LEON HAMAR CALLS ON THE MARTINS
"Where's Gladys?" John Martin asked as he rose with an effort, stiff
and tired, from the remains of a meat tea.
In reply Miss Templeton merely pointed a finger--and went on
crocheting.
Following the direction indicated, John Martin stepped out on to the
lawn, and glancing round the garden, called "Gladys!" Then he
listened, and there came to him snatches of a song, the words of
which, full of arch sentiment, allied with (and to a large extent
dependent on), a unique knowledge of and love of nature--would not
have disgraced a Herrick or a Raleigh--the music--a Schubert, or a
Sullivan. John Martin had spared no money in educating Gladys, and she
did him credit. He thought so now, as exhausted from a hard day's
poring over letters, he paused and leaned his back against a tree. A
gentle breeze blew her notes to him, full of melody and mirth; fresh
and young and tender--as tender as the rosebuds and violets that
nestled at her bosom.
"By Jove!" John Martin murmured. "Fancy my having a daughter like
Gladys! I ought to be jolly well pleased. And so I am. The only thing
I fear, is, that she'll marry some one who isn't half good enough for
her! But who would be good enough for her! God alone knows! And God
alone knows whether she or I ought to decide! Gladys!"
"Hulloa!", and the next moment a vision in pink emerged from the
bushes.
"Gladys, I want to confide in you!"
"What's wrong, Daddy, dear?" Gladys said, thrusting an arm through his
and walking him gently along with her through the glade. "You weren't
at all nice to me when we parted this morning, but you look so wearied
that I'll be magnanimous and forgive you. What is it?"
"Why it's like this!'" John Martin said, putting his arm round her and
holding her close to him, as he used to do when, a little girl, she
came sidling up to him for sugar-plums. "Poor Dick's affairs are in a
terrible muddle. Unknown to me he speculated right and left, and he
has not only muddled through everything he had, but he has left a
number of debts, and unfortunately I have to meet them."
"You, Father! But why you?" Gladys cried.
"Because they were incurred in the name of the Firm. I can meet them
all right, but it will be a big drain on my resources. That's worry
number one. Worry number two is about young Davenport--Shiel. I don't
know what to do about him. He was entirely dependent on Dick. His work
as an artist doesn't bring him in enough to keep him in tobacco, and
the worst of it is he doesn't seem capable of turning his hand to
anything else; I can't see him starve, so I shall have to allow him
something."
"He seemed to me very intelligent," Gladys observed, "couldn't you
take him into the Firm? Who are you going to have in his uncle's
place?"
"That's the trouble!" John Martin replied. "I do feel I want some one.
I am getting on in years, my brain is not so vigorous as it used to
be, and I can't go on inventing fresh tricks _ad infinitum_. Moreover,
I need assistance in the purely business side of the concern. I want
some one who is both business-like and inventive--some one young,
brilliant and reliable."
"You couldn't sell out I suppose?"
"No, not just at present. Thanks to poor old Dick the Firm is in
rather a precarious condition! Another six months over, and we may be
perfectly all right. No! I must stick on, and get another partner. And
look here, Gladys, you know I let you do pretty nearly everything you
like. But let me beg of you not to be too friendly with that young
Davenport. I caught him looking very impressibly at you this morning,
and I am quite sure, if he sees anything more of you, he will be
falling head over ears in love. Which is the very last thing in the
world I want!"
"That's making me out to be very attractive, Daddy," Gladys said,
looking round at him mischievously.
"And so you are, dear!" John Martin said. "Wonderfully attractive! and
none knows it better than yourself. But in this case you must think of
consequences--consequences that might be disastrous to us all!
Confound it all, who's this? What on earth does he want?"
Gladys gazed in astonishment. A young and very smartly dressed man was
advancing towards them with a soft, cat-like tread. He was of medium
height and slim build. His head disproportionately large; his right
ear standing out, in proof that it had long been used as a pen-rest;
his nose pronounced and Semitic in outline; his eyes, big, projecting
and yellowish brown; his chin, retreating; his complexion, dark and
saturnine.
