He took with alacrity the fine firm hand which was held out to him, and felt already at his ease as he followed Miss Lowndes to the steps, again carrying the bag. By this time, moreover, he had noted and admired her pretty hair, which was fair with a warm tinge in it, her rather deep but very pleasant voice, and the clear and healthy skin which had her father’s freshness in finer shades. She was obviously older than Harry, and stronger-minded as well as less beautiful than his ideal type. But he had a feeling, even after these few minutes, which had not come to him in all the hours that he had spent with Gordon Lowndes. It was the feeling that he had found a real friend.
But the surprises of the evening were only beginning, for while Harry contemplated a warped and blistered front door, in thorough keeping with the poverty-stricken appearance of the house, it was opened by a man-servant not unworthy of the millionaire of the immediate future. And yet next moment he found himself in a sitting-room as sordid as the exterior. The visitor was still trying to reconcile these contradictions when Miss Lowndes followed him slowly into the room, reading a telegram as she came.
“Are you very hungry, Mr. Ringrose?” said she, looking up in evident anxiety.
“Not a bit.”
“Because I am afraid my father will not be home for another hour. This is a telegram from him. He has been detained. But it doesn’t seem fair to ask you to wait so long!”
“I should prefer it. I shall do myself much better justice in an hour’s time,” said Harry, laughing; but Miss Lowndes still appeared to take the situation seriously, though she also seemed relieved. And her embarrassment was notable after the way in which she had carried off the much more trying contretemps in the road. It was as though there were something dispiriting in the atmosphere of the poky and ill-favoured house, something which especially distressed its young mistress; for they sat for some time without a word, while dusk deepened in the shabby little room; and it was much to Harry’s relief when he was suddenly asked if he had ever seen the view from Richmond Hill.
“Never,” he replied; “will you show it to me, Miss Lowndes? I have often heard of it, and I wish you would.”
“It would be better than sitting here,” said his companion, “though I’m afraid you won’t see much in this light. However, it’s quite close, and we can try.”
It was good to be in the open air again, but, as Miss Lowndes observed, it was a pity she had not thought of it before. In the park the shadows were already deep, and the deer straggling across the broad paths as they never do till nightfall. A warm glow still suffused the west, and was reflected in the river beneath, where pleasure-boats looked black as colliers on the belt of pink. It was the hour when it is dark indoors but light without, and yellow windows studded the woody levels while the contour of the trees was yet distinct. Even where the river coiled from pink to grey the eye could still follow it almost to Twickenham, a leaden track between the leaves.
“I only wish it were an hour earlier,” added Miss Lowndes when she had pointed out her favourite landmarks. “Still, it’s a good deal pleasanter here than indoors.” She seemed a different being when she was out of that house; she had been talkative enough since they started, but now she turned to Harry.
“Tell me about Africa, Mr. Ringrose. Tell me all the interesting things you saw and did and heard about while you were out there!”
Harry caught his breath with pleasure. It was the unconscious fault of his adolescence that he was more eager to convey than receive; it was the complementary defect of the quality of enthusiasm which was Harry’s strongest point. He had landed from his travels loaded like a gun with reminiscence and adventure, but the terrible return to the old home had damped his priming, and at the new home the future was the one affair of his own of which he had had time or heart to think. But now the things came back to him which he had come home longing to relate. He needed no second bidding from the sympathetic companion at his side, but began telling her, diffidently at first, then with all his boyish gusto as he caught and held her interest, the dozen and one experiences that had been on his tongue three days (that seemed three weeks) ago.
To talk and be understood — to talk and be appreciated — it was half the battle of life with Harry Ringrose at this stage of his career. It is true that he had seen but little, and true that he had done still less, even in these two last errant years of his. But whatsoever he had seen or done, that had interested him in the least, he could bring home vividly enough to anybody who would give him a sympathetic hearing. And to do so was a deep and a strange delight to him; not, perhaps, altogether unconnected with mere vanity; but ministering also to a subtler sense of which the possessor was as yet unconscious.
