Skip to main content

Full text of "The Scallywag"

See other formats 


Google 



This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project 

to make the world's books discoverable online. 

It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject 

to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books 

are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. 

Marks, notations and other maiginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the 

publisher to a library and finally to you. 

Usage guidelines 

Google is proud to partner with libraries to digitize public domain materials and make them widely accessible. Public domain books belong to the 
public and we are merely their custodians. Nevertheless, this work is expensive, so in order to keep providing tliis resource, we liave taken steps to 
prevent abuse by commercial parties, including placing technical restrictions on automated querying. 
We also ask that you: 

+ Make non-commercial use of the files We designed Google Book Search for use by individuals, and we request that you use these files for 
personal, non-commercial purposes. 

+ Refrain fivm automated querying Do not send automated queries of any sort to Google's system: If you are conducting research on machine 
translation, optical character recognition or other areas where access to a large amount of text is helpful, please contact us. We encourage the 
use of public domain materials for these purposes and may be able to help. 

+ Maintain attributionTht GoogXt "watermark" you see on each file is essential for in forming people about this project and helping them find 
additional materials through Google Book Search. Please do not remove it. 

+ Keep it legal Whatever your use, remember that you are responsible for ensuring that what you are doing is legal. Do not assume that just 
because we believe a book is in the public domain for users in the United States, that the work is also in the public domain for users in other 
countries. Whether a book is still in copyright varies from country to country, and we can't offer guidance on whether any specific use of 
any specific book is allowed. Please do not assume that a book's appearance in Google Book Search means it can be used in any manner 
anywhere in the world. Copyright infringement liabili^ can be quite severe. 

About Google Book Search 

Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers 
discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web 

at |http: //books .google .com/I 



if 




temper, i: 
'thin its I 
id alhf 



tl.li 






than in 
•malous 
•nt, and 
popular 

ing far 
;. The 
■lit fully 

till the 
le book 
■ people 

.ed, and 
iews. 
xciting, 
.jhtfully 

ids and 

idth of 
.1 many 

)urs on 
that of 
.ity and 
, and a 
perusal 

!)e dis- 
ny rate 

■; book 
Iceyism 
ng, ho 
and a 
ury. 
•riiliant 
iis tre- 
ed the 

kinds, 
'.h fair 
1 con- 
•inent, 
lanlly 

1 ruble. 



If- 



THE SCALLYWAG 



GRANT ALLEN 




A NEW EDITION 

■HREB ILHTSTRATIONS BY G. P. JACOMB H001> 



CHATTO & WINDUS, ?lCCkY>\\-VH 

189s 



A^^^^ 




CONTENTS 



//- 



CHAPTKR 

I. IN WINTER QUARTERS - 
II. ROOM FOR THE HERO - 
HI. AL FRESCO 
IV. AT SANT* AGNESE 
V. GOSSIP - 

VI. THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 
Vn. SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE 



Vni. PAUL S ADVISER - 
IX. TEMPTATION 
X. THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 
XI. BEHIND THE SCENES 
XII. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 
Xni. BROTHER AND SISTER • 
XIV. THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR TO 
XV. COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY - 
XVI. FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 
XVn. REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES 
XVin. IN GOOD SOCIETY 
XIX. IDYLS OF YOUTH 
XX. BREAKING THE ICE 
XXI. COINCIDENCES - 
XXII. MISS BOYTON PLAYS A CARD 
XXni. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 
XXIV. HONOURS 
XXV. COMPENSATION - 
XXVI. AN lUTBODUCTIOif f 



AT HOME 



THE TITLE 



PAO> 
1 

9 

17 

23 

82 

87 

45 

58 

61 

69 

77 

84 

92 
100 
108 
115 
124 
131 
141 
148 
154 
162 
168 

• \sa 



\ 



VIU 



CONTENTS 



ciiArrrR 
XXVI I. 
XXVIII. 
XXIX. 



XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 

XXXV. 

XXXVI. 

XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXIX 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 

XLV. 

XLVI. 

XLvn. 

XLVIU. 

XLIX. 

L. 

LI. 



THE WILKS OF THE STRANGE WOMAN 

THK BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE 

IN HOT PURSUIT r 

AT THK CAI*L OF DUTY 

*LK ROI EST MORT: VIVE LE ROI I* 

THE BUBBLE BURSTS • 

FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE • 

MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE 

A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN - 

THE PLAN PROGRESSES 

THE PLAN IN ACTION - 

ON THE TRACK OF THE ROBBER 

HUNTED DOWN- 

' CORNWALL TO WIT* - • 

A RESCUE • • • 

THE THIEF IS ARRESTED 

RELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMONS 

*A MODERN miracle' - 

PRESSURE AND TENSION 

A TRANSACTION IN DIAMONDS- - 

* PUTTING ON THE SCREW* 

MR. SOLOMONS GOMES OUT 

TO PARIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLINGS 

A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS 

A CATASTROPHE 

ESTATE OF THE LATE J. P. SOLOMONS 



PAOB 
197 
203 

210 
216 
222 
228 
235 
243 
250 
259 
267 
274 
281 
286 
293 
299 
806 
813 
819 
825 
831 
337 
343 
349 
355 
360 



THE SCALLYWAG 




"pOE my patt,' said Ar- 
-^ mitage, < I call him a 
scallywag.' 

' What is a scally- 
wag 7' Nea Blair 
asked, looking up at 
him from her scat 
with ioquiTtDg 
woDder. 

Armitage paused a 
moment, and perused 
his boots. It's so 
hard for a fellow to 
be pounced upon like 
that for a definition 
off-hand. 

' Well, a scallywag,' he answered, leaning his back, for 
moral support, against the big eucalyptus-tree beside which 
he stood, ' a scallywag, I should say, well — well, is — why, 
he's the sort of man, you know, you wouldn't like to be seen 
walking down Piccadilly with.' 

'Oh, I seel' Nea exclaimed, with a, bright VvVfe \oa^. 
' You mean, if you were walking down 'EiccaB.^^ ^■^^'^'■^ 
in a /rac.V coat and flhiny tall hat,w'itViaviOTc,\udL^^oi^^'^* 



2 THE SCALLYWAG 

stuck in your button-hole 1 Then I think, Mr. Armitage, I 
rather like scallywags/ 

Madame Oeriolo brought her eyes (and eyeglasses) back 
from space, where they had been firmly fixed on. a point in 
the heavens at an infinite distance, and ejaculated in mild 
and solemn surprise : * But why, my dear Nea ?' 

* Oh, because, Madame, scallywags are always by far the 
most interesting people in the \vorld. They're so much 
more likely to be original and amusing than all the rest 
of us. Artists and authors, for example, are almost always 
scallywags.' 

* What a gross libel on two liberal professions !' Armitage 
put in, with a shocked expression of face. 

He dabbled in water-colours as an amateur himself, and 
therefore considered he was very nearly implicated in this 
wholesale condemnation of Art and Literature. 

* As far as I'm concerned,* Madame Ceriolo said with 
angelic softness, rearranging her ^z*72cc-7ic-sr, *I hate originality. 
And I'm not very fond of artists and authors. Why should 
people wish to be different from their fellow-Christians ?* 

* Who is it you're calling a scallywag, any way ?' Isabel 
Boyton asked from her seat beyond with her clear American 
accent. 

If Madame Ceriolo was going to start an abstract dis- 
cussion on an ethical question of wide extent, Isabel meant, 
with Philadelphian practicality, to nail her dowoi at once 
to the matter in hand, and resolutely resist all attempts at 
digression. 

* Why, this new man, Gascoyne,' Armitage drawled out 
in answer, annexing a vacant chair just abandoned by a fat 
old Frenchman in the background by the cq/i^, and seating 
himself opposite them. 

* It's a good name — Gascoyne,* Nea suggested quietly. 

* Yes, indeed,' Miss Boyton echoed, with American 
promptitude. ' A first-rate name. I've read it in a history- 
bo/)k.' 

* But a good name doesn't count for much nowadays,' 
Madame Ceriolo interposed, and then straightway repented 
her. Anybody can assume a good name, of course ; but 
surely she was the last person on earth who ought to have 
called attention, just then, to the facility of the assumption. 

Sordid she not print a countess's coronet on the to^g of her 



F 



IN WINTER QUARTERS 3 

own card on no better title? and was not her vogue in 
Eivieran society entirely due to her personal assertion of 
her relationship to the Ceriolos of Castel Oeriolo, in the 
Austrian Tyrol ? 

*Well, he's a nice-looking young fellow enough/ Nea 
added, pleading his cause with warmth, for she had com- 
mitted herself to Mr. Gascoyne's case now, and she was 
quite determined he should have an invitation. 

* Besides, we're awfully short of gentlemen,* Isabel 
Boyton put in sharply. * I haven't seen him, but a man's 
a man. I don't care whether ho is a scallywag or not, I 
mean to go for him.* And she jotted down the name on 
her list at once, without waiting to hear Madame Oeriolo for 
the prosecution. 

It was seasonable weather at Mentone, for the 20th of 
December. The sky was as cloudlessly blue as July, and 
from the southern side of the date-palms on the Jardin 
Public, where they all sat basking in the warm rays of the 
sun, the great jagged peaks of the bare mountains in the 
rear showed distinct and hard against a deep sapphire back- 
ground. A few hundred feet below the summit of one of 
the tallest and most rugged, the ruined walls of the Saracen 
fortress of Sant' Agnese just caught the light ; and it was 
to that airy platform that Nea and Isabel proposed t^aqir 
joint picnic for the twenty-fourth — the day before Christmas., 
And the question under debate at that particular moment 
was simply this— who should be invited by the two founders 
of the feast? each alternately adding a name to her own 
list, according to fancy. 

* Well, if you take Mr. Gascoyne,* Nea said, with a faint 
air of disappointment at losiug her guest, * I shall take Mr. 
Thistleton.' 

And she proceeded to inscribe him. 

* But, Nea, my dear,' Madame Ceriolo broke in with an"" 
admirable show of maternal solicitude, * who is Mr. Gascoyue.. 
and who is Mr. Thistleton ? I think we ought to make sure 
of that. I haven't even heard their names before. Are they, 
in society ?' 

' Oh, they're all right, I guess,* Isabel Bo^toTiL ^\i^^^^^^ 
briskly, looking up much amused. * M.oinixi«* ^^^ \»^kJ^^^%^^ 
them on the promenade yesterday, anSL s^ie ^^"^^ ^^ ^X 
prebends Mr. Thistleton* s got money, anflL ^"i^^- ^^^^"^^"^"^ 



4 THE SCALLYWAG 

got brains if he ain't got family. They can just come 
right along. Don't you be afraid, Madame.' 

' Your momma's opinion is very reassuring, no doubt,' 
Madame Ceriolo continued dryly, as who liked not the 
security, and in a voice that half mimicked Isabel's frank 
Americanism ; * but still, as being in charge of dear Nea's 
conduct and society while she remains at Mcntone, I should 
prefer to feel certain, before we commit ourselves to inviting 
them, exactly who these young men are. The fact that 
they're stopping at a decent hotel in the town is not in 
itself sufficient. Such very odd people get into good hotels 
on the Eiviera sometimes.' 

And Madame Ceriolo, measuring Isabel through her eye- 
glasses with a stony stare, drew herself up with a poker 
down her back, in perfect imitation of the stereotyped 
British matronly exclusivencss. 

The fact was, having accepted the post of chaperon- 
companion to Nea Blair for the winter, Madame Ceriolo 
was laudably anxious to perform her part in that novel 
capacity with strict propriety and attention to detail ; but, 
never having tried her hand at the proprieties in her life 
before, and being desirous now of observing them to the 
utmost letter of the law — if anything, she rather over-did it 
than otherwise. 

' Now, Mr. Armitage,' Nea said mischievously, * it's 3 ou 
who're responsible for our original introduction to the scally- 
wag and his friend. Speak up for their antecedents 1 You've 
got to account for your acquaintances to Madame.' And she 
drew a circle with her parasol on the gravel-path, as if to 
point the moral of the impossibilities of his ever escaping 
them. 

* Well, to begin with, they're Oxford men,' Armitage said, 
clearing his throat and looking dubiously about him. * They're 
both of them Oxford men.' 

Madame Oeriolo's back relaxed somewhat. ' Oh, Oxford 
men,' she answered in an appeased voice. ' That's always 
something.' Then, after a pause, under her breath, to herself^ 
* Ja wohl, ja wohl ! C'est toujours quelque chose.' 

It was part of Madame Ceriolo's point, in fact, as a cosmo- 
politan and a woman of the world, that she always 
thought to herself in French or German, and translated 
Aload, as it were, into English. It called attention now 



IN WINTER QUARTERS 5 

and again in passing to what casual observers might other- 
wise have overlooked — her Tyrolese origin and her Parisian 
training. 

*And Gascoyne, the scallywag,* Armitage went on re- 
flectively, * appears to be a sort of tutor pr something of the 
kind to the other one — Thistleton.* 

Madame Ceriolo's back collapsed altogether. 

* An Oxford tutor V she cried, smiling most genially, 
*Why, that's quite respectable. The pink of propriety. 
Tout ce qu'ily-a de plus comme il faut 1 Nothing could be 
more proper.' 

* I don't think he's exactly a tutor — not in the sense you 
mean,' Armitage continued hastily, afraid of guaranteeing 
the scallywag too far. * I think he's merely come abroad 
for the vacation, you know, bringing this other young 
fellow along with him as a private pupil, to give him a few 
hours' reading and accompany him generally. I fancy he 
hasn't taken his own degree yet.' 

' Then they're both of them students still ?' Isabel Boyton 
interjected. * Oh my I Ain't that nice I Two Oxford 
students 1 You always read in English books, you know, 
about students at Oxford.' 

Armitage smiled. 

* We don't call them students at Oxford or Cambridge, 
though, for obvious reasons,' he said, with British tolerance 
for Transatlantic ignorance ; * we know too well what they 
go there for, Miss Boyton, for that. We call them under- 
graduates.' 

* Well, undergraduates, any way,' Isabel answered good- 
humouredly. She was accustomed to snubbing. ' It don't 
much matter what you call them, I guess, as long as they're 
men, and come from Oxford. Are you satisfied about them 
now in your own mind, Madame Ceriolo ?' 

Madame Ceriolo smiled her gracious little smile. She 
was as pretty and well preserved a woman of forty as you 
would wish to see across a table d'hdte at dinner any day. 

* If they're really Oxford men, and your momma approves 
of them,' she replied, with just the faintest little undertone 
of malice, * I'm sure they'll be an acquisition t<i ^^xiXss^^ 
society. Though I could wish that ono ol XJasm.^^^ "paN^^ 
scallywag, if Mr. Armitage has expVam^^i XJcia TSift^JoM^^ ^ 
the name be applies to him correctly.' 



6 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Chut !* Armitage murmured in a gentle undertone. ' Talk 
of the devil 1 — Here comes Thistleton I' 

* We say in Austria, " Speak of an angel, and you hear 
the rustle of her wings," ' Madame answered demurely. 

* C'est plus poli, notre proverbe k nous ; n'est ce pas, 
hionsieur? And which is Thistleton? The pupil or the 
scallywag ?* 

* The pupil,* Armitage whispered in a flutter of uneasi- 
ness. * But take care — take care 1 Hell see we're talking 
of him.* 

* The pupil ! C'est bien V Madame mused in reply. And 
in effect it tvas well ; for experience and analogy led her to 
conclude that the pupil is usually richer in this world's 
goods than his master or instructor. 

* Though, after all,' Madame reflected to herself wisely, 

* it isn't always the richest people, either, you can get most 
out of.' 

Her reflections, however, philosophical as they might be, 
were cut short by the arrival of the pupil himself, whom 
Armitage advanced to meet with friendly right hand, and 
presented duly to the ladies of the party. 

* Madame Ceriolo, Miss Boyton, Miss Blair — Mr. Thistle- 
ton.' 

The new-comer bowed. He was a blonde young man, 
tall, hearty, and athletic, with a complexion indicative of 
serious attention to beefsteak for brep-kfast, and he wore a 
well-made knickerbocker suit that suggested unlimited 
credit at a West-end tailor's. 

Madame Ceriolo cast her keen black eyes over him once 
from head to foot through those impassive glasses, and 
summed him up mentally at a glance to hierself ; manu- 
facturing interest, rich, good-humoured, a fool with his 
money, strong, handsome, Britannic — the kind of young 
man, in fact, who, under other circumstances, it might have 
been well for a woman of the world to cultivate. But then, 
dear Nea I that excellent Mr. Blair ; the Cornish rectory ; 
her British respectability I Madame drew herself up once 
more at the thought and bowed stiffly. 

* Now, Nea, say, he's yours ; you've got to ask him,' 
Isabel Boyton remarked, after the usual formalities of the 
weather report and the bill of health had been duly 
exchanged by either party, * Tbo gcal-r—,.' She ghepked 



IN WINTER QUARTERS 7 

herself; even Transatlantic freedom of speech has its final 
limits. * Mr. Gascoyne's mine, and Mr. Thistleton's yours, 
you know. So fire away, there's a dear. '* On Saturday 
next — the pleasure of your company." * : 

* What is it T the blonde young man asked with a good- 
humoured smile. * Tennis, a hop, ^ dinner, a tea-fight ?' 

* Oh dear no I only a picnic, Mr. Thistleton,* Nea 
answered, blushing ; a blush through that clear rich olive- 
dusky skin is so very becoming. * Miss Boyton and I are 
stopping together at the Hotel des Kives d'Or, and we've 
got up a little entertainment of our own ' 

'With momma and Madame Ceriolo,' Isabel interposed 
promptly, to save the convenances, 

* To Sant' Agnese on the hill-top there,' Nea wqnt on, 
without noticing the interruption. * It's on Saturday, the 
twenty-fourth, the day before Christmas. Are you and Mr. 
Gascoyne engaged for Saturday ?' 

'Now, you're asking my man, too,' Isabel put in, 
pretending to be vexed ; * and I was going to write him 
such a sweetly pretty invitation.' 

' We're not engaged, as far as I'm concerned,' Tbistletoi; 
answered, seating himself ; * I shall be awfully dehghted. 
But I'm not so sure about Gascoyne, Miss Blair. He's sucji 
a shy sort of fellow, he won't go out. However, I'll convey 
Miss Boyton's message to him.' 

* But the trouble is,' Isabel said, glancing seaward, * that 
every man Jack of us is to go on a donkey.' 

*And this meeting cordially recognises the principle,' 
Armitage put in from behind, * that every man Jack of us, 
as Miss Boyton so charmingly phrases it, is to engage, 
provide, hire, and pay for his own animal.* 

* Where's Sant' Agnese V the blonde young man inquired, 
lookipg about him vaguely. 

Armitage and Miss Boyton pointed it out together at once 
(of course in different places), and Armitage's, as a matter 
of fact, happened to be the right one. Such is the per- 
versity of men, that they actuaUy insist upon being usually 
accurate in these unimportant details. 

*Why, I could hop that lot on one foot,' Thistleton 
exclaimed contemptuously. * I'll walk, Miss Bla.vt \ \ ^'odH* 
need any donkey.' 

fPut/ou don't understand,' Armitage ^u^^^x^^^ ^"^^"^^ 



8 THE SCALLYWAG 

' The point of this particular entertainment is that it*s to be 
fundamentally and essentially an exclusive donkey-picnic* 

* For which reason, Mr. Armitage, we've included you in 
it/ Isabel remarked parenthetically in a stage undertone. 

Armitage severely ignored the cheap witticism. A man 
of culture can afford to ignore Pennsylvanian pleasantry. 

* And it would mar the harmony of the entertainment,* 
he continued, as bland as ever, ' if any of us were to insist 
on going up on our natural organs of locomotion.' 

'Meaning our legs,' Nea added in explanation, for the 
blonde young man seemed helplessly involved in doubt as 
to Armitage's meaning. 

Isabel Boyton glanced down at the ground with modest 
coyness. 

* Limbs we say in Amurrica,' she murmured half inaudibly 
to herself, with a rising blush. 

* We are all vertebrate animals,* Armitage responded 
with cheerful ease. * Why seek to conceal the fact ? Well, 
you see, Thistleton, the joke is just this : we shall start 
some ten or fifteen donkey-power strong, all in a row, to 
scale the virgin heights of Sanb' Agnese — is *' virgin heights" 
permissible in America, Miss Boyton ? — and if any one of 
us were ignobly to walk by the side, he'd be taking a mean 
advantage of all the remainder.' 

* In short, we mean to make ourselves ridiculous in a lot,* 
Nea said, coming to the rescue : * and none of us must be 
less ridiculous than the main body. You can't think wbat 
fun it is, Mr. Thistleton, and what a cavalcade we shall 
make, zigzagging up and down the mountain-side like so 
many billy-goats I Why, fat old Mrs. Newton at our hotel's 
going to come on purpose, if she can get any donkey in 
Mentone strong enough to carry her.* 

* The true philosopher,' Armitage observed sententiously, 
' is never deterred from doing that which suits his own con- 
venience by the consideration that he is at the same time 
affording an innocent amusement to other people.' 

The blonde young man yielded with grace forthwith. 

* Oh, if it's only a case of making myself ridiculous to 
please the company,' he said with native good-humour, * I'm 
all there. It's my usual attitude. I accept the donkey and 
the invitation. When and where do we start ? We must 

I/ave a rendezvouB^* 



ROOM FOR THE HERO 9 

' At the Gars at ten sharp,' Nea said, ticking him off od 
her list of the apprised. ' And mind you order your dorkeye 
well beforehand, for there'll be a brisk demand. Every 
donkey ia Mentone '11 be in requisition for the picnic,' 

_ Madame Ceriolo sighed. ' What a character you're 
giving US 1' she exclaimed lackadaisically. ' Bat never 
inind, my child — la Jeunesae a'amusera.' 

And she looked as young and pretty herself when she 
smiled as a ■woman of forty can ever reasonably be expected 
to do. 



CHAPTER II. 

BOOM FOK THE HEEO. 

P N hour later the blonde young man pursued 
the even tenor oE his way, assisted by a 
cigar and swinging a stout green orange- 
stick in his band, along the Promenade du 
Midi, the main lounge of Mentone, towards 
the Hotel Continental. Arrived at the 
grand staircase of that palatial caravanserai, the most 
fashionable in the town, he leapt lightly up three steps at 
a time into the entrance-hall, and calling out, ' Here, 
you, sir,' in his native tongue— for he was no linguist 
— to the boy at the lift, mounted hydraulically, whistling 
as he went, to the second story. There he burst into the 
neatly -furnished sitting-room, being a boisterous young 
man most heedless of the conventions, and. Singing his 
hat on the table and himself into an easy-chair before 
the superfluous fire, exclaimed in a loud and jolly voice to 
his companion : ' I say, Gascoyne, here's games to the fore I 
I've got an invitation for you,' 

His friend looked op inquiringly. 'Who from?' he asked, 
laying down his pen and rising from his desk to sun himself 
in the broad flood of light by the window, 

' A pretty American,' Thistleton answered, knocking off 
his ash into the basket of olive-wood ; ' no end of a. ¥.WQ.wtt^ 

'But I don't know her,' Paul Gascoyne gB.'SgeicixA"^^-'^ 
a half-terrified look. 
'Somaeb the better,' his compajaion xetot^e^ vta-^T.'i.Ms** 




lo THE SCALLYWAG 

ably, * If a lady falls over head and ears in love with you 
merely from seeing your manly form in the street without 
ever having so much as exchanged a single word with you, 
the compliment's a higher one, of course, than if she waited 
to learn all your virtues and accomplishments in the ordinary 
manner.' 

' Dinner ?' Gascoyne asked, with a dubious glance towards 
his bedroom door. He was thinking how far his evening 
apparel would carry him unaided. 

* No, not dinner ; a picnic next Saturday as ever was,* 
Thistleton replied, all unconscious. * The ladies of the 
Eives d*Or invite us both to lunch with them on the green 
up yonder at Sant' Agnese. It's an awful lark, and the 
pretty American's dying to see you. She says she's heard 
so much about you * 

* A picnic I' Paul interposed, cutting him short at once, 
and distinctly relieved by learning of this lesser evil. * Well, 
I dare say I can let it run to a picnic. That won't dip into 
much. But how did the ladies at the Eives d'Or ever come 
at all to cognise ipy humble existence ?* 

Thistleton smiled an abstruse smile. * Why, Armitage 
told them, I suppose,' he answered carelessly. * But do you 
really imagine, at the present time of day, my ^ear fellow, 
every girl in the place doesn't know at once the name, ante- 
cedents, position, and prospects, of every young man of 
marriageable age that by any chance comes into it? Do 
you think they haven't spotted the fashionable intelligence 
that two real live Oxford men are stopping at the Conti- 
nental? I should rather say so I Gascoyne, my boy, keep 
your eyes open. We've our price in the world. Mind you 
always remember it !* 

Paul Gascoyne smiled uneasily. ' I wish I could think 
so,* he murmured half aloud. 

* Yes, we've our price in the world,' his friend pontinued 
slowly, cigar turned downwards and lips pursed, musing. 
* The eligible young man is fast becoming an extinct animal. 
The supply by no means equals the demand. And the 
result's as usual. We're at a premium in society, and, as 
economic units, we must govern ourselves accordingly.* 

* Ah, that's all very well for rich men like you,' Paul 
began hurriedly. 

What I do you mean to mj,' Thistleton cried, rising an^ 



/ 



ROOM FOR THE HERO n " 

fronting him with a jerk, ' that half the women one meets 
wouldn't bo only too glad to marry the son and heir of a 
British bar * 

Before he could utter the word that was gurgling in his 
throat, however, Gascoyne had clapped his hand upon that 
imprudent mouth, and cried out, in a perfect agony of 
disgust, *No more of that nonsense, for heaven's sake, 
Thistleton 1 I hope you haven't breathed a word about it 
to anybody here in Mentone ? If you have, I think I shall 
die of shame. I'll take the very next train back to Paris, I 
swear, and never come near either you or the place again as 
long as I live.' 

Thistleton sat down, red-faced, but sobered. 'Honour 
bright, not a word I' he answered, gazing hard at his com- 
panion. * I've never so much as even alluded to it. The 
golden-haired Pennsylvanian was trying to pump me all she 
Knew, I confess; but I listened not to the voice of the 
charmer, charmed she never so wisely through her neat 
little nose. I resisted the siren like bricks, and kept my 
own counsel. Now, don't cut up rusty about it, there's a 
good, sensible fellow. If a man's father does happen to be 
born ' 

But a darted look from Gascoyne cut him short once 
more with unspoken remonstrance, and he contented him- 
self with pulling down his collar and flashing his shirt-cuffs 
to imitate in pantomime a general air of close connection 
with the British aristocracy. 

There was a short pause^ during which Thistleton slowly 
puffed his cigar, while Paul looked out of the window in 
meditative mood and scanned the blue bay and purple sea, 
with Bordighera shining white on its promontory in the 
distance. 

It would havp been impossible for anybody to deny, as 
you saw him then, that Paul Gascoyne was essentially a 
scallywag. He looked the character to perfection. It 
wasn't merely that his coat, though carefully brushed and 
conserved, had seen long service and honourable scars ; it 
wasn't merely that his tie was narrow, and his collar ddmod^, 
and his trousers baggy, and his shoes antique ; i^ -^^stdl*^ 
merely that honest poverty peeped out ol e\«t^ lc\^ ^xA 
erease in his threadha,v0 raiment ; tVie xnSi.ii \iY«i^^V \\aA. 
spwe^i/og of that shy and shrinking ait ^\x\citi \i^\oTL^^ Vj 



12 THE SCALLYWAG 

nature to those poor souls who slink along timidly through 
the back alleys of life, and fear to tread with a free and 
open footstep the main highways of respectable humanity. 
Not that, on the other hand, there was anything mean or 
small in Paul Gascoyne's face or bearing ; on the contrary, 
he looked every inch a man, and, to those who can see below 
the surface, a gentleman also. He was tall and well built, 
with handsome features and copious black hair, that showed 
off his £ne eyes and high white forehead to great advantage. 
But the day of small things had weighed upon him heavily : 
the iron of poverty and ancestral care had entered into his 
soul. The sordid shifts and petty subterfuges of a Hfe far 
harder than that of his companions and fellow-students had 
left their mark deep upon his form and features. He was, 
in short, what Armitage had called him, in spite of his good 
looks — an obvious scallywag, nothing more or less : a person 
rightly or wrongly conscious that, by accident or demerit, 
he fills a minor place in the world's esteem and the world's 
consideration. 

He stood and gazed out of the window abstractedly, 
reflecting to himself, after all, that a climb up those glorious 
gray crags to Sant* Agnese would be far from unpleasant, 
even though clogged by a golden-haired Pennsylvanian, no 
doubt wealthy, if only — when suddenly Thistleton recalled 
him to himself by adding in an afterthoug ht : 

* And we ve got to order our donkeys early, for donkeys, too, 
will be at a premium on Saturday. Political economy very 
much to the front. Supply and demand again unequally 
balanced.' 

Paul glanced up at the silent rocks pnce more — great 
lonely tors that seemed to pierce the blue with their 
gigantic aiguilles — and answered quietly, ' I think I shall 
walk, for my own part, Thistleton. It can't be more than 
a couple of thousand feet or so up, and half a dozen miles 
across country as the crow flies. Just about enough to give 
one an appetite for one's lunch when one gets there.' 

* Ah, but the pretty American's commands are absolute 
— every man Jack to ride his own donkey. They say it's 
such fun going up in a body like so many fools ; and if 
everybody's going to make himself a fool for once, I don't 
object to bearing my part in it.' And the blonde young man 

J^ancd back w hi^ oas^'-chair and stuck Vv\^ V>oo\,^ c^u 1\iq 



ROOM FOR THE HERO 13 

fender with a tolerant air of perfect contentment with all 
mankind and the constitution of the universe. 

* 1 shall walk/ Paul murmured again, not dogmatically, 
but as one who wishes to settle a question off-hand. 

* Look here, now, Gascoyne, as the Highland meenister 
said in his prayer, this is clean rideeklous. Do you mean 
to say you're too grand to ride a donkey ? You think it 
infra dig. for a B. of B. K. — there, will that suit you ? — to 
be seen on a beast which is quite good enough ' 

Paul cut him short once more with a gesture of 
impatience. 

* It's unkind of you, Thistleton,* he said, ' to go on 1 aip- 
ing so often on that threadb-^re string, when you see hcw 
very much pain and annoyance it causes me. You knew 
it's not that. Heaven knows I*m not proud — not that way, 
at least — what on earth have I got not to be ashamed ol ? 
No, the simple truth is, if you must have it, I don't want to 
go to the expense of a donkey.' 

* My dear fellow ! Why, it's only five francs for the 
whole day, they tell me.* 

Paul Gascoyne smiled. 'But five francs is a ccnsider- 
ation to me,' he answered, after a slight mental re( koning. 
' Fifty pence, you see ; that's four and twopence. Four i nd 
twopence is an awful lot of money to fling away for 
nothing !' And he rearranged the logs on the fire reflectively. 

' Well, look here, Gascoyne : sooner than mar the 
harmony of the meeting, I'll tell you what I'll c'o — I'll 
stand you a donkey.' 

Paul gave a little start of surprise and uneasiness. His 
colour deepened. ' Oh no,' he said. * Thistleton, I couldn't 
allow that. If I go at all, I shall go on my own legs, or 
else take a beast and pay my own expenses.' 

* Who's proud now ?' the blonde young man exclaimed, 
with provoking good-humour. 

Paul looked down at him gravely from the corner of the 
mantelpiece on which his arm rested. 

* Thistleton,* he said, in a serious voice, growing redder 
still in the face as he spoke, Ho tell you the truth, I'm 
ashamed already of how much I'm letting you do for taa. 
When I first arranged to come abroad 'w\\3a. ^ow, ^xAVv^^ 
my expenses paid, I jbadn't the remoteaV. coiiCi^\i^\oTi^\^'s»^^i^^ 
p^ouj of what an awful sum the expenses ^o\3\^ covcv^ ^»^* 



14 THE SCALLYWAG 

I've never lived at a hotel like this before, or in anything 
like such extravagant luxury. I thought the ten pounds I 
charged for tuition would be the chief item ; instead of 
which, I see now, you've already paid almost as much as 
that for me in railway fares and so forth, and I tremble to 
think how much more you may have to pay for my board 
and lodgiug. I can't let you stand me my amusements, 
too, into the bargain/ 

The blonde young man puffed away at his cigar for a 
moment or so with vigorous good-humour. 

* What a devil of a conscience youVe got P he observed at 
last, in the intervals of the puffs ; * and what a devil of a 
touchy sense of honour as well, Gascoyne ! I suppose it's 
in the family 1 Why, it's the regular rule ; if you take a 
vacation tutor to a place of your own choice abroad, you 
pay his way for him. I call it only fair. You contract to 
do it. There's no obligation on either side. A mere matter 
of business.' 

* But you come to such a grand hotel and live so royally 1* 
Paul objected with fervour. 

* Am I to go to a cabaret and live upon garlic, just to suit 
your peculiar views of expenditure?' Thistleton retorted 
with spirit. ' Can I drink sour wine and eat black bread 
because you like to be economical? No, no, my dear 
fellow. You mistake the position. I want to come to 
Mentone for the winter. Beastly climate, Yorkshire ; dull 
hole, the governor's; lovely coast, the Eiviera ; Monte 
Carlo always laid on at a convenient distance; lots of 
amusement ; plenty of fun ; the very place to spend the 
Christmas vac. in. If I go and say to the governor : 
** Look here, old boy : I want a pony or two to run down 
South and amuse myself, just to escape this infernal dull 
hole of yours, and to have a turn or two at roulette or 
something," why the governor 'd no doubt advise me to go 
and be hanged, in language more remarkable for force than 
elegance. Very well, then ; what do I do ? I go to him 
and say, pulUng a long face, '* Look here, sir, I want to read 
up for my next examination. Devilish clever fellow at 
my own college — studious, steady, economical — excellent 
testimonials— all that sort of thing. Sure to come out a 
£r3b m * Greats * next time. I propose to read with him at 

some quiet place in the South oi Ti'raiice — ^s^^ ^^xi^oxi^ " 



ROOM FOR THE HERO 15 

suppresBiDg the little detail about Monte Carlo, you under- 
stand ; " he'll go for a tenner and his own expenses/' 
What's the result? The governor's delighted. Fishes oufe 
his purse — stumps up liberally. Claps me on the back, and 
says, " Charlie, my boy, I'm gratified to see you're turning 
over a new leaf at last, and mean to read hard, and get 
through with credit." And that's the real use, you see, of 
a vacation tutor.' 

Paul listened somewhat aghast to this candid explanation 
of his own true function in the modern commonwealth; 
then he answered slowly : 

* It's rather hard lines on the governor, I fancy. But I 
suppose I can't interfere with that. Your arrangements 
with your father are your own business, of course. As to 
myself, though, I always feel a little uneasy. It may bo 
all right, but I'm not accustomed to such a magnificent scale 
of expenditure, and I don't want to put either you or him 
to any unnecessary expense in the matter of my living.' 

Thistleton threw back his head once more on the easy- 
chair, and mused aloud : 

* What a conscience ! what a conscience I I believe you 
wouldn't spend an extra sixpence you could possibly save if 
your life depended upon it.' 

' You forget,' Paul cried, * that I have special daivis upon 
me.' 

The peculiar stress he laid upon that emphatic word 
' claims ' might have struck anybody less easy-going than 
Charlie Thistleton, but the blonde young man let it escape 
his attention. 

*0h, I know what you mean,' he retorted carelessly. 

* I've heard that sort of thing from lots of other fellows 
before. Slender means — the governor poor — heavy expenses 
of college life — home demands — a mother and sisters.' 

* I wish to heaven it was only that,' Paul ejaculated fer- 
vently. * A mother and sisters I could easily put up with. 
But the claims upon me are far more serious. It's a duty I 
owe to Somebody Else not to spend a single penny I can 
help, unnecessarily.' 

* By Jove I' the blonde young man exclaimed, waking vs.^. 

* Not engaged ? Or married ?' 

' Engaged i Married ! No, no. Is \\» Yik<^\^ T ^ w^. ^'^^si.^^ 
somewhat bitterly. 



i6 THE SCALLYWAG 

* The golden-haired Pennsylvanian's a jolly good invrKfc. 
ment, I should say/ Thistleton went on meditatively. • Eoll- 
ing in coin. A mint of money. She'll be really annoyed, 
too, if you don't come to her picnic, and, what's more, ride 
a donkey.* 

' Is she rich ?' Paul asked, with sudden and unexpected 
interest, as if a thought had instantly darted across his 
brain. 

* Rich ! Like Croesus, so Armitage tells me. Eich as 
Pactolus. Rich as wedding-cake. Rich beyond the wildest 
dreams of avarice.' 

Paul moved from his place at the corner of the mantel- 
piece, fiery red in the face now, and strolled as carelessly as 
he could across the room to the window. Then he opened 
his purse, counted the money furtively, and made a short 
mental calculation, unobserved. At the end of it he gave a 
very deep sigh, and answered aloud, with a wrench : 

' Well, I suppose I ought to go. It's a precious hard pull ; 
for I hate this sort of thing; but, then, I have claims — very 
special claims upon me.' 

* Still, you'll go, anyhow?' Thistleton asked once more. 

' Yes, I'll go,' Paul answered, with the air of a man \vho 
makes up his mind to have a tooth drawn. 

* And you'll ride a donkey?' 

*I suppose I must, if the golden-haired Pennsylvanian 
absolutely insists upon it. Anything on earth where duty 
calls one.' 

And he sank, wcariod, into the chair by the window. 






AL FRESCO 



CHAPTER ni. 

AL FBBBCO. 



ATURDAY dawned as 
lovely a moraing as 
tbe founders of the 
feast could possibly 
have wished it. It 
was a day to order. 
Not a touch of mistral 
embittered the air. 
The Eea shone liqaid 
blue, with scarcely a 
ripple dimpling its 
surface ; tbe great 
gray peaks loomed 
clear and distinct in 
bard outline against 
a solid blue lirma- 
ment. It ia only on 
the Eiviera that you 
get that perfect defi- 
uiteuesa and contrast 
of colour. Everything 
looked sharp as in aa 
early Itallao picture, 
with an early Italian sty of uniform hue to throw up and in- 
tensify the infinite jags a,nd tatters of the mountain profile. 
At ten sharp the first arrivals began to greet one an- 
other with shouts of derision on the road by the station. 
Tbistleton and Gascoyne were among the earliest on the 
scene. Punctuality, the blonde young man remarked, was 
one of his companion's most hopeless failings. As they 
trotted up upon their mettlesome steeds— Paul's more 
mettlesome, in fact, than ftas either seemly or agreeable— 
they found Armitage with four ladies in tow drawn up in a 
hollow square to receive them. Boys with the provisiohft 
stood expectant at the side, and Paul noticei "«\& ^ ftMSKMit 
(inge of awe that ffoni one o{ the bas^iete wNeta^ -msitita cS. 




1.8 THE SCALLYWAG 

bottles protruded, wired and tied, and covered with gold or 
silver tissue. Then the picnic would actually run to cham- 
pagne I What unbridled luxury ! The golden-haired Penn- 
sylvanian must, indeed, as Thistleton had declared, be rich 
as Pactolus ! 

A stern sense of duty induced Paul to look around the 
group for that interesting personage. Unaccustomed to 
society as he was, and in the awkyyard position of j^eing 
introduced from the back of a restive donkey, he was p.t 
first aware merely of a fiery jieat in his own red face and q. 
confused blurr of four perfectly unabashed and smiling 
ladips. Four names fell simultaneously on his unheeding 
ear, of the sound of which he caught absolutely nothing 
but the vague sense that one was M^gapao Somebody, 
and that two of the rest were Miss "^p^ts^prname and ter 
momma. A clear sharp voice fir^t rqqigp^ moa to something 
like definite consciousness. * Mr. Gascgype-n piy guest, Nea,* 
it said, in a full and rich Americaii accent, which Paul had 
hardly ever before heard, ' and ^r. Tj:^istje£pp's yours. Mr. 
Gascoyne, you've just got to. come affa ride up right along- 
side of me. And I'll trouble you tcj look after the basket 
with the wine in it.' 

So this was the golden-haired peppsylv^pian ! Paul 
glanced at her shyly, as who meets his fate, and an- 
swered witU what courage he could summqp up, * I'Jl do my 
best to take care of it, but I hope I'm pot responsible for 
breakages.' 

The lady in the deer-stalker hat beyond — tiot the Penn- 
syivanian — tprned to him with a quietly reassuring smile. 

* What a glorious day we've got for our picnic !' she said, 
flooding him with the light of two dark hazel eyes ; * and 
what splendid fun it'll be going all that way up on donkeys, 
won't it r 

For those hazel eyes and that sunny smile Paul would 
have forsworn himself before any court of justice in all 
England with infinite pleasure. As a matter of fact, he 
disliked ^oiikey-riding — he, who could clear a fence with 
any man in Oxford — but he answered sinfully (and I hope 
the recording angel omitted to notice the transgression), 

* Nothing could be more delightful ; and with such lovely 
views, too I Thp look-out f^pm the summit must be some- 

JWPg too eh^rming for p-nj^tbin^.' iVftQ^^whjch unwonted 



AL FRESCO iq 

outburst of society talk, lost in admiration of his own bril- 
liancy, he relapsed once more into attentive silence. 

Nea Blair had never, indeed, looked more beautiful. The 
tailor-made dress and the unstudied hat suited her simple 
girlish beauty to a T. Paul thought with a sigh how happy 
he could have been had the call of duty led him thither, 
instead of towards the service of the golden-haired Penn- 
sylvanian. 

One after another the remaining guests struggled up piece- 
meal ; and when all were gathered together — a quarter of an 
hour behind time, of course — for they were mostly ladies — 
the little cavalcade got itself underway, and began to mount 
the long steep stairs that lead from the Borrigo valley to the 
scarped hog's back which separates the Val des Ghataigners 
from the Valdes Primev^res. To Paul, in spite of the eccen- 
tricities of his mount, that first expedition into those glorious 
mountains was one of almost unmixed delight. As they 
threaded their way in long single file across the wooded coL 
that divided the ravines, he looked down with surprise and 
pleasure into the gracious deep gorges on either side, each 
traversed by the silver thread of torrent, and reflected to 
himself with a sigh of pleasure that he had never known the 
world was so beautiful. 

* Oh my I ain't it just lovely?' Miss Boyton called out to 
him from behind, for he was sandwiched in between her and 
Nea Blair ; * and ain't they jest elegant, the lemon-trees in 
the valley there T 

' Which are the lemons ?' Paul asked, half dubious, for thp 
ravine was filled with trees and shrubs, whose very names 
he knew not. 

. ' Why, the awfully green trees on the terraces down below,' 
Isabel Boyton answered, a little offhandedly. 

* And the silvery gray ? Paul inquired with some hesitation. 
* Are they olives, I wonder?' 

* Of course they're olives,' the American answered, with 
some little asperity. * I guess you've never been along this 
way before, Mr. Gascoyne, have you ?' 

' It's the first time in my life I've ever been out of England,' 
Paul answered humbly; * and everything is so strange, I find 
I've a great deal to learn all at once — to learn and to t^ 
member.' 

.* JJufc the oUres ^re lovely, aren't ttie^T "S^^* "BV^vt x<^- 



20 THE SCALLYWAG 

marked, turning round upon him with that sunny smile of 
hers for a moment. * Lovelier even than your own willows 
round ahout Iffley, I think — if anything on earth can be 
lovelier than dear old Oxford.' 

* Then you know Oxford ?' Paul exclaimed, brightening up 
at once. 

* Oh yes ; I had a brother a few years ago at Oriel. And 
I know Mrs. Douglas, the wife of the Professor.' 

* I wish I'd had a brother at Oxford College,' Miss Boy ton 

Eut in parenthetically, urging on her donkey; *I*d have made 
im take me along and introduce me to all his aristocratic 
acquaintances. I mean some day to marry one of your 
English noblemen. I've made up my mind to catch an earl, 
and be Lady Isabel Something.' 

* But you couldn't be Lady Isabel by marrying an earl,* 
Paul answered, smiling a very curious smile. * In that case, 
of course, you'd be a countess.' 

* Well, a duke, then,' Miss Boy ton answered, imperturbable, 
• or a marquis, or a viscount, or whatever other sorb of noble- 
man was neceissary to make me into Lady Isabel.' 

^ Paul smiled again. * But none of them,' he said, * could 
make you Lady Isabel You'd be Lady Somebody, you 
know — Lady Jones, for example, or Lady Smith, or Lady 
Cholmondeley.' 

* Or Lady Gascoyne : that sounds jest lovely,* Miss Boy- 
ton interposed with an air of perfect simplicity. 

Paul started at the sound, and scanned her close. His 
ears tingled. Was she really as innocent and harmless as 
she looked, or had it somehow come round to her — but oh, 
no ; impossible I * Yes,' he went on quietly, without noticing 
the interruption ; * but you must be born a duke's or an earl's 
or marquis's daughter, to be called Lady Isabel.' 

Miss Boyton's countenance fell not a little. 

* Is that so ?' she exclaimed plaintively. * You don't tell, 
really I Thenlcan't be Lady Isabel, no matter who I married?' 

* No matter whom you married,* Paul answered with the 
stern precision of Lindley Murray and a British Peerage in 
equal proportions. 

* Well, now, if that ain't jest too bad 1* Isabel Boyton 
exclaimed with deep mock pathos. * Say, Nea, Mr. 
Gascoyne*s crushed the dream of my life. I don't care a 
cent to be Lady Somebody if I c^rj't be Lady Isabel And 



AL FRESCO 21 

I can'fc be Lady Isabel whoever I marry. I call it jest 
heartrending/ 

* Won't au honourable or a courtesy-lord do as well T Nea 
asked, laughing. 

' Oh my, no T Isabel answered promptly ; though what 
manner of wild-beast a courtesy-lord might be she hadn't the. 
faintest conception. I'd most as soon go back lo Philadel- 
phia again, returned empty, and marry a stockbroker. I've 
made up my mind to be Lady Isabel or nothing.' 

* Then I'm afraid,* Paul said with a faint little smile, * I 
can do nothing for you.' 

* But if it were only to make her plain " My Lady," now I ' 
Nea put in laughingly. V 

Paul laughed in return — an uneasy laugh. They* had 
just reached one of the sudden steep ascents where the sure- 
footed little donkeys, straining every nerve and muscle in 
their stout, small legs, climb up the bare rocks like 
mountain goats, with their human burdens jerking in the 
saddles like so many meal-bags. ' How the little beasts 
grimp V Paul cried, half surprised ; * such plucky little 
creatures, and so strong for their size ! They're really 
wonderful V 

'That's a good word — ** grimp,'** Nea answered from in 
front. ' Is it pucker English, I wonder ?* 

'I do admire it,' Isabel Boy ton replied from behind. 
' Here, get up, donkey. My Arab steed don*t carry me 
regularly.' 

Just at that moment a loud cry of * Ach HImmel !* 
resoimded from the forefront of the cavalcade, where 
Madame Ceriolo led the way — Madame Ceriolo, even in the 
most trying circumstances, never forgot to keep up her 
French and German — followed next instant by a sharp 
* Mon Dieu I quelle a£freuse petite bete I' and the shambling, 
scrambling noise of a fallen donkey endeavouring to recover 
itself. 

Paul and Armitage were at her side in a moment, to pick 
up Madame Ceriolo and her unhappy mount. Madame 
made the most noise, but Blanchette, the donkey, had 
received by far the most injury. The poor \\\»\\ft X^^'^s^'^ 
knees were cut and bleeding, *3e Ywi eovvxcyKci^^^ ^'^ 
mSchante/ Madame said carelessly, ouSl "^^xa^ ^"^^ ^ ^ 
glance it would be quite unable to continue \Jcie \o>axn5s^ . 



22 Tim SCALLYWAG 

It's an ill wind, however, that blows nobody good. Paul 
seized the opportunity to effect a double stroke of business 
— to do a politeness to Madame Ceriolo and to get rid of the 
onus of his own donkey. Almost before she could have a 
voice in the matter, or any other man of the party equally 
gallant or equally uncomfortable could anticipate him, ho 
had shifted the side-saddle from poor, patient, shivering, 
broken-kneed Blanchette, and transferred it forthwith to the 
bigger beast he himself had been riding, * Merci, monsieur, 
merci ; mille remerciments,' Madame cried, all smiles, as 
soon as she had recovered her equanimity and her company 
manners, * And you, you little brute,* turning to poor 
Blanchette and shaking her wee gloved fist angrily in its 
face, * you deserve to bo whipped, to be soundly whipped, 
for your nasty temper.* 

' The poor creature couldn't help it,' Paul murmured 
quietly, tightening the girths ; * the road's very steep and 
very slippery, you can see. I don't wonder they sometimes 
come an awful cropper I' 

' By Jove 1' Armitage said, watching him as he fastened 
the buckles and bands, * what a dab you are at donkeys, 
really, Gascoync I You do it like a groom I you've missed 
your vocation.* 

Paul coloured up to the roots of his hair. ' I've been 
used to horses,* he answered quietly. Then he turned back 
without another word to take his place on foot beside Nea 
Blair and Isabel. * Here, boy,' he called out to one of the 
drivers quickly, * hand me that basket : I'll take it on; and 
go down to Mentone with this poor little beast. Shrill need 
looking after.' 

He spoke in French fluently, and Nea turned in surprise. 

* Why, you said you had never been abroad before I' she 
exclaimed, taken aback. ' And now you talk like a regular 
botdevardier. Were you born Parisian, or did you acquire 
it by a miracle ?' 

' I've had great opportunities of talking French at home,* 
Paul Answered, a little embarrassed. * We — a — we always 
had a Frenchwoman in the family when I was a child.' 

' A governess ?' Nea suggested. 

* Well, no. Not exactly a governess.* 

* A bonne f then ?* 

^J^o, not quite a bonnCf either/ Paul xcigVieQL Uxi^i^alxjXSL^ * 



AT SANV AGNESE aj- 

Then, a happy thought seizing him on the raomentj he con- 
tinued, with truth, ' She was a lady'a-mald,' 

After that he relapsed into silence for a while, feeling 
painfully conscious in his own mind that his subterfUgo wa3 
a snohhish one. For though he only meant, himself, to 
evade a difficulty, he saw at once that NOEi. Blair would 
understand him to mean a lady'e-maid of his mother's. 
And as to the possibility of his mother having ever possessed 
that omamgntal adjunct — why, the bare idea 6t It was 
simply ridiculoiia. 



CHAPTER IV. 




||NCE restored to the free use of his oWn 
two legs, Paul Gascoyne was himself 
again. As the One member of the party, 
except the donkey-boys, who went afotSt, ho 
was here, there, and everywhere, in waiting 
upon even^body. What prodigies of valour" 
did he not perform in hauling fat old Mrs. Newton's donkfey 
up the steepest bits, or in slipping down round the shEtrpesli 
comers to help Nea Blair safely round some difficult gully I 
What useful services did he not lavish on the golden-Haired 
Pennsylvanian and her shrivelled mamma, walking by their 
sides where the ledges were narrowest and calming their 
fears wfiere the rocks towards the slope were loosest and 
most landshppy ! How he darted from the rear up short- 
cuts of the zigzf^, and appeared in front again, a hundred 
yards ahead, on some isolated boulder, to encourage and 
direct their doubtful footsteps I How he scrambled over 
inaccessible faces oi cliEf to fetch some fern or flower for 
Nea, or to answer some abstract question as to the ultimate 
destination of the minor side-paths from Isabel Boyton ! 
He was a good climber, and he enjoyed the climb — though 
he feared for his old boots and his cateiMVVj-nciTaftT^^ 
trousers. 

Tie ro&d was long—Bani' Agneas a\,aiiaft eotqb *OMe^ 
tboueand feet above sea-level — but at everj Imtu tiiv^ V\«s'R^ 



24 THE SCALLYWAG 

grew lovelier, and the sense of elation in the mountain air 
more distinct and delicious. They passed from the region 
of olives into the zone of pine woods, and then again into 
that of hare white rock, scarcely terraced here and there by 
Proven9al industry to support a few stunted vines and 
undersized chestnut-trees. The path wound slowly up the 
sides of a stony ravine, and then mounted in a series of 
sharp elbows the sheer peak itself, to an accompaniment of 
cries of Franco-German distress from Madame Ceriolo and 
shrill Transatlantic exclamations of horror from the golden- 
haired Pennsylvanian. At last they reached the goal of 
their pilgrimage — a rocky platform high up the last peaks 
of the jagged mountain, with a gray Ligurian village just 
clinging to the slopes, and almost indistinguishable from the 
still grayer wall of bare rock that rose above it in sharp 
tors and weather-worn chimneys against the deep blue 
heaven. 

' What a glorious view I' Nea Blair exclaimed, as they 
looked down unexpectedly on the northern side into a pro- 
found and naked basin of rock, at whose bottom the Borrigo 
torrent roared and brawled amid its scattered boulders. 
* And what magnificent great peaks away across the valley 
there I' 

* I guess we'd better fix up lunch on that flat piece by the 
chapel,' Isabel Boyton remarked with Occidental practica- 
bility, spying out forthwith the one patch of tolerably level 
ground within reach of the village. It was a spur of the 
mountain, covered with that rare object in the Proven9al 
Alps, a carpet of turf, and projecting from the main range 
far into the semicircle of the deep rock-basin. 

* We'll fix it up right away,* Madame Ceriolo answered 
with good-natured mimicry. Madame Ceriolo had the 
natural talent for languages which seems to go inseparably 
with the rdle of Continental adventuress, and she spoke 
American almost as well and with almost as good an accent 
as she spoke her other alternative tongues. *If your 
momma and Mrs. Newton 11 set themselves down right 
here, and make themselves comfortable, Mr. Gascoyne and 
I will jest unpack the baskets. Come along here, Nea, we 
want you to help us. Miss Boyton, you get the plates and 
things ready, will you ?' 

J^or a few minutes they were busy artwa^n^ cver3>iJbM:k^^ 



AT SANT AGNESE 25 

Armitage, the blonde young man, and Paul rendering all 
due assistance ; and Paul was aware in an indefinite way 
that Madame Ceriolo was somehow anxious to keep him off 
as much as possible from the golden-haired Pennsylvanian. 
But as this gave him the opportunity of conversing more 
with Nea, and as, duty to the contrary notwithstanding, he 
very much preferred Nea to the heiress of Pactolus, he by 
no means resented Madame's obvious anxiety in this respect. 
On the contrary, he salved his conscience with the reflection 
that it was Madame rather than inclination that kept him 
away from the lady of the golden hair and prospects. 

Such a picnic as that December morning's Paul had 
never before borne a part in. There were dishes from 
Kumpelmayer's, cunningly compounded of aspic and olives, 
whose very names he had not so much as heard, but whereof 
the rest of the party, more instructed in cookery, talked 
quite glibly. There were curious salads, and garnishings of 
crayfish, and candied fruits and pastry and nougat of artistic 
manufacture. There was much champagne, and vintage 
clarets, and Asti moussctix for those who liked it sweet, and 
green chartreuse poured from a Cantagalli bottle. For 
though the picnic was nominally a joint affair of Nea's and 
the American's, it was Isabel Boyton who contributed the 
lion's share of the material provision, which she insisted 
upon doing with true Western magnificence. The lunch 
was so good, indeed, that even the beauties of nature went 
unnoticed by comparison. They had hardly time to look at 
the glimpse of calm blue sea disclosed between the ridges of 
serrated peaks, the green basking valleys that smiled a 
couple of thousand feet below, with their orange and lemon 
groves, or the flood of sunshine that poured in full force 
upon the mouldering battlements of the grim and wasted 
Alps in front of them. 

After lunch, however, Paul somehow found himself seated 
on the slope of the hill with Nea. They had discussed 
many things — Mentone, and the view, and the flowers, and 
the village — and Nea had just told him the strange old 
legend of the castle that clings to the topmost peak — ^how it 
was founded by a Saracen who levied tax and toW cycL \i5\ "Cckfik 
Christian folk of the country round, and feci^'^ \i^^"as^^ 
converted to the faith of Europe by the be«uaV^lvi ^"^eis* ol ^ 
peasant-girl whose charms had enslaved \um,Nq\iei3L^\A^««^l 



26 THE SCALLYWAG 

she came back plump to the nineteenth century with the 
point-blank question, 'Where do ybu live when you're at 
home, Mr. Gascoyne ?' 

* In Surrey/ Paul answered vaguely, grbwihg uncoitifort- 
ably hot. 

' Surrey's a big address,' Nea Blair answeired, pulling a 
tiny rock-rose from a cranny in the precipice. * Anjr 
particular part — or do ybu occupy the county generally ?' 

Paul laughed, but not with quite a gracious laugh. 
* About tweaty-five miles from London,' he Answered, with 
evasive vagueness. 

* Vye lots of friends in. Surrey,' Nea went oh innocently, 
unconscious of the mental pangs she was carelessly inflicting 
on him. * Do you know Hillborough ?' 

' Why, that's just where I live,' Paul answered, with a 
suppressed start. 

* Dear me ; how funny I haven't met you I' Nea exclaimed 
in surprise. * I'm always down at Hillborough, stopping 
with the Hamiltons.' 

' Indeed,' Paul responded in a very dry voice. 

* You must know the Hamiltons,' Nea persisted, all inno- 
cence. * Sir Arthur Hamilton, of the Grange, at Hillborough. 
He used to be Governor of Madras, you know, or somewhere.' 

* I know them by name, of course,' Paul admitted uneasily. 
' But not personally ?' 

'No, not personally. We — a — we move in different 
circles.' 

' Then you miist know the Boyd-Galloways,' Nea went on 
interrogatively. 

' Only by sight. I haven't any large acquaintance at 
Hillborough ?' 

' The Jacksons ?' 

* Colonel Jackson I sometimes see, it's true ; but I don'6 
know him. They're — they're not the kind of set I mix 
with.' 

' Well, of course you know the tectoi*,' Nea exclaimed, 
nailing him. * The dear old Archdeacon — he's so nice with 
everybody.' 

* He comes to us occasionally,' Paul answered with some 
reluctance. Then, after a pause, he added, lest he should 

seem to be claiwiog too great an honour ; * B\3A» xxiu^h ixvora 
aMfez? lie sends the ctirate.' 



AT SANT AGNESE 27 

Even yet Nea failed to take in the situation, not because 
Blie was slow of understanding, but because it was quite a 
novel one to her. ' Perhaps you live alone T she suggested 
in explanation. 

Paul cotld jptit orftte damniiig truth iio longer. 

' On the contrary,' he said, ' my father and mother live 
ahd have always lived entiirely at Hillborough, But they're 
not in a position to see niiicn of the local society — in fact, 
they're not in society in any way. We're quite poor people 
— what your friend, Mr. Armitage, to use a favourite word 
of his, would call scallywags.' 

There was an awkward pause. Then Nea said again, 
\Mth a becoming blush : 

* Forgive my pressing you. It — it never occurred to me.' 
Next moment leminino tact induced her to change the 
subject not too abruptly. * I visit a good deal at Hillborough 
myself, and I thought we'd be sure to have acquaintances 
in common. But I live in Cornwall Have you ever been 
in Cornwall, Mr. Gascoyne? In sumnier it's almost as 
beautiful as this ; it is, really.' 

* No, I've never been there,' Paul answered, grateful to 
her for the clever diversion. * But I shall hope to go,' he 
added quite seriously. 

*0h, you must, when I get babk again there next 
summer,' Nea cried most warmly. ' It's so awfully lovely. 
As soon as I'm well I shall long to get home again.' 

* You're not here for your health ?' Paul inquired, catch- 
ing her up. 

'For my health? Yes. But it isn't serious. Not my 
lungs, you know,' for Paul had laid his hand instinctively 
on his chest. * Only to recover from the effects of an upset 
in a boat last summer. I've no mother, and papa couldn't 
britig me abroad himself, because of leaving his parish: 
so he got Madame Ceriolo to take care of me. She's accus- 
tomed to travelling — Madame Ceriolo.' 

* Where on eartn did he pick her up?' Paul inquired with 
i6me curiosity, for, inexperienced in the ways of the world 
as hfe was, Madame Ceriolo's personality had already struck 
him as a sufficiently singular one for Yi^x ^x^^^x^J^ ^^^xx.- 
pation. 

Qh, he beard ot her from a govexneas'^ ^Su^^xicrj J ^^« 
answered with much confidence^ • SVie \^^^ e>^e,^NAS« 



28 THE SCALLYWAG 

testimonials from people of title. She's well connected. 
And she's a good little thing enough when you really get to 
know her.* 

' I dare say/ Paul answered in that dubious tone which 
means, * I don't think so, but I wouldn't be rude enough to 
contradict you.' 

What Nea said next he didn't catch, for his ear was that 
moment distracted by a side conversation carried on at some 
little distance, between Armitage and old Mrs. Newton. 
They were talking low, but, in spite of their low tones, he 
overheard more than once the vague murmur of his own 
name ; and that man were surely more than mortal whom 
the sound of his own name overheard in his neighbours* 
talk would not draw away even from a pretty girl's unim- 
portant causerie. He listened without pretending to hear, 
and put in ' yes,' and * no,* to Nea's remarks A tort et h 
travers, * Only one family of Gascoynes with a " y " and 
without a '* g," ' Mrs. Newton was observing ; * and that's 
the baronet's. Old Sir Emery Gascoyne, the last of the lot, 
was very rich, and lived down in Pembrokeshire — in Little 
England beyond Wales, as they call it locally. But this 

young man can't be one of those Gascoynes, because ' 

and there her voice sank still lower, Paul strained his ears, 
but could hear no more. * So very odd, wasn't it ?' Nea was 
saying appealingly. 

'Extremely odd,' Paul assented like a man, though to 
what particular proposition he was thus boldly committing 
himself he really hadn't the faintest idea; but, as Miss 
Blair said so, he had very little doubt it must have been 
positively ludicrous. 

* I stopped there once, at Gascoyne Manor,' Armitage was 
saying once more, when next a scrap of the conversation 
was wafted towards him : * It was in old Sir Emery's time, 
you know, before the present man came into possession. 
The present man's 7iot a baronet, I fancy ; ah, no, exactly 
so ; that's just as I thought ; but he's very rich, and will be 
lord-lieutenant of the county some day, I'm told. A 
splendid place, and awfully well kept up. No sort of con- 
nection, you may be pretty sure, with young Thistleton's 
tutor.' 

Paul's ears were tingling hot by this time, and it was 
frM dijStcaUjr that he so far roused Mm^eVl ^"a \« MxAst- 



AT SANT AGNESE 29 

stand, when Nea said, * Shall wo start at once, then?' — 
that she had just heen proposing a climb to the castle 
ruins, and that he had unconsciously promised to accom- 
pany her on her scramble. 

* Certainly,' he said, coming back with a start ; and they 
rose at once, Madame Ceriolo rising too to fulfil to the 
letter her appropriate functions as contracted and paid for. 

* Come,' she said, 'Mr. Thistleton,* with her most girlish 
smile — and she looked seventeen when she meant to capti- 
vate — * come and give me a hand over these dreadful rocks. 
Mon Dieu ! quels rochers ! I shall stumble and fall, I know, 
if I haven't one of the lords of creation to lean upon.' 

As they passed through the dark and vaulted alleys of 
the^ quaint old town — mere filthy mole-tracks, built round on 
either side, and strengthened with vaults thrown across from 
house to hous3 for greater stability in times of earthquakes 
— Nea glanced up quickly at the gloomy old roofs, and ex- 
claimed with a gay ease, * Oh, isn't it picturesque ! I should 
just love to sketch it.' 

* Very picturesque,' Paul answered, looking down at the 
noisome small gutters under foot, where barefooted children 
scrambled and crawled among the accumulated dirt of five- 
and-twenty centuries, * but very terrible, too, when you come 
to think that men and women live all their life in it.' 

* Oh, they're accustomed to it,' Nea replied lightly, with 
the easy-going optimism of youth and of the comfortable 
classes. * They've never known anything better, I suppose, 
and they don't feel the want of it.* 

* Miss Blair,' Paul said, turning round and facing her 
suddenly and quite unexpectedly, ' that sentiment's un- 
worthy of you. You're only saying, of course, what every- 
body else says ; but we expect something better from you 
than from everybody. Look at the misery and dirt in which 
these people live, and if contentedly, then so much the more 
terrible. Discontent is the only spur to improvement. If 
they're satisfied to live as they do, then they're so much the 
less human, and so much the more like the beatts that 
perish. Look how here, on this breezy, open hill-top, among 
these glorious rocks, their houses are built without sun or 
air, turned only to the filthy, festering street, and awa^ ItcyKv 
the light and the sea and the mountains. TVve^ dioiiVk ^^x^ 
for the view, you say. Their views aboM^ n\^^^ «>x^> ^^ 



30 THE SCALLYWAG 

doubt, rudimentary. But isn't it just that that's the 
saddest thing of all — that where they might epjoy po much 
fresh air, and sunshine, and health, and beauty, they're 
content with such gloom and dirt, and misery, and squalor ? 
You talk like that becai;se you hardly thiAk any class but 
your own is wholly human. I know better; I know that, 
up and down, high and low, gentle or simple, all the world 
over, there's a deal of human nature in men and women. 
And it seems to me a terribly painful thing that they should 
live like this — so painful as to spoil, to my mind, the very 
sense of picturesqueness in [all this picturesque dii:t and 
wretchedness 1' 

He turned round upon her so sharply, and bis words 
flowed so quick, in sijch a spontaneous outburst of paturaj 
eloquence, that Nea Blair was fairly taken by surprise. 

' You're right, I know,' she answered in a very low voice. 
* I spoke unthinkingly. I was only saying, as you s^,y, what 
everyone else says. In future, Mr. Gascoyne, I shall re- 
member to think of it and speak of it more seriously.* 

Paul blushed in return. He felt he had allowed his 
natural indignation to carry him away too hastily anid 
unreservedly. 

Two hours later, as he came back alone frqm tbp Hotel 
des Eivps d'Or, whither he had gone to see his hostess japmp, 
he reflected, with som© pangs of remorse to himself, that he 
had, perhaps, done wrong in paying so much attention to 
Miss Blair and sp cpmparajbively little to the American 
heiress. Gold, gold I he should haye gone for gold. It wa3 
wrong of him, no 4PUbt-- extremely wrong, with thoge heavy 
claims upon h^m. But then, how very nice Miss Blair was, 
and how thoroughly he detested this hateful worship of the 
golden calf and the golden image 1 If only his lot had been 
framed otherwise 1 Marry for money — the hateful ideal 
How much a man must sacrifice to the sense of duty ! 

On the table of the salon he found a letter awaiting him, 
with the Hillborpugh postmark. The handwriting on the 
envelope was boldly commercial. He tore it open. It was 
brief a^nd succinct. And this was what he read in it : 

* Mi deab Paul, 

*I ought to havp written to you before you left 
jQxJo^d. to say j/jiftt ppw ^ou are going abroad if V79i;il<j bp § 



AT SANV AGNESE 31 

great pity — in case you get thrown into good society — to 
spoil the ship for a ha'porth of tar, as the common saying 
is. The time is now coming when we may begin to expect 
to pull off our coupf as the sporting gentlemen call it. Don't 
go singing small, as you're too much inclined to do. Let 
them know who you are, and take your proper position. At 
the same time, don't spend too much, and don't get dragged 
into unnecessary expenses. But keep up your dignity. For 
this purpose I enclose a ten-pound note, for wnich kindly 
sign note-of-hand herewith, as usual. The nobje hart, and 
his lady are well and hearty, and send tjieir respects. 

* Your obedient servant, 

'JUDAH 1^, ^pliPMONS.* 

Paul laid down the letter with a sigh of relief. It was a 
comfort, at any rate, to know he had not ^Qfjp wvong ij:^ pay- 
ing five frapcs for the beast which, as luck Wpfff^ ]\f^Y^ ^^» "® 
had never riclden. He entered it without qpp flFf^to of 
conscience on his accounts : * Donkey for pjpmp, 4g. 2d.' 
The item might pass. If Mr. Solomon? f^prpp^, l^is naind 
was easy. . •• • 



THE SCALLYWAG 



~P THINK, for my pirt,' Nea said de- 
ciBively, enforcing her remark witli 
a dig of her parasol into the gravel 
walk, ' the Bcallywag'a much the 
nicest of the two. But then, you 
know, I always did like scallytraga. 
They've got so much more humanity 
and reality about them than— than 
most other peopla' 

They were seated once more, the 
morning after the picnic, on the 
Promenade du Midi, very stiff from 
their ride, and full of mutual notes 
of last night's entertaioment. 

Madame Ceriolo smiled her cou- 
ventional smile, as she replied ob- 
liquely : ' And yet the other one — je 
ne me rappelle plus son nom — oh 
yes. Mr. Thistlefcon : he's very agree- 
able too, and probably, I should say, 
I an excellent parti.' 
- _ ' Oh, he ain't much,' Isabel Boyton 

El answered with Yankee directness. 

' He's a lot too like a piece of putty for me. Of course 
he's a fine big boy, and pretty nice to look at ; but there's 
nothing in him. I'm down on mind, I am, and the aoally- 
wag's got three times as much of that as Mr. Thistletoo.' 
' He's clever, I think,' Nea assented with a nod. 
' Oh, you needn't talk, Nea,' the American put in with a 
mock-injared air. ' I call it real mean, the way you walked 
ofif with my young raau that I'd invited on purpose for my 
own amusement, and left me to talk half tne day to that 
pi^PPyj Bttppyi vappy, big Englishman, with no more eonvet- 
satioQ in his six feet sis than a ship's figurehead. It was 
jest downright ugly of her, wasn't it, momma 7' 
Mrs, Boston was a dried-up old lady of tho mammified 




GOSSIP 33 

American order — there are two classes of American old 
ladies: the plentiful and the very skimpy — who seldoox 
contrihuted much to the interchange of thought, save when 
her daughter called upon heir to confirm her own opinion ; 
and she murmured now dutifully : ' If you asked him for 
yourself, Izzy, you'd a right to his attentions ; but perhaps 
he most thrust himself upon Miss Blair.' 

* He was very kind and attentive to us all/ Nea answered, 
* In fact, he did more than anybody else to make everything 
go off smoothly.' 

* I can't find out who the dickens he is, though,' Armitage 
broke in with a sigh. He was an old habitud of the Biviera, 
and had imbibed all the true Eivieran love for scandal- 
mongering and inquisitiveness. * He beats me quite. I 
never was so utterly nonplussed in all my life. I've tried 
my hardest to draw him out, but I can get nothing out of 
him. He shifts, and evades, and prevaricates, and holds 
his tongue. He won't be pumped, however skilfully you 
work the handle.' 

And Armitage flung himself back in a despairing attitude. 
Nea smiled. 

* That's not unnatural,' she remarked in parenthesis. 

* The worst of it is, though, the other fellow's just as reti- 
cent as he is,' Armitage went on, unheeding her. * Not 
about himself, I don't mean — that's all plain sailing : 
Thistleton pire's a master cutler ab Sheffield, who manu- 
factures razors by appointment to her Majesty (odd imple- 
ments for her Majesty !), and is as rich as they make them 
— but about this man Gascoyue, whom you call "the 
scallywag." ' 

' Oh, say !* Isabel Boyton interposed frankly, ' if that 
ain't real good now! It was you yourself that taught us 
the word — we innocent lambs had never even heard of it — 
and now you want to go and father it upon us 1' 

* Well, anyhow, Gascoyne seems to have put Thistleton 
up to it to keep all dark, for when I try to pump him about 
his tutor he shuts his big mouth, and looks sheepishly 
foolish, and can't be got to say a single word about him.' 

* What was that Mrs. Newton was saying to you yester- 
day about there being a Sir Somebody Gascoyne ^oxxi^^V^tjii 
down in South Wajes ?' Madame Ceriolo asVi^Sc mV!tL\K^^Qcv^. 
iuteresk ^ 



34 THE SCALLYWAG 

For a foreigner, born and bred abroad, Madame Ceriolo'a 
acquaintance with English life and English topography was 
certainly something quite surprising. But then, you see, 
her dear mamma, as she was careful always to explain to 
strangers, was English born — the daughter of a dean and 
niece of a viscount. Very well connected person on every 
side, little Madame Ceriolo 1 And a dean is such a capital 
card to play in society. 

*0h, there was a Sir Emery Gascoyne at Gascoyne 
Manor, down near Haverfordwest,' Armitage explained 
glibly ; * a very rich old gentleman of sensitive tastes and 
peculiar opinions. I stopped there once when I was an 
undergraduate. Splendid old place — Elizabethan house — 
delightful park — square miles of pheasants ; but ill-tempered, 
very. If this young fellow's related to him — his next-of-kin, 
heir-at-law, executor, assign, and so forth — now's your 
chance, Miss Boyton, to pick up that English title I heard 
you say yesterday you'd set your susceptible American 
heart upon.' 

The golden-haired Pennsylvanian smiled resignedly. * It 
can never — never — never be Lady Isabel,' she observed with 
pathos. * And yet I feel somehow like running a coronet.' 

* I don't think Mr. Gascoyne can be in any way connected 
with these Pembrokeshire people,' Nea Blair put in, without 
the slightest intention of contributing at all to the general 
gossip. * He told me his family lived in Surrey — and,' she 
added after a moment's faint hesitation, *he implied they 
were by no means either rich or distinguished.* 

* In Surrey ? Where — where ?' urged a general chorus, in 
which Armitage's voice and Madame Ceriolo's were by far 
the most conspicuous. 

* I don't know whether I ought to say,' Nea answered 
simply. * I dragged it out of him rather, and he told me in 
coniidence.* 

/ Oh, if it's got to telling you things in confidence already,* 
Armitage retorted with a very meaning smile, * I wouldn't 
for worlds dream of inquiring any further into the matter, 
Lh, Madame Ceriolo ? What do you think about it ?' 

Tims goaded to a reply, Nea answered at once, with ^ 
very red face : *It wasn't so very much in confidence as aU 
that comes to. He lives at Hjllborough.' 

* Pjljbpfou^b/ 4n)4tage Repeated ^yitU a very ftbstTOS§ 



GOSSIP 35 

air. *Theu that'll exactly do. A friend of mine's a vicar 
near Hillborough — the very next parish, in fact, a place 
called Hipsley — and I'll write and ask him this very day all 
p,bout the mysterious stranger. For when a man possesses 
a social mystery, it's a sort of duty one owes to society to 
turn him inside out and unravel him entirely. Fellows 
have no right to set us double acrostics in their own persons, 
and then omit to supply the solution.' 

* Here they come,' Madame Cefiolo cried. * The two 
Oxonians! You'll have an opportunity now to try your 
hand again at him.' 

Armitage's eye gleamed like a setter's on the trail of the 
quarry. 

* I'll have one more try, af; any rate,* he said with an air of 
virtuous resolution ; * his birth shall no longer be ** wropped 
in mystery," like Jeames de la Pluche's. He shall tell us 
all. He shall be forced against his will to confess his secret.* 

The blonde young man approached them carejQssly. 

* 'Morning, Armitage,* he said with an easy nod. Thep 
he lifted his hat, ' Good-morning, Madarnq Ceriolo. Hjss 
Boy ton, I hope your momma's not overtired this morning.' 

* We're all too stiff to do anything on earth but sit ^till and 
scandalize,' the pretty American answered with pert fluency. 

* We were scandalizing you two when you hove in sight 
round the next block. I guess you must have fplt ypi^r eara 
tingle.' 

Paul felt his tingling at that precipe foment. 

* What were you saying about us ?' be ipquirqd eagerly. 
Miss Boyton made a graceful and lp.dy-like, thpugh faint, 

variation on a common gesture of street-boy aerisipp. 

' Wouldn't you jest like to know ?' she responded saucily. 

* You can't tell what things we've all been hjearing alDput you.' 

* You can hardly have Jaeard njuch that was tfue,' Paul 
retorted with some annoyance. * Nobody here at Mentonp 
knows anything of my family.* 

* What, have you no friends here ?' Madame Ceriolo 
inquired astonished. * How very odd 1 I thqught every- 
body knocked up against somebody they knew |n M^ptone. 
The world's so absurdly small nowadays,' And she sighpd 
feelingly. 

Paul hesitated. 



36 THE SCALLYWAG 

friend of my mother's. And I'm sure you haven't any of 
you met her, or else she'd have told me so.' 

* Are you all of you game for a brisk walk to Cap Martin ?" 
Thistleton put in abruptly, with a jerk of his thumb in the 
direction indicated. ' We must do something to work off the 
effects of that infernal jolting.' 

* Bar the swear- word, I quite coincide,* Isabel Boy ton 
answered, 

< The rest of us are too tired, I think,' Madame Ceriolo 
yawned, gazing around her affectedly, and darting a very 
meaning glance at Armitage. 

* I'll go,' that inquiring soul responded promptly, * catch- 
ing en to it/ as Miss Boy ton afterwards observed, like a 
detective to the traces of a supposed forger. 

* You won't come, Nea ?' the American asked as she rose 
to go. 

* I don't think I can,* Nea answered hurriedly, looking 
down at her feet ; * I don't feel up to it.' As a matter of 
fact, nothing on earth would have pleased her better ; but 
she -didn't like to walk with Paul after Armitage's insinua- 
tions that he had been quick in taking her into his youthful 
confidence. 

* Well, let's start at once, then,' the blonde young man 
remarked cheerfully : he was always as cheerful as health 
and wealth and good humour can make one. * We've got 
no time to lose, I expect, if we mean to walk out to the 
point and back before lunch-timo.' 

As they turned to set out, a woman passed them very 
unobtrusively; a Frenchwoman, as it seemed, neatly, 
but by no means fashionably dressed, and carrying in her 
hand a small market basket. She looked at Paul very hard 
as she went by, but had evidently not the least intention of 
recognising him. The young man,' however, gazed at her 
for a moment in obvious doubt : then something within him 
seemed to get the better of him. He raised his hat, and 
said, * Bon jour, Mademoiselle,* with marked politeness. 

* Bon jour. Monsieur Paul,' the Frenchwoman answered 
with a respectful smile, evidently pleased at his recognition. 
And they both passed on upon their respective errands. 

But as soon as they were gone, Madame Ceriolo put up 
her tortoiseshell eyeglass — the eyeglass she reserved for ][ief 
most insolent etftres—ap^ regarded th^ wvU^^wq ^encl\- 



GOSSIP 37 

voman from a distance vriih a. prolonged scrutiny. ' Nca,' 
she said, toroing round to her charge TCtth the air of one 
who has made a profound discovery, ' did yon take it all in, 
cette petite coin6die4tt ? How Btmple I How comical I 
How charmingly idyllic I He didn't know whether to bow to 
her or not, in such good company ; but at the last moment 
be was afjaid tocut her. Poor little simpleton I Howvcry 
fresh of him I This is evidently the lady who was his 
mother's friend, I suppose. She would have saved him the 
espoBure if she could. But he hadn't the tact or the good 
sense to perceive it.' 

' He was quite right to bow,' Nea answered, growing hot, 
' whoever she may oe ; and I respect him all ^e more for 

'But do yon know who she is?" Madame persisted, all 
overflowing with suppressed amusement, 

'No, I don't,' Nea answered; 'and it doesn't much 
matter.' 

Madame braced herself up, like a British matron com* 
pelled to anuounce a most shocking truth. ' She's a lady's- 
maid with a family at the lies Britanniques,' she answered 
Bhortly. 

There was a brief pause after the explosion, in the course 
of which Nea and Isabel Boyton's mamma each digested by 
degrees this startling item of information. Then Nea 
murmured aloud once more, ' I always did and always shall 
like scallywags. I'm glad Mr. Oascoyne wasn't ashamed to 
ackaowledge ner,' 



THB COUUON FDUP IH AOTIOH. 

^HE square party of pedestrians turned away 
along the sea-front, and then, taking the 
main road towards Nice, struck off for thd 
basking, olive -colon red promontory of Cap 
Martin. Thistleton led the ws.^ "s^Mtv ^^aa 
Pennsylvanian heiiea^", 'PaAAMA ti.TCK*».%<i 
followed more slowly at a little dUtoiiice. \fta^iA. '2>'a"3'w>^ 
/tad arranged this order of maiice -pre-eeTiW ", ^ot 'O&e. ■^*' 




38 THE SCALLYWAG 

a mischievous girl, like most of her countrywomen, anct, 
though not inquisitive enough hei*self to assist in the 
process of pumping Paul, she v^as by no means averse 
to see that application of social hydraulics put into practice 
for the general benefit by a third person. 

* Queer sort of body, that little Madame Ceriolo,' 
Armitage began as soon as they were well out of earshot. 
He was one of that large class of people who can seldom 
talk about anything on earth except sotae othet hutfiah 
being. Personalities largely outweigh generalities in their 
conversation. With all the world to chodse from, with sun, 
moon, and stars, and heavenly bodies, sea and land arid air 
arid ether, stone and soil and plant and animal, history arid 
science and art and letters to form the text of a possible 
talk, they can firid nothing to discuss except some petty 
detail in the trivial life of some other fellow-creature. 
That Mrs. Jones has quarrelled with Mrs. Brown, or that 
Smith has been blackballed at the Cheyne Kow Club, seems 
to them a far more important and interesting fact than an 
eruption of Vesuvius or a cataclysm at St. Petersbul-g. 

' She seems good-natured,* Paul answered, without pro- 
foundly gauging the depths of the subject. It was the most 
ch&ititable thing he cotlld find in his heart to say about 
her. 

* Oh, good-natured etidugh, no doubt !' Armitage went oh 
confidentially ; ' but what a curious person for a riian of the 
world to think bf entrustirig the care of his daughter to !' 

' Perhaps Mr. Blair's not a man of the world,* the younget 
speaker replied with rare sagacity for his aga * Country 
parsons are often very simple-minded people.' 

* He must be precious simple-minded if he took the 
Ceriolo for anything but what she is,' Armitage continued, 
sneering. * A brazen-faced specimen of the cosmopolitan 
adventuress, if ever there was one. But how clever, too 
— how immensely clever I 'Pon my soul, 1 admire her 
ingenuity 1 Having accepted a situation as guardian of the 
riiorals df an iEHnghsh young lady, she rises to the full height 
of her post with astonishing success and astonishing dignity^ 
Her simulation of virtue's something quite sublime in its 
own way. Why, you'd hardly believe it ; I attempted to 
£jr^ with bar in the mildest possible manner — I, who am the 

discreetest and least compromising ol msinkm^, %»TCioxi\i\»^va 



THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 39 

of prudence — and the British indignation and icy coldness 
with which she repelled my gentle advances was truly 
edifying. No Belgravian mamma that ever lived could have 
done it more beautifully.* 

' Perhaps she didn't care for you/ Paul suggested dryly. 

* Even a born flirt doesn't want to flirt with everybody 
indiscriminately/ 

* Perhaps that may be it,' Armitage echoed, somewhat 
crestfallen. He was over thirty, and he took it ill that a 
young fellow barely of age as yet should thus calmly snub 
his pretensions to the rdle of lady-killer. * But, at any rate, 
het respectability is beyond reproach. Being cast for her 
part by ptire force of circumstances, she accepts the situation 
and plays it to perfection.' 

* She's quite right to respect Miss Blair's youth and inno- 
cence/ Paul answered quietly; ' As far as that goes, I think 
all the better of her for it. Even if she is an adventuress, 
as you say, she's bound, as things stand, to do the very best 
she can for her present employer.' 

* Oh, of course, of course ! You speak like a book, a nice 
little Sunday-school book, with a picture on the cover. But 
from the other point of view, you know, the thing's so 
ludicrous. Her careful assumption of the highest morality's 
so transparently absurd. Whenever she delivers herself of 
one of bet little copybook platitudes, I always feel inclined 
to put my tongue in my cheek and wink gently. There's no 
doubt about it, though, she's devilish clever. She can talk 
every blessed European language with equal ease. She 
seems, like the famous prima donna in the story, to have 
swindled in every civilized country of the world — and also 
in Germany.' 

Paul smiled. 

*Her French is certainly admirable/ he said. *Her 
accent's so good. She speaks like a Parisian.* 

Armitage darted a hasty glance at him sideways. So 
that fellow pretended to be a judge on French accent, did 
he? That was certainly remarkable. A scallywag on 
accent 1 * But her English, too,* he persisted once more ; 

* what's still odder is her English. She rolls her rs a l\.itl<5i\ 
to be sure, and she slurs her ths ; tViaV^ onVj w^\wlx^\Nsk^ 
what admirable tiuency and what peTlec\» coxgxxx^tA ^^ V^^^ 
of even oar slang and our stock quota.\.ioii^ \ ^^^ ^'^'"^ ^ 



40 THE SCALLYWAG 

and jest and bandy chaff in English, French, Italian, and 
German. She can bully a cabman or browbeat a landlord 
in ten languages. If her name's really Geriolo, which 
Heaven only knows, the way she's learnt English alone is 
something to my mind truly miraculous.' 

' Her mother was EngUsh, she says,' Paul suggested in his 
simplicity. * A clergyman's daughter, she told me — a Dean 
Something or other.* 

The older hand laughed at him to his face. < Do you 
really mean to say,' he cried, with an amused air, * yx)u 
believe all that ? Oh, what charming simplicity I Why, 
you might as well believe in the Countess's coronet and the 
family legend and the late lamented Count who was killed 
at the head of his noble troop of Austrian sympathizers by 
an infuriated Turk in the war in Servia. No, no, my dear 
fellow. Don't you see how cleverly all that's been arranged ? 
Madame has to deal with a respected papa who happens to 
be an English clergyman. Whatever or whoever the Ceriolo 
may be, she thoroughly understands our English Philistinism 
and our English prejudices. The respected papa won't en- 
trust his precious budding daughter to anybody who's not 
a highly respectable married woman and a member of the 
Church of England as by law established. Very well, then; 
we can easily manage that for you ; Madame's mamma 
was an English lady — Anglican, of course— yes, and clerical 
too — a Dean's daughter ; and Madame herself, though bom 
at the ancestral Schloss in the Austrian Tyrol, was brought 
up by agreement in her mother's religion. Could anything 
be simpler, more natural or more convincing? And how 
very well planned I French and German, with the Paris 
accent and the Viennese culture, and yet all the advantages 
of an English lady's care and the precise and particular typo 
of Christendom exactly adapted to the needs and require- 
ments of a country clergyman's daughter I By George, she's 
deep — extremely deep 1 But if it were a Frenchman of 
clerical sympathies she had to deal with, I bet you she'd be 
a Parisian and a fervent Catholic. Not too ddvote, you know, 
nor austerely rigorous, but as Catholic as a dame dii monde 
ought to be.' 

Paul shifted a little uncomfortably in his pea-jacket. 
This cynic had clearly devoted all his energies to the study 
and comj^rehension of his fellow-creatMtea, «ji^ \\ft x^%A. 



THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 41 

them, it seemed, a trifle too easily. In such a man*s hands, 
who was safe for a moment ? Paul was afraid what the 
fellow might screw and worm out of him. 

* The funniest thing of all,* Armitage went on after a 
short pause, * is that she speaks all languages well, but none 
exactly like a born native. Her English is splendid, but her 
rs and tJis are a trifle German. Her French is good, but 
hor 7is and her eus are a trifle English. Her German's 
prodigious, but her chs and her final gs are scarcely Hano- 
verian. And she can't talk in any one of those languages 
for five minutes at a stretch without helping herself out now 
and again quite naturally by a word from another.' 

* Perhaps,' Paul said, ' she lived as a child in all three 
countries.' 

* Perhaps so,' Armitage repeated ; * but there's no evidence. 
However, I mean in any case to clear up her history. I 
was writing last night to a friend of mine, a parson, who 
knows Mr. Blair; he's the Vicar of Hipsley, near Hill- 
borough, in Surrey' — he eyed his man close to see the efifect 
upon him — * and I've asked him to find out all he can about 
her.' 

* Indeed 1* Paul said, never showing surprise by a muscle 
cf his face. * I wonder you care to take so much pains 
about so unimportant a piece of intelligence.' 

* Oh, for the girl's sake, don't you know 1' Armitage added 
hastily. * Of course she's hardly a proper person to have 
charge of a young lady alone on the Continent. Besides, 
one naturally likes to know what sort of company one's 
committing one's self to, doesn't one ?' 

* I don't think it much matters, as long as they're decent 
people,' Paul answered evasively. 

* Ah, but that's just the question at issue/ Armitage went 
on, trying another tack. * My man at Hillborough will 
hunt it all up. He's a capital hand at tracking people down. 
He ought to have been a detective. By the way, I fancy I 
heard Miss Blair say you came yourself from somewhere 
near Hillborough.' 

* I come from Hillborough town,' Paul answered shortly. 

* Then you know Rimington, of course.* 

* No, I've never met him. ' 

' Dear we, how odd I He's vicar at "H.\p^\e7 . kvi^ \i^% 
so very much rdpandtc, as the French say. S^te^.^ ^owX* '^ 



42 THE SCALLYWAG 

every tea-fight and luQch and garden-party for twenty milei 
everywhere round Hill borough.' 

* Yes r 

* Yes, really. You must have seen him. Though perhaps 
you took him for a layman or a trainer's assistant. A bull- 
^^n^y-lo^king parson — a regular slogger, with a taste for 
loud tweeds and a most unclerical necktie.* 

' Oh, I know him well by sight,' Paul answered in haste ; 
' I only meant I'd never spoken to him.* 

Arniitage altered the venue once more. * I've been down 
in that part of the world myself,* he went on reflectively, 

* and I don't remember to have met any Gascoynes there.* 

* Most likely not,* Paul answered with energy, 

' You spell your name like the Pembrokeshire people,* his 
persecutor went on. * It's a very rare way. Do you happen 
to be related to them ?' 

Thus brought to bay, Paul answered 'Yes* with a very 
great effort, and then relapsed into silence. 

But Armitage was not going to let him off so cheap. 
' You don't mean to say so !' he exclaimed with real interest, 
for the scent was grov/ing very warm now. *Then what 
relation are you to the present baronet ?' 

There was no escape from it any longer. Paul gasped for 
breath. * Mr. Armitage,* he said, turning suddenly upon 
him like a hunted creature at bay, * you've no right to 
question a stranger like this. My private affairs are my 
private affairs. I refuse to answer. I decline to say what 
relation I am to the present Sir Emery.* 

He slipped out the words without weighing them well. 
Armitage leapt upon them with the true joy of the chase. 

* The present Sir Emery !* he exclaimed with much irony, 

* why, that's a queer thing to say I You must be very ill- 
informed as to the history of your own family, it seems, 
Gascoyne. I should be sorry to pit my information against 
yours, but I was under the impression, shared, I believe, by 
society at large, that the late Sir Emery v/as the last of the 
name, and that the property in Pembrokeshire had gone to 
a distant cousin, who's not a baronet at all, Mrs. Newton 
tells me.' 

No man can stand having his veracity impugned by such 

an obvious innuendo of falsehood as that. Paul Gascoyni 

ifj-^fF a deep breath onco more and anaN<jex^^ ^rw:tq\.^, 



THE COMMON PUMP IN ACTION 43 

•There you have heen misinformed. It's not my business to 
Bet yoti right. You can correct your mistake by looking in 
a peerage. But if you rmcst know, the present baronet is 
my father, Sir Emery Gascoyne, and he lives at Hillborough.* 

Armitage gazed at the flushed young face and angry eyes 
in blank astonishment. Apparently, the fellow believed 
what he said; but how absurd, how incredible! This 
scallywag the heir of the Gascoyne baronetcy and the 
Pembrokeshire estates I What blunder could he have 
made? What error of identity? What mistake of fact? 
What confusion of persons ? 

However, being a very politic young man, and having now 
obtained all the information he wanted or was likely to get, 
he hastened to answer^ in his most soothing tones, * Dear 
me ! I must have been misinformed. I fancied I'd hetlrd so. 
A very great family, the Gascoynes of Pembrokeshire. I 
stopped once down at — at your uncle's place,' and he glanced 
inquiringly at Paulj who fronted him angrily ; * what a 
magnificfent house, and so well kept, too, with such lovely 
gardens !' 

* Old Sir Emery was not my uncle,' Paul answered curtly. 
• I never i^aw him. But the subject's one I don't care to 
talk about.' 

At the top of the hill they changed partners. Armitage, 
all agog with his news, took Isabel Boyton ahead quickly. 
' Well, I've found out who he is,' he cried, with triumph in 
his face ; * or, at least, what he calls himself. Now's your 
chance for that Enghsh title, after all. Miss Boyton. He 
tells me his father's a real hve baronet.* 

* fle's quite nice,* Isabel answered, gravely digesting the 
news, * and I don't know that he mightn't fit the place. I 
hook on to him, Mr. ArmitAge.* 

The Englishman smiled at her credulous simplicity. A 
baronet's son I That threadbare scallywag I 

They returned by the inland road in varying moods. Paul, 
hot with the thought that that horrid secret would now get 
abroad all over Mentone and make him the laughing-stock 
of the Promenade du Midi, went home alone to the Hotel 
Continental. Armitage burst radiant into the 3 ^x^Ya^xi^:^^^ ^ 
big with his latest item of gossip. 

He found Madame Ceriolo equally exeiteS. Wi^\:^ V^ex or^^ 
discorery. 



44 THE SCALLYWAG 

'Just fancy/ she said, as he sat down by her side: 
' figurez-vous, mon ami, you saw that woman Mr. Gascoyne 
bowed to the moment he left us ? Well, who in the world 
do you suppose she is ? A lady's-maid — a lady's-maid at 
the lies Britanniques ! And he raised his hat to her exactly 
like an equal V 

* And who do you think he is himself ?' Armitage cried, all 
eagerness. * You'll never guess. It's too absurd. He says 
his father's a British baronet.' 

' Oh no 1' Nea Blair exclaimed, flushing hot with a burst 
of sympathetic shame. ' He never said that I He told me 
quite the contrary. It can't be possible.* 

*He did, honour bright; I give you my word for it/ 
Armitage answered, exploding. ' He's the heir to the finest 
estate in all South Wales, and he's the last descendant of 
an ancient and noble family that came over, like the Slys, 
with Eichard Conqueror.' 

' I don't believe it,' Nea exclaimed stoutly ; meaning, not 
that she disbelieved Paul, but disbelieved the report of his 
ever havinr; said so. 