Gladys shivered. "What a horrible person!" she whispered, "there is
something positively uncanny about him. I feel cold all over and how
he stares!"
"Yes--what is it?" John Martin demanded. "Do you want to see me?"
"You're Mr. Martin, I reckon!" the stranger replied in the soft drawl,
characteristic of California. "I've come to have a little talk with
you on business."
"With me--on business!" John Martin cried. "I don't know you! I've
never seen you before!"
"You see me now anyway!" the stranger laughed, casting approving eyes
at Gladys. "My name's Leon Hamar, and I've come to talk over that show
of yours."
"D--n your impudence!" John Martin said, raising his stick
threateningly. "How dare you intrude upon me here on such a pretext."
"Calmly, calmly, sir!" Hamar cried, his cheeks paling. "I've come here
with every intention of being civil. I am chief partner in the Modern
Sorcery Company Ltd., and as conjuring figures prominently in our
programme I thought you might prefer to have us as friends rather than
rivals."
"I'm sure my father need not fear your rivalry," Gladys broke in,
meeting Hamar's admiring gaze stonily.
Hamar bowed.
"If," he said, "you desire a proof of our ability to accomplish what
we profess, I will give that proof without delay. With your per--"
"You have no permission from me, sir," John Martin cried fiercely.
"Go!"
Hamar merely shrugged his shoulders. "You ought not to get so heated,"
he said, "considering that exactly twenty feet below where you are
standing is a spring. All you have to do is to mark the spot, and sink
a well, and there will be no need for you to use the Company's water.
As you are probably aware, spring water is a thousand times clearer
and purer. Also," he went on, stepping hastily back as John Martin
again raised his stick, "in the trunk of that elm over yonder is a
hollow about eight feet from the ground, and if you look inside it,
you will discover an iron box full of curios and jewellery. Shall I--"
"No!" retorted John Martin. "If you don't go instantly I'll send for
the police,"--and Hamar, coming to the conclusion that upon this
occasion discretion was better than valour, hurriedly beat a retreat.
"You'll be sorry, John Martin!" he shouted from a safe distance, "and
so will Miss Gladys, charming Miss Gladys. But remember you have only
yourselves to blame. Ta-ta!", and the next moment he was lost to
sight.
"Well!" Gladys ejaculated, "of all the beastly cads I have ever seen
he fairly takes the biscuit. What colossal cheek! The idea of his
coming here and speaking to us like that! Can't we prosecute him,
Father?"
"Hardly!" John Martin replied, "best leave him alone. I wish he hadn't
come! He's upset me! My nerves are anyhow! Which was the tree he spoke
about?"
"This one," Gladys exclaimed, walking up to an elm, and patting it
with her hand, "but you surely don't believe what he said, do you? It
was all rubbish from start to finish. Daddy, my dear old Daddy, I do
believe you are worrying about it."
"Hold my hat and stick a moment," John Martin said, and making a
spring, which for one of his age and weight showed surprising agility,
he succeeded in catching hold of one of the nearest lateral branches.
The elm being old, the bark had become very gnarled and uneven, and
thus the difficulty of ascension lay more in semblance, perhaps, than
in reality. Embracing the huge trunk, as closely as possible, with his
arms and knees, much to the detriment of his clothes, seizing with his
hands some projections, and resting his feet upon others, John Martin,
after one or two narrow escapes from falling, at length wriggled
himself into the first great fork, and paused to wipe his forehead.
"Oh, do take care, Father!" Gladys pleaded, "you'll fall and break
your neck. Do be sensible and come down now."
But John Martin paid no attention, he went on groping.
