GERALD AT PEMBRIDGE.
The mention of Matthew Kelvin's name by Miss Bellamy touched a chord
of recollection in the mind of Gerald Warburton, but some time elapsed
before he could trace back in his memory to the particular occasion on
which he had heard it last. He had been groping about for some time,
when suddenly a single flash revealed to him everything that he was
looking for. It showed him a country inn in the Lake district, and two
men, weather-bound by the unceasing rain, perforce dependent on each
other for companionship and the practice of those minor social virtues
which such an occasion should undoubtedly call forth. They meet as
strangers meet under such circumstances, but by the end of the third
day they seem to have known each other for years. Glad as they are on
the fourth morning to find that the clouds have dispersed and that the
hill-tops can be seen again, they do not part without a certain
feeling of regret, or without a cordial grip of the hand and a hope
that, unlikely as such a thing seems, they may one day meet again. One
of those men is Matthew Kelvin, the other is Gerald Warburton. Kelvin,
at parting, had given Gerald his address, and had begged of him that,
should he ever find himself in the neighbourhood of Pembridge, he
would not fail to look him up. Gerald, at the time, had no address to
give. In fact, it was not as Gerald Warburton, but under the name of
"Jack Pomeroy," that he had made Kelvin's acquaintance.
A year or two previously, in the course of one of his rare interviews
with his father, the latter had said to Gerald: "You are a disgrace to
the name of Warburton!"
"If that is the case, sir," said Gerald, bitterly, "it shall be
disgraced no longer."
When he next went out into the world, it was as John Pomeroy. His full
name was Gerald John Warburton. So he took the John and tacked it to a
name that had been common in his mother's family for generations; and
it was as Jack Pomeroy, a vagabondising young artist, rather out at
elbows, as clever young men often are, but a decidedly amusing
companion for a wet day, that he had made Kelvin's acquaintance.
"I wonder whether he will know me again," muttered Gerald to himself,
as he walked down the main street of Pembridge on his way to Mr.
Kelvin's office. "There was a little about him that I liked, and a
great deal that I didn't like. His joviality was merely on the
surface; it had no foundation in his disposition. It was a mere
will-o'-the-wisp, flickering fitfully over the darker depths of his
character. Me he tolerated as one tolerates a droll when tired of
one's own company, and with nothing more serious to do. For the time
being he even made believe to be a Bohemian himself. It was a phase of
character that he had rarely encountered before, and for forty-eight
hours it fascinated him; forty-eight hours later he would have turned
his back on it and me with a sneer.
"It is indeed a strange chance that has brought us together again
after so long a time! I will tell him neither my name nor my errand
for a little while. I will go to him as the Jack Pomeroy in whose
society he once spent three days of bad weather. I will even pretend
to be hard up, and to stand in need of a helping-hand. Probably he
will order me out of the office; perchance he will ask me to dinner
and put a sovereign into my hand at parting. It will be time enough to
tell him my real business after I have put him to the test. Besides
which, by concealing my identity for a little while, I may perhaps be
able to glean some information as to his reason for keeping back for
so long a time the contents of the sealed packet from Eleanor." It was
in pursuance of this idea that Gerald had put on for the nonce an
older suit of clothes than common, and had locked up in his
portmanteau at the hotel his watch and chain and scarf-pin. He
found Kelvin's office in due course, and made his way into the
entrance-hall, and was there received by Mr. Piper.
That young gentleman was what he himself would have called "down in
the dumps." The obligations of gentility extend from the highest
stratum of society to the lowest, and Mr. Piper felt that this morning
he had lost caste in the eyes of Mr. Hammond--his guide, philosopher,
and--in a far-off, Olympian kind of way--his friend. Mr. Hammond,
walking down a by-street on his way to business, had come suddenly on
Pod, who, in company with several other youths, was scraping with a
knife the sweet interstices of an empty sugar-cask that was standing
on the pavement in front of a grocer's shop. Unseen till he laid his
gloved hand on Pod's shoulder, Mr. Hammond had said to him: "Here's a
penny for you, Piper, to buy some sweetmeats with, but do, for
goodness' sake, leave the sugar-cask alone." And so, with a smile and
a sneer, had gone daintily on his way. Pod felt as if he could have
bitten his head off, had such an anatomical feat been at all possible.
