Bunch Grass: A Chronicle of Life on a Cattle Ranch

by Horace Annesley Vachell

  XVIII

  ONE WHO DIED

  He was a remittance man, who received each month from his father, aDorset parson, a letter and a cheque. The letter was not a source ofpleasure to the son, and does not concern us; the cheque made fivepounds payable to the order of Richard Beaumont Carteret, known tomany men in San Lorenzo county, and some women, as Dick. Time was whenMr. Carteret cut what is called a wide swath, when indeed he waskowtowed to as Lord Carteret, who drove tandem, shot pigeons, andplayed all the games, including poker and faro. But the ten thousandpounds he inherited from his mother lasted only five years, and whenthe last penny was spent Dick wrote to his father and demanded anallowance. He knew that the parson was living in straitenedcircumstances, with two daughters to provide for, and he knew alsothat his mother's fortune should in equity have been divided among thefamily; but, as he pointed out to his dear old governor, a Carteretmustn't be allowed to starve; so the parson, who loved the handsomelad, put down his hack and sent the prodigal a remittance. He hadbetter have sent him a hempen rope, for necessity might have made aman out of Master Dick; the remittance turned him into a moral idiot.

  A Carteret, as you know, cannot do himself justice upon five pounds amonth, so Dick was constrained to play the part of Mentor to sundryyouthful compatriots, teaching them a short cut to ruin, and sharingthe while their purses and affections. But, very unhappily for Dick,the supply of fools suddenly failed, and, lo! Dick's occupation wasgone. Finally, in despair, he allied himself to another remittanceman, an ex-deacon of the Church of England, and the two drifted slowlyout of decent society upon a full tide of Bourbon whisky.

  Tidings must have come to the parson of his son's unhappy condition,or possibly he decided that the Misses Carteret were entitled to theremittance. It is certain that one dreadful day Dick's lettercontained nothing but a sheet of note-paper.

  "I can send you no more cheques" (wrote the parson), "not anotherpenny will you receive from me. I pray to God that He may see fit toturn your heart, for He alone can do it. I have failed ..."

  Dick showed this letter to his last and only friend, the ex-deacon,the Rev. Tudor Crisp, known to many publicans and sinners as the'Bishop.' The two digested the parson's words in a small cabinsituated upon a pitiful patch of ill-cultivated land; landirreclaimably mortgaged to the hilt, which the 'Bishop' spoke of as"my place." Dick (he had a sense of humour) always called the cabinthe rectory. It contained one unplastered, unpapered room, carpetlessand curtainless; a bleak and desolate shelter that even a sheep-herderwould be loth to describe as home. In the corners were two trucklebeds, a stove, and a large demijohn containing some cheap and fierywhisky; in the centre of the floor was a deal table; on the roughredwood walls were shelves displaying many dilapidated pairs of bootsand shoes, also some fly-specked sporting prints, and, upon a row ofnails, a collection of shabby discoloured garments, ancient "hartogs,"manifesting even in decay a certain jaunty, dissolute air, at onceludicrous and pathetic. Outside, in front, the 'Bishop' had laid out agarden wherein nothing might be found save weeds and empty beerbottles, dead men denied decent interment. Behind the cabin was thedust-heap, an interesting and historical mound, an epitome, indeed, ofthe 'Bishop's' gastronomical past, that emphasised his descent fromOlympus to Hades; for on the top was a plebeian deposit of tomato andsardine cans, whereas below, if you stirred the heap, might be found anobler stratum of terrines, once savoury with _foie gras_ andStrasbourg _pate_, of jars still fragrant of fruits embedded inliqueur, of bottles that had contained the soups that a divine loves--oxtail, turtle, mulligatawny, and the like. Upon rectory, glebe, andgarden was legibly inscribed the grim word--ICHABOD.

  "He means what he says," growled Dick. "So far as he's concerned I'mdead."

  "You ought to be," said the 'Bishop,' "but you aren't; what are yougoing to do?"

  This question burned its insidious way to Dick's very vitals. Whatcould he do? Whom could he do? After a significant pause he caught the'Bishop's' eye, and, holding his pipe as it might be a pistol, put itto his head, and clicked his tongue.

  "Don't," said the 'Bishop' feebly.

  The two smoked on in silence. The Rev. Tudor Crisp reflectedmournfully that one day a maiden aunt might withdraw the pittance thatkept his large body and small soul together. This unhappy thought senthim to the demijohn, whence he extracted two stiff drinks.

  "No," said Dick, pushing aside the glass. "I want to think, to think.Curse it, there must be a way out of the wood. If I'd capital we couldstart a saloon. We know the ropes, and could make a living at it,more, too, but now we can't even get one drink on credit. Why don'tyou say something, you stupid fool?"

