_After Long Years._
A tall, strongly built man, aged about forty-five, but looking older, by
reason of his grizzled hair and a face seamed with hardship--a man whose
prominent eyes imparted an air of alert intelligence to an otherwise
heavy and brutal countenance, disfigured by a broken nose, stood on the
north side of the Mile End Road and looked fixedly across the street at
a fine building which dwarfed the mean houses on either hand.
He had no need to ask what it was. Carved in stone over the handsome
arch which led to an interior covered court was its title--"The Mary
Anson Home for Destitute Boys." A date followed, a date ten years old.
The observer was puzzled. He gazed up and down the wide thoroughfare
with the manner of one who asked himself:
"Now, why was that built there?"
A policeman strolled leisurely along the pavement, but to him the man
addressed no question. Apparently unconscious of the constable's
observant glance, he still continued to scrutinize the great pile of
brick and stone which thrust its splendid campanile into the warm
sunshine of an April day.
Beneath the name was an inscription:
"These are they which passed through great tribulation."
A queer smile did not improve the man's expression as he read the text.
"Tribulation! That's it," he continued. "I've had ten years of it. And
it started somewhere about the end of that fine entrance, too. I wonder
where Sailor is, and that boy. He's a man now, mebbe twenty-six or so,
if he's alive. Oh, I hope he's alive! I hope he's rich and healthy and
engaged or married to a nice, young woman. If I've managed to live in
hell for ten long years, a youngster like him should be able to pull
through with youth and strength and a bag full of diamonds."
Without turning his head, he became aware that the policeman had halted
at some little distance.
"Of course, I've got the mark on me," said the man, savagely, to
himself. "He's spotted me, all right. Well, I'll let him see I don't
care for him or any of his breed. I never did care, and it's too late to
begin now."
He crossed the road, passed between two fine, iron gates standing
hospitably open, and paused at the door of the porter's lodge, where a
stalwart commissionaire met him.
"Have you called to see one of the boys?" said the official, cheerfully.
"No. I'm a stranger. It's a good many years since I was in these parts
before. In those days there used to be a mews here, and some warehouses
at the back, with a few old shops----"
"Oh, I expect so, but that is long before my time. The Mary Anson Home
was founded ten years ago, and it took two years to build. It's one of
the finest charities in London. Would you like to look round?"
"Is that allowed?"
"Certainly. Everybody is welcome. If you go in by that side door, there,
you'll find an old man who has nothing else to do but take visitors to
the chief departments. Bless your heart, we lose half our boarders that
way. People come here, see the excellences of the training we give, and
offer situations to boys who are old enough."
The man appeared to be surprised by the commissionaire's affability. He
did not know that civility and kindness were essential there if any
employee would retain an excellent post.
He passed on, measuring the tessellated court with a backward sweep of
the eye. In the sunlit street beyond the arch stood the policeman. The
visitor grinned again, an unamiable and sulky grin, and vanished.
The policeman crossed over.
"What is that chap after?" he inquired.
"Nothing special," was the answer. "Last time he was here the place was
a mews, he said."
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, he has a ticket in his pocket."
"You don't say! Do you know him?"
"No. I'll look him up in the album in the station when I go off duty."
"Well, he can't do any harm here. O'Brien takes visitors over a regular
round, and, in any case, the man seemed to be honest enough in his
curiosity."
"You never can tell. They're up to all sorts of dodges."
"Thanks very much. I'll ring for O'Brien's relief and tell him to keep
an eye on them, as the old man is blind as a bat."
Meanwhile the stranger was being conducted up a wide staircase by a
somewhat tottering guide, who wore on the breast of his uniform the
Crimean and Indian Mutiny medals.
As he hobbled in front, he told, with a strong, Irish brogue, the
familiar story of the Mary Anson Home--how it fed, lodged and clothed
six hundred boys of British parentage born in the Whitechapel district;
how it taught them trades and followed their careers with fostering
care; how it never refused a meal or a warm sleeping place to any boy,
no matter where he came from or what his nationality, provided he
satisfied the superintendent that he was really destitute or needed his
small capital for trading purposes next day.
