In the luxurious private sitting-room of a well-known family hotel not
far from Piccadilly, a broad-shouldered elderly man stood with his
hands in his pockets, staring out of the window with an expression of
profound boredom. It was a hopelessly wet afternoon and there was not
much to see--a taxi discharging two ladies at the hotel entrance, a
clumsy mail-van thundering by, and a newspaper boy screaming “All the
winners!”
In one respect the individual in the window represented “a winner”;
thirty years in Canada had brought him great possessions--whatever
he touched seemed to turn into gold. Probably he was the wealthiest
guest in the hotel, and yet the most supremely discontented. In spite
of his fifty years, his figure was spare and erect, his hair powdered
with white was thick and curly; his features were well cut, his face
clean-shaven, and he wore a blue serge lounge suit with the air of a
man accustomed to employing a first-class tailor.
Such was Leonard Harling, one of the most important and influential
residents in his province. Mrs. Harling, a clever looking but faded
little matron, was seated on the edge of a Chesterfield, knitting
a silk sock. She was a woman who never lounged, was indifferent to
outlay and luxury, preferred a bus to a taxi, and wore, when possible,
ready-made gowns. On the other hand, her charities ran into amazing
figures.
Now and then she raised her eyes, and gazed sympathetically at her
companion.
“Poor Lenny,” she said to herself, “he is wishing himself back at home,
in great big spacious Canada--where life and everything is free, and on
a large scale.”
Apparently dress offered no snare to this little lady; her green
costume was plain and tasteless, she wore no dainty finishing touches,
no string of pearls, and her rather ugly hands merely displayed a plain
wedding-ring. Mrs. Harling had no flair for spending money on personal
adornment, she had been brought up under a strictly economical rule;
her husband, on the contrary, was reared in the lap of luxury. Here is
his history.
His grandfather, Sir Peregrine Harling, whose tastes were boundlessly
selfish and extravagant, had lived for years on family prestige,
credit, and pretensions. He maintained and educated the orphan sons
of his heir--Humphrey and Leonard. The former, who was brilliantly
clever, distinguished himself at Oxford; the latter, who was dull, but
shone in games, was still at Harrow, when the sword fell. Sir Peregrine
died in a fit of apoplexy--caused, it was said, by an unpleasant
letter--and after an imposing funeral, and when he had been laid to
rest on his shelf in the great family vault, it was discovered that Sir
Peregrine’s affairs were in a hopeless condition; the Hall and estates
were mortgaged to the chimneys, debts poured in, and creditors--long
terrorised by this arrogant magnate--now clamoured for immediate
payment.
There was a great and prolonged sale, the contents of the family place,
the library, pictures, and plate were scattered over three counties,
and a millionaire coal king bought the home of the submerged Harlings.
To the widowed Lady Harling there remained an insignificant annuity,
and a few small spars from the fatal wreckage. She never rallied from
the shock occasioned by this sudden descent from riches to poverty,
but lived long enough to make arrangements for the future of her two
grandsons. For clever Humphrey, her favourite, she found an opening on
the staff of a Colonial Governor, and gave him the price of her jewels
in solid cash. As for good-looking, stupid Leonard, he was packed off
to Canada with two hundred pounds, and a letter of introduction in his
pocket. To save expense, his passage was taken second-class, in a cheap
liner; this proved in the long run to have been a most unwise economy.
Leonard Harling, his own master at twenty, king of his company, with
a well-lined pocket, and the world as he believed before him, lost
his head, and so to speak his senses! He talked loquaciously of his
affairs--his outfit, and guns, and money--to hard-headed insidious
ruffians who posed as his counsellors and sympathetic friends.
He learnt to play poker and to lose money like a gentleman. Here he was
cautious, and did not exceed twenty pounds. At Montreal his companions
introduced him to a small evil-smelling hotel in a low quarter, and
after a night’s wild conviviality he woke to find himself, not like
Byron, “famous,” but robbed of his all! Money, guns, portmanteau had
vanished; what to him remained was one five-pound note, and a kit-bag.
Even his letter of introduction was gone, and he could not remember
the name and address of the man who was to have given him “a lift.”
