Mary Ledwhistle gave an exclamation. ‘Ernest,’ she cried, ‘I never knew! You never told me!’
‘I didn’t know myself till but a week ago, Mama,’ her son proffered. ‘I told Papa and he said you and he would talk it over. But I do love her, Father,’ he faltered lamely.
Old Ledwhistle’s heart was heavy. ‘Don’t you think you’re all a trifle hasty?’ he said calmly.
Mrs Mansall’s cup was suspended in the air. ‘Andrew, don’t you approve of the match?’
‘Excellent, excellent, Claire,’ responded Old Ledwhistle, ‘but we must remember they’re but children and not of age. They’ve got years ahead of them. Why, Ernest may think he’s in love. I do not wish to hurt you, Anna my dear –’ this in an aside – ‘but it may be an infatuation you have for each other.’
‘Papa, it isn’t,’ reproached Ernest. ‘It is not, truly. I love Anna as truly as ever I’ll love anyone.’
‘There, you see,’ cried his mother. ‘It’s all settled.’
Mrs Mansall could not restrain her delight.
‘It is not all settled, Mary,’ cried Andrew. ‘Ernest is not going to marry Anna – or at least, not yet.’
Mrs Mansall was not daunted. ‘Rubin will be calling on you shortly, Andrew,’ she said, ‘and everything will be settled up quite simply, with satisfaction to both parties.’
She bestowed a warm kiss on Mrs Ledwhistle and her daughters, nearly smothered little Francis in her voluminous petticoats, and swept out, Anna trailing dejectedly behind.
When they had gone, Ernest turned to his father in real anger.
‘Papa,’ he cried, ‘I’m not a child. I love Anna, do you hear?’
‘Yes, my boy, I do and I’m very distressed,’ answered Old Ledwhistle sorrowfully. He turned to his daughter Jane. He addressed his eldest, ‘Take your brother to the nursery, and Fanny and Charlotte go too.’
When they had gone, he bade his wife and Ernest be seated. ‘Now,’ he said worriedly, ‘I will tell you a story. Many years ago, just after I made Ruby my first wife, Peter died. Then Rubin Mansall became my partner. 18 years later I learned he was robbing the firm. The partnership was dissolved. His wife and child are ignorant of his shame. And they must never know.’
‘But what difference does that make?’ cried Ernest impetuously. ‘They won’t know because I marry Anna.’
His mother, however, thought differently. ‘You mean, Andrew, that Rubin has never forgiven you and never will?’
‘Yes, my dear,’ answered Andrew heavily. ‘He would never consent to your marriage. It would make us all miserable.’
‘But, Father,’ cried Ernest wretchedly, ‘it’ll ruin my life. She’s everything to me.’
‘In that case, my boy – you cherish her happiness do you not?’
‘Oh yes, Father, yes,’ answered his distressed son.
‘Well then,’ reasoned his father. ‘Do you love me, Ernest?’
‘Papa,’ cried Ernest, ‘of course I do.’
‘All right,’ was the reply. ‘Anna loves her father too, no doubt, and if she was ever to learn of his shame it would break her heart. Rubin would never agree to her marriage. And if you did get married without his consent, he would never forgive either you or her. Rubin is a determined man.’
‘I see,’ said Ernest blankly.
But he didn’t. And Andrew knew that, but what he did not know was that Ernest loved Anna in a way which his father did not believe man could love woman. He did not know that the breaking off from Anna would bring about Ernest’s downfall.
CHAPTER 9
Rupert Bigarstaff strolled up Ludgate Hill. His eyes stared straight ahead, but he saw nothing. ‘I must do something about young Soleway,’ his brain said. St Paul’s glowed at the sky, its mighty dome a challenge to the unlovely things of the world.
‘God was a fool to make a thing like that for the wretches,’ he muttered.
He climbed the many steps and leaned against a pillar. He’d make ’em sit up tonight. He’d watch ’em writhe as they tried to stop their ears and couldn’t. As a boy Rupert had been a queer little chap. He had a great memory for faces and astonished his wealthy parents by, at the age of 5, healing a dog who had been crushed under a carriage wheel. The family physicians had said it had been a miracle and he had been told to lay his hand on his dying father’s poisoned hand. He did, but he didn’t heal him. He had told his mother that his father wasn’t fit for living. His mother had been frightened, he remembered. He’d been sent away to a home for abnormal boys.
