A TOWN STORY.
"It is the fifty-second chapter," said the Duke of Long Acre. "You
will remember, May," his grace continued, as he turned over the
proof-slips in his hand, "you will remember, May, that in the chapter
before this Antony Belmore had been out of employment for two months,
and that he was at his wits' end to know how to get even bread."
"Yes, and he had a broken pane of glass to let in the cold wind; and
that there was a wide gaping fireplace to let down more cold; and that
he had got rid of his violoncello; and that his landlord was pressing
him horribly----"
"For one pound, eighteen, and sixpence, rent."
"But, Charlie, what is the good of writing uncomfortable stories, that
have no pious object? I can understand why Sunday-school tales are
dismal."
"My dear May, the public won't have anything but groans and tears. If
you can manage yells for them, all the better. Gladiators don't fight
now in the arena. Gentle creatures like you, darling, have no chance
of voting violent death to a man by holding down your thumbs in the
Colosseum. The modern novel is the portable arena of to-day; and
gentle darlings like you, May, must be permitted to view the
death-agony of men and women, or you would not patronise the
libraries."
"Charlie, if you dare to say any more such horrible untruths, I'll
go down to the kitchen, put on an apron, and make the pastry for
to-morrow."
"If you do that, I'll go down and eat up all the nasty indigestible
dough; and then what will you say at the inquest?"
"Take your arm away, sir; I won't stay here another minute. You have,
I think, made up your mind to be disagreeable."
"Well, run away now, if you like."
"But you are holding me, and I can't stir."
"And I mean to hold you if you will not sit still while I read the
chapter."
"Oh dear, you are a horrible tease! There, let me go; I promise not to
run away."
"Very well. Now don't stir."
The Duke of Long Acre and Marion Durrant, his sweetheart, were seated
in one of the smallest conservatories in London. This conservatory was
situated at the back of Miss Traynor's house in Knightsbridge. The
house and all that it contained, with the exception of Marion's aunt,
the owner, were small. Two people could not possibly walk abreast in
the hall, nor up the stairs. It was a saying of the Duke's that
one of those days he should get wedged in that hall, and would have
to be extracted from it by violent means. There was a tiny front
drawing-room and a tiny back drawing-room, and between them a pair of
folding-doors which always stood open. At the rear of the back
drawing-room was the little conservatory in which Marion and the Duke
were seated. The conservatory was as wide as the room, and three feet
deep. Owing to shelves at the ends and sides for flowerpots, the
absolute dimensions of the place were much reduced, and it was
impossible for two people to sit at the same side; so when the Duke
held Marion he was standing beside her. He had risen from his chair
opposite her a few minutes before. The conservatory was separated from
the back drawing-room by a glass door opening into the room. At the
back of the conservatory was a glass door yielding outwards on a
little wooden landing, which, by means of a flight of wooden steps,
communicated with the very small garden below.
Now, this being one of the fairest days of June, the door opening
outwards on the landing and the door opening inwards on the back
drawing-room were open. It was one of those days which make the old
young, the young poetical, and love the sweetest pastime for those who
have anyone to love. The day was in the fresh warm youth of the year;
all the asperities of winter and spring had passed away, and the time
had not yet been fatigued with summer heats; the air was moist and
full of the scent of young leaves. In the dustiest street of all
London there was some faint suggestion of the forest. According to the
calendar it was summer; but really it was the summer end of spring,
when the land is heaviest with leaves and the air is thickest with the
songs of birds. There is a savour of resin in the breeze which made
those who had been country-born, and were now penned in the city,
raise in unguarded moments their heads, and listen for the murmur of
the brittle pine-leaves.
"With your kind permission, or rather, having plainly shown you that I
do not want your permission, kind or otherwise, I will now read to you
the fifty-second chapter:
"'His tall thin form had shrunken almost to a skeleton. Privation and
sorrow had at length broken down his health and spirits. Although he
had scarcely reached his fiftieth year, he was already an old man. His
eyes were dim; his cheeks had fallen in; his hands were emaciated and
tremulous, his eyes were deep-sunken and unnaturally bright.
