Heir Presumptive

by Henry Wade

  Dinner was an ordeal through which Eustace felt he would not pass again for untold gold. It was of full length; clear soup, turbot, saddle of mutton, a trifle, angels on horseback; rich, well-cooked, admirably served. Lord Barradys ate none of it; he took what appeared to be some gruel from a silver bowl, some dry toast, drank half a glass of water, while the butler plied Eustace with sherry, hock and burgundy. Eustace tried his best to talk, not of the family—he hadn’t the nerve to do that—but of such topics of the day as he had read about in the paper coming up. Lord Barradys’ responses were occasional and often bore no relation to the subject mentioned by Eustace. He croaked out a sentence or remained completely silent, staring in front of him. Fortunately the continuous presence of the servants made the strain just endurable, their swift, silent service kept the thing going; otherwise, Eustace thought, he must have screamed.

  The table was cleared, fruit and nuts offered to and declined by Eustace, a salver of thin wafer biscuits laid before Lord Barradys, the large port glasses filled from a great cut-glass decanter, itself then placed carefully before the host. The servants, extinguishing all but the picture lights and the candles on the table, left the room. The old man, sipping his port, seemed gradually to warm into life. Eustace, giving up all attempts at conversation, watched him in silence, savouring the bouquet of the vintage wine.

  “Cockburn ’96”, croaked the old man, though his voice seemed to Eustace already to have mellowed with the wine. “Ye’re not drinking; fill that up.”

  He pointed to the decanter. Eustace filled his glass, made the conventional half-circle, and replaced the decanter. Lord Barradys, with an effort, lifted it and filled his own glass. For a time he sat, sipping, colour creeping into his withered cheeks. A second time the big glasses were refilled. Then Lord Barradys, shifting slightly in his chair, turned his grey eyes upon his guest. Eustace was startled to see how keen, how alive, they were now.

  “So ye’re Eustace, eh? Grandson of Clarence, son of that young rip, Victor.”

  The voice, too, was fuller, less creaking, than before.

  “Ye’ve got the looks of both of them, the whole rotten line. Loose mouth; vicious; I know you. Women, eh? Wine, too.”

  He jerked his finger towards the decanter. Eustace, flushing with anger and embarrassment, stared back at him.

  “I sent for you because I thought ye might be different. Times change, lines change, sometimes. But ye’re not, ye’re the same. Useless, vicious, good for nothing. And you’ll be Lord Barradys, eh? That poor boy, David’s boy; he’s going, they tell me. They’re all gone now; only me and that poor boy left. After that—you.”

  The withering contempt in that last word made Eustace shrink back in his chair as if he had been struck. Instantly the old man leaned forward, striking the table with his thin hands.

  “But don’t think because ye’re going to be Barradys that ye’ll get Barradys’s money. Don’t deceive yourself, Eustace. Better for you to know now. The title you must have; I can’t prevent ye. But nothing more, nothing more.”

  He sank back in his chair, exhausted, the blood drained from his face. Eustace, seething with anger, not knowing how to deal with the old madman, watched him, wondering if he were going to faint. He looked so white and still, so lifeless . . . an anxious thought flashed into Eustace’s mind. Good Lord, he wasn’t going to . . . ? That would be . . . frightful, most damnably awkward. He leaned forward and pressed the electric bell which lay on the table in front of his host. The butler appeared, gave one quick look at his master, stepped forward quietly and gently raised him from his chair. Without another glance at Eustace, without a word, Lord Barradys tottered slowly from the room, clutching the butler’s arm.

  Chapter Fourteen

  George Hendel

  EUSTACE saw no more of his host that night. He retired, considerably agitated, to the library, where later the butler visited him with an A.B.C., asking what train he would wish to catch in the morning. Much as he disliked early rising, Eustace chose the 9.15, feeling that he would do a good deal to avoid meeting that infernal old maniac again. At 8.45 a.m., therefore, he was rolled away in the stately Daimler, leaving behind him a superbly munificent tip; his departure, he felt, might be in the nature of a retreat, but at least it should be dignified.