A small group was already gathering round him. He had that gift. He instinctively attracted attention. They listened till the evening sun went that white red that warns the world his time has come. The trees waved dully, and still they listened. Finally, Rupert was silent. There was no clapping. There never was, for they one and all hated him and feared him.
Rupert descended the steps and made his way homeward. He crossed London Bridge and rested for a moment on the rail. The sky was barred with red and gold. The eddying streams of colour raced over the water and were immersed in the shadows. It was very quiet, and when a footstep was heard on the cobbles he felt irritated. A young girl came towards him. Her face was streaked and dirty, her hair lank and black. Her eyes were large and without feeling, but the hand that clutched the fringed shawl was trembling. The girl said nothing. Her eyes rested hypnotically on the water. She stretched out her hand. She turned her head slowly to his.
‘Do you think it’ll be very cold and painful?’ she asked, and her voice came from far away.
‘Oh no,’ answered Rupert. ‘It won’t. Shall I push you?’
‘Oh no, no. I want to have the satisfaction of having felt courageous when I’m falling,’ she replied, her eyes once more turned to the water.
She leaned over, and Rupert gave a sharp jerk.
She fell with hardly a splash. The water rippled and circled. Then all was still again.
Rupert felt pleased he had cheated her at the very end. Maybe, dear readers, you feel only horror at the thought of a young girl wishing to drown herself. But many a girl and many a boy have crept to find rest in the secretive waters of the Thames these many years.
Rupert turned and found Gasper Liverwick at his elbow. ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Wherever you are,’ answered his crony, and arm in arm they journeyed to the waterfront.
Rupert entered his hovel and lit his lamp. It flickered strangely, not unlike the gleam in its owner’s eye.
‘Are we going to revisit Soleway tonight?’ asked Gasper.
‘No, I think not.’ Rupert was final. ‘We are to talk about him, though. Here, my friend, sit down.’
They sat down, and Rupert placed a bottle of stout on the table.
‘Listen hard, Gasper,’ he said, ‘Richard Soleway today met Sir Phillip Hobart, Chairman of the Stock Exchange. Don’t ask me how I know – I just do. About what he talked about I don’t know, but I can guess. Andrew Ledwhistle, as we know, invests in the Stock Exchange. Probably our young friend wishes to get to know Sir Hobart for his own ends. That will mean success for the firm, and Richard Soleway will doubtless receive his money. Then we’ll take a hand, Gasper, me friend.’
Gasper nodded his head in agreement. He wondered to himself what foul death Rupert would devise for Richard Soleway. Where would it all end?
CHAPTER 10
The streets of London were festooned with flags and bunting. The children, scrubbed and shining with soap and excitement and dressed in their patchy best, waited in a fever of impatience. The grown-ups too were giving sheepish smiles, for today was to be the day that Victor Radenstone – the name which conjured passionate acclaim from many men – was going to the reception at the Town Hall in honour of his great work in the Chinese Opium War. It was to be a public holiday as well, and there was to be beer and buns for the poor, presented by the charity of the Great Man himself.
There was a sound of horses’ hoofs, and the crow
ds lining the narrow streets gave a lusty cheer – perhaps it was aided by the thought of free ale. A shining black carriage came into view led by a team of high-mettled horses, their nostrils dilated, their magnificent shoulders rippling under their satiny coats.
As the carriage swept by, Robert Straffordson gave a grim smile. He wondered what his prosperous step-father would say when he presented himself. In short steps, his shoulders bent, he made his way to the hall. Round at a rear entrance he was accosted by an officious individual. He was forcefully ejected and, his eyes smouldering, he skulked round the back. Here he was fortunate. A window, partly shuttered, afforded him entry. As he landed with a slight noise on the floor below him, he saw he was in a cloakroom. His hand stole into the nearest pocket, and out came a pair of satin gloves, a slightly soiled handkerchief and a knife. Robert stuffed them in his coat and opened the door a space.
