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Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Lp? cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre flimte d des taux do reduction diffdrents. Lorsque la document est trop grand pour dtre rv9produit en un seu( clich6, il est film6 A partir de i'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en ba^i, en prenant le nombre d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m6t)!odo. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 1 ^-« T ( THE IVORY GATE Sun^ gemina Sonitu tortce: quarum altera fertur Ccrnea, qua verts facilis datur exitus umbris : Altera candenti perfecta nitens ekphanto : Std falsa ad calunt mittunt insomnia manes. Virgil, ^n. VL a**^' J, THE IVORY GATE *♦ BY WALTER BESANT I.. AUTHOR OF "St. Katherines by the Tower/' ''The Golden butterfly/' " The (Monks of Thelema, ' ' " Dorothy Foster, ' ' "The world went very well then/' jCiic.f etc. Toronto: THE NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. i - / 04 Entered according to the Act uf the Parliament of Canada, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture, by the National Publishing Company, Toronto, in the year one thousand eight hundred and oinety-two. h J NOTE. m After this novel was commenced in Chambers's youmal it wa» discovered that the title had already been used by the late Mr. Mortimer Gollins, for a novel published in the year 1865. The Author communicated with Mr. Collins's representatives, and has to thank them for making no opposition to the use of this title. f f I TV S. SQUIRE SPRIG GE, ESQ., M.D, '^' My DEAR Sprigge, Since it was you who first instructed me in I he existence of the brain disease which forms the motif of this story, and furnished me with such illustrations of its working as enabled me to write the story, 1 am in honour bound to make the most public ackfiowledgtnent possible of this fact. I therefore beg to inscribe your name on the title page of this volume in grateful recognition of an obligation which is not by any m?ans discharged by such recognition. I am also moved to do so in remembrance of another kind of work in which I have been so fortunate as to have your invaltiabU collaboration. Very sincerely yours, WALTER BESANT. United University Club, S.W. September 12, 1892. ' 4 CONTENTS CHArTKH PROLOGUE: WHO IS EUMUND GRAY? I. UP THE RIVER . II. IN THE OPFTCE III. THE SELECT CIRCLI! . IV. A REBELLIOUS CHILD V. SOMETHING HAPPENS VI. SOMETHING MORE HAPPENS . VII. SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS VIII. IN HONOUR OP THE EVENT . IX. AT THE GATES OF PARADI8E . X. A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY XI. A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY XII. THE FIRST FIND XIII. THINGS MORE REMARKABLE XIV. CHECKLBY'S CASE . XV. WHO IS EDMUND GRAY? . XVI. THE VOICE OF DUTY XVII. WAS HE IN RAGS? XVIII. THE PRODIGAL AT HOME XIX. THE WHISPER OF CALUMNY XX. HE COMBS FROM EDMUND GRAY XXI. I AM EDMUND GRAY . XXn. MA8TBB AND DISCIPLE . ZZm. THE HALL OF THE NEW FAITH XXIV. OAK HB BBMBMBBB ? PAOl 1 . 29 . 37 . 47 . 66 . «5 . 74 . 83 . 93 . 103 . 110 118 134 142 152 162 172 180 188 195 206 213 223 231 240 . CONTENTS (lUrTKH XXV. WILL HK KblMHMHKU.' NX VI. T1IW I.KSHON OF TIIK STHWI'iT XXM!. 'I KNOW TIIK MAN' . XXVllI. ATIIKLWTAN'B niHCOVKHY XXIX. CUKOKLKY 8MBS A GHOST . XXX. TIIK DAY AFTKK THIO UIIO.ST XXXI. THK TllIlKK AOCOM»M>10IOS . XXXn. KL8IB AND HMU MOTHKR XXXlll. PLKNAllY CONFKASION XXXIV. I,i: CONSKTIi DK FAMILLK X.\XV. THU LAST . , . . • • • • • PAnn 248 256 272 280 288 25)() 304 81S 320 338 355 i u' i-ii* THE IVORY GATE \ PROLOGUE WHO 18 EDMUND GRAY t Mr. Edward Derino, in a rare interval of work, occupied himself with looking into his bank book. Those humble persons whom the City, estimating the moral and spiritual worth of a man by his income, calls * small,' frequently and anxiously examine their bank books, add up the columns, and check the entries. Mr. Dering, who was not a small man, but a big man, or rather, from a City point of view, a biggish man, very seldom looked at his bank book ; first because, like other solicitors in large practice, he had clerks and accountants to do that kind of w^ork for him : next because, like many solicitors, while he managed the affairs of other people with unceasing watchfulness, he was apt to neglect his own affairs. Happily, when one has an income of some thousands, private affairs from time to time force themselves upon their owner in the most agreeable manner possible. They obtrude themselves upon him. They insist upon being noticed. They compel him to look after them respectfully : to remove them from the dulness of the bank, and to make them comfortable in invest- ments. Mr. Dering opened the book, therefore, having for the moment nothing else to do, looked at the balance, was satisfied with its appearance, and began working backwards, that is to say, upwards, to read the entries. Presently, he came to one at which he stopped, holding his fore-finger on the name. It was on the right-hand side, the side which to small men THE TVORY GATE I is so terrifying, because it always does its beitt to annihilate the cash balance, and seems bent upon transforming addition into multiplication, so ahiazing are the results. The name which Mr. Bering read was Edmund Gray. The amount placed in the same line opposite to that name was 720/. Therefore, he had drawn a cheque to the order of Edmund Gray for the sum of 720/. Now, a man may be in very great practice indeed ; but if, like Mr. Bering, he knows the details of every case that is brought into the House, he would certainly remember draw- ing a cheque for 720/., and the reason why it was drawn, and the person for whom it was drawn, especially if the cheque was only three weeks old. Seven hundred and twenty pounds ! It is a sum in return for which many and very substantial services muLt be rendered. ' Edmund Gray ! ' he murmured. ' Strange t I cannot remember the name of Edmund Gray. Who is Edmund Gray % Why did I give him 720/. % * The strange fact that he should forget so large a sum amused him at first. Beside him lay a book which was his private Biary. He opened it and looked back for three months. He could find no mention anywhere of Edmund Gray. To repeat : he knew all the details of every case that came into the House : he signed &.11 the cheques : his memory was as tenacious and as searching as the east wind in April ; yet this matter of Edmund Gray and his cheque for 720/. he could not recall to his mind by any efibrt. There is a certain stage in brain ft. igue when one cannot remember names : it is the sure and certain symptom of over- work : the wise man recognises the symptom as a merciful warning and obeys it. Mr. Bering knew this symptom. ' I must take a holiday,' he said. ' At sixty-seven, one cannot afford to neglect the least loss of memory. Edmund Gray ! To forget Edmund Gray — and 720/. ! I must run down to the sea-side for a fortnight's rest.' He shut up the bank book and tried to go back to his work. But this name came back to him. ' Edmund Gray,' he murmured — 'Edmund Gray. Who on earth is this Ed- mund Gray 1 Why did he get a cheque for 720/. ? ' The thing ceased to am se him : it began to irritate him : in two minutes it began lo torture him : he leaned back in his chair : he drummed with his fingers on the table : he took 4<- PROLOGUE 3 up the book and looked at the entry a^ain. He got up and walked about the room — a long lean figure in a tight frock- coat. To walk about the room and to swing your arms often stimulates the memory. In this case, however, no good effect followed. The nommi Edmund Gray remained a name and nothing more — the shadow of a name. Mr. Dering rapped the table with his paper-knife, as if to conjure up that shadow. Futile superstition I No shadow appeared. But how could the shadow of a name — an unknown name — carry off 720 golden sovereigns ? ' I feel as if I am going mad,' he murmured. * Seven hundred and twenty pounds paid by myself in a single lump, only three weeks ago, and I remember nothing about it ! I have no client named Edmund Gray. The money must there- fore have been paid by me for some clients to this unknown person. Yet it was paid by my cheque, and I don't remem- ber it. Strange ! I never forgot such a thing before.' There was an office bell on the table. He touched it. A clerk — an elderly clerk — an ancient clerk — obeyed the call. He was the clerk who sat in the room outside Mr. Bering's office : the clerk who wrote the cheques for the chief to sign, brought back the letters when they had been copied, directed the letters for the post, received visitors, and passed in cards : in fact, the private secretary, stage-manager — we all want a stage-manager in every profession — or coniidential clerk. As betits a man of responsibility, he was dressed all in black, his office coat being as shiny as a mrrror on the arms and on the shoulders : by long habit it hung in cti'tain folds or curves which never unbent : his face was quite shaven and shorn : all that was left of his white hair was cut short : his eyes were keea and even foxy : his lips were thin : his general expression was one of watchfulness : when he watched his master it was with the attention of a servant : when he watched anybody else it was as one who watches a rogue, and would outwit him, if he could, at his own roguery. In certain commercial walks of the lower kind, where honour and mo- rality consist in the success of attempts to cheat each other, this kind of expression is not uncommon. Whether his ex- pression was good or bad, he was an excellent clerk : he was always at his post at nine in the morning *^e never left the office before seven, and, because Mr. Dering was a whale for work, he sometimes stayed without a grumble until eight or • 3 THE IVORY GATE e\en nine. Man and boy, Checkley had been in the office of Dering & Son for fifty-five years, entering as an errand-boy at twelve. 'Checkley,* said his master, 'look at this bank book. Credit side. Fourth entry. Have you got it ? ' * Edmund Gray, 720Z.,' the clerk read. ' Yes. What is that cheque for ? Who is Edmund Gray ? ' The clerk looked surprised. * I don't know,' he said * Why did I pay that money ? * The clerk shook his head. * Did you look at the book when you laid it on the table % The clerk nodded. ' Well— what did you think of it V * I didn't think of it at all. It wasn't one of the cheques you told me to draw about that time ago. If I had thought, I should have supposed it was your private business.' * I was not aware, Checkley, that I have any private affairs that you do not know.' * Well — but you might have.* * True. I might have. Just so. As I haven't — who, I ask you again — who is this Edmund Gray ?' * I don't know.' * Have you ever heard of any Edmund Gray % * * Never to my knowledge.' * This is the first time you have heard that name ? * the lawyer persisted. * The very first time.* * Consider. Is there any Edmund Gray in connection with any of my clients ? ' * Not to my knowledge.' 'Not to your knowledge. Has any Edmund Gray ever been employed about the office ? ' ' No — certainly not.' ' We have recently been painted and papered and white- washed and new carpeted at great expense and inconvenience. Did Edmund Gray conduct any of those operations ? ' 'No.' ' Has the name of Edmund Gray ever been mentioned in any letters that have come here ? ' It was notorious in the office that Checkley read all the letters that came, and ohat he never forgot the contents o^ ■II V' PROLOGUE c any. If you named any letter he would at once tell you what was written in it, even if it were twenty years old. ' I have never even heard the name of Edmund Gray in any letter ar in any connection whatever,' the clerk replied firmly. ' I put all these questions, Checkley, Locause I was pretty certain myself from the beginning ; but I wanted to make myself quite certain. I thought it might be a trick of failing memory. Now, look at the name carefully * — the clerk screwed up his eyes tightly in order to get a good grip of the name. * You see I have given him a cheque for 720/., only three weeks ago. I am not the kind of man to give away 720/. for nothing. Yet I have actually forgotten the whole business.' Certainly he did not look the kind of man to forget such a simple thing as the giving away of 720/. Quite the contrary. His grave face, his iron-grey hair, his firm lips, his keen, steady eyes, apart from the methodical regularity with which his papers were arranged before him, all proclaimed that he was very far from being that kind of man. Very much the reverse, indeed. *You don't mean to say, sir,' Checkley began, with a change in his face from watchfulness to terror — ' you can't mean ' 'I mean this, Checkley. I know of no Edmund Gray; and unless the bank has made a mistake, there has been com- mitted — a — what do they call it in the law-courts ? ' The clerk held the bank book in his hand, staring at his master with open eyes. 'What?' he repeated. ' What do they call it ? Good Lord ! They call it forgery — and for 720/. ! And on you, of all people in the world ! And in this office ! In our office ! — our office ! What a dreadful thing, to be sure ! Oh, what a dreadful thing to happen ! In our office — here ! ' The clerk seemed unable to express his astonishment. * First of all, get me the returned cheques.' The cheques always came back in the pocket of the bank book. Cheqkley was accustomed to take them out and to file them in their proper place. Again, Mr. Dering neither drew his cheques nor wrote his letters with his own hand. He only signed them. One clerk wrote the letters ; another drew the cheques by his instruction and dictation. THE IVORY GATE m ^ I Checkloy wept back to his own room and returned with a bundle of returned drafts. He then looked in the safe — a great fireproof safe — that stood open in one corner of the room, and took out the current cheque book. * Here it is,' he said. ' Check drawn by you yourself in your own handwriting, and properly signed, payable to order — not crossed — and duly endorsed. Now you understand why I know nothing about it. Edmund Gray, Esquire, or order. Seven hundred and twenty pounds. Signed Dering & Son. Your own handwriting and your own signature.' * Let me look.' Mr. Dering took the paper and examined it. His eyes hardened as he looked. * You call this my hand- writing, Checkley ? ' *I — I — I did think it was,' the clerk stammered. *Let me look again. And I think so still,' he added more firmly. * Then you're a fool. Look again. When did I ever sign like that r Mr. Bering's handwriting was one of those which are im- possible to be read by any except his own clerks, and then only when they know what to expect. Thus, when he drew up instructions in lawyer language, he expressed the im- portant words by an initial, a medial, or a final cor -onant, and made scratches for all the words between ; his clerks, however^ understood him very well. If he had written a love letter, or a farce, or a ballade^ or a storjr, no one, either clerks, or friends, or compositors, would have understood anything but a word here and a word there. For his signature, however, that was different. It was the signature of the Firm : it was a signature a hundred and twenty years old : it was an eighteentn-century signature : bold, large, and clear, every letter fully formed : with dots and flourishes, the last letter concluding with a fantasia of penmanship belonging to a time when men knew how to write, belonging to the decorative time of penmanship. * Two of the dots are out of place,' said Checkley, * and the flourish isn't quite what it should be. But the cheque itself looks like your hand,' he added stoutly. ' I ought U> have seen that there was something wrong about the signature, though it isn't much. I own to that. But the writing is like yours, and I would swear to it still.' 'it isn't my handwriting at all, then. Where is the counterfoil I' ■)¥ PROLOGUE Checkley turned over the counterfoils. * What is the date % ' he asked. ' March the 4th ? I can't find it. Here are cheques for the 3rd and for the 6th, but none at all for the 4th.' ' Let me look.' Strange ! There was no counterfoil. And the numbers did not agree with that on the cheque. * You haven't got another cheque book, have you t * No ; I certainly have not.' Mr. Bering sat with the cheque in his hand, looking at it. Then he compared it with a blank cheque. ' Why,' he said, 'this cheque is drawn from an old book — two years old — one of the books before the bank amalgamated and changf^d its title and the form of the cheques — not much of a change, it is true — but — how could we be such fools, Checkley, as not to see the difl'erence 1 ' * Then somebody or other must have got hold of an old cheque book. Shameful ! To have cheque books lying about for every common rogue to go and steal ! ' Mr. Dering reflected. Then he looked up and said : ' Look again in the safe. In the left-hand compartment over the drawer, I think you will find an old cheque book. It belonged to a separate account — a Trust. That has been closed. The book should be there. — Ah ! There it is. — I wonder now* the lawyer went on, * how I came to remember that book ? It is more than two years since I last used it or even thought of it. Another trick of memory. We forget nothing, in fact, nothing at all. Give it to me. Strange, that I should re- member so slight a thing. Now — here are the cheques, you see — colour the same — lettering the same — size the same — the only difl'erence being the style and title of the Company. The fellow must have got hold of an old book left about, as you spy, carelessly. Ah ! ' His colour changed. * Here's the very counterfoil we wanted ! Look ! the number corresponds. The cheque was actually taken from this very book ! a book in my own safe ! in this very office ! Checkley, what does this mean V Checkley took the book from his master with a trembling hand, and read feebly the writing of the counterfoil, March 4th, 1883. Edmund Gray, 720^.' ' Lord knows what it means,' he said. * I never came ^BMcross such a thing in my life before.' * Most QxtraordJLoa^jry 1 It is two years sihoe I have given '■/ 8 THE IVORY GATE U 11' 1$' I f[ a thought to the existciiice of that book. Yet I remeuibereil it the moment when it became useful. Well, Checkley, what have you got to say % Can't you speak ? ' ' Nothing— nothing. O Lord, what should I have to say If you didn't draw that cheque with your own hand ' ' I did not draw that cheque with my own hand.' * Then — then it must have been drawn by somebody else's hand.' ' Exactly.' * Perhaps you dictated it.* ' Don't be a fool, Checkley. Keep your wits together, though this is a new kind of case for you. Criminal law is not exactly in your line. Do you think I should dictate my own handwriting as well as my own words ? ' * No. But I could swear — I could indeed — that it is your writing.' * Let us have no more questions and answers. It is a forgery. It is a forgery. It is not a common forgery. It has been committed in my own office. Who can have done it ? Let me think ' — he placed the cheque and the old cheque book before him. 'This book has been in my safe for two years. I had forgotten its very existence. The safe is only used for my private papers. I open it every morning myself at ten o'clock. I shut it when I go upstairs to .hmoh. I open it again when I return. I close it when I go away. I have not departed from this custom for thirty years. I could no more sit in this room with the safe shut — I could no more go away with the safe open — than I could walk the streets in my shirt sleeves. Therefore, not only has the forgery been committed by some one who has had access to my safe, but by some one who has stolen the cheque in my very presence and before my eyes. This consideration should narrow the field.' He looked at the cheque again. ' It is dated March the 4th. The date may mean nothing. But it was presented on the 5th. Who came to my room on the 4th or the days preceding % Go and find out.' Checkley retired and brought back his journal. ' You saw on the 4th ' He read the list of callers. * That doesn't help,' said Mr. Dering. * On the 1st, 2d, 3d, and 4th you had Mr. Arundel worfc- Ing with you here every day from ten till twel^/ , PROLOGUE * Mr. Arundel. •Nobofly else.' Yes, I remember. Anybody else ? ' You forget yourself, Checkley,' Mr. Dering said. *You were, as usual, in and out at different times.' ' O Lord ! sir — I hope you don't think The old clerk stammered, turning pale. * T think nothing, I want to find out. Go to the bank. See the manager. Let him tell you if he can find out by whom the cheque was cashed. If in notes — it must have been in notes — let those notes be instantly stopped. It is not crossed, so that we must not ex'^ect anything so simple as the Clearing House. Go at once and find out exactly what happened.' This happened at about half -past ten. The bank was no more than five minutes' walk. Yet it was twelve o'clock when the clerk returned. ' Well, what have you found out ? ' asked the master. * I have found out a great deal,' Checkley began eagerly. * First, I saw the manager, and I saw the pay clerk. The cheque was handed in by a commissionaire. Everybody trusts a commissionaire. The pay clerk knows your signa- ture, and thought it was all right. I showed the cheque to the manager. He knows your handwriting, and he says he would swear that the cheque was drawn by you yourself. So I am not such a fool as you think.' ' Go on.' 'The commissionaire told the pay clerk that he was ordered to take it all in ten-pound notes. He took them, put them in his pouch, and walked away. He was a one-armed man, and took a long time over the job, and didn't seem a bit in a hurry.' ' About the notes ? ' ' The manager will stop them at once. But he says that if the thing was done by an old hand^ there must be confede- rates in it, and there will be trouble. However, the notes are stopped. That's done. Then I went on to the commission- aires* barracks in the Strand. The sergeant very soon found the man, and I had a talk with him. He was employed by an old gentleman, he says, staying at the Cecil Hotel, Strand. The old gentleman sent him to the bank with -instructions to get the money in ten -pound notes ; and very particular he was with him about not losing any of them on the way. He didn't 10 THE JVORY GATE ) 1 : .• I; seem a bit in a hurry either. Took the notes from the man and laid them in a pocket-book. It was in the coffee-room, and half a dozen other gontlemen were there at the same time. But this gentleman seemrd alone.' 'Humph! A pretty cool business, upon my word! Mu hurry about it. Plenty of time. That was because they knew that the old cheque book would not be found and examined.' * Why did they write the cheque on the counterfoil % Why did they put the cheque book back again — after they had taken it out ? ' * I don't know. The workings of a forger's brain are not within the compass of my experiences. Go on, Checkley.' * The commissionaire says that ho is certain he would know the gentleman again.' ' Very good indeed, if we can only find the gentleman.'" * I then went on to the Cecil Hotel and saw the head waiter of the coffee-room. He remembered the commission aire being sent for : he saw the bundle of bank-notes brought back from the bank, and he remembers the old gentleman very ■well. Says he should certainly know him again.' * Did he describe him % ' * There didn't seem anything particular to describe. He was of average height, so to speak, dressed in grey trousers and a black frock-coat, and was grey-haired. Much as if 1 was to describe you.' ' Oh ! The notes are stopped. Yet in three weeks there has been ample time to get them all changed. Every note may have been changed into gold in three weeks. An elderly gentleman : grey hair : average height : that tells us nothing. Checkley, the thing has been done by some one who had, or still has, access to my safe. Perhaps, in some way or other, keys have been procured. In that case ' He stepped over to the safe and opened a drawer. ' See, Checkley ; this drawer is untouched : it is full of jewellery and things which belonged to my mother. Nothing touched. Here is a bag of spade guineas again — nothing taken. What do you say to that t If the forger had possessed keys, he would, first of all, have cleared out the things which he could turn into money without any difficulty and very little risk. Nothing taken except that cheque, and the cheque book replaced. What do you say to that ? £h T ■'■i. fv "^ PROLOGUE II * T don't know what to say. I'm struck stupid. I nover heard ot such a thing before.' ' Nor I. Why, it must have been done in this room, while the safe was open, while I was actually present. That is the only solution possible. Aji^ain, who has been in this room ? ' 'AH the callers— I read their names to you your clients.' * They all sit in that chair. They never leave that chair so long as they are with me.' He indicated the chair which stood at the corner of the lawyer's great table at his left hand. Now the safe was in the far corner, on the other side of the room. 'They could not possibly Checkley, the only two who could possibly have access to that safe in ottice hours are yourself and Mr. Arundel.' ' Good heavens ! sir — you can't believe — you can't actually think ' ' I believe nothing. I told you so before. I think nothing. I want the facts.' The room was long rather than square, lit by two large V ndows, overlooking the gardens of New Square, Lincoln's Inn. The lawyer sat with his back to the fire, protected by a cane-screen, before a large table. On his left hand, at the corner of the table, stood the clients' chair : on his right hand, between the two windows, was a small table with a couple of drawers in it. And in the corner, to. the left of any one writing at the small table, and on the right hand of the lawyer, was the open safe already mentioned. There were two doors, one communicating with the clerk's room, the other opening directly on the stairs. The latter was locked on the inside. ' Call Mr. Arundel,' said the chief. While Checkley was gone, he walked to the window and observed that any one sitting at the table could, by merely reaching out, take anything from the safe and put it back again unobserved, if he himself happened to be occupied or looking another way. His grave face V)ecame dark. He returned to his own chair, and ; thinking, while his face grew darker and his eyes harder, until Mr. Arundel appeared. Athelstan Arundel was at this time a recently admitted member of the respectable but too numerous family of solicitors. He was between two and three and twenty yeais of age, a tall and handsome young fellow, of a good manly type. He was an ex-articled clerk of the House, and he had just been 13 THE IVORY GATE \v \ ■if np|)MiM((«(l a Managing Clerk until sonu»thii)g could be founbout the cheque book and the safe are very clear. I am cp: tain that the safe has not been opened by any other key. The only persons who have had access to it are Checkley and your son Athelstan. As for Checkley — he couldn't do it, he could not possibly do it. The thing is quite beyond him.' Mrs. Arundel groaned. * This is terrible ! ' she said. * Meantime, the notes are numbered : they may be tiuced : they are stopped : we shall certainly find the criminal by means of those notes.' ' Mr. Dering ' — Mrs. Arundel rose and laid her hand on his — * you are our very old friend. Tell me — if this wretched boy goes away — if he gives back the money that remains — if I find the rest — will there be — any further — investiga- tion?' ' To compound a felony is a crime. It is, however, one of those crimes which men sometimes commit without repentance or shame. My dear lady, if he will confess and restore — we shall see.' Mrs. Arundel drove home again. She came away fully persuaded in her own mind that her son — her only son — end none other, must be that guilty person. She knew Mr. Dering's room well : she had sat there hundreds of times : she knew the safe : she knew old Checkley. She perceived the enormous improbability of this ancient clerk's doing such a thing. She knew, again, what temptations assail a young max. la London : she saw what her Trustee thought of it : and 8he jumped to the conclusion that her son — and none other — v»*-»* PROLOGUE ^9 was the guHty person. She even saw how he must have done it : she saw the quick look while Mr. Dering's back was turned : the snatching of the cheque book : the quick replac- ing it. Her very keenness of judgment helped her to the conviction. Women less clever would have been slower to believe. Shameful, miserable termination of all her hopes for her boy's career ! But that she could think of afterwards. For the moment the only thing was to get the boy away — to induce him to confess — and to get him away He was calmer when she got home, but he was still talk- ing about the thing : he would wait till the right man was discovered : then he would have old Dering on his knees. The thing would be set right in a few days. He had no fear of any delay. He was quite certain that it was Checkley — that old villain. Oh ! He couldn't do it by himself, of course — nobody could believe that of him. He had accom- plices — confederates — behind him. Checkley's part of the job was to steal the cheque book and give it to his confederates and share the swag. ' Well, mother ? ' he asked. His mother sat down. She looked pale and wretched. * Mother,' cried Hilda, the elder sister. * Quick ! What has happened ? What does Mr. Dering say ? ' * He accuses nobody,' she replied in a hard dry voice. iBut * ' But what % ' asked Hilda. * He told me everything — everything — and — and Oh ! ' She burst into sobs and crying, though she despised women who cry. ' It is terrible — It is terrible — It is incre- dible. Yet, what can I think ? What can any one think ? Leave us, Hilda. Leave us, Elsie.' The two girls went out unwillingly. * Oh ! my son -how can I believe it ? And yet — on the one hand, a boy of two-and -twenty exposed to all the temptations of town : on the other, an old clerk of fifty years' service and integrity. And when the facts are laid before you both — calmly and coldly— you fly into a rage and run away, while Checkley calmly remains to await the inquiry.' Mrs. Arundel had been accustomed all her life to consider Mr. Dering as the wisest of men. She felt instinctively that he regarded her son with suspicion : she heard all the facts : she jumped to the conclusion that he was a prodigal and a OS I ill I r'^} 11 t t I m :■< 30 THE TVORY GATE profligate : that he had fallen into evil ways, and spent money in riotous livmg : she concluded that he had committed these crimes in orr'er to get more money for more skittles and oranges. ' Athelstan ' — she laid her hand upon his arm, but did not dare to lift her eyes and behold that guilty face — * Athelstan — confess — make reparation so far as you can — confess — oh ! '<.'' son — my son ! You will be caught and tried and found guilty, and — oh ! I cannot say it — through the notes which you have changed. They are all known and stopped.' The boy's wrath was now changed to madness. * You ! ' he cried. * You ! My own mother ! You believe it, no ! Oh ! we are all going mad together. What ? Then I am turned out of this house, as I am turned out of my place. I go, then — I go ; and ' — here he swore a mighty oath, as strong as anybody out of Spain can make them — * I will never — never — never come home again till you come yourself to beg forgiveness — you — my own mother ! ' Outside, in the hall, his sisters stood, waiting and trem- bling. ' Athelstan,' cried the elder, * what, in the name of Heaven, have you done ? ' ' Go, ask my mother. She will tell you. She knows, it seems, better than I know myself. I am driven away by my own mother. She says that I am gUxlty of — of — of forgery.' * If she says so, Athelstan,' his sister replied coldly, ' she must have her reasons. She would not drive you out of the house for nothing. Don't glare like that. Prove your inno- cence.' * What ? You, too ? Oh ! I am driven away by my sisters as well ' ' No, Athelstan — no,' cried Elsie, catching his hand. * Not both your sisters.' * My poor child ; ' he stooped and kissed her. * They will make you believe what they believe. Good Heavens ! They make haste to believe it ; they are glad to believe it.' *No — no. Don't go, Athelstan.' Elsie threw her arms about him. 'Stay, and show that they are wrong. Ob ! you are innocent. I will never — never — never believe it.' He kissed her again, and tore himself away. The street door slammed behind him : they heard his footsteps as he strode away. He had gone. PROLOGUE St Then Elsie fell into loud weeping and wailing. But Hilda weni to comfort her mother. * Mother/ she said, ' did he really, really and truly do it ? ' *■ What else can I believe % Either he did it or that old clerk. Where is he ? * ' He is gone. He says he will come back when his inno- cence is proved. Mother, if he is innocent, why does he run away % It's foolish to say that it is because we believe it. I've said nothing except that you couldn't believe it without reasons. Innocent young men don't run away when they are charged with robbery. They stay and fight it out. Athel- stan should have stayed.' Later on, when they were both a little recovered, Hilda tried to consider the subject more calmly. She had not her mother's cleverness, but she was not -without parts. The fol- lowing remarks — made by a girl of eighteen — prove so much. ' Mother,' she said, ' perhaps it is better, so long as this suspicion rests upon him, that he should be away. We shall certainly know where he is : he will want money, and will write for it. If it should prove that somebody else did the thing, we can easily bring him back as a martyr — for my own part I should be so glad that I would willingly beg his pardon on my knees — and of course we could easily get him replaced in the office. If it is proved that he did do it — and that, you think, they will be certain to find out — M-. Dering, for your sake, will be ready to hush it up — perhaps we may get the notes back — he can't have used them all ; in any case it will be a great comfort to feel that he is out of the way : a brother convicted — tried in open court — sentenced — oh ! ' She shud- dered. ' We should never get over i,t : never, never ! It would be a most dreadful thing for Elsie and me. As for his going away, if people ask why he is gone and where, we must invert something — we can easily make up a story — hint that he has been wild — there is no disgrace, happily, about a young man being wild — that is the only thing that reconciles one to the horrid selfishness of wild young men — and if, by going away in a pretended rage, Athelstan has really enabled us to escape a horrid scandal —why, mother, in that case — we may confess that the blow has been by Providence most mercifully softened for us — most mercifully. We ought to consider that, mother.' *Yes, dear, yes. But he is gone. Athelstan is gone. 83 THE IVORY GATE ■\ ''11 i ■ I ■■ r \.