  If the journey north had been dull, the return was depressing to a degree. After a night’s sleep in an extremely comfortable bed, Eustace had been able to shake off the greater part of his agitation, was able now to convince himself that all that talk last night had been the bluff of an angry, disappointed old dotard, who, knowing himself powerless, wanted still to give an impression of omnipotence. Because it was perfectly clear from what both Christendome and Henry Carr had said that old Barradys was only tenant for life of the entailed estate; he could not dispose of it, one way or the other, whatever his feelings and wishes might be. No doubt he had a good deal of personal property which he would not now leave to Eustace, whatever might have been his original intention; that was tiresome enough, but it did not affect the main issue; the bulk of the estate was entailed and it would inevitably pass to him with the title.

  A faint stirring of uneasiness passed through Eustace. Was that right? Did the entailed estate inevitably pass with the title? What was it Henry Carr had said? ‘Lord Barradys had only a life interest in the estate; it was bound to pass to his lineal descendants, just as his title was bound to pass to them’. That was it, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that good enough? The title was bound to pass to him now, so the estate. . . . Wait, though. Did that follow? Did what Carr said apply to the subsequent tenants of the estate, or only to the original tenant for life, old Barradys?

  Eustace racked his brains, trying to remember exactly what Henry Carr had said, wishing he had had some legal training, wondering whether he could find out from some book. It would be risky to ask questions now. He must try to remember. Carr had said something else, something about ‘barring the entail’. Was that the expression? ‘The tenant in tail could bar the entail with the consent of the tenant for life’. Wasn’t that it? It seemed to be coming back to him now. Then what did that mean now? Desmond was now tenant in tail. Then it meant that Desmond could bar the entail with the consent of Lord Barradys; and Barradys had just declared . . . !

  Eustace flung himself back in his seat, sweating with anxiety, struggling to understand a legal problem for which he had had no training. Why should Desmond bar the entail, why should he cut him, Eustace, out? He had been very friendly to him, seemed to like him. Besides, who else should it go to if not to him? The one clear Hendel rule, so both Carr and old Christendome had said, was to keep the estate in the family; that was the whole object of entailing it. Who else, but he, would keep it in the family? None of those children descended through the Hendel women would do—they weren’t Hendels. Young Dick Carr, Julia’s boy, or Bernard Stone, who had been at the funeral with his mother—what was her name . . . Patience. They weren’t Hendels, there was only himself . . . oh, and his cousin George! He had forgotten him; George and his father, William Hendel, the wine merchants! Forgotten all about them.

  As the train rushed through Peterborough Eustace stared, unseeing, at the towering chimneys of ‘London and Forder’s’ brick works. Why should old Barradys prefer George to him, Eustace? Why should Desmond? His past record? Well, what was wrong with it? He had come in for money and lived an independent life, perfectly respectable, not a breath against him—well, not a breath that would reach old Barradys up at Newcastle or Desmond on his sick bed. And George? He was a correct little wine-merchant. Nothing startling about that; nothing against either of them, nothing to choose between them—except the one outstanding fact that Eustace was the senior and would be Lord Barradys.

  What was it that had made old Barradys rave against him? The Lord knows. Merely the fact that he came of the junior line—‘the whole rotten line’, he had condemned, silly old fool. That included George, didn’t it? Wait though; the old man had said: ‘grandson o
f Clarence, son of that young rip, Victor’. His commination didn’t go back to Augustus, the common ancestor of Eustace and George. It was Augustus’ son, Clarence, who had been supposed to be a bad hat, he and poor Dad; though what Clarence and his son Victor were supposed to have done beyond blueing their money, a bit of horse-racing, well, perhaps, a bit fond of women—small blame to ’em—Eustace did not know. Augustus’ other son, Hubert, had not, so far as Eustace had heard, been tarred with the same brush of disapproval, while his son William was now the respectable wine-merchant, with his son George conveniently in tow. Respectable, worthy people; perhaps that was what old Barradys wanted to inherit the blasted family estate, thought Eustace bitterly; people who wouldn’t have the faintest idea what to do with the money when they got it.