The thieves were never traced, and indeed some supposed that Leonard’s
story was a clumsy invention; if he _would_ put up at a low tavern, and
drink rye whisky and gamble, he got what he deserved!
No, his new acquaintances were neither friendly nor helpful, and he
dared not write home and announce his loss; for well he knew he would
get no help from his austere old grandmother, who would say:
“Just what I expected from stupid Leonard!”
Penniless and a stranger, stupid Leonard was obliged to exert all his
energies in order to earn his daily bread. First he had a job on the
railway, then he drove a traction plough on a farm, finally he was
engaged as an assistant to a blacksmith. He contrived to keep his head
above water, and so five years passed.
Leonard Harling was active, honest, and hard-working, but he had no
initiative, push, or self-assertion, and he had never risen beyond the
grade of manual labour, until he came across Lizzie Aitken. Within
twenty miles of where he worked, a flourishing town was holding a
week’s festivities. There were to be dances, cricket, and sports, and
for this Leonard and two young men, his mates, took a whole holiday.
As an accomplished athlete, the handsome, well-knit young Englishman
carried off the most coveted prizes--the one-mile race, hurdle race,
and high jump--all fell to Leonard Harling! He wore his school colours,
and made an attractive figure in his jersey, shorts, and shoes--relics
of old Harrow days, which he had clung to, whatever his difficulties.
This graceful, dark-eyed stranger was watched with unusual interest by
all the young women present.
Among these was Lizzie Aitken--the beauty and heiress of Tolputt. Her
father, the son of a Scotch shepherd, had come out to Canada, a canny
hard-bitten laddie, and steadily worked his way up rung by rung; he
was now rich, and the mayor of the town, and his only child Lizzie, a
pretty red-haired lassie, was the apple of his eye. She had received a
fair education, could dance, embroider, play the piano, and cook; and
it was his intention that, with her fine dowry, Lizzie should make a
really splendid match--aye, and keep her carriage and servants, and
live in style.
Lizzie became acquainted with young Harling at a ball. He wore,
beside his recent laurels, an air of distinction--a romantic glamour
surrounded this good-looking English visitor.
In comparison to the local swains, he had an assured ease, a charming
manner--he might be a prince in disguise. Lizzie invited him to her
home, where, appearances being in his favour, he was well received by
her parent, and a week passed like a summer day. The love affair blazed
up between the young people, but was ruthlessly quenched by old Aitken
when he discovered that “the Prince,” as he was nicknamed, was only the
hired help of Job Mackay, the blacksmith over by Lomax.
In spite of enormous difficulties, the couple corresponded, met, and
finally eloped. They went out West, and for the first year their lines
were laid in thorny places; but by dint of courage and industry they
managed to hold out and make a living.
Lizzie, who was practical, clever, and energetic, remembered words
of wisdom which had fallen from her father’s lips, respecting their
retreat.
“A great future awaits Saint Largo in a few years time, though it’s
a miserable hole _now_. It will be a golden city; it has a lake, and
wonderful possibilities for trade; when it gets the railway it is
_made_!”
With this prophecy ever in her mind, Lizzie Harling took hold. She
started a sort of cheap restaurant in her rough and draughty shack,
and as she was a born cook, and a thrifty manager, the “hotel” paid.
Besides the hotel, she undertook the post-office, and the business of
newsagent to the community. Everyone agreed that “Missis Harling” was
“real smart,” and Leonard, her husband, realised that if he had no
fortune with his Lizzie, she represented a priceless treasure. For
his part he set up a smithy, and kept a good team of horses, which he
hired out for freight and farm work--and presently the Harlings began
to prosper. The one cloud on their happiness was the loss of two small
children--an empty cradle represented their tragedy.
As time advanced, all the hard-earned numerous dollars were invested in
land in and around Saint Largo, and when at last the railway came, it
brought them fortune. The Harlings no longer occupied a shack; Leonard
had built his wife a fine solid brick house; the furniture hailed from
Toronto, and included a piano and cheval glass. He urged her to spend
money, to buy smart clothes and jewellery, and enjoy life “like other
women.” But she laughed, and protested at his extravagance, and said:
“I’ve got out of the way of shopping. The greatest pleasure I really
enjoy is sitting hand-idle in my rocker, listening to the hired girl
washing up the dishes and saucepans, which was my own job for twelve
years.”