\ % '■ And his future seems ruined. There is no hope foi him. I can see no hope whatever. My dear, he was so promising. I thought that all the family influence would be his— we haven't g ! a single City solicitor in the whole family. I thought th..6 he was so clever and so ambitious and so eager to get on and make money and be a credit to the family. Solicitors do sometimes — especially City solicitors — become so very, very rich ; and now it is all gone and done— and nothing left to hope but the miserable wish that there should be no scandal.' *It is indeed dreadful. But still — consider — no scandal. Mother, I think we should find out, if we can, something about his private life — how he has been living. He has been out a good deal of evenings lately. If there is any — any person — on whom he has been tempted to spend money — if he has been gambling — or betting, or any of the things that I read of ' — this young lady, thanks to the beneficent assistance of certain works of fiction, was tolerably acquainted with the ways of young men and their temptations — 'it would be a satisfaction to know it at least.' The ladies of a family where there is a * wild ' young man do not generally find it easy to get at the facts of his wild- ness : these remain locked up in the bosoms of his companions. No details could be learned about any wildness — quite the contrary. He seemed, so far as could be learned, to have led a very quiet and regular life. * But then,' said the philosopher of eighteen, quoting from a novel, 'men shelter each other. They are all bad together.' But — no scandal. Everybody knows that kind of brother or sister by whom all family events are considered with a view to the scandal likely to be caused and the personal injury resulting to him self ; or the envy that will follow and the personal advantage accruing from that event. That her brother was perhaps a shameful criminal might be considered by Hilda Arundel later on : at first, she was only capable of perceiving that this horrid fact, unless it could be hidden away and kept secret, might very materially injure 'herself. Almost naturally, she folded her hands sweetly and laid her comely head a little on one side — it is an attitude of resig- nation which may be observed in certain pictures of saints and holy women. Hilda knew many little attitudes. Also, quite naturally, she glanced at a mirror on the wall and PROLOGUE «3 observed that her pose was one o£ sorrow borne with Christian resignation. We must blame neither Hilda nor her mother. The case as put by Mr. Dering in the form of plain fact without any comment, did seem very black indeed against Athelstan. In every family the tirst feeling in such a case — it is the instinct of self-preservation — is to hush up the thing if possible — to avoid a scandal. Such a scandal as the prosecution of a brother for forgery — with a verdict of guilty — is a most truly horrible, deplor- able, fatal thing. It takes the respectability out of a family perhaps at a critical moment, when the family is just assuming the robes of respectability : it ruins the chances of the girls : it blights the prospects of the boys : it drives away friends : it is a black spot which all the soaps ever advertised could never wash off. Therefore, while the mother hoped, first of all, that the boy would escape the clutch of the law, Hilda was, first of all, grateful that there would be no scandal. Mr. Dering would not talk about it. The thing would not interfere with her own prospects. It was sad : it was miser- able ; but yet- no scandal. With what a deep, deep sigh of satisfaction did the young lady repeat that there would pro- bably be no scandal ! As for Elsie, that child went about for many days with tearful eyes, red cheeks, and a swollen nose. She was rebel- lious and sharp with her mother. And to her sister she refused to speak. The days went on. Tlioy became weeks, months, years. Otherwise they would not have been days. Nothing at all was heard of Athelstan. He sent no letters tc any one : he did not even write for monej' : they knew not where he w&,3 or what he was doing. He disappt^ared. It was understood that there had been wildness. Now — which was very reniarkable — though the forger had had a clear run* of three weeks, it could not be discovered that any of the notes had been presented. Perhaps they were sent abroad : yet foreign and colonial banks would know the numbers of stopped notes. And towards the discovery of the forger no further step had been taken. The conimi.ssionaire who took the cheque had been, as you have seen, easily found : he said he should know the old gentleman who gave him the forged draft to cash. He said, being again interrogated, that Chojckley was not in the least like that old gentleman. What , ! i t H THE IVORY GATE could be thought, then f Athelstan must have ' made up ' as an old man : he was fond of private theatricals : he could make up very well : of course he had made up. And then, this point being settled, they left off talking about the business. Other things happened — important things — which made the memory of the prodigal son to wax dim. First of all came Hilda's case. 8he was a graceful young person, with features of great regularity : her expression was cold, her eyes were hard, and her lips were a little thin, but these things at nineteen are hardly perceived. She was that sort of a girl who seems created for the express purpose, first of wearing and beautifying costly raiment, and next of sitting in a splendid vehicle. The finer the dress, the more beautiful she looked. The grander the carriage, the more queenly she seemed. In rags her coldness would be arctic, her hardness would be granitic : in silk and velvet she became a goddess. It was therefore most fitting that she should marry a rich man. Now, to be rich in these days, one must be old. It is the price that one has to pay for wealth. Sometimes one pays the price and gets old, and yet does not get what one has paid for. That seems hardly fair. There was a certain rich man, Mr. Bering's younger brother, Sir Samuel Bering, Knight, one of the most subs^i}antial City men, a man who had a house in Kensington Palace Gardens, a yacht, a country place in Sussex, and piles of papers in a safe, meaning investments. He was a widower without encumbrance : ho was fifty-seven years of age, not yet decayed : he wanted a wife to be the mistress of his house, and to look well at his dinner-parties. Of course, when one does want a wife, at any age, one wants her young. Hilda Arundel, his brother's ward, looked as if she would discharge the duties required of the position admirably. He suggested the arrangement to his brother, who spoke about it. i There was a good deal of taking about it. Mrs. Arundel showed that she knew the value of her daughter ; but there was no doubt about the conclusion of the matter. There was a grand wedding, at which all the richer Arundels were present, and none of the poor relations. Mr. Bering, the young lady's guardian, gave her away ; Hilda became Lady Bering, and has been perfectly happy ever since. Elsie remained with her m.other. Her brother was never spoken of PROLOGUE n mdel ;here I was were , the liady Elsie between them. But she remembered him, and she was firm in her conviction that his innocence would be some day esta- blished. After five years, nothing at all having been heard of the notes, Mr. Bering made application to the Bank of England, and received from them the sum of 720i. in new crisp notes in the place of those of which he had been robbed, so that the actual loss at 4 per cent, compound interest amounted to no more than 165/. 19«. O^'tf., which is more than one likes to lose, yet is not actually embarrassing to a man whose income is about ten thousand a year. He ceased to think about the bur.iness altogether, except as a disagreeable episode of his office. Then Athelst-an Arundel became completely forgotten. His old friends, the young men with whom he had played and sported, only remembered hiui from time to time as a fellow who had come to some unknown grief, and had gone away. There is always some young fellow in every set of young fellows who gets into some scrape, and so leaves the circle, and is no more seen or heard of. We go on just the same without him : very seldom is such a man remembered long : it is the way of th^ world : we cannot stop to lament over the fallen : we must push on : others fall : close up the ranks : push on : Time drives : the memory of the fallen swiftly waxes dim. Fours years or so after the mysterious business of Edmund Gray, Mr. Bering received a letter with an American stamp marked ' Private and Confidential.' He laid this aside until he had got through the business letters ; then he opened it. He turned first to the signature. ' Ha 1 ' he said, ' Athelstan Arundel. At last. Now we shall see. We shall see.' He expected a full confession of the crime. We should never expect, says the Sage, what we desire, because we never obtain what we expect. It would have made Mr. Bering more comfortable in his mind had the letter contained a con- fession. Of course, Athelstan had done it. Nobody else could have done it. Yet when he thought about the business at all, there always arose in his mind an uneasy feeling that perhaps the boy had been treated unwisely. It might have been more prudent to have kept the facts from him, although they pointed so strongly in his direction, until proof positive was obw^ined. It might, again, havo been better had the facts T fi & .. :l M 26 r//A' IVORY GATE been put. before him with a few words of confidence, even thoujfh that contidence did not exist. Time only strengthoned Mr. Dering's suspicions against the young man. The thing ntvM have been done by Cheekily or by him. Now, Check loy was not able, if he had wished, to imitate any handwriting. No ! It was done by Athelstan. Why he did it, what he got by it, seeing that those notes had never been presented, no one could explain. But he did it — he did it. That was certain. Mr. Dering therefore began to read the letter with interest. Its commencement was without any opening words of respect or friendliness. And it was not by any means the letter of a wicked man turning away from his wickedne.s.s. Not a word of repentance from beginning to end. ' Four years ago,' Mr. Dering read, * you drove me from your place and changed my whole life, by a suspicion— amount- ing to a charge — of the gravest kind. You assumed, without explanation or examination, that because certain facts seemed to point in a certain direction, I had hevn guilty of an enor- mous crime, that I had robbed my father's oldest friend, my mother's Trustee, my own guardian, my employer, of a great sum of money. You never asked yourself if this suspicion was justified by any conduct of mine —you Jumped at it.' * Quite wrong. Wilfully wrong,' said Mr. Dering. * I laid the facts before him. Nothing but the facts. I brought no charge.' * I daresay that by this time the criminal lias been long since detected. Had I remained, I would have brought the thing home to him. For of course it could be none other than your clerk. I have thought over the case thousands of times. The man who forged the cheque n-ust have been one of two — either your clerk — the man Cheekiey — or myself. It did not take you long, I apprehend, to learn the truth. You would discover it through the presentation of the notes.' — * This is a very crafty letter,' said Mr. Dering ; ' when he never presented any of the notes. Very crafty.' He resumed the letter. — 'Enough said about that. I daresay, however, that I shall some day or other — before you are dead, I hope — return in order to receive some expression of sorrow from you if you can feel shame.' — * Certainly not,' said Mr. Dering with decision. — ' Meantime, there is a service which I must ask of you for the PROLOGUE •7 It Kfike of my people. There is no one else whom I can ask. is the reason of my writing this letter. ' I can.e awuy with ten pounds — all I had in the world — in my pocket. Not seven hundred and twenty pounds, as you imagined or suspected. Ten pounds. With that slender capital 1 got across the Atlantic. I have now made twelve thousand pounds. I made it in a very short time by extra- ordinary good luck.' Mr. Dering laid down the letter and considered. Twelve thousand pounds might be made — per- haps — by great g(jod luck — with a start of seven hundred and twenty, but hardly with ten pounds. A silver reef— or more likely a gambling table, or a second crime, or a series of crimes. It will be observed that his opinion of the young man was now very bad indeed : otherwise, he would have reflected that as none of those notes had oeen presented, none of them had been used. Even if an English ten-pound note is converted into American dollars, the note comes home before ten years. 'Extraordinary good luck.' He read the words again, and shook his head ' Now, I want you to take charge of this money, to say nothing at all about it, to keep the matter a profound secret, to invest it or put it in some place of safety, where confidential clerks with a taste for forgery cannot get at it, and to give it, on her twenty-flrst birthday, to my sister Elsie. Do not tell her or anybody from whom the money comes. Do not tell anybody that you have heard from me. When I came away, she was the only one of all my friends and people who declared that she believed in me. I now strip myself of my whole possessions in order to show this mark of my love and gratitude towards her. In sending you this money I go back to the ten pounds with which I started.' Mr. Dering laid the letter down. The words, somehow, seemed to ring true. Could the boy— after all ? He shook his head, and went on. ' You will give Elsie this money on her twenty-first birthday, to be settled on her for herself. *Athelstan Arundel.' The letter was dated, but no address was given. The post-mark was Idaho, which, as we all know, belongs to a Western State. He looked into the envelope. There fell out a paper, which was a draft on a well-known London Firm, payable to his order for twelve thousand and fifty pounds. I I 98 T//E IVORY GATE * This is very unbusiness-like,' said Mr. Bering. * He puts all this money into my hands, and vanishes. These are tho ways ho learnd in America, I suppose. Puts the money blindly in my hands without giving me the means of communicating with him. Then he vanishes. How could he prove that it was a Trust? Well, if I could only think— but I cannot — the circumstantial evidence is too strong that the boy was innocent — I should be very sorry for him. As for Elsie — she must be eighteen now — about eighteen— she will get this windfall in thi'ee years or so. It will bo a wonderful lift for her. Perhaps it may make all the difference in her future 1 If I could only think that the boy was innocent — a clever lad, too — which makes his guilt more probable. But I can't — no — I can't. Either Checkley or that boy — and Checkley couldn't do it. He couldn't if L*^ were to try. What did tho boy do it for ? And what did he do with the notes 1 ' m "♦I 1! 89 CHAPTER I T7P THE RIVBR ' Can you not be content, Georgo ? ' asked the girl sitting in the stern. * I tliink that 1 want nothing more than this. If we couhl only go on always, and always, and always, just like this.' She had taken off her right-hand glove, and she was dipping her fingers into the cool waters of the river as the boat slowly drifted down stream. 'Always like this,' she repeated softly. ' With you close to me — so that I could touch you if I wanted to — so that I could feel safe, you know — the sun behind us, warm and splendid, such a sweet and fragrant air about us, trees and gardens and fields and lanes on either side— and both of us always young, George, and — and nice to look at, and all the world before us.' She, for one, was not only young and nice to look upon, but fair — very fair to look upon. Even young persons of her own sex, critics and specialists in the Art and Science of Beauty rivals as well — had to confess that Elsie was rather pretty. I believe that few such critics ever go farther. She was, to begin with, of sufficient stature;, in a t'me when dumpy women are not considered, and when height is a first necessity of comeliness : she paid, next, such obedience to the laws of figure as becomes the age of twenty, and is, with stature, rigorously demanded at this end of the century. Her chief points, perhaps, lay in her eyes, which were of a darker shade of blue than is common. Tney were soft, yet not languid ; they were full of light ; they were large, and yet they could be quick. Her face was subject to sudden changes that made it like a spring-time sky of shower, rainbow, sunshine, and surprise. Her hair was of a very common brown, neither dark nor light. She was attired, this evening, in a simple gray frock of nun's cloth with a bunch of white roses on her left shoulder. When one says that her companion was a young man, nearly all is said, because the young men of the present day are surprisingly alike. Thousands of young men can be found like George Austin : they are all excellent fellows, of much higher principles, on some subjects, than their fathers I ff I ! f I ! iti « If ■I ;i «l M ;ii \i f ■ ■( '■■| i\, \ 1 " I , 1 4 ! I j 30 THE IVORY GATE before tharn ; not remirkably intellectual, to judge by their school record : yst with intelligence and application enough to get through their examinations moderately : for the most part they do pass them with moderate success : they are not ambitious of obtaining any of the great prizes — - which, indeed, they know to be out of their reach — but they always set before themselves and keep always well in sight the ideal suburban villa and the wife : they always work steadily, if not feverishly, with the view of securing these two blessings ; they always hope to secure an income that will enable them to maintain that wife —with a possible following of babies - in silk attire (for Sundays) ; in ease as to household allow- ance ; and in such freedom of general expenditure as may enable her to stand up among her neighbours in church with- out a blush. The world is quite full of such men : they form the rank and file, the legionaries : their opinion on the subject of labour is purely Scriptural — namely, that it is a curse : they do not particularly love any kind of work : they would prefer, if they had the choice, to do nothing at all : when they get their summer holiday they do nothing all day long, with zeal : they give no more thought to their work than is sufficient for the bread -winning : whether they are professional men or trading men their view of professional work is solely that it brings in the money. If such a young man becomes a clerk, he never tries to learn any more after he has left school : he accepts the position : a clerk and a servant he is, a clerk and a servant he will remain. If he is engaged in trade he gives just so much attention to his business as will keep his con- nection togetfier : that and no more : others may soar : others may become Universal Providers: for his part he is contented with his shop and his Sunday feast. If he becomes a pro- fessional man he learns no more of his science thati is wanted every day. The lawyer passes his exam, and puts away his law-books ; he knows enough for professional purposes : the doctor reads no more ; he knows enough for the ordinary needs of the G. P. : the schoolmaster lays aside his books ; scholarship and science interest him no longer ; he has learned enough to teach his boys : the curate makes no farther research into the history and foundations of his church ; he Yhas learned enough. In a word, the average young man ia without ambition j he is inclined to be lazy ; he loves the UP THE RIVER 31 get present far more than the future —indeed, all his elders unite in letting him know that his own is quite the most enviable time of life ; he likes to enjoy whatever he can afford, so that he very often eats up all his wages : he does not read too much ; he does not think too much : he does not vex his soul too much with the problems of life —greater problems or lesser problems — he accepts the teaching of his newspaper, and agrees with the words and the wisdom of yesterday's leading article : he accepts religion, politics, morals, social systems, constitutions, things present, past, and future, as if —which is perfectly true — he had nothing to do with them, and could not help it whatever was to happen. Ho never wants to alter anything ; he believes that all British institutions are built on the solid rock and fashioned out of the hardest granite : any exceptions to this rule, he thinks, have come straight down from Heaven. Observe, if you please, that this kind of young man confers the greatest possible benefits upon the country. He ought to be made a Baronet at least, if honours meant anything. His apparent sluggishness keeps us from the constant changes which trouble some nations : his apparent lack of ambition makes it easy for the restless spirits to rise : were the country full of aspiring young men we should be for ever having civil wars, revolutions, social upsydowns, new experiments, new religions, new governments, new divisions of property, every year. Again, it 7S this young man who by his steady attention to business, his readiness to work as much as is wanted, but no more ; his disregard of theories and speculations, his tenacity ; his honesty, his loyalty, his courage, and his stout heart, has built up the British name so that there has never been any name like unto it, nor ever will be again, for these solid and substantial virtues. Being, then, just a young man of the time, George Austin was naturally like most young men in dress, in appearance, in language, and in manners. And had it not been for the strange experience which he was to undergo, he would have remained to this day just like other young men. He was better looking than most, having a good figure, a well-shaped head, and regular features, with eyes rather fuller of possi- bilities than falls to the lot of most young men. In short, a good-looking fellow, showing a capability for something op otLer in his firm mouth, ample cheek, strong chin, and resolute TfF n 3a THE IVORY GATE w 1 ; t ! carriap^e. He would have made a fine soldier ; but perhaps an unsuccessful general, for want of that quality vhich in poets is called genius. In the same way he would ir «». lower walk keep a business together, but would fail to achieve a great fortune for lack of the same quality. As for his age, he was seven-and-twenty. ' Always like this,' the girl went on. * Always floating down the stream under a summer sky. Always sweet, 'ooks and love and youth. It seems as if we could never bo unhappy, never be worried, never want anythiup;, on such an evening as this.' She turned and looked up the stream, on which lay the glory of the sinking sun — she sighed. ' It is good to come out on such an evening only to have a brief dream of what might be. When will the world give up their foolish quarrels, and join together to make the lives of all happy % * They had been talking, among other things, of socialism, all out of yesterday's leading article. *^When,' George replied, * there is enough of good things to go round : when we invent a way to make all men ready to do their share as well as to devour it : when we find out how to make everybody contented with his share.' Elsie shook her head, which was filled with vague ideas — the ideas of a restless and a doubting time. Then she went back to her original proposition. * Always like this, George — and never to get tired of it. Time to stand still — nothing to change : never to get tired of it : never to want anything else. That is Heaven, I suppose.' ' We are on earth, Elsie,' said her lover. ' And on earth everything changes. If we were to go on drifting down the stream, we should get into trouble over the weir. To capsize would be a pretty interruption to your Heaven, wouldn't it ? And the sun will soon be setting and the river will get misty ; and the banks will grow ugly. But the chief thin^ is that we shall both grow old. And there is such a lot that we have got to do before we grow old.' * Everything has to be done,' said Elsie. * I suppose we have done nothing yet.' ' We have got to get married for the first thing, before we grow old.' * Couldn't you love an old woman, George t ' *Not 86 well, Elsie,* her lover replied, truthfully. 'At least, I think not. — And oh ! Elsie, whenever I do think of I r ;: I UP THE RIVER 33 % '% :\ the future, my heart goes down into my boots. For the prospect grows darker and darker.' Elsie sighed. She knew, already, too well, what was in his mind. Plenty of girls, in these days, know the familiar tale. * Darker every day/ he repeated. • They keep on crowding iato the profession by multitudes, as if there was room for any number. They don't understand that what with the decay of the landed interest and of the country towns, and the cutting down of the costs, and the work that goes to accountants, there isn't half the business to do that there was. There don't seem any partnerships to be had for love or money, because the few people who have got a good thing have got no more than enough for themselves. It is no use for the young fellows to start by themselves ; so they have got to take whatever they can get, and they are glad to get even a hundred a year to begin with — and I am seveu- and-twenty, Elsie, and I'm drawing two hundred pounds a year.' ' Patience, George I something will turn up. You will find a partnership somewhere.' * My child, you might as well tell Robinson Crusoe that a boiled leg of mut*"':»n with caper sauce was going to turn up on his desert island. We must not hope for the impossible. I ought to be grateful, I suppose, considering what other men are doing. I am planted in a good solid Housa It won't run away, so long as the old man lives.' * And after that ? ' * Well, Mr. Bering is seventy-five. But he will not die yet, not for^a long time to come. He is made of granite : he is nevfer ill : he never takes a holiday : he works harder than any of his people ; and he keeps longer hours. To be sure, if he were to die without taking a partner — well — in that case, there would be an end of everything, I suppose. — Elsie, here's the position.' She knew it already, too well — but it pleased them both to parade the facts as if they were something quite novel. * Let us face it ' — they were always facing it. * I am Managing Clerk to Dering k Son — I get two hundred pounds a year — I have no prospect of anything better. I am bound all my life to be a servant. Elsie, it is not a brilliant prospect : I found out at school that it was best not to be too ambitious. But — a servant all my life — I confess that did V. 'i i il ill! 'ill ■ I .1.8! ! * I ^'li! i! f t ; 34 T//E IVORY GATE not enter into my head. If I knew any other trade, I would cut the whole business. If there was any mortal thing in the whole world by which I could keep myself, I would try it. But there's nothing. I have but one trade. I can't write novels, or leading articles ; I can't play on any instrument ; I can't paint or a*it or sing or anything — I am only a solicitor — that's all. Only a solicitor who can't get on — a clerk, Elsie. No wonder her ladyship turns up her nose — a clerk.' He leaned his chin upon his hands and laughed the conventional laugh of the young man down on his luck. * Poor George ! ' she sighed. In such a case there are only two words of consolation. One may say * Poor George ! * or one may say * Patience ! ' There is nothing else to say. Elsie first tried one method and then the other, as a doctor tries first one remedy and then another vuen Nature sulks and refuses to get well. * And,' he went on, piling up the misery, * I am in love with the sweetest girl in the whole world — and she is in love with me ! ' * Poor George ! * she repeated with a smile. * That is indeed a dreadful misfortune.' * I am wasting your youth, Elsie, as well as my own.' * If it is wasted for your sake, George, it is well spent. Some day, perhaps ' *No — no— not some day — immediately — at once.' The young man changed colour and his eyes sparkled. It was not the first time that he had adva^^ced this revolutionary proposal. * Let prudence go to the ' * Not there, George — oh ! not there. To the winds, per- haps, or to that famous city of Palestine. But not there. Why, we might never get her back again — poor Prudence I And we shall be sure to want her all our lives — very badly. We will, if you please, ask her to go for a short voyage for the benefit of her health. We will give her six months' leave of absence : but we shall want her services again after her holiday — if you think we can do without her for so long.' 'For a whole twelvemonth, Elsie. Let us brave every- thing, get married at once, liv in aagarret, and have a splendid time — for a whole twelvemonth — on my two hundred pounds/ * And am I to give up my painting ?' * Well, dear, you know you have not yet hada commisaioi& from anybody.' m f UP THE RIVER 35 la How can you say so, George ? I have painted you — and my sister— and my mother — and your sisters. I am sure that no studio even of an R.A. could make a braver show of work. Well — I will give it up — until Prudence returns. Is it to be a garret ? A real garret, with sloping walls, where you can only stand upright in the middle ? ' * We call it a garret. It will take the form, I suppose, of a tiny house in a cheap quarter. It will have six rooms, a garden in front and a garden behind. The rent will be thirty pounds. For a whole twelvemonth it will be a real olice of Eden, ^filsie, and you shall be Eve.' Elsie laughed. ' It will be great fun. We will make the Eden last longer than a twelvemonth. I daresay I shall like it. Of course I shall have to do everything for myself. To clean the doorstep will be equivalent to taking exercise in the fresh air : to sweep the floors will be a kind of afternoon dance or a game of lawn-tennis : to wash up the cups and saucers will be only a change of amusement. — There is one thing, George — one thing' — she became very serious — *I suppose you never —did you ever witness the scouring of a frying-pan ? I don't think I could do that. And did you ever see beef- steaks before they are cooked ? They suggest the animal in the most terrible way. I don't really think I could handle those bleeding lumps.' * You shan't touch a frying-pan, and we will have nothing roasted or fried. We will live on cold Australian beef eaten out of its native tin : the potatoes shall be boiled in their skins. And perhaps — I don't know — with two hundred pounds a year we could afford a servant — a very little one — just a girl warranted not to eat too much.' ' What shall we do when our clothes are worn out V * The little maid will make some more for you, I suppose. We certainly shall not be able to buy new things — not nice things, that is — and you must have nice things, mustn't you?' ' I do like things to be nice,' she replied, smoothing her dainty skirts with her dainty hand. * George, where shall we find this house —formerly Eve's own country villa before she — resigned her tenancy, you know ? ' ' There are places in London where whole streets are filled with families living on a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Checkley — the chief's private clerk — lives in such a place : he told me so himself. He says there is nobody in his parish D3 ?6 THE IVORY GATE \m I ■m \\ i ; ;;l i Mil who has got a bigger income than himself : he's a little king among them because he gets four hundred pounds a year, besides what he has saved —which is enormous piles. Elsie, my dear, we must give up our present surroundings, and take up with gentility in its cheapest form.' * Can we not go on living among our own friends % ' George shook his head wisely. * Impossible. Friendship means equality of income. You can't live with people unless you do as they do. People of the same means naturally live together. Next door to Lady Dering is another rich Madam, not a clerk's wife. For my own part I shall sell my dress clothes for what they will fetch — ^you can exchange your evening things for morning things. That won't matter much. Who cares where we live, or how we live, so that we live to? gether ? What do you say, Elsie dear ? ' ' The garret I don't mii^d — nor the door-steps — and since you see your way out of the alfficulty of the frying-pan ' * You will be of age next week, when you can please your- self.' * Hilda gives me no peace nor rest. She says that there can be no happiness without money. She has persuaded my mother that I am going to certain starvation. She promises the most splendid establishment if I will only be guided by her.' * And marry a man fifty years older than yourself with one foot already well in * ' She says she has always been perfectly happy. — Well, George, you know all that. Next Wednesday, which is my birthday, I am to have a grand talk with my guardian. My mother hopes that he will bring me to my senses. Hilda says that she trusts entirely to Mr, Bering's good sense. I shall arm myself with all my obstinacy. Perhaps, George — who knows i — I may persuade him to advance your salary.* ' No, Elsie. Not even you would persuade Mr. Dering to give a managing clerk more than two hundred pounds a year. But arm yourself with all you have got - don't forget any piece of that armour, child. The breastplate — there was a poor damsel once who forgot that and was caught by an appeal to her heart — nor the helmet— another poor damsel was once caught by an appeal to her reason after forgetting the helmet. The shield, of course, yc u will not forget — and for weapons, my dear, take your sweet eyes and your lovely ■^4 UP THE RIVER 37 face and your winning voice — and I swear that you will subdue even Mr. Bering liimscl£ — that hardened old parchment.' This was the kind of talk which these lovers held together whenever they met. George was poor — the son of a clergy- man, whoso power of advancing him ceased when he I?ad paid the fees for admission. He was only a clerk, and hb sjaw no chance of being anything else but a clerk. Elsie could bring nothing to the family nest, unless her mother made her an allowance. Of this there could be no hope. The engagement was considered deplorable : marriage, under the circumstances, simple madness. And Hilda had done so well for herself, and could do so much for a sister so pretty, so bright as Elsie ! Oh ! she was throwing away all her chances. Did one ever hear of anything so lamentable ? No regard for the family : no ambition; no sense of what a girl owes to herself: no recognition nor gratitude for the gift of good looks — as if beauty was given for the mere purpose of pleasing a penniless lover ! And to go and throw herself away upon a twopenny lawyer's clerk ! 'George,' she said seriously, *! have thought it all out. If you really mean it — if you really can face poverty — mind — it is harder — much — for a man than a woman ' * I can face everything — with you, Elsie,' replied the lover. Would he have been a lover worth having if he had not made that answer? And, indeed, he meant it, as every lover si ould. 'Then — George — what in the whole world is there for me unless I can make my dear boy happy ? I will marry you as soon as you please, rich or poor, for better for worse — whatever they may say at home. — Will that do for you, George 1 ' Since man is so constituted that his happiness wholly de- pends upon the devotion of a woman, I believe that no dear boy ever had a better chance of happiness than George Austin — only a managing clerk' — with his Elsie. And so this history begins where many end, with an engagement. CHAPTER n IN THE OFFICE Tll take in your ladyship's name. There is no one with him at this moment. — Ob yes, my lady,' Checkley smiled superior. ' We are always busy. We have been busy in this If 'fi''' :A M \ itr 38 TJI£ IVORY GATE office for fifty years and more. — But I am sure hell see you. Take a chair, my lady. Allow me.' Checkley, the old clerk, had other and younger clerks with him ; but he kept in his own hands the duty, or the privilege, of going to the private room of the chief. He was sixty-seven when last we saw him. Therefore, he was now seventy-five ; a little more bent in the shoulders, a little more feeble ; otherwise unaltered. In age we either shrivel or we swell. Those live the longest who shrivel ; and those who shrivel presently reach a point when they cease to shrink any more till they reach the ninetieth year. Checkley was bowed and bent and lean : his face was lined multitudinously : his cheeks were shrunken : but not more so than eight years before. He wrote down the name of the caller — Lady Dering— on a square piece of paper, and opened the door with an aflectation of extreme care not to disturb the chiefs nerves by a sharp turn of the handle, stepped in as if it was most important that no one should be able to peep into the room, and closed the door softly behind him. Immediately he reappeared, and held the door wide open, inviting the lady to step in. She was young ; of good stature and figure, extremely handsome in face ; of what is called the classical type, and very richly dressed. Her carriage might have been seen, on looking out of the window, waiting in the square. *Lady Dering, sir,' said Checkley. Then he swiftly vanished, closing the door softly behind him. *I am glad to see you, Hilda.' The old lawyer rose, tall and commanding, and bowed, ofi'ering his hand with a stately and old-fashioned courtesy which made ladies condone hia unmarried condition. * Why have you called this morning ? You are not come on any business, I trust. Business with ladies who have wealthy husbands generally means trouble of some kind. You are not, for instance, in debt with your dressmaker ? ' * No — no. Sir Samuel does not aliow of any difficulties or awkwardness of that kind. It is not about myself that I am here, but about my sister, Elsie.' * Yes ? What about her ? Sit down, and let me hear.' ' Well, you know Elsie has always been a trouble to us on acoount of her headstrong and wilful ways. She will not look on things from a reasonable point of view. You know that my mother is not rich, as I have leaiiit to consider rich, IN THE OFFICE S9 though of course she has enouf^h for a simple life and a man- servant and a one-horse brouijham. Do you know,' she added nensively, ' I have often found it ditiicult not to repine at a Providence whii^h removes a father when he was be- ginning so well, and actually on the high-road to a great fortune.* ' It is certainly diflicult to understand the wisdom of these disappr»iiitments and disasters. We must accept, Hilda, what we cannot es«;ape or explain.* ' Yes — and my mother had nothing but a poor thousand a year ! — though I am sure that she has greatly bettered her circumstances by her transactions in the City. Well — I have done all I can, by precept and by example, to turn my sister's mind into the right direction. Mr. Dering' — by long habit Hilda still called her guardian, now her brother-in-law, by his surname — 'you would hardly believe the folly that Elsie talks about money.' ' Peihaps because she has none. Those who have no property do not understand it. Young people do not know what it means or what it commands. And whether they have it or not, young people do not know what the acquisition of property means — the industry, the watchfulness, the care- fulness, the self-denial. So Elsie talks folly about money — well, well ' — he smiled indulgently — ' we shall see.* ' It is not only that she talks, but she acts. Mr. Dering, we are in despair about her. You know the Rodings % * ' Roding Brothers 1 Everybody knows Roding Brothers.* 'Algy Roding, the eldest son of the senior partner — enormously rich — is gone — quite gone — foolish about Elsie. He has been at me a dozen times about her. He has called at the house to spe her. He cares nothing at all about her having no money. She refuses even to hear his name men- tioned. Between ourselves, he has not been, I believe, a very steady young man ; but of course he would settle down ; we could entirely trust to a wife's influence in that respect : the past could easily be forgotten — in fact, Elsie need never know it : and the position would be splendid. Even mine would not compare with it.* . * Why does she object to the man t ' 'Says he is an ugly little snob. There is a becoming spirit for a girl to receive so rich a lover ! But that is not fljl. ^le might h^ve him if she chose, snob or sot^butahe I I 11 lilj it 40 THE IVORY GATE prefers one of your clerks — actually, Mr. Bering, one of your clerks.' * I have learned something of this fron) your mother. She is engaged, I am told, to young Austin, one of my managing clerks.' ' Whose income is two hundred pounds a year. Oh ! think of it ! iShe refuses a man wi Ji ten thousand a year at the very least, and wants to marry a man with two hundred.' * I suppose they do not propose to marry on this — this pittance — this two hundred a year % ' * They are engaged : she refuses to break it off : he has no money to buy a partnership : ho must therefore continue a clerk on two hundred.' ' Managing clerks get more, sometimes ; but, to be sure, the position is not good, and the income must always be small.' * My mother will not allow the man in the house : Elsie goes out to meet him : oh, it is most irregular. I should be ashamed for Sir Samuel to know it. She actually goes out of the house every evening, and they walk about the square garden or in the Park till dark. It is exactly like a housemaid going out to meet her young man.' * It does seem an unusual course ; but I am no judge of what is becoming to a young lady.' 