NOTHING VENTURE, NOTHING WIN.
Maria Kettle returned from Leamington in mourning. Mrs. Page was dead,
and had left Maria two thousand pounds. "Better than nothing of
course," grumbled the Vicar; "but she might just as well have made it
three or four thousand while she was about it." He had always thought
she would. Maria was truly glad to get back home again, and she told
nobody about her little fortune. She and Ella met like sisters who had
been long parted. What a number of things they had to say to each
other, yet each shrank from speaking of that which lay closest to
their hearts. Maria said nothing about her semi-engagement to Philip
Cleeve, while Ella did not mention Edward Conroy. It seemed such a
little while ago since they were mutually affirming that they would
never marry--or at least not for many years to come; and yet, after
all their grand resolutions, when put to the test, they had proved no
stronger minded than the rest of their sex. Each felt slightly ashamed
to think of all this; yet, strange to say, neither of them would have
exchanged her present bondage for that past freedom. But a great blow
was about to fall on Maria.
The more the Reverend Mr. Kettle puzzled over the loss of his purse,
the more inclined he was to connect Philip Cleeve with it in some way.
He did not absolutely say to himself that Philip had taken the purse,
but it was strange how the young man's image always came into his mind
in connection with the loss. It may be that he owed this feeling to
Dr. Downes.
He and Dr. Downes, being fellow-sufferers, for the Doctor had never
heard more of his gold snuffbox, had got into the habit of talking
with one another. Talking begets talking, and perhaps the old Doctor
said more than he had meant to say. Anyway, one day the Vicar heard
for the first time about Philip's frequent visits to the billiard-room
of the Rose and Crown, and about the high play with Lord Camberley and
others that went on at The Lilacs.
"What a young idiot he must be!" exclaimed the indignant Vicar: and
Dr. Downes nodded assent.
"And if there's anything between Cleeve and your daughter, as I fancy
there is," added the old man, "I should put my veto on it--at least
for the present. Master Philip has fallen into bad ways, that's quite
evident; and even if these ugly suspicions about him should turn out
to have no foundation in fact, he ought to alter very much before he
is fit to marry so nice a girl as Maria."
The Vicar ruffled his white hair with his fingers, and could not help
admitting that the Doctor's view was the right one. There had been a
sort of tacit agreement between himself and Lady Cleeve that one day
the two young people should marry, provided they cared sufficiently
for each other: and--and he believed they did care. It grieved him to
see his old friend's son going so far astray; but his duty to his
daughter was paramount, and other considerations must give way to it.
After Maria's return from Leamington, the Vicar spoke to her, entering
upon the subject abruptly.
"Maria, I hope there is no foolish engagement between you and Philip
Cleeve?"
Maria's heart began to beat. "There is no engagement, papa."
"But something has passed between you, has it not? He has said
something to you, eh?"
"Philip certainly spoke to me before I went to Leamington; but, papa,
there is not an engagement."
"Should he speak to you again you must give him no encouragement; none
whatever. Understand that, Maria."
Her poor heart was throbbing fitfully. "But--but why, papa?"
The Vicar told her why. Of the billiards at the Rose and Crown, and
the high play at The Lilacs. "There were other things," he added,
"which he should not speak of--meaning, of course, the Doctor's gold
snuffbox, and his own purse.
"It seems to me that he must be becoming a practised gambler, Maria,"
wound up Mr. Kettle, "playing as he does with rich men like Camberley
and Lennox. They can afford it; Philip can't. Putting all that aside,
he is not progressing in his profession; so what likelihood is there
of his making a home to take a wife to?"
"Mr. Tiplady has some intention of taking him into partnership; Philip
told me so."
"I take it that Tiplady is far too shrewd a man to do anything of the
kind."
Maria sighed. "We may be misjudging him, papa."
"We are not misjudging him. Don't I tell you there are other reasons
why you should have nothing more to do with Philip?--matters which I
do not choose to speak of openly."
"It seems rather hard, papa, that I should be asked to condemn Philip
without knowing what he has done."
"Good gracious, Maria! have I not given you reasons enough? Could he
become your husband without a radical alteration in his mode of life?