  He spoke savagely. The past reeled before his eyes, all the cheeryhappy days of youth. He could see himself at school, in the playingfields, at college, on the river, in London, at the clubs. Otherfigures were in the picture, but he held the centre of the stage. Godin heaven, what a fool he had been!

  The minutes glided by, and the 'Bishop' refilled his glass, glancingfrom time to time at Dick. He was somewhat in awe of Carteret, but thewhisky warmed him into speech.

  "Look here," he said with a spectral grin, "what's enough for one isenough for two. We'll get along, old man, on my money, till the timesmend."

  Dick rose, tall and stalwart; and then he smiled, not unkindly, at thesquat, ungainly 'Bishop.'

  "You're a good chap," he said quietly. "Shake hands, and-good-bye."

  "Why, where are you going?"

  "Ah! Who knows? If the fairy tales are true, we may meet again later."

  Crisp stared at the speaker in horror. He had reason to know that Dickwas reckless, but this dare-devil despair apalled him. Yet he had witenough to attempt no remonstrance, so he gulped down his, whisky andwaited.

  "It's no use craning at a blind fence," continued Dick. "Sooner orlater we all come to the jumping-off place. I've come to it to-night.You can give me a decent funeral--the governor will stump up for that--and there will be pickings for you. You can read the service,'Bishop.' Gad! I'd like to see you in a surplice."

  "Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.

  "He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued Dick. "You can do thething handsomely for half that."

  "For God's sake, shut up."

  "Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start usnicely in the saloon business, and----"

  He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor. Now he stopped, andhis eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.

  "Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."

  The 'Bishop' handed him his glass. Dick drained it, and laughed.

  "Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. Dick laughed again, andslapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and hespoke grimly.

  "What does the apostle say--hey? We must die to live. A straight tip!Well--! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to dieto-night. Don't jump like that, you old ass; let me finish. I'm goingto die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business allthe same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyeson the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfectgentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the manwho was, and is, and is to be."

  "You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. Youmean to be your own undertaker."

  "I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and anhour's peace."

  But the hour passed and found Dick still composing. The 'Bishop'watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribeflung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows--

  "The Rectory, San Lorenzo,

  "_September 1,_

  "To the Rev. George Carteret.

  "Dear Sir,--I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, ofthe sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died atmy house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly. Youwill find enclosed the doctor's certificate, the coroner's report,
andthe undertaker's bill _paid and receipted_.

  "I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored amisspent youth. But I rejoice to say that poor Dick lived long enoughto heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins againsthimself. He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to thesacrifices you had made on his behalf--sacrifices that he confessedwere far greater than his deserts.

  "I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral ofa gentleman. The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full,including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery. Shouldyou see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money;if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matterdrop. I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.

  "It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of thegrave. A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about twohundred dollars. If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, Iwill give it my earnest attention.

  "I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road,Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.

  "Very truly yours,

  "Tudor Crisp (The Rev.)."

  "There," exclaimed Mr. Carteret, "that will do the trick. The billsand other documents we'll forge at our leisure to-morrow."

  "I don't quite like the use of my name," protested the Rev. TudorCrisp.

  Dick explained that his reverence would be entitled to half theplunder, and that discovery was almost impossible. Still, despiteDick's eloquence, the 'Bishop' submitted that such a cruel fraud was"tough" on the old gentleman.

  "On the contrary," retorted the other. "He will assume that I died inthe odour of sanctity, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms ofa parson. He'll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or myfuture. This is the turning-point of our fortunes. Don't look so glum,man. Here--hit the demijohn again."

  But the 'Bishop' declined this invitation, and betook himself to hisblankets, muttering inarticulate nothings. Dick relighted his pipe,and refilled his glass. Then he walked to the mantelshelf and gazedlong and critically at three framed photographs of his father and twosisters. These were almost the only property he possessed. It issignificant from an ethical point of view that Dick kept thesepictures where he could see them. The 'Bishop' had photos also, butthey lay snug at the bottom of an old portmanteau. His reverence wassensible that he was not worthy to keep company with even the picturesof honourable and respectable persons. No such qualms affected Dick.He regarded these photos as credentials. His father had a charmingface--one of those human documents whereon are inscribed honour,culture, benevolence, and the wisdom that is not of this world. Thesisters, too, had comely features; and strangers introduced to thefamily group always felt more kindly disposed to the prodigal so farfrom such nice people. Dick had impetrated more than one loan, usingthese portraits as collateral security. Did his heart soften as hebade them farewell? Who can tell?

