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THE GREAT MISS DRIVER
BY ANTHONY HOPE
AUTHOR OF TRISTRAM OF BLENT, DOUBLE HARNESS, HELENA'S PATH, LOVE'S LOGIC
NEW YORK
THE McCLURE COMPANY
MCMVIII
Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company
Copyright, 1908, by Anthony Hope Hawkins
[Illustration: "_By Heaven, the girl on the mantelpiece at Hatcham
Ford!_"]
CONTENTS
I. WHAT IS SHE LIKE?
II. MAKING AMENDS
III. ON THE USE OF SCRAPES
IV. AN UNPOPULAR MAN
V. RAPIER AND CLUB
VI. TAKING TO OPEN SEA
VII. THE FLICK OF A WHIP
VIII. A SECRET TREATY
IX. THE INSTITUTE CLERK
X. A FRIENDLY GLASS
XI. THE SIGNAL AT "DANGER"
XII. SAVING A WEEK
XIII. THE BOY WITH THE RED CAP
XIV. THE EIGHT-FIFTEEN TRAIN
XV. IN THE DOCK
XVI. NOT PROVEN
XVII. ONE OF TWO LEGACIES
XVIII. THE NEW CAMPAIGN
XIX. A CASE OF CONSCIENCE
XX. LIVING PIECES
XXI. NATHAN AND DAVID
XXII. THE ALTERNATIVE
XXIII. ON ALL GROUNDS--RIDICULOUS!
XXIV. A CHANCE FOR THE ROMANTIC
XXV. A FRESH COAT OF PAINT
XXVI. PEDIGREE AND BIOGRAPHY
XXVII. A MAN OF BUSINESS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"By Heaven, the girl on the mantelpiece at Hatcham Ford!"
"He might have given me a chance!"
Jenny was crouching on the floor beside Powers
"A fresh coat of paint wanted!"
THE GREAT MISS DRIVER
CHAPTER I
WHAT IS SHE LIKE?
"Perhaps you won't believe me," said I, "but till yesterday I never so
much as heard of her existence."
"I've not the least difficulty in believing you. That was old Nick's
way. It wasn't your business--was it?--so he didn't talk to you about
it. On the other hand, when a thing was your business--that's to say,
when he wanted your services--he told you all about it. But I believe
I'm the only person he did tell. I'm sure he didn't tell a soul down in
Catsford. Finely put about they'll be!"
Mr. Cartmell, of Fisher, Son, & Cartmell (he was the only surviving
representative of the firm), broke off to hide a portion of his round
red face in a silver tankard; Loft, the butler, had brought it to him on
his arrival without express orders given; I had often seen the same
vessel going into Mr. Driver's study on the occasion of the lawyer's
calls.
He set the tankard--much lightened it must have been--on the mantelpiece
and walked to the window, taking a pull at his cigar. We were in my
room--my "office" it was generally called in the household. He stood
looking out, talking to me half over his shoulder.
"A man's mind turns back at times like these. I remember him hard on
forty years ago. I was a lad then, just gone into the business. Mr.
Fisher was alive--not the one you remember--not poor Nat--but the old
gentleman. Nat was the junior, and I was in the last year of my
articles. Well, Nick Driver came to the old gentleman one morning and
asked him to act for him--said he thought he was big enough by now. The
old gentleman didn't want to, but poor Nat had an eye for a man and saw
that Driver meant to get on. So they took him, and we've acted for him
ever since. It wasn't many years before he--" Cartmell paused a moment,
laying the finger-tips of his right hand against the finger-tips of his
left, and straightening his arms from the elbow like a swimmer--"before
he began to drive his wedge into the county."
The good man was fairly launched on his subject; much of it was new to
me, in detail if not in broad outline, and I listened with interest.
Besides, there was nothing else to do until the time came to start. But
the story will bear a little summarizing, like a great many other
stories; Cartmell was too fond of anecdotes. Thus summarized then:
Nicholas Driver began life as a tanner in Catsford. He was thrifty and
saved money. With the money he bought land and built some villas; with
the rent of the villas--more land. He had faith in the development of
Catsford. He got early news of the coming of the railway; he pledged
every house and every inch of land--and bought more land. So the process
went on--detailed by Mr. Cartmell, indicated here. Nicholas Driver
became moderately rich--and, by the way, his Catsford property had never
ceased to rise in value and was rising still. Then, as it seemed (even
Mr. Cartmell spoke conjecturally), an era of speculation followed--first
in England, then in America. "That," Cartmell interjected, "was when he
picked up this girl's mother, not that she was American, but he met her
about that time." He must have speculated largely and successfully, or
he could not have made all that money--so stood the case. The money
made, the process of "driving his wedge into the county" began. "The
county" must, here and henceforward, be carefully distinguished from
"the town." Geographical contiguity does not bridge a social chasm.
