THE COMING OF THE LUCK
The dining room at Vail was of the same antique spaciousness as the
hall, and, as there on the lounger, so here on the diner, looked down a
spacious company of ancestors. For so small a party it had been thought
by the butler that conviviality would be given a better chance if, on
this frosty night, he laid them a small table within range of the fire
rather than that the three should be cut off, as it were, on a polar
island in the centre of that vast sea of floor. And, indeed, though
naturally a modest man, Templeton felt a strong self-approval at the
success of his kind thought, for, from the moment of sitting down, a
cheerful merriness had held the table, rising sometimes into loud
hilarity, and never sinking into the content of growing repletion, which
is held in England to be the proper equivalent for joviality. But if it
was Templeton in part who was responsible for so desirable an
atmosphere, there was credit to be given to at least one of the diners.
Pleasant and pink was Mr. Francis's face; his hair, though silver, still
crisp and vigorous, his mouth a perpetual smile. In absolute repose
even a sunshine lingered there, as in a bottle of well-matured wine, and
its repose left it but to give place to laughter. All dinner through he
had been the mouthpiece of delightful anecdote, of observations shrewd
but always kindly, rising sometimes almost to the dry levels of wit, and
never failing in that genial humour without which all conversation, not
directed to a definite end, becomes intolerable. Though talking much, he
was no usurper of the inalienable right of the others to wag the tongue;
and though his own wagged to vibration, he was never tedious. Even in
the matter of riddles, introduced by Geoffrey, he had a contribution or
two to make, of so extravagant a sort that this ordinarily dismal mode
of entertainment was for the moment rendered delightful. He unbent to
the level of the young men, to the futility of most disconnected
conversation, without ever seeming to unbend; you would have said that
his narrow, clerically opening shirt, with its large cravat and massive
gold studs, covered the heart of a boy, that the brains of a clever
youth lay beneath that silver hair, prematurely white, indeed, yet not
from grief or the conduct of a world long unkind. In person he was
somewhat short, "without the inches of a Vail," as he himself said, and
pleasantly inclined to stoutness, but to the stoutness which may come
early to a healthy appetite and a serene digestion, for it was not
accompanied either by pallid flabbiness or colour unduly high, and by
the artificial light scarcely a wrinkle could be scrutinized on his
beaming face. His dress was precise and scrupulous, yet with a certain
antique touch about it, as of one who had been something of a buck in
the sixties; his linen far more than clean and fresh, and of a snowiness
which certainly implied special injunction to the washerwoman. His
trouser pockets were cut, we may elegantly say, not at the side of those
indispensable coverings, but toward the front of the bow window, and
there dangled from the lip of one a fob of heavy gold seals. His watch
chain he wore round his neck, and at the bottom of his waistcoat pocket
there reposed, you may be sure, a yellow-faced watch, large and
loud-ticking--an unerring timekeeper.
They had now approached the end of dinner; decanters glowed on the
table, and a silver cigarette box, waiting untouched, at Mr. Francis's
request, till the more serious business of wine was off the palate,
stood by Harry's dessert plate. Already, even in this second hour of
their acquaintance, the three felt like old friends, and as the wine was
on its first round, the two young men were bent eagerly forward to hear
the conclusion of a most exciting little personal anecdote told them by
Mr. Francis. He had to perfection that great essential of the
narrator--intense interest and appreciation of what he was himself
saying, and the climax afforded him the most obvious satisfaction. In
his right hand he held his first glass of untasted port, and, after an
interval accorded to laughter, he suddenly rose.
"And," he said, "comes the pleasantest moment of our delightful
evening. Harry, my dear boy, here is long life and happiness to you,
from the most sincere of your well-wishers. And for myself I pray that a
very old man may some time dance your children on his knee. God bless
you, my dearest fellow!"
He drank the brimming glass honestly to the last drop, and held out his
hand to the young man with a long and hearty grasp. Then, with quick
tact, seeing the embarrassment of remark-making in Harry's face, he sat
down again, and without pause enticed the subject off the boards.
"How well I remember your dear father coming of age!" he said. "Dear me,
it must be forty years ago, nearly twice as long a time as you have
lived; there's a puzzle for Mr. Langham, like the one he gave me to do.
It was this very port, I should say, in which we drank his health. The
yellow seal, is it not, Harry? Yes, yes; your grandfather laid it down
in the year forty-five, and we used to drink it only on very great
occasions, for he would say to me that it was a gift he had put in
entail for his grandchildren, and was not for us. And so it has turned
out! He was very fond of port, too, was dear old Dennis; it was not a
gift that cost him nothing. You would scarcely remember your
grandfather, Harry?"
"I just remember him, Uncle Francis," said the lad, "but only as a very
old man. I don't think he liked children for whenever he saw me he would
have no more than a word or two to say, and then he would send for
you."
