The eminent solicitor, than whom no man in his profession held more
family confidences, not to say secrets in trust, here fixed a pair
of keen grey eyes, not unkindly in expression, but marvellously
direct and searching, upon his visitor.
“You have had a communication with reference to the subject of this
letter,” said Mr. Stamford, placing it before him.
“Ah! Wallingford, Richards and Stowe—first-class men in the
profession. Now you mention it, I certainly have, and I congratulate
you heartily upon it. I have heard generally about your affairs, Mr.
Stamford; losses and crosses, bad seasons, and so on. It has come at
the right time, hasn’t it?”
“It certainly has; but, curiously, I had managed, with the aid of
the grand change of season, to do without it. Now I have at once an
explanation and an uncommon request to make.”
Mr. Worthington settled himself in his chair and took a pinch of
snuff. “My dear sir,” said he, “pray go on. I am in the habit of
hearing uncommon requests and curious explanations every day of my
life.”
“Perhaps I may surprise even you a little. In the first place, does
any one know of this rather exceptional legacy which I have
received, or rather to which I am entitled?”
Mr. Worthington unlocked an escritoire, opened a drawer labelled
“Private,” and took from it a letter in the same handwriting as the
one before them. “Here is Wallingford’s letter. It has been seen by
no eye but mine. It was answered by me personally. No other living
soul is aware of it.”
“I have reasons, connected with my family chiefly, for not desiring
to permit my accession to a fortune, for such it is, to be known by
them, or by the public generally, till, at any rate, a certain
number of years has passed. Can this be done?”
“Most assuredly, I can receive the money, which will then be at your
disposal. No one need be a jot the wiser.”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do for me. To invest the amount
securely, and to let the interest accumulate for the present. At the
same time, I may, upon notice, be compelled to draw upon it.”
“That can be easily done. The interest will be lodged in the
Occidental Bank—they have no directors there, by the way—to be drawn
out if required, by cheque signed by you and me or my partner at my
decease—must provide for everything, you know. If you require the
whole, or any part, you have but to let me know, and I can send you
the firm’s written guarantee that the money will be at your credit
at the bank referred to, on any given day.”
“I am not likely to require the principal, but the interest I may
draw upon from time to time.”
“The arrangement can be made precisely as you desire. When you
authorise us on that behalf, the principal sum can be transmitted to
this colony without delay. You will be able to secure seven or eight
per cent. interest upon mortgage here without risk; and, as I said
before, to draw, should you require, by giving reasonable notice.
The course you are about to adopt is unusual; but I presume your
reasons to be adequate. It is not my business to be concerned with
them further than regards their legal aspect.”
“You have made my course easy, my dear sir, and relieved me of some
anxiety. I wish now to give instructions for the addition of a
codicil to my will, which is in your office. That being done, our
business will be over.”
This truly momentous interview was at length concluded most
satisfactorily, as Mr. Stamford thought. He made his way back to his
hotel in a serious but not uncheerful state of mind, reserving till
the following day a last interview with Mr. Barrington Hope.
On the morrow, when he betook himself to the offices of the Austral
Agency Company, he smiled as he thought with what different feelings
he had made his first entrance. How agitated had been his mind with
hope and fear! Scarcely daring to believe that he would receive
other than the stereotyped answer to so many such requests—“Would
have been happy under any other circumstances. Stock and stations
unsalable. The money market in so critical a condition. The company
have decided to make no further advances for the present. At another
time, probably,” and so forth. He knew the formula by heart.
How fortunate for him that it had been the policy of this company,
shaped by the alert and enterprising financial instinct of
Barrington Hope, to entertain his proposal; to make the sorely
needed advance; to float the sinking argosy; to risk loss and
guarantee speculative transactions for the sake of extending the
business of the company and gaining the confidence of the great
pastoral interest. The bold stroke, carried out as to so many larger
properties than poor, hardly-pressed Windāhgil, had been successful.
The daring policy, now that the rain had come, had turned out to be
wisely prescient. Capitalists began to talk of the man who,
comparatively young, had shown such nerve and decision in the throes
of a financial crisis—such as had just passed, thank God! The
oft-quoted succour might have proceeded chiefly from a superior
quality of head.
But Mr. Stamford told himself that to his dying day he should always
credit Barrington Hope with those attributes of the heart which were
rarely granted to meaner men.
At the present interview there were of course mutual
congratulations.
“Had rain, I saw by the telegram, my dear sir. Heartily glad for
your sake—indeed, for our own. Squatters fully appreciate the
benefit their class receives by such a glorious change in the
seasons. I wonder if they always remember their hard-worked
brethren, the managers of banks and finance companies, upon whose
weary brains such a weight of responsibility presses. Well, ‘to each
his sufferings, all are men condemned alike to groan,’ &c.; we must
bear our burdens as we best may. But this is very frivolous. It must
be the rain. Nearly six inches! Enough to make any one talk
nonsense. What can I do for you at present?”
Mr. Stamford shortly gave a _résumé_ of Hubert’s letter, and
mentioned the store sheep.
“Certainly, by all means; if, as I assume, you will have grass to
spare. Buy for cash and save the discount. Would you like to
telegraph? Excuse me.” He summoned a clerk. “Mr. Stamford wishes
this telegram sent at once.” He had written: “Buy store sheep at
once—for cash. Draw at sight.—BARRINGTON HOPE.—HUBERT STAMFORD,
Esq., Mooramah.”
“Is that right? Mr. Bowker, you will see that message sent through.”
The door closed. “It is best not to lose time in these matters.
Don’t you think so? Prices are rising every hour; sheep might be
withdrawn.”
