THE FIRST MOVE
My first plans were not easy to form. I was like a blind man groping
for some object which has slipped from his fingers, and not knowing in
which direction to search for it first. I had a great and solemn
purpose before me, a purpose which was my first consideration in life,
and which nothing but death would cause me to relinquish. But I did
not know how to start upon it.
I was in London when the idea occurred to me, save for which this story
might never have been written. It was simple enough, and very vague.
Nothing more or less than to try to procure employment near the
Devereux estates, which I knew were somewhere in Yorkshire.
My idea was no sooner conceived than I put it into operation. I went
to the firm of agents to whom my late employers had given me a letter
of introduction, and inquired whether they knew of any vacancy in
Yorkshire, either in a land agent's office or on an estate. One of the
clerks ran through a long list, and shook his head.
"Nothing so far north," he declared, shutting up the book. "Two or
three in Leicestershire, if that would do."
I shook my head, and, thanking him, turned away disappointed. At the
door he called me back as though a sudden thought had struck him.
"Just wait one moment, will you?" he said, jumping down from his stool.
"There was a letter from Yorkshire this morning which I haven't seen
yet. I'll fetch it from the governor's room and see what it's about."
I took a seat, and he vanished into the inner office. Presently he
reappeared smiling.
"Lucky thing I noticed the postmark of this letter," he remarked.
"Strikes me it's just what you want. Listen," and he read it out:
"'Devereux Court, Yorkshire.
"'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux----"
"Hullo! what's the matter with you?" he broke off suddenly.
I mastered myself with a quick effort.
"I'm all right," I answered, a little hoarsely. "It's a trifle hot in
here, that's all. Go on."
He began again--
"'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux is in want of a young man to act under
his present agent and collaborate with him in the management of his
estate. Applicant must have some knowledge of farming and surveying,
and must be a gentleman. Credentials and unexceptionable references
required. Salary £250 a year and a cottage, rent free.'
"There, Mr. Arbuthnot, how would that do for you?"
"Nothing could suit me better," I exclaimed--so eagerly that the young
man looked at me surprised. "To whom have I to apply?"
He consulted the letter again.
"Mr. Benson, solicitor, 19, Bedford Row, has authority to engage you.
You had better go and see him, I should think."
I thanked him and hurried out. So nervous was I lest some one else
should precede me and secure the better chance that I jumped into a
stray hansom and was driven straight to Mr. Benson's office. There I
was informed, to my great satisfaction, that Mr. Benson was in, and
disengaged, and in a few minutes I was shown into his room.
He was sitting at his desk when I entered, a short, clean-shaven,
grey-haired man, with a keen but not unkindly face. He motioned me to
a seat, and kept his eyes fixed steadfastly upon me whilst I explained
my mission.
When I had finished he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket, and
carefully unlocked a small drawer in his desk. For a full minute he
seemed to be examining something there, glancing up at me more than
once. Then he took it and passed it across the table to me.
"Do you recognise that, Mr. Arbuthnot?" he asked, quietly.
Recognise it? How could I help it? It was a photograph--and the
photograph of my father.
I leaned back in my chair, agitated and disappointed. Mr. Benson
watched me for awhile in silence.
"I see that you are in mourning, Mr. Devereux," he said suddenly,
noticing it for the first time. "Your father is well, I hope?"
I pulled myself together, and answered him--
"I am in mourning for my mother, Mr. Benson. I can't say that my
father is well, but he is not ill that I know of."
The lawyer was sitting with his head resting upon his elbow, and his
eyes fixed upon the photograph.
"Poor Mr. Herbert--poor Mr. Herbert!" he said to himself, in a low tone.
Something, perhaps his sympathetic tone, prompted me to ask him a
question.
"Mr. Benson, you knew my father. Do you believe that he was a coward?"
The lawyer looked up at once.
"I do not," he said, firmly. "I never did, and never will."
The words were the sweetest I had ever heard in my life. I jumped up
with tears standing in my eyes, and wrung his hand heartily.
"Thank you for those words, Mr. Benson," I exclaimed, warmly. "I can't
tell you how glad I am to hear them. But don't call me by the name of
Devereux again, please. I won't hear it, I won't even own it."
He nodded approvingly, but made no direct reply. Then, in answer to
his questions, I told him as much of our history as I myself knew.
"And with regard to your application to me, to-day," he remarked, after
a short pause, "it seems a strange one under the circumstances."
I hesitated, and then I told him everything--told him of my father's
breaking heart, of my mother's last letter to me, and of my vow. He
listened patiently, and with every sign of strong interest.
"Yours is a noble purpose," he said, when I had concluded, "and though
I fear that it is hopeless, I shall throw no obstacle in your way.
What I can do for you I will. You can go to Devereux, and I shall
write Sir Francis, telling him that you are admirably suited for the
work, and, from my own knowledge, that you are a gentleman.
Fortunately Sir Francis is rather near-sighted, and as he obstinately
refuses to wear glasses there is not the fear of his recognising you
that there would otherwise be. But I'm rather afraid of Mr. Rupert.
Fortunately he's not often at Devereux."
"I must chance all that," I declared. "After all, a resemblance is
very different from actual recognition. I shall try to hit upon some
way of altering my appearance a little."
"You have my best wishes for your success," declared the lawyer,
rising. "Write me, Mr. Arbuthnot--Mr. Hugh, I may call you. I shall
be always pleased to hear how you are getting on; and if you need
advice or a friend at any time, come to me. Good-morning."
I left him feeling almost light-hearted. To have met a man who
believed in my father was like a strong invigorating tonic to me. That
afternoon I telegraphed to Marian to come to me at once, and set about
making the few preparations necessary for our expected move into
Yorkshire.