"'All the clothes he possessed were on him, with the exception of one
shirt, a pair of socks, and three or four dilapidated collars. His
elbows were through his coat; his trousers were frayed at the edges;
the uppers and soles of his boots had, in more than one place, parted
company.
"'He lived in a back attic off Cursitor Street, near Chancery Lane.
There he had contracted to pay four shillings a week for an
unfurnished room. One part of the contract had been fulfilled, for it
might almost be said with literal truth that the room was unfurnished.
It contained one chair, which had been cane-seated once, but which was
now a skeleton. Across the framework of this seat had been placed a
board. On this board were now set a cup and saucer and small black
crockeryware teapot, a knife and fork, and a common delf plate. These,
with the exception of a tin candlestick and a battered old quart tin
kettle, were all the articles connected with the kitchen or table
which could be seen in the place. In a corner farthest from the
skylight lay a wretched stretcher, and by the side of the stretcher a
common soap-box, which served as a seat, while the board across the
chair answered as a table. Under the broken pane in the skylight stood
a basin, and on the chimney-piece were a piece of soap, a worn-out
comb and brush, a towel, and two small jugs.
"'Beyond the things mentioned above there was absolutely nothing in
the room, except the most wretched of all things--Antony Belmore
himself. He was sitting on the box at the head of his miserable
stretcher, when a knock came to the door.
"'"Come in," said Belmore. Only two people ever called on him now--his
landlord and his friend Valentine de Montmorency.
"'Mr. Jeremiah Watkins entered. He was a stout prosperous-looking man
of about the same age as Belmore. "Well," said Mr. Jeremiah Watkins,
the landlord, coming into the room, "got any money for me, Mr.
Belmore?"
"'The musician raised his head and shook it sadly. "Nothing yet,
nothing yet."
"'"It is Saturday, you know, and I'm blowed if I don't think I've had
plenty of patience. One eighteen six is no joke, you know."
"'Again Belmore shook his head. "I have earned nothing for months.
Nothing."
"'"I know that. It's bad for you; but it's bad for me also. What am I
to do about my money?"
"'"I can only ask you to wait--to wait until I get something to do;
then I'll pay you. How am I to pay you when I am idle, and have been
idle for months?"
"'"I own it's hard on you; but then, you see, this is harder on me.
You are out of situation, and therefore you get no money, which is
natural and proper, as I say; but here is my room in situation, as I
may say, and it gets no wages. Now that's not fair or reasonable, I
say."
"'"I cannot answer you, Mr. Watkins. I am as sorry as you can be that
I am not able to pay. What can I do? tell me, what can I do?"
"'Mr. Watkins owned three houses in this alley. Each one was let in
tenements, and in all he had sixteen tenants. But in Antony Belmore he
knew he had a tenant far superior in mind and manners to any of his
other lodgers. And yet, although he was not by nature a hard man, and
although he knew he was dealing with a gentleman, and although he
would not do anything harsh to poor old Belmore for a much larger sum,
yet he could not be importunate with graciousness. He had one of those
hard, blunt, direct natures which can never step out of the routine
manner, no matter how much their minds may out of the routine course.
Said he:
"'"But what I look at is this, how are you ever going to pay? You are
out of situation; you see no chance of getting a situation. You've
sold or pawned all you could sell or pawn. Even your old fiddle is
gone----"
"'"It is," said Belmore, with laconic sadness.
"'"Then how, in the name of all that's black and blue, are you ever
going to get any money if that old fiddle is up the spout? That's
what's the puzzle to me."
"'Belmore rose, and clasping his long, knotty, emaciated hands in
front of him, said:
"'"I cannot say more than that I am very sorry I cannot pay you Mr.
Watkins. If you wish it, I am willing to go. If I go I have my choice
of two things--the workhouse or the river----"
"'"And you would choose the river?"