First he bought Hatcham Ford, a small but beautiful Jacobean house lying
on the banks of the river, some mile and a half out of Catsford at that
time, now caught in the lengthening fringe of the town. While in
residence there, he spread his territory to the north and west,
acquiring all the outlying farms which the Lord Fillingford of the day
was free to sell; then, too, he made his first audacious bid for
Fillingford Manor itself--the first of many, it appeared. Though the
later no longer seemed audacious, all had been fruitless; Lord
Fillingford could not sell without his son's consent, and that was
withheld. The family struggled on in perpetual financial straits, hating
Nicholas Driver, but envying him his money, never coming to an open
rupture with him for fear of his power or apprehension of its own
necessities; never sparing a sneer or a secret thrust when either was
safe. For his part, baffled in that quarter, he turned to the east and
approached Mr. Dormer of Breysgate Priory. It was a beautiful place.
Down by the lake lay the old Cistercian monastery; the original building
was in ruins, but a small house had been built on in the days of
Elizabeth, and this was still habitable. High on the hill stood the big,
solidly handsome, Georgian mansion, erected by the Dormer of the day
when the estate came into the hands of the family. From the hilltop the
park rolled out and out in undulating curves of rich grass-land and
spreading woods. To Nicholas Driver's joy and surprise--he had
anticipated another struggle and feared another rebuff--Mr. Dormer was
ready to sell--for a price. He was elderly, his wife middle-aged, his
only heir a cousin toward whom he was indifferent and who, though heir
of entail to the property, would be unable to keep it up, unless his
predecessor left him money for the purpose. In these circumstances
matters were soon arranged. The cousin was bought off, his consent
given, and the Dormers retired to a smaller place, properly the dower
house--Hingston Hall, situated fifteen miles from Catsford. Behold
Nicholas Driver a country gentleman on a distinctly large scale!
"And with how much ready money to his name besides you'll get some idea
about when the will is proved," Mr. Cartmell ended impressively.
His impressiveness impressed me; I do not know why I should be ashamed
to confess it. A great deal of anything impresses ordinary people; a
great deal of hill is a mountain, a great deal of water is an ocean, a
great deal of brain is a genius; and so on. Similarly, a great deal of
money has its grandeur--for ordinary people.
"It might be a million and a half--a million and a half sovereigns,
Austin!--and it's growing every night while you sleep! And now--he's
dead!"
"You do die just the same--that's the worst of it."
"And not an old man either!"
"Sixty-three!"
"Tut--I shall be that myself in three years--and you can't tire me yet!"
"Perhaps making millions and driving wedges is--rather exhausting,
Cartmell. You split the tree; don't you blunt the wedge in time, too?"
"The end came easy, did it?"
"Oh, yes, in his sleep. So the nurse tells me. I wasn't there myself."
"I'm glad it was easy. After all, he was a very old friend of mine--and
a very valuable client. Let's see, how long have you been with him?"
"Four years."
"Going to stay?"
I rose and began to brush my hat. "If you come to that," said I, "are
you going to stay either, Cartmell? I gather that she can do as she
pleases about that?"
"Every rod of ground and every farthing of money--bating decent
charities! It's a great position."
"It's a very unexplored one so far as we're concerned," I made bold to
remark.
"Have you seen him since--since the end, Austin?"
"Yes. Would you like to?"
"No, I shouldn't," he answered bluntly. "Perhaps it's brutal. I know
it's cowardly. But I don't like death."
"Nonsense! You make half your income out of it. I say, I suppose we
might as well start?"
"Yes," he assented absently. "I wonder how she's turned out!"
I looked at him with quickened interest. "Turned out? That sounds almost
as if you'd seen her."
"I have seen her. Come along. I'll tell you about it as we drive down."