' No more do I, Miss Blair, if you ask my honest opinion,* 
Armitage answered, laughing. * I expect his uncle's the 
same sort of baronet as the unfortunate nobleman who lately 
languished so long in Portland Prison.* 

* There's a good deal of doubt about baronetcies, I believe,* 
Madame Ceriolo mused to herself aloud, * They're not so 
regularly looked into as peerages. And I'm given to under- 
stand there are a great many baronets knocking about loose 
on the world at present, who have no more claim to be 
called Sir Somebody So-and-so than I have to be called — 
well, the Queen of England.* 

Very dangerous ground for you, Madame Ceriola I 



SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 



CHAFTEB VII. 

SIB BMEfiY AHD LADY aASCOYNE AT HOME. 

'lE EMERY GASCOYNE, 
Baronet, sat in his own eaey- 
chair in Tront of his own 
' fireplace at Hillborough, 
^ Surrey. It was evening, 
■"^and Sir Emery rested 
after his day's labours. 
He had been out driving 
from two in the after- 
, and it was cold 
_ winter weather for hold- 
ing the reins, 
for Sir Emery 
always drove 
himself. He 
\{ had ample rea- 
son. Hisfingers 
:e numbed 
W'and crarapad 
with driving. 
He found it dif- 
ficult, indeed, to 
S enter in a book 
a tew notes he 
was endeavour- 
ing to make of 
hia afternoon's engagements. ' 'Ere, Faith, girl,' the British 
baronet called to his daughter in the adjoining room, 'I 
can't 'old the pen. Come along and enter them drives 
to-day, will you? I'm moat clemmed with cold, it's that 
keen and bitter up o' Kent's '111 this weather.' 

' Just wait a minute, father dear,' Faith answered cheerily 
from the kitchen behind. ' I'm coming directly. 'We're 
hotting up some soup for your supper, here, mother and I. 
It'a lovely soup, darling, and it'll thaw you out \xi.%\>\i%waNK.- 
f nlly as soon as you drink it. ' 
Tiie na'ee wag a rpipp Jjie her bcotbci's O'W'Q. — wV^ ^'o^ 




46 THE SCALLYWAG 

sweet, with a delicate intonation that made each syllable 
clear and distinct as the notes of a belL Sir Emery listened 
to it with a fatherly smile, for he loved her well. ' God 
bless that girl 1* he said to himself, laying down the pen he 
could scarcely wield. 'It's a comfort to 'ear 'er. She do 
make a man glad with that pretty small voice of 'ers.' 

Sir Emery's room was neither large nor handsomely 
furnished. It was entered direct from the street by a buff- 
coloured door, and it led by a second similar one into the 
kitchen behind it. The centre of the apartment was 
occupied by a square table, with flaps at the side, covered 
with that peculiar sort of deep-brown oil-cloth which is 
known to the initiated as American leather. A sideboard 
stood against the further wall, decorated with a couple of 
large spiky shells and a spotted dog in dark red-and-white 
china. The spotted dog Faith had attempted more tnan 
once surreptitiously to abolish, but Sir Emery ^ways 
brought it back again to its place in triumph : it had been 
his mother's, he said, and he was sort of attached to it. A 
couple of cane-bottomed chairs, a small horsehair couch, and 
the seat which Sir Emery himself occupied, completed the 
furniture of the baronet's reception-room. 

And yet there were not wanting, evQJX iu that bumble 
home, some signs of feminine tastp f\,ni aesthetic culture. 
The spotted dog was an eyesore tl^fit 3?aith could never 
quite get rid of ; but the cheap porcelain vases, with the 
red and blue bouquets painted crudply qp their sides, and 
the pink paper flowers stuck into i\\m yawning mouths, 
she had sternly and successfully repressed some months ago. 
In their place two simple little monochromatic jars of 
Linthorpe pottery were installed on the mantelpiece, and 
some sprigs of green and late-lingering chrysanthemums 
usurped the former throne of the pink-paper monstrosities. 
The curtains were plain, but of a pretty cretonne ; the 
covering of Sir Emery's chair itself was neat and cheerful ; 
and the antimacassar on the couch, worked in simple 
crewels, had at least the negative merit of unobtrusiveness 
and harmony. Altogether one could easily see at a glance 
it was a working man's cottage of the superior sort, kept 
neat and sweet by loving and tasteful hands, which did all 
in their pp^yer to relieve and diversify its necessary 



SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 47 

For the British baronet was not known as Sir Emery at 
all to his friends and neighbours, but simply and solely as 
Gascoyne the Flyman. Most of them had heard, indeed, 
in a vague and general way, that if everybody had his 
rights, as poor folk ought to have, Martha Gascoyne would 
have been My Lady and the flyman himself would have 
ridden in a carriage through the handsomest park in the 
county of Pembroke. But as to calling him anything but 
plain Gascoyne — him, the driver they had known so well 
from his chil4hood, when be played in the street with them 
all as children— why, it would no more have occurred to 
those simple souls than it occurs to any of us to address the 
ordinary familiar descendant of Welsh or Irish princes as 

• Your Highness ' or ' Your Majesty.' 

^ir Emery knocked the ashes out of his black clay pipe, 
and waited patiently for the advent of his soup. As soon as 
it arrived he ate it heartily, at the same time dictating to 
Faith the various items of his day's engagements (for at Hill- 
borough long credit businesses were the order of the day) : 

* Gab from station, Mrs. Morton, one-and-six ; put it two 
shillin* ; she'll never pay till Christmas twelvemonth I To 
Kent's '111 an' back, Cap'en Lloyd, 'arf a suverin' ; no, *arf 
a suverin's not a penny too much, missus ; and then to the 
Birches, Mrs. Boyd-Galloway ; that lot's worth 'arf a crown. 
Faith. If ever we see the colour of 'er money, *arf a crown's 
not a farden too 'igh for it.' 

Faith entered the items dutifully as she was bid, and laid 
down the ledger with a sigh as soon as they were finished. 
' I can't b^ar to think, father,' she said, ' you have to go out 
driving cold nights like these, and at your age, too, when 
you ought to be sitting home here comfortably by the fire.* 

* I can't abear to think it myself neither,' Mrs. Gascoyne 
echoed — for why keep up, now we're in the bosom of the 
family, the useless farce of describing her as My Lady ? It 
was only in the respected works of Debrett and Burke that 
she figured under that unfamiliar and noble designation. 
To Qrll the neighbours in Plowden's Court, she was nothing 
more than plain Mrs. Gascoyne, who, if everybody had thei^f 
rigU|L^, woiUd no doubt have been a real live lady. 

The baronet stirred the fire with meditatVve i^oVex, 

*Jt*p ^ wonderful pity/ he murmured ip\\\\o^o^Vv^^^!3 \ 



48 THE SCALLYWAG 

mouey out of that thero baronite-cy. It's a wonderful pity 
that after all them years wo should be livin' on 'ere, missus, 
the same as usual, a-drivin' a cab day an' night for a liveli- 
hood, when we're acshally an' in point of law an' fac' 
baronites of the United Kingdom. It beats me 'ow it is we 
can't make money out of it.' 

* I always think/ Mrs. Gascoyne responded, taking out 
her knitting, ' that you don't understan' 'ow to do it, 
Emery.' 

' Mother dear I' Faith said low, in a warning voice, for she 
knew only too well whither this prelude inevitably tended. 

The baronet of the United Kingdom slowly filled his pipe 
once more, as he finished the soup and poured himself out 
a glassful of beer from the jug at his elbow. * It can't be 
done,' he answered confidently. * There ain't no doubt 
about it that it can't be done. It stands to reason it can't. 
If it could be done, Mr. Solomons 'ud 'a done it, you warrant 
you, long ago.' 

*This ain't 'ow you'd ought to be livin' at your age, 
though, Emery,' Mrs. Gascoyne went on, sticking to her 
point. * If we only knowed 'ow, we'd ought to be making 
money out of it some'ow.* 

* Mr. Solomons is a rare clever man,' the baronet replied, 
puffing vigorously away at the freshly-lighted pipe. • Wot 
I say is this, missus, if it could 'a been done, Mr. Solomons 
'ud 'a done it.' 

Faith made a bid for a gentle diversion. 

* I met Mr. Solomons this evening,' she said, * as I was 
coming home from school, and he told me to tell you he'd 
look in on business to-morrow morning, before you went 
down to meet the 10.40.' 

* You're tired, Faith,' her father said, eyeing her kindly. 
Faith smoothed back the hair from her high white fore- 
head — so like her brother's. 

* Only a little bit, father,' she answered with rather a 
wearied smile. * It's the Infants that are so tiring. They 
wear one out. They don't mean to be worries, poor little 
souls 1 of course ; but they do distract one a bit sometimes.' 

*I wish you was well quit of them Infants,* Mrs. Gascoyne 

remarked, ' and could 'and them over to the pupil- teachers. 

The big girls don't give no trouble at all, in the manner of 

speakingf by the sido of the Uttlo ou^a, IV^ ^baxi you've 



SIR EMERY AND LADY GASCOYNE AT HOME 49 

took the Infants, I always take notice, you comes *ome most 
worn and tired-like/ 

* Oh, it's nothing,' Faith answered, taking her mother's 
hand in hers and smoothing it gently. ' It'll be over soon 
for this term — the holidays begin on Wednesday. And 
when I think of father, driving out in the cold on Kent's 
Hill this weather, I'm ashamed of myself to think I ever 
complain a word about the Infants.' 

* They're rarely trying, them Infants, I'll be bound,' her 
father continued, philosophically slow. * I mind what it 
"was myself, when you was all little ones, you an' Paul an' 
the rest, afore we buried 'Ope and Charity, playin' around 
the 'osses' feet, an' kickin' up that row that a man couldn't 
'ardly 'ear to take a order. Charity was a rare one to make 
a noise, she was ; she was the biggest o* the three, when you 
was all born : ** for the greatest o' these," says the parson, 
** is Charity." And wot it must be to 'ave twenty or thirty 
of 'em, all to once, a-cryin' and a-chatterin', why it beats 
everything.' 

* 'Ope and Charity was two blessed little creatures,' Mrs. 
Gascoyne interposed with a tear in her eye. * They never 
got in nobody's way, I'm sure, Emery. * Ope 'ud be 
eighteen year old come May, if she'd 'a lived. An' Charity 
was always 'ead of the class in 'rithmetic. Miss Taylor, 
she says to me more 'n once, ** Wot a wonderful 'ead that 
there child o' yours have got, to be sure, Mrs. Gascoyne, for 
figgers and such-like !" ' 

* 'E's a rare clever man, Mr. Solomons,* the father re- 
peated, relapsing, after the wont of his kind, into the domi- 
nant subject ; * an' if any man could do it, you take my 
word for it, missus, Mr. Solomons 'ud 'a done it.' 

' It seems sort o' throwed away as things stand now,' 
Mrs. Gascoyne went on, in spite of a quick deprecatory 
glance from her daughter's eyes. ' It ain't no good at all, as 
far as I can see, except for a customer to chaff you about 
sometimes.' 

The baronet blew the smoke slowly through his ringed 
lips. ' I might 'a kep' a public, an' made money out of it 
that way,' he said, * but you was always agin a ^\3Ja\k.^ 
moth^; an* I don't blame you for it. A. -pxxVJWci^^^^ciQrt 
sort o' vfAyfor a man to employ a histovical tvawve,^^ ^'«- 
SolomoDs put it But if I 'adn't 'a been \n«iXt*\e\ XkO^% 



so THE SCALLYWAG 

afoVe the title came to us, I might 'a made something of ii 
like that myself, you see, missus — meaning to say, in the 
>vay of a hairess.* 

Poor Faith saw that the bolt had fallen — that well-known 
bolt which descended with periodical regularity from the 
clear sky of her father's unruffled good-humour — and she 
gave up the attempt any longer to delay the rising tempest. 

* I'm sure, Emery,' her mother broke in, with a stifled sob, 
' you needn't always be a-castin' that in my teeth— that I 
stood in your way agin* makin* your fortune. It ain't no 
fault o' mine, nor my people's, neither, that you wis took 
with me and arst me to marry you. Artit Emily was always 
agin my 'avin' you. An* there was many as said at the 
time, you know yourself well enough, I'd throwfed myself 
away, and I might 'a done better far to take another one. 
Why, there was Alfcrd Dyke, him as owned the mill at 
Chase's Corner ' 

The baronet of the United Kingdom checked her 
threatened outburst of early reminiscences kindly. * It 
ain't for myself I'm thinkin', mother,' he said, with a nod or 
two of his chin — ' it ain't for myself not anyways, but for 
the children. Wot a thing it 'ud 'a been for Faith and Paul, 
now, if I'd 'a 'appened to be a bachelor, don't you see, at 
the time wen this thing fell in, and 'ad married a hairess, as 
would 'ave brought 'em up like ladies and gentlemen —ladies 
an' gentlemen the same as they'd ought to be 1* 

Faith couldn't forbear a gentle smile. 

*But, father dear,' she said, smoothing his hand with 
hers, * don't you see yourself it wouldn't have been Paul and 
me at all in that case ? It *d be somebody else we none of 
us know or care anything about, wouldn't it ?* 

* But it do seem a pity,' her father went on musingly, 
* that the value of the baronite-cy, for commercial purposes,' 
he paused awhile, and then repeated once more that high- 
sounding phrase, * for commercial purposes,' rolling it on his 
palate like one who loved it, * should 'a been clean throwed 
away, as Mr. Solomons says, all through the fack that I 
'appened to be married afore I come into it.* 

Mrs. Gascoyne's handkerchief went up to her eyes with 
dramatic rapidity ; anTi Faith, holding up one finger in 
warning to her father, stroked her mother's hair with her 
o^Jier hand with Glial tenderness. * I Yj'iaVi,* €^e ^^\^,\isiM 



SIR EMERY AND LADY CASCOYNE AT HOME 51 

ftngrily, * Mr. Solomons had never put these ideas into your 
head, father. I'm sure you'd never have thought of it all for 
yourself. You'd never have dreamt of making money out of 
anything on earth so sacred as that is.' 

* I don't say, Faith/ her father went on, eyeing his beer 
with the light of the paraffin lamp shining through it, * I 
don't say as ever I'd 'a married for money, or made capital 
likO) as Mr. Solomons says, out o' the title, an' that. I don't 
gay as I've the manners or the eddication to do it. I'm 
satisfied with your mother, as 'as always bin a true an' 
faithful wife to me, in sickness an' in 'ealth, an' no woman 
better.' 

* If you weren't,' Faith interposed, ' you'd bo the ungi^atc- 
fullest man in all Hillborough.' 

' If I wasn't,' her father repeated dutifully, followiog his 
cue, * I'd be the ongratefullest man in all Hillborough. I 
know all that, an' I ain't a-denyin' of it. But wot I says is 
just this : I says to Solomons this very last Sunday, *' Mr. 
Solomons," says I, ** if I'd 'a bin a bachelor wen this title 
fell in, there's many a tidy woman as 'ad her tliousand 
p6und or two put away in the bank 'ud 'a bin glad to call 
'erself Lady Gascoyne on the strength of it." ' 

* Emery,' his wife sobbed, holding her face in her hands, 

* I call it most onmanly of you. Many's the time I've done 
a good cry, all along of your talking in that onmanly 
manner.' 

The father of the family turned round to her soothingly. 

* Mind you, mother,* he went on, in a demonstrative voice, 

* I don't say as I'd ever 'ave wanted 'er for all 'er thousands. 
^ I ain't that kind, I'm not one as sets so much store by the 

money. Wot I do say is, as a matter o' business, it's a pity 
the baronite-cy should be tlirowed away, an' all for nothing/ 

* IS won't be throwed away,' the mother responded, drying 

her .eyes hysterically, * not after our time. Paul 'ave 'ad a 

good education, an' Paul '11 marry a woman as is fit for 
'I'm » 

'There ain't no doubt at all about that/ the British 
baronet answered in a mollified tone. * As Mr. Solomons 
Bays, our Paul 'ave a splendid future bcforo MyivJ 

'Oxford 'ave made a gentleman of *im,' 'M-t^. G^^^^^o^xv^ 
eontiDned, gloating over the words, 

'1$ 'are/ the father replied^ gazing deoiB lulo ^^^ "^^^^ 



$2 THE SCALLYWAG 

* There ain't no doubt of it. We've all got reason to be 
main grateful to Mr. Solomons for that much/ 

' I never feel quite so sure about that, somehow/ Faith 
ventured to say. * I often wonder whether Paul wouldn't 
have been happier, and whether we wouldn't all have been 
happier, if Mr. Solomons had never meddled at all in our 
private business.' 

' I do wonder at you. Faith I' her mother exclaimed 
aghast. ' You to talk like that, when we ought all to be so 
beholden like to Mr. Solomons I' 

* Look what 'e've done for Paul !* the father cried eagerly. 

* If it wasn't for 'im, Paul might be tendin* the 'osses still, 
the same as I do.' 

* But we've got to pay him for it,* Faith answered stoutly. 

* Sooner or later we've got to pay him. And see what notes 
of hand he's made you sign for it !* 

* Ay, but Paul '11 settle all that,' the father replied with 
absolute confidence, * and afore long, too, I warrant you, 
little one I Why, if it 'adn't bin for Mr. Solomons, we'd 
never so much as 'a thought o' sendin' 'im to college an' 
makin' a gentleman of *im. An' now, Mr. Solomons says, 
'e's a'most through with 'is collegin', an' ready to make 'is 
start in life. If 'e does as Mr. Solomons means 'im to do, 
'e'll pay it all off, principal an' interest, as easy as winkin*. 
We've all got reason to be main grateful to Mr. Solomons.. 
'E's a clever one, 'e is, if ever there was one. An' 'e says it 
as knows, says 'e to me, " Gascoyne," says 'e, ** your boy 
Paul, if 'e plays 'is cards well," says 'e, " as 'e'd ought to- 
play 'em, 'ave a splendid future," says 'e, '* before 'im." ' 

' But he won't play them as Mr. Solomons wants him, I'm 
sure,' Faith answered, unabashed. * He'll play them his. 
own way. He can't do any other.' 

* 'E'll pay it all off,' the baronet repeated, ruminating the- 
words with infinite pleasure, * 'e'U pay it all off, when 'e once* 
gets 'is start, principal an' interest, as easy as winkin'. 

The happiness he derived from the mere sound of those* 
opulent expressions, ' principal and interest,' as he rolled 
them on his palate, seemed more than to repay him for any 
little passing discomfort the sense of indebtedness to his. 
supposed benefactor might otherwise have cost him. It 
jnakes a man feel almost like a cap\ta\\st V\\wv^^\l '^heu ho. 
cau talk glibly about principal and iulere^t* 



•- PAULS ADVISER 



CHAPTBB VIII. 
faul'b advibek. 




i^N another room at Hillborough, that aeU-aame 
eveaing, two other people were discussing 
Btill more eagerly together this identical 
problem of the market-value of a British 
baronetcy. 

The house in which they discussed it had 
a dingy, stingy, gloomy-looking front, oommanding a full 
view of the market and the High Street ; and on the vener- 
able wire-bhnds in the office-window the inquiring wayfarer 
might make out through the dust that clogged them the 
simple l^end, ' Judah P. Solomons, Auctioneer and Estate 
Agent.' Not that Mr. Solomons really subsisted upon the 
net profits of his auctioneering and his commission on rents. 
Those were but the ostensible and officially avowed sources 
of his comfortable revenue. The business that really 
enriched Mr. Solomons — for Mr. Solomons was undoubtedly 
rich— was the less respectable and less openly-confessed 
trade of a general money-lender. Mr. Solomons was, in 
fact, by profession a capitalist. He made those familiar 
advances, on note of hand alone, without security, at 
moderate interest, which have so often roused our ardent 
admiration for the generous mixture of philanthropic spiric 
and the love of adventure in the amiable lender when Me 
read the tempting announcement of the proffered boon in the 
advertisement columns of our pet daily paper, 

Mr. Solomons himself, the philanthropist in question, was 
a short but portly man of a certain age : it was clear he had 
.thriTen on the results of his well-directed benevolence. His 
figure was rotund and his face fat ; he had small, black, 
beady eyes, rich in life and humour ; and his mouth, though 
full, was by no means deficient in human kindness, Bjs 
hair was curly, and displayed, perhaps, a trifling disregard 
of economy in the matter of bear's grease ; but his entire 
appearance was not wholly unprepossessing : he looked Ilka 
a sharp and cunning business man, mvjViQm,"cveNftt>;Jci^ees., 
the trade of assistiag hia fellow-crealutQa iu iisUeiaft i^ot » 



54 THE SCALLYWAG 

modest percentage) had not altogether killed out the heart 
that beat within the ample and well-filled fancy waistcoat. 
The acute reader may, perhaps, already have jumped to the 
conclusion that Mr. Solomons was by race a Jew, and in 
that conclusion the acute reader would not, as a matter of 
fact, have been quite unjustified. In creed, however, Mr. 
Solomons had conformed so successfully to the Church of 
England (mainly, perhaps, for business reasons) that ho 
filled at that moment the onerous post of vicar's church- 
warden for the parish of Hillborough. In a country town 
Judaism is at a discount ; aud Mr. Solomons was too good 
a Jew at heart ever to touch anything at a discount, except, 
of course, for the purpose of bulling or bearing it. 

The younger gentleman, who sat opposite Mr. Solomons 
at the first-iloor fireplace above the dingy office, was half an 
inch taller, and many inches smaller round the waist ; but 
he otherwise bore a distinct resemblance in figure and 
feature to his prosperous relative. Only, in Lionel Solo- 
mons' face, the cunning and the sharpness of his uncle's eyes 
and mouth seemed, if anything, to be actually exaggerated, 
while the redeeming qualities of good-humour and good- 
fellowship were both, on the contrary, conspicuous by their 
absence. Lionel was handsome with the Oriental hand- 
someness of the well-fed young Jew ; and he had brought 
down from town with him the offensive underbred jaunty 
cosmopolitanism of the shady middle class in that great 
desert of London which is so peculiarly repulsive to a 
cultivated understanding. His hair was even curlier and 
more oleaginous than Mr. Solomons' own ; and he held 
between his lips a cheap bad cigar, which he managed with 
all the consummate easy grace of a gentleman accustomed 
to ride into the City every morning in the envied seat beside 
the driver of the omnibus he honoured with his distinguished 
patronage. 

Mr. Solomons unrolled a packet of greasy, much-folded 
papers, which he had taken from a pigeon-hole in the safe 
by his side, and laid them one after another upon his knee, 
where he regarded them close with evident affection. * Yes, 
Leo,' he said reassuringly, ' they're all right enough. 
Every penny of that mopey's as safe as houses.' 
^J'd like to see the collateral, that's all,' Mr. Lionel 
^dj with Q, jaunty togsi qf his curled li\ee\,i, ' It*8 a 



PAUL'S ADVISER 55 

precious lot of money to lend upon personal security, and 
that a man of straw, or less than straw, if 't comes to that, 
tJncle Judah." 

Mr. Solomons took up the newest of the lot and exajiiiaed 
it tenderly. * Twelve months after date,' he mused to him- 
self in a softly murmuring tone, * for vieilue received — two 
hundred pounds— renewable with twenty per cent, interest. 
Emery Gascoyne— perfectly regular. It's a good investment, 
Leo — a good investment.* He turned over a second, and 
looked at the endorsement. * Sir Emery Gascoyne, Bart.,' 
he continued softly, * accepted as fair as an acceptance 
can be. Good business, Leo, my boy — very good business.' 

* How much did you give him for this two hundred, now?' 
Mr. Lionel asked in a somewhat contemptuous tone, taking 
it up carefully. 

The elder man seized it once more with a nervous grasp, 
like one who fears to let a favourite and fragile object pass 
for a moment out of his own possession. 

*A hundred and fifty,' he answered, refolding it and re- 
placing it in due order ; * and then twenty per cent., you see, 
on the full two hundred, every time it's renewed, after the 
first year, gives a good interest.' 

Lionel looked up with an amused air. 

* Well, all I can say,' he put in with a smile, * is — that 
ain't the way we do business in the City.' 

* Perhaps not,' his uncle answered with a faint air of 
vexation. It was evident that this was his pet venture, and 
that certain vague doubts as to its perfect soundness in his 
own mind made him all the more impatient of outside 
criticism. 'But, Leo, you don't know everything in London. 
Oao of the great points in a country business is just that — to 
bo able to tell who you can trust, and yrho ygi; can't, on 
their own sense of honesty.* 

!BIr. Lionel sneered. 

* I trust nobody myself,' ho responded vigorously, puffing 
^t his cigar with a -violent puff, to enforce the full depth and 
breadth of his sentiment. 

* Then that's bad business,' Mr. Solomons answered, with 
one fat forefinger raised didactically. * Take my word for it, 
uiy boy, that's bad business. I wouldn't be half what I am 
now, and you'd be helping me in the old shop in th^ "Boxw\.^^ 
il I'd trusted nobody. Bu$ I kuQW ^Tao \»o \*Tt^^^\ ^"^^ '^Oa^'S^ 



56 THE Scallywag 

what's made me. Bind 'em down on paper as fast as you 
can, of course : I'm not one to omit having everything legal, 
and fixed, and regular ; but all the papers and stamps and 
parchments in the world won't do you any good if you've 
got hold of a rogue. No, never a stamp of them 1 A rogue 
can't be made to pay if he don't want. A rogue '11 go 
through the court to spite you. A rogue '11 take things 
before his honour the county court judge, and explain every- 
thing ; and his honour '11 give judgmenc for reduced interest. 
It ain't the paper and the stamps and the signatures that 
does it ; it's the man himself you've got to trust to. You 
once get hold of an honest man, and if he works his fingers 
to the bone, and his knees to the stumps, he'll pay you 
somehow — principal and interest ; he'll pay you somehow. 
And Sir Emery Gascoyne, Bart., he's an honest man, and 
so's Paul. He may be only a cab and fly proprietor,' Mr. 
Solomons went on, giving his debtor the full benefit of his 
whole legal designation ; ' but Sir Emery Gascoyne, Bart., 
cab and fly proprietor, of Plowden's Court, Hillborough, is 
as honest a man as ever stepped, and Paul, his son, is one 
that takes after him.' 

* It was that title of ** Bart.," in my opinion, that led you 
astray in the first instance,' his nephew went on with a 
touch of scorn in his voice ; * and having once begun, you 
didn't like to confess your mistake, and you've kept to it 
ever since, getting deeper and deeper in it. ' 

Mr. Solomons shuffled uneasily in his chair. The young 
man had touched him on a tender point. * J don't deny, Leo,' 
he answered with apologetic softness, ' that the title of 
** Bart." had a great deal to do with it. A man who's 
born a Jew can't get over that ; and I'm proud to think, if 
I've changed my religion, I've never attempted to shake off 
my ancestors. It came about like this, you see. It was six 
years ago or more — let me see, I have it here — yes, seven 
years ago on the fourth of February — number one falls due 
on the fourth every year ; it was seven yiears ago Gascoyne 
came to me, and he says, '^ Mr. Solomons, I want your ad- 
vice, knowing you to be a better man of business than any 
lawyer in the town " — for Gascoyne knows Barr and Wilkie 
are fools — ** and I've just come into a baronetcy," says he. 
We}}, when I heard that, I lifted my hat, having always a 
eirorg respect for rank and title and ever^jthing of that sort 



PAUL'S ADVISER 57 

— I wouldn't be one of the seed of Abraham if I hadn't — 
and I said to him, " Sir Emery, I'm very glad to hear it ; 
and if there's anything I can do for you in the way of a 
little temporary accommodation " — thinking, of course, there 
was money coming with it, as a man would naturally expect 
with a baronetcy — ** I'll be happy to arrange it on the most 
moderate terms for you." For when a man in his position 
comes into a title and a big estate, he's likely to want a 
little temporary accommodation at first, just to make a good 
show when he goes to claim his own of the executors.' 

* To be sure,' his nephew assented blandly. 

* Well, you see,' Mr. Solomons went on, still in a very 
self-exculpatory tone, ' it soon turned out that there wasn't 
any money — that the money'd all gone to the other branch 
of the family. But having made Sir Emery a preliminary 
advance, and having been the very first man in the world to 
call him " Sir Emery" ' — Mr. Solomons loved to repeat that 
title in private life whenever he could ; it was so dear to his 
soul to be thus brought into contact with a real live baronet 
— * I thought to myself, ** Well, having once begun, I'll see 
the thing through to the bitter end now, whatever it costs 
me." And I look at it accordingly, Leo, as a long investment.' 

* A very long investment indeed 1' Mr. Lionel answered, 
with an ugly smile. * You'll never see a penny of your 
money again, I take it.' 

* I'll see every farthing of it back in full, I'll take my 
davy r his uncle retorted, with a rather red face — his heart 
was suspected. * Gascoyne and his son are honest people — > 
good honest people as ever lived — and they'll pay me all, 
if they work themselves to death for it. But it wasn't only 
the money I thought of,' he continued, after a short pause. 
* No, no, Leo. It wasn't only the money I thought of.' 

* It's all I think of,' his nephew said candidly. 

« Then so much the worse for you, my dear,' Mr. Solomons 
replied with equal frankness. * That's a mistake in life. 
You miss the half of it. What I thought was this. Here's 
this man — a common flyman— a petty little cab-owner with 
four horses of his own — no more than four horses, and screws 
at that ; but a British baronet. If you and I were to work 
all our lives, Leo, and slave and save, and toil and mo\l> 
we'd never rise to be British baronets. B\]l\» \Xi\^\aa»'\^^\iQroL 
one, d'you see, or born as good as one •, "boxu ^\vaX ^om ^xl^ 



58 THE SCALLYWAG 

I'd give ten thousand pounds to be made this minute. Saya 
I to myself J turning the matter over, What a pity to think 
there's nothing to be made, for him or for mo, out of 
Gascoyne's baronetcy 1 If Gascoyne was younger, says I, 
and better brought up, he might have made money out of it 
by p[)arryiFig an heiress. But he's married already, and the 
old lady s not likely to die ; or, if she did, he's not market- 
able now ; he's too old and too simple. Still, there's the 
boy : — there's the boy Paul, He's young and pliable yet : 
clay fre§h to hand: you can make what you like of him. 
Well, I don't deny there was a touch of sentiment in it all ; 
for I love 9i title ; but I couldn't bear either to think of a 
good chance being thrown away — a chance of making money 
out of it, for him and for me ; toK a title has always a value of 
its own, and it gpe^ against the grain with me to see a thing 
thaji has a value of its own thrown away, as it were, and let 
go to WQ-ste, for want of a little temporary emplojnnent.' 

* To be sure,* his nephew assented with an acquiescent 
hod, for there he too could sympathize most fully. 

* So thp idea occurred to me,' Mr. Solomons went on, 
'couldn't I lend thpse two people enough, on their own 
notes of hand — three, six, nine, twelve, renewable annually 
— to give the young man Paul a thorough gpod schooling, 
apd send him to Oxford and make a gentleman of him ?' 

* But the security ?' the younger man exclaimed im- 
patiently — 'the security? the security? Where's your 
collateral T 

Mr. Solomons shook his head with a very deliberate and 
sapient shake. 'There's securities and securities, Leo,* he 
sa}d, * and you don't understand but one particular kind of 
'epi. I'd as soon have Emery Gascoyne's paper as any 
knded gentleman's in all England. Awyhow, I made up my 
mind to do it, and I did it, Leo ; that'u the loog and the short 
of Ijj. I made *em both insure their lives — the Hand-in- 
H^nd, a capital company — and I've paid the premiums ever 
sincp piyself ; here's the receipts, yoii see, for the last six 
years, si-s proper as proper.' 

' You've paid the premiums yourself?' Lionel echoed with 
a cunning smile. 

* But I've made 'em sign for *em, of course,' his uncle 
continued hastily, *- I've made 'em sigr^ for 'em. They've 

covered it all^ and the bor^use^ gq tQ increase tU^ sunj 



PAUVS ADVISER 59 

insured, which balances premiums almost. Here's the 
papers ; here they are ;* and he fumbled the bundle with 
eager fingers. 

The nephew regarded them with pitying contempt. 
? What's the good of all these ?' he cried, turning them over 
sceptioaUy. * The fellow was a minor when he signed the 
lot. I dare say he's a minor still, if it comes to that. 
They've no legal value.* 

* My dear,' the uncle went on with a very grave face, * you 
think a great deal too much about what's legal, and a great 
deal too little about moral obligation, that keeps alive the 
money-lending. Yes, he %oas a minor, and he's a minor 
still ; but when he comes of age, you mark my words, he'll 
sign again for every penny of the money. He's a good boy, 
Paul, an honest boy, and sooner than let me lose a penny of 
my advances he'd work as my slave to his dying day — and 
him that '11 live to be a baronet of the United Kingdom. 
Besides,' Mr. Solomons continued more cheerfully, * ho 
knows I've done a great deal for him. He knows it's me 
that has made his fortune. I've sent him to school, and 
sent him to college, and made a gentleman of him. He 
knows he's got to behave fair and honest by me, as I've 
behaved by him. He knows he's got to look out for money. 
As soon as he's married, and married well, he'll pay me 
back every penny, principal and interest.' 

'Suppose he don't marry well?' the nephew interposed 
with a provoking smile ; * suppose the heiress don't choose 
to take him ?' 

Mr. Solomons folded the notes of hand and other 
documents into a neat little bundle, and tied them up once 
more with a dirty red tape, preparatory to locking them up 
in the safe in their accustomed pigeon-hole. 

* There's more heiresses than one in the world,' ho said 
with a determined air. * If heiress number one won't rise 
to the fly, heiress number two will swallow it, you warrant 
you. No, no, Leo ; don't you talk to me. A baronet's 
worth his price in the market any day. Young women 
dqn't get a My Lady for nothing, and Paul's been taught 
exactly what he's worth. He knows it's a duty he owes to 
me and he owes to his father ; that jointly and severally 
they're bound to pay ; and that to marxv ^.\i Vv^\x^"^'3»Ss»*^^ 

' cheapest grcd easiest w&y to pay iuq/ 



6o THE SCALLYWAG 

* Her money *11 bo all strictly tied up,' the nephew ox- 
claimed. ' I know their way, these landed people, with 
their contracts and their settlements.* 

* A man of title can always dictate his own terms,' the 
money-lender answered with more worldly wisdom ; * at 
least, among the manufacturers. He can sell himself for as 
much as he chooses somewhere and hang out for his price 
till they choose to pay it.' 

Mr. Lionel gave a grunt of extreme dissatisfaction. 

* Well, it's no business of mine, of course,' he observed in a 
distinct bad humour ; * but what I say is this : you'd got no 
right ever to begin upon it; it ain't legitimate trading; it's 
too precious speculative.' 

His uncle glanced back at him with a reproachful look. 
' There'll be enough for you without it, Leo,' he answered ; 

* any way, when I'm gone. It's all for you, you know very 
well, that I slave and hoard. And I only wish you were 
such a young man as Paul is. I take a sort of pride in him, 
I don't deny. I only wish I'd put you to college the same 
as him and made a gentleman of you.' 

'There ain't much to be made out of going to college,* 
Mr. Lionel replied, picking his teeth with his penknife ; * at 
least, if you ain't going into business afterwards as a British 
baronet.' 

* It's all for you, Leo,* Mr. Solomons repeated, rising to 
put back the papers in their places. 'And even if this turns 
out a bad speculation — which I don't believe— there'll be 
more than enough for you, anyhow, without it.* 



TEMPTATION 



CHAPTER IX. 

TEMPTATION. 




ri— iJHS ^I^IIieBfrg' 



J'enloac the BUD continued 

to Bhne and the world to 

lask in tho joy of his rajs, 

in spito of the brow od 

Kent's Hi[l and the ^vhite 

lo^s that enwrapped the 

lunty of Surrey. To 

great BUrprise, 

vheu once the 

;ied Eeeretwas out, 

burden of bearing 

became iutinitely 

iseued. He bad 

iruuk with all (he 

bj-ness of a Bensi- 

tire nature from 

letting the 

loungers on the 

Promenade du 

Midi knovi the 

teal truth abcut 

his false pcsi- 

He 



thought tney wouia nna m ic nothing but cause for 
veiled ridicule. But, as a matter of fact, on that very 
evening the indefatigable Armitage, pursuing his quest 
through every villa be knew in town, discovered at last in a 
friend's library a copy of Dobrett's invaluable work on the 
people whom ono CEin really know, don't you know, in 
England. Turning over the pages with a triumphant hand, 
to put to rout and confusion this absurd scallywag with his 
cock-and-bull Etory about his fine relations, Armitage was 
fairly dumfounded to come upon the entry, ' Gascoyne, 
Sm EsiBav, 14th baronet,' followed by half a '5«.%% ci^ 'Owe. 
OBual profoundly interesting genealogica\ SelaW, wni e-cvXva^ 
rritb the Sne abrupt but concise ititotmat.w'a, ' Itts\<Vfc'(\co, 
Phwdeo'a Court, Hillborovigh, Surrey.' 



62 THE SCALLYWAG 

The Plowdeii*s Court of real life was a narrow entry oiT 
the main street of the sleepy little country town, but the 
Plowden's Court which these words naturally conjured up 
before Armitage's fancy, seen in such a connection, was a 
stately and dignified Elizabethan mansion, standing in its 
own grounds of heaven knows how many statute acres, and 
surrounded by garden, lawn, and park-lands. 

Armitago rubbed his eyes in blank amazement. Was it 
possible, then, that the scallywag had spoken the truth ? 
In spite of all appearances to the contrary, was he really 
the heir to a baronetcy of Charles II.'s creation, and to the 
noblest estate in the county of Pbmbroke ? 

He glanced through the profoundly intfetesting genealo- 
gical details with a curious eye. Yes; thstt was all plain 
sailing enough. * Succeeded his second cbtisin, Sir Emery 
Charles Emeric Gascoyne, 13th baroiiefc, vide infra,^ Armi- 
tage proceeded to vide infra dccordingly, and noticed at once 
that the name of Paul seemed to alternate regularly through- 
out the list with the name bf Emery as the distinctive mark 
of the Gascoyne baronetcy. So far, clfearly, the scallywag's 
story seemed to hold together much bettejt than he expected. 
And next as to the estates? Not a wota said about them, 
to be sure ; but then, the respected and esteemed Ofebrett 
deals only in exalted rank, dnd has nothing td say dh such 
inferior subjects as filthy lufcrfe. * Besidnnce, Pldwden's 
Court, Hillborough.' Fancy the Scallywag coming, after ttll, 
from a baronial mansion in the cotlnty ot Surrey 1 

Next day the entire little world of Mentone had duly 
digested the singular news that the unobtrusive Oxford 
undergraduate who had come out to the Eiviera strictly 
incog. J as a tutor to the blonde young man at the Conti- 
nental, was really the heir to a baronetcy in disguise, and 
the scion of a distinguished Pembrokeshire family. And 
all the world remarked at once, with its usual acuteness, 
that, in spite of his shyness, they had said from the first 
Paul Gascoyne was a delightful young man and had most 
charming manners. 

All the world, indeed, has always divined these things 
beforehand, and is immensely surprised at all the rest of the 
world's stupidity in not having perceived them. 
Three days later, however, at the usual \\l\lft (toxvdvi^ in 
t-be Jardin Public — * The School lor ScwciaL^l,' l^^sA^m^ 



TEMPTATION 63 

Ceriolo christened the particular corner affected by Armitage 
and his group of intimates — that ardent inquirer came down 
quite trinmphant with a letter in his hand. * After all/ ho 
said, as he seated himself with a comprehensive nod on his 
favourite bench, *it turns out the scallywag's nobody much. 
I've just had a line from my friend Rimington at Hipsley, 
near Hillborough, and ho says, though the lad's supposed to 
be heir to a baronetcy, his father's a fellow in a very small 
way of business (reasons of delicacy, he writes, prevent him 
from particularizing further) and nob at all in society, or 
anything like it, in Surrey. It seems the grandfather of the 

E resent baronet was a very bad lot, a scapegrace of low 
abits, who consorted chiefly with grooms or stable-boys 
and married a milkmaid or something of the sort ; no doubt 
after circumstances which, as Herodotus says, it is not law- 
ful to mention, after which he was very properly cut off by 
his papa, the baronet of the time, with the traditional 
shilling. With that modest capital as his whole start in 
life, the scallywag's ancestor set up in town ; and there his 
descendants, living on the change for the shilling, I suppose, 
went from bad to worse, till the present man has sunk 
practically to the level of the working classes. When old 
Sir Emery, whom I knew in Pembrokeshire, popped off the 
books, some six or seven years ago, ho entirely ignored this 
debased stock — they'd intermarried, meanwhile, with cooks 
or Bcullery-maids— and left the estates at Gascoyne Manor 
and elsewhere to a younger branch, who had always kept 
up their position as gentlemen. So the scallywag's papa's 
only a bare courtesy baronet after all : by birth and education 
the scallywag himself is — well, just what you'd expect him 
to be. Rimington says in a postscript,' Armitage went on, 
glancing around him with an air of virtuous self abnegation, 
* he hopes I won't mention these facts to anyone for young 
Gascoyne's sake ; so I'm sure I can count upon all of yoa 
not to breathe a word of it, or to let it make the very slightest 
difference in any way in your treatment of the scallywag.' 

Madame Ceriolo, raising a pair of dove-like eyes, saw her 
chance to score a point. * But he really is the heir to a 
baronetcy in spite of everything, you see/ she ^ut* ves. 
languidly. * That's very satisfactory. WheT\^eo^\^ ^Vci ^x^ 
bom ol noble blood happen to be poor or tobo^\^cc\ m ^xs.-^ 
dependent position, other people often cs.v.\. moB\» xxxv^xx's^lv 



64 THE SCALLYWAG 

liable doubts upon the truth of what they say about their own 
families. I sympathize with Mr. Gascoyne ;' and she 
glanced down with a meaning look at the countess's 
coronet engraved on the plain silver locket she wore at her 
bosom. 

'He'll be a Sir, though, any way, won't he?* Isabel 
Boyton asked, going straight to the point with true 
American business perception. 

* He'll be a Sir, any way, Miss Boyton,* Armitage retorted 
sharply. * And he'll make his wife, when he catches one, 
into a real My Lady.' 

* For my part,' Nea Blair put in with quiet firmness, * I 
don't care a pin whether he's heir to a baronetcy or whether 
he's not. I take him for himself. I think he's a very nice, 
good, sensible young man, and, whoever his parents are, he's 
a born gentleman.' 

* One of nature's gentlemen !' Madame Ceriolo interjected 
lackadaisically, with a darted glance from her tortoiseshell 
eyeglasses at Armitage, who, playing with his button, and 
feeling the sense of the meeting was entirely with the scally- 
wag, retired gracsfully upon a safe commonplace : * A^ter 
all, it doesn't so much matter what a man's father is, as 
what he is himself — except, of course, for purposes of pro- 
bate.' 

So, in the end, as it turned out, the world of Mentone 
agreed to accept Paul Gascoyne \^ith a very good grace as a 
future baronet, and to invite him freely to the afternoon teas 
and mild * at homes ' which form the staple of its innocent 
invalidish entertainments. A baronet is a baronet, if it 
comes to that, be he more or less, as the lawyers would 
gracefully put it ; and a baronet's son who has been to 
Oxford, no matter how poor, has always a possible future 
open before him. Nay, more, the mere fact of the little 
mystery as to his origin, and the whispered story about the 
lady's-maid and the dubious grandmamma, added just a 
touch of . romance to the whole affair, which made up in 
piquancy for whatever Paul lacked in exterior adornment. 
If there's anything odd about a man's antecedents (and still 
more about a woman's) it's a mere toss-up whether Society 
chooses to pet him or damn him. But when once Society 
I?as made up its mind to accept him, it b^eovtve^ ioxtVvwlth a 
poiDt of honour to stick up for Yiim at aW x\sV^, a\i^ Vci ^^ 



TEMPT A TION 6$ 

in him nothing but the most consummate virtues. The 
very oddity is held to constitute a distinction. In point of 
fact, accordingly, Paul Gascoyne became the fa^ion of 
Mentone. And having once attained that proud position, 
as the small tame lion of a provincial show, everybody, of 
coarse, discovered in him at once unsuspected mines of 
learning or talent, and agreed unanimously over five o'clock 
tea-tables that young Gascoyne was really a most charming 
and interesting person. 

The consequence was that for the next six weeks Paul 
saw a good deal of society at Mentone — more, in fact, than 
he had ever seen of that commodity anywhere in his life 
before, and amongst it of Nea Blair and Isabel Boyton. 

Nea he liked and admired immensely. And with good 
reason. For it was the very first time he had ever had the 
opportunity of meeting an educated English lady and con- 
versing with her on equal terms about subjects that both 
could alike discourse of. He was always flattered when Nea 
t^ilked to him ; the subtle delight of finding one's self able to 
hold one's own fairly with a beautiful and clever woman 
moved him strangely. Hitherto he had only seen and 
admired such beings from afar. To stand face to face with 
Nea Blair, and find that she did not disdain to talk with him 
— nay, that she evidently preferred his society to Thistle- 
ton's or Armitage's — was to the shy young man from 
Plowden's Court a positive revelation of delight and glad- 
ness. It is to be feared that he even neglected Aristotle's 
Ethics, and his duty to Mr. Solomons, more than once, in 
his readiness to go where Nea Blair might possibly meet 
him. He paid for it afterwards in qualms of conscience, to 
be sure ; but as long as it lasted it was perfect bhss to him. 

Not that he believed or knew he was falling in love with 
Nea. If that explanation of his mental phenomena had ever 
occurred to his honest soul, Paul would have felt that those 
mysterious Claims which weighed on him so heavily made 
it quite necessary for him to see as little as possible of the 
fair enchantress. Ho knew he was bound by solemn bond 
and pact to Mr. Solomons to sell himself finally in the 
matrimonial market for hard cash to the highest bidder; 
and though even then uncomfortable doubts as to the 
justice or morahty of such a proceeding soxaek^Vrnfe^ Vot^i.^^ 
themselves obtrusively upon Paul's mind, 's^Yufe \Jtift ^^^ <^V 



66 THE SCALLYWAG 

Bale seemed still so far off, he would nevertheless have 
shrunk from letting himself get entangled in any other 
bond which might prove adverse in the end to Mr. Solo- 
mons* fair chance of repayment* After all, he thought 
casuistically to himself, there was always a possibility that 
he might finally happen to fall in love with some nice girl 
who was also the heiress Mr. Solomons dreamed about; 
and then, and in that case — but there he broke down. 
The nearer he drew to the actual fact and pact of marriage, 
the more repugnant did the whole wild scheme appear to 
him. 

One sunny afternoon, a week or two later, the whole 
little coterie of the Eives d'Or had made an excursion 
together on to the rocky hills that bound either side of the 
old mule-path to Castellar. When they reached the ridge 
where great rounded bosses of ice-worn sandstone form a 
huge hog's back overlooking the twin-valleys to right and 
left, they dispersed by twos and threes, as men and maidens 
will do, among the rosemary bushes and the scanty 
umbrella-pines, or sat down in groups upon the bare, 
smooth rocks, in full view of the sea and the jagged 
summit of the gigantic Berceau. 

Paul found himself, quite unconsciously, wandering 
among the low lentisk scrub with Nea Blair, and, seating 
themselves at last on the edge of the slope, with the lemons 
gleaming yellow in the Carei Valley far below their feet, 
they discoursed together, as youth and maiden discourse, of 
heaven and earth, and fate and philosophy, but more particu- 
larly of their own two selves, with that profound interest 
which youth and a free heart always lend to that entrancing 
subject when discussed ^ deux, under the spreading shade of 
a romantic pine-tree. 

* And when you've taken your degree, what then ?' Nea 
asked with some eagerness, after Paul had duly enlightened 
her mind as to the precise period of his Greats examination, 
and the chances for and against his obtaining a First in that 
arduous undertaking. 

' Well, then,' Paul answered with some little embarrass- 
ment, ' after that, I suppose, I must go in for a Fellow- 
ship.' 

'Ba^ if you get a Fellowship you won't be able to marry, 
fpjJJ you ?' Nea, inguired witla inteiea^, * la^Ne^s^X* \?as^ ^ot 



TEMPTATION 67 

Borne horribly barbarous rule at Oxford, that If a Fellow 
marries he must lose his position ?' 

* No, no ; not now,* Paul answered, smiling. * " C'^tait 
autrefois ainsi, mais nous avons chang6 tout cela," as 
Sganarelle says in the play. A Fellowship, now, is for a 
fixed period.* 

' Well, that's well, anyhow,* Nea went on, more easily. 
*I hope, Mr. Gascoyne, you'll get your Fellowship.' 

* Thank you,' Pad replied. ' That's very kind of you. 
But I'm ashamed of having bored you with all this talk 
about myself — the subject upon which, as somebody once 
put it, ** all men are fluent and none agreeable." * 

*The somebody was wrong, then,* Nea answered with 
decision. ' Whenever one meets an interesting individuality 
one wants to know as much as possible about it. Don't you 
think,' and she looked up at him with her charming smile, 

* in our society, nowadays, we never really get to know half 
enough about one another ?' 

'I know nothing about Society,' Paul replied frankly. 

* I've never been in it. I've had no chance. But I think — 
in as much of the world as I know, which is a very tiny 
■world indeed — we do somehow seem to go round and round, 
like people in the maze at Hampton Court, and never get at 
the heart and core one of the other.' 

Dangerous ground, dangerous ground, dear Paul, for Mr. 
Solomons' chance of recovering in full on that long invest- 
ment. 

Nea felt it so, perhaps, for she paused a moment, and 
examined a little pink rock-cistus that sprang from a cleft 
in the sandstone at her feet with unnecessarily close atten- 
tion for anyone who was not a professed botanist. Then 
she said suddenly, as if with a burst of inspiration : 

* I shall be up in Oxford myself, I expect, next summer 
term. Mrs. Douglas, the wife of the Accadian professor — 
at Magdalen, you know — means to ask me up for the Eights 
or something.' 

* That'll be just delightful 1* Paul answered warmly. 

* We shall have some chance then of really getting to know 
one another.' ^^^^ 

« I always liked Oxford,' Nea m\itmuT^9L,\ocJ«Axi^ ^cswo., 
and half afraid the conversation waa loaiVn^^ien \»oo ^^:t, 

* I Just love every inch of it,* Paul x^^W^Ql n^VCq.^^^^^"^^ 



68 THE SCALLYWAG 

* But, then, IVe much reason to be grateful to Oxford, I 
owe it everything.' 

' You*ll live there when you*re a Fellow ?' Nea asko J, 
looking up again. 

Paul hesitated a second, and pulled grasses in his turn. 

* IVe got to get my Fellowship first,' he said with some 
reserve. * And then — and then I suppose I must do some- 
thing or other to make some money. I have heavy Claims 
upon me.* 

* Oh dear, what a pity I* Nea cried with genuine regret. 

* Why so. Miss Blak?' 

'Because it's so dreadful you should have to enter Iho 
world with Claims, whatever they may be, to clog you. If 
you were free to choose your own walk in life, you know, 
you might do such wonders.' 

*I should like literature,' Paul went on, relapsing once 
more into that egoistic vein. * But, of course, that's impos- 
sible.' 

' Why impossible ?' Nea asked quickly. 

'Because nobody can make money at literature nowadays,* 
Paul answered with a sigh; 'and my circumstances are 
such that it's absolutely necessary, before everything else, I 
should make money, and make it quickly. I must sacrifice 
everything to my chance of making money.* 

' I see,* Nea answered with a faint tinge of displeasure in 
her tone. And she thought to herself, ' Perhaps he means 
he must get rich so as to keep up the dignity of the title. 
If so, I'm really and truly sorry ; for I thought he had a 
great deal better stuff than that in him.' 

' There are so many Claims I have to satisfy,* Paul went 
on in a low voice, as if answering her inmost unspoken 
thought. ' My time's not my own. It's Somebody Else's, 
I've mortgaged it all by anticipation.* 

Nea gave a start. 

'Then you're engaged/ she said, putting the obvious 
feminine interpretation upon his ambiguous sentence, (A 
woman reads everything by the light of her own world — 
courtship and marriage.) 

* Oh no,* Paul answered, smiling. ' I didn't mean that, or 
anything like it. I wouldn't mind that. It was something 

mucli more aeriouB. I start in life with a grave burden.' 



THE HEIRESS IS WILLIh'G 



THE HEIBEBS I» WILLING. 



' ^^^W^^ ^^' ^^' G^^coy^^j' Isabel Boytoneiclaimed, 
°^t?^^fe^' catching him up, bteatlileae, on the Pro- 
'°f^^^^^'- ^^^^^ ^^ Midi, ODe day in the last week 
''i2^3^^sA °' Paul's stay at Mentone ; ' will you come 
^^^f'l^^ and ride with ub over to La Mortola to 

' morrow?' 

' I'm sorry,' Paul answered, smiling at her free Penn- 
sylvanian mode of addreae, ' but I've no horeo to ride upon.' 
'Oh, I don't mean ride horseback,' Isabel explained 
promptly ; ' momma and I have chartered a kahrriage — a 
break, I think you call it over here in Europe— and we're 
taking a party of ladies and gentlemen across to see the 
gardens.' 

' I shall be delighted to go,' Paul answered truthfully — 
for Nea would be there, he knew, and he went accordingly. 
At La Mortola, however, he soon found out that Miss 
Isabel meant to keep him all for herself, and, indeed, that 
Bbe stuck to him with creditable persistence. This was a 
very new eensation for Paul, who had never before been 
made so much of; but ho accepted it as youth accepts 
almost everything — with the frank delight of a new ex* 
perience. 

And how charming it was, that drive across to La 
Mortola, with the hot southern afternoon sun beating full 
upon the hills, Bordighera gleaming white upon its seaward 
point, and Cap Martin behind bathed in broad floods of 
glorious sunshine I How Grimaldi shone among its silvery 
olives ; how the spires of Mentone rose tall and slender in 
the glistening background ! At the deep dark gorge spanned 
by the Pont St. Louis, they crossed the frontier, and Paul 
found himself for the first time in his life on the soil of 
Italy. Past the Italian Custom-house and the old Saracen 
tower in Dr. Bennett's garden, they wound along the ledge 
to the corner by La Mortola ; and then they skirted a deep 
rocky ravine, all in darkest shade, with ^een ^\ae;% ^^aaxv- 
bering up its steep sides, till they iiaVleft. 8.gBima''i a.\«d«Ka. 
cliff near the Baminit, At last theN x6aci>a.?A. VJccfift ■«««.- 



70 THE SCALLYWAG 

vellous hanging gardens, hewn out of the bare reck, where 
feathery African palms and broad-leaved tropical vegetation 
bask in the hot sun as on their native deserts. There they 
descended and wandered about at will, for it was a * free 
day,' and Isabel Boy ton, taking possession of Paul, walked 
him off alone, with American coolness, to a seat that over- 
hung the villa and the sea, with a view along the coast for 
a hundred miles from San Eemo to Toulon, 

'You go back next week,* she said at once, after an 
awkward pause, when Paul had found nothing more to say 
to her, for he talked far less freely with the heiress than 
with Nea Blair. 

* Yes ; I go back next week,* Paul repeated vaguely. 
' To Oxford ?* 

* "io Oxford.' 

* We shall miss you so at Mentone,' the Pennsylvanian 
went on with genuine regret. *You see, we're so short- 
handed for gentlemen, ain't we ?* 

'You're very kind,' Paul murmured, much abashed by 
this frank remark. ' But perhaps somebody else will come 
who'll do as well — or better.' 

' What's a good time to come and see Oxford in ?' Isabel 
asked abruptly, without heeding his remark, but gazing 
with a vacant expression seaward. 

' Summer term's the best for visitors,' Paul answered, 
taken aback. * I should say about the twentieth of May, 
for example.' 

' Perhaps Til fetch momma along and have a look at it 
then,* the golden-haired American continued, playing ner- 
vously with her parasol. ' We could have a good time at 
Oxford about May, could we ?* 

' I'd do my best to help you enjoy yourself,* Paul replied, 
as in duty bound, but with a sinking recollection that just 
about that precise date he would be straining every nerve 
for his final examination. 

' I call that real nice of you,' Isabel answered, still poking 
her parasol into the ground by her side. ' Will you take us 
about and show us the college, the same as we read about 
in " Tom Brown at Oxford *' ?* 

' The University's changed a good deal since those days,' 

Paul replied with a smile, * but I shall be glad to do what- 

^rer I can to make your visit a pleasant oue. Though 



THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 71 

Thistleton/ he added, after a short pause, 'would be able to 
show you a great deal more about the place than I can.* 

The Pennsylvanian brought back her clear blue eyes from 
space with a sudden flash upon him. 

* Why?' she asked curtly. 

'Because he's so much richer/ Paul answered, boldly 
shaming the devil. * He's a member of all the clubs and 
sports and everything. His father's one of the wealthiest 
men in Sheffield.* 

Isabel drew a face with her parasol on the gravel below. 
* I don't care a pin for that,* she answered shortly. 

* I suppose not. You're so rich yourself,* Paul retorted 
with a sigh. Then he turned the subject clumsily. 'These 
are lovely gardens.* 

* My poppa could buy up a place like this with a month's 
income,* the young lady answered, refusing to follow the 
false trail. She said it, not with any vulgar, boastful air, 
but simply as if to put him in possession of the facts of the 
case. She wanted him to know her exact position. 

* Why isn't he here with you ?' Paul ventured to ask, just 
to keep the conversational ball rolling. 

* Oh my 1* Isabel exclaimed. ' What a question to ask 1 
Why, he's got to stop home and mind the store, of course, 
like every other man, hasn't he?* 

' He's in business, then l' Paul said, with a start of sur- 
prise. 

'In my country,' Isabel answered gravely, 'it ain't re- 
spectable not to be in business. My poppa's the richest 
man in Philadelphia.' Then she looked down at her shoes 
and added once more, * But I don't care a pin about money 
myself, for all that. What I care for is whether people are 
nice or not. And I like Mr. Thistleton well enough in a 
sort of way ; he's quite nice, of course, and there's nothing 
grubby about him. But he kind of don't take me.* 

* No ?* Paul said, feeling he was called upon to say some- 
thing. 

* No,' Isabel answered ; ' he don't,* and then relapsed into 
strange silence. 

Por a moment or two they sat with their eyes fixed on 
the ground, and neither spoke a single word to the other. 
Then Isabel began once more, just to enciowx^^'^k Vvai ^\s^Js»^ 
for she misinterpreted bis awkwaxdnea^ «i.ii9L ^-^x^^'^s^'Sf— ^"V^ 



72 THE SCALLYWAG 

is a lovely place. I'm most inclined to make my poppa 
give up the States and come across to reside for a per- 
manence in some elegant place like this in Europe.' 

' Your father would come if you wished him, then?' Paul 
asked, all trembling with excitement, for he dimly suspected 
he was neglecting his duty (and Mr. Solomons' interests) in 
the most culpable manner. 

Isabel noticed his tremulous voice, and answered in the 
softest tones she could command : 

* He'd do anything 'most to make me happy.' 

* Indeed,' Paul replied, and gazed once more with a pre- 
occupied air towards the distant Esterels. They came out 
so clear against the blue horizon. 

* Yes, poppa just spoils me,' Isabel went on abstractedly ; 
* he's a real good poppa. And how lovely it'd be to pass 
one's life in a place like this, with all those glorious moun- 
tains and hills around one, and that elegant sea tumbling 
and shining right in front of one's eye — with somebody that 
loved one.* 

The running was getting uncomfortably hot now. 

* It would be delightful indeed,' Paul echoed, very warm 
in the face, * if only one had got the money to do it with.' 

Isabel waited a moment again with downcast eyes ; but 
her neighbour seemed disinclined to continue the conversa- 
tion. And to think he had the power to make any woman 
My Lady I She paused and looked long at him. Then she 
rose at last with a stifled sigh. He was real nice, she 
thought, this British baronet's son, and he trembled a good 
bit, and felt like proposing, but he couldn't just make up 
his mind right away on the spot to say what he wanted. 
English young men are so absurdly awkward. 

* Well, we shall meet at Oxford, any way,' she said lightly, 
moving down towards the shore. ' Let's get along and see 
what those great red plants on the rocks are, Mr. Gascoyne. 
I expect by this time momma *11 be looking out for me.' 

Paul went home to the Continental that night with a 
terrible consciousness of neglected duty. Modest as he was, 
he couldn't even pretend to conceal from himself the obvious 
fact that the golden-haired Pennsylvanian had exhibited a 
jnarked preference for his conversation . and society. Ha 
/anofed 6h0 aJmo3t expected him to "pioigo^^ to kei:. And, 



THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 73 

indeed, the idea was not wholly of his own suggestion. 
Thistleton, when retailing the common gossip of the 
Promenade da Midi, had more than once announced his firm 
belief that Paul might have 'the Yankee girl for the asking/ 
And Paul himself, much inclined to underrate his own 
powers of attraction, could not, nevertheless, deny in his 
own soul the patent evidence's that Isabel Boy ton, for all 
ber wealth, was fully susceptible to the charms of a British 
baronetcy. 

He stood at last face to face in earnest with a great 
Difficulty. 

Could he or could he not carry out his Compact ? 

As he sat by himself in his room at the Continental that 
night, he thought it all over, how it had gradually grown 
np step by step from the very beginning. It seemed so 
natural, every bit of it, to him, who had grown up with it 
himself, as a sort of religion. So strange to anyone else 
who heard it only for the first time now as a completed 
transaction. 

For six years past and more, his father and mother and 
Mr. Solomons — the three great authorities that framed his 
life for him — had impressed it upon him as the first article 
of his practical creed that he was to grow up a gentleman 
and marry an heiress. 

To us, what an ignoble aim it seems ! but on Paul it had 
always been enforced for years by all the sanctions of 
parental wisdom and commercial honesty as the supreme 
necessity. He was indebted to Mr. Solomons for his 
schooling, and his clothing, and his Oxford education ; and 
the way he was bound to repay Mr. Solomons was to follow 
instructions to the very letter and marry an heiress. His 
stock-in-trade in life was his prospective title, and he was 
to sell that commodity, in accordance with recognised com- 
mercial maxims, in the dearest market. 

And yet, strange to say, Paul Gascoyne himself was not 
mercenary. He had passively accepted the rdle in life, as 
most young men passively accept the choice of a profession 
made for them by theu' parents, without thinking very much, 
one way or the other, as to either its morality or its feasi- 
bility. He was so young when Mr. Solomons first hit upon 
his grand scheme for utilizing the revex^ion \»o %»^t\\Iv^ 
haxonetejr—no more than fourteen — \»Yia\» \i^ \i^SL ^o\k ^^ 



74 THE SCALLYWAG 

idea thoroughly dinned into his head long before he was 
able to recognise in all its naked hideousness the base and 
sordid side of that hateful compact. Solomons had supplied 
him with money from time to time — not liberally, to be 
8ure> for he did not wish to make his protdgd extravagant, 
but ir sufficient quantities for the simple needs and wants 
of a sCviUy wag ; and, Paul had accepted the money, giving in 
return his worthless notes of hand, as youth always accepts 
its livelihood from its accustomed purveyors, without much 
care or thought as to the right or wrong of the customary 
supplies. 

And then there had been so much besides to distract his 
attention from the abstract question of the ethics of mar- 
riage. He was occupied so much with reading for the 
schools, and taking pupils in his spare time to help eke out 
his scanty income ; for he felt deeply what a drain he had 
always made on the family resources, and how much his 
father was beginning to stand in need of a son's assistance 
in the management of his business. The question of the 
moment — the definite question then and there before him 
at each instant of his life — the necessity for reading hard 
and taking a good degree, and the parallel necessity for 
living at Oxford as cheaply as even a scallywag could do it 
— had overshadowed and eclipsed that remoter question of 
the underlying morality of the whole transaction, which had 
been settled for him beforehand, as it were, by his father 
and Mr. Solomons. 

Paul, in fact, was the inheritor of two arduous heritages 
— the barren baronetcy, and Mr. Solomons' Claims to prin- 
cipal and interest. 

Till that evening, then, though qualms of conscience had 
now and then obtruded themselves, he had never fairly and 
squarely faced his supreme difficulty. But to-night, in the 
solitude of his room at the Continental, sitting by himself 
in the dark (so as not to waste his friend Thistleton's bougies 
at a franc apiece, hotel reckoning: for economy in small 
matters had long since become instinctive with him), he 
turned the matter over for the first time in his soul with the 
definite issue clearly before him — could he or could he not 
ever conscientiously marry Isabel Boyton ? 

His whole soul within him revolted at once with a 
iezapestuous No. Now that the chance for carrying Mr, 



THE HEIRESS IS WILLING 75 

Solomons' scheme into actual practice had finally arrived — 
nay, even had thrust itself bodily upon him — he felt at once 
the whole meanness and baseness of the entire arrangement. 
Not so far as Mr. Solomons and his father were concerned 
—of their wisdom and goodness he could hardly have per- 
mitted himself even now to entertain a doubt — but so far as 
his own execution of their plan was at issue, he realized 
that at once in its true colours. 

It would be wickedly and grossly unjust to Isabel. And 
it would be doing violence at the same time to his own inner 
and better nature. 

But then the Claims upon him ? Those terrible notes of 
hand I He took out his pocket-book, lighted one candle, 
and totted them all up, sum by sum, at compound interest, 
as they stood there confessed, from the very first moment. 
School expenses, tailor's bill, travelling, rooms and sundries; 
all renewable yearly at twenty per cent., and all running on 
indefinitely for ever at a rapidly-growing rate. Premiums 
on policies, washing, books — good heavens ! how the totals 
appalled and staggered him 1 If he worked his life long at 
any educated profession he would never be able to earn 
enough to clear off that deadly load of debt with which he 
started. He saw clearly before him two awful alternatives : 
either to hunt and capture his heiress, as originally designed 
— in spite of all his seething internal repugnance ; or else to 
play false to his father and Mr. Solomons — to whom he 
owed everything — by keeping his benefactor (as he had been 
taught to regard him) waiting for years perhaps for his full 
repayment. 

Waiting for years indeed I Why, at twenty per cent., 
renewable annually, the sum could never get paid at all. 
It would go on accumulating as long as he lived, bond 
behind bond, and remain when he died as a heritage of debt 
to whoever came after him. 

Not that anybody would ever come after him at all, if it 
came to that ; for, as things then stood, he would never, 
never be able to marry. The baronetcy might revert to the 
remote cousin in Pembrokeshire. 

And then, for one brief moment, Nea Blair*s sweet face 
as she sat on the hillside that day at Sant' Agnese flashed 
across Paul's mental vision as he blew out \.\i^ c^xi^^ cixi^^ 
more in utter despair, and gave bim on^ iux>JciSt yc^'^tclA 



76 THE SCALLYWAG 

qualm of conscience. Was it possible he was influenced in 
what he had just been thinking by any wicked arrihre 
pe7is^e as to Nea — that beautiful, impossible, unattainable 
Nea ? He, who was nobody, to dream about her I In his 
inmost soul, he trusted not; for he felt how unworthy a 
thing it would be to betray his father, and Faith, and Mr. 
Solomons, and his duty, all for the sake of his own wicked 
personal likes and fancies. Whatever came, he would at 
least try to keep Nea out of his mind severely, and decide 
the question upon its own merits. 

He would try to envisage it thus only to himself. Dare 
he do this great wrong to Isabel Boyton ? 

Or to any other woman circumstanced like Isabel ? 

He would try to let it hinge on that, not on Nea. 

For, after all, what was Nea to him or he to Nea? Six 
weeks before he had never seen her ; and now — he realized 
with a pang to himself that he wouldn't like to think he 
should never again see Nea. 

And all through the long sleepless night that followed, 
one truth kept breaking in upon him more clearly than 
ever : if he would, he might marry Isabel Boyton — and pay 
off Mr. Solomons without Isabel's ever missing those few 
paltry hundreds. To Isabel's poppa they were but a drop 
in the bucket : and yet to him, Paul Gascoyne, they were a 
millstone round his neck, an insupportable burden put upon 
him almost against his will before he had yet arrived at 
years of discretion. 



BEHIND THE SCENES 



CHAPTER XI. 

BE H INK THE 6 

IHREE days 
later Paul and 
his companion 
turned their 
backa on Men- 
tone en route for 
England. Scallywag 
aa be was, Paul bad 
1 far succeeded in 
interesting tbe lit lie 
world of the Rives 
d'Or that Madame 
Goi'iolo, and Nea 
Blair, and Isabel 
BoytoD, and her 
mamma, and even 
the great Armitago 
himself — the leader 
of the coterie — came 
do^vn to the station 
to see him off. Ar- 
mitage thought it 
was always well to 
tall in with tbe general opinion of society upon anybody or 
anything. But just before they bade their last adieus at th% 
barrier, a tidy little Frenchwoman in a plain blEusk dresi 
pushed her way to the front with a bouquet in her hand of 
prodigious dimensions. The Ceriolo recognised her in a 
moment again. It was that compromising httle lady's-maid 
at the lies Britanniques. 

' Comment c'est vous, Madetpoiselle Clarice t' Paul cried, 
taking her hand with perfect envpressctnent, though be 
blushed a little before the faces of all his fine acquaintances. 
•How kind of you to come and sea me ofil \ c^'ii.\'»&'^ 
night at your hotel, but they told me -jou "flfeTa «t^%w;,^ *sA 
couldn't Bee me.' 




78 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Justement ; je faisais la coiffure de Madame/ Mademoiselle 
Clarice answered, unabashed by the presence of the Ceriolo 
and so much good society. *But, cher Monsieur Paul, I 
couldn't let you go and leave Mentone sans vous serrer la 
main — moi qui vous ai connu quand vous 6tiez tout petit, 
tout petit, tout petit — mais tout petit comme 9a, monsieur. 
And I do myself the pleasure pf bringing you a bouquet for 
cette ch^re maman. You will make her my compliments, 
cette chere maman. Tell her it has befeh so delightful to 
see you again, ft has recalled tho^6 so happy days at 
Hillborough.' 

Paul took the big bouquet without any display of 
mauvaise JiontCf and thanked the y^ble fittts Mademoiselle 
Clarice for it in French as flut6^ l-nSiOTrti ^ ner own. 
Mademoiselle Clarice had tears \ii rfei: ©J^ ^ * And to hear 
you talk that beautiful languajge,* tne crlSS', * cette belle 
langue que je vous ai enseign^e mOTAT!i^'r^4-T-%,h, que c'est 
charm ant I' She stooped forward fcres&'tmfy, and kissed 
him on both cheeks. Mademoiselle Cld.rice was forty, but 
plump and well preserved. Paul Accepted the kisses with a 
very good grace, as well as the two hands with which she 
bid him farewell. ' And now I must run back,' she said ; 
*I must run back this minute. Madame m'attend — elle 
s'empatiente tant, Madame I' And with another good kiss 
and two shakes of the hand she was gone ; and Paul was 
left standing alone by the barrier. 

* What a strange creature !' Madame Ceriolo cried, 
putting up those long-handled torfofteshell eyeglasses of 
hers and following the impressionable Frenchwoman with 
her stony glance as she left the station. ' Who is she, 
Mr. Gascoyne, and how on earth did you ever come to know 
her?' 

' She's an old friend of my mother's,' Paul answered once 
more, blurting out the whole simple truth ; ' and she taught 
me French at Hillborough when I was a little chap, for she 
was a lady's-maid at a house where my father was coach- 
man.' And then without waiting to observe the effect of 
this painful Parthian shot, dehvered trembling, he raised 
his hat, and bidding a comprehensive good-bye to all at 
once, took refuge with Thistleton behind the passengers' 

' Goodness graciona V Madame CenoVo cns"^, \ciOK«i%^ 



BEHIND THE SCENES 79 

round with an astonished air of surprise to Armitage ; * did 
you ever in your life see anything so funny ? Ono would 
have thought the woman would have had good feeling and 
good sense enough not to inflict herself upon him in the 
present company. She may have been a friend of his 
mother's, of course, and all that sort of thing ; but if she 
wanted to see him she should have gone to his hotel and 
seen him quietly. She ought to remember that now he's 
heir to. a baronetcy and a member of a university, and 
admitted as such into good society.* For since Mentone 
had decided upon adopting Paul, and therefore backed him 
up for every possible virtue, it had been Madame's cue to 
insist most strenuously upon the genealogical fact that 
wherever a person of noble race may happen to be born, or 
whatever position he may happen to fill, he retains his 
sixteen quarters of nobility intact for all that. This was 
one for Paul, and two for Madame Ceriolo. 

* Why, I thought it was so nice of her/ Nea objected 
with her simple English tender-heartedness, * to come down 
and see him off so simply before us all, and to briog him 
those flowers, and, in the simplicity of her heart, to fall on 
his neck and kiss him openly. Her eyes were quite full of 
tears, too. I'm sure, Madame Ceriolo, she's very fond of 
him.' 

* Nea, my dear,* Madame Ceriolo remarked severely, with 
the 'precise smile of the British matron, * your views are 
really quite revolutionary. There should be natural lines 
between the various classes. People mustn't all get mixed 
up promiscuously. Even if she liked him, she shouldn't let 
her feehngs get the better of her. She should always 
remember to keep her proper place, no matter what her 
private sentiments may prompt her to.' 

And, indeed, in Madame Ceriolo's family they managed 
these things a great deal better. 

For, as Nea and Madame Ceriolo were coming to Mentone 
that very autumn, a little episode had occurred in a coffee- 
room at Marseilles which may be here related, as flashing a 
ray of incidental light on the character of Madame Ceriolo's 
aristocratic antecedents. 

They reached Marseilles late in the eveiviivg^, %?cv.^ ^xcyq^ ^ 
once to the H6tel dn Louvre — it was paT\i ol ^^'^'asxi'^^ ^^v^ 
ihat she knew the best and most luxurioxia \io\»^ ^^ ^"s^^^ 



8o THE SCALLYWAG 

town in Europe — where they went down in their travelling 
dress to the restaurant for supper. As they entered, they 
found they had the room to themselves, and an obsequious 
waiter, in an irreproachable white tie and with a spotless 
napkin hanging gracefully on his arm, motioned them over 
without a word to a table near the fireplace. For the 
indivisible moment of time while they took their seats an 
observant spectator might just have noted a flash of 
recognition in Madame's eyes, and an answering flash that 
twinkled silently in the obsequious waiter's. But neither 
spoke a word of any sort to the other, save in the way of 
business. Madame took the carte that the waiter handed 
her, with a stifled yawn, and ordered an omelette and a 
bottle of Beaujolais with the same careless air with which 
she would have ordered ib from any other young man in a 
similar position. 

At the end of the supper, however, she sent Nea up to 
get her necessaries for the night unpacked, and waited down 
herself to ask a few questions, to make quite sure, she said, 
about the trains to-morrow. 

As soon as Nea had left* the room, the obsequious waiter 
approached a little nearer, and, still with his unequivocally 
respectful air and his spotless napkin hangiug gracefully 
over his arm, stood evidently awaiting Madame Ceriolo's 
orders. 

Madame eyed him a moment with a perfect calm through 
those aristocratic glasses, and then observed quietly, ' Tieus, 
e'est toi,* without moving at all from the position she occu- 
pied when Nea left her. 

* Yes, it's me, Polly,' the irreproachable waiter answered, 
in his native English, straight and stiff as ever. 

' I thought you were going to make the season at Pau 
this winter,* Madame Ceriolo remarked in an arid tone of 
voice, a little sour about the upper notes, and crumbling^her 
bread with one hand uneasily. 

' I was,* the irreproachable waiter replied, without 
moving a muscle, ' but I ain't now. The governor and me 
had a blow-up about terms. So I gave him the slip, and 
engaged on here — extra hand for the Kiviera season.* 

* You made the summer at Scheveningen, I think T 
Madame Ceriolo remarked languidly, as one discusses the 

fl>£bdra of an indifferent acquaintance. 



BEHIND THE SCENES Si 

The irroproaohable waiter bowed his stiff, official bow. 

' At the H6tel des Anglais,' he answered, in his unvarying 
hotel tone. 

' Good business ?' 

' No ; beastly. All Dutch and Germans. Them gentle- 
men button up their pockets too tight If it hadn't been 
for a family or two of English and Americans dropping in 
casual, the tips wouldn't so much as have paid for my 
washing. Dickeys and cuffs come dear at Scheven- 
ingen.' 

There was a slight pause. Then Madame Ccriolo spoke 
again. 

* Tom.' 

' Yes, Polly.' 
' Where's Karl ?' 

' With a variety troupe at Berlin, when I last heard from 
him.' 

* Doing well ?' 

* Pretty well, I believe. Feathering his nest. But 
banjos ain't anything like what they'd used to bo. The 
line's overstocked, that's the long and the short of it' 

* How's mother?' Madame Ceriolo asked carelessly. 
•Drunk,' the irreproachable waiter responded, rearrang- 
ing his tie. ' Drunk, as usual.' 

' Still at the Dials ?' 

The waiter nodded. ' She can't go far from dear old 
Drury,* he answered vaguely. 

* Well, I love the Lane myself,' Madame Ceriolo re- 
sponded. 'It's a rare old place. I never was happier, 
Tom, in all my life, than in the days when I was on, long 
ago, in the pantomime.' 

* You're on the quiet now, I see,' the waiter remarked, 
with a respectful inclination — in case anybody should 
happen to see him through the glass-doors that opened on 
to tne corridor. 

Madame Ceriolo bent her head. * On the strict quiet,' 
she responded coldly. 

* Governess ?' 

* Well, pretty much that sort of thing, you know. Coi©- 
panion. Chaperon.' 

* To an English young lady, I gathered*}* 

* Yes, Clergyman 's daughter.* 



92 THE SCALLYWAG 

The waiter's face almost relaxed i^to Bf broad smile. 

* Well, you always were a clever one, Polly V he exclaimed, 
delighted. 

Madame Ceriolo drew herself up very stiff, as one who 
prefers to discourage levity in the lower classes. * I hope I 
know how to behave myself in whatever society I may 
happen to be placed,* she answered chillily. 

* You do,' the waiter replied. * You're a rare one at that. 
I wish I could make as much out of the French and 
German as you and Karl do. Mine's all thrown away — 
all waiters speak the lot. Say, though : what are you now 
— I mean in the way of name and nation ?' 

* Toujours Ceriolo^ Madame answered, with a quiet smile. 
' After all, it's safer. If anybody who knew you before 
comes up and calls you by a different name when you've 
taken an alias, how awfully awkward 1 And really, if it 
comes to that, Ceriolo's as good a name for a person to own 
as any I could invent. It's suggestive of anything on earth 
but organ-grindiDg.' 

For, in truth, Madame's father, the reputed Count, h^d 
really earned a precarious livelihood by the production of 
sweet music on that despised instrument. 

The irreproachable waiter smiled an immaculate smile. 

* And are you Italian or what ?' he asked, always re- 
spectful. 

* Tyrolese,* Madame answered carelessly : * it's better so. 
Widow of a Count in the Austrian service. Mother an 
Englishwoman — which is true for once, you see — brought 
up in Vienna in the English Church by special agreement — 
to suit the clergyman.' 

' And how much are you going to stand me for my 
discreet silence?' the waiter asked, coming half a step 
nearer, and assuming a less agreeable tone and counte- 
nance. 

Madame pulled out ten francs from her dainty purse, and 
laid the coin gingerly on the edge of the table. 

'Won't do,* the waiter observed, shaking his head 
solemnly. * Not enough by a long way. Won't do at all. 
When an affectionate brother meets his sister a^ajn, whom 
^e hasn't seen for more'n a twelvemonth — Ofnd keeps her 
lieorets — ^he can't be put p^ with hfklf ^ No^poleoQ, No. qq, 

/b/^/ you mwi ^imi m » wt^w^V / 



BEHIND THE SCENES 83 

* It's an imposition,' Madame Ceriolo remarked, growing 
very red in the face, but remembering even so to preserve 
her blandest tone, and drawing the sum in question un- 
willingly from her pocket. *Tom, I call it a perfect im- 
position/ 

* All right, my angel,' the waiter replied calmly, slipping 
the coin at once into his pocket. * Twe done as much 
more'n once before for you, Polly, when you were hard up ; 
and, after all, it ain't often we meet now, is it, my 
chicken?* 

* You're rude and coarse,' Madame Ceriolo answered, 
rising to go. * I wonder you dare to address me in such 
vulgar language.' 

* Well, considering you're a countess, it is rather cheejjy,* 
the waiter replied, smiling, but still with the imperturbable 
attitude of the well-bred servant. * You see, Polly, we 
ain't all like you. I wish we were I We ain't all learnt to 
speak the Queen's English with ease and correctness from 
the elocution master at Drury.' 

At that moment, before he could reveal any further items 
of domestic history a head appeared at the door, and the 
waiter, without altering a shade of his tone, continued 
respectfully in fluent French, *Tres bien, madame. The 
omnibus will be here to take down your luggage to the 
11.40.' 

All which will suggest to the intelligent reader's mind the 
fact that in Madame Ceriolo's family the distinctions of 
rank were duly observed, and that no member of that noble 
and well-bred house ever allowed his feelings of affection or 
of contempt, of anger or of laughter, to get the better at any 
time of his sober judgment. 

But this had happened three months before the moment 
when Paul Gascoyne and Charlie Thistleton were seen out 
of the station, away down at Mentone, by Mademoiselle 
Clarice, the lady's-maid 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTER XII. 

A CHAHOZ ACQUAINTAMCE. 




nHILE Paul and hie pupil were truTelliDg 
F DorCh to Paria by the train de luxe (at tha 
jyf pupil's expense, of course^fcien entendu), 
^Jr away over in England Faith Gascoyne was 
3&< journeying homeward with a heavy heart 
-±-^ and a parliamentary ticket by the slow traia 
from Dorsetshire to Hillborough. 

For Fairti had managed to get away for her holiday to her 
mother's friends in a sheltered coastwise nook in the be- 
loved West Country, where the sun had shone for her (by 
rare good lack) almost as brightly as on the Biviera, and 
where the breakers had whitened almost as blue a sea as 
that which shattered itself in shimmering spray upon the 
bold and broken rocks of La Movtola. A delightful holiday 
indeed for poor hardworked Faith, far from the alternate 
drudgery of scboel or home, and safe from the perpetual din 
and uproar of those joyous but all too effusively happy In- 
fants. And now that short, peaceful interlude of rest and 
change was fairly over, and to day Faith must return to her 
post at Hillborough in good time tor the reopening of school, 
the day after to-morrow. 

At the second station after she left Seaminster, Faith, 
who had hitherto enjoyed all to herself the commodious 
little wooden horsebox known as a third-class compartment 
on the Great Occidental Railway, was somewhat surprised 
to see the door of her carriage thrown open with a flourish 
by a footman in livery, and a middle-aged lady (for to Faith 
thirty-seven was already middle-age), far better dressed 
than the average of Parliamentary passengers, seat herself 
with a quiet smile of polite recognition at the opposite 
window. 

Faith's democratic back was set up at once by the lady'a 
presumption in venturing to intrude her well-bred presence 
into a parliamentary compartment. People who employ 
footmen in livery ought to herd with their equals in a well- 
paddeS &t6t, iDBtrnd ot radoly ttic\u<^uiK ^U^meelves to sgy 



A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 85 

out the manners and customs of their even Christians 
whose purses compel them to travel third in commodious 
horseboxes. Faith resented the intrusion as she resented 
the calls of the district-visitors who drop^d in at all times 
and seasons to bestow good advice gratis upon herself and 
her mother, but would have been very much astonished if 
the cab-owner's wife had reciprocated the attention by 
sending in a card casually on their own ' at home ' day. 
These de haul en has civilities were not much to Faith's 
taste : she had too much self-respect and self-reverence hot- 
self to care either for obtruding on others or being herself 
obtruded upon. 

But the lady settled herself down in her scat, and spoke 
with such unassuming and sprightly graciousness to. Faith 
that even that National School mistress's proud heart was 
melted by degrees, and before the two had reached Wilming- 
ton Junction they were hard at work in conversation with 
one another. 

* Dear me, where's my lunch-basket T the lady said at 
last, looking round for the racks which did not exist in the 
commodious horsebox ; ' is it over your side, my dear ?' 

She said ' my dear ' so simply and naturally that Faith 
could hardly find it in her heart to answer : 

* I think your footman— or, at least, the gentleman in 
light silk stockings who saw you off — put it under the seat 
there/ 

The lady laughed a good-natured laugh. 

* Oh, he's not my footman,' she answered, stooping down 
to look for it ; * he belongs to some friends where I have 
been spending Christmas. It doesn't run to footmen with 
met I can assure you. If it did, I wouldn't be travelling 
third this morning.' 

* No ?' Faith queried coldly. 

* No/ the lady answered with a gentle but very decisive 
smile, * nor you either, if it comes to that. Nobody ever 
travels third by preference, so don't pretend it. There 
are people who tell you they do, but then they're snobs, 
and also untruthful They're afraid to say they do it for 
economy ; I'm not. I travel third because it's cheap. As 
Pooh-Bah says in the play, I do it but I don't like it, No^^ 
say the truth yourself ; wouldn't you, \l ^oa c^oxiXSl^ ^^v^'^ 
travel Brat or second T 



86 THE SCALLYWAG 

* I never tried/ Faith answered evasively 5 ' I've neViBf 
had money enough.' 

' Now, that's right I' the strahger exclaimed wiarmly, 
opening her lunch-bosket and taking out some cold grouse 
and a flask of claret. ' That shows at once you hiave blue 
blood. I'm a great admirer of bliie blood myself ; I firmly 
believe in it.' 

* I don't precisely see what blue blood's got to do with the 
matter,' Faith answered, bewildered. * I come from a little 
country town in Surrey, aijd I'm a National School mistress.' 

* Exactly,' the lady echoed. * The very moment I set 
eyes on you I felt sure you had blue blood. I saw it in 
your wrists, and I wasn't mistaken. You mayn't know it, 
perhaps; a great many people have got blue blood and 
aren'b aware of it. But it's there, for all that, as blue as 
indigo ; and I, who am a connoisseur in matters of blood, 
can always spot it;' and she proceeded to take out from 
a dainty case a knife, fork, spoon, and a couple of drinking- 
glasses. 

* But how did you spot it in me just now ?' Faith asked 
with a smile, not wholly unflattered. 

* Because you wer(ei;i'^t , ashamed to say you'd never 
travelled anything but third, and because you insisted then 
with unnecessary zeal on the smallness and humility of 
your own surroundings. Only blue blood ever does that. 
Everybody's descended from a duke on one side and a 
cobbler on the other. Snobs try always to bring forward 
their duke and conceal their cobbler. Blue blood's prouder 
and franker, too. It insists upon its cobbler being duly 
recognised.' 

' Well, I'm not ashamed of mine ; I'm proud of him,* 
Faith answered, colouring up ; ' but all the same, I don't 
like blue blood. It's so hard and unfeeling. It makes me 
mad sometimes. You wouldn't believe how it keeps people 
waiting for their money.' 

* I'm sorry you don't like it,' the lady said, with the same 
soft smile as before and a bewitching look, ' for then you 
won't like me. I'm blue, very blue, as blue as the sky, and 
I don't pretend to deny it. Will you take a little grouse 
and a glass of claret?' 

* Thank jou/ Faith answered coldly, flushing up once 
more; ^ I have my oy^xi lunch here in my 07?ix^«x^^' 



A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE By 

* What have you got T the lady asked with the inquiring 
air of a profound gourmet, 

'Hard-boiled eggs and sandwiches/ Faith said, half 
choking. 

* Wejl^ Lady Seaminster didn't give me any hard-boiled 
^gjs/ the lady said, searching in vain in her basket. * May 
I have one of yours ? Let's share our provisions/ 

Faith could hardly say no, though she saw at once 
through the polite ruse ; so she passed ah egg to the lady 
with an * Oh, of course, I shall be delighted,' and proceeded 
herself to eat a very dry sandwich. 

* Have some grouse,* the lady said, passing her over a 
piece on a httle electro-plated dish, ' and a glass of claret.' 

'I've never tasted claret,* Faith answered grimly; *I 
don't know if ni like it.' 

* All the better reason for trying it now,' the lady replied, 
still cheerfully kind, in spite of rebuffs. *And So you 
thought that elegant gentleman in the silk stockings was 
my servant, did you ? What a capital joke I But people at 
Oxford can't afford to keep footmen in tights, you know. 
We're as poor as church mice there — poor, but cultured.' 

A flash of interest gleamed for a second in Faith's eye at 
the mention of Oxford. 

* Oh, you live there, do you ?' she said. * I should love to 
see Oxford.' 

* Yes, my husband's professor of Accadian,' the lady re- 
liiarked ; * his name's Douglas. But I dare say you don't 
know what Accadian is. I didn't, I'm sure, till I married 
Archia* 

A fuller flush came on Faith's cheek. ' I've heard of it 
from my brother,' she said simply. * I think it was the 
language spoken in Assyria before the Assyrians went there, 
wasn't it ? Ah yes, Paul told me so I And I've heard him 
Bjpeak of your husband, too, I fancy.' 

'Have you a brother at Oxford, then?* the lady asked 
with a start. 

* Yes, at Christ Church.' 

* Why, that's Archie's college,' the lady went on, smiling. 
« What^fl his name ? I may know him.' 

* I don't think so. His name's Gascoyne/ 

Mrs. Douglas fairly jumped wit\i kei \.xVvrcK5\i., ^^^^^^\ 
didn't I tell yoa so?' she cried, clap'ping \iex ^[i'^xAj^ va. Vsst 



88 THE SCALLYWAG 

joy. 'You /tare blue blood. It*B as clear as mud. Archie's 
told me all about your brother. He's poor but blue. I 
knew you were blue. Your father's a baronet.' 

Faith trembled all over at this sudden recognition. 'Yes,' 
she answered with some annoyance; 'but he's as poor as 
he can be. He's a cab-driver too. I told you I wasn't 
ashamed of my cobbler.' 

'And I told you I was sure you had blue blood,' Mrs. 
Douglas echoed, delighted. ' Now, this is quite too lovely, 
trying to pass yourself off for a rotnrikre like that ; but it's 
no use with me. I see through these flimsy disguises 
always. Have some more claret? it's not so bad, is it? 
And so you'd love to go to Oxford ?' 

' Yes, Faith faltered ; ' Paul's told me so much about it* 

' Guard,' the lady cried as they stopped at a station, ' do 
we change here ? Mind you tell us when we get to Hill- 
borough Junction.' 

She had enjoined this upon him already more than a 
dozen times since they started on their journey, and the 
guard was beginning to get a little tired of it. 

' All right, mum,' he said in a testy voice ; ' don't you be 
afeard. I'll see you all right. Jest you sit where you are 
until I come and tell you.* 

' Why, that's where I have to change,' Faith observed as 
Mrs. Douglas withdrew her head from the window. 

'Well, that's all right,' Mrs. Douglas replied with a cheery 
nod. 'Now we can have such a nice tete-h-tdte together. 
You must tell me all about your brother and yourself. Do 
you know, my husband thinks your brother's awfully 
clever?' 

She had found the right way to Faith's heart at last. 
Thus adjured. Faith began to gossip with real goodwill 
about Paul, and her mother, and the business at Hill- 
borough, and the life of a schoolmistress, and the trials she 
endured at the hands (and throats) of those unconscious 
Infants. She talked away more and more familiarly as the 
time went on till dusk set in, and the lamp in the horsebox 
alone was left to light them. Mrs. Douglas, in spite of her 
prejudice in favour of blue blood, was really syndpathetic ; 
and by dexterous side-questions she drew out of Faith the 
inmost longings and troubles of her heart: how the local 
^'^^borough grandees owed long bills vihich they wouldn't 



A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE 89 

pay ; how Paul was cramped at Christ Church for want of 
money ; how her father was growing rheumatic and too old 
for his work ; how hard a time they often had in the winter ; 
how fond she was of Paul, and Paul of her ; how he had 
taught her in his holidays all he learnt himself ; how they 
two read Daudet and Victor Hugo together, and how she 
longed with all her heart and soul to be free from the inde- 
scribable bondage of the Infants. Everything she told — 
Mrs. Douglas was so excellent and friendly a wielder of 
the pump — save that one hateful secret about Mr. Solomons. 
There Faith was always discreetly silent. She hated that 
horrible compact so thoroughly in her soul that she could 
never so much as bring herself to speak of it, even in the 
family circle. 

They talked so long and talked so earnestly that they 
quite forgot about Hillborough Junction. 

At last, as the clock was sounding seven, they arrived at 
a big and noisy station, where porters were shouting, and 
trains were puffing, and the electric light was fizzing and 
spluttering. Mrs. Douglas put her head out of the window 
once more, and called out to the guard, * Now, is this Hill- 
borough Junction ?* 

The guard, with a righteously astonished air, cried back 
in reply, 'Hillborough Junction? Why, what are you 
thinking of, mum? We passed Hillborough Junction a 
clear two hours ago.' 

Faith looked at Mrs. Douglas, and Mrs. Douglas looked 
at Faith. They stared in silence. Then the elder woman 
burst suddenly into a good-natured laugh. It was no use 
bullying that righteously-astonished guard. He was clearly 
expostulation-proof by long experience. * When can we get 
a train back ?' she asked instead with practical wisdom. 

And the guard answered in the same business-like tone, 
'You can't get no train back to-night at all; last's gone. 
You'll have to stop here till to-morrow morning.' 

Mrs. Douglas laughed again ; to her it was a mere adven- 
ture. The Lightbodys' carriage which was sent down to 
meet her would have to go back to the Eectory empty — 
that was all. But tears rushed up suddenly into poor 
Faith's eyes. To her it was nothing less than 0. ^y^n^ xkv^ 
fortune. 

*Oh, where can I go?' she cried, cVas^iix^ V^^^ \i».\A% 



90 THE SCALLYWAG 

together nervously. 'And mother '11 be iso dreadfully, 
dreadfully frightened \* 

Mrs. Douglas's face grew somewhab graver. ' You must 
come with me to a hotel/ she answered kindly. 

Faith looked back at her with eyes of genuihe disthay. 

*I can't/ she murmured in a choking voice. *I — ^I 
couldn't afford to go to any hotel where you'd go to.' 

Mrs. Douglas took in the whole difficulty at a glance. 
* How much have you got with you, dear?' she asked gently. 

* Four and sixpence,' Faith answered with a terrible gUlp. 
To her that was indeed a formidable sum to have to spend 
unexpectedly upon a night's lodging. 

*iri were to lend you a few shillings ' Mrs. Douglas 

began, but Faith shook her head. 