"'"And I would choose the river."
"'"That is the way always with you----" Mr. Watkins paused. Belmore
waited for him. "With all you fools," said Mr. Watkins, using the most
tender word his nature would allow, instead of the most offensive, as
he had intended when he had set out with the sentence.
"'"I will go if you wish it," said Belmore meekly, making a motion
first to an old battered hat that lay on the floor, and then towards
the door.
"'"Who asked you to go?" said Watkins doggedly.
"'"No one has asked me," answered Belmore; "but of course you have a
perfect right to ask me to go if you wish."
"'"I didn't ask you to go, and I don't ask you to go, and it's manners
to wait to be asked," said Watkins ungraciously. "You may stay another
week. At the end of a week I hope you will have got some employment."
"'"Mr. Watkins, I should be deceiving you if I led you to suppose I
shall have got anything to do in a week. This is the dull season,"
said the poor gentleman, dropping both his hands and looking
hopelessly at his landlord.
"'"Now, Mr. Belmore," said Watkins; "don't you think it a little rough
on me to take me so cool? I tell you, who owe me rent, you may stay
another week, and I say I hope you may get something to do in the
meantime; and you then round on me, and tell me there is no use in my
hoping you'll be able to get anything to do. I say it's downright
rough on me. It's like telling me I'm a fool for trusting you any
further."
"'"Indeed I did not mean to imply anything of the kind," said the poor
gentleman, in a tone of deep concern. "But if I told you I hoped to be
able to get anything to do in a week, it would be a lie."
"'"But I am a business man, and I like to be dealt with in a business
way; and a business man would never say there was no chance of his
getting employment in a week."
"'"Unfortunately, I not am a business man. I never have been one."
"'"More's the pity. You see, if you were only a business man, you
would have a much better chance of getting something to do, and you
would not make such unreasonable answers. But there, there; don't say
any more about it. I am only wasting my time talking to you."
"'"I am very sorry it should be so," said the poor gentleman; "very
sorry. If I had any property----" He paused, and looked at the
dilapidated chair, the soap-box, and the stretcher.
"'"Bah!" cried the landlord; "I'm not going to touch them. I'm a
business man and no fool, but I'm not a wild beast. Do your best now
this week, and try and get something to do."
"'"I am sure I am very grateful to you, Mr. Watkins."
"'"Grateful! grateful! What's the good of being grateful? Be
businesslike; that's the main thing. Next week you'll owe me more than
two pounds, so stir yourself and get something to do."
"'Without another word Mr. Jeremiah Watkins left the room, closing the
door softly after him.
"'When the landlord had gone, Belmore took a few feeble steps across
the room, and then staggered back again to his old place by the head
of the bed. No fire burned in the huge yawning grate, on the bottom
bars of which the cold grey light of a winter afternoon fell through
the chimney-pot above. Through the skylight nothing could be seen but
the leaden November sky. It was raw and damp and dismal.
"'Belmore dropped his head on his hands and rested his elbows on his
knees. Thus he sat in thought for a long while without moving. At last
he raised his head and shook it gravely, smiled sadly, and whispered:
"'"It is more than likely I shall have proved myself, according to his
idea, a fool; for a gentleman"--at this word he drew himself together,
paused for a moment, and then finished--"for a gentleman cannot afford
to die of starvation in a garret."
"'Then his head fell once more. Once more he dropped his face into the
hollow of his hands, and resting his elbows on his knees, sat
motionless.
"'So deeply absorbed was he in his thought he did not hear a brisk
step on the stairs or a faint knock at the door. The knock was
repeated. Belmore heard it now. He raised his head slowly, compressed
his lips for a moment, and then whispered: "If he says another word
about the rent I will not look at to-morrow." He arose, and having
steadied himself by holding the chimney-piece for a second, crossed
the room with an air of dignity and breeding in pathetic contrast with
his mean attire and squalid surroundings.