We traversed the long corridor which leads from my office to the hall.
Loft was waiting for us, with an attendant footman. Loft addressed me in
a muffled voice; his demeanor might always be relied on for
perfection--he would not once unmuffle his voice till his master was
buried.
"The landau is waiting, sir. The omnibus for Miss Driver's maid and the
luggage has gone on." Wonderful man! He spoke of "Miss Driver" as if she
had lived for years in the house.
Cartmell gave him a queer look and emitted a low chuckle as we got into
the landau, behind the big grays. Mr. Driver always drove grays, and he
liked them big, so that he could rattle up the hill to his house.
"Maid! Luggage!" muttered Cartmell. "The bus'll hold 'em, I think, with
a bit to spare! By his orders I sent her twenty pounds on Tuesday;
that's all she's had as yet. I only had time to telegraph about--the
rest."
"Interesting wire to get! But about your seeing her, Cartmell?"
In honor of the occasion Cartmell, like myself, had put on a black frock
coat and a silk hat, properly equipped with a mourning band of
respectful width. But he wore the coat with a jaunty air, and the hat
slightly but effectively cocked on one side, so that the quiet yet
ingrained horsiness of his aspect suffered little from the unwonted
attire. The confidential wink with which he now turned his plump
rubicund face toward me preserved his general harmony. With the mournful
atmosphere of Breysgate Priory, however, I could not help feeling that
my own lank jaws and more precisely poised head-gear consorted better.
"You can hold your tongue, Austin?"
"A very shrewd man has paid me four hundred a year for four years past
on that understanding."
"Then what happened at the Smalls, at Cheltenham?"
"Isn't that beginning the story at the wrong end?" I asked.
"That was where she was"--he searched for a word--"where she was
planted. She lived at three or four different places altogether, you
know."
"And the mother?"
"Mother died--vanished anyhow--early in the proceedings. Well, word came
of trouble at Cheltenham. Small, though of my own profession, was an
ass. He wrote a bleating letter--yes, he was more like a sheep,
really--to old Nick. Nick told me I must go and put it to rights. So I
went."
"Why didn't he go himself?"
"I think," said Cartmell cautiously, "that he had some kind of a feeling
against seeing the girl. Really that's the only thing that accounts for
his behavior all through."
"Did he never see her?"
"Never--since she was quite a child. So he told me. But let me finish
the story--if you want to hear it. Being ordered, I went. They lived in
a beastly villa and were, to speak generally, a disgrace to humanity by
their utter flabbiness. But there was a flashy sort of a gentleman, by
the name of Powers." He stopped and looked at me for a minute. "A
married flashy gentleman named Nelson Powers. She was sixteen--and she
wrote to Powers. A good many letters she'd written to Powers. Small was
such a fool that Powers guessed there was money in it. And she, of
course, had never thought of a Mrs. Powers. How should she? Sixteen
and----"
"Hopelessly innocent?"
"I really think so," he answered with an air, rather odd, of advancing a
paradox. "She let him worm out of her all that she knew about her
father--which was that he paid the bills for her and that Small had told
her that he was rich. She didn't know where he lived, but Powers got
that out of Small without much trouble, and then it was blackmail on Mr.
Driver, of course."
"Did you get at Powers? Had to pay him something, I suppose?"
"I got at Mrs. Powers--and paid her. Much better! We had the letters in
twenty-four hours. Powers really repented that time, I think! But I had
orders to take her away from the Smalls. The same man never failed Nick
Driver twice! I sent her under escort to Dawlish--at least near
there--to a clergyman's family, where she's been ever since. But it
can't be denied that she left Cheltenham rather--well, rather under a
cloud. If you ask me what I think about it----"
I had been growing interested--yet not interested in precisely the point
about which Mr. Cartmell conjectured that I might be about to inquire.
"Did she say anything about it herself?" I interrupted.
He stroked his chin. "She said rather a curious thing--she was only
sixteen, you know. She said that we might have given her credit for
being able to take just a little care of herself."
"That sounds like underrating your diplomacy, Cartmell."
"I thought myself that it reflected on the bill I proposed to send in!
Funny, wasn't it? From a chit like that!"
"What did you say?"
"Asked her if she'd like a foot-warmer for the journey to Dawlish."
"Capital! You were about to tell me what you thought about it?"