*That would be no use, thank you — thank you ever so 
much,' she replied, gasping; *I couldn't pay it back — I 
mean, I couldn't afford to pay so much for — for a mistake of 
my own in not getting out at the right station.' 

* The mistake was mine,* Mrs. Douglas said with prompt 
decision. * It was I who misled you. I ought to have 
asked.* She hesitated for a moment. 'There's a good 
hotel here, I know,* she began once more timidly, ' if you'd 
only be so nice as to come there as my guest.* 

But Faith shook her head still more vigorously than 
before. 

* You're a dear, kind thing,* she cried> grasping her new 
friend's hand and pressing it warmly, 'and I'm fever so 
grateful. But I couldn't — I couldn't — oh no, I couldn't! 
It may be pride, and it may be the blood of the cobblers in 
me, I don't know which ; but I never could do it — I really 
couldn't.* 

Mrs. Douglas had tact enough to see at once she really 
meant it, and that nothing on earth would shake her firm 
resolve ; so she paused a moment to collect her thoughta 
Then she said once more, with that perfect good-humour 
which seemed never to desert her, ' Well, if that's so, my 
dear, there's no other way out of it. The mountain won't 
come to Mahomet, it appears, so I suppose Mahomet must 
go to the mountain, if you won't come to my hotel, my 
child, I'll just have to go and stop at yours to take care 
oi you. ' 
Faith drew back with a little cry ol flie^Te^^^vycL, * Oh 



A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE gi 

no/ she exclaimed; ' I could never let you do that, I'm sure, 
Mrs. Douglas.' 

But on that point Mrs. Douglas was firm. The rock of 
the convenances on which she founded her plea could not 
have been more immovable in its fixity than herself. 

* There are no two ways about it, my dear,' she said, 
loftier Fliith had pleaded in vain every jplea she knew to be 
let go j^lone to her owd sort of lodgmg-ncJulH j,^* the thing's 
iinjtossible. I'm a married woman, and older tliatl.Vou, and 
1 Know all about it. A feitl of your age — and a fiai'Qnet's 
diughtet, loo — can't b^ permitted to gp by herselt to an 
inn or public-house, esbfecially the sort o! inn you seem to 
imply, without a manied woman to guarantee her and 
chaperon her. As a Christian creature, I couldn't dream 
of allowiiig it. Why, that dear mother of yours Would go 
out of her senses if she only knew yoji'd been passing the 
niizht alone in such a plaoB without nie to take care of ^ 



^ight alone m such a f^f^ Without me to take care of you.' 
A sudden thought seeijis4 *^o strike her all at once. * Stop 
here la second,' she sii^d ; ' I'll soon come back to you.' 

JFaith stopped oh the plalform by her one small port- 
manteau for five minutes or more ; and then Mrs. Douglas 
returned triuBaphant. ' This is What I have said,' she ex- 
claimed, brandishing a ^iece of white paper all radiant 
l)efore her. *TYe sent bff a telegrani : ** Mrs. Douglas, 
iPendlebury, to Giscoyne, Plowden's pop.rt^ Hillborough, 
Surrey. Your daughlber has jqaissed Jliet ttiin, fciit is here 
and safe. Will return to-mottow. Ijgi Hfeing her to a 
respectable inn for this night. .Tt ftm di itifend of the Light- 
bodys, of Cheriton Eectory." ' 

'How did you know my adaress?' Faith gasped, 
astonished. 

' My dear,' Mrs. Douglas replied, * I happen to possess 
% pair of eyes. I read it on the label, there, on your 
portmanteau.' 

* How much did it cost ? Faith cried, all aghast. 

* I refuse to be questioned about my private correspond- 
ence,' Mrs. Douglas answered firmly. * That's my affair. 
!tbe telegram's mine, and sent in my own name. And now, 
dear, we've got to go out into the town and hunt about for 
our four-and-sixpenny lodging.' 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTEB XIII. 



two (lays l&ter, as 
bis fiUter and be 
Eat hand -in-hand, 
comparing notes 
over their winter's 
adventures. 

' So then,' Faith 

1, con tinning her 

! with unuauiJ 

animation, ' we 

ran about to 

two or three 

little places, 

\ to see which 

J one would 

'take as 

' cheapest. 

And Mrs. 

Douglas — oh, 

he's a wonderful 

one at bargaining 

— you and I would 

never dare to do it. We 

wouldn't have the face to 

beat people down so. " No," she said, " that won't suit ua 

— we want bed and breakfast for half a crown," and, you'll 

hardly believe it, at last she got it,' 

It was the luncheon-hour on the first day of Faith's 
return to the slavery of the Infants ; but Faith had not gone 
home for her mid-day meal She had got Paul to bring it 
out to her in her father's tin, up to the Knoll — the heath- 
clad height that overhangs Hillborough, and from which the 
town derives ita name. A little wooden summer-house, ia 
A/ria like a small Ionic temple, oonaiatrag OT1V3 o^ «. ciwiular 




BROTHER AND SISTER 93 

roof supported by heavy wooden columns, in the quaint 
bad taste of the eighteenth century, crowns the summit ; 
and here, on that bright, frosty January morning, in spite 
of the cold, Faith preferred to eat her lunch undisturbed 
under the clear blue sky, in order to enjoy an uninterrupted 
interchange of confidences with her newly-returned brother. 
In the small houses of the labouring classes and the lesser 
bourgeoisie a Ute-h-Ute is impossible. People in that rank of 
life always go outdoors to say whatever they have most 
at heart to one another — a fact which explains much in 
their habits and manners whereat the unreflecting in the 
classes above them are apt to jeer beyond what is seemly. 
So, brusque as was the change to Paul from the lemon- 
groves of Mentone to the bare boughs and leafless trunks 
of the beeches and chestnuts on the Knoll at Hillborough, 
he was glad to embrace that chance of outpouring his 
soul to his one intimate friend and confidante, his sister, 
in the rococo summer-house on the open hill-top, rather 
than in the narrow little parlour at the ancestral abode of 
the Gascoyne family. 

* We couldn't have done it ourselves,* Paul mused in 
reply. ' But that's always the way with people who feel 
sure of their ground, Faith. They'll bargain and haggle 
ten times as much over a shilling as we will You see, 
they're not afraid of losing caste by it.' 

' That's just it,' Faith went on. ' She was as bold as 
brass about it. ** Half a crown and not one penny more 
we pay," she said, putting her little foot down smartly — 
just like this; '*and we don't want any supper; because, you 
see. Faith, you and I can sup in our own room, to save 
expense, off the remains of the sandwiches and the grouse 
and claret."' 

•No! She didn't say that out loud before their very 
faces t' Paul exclaimed, aghast. 

* Yes, she did, before their very faces, my dear ; and me 
there, just ready to drop at her side with shame and annoy- 
ance. But, Paul, she didn't seem to care a pin. She was 
as high and mighty as if she'd ordered a private room, with 
champagne and turtle. She held up her head like a 
thorough lady, and made me feel quite bold lii'^^^Vl^ 
inerely by dint of her good example.' 

« And you slept togethev T Paul a^ke^L 



04 THE SCALLYWAG 

* And we slept together/ Faith answered. * She said she 
didn't mind a bib sharing the same room, though she would 
with some people, because I had blue blood — she wa.s always 
talking that nonsense about blue blood, you know — and 
blue blood was akin all the world over. And I said I'd 
always understood, from the documents in the case, that 
mankind was made of one flesh, everywhere alike, no matter 
what might be the particular colour or quality of its circu- 
lating fluid ; and for my part I didn't oare a brass farthing 
whether her blood was blue, or pink, or yellow, or merely 
red like us common people's; for she was a dear, good 
thing, anyhow, and I liked her ever so. And then sjie 
took my face between her hands, like this, and kissed me 
so hard, and said, " Now we two are friends for good and 
always, so we'll talk no more nonsense about debatable 
questions." And, Paul, she's really such a sweet, kind soul, 
I could almost forgive her for being such a dreadful aristo- 
crat. Why, do you know, she says she pays everybody 
weekly, and never kept even a washerwoman waiting for her 
money, not a fortnight in her life, nor wouldn't either !' 

* Well, you see, Faith,' Paul answered, musing, *I expect 
the fact is, very often, they don't remember, and they've no 
idea what trouble they're causing. Perhaps we oughtn't to 
judge them too hardly.* 

' I judge them hardly,' Faith cried, flushing up ; * and so 
would you, if you'd the bills to make up, and had to go 
round to their very doors to ask them for the money. 
But Mrs. Douglas, she's quite another sort — she's quite 
different. You can't think how friendly we got together in 
that one evening. Though, to be sure, we lay awake the 
best part of the night, chattering away like a couple of 
magpies ; and before morning we were much more intimate 
than I ever was with any other woman before in all my life. 
I think, perhaps ' And then Faith hesitated. 

* You think, perhaps, it was because she was more like 
the sort of person you ought naturally to mix with,' Paul 
suggested gently, reading with his quick sympathetic instinct 
her unuttered thought. 

Faith faltered stijl. ' Well, perhaps so,' she said. *Mor© 
niy equal — q*t le^st, in intelligence and feeling. Though I 
jB)wu}a bo Borry to thinki Paul,' she adde4 after a pause, 

^/^»d more in pc?«»oo with I1U9 ^\^% i^Sit/ keeyii ^eopl? 



BROTHER AND SISTER 95 

waiting for their money than with dear, good, honest, 
hard- working souls like father and mother/ 

' I don't think the classes need be mutually exclusive, 
as we say in logic,' Paul mused slowly. * You see, I mix a 
good deal with both classes now ; and it seems to me there 
may be good and bad in both about equally.' 

* Perhaps so. But the harm the one class does comes 
home to me, of course, a great deal more than the harm 
done by the other. They give me such a lot of bother 
about the bills : you wouldn't believe it. But Mrs. Douglas 
is a dear, I'm sure of that. She gave me such a kiss when 
she saw me off by the train next morning, and she said to 
me, ** Now, remember, Faith dear, I expect you to come 
in summer term and visit me at Oxford." ' 

* At Oxford ?' Paul cried, with a start of short-lived 
pleasure. 

* Oh yes, she was always going on about that the whole 
night through. She kept at it all the time : ** You must 
come to Oxford." I'd happened to say to her earlier in 
the day, while we were in the train together, and before we 
got quite so intimate with one another, that I'd always had 
Buch a longing to see tbo University ; and as soon as we'd 
begun to chum up a bit, you know, she said at once : 
** Next summer term you must come and visit me at 
Oxford." But it couldn't be managed, of course,' Faith 
went on with a sigh. * The thing 's beyond us. Though I 
couldn't make her understand how utterly impossible it 
was.' 

Paul's face fell. * I suppose it is impossible,* he mur- 
mured, disappointed. * You couldn't get the proper sort 
of clothes, I expect, to go and stop at Mrs. Douglas's, 
could you?' 

* No,* Faith answered very decisively. * I couldn't indeed. 
It may be wicked pride, but I'm woman enough to feel I 
won't go unless I can be dressed as well as all the others.* 

* It's a dreadful thing, Faith,* Paul said, still holding her 
hand and looking away vaguely over the bare Enghsh land- 
pcape — so painful a contrast to the green of Mentone ; * it's 
a dreadful thing that I can't do anything in that way to 
help you. Now, any other brother, situated as I am, would 
pe 'able to assist his sis^ei: (b bit, and m^^^ V^"^ ^\)^K^!^ 



96 THE SCALLYWAG 

for example. But I — I can't. Whatever I have is all 
Mr. Solomons'. I can't spend a single penny unnecessarily 
on myself or you without doing a wrong to him and father 
and you and mother. There's that. tenner, now, I got from 
Thistleton, for coaching him : under any other circumstances 
I'd be able to look upon that as my own to spend — I earned 
it myself — and to get you an evening dress (you'd want a 
simple evening dress, of course) to go to Oxford with. But 
I can't allow myself such a luxury as that. If I did, I'd 
have to get another tenner the more from Mr. Solomons, 
and sign for it at once, and burden my conscience, and 
father's, and yours, with another extra ten pounds, and all 
the interest. ' 

*I sometimes think,' Faith exclaimed petulantly, *we 
should all have been a great deal happier in our lives if 
we*d never heard of that dreadful Mr. Solomons 1' 

Paul took a more judicial view of the situation/as became 
his sex. 

' I sometimes think so, too,' he answered after a pause. 
'But, then, you've got to remember. Faith, that we, both 
of us, are what we are now wholly and solely through 
Mr. Solomons. We can't un think so much of our past as 
to make ourselves mentally into what we might have been 
if Mr. Solomons had never at all crossed our horizon. We 
must recollect that if it hadn't been for Mr. Solomons I 
should never have gone either to the Grammar School or 
to Oxford. And if I'd never gone, you'd never have learnt 
all that you've learnt from me. You'd never even have 
become a teacher — now, would you? In a sorb of way, 
Faith, you're now a lady, and I'm a gentleman. I know 
we are not what the big people at Hillborough would call 
gentlefolk ; but in the only sense of the word that's worth 
anything we are ; and that we are all depends upon Mr, 
Solomons. So being what we are, we can't say now what 
we would have wished things to be if we had been quite 
otherwise.' 

* That's a trifle metaphysioal,* Faith murmured, smiling. 
* I don't feel sure I follow it. But perhaps, after all, on 
the whole, I agree with you.' 

* Mr. Solomons is a factor you can't eliminate from our 
jomt lives/ Paul went on quietly; 'and if we could 

elJmjnate bJm, and all that ho impUes, v^tfd uo^ la^ our* 



BROTHER AND SISTER 97 

selves. We'd be Tom and Mary Whitehead, if you under- 
stand Die.' 

* You might be Tom, but I'd not be Mary,' Faith 
answered with a not unbecoming toss of her head, for 
the Whiteheads, in point of fact, were her pet aversion. 
' The difference there is something in the fibre. I suppose 
Mrs. Douglas would say it was blue blood ; but, anyhow, I 
believe I'm not quite made of the same stuff as she is.' 

' Why, there you're as bad as Mrs. Douglas herself,' Paul 
retorted, laughing. * Who was so precious democratic just 
now, I'd like to know, about all mankind and its varieties 
of circulating fluid ?' 

Faith laughed in return, but withdrew her hand. We 
all of us object to the prejudices of others, but our own 
little prejudices are so much more sensible, so much more 
firmly grounded on reasonable distinctions I We don't like 
to have them too freely laughed at. 

*And this Yankee girl you were telling us about last 
night,' Faith went on after a pause. * Was she very nice ? 
As nice as she was rich ? And did you and she flirt des- 
perately together ?' 

Paul's smiling face grew suddenly grave. 

* Well, Faith,* he said, * to tell you the truth — you may 
think it an awfully presumptuous thing for a fellow like me 
to say, but I really believe it — if I were to take pains about 
going the right way to work, I might get that Yankee gij 1 
to say Yes to me.' 

' Most probably,' Faith answered, quite undiscomposed 
by this (to Paul) most startling announcement. 

' You're laughing at me,' Paul cried, drawing back a little 
sharply. * You think me a conceited prig for imagining it.* 

* Not at all,' Faith replied, with supreme sisterly confi- 
dence in her brother's attractions. * On the contrary, I 
should think nothing on earth could be more perfectly 
natural. There's no reason, that I can see, why you need 
be so absurdly modest about your own position. You're 
tall, you're strong, you're well-built, you're good-looking, 
and though it's me that says it, as oughtn't to say it, 
you're every inch a gentleman. You've been well educated ; 
you're an Oxford man, accustomed to mix with the best blo<^d 
in England ; you're cleverer than anyboi^ e\«J^\^N^x \3afiJv»\ 
&»d/ hsp 0/ all, you've the heir to ^ 1oi3i;tQw^W^ • YL^w^w 



98 THE SCALLYWAG 

knows I'm the least likely person in the world to over- 
estimate the worth or importance of that — but, after all, it 
always counts for something. If all those combined at- 
tractions aren't enough to bring down the American girl 
on her knees, where, for goodness* sake, does she expect to 
find her complete Adonis ?' 

' I wish I felt half as confident about myself as you do 
about me,' Paul murmured, half ashamed. 

* If you did, you wouldn't be half as nice as you are now, 
my dear. It's your diffidence that puts the comhle on your 
perfections, as dear old Clarice would say. I*m so glad you 
saw her. She'd be so proud and delighted.* 

* And yet it was awkward,' Paul said reflectively. 

* I don't doubt it was awkward,' his sister replied. ' It's 
always awkward to mix up your classes.* 

* I'm not so much ashamed,' Paul went on with a sigh, 
'as uncomfortable and doubtful. It isn't snobbishness, t 
think, that makes me feel so ; but, you see, you don't know 
how other people will treat them. And you hate having 
to be always obtruding on people whose whole ideas and 
sympathies and feelings are restricted to one class the fact 
that you yourself are just equally bound up with another. 
It seems like assuming a constant attitude of needless 
antagonism.' 

* Is she pretty ?* Faith put in abruptly, not heeding his 
explanation. 

* Who ? Clarice ? As pretty as ever, 8^nd not one day 
older.* 

' I didn't mean her. Faith interposed with a smile. ' I 
mearv the other one — the American.* 

* Qh, her! Yes, in her way, no doubt. Mignonne, slender, 
pallid, and golden-haired. She looks as if a breath would 
blow her away. Yet she's full of spirit, and cheek, and 
audacity, for all that. She said to me herself one day : 
" I'm a little one, but, oh my 1" and I'm sure she meant it. 
The man that marries her will have somebody to tackle.* 

* And do you like her, Paul ?' 

Paul looked up in surprise — not at the words, but at the 
impressive, half-regretful way in which they were spoken. 

* No,* he said. ' < Faith, if you ask me point-blank, she's a 
pjce mtle glrl^pretty. And ftU th^tti SQtt Qt tbing ; but I 

fifojsft (S^jre f0p ber,' - ' ^ " • — - ^ 5' t 



BROTHER AND SISTER 99 

* And will you take pains about going the right way to 
make her say Yes to you ?' 

* Faith, how can you I I could never marry her. Kich 
as she is, and with all Mr. Solomons' bills at my back, I 
could never marry her.* 

There was a minute's pause. Then Faith said again, 
looking up in his face : 

* So the revolt has come. It's come at last. I've been 
waiting for it, and expecting it. For months and months 
I've been waiting and watching. You've found yourself 
face to face with the facts at last, and your conscience is 
too strong for you. I knew it would be.* 

* The revolt has come,' Paul answered with an effort. * I 
found it out last week at Mentone, alone, and in my own 
mind it's all settled now. It's a terrible thing to have to 
say. Faith, and Pve hardly worked out all it entails yet ; 
but, come what may, I can't marry an heiress.* 

Faith said nothing, but she rose from her seat, and 
putting her two hands to his warm, red cheeks, kissed 
him soundly with sisterly fervour. 

* I know what it means, Paul,* she said, stooping over 
him tenderly. * I know what a struggle it must have cost 
you to make up your mind — you on whom it's been enjoined 
as a sort of sacred duty for so many years past by father 
and Mr. Solomons. Bat I knew, when once you came to 
stand face to face with it, you'd see through the sham and 
dispel the illusion. You could never, never so sell your- 
self into slavery, and a helpless woman into gross degrada- 
tion.' 

* It will kill father whenever I have to tell him,' Paul 
murmured in return. * It will be the death-knell of all his 
hopes and ideals.' 

* But you needn't tell him — at present at least,' Faith 
answered wisely. *Put off the worst till you find it's 
inevitable. After all, it's only a guess that the American 
would take you. Most men don't marry at twenty-one. 
And you won't be twenty-one till to-morrow. You've years 
before you yet to make up your mind in. You can earn 
money meanwhile and repay it slowly. The disillusion- 
|neht may come by slow degrees. There's no need iA 
spring it upon him at om swoop, as "jou BTO^xva \\^^x^wl\s^^ 
ptiexpeoteaJ^ this uflf^utQf' - ' '■ ^ * 



100 THE SCALLYWAG 

'1 can never earn it; I can never repay it,' Paul 
answered despondently. ' It's far too heavy a. weight for a 
man to begin life upon, I shall sink under the burden, bub 
I ahall never get rid of it.' 

' Wait and see,' Faith answered. ' For the present, 
there's no need for saying anything. To-morrow Mr. 
Solomons will want you to sign your name afresh. But 
don't bo foolish enough to tell him this. Why, goodness 
gracious, there's the bell I I must hurry down at once. 
And how cold it is i^p here on the hill-top I' 

Halfway down the slope she turned aod spoke once 
more. 

' And the other girl,' she said, ' Nea Blair? The Engliah 
one?' 

' She's very, very nice,' Paul answered with warmth. 
' She's a really good girL I like her immensely.' 

' Who is she ?' Faith asked in a tremulous voice. 

' Her father's a clergyman, somewhere down in Corn- 
wall.' 

' I should hate her,' Faith cried. ' I know I should hate 
her. I never can bear grand girls like that. If this is one 
of that sort, I know I should hate her. The American I 
could stand — their ways are not our ways; and we have 
the better of them in some things ; but an Englishwoman 
like that, I know I could never, never endure her.' 

'I'm sorry,' Paul answered. And he looked at her 
tenderly. 



CHAPTEE XIV. 

OF AGE OP THE HEIR TO THE TITLH. 

^EXT morning was Paul's twenty-first birth- 
day. For that important occasion he had 
hurried home to England three days before 
his term at Oxford b^an; for Mr. Solo- 
mons was anxious to bind him down firmly 
at the earliest possible moment to repay all 
the Bums borrowed on his account by his father dnruig his 
ia!aacy, from the very beginning. To be sure, they had 
mU i>eea expended 00 neceegariea, and U lt,6 %\.iKd^ xoixai 




THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR loi 

himself would not pay, it would always be possible to 
fall back upon his father. But, then, what use was that 
as a security? Mr. Solomons asked himself. No, no; he 
wanted PauPs own hand and seal to all the documents here- 
inafter recapitulatedi on the date of his coming of age, as a 
guarantee for future repayment. 

The occasion, indeed, was celebrated in the Gascoyne 
household with all due solemnity. The baronet himself 
wore his Sunday best, with the carefully-brushed tall hat in 
which he always drove summer visitors to church in the 
Hillborough season ; and at ten of the clock precisely he 
and Paul repaired, with a churchgoing air, as is the habit 
of their class (viewed not as a baronet, but as petite 
bou/rgeoisie) whenever a legal function has to be performed, 
to the dingy, stingy, gloomy-looking house where Mr. 
Solomons abode in the High Street of Hillborough. 

Mr. Solomons, too, for his part, had risen in every way to 
the dignity of the occasion. He had to do business with a 
real live baronet and his eldest son ; and he had prepared 
to receive his distinguished guests and clients with be- 
coming hospitality. A decanter of brown sherry and a 
plate of plain cake stood upon the table by the dusty 
window of the estate agent's office ; a bouquet of laurustinus 
and early-forced wallflowers adorned the one vase on the 
wooden chimneypiecc, and a fancy waistcoat of the most 
ornate design decorated Mr. Solomons* own portly person. 
Mr. Lionel, too, had come down from town to act as witness 
and general adviser, and to watch the case, so to speak, on 
his own behalf, as next-of-kin and heir-at-law to the person 
most interested in the whole proceeding. Mr. Lionel's hair 
was about as curly and as oleaginous as usual, but the 
flower in his buttonhole was even nobler in proportions 
than was his wont on week-days, and the perfume that 
exhaled from bis silk pocket-handkerchief was more redolent 
than ever of that fervid musk which is dear to the Oriental 
nervous organization. 

* Gome in, Sir Emery,' Mr. Solomons observed, rubbing 
his hands with great unction, as the cab-driver paused for a 
second respectfully at his creditor's door. Mr. Solomons 
called his distinguished client plain Gascoyne on ordlnax^ 
occasions when they met on terms ol envdVo^et ^xA ^^xs^asa.^ 
but whenever these solemn functions ol ni^^'CL^Xkfc^V^^ft 



^2 THE SCALLYWAG 

fife performed he allowed himself the inexpensive luxury of 
- idling that superfluous title for a si)ecial treat on his 
appreciative palate as a connoissetir rolls a good glass of 
burgundy. 

Paul grew hot in the face at the unwelcome Bouiid —for 
to Paul that hateful baronetcy had grown into a perfect 
Mte noire — but Sir Emery advanced by shuffling stieps with 
b. diffident air into the middle of the room, finding obvious 
difficulties as to the carriage of his hands, and then obsetved, 
ih a very sheepish tone, as he bowed awkwardly : 

* Good-day, Mr. Solomons, sir. Une mbrniti*, Mi:. 
Lionel.* 

* It is a fine morning,' Mr. Lionel condescended to 
observe in reply, with a distant nod ; * but devilish cold, 
ain't it?' Then, extending his sleek white hand to Paul 
with a more gracious salute, * How de do, G6.scoyne ? Hd,d 
a jolly time over yonder at Mentone ?' 

For Mr. Lionel never forgot that Paul Gascoyne had been 
to Oxford and was heir to a baronetcy, and that, thei-efore, 
social capital might, as likely as tiot, hereafter be naade out 
of him. 

* Thank you,' Paul answered, with a slight inclination of 
his head and a marked tone of distaste ; * I ehjoyed Uiyself 
very much on the Biviera. It's a beautiful place, and the 
people were so very kind to me.' 

For Paul on his side had always a curious double feeling 
towards Lionel Solombhs. On the one hand, he never for- 
got that Lionel was his uncle's nephew, and that once upon 
a time, when he played as a child in his father's yard, he 
used to regard Lionel as a very grand young gentleman 
indeed. And, on the other hand, he couldn't conceal from 
himself the patent fact, especially since he had miWi JttHie 
society of gentlemen on equal terms at Oxford, that Lftttitel 
Solomons was a peculiarly offfensive kind of snob — the snob 
about town who thinks he knows ^ thing oir two as to the 
world at large, and talks with glib familiarity about every- 
one everywhere whose name is bandied about in the shrill 
mouths of London gossip. 

Mr. Solomons motioned Sir finiery graciously into a 
chair. * Sit down, Paul,' he said, turning to his youngfer 
client *A glass of wine this cold morning, Sir Emery ?' 
^I thdnkyoii kindly, sir/ the baronet Tefe>eoti4ftd,^'^km^it 



THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 103 

up as he spoke. *'Ere*syour very good 'ealth, Mr. Solo- 
mons, an' my respex to Mr. Lionel.* 

Mr. Solomons ponred out a glass for Paul, and then two 
more, in solemn silence, for himself and his nephew. The 
drinMng of wine has a sort of serious ceremonial importance 
with certain persons of Mr. Solomons' character. After that 
he plunged for a while into general conversation on the 
atmospheric conditions and the meteorological probabilities 
for the immediate future — a subject which led round 
naturally by graceful steps to the political state of this 
kingdom, and the chances of a defeat for the existing 
Ministry over the Bill for the County Government of 
Dublin. Mr. Solomons considered it becoming on these 
state occasions not to start too abruptly on the question of 
business : a certain subdued delicacy of consideration for 
his clients' feelings made him begin the intervie\V on the 
broader and so to speak neutral basis of a meeting between 
gientiemen. 

At last, however, when the sherry and the Ministry were 
both comfortably disposed of, and Sir Emery had signified 
his satisfaction and acquiescence in either process, Mr. 
Solomons dexterously and gracefully introduced the real 
subject before the house with a small set speech. * I think, 
Sir Emery,* he said, putting his square bullet-head a little 
on one side, * you intimated just now that you wished to 
confer with me on a matter of business T 

' Yes, sir,' the cab-driver answered, growing suddenly hot, 
and speaking with a visible effort of eloquence. * My son 
Paul, as you know, sir, have come of age to-day, and it's 
our desire, Mr. Solomons, if-so-be-as it's ekally convenient 
to you, to go together over them there little advances you've 
been kind enough to make from time to time for Paul's 
eddication, if I may so term it, an' to set 'em all right and 
straight, in the manner o' speakin', by givin' Paul's own 
acknowledgment for 'em, in black an' white, now he's no 
longer a minor but his own master.' 

It was a great triumph for the British baronet to stumble 
through so long a sentence unhurt, without a single halt, or 
a lapse of consciousness, and he felt justly proud when he 

ffot fairly to the end of it. Frequently as he had rehearsed 
t to himself in bed the night before, he ncvet >iJ[iQvv^a5^*C^^H* 
when the moment for firing it off in acW^ -^x^a^x^^ x^'^Ji^ 



104 THE SCALLYWAG 

arrived he would have got pat through it all with such dis- 
tinguished success. 

Mr. Solomons smiled a smile of grateful recognition, and 
bowed, vdth one hand spread carelessly over his ample and 
expansive waistcoat. *If I've been of any service to you 
and your son, Sir Emery,' he answered with humility, not 
untempered by conscious rectitude and the sense of a 
generous action well performed (at twenty per cent, interest, 
and incidentals), ' Fm more than repaid, I'm sure, for all my 
time and trouble.' 

' And now,' Mr. Lionel remarked, with a curl of his full 
Oriental lips, under the budding moustache, ' let's go to 
business.' 

To business Mr. Solomons thereupon at once addressed 
himself with congenial speed. He brought out from their 
pigeon-hole in the safe (with a decorous show of having to 
hunt for them first among his multifarious papers, though 
he had put them handy before his client entered) the bundle 
of acknowledgments tied up in pink tape, and duly signed, 
sealed, and deHvered by Paul and his father. * These,* he 
said, unfolding them with studious care, and recapitulating 
them one by one, * are the documents in the case. If you 
please, Mr. Paul' — he had never called him Mr. Paul 
before; but he was a free man now, and this was business — 
* we'll go over them together, and check their correctness-.' 

* I have the figures all down here in my pocket-book,' 
Paul answered hastily, for he was anxious to shorten this 
unpleasant interview as much as possible ; * will you just 
glance at their numbers, and see if they're accurate ?* 

But Mr. Solomons was not to be so put off. For his part, 
indeed, he was quite otherwise minded. This ceremony 
was to him a vastly agreeable one, and he was anxious 
rather to prolong it, and to increase his sense of its deep 
importance by every conceivable legal detail in his power. 

* Excuse me,' he said blandly, taking up the paper, and 
laying it open with ostentatious scrupulousness. * This is 
law, and we must be strictly lawyer-like. Will you kindly 
look over the contents of this document, and see whether it 
tallies with your recollection ?* 

Paul took it up and resigned himself with a sigh to the 
unpleasant ordeal. ' Quito right,' he answered, handing it 
jtacJc formal J jr. 



THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 105 

' Will you be so good as to initial it on the back, then, 
with date as signed T Mr. Solomons asked. 

Paul did as he was bid, in wondering silence. 

Mr. Solomons took up the next in order, and then the 
third, and after that the fourth, and so on through all that 
hateful series of bills and renewals. Every item Paul 
acknowledged in solemn form, and each was duly handed 
over for inspection as he did so to Mr. Lionel, who also 
initialled them in his quahty of witness. 

At last the whole lot was fairly disposed of, and the 
dreadful total alone now stared Paul in the face with his 
blank insolvency. Then Mr. Solorrons took from his desk 
yet another paper — this time a sohmn document in due 
legal form, which he proceeded to lead aloud in a serious 
tone and with deep impressive noss. 01 'this indenture* 
and its contents Paul could only remember afterwards that 
it contained many allusions to Sir Emery Gascoyne, of 
Plowden's Court, Hillborough, in the County of Surrey, 
baronet, and Paul Gascoyne, of Christ Church, in the 
University of Oxford, gentleman, of the first, part, as well 
as to Judah Prince Solomons, of High Street, Hillborough 
aforesaid, auctioneer and estate agent, of the second part ; 
and that it purported to witness, with many unnecessary 
circumlocutions and subterfuges of the usual legal sort, to 
the simple fact that the two persons of the firsb part agreed 
and consented, jointly and severally, to pay the person of 
the second part a certain gross lump-sum, which, so far as 
human probability went, they had no sort of prospect or 
reasonable chance of ever paying. However, it was per- 
fectly useless to say so to Mr. Solomons at that exact 
moment; for the pleasure which he derived from the 
perusal of the bond was too intense to permit the interven- 
tion of any other feeling. So when the document had been 
duly read and digested, Paul took up the pen and did as he 
was bid, signing opposite a small red wafer on the face of 
the instrument, and then remarking, as he handed it back 
to Mr. Solomons, with his finger on the wafer, in accord- 
ance with instructions : ' I deliver this as my act and deed ' 
— a sentence which seemed to afford the person of the 
Beoond part the profoundest and most obviously heartfelt 
enjoyment. 

And well it might indeed, for no \oo^\io\^ ol ^^a-^^^^^^ 



io6 THE SCALLYWAG 

left to Paul and his father anjrwh^re. They had bound 
themselves dowi), body and sotd, to be Mr. Solombns* 
slaves and journeyman hands till they had {)aid hiih in 
full for every stiver of th& i^mount to the uttermost 
farthing. 

When all the other signing and v^itnessing had been 
done, and Paul had covenanted by solemh attestations 
never to plead infancy, error, or non-indebtedness, Mr. 
Solomons sighed a sigh of ihingled regret and rielief as he 
observed once more : 

*And now, Paul, you owe the seven-and-six for the 
stamp, you'll notice.* 

Paul pulled out his purse and paid the sum demanded 
without a passing murmur. He had been so long accus- 
tomed to these constant petty exactions that he took them 
now almost for granted, and hardly even reflected upon the 
curious fact that the sum in which he was now indebted 
amounted to more than double the original lump he had 
actually received, without counting these perpetual minor 
drawbacks. . 

Mr. Solomons folded up the document carefully, and 
replaced it in its pigeon-hcle in the iron safe. 

* That finishes the past,' he said ; * there we've got our 
security, Leo. And for the future, Mr. Paul, is there any 
temporary assistance you need just now to return to Oxford 
with ?' 

A terrible light burst across Paul's soul. How on earth 
was he to live till he took his degree ? Now that he had 
fully made up his mind that he couldn't and wouldn't 
marry an heiress, how could he go on accepting money 
from Mr. Solomons, which was really advanced on the 
remote security of that supposed contingency? Clearly, 
to do so would be dishonest and unjust. And yet, if he 
didn't accept it, how could he ever take his degree at all ? 
And if he didn't take his degree, how could he possibly hope 
to earn anything anywhere, either to keep himself alive or 
to repay Mr. Solomons ? 

Strange to say, this terrible dilemmi had never before 
occurred to his youthful intelligence. He had to meet it 
and solve it off-hand now, without la single minute for con- 
sideration. 
Tlf would not bare been surprising, witti tti^ tmning he 



THE COMING OF AGE OF THE HEIR 107 

bad had, if Paul, accustomed to live upon Mr. Solomons' 
loans, as most young men live upon theit father's resources, 
had salved his conscience by this clear plea of necessity, 
and had decided that to take his degree, anyhow, was of 
the first importance, both for himself and Mr. Solomons. 

But he didn't. In an instant he had thought all these 
things over, and being now a man and a free agent, had de- 
cided in a flash what course of action his freedom imposed 
upon him. 

With trembling lips he answered firmly : ' No, thank 
you, Mr. Solomons ; I've enough in hand for my needs for 
the present.' Arid theti he relapsed ihto troubled silence. 

What followed He hAraly noticed mueh. There was more 
political talk, attd bibife sherry all rohhd,, with plum-cake 
accompaniment and ftterious faces. And thfen they rose to 
leave, Paul thinking to himself that i\6fr the crisis had come 
at last, and he could hevfer. return to his beloved Oxford. 
Those three yeats of his lite woiild all be thrown away. 
He must miss his degree — and break his father's heart with 
the disappointment. 

But Sir Emery observed, as he reached the open air, 
rubbing his hands together in the profundity of his admi- 
ration : * 'E's a rare clever chap, to be sure, Mr. Solomons. 
Barr and Wilkie ain't nothin' by the side of him. Why, 'e 
read them documents out aloud so as no lawyer couldn't 'a 
drawed 'em up better.' 

And Mr. Lionel, within, was observing to his uncle : 
* Well, you are a simple one, and no mistake, to let that 
fellow Gascoyne see where you keep his acknowledgments ! 
For my part, I wouldn't trust any man alive to know where 
I keep any papers of importance.' 



THE SCALLYWAG 




CHAPTEB XV. 

COilillTTEB or HCPrLY. 



3 HEN Paul 
' gob home, ho 
put his di- 
]ei5ma, at 
lunch-time, 
before Faitb, 
who went out 
withbimoDCQ 
more on the 
]\noll to Ais- 
CUES it. 

' And what do you mean to do now?' Faith asked, as soon 
as he'd fiaished out-pouring his difficulties into her sympa- 
thetic ear. ' Anyhow, you must go back to Oxford.* 

' I can't,' Paul answered shortly ; ' I've no money to go 
with.' 

' You've Thistleton'3 tenner,' Faith replied with simple 
straightforwardness, unconscious of the impropriety of such 
language on the lips of the female instructor of youth ; for 
she had seen bo little of anybody but Paul, that Paul's 
phrases came naturally to the tip of her tongue whenever 
she discussed the things that pertain to men, and moro 
especially to Oxford. 'That'll pay your way op and setilo 
you in, at any rate,' 

'But my battels I' Paul objected. ' I won't have anythin5f 
to meet my battels with," 

Faith was too well up in "University language not to be 
well aware by this time that ' battels ' are the cotlego 
charges for food, lodging, sundries, and tuition ; so she 
made no bones about that technicEtl phrase, but answered 
boldly : 

' Well, the battels must take care of themselveB ; they 
won't be due till the beginning oi v»tX term, wid mean' 



COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 109 

while you can live on tick — as all the big people do at 
Hillborough — can't you ?' 

* Faith r Paul cried, looking down into her face aghast. 
* Et tu, Brute ! You who always pitch into them so for not 
paying their little bills promptly I' 

* Oh, I don't really mean that P Faith answered, colour- 
ing up, and somewhat shocked herself at her own levity in 
this fall from grace ; for, to Faith, the worst of all human 
sins was living on credit. * I only meant — can't you try to 
get some more private pupils in the course of term-time, and 
stand your chance at the end of being able to pay your battels?* 

Paul reflected profoundly. * It's a precious poor chance I* 
he responded with perfect frankness. * There aren't many 
fellows who care to read nowadays with an undergraduate. 
And, besides, it spoils a man's own prospects for his exam- 
inations so much, if he has to go teachiDg and reading at 
once — driving two teams abreast, as learner and tutor.' 

* It does,' Faith answered. * That's obvious, of course. 
But, then, you've got to do something, you know, to keep 
the ball rolling.' 

It's a great thing for a man to have an unpractical 
woman to spur him on. It makes him boldly attempt the 
impossible. So in the end, after much discussing of pros 
and cons between them, it was finally decided that Paul 
must go up to Oxford, as usual, and do his best to hang on 
somehow for the present. If the worst came to the worst, 
as Faith put it succinctly, he must make a clean breast of it 
all to Mr. Solomons. But if not, he might manage by hook 
or by crook to earn enough money to pull through two 
terms ; for in two terms more he would take his degree, 
and then he might really begin to work for money. 

It was a desperate attempt — how desperate those only 
know who have themselves been through it. But Paul re- 
solved to try, and the resolve itself had in it a gentle touch 
of the heroic. 

Next day, in fact, he bade farewell to Faith and his 
mother, and returned with his ten-pound note to Oxford. 
Ten pounds is a slender provision for a term's expenses, but it 
would enable him at least to look about him for the moment, 
puid see what chances arose of taking pupils. 

And, indeed, that very night fortune i«»NO\«%5L\CYai^^%^^ 
gometi»J^5 hyours iho^^ forlorn Uopea ol v;oxV^^%rjV^^^^^ 



no THE SCALLYWAG 

To his great surprise, Thistleton came round, after all, to 
his rooms, to ask if Paul would take him on for the term as 
a private pupil. * It's to read, this time,' he explained, 
with his usual frankness, * not to satisfy the governor. I 
really must get through my Mods at last, and if I don't look 
sharp, I shall be ploughed again, and that 'd set the 
governor's back up, so that he'd cut my allowance, for he 
won't stand my failing again, the governor won't, that's 
certain.* With great joy, therefore, Paul consented to take 
him on for the term, and so double that modest tenner. 

Thistleton stopped talking long and late in his friend's 
rooms, and about twelve o'clock one of those confidential 
fits came over Paul, which are apt to come over young 
men, and others, when they sit up late into the small hours 
of the night over the smouldering embers of a dying fire. 
He had impressed upon Thistleton more than once already 
the absolute need for his making a little looney, and his 
consequent desire to obtain pupils ; and Thistleton in return 
had laughingly chaffed him about those mysterious claims 
to which Paul was always so vaguely alluding. Then Paul 
had waxed more confidential and friendly still, and had im- 
parted to Thistleton's. sympathetic ear the fact that, if he 
didn't succeed in earning his own living for the next two 
terms, he would be obliged to leave Oxford without taking 
his degree at all, and so cut off all hope of making a liveli- 
hood in future and satisfying the mysterious claims in 
question. * How so T Thistleton asked ; and Paul answered 
him in guarded phrase that his means of subsistence had 
since his return from Mentone been suddenly and quite un- 
expectedly cut from under him. 

* What I The respected bart.'s not dead, is he?' the blond 
young man asked, opening his big blue eyes as wide as he 
could open them, 

Paul replied, with a somewhat forced smile, that the 
respected bart. still continued to walk this solid earth, and 
that his disappearance, indeed, from the mortal scene would 
have produced very little effect one way or the other upon 
his son's fortunes. 

Then Thistleton grew more curious and inquisitive still, 

and Paul more cbnfidential ; till the end of it all was that 

J^auJ' grdduii^lhr^ tnlolded to his friend the whole of Mr. 



COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY iil 

finai^clf^ d^tailei of yesterday's indenture, and the supposed 
way in which he was himself to discharge thereafter those 
serious obligations. When Thistleton heard the entire 
story, he would have laughed outright had it not been for 
the obvious seriousness of Paul's dilemma. To borrow 
money on the strength of a prospective heiress unknown 
was really too ridiculous. But as soon as he began fully to 
grasp the whole absurd incide|nt, its graver as well as its 
most comiic suspects, his indignation got the better of his 
fimusement at the episode. He declared roundly, in very 
plain terms, that Mr. Solomons, having taken Paul's life 
inio his own hands while Paul was yet too young to know 
gpo4 from evil, and having brought Paul up. like a gentle- 
npian, at Oxford, was clearly bound to see the thing through 
to the bitter end — at least, till Paul had taken his degree, 
and waei, therefore, in a position to earn his own livelihood. 

*If I were you, Gt^scoyne,' the blond young man asserted 
vigorqualy (with an unnecessary expletive, here suppressed), 
* I wouldn't have the very slightest compunction in the 
world in taking his money for the next two terms, and then 
telling him right out he might whistle for his cash till you 
wer^ able and ready to pay him back again. It's his own 
fault entirely if he*^ made a bad investment on a grotesque 
Br€ic\irity. At least, that's how we'd look at the matter in 
Yorkshire.* 

* I think,* Paul answered, with that gravity beyond his 
years that fate had forced upon him, * if it were somebody 
else's case I was judging instead of my own, I should judge 
as you do, either in Yorkshire or elsewhere. I should say 
a fellow wasn't bound by acts imposed upon him, as it were, 
by his father or others, before he arrived at years of dis- 
cretion. But then, when I was asked to sign those papers 
yesterday, if I was going to protest at all, that was the 
moment when I ought to have protested. I ought to have 
plainly said, ** I'll sign for the money, if you'll go on finding 
me in ready cash till I take my degree ; but, mind, I don't 
engage to do anything in the world to catch an heiress." 
Only I hadn't the courage to say so then and there. You 
see, it's been made a sort of religious duty for me, through 
all my life, tq marry for mpney ; and if I'd blurted out my 
refusal point-blank like tbati ]t-m afrai^i xsw i^\»Wt ^^^i§^ 
)x$V0 )?e0o grievod mi ftnnpyed a^ \V' 



112 THE SCALLYWAG 

* I expect my governor's grieved and annoyed at a great 
many things I do/ Thistleton retorted with the unruffled 
philosophical calm of one-and-twonty — where others are 
concerned. * It don't pay to be too tender to the feelings of 
fathers, you see ; it gives them too high and mighty an idea 
of their own importance. Fathers in any case are apt to 
magnify their office overmuch, and it would never do for 
sons as well to pamper them. But, after all, I don't know 
why you need have spoken at all, nor why you shouldn't go 
on accepting this old buffer's assistance and support, with 
a quiet conscience, till you take your degree. When one 
looks it in the face, you don't know that you won't marry 
an heiress. Accidents ivill happen, you see, even in the 
best regulated families. It's just as easy, if it comes to 
that, to fall in love with a girl with five thousand a year as 
with a girl who hasn't a penny to bless herself with. If 
the five thousand pounder's pretty and nice, like that Yankee 
at Mentone with the mamma in tow, I should say, on the 
whole, it's a great deal easier.' 

* Not for me,* Paul answered, with the prompt fervour 
born of recent internal debate on this very question. * I 
can understand that another fellow, who hadn't been 
brought up to look out for money, might fall in love with 
a girl with money quite as easily as with a girl without any. 
He has no prejudice one way or the other. But in my case 
it's different. The very fact that the money's been so much 
insisted upon for me, and that part of it would go to pay 
Mr. Solomons ' — Paul never even thought of calling his 
creditor anything less respectful than * Mr. Solomons * 
even to his nearest acquaintance — * would suffice to prevent 
me from falling in love with money. You see, falling in 
love's such a delicately balanced operation t If I married 
money at all, it'd be simply and solely because I married for 
money, not because I fell in love with it ; and I could never 
take any woman's money to pay the debt incurred before- 
hand for my own education. I should feel as if I'd sold 
myself to her, and was her absolute property.' 

Thistleton stirred the fire meditatively, with his friend's 

poker. * It is awkward,' he admitted unwillingly — ' devilish 

awkward, I allow. I say, Gascoyne, how much about does 

/^ cost you to live for a term here ?* 

^P^/ m awfal lot of mon§y,' Tfe^AxX w\v?i^x^9t^ wi^U 



COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY 113 

downcast, stariDg hard at tho embers. ' Not much short 
of fifty pounds on an average.' 

Thistleton looked across at him with a broad smile of 
sniprise. * Fifty pounds V he echoed. ' You dou't mean to 
say, my dear fellow, you manage to bring it down to fifty 
ponnds, do you ?' 

* Well, for summer term especially I do, when there are 
no fires to keep up,' Paul answered soberly. * But spring 
term comes rather heavy sometimes, I must say, because of 
the cold and extra clothing.' 

Thistleton looked for some time at the fro, staring 
harder than ever with blank astonishment. ' Gascoyne/ 
he said at last in a very low tone, ' I'm clean ashamed of 
myself.' 

* Why, my dear boy?* 

' Because I spend at least Hvq times as much as that on 
an average.' 

* Ah, but then you've got five times as much to spend, 
you know. That makes all the diHerenco.' 

Thistleton paused and ruminated once more. How very 
unevenly things are arranged in this world I Ho was evi- 
dently thinking how he could word a difficult proposition 
for their partial readjustment. Then ho spoke again : 
* I could easily cut my own expenses down fifty quid this 
term,' he said, * if you'd only let me lend it to you. I'm 
sure I wouldn't feel the loss in any way. The governor's 
behaved like a brick this winter.' 

Paul shook his head. ' Impossible,' he answered with a 
despondent air. 'It's awfully good of you, Thistleton — 
awfully kind of you to think of it ; but as things stand, 
of course I couldn't dream of accepting it.' 

* It wouldn't make the slightest difference in the world 
to me,' Thistleton went on persuasively. 'I assure you, 
Gascoyne, my governor 'd never feel or miss fifty pounds 
one way or the other.' 

'Thank you ever so much,' Paul answered, with genuine 
gratitude. ' I know you mean every word you say, but I 
could never by any possibihty take it, Thistleton.* 

'Why not, my dear boy?* the blond young man said, 
laying his hand on his friend's shoulder. 

' Because, in the first place, it's your father's money^ not 
yourB, you propose to lend ] and I coxx\3LTi!V» a.Qt^^'^^ \\»\\s^ 



fi4 THE SCALLYWAG 

also in the second place, which is far more important, I 
haven't the very slightest chance of ever repaying you/ 

* Eepaying me I' Thistleton echoed with a crestfallen air* 
* Oh, dash it all, Gascoyne, I never thought of your really 
repaying me, of course, you know. I meant it as an offer 
of pure accommodation.' 

Paul laughed in spite of himself. * That sort of loan,' 
he said, taking his friend's hand in his and wringing it 
warmly, * is usually called by another name. Seriously, 
Thistleton, I couldn't think of taking it from you. You 
see, I've no right to pay anybody else till I Ve repaid the last 
farthing I owe to Mr. Solomons ; and to borrow money on 
the chance of repaying it at such a remote date — say 
somewhere about the Greek Kalends — would.be downright 
robbery.* 

A bright idea seized suddenly upon Thistleton. *By 
JoveT he cried, *I'll tell you how we'll manage it. It*s as 
easy as pap. You can't lose either way. You know that 
prize essay you were mugging away at all the time we were 
at Men tone — '* The Influence of the Eenaissance on Modern 
Thought," wasn't it? — ah, yes, I thought so. Well, how 
much would you get, now, if you happened to win it ?' 

* Fifty pounds,* Paul answered. * But, then, that's so very 
improbable.' 

* Awfully improbable,* his friend echoed warmly, with 
profound conviction. * That's just what I say. You haven't 
a chance. You ought to back yourself to lose, don't you 
see : that's the way to work it. I'll tell you what I'll do. 
I'll bet you ten to one in fivers you win. And you put a 
fiver on the chance you don't. Then — "don't you catch 
on ?" as the Yankee girl used to say — you stand to come 
out pretty even either way. Suppose you get the prize, you 
earn fifty pounds, out of which you owe me a fiver — that 
leaves forty-five to the good, doesn't it ? But suppose you 
lose, I owe you fifty. So, you see, you clear pretty nearly 
the same lot whichever turns up. I call that good hedging.' 
And the blond young man leant back in his chair with a 
chuckle at his own ingenuity. 

Paul smiled again. The blond young man seemed so 

hugely delighted at the cleverness of his own device that he 

tras really loath to be Compelled to disillusion him. * Your 

adroitness in trying to find a way to TnaVa mft ^n -^x^^etiVx ^ 



COMMITTEE OF SUPPLY ilj 

fifty pounds tinder a transpEirent disguise really tonches me,' 
he eaid with a faint tremor in his voice ; ' but don't think 
abont it any more, you dear, good fellow. It's quite im- 
possible. I must try to make it up myself with pupils and 
economy, and back my chances for the prize essay. If at 
the end of the term I'm still to the bad, I'll put the matter 
fairly before Mr. Solomons. Whether I stop op one term 
longer and take my degree or not must then depend upon 
what be thinks best for his own interest. After all, my 
whole future's mortgaged to bim already, and it's more his 
ftffair than mine in the end what becomes of me.' 

' Why, I call it downright slavery I' Thistleton esclaimed 
warmly-. ' I think it ought to be prohibited by Act of 
Parliament. It's a great deal worse than the chimney boys 
and the indentured labourers. I only wish I'd got that 
beastly old Jew with his head in chancery here under my 
arm this very minute. By George, sir, wouldn't I just 
punch it as flat as a pancake in rather less than no time !' 

* I think,' Paul answered with a smile, ' punching big 
head flat would do me very little permanent good. Indeed, 
in his own way he really means me well. He's bonnd us 
down by all the terrors of the law to his percentages and 
hia policies; hut I believe he considers himseK my bene- 
factor for all that.' 

' Benefactor be blowed I' Thigtleton responded, rising 
with North Country vehemence. ' If only I could see the 
old blackguard in college to-night, it'd give me the eincerest 
pleasure in life to kick him a dozen times round Tom Qnad 
till he roared for mercy.' 



CHAPTBB XVL 

FORTUNE FAV0DB8 THE BBAVB. 

^N spite of Paul's fears, however, that dreaded 
spring term went off most happily. To bo 
sure, he had to work for his bread like a 
Londoti cab-horse (as Sir Emeiy loved pro- 
fessionally to phrase it), blib Paul had never 
been afraid of hard work, Diid as long aa ha 
.oOnld make both ends meet Bomehtcjj , wsft. ^.noK?*. -fiHi\«a'?, 
toto farther debt "ivhh Mr. Sd\omona,\ifc \';5).& wxi^-^ ■^siCSs.* 




Ii6 THE SCALLYWAG 

ficd. And that spring term he got as many pupils as he 
could possibly find time for. The reason for this sudden 
run upon his tutorial powers was, of course, the usual one 
which accounts for all successes and failures in life— a 
woman's wire-pulling. It is a mistake to think this world 
is mainly run by men. Genius, talent, industry, capacity, 
nay even the invaluable quality of unscrupulousness itself, 
are as dust in the balance as a means to success compared 
with the silent, unobtrusive, backstairs influence of the 
feminine intelligence. A woman's wit is worth the whole 
lot of them. 

And this valuable ally in the struggle for life Paul 
managed to secure almost without knowing it. 

For two days after his return to The House (as Christ 
Church men insist upon calling their college) Paul received 
a little note from Faith's new friend, Mrs. Douglas, inviting 
him to drink afternoon tea at her house in the Parks — the 
fashionable tutorial suburb of modern married Oxford. 

The Parks, in fact, which are the natural outcome of the 
married Fellow system, have completely revolutionized the 
Oxford we all knew and loved in our own callow under- 
graduate period. In those monastic ages the Fellow who 
manied lost his Fellowship ; the presence of women in the 
University was unknown ; and even the stray intrusion of a 
sister or cousin into those stern gray quads was severely 
frowned upon by ascetic authority. Bub nowadays^ under 
the new petticoat regime, all that is changed : the Senior 
Tutor lives in a comfortable creeper-clad villa in the Parks ; 
his wife gives lunches and afternoon teas ; and his grown- 
up daughters play tennis with the men, and belong to the 
University just as much as the average undergraduate — or 
even in virtue of their fixity of tenure a little more so. 
Mrs. Senior Tutor (with marriageable girls) is quite as 
anxious to catch the eligible undergraduate for her own 
dance in Commemoration week as any Belgravian mamma 
in all London; and the Eev. the Bursar himself smiles 
benignly while scholars and exhibitioners waste the shining 
hours in flirtation and punts on the banks of Cherwell. 
Things were not so ordered Consule Planco, when Leighton 
was Yice-Chancellor. But as everybody seems satisfied 
wjth the existing system — especially the Senior Tutor's 
daughters — there can be little doubt \ila«A» f^XUva lot tVia b««t 



FORTUNE FA VOURS THE BRA VE 117 

in the best of all possible U Diversities, and that flirting, so 
far from distracting the heads of students, as the older 
school devoutly believed, is in reality a powerful spur on 
the mind of the youth to the acquisition of classical and 
mathematical knowledge. 

To this new microcosm of the Parks and their in- 
habitants, Mrs. Douglas played the part of centre of gravity. 
Bound her as primary the lesser orbs of that little system 
revolved in their various subordinate places. Not that Mrs. 
Douglas herself was either rich or pretentious. The 
Accadian professor's stipend consisted of the modest in- 
terest on a sum in Eeduced Two-and-three- quarters per 
Cent. Consols, which he supplemented only by private 
means of the smallest, and by a very moderate income from 
his wife's family. But Mrs. Douglas had the invaluable 
quality of being able to ' hold her salon ' ; and being besides 
an earl's niece, she had rapidly grown into the principal 
wire-puller and recognised leader of Oxford tutorial society. 
With that greater world where the heads of houses move 
serene in placid orbits, indeed, she interfered but little ; but 
the Parks acknowledged her sway without a murmur, as 
the representative of authority in its most benign avatar. 
For Mrs. Douglas had tact, sense, and kindliness ; she was 
truly sympathetic to a very high degree, and she would put 
herself out to serve a friend in a way that was sure to 
attract the friend's warmest gratitude. Moreover, she was 
a woman, and therefore skilled in the feminine art of mount- 
ing the back- stairs with address and good-humour. This 
combination of qualities made her justly loved and admired 
in Oxford by all save those unfortunate people whom her 
kindly machinations often succeeded in keeping out of posts 
for which they possessed every qualification on earth except 
the one needful one of Mra Douglas's friendship. But 
drawbacks like this are, of course, incidental to every 
possible system of * influence * in government. 

Now, things had made this powerful and good-natured 
lady particularly anxious to know and serve Paul Gascoyne. 
In the first place, she had been deeply interested in his 
sister Faith, whose curious character had engaged her 
sympathy at once, and with whom their one night at the 
country hotel together had made her suddenly quite iatl- 
ipffcte. In the sacjond placQ, on her t^Wtii \»o O^Anrt^^^^ 



Ii8 THE SCALLYWAG 

had found a letter awaiting her from Nea Blair, her little 
Cornish friend, "which contained some casual mention of a 
certain charming Christ Church man, a Mr. Gascoyne, who 
had created quite a puzzle for Mentone society by hia 
singular mixture of pride and humility. Well, if Mrs. 
Douglas had a fault, it was that of taking too profound an 
interest in the fancies and fortunes of young people 
generally. Her husband, indeed, was wont to aver that, 
after Bryant and May, she was the greatest matchmaker in 
aU England. Something in Nea Blair's letter — some mere 
undertone of feeling, that only a clever woman would ever 
have guessed at — suggested to Mrs. Douglas's quick 
instincts the idea that Nea Blair was more than commonly 
interested in Paul Gascoyne's personaUty and prospects. 
That alone would have been enough to make Mrs. Douglas 
anxious to meet and know Paul ; the accident of her chancQ 
acquaintance with Faith in the commodious horse-box 
made her doubly anxious to be of use and service to him. 

So when Paul duly presented himself at the eligible 
creeper-clad villa in the Parks, to drink tea with the wife of 
the Accadian professor, Mrs. Douglas drew out of him by 
dexterous side-pressure the salient fact that he was anxious 
to find private pupils, or otherwise to increase his scanty 
income. And having once arrived at a knowledge of that 
fact, Mrs. Douglas made it her business in hfe for the next 
ten days to scour all Oxford in search of men who wanted 
to read for Mods with a private tutor, going out into th^ 
very highways and by-ways of the University, so to speak, 
and compelling them to come in with truly Biblical fortitude. 
But when once Mrs. Douglas took a thing in hand, it was 
well beknown to the Chancellor, masters, and scholars of 
the University of Oxford that, sooner or later, she meant to 
get it done, and that the Chancellor, masters, and scholars 
aforesaid might, therefore, just as well give in at once, 
without unnecessary trouble, bother, or expense, and let 
her have her way as soon as she asked for it. * Going in 
lor Mods in June?* Mrs. Douglas would remark, with a 
sigh of pity, to the unhappy undergraduate of limited 
brains, fixing her mild brown eyes upon him with an air of 
the profoundest sympathy and friendly assistance. * Then 
you'll want to read up your books this term with a private 
i^oaclj or SK^mebody, of course ; ' and '^hen. the unhappy 



FORTUNE FA VOURS THE BRA VE 119 

undergraduate of limited brains, falling readily into the trap 
thijis baited for his destruction, admitted abstractly, in a 
general way, that a little tutorial assistance of a friendly 
sort would, perhaps, be not wholly unsuited to his intel- 
lectual needs, Mrs. Douglas, fixing her mild brown eye still 
more firmly than ever upon his trembling face, would nail 
him to his admission at once by responding cheerfully, 
'Then I know the very man that'll suit your book just 
down to the ground. Mr. Gascoyne of Christ Church has 
a great many pupils reading with him this term, but I dare 
say I could induce him to make room for you somehow. 
My husband thinks very highly of Mr. Gascoyne. He's a 
capital coach. If you want to get through with flying 
colours, he's just the right man to pull you out of the 
moderator's clutches. That's his card in my basket there ; 
don't forget the name : ** Gascoyne of Christ Church, first 
pair right, number six, Peckwater.'* Yes, one of the great 
Gascoyne people down in Pembrokeshire — that's the very 
family. I'm glad you know them. His father's the present 
baronet, I believe, and his sister's coming up to see me 
next Commemoration. If you like, you can take his card 
to remember the name by — and when Mr. Gascoyne comes 
again on Sunday, I'll make a point of asking him whether 
you've been to call upon him about reading for Mods or 
not, and I'll tell him (as you're a most particular friend of 
mine) to be sure to pay you every possible attention.* 

When a clever and good-looking woman of thirty-five, 
who happens to be also a professor's wife, flings herself 
upon an unhappy undergraduate of limited brains in that 
dashing fashion, with a smile that might soften the heart of 
a stone, what on earth can the unhappy undergraduate do 
in self-defence but call at once upon Gascoyne of Christ 
Church, and gratefully receive his valuable instructions? 
Whence it resulted that, at the end of a fortnight, Gascoyne 
of Christ Church had as many pupils as he could easily 
manage (at ten pounds a head), and saw his way clearly to 
that term's expenses, about which he had so despaired a 
few days before with Faith at Hillborough. A woman of 
Mrs. Douglas's type is the most useful ally a man can find 
in life. Make friends with her, young man, wherever met ; 
and be sure she will be worth to you a great deal more thaa 
many hundred men at the head of yo\xt ^tol^^*€»vyDu 



120 THE SCALLYWAG 

One further feat of Mrs. Douglas's the candid historian 
blushes to repeat, yet, in the interest of truth, it must 
needs be recorded. 

For when, a fortnight later, Mrs. Douglas gave her first 
dinner-party of the term, she took occasion, in the drawing- 
room, about ten of the clock, to draw aside the Senior 
Proctor confidentially for a moment, and murmur in his ear: 
* I think, Mr. Wayles, you're one of the examiners for the 
Marlborough Historical Essay, aren't you ?' 

The Senior Proctor, a grim, close-shaven man, with firm- 
set lips and a very clerical mouth and collar, signified his 
assent by a slight bow of acquiescence, and a murmured 
reply of *I believe my office entails upon me that among 
other honours.* 

Mrs. Douglas assumed her most bewitching smile. * Now, 
dear Mr. Wayles,* she said, bending over towards him 
coquettishly, 'you mustn't really be angry with me. I'm 
only a woman, you know, and we women have always our 
little plots and conspiracies on hand, haven't we? I'm very 
much interested in a particular essay which bears for motto 
the words, " Non jam prima peto Mnestheus neque vincere 
certo, Quanquam O !" There, you see, though I was 
dragged up "before Girton and Ne wnham were invented, you 
didn't know before I could spout out a Latin hexameter as 
pat as that, did you? WelJ, I want you most 'particularly 
to read over that identical essay with special attention, very 
special attention, and if you find it in every respect im- 
mensely better than all the rest put together, to recommend 
it to the kind attention of your colleagues.' 

The Senior Proctor — that grim, close-shaven man — 
allowed just the faintest ghost of a smile of amused pity to 
pucker the corners of his very clerical mouth as he answered 
with official succinctness, * Every essay alike, my dear Mrs. 
Douglas, will receive at my hands, and I believe I may 
venture to say at those of my brother-examiners also, the 
most impartial consideration ; and nothing that can be said 
to us by any outside person — even yourself — can have the 
very slightest influence upon us in making our award to the 
most deserving competitor.* 

' Oh, of course,' Mrs. Douglas answered, with that most 
bewitching smile once more well to the front. * I know and 
'^Qders^and all that j?er/ectly, I haven't lived so long in 



FORTUNE FAVOURS THE BRAVE 121 

the University as dear Archie's wife without having learnt 
how absolutely useless it is to try to pull any wires or go up 
any backstairs in University business. I only meant to say 
if you find that essay quite undeniably the very best, I hope 
you won't let the fact of my recommendation tell strongly 
against it.' 

The Senior Proctor had an uncomfortable sense that when 
Mrs. Douglas, laid so profound a stress upon the words 
* absolutely useless ' that irreverent little woman was 
actually trying to chaff him or to laugh in her sleeve ; and 
as the Senior Proctor represents before the world the dignity 
and majesty of the University in its corporate capacity, so 
wicked an attempt on her part to poke fun at his office 
would, no doubt, have merited condign punishment. But 
he only bowed once more a sphinx-like bow, and answered 
severely, *All the essays alike shall have my best attention.' 

Now, we all of us know, of course — we who are men and 
women of the world — that the Senior Proctor spoke the 
exact truth, and that in matters so important as University 
prizes no shadow of partiality can ever be suspected among 
English gentlemen. (If it were, we might all be tempted 
to think that English gentlemen were not, after iall, so very 
superior in kind as we know them to be to the members of 
every other European nationality.) Nevertheless, it must 
be noted, as a singular and unaccountable historical fact, 
that when the Senior Proctor — that lone, bachelor man — 
went home that night along the cold, gray streets to his 
solitary rooms in Fellows Quad, Merton, and saw a big 
bundle of Marlborough Prize Essays lying on his table 
unopened for his deep consideration, his mouth relaxed 
for a moment into a distinctly human smile as he thought 
of the delicate pressure of her hand with which Mrs. 
Douglas — charming woman, to be sure, Mrs. Douglas I — had 
bid him good-night, with a last whispered adieu of * Now, 
don't forget, Mr. Wayles : ** Non jam prima peto Mnes- 
theus neque yincere certo." ' How delicious Virgil sounded, 
to be sure, on those ripe red lips I Had she learnt that 
verse by heart, he wondered, on purpose to bamboozle him? 
So thinking, and gloating over that dainty pressure, the 
Senior Proctor flung himself into his easy-chair, before his 
goodly fire, kicked off his boots and endued himself in hia 
warm woollen-lined slippers, forti&ed \na \ii\.^^QX ^\n^ ^ 



122 THE SCALLYWAG 

brandy-and'Soda from the syphon at his side, lighted one ol 
Bacon's best cigars, and proceeded, with his feet on the 
fender comfortably, to address his soul in indulgent mood to 
the task of literary and historical criticism. 

But, strange to say, he did not take up the very first essay 
that came to hand, as a conscientious Senior Proctor might 
fairly be expected to do. On the contrary, he turned them 
all over one by one with deliberative linger till he came to a 
roll of neat white foolscap, legibly inscribed in a bold, black 
hand — I blush to narrate it — with that very Yirgilian motto 
which treacherous Mrs. Douglas had been at such pains to 
get by rote, without one false quantity, and to fire ofiF, un- 
appalled, against his grim clerical mouth and collar. He 
read the essay through first with close attention ; then he 
wrote down on a small sheet of paper at his side the mystic 
lettei^s * V. g.,' supposed to stand for ' very good * in our own 
vernacular. By the time he had read it through, the hour 
was advanced, and a second brandy-and-soda and a second 
cigar were needed, to stimulate the critical faculty. As 
time went on, it must be frankly admitted, those essays got 
shorter and shorter shrift, while the soda got deeper and 
deeper doses of brandy, until by the time the clock marked 
three, the Senior Proctor rose up with dignity, drained the 
remainder of his last tall tumbler, and, sticking all the 
papers in his desk for read, strolled off to his bedroom 
unmistakably sleepy. 

Now, it must not be concluded from this veracious 
account that Paul, Gascoyne's essay was not in all proba- 
bUity, on its own merits, the very best of the entire lot sub- 
mitted for judgment, nor that Mrs. I>ouglas had exerted on 
its beb^f anything which could be described by the most 
severe morahst aa undue influence. In fact, have we not 
abr^^idy recorded the Senior Proctor's emphatic and delibe- 
rate assertion to the contrary ? And was not that assertion 
again renewed ? For when a fortnight later Mrs. Douglas 
ventured to thank the dignitary in question (as she irreve- 
rently phrased it), * for backing her man for the Marlborough 
Prize,* the Senior Proctor, opening his eyes wide in his very 
grimmest fashion, replied with an innocent air of surprise : 

' Oh, so the successful candidate was the person you spoke 
about, Mrs. Douglas, was he ? Well, I'm sure, we had none 
ol us the very faintest idea of it.* 



FORTUNE FA VOURS THE BRA VE 123 

But, nevertheless, it is a historical fact, not to be blinked, 
that when the Senior Proctor passed on the papers to his 
brother examiners for consideration, Paul Gascoyne's essay 
went on top, marked in plain words, * Optime meritus est. — 
P. H. W.' and it is equally certain that the other examiners, 
glancing hastily over them with an uncritical eye, one and 
all endorsed Mr. Wayles' opinion. From which facts it 
may be gathered that, though Paul Gascoyne*s Marl- 
borough Essay was really and truly one of the most bril- 
liant ever submitted to the Board of Examiners, and, 
though favouritism of any kind is unknown at Oxford, it is 
^One the les^ a very useful thing to have a Mrs. Douglas 
of your own on hand to say a good word foi: you whenever 
convenient;. 

Bat Paiiil had no idea of all these hidden springs of 
action in the Senior Proctor and his esteemed colleagues 
wh^n a week or so before the end of the term he read, all 
trembling, a notice posted on the door of the schools : 

* The Board of Examiners for the Marlborough Historical 
Essay, Chichele Foundation, have awarded the Prize of 
jifty Guineas to Paul Gascoyne, Commoner of Christ 
Church.' 

His heart beat high as he read tk^i^ Wj^^' ^^^ ^^^ 
knees reeled under him. So next term, at l^yi^^ ^^, sai^ 
IrPO^ Mv* Solomons I 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTER XVII. 

EEVOtUTIONARY SCHEilEa 



CJ^^ EVEBTHE. 

LESS, it waa 
not without 
great damage 
to his own ulti- 
mate chances of 
future success 
that Paul had 
secured this 
momentary tri- 
umph. He was 
able to write 
back to Hill- 
borougb, it is 
true, and assure 
' ; Mr, Solomons 
I he had no fur- 
J thcr need o£ 
assistance for 
the present ; 
but he had lost 
almost a whole 
term, so far as his own reading for the Greats Schools was 
concerned, in that vahant spurt at private pupils. His 
prospects of a First were far more remote now than ever 
before, for a man can't support himself by teaching others, 
and at the same time read hard enough in his spore hours 
to enter into fair competition with his compeers who have 
been able to devote their undivided energies to their own 
education. He had handicapped himself heavily in the 
race for honours. Paul ruefully realized this profound 
^uiJj when be began to worlf on hia o^n a.'iW'in.ti ia thg 




REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES 125 

Easter vacation and summer term. He had a great deal of 
leeway still to make np if he was to present himself in a 
well-prepared condition before the searching scrutiny of 
those dreaded examiners. And on the issue of the examina- 
tion depended, in large measure, his chance of obtaining a 
Fellowship, with the consequent possibility of earning a 
livelihood, and sooner or later repaying Mr. Solomons. 

Spring and the Easter vacation wore away, and summer 
term came back to Oxford. The new green foliage dawned 
once more on the chestnuts by the Cherwell. The Uni- 
versity blossomed out into punts and flannels ; laburnums 
and pink may glorified the parks; ices were in brisk 
demand at Cooper's in the High; and the voice of the 
sister was heard in the tennis-courts, eagerly criticising the 
fraternal service. It was all as delightful and as redolent 
of youth, fizz, and syllabub as Oxford knows how to be, in 
full leaf and in warm June weather. And Paul Gascoyne, 
working hard for Greats in his rooms in Peckwater, was 
nevertheless able to snatch many an afternoon for a pull in 
a four down the river to Newnham, or for a long stroll 
round Cumnor and Shotover with his friend Thistleton. 
Even the shadow of an approaching examination, and the 
remote prospect of being Mr. Solomon's bond- slave for half 
a lifetime, cannot quite kill out in the full heart of youth 
the glory of the green leaf and the fresh vigour of an English 
spring-tide. 

About those days, one morning down at Hillborough, 
Faith Gascoyne, sitting in the window where the clematis 
looked into her small bare bedroom, heard a postman's 
double knock at the door below, and rushed down in haste 
to take the letters. There was only one, but that was en- 
closed in a neat square envelope, of better quality than 
often came to Plowden's Court', and bearing on the flap a 
crest and monogram in delicate neutral colour. It was 
addressed to herself, and bore the Oxford postmark. 
Faith guessed at once from whom it must come ; but none 
the less she tore it open with quivering fingers and read it 
eagerly : 

• My deab Faith * (it began, for that night ai tk<^ ^csvixv\»x:^ 
inn had made Mrs. Pouglas ieel quite «A» \iotj\^ ^\Niki. Hi^^ 
Jfational School mistress), — * I hope 'jo\x "h^wN^iXiX* viNX^^^^^^ 



126 THE SCALLYWAG 

forgotten your implied promise to come and see ine at 
Oxford this term.' 

* How can she say so/ thought Faith, ' the wicked thingi 
when I told her again and again a dozen times over it waa 
absolutely impossible ?' But that was part of Mrs. Douglas's 
insinuating cleverness. 

* Well, my dear little Cornisli friend, Nea Blair, who met 
your brother Paul at Mentone last winter, and was so 
charmed with him, is coming up to stay with us week after 
next ; and as I think it woulA be nicer for both you girls 
to have a little society of your own age, so as not to be 
entirely dependent on an old married woman like me f6r 
entertainment, I want you to manage so that your visit may 
coincide with hers, and then, you know, the same set of 
festivities will do for both of you. Now, isn't that 
economical ? So mind you don't disappoint us, as dozens 
of undergraduates who have seen the photo you gave me 
are dying to make your personal acquaintance, and some of 
them are rich, and as beautiful as Adonis. Please recollect 
I'll stand no excuses, and least of all any that have any 
nonsense in them. Write by return, and tell me, not 
whether you can come or not — that's settled already — ^but 
by what train on Wednesday week we may expect to see 
you. Mr. Douglas will go down to the station to bring you 
up. No refusal allowed. 

' * Ever yours afTectionately, 

'Eleanor Mary Douglas.' 

Then came a peculiarly fetching P.S. : 

* As I have some reason to believe your brother Paul has 
a sneaking regard for my little friend Nea, I think it may 
bo just as well you should come at once and form an opinion 
about her desirability as a possible sister-in-law, before Mr. 
Gascoyne has irrevocably committed himself to her without 
obtaining your previous approbation and consent.' 

Faith laid down the letter on the bed before her, and 
burst at once into a fierce flood of tears. 
It was so terrible to stand so near the accomplishment of 
^m o/ycara, and yet to feel itB te(\.liz.ia,tiou utterly unafr- 



REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES 127 

Ever since Paul first went to Oxford it had been the 
dearest wish of Faith's heart to pay him a visit there. 
Every time he came back to that narrow world of Hill- 
borough with tidings of all he had seen and done since he 
had last been home — of the sights, and the sports, and the 
wines, and the breakfasts, of the free young life and move- 
ment of Oxford, of the colleges and the quads, and the 
walks and the gardens, and of the meadows thronged on 
Show Sunday, of the barges laden with folk for the boat- 
races — the longing to join in it all, for once in her life, had 
grown deeper and deeper in poor Faith's bosom. It was so 
painful to think how near that bright little world was 
brought to her, and yet how distant still, how impos^ble, 
how unattainable I To Paul, her own brother whotfi she 
loved so dearly, and from whom she had learned so mtfch, 
it was all a mere matter of everyday ex*pei*ience ; but to 
her, his sister, flesh of his flesh and blood of his bloody it 
was like the vague murmur of some remote sphere into 
which she could never, never penetrate. And now the mere 
receipt of this easy invitation made her feel more than ever 
the vastness of the gulf that separated her from Oxford. 
Though Paul was in it and of it, as of right, to her it must 
for ever be as Paradise to the Peri. 

So she burst into tears of pure unhappiness. 

She couldn't accept. Of course she couldn't accept. 
For her to go to Oxford was simply impossible. It was all 
very well for Mrs. Douglas to say, in her glib fashion, * I'll 
stand no excuses.' That's always the way with these grand 
folks. They get into the habit of thinking everybody else can 
manage things as easily and simply as they can. But how on 
earth could Faith leave the Infants in the middle of term ? 
To say nothing at all about all the other manifold difficulties 
that stood like lions in the way— how could she get her 
place filled up by proxy ? how could she afford to pay her 
fare to Oxford and back, after having already allowed her- 
self a trip this year down to Dorsetshire for Christmas ? 
and, above all, how could she provide herself with those 
needful frocks for day and night which she must needs wear 
at so grand a place as Mrs. Douglas's, if she didn't wish 
utterly to disgrace Paul in the eyes of tli6fiiDtfe^^5ti^^'t^i^ 
of Oxford ? 

AJJ these manifold possibilities roSo ^^ ^^ <^^^^ \iA<J^ 



128 THE SCALLYWAG 

poor Faith's eyes as she read that exasperating, tantalizing 
letter, and filled them with tears from some interminable 
reservoir. 

And yet how tempting the invitation itself wasl And, 
barring that constant factor of the insensibility of * grand 
people * to their neighbours' limitations, how kindly and 
nicely Mrs. Douglas had written to her ! 

Faith would have given a great deal (if she'd got it) to be 
able to accept that cordial offer and see Oxford. But, then, 
she hadn't got it, and that was just the difficulty. There 
was the rub, as Hamlet puts it. The golden apple was 
dangled almost within her eager reach, yet not even on tip- 
toe could she hope to attain to it. 

When her father came to see the letter at breakfast-time, 
however, to Faith's great and unspeakable surprise he 
turned it over, and, looking across to Mrs. Gascoyne, said 
thoughtfully : 

* Well, missus ?' 

There was an interrogation in his tone which drove Faith 
half frantic. 

* Well, Emery ?' his wife answered with the same intona- 
tion. 

' Couldn't us manage this any'ow, mother ?' the British 
baronet continued, looking hard at the monogram. 

*No, we couldn't, Emery, I'm afraid,' Mrs. Gascoyno 
made answer. 

And that was all Faith heard about it then. Her heart 
sank once more like lead to the recesses of her bosom. 

But as soon as she was gone to endure the Infants once 
more, as best she might, the baronet paused as he pulled on 
his boots, in preparation for meeting the 8.40 down, and 
observed mysteriously to his better-half in a confidential 
undertone, with a nod towards the door whence Faith had 
just issued, * You don't think we could do it, then, mother, 
don't you ?' 

Mrs. Gascoyne hesitated. * It'd cost a power o' money, 
Emery,' she answered dubiously. 

The baronet gazed at the fire with an abstracted air. 

' We've made very great sacrifices for our Paul, missus,' he 

said with emphasis, after a short pause, during which he 

seemed to be screwing himself up lor action ; * we've made 

^ry great sacriGcea for our Paul, hayen't uaT 



REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES 129 

* Yes, Emery/ his wife answered, with a wistful look, * I 
don't deny we've made very great sacrifices/ And then she 
relapsed for a moment into thoughtful silence. 

* 'Taint as if we was bound to pay every penny we get to 
Solomons,' the husband and father went on again. * Now 
Paul's of age, 'e's took over a part of the responsibility, 
mother.' 

' That's so, Emery,' Mrs. Gascoyne assented. 

'The way I look at it is this,' the baronet wont on, 
glancing up argumentatively, and beating time with his 
pipe to the expression of his opinion, like one who expects 
to encounter more opposition. * We've made very great 
sacrifices for Paul, we 'ave, an' wy shouldn't us expeck to 
make some sort o' sacrifices for Faith as well ? That's 'ow 
I putts it.' 

'There's reason in that, no doubt,' Mrs. Gascoyno 
admitted very timorously. 

* Now, there's that bill o' the Colonel's,' her husband con- 
tinued in a most pugnacious tone, taking down his ledger. 
* Seventeen pound fourteen and tuppence — bin owin' ever 
since last Christmas twelvemonth. If only the Colonel 
could be got to pay up like a man — and I'll arst him myself 
this very day : Faith won't go becos he always swears at 'er 
— there ain't no reason as I can see wy Faith mightn't be 
let go up to Oxford.' 

' 'Ow about the Infants?' Mrs. Gascoyno interposed. 
'Infants bo bio wed I Drat them Infants 1' her husband 
answered energetically. 

* It's all very well drattin' 'em, as far as that'll go,' Mrs. 
Gascoyno answered with feminine common-sense ; * but 
they won't be dratted without a substitoot. She's got to 
find somebody as'll take 'er place with 'em.' 

* I'll find somebody I' the baronet answered with valorous 
resolve. ' Dang it all, missus I if nobody else can't be got 
to teach 'em, wy, I'll give up drivin' and take 'em myself, 
sooner 'n she shouldn't go, you see if I don't.* 

* She've set her heart on goin*,' Mrs. Gascoyne said once 
more, with a maternal sigh. *Poor dear I she's a-longin' 
for it. I wouldn't say nothin' to 'er face about it, for fear 
of makin' 'er too bashful like before you ; but you seen your- 
self, Emery, her eyes was that red and tired vi\t»\i ^t^xxjL 1 

'They was,' the baronet answetei. ^l^^^xi'^^xv \sv'^'e^^&- 



130 THE SCALLYWAG 

An' what I say is this — we've made sacrifices for Paul, very 
great sacrifices, and we're pleased and proud of *im ; so wy 
shouldn't we make sacrifices for Faith as well, as 'asn't so 
many chances in life as 'im of ever enjoyin* of 'erself ?' 

* Wy not, sure?' Mrs. Gascoyne responded. 

* Jest you look at the letter, too,' the baronet went on, 
admiring the monogram and the address in the corner. 

* Anybody could see she was a real tip- topper in a minute 
by that. '* The Red House, Norham Eoad, Oxford." An' 
a crest over her name, same as Lady 'Illborough's 1' 

The crest aifforded both the liveliest satisfaction. 

So, after much confabulation, it was finally resolved that 
the baronet himself should beard the redoubtable Colonel 
In his den that very day, and that if the siege operations in 
that direction turned out a success, Faith should be per- 
mitted to go to Oxford. But meanwhile, for fear of failure, 
it was duly agreed between the two dark conspirators that 
nothing more should be said to Faith on the subject. 

That selfsame evening, while Faith, with a very white 
face and a trembling hand, biting her lips hard all the while 
to keep back the tears, was slowly composiug a suitable 
refusal to Mrs. Douglas, Sir Emery entered, much agitated, 
into the bare liviug-room, his hat on his head and his brow 
steaming, and flung down a cheque on the centre table. 

* There, mother,' he cried, half laughing, half crying himself 
in his joy, * I said I'd do it, an' I've done it, by George ! 
He've paid up the lot — the whole bloomin' lot — seventeen 
pound fourteen and tuppence^' 

Faith glanced up from her letter aghast* 'Who?' she 
cried, seizing the cheque in astonishment. * Oh, father, 
not the Colonel?* 

Her father gave way to a hysterical burst of prolonged 
laughter. ' Well, I thought *e'd 'a kicked me downstairs at 
first,* he said, chuckling, ' but I made un pay me. I says, 
** Such credit, sir," says I, "is clearly onreasonable. I 
don't want to 'urry any gentleman, sir," says I, quite 
respeckful like, my 'at in my hand, *'but if you could any'ow 
make it convenient." An', bless me, missus, if 'e didn't 
whip out 'is cheque-book on the spot, an' after sayin' in a 
'uff I was a impident, presoomin' feller to venture to dun 
nPi *e drawed out a cheque for the lot, an' there it is aforo 
i' BOW, Faith, my girl, you can go to Oxford I' 




■ REVOLUTIONARY SCHEMES 131 

Faith jumped up with tears in her eyes. ' Oh, I couldn't, 
fathor r she criei ' Not that way, I couldn't, It'd seem 
like robbiDg mother and you— and Mr. Solomons.' 

But youth is wealc and time is fleeting. It was her last 
chance to go to Oxford. After a little persuasion and special 
pleading on her mother's part, Faith was brought at last to 
see matters in a different light, and to acquiesce in her 
father's reiterated view, ' What I says is this — we've mado 
sacrifices for Paul, and why shouldn't us make sacrifices tor 
Faith as well, missus?' 

80 the end of it all was that before she went to bed that 
night Faith had indited a second letter to Mrs, Douglas (of 
which she made beforehand at least a dozen rough draughts 
of varying excellence), and that in that letter ehe accepted 
without reserve Mrs. Douglas's kind invitation to Oxford, 
But so profound was her agitation at this delightful prospect 
that she could hardly hold her pen to write tbe words ; and 
after she had finished her first fair copy of the amended 
letter, she threw her head back and laughed violently. 

' What's the matter, dear heart ?' her mother asked, 
leaning over her. 

And Faith, still laughing In hysterical little bursts, made 
answer back, ' Why, I'll have to write it out every bit all 
over again. I'm in such a. stata of mind that what do you 
think I've done? I was jnst going to end it, to Mrs. 
Douglas, "Thanking you for past favours, and hoping for a 
continuance of the same, I remain, your obedient servant 
to command, Emery Gascoyne " I' 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

IN GOOD SOCIETY. 

^HE next week was for Faith a crowded week 
of infinite preparations, There was tba 
question of a sahstitute first to be settled, 
and the price of the substitute's honorarium 
to be fixed (as the hoad-mistress magnilo- 
qaently phrased it), and then there were 

three dresses to ne made forthwith, two for morning and. 

one (or evening — a greater niimb&t tWa. 'Eto.'Ca. '*si»6- «^«^ 




132 THE SCALLYWAG 

before dreamed of ordering in her life all at one fell swoop, 
for her own personal adornment. Little Miss Perkins, the 
dressmaker at Number Five, two pair back, in the Court, 
was in and out of the Gascoynes' all day long, especially at 
lunch-time, measuring and fitting, and receiving instructions; 
for Faith wouldn't trust herself to make with her own hands 
those precious dresses, the neatest and prettiest she had 
ever possessed. But sympathetic little Miss Perkins made 
them as cheaply as she could possibly a£ford, being a friend 
of the family; and the stuffs, though new and graceful, were 
simple and inexpensive ; so that when the bill itself at last 
came in, even Faith wasn't overshocked at the joint price 
of the three, and felt easier in her conscience about her hat 
and flowers. On the Tuesday night when she tried them 
all on, before an admiring committee of the whole house, 
they were unanimously voted to be without exception perfect 
successes ; and a British baronet who chanced to stand by, 
his hat in his hand, remarked approvingly, in a fervour of 
paternal admiration, that he'd driven * more 'n one young 
lady to a ball in his time, an' at great houses too, who 
didn't look one *arf as much the lady as our Faith, God 
bless 'er! in that pretty evenin* dress of 'ers. Why, she 
looked so fine he was 'arf afeard it was takin' a Hberty to 
think o' kissin' 'er.; 

Next afternoon, in a flutter of excitement, Faith took the 
train to London and thence to Oxford, travelling in her old 
Sunday gown and hat, so as not to spoil her new Oxford 
dresses. 

On the way, one thought alone poisoned Faith's enjoy- 
ment, and that was her fixed expectation and belief that 
Nea Blair would be * awfully nasty ' to her. Nea was one 
of those * grand girls/ she knew. Her father was a rector 
down in Cornwall or somewhere — rich, no doubt, for he'd 
sent his daughter abroad for the winter with a lady-com- 
panion; but, at any rate, a beneficed clergyman of the 
Church of England, and, therefore, as Faith read the world 
Bhe lived in, almost to a certainty proud and haughty. Nea 
would have no end of fine new dresses, of course, which 
would throw poor Faith's three cheap gowns entirely into 
the shade ; and as Mrs. Douglas would, no doubt, have told 
her that her fellow-guest was a National School mistress, 
^he would foolishly try to suggest between tViem, aa far as 



IN GOOD SOCIETY 133 

possible, that ' dim spectre of the salt ' that Faith had real 
about in * Lady Geraldine's Courtship/ and whose meaning 
Paul had succinctly explained to her. 

From London to Oxford Faith travelled second cla33, 
permitting herself that hitherto unknown extravagance 
partly from a vague sense that the occasion demanded it, 
but partly also lest Nea should happen to be in the same 
train, and, travelling first herself, should set down Faith as 
an outer barbarian if she saw her descend from a Parlia- 
mentary carriage. At Oxford Station Mrs. Douglas met her 
— Archie was engaged that afternoon on one of thosa horrid 
boards, she said, delegates of lodging-houses, or something 
equally dull and uninteresting — so she'd come down instead 
in her proper person to hunt up their luggage. What a pity 
they two hadn't travelled together ! 

'Is Miss Blair in the same train, then?' Faith asked as 
she descended. 

* Oh yes,' Mrs. Douglas answered. * I see her just back 
there. Come along, Faith. Nea, this is Mr. Gascoyne's 
sister. Now, my dears, what have you done with your 
luggage ?' 

* Mine's in the van there,* Faith said, pointing vaguely 
forward. 

* And mine's partly under the seat,' Nea said, directing a 
porter at the same time to get out a small portmanteau 
from — wonder of wonders 1 — a third-class carriage. 

Three hot, disagreeable feelings or ideas rose at once ia 
Faith's mind. The first was that Nea Blair had travelled 
third on purpose, because she thought she might meet her. 
The second was that she herself had wasted the difference 
in the fares all for nothing. And the third was that she 
hoped Mrs. Douglas wouldn't betray to Nea the fact that 
the National School mistress had come down second. It 
was just like these nasty grand girls' condescension to 
travel third on purpose to put one out of countenance. 

Mrs. Douglas, however, didn't play her false, and the 
three went off to fetch Nea's other box, which was so big 
that Faith fairly trembled to think how many evening 
dresses might not be in it. They drove up together to the 
creeper-clad villa, and Faith, for the very first time in her 
life, found herself actually in good aocvet^. 

She went up to her room very nexvoxxa \xi^a^^> ^\A\k^^pi 



134 THE SCALLYWAG 

to get ready for dinner hastily. She put on her one evening 
frock with many doubts as to what Nea would wear, and 
went down at last, a few minutes before the bell rang, into 
the drawing-room. 

Nea was there before her, in a dress still simpler and 
more unstudied than her own; and as Faith entered she 
drew her over instinctively somehow to the sofa with a 
friendly gesture. 

* Oh, what a sweet gown !' she cried in unaffected admi- 
ration, as Faith seated herself by her side ; and, indeed, 
Faith did look very beautiful, with her lustrous black hair 
knotted neatly in a roll at the back of her head, and her 
dark eyes and olive complexion thrown up by the delicate 
colour of her dainty foulard. 

' You'll be tired enough of it before you go, I expect,' 
Faith answered defiantly, ' for it's the only evening frock 
I've got, and I shall have to wear it every night while I stop 
here.' Her very pride compelled her to fling her poverty 
unprovoked thus point-blank at the unoffending faces of 
others. 

* Oh, of course I One doesn't bring a whole stock of 
dresses with one for a short visit like this,* Nea answered, 
smiling ; * and this one's so pretty, one could never get 
tired of it. I think that's the best of simple gowns — they 
always look well if you wear them for ever ; and nobody 
ever notices they've seen them before, because they're so 
unobtrusive. Whereas, if one has a showy, striking dress, 
and wears it often, it attracts attention, and then everybody 
says, ** Oh I that's the same old thing she wore last season, 
don't you know, at the So and-so's I'* * 

' That's just what I thought,' Faith answered, trying to 
look unconcerned, ' when I ordered this one.* 

'And I always say,' Nea went on, glancing down at her 
own little quiet cashmere, ' if one's poor, one should buy the 
simplest possible things, which never look out of place, and 
never go out of fashion.' 

She said it in the sense Good Society always says such 

things in — the purely relative sense which regards the 

country parson's endowment as polite poverty ; and she was 

thinking really of her own wardrobe, not of Faith Gascoyne's. 

JBu6 Faith, like all the rest of us, chose to accept the remark 

/rp/a hor own standpoint, according to which. "S^^n^X^ix^^^ 



IN GOOD SOCIETY 135 

a ' nasty grand girl,* a representative of wealth, rank, class, 
and fashion. * If one's poor,' she answered, flaring up in- 
ternally, ' one must buy what one can aJBford ; but that's no 
reason why one should be dictated to in that, or in anything 
else, by others.* For in the phrase * one should buy the 
simplest possible things,* Faith thought she detected the 
hateful didactic leaven of the District Visitor. 

By a rare flash of intuition — due, perhaps, to her pro- 
foundly sympathetic and affectionate nature — Nea divined 
with an instinctive insight the nature of the error into which 
Faith had fallen, and hastened to remove it as delicately as 
possible. * Oh, I don't mean that I do it to please ofcher 
people,* she answered, with her winning smile ; * I do it to 
please myself. Papa never dreams for a minute of dictating 
to me about dress. I get my allowance four times a year, 
and I spend it as seems best to me.* 

Faith coloured up with regret for her foolish mistake, 
which she couldn't fail now to recognise. ' But you're not 
poor,* she said with a marked emphasis. 

* We're certainly not rich,* Nea replied, looking down so 
as not to meet those half-angry eyes. * Of course, these 
things are all comparative. But I have to be very careful 
of my expenses.* 

* Well, but you went abroad for the whole winter with a 
companion,* Faith objected sternly. 

' Oh, that was a very special thing, because I'd been ill. 
Papa did that, not because ho was rich, but because he was 
BO anxious to make me well again.' 

' I see,' Faith answered, and wished to herself people 
wouldn't use words in such unnatural senses. Talk about 
being poor, indeed, when you're a beneficed clergyman of the 
Church of England, and can send your daughter to a good 
hotel on the Eiviera, with a hired companion to be her 
guardian and chaperon I 

Presently the Douglases themselves came down, and the 
four went in to dinner together. ' We haven't asked any- 
body to meet you, this first evening, Nea,' Mrs. Douglas 
said, * because we thought you'd be tired after your long 
journey; but your brother's coming in for a chat after 
dinner. Faith ; as he and Nea are old friends, you know> 
we thought he wouldn't matter. kuQi^i^'^ %c^xv% Vci \ft\a%^ 
young Thistleton of Christ 01tiurc\v -^^VOii^i^m? 



136 . THE SCALLYWAG 

Faith almost shook in her chair at the terrible prospect. 
However would she get on, she wondered, with all these 
fine people thrust at once upon her? Good Society began 
positively to appal her. 

DJaoer, however, passed off very well. With Mrs. 
Douglas herself Faith felt quite at home now; and the Pro- 
fessor, though prodigiously learned, was a very pleasant 
man. Faith thought, with lots of fun in him. Nea didn't 
always understand what ho said, apparently ; and it struck 
Faith with some little surprise that Nea seemed on the 
whole to know less about the subjects Mr. Douglas discussed 
than she herself did. And yet Nea had had the very best 
edtfcation 1 Strange, then, that she thought the Prometheus 
was written by Sophocles, when Faith, who had read it 
through in PauPs Bohn, couldn't imagine how anyone could 
mistake the ^schylean touch in it. And then she had 
never even heard of Shelley's * Prometheus Unbound ' ! 
Faith began to consider her quite a little ignoramus. 