"Yes, yes, so he would, so he would," said Mr. Francis; "and we used to
have great games together, did we not, Harry? Games, did I say? Indeed,
we seemed to be real red Indians in the wilderness, and Crusaders, with
paper lances. Dear me! I could play such games still. Hide-and-seek,
too, a grand business. It requires, as poor Antrobus used to say, all
the strategy of a general directing a campaign, combined with the
unflinching courage of the private who has to go straight forward,
expecting artillery to open on him every minute. Yes, and the old man
felt it, too; I have seen him playing it with his grandchildren when he
was prime minister, and, upon my word, he was more earnest about it than
the young people!"
Coffee had come in, and after a few minutes the three passed out into
the hall. At the door, however, Harry paused, and stayed behind in the
dining room. Mr. Francis took Geoffrey's arm in his affectionate way and
the two strolled into the hall.
"It has been so pleasant to me to meet you, my dear boy," he was saying;
"for years ago I knew some of your people well. No, I do not think I
ever knew your father. But, you must know, I am bad at surnames: one
only calls the tradespeople Mr. So-and-so, and I shall call you
Geoffrey. You are Harry's best friend; I have a claim upon you. Fine
hall, is it not? And the pictures--well, they are a wonderful set. There
is nothing like them for completeness in England, if one excepts the
royal collections; and, indeed, I think there is less rubbish here."
The portraits were lit by small shaded lamps which stood beneath each,
so that the whole light was thrown on to the picture and the beholder
left undazzled. Mr. Francis had strolled up to the fireplace, still
retaining Geoffrey's arm, and together they looked at the picture of
Francis, second baron.
"A wonderful example of Holbein," said Mr. Francis; "I do not know a
finer. They tried hard to get it for the exhibition a few years ago, but
it couldn't leave Vail. I should have been quite uncomfortable at the
thought of it out of the house. Now, some people have told me--Ah! I see
you have noticed it, too."
"Surely there is an extraordinary likeness between you and it," said
Geoffrey. "Harry just pointed to it when I asked him what you were
like."
Mr. Francis's eyes pored on the picture with a sort of fascination.
"A wonderful bit of painting," he said. "And how clearly you see not
only the man's body, but his soul! That is the true art of the portrait
painter."
"But not always pleasant for the sitter," remarked Geoffrey.
"I am not so sure. You imply, no doubt, that it was not pleasant for
this old fellow."
"I should not think his soul was much to be proud of," said Geoffrey.
"You mean he looks wicked?" said Mr. Francis, still intent on the
canvas. "Well, God forgive him! I am afraid he must have been. But that
being so, I suspect he was as much in love with his own soul as a good
man is for he does not look to me a weak man--one who is forever falling
and repenting. There is less of Macbeth and more of his good lady in old
Francis. Infirm of purpose? No, no, I think not!"
He turned abruptly away from the picture, and broke out into a laugh.
"He was a wicked old man, we are afraid," he said, "and I am exactly
like him."
"Ah! that is not fair," cried Geoffrey.
"My dear boy, I was only chaffing. And here is Harry; what has he got?"
Harry had come after them as they spoke thus together, carrying in his
hand a square leather case. The thing seemed to be of some weight.
"I wanted to show you and Geoff what I have found, Uncle Francis," he
said. "I thought perhaps you could tell me about it. It was in one of
the attics--of all places in the world--hidden, it seemed, behind some
old pictures. Templeton and I found it."
Mr. Francis whisked round with even more than his accustomed vivacity of
movement at Harry's words.
"Yes, yes," he said, with some impatience. "Open it, then, my dear boy,
open it!"
An old lock of curious work secured the leather strap which fastened
the case, but this dangled loose from it, attached to its hasp.
"We could find no key for it," explained Harry, "and had to break it
open."
As he spoke, he drew from the case an object swathed in wash leather,
but the outline was clearly visible beneath its wrappings.
"Ah! it is so," said Mr. Francis, below his breath, and as Harry
unfolded the covering they all stood silent. This done, he held up to
the light what it contained. It was a large golden goblet with two
handles, of a size perhaps to hold a couple of quarts of liquor, and
even by lamplight it was a thing that dazzled the eye and made the mouth
to water. But solid gold as it was, and of chaste and exquisite
workmanship, there was scarce an inch of it that was not worth more than
the whole value of the gold and the craft bestowed thereon, so thickly
was it incrusted with large and precious stones. Just below the lip of
the cup ran a ring of rubies of notable size and wonderful depth of
colour; and below, at a little interval, six emerald stars, all
clear-set in the body of the cup. The lower part was chased with
acanthus leaves, each outlined in pearls, and up the fluted stem climbed
lordly sapphires. Sapphires again traced the rim of the foot, and in
each handle was clear-set a row of diamonds--no chips and dust, but
liquid eyes and lobes of light. Halfway down the bowl of the cup,
between the emerald stars and the points of the acanthus leaves, ran a
plain panel of gold on which was engraved, in small, early English
characters, some text that encircled the whole.