He would not have cared half so much had he been seen by anyone
else--even by Kelvin himself. But to have been seen thus ignominiously
engaged by the elegant, the scented, the fastidious Mr. Hammond!
Besides which, this was not the first occasion on which Mr. Hammond
had found him engaged in a pursuit derogatory to that assumption of
manhood and gentility which it was the secret ambition of his life to
maintain in the eyes of his patron. On his way home, one evening, Pod
had been overtaken by a temptation which he found it impossible to
resist. The temptation on this occasion took the shape of marbles. Pod
had fallen in with three or four of his old schoolmates engaged in a
game of knuckle-down, and, fired by the recollection of his prowess in
olden days, had for once flung gentility to the winds.
Carefully depositing in a corner his chimney-pot hat, for the next ten
minutes he was a boy again. This time, also, it was Mr. Hammond's
voice which recalled him to a consideration of how far he had
forgotten himself. "Well done, Piper," he said, as he came suddenly
round the corner. "With practice and perseverance you will make a
tolerable player. By-the-by, I promised to buy you something on your
birthday. What shall it be? A hoop, or a kite, or a pretty coloured
ball that you and the baby can amuse yourselves with in wet weather?"
This had been very galling to Pod, especially when said before his
schoolmates; and now, to-day, he had given Mr. Hammond an opportunity
of sneering at him for the second time. This Mr. Hammond was Matthew
Kelvin's one articled pupil. Attracted by Pod's shrewdness, and keen
common sense, he had "taken him in hand," as he himself phrased it;
although whether such taking in hand would ultimately prove beneficial
to Pod, seemed somewhat doubtful at present. Mr. Hammond found Pod
useful as a go-between in his love-affairs. He was engaged to a young
lady against the wishes of her friends. Any letters sent by him
through the post were intercepted, and it was only by trusting to
Pod's skill and diplomacy as a messenger that he could contrive to
communicate with her at all. In such a case as this, Pod might be
trusted implicitly, and Hammond knew it. He was rewarded chiefly with
cigars, and now and then with an odd half-crown, or a pair of soiled
lavender kid gloves; which latter articles, when cleaned, looked
almost as good as new, and although somewhat large, created quite a
sensation among Pod's friends and acquaintances, when worn by him on
his evening stroll along the Ladies' Walk. Then Mr. Hammond had made
Pod a present of an old silver-mounted meerschaum, which, although he
found it somewhat full-flavoured at present, he would doubtless be
able to smoke with comfort when he should have practised on it for
five or six months longer.
But far beyond any pecuniary reward was to be counted the happiness of
being in Mr. Hammond's confidence, and the inestimable boon of his
society. Since Mr. Hammond had taken him by the hand, Pod felt himself
to be quite a different sort of person--he had, as it were, emerged
from the grub into the butterfly. The world and he were on altogether
different terms from what they had been on twelve months ago. A year
ago, for instance, he would not have thought of wearing a chimney-pot
hat, or of wearing stand-up paper collars of the same shape as Mr.
Hammond's, or of carrying a slim silk umbrella to and from business.
To be sure, the umbrella, however elegant and even useful it might
seem when folded tightly up, was in reality so worn and dilapidated as
to be quite incapable of being opened; but as this was a secret known
to Pod alone, it did not matter greatly. Then it was surely a
brilliant stroke of inventiveness to allow himself to be seldom seen
in the town without a _Times_ newspaper under his arm--generally three
or four days old; but that was of no consequence. To be so seen seemed
to add a foot to his stature, and it is impossible to say how much to
his consequence.
But with all his precocious ways, Pod was a good son to his mother--a
poor hard-working widow with a large family, of whom Pod was the
eldest. He did his best to help her in every way, and would nurse the
baby for hours together when he got home of an evening. He was not
unmindful that his education had been a poor one, and three evenings a
week he attended a night school, where he laid a tolerable foundation
both of French and Latin; but of this he said nothing to Mr. Hammond.