  The train swept through the suburbs of London, and Eustace, beginning to collect his things, tried also to collect his thoughts, recover his morale. After all, this was pure imagination on his part; he had no real reason to suppose that Desmond had any such intention. Still, it would be worth keeping in touch with Desmond.

  The week-end, which Jill and he had contemplated spending in a burst of extravagant luxury at Brighton, to celebrate the triumphant acceptance of Eustace as his ultimate heir by the head of the family, was, under the altered circumstances, declared to be a wash-out. Jill, in consequence, was sulky, though trying to be sympathetic, and Eustace had little else to do but brood over his troubles.

  On Monday morning, as a result of these broodings, he went round to see Desmond but was told by the maid that Mr. Hendel was indisposed and not seeing anyone; on enquiring for Mrs. Toumlin, he learnt that she was out. Disappointed, and feeling vaguely uncomfortable, Eustace made his way back to his own part of London and began a desultory search for a flat. As he hunted through the quiet streets which even now an expert can find round Covent Garden, he began to warm to his task. House-hunting had always had a great attraction for him; he had a vivid imagination and was able to picture what even the barest or most ill-furnished room would look like with his own decoration, his own furniture. After a sandwich and a glass of Munich beer at Appenrodt’s he decided to call Jill into partnership and this move was a success, for Jill had been bored and rather depressed, wondering whether Eustace’s fine ideas would ever come true, wondering whether she would be able to get him to do something permanent for her if they did; this activity on his part revived her confidence in his star and she flung herself into the game with a zest that quickly communicated itself to him.

  At first their enthusiasm met with no great reward; most of the flats they saw were dark and dingy, or the street was too noisy, or if flat and street were satisfactory the rent was invariably too high. Just as they were thinking of knocking off for the day, however, they came across one that really seemed made for their purpose. It was in a fairly modern block of flats within a few minutes’ walk of the Opera House. It had been done up by (or for) its present occupant, a Mrs. Oliphant, only a year previously, but for reasons of her own she now wished to leave it in a hurry and would pass on the remainder of her three-year lease without premium. It had one good living-room, two bed-rooms—one of them large and airy—a bathroom, kitchen, etc., and accommodation for maid or man on the top floor. The decoration was sufficiently recent and in good enough taste to call for no further expenditure.

  Eustace’s imagination at once began to fill it with the excellent furniture which had adorned his St. James’ flat, and which for two or three years had been languishing in store. Jill, with a shrewd judgment of ‘atmosphere’, sensed that this block of flats was of sufficiently free and easy a character to allow her to have a more than academic interest in the ménage of Mr. Eustace Hendel; she strongly suspected that Mrs. Oliphant had been ‘provided for’ by someone who was going to provide for her no longer; that meant that the management was ‘not too damn particular’.

  Even without a premium the rent was higher than Eustace had intended to pay, but it was just within reason, and, after taking the evening to think it over, he clinched, made the necessary legal and financial arrangements for transfer of tenancy, and gave orders to Maple’s Depository to deliver his furniture on Monday morning. That gave him nearly a week in which to find a ‘man’ and it took him only twenty-four hours to do that. The very first registry-office he applied to had on their books ‘the very man he wanted’, an interview followed, and James Hamilton, at one time valet to Lord Cockspur but since then engaged in a private enterprise—a small valet-service affair—which had not prospered, took the oath of allegiance and established himself in the already vacant top-floor room at Brandford Mansions.

  On Thursday Eustace, his spirits largely restored by the excitement of his approaching change of environment and circumstance, decided to look up his Uncle William, take a glass of sherry off him, and see for himself what possible attraction young George might have for old Barradys and Desmond, in case they ever really did contemplate preferring the young prig to the prospective peer.

  The office of Hendel and Son, Wine Merchants, was in the City, and as in September the City has not completely come to life again after its summer holiday, business was not brisk. Mr. William Hendel was disengaged and received his nephew in the tiny office-within-an-office, which looked out upon a backyard. The wine-merchant carried the Hendel nose, the dark colouring of the younger branch; in the earlier fifties he was still vigorous and bore the stamp of bonhomie so necessary to his trade.

