Two or three days later, Sir Francis Vesey was sitting in his private
office, a musty den encased within the heart of the city, listening, or
trying to listen, to the dull clerical monotone of a clerk's dry voice
detailing the wearisome items of certain legal formulæ preliminary to an
impending case. Sir Francis had yawned capaciously once or twice, and
had played absently with a large ink-stained paperknife,--signs that his
mind was wandering somewhat from the point at issue. He was a
conscientious man, but he was getting old, and the disputations of
obstinate or foolish clients were becoming troublesome to him. Moreover,
the case concerning which his clerk was prosing along in the style of a
chapel demagogue engaged in extemporary prayer, was an extremely
uninteresting one, and he thought hazily of his lunch. The hour for that
meal was approaching,--a fact for which he was devoutly thankful. For
after lunch, he gave himself his own release from work for the rest of
the day. He left it all to his subordinates, and to his partner Symonds,
who was some eight or ten years his junior. He glanced at the clock, and
beat a tattoo with his foot on the floor, conscious of his inward
impatience with the reiterated "Whereas the said" and "Witnesseth the
so-and-so," which echoed dully on the otherwise unbroken silence. It was
a warm, sunshiny morning, but the brightness of the outer air was poorly
reflected in the stuffy room, which though comfortably and even
luxuriously furnished, conveyed the usual sense of dismal depression
common to London precincts of the law. Two or three flies buzzed
irritably now and then against the smoke-begrimed windowpanes, and the
clerk's dreary preamble went on and on till Sir Francis closed his eyes
and wondered whether a small "catnap" would be possible between the
sections of the seeming interminable document. Suddenly, to his relief,
there came a sharp tap at the door, and an office boy looked in.
"Mr. Helmsley's man, sir," he announced. "Wants to see you personally."
Sir Francis got up from his chair with alacrity.
"All right! Show him in."
The boy retired, and presently reappearing, ushered in a staid-looking
personage in black who, saluting Sir Francis respectfully, handed him a
letter marked "Confidential."
"Nice day, Benson," remarked the lawyer cheerfully, as he took the
missive. "Is your master quite well?"
"Perfectly well, Sir Francis, thank you," replied Benson. "Leastways he
was when I saw him off just now."
"Oh! He's gone then?"
"Yes, Sir Francis. He's gone."
Sir Francis broke the seal of the letter,--then bethinking himself of
"Whereas the said" and "Witnesseth the so-and-so," turned to his worn
and jaded clerk.
"That will do for the present," he said. "You can go."
With pleasing haste the clerk put together the voluminous folios of blue
paper from which he had been reading, and quickly made his exit, while
Sir Francis, still standing, put on his glasses and unfolded the one
sheet of note-paper on which Helmsley's communication was written.
Glancing it up and down, he turned it over and over--then addressed
himself to the attentively waiting Benson.
"So Mr. Helmsley has started on his trip alone?"
"Yes, Sir Francis. Quite alone."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"He booked for Southhampton, sir."
"Oh!"
"And," proceeded Benson, "he only took one portmanteau."
"Oh!" again ejaculated the lawyer. And, stroking his bearded chin, he
thought awhile.
"Are you going to stay at Carlton House Terrace till he comes back?"
"I have a month's holiday, sir. Then I return to my place. The same
order applies to all the servants, sir."
"I see! Well!"
And then there came a pause.
"I suppose," said Sir Francis, after some minutes' reflection, "I
suppose you know that during Mr. Helmsley's absence you are to apply to
me for wages and household expenses--that, in fact, your master has
placed me in charge of all his affairs?"
"So I have understood, sir," replied Benson, deferentially. "Mr.
Helmsley called us all into his room last night and told us so."
"Oh, he did, did he? But, of course, as a man of business, he would
leave nothing incomplete. Now, supposing Mr. Helmsley is away more than
a month, I will call or send to the house at stated intervals to see how
things are getting on, and arrange any matters that may need
arranging"--here he glanced at the letter in his hand--"as your master
requests. And--if you want anything--or wish to know any news,--you can
always call here and inquire."
"Thank you, Sir Francis."
"I'm sorry,"--and the lawyer's shrewd yet kindly eyes looked somewhat
troubled--"I'm very sorry that my old friend hasn't taken you with him,
Benson."
Benson caught the ring of sympathetic interest in his voice and at once
responded to it.
"Well, sir, so am I!" he said heartily. "For Mr. Helmsley's over
seventy, and he isn't as strong as he thinks himself to be by a long
way. He ought to have some one with him. But he wouldn't hear of my
going. He can be right down obstinate if he likes, you know, sir, though
he is one of the best gentlemen to work for that ever lived. But he will
have his own way, and, bad or good, he takes it."
"Quite true!" murmured Sir Francis meditatively. "Very true!"
A silence fell between them.
"You say he isn't as strong as he thinks himself to be," began Vesey
again, presently. "Surely he's wonderfully alert and active for his time
of life?"
"Why, yes, sir, he's active enough, but it's all effort and nerve with
him now. He makes up his mind like, and determines to be strong, in
spite of being weak. Only six months ago the doctor told him to be
careful, as his heart wasn't quite up to the mark."
"Ah!" ejaculated Sir Francis ruefully. "And did the doctor recommend any
special treatment?"
"Yes, sir. Change of air and complete rest."
The lawyer's countenance cleared.
"Then you may depend upon it that's why he has gone away by himself,
Benson," he said. "He wants change of air, rest, and different
surroundings. And as he won't have letters forwarded, and doesn't give
any future address, I shouldn't wonder if he starts off yachting
somewhere----"
"Oh, no, sir, I don't think so," interposed Benson, "The yacht's in the
dry dock, and I know he hasn't given any orders to have her got ready."