The fact was. Faith's whole days had been spent at home 
(or with the Infants) and among Paul's books, and her one 
native longing and desire in life was for more culture. 
Hence, like many self-educated people, she had a wide 
though not a deep knowledge of books and things, exactly 
suited to make a brilliant show in general society; while 
Nea, whose tastes were by no means learned, had only 
acquired the ordinary English schoolgirl's stock of know- 
ledge, and was far behind Faith in everything that pertains 
to general education. 

The Professor, for liis part, being an easy-going man, soon 
found out that Faith and he had most in common, and 
addressed his conversation mainly to her throughout the 
dinner. This flattered Faith and gave her confidence. Sh^e 
began to suspect that, after all, she might be able to hofd 
her own fairly in Oxford, if one of the very heads of that 
learned society thought her not wholly unworthy of wasting 
his time upon. Appreciation brought out her best points, 
as opposition did her worst; and before the end of the 
dinner she was positively brilliant. 

Once, too, in the course of it, she discovered to her sur- 
prise another little point of superiority to Nea. The 
Cornkh girl had been talking of her experiences at Men- 
^one, and bad been particularly kind in her remarks about 



IN GOOD SOCIETY 137 

Paul, which made Faith's face flush once mofe, but this 
time with pleasure. There was nothing she loved like 
having Paul appreciated. 

* You weren't at the same hotel, though/ she said after 
awhile. * I suppose yours was a much bigger and a more 
expensive one ?' 

* Oh dear no I' Nca answered simply ; * your brother and 
Mr. Thistleton were at the swell place ; but Madame 
Ceriolo took me to quite a foreign house, that she liked 
much better, partly because it was cheap; and partly be- 
cause her tastes are avyfully cosmopolitan. I never was in 
such polyglot society in my life before. We had Poles, 
Hungarians, Greeks, Germans, Swedes, and Bussians at 
table d'hdte beside us.' 

' Dear me,' Faith exclaimed, * how awkward that must 
have been I You must have ifelt every time you opened 
your mouth that the eyes of Europe were upon you.' 

* I did,' Nea an&wered, with an amused smile. * But as 
they didn't understand me, it didn't much matter.' 

* The conversation was all in French, of course,' Faith 
went on innocently. 

* With the foreigners, oh yes ! But I don't speak French 
myself at all fluently — not anything like as well as Mr. 
Gascoyne, for example. He speaks just beautifully.* 

* Oh, I don't consider Paul's a very good accent/ Faith 
answered with easy confidence. * We learnt together when 
we were quite little things, he and I, and I know he could 
never pronounce his r's with the right amount of rolling, or 
distinguish between words like " tremper" and '* tromper." 
This is how Paul speaks,' and she repeated a few lines of 
one of Victor Hugo's odes that they had read together, in 
perfect mimicry of the few English faults in her brother's 
pronunciation. They were merely the minor tricks of 
intonation which must almost inevitably persist in any 
foreigner's mouth, however profound his acquaintance with 
the language ; but Faith's quick feminine ear detected them 
at once, compared with Mademoiselle Clarice's Parisian flow, 
and her ready tongue imitated them absolutely to perfection. 

Nea listened, lost in amazement. ' I shouldn't know that 
wasn't the purest Paris accent,' she answered, half iealouA 
on Paul's account. * I thought myae\t "MLy, (a«i.'&^o^xife «^0«a 
f^dmirabJj^' 



I3S THE SCALLYWAG 

* Oh no ; this is how it ought to be/ Faith answered, now 
quite at home. And she delivered the lines in excellent 
French as Mademoiselle Clarice herself might have said 
them, only with infinitely more appreciation of their literary 
vigour. 

Nea was astonished. * You speak splendidly/ she said. 
* I'd give anything myself to he able to speak that way/ 

* Oh, I've spoken it ever since I was two years old,* Faith 
answered olBfhand — for, to her, it seemed the most common- 
place accomplishment on earth to be able to talk like the 
French lady's-maid. But to Nea it was proof of a con- 
summate education. 

After dinner they rose and went into the drawing-room, 
Faith feeling rather awkward once more, now, as to how to 
proceed, and keeping her eyes firmly fixed on everything 
Nea did for guidance. 

Presently Paul and his friend came in. Faith walked 
towards the door with what self-possession she could, most 
conscious of her gait as she crossed the room and kissed her 
brother. Then she turned and was introduced to the 
blond young man. Why, what a curious thing Paul 
should never have told her 1 The blond young man was 
extremely handsome. 

Paul had always described Thistleton as a very good 
fellow and all that sort of thing, but had never enlarged in 
the least upon his personal appearance ; and Faith had 
somehow imbibed the idea that the blond young man was 
stumpy and unpleasant. Perhaps it was because she had 
heard he was rich, and had therefore vaguely mixed him up 
in her own mind with the Gorgius Midas junior of Mr. Du 
Maurier's sketches in Punch, But certainly, when she saw 
a fine, well-built young fellow of six feet one, with intelligent 
eyes, and a pleasing, ingenuous, frank countenance, she 
failed to recognise in him altogether the Thistleton of whom 
her brother had told her. The blond young man took her 
fancy at once, so much so that she felt shy at the idea of 
talking to him. 

For to Faith it was a very great ordeal indeed, this 

sudden introduction to a society into which, till this 

niomenb, she had never penetrated. The very size and 

roominess of tho apartments — though the Douglases' house 

r^^as by no means a large one — the brilliancy ol \Jci^ ^%.'^,"Osi^ 



IN GOOD SOCIETY 139 

lightness of the costume, the flowers and decorations, the 
fluffiness and airiness, and bright colour of everything, 
fairly took her breath away. She felt herself moving in a 
new world of gauze and glitter. And then to be seated in 
these novel surroundings, to undertake conversation of an 
unrehearsed kind with unknown strangers, it was almost 
more than Faith's equanimity was proof against. But she 
bore up bravely, nevertheless, for very shame, and answered 
at first, almost as in a dream, all that the blond young man 
said to her. 

Thistleton, however, had no such difficulties, for he was 
bom rich ; and he talked away so easily and pleasantly 
to the National School mistress about things she really took 
an interest in and understood, that at the end of an hour 
she was hardly afraid of him, especially as he seemed so 
fond of Paul, and so proud and pleased about his Marl- 
borough Essay. 

* I wanted to bet him ten to one in fivers he'd get it/ 
Thistleton remarked, all radiant ; ' but he wouldn't bet. He 
knew he was sure of it, and he wasn't going to hedge. And 
all the House was awfully glad of it. Why, the Dean him- 
self called him up and congratulated him I' 

As for Paul, he talked most of the time to Nea, w^ith 
occasional judicious interventions on Mrs. Douglas's part, 
who was never so pleased as when she could make young 
people happy. 

When they took their departure that evening Faith said 
to her hostess, * What a very nice young man that Mr. 
Thistleton is 1' As a matter of fact, it was the very first 
opportunity she had ever had of talking to any young man 
of decent education and gentlemanly manners on equal 
terms, except her own brother, and she was naturally 
pleased with him. 

Mrs. Douglas shrugged her shoulders a little bit — almost 
as naturally as Madame Ceriolo. 

* Do you think so ?' she said. * Well, he's nice enough, I 
suppose ; but his manners haven't that repose that stamps 
the caste of Vere de Vere, somehow. He's a trifle too 
boisterous for my taste, you know. Good-hearted, of course, 
and all that sort of thing, but not with th.^^ ^Wjk^ ^V ^Nsis^ 
Blood about bim,' 

'Oh, nonsense, mj dear Eleanor,' ttx^ '2tol^'5>^ox ^^^^x^^^^a^ 



i;o THE SCALLYWAG 

\^ith a good round mouth. * The young fellow's as well 
behaved as most earls in England, and, if it comes to that, 
a great deal better.' 

' I'm so glad you say so, Mr. Douglas,' Faith put in with 
a smile — * that it's nonsense, I mean — for I should have 
been afraid to.* 

* Well, but really, Faith,* Mrs. Douglas retorted, * he isn't 
fit to hold a candle any day to your brother Paul.' 

' I should think not, indeed I' Nea exclaimed immediately, 
with profound conviction. * Why, Mr. Gaseoyne's just 
worth a thousand of him I' 

Faith turned with a grateful look to Nea for that kindly 
sentence ; and yet she would have liked the praise of Paul 
all the better if it hadn't been contrasted with dispraise of 
Mr. Thistleton. For her part, she thought him a mcsb 
delightful young man, and was only sorry he was so dread- 
fully rich, and therefore, of course, if one got to know him 
better, no doubt nasty. 

They parted in the passage outside Faith's bedroom, and 
Nea, as she said * Good-night, dear,' to her new friend, 
leant forward to kiss her. Faith hesitated for a moment : 
she wasn't accustomed to cheapen her embraces in the 
usual feline feminine manner, and as yet she didn't feel 
sure of Nea ; but next instant she yielded, and pressed her 
companion's hand. * Thank you so much,' she said with 
tears in her eyes, and darted into her room. But Nea didn't 
even so much as know for what she thanked her. 

Faith meant for not having been * grand * and crushed 
her. To herself she was always the National School 
mistress. 

But Nea saw in her only a graceful, handsome, well-read 
girl, and Paul Gascoyne's sister. 

So ended Faith Gascoyne's first equally dreaded and 
longed-for evening in Good Society. 

Outside the Douglases' door Thistleton paused and looked 
at his friend. 

* Why, Gascoyne,* he said, * you never told me what a 
beautiful girl your sister was, and so awfully clever I' 

Paul smiled. * As a rule,* he said, * men don't blow the 
trumpet for their own female relations.' 
Thistleton accepted the explanation in silence, and walked 
fiJon^ mute tor twQ or three miautes. Then. \ie \>e^^Ti.^«^\tt^ 



IDYLS OF YOUTH 



141 



ftlinoat as it to himself : ' But this one,' he said, ' is so ex- 
ceptionally beautiful' 

Paul wa3 aware of an uncomfortable sensation at (ho 
base of his throat, and diverted the conversation to the 
chances of a bump on the first night of the races- 



CHAPTEK SIS. 

IDYLS OP YOUTH, 

|0 Faith those ten 
delicious days 
at Oxford were a 
dream fulfilled— 
pure gold, every ono 
of them. How glo- 
rious were those 
strolls round Magda- 
len cloisters ; those 
fresh morning walks 
in Christ Church 
meadows; those 
aFtcrnoon lounges 
in the cool nooks of 
Wadbam Gardens I 
How grand the 
tower of Mer- 
ton loomed up 
in the moon- 
light; how 
noble was the 
profipect of the 
crowded High, 
with the steeple 
of St. Mary's 
and Land's porch in the middle distance, viewed from the 
stone steps of Queen's or University I How she loved 
each mouldering pinnacle of Oriel, each vaulted boss in 
the great root of Christ Church 1 What delightful after- 
noon teas in Tom Quad; wbat luxutiouaWft^VMlwa'wi.'iQSi 
Now BuUdioga at Balliol t To tte '^eX.voxtsX ^jijc*/^ -cia- 




142 THE SCALLYWAG 

tress, fresh from the din of the Infants and the narrow pre- 
cincts of Plowden's Court, the height and breadth and cahn 
and glory of those majestic colleges were something un- 
known, unpictured, unfancied. Even after all Paul had 
told her, it eclipsed and effaced her best ideal. She had 
only one pang — that she must so soon leave it all. 

And what a grand phantasmagoria it produced in her 
mind, that whirling week of unparalleled excitement ! In 
the morning, to view the Bodleian or the Eadcliffe, to walk 
under the chestnuts on the Cherwell bank, or to admire 
from the bridge the soaring tower of Magdalen. At mid-day, 
to lunch in some undergraduate's quarters, or with bearded 
dons in some panelled common-room : for Mrs. Douglas 
was known to be the best of hostesses, and whoever saw 
Oxford under her auspices was sure not to lack for enter- 
tainment or for entertainments. In the afternoon, to float 
down the river to Iffley in c^ tub pair ; or to lounge on 
padded punts under the broad shade of Addison's Walk ; or 
to drink tea in rooms looking out over the Benaissance 
court of St. John's; or to hear the anthem trilled from 
sweet boyish throats in New College Chapel. In the even- 
ing, to dine, at home or abroad, in varied company; to 
listen to some concert in the hall of Exeter ; or to see the 
solemn inner quad of Jesus incongruously decked out with 
Japanese lanterns and hanging lights for a Cymric festival. 
A new world seemed to open out all at once before her. A 
world all excitement, pleasure, and loveliness. 

Topmost girls brought up in quiet cultivated homes, a 
visit to Oxford is one long whirl of dissipation. To Faith, 
brought up in the cabman's cottage, it was a perfect revela- 
tion of art, life, and beauty. It sank into her soul like first 
love. If you can imagine a bird's-eye view of Florence, 
Paris, and educated society rolled into one, that is some- 
thing like what those ten days at Oxford were to Faith 
Gascoyne. 

Every night Nea Blair went out with her, and every 
night, to Faith's immense surprise, Nea wore the samo 
simple cashmere dress she had worn at Mrs. Douglas's that 
first evening. It made Faith feel a great deal more at home 
with her ; after three days, indeed, she quite got over her 
fear of Nea. Nea was so gentle, so sweet, so kind, it was 
jmposaible for anybody long to resist her. By the third 



IDYLS OF YOUTH 143 

evening they were sworn friends, and when Faith went up 
with her after the little carpet- dance to bed, it was actually 
with her arm round the * grand girl's * waist that she 
mounted the staircase. 

On the morning of their fourth day at Oxford they were 
walking in the High with Mrs. Douglas — on their way to 
visit the reredos at All Souls' — when just outside the doors 
of the Mitre Nea was suddenly stopped by a golden -haired 
apparition. 

*0h my, momma I' the apparition exclaimed in a fine Penn- 
sylvanian twang, * if here ain't Nea Blair as large as life and 
twice as nat'ral I Well, now, I do call that jest lovely I To 
think we should meet you here again, Nea ! But I felt like 
it, somehow; I said to momma this morning as we were 
unloading the baggage down at the cars, ** I shouldn't be a 
bit surprised if Nea Blair's at Oxford." I knew you were 
coming up this summer term, you know, to visit friends, 
and I kind of guessed we should probably synchronize.' 

*Nea, my dear,' Mrs. Douglas remarked with chilly 
dignity, * will you introduce your acquaintances ?' 

For Mrs. Douglas's British back was considerably stiffened 
by the newcomer's obvious lack of the Vere de Vere emo- 
tional temperament. 

* This is Miss Boy ton,* Nea said, presenting her ; * she 
was with us at Men tone. And this is Mrs. Boyton.* 

For where Isabel was, there her mother sank naturally 
into the background. 

' Yes ; and, my dear, weVe only just arrived 1 We wired 
to Mr. Thistleton to engage rooms for us at the Mitre. 
There's another hotel at Oxford, he told us — the Eandolph 
— but it doesn't sound so mediaeval and English and aristo- 
cratic as the Mitre. And now we've come out to look 
around a bit and see the city.' 

* Oh, you're Mr. Thistle ton's guests, are you ?' Faith asked 
with a faint undercurrent of suspicion, for she didn't half 
like this sudden intrusion of the golden-haired Pennsyl- 
vanian upon her special undergraduate. Though she had 
only been three days at Oxford, Thistleton had already 
been most marked in his politeness, and Faith, though 
innocent as a child of ulterior designs upon the rich young 
man, didn't want to have his immediate kind attei^t^vyc^^ 
diverted upon others. 



144 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Yes, indeed,* Isabel answered. * WeVe gotten our own 
rooms for ourselves at the Mitre, of course, but we expect 
Mr. Thistleton to walk us around and give us a good timi 
while we stop in Oxford. Momma and I are looldng 
forward to enjoying ourselves all the time. Oh, don't the 
place look jest lovely !' 

* It is lovely,' Nea said ; * I always enjoy it so much. 
But why did you telegraph to Mr. Thistleton, instead of 
Mr. Gascoyne ? We saw so much more of Mr, Gascoyne at 
Mentone.* 

* Well, to toll you the truth,' Isabel answered, * I didn't 
jest feel like asking Mr. Gascoyne ; while that young 
Thistleton fellow — he's a real good sort, but only a boy, you 
know, so I didn't mind asking him.' 

* This is Mr. Gascoyne's sister,' Nea said, with a slight 
wave towards Faith, who stood irresolute in the background. 
' She's stopping with me at Mrs. Douglas's. We're going 
jast now to see one of the colleges — All Souls'.' 

* Well, I don't mind if we catch on to it,' Isabel answered 
briskly. * We've jest come out to see what the place is 
like, and one college '11 do for us, I presoom, as well as 
another. According to the guide, the city must bo full of 
them.' 

Mrs. Douglas knocked under with condescending tact. 
She recollected that Nea had told her Miss Boyton was 
rich ; and, after all, there are always lots of nice young men 
lying about loose who'd be glad to pick up with a rich and 
pretty American. 

* If your mamma and you would like to join our party,' 
she said with her best second-class smile (Mrs. Douglas's 
smiles were duly graduated for all ranks of society), *I'm 
sure we shall be delighted. Any friends of Nea's are always 
welcome to us.' 

So from that moment forth the Boytons were duly ac- 
cepted as part and parcel of Mrs. Douglas's set during that 
crowded race- week. They went everywhere with Faith and 
Nea, and shared in most of the undergraduate feasts which 
Mrs. Douglas offered vicariously for her young friends' 
amusement. Undergraduate Oxford loves anything fresh, 
and Isabel Boyton's freshness, at any rate, was wholly 
bejond dispute. Before the week was out, the golden-haired 
I^ennsjlvanian had become a feature ia Christ Churchy and 



IDYLS OF YOUTH 145 

even betting was offered in Peckwater whether or not Gas* 
coyne would marry her. 

The same evening Mrs. Douglas gave her first dinner- 
party for her two guests, and as they sat in the drawing- 
room, just before the earliest outsider arrived, Mrs. Douglas 
turned to Faith (Nea hadn't yet come down) and remarked 
parenthetically : 

' Oh, by the way, Mr. Thistleton will take you in to 
dinner, my dear. He'll go after your brother Paul, and 
then Mr. Wade '11 take in Nea.* 

Faith shrank back a little alarmed. 

* Oh, but tell me, Mrs. Douglas,* she cried, somewhat 
shamefaced, * why mayn't I go last ? I don't want to go in 
before Nea.' 

Mrs. Douglas shook her head in most dscided disapproval. 

* It can't be helped, my child,' she said. * It's not my 
arrangement. I've got nothing on earth to do with settling 
the table of precedence. It's the Lord Chamberlain who 
has long ago decided once for all that your brother Paul, as 
a baronet's son, walks in before young Thistleton, and that 
you, as a baronet's daughter, walk in before Nea.* 

Faith gave a little gesture of extreme dissatisfaction. 
This playing at baronetcy was to her most distasteful. 

' I can't bear ib,' she cried. * Do, dear Mrs. Douglas, as 
a special favour, let Nea at least go in before me.' 

But Mrs. Douglas was inflexible. * No, no,' she said ; 

* none of your nasty Eadical levelling ways for me, turning 
society topsy-turvy with your new-fangled ideas, and all 
just to suit your own unbridled fancy. People of quality 
must behave as sich. If you happen to be born a baronet's 
daughter you must take precedence of a country parson's 
girl. Noblesse oblige. That's the price you have to pay for 
being born in an exalted station in life. You must fulfil the 
duties that belong to your place in society.' 

So, with a very bad grace, poor Faith yielded. 
When Nea came down. Faith observed with surprise that 
she was wearing even now the same simple cashmere dress 
as on the first night of her visit. Faith had expected that 
for this special function at least Nea would have appeared 
arrayed, like Solomon, in all her glory. But no ; the plain 
cashmere was still to the front, as invarm\Ae «*^"^«A?Oci% o^> 
dtfUcah iouhvd. A curious thouaVit fLa^VieSi ^.cto^^ "S^\V^% 



146 THE SCALLYWAG 

mind : Could the ' grand girl ' herself, as she still sometimes 
thought her, have brought but one evening dress in her box, 
just as she herself had done ? 

For, after all, Faith began to observe that, in a deeper 
sense than she had at first expected, we are all in the last 
resort built of much the same mould, and that the diliVr- 
ences of high and low are a great deal more mere differences 
of accent, speech, and dress than of intellect or emotion. 

That evening Mr. Thistleton, she thought, was more 
attentive to her than ever ; and when she spoke to him once 
about the golden-haired apparition that had flashed upon 
them in the High Street from the Mitre that morning, ho 
only laughed good-humouredly, and remarked, with tolerant 
contempt, that Miss Boyton was ' real racy ' of American 
soil, and that her mamma was a most amiable and unobtru- 
sive, old Egyptian mummy. 

* You saw a good deal of her at Mentone, I suppose,' 
Faith said, looking up at him from her niche in the ottoman. 

* Yes, and heard a good deal of her, too,' Thistleton an- 
swered, smiling. ' She wasn't born to blush unseen, that 
excellent Miss Boyton. Wherever she gees she makes her- 
self felt. She's amusing, that's all: one endures her because 
one gets such lots of fun out of her.' 

'But she's very rich, Paul says,' Faith murmured 
abstractedly. 

* Oh, they grow 'em very rich in America, I fancy,' the 
blond young man replied with careless ease. * So do we 
in Yorkshire, too ; we don't set much store by that up in 
the North, you know. People are all rolling in money with 
us in Sheffield. To be rich up there is positively vulgar, as 
far as that goes. The distinguished thing in the North is 
to be poor but cultured. It's almost as fashionable as being 
poor but honest used once to be in Sunday-school literature.' 

' Still, she's pretty, don't you think, in her own way ?' 
Faith asked, pleading Miss Boyton's case out of pure per- 
versity, 

* She's pretty enough, if you go in for prettiness,' the 
blond young man retorted, with a glance of admiration at 
Faith's own raven hair and great speaking eyes. * I don't 
myself — I don't like women to be pretty.' 

* Don't like them to bo pretty !' Faith repeated aghast. 
^JVo/ the blond young man ic]gU(id stoutly » *I prefer 



IDYLS OF YOUTH W 

beauty to prettiness. I never carel much for tow-haired 
dolls. Eyes with a soul in them are much more to my 
taste. Besides/ he added, breaking off suddenly, * she's not 
quite our sort, you know, Miss Gascoyne.* 

' Our sort T Faith echoed interrogatively, taken aback at 
the inclusiveness of that first person plural. *I — I don't 
quite understand you.' 

* Well, your sort, then,' the blond young man corrected, 
with imperturbable good-humour, *if you won't let me 
reckon myself in the same day with you. I mean, she's 
not a person of any birth or position or refinement ; she's a 
pai-venue, you know, a perfect parvemie. I don't mean to 
say I go in for a Plantagenet ancestry myself,* he continued 
quickly, seeing Faith was trying hard to put in a word and 
interrupt him ; * but I don't like people quite so freshly 
fledged as she is. I prefer them with some tincture of 
poUte society.' 

Faith blushed up to the eyes with some strange sense of 
shame. It was so novel a position for her to find herself in, 
that she hardly knew how to brazen it out. * She was very 
well received at Mentone,' she stammered out uneasily. 

* At Mentone ? Oh yes ; in a cosmopolitan place like 
that one can swallow anybody — why, we even swallowed 
Miss Blair's chaperon, that delightful little humbug and 
adventuress, Madame Ceriolo, who anywhere else in the 
world would have been utterly impossible. But, hang it 
all ! you know. Miss Gascoyne, you wouldn't like your own 
brother, now, for instance, to marry her ?' 

Faith looked down, and hardly knew what to say. * If 
ever Paul marries,' she answered at last, speaking out her 
whole heart, * I should like him to marry — someone more 
worthy of him.' 

As she spoke she lifted her eyes again, and met Nea 
Blair's, who, seated close by, had just caught by accident 
the last few words of their conversation. Nea let her glance 
fall upon the carpet, and coloured faintly. Then Faith felt 
sure, with an instinctive certainty, that Nea was not wholly 
indifferent to her penniless brother. 

When they went upstairs that night again, they sat long 
talking in Nea's room, till their candles had burnt low in 
the sockets. They talked unrestrainedly^ , \\kft X^^^Ok \iwe»^\£L 
frienda Faith wasn't afraid any longex ol \Jcia ^ ^^xA ^qA^ 



148 THE SCALLYWAG 

She -was more at home with Nea than she had ever been 

with anybody else, except Paul, before. Ab she rose at last, 
reluctantly, to go to bed, she held Nea'a hand a long time in 
hers. ' Kea,' she said, pressiog it hard, ' how atrenge it all 
Beems ! I was bo afraid to meet you only four days since— 
though it's like a year now, for every day's been so crammed 
with pleasure — and to-night I cao't bear to think 3!Ve got 
to go back BO soon to my school oqco more, and my dull 
routine, and my petty bfe, and never again see anything 
more of you. It's been all hke a beautiful, beautiful 
dream — -meeting you here, and all the rest — and I shall 
£eel so sad to have to go away by-and-by and leave it all.' 

' Perhaps we shall meet often again in future, now we've 
once got to know and love each other,' Nea answered, sooth- 
ing her. 

Faith turned with the candle in her hand to go. Great 
tears were in her eyes. She trembled violently, 

' No, no,' she said ; ' I sometimes think it's all a mistake 
ever for a moment to come out of one's native sphere. It 
makes the revulsion seem all the worse when you have to 
go back to it,' 



CHAPTEB XX. 

BSEAEING THE ICE. 

^HE row up the river to Eneham was delight- 
ful: the sky was blae, the meadows were 
green, the water was clear, and the libes 
that lolled like Oriental beauties on its top 
were snow-white and golden. Only one 
thing damped Faith's and Nea's happiness 
— it was the last day of their visit to Oxford. 

They had much to regret. The gardens were so beauti- 
ful, the colleges so calm, the river so peaceful— and the 
two youDg men had been bo very attentive. 

Faith wondered how, after Mr. Thiatleton's open and 

unaffected homage, she could ever endure the booFiBh 

politeness of the few young fellows ebe saw from time to 

time after rare intervEUs at Hlllborough. Nea wondered 

% a/ter eyeing bo much oi tk&t iiiie Ht. Q^ajaco^ne at 




BREAKING THE ICE 149 

Men tone and Oxford, she could ever relapse into the hum- 
drum life of keeping house for her father in the Cornish 
rectory. Mr. Gascoyne was so clever, and so full of 
beautiful ideas I He seemed to be so thoroughly human all 
through. Nea loved to hear him talk about men and 
things. And she really did think, in a sort of way, that Mr. 
Gascoyne, perhaps, to some extent, liked her. 

So when she found herself, after lunch at Mrs. Douglas's 
picnic, strolling away with Paul towards the field where the 
fritillaries grow, and the large purple orchises, she was 
conscious generally of a faint thrill of pleasure — that strange 
indefinite, indefinable thrill which goes so much deeper 
than the shallow possibilities of our haphazard language. 

They wandered and talked for many minutes, picking the 
great chequered blossoms as they moved, and never think- 
ing whither they went, either with their feet or their 
tongues, as is the wont of adolescence. Nea was full of 
praise for Faith — such an earnest girl, so sincere and pro- 
found when you came to know her; and Paul, who, to a 
great extent, had been Faith's teacher, was proud that his 
pupil should be liked and appreciated. 

* But what a pity,' Nea said at last, * we should have to 
part to-morrow I For we've both of us got on so well 
together.* 

* It is a, pity,' Paul said, * a very great pity. Faith has 
never enjoyed anything so much in her life, I know ; and 
your being there has made it doubly enjoyable for her.' 

* Oh, Pm so glad to hear you say so,* Nea exclaimed, with 
evident delight. * You can't think how much I've enjoyed 
having her there too. She's a dear girl. We've had such 
long, long talks together in our own rooms every evening. 
And, do you know, Mr. Gascoyne,' she added shyly, * before 
she came T was so afraid of meeting her.' 

* Why ?' Paul asked, unable to understand such a feeling 
towards Faith on the part of a born lady like Nea. 

' Oh, I don't know,' Nea answered. * I can't exactly say 
why. But sometimes, when you want to like somebody 
ever so much, don't you know, you're so afraid in return 
they won't like you.' 

* And you wanted to like Faith ?' Paul asked, all tremulous. 

' I wanted to like her, oh, ever so^ much I Bm^ \ ^^'^ 
afraid she mightn't take a fancy to mc, 1\» oI\»^tl \iv^'^^'vv^ 



tjd Tlie SCALLYWAG 

BO, ot course ; but I didn't want it to be so with her. AncI 
now I'm sure she likes tne very much, and that's such a 
comfort to mo.' 

* You're very kind/ Paul answered, embarrassed. 

There was a long pause, and their eyes met. Eyes can say 
BO much more than tongues. Nea's fell again as she added 
slowly, * And I hope now we shall meet very, very often.' 

' Who ? You and Faith ?' Paul cried, biting his lip hard, 
and holding in his words with diflficulty. 

* Yes,* Nea said. * Some day she must come down to 
Cornwall and see us.' 

Paul looked up from the fritillarles, and felt his heart beat 
and heave. 

* That can never, never be,' he answered solemnly. 
Nea turned to him all at once with an astonished look. 

' Never, Mr. Gascoyne ?' she cried. * Oh, don't say that I 
I want to meet her very often now. We're friends for life. 
Why shouldn't I see her ?* 

It was one of those moments in a man's life when, do 
what he will, the passion within him gets the better of him 
and out-masters him. He looked into Nea's deep eyes — 
those eyes he would never see after to-morrow again — and 
answered in a tone of poignant regret, * Because j^ou and I 
must keep as far apart as we can from one another.' 

Nea more than half guessed his meaning at once, but she 
would have it direct from his own very lips before she could 
believe it, 

* And why, Mr. Gascoyne?' she asked with a throbbing 
heart. 

* Because,* Paul said boldly, blurting out the whole truth 
in spite of himself, * Nea, I love you.* 

There was a faint short interval, during which Nea felt 
a sort of electric quiver pass all through her frame; and then 
she murmured very low, ' Thank you, Mr. Gascoyne, thank 
you.* 

* And I'm afraid,* Paul went on — with insensate folly, as 
he thought to himself — * I'm afraid — I'm sure — you love me 
a little in return, Nea.' 

Nea raised her eyes, one blush from chin to forehead, and 
met his gaze bashfully. 

'More than that: a great deal,' she answered, with a 
^rejnor. 



BREAKING THE ICE t^t 

Paul sat down on the dry bank by the hedge, and seated 
Nea gently on a big stone beside him. 

* And ttiough I shall never see you again after to-morrow,' 
he said, * I was wicked enough and foolish enough — it camo 
over me so just now, that I couldn't avoid giving myself the 
satisfaction of telling you so.* 

* I'm glad you did,' Nea murmured through the tears that 
struggled hard to rise and choke her utterance. * I like to 
know it.' 

'It was wrorig of me, very wrong of me,' Paul cried, 
already penitent ; * but, Nea, I can't be sorry I did, when 
I think how sweet, how delicious, it is for me to know that 
through all my future life I can carry away the memory of 
those words you just uttered. ** More than that : a great 
deal " — I shall never forget them.* 

* Thank you,' Nea cried once more, with sweet simplicity. 
Paul looked at her long, with a great yearning in his 

heart. 

' And it's hard to think,' he went on, ' we must part for 
ever to-morrow.' 

* Why for ever?' Nea asked, looking back at him again 
with womanly trust. * Why for ever, Mr. Gascoyne ? If 
you love me, and I love you, why need it be for ever ?' 

Paul tore a purple fritillary to pieces nervously. 

* Oh, what have I done ?' ho said, looking up at her 
anxiously. * Why did I ever begin it? I've acted so wrong, 
so wickedly, so cruelly ! I ought never to have spoken to 
5'ou on the subject at all. I ought to^have locked it up 
tight — tight in my own bosom.' 

* I should have found it out, even if you hadn't told mo,' 
Nea answered simply. * And whether you told me or not, 
I, at least, would have loved you.' 

Paul took her little hand unreproved in his own. 

* I was mad, though,' he said ; ' I was wicked to trouble 
you. Nea, I won't say anything about the difference in our 
positions, or anything like that, for I know you are good 
enough and true enough to love a man for himself, and not 
for his wealth or what else he can give you. I know, poor 
as I am, and sprung from where I spring, you'd be willing 
to take me. But I oughtn't to have spoken to you at all 
about my love. I ought to have stifled and laxj^Ldsv^. SJ^ ^i^. 
from you, knowing, as I do now, ttiati '^^ c^t^ ixss^x \a»xT^ 



152 THE SCALLYWAG 

Ife was cruel of me so to cross your path, eo to wring that 
confession from your own sweet lips — only to tell you that 
I can never marry you.' 

* You didn't wring it from me,' Nea whispered low. * I 
like to tell you so.* 

' Oh, Nea I* Paul cried, and pressed her hand in silence. 

'Yes, I like to tell you,' she repeated. *I love to tell 
you. I'm glad for my own sake you've made it possible for 
me to tell you. I liked you very, very much at Mentone ; 
and every day I've seen you since Tve liked you better, and 
better, and better. And then, I've talked so much about 
you with Faith. Every evening she and I have done 
nothing but talk about you. That was why I wanted to 
like Faith so much, because — because I was so very fond of 
you. But, Paul,' she said it out quite naturally, * Paul, why 
can't you marry me ?' 

Paul began in some vague, shadowy, indefinite way to 
tell her once more about those terrible Claims that so 
weighed upon his conscience, but before he'd got well 
through the very first sentence Nea said, interrupting him : 

' I know, I know. I suppose you mean about Mr. Solo- 
mons.' 

* Has Faith told you all about Mr. Solomons, then ? Paul 
exclaimed in surprise. 

* Yes,* Nea answered. * Of course I wanted to know as 
much as I could about you, because I was so much interested 
in 5'ou, and — and — I loved you so dearly; and Faith told me 
all about that, and it made me so very, very sorry for you.' 

* Then, if you know all that,' Paul cried, * you must know 
also how wrong it was of me to speak to you, how im- 
possible for me ever to marry you.' 

Nea looked down at the fritillaries in her hand, and began 
to arrange them nervously with twitching fingers. After a 
while she spoke. 

* I don't think so,' she said in a very calm voice. * Even 
if we two can never, never marry, it's better I should know 
you love me, and you should know I love you. It's better 
to have found that out, even though nothing more come of 
it, than to go through life blindly, not knowing whether we 
had ever won one another. ' I shall go back to Cornwall, 
oh, ever so much happier than I came away, feeling certain 
%^2e&3t now tha>t you love me, Paul.' 



BREAKING THE ICE 1.53 

The young man leant forward. His lips pursed up of 
themselves. Nea didn't shrink away from him. She didn't 
tremble or withdraw. She allowed him to kiss her. The 
kiss thrilled through her inmost being. 

Paul leant back once more, all penitence, against the 
bank. 

* What have I done ? he cried, aghast at his own folly. 
* Let us rise and go, Nea. The longer we stay here, the 
worse and worse will we make matters.' 

* No,' Nea answered quietly. * I don't want to go. I 
like sitting here. I can't let you go yet. We must under- 
stand better how we stand with each other. You mustn't 
go, Paul, till you've told me everything.' 

Paul, delighted in his secret heart at the moment's 
respite, began once more, and told her all his fears and 
doubts for the future — how he was bound hand and foot to 
Mr. Solomons ; how he must spend his whole life in trying 
to repay him ; and what folly it would be for him to dream 
of marrying. He reproached himself bitterly for having let 
Nea see into the secret of his heart. He ought never to 
have told her, he said ; he ought never to have told her. 

Nea listened to him to the very end. Then she fixed her 
earnest eyes upon him and answered softly : * Paul, I will 
wait for you, if I wait a Ufetime.' 

* It isn't a case for waiting,' Paul cried ; * it's a case for 
despair I' 

* Then I won't despair,' Nea answered. ' Not even to 
please you. I'll be happy enough in knowing you love me.* 

For a minute or two more they talked it over together in 
gentle whispers. Nea could never love anyone else, she 
said ; so what did it matter whether they could marry or 
not ? She would be his, at any rate, for she could never be 
anybody else's. 

' And when I go, you'll write to me, Paul ?' she added 
pleadingly. 

Paul hesitated. 

* I mustn't,' he cried. I oughtn't to, Nea. Eemember, 
we two are not engaged to each other.' 

* We're more than engaged,' Nea answered boldly, with 
the boldness of a true woman's heart. * We're each other's 
already. Paul, I'll write to you, and you mw^t ^x\\ftk V^ vcv^* 
You have great powei's, and yovVW do ^00^ '^o^ Vxi. *vicA 



IS+ 



TtlE SCALLYWAG 



world yet. In time, perhaps, yon'U pay off all thig weight 
of debt that clioga like a millstone round your neck, and 
then you'll marry me. But, if not, we'll live for one another 
for ever. And I shall live happy if I know you love mo.' 

' One more kiss, Nea 1' 

' As many more as ever you like, Paul.' 



CHAPTER XXL 

C0INCIDEKCE8. 

N another part of tho fields, 
meanwhile. Faith Gascoyne 
and Charlie Ttiistleton had 
wandered off together along 
a backwater of the river, in 
search of forget-me-nots, they 
Biiiii, and white water-lilies. 
Oh, those innocent flowers, 
how much they have to an- 
swer for I How many timea 
have they not been made tho 
excuse for such casual divaga- 
tions from the straight path 
of Britannic oliaperonage ! 
This tie ton had helped to 
row them up stream, and 
Faith thought she had 
never seen him look so 
handsome as he looked 
just then in his bright Christ Church boa ting- jacket, with 
the loose flannel shirt showing white in front where tho 
jacket lay open. A manly man seldom looks manlier than 
in boating costume. In evening clothes, to bo sure, as 
she had seen him at Exeter concert, ho was perhaps as 
gentlemanly ; but that was mere gloss aod outward show ; 
the young Greek god came out more fully in the garb of 
athletics. Eaith thought with a sigh that to-morrow her 
hoHday would be over for ever, and she must needs go back 
to the vacant young men ot Hillborough. 
Tliey a&t down by a flood-gate on a tin's si^e-etream, and 




COINCIDENCES 155 

arranged theit forget-me-nots into a respectable bundle. 
The flood-gate had a sluice-door in it, and the water pour- 
ing through made murmuring music. The sky was just 
chequered with fleecy clouds, and the wind whispered 
through the willows on the margin. It was all a sweet idyl 
to Faith's full young heart ; and Mr. Thistleton by her side 
was so kind and attentive. 

She knew Mr. Thistleton admired her — in a way. She 
couldn't help seeing, as she sat there in her prettiest morn- 
ing frock, that he cast eyes of delight every now and again 
at her rich brown complexion and her uncommon features. 
For Faith Gascoyne was above everything uncommon-look- 
ing ; a certain individual stamp of distinction, half high- 
bred, half gipsy-like, was the greatest charm of her peculiarly 
cut features. And Thistleton gazed at her with almost rude 
admiration — at least, Faith would almost have thought it 
rude if it hadn't been so evidently sincere and simple- 
minded. 

Nevertheless, when Thistleton, turning round abruptly, 
asked her point-blank that alarming question, * Miss Gas- 
coyne, do you think you could ever like me ?' Faith was so 
completely taken by surprise that she started back suddenly, 
and let the forget-me-nots tumble from her hands on to the 
beam of the flood-gate. 

* Why of course, Mr. Thistleton,* she answered, with a 
faint smile, * I like you — oh, ever so much ! You're so kind 
and good-natured.* 

* But that's not what I mean,' the blond young man 
corrected hastily. ' I mean — well, Faith, I mean, do you 
think you could ever love me ?' 

If ever a man took a woman by storm in this world it 
was surely this one I 

There was a long pause, during which Faith picked up 
the forget-me-nots one by one, and arranged them together 
with deliberate care into a neat little bouquet. But hier 
heart was throbbing fast all the while, for all that. 

At last, she looked down and whispered low, while the 
blond young man waited eagerly for her answer : * Mr. 
Thistleton, you ought never to have asked me that ques* 
tion at all. Consider — consider the difference in our 
positions.' 

Thistleton looked down, a little \)it cie%\»l«3\«Tx» 



156 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Well, I know it's presumptuous of me/ he said with a 
shy air, just emboldened by his eagerness. *A Sheffield 
cutler's son has no right to ask a — a lady of birth and rank 
to be his wife off-hand ; but I thought. Miss Gascoyne * 

Faith cut him short with an impatient gesture. Was 
this mauvaise comSdie of her father's baronetcy to pursue 
her like an evil fate through life, even in these its supremest 
moments ? 

* I didn't mean that,* she cried, leaning eagerly forward, 
and looking up at him with a little appealing glance for 
mercy. * Surely, Mr. Thistleton, you must have known 
yourself I didn't mean that. But you are so much richer 
and better brought up than me, and you move in such a 
very different society. I — I should be ashamed myself of 
publicly disgracing you.' 

Thistleton glanced across at her with a curiously doubtful, 
half-incredulous air. 

* Why, how much at cross-purposes we all live I' he said, 
With a little awkward laugh. * I've been wanting all day to 
speak out my mind to you, and I've been afraid all along, 
for I thought you'd think me so very presuming. And I'd 
made up all kinds of pretty things to say to you, don't you 
know, about trying to live up to your level, and all that 
sort of thing — because you're so clever, and so brilliant, 
and so much above me in every way ; and now as soon as 
ever I open my mouth, you knock me down at once with a 
regular stunning back-hander like that, and I don't know 
where on earth to begin or go on again. I can't remember 
what I meant to say to you. I thought if, after I took my 
degree, and went to the Bar in London — my father wants 
me to go to the Bar, just as a nominal thing, you see, 
because it's so very respectable ; but, of course, he'll make 
me a handsome allowance for all expenses — I thought, if I 
lived in town, and kept up a good establishment, and made 
a home fit for you, you might perhaps, when you got to 
know me a little better, think me not quite altogether 
beneath you. And, to tell you the truth, Miss Gascoyne, 
to make security doubly sure, I wrote to my father day 
before yesterday, telling him everything about your brother 
and yourself, and saying that I thought of venturing to ask 
you to marry me, and I got this telegram in reply from my 

people last night— yon can see it it you like, it's rather long 



COINCIDENCES 157 

of its sort : my father's always just a trifle extravagant ia 
the matter of telegraphing.* 

Faith bit her lip as she took the telegram from the blond 
young man ; the whole thing, in spite of her agitation, was 
so supremely ridiculous I * Your mother and I have read 
your letter with satisfaction and pleasure/ the telegram 
said, * and are delighted to see you think of looking so high 
in that matter. We are gratified at the choice you have 
made of companions, and now in another more important 
relation. It would be a very proud thing for us if at the 
close of our career, which has been long and prosperous, 
we could see our dear boy the brother-in-law of a man of 
title. You may be sure we would do everything to make 
3'ou both happy. Don't delay on any account to ask the 
young lady as soon as possible, if a fitting occasion for 
doing so should arise. And if she accepts you, take any 
credit necessary to make her a suitable present of whatever 
object you think desirable. Let us know the lady's answer 
at once by telegram.* 

Faith handed it back to him with a burning face. Her 
hands trembled. * It's all so strange to me/ she murmured, 
bewildered. 

* At any rate/ Thistleton cried, 'your objection's answered 
beforehand, you see. So far as any difi'erenco in position 
goes, both my parents and I looked at that question exactly 
opposite from the way you look at it.* 

* I see,' Faith answered, looking down all fiery red, and 
with her soul one troubled whirlwind within her. 

* Then what do you answer me ?' Thistleton asked, taking 
her hand in his. 'Faith — may I call you Faith? — you 
struck me so dumb by taking such a topsy-turvy view of 
our relations, that I hadn't got words to tell you what I 
wanted. But I love you, Faith, and I want you to marry 
me.' 

Faith let her hand lie unresistingly in his, but turned 
away her face, still hot and fiery. * You — you are very 
kind, Mr. Thistleton,' she answered. 

' But that's not what I want,' Thistleton put in, leaning 
forward once more. 'Faith, I want you to tell me you'ie 
ready to marry me.' 

•No,' Faith answered ?§8Q^^^^^Y* *\ ^^Xi\», ^^%^^x 
never, never /' 



158 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Why Y Thistleton asked, dropping her hand all at onca 
She let it hang idle at her side as if sorry he had 
dropped it. 

'Because — I mustn't/ Faith answered, all aglow. 

* Don't you like me ?' Thistleton asked with a very wistful 
look. * Oh, Faith, I've been watching you ever since you 
came to Oxford, and I really began to think you did like 
me, just a little.' 

* I like you very much,' Faith answered, trembling. * I 
never was — so flattered — at anything in my life as that — 
that you should think me worthy to marry you.' 

* Oh, don'c say that !' the young man cried in a voice of 
genuine distress. ' It hurts me to hear you talk like that. 
It's so upside down, somehow. Why, Faith, I lay awake 
trembhng all last night, wondering how I could ever venture 
to ask you — you who are so beautiful, and good, and clever. 
I was afraid to speak to you. Only my love could have 
emboldened me to speak. And when I did ask you at last, 
I blurted it out point-blank like a schoolboy, because I felt 
you so much above me that I hardly dared to mention such 
a thing in your presence.' 

Faith smiled a troubled smile. * You're very good,' she 
said. * I like you ever so much, Mr. Thistleton. I should 
like to sit here with you — always.' 

* Then why won't you marry me ?' Thistleton cried 
eagerly. 

Faith pulled about the forget-me-nots ostentatiously once 
more. * I hardly know myself yet,' she answered. * It's 
all so new. It's come as such a surprise to me. I haven't 
had time to collect my thoughts. I only know in a dim 
sort of a way that it's quite, quite impossible.' 

* Don't you think you could love me ?' Thistleton asked 
very low. 

Faith looked at him as he sat there in his manly boating 
suit — so much more of a man than anybody she had ever 
before dreamt of—and then she thought of the Infants. 
*I could — like you a great deal, I'm sure,' she answered 
slowly. < It isn't that, Mr. Thistleton. It isn't that at all. 
If — if I yielded to my own heart,' she spoke very low, 

* perhaps I might say to you Yes at once ' 

Be/ore she could finish her sentence she felt an arm 
placed boldly round her shapely waivsl, «i.u4. V«o ^^.^er lips 



COINCIDENCES 159 

pressed hard against hers. She rather fancied Mr. Thistle- 
ton was kissing her. *If you say as much as that/ the 
blond young man cried out triumphantly, *you have said 
all. I don't mind any more now. Faith, Faith, you belong 
to me.' 

Faith struggled to be free so hard that Thistleton let her 
go and sat looking at her admiringly. * Mr. Thistleton,' she 
said with quiet dignity, * you must never do that again. I 
like you very much, but I told you just now I can never 
marry you.* 

*And I asked you why,' Thistleton retorted with the 
audacity begotten of love ; * and you'd no good reason to 
give me ; so I say, on the contrary, you'll have to marry 
me.' 

Faith drew a long breath and pulled herself together. 
The reasons why it was impossible came clearer to her now. 
They dawned slowly on her mind. She leaned back and 
explained them one by one to Thistleton — her father's 
calling ; the family poverty ; her mother's need for somebody 
to help her; his own future in life; the impossibility of 
keeping in two societies at once anywhere. 

But Thistleton, with the unconscionable ardour of youth, 
would listen to none of these lame excuses. As for her 
father, he said, he was a British baronot, and what better 
father-in-law any member of a North-Country business 
house could possibly want he was at a loss to discover. As 
to the family poverty, that was all the more reason why 
the family should restore itself to its proper position by 
marrying into other families that had more money than 
brains, and more land than ancestry. When Paul came 
into his title — which he hoped wouldn't be for many years 
yet — they'd be none the prouder than they were of him now, 
with his cleverness, and his industry, and his fine high 
character. 

* But still, you know,* he said, coming back to the one 
undeniable truth of logic, ' a baronet's a baronet.' 

As Faith seemed disinclined to dispute that self-evident 
specimen of an identical proposition, Thistleton went on to 
remark that Faith, if married, could do a great deal more 
to help her mother than in school with the Infants ; that 
his own future would be all the more a^svxt^^vcL ^o^y^Vj*% 
eyes if he aJJied bimselt to a member ol 8^ \.W\^^ l^xcSoj \ ^»^ 



ifo THE SCALLYWAG 

that, 08 his father wanted him to go into Parliament dually, 
he wished to have a wife who would be a credit and an ai J 
to him in that arduous position. Finally^ when Faith urged 
the difficulty of mixing in two societies at once, Thistleton 
looked her back very gravely in the face, and remarked with 
a solemnity that fairly made her laugh : 

'And the governor, you know, doesn't always get his 
tongue quite straight round his most slippery li^s. Yet he 
might have been in Parliament more than once if he liked. 
Why, the floor of the House is literally strewn nowadays, 
they say, with the members* aspirates.' 

They sat there long, debating and fencing, Faith confident 
that the idea was wholly impracticable, and Thistleton 
determined that Faith should say Yes to him. But, at last, 
when time had gone too far, they rose, and Thistleton fired 
one parting shot before rejoining Mrs. Douglas at the shore 
by the row-boata *At least,' he said, *I suppose I may 
write to you ?' 

Faith hesitated for a moment. She couldn't forego that 
innocent pleasure. * Well, yes,' she said falteringly, * you 
may write to me if you like. As Mr. Solomons says, "with- 
out prejudice,'' you may write to me.* 

The blond youug man smiled triumphant. * Well, that 
settles it,' he exclaimed with delight. *I shall telegraph 
back this evening to the governor.' 

*And what'U you say?' Faith asked, not wholly dis- 
pleased. 

* The lady accepts, but defers for the present,' Thistleton 
answered boldly. 

* But I don't accept,' Faith cried. * Oh, you mustn't say 
that, Mr. Thistleton. I distinctly said Ko to you.' 

The Professor came upon them before Thistleton could 
reply. * My dear young truants,' he said, beaming hard on 
Faith through his benevolent pince-nez^ * where on earth 
have you been hiding yourselves ? I come as ambassador 
from the court of Mrs. Grundy. My wife has been looking 
for you any time this half-hour.' 

As they rowed home that evening, down the calm blue 

stream, everybody noticed that Isabel Boy ton, who was one 

of the guests, had lost her irrepressible good spirits for 

cace, and fieemed tired and moody, ^Vi.^ ^^\) ^^^xi\» \cl \K«^ 



COINCIDENCES i6i 

stern, with her arm round Nea Blair's waist, and hardly 
even flashed out a saucy retort when the Professor chaffed 
her upon her unexpected taciturnity. 

But when she reached her rooms at the Mitre, in the 
dusk, that night, she flung her arms wildly about her 
mother's neck, and cried out aloud, * Oh momma, momma, 
do you know what's happened ? He proposed to Nea Blair 
to-day — and she's accepted him 1' 

* How do you know, darling ?' her mother asked, soothing 
her. 

* I could see it,* Isabel cried. * I'm sure of it ! I know it ! 
And oh, momma, it was the title and the fun of the thing I 
thought of at flrst ; no more than that ; but, in the end, it 
was himself. I love him I I love him I' 

Your American girl is the coquette pushed to its utmost 
limit. Who wants her may go ; but who shows himself in- 
different to her charms and dollars, she would die to win 
him. 

That night, when Thistleton met Faith at the Christ 
Church concert he slipped a little packet unobtrusively into 
her hand. Faith would have returned it, but she couldn't 
without attracting attention. She opened it in her own 
room, after Nea had left her — Nea, who had come with 
kisses and tears to bid her good-night, but not to tell her 
about her episode with Paul. It contained a short note — a 
very short note — and a tiny jeweller's box. The note said : 

'My darling Faith, 

* I was always a dutiful and obedient son, and I've 
felt compelled to-night to obey my father's instructions. He 
said I was to buy you a suitable present, and I send it here- 
with. I might have chosen a diamond or something of the 
sort, but then I know you wouldn't have worn it. This 
little ring will be more really serviceable. 

' Your own grateful and devoted 

' C. H. T. 
' P.S. — Enclosed telegram just arrived from Sheffield.' 

Faith looked at the nng. It was simple and ^reii^ 
enough ; but what she liked best "waa Yiia \^o\v^^\xi^siKe?^ "^^ 
sending her those five small pearls mBtc^^d^ol ^si'^N^x^^'sasst!^ 




l6a THE SCALLYWAG 

showy and theretoro more unsuitable. Then she turned to 
the telegram : 

' We congratulate you warmly. We are pleased auJ 
proud. Please send a photograph.' 



CHAPTEE XXII. 



HEXT morning, as Nea was busy paekin;^. 
Faith burst unexpectedly into her room with 
a sudden impulse. To say the truth, girl 
that she was, she couldn't resist the tempta- 
tion of showing Nea her ring, though she 
said nothing ns yet about tiie note that 
accompanied it. Nea admired it with a placid sigh. It 
would be long before Paul could give licr such a ring. Not 
that she wanted one, of course : nobody was less Ukely to 
think that than Nea; but, then, poor Pau! must feel the 
difference so keenly I 

She folded up tho dres3 that lay stretched on the bed, and 
laid it neatly into her small portmanteau. Faith glanced at 
it all at once with a sharp glance of surprise. 

' Why, Nea,' she ci'ied, taking it out once more and hold- 
ing it in her hand, ' whatever do you call this, you bad, bad 
creature ?" 

Nea blushed a guilty blush of conscious shame. She was 
caught in the act— fairly found out. It was an evening- 
dress she had never worn all the time she was at Oxford. 

Faith looked down into the portmanteau, once more, and 
there ia its depths caught a passing glimpse of yet another 

' Oh, Nea,' she cried, half tsEurful with vexation, taking it 
out in turn, 'this is really too wicked of you. You bad 
these two nice evening gowns here all the time, and you've 
only worn the old caahmero ever since you've been here on 
purpose not to be better dressed than I was !' 
■neaga^si a( these two mute witnesses to her guilt with 
Ao uaccrtitortable gl^D{:o, Hot teMfti: \Hfc\X© oQtvw.w'Rc^ 



MISS BOYTON PLAYS A CARD 163 

would have smitten her greatly had she allowed that simple , 
explanation of Faith's to pass unqualified. 

* It wasn't altogether that,* she answered, fixing her eyes 
on the carpet. *It was partly on your account, Eaith, I 
don't deny, that I wouldn't wear thsm ; but partly, also ' — 
she hesitated for a second — * to to I you the truth, I didn't 
want — your brother to think I was — well — so very much 
more expensively dressed than you were.* 

She said it so simply that Faith guessed the rest, and 
made no answer save to fling her arms round Noa's neck 
and kiss her passionately. For now, she felt, they were 
almost sisters. 

They drove to the station together, and went up — both 
third — in the same train to Paddington. There they parted ; 
Nea to Cornwall, Faith to Waterloo, for Hillborough and 
the Infants. 

Her dream was over. She must go back now to the 
workaday world again. 

But always with that ring and note in her pocket. For 
she dared not wear the ring ; that would attract attention. 
Still, what a difference it made to her life I It would 
sweeten the days with the Infants to feel it furtively from 
time to time. It would bring the dream back to her, and 
she would work the more easily. 

Thistleton and Paul had come down to see them off at the 
station, and with them Miss Boy ton and her inseparable 
momma. Poor Isabel couldn't deny herself the pleasure of 
watching her victorious rival safe out of Oxford, and waving 
her a farewell from Paul's side on the platform. Not out 
of any ill-will or unkindness — of that Isabel was wholly in- 
capable — but simply as a sort of salve to her own feelings. 
Nea had engaged Paul's heart, and Isabel accepted her 
defeat with good grace. Not only did she bear Nea no 
grudge for having thus wholly ousted her, but she kissed 
her a kiss of exceptional tenderness, and pressed her hand 
with a friendly pressure as she entered the carriage. Nea 
knew whut the kiss and the pressure meant. Among women 
words are very seldom necessary to pass these little con- 
fidences from one to the other. 

From the station Isabel walked back to t\i^ MSXit^ n=vv^^ 
Thistleton, allowing her momma to tak^ "po^^ek^^YcycL c^l^^s^:^* 
^4?^ h0d re§8QD^ of her owu for this ]geQuX\^^ ^xx^^^^^^"^- 



i64 THE SCALLYWAG 

She wanted, in fact, to apply once more that familiar engine, 
the common pump, to Thistleton. Anu the blond young 
man, being by nature a frank and confiding personage, was 
peculiarly susceptible to the pumping operation. 

When they reached the Mitre, Isabel deposited the 
obedient momma in her own room. 

* I'm going a turn round the meadows with Mr. Thistle- 
ton,' she said abruptly. 

'You've a lecture at twelve, Thistleton, haven t you?' 
Paul asked, anxious to spare his friend Miss Boyton's society 
if he didn't want it. 

* Oh, I'll cut the lecture I' Thistleton answered good- 
humouredly. * It's Aristotle's Ethics ; and I dare say Aris- 
totle don't mind being cut. He must be used to it now, 
after so many centuries. Besides, a just mean between 
excessive zeal and undue negligence was his own ideal, you 
know. He should be flattered by my conscientious carrying 
out of his principles. I haven't missed a lecture for a whole 
week now. I think it's about time I should begin to miss 
one.' 

For, in fact, the blond young man vaguely suspected, 
from what Isabel had told him on her way from the station, 
she hoped to benefit the Gascoyne family, and taking now 
a profound interest in all that concerned that distinguished 
house, of which, in spite of Faith's disclaimer, he almost 
considered himself at present a potential member, he was 
anxious to learn what her scheme might be, and to see how 
far it might be expected to lighten the burden of the family 
difficulties. Isabel, however, was too thoroughbred an 
American to let Thistleton see too much of her own inten- 
tions. She led him dexterously to the round seat in Christ 
Church meadows that overlooks the Cherwell, and, seating 
him there at close quarters, proceeded to work the pump- 
handle with equal skill and vigour. She succeeded so well 
that even Armitage himself, that past master in the art of 
applied hydrostatics, could hardly have surpassed her. At 
the end of an hour she had got out of Thistleton almost all 
he knew about the strange compact between the Gascoynes 
and Mr. Solomons. Motives of delicacy, indeed, restrained 
the blond young man from mentioning the nature of the 
security on which Mr. Solomons reposed his hopes of 
uUimate repayment — Paul's chance oixn«i,xxyva^«Ai\i"dx^^^^ 



MISS BOYTON PLAYS A CARD 165 

He thought such a disclosure might sound a trifle personal, 
for the name and fame of Isabel's prospective dollars had 
been noised abroad far and wide both in Mentone and in 
Oxford. Nor did he allude in passing to his own possible 
future relations with the heir-apparent to the baronetcy and 
his handsome sister. Other personal motives tied his 
tongue there ; while as to the state of affairs between Nea 
and Paul he knew or guessed far less than Isabel herself 
did. But with these few trifling exceptions, he allowed 
the golden-haired Pennsylvanian to suck his brains of all 
his private acquaintance with the Gascoyne affairs, being 
thoroughly convinced, like an innocent, good young man 
that he was, that Isabel could desire this useful knowledge 
for no other purpose than to further the designs of the Gas- 
coyne family. If Madame Ceriolo had got hold of a young 
man like Thistleton she might have twisted him round her 
little finger, and used his information to very bad account ; 
fortunately, the American heiress had no plans in her head 
but such as deserved the unsuspicious undergraduate's most 
perfect confidence. 

When Isabel had sucked her orange quite dry, she rose 
at last, and remarking in the cheerful American tone of 
virginal discovery, * It must be getting on for one : I feel 
like lunching,* led the way back direct to the city. 

As soon as she found herself in her own room at the 
Mitre, however, she took out a russia-leather notebook from 
her pocket, and entered in it, with a neat gold pencil-case, 
and not without some rising tears, three short memoranda : 
* Judah Solomons, High Street, Hillborough, Surrey. Faith 
Gascoyne, 5, Plowden's Court. Drexel, Morgan and Co., 
Bankers, Paris.' 

Then she dried her eyes with a clean white handkerchief, 
hummed a cheerful tune for a minute or two to herself to 
restore her spirits, and having satisfied herself in the glass 
that all traces of recent weeping had disappeared, descended, 
smiling, to her momma in the coffee-room. 

*0n Toosday,' she said to her mother with an ab- 
stracted air, as they sat down to a lunch of Transatlantic 
splendour, ' I shall go back to London. Appears to me 
as if I'd had about enough now of these Oxford Colleges. 
There's too many of 'em at once. The^ xvwi yo.\»^ '^'s^ 
monotonous.' 



i66 THE SCALLYWAG 

' Very well, Izzy,* her mother responded dutifully. 

And on Tuesday morning, in real earnest, they were back 
again once more, with all their boxes, at Hatchett's Hotel 
in Piccadilly. 

That afternoon as Isabel, somewhat disconsolate, strolled 
along Bond Street, she saw a familiar figure steering its 
way towards her loungily on the opposite side of the street. 
The figure was attired in a faultless frock-cost and a shiny 
tall hat, and was booted, gleved, and cuffed to match with 
irreproachable exactitude. As a faint smile began to develop 
itself by premonition on Isabel's countenance, the figure 
displayed some momentary symptoms of n&.scent hesitation, 
not unmixed with an evident tendency to turn away, with- 
out the appearance of observing her, into Burlington 
Gardens. Miss Boy ton might be very good fun on the 
Promenade du Midi, but was she quite the right sort of 
person to acknowledge in Bond Street ? Tne authority on 
the meaning of the word * scallywag ' had his doubts on the 
subject. 

Before ho could carry his hesitancy into effect, however, 
Isabel had darted promptly across the street with American 
irrepressibility, and was shaking the limp gloved hand with 
good-humoured fervour. 

* Oh my 1 Mr. Armitage,* she said, * how funny I should 
meet you — you of all people in the world, right here in 
London I' 

Armitage drew himself wp with stiff politeness. 

' One usually does expect to meet one's friends in Bond 
Street,' he retorted with dignity. * And, indeed, I was here 
this very afternoon on the look-out for another old Men tone 
acquaintance whom I often meet about these parts. I mean 
Madame Ceriolo.* 

* Oh, she's in London, is she ?* Isabel asked with languid 
interest. 

* Well, yes, she's in London,' Armitage answered cau- 
tiously. * Where, I don't know ; perhaps it would be wisest 
not to inquire too deep. Madame Ceriolo's movements 
should be judged, I take it, with tolerant leniency. But 
she amuses me, you know — she undoubtedly amuses me.' 
He spoke with a marked apologetic tone, as who feels half 
ashamed of his own undeveloped taste. * I like to meet her 

^nd have a little chat with her now and again. She gives 



MISS BOYTON PLAYS A CARD 167 

me a fillip. After all, one can forgive much to a person who 
amuses you.' 

* I guess that's about what we all want out of one another 
in this vale of tears/ Isabel answered frankly. 

* The philosophy of life in a nutshell/ Armitago retorted, 
reassured. * And really, in her way, the little woman's 
quite presentable.' 

* Oh, quite presentable,' Isabel answered, smiling. 

* So why shouldn't one know her ?' Armitage went on, 
with the timid air of a man who desires to be backed up in 
a heretical opinion. * I mean to find her out and look her 
up, I think. And you, Miss Boy ton, what have yoic been 
doing. with yourself since you left Mentone ?' 

The devil entered into Isabel Boyton (as be frequently 
does into her saucy fellow-countrywomen) and prompted 
her to respond with incisiveness : 

* I've been up to Oxford, to see the scallywag.' 

* No ?* Armitage cried with a look of profound interest. 
* And tell me. Miss Boyton, what did you see or hear 
there ?' 

Isabel took a cruel revenge for his desire to avoid her. 

* I saw Nea Blair,* she said, ' who was stopping at a house 
in Oxford with Faith Gascoyne, the scallywag's sister ; and 
we went out a great deal together, and saw Mr. Oascoyne 
and Mr. Thistleton, and a great many more. And no end 
of engagements and things have happened ; and there's lots 
of news ; but I'm so sorry I'm busy. I must call a hack !' 

And, quick as thought, she hailed a hansom, and left the 
poor scandalmonger lifting his hat, alone on the pavement, 
tantahzed. 

It was a cruel revenge, but perhaps he deserved it. 

Armitage would have given five pounds that moment to 
know all about these rumoured engagements. 

Had that fellow Gascoyne succeeded in bagging the 
American heiress who was so sweet upon him at Mentone ? 
And had Thistleton fallen a victim to the seeming innocence 
of Nea Blair ? He rather suspected it. These innocent 
bread-and-butter misses often know, at any rate, on which 
side their bread's buttered. So, twenty minutes later, 
Armitage was expounding both apocryphal engagements to 
little Madame Geriolo, whom he happened to run ui^ a^Qix^&^^ 
quite by accident; of course, near l^e cox^et ol ^V^^^^s^^* 



168 THE SCALLYWAG 

And titlla Madnme Ceriolo, emiling her most wiDDiDg smile, 
remarked confidentially that it's often the women of the 
world, whom everybody enspects, that have after all the 
most prof one d and disinterested affections. 

As she said bo, she looked most meaningly at Armitage. 



CHAPTER XXIIT. 

AS tJHBXPBCTED VISITOR- 



OMIIA,' Miss Isabel . 
Boyton remarked at 
eakfast on Wed- 
nesday morDiog, 
' Utinciog a frag- 
rent of sole on 
the end of her 
fork, as she 
need op 
sideways, 
' you needn't 
woi-ry to ex- 
pect me to 
lunch to-day. 
I'm going oat 
by myself, and 
Imayn'tbeback 
till somewhere 
near din- 
ner-time. 
^ If you hap- 
pen to be loafing 
around anywhere 
about Bond Street, 
I dare say you'll 
pick np Mr. Armitage ; he's thero most all the time — after- 
noons, ho says. But if you don't, I guess you can drop in 
and look at the National Gallery, or something instructive 
and entertaining, most as well without me.' 
Mrs. Boyton helped herself to a third poached egg and 
gome more broiled ham — she bad the oeoal snrpriaia^ 




AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 16) 

appetite of the sallow American dyspeptic — as she answered 
meekly : 

' Yes, indeed, Izzy. I've got to mail my letters to your 
poppa this morning, and after lunch I'll fix myself up and 
sit out in the Park a hit. 

Miss Isabel went up to her own room, and consulted 
Bradshaw. The high mathematical training she had 
received at the Harrisburg Lyceum enabled her in less than 
half an hour to arrive at the abstruse fact that a train for 
Hillborough left Victoria Station at 11.5, and that a 
return train might be expected at 3.17 or at 4.50. Armed 
with these data, and with the consciousness of virtue, she 
summoned a hansom — it was one of the chief joys of 
London in Isabel Boyton's eyes to *ride a hansom' from 
place to place — and commanded her driver to take her 
' right away ' to Victoria. 

Arrived at the station which bore that regal and imperial 
name (Isabel did just love these faint echoes of royalty, 
resonant through the length and breadth of modern England), 
she went into the telegraph-office and framed a hasty cable- 
gram, in the imperative mood, addressed to Sylvanus P. 
Boy ton, Philadelphia, Pa. — which last mysterious addition 
had reference, not to Mr. Boyton's respected parental 
relation towards herself, but to his local habitation in the 
State of Pennsylvania. The message itself was pithy and 
to the point : 

' Open me a credit for three thousand pounds sterling at 
once at Drexel and Morgan's, Paris. 

•Isabel Boyton.' 

* " Honour your father and mother's " gone out of date,* 
Mr. Sylvanus Boyton remarked, in his counting-house at 
Philadelphia, when he received that cablegram four hours 
earlier (by American time), * and ** Honour your sons' and 
daughters' cheques " has come in instead of it !' But he 
understood his duty in his own generation, for all that, for 
he telegraphed without delay, 'Have advised Drexel and 
Morgan, according to wish. You seem to be going it.* 

And going it Miss Isabel undoubtedly was, in her own 
unconventional American fashion. 

At Hillborough Station she ioMTidL \>\x\i ^ ^\\\^^ ^"^ "vs^ 



f7o THE SCALiyWAQ 

attendance. This she hailed at once, and observed in a 
confidential tone to the driver, * I want you to drive me to 
Mr. Solomons', Auctioneer and Estate Agent somewhere in 
the High Street; but please, in going, don't pass a place 
called Plowden's Court, if you can possibly help it, and 
don't go near the school where Miss Gascoyne teaches. I 
don*t want her to know I've come to Hillborough.' 

The driver smiled a curiously knowing smile; and his 
right eye was with difficulty prevented from winking ; but 
he was a discreet man, as is the wont of cabmen — those 
involuntary depositaries of so many other folks' secrets — so 
he answered merely, * All right, miss ; I understand !' with 
an air as confidential as Isabel's own, and drove her forth- 
with to the dingy, stingy little stuccoed house in the old- 
fashioned High Street, without further comment. 

Mr. Solomons was in somewhat low spirits that morning. 
Things generally had been using him very hard. A debtor 
against whom he had obtained a judgment summons had 
* sold up * so ill that barely enough remained, after expenses 
paid, to cover the principal of Mr. Solomons* debt, let alone 
the interest. Great Occidental Shares which he held for a 
rise had fallen yesterday five-eights to three-quarters. His 
nephew Lionel, whom he supplied so liberally, had written 
again to ask for more. And, to crown all, sitting clumsily 
down himself with all his weight of care, he had broken an 
office stool value three and a penny, which would have to 
be replaced by a fresh article from the carpenter's. These 
accumulated misfortunes told heavily upon Mr. Solomons. 
He was distinctly out of sorts, and he would have been 
glad of an excuse to vent his ill-humour, if occasion turned 
up, upon some fitting object. 

Nevertheless, when he saw a pretty young lady with 
golden hair — slim, too slim for Mr. Solomons' Oriental 
taste, but still distinctly good-looking, and dressed with the 
nameless incommunicable charm of American plutocracy — 
descend at his own door and enter his office, doubtless on 
business-thoughts intent, professional spirit rose so tri- 
umphant in Mr. Solomons* breast that he advanced to meet 
the pretty young lady, smiling a smile of ten house-and- 
estate-agent power of persuasion. He saw in her, with the 
eye of faith, that valuable acquisition to the professional 
oimv, a new client. The new client was probably come to 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 17 1 

inquire for a furnished villa at Hillborough for the summer 
season. Mr. Solomons had always many such inquiries in 
July and August. 

The young lady, however, declined the suggestion of 
wanting a house. She was in a hurry, she said — in a very 
great hurry, might she speak with Mr. Solomons half an 
hour — alone — on strictly private business ? 

Mr. Solomons rose and led the way upstairs with a beat- 
ing heart. Sixty years of resolute bachelorhood had made 
him wary. Could the lady's little game by any possibility 
be breach of promise ? He trembled at the idea. If only 
Leo were here now to listen unobtrusively and act as 
witness through the medium of the keyhole ! But to face 
her alone, unsupported even by the oflBce-boy's evidence — 
the bare notion of such damages as the Court might award 
was really too appalling. 

The young lady, however, soon set his doubts on that 
score at rest. She went straight to the point with Trans- 
atlantic directness. Mr. Solomons had certain bonds, 
notes, or acceptances of Mr. Paul Gascoyne's, of Christ 
Church, Oxford. How much were they for? And what 
would Mr. Solomons take, in a lump, for them ? 

At this astounding proposition, fired off at his head point- 
blank, without explanation or introduction, without even a 
knowledge of the young lady's name, Mr. Solomons* breath 
came and went painfully, and a curious conflict of doubt 
and hope took possession of his bosom. He w^as a business 
man, and he must know more about this offer before he 
even admitted the existence of the bonds. Who knew but 
that the strange young lady wanted to rob and murder 
him I 

So Mr. Solomons temporized. By long and slow degrees 
he drew out of Isabel the various facts that she was a rich 
American ; that she had met Paul Gascoyne at Mentone 
and Oxford ; that she wished to get the bonds into her own 
hands ; and that, apparently, she was well disposed towards 
the parties of the first part in those valuable documents. 
On the other hand, he gathered, by various suggestive side- 
hints, that the young lady was not awar^ ol ^Jc^a ^^^^\^^ 
position of Paul's father, beyond tti^ l«u<i\» \Xi"^\» V^ ^^"^ ^ 
Baronet of the United Kingdom, in verj wxi^>\ c:\xaxiNxv^^svJcv^^\ 
And, further, th&t she had no sott ol ^.uVXiotv'c^ ^x^^ ^"^ 



172 tm SCALLYWAG 

himself to make any offer whatsoever for the documents in 
question. She was prepared to buy them, she said, for 
their fair money value in prompt cash, and she would 
engage to cause the parties of the first part no unnecessary 
trouble in the matter of repayment. 

Mr. Solomons* heart, like the Homeric hero's, was 
divided two ways within him at this singular application. 
He had never concealed from himself, and his nephew 
Lionel had certainly not concealed from him, the painful 
fact that these bonds were a very doubtful and proble- 
matical security. He had ventured much on a cock-and- 
bull scheme — a little private mare's-nest of his own inven- 
tion ; and he had trembled for years for his precious money. 
And here, now, was the very heiress, the deus ex machina 
(or dea, if we must speak by the card, lest equivocation 
undo us), who was to relieve him from all his financial 
follies, and justify his daring, and marry Paul, and make 
repayment certain. Nay, more than that, as Mr. Solomons 
read the problem, the heiress was even prepared to pay up 
beforehand, in order to relieve her future husband from the 
weight of debt, and put him in a better way, no doubt, for 
building up for himself a position in life and society. Mr. 
Solomons held his double chin between finger and thumb 
as he pondered deeply. A very strong bait, no doubt, this 
offer of prompt cash — a very strong bait indeed to human 
cupidity. 

And yet two other feelings rose powerful at once in Mr. 
Solomons' mind — two strange, deep feelings. The first was 
this: If here was the heiress who indeed was ready to 
marry Paul, and save him at once from all his struggles and 
difficulties, why should Mr. Solomons let her discount him, 
as it were, at present value, and so get him cheap, when, 
by holding on till the end, and selling dear, he would reap 
the full benefit himself of his long investment ? What's the 
use of embarking in a doubtful speculation if you don't 
expect to get well repaid, cent, per cent., in the end for it? 
How foolish to get frightened with land in sight, bo to 
speak, and forego the harvest of your own wise adventurous- 
ness! Why, Mr. Solomons would like to hold on, if for 
nothing else, in order to show his nephew Leo he was 
wrong after all, and that Paul would book his heiress at 
las^^ and pay up, like a young man ol \iOTio\3nc ^^ Vi^ ^^'^^ t^c^ 



AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR 173 

tbe uttermost farthing. Twenty per cent, and annual 
renewals, with discount off for the extra risk to start with — 
and to the uttermost farthing. 

And the second feeling? Ah, that Mr. Solomons hardly 
even admitted to his own soul. He would have been 
ashamed, as a business man, to admit it. But it was there 
nevertheless, vague and undetermined, a genuine sentiment, 
in some undercurrent of consciousness. Had he not con- 
ceived all this scheme himself, and risked his solid cash on 
the chimerical proposition? Was it not he who had put 
Paul to school and college, and thus acquired, as it were, a 
proprietary interest in him ? Wasn't Paul's success in life 
his own business now? Had he backed it so long, and 
would he hedge at the last moment in favour of a stranger ? 
And what stranger ? Whatever did he know of this queer 
young lady, who had dropped down upon him from the 
clouds, with her brusque, sharp manners and her eager 
American promptitude ? Why sell PauPs future to her or 
to anyone ? Was not Paul his by right of investment, and 
should not he run him on his own account, to win or to 
lose, as the chances of the game of life would have it? The 
gambling spirit was strong in Mr. Solomons, * after all. 
Having backed his horse, he liked to stand by him like a 
thoroughgoing sportsman. No hedging for him. And a 
certain sneaking human regard for Paul made him say to 
himself, * Why hand him over, bound body and soul, to a 
golden-haired young lady from parts unknown, whose 
motives for buying him of me are, after all, doubtful ?' 

So he stared at Isabel hard as he opened his safe and 
took out the precious documents with trembling fingers. 
Then he said, ' The total sum up to date comes to a tri£o 
over fifteen hundred pounds sterling.' 

' Only fifteen hundred ?* Isabel cried with a start. ' And 
he makes all that fuss over fifteen hundred pounds I Why, 
say, Mr. Solomons, I'll give you two thousand, money 
down, for the lot, and we'll make it a bargain.' 

Mr. Solomons drew a deep breath and hesitated. Four 
hundred and seventy odd pounds clear profit — besides tha 
compound interest at twenty per cent. — ^%a xsicst^ 'Os^asvX:^ 
iondest wish had ever anticipated. SMe\i «. ^ovvci^^^^'^^^'^ 
as thai, properly worked, would indeeaL \>e «. ^^^^^^"^ J^^"^"^^^^ 
wealth for a capitalist to dra^v upon, ISLe^ YooV^cs. ^jvX^ ^^ 



174 THE SCALLYWAG 

long, and his heart faltered. Four hundred and seventy 
odd pounds I * Well, what do you want them for?' he asked 
at last, cautiously. 

* That's my business, I guess,' Isabel answered with sharp 
incisiveness. * To burn *em if I choose, perhaps. When I 
buy things at a store, I don't usually expect to tell the dry- 
goodsman what I want to do with 'em.* 

Mr. Solomons eyed her with an inquisitive look. * Let's 
be plain and aboveboard with one another,* he said. * Do 
you intend to marry him ?' 

* Oh my, no I' Isabel answered at once, with a prompt 
decision that carried conviction in its very tone immediately. 

Mr, Solomons was nonplussed. * You don't want to 
marry him l' he exclaimed, taken aback. 

* No, I ain't going to marry him,' Isabel answered stoutly, 
just altering the phrase into closer accordance with the facts 
of the case, but otherwise nodding a bland acquiescence. 
* I ain't going to marry him, I give you my word, Mr. Solo- 
mons.' 

*Then, what do you want?' Mr. Solomons asked, all 
amazed. 

* I want those papers,' Isabel answered with persistence. 
Mr. Solomons rose, faltered for a second, replaced them 

in their pigeon-hole with a decided air, locked the safe, and 
put the key in his pocket. Then he turned round to Isabel 
with a very gracious smile, and observed politely : 

' Have a glass of wine, miss ? 

It was his mode of indicating with graceful precision that 
the question between them was settled — in the negative. 

Against the rook of that decisive impassive attitude the 
energetic little American broke herself in wild foam of 
entreaties and expostulations, all in vain. She stormed", 
begged, prayed, and even condescended to burst into tears, 
but all to no purpose. Mr. Solomons, now his mind was 
once made up, remained hard as adamant. All she could 
obtain from Mr. Solomons was the solemn promise that he 
would keep this fruitless negotiation a dead secret from 
Paul and Faith, and would never even mention the fact of 
ter visit to Hillborough. Thus reassured, the kind-hearted 
^ttle Penny si vanian dried lier eyes, and, refusing in returi; 
jto mako Mr, Solomons the confidant of her name, descei}d§4 
fbe stairs once ripre^ wondering ani QAa^^^vciVi^^ 



^.V UNEXPECTED VISITOR 175 

'Shall I call you a cab, miss?' Mr. Solomons asked 
politely as he went down by her side. 

'Thank you, IVe gotten one waiting,' Isabel answered, 
trying hard to look unconcerned. * Will you tell the man 
to drive to the best place in the village where I can get 
something to eat ?' For Americans wot not of the existence 
of towns — to them everything that isn't a city is a mere 
village. 

But when Mr. Solomons saw the driver of Isabel's cab, he 
gave a sudden little start of surprise, and exclaimed involun- 
tarily, * Why, bless my soul, Gascoyne, it's you, is it ? The 
young lady wants to be driven to the Golden Lion.' 

Isabel Boyton drew back, herself surprised in her turn. 
'You don't mean to say,' she cried, looking hard at the 
cabman, * this is Mr. Gascoyne's father T 

Mr. Solomons nodded a nod of acquiescence. Isabel 
gazed at him with a good hard stare, as one gazes at a new 
wild beast in the Zoo, and then held out her hand frankly. 
' May I shake hands with you?' she said. 'Thank you very 
much. You see, it'll be something for me to tell my friends 
when I get back home to America that I've shaken hands 
with an English baronet.' 

At the Golden Lion she paused as she paid him. ' You're 
a man of honour, I suppose ?' she said, hesitating slightly. 

And the English baronet answered with truth, ' I 'opes I 
are, miss.' 

' Then I trust you, Mr. Gascoyne, Sir Emery, or what- 
ever else it ought to be,* she went oh seriously. *You 
won't mention either to your son or your daughter that you 
drove an American lady to-day to Mr. Solomons' office.* 

The English baronet touched his hat respectfully. * Not 
if I was to die for it, miss,' he answered with warmth ; for 
the honest grasp of Isabel's hand had touched some inner- 
most chord of his nature till it resounded strangely. 

But Isabel went in to gulp down her lunch with a 
regretful sense of utter failure. She hadn't succeeded in 
making things easier, as she had hoped, for Paul and Nea. 

And the English baronet and Mr. Solomons kept their 
troth like mea Paul and Eaith never knew Isabel Boytoi^ 
had visited Hillborough, and Mp. Solomons hvm^^^i w^-^'^ 
learnt the name of his n^ysteuQU^ U^We> ^o\^^w - V^^^^'^^ 
^meriom visitor. 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTER XXIV. 




of tliat term al 

li! one foi 

1 »s Faitli 

nt dowD 

ar old Ox 

lia set U 

redoublec 

13 reading 

went in at la&l 

Lis liual exatQ' 

ation. Upoi 

.aiuinatioi 



ed. I 

he coulc 

a First 

oulc 



Fellowship ; and a Fellowship would allow him leisuri 
to look aroand and to lay his plane for slowly repaying 
Mr. Solomons. But if he succeeded merely in attaining 
a Second or Third, his prospects of a Fellowship would ht 
greatly decreased, and with them the probability of hii 
shaking off that load of debt that clogged and oppresset 
him in all Ms schemes for the future. 

He knew, of course, that the necessity for taking pupil 
daring Ms undergraduate years told heavily against bim 
Ho man can row in two boats at once; and the time he hat 
used up in reading with Thistleton and his other pupils hat 
been so much subtracted from the time he ought to havi 
devoted to his own reading. Still, he was able, undeniabl; 
abJe; and little disposed to o\QTQalii:aB.tA his own ^wera a 
he was, be bad, nevortheleas, a ^iii (iOTiaw.QiiSi"ii.eftft-ai\fla(wi 



HONOURS 177 

Boul that, given even chances, he was more than a match for 
most of his contemporaries. He had worked hard, mean- 
while, to make up for lost time ; and he went into the exam- 
ination cheered and sustained hy the inspiring thought that 
Nea Blair's eyes were watching his success or failure from 
afar in Cornwall 

Day after day he worked and wrote in those dreary 
schools; deep in Aristotle, Plato, Grote, and Mommsen. 
Night after night he compared notes with his competitors, 
and marked the strong or weak points of their respective com- 
positions. As time went on his spirits rose higher. He 
was sure he was doing himself full justice in his papers. 
He was sure what he had to say upon most of the questions 
asked in the schools was more original and more philo- 
sophical than the ideas and opinions of any of his neigh- 
bours. He felt quite at ease about his success now. And 
if only once he could get his First, he was pretty sure of a 
Fellowship, and of some chance at least of repaying Mr. 
Solomons. 

At last the examination was over, the papers sent in, and 
nothing remained but that long, weary delay while the 
examiners are glancing over the tops of the answers and 
pretending to estimate the relative places of the candidates. 
Paul waited and watched with a yearning heart. How 
much hung for him on the issue of that dreaded class-list ! 

On the day when it came out, nailed up according to 
Oxford wont on the doors of the schools, he stole into the 
quadrangle half an hour late — ^he couldn't bear to be there 
with the first eager rush — and looked among the G's in the 
First Class for the name of Gascoyne. 

It was with a thrill of surprise — only surprise at first — 
that he noticed the list went straight from Gait to Groves ; 
there was no Gascoyne at all in the place where he ex- 
pected it. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Surely 
some mistake ; for the names go in each class in alphabeti- 
cal order. G-a-1, G-a-s, G-r-o. Had they misspelt it some- 
how ?' Then, all at once, the truth flashed across his mind 
in a horrible revelatioa The truth, or part of it. His name 
wasn't put in the First Class at all I He must have taken a 
Second 1 

For a moment he could hardly believe his eyes. It was 
fjl too strange, all too incredible. He \iv\i9L ^NoxVa^ ^a^^V^x.^^ 



178 THE SCALLYWAG 

he had deserved it so well I Bat still he must face the 
worst like a man. Ho fixed his glance steadily on the 
Second Class. Farrington, Flood, Galbraith, Girdlestone. 
He rubbed his eyes once more. Was he going mad on the 
spot ? Or had the examiners neglected to place him alto- 
gether ? 

With a vague sinking feeling about his left breast, he 
glanced down yet lower to where the Third Class filled up 
its two much longer columns. About half-way down, his 
eye caught his own name with that miraculous rapidity 
which enables one always to single out those familiar words 
on a printed page from a thousand others. * Gascoyne, 
Paulus, ex ^de Christi.* Yes, yes, it was too true. There 
wad no denying it. A Third — the lowest of all classes in 
Honours — was all he had got for all his toil and trouble I 

He reeled as he stood, sick — sick with disappointment. 

How had it happened? Who knows? Who can say? 
It's the greatest mistake in the world to suppose the best 
men always come uppermost. If a board of Third Class 
men in after-life were to examine their examiners, it i3 
highly probable they might often turn the tables on the 
dons who misplaced them. Humanum est errare, and 
examiners are human. They often make blunders, like all 
the rest of us, and they added one more to that long list of 
mistakes when they gave Paul Gascoyne a Third in Finals. 

The fact is, Paul was original; and Oxford, like Mr. 
Peter Magnus, hates originality. A decorous receptivity is 
what it most prefers. It likes a human mind to be modelled 
on the phonographic pattern — prompt to take in exactly 
what it is told, and ready to give it out once more, precisely 
as inspired, whenever you turn the barrel on again by 
pressing the handle. In Paul's essays, the examiners 
detected some flavour of ideas which appeared to them 
wholly unfounded on any opinions set forth by Professor 
Jowett or Mr. T. H. Green, of BalUol ; and, shocked at 
this revolt from established usage, they relegated their 
author to a Third Class, accordingly. 

But Paul for the moment knew none of these things. He 

was only aware that a crushing blow had fallen upon him 

unexpectedly ; and he went back inconsolable to his own 

rooms in Peckwater, where he sported his oak, or big outer 

door, j3ung bimseU passionately into his easy-chair, and had 



HONOURS 179 

his bad hour alone by himself in unutterable misery. It 
was hard to have worked so long and so well for so bitter 
a disappointment. But these things happen often, and will 
happen always, as long as men consent to let themselves be 
measured by a foot-rule measurement like so many yards of 
brick and mortar. They are the tributcTwo pay to the 
examination Juggernaut. It crushes the best, and rolls 
unfelt over the bodies of the hardest. 

Paul lunched alone; he was incapable of going into 
Thistleton's rooms, as he often did for luncheon. But at 
two o'clock he heard a loud knocking at his big oak door — 
contrary to all established rules of University etiquette ; 
for when once a man fastens that outer barrier of his minor 
castle, he is supposed to be ill, or out of town, or otherwise 
engaged, and inaccessible for the time being even to his 
nearest and dearest intimates. However, he opened it, 
regardless of thie broach, and found Thistleton waiting for 
him on the landing, very red-faced. The blond young 
man grasped his hand hard with a friendly pressure. 

* Gascoyne I' ho cried, bursting, and hardly able to gasp 
with stifled indignation, * this is just atrocious. It's wicked ; 
it's incredible I I know who it was. Confound his impu- 
dence 1 It was that beast Pringle. Let's go round to 
John's, and punch his ugly old head for him !* 

In spite of his disappointment, Paul smiled bitterly. Of 
what good would it be to punch the senior examiner's head, 
now that irrevocable class-Ust had once been issued ? 

* I wanted to be alone, Thistleton,' he said ; * it was 
almost more than I can bear in company. It wasn't for 
myself, you know, but for — for the heavy claims that weigh 
upon me. However, since you've come and broken my oak, 
let's go down the river to Sandford Lasher in a tub-pair 
and work it off. There's nothing hke muscular effort to 
carry away these things. If I don't work, I feel as if I 
could sit down and cry like a girl. What I feel most is— 
the gross injustice of it.' 

And gross injustice is quite inevitable as long as men 
think a set of meritorious and hard-working schoolmasters 
can be trusted to place in strict order of merit the pick and 
flower of intelligent young Enghshmen. The vile examina- 
tion system has in it nothing viler than this all but certaix^L 
chance of crushing at the outset by v?^tv.\» ol ^xx^o^'s*^ \fik. ^ 



i8o THE SCALLYWAG 

foolish race, the cleverest, most vivid, and most original 
geniuses. 

They went down the river, Thistleton still protesting his 
profound intention of punching Pringle*s head, and as they 
rowed and rowed Paul gradually worked off the worst of his 
emotion. Then he came back, and dined alone, to try and 
accommodate himself to his new position. All his plans in 
life had hitherto been based upon the tacit assumption that 
he would take a First — an assumption in which he had been 
duly backed by all who knew him — and now that he found 
himself stranded on the bank with a Third instead, he had 
to begin and reconsider his prospects in the world, under 
the terrible weight of this sudden disillusionment. A 
Fellowship would now, no doubt, be a practical impossi- 
bility ; he must turn his attention to some other opening — 
if any. 

But 4ihe more he thought, the less he saw his way clear 
before him. And, in effect, what can a young man of 
promise, but without capital, and backed only by a Third in 
Greats, find to turn his hand to in these latter days in this 
|ammed and overstocked realm of England? Of what 
practical use to him now was this costly education, for 
which he had mortgaged his whole future for years in 
advance to Mr. Solomons ? The Bar could only be entered 
after a long and expensive apprenticeship, and even then he 
would in all probability do nothing but swell the noble ranks 
of briefless barristers. Medicine required an equally costly 
and tedious novitiate. From the Cfiurch he was cut off by 
want of sufficient faith or natural vocation. No man can 
become a solicitor off-hand, any more than he can become a 
banker, a brewer, or a landed proprietor. Paul ran over all 
conceivable professions rapidly in his mind, and saw none 
open before him save that soHtary refuge of the destitute — 
to become a schoolmaster ; and even that, with a Third in 
Greats for his sole recommendation, would certainly be by 
no means either easy or remunerative. 

And then Mr. Solomons! What would Mr. Solomons 
say to such a move ? He would never allow his protigd to 
take to schoolmastering. Mr. Solomons* ideals for him 
were all so different. He always figured to himself Paul 
taking hiB proper place in society as the heir to a baronetcy, 
and there captivating and capWt\n« t\iTv.t» supposititious 



HONOURS i8i 

heiress by the charms of his person and the graces of his 
high-born aristocratic manners. But to become a school- 
master I In Mr. Solomons' eyes that would be simply to 
chuck away the one chance of success. What he wanted 
was to see Paul living in good chambers in London, and 
moving about among the great world, where his prospective 
title would mean in the end money or money's worth for 
him. If the heir of all the Gascoynes had to descend to the 
drudgery of mere schoolmastcring, it would be necessary to 
have an explanation with Mr. Solomons; and then — and 
then his father's dream must vanish for ever. 

How could he ever have been foolish enough in such 
circumstances to speak to Nea? His heart misgave him 
that he had been so unkind and so cruel. He would have 
bartered his eyes now if only he could undo the past. And 
even as he thought so, ho unfastened his desk and, so weak 
is man, sat down to write a passionate appeal for advice and 
sympathy and aid from Nea. 

He could never marry her. But she would always ba 
his. And it calmed his soul somehow to write to Nea. 

As he wrote, a knock came at the sported oak — the sharp 
double rap that announces a telegram. He opened tho 
door and took it from the bearer. 

*To Paul Gascoyne, Christ Church, Oxford. 

'Mrs. Douglas has telegraphed me result of cla^s-list. 
Your disappointment is my disappointment. I feel it deeply, 
but send you all sympathy. You must take to literature 
now. 

•Nea.' 

He flung himself back in his easy-chair once more, and 
kissed the flimsy bit of cheap paper fervently. Then, Nea 
had taken the trouble to arrange beforehand with Mrs. 
Douglas for a telegram. Nea had been puzzling her head 
about the self-same problems. Nea had felt for him in his 
day of humiliation. He would work away yet, and clear 
himself for Nea. Mr. Solomons should still be paid off 
somehow. And sooner or later he must marry Nea. 

Till that night he had never even dared to think it. But 
just then, in his deepest hour of despair, t\vai\» WA 'CoLCiTv^c^ 
pame hom^ to bim as a fresh spur to o^ott. \c\^oi>'s^^y 



iSs THE SCALLYWAG 

incredible, nnattainable as it seemed, he would pay off aJI, 
and marry Nea. 

The resolve alone was worth something. 

Moehanically he rose and went to hia desk once more. 
This time he pulled out a. clean sheet of foolscap. The need 
for an outlet was strong upon him now. He took up hia 
pen, and aJmost without thinking sat down and wrote 
furiously and rapidly. He wrote, as he had rowed that 
afternoon to Sandford Lasher, in the wild desire to work off 
his excitement and depression ja some engrossing occupa- 
tion. He wrote far into the small hours of the night, and 
when he had finished some seven or eight closely- written 
foolscap sheets, he spent another long time in correcting 
and repolishing them, At last he got up and strolled off to 
bed. He had followed Nea'g advice, red-hot at the moment, 
He had written for dear life. All other means failing, ho 
bad taken to literature. 