  “Come in, Eustace”, he exclaimed, holding out a pudgy hand. “Haven’t seen you for a month or more. Not since all these tragedies in the ‘Baron’s Branch’, eh? That was a terrible business up in Scotland, terrible experience for you. You must tell me all about it. But you’ll take a glass of sherry, eh? Not too dry? An Amontillado? Or there’s an Oloroso ’80 I’m just sampling, if you prefer that. An after-dinner wine, really, but very pleasant at middle-day on occasions.”

  Eustace preferred the Amontillado and over a glass or two told again the story of David’s death. With continued practice it had developed into a fairly convincing tale, but Eustace was uncomfortably aware that it took on a different hue when regarded, as it inevitably must be, in the light of his own change of fortune. However, Mr. William Hendel was too polite to show any sign of doubt or incredulity, whatever he may have felt. He commiserated with Eustace and enquired after David’s son. After telling all he knew in that respect, though minimizing the seriousness of Desmond’s illness, the prospect of his early death, Eustace enquired after George. The wine-merchant beamed.

  “Ah, George”, he said. “George has had a very pleasant surprise. Lord Barradys has very kindly invited him to go up to Derrick House. He went north yesterday by the 11.20 from King’s Cross. The first time cousin Chandos has ever shown a sign of being aware of our existence, to tell you the truth. A very courteous, very friendly letter. You know him, no doubt, Eustace?”

  Eustace had felt himself flushing as the proud father retailed his news. So it was serious; there was something behind this idea of his . . . about George. Curse it, what could . . . ? He pulled himself together; mustn’t let old William see how annoyed he was.

  “Oh, yes”, he said airily. “As a matter of fact I was up there myself last week.” (That would take some of the wind out of uncle William’s sails.) “I thought the old man rather shaky. Not surprising, really; must have been a great shock to him, losing two grandsons and a great-grandson all at once. No doubt that’s why he sent for George; wanted to see what the younger branch of the family was like.”

  Eustace was surprised at his own coolness. No chance of Uncle William realizing what a shock it had been to him, hearing of George being sent for by the old man. Because it was a shock; there was no use blinking the fact. It proved that he had been right—or at least that there had been some basis to his imaginings in the train on the way down from Newcastle. Whether or not the old man would be able to persuade Desmond to cut him, Eustace, out of the entail, it showed which way the wind was blow
ing; it showed there was danger.

  Taking leave of his uncle, Eustace walked back to the West End, chewing again the cud of those uncomfortable reflections which had bothered him on the way down from Newcastle.

  He spent the afternoon supervizing the cleaning out of his new flat, which ‘Mrs. Oliphant’ had already vacated, and in mentally arranging the furniture and pictures which would come in on Monday. In the evening he went to the Jermyn and set about organizing a poker party at the flat on the following Wednesday; George Priestley promised to come, Freddie Gallater—another Jermynite; each thought he knew of a young fellow who would care to come along and have a flutter. That was the sort of house-warming he wanted; the inaugurating of a new series of such events, which was to keep him in funds until . . . the plums fell. If they did; damn it, it didn’t look such a certainty now.

  There was to be a different sort of house-warming on Tuesday night, organized by Jill. Jill’s friends that time, actresses and young men of some kind—actors or hangers-on. Eustace didn’t care for Jill’s friends, had never been attracted by the theatrical profession, only by one or two of its individual stars. Jill for instance—not a star in the accepted sense, not a planet, but still one of the glittering millions that went to make the Milky Way of Theatreland. Jill, to his mind, the brightest of them all. Of course she must have her party—but it must not get too rowdy—no use starting a tenancy on the wrong note—she had promised to see to that. But she would not be at the Wednesday house-warming; no women at that; pure business.

  Still, that was all laid on on Thursday and there was nothing more to be done at the flat. He regretted now that he had not ordered the furniture to be delivered sooner; he had not expected Mrs. Oliphant to get out quite so promptly.