About this time, old Aitken, who had forgiven the successful couple,
died, and left his only child a large and well-invested fortune,
and the Harlings were the richest and most influential people in
a bustling, prosperous place that now called itself a city. After
considerable hesitation they decided on a trip to the Old Country,
where Leonard endeavoured to trace his brother--of whom he had lost
sight for years.
Humphrey remained in Australia, and wrote from there at long intervals,
and then all letters had ceased. The family lawyer whom Leonard
interviewed informed him that his brother had married in Melbourne, and
not very long afterwards he died. What had happened to the widow or
children--if any--he could not say.
Subsequently Leonard took his wife to visit what had been the home of
his ancestors; and the result of this excursion (as is sometimes the
case) was disappointing. Twenty years had effaced many old friends,
memories, and landmarks; the ancient family was forgotten.
Now, after a lapse of another ten years, the Harlings were once more
in London, and had spent three months in this hotel, pretending to
one another that they were having the time of their lives. They did a
round of theatres, operas, pictures, dinners at restaurants, and stiff
dinners with business people who desired to be civil to the Canadian
millionaire. They themselves entertained various Canadian acquaintances
and fellow-passengers, but they had no relatives or intimates, and all
the time felt themselves to be strangers in a strange land.
* * * * *
Presently Leonard Harling turned away from the window, picked up a
paper and sat down. His wife watched him surreptitiously; he was
reading the advertisements--anything to pass the time! He did not
belong to a club, he did not play bridge, he did not enjoy idleness.
When his companion heaved an involuntary sigh he looked up and said:
“Say, Lizzie, I believe we made a bad shot coming over this time. We
seem a bit out of the picture--and everything is so confoundedly slow.”
“Yes, one misses the whirl at home--the Committee Meetings, and the big
house and gardens, and neighbours--and the dogs.”
“We have no special deep-down-rooted interests--that’s what ails us.”
“Well anyhow, you have your grand collection, Len, your silver,” and
Mrs. Harling waved a knitting-needle at a row of priceless tankards,
that shone on a cabinet between the windows.
“Silver, yes--it’s just a hobby; but there’s nothing to it; it amuses
me, and circulates the coin. What I miss is a live, human interest.”
“I know,” and she nodded, “such as a son or a daughter. Yes, I’d be
thankful to go back to dish-washing, cooking, and slavery, for that.”
“Now would you, Lizzie? Well, I must confess I could not help envying
the party last night at the next table--father, mother, two pretty
daughters, son in the Guards, and friend--what a cheery lot they were;
so gay and genial and happy.”
“It’s a pity we could never trace your brother’s widow.”
“I expect she’s out in Australia. I wrote to Humphrey after we were
married, and he sent me a lecture as a wedding-present. He was no
longer at Government House; but he did not mention his job. I say, you
know we dine early, and have stalls at the Haymarket, so you’d better
go and dress, and I’ll run down and look at the tape.”
Leonard Harling was a well-known collector and authority on old silver;
his name was frequently quoted in articles, he was a personage of
importance in sale rooms, and catalogues pursued him wherever he went.
What he enjoyed and delighted in was to poke about among dingy little
antiquary shops or pawn-offices. A window full of what looked like
rubbish invariably held his attention, and more than once he had picked
up a prize.
One afternoon he and his wife were staring into a mixed collection in a
pawnbroker’s in Soho. Here were strings of coral, scraps of old lace,
bits of china, spotted prints, and a few battered watches, and teapots.
“Do you see that sugar-bowl?” said Mrs. Harling. “Black--possibly
pewter--but a nice old shape.”
“Yes, how sharp you are, Liz. You mean the one full of glass beads.
I’ll just go in and have a look at it.”
The shop was squalid and common, and evidently traded with the really
poor; clothes and boots were piled up within, and there was also an
assortment of cheap clocks and umbrellas. The assistant, a young Hebrew
with glossy hair, wore many rings, and from the private premises came
an appetising smell of fried fish.