The great central hall where the six hundred regular inmates ate their
meals, the dormitories, the playgrounds, the drill shed and gymnasium,
the workshops, the library, the theater, were all pointed out, but the
big man with the staring eyes was not interested one jot in any of these
things.
"Who was Mary Anson?" he asked, when the well-worn tale was ended, "and
how did she come to build such a fine place here?"
"Ah, ye may well ax that," said old O'Brien. "Sure, she didn't build it
at all at all. She was a poor widdy livin' alone-st wid one son, Mr.
Philip that is now. She was a born lady, but she kem down in the worruld
and died, forlorn an' forgotten, in a little shanty in Johnson's Mews,
as it was called in those days."
"I remember it well."
"Ye do, eh? Mebbe ye know my ould shop, the marine store near the
entrance to the court?"
"Yes."
"Arrah, ye don't tell me so. Me eyes are gettin' wake, an' I can't make
out yer face. What's yer name?"
"Oh, I'm afraid we didn't know one another. I can't recall your name,
though I recollect the shop well enough. But, if Mrs. Anson died so
poor, how was her son able to set this great house on its legs? It must
have cost a mint of money."
"Faix, ye're right. Quarter of a million wint afore there was a boy
under its roof. And they say it costs fifty thousand pounds a year to
keep it goin'. But Mr. Philip would find that and more to delight the
sowl of the mother that's dead. Sure it's aisy for him, in a way. Isn't
he the Diamond King!"
"The Diamond King! Why is he called that?"
"D'ye mane to say you nivver----Man alive, what part of creation did ye
live in that ye didn't hear tell of Mr. Philip Anson, the boy who
discovered an extra spishul diamond mine of his own, no one knows where.
Sure, now, what's wrong wid ye?"
For the visitor was softly using words which to O'Brien's dull ears
sounded very like a string of curses.
"I'm sorry," growled the other, with an effort. "I've been to Africa,
an' I get such a spasm now an' then in my liver that I can hardly
stand."
"That's no way to cure yourself--profanin' the name of th' Almighty,"
cried O'Brien.
"No. I'm sorry, I tell you. But about this boy----"
"There's no more to see now, if ye plaze. That's the way out."
O'Brien was deeply offended by the language used beneath a roof hallowed
by the name of Mary Anson. The sightseer had to go, and quickly.
Another commissionaire, who was observing them from a distance, came up
and asked O'Brien what the stranger was talking about.
"Ye nivver heard sich a blaggard," said the old man, indignantly. "I was
in the middle of tellin' him about Mr. Philip, when he began to curse
like Ould Nick himself."
In the Mile End Road the rawboned person who betrayed such excitement
found the policeman awaiting him. He sprang onto a 'bus, and purposely
glared at the officer in a manner to attract his attention. When at a
safe distance he put his fingers to his nose. The constable smiled.
"I knew I was right," he said. "I don't need to look twice at that sort
of customer."
And he entered the Mary Anson Home again to ask the porter what had
taken place.
It was an easy matter for Jocky Mason, released from Portland Prison on
ticket-of-leave, after serving the major portion of a sentence of
fourteen years' penal servitude--the man he assaulted had died, and the
ex-convict narrowly escaped being hanged--to ascertain the salient facts
of Philip Anson's later career.
It was known to most men. He was biographed briefly in _Who's Who_ and
had often supplied material for a column of gossip in the newspapers.
Every free library held books containing references to him.
It was quite impossible that the source of his great wealth should
remain hidden for all time. In one way and another it leaked out, and he
became identified with the ragged youth who created a sensation in the
dock of the Clerkenwell Police Station.
But this was years later, and the clever manipulation of Mr. Abingdon,
as his estate agent, and of Mr. Isaacstein, as his representative in the
diamond trade, completely frustrated all attempts to measure the true
extent of the meteor's value.