"I've found it," he suddenly shouted. "That bounder was right, the
trunk is hollow." He was silent then, for some minutes, and Gladys
could only see his boots. Then there was a muffled oath, a sound of
choking and gasping, which made Gladys's blood run cold, and then--a
great cry. "There's something here, something hard and heavy. It's a
box, an iron box! Take it from me." And leaning as far down as he
dared, he placed in Gladys's outstretched hands, a rusty iron box.
Then there was the sound of scraping and tearing, and John Martin
gradually lowered himself to the ground--his coat covered with green,
and the knees of his trousers ripped to pieces.
Gladys ran indoors for a hammer and chisel, and, the hinges of the box
being worn with age and exposure, it was but the work of a few seconds
to break it open. It was full of gold and silver coins and jewellery;
there were only a few gold pieces, the greater number of the coins
were silver--the bulk Georgian--and their dates ranged from 1697 to
1750. The jewellery consisted of several massive gold bracelets, (two
or three of very fine workmanship); some dozen or so plain gold rings;
two silver watches, and a varied assortment of silver trinkets. All
were more or less antique, but none--apart from the gold bracelets--of
any great value.
"Well!" John Martin exclaimed, as they concluded their examination of
the articles, "what do you make of it?"
"Why that man put them there, of course," Gladys said, "can't you see
the whole thing is nothing but a dodge to intimidate you into forming
a friendship with him. I daresay he has heard that Mr. Davenport is
dead, and thinks he sees an opportunity to be taken into partnership.
He had a horrid face--sly and cunning, and his way of looking at me
was positively disgusting. It makes me feel sick and horrid even to
think of it."
"What shall we do with these things?" John Martin asked, picking up
one of the watches and eyeing it with curiosity.
"Are they ours?" Gladys replied.
"I certainly consider we've a right to keep them," her father said,
"since we've found them ourselves on our own property, but I suppose,
legally, they are treasure trove and ought to be given up."
"Then surely the Government would pay us something for them, wouldn't
it?"
"I should think so, at least a decent Government would. Anyhow, I
think to give them up will be our best course. I doubt if the whole
lot is worth fifty pounds. Where was it he said there was water?"
"Good gracious!" Gladys exclaimed, "you don't mean to say you are
going to bother about that now!"
"It was here, I think," John Martin went on, thrusting his stick in
the ground, "to the best of my knowledge--and I had experts'
advice--there is no water any where near here. Had there been, I
should not have gone to the expense of having pipes laid down to feed
the pond."
"Oh, Father, how can you be so silly," Gladys cried, "of course there
isn't any water here. It's only a trick, a trick to frighten you--and
I'm beginning to think it has succeeded."
"I shall try here anyway to-morrow," John Martin said grimly. "Let us
go in now."
When Gladys went into the garden on the following morning she beheld
an extraordinary sight. Her father, the gardener, and a man whom she
did not recognize at first, as his back was turned towards her, but
who, to her utter astonishment, proved to be Shiel Davenport, were
hard at work, digging a pit.
Her father paused every now and then, and rested; but he did not allow
the others a moment's respite. Every time they were about to slack, he
urged them on. It was all very well for the gardener who was
accustomed to it, but it was obviously killing work for Shiel
Davenport, and Gladys--as soon as she had overcome a preliminary
outburst of laughter--gave vent to her sympathies.
"What a shame," she exclaimed, "Father how can you? Poor Mr. Davenport
looks ready to drop. Take a rest, Mr. Davenport! Do--you have my
permission."
Looking very hot and exhausted, Shiel Davenport threw down his spade
and attempted to make himself presentable.
"His clothes will be ruined, Father," Gladys said, indignantly.
"They're not his clothes--he's wearing an old suit of mine," John
Martin explained, trying to appear unconcerned.
Shiel forced a laugh. "I'm rather out of form, Miss Martin, I haven't
had much exercise lately."
"You're getting it now anyway," John Martin chuckled.
"And it's blistered your hands horribly!" Gladys cried, pointing to
several raw places. "I will fetch you a pair of father's gloves--he's
a brute!"