"'He opened the door and exclaimed, holding out his hand: "Ah, De
Montmorency, is it you? I am delighted to see you. Come in."
"'All at once the firmness died out of his manner, and he uttered a
sob. Of this the visitor took no notice, but, walking to the middle of
the room where stood the chair with the board across it, he began
humming a lively air as he put down on the board a few parcels. When
he had given Belmore a minute to recover himself, he faced round
briskly and said gaily:
"'"Any good news about yourself, Belmore?"
"'"No."
"'"I'm sorry. But, if your luck is bad mine has been good. I have come
into money. What do you think of that, Belmore?"
"'"I am sincerely glad to hear it. You did not expect it, did you?"
"'"I had no more expectation of coming into money than you have.
Blessed are those who expect nothing. I have run through three
fortunes; and no man I ever met had a chance of running through more
than three fortunes. Who ever heard of any other fellow having had
four fortunes?"
"'"Is it much?"
"'"Half-a-crown."
"'"What!"
"'"Half-a-crown."
"'"It's a poor joke, de Montmorency; a poor joke."
"'"I think it's a capital joke. Now, if, as I came along the street, I
lost the half-a-crown, I'd consider it a poor joke. I was looking over
an old waistcoat, when, hey presto! out drops half-a-crown. I'd like
to know what you'd call that, if not a good joke."
"'The speaker was a short little man, with dark eyes and hair, and a
swarthy southern complexion.
"'"Ah, De Montmorency, if I had only such spirits as yours!"
"'"It isn't the best, at all, Belmore. It's only a quartern of London
gin. Please observe this is no joke. No; look here, Belmore, you
mustn't be offended if I have taken a liberty. I have long been
wishing you would dine with me; but I've been so cruelly hard up I
couldn't do the thing decently at an outside place. But, as we are
both Bohemians, I've ventured to order the rag-and-bone merchant in
the Lane to send over a peck of coals and a bundle of wood. I waited
to see the boy start with the coal and wood before I left the place;
and then I ran off and got a few little things. So I'm going--if you
will not think it a liberty--to light up a fire here and cook a bit of
luncheon, and ask you to have a bit with me, Belmore. You are not
offended?"
"'"If, De Montmorency, it were any one but you----"
"'"Ah, that is right, my dear Belmore; that is right! That young scamp
must have stopped to play with other boys. Ah, here he is! You young
scamp! Put it there on the hearthstone, and, look you, here's a penny
for yourself. Now vanish! Well, my dear Belmore, I don't think much of
our coal merchant. When I am Comptroller of the Household I shall not
give him the contract. I shall be very corrupt in those days. I shall
take bribes--when I can. Now there is a piece of undesirable slate. If
either of us had young children that slate might be useful in forming
their young minds and making them familiar with figures."
"'"Thank Heaven we have no children."
"'"Ay, ay, ay! Have it as you will, have it as you will. No doubt you
are right. Now you don't happen to have a frying-pan?"
"'"No, I have nothing of the kind."
"'"Never mind; we'll toast the rashers and fortunately a toasting-fork
is within reach."
"'"There is not one in this place."
"'"I'll make a capital one out of three pieces of this wood, with the
aid of string. I think this fire will light now. It is beautifully
designed and excellently built. I am a connoisseur in fires. I have
been accused of resorting to bludgeon tactics. But I don't care what
they may call my tactics, they always succeed. First you get a few
pieces of paper--if they are greasy, all so much the better--and you
roll them up loosely, as I did the piece that came round the rashers.
Then you put on as much wood as you judge sufficient, taking care to
cross-hatch the pieces, as an artist would say. Then put on more wood
loosely until you think there is too much. After that put on more wood
until you are perfectly sure there is too much. When you have done
this, lay on eight pieces of coal neither larger nor smaller than a
bantam's egg, and upon these eight lay three pieces as big as a
turkey's egg. After that set fire to your paper, as I do. I will now,
while the fire is kindling and clearing, make our toasting-fork."