As for the other matters I hinted at, the less said about them, at
present, the better. I hope with all my heart that things may not turn
out so bad as they seem."
"Then all Philip's promises to me before I went away have proved of no
avail," mourned Maria to herself. "He still goes to The Lilacs, he
still frequents the billiard-room. Why has he not more strength of
mind? And what are those mysterious hints which papa threw out of
something still worse? Oh, Philip, Philip!"
That there must be some weighty cause, apart from what she knew, to
make her easy and tolerant father speak so severely, Maria felt
assured of. She never thought to rebel at the mandate; but it seemed
to her that Philip grew all the dearer to her heart.
She had a speedy proof that the Vicar was very much in earnest. He
gave orders in the household that whenever Mr. Cleeve called he was
not to be admitted. Philip did call; again and again; and at last he
understood that the door was closed to him. It made Philip very angry,
and he set himself to waylay Maria out of doors.
One morning he met her suddenly in a pretty, green lane just outside
the town, and had accosted her before Maria well knew he was there.
"Good-morning, Maria," he said, stopping her and holding out his hand.
What could she do but put out hers in return?
"Good-morning," she rejoined.
"I was sorry to hear about Mrs. Page's death; it must have been a
mournful time for you. You have been back a week, have you not?"
"About that."
"And I have called at the Vicarage nearly every day, only to be denied
to you. Mr. Kettle is not to be seen, and Miss Kettle is not to be
seen, are the answers I get. Of course I can only conclude that I am
no longer welcome. Now, Maria, what is the meaning of it?"
Maria was thoroughly distressed. She knew not what to say. How dear he
was to her! How his very voice thrilled her as he spoke! If there was
anger in his eyes there was love as well, and her own eyes fell before
his ardent gaze.
"Papa thought it best that you should not come to the Vicarage for a
little while," she murmured--and the words seemed nearly to choke her.
"But why? What have I done? Why am I to be tabooed in this way?"
"Papa has heard--has heard things," stammered Maria. "He says you are
frequently to be seen at the billiard-table; he has heard that you are
addicted to high play with men like Lord Camberley and Captain Lennox.
And--and he says they may be able to afford it, but you cannot--which,
of course, is true. Oh, Philip! have you forgotten the promises you
made to me before I went to Leamington?"
Philip changed colour, and bit his lip. He began tracing some
hieroglyphic on the gravel with his cane.
"Papa asked me whether there was any engagement between us," continued
Maria. "I told him that there was not, but that you had spoken to me
before I went away. He then said that everything between us must be
broken off, at least for the present; you best know why, yourself,
Philip."
"That I have been weak and foolish, Maria, no one knows better than
myself," he candidly answered. "But I don't think I have deserved to
be treated quite so harshly."
It was on the tip of Maria's tongue to say, "Papa seems to have
something against you more than I have mentioned, though he would not
tell me what:" but after a moment's thought she stopped herself.
"Papa is not in the habit of treating anyone with undue harshness,"
she remarked aloud.
"I think he is harsh to me. Why, Maria--but perhaps I had better see
your father himself, and have this matter out with him," he broke off
in his usual impulsive style.
Maria shook her head: she knew that his seeing her father would bring
forth nothing--except unpleasantness.
"It would be of no use, Philip," she answered, sadly. "Papa would only
say to you what I have said--putting it perhaps in stronger terms."
Philip went into a passion. "What right has Mr. Kettle to set himself
up as a censor of my morals and conduct?" asked he, with a heightened
colour.
"No right at all, I suppose, in one sense of the word, nor does he
profess to do so," was Maria's grave reply. "But one thing he has a
right to do: to think of me and of my welfare. Don't you see that,
Philip?"
Philip fumed and frowned, and slashed at an unoffending nettle with
his cane. They had been walking slowly onward in this unfrequented
lane, where they were free to talk without observation.
"Am I to consider our engagement at an end?" demanded Philip, after a
few moments' silence.
"There has been no engagement, as you are well aware," returned Maria
in a low voice.
"_You_ know quite well what I mean. Am I to look upon it that all is
at an end between us?"
"Papa says so. He thinks it will be best so."