The hall was full to the maximum. By a table sat a row of important, stomached aldermen. Opposite them sat their wives, and standing by the table was his step-father. The face was turned sideways and Robert saw the great Victor Radenstone’s profile. No, he had not altered with the years. His body was large and muscular, and his hands strong and brown. But his face was the face of a city clerk. The nose was thin and wavery, the lips fine and sensual. The eyes were a watery blue, and they held the old familiar hunted look. Robert had inherited that expression. It was as if he was a timid dog hauling, rather doubtful of the consequences, on his leash.
Radenstone turned round slowly and for an instant his eyes met those of his step-son. There was no flame of recognition. He merely fixed his eyes on the people in the front rows. Victor, as he spoke in hackneyed phrases, was puzzled. The white and haunted face of the youth by the door had startled him not a little. Besides, had he not seen the same look in the mirror himself? Yes, those eyes were rather familiar.
He was brought back to earth by the sound of clapping. He gazed vaguely at the door again, but the boy had disappeared. He became aware that he was being led from the hall, and curious eyes feasted on him. There were the eyes – brown, green, grey-black eyes – but they all held the pinched, hunted look of the youth he had seen a minute ago.
Meanwhile Robert, after helping himself to a few pockets, wandered down the streets of the city. He loved his father with a love that was as fierce and heated as any. Years ago as a little boy he remembered how he used to get a feeling of warm contentment when he felt his small hand engulfed in that big one. He had not liked his mother, and until her second marriage had stored his childish love up. When she had married Radenstone, he had showered all his affections on the big, weak-faced man. A film passed over his eyes. He had broken his father’s heart 8 years ago when he had broken loose and left home. Gradually, year by year, he had fallen more and more deeply into the slough of thieving. He was nearing the water’s edge, and as his eyes lighted on the dull grey of the water that moved sluggishly along he knew that he himself was growing like that year by year. Then Robert Straffordson laughed and was himself again.
CHAPTER 11
The spacious ballroom was glittering and mellow. The polished floor was an invitation to your feet, and made them want to slide, to ruffle the calm smugness of its surface. The orchestra, screened by tall ferns at one end of the room, wafted forth a whirling melody. Here was colour, happiness and breathless beauty. The ladies’ skirts and petticoats, brightly sequined, swished softly round their dainty feet. The many fans fluttered and revealed flushed and bright-eyed gaiety, while the men bowed over their partners’ white fingers and dabbed hastily in their snuff boxes. Round the end of the floor on gilt-backed chairs, as stiff and upright as their occupants, rested the fond mamas who gossiped rapturously as they told each other ‘how well dear Bertha and that young William Darcy looked together’.
Richard looked down at his pretty young partner, a vivacious girl with bewitching dimples in the velvet smoothness of her cheeks. By the door talking to Claire Mansall, was Rubin, her husband. He was a faded edition of his daughter, with black eyes and curved eyebrows. Rubin was looking angrily in the direction of Ernest, and his wife looked tearful and distressed.
As soon as the dance ended, Rubin strode up to Anna. He took her roughly by the arm. ‘Is this how you repay me for my goodness, Anna? Where are your manners? As the hostess you must pay attention to your guests. Victor Radenstone wishes to have this next waltz.’ But before the astonished girl could respond she was led off.
Ernest flushed furiously. Where had he heard that name before? Of course, he was the Victor Radenstone. He walked sulkily to a corner where his sister Fanny sat, her foolish face one bright beam.
‘Come on, Fanny,’ said Ernest crossly, hauling her roughly to her feet, ‘I wish you to dance this gavotte with me.’
Puffing, Fanny got to her feet. She was a silly girl with no beauty, and little brains. She irritated Ernest beyond measure by her empty expression and simpering ways.
Ernest looked moodily at Anna. She was pivoting lightly, her black eyes sparkling in the arms of a watery-eyed man. He felt he hated Victor Radenstone. Then he saw the kindly gaze in the man’s eyes, and felt reassured.
He wished the dance would finish. The palms of Fanny’s hands were wet, and short bursts of breath came from her clenched teeth. He tried to loosen her stubby fingers from his sleeve. He felt sure she would mark his new suit.
There was a final chord from the orchestra, and Richard walked over to him. He bowed briefly over Fanny’s hand and escorted her gallantly to her wall-flower seat. With a guilty pretence of an excuse he left her, and went his way to his partner.