"Please don't trouble," Shiel exclaimed, "I'll use my handkerchief
instead. Digging is even harder work than painting--in one way."
"It's not fit work for you," Gladys replied with another reproachful
glance at her father. "When did you arrive, I never heard you?"
"I 'phoned to him last night," John Martin said, looking rather
sheepish. "I thought a day out here would do him good. He thought so
too, and came on by the seven o'clock train. We've been digging ever
since breakfast--but a bit of exercise won't hurt him, and I'll give
him plenty of vaseline presently."
They resumed work again; and Gladys retired indoors. At eleven o'clock
John Martin let Shiel go. "You can amuse yourself till luncheon with
books and papers," he said, "you'll find plenty of them in my study.
I'll join you later."
But Shiel had other ideas of amusing himself, and as soon as he had
washed and changed back into his own clothes, he followed the sounds
of music until he reached the drawing-room.
"I'm sure you must feel dreadfully tired," Gladys said, leaving off
playing. "It was too bad of Father to make you work like that."
"I'm afraid your father thinks me a very useless article," Shiel
replied, seating himself in an easy chair, and trying his hardest not
to look too ardently. "And an artist is not much good outside his
profession."
"Who is?" Gladys smiled. "Shall you still go on painting?"
"Now that my uncle has died? It all depends--depends on whether he has
been able to leave me anything in his will. From one or two things
your father has said I fear he has not--in which case I don't quite
know what I shall do. I could hardly expect Mr. Martin to take me into
his firm."
"Aren't you any good at invention?" Gladys asked, "I know he wants
some one who is--some one who can help him devise fresh tricks. This
everlasting racking of the brains to think of something new is
beginning to be too much for him."
"I wish I could be of some use," Shiel said, "both for his sake and
mine, and may I add yours. Anyhow I'll try. I have a certain amount of
imagination--I suppose most artists have, and henceforth I'll devote
it to trickery."
"No, not to trickery!" Gladys said, "to conjuring!"
"Well, to conjuring then--to planning something novel and startling in
the way of a trick. And as they say, two heads are better than one,
perhaps, you will help me."
"I," Gladys laughed, "why I've never invented anything in my life,
barring a song."
"Nevertheless I'm sure you would be of great help to me," Shiel said;
"you would at least criticize my efforts, wouldn't you?"
"Oh! I should certainly do that," Gladys laughingly rejoined, "and
probably do more harm than good."
"You could never do any harm!" Shiel said, with so much eagerness that
Gladys got up and began searching for a piece of music. "I would give
anything to paint you."
"I have been painted--twice," Gladys observed.
"For the R.A.?"
"Yes! I didn't much care about it, and I grew desperately tired of
sitting."
"Who painted you?"
"Heniblow painted me once, and Darker painted me once."
"Then it's useless for me even to think of it. How did they treat you
in their pictures?"
"Heniblow painted me in evening dress, and Darker painted me in the
character of Enid--you know, the Enid in the 'Idylls of the King.'"
"Yes. But I should like to paint you as 'Melody in Flower Land.'"
"I'm afraid I can't grasp it," Gladys said.
"Can't you!" Shiel exclaimed, "I can. The idea came to me when I heard
you singing just now, and saw you sitting here, in the midst of
flowers, and dressed like a rose. I should paint you clad as you are
now--all in pink--seated in the garden singing; and all the flowers
leaning towards you listening. I would give anything to paint it," and
he spoke with such enthusiasm that Gladys, remembering her dream,
flushed.
"I think," she said, "we might go into the garden and see how the work
is progressing."
"I fear I can't do any more digging," Shiel put in hastily, "I
willingly would if I could, but I really can't use my hands."
"And you've not had any vaseline," Gladys cried. "I'll get you some,"
and before he could prevent her she had gone.