And that is about the way we all of us who live by tho 
evil trade first took to it. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

COMPENSATION. 

iffiK-'^jgi-irV S it happened, that most terrible disappoint- 
''^BJ^i^m r ™^'^* '"^ f^' hiB life was probably the luckiest 
"^^^'ISri thing on earth that could possibly have 
'^^^W^^- befallen Paul Gascoyna Hs!cl he taken a 
■'■M^^^'" ^i"^*' ^^^ '''**='^ gained a "Fellowship, he 
^■ S ^7'^^' \ would doubtless havo remained up at Ox- 
ford for many years to como, plodding and coaching, lead- 
ing a necessarily expensive and useless life, and paying 
off Mr. Solomons but very slowly by long-deferred in- 
stalments out of his scanty savings. As it was, however, 
being thus cast adrift on the world upon his own re- 
sources, be was compelled more frankly to face hfa for 
himself, and to find some immediate paying work, which 
would enable him to live by hook or by crook, as best he 
might, over the next six months or so. And that prompt 
neoeBsity tor earniog hia salt proved, in tact, hia real salva- 
fjoa. Not, ot course, that he gave up e.^. oudft Vlie^.^e^<i^ % 



COMPENSATION 183 

Fellowship. He was too brave a man to let even a Third 
in Greats deter him from having a final fling at the hope- 
lessly unattainable. A week later he went in for the very- 
first vacancy that turned up, and missed it; nobly, being 
beaten by a thick-headed Balliol Scot, who knew by heart 
every opinion of every recognised authority on everything 
earthly, from Plato and Aristotle down to John Stuart Mill 
and Benjamin Jowett. So having thus finally buried his 
only chance of University preferment before October term, 
Paul set to work with a brave heart to look about him man- 
fully for some means of livelihood that might tide him over 
the summer vacation. 

His first idea — the stereotyped first idea of every unem- 
ployed young Oxford man — was of course to get pupils. 
But pupils for the Long don*t grow on every bush ; and 
here again that strange divinity that shapes our ends, rough- 
hew them how we may, proved kindly favourable to him. 
Not a single aspirant answered his intimation, duly hung 
among a dozen or so equally attractive announcements on 
the notice-board of the Union, that * Mr. Paul Gascoyne, of 
Christ Church, would be glad to read with pupils for Mods 
during the Long Vacation.' Thus thrown upon his beam- 
ends by the necessities of the case, Paul was fairly compelled 
to follow Nea's advice and * take to literature.' 

But * taking to literature ' is not so easy as it sounds to 
those who have never tried it. Everybody can write nowa- 
days, thanks to the Board Schools, and brave the supreme 
difficulty of the literary profession. An open trade — a trade 
which needs no special apprenticeship— is always over- 
stocked. Every gate is thronged with suitors: all the 
markets overflow. And so Paul hardly dared to hope even 
for the modest success which may keep a bachelor in bread- 
and-butter. Bread-and-butter is much, indeed, to expect 
from one's brains in these latter days, when dry bread is 
the lot of most literary aspirants. Little as he knew of the 
perils of the way, Paul trembled to think what fate might 
have in store for him. 

Nevertheless, on the very night of his bitter disappoint- 
ment over the Oxford class-list, he had sat down and written 
off that hasty article — a mere playful sketch of a certaia 
phase of English life as he well knevi \\.,\.ot \i^ ^^'e* ^^'^'^ 
\Titboui; bis Benae oi humour ; and xea.9Lva^ \^ o^^'t ^^^^^^^a^ 



i84 THE SCALLYWAG 

leisure the succeeding morning he saw that, though not 
quite so good as he thought it the night before, in his 
feverish earnestness, it was still by no means wanting in 
point and brilUahcy. So, with much fear and trembling, he 
enclosed it in an envelope, and sent it off, with a brief letter 
commendatory, to the dreaded editor of the Monday BeTnem- 
brancer. And then, having fired his bolt in the dark, he 
straightway tried to forget all about it, for fear of its entail- 
ing on him still further disappointment. 

For a week or ten days he waited in vain, during which 
time he occupied all his spare moments in trying his 
'prentice hand at yet other articles. For, indeed, Paul 
hardly understood himself as yet how strait is the gate and 
how narrow is the way by which men enter into even that 
outer vestibule of journalism. He little knew how many 
proffered articles are in most cases * declined with thanks ' 
before the most modest little effusion stands a stray chance 
of acceptance from the journalistic magnates. Most young 
men think it a very easy thing to 'write for the papera' 
It is only when they come to see the short shrift their own 
best efforts obtain from professional critics that they begin 
to understand how coy and shy and hard to woo is the un- 
certain modem Muse who presides unseen over the daily 
printing-press. But of all this Paul was still by rare good- 
luck most innocently ignorant. Had he known it all, brave 
and sturdy as he was, he might have fallen down and fainted 
perchance on the threshold. 

At the end of ten days, however, to his deep delight, a 
letter came back from that inexorable editor — a cautious 
letter, neither accepting nor rejecting Paul's proffered paper, 
but saying in guarded, roundabout language that if Mr. 
Gascoyne happened to be in town any time next week the 
editor could spare him just twenty minutes* private conversa- 
tion. 

By a curious coincidence Paul was in town early next 
week, and the inexorable editor, sitting with watch open 
before him to keep jealous guard lest Paul might exceed the 
stipulated twenty minutes, expounded to him with crude 
editorial frankness his views about his new contributor's 
place in journalism. 

'Have jou ever written before?' the editor asked him 
sMrpJfT jret with the f^.miUar wearied \o\itii^\\^\.\<> ^\t (^^ of 



COM PENS A TION 1 85 

a man who has sat up all night at a leader), pouncing down 
upon him like a hawk upon a lark, from under his bushy 
eyebrows. 

Paul admitted with some awe, and no little diffidence, 
that this was his first peccadillo in that particular direction 
— the one error of an otherwise blameless existence. 

' Of course/ the editor answered, turning over his poor 
foolscap with a half-contemptuous hand, * I saw that at a 
glance. I read it in the style or want of style. I didn't 
need to be told so. I only asked by force of habit for 
further confirmation. Well, you know, Mr. Gascoyne, 
there's no use disguising the fact. You CQ,u!t write — no, you 
can't lorite — you can't write worth a kick, or anything like 
it !' and he snapped down his mouth with a vicious snap as 
one snaps a rat-trap demonstratively between one's thumb 
and finger. 

* No ?* Paul said in an interrogative voice and somewhat 
crestfallen, much wondering why, in that case, the busy 
editor, who measured his minutes strictly by the watch, had 
taken the trouble to send for him all the way up from Oxford. 

' No, indeed you can't,' the editor answered, argumenta- 
tive, like one who expects to be contradicted, but won't 
brook contradiction. ' Just look here at this now, and at 
tkis, and this,* and as he spoke the great man rapidly scored 
with his poncil cue or two of the most juvenile faults of 
style in Paul's neatly-written but undeniably amateurish 
little essay. 

Paul was forced to admit to himself, as the editor scored 
them, that these particular constructions were undoubtedly 
weak. They smelt of youth and of inexperience, and he 
trembled for himself as the editor went on with merciless 
quill to correct and alter them into rough accordance with 
the Bememhrancer's own exalted literary standard. Through 
the whole eight pages or so the editor ran Ughtly with 
practised pen — enlarging here, contracting there, brightening 
yonder — exactly as Paul had seen the tutors at Christ 
Church amend the false concords or doubtful quantities in a 
passman's faulty Latin verses. The rapidity and certainty 
of the editor's touch, indeed, was something surprising. 
Paul saw for himself, as the ruthless censor proceeded ia 
the task, that his workmanship was xe«SL^ Net^ \i^<^, ^^v. 
iejt instinctively bow cfude and youttitvxl 'SR^x^\a% q.^xl'^^^ 



i86 THE SCALLYWAG 

attempts at the purveyance of literature. At the end, 
when the editor had disfigured his whole beautiful, neatly- 
written article with illegible scratches, cabalistic signs, and 
frequent alterations^ the poor young man looked down at it 
with a sigh and half murmured below his breath : 

* Then, of course, you don't intend to print it ?' 

The editor, for all reply, sounded a small gong by his 
side and waited. In answer to the summons, a boy, some- 
what the worse for lamp-black, entered the august presence 
and stood attentive for orders. The editor handed him the 
much-altered pages with a lordly wave. * Press !* he said 
laconically and brushed him aside. The boy nodded, and 
disappeared as in a pantomime. 

Then the editor glanced at his watch once more. He ran 
his fingers once or twice through his hair with a preoccupied 
air and stared straight in front of him. For a minute he 
hummed and mused as if alone. After that he woke up 
suddenly and answered with a start : * Yes I do, though ; I 
mean to print it — as amended. A great deal of it will have 
to come out, of course ; but I mean to print it.' 

* Thank you very much,* Paul cried, overpowered. 

* And I'll tell you why,* the editor went on, never heeding 
his thanks — to editors all that is mere contributors' business. 
* It isn*t written a bit; oh dear no, not written; but it*s real 
— it has stuff in it.* * 

* I'm so glad you think so,* Paul exclaimed, brightening. 

The editor cut hit:: ohort with a rapid wave of his im- 
perious pen. Editors have no time to let themselves be 
thanked or talked to. * You have something to write about,' 
he said, 'something new and fresh. In one word, ** Youa 
connaissez votre monde," and that's just what's wanted 
nowadays in journalism. We require sp^cialitids, A man 
who knows aU about the Chicago pork trade's a more use- 
ful man to us by a hundred guineas than a fellow who can 
write well in limpid English on any blessed subject under 
heaven you may sot him. ** Nullum tetigit quod non orna- 
vit ** — Dean Swift and the broomstick — all moonshine now- 
adays I Crispness and originality are mere drugs in the 
market. What we want is the men who have the actual 
stuff in them. Now, you have the stuff in you. You know 

j'our world. This article shows you thoroughly understand 
manners and modes of thought ol ttie petite bour^eomet^ 



COMPENSATION 187 

* I belong to them, in fact/ Paul put in, interrupting 
bim. 

The editor received the unnecessary information with 
polite indifference. For his part, it mattered nothing on 
earth to him whether his contributor were a duke or a 
Manchu Tartar. What mattered was the fact that he had 
something to communicate. He nodded, yawned, and 
continued listlessly. * Quite so,' he said. * You understand 
the class. Our readers belong to a different order. They're 
mostly gentlefolks. You seem from your article to be a 
greengrocer's assistant. Therefore you've got something 
fresh to tell them. This is an age when society's consumed 
with a burning desire to understand its own component 
elements. Half the world Wants to know, for the first 
time in its life, how the other half lives, just to spite the 
proverb. The desire's incomprehensible, but still it exists ; 
and the journaHst thrives by virtue of recognising all 
actualities. If you refuse to recognise the actual — like the 
Planet and the Matutinal Herald, for example — you go to 
the wall as sure as fate. Mr. — ah'm — where's your card ? 
— ah, yes — Gascoyne, we shall want a series of a dozen or 
so of these articles.* 

Paul hardly knew how to express his thanks. The editor 
cut him shore with a weary wave. * And mind,' he said, 
drawling, * no quotations from Juvenal. You're an Oxford 
man, I see. Young man, if you would prosper, avoid your 
Juvenal. University men always go wrong on that. They 
can't keep Juvenal out of modern life and newspaper 
leaders. You've no less than three tags from the Third 
Satire, I observe, in this one short article. Three tags 
from the classics at a single go would damn the best middle 
that ever was penned. Steer clear of them in future and 
try to be actual Your articles '11 want a great deal of 
hacking and hewing, of course ; I shall have to prune them, 
but, still, you've the stuff in you.* He glanced at his watch 
uneasily once more. * The first next Wednesday,* he went 
on, with a significant look towards the door. * I'm very 
busy just at present.* His hand was fumbling nervously 
among his papers now. He rang the httle gong a second 
time. * Proof of the ** Folly of the Government," * he t^- 
nmrked to the boy. * Good-mornmg, Mx. — C^^'e*^^^^^. 
V]^tt,se don 't forget, fJot later than "^ edu^^aa.-^ .' 




i88 THE SCALLYWAG 

' Please doa't forget !' As if it was likely, or as if he 
suffered from such a plethora of work that he would fail to 
supply it I Why, the very chance of such an eogagement 
as that made him wild with excitement. And Paul Ga3- 
coyne went down the wooden steps that afternoon a happy 
man, and a real live journalist on the staff of the Mo}t£iy 
Remembra^icer. 

CHAPTEB XXVI. 

AN IN~KODUCTI0N. 

flEMO repente fit turpissimns ' ; and nobody 
becomes hy^ desisn a journalist. Men drift 
into the evil trade as they drift into drink, 
crime, or politics— by force of circam' 
stances. They take it up first because 
they've nothiDg else ready to hand to do, 
and they go on with it because they -see no possible way of 
getting out of it, Paul Gascoyne, however, by way of the 
exception to every rule, having thuB unexpectedly drifted 
into the first headwaters of a journalistic career, began 
seriously to contemplate making his work in life of it. In 
this design he was further encouraged by the advice and 
assistance of Mr. Solomons, who would have energetically 
protested against anything bo vulgar as schoolmastering, as 
being likely to interfere with his plans for Paul's britUant 
future, but who considered an occasional excursion into the 
domain of literature as by no means derogatory to the 
dignity even of one who was destined to become, m oourss 
of time, a real live baronet. Nay ; Mr, Solomons went bo 
far in bis commendation of the craft as to dwell with 
peculiar pride and pteasuro on the career of a certain noble 
lord who was not ashamed in his day to take his three 
guineas a column from a distinguished weekly, and who 
afterwards, by the unexpected demise of an elder brother, 
rose to the actual dignity of a British marquisate. These 
things being bo, Mr. Solomons opined that Paul, thoush 
born to shine in courts, might blamelessly contribute to tbe 
Monday Bem^mbrancer, and might pocket his more modest 
gnineA without compunction in such excellent company. 
^or what company can be bettei thB.a th.«.t of the Lords of 



AN INTRODUCTION i8g 

the Council, endued, as we all well know them to be, with 
grace, wisdom, and understanding? 

Moreover, Mr. Solomons had other ideas of his own for 
Paul in his head. It would be so well for Leo to improve 
his acquaintance with the future bearer of the Gascoyne 
title ; and it would be so well for Paul to keep up his con- 
nection, with the house of Solomons by thus associating 
from time to time with Mr. Lionel. For this double- 
barrelled purpose Mr. Solomons suggested that Paul should 
take rooms in the same house with Lionel, and that they 
should to some extent share expenses together, so far as 
breakfast, lights, and firing were concerned. From which 
acute suggestion Mr. Solomons expected a double advantage 
— as the wisdom of our ancestors has proverbially phrased 
it, he would kill two birds with one stone. On the one 
hand, Paul and Lionel would naturally be thrown much 
into one another's society, and, on the other hand, Lionel's 
living expenses would be considerably diminished by Paul's 
co-operation. 

To Paul himself the arrangement was a trifle less satis- 
factory. Mr. Lionel Solomons was hardly the sort of 
person he would have spontaneously chosen as the friend 
and companion of his enforced solitude. Paul's tastes and 
ideas had undergone a considerable modification at Oxford, 
and he was well aware of the distinctions of tone which 
marked off Mr. Lionel from the type of men with whom he 
had now long been accustomed to associate. But still, he 
never dreamt of opposing himself in this matter to Mr. 
Solomons' wishes. The habit of acquiescence in all Mr. 
Solomons' plans for his future had been so impressed upon 
his mind by constant use that he could hardly throw it off 
in a month or two ; and he went uncomplainingly, if not 
quite cheerfully, to share the hospitality of Mr. Lionel's 
rooms in a small back street off a Pimlico highway. 

For the first few weeks Paul was busy enough, endeavour- 
ing to gain himself an entry into the world of journalism. 
And by great good luck his preliminary efforts were un- 
expectedly, and it must be confessed unwontedly, success- 
ful. As a rule, it is only by long and strenuous pushing 
that even good workmen succeed in making their way into 
that most crowded and difficult of all trader ot y^cA^^^vstos*. 
But there is luck in everything, even m \oMicxi%X\%^ecv\ ^^^ 



I90 THE SCALLYWAG 

Paul herein was exceptionally lucky. Mrs. Douglas, feeling 
herself almost personally responsible for his mishap in 
Greats — for if only she had nobbled the examiners in time, 
might she not have managed to secure for him at least a 
decent Second ?-^endeavoured to make up for her remiss- 
ness on that important occasion by using all her best back- 
stairs wiles and blandishments on the persons of all the 
editors and leader-writers of her wide acquaintance. Now, 
the London press, as is well beknown to those curious in 
such matters, is almost entirely manned and run by Oxford 
graduates. Among those magnates of the journalistic world 
Mrs. Douglas possessed no small feminine influence ; her 
dearest friend was married to the staff of the Times, and 
two of her second cousins were respectively engaged to the 
French politics of the Planet and the art-criticism of its 
Hebdomadal Correspondent, By dexterously employing her 
persuasive powers on these potent ladies, Mrs. Douglas 
managed to secure for Paul's maiden efforts the difficult 
favour of editorial consideration. The rest Paul worked on 
his own account. Por although, as his first editor had 
justly remarked, ho couldn't write worth a kick when he 
began his experiments, he sat down so resolutely to conquer 
the intricacies of English style, that before three weeks 
were fairly over his manuscript made as decent copy as 
that of many journalists to the manner born, with less 
brains and perception than the young Oxford postulant. 

It was during these first weeks of toilsome apprenticeship 
that an event happened of great importance to PauFs future 
history, though at the moment he himself saw in it nothing 
more than the most casual incident of everyday existence. 

One Saturday afternoon Mr. Lionel returned home early 
from the City, on fashionable promenade intent, and pro- 
posed to Paul to accompany him to the Park, to take the 
air and inspect the marriageable young ladies of this isle of 
Britain there on view to all and sundry. * Let's have a 
squint at the girls,* indeed, was Mr. Lionel's own precise 
and classical suggestion for their afternoon's entertainment. 

For a moment Paul demurred. * I want to get this article 

finished,* he said, looking up from his paper with a rather 

wearied air. * I'm trying one on spec for the Monthly 

Julelllgcnccr.' 

'Bot /' Mi\ Lionel ejaculated with profound emphasis. 



AN INTRODUCTION 191 

* You're working too hard, Gascoyne ; that's just what's the 
matter with you. We don't work like that in the City, I 
can tell you. You're muddling your brains with too much 
writing. Much better come out for a walk with me this 
afternoon, and do the Park. You can't expect to hook an 
heiress, you know, if you don't let the heiresses see you put 
yourself in evidence. Besides, your article '11 be all the 
better for a little freshening up. You're getting dull for 
want of change. Come along with me to the Eow, and 
you'll see what'U stir up your Pegasus to a trot, I'll bet 
you fourpence.' Even in metaphor, fourpence was Mr. 
Lionel's extreme extravagance in the matter of risking 
money needlessly. 

Paul sighed a faint sigh. He had never yet dared to 
confide to Mr. Lionel the painful announcement that he was 
no longer intent on the prospective pursuit of the British 
heiress, but he admitted to himself the justice of the other 
plea that he needed chunge; for, indeed, of late he had 
been sticking a great deal too close to the literature of his 
country. So, after a moment's hesitation, he rose from his 
desk, and, putting off his working coat, endued himself in 
his best editor-visiting clothes for the afternoon's stroll, and 
sallied forth into the street with Mr. Lionel. 

As they went towards the Park, Mr. Lionel regaled his 
fello\y-lodger with various amusing anecdotes of Mr. Solo- 
mons' cuteness, and of the care with which he audited his 
nephew's accounts, paying special attention to the item of 
sundries in the expenditure column. At these anecdotes 
Paul was somewhat surprised, for Mr. Solomons had always 
seemed to him lavish in only one respect : and that was on 
Mr. Lionel's personal expenses. He had fancied, indeed — 
and he still continued to fancy — that Mr. Solomons spoilt 
his nephew. That was not Mr. Lionel's own opinion, how- 
ever. He descanted much upon his uncle's * closeness,' and 
upon his want of sympathy with a fellow's natural wish to 

* see life.' 

* Never mind, though,* Mr. Lionel remarked at last, with 
a significant gesture of his protruding lips. * The two old 
men'U drop off before long ; and then, Gascoyne, you and I 
\n\l have our innings.* 

Paul was shocked at the heartless levity of the ^Ivx^^^^ 
apd, indeed, the whole point of view waa on^ ^nXlvt^^ \.cyt^\*ij^ 



192 THE SCALLYWAG 

to him. *I don't feel like that myself/ he said, drawing 
back, a little disgusted. * I hope my father will live for 
many years yet. And I'm sure Mr. Solomons has always 
been very good to you.' 

Mr. Lionel's face broke into a genial smilo. 'Come, 
come,' he said frankly, ' none of that humbug, you know. 
We're alone, and I ain't going to peach on you to the 
worthy governor. * Don't go trying to talk any nonsense to 
me, for it don't go down. You vmist want to succeed to 
your title, naturally.' 

Paul hardly even Hked to continue the discussion, his 
companion's tone was so intensely distasteful to him ; but 
he felt called upon to dissent. * You're mistaken,' he said 
curtly. * I'm not talking humbug. My fatlier is extremely 
near and dear to me. And as to the baronetcy, I hate the 
very idea of it. Had it rested from the first outset with me 
to take it or leave it, I don't think I'd ever so much as have 
even claimed it.* 

* Well, you are a rum chap!' Mr. Lionel interjected, much 
amused. * For my own part, you know, I'd give a thousand 
pounds down to have such prospect3 as you have. And it 
won't be so long before you come into them, either. The 
old man drove me up to my uncle's the last time I was at 
Hillborough, and I thought he was looking precious shaky. 
Old age, as the preacher said, with rapid strides, is creeping 
upon him. I only wish my own respected uncle was one- 
half as near popping off the hooks as he is. But that's the 
worst of my old boy. He's a tough sort, he is : belongs to 
the kind that goes on living for ever. The doctors say 
there's something the matter with his heart, to be sure, and 
that he mustn't excite himself. But, bless your soul ! the 
stingy old beggar's too cunning to excite himself. He'll 
live till he's ninety, I verily believe, just on purpose to stick 
to his tin and spite me. And I, who'd make so much 
better a use of the money than he does — I'll be turned sixty, 
I expect, before ever I come into it.' 

Paul was too disgusted even to answer. His own obliga- 
tions to Mr. Solomons, if any, were far less in every way 
than Mr. Lionel's; but he couldn't have endured so to speak 
or think of any man to whom he owed the very slightest 
gratitude. 

They went on into the Park with more or less of conver- 



AN INTRODUCTION 193 

sation, and strolled np and down the Eow for some time, 
Mr. Lionel, with a flower gaily stuck in button-hole and a 
cane poised gracefully in his lemon-gloved hand, staring 
hard into the face of every girl he passed, and Paul half 
regretting in his own soul he had consented to come out 
before the eyes of the town in such uncongenial company. 
At last, as they neared the thronged corner by Hyde Park 
Gate, Paul was roused from a reverie into which he had 
momentarily fallen by hearing a familiar voice at his side 
fall musically on his ear, exclaiming, with an almost imper- 
ceptible foreign accent, 'What! you here, Mr. Gascoyne? 
How charming I How delightful 1* 

The heir to the baronetcy turned quickly round, and 
beheld on a chair in the well-dressed crowd the perennial 
charms of little Madame Ceriolo. 

She looked younger and prettier even than she had looked 
at Mentone. Madame Ceriolo made a point, in fact, of 
looking always her youngest and prettiest in London — for 
hers was the beauty which is well under the control of its 
skilful possessor. To be pretty in London may pay any 
day. A great city encloses such endless possibilities. And, 
indeed, there, among the crowd of unknown faces, where he 
felt acutely all the friendless loneliness of the stranger in a 
vast metropolis, Paul was really quite pleased to see the 
features of the good-humoured little adventuress. He shook 
hands with her warmly in the innocence of his b^rt, and 
stopped a moment to exchange reminiscenced.— Madame 
Ceriolo*s face lighted up at once (through the pearl powder) 
with genuine pleasure. Tliis was business indeed. She 
saw she had made a mome).\tary conquest of Paul, and she 
tried her best to follow it up, in order, if possible, to ensure 
its permanence. For a British baronet, mark you, is never 
to be despised, above all by those who have special need of 
a guarantee passport to polite society. 

' So I have to congratulate you,' she said archly, beaming 
on him through her gl&jsses, 'upon securing the little 
American heiress. Ah, you thought I didn't know ; but a 
little bird told me. And, to tell you the truth, I felt sure 
of it myself the moment I saw you with her on the hills at 
Mentone.' 

Paul, glancing round with burning xheeka, NqQK3N.^Vw^^ 
given anything that minute to sink iii\»o fti^ ^omxA. ''^^^^'^^ 



194 THE SCALLYWAG 

before the face of assembled London ! and the people on all 
the neighbouring chairs just craning their necks to catch 
the smallest fragments of their conversation. 

* I-— I don't quite understand/ he stammered out nervously. 
*0h yes,* Madame Ceriolo went on, as cool as a cucumber 

and still smiling benignly. * She'd made up her mind to 
be Lady Gascoyne, I know, or to perish in the. attempt; 
and now, we hear, she's really succeeded.' 

As she spoke, Madame Ceriolo cast furtive eyes to right 
and left to see whether all her neighbours duly observed the 
fact that she was talking to a prospective man of title. At 
that open acknowledgment of Paul's supposed exalted place 
in the world, the necks of the audience craned still more 
violently. A young man of rank, then, in the open mar- 
riage market, believed to have secured a wealthy American 
lady! 

* You're mistaken,* Paul answered, speaking rather low 
and trembling with mortification. 'I am not engaged to 
Miss Boy ton at all.' Then he hesitated for a second, and 
after a brief pause, in spite of Mr. Lionel's presence (as 
witness for Mr. Solomons to so barefaced a dereliction of 
duty), he added the further incriminating clause, 'And I 
don't mean to be.' 

The interest of the bystanders reached its highest pitch. 
It was as good as a paragraph in a society paper. The 
young man of title disclaimed the hand of the American 
heiress ! 

* But Mr. Armitage told me so,* Madame Ceriolo retorted, 
with womanly persistence. 

' Mr. Armitage is hardly likely to be as well informed on 
the point as I am myself,' Paul answered, flushing red. 

' Why, it was Miss Boy ton herself who assured him of 
the fact,' Madame Ceriolo went on, triumphant. 'And I 
suppose Miss Boyton ought at least to know about her own 
engagement.' 

' You're mistaken,' Paul answered, lifting his hat curtly 
and moving off at once to cut short the painful colloquy. 
And the bystanders, whispering low behind their hands and 
fans to one another, opined there would soon be a sensation 
for society in the shape of another aristocratic breach-of- 
promise case. 
As they mingled in the croY^d onc^ xdlOt^, '^x, "Hkssti^^ 



AN INTRODUCTION 19S 

» 

turning to his companion, exclaimed with very marked 
approbation, * That's a devilish fine woman, anyhow, Gas- 
coyne. Who the dickens is she ?* 

Paul explained in a few words what little he knew about 
Madame Geriolo's position and antecedents. 

* I like that woman,* Mr. Lionol went on, with the air of 
a connoisseur in female beauty. * She's got fine eyes, by 
Jove 1 and I'm death on eyes. And then her complexion 1 
Why didn't you introduce me? I should like to cultivate her.' 

* I'll introduce you if we pass her again,' Paul answered, 
preoccupied. He was wondering in his own mind what 
Mr. Lionel would think of this awful resolution of his about 
the American heiress. 

For the moment, however, Mr. Lionel, intent on his own 
thoughts, was wholly absorbed in his private admiration of 
Madame Ceriolo's well-developed charms. * As fine-looking 
a young woman as I've seen for a fortnight,* he went on 
meditatively. * And did you notice, too, how very hard she 
looked at me ?' 

* No, I didn't,* Paul answered, just stifling a faint smile 
of contempt ; * but, to tell you the truth, I think she'd look 
hard at anybody upon earth who looked hard at her. And 
she's scarcely young. She's not far off forty, if anything, I 
fancy.' (At twenty-two, as we all know, forty seems quite 
medifiBvaL) 

* Let's go back and pass her again,' Lionel exclaimed with 
effusion, turning round once more. 

Paul shrank from the ordeal of facing those craning 
bystanders a second time ; but he hadn't the courage to say 
No to his impetuous companion. Mr. Lionel's enthusiasm 
was too torrential to withstand. So they threaded their 
way back among the crowd of loungers. 

Fortunately, by this time Madame Ceriolo had risen 
from her seat, after taking her full pennyworth, and was 
walking briskly and youthfully towards them. She met 
them once more — ^not quite undesignedly, either — with a 
sweet smile of welcome on those cherry-red lips of hers. 
(You buy the stuff for ten sous a stick at any coiffeur's m 
the Palais Eoyal.) 

* My friend was anxious to make youic ^Aa^^\x^*ds^^^^ 
Paul said, introducing hina, •M.r. lAon^ ^^oxaRroar- 
Madame Ceriolo.' 



196 THE SCALLYWAG 

' Not a son of Sir Saul Solomons ?' Madame Ceriolo ex- 
claimed, inventing the existence of that eponymous hero on 
the spot with ready cleverness to flatter her new acquaint- 
ance's obvious snobbery. 

* No, not a son/ Mr. Lionel answered airily, rising to the 
fly at once ; ' but we belong, I beheve, to the same family.' 
Which, if Sir Saul Solomons had possessed any objective 
reality at all, would, no doubt, in a certain broad sense, 
have been about as true as most other such claims to dis- 
tmguished relationship. 

Madame Ceriolo measured her man accurately on the 
spot. ' Ah, that dear Sir Saul,' she said, with a gentle sigh. 
' He was so good, so clever ; I was always so fond of him ! 
And you're like him, too ! The same profile ! The same 
features ! The same dark eyes and large full-browed fore- 
head 1' This was doubtless, also, in an ethnical sense, 
strictly correct; for Mr. Lionel's personal characteristics 
were simply those of the ancient and respected race to 
whom he owed his existence, and of which, apparently, the 
hypothetical Sir Saul was likewise a bright and shining 
example. 

*May we walk your way?' Mr. Lionel said, gallantly 
ogling his fair companion. 

Madame Ceriolo was always professionally amiable. She 
accorded that permission with her most marked amiability. 

They walked and talked for half an hour in the Park. 
Then Paul got tired of his subordinate part, and strolled off 
by himself obligingly. Mr. Lionel waited, land had ten 
minutes alone with his new-found charmer. 

' Then I may really come and call upon you ?' he asked 
at last in a melting tone, as he grasped her hand — somewhat 
hard — at parting. 

Madame Geriolo's eyes darted a glance into his that 
might have intoxicated a far stronger man than Lionel 
Solomons. 

* There's my card,' she said, with a gracious smile, pro- 
ducing the famous pasteboard with the countess's coronet 
stamped on it in relief. 'A humble hotel — ^but I like it 
myself, because it reminds me of my beloved Tyrol. When* 
ever you like, Mr. Solomons, you may drop in to see me. 
Any relation of that admirable Sir Saul, I need hardly say, 

A always welcome. ' 



THE WILES OF THE STRANGE WOMAN 197 

Ml. Lionel went home to his rooms in Pimlico that after- 
noon half an inch taller — which wonid make him fully five 
feet six in his high-heeled walking shoes on a modest com- 
patation. 



CHAPTER SXVII. 

1 WILES OF THE BTHANOE WOUAK, 



fiBIE,* Madame Ce- 
riolo cried in a shrill 
voice to the maid-in- 
waiting, 'je ne re- 
$oiB pas aajonrd'hni, 
entends-tn, imb^ 
die?* 

MademotBelle Eu- 
s4bie, more shortly 
known to hec inti- 
mate) as Z^bie, was 
the fille de chambre 
and general upstairs 
factotum of the 
Hdtel de rUnivers, 
in Gluidon Street, 
Soho. Madame Ge* 
riolo preferred that 
modest hostelry to the more osaal plan of West-End 
lodgings; partly, to be sure, beoaase it helped to keep 
up the fiction of her noble birth and Tyrolese ancestry, 
but partly also because it lent itself more readily to 
practical Bohemiauism than do the straitlaced apart- 
ments of Notting Hill or Bayswater. In Glandon Street, 
Boho, one can live as one chooses, no man hindering; 
and Madame Ceriolo chose to live d la Zingari. ' On y est 
Bi bien,' she said with a delicate shrug of those sha^l^ 
shoulders to her respectable aoqaedohaiQCiSA '«V<aT\. ^% -^^r 
doing proprj'etj ; ' and, besides, the \&ii4\oTi,iC)"o. Vwi"«,''« 




198 THE SCALLYWAG 

one of my poor compatriots. I take such an interest in his 
^ife and children, in this foggy London, so far from the 
fresh breeze of our beloved mountains.' For Madame 
Geriolo was strong on the point of sensibility, and sighed 
(in public) for her native pine-clad valleys. 

* And if Mr. Armitage calls ?' Z6bie asked inquiringly. 
' I am not to deny Madame, I suppose, at least to Mr. 
Armitage?* 

<Z^bie,' Madame Geriolo exclaimed, looking up at her 
sharply, *tu es d'une inconvenance — mais d*une inconven- 
ance V Madame paused and reflected. < Well, no,' she 
went on, after a brief mental calculation, ' I'm not at home, 
even to Mr. Armitage.' 

* Tiens,' Z^bie answered ; * c'est drdle. Et cependant ' 

' Wait,' Madame Geriolo continued, reflecting profoundly. 

' There is yet one thing. If an ugly little Jew calls ' — and 
Madame swept her flnger rapidly through the air in bur- 
lesque representation of Mr. Lionel's well-marked profile — 
' nose so, lips so, curly hair, bulging forehead, odour of hair- 
oil — gives his name, I fancy, as Mr. Lionel Solomons * 

* Well, Madame ?' Z^bie repeated dutifully, with her hand 
on the door-edge. 

' If he calls,' Madame went on, gathering her robe around 
her, * you may tell him I'm indisposed — a slight indisposi- 
tion — and will see nobody. But say to him, after awhile, 
with ever so little hesitation, you'll take up his card and 
inquire if I can receive him. And, then, you may show him 
meanwhile into the salon. That'll give me time, of course, 
to change my peignoir,* 

It was four o'clock gone, in the afternoon, a few days 
later than their meeting in the Park; and Madame, who 
had been up late at a little supper the evening before, was 
still in the intimacy of dressing-gown and curl-papers. 

* Parfaitement, Madame,* Z^bie responded cheerfully, in 
the tone of one well accustomed to receiving such delicate 
orders, and left the room ; while Madame lounged back on 
the sofa of her little sitting-room, and glanced lazily over 
the feuilleton of the previous day's Figaro. 

The hotel was of the usual London-French type — a dingy, 
uncomfortable, dead-alive little place — mean and dear, yet 
Madame Uked it. She could receive her callers and smoke 
her cigarettes here without attracting attention. She was 



THE WILES OF THE STRANGE WOMAN 199 

rolling a bit of rice-paper,, in fact, with practised skill 
between those dainty plump fingers ten minutes later, when 
Z6bie reappeared at the door once more, with a card in her 
hand and a smile on her saucy Parisian features. ' The 
Monsieur Madame expected/ she said : * he attends you in 
the salon.' 

Madame jumped up, and roused herself at once. ' My 
blue gown, Z6bie,' she cried. ' No, not that, stupid ! Yes, 
that's the one, with the pleats in front. Now, just give me 
time to slip myself intci it, and to comb out my fringe, and 
touch up my cheeks a bit, and then you may bring the 
gamin up to me. Poor little imbecile I Tell him I'm in bed 
and meant to receive nobody — but hearing it was him, in 
spite of my migraine^ I decided to make an effort and raise 
myself.' 

' Parfaitement, Madame,' Z6bie echoed once more, with 
ready acquiescence, and disappeared down the stairs to 
deliver her message. 

'So it's you, Mr. Solomons,' Madame cried, looking up 
from the sofa, where she lay in her shawls and her be- 
coming teagown, with a hasty lace-wrap flung coquettishly 
round her pearl-white neck, as Mr. Lionel entered. ' How 
very good of you to come and look me up so soon I Now 
admit, Monsieur, that I'm not ungrateful. I was ill in bed 
when my maid brought me up your card just now, and for 
nobody else in the world would I have thought of stirring 
myself. But when I heard it was you ' — she gave him a 
killing glance from beneath those pencilled lashes — ' I said 
to Eus^bie, ''Just hand me the very first dress you come 
across in my wardrobe, and tell the gentleman I'll see him 
directly." And so up I got, and here I am ; and now I'm 
sure you'll excuse my lighting a wee little cigarette, just a 
cigarette of my own rolling, because I've made my poor 
fluttering heart beat so with the exertion.' 

Mr. Lionel would have excused a hundred cigarettes, so 
enchanted was he with this gracious reception. In fact, he 
admitted to a weakness for the fragrant Latakia himself, 
and in two minutes more he was actually inhaling the 
breath of one, deftly manufactured for hi3 specal use by 
Madame Ceriolo's own cunning fingers. 

Madame Ceriolo twisted him as she twisted the cigarettes. 
He sat there, intoxicated with her cld^ttaa^lot Txiot^^^sa.^®. 



260 THE SCALLYWAG 

hour, in the course of which time the little woman, by 
dexterous side-pressure, had pumped him of all he knew or 
thought far more effectually than even Armitage himself 
could have done it. She handled him gingerly with infinite 
skill. ' No, you're not in the City I* she exclaimed once, 
with well-assumed surprise, when Mr. Lionel happened 
incidentally to allude to the nature of his own accustomed 
pursuits. ' You're trying to take me in. You don't mean 
to tell me you're really in the City I* 

* Why not ?* Mr. Lionel asked, with a flush of pride. 

* Oh, you're not in the very least like a City man,' 
Madame Ceriolo replied, looking up at him archly. * Why, 
I thought from your manners you were one of the people 
who pass their lives dawdling between their club and the 
Bow. I never should have believed you could possibly be 
in the City. What is your club, by the way ? she added 
with an afterthought, * in case I should ever want to write 
to you.' 

Mr. Lionel's hps trembled with pleasure. ' I'm down for 
the Garrick,' he said (which was, in point of fact, an in- 
exact remark) ; * but until I get in there, you know — it's 
such a long job nowadays — I hang out for the present at 
the Junior Financial. It's a small place in Duke Street, St. 
James's. If ever you should do me the honour to write to 
me, though, I think you'd better write to my chambers in 
Pimlico.' He called them * chambers ' instead of lodgings, 
because it sounded more swell and rakish. And he pro- 
duced a card with his name and address on it. 

Madame Ceriolo placed it with marked care in an inner 
compartment of her pretty little tortoiseshell purse — the 

Eurse with the coronet and initials on the case, which had 
een given her in Paris by — well, never mind those for- 
gotten little episodes. * And so you live with Mr. Gascoyne I' 
she said, noting the address. * Dear Mr. Gascoyne 1 so 
quaint, so original 1 Though we all laughed at him, we 
all liked him. He was the life and soul of our party at 
Mentone.* 

* Well, I live with him only because I find it convenient,' 
Mr. Lionel interposed. * He's not exactly the sort of chap 
I should take to naturally.' 

Madame Ceriolo caught at her cue at once. ' I should 
Mnk not, ' she echoed, * A deal too b\ovt iox ojou, o\i^ awx 



THE WILES OF THE STRANGE WOMAN 201 

fiee that at a glance. A very good fellow in his way, of 
course ; but, oh my ! so strait-laced, so absurdly puri- 
tanical/ And she laughed melodiously. 

< And how about the American heiress you spoke of ia 
the Park T Mr. Lionel inquired with professional eagerness. 

* Oh, that was all chaff,' Madame Geriolo answered, after 
an imperceptible pausia, to gain time for her invention. 
She was a good-natured little swindler, after all, was 
Madame Geriolo; and from the way he asked it, she 
jumped to the conclusion he wanted the information for no 
friendly purpose, so she withheld it sternly. Why should 
she want to do a bad turn to the poor little scallywag? 

So the conversation glided off upon Paul, ms Quixotic 
ideas and his moral absurdities ; and before it had ended, 
the simple-minded young cynic, like clay in the hands of 
the easy-going but cunning adventuress, had told her all 
about Mr. Solomons and himself, and the plan for exploit- 
ing the British baronet, and the confounded time an uncle 
always contrived to live, and the difficulty of extracting 
blood from a stone, and the trials and troubles of the genus 
nephew in its endeavour to perform that arduous surgical 
operation. To all of which Madame Geriolo, feeling her 
way with caution by tentative steps, had extended a ready 
and sympathetic ear, and had made a rapid mental note, 
* Bad heart, weak head, good material to work upon — fool, 
vain, impressionable, unscrupulous.' Such men as that 
were Madame's stock-in-trade. She battened on their 
money, sucked them dry as fast as she could, and then left 
them. 

Not that Madame was ever what British respectability in 
its exactest sense describes as disreputable. The wise 
adventuress knew a more excellent way than that. Never 
throw away the essentials of a good name. She traded 
entirely upon promises and expectations. Her method was 
to make a man head over ears in love, and then to delude 
him into the fallacious belief that she meant to marry him. 
As soon as he was reduced to the flaccid condition, by 
constant draining, she retired gracefully. Some day, when 
she found a man rich enough and endurable enough, she 
intended to carry the programme of marriage into execution 
and end her days in the odour of respect&biViVl • ^^ KJoa^ 
was for the remofce future, no doubt. 'ML^Wi'^\i^^>^^^^^ 



202 THE SCALLYWAG 

• content to take what she could get hy her drainage opera- 
tions, and live her own Bohemian life untrammelled. 

At last, most unwillingly, Mr. Lionel rose and took up his 
hat to go. 

' I may come again soon ?* he said interrogatively. 
Madame's professional amiability never forsook her in 
similar circumstances. ' As often as you like,' she answered, 
smiling a benign smile upon the captured victim ; ' I'm 
always glad to see nice people — except on Fridays,' she 
added after a pause. Friday was the day when Armitage 
most often called, and she didn't wish to let her two principal 
. visitors clash unnecessarily. 

At the door Mr. Lionel pressed her hand with a tender 
squeeze. Madame Geriolo returned the pressure with a 
demure and well-calculated diminution of intensity. It 
doesn't do to let them think they can make the running too 
fast or too easily. Draw them on by degrees and they stick 
-the longer. Mr. Lionel gazed into those languid eyes of 
> hers. Madame Ceriolo dropped the lids with most maidenly 
modesty. * Don't mention- to Mr. Gascoyne,' she murmured, 
withdrawing her hand, which Lionel showed a tendency to 
hold too long, < that you've been here this afternoon, I beg 

* of you as a favour.' 

* How curious I' her new admirer exclaimed with surprise. 
* Why, I was just going to ask you not to say anything to 
him for worlds about it.' 

* Sympathy,' Madame Ceriolo murmured. * The common 
brain-wave. When people are cast in corresponding moulds, 
these curious things often happen pat, just so. Figurez- 
vous si je suis sympathique.' And she took his hand once 
more, and let it drop suddenly ; then she turned and fled 
like a girl, to the sofa, as if half ashamed of her own unwise 
emotion. 

Mr. Lionel went down the stairs in the seventh heaven. 
At last he had found a beautiful woman ready to admire 
him. She saw his good points and appreciated him at onco 
at his full worth. Forty? What malevolent, ill-natured 
nonsense I Not a day more than twenty-seven, he'd be 
bound on affidavit. And, then, what mattered the disparity 
of age? Such grace, such knowledge of the world and 
society, such noble birth, such a countess's coronet em- 
broJdered on her handkerchief ! 




THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE 203 

' ZSbie,' Madame cried from her eofa in the comer, as 
that well - trained domestic answered her double ring 
(' sonnez deuxfois vour la fille de ckambre '), -while Lionel's 
footfall fitiU echoed on the stair, ' if that little fool of a Jew 
calls again you can show him op straight oS at an; time. 
Do yon nnderstand, idiot ? at any time — unless Mr. 
Armitage is here already.' 



CHAPTER XXYIII. 

THB BABONBTCY IN TEG BALANCB. 

'° TJMMEB and autumn Paul worked away, very 
much uphill, at journahsm in London, push- 
ing his road ahead slowly but surely into 
steady occupation, and not only covering all 
his modest expenses, but even laying by a 
trifle at odd times towards wiping out those 
terrible claims of Mr. Solomons'. 

It was hard work and uphill work, undeniably. No 
matter how good a start a man may get in literature — and, 
thanks to indefatigable Mrs. Douglas, with her backstairs 
instinct, Paul's start had been an unusually easy one — the 
profession of letters must needs be an arduous craft for 
every beginner. The doors are crowded ; the apprentice- 
ship is long, toilsome and ill-paid. Paul had to endure that 
painful fate, common to all of us who earn our bread by 
spinning material out of our own brains for public con- 
sumption, of seeing manuscript after manuscript * declined 
with thEinks,' and of labouring for hours and hours together 
on that which, after all, profited nothing. Kevertheless, a 
certain proportion of his work was accepted and paid for ; 
and that proportion brought him enough to pay for his half 
of the rooms he shnrcd with his uncongenifil fellow-lodger, 
and to keep him in food, clothing, and washing. It was a 
great joy to him when he began to find his weekly receipts 
outbalance expenditure, and to lay by, were it only a few 
shillings at a time, towards the final extinguishment of his 
debt to Mr. Solomons. 

Had it been the National Debt of England that he had to 
vipe out, it could not have seemed to \um «.\> \^%'il\'a:^% 'C£^<^ 



i04 THE SCALLYWAG 

more hopeless of accomplishment. But still he toiled oD| 
determined at least to do his best by it — ^with Nea in the 
background watching over him from a distance. 

Summer and autumn passed away, and at Christmas, 
when Faith was freed once more from the tyranny of the 
Infants, and business was slack in London offices, he 
determined to run down for a week or two's rest and 
change to Hillborough. But he must pay for his board and 
lodging, he told his mother: he was a free man now, 
earning his own livelihood, and he must no longer be a 
burden to his family in any way. With many remon- 
strances, he was at last allowed to have his wish, and to 
contribute the modest sum of fifteen shilHngs a week, in 
return for his keep, to the domestic exchequer. 

He had only been home one day, when Faith took him 
for their favourite walk on the Knoll, and confided to him all 
her most recent family observations. 

' Do you notice any difference in father, Paul ?' she asked 
a little anxiously, as they walked along the springy turf of 
that long ridge, looking down upon the wide weald, on a 
beautiful bright December morning. 

Paul hesitated to answer. * Well, Lionel Solomons said 
to me in the summer,' he replied at last, after a long pause, 
* that he was getting shaky, and that made me nervous ; so 
I've been watching him close yesterday and to-day, and, to 
tell you the truth, I'm afraid. Faith, he isn't quite as strong 
on his legs as he used to be.' 

Faith's eyes filled with tears. To her and to Paul, it was 
nothing that their father's h*8 were weak or non-existent, 
and that their father's grammar was deficient in concords. 
They loved him as dearly as if he had been a lily-handed 
baronet of many broad acres, with courtly manners and an 
elegant drawl, but possessing no final g*8 to his name, and 
hardly a trace of the letter r to speak of. To say the truth, 
they loved him even much better. They realized how hard 
he had worked all his days to keep them, and how, accord- 
ing to his light, feeble and flickering enough, he had tried to 
do the very best in life for them. He had always been a 
kind and indulgent father : and the bare thought of losing 
him was to Faith and to Paul a terrible source of coming 
trouble. 

'J3/5 UIe'3 80 hard/ Faith murmuieS. tiaxoxx^ \xst tUin^ 



THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE 205 

tears. * At his age, he oughtn't to have to be driving about 
all day or all night in the rain and the cold. He isn*t strong 
enough .for it now — I'm sure he isn't, Paul — and it makes 
my heart bleed to see how he has to go and do it.' 

* The fact is/ Paul answered, 'a man in his position ought 
to have a son who can £11 his place, and take the heaviest 
work at least off his shoulders. If dear father 'd done what 
he ought to have done with me, I really beUeve he'd have 
brought me up to his own trade, and to carry on the business 
now he isn't fit for it.' 

Faith's womanly soul revolted at the alternative. She 
was proud of Paul, her clever, well-educated Oxford brother, 
and she couldn't bear to think of him, even in fancy, 
degraded to the level of a mere common horsey hanger-on 
of stables. * Oh, don't say that, Paul darling 1' she cried, 
half aghast. * 1 wish dear father had somebody to help 
him and take his place, now he's old, of course ; but not you, 
Paul — not you — oh, never, never 1 Don't talk of it, even. 
It seems such a perfect desecration/ 

' I'd come back now and help him,' Paul answered stub- 
bornly. < I'd come back and help him, even as it is, only 
I know the shock of it would break his heart. He could 
never put up with the disappointment. I can manage a 
horse as well as anybody even now, and I wouldn^t mind the 
work one bit — I hope I'm strong-minded enough not to be 
ashamed of my father's trade — but I'm sure he himself 
would never consent to it. He's brought me up to be a 
gentleman as well as he could, and he's fixed his heart on 
my being a credit to tke title, whenever the miserable thing 
falls in to me ; and if I were to turn back on it now and 
come home to help him, he'd feel it was a come-down from 
all his high hopes and ideals for my future, and he'd be a 
disappointed man henceforth and for ever.' 

' Oh yes ; and to think of the disgrace before all the 
county r Faith added with a sigh. A woman must always 
see tlungs mainly from the social point of view. * 1 should 
hate all the nasty rich people — the Hamiltons and the 
Boyd-Galloways and all that horrid lot — to go sniggering 
and chuckling over it among themselves, as I know they 
would, and to say, ** So that fellow Gascoyne, after sending 
his son to Oxford and trying to make a g^nWeovMi ^\ Y^m^ 
has had to come down from his highliOTaft ^ViX^'aXi^ wA\ycv^^ 



2o6 THE SCALLYWAG 

him back to Hillborough in the end to look after the 
stables!" The wretched sneering things 1 I know the 
nasty ways of them !' 

* Father could never stand that/ Paul answered reflec- 
tively. 

* No, never/ Faith replied. * Paul, don't you ever even 
speak of it to him.' 

But for the three weeks of his stay at Hillborough Paul 
watched his father with close attention. The baronet cab- 
man wasn't well, that was clear. He complained constantly 
of a dull pain in his side, and manifested an unwonted 
dislike to going out at nights whenever the sky was cold or 
frosty. ' The wind seemed to ketch him,* he said, * as it'd 
never ketched him in all his life afore, out Kent's Hill way 
specially, where it blew 'most hard enough to take a man 
off the box these bitter evenings. He didn't want no jobs 
out there by Kent's Hill this weather if he could help it.' 

New Year's week, however, was a busy week ; there were 
parties and dances at many country houses, and Sir Emery's 
slate, hung up behind the door, was thick with orders. 
Paul was busy, too, with work for editors, which kept hiin 
close at his desk, writing for dear life the best part of the 
day, for journalism knows no such word as holiday. As 
much as Sir Emery would let him, however, Paul went out 
to the yard at odd moments to harness in the horses and do 
small ends of work whenever the hired man was off on a 
job ; but that wasn't often, for Sir Emery fretted and fumed 
to see Paul so occupied, and Faith declared the worry it 
engendered in father's mind was almost worse for him, she 
believed, than the cold and exposure. Pulled two ways, in 
fact, by her double devotion, she conspired with Paul to 
help her father, and then conspired with her father in turn 
to keep Paul, their own precious Paul, outside the stables at 
all hazards. 

The fourth of January was a bitter cold day. So cold a 
day had not been known for years at Hillborough. In the 
morning Mr. Solomons met Sir Emery by chance at the 
station. ' Why, bless my soul, Gascoyne,* he cried with a 
start, * how ill you look, to be sure I' Then he made a 
mental note to himself that the premium on the noUe 
baroneVB lite policy should have been ^%id -jeafcetda.^, and. 
^lia^ by &11 Apj>earances settlement ongbAi Tio\» \.o >ji^ ^^^^^ 



THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE 207 

longer thaai to-morrow. You never know what. a day may 
bring forth; and, indeed, if Mr. Solomons hadn't had au 
execution to put in that very morning at Shillingford, he 
would have rushed off there and then, with money in hand, 
to make sure of his insurance at the London office. 

Instead of which he merely remarked in a casual tone as 
he jumped into his train, * My thermometer registered nine, 
degrees of frost last night. Take care, Gascoyne, how you 
expose yourself thip weather.' 

At ten o'clock that evening, as they sat round the £re, 
chatting family gossip in a group together. Sir Emery 
suddenly rose and looked at the clock. * I must be going 
now,* he said in a shuffling way. * 'Arf-past ten was the 
hour Miss Boyd-Galloway told me.* 

Faith glanced up at him sharply with a pained look. 

' Why, you're not going out again to-night, father ?' she 
exclaimed in surprise. 'There's nothing on the slate; I 
looked myself to see about it.* 

' Well, this *ere was a verbal border,* Sir Emery answered, 
putting on his coat with evident difficulty and some marks 
of pain in his right side. * Miss Boyd-Galloway, she met 
me down in the 'Igh Street this morning, and she told me 
I was to go out to Kent's '111 to fetch her. Dinner, I expect, 
or else a small an' early. But I reckon it's dinner ; it's 
*most too soon to go to take up even for a children's or 
a Cindereller.' 

Paul glanced at Faith, and Faith glanced at Paul. Sir 
Emery had evidently omitted to note it on the slate on 
purpose. A rapid signalling went on between their eyes.. 
*Dare I venture?' Paul's asked in mute pantomime of 
Faith's, and Faith's, with a droop of extreme reluctance, 
made answer dumbly : * I suppose you must. He's too ill 
to go; but oh, Paul, Paul, the disgrace and humiliation 
of it 1' 

The young man made up his mind at once and irrevoc- 
ably. * Father,* he said, rising and fronting him as he 
stood, still struggling with his coat, * sit down where you 
are. I can't allow you to go up Kent's Hill to-night. 
You're not feeling well. I can see you're suffering. You're 
unfit for work. You must let me go to t«ik^ \v^^vea»'^<yj^- 
Gallow»7 instead of you.' 

J3ir Emery burst into a suddw laugla. oi ^eti-vvvci^ ^xo.m^^- 



2o8 THE SCALLYWAG 

ment. His Paul to go cab-driving t It was too ridicnloas. 
Then the laugh seemed to catch him violently in the side, 
and he subsided once more with a pained expression of face. 

* Paul, my boy,' he answered, sinking back into his chair to 
hide the twinge, * I wouldn't let you go — no, not for five 
'undred pounds down. You, as is a gentleman born and 
bred, and out there, afore the eyes of all 'lUborough and 
Surrey V 

Faith looked at her mother with an imperious look. 
'Father,' she cried, seizing his arm convulsively in her 
grasp, 'you know I hate it as much as you do. You know 
I can't beat for Paul to do it. But it must be done. It's a 
hard wrench, but you w/ust let him go. I can see you're ill. 
Dear father, you ought to have told us before, and then 
perhaps we might have managed to get some other driver.' 

' There ain't no other driver nor other 'oss disengaged in 
all 'lUborough to-night,' her father answered confidently, 
shaking his head as he looked at her. 

Once more Faith telegraphed with her eyes to Paul, and 
Paul telegraphed back to Faith. ' Father,' he said, laying 
his hand on the old man's shoulder persuasively, ' you mibst 
let me go. There's no other way out of it. I'll wrap my- 
self up tight, and muffle my throat, if you like, so that 
nobody '11 notice me * and in the dark, at the door, they're 
not likely to look close. But go I mtcst; of that I'm deter- 
mined.' 

The father humoured him for a moment. * Well, you 
can go, any way, and put in the 'osses,' he answered reluc- 
tantly, for he hated his son to do anything at all about the 
stables and coach-house. 

Paul went out and put them in at once with the confi- 
dence of old habituation. Then he left them standing alone 
in the yard while he ran upstairs to get his ulster and com- 
forter. * Wait a minute,' he said, * I'll soon be down.' 
Faith went up with him to see that all was snug and warm.' 

* Mind you wrap up well, Paul,' she cried, with her eyes 
dimmed sadly for the family disgrace. ' It's a bitter cold 
night. If father was to go to Kent's Hill this evening, I'm 
sure it'd very nearly be the death of him.' 

In two minutes more they descended the stairs. At the 

door F&itb stopped and kissed him convulsively. It was a 

iard wrench, but she knew they Tn\x^\i ^o \V Tt^sti \fcL^^ 



THE BARONETCY IN THE BALANCE 20; 

went together into the little parlour. There their mother 
sat, looking very uncomfortable in her easy-chair. The 
larger one opposite, where Sir Emery usually took his ease 
by night, was now vacant Faith glanced at Paul in mute 
inquiry, ' Where is he, mother?' Paul gasped out anxiously. 

* 'E's gone, Paul,' Mrs. Gascoyne answered with a sudden 
gulp. * The minute you was out o' the room, 'e whipped 
up his things, jumped up from 'is chair, and says to me in 
a hurry, ** Mother, I'm off," says 'e, an' out he run in 'is 
overcoat as he stood, scrambled up on to the box, gave the 
'osses the word, an' afore I could as much as say " Emery, 
don't,'' drove off up the road as 'ard as ever 'is 'ands could 
drive 'em.' 

Faith sank into the chair with a despairing look. * It'll 
kill him,' she cried, sobbing. < Oh, Paul, it'll kill him I' 

Paul did not wait or hesitate for a second. ' Where's he 
gone?' he cried. *To which house on the hill? I'll run 
after him, catch him up, and drive him back home, if only 
you know which house he's going to.' 

' He never told us,' Faith gasped out, as white as death. 
* He only said he was going to Kent's Hill to fetch Miss 
Boyd-GsJloway. There are so many big houses on the hill, 
and so many roads, and so many dinners just now. But 
perhaps the likeliest is Colonel Hamilton's, isn't it ?' 

Without another word Paul opened the door and darted 
up the street. * I'll catch him yet,' he cried, as he dashed 
round the comer of Plowden's Court. ' Oh, mother, mother, 
you ought to have stopped him I' 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTEB XXIX. 

IK HOr FUBBUIT. 



^AKINGit for granted 
his father had 

driven, as Faith 
snggsBtfld, to 
Colonel Hamit 
ton'B, Paul ran at 
full speed along 
the irttaiy high 
road in the direc- 
tion of that end 
of the Kent's Hill 
hog's back. For 
the hill rears itself 
up as a great mass 
of narrow sand- 
stone upland, ex- 
tending for some 
three miles in a 
■^long straight line 
down the centre 
of the valley, and exposed to all the four winds of heaven 
impartially. Snow was heginniag to fall now, and the road 
nnder-foot rang hard as iron. Paul ran on without stopping 
till he was out o£ breath. Then he halted awhile by the 
foot of the first slope, and climbed slowly on towards the 
lower platform. 

Half-way up he met a returning cab, full, of course, and 
therefore unwilling to wait and be questioned. But it was 
no time to stand on ceremony now. Paul knew his father's 
life was absolutely at stake. He called to it to halt. The 
driver recognised his voice and pulled up to a walk. ' Have 
you passed my father anywhere, going up the hiil ?' Fanl 
inquired eagerly. 
''Ow&ol'knoy!'}' the man ansviet&d in s. very graft tone, 




IN HOT PURSUIT 21 1 

ill-pleased at the interruption. * I've passed a dozen or 
more of kebs and kerridges goin' to fetch parties *ere and 
there on the 'ill ; but it's as dark as pitch, so 'oo's to know 
by magic *oo druv them ? And whistling to himself a dis- 
satisfied whistle, he whipped up again and drove on, leaving 
Paul no wiser. 

It's a very long way from Hillborough to Kent's Hill, five 
miles at least by the shortest road ; and long before Paul 
had reached the top his heart began to sink within him as 
he saw how impossible it was for him to overtake his father. 
Nevertheless, he persisted, out of pure stubborn doggedness 
and perseverance ; he would go at least to the house and 
let him know he was there. And, if possible, he would 
persuade him to remain under shelter at some neighbouring 
cottage till the next morning. 

But, oh 1 the long weary way up those frozen hills, all in 
the dark, with the snow falling fast in the road, and the 
bitter cold wind beating hard all the time against his face 
as he fronted it 1 It was cold for Paul even as he walked 
and faced it — cold in spite of the exertion of mounting. 
How infinitely colder, then, it must be for his father, sitting 
still on the box, with that dull pain growing deeper every 
minute in his side, and the chili wind whistling round the 
corners of the carriage ! 

On, and on, and on, through the soft snow he trudged, 
with his heart sinking lower at every step, and his feet and 
hands growing colder and colder. Of all the hills in Eng- 
land Kent's Hill is the very most interminable. Time after 
time you think you are at the top, and time after time, just 
as you reach the apparent summit, you see yet another 
slope opening out with delusive finality in front of you. 
But at last Paul reached the end of those five long miles 
and those nine hundred feet of sheer ascent, and turned 
with wearied and aching limbs under the gateway of Colonel 
Hamilton's garden. At the door he saw at once he had 
come in vain. There was certainly no party at the Colonel's 
to-night. Not a carriage at the door ; not a sign of life. It 
was close on eleven now, but, emboldened by necessity, he 
rang the bell. After some minutes his ring was answered 
by a supercilious footman in incomplete costume. 'I'm 
sorry to trouble you,' Paul gasped, * bwfe e^Ji ^oxx "^^^ "cc^a^ 
please, whereabouts on the Hill there's a ^^x\.^ XiO-T^^^**^^ 



212 THE SCALLYWAG 

The supercilious footman eyed him askance with profound 
astonishment. 'Young man/ he said severely, 'do you 
mean to say you've rung me up this time of night from my 
own bedroom, for nothink else but just to ask me where 
there's a party on the 'ill ? There's parties on the 'ill every- 
where this evening.* And without waiting for Paul to 
explain himself further, he slammed the door to in his face 
with uncompromising rudeness. 

Paul turned from the porch, too much distressed on his 
father's account even to notice the personal insult, and 
made his way through the snow, along uncertain paths, to 
the very top of the ridge, where he could see on either hand 
over the whole surrounding country, and just at what house 
the lights burned brightest. Lady Mary Webster's seemed 
most thronged of any, and Miss Boyd-Galloway was in- 
timate with Lady Mary. So thither Paul plodded along 
by the top of the ridge, descending through the grounds, 
reckless of fences or proprietary rights, till he stood in front 
of the crowded carriage-drive. Coachmen were there, half 
a dozen or more, walking up and down in the snow and 
beating their chests with their arms to keep themselves 
warm, while their weary horses stood patiently by, the snow 
melting as it fell on their flanks and faces. 

It was no night for any man to keep another waiting on. 

* 'Ere's Gascoyne's son !' one of the cabmen cried as he 
came up, for they were mostly cabmen, nobody caring to 
risk their own horses' lives abroad in such slippery weather; 
since rich men, indeed, take more heed of horseflesh than 
of their fellow-Christians. 

* Why, what do you want, Mr. Paul ?' another of them 
asked, half touching his hat in a kind of undecided salute 
to the half-made gentleman ; for they all knew that Gas- 
coyne's son had been to Oxford College, and would develop 
in time into a real recognised baronet, with his name in the 
peerage. 

* Is my father here, or has be been here ?' Paul cried out 
breathless. * He went out to-night when he wasn't fit to 
go, and I've come up to see if he's got here safe, or if I 
could do anything in any way to help him.' 

The first speaker shook his head with a very decided 
negative. * No, 'e ain't been 'ere,' he answered. * 'E 'aven't 
no job. Leastwa.yB, none oi us am't «.-^^«ii 'Vm ^\iT^\vKt^' 



IN HOT PURSUIT 213 

A terrible idea flashed across Paul's mind. Gould his 
father have started and failed on the way ? Too agitated 
to care what might happen to himself again, he rang the 
bell, and asked the servant boldly, * Is Miss Boyd-Galloway 
here ? or has she been here this evening ?' 

* No, sir,* the servant answered ; he was a stranger in the 
land, and judged Paul rightly by his appearance and accent. 
* Miss Boyd-Galloway's not been here at all. I don't think, 
in fact, my lady expected her.* 

* Will you go in and ask if anybody knows where Miss 
Boyd-Galloway's spending the evening?' Paul cried in his 
agony. * Tell them it's a matter of life and death. I want 
to know where to find Miss Boyd- Galloway.' 

In a few minutes more the servant returned, bringing 
along with him young Mr. Webster, the son of the house, in 
person. * Oh, it's you, is it, Gascoyne ?' the young man 
said, eyeing him somewhat astonished. *Why, what on 
earth do you want with Miss Boyd-Galloway this evening T 

* My father's gone to fetch her,' Paul gasped out in de- 
spair ; ' he's very ill to-night, and oughtn't to have ventured 
out, and I've come to see whether I can overtake him.' 

Young Mr. Webster was kind-hearted in his way. ' I'm 
sorry for that,' he said good-naturedly ; * but I'm glad it's 
nothing the matter with Miss Boyd-Galloway herself, any- 
how. Lady Mary was in quite a state of mind just now 
when she got your message. I must run in at once and 
reassure her. But won't you step inside and have a glass 
of wine before you go off yourself ? You don't look well, 
and it's a freezing cold night. Here, Roberts, a glass of 
wine for Mr. Gascoyne in the hall. Now, will you ?' 

* I won't take any wine, thanks,' Paul answered hurriedly, 
declining the proffered hospitality on more grounds than 
one. * But you haven't told me if you know where Miss 
Boyd-Galloway's spending the evening. I mtist find out, to 
go to my father.' He spoke so anxiously that there was no 
mistaking the serious importance of his errand. 

* Oh, I'll go and inquire,' young Webster answered care^ 
lessly ; and he went back at once with his lounging step to 
the bright warm drawing-room. 

* Who is it ?' Lady Mary exclaimed, coming forward 
Qp,gerly. * Don't tell me anything dreadiuV\\»i'a\i%»Y^^'^^'^^ 
dear Isabel /' 



ai4 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Oh, it's nothing at all/ young Webster answered, laugh- 
ing outright at her fears. ' It's only that yonng Gascoyne 
from HiUborough wants to know at once where IsaMl's 
dining.' 

' That young Gascoyne I' Lady Mary criedy aghast 
' Not the young man they sent up to Oxford, I hope I 
Why, what on earth can he want, my dear Bertie, with 
Isabel?' 

* He doesn't want Isabel,' the young man answered, ^th 
an amused smile. * It seems his father's gone somewhere 
to fetch her, and he thinks the old man's too ill to be oat, 
and he's come up on foot all the way to look after him.' 

* Very proper of him to help his father, of course/ Lady 
Mary assented with a stiff acquiescence, perceiving in this 
act a due appreciation of the duty of the poor to their 
parents, as set forth in the Church Catechism; 'but he 
ought surely to know better than to come and disturb f» 
about such a subject. He might have rung and inquired of 
Eoberts.' 

' So he did,' her son answered, with masculine common- 
sense. ' But Eoberts couldn't tell him, so he very naturally 
asked for me ; and the simple question now is this — where's 
Isabel ?' 

* She's dining at the Dean's,' Lady Mary replied coldly ; 
•but don't you go and tell him so yourself for worlds, 
Bertie. Let Eoberts take out the message to the young 
person.' For Lady Mary was a stickler in her way for the 
due subordination of the classes of society. 

Before the words were well out of her ladyship's mouth, 
however, her son had made his way into the hall once 
more, unheeding the prohibition, and conveyed to Paul the 
information he wanted as to Miss Boyd-Galloway's present 
whereabouts. 

The message left Paul more hopelessly out of his bearings 
than ever. The fact was, he had come the vnrong way. 
The Dean's was at the exact opposite end of Kent's Hill, 
three miles from the Websters' as the crow flies, by a track- 
less route among gorse and heather. There was no chance 
now left of overtaking his father before he drove from the 
house. All Paul could possibly do was to follow in his steps 
Bnd hear what tidings he could of him from those who had 
seen bim 



IN HOT PURSUIT 215 

Away he trudged with trembling feet, along the crest of 
the ridge, stumbling from time to time over bushes half 
hidden by the newly-fallen snow, and with the keen air 
cutting against his face like a knife as he breasted it It 
was indeed an awful night — awful even down in the snug 
valley at Hillborough, but almost Arctic in the intensity of 
its bitter cold on those bleak, wind-swept uplands. They 
say Kent's Hill is the chilliest spot in winter in all Southern 
England ; as Paul pushed his way across the long bare 
summit that January evening, he trembled in his heart for 
the effect upon his father. It was slow work indeed to' 
cover the three miles that lay between him and the Dean's, 
even disregardful as he was of the frequent notice-boards 
which threatened the utmost rigour of the law with churlish 
plainness of speech to inoffensive trespassers More than 
once he missed his way in the blinding snow, and found, 
himself face to face with the steeply-scarped southern bank, 
or with some wall or hedge on the slope to northward. * 
But at last, pushing on in spite of all difficulties, he reached 
the garden at the Dean's, and stood alone within the snow- 
covered gateway. There, all was still once more; the 
party had melted away, for it was now nearly midnight. 
But a light still burned feebly in one of the upper rooms. 
In his eagerness and anxiety Paul could not brook delay ; 
he ventured here again to ring the bell. A servant put 
out his head slowly and inquiringly from the half-opened 
window. 

* Was Miss Boyd-Galloway dining here to-night ?• Paul 
asked with a sinking heart of the sleepy servant. 

* Yes,' the man answered ; < but she's gone half an hour 
ago.' 

* Who drove her home, or did she drive home at all ?' 
Paul inquired once more. 

* How should I know T the servant replied, withdrawing 
his head testily. * Do you think I take down their numbers 
as they pass, hke the bobby at the station ? She ain't here, 
that's all. Ask me another one.' 

And he slammed the casement, leaving Paul alone on the 
snow-covered gravel- walkr 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTEB XXX. 

AT THE CALL OF DCT7, 




^EANWHILE, Sir Emery Gasooyne, Banmel. 

had been fftithfnlly carrying out the dntlM 

of his ebation. He hsA promised to go and 

fetch Miss Boyd- Galloway at the Dean's, 

^ and come enow or rain or hail or frost, 

■" with perfect fidelity he had gone to fetch her. 

His fatherly pride would never have allowed him to let 
Paul — his gentleman son — take bis place on the box even 
for a single evening. Better by far meet hia fate than that. 
To die was a thonsand times easier than disgrace. 80, aa 
soon as Paul was out of sight upstairs, be had risen from 
his seat, seized his whip from the rack, and, in spite of that 
catching pain deep down in hia side, driven off hastily before 
Paul could intercept him. 

The drive to the Hill — by the west road to the further 
end, while Paul had followed by the shorter and steeper 
eastern route — was a bitter cold one: and the horses, thongh 
roughed that day, had stumbled many times on the frozen 
slopes, having stem work indeed to drag the heavy cab np 
that endless zigzag As Sir Emery drove, the pain in hia 
side grew duller and deeper: and though he was too 
unskilled in diagnosis to know it for pleurisy, as it really 
was, he felt himself it was blowing up hard for a serious 
illness. But, accustomed as he had long been to exposure 
in all weathers, he made light of the discomfort, and drora 
bravely along to the Dean's doorway. 

It was half-past ten by Sir Emery's watch — the necessary 
business silver watch of the country cabman — when ha 
reached the house : but though he sent in word that he was 
there and ready, his fare was in no great harry, as it seemed, 
to present herself. 

' Miss Boyd-Galloway's carriage,' the footman announced; 
hut Miss Boyd- Galloway, immersed in her game of whist, 
only nodded in reply, and went on playing out the end of 
the rubber in dignified silence. She was a lady who loved 
the rigour of the game. It waa comfortably warm in that 



AT THE CALL OF DUTY 217 

snug country-house ; and who thinks of the cabman outside 
in the cold there ? 

The other coachmen walked up and down, and slapped 
their chests, and exhorted their horses. But Sir Emery sat 
motionless and chilled on the box, not daring to dismount, 
lest when once down he should be unable to get up again. 
The butler, a good-natured soul who had known him for 
years, offered him a glass of whisky-and- water to keep him 
VfBxm. But Sir Emery shook his head in dissent : it would 
only make him colder if he had to sit long on the box in the 
snow tiiere. 

' Gascoyne's off his feed/ another cabman remarked with 
a cheerful nod ; and the rest laughed. 

But Sir Emery didn't laugh. He sat stark and stiff, 
breathing every moment with increasing difBculty, on his 
seat by the porch, under shelter of the yew-tree. 

For half an hour or more he waited in the cold. One 
after another, the guests dropped out and drove away piece- 
meal; but not Miss Boyd-Galloway. He trembled and 
shivered and grew numb within. Yet wait he must ; there 
was absolutely no help for it. Colder and colder he grew 
till he seemed all ice. His father's heart was broken within 
him. More than once in his miserable faintness he half 
wished to himself he had allowed Paul, after all, just this 
one night to relieve him. 

At last the door opened for the tenth time, and 'Miss 
Boyd-Galloway's carriage ' was duly summoned. 

There was a moment's pause. Sir Emery was almost too 
numbed to move. Then slowly, with an effort, he turned 
his horses, and, wheeling round in a circle, brought them up 
to the doorway. 

* What do you mean by keeping us waiting here in the 
cold like this?' Miss Boyd-Galloway asked in a sharp, 
rasping voice. She was a sour-looking lady of a certain age, 
and losing the rubber never improved her temper. 

Sir Emery answered nothing. He was too well accus- 
tomed to the ways of the trade even to reflect to himself in 
his own silent soul that Miss Boyd-Galloway had kept him 
waiting in the cold — and in far worse cold — for considerably 
more than half an hour. 

The footman stood forward and opened the door. Miss 
Boyd- Galloway and her friend, wta^^^SL vcl ^\iS\ws»% tsx^ 



2i8 THE SCALLYWAG 

over their square-cut dresses, stepped inside and seated 
themselves, * Home 1* Miss Boyd-Galloway called out with 
an authoritative voice. There was another pause. Miss 
Boyd-Galloway put out her head to see the reason. ' Home, 
I said, Gascoyne/ she repeated angrily. ' Didn't you hear 
me speak ? Why, what are you waiting for?* 

Sir Emery raised his whip with an evident effort. ' I'm 
a-goin', miss,' he answered, and his voice was thick. ' Bat 
it's a main cold night, and the road's 'eavy, and the 'esses 
is tired.' 

*Good gracious, what impertinence!' Miss Boyd-Galloway 
observed, vsrithdrawing her head and shivering audibly, 
*It's my belief, Louisa, that man's been drinking.' 

' He certainly didn't seem able to move on the box/ her 
companion retorted ; * I noticed his manner.* 

*0h, he's drunk,' Miss Boyd-Galloway answered with 
prompt decisiveness. < Dead drunk, I'm certain. Just seei 
how he's driving. He hasn't even got sense enough left to 
guide his horses, and it runs in the blood, you know; 
they're a precious bad lot all through, these Gascoynes I 
To think that a man should have come down to this, whose 
ancestors were gentlemen born and bred and real Welsh 
baronets I A common cab-driver, and drunk at that I And 
the daughter's just as bad — that horrid girl at the National 
School at Hillborough. A proud, discontented, impertinent 
hussy 1 Why, she won't even say ** miss " to my face when 
she speaks to ma' 

*Phew, what a joltl* the other lady exclaimed, seizing 
Miss Boyd-Galloway's arm as the cab tipped up over a rut 
in the roadway. 

* Drunk 1 quite drunk 1' Miss Boyd-Galloway repeated 
with a meditative air, now confirmed in her opinion. *I 
only hope to goodness he won't upset us in the snow — ^it's 
awfully drifted — anywhere here by the roadside.' 

And, indeed, to do the fare full justice, there seemed good 
reason that particular evening to blame Sir Emery Gas- 
coyness driving. As a rule, the baronet was a careful and 
cautious whip, little given to wild or reckless coachman- 
ship, and inclined to be sparing, both by inclination and 
policy, of his valuable horseflesh. But to-night he seemed 
to let the horses wander at their own sweet will, from side 
to side, hardly guiding them at a\\ \>\vtom^ Vtia ^\ics^ \wA 

k 



AT THE CALL OF DUTY 219 

the crossings. At times they swerved dangerously close to 
the off-hedge ; at others they almost neared the edge of the 
slope that led down the zigzag. ' We shall never get out 
of this alive/ Miss Boyd-Galloway remarked, leaning back 
philosophically ; ' but if we do, Louisa, I shall certainly get 
Gascoyne's license taken away, or have him well fined at 
Uncle Edward's petty sessions for reckless driving.' 

At the corner by. the larches the horses turned sharp into 
the main road. They turned so abruptly that they almost 
upset the cab and its precious freight. Miss Boyd- 
Galloway's patient soul could stand it no longer. In spite 
of the cold air and the driving snow, she opened the window 
wide, pushed out her woollen-enveloped head, and ex- 
postulated vigorously : * If you don't take more care. Gas-, 
coyne, I shall have yoii fined. You're endangering our lives. 
You've been drinking, I'm sure. Pull yourself together, 
man, and drive carefully now, or else we'll get out and 
walk, and then report you.' 

Sir Emery essayed an inarticulate answer. But his 
breath was feeble, and the words stuck in his throat. Miss 
Boyd-Galloway withdrew her indignant head more angry 
than ever, * He's absolutely stupid and dumb with drini,' 
she said, musing with positive pleasure over the cabman's 
delinquencies. ' He can't get out a word. He's too drunk 
to sit straight. It'll be a mercy if we all get back alive. 
But I'm morally confident we won't, so make up your mind 
for the worst, Louisa.* 

Near the entrance to the town, Miss Boyd-Galloway 
didn't notice through the dimmed window-panes that thqir 
coachman was taking them in the wrong direction. Or, 
rather, to speak more accurately, the horses, now left to 
their own devices, were returning at their own pace to their 
familiar stable. 

They plodded along slowly, slowly now, for the snow on 
the road grew ever deeper and deeper. Their gait was 
reduced to a shambling walk, with occasional interludes of 
stumbling and slipping. Miss Boyd-Galloway's wrath 
waxed deep and still. She didn't remonstrate any longer : 
she felt sure in her own heart Gascoyne had got beyond all 
that long since : she meditated ' fourteen days without the 
option of a fine' as the very slightest ^xiiivabmftYAk \S\iRi\s^ 
"Edward could in reason award him. 



220 THE SCALLYWAG 

Finally, and suddenly, a jerk, a halt. They tamed nn* 
expectedly down a narrow side-entrance. Miss Boyd- 
Galloway was aware of a courtlike shadow. Houses rose 
sheer around her on every side. Surely, surely, this was 
not the Priory, not the paternal mansion. Miss Boyd- 
Galloway put out her head and looked about her once more. 
< Oh, Louisa, Louisa, what on earth are we to do ?' she 
cried, in impotent despair. *The man's so drunk that, 
instead of taking us home, he's allowed the horses to come 
back to their own stables V 

* I shall get out this minute and walk 1' her friend ejacu- 
lated sleepily. 

They got out and stood by the side of the cab. ' Now, 
Gascoyne,' Miss Boyd-Galloway began in a very shrill tone, 
'this is really too bad. You're asleep on the box, sir. 
Wake up, I say; wake up now, will you ?' 

But Sir Emery sat stiff and stark in his place, and never 
heeded even the admonition of Miss Boyd-Galloway's stout 
umbrella poked hard against his side in practical remon- 
strance. 

As they stood there, wondering, the back door of the 
house was flung open wide, and Faith Gascoyne, with 
her head uncovered, rushed hastily out into the dark, cold 
courtyard. She took no notice of the two ladies who stood 
there, shivering, in their wraps and shawls, on the snow-clad 
stones, but darted wildly forward towards the figure on the 
box. * Father, father I' she cried in an agonized voice, ' are 
you all right, darling?' 

* No, he's not all right,' Miss Boyd-Galloway answered 
testily, retreating towards the passage. * He's anything but 
right, and you ought to be ashamed of him. He's as drunk 
as an owl, and he's brought us back here to his own place, 
instead of taking us home as he ought to the Priory.' 

But Faith paid little heed to the lady's words. She was 
far too agitated and frightened for that. She flung her arms 
wildly round that stiff, stark figure, and kissed its mouth 
over and over again with a terrible foreboding. Sir Emery 
sat there unheeding still. Then Faith started back aghast, 
with a sudden flash of discovery, and held up her hands in 
an agony of horror and alarm to heaven. A fierce cry 
burst inarticulately from her quivering lips. * He's dead t' 



AT THE CALL OF DUTY til 

she sobbed out in her agony. 'He's dead! Oh, father, 
father 1' 

And so he was. He had died in harness. ' Acute 
pleurisy, aggravated by exposure/ the doctor called it in his 
official statement next day. But for the present, all Faith 
knew and felt was that her father was gone, and that she 
stood there that moment alone in her bereavement. 

In time, as she stood there, helpless and unnerved, a 
neighbour or two came out and carried him in. He was 
quite, quite dead : almost as stiff and cold as stone with 
the frost already. They laid him down tenderly on the 
horse-hair sofa in the little parlour. Sir Emery Gas- 
coyne, Baronet, had met his death well, performmg his 
duty. 

And Miss Boyd-Galloway in the yard without, staring 
hard at her friend and wringing her hands, remarked more 
than once in a hushed voice, ' This is very awkward indeed, 
Louisa I How on earth are we to get home without any 
carriage, I wonder? I really believe we shall have io 
tramp it I' 



• i ^^> 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTEB XXXL 

'LE KOI EST MOBT: TIV£ LE BOll* 




ITH a heavy 
heart 
and with 
vagne 



- forebod- 
ings o! 
eviliPauI 
tramped 
wearily 
home 
along the 
frozen 
r o a d - 
way. As 
ho n ear- 
ed Piow- 

den'a Courli, at the end oE that slow and painful march, 
he saw for hiniselt thcro were lights in the windows, and 
signs within of great bustle and commotion. 

Cold a3 it was aod late at night, the news had already 
spread over the neighbourhood that ' Gascoyne was gone,' 
and more than one sympathizing friend had risen from bed 
and dropped in to comfort Faith and her mother in their 
great sorrow. The working classes and the smaller trades- 
folk are prompter and franker in their expressions of 
sympathy with one another than those whom in our eelf- 
satisfied way we call their betters. They corns to help in 
the day of trouble, where servants and dependents are not 
ready at call to do the mere necessary physical worl( 
entaUed on every house by moments of bereavement. 



'LE ROI EST MORT: VIVE LE ROI P 223 

At the door Mr. Solomons was waiting to receive the 
poor weary young man. He raised his hat respectfully as 
Paul straggled in. * Good-evening, Sir Paul/ he said with 
marked courtesy. And that unwonted salute was the first 
intimation Paul received of his sudden and terrihle loss that 
awful evening. 

* No, no, Mr. Solomons,* he cried, grasping the old man's 
hand with the fervid warmth which rises up spontaneous 
within us all at moments of deep emotion. 'Not that! 
not that ! Don't tell me so 1 don't tell me so ! Not that 1 
He isn't dead ! Not dead I Oh no, not dead I Don't say 
sol' 

Mr. Solomons shook his head gravely. ' Doctor's been 
here and found him quite dead,' he answered with solemn 
calmness. * He drove Miss Boyd-Galloway back from the 
Dean^s through the snow and wind till he froze on the box. 
He was too ill to go, and he died at his post, hke a 
Gascoyne ought to do.' 

Paul flung himself back on a chair and burst at once into 
a wild flood of tears. His heart was full. He didn't dare 
to ask for Faith or his mother. Yet, even in that first full 
flush of a great sorrow, strange to say, he was dimly 
conscious within himself of that indefinable self-satisfaction 
which so buoys us up for the moment under similar 
circumstances. He felt it would always be a comfort to 
him to remember that he had done his very best to avert 
that terrible incident, had done his very best to take his 
father's place that night, and to follow in his footsteps on 
his last sad journey. 

Mr. Solomons moved slowly to the foot of the stairs. 
' ' Sir Paul has returned,' he called softly to Faith in the 
room above, where she sat and sobbed beside her dead 
father. 

And, indeed, from that time forth Mr. Solomons seldom 
forgot to give the new baronet the full benefit of his title 
whenever he spoke to him, and to exact the rigorous use of 
it from all and sundry. It was part of his claims on Paul, 
in fact, that Paul should accept the heavy burden of the 
baronetcy. Meaning to float him in the social and financial 
sense, Mr. Solomons appreciated the immense importance 
of starting Sir Paul as Sir Paul Gascoyne, Baronet, from 
the very heginmng. It must be uxidex^tkOoSi ^\» \»«i^ csvi^^'^S^ 



224 ^-HE SCALLYWAG 

that this was a genuine titled Gascoyne, and no shadow of 
a doubt or an incognito of any sort must hang over the fact 
or the nature of the evidence. It was all very well for Sir 
Emery to hide his light under a bushel in a country town ; 
but Sir Paul, as exhibited by his financial adviser, must be 
carefully proclaimed from the housetops in the city of West- 
minster. 

In his own interests Mr. Solomons was determined that 
everybody should recognise his prot4g4 as a man of fashion. 

Faith came down and threw herself into her brother's 
arms. * You did your best, Paul,' she cried, faltering ; * I 
know it, I know it 1* 

The tears stood dim in Mr. Solomons* eyes. He could 
stand an execution for debt with stoical stolidity, but he 
could not stand this. He took out his pocket-handkerchief 
and retired into the stairway, leaving brother and sister to 
their own silent sympathy. 

Slowly and gradually it came home to each of them how 
great a change that night had wrought in their joint exist- 
ences. The old life at Hillborough would now be broken 
up for them both altogether. New ways and fields lay open 
before them. 

The next few days, indeed, were of course taken up by 
the needful preparations for Sir Emery's funeral. It was a 
new sensation for Paul to find himself the head of the 
family, with his mother and sister dependent upon him for 
aid and advice, and compelled to decide all questions as 
they arose upon his own responsibility. Mr. Solomons, 
however, who had his good side, though he kept it often 
most studiously in the background, was kindness itself to 
Paul in this sudden emergency. To say the truth, he liked 
the young man ; and, with his ingrained Jewish respect for 
rank, he was proud of being able to patronize a real British 
baronet. He had patronized Sir Emery already, to be sure ; 
but, then. Sir Emery had never been born in the purple. 
He was at best but a country cabman who had unexpectedly 
inherited a barren baronetcy. It was otherwise with Paul. 
Mr. Solomons was determined that, as his young friend had 
had an Oxford education, so he should be received every- 
where from the very beginning m YAa o^n ^xo^^x ^^<^ Vs^ 
UngJish society. The fact v?aa, ^t. ^o\omoxi^ xO^^W^ 
rvJih Paul had made him ieel, aXi W^> ^ ^^^^-^^ ^^^^^ 



*LE ROI EST htOkT: VIVE LE ROI r ^2$ 

m 

interest in his young debtor's position and prospects. Be- 
garding him at first merely in the light of a precarious 
investment, to be diligently exploited for Mr. Lionel's ulti- 
mate benefit, he had come in the end to regard him with 
some personal liking and fondness, as a pupil with whose 
progress in life he might be fairly satisfied. So he camo 
out well on this occasion — so well, indeed, that for several 
days after the sad event he never mentioned to Paul the 
disagreeable fact about his having neglected to pay Sir 
Emery's life-premium on the very day of that fatal engage- 
ment. 

The neglect left Paul still more heavily indebted than he 
might otherwise have been. But as ho had voluntarily 
assumed all responsibility for the debt himself, he had really 
nothing on this ground to complain of. 

The funeral was fixed for Wednesday, the tenth. On Tues- 
day afternoon, as Paul sat alone in the little front parlour 
with the spotted dog on the mantelpiece — that spotted dog 
of his father's that Faith had so longed for years to remove, 
and that she wouldn't now have removed from its famiUar 
place for untold thousands — he heard a well-known sturdy 
voice inquire of the stable-boy who lounged about the door, 
' Is this Sir Paul Gascoyne's ? Does he happen to be in ? 
Will you give him my card, then ?' 

With no shadow of shame or compunction on his face, 
Paul flung open the door and welcomed his old college 
friend into that dingy little sitting-room. * Why, Thistle- 
ton,' he cried, ' this is so kind, so good of you I You're the 
only one of all my Oxford acquaintances who's come to see 
me, although, of course, I didn't expect them. But you 
were in Yorkshire last week and meant to stay there. 
What on earth's brought you down to this part of England 
so suddenly ?' 

The blond young man's face on receiving this question 
was a study to behold. It would have made the fortune of 
a rising dramatic artist. He changed his hat in his hand 
awkwardly as he answered with a distinctly shame-faced 
air : * I thought — as a mark of respect for the ffl*m\l'^ — \.— ^ 
ought to be present at Sir Emery's i\niet«X. kcA/\c^<^^> 
my father and mother thought that, in. N\ei^R ol eriX^HKxi^^kSjSy. 
fuiare'circumstances, I couldn't posa\\A^ ^Io^ot!^ tc.^^^^: 
Paul failed to grasp the precise xea^oxv i^^ >Qcc^^vo.\.^^ 



S26 THE SCALLYWAG 

position on the part of the senior Thistletons in so strictly 
private and personal an affair as his father's funeral ; for as 
yet he had no idea of the state of relations between Faith 
and his friend, but he confined himself for the moment to 
asking in some surprise, ' Why, how did you hear at all 
about my poor father ?* 

The blond young man hesitated even more remarkably 
and distinctly than before. Then he blurted out the truth 
with that simple-hearted directness of speech which was 
natural to him : ' Faith wrote and told me,' he answered in 
his straightforwardness. 

It struck Paul as odd, even in that time of trouble, that 
Thistleton should speak of his sister as ' Faith ' and not as 
' Miss Gascoyne/ as he had always been accustomed to do 
at Oxford ; but he set it down to the privilege of intimacy 
with the family, and to the greater frankness of tongue 
which we all of us use when death breaks down for a 
moment the conventions and barriers of our artificial inter- 
course. Still, it certainly did strike him as odd that Faith 
should have found time at such a moment to write of their 
loss to a mere casual acquaintance. 

Thistleton rightly interpreted the puzzled look upon 
Paul's face, and went on sheepishly, though with charming 
frankness : * I hadn't heard for several days, much longer 
than usual, indeed, so I telegraphed night before last to ask 
the reason.' 

Then a light burst in all at once upon Paul's mind ; he 
saw it all, and was glad, but he forbore to speak of it under 
existing circumstances. 

'Might I see Faith?' the blond young man inquired 
timidly. 

* I'll ask her,' Paul answered, moving slowly up the stairs 
to the room where his sister sat alone in her grief with their 
mother. 

But Faith only shook her head very decidedly. * Not 
now, Paul,' she said ; ' it was kind of him to come, but tell 
him I can't see him — till, till after to-morrow.' 

* Perhaps he won't stay,' Paul put in, without attaching 
much importance himself to the remark. 

* Oh yes I' Faith answered with simple confidenca * Now 
he's once come he'll stop, of course — at least, until he's 
seen me, ' 



*LE ROl EST MORT: VIVE LE ROI P 227 

Paul went back to his friend in the dull little parlour. 
To his immense surprise, Thistleton, after receiving the 
message with a frank, satisfied nod, began at once talking 
about the family plans with an interest that really astonished 
him. Paul had always liked the blond young man, and he 
knew the blond young man liked him. But he was hardly 
prepared for so much personal sympathy in all their arrange- 
ments as Thistleton manifestiBd. The blond young man 
was most anxious to know where Paul would live and what 
he would do ; whether or not he would at once assume his 
title ; what would become of his mother and Faith ; and 
whether the family headquarters were likely under these 
new circumstances to be shifted from Hillborough, say, in 
the direction of London. 

All these questions took Paul very much at a disadvantage. 
Absorbed only in their own immediate and personal loss, Le 
had found no time as yet to think or arrange in any way 
about the future. All he could say was that he would con- 
sider these things at some later time, but that for the 
moment their plans were wholly undecided. 

Thistleton sat still and gazed blankly into the fire. ' I 
shall have to talk it all over with Faith, you know,' ho said 
quietly at last. • I see many reasons for taking things 
promptly in hand at the moment of the crisis.' 

* I'm afraid Faith won't be able to talk things over calmly 
for some weeks at least,* Paul answered with deepening 
wonderment. ' This sudden blow, of course, has quite 
unnerved us. It was all so instantaneous, so terrible, so 
unexpected.' 

* Oh, I'm in no hurry,* Thistleton replied, still gazing 
straight ahead into the embers of the fire. * Now I'm here 
I may as well stop here for the next few weeks or so. 
They've given me a very comfortable room at the Eed Lion. 
And one thing's clear, now your father's gone, Gascoyne, 
you've enough to do with those Claims alone ; your sister 
mustn't be allowed to be a further burden upon you.' 

Paul flushed fiery hot at that way of putting it. He saw 
now quite clearly what Thistleton was driving at, though he 
didn't know, of course, what measure of encouragement 
Faith might already have accorded her wealthy suitor. Oh, 
those hateful, hateful Claims of Mr. Solomons' I ll^^\ia&c^^* 
been for those, he might have anaN^eieSi ^tcyoSX^^ ^'V ^^ 



338 THE SCALLYWAG 

take care myself of my sister's future.' Bat how couU ho 
now — he who was mottgaged, twenty years deep, for all his 
possible earniDgs to that close-fisted ta^mastet 7 The very 
thought of it made him hot and cold alternately with deep 
btimiliation. 

All be could do was to murmur, half aloud, ■ Faith can 
almost support herself, even as it is, by her salary as a 
Bchoolmistress.' 

ThistletoQ answered him very decisively this time. ' Not 
as she ought to be supported, my dear fellow,' he said ia a 
firm tone of voice. ' Gascoyoe, you and I have always been 
friends, and at a time like this we may surely speak our 
minds out to one another. You'll have enough to do to 
keep yourself and your mother, let alone the Claims ; and I 
know how they weigh upon you. But Faith mustn't dream 
of trying to live upoa what she earns herself. I could 
never stand that. It would drive me wild to think she 
should even attempt it. This has made a great change in 
the position of all of you. I think when I talk it all over 
with Faith she'll see the subject in the same light as I do.' 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE BOBBLE BUB8TB. 

^KE morning after the funeral Paul went dowo, 
by Mr, Solomons' special desire, to the 
omce ia the High Street for a solemn con- 
sultation. Mr. Solomons wished to see him 
' on important business,' he said ; and Paul, 
though weary and eick at heart, had been 
too long accustomed to accept Mr. Solomons' commands as 
law to think of demurring to a request so worded. 

As he entered, Mr. Solomous rose to greet him with 
stately politeness, and handed him solemnly a little oblong 
packet, which felt like a box done up in paper. Paid 
opened it vaguely, seeing so much was expected of him, 
and found inside, to his immense surprise, a hundred 
viaiting-ctuds, inscribed in copperplate ' 8ir Paul Gasooyne,' 
in ae»t smaU letters. 




THE BUBBLE BURSTS 229 

' What are these, Mr. Solomons ?' he asked, taken aback 
for the moment. 