And Miss Lowndes listened to her young Othello, an older and more critical Desdemona, who liked him less for the dangers he had passed than for his ingenuous delight in recounting them. The talk indeed interested, but the talker charmed her, so that she was content to listen for the most part without a word. Meanwhile they were sauntering farther and farther afield, and at length the new Desdemona was compelled to tell Othello they must turn. He complied without pausing in the story. Her next interruption was more serious.
“Don’t you write?” she suddenly exclaimed.
“Write what?”
“Things for magazines.”
“I wish I did! The magazine at school was the only one I ever tried my hand for. Who told you I wrote?”
“Mrs. Ringrose has shown things to my father, and he thought them very good. It only just struck me that what you are telling me would make such a capital magazine sketch. But it was very rude of me to interrupt. Please go on.”
“No, Miss Lowndes, I’ve gone on too long as it is! Here have I been talking away about Africa as though nothing had happened while I was there; and it’s only three days since I landed and found out — everything!”
His voice was strangely altered: the shame of forgetting, the pain of remembering, saddened and embittered every accent. Miss Lowndes, however, who had so plainly shared his enthusiasm, as plainly shrank from him in his depression. Harry was too taken up with his own feelings to notice this. Nor did he feel his companion’s silence; for what was there to be said?
“You should take to writing,” was what she did say, presently. “You have a splendid capital to draw upon.”
“Do you write?”
“No.”
“It is odd you should speak of it. There’s nothing I would sooner do for a living — and something I’ve got to do — only I doubt if I have it in me to do any good with my pen. I may have the capital, but I couldn’t lay it out to save my life.”
He spoke wistfully, however, as though he were not sure. And now Miss Lowndes seemed the more sympathethic for her momentary lapse. She was very sure indeed.
“You have only to write those things down as you tell them, and I’m certain they would take!”
“Very well,” laughed Harry, “I’ll have a try — when I have time. I suppose you know what your father promises me?”
“No, indeed I don’t,” cried Miss Lowndes.
“The Secretaryship of this new Company when it comes out!”
For some moments the girl was silent, and then: “I’d rather see you writing,” she said.
“But this would mean three hundred a year.”
“I would rather make one hundred by my pen!”
Harry said that he would, too, as far as liking was concerned, but that there were other considerations. He added that of course he did not count upon the Secretaryship, which seemed far too good a thing to be really within his reach, for it would be many a day before he was worth three hundred a year in any capacity. Nevertheless, it was very kind of Mr. Lowndes to have thought of such a thing at all.
“He is kind,” murmured the girl, breaking a silence which had influenced Harry’s tone. And it was a something in her tone that made him exclaim:
“He is the kindest man I have ever met!”
“You really think
so?” she cried, wistfully.
“I know it,” said Harry, at once touched and interested by her manner. “It isn’t as if he’d only been kind to me. He was more than kind three days ago, and — and I didn’t take it very well from him at first; but I shall never forget it now! It isn’t only that, however; it’s his kindness to my dear mother that I feel much more; and then — he was my father’s friend!”
They walked on without a word — they were nearly home now — and this time Harry thought less of his companion’s silence, for what could she say? But already he felt that he could say anything to her, and “You knew my father?” broke from him in a low voice.
“Oh, yes; I knew him very well.”
“He has been here?” said Harry, looking at the semi-detached house with a new and painful interest as they stopped at the gate.
“Yes; two or three times.”
“When was the last?”
But the latch clicked with his words, and Miss Lowndes was hastening up the path.
CHAPTER VIII.
A MILLIONAIRE IN THE MAKING.
There was a bright light in the little drawing-room, and Harry made sure that the master of the house had returned from town. Miss Lowndes put the question as soon as the door was opened, however, and he heard the reply as he followed her within.
“No, miss, not yet.”
“Then who is here?”
“Mr. Huxtable.”
“Mr. Huxtable — in the drawing-room?”
“He insisted on waiting, and I thought he might as well wait there as anywhere.”