'Well — she needn't go on like a housemaid,' said her sister. * Of course the position of things at home is strained, and I don't know what may happen at any moment. Elsie says that she shall be twenty-one next week, and that she means to act on her own judgment. She even talks of setting up a studio somewhere and painting portraits for money. That is a pleasant thing for me to contemplate. My own sister earning her own living by painting ! * *How do you think I can interfere in the matter? Lovers' quarrels or lovers' difficulties are not made or settled in this room.' * Mr. Bering, there is no one in the world of whom she is afraid, except yourself. There is no one of whose opinion she thinks so much. Will you see her % Will you talk with her ? Will you admonish her ?* * Why, Hilda^ it so happens that I bare already invited her to call upon me on her birthday, when she ceases to be my' IN THE OFFICE 4t ward. 1 will tilk to her if you please. Perhaps you may be satisHed with the result of my coiiversution.' *I shall — I am sure I shall' * Let me uiuhjistand. You desire that your sister shall marry a man who, if he is not already rich, should be at least on the hi^h road to wealth. You cannot force her to accept even the richest young man in London unless she likes him, can you % ' ' No. Certainly not. And we c^n hardly expect her to marry, as I did myself, a man whose wealth is already established. Unless she would take Algy Roding.' * Very good. But he must have a certain income, so as to ensure the means of an establishment conducted at a certain level.' * Yes. She need not live in Palace Gardens, but she ought to be able to live —say in Pembridge Square.' * Quite so. I suppose, with an income of fifteen hundred or so to begin with. If I make her understand so much, you will be satistied ? ' 'Perfectly. — My dear Mr. Oering, I really believe you have got the very young man up your sleeve. But how will you persuade her to give up the present intruder ? * * I promise nothing, Hilda — I promise nothing. I will do my best, however.* Hilda rose and swept back her dress. *I feel an immense sense of relief,' she said. 'The dear child's happiness is all I desire. Perhaps if you were to dismiss the young man immediately, with ignominy, and were to refuse him a written character on the ground of trying to win the affections of a girl infinitely above him in station, it might produce a good effect on Elsie — showing what you think of it — as well as an excellent lesson for himself and his friends. There is no romance about a cast-off clerk. Will you think of this, Mr. Dering % The mere threat of such a thing might mike him ready to give her up ; and it might make her inclined for his own sake to send him about his business ' ' I will think of it, Hilda. — By the way, will you and my brother dine with me on Monday, unless you are engaged ? We can talk over this little affair then at leisure.' * With pleasure. We are only engaged for the evening. Now I won't keep you any longer. — Good-bye.' She walked away, smiling graciously on the clerks in the 42 7 HE IVORY GATE m outer office, and descenchM] the stairs to the carriage, which waited below. Mr. Dering returned to his papers. He was not changed in the eight years since tlie stormy interview with this young lady's brother : his small whiskers were a little whiter : his iron-gray hair was unchanged ; his lips were as lirm and his nostrils as sharp, his eyes as keen as then. The room looked out pleasantly upon the garden of New Square, where the sunshine lay warm upon the trees with their early summer leaves. Sunshine or rain, all the year round, tL? solicitor sat in his high -backed chair before his great table. He sat there this morning working steadily until he had got through what he was about. Then he looked at his watch. It was past two o'clock. He touched a bell on the table, and his old clerk came in. Though he was the same age as his master, Checkley looked H great deal older. He was bald, save for a small white patch over each ear ; he was bent, and his hands trembled. His expression was sharp, foxy, and suspicious. He stood in the unmistakable attitude of a servant, hands hanging in readiness, head a little bent. ' The Cierks are all gone, I suppose ? ' said Mr. Dering. * All gone. All they think about when they come in the morning is how soon they will get away. As for any pride in their work, they haven't got it.' ' Let them go. — Checkley, I have wanted to speak to you for some time.' * Anything the matter ? * The old clerk spoke with the familiarity of long service which permits the expression of opinions. 'The time has come, Checkley, when we must make a change.' ' A ?hange ? Why — I do my work as well as ever I did — better than any of the younger men. A change ? * * Ths change will not atlect you.' * It must be for you then. Surely you're never going to retire 1 ' * No — I mean to hold on as long as I can. That will only be for a year or two at most. I am seventy-five, Checkley.' * What of that ? So am I. You don't find me grumbling about my work, do you ) Besides, you eat hearty. Your health is good.' \ U^ IN THE OFFICE 43 *yes, my health is good. But I am troubled of late, Checkley -I am troubled about my memory.' 'So is many a younger man,' returned the clerk stoutly. 'Sometimes I cannot remember in the morning what 1 was doing the evening before.' * That's nothing. Nothing at all.* 'Yesterday, I looked at my watch, and found that I had been unconscious for three hours.' 'You were asleep. I came in and saw you sound asleep.' It was not true, but the clerk's intentions were good. * To go asleep in the morning argues a certain decay of strength. Yet I believe that I get through the work as well an ever. The clients do not drop oflF, Checkley. There are no signs of mistrust — eh ? No suspicion of failing powers ?' ' They think more of you than ever.' *I believe they Jo, Checkley.' •Everybody says you are the top of the profession.' * I believe I am, Checkley — I believe I am. Certainly, I am the oldest. Nevertheless, seventy-tive is a great age to be continuing work. Things can't last much longer.' | 'Some men go on to eighty, and even ninety.' ' A few — a few only.' The lawyer sighed. ' One may hope, but must not build upon the chance of such merciful prolon- gation. The older I grow, Checkley, the more I enjoy life, especially the only thing that has ever made life happy for me — this work. I cl?ng to it ' — he spread his hands over the papers — 'I cling to it. I cannot bear to think of leaving it.* 'That — and youi' savings,' echoed the clerk. * It seems as if I should be content to go on for a hundred years more at the work of which I am never tired. And I must leave it before long — in a year — two years — who knows ? Life is miserably short — one has no time for half the things one would like ix) do. Well ' — he heaved a deep sigh — * let us work while we can. However, it is better to climb down than to be pulled down or shot down. I am going to make pre- parations, Checkley, for the end.' ' What preparations ? You're not going to send for a minister, are you ? ' * No. Not that kind of preparation. Nor for the doctor either. Nor for a lawyer to make my will. All thost^ things are duly attended to. I have resolved, Checkley, upon taking » partner.' 44 THE IVORY GATE * You ? Take a partner ? You % At j^our time of life % * ' I am going to take a partner. And you are the first person who has been told of m\ intention. Keep it a secret for the moment.' ' Take a partner % Divide your beautiful income by two ? ' ' Yes, Checkley. I am going to give a share in that beau- tiful income to a young man.' ' What can a partner do for you that I can't do % Don't I know the whole of the office work ? Is there any partner in the world who can draw up a conveyance better than me ? ' ' You are very useful, Checkley, as you always have been. But you are not a partner, and you never can be.' * I know that very well. But what's the good of a partner at all ? ' * If I have a partner, he will have his own room, and he won't interfere with you. There's no occasion for you to be jealous.' i As for Jealous — well — after more than sixty years' work in mis office, it would seem hard to be turned out by some new-comer. But what I say is — what is the good of a partner % ' * The chief good is that the House will be carried on. It is a hundred and twenty years old. I confess I do not like the thought of its coming to an end when I disappear. That will be to me the most important advantage to he gained by taking a partner. The next advantage will be that I can turn over to him a quantity of work. And thirdly, he will bring young blood and new connections. My mind is quite made up, Checkley. I am going to take a partner.' * Have you found one yet ? ' ' I have. But I am not going to tell you who he is till the right time comes.' Checkley grumblpd inaudibly. *I£ I had been less busy,' Mr. Dering went on, 'I might have married and had sons of my own to put into the House. But somehow, being very much occupied always, and never thinking about such things, I let the time pass by. I was never, even as a young man, greatly attracted to love or to young women. Their charms, such as they are, seem to me to depend upon nothing but a single garment' 'Take away their frocks,' said Checkley, *and whait are §■ "^ IN THE OFFICE 45 they 1 All alike — all alike. IVe been married myself — women are expensive frauds.' ' Well — things being as they are, Checkley, I am going to take a partner.' ' You'll do as you like,' said his servant. ' Mark my words, however ; you're ^ot ten years more of work in you yet- and all through these ten years you'll regret having a partner. Out of every hundred pounds his share will have to come. Think of that ! ' ' It is eight years, I remember,' Mr. Dering went on, ' since first I thought of taking a partne^|| Eight years — and for much the sam& reason as now. I found my memory going. There were gaps in it — days, or bits of days, which I could not recollect. I was greatly terrified. The man whom I first thought of for a partner was that young Arundel, now ' ' Who forged your name. Lucky you didn't have him.' ' Who ran away in a rage because certain circumstances seemed to connect him with the crime.' ' Seemed % Did connect him.' ' Then the symptoms disappeared. Now they have re- turned, as I told you. I have always regretted the loss of young Arundel. He was clever and a quick worker.' ' He was a forger,' said the clerk stoutly. — * Is there anything more I can do for you ? ' • Nothing ; thank you.' ' Then I'll go. On Saturday afternoon I collect my little rents. Not much— in your way of thinking. A good deal to me. [ hope you'll like your partner when you do get him. I hope I shan't live to see him the master here and you knuckling under. I hope I shan't see him driving away the clients.' • I hope you will not see any of these distressing conse- quences, Checkley. — Good-day.* The old clerk went away, shutting the outer door after him. Then the lawyer was the sole occupant of the rooms. He was also the sole occupant of the whole house and perhaps of the whole Square. It was three o'clock. He sat leaning back in his chair, looking through the ofjen window upon the trees in the Square garden. Presently there fell upon his face a curious change. It was as if the whole of the intelligence was taken out of it ; his eyes gazed steadily into.space with no expression whatever in them : the 46 THE IVORY GATE \ !1 m lips slightly parted, his head fell back ; the soul and spirit of the man had gone out of him, leaving a machine which breathed. The watch in his pocket ticked audibly : there was no other sound in the room — the old man sat quite mocionless. F^our o'clock struck from the Clock Tower in the High Court of Justice, from St. Clement's Church, from West- minster, from half-a-dczcjn clocks which could be heard in the quiet of the Saturday afternoon. But Mr. Bering heard nothing. Still he sat in hist|^lace with idle hands, and a face like a mask for lack of thought. The clocks struck five. He neither moved nor spoke. The clocks struck six — seven — eight. The shades of evening began to gather in the corners of the room as the sun sank lower towards his setting. At twilight in the summer there is never anybody to fear — man, woman, or cat — in the chambers, and at that hour the mice come out. They do not eat parchment or foolscap or red tape, but they eat the luncheon crumbs. Mr. Clieckley, for instance, always brought his dinner in a paper parcel in his coat-tail pocket, and ate it when so disposed, sprinkling crumbs lavishly — the only lavishment of which he was ever guilty— on the tloor. Junior clerks brought buns and biscuits, or even apples, which they devoured furtively. Mr. Bering himself took his luncheon in his own room, leaving crumbs. There w.is plenty for a small colony of mice. They came out, therefore, as usual ; they stopped at sight of a man, an unwonted man, in a chair. But he moved not : he was asleep : he was dead : they ran without fear all about the rooms. It was past nine, when the chambers were as dark as at this season of the year they ever are, that Mr. Bering returned to consciousness. He sat up, staring about him. The room was dark. He looked at his watch. Half- past nine. 'What is this?' he asked. ' Have I been asleep for seven hours ? Seven hours ? I was not asleep when Checkley went away. Why did I fall asleep % I feel as if I had been somewhere— doing something. What? I cannot remember. This strange sensation comes oitener. It is time that I should take a partner before some- IN THE OFFICE 47 thing worse hap^ions. I am old — I am old.' He rose and walked across the room erect and with tirin step. *I am old and worn out and spent. Time to give up the keys — old and spent/ CHAPTER III TDE SELECT CIRCLE At half-past nine on this Saturday evening, the parlour of the Salutation Inn^ High Holborn, contained most of its customary visitors. They came every evening at eight : and they sat till eleven, drinking and talking. In former days every tavern of repute kept such a room for its own select circle, a club, or society, oihahituh^ who met every evening, for a pipe and a cheerful glass. In this way all respectable burgesses, down to fifty years ago, spent their evenings. Strangers might enter the room, but they were made to feel that they were there on sufferance : they were received with distance and suspicion. Most of the regular visitors knew each other : when thy did not, it was tavern politeness not to ask ; a case is on record of four cronies, who used the Cock in Fleet Street for thirty years, not one knowing eithor the name or the trade of the other three. Yet when one died, the other three pined away. This good old custom is now decayed. The respectable burgess stays at home, which is much more monotonous. Yet there may still be found a parlour here and there with a society meeting every evening all the year round. The parlour of the Salutation ^/as a good-sized room wainscoted and provided with a sanded floor. It was furnished with a dozen wooden chairs, and three small round tables, the chairs disposed in a circle so as to prevent corners or cliques in conversation. Sacred is the fraternity, liberty, and equality of the parlour. The room was low, and, in the evenings, always hot with its two flaming unprotected gas jets ; the window was never opened except in the morning, and there was always present a rich perfume of tobacco, beer, and spirits, both that anciently generated and that of the day's creation. Among the frequentera — who were, it must be confessed, a somewhat faded or decayed company — was, to put him hrst because he was the richest, the great Mr. Robert Ilellyer, of t^ 48 THE IVORY GATE I ! Barnard's Inn, usurer or money-lender. Nobody quite likes the profession — one knows not why. Great fortunes have been made in itj the same fortunes have been dissipated by the money- lenders' heirs. Such fortunes do not stick, somehow. Mr. Hellyer, for instance, was reputed wealthy beyond the dreams of the wildest desire. It was also said of him, under breath and in whispers and envious murmurs, that should a man borrow a five-pound note of him, that borrower would count himself lucky if lie escaped with the loss of seventy-five pounds ; and might generally expect to lose the whole of his household furniture, and the half of his income, for the rest of his natural life. To be sure, he sometimes had losses, as he said himself, with a groan ; as when an unscrupulous client jumped olT the Embankment, when he had not paid more than fifty pounds on the original five ; or when a wicked man sold off his furn'* ..re secretly, in contempt of the bill of sale, and got clean out of the country with his wife and children. But on the whole he did pretty well. It was further said, by old clients, that his heart was a simple piece of round granite, for which he had no use, and that he made money out of it by letting it out at so much an hour for a paving mallet. Mr. Robert Hellyer was not a genial man, or a cheerful or a pleasant man to look upon ; he neither loved nor compre- hended a jest ; he never smiled ; he kept his mind always employed on the conduct of his business. Every night — forgive the solitary weakness— he drank as much as he could carry. In appearance, he was red-faced, thick-necked, and stout ; his voice was thick even in the morning, when he was under no compulsion to thickness ; it vas believed 'by his friends that his education had been imperfect ; perhaps because he never gave anybody reason to suppose that he had ever received any education at all. To such men as Mr. Hellyer, who every night take much strong drink, and on no occasion whatever take any exercise, sixty is the grand climacteric. He was, a year ago, just fifty-nine. Alas ! he has not even reached his grand climacteric. Already he is gone. He was cut off by pneumonia, or apoplexy, last Christmas, l^hose 'who saw the melancholy cortege filing out of the narrow gates of Barnard's Inn, mournfully remarked that none of his money was taken ^ith him, and asked what happiness he could possibly find in the next world, which he would begin with nothing— nothing at all — not even credit— an absolute pauper. THE SELECT CIRCLE 49 Mr. Robert Hellyer sat on one side of the empty fireplace. On the opposite side, a great contrast to his coarse and vulgar face, sat an elderly man, tall, thin, dres'ied in a coat whose sleeves were worn to shininess. His face was dejected : his features were still fine : he was evidently a gentleman. This person was a barrister, decayed and unsuccessful ; he lived in a garret in Gray's Inn. There are a good many wrecks at the Bar, but few quite so forlorn as this poor old man. He still professed to practise, and picked up a guinea now and then by defending criminals. On these casual fees he man- aged to live. His clothes were threadbare ; it was many years since he had had a greatcoat ; on rainy and cold day** he had a thin cape which he wore over his shoulders. Heaven knows how he dined and breakfasted ; every evening, except ill the hot days of summer, he oame to this place for light and warmth. Unless he was very poor indeed, he called for a pint of old and mild and read the day's paper. Sometimes he talked, but not often ; sometimes one or other of the company would offer him a more costly drink, which he always accepted with all that was left to him of courtesy. Outside, he liad no friends ; they had all forgotten him or died — it is very easy for a poor man to be forgotten ; he had no relations ; they had all died, emigrated, and dispersed ; the relations of the unsuccessful are easily lost. When he talked, he sometimes became animated, and would t^ll anecdotes of the Bar and of th: time wheri he was called, nearly fifty years agone, by the Benchers of Gi.ay's Inn. What had become of the hopes and ambitions w th which that young man entered upon the profession, whic h was to lead him to the parlour of the Salutation and ^;he company that gathered there— and to the bare and miserable garret of Gray's Inn, forgotten and alone ? Another man, also elderly, who sat next to the barrister, was a gentleman yho sold an excellent business and retired, in order to betake himself more completely to toping. He drank in three taverns during the day. One was in Fleet Street, where he took his chop at three ; one was near Drury Lane Theatre, where he dallied with a little whisky from five to nine ; and this was the third. He was a quiet, happy, self-respecting, dignified old man. In the ever ig, he spoke not at all — for sufficient reasons ; but he benevolently inclined his head if he was addressed. 50 THE IVORY GATE : I ll Next to him sat a younger man, a solicitor, whose practice consisted in defending prisoners in the Police Courts. He had with him two frionds, and he had a confident swagger, which passed for ability. Next to him and his friends was a house agent, who had been a member for an Irish borough : and there was a gentleman, whose wife Siinj* in music halls, so that this fortunate person could — and did — sit about in taverns all day long. His appearance was that of a deboshed City clerk, as he was. Not to mention other members of tho company, Checkley was there, occupying a chair next to the money-lender. Here he was called Mr. Checkley. He came every evening at nine o'clock, Sundays included. Like the money-lender, he wanted his little distractions, and took them in this way. Here, too, he was among those who respected him, not so much on account of his public and private virtues, or for his eminence in the law, as his money. It is noo often that a 'solicitor's clerk becomes a * warm ' man, but then it is not often that one of the calling deliberately proposes to himself early in life to save money, and lives till seventy-five steadily carrying out his object. If you are good at figures, you will understand how Mr. Checkley succeeded. Between the ages 01 ei,^hteen and twenty-five he had an income which averaged about seventy -five pounds. He lived on fifty pounds a year. From twenty-five to thirty-five - lade an average of one hundred and fifty pounds : he still lived upon fifty pounds a year. At thirty-five he was induced by prudential consi- derations to marry : the lady, considerably his senior, had a thousand pounds. She was even more miserly than himself, and in a year or so after marriage, she fell into a decline, owing to insufficient nourishment, and presently expired. On the whole he calculated that he was the' better man for the marriage by a thousand pounds. From thirty-five to forty- five his income rose to two hundred pounds r it then for twenty-five years stood at three hundred pounds a year ; at the age of seventy Mr. Dering gave him four hundred pounds. Therefore, to sum up, he had put by out of his pay the sum of 11,675/. — and this without counting the compound interest always mounting up from his investments, which were all of a careful kind such as he understood : tenement houses, of which he had a good number : shares in building societies : money lent on bills of sale or on mortgage. At home— -Mr. m: THE SELECT CIRCLE ft Checkley liVed on the ground floor of one of his own houses — he grew more miserly a49 he grew older. The standard of luxury is not high when tifty pounds a year covers all ; but of late he had been trying to keep below even that humble amount. He conducted his affairs in the evening between his office hours and nine at his own house, or among the people where his property lay. It was in the district, visited by few, lying east of Gray's Inn Road : his own house was in a certain small square, a good half of the houses in which belonged to him. At nine o'clock he arrived at the tavern. Here his drinks cost him nothing. A custom had grown up in the course of years for the money-lender to consult him on the many difficult points which arise in the practice of his profession. He was one of those who like to have one foot over the wall erected by the law, but not both. In other words, he was always trying to find out how far the law would allow him to go, and where it called upon him tostop. With this view he schemed perpetually to make his clients sign bonds under the delusion that they meant a hundredth part of what they really did mean. And as, like all ignorant men, he had the most profound belief in the power and the knowledge and the chicanery of lawyers, he was pleased to obtain Checkley's advice in return for Check ley's drinks. It was a full gathering. The old clerk arrived late : he was gratified at hearing the ex-M.P. whispering to his friends that the new arrival was worth his twenty thousand pounds if a penny. He swelled with honourable pride. Yes. Twenty thousand pounds ! And more — more. Who would have thought, when he began as an office boy, that he could ever achieve so much % The money-lender, bursting with a new case, real or sup- posed, took his pipe out of his mouth and communicated it in a hoarse whisper. * Suppose ' it began. 'Then' — Checkley replied whon the case was finished — * you would lay yourself open to a criminal prosecution. Don't you go so much as to think of it. There was a case twenty- five years ago exactly like it. The remarks of the judge were most severe, and the sentence was heavy.' * Ah ! ' The usurer's red face grew redder. 'Then it can't be thought of. Pity, too. There's a houseful of furniture and ■ 2 5a THE IVORY GATE a nhopful of stuff. And a youn^ man as it would do good to •urn just to start fair again. Pity. — Put a name to it, Mr. Checkley.* 'Rum. Hot. With lemon/ replied the sage. * You got more taste in your mouth, more upliftin' for your heart, as thoy say, more strengthenin' for the stomach, better value all round for your money out of rum than any other drink that I know.* At this point, and before the waiter could execute the i>rr daughter, Hilda, when about two-and-twenty, as you also know, had the good fortune to attract the admkation of a widov/er of very considerable wealth, the brother of her guard ifin. He was forty years older than herself, bat he was rich — nay, very rich indeed. Jute, I believe, on an extensive scale, was the cause of his great fortune. He wHs knighted on a certain great occasion when Warden of his Uompany, so that he oilered his bride a title and precedence, as well as a great income, a mansion in Palace Gardens, a handsome settlement, carriages and horses, and everything else that the feminine heart can desire. The widow, soon after her husband died, found the time extremely dull without the daily excitement of the City talk to which she had been accustomed. There was no one with whom she could discuss the money market. Now, all her life, she had been accustomed tu talk of shares and stocks and in- vestments and fiuutuations and operations and buying in and selling out. She began, tlierefore, to watch the market on her own account. Tlien she bes : many girls hold that Art is a much liner thin^' than wealtii. Elsie learned these pernicious sentiments at school they attracted her at first because they were ho fresh slw found all the best litera- ture full of these sentin\ 'uts she developed in due course a certain natural abilct^' for ars : ^e attended an art school : "ii.^.-L..., ^ 5 I I ■'I 60 THE IVORY GATS she set up an easel : she painted in pastel : she called her room a studio. She gave her friends the greatest uneasiness by her opinions : she ended, as you have seen, by becoming engaged to a young man with nothing. Ilv>w could such a girl be born of such parents 1 When she got home ou Saturday evening ^e found her mother playing a game of double vingt un with a certain cousin, one Sydney Arundel. The game is very good for the rapid interchange of coins : you should make it a time game, tc» end in half an hour — one hour — two hours, and at the end you will find that you have had a very pretty little gamble. Mrs. Arundel liked nothing betttr than a game of cards— pro- vided the stakes were high enough to give it excitement. To play cards for love is indeed insipid : it is like a dinner of cold boiled mutton or like sandwiches of veal. The lady would play anything, piquet, ecart^, double dummy — and her daughter Elsie hated the sight of cards. As for the cousin, he was on the Stock Exchange : he came often to dinner and to talk business after dinner. He was a kind of musical box or barrel organ in conversation, because he could only play one tuiie. His business as well as his pleasure was in the money market. ' So you have come home, Elsie t * said Mrs. Arundel coldly. 'Yes, I have come home.' Ekie seated herself at the window and waited. 'Now, Sydney' — her mc^er took up the cards. *My deal — will you take any more ? ' She was a good-looking woman still, though past fifty : her abundant hair had gone pleasantly gray, her features were fine, her brown eyes were quick and bright : her lips were firm, and her chin straight. She was tall and of good figure : she was clad in black silk, with a large gold ^hain about her neck and good lace upon her shoulders. She wore many rings and a bracelet. She liked, in fact, the appearance of wealth as well as the possession of it : she therefore always appeared in costly raiment : her house was furnished with a costly soli- dity : everything, even the bindings of her Ijooks, was good to look at: her one manservant looked like the responsible butler of a millionaire, and her one horse carnage looked as if it belonged to a dozen. The game went on. Presently, the clock struck ten. A REBELUOUS CHILD 6t *My : her were soli- ood to )nsible d as if ten. * Time,* said the lady. * We must stop. Now then. Let us see I make it seventy- three shillings. — Thank you. Three pounds thirteen -an evening not altogether wasted. — And now, Sydney, light your cigar. You know I like it. You shall have your whisky and soda — and we will talk business. There are half-a-dozen things that I want to consult you about. Heavens ! why cannot I be admitted to the Exchange % A few women among you — clever women, like myself, Sydney — would s^ake you up.* They talked business for an hour, the lady making notes in a little book, asking questions and making suggestions. At last the cousin got up — it was eleven o'clock — and went away. Then her mother turned to Elsie. ' It is a great pity,' she said, ' that you take no interest in these things.' * I dislike them very much, as you know,* said Elsie. ' Yes —you dislike them because they are of real import- ance. Well — never mind. — You have been out with the young man, I suppose 1 ' 'Yes — we have been on the river together.' * I supposed it was something of the kind. So the house- maid keeps company with the potboy without consulting her own people.' * It is nothing unusual for me to spend an evening with George. Why not? You will not suffer mo to bring him here.' ' No,* said her mother with firmness. * That young man shall never, under any circumstances, enter this house with my knowlege ! For the rest,' she added, 'do as you please.' This was the kind of amiable conversation that had been going on day after day since Elsie's engagement — protestations of ceasing to interfere, and continual interference. There are many ways of considering the subject of in- judicious and unequal marriages. You may ridicule : you may cajole : you may argue : you may scold : you may coax : you may represent the naked truth as it is, or you may clothe its limbs with lies — the lies are of woven stuff, strong, and home-made. When you have an obdurate, obstinate, con- tumacious, headstrong, wilful, self-contained maiden to deal with, you will waste your breath whatever you do. The mother treated Elsie with scorn, and scorn alone. It was her only weapon. Her elder sister tried other weapons : she laughed te THE IVORY GATE \{ i- at the makeshifts of poverty : she cajoled with soft flattery and golden promises : she argued with logic pitiless : she scolded like a fishwife : she coaxed with tears and kisses : she painted the loveliness of men who are rich, and the power of women who are beautiful. And all in vain. Nothing moved this obdurate, obstinate, contunmcious, lie.ulstrong, wilful Elsie. She would stick to her proniiho : she would wed her lover even if she had to entertain Poverty as well all her life. ' Are you so infatuated,' the mother went on, ' that you cannot see that he cares nothing for your happiui-ss? IIo thinks about nobody but himself. If he thou-^ht of you, he would see that he was too poor to make you iia])py, and ho would break it off. As it is, all he wants is to marry you.' 'That is indeed all. He has never (lis<'uised the fact.' * He offers you the half of a bare crust.' •By halving the crust we shall double it.' *0h ! I have no patience. But there is an end. You know my opinion, and you disregard it. I cannot lock you up, or beat you, for your foo'isihnoss. I almost wish I could. I will neither reason with you any more nor try to dissuade you. Go your own way.' *If you would only understand. We are going to live very simply. We shall put all unliappiness outside the luxuries of life. And we shall get on if we never g«'t r» .li. I wish I could make you understand our point of view. It makes me very unhappy that you will take such a distorted view.' ' I am glad that you can still feel unhappiness at such a cause as my displeasure.' * Well, mother, to-night we have come to a final decision.' ' Am I to learn it ? ' ^ * Yes ; I wish to tell you at once. We have been engaged for two years. The engagement has brought me nothing but wretchedness at home. But I should be still more wi etched I should be wretched all my life — if I were to break it off. I shall be of age in a day or two and free to act on luy own judgment.' ' You are acting on your own judgment already.' * I have promised George that I will marry him when he pleases — that is, about the middle of August, when he gets bis holidity*' A REBELLIOUS CHILD 63 *0h » The nil cry of poverty will begin so soon t I am sorry to hear it. As I said above, I have nothing to say against it — no persuasion or dissuasion— you will do as you please.' 'Geor!:;« has his profession, and he has a good name already. He will get on. Meantime, a little plain living will hurt neiilior ot us. Can't you tliink that we may begin in a humWle way and yet jjet on? Money — money — money. Oh ! Must we think of notliing else ?' * What is there to think of but money t Look round you, silly child. What gi\is me this house — this furniture — everything? TIomov. What feeds you and clothes you? i!^.Ioney. What ^'ive> po.sition, consideration, power, dignity f Money. Hank without money is contemptible. Life without money is miserable, wretched, intolerable. Who would care to live when the smallest luxury— the least comfc; ,; — has to be denied for want of money. Even the Art of which you talk so much only becomes respectable when it commands money. You cannot keep oil' disease without money ; you cannot educate your children without money: it will be your worst punishment in the future that your children will sink and become servants. Child I ' she cried passionately, ' we must be masters or servants — nay— lords or slaves. You leave the rank of lord and marry the rank of slave. It is money that makes the dilliirence— money — money — money — that you pre- tend to despise. It is money that has done everything for you. Your grandfather made it— your father made it — I am making it. Go on in your madness and your folly. In the end, when it is too late, you will long for money, pray for money, be roady to do pnything for money— for your husband and your cliilditMi.' ' We shall have, I hope, enough. Wo shall work for erough no moi-e.' ' Well, chilli,' her mother returned quietly, *I said that I would say nothing. I have been carriid away. Let there be no mote said. Do as you please. You know my mind — your sister's mind- your cousins' ' *I do not wish to he guided by my cousins.* 'Very well. You will stay here until your wedding day. When you many you will have this house—and me and your sister and all your pt'oj)le. Do not expect any help from me. Do not look forward to any inheritance from me My money \ 64 THE IVORY GATE ii| ' %■ iliil is all my own. to deal with as I please. If you wish to be poor you shall be poor. Hilda tells me that you are to see your «^uardian on Monday. Perhaps he may bring you to your senses. As for me — I shall say no more.' With these final words the lady left the room and went to bed. How many times had she declared that she would say no more ? The next day being Sunday, the bells began to ring in the morning, and the two ladies sallied forth to attend Divine service as usual. They walked side by side, in silence. Th.it sweet and gracious nymph, the Lady Charity, was not with them in their pew. The elder lady, externally cold, was full of resentment and bitterness : the younger was more than usually troubled by the out'jreak of the evening. Yet she was no nearer surrender. The sermon, by a curious coinci- dence, turned upon the perishable nature of earthly treasures, and the vanity of the objects desired by that unr< asoning per- son whom they used to call the Worldling. The name has perished, but the creature still exists, and is found in countless herds in every great town. The parsons are always trying to shoot him down ; but they never succeed. There was just a fiery passage or two directed against the species. Elsie hoped tiiat the words would go home. Not at all. They fell upon her mother's heart like seed upon the rock. She heard them, but heard them not. The Worldling, you see, never understands that he is a Worldling. Nor does Dives believe himself to be anything more than Lazarus, such is his modesty. The service over, they vent home in silence. TheT took their early dinner in silence, waited on by the solemn man- servant. After dinner, Elsie sought the solitude cf her studio. And here — nobody looking on — she obeyed the first law of her sex, and had a good cry. Even the most resolute of maidens cannot carry through a great scheme against great opposition without the consolation of a cry. Ou the table lay a uote from Mr. Dering : * Mi dear Ward — 1 am reminded that you come of age on Monday. I am also reminded by Hilda that you propose to take a very important step against the wish of your mother. Will you come and see me at ten o'clock to talk this over % — Your affectiigpAte Guardian.' / A REBELLIOUS CHILD 65 Not much hope to be got out of that letter. A dry note from a dry man. Very little doubt as to the line which he would take. Yet, not an unkind letter. She put it back in her desk and sighed. Another long discussion. No : she would not discuss— she would listen, and then state her inten- tion. She would listen again, and once more state her intention. On the easel stood an almost finished portrait in pastel, executed from a photograph. It was tlu' portrait of hor guar- dian. She had caught — it was not dilHcult with a face so marked— the set expression, the closed lips, the keen eyes, and the habitual look of caution and watchfulness which become the characteristics of a solicitor in good practice. So far it was a good likeness. But it was an austere face. Elsie, with a few touches of her thumb and the chalk which formed her material, softened the lines of the mouth, communicated to the eyes a more gonial light, and to the face an expression of benevolence which certainly had never before been seen upon it. ' There I ' she said. * If you would only look like that to- morrow, instead of like your photograph, I should have no fear at all of what you would say. I would flatter you, and coax you, and cajole you, till you had doubled George's salary and promised to get round my mother. You dear old man I You kind old man I You sweet old man 1 I could kiss you for your kindness/ CHAPTER V SOMETHINQ HAPPENS So far a truly enjoyable Sunday. To sit in church beside her angry mother, both going tlirough the forms of repentance, charity, and forgiveness : and to dine together, going through the ordinary forms of kindliness while one at least was devoured with wrath. Wabfe of good roast lamb and goose- berry tart I Elsie spent the afternoon in her studio, where she sat un- disturbed. People called, but her mother receive'' them. Now that the last resolution had been taken : now that she 66 THE IVORY GATE '' ' r !