For now Philip owned a real diamond mine in South Africa; he had a fine
estate in Sussex, a house in Park Lane, a superb sea-going yacht, a
colliery in Yorkshire, and vast sums invested in land and railways. The
latent value of his gems had been converted into money-earning capital.
Mr. Abingdon proved himself to be a very able business man. When the
administration of Philip's revenue became too heavy a task for his
unaided shoulders, he organized a capital estate office, with
well-trained lawyers, engineers and accountants to conduct its various
departments, while he kept up an active supervision of the whole until
Philip quitted his university, and was old enough to begin to bear some
portion of the burden.
They agreed to differ on this important question. Philip was fond of
travel and adventure. With great difficulty his "guardian" kept him out
of the army, but compromised the matter by allowing the young
millionaire to roam about the odd corners of the world in his yacht for
eight months of the year, provided he spent four months of the season in
London and Sussex attending to affairs.
In this month of April he was living in his town house. In July he would
go to Fairfax Hall, in August to Scotland, and a month later would
joyfully fly to the Forth, where the _Sea Maiden_ awaited him.
This lady, whose waist measured eighteen feet across and whose length
was seventy feet, with a fine spread of canvas and auxiliary steam, was
the only siren able to charm him.
He was tall now, and strongly built, with something of the naval officer
in his handsome, resolute face and well set-up figure. As a hobby, he
had taken out a master mariner's certificate, and he could navigate his
own ship in the teeth of an Atlantic gale. He loved to surround himself
with friends, mostly Oxford men of his year, but he seldom entertained
ladies, either on board the _Sea Maiden_ or in either of his two fine
mansions.
He avoided society in its general acceptance, refused all overtures to
mix in politics, took a keen delight in using his great wealth to
alleviate distress anonymously, and earned a deserved reputation as a
"bear" among the few match-making mammas who managed to make his
acquaintance.
In other respects, as the boy was so was the man--the same downright
character, the same steadfast devotion to his mother's memory, the same
relentless adherence to a course already decided on, and the same
whole-hearted reciprocity of friendship.
As he stood in his drawing room before dinner on the evening of the day
Jocky Mason re-visited the locality, if not the surroundings, of his
capture, Philip's strong face wore an unwonted expression of annoyance.
He walked to and fro from end to end of the beautiful room, pausing each
time he reached the window to gaze out over the park.
A servant, who entered for the purpose of turning on the electric lights
and lowering the blinds, was bidden, almost impatiently, to wait until
Philip and his guests were at dinner.
A telegram came. Anson opened it and read:
"Was dressing to come to your place when Grainger telegraphed for
me to act as substitute Lincoln Quarter Sessions. Must go down at
once.
"FOX."
"No answer," he said, adding, to himself:
"That's better. Fox's caustic humor would have worried me to-night. I
wish Abingdon would come. I am eager to tell him what has happened."
Now, punctuality was one of Mr. Abingdon's many virtues. At half-past
seven to the tick his brougham deposited him at the door.
The two met with a cordial greeting that showed the close ties of mutual
good fellowship and respect which bound them together.
"Fox won't be here," said Philip. "Grainger has broken down--ill health,
I suppose--and wired for him to go to Lincoln."
"Ah, that's a lift for Fox. He is a clever fellow, and if he manages to
tell the jury a joke or two he will influence a verdict as unfairly as
any man I know."
"Does it not seem to you to be rather an anomaly that justice, which in
the abstract is impeccable, too often depends on other issues which have
no possible bearing on the merits of the dispute itself?"
"My dear boy, that defect will continue until the crack of doom. Pascal
laid it bare in an epigram--'_Plaisante justice! qu'une rivière ou une
montaigne borne! Vérité au deçà du Pyrénées, erreur au delà!_' It all
depends on which side the Pyrenees Fox happens to be."