"'He rose from his knees before the grate, and proceeded to splice two
thin pieces of firewood, one on either side of a thick piece, having
first cut a slanting bit out of the ends of the thinner ones where he
applied them to the thick one. These prongs he had only to sharpen.
"'While De Montmorency was engaged in making his toasting-fork,
Belmore, attracted by the unfamiliar blaze and glow in that chill
room, drew the soap-box to the fire, and sat down to enjoy the heat.
"'Nothing ages a man more quickly than cold and hunger, and as Belmore
sat before the mounting flames he looked seventy.
"'"There is no fender," said De Montmorency; "but I'll tell you what
we'll do. We'll put the tea-pot down on the ground, take the lid off,
and put a saucer on the top of the teapot. That will make a capital
gravy-dish to catch the rich nectar from the rashers.'
"'All this time Belmore never moved or spoke. With his thin hands
hanging down over big knees, he simply gave himself to the animal
enjoyment of warmth, a pleasure he had not known for a long time.
"'At last the toasting began; and now, for the first time, the
attention of Belmore was withdrawn from the fire to be concentrated on
the food. He had tasted food since he had felt the heat of a fire, but
that food had been the simplest and most scanty. Convicts would have
mutinied if they had been kept on such a scale as the poor gentleman
had been obliged to adopt for a month; that is, if convicts, after a
month of such diet, would have had strength enough to lift up their
hands in menace.
"'At length the first piece of bacon was toasted. With a large
pocket-knife De Montmorency cut off a slice of bread from a loaf,
which had formed one of the parcels he had brought in; and having
placed this on the chair-table, he removed everything else. Then he
took up the saucer from the fire and put that on the table, and
dropped the hissing crisp bacon into the rich straw-coloured gravy. He
poured some gin out of the bottle into a cup, and added water from a
jug.
"'"You go on and eat now," the visitor said; "I'll cook and serve, and
will naturally wait. I'll make a gravy-dish of a slice of bread this
time. You don't object to a slice of bread soaked in red-hot dripping
of toasted bacon? Of course you don't. I should like to see the man
with a wholesome appetite who did. Pretend the bacon is fish, and that
we have lent our fish-forks to the bishop who lives on the landing
below this, and that you have to eat your fish with a fork and a piece
of bread, and then all you've got to do is to fancy my knife is an
old-fashioned fork, and there is nothing more to be desired."
"'As Belmore had cut off the first piece of bacon and was raising it
to his lips, someone knocked at the door. Belmore put down the bit
untasted, and said, in a tremulous voice: "De Montmorency, will you
ask him to leave me in peace, or tell me I must go? Ask him to spare
me or send me away."
"'De Montmorency opened the door softly and looked out.
"'"Is Mr. Belmore in?" asked a very low voice.
"'"Yes," answered De Montmorency. "May I ask what is the nature of
your business?"--he kept the door partly closed so that the man
outside could not see in--"because Mr. Belmore is engaged at present."
"'"I want to see him on very particular business indeed."
"'"Of what nature?"
"'"Well, I am a lawyer."
"'"If it is anything about the rent," said Belmore, "I am willing to
go, but I cannot pay; nor do I think I shall be able to pay next
week."
"'"As Mr. Belmore has spoken of paying rent, I may as well tell you at
once that I am in a position to say he can pay it now."
"'"No, no, no!" cried the poor gentleman; "I really haven't any
money."
"'"But I will pay it for him, with the greatest pleasure. I have very
good news for Mr. Belmore, if I may see him."
"'"Good news?" repeated De Montmorency. "Did I understand you to say
you have good news for Mr. Belmore?"
"'"Unquestionably. Very good news indeed."
"'"As Mr. Belmore is very particularly engaged at present, would it
not be better if he called upon you at your office in half an hour?"
"'"Yes, that will suit admirably. You are a friend of Mr. Belmore?"
"'"Oh yes; I think I may say I am."