Neither did he say anything of the numerous books he was in the habit
of obtaining from the town library, and over which he would pore of a
night long after everyone else in the house was fast asleep.
Gerald Warburton was duly ushered by Pod into the private office.
"If you can wait a minute or two, Mr. Kelvin won't be long," he said,
as he handed Gerald a chair and a newspaper.
Five minutes later, Matthew Kelvin opened the door and walked in.
Gerald rose as he entered, smiled, and held out his hand. For a moment
or two Kelvin was evidently at a loss.
"I seem to know your face," he said, "and yet you must excuse me if
for the moment I fail to recollect where I have seen it before."
"Don't you recollect Jack Pomeroy and the Jolly Anglers' at Grasmere?"
"Of course, of course!" shaking him by the hand. "How one's memory
fails as one grows older! But sit down and tell me how you have been
getting on all this long time."
"Oh, with the proverbial luck of the rolling stone," said Gerald, as
he resumed his seat.
Kelvin by this time had been able to note his visitor's appearance--to
note that his clothes, although originally well-made, were now worn
and shabby: and Kelvin never liked a man who did not dress well; to
note that there was not a single item of jewellery visible, that his
scarf was without a pin, and his pocket minus a watch, and that
altogether there was a decidedly impecunious look about his unwelcome
Bohemian acquaintance. In Kelvin's estimation, a man who could not
afford to carry a gold watch was hardly worth knowing. He elevated his
eyebrows, and felt sure in his own mind that before ten minutes were
over he should be called upon to disburse five guineas.
"That's the worst of making chance travelling acquaintances," he said
to himself. "They are sure to turn up at some future date, and want
you to do something for them. So many people want you to do something
for them!"
"Not quite made your fortune, then?" he said aloud.
Gerald's only answer was an expressive shrug of the shoulders.
"When I saw you last you talked about going to the Antipodes. What has
brought you back again?"
"Partly that lack of pence with which all really great men are
afflicted, and partly a little private business which required my
presence at home."
"You are a born Bohemian, Pomeroy--one of those incorrigibles on whom
argument and advice alike are thrown away."
"Utterly thrown away--utterly; and I glory in the confession."
"And what are your prospects for the future?"
"I am happy to say that I have no prospects in particular. Never had
such things in my life."
"Nor any present necessities?"
"Ah! now you touch me on a tender point."
"How can I be of service to you? Is there anything I can do for you in
a modest way?"
"Well--you may invite me to dinner if you like."
"That I'll do willingly. I suppose if the dinner were supplemented
with an offer of a five-pound note you would not feel offended."
"Offended! Not a bit of it," said Gerald, with a laugh. "But remember
this, Kelvin, I have not asked you for money."
"Oh, I fully appreciate your delicacy of feeling," answered Kelvin,
not without a sneer. "Well, we dine at six sharp. No company, only my
mother and my cousin."
Gerald rose and took up his hat.
"I suppose you would find it somewhat difficult," said Kelvin,
"after vagabondising about the world for so long a time, to settle
down to any quiet steady employment--too monotonous, and that sort of
thing--eh?"
"I don't know so much about that," said Gerald. "Certainly liberty is
sweet, and it is pleasant to be one's own master. Besides which, as
yet I have given no hostages to fortune, and having only my own
unworthy self to look after, I dare say that I should find it
difficult to settle down into a steady, sober, tax-paying citizen, who
sits on a stool from one year's end to another, and who knows the
amount of his income to a penny. No, I am afraid that I should find
such a life slightly tedious."
Kelvin laughed.
"Why don't you go in for marrying an heiress." he said.
"You talk, mon ami!--talk as if heiresses were as plentiful as
blackberries."
"I don't think your heiress is a difficult fish to catch, especially
by such a clever angler as I do not doubt that you are. But then you
must make up your mind to be indifferent to good looks, and good
breeding, and a few other simple et ceteras."
"Ah! there's the rub."
"But do you mean to say that the idea of marrying for money is one
that you have never turned over in your mind?"