"Unfortunately, I am straddling the water shed at this moment. I have
made a very unpleasant discovery, Abingdon, and I am glad we are alone
to-night--we can speak freely. Some people named Sharpe & Smith wrote to
me yesterday."
"I know them--an old-established firm of solicitors."
"Well, they urged me to give them an appointment on a private matter,
and I did so. They began by trying to cross-examine me, but that was an
abject failure. Seeing that whatever they had to say must stand on its
own legs, they told me an extraordinary story. It appears that at a
place called The Hall, Beltham, Devon, lives an elderly baronet, named
Sir Philip Morland."
"Morland! Philip Morland!"
"Ah, you remember the name! It was given to a young derelict who once
figured in the dock before you on a charge of being in unlawful
possession----"
"The matter is not serious, then?"
"It is very serious. The real Philip Morland is my uncle."
"Do you mean to say that you learned this fact for the first time to-day
from Sharpe & Smith?"
Philip laughed. By this time they were seated at the table, and their
talk depended to a certain extent on the comings and goings of servants.
At a dinner _en famille_, the presence of a ponderous butler and solemn
lackeys was dispensed with.
"Oh, you lawyers!" he cried. "That's a nice sort of leading question.
But, marvelous as it may seem to you, I must answer 'Yes.' My mother's
maiden name was Morland. Her brother was much older than she, and it
appears the dear woman married to please herself, thereby mortally
offending the baronet."
"Why the 'offense'?"
"Because my father's social position was not equal to that of the
aristocratic Morlands. Moreover, her brother had an accident in his
youth which rendered him irritable and morose. From being a pleasant
sort of man; which, indeed, he must have been did he share aught of my
mother's nature--he grew into a misanthrope, and gave his life to the
classification of Exmoor beetles. He treated my mother very badly, so
vilely that even she, dear soul, during her married life held no further
communication with him, and never mentioned him to me by name. Now, one
day on Exmoor he found a lady who also was devoted to beetles. At least,
she knew all that the Encyclopædia Britannica could teach her. She was a
poor but handsome widow."
"Ah!"
"It is delightful to talk with you, Abingdon. Your monosyllables help
the narrative along. Sir Philip married the widow. She brought him a
son, aged five. There were no children born of my uncle's marriage."
"Oh!"
"When poverty overtook my dear one, she so far obliterated a cruel
memory as to appeal, not once, but many times, to the human coleopterus
of Exmoor, but she was invariably frozen off either by Lady Louisa
Morland or by Messrs. Sharpe & Smith."
"Did they admit this?"
"By no means. I am telling you the facts. I am still on top of the
Pyrenees."
"Then how did you ascertain the facts?"
"I have in my possession ever since my mother's death the letters they
wrote to her. They were fresh in my memory when you and I first met in
the Clerkenwell Police Court. That is why the name of Philip Morland
was glib on my tongue."
"So I have only heard historical events, events prior to the last ten
years?"
"Exactly. My uncle is now sixty years of age. Lady Louisa Morland's son
is twenty-four. Her ladyship's whole aim in life has been to secure him
as the baronet's heir. The title, of course, he cannot obtain. But, most
unfortunately, he has no penchant for beetles. Indeed, Lady Louisa's
researches have long since diminished in ardor. Her son's interests are
divided between the Sports Club and the coryphées of the latest musical
comedy--moths are more in his line, apparently. My uncle, who is
preparing a monograph on the fleas which patronize Exmoor wild ponies,
came to town last week to visit the British Museum. Unhappily, he heard
something about his stepson which disturbed his researches. There was a
row."
"Why do you say 'unhappily'?"
"Because I am dragged into the wretched business on account of it. After
a lapse of more than twenty-five years, he remembered his sister, went
to his solicitors, made a fearful hubbub when he heard of letters
received from her and answered without his knowledge, and ascertained
that she was dead, and had a son living. At any cost, they must find
that son. They have guessed at my identity for some time. Now they want
to make sure of it."