Mr. Solomons, rubbing his hands with unction, was 
evidently very well pleased at his own cleverness and 
forethought. 'They're a little present I wished to make 
you, Sir Paul/ he answered, laying great stress upon that 
emphatic prefix of honour. * You see, I think it necessary, 
as part of my scheme for our joint benefit, that you should 
at once assume your proper place in the world and receive 
recognition at the hands of society. I desire that you 
should make a feature of your title at once; that you 
should be known to all England from the very outset as Sir 
Paul Gascoyne, Baronet.' He spoke it pompously, like one 
who basked in the reflected glory of that high-sounding 
social designation. 

' I hate it !' Paul blurted out, unable to restrain his 
emotion any longer. ' Mr. Solomons, I can't bear the 
whole horrid business. It's a hollow mockery for a man 
like me. What's the use of a title to a fellow without a 
penny, who's burdened with more debt than he can ever pay, 
to start with ?* 

Mr. Solomons drew back as if he had been stung. He 
could hardly believe his ears. That a man should wish 
deliberately to shuffle off the honour of a baronetcy was to 
him, in his simphcity, well-nigh inconceivable. Not that 
for the moment he took in to the full Paul's actual meaning. 
That his pet design, the cherished scheme of years, could 
be upset offhand by the recalcitrant obstinacy of a hot- 
headed youth just fresh from college, lay hardly within the 
sphere of his comprehension. He contented himself for the 
time with thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his 
waistcoat, protruding his already too obvious watch-pocket, 
and observing jauntily : 

* That's exactly why you've got to make the most of the 
title, Sir Paul. You must use it as your capital — your 
stock-in-trade. So long as your father lived, of course, we 
could do very little ; we could only point to you as a pro* 
spective baronet. Now that Sir Emery's dead and gone, 
poor gentleman ! the case is altered ; we can put you forward 
as the actual possessor of the Gascoyne title. It's ex- 
tremely fortunate this should have happened (as it had ^^ 
to happen) so early in the year, belox^ ^Jcvft 'fi^^t^^'?^ ^5s» 



230 THE SCALLYWAG 

out — they don't publish them till March — and I telegraphed 
off full details yesterday to the different editors, so that 
your name may appear in its proper place in due course in 
the new issues. There's nothing like taking Time by the 
forelock, you know, Sir Paul ; there's nothing on earth like 
taking Time by the forelock.' And Mr. Solomons, standing 
with his back to the fire and his thumbs in his armholes 
like a British churchwarden, raised himself gently on the 
tips of his toes, and let his heels go down again with an 
emphatic snap, as he pursed up his lips into a most deter- 
mined attitude. 

Paul saw the time for temporizing was passed. While 
his father lived, he hadn't dared to explain to Mr. Solomons 
the simple fact that he couldn't and wouldn't sell himself 
for money to any woman living, lest he should break his 
father's heart by that plain avowal. But now it would be 
flat cowardice to delay the confession one day longer. For 
Mr. Solomons' sake he must take the bull by the horns. 
Already Mr. Solomons had put himself to needless expense 
in having those cards printed and in telegraphing to the 
editors of the various Peerages, on the strength of an under- 
standing which ought long ago to have been broken. There 
was no help for it now. He must prick the bubble. 

So he seated himself nervously in the office-chair, and 

with hesitating speech, amid awkward pauses, began to 

break the news as gently as he could to poor startled Mr. 

Solomons. He told him how as long as his father lived he 

had felt it his duty to keep silence on the matter. He 

explained to him in plain and straightforward terms how 

the plan had been devised and broached and furthered 

when he himself was too young to understand and enter 

into its sinister significance ; and how, as soon as he had 

attained to years of discretion, and comprehended the plot 

in its true colours, a revulsion of feeling had set in which 

made it impossible for him now to carry out in fuU^the 

implied engagement. He begged Mr. Solomons to observe 

that as soon as he had clearly realized this change of front 

he had ceased to accept a single penny of his taskmaster's 

money, but had worked his own way by unheard-of effort 

through his last two terms for his degree at Oxford. 

Finally^ he assured Mr. Solomons, with many piteous assur- 

AnoeB, that be would never be ioTgett\x\ ol ^>a.^ <^^\\a% \£^\i 



THE BUBBLE BURSTS 231 

his purse, his time, and his labour, but would toil like a 
slave, month after month and year after year, till he had 
repaid him in full to the uttermost farthing. 

How much it cost Paul to make this bold avowal nobody 
but himself could ever have realized. He felt at the moment 
as though he was shirking the dearest obligations in life, 
and turning his back most ungratefully upon his friend and 
benefactor. As he went on and on, floundering deeper and 
deeper in despondency each moment, while Mr. Solomons 
stood there silent and grim by the fireplace, with his jaw 
now dropping loose and his thumbs relaxing their hold upon 
the armholes, his voice faltered with the profundity of his 
regret, and big beads of nervous dew gathered thick upon 
his forehead. He knew he was disappointing the hopes of 
a lifetime, and shaking his own credit at every word he 
spoke with his powerful creditor. 

As for Mr. Solomons, the startled old man heard him out 
to the bitter end without once interposing a single word of 
remark — without so much as a nod or a shake of disapproba- 
tion. He heard him out in the grimmest of grim silences, 
letting Paul flounder on, unchecked and unaided, through 
his long rambling explanation of his conduct and motives. 
Once or twice, indeed, Paul paused in his speech and 
glanced up at him appealingly ; but Mr. Solomons, staring 
at him still with a iixed hard stare, vouchsafed not even to 
relax his stern face, and gazed on in blank astonishment at 
this strange case of mental aberration gradually unfolding 
itself in the flesh before him. At last, when Paul had 
exhausted all his stock of arguments, excuses, and reasons, 
Mr. Solomons moved forward three deliberate paces, and, 
gazing straight down into the young man's eyes, said slowly 
and solemnly in the Scriptural phrase, 'Paul, Paul, thou 
art beside thyself.' 

•Mr. Solomons,' Paul answered with a cold shudder 
down his back, < I mean what I say. You shall never lose 
a penny of all you've advanced me. You meant it well. 
You meant it for my advantage. I know all that. But I 
can never consent to marry an heiress, whoever she may be. 
I'll work my fingers to the bone, day and night, the year 
round, to pay you back ; but I'll never, never, never consent 
to pay you back the way you intended.' 

'You mean it?' Mr. Solomoix^ «i,^Vft9L^ ^\\K\\i^ ^^-^^ ^si. 



232 THE SCALLYWAG 

another chair by his side and regarding him. closely with 
curious attention. * Sir Paul Gascojme, you really mean it? 

*Yes, I really mean it, Mr. Solomons/ Paul answered 
remorsefully. 

To his immense astonishment, Mr. Solomons buried his 
face in his arms on the office table and sobbed inarticulately, 
through floods of tears, in dead silence, for some minutes 
together. 

This strange proceeding, so utterly unexpected, broke 
down for the moment Paul's courage altogether. • Oh, Mr. 
Solomons,' he cried, in a frenzy of regret, * I knew I should 
be disappointing you very much indeed — I knew that, of 
course ; but I never imagined you'd feel like this about it.' 

Mr. Solomons rocked himself up and down in his chair 
solemnly for a considerable time without making any 
answer. Then he rose slowly, unlocked his safe, and took 
out the well-thumbed bundle of notes and acceptances. 
One by one he counted them all over, as if to make sure 
they were really there, with a regretful touch ; after which, 
regarding them tenderly, as a mother regards her favourite 
child, he locked them all up once more, and flung himself 
back in the office-chair with an air of utter and abject 
despondency. *As long as you live. Sir Paul,* he said 
slowly, * handicapped as you are, unless you do as we nieah 
you to do, you can never, never, never repay them.' 

* I'll try my hardest, at least,* Paul answered sturdily. 

' There's the horses and cabs,* Mr. Solomons went on, as 
if musing to himself ; * but they won't fetch much. As for 
the furniture in the house, it wouldn't pay the quarter's 
rent, I expect ; and to that extent the landlord, of course, 
has a prior claim upon it. In fact, it's an insolvent estate 
— that's the long and the short of it.* 

* My father's life was insured,' Paul ventured to suggest. 
Mr. Solomons hesitated with natural delicacy. 

* Well, to tell you the truth, Sir Paul/ he answered after 
a long pause, * the premium was due the day before your 
father's unfortunate death, and I neglected to pay it. I 
meant to do so the very next morning, but was too lata 
But I didn't like to mention the fact to you before, in the 
midst of so much other personal trouble.' 

* That was very kind of you, Mr, Solomons/ Paul put in 
in a very low voice. 



THE BUBBLE BURSTS 233 

Mr. Solomons ran his fat hand through his curly black 
hair, now deeply grizzled. 

*Not at all, Sir Paul,' he answered, 'not at all. Of 
course, T couldn't dream of obtruding it on you at such a 
time. But what I was thinking *s this — that the failure of 
the policy largely increases the amount of your indebted- 
ness. It was ** jointly and severally" from the beginning, 
you remember; and when you came of age you took the 
entire responsibility upon yourself in this very room here.' 

And Mr. Solomons walked once more towards the safe in 
the comer, as if to assure himself again of the safety, at 
least, of those precious papers. 

* I admit it to the full,* Paul answered frankly. 

Mr. Solomons turned upon him with unexpected gentle- 
ness. 

* Sir Paul,' he said seriously, * my dear Sir Paul, it isn't 
60 much that — that's not the worst of it. It's the other 
disappointment I mind the most— the strictly personal and 
private disappointment. The money I'll get paid back in 
the end ; or, if I don't live to see it paid back, why, Leo 
will, and I always regarded it as a long investment for Leo. 
A man sinks his money in land for the rise as long as that, 
every bit, and is satisfied if his children come in for the 
benefit of it. But, Sir Paul, I thought of you always as a 
success in life — as great and rich — as married to a lady you 
ought to marry — as holding your own in the county and the 
country. I thought of you as sitting in Parliament for a 
division of Surrey. I thought I'd have helped to make you 
all that ; and I thought you'd feel I'd had a hand in doing 
it. Instead of that, I've only hung a weight like a millstone 
round your neck, that I never intended — a weight that 
you'll never be able to get rid of. Sir Paul I Sir Paul 1 it's 
a terrible disappointment.' 

Paul sat there long, talking the matter over from every 
possible point of view, now perfectly friendly, but never 
getting any nearer to a reconciliation of their conflicting 
ideas. Indeed, how could he? When he rose to go, Mr. 
Solomons grasped his hand hard. 

' Sir Paul,' he said with emotion, ' this is a hard day's 
work. You've undone the task I've been toiling at for 
years. But perhaps in time you'll change your mind. Pex* 
baps some day you'll see some lady .' 



234 THE SCALLYWAG 

Paul cut him short at once. 

* No, never/ he said. * Never.' 

Mr. Solomons shook his hand hard once more. 

* Well, never mind,' he said ; * remember, I don't want in 
any way to press you. Repay me whenever and however 
you can ; it's all running on at interest meanwhile, renew- 
able annually. Work hard and pay me, but not too hard. 
I trust you stUl, Sir Paul, and I know I can trust you.' 

As soon as Paul was gone, Mr. Solomons could only 
relieve his mind by taking the first train up to town, and 
pouring the whole strange, incredible story into the sym« 
pathetic ears of his nephew, Mr. Lionel. 

Lionel Solomons listened to his uncle's narrative with 
supercilious disdain ; then he rose, with his sleek thumbs 
stuck into his waistcoat pockets and his fat fingers lolling 
over his well-covered hips, in an attitude expressive of 
capitalist indifference to such mere sentimentalism as Paul 
Gascoyne had been guilty of. 

' The fellow's of age, and he's signed for the lot, that's 
one comfort,' he observed complacently. • But I've got no 
patience with such pig-headed nonsense myself. What's 
the good of being born to a baronetcy, I should like to 
know, if you ain't going to make any social use of it ?' 

'It's chucking it away — just chucking it away — that's 
true,' his uncle assented. 

Mr. Lionel paused, and ran one plump hand easily 
through his well-oiled curls. 

•For my part,* he said, 'if ever those papers come to 
me ' 

* They'll all come to you, Leo ; they'll all come to you,* 
his uncle put in affectionately. ' What else do I toil and 
moil and slave and save for ?' 

Mr. Lionel faintly bowed a gracious acquiescence. 

' If ever those papers come to me,' he continued, unheed- 
ing the interruption, ' 111 not let him off one farthing of the 
lot, now he's signed for 'em all after coming of age — not if 
he works his life long to pay me off the whole, principal and 
interest. He shall suffer for his confounded nonsense, he 
shall If he won't pay up, as he ought to pay up, in a 
lump at once, and if he won't go to work the right way to 
make himself solvent, I'll grind him and dun him and make 
bj8 lile a burden to him, till he's paid it a\V to t\i^ xiittetmost 



THE BUBBLE BURSTS 235 

farthing. He's a fool of a Bentimantalist, that'a just what 
he ia— with an American girl ready to pay him a good 
round sum for the tltlD, as I've reason to believe, if he'll 
only marry her.' 

' Leo i' his uncle exclaimed disapprovingly. 

.'I'll tell you what it is,' the nephew coDtinued, tilting 
himself on tiptoe, and shutting his mouth hard till the lips 

fmrsed up to express decision of character, ' the fellow's in 
ove with some penniless girl or other, I've known that a 
long time ; be was always getting letters from some place 
in Cornwall, in a woman's hand, that he put away un- 
opened, and read in his bedroom ; and he's going to throw 
overboard your interest and his own, just to satisfy his own 
foolish, sentimental fancy. I could forgive him for throw- 
ing yours overboard for a pretty face, for that's only human; 
but to throw over his own, why, it's simply inescosable. 
He shall pay for this, though. If ever I come in to those 
papers he shall pay for it 1' 

' Leo,' the elder man said, leaning back in his chair and 
fixing his eye full upon his uncompromising nephew, 

' Well, sir,' Mr. Lionel answered, replacing his thumbs in 
his waistcoat-pocket. 

' Leo,' Mr. Solomons repeated slowly, ' I often wish you 
were a little more like Paul. I often wish I'd sent you, 
instead of him, to Oxford to college.' 

'Well, J don't, then,' Mr. Lionel responded, with a short 
toss of his head. 'I'm precious glad you put me where I 
am — in the proper place for a man to make money in — in 
the City." 

CHAPTEB XXXIII. 

FASHIONABLE IHTELLIGENCB. 

1 HE air of Surrey suited the blond yoong 
man's complaint to a T. Thiatleton spent 
some two or three weeks at Hillborough, 
and seemed in no very great hurry to return 
to the hleak North from his comfortable 
quarters at the Red Lion. Meanwhile Paul 
waa bnsy clearing up his father's 8.Qa.\T5, ^^^va^^-^^iai. \w« 
effects there remained to sell, anl WniVii^ o'jet 'fiae. "^ta- 




236 THE SCALLYWAG 

ceeds, after small debts paid, as remnant of the insolvent 
estate, to Mr. Solomons. Mr. Solomons received the sum 
with grim satisfaction; it was a first instalment of those 
terrible Claims of his, and better than nothing ; so he pro- 
ceeded to release a single small note accordingly, which he 
burnt in the office fire before Paul's very face, with due 
solemnity. Then, as if to impress on his young friend's 
mind the magnitude of the amount that still remained un- 
paid, he counted over the rest of the bills in long array, 
jointly and severally, and locked them up once more with 
his burglar - proof key — Chubb's best design — in that 
capacious safe of his. 

Much yet remained for Paul to arrange. The family had 
now to be organized on a fresh basis ; for it was clear that 
in future the new baronet must support his mother, and to 
some extent, apparently, his sister also. His own wish, 
indeed, was that they should both accompany him to 
London ; but to that revolutionary proposal his mother 
would never for a moment accede. She had lived all her 
life long at Hillborough, she said, among her own people, 
and she couldn't be dragged away now, in her old age, from 
her husband's grave and her accustomed surroundings. 
Paul thought it best, therefore, to arrange for a couple of 
rooms in a cottage in Plowden's Court, hard by, where 
Faith and she might take up their abode for the present. 

It was only for the present, however, so far as Faith was 
concerned. For before Thistleton left Hillborough he had 
sat one afternoon with Faith in the bare little parlour, and 
there, before the impassive face of the spotted dog, once 
more discussed that important question which he had 
broached to her last spring in the flowery meadows at 
Ensham. At first, of course. Faith would have nothing to 
say to any such subversive scheme. She wouldn't leave 
her mother, she said, alone in her widowhood. She must 
stay with her and comfort her, now nobody else was left to 
help her. But Thistleton had a strong card to play this 
time in the necessity for reUeving Paul of any unnecessary 
burden. 

* Faith,' he said, taking her hand in his own persuasively 
— there is much virtue in a gentle pressure of the human 
hand — * you know you as good as promised me at Oxford, 
V?d we onljrput it off till a more cguvenietit eqqlsoiu' 



FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE 137 

•Why, I never promised you, Mr. Thistlefcon/ Faith 
retorted, half angry. 

* I said, you as good as promised me^ the blond young man 
corrected, unperturbed. * We left it open. But now, you 
know, Paul's left the sole support of the entire family, and 
it becomes your duty to try and relieve him as far as 
possible. If you and I were married, your mother could 
often come and stop with us for a time — in Sheffield or 
London ; and, at any rate, Paul would be freed from all 
anxiety on your account. For my part, I think it's a duty 
you owe him.' 

* I won't marry anyone as a duty to Paul,* Faith exclaimed 
firmly, bridling up like a Gascoyne, and trjdng to withdraw 
her fingers from the hand that imprisoned them. 

* I don't ask you to,' Thistleton answered, with another 
soothing movement of that consolatory palm. ' You know 
very well it isn't that : I want you for yourself. I tele- 
graphed to my people last spring : ** The lady accepts, but 
defers for the present." So, you see, the question of marry- 
ing me was settled long ago. It's only the question of wlnen 
that we have to talk about now. And I say this is a very 
convenient time, because it'll make it a great deal easier 
for Paul to arrange about your mother and himself com- 
fortably.* 

'There's somethiug in that,' Faith admitted with a 
grudging assent 

So the end of it all was that, after many protests. Faith 
gave in at last to a proposal to be married in March — a very 
quiet wedding, of course, because of their deep mourning ; 
but, as Thistleton justly remarked, with a triumphant sigh 
of relief, a wedding's a wedding, however quiet you make 
it, and it was Faith, not the festivities, that he himself 
attached the greatest importance to. 

At the end of three weeks, therefore, the blond young 
man returned to. Yorkshire with victory in his van (whatever 
that may be) ; and Mrs. Thistleton senior was in a position 
to call upon all her neighbours in Sheffield — master-cutlers* 
wives every one of them to a woman — with the proud 
announcement that her son Charles was to be married in 
March to the sister of his Oxford friend. Sir Paul Gascoyne, 
Baronet, who had lately succeeded to Voa I^^'k^^ Ns^'&i. 
And all the other ladies in Sheffield looked o\x\» NJcL'e^\i^^^^'^*^^"i 



238 



THE SCALLYWAG 



in Debrett forthwitb, as in duty boond; and when they 
found it was quite an ancient creation, of seventeenth- 
century date, and unconnected with cutlery, wore ready to 
die with envy to think that that fat old Mrs. ThiBtleton, 
ft person in no wise richer or more diatinRoished than them- 




'i\ r) 



selves, Bliould become connected at last with most undoubted 
aristocracy. 

At Hillborongh, meanwhile, the eister and daughter of 
those noble fourteenth and fifteenth baronets had a busy 
time in her own small room, making such preparations as 
she was able for that quiet wedding, which must neverthe- 
lesa tax the family resources to the very utmost. Indeed, 



FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE 239 

it gave Paul no small qualms of conscience to buy the strict 
necessaries for so important an occasion ; for how could he 
devote to his sister's needful outfit — the outfit indispensable 
for the v\redding-day itself, if she was not to put the Thistle- 
ton family to open shame — a single penny of his precarious 
earnings, without neglecting the just claims of Mr. Solomons? 
Paul felt even more painfully than ever before how he was 
tied hand and foot to his remorseless creditor. It was 
impossible for him to spend money on anything beyond the 
barest necessaries without feeling he was wronging his 
universal assignee. 

However, he put it to himself on this special occasion 
that for Faith to be married, and to be married well, was, 
after all, the very best thing in the end for Mr. Solomons' 
interests. It would leave him freer to earn money with 
which ultimately to repay those grinding Claims ; and so he 
judged he might honestly devote part of his still very 
modest income to buying what was *most indispensable for 
Faith's wedding. Faith herself, with the help of the little 
dressmaker from the neighbouring court, would do all the 
rest ; and, fortunately, their mourning gave them a good 
excuse for making the wedding preparations on the smallest 
possible scale of expenditure under the circumstances. 

So as soon as everything was arranged at Hillborough, 
and Faith and her mother fairly settled into modest lodgings, 
Paul returned once more for a day to his rooms in Pimlico. 
But it was only in order to remove his books and belongings 
from the chambers he shared with Mr. Lionel Solomons to 
a new address across the City. The welcome change had 
been forced upon him by his interview with his old provider. 
Mr. Lionel's society had never been agreeable to him ; and 
now that he had cleared up matters with the uncle at Hill- 
borough, Paul saw no reason why he should any longer put 
up with the nephew's company in London. Besides, he 
contemplated now living on a still more modest basis than 
before, since it would be needful for him in future to sup- 
port his mother as well as himself out of his journalistic 
earnings. 

Mr. Lionel met his proposals for removal with a shrug of 
contempt. ' I suppose now you're a baronet,' he said, just 
suppressing a decent sneer, * you think yourself too fitia to* 
associate any longer with City genWemenT 



240 THE SCALLYWAG 

< On the contrary/ Paul answered, * now that I shall have 
to keep my mother as well as myself, I must manage to do 
with smaller and cheaper lodgings.' 

* Well, you're a devilish odd fellow !* Mr. Lionel remarked, 
with a cheerful smile, provoked in part by the sight of an 
embossed coronet that just peeped from the corner of a 
dainty note on the mantelpiece. * If I were a baronet, I 
wouldn't do like you, you may bet your last sixpence. If 
I didn't intend to marry tin, at any rate I'd go in for making 
money in a modest way as a guinea-pig.' 

Paul's ignorance of City ways was so profound that he 
answered vrith a puzzled expression of countenance : * What 
is a guinea-pig 1' 

' A guinea-pig,' Mr. Lionel condescended to explain, 
gazing down with approbation at his own well-filled waist- 
coat — * a guinea-pig is a gentleman of birth, rank, title, or 
position, who accepts a seat at a board as director of a 
company, which he guarantees by his name, receiving in 
return a guinea a day every time he attends a meeting of 
the directorate. For example, let's suppose I want to start 
an Automatic Pork Pie Company, or a Universal Artificial 
Guano Supply Association, Limited. Very well, then: I 
promote the company myself, and get two or three City 
people — good men, of course — to back me up in it. And I 
ask you to let me print your name at the head of the list. 
Directors : Sir Paul Gascoyne, Bart. ; Timothy Twells, 
Esquire (Twells, Twemlow, and Handsomebody) ; and so 
forth and so forth. You give your name and you draw your 
guinea. We consider the advertisement worth that amount. 
And a person who lives by so lending his name to industrial 
undertakings is called a guinea-pig.' 

* But I couldn't be a director of a public company,' Paul 
answered, smiling. ' I don't know anything at all about 
business.' 

* Of course not,' Mr. Lionel retorted. * That's just where * 
it is. If you did, you'd be meddling and inquiring into the 
affair. That's exactly the good of you. What we parti- 
cularly require in an ideal guinea-pig is that he should 
attend his meeting and take his fee and ask no questions. 
Otherwise, he's apt to be a confounded nuisance to the 
working directorata' 

'JBui Icall that dishonest/ Paul e^c\aMXi^^\?^xT£\i, * ^^ 



rfiMi 



FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE 241 

man lends his name, and his title if he has one, if I under- 
stand what you mean, in order to induce the public at large 
to believe this is a solid concern, with an influential board 
of directors ; and you want him to do it for a guinea a day 
without so much as inquiring into the solidity of the under- 
taking r 

Mr. Lionel's face relaxed into a broad smile. ' Well, you 
ire a rum one 1' he answered, much amused at Paul's 
indignant warmth. ' I don't want you to do it. It don't 
matter tuppence either way to me whether you sink or swim. 
You're at liberty to starve, so far as I'm concerned, in the 
most honest and Quixotic way that seems good to you. All 
I say is that if I were you I'd go in, for the present — till 
something neat turns up in the matrimonial line — for being 
a professional guinea-pig. I throw out the hint for your 
consideration, free, gratis, given away for nothing. If you 
don't like it, you're at liberty to leave it. But you needn't 
jump down a man's throat, for all that, with your moral 
remarks, as if I was an idiot.' 

' I don't care to sell my name for money to anybody,' 
Paul answered, growing hot : ' either to men or women. I 
never sought the title myself : it's been thrust upon me by 
circumstances, and I suppose I must take it. But if I bear 
it at all, I trust I shall so bear it as to bring no disgrace 
upon my honest ancestors. I will lend it or seU it to nobody 
for my own advantage/ 

* So my uncle informed me,' Mr. Lionel answered, show- 
ing his even teeth in a very ugly smile, and once more ogling 
that coroneted note-paper ; ' and I'll tell you what I think 
of you, Gascoyne — I think you're a fool for your pains: 
that's just my candid opinion of you I you're a sight too 
sentimental, that's where it is, with these notions and ideas 
of yours 1 You'll find when you've mixed a little more with 
the world, as I've done in the City, you'll have to come 
down a bit at last from that precious high horse of yours. 
If you don't, he'U throw you, and then there'll be an end of 
you ! And Tve got another thing to tell you, too, now I'm 
once about it. My uncle Judah ain't as strong a man by 
any means as he looks. His heart's affected. His doctor 
tells me so. He can't stand running about too much. 
Some day he'll go running to catch a train, getting too 
much excited over a matter of a baioaixi^ ox 'W5N»VKSk%\&xsia«^ 



242 THE SCALLYWAG 

in a fluster at an execution; and hi presto 1 before he knows 
where he is, his heart'll go pop and there'll be the end of 
him.* 

< Well?' Paul said, drawing his breath slowly, with a faint 
apprehension of Mr. Lioners probable meaning. 

'Well, then,' Mr. Lionel went on, mimoved, that ugly 
smile growing more marked than before, * I'll inherit every 
stiver my uncle leaves — and, amongst the rest, those precious 
notes-of-hand of yours.' 

' Yes,' Paul answered, growing uncomfortably warm again. 

'Yes,' Mr. Lionel repeated, fixing his man with those 
nasty eyes of his ; * and I'll tell you what, Gascoyne — Sir 
Paul Gascoyne, Baronet — you'll find you've got a very 
different sort of man to deal with from my uncle Judab. 
Sentimentality won't go down with me, I can tell you. It 
ain't my line of country. You think you can do as you like 
with my uncle, because he takes a sort of personal interest 
in you, and feels proud of you as his own tamo live baronet 
that he's raised by hand, and sent to college at his own 
expense, and floated in the world, and made a gentleman 
of. You think you can force him to wait as long as you 
like for his money. But mark my words — my uncle's life 
ain't worth a year's purchase. No office in the City'd take 
him at any rate he'd like to off^er. It's touch and go with 
that ramshackle old heart of his. So my advice to you is, 
don't put him to a strain, if you don't want to lose by it. 
For when once those papers come into my hands, I give you 
fair warning, 1*11 have my money's worth out of them. I'll 
drive you to marry somebody who'll pay me up in full, I 
can tell you that ; or, if I don't, I'll have you shown up for 
a defaulter, as you are, in every paper, in England, They 
shall know how you got your education by fraud, and 
then turned round and refused to carry out your honest 
bargain.' 

Paul's lips quivered, and his cheek was pale, but he made 
no reply to this coarse outburst of the inner self in Lionel 
Solomons. He knew too well what was due to his own 
dignity. He went without a word into his bedroom next 
door, packed up his few belongings as hurriedly as he could, 
and slipped out himself to call a hansom. Then, bringing 
down his portmanteau to the door in his own hands, he left 
Mr, Lionel in undisturbed possesBiou ol ^iWyt Vy«i\» ^^<^tV 



FASHIONABLE INTELLIGENCE 343 

ments, and started off to his new rooms in a by-way off 
Gower Street. 

Nevertheless,' that hint of a possible eventuaJity disturbed 
bis mind not a little in the night watches. It was a fact, 
indeed, that Mr. Solomon's heart was a feeble member ; 
and Paul by no means relished the idea of being left with 
such a man as Mr. Lionel for his life-long creditor. 

As for Mr, Lionel, no sooner was Paul's back turned than 
he drew out a photograph from his inner breast-pocket with 
efTusioo, and gazed at it tenderly. It was a photograph of 
a lady of mature and somewhat obviously artificial charms, 
enclosed in a scented mssia-leathet case with a gilt coronet. 

' Well, be did me one good turn, anyhow,' Mr. Lionel 
murmured, with a rapturous look at the lady's face, ' when 
he introduced me to the Geiiola And now he's gone, I'm 
not sorry to bo rid of him, for I can ask her here to supper 
as often as I like next summer, with no chance of its getting 
round in the end to Uncle Judab.' 

For Mr. Lionel's charmer bad now gone abroad, aa was 
her usual wont, to winter-quarters. But even in thosB 
remote foreign parts she never n^lected to write to her new 
admirer, 

CHAPTEB XXXIV. 

tUBBUOE IN HIQH LIFB. 

710W curiously different things look to each 
of US according to our particular point of 
view I While Faith and Paul at Hillborough 
and in London were reflecting seriously how 
to make things decent for the Thistleton 
family at the appioaching ceremony, the 
Thistletons in turn, in their opulent mansion in the park at 
ShetBeld, were all ^og with the unwonted excitement ol 
preparation for their ChaTlie's marriage with the sister of 
Sir Paul Gascoyne, fifteenth baronet. 

' The wedding must be in London, of course,' Mrs. 
Thistleton said musingly — she was a comfortable body of a 
certain age, with a maternal plenitude of face and figure ^ 
' and Sir Paul '11 give her awayhimaeVl, ^ciM■mwj^ifc'ie.■i^J'w^a- 
J BuppoBe tbey won't want it to Vie at B\U\«iTaviigB.,^2o»»^">»'^ 




244 r^^' SCALLYWAG 

I'd much rather, for my part, you should be married in 
London.' 

' I think Faith \70uld prefer it, too/ Thistleton answered, 
smiling. * You must remember, mother dear, I've always 
told you they live in a very quiet way of their own down at 
Hillborough ; and I fancy they'd rather we were married 
— well, away from the place, of course, where they've just 
lost their poor father.' 

* Naturally,* Mrs. Thistleton went on, still turning over 
; with those matronly hands of hers the patterns for her new 

silk dress for the occasion, sent by post that morning — the 
richest Lyons — from Swan and Edgar's. 'There'll be an 
account of it in the World, I suppose, and in the Miming 
Post, and the bride's dress '11 be noticed in the Queen. 1 
declare I shall feel quite nervous. But I suppose Sir Paul 
will be affable, won't he T 

Her son laughed goodhumouredly. ' Gascoyne's a first- 
rate fellow,' he answered unabashed ; * but I can hardly 
imagine his being affable to anybody. To be arable's to be 
condescending, and Gascoyne's a great deal too shy and 
retiring himself ever to dream of condescending to or 
patronizing anyone.' 

* Well, I hope Faith won't give herself any airs,^ Mrs; 
Thistleton continued, laying four fashionable shades of silk 
side by side in the sunlight for critical comparison ; ' be- 
cause your father's a man who won't stand airs ; and I 
should be very sorry if she was to annoy him in any way. 
It's a great pity she couldn't have come up to stay with us 
beforehand, so that we might all have got to know a little 
more about her and not be so afraid of her.' 

*It would have been impossible,' Thistleton replied, 
gazing across at his mother with an amused air. * But- 1 
wish I could disabuse your mind of these ideas about the 
Gascoynes. Paul and Faith will be a great deal more afraid 
of you than you are of them ; and as to Faith giving herself 
airs, dear girl ! she'll be so awfully frightened, when she 
comes to stay here, at the size of the house and the number 
of the servants, that I wouldn't for worlds have had her 
come to visit us before she's married, or else I'm certain 
she'd try to cry off again the moment she arrived for pure 
nervousness.* 

*WeJJ, Tm sure I hope you're n^Ji^.,' M.tu, Thiatleton 



■*9B^iPiN^ 



MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE 245 

replied, selecting finally the exact shade that suited her 
complexion, and laying it down by itself on the costly inlaid 
table that stood beside the Oriental ottoman in the alcove 
by the bay-window. * For though, of course, one naturally 
likes to be connected with people of title, and all that, one 
doesn't want them to trample one under foot in return for 
all one's consideration/ 

But at the very same moment, away over at Hillborough, 
Faith, as she sat in her simple black frock by the window of 
her new lodgings stitching away at the skirt of her wedding- 
dress with aching fingers, was remarking to her mother : 

'What I'm afraid of, dear, is that, perhaps, Charlie's father 
and mother will turn out, when one comes to know them, to 
be nothing more or less than nasty rich people.' To which 
her mother wisely answered : 

* If they're like himself, Faith, I don't think you need be 
afraid of them.' 

In accordance with the wish of both the high contracting 
parties, it had been finally arranged that the wedding should 
take place in London. Mr. Thistleton senior, therefore, 
went up to town a week or two in advance, * to consult 
with Sir Paul,* whom he was able to guarantee in his letter 
to his wife the same evening as * extremely amicable.' 
But it would be quite out of the question, the master cutler 
observed, when he saw the fifteenth baronet's present 
abode, that Miss Gascoyne should be married from her 
brother's chambers. (Mr. Thistleton senior, influenced by 
somewhat the same motives as Mr. Lionel Solomons, wrote 
* chambers * in the place of * lodgings ' even to his wife, be- 
cause he felt the simplicity of the latter word unsuitable to 
the fifteenth baronet's exalted dignity.) So he had arranged 
with Sir Paul— much against Sir Paul's original wish — to 
take rooms for the breakfast at a West End hotel, whither 
the bridal party would proceed direct from the altar of St. 
George's. Of course the ceremony was to be the simplest 
possible — only a few very intimate friends of either family ; 
but the master cutler couldn't forbear the pleasure of the 
breakfast at the hotel, and the display of Sir Paul, in the 
full glory of his fifteenth baronetcy, before the admiring eyes 
of a small but select Sheffield audience. If they smuggled 
their baronet away in a corner, why, their Charlie might 
almost tis well have married any othex ^x\^\i'Ci^^Tkas£^^^^a 



246 THE SCALLYWAG 

not to be found in the pages of the British book of honour. 
To all these suggestions Paul at last gave way, thongh very 
unwillingly, and even consented to invite a few common 
Oxford friends of his own and Thistleton's, including, of 
course, the invaluable Mrs. Douglas. 

Erom the very first moment of Paul's return from Hill- 
borough, however, it began to strike him with vague 
surprise and wonder what an immense difference in people's 
treatment and conception of him was implied by his posses- 
sion of that empty little prefix of a barren Sir before the 
name bestowed upon him by his sponsors at his baptism. 
When he took the dingy lodgings in the by-way off Gower 
Street, and handed the landlady's daughter one of the cards 
Mr. Solomons had so vainly provided for him, with * Sir 
Paul Gascoyne' written in very neat copper-plate upon 
their face, he was amused and surprised at the instantaneous 
impression his title produced upon the manners and address 
of that glib young lady. The shrill voice in which she had 
loudly proclaimed to him the advantages of the rooms, the 
cheap price of coals per scuttle, the immediate proximity 
of the Weslee-yan chapel, and the excellence of the goodfs 
purveyed by appointment at the neighbouring beef-and-ham 
shop, sank down at once to an awestruck * Yes, sir ; I'm 
sure we'll do everything we can to make you comfortable, 
sir/ the moment her eyes lighted on the talismanic prefix 
that adorned his name on that enchanted pasteboard. 

A few days later Paul decided with regret, after many 
observations upon his scanty wardrobe, that he really 
couldn't do without a new coat for Faith's wedding. But 
when he presented himself in due course at the little tailor's 
shop in the City ('specially recommended by Mr. Solomons') 
where he had dealt ever since his first appearance at Oxford, 
he noticed that the news of his acquisition of dignity had 
already preceded him into the cutting and fitting room by 
the unwonted obsequiousness of both master and assistants 
as they displayed their patterns. ' Yes, Sir Paul. No, Sir 
Paul,' greeted every remark that fell from his lips with un- 
varying servility. It was the same everywhere. Paul was 
astonished to find in what another world he seemed to live 
now from that which had voted him a scallywag at Mentone. 

To himself he was still the same simple, shy, timid, 
sensitive person as ever ; but to everyone else he appeared 



MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE 247 

suddenly transfigured into the resplendent image of Sir 
Paul Gascoyne, fifteenth baronet. 

Strangest of all, a day or two before the date announced 
for the wedding in the Morning Post (for Mr. Thistleton 
senior had insisted upon conveying information of the forth- 
coming fashionable event to the world at large through the 
medium of that highly-respected journal), Paul was as- 
tonished at receiving a neatly-written note on a sheet of 
paper with the embossed address, * Gasco3nie Manor, Haver- 
fordwest, Pembrokeshire.' It was a polite intimation from 
the present owner of the Gascoyne estates that, having 
heard of Sir Paul's accession to the baronetcy, and of his 
sister's approaching marriage to Mr. G. E. Thistleton, of 
Christ Church, Oxford, he would esteem it a pleasure if he 
might be permitted to heal the family breach by representing 
the other branch of the Gascoyne house in his own proper 
person at the approaching ceremony. Paul looked at the 
envelope ; it had been readdressed from Christ Church. 
For the first time in his life he smiled to himself a cynical 
smile. It was evident that Gascoyne of Gascoyne Manor, 
while indisposed to admit his natural relationship to the 
Hillborough cabman, was not unalive to the advantages of 
keeping up his dormant connection with Sir Paul Gascoyne, 
of Christ Church, Oxford, fifteenth baronet. 

However, it appeared to Paul on two accounts desirable 
to accept the olive-branch thus tardily held out to him by 
the other division of the Gascoyne family. In the first 
place, he did not desire to be on bad terms with anyone, 
including even his own relations. In the second place, he 
wished for the Thistletons' sake that some elder representa- 
tive of the Gascoyne stock should be present, if possible, at 
his sister's wedding. His mother absolutely refused to 
attend, and neither Paul nor Faith had the heart to urge 
her to reconsider this determination. Their recent loss was 
sufficient excuse in itself to explain her absence. But Paul 
was not sorry that this other Gascoyne should thus luckily 
interpose to represent before the eyes of assembled Sheffield 
the senior branches of the bride's family. 

Nay, what was even more remarkable, Paul fancied the 
very editors themselves were more polite in their demeanour, 
and more ready to accept his proffered manuscripts, now 
that the perfect purity of his English Bt^l^ '^^'e» \»sJ^^^ 



248 THE SCALLYWAG 

guaranteed by his accession to the baronetcy. Who, indeed, 
"when one comes to consider seriously, should i/vrite oui 
mother-tongue with elegance and correctness if not the 
hereditary guardians of the Queen's English ? And was it 
astonishing, therefore, if even the stem editorial mouth 
relaxed slightly when office-boys brought up the modest 
pasteboard which announced that Sir Paul Gascoyne, 
baronet, desired the honour of a ten minutes' interview? It 
sounds well in eonversatian, you know, ' Sir Paul Grascoyno, 
one of our younger contributors — he writes those crisp httle 
occasional reviews on the fourth page upon books of travel.' 
For the wise editor, who knows the world he lives in, will 
not despise such minor methods of indirectly establishing 
pubHc confidence in the ' good form ' and thorough society 
tone of his own particular oantling of a journal 

Well, at last the wedding-day itself arrived, and Faith, 
who had come up from Hillborough the night before to stop 
at Paul's lodgings, set out with her brother from that 
humble street, in the regulation coach, looking as pretty 
and dainty in her simple white dress as even Thistleton 
himself had ever seen her. They drove alone as far as the 
church ; but when they entered, Paul was immensely sur- 
prised to see what a crowd of acquaintances and friends 
the announcement in the papers ixad gathered together. 
Armitage was there, fresh back from Italy, where he had 
been spending the winter at Florence in the pursuit of art; 
and Paul couldn't help noticing the friendly way in which 
that arbiter of reputations nodded and smiled as Faith and 
he walked, tremulous, up the aisle together. The Douglases 
from Oxford were there, of course, and a dozen or two of 
undergraduates or contemporaries of Paul's, who had rather 
despised the scallywag than otherwise while they were at 
college in his company. Isabel Boyton and her momma 
occupied front seats, and smiled benignly upon poor 
trembling Faith as she entered. The kinsman Gascoyne, of 
Gascoyne Manor, met them in the chancel, and shook huids 
warmly — a large-built, well-dressed man of military bearing 
and most squirarchical proportions, sufficient to strike awe 
by his frock-coat alone into the admiring breasts of all 
beholders. The Sheffield detachment was well to the fore, 
also strong and eager ; a throng of wealthy folk, with the 
cutlery stamp on face and figure, ciMi\ii^^xL^\Q>aal^ lorward 



MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE 249 

when the bride appeared, and whispering loud to one 
another in theatrical undertones, 'That's Sir Paul that's 
leading her ; oh, isn't he just nice-looking 1' Thistleton him- 
self was there before them, very manly and modest in his 
wedding garment, and regarding Faith as she falfcered up 
the aisle with a profound gaze of most unfeigned admira- 
tion. And everybody was pleased and good-humoured and 
satisfied, even Mr& Thistleton senior being fully set at rest, 
the moment she set eyes on Paul's slim figure, as to the 
fifteenth baronet's perfect affability. 

It is much more important in life always what you're 
called than what you are. He was just the very selfsame 
Paul Gascoyne as ever, but how differently now all the 
world regarded him ! 

As for Faith, when she saw the simple eager curiosity of 
the Sheffield folk, and their evident anxiety to catch her 
eye and attract her attention, her heart melted towards 
them at once within her. She saw in a moment they 
were not * nasty rich people,' but good honest kindly folk 
like herself, with real human hearts beating hard in their 
bosoms. 

So Faith and Thistleton were duly proclaimed man and 
wife by the Eeverend the Eector, assisted in his arduous 
task by the Eeverend Henry Edward Thistleton, coudin of 
the bridegroom. And after the ceremony was finally 
finished, and the books signed, and the signatures witnessed, 
the bridal party drove away to the hotel where Mr. Thistle- 
ton senior had commanded lunch; and there they all 
fraternized in unwonted style, the Master Cutler proposing 
the bride's health in a speech of the usual neatness and 
appropriateness, while Mr. Gascoyne, of Gascoyne Manor, 
performed the same good office for the bridegroom's consti* 
tution. And the elder Thistletons rejoiced exceedingly in 
the quiet dignity of the whole proceedings ; and even Faith 
(for a woman will always be a woman still) was glad in her 
heart that Mr. Gascoyne, of Gascoyne Manor, had lent them 
for the day the countenance of his greatness, and not left 
them to bear alone in their orphaned poverty the burden of 
the baronetcy. And in the afternoon, as the Morning Post 
next day succinctly remarked, 'the bride and bridegroom 
left for Dover, en route for Paris, Bome, and Naples,' while 
Sir Paul Gascoyne, fifteenth batonet, t^WtiirA. Vi ^^^^^^'^^^ 



»So 



THE SCALLYWAG 



feeling lonely indeed, to his solitary little lodgings in the 
road off Gower Street. 

But it hod been a very bricht and happy day on the 
whole for the National Schoolmiatresa. And when Mrs. 
Donglas kissed her on both her cheeks, and whispered, '3fy 
dear, I'm bo glad you've married Mm 1' Faith felt she had 
never before been so proud, and that Charlie was a man any 
girl in the world might well be proud of. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

A FLAN 07 CAUFAIQN. 

ADAMB CE- 
EIOLO had 
passed the 
winter in 
Italy — or, 
\ to be mote 
precise, at 
Florence. 
Her dear 
friend (she 
wrote to 
Uonel Solo- 
mons), the 
Countess 
Spinelli - Fe- 
roni, had 
asked her to 
come out 
and stay 
with her ad 
companion 
at her beau- 
tiful villa on 

the Viale del Colli, so as to assume the place of chaperon to 
her accomplished daughter, Fede, now just of an age to 
take part as a debutante in the world's frivolities. The poor 
dear Countess herself had been paralyzed last year, and was 
enable to accompany that charming girl of hers, who 




A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 251 

couldn't, of course, be allowed to go out alone into the 
wicked world of modern Florence. So she bethought her 
at once of her dear old friend, Maria Agnese Geriolo. As a 
matter of fact, as everybody knows, the Spinelli-Feroni 
family became totally extinct about a hundred years ago ; 
and Madame Ceriolo had been made aware of their distin- 
guished name only by the fact that their former Palazzo, 
near the Ponte Santa Trinity, is at present occupied by 
Vieusseux's English Circulating Library. The title, how- 
ever, is a sufficiently high-sounding one to command respect, 
and doubtless answered Madame Geriolo's purpose quite as 
well as any other she could possibly have hit upon of more 
strictly modern and practical exactitude. 

It may be acutely conjectured that a more genuine reason 
for the little lady's selection of her winter abode might have 
been found in the fact that Armitage happened to be spend- 
ing that season at a hotel on the Lungarno. And Madame 
did not intend to lose sight of Armitage. She was thoroughly 
aware of that profound paradox that a professed cynic and 
man of the world is the safest of all marks for the matri- 
monial aim of the cosmopoUtan adventuress. True to her 
principle, however, of keeping always more than one string 
to her bow, she had not forgotten to despatch at the New 
Year a neat little card to Mr. Lionel Solomons, with the 
Duomo and Campanile embossed in pale monochrome in 
the upper left-hand corner, and * Sinceri auguri ' written 
across its face in breezy gold letters of most Italianesque 
freedom. The card was enclosed in one of Madame Ceriolo's 
own famous little society envelopes, with the coronet on the 
flap in silver and gray ; and Mr. Lionel was, indeed, a 
proud and happy man when he read on its back in a neat 
feminine hand, * Molti anni feUce. — M. A. Ceriolo.* 

To be sure, Mr. Lionel knew no Italian ; but it flattered 
his vanity that Madame Ceriolo should take it for granted 
he did. Indeed, Madame Ceriolo, with her usual acuteness, 
had chosen to word her little message in a foreign tongue 
for that very reason — so accurately had she gauged Mr. 
Lionel's human peculiarities. 

Early in March, however, Armitage had beien suddenly 
recalled to England on unexpected business, reaching 
London by mere chance in time to be present at Thistleton's 
marriage with Faith Gascoyne. So Madame CerloVi^V^^w^\si% 



2Sa THE SCALLYWAG 

nothiDg further to detain her now in Italy, and being 
anxious not to let Mr. Lionel languish too long uncheered 
by her sunny presence — for man is fickle and liondon is 
large — decided to return with the first April swallows, after 
Browning's receipt, to dear, dingy Old England. She 
stopped for a night or two on her way in Brussels, to be 
sure, with a member of her distinguished aristocratic family 
(just then engaged as a scene-shifter at the ThMtre Boyal); 
but by the morning of the fifth she was comfortably settled 
once more at the n6tel de rUnivers, and had made Mr. 
Lionel aware of her serene presence by a short little note 
couched in the simplest terms : ' Back in London at last. 
This minute arrived. When may I hope to see you? 
Toute d, votes de coeur, — M. A. Ceriolo.' 

Mr. Lionel read that admirably-worded note ten times 
over to himself — it said so much because it said so little ; 
then he folded it up with his fat, short fingers and placed it 
next his heart, in his bank-note pocket He was a man of 
sentiment in his way, as well as of business, was Mr. Lionel 
Solomons, and the Geriolo was undoubtedly a devilish 
fine woman. It was not nothing that a countess should 
write to him thus on her own initialled and coronetted note- 
paper. A countess in distress is still always a countess. 
And * Toute a vous de cosur/ too 1 Mr. Lionel was not 
learned in foreign tongues, but so much at least of the 
French language his OUendorffian studies permitted him 
readily to translate. He hugged himself with delight as he 
rolled those dainty words on his mind's tongue once more. 
* Toute d, vous de coeur * she wrote to him ; a devihsh fine 
woman, and a born countess. 

It was with infinite impatience that Mr. Lionel endured 
the routine work of the office in the City that day. His 
interest in the wobbling of Consols flagged visibly, and even 
the thrilling news that Portuguese Threes had declined one- 
eighth, to 53|-f for the account, failed to rouse for the 
moment his languid enthusiasm. He bore with equanimity 
the boom in Argentines, and seemed hardly inclined to 
attach sufficient importance to the probable effect of the 
Servian crisis on the doubtful value of Boumanian and 
Bulgarian securities. All day long, in fact, he was moody 
and preoccupied ; and more than once, when nobody else 
was looking, he drew from the pocket nearest his heart a 



19^ 



A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 253 

tiny square of cream-laid note, on which he once more 
devoured those intoxicating words, * Toute h vous de cosur. — 
M. A. Ceriolo.' 

In the evening, as soon as the office closed, Mr. Lionel 
indulged himself in the unwonted luxury of a hansom cah — 
he more usually swelled the dividends of the Metropolitan 
Eailway — and hurried home post-haste to his own rooms to 
make himself heautiful with hair-oil and a sprig of Eoman 
hyacinth. (Eoman hyacinth, relieved with two sprays of 
pink bouvardia, suited Mr. Lionel's complexion to a T, and 
could be purchased cheap towards nightfall, to prevent loss 
by fading, from the florist's round the corner.) He was 
anxious to let no delay stand in the way of his visit to 
Madame Ceriolo's salon. Had not Madame herself written 
to him, * This minute arrived * ? and should he, the happy 
swain thus honoured by the fair, show himself unworthy of 
her marked empressement ? 

So as soon as he had arrayed his rotund person in its 
most expensive and becoming apparel (as advertised, four 
and a half guineas), he hastened down, by hansom once 
more, to the Hotel de TUnivers. 

Madame Ceriolo received him, metaphorically speaking, 
with open arms. To have done so literally would, in 
Madame's opinion, have been bad play. Her policy was to 
encourage attentions in not too liberal or generous a spirit. 
By holding off a little at first in the expression of your 
emotion you draw them on in the end all the more ardently 
and surely. 

And Madame Ceriolo felt decidedly now the necessity for 
coming to the point with Lionel Solomons. The testimony 
of her mirror compelled her to admit that she was no longer 
80 young as she had been twenty years ago. To be sure, 
she was well preserved — remarkably well preserved — and 
even almost without making up (for Madame Ceriolo relied 
as little as possible, after all, upon the dangerous and 
doubtful aid of cosmetics) she was still an undeniably fresh 
and handsome little woman. Her easygoing life, and the 
zest with which she entered into all amusements, had com- 
bined with a naturally strong and lively constitution to keep 
the wrinkles from her brow, the colour in her cheeks, and 
the agreeable roundness in her well-turned figure. Never- 
theless, Madame Ceriolo was fully avja.T^^\i^^t2^*Occi!Si^<^''5Ss^ 



254 THE SCALLYWAG 

not last for ever. Her exchequer \7as low — ^nncomfortably 
low ; she had succeeded in making but little at Florence 
out of play or bets — the latter arranged on the simple 
principle of accepting when she won, and smiling when she 
lost, in full discharge of all obligations. Annitage had 
circled round her like a moth round the candle, but had 
managed to get away in the end without singeing his wings. 
Madame Geriolo sighed a solemn sigh of pensive regret as 
she concluded that she must decline for the present, at least, 
upon Lionel Solomons. 

Not that she had the very slightest idea of passing the 
whole remainder of her earthly pilgrimage in that engaging 
young person's intimate society. Folly of such magnitude 
would never even have occurred in her wildest moment to 
Madame Geriolo's well-balaaced and well-regulated intellect. 
Her plan was merely to suck Mr. Lionel quite dry, and 
then to fling him away under circumstances where he could 
be of no further possible inconvenience or annoyance to her. 
And to this intent Madame Ceriolo hdd gradually concocted 
at Florence — in the intervals of extracting five-franc pieces 
by slow doles from some impoverished Tuscan count or 
marchese — a notable scheme which she was now in course 
of putting into actual execution. She had returned to 
London resolved to * fetch * Mr. Lionel Solomons or to 
perish in the attempt, and she proceeded forthwith in 
characteristic style to the task of * fetching' him. 

In the shabbly little salon everything was as neat as neat 
could be when Mr. Lionel entered to salute his charmer. A 
bouquet — presented that day by another admirer — stood 
upon the table by the sofa in the comer, where Madame 
Ceriolo herself lay in the half-light, her lamp just judiciously 
shaded from above, and the folds of her becoming, soft- 
coloured tea-gown arranged around her plump figure with 
the most studied carelessness. As Lionel approached, 
Madame Geriolo held out both her hands in welcome, with- 
out rising from her seat or discomposing her dress. 

' How nice of you to come so soon ?' she cried, pressing 
either fat palm with dexterously-adjusted pressure. * So long 
since we've met I And I thought of you at Florence. Even 
among those delicious Fra Angelicos, and Lippis, and 
Andreas, and Delia Bobbias, I often longed to be back in 
jEngland, among all my {rienda. "Eot, %i\i«t ^A^^-^^^^^ 



!_ . J . L ■ J 



A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 255 

land best. I sometimes say to her, With all thy virtues — 
thy Philistine, obtrusive, hypocritical virtues — England, 
with all thy virtues, I love thee still I' 

Mr. Lionel was charmed. What wit I what playfulness ! 
He sat down and talked, with a vague idea of being a 
thorough man of the world, about Florence and Italy, and 
all Madame Ceriolo had seen and done since he last set 
eyes on her, till he half imagined himself as cosmopolitan 
as she was. Indeed, he had once run across (when business 
was slack) for a fortnight to Paris, and made acquaintance 
with the Continent in the cafSs chantants of the Champs 
Elys6es in that seductive metropolis, so that he almost felt 
competent to discuss the Uffizi and the Pitti Palace, or to 
enlarge upon St. Mark's and Milan Cathedral, with as much 
glib readiness as Madame Ceriolo herself could do. As for 
Madame, she humoured him to the very top of his bent. 

* Ah, what a pity it is, Mr. Solomons 1' she exclaimed at 
last, gazing across at him with a look which was intended 
to convey the ill-concealed admiration of a simple but all 
too-trusting heart, * what a pity it is that you^ with your 
high instincts and aspirations — you, who would so much 
enjoy and appreciate all these lovely things, should be con- 
demned to pass all your youth — your golden youth — ^in 
moiling and toiling after the pursuit of wealth in that dread- 
ful City V 

* Well, the City ain't so bad, after all,' Mr. Lionel an- 
swered deprecatingly, but with a self -satisfied smirk. 
* There's lots of fun, too, to be had in the City, I can tell 
you.* 

* That's true,' Madame Ceriolo answered, beaming upon 
him angelically ; * oh, so very true — for you who say it 1 
Of course, when one's young, everywhere has its delights. 
Why, I love even this dear old dingy London. At our age, 
naturally, the universe at large ought to be full of interest 
for us. But, still, I often think to myself. What a terrible 
thing it is — how badly this world we live in is organized ! 
It's the old who have all the world's money in their hands. 
It's the young who want it and who ought to have it.' 

* Just my notion to a T,' Mr. Lionel answered briskly, 
gazing at the enchantress with open eyes. ' That's exactly 
what I stick at. What's the good oi thift tv£i,\ ^-^^^ ^"^^ 
to a lot of helpless and hopeless old xa\xxrMiAXi^ ^xv^^^'^'^ 



256 THE SCALLYWAG 

' Quite so/ Madame Geriolo continued, watching his face 
closely. * What a capital principle it wotdd be, now, if 
Nature made all of us drop off satisfied, at sixty or there- 
abouts, like leeches when they're full, and leave aU oar 
hoarded wealth to be used and enjoyed by those who have 
still the spirit to enjoy it 1' 

' Instead of which,' Mr. Lionel put in with a prompt air 
of acquiescence, ' one's relations always go living and living 
and uving on, on purpose to spite one, till eighty-five or 
ninety V 

* Keeping the young people out of their own so long !' 
Madame Geriolo echoed, to pursue the pregnant train of 
thought uninterruptedly. * Yes, that's just where it is. 
It's a natural injustice. Now, when I was out over there in 
Florence, for example, I thought to myself — I can't tell you 
how often (forgive me if I confess it) : Suppose only Lionel 
Solomons could be here with me too — you'll paordon mo, 
won't you, for thinking of you to myself as Lionel Solo- 
mons ? — how much more he'd enjoy this delightful, charm- 
ing Italian life, with its freedom and its unconventionality, 
its sunshine and its carnival, than the dreary, dismal, foggy 
world of London 1' 

* No, did you really, though ?' Lionel cried, open-mouthed. 
' I'm sure that was awfully good and kind of you, Madame !' 

' And then I thought to myself,' Madame Geriolo went on, 
closing her eyes ecstatically, * one afternoon in the Gascine, 
whon the sun was shining, and the band was playing, and a 
crowd of young Italian noblemen were pressing round our 
carriage — Gountess Spinelli-Eeroni's carriage, you know, 
where Eede and I were sitting and chatting viith them — it 
came upon me suddenly, as I looked around and missed 
you : How happy dear Lionel Solomons would be in such a 
world as this, if only ' She broke off and paused signifi- 
cantly. 

* If only what ?' Mr. Lionel asked with an ogle of delight. 

* If only that rich uncle of his, old Gento-Gento down 
yonder at Hillborough, were to do his duty like a man and 
pop off the hooks at once, now there's no further need or 
use in the world any longer for him.* 

* Old what ?' Mr. Lionel inquired, not catching the name 
exactly. 

' Old Gento-Gento/ Madame Geriolo answered with a 



■* I 1^^ 



A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN 257 

beaming smile. * That's what I always call your respected 
uncle in Italian to myself. A hundred per cent, it means, 
you know, in English. I usually think of him in my own 
mind as old Cento-Cento.' 

Mr. Lionel hardly knew whether to be annoyed or not. 
' He don't ask more than other people do for the same ac- 
commodation,' ho objected half grumpily. 

* No, doesn't he, though V Madame Ceriolo replied, with 
the infantile smile of a simple marble cherub. * Well, I'm 
Eorry for that ; for I thought he was laying by a nice round 
sum for somebody else to enjoy hereafter. And for some- 
body else's sake I think I could forgive even rank usury to 
old Cento-Cento. He might behave like a perfect Shylock 
if he liked, provided only it redounded in the end to some- 
body else's benefit.' 

Mr. Lionel's face relaxed once more. 'Well, there's 
something in that,' he answered, mollified. 

' Something in that V the enchantress echoed with a little 
start of surprise ; * why, there's a great deal in that. There's 
everything in that — Lionel.* She paused a moment as she 
let the name glide half reluctantly off her tongue. * For 
your sake,' she went on, letting her eyelashes fall with a 
drooping languor, expressive of feminine reserve and timidity, 
' I almost fancy I could forgive Hm anything, except his 
perversity in living for ever. How old is he now, Lionel ?' 

* Sixty-something,' the younger Mr. Solomons answered 
ruefully. 

* And he may go on living to all eternity !' Madame Ceriolo 
cried, excited. * When I say ** to all eternity," I mean for 
twenty years — at our age a perfectly endless period. Oh, 
Lionel, think how much enjoyment you might get out of 
that old man's money, if only — ^if only my plan for dropping 
off at sixty had met with the approbation of the authorities 
of the universe 1' 

* It's very good of you to interest yourself so much in my 
happiness,' Mr. Lionel said, melting, and gazing at her 
fondly. 

* Whatever interests you interests me, Lionel,' Madame 
Ceriolo answered truthfully, for she meant to make what 
was his hers, and she gazed back at him languishing. 

Elesh and blood could stand it no longer. Mr. Lionel 
was composed of those familiar hum9i.u\x\'&\oVo^^"sK^«as^^ 

• ■ " "Vl 



255 THK SCALL,YWA{i 

Leaning over the daughter of Tyrolese aristocraoy, he seized 
Madame Ceriolo's hand, which half resisted, half yielded, 
in his own. In a fervour of young love even Mr. Lionel 
could be genuinely carried away by the tender passion — ^he 
lifted it to his lips. The Countess, in distress, permitted 
him to impress upon it one burning kiss. Then she snatched 
iti away, tremulously, like one who feels conscious of having 
allowed her feelings to get the better of her judgment in a 
moment of weakness. ' No, no,' she exclaimed faintly ; 
* not that, not that, Lionel I' 

' And why not T Mr. Lionel asked, bending over her, all 
eagerness. 

< Because,' the Countess in distress answered with a deep- 
drawn sigh, < I am too, too weak. It can never be. I can 
never, never burden you.' 

Mr. Lionel had hardly before reflected with seriousness 
upon the question whether he desired to be burdened with 
Madame Ceriolo as a partner for life or not ; but thus sud- 
denly put upon his mettle, he forgot to reason with himself 
as to the wisdom of his course ; he forgot to pause for com- 
mittee of supply ; he forgot to debate the pros and cons of 
the state of matrimony ; he retained sense enough merely 
to pour forth his full soul in unpremeditated strains of 
passionate pleading, as conceived in the East Central postal 
district. He flung himself figuratively at Madame Ceriolo's 
feet. He laid his heart and hand at Madame Ceriolo's 
footstool. He grovelled in the dust before Madame Ceriolo's 
throne. He begged Madame Ceriolo at all risks and hazards 
to make him the happiest of mankind at once and for ever. 

And being human after all, he meant it all as he said it ; 
he meant it every word, without deduction or discount. She 
was a devilish fine woman, and she intoxicated him with her 
presence. 

But Madame Ceriolo, with difficulty preserving her womanly 
dignity and trembling all over with profound regret, re- 
luctantly declined the proffered anatomical specimens. His 
heart and hand she must perforce deny hersell * Oh no,* 
she answered ; ' Lionel, dear Lionel, it can never be I Weak 
as I am, for your sake, I must steel myself. What have I 
to offer you in return for your love ? Nothing but the bare 
shadow of a noble name — an empty title — a useless coronet. 
I won't burden any further your youth that ought to be so 



\ 



MW«m 



THE PLAN PROGRESSES 259 

free — while the uncle lives. If old Cento-Cento were to ha 
gathered to his fathers now, or were to see his wavto making 

you a proper allowance— perhaps in time But as it is 

— impossible t I won't even wait for you : I won't let yoa 
wait for me. Let us both be free. ... I, at least, will 
never make any use of my freedom I' 

Mr. Lionel rose and paced the salon. ' You won't have 
long to wait,' he exclaimed, strange thoughts surging within 
him, ' Marie — may I call you Marie? — oh, thank you I X 
Bwear it.' 

Madame Ceriolo dropped back upon her cushions in 
admirable alarm. ' Oh, Lionel,' she cried, all aghast at his 
boldness, ' whatever you do, whatever yon mean, for my 
sake be prudent I' 



CHAPTEB XXXVI. 

■THE PLAN PBOOBESSES. 

vi^^n ^ 1 ^^ ^ Lionel Solomons left the Hdtel de 
'■^5^^! fl n '' I'UniverB that evening, at a very late hour, 
'.^^KjWiU Madame Ceriolo lay back on her cushions 
^^M^^^ ' with a smiling face and laughed low to 
^^^^^ herself. ' Booked I' she murmured under 
jVyPjS?. 'j }jgf breath, much amused. ' Distinctly 
booked [ I've only just got to play him carefully now and 
my fish is landed !' For Madame Ceriolo was not such a 
purist in her metaphors as many distinguished critics would 
wish us all to be. She thought in the natural terms of 
everyday humanity, not ia the forced language pedants 
would fain impose upon us. They would have insisted upon 
it that she must have Kaid to herself 'hooked 1' not 'booked 1' 
in order to guard against a mixture of metaphors. Only, 
unfortunately, as a matter of fact, being human, she 

But Mr. Lionel went home much perturbed in soul. 
He had let himself in for Madame Ceriolo in real earnest 
now, and he must face the difficulty he had himself created 
in his own path through hfe. Money must be found some- 
how ; money, money, money, if possible, by fair means ; but 
if those failed, then otherwise. 



26o THE SCALLYWAG 

Not that Mr. Lionel repented him of his ohoicei. She 
v^as a devilish fine woman and a real countess. Her note- 
paper was stamped with an induhitable coronet. She knew 
the world, and could open the way for him into society he 
had never as yet even dreamed of attempting. She could 
help him to take down that prig Gascoyne, who sadly 
wanted taking down a peg or two. Nothing could be m*cer 
—if only it were practicable. But there came the mb. If 
only it were practicable. 

And the next three weeks were wholly spent by Mr. 
Lionel Solomons in trying to think how he could make it all 
possible. 

During those few weeks he saw much, it need hardly be 
said, of Madame Geriolo. The Countess in distress, having 
once decided upon her course of action, had no intention of 
letting the grass grow under her feet. Her plan was to 
strike while the iron was hot. The fish must be landed 
without delay. So she devoted her by no means inconsider- 
able talents to the congenial task of gently suggesting to 
Lionel Solomons her own preconceived solution of her own 
created problem. 

She didn't let Lionel see she was suggesting it, of course. Oh 
dear no: Madame was far too clever and too cautious for that. 
To propose, however remotely, that he should do anything dis- 
honourable for her own dear sake would be inartistic and dis- 
enchanting. The Countess in distress played her cards more 
cleverly. She only made him feel, by obscure innuendoes and 
ingenious half-hints, how admirable a thing it would be in 
the abstract if the money that lay in Mr. Solomons' safe 
could be transferred without difficulty to the bottom of his 
nephew's waistcoat-pocket. Madame Ceriolo had no inten- 
tion, indeed, of mixing up her own unsullied name with 
any doubtful transactions in the matter of the proposed 
readjustment of securities. She avoided all appearance of 
evil with religious avoidance. During a longer course of 
hfe than she cared to admit even to her own looking-glass, 
she had carefully kept outside the law-courts of her country. 
She hadn't the slightest idea of entering them now. If 
swindling must be done, let others swindle ; 'twas hers to 
batten innocently on the booty of the swindled. Her cue 
was to urge on Mr. Lionel by vague suggestions that sug- 
gested nothing — to let him think he was planning the whole 



k 



B ■ ■ ■ a n I n 



THE PLAN PROGRESSES 261 

thing himself, when, in reality, he was going blindfolded 
whither his charmer led him. ' 

Nor was it part of her design, either, to commit herself 
unreservedly to Mr. Lionel for any lengthened period. She 
saw in him a considerable temporary convenience, whose 
pickings might even be judiciously applied to the more 
secure capture of Armitage, or some other equally eligible 
person, in the remoter future. Funds were necessary for 
the further prosecution of the campaign of life ; Mr. Lionel 
might well consider himself flattered in being selected as the 
instrument for supplying the sinews of war for the time being 
to so distinguished a strategist. So Madame Geriolo con- 
trived to spread her net wide, and to entangle her young 
admirer artfully within its cunning coils. 

It was a Sunday in autumn — that next succeeding 
autumn — and Madame lolled once more upon those ae- 
customed cushions. To loll suited the Geriolo figure; it 
suggested most amply the native voluptuousness of the 
Geriolo charms. 

< Z^bie,' Madame Geriolo called out to her faithful 
attendant, ' put away those flowers into my bedroom, will 
you ? They are the Armitage's, and the Armitage must be 
sternly ignored. Set the ugly little Jew's bouquet here by 
my side. And listen, imbecile ; don't go grinnmg like that. 
I expect the little Jew himself to drop in this afternoon. 
Entends-tu done, stupide ? The ugly little Jew, I tell you, 
is coming. Show him up at once, the minute he arrives, and 
for the rest, whoever comes, *' Madame ne re9oit pas 
aujourd'hui ;" now, do you hear me, image ?' 

<Oui, Madame,' Eus^bie answered with imperturbable 
good-humour. * Though I should think Madame ought 
almost to have cleared out the little Jew by this time.' 

* Z^bie,' Madame answered with a not unflattered smile, 
' you meddle too much. You positively presume. I shall 
have to speak of your conduct, I fear, to the patron. You 
are of an impertinence— oh, of an impertinence I What is 
it to you why I receive this gentleman ? His attentions are 

strictly pour le hon motif. Were it otherwise ' Madame 

leaned back on her cushions and composed her face with 
profound gravity into the severest imitation of the stern 
British matron. 'Go, Z^bie,' she continuad. *Tk!«.V?^M 
surprises me. Besides, I rattiet ftikas. \ Xi^'^x— ^3nt\. vw^a. 



26j the scallywag 

Go down and bring him up. It's the ugly little Jew— I 
know hia footstep.' 

' Lionel V Madame Geriolo was exclaiming a moment 
later, her left palm pressed unobtrusively about the region 
of her heart, to still its beating, and her right extended with 
effusion to greet him. < I hardly expected you would come 
to-day ! A pleasure unexpected is doubly pleasani Sit 
down, dear heart ' — in German this last — ' let me take a 
good look at you now. So delighted to see you V 

Mr. Lionel sat down, and twirled his hat. His charmer 
gazed at him, but he hardly heeded her. He talked for 
some minutes with a preoccupied air. Madame Geriolo 
didn't fail to note that some more important subject than 
the weather and the theatre, on both which he touched in 
passing with light lips, engrossed his soul. But she waited 
patiently. She let him go on, and went on hersdf, as 
becomes young love, with these minor matters. 

•And so Mignonette was good?' she said, throwing volumes 
into her glance. * I'm sorry I wasn't able to go with you 
myself. That box was a temptation. But I think, you 
know, so long as nothing definite can be arranged between 
us,' and she sighed gently, 'it's best I shouldn't be seen 
with you too much in public. A woman, and especially a 
woman qui court le monde toute seule, can't be too careful, 
you see, to avoid being talked about. If only for your sake, 
Lionel, I can't be too careful.' 

Mr. Lionel twirled his hat more violently than ever. 

* Well, that's just what I've come to talk to you about, 
Marie,' he said with some awkwardness— though he called 
her plain Marie quite naturally now. ' '^ So long as nothing 
definite can be arranged between us," you say. Well, there 
it is, you see ; I want to put things at last upon a definite 
basis. The question is. Are you or are you not prepared to 
trust yourself implicitly to my keeping ?* 

The Gountess in distress started with a well-designed start. 

*0h, Lionel,' she cried, like a girl of sixteen, *do you 
really, really, really mean it T 

*Yes, I really mean it,' Mr. Lionel answered, much 

flattered at her youthful emotion. • IVe worked it all out, 

and I think I do see my way clear before me in essentials 

at last. But before I take any serious step I wish you'd 

allow tiie to explain at full to ^ou.' 



THE PLAN PROGRESSES 263 

* No, no I* Madame Ceriolo answered, clapping her hands 
on her ears and turning upon him with a magnificent burst 
of feminine weakness and trustfulness. 'I'd rather not 
hear. I'd rather know nothing. It's quite enough for me 
if you say you can do it. I don't want to be told how. I 
don't want to ask why. I feel sure you could do nothing 
untrue or dishonourable. I'm content if you tell me you 
have solved our problem.' 

And, indeed, as a matter of fact, it suited Madame 
Ceriolo's book best to be able to plead entire ignorance of 
Mr. Lionel's doings, in case that imprudent young gentle- 
man should ever happen to find himself face to face with a 
criminal prosecution. She knew the chances of the game 
too well. She preferred to pose rather as dupe than as 
ascomplice. 

Lionel Solomons winced a little at that painfully sug- 
gestive clause, 'untrue or dishonourable,' but for all that 
he kept his own counsel. 

* At any rate,' he went on more cautiously, ' whatever I 
did, Marie, I hope and trust you wouldn't be angry with me?* 

* Aiigry with you ?' the Ceriolo echoed in a blank tone of 
surprise. ■'Angry with you, Lionel! Impossible! In- 
credible! Inconceivable! How could I be? Whatever 
you did and whatever you dared would be right, to me, 
dearest one. However the world might judge it, I at least 
would understand and appreciate your motives. I would 
know that your love, your love for me, sanctified and 
excused whatever means you might be compelled to adopt 
for my sake, Lionel !' 

The young man leant forward and pressed that plump 
hand tenderly. * Then you'll forgive me,' he said, ' what- 
ever I may risk for you ?' 

'Everything,' Madame Ceriolo answered with innocent 
trust, ' provided you don't explain to me and ask me before- 
hand. I have perfect confidence in your wisdom and your 
honour.' And as she said the last words, she looked up in 
his face with a guileless look that quite took him captive. 
For guileless as it was, Lionel Solomons somehow felt in 
his heart of hearts that Madame Ceriolo, in the most delicate 
and graceful manner possible, had mentally winked at him. 
And the consciousness of that infantile vck^^'^^ ^\s^ '^'^ 
him quite at Ma ease on moral giowtiSLa, %X» wi-^ t^\.^. 



I 



il 



164 THE SCALLYWAG 

< We shall have to leave England/ he went on after 1 
brief panee, during which his siren had been steadily trans- 
fixing him with those liquid eyes of hers. 

' That's nothing to me/ Madame responded passionately, 
in soft, low tones. * Where those I love are with me, there 
is my home. Besides, all Europe is pretty much the same 
to a woman who has travelled as long as I have done.' 
She sighed once mora 'I've been buffeted about the world,' 
she went on, with a pathetic cadence, *\n many strange 
places — Italy, Germany, Eussia, Spain — ^it's all one to me.' 

* Spain won't do, though,' Mr. Lionel responded briskly, 
half letting out his secret in the candour of private life (as 
encouraged by Madame). ' Spain's played out, they say. 
No good any longer. A man's no safer there since the last 
treaty than anywhere else on the Continent.' 

<I don't quite understand you,' Madame went on, once 
more, with that infantile smile repeated for his benefit, half 
as a wink and half as a warning. 'We shall be safe wherever 
we go, dear heart, if we're true to one another. Spain 
would be as good as anywhere else, Lionel.* 

'Well, I don't mean to go there, anyhow/ Mr. Lionel 
rejoined with prudent vagueness. ' Marie — can you follow 
me — across the broad Atlantic ?' 

The Ceriolo gave a start of pleased surprise. 

Nothing on earth would suit her plans so well. It was 
she herself who, by dexterous remarks, h propos des bottes, 
had first put into his head the notion of South America as 
a possible place of refuge from impertinent inquiry. But he 
didn't know that himself ; he thought he had hit upon it all 
of his own mere notion. And he waited anxiously after 
playing this very doubtful card ; while Madame, pretending 
to be taken aback with astonishment, turned it over in her 
own mind with sudden lovesick infatuation. 

' With you, Lionel/ she cried, seizing his hand in hers, 
and pressing it to her lips ecstatically, ' I could go to the 
world's end — anywhere — everywhere 1' 

And, indeed, if it came to that, the nearer the world's end 
she got, the easier it would be for her to leave Mr. Lionel 
in the lurch as soon as she was done with him. In Paris or 
Madrid he might get in her way in the end and defeat her 
purpose ; but in Eio or Buenos Ayres he would be harmless 
to hurt her, when, the orange once sucked dry^ she turned 



THE PLAN PROGRESSES 26s 

her wandering back anew towards the lodestar of London 
in search of Armitage. 

' Thank you,' Mr. Lionel said with warmth, and embraced 
her tenderly. 

* Will it be New York ?' Madame Ceriolo asked, gazing 
np at him yet again with infinite trustfulness. .* Or do you 
prefer Philadelphia T 

* Well, neither, Marie,' Mr. Lionel answered, fearing once 
more he might rouse suspicion or disgust in that innocent 
bosom. *I think — the — peculiar circumstances under which 
we must sail will compel our port to be Buenos Ayres.' 

* That's a long way off,* Madame mused resignedly — * a 
very long way off indeed. But where you are, Lionel, I 
shall be happy for ever.* 

The unfortunate young dupe endeavoured to hedge. 
Madame Ceriolo was forcing his hand too fast. 

* Well, I don't say yet I've made up my mind to go,' he 
continued hastily. 'There are contingencies that may 
occur which might easily prevent it. If my uncle ' 

Madame Ceriolo clapped her hand promptly upon his 
mouth. 

' Not one word,' she exclaimed with fervour, ' about old 
Cento-Cento. He's a bad old man not to make things 
easier for you. It's a sin and a shame yon shouldn't be 
able to come into your own and live comfortably without 
expatriation. I won't hear the ancient wretch's name so 
much as uttered in my presence. When you've finally 
emigrated, and we settle down on your quiet little farm in 
South America for life, I shall write to the old horror and 
just tell him what I think of him.' 

* Oh no, you won't,* Mr. Lionel interposed hastily. 

' Oh yes, I will,' Madame Ceriolo persisted, all smiles. 

Mr. Lionel glanced across at her in doubt once more. 
Was she really so childishly innocent as she seemed ? Or 
was she only doing it all just to keep up appearances ? He 
was almost half afraid she really meant what she said. For 
a moment he faltered. Was it safe, after all, to run away 
with this guileless creature ? 

Madame Ceriolo read the passing doubt in his eye. And 
she answered it characteristically. She drew out from her 
pocket a little packet of thin rice-paper and a ^onabL ^1 
delicately scented Bussian tobacco. 



266 THE SCALLYWAG 

' Let me roll you a cigarette,' she said, peeriDg deep into 
his eyes. Her gaze was full of unspeakable comprehension. 

' Thanks/ he answered. And she proceeded to roll it. 
How deftly those plump but dainty little fingers did their 
familiar work 1 He watched and admired. What a magical 
charm, to be sure, that fawn-eyed Countess carried about 
with her I He took the cigarette from her hands, and she 
held the match herself to him. Then she went on to roll a 
second for herself. As soon as it was finished she placed it 
jauntily between those rich red lips and lighted it from his. 
How their eyes met and darted contagious fire as she puffed 
and drew in at two cigarettes' length of distance between 
their faces t Then Madame leaned back on the pillows and 
puffed away, not vigorously, but with languid and long- 
drawn enjoyment. Lionel had seen her smoke so a dozen 
times before ; but this time the action had a special signi- 
ficance for him. She smoked like a woman to the manner 
born; How impossible to conceive that a person who 
handled her cigarette Hke that could be quite so blindly 
innocent as his charmer pretended to be ! 

And if not so innocent, then, why, hang it all I what a 
clever little actress and schemer she was ! How admirably 
she let him see, without one incriminating word overpassing 
between them, that she knew and approved exactly what he 
intended I 

' So we understand one another T he asked, leaning over 
her all intoxicated. 

And Madame, pausing to blow out a long slow current of 
thin blue smoke between her pursed-up lips, answered at 
last, gazing hard once more into the depths of his eyes : 

* We understand one another perfectly. Make what 
arrangements you choose, and take your passage when you 
like. I am only yours". What day do you fix 7 

* For — the ceremony T 

* Yes.' s 

* Saturday.' 



k 



THE PLAN IN ACTION 



CHAPTER XXSVII. 

THE PLAM IN ACTIOS. 




finisli all needful pre- 
paratiotis by Sa.turda.v 
w&B very hard work 
indeed; but having 
plighted his troth thus baBtily 
to lady fair — as fair as pearl 
powder and crSme de Ninon 
could make her — Mr. Lionel 
Solomons would have been loath 
in heart to fail her at a pinch, 
and he strained every nerve 
accordingly to complete liia ar- 
rangements by the date agreed 
upon. 

Aud yet there was a great 
', a very great deal, to do 
> meanwhile. Let alone certain 
mpottant but doubtful elements 
in the case, which Madame 
Geriolo in her prudence would 
not 60 mnch as permit to be named before her, other more 
prosaic and ordinary preparations had still to be performed, 
as per Act of Parliament in that case made and provided. 
There was the paternal blessing of the most Beverend 
Father in God, the Archbishop of Canterbury, bo ba obtained 
for this propitious union, on a piece of stamped paper doly 
sealed and delivered ; for Madame Ceriolo, true to her prin- 
ciples to the last, intended to be married with all proper 
solemnitiea to Mr, Lionel Solomons, in a building legally set 
apart for the solemnizatioD of matrimony, in aocordimce 
with the rites and oeremouiee of the Church of England as 
by law established. No Begistrar's office or hole-and-corner 

Sroceediuga of doubtful respectability would suit Madame's 
ehcate sense of the becommg in tne&e ■^toicra.'cA. TaaWwiT4\ 
she must be married, if at aW, ^i^j «56ctt\ \i«iM»» '*»»' 



268 THE SCALLYWAG I 

according to the rites of that Church in which, as she oftei 
remarked, her dear mamma's father had formerly been i 
distinguished and respected dignitary. To be sore, ooee 
tied to Mr. Lionel Solomons by this stringent bond, then 
might be difficulties in the way of getting rid of him heie- 
after; but, like a wise woman, Madame resolved to take 
short views and chance them. It's better to be deceDU} 
married even to a man you mean to suck dry and desert 
when completely drained, than to create a scandal A 
separation between married folks is nowadays almort 
fashionable, and certainly not under the ban of the omni- 
potent Mrs. Grundy. And wno knows what becomes of I 
Deggared man in Buenos Ayres? Madame Ceriolo trusted 
to the noble modem principle of natural selection to un- 
prove Mr. Lionel shortly off the face of the earth in those 
remote parts ; and at any rate she felt sure she was doing 
the very best possible for herself at present in marrying 
him. 

Mr. Lionel, for his part, showed unwonted energy in 
getting everything ready beforehand for that eventfol 
Saturday. After procuring his license, and securing bis 
berths, and engaging his parson, and making his way in 
every respect clear before him, he ran down, at last, on the 
Thursday of that eventful week to Hillborough. Every- 
thing depended now on the success of his visit. If he could 
succeed in what he wanted, all would be well ; if not, he 
would have the mortification and chagrin on Saturday of 
confessing to the Ceriolo a complete fiasco. 

On the way down, the South-Eastern Bailway Company's 
suburban train, making its wonted pace, gave Mr. Lionel in 
his comfortable smoking-compartment ample time for medi- 
tation and reflection. And Mr. Lionel, turning all things 
quietly over with himself, came to the conclusion, in cold 
blood, that after all he was doing the very best thing for 
himself in thus anticipating his uncle's testamentary dis- 
positions. Mr. Solomons the elder had frequently explained 
to him that all the money he had ground out of the Gas- 
coynes and all his other clients by slow process was in- 
tended in the end, wholly and solely, for Mr. Lionel's own 
personal use and benefit. 

' It's all for your sake I do it, Leo,' Mr. Solomons had 
said to him deprecatingly more than once. ' It's all for you 



THE PLAN IN ACTION 269 

that I slave and hoard and wear myself out without getting 
any reasonable return in life for it.' 

And in a certain sense Mr. Lionel knew that was true. 
His uncle made and hoarded money, to be sure, because to 
make and hoard money was the instinct of his kind ; but 
Mr. Lionel was the conscious end in view for which as 
immediate object he made and hoarded it. Still, Mr. 
Lionel reflected to himself in his unprejudiced way, what 
was the good of money to a man of fifty ? And if Uncle 
Judah went on living for ever, as one might expect, in spite 
of his heart (for creaking doors last long), he, Lionel, would 
be certainly fifty or thereabouts before he had the slightest 
chance of touching one penny of it. It was absurd of a 
man to toil and slave for his nephew's sake and then keep 
that nephew out of his own indefinitely. Mr. Lionel was 
prepared to relieve Uncle Judah from thd onus of that 
illogical and untenable situation ; he was prepared to carry 
out his uncle's implied desire in a manner more intelligent 
and more directly sensible than his uncle contemplated. 

At any time of his life, indeed, he would have thought 
the same ; he had often thought it before, though he had 
never dared to act upon it. But the great use of a woman 
in this world is that she supplies an efficient stimulus to 
action. Madame Ceriolo's clever and well-directed hints 
had rendered actual these potential impulses of Lionel's. 
She had urged him forward to do as he thought ; to take 
Time by the forelock, and realize at once his uncle's savings. 
He was prepared now to discount his future fortune — at a 
modest percentage ; to take at once what would in any 
case be his on his uncle's death, for an immediate in- 
heritance. 

At fifty, of what use would it be to himself and his 
Countess ? And what worlds of fun they could get out of it 
nowadays ! 

Madame Geriolo, indeed, had for many weeks been care- 
fally instilling that simple moral by wide generalizations 
and harmless copybook maxims into his receptive soul ; and 
the seed she sowed had fallen on strictly appropriate soil, 
and, springing up well, was now to bring forth fruit in 
vigorous action. A man, Madame had assured him more 
than once, should wisely plan and boldly execute; and 
having attained his end, should sit down i\i^^"Wi.%Nai^^xVsaw 



2/0 J.I2J:,. oK^Ai^i^i rvAso' 

own vine and fig-tree to rest and enjoy himself. None kl 
the brave deserve the fair ; and when the brave had risked 
much for the sake of a Countess in distress, she most be 
cruel indeed if, after that, she found it in her heart to blame 
or upbraid him. 

So Mr. Lionel sped slowly on his way southward, wdl 
satisfied in soul that he was doing the best in the end for 
himself and his charmer, and little trembling for the success 
of his vigorous plan of action. 

When he reached Hillborough and his uncle's office, he 
found Mr. Solomons very red in the face with suppressed 
excitement from a recent passage-at-arms with the local 
attorney. 

' That fellow Wilkie wanted to cheat me out of two and 
fourpence costs, Leo,' Mr. Solomons exclaimed indignantly, 
in explanation of his ruffled temper and his suffused cheeks; 
•but I wouldn't stand that, you know ; Pve had it out with 
him fairly, and I don't think he'll try it on with me a second 
time, the low pettifogging creature.' 

* It's made you precious pink about the gills, any way,' 
Mr. Lionel retorted with cheerful sympathy, seating him- 
self lazily in the easy-chair and gazing up at his uncle's red 
face and rotund figure. And, indeed, Mr. Solomons was 
very flushed — ^flushed, his nephew observed, with a certain 
deep blue lividness around the lips and eyes which often 
indicates the later stages of heart-disease. Certain qualms 
of conscience rose that moment in Mr. Lionel's soul. Was 
he going to render himself liable to criminal proceedings, 
then, all for nothing ? If he waited a few weeks, or months, 
or seasons, would the pear drop ripe from the branch of its 
own accord? Was he anticipating Nature dangerously 
when, if he held on in quiet a little longer, Nature herself 
would bring him his inheritance? These were practical 
questions that Mr. Lionel's conscience could readily under- 
stand, while on more abstract planes, perhaps, it would 
have been deaf as an adder. Uncle Judah's heart was 
clearly getting very much the worse for wear. He might 
pop off any day. Why seek to get by foul means what 
would be his in time by fair, if only he cared to watch and 
wait for it ? 

Pshaw 1 It was too late for such squeamishness now. 
With the Archbishop of Canterbury's blessing in his desk. 



% 



THE PLAN IN ACTION 271 

and the Eoyal Mail Steam Company's receipt for berths per 
steamship Dom Pedro to Buenos Ayres direct in his trousers- 
pocket, he couldn't turn back at the eleventh hour and 
await contingencies. Threatened men live long. It's no 
^ood counting upon heart-disease ; the very worst hearts go 
beating on for years and years with most annoying regu- 
larity. Besides, what would Marie say if he returned to 
town and told her lamely that his plans had fallen through, 
and that he must decline to marry her, as per agreement 
arranged on Saturday morning? When you've made up 
your mind to wed the charmer who has enslaved your heart 
at the week's end, you can't put her off on Thursday afternoon 
at two days' notice. Come what might now, he must pull 
this thing through. He must carry out his plan as settled 
upon at all hazard. 

'I'm glad you've come, though, Leo,' Mr. Solomons 
replied, putting his necktie straight and endeavouring to 
compose his ruffled temper. * I've a great many things I 
want to talk over with you. I'd like your advice about 
sundry securities I hold in my hands. Especially as to sell- 
ing those Central Southern Eailway Debentures.' 

Mr. Lionel's eyes glistened as his uncle rose ten minutes 
later, after some further parley on business matters, and 
went over to the safe where the papers which represented 
his wealth were duly pigeon-holed. How pat I How 
opportune ! He had fallen on his feet indeed : this was 
precisely the exact chance he needed. Mr. Solomons drew 
out the various securities one by one, and discussed with 
loving cadences their different values. * All yours, all yours, 
Leo, my dear,' he murmured more than once, as he fingered 
them gingerly. * You'll be a rich man, Leo, when you come 
into your own. Gas and Coke Company's A's yield 12 per 
cent, to original investors, of which I was one. Twelve per 
cent, is very good interest a9 times go nowadays on that 
class of security ; excellent interest. No risk, no difficulty ; 
nothing to do but to sit in your easy-chair, with your legs 
in the air, and draw your dividends. Not my style of busi- 
ness, you know, Leo ; too slow for me. I like something 
that gives me good returns and close pickings, and some 
fun for one's money ; but for your sake, my dear boy, I 
like to have a little reserve-fund put away safely. It's 
fetter than Ofll these speculative investments after Otll^'Li^^! 




272 THE SCALLYWAG 

' Gertaialy/ Mr. Lionel assented with promptitude. 
' Something that can be called in and realized at any 
moment. Something one can torn into ready cash on the 
open Stock Exchange whenever it's needed. Whereas, 
with most of your money-lending transactions, you see, you 
never know where you are — like that beastly Gascoyne 
business, for example. Money sunk in a hole, that's what 
I call it.' 

* What's that ?' Mr. Solomons interposed sharply, lookmg 
round over his shoulder, alarmed at the sound of those 
ominous words, * realized at any moment.' * Money sunk 
in a hole 1 Nothing of the sort, I give you my word, Leo. 
Here's the papers all as straight and businesslike as 
possible; and he's paying interest monthly; he's paying 
interest at the rate of twenty per cent, per annum with the 
greatest regularity. Sir Paul Gascoyne, Bart., is an honour- 
able party.' 

Mr. Lionel continued to turn over the bonds, and not^d 
carefully where each was pigeon-holed. * You haven't had 
these out,' he said with a casual air, observing the dust 
upon them, * since I was down here last. I see they're just 
as I put them back myself last time.' 

' Well, I don't go to the safe, not twice in a twelvemonth, 
except when coupons fall due,' his uncle answered uncon- 
cerned, as he fingered once more the Gascoyne notes of hand 
with that loving, lingering touch of his. * It's best not to 
meddle with these things too often, Leo. They might get 
lying about loose, and be mislaid or stolen.' 

' Quite so,* Mr. Lionel answered dryly, retreating to a 
seat, and running his fat hand easily through his oily locks 
while he regarded the safe from afar on his chair in the 
corner with profound interest. It suited his game, in fact, 
that Mr. Solomons should visit it as seldom as possible. 
Suppose by any chance certain securities should happen to 
be mislaid in the course of the next week or so — now, for 
example — it might be Christmas or thereabouts before Mr. 
Solomons so much as even missed them. 

As they loitered about and talked over the question of the 
Central Southern Debentures, Mr. Solomons' boy from the 
office below poked his head into the room and announced 
briefly, ' Mr. Barr to see you, sir.' 

* I must run down, Leo,' Mr. Solomons said, glancing 



THE PLAN IN ACTION 273 

about him with a hasty eye at the bonds and debentures. 
*Barr and Wilkie again I If ever there was a troublesome 
set of men on earth it's country attorneys. Just put these 
things back into the safe, there's a good fellow, and turn the 
key on them. The combination's " Lionel.'* It's all yours, 
you see, all yours, my boy, so I open and shut the lock with 
your name for a key, Leo.* And he gave an affectionate 
glance at the oleaginous young man (who sat tilting his 
chair) as he retreated hurriedly towards the door and the 
staircase. 

Thus providentially left to himself in full possession, Mr. 
Lionel Solomons could hardly refrain from bursting out at 
once into a hearty laugh. It was too funny ! Did there 
ever live on earth such a precious old fool as his uncle 
Judah? ' It's all yours, you see I' Ha, ha, the humour of 
it ! He should just think it was, more literally now than 
Uncle Judah intended. And he opened the safe to the word 
'Lionel!' Such innocence deserved to be severely fleeced. 
It positively deserved. A man who had reached his uncle 
Judah's years ought surely to know better than leave any- 
body whatsoever — friend or foe — face to face alone with 
those convertible securities. 

When Mr. Lionel Solomons came down to Hillborough, 
it had been his intention to spend the whole of that night 
under the avuncular roof; to possess himself of the 
avuncular keys and combination ; and to rifle that safe in 
fear and trembling in the small hours of the morning, when 
he meant to rise on the plea of catching the first train to 
London. But fate and that old fool had combined to put 
things far more easily into his power for a moment. All he 
had to do was to place such bonds and securities as were 
most easily negotiable in his own pocket-book, to stick the' 
worthless Gascoyne notes of hand, as too cheap for robbing, 
in their accustomed pigeon-hole, to lock the safe to a 
different combination (which would render immediate 
detection somewhat less probable), and return the keys with 
the smiling face of innocence to his respected relation. And 
as Mr. Lionel was not without a touch of grim humour in 
his composition,, he chose for the combination by which 
alone the safe could next be opened the one significant word, 
' Idiot.' 

*If he finds that out/ the du^MuY i[i«^'s^ Oa>ckR^^^^ 



J?4 THE SCALLYWAG . 

to iiimseU merrily, ' why, all I can say ia, htfll be ft grUt 
deal less of one than ever I take him to be.' 

When Mr. SolomODs once more reappeared npon the 
ficeoe, flushed again with contention with his natural 
enemies, the attorneys, Mr. Lionel handed him back bia 
bunch of keys with perfect sangfroid, and merely obeetyed 
with a gentle smile of superior compassion, ' I wouldn't get 
rid of those Central Southerns yet awhile if I were yon. The 
tightness won't last. I don't believe in these "bearing" 
operations. They're bound to rise later, with the half-yearly 
dividend.' 

And as Mr. Lionel went back to town that same afternoon 
in high good-humoar, cigarette in month and flower in 
buttonhole, he carried with him a considerable eum in 
stocks and shares of the most marketable character, every 
one of which could be readily turned into gold or notes 
before the sailing of the Dom Fedro on Tuesday monuD^ 



CHAPTER xsxvirr. 

: THE TBACE OF THE BOBBEB. 