"'"Then will you allow me the privilege of a few moments' conversation
with you, sir?"
"'"Certainly." And De Montmorency went out on the landing and closed
the door.
"'He found there a tall stoutish man of middle age and very dark
complexion. The stranger moved a few paces from the door, and then
spoke in a very low, confidential, and friendly voice. "My name is
Jackson. I am senior partner of the firm of Jackson and Connington,
Lothbury. You are a friend of Mr. Belmore?"
"'"Yes; I think his only friend."
"'"I am glad to have this opportunity of having a little chat with
you, for the news I have for him is not only good, but so astoundingly
good that we must break it to him gently. I will not now trouble you
further than to ask you if you can tell me who Mr. Antony Belmore's
father was, and where and when was Mr. Belmore born? We know all about
it. I ask the question merely to put all doubt of his identity out of
the way finally."
"'"Mr. Belmore--whom I have known since we were boys, and whose father
I also knew--is the only son of George Belmore, of Berley, in
Lincolnshire. I think Mr. Belmore is about fifty years of age."
"'"All right, all right! You may break to him as gently as you can
that he has fallen into an exceedingly good thing. Our firm has just
found out he is heir to a fine estate. You will, I trust, excuse me
for having taken the liberty of bringing this with me: but we thought
it possible Mr. Belmore might want a little money before he opens his
own banking account to-morrow or the day after. You will, I think,
find fifty in notes and fifty in gold here."
"'"Thank you very much, I'm sure. It was very thoughtful of you to
bring this. Would it put you to any inconvenience if we did not call
upon you for a couple of hours instead of half an hour? Some of
this"--he held up the money--"might in the meantime be usefully
employed."
"'He touched his coat with his other hand.
"'"Oh, I understand," said the lawyer with a sympathetic look towards
the door, behind which the poor gentleman concealed his poverty. "Let
it be two hours. That will be--let me see--five o'clock. Good-day."
"'"Good-day," said De Montmorency, dropping the money into his
trousers pocket. "The shock of knowing he had fallen into even a
hundred pounds would be too great now."
"'He re-entered the room. "It was really good news, after all--I don't
know how good yet; but, anyway, 'tis good enough for him to give me
some money for you on account."
"'"Did he give you enough to pay Watkins?"
"'"How much is that?"
"'"One pound eighteen and sixpence."
"'"Oh, yes. He gave me five pounds. Here you are. Come now, and put on
your hat. You see this lawyer believes in your luck, or he wouldn't
put down his money without even being asked."
"'"And do you, too, believe there is some good luck in store for me?"
"'"Most emphatically."
"'"Then I'll go and pay Watkins, and never come back again."
"'"You must send for those things."
"'"Those wretched things! Why should I send for them? They would only
bring up many of my cruellest memories."
"'"Ay, but you mustn't leave them here; you must take them away, if
you only burn them. Suppose you are to turn out very lucky? Suppose
you are the real King of Burmah; then, of course, these things will be
bought up, and exhibited as curiosities. But come, put on your hat. We
won't waste time with Watkins. Come out, and we will have something
better in the form of luncheon than we were just about to eat. I have
arranged with the lawyer that we need not call upon him for a couple
of hours.
"'"Belmore had eaten the slice of bread and rasher. He had drunk a
little of the gin, too, and had already begun to revive. Casting a
look down at his wretched clothes, he said:
"'"De Montmorency, it was very good of you to prevent the lawyer
seeing how things are here. But I am not much better off now. I am
scarcely in a plight to call upon this gentleman."
"'"That will be all right. Suppose he gave me ten instead of five
pounds for you? You can get all you want. Finish your gin, and I'll
have some, and then we will go."
"'In a few minutes they were in Holborn. De Montmorency took Belmore
into a ready-made clothing shop, and got him a suit of clothes, an
ulster, and a hat. They came out, and then got boots and gloves. After
this, De Montmorency surveyed his friend from top to toe, and muttered
with a sigh:
"'"You'll do. Now let us go and have a good solid meal somewhere. But
stay. Ask me to dine or lunch with you, Belmore; for you are the
financier. I am only your agent."
