For the Term of His Natural Life
Page 76
The town house of Mr. Richard Devine was in Clarges Street. Not that thevery modest mansion there situated was the only establishment of whichRichard Devine was master. Mr. John Rex had expensive tastes. He neithershot nor hunted, so he had no capital invested in Scotch moors orLeicestershire hunting-boxes. But his stables were the wonder of London,he owned almost a racing village near Doncaster, kept a yacht at Cowes,and, in addition to a house in Paris, paid the rent of a villa atBrompton. He belonged to several clubs of the faster sort, and mighthave lived like a prince at any one of them had he been so minded; buta constant and haunting fear of discovery--which three years ofunquestioned ease and unbridled riot had not dispelled--led him toprefer the privacy of his own house, where he could choose his ownsociety. The house in Clarges Street was decorated in conformity withthe tastes of its owner. The pictures were pictures of horses, the bookswere records of races, or novels purporting to describe sporting life.Mr. Francis Wade, waiting, on the morning of the 20th April, for thecoming of his nephew, sighed as he thought of the cultured quiet ofNorth End House.
Mr. Richard appeared in his dressing-gown. Three years of good livingand hard drinking had deprived his figure of its athletic beauty. Hewas past forty years of age, and the sudden cessation from severe bodilytoil to which in his active life as a convict and squatter he had beenaccustomed, had increased Rex's natural proneness to fat, and insteadof being portly he had become gross. His cheeks were inflamed with thefrequent application of hot and rebellious liquors to his blood. Hishands were swollen, and not so steady as of yore. His whiskers werestreaked with unhealthy grey. His eyes, bright and black as ever, lurkedin a thicket of crow's feet. He had become prematurely bald--a suresign of mental or bodily excess. He spoke with assumed heartiness, in aboisterous tone of affected ease.
"Ha, ha! My dear uncle, sit down. Delighted to see you. Have youbreakfasted?--of course you have. I was up rather late last night. Quitesure you won't have anything. A glass of wine? No--then sit down andtell me all the news of Hampstead."
"Thank you, Richard," said the old gentleman, a little stiffly, "butI want some serious talk with you. What do you intend to do with theproperty? This indecision worries me. Either relieve me of my trust, orbe guided by my advice."
"Well, the fact is," said Richard, with a very ugly look on his face,"the fact is--and you may as well know it at once--I am much pushed formoney."
"Pushed for money!" cried Mr. Wade, in horror. "Why, Purkiss said theproperty was worth twenty thousand a year."
"So it might have been--five years ago--but my horse-racing, andbetting, and other amusements, concerning which you need not toocuriously inquire, have reduced its value considerably."
He spoke recklessly and roughly. It was evident that success had butdeveloped his ruffianism. His "dandyism" was only comparative. Theimpulse of poverty and scheming which led him to affect the "gentleman"having been removed, the natural brutality of his nature showed itselfquite freely. Mr. Francis Wade took a pinch of snuff with a sharp motionof distaste. "I do not want to hear of your debaucheries," he said; "ourname has been sufficiently disgraced in my hearing."
"What is got over the devil's back goes under his belly," replied Mr.Richard, coarsely. "My old father got his money by dirtier ways thanthese in which I spend it. As villainous an old scoundrel and skinflintas ever poisoned a seaman, I'll go bail."
Mr. Francis rose. "You need not revile your father, Richard--he left youall."
"Ay, but by pure accident. He didn't mean it. If he hadn't died in thenick of time, that unhung murderous villain, Maurice Frere, would havecome in for it. By the way," he added, with a change of tone, "do youever hear anything of Maurice?"
"I have not heard for some years," said Mr. Wade. "He is something inthe Convict Department at Sydney, I think." "Is he?" said Mr. Richard,with a shiver. "Hope he'll stop there. Well, but about business. Thefact is, that--that I am thinking of selling everything."
"Selling everything!"
"Yes. 'Pon my soul I am. The Hampstead place and all."
"Sell North End House!" cried poor Mr. Wade, in bewilderment. "You'dsell it? Why, the carvings by Grinling Gibbons are the finest inEngland."
"I can't help that," laughed Mr. Richard, ringing the bell. "I wantcash, and cash I must have.--Breakfast, Smithers.--I'm going to travel."
Francis Wade was breathless with astonishment. Educated and reared as hehad been, he would as soon have thought of proposing to sell St. Paul'sCathedral as to sell the casket which held his treasures of art--hiscoins, his coffee-cups, his pictures, and his "proofs before letters".
"Surely, Richard, you are not in earnest?" he gasped.
"I am, indeed."
"But--but who will buy it?"
"Plenty of people. I shall cut it up into building allotments. Besides,they are talking of a suburban line, with a terminus at St. John'sWood, which will cut the garden in half. You are quite sure you'vebreakfasted? Then pardon me."
"Richard, you are jesting with me! You will never let them do such athing!"
"I'm thinking of a trip to America," said Mr. Richard, cracking anegg. "I am sick of Europe. After all, what is the good of a man likeme pretending to belong to 'an old family', with 'a seat' and all thathumbug? Money is the thing now, my dear uncle. Hard cash! That's theticket for soup, you may depend."
"Then what do you propose doing, sir?"
"To buy my mother's life interest as provided, realize upon theproperty, and travel," said Mr. Richard, helping himself to pottedgrouse.
"You amaze me, Richard. You confound me. Of course you cando as you please. But so sudden a determination. The oldhouse--vases--coins--pictures--scattered--I really--Well, it is yourproperty, of course--and--and--I wish you a very good morning!"
"I mean to do as I please," soliloquized Rex, as he resumed hisbreakfast. "Let him sell his rubbish by auction, and go and live abroad,in Germany or Jerusalem if he likes, the farther the better for me. I'llsell the property and make myself scarce. A trip to America will benefitmy health."
A knock at the door made him start.
"Come in! Curse it, how nervous I'm getting. What's that? Letters? Givethem to me; and why the devil don't you put the brandy on the table,Smithers?"
He drank some of the spirit greedily, and then began to open hiscorrespondence.
"Cussed brute," said Mr. Smithers, outside the door. "He couldn't usewuss langwidge if he was a dook, dam 'im!--Yessir," he added, suddenly,as a roar from his master recalled him.
"When did this come?" asked Mr. Richard, holding out a letter more thanusually disfigured with stampings.
"Lars night, sir. It's bin to 'Amstead, sir, and come down directed withthe h'others." The angry glare of the black eyes induced him to add, "I'ope there's nothink wrong, sir."
"Nothing, you infernal ass and idiot," burst out Mr. Richard, white withrage, "except that I should have had this instantly. Can't you see it'smarked urgent? Can you read? Can you spell? There, that will do. Nolies. Get out!"
Left to himself again, Mr. Richard walked hurriedly up and down thechamber, wiped his forehead, drank a tumbler of brandy, and finally satdown and re-read the letter. It was short, but terribly to the purpose.