"And you, Maria?"
A moment's pause; then in a very low voice: "I think as papa thinks.
You know I _must_, Philip."
Again they walked slowly on, without speaking. Presently Philip
resumed:
"That I have been thoughtless and foolish, I have already admitted to
you, Maria; but I verily believe that matters would never have gone so
far with me had there been an engagement between us. I should then
have had something definite to look forward to--some hopeful end to
work for. As it was, what you said to me at our last interview seemed
to take the heart out of me: it did, Maria. You would not even let me
write to you. I seemed to lose my anchorage altogether."
"But oh, Philip--is not that a very weak confession to make?"
"It is. I grant it."
"And after all your promises."
"I have not forgotten them. The truth is, Maria," he burst out
passionately, "you are the only person in the world who can save me
from myself. When I am with you I am strong; when I am away from you I
am as unstable as water. Were you my wife, you could mould me as you
would: were you even my promised wife, I should be a very different
man."
Maria had no words at command, but she gave him a glance out of her
tearful eyes which conveyed a world of love and tenderness.
"I will make no more promises," continued Philip, with a bitter laugh.
"In my case they only recoil on my own head. I will abide by your
father's behest for the present, and keep at a distance. But only for
the present, mind. I shall still look upon you as my future wife.
Nobody can deny me that much."
Maria sighed. She felt that he was not meeting this trouble quite
right, on the whole.
"Wait a little while, Maria, and you shall see what you shall see. I
hope to be able to prove both to you and your father that--but, no, I
said that I would make no more promises," he abruptly broke off again,
"and I will not."
They were at the end of the lane. Before them was a gate, with a
stile, leading into some fields and high grounds that overlooked the
town. Maria stopped. "I must go back. I have come too far already,"
she said. Philip took both her hands and gazed fondly into her eyes.
Then, before she was aware of his intention, or had time to offer any
resistance, his arms were round her, she was pressed to his heart, and
one burning kiss was left upon her lips. Next moment, without a word,
he was gone, vaulting lightly over the stile and away into the meadows
beyond. With hot cheeks and a beating heart, Maria retraced her steps
to the town.
"What was it that she would see by waiting a little while?" she
presently began to ask herself. Philip had spoken with significant
meaning.
The two hundred pounds won by Philip Cleeve on Patchwork, at the
Newmarket Spring Meeting, had to a great extent recouped him for his
gambling losses. But some months had passed away since then, and his
capital had again been dipped into pretty deeply. For one thing, he
was less frugal in his habits than of old. His mother's allowance no
longer sufficed to find him in clothes and pocket-money. His tailor's
and bootmaker's bills were twice as heavy as they used to be, and of
late there was no more fashionably dressed young man in Nullington
than Philip Cleeve. At one time he had been content to play billiards
for sixpence a game, but nothing less than half-a-crown a game would
do for him now. He went to The Lilacs once a week, sometimes oftener,
and although he no longer joined the card-table so frequently as in
those earlier days, preferring to talk with Mrs. Ducie or turn over
her music, yet he could not keep aloof from play altogether, and it
was no unfrequent thing for him to find himself minus ten or fifteen
sovereigns when he reached home. In short, by the beginning of
September his capital had again shown a very serious deficit. More
than once Captain Lennox said to him: "What a pity it is that you did
not lay every sovereign you could scrape together on Patchwork. You
will never have such a chance again." And Philip agreed with the
Captain that it was a pity.
One day at The Lilacs, a little while previously to this present time,
Philip found a printed paper on the table, which, for want of
something better to do, he took up and glanced over. It proved to be a
prospectus of the Hermandad Silver Mining Company, Colorado. Philip
was surprised to see the name of his host, Captain Lennox, among the
list of directors. "Why, Lennox," he said, "I was not aware that you
went in for anything of this kind."
"It helps to kill time and gives me an excuse for running up to town
now and then," answered Lennox. "Besides, these things bring one in
contact with a lot of men who may prove useful some day or other."
"I presume that the Hermandad Mining Company is a prosperous concern?"