■■:( v-'^lC had promised her lover to brave everything and to live the simplest possible life for love's sweet sake, she felt that sinking which falls upon the most courageous when the boats are burned. Thus Love makes loving hearts to suffer. The evening, however, made amends. For then, like the housemaid, who mounted the area stair as Elsie went down the front-door steps, she went forth to nioet her lover, and in his company forgot all her fears. They wont to church 'to- gether. There they sat side by side, this church not having adopted the barbarous custom of separating the sexes— a custom which belongs to the time when women were monkishly considered unclean creatures, and the cause, to most men, of everlasting suffering, which they themselves would most justly share. This couple sat hand in hand ; the service was full of praise and hope and trust : the Psalms were exultant, triumphant, jubilant : the sermon was a ten linutes' ejaculation of joy and thanks : there was a Procession with banners, to cheer up the hearts of the faithful — what is Faith without a Procession? Comfort stole back to Els' 's troubled heart: she felt less like an outcast : she came out •£ the church with renewed confidence. It was still daylight. They walked round and round the nearest square. Jane the housemaid and her youn*» man were doing the same thing. They talked with confidence and joy of the future before them. Presently the rain began to fall, and Elsie's spirits fell too. * George,' she said, * are we si^llish, each of us ? Is it right for me to drag and keep you down ? ' 'You will not. You will raise me and keep me up. Never doubt that, Elsie. I am the selfish one because I make you sacrifice so much.' * Oh I no — no. It is no sacrifice for me. You must make me brave, George, because I am told every day by Hilda and my mother the most terrible things. I have been miserable all day long. I suppose it is the battle I had with my mother yesterday.' ' Your mother will be all right again as soon as the thing 18 done. And Hilda will come round too. She will want to show you her new carriage and her newest dress. Nobody admires and envies the rich relation so much as the poor re- lation. That is the reason why the poor relation is so muoh SOMETHING HAPPENS 67 courted and petted in every rich fan. ily. We shall be the pon her face. The man stared at her, forgetting his cig.ir-Iij-ht, whieh fell burning from his hand into the gutter. When the door shut upon her, he stared at George, who, for his part, his mistress having vani.shed, stared at the door. Ail this stai-ing occupied a period of at least half a minute. Then George turned and walked away : the man struck another light, lit his cigar, and strode away too, but iu the same direction Pres(;ntly he caught up George and laid a hand upon his shoulder. * Here, you sir,' he said gruffly j * I want a word with you before we go any fui-ther.' George turned upon him savagely. Nobody likes a hea^ y hand laid upon the shoulder. In the old days it generally meant a writ and Whitecioss Street and other un{>leasant things. ' Who the devil are you ? ' he asked. * That is the question I was going laughed. — ' No — I see now. I don't want to ask it. George Austin, are you not 1 ' * That is my name. But who are you — and what do you want with me ? ' The man was a stranger to him. He was dressed in a velvet coat and a white waistcoat : he wore a soft felt hat ; and with the velvet jacket, the felt hat, and a full beard, he looked like an artist of some kind. At the end of June it is still light at half-past nine. George saw that the man was a gentleman : his features, strongly marked and clear cut, re- minded him of something — but vaguely ; they gave him the common feeling of having been seen or known at some remote period. The man looked about thirty, the time when the He stopped and You are SOMETIITNG HAPPENS 69 physical man is .\^ liis best : he was of goo«l height, well set up, and robust. Soiii(tlnn<», no clouht, in the art world : or son)othin<; that (h'sirod to appear as if belonging to the art world. I5ecau.se, you see, the artists tlieniselves are not so pictures(|ue as tliose who would be artists if they could. The unsuccessful artist, certainly, is sonietinies a most picturesque creature. So is the mod mm doubt whether Mr. Dering h!m- Who did it ? ' No one knows to remembers it any more, self ever thinks of it.' * Well, wliat was discovered after all t * Nothing at all has been discovered, this day who did it.' * Nothing at all t — I am disappointed. Hasn't old Checkloy done time for it ? Nothing found out 1 ' * Nothing. The notes were stopped in time, and were never presented. After live or six y( ars the Pjiink of England gave Mr. Dering notes in the place of those stolen. And that is all there is to tell.' •Nothing discovered I And the notes never presented? "What good did the fellov get by it, then ? ' * I don't know. But nothing was discovered.' * Nothing discovered ! ' Athelstan repeated. * Why, I took it for granted that the truth had come out long since. I was making up my mind to call upon old Dering. I don't think I shell go now. — And my sister Hilda will not be coming here to express her contrition. I am disappohited.' - You can see Elsie if you like.' * Yes — I can see her,' he repeated. — * George* — he returned to the old subject — * do you know the exact particulars of that robbery ? ' ' There was a forged cheque, and the Bank paid it abross the counter.' * The cheque,* Athelstan explained, * was made payable to the order of a certain unknown person named Edmund Gray. It was endorsed by that name. To prove that forgery, they should have got the cheque and exar^incd the endorsement. That was the first thing, certainly. I wonder how they began.' ' I do not know. It was while I was in my articles, and all we heard was a vague report. You ought not to have gone away. You should have stayed to light it out.' * I was right to give up ray berth after what the chief said. How could I remain drawing his pay and doing his work, when he had calmly given me to understand that the forgery lay between two hands, and that he strongly suspected mine ? * 'Did Mr. Dering really say so? Did he go so far as that?' 'So I walked out of the place. I should have stayed at SOMETHING HAPPENS 73 home and waited for the clearing up of the thing, but for my own people — who — well — you know So I went away in a rage. ' And have you come back — as you went — in a rage ?' 'Well — you see, that is the kind of fire that keeps alight of its own accord.' * I believe that some sort of a search was made for this Edmund Gray ; but I do not know how long it lasted or who was employed.' ' Detectives are no good. Perhaps the chief didn't care to press the business. Perhaps he learned enough to be satisfied that Checkley was the man. Perhaps he was unwilling to lose an old servant. Perhaps the villain confessed the thing. It all comes back to me fresh and clear, though for eight long years I have not talked with a soul about it.' ' Tell me,' said George, a little out of sympathy with this dead and buried forgery — 'tell me where you have been — what you have done — and what you are doing now.' 'Presently — presently,' he replied with impatience. *I am sure now that I was wrong. I should not have left the country. I should have taken a lodging openly, and waited and looked on. Yes ; that would have been better. Then I should have seen that old villain, Checkley, in the dock. Perhaps it is not yet too late. Still— eight years. Who can expect a commissionaire to remember a single message after eight years % ' ' Well — and now tell me,' George asked again, ' what you have been doing.' * The black-sheep always turns up, doesn't he ? You learn at home that he has got a berth in the Rocky Mountains ; but he jacks it up and goes to Melbourne, where he falls on his feet ; but gets tired, and moves on to New Zealand, and so home again. It's a regular round.' ' You are apparently the black-sheep whose wool is dyed white. There are threads of gold in it. You lock prosperous.' *A few years ago I was actually in the possession of moFi y. Then I became poor again. After a good many adventures I became a journalist. The profession is in America the refuge of the educated unsuccessful, and the hope of the uneducated unsuccessful. I am doing as well as journalists in America generally do : I am over here as the representa- tive of a Francisco paper. And I expect to stay for some (;■; '; ii ■f* m, i wm 74 T//E IVORY GATE time — so long aK 1 can be of service to my people. That's alia • 'Well — it might be a great deal worse. And won't you come to Penibridge Crescent with me ? * ' When the cloud is lifted : not before. And — George — not a word about me. Don't tell — yet — even Elsie.' CHAPTER VI SOMETHING MORE HAPPENS Check LEY held the door of the office wide open, and >vited Elsie to enter. The aspect of the room, solid of fui iture, severe in its fittings, with its vast table covered with /.pers,* struck her with a kind of terror. At the table sao her guardian, austere of countenance. All the way along she had been imagining a dialogue. He would begin with certain words. She would reply, firmly but respectfully, with certain other words. He would go on. She would again reply. And so on. Everybody knows the consolations of imagination in framing dialogues at times of trouble. They never come off. The beginning is never what is expected, and the sequel, therefore, has to be changed on the spot. The conditions of the interview had not been realised by Elsie. Also the beginning was not what she expected. For her guardian, instead of frowning with a brow of corrugated iron, and holding up a finger of warning, received her more pleasantly than she had imagined it possible for him, bade her sit down, and leaned back, looking at her kindly. • And so,' he said, * you are twenty-one — twenty-one — to- day. I am no longer your guardian. You are twenty-one. Everything that is past seems to have happened yesterday. So that it is needless to say that you were a baby only yes- terday.' ' Yes ; I am really twenty-one.' * I congratulate you. To be twenty-one is, I believe, for a young lady at least, a pleasant time of life. For my own Dart, I have almost forgotten the memory of youth. PerhfT?' 1 never had tho time to be young. Certainly I havo n'i^m SOMETHING MORE HAPPENS 71 her on. the bes oi what on been she , for a own understood why some men regret their youth so passionately. As for your sex, Elsie, I know very little of it except in the way of business. In that way, which does not admit of romance, I must say that I have sometimes found ladies im- portunate, tenacious, exacting, persistent, and even revengeful.' 'Oh ! ' said Elsie, with •', little winning smile of concilia- tion. This was only a bc^'iTining— a prelude — before the un- pleasantness. * That, Elsie, is my unfortunate experience of women — always in the way of business, which of course may bring out the worst qualities. In society, of which I have little expe- rience, they are doubtless - charming —charming.' He repeated the word, as if he had found an adjective of wliose meaning he was not quite clear. ' An old bachelor is not expected, at the age of seventy-five, to know much about such a subject. The point before us is that you have this day arrived at the mature age of twe^ ■ y-one. That is the first thing, and I congratulate you. The nrst thing.' * I wonder,' thought Elsie timidly, ' when he will begin upon the next thing — the real thing,' There lay upon the table before him a paper with not-es upon it. He took it up, looked at it, and laid it down again. Then he turned to Elsie and smiled — he actually smiled - he unmistakably smiled. 'At twenty -one,' he said, 'some young ladies who are heiresses come into their property * * Those who are heiresses. Unhappily, I am not.' * Come into their property — their property. It must be a beautiful thing for a girl to come into property, unexpectedly, at twentyi-one. For a man, a tempUvtion to do nothing and to make no more money. Bad ! Bad ! But for a girl already engaged, a girl who wants money, a girl who is engaged — eh 1 — to a penni . s young solicitor ' Elsie turned crimson. This was the thing sb;j expected. ' Under such circumstances, I say, such a stroke of fortune would be providential and wonderful, would iu not ? ' She blushed and turned pale, and blushed again. She also fait a strong disposition to cry — but repressed that dis- position. * In your case, for instance, such a windfall would be most welcome. Your case is rather a singular case. You do not belong to a family which has generally disregarded money — quite the reverse — ^you should inher-fc the love of money — ^yet t:\ A ii ti 76 THE IVORY GATB you propose to throw away what I believe are very good pros- pects, and ' * My only prospect is to marry George Austin.* ' So you think. I have heard from your mother, and I have seen your sister Hilda. They object very strongly to the engagement.* * I know, of course, what they would say.' ' Therefore, I need not repeat it,' replied Mr. Bering drily. ' I learn, then, that you are not only engaged to this young gentleman, but that you are also proposing to marry upon the small income which he now possesses.' 'Yes — we are prepared to begin the world upon that income.' * Your mother asked me what chance he had in his profes- sion. In this ollioe he can never rise to a considerable salary as managing clerk. If he had money, he might buy a partner- ship. But he has none, and his friends have none. And the profession is conge.steil. He may remain all his life in a posi- tion not much better than he now occupies. The prospect, Elsie, is not brilliant.' * No — we are fully aware of that. And yet * ' Allow me, my dear child. You are yourself — ^we will say for the moment —without any means of your o'vn.* *I have nothing.' * Or any expectations, except from your mother, who is not yet sixty.' ' I could not count upon my mother's death. Besides, she says that, if I persist, she will not leave me anything at all.' • ' So much I understand from herself. Her present inten- tion is to remove your name from her will, in case you go on with this proposed marriage.' ' ]My :.iother will do what she pleases with her property,' said Elsie. ' If she thinks that I will give way to a threat of this kind, she does not know me.' * Do not let us speak of threats. I am laying before you facts. Here they are plainly. Young Austin has a very small income : he has very little prospect of getting a substan- tial income : you, so far as you know, have nothing ; and, also so far as you know, you have no prospect of anything. These are the facts, are they not ? * ' Yes — I suppose these are the facts. We shall be quite SOMETHING MORE HAPPENS 77 jsides, ;thing linten- go on re you very tbstan- ^d, also These quite poor — very likely, quito poor always.' The tears rose to her eyes. But tlus was not a place for crying. * f want yoM to understand tlu*S(? facts very clearly,' Mr. Drying insisted. ' Believe mo, I do not wish to give you pain.* ' All this,' said Elsie, with the beginnin;»s of the family obstinacy in her eyes, * I clearly understand. I have had them put before me too often.' ' T also learn from your sister, Lady Doiini;, that if you abandon this marriage she is ready to do anything for you that she can. Her house, her carriage, her servants- you can command them all, if you please. This you know. Have you considered the meaning of what you propose ? Can you con- sider it calmly ? * ' I believe we have.* * On the one side poverty — not what is called a small in- come. Many people live very well on what is called a small income; — but grinding, hard poverty, which exacts real priva- tions and burdens you with unexj)ected loads. My dear young lady, ycu have been brought up to a certain amount of plenty and ease, if not to luxury. Do you think you can get along without plenty and ease V 'If George can, I can.' 'Can you become a servant— cook, housemaid, lady's-maid - as well as a wife — a nurse as well as a mother ? ' 'If Ueorge is made happier by my l)econiing anything — anything, it will only make me happier. Mr. Dering, I am sure you wish me well — you are my father's oid friend you have always advised my mother in her trcvabh's my brother was articled to you- — but ' She j)aused, remembering that he had not been her brother's best friend. 'I mean the best possible for you. Meantime, you are (|uite fixed in your own mind : you are .set upon this thing. That is clear. There is one other v.ay of looking at it. You yourself seem chiefly desirous, I think, to make the man you love happy. So much the better for him. — Are you quit(; satisfied that the other party to the agreement, your lover, will remain happy while he sees you slaving for him, while he feels his own helplessness, and wliile he gets no relief from the grinding poverty of his household -while — lastly - he sees his sons taking their place on a lower level, and his dauijhtera taking a place below the rank of gentlewoman '\ ' f . 78 THE IVORY GATE * I roply by another question. — You have had George in your oitice as articled clerk and innnaging clerk for eight years. Jh he, or is he not, steadfast, clear-headed, one who knows his own, mind, and one who can be trusted in all things % ' ' Perhaps,' said Mr. Dering, inclining his head. ' How dons that advance him ? ' * Th«Mi, if you trust him, why should not I trust him ? I trust (leor^'e altogether — altogether. If he does not get on, it will be through no fault of liis. We shall bear our burden bravely, belitnt? me, Mr. Dering. You will not hear him — or me~comj)lain. lifsides, I am full of hope. Oh ! it can never be in this country that a man who is a good workman should not bo nblo to get on. Then I can paint a little — not very well, perhaps. But I have thought —you will not laugh at me- that I might paint portraits and get a little money that way.' ' It is quite possible that he may succeed, and that you may increase the family income. Everything is possible. But, remember, you are building on possibilities, and I on fjK^ts. Plans very beautiful and easy at the outset often prove most ditticult in the carrying out. My expeiienoe of marriages is learned by fifty viv^»s of work, not imaginative, but practi(;al. I have learm>d that without acau8e they made thrir way up in the world, and placed their sons also in tin; way to climb That is how families are made — by three generations at least of steady work uphill.' Elsie shook her head sadly. ' We can only hope,' she nnirmured. 'One more word, and I will say n* more. Remember, that love or no love, resij^nation or not, patience or not, physical comfort is the b<;;^irinit)^ and the fotiiidation of all hap)>iiirsH. If you and your huslmnd (.in satisfy the dtntaudM of physical comfort, you may bo hippy or at b ast iesi;^ned. If not Well, KIsie, that is all. I should not have said so much had T not promised your moth«M and your sister. I am touched, I confes.s, by yiuir ooura<;e and your re.solution.* * We me.m tuner to re;.^r«t, ncner to htok hack, an I always to work aiul hope,' sai«i lOUie. ' You will renuiLii our friend, Mr. Dering?' •Surely, surely. And now * •Now' Klsie rose *I will not keep you any longer. You ha\e said what you wislusd to say very kindly, and I thank you.* ' No. Sit down again • T haven't done with you yet, child. Sit down again. No more about that young villain George Austin.* He spoke so good humourodly, that Elsie complied wondering, but no longer afraid. ' Nothing moro about your engagement. Now, listen canjfully, because; this is most im- portant. Three or four years ago a person wrote to me. That pc^rson informed me that he for convenience we will call the person a n»an wished to place a certain sum of money in my hands in trust for you.' * For me ? Do you mean— *n trust ? What is Tru.st ? * ' He gave me this sum of money to be given to you on your twenty first birthday.' * Oh I ' Elsie sat up with open eyes. ' A sum of money ? — and to me ? * ' With a condition or two. The first condition was, that the interest should be invested as it came in : the next, that I was on no account — mind, on no account at all — to tell you or any one of the existence of the gift or the name of the donor. You are now twenty-one. I have been careful not to afford you the least suspicion of this happy windfall until the time **!■';; '% 8o THE IVORY GATE should arrive. Neither your mother, nor your sister, nor your lover, knows or susjx'cts anytliiiifj about it.' ' Oh ! ' Elsie said once more. An interjection may be defined as a prolonged monosyllable, generally a vowel, uttered when no words can do justice to the .sul>j«'ct. * And here, my dear young lady ' — Elsie cried * Oh ! ' once more because- the most curious thing in the world Mr. Dering's grave face suddeidy relaxed and tlu? lines assi mcd the very benevolence which she had the d.iy before imparted to his portrait, and wished to see upon his face ! — * Here, my dear young lady' — he laid his hand upon a paper — ' is the list of the investments which I have made of that money. You have, in fact, money in Corporation bonds Newcastle, Nottingham, Wolverhampton. You have water shares -you have gas shares — all good investments, yielding at the price of purchase an average of nearly three and twf)-thirds per cent.' 'Investments? Why how much money was it, then? I was thinking when you spoke of a sum of money, of ten pounds, perhaps.' ' No, Elsie, not ten pounds. The money placed in my hands for your use was over twiilve thous.-ind pounds. With accumulations, there is now a little under thirteen thousand.' ' Oh ! ' cried Elsie for the third time and for the same leason. No words could express her astonishment. * Yes ; it will produce about four hundred and eighty pounds a year. Peihaps, as some of the stock has gone up, it might be sold out and placed to better advantage. We may get it up to five hundred pounds.' * Do you mean, Mr. Bering, that I have actually got five hundred pounds a year — all my own ? ' ' That is certainly my meaning. You have nearly five hundred pounds a year all your own — entirely your own, without any conditions whatever — your own.' * Oh ! ' She sat in silence, her hands locked. Then the tears came into her eyes. * Oli, George 1 ' she murmured, * you will not be so very poor after all.' ' That is all I have to say to you at present, Elsie,' said Mr. Derin;7. ' Now you may run away and leave me. Come to dinner this evening. Your mother and your sister are coming. I shall ask Austin as well. We may perhaps remove some of those objections. Dinner at seven sharp, Elsie. — And now you can leave me.' SOMETHING MORE HAPPENS 8i up, may .five five own, jn the lured, •I said last night,' said Elsie, clasping her hands with feminine superstition, 'that something was goinsf to happen. But I thought it was Komethin*^ horrid. Oh, Mr. Dering, if you only knew how happy you have mado nie ! I don't know what to say. I feel stunncl. Five hundred pounds a year ! Oh! it is wouduifuil What shall I say? VV'liat shall I say?' •You will say nothing. Go away now. Come to dinTior this evening. — Go away, my youiisr heirless. Go and rnakc plans how to live on your enlarged income. It will not prove too much.' Elsie rose. Then she turned again. *0h, I had actually forgotten. Won't you tell the man— or tlio woman — wiio gave you that money for me, that I thank hiui Irom my very heart? It isn't that I think so niucii about money, but oh ! the dreadful trouble that there has b<'en at home because George has none -and this will do sonu^thinL,' to reconcile my mother. Don't you think it will make all the difference ? ' * I hope that before the evening you will find that all opposition has been removed,' said her guardian cautiously. She walked away in a dream. iShe found herself in Lincoln's Inn Fields : she walked all round that great square, also in a dream. The spectre of poverty had vanislied. She was rich : she was rich: she had five hurulit \ pounds a year. Between them they wdlild have seven hunrln-d pounds a year. It seemed enormous. Seven hundred pounds a year 1 Seven —seven — seven hundred pounds a year ! She got out into the street called Holborn, and she took the modest omnibus, this heiress of untold wealth. How much was it ? Thirteen millions ? or thirteen thousand ? One seemed as much as the other. Twelve thousand : with accumulations : with accumulations — ations — ations. The wheels of the vehicle groaned out these musical words all the way. It was in the morning when the Bayswater omnibus is full of girls going home to lunch after shopping or looking at the shops. Elsie looked at these girls as they sat along the narrow benches. * My dears,' she longed to say, but did not, * I hope you have every one got a brave lover, and that you have all got twelve thousand pounds apiece — with accumula- tions — twelve thousand pounds — with accumulations — ations — ations — realising four hundred and eighty pounds a year, a j^^^^^HHHHHHHH #. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 1.1 1.25 Its 111 12.5 |5o "^^ M^HI I 1^ 12.0 2.2 1.4 I j4 1.6 <^ % 7 cS w '> > ^4 fliotographic Sdences Corporation \ ^ ^v k ■^ C\ \ o^ ^^ <4^ 93 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14S80 (716) 872-4503 ■^.As i 82 THE IVORY GATS m.>: I li -til i' liii! and perhaps a little more. With accumulations — ations— ations — accumulations.' She ran into the house and up the stairs singing. At the sound of her voice her mother, engaged in calculations of the greatest difliculty, paused wondering. When she understood that it was the voice of her child and not an org an -grinder, she became angry. What right had the girl to run about singing ? Was it insolent bravado 1 Elsie opened the door of tiie drawing-room and ran in. Her mother's cold face repelled her. She was going to tell the joyful news — but she stopped. ' You have seen Mr. Dering ? ' asked her mother. * Yes ; I have seen him.' * If he has brought you to reason ' * Oh ! He has — he has. I am entirely reasonable.* Mrs. Arundel was astonished. The girl was flushed of face and bright of eye ; her breath was thick ; her lips were parted. She looked entirely happy. *My dear mother,' she went on, *I am to dine with him to-night. Hilda is to dine with him to-night. You are to dine with him to-night. It is to be a family party. He will bring us all to reason — to a bag full of reasons.* * Elsie, this seems to me to be mirth misplaced.' * No — no — in its right place — reasons all in a row and on three shelves, labelled and arranged and classified.* * You talk in enigmas.' * ' My dear mother ' — yet that morning the dear mother would not speak to the dear daughter — 'I talk in enigmas and I sing in conundrums. I feel like an oracle or a Delphic old woman for dark sayings.' She ran away, slamming the door after her. Her mother heard her singing in her studio all to herself. * Can she be in her rii,'ht mind ? ' she asked anxiously. * To marry a Pauper — to receive the admonition of her guardian — and such a guardian — and to come home singing. 'T would be better to lock her up than let her marry.' 83 jlphic lother be in pauper such a Iter to CHAPTER Vn SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS Mb. Debing lay back in his chair, gazing at the door — ^the unromantic office door — through which Elsie had just passed. I suppose that even the driest of old bachelors and lawyers may be touched by the sight of a youog girl made suddenly and unexpectedly happy. Perhaps the mere apparition of a lovely girl, dainty and delicate and sweet, daintily and deli- cately apparelled, so as to look like a goddess or a wood-nymph rather than a creature of clay, may have awakened old and long-forgotten thoughts before the instincts of youth were stifled by piles of parchment. It is the peculiar and undis- puted privilege of the historian to read thoughts, but it is not always necessary to write them down. He sat up and sighed. ' I have not told her all,' he mur- • aured. * She shall be happier still.' He touched his hand- bell. * Checkley,' he said, ' ask idr. Austin kindly to step chis way. — A day of surprise— of joyful surprise — for both.' It was indeed to be a day of good fortune, as you shall see. He opened a drawer and took out a document rolled and tied, which he laid upon the table before him. George obeyed the summons, not without misgiving, for Elsie, he knew, must by this time have had the dreaded inter- view, and the call might have some reference to his own share in the great contumacy. To incur the displeasure of his em- ployer in connection with that event might lead to serious consequences. Astonishing thing ! Mr. Dering received him with a countenance that seemed transformed. He smiled benevo- lently upon him. He- even laughed. He smiled when George opened the door : he laughed when, in obedience to a gesture of invitation, George took a chair. He actually laughed : not weakly or foolishly, but as a strong man laughs. * I want ten minutes with you, George Austin ' — ha actually used the Christian name — 'ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, or perhaps hall an hour*' He laughed again. * Now, • 9 THE IVORY GATE liSiii;;' ■ ijli :;r ! ' i " 'I- WM then* — his face assumed its usual judicial expression, but hia lips broke into unaccustomed smiles — ' Now then, sir, I have just seen my ward — my former ward, for she is now of age — and have heard— well — everything there was to hear.' 'I have no doubt, sir, that what you heard from Elsie ■was the exact truth.* ' I believe so. The questions which I put to her I al jo ?ut to you. How do you propose to live ? On your salary % !'ou have been engaged to my late ward without asking the permission of her guardians — that is, her mother and myself.' ' That is not quite the case. We found that her mother opposed the engagement, and therefore it ws not necessary to ask your permisiiion. We agreed to let the matter rest until she should be of age. Meanwhile, we openly corre- sponded and saw each other.' * It is a distinction without a difference. Perhaps what you would call a legal distinction. You now propose to marry. Elsie Arundel is no longer my ward ; but, as a friend, I venture to ask you how you propose to live % A wife and a house cost money. Shall you keep house and wife on your salary alone ? Have j'ou any other resources % ' There are several ways of putting these awkward questions. There is especially the way of accusation, by which you charge the guilty young man of being by his own fault one of a very large family — of having no money and no expectations — nothing at all, unless he can make it for himself. It is the manner generally adopted by parents and guardians. Mr. Dering, however, when he put the question smiled genially and rubbed his hands— a thing so unusual as to be terrifying in itself — as if he was uttering a joke — a thing he never had done in his life. The question, however, even when put in this, the kindest way, is one most awkward for any young man, and especially to a young man in either branch of the law, and most especially to a young man beginning the ascent of the lower branch. Consider, of all the professions, crowded as they are, there is none so crowded as this branch of the law. ' What,' asks anxious Quiverful Pfere, * shall I do with this boy of mine % I will spend a thousand pounds upon him and make him a solicitor. Once h''* has passed, the way is clear for him.^ '^oWj' asks the ambitipus man of trade;, VshaUI advance my SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS 85 son ? I will make him a lawyer ; once passed he will open an office and get a practice and become rich. He will be a gentleman. And his children will be born gentlemen.' Very good ; a most laudable custom it is in this realm of Great Britain for the young men still to be pressing upwards, though those who are already high up would fain forget the days of climbing and sneer at those who are making their way. But, applied to this profession, climbing seems no longer practicable. This way of advance will have to be abandoned. Consider, again. Every profession gets rich out of its own mine. There is the mine Ecclesiastic, the mine Medical, the mine Artistic, the mine Legal. The last-named contains leases, covenants, agreements, wills, bonds, mortgages, actions, part- nerships, transfers, conveyances, county courts, and other treasures, all to be had for the digging. But — and this is too often forgotten— there is only a limited quantity to be taken out of the mL«e every year, and there is not enough to go round, except in very minute portions. And since, until we become socialists at heart, we shall all of us continue to desire for our share that vhich is called the mess of Benjamin, and since all cannot get that mess — which Mr. Dering had enjoyed for the whole of his life — or anything like that desirable por- tion, most young solicitors go in great heaviness of spirit — hang their heads, corrugate their foreheads, write despairing letters to the girls they left behind them, and with grumbling gratitude take the hundred or two hundred a year which is ofliered for their services as managing clerks. Again, the Legal mine seems of late years not to yield anything like so much as formerly. There has been a cruel shrinkage all over the country, and especially in country towns : the boom of building seems to have come to an end : the agricultural de- pression has dragged down with it an immense number of people who formerly flourished with the lawyers, and, by means of their savings, investments, leases, and partnerships and quarrels, made many a solicitor fat and happy. That is all gone. It used \>o be easy, if one had a little money, to buy a partnership. Now it is no longer possible, or, at least, no longer easy. Nobody has a business greater than he himself can manage ; everybody has got a son coming in. These considerations show why the question was difficult to answer. Said ^eorge in reply, but with some confusion : ' We are S6 THE IVORY GATE r 1) Hi' i prepared to live on little. We are not in the least extravagant : Elsie will rough it. Besides, she has her Art * * Out of which she makes at present nothing a year.' * But she will get on — and I may hope, may reasonably hope, some time to make an income larger than my present one.' * You may hope — yo^i may hope. But the position is not hopeful. In fact, George Austin, you must marry on ten times your present income, or not at all.' ' But I assure you, sir, our ideas are truly modest, and we have made up our minds how we can live and pay our way.' * You think you have. That is to say, you have prepared a table of expenses showing how, with twopence to spare, you can live very well on two hundred pounds a year. Of course you put down nothing for the thousand and one little un- expected things which everybody of your education and habits pays for every day.* * We have provided as far as we can see.* * Well, it won't do. Of course, I can't forbid the girl to marry you. She is of age. I can't forbid you — but I can make it impossible — impossible for you. Master Austin — im- possible.' He rapped the table. The words were stern, but the voice was kindly, and he smiled again as he spoke. * You thought you would do without me, did you % Well —you shall see — you shall see.* George received this threat without words, but with a red face, and with rising indifjiiation. Still, when one is a servant, one must endure the reproofs of the master. He said nothing therefore, but waited. * I have considered for some time,' Mr. Bering continued, * how to meet this case in a satisfactory manner. At last, I made up my miud. And if you w ill read this document, young gentleni^n, you will find that I have made your foolish pro- posal to marry on love and nothing else quite impossible — quite impossible, sir.' He slapped the table with the paper, and tossed it over to George. George took the paper, and began to read it. Suddenly he jump^ out of his chair. He sprang to his feet * WholV lip cried. *Qo on — ^go on/ said Mr. Bering benevc^entiy. . SOMETHING ELS.: HAPPENS »7 •Partnership? Partnership?' George gasped. 