"And what did you say?"
"I told them I would think over the situation and communicate with them
further."
"Were they satisfied?"
"By no means. They are exceedingly anxious to placate the old man. They
probably control a good deal of his money."
"Um!"
"Of course! You see the delicacy of their position. After playing into
the hands of Lady Louisa for nearly a quarter of a century, they
suddenly find the whole situation changed by the baronet's belated
discovery that he once had a sister."
"You have not told me all this without a purpose. Do you want my
advice?"
Philip's face was clouded, his eyes downcast.
"You understand," he said, after a long pause, "that some one, either
the man or the woman--the woman, I think--is morally responsible for my
mother's death. She was poor--wretchedly, horribly poor--the poverty of
thin clothing and insufficient food. She was ill, confined to a
miserable hovel for weary months, and was so utterly unprovided with the
barest necessaries that the parish doctor was on the point of compelling
her to go to the workhouse infirmary when death came. Am I to be the
instrument of God's vengeance on this woman?"
Mr. Abingdon, who had risen to light a cigar, placed a kindly hand on
the young man's shoulder.
"Philip," he said, with some emotion, "I have never yet heard you utter
a hasty judgment. You have prudence far beyond your years. It seems to
me, speaking with all the reverence of man in face of the decrees of
Providence, that God has already provided a terrible punishment for Lady
Louisa Morland. What is the name of her son?"
"I do not know. I forgot to ask."
"I have a wide experience of the _jeunesse dorée_ of London. Hardly a
week passed during many years of my life that one of his type did not
appear before me in the dock. What is he--a _roué_, a gambler, probably
a drunkard?"
"All these, I gathered from the solicitors."
"And if your mother were living, what would she say to Lady Morland?"
"She would pity her from the depths of her heart. Yes, Abingdon, you are
right. My uncle's wife has chosen her own path. She must follow it, let
it lead where it will. I will write to Messrs. Sharpe & Smith now. But
step into my dressing room with me for a moment, will you?"
In a corner of the spacious apartment to which he led his guest stood a
large safe. Philip opened it. Within were a number of books and
documents, but in a large compartment at the bottom stood a peculiar
object for such a repository--an ordinary, leather portmanteau. He
lifted it onto a couch and took a key from a drawer in the safe.
"This is one of my treasures which you have never seen," he said, with a
sorrowful smile. "It has not been in the light for many years."
He revealed to his friend's wondering eyes the tattered suit, the
slipshod boots, the ragged shirt and cap, the rusty doorkey, associated
with that wonderful month of March of a decade earlier. He reverently
unfolded some of his mother's garments, and his eyes were misty as he
surveyed them.
But from the pocket of the portmanteau he produced a packet of soiled
letters. One by one he read them aloud, though he winced at the
remembrance of the agony his mother must have endured as she
experienced each rebuff from Lady Morland and her husband's solicitors.
Yet he persevered to the end.
"I wanted a model for a brief communication to Messrs. Sharpe & Smith,"
he said, bitterly. "I think the general purport of their correspondence
will serve my needs admirably."
As he closed the Gladstone bag his stern mood vanished.
"Do you know," he said, "that this odd-looking portmanteau, always
locked and always reposing in a safe, has puzzled my valets
considerably? One man got it out and tried to open it. I caught him in
the act. I honestly believe both he and the others were under the
impression that I kept my diamonds in it."
"By the way, that reminds me of a request from Isaacstein. As all the
smaller diamonds have now been disposed of, and there remain only the
large stones, he thinks that some of them might be cut into sections.
They are unmarketable at present."
"Very well. Let us appoint a day next week and overhaul the entire
collection. I intend to keep the big ones to form the center ornaments
of a tiara, a necklace, and gewgaws of that sort."
"I am glad to hear it."
"My dear fellow, I suppose there will be a Mrs. Anson some day, but I
have not found her yet."
"'Who'er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me.'"
And a ripple of laughter chased away the last shadows from his face.