"I can't say that exactly; but my ideas on the point have been very
hazy ones indeed--quite nebulous, I assure you--nothing solid or
tangible about them."
"Nebulosity of ideas is a very bad thing in anybody. The sooner you
bring them down from the clouds and condense them into a practical
shape the better. First catch--not your hare, but your heiress; then
bring all your powers of fascination to bear upon her, and then----"
"My powers of fascination, indeed! You talk of me as if I were a
rattlesnake."
Again Kelvin laughed, then recollecting an appointment, he looked at
his watch.
"Well, don't forget to be here at six sharp," he said.
And with that Gerald went.
"A dinner, a five-pound note, and exit Jack Pomeroy; that is what
Kelvin means," said Gerald to himself. "Well, he might have treated me
worse than that. I'll not tell him who I really am till the last
minute. I wonder what his motive can be for keeping back the
information from Eleanor. But I suppose I shall know all about it by
to-morrow at this time."
Gerald passed a by no means unpleasant evening. Neither Mrs. Kelvin
nor Olive had ever been further from home than Paris. They were eager
in their questions about the different strange places which Gerald had
visited on his travels, and he was by no means loth to gratify their
curiosity. What pleased Kelvin most was to see his mother so lively
and full of spirits.
"Give me a look in at the office about eleven to-morrow," he said to
Gerald, as they parted at the door.
Half an hour later, Kelvin received a telegram which necessitated his
starting for Scotland by the 7 a.m. train next morning.. He was down
betimes to breakfast; but early as it was, Olive was there before him,
waiting to pour out his tea and attend to all his little wants.
"I shall not be able to see Pomeroy," he said. "You can explain to him
bow I have been called away, and tell him that if he will leave his
address I will write to him on my return."
"Have you any idea of doing something for him?" asked Olive.
"My idea is to send him a five-pound note and have done with him."
"You were mentioning, the other day, that Sir Thomas Dudgeon was in
want of an amanuensis and secretary. It seems to me that Mr. Pomeroy
would be just the man for such a position."
"Oh, he's got ability enough for such a berth, I daresay. But, in the
first place, I believe the fellow is too much of a Bohemian ever to
settle down steadily to anything; and, in the second place, I know
nothing about either himself or his antecedents. How would it be
possible for me to recommend a man to Sir Thomas respecting whom I
know nothing?"
"However much of a Bohemian, as you call it, Mr. Pomeroy may have
been, he has both the manners and education of a gentleman; and I
daresay that he would be able to satisfy you as to his respectability.
Aunt was quite taken with him last evening, and when I went into her
room this morning she desired me to tell you that she would take it as
a kindness to herself if you would interest yourself for Mr. Pomeroy
in whatever way you might think would benefit him most."
"Of course, if I thought it would please my mother, I might stretch a
point in his favour, though really----"
"It would please my aunt greatly if you would do so. It struck me that
this situation at Sir Thomas Dudgeon's would be just the thing for Mr.
Pomeroy."
"But, really, I don't at all see how I can recommend a man about whom
I know nothing."
"You are going away; Mr. Pomeroy is to call here at eleven; let me see
him in your place, and if he can satisfy me as to the respectability
of himself and his connections, may I promise him the situation in
your name?"
"Really, Olive, you seem very much interested in this man."
"I am interested in him, Matthew."
"Take care that your interest in him does not deepen into something
far more dangerous; take care that you don't lose your heart to him."
Olive's colourless cheek flushed for a moment, but she answered quite
calmly:--
"Your warning on that point is quite unnecessary, Matthew. But you
have not answered my question."
Kelvin looked at his watch, and then rose hurriedly. It was later than
he had thought. He had barely time to catch his train.
"Do as you like about it," he said, not without a touch of irritation
in his voice. "When my mother and you lay your heads together and
conspire against me, I know that I may as well give in at once. Mind
you, I don't think this fellow is worth half the trouble that you two
women are taking about him."
"Blind--blind as ever!" muttered Olive to herself as she stood at the
window and watched Kelvin hurrying down the street in the direction of
the station. "A woman of my own age and any brains at all would detect
ray motive at once, but a man can rarely see beyond his nose."