‘I say, Martin,’ cried Ernest, ‘this is awful. Look at Anna. It’s scandalous.’
Richard smiled. ‘She’s just as upset as you,’ he reassured.
Ernest kicked the door angrily. A moment later Anna swept over to them. Ernest hurried forward and took both her hands in his.
‘Anna,’ he said peevishly, ‘how could you?’
Anna glanced reproachfully at him, under lowered lids. ‘Papa does not approve of you, I feel sure. When will you approach him about our love for each other?’ she asked him earnestly.
Ernest’s eyes clouded. ‘I shall ask him tonight, dearest,’ he resolved.
Anna turned to Richard. ‘I hope the dancing is to your liking, Mr Andromikey,’ she smiled.
‘It would be much more enjoyable to me if you would honour me with the next dance,’ replied Richard. He turned to Ernest. ‘You do not object, partner?’ he teased.
Ernest assented gaily this time. As he watched the two walk away, he became aware that a man was speaking.
‘Excuse me, my dear young sir, but my name is Victor Radenstone.’
Ernest started. ‘Not really?’ he said. ‘Indeed, this is a great honour, Sir.’
‘The honour is entirely mine,’ confessed Radenstone, bowing. ‘I do hope you will not think me impertinent if I ask you when you and Miss Anna are to be betrothed. You see, during the dance the young lady was so flattering as to confide all to me. And my chivalry, though I blush to say it, has been aroused.’
Ernest looked downcast. ‘Mr Mansall does not, I feel sure, approve of me, Sir.’
Victor Radenstone looked dreamy. ‘That must be altered,’ he said slowly. ‘Tonight after the ball I will go with you and Miss Anna to his study. There we will persuade Mr Mansall that you are the best of fellows.’ Ernest’s eyes began to regain their sparkle.
‘I can never thank you enough, Sir,’ he stammered.
Radenstone cut him short. ‘I have a son too,’ he said. ‘By marriage, but I have not seen him for years.’
Ernest hurried away to convey the good tidings to Anna. They both could hardly restrain themselves and were heartily glad when the guests began to disperse.
Finally, only two young men remained, besides the other three: Michael Standing, and a young nobleman named Lionel Dante. These, with great difficulty and not a little tact on behalf of Anna, were coaxed to go home. Then
Anna, Radenstone and Ernest made their way to Rubin Mansall.
Rubin Mansall was just reclining in his armchair, his glass of brandy beside him. Rubin was rather partial to a glass of warm spirits.
‘Impudent young puppy,’ he muttered savagely, as he crossed his feet on the fender. He was so sitting when his daughter and her two friends came softly into the room. Rubin was hardly civil to Ernest, and only barely polite to Radenstone.
Ernest began to fidget with his fingers. Radenstone broached the subject boldly. ‘I have formed some affection for these two young people,’ he said, ‘and am well interested in their welfare.’
‘Damned good of you,’ barked Rubin, and Radenstone flushed darkly. ‘Furthermore, Sir,’ he continued, ‘they wish to marry.’
As he spoke these last words Anna clutched her father’s hands.
He threw her off roughly and turned on Ernest. ‘Who do you think you are?’ he Said in a low voice. ‘Why you, you little puppy, you are a partner in a firm that is as poor as it is dishonest.’
Ernest started forward, but Radenstone stayed him.
‘I don’t think that’s quite fair, Mr Mansall,’ he said grimly.
‘As for you, you yellow-skinned, yellow-natured drugcurer, why don’t you return to your heathland, and tame your crooning friends,’ Mansall cried.
Radenstone kept his temper with difficulty. But Ernest could not. He sprang forward, his eyes glowing.
‘If Father’s firm is poor,’ he stormed, ‘it’s because you stole all the money we ever got, and if we’re dishonest it’s because you ruined our name, and couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.’
Rubin clenched his fists and grew purple in the face.
‘What if I did steal your blasted money?’ he screeched. ‘The salary would never have kept me, or Anna or Claire, decent.’
Radenstone gripped Ernest’s arm in alarm. ‘Be quiet, Ernest,’ he cried. ‘This is a great shock to Anna.’ He was just in time to catch the young girl.
Collected Stories Page 21