"Well, well, if he wants change and rest, he's wise to put a distance
between himself and his business affairs"--and Sir Francis here looked
round for his hat and walking-stick. "Take me, for example! Why, I'm a
different man when I leave this office and go home to lunch! I'm going
now. I don't think--I really don't think there is any cause for
uneasiness, Benson. Your master will let us know if there's anything
wrong with him."
"Oh, yes, sir, he'll be sure to do that. He said he would telegraph for
me if he wanted me."
"Good! Now, if you get any news of him before I do, or if you are
anxious that I should attend to any special matter, you'll always find
me here till one o'clock. You know my private address?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's all right. And when I go down to my country place for the
summer, you can come there whenever your business is urgent. I'll settle
all expenses with you."
"Thank you, Sir Francis. Good-day!"
"Good-day! A pleasant holiday to you!"
Benson bowed his respectful thanks again, and retired.
Sir Francis Vesey, left alone, took his hat and gazed abstractedly into
its silk-lined crown before putting it on his head. Then setting it
aside, he drew Helmsley's letter from his pocket and read it through
again. It ran as follows:--
"MY DEAR VESEY,--I had some rather bad news on the night of Miss
Lucy Sorrel's birthday party. A certain speculation in which I had
an interest has failed, and I have lost on the whole 'gamble.' The
matter will not, however, affect my financial position. You have all
your instructions in order as given to you when we last met, so I
shall leave town with an easy mind. I am likely to be away for some
time, and am not yet certain of my destination. Consider me,
therefore, for the present as lost. Should I die suddenly, or at
sickly leisure, I carry a letter on my person which will be conveyed
to you, making you acquainted with the sad (?) event as soon as it
occurs. And for all your kindly services in the way of both business
and friendship, I owe you a vast debt of thanks, which debt shall be
fully and gratefully acknowledged,--_when I make my Will_. I may
possibly employ another lawyer than yourself for this purpose. But,
for the immediate time, all my affairs are in your hands, as they
have been for these twenty years or more. My business goes on as
usual, of course; it is a wheel so well accustomed to regular motion
that it can very well grind for a while without my personal
supervision. And so far as my individual self is concerned, I feel
the imperative necessity of rest and freedom. I go to find these,
even if I lose myself in the endeavour. So farewell! And as
old-fashioned folks used to say--'God be with you!' If there be any
meaning in the phrase, it is conveyed to you in all sincerity by
your old friend,
"DAVID HELMSLEY."
"Cryptic, positively cryptic!" murmured Sir Francis, as he folded up the
letter and put it by. "There's no clue to anything anywhere. What does
he mean by a bad speculation?--a loss 'on the whole gamble'? I know--or
at least I thought I knew--every number on which he had put his money.
It won't affect his financial position, he says. I should think not! It
would take a bigger Colossus than that of Rhodes to overshadow Helmsley
in the market! But he's got some queer notion in his mind,--some scheme
for finding an heir to his millions,--I'm sure he has! A fit of romance
has seized him late in life,--he wants to be loved for himself
alone,--which, of course, at his age, is absurd! No one loves old
people, except, perhaps (in very rare cases), their children,--if the
children are not hopelessly given over to self and the hour, which they
generally are." He sighed, and his brows contracted. He had a
spendthrift son and a "rapid" daughter, and he knew well enough how
little he could depend upon them for either affection or respect.
"Old age is regarded as a sort of crime nowadays," he continued,
apostrophising the dingy walls of his office, as he took his
walking-stick and prepared to leave the premises--"thanks to the
donkey-journalism of the period which brays down everything that is not
like itself--mere froth and scum. And unlike our great classic teachers
who held that old age was honourable and deserved the highest place in
the senate, the present generation affects to consider a man well on the
way to dotage after forty. God bless me!--what fools there are in this
twentieth century!--what blatant idiots! Imagine national affairs
carried on in the country by its young men! The Empire would soon became
a mere football for general kicking! However, there's one thing in this
Helmsley business that I'm glad of"--and his eyes twinkled--"I believe
the Sorrels have lost their game! Positively, I think Miss Lucy has
broken her line, and that the fish has gone _without_ her hook in its
mouth! Old as he is, David is not too old to outwit a woman! I gave him
a hint, just the slightest hint in the world,--and I think he's taken
it. Anyhow, he's gone,--booked for Southampton. And from Southampton a
man can 'ship himself all aboard of a ship,' like Lord Bateman in the
ballad, and go anywhere. Anywhere, yes!--but in this case I wonder where
he will go? Possibly to America--yet no!--I think not!" And Sir Francis,
descending his office stairs, went out into the broad sunshine which
flooded the city streets, continuing his inward reverie as he
walked,--"I think not. From what he said the other night, I fancy not
even the haunting memory of 'ole Virginny' will draw him back _there_.
'Consider me as lost,' he says. An odd notion! David Helmsley, one of
the richest men in the whole of two continents, wishes to lose himself!
Impossible! He's a marked multi-millionaire,--branded with the golden
sign of unlimited wealth, and as well known as a London terminus! If he
were 'lost' to-day, he'd be found to-morrow. As matters stand I daresay
he'll turn up all fight in a month's time and I need not worry my head
any more about him!"
With this determination Sir Francis went home to luncheon, and after
luncheon duly appeared driving in the Park with Lady Vesey, like the
attentive and obliging husband he ever was, despite the boredom which
the "Row" and the "Ladies' Mile" invariably inflicted upon him,--yet
every now and then before him there rose a mental image of his old
friend "King David,"--grey, sad-eyed, and lonely--flitting past like
some phantom in a dream, and wandering far away from the crowded vortex
of London life, where his name was as honey to a swarm of bees, into
some dim unreachable region of shadow and silence, with the brief
farewell:
"Consider me as lost!"