“The sugar-bowl?” he repeated, reaching for it. “Yes; oh, it’s silver
all right,” and he polished it with a cloth. “See, it’s Georgian,
but not for sale, I think. A fine piece--the young fellow might be
tempted--I fancy he’s hard up,” and he handed it over, and Leonard
Harling assumed his pince-nez. First he examined the marks--all
right; then the crest. His hand shook a little when he recognised his
own!--the torch and crown--and, like a flash, he seemed to remember
this very sugar-bowl in the blue-veined hand of his grandmother.
“Who does it belong to?” he enquired.
“We cannot give names of our clients,” was the pompous reply.
“Not if it is in their interest--and--er--yours?” and Harling touched
his pocket with significance. The salesman hesitated, relaxed his
attitude and said:
“I’ll go and look up the book,” and he left them.
“Lizzie, I’ve a clue--this sugar-bowl you spotted! It’s got the family
crest, and I believe it came from Humphrey. We’ll find out who pawned
it--of course it’s an off-chance.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve the address,” said the assistant, returning: “‘P.
Harling, 5, Russell Buildings, W.C.’--workmen’s flats. The article is
pawned for one pound--it’s worth twenty. I see you know something of
its quality.”
“Do you think you could manage for me to interview the owner. What is
he like?”
“Oh, a young chap--gentlemanly--shabby. I only saw him after dark.”
“Can you, as a great favour, ask him to meet me here, or elsewhere?”
“I’ll see what I can do; it’s a bit unusual, you know.”
“And you’ll do your best. Here is my card, and telephone to the hotel.
Write to-night; be as slick as you can--you’ll find it will be worth
your while.”
“I think we may be on the trail, Liz,” he said, as they walked away.
“No harm in seeing P. Harling. If he looks a dissipated ruffian--so
much the worse; but if he’s my relative I’ll give him a leg up. We may
know by to-morrow night.”
At seven o’clock the next evening, the landing waiter informed Mr.
Harling that a young man had called to see him, but did not give his
name.
“Where is he?”
“Oh, in the hall, sir; I think he’s a clerk from some place of
business.”
“Show him up here.”
The instant Harling’s eyes fell on the well-set-up but shabby stranger,
he was struck by the amazing likeness to his brother. Undoubtedly this
stranger was his nephew! Nevertheless he began his enquiries with
caution, as he motioned him to a seat, and said:
“I’ve an idea that you may be able to tell me something of a relative
who died in Melbourne. His name was Humphrey Harling.”
“It was my father’s name,” calmly responded the visitor. Then
by degrees--for Humphrey’s son was inclined to be stiff and
reserved--Harling extracted all the information he required. His
brother, who had inherited the family failing, got into serious money
difficulties; he married a fashionable dressmaker, who supported him.
They had two children--twins, boy and girl. He was killed in a street
accident, and his widow brought the twins to England, partly for
education, and partly in the hope of finding her husband’s people. She
too fell on evil days, but made at her trade sufficient to educate her
children and keep a roof over her head. Now she was gone the twins
lived together; he was a clerk to a stock-broker, and she a typist in
a bank. Just at present Lily was ill, recovering from diphtheria, and
they had been obliged to pawn one or two things.
This young man, who had the nose and voice and self-possession of
his race, was astounded when this inquisitive elderly gentleman came
forward with outstretched hand, and claimed him as his nephew! He
had been under the impression that he wished to buy the sugar-bowl.
What an extraordinary change this bit of old silver had made in his
life, and Lily’s! She was immediately moving to a nursing home, and he
to quarters in this grand hotel. He was fitted out by a fashionable
tailor, and slipped into his new part with surprising ease; but all
the same, remained a quiet, unassuming youth, anxious to adapt himself
to his new relatives. He was devoted to his sister, had a practical
turn of mind, and, unless “stupid Leonard” was mistaken, Peregrine the
younger (in reality Sir Peregrine) had brains!
Leonard Harling and Lizzie his wife were delighted with their “find”;
the girl was so pretty and sweet-tempered, the boy a really fine
young fellow; and when they returned to their home (of late years
near Hamilton) they carried with them, besides stores of ancient
silver, a wonderful source of new interests, new hopes, and present
happiness--all imported into their lives by an old crested sugar-bowl.