘that a man, after twenty years’
beating about the diggings, which I have had, could look as young as
he did when he started? which is pretty nearly what this fellow does,
in spite of his make-up.—I have come back with enough to pay you your
loan, Nick, but I have been down very low in my time. I have fought
two battles in the colonial ring, and I am going to show this fellow,
presently, how I won them.’
‘All this is dreadfully mysterious!’ exclaimed Smethby; ‘yet one thing
is clear enough: I will swear you are my cousin George Styles. But
then, who is this?—Yes, who are you, you impostor?’ he cried, turning
sharply upon his guest, who gasped once or twice, as though trying
to speak, but was paralysed by the new-comer, from whom he could not
remove his eyes.
‘Don’t trouble yourself about him yet,’ pursued the second Styles. ‘I
will just say what I have to say, and then I will get it all out of
him; you will see that. I fancy, however, I am only just in time. Is
it true that you have agreed to go up to London with this person and
invest a lot of money among his confederates?’
The ‘first cousin,’ as he may fairly be called, groaned at this;
while Mr Smethby uttered, as well he might, an ejaculation of intense
astonishment at finding his intentions and plans thus known to a man
whom he had not seen for twenty years.
‘I see you are surprised, Nick, and that our customer there feels he
is bowled out,’ said the stranger. ‘But after all, there is nothing
to wonder at in the matter. I inquired my way at the station—having
learnt your address from your old office—and a gentleman who overheard
me, kindly offered to show me the place. I told him who I was; and he
was just as much as flabbergasted as you are; but he was delighted
as well. He told me all about this’—— The speaker paused while he
cast a look of utter contempt at his predecessor, and then went on,
evidently unable to find an epithet suitably strong. ‘He told me he was
a doctor, by name Robert Crewe.’ (It was now Harriet’s turn to start
and change colour.) ‘We walked together to a point just below here,
where he turned off at the brow of a hill. He not only told me about
the impostor who was taking my name, but pointed him out as he slunk
in at the gate.’ (The unlucky cousin remembered, and groaned audibly
as he did so, the two men whom he had seen in converse on the rise
in the road.) ‘So here I am; and the first thing I mean to do is to
collar this fellow, and thrash him until he has not a sound inch of
skin on his carcase.—But don’t you turn pale, my dear.’ This was said
to Harriet, and the speaker raised his cap with a sort of reassuring
politeness. ‘Though I have come straight from the mines, I do not
forget what is due to a lady; and I shall take the fellow outside to
have his thrashing, and he shall have it now.’ With this, he made a
stride forward, and thrusting his huge hand inside the man’s collar,
clutched him with a grip which might have been of iron, and with a
single tug pulled him to his feet; but the victim seemed unable to
stand, and sank back on his chair all of a heap.
Harriet uttered a scream as the real Cousin George bent over the man,
evidently intent upon dragging him out by main force; while Mr Joe and
Mr Brooks seized his arm, and urged him not to be violent—Joe at the
same moment briefly introducing himself and his brother-in-law.
‘I am glad to see you again, anyhow, young Joe,’ returned Styles. ‘I
remember buying you a drum the last time I was in your company.—But you
had better let me settle this fellow at once.’
‘Spare me!’ whined the man. He could not speak comfortably with such a
grip on his collar and with such knuckles buried in his neck.
‘Why, what I am going to do is real mercy to you!’ retorted his captor.
‘You will be sore for a week or ten days, and then be as well as ever;
but if I give you over to the police—— Well, as you seem to dread a
simple licking so much, we will go to the police. Come on!’
Another tremendous tug here dragged up the unfortunate creature, who
broke into most despairing petitions, imploring that they would not
give him up to the police—_they_ knew him, he said.
‘Why, confound it! you do not suppose you are to be let off scot-free,
after such a game as this, do you?’ exclaimed the other, whose
astonishment was so clearly genuine, that Joe and Brooks could not
repress a smile.
‘I will confess everything; I throw myself on your mercy!’ urged the
man; ‘but don’t give me up to the police. I am sure to get it hot, if
you do.’
‘So you ought!’ ejaculated Styles.
‘I think if you were to quit your hold on his neck, he could speak
freer,’ said Mr Joe; ‘and I should really like to know how all this
came about.’
‘Ah! so he might,’ assented Styles, acting on the suggestion. ‘I can
easily catch hold of him again when I want him. I’ll bet he does not
give us the slip.’