'What does it mean ? ' * It is, as you say, a Deed of Partnership between myself and yourself. The conditions of the Partnership are duly set forth — I hope you will see your way to accapting them. — A Deed of Partnership. I do not know within a few hundreds what your share may be, but I believe you may reckon on at least two thousand for the first year, and more — much more — before long.* * More than a thousand ? ' *You have not road the deed through. Call yourself a lawyer ? Sit down, and read it word for word.* George obeyed, reading it as if it was a paper submitted to him for consideration, a paper belonging to some one else. * Well ? You have read it ? ' * Yes ; I have read it through. * Observe that the Partnership may be dissolved by Death Bankruptcy, or Mutual Consent. I receive two- thirds of the proceeds for life. That — alas ! — will not be for long. — Well, young man, do you accept this ofier ? * ' Accept ? Oh ! Accept ? What can I do ? What can I say — but apcept ? ' He walked to the window, and looked out ; I suppose he was admiring the trees in the square, which were certainly very beautiful in early July. Then he returned, his eyes humid. ' Aha ! ' Mr. Dering chuckled. * I told you that I would make it impossible for you to marry on two hundred pounds a year. I waited till Elsie's birthday. Well ? You will now be able to revise that little estimate of living on two hundred a year. Eh ? ' * Mr. Dering,' said George, with breaking voice, ' I cannot believe it ; I cannot understand it. I have not deserved it.* * Shake hands, my Partner.* The two men shook hands. 'Now sit down and let us talk a bit,' said Mr. Dering. *I am old. I am past seventy. I have tried to persuade myself that I am still as fit for work as ever. But I have had warnings. I now perceive that they must be taken as warnings. Sometimes it is r little confusion of memory — I am not able to account for little things — I forget what I did yesterday afternoon. I suppose all old men get these reminders of coming decay. It means that I must reduce work and S8 THE IVORY GATE responsibility. I mif.ht give up business altogether and retire: I have money enough and to spare : but this is the third generation of a successful House, and I could not bear to close the doors, and to think that the Firm would altogether vanish. So I thought I would take a partner, and I began to look about me. Well — in biief, I came to the conclusion that I should find no young man better qualified than yourself for ability and for power of work and for all the qualities neces- sary for the successful conduct of such a House as this. Especially I considered the essential of good manners. I was early taught by my father that tho greatest aid to success is good breeding. I trust that in this respect I have done justice to the teaching of one who was the most courtly of his time. You belong to an age of less ceremony and less respect to rank. But we are not always in a barrack or in a club. We are not all comrades or equals. There are those below to consider as well as those above. There are women : there are old men : you, my partner, have shown me that you can give to each the consideration, the deference, the recognition that he deserves. True breeding is the recognition of the in- dividual. You are careful of the small things which smooth the asperities of business. In no profession, not even that of medicine, is a good manner more useful than in ours. And this you possess. — It also pleases me,' he added after a pau«ie, *to think that in making you my partner I am also pro- moting the happiness of a young lady I have known all her life.* George murmured something. He looked more like a guilty schoolboy than a man just raised to a position most enviable. His che( ks were flushed and his hands trembled. Mr. Deriiig touched his bell. * Checkley,' he snid, when that faithful retainer appeared, *I have already told you of my intention to take a partner. This is my new partner.* Checkley changed colour. His old eyes — or was George wrong ? — flashed with a light of malignity as he raised them. It made him feel uncomfortable — but only for a moment. ' My partner, Checkley,' repeated Mr. Bering. *0h!* His voice was dry and grating. * Since we couldn't go on as before Well, I hope you won't repent it.' 'You shall witness the signing of the deed, Checkley. SOMETHING ELSE HAPPENS 89 Call in a clerk. So — there we have it, drawn, signed, and witnessed. Once more, my partner, shake hands.' Elsie retired to her own room after the snub administered to her rising spirits. She soon began to sing again, being much toe happy to be aflected by anything so small. She went on with her portrait, preserving some, but not all, of the softness and benevolence which she had put into it, and thereby producing what is allowed to be an excellent portrait, but somewhat flattering. She herself knows very well that it is not flattering at all, but even lower than the truth, only the other people have never seen the lawyer in an expansive moment. Now while she was thus engaged, her mind going back every other minute to her newly-acquired inheritance, a cab drove up to the house — the door flew open, and her lover — her George — flew into her arms. * You here — George ? Actually in the house ? Oh ! but you know ' *I know -1 know. But I could not possibly wait till this evening. My dear child, the most wonderful — the most won- derful thing- the most extraordinary thing — in the whole world has happened — a thing we could never hope and nev^r ask ' ' Mr. Dering has told you, then % * ' What ? Do you know 1 ' ' Mr. Dering told n?e this morning. — Oh, George I isn't it wonderful ? * * Wonderful 1 It is like the last chapter of a novel ! * This he said spef-king as a fool, because the only last chapter in life is that in which Azrael crosses the threshold. *0h, George! — I have been walking in the air — I have been flying — I have been singing and dancing. I feel as if 1 had never before known what it was to be happy. Mr. Dering said something about having it settled — mind — it's all yours, George — yours as well as mine.' ' Yes,' said George, a little puzzled. * I suppose in the eyes of the law it is mine, but then it is yours as , well. All that is mine is yours. * Oh ! Mr. Dering said it was mine in the eyes of the laSv. What does it matter, George, what the stupid old law myaV 90 THE IVORY GATE |M m * Nothing, my dear — nothing at all.' * It will be worth five hundred pounds a year very nearly. That, with your two hundred pounds a year, will make us actually comfortable after all our anxieties/ * Five hundred a year ? It will be worth four times that, i hope.* * Four times ? Oh, no ! — that is impossible. But Mr. Bering told me that he could hardly get so much as four per cent., and I have made a sum and worked it out. Rule for simple interest : multiply the principal by the rate per cent., and again by the time, and divide by a hundred. It is quite simple. And what makes the sum simpler, you need only take one year.' 'What principal, Elsie, by what interest?" You are run- ning your little head against rules of arithmetic. Here there is no principal and no interest. It is a case of proceeds, and then division.' * We will call it proceeds, if you like, George, but ho called it interest. Anyhow, it comes to five hundred a year, very nearly ; and with your two hundred * *I don't know what you mean by your five hundred a year. As for my two hundred, unless I am very much mis- taken, that will very soon be two thousand.' ' Your two hundred will become % George, we are talking across each other.' * Yes. What money of yours do you mean ? * *I mean the twelve thousand pounds that Mr. Bering holds for me — with accumulations — accumulations' — she began to sing the rhyme of the omnibus wheels — 'accumu- lations — ations— ations.' * Twelve thousand pounds % Is this fairyland % Twelve thousand ? I reel — I faint — I sink — I melt away. Take my hands — both my hands, Elsie — kiss me kindly — it's better than brandy — kindly kiss me. Twelve thousand pounds 1 with accumulations ' ' — ations — ations — ations,' she sung. 'Never before, George, have I understood the loveliness sgid the power of money. They were given to Mr. Bering by an anonymous person to be held for me — secretly. No one Imows — not even, yet, my mother.' 'Oh ! It is altogether too much — too much : once there was a poor but loving couple, and Fortune turned her wheel, SOMETHhXG ELSE HAPPENS 91 and You don't know — you most unsuspecting ignorant Thing — you can't guess — Oh, Elsie, I am a partner — Mr. Bering's partner ! They caught hands again — then they let go — then they sat down, and gazed upon each other. * Elsie,' said George. ' George,' said Elsie. * We can now marry like everybody else — but much better. We shall have furniture now.' ' Ail the furniture we shall want, and a house where we please. No contriving now — no pinching.' * No self-denying for each other, my dear.' ' That's a pity, isn't it % — But, George, don't repine. The advantages may counterbalance the drawbacks. I think I see the cottage where we were going to live. It is in Islington : or near it — Barnsbury, perhaps : there is a little garden in front, and one at the back. There is always washing hung out to dry. I don't like the smell of suds. For dinner, one has cold Australian tinned meat for economy, not for choice. The rooms are very small, and the furniture is shabby, because it was cheap and bad to begin with. And when you come home — oh, George ! ' — she stuck her forefinger in her chalk, and drew cwo or three lines on his face — 'you look like that, so discontented, so grumpy, so gloomy. Oh, my dear, the ad- vantages — they do so greatly outbalance the drawbacks ; and George — ^you will love your wife all the more — I am sure you will — because she can always dress properly Mid look nice, and give you a dinner that will help to rest you from the work of the day.' Once more this foolish couple fell into each other^s arms and kissed again with tears and smiles and laughter. 'Who,' asked ^rs. Arundel, ringing the bell upstairs, * who is with Miss Elsie below ? ' On hearing that it was Mr. George Austin, whose presence in the house was forbidden, Mrs. Arundel rose solemnly and awfully, and walked down the stairs. She had a clear duty before her. When she threw open the door, the lovers were hand in hand dancing round the room laughing — but the tears were running down Elsie's cheeks. V£)lsie,' said her mother, standing at the open door, 'per- haps you can explain this.' ' Permit me to explain,' said George. 92 THE JVORY GATE \h 111 .11 " W'li ' This j^entleman, Elsie, has been forbidden the house.' * One moment,' he began. *Go, sir.* She pointed majestically to the wi'^dow. ' Oh ! ' cried Elsie. * Tell her, George - tell her ; I cannot.' She fell to laughing and crying together, but still held her lover by the hand. *I will have no communication whatever with one who robs me of a daughter,' said this Roman matron. * Will you once more leave the house, sir ? ' ' Mother — you mit.s< hear him.' * Nothing,' said Mrs. Arundel, * will ever induce me to speak to him — nothing.' * Mother, don't be silly,' Elsie cried ; * you don't know what has happened. You itmisi not say such things. You will only be sorry for them afterwards.' * Never — never. One may forgive such a man, but one can never speak to him, never— whatever happens — never.' The lady looked almost heroic as she waved her right hand in the direction of the man. * I will go,' said George, * but not till you have heard me. I am rich — Elsie is rich — we shall not marry into poverty. The whole situation is entirely changed.' * Changed,' Elsie repeated, taking George's arm. • • • ■ • • • * My dear George,* said Mrs. Arundel, when she had heard the whole story — and by cross examination persuaded herself that it was true — 'you know on what a just basis my objec- tions were founded. Otherwise, I should have been delighted at the outset. — Kiss me, Elsie. — You have my full consent, children. These remarkable events are Providential. — On Mr. Dering's death or retirement, you will step into an enor- mous practice. Follow his example. Take no partner till old age compels you. Keep all the profits for yourself — all. — My dear George, you should be a very happy man. Not so rich, perhaps, as my son-in-law, Sir Samuel, but above the ordinary run of common happiness. As for the past We will now go down to lunch. — There is the belL These emotions are fatiguing.' CHAPTER VIII IN HONOUR OP THE EVENT May one dwoll upon so simple a thing as a small family dinner- party ? It is j^enerally un«lriiniatic and uneventful : it is not generally marked even by a new dish or a bottle of rare wine. Yet there lingers in the mind of every man the recollection of pleasant dinners. I should like to write a Book of Dinners — not a hook for the (jourmat, but a book of memories. It might ])e a most delightful volume. There would be in it the school- boys' dinner. I remeinlvjr a certain dinner at eighteenpence a head, at Richmond, before we had the row in the boat, when we quarrelled and broke the oars over each other's heads, and very nearly capsized : a certain undergraduates' dinner, in which four men — three of whom are now ghosts — joined : the Ramblers' dinner, of lamb chops and bottled ale and mirtli and merriment : Mie two-by-two dinner in the private room, a dainty dinner of sweet lamb, sweet bread, sweet peas, sweet looks, sweet Moselle, and sweet words. Is it really true that one never— never - gets young again ? Some people do, I am sure, but they are under promise to say nothing about it. I shall — and then that dinner may perhaps — one cannot say — one never knows and I su{)pose — if one was young again — that they would be found just as pretty as they ever were. There is the official dinner, stately and cold : the city dinner, which generally comes to a man when his digestion is no longer what it was r the family dinner, in which the intellect plays so small a part, because no one wastes his tine things on his brothers and sisters : the dinner at which one has to make a speech. Indeed, this Book of Dinners promises to be a most charming volume. I should attempt it, however, with trem- bling, because, to do it really well, one should be, first of all, a scholar, if only to appreciate things said and spoken, and in order to connect the illustrious past with food and drink. Next, he ought to be still young : he certiinly must have a proper feeling for wine, and must certainly understand when and why one should be grateful to good Master Cook : he should be a past or present master in the Art of Love and a iquire of Dames : he should be good at conversation : he must, f 94 TJfK /tV/y'V GATE '?■- »M tho old ImiKUiino, bn % yn^vn\\\\i\t\^r of naoohua, VmniK, nio^buN Apollo, tiio MimoN oiiio uiui ilin Otiuv'n Miroo. Ho iiiUNt bt\ no poor woaklin^, uniibh^ to oiijoy tho good oroaturoH of (IohI), fowl, tinb, ntul wiiio : uo boor : aiul no log inHfMmibio to lovolinrNH. Dinner, whirh nIiouUI \w i» aolonro, lian long boon iroa(r«l lun ono of tho rino Artn. Now ovory Kino Art, as wo ait know, liaM its faMliionu and itH rapriron. TIhiho who aro old oniMigh to ronioinl»or tho diiUHTM of twon(.y, thirty, or forty yoarM ago ran rontonil>or many of iXnnv fashionn and capricoH. In tho Thirties, for inHtanoo, ovory tliinj< waM oarvod upon tho t*iblo. ltronuii(»d a man with n. Htrong wriut togivo adinnor party. l'\»r(nnt«toly, a dinnor (Jion oonHistod of fow dislicH. rh«. Their faeoH wore IIumIkhI, thoir Hhouldors wore inoliixMl to Inreh, and their Hpiuvii was tho loaut bit thiok. Wonderful to relate, brandy and water UHod to bo Borvod to thoH(» topiTH in the drawing room it.Holf. Mr. holing had altered little in hin dintjor cuMtoinn. Thoy •novstly b(»l«)ivii;ed to the Sixties, with a Hurviv/il of Homo bohtng ing to the Thirties. ThijigH w*m'o earved upon tho Hidoboaru : this was in (h»ferenco to modern eustom : ehampagno formed au intoijral part of the moal : but tho dinnor itself was fiolid : tho olot h after dinnor was renjoviHl, leaving tho dark poliHhed mahogany aft<»r the «>Ul fashion : tho furniture of tho room wjwj also in tho old style : i\w ohairs woro heavy and solid : the walls W( re hung with a dark erimson paper of volvoty texture: the eurt.ains and tho oarpots woro rod: there were pictures of game and fruit : the sideboard vas as solid as the table. (^luH'kley the clerk, who was invited as a faithful servant of the House, to the celebration t)f tho new partnership, was the tirst to arrive. Dressed in a hired suit, he looked like an undertaker's assistant : tho gloom upon his face heightened the resemblance. Why the j)artnership caused this appear- ance of gloom, I knpw not. Certainly, he could never expect to be made a partner himself. It was perhaps a species of jealousy which tilled his soul. He would no longer know so much of the businesi. ill W HONOUR OF THE EVENT 95 waH Ouor^o oafri« with the Mothor-inlaw Eloot andl WxT^fiwnah, Forgiviin»i«H, INmi,<'«, Afnni»«f.y, and (^Imrit.y iiafc all togothor upon ilio hrow of ilio oldnr l/wly. Hho wa« magriifiroiit, in a (lark criiiiHoii vdvot, and hIio Ii/mI a g(;(>d dt'/ii of gold about her arnm and nook. JowiMh ladioH aro Maid to mIiow, by tho niiiKiiificotioo of iiioir atf,in% ilio proMpority of tho biiHii'iOHH. Why not ? It iw a form of onjoying MiKMwiHM, Thorn aro rr 'iny forms : ono man l»iiy« hoolvM : lot him buy lior»k«, Anothor (MiJlootM pi«rturoM. Why i.ot? Ono womnri woarn (triniNon volvot. Why not 'il Iri thiw way hIio onjoyH hor woalth and proclaiioM it. A^^aifi, why not '\ It Hoonm to tho philoMophnr a f'ind and vtiin thing to dock tho pornon at all timon, and oHpooially fond whon tho porHon in middio agod and no longor b(Mi.iitiful. Wo aro fiot all philoMophorn. Tlioro aro many middlo-agod mon who aro oxJronioly happy to put on thoir uniform and their niodalK and thoir glittoring holmotfl. Mrn. Arundol woro hor volvot aw if Hho c(;n,Hion. llor daughtor, \m\y l)oring, camfl aif;n iirrayod in a (pioonly droHH of amhor Hilk with an aigrott/O of f«iM,thorH in hor h/iir. To bo Huro, hIio waH going on uome- whoro aftor tho dinnor. IClHio, for hor part, oanio in a croamy whito almoHt liko a brido : but Mho lookod mu(!h happior than most bridoH. llilda'n hunband, Hir Hamuol, who wan Homo «ix or Hovon y(MrH youngor than hig brr»thor, wan in appearance a typical fnan of w(wilth. Tho rich man can no longor, aM in tlio days of good old Hir ThomaH (ironham, illu»trato his richoH by coHtly furs, ombroidored doublotH, and hoavy chains, rio has to woar broadcjloth and black. Yot thore is an air, a carriago, wliicih VnOongs to the rich man. In app<;aranre. Sir Samuol was t»ill, liko his brother, but not thin like him : he was corpulent : his face was red : he was balrl, and he wore large whii^ikers, dyod black. The late dissensions were com- pletely forgotten. Hilda embraced her sister fondly. *My dear,' she whiMpon-d, ' we have heard all. Everything — every- thing is changfMl by these fortunate events. They do you the Greatest cr*idit. — George' — she took his hand and held it ten- orly — ' I cannot tell you how happy this news has made us all. You will be rich in the course of yean. Sir Samuel wm only saying, as we oaroe along * ' I WM saying, young gentleman,' thd Knight intemipf«i. THE IVORY GATE t»l )i * that the most beautiful thing about money is the way it de- velops character. We do not ask for many virtues — only honesty and diligence — from the poor. When a man acquires wealth we look for his better qualities.' 'Yes, indeed,' Hilda murmured. 'His better qualities begin to show. — Elsie, dear, that is a very pretty frock. I don't think I have seen it before. How do you like my dress V George accepted this sudden turn in opinion with smiles. He laughed at it afterwards. For the moment it made him feel almost as if he was being rewarded for some virtuous action. Dinner was announced at seven — such were the old- fashioned manners of this old gentleman. He led in Mrs. Arundel, and placed Elsie on his left. At first, the dinner promised to be a silent feast. The two lovers were not dis- posed to talk much — they had not yet recovered from the overwhelming and astonishing events of the oay. Sir Samuel never talked at the beginning of dinner — besides, there was turtle soup and red mullet and whitebaio — it is sinful to divert your attention from these good creatures. His wife never talked at dinner or at any other time more than she could help. Your statuesque beauty seldom does. Talking much involves smiling and even laughing, which distorts the face. A woman must encourage men to talk : this she can do with- out saying much herself. Presently Mr. Bering roused himself and began to talk, with a visible efibrt, first to Mrs. Arundel of things casual : then to Elsie : and \h< n to his bi other, but always with an effort, as if he was thinking of other things. And a con- straint fell upon the party. When the cloth was removed and the wine and fruit placed upon the dark and lustrous board, he filled a glass and made a kind little speech. ' My Partner,' he said, ' I drink to you. May your con- nection with the House Vie prosperous ! It is a very great good fortune for me to have found such a Partner. — Elsie, I join you with my Partner. I wish you both every happiness.' He drained the bumper and sent round the decanters. Then Jie began to talk, and his discourse was most strange. 'Had it be n,' said his brother afterwards, ' the idle fancies of some crack Drained writing fellow, I could have understood it ; but from him— from a steady old solicitor— a man wlio has /A HONOUR OF THE EVENT 97 fruit Lss and never countenanced uny kind of nonsense— to be sure he said it was only an illusion. I hope it isn't a softening. Who ever heard of such a man as that having dreams and illusions ? ' Certainly no one had ever before heard Mr. Dering talk in this new manner. As a rule, he was silent and grave even at the head of his own table. He spoke little and tlum gravely. To-night his talk as well as his face was changed. Who would have thought that Mr. Dering should confess to illusions, and should relate dreams, and should be visited by such dreams ? Remember that the speaker was seventy- five years of age, and that he had never before been known so much as to speak of benevolence. Then you will understand something of the bewilderment which fell upon the whole company. Ele began by raising his head and smiling with a strange and new benignity — but Elsie thought of her portrait. * We are all one family here,' he said ; 'and I may talk. I want to tell you of a very remarkable thing that has recently happened to me. It has been growing, T now perceive, for some years. But it now holds me strongly, and it is one reason why I am anxious to have the affairs of the House in the hands of a younger man. For it may be a sign of the end. At seventy-five anything uncommon may be a sign.' * Y'ou look well, Mr. Dering, and as strong as most men of sixty,' said Mrs. Arundel. ' Perhaps. I feel well and strong. The fact is that I am troubled -or pleased — or possessed — by an Illusion.* * You with an Illusion ? * said his brother. * I myself. An Illusion possesses me. It whispers me from time to time that my life is whi*lly spent in promoting the happiness of other people.' ' Well,' said his brother, * since you are a first-class solicitor, and manage the affairs of many pficple very much to their advantage, you certainly do promote their happiness.' *Yes, yes — I suppose so. My Illusion further is that it is done outside my business — without any bill afterwards ' — Checkley looked up with eyes wide open — *I am made to believe that I am working and living for the good of others. A curious Illusion, is it not 7 ' The City man shook his head. *That any roan can possibly live for the good of others is, I take it, always and under all circumstances an Illusion. In the present state of society — and a very admirable state it is ' — he rolled his bald u 98 TJI/i IVORY GATE head as he spoke and his voice had a rich roll in it — * a man's first duty — his second duty — his third duty -his hundredth duty — is to liimself. In the City it is Jiis business to amass wealth- to roll it up — roll it up ' — he expressed tlie words with feeling — ' to invest it profitably — to watch it, and to nurse it as it fructifies —fructifies. Afterwards, when he is rich enough, if ever a man can be rich enough, he may exercise as much charity as he pleases — as he pleases. Charity seems to please some people as a glass of fine wine' — he illustrated the com- parison — * pleases the palate— pleases tlie palate.' The lawyer listened politely and inclined his head. * There is at least some method in my Illusion,' he went on. •You mentioned it. The solicitor is always occupied with the conduct of other people's affairs. That must be admitted. He is always engaged in considering how best to guide his fellow-man through the labyrinthine world. He receives his fellow-man at his entrance into the world, UvS a ward : he receives him grown up, as a client : he advises him all his life at every step and in every emergency. If the client goes into partnership, or marries, or buys a house, or builds one, or gets into trouble, the solicitor assists and advises him. When the client grows old, the solicitoi* makes his will. When the client dies, the solicitor bcicomes his executor and his trustee, and administers his estate for him. It is thus a life, as I said, entirely spent for other people. I know not of any other, unless it be of medicine, that so much can be said. And think what terrors, what anxieties, what disappc ointments, the solicitor witnesses and alleviates ! Think of the family scandals he hushes up and keeps secret ! Good heavens ! if a solicitor in large practice were to tell what he knows, think of the terrible disclosures ! He knows everything. He knows more than a Roman Catlw)lic priest, because his penitents not only reveal their own sins but also those of their wives and sons and friends and partners. And anxiety, I may tell you, makes a man better at confessing than penitence. Sometimes we bring actions at law and issue writs and so forth. Well now : this part of our business, which is disagreeable to us, is actually the most beneficent of any. Because, by means of the cases brought before the High Court of Justice, we remind the world that it must be law abiding as well as law worthy. The Law, in order to win jespect, must firr.t \\in ^.q-xv. Force c^mes before order. The memory of force must be kept up. IN HONOUR OF THE EVENT 99 The presence of force must be felt. For instance, I have a libel case just begun. It is rather a bad libel. My libeller will suffer : he will bleed : but he will bleed for the public good, because thousands who are only anxious to libel and slander, to calumniate and defame their neighbours, will be deterred. Oh ! it will be a ir?st beneficent case — ^^far- reaching — striking terror into the het. %^ of ill-doers. — Well — this, my friends, is my Illusion. It is, I suppose, one of the many Illusions with which we cheat old age and rob it of its terrors. To everybody else I am a hard-fisted lawyer, exacting his pound of tiesh from the unfortunate debtor, and making myself rich at the expense of the creditor.' * Nonsense about how a man gets rich,' said the man of business. * He can only get rich if he is capable. Quite right. Let the weak go under. Let the careless and the lazy starve.' *At the same time,' said Elsie softly, 'it is not all illusion. There are others besides the careless and the lazy ' * Sometimes/ the old lawyer went on, ' this Illusion of mine — oh ! I know it is only Illusion — takes the form of a dream — so vivid that it comes back to me afterwards as a reality. Ill this dream, which is always the same, I seem to have been engaged in some great scheme of practical benevo- lence.' * Practical What ? You engaged in Practical Benevo- lence ? ' the City man asked in profound astonishment. The Illusion was astonishing enough ; but to have his brother talk of practical benevolence was amazing indeed. * Practical benevolence,' repeated Mr. Bering. His voice dropped. His eyes looked out into space : he seemed as one who narrates a story. < It is a curiously persistent dream. It comes at irregular intervals ; it pleases me while it lasts. — Oh ! in the evening after dinner, while one takes a nap in the easy chair, perhaps— it is, as I said, quite vivid. The action of this dream always takes place in the same room — a large room, plainly furnished, and looking out upon an open space — I should know it if I saw it — and it fills me with pleasure — in my 4i^a.m — ^.just to feel that I am — there is no other word for it—diffusing happiness. How I manage this diffusion, I can never remember ; but there it is — good solid happiness, such M, in waking moments^ one feels to be impossible.' bS loo THE rVORY GATE * Diffusing happiness — you ! ' said his brother. ' A very beautiful dream/ said Elsie. But no one dared to look in each other's face. 'This strange dream of mine/ continued Mr. Dering, 'does not form part of that little Illusion, though it seems connected with it. And as I said, mostly it comes in the evening. The other day, however, I had it in the afternoon — went to sleep in my office, I supposo. — Did you lind me asleep, Checkley % It was on Friday.' * No. On Friday afternoon you went out.* ' Ah ! When I came back, then — I had forgotten that I went out. Did I go out % Strange ! Never mind. This continuous dream opens up a world of new ideas and things which are, I perceive, when I am awake, quite unreal and illusory. Yet they please. I see myself, as I said, diffusing happiness with open hands. The world which is thus made happier consists entirely of poor people. 1 move among them, unseen : I listen to them : I see what they do, and I hear what they say. Mind -all this is as real and true to me as if it actually happened. And it fills me with admiration of the blessed state of poverty. In my dream I pity the rich, with all my heart. To get rich, I think — in this dream — they must have practised so many decepti "-'^.s ' ■'^ * Brother ! brother ! ' Sir Samuel held up both hands. *In my dream -only in my dream. Those who inherit riches are burdened with the weight of their wealth, which will not suffer them to enter into the arena ; will not allow them to develop and to exercise their talents, and afflicts them with the mental and bodily diseases that belong to indolence. The poor, on the other hand, who live from day to day, some- times out of work for weeks together, practise easily the simple virtues of brotherly love, charity, and mutual helpfulness. They have learned to combine for the good of all rather than to fight, one against another, for selfish gain. It is the . .ily world where all are borrowing and lending, giving and helping.' ' Brother, this dream of yours is like a socialistic tract.* 'It may be. Yet you see how strongly it takes hold of me, that while I see the absurdity of the whole thing, it is( not unpleasing to recall the recollection of it. Well — I do not know what set me talking about this dream.* The smiles left his face : he became grave again : he ceased IN HONOUR OF THE EVENT lof to talk : for the rest of the evening he was once more the old solicitor, weighed down with the affairs of other people. 'Checkley' — it wnn en the doorstep, and yfr Samuel waited while his wife said a few fond things to her sister — ' what the devil came over my brother to night 1 * * I don't know indeed, Sir Samuel. I never heard him talk like that before. Doin' good to 'era ? Servin* a writ upon 'em is more our line. I think he must be upset somewhere in his inside, and it's gone to his head.' ' Practical benevolence ! Living for other people I Have you l|<;ard hiui complain of anything ? ' 'No, Sir Samuel. He never complains. Eats hearty, walks upright and stnmg, works like he always has worked. — Doin' good ! And the blessedness of being pore ! Seems most wonderful. Blessedness of being pore ! Well, Sir Samuel, I've enjoyed that blessedness myself, and I know what it's like. Any or'nary preachin' chap might talk that nonsense ; but for your eminent brother. Sir Samuel, such a lawyer as him— to be talking such stufl' ?f I may humbly so speak of my learned master's words —it is — Sir Samuel — it really is amazijig ! ' 'He said it was a dream, remember. But I agree with you, Checkley. — It is amazing.' ' Humph ! The blessedness of being pore ! And over such a glass of port, too ! I thought I should ha' roll^} off my chair — I did, indeed. — Here's your good lady, Sir Samuel.' * Elsie,' said Mrs. Arundel in the carriage, * I think it was that Mr. Bering should take a partner. He to dream of practical benevolence ! He to be diffusing happiness with open hands! Oh! most lamentable— T call it. How- high time ever, the deeds are signed, and we are all right. In case of anything liappening, it is a comfort to think that George's position would be only improved.' I02 THE IVORY GATE CHAPTER IX AT THE GATES OF PARADISE Mant women have advanced the doctrine that the happiest time of life is that of their engagement. Of course no man can possibly understand this theory ; but from a woman's point of view it can be defended, because it is for some girls the most delightful thing in the world to be wooed f and until the church service is actually said and the ring is on the finger, the bride is Queen and Mistress ; afterwards — not always. But the happiness of it depends upon its being a courtship without obstacles. Now, in the case of the young couple whose fortunes we are following, there was plenty of love with excellent wooing ; but the engagement had been opposed by the whole tribe of Arundels, so that every time she met her lover it was in open rebellion against her mother. To go home from a walk with him only to find the silence of resentment at home was not pleasant. Again, we have seen how they were looking forward to a life of poverty — even of privation. Dame Penury with her pinching ways and shrewish tongue was going to be their constant lodger. Then the ij^ung man could not choose but ask himself whether he was not a selfish beast to take a girl out of plenty into privation. And the girl could not choose but ask herself whether she was not selfish in laying this great burden upon the back of her lover. No one can be indifferent to such a prospect : no one can contemplate with pleasure the cheeseparings, the savings, the management of such a life: no one can like having to make a penny do the work of sixpence : no one can rejoice as one steps down, down, down the social ladder : no one can anticipate with satisfaction the loss of gentlehood for the daughters, and the loss of an adequate education for the sons. * You will make me happy,' said the lover, * at the cost of everything that makes life happy for yourself.' ' If I make you happy,' said the girl, ' I ask for nothing more. But oh ! I am laying a heavy burden upon you. Can you bear it? Will you never blame me if the burden is greater than you can bear V AT THE GATES OF PARADISE loj And now all the trouble vanislied like a cloud from the morning sky — vanished so completely that there was not a trace of it left anywhere. The accusing figure of her mother was changed into a smiling face of pleased and satisfied maternity : reproachos w< re turned into words of endearment, angry looks to presents and caresses. And as for her sister, you might have thought that all this grxxl fortune was actually achieved and conquered by Elsie otherwise, how could one justify the praise and flattery that Hilda now lavished upon her? She gave a great dinner as a kind of official reception of the bridegroom into the family ; she also gave a dance, at which she herself was th^ most beautiful woman — she stood in a conspicuous place Jl the evening, magnificently dressed, statuesque, wonderful : and Elsie was the prettiest girl at the party ; but between the most beautiful woman and the prettiest girl was a did* renoe ! Tiiere is nothing like good fortune to bring out a girl's good qualities : Elsie had always had friends, now she mi-ht liiive numbered them by hundreds. Good fortune breeds friends as the sunshine creates the flowers. She was congratulated, caressed, and flattered enough to turn her head. Now, girls are so constituted that they Jove admiration, which is a kind of affection, evtn when it takes the form of flattery : and their heads may be easily turned ; but they are as easily turned back again. A;r.d the house — the widow's house - which for so many years had been bo dull and quiet a place, was transformed into a place of entertainment. It only wanted coloured lamps to make it another Vauxhall : it was crowded every night with the younger friends of bride and bridegroom. George had many friends. He was gregarious by nature : he was a rowing man on the athletic side : he had a healthy love and a light hand for things like billiards, shooting, and fishing : they are tastea which assist in the creation of friendships. ^ These friends — young fellows of like mind— came to the house in multitudes to rally round the man about to desert their ranks. Young men are forgiving: George would row no more among them : he would be lost to the biiiiaid table, and to the club itself : yet they forgave him, and accepted his invitation and went to see the bride. They found her with the friends of her own age. Heayetns ! how the daring of one man in talking away a maiden from- the band encourages dbbers 1 There are hp^. lyv^ stories at least, all rising out of I04 THE IVORY GATE these evenings, and all of surpassing interest, had one the time to .write them. They are both grave and gay : there are tears in every one : the course of true love in no case ran smooth except in ^he Story of the Two Stupids. Love's enemies can never eflect aught against a Stupid, and so these two Stupiils becaine engaged without opposition, and were married with acclamations ; but they are too Stupid — perhaps — to know their own happiness. All this wont on for three weeks. It was arranged that the happy pair should be married in the middle of August : they had resolved to spend their honeymoon in France, stay- ing a few days in Paris, and then going on to see the towns" and the country along the Loire, with the old city of Tours for their centre. They proposed to live entirely upon fruit and wine and kisses. No place in the world like Touraine for those who are so young, and so much in love, and so per- fectly satisfied with so simple a diet. Even for those who take a cutlet with the fruit and the wine, there is no place equal to Touraine. Meantime, against the home-coming, a desirable flat was secured, not one of your little economical flats, all drawing-room with two or three rabbit-hutches for bedrooms, but a large and highly decorated flat with all the newest appliances, large rooms, and a lift and plenty of space for the dinner-parties and receptions which Elsie would have to give. The servants were engaged. The furniture was ordered, all in the advanced taste of the day — carpets, curtains, pictures, overmantels, cabinets, screens. Elsie went every day to her new home and found something omitted, and sat down in it to wonder what it would be like — this new life she was entering upon. Oh ! it was a busy time. — Then there was her trousseau — everybody knows the amount of thought and care required for a trousseau : this was approaching com- pletion — everybody knows the happiness, peculiar, and unlike any other kind of ha{)piness, with which a girl contemplates a heap of * things,' all her own. I suppose that it is only at her wedding that she can enjoy this happiness, for afterwards, the * things ' are not her own, but the things of the family. The bride's dress, another thing of supreme importance, had been tried on, though as yet it was very, very far from being finished. The bridesmaids, two of George's sisters, had also ^already tried on their dresses. They came every day, two yery sweet girls, who , have, l;)pth to dp with those ilix 16Vi» AT Tim GATES OF PAI^ADTSE 10$ a was Htories which will never, I fear, be told, to talk over the events and to see the presents. These came in daily, and were laid out in a room by themselves, looking vory splendid : their splendour proved the wealth and the position of the pair, because rich presents are only given to rich people. In a word, everybody was heartily, loyally sympathetic, as if to make up fur the previous harshness and coldness. For four weeks this happiness lasted ! It was on Monday, June 29, that the golden shower descended upon them : it was on Monday, July 20, that the rain of gold ceased, and another kind of cloud came up which speedily changed into a driving stcrm of rain and sleet and hail and ice and snow. Look at them on Sunday. Before the storm there is generally a brief time of sunshine, *Varm and tine : aft«r the storm, the calm that follows is a time of dismay, speechless and tearless. Sunday was the day before the storm : it was a day of sunshine without and within. The lovers spent the whole day together, hand in hand. They went to church to- gether : they sat side by side, they warbled off the same hymn book. The service proved, as the preacher used to say, a season of refreshment, for never doth religion so uplift the soul as when it is entirely happy : the voices of the choir chanting the psalms filled them with joy, and would have done so even if they had been penitential minors, and the lamentatioii of a- sinner. Their hearts rose higher and higher as the preacher exhorted, and would have flown upwards just as much whether he had brandished the terrors of the law or held out tl^e gracious promise of the Gospel. For you see, at such a time as this, whatever was said or done only led this faithful pair farther and deeper into the shady glades and fragrant lawns and flowery dells of Love's Paradise. Every church, at every service, and especially in the even- ing, contains many such lovers. You may know them by certain infallible signs. They sit very close together : th^iy sing off the same book : their faces betray by the rigidity of their attitude, which is that of pretended attention, the far- away expression of their eyes, and the absence of any ex- ternal sign of emotion or sympathy with the preacher, that their h&nds, beneath some folds of the feminine gabardine, are closely clasped. It has sometimes pleased the philosopher and relieved the tedium of a dull sermon to look round the congregation and to pick out the lovers — ^here a pair and there lo6 THE IVORY GATE ■■■ i; S I r' a pair. Even in the church, you sue, Love is conqueror and king. These lovers, therefore, went to church in a frame of mind truly heavenly : nobody in the whole congregation felt more deeply pious : every response was an Act of Praise : every prayer an Act of Gratitude : every hymn a pftrsoiial Thank- offering. But beneath those seemingly calm faces was flying and rushing a whirlwind of hopes, memories, plans, projects, and gratitudes. He who looks back upon the days imme- diately before his wedding-day — most men no more remember their own emotions than a child remenibers yesterday's ear- ache — will wonder how he lived through that time of change, when all that he prayed for was granted, but on the condition of a turning upside down«f all his habits, customs, and petted ways. All round them sat the people, no doubt with minds wholly attuned to the service of Prayer and Praise. Well, the sheep in a flock to/ outward seeming are all alike, yet every animal has his own desires and small ambitions for him- self. So I suppose with the congregation. As every man shuts the street door behind him and trudges along the way to church — the Via Sacra — with wife and children, he carries in his waistcoat pocket, close to his heart, a little packet of busi- .ness cares to think upon during the sermon. And if all the thoughts of all the people could be collected after the sermon instead o^ the offertory, they would make a salutary oblation indeed. 