She was back again, however, in a few moments with a tiny white jar
and some linen bandages. "I couldn't find my aunt," she began, "or she
would bandage your hands for you."
"Won't you?" Shiel asked. "Do!"
He thrust his hands towards her as he spoke, and Gladys uttered an
exclamation of horror--the palms and fingers were raw and swollen.
"I feel heartily ashamed of myself for being so thin-skinned," Shiel
said. But Gladys had disappeared. She returned almost immediately with
a bowl of water.
"I'm sure they must hurt you dreadfully," she exclaimed, as she gently
bathed the hands. "It makes me feel quite ill to see them."
For the next few moments Shiel was in Paradise. The touch of her cool,
white fingers on his hot and burning skin was far nicer than anything
he had ever imagined. Her sweet-scented breath stealing gently up his
nostrils soothed away all his care--even the remembrance of his recent
loss.
With his whole heart and soul concentrated in his gaze, he watched her
every movement--watched the waving and tossing of the stray wisps of
hair over her temples and ears, as the breeze rustled through the open
windows; and the gentle tightening and relaxation of her delicately
moulded lips each time she breathed.
Shiel had always led a very solitary existence. Apart from his uncle
he had no near relatives, and with the exception of the five or six
weeks in the year he had spent at Dick Davenport's house at Sydenham,
he had always been in rooms. He had often felt lonely, but never quite
so lonely as now--now that the only person he had known intimately and
for whom he had entertained any real affection, was suddenly taken
away. He was now absolutely alone in the world, and the poignancy of
his position came home to him acutely.
It is a terrible thing to be lonely. Lonely men do all sorts of
dreadful things--things they would certainly never dream of doing if
they had companionship. And Shiel was doing a dreadful thing now.
Every moment he was falling more and more desperately in love, despite
the fact that he had no money, and worse still--no prospects of ever
making any. And loneliness was in the main responsible for it.
Had he not been so lonely--had he not spent days and days, alone in
lodgings, with no one to talk to--no one to care whether he were ill
or dying; had this not been his experience--the experience he was even
then undergoing, reason would have outweighed folly, and even though
he might have realized that in Gladys Martin he had found his ideal of
beauty--of womanliness, he would have been content only to admire.
As it was, he was in that very dangerous mood when the heart yearns
for sympathy; when a plain woman's sympathy means much--and a pretty
woman's more than much. It is no exaggeration to say that Shiel would
have lain down and died for Gladys ten times over. For her sake--if
only to see her smile, no mere physical pain would have been too
excruciating for him to bear. And when she put the finishing touches
to the bandages, and quite by chance, of course, their eyes met, he
looked at her as if he never meant to leave off looking at her, as if
he never meant to do anything else but look at her for all eternity.
Whether she understood as much or not, is impossible to say. Shiel
asked himself the question over and over again before the day was out,
and in his sleep, and during the next day, and for many days
afterwards. Could she tell how much he admired her? How much he
worshipped her? All that he was prepared to do for her sweet sake? All
this he asked himself repeatedly, and went on thinking of her when he
knew he ought never to have thought of her at all.
"I'm sure your hands are more comfortable now. Won't you go into the
garden and see how the work is progressing?" she said. "Or if you are
afraid Father will want you to dig again, perhaps you would like to go
into his study and read the papers."
"I should like to stay here and listen to you singing," he said.
"Mayn't I do that?"
"You might," she said, "but I have to go out."
"Then I'll stay here till you return," he said, "I've never been in
such a delightful room."
"What do you think of Shiel Davenport?" Gladys remarked to her aunt a
few minutes later. "I don't think I've ever met such an extraordinary
young man. He does nothing but stare at me, and when I ask him to do
one thing he suggests doing another. He's the most difficult person to
manage. In fact, I can't manage him at all."
"Never mind about managing him, my dear," Miss Templeton replied, "so
long as you don't let him manage you. Young men who do nothing but
stare are not merely difficult--they are dangerous."