In spite of the threat conveyed in the last speech, the culprit’s face
visibly brightened after Joe’s remark. Mr Smethby had remained silent
all this time, being not only confused with the unexpected revelation,
but a little ashamed, possibly, of his own management, which was so
over-cunning as to make him a readier prey to the swindler.
‘Well, go on,’ was the rough command of Styles. ‘Who are you? Where do
you come from?’
‘My name is John Smith,’ began the man. A furtive leer which he cast
upon the company as he said this, might have been involuntary; but
certain it is that none of those who saw it believed he was speaking
the truth. ‘I had got into trouble,’ he continued, ‘and wanted some
money for a fresh start. While I was at my wits’ end to get this, a
pal—a friend—who knew I had been in a difficulty, said’ (he paused
here, and glanced at Smethby)—‘he said there was a flat to be had at
Valeborough, if he was properly worked.—No offence, I hope, sir. It was
not me who said this; it was my friend.’
‘It was correct enough, whoever said it,’ replied Smethby, to whom the
remark had been addressed.
‘He knew a lot about the family affairs here,’ continued Smith: ‘he had
scraped about and picked the particulars up, till he thought he had got
quite enough to enable a man to act as the cousin they had not seen for
twenty years; but he owned he had not got the headpiece to keep the
game up for any time; so I was to be the cousin; and he was to be a
friend who knew me, and was to manage—as he did very well—to get hold
of Mr Smethby, as if by accident, and tell him all about the good luck
of his old friend Styles, and how he was going to try on a game with
his cousin Mr Smethby.’
‘I never thought I was such an idiot; but go on,’ said the host.
‘We raked up some money between us,’ resumed Smith; ‘but it was a hard
job to get enough, as of course I had to be pretty liberal; but luckily
this gentleman would not let me spend much.—However, I got a letter
this morning, saying that Ben—my friend—could not send another penny,
and that unless I could make a haul at once, the thing must burst up.
But the business was nearly ripe. I had prepared the way for persuading
my cousin, as I called him, to invest a lot of money, by dropping a
pretended letter from my stockbroker, which I knew they would find and
read. In fact, there was no difficulty all through; and I had arranged
for a visit to London to-morrow, so I was in hope that’——
‘That you could make the haul,’ said Smethby, as the other paused. ‘How
did you mean to do it, when I should be with you? I was to go to the
office, you know.’
‘I meant to take you to a place where you would wait in a room, while
I went into what you would think was only an inner office, but which I
knew had a way out,’ answered Smith. ‘In fact, if I had once touched
the money, there would have been an end of it.’
‘And your friend with the villa and the bracelets?’ asked Smethby.
‘All put in to make it seem more natural,’ said the man. ‘But I have
not robbed your place of a pennyworth ever since I have been here, I
assure you. I hope you will take that into consideration.’
He went on a little further, until he was interrupted by Styles, who
led him to the door—no force was now wanted—and telling him that he
would give him in charge to the nearest policeman if he ever saw him
again, pitched him out on the dark road, and then returned to the
circle he had left.
At first, Smethby was terribly chopfallen, but recovered ere long,
and joined in the laugh with which first ‘Cousin George’ and then the
others reviewed the past. Harriet was not the noisiest of the party,
but she was not the least happy, and ‘Cousin George’ appeared to have
taken a great fancy for her.
Styles paid his debt to ‘Nick Smethby’ that night, to prove, as he
said, that he was not another impostor, and said, besides, that
while he should not bother about amethyst bracelets or diamonds and
sapphires, yet, if that young doctor had the courage to get married
within three months, and a few hundreds would help him to get into
practice, why, he George Styles, had enough for such a purpose, and
Harriet should take care of it, until it was wanted.
Altogether, although rougher and coarser than the first cousin, this
second edition was a great improvement; and settling down as he did in
Valeborough, he was a regular visitor, not only at Mr Smethby’s but
at Dr Crewe’s, when the latter set up his own house, after an early
marriage to Miss Harriet.
And improvident and wild as George had once been, he was steady enough
in his friendships now, so he never left the little circle; and when
he died, his property—a good deal less than the hundreds of thousands
attributed to the first cousin—went to the children of Dr and Mrs
Crewe, with which cluster of young people he had always been a great
favourite.