'George,' said Elsie, as they came out, 'let us go into the Gardens and sit under a tree and talk. Let us get away from everybody for half an hour.' Kensington Gardens were filled with the customary throng of those who, like themselves, had been to church. The carp- ing philosopher says unkind things about Church, and Gardens, and Fashion. As if Church would ever keep like from congre- gating with like ! There were shoals of beautiful girls, dressed as well as they knew or could afford : dozens of young fellows, and with them the no longer quite so young, the no longer young, the no longer young at all, the middle-aged, the elderly and the old, not to spea k of the children. Elsie looked up and down the walk. ' We are never so much alone as in a crowd,' she said, with the air that some girls assume of saying an onginal thing — which no woman ever did say yet, unless by accident. V AT THE GATKS OF PARADISE 107 and Tlu'y j'tiiiLMl the stn-aiw : presently (iror^'r l«'ut be- small, Expe- if man. ^strain ay acci- ,n open )y ; try Jods be ihat the )serving verted. Sunday [laytime, ,e would le— with I method, before le door : /ley bad Ld, pens, [ the day Ihe day's [em, rang lese dis- |momingf hettert of the day, taking up one aftor the other, and riN'Mling half mechanically. Presently he opened one, and looked at the heading. ' Ellis ik Northcote,' he said. * What do they want ? ' Then he suddenly stopped short and started. Then he began the letter again, and again he stopped short. It was from his brokers in the City, and it recommended a cer- tain advantageous inv ?stnitat. That was not in itself very extraordinary. But io contained the following remarkable passage : ' You have made such great transfers and so many sales during the last few months that you have probably more profitable uses Tor money in your own business, liut ii you should have a few thousands available at the present moment, it is a most favourable opportunity ' ' Great transfers and many sales ? ' asked Mr. Dering, be- wildered. ' What transfers ? What sales does he mean ? ' He turned over the pages of his Diary. He could find no transactions of the kind at all. Then he reflected again. ' I can remember no transfers,' he murmured. * Is this another trick of memory ? ' Finally, he touched the bell upon his table. 'Checkley,' said Mr. Bering, on the appearance of the ancient clerk, * I have got a letter that I don't understand at all. I told you that my memory was going. No"w you see. Here is a letter about transfers and sales of stock. What transfers ? I don't understand one word of it. My memory is not only going — it is gone.' * Memory going ? Nonsense,' the old man shook his head. ' No — no ; your memory is all right. Mine is as clei-,r as a bell. So's yours. You eat hearty. So do I. You sleep well. So do I. We're both as hale and hearty as ever.' * No — no. My memory is not what it was. I've told you so a dozen times. I lose myself sometimes. Yesterday, when the clock struck twelve, I thought it was only ten. I had lost two hours. And sometimes when I walk home, I lose recollection of the walk afterwards.' * Tut, tut ; nobody of your age is such a young man as you. Why, you walk like five-and-twenty. And you eat hearty — you eat very hearty.' His words were encouraging, but he looked anxiously at his master. Truly, there was no apparent decay in Mr. Dering. He sat as upright : he looked as keen : he spoke as clearly, as ever. « Well— about this letter. My friend Ellis, of Ellis h i fT2 THE IVORY GATE \ Northcote, writes to me about something or other, and speaki of my effecting great transfers and sales of stock lately. What does he mean 1 * ' You haven't bought or sold any stock lately, that I know of.' * Well, you would have known. — Have we had to make any investments for clients of late t There was the Dalton- Smith estate.' ^ * That was eleven months ago.' * I suppose he must mean that — he can't mean anything else. Yes, that is it. Well — I've got a Partner now, so that it matters less than it would laave done— had my memory played me tricks with no other responsible man in the place.' 'You didn't want a partner,' said Checkley jealously. *YouhadME.' 'He must mean that,' Mr. Dering repeated. *He can't mean anything else. However — has my Bank book been made up lately i * ' Here it is. Made up last Friday. Nothing been in or out since.' Mr. Bering had not looked at his book for three or four months. He was well served : his people took care of his Bank book. Now he opened it» and began to run his finger up and down the pages. * Checkley,' he said, ' what has happened to Newcastle Corporation Stock t The dividends were due some weeks ago. They are not paid yet. Is the town gone bankrupt ? And — ehl Where is Wolverhampton ? And— and * He turned over the paper quickly. * Checkley, there is something wrong with the hook. Not a single dividend of anything entered for the last four months. There ought to have been about six hundred pounds in that time.' * Queer mistake,' said Checklej. * 111 take the book round to the Bank, and have it corrected.' *A very gross and careless mistake, I call it. Tell the manager I said so. Let it be set right at once, Checkley — ^at once — and while you wait. And bring it back to me.' The Bank was in Chancery Lane, close to the office. The old clerk went off on his errand. *A very careless mistake,' the lawyer repeated ; *any clerk of mine who committed such a mistake should be dismissed at A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY IIS ke >n- ing hat lOry the isly. 3an*t been in or four i his inger sastle reeks ipt^ He tthing ^thing been Iround iu the r.. — at The once.' In fact, the certainty of full and speedy justice kept Mr. Bering's clerks always at a high level of efficiency. He returned to the letters, apparently with no further uneasiness. After ten minutes, Checkley taking longer than he expected, Mr. Dering became aware that his attention was wandering. ' Great transfers and many sales,' he repeated. *■ After all, he must mean the investment of that Dalton-Smith money. Yet that was only a single transaction. What can he mean % He must have made a mistake. He must be thinking of another client. It's his memory, not mine, that is confused. That's it — his memory.' The large open safe in the comer was filled with stacks of paper tied up and endorsed. These papers contained, among other things, the securities for the whole of Mr. Bering's private fortune, which was now very considerable. Even the greatest City magnate would feel for Mr. Bering the respect due to wealth if he knew the amount represented by the con- tents of that safe. There they were, the leases, agreements, mortgages, deeds, bonds, conveyances, shares, all the legal documents by which the wicked man is prevented from seizing and appropriating the rich man's savings. Formerly the rich man lj:ept his money in a box with iron bands. He locked up the box and put it in a recess in the cellar contrived in the stone wall. If he was only a bourgeois, it was but a little box, and he put it in a secret place (but everybody knew the secret) at the head of his bed. If he were a peasant, he tied his money up in a clout and put it under the hearthstone. In any case, thieves broke in and stole those riches. Now, grown wiser, he has no box of treasures at all : he lends it all in various directions and to various associations and companies. Every rich man is a money-lender : he is either Shylock the Great or Shylock the Less, according to the amount he lends. Thieves can steal nothing but paper which is no use to them. As we grow wiser still, we shall have nothing at all in any house that can be of any use to any thief, because everything in the least valuable will have its papers, without the production of which nothing of value will be bought or sold. And all the gold and silver, whether forks or mugs, will be lodged in the Bank. Then everybody will become honest, and the Eighth Commandment will be forgotten. Among Mr. Bering's papers were share certificates^ bondi^ U4 THE IVORY GAljt mi if-:) and scrip of various kinds, amounting in all to a great many thousands. Of this money a sum of nearly thirteen thousand pounds belonged to Elsie, but was still in her gunrdian'g name. This, of course, was the fortune which had fa'iien so unexpectedly into the girl's hands. The rest, amounting to about twenty-five thousand pounds, was his own money. It represented of course only a part, only a small part, of his very respectable fortune. Mr. Bering, whose memory, if it was decaying, was cer- tainly clear on some points, looked across the room at the open safe, and began to think of the papers representing ».I:eir investments. He remembered perfectly all the dift'erent Cor- poration Stock. All the water, gas, railway shares, the Indian Stock and the Colonial Stock : the Debenture companies and the Trading companies. He was foolish, he thought, to be disturbed by a mere mistake of the broker : his recent lapses of memory had made him nervous : there could be nothing wrong : but that clerk at the Bank ought to be dismissed for carelessness. There could be nothing wrong : for the sake of assurance he would turn out the papers : but there could be nothing wrong. He knew very well where they were ; everything in his office had its place : tney were all tied up together in a bulky parcel, bestowed upon a certain shelf or compartment of the safe. He pushed back his chair, got up, and walked over to the safe. Strange ! The papers were not in their place. Again he felt the former irritation at having forgotten something. It was always returning : every day he seemed to be forgetting something. But the certificates must be in the safe. *He stood irresolutely looking at the piles of pape , trying to think how they could have been displaced. While he was thus wonder- ing and gazing, Checklev came back, Bank-book in hand. ' There is something wrong,' he said. * No dividends at all have been paid to your account for the last three months. There is no mistake at the Bank. I've seen the manager, and he's looked into it, and says there can't be any mistake about the entries.' * No dividends ? What is the meaning of it, Chookley ? No dividends? Why, there's thirty-eight thousand pounds worth fji stock. The certificates are kept here in the safe ; only, for some reason or other, I can't find them at the A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 115 liinhe It etting stood how )nder- Lb at all [onths. and about jkley ^ )unds safe; it the moment. They must be in the safe somewhere. Just help me to find thenar will you % * He began to search among the papers, at first a little anxiously, then nervously, then feverishly. • Where are they ? ' he cried, tossing over the bundles. * They must be here. They must be here. Let us turn out the whole contents of the safe. We must find them. They have never been kept in any other place. Nobody has touched them or seen tliem except myself.' The old clerk pulled out all the papers in the safe and laid them in a great pile on the table. When there was notliirig left in the safe, they began systematically to go through the whole. When they had finished, they looked at each other blankly. Everything was there except the certificates and scrip re- presenting the investmeat of thirty-eight thousand pounds. These alone could not be found. They examined every packet : they opened every bundle of papers : they looked into every folded sheet of parchment or foolscap. The certiticates were not in the safe. ' Well,' said the clerk at last, ' they're not here, you see. — Now then ! ' In the midst of their perplexity happened a thing almost as surprising and quite as unexpected as the loss of the certi- ficates. Among the papers was ^ small round parcel tied up with red tape. Checkley opened it. ' Bank notes,' he said, and laid it aside. They were not at the moment looking for bank-notes, but for certificates. When he was satisfied that these were not in the safe, and had thrown, so to speak, the responsibility of finding out the cause of their absence upon his master, he took up once more this bundle. It was, as he had said, a bundle of bank notes rolled up and tied round. He untied the knot and laid them flat, turning up the comers and counting. * Curious,' he said ; ' they're all ten-pound notes — all ten pound notes : there must be more than fifty of them. And the outside one is covered with dust. What are they % ' • How should I know ?' said Mr. Bering irritably. *Give them to me. Bank-notes ? There are no bank-notes in my safe.' • Forgotten ! * the clerk murmured. * Clients' money, per- haps. But the client would have asked for it. Five or six hundred pounds. How can five hundred pounds be forgotten ? Even a Rothschild would remember five hundred pounds. IS ii6 THE TVORY GATE m W. Forgotten ! ' He glanced suspiciously at his master, and shook his head, tumbling among the papers. Mr. Bering snatched the bundle from bis clerk. Truly, they were bank-notes — ten-pound bank-notes ; and they had been forgotten. The clerk was right. There is no Firm in the world where a bundle worth five hundred pounds could be for- gotten and no inquiry made after it. Mr. Dering stared blankly at them. 'Notes!' he cried — 'notes! Ten-pound notes. What notes ? — Check ley, how did these notes come here ? ' 'If you don't know,' the clerk replied, 'nobody knows. YouVe got the key of the safe.' ' Good Heavens ! ' If Mr. Dering had been twenty years younger, he would have jumped. Men of seventy-tive are not allowed to jump. The dignity of age does not allow of jump ing. 'This is most wonderful! Checkley, this is most mys- terious ! ' 'Whatisitr ' Those notes — the Devil is in the safe to-day, I do believe. First the certificates are lost ; that is, they can't be found — and next these notes turn up.' ' What notes are they, then ? ' 'They are nothing else than the bank-notes paid across the counter for that forged cheque of eight years ago. Oh ! there is no doubt of it — none whatever. I remember the numbers — the consecutive numbers — seventy-two of them — seven hundred and twenty pounds. How did they get here ? Who put them in ? Checkley, I say, how did these notes get here?' He held the notes in his hand and asked these questions in pure bewilderment, and not in the expectation of receiving any reply. ' The notes paid to that young gentleman when he forged the cheque,' said Checkley, ' must have been put back in the safe by him. There's no other way to account for it. He was afraid to present them. He heard you say they were stopped, and he put them back. I think I see him doing it. While he was flaring out, he done it — I'm sure I see him doing it.' Mr. Dering received this suggestion without remark. " He laid down the notes and stared at his clerk. The two old van stared blankly at each other. Perhaps Checkley's 90ui\t^iianoey of the two^ escpressed the greater astonishment* A MVSTERrorrs DISCOVFRY "7 * How did those notes get into the safe ? * the lawyer re- peated. * This is even a more wonderful thinj; than the mis- laying of the certificates. You took them out. Show me exactly where they were lying/ * They were behind these books. See ! the outside not© is covered with dust.' ' They must have been lying there all these years. In my safe ! The very notes paid across the counter to the forger's messenger ! In my safe ! What does this mean ? I feel as if I was going mad. I say — What does all this mean, Checkley ? ' The clerk made answer slowly, repeating his former sug- gestion. ' Since young Arundel forged the cheque, young Arundel got the notes. Since young Arundel got the notes, young Arundel must have put them back. No one else could. When young Arundel put them back, he done it because he was afraid of your finding out. He put them back unseen by you that day when you charged him with the crime.' ' I did not charge him. I have charged no one.' ' I charged him, theii, and you did not contradict. I'd charge him again if he was here.' ' Any man may charge anything upon any other man. There was no proof whatever, and none has ever come to light.' * You're always for proofs that will convict a man. I only said that nobody else could do the thing. As for putting the notes back again in the safe, now I come to think of it ' — his face became cunning and malignant — 'I do remembv..' — yes — oh ! yes — I clearly remember — I quite clearly remember — I see it as plain as if it was before me. He got sidling nearer and nearer the safe while we were talking : he got quite close— so — he chucked a bundle in when he thought I wasn't looking. I think — I almost think — I could swear, to it.' * Nonsense,' said the lawyer. * Your memory is too clear. Tie up the notes, Checkley, and put them back. They may help, perhaps, some time, to find out the man. Meantime, let us go back to our search. Let us find these certificates.' They had now examined every packet in the safe : they had looked at every paper : they had opened every book and IH-' it8 THE IVORY GATE Hearched through all tht loaveH. There was no doubt left : the certificates were not there. Checkley began to tie up the bundles again. His master sat down trying to remember something— everything — that \ could account for their disappearance. CHAPTER XI A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERT The safe disposed of, there remained a cupboard, two tables full of drawers, twenty or thirty tin boxes. Checkley ex- amined every one of these receptacles. In vain. There was not anywhere any trac (3 of the certificates. 'Yet,' said Mr. Dering, 'they must be somewhere. We have been hunting all the morning, and we have not found them. They are not in this room. Yet they must be some- where. Certificates and such things don't fly away. They are of no use to any one. People don't steal certificates. I must have done something with them.' * Did you take them home with you ? ' ' Why should I do that ? I have no safe or strong-room at home.' ' Did you send them to the Bank for greater safety % To be sure, they would be no more safe there than here.' 'Go and ask. See the manager. Ask him if he holds any certificates of mine.' The clerk turned to obey. 'No.' Mr. Dering stopped him. * What's the good ? If he held the things, there would have been dividends. Yet what can I do ? ' For the first time in his life the lawver felt the emotion that he had often obs(;rved in clients at times of real disaster. He felt as if there was nothing certain : not even Property : as if the law itself, actually the law — was of no use. His brain reeled : the ground was slipping under his feet, and he was falling forward through the table, and the floor and the foundation — forward and down — down — down. 'What can I dol' he repeated. 'Checkley, go. See the manager. There may be something to find out. 1 can't think properly. Go.' When the clerk left him, he laid his head upon his hands A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 119 and triod to put tliiiiiys (luito clcurly before hitnsolf. 'Where can the certifictates Ix; ? ' ho usKcil liiinsclf, repeating this (jaestion twenty times, lie was (|uite conscious that if he had be(!n censulted on such a point by a client be would have replied witli the <^'n»ate.st readiness, .mi;Lf jesting the one really practical thin;^' to do. For liitnself he could advise nothing. 'Where can the ceitiUciites be? Nobody steals (Jorpo»"ation stock and t^as companies' shares. They are no good if you do steal thiiii. They can't bo sold without the authority of tlu; owner: he has got to sign transfer papers : if they were stolen, the dividends would go on being paid to the own'T just the same. 13esides ' Somewhere about this poir't he bethought him of the Bank-book. If the stock had been sold the money would appear to his credit. He snatched the book and looked at it. No ; there was no entry which could possibly rei)resent the sale of stock. Ih". knew what every entry meant, and when the amount was paid in : his memory was perfectly ch ar upon this point. ^ Checkley's suggestion occurred to him. Had he taken the certificates home with him ? He might have done for some reason which he liad now forgotten. Yes ; that was the one possible explanation. lie must have done. For a moment he breathed again —only for a moment, because he imme- diately reflected that he could not possibly do such a thing as take those securities to a house where he never transacted any business at all. Then he returned to his former bewilderment and terror. What had become of them 1 Why had he taken them out of the safe ? Where had he bestowed them ? And why were there no dividends paid to him on these stocks ? Why 1 He turned white with terror when he realised that if he got no more dividends, he could have no more stocks. During a long professional career of fifty years, Mr. Dernig had never made a mistake — at least he thought so. If he had not always invested his money to the greatest profit, he had invested it safely. He did not get the inteiest that some City men expect, but he made no losses. He looked upon himself, therefore, as a man of great sagacity, whereas in such matters he was only a man of great prudence. Also, during this long period he was ai%vays in the enjoyment of a consider- able income. Ther^jfore he had never known the least anxiety about money. Yet all his life he hafl been counselling other people in their anxieties. It was exactly as if a specialist in no THE IVORY GATE Koiiio mortal disraso should be himself attacked by it. Or it was as if the bo'sun, whoso duty it is to superintend the llogijiiifj, should be himself tied up. Nothing came to hiui : no glimmer of light : not the least recollection of anything. Then he thought despcrntely, that perhaps if he were to imagine how it would he if somebody else, not himself at all, wen^ to come to hini.s( If and hiy the story before him as a solicitor, for advice. Or how it would be if he himself were to go to himself as a solicitor and put the case. "When Clieckley came back, he found his master leaning back in his chair, his eyes wide open and staring at him as he opened the door- yet they saw nothin^j. ( heckhy stood under the gaze of those eyes, w' h saw him not. '(?ood Lord!' he niurmurcd. 'Is the time c i.u' ? Is he going to die?' Mis face was white. He sc eiiw-d to be lii-Tcning anxiously : his lips ucre parted. lie's in a tit of some kind," thought the old clerk. He stood watching. He ought, perhiips, to have called for assistance. He did not think of it. He stood and watched, his face as pale as his master's. Was it the end ? If so — we all think of ourselves first — what about his berth and salary ? Suddenly his master's eyes closed ; he dropped his head : he heaved a deep sigh : he moved his head and opened his eyes. He was restored to himself. The fit, whatever it was, had passed. ' Checkley,* he said, * I've been trying to put the thing to myself as if some other man— a client — was putting his esse to me. I began very well. The other man came— that is, I myself called upon myself. I sat and heard my own story. I forgot, somehow, ^v^hat the story was' — ho shook his head impatiently. * Forget - forget — I always forget. But I re- member that it wasn t the story I wanted him to tell. It was another story altogether. He didn't tell me wliat I wanted to know. That is — what has become of the certiticates. I'm no nearer than I was. He made out that I was actually selling the certificates myself.' ^ ' You're wandering a bit,' said Checkley, anxiously watch- ing him. * That's all. You'll be all right presently. You've bin shook up a bit, with the certificates and the notes and all. If I were you I'd have a glass of something stiff.' A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 131 *No— no; I shall conio round presently. Yes —that's it. I'm a good (Ic.il upset by this business. Somehow, I don't seem able to think cK^urly about it. Let me see' ho sighed heavily * I think you went .somewhere - somewhere forme, before before the other num came.' ' For Lord's sake, don't talk about tlieotluT man. Tliere'a no such peraon. Yes I did go for you ; 1 went to abk the manager of the Bank whether he held any stock for you.' ' The manager of the Lank. True. Weil, and docs ho hold any till g / ' * Not a scrap. Never had any.* 'Then, Chcckley' — Mr. Dering dropped his hands help- lessly — ' what is to be done ? ' *I don't know, I'm sure,' the clerk re[ilied with equal helplessness. 'I never heard of ssch a thing before in all my life. Thirty-eight thousand pounds ! It can't be. No' tody ever heard of such a thing before. Perhaps they are about the place somewhere. Let's have another search.' ' No— no. It is useless. Why —I have had no dividends. The shares were all transferred, and nothing has been paid for them. The shares have been stolen. Checkley, I can'o think. For the first time in my life, I can't think I want some one to advise me. I must put the case in somebody's hands.' 'There's your young partner — a chance for him to show that he's worth his pay. Why don't you con^sult him, and then come back to the old plan of you and me ? We're knocked a bit silly just at first ; but the case will come to us in the long run. You would have a partner — nothing would do but a partiier. The boy's in his own room now, I supjx)se, with a crown upon his head and the clerks kneelin' around — as grand as you please. Send for him.' Mr. Dering nodded. The partner, when he arrived a few minutes later, found the Chief walking about the room in uncontrollable agitation. On the table lay piled the whole contents of the safe. In front of it stood the ancient clerk, trembling and shaking — head, hands, knees, and shoulders -following the mo\ements of his master with eyes full of anxiety and terror. This Btrange fit, this forgetfulness, this rambling talk about another man, this new restlessness, fri;:htened him. ' You are come at last.' Mr. Dering stopped and threw himself into his chair. Now, my partner, hear the case and 122 THE IVORY GATE '%\ li'il \M resolve the difficulty for us, if you can. — Tell him, Checkley — or — stay ; no. I will tell it myself. Either I have lost my reason and my memory, or I have been robbed.' George stood at the table and listened. Sojnething of the utmost gravity had happened. Never before had he seen his Chief in the least degree shaken out of his accustomed frigidity of calm. Now he was excited ; his eyes were restless ; he talked fast, he talked badly. He made half a dozen attempts to begin : he marslialled his facts in a slovenly and disorderly manner, quite unlike his usual clear arrangement : for hfty years he Lad been marshalling facts and drawing up cases, and at his own he broke down. * I think I understand the whole,' said George, when his Chief paused and Checkley ceased to correct and to add. 'You had certificates representing investments to the amount of 38,000/. : these are gone, unaccountably gone : no dividends have been paid for some months, and your broker speaks of Tell him about the large transfers.' 'That's not all,' said Checkley. notes.' ' Yes. The fact may have some bearing upon the case. While we were looking for the certificates, and in order, I suppose, to complicate things and to bewilder me the more, we found in the sate the very notes -give niC the bundle, Check- ley — there they are — that were paid over the Bank counter to the man who iori'^ed my name eight years ago.' ' What ? The case in which Athelstan Arundel was accused ? ' 'The same. There they are — you hold them in your hand — the very notes ! Strange ! on the v«^ry day when I am threatened with another and a worse robbery ! Yes — yes ; the very notes ! - the very notes ! This is wonderful. Who put them there ? ' ' How can I know ? ' ' Well— but in any c.ise one thing is certain. Athelstan's name is cleared at last. You will tell his mother that.' * Not at all,' said Checkley. ' Why shouldn't he put 'em in himself ? I saw him edging up tow|irds the safe ' ' 8aw him edging — stuff and nonsense ! His name is cleared. This will be ioyful news to his mother and sisters.' ' Austin, get me back my certificates/ said Mr. Bering ; A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 133 'never mind tlioso notes now. Never mind the joyful news. Never mind Atlielstan's name ; that can wait. The thought of him and the old forgery only bewilders my brain at this juncture. I cannot act. I cannot think. I feel as if I was blinded and stupefied. Act for me — think for me — work for me. Be my solicitor, George, as well as my partner.' * I will do my best. It is difficult at first to understand — for what has happened ? You cannot find — you have mislaid — certain papers. Certain dividends which were due do not appear to have been paid : and your brokers, Ellis & North- cote, have used a phrase in a letter which you do not under- stand. Would it not be well to get them here ; or shall I go into the City and ask them exactly what they meant and what has been done ? ' ' If I could remember any transactions with them during the last six months. But I cannot, except a small purchase of Corporation stock last month — a few hundreds. And here are the papers belonging to that.' * Which of the partners do you deal with ? ' 'The old man, Ellis — he's always acted for me. He has been my friend for close on fifty years.' ' Well, I will send for him, and tell him to come as soon as possible, and to bring along with him all the letters and papers he has.' ' Good, good,' said Mr. Bering, more cheerfully. ' That is practical. I ought to have thought of that at the very outset. Now we shall get along. The tirst thing is to arrive at the facts — then we can act. If it was another man's case, I should have known what to do. But when it is your own — and to lose the certificates, and when a sum of nearly forty thousand pounds is at stake — it looks like losing the money itself — and the feeling of uncertainty ' 'All taken togetlier, becomes rather overwhelming. Of course I should like to see the letter-book, and we must run through the letters to see if they throv/ any light upon the business. Perhaps tlie papers themselves may be found among them.' The presence of this young man, cheerful, decided, taking practical measures at once, cheered up the lawyer, and steadied his shattered nerves. But Checkley the clerk looked on gloomily. He replaced the papers in the safe, and stood beside it, as if to guard it ] he followed the movements, of the 124 THE IVORY GATE new partner with watchful, suspicious eyes ; and he muttered sullenly between his teeth. First George sent a telegram to the City for the broker. Then, while the old clerk still stood beside the safe, and Mr. Dering continued to show signs of agitation uncontrollable, sometimes walking about the room and sometimes sitting at his table, sometimes looking into the empty shelves of the safe, he began to look through the copied letters, those, that is, which had gone out of Mr. Bering's office. He searched for six mouths, working backwards. * Nothing for six months,' he said. — 'Checkley, give me the letters.' He went through these. They were the letters received at the office, all tiled, endorsed, and dated. Therrj was not one during the letters of six months which he ex amined which had anything to do with the sales of stocks and shares. 'If,' he said, 'you had written to Ellis k Northcote, a copy of your letter would be here in this book, it they had written to you, these letters would be among these bundles. Very well. Since no such letters are here, it is clear that no such letters were written. Therefore, no sales.* ' Then,' said Mr. Dering, ' where are my certificates % Where are my dividends % ' 'That we shall see. At present, we are only getting at the facts.' Then Mr. Ellis, senior partner of Ellis & Northcote, arrived, bearing a small packet of papers. Everybody knew Mr. Ellis, of Ellis k Northcote, one of the most respectable stockbrokers in London — citizen and Lorimer. He beloni'ed eminently to the class called worthy : an old gentleman, < .r.v fully dressed, of smooth and polished appearance, plea i. - manners, and great integrity. Nobody could look more truiv integer vitce than Mr. Ellis. Nor did his private practice belie his reputation and his appearance. His chin and lips looked as if they could not possibly endure the burden of beard or moustache ; his sentiments, one observed at a glance, would certainly be such as one expects from a citizen of his respectability. ' Here I am, dear sir,' he said cheerfully — ' here I am, in immediate obedience to your summons. I hope tl;iat there is nothing wrong ; though your request that I would bring* with me certain papers certainly made me a little apprehensiira,' , . •■(. A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 125 •There is, I fear, a goixl deal wrong,' said Mr. Bering, 'Sit down, my old friend.