"The folly of a young ignorant girl, no doubt. Powers was an insinuating
rascal--and a girl doesn't know at that age the difference between a
gentleman and a cad. He moved too soon, though. We were in lots of time
to prevent real mischief--and Mrs. Powers came up to the scratch!" He
drummed his fingers on the window of the landau, looking thoughtful and,
as it seemed to me, retrospectively puzzled.
"And did all go smoothly with the clergyman's family?"
"She's been there ever since. I've heard of no trouble. The governess's
reports of her were excellent, I remember Mr. Driver telling me once."
"Well then, we can forget all about Powers."
"Yes, yes," said Cartmell, drumming his fingers still.
"And what was she like?"
Cartmell looked at me, a smile slowly breaking across his broad face.
"Here's the station. Suppose you see for yourself," he suggested.
We had ten minutes to wait before Miss Driver's train was due--we had
been careful to run no risk of not being on the spot to receive her.
Cartmell was at no loss to employ the time. I left him plunging into an
animated discussion of the points of a handsome cob which stood outside
the station: on the handsome cob's back was a boy, no less handsome,
fresh of color and yellow-haired. I knew him to be young Lord Lacey,
heir to the Fillingford earldom, but I had at that time no acquaintance
with him, and passed on into the station, where I paced up and down
among a crowd of loiterers and hasteners--for Catsford was by now a
bustling center whence and whither men went and came at all hours of the
day and most hours of the night. Driver had foreseen that this would
come about! It had come about; he had grown rich; he lay dead. It went
on happening still, and thereby adding to the piles of gold which he
could no longer handle.
Instead of indulging in these trite reflections--to be excused only by
the equal triteness of death, which tends to evoke them--I should have
done well to consider my own position. A man bred for a parson but, for
reasons of his own, averse from adopting the sacred calling, is commonly
not too well fitted for other avocations--unless perhaps he would be a
schoolmaster, and my taste did not lie that way. In default of private
means, an easy berth at four hundred pounds a year may well seem a
godsend. It had assumed some such celestial guise to me when, on the
casual introduction of my uncle one day in London, Mr. Driver had
offered it to me. As his private secretary, I drew the aforementioned
very liberal salary, I had my "office" in the big house on the hill, I
dwelt in the Old Priory (that is to say, in the little dwelling house
built on to the ruinous remains of the ancient foundation), I was seldom
asked for more than three hours' work a day, I had a horse to ride, and
plenty of leisure for the books I loved. It would be very unfortunate to
have to give up all that. Verily the question "What is she like?" had a
practical, an economic, importance for me which raised it far above the
sphere of mere curiosity or the nonsense of irrelevant romance. Was she
a sensible young woman who would know a good secretary when she saw one?
Or, on the other hand, was she not? A secretary of some sort she would
certainly require.
Nay, perhaps, she wouldn't. The one utterance of hers which had been, so
far, credibly reported to my ears was to the effect that she could take
care--just a little care--of herself. This at sixteen! This on the top
of circumstances which at first sight indicated that she had taken
particularly bad care of herself! Letters to a man like Powers! My
imagination, forsaking my own position and prospects, constructed a
confident picture of Powers, proceeded to sketch Mrs. Powers--strong
lights here!--and to outline the family of the Smalls of Cheltenham. It
ended by rejoicing that she had been removed from the influence of
Powers and the environment of the Smalls of Cheltenham. Because, look at
the matter how one might or could, there was no denying that it was the
sort of incident which might just as well--or even better--not have
happened at all. At the best, it was not altogether pleasant. Surely
that was the truth--and not merely the abortive parson talking again?
Well, even the abortive parson was sometimes right.
Cartmell clapped me on the shoulder. The handsome boy had, it appeared,
departed, after receiving from an obsequious porter the copy of _Country
Life_, in quest of which he had ridden to the station from Fillingford
Manor.
"Here comes the train! I wonder if I shall know her again!"
Two minutes later, that observation of Cartmell's seemed to me plainly
foolish. A man might like her or dislike her, trust her or not trust
her--oh, away with these fatal alternatives, antitheses, or whatever
they are! They confine judgment, and often falsify it. He might do all
these things at once--and I fancied that she might welcome his
perplexity. He would not be very likely to forget her--nor she to be
pleased if he did.
That was only a first impression of her, as she got out of the train.