"'"Where shall we go, De Montmorency?"
"'"To The Holborn."
"'"But I am afraid you have already spent more than the lawyer gave
you."
"'"Let us go to The Holborn, by all means. As to money, that lawyer
gave me a hundred pounds, not ten; and now here is the balance in
gold, notes, silver, and copper."
"'"A hundred pounds! It must be good luck, indeed, when he gave you a
hundred pounds! Why, this morning I should have thought ten pounds
miraculous luck, and here now am I getting a hundred on account! De
Montmorency, it must be wonderful luck!"
"'They went to The Holborn, and had a substantial luncheon, and a
bottle of burgundy between them. Belmore paid the, bill, and gave the
waiter half-a-crown. He said "Thank you, sir. Very much obliged,
indeed;" and flew for Belmore's ulster as though Satan were at his
heels.
"'When they got into the street, Belmore called a hansom, and told the
man to drive to Jackson and Connington, Lothbury. As soon as the cab
drew up, De Montmorency said:
"'"I'll wait for you in the cab. I'll ask the driver to let down the
glass, and I shall be all right and comfortable."
"'"But won't you come up with me?"
"'"No, I think it better not, I am almost sure the lawyers do not want
me, and I should not like to feel that, if I went up. I shall be quite
comfortable. Run away now, Belmore, and hurry back and tell me you are
the real King of Burmah."
"'Belmore did not care to force him against his wish; so he stepped
out of the cab and walked into the house and upstairs.
"'He had been gone about half an hour, when a man dashed out of that
door and rushed at the hansom, crying:
"'"Engaged?"
"'"Yes, sir."
"'"By whom?"
"'"Tall gentleman in ulster coat--gone upstairs half an hour ago."
"'"All right! You'll do! He's taken suddenly ill, and I want you to
drive me for a doctor. The job is a sovereign, remember!"
"'"But there's a gentleman inside."
"'"De Montmorency knocked at the glass, and the driver drew it up. De
Montmorency said to the man on the pathway:
"'"Mr. Belmore ill, did you say?"
"'"Yes, sir; taken suddenly ill."
"'De Montmorency leaped out, crying:
"'"Jump in, jump in! I'll run up and see him."
"'When he reached the room where Mr. Jackson and his partner stood, he
found Belmore lying on a couch deadly white.
"'"Mr. de Montmorency, this is my partner, Mr. Connington. Mr.
Connington, this is Mr. de Montmorency, a friend of his Grace."
"'"His Grace be----!" said De Montmorency. "I am a friend of Mr.
Belmore. What's the matter with him?"
"'"His Grace the Duke of Fenwick has fainted upon hearing the honours
and wealth that have suddenly come upon him.'*
"'"And who, in the name of Heaven, is His Grace the Duke of Fenwick?"
"'"The person you knew as Mr. Antony Belmore is Duke of Fenwick, with
a rent-roll of ninety thousand a year!"'"
Here Cheyne finished reading, and throwing down the proofs, said:
"Well, May, what do you think of it?"
"Oh, I think it very clever indeed, only--only----"
"Yes, my ungrateful and critical sweetheart?"
"Only--only--doesn't everyone know who the heir to a dukedom is, like
the heir to a kingdom?"
"No; everyone knows nothing."
"But doesn't the Duke himself know who his heir is? Or doesn't the
House of Commons, or someone?"
"Dukes know absolutely nothing at all, and the House of Commons knows
less."
While Charles Cheyne was reading chapter fifty-two in the little
conservatory to his darling sprightly May, the Duke of Shropshire,
having voted against the detested Radicals, was returning by express
train to Silverview Castle, and Edward Graham was seated in front of
the Beagle Inn, Anerly, painting the peaceful valley with Anerly
Church in the near middle distance.