Harry thought the man’s manner presumptuous, and, looking at him severely, was actually answered with a wink. Before he had time to think twice about that, however, Miss Lowndes marched erect into the drawing-room, and the visitor at her heels became the unwilling witness of a scene which he never forgot.
A little bald man had planted himself on the hearthrug, where he stood trembling like a terrier on the leash, in an attitude of indescribable truculence and determination.
“Good evening, young lady!” cried he, in a tone so insolent that Harry longed to assault him on the spot.
“Good evening, Mr. Huxtable. Do you wish to speak to me?”
“No, thank you, miss. Not this time. I’ve spoken to you often enough and nothing’s come of it. To-night I mean to see your pa. ‘E’s not come ‘ome yet, ‘asn’t ‘e? Then ‘ere I stick till ‘e does.”
“May I ask what you want with him?”
“May you arst?” roared Mr. Huxtable. “I like that, I’m blessed if I don’t! Oh, yes, you may arst, young lady, and you may pretend you don’t know; and much good it’ll do you! I want my money; that’s what I want. Thirty-eight pound seventeen shillings and fourpence for butcher-meat delivered at this ‘ere ‘ouse — that’s all I want! If you’ve got it ‘andy, well and good; and if ‘e’s got it ‘andy when ‘e comes in, well and good again, for ‘ere I wait; but if not, I’ll county-court ‘im to-morrow, and there’s plenty more’ll follow my example. It’s a perfect scandal the way this ‘ouse is conducted. Not a coal or a spud, let alone a bit o’ meat, are you known to ‘ave paid for this blessed year. It’s all over Richmond, and for my part I’m sick of it. I’ve been put off and put off but I won’t be put off no more. ‘Ere I stick till ‘is nibs comes in.”
During the first half of this harangue — considerably lengthened by pauses during which the tradesman gasped for breath and seemed once or twice on the verge of apoplexy — Harry Ringrose was on the horns of a dilemma in the hall. One moment he was within an ace of rushing in and ejecting the fellow on his own responsibility, and the next he felt it better to spare his new friend’s feelings by making his own escape. But the butcher had only partly said his say when a latch-key grated in the door, and Gordon Lowndes entered in time to overhear the most impertinent part. Shutting the door softly behind him, he stood listening on the mat, with his head on one side and a very comical expression on his face. Harry had been tremulous with indignation. Lowndes merely shook with suppressed amusement; and, handing a heavy parcel to Harry, entered the room, as the tradesman ceased, in a perfect glow of good-humour and geniality.
“Ah! my dear Huxtable, how are you?” cried he. “Delighted to see you; only hope I haven’t kept you very long. You must blame the Earl of Banff, not me; he kept me with him until after eight o’clock. Not a word, my dear sir — not one syllable! I know exactly what you are going to say, and don’t wonder at your wishing to see me personally. My dear Huxtable, I sympathise with you from my soul! How much is it? Thirty or forty pounds, eh? Upon my word it’s too bad! But there again the Earl of Banff’s to blame, and I’ve a very good mind to let you send in your account to him. His Lordship has been standing between me and a million of money all this year, but he won’t do so much longer. I think I’ve brought him to reason at last. My good Mr. Huxtable, we’re on the eve of the greatest success in modern finance. The papers will be full of it in about a week’s time, and I shall be a rich man. But meanwhile I’m a poor one — I’ve put my all on it — I’ve put my shirt on it — and I’m a much poorer man than ever you were, Huxtable. Poor men should hang together, shouldn’t they? Then stand by me another week, and I give you my word I’ll stand by you. I’ll pay you thirty shillings in the pound! Fanny, my dear, write Mr. Huxtable an IOU for half as much again as we owe him; and let him county-court me for that if he doesn’t get it before he’s many days older!”
Mr. Huxtable had made several ineffectual attempts to speak; now he was left without a word. Less satisfied than bewildered, he put the IOU in his pocket and was easily induced to accept a couple of the Earl of Banff’s cigars before he went. Lowndes shook hands with him on the steps, and returned rubbing his own.