- Give Mr. Ellis a chair, Checkley. — Austin, you will tell him what he wants to know.' * You wrote to Mr. Dering yesterday recommending a certain investment ' * I certainly did. A very favourable opportunity it is, and a capital tliini,' it will prove.' ' You mentioned in your letter certain transfers and sales which, accordmg to your letter, he had recently eff'ected.' * Certainly.* * What sales were they ? ' Mr. Ellis looked at his papers. ' February last — sale of various stock, all duly enumerated here, to the value of 6,r)00/. March la^t, sale of \ arious stock, also all duly enumerated, to the value of 12,000/. odd. April last, sale of stock to the value of 20,000/. — more or less -realising — — * * You note the dates and amounts, Austin ? * said Mr. Dering. * Cei-tainly ; we will, however, get the dates and the amounts more exactly in a moment.— Now, Mr. Ellis, of course you received instructions with the papers themselves. Were they in writing or by word of mouth ? ' 'In writing. By letters written by Mr. Dering himself.* * Have you got these letters with you ? * 'Everything is here, and in proper order.* He laid his hand upon the papers. ' Here, for instance, is the first letter, dated February 14, relating to these transactions. — You will no doubt remember it, Mr. Dering.* He took up a letter, and read it aloud : * ** My dear Ellis, — I enclose a bundle of cer- tificates and shares. They amount to somewhere about 6,500/. at current price. Will you have these transferred to the name of Edmund Gray, gentleman, of 22 South Square, Gray's Inn ? Mr. Edmund Gray is a client, and I will have the amount paid to my account by him. Send me, therefore, the transfer papers and the account showing the amount due to me by him, together with your commission. - Very sincerely yours, Eijward Dering.** That is the letter. The proceeding is not usual, yet not irregular. If, for instance, we had been instructed to buy stock for Mr. Dering liut of course you Know.' * Pardon me,* said (jeorge. * I am not so much accustomed to buy stock asmiy partner. Will you go on ? ' ^e should have done so, and sent our client the bill for li H6 THE IVORY GATE the amount with our commission. If wo had been instructed to sell, we should have paid in t d Mr. Bering's bank the amount realised less our commission. A transfer is another kind of work. Mr. Dering transferred this stock to Edmund Gray, his client. It was therefore for liim to settle with his client the charges for the transfer and the value of the stock. We therefore sent a bill for these cl 'irges. It was sent by hand, and a cheque was received by return ?f the messenger.' George received the letter from him, examinfed it, and laiil Vt before his partner. • ••••• Mr. Dering read the letter, held it to the light, examined it very carefully, and then tossed it to Clieckley. 'If anybody knows my handwriting,' he said, 'it ought to be you. Whose writing is that % ' * It looks like yours. But there is a trembling in the letters. It is not so firm as the most of your work. I should call it yours ; but I see by your face that it is not.' ' No ; it is not my writing. I did not write that letter. This is the first I have heard of the contents of that letter. - Look at the signature. Check ley. Two dots are wanting after the word Dering, and the tiourish after the last " n " is cur- tailed of half its usual dimensions. Did you ever know me to alter my signature by a single curve ? ' ' Never,' Checkley replied. ' Two dots wanting and half a flourish. — Go on, sir ; I've just thought of something. But go on.' * You don't mean to say that this letter is a forgery ? ' asked Mr. Ellis. ' Why — then Oh ! it is impossible. It must then be the beginning of a whole series of forgeries. It's quite impossible to credit it. The letter came from this office : the postmark shows it was posted in this district : the answer was sent here. The transfers - consider — the transfers were posted to this office. They came back duly signed and wit- nessed — from this office. I forwarded the certificate made out in the name of Edmund Gray — to this oiHce : and I got an acknowledgment — from this office. I sent the account of the transaction with my commission charges — to this office, and got a cheque for the latter — from this office. How can such a complicated business as this — only the first of these transac- tions — be a forgery % Why, you want a dozen confederates at least for such a job as this.' A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 137 * I do not quite uiuJerstand yet,' said George, inexperienced in the transfer of stocks and shares. 'Well, I ca:inot sell stock without the owner's authority ; he must sign a transfer. But if I receive a commission from a lawyer to transfer his stock to a client, it is not my business to ask whether he receives the money or not.' 'Yes — yes. And is there nothing to show for the sale of this 6,000?. worth of paper ? ' George asked Mr. Bering. ' Nothing at all. The letters and everything are a forgery.* 'And you, Mr. Ellis, received a cheque for your com- mission ? ' ' Certainly.' ' Get me the old cheques and the cheque-book,' said Mr. Dering. The cheque was drawn, as the letter was written, in Mr. Bering's handwriting, but with the slight difference he had pointed out in the signature. 'You are quite sure,' asked George, 'that you did not sign that cheque ? ' ' I am perfectly certain that I did not.' 'Then as for this Edmund Gray of 22 South SquarC; Gray's Inn — what do you know about him ?' 'Nothing at all - absolutely nothing.' 'I know something,' said Checkley. 'But go on — go on.* ' He may be a non-existent person, for what you know.* * Certainly. I know nothing about any Edmund Gray.' ' Wait a bit,' murmured Checkley. 'Well, but' — Mr. Ellis went on — 'this was only a begin- ning. In March you wrote to me again ; that is to say, I received a letter purporting to be from you. In this letter — here it is — you instructed me to transfer certain stock— the papers of which you enclosed — amounting to about 12,000?. — to Edmund Gray aforesaid. In the same way as before the transfer papers were sent to you for signature : in the same way as before they were signed and returned : and in the same way as before the conmiission was charged to you and paid by you. It was exactly the same transaction as before— only for double the sum involved in the February business.' Mr. Dering took the second letter and looked at it with a kind of patient resignation. *■ I know nothing about it,* he said— * nothing at all*' '"A^ 128 THE IVORY GATE V'i A m * There was a third and last transaction,* said the broker, * this time in April. Here is the letter written by you with instructions exactly the same as in the previous cases, but dealing with the stock to the amount of 19,000/., which we duly carried out, and for which we received your cheque— for conmiission.* ' Every one of these letters — every signature of mine to transfer papers and to cheques — was a forgery,* said I\lr. Bering slowly. ' I have no client named Edmund Gray : I know no one of the name : I never received any money from the transfers : these investments are stolen.' * Let me look at the letters again,* said George. He ex- amined them carefully, comparing them with each other. ' They are so wonderfully *Oi-ged that they would deceive the most careful. I should not hesitate, myself, to swear to the handwriting.' It has already been explained that Mr. Bering's hand- writing was of a kind which is not uncommon with those who write a good deal. The unimportant words were conveyed by a curve, with or without a tail, while the really important words were clearly written. The signature, however, was large, distinct, and florid — the signature of the House, which had been flourishing for a hundred years and more, a signa- ture which had never varied. * Look at it,' said George again. * Who would not swear to this writir'; ? ' ' I would for one,* said Mr. Ellis. * And I have known it for forty years and more. — If that is not your own writing, Bering, it is the very finest imitation ever made.' ' I don't think my memory can be quite gone. — Checkley, have we ever had a client named Edmund Gray % ' ' No — never. But you've forgotten one thing. That forgery eight years ago —the cheque of 720/.— was payable to the order of Edmund Gray.' ' Ah ! So it was. This seems important.' ' Most important,' said George. * Th'e forger could not possibly by apidful same- ness about the Lamentations ot 111 JiUck. We all know them — the hardness of the thing : the injustice ot it : the impos- sibility of warding it ot!': his own sagacity in taking every precaution : the droadfulness of being singl(Kl out of a whole generation for exceptional misfortune. Mr. Dering himself, the grave, calm, reserved old lawyer, who seemed made of granite, broke down under the blow and became an ordinary human creature. In the lower walks, they weep. Checkley would have wept. Mr. Dering became elo(juent, wrathful, sarcastic. No retired Genei-al who has ruined himself by gambling in stocks could so bemoan his luck. George listened, saying nothing. It was an experience. No man so strong but has his weak point. No man is completely armoured against the arrows of fate. Presently he giew a little more calm, and sat down. 'Forgive me, George,' he said gently — 'forgive this outbreak. There is more in the business than you know of. T feel as if I know something about it, but can't bring it out. I am growing so forgetful I forget whole days — I am filled with the feeling that I ought to know about it. As for the loss, what I have said is true. You do not yet feel as T do about Property. You are too young : you have not got any Pro- perty yet. Wait a few years -then you will be able to agree with me that there is nothing in the world so hard as to lose your Property -the Property that you have made— by your own exertions for yourself.' 'Now you talk like yourself,' said Checkley. 'That's sense. Nothing so dreadful as to lose Property. It's enough to kill people. It has killed many people.' 'Property means everything. You understand that the more' the older you get.' 'You do,' echoed Checkley. 'There's nothing in the world worth considering except Property.' A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY 115 *Tt niniiia remoinbor all thr virtues - pru i At the ^tinvanl's office George put the same cjuestion. * I am a sol'oitor,' he said. * Here is my card. I am most anxious to see Mr. K(hiiumi liray, of No. 22. Could you siive me time by letting me know at what hour he is in his Chambers ? * Th(iy could tell hin» nothing. Mr. Gray was not a tonant of the Inn. Very likely he was a residential tenant who came home in the evenings after busine.ss. Everything learned is a step gained. Whetlier Kdmund Gray was a m;vn or a Long J*Mrm, the name had IxM'n on the door f»)r many yen rs. liut many years ? could a confederacy of swindlers go on for many years, especially if they under- took such mighty schemes for |)l under as this business ? Next he went to the addrt^ss of the lamlU^rd. He was a house agent in Jiloomsbury, and apparently a person of respec- tability. * If you could tell me,' George began with the same ques- tion, *at what hours 1 could tind your tenant in his C'hamliers ; or if you could give me his business address, we should be very greatly obliged. We want to tind him at once — to-day, if possible, on very importiint business.' 'Well, I am sorry, very sorry — but in fact, I don't know anything about my tenant's hours, nor can I give you his place of business. I believe he has no business.' 'Oh ! But you took him as a tenant. You must have had some references.' * ' Certiiinly. And upon that 1 can satisfy you very shortly.' He opened a great book and turned over the pages. ' Here it is — to No. 22, South Square, Gray's Inn, Second tloor, north side— Edmund Gray, gentleman. Rent iO/. a year. Date of taking the rooms, February, 1882, at the half-quarter. Reference, Messrs. Dering and Son, Solicitors, New Scjuare, Lincoln's Inn.' 'Why — you mean that he referred to us — to Messrs. Dering and Son — in the year 1882 ! ' ' That is so. Would you like to see the letter which we received on application ? Wait a moment.' He rang the bell, and a clerk appeared, to whom he gave instructions. * I am bound to say,' the landlord went on, ' that a more satisfactory tenant than Mr. Gray does not exist. He pays his rent regularly by Post-office order every quarter, on the day befoj.'e quart^ diay.' THE FIRST FIND 137 *0h ! I womlor -' But he stopped, because to begin wondering is always futile, espctcially at so early a stage. ^\'hen tliijio are already accuinulattid facts to go upon, and not till then, wondering becomes the putting together of the puzzle. ' Well, here is the letter. " Gentlemen " * — tlie house agent read the letter n^coived on application to the reference — '•'In reply to your letter of the 13th, we beg to inform you that Mr. Edmund Gray is a client of ours, a gentleman of independent nuians, and that he is quite able to pay any reasonable rent for resi(lon<;e or Chambfirs. — Your obedient servants, Pkuing and Son." — I suppose,' he added, 'that a man doesn't want a better reference than your own ? ' 'No; certainly not.' George looked at the letter. It presented as to handwriting exactly the same points of like- ness and of difference as all the other letters in this strange case : the body of the letter apparently written in the hand of Mr. Dering ; that is, so as to deceive everybody : the signa- ture, with one or two small omissions. 'Certainly not,* he repeated. 'With such a reference, of course, you did not hesitate. Did you ever see Mr. Gray V 'Certainly. I have seen him often. First when he was getting his rooms furnished, and afterwards on various occa- sions.' ' What kind of a man is he to look at ? ' ' Eldt'rly. Not exactly the kind of man you'd expect to have Chaml)ers. Mostly, they're young ones who like the freedom. An elderly g' itleman : pleasant in his manners : smiling and affable : gray-haired.' * Oh ! ' Then there was a real Edmund Gray of ten years' standing in the Inn, who lived or had Chambers at the number stated in the forged letters. 'I suppose,' said the house agent, 'that my respectable tenant has not done anything bad ? ' ' N-no - not to my knowledge. His name occurs in rather a disagreeable case. Would you be so very kind as to let him know, in case you should meet him — but of course we shall write to him — that we are most anxious to see him?' This the landlord readily promised. 'There is another person,' he said, ' who can tell you a great deal more than anybody else. That is his laundress. I don't know who 138 THE IVORY GATE !;«,•' ill i looks after him, but you can find out at the Inn. The police- man will know. Go and ask him.' In the game i battledore and shuttlecock, the latter has no chance except to take the thing coolly, without temper. George was the shuttlecock. He was hit back into Gray's Inn — this time into the arms of the policeman. ' Well, sir,' said the guardian of the peace, * I do not know anything about the gentleman myself. If he was one of the noisy ones, I should know him. But he isn't, and therefore I have never heard of hiin. But if he lives at No. 22, I can tell you who does his rooms ; and it's old Mrs. Cripps, and she lives in Leather Lane.' This street, which is now, comparatively speaking, purged and cleansed, is not yet quite the ideal spot for one who would have pure air and cleanliness combined with god- liness of conversation. However, individual liberty is no- where more absolutely free and uncontrolled than in Leather Lane. Mrs. Cripps lived on the top floor, nearest to Heaven, of which she ought to be thinking because she was now old and near her end. She was so old that she was quite past her work, and only kept on Mr. Gray's rooms because he never slept there, and they gave her no trouble except to go to them in the morning with a duster and to drop asleep for an hour or so. Vhat her one gentleman gave her, moreover, was all she had to live upon. Though the morning was warm, she was sitting over the fire watching a small pan, in which she was stewing a savoury mess, consisting of a 'block ornament' with onions, carrots, and turnips. Perhaps she was thinking — the poor old soul — of the days gone by — gone by for fifty years— when she was young and wore a feather in her hat. Old ladies of her class do not think much about vanished beauty, but they think a good deal about vanished feathers and vanished hats : they remember the old free carriage in the streets with the young friends, and the careless laugh, and the ready jest. It is the ancient gentlewoman who remembers the vanished beauty, and thinks of what she was fifty years ago. Mrs. Cripps heard a step on the narrow stair leading to her room — a manly step. It mounted higher and more slowly, because the stairs were dark as well as narrow. Then the miter's hat knocked R.gainsu the door. He opened it^ and THE FIRST FIND 139 ig to lowly, ^n the k and stood there looking in. A gentleman ! Not a District Visitor or a Sister trying to persuade her to early Church — nor yet the clergyman — a young gentleman. * You are Mrs. Cripps ? ' he asked. * The policeman at Gray's Inn directed me here. You are laundress, I believe, to Mr. Edmund Gray of No. 22 ? ' * Suppose I am, sir,' she replied suspiciously. A laundress is like the Hall Porter of a Club : you must not ask her about any of her gentlemen. * I have called to see Mr. Edmund Gray on very important business. I found his door shut. Will you kindly tell me at what hours he is generally in his Chambers ? ' She shook her head : but she held out her hand. " The young gentleman placed half a sovereign in her palm. Her fingers closed over the coin. She clutched it, and she hid it away in some secret fold of her ragged dress. There is no woman so ragged, so dropping to pieces with shreds and streamers and tatters, but she can find a safe hiding-place, somewhere in her rags, for a coin or for anything else that is small or precious. ' I never tell tales about my gentlemen,' she said, * espe- cially when they are young and handsome, like you. A pore laundress has eyes and ears and hands, but she hasn't got a tongue. If she had, there might be terrible, terrible trouble. Oh ! dear — yes. But Mr. Gray isn't a young gintleman. He's old, and it isn't the same thing.' * Then,' said George, 'how and when can I find him ? ' ' I was coming to that. You can't find him. Sometimes he comes, and sometimes he doesn't come.' * Oh ! He doesn't live in the rooms, then ! ' ' No. He doesn't live in the rooms. He uses the rooms sometimes.' ' What does he use them for ? ' V ' How should I know ? All the gentlemen do things with pens and paper. How should I know what they do ? They make their money with their pens and paper. I dun know how they do it. I suppose Mr. Gray is making his money like the rest of them.' * Oh ! he goes to the Chambers and writes ? * * Sometimes it's weeks and weeks and months and months before he comes at all. But always my money regular and beforehand sent in an envelope and a postal order.' I40 THE IVORY GATE ' Well, what is his private address ? I suppose he lives in the country ? ' • * I dou't know where he lives. I know nothing about him. I go thore every morning, ard I do the room. That's all I know.' There was no more information to be obtained. Some- times he cp.me to the Inn ; sometimes he stayed away for %ve«*ks and weeks, and for months and months. ' f might ha' told you more, young gentleman,* murmured the old woman, ' and I might ha' told you less. P'raps you'll come again.' He went back to Lincoln's Inn, and set down his facts. First, there was a forgery in the year 1882, in which the name of Edmund Gray was used. Next, in the series of for- geries just discovered, not only was the name of Edmund Gray used throughout, but the handwriting of the letters and cheques was exactly the sanie as that of the first cheque, with the same peculiarities in the signature. This could hardly be a coincidence. The same nian must have written the whole. Then, who was Edmund Gray % He was a real perscmage — a living man — not a Firm — one known to the landlord of the Chambers, and to the laundress, if to nobody else. He did not live in the Chambers, but he used thfcin for some business purposes ; he sometimes called there and wrote. What Hid he write? Where was he, and what was he doing, when he was not at the Chambers ? He might be one — leader or follower -of some secret gang. One has read of such gangs, especially in French novels, where the leaders are noble Dukes of the first rank, and Princesses — young, lovely, of the highest fashion. Why should there not be such a gang in London % Clever conspirators could go a \'ery long way before thoy were even suspected. In this civili- sation of cheques and registered shares and official transfers, property is so much defended that it is dilHcult to break through the armour. But there must be weak places in that armour. It must be possible for the wit of man to devise some plan by means of which property can be attacked suc- ce.ssfully. Had he struck such a conspiracy ? Thus. A man calling himself Edmund Gray gets a lease of Chambers by means of a forged letter in answer to a reference. It is convenient for certain conspirators, herein- after called the company, to have an address, though it n)fiy THE FIRST FIND 141 jm lOUt at's fUie- for ured ou'll >s. 1 the ' for- Gray . and with lly be hole. — one idress, )ut he called and He One where isses — ;re not d go a civili- nsfers, break ■in that devise ed suc- a lease jr to a Iherein- lit TO9.y never be used. The conspiracy begins by forging a cheque to his order for 720^. That was at the outset, when the con- spirators were young. It was found dangerous, and the notes were therefore replaced in the safe. Note, that the com- pany, through one or other of its members, has access to that safe. This might perhaps be by means of a key — in the evening, after office hours : or by some one who v/as about the place all day. Very good. The continued connection of some member of the Firm with Bering and Son is proved by the subsequent proceedings. After eight years, the company having matured I heir machinery, and perhaps worked out with success other 'jiiterprises, return to their first quarry, where they have the uJvantage of access to the letters, and can look over their dis- position. They are thus enabled to conduct their successive coupSf each bigger than the one before. And for four mouths the thing remains undiscovered. Having the certiticates in iheir hands, what was to prevent them from selling the whole and dividing the proceeds ? Nothing. Yet, in such a case they would disappear, and here was Edmund Gray still fear- lessly at large. Why had he not got clear away long before ? Again — all the correspondence concerning Edmund Gray was carried on between the office and the brokers. There were no letters from Edmund Gray at all . Suppose it should be found impossible to connect Edmund Gray with the trans- actions carried on in his name. Suppose the real Edmund (jrray were to deny any knowledge at all of the transactions. Suppose he were to say that ten years before he had brought a letter of introduction to Mr. Dering, and knew nothing more about him. Well — but the certificates themselves — what about them ? Their possession would have to be ac- counted for. So he turned the matter over and over and arrived at nothing, not even the next step to take. He went back to the Chief and reported what he had dis- covered : the existence of an Edmund Gray — the letter of recommendatioE to the landlord. * Another forgery,' groaned Mr. Dering. * It is done in the office,' said George. ' It is all done in the office — letters — cheques — everything.' 'The office,' Checkley repeated. * Nc doubt about it.' * Give up everything else, George,' sfid Mr. Dering eagerly *-' everytluug else. Fi^d out — find out. Employ detectives. 142 THE IVORY GATE Spend money as much as you please. I am on a volcano — I know not what may be taken from me next. Only find out, my partner, my dear partner — find out.' When George was gone, Checkley went after him and opened the door mysteriously, to assure himself that no one was listening. ' What a re you going on like that for, Checkley ? * asked his master irritably. ' Is it another forgery ? It rains for- geries.' ' No — no. Look here. Don't trouble too much about it. Don't try to think how it was done. Don't talk about the other man. Look here. You've sent that young gentleman to find out this business. Well — mark my 'i "^rds : he won't. He won't, I say. He'll make a splash, but he won't find any- thing. Who found out the last job ? ' 'You said you did. But nothing was proved.' *I found that out. Plenty of proof there was. Look here'— his small eyes twinkled under his shaggy eyebrows — ' I'll find out this job as well, see if I don't. Why ' He rubbed his hands. * Ho ! ho ! I have found out Don't ask me — don't put a single question. But — I've got 'em — oh ! I've got 'em. I've got *em for you — as they say — on toast.' CHAPTER Xni THINGS MORE REMABKA6LB After such a prodigious event as the discovery of these un- paralleled forgeries, anything might happen without being regarded. People's minds are open at such times to see, hear, and accept everything. After the earthquake, ghosts walk, solid things fly away of their own accord, good men commit murder, rich men go empty away, and nobody is in the least surprised. See what happened, the very next day, at the office in New Square. W hen George arrived in the morning he found that the senior } artner had not yet appeared. He was late. For the first time for ficty years and more, he was late. He went to his place, and t le empty chair gave an air of bereave- ment -to the room. Oheckley waft layiiy; out the table ; that THINGS MORE REMARKABLE «43 e un- )eing Ihear, ralk, least Ice in Ifound late. He iive- th«t is, he had done so a quarter of an hour before, but he could not leave off doing it : he was loth to leave the table before ♦he master came : he took up the blotting pad and laid it down again : he arranged the pens : he lingered over the job. * Not come yet ? ' George cried, astonished. * Do you think that yesterday's shock has been too much for him % ' ' I believe it's killed him,' said the old clerk — ' killed him. That's what it- has done ; ' and he went on muttering and mumbling. * Don't,' he cried, when George took up the letters. * P'r'aps he isn't dead yet you haven't stepped into his shoes just y«t. Let them letters alone.' ' Not dead yet. I hope not.' George began to open the letters, regardless of the surly and disres.iectful words. One may forgive a good deal to fidelity. * He will go on for a good many years after we have got the money back for him.' 'After sopje of us' — Checkley corrected him — 'hitve got his money back for him.' He turned to go back to his own office, then turned again and came back to the table. He laid both hands upon it, leaned forward, shaking his ^ead, and said with trembling voice : * Did you never think, Mr. Austin, of the black ingratitood of the thing % Him that done it you know — him that eat his bread and took his money.' When Checkley was greatly moved, his grammar went back to the early days betore he wa j confidential clerk. 'I daresay it was ungrateful. I have been thinking, hitherto, of stronger ad ectives.' * Well — we've agree* I — all of us — haven't we ? — that it was done in this offict — some one in the office done it with the help of some one out : some one who knows his ways ' — he pointed to the empty chair— *some one who'd known all his vays for a long time, ten years at least.' 'Things certainly seem to point that 'way' — 'and they point to you,' he would have added, but refrained. The old man shook his head again and went on. ' They've eaten his bread and done his work ; and — and — don't you call it, Mr. Austin — I ask you plain — don't you call it black in- gratitood % ' ' I am sure it is. I have no uoubt whatever about the in- gratitude. But, you see, Checkley, that vice is not one which the Courts recognise. It is not one denounced in the Deca- logue. — There is a good deal to consider, in fact, before we get to the ingratitude. It is probably a criminal conspiracy ; / 144 THE IVORY GATE it is a felony ; it is a tiling to be punished by a long tenii of penal servitude. When we have worried through all this and got our conspirators under lock and key, we will proiieed to consider their ingratitude. There is also the bad form of it and the absence of proper feeling of it ; and the want of con- sideration of tlie trouble they give. Patience ! We shall have to consider the business fro/ii your point of view presently.' ' I wouldn't scotl' and snigger at it, Mr. Austin, if I were you. ScoHin' and sniggerin' might bring bad luck. Because, you know, there's others besides yourself determined to bring this thing to a right issue.' George put down his papers and looked at this importunate person. What did he mean ? The old man shrunk and shrivelled and grew small. He trembled all over. But he remaint^d standing with his hands or the table — leaning for- ward. * Eight years ago,' he wont on, ' when that other business happened — when Mr. Arundel cut his lucky ' * I will have nothing said against Mr. Arundel. Go to your ow« room.' ' One word — I will speak it. If Ae's dead I shall not stay long here. But I shall stay so long as he's, alive, though you are his partner. Only one wr-^ ' sir. If Mr. Arundel hadn't — run away — he'd 'a been a pj r instead of you.' 'Welir * Well, sir — s'pose he'd been found out after he was made a partner, iji stead of before % ' George pointed to the door. The old man seemed off his head — was it with terror ? Checkley obeyed. But at the door he turned his head and gri:nned. Quite a theatrical grin. It expressed malignity and the pleasure of anticipation. What was the matter with the old man % Surely, terror. Who, in the office, except himself, had the control of the letters ? Who drew that quarterly chotjue ? Surely, terror. It was not until half-past eleven that Mr. Dering arrived at the office. He usually passed through the clerk's office outside his own ; this morning he entered by his own private door, which opened on the stairs. No one had the key except himself. He generally proceeded in an orderly and methodical manner to hang up his hat and coat, take off his gloves, place his umbrella- in the stand, throw open the safe, sit down in his chair, adjusted at a certain distance of three inches or so, to put on his glasses, and then, without either haste or dawdling, THINGS MORE REMARKABLE 145 irrived office |)rivate (except lodical [, place in his so, to rdling, to begin the work of the day. It is very certalr> that to approach work always in exactly the same way saves the nerves. The unmethodical workman gets to his office at a varying hour, travels by ditlerent routes— now on an omnibus, now on foot ; does nothing to day in the same way that he did it yesterday. He breaks up early. At sixty he talks of retiring, at seventy he is past his work. This morning, JNIr. Dering did nothing in its proper order. First, he was nearly two hours late. Next, he came in by his private door. George rose to greet hiai, but stopped because — a most wonderful thing his Partner made as if he did not observe his piesence. His eyes went through George in creepy and ghostly fashion. The junior partner stood still, silent, in bewilderment. Saw one ever the like, that a man should at noontide walk in his sleep ! His appearance, too, was strange ; his hat, pushed a little back, gave a touch of recklessness - actually recklessness — to the austere old lawyer : his eyes glowed pleasantly; and on his face- that grave and sober face — there was a pleased and satisfied smile : he looked happy, interested, benevolent, but not — no— not Mr. Edward Dering. Again, his coat, always tightly buttoned, was now hanging loose ; outside, it had been swinging in the br^ze, t .. the wonder of Lincoln's Inn : and he wore no gloves, a thing most remarkable. He looked about the room, nodded his head, and shut the door V)ehind him. * He's somnambulating,' George murmured, * or else I am invisible : I must have eaten fern-set d without knowing it.' Mr. Dering, still smiling pleasantly, walked across the room to the safe and unlocked it. He had in his hand a brown-paper parcel tied with red tape — this he deposited in the safe, locked it up, and dropped the keys in his pocket. The window beside the safe was open. He sat down, looking out into the Square. At this moment CL ^ckley opened the door softly, after his wont, to bring in more letters. He stopped short, seeing his master thus seated, head in hand, at the window. He re- cognised the symptoms of yesterday — the rapt look, the open eyes that saw nothing. He crept on tiptoe across the room. * Hush ! ' he whispered. ' Don't move. Don't speak. He went like this yesterday. Don't make the least noise. He'll come round presently.' * What is it r 146 THE IVORY GATE * Kind of fit, it is. Trouble done it. Yah ! Ingratitood.* He would have hissed the word, but it has no sibilant. You can't hiss without the materials. 'Yesterday's trouble. That's what's done it.' They stood watching in silence for about ten minutes. The office was like the Court of the sleeping Princess. Then Checkley sneezed. Mr. Dering probably mistook the sneeze for a kiss, for he closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again, and arose once more himself, grave and austere. He nodded cheerfully, took off his hat, hung it on its peg, buttoned his coat, and threw open the safe. Evidently he remembered nothing of what had just passed. ' You are early, George,' he said. * You are before me, which is unusual. However —the early bird — we know.' ' Before you for once. Are you quite well this morning % None the worse for yesterday's trouble ? ' 'He's always well,' said Checkley, with cheerfulness assumed. * Nobody ever sees him ill — he get ill % Not him. Eats as hearty as five-and-twenty and walks as up- right.' * I am perfectly well, to the best of my knowledge. Yes- terday's business upset me for the time— but it did not keep me awake. Yet it is certainly a very great trouble. You have no news, I suppose, that brought you here earlier than usual % ' * Nothing new since yesterday.* * And you feel pretty contident ? * * I feel like a sleuth-hound. I understand the pleasures of the chase. I long to be on the scent again. As for Edmund Gray, he is as good as in prison already.' ' Good. I was for the moment shaken out of myself. I was bewildered. I was unable to look at the facts of the case calmly. For the first time in my life I wanted advice. Well : I now understand what a great thing it is that our profession exists for the assistance of men in trouble. How would the world get along at all without solicitors ? ' He took his usual place at the table and turned over his letters. ' This morning,' he went on, * I feel more assured : my mind is clear again. I can talk about the case. Now then. Let us see — Edmuud Gray is no shadow but a man. He has made me recommend hiiii to his landlord. He is a clever man and a bold man. Don't be in a hurry about putting your THINGS MORE REMARKABLE 147 res of lund If. I case Idvice. it our How rer his ^ured : then. [ehas jrman your hands upon hitn. Complete your case before you strike. But make no delay.' * There shall be none. And you shall hear everything from day to clay, or from hour to hour.' Loft alone, Mr. Bering returned to his papers and his work. At half-past one, Checkley looked in. ' Not going to take lunch this morning % ' ' Lunch ? I have only just * Mr. Bering looked at his watch. 'Bless me! Most extraordinary ! This morning has slipped away. I thought I had only just s?it down. It» seems not more than half an hour since Mr. Austin left me. Why, I should have forgotten all about it and let the time go by — nothing worse for a man of my years than irregular feeding.' 'It's lucky you've got me,' said his clerk. 'Half-a-dozen partners wouldn't look after your moal-tiines. — Ah !' as his master went upstairs to the room where he always had his luncheon laid out, ' h^'s clean forgotten. Some of those days, walking about wropped up in his thoughts, he'll be run over. — Clean forgotten it, he has. Sits down in a dream : valks about in a dream : some of these days he'll do sonu^tliing in a dream. Then there will be trouble.* He closed the door and returned to his own desk, where he was alone, the juniors having gone out to dinner. His own dinner was in his coat pocket. It consisted of a saveloy cut in thin slices and laid in bread with butter and mustard a tasty meal. He slowly devoured the whole to the last crumb. Then, Mr. Bering having by this time finished his lunch and descended again, Checkley went upstairs and finished the pint of clai-et of which his master had taken one glass. ' It's sour stufi',' he said. * It don't behave as wine in a man's inside ought to behave. It don't make him a bit joyfuller. But it's pleasant too. Why they can't drink Port wine which is real wine- when they can afibrd it, I don't know.' It was past three in the afternoon when George returned, not quite so confident in his bearing, yet full of news. * If you are quite ready to listen,' he said, ' I've got a good deal to tell. First of all, I thought I would have another shot at Gray's Inn. I went to the Chambers. The outer door was open, which looked as if the man was at home. I knocked at the inner door, which was openel! by the laundress, the old woman whom I saw yesterday. "Well, sir," she said, I. 2 148 THE IVORY GATE I' "you are unlucky. The master has been here this very morn- ing. And he hasn't been long gone. You've only missed him by half an hour or so." I asked her if he would return that day ; but she knew nothing. Then I asked her if she would let me write and leave a note for him. To this she consented, rather unwillingly. I went in therefon*, "nd wrote my note at Mr. Gray's table. I asked him to call here on important business, and I marked the note " Urgent. I think there can be no barm in that. Then I looked about the room. It is one of those old wainscoted rooms, furnished simply, but everything solid and good— a long table, nearly as large as this one of yours : solid chairs— a solid sofa. Three or four pictures on the ■wall, and a bookcase full of books. No signs of occupation : no letters : no flowers. Everything covered with dust, although the old woman was there. I could have wished to exumiiie the papers on the table, but the presence of the old woman forbade that dishonourable act. I did, however, look at the books. And I made a most curious discovery. Mr. Edmund Gray is a Socialist. All his books are on Socialism : they are in French, German, and English : all books of Socialism, And the pictures on the wall are portraits of distinguished Social- ists. Isn't that wonderful ? Did -^e ever hear before of Socialism and forgery going together ? ' * Not too fast. We haven't yet connected Edmund Gray with the forgery. At present, we only know that his name was used.' 