Mr. Stamford was quite of the same opinion, and was moreover
delighted with the promptness with which the transaction was
concluded.
“Shall you want more sheep before shearing? If so, don’t scruple to
buy.”
“Well, we shall have more grass than we know what to do with, Hubert
says,” commenced Mr. Stamford, rather aghast at this magnificent
manner of buying all before him; “but I don’t know whether there is
not a risk of over-stocking.”
“None whatever, I should say; take advantage of a good season when
it comes, that’s the modern stock policy. Some very successful men,
whose names I could tell you, always practise it. You will consult
your son when you go home and let me know. But, admitting that you
bought up to your carrying capacity, and sold all but your best
sheep directly after shearing, you might make all safe, as they say
at sea. Our Queensland constituents are buying largely to stock up
new country. As your district has a good name for wool, you would
have no difficulty in quitting them at a profit.”
“That makes a difference, certainly,” said Mr. Stamford, to whose
mind—long a _tabula rasa_ as regards speculation, having been too
deeply occupied in compassing mere existence (pecuniarily
speaking)—gorgeous enterprises and profits commenced to present
themselves. “I will talk it over with Hubert, and let you know.”
“Certainly; wire rather than write, though; in matters of importance
time is generally most precious. You are going; good bye! Most happy
that our business intercourse has progressed so favourably.”
“You must permit me, my dear Mr. Hope, to say that I feel most
grateful,” said Mr. Stamford, standing up and holding out his hand,
“deeply grateful personally, for your kindness and courtesy, outside
of any business relation whatever. No, you must not stop me. I shall
feel it to my dying day, and I trust you will come and see us at our
home—the home you saved for us, I shall always think—whenever you
visit our part of the country.”
The hand-clasp was sincere and hearty; the interview terminated. The
squatter went his way musingly down narrow, not over-straight George
Street, on either side of which towering freestone buildings seemed
to be uprising daily; while Barrington Hope addressed himself to a
pile of letters from which he hardly raised his head until the
closing of the office. As for Mr. Stamford, his day’s work was done.
He mechanically thought over the store sheep question, but his face
suddenly changed as he remembered in such matters he would be
absolved from all anxiety or doubt in future. What rest—rest—all
blessed rest of mind and body, would be his for all time to come!
Are there any disorders, sorrows, misfortunes, here below which so
surely, if gradually, eat away the heart of man as those which
spring from pecuniary dearth or doubt?
How the days are dimmed! How the nights are troubled! The glory of
the sky, the beauty of the flower, the breath of morn, the solemn
hush of midnight, Nature’s best gifts and treasures, how unheeded
all, if not despised are they, when exhibited before the wretched
thrall of debt!
To the galley slave in old classic days what were the purple waters
of the Egean—the haunting beauty of the temple-crowned promontory?
The choral dances, the flower-wreathed fanes of the Greek Isles were
but mockeries to the haggard rowers of the trireme as she swept by,
all too close to land. The grim jest of the old-world humorist was
keenly close—that even the demons of the nethermost pit disdained to
torture the luckless debtor, so wasted and dried up was every
attribute of body and soul!
And was he indeed the same Harold Stamford that paced this very
street wearily and so despondingly but one poor week agone? “And
without the timely aid of the Austral Agency Company,” thought he,
“I was even then so near to safety, to triumph! I feel like the man
who clung so long to a marsh pile the long night through, in dread
of drowning, and, dropping from exhaustion, found himself in four
feet of water. And how wretched and despairing was I, how little
hope was there in the world apparently! But for Linda and the
children, I could have found it in my heart to make a quick end, in
the harbour, of the misery which was becoming unendurable. It shows
that a man should never despair. There are always chances. Hundreds,
as poor Hubert said. But shall I ever forget Barrington Hope and his
kindness? No, or may God forget me in my need. And what a grand
fellow he seems to be!”
Having satisfactorily finished his soliloquy, Mr. Stamford bethought
himself that he would make a parting call upon his friends, the
Grandisons. He was going home in a day or two now and should be
tolerably busy, he knew by experience, what with commissions and
other matters which he was but too apt to put off till the last
moment.
The ladies were engaged. Mr. Grandison was, however, at home, and,
as it turned out, not in that cheerful frame of mind which befitted
so rich a man. He had the world’s goods in profusion, but as
Stamford marked his anxious brow and perturbed countenance, he saw
that something had gone wrong.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Mr. Grandison said. “I was afraid it was a
young fellow just out from home—got letters to us—the Honourable Mr.
Devereux; he’s not a bad chap, but I don’t feel up to talking to a
youngster I never saw before and won’t see again after next week.
Come into my den and have a yarn, Harold. I want to talk to you.
And, I say, stop and have a quiet _tête-à-tête_ dinner. They’re
going out—Josie and her mother—to one of Ketten’s recitals, as they
call it. I’m in no humour for musical humbug, I can tell you. I’m
worried to death about that eldest boy of mine, Carlo. Stay, like a
good fellow, and you can advise me. I’m fairly puzzled.”
This was a matter of charity, and old friendship besides. Stamford’s
heart was touched at the spectacle of his old comrade troubled and
in distress. He forgot the obtrusive magnificence, and thought of
the long past days when they rode together beneath burning sky or
winter storm, before one had found the road to fortune and the other
had taken the bye-path which had only ended in happiness. “All
right, Bob,” he answered. “You shall have all the help I can offer.
I’m sorry you’ve cause to be uneasy about the boy. We must hope for
the best though. Youthful imprudence is not so uncommon.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Mr. Grandison, gloomily—with a
portentous shake of his head.