“My dear Ringrose,” said he, “I’m truly sorry you should have come in for this little revelation of our res angusta, but I hope you will lay to heart the object-lesson I have given you in the treatment of that harmful and unnecessary class known as creditors. There are but two ways of treating them. One is to kick them out neck-and-crop, and the other you have just seen for yourself. But don’t misunderstand me, Ringrose! I meant every word I said, and he shall have his thirty shillings in the pound. The noble Earl has been a difficult fish to play, but I think I’ve landed him this time. Yes, my boy, you’ll be drawing your three hundred a year, and I my thirty thousand, before midsummer; but I’ll tell you all about it after supper. Why, bless my soul, that’s the supper you’ve got in your hands, Ringrose! Take it from him, Fanny, and dish it up, for I’m as hungry as a coach-load of hunters, and I’ve no doubt Ringrose is the same.”
And now Harry understood the trepidation with which Miss Lowndes had consulted him as to whether they should wait supper for her father, and her relief on hearing his opinion on the point: there had been no supper in the house. Lowndes, however, had brought home material for an excellent meal, of which caviare, a raised pie, French rolls, camembert, peaches and a pine-apple, and a bottle of Heidsieck, were conspicuous elements. Black coffee followed, rather clumsily served by the man-servant, who waited in a dress suit some sizes too small for him. And after supper Harry Ringrose at last heard something definite concerning the Company from which he was still assured that he might count on a certain income of three hundred pounds a year.
“Last night my tongue was tied,” said Lowndes; “but to-night the matter is as good as settled; and I may now speak without indiscretion. I must tell you first of all that the Company is entirely my own idea — and a better one I never had in my life. It is founded on the elementary principle that the average man gives more freely to a good cause than to a bad one, but most freely to the good cause out of which he’s likely to get some change. He enjoys doing good, but he enjoys it most when it pays him best, and there you have the root of the whole matter. Only hit upon the scheme which is both lucrative and meritorious, which gives the philanthropist the consolation of reward, and the money-grubber the kudos of philanthropy, and your fortune’
s made. You may spread the Gospel or the Empire, and do yourself well out of either; but, for my part, I wanted something nearer home — where charity begins, Ringrose — and it took me years to hit upon the right thing. Ireland has been my snare: to ameliorate the Irish peasant and the English shareholder at the same swoop: it can’t be done. I wasted whole months over the Irish Peasants’ Potato Produce Company, but it wouldn’t pan out. Nobody will put money into Ireland, and potatoes are cheap already as the dirt they grow in. But I was working in the right direction, and the crofter grievances came as a godsend to me about a year ago. The very thing! I won’t trouble you with the intermediate stages; the Highland Crofters’ Salmon and Trout Supply Association, Limited, will be registered this week; and the greatest of Scottish landlords, my good old Earl of Banff, is to be Chairman of Directors and rope in all the rest.”
Harry asked how it was to be made to pay. Lowndes had every detail at his finger-ends, and sketched out an amazing programme with bewildering volubility. The price of salmon would be reduced a hundred per cent. The London shops would take none but the Company’s fish. Fresh trout would sell like herrings in the street, and the Company would buy up the fishmongers’ shops all over the country, just as brewers bought up public-houses. As soon as possible they would have their own line to the North, and expresses full of nothing but fish would do the distance without stopping in time hitherto unprecedented in railway annals.
“But,” said Harry, “there are plenty of fish in the sea, and in other places besides the Highlands.”
“So there are, but in ten years’ time we shall own every river in the kingdom, and every cod-bank round the coast.”
“And where will the crofters come in then?”
Lowndes roared with laughter.
“They won’t come in at all. It will be forgotten that they ever were in: the original Company will probably be incorporated with the British Fresh Water and Deep Sea Fishing Company, Limited. Capital ten millions. General Manager, Sir Gordon Lowndes, Bart., Park Lane, W. Secretary, H. Ringrose, Esq., at the Company’s Offices, Trafalgar Square. We shall buy up the Grand Hotel and have them there. As for the crofters, they’ll be our Empire and our Gospel; we’ll play them for all they’re worth in the first year or two, and then we’ll let them slide.”
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 134