  * * * * *

  Within six weeks the Rev. Tudor Crisp received a cheque from distantDorset, and the proceeds were duly invested in a saloon in SanClemente, a town some twenty miles from San Lorenzo. Moreover, thebusiness prospered from the start. The partners, Crisp and Cartwright(Dick deemed it wise to alter his name), kept no assistants, so therewas no leakage from the till. They understood that this liquor trafficwas a shameful trade, but they pronounced themselves unable to followany other. Curiously enough the work proved a tonic to the 'Bishop.'He allowed himself so many drinks a day, and observed faithfully otherrules to his physical and financial betterment. He started a reading-room in connection with the bar, for he had had experience in suchmatters when a curate at home; and the illustrated papers sentregularly by his maiden aunt were in great demand. Indeed, the merereading about football matches and the like created an unquenchablethirst in cowboys and sheep-herders. Moreover the 'Bishop' enforcedorder and decorum, being a muscular Christian, and the boys learned tocurb obscene tongues in his presence. Dick marvelled at the change inhis partner, but he was shrewd enough to see that it brought grist tothe gin-mill.

  "Once a parson, always a parson," Dick would say; and the Rev. Tudorwould blush and sigh. He never spoke of his clerical days, but onceDick caught him furtively examining a picture of himself in surpliceand cassock. Each week a division of the profits was made. The'Bishop's' share was deposited in the local bank, but where Dick'sdollars went it would be indiscreet to tell. He had no stomach foreconomies, and observed no rules. When he apprehended the generaldrift of things he was content to let the 'Bishop' have his way andsay in regard to the conduct of the business. His reverence bought thecigars and liquors. Dick could hardly be called a sleeping partner,for he took the night watch, but the 'Bishop' did most of the work,and kept the books. Before two years had passed a capital restaurantwas added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chopsmight be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price.Dick never knew it, but the 'Bishop' wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp andbegged her to send no more cheques. He told his kind auntie verymodestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped oneday to thank her in person for all she had done for him.

  Towards the close of the third year the 'Bishop' told Dick that itwould be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a smallhotel then offered for sale. Dick told his old friend to go ahead. Hisreverence supplied Dick's share of the purchase-money, and the saloonknew them no more. But the hotel, under the 'Bishop's' management,proved a tiny gold mine.

  All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helpedto play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory. He fearedthat Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; forin the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, ofThe Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor 'Bishop' read withquickening pulses, and then showed to Dick.

  "My very dear Sir" (it began), "a curious change in my fortunesenables me to carry out a long-cherished plan. I purpose, D.V., to paya pilgrimage to my poor son's grave, and shall start for Californiaimmediately. Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a coupleof days at the rectory. It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meetone who was kind to my dear lad.

  "I will write to you again from San Francisco.

  "Very gratefully yours,

  "George Carteret."

  If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the 'Bishop'would have manifested far less consternation. He raved incoherentlyfor nearly ten minutes, while Dick sat silent and nervous beneath astorm of remorse.

  "I'll meet your father in San Francisco," said the unhappy Crisp, "andmake a clean breast of it." "That spells ruin," said Dick coldly. "Thegovernor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper. Hewould make this place too hot for you and too hot for me. I've a voicein this matter, and for once," he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, "Ipropose to be heard."

  "What do you mean to do?"

  "If necessary I'll resurrect myself. I'll play the hand alone. You'veno more tact than a hippopotamus. And I'll meet the governor. Don'tstare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth-faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, thecolour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable. It may benecessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him downhere. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."

  "What?"

  "I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return toEngland without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And youwould give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright,the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not forthat confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in tenminutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellowyou were."

  "Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.

  But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deucedid the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"

&n
bsp; * * * * *

  The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable roomsat the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet notunpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty. Itseemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches shouldhave come to him--riches from a distant kinsman who, living, hadhardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson. Five thousand pounds ayear was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numberedas many hundreds. And--alas! his son was dead. Not that the parsonloved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadetof an ancient family he had a Tory squire's prejudice in favour of aSalique Law. With the thousands went a charming grange in the northcountry and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to amale Carteret. If--futile thought--Dick had only been spared!

  Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card. The parson placed hisglasses upon a fine aquiline nose.

  "Ahem! Mr.--er--Cartwright. The name is not familiar to me, but I'llsee the gentleman."

  And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers. Dickfluently explained the nature of his errand. Mr. Carteret's letter hadbeen given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp'sestate. He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret'sname in the morning paper, had ventured to call.

  "And you, sir," said the father softly, "did you know my son?"

  Dick admitted that he had known himself--slightly.