"My dear fellow, as yet it is in its babyhood: it has only been
launched a few weeks. That it will prove a very prosperous thing, I
never for one moment doubted; otherwise I should not have allowed my
name to appear to it, nor should I have invested in it so much of my
spare capital."
"Colorado seems a long way to send one's spare capital to," remarked
Philip.
"A long way in this era of telegraphy? Pooh! There's no such thing as
distance nowadays. Besides, the board has its own expert out there--a
very clever young mining engineer--and his reports may be thoroughly
relied upon. We know pretty well what we are about."
Philip was of opinion that the Captain knew pretty well what he was
about in most of the concerns of life. "I suppose that every now and
then one of these silver mines really does turn out to be a gold mine
in one sense of the phrase," he observed.
"Now and then!" said Lennox, with a lifting of his eyebrows, "All I
know is that there are two mines within a little distance of ours
which are paying their lucky proprietors between thirty and forty per
cent., and I know of no reason why the Hermandad should be poorer than
its neighbours. All we want is more capital for its proper working;
and that we are now about to raise. There will be no difficulty in
doing _that!_"
Mrs. Ducie came in, and nothing more was said. But Philip's dreams
that night were all about the Hermandad mine; and it ran far more in
his thoughts next day at the office than did his duties.
Two days later Philip saw Lennox again. "By-the-bye, about those
Hermandad shares?" he said. "What are they each? I don't see them
quoted in the Money Article."
Captain Lennox smiled. "No, you don't see them in the market--at least
so far as the general public is concerned; they are too choice a
commodity to be there. We--I and my co-directors--intend to keep them
for ourselves and our friends."
"What are they?" repeated Philip.
"Twenty pounds each. Five pounds payable on allotment, and another
five pounds in two months' time."
"Leaving ten pounds to be called up later on."
"There will be no further calls: the first and second will amply
suffice for all expenses. Our profits will begin almost from the very
day the machinery gets into working order."
Metaphorically speaking, Philip's mouth was watering. Thirty per
cent.! The words had rung like sweet music in his memory ever since he
heard them. "I suppose that even if an outsider were desirous of
investing a little spare cash in your precious shares, there would be
no chance of his being able to do so?" he said.
"Um--well--I dare say there are still a few left. Are you speaking for
yourself?"
"I've got that two hundred by me that I won on Patchwork," answered
Philip. "I might venture to speculate with that."
"To be sure you might," nodded Lennox. "I am going up to town the day
after to-morrow: if you like, I will see what I can do for you. Just as
you please, you know, Cleeve: I have no interest in your decision one
way or the other."
"I am aware of that. It is very good of you. Let me see: twenty shares
at five pounds a share would be a hundred pounds. That would leave me
the other hundred to pay the second call with."
The Captain laughed--a little contemptuously, Philip thought.
"You are indeed a timid speculator," he said. "In these matters my
motto is, 'Nothing venture, nothing win.' In your place I should
invest the two hundred pounds right off. But of course you know your
own business best."
Philip coloured and stammered. "You are certain that there is no
likelihood of a third call being made, Lennox?"
"As certain as I am of anything in this uncertain world," was the
answer. "And then, you have always the option of getting out of your
bargain by selling."
"Well, I will think of it," decided Philip, "and see you again before
you go."
He did think of it, and the thought dazzled him. The end of it was
that he put a cheque for two hundred pounds in Lennox's hands half an
hour before that gentleman started for London.
An anxious and feverish time for Philip was that which followed. His
sunny, easy-going disposition led him to look on the bright side of
most things, but there were times and seasons, generally during the
lonely hours of darkness, when he thought with a dread sinking of the
heart of what he had done. The second call would go a long way towards
exhausting his remaining capital, and should the mine, after all, turn
out a failure, he would be a ruined man.
But more often his thoughts flowed in a brighter channel. The
Hermandad shares would go up--up; as he had heard of other mining
shares going up. At the proper moment he would sell out and realise
his capital. Then with a swelling heart he would go to the Vicar and
say to him: "I have come to ask your daughter's hand in marriage. I am
about to become Tiplady's partner, and I have a home to take my wife
to, equal to the one she is leaving." What a sweet revenge it would be
after all Mr. Kettle's harshness!