HjIVE days later Paul Gascoyne wag sitting at 
his desk in the lodgings off Gower Street, 
working away with alt his might at a clever 
middle for an evening newspaper, Paul 
was distinctly successful in what the trade 
technically knows as middles ; he had con- 
qnered the pecuharities of style and matter that go to make 
up that singular literary product, and he had now invented 
a genre of his own which was greatly appreciated by novelty- 
loving editors, He had just finished an amusing little dia- 
tribe against the ladylike gentlemen who go in for fads In 
the House of Commons, and was polishing up his mann- 
Bcript by strengthening his verbs and crisping his adjectives, 
when a loud knock at the door disturbed the even flow of 
his rounded periods ; and before he had even time to say 
' Come in,' the door opened of itself, and Mr, Solomons in 
person stood looming large before him, utterly bieathless. 
At first sight Paul was fairly taken aback by Mr. SAlo- 



ON THE TRACK OF THE ROBBER 275^ 

ipaons' deep and peculiar colour. To bo sure, the young 
man was accustomed to seeing his old friend and creditor 
red enough in the face, or even blue; but he had never 
before seen him of such a bright cerulean tint at thatr 
moment; and the blueness and the breathlessness both 
equally frightened him. * Take a chair, Mr. Solomons,' he 
broke out, starting up in surprise; but almost before the 
words were well out of his mouth Mr. Solomons had sunk 
exhausted of his own accord on the sofa. He tried to 
speak, but words clearly failed him. Only an inarticulate 
gurgle gave vent to his emotion. It was plain some terrible 
event had disturbed his equanimity. Paul bustled about, 
hardly knowing what to do, but with a vague idea that 
brandy- and- water administered cold might, perhaps, best 
meet the exigencies of the situation. 

After a minute or two a very strong dose of brandy seemed 
to restore Mr. Solomons to comparative tranquillity, though 
he was still undeniably very much agitated. As soon as he 
could gasp out a few broken words, however, he seized his 
young friend's hand in his own, and ejaculated in an almost 
inaudible voice : 

* It's not for myself. Sir Paul, it's not for myself I mind 
so much — though even that's terrible — ^but how can I ever 
have the courage to break it to Leo T 

* To break what, Mr. Solomons ?* Paul asked, bewildered. 
' What's the matter ? What's happened ? Sit quiet awhile, 
and then tell me shortly.' 

' I can't sit quiet,' Mr. Solomons answered, rising and 
pacing the room with a wavering step and panting lungs ; 
' I can't sit quiet when, perhaps, the thief's this very minute 
getting rid of my valuable securities. Leo always told mo 
I should be robbed; he always told me so, but I never 
listened to him. And now, poor boy, he's beggared — beg- 
gared 1' 

'Has something been stolen, then?' Paul ventured to 
suggest tentatively. 

' Something i' Mr. Solomons echoed, laying stress with 
profound emotion on that most inadequate dissyllable, ' some- 
thing : everything I Every penny on earth I've got to bless 
myself almost — except what's out ; and Leo, poor Leo, he's 
left without anything.' 

* You don't mean to say so I' Paul ^^cXa.\mftSL^ ^xyx^T^as^v 



!l 



476 THE SCALLYWAG 

and not knowing exactly how else to express his sym* 
pathy. 

* Yes,* Mr. Solomons continued, seizing the young man's 
hand once more, and wringing it in his despair ; * Paul, 
Paul — I beg pardon, Sir Paul, I mean — but this loss has 
taken me back at once to old times — my poor boy's ruined, 
irretrievably ruined. Unless we can catch the thief, that is 
to say. And I ought to be after him this minute ; I ought 
to be at Scotland Yard, giving notice to the police, and 
down in Oapel Court to warn the brokers. But I couldn't, 
I couldn't. I hadn't strength or breath left to do it. I had 
to come here first to tell you the truth, and to get you to 
go with me to interview these people. If Leo 'd been in 
town, Pd have gone straight off, of course, to Leo. But he 
started for his holiday to Switzerland on Saturday, and 
i don't know where to telegraph to him, even, for he 
hadn't decided what route he would take when I last saw 

!! him. 

* How did it happen ?' Paul asked, trying to press Mr. 
Solomons into a chair once more. * And how much has 
been stolen ?' 

* My safe's been rifled !' Mr. Solomons went on with 
exceeding vehemence, going a livid hue in the face once 
more. * It's been gutted down, every bond that was in 
it — all negotiable — bonds payable to bearer — everything 
but your own notes of hand. Sir Paul, and those the thief 
left only because he couldn't easily get rid of them in 
London.' 

' And when did all this happen ?* Paul inquired, aghast. 

*It couldn't have been earlier than Thursday last,' Mr. 
Solomons replied, still gasping for breath. * On Thursday 
Leo came down to see me and tell me about his plans for 
his holiday, and I wanted to consult him about the Central 
Southern Debentures, which they've been trying to " bear " 
so persistently of late ; so I went to my safe — I don't often 
go to that safe except on special business — and took out all 
my bonds and securities, and they were all right then. Leo 
and I both saw them and went over them ; and I said to 
Leo, " This is all yours, my boy — all yours in the end, you 
know," and now he's beggared 1 Oh, however shall I have 
the face to tell him 1' 

'But when did you find it out?' Ps^mI «*^kQd, still as 



^ 



ON THE TRACK OF THE ROBBER 277 

^wholly unsuspicious of the true state of affairs as Mr. Solo- 
mons himself, and feeling profoundly for the old man's 
distress. For it isn't a small matter, whoever you may be, 
to lose at one blow the whole savings of a lifetime. 

*This morning,' Mr. Solomons answered, wiping his 
beaded brow with his big silk pocket-handkerchief — * this 
very morning. Do you think I*d have let a night pass, 
Sir Paul, without getting on his track ? When once I'd 
discovered it, do you think I'd have let him get all that start 
for nothing ? Oh no, the rascal — the mean, thieving villain I 
If I catch him, he shall have the worst the law can give^ 
He shall have fourteen years — I wish it was life. I wish 
we had the good old hanging days back again, I do ; h^ 
should swing for it then! I should like to see him 
swinging ! To think he should try to beggar my poor dear 
Leo 1' 

And then, by various jerky and inarticulate stages, Mr. 
Solomons slowly explained to Paul the manner of the 
discovery : how he had decided after all, in view of sus- 
picious rumours afloat about the safety of a tunnel, to sell 
the Central Southern Debentures at 87 3-8ths, in spite of 
Leo ; how he had gone to the safe and tried his familiar 
combination, ' Lionel ' ; how the key had refused to answer 
to the word ; how, in his perplexity, he had called in a 
smith to force the lock open by Are and arms, which, ap- 
parently, was Mr. Solomons' own perversion of vi et armis, 
and how at last, when he succeeded, he found the pigeon- 
holes bare, and nothing left but Paul's own notes of hand for 
money lent and interest. * So, unless I find him, Sir Paul,' 
the old man cried piteously, wringing his hands in despair 
and growing bluer and bluer in the face than ever, *I shall 
have nothing left but what little's out and what you can 
pay me off ; and I don't want to be a burden to you — ^I don't 
want to be a burden.' 

< We must go down to Scotland Yard at once and hunt 
up the thief,' Paul replied resolutely ; * and we must go and 
stop the bonds before another hour's over.* 

< But he may have sold them already,' Mr. Solomons 
cried with a despondent face. * They were there on Thurs- 
day, I know, but how soon after that he carried them off, 
I haven't the very slightest notion. They were all nego-. 
tiable — every one negotiable ; and he ixk»»^ .W^^ ^<^*^s.^ 



278 THE SCALLYWAG 

off with the money or the bonds by this time io Berlin or 
Vienna/ 

' You suspect nobody T Paul asked, drawing on his boots 
to go down to Scotland Yard. 

* I've nobody to suspect/ Mr. Solomons answered with a 
profound sigh. < Except Leo and myself, nobody ever had 
access to or went near that safe. Nobody knew the com- 
bination to open it. But whoever did it/ and here Mr. 
Solomons' lips grew positively black and his cheek darkened, 
* he had the impudence to set the combination wrong, and 
the word he set it to was " Idiot/' if you'll believe it. He 
not only robbed me, but he insulted me as well. He took 
the trouble to lock the door of the safe to the deliberately 
insolent word " Idiot." ' 

* That's very curious/ Paul said. * He must have had 
time to waste if he could think of doing that. A midnight 
thief would have snatched the bonds and left the safe 
open.* 

* No,' Mr. Solomons answered with decision and with 
prompt business insight, * he wouldn't have done that ; for 
then I'd have known I'd been robbed at once, and I'd have 
come up to town by the very next train and prevented his 
negotiating. The man that took them would want to sell 
them. It all depends upon whether he's had time for 
managing that. They're securities to bearer that can pacs 
from hand to hand like a fi'pun note. If he took them 
Friday, he'd Saturday and Monday. If he took them 
Saturday, he'd Monday and that's all. But, then, we can't 
tell where he's been likely to sell then. Some of 'em he 
could sell in Paris or in Liverpool as easy as in London ; 
and from Liverpool he could clear out at once to America.' 

They went down the stairs even as he spoke to Mr. Solo* 
mons' hansom, which was waiting at the door. 

* It's strange you can't think of any likely person to have 
done it,' Paul said as they got into it. 

* Ah, if Leo were in town,' Mr. Solomons exclaimed, with 
much dejection, * he'd soon hunt 'em up I Leo's so smart. 
He'd spot the thief like one o'clock. But he's gone on his 
holiday, and I can't tell where to find him. Sir Paul, I 
wouldn't mind so much if it was only for myself, but how 
can I ever tell Leo ? How can I break it to Leo ?' 

And Paul, reflecting silently to himself, was forced to 




ON THE TRACK OF THE ROBBER 179 

admit that the revelation would doubtless put a severe strain 
upon Mr. Lionel Solomons' family affection. 

At Scotland Yard they met with immediate and respect- 
ful attention — an attention due in part, perhaps, to the 
magnitude of the loss, for bonds to a very considerable 
amount were in question, but largely also, no doubt, to that 
unobtrusive visiting-card, which announced the younger 
and more retiring of the two complainants as * Sir Paul 
Gascoyne, Bart.* The law, to be sure, as we all know, is 
no respecter of persons ; but hardly anyone would ever 
find that out in modem England from the way it is ad- 
ministered. 

Before the end of the afternoon they had gone with a de- 
tective round Capel Court and the stockbroking quarter gener- 
ally, and had succeeded in discovering in a single unimportant 
case what disposition had been made of one of the missing 
securities. By a miracle of skill, the detective had slowly 
tracked down a small bond for £200 to a dark young man, 
close-shaven and muffled, with long lank hair too light for. 
his complexion, who seemed thoroughly well up in the ways 
of the City, and who gave his name as John Howard Lewis. 
Mr. Lewis had so evidently understood his business, and 
had offered his bond for sale with such thorough frankness 
and openness, that nobody at the broker's had for a moment 
dreamt of suspecting or questioning him. He had preferred 
to be paid by cheque to bearer — wanting, as he said, the 
money for an immediate purpose ; and this cheque was 
duly returned as cashed the same day at the London Joint 
Stock Bank in Prince's Street by Mr. Lewis in person. It 
hadn't passed through anybody's account, and payment had 
been taken in Bank of England tens and twenties, the 
numbers of which were of course duly noted. As a matter 
of fact, however, this latter precaution was of very little use, 
for every one of the notes had been changed later in the 
day (though Mr. Solomons didn't find that fact out till 
somewhat after) into Bank of France notes and American 
greenbacks, which were converted back still more recently 
into English currency, so that almost all trace of the thief 
in this way was lost. Mr, Solomons had no clue by which 
he could find him. 

* The oddest part of it all,' Mr. Solomons remarked to the 
detective as they trj^velled back by Metto^o\i^wi\»^^'^^'t'^^ 



Scotland Yard, ' is that this bond was o£Eered for sale o« 
Friday morning.' 

' It was/ the detective answered with cauiioas reserve. 
' Well, then, what of that, sir ? 

* Why, then,' Mr. Solomons went on, profonndly puzzled, 
' the lot must have been stolen on Thursday night, for my 
nephew and I saw them all quite safe in their place on 
Thursday.* 

'They must,' the detective answered with dry acqui- 
escence. He was forming his conclusions. 

Mr. Solomons moaned and clasped his hands hard be- 
tween his knees. 

' If we catch the rogue,' he murmured, ' he'll Iiave four- 
teen years for it.' 

' Undoubtedly,' the detective answered, and ruminated to 
himself ; a clue was working in his professional brain. The 
bonds had been abstracted between Mr. lioners yisit on 
Thursday afternoon and Friday morning. That narrowed 
the inquiry to very restricted limits indeed : so Sherrurdf 
the detectivCi observed to himself inwardly. 




HUNTED DOWN 



CHAPTER XXXIS. 



HUNTBD DOWN. 



■ HAT night 

1 Mr. Soio- 

I monB slept 

at Paul's 

>' lodgingB. 

About 
I in the mom- 
j, before either ol 
, tbem was up, the 
detective came onGe 
more, all radiant in 
the face, with impor- 
tant tidings. Ha 
I asked to see Sir Paul 
Gascoyne. As soon 
aa Sir Paul came out 
into the little stndy 
and sitting-room to 
meet him, Mr. Shei- 
rard jerked hU bead 
mysteriously towards 
the door of Mr, Solo- 
mons' bedroom, and 
observed in a voice full of confidential reserve : 
' I didn't want too much to npset the old gentleman.* 
' Have you got a clue ?' Paul asked, vrith profoon^ 

] mysteribtu 
oir : 

' Yes, we've got a cine — a clue that I think will Borprisa 
him a httle. But we'll have to travel down to Cornwall, 
him and me, as quick as we oon travel, before we can bo 
sure of it.' 

' To Cornwall I' Paul repeated, astonished. ' Yoa don'V 
mean to say the thief's gone down to ComwaJl, of all placea 
in England ?' 

For Nea lived in Cornwall, and h&llo^eA. iJfc \s^ 'wat 




And the detective answered with the t 



283 THE SCALLYWAG 

presence. To think that a man who stole bonds and seiip 
should have the face to take them to the county thus sancti- 
fied by Nea I 

* Well, no,' the detective answered, pointing with his 
thumb and his head once more in a most significant fashion 
towards the room where Mr. Solomons was still in uncoo- 
soious enjoyment of his first slumber for the night ; for he 
had lain awake, tossing and turning, full of his loss, till five 
in the morning. ' He ain't exactly gone there ; but we've 
got to go there ourselves to follow him. The fact of it is, 
Tve come upon a trace. We were working all evening at it 
— our men from the Yard, for we thought, from his taking 
it all in a cheque to bearer, he was likely to clear out as fast 
as he could clear : and we've tried to find where he was 
likely to clear out for.' 

'And what have you discovered?' Paul asked breathless. 

* Well, we tracked our man from the brokers', you see, to 
a money-changer's in the Strand,' the detective responded, 
still very confidentially. ' It was lucky the old gentleman 
got wind of it all so soon, or we mightn't have been able to 
track him so easily. After a month or two, of course, the 
scent mightn't lie. But being as it was only last Friday it 
happened, the track was pretty fresh. And we found out, 
at the changer's, he'd offered two hundred pounds in Bank 
of England twenties for French notes of a thousand francs. 
That was all right and straightforward, to be sure. But 
here's where the funny part of the thing comes in. From 
the changer's in the Strand, he went straight down to 
Charing Cross Station, and at the little office thereby, where 
the cabs drive out, he changed back the French thousands, 
d'ye see, for Bank of England tens again.' 

And the detective closed his left eye slowly and re- 
flectively. 

* Just to confuse the track, I suppose,' Paul put in, by 
way of eliciting further communication. 

♦ * That's it, sir,' the detective went on. * You're on it like 
a bird. He wanted to get a hold of notes that couldn't be 
tracked. But all the same, we've tracked 'em. It was 
sharp work to do it, all in one night, but still we tracked 
fem. We'd got to do it at once, for fear the fellow should 
get clean away ; so it put us on our mettle. Well, we've 
tracked 'em at last. We find eight of them notes, balanoo 




HUNTED DOWN 183 

of passages-money, was paid in on Monday at the Boyal 
Steam Company^ offices in the City.' 

' You don't mean to say so 1' Paul exclaimed, much 
interested. * By whom, and to where, then ?' 

' By a dark young gentleman, same height and build as 
Mr. John Howard Lewis, and about the same description 
as to face and features, but blacker in the hair, and curlier, 
by what they tell us. And this gentleman had a moustache 
when he took the tickets first on Tuesday week ; bat the 
moustache was shaved off when he paid the balance of the 
passage-money on Monday. It was twelve at night when 
we hunted up the clerk who arranged the passage, at his 
lodgings at Glapham ; but he remembered it distinctly, be- 
cause at first he didn't recognise the gentleman owing to the 
change in his personal appearance; and then, later, he recol- 
lected it was the same face, but close-shaven since he called 
first time about the berth ; so that pretty well fixes it.' 

' But he paid eighty pounds,' Paul said, unsuspecting even 
so, ' if he got rid of eight of them. Where on earth was he 
going to with a passage money like that, then T 

* Well, it wasn't all for himself,' the detective answered 
dryly, still eyeing him closely. *It generally ain't. We 
count upon that, almost. There's mostly a woman at the 
bottom of all these 'ere embezzlement or robbery cases. 
The gentleman gave the name of Burton, instead of Lewis, 
at the Eoyskl Mail Company's offices, and he took two berths 
for himself and Mrs. Percy Maybank Burton. When a 
gentleman's got two names at once there's usually some- 
thing or other to inquire into about him. Often enough he's 
got a third, too. Anyhow, the eighty pounds he paid was 
for balance of passage-money for himself and lady.' 

' Where to ?' Paul asked once more. 

* To Buenos Ayres,' the detective answered with pardon- 
able pride. ' And I thought I'd better tell you first, so as 
not to make it too great a shock, don't yon see, for the poor 
old gentleman.' 

« Too great a shock I' Paul repeated, bewildered. 

* Well, yes. He mightn't like it, you know. It might 
sort of upset him.' 

* To Imow you've got a clue I' Paul exclaimed, much 
puzzled. 

'Well, not exactly that,' the deteotm ^iTl'&^^'c^^^'b^^ 



284 THE SCALLYWAG 

at him with a sort of gentle and pit^ng wonder. 'Bath' 
hear — that the person has gone off with a lady.' 

' I don't quite see why,* Paul replied vaguely. 

The detective seemed amused. 

* Oh, well, if you don't see it, perhaps he won't see it 
either,' he went on, smiling. ' Of course^ it ain't no bnsioea 
of mine to object I'm a public officer, and I've only got to 
do my duty. I'm going down to Cornwall to try and aiiest 
my man, but I thought, perhaps, you or the old gentlemtt 
might Uke to come down and help me to identify him.' 

* To identify him I' Paid echoed. 

' Well, to secure him, anyhow,' the detective answeie} 
cautiously. 'You see, I've got out a warrant for his 
apprehension, of course — ^in different aliases ; and we ma; 
as well have all the information we can, so as to make quite 
sure beforehand of our capture. But we mast go by the 
9.40 from Paddington, anyhow.* 

' * Where to ?* Paul inquired, more mystified than ever. 
' * To Kedruth and Helston,' the detective replied, coming 
down to business. ' From there we'll have to post to the 
Lizard, and try to intercept him.' 

' Oh, I see,' Paul said, * you want to stop the steamer?' 

The detective nodded. 

' That's it,' he assented. ' He's aboard the Dom Pedro, 
from Southampton for Brazil and Argentine ports. She 
don't call for mails, unfortunately, at Falmouth ; but she 
may be caught off the Lizard still, if we make haste to stop 
her. If not, we shall telegraph on to Eio and Buenos Ayres, 
and an officer '11 go out by Lisbon, on the offchance to catch 
him under Extradition Treaty.* 

' You settled all that to-night ?' Paul asked, amazed at 
this promptitude. 

' Yes ; we settled all that in the small hours of the morn- 
ing. It's a big affair, you see, and that put us on our mettle, 
and I've come to know if either of you want to go down to 
the Lizard along of me.' 

* For whom is the warrant ?' 
The detective looked hard at him. 

* For Percy May bank Burton,' he answered with one eye 
closed. < You see, that's the only certain name we've got to 
go upon, though there's an alias to the warrant — alias John 
Howard Lewis and others. He gave his name as Burton 



HUNTED DOWN 185 

to the company, of course, and he's Burton aboard. We 
didn't get none for the apprehension of the woman. She 
ain't identified yet ; but if the young chap comes off, of 
course she'll follow him.' 

* Of course,' Paul answered, without much knowing why. 
For he had no reason on earth for connecting Madame 
Ceriolo directly or indirectly with the unknown criminal. 
If he had, perhaps he might have spoken with less of 
certainty. 

* What's up?* Mr. Solomons called out' from the passage, 
putting his head out of the door at sound of the detecbive's 
voice. 

The officer, in carefully guarded terms, explained to him 
in full the existing state of affairs. 

Mr. Solomons didn't take long in making up his mind. 

* I'll go r he said briefly. ' I'll catch the scoundrel if it's 
the last thing in this world I ever do. The rascal, to try 
to rob Leo and me like that ! He shall have fourteen 
years for it, if there's law in England. Hard labour, penal 
servitude. Only I ain't fit to go down there alone. If I 
catch him it'll make me so angry to see him, I shall have a bad 
turn with my heart ; I know I shall, to a certainty. But 
no matter. 111 go. I only wish Leo was in England to go 
with me.' 

' Well, he ain't,' Mr. Sherrard answered in the same short 
sharp tone in which he had answered before ; * so, if you 
mean to come, you must make up your mind to come as you 
are and get ready instanter.' 

But if Mr. Solomons had ' come as he was ' the authorities 
of the Great Western Bailway would have been somewhat 
surprised at the apparition of a gentleman at Paddington 
Station in slippers and nightshirt. 

Paul considered a moment and looked at the old man. 
Mr. Solomons was undoubtedly a hale and hearty person in 
most respects ; but his heart was distinctly unfit for the sort 
of strain that was now being put upon it. Paul had, 
noticed the day before how the arteries in his forehead had 
bounded with excitement, and then how the veins had 
swelled with congested blood, as the fit passed over. If he 
went down to the Lizard alone with the detective and put 
himself into a fume trying to catch the robber of his bonds, 
Paul hardly liked to answer for the possible con^e.o^<^\:L'^'^. 



3B6 THE SCALLYWAG 

And Bttange as it may boqdcI to say so, the yoang mao lul 
R cuiiooB half-filial Bentimeiit luikiag BomewheFe in hii 
heart towards the old Hillborongh money-lender. He bii 
never ceased to feel that it was Mr. SolomouB who had 
made him what he was. If it hadn't been for Mr. Solomons, 
he might still have been lounging about a stable in EiU- 
borough, instead of writing racy and EbUusire middles for ths 
Monday Bemembrancer. He nesitated for on instant to 
press himself upon his old friend— the third-class fare to 
Cornwall and back mounts np, I can tell you — bat in tho 
end his good-nature and gratitude conqnered. ' If you can 
for my company, I'll gladly go with yon, Mr. Solomons,' ho 
Bu^ested timidly. 

Mr. Solomons wrmig his young friend's hand with afEee- 
tionate regard, 

' That's very kind of you, Sir Paul,' he awd ; ' that's veiy, 
very kind of you. I appreciate it, that a gentJeman in you 
position — yes, yea, I know my place,' for Paul had made % 
little deprecatory gesture — ' should be bo good as to des^ 
his own work and go with me. But if you go, yoa most let 
me pay all expenses, for this is my business ; and if XjOO had 
been in England, Leo 'd have run down with me.' 

' Well, make haste,' the detective said dryly. He had ft 
singularly reticent manner, that detective. ' Toa've no 
time to lose, gentlemen. Get your things together, and put 
'em into a hansom, and we'll drive off at once to Faddingtoa 
together.' 

CHAPTEE XL. 

'CORNWALL TO WIT.' 

?]LL the way down to Bedruth and Helston, 
V Paul noticed vaguely that both his fellow- 
L^ travellers were silent and preoccupied. Mr. 
Solomons, when he spoke at all, spoke for 
the most part of Lionel, and of this wicked 
attempt to deprive him of his patrimon;^. 
More than once he took a large folded paper out of hia 

fiocket, of very legal aspect, bearing on its face, in moat 
awyer-like writing, the engrossed legend — ' Will of Jodah 
P. Solomons, Gentleman.' This interesting document he 




• eORN WA LL TO WIT • 287 

opened, and showed in part to Paul. It was a cheerful and 
rather lengthy performance of its own kind, marked by the 
usual legal contempt for literary style, and the common 
legal love for most pleonastic redundancy ; everything was 
described in it under at least three alternative nouns, as ' all 
that house, messuage, or tenement'; and everybody was 
mentioned by every one of his names, titles, and places of 
residence, whenever he was referred to, with no stops to 
speak of, but with a graceful sprinkliug of that precious 
word * aforesaid ' as a substitutc^in full for all punctuation. 
Nevertheless, it set forth in sufficiently succinct terms that 
the testator, being then of sound state of mind and in 
possession of all his intellectual faculties as fully as at any 
period of life, did give and devise to his nephew, Lionel 
Solomons, gentleman, the whole of his estate, real or per- 
sonal, in certain specified ways and manners and for his own 
sole use and benefit. The will further provided that, in 
case the said Lionel Solomons, gentleman, should pre- 
decease the testator, then and in that case testator gave and 
devised all his estate aforesaid, real or personal, in trust to 
the Jewish Board of Guardians of London, to be by them 
applied to such ends and purposes, in connection with the 
welfare of the Hebrew population of the Metropolitan Postal 
District, as might to them seem good in the exercise of their 
wise and sole discretion. 

*It was every penny Leo's, you see,' Mr. Solomons 
repeated many times over with profound emotion — * every 
penny Leo's. All my life's savings were made for Leo. 
And to think that rascal should have tried to deprive him 
of it 1 Fourteen years he shall have, if there's law in 
England, Sir Paul. Fourteen years, with hard labour too, 
if there's law in England,' 

As for Sherrard the detective — that moody man — he 
smiled grimly to himself every time Mr. Solomons made 
these testamentary confidences to his young friend; and 
once he ventured to remark, with a faintly significant air, 
that that would be a confounded fine haul of its sort for the 
Jewish Board of Guardians, if ever they came in for it. 

'But they won't,' Mr. Solomons answered warmly. 
* TheyUl never come in for it. I've only put it there out of 
a constitutional habit of providing beforehand for any con- 
tingency. My heart ain't what it used to be. ^t^^ ^x^^^^^o. 



288 THE SCALLYWAG' 

shock now 'd bring it up short, like a horse against a hedge 
he can't take. I just added that reminder to the Board of 
Guardians to show I never turned my back upon my own 
people. I'm not one of those Jews afraid and ashamed to 
be known for Jews. A Christian I may be ; a man can't be 
blamed for changing his religious convictions — on sufficient 
grounds — but a Hebrew I was born and a Hebrew 111 
remain to the end of the chapter. I won't ever turn my 
back upon my own kith and kindred.' 

< There's some as does/ the detective remarked enigmati- 
cally, and relapsed once more into the corner cushion. 

It's a long way from Paddington to Helston ; but the 
weariest day comes to an end at last ; and in time they 
reached the distant Cornish borough. It was late at night 
when they disembarked on the platform, but no time was to 
be lost ; if they wanted to stop the Dom Pedro as she passed 
the Lizard Light, they must drive across at once to the end 
of the promontory, to arrange signals. So they chartered a 
carriage without delay at Helston Station, and set out 
forthwith on their journey across the long, dark moor in 
solemn silence. They were in no mood for talking, indeed 
The day in the train had tired them all, and now they must 
snatch what sleep they might, against to-morrow's work, in 
the jolting carriage. 

The drive across the tableland of the Lizard is always, 
even by day, a wild and lonely one ; but on this particular 
night it was wilder, lonelier and darker than ever. Moro 
than once the driver pulled up his horses in the middle of 
the road, to consider his way, and more than once he got 
down and walked some yards ahead to see whether by any 
chance he had missed some familiar landmark. On each 
such occasion Mr. Solomons' fretfulness and anxiety visibly 
increased. At last he could stand these frequent interrup- 
tions to the continuity of the journey no longer. He put 
his head out of the window and expostulated warmly. 

* What are you waiting like this for, man?' he cried in an 
angry tone. * Don't you know your way? I declare it's too 
bad. If you couldn't find the road from Helston to the 
Lizard you oughtn't to have taken us. There's thousands 
at stake — thousands of pounds' worth of bonds that rogue 
has stolen ; and if we're not at the Lizard in time to catch 
him, he may get clean off with them to South America.' 



• CORN WA LL TO WtT * ^9 

The man looked back at his fare with a half-contemptuous 
glance. 

* That's the way of all you London people,' he answered 
gruflfly with the stolid Cornish moroseness. ' Always a- 
f ault-finding. -^ And yet there's fog enough, they tells me, too, 
in London 1* 

' Fog 1' Mr. Solomons ejaculated, catching hastily at his 
meaning with the quickened perception that comes at any 
great critical moment of life. 

* Ay, fog,* the man answered. * Lizard fog, they calls it. 
Fog that thick you can't hardly see your hand before you. 
It's bad enough driving over Helston Moor dark nights any 
time ; but with fog like this it's a toss up if ever we get at 
all to Lizard Town. 

Mr. Solomons gazed out blankly into the black night. 
He saw it at a glance. It was all too true. A finger-post 
stood by the roadside opposite, but even with the light from 
the carriage-lamp falling full upon it, he could hardly make 
out its shape, far less its lettering, through the dim, misty 
shroud that intervened between him and the roadside. 
He flung himself back on the cushions with a groan of 
despair. 

' If we go on at this snail's pace,* he cried in the bitter- 
ness of his heart, * we shall never reach there in time to stop 
her. That thief '11 get off clear with the bonds to South 
America, and Leo '11 be ruined 1' 

The driver laughed again in the old man's face — the hard, 
dry, sardonic Cornish laugh. 

* That's the way of you London people,* he repeated oncQ 
more, with the critical frankness and openness of his race. 
* Thinks you knows everything, and ain't got no common: 
gumption about anything anyhow 1 Why, who supposes 
the steamer can get past the Lizard in a fog like this, when 
we can't so much as find our way on the open road across 
the moor by dry land from Helston. What delays us 'li 
delay her. She'll anchor till morning, and wait for it to 
clear, that's what she'll do, unless she bears away out to sea 
southward. She couldn't get past the lighthouse in this 
sort of weather, could she ?' 

' No — couldn't she, though ?* Mr. Solomons cried, appeased 
and relieved, * You think she'll wait till the fog Ufts in th^ 
morning?' ^ , • - ^ - - 



290 THE SCALLYWAG 

' She's bound to/ the driver answered confidently, ' if 
she don't want to go to nieces on Cadgwith Cliffs, or on the 
rocks over yonder by^^e church at St. Euan's. There's 
many of 'em as has gone to pieces in a fog nigh Cadgwith, I 
tell you. Ay, and many a ship as has drownded them 
by the dozen, so ad the Cadgwith men has made fortunes 
time and again out of the salvage. " God's providence is my 
inheritance " — that's the motto of the Cadgwith men ever 
since the days when their fathers was wreckers.' And the 
driver laughed to himself a sullen, hard laugh, indicative of 
thorough appreciation of the grimly humorous view of Provi- 
dence embodied in the local coastwise proverb. 

A strange shudder passed through Mr. Solomons' massive 
frame. 

' Gone to pieces in a fog I' he repeated. ' You don't 
znean that I And drowned there, too I That'd be worse 
than alL He might go down with the bonds in his case 1 
And, anyhow, he'd do us out of the fourteen years' imprison- 
ment.' 

The detective glanced over at Paul with a curious look, 
whose exact meaning Paul was at a loss to determine. 

* If he drowns 1' 

' If he drowns,' the officer said, in that restrained tone he 
bad so often adopted, ' that's the hand of God. The hand 
of God, you see, cancels and overrides any magistrate's 
warrant.* 

Mr. Solomons clenched his fist hard, and looked blankly 
in front of him. 

' All the same,' he said fiercely, with long-smouldering 
indignation, ' I don't want to lose all my precious bonds, 
JELud I don't want the fellow to get off his fourteen years' 
imprisonment.' 

* Whoever he may be ?' the detective murmured tentatively. 
'Whoever he may be,* Mr. Solomons assented, with 

angry vehemence. ' I'm an honest man. I've worked hard 
for my money. Why should I and my nephew be beggared 
by anyone ?' 

They drove on still through the gloom and mist, and 

gradually felt their way b}r stumbling steps across the great 

open moor towards the point of the Lizard. As they drew 

Dearer and nearer they could hear the fog-horn at the light- 

houae blowing loudly now eoid sA {lec^uent intervalsi and bells 



* CORNWALL TO WtT* ^ 

were ringing, and strange noises along the coast resounded 
hoarsely. But all around was black as midnight ; and 
when at last they reached the Lizard Lighthouse, even the 
great electric light itself hardly traversed the gloom or shed 
a faint ray at the base of its own tall and dripping pedestal. 
Mr. Solomons bustled out, and hurriedly informed the 
coastguardsman at the preventive station of the nature of 
their errand. The coastguardsman shook his head gravely. 

* Not to-night/ he said. * This ain't no time for going to 
signal a ship to stop, no matter for what. You can put out 
a boat and try to meet her if you like ; but it ain't likely in 
such weather you'd find her. More chance to be run down 
yourself unbeknown by her and dorownded without her even 
80 much as sighting you.' 

* She hasn't gone by yet?' Mr. Solomons asked eagerly. 

' No, she ain't gone by yet,' the coastguardsman replied. 
* But she's expected every minute. She'd signal by gun or 
fog-horn, I take it. Though we ain't heard nothing of her 
so far, to be sure. Most likely she's sounded and found her- 
self in shoal water, and so she's dropped anchor and laid by 
till morning.* 

' Then the best thing for us to do/ Paul suggested, ' is to 
turn in quietly at the hotel for the night, and see whether 
we can find her early to-morrow.' 

To this plan of action, however, neither Mr. Solomons 
nor the detective would at all consent. They insisted upon 
remaining about within call of the lighthouse, on the off- 
chance of the Dom Pedro appearing from minute to minute. 
One of them felt constrained by duty, the other by animosity 
and love of money, and neither would yield one jot or 
tittle of his just pretensions. So Paul was fain to give way 
to their combined authority at last, and walk up and down 
in that damp night-fog by the edge of the cliffs that line 
round the great promontory. 

So weird or impressive a sheet of fog Paul had never 
before in his life seen. It was partly the place, partly the 
time, but partly, also, the intense tMckness of that dense 
Channel sea-mist that enthralled his fancy. He descended 
by himself slowly, with shambling steps, along the steep 
path that leads down to the water's edge at the very point 
of the Lizard. To render it more visible on dark nights^ tb^ 
coastguardsmen have whitewashed tha isitV^^XA^^'ak ^^iV^^^f'^ 



292 THE SCALLYWAG 

by the side, and piled up along the jagged pinnacles little 
heaps, or cairns, of white pebbles. But even so aided, it 
was with difi&culty that Paul could pick his way along the 
uncertain path, especially as in parts it was wet with spray 
and slimy with the evaporations of salt sea-water. There 
was little wind, as is usually the case in foggy weather, but 
the long Atlantic ground-swell nevertheless made big 
breakers on the abrupt rocks ; and the thunder of the 
waves, as they surged and burst below among the unseen 
caves and dark cliffs of the promontory, had a peculiarly 
wild and solemn sound on that black night, now just 
merging towards the first cold gray of morning. Paul was 
afraid to trust himself within sight of the waves, not know- 
ing how near it might be safe to approach ; but he sat for 
awhile, alone in the damp darkness, on the narrow ledge 
that seemed to overhang the hoarse chorus of breakers 
beneath, and listened with a certain strange poetic thrill to 
the thunderous music of the Atlantic below him. 

And ever and anon, above the noise of the waves, the dull, 
droning voice of the gigantic fog-horn broke in upon the 
current of his solemn reverie. 

It was a night to pity men at sea in. 

All at once a sudden flash to eastward, hardly descried 
through the fog, seemed to illumine for a second, in a haze 
of light, the mist around him". Next instant a boom 
sounded loud in his ears — the boom of a great gun, as if 
fired point-blank towards him. 

How near it might be, Paul could hardly guess ; but 
he was conscious at the same time of the odour of gun- 
powder strong in his nostrils, while the choking sensation 
that accompanies great closeness to a big explosion almost 
unnerved him, and rendered him giddy for a moment. He 
rose in alarm at the shock, but his feet failed him. He had 
hardly the power left to scale the rocks once m^re by the 
whitewashed path. The concussion and the foul air had 
well-nigh stupefied him. 

Nevertheless, as he mounted to the lighthouse again he 

was intuitively aware of what was happening close by. 

Vague noises and feelings seemed to press the truth on him 

as if by instinct. A great ship was in danger — in pressing 

. danger — on the rocks of the Lizard. 

She bad come across ih^ "bi^Bket^ uxia*-^^^-^ Vck^d^^njse 



A RESCUE 293 

fog, and had fired her guD for b, signal almost poiat-blank ia 
Paul's very face. Had he not by good-luck been turned the 
othei way, and with his eyes half shut dreamily, as he 
listened to the thunder of those long Atlantic waves and the 
moaning of the fog-horn, it would certainly haye blinded him. 

And now, for all Paul knew to the contrary, the big ship 
was going to pieces on the jagged rocks beneath him there. 

Then, with a second dash of intuition, it oame home to 
him more fully, as he recovered his senses from the sudden 
shock, that this was in all probability tho watched-for Dom 
Pedro —with the thief on board her. 



CHAPTER SLI. 

A EESCCE. 




through the thick mist to the lighthouse, where all was 
already bustle and confusion. The first gray light of davn 
was beginning to struggle faintly thioxi%h.^^% *~~ ^ 



294 THii SCALLYWAG 

• 

swirling wreaths of vapour grew vaguely visible in the 
direction of the cliff, whither people were feeling their way 
with outstretched arms, and much noise of preparation, 
towards the cove and the lifeboat. 

* What's the matter?* Paul asked one rough sailor-looking 
man, whom he followed towards the house where the 
lifeboat was harboured. 

'Matter?' the man answered. *Why salvage, that's 
what it is. Vessel gone ashore on Long Men Bocks. 
Steamer, most likely. Brazil packet from Southampton, 
I take it. Very good salvage.' 

It's an ill wind that blows nobody good. The descendant 
of the wreckers was thinking only of his own inheritance. 

Paul hurried on in the man's footsteps till he reached the 
shore. There, through the vague gloom, he saw Mr. 
Solomons and the detective already before him. The sailors 
were pushing out the lifeboat over the short shingle beach, 
and fishermen about were putting off small rowing-craft to 
take their share in the expected harvest of salvage. 

Before he knew exactly now it was all happening, he 
found himself seated in one of the small boats, with Mr. 
Solomons and the detective, while two sturdy fishermen 
were pushing them seaward, through that tremendous surf 
that seemed certain to swamp them with its huge curling 
breakers. 

For a minute or two the waves broke in upon them, 
drenching them through and through with showers of spray, 
and half filling the boat. Then the fishermen, finding at 
last the long-looked-for opportunity, pushed her successfully 
off on a retiring wave, and got her safe out to sea beyond 
the reach of the great curving billows. Once well afloat, 
they found the sea itself comparatively smooth, though 
heaving and tossing with a long glassy swell, whose ups 
and downs were far deeper in their way than anything that 
Paul had ever before experienced. The boatmen rowed on 
in the wake of the lifeboat, through the fog and darkness, 
towards the sound of a bell that rang with a long, irregular, 
rocking movement some hundred yards or so southward of 
them. Paul knew instinctively, somehow, that no one was 
ringing the bell. It was the rise and fall of the vessel as 
she dashed helplessly upon the rocks that made that 
vne&rthly rhythm ; she was tolling bet own knell as the 






A RESCUE 295. 

breakers broke her upon the jagged and water-worn 
pinnacles of the Lizard. 

As they approached nearer, little more was visible. It 
added to the weird horror and awe of the tragedy, indeed, 
that nothing could be seen of it. They only knew by 
inference that a great ship was being foundered and ground 
to pieces by some invisible force within a few yards of 
them. 

But the breakers themselves and the rocks were faintly 
in evidence. Paul could make out through the gloom some 
sunken stacks of serpentine, round whose crest the big 
waves made vast curling swoops, and boiled and roared in 
hideous whirling eddies. The ship had struck from the 
opposite side, and the boatmen refused to row any nearer ; 
indeed, even where they now held her off, pressing with all 
their might on the bending oars, the danger of grounding 
was very considerable. No boat could possibly live in that 
wild surf upon those broken granite points. If once a wave 
should catch them on its summit and carry them on to the 
rocks, all would be up; no human aid could ever avail 
to save them. 

And then, as they held off there, keeping carefully to the 
trough of the waves, and listening to the cries and shouts 
that came over to them through the fog, and hearing the 
dull grating of the hull as it scraped along the rock with 
each lifting billow, a louder voice than any rose distinct 
across the waves — the voice of a ship's officer calling out in 
wild tones of horror, ' She's parting amidships.' 

And so she was I Next moment they saw upon the 
breakers close by great fragments of wreck and bits of 
floating board. There could be ho doubt the voice had cried 
out what was true. A loud snap rent the air ; a crash of 
breaking, the shrieks and screams redoubled in intensity, 
and the boatmen holding the boat away, out of reach of the 
wash, called out aloud, ' She's gone to pieces that time. I* 
heard her crack. Bow round the other way, Jim, and help 
pick up the passengers.' 

* Are they drowning?' Mr. Solomons cried, with a face of 
terrible relentlessness. 

' They're drowning, no doubt,' the man answered, with 
the stolid matter-of-fact air of the hardened seaman. ' Thsi^ 
can't many of .'em live in such 8b SQ& %a XJcc^Vi*"^*. I^xs^i'i^qssi^ 



296 THE SCALLYWAG 

olse they wouldn't come to much hurt this calm weather— ( 
leastways, if they could swim; but the breakers on the 
Long Men Bocks is always terrible. Why, that's where the 
East Indiaman went to pieces twelve years ago come 
Christmas, don't you mind, Jimmy ?' 

* I hope he won't drown,' Mr. Solomons cried savagely, 
' and balk me of justice I I hope he won't die till I've had 
my fourteen years out of him 1' 

The men were rowing their hardest now, and, as Paul 
could judge by the sounds growing gradually fainter, away 
from the wreck and the reef of rocks, so as to turn their 
flank sideways and come in upon them from the open. For 
nearly ten minutes they rowed on in silence as hard as arms 
and legs could row, Mr. Solomons sitting grim and unmoved 
in the stem, while the detective eyed him ever with a 
strange suspicious side-glance. At the end of that time, the 
fog lifted a little, a very little, and Paul saw they were 
skirting the long ridge of rocks, marked some twenty yards 
off by their white line of breakers. | 

Presently they saw other boats about — boats whose, 
occupants were engaged in peering into the water in search 
of black objects bobbing up and down in it, which they 
lunged at with boat-hooks. And then, with sudden realiza- 
tion of the whole horror of the thing, Paul recognised with 
a start that these were human bodies. 

In another minute there loomed dimly ahead some dozen 
yards or so off a great dark mass, moving wildly about 
among the white sheets of foam ; and Paul saw with another 
terrible shock of awe that it was half the broken hull of a 
huge ocean-going steamer. She had parted amidships, and 
one half had sunk already in the deeper water. The other 
half, yet dashing wildly on the rocks, hung together still 
upon the reef in front of them. 

At the same moment a small black body went floating 
past, like the others they had seen the neighbouring boat-* 
men lunge at. As it passed them it rose spasmodically to 
the surface, and two arms were flung up wildly into the air. 
Through the gray haze of morning Paul could recognise 
them at once as a woman's arms — a woman's arms plump 
and smooth and white-skinned. 

He jumped up, and, seizing a loose oar in his hands, held 
it hastily out towards the despairing creature. But even as 



A RESCUE 297 

he did so, the long swell carried her away from his sight into 
the deep mist beyond, where she disappeared, shrieking. 
They rowed with all speed towards the spot where she had 
disappeared, and there once more came in sight of the 
woman. By this time another boat had found her, and was 
pulUng her in. With frantic struggles for life she clutched 
the gunwale, and climbed over, with the aid of the men's 
arms, on to the boat's seat. Then she turned round, with 
her wet dressing-gown dripping around her, and in a shrill 
voice of horror she cried out to the sailor, * Go ashore, go 
ashore 1 I shall perish of cold here V 

For a second the voice rang with curious familiarity in 
Paul's ear, but he failed at first to recognise the pale and 
draggled creature round whose shoulders one of the fisher- 
men was wrapping, with much care, his own rough pilot- 
coat. Next instant, with a sudden burst of recollection, the 
voice came back to him in all its well-known sharpness. 

' Why, it's Madame Ceriolo 1* he cried, unable to restrain 
his surprise and wonder. 

Madame turned round quick as lightning at the sound 
of her own name and the unexpected recognition. She 
remembered at once both voice and face. She gave a little 
start. 

* What ! Mr. Gascoyne V she cried, forgetting for the 
moment Paul's new-made dignity. Then suddenly her eyes 
fell on Mr. Solomons' stern and inflexible figure sitting bolt 
upright on the seat behind. She knew that face at once, 
though she had never seen it before. It answered exactly 
to the photograph Mr. Lionel had shown her of his un- 
conscionable uncle. She read the whole history of the 
pursuit at a glance. It was old Cento-Cento, come after his 
dollars. 

In the twinkling of an eye she had made up her mind how 
to behave under the circumstances. Dupe, not accomplice, 
was now her winning card. Still shivering with cold and 
half dead with terror, she yet stretched out her arms towards 
the grim old man, who sat there immovable, taking hardly 
any notice of the drowning people, and called out in a voice 
full of earnest gratitude : 

* Why, it's him, to be sure I It's Leo's uncle ! He's come 
out with a boat to save me and Leo.' 

Like a flash of lightning Paul leaS. tti^a ^\is^^ \5rQScu 



29S THE SCALLYWAG 

was Lionel, then, who had stolen the bonds from the safe I 
It was Lionel who was running away on board the Dom 
Pedro ! He glanced at the detective, and caught his eye 
inquiringly. The detective nodded, with that strange smile 
once more. Instinctively the full horror of the situation 
dawned at once upon his mind. Mr. Solomons was hunting 
down to the very death his own cherished nephew. And 
the detective was there to arrest Mr. Lionel 

He looked at the old usurer in a perfect paroxysm of pity. 
How on earth would he bear up against this bunding and 
staggering disillusionment ? But a moment's glance showed 
him that Mr. Solomons hadn't even yet grasped the real 
situation. He had merely leaned forward eagerly at the 
sound of his nephew's name, and repeated in a startled and 
puzzled, but by no means horrified tone : 

* Yes, I'm Leo's uncle. Tell me, what do you know or 
mean about Leo ?' 

Madame Ceriolo hardly felt sure on the spur of the 
moment what to answer. It would suit her book better 
now, all things considered, that Mr. Lionel should go down, 
with his possibly incriminating evidence on his soul, and 
that she should be able to pose as one more victim of his 
selfish criminality. But the position was too strong for her. 
She felt she must at all risks keep up appearances. So she 
wrapped the pilot-coat around her tightly with a shudder of 
alarm (it was immensely easy to get up a shudder in that 
cold morning air, and with her thin clothes dripping), and 
cried out in wild tones of impassioned agony : 

' Yes, Leo's on board. Leo, my Leo 1 On the rocks there 
ahead. Oh, save him, save him 1' 

' Leo on board 1' Mr. Solomons answered, clapping his 
hand to his forehead and letting his jaw drop slowly with a 
stare of astonishment. His look was dazed and bewildered 
now. * Leo on board 1' he repeated, with a terrible wave of 
doubt passing over his face. Then his mouth closed up 
again. * No, no !' he went on fixedly. * Leo couldn't be on 
board. It's a lie I It's a lie I He's gone to Switzerland.' 

Madame Ceriolo gazed at him — a childlike and trustful 
woman. 

< Not to Switzerland,' she said, for she felt certain now 
that all must come out ; ' he'd taken bis ticket at the last 
moment for Buenos Ayres.' 



A RESCUE S99 

At the word, Mr. Solomons jumpect tip u the boat with 
Buch energy that he almost sent it off its balancQ. 

' For Buenos Ayres 1' he cried. ' You don't say that t 
Well done, well done — well done indeed, Leo ! He's the 
very smartest chap in all London, that boy ! Don't yoa 
see it, Sir Paul ? Don't you see hie game ? He'd tracked 
the bonds before us, and was on the trail of the robber 1' 

' At any rate,' Paul cried, looking towards the detectiTO 
for support, ' our first business now must be to go oat and 
save him.' 

Mr. Solomons stood still in the boat and waved wildly 
forward with his outstretched hand. 

' To the wreck t To the wreck 1' he shouted aloud, above 
the noise of the breakers. ' I see him I I see him 1' 

And, in truth, Paul, turning round towards the hull that 
still crashed and ground upon thb great granite millstones, 
saw a frantic figure, clasping the shattered taf&ail with one 
clenched band, and waving wildly toward the boats for 
assistance with the other. The white swirls of fog were 
growing thinner now, and through the gap they niade he 
could plainly perceive that the figure was beckoning them 
with a japanned ,tin despatch-box of the sort in which 
bankers keep their cUents' documents. 
- ' ^eteozilii go down to fetch them I' Madame Cetiolo cried 
apologetically from the neighbouring boat. ' We were all 
on deck and might have been saved together, but he v)ould 
go down to his cabin to fetch them,' 

Mr. Solomons gazed back at her with contemptuotu [sty. 



CHAPTER XLIL 

THE THIEF IB ABBE8TBD. 

ijHiiY were rowing ahead now with all their 
thews and muscles, and the breakers, those 
treacherous, terrible, faithless breakers, were 
carrying them forward with huge lunges 
towards the broken hull as fast as they 
could carry them. The great danger lay in 
the chance of being dashed against the broadside, e.<a^ 
erushod to pieces between the wm^a B<n^ ^« -vts^s- ^^^s<a 




300 THE SCALLYWAG 

one hope of safety lay in being able to bring the boat within 
leaping distance or rope-catch for the man on the hull, with* 
out going quite so near as to be actually hurled against her 
side in the effort. 

Lionel Solomons stood on the broken deck, frantic with 
fear, but still clutching the taffrail. A craven terror had 
whitened his pasty face to deadly whiteness. He clung 
with one hand to his doubtful support, as the waves washed 
over and over the shattered hull, and ground its spars to 
pieces on the stacks of rock behind him. Each moment he 
disappeared from sight beneath a cataract of spray, then 
reappeared once more as the wave sank back inefifectuaL' 
The whole hull swayed and pounded upon the clattering 
rocks. But Lionel Solomons still clung on, with the wild 
tenacious grip of his race, to that last chance of safety. He 
held the despatch-box as firmly in one hand as he held the 
ta£&ail with the other. He was clutching to the last at his 
life and his money. 

Mr. Solomons, who had been the first to see him, was 
also the one to keep him clearest in view, and he urged the 
fishermen forward through those boisterous waves with his 
outstretched forefinger turned ever towards the wretched 
fugitive. 

* My nephew I' he cried out to them. * There he is ! 
That's he I My nephew I My nephew I A hundred pounds 
apiece to you, men, if you save my nephew I' 

Paul could make him out through the mist quite distinctly 
now, and he half unconsciously observed, even in that 
moment of peril and intense excitement, that the reason 
why he had failed to recognise Lionel earlier was because 
the miserable man had shaved his upper lip, and otherwise 
superficially disguised his hair and features. 

* Yes, it's Leo, it's Leo I' Mr. Solomons cried, convulsively 
clasping his hands. ' He tracked the fellow down, and 
followed him out to sea— at his own peril I Fourteen years I 
Why, the man ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered 1' 

* We'll never make this arrest,' the detective murmured, 
half aside to Paul. * Hold her off there, you fishermen ; we 
shall all be dashed to pieces. We shall drown ourselves if 
we go near enough to save him.' 

* Now then, nearer, nearer 1' Mr. Solomons cried, mad 
with suspense and agony, and blue in the face with the 



i 



THE THIEF IS ARRESTED 301 

horror of tho crisis. * Let her go with the wave ! Let him 
jump, let him jump there ! Hold her off with your oars, 
men ; don't be afraid ! A hundred pounds apiece, I tell 
you, if you save my nephew !' 

As he spoke, the boatmen, taking advantage of the under- 
tow as it rolled off the hull and the reef, put the boat as 
close in as safety would permit to the riddled broadside, and 
held up a coil of rope in act to fling it to the terrified 
fugitive. Lionel still gripped the ill-omened despatch-box. 
* Fling it away, man ; fling it away !' the sailor called out 
impatiently. * Catch at the rope for dear life as I throw 
the coil at 'ee 1' 

Lionel Solomons gazed one instant at the box — the 
precious box for whose contents he had risked, and was 
losing, everything. It went against the grain with him, 
white and palsied coward that he was that moment, to 
relinquish his hold of it even for one passing interval. But 
life was at stake, dear life itself, to which he clung in his 
craven dread, even more, if possible, than to his ill-gotten 
money. Lunging forward as the wave brought the great 
hull back again nearest to the boat, he flung the case with 
desperate aim into the stern, where it fell clattering at Mr, 
Solomons' feet. But the golden opportunity was now past 
and gone. Before the fishermen could fling the coil, the 
hull had rocked back again with the advancing wave, and it 
was only by backing water with all their might on a refluent 
side-current that the other men could hold off their boat 
from being hurled, a helpless walnut-shell, against the great 
retreating broadside. The wreck bore on upon the rocks, 
and Lionel Solomons went with it, now clinging desperately 
with both hands to that shattered taffrail. 

* Try once more,' Mr. Solomons shouted, almost beside 
himself with excitement and anguish, and livid blue from 
chin to forehead. * A hundred pounds — two hundred 
pounds each man, if you save him I Leo, Leo, hold on to 
it still — wait for the next wave ! We can come alongside 
again for you.' 

The billow rolled back and the hull heeled over, careening 
in their direction. Once mo;re the boatmen rowed hard 
against the recoiling undertow. For a moment, with 
incredible struggles, they held her witMn di^t^x^a^ ^^ 
throwing the coil. . . - 



y>2 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Catch it t catch it and jump 1' Paul ened at the top d 
his voice. 

Lionel Solomons, coming forward a third time with the 
careening hull, held cut one despairing hand with a wild, 
clutching motion for the rope they flung him. 

At that instant, while they looked for him to catch it and 
leap, a sudden and terrible change came over the miserable 
being's distorted features. For the very first time he 
seemed to focus his sight deliberately on the people in the 
boat. His gaze fell full upon his uncle's face. Their eyes 
met. Then Lionel's moved hastily to Paul's and tha 
detective's. There was a brief interval of doubt. He 
seemed to hesitate. Next instant the coil fell, unwinding 
itself, into the water by his side, not six inches short, 
and Lionel Solomons' last chance was gone for ever. 

Instead of leaning forward and catching it, he had flung 
up his arms wildly in the air as the coil approached him, 
and, shrieking out in a voice that could be neard above the 
crash of the breakers and the grinding jar of the hull upon 
the rocks, * God ! my uncle !' had let go his hold alto- 
gether upon the unsteady taf[rail. 

His sin had found him out. He dared not face the man 
he had so cruelly robbed of a life's savings. 

Then, all of a sudden, as they held back the boat with 
the full force of six stalwart arms, they saw a great billow 
burst over the whole wreck tumultuously. As the foam 
cleared away and the water came pouring in wild cataracts 
over her side, they looked once more for their man upon the 
clean-swept deck. But they looked in vain. The taflrail 
was gone, and the skylights above the cabin. 

And Lionel Solomons was no longer visible. 

The great wave had swept him off^, and was tossing and 
pounding him now upon the jagged peaks of granite. 

Mr. Solomons fell back in his place at the stem. His 
colour was no longer blue, but deadly white, like Lionel's. 
Some awful revulsion had taken place within him. He 
bowed down his face between his hands like a broken- 
hearted man, and rocked himself to and fro above his knees 
convulsively. 

* And I drove him to his death !' he cried, rocking himself 
Btill in unspeakable remorse and horror and anguish. < I 
drove him to his death when I meant to save him V 



THE THIEF IS ARRESTED 303 

Seething inwardly in soul| Paul knew the old man had 
found out everything now. In that last awful moment, 
when the drowning nephew shrank, at the final gasp, from 
the uncle he had so cruelly and ungratefully rohbed, it came 
in with a burst upon Mr. Solomons' mind that it was Leo 
himself who had stolen the securities. It was Leo he had 
hounded and hunted down in the wreck. It was Leo he 
had confronted, like an evil conscience, in that last drown- 
ing agony. It was Leo for whom he had demanded with 
threats and curses fourteen years' imprisonment 1 The 
horror of it struck Mr. Solomons mute and dazed. He 
rocked himself up and down in a speechless conflict of 
emotion. He could neither cry nor groan nor call out now ; 
he could only gaze, blankly and awfully, at the white mist 
in front of him. 

Leo had robbed him — Leo, for whom he had toiled and 
slaved so long 1 And he had tracked him down, uncon- 
sciously, unwittingly, till he made himself, against his will, 
Leo's executioner ! 

' We can do no more good here,' the detective murmured 
in low tones- to Paul. ' I felt sure it was him, but I didn't 
like to say so. We may go ashore now. This 'ere arrest 
ain't going to be effected.' 

' Eow back !' Paul said. ' There's nobody else on the 
wreck. If we row ashore at once we can And out who's 
saved and how many are missing.' 

They rowed ashore by the same long detour to avoid the 
reef, and saw the little cove now looming distinctly through 
the cold morning mist to the left before them. On the strip 
of shingle a crowd was drawn up, gathered together in 
knots around some dark unseen objects. They landed and 
approached, Mr. Solomons still white and almost rigid in 
the face, but walking blindly forward, as in a dream, or like 
some dazed and terrified dumb creature at bay in the 
market-placa Eour or five corpses lay huddled upon the 
beach; some others the bystanders were trying rudely 
to revive, or were carrying between them, like logs, to the 
shelter of their cottages. 

A group of dripping creatures sat apart, wringing their 
liands, or looking on with the stolid indifference of acute 
hopelessness. Among them was one in a pilot-coat v7k<»!Q^ 
jeK>me of the bystanders were legaxdia^m^atL %\):?^«cq!^ ^^!^' 



304 THE SCALLYWAG 

Poor thing T one woman said to Paul as they approached. 
' She was married a- Saturday — and her husband's missing I' 
Paul looked at her with an indefinable sense of profound 
distaste and loathing. The detective, who followed with 
the despatch-box still held tight in his hand, cast his eye 
upon her hard. * V\q got no warrant for arresting Zt^r,* he 
observed grimly, * but she'd ought to be one of them.' 

Mr. Solomons sat down upon the beach, quite motionless. 
He gazed away vaguely in the direction of the wreck. 
Presently a dark body appeared upon the crest of a long 
wave to seaward. One of the sailers, plunging boldly 
through the breakers upon a recoiling wave, with a rope 
round his waist, struck out with brave arms in the direction 
of the body. Mr. Solomons watched with. strangely passive 
interest. The sailor made straight for it, and grasped it by 
the hair — short curly hair, black and clotted with the waves 
— and brought it back in tow as his companions pulled him 
by the rope over the crest of a big breaker. Mr. Solomons 
sat still and viewed it from afar. The face was battered out 
of all recognition and covered with blood, but the hands and 
the dress were beyond mistake. Three or four of the 
passengers gathered round it with awe-struck glances. 

* Hush, hush,* they murmured. * Keep it from her for 
awhile. It's poor Mr. Burton. His uncle's here, they say — 
on the beach somewhere about. And there's Mrs. Burton, 
sitting crying by the coastguard on the shingle over 
yonder.' 

As the words fell on his ears and crushed the last grain of 
hope— that fatal alias telling him all the ten ibis story in 
full at once — Mr. Solomons rose and staggered blindly 
forward. Paul held his hand, for he thought he would fall ; 
but Mr. Solomons walked erect and straight, though with 
reeling footsteps like one crushed and paralyzed. He knelt 
beside the body, and bent over it tenderly. ^ The tears were 
in his eyes, but they didn't drop. 

* Oh, Leo, my boy I' he cried ; ' oh, Leo, Leo, Leo 1 why 
didn't you ask me for it? Why didn't you ask me ? You 
had but to ask, and you knew it was yours I Oh, Leo, Leo, 
Leo I why need you do it like this ? YouVe killed yourself, 
Miy boy, and you've broken my heart for me I' 

At the words, Madame Ceriolo rushed forward with a 
magnificent burst of theatrical anguish. She flung herself 



THE THIEF IS ARRESTED 305 

upon the body passionately, like a skilled actress that she 
was, and took the dead hand in hers and kissed it twice 
over. But Mr. Solomons pushed her aside with unconscious 
dignity. 

* Not now/ he said calmly ; ' not now, if you please. He's 
mine, not yours. I would never have left him. I will care 
for him still. Go back to your seat, woman I' 

And he bent once more, heart-broken, over the prostrate 
body. 

Madame Geriolo slunk back aghast, into the circle of 
spectators. She buried her face in her hands, and cried 
aloud in her misery. 

But the old man knelt there, long and motionless, just 
gazing blankly at that battered corpse, and murmuring to him- 
self in half-inarticulate tones, ' Leo, Leo, Leo 1 To think I 
should have killed you I You had but to ask, and you 
knew it was yours, my boy. Why didn't you ask? Oh, 
why didn't you ask me?' 



^iS^ 



THE SCALLYWAG 



CHAPTBE XLin. 
BELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOUONS^ 




n' 



Idzard Town till 
after the fononl 
Mr. SoIomoiiB.in 
a certain dazed aod 
dogged fashion, went 
through with it ell, 
making his arrange- 
menta for a costly Ckir- 
nish serpentine monn- 
nient with a short in- 
scription in memory of 
^ Leo, to the ontward 
eye almost aa if 
nothing very much ont 
ot the way had bap- 
pened. But Paul, 
looking below the boi- 
faoe, could easily see 
that in his heart of 
hearts the poor broken 
old money-lender waa 
utterly crushed and 
shattered by this terrible disiUusionment, It wasn't merely 
the loss o! bis nephew that weighed down his gray hairs — 
though that in itself would have gone far to break him — it 
was the shame and disgrace of his crime and his ingratitude, 
the awful awakening that overtook him so suddenly in the 
boat that morning. He could hardly even wish his nephew 
alive again, knowing him now exactly for what he was ; yet 
the way he leant over the coffin where that bruised and 
battered face lay white and still in its still white grave- 
clothes, muttering ' Leo, Leo,' to himself as he gazed on it, 
was painfully pathetic for anyone to look upon. Paul knew 
that the old man's life was clean cut away from under him. 
The end for which he had laboured so hard and so sternly 
for ao many years was removed at one swoop from his path 



RELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMONS 307 

in life ; and the very remembrance of it now was a pang and 
a humiliation to him. 

Paul observed, however, that in the midst of this un- 
speakable domestic tragedy Mr. Solomons seemed to recline 
upon his shoulder for aid, and to trust and confide in him 
with singular unreserve, even more fully than heretofore. 
On the very evening of Leo's funeral, indeed, as he sat alone 
in his own room at the Lizard Hotel, Mr. Solomons came to 
him with that white and impassive face he had preserved 
ever since the morning of the wreck, and, beckoning to him 
with his hand, said, in an ominous tone of too collected 
calmness, * Come into my room. Sir Paul; that woman is 
coming to speak with me to-night, and I want yoa to be by 
to hear whatever she may have to tell me.' 

Paul rose in silence much exercised in soul. He had fears 
of his own as to how Madame Ceriolo's story might further 
lacerate the poor old man's torn heart ; but he went re- 
luctantly. Madame Geriolo had stopped on at the Lizard, 
meanwhile, partly because she felt herself compelled in 
common decency to wait where she was till Leo was buried, 
but partly also because she wanted to know how much, 
if anything, Leo's widow might still hope to extract out of 
old Cento-Cento's well-filled pockets. She had stood osten- 
tatiously that day beside Lionel Solomons' open grave with 
much display of that kind of grief betokened by copious use 
of a neat cambric pocket-handkerchief with a coronet in the 
corner ; and she was very well satisfied when, in the evening, 
Mr. Solomons sent a curiously- worded card to her in her 
own room : 

' If you will step into my parlour for half an hour's talk, 
about eight o'clock, I wish to speak with you,' 

The little adventuress came in to the minute, with very red 
eyes, and with such an attempt at impromptu mourning as 
her hasty researches among the Helston shops had already 
allowed her to improvise for the occasion. Her get up, 
under the ckcumstances, was strictly irreproachable. She 
looked the very picture of inconsolable grief, not wholly Utt- 
mixed with a sad state of pecuniary destitution. It dis- 
concerted her a little when she saw Paul, too, was to be 
included in the family party — he knew too much to be quite 
agreeable to her — but she quickly recovered her equanimity 
9n that score, and appealed to * Six ?9wi* ^\JOs^ ^yck^^ 



3o8 THE SCALLYWAG 

womanly eloquence as an old Mentone friend, the Tery 
person who had been the means of first introdncing her to 
her own dear Lionel. Mr. Solomons listened with gnmly 
imperious face. 

* What I want to hear/ he said at last, fairly confrontiDg 
the little woman with his sternly critical eye, * is, What do 
you know about this dreadful business?' 

< What business ?' Madame Geriolo asked, with a little 
tearful astonishment. 

Mr. Solomons eyed her again even more sternly than 
before. 

* You know very well what business/ he retorted with 
some scorn. ' Don't make an old man go over his shame 
again, woman. By this time all Cornwall has heard it from 
the detective, no doubt. If you pretend not to know you'll 
only exasperate me. Let's be plain with one another. 
Your best chance in this matter is to be perfectly straight' 
forward.' 

His tone took Madame Geriolo completely by sorprise. 
She had never before in her life been placed in a position 
where her little feminine wiles and pretences proved utterly 
useless. She gasped for breath for a second, and stared 
blankly at the stern old man, out of whom this terrible 
episode seemed to have driven for ever all the genuine 
kernel of geniality and kindness. Paul was truly sorry for 
her mute embarrassment. 

« I — I — don't know what you mean,' she answered at last, 
leaning back in her chair and bursting into reaJ, irrepressible 
womanly tears. ' I thought you wanted to speak to me as 
Lionel's widow.' 

Mr. Solomons let her lean back and cry till she was tired. 
Meanwhile he stood and eyed her with undisguised grimness. 

' As soon as you're capable of reasonable talk,' he said at 
last, in a cold, clear tone, ' I have some questions to ask you. 
Answer them plainly if you want attention.' 

Madame Geriolo stifled her sobs with an effort, and dried 
her eyes. She was really and truly frightened now. She 
saw she had made a false step — perhaps an irretrievable one 
— or, rather, she saw that the wreck and discovery and 
Lionel's death had so completely upset aJl her well-laid plans 
for her future in life that retreat in any direction was well- 
nigh impossibly, She was th^ \\^t\ta ol ^xiiva^nfiies^ 



RELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMONS 309 

sacrificed by fate on the altar of the unforeseen. She com- 
posed herself, however, with what grace she might, and 
answered bravely, through the ghost of a sob, but in a 
creditably firm voice, that she was quite prepared now to 
consider any questions Mr. Solomons might put to her. 

Mr. Solomons, sitting there, wrecked and unmanned 
himself, began once more in a mood of hollow calmness : 

* You say you come as Lionel's widow. Is that true, in 
the first place ? Were you ever married to him ? If so, 
when, where, and what evidence have you?* 

With the conscious pride of the virtuous British matron 
at last achieved, Madame Geriolo drew from her pocket an 
official-looking paper, which she handed across at once for 
Mr. Solomons' inspection. 

* There's my marriage-certificate,' she said simply, * saved 
from the wreck.' She felt she was scoring. The old man 
had miscalculated and misunderstood her character. 

Mr. Solomons scanned it close and hard. 

' This seems perfectly correct,' he said at last, in his cold, 
stern tone. ' I can find no mistake in it My poor boy's 
signature, firm and clear as ever. And on Saturday last, 
too ! Oh, God I the shame of it 1' 

Madame Ceriolo bowed and answered nothing. 

Mr. Solomons gazed at it and sighed three times. Then 
he looked up once more with a fiercely scrutinizing look at 
the strange woman. 

* Lionel Solomons,' he murmured half to himself, perusing 
the marriage-lines through his slowly-rolling tears — * Lionel 
Solomons. My poor boy's own signature — Lionel Solomons. 
No deception there. All plain and aboveboard.' 

Then he raised his face, and met Madame Ceriolo's eyes 
with sudden vehement inquiry. 

* But you called yourselves Burton on board,' he continued 
fiercely. * You were Mrs. Burton, you know, to your fellow- 
passengers. Why did you do that, if you were all so 
innocent ?' 

The unexpectedness of the question took Madame's breath 
away once more. A second time she broke down and began 
to cry. Paul looked across at her with genuine sympathy. 
No young man, at least, can bear to see tears in a pretty 
woman's eyes, rightly or wrongfully. But Mr. Solomons 
felt no such human weakness. He paused as before, rhada- 



310 THE SCALLYWAG 

manthine in his severity, and awaited her restoration to i 
rational and collected frame of mind for undergoing farther 
cross-examination. Madame cried on silently for a momenfc 
or so, and then dried her tears. 

* You're very cruel/ she murmured, sobbing, * so soon 
after poor dear Lionel's death, too! You're very, very 
cruel r 

Mr. Solomons waved his hand impatiently on one side. 

' You lured him to his death,' he answered with giim, 
retributive sternness. 'No talk like that, if you please. 
It only aggravates me. I mean to do what I think is 
just, if you'll answer my questions truly and simply. I 
ask you again: Why, if you please, did you call yourself 
Burton?' 

' Poor Leo told me to,' Madame sobbed quite nonplussed. 

' Did he explain his reasons ?' Mr. Solomons persisted 

* N — not exactly. . . . Ho said he must go incognito to 
South America. ... I thought he might nave business 
reason^ of his own. . . . I come of a noble Tyrolese family 
myself. I don't understand business.' 

* Nonsense I' Mr. Solomons answered with crushing 
promptitude. * Don't talk like that. Sherrard, my detec- 
tive, has got up the case against you. Here are his 
telegrams from town, and, it I chose, I could prosecute ; 
but for Leo's sake — for Leo's memory's sake — I prefer to 
leave it.' He faltered for a moment. * I couldn't have 
Leo's name dragged through the mud in the Courts,' he 
went on, with a melting inflection in his stern voice ; ' and 
for his sake — for dead Leo's sake — I've induced Sherrard 
and the Scotland Yard people not to proceed for the present 
against you. But that's all lies. You know it's lies. You're 
the daughter of an Italian organ-grinder, born in a court off 
Saffron Lane, and your mother was a ballet-girl at Drury 
Lane Theatre.' 

Madame bowed her head and wept silently once more. 

* You— you're a cruel, hard man,' she murmured half 
inaudibly. 

But Mr. Solomons had screwed his righteous indignation 
up to sticking-point now, and was not to be put down by 
such feminine blandishments. 'You're a grown woman, 
too,' he went on, staring hard in her face and flinging out 
his words at her with angry precision. ' You're a woman of 



RELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMONS 31 j 

the world, and you're forty, if you're a day — though you've 
falsely put yourself down in the marriage-lines as twenty- 
eight — and you know as well as I do that you're not so inno^ 
cent and trustful and confiding as all that comes to ; you 
perfectly well understood why . . . my poor boy wanted to 
give himself a false name on board the Dom Pedro. You 
perfectly well understood why he wanted to rob me ; and 
you egged him on, you egged him on to it. If you hadn't 
egged him on, he'd never have done it. My poor Leo was 
far too clever a lad to do such a foolish thing as that— 
except with a woman driving him. There's nothing on 
earth a man won't do when a woman like you once fairly 
gets hold of him. It's you that have done it all ; it's you 
that are guiltiest ; it's you that have robbed me of my 
money — and of Leo.' 

Madame Ceriolo cowered with her face in her hands, but 
answered nothing. Clever woman as she was, and swift to 
do evil, she was still no match for an old man's fiery indigna- 
tion. 

* But you did worse than that,' Mr. Solomons went on, 
after a brief pause, like an accusing angel — ' you did worse 
than that. For all that, I might, perhaps, in the end forgive 
you. But what else you did I can never forgive. In the 
last hour of all you basely deserted him I' 

Madame Ceriolo raised her head and stared him wildly 
back. * No, I didn't,' she cried in anger. ' I didn't, I didn't i' 

Mr. Solomons rose and looked down upon her with scorn. 
* More lies,' he answered contemptuously. * More lies still, 
woman. Those who were with you on the steamer that 
night have told me all. Don't try to deceive me. When 
3'ou saw all hope was gone, you left him to his fate, and 
thought only of saving your own wretched life — ^you miser- 
able creature I You left him to drown. You know you 
left him.' 

' He would go back to his cabin to fetch his valuables I' 
Madame Ceriolo moaned. < It wasn't my fault. I tried to 
dissuade him.' 

' Lies !' Mr. Solomons answered once more with astonishing 
vehemence. * You let him go willingly. You abetted him 
in his errand. You wanted to be rid of him. And as soon 
as he was gone, you tried to save yourself by jumping into 
a boat. I have found out everything. You ixxisa^^C '^^^st 



312 THE SCALLYWAG 

jump, and were carried off by the wave. But yon nevor 
waited or cared to know what had become of Ijeo. Yoar 
one thought was for your own miserable neck, you Delilahf 

Madame Geriolo plunged her face in her hands afresh, 
and sfcill answered nothing. She must hold her tongue for 
prudence' sake, lest speech should undo her. The old man 
had spoken of doing what was just. There were still hopes 
he might relent to some practical purpose. It was best not 
to reply and needlessly irritate him. So she sobbed mutely 
on, and waited for a turn in the tide of his emotions. 

For many minutes Mr. Solomons went on talking, ex- 
plaining, pairtl^r to her and partly to Paul, who looked on 
somewhat horrified, the nature of the whole conspiracy, as 
he understood it, and Madame still cowered and shook with 
sobbing. At last Mr. Solomons paused, and allowed her to 
recover her equanimity a little. Then he began once more, 
eyeing her sternly as ever. 'And now, woman,' he said, 
' if I'd only wanted to tell you all this I wouldn't have sent 
for you at all this evening. But I wished also to give you a 
chance of explaining, if explanation was possible, before I 
decided. You take refuge in lies, and will explain nothing. 
So I know the worst I believe is true. You concocted this 
plan, and when you found it was failing, you bsLsely tried to 
desert my poor Lionel. . . . Very well; on that score I 
owe you nothing but fourteen years' imprisonment with 
hard labour. Still, I loved Lionel ; and I can never forget 
that you are Lionel's widow. This paper you give me 
shows me you were his wife — a pitiful wife for such a man 
as my Lionel ! But he made you his wife, and I respect his 
decision. As long as you live I shall pay you an allowance 
of two hundred a year. I will give a lump sum that will 
bring in that much to the Jewish Board of Guardians of 
London: they shall hold it in trust for you during your 
life, and on your death it will revert to the poor of my own 
peopla ... If ever you'd told me you'd wanted to marry 
Leo you'd have been richer far — a great deal richer than 
even Leo suspected — for I've done well for myself in life : 
for Leo — for Leo. But you chose to go to work the under- 
hand way, and that shaU be your penalty. You may know 
what you've lost. Never come near my sight again. Never 
write to me or communicate with me in any way hereafter. 
Never dare to obtrude yourself on my eyes for a moment* 



RELICT OF THE LATE LIONEL SOLOMO^S 313 

But take your two hundred. . , . Take them and go 
awty. ... Do you accept my conditioua T 

Madame felt there was do use in further preteucea now. 
' I do,' she answered calmly, drying her reddened eyea with 
Burprising ease. ' Two hundred a year for life, payable 
quarterly ?' 

Mr. Solomons nodded, 'Just so,' he said. 'Now go, 
woman.' 

Madame Ceriolo hesitated. 'This has been a onrioos 
interview,' she said, staring roand and mincing a little, 'and 
Sir Paul Gascoyne and you will go away, perhaps, and take 
advantage of my silence to say to other people ' 

Mr. Solomons cut her short with a terrible look. 'I 
would never soil my lips with mentioning youi name again,' 
he cried out angrily. ' You are dead to me for ever. I've 
done with you now. And as for Sir Paul Gascoyne — why, 
miserable creature that you are — don't you even know when 
you have a gentleman to deal with?' 

Madame Ceriolo bowed, and retreated hastily. It was an 
awkward interview, to be sure ; but, after all, two hundred 
a year for Lfe is always something. And she thought that 
she could really and truly trust to the scallywag's innocence : 
he was one of those simple-minded, foolish young men, don't 
you know, who have queer ideas of their own about the 
sacrednese of honour I 



CHAPTEB XLIV. 

•a UODEBH UIB&CEiE,* 

||NB other curious thing happened before they 
! left Cornwall. At breakfast nest morning, 
M as they sat moody and taciturn — for Mr. 
Solomons didn't greatly care to talk, nor 
Paul to break in upon his companion's blank 
misery — the elder man suddenly interrupted 
the even flow of their silence by saying with a burst, ' I 
think Miss Blair lives in ComwaU.' 

' She does,' Paul answered, starting, and completely 
taken aback, for he had no idea Mr, Solomons eveakA^^ at 




314 THE SCALLYWAG 

his Nea's existence. Then, after a slight pause, he added 
shyly, * She lives near Fowey.' 

'We passed the junction station on otir way down, I 
noticed,' Mr. Solomons went on in a measured voice. 

' Yes/ Paul replied, surprised once more that the old man 
had observed it. Young people always imagine their httle 
love-a£Oairs entirely escape the eyes of their elders. Which 
is absurd. As a matter of fact, everybody discovers them. 

< We shall pass it again on our way back/ Mr. Solomons 
went on, in that weary, dreary, dead-alive tone in which he 
had said everything since Lionel's death and his terrible 
awakening. 

'Naturally,' Paul answered, looking up in amaze, and 
much wondering whither this enigmatic conversation tended. 

Mr. Solomons paused, and looked over towards him 
kindly. * Paul, my boy,' he said, with a Httle tremor in his 
throat — ' you'll excuse my calling you Paul now, as I used 
to do in the old days, you know — Paul, my boy, it seems a 
pity, now you're so near, you shouldn't drop in as you pass 
and see her/ 

Paul let his fork drop in blank astonishment. To be 
sure, he had thought as much a dozen times himself, but he 
had never dared to envisage it as practically possible. 

'How good of you to think of it— and now especially I' 
he exclaimed with genuine gratitude. 

Mr. Solomons drew himself up stiffly, and froze at once. 
' I was thinking/ he said, ' that, as a matter of business, it 
might be well if you got that question about marrying 
settled some day, one way or the other. I regarded it only 
in the light of my own interests — the interests of the Jewish 
widows and orphans. They're all I have left to work for 
now ; but you don't get rid of the habits of a lifetime in a 
day ; and I shall look after their money as I looked after — 
Lionel's. It's become an instinct with me. Now, you see, 
Sir Paul, I've got a vested interest, so to speak, in your 
future — it's mortgaged to me, in fact, as you know ; and I 
must do my best by it. If you won't marry the sort of lady 
I expected you to marry, and had a claim to believe you'd 
try to marry, in my interest — at least don't let me be a 
loser by your remaining single. I've always considered 
that being in love's a very bad thing indeed for a man's 
business prospecia It upsets his mmd, oiid ^neyents him 



M MODERN MIRACLE* 315 

from concentrating himself body and soul on the work he 
has in hand. A man who has to make his own way in the 
world, therefore, ought to do one of two things. Either he 
should avoid falling in love at all, which is much the safest 
plan — I followed it myself— or else, if he can't do that, he 
should marry, out of hand, and be able to devote himself 
thenceforward unreservedly to business.' 

Paul could hardly help smiUng at this intensely practical 
view of the situation, in spite of the cold air of utter 
despondency with which Mr. Solomons delivered it ; but he 
answered with as grave a face as he could, ' I think myself 
it may act the other way — as a spur and incentive to further 
exertion.' 

* No,' Mr. Solomons retorted firmly. ' In your case, no. 
If you waited to marry till you'd cleared off your debt, you'd 
lose heart at once. As a security for myself, I advise you 
to marry as soon as ever the lady '11 take you.' 

* And yet,' Paul answered, * it was consideration for your 
claims that made us both feel it was utterly hopeless.' 

'Exactly so,' Mr. Solomons replied, in the same cold, 
hard voice. * That's just where it is. What chance have I 
got of ever seeing my money back again — my hard:saved 
money, that I advanced for your education and to make a 
gentleman of you — if you begin by falling in love with a 
penniless girl, and feeling, both of you, that it's utterly 
hopeless ? Is that the kind of mood that makes a man fit 
for earning and saving money, I ask you?' 

* I'm afraid not,' Paul answered penitently. 

* And I'm afraid not, either,' Mr. Solomons went on, with 
icy sternness. 'You've paid up regularly so far — that I 
admit in justice : and, mind, I shall expect you to pay up 
just as regularly in future. Don't suppose for a moment I 
won't look after the Jewish widows' and oi^hans' interests 
as carefully as ever I looked after poor Leo's. You've got 
into the debt with your eyes open, and you've got to get out 
of it now as best you can.' (Paul, listening aghast, felt 
that his disillusionment had hardened Mr. Solomons ter- 
ribly.) * And the only thing I can see for you to do is to 
X)ut the boldest face upon it at once, and marry this young 
lady.' 

* You think so?' Paul asked timidly, half wishing he could 
see things in the same light. 



316 THE SCALLYWAG i 

'Yes, I do/ Mr. Solomons replied, with snappish prompti* 
tude. * I look at it this way : You can keep your wife for 
very little more than it costs you to keep yourself; and your 
talents will be set free for your work alone. You could 
teach her to help you copy your manuscripts or work a 
typewriter. I believe you'd earn twice as much in the end, 
if you married her for a typewriter, and you'd pay me off a 
great deal faster.' 

* Well, 1*11 think about it,' Paul answered. 

'Don't think about it,' Mr. Solomons replied with curt 
incisiveness. 'In business, thinking's the thief of oppor- 
tunity. It's prompt decision that wins the priza Stop ai 
Fowey this very afternoon and talk it over offhand with the 
lady and her father.' 

And so, to his own immense surprise, almost before he'd 
time to realize the situation, Paul found himself, by 
three o'clock that day, knocking at the door of Mr. BlaifB 
rectory. 

He knocked with a good deal of timorous hesitation ; for 
though, to be sure, he had sent on a telegram to announce 
his coming to Nea, he was naturally so modest and difQdent 
a young man that he greatly feared his reception by Nea's 
father. Fathers are always such hard nuts to tackle. 
Indeed, to say the truth, Paul was even now, in spite of 
experience, slow to perceive the difference in his position 
made by his accession to the dignity of a baronetcy. No 
doubt, every day would serve to open his eyes more to the 
real state of the case in this important particular ; but each 
such discovery stood alone, as it were, on its own ground, 
and left him almost as nervous as ever before each new 
situation, and almost as much; surprised when that social 
' Open sesame 1' once more succeeded in working its familiar 
wonders. 

Any doubt he might have felt,^ however, disappeared 
almost at once when Nea in person, more visibly agitated 
than he had ever yet beheld her, opened the door for 
him, and when her father, with profuse hospitality, instead 
of regarding him as a dangerous intruder, expressed with 
much warmth his profound regret that Sir Paul couldn't 
stop the night at the rectory. Nay, more, that prudent father 
took special care they should all go out into the garden f6r 
the brief interviewi and that he himself should keep at a 



« A MODERN MIRA CLE ' 317 

safe distance with a convenient sister-in-law, pacing the 
lawn, while Paul and Nea walked on in front and discoursed 
— presumably about the flowers in the border. 

Thus brought face to face with the future, Paul briefly 
explained to Nea Mr. Solomons' new point of view, and the 
question which it left open so clearly before them. 

Now, Nea was young, but Nea was a rock of practical 
common-sense, as your good and impulsive West Country 
girl is often apt to be. Instead of jumping foolishly at Mr. 
Solomons' proposal because it offered a loophole for im- 
mediate marriage, as you or I would have done, she 
answered at once, with judicious wisdom, that, much as she 
loved Paul, and much as she longed for that impossible 
day to arrive when they two might be one, she couldn't 
bear, even with Mr. Solomons' consent, so far to burden Paul's 
already too heavily mortgaged future. 

* Paul r she said, trembling, for it was a hard wrench, ' if 
I loved you less, I might perhaps say yes ; but I love you 
so much that I must still say no to you. Perhaps some day 
you may make a great hit — and then, you could wipe off all 
your burdens at once — and then, dear, we too could be happy 
together. But, till then, I love you too well to add to your 
anxieties. I know there's some truth in what Mr. Solomons 
says ; but it's only half a truth if you examine it closely. 
When I look forward and think of the long struggle it would 
bring you, and the weary days of working at your desk, and 
the fears and anxieties, I can't bear to face it. We must 
wait and hope still, Paul : after all, it looks a little nearer now 
than when you said good-bye to me that day at Oxford t' 

Paul looked down at the gravel-path with a certain shock 
of momentary disappointment. He had expected all this ; 
indeed, if Nea hadn't said it, he would have thought the less 
of her ; and yet, for all that, he was disappointed. 

* It seems such an interminable time to wait,' he said, 
with a rising lump in his throat. ' I know you're right — I felt 
sure you'd say so — but, still, it's hard to put it off again, Nea. 
When Mr. Solomons spoke to me I half felt it was best to 
do as he said. But now you've put it as you put it just now, 
I feel I've no right to impose the strain upon you, dearest.' 

' Some day something will turn up,' Nea answered hope- 
fully—for Paul's sake — lest she should wholly crush him. 
• I can wait for you for ever, Paul. li ^quVsh^\s^'^>*'^m^'«^ 



■>wi 



318 THE SCALLYWAG 

enough. And it's a great thing that I can write to yon, and 
that my letters cheer you.' 

Nevertheless, it was with a somewhat heavy heart that 
Paul rejoined Mr. Solomons at Par Junction that evening, 
feeling that he must still wait, as before, for some indefinite 
future. 

* Well, what have you arranged ? Mr. Solomons asked, 
with a certain shadow of interest rare with him these last 
days, as he advanced to greet him. 

* Oh nothing I' Paul answered blankly. * Miss Blair says 
we oughtn't to get married while Pm so much burdened ; 
and I didn't think it would be^right on her account to urge 
her to share my burdens under such peculiar circumstances. 
You see, I've her interests as well as yours to think about.* 

Mr. Solomons glanced hard at him with a suspicious look. 
For a second his hps parted, irresolute, as if he half intended 
to say something important. Then they shut again close, 
like an iron trap, with that cold, hard look now fixed sternly 
upon them. 

* I shall lose my money,* he said curtly. * I shall never 
be paid as long as I live. You'll do no proper work with 
that girl on your brain. But no matter — no matter. The 
Jewish widows and orphans won't lose in the end. I can 
trust you to work your fingers to the bone rather than leave 
a penny unpaid, however long it may take you. And mark 
you, Sir Paul, as you and the young lady won't follow my 
advice, I expect you to do it, too — I expect you to do it.* 

Paul bowed his head to his taskmaster. 

* I will pay you every penny, Mr. Solomons,' he said, * if I 
work myself to death with it.' 

The old man's face grew harder and colder still. 

* Well, mind you do it quick,* he said testily. * I haven't 
got long left to live now, and I don*t want to be kept out of 
my money for ever.* 

But at the rectory near Fowey, if Paul could only have 

seen the profoundly afifectionate air with which, the moment 

his back was turned, Mr. Blair threw his arm round his 

daughter's neck, and inquired eagerly, * Well, what did Sir 

Paul sky to you, Nea?* — evon. he would have laughed at his 

own timid fears anent the "beaTSmg ol\^i^\»^^Tm\\ia^\jM^^ 

the British father, in his o^n xec\)Od^ \^vt Vdl v:^^\xi^\iJ\, 

"nd had he further observed fti^ ^e\e^^»^^ ^^t^ty5.^ -^yS^ 



PRESSURE AND TENSION 



319 



which Mr. Blair received Nea's guarded report of their 
brief interview, he ^ould have wondered to Mmsell how 
he could ever have overlooked the mollifying influence on the 
paternal heart of that magical eonnd, ' Sir Paul Gascoyne, 
Baronet.' 

For Mr. Blair heaved a deep Bigh as be heard it, and 
murmnred eoftly to himself : 

' He BeeiQs a most worthy, high-minded, well-principled 
young man, I wish we could help him out of hia cUfficulties, 
anyhow.' 



CHAPTEE XLV. 

PBBBBORE AND TENSION. 



YEAR passed 

away— a long, 

loDg year of 

twelve whole 

e a r y 

antha— 




pened 

.■to Paul 

and to 

' Kea a 

for one thing, 
1—. afewdaysafter 
In! Piul'sretumto 
town, Mr. Solo- 
mons dropped in one afternoon at the young man's chambers 
in the little lane off Grower Street. The week had aged him 
much. A settled gloom brooded over his fEice, and that stem 
look about the comers of his month seemed mor« &%k^ 



320 THE SCALLYWAG 

ingrained in its very lines than ever. His hair was grayer and 
his eyes less keen. But, strange to say, the blue tint had 
faded wholly from his lips, and his cheeks bore less markedly 
the signs of that weakness of the heart which some short 
time before had been so painfully apparent. He sat down 
moodily in Paul's easy-chair, and drew forth a folded sheet of 
official-looking paper from his inner breast-pocket. 

* Sir Paul,' he said, bending forward, with less of 
familiarity and more coldness than usual, * I've brought 
up this paper here for you to take care of. I've brought it 
to you rather than to anybody else because I believe I can 
really trust you. After the blow I've received — and how 
terrible a blow it was no man living will ever know, for I'm 
of the sort that these things affect internally — after the blow 
IVe received, perhaps I*m a fool to trust any man. But I 
think not. I think I know you. As I said to that miserable 
woman the other evening, one ought at least to know when 
one has a gentleman to deal with.' 

Paul bowed his head with a faint blush of modesty at so 
much commendation from Mr. Solomons. 

* It's very good of you,' he said, * to think so well of me. 
I hope, Mr. Solomons, I shall always be able to deserve your 
confidence.* 

Mr. Solomons glanced up suspiciously once more. 

' I hope so,' he said in a very dry voica * I hopo you 
won't forget that a debt's a debt, whether it's owed to poor 
Leo and me or to the Metropohtan Jewish Widows and 
Orphans. Well, that's neither here nor thera What I want 
you to do to-day is to look at this will — circumstances have 
compelled me to make a new one — and to see whether it 
meets with your approbation. 

Paul took the paper with a faint smile and read it carefully 
through. It resembled the former one in most particulars, 
except, of course, for the entire omission of Lionel's name in 
the list of bequests ; but it differed in two or three minor 
points. The bulk of Mr. Solomons' fortune was now left, in 
trust, to the Jewish Board of Guardians ; and the notes and 
acceptances of Sir Paul Gascoyne, Baronet, were specially 
mentioned by name among the effects bequeathed to those 
worthy gentlemen, to be employed for the good of the Metro- 
politan Hebrew community. Mention was also made of a 
certain sum already paid o\^x in \)t>3L'e»^ t^ tb.^ Bosord for tlui 



PRESSURE AtfD TENSION 321 

benefit of Maria Agnese Solomons, widow of Lionel 
Solomons, deceased, which was to revert on the death of 
the said Maria Agnese to the General Trust, and be 
employed by the Guardians for the same purposes. There 
was a special bequest of ten pounds to Sir Paul Gascoyne, 
Baronet, for a mourning ring; and a similar bequest to 
Faith, wife of Charles Thistleton, Esquire, and one of the 
testator's most esteemed friends. But beyond that small testi* 
mony of regard there was little to interest Paul in the docu- 
ment. He handed it back with a smile to Mr. Solomons, and 
said shortly, * I think there's nothing to object to in any part 
of it. It was kind of you to remember myself and my sister,' 

Mr. Solomons* eyes looked him through and through. 

' I want you to take care of it,' he said abruptly. 

* I will,' Paul answered. ' But I would like first to ask 
you just one favour.' 

* What's that ?' Mr. Solomons asked sharply. 

* If I can succeed in paying you off during — ^well, during 
your own lifetime, will you kindly remove the mention of 
my notes and acceptances? I wouldn't like them to be 
noticed in the papers, if possible.' 

* I will,' Mr. Solomons answered, looking at him harder 
than ever. * Sir Paul, you're a very honourable young man.' 

* Thank you,' Paul replied. * You are always very good 
to me.' 

* They don't all talk like that 1* Mr. Solomons retorted, 
with temper. * They mostly call me a ** damned old Jew." 
That's generally all the praise a man gets for helping people 
out of their worst difficulties.* 

And he left the will with Paul with many strict injunctions 
to keep it safe, and to take care nobody ever had a chance 
of meddling with it. 

In the course of the year, too, Paul was very successful in 
his literary ventures. Work flowed in faster than he could 
possibly do it. That's the luck of the trade : sometimes the 
deserving man plods on unrecognised till he's nearly fifty 
before anybody hears of him ; sometimes editors seem to 
hunt out with a rush the merest beginner who shows promise 
or performance. It's all a lottery, and Paul happened to be 
one of the lucky few who draw winning numbers. Perhaps 
that magical suffix of 'Bart.' stood here, too, in good 8teQA\ 
perhaps his own merits secrared him cvxa\^t£i\>QXi^^ ^ ^x^ 



322 THE SCALLYWAG 

rate, he wrote hopefully to Nea, if health and strength kept up 
he could get as many engagements now as ever he wanted. 

Health and strength, however, were severely tried in the 
effort to fulfil Mr. Solomons' exacting requirements. Paul 
worked early and late, at the hardest of all trades (for if 
you think literature is mere play, dear sir or madam, you're 
profoundly mistaken) ; and he saved too much out of food 
and lodging in order to meet as many as possible of those 
hateful notes from quarter to quarter. Mr. Solomons him- 
self remonstrated at times; he complained that Paul, by 
starving himself and working too hard, was running the 
risk in the long-run of defrauding his creditor. * For all 
that, you know,' he said demonstratively, * your health and 
strength's my only security. Of course there's the insurance ; 
that's all right if you die outright ; but literary men who 
break down don't generally die : they linger on for ever, a 
burden to their friends or the parish, with nervous diseases. 
As a duty to me, Sir Paul, and to the Metropolitan Widows 
and Orphans, you ought to feed yom-self better and take 
more rest. I don't mean to say I don't like to see a young 
man working hard and paying up regular; that's only 
honest ; but what I say is this : there's moderation in all 
things. It isn't fair to me, you see, to run the risk of laying 
yourself up before you've paid it all off to the last farthing.' 