  "A friend, perhaps? You are an Englishman." Dick pulled his beard.

  "Ah!" sighed the father, "I understand. My poor lad was not one, Ifear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend. But if I'm nottrespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you canof him. What good, I mean."

  Dick kept on pulling his beard.

  "Was there no good?" said the father, very sorrowfully. "His friend,Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him. He said Dick had no enemies buthimself."

  Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he hadexpected. He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself. Men arestrangely inconsistent. Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful ofthem; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference tohim, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he darednot speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core. Theparson sighed and pressed the matter no further. He desired, he said,to see Dick's grave. Then he hoped to return to England.

  Now Dick had made his plans. In a new country, where five years bringamazing changes, it is easy to play pranks, even in churchyards. Inthe San Lorenzo cemetery were many nameless graves, and the sextonchanced to be an illiterate foreigner who could neither read norwrite. So Dick identified a forlorn mound as his last resting-place,and told the sexton that a marble cross would be erected there underhis (Dick's) direction. Then he tipped the man, and bought a monument,taking care to choose one sufficiently time-stained. There are scoresof such in every marble-worker's yard. Upon it were cut Dick'sinitials, a date, and an appropriate text. Within three days of thereceipt of Mr. Carteret's letter, the cross was standing in thecemetery. None knew or cared whence it came. Moreover, Dick had passedunrecognised through the town where he had once ruffled it so gaily asLord Carteret. He had changed greatly, as he said, and for obviousreasons he had never visited the mission town since his bogus deathand burial.

  Thus it came to pass that Dick and his father travelled together toSan Lorenzo, and together stood beside the cross in the cemetery.Presently Dick walked away; and then the old man knelt down,bareheaded, and prayed fervently for many minutes. Later, the fatherpointed a trembling finger at the initials. "Why," he demandedquerulously, "did they not give the lad his full name?" And to thisnatural question Dick had nothing to say.

  "It seems," murmured the old man mournfully, "that Mr. Crisp, with allhis kindness, felt that the name should perish also. Well, amen, amen.Will you give me your arm, sir?"

  So, arm in arm, they passed from the pretty garden of sleep. Dick wasreally moved, and the impulse stirred within him to make fullconfession there and then. But he strangled it, and his jaw grew setand hard. As yet he was in ignorance of the change in his father'sfortunes. Mr. Carteret assumed none of the outward signs ofprosperity. He wore the clothes of a poor parson, and his talk flowedalong the old channels, a limpid stream not without sparkle, butbabbling of no Pactolian sands. And then, quite suddenly and simply,he said that he had fallen heir to a large estate, and that he wishedto set aside so much money as a memorial of his son, to be expended asthe experience of the bishop of the diocese might direct.

  "You--you are a rich man?" faltered Dick.

  "My son, sir, had he lived, would have been heir to five thousand ayear."

  Dick gasped, and a lump in his throat stifled speech for a season.Presently he asked politely the nature of Mr. Carteret's immediateplans, and learned that he was leaving San Lorenzo for Santa Barbaraon the morrow. Dick had determined not to let his father stray fromhis sight till he had seen him safe out of the country, but he toldhimself that he must confer with the 'Bishop' at once. The 'Bishop'must act as go-between; the 'Bishop,' by Jove! should let the cat outof the bag; the 'Bishop' would gladly colour the facts and obscure thefalsehoods. So he bade his father good-bye, and the old gentlemanthanked him courteously and wished him well. To speak truth, Mr.Carteret was not particularly impressed with Mr. Cartwright, nor sorryto take leave of him. Dick soon secured a buggy, and drove off. _Enroute_ he whistled gaily, and at intervals burst into song. Hereally felt absurdly gay.

  The 'Bishop,' however, pulled a long face when he understood what wasdemanded of him. "It's too late," said he.

  "Do you funk it?" asked Dick angrily.

  "I do," replied his reverence.

  "Well, he must be told the facts before he goes south."

  Dick little knew, as he spoke so authoritatively, that his father wasalready in possession of these facts. Within an hour of Dick'sdeparture, Mr. Carteret was walking through the old mission church,chatting with my brother Ajax. From Ajax he learned that at SanClemente, not twenty miles away, was another mission of greaterhistorical interest and in finer preservation than any north of SantaBarbara. Ajax added that there was an excellent hotel at San Clemente,kept by two Englishmen, Cartwright and Crisp. Of course the name Crisptickled the parson's curiosity, and he asked if this Crisp were anyrelation to the late Tudor Crisp, who had once lived in or near SanLorenzo. My brother said promptly that these Crisps were one and thesame, and was not to be budged from that assertion by the most violentexclamations on the part of the stranger. A synopsis of the Rev.Tudor's history followed, and then the inevitable question: "Who isCartwright?" Fate ordained that this question was answered by a manwho knew that Cartwright was Carteret; and so, at last, the unhappyfather realised how diabolically he had been hoaxed. Of his sufferingit becomes us not to speak; of his just anger something remains to besaid.