Harry was standing close under the lamp as he took off the covering, and
remained there a moment, holding in his hand the gorgeous jewel, and
looking at it with a curiously fixed attention, unconscious of the
others. Then he handed it to his uncle.
"Tell me about it; what is it, Uncle Francis?" he asked; and
involuntarily, as the old man took it, he glanced at the picture of
Francis, second baron, who in the portrait held, beyond a doubt, the
same treasure that they were now examining.
Mr. Francis did not at once reply, but handled the cup for a little
while in silence, with awe and solemnity in his attitude and expression.
As he turned it this way and that in his grasp, jewel after jewel caught
the light and shone refracted in points of brilliant colour on his face.
The burnished band on which was engraved the circling of the text cut a
yellow line of reflection across his nose and cheeks, which remained
steady, but over the rest of his face gleams of living colour shone and
passed; and now as a ruby, now an emerald, sent their direct rays into
his eyes, they would seem lit inside by a gleam of red or green. At
length he looked up.
"Hear what the thing says of itself," he said. "I will read it you."
Then, turning the cup till he had found the beginning of the text, he
read slowly, the cup revolving to the words:
"When the Luck of the Vails is lost,
Fear not fire nor rain nor frost;
When the Luck is found again,
Fear both fire and frost and rain."
"Very pretty," said Geoffrey, with a critical air, but Mr. Francis made
no reply. His eyes were still fixed on the jewel.
"But what is it?" asked Harry.
"This? The cup?" he said. "It is what I have read to you. It is the Luck
of the Vails."
Geoffrey laughed. "You've got it, Harry, anyhow," he said, "for weal or
woe. How does it run? Fear fire and frost and rain. Take care of
yourself, old man, and don't smoke in bed, and don't skate over deep
water."
Mr. Francis turned to him quickly, with a sudden recovery of his
briskness.
"You and I would risk all that, would we not, Geoffrey," he said, "to
have found such a beautiful thing?--Yes, Harry, I see you have noticed
it. There it is in old Francis's hand in the picture. Where else should
it be if not there? Whether he made it or not I can't tell you, but that
is its first appearance, as far as we know."
Still holding it, he looked at the portrait, then stretched it out to
Harry.
"There, take it," he said quickly.
"But tell us all about it," said Harry. "What happened to it afterward?
How is it I never heard of it?"
"Your father would never speak of it," said Mr. Francis; "nor your
grandfather either. Your father never saw it, and your grandfather only
once, when he was quite a little boy. Neither could bear to speak of it
when it was lost. And so it was in the attic all the time!"
Harry's eyes were sparkling; a sudden animation seemed to possess him.
"Tell us from the beginning," he said.
He was already wrapping the goblet up again, and Mr. Francis looked
greedily at it till the last jewel had been hidden in the wash leather.
"Well, it is a strange story, and a short one," he said, "for so little
is known of it. It has appeared and disappeared several times since
Holbein painted it there, as unaccountably as it has appeared again now.
In the attic all the time!" he exclaimed again.
"But the legend; what does the legend mean?" asked Harry.
"I have no idea. Perhaps it is some old rhyme, perhaps it is a mere
conceit of the goldsmith. But, be that as it may, those of your house
who have possessed the Luck always seemed to think that it brought them
luck. It was in old Francis's time, you know, that coal was found on
your Derbyshire estate, which so enriched him for a while. In his son's
time certainly the Luck disappeared, for we have a letter of his about
it, and as certainly the field of coal came to an end. It appeared
again some eighty years later, and again disappeared; and then the
grandfather of your grandfather found it. He, you know, married the
wealthy Barbara Devereux, and it was he who showed the Luck to your
grandfather. Then it was lost for the last time, and with it all his
money, in the South-Sea Bubble."
Harry looked a shade disappointed at this bald narrative.
"Is that all?" he asked. "Where do the fire, and frost, and rain come
in?"
Mr. Francis laughed.
"Well, oddly enough, old Francis was burned to death in his bed, and
Mark Vail was drowned. Harry Vail, the last holder of it, was frozen to
death in his travelling carriage crossing the St. Gothard. But a man
must die somehow; is it not so? Poor, wicked old Francis, he thought to
bring a curse on the house, if it was indeed he who made the Luck, but
how futile, how futile! Did he think that the elements were in league
with some occult power of magic and darkness that he possessed? Ah! no;
beneficent Nature is not controlled by such a hand. He knows that well
maybe now, and perhaps therein is his chastisement, for, indeed, he was
a man of devilish mind."