Nevertheless, it must be admitted that Mr. Solomons 
received Paul's hard-earned nioney with a certain close-fisted 
joy which sometimes shocked, and even surprised, his simple- 
hearted young debtor. To say the truth, the miserly instinct 
in Mr. Solomons, kept somewhat in check by many better 
feelings during Mr. Lionel's Hfetime, seemed now comple-tely 
to have gained the upper hand in his cramped and narrowed 
later nature. They say the ruling passions grow fiercer in 
old age ; doubtless they are wrong ; but in Mr. Solomons' 
case the proverbial paradox had at least a certain external 
semblance of justification. Quarter after quarter, as Paul 
paid in his instalments of principal and interest, the old 
man grumbled over and over again at the insufficiency of 
the amoxmt and the slowness of the repayment. Yet; what 
seemed to Paul strangest of all was the apparent contradic- 
tion that while Mr. Solomons thus perpetually urged him 
by implication to work harder and harder, he was at the 
same time for ever urgvng \nm m ^o mo^r^Y words to take 



PRESSURE AND TENSION 323 

more holiday and spend more money and time on iood and 
pleasure. Not that Mr. Solomons ever put these requests 
upon sympathetic grounds: he always based them solely 
and wholly on considerations of his own interest. * If you 
don't take more care of yourself/ he would often say, with 
that cold, stem face unchanged for one moment, 'you'll 
make yourself ill, and go off into a nervous wreck, and come 
upon the parish— and then what'll become of all the money 
I've advanced you ?' 

* I can't help it,' Paul would answer. * I feel I must, 
somehow ; I can never rest till I've cleared it all off, and 
am my own master.' 

' I know what that means,' Mr. Solomons said once, near 
the end of the year, when autumn was coming round again. 
* You're in a hurry to marry this young lady down in Corn- 
wall Ah, that's just the way of all you borrowing people. 
You enter into contracts with one man first, for money 
down, his own hard-saved money, that he's made and 
hoarded ; and then, when you've eaten and drunk it all up, 
you go and fall in love with some girl you've never seen in 
your lives before, and for her sake, a stranger's sake, you 
forget all about your vested obligations. I wish you'd take 
my advice and marry the young woman out of hand. I'd 
be all the safer in the end to get my money.' 

Paul shook his head. 

* I can't bear to,' he said, * and even if I would. Miss 
Blair wouldn't. She said herself she'd never burden my 
life any further. I must work on now to the bitter end, 
and in the course of years, perhaps, I may be able to marry 
her.' 

* In the course of years I' Mr. Solomons echoed fretfully. 
' In the course of years indeed ! And do you think, then, 
I'm going to live on for ever ? No, no ; I want to see some 
pleasure and satisfaction out of my money in my own life- 
time. I'm not going to stand this sort of thing much longer. 
You ought to marry her, and settle down in life to do better 
work. If you'd get a house of your own now, with Lady 
Gascoyne at the head of your table, and could give dinners, 
and invite the world, and take your proper part in London 
society, you'd soon be coining money — a man of your brains, 
with no home to entertain in ! You're keeping me out of 
my own— that's just what I call it/ 



324 2-^^ SCALLYWAG 

'I'm sorry I disappoint you, Mr. Solomons,* Paul an- 
swered sadly ; ' but I'm afraid I can't help it. I can never 
marry till I'm independent.' 

Mr. Solomons rose and moved to the door. 

' I must put a stop to this nonsense,' he murmured 
resolutely. ' I can't let this sort of thing go on much 
longer. If I have to put the Courts in action to get what I 
want, I must put a stop before another week to this con- 
founded nonsense.' 

* Put the Courts in action 1' Paul cried, aghast at the ugly 

?hrase. ' Oh no, Mr. Solomons, you can never mean that ! 
'ou won't expose an old friend, who has always tried his 
best to repay you for all your kindness, to so much un- 
pleasantness. I'll do anytlung — ^in reason — to prevent such 
a contingency.' 

But Mr. Solomons only gazed back at him with that 
inquiring glance. Then he drew himself up and said v^ith 
a stony face : 

' Sir Paul Gascoyne, I've always said you were a gentle- 
man. I hope you won't compel me to be too hard upon 
you. I hope you'll think it over, and see your way to marry 
the lady.' 

Paul flung himself back in his easy-chair as Mr. Solo- 
mons closed the door behind him, and felt for once iu his 
life very bitterly against his old benefactor, as he had always 
considered him. He was half inclined, in that moment of 
pique, to take him at his word, and to beg and implore Nea 
to marry him immediately. 

As for Mr. Solomons, in his lonely room at Hillborough 
that night, he sat down by himself, with a resolute air, to 
write two letters which he hoped might influence his recal- 
citrant debtor. He wrote them in a Arm, clear hand, little 
shaky with age, and read them over more than once to him- 
self, admiring his own persuasive eloquence. Then he put 
them into two envelopes, and duly directed them. The 
superscription of one was to the Eev. Walter Blair, The 
Rectory, Lanhydran, near Fowey, Cornwall. That of the 
other was to Mrs. Charles Thistleton, Wardlaw House, The 
Parks, Sheffield. And w\i«i.\. «^fec\^.\Vj YCK^eUad him to write 
this last was the fact ttia\i M\a% ^^^ ^\^Yt ^^% ^ Skis*. 
moment in the North, on a\ouft-^xoTD:\^^^^sv\»^R>^\:t^^^iJ: 




A TRANSACTION IN DIAMONDS 325 

CHAPTEB XLVI. 

A TIUKBAOTIOH IN DUliIONDS, 

^KBEE days later Mr. Solomons happened to 
have basiness in town which took him up 
into Cheapfiide on a very nnwonted shop- 
ping expedition. Mr. Solomona, in fact, 
was bent on the purchase of jewellery. 
He had been more particularly driven to 
tiiis novel pursuit by the eimultaneous receipt of two letters 
from two opposite ends of England on that self-same morn- 
ing. One of them bore the Fowey postmark; the other, 
addressed in a feminine hand, was dated ' Sheffield.' Mr. 
Solomons smiled somewhat grimly to himseU as he read 
this last. ' Eighteen months of wealth and prosperity have 
strangely developed our old friend. Faith,' he thought in his 
own soul. ' How glibly she t^s about money now, as if it 
was water I She doesn't seem to think much about Sir 
Paul's difficulties. They vanish far more easily in her mind 
to-day than in the hard old days down at Flowdan's Court 
in H 11 thorough.' 

But Mr. Solomons was too much of a philosopher in his 
way to let this natural evolution of the female mind disturb 
for a moment his sombre equanimity. Men, he knew, rise 
Bometimas to the occasion ; women, always. So he went 
on his way to London with that settled solid calm of a life 
that baa now no hope left in it, and that goes on upon its 
dull routine by pure mechanical habit. 

Nevertheless, that habit was the habit of a lifetime 
devoted to making and saving money. In dealing with a 
debtor and in haggling with a seller, Mr. Solomons' soul 
was still as keen as ever. He watched over the interests of 
the Jewish Widows and Orphans as closely as ever in happier 
times he had watched over his own and Leo's, A gain or 
loss of sixpence still seemed to him a matter well worth 
struggling over ; a rise or fall of one-eighth per cent, on the 
market-price of Portuguese Threes still put his overworked 
heart into a Sutter of excitement. It was with judicioaa 
oare, therefore, that he selected for Ma '^\itaQA%«> '«!&» ^os 
a Mlow-tribeaman is a street oil C^QK^&a^wQ^'^ 
toeffeci a stutable bargain iq jeiieiVer^. 



326 THE SCALLYWAG 

The uitor downfall of a life's dream would have made 
most men wholly careless as to anything like money 
matters. It had only made Mr. Solomons closer-fisted 
than ever. 

' I should like,' Mr. Solomons said, as he entered the 
shop, and addressed himself with severity to the smug-faced 
and black-whiskered young man at the counter — ' I should 
like to see a diamond necklet.' 

* Yes, sir. About what price, sir? the smug-faced young 
man replied briskly. 

Mr. Solomons looked him through and through with a 
contemptuous air. * The price,' he answered sententiously, 
* depends as a rule to some extent upon the quality.' 

' Merely as a guide to the class of goods I should first 
submit to you,* the smug-faced young man went on, still 
more briskly than before. * Our immense stock I The 
variety of our patterns I The difficulty of a selection 1' 

* Do you take me for a fool, young man ?' Mr. Solomons 
retorted severely, eyeing him askance. * Nobody has an 
immense stock of diamond necklets, ready-made. Show 
me your goods first, and I'll make my choice. After that, 
we'll arrive at an arrangement as to value.' 

* I think, Mr. Nathan,' the proprietor obser/ed to the 
smug-faced young man, who fell back crestfallen, ' I'd better 
attend to this gentleman myself.' For he plainly foresaw 
hard bargaining. * I've met you before, sir, I believe,* he 
went on, * Mr. Solomons of Hillborough ?' 

Mr. Solomons nodded. 

* My name, sir,* he answered. * I was recommended here 
by our mutual friend, Mocatta. And I want to see some 
diamond necklets.' 

The proprietor did not fall into the smug-faced young 
man's juvenile error. He knew his trade too well. The 
two fellow-tribesmen had measured one another at a glance. 
He brought down a couple of cases and opened them 
temptingly before Mr. Solomons' face. Mr. Solomons 
turned them over with critical hand and eye. 

* Not good enough,' he said laconically, and the proprietor 
noAdeA, 

'How are these?' tlie ^e^eWet ^"^^^^ j^Vic^tl^ ^ Vat'^<5at 
note, three octaves up on tYi^ gaimxsA. ol Y'^t^* 
Mr. Solomons regarded tVv^m m\i\i ^ ^V^^^-^ ^^^^^^"w^.^' 



A TRANSACTION IN DIAMONDS 327 

He knew exactly how much he meant to give (which was 
just why he refrained from mentioning a figure), and he 
thought these were probably far above his intention. In 
fact, in order to clarify his conceptions and bring his rusty 
knowledge well up to date, he had already priced several 
small lots of gems that very morning at several Christian 
jewellers*. 

* How much?* he asked suspiciously. For he had come 
to a shop of his own race for the express reason that here 
only could he indulge in the luxury of bargaining. 

* Four hundred pounds,' the proprietor said, looking hard 
at him without moving a muscle. 

Mr. Solomons shook his head resolutely. 

* More than I want to give,* he replied in that tone of 
conviction which precludes debate. *It won't do. Show 
me another.' 

The proprietor gauged the just mean at once. 

* Try these, then,' he said persuasively. 

Mr. Solomons* eye picked out its choice at a glance. 
'That'll do,' he answered, selecting one that precisely 
suited as to quality. * Lowest figure for this ?' 
The proprietor glanced at him with inquiring eyes. 

* What do you want it for T he asked, 

' It's for a lady of title,* Mr. Solomons answered, swelling 
with just pride. * What'U you take for it?' 

The proprietor put his head on one side reflectively. 
' We have a fixed price, of course,' he said. 

* Of — course,' Mr. Solomons echoed slowly. 

*But to you, Mr. Solomons, as a friend of our friend 
Mocatta's, and as it's for a present, apparently, we'll consent 
to make it — three hundred guineas.' 

* Why we?* Mr. Solomons inquired abstractedly. *I 
came here Relieving I dealt between man and man, I 
object to we. I deal with principals.' 

*ril make it three hundred, then,' the proprietor corrected 
gravely. 

* Why guineas ?* Mr. Solomons went on once more with 
chilly precision. * No, don't say pounds, please. That's 
why I ask you. Why make it guineas? You put it in 
guineas for people with whom you T[i^"8.T5L \»ci ^\?c^^ <^ "^^^ 
odd Bhillings only. That won't flio iox t^i^."^^'^^^,^^^ 

that. As a basis for negoUatlotis, Vi ^om ^X^^^^^^'^.^^^^ 



328 THE SCALLYWAG 



\ 



with pounds. Begin with pounds, I say, Mr. Zachariai: 
mind, hcgin^ you understand, not end with them.' 

' Begin with three hundred and fifteen poonds ?^ the pro- 
prietor queried, with his small eyes blinking. 

* Certainly, if you wish it,' Mr. Solomons went on. * Tve 
no objection to your putting on the extra fifteen pounds- 
three hundred shiUings to cover the guineas — ^if it gives yoa 
any pleasure : as, of course, we shall only have to knock 
them off at once again. Well, we go on, then, to three 
hundred pounds for this necklet. • . . Now, Mr. Zachaiias, 
what do you take me for ? 

And then began that sharp contest of wits that Mr. 
Solomons delighted in, and in which Mr. Zacharias, to do 
him justice, was no unworthy antagonist. The two men's 
eyes gleamed with the joy of the conflict as they joined in 
the fray. It was to them what a game of chess or a debate 
in the House is to keen, intellectual combatants of another 
order. They understood one another perfectly — ^too perfectly 
to have recourse to the petty blandishments and transparent 
deceptions wherewith Mr. Zacharias might have attempted 
to cajole an accidental purchaser. It was Greek meet 
Greek, diamond cut diamond. The price was to be settled, 
not in current coin of the realm, but in doubtful paper. 
And it was to be arrived at by a curious process of double- 
bargaining, greatly to the taste of either diplomatist. Mr, 
Solomons was first to bate down Mr. Zacharias to a given 
price, say a hundred and fifty, and Mr. Zacharias was then 
to bate down the doubtful bills till he had arrived at last at 
a proximate equation between the two sums agreeable to 
both parties. And to this congenial contest they both 
addressed their wits in high good-humour, entering into it 
with the zest that every man displays when pitted against a 
foeman just worthy of his steel, in a sport at which both are 
acknowledged masters. 

The debate was long, exciting, and varied. But in the 
end the game was drawn, each side coming off with honour- 
able scars and insignificant trophies. Mr. Solomons calcu- 
lated that he had got the necklet for two hundred and forty- 
five pounds* worth of doubtful paper, and that it might fairly 
be valued at two hundred and fifty. Mr. Zacharias calcu- 
lated that a knowing cuatotivet im^\» Xi'aN^ V'aSL *Ocir^ \^^o^^ 
for two hundred and iort^-^'^^ i^o\m^^, ^^^ 'Cw^xsjsx^ ^^-v^v 



A TRANSACTION IN DIAMONDS 329 

ful bills would probably realize, when discounted, two 
hundred and sixty. So each left off well satisfied with his 
morning's work, besides having had a long hour's good in- 
tellectual exercise for his money. 

And Mr. Solomons went away with the pleasing convic- 
tion that if Sir Paul Gascoyne, for example, had bought the 
necklet in the regular way at a West End jeweller's, he 
would no doubt have paid that enterprising tradesman the 
original three hundred guineas demanded for it. Of so great 
avail is it to a wise man to know the City. 

By an odd coincidence, that very same day Paul, for his 
part, received three letters, all tending greatly to disconcert 
his settled poHcy. The first two came by the morning post, 
the third followed by the eleven o'clock delivery. Was this 
design or accident ? Who shall say ? Fortune, that usually 
plays us such scurvy tricks, now and again indulges, by way 
of change, in a lucky coincidence. 

The first of his letters Paul opened was from Fowey, 
where Nea was not. It was brief and paternal — the British 
father in his favourite character of practical common-sense, 
enforcing upon giddy and sentimental youth the business 
aspect of life as a commercial speculation. Much as the 
Eeverend Walter Blair, Clerk in Holy Orders, esteemed the 
prospective honour of counting Sir Paul Gascoyne, Baronet, 
as his son-in-law, he must point out to Sir Paul at last that 
this eugagementi was running to a truly preposterous length, 
and that some sort of effort ought to be made to terminate 
it. * Does that mean break it off ?' Paul queried internally, 
with a horrid sort of alarm. But no ; the next sentence 
reassured his startled soul as to that doubtful verb. The 
Eeverend Walter Blair had the fullest confidence in his 
young friend's ability to support his daughter in a way 
suitable to her position in life, and would urge, on the 
contrary, that the marriage should be entered into — great 
heavens I what was this ? — on the earliest opportunity 1 If 
not — the Eeverend Walter Blair was conveniently vague as 
to what might follow upon his non-compliance : but Paul's 
heart went down with a very violent sinking indeed as he 
thought how much that paternal reticence might possibly 
cover. Vague visions of Nea wedded agja.v\va;^ VvKt ^^ V^^ 
boundless imagination of youth, l") to «i TCi\yXi\iO\v-\»^^^^'«^^^^ 
squire of restricted intelligence oy^x^^^^Sl \iv^ ^^^* **^ 



33© THE SCALLYWAG 

though anybody— even a society mother — could marry off 
an English girl of Nea Blair's type where she didn't wish to 
be married I Why, Mrs. Partington with the ocean at her 
doors had a comparatively wide and correct conception of 
character and conduct. 

He broke open the second letter, posted at Sheffield, and 
skimmed it through hurriedly. To his immense surprise it 
pointed in precisely the same direction as Mr. Blair's. 
Since Nea had been with her, Faith said, in her simple 
sisterly fashion, she had noticed moro than once that that 
dear girl was growing positively thin and ill with the 
harassing care of a long engagement. Nea was a dear, and 
would never complain ; not for worlds would she add a jot 
to Paul's heavy burden while he had still that debt of Mr. 
Solomons' on his hands ; but still. Faith thought, it was 
hard she should be wasting her golden youth when she 
ought to be happy and enjoy her ladyship while it would be 
of most satisfaction and service to her. And since Mr. 
Solomons himself approved of the union, as Nea told her, 
why, Faith, for her part, could hardly imagine what reasons 
could induce Paul to shilly-shally any longer. * And Charlie 
says,' the letter went on, * he fully agrees with me.' 

At eleven o'clock, to clinch it all, came a brief little note 
from Nea herself, design or accident : 

* Dear Faith has been declaring to me for the last two 
days, Paul darling, that it's positively wicked of me to keep 
you waiting and despairing any longer ; and this morning, 
by an odd coincidence, the enclosed note came from papa. 
You will see from it that he's very much in earnest indeed 
about the matter, and that he objects to our engagement 
remaining so long indefinite. So, Paul, they've easily suc- 
ceeded between them at last in talking me over ; and if you 
think as they do — . 

' Your always, 

' Nea.' 

Paul laid down the note, and reflected seriously. 



'PUTTING ON THE SCREW 



CHAPTER XLVIL 

'PUTTING ON THE BCHEW 




aillE combination was too strong in the end 
for Paul, Faith and Nea, backed up by 
Mr, Solomons' advice and Mr, Blair's pro- 
test, were more than the sternest virtue 
could resist— especially when inclination it- 
self lay disturbing the balance in the self- 
same scale. Paul wavered — and was lo^t. Before he knew 
exactly how it was all happening, he fonnd himself tho 
central, though secondary, figure of a domestic event. He 
was given to understand by all parties concerned that ha 
had been duly selected by esternal destiny for the post of 
bridegroom in a forthcoming wedding. 

And, indeed, if he continued to harbour any passing 
doubts upon the subject himself, the periodical literature of 
his country must shortly have undeceived him, Por, 
happening to drop in at his club the nest Saturday after- 
noon — as a jourBalist, Paul had regarded the luxury of 
membership at the Cheyne Row as a trade expense — he 
lighted by chance upon a paragraph of gossip in that well- 
known second-rate society paper, the Whisperer : ' A 
marriage has just been arranged, and will take place early 
next month, between Sir Paul Gascoyne, Bart., of Hill- 
borough, and Nea Mary, only daughter of tho Eev. Walter 
Blair, Eector of Lanhydran, near Fowey, Cornwall, Sir 
Paul, though he rejoices in the dignity of a fourteenth 
baronet, and boasts some of the bluest blood in Glamorgan- 
shire, is by no means overwhelmed with this world's wealth; 
but hia career at Christ Church was sufficiently dis- 
tinguished, and he has since made his marlc more generally 
as B. journalist and essayist in the London Press. Unless 
he throws away his opportunities and wastes hia talents, 
the new proprietor ought to do much in time to restore the 
lost glories of Gascoyne Manor,' 

A fiery red spot burnt in Paul'scbeek as he laid down tha 
indiscreet sheet vrith its annoying b\\m4fttft, ii.tA. -^-vitsA. -osft, 
tor a change, its rival, the Blab oi o.^Ne^\a.^*.T &*h.&. '^^^'^S^V 
aimoBt the first words that met \iK e^^a ■ww«> 'CQ.«t» *™*" 



331 THE SCALLYWAG 

composed his own name, staring him in the face in ihi^ 
rudely obtrusive way that one's own name always does sUn 
at one from a printed paper. «No, no, Arthur^* theodite 
of the Blab remarked, in his gently colloquial style to bis 
brother chronicler ; * you're out of it this time about young 
Gascoyne, of Christ Church. Sir Paul iEmery Howard Gts- 
coyne — to give him the full benefit of his empty title, forii 
carries no money — ^is the fifteenth — not, as you say, the 
fourteenth — baronet of that ancient family. He is not oi 
Hillborough, which was only the place where lus late 
respected papa carried on a harmless, though ns^ 
calling ; but of a decent lodging-house in Somers Eow, 
Gower Street. He has nothing to do in any way nvith 
Gascoyne Manor, the old seat of his ancestors, which is the 
property of a distant and not over-friendly cousin. And if 
you mean to insinuate by certain stray hints about wasted 
opportunities and so forth and so forth, that Miss Blair, his 
future wife, has money of her own, allow us to assure yon, 
on the very best authority, that the lady's face is her 
fortune — and a very pretty fortune, too, it might have 
been, if she hadn't chosen to throw it away recklessly on a 
penniless young journalist with a useless baronetcy. How- 
ever, Sir Paul has undoubtedly youth and brains on his 
side, and, if yoic don't succeed in spoiling his style, will, no 
doubt, manage to pull through in the end by the aid of a 
pen which is more smart than gentlemanly. Give him a 
post on your staff outright, dear Arthur, and he'll exactly 
suit the requirements of the Whisperer.* 

Paul fluDg down the paper with a still angrier face. 
But, whatever else he felt, one thing was certain : he 
couldn't now delay getting married to Nea. 

The opinion of others has a vast effect upon even the 
most individualistic amongst us. And so it came to pass, 
that Paul Gascoyne was dragged, at last, half against his 
will, into marrying Nea within the month, without having 
ever got rid of his underlying feeling that to do so was 
certainly foolish and almost wicked. 

The wedding was to take place at Lanhydran, of course ; 
and such a gathering of the clans from all parts of the 
world the little Cornish village had seldom witnessed I 
Charlie Thistleton and "FaVVi^ N<jer^ «Jt ^^^^vs^^otx \»<^ xc^ssiw 
Paul and accompany him do^Tv\ ^V^\^ ^"^^ x^^'^x.^^-^x^sj^sr 



'PUTTING ON THE SCREW 333 

p and his wife, unable to avoid this further chance of identi- 
■ fying themselves with the Gascoyne family, were to follow 
I in their wake half a day later. Paul was delighted to find 
i that Faith, whom he hadn't seen for a year, had changed 
H less than he expected, and far less than he feared. She 
li had expanded with the expansion in her position, to be sure, 
I as Mr. Solomons noted, and was quite at home in her new 
I surroundings. Less than that would be to be less a woman; 
: but she retained all her old girlish simplicity, for all that, 
I and she was quite as fiercely herself in sentiment as ever. 
I * We'll travel first, Faith,' Charlie Thistleton said apolo- 
getically, * for the sake of getting a carriage to ourselves. 
I know you and Paul will want to have a little family 
confab together, after not seeing one another so long ; now, 
won't you ?* 

* Oh, well, if you put it on that ground,* Faith answered, 
mollified, * I don't mind going first just this once, to please 
you. Though up in the North Country, Paul, I always 
insist upon travelling third still, just to scandalize Charlie's 
grand acquaintances. When they ask me why, I always 
say, ** Because that's what I'm accustomed to; I never 
could afford to go second before I was married." And you 
should just see their faces when I add quietly, ** Sir Paul 
and I were never rich enough to get beyond thirds, and 
I suppose poor Paul will have to go third as long as he 
lives, for he doesn't mean, like me, to marry above him." ' 

* But I do,' Paul answered, with a gentle smile. * I 
remember, when I first met dear Nea at Mentone, what an 
awful swell I thought her, and how dreadfully afraid I was 
even of talking to her.* 

* Well, run and get the tickets, Charlie,' Mrs. Thistleton 
said, turning to her obedient slave ; ' and if by any chance 
Mrs. Douglas is going down by this particular train, try to 
keep out of her way; for I want, if possible, to have my 
brother to myself for the last time this one long journey.* 

By the aid of half a crown, judiciously employed in con- 
travening the company*s regulations as to gratuities to 
porters, they succeeded in maintaining the desired privacy ; 
and Faith could gossip to her heart's content with Pojil 
about everything that had happened s\ii.(i%>iXx^\t\^'^H»Ta5b^- 
ing. She was particularly curioua to ^ixo^ ^ox^X.'^^-'^s^^ 
moDs — his ways and doings. 



334 THE SCALLYWAG 

* I always thought, do you know, Paul/ she said^ * that, 
in a certain sort of queer, unacknowledged way, Mr. Solo- 
mons had an undercurrent of sneaking regard for you — a 
personal liking for you, and a pride in what he*s made of 
you. I don't think it was all mere desire for your money.* 

* I don't know, I'm sure,' Paul answered. * I've a great 
regard for Mr. Solomons myself. I'm sure it's to him 
entirely I owe my present position, such as it is. And I 
beheve he honestly desired, in his way, to serve me. The 
idea of the baronetcy going to waste, as a marketable com- 
modity, first weighed upon his mind, of course. Whether 
it was his own, or whether it was somebody else's, it vexed 
his good commercial soul to see so much intrinsic value 
lunning away, as it were, hke beer from a barrel, all for 
nothing. But when once he got fairly embarked in the 
scheme, it became an end in itself to him — his favourite 
idea, his pet investment ; and I was a part of it : he hked 
me because he had made me himself. It gave him import- 
ance in his own eyes to be mixed up with the faudly of an 
English baronet' 

* Oh, I'm sure he likes all your family personally,' Charlie 
Thistleton put in, in spite of a warning look from his wife. 
* You should hear the way he writes to Faith about you 1' 

* Writes to Faith !' Paul repeated, surprised. 

* Well — yes,' CharUe answered, pulling himself up short 
with the contrite air of the husband who knows he has 
exceeded his wife's instructions. * He wrote a letter to 
Faith about you once — some months ago ; and he said he 
was proud of the position you were making for yourself in 
literary London. Ho also remarked you were paying up 
arrears with pleasing promptitude.' 

' It's curious he makes you go on paying, and grinding 
you so hard,' Faith mused meditatively, ' when he's got 
nobody left on earth now to grind you for.' 

' It's habit 1' Paul answered — ' mere ingrained habit. He 
grinds by instinct. And he likes to feel, too, that I'm able 
to pay him. He hkes to think his money wasn't wasted or 
his confidence misplaced. Though he considers me a fool 
for not marrying an heiress, he considers, too. it proves his 
own sagacity that he should \iai\ft Vxio^XL"^^ \^;^^\lo &tone 

jHii^izraed till I'd honestly repaid Yiira: ^ ^ ^. 

t ^It'3 a great pity/ CharUe T\naWe\.^iD. yd^t^^^.V^J*^ 



* PUTTING ON THE SCREW* 535 

^ out of the window and delivering himself slowly of an 
I abstract opinion ^t^ro^os of nothing in particular, *that some 
'people are so devilish proud as they are. They'd rather toil 
and slave and worry themselves for a lifetime, than accept 
. paltry unimportant hundreds from their friends and a few 
' relations.' 

* Oh, Charlie ! he couldn't !' Faith cried, flushing up. * He 
wouldn't be Paul at all if he did that. I know we'd all love 
to help him if it was possible. But it isn't possible. Any- 
body who knows him knows he'll never be satisfied till he's 
worked it all off and paid it himself. Mr. Solomons knows 
it; and perhaps that's why he's so hard upon him, even. 
He wants to give him a spur and a stimulus to work, so that 
he may get it all paid off as soon as possible, and be free to 
do better things in the end for himself and Nea.' 

* My dear child/ Charlie put in, ' you're really too trust- 
ful' 

* Well, anyhow, he wants Paul to marry Nea, now/ 
Faith said, relapsing into her corner. 

* Because he thinks I'll work better when it's all settled,' 
Paul retorted, half undecided himself which side to take. 
* There's no doubt about it, Faith, he's grown harder and 
more money-grubbing than ever since Lionel Solomons died. 
He reckons every farthing and grumbles over every delay. 
I suppose it's because he's got nothing else left to live for 
now. But he certainly grinds me very hard indeed, and 
wants more every time, as if he was afraid he'd never live 
to get back his money.' 

* Ah, that*s it, you see 1' Faith answered. * That's just 
the explanation. While that horrid boy was alive, he 
expected to leave his money to him; and if Mr. Solomons 
himself didn't get the return, Lionel would have got it. 
But now, he must have it all repaid in his own lifetime, or 
it'll be no use to him. What -does it matter to him, after 
all, whether the Jewish Widows and Orphans have a hun- 
dred or a thousand more or less? It's only the pursuit of 
money for its own sake that's left him now. He goes on 
with that by mere use and custom.* 

All the way down to Cornwall, in fact, they discussed this 
important matter, and others of more preE«A3a%^\A \sasssj^- 
diate interest; and all the way 3lon<jtl ^«^^iX\. TL^M\Rfc^ ^^oaS^v 
Paul was going to his wedding N^itti m^xii ^w^ ^qk^h.^ ^«i» 



336 THE SCALLYWAG 

mis^yingd on his mind as to whether or not he was right at' 
all in marrying under such circumstances. It's hard for a 
man to start on his honeymoon with a millstone round his 
neck : and Faith cordially pitied him. Yet, none the less, 
she was characteristically proud of him for that very feeling. 
Paul would have been less of a Gascoyne, she felt, if he 
could have accepted aid or help in such a strait from any 
man. He had made his own maze, no matter how long 
since, and now he must puzzle his own way out of it. 

At Fowey Station a strange surprise awaited them. They 
got out of th^ir carriage, and saw on the platform a familiar 
figure which quite took Faith's breath away. 

* Mr. Solomons 1* she exclaimed in astonishment. * You 
here I This is indeed * — she was just going to say * an un- 
expected pleasure' — but native truthfulness came to her 
aid in time, and she substituted instead the very non-com- 
nutting word * wonderful 1' 

Mr. Solomons, somewhat bluer in the face than was his 
wont, drew himself up to his full height of five feet five as he 
extended his hand to her with a cordial welcome. He had 
never looked so blooming before since poor Leo's death. 
Nor had Faith ever seen him so closely resemble a well-to-do 
solicitor. He had spared no pains or expense, indeed, on 
his sartorial get-up. All that the tailor's art and skill could 
do had been duly done for him. He was faultlessly attired 
in positively neat and gentlemanly clothes ; for he had put 
himself implicitly in the hands of a good West End house ; 
and, distrusting his own taste and that of his race, had 
asked to be dressed from head to foot in a style suitable for 
a baronet's wedding-party. The result was really and 
truly surprising. Mr. Solomons, with a flower in his button- 
hole and a quiet tie round his neck, looked positively almost 
like a Jewish gentleman. 

* Well, yes, Mrs. Thistleton,' the old money-lender said, 
with a deep-blue blush. ' I fancied you'd be rather taken 
aback when you saw ma It isn't every day that I get an 
invitation to a wedding in high life ; but Miss Blair was 
kind enough to send me a card ; and I thought, as I was one 
of Sir Paul's oldest and earliest friends, I could hardly let 
the occasion pass without properly honouring it. So I've 

taken rooms by telegraph at the hotel in the town ; and I 
Jiope to see you all by-and-by «A» tti^ cJclmt^^i Qx^'^Wt^d^Y*' 




MR. SOLOMONS COMES OUT 337 

* The apparition was hardly a pleasant one for Paul. If 
the truth must be confessed, he would have liked, if possible, 
on that one day in his life, if never before or after, to be free 
from the very shadow of Mr. Solomons' presence. But Nea 
had no doubt good reasons of her own for asking him — Nea 
was always right — and so Paul grasped his old visitor's hand 
as warmly as he could, as he muttered in a somewhat choky 
and dubious voice a half-inarticulate * Thank you V 



CHAPTEE XLVIII. 

■ * 

MB. SOLOMONS COMES OUT. 

[HE wedding-day came, and the gathering of 
the clans at Lanhydran Church was indeed 
conspicuous. Mrs. Douglas was there from 
Oxford (with the Arcadian Professor well in 
tow), discoursing amicably to Faith of the 
transcendent merits of blue blood, and of how perfectly 
certain she was that, sooner or later, Paul would take 
his proper place in Parliament, and astonish the world 
with some magnificent scheme for Imperial Federation, 
or for the Total Abolition of Poverty and Crime in Great 
Britain and Ireland. The Thistletons senior were there 
looking bland and impressive, with the consciousness of 
having given the bride as handsome a present as anybody 
else in all the wedding-party was likely to bestow upon her. 
Half a dozen of Paul's undergraduate friends or London 
acquaintances had come down to grace the ceremony by 
their august presence, or to make copy for society papers 
out of the two young people's domestic felicity. The county 
of Cornwall was there in full force to see a pretty Cornish 
girl recruit the ranks of metropolitan aristocracy. And Mr. 
Solomons was there, with hardly a trace of that cold, hard 
manner left upon his face, and his fingers finding their way 
with a fumbling twitch every now and again to his right 
coat-tail pocket, which evidently contained some unknown 
object to whose continued safety Mr. Solomons attached 
immense, and indeed overwhelming, importance. 

As for Nea, she looked as charming as ever — as charming, 
Paul thought, as on that very first day yi\iexi Vis^ V^^ ^^"^\:^ 



338 THE SCALLYWAG 

her and fallen in love with her on the promenade at 
Mentone. And when at last in the vestry, after all was over, 
he was able to print one kiss on her smooth white forehead, 
and to say * my wife * in real earnest, he forgot for the 
moment all other thoughts in the joy of that name, and felt 
as though Mr. Solomons and his hapless Claims had never 
existed. 

Mr. Solomons himself, however, was by no mewis disposed 
to let the opportunity pass by so easily. As soon as every- 
body had signed the book and claimed the customary kiss 
from the bride, Mr. Solomons, too, pressed forward with a 
certain manifest eagerness on his impulsive countenance. 
He took Nea's two hands in his own with a fatherly air, 
and clasped them tight for a moment, quite tremulous with 
emotion. Nea held up her blushing cheek timidly. Mr. 
Solomons drew back. A maiden fear oppressed his soul. 
This was too much honour. He had never expected it. 
* Dare I, my lady T he asked in a faltering voice. He was 
the first who had called her so. Nea replied with a smile 
and a deeper blush. Mr. Solomons leant forward with 
instinctive courtesy, and, bending his head, just touched 
with the tips of his pursed-up lips that dainty small hand of 
hers. It was the greatest triumph of his life — a reward for 
that doubtful and dangerous long investment. That he 
should live to kiss with his own two lips the hand of the 
lady of an English baronet I 

As he rose again, blushing bluer in the face than ever, he 
drew from his pocket a large morocco case, and taking out 
of it a necklet of diamonds set in gold, he hung them grace- 
fully enough round Nea's neck with an unobtrusive move- 
ment. A chorus of admiring *Ohs 1' went up all round from 
the circling group of women. Mr. Solomons had loosed his 
little bolt neatly. He had chosen the exact right moment 
for presenting his wedding gift. Even old Mr. Thistleton, 
complacent and urbane, was taken aback by the shimmer- 
ing glitter of the pretty baubles, and reflected with some 
chagrin that his own set of massive silver dessert-dishes was 
thrown quite into the shade now by Mr. Solomons* diamonds. 

Paul was the only person who failed to appreciate the 

magnificence of the present. He saw, indeed, with surprise 

that Mr. Solomons had presented Nea with a very pretty 

necklet. But beyond that vagvie feeling he realized nothing. 



■XU L^U 'i^" 



MR. SOLOMONS COMES OUT 339 

He was too simply a man to attach much importance to 
those useless gewgaws. 

The breakfast followed, with its usual accompaniments 
of champagne and speeches. The ordinary extraordinary 
virtues were discovered in the bridegroom, and the invari- 
ably exceptional beauty and sweetness of the bride met with 
their due meed of extravagant praise. Nothing could be 
more satisfactory than everyone's opinion of everyone else. 
All the world had always known that Sir Paul would attain 
in the end to the highest honours literature could hold out 
to her ambitious aspirants — perhaps even to the editorship 
of the Tivies newspaper. All the world had always con- 
sidered that Lady Gascoyne — how Nea sat there blushing 
and tingling with delight as she heard that long-expected 
title now really and truly at last bestowed upon her — 
deserved exactly such a paragon of virtue, learning, and 
talent as the man who had that day led her to the altar. 
Everybody said very nice things about the bridesmaids and 
their probable fate in the near future. Everybody was 
polite, and appreciative, and eulogistic, so that aU the world 
seemed converted for the moment into a sort of private 
Lanhydran Mutual Admiration Society, Limited, and 
believed as such, with unblushing confidence. 

At last, Mr. Solomons essayed to speak. It was in 
answer to some wholly unimportant toast; and as he rose 
he really looked even more like a gentleman. Faith thought 
to herself, than at the station last evening. He put his 
hand upon the table to steady himself, and gazed long at 
Paul. Then he cleared his throat and began nervously, in 
a low tone that was strangely unfamiliar to him. He said 
a few words, not without a certain simple dignity of their 
own, about the immediate subject to which he was supposed 
to devote his oratorical powers ; but in the course of half 
a minute he had wandered round to the bridegroom, as is 
the oblique fashion with most amateur speakers on these 
trying occasions. * I have known Sir Paul Gascoyne,' he 
said, and Faith, watching him hard, saw with surprise that . 
tears stood in his eyes, ' ever since his head wouldn't have 
shown above this table.' He paused a second and glanced 
once more at Paul. * I've always known him,* he continued, 
in a very shaky voice, 'for what he \^ — ^^ ^^T^^i\^xcw•^»^ 
There's no truer man than Sir Paul Gaaco^i^i^ m^'^'ti^^ssxi.^ 



340 THE SCALLYWAG 

Once I had a boy of my own — a nephew — but my own— 1 
loved him dearly.' He paused once more, and struggled 
with his emotion. 'Now I've nobody left me but Sir Paul/ 
he went on, his eyes swimming, ' and I love Sir Paul as I 

never could have loved any — any — any * 

Faith rose and caught him. Mr. Solomons was bluer 
in the face now than ever before. He gasped for breath, he 
staggered as he spoke, and accepted Faith's arm with a 
quiet gratitude. 

* Dear Mr. Solomons,* Faith said, supporting him, * you'd 
better sit down now, at once — hadn't you ?' 

* Yes, yes, my dear,' Mr. Solomons cried, bursting all of 
a sudden into hasty tears, more eloquent than his words, 
and subsiding slowly. 'I've always said, and I shall always 
say, that your brother Paul's the very best young fellow in 
all England.' 

And he sank into his seat. 

Have you ever noticed that, after all's over, the bride 
and bridegroom, becoming suddenly conscious that they're 
terribly faint, and have eaten and drunk nothing themselves 
owing to the tempest and whirlwind of congratulations, in- 
variably retire in the end to the deserted dining-room, with 
three or four intimate friends, for a biscuit and a glass of 
claret? In that position Paul and Nea found themselves 
half an hour later, with Faith and Thistleton to keep them 
company. 

'But what does this all mean about Mr. Solomons?' 
Faith inquired in an undertone. 'Did you ever see any- 
thing so queer and mysterious as his behaviour ?' 

' Why, I don't know about that,' Paul answered. ' I 
saw nothing very odd in it. He's always known me, of 
course, and he was naturally pleased to see me so well 
married.' 

' Well, but Paul dear,' Faifch exclaimed impressively, 'just 
think of the necklet I' 

'The necklet r Paul answered in a careless tone. * Oh 
yes, the necklet was very pretty.' 

' But what did he mean by giving it to her ?' Faith asked 
once more in an excited whisper. 'I think, myself, it's 
awfully symptomatic' 

* Symptomatic T Paul echoed inquiringly. 

'Why, yes/ Faith repealed. * ^^^\£\^^'Oa^\I\<i, c>l Q.ck\irso. 



MR. SOLOMONS COMES OUT 341 

Such a lovely present as that I What on earth else could 
he possibly give it to her for T 

'Everybody who comes to a wedding gives the bride a 
present, don't they?' Paul asked, a little mystified, *I 
always thought, after we met him at Eowey Station, Mr. 
Solomons would give a present to Nea. He's the sort of 
man who likes things done decently and in order. He'd 
make a point of giving tithe of mint, anise, and cummin,* 

' Mint, anise,'and cummin 1' Faith retorted contemptuously. 
*Why, what do you think that necklet would cost, you 
stupid T 

* I'm sure I don't know,' Paul answered ; * five pounds, I 
suppose, or something of that sort,' 

* Eive pounds I' the two women repeated in concert, with 
a burst of amusement. 

* Why, Paul dear,' Nea went on, taking it off and handing 
it to him, ' that necklet must have cost at least three hun- 
dred guineas the set — at least three hundred 1' 

Paul turned it over dubiously, with an awe-struck air, 
* Are you sure, Nea?' he asked incredulously. 

'Quite sure, dear/ Nea answered, 'And so's Faith; 
aren't you. Faith ?' 

Faith nodded acquiescence. 

* Well, all I can say,' Paul replied, examining the- thing 
closely with astonished eyes, * is — it doesn't look worth it.' 

' Oh yes 1' Faith put in, admiring it, all enthusiasm. 
'Why, they're just lovely, PauL It's the most beautiful 
necklet I ever saw anywhere.' 

' But what did he do it for ?' Paul asked in amaze. It 
was his turn now to seek in vain for some hidden motive, 

*Ah, that's the question,' Charlie Thistleton continued 
with a blank stare. * I suppose he thought Lady Gascoyne 
ought to have jewels worthy of her position.' 

' I don't know,* Paul went on, drawing his hand across 
his brow with a puzzled air. * If it's worth what you say, 
it's one of the strangest things I ever heard. Three hun- 
dred pounds I Why, that'd be a lot of money for anybody 
to spend upon it.' 

To say the truth, he looked at the diamonds a trifle rue- 
fully. In the first flush of surprise he almost wondered 
whether, when he next called round at t»\i'^ ^^^ ^^^^^ 
'S-illborpvigh, Mr. gojomgns ^Qu\d^8k.ul\3it?^^»^^'^^^5w^^^^ 



342 THE SCALLYWAG 

bond for three hundred pounds, wifch interest at twenty per 
cent, per annum, for jewellery supplied for Lady Gascoyne's 
wedding. 

At that moment a flutter in the coterie disturbed him. 
He roused himself from his reverie to see Mr. Solomons 
gazing in at the open door, and evidently pleased at the 
attention the party was bestowing upon his treasured 
diamonds. 

Nea looked up at him with that sunny smile of hers. 

* We're all admiring your lovely present, Mr. Solomons,' 
she said, dangling it once more before him. 

Mr. Solomons came in, still very blue in the face, and 
took her two hands affectionately in his, as he had done in 
the vestry. 

* My. dear,' he said, gazing at her with a certain paternal 
pride, * when I first knew Sir Paul was going to marry you, 
or was thinking of marrying you, I won't pretend to deny I 
was very much disappointed. I thought he ought to have 
looked elsewhere for money — money. I wanted him to 
marry a woman of wealth. . . . My dear, I was wrong — I 
was quite wrong. Sir Paul was a great deal wiser in his 
generation than I was. He knew something that was better 
far than money.' He drew a deep sigh. * I could wish,' he 
went on, holding her hands tight, *that all those I loved had 
been as wise as he is. Since I saw you, my dear,- I've 
appreciated his motives. I won't say I'm not disappointed 
now — to say merely that would be poor politeness — I'm 
happy and .proud at the choice he's made — I, who am — per- 
haps — well, there — your husband's oldest and nearest friend 
at Hillborough.' 

He gazed across at her once more, tenderly, gently. 
Paul was surprised to find the old man had so much chivalry 
left in him still. Then he leaned forward yet a second time 
and kissed her white little hand wifch old-fashioned courtesy. 

' Good-bye, my dear,' he said, pressing it. * Good-bye, 
Sir Paul ; IVe a train to catch, for I've business in London 
— important business in London — and I thought I'd better 
go up by the train before the one you and Lady Gascoyne 
have chosen. But I wanted to say good-bye to you both 
quietly in here before I went. My child, this is the proudest 
day I ever remember. I've mixed on equal terms with the 
gentlefolk of England. Vm nol uTimm^lxjX <A ^ \J^^V5ca.d« 



TO PARIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLINGS 343 

noss and sympathy you'va all extended this morning to an 
old Jew money-lender. My own have never been to me as 
you and Paul have been to-day,' Ho buret into tears again. 
' From my heart, I thank you, my dear,' he cried out, 
faltering ; ' Irom my poor old," worn-oat, broken-down heart, 
en thousand timea I thank yoo.' 

And before Paul in his amazement could blurt out a 
single word in reply he bad kissed her hand agaja with hot 
tears falling on it, and glided from the door towards the 
front entry. Next minute ho was walking down the garden- 
path to the gate, erect and sturdy, but crying silently to 
himself as he bad never cried in his life before since Lionel 
betrayed bim. 

CHAPTER XLIS. 



JOURNALIST'S holiday is always short. 
Paul bad arranged for a fortnight away 
from London— he could afford no more — 
and to that brief span he had to cut down 
his honeymoon. But he was happy now in 
his full possession of Nea — too happy, in- 
deed, when all was irrevocably done, even to think of the 
shadow of those outlying claims that still remained un- 
satisfied in the safe at HiUboroagh. 

In a fortnight a man can't go very far. 60 Paul was 
content to take his bride across to Paria On their way 
back he meant to stop for a couple of nights at Hill borough, 
where he could do his work as well as in town, so that Nea' 
might make his mother's acquaintance. Por Mrs. Gascoyne 
had wisely refused to be present at the wedding. She pre- 
ferred, she said, to know Paul's wife more quietly after- 
wards, whon Nea could take her as she was, and know her 
for herself, without feeling ashamed of her before her fine 
relations. 

It was late autumn, and the town was delightful. To 
both Paul and Nea, Paris was equally new ground, and 
they revelled, as young people will, before they know any 
better, in the tawdry delights of that meretricious ca^itol. 
JDon't let us blame them, wo tjIio axe "ASi^t wjft.'riwst iw^ 




344 THE SCALLYWAG 

have found out Paris. At their age, remember, we, too, 
admired its glitter and its din ; we, too, were taken in by its 
cheap impressiveness ; and we, too, had not risen above the 
common vulgarities of the boulevards and the Bois and the 
Champs Elys^es. We found in the Fran9ai8 that odious 
form of entertainment — ' an intellectual treat ' ; and we 
really believed in the Haussmannesque monstrosities that 
adorn its streets as constituting what we called^ in the 
gibberish of our heyday, *a very fine city.' If we know 
better noW — ^if we understand that a Devonshire lane is 
worth ten thousand Palais Eoyals, and a talk under the 
trees with a pretty girl is sweeter than all the tents of 
iniquity — let us, at least, refrain from flaunting our more 
excellent way before the eyes of a giddy Philistine world, 
and let us pardon to youth, in the flush of its honeymoon, a 
too ardent attachment to the Place de la Concorde and the 
Magasins du Louvre. 

Yet, oh, those Magasins du Louvre ! How many heart- 
burns they caused poor Paul 1 And with what unconscious 
cruelty did Nea drag him through the endless corridors of 
the Bon March6 on the other side of the water. 

* What a lovely silk ! Oh, what exquisite gloves I And 
how charming that chair would look, Paul, wouldn't it ? in 
our drawing-room in London, whenever we get one.' 

Ah, yes, whenever I For Paul now began to feel as he 
had never felt in his life before the sting of his poverty. 
How he longed to give Nea all these beautiful gewgaws: 
and how impossible he knew it I If only Nea could have 
realized the pang she gave him each time she admired those 
pretty frocks and those delightful hats and those exquisite 
things in Persian or Indian carpets, she would have cut out 
her own tongue before she mentioned them. For it was to 
be their fate for the present to live in lodgings in London 
till that greedy Mr. Solomons was finally appeased, and 
even then they would have to save up for months and 
months before they were in a position to furnish their 
humble cottage, not with Persian rugs and carved oak 
chairs, but with plain Kidderminster and a good deal suite 
from the extensive showrooms of the Tottenham Court Koad 
cabinet-maker. 

Eevolving these things in his mind, on the day before 

their return to dear foggy old "EiTx^a.n^^^wl^^^ ^t^rolUn^ 



TO PARIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLINGS 345 

with Nea down the Champs Elys^es, and thinking about 
nothing else in particular, when suddenly a bow and a smile 
from his wife, delivered towards a fiacre that rolled along 
in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe, distracted his 
attention from his internal emotions to the mundane show 
then p^issing before him. He turned and looked, A lady 
in the fiacre, remarkably well dressed, and pretty enough as 
forty-five goes, returned the bow and smile, and vainly tried 
to stop the cabman, who heeded not her expostulatory 
parasol thrust hastily towards him. 

For a moment Paul failed to recognise that perfectly well- 
bred and glassy smile. The lady was so charmingly got up 
as almost to defy detection from her nearest friend. Then, 
next instant, as the tortoiseshell eyeglasses transfixed him 
with their glance, he started and knew her. That face he 
had seen last the day when Lionel Solomons was buried. It 
was none other than the Ceriolo I 

In an agony of alarm he seized his wife's arm. He could 
never again permit his spotless Nea to be contaminated by 
that horrible woman's hateful presence. Why, if she suc- 
ceeded in turning the cab in time to meet them, the 
creature would actually try to kiss Nea before his very eyes 
— she, that vile woman whose vileness he had thoroughly 
felt on the evening of poor Lionel Solomons* funeral. 

* Nea, darling,' he cried, hurrying her along with his hand 
on her arm, ' come as fast as you can ; I don't want that 
woman there to stop and speak to you V 

* Why, it's Madame V Nea answered, a little surprised. 
* I don't care for her, of course ; but it seems so unfriendly 
— and just now above all — to deliberately cut her 1* 

* I can't help it,' Paul answered. * My darling, she's not 
fit company for you.' And then, taking her aside along the 
alley at the back, beyond the avenue and the merry-go- 
rounds, he explained to her briefly what she already knew 
in outline at least, the part they all believed Madame 
Ceriolo to have borne in luring on Lionel Solomons to his 
last awful enterprise. 

'What's she doing in Paris, I wonder?' Nea observed 
reflectively, ad they walked on down that less-frequented 
path towards the Kue de Kivoli. 

* I'm sure I don't know,' Paul answered. * ^V^^ ^^^\£i^i^ 
very well dressed. She must \iaYe ^oxa^ ^Qxxx^i^'^ <^\ S»R.«^\sis^ 



346 THE SCALLYWAG 

nobody kDOws of. She couldn't afford to drive about in a 
carriage like that on the strength of Mr. Solomons' allow- 
ance of two hundred.' 

Nea shook her head emphatically. * Oh dear no !' she 
answered, ' not anything like it. Why, she's dressed in the 
very height of fashion. Her mantle alone, if it cost a 
farthing, must have cost every bit of twenty guineas.' 

* It's curious,' Paul murtnured in reply. * I never can 
understand these people's budget. They seem to pick up 
money wherever they go. They've no visible means of 
subsistence, to speak of, yet they live on the fat of the land 
and travel about as much as they've a fancy to.' 

* It's luck,* Nea answered. * And dishonesty, too, per- 
haps. One might always be rich if one didn't care how one 
got one's money/ 

By the Place de la Concorde, oddly enough, they stumbled 
across another old Mentone acquaintance. It was Armitage, 
looking a trifle less spick-and-span than formerly, to be sure, 
but still wearing in face and coat and headgear the familiar 
air of an accomplished houlevardier. 

He struck an attitude the moment he saw them, and ex- 
tended a hand of most unwonted cordiality. One would 
have said from his manner that the scallywag had been the 
bosom-friend of his youth, and the best-beloved companion 
of his maturer years — so affectionate and so warm was his 
smile of greeting. 

* What, Gascoyne 1' he cried, coming forward and seizing 
his hand. ' You here, my dear fellow ! And Lady Gas- 
coyne too I Well, this is delightful ! I saw all about your 
marriage in the Whisperer, you know, and that you had 
started for Paris, and I was so pleased to think it was I in 
great part who had done you the good turn of first bringing 
you and Lady Gascoyne together. Well, this is indeed a 
pleasure — a most fortunate meeting ! I've been hunting up 
and down for you at every hotel in all Paris — the Grand, 
the Continental, the Windsor, the Ambassadeurs — but I 
couldn't find you anywhere. You seem to have buried 
yourself. I wanted to take you to this reception at the 
Embassy.* 

* You're very kind,' Paul answered in a reserved tone, for 
such new-born affection somewhat repelled him by its 

cj/ipresscment * We've taken xoom^ vci ^ n^\^ ^vxv%il hotel 



TO PARIS AND BACK, SIXTY SHILLINGS 347 

behind the Palais de I'lndustrie. We're poor, you know. 
We couldn't afford to stop at such places as the Grand or 
the Continental.' 

Armitage slipped his arm irresistibly into Paul's, 'I'll 
walk with you wherever you're going,* he said, * It's such 
a pleasure to meet you both again. And how long, Lady 
Gascoyne, do you remain in Paris ?' 

Nea told him, and Armitage, drawing down the corners 
of his mouth at the news, regretted their departure ex- 
cessively. There were so many things coming off this next 
week, don't you know. And the Lyttons would of course 
be so delighted to get them an invitation for that crush at 
the Elys^es. 

* We don't care for crushes, thanks,' Paul responded 
frigidly. 

' And who do you think we saw just now, up near the 
Bond Pointe, Mr. Armitage?' Nea put in, with perfect 
innocence. * Why, Madame Ceriolo.* 

* Got up younger than ever,' Paul went on with a smile. 
It was Armitage's turn to draw himself up now. 

* I beg your pardon,' he said stiffly, * but I think — a — you 
labour under a misapprehension. Her name's not Ceriolo 
any longer, you know. Perhaps I ought to have explained 
before. The truth is, you see' — he stroked his beai€ 
fondly — 'well — to cut it short — in point of fact, she's 
married.' 

* Oh yes, we know all that,' Paul answered with a care- 
less wave of the hand. ' She's Mrs. Lionel Solomons now, 
by rights, we're well aware. I was present at her husband's 
funeral. But, of course, she won't be guilty of such an 
egregious piece of folly as calling herself by her new name. 
Ceriolo's a much better name to trade upon than Solomons, 
any day.' 

Armitage dropped his arm — a baronet's arm — with a 
little sudden movement, and blushed brilliant crimson. 

* Oh, I don't mean that,' he said, looking just a little 
sheepish. * Marie's told me all that, I need hardly say. It 
was a hasty episode — mistaken, mistaken 1 Poor child I I 
don't blame her, she was so alone in the world — she needed 
companionship. I ought to have known it. And the old 
brute of an uncle behaved most shamefullY to VjAx^^a^k^ 
afterwards. But no matter abou\» VJ[i^\i, \\;^ ^Vst^^^^-t"^ 



348 THE SCALLYWAG 

Happily, Marie's a person not easily crushed. . . . What I 
meant was this. I thought perhaps you'd have seen it in 
the papers.' And he pulled out from his card-case a httle 
printed paragraph which he handed to Paul. * She was 
married at the Embassy, you see,' he went on, still more 
sheepishly than before. ' Married at the Embassy, the very 
same day as you and Lady Gascoyne. In point of fact, the 
lady you were speaking of is at this present moment — Mrs. 
Armitage.' 

' So she's caught you at last 1' was what Paul nearly 
blurted out in bis astonishment on the spur of the moment, 
but with an effort he refrained and restrained himself. * I'm 
sorry I should have said anything,' he replied instead, ' that 
might for Si moment seem disrespectful to the lady you've 
made your wife. You may be sure I wouldn't have done so 
had I in the least anticipated it.' 

* Oh, that's all right,' Armitage answered, a little crest- 
fallen, but with genial tolerance, like one well accustomed 
to such trifling criticisms. ' It doesn't surprise me in the 
least that you misjudge Marie. Many people misjudge her 
who don't know her well. I misjudged her once myself, 
I'm free to confess, as I dare say you remember. But I 
know better now. You see, it was diflQcult at first to accept 
her romantic story in full — such stories are so often a mere 
tissue of falsehoods — but it's all quite true in her case. I've 
satisfied myself on that point. She's put my mind quite at 
ease as to the real position of her relations in the Tyrol. 
They're most distinguished people, I assure you, the Ceriolos 
of Ceriolo— most distinguished people. She's lately in- 
herited a very small fortune from one of them — just a couple 
of hundred a year or thereabouts. And with her little 
income and my little income, we mean to get along now 
very comfortably on the Continent. Marie's a great 
favourite in society in Paris, you know. If you and Lady 
Gascoyne were going to stop a week longer here, I'd ask 
you to dine with us to meet the world at our flat in the 
Avenue Victor Hugo.' 

And when Armitage had dropped them opposite Gdlig- 
nani's, Paul obs3rved with a quiet smile to Nea : 

* Well, she's made the best, anyhow, of poor Mr. Solomons' 
unwilling allowfi^n^^,' 



A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS 349 




CHAPTER L. 

A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS. 

[HE shortest honeymoon ends at last (for, of 
course, the longest one does), and Paul and 
Nea were expected back one Thursday after- 
noon at home at Hillborough. 
That day Mr. Solomons was all agog with 
excitement. He was ashamed to let even his office-boy 
see how much he anticipated Sir Paul and Lady Gas- 
coyness arrival. He had talked of Sir Paul, indeed, till 
he was fairly angry with himself. It was Sir Paul here. 
Sir Paul there, Sir Paul everywhere. He had looked out 
Sir Paul's train half a dozen times over in his dog-eared 
Bradshaw, and had then sent out his clerk for another — a 
new one — for fear the service Sir Paul had written about 
might be taken off the Central Southern time-table for 
September. At last, by way of calming his jerky nerves, he 
determined to walk over the Knoll and down upon the 
station, where he would be the first to welcome Lady Gas- 
coyne to Hillborough. And he set out well in time, so as 
not to have to mount the steep hill too fast ; for the front of 
the hill is very steep indeed, and Mr. Solomons* heart was 
by no means so vigorous these last few weeks as its owner 
could have wished it to be. 

However, by dint of much puffing and panting, Mr. 
Solomons reached the top at last, and sat down awhile on 
the dry turf, looking particularly blue about the lips and 
cheeks, to gain a little breath and admire for the fiftieth 
time that beautiful outlook. And well he might; for the 
view from the Knoll is one of the most justly famous among 
the Surrey Hills. On one side you gaze down upon the 
vale of Hillborough, with its tall church-spire and town of 
red-tiled roofs, having the station in the foreground, and 
the long, steep line of the North Downs at their escarpment 
backing it up behind with a sheer wall of precipitous green- 
sward. On the other side you look away across the Sussex 
Weald, blue and level as the sea, or bounded only on its 
further edge by the purple summits of the Forest Eid^e to 
southward. Close by, the Centx^X ^ov^St^eroL "^^Ss^^^x 



350 THE SCALLYWAG 

coming from Hipsley, intersects with its hard iron line a 
gorse-clad common, and, passing by a tunnel under the 
sandstone hog's-back of the Knoll, emerges at once on Hill- 
borough Station, embosomed in the beeches and elms of 
Bold wood Manor 

Mr. Solomons paused and gazed at it long. There was 
Hipsley, distinct on the common southwards, with a train 
at the platform bound in the opposite direction, and soon Sir 
Paul's train would reach there too, bringing Sir Paul and 
Lady Gascoyne to Hillborough. The old money-lender 
smiled a pitying smile to himself as he thought how eagerly 
aud how childishly he expected them. How angry he had 
been with Paul at first for throwing himself away upon that 
penniless Cornish girl I and now how much more than 
pleased he felt that his proUgi hdA chosen the better part, 
and not, like Demas and poor Lionel, turned aside from the 
true way to a fallacious silver-mine. 

* He's a good boy, Paul is,' the old man thought to him- 
self, as he got up from the turf once more, and set out to 
walk across the crest of the Knoll and down upon the 
station. * He's a good boy, Paul, and it's I who have made 
him.* 

He walked forward awhile, ruminating, along the top of 
the ridge, hardly looking where he went, till he came to the 
point just above the tunnel. There he suddenly stumbled. 
Something unexpected knocked against his foot, though the 
greensward on the top was always so fine and clean and 
close- cropped. It jarred him for a moment, so sudden was 
the shock. Mr. Solomons, blue already, grew bluer still as 
he halted and held his hand to his head for a second to 
steady his impressions. Then he looked down to see what 
could have lain in his path. Good heavens ! this was queer I 
He rubbed his eyes. 

* Never saw anything at all like this on the top of the 
Knoll before. God bless me I' 

There was a hollow or pit into which he had stepped 
inadvertently, some six to eight inches or thereabouts below 
the general level. 

Mr. Solomons rubbed his eyes and looked again. Yes, he 
was neither daft, nor drunk, nor dazed, nor dreaming. A 
hollow in the path lay slowly yawning before him. 

Slowly yawning ; for next inslaiv^ ^x. ^o\ox£iqvi% Xi^^ijwaaA 



\ 



A TALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS 351 

aware that the pit was even now in actual progress. It 
was sinking, sinking, sinking, inch by inch, and he himself, 
as it seemed, was sinking with it. 

As he looked he saw the land give yet more suddenly 
towards the centre. Hardly realizing even then what was 
taking place before his very eyes, he had still presence of 
mind enough left to jump aside from the dangerous spot, 
and scramble back again to the solid bank beyond it. Just 
as he did so, the whole mass caved in with a hollow noise, 
and left a funnel-shaped hole in the very centre. 

Mr. Solomons, dazed and stunned, knew, nevertheless, 
what had really happened. The tunnel — that suspected 
tunnel — had fallen in. The brick roof, perhaps, had given 
way, or the arch had failed somewhere ; but of one thing he 
was certain — the tunnel had fallen. 

As a matter of fact, the engineers reported afterwards, 
rainfall had slowly carried away the sandstone of the hill, a 
grain at a time, by stream and rivulet, till it had left a 
hollow space overhead between rock and vaulting. Heavy 
showers had fallen the night before, and, by water-logging 
the soil, had added to the weight of the superincumbent 
strata. Cohesion no longer sufficed to support the mass; 
it caved in slowly; and at the very moment when Mr. 
Solomons saved himself on the firm soil at the side, it broke 
down the brickwork and filled in the tunnel 

But of all this Mr. Solomons for the moment was ignorant. 

Any other man in his place would probably have thought 
at once of the danger involved to life and limb by this 
sudden catastrophe. Mr. Solomons, looking at it with the 
eye of the speculator and the ingrained habits of so many 
years of money-grubbing, saw in it instinctively but one 
prospective fact — a certain fall in Central Southerns. 

Nobody but he was in possession of that important fact 
now; he held it as his own — a piece of indubitable special in- 
formation. By to-morrow morning, all the Stock Exchanges 
would know it. Everybody would be aware that a large 
tunnel on the main line of the Central Southern had fallen 
in ; that traffic would be entirely suspended for six months 
at least ; that the next half-yearly dividend would be nil, or 
thereabouts ; and that a very large sum must come out of 
the reserve-fund for the task of shoring up so consida\iah\j^ ^ 
subsidence. Mr. Solomons chuckled to YiVoi^O^ ^\^^^2L^ssac 



3J1 THE SCALLYWAG 

ablo delight. To-day, Central Southerns were 98| for the 
account; to-morrow, he firmly believed, they would be down 
to 90. 

It was an enormous fall. Think what he stood to win by 
it! 

Just at first his only idea was to wire up to town and sell 
all the stock he actually possessed, buying in again after the 
fall at the reduced quotation. But in another moment his 
business-like mind saw another and still grander prospect 
opening out before him. Why limit himself to the sum he 
could gain over his own shares? Why not sell out any 
amount, for which he could find buyers— for the account, of 
course ? — in other words, why not agree to deliver Central 
Southerns to any extent next week for 98|, when he knew 
that by that time he could buy as many as ever he wanted 
for something like 90 ? 

To a man of Mr. Solomons* type the opening was a 
glorious one. 

In a second of time, in the twinkling of an eye, vast 
visions of wealth floated vaguely before him. With three 
hours' start of such information as that, any fellow who 
chose could work the market successfully and make as many 
thousands as he wished, without risk or difi&culty. If 
buyers could be found, there was no reason, indeed, why he 
shouldn't sell out at current prices the entire stock of the 
Central Southern on spec; it would be easy enough to- 
morrow to buy it all back again at eight or nine discount. 
So wonderful a chance seldom falls so pat in the way of a 
man of business. It would be next door to criminal not to 
Eoize upon such a brilliant opportunity of fortune. 

In the interests of his heirs, executors, and assigns, Mr. 
Solomons felt called upon to run for it immediately. He 
set off running down the Knoll at once, in the direction of 
Hillborough Station, lying snug in the valley among the elms 
and beeches below there. There was a telegraph office at 
the station, and thence Mr. Solomons designed to wire to 
London. He would instruct his broker to sell as many 
Central Southern A's for the account as the market would 
take, and, if necessary, to sell a point or two below the 
current Stock Exchange quotations. 

Blown as he was with mounting the hill, and puffed with 
running, it was hard work that spurt — but the circumstances 



^ 



;_ X . _^.^ r: 



A FALL IN CENTRAL SOUTHERNS 353 

demanded it. Thousands were at stake. For the sake of 
his heirs, executors, and assigns he felt he must run the risk 
with that shaky old heart of his. 

Panting and blowing, he reached the bottom of the hill, 
and looked into. the mouth of the tunnel, through which, 
as a rule, you could see daylight from the side towards 
Hipsley. The change from the accustomed sight gave him 
a shock of surprise. Thirty or forty yards from the entrance 
the tunnel was entirely blocked by a rough mass of debris. 
If a train came through now there would be a terrible 
smash. And in that case Central Southerns would fall still 
lower — what with compensation and so forth — perhaps as 
low as 86-87. 

If a train came through there would be a terrible smash. 
The down-train would have just got off before the fall. 
The up-train would be coming very soon now. . . . And 
Sir Paul and Lady Gascoyne would be in it I 

With a burst of horror, Mr. Solomons realized at last 
that aspect of the case which to almost anyone else would 
have been the first to present itself. There was danger to 
life and limb in the tunnel I Men and women might be 
mangled, crushed, and killed. And among them would, 
perhaps, be Paul and Nea 1 

The revulsion was terrible, horrible, ghastly. Mr. Solo- 
mons pulled himself together with a painful pull. The 
first thing to do was to warn the station-master, and 
prevent an accident. Tho next thing only was to wire 
up to London, and sell out for the account all his Central 
Southerns. 

Sell out Central Southerns 1 Pah I What did that 
matter ? Sir Paul and Lady Gascoyne were in the up- 
train. Unless he made haste, all, all would be lost. He 
would be left in his old age more desolate than ever. 

The new bubble would burst as awfully as the old one. 

Fired with this fresh idea, Mr. Solomons rushed forward 
once more, bluer, bluer than ever, and hurried towards the 
station, in a bee-line, regardless of the information vouch- 
safed by the notice-boards that trespassers would be prose- 
cuted. He ran as if his life depended upon his getting 
there. At all hazards, he must warn them to stop the up- 
train at Hipsley Station. 

By the gate of a meadow he povx^^ lot «k ^^^wA V^k^ ^j^Js^a. 



354 THE SCALLYWAG 

his breath and mop his forehead. A man was at work there, 
taming manure with a fork. Mr. Solomons was blown. 
He cEdled out loudly to the man, ' Hi, you there ! come 
here, will you ?* 

The man turned round and touched his hai-respectfully. 

< The Knoll tunnel's fallen in !' Mr. Solomons blurted out 
between his convulsive bursts of breath. 

The man struck his fork in the ground and stared stoUdly 
in the direction indicated. ' So it hev/ he murmured 
* Well, naow, that's cur'ous.' 

Mr. Solomons recognised him for the stolid fool of a 
rustic that he was. There's only one way to quicken these 
creatures' blunted intelligence. He drew out his purse and 
took from it a sovereign, which he dangled temptingly. 

' Take this,' he cried, holding it out, ' and run as fast as 
you can to the Hillborough Station. Tell the station-master 
the Knoll tunnel has fallen in. Tell him to telegraph to 
Hipsley and stop the up-train. For God's sake go, or we 
shall have an accident !' 

In his dull, remote way, urged on by the sovereign, the 
man took it in — slowly, slowly, slowly ; and, as soon as the 
facts had penetrated through his thick skull, began to run 
at the top of his speed over hedges and ditches towards the 
gate of the station. *Tell him to telegraph at once,' 
Mr. Solomons shouted after him. ' The tunnel's blocked ; 
there'll be loss of life unless he looks sharp about it.' 

And then, having recovered his breath a bit himself, he 
crossed the gate and proceeded to follow him. There 
would still be time to realize that fortune by selling out 
close at existing prices. 

Next instant, with another flash of inspiration, it came 
across his mind that he had done the wrong thing. No use 
at all to give warning at Hillborough. The wires went over 
the tunnel, and he remembered now that the pole had fallen 
and snapped them in the midst at the moment of the sub- 
sidence. There was no communication at all with Hipsley. 
It was towards Hipsley itself he ought to have gone in the 
first place. He must go there now, all blown as he was — 
go there at all hazards. He must warn the train, or Sir 
Paul and Lady Gascoyne would be killed in the tunnel 1 

It came upon him with all the sudden clearness of a reve* 
htion. There was no time tow«A\. ox ^cax^. '^^\jx^^\.\?;ix^ 



A CATASTROPHE 35S 

and act upon it. In a second he had clambered over the 
gate once more, and, blue and hot in the face, was moanting 
the Knoll with incredible haste for his weight and age, uiged 
on hy his wild desire to save FanI and Nea. 

He struggled and scrambled up the steep face of the bill 
with eager feet. At the top he pansed a moment, and 

fiaated for breath. The line hes straight iu view across the 
ong flat weald. From that panoramic point he could see 
clearly beneath him the whole level stretch of the iron road. 
A cloud of white steam sped merrily along across the open 
lowland. It was the np-train even now on its way to 
Hipsley. 

No time now to stop it before it left the station I But 
by descending at once on the line and ranning along upon 
the six-foot way, he might still Bncceed in attracting the 
engine-driver's attention and checking the bca.in before it 
reached the tunnel 



CHAPTBB LL 

A OATABIBOFHE. 

ailEBD with this thought and utterly absorbed 
in his fears for Paul's and Nea's safety, Mr. 
Solomons hurried down the opposite slope 
of the ridge, and, sorambling tnrougb the 
cutting, gained the side of the railway. It 
was fenced in by one of those atrocious 
barbed-wire fences with which the selfishness of squires or 
farmers is still permitted to outrage every sentiment of 
common humanity ; but Mr. Solomons was too full of his 
task to mind those barbarous spikes ; with torn clothes and 
bleeding hands, he squeezed himself through somehow, 
and ran madly fblong the line in the direction of Hipsley. 

Ae he did so, the loud snort of a steam- whistle fell upon 
his ear, away over in front of him. His heart sank, Ha 
knew it was the train leavingHipsley Station. 

Still he ran on wildly. He mnst run and run tUl ha 
dropped now. No time to pause or draw breath. It was 
necessary to give the engine-driver am^le ^axriB^ \ifc\i«fe- 
hand, so thatne might put on tbe 'brssa soma ^Ytfift\«Asw» 
reaching the month of the tunnel. 




356 THE SCALLYWAG 

If not, the train would dash into it at full speed, and not 
a living soul might survive the collision. 

He ran along the six-foot way with all his naight, waving 
his hands frantically ahove his head towards the approach- 
ing train, and doing his best in one last frenzied effort to 
catch the driver's eye before it was too late. His face was 
flushed purple with exertion now, and his breath came and 
went with deadly dijfficulty. But on he ran, unheeding the 
warnings of that throbbing heart, unheeding the short, sharp 
snorts of the train as it advanced, unheeding anytlung on 
earth save the internal consciousness of that one imperative 
duty laid on him. The universe summed itself up to his 
mind in that supreme moment as a vast and absorbing 
absolute necessity to save Paul and Nea. 

On, on the wild engine came, puffing and snorting terribly ; 
but Mr. Solomons, nothing daunted, on fire with his exertions, 
almost flung himself in its path, and shrieked aloud, with 
his hands tossed up and his face purple. 

'Stop I stop! For God's sake, stop! Stop I stop I I 
tell you 1' Ho ran along backwards now, still fronting the 
train. * Stop ! stop I' he cried, gesticulating fiercely to the 
astonished driver. * For heaven's sake, stop ! You can't go 
on — there's danger T 

The engine-driver halted and put on the brake. The 
train began to slow. Mr. Solomons still danced and gesticu- 
lated like a madman before it. A jar thrilled through the 
carriages from end to end. With a sudden efl'ort, the guard, 
now thoroughly roused to a sense of danger, had succeeded 
in stopping it at the very mouth of the tunnel. Mr. Solo- 
mons, almost too spent to utter a word, shrieked out at the 
top of his voice, in gasping syllables : * The tunnel's fallen 
in. You can't go on. Put back to Hipsley. I've come to 
warn you 1' 

But there was no need for him to explain any further now. 
The driver, looking ahead, could see for himself a mass of 
yellow sand obtructing the jvay a hundred yards in front. 
Slowly he got down and examined the road. * That was a 
narrow squeak. Bill/ he said, turning to the stoker. * If it 
hadn't been for the old gentleman, we'd all 'a been in kingdom 
come by this time I' 

*He looks very queer,* the stoker observed, gazing close 
at Mr, Soiomons, who had s^at^^i \i\m^^V tlq^ ^x^. \Jw^ 



!■ ■ 



A CATASTROPHE 3S7 

bank by the side, and was panting heavily with bluer face 
than ever. 

* He*s run too 'ard, that's where it is/ the engine-driver 
went on, holding him up and supporting him. * Come along, 
sir ; come on in the train with us. We've got to go back 
to Hipsley now, that's certain.' 

But Mr. Solomons only gasped, and struggled hard for 
breath. His face was livid and leaden by this time. A terrible 
wave convulsed his features. " * Loosen his collar, Jim,' the 
stoker suggested. The engine-driver obeyed, and for a 
moment Mr. Solomons seemed to breathe more freely. 

* Now then, what's the matter ? "Why don't we go on ?' 
a bluff man cried, putting his head out of a first-class carriage 
window. 

* Matter enough, sir,' the engine-driver answered. 'Tunnel's 
broke ; road's blocked ahead ; and this old gentleman by the 
side's a-dying.' 

* Dying !* the bluff personage echoed, descending quickly 
from his seat, and joining the group. * No, no ; not that ! 
. . . Don't talk such nonsense I . . . "Why, God bless my 
soul, so he is, to be sure ! Valvular disease of the heart, 
that's what I make it. Have you got any brandy, boys? 
Leave him to me. I'll attend to him. I'm a doctor.' 

* Eun along the train. Bill,' the engine-driver said, * and 
ask if any gentleman's got a flask of brandy.' 

In a minute the stoker returned, followed close by Paul, 
who brought a little flask, which he offered for the occa- 
sion. 

' 'Old up the gen'leman's 'ead, Jim,' the stoker said, ' and 
pour down some brandy.* 

Paul started with horror and amazement. 

* Why, my God,' he cried, ' it's Mr. Solomons 1' 

Mr. Solomons opened his eyes for an instant. His throat 
gurgled. 

* Good-bye, Sir Paul,' he said, trying feebly to grope for 
something in his pocket. ' Is Lady Gascoyne safe ? Then, 
thank Heaven, I've saved you I' 

Paul knelt by his side, and held the flask to his lips. As 
yet he could hardly comprehend what had happened. 

* Oh, Mr. Solomons,* he cried, bending over him eagerly, 
* do try to swallow some.' But the blue lips never moved. 
Only, with a convulsive effort, Mr. Solomons dre^ ^<i\s!^^^V>KS2L% 



358 THE SCALLYWAG 

out of his breast-pocket — a paper, it seemed, much worn 
and faded — and, clutching it tight in his grasp, seemed to 
thrust it towards him with urgent anxiety. 

Paul took no notice of the gesture, but held the brandy 
still to Mr. Solomons' livid mouth. The bluff passenger 
waved him aside. 

' No good/ he said, ' no good, my dear sir. He can't even 
swallow it. He's unconscious now. The valve don't act. It's 
all up, I'm afraid. Stand aside there, all of you, and let him 
have fresh air. That's his last chance. Fan him with a paper.' 
He put his finger on the pulse, and shook his head ominously. 
' No good at all,' he murmured * He's run too fast, and the 
effort's been too much for him.' He examined the lips 
closely, and held his ear to catch the last sound of breath. 
* Quite dead !' he went on. * Death from syncope. He 
died doing his best to prevent an accident.' 

A strange solemn feeling came over Paul Gascoyne. Till 
that moment he had never truly realized how much he liked 
the old Jew money-lender. But there, as he knelt on the 
greensward beside his lifeless body, and knew on what 
errand Mr. Solomons had come by his death, a curious sense 
of bereavement stole slowly on him. It was some minutes 
before he could even think of Nea, who sat at the window 
behind, anxiously awaiting tidings of this unexpected 
stoppage. Then he burst into tears, as the stoker and the 
engine-driver slowly lifted the body into an unoccupied 
carriage, and called on the passengers to take their seats 
while they backed once more into Hipsley Station. 

* What is it?' Nea asked, seeing Paul return with blanched 
cheeks and wet eyes to the door of her carriage. 

Paul could hardly get out the words to reply. 

*A tunnel's fallen in — the tunnel under the Knoll that 
I've often told you about ; and Mr. Solomons, running to 
warn the train of danger, has fallen down dead by the side 
with heart-disease,' 

* Dead, Paul ?' 

' Yes, dead, Nea I' 

They gazed at one another blankly for a moment Then, 
' Did he know we were here ?' Nea asked, with a face of 
horror. 

* I think so,' Paul answered. * I wrote and told him 
TFhat train we'd arrive by ; and he must have found out the 



I 



A CATASTROPHE 359 

accident and rushed to warn us before anybody else wa? 
'aware it had tumbled/ 

* Oh, Paul, was he alive to see you ?' 

* Alive T Paul answered. * Oh yes, he spoke to me. He 
asked if you were safe, and said good-bye to me.' 

They backed into the station by slow degrees, and the 
passengers, turning out with eager wonder and inquiry, 
began a hubbub of voices as to the tunnel and the accident 
and the man who had warned them, and the catastrophe, 
and the heart-disease, and the chance there was of getting 
on to-night, and how on earth they could ever get their 
luggage carted across to Hillborough Station. But Paul 
and Nea stood vdth hushed voices beside the corpse of the 
man they had parted with so lightly a fortnight before at 
Lanhydran Eectory. 

' Do you know, Paul,' Nea whispered, as she gaaed awe- 
struck at that livid face, now half pale in death, ' I somehow 
felt when he said to me that afternoon, ** From my poor, 
old, worn-out heart I thank you," I half felt as if I was 
never going to see him again. He said good-bye to us as 
one says good-bye to one's friends for ever. And I am glad, 
at least, to think that we made him happy.' 

* Pm glad to think so, too,' Paul answered with tears in 
his eyes. * But, Nea, do you know, till this moment I 
never realized how truly fond I was of him. I feel now as 
if an element had been taken out of my life for ever.' 

* Then I think he died happy,' Nea replied decisively. 
Slowly and gradually the people at the station got things 

into order under these altered conditions. Cabs and car- 
riages were brought from Hillborough to carry the through 
passengers and their luggage across the gap in the hne 
caused by the broken tunnel. Telegrams were sent in 
every direction to warn coming trains and to organize a 
temporary local service. All was bustle and noise and tur- 
moil and confusion. But in the midst of the hurly-burly, a 
few passengers still crowded, whispering, round the silent 
corpse of the man who had met his own death in warning 
them of their danger. Little by little the story got about 
how this was a Mr. Solomons, an estate agent at Hill- 
borough, and how those two young people standing so close 
to his side, and watching over his body, were Sir Paul and 
Lady Gascoyne, for whose sake he had run aU tk<^ ^^^^ ii^ 



jGo THE SCALLYWAG 

stop the train, and had fallea down dead at the last moment 
of Deart-disease. la his hand he still clutched that worn 
and folded paper he had tried to force upon Paul, aud hia 
face yet wore in death that eager expression of a desire to 
bring out words that his tremulous lips lefnsed to otter. 
They stood there long, watching his featores painfully. Ai 
last a stretcher was brought from the town, and Mr. Solo- 
mons' body, covered with a black cloth, was carried upon it 
to his house in the High Street. Paul insisted on bearing 
a hand in it himself ; and Nea, walking slowly and solemnly 
by theii side, made her first entry so as Lady Gascoyne into 
her husband's birthplace. 



CHAPTER LII. 

BSXATB OF THE UlTS J, P. 80LOHONB. 

^OB the next week all Hillboroagh was agog 
with the fallen tunnel. So great an event 
had never yet diversified the history of the 

parish. The little town woke up and found 
itself famous. The even tenor of local life 
was disturbed by a strange incursion of noisy 
3S. Central Southerns went down like lead to 90, as Mr. 
Solomons had shrewdly anticipated. The manager and the 
chief engineer of the line paid many visits to the spot to 
inspect the scene of the averted catastrophe. Hundreds of 
hands were engaged at once with feverish haste to begin 
excavations, and to clear the line of the accumulated debris. 
But six months at least must elapse, so everybody said, 
before traCBc was restored to the statm qiu> and the Central 
Southern was once more in working order, A parallel 
calamity was unknown in the company's history : it was 
only by the greatest good-luck in the world, the directors 
remarked ruefully at their next meeting, that they had 
escaped the onus and odium of what the newspapers called 
a good first-class muiderous selling railway accident 

On one point, indeed, all the London press was agreed 
on the Friday morning, that the highest praise was due to 
the heroic conduct of Mr. Solomons, a Jewish gentleman 
resident at Hillborough, who was the first to perceive the 
Bubsidence of the ground on the Knoll, and who, rightly 




ESTATE OF THE LATE J. P. SOLOMONS 361 

conjecturing the nature of the disaster, hurried — unhappily, 
at the cost of his own life — to warn the station-masters at 
either end of the danger that blocked the way in the buried 
tunnel. As he reached his goal he breathed his last, pour- 
ing forth his message of mercy to the startled engine-driver. 
This beautiful touch, said the leader-writers, with conven- 
tional pathos, made a fitting termination to a noble act of 
self-sacrifice ; and the fact that Mr. Solomons had friends 
in the train — Sir Paul and Lady Gascoyne, who were just 
returning from their wedding tour on the Continent — rather 
added to than detracted from the dramatic completeness of 
this moving ddnoHment, It was a pleasure to be able to 
record that the self-sacrificing messenger, before he closed 
his eyes finally, had grasped the hands of the friends he 
had rescued in his own dying fingers, and was aware that 
his devotion had met with its due reward. While actions 
like these continue to be done in every-day life, the leader- 
writers felt we need never be afraid that the old English 
courage and the old English ideal of steadfast duty are 
beginning to fail us. The painful episode of the Knoll 
tunne\ had at least this consolatory point, that it showed 
once more to the journalistic intelligence the readiness of 
Englishmen of all creeds or parties to lay down their lives 
willingly at the call of a great public emergency. 

So poor Mr. Solomons, thus threnodied by the appointed 
latter-day bards of his adoptive nation, was buried at Hill- 
borough as the hero of the day, with something approaching 
public honours. Paul, to be sure, as the nearest friend of 
the dead, took the place of chief mourner beside the open 
grave ; but the neighbouring squires and other great county 
magnates, who under any other circumstances would have 
paid little heed to the Jewish money-lender's funeral, were 
present in person, or vicariously through their coachmen, to 
pay due respect to a signal act of civic virtue. Everybody 
was full of praise for Mr. Solomons* earnest endeavour to 
stop the train ; and many who had never spoken well of 
him before, falling in now, after the feeble fashion of our 
kind and of the domestic sheep, with the current of public 
opinion, foimd hitherto undiscovered and unsuspected good 
qualities in all the old man's dealings with his feUow- 
creatures generally. 

The day after the funeral, Paul, as Mr, SoV«s^<^'^ \a^ 



362 THE SCALLYWAG 

bailee, attended duly, as in duty bound, with the will con- 
fided to his care in Ms hand, at the country attorney's office 
of Barr and Wilkie's, close by in the High Street. 

Mr. Wilkie received him with unwonted courtesy ; but to 
that, indeed, Paul was now beginning to grow quite accus- 
tomed. He found everywhere that Sir Paul Gascoyne made 
his way in the world in a fashion to which plain Paul had 
been wholly unused in his earlier larval stages. Still, Mr. 
Wilkie's manner was more than usually deferential, even in 
these newer days of acknowledged baronetcy. He bowed 
his fat little neck, and smiled with all his broad and stumpy 
little face — ^why are country attorneys invariably fat, broad, 
and stumpy, I wonder ? — so that Paul began to speculate 
with himself what on earth could be the matter with the 
amiable lawyer. But he began conversation with what 
seemed to Paul a very irrelevant remark, 

* This smash in the tunnel 11 have depreciated the value 
of your property somewhat. Sir Paul,' he said, smiling and 
rubbing his hands, as soon as the first interchange of 
customary civilities was over. * Central Southern A's are 
down at 89-90.* 

Paul stared at him in astonishment. 

* I*m not a holder of stock, Mr, Wilkie,' he answered after 
a brief pause of mental wonder. 

The attorney gazed back with a comically puzzled look. 

'But Mr, Solomons was,' he answered. Then after a 
short pause, * What I you don't know the contents of our 
poor friend Solomons* will, then, don't you ?* he inquired, 
beaming. 

* Why, that's just what I've come about,' Paul replied, 
producing it. * A day or two after his nephew Lionel was 
buried at Lizard Town Mr. Solomons gave me this to take 
care of, and asked me to see it was duly proved after his 
death, and so forth. If you look at it, you'll see he leaves 
all liis property absolutely to the Jewish Board of Guardians 
in London.* 

Mr. Wilkie took the paper from his hand with an in- 
credulous smile, and glanced over it languidly. ♦; 

' Oh, that's all right,' he answered with a benignant noi 

^-the country attorney is always benignant — 'but you 

evidently don't understand our poor friend's ways as well 

as I do. It was a fad of his, to tell you the truth, that 



ESTATE OF THE LATE J. P. SOLOMONS 363 

he always carried his will ahout with him, duly signed and 
attested, in his own breast-pocket, ** in case of accident,'' as 
he used to put it.' 

' Oh yes,' Paul answered ; ' I know all that. He carried 
the predecessor of this about in his pocket just so, and he 
showed it to me in the train when we were going down to 
Cornwall, and afterwards, when poor Lionel was dead, he 
handed the present will over to me to take particular care 
of, because, he said, he thought he could trust me.' 

* Ah, yes,' the man of law answered dryly, looking up with 
a sharp smile. < That's all very well as far as it goes. But, 
as a matter of habit, I know our friend Solomons would 
never have dreamed of handing over one will to you till he'd 
executed another to carry in his own breast-pocket. It 
would have made him fidgety to miss the accustomed feel of 
it. He couldn't have gone about ten minutes in comfort 
without one. And, indeed, in point of fact, he didn't. Do 
you know this paper. Sir Paul?' and the lawyer held up a 
stained and folded document that had seen much wear. 

* Do you know this paper ?' 

' "Why, yes,' Paul answered, with a start of recognition. 

* I've seen it before somewhere. Ah, now I remember I It's 
the paper Mr. Solomons was clutching in his folded fingers 
when I saw him last, half alive and half dead, at Hipsley 
Station.' 

* Quite so,' the lawyer answered, * That's exactly what 
it is. You're perfectly right. The men who brought him 
back handed it over to me as his legal adviser ; and though 
I didn't draw it up myself — poor Solomons was always 
absurdly secretive about these domestic matters, and had 
them done in town by a strange solicitor — I see it's in 
reality his last will and testament.' 

* Later than the one I propound ?' Paul inquired, hardly 
suspecting as yet whither all this tended. 

'Later by two days, sir,' Mr. Wilkie rejoined, beaming, 

* It's executed. Sir Paul, on the very same day, I note, as 
the date you've endorsed the will he gave you upon. In 
point of fact, he must have had this new will drawn up and 
signed in the morning, and must have deposited the dummy 
one it superseded with you in the afternooa Very like his 
natural secretiveness, that I He wished to conceal from you 
the nature of his arrangements. For Lionel Solom<^\2kaf 



364 THE SCALLYWAG 

death seems entirely to have changed his testamentary 
intentions, and to have diverted his estate, hoth real and 
personal— well, so to speak, to the next representative.' 

* You don't mean to say/ Paul cried astonished, * he's left 
it all to Madame Ceriolo — to Lionel's widow ?' 

The lawyer smiled — a sphinx-like, enigmatic smile. ' No, 
my dear sir,* he answered in the honeyed voice in which a 
wise attorney invariahly addresses a rich and prospective 
client. * He revokes all previous wills and codicils whatso- 
ever, and leaves everything he dies possessed of absolutely 
and without reserve to — his dear friend, Sir Paul Gascoynej 
Saronet.' 

* No ; you don't mean that I' Paul cried, taken aback, and 
clutching at his chair for support, his very first feeling at 
this sudden access of wealth being one of surprise, dehght, 
and pleasure that Mr. Solomons should have harboured so 
kindly a thought about him. 

* Yes, he does,' the lawyer answered, warily making the 
best of his chance in breaking the good tidings. * You can 
read for yourself if you like, ** who has been more than a 
son to me," he says, ** in my forlorn old age, and in con- 
sideration of the uniform gentleness, kindness, sense of 
justice, and forbearance with which he has borne all the 
fads and fancies of an exacting and often whimsical old 
money-lender." * 

The tears rose fast into Paul's eyes as he read these 
words. *I*m afraid,* he said after a pause, with gcmuiue 
self-reproach, * I've sometimes thought too hardly of him, 
Mr. Wilkie.' 

* Well,* the lawyer answered briskly, ' he screwed you 
down, Sir Paul, there's no doubt about that — he screwed 
you down infernally. It was his nature to screw ; ho 
couldn't help it. He had his virtues, good soul I as well as 
his faults — I freely admit them ; but nobody can deny he 
was an infernally hard hand at a bargain sometimes.' 

* Still, I always thought, in a sneaking sort of way, half 
unknown to himself, he had my interests truly at heart,' 
Paul answered penitently. 

* Well, there's a note inclosed with the will — a private 
note,* the lawyer went on, producing it. ' I haven't opened 
it, of course — it's directed to you ; but I dare say it'll clear 

up matters on that score somew\i«>.V 



ESTATE OF THE LATE J, P. SOLOMONS 365 

Paul broke the envelope and read to himself in breathless 
silence : 

* My dear, dear Boy, 

* When 5'ou open this, I shall be dead and gone. I 
want your kind thoughts. Don't think too hardly of me. 
Since Leo died, I've thought only of you. You are all I 
have left on earth to work and toil for. But if I'd told you 
so openly, and wiped out your arrears, or even seemed to 
relax my old ways at all about money, you'd have found me 
out and protested, and refused to be adopted. I didn't want 
to spoil your fine sense of independence. To tell you the 
truth, for my own sake I couldn't. What's bred in the 
bone will out in the blood. While I live, I must grasp at 
money, not for myself, but for you : it's become a sort of 
habit and passion with me. But forgive me for all that. 
I hope I shall succeed in the end in making you happy. 
When you come into what I've saved, and are a rich man, 
as you ought to be, and admired and respected and a credit 
to your country, think kindly sometimes of the poor old man 
who loved you well and left his all to you. Good-bye, my son. 

* Yours ever affectionately, 

* J. P. Solomons, 

*P.S. — If Lady Gascoyne is ever presented at Court, I 
hope she will kindly remember tb wear my diamonds,* 

When Paul laid the letter down the tears were dimmer in 
his eyes than ever. 

* I so often misjudged him/ he said slowly. * I so often 
misjudged him.' 

* But there's a codicil to the will, too,' Mr. Wilkie said 
cheerfully, after a moment's pause. ' I forgot to tell you 
that. There's a codicil also. Curiously enough, it's dated 
the day after your marriage. He must have gone up to 
town on purpose to add it.* 

' I remember,' Paul said, * when he left Lanhydran, he 
mentioned he had important business next day in London.* 

' And by it,* the lawyer continued, *he leaves everything, 
in case of your death before his own, absolutely to Nea, 
Lady Gascoyne, for her own sole use and benefit.* 

* That was kind,* Paul cried, TtiweVi VonxOei^^* ^^^S^osb^^'^sw 
really thoughtful of binj.* 



366 THE SCALLYWAG 

* Yes,' the lawyer answered dryly (sentiment was not very 
much in his way) ; ' and as regards probate, from what I 
can hear, the value of the estate must be sworn at some- 
thing between fifty and sixty thousand.' 

When Paul went home and told Nea of this sudden freak 
of fortune, she answered quietly, I more than half sus- 
pected it. You know, dear Paul, he wrote to papa while I 
was stopping at Sheffield, and urged me most strongly to 
marry you, saying our future was fully assured ; and so he 
did, too, to Faith and Charlie. But he particularly begged 
us to say nothing to you about the matter. He thought it 
would only prevent your marrying.' Then she flung her 
arms passionately around her husband's neck. ' And now, 
darling,' she cried, bursting into glad tears, < now that those 
dreadful Claims are settled for ever, and you're free to do 
exactly as you like, you can give up that horrid journalism 
altogether, and devote yourself to the work you'd really 
like to do — to something worthy of you — to something truly 
great and noble for humanity 1'. 






THB BND. 



VllXlirO AKD 80»B» MllKIM*, Q\1W»V»». 




i 



♦^ 



* ^ 



»-. 



3 tins GDI t"?"! 613 



STANFORD UNIVERSITY IIBRARIES 

CECIL H. GREEN LIBRARY 

STANFORD, CALIFORNIA 94305-6004 

|415) 723-1493 

All books moy be recalled oFler 7 days 

DATE DUE