  He drove up to the San Clemente Hotel as the sun was setting, and bothDick and the 'Bishop' came forward to welcome him, but fell backpanic-stricken at sight of his pale face and fiery eyes. Dick slippedaside; the 'Bishop' stood still, rooted in despair.

  "Is your name Crisp?"

  "Yes," faltered the 'Bishop.'

  "The Rev. Tudor Crisp?"

  "I--er--once held deacon's orders."

  "Can I see you alone?"

  The 'Bishop' led the way to his own sanctum, a snug retreat, handy tothe bar, and whence an eye could be kept on the bar-tender. The'Bishop' was a large man, but he halted feebly in front of the other,who, dilated in his wrath, strode along like an avenging archangel,carrying his cane as it might be a flaming sword.

  "Now, sir," said Dick's father, as soon as they were alone, "what haveyou to say to me?"

  The 'Bishop' told the story from beginning to end, not quitetruthfully.

  "You dare to tell me that you hatched this damnable plot?"

  The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

  "And with the money obtained under false p
retences you bought asaloon, you, a deacon of the Church of England?"

  The 'Bishop' lied: "Yes--I did."

  "The devil takes care of his own," said the parson, looking round, andmarking the comfort of the room.

  "Not always," said the 'Bishop,' thinking of Dick.

  "Well, sir," continued the parson, "I'm told that money can workmiracles in this country. And, by God! if my money can sent you togaol, you shall go there, as sure as my name is George Carteret."

  "All right," said the 'Bishop.' "I--er--I don't blame you. I thinkyou're behaving with great moderation."

  "Moderation! Confound it! sir, are you laughing at me?"

  "The Lord forbid!" ejaculated Crisp.

  "Men have been shot for less than this."

  "There's a pistol in that drawer," said the 'Bishop' wearily. "You canshoot if you want to. Your money can put me into gaol, as you say, andkeep you out of it, if--if you use that pistol."

  Mr. Carteret stared. The 'Bishop' was beginning to puzzle him. Hestared still harder, and the 'Bishop' blushed; an awkward habit thathe had never rid himself of. Now a country parson, who is also amagistrate, becomes in time a shrewd judge of men.

  "Will you kindly send for my--for your partner?" he said suddenly."Please sit or stand where you are. I think you'll admit that I have aright to conduct this inquiry in my own way."

  Accordingly, Dick was sent for, and soon he took his stand beside the'Bishop,' facing the flaming blue eyes of his father. Then Mr.Carteret asked him point blank the questions he had put to the other,and received the _same_ answers, the 'Bishop' entering aninarticulate demurrer.

  "It appears," said Mr. Carteret, "that there are two ways of tellingthis story. One of you, possibly, has told the truth; the other hasunquestionably lied. I confess," he added dryly, "that my sympathiesare with the liar. He is the honester man."

  "Yes," said Dick. "I'm about as big a blackguard as you'll findanywhere, but I'm your son all the same. Father--forgive me."

  One must confess that Dick played his last trump in a masterlyfashion. He knew that whining wouldn't avail him, or any pulinghypocrisy. So he told the truth.

  "Is that what you want?" said the father sarcastically. "Only that: myforgiveness and my blessing?"

  Dick's bold eyes fell beneath this thrust.

  "The man who drove me here," continued the father, "told me a curiousstory. It seems that Mr. Crisp here has toiled and moiled for manyyears, keeping you in comparative luxury and idleness. Not a word,sir. It's an open secret. For some occult reason he likes to pay thisprice for your company. Having supported you so long, I presume he isprepared to support you to the end?"

  "He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

  "My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he cannever, _never_," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised fromthe dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "isanother son whom I do not know--whom I do not want to know--let himask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live withthose gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties andresponsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train.He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

  He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed somany cheques. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped hiseyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

  "If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continuedthe speaker--"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is_not_--let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. Itseems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commitsuicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for everthat shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, Ipledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life,and to secure the same to Richard _Cartwright_ after my death, solong as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

  He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where thebuggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followedthe father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, hisback became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old manlightly on the shoulder.

  "May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick,but----"

  Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

  "I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may liveto be an honest man."

  "I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dickwill pan out all right--in the end."

  But Dick's father shuddered.

  "It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr.Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."