'Wait a bit. I am coining to that. After leaving the Chambers, I went into the City and saw Mr. Ellis. First of all, none of the stock has been sold.' ' Oh ! they have had three months, and they have not dis- posed of it % They must have met with unforeseen difficulties. Let me see.' Mr. Bering was now thoroughly alert. The weakness of the morning had completely passed away. ' What difficulties % Upon my word, I cannot understand that there could have been any. They have got the papers from a respectable solicitor through a respectable broker. No — no. Their course was perfectly plain. But rogues often break down through their inability to see the strength of their own case.' ' Next, Mr. Ellis has ascertained that some of the dividends are received by your Bank. I therefore called on the manager. Now, bo prepared for another surprise.' THINGS MORE REMARKABLE 149 Q kt 3t Ejr Lt. ss, no of ing of tlio no ugh liive man the lund y are And ocial- re of Gray name ^ the rst of )t dis- tulties. \es8 of lulties 1 have lectable course Ihrough ridends kanager. * Another forgery ? ' * Yea — another forgery. It is nine or ten years since you sent a letter to the manager— I saw it -introducing your client Edmund Gray, gentleman, who was desirous of opening a private account. He. paid in a small sum of money, which has been lyin^ to his credit ever since, and has not been touched. In February last he received another letter from you ; and ag.-iin in March and April, forwarding certificates, and requesting him to receive the dividends. With your own hand you placed the papers in the Bank. I saw the letters. I would swear to your handwriting.' * These people are as clever as they aVe audacious.' * At every point a letter from you — a letter which the ablest expert would tell was your handwriting. Your name covers and vouches for everything.' ' Did you tell the manager \euat has happened V ' Certainly ; I told him everything. And this is in sub- stance the line he takes. "Your Partner," he says, "alleges that those papers have been procured by forgery. He says that the letter of introduction is a forgery. Very good. It may be so. But I have opened this account for a customer who brought me an introduction from the best solicitor in London, whose handwriting I know well, and recognise in the letter. Such an allegation would not be enough in itself for me to t;ike action : unt'l a civil or criminal action is brought — until it is concluded — I could not refuse to treat the customer like all the rest. At the same time I will take what steps I can to inquire into my customer's antecedents." * ' Quite right,' said Mr. Dering. ' I asked him next, what he would do if the customer sent for the papers. He said that if an action were brought, he would probably be served with a auh pana duces tecum, making him i< eep and produce these papers as forming part of the documents in the case.' ' Certainly, certainly ; the manager knows his law.' '"And," he went on, "as regards cheques, I shall pay them or receive them until restrained." ' * In other words, he said what we expected. For cup own action now.' ' We might apply to a judge in Chambers for an attach* ment or a garnishee order. That must be pendente lite, an interlocutory proceeding, in the action. As yet, we have not I50 THE IVORY GATE brought an action at all. My partner '- -Mr. Bering rublied his hands cheeifully — ' I think we have done very well so far. These are clumsy scoundrels, after all. They thought to divert suspicion by using my name. They thought to cover themselves ^vi .b my name. But they should have sold and realised without the least delay. Very good. We have now got our hands upon the papers. It would have complicated matters horribly had the stock been sold and transferred. So far we are safe. Because, you see, after what they have heard, the Bank would certainly not give them up without let; ing us know. They would warn us : they would put the man oft' : they would ask him awkward questions about him- self. Oh ! I think we are safe- quite safe. Mr. Dering drew along breath. ' I was thinking last night,* he continued, ' of the trouble we might have if those certifi- cates had changed hands. They might have been bought and scid a dozen times in four months : they might have been sold in separate small lots, and an order of the Court necessary for every transaction. We have now nothing but the simple question before us: how did the man Edmund Gray get pos- session of this property ? ' He sat in silence for a few minutes. Then he went on quietly. ' To lose this money would be a heavy blow for me — not all my fortune, nor a quarter, but a large sum. I have plenty lef\;. 1 have no hungry and expectant heirs : my people are all wealthy. But yet a very heavy loss. And then- to be robbed. I have al ways wondered why we left off hanging robbers. They ouj^ht to be hanged, every one. He who in- vades the sacred right of property should be killed — killed without hope of mercy.' He spoke with the earnestness of sinceiity. 'To lose this property would not be ruin to me ; yet it would be terrible. It would take so many years out of my past life. Every year means so much monev saved. Forty tiiousand pounds means ten years of my past not taken away so that I should be ten years younger, but, ten years of work annihilated. Could I forgive the man who would so injure me ? Never.' * I understand,' said George. ' Fortunately, we shall get the papers back. The fact of their possession must connect the possersor with the fraud. Who is he ? Can he be warned already % Yet who should tell him ? Who knows that w« have discovered the business ? You your friend Mr. Elli»— THfNGS MORE REMARKABLE i;i :)ed [ar. to iver and aow ited So tiave hout bthe him- ight,' jrbift- t and nsold ry for iiniple 5t pos- snt on lor me have people sn- to mging A\o in- killed less of Ito me ; out of Forty maway \i work injure lall get Iconnect 1 warned t!ie lat the manage r of the Bank — no one else. Yrs -there is also Checkley — Checkley/ he repeated. He could not— r-yet — express I is suspicions as to the old and faithful servant. * Checkley also knows.' At this point Checkley himself opened the door and brought in a card — that of the Bank manager. ' I have called,' said the visitor hurriedly, *to tell you of something iniiiortant, that happ med this nmr.iing. I did not know it when we were talking over this business, Mr. Austin. It happened at ten o'clock, as soon as the doors were open. A letter was brought by hand from Mr. Dering ' ' Another forgery ! When will they stop ? ' * asking for those certificates to be given to bearer — Mr. Edmund Gray's certificates ..-This was done. They are no longer at the Bank.' ' Oh ! Then they have been warned,' cried George. * Who was the messenger ? ' ' He was a boy. Looked like an office boy.' * I will inquire directly if it was one of our boys. Go on.' 'That settles the difficulty as to our action in case the jmpers are wanted by you. We no longer hohl thorn. As to ihe dividends, we shall continue to receive them to the account of Mr. Edmund Gray until we get an order or an injunction.' 'The difficulty,' said George, * is to connect the case with Mr. Edmund Gray bodily. At present, we ha\e nothing but the letters to go upon. Suppose the real Edmund Gray says that he knows nothing about it. What are we to do ? You remember receiving tlw^ dividends for him. Has he drawn a cheque % ' * Nf^ ; we have never paid any cheque at all for hira.' * Have you seen him % ' ' No ; I h>ive never seen him.* * It is a most wonderful puzzle. After all, the withdrawal of the papers cut; niebody as he instructe'.d me — in the name of Mr. Dering." ' Another forgery ' *Yes,' said George. * We must watch and find out thi» mysterious Edmund (iray. After oil, it will not help us to say that a forged letter gave certiiin instructions to do certaiu 15^ THE IVORY GATE things for a certnin person — say tlie Queen— unloas you can establish the complicity of thnt person. And that— mo far — we certainly have not (lone Meanlinie wluitnex.?' Obviously, the next thiiiji; was to tincl out if ».ny of the office boys had taken that letter to the Bank. No one had been sent on that errand. CHAPTER XIV CHECK LEYS CASK That evening Mr. Che(;kley was not in his customary place at the Salutafiofi, where his presence was greatly desired. He arrived late, when it wantrd only a quarter to eleven. The faded barristei* was left alone in the room, lingering over the day's paper with his empty glass beside him. Mr. Checkley entered with an air ot triumph, and something like the elastic spring of a victor in his aged step. He called Robert, and ordered at his own expcMist?, for himself, a costly drink — a compound of Jamaica rum, hot water, sugar and lemon, although it was an evening in July and, for the time of year, almost pleasantly warm. Nor did he stop here, for with the manner of a man who just for once — to mark a joyful occasion — plunges, he rattled his money in his pocket and ordered another for the barrister. ' For,' he said, ' this evening I have done a good work, and I will mark tht» day.' When the glasses were biought, he lifted his an^ cried : * Come, let us drink to the contusion of all. Rogues, great and small. Down with 'em ! ' 'Your toast, Mr. Checkley,' replied the barrister, 'would make my profession useless ; if there were no rogues, there would be no Law That, however, would injure me less than many of my br»»thren. I drink, therefore, confusion to Rogues, great and small. Down with 'em. — This is excellent grog. — Down with em 1 ' So sjiying, he tinished his glass and departed to his garret, where, thanks to the grog, he slept nobly, and drean)ed that he was a Master in Chancery. The reason of this unaccustomed mirth was as follows : Cheokley by this time had lulty established in his own mind CHECK LETS CASE <53 the conclusion that the prime mover in the deed — the act — the Thin;; was none other than the new partn<'r, the young upstart, whom he hated with a hatred unextinguishable. He was as certain about liim as he had been certain about Atiielstan Arundel, and for much the same reasons. Very well. As yet he had not dared to speak : King Pharaoh's chief scribe would have had the same hesitation at proffering any theory concerning Joseph. To-night, however But you slwill hear. i'iver}) body was out of the office at half -past seven, when he loft it. llss the Inn and so into Chancery Laiu>, where he crossed over and entered (rray's Inn by the Holboru archway. H(; liTig(!red in South Stjnare : he walked all round it twice : he read the names on the door-posts, keeping all tlie time an eye on No. 22. Pre- sently, he was rewarded. A figure which he knew, tall and well proportioned, head flung back, walked into the Inn and made straight for No. 22. It was none other than Athelstan .A ^'undel. The old man crept into the entrance, where he was partly hidden ; he could see across the Square, himself unseen. Athelstafi . Iked into the house and up the stiirs : the place was quiet : Checkley could hear his steps oii the wooden stairs : he heard him knock at a door — he heard the door open and the voices of men talking. * Ah ! ' vsaid Checkley, ' now- we've got 'em ! ' Well — but this was not all. For presently there came into the Inn young Austin himself. *0h I' said Checkley, tinishing his sentence — 'on toast. Here's the other ere they are — lx>th.' In fact, Georrje. uh . cmtered the house known as No. 22 i»nd waiiiied up the a«airs. y »54 THE IVORY GATE C^heckley waited for no more. He ran out of the Inn and he ( H(l a cab. Ir he had waited a little longer, he would have seen the new partner come out of the house and walk away : if he had followed him up the stairs, he would have seen him knocking at the closed outer door of Mr. Edmund Gray. If he had knocked at the door opposite, he would have found Mr. Athel- stan Arundel in the room with his own acquaintance, Mr. Freddy Carstone, the (Cambridge scholar and the ornament of their circle at the Salutation. But being in a hurry, he jumped to a conclusion and called a cab. He drove to Palace Gardens, where Sir Samuel had his town-house. Sir Samuel was still at dinner. He sat down in the hall, meekly waiting. After a while the S(u*vice conde- scended to ask if he wished a message to be taken in to Sir Samuel. ' From his brother's — from Mr. Bering's office, please tell him. From his brother's office — on most important business - roost important— say.' Sir Samuel received him kindly, made him sit down, and gave him a glass of wine. * Now,' he said, ' tell me what it all means. My brother has had a robbery — papers and certifi- cates and th'*ngs — een in here, but not often. A man who drinks nothing is your true damper. That, believe me, and no other, was the veritable skeleton at the Feast.' ' Our business concerns your neighbour, Mr. Edmund Gray. We want you to tell us what you know about him.' ' Go on, then. Question, and I will answer, if I can.' 'Does Mr. Edmund (iray live at these Chambers ? ' * No. He may sometimes sleep in them, but T should say not often. He calls at irrtgular inter\als. Sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes in the morning, sometimes not for several weeks together. He is most uncertain.' * Do many people call upon him ? ' * I^o ojj© ever calls upon turn.' 1 68 THE IVORY GATE m w * Does he keep clerks ? Does he carry on an extensive correspondence; ? ' ' I have never heard the postman knock at his door.' ' Has he a son or a brother or a partner or anything ? * *I don't know. He may have these hindrances, but they are not apparent.' ' VVliuL is his occupation or trade?' * He is a Socialist. He is athirst for the destruction of prop(;rty. Meantime, I believe, he lives on his own. Perhaps his will bo spared to the last. He is an old gentleman of pleasant manners .and of benevolent nspect. The old women beg of him ; the children ask him the time ; the people who have lost their way apply to him. He dreams all the time : he lives in a world impossible. Oh ! quite impossible. Why, in a world all Socialist, I myself should be impossible. They wouldn't have me. My old friend told me \ e other day that I should not be tolerated. They would kill e. All because I do no work — or next to none.' George looked at Athelstan. *We are iarther off than ever,' he said. * Mr. Edmund Gray believes that the Kingdom of Heaven is a kind of hive where every bofly \\xj. got to work with enormous zeal, and where nobody owns anything. Also he thinks that it is close at hand, which makes him a very happy old gentleman.' 'This can't be Checkley,' said George. *Tt would seem not,' Athelstan replied. 'Did you ever see another old man up here — we saw him coming out just now -one Checkley, a lawyer's clerk ? ' ' No ; not up here. There is an ekhTJy person — a Party — of the name, who uses the parlour of the Snlutafio'ii, where I myself sometimes -one must relax — Porson loved a tavern ; so did Johnson — I myself, I say, sometimes forget that I used to belong to the Combination room, and sit with Checkley and his companions. J3ut I do not think he is a friend of Mr. Gray. As well call the Verger the friend of the Bishop. Mr. Gray is a gentleman and a scholar ; he is a man of generous instincts and culture. He could not be a friend of the man Checkley.' ' Yet we sar- Checkley coming out of this very staircase.* They talk-ed of other things. They talked till midnight \ Who fS Et>MUND GRAYt 169 »vor list 3rn ; ised and Mr. Mr. rous [man 36.* rht; when they caiac away the Scliolai* was at his best : oik? iiiorcj glass — which he took after they left — would have turned the best into the worst. * We are as far off as before,' said George. ' No — wc are so much the nearer that we know who Edmund Gr *y is not. He is not Checkley. He has no clerks. He has no visitors. He comes seldom. George, this looks to me suspicious. We met Checkley stealing out of the door. Why does Edmund Gray keep these Chambers ? No business done there : no letters brought there : no callers : the man does not live there. The Socialism may be — must be— a blind. Why does the man keep on these Chambers 1 ' Meantime at the Salutation the usual company was assem- bled. ' I fear,' said the barrister, ' that we shall not have our friend the Scholar here this evening. As I came down the stairs I saw him through his door receiving two gentlemen — young gentlemen. He will display his won' id hospitality upon them this evening instead.' He siglK ' and called for the glass of old and mild mixed, which was all he could afford. Had the Scholar been with them, certainly there would have been a nobler and a costlier glass. He took up the morning paper and began to read it. The conversation went on slowly and with jerks. A dull conversation : a conversation of men without ideas : a day- before-yesterday conversation : the slow exchange of short, solid sentences taken from the paper, or overheard and adopted. We sometimes praise the old tavern life, and we regret the tavern talk. Wo need not : it was dull, gross, ignorant, and flat : it was commonplace and conventional : because it was so .all, the men were fain to sing songs and to propose senti- ments, and to drink more than was good for .them. Why and when do men drink more than i.:^ good for them ? First, when and because things are desperately dull : there is nothing to interest them : give them, animation, thoughtb, amusements, and they will not begin to drink. When they have begun, they will go on. When they have arrived at a certain stage, let them drink as fast as they can, and so get out of the way, because they will never mend, and they only cumber the earth. Here is, you see, a complete solution — a short solution — of the whole drink question Tt will not be accepted, because people like a long solution — a three-column solution. 170 THE IVORY GATE ipi The barnst('r lifted his head. * There is a I ter here/ he said, interrupting the ex-M.P., who was clen ing the way for what he called an ar^'iiment by an introductiun in the usual form. ' While on the owv hand, gentlemen,' he was saying, • 1 am free to confess * * There is a letter here,' he repeated in a louder voice. The barrister was now old, but he could still assunte at times the masterful manner of counsel before the Court, ' which should be read. It is a letter on Socialism.' * Ugh ! ' said the money-lender. 'Socialism ! They want to destroy Property. Socialism ! Don't tell nie, sir.' * It is a dream of what might be a noble —a generous letter.' He looked round him. In their dull and fishy eyes there was no gleam or sparkle of response. ' I foigot,' he said ; * you carniot be interested in such a letter. - 1 beg your pardon, sir.' He bowed with great courtesy to the (^x-M.P. *1 inter- rupted your valuable observations. We shall listen, I am sure, with the greatest ' He buried his head in the paper again. Th(^ legislator began again. ' As I was a-saying, gentle- men, when I was interrupt(!d, on tha subject of education and the ratepayers, being a ratepayer n)yself, as we all are, nnd having our taxes to pay, which is the only advantage we ever get from being a ratepayer, while on the one hand I am free to confess ' ' Why !' the barrister interiupted once again, 'this letter is from a man on our staircase, No. 22 '— Checkley started — 'an ac(juaiiitance of mine, if I can call hini so, and of our friend the Scholar. A very able man, now somewhat in years. ^y name Edmund Gray.' 'What?' said Checkley, 'Edmund Gray? You know Edmund Gray ? ' * Certainly. I have known him this nine years. Ever since he has been in the Inn.' ^ ' W-w-what sort of a man is he ? ' Checkley stammered in his eagerness. * A very good sorb of a man. Why do you ask ? * 'I want to know for his advantage oh I yes— yes — for his own advantage.' ' Yes.' The barrister retreated to his paper. ' Oh, yes,* he added. * Quite so.' ' For his great ptjrsonal advantage,' Checkley rnpnated.— ' Robert, I think the gentleman would take a tumbler, if you WHO /S EDMUND GRAY? 171 l)W Lee in lor h >u win bring it hot, Robert-— strong- witli leinoti and sugar a large rummer, Robert.' TJje ancient barrister's head bt^iind the paper was observed t-o tremble. Robert returned with hi.s rummer, the gla.s.s s)ioon tinkling an invitation. Dinner had b<>en but a sorry ad'air that day a stop-gap insufhciont in bulk ; the tempted man felt a yearning that could not be resistt'd. He stretched out his hand and took the glass and tasted it. Then turning to Checkley : •You have purchased njy speech, sir. You were asking me about Mr. Edmund Gray. What do you wi.sh to know ?' * Every thi'-ig hi.s business his private life anything.' 'As for his business, he has none ; he is a gentleman tiving on his means - like myself ; but his means are larger tha/i my own : he has a residerice else-where T don't kiutw wl.ere ; he uses his Chambers but little : he has a collection of books there, and he keeps them for purposes of study.' * Does he call there every day ? ' ' No. Only at irregular times. Sometimes not for many weeks together.' ' Has he got any friends ! ' ' I should say that he has no friends at all— at least none that come to the Inn. I have ncivtir heard or seen anyone in his room. A quiet man. No slammcir An excellent man to have on the staircase. No tniniphir ; doesn't tramp up and down HI e an elephant. Isn't brought home drunk.' ' What does he look like % ' ' He is a man advanced in years perhaps seventy a good- looking man— very cheerful countenance : tall and well set up still wears a long frock ooat. And that I believe is all r know about him.' 'That's all you've got to tell me, is it ?' 'That is all, Mr. Checkley. Excej)t that he has written a very remarkable letter to the TIiuhh of this morning.' 'Well, sir, if that is all, it isn't much for your rum-ami- water, let me tell you.' The barrister rose and poured the half glass tliat reniained into the cinders. 'Then let me diink no more than my infor- jaation was worth,' he said ; and at the sight of so much magnanimity the broad earth trembled and Mr. Checkley sat aghast. The ex-statesman cleared his throat and l)egan again. /< 172 THE IVORY GATE ' Aft may by the cunnin>i portrait painter be restored to the fate intended by its Makt^r, that is to say, a nweet and serious f}u*(\ Great indtMid is the power, marvellous itt the mystery, of the limner's art. ' Now,' Klsie murniured, ' you look like some great philan- thropist a thoughtful phila\>thropiHt, not a foolish person: your high forelicad and your sharp nostril proclaim tliat you are no impulsive gusher : your kindly eyc^s beam with good- ness of heart : yo\u* lips are firm because you hate injustice. Oh, my dear guardian, how much 1 have improved you ! Something like this you looked when you told me of my fortune and like this when you spoke of your dream, and your illusions — something like this you looked.' She went on working at her fantasy, crooning a simple ditty, composec? of many melodies running into one, as girU use when they are quite happy. The afternoon was hot. Out- side, Elsie's windows looked upon a nest of little London gardens, where nasturtiums twisted round strings upon the walls ; hollyhocks and sunflowers, which love the London imoke, lifted their heads ; and Virginia creepers climbed to THE VOICE OF DUTY ^3 tho house-tops. The little London /gardens do sometimes look gay and bright in the yellow glow of a July afternoon. The window was open, and the room was almost a-s hot as the street outside ; we get ko fv.w hot days that one here and there cannot be too hot. On the table lay a photograph of her lover ; over the mantt^l hung her own drawing in Pastel of that swain j on her finger was his ring : round her neck lay his chain : all day long she was reminded of him, if she should cease for a moment to think of him. But there was no need of such reminder. It was Friday afternoon, four dayH iiFtcr the great Discovery. Elsie had been irifcn-iixMl (»f the event, th(^ news of which she received »\fte» the feminine umniu'i, with an ejaculation of surprise antl an interjection of sympathy. Hut one cannot, expect a \^\\\ on the eve of her marria;^(! to he gre.'itly ,V 4i, ^ <^ ^° y.^ A iL Ic % 1.0 I.I l^|28 |2.5 |50 ■^~ !■■■ •^ liU 12.2 :!^ lis lillio L25 1.4 1,6 ^ 6'' ^ 'm

■.' ^V" 176 THE IVORY GATE ' the hand of the confederate, my poor sister, is — your lover's hand.' ' I knew,' said the girl, * that you were coming to this. X have felt it from the beginning.' . ' Bemember, the thing was done in the months of Feb- ruary, March, and April. First of all, Athelstan was then, as now, desperately poor : the life that he has led for the last eight years — the life of a— a — Camberwell profligate ' — sho spoke as if that respectable suburb was the modern Alsatia — ' has certainly destroyed whatever was left of honour and of principle. There comes a time, I have read, in the career of every wicked man when he hesitates no longer whatever means are offered him of making money. Athelstan it was — £o they, believe — v/ho devised this scheme, which has been as successful as it is disgraceful. My dear Elsie, this is the most terrible disgrace that has ever befallen my family : the most dreadful and the most unexpected calamity for you.' Elsie caught her sister by the wrist. 'In the name of God, Hilda, are you telling me what is proved and true, or what is only suspected ? ' ' I am telling you what is as good as proved. More than suspected.' 'As good as proved. Oh ! ' Elsie drew a long breath. 'As good as proved. That is enough. Like Athelstan's guilt eight years ago,' she flared out suddenly, springing up again and walking about the room. ' Oh ! it is wonderful ! ' she cried — 'wonderful! What a family v are! We had a brother, and we believed that he was an honourable gentle- man, as the son of his father must be. Then there was a charge, a foolish charge, based upon nothing but may — have —been and must — have — been We believed, the charge ' ' Because we h^.d no choice but to believe, Elsie,* her sister interrupted. *Do you think we wanted to believe the charge ? ' ' We should have believed him innocent until the thing was proved. We did not. We cast him out from among us ; and now, after eight years — he has come back poor, you say, and sunk so low that he is ashamed to see his people, and we are going to believe another charge based on may have been and m 1st have been. No, Hilda. I will not believe it — I will not. —And then there is George. If I cease to believe in his T'HE VOTCE OF DUTY xionour and hw fi.»*k r '77 • T^^^l\^^^^^'^^K^:Vl:r^^^<^■ loan. »bove^8uspioio„.' ''^"'- ^o. E)s,e, no. The old ™an ,V, And yoltv't^tXfr:, T^T'' "»- than Geor^, '•epresent me as m„M. "''*'"'''""« business Yn,, 1 "'"^' ■•allowances for ;oTV:/'i" P'^^«-I ^>11 confeue to'^T" ^. ;Do? Wha^^^iouwTdoT'J^oth"'" ''•"<'''"' - ^ha 1 go on as if this thing had Zy^^v^' °°"lT«> "o'hing. I Sir Samuel ordered m^* happened.' * ^ '"~nVrr'™''s"'"^'™'°"""**"""^ « ""ey. ile calJs me his mi^fr^cc '^^^,o^ai?ter, whom I musf Consent to see him ? ' S]Te * .!? ' ^."* ^ ^"^ ^^^ s«rZt , * If you see him a-^ain ' h^'' • ^^^ ^"^ '^"^^t into tears leave the country Th« k- '''*^^'* continued, * warn h?m f 'What is it? prav rlr.«'+ '^^ has gone before, it mus^t be a \ZZ^:' ^'i^ ^^ "hat You are bitter ^\^i » very iittle point.' But that is noC„^.^'j^:'ri \ '•™'' <>-erve your bitterness pardoned and per^itt^ it^p^r ifar^^'^e ^^^ point IS about your wedding. 178 THE IVORY GATE It is fixed for the 1 2th of next month, less than three we^ks from to-day. You must be prepared to put it off.' ' Indeed ! Because you say that a thing impossible is as good as proved ! Certainly not, Hilda.' * I have come here to-day, Elsie, by Sir Samuel's express wish, in order to soften the blow and to wr.rn you. Whether you will tell — that unhappy young man or not, is fcr you to decide. Perhaps, if you do, he may imitate our tnworthy brother and run away. If he does not, the blow will fall t-o-morrow — to-day- the day after to-morrow — I know not when. He will be arrested : he will be taken before a magis- trate : he will be remanded : he will be out on bail. Oh, Elsie, think of marrying a man out on bail ! One might as well marry a man in convict dress Oh ! Horrible ! ' ' I would rather marry George in convict dress than any other man in fine raiment. Because, once more, the thing is impossible.' ' You carry your faith in your lover beyond bounds, Elsie. Of course a girl is right to believe in a man's honour. It makes her much more comfortable, and gives her a sense of security. Besides, we always like to believe that we are loved by the best of men. That makes us feel like the best of women. — But in this case, when I tell you that Sir Samuel— a man who has always lived among money — so to speak — and knows how money is constantly assailed — is firmly convinced of George's complicity, I do think that you mighu allow something for human frailty. In the case of Athelstan, what did Mr. Bering say % Everything is possible. *So I say of George Austin, everything is possible.' ' Not everything. Not that.' ' Yes, even that. — What do you know of his private life ? Why has he concealed the fact of Athelstan's residence in London ? Why has he never told i:s"of his friendship with that unfortunate outcast ? ' ' I don't know. He has his reasons.' * It is a most dreadful thing for you,' Hilda went on. *And after getting to believe in the man and — well-be- coming attached to him — though such attachments mean little and are soon forgotten — and after going the length of fixing the day and ordering the dress and the wedding-cake, and putting up the banns Oh ! it is a wretdhed business — a horrible misfortune. The only thing to be said is that in THE VOICE OF DUTY 179 \% \ as ress iher I to rthy fall not agis- illsie, well L any ingis Elsie, r. It nse of (re are ie best it Sir -so to ed— is at you tse of (ssible. life 1 ice in IP with Int on. il- be- mean |gth of r-cake, isinesa Ihat in such a case, the fact being known to everybody, no one can blame a girl ; and perhaps, in the long run, she will suffer no injury from it. Our circle, for instance, is so different from that of this young man's friends, that the thing would not even be known among us.' * I believe, Hilda, you will drive me mad.' ' My dear, one must look ahead. And remember that [ look ahead for you. As for the young man, I dissociate him henceforth from you. What he does and where he goes I do not inquire or care about, any more than I trouble myself about a disgraceful brother. Some acts cut a man off from his mistress — from his sisters — from the world.' * Do not talk any more,' said Elsie. * Let the blow, as you call it, fail when it pleases. But as for me, I shall not warn George that he is to be charged with dishonesty, any more than I will believe him capable of dishonesty.' ' Well, my dear, there is one comfort for us. You may resolv. on marrying him. But a man charged with a crime — out on bail — cannot marry any girl. And he will be charged, and the evidence is very strong.' ' No drubt. As good as proved — as good as proved. Poor George ! Who never had ten pounds in the world until he was made a partner ' * True. And there we have the real motive. Seek the says, and we have the reason of the Poverty is the tempter- shall find the criminal. secret partnership with — Athelstan is the sug- motive. Sir Samuel Here you Athelstan. gester.' Elsie shook her head impatiently. * Mr. Dering was to give you away. Who will now % Athelstan % How can we— Sir Samuel and I — assist at a wedding where the bridegroom lies under such a charge ? — by one so near to us as Mr. Dering ? How can your mother be present ? Oh, Elsie, think ! ' Elsie shook her head again, with greater impatience. ' Think what a fate you may be dragging upon yourself ! Think of possible children with such a brand upon them ! ' ' I think only of an honourable and an innocent man.' * I have just come from my mother, Elsie. She says posi- tively that if the charge is brought, the wedding must be put off until the man is cleared. And for the moment she does not feel strong enougli to meet him. You can receive hini V i i8o T]{E IVORY GATE here if you please. And she desires that there may be no disputes or arguments about it.' * It is truly wonderful ! ' Elsie walked to the open window and gasped as if choking. ' Wonderful ! ' she re- peated. 'The same fate — in the same manner — threatens (Jeorge that ft^ll upon Athelstan. And it finds us as ready to believe in the charge and to cast him out. Now, Hilda, go to my mother and tell her that though the whole world should call George — my George — a villain, I will marry him. Tell her that though I should have to take him from the prison door, I will marry him. Because, you see, all things are not possible. This thing is impossible.' ' We shall have trouble with Elsie,' Lady Dering told her mother. * Call her soft and yielding ? My dear, no mule was ever more stubborn. She will marry her convict, she says, even at the prison door.' CHAPTER XVII WAS HE IN RAGS? Stubborn as a mule. Yes — it is the way with some girls : man is soft as wax compared with woman : man concedes, compromises, gives way, submits : woman has her own way — when that way is the right way she becomes a pearl above price. Elsie, when the door was shut and her sister gone, stood silent, immovable. A red spot burned in her cheeks : her eyes were unnaturally bright : her lips parted : she was pos- sessed by a mighty wrath and great determination : she was the tigress who tights for her beloved. Meantime, everything was changed : the sunshine had gone out of the day : the warmth out >f the air : her work, that had pleased her so much an hour ago, seemed a poor weak thing not worth think- ing about. Everything was a trifle not worth thinking about — the details of her wedding : her presents : her honey- moon: her pretty flat — all became insignificant compared with this threatened charge against her lover. How was it to be met ? If it was only a suspicion put into shape by Sir Samuel and old Checkley it would be best to say nothing. li it was really going to be brought against him, would it IVAS HE IN RAGSf i8i not be best to warn him beforehand % And about her brother She sat down and wrote out the facts. To be doing tl)is cleared her brain, and seemed Hke workin<:j for her lover. In March 1882 a cheque for 720/. to the order of one Edmund Gray was cashed in ten-pound notes by a commissionaire sent from an hotel in Arundel Street, Strand. No one ever found out this Edmund Gray. Athelstan was suspected. The notes themselves were never presented, and were found the other day in Mr. D3ring's safe, covered with dust, at the back of some books. In February, March, and April, by means of forged letters, a great quantity of shares were transferred from the name of Edward Dering to that of Edmund Gray. The writing of the letters was the same as that of the forged cheque. These were the only facts. The rest was all inference and presumption. Athelstan had been seen in London : Athelstan had been living all the time in London : Athel- stan had been seen going into the house which was given as the residence of Edmund Gray. Well — Athelstan must be seen the very first thing. Furtlier than this point she could not get. She rang the bell, ordered tea to be brought to her own room, and then put on her hat and went out to the Gardens, where she walked about under the trees, disquieted and unhappy. If a charge is going to be brought against him, the most innocent man in the world must be disquieted until he knows the nature of the evidence against him. Once satisfied as to that, he may be happy again. What evidence could they bring against George ? She went home about eight, going without dinner rather than sit down with her mother. It is a miserable thing for a girl to be full of hardness against her mother. Elsie already had experience, as you have seen. For the present better not to meet at all. Therefore she did not go home for dinner, but took a bun and a cup of coffee — woman's substi- tute for dinner — at a confectioner's. When George called about nine o'clock, he was taken into the studio, where he found Elsie with the traces of tears in her eyes. * Why, Elsie,' he cried, ' what is the matter % Why are you crying, my dear ? and why are you alone in this room % ' • I choke in this house, George. Take me out of it — take M I 82 THE TVORY GATE ine away. Le': us walk about the Squares and talk. I have a good deal tc sp*y.' * Now, desu*, what is it?' — when they were outside. ' What liappened ? You are trembling — you have been sh.iken. Tell me, dear.' * I don't think I can tell you just at j>resent — not all.' 'Something then — the rest afterwards. Tell me by in- stalments.' * You are quite happy, George ? Nobody has said any- thing to make you ai)ij;ry, at the oflice, or iinywhere else ?' 'Nobody. We are going on just the same. Mr. Dering thinks and talks about nothing but the roWbery. So do I. So does everybody else. I suppose Check ley has told, for every clerk in the place knows about it. and is talking about it. Why do you ask if anybody has made me angry ? ' 'My dear George, Hilda has been here this afternoon. You know that — sometimes - Hilda does not always say the kindest things about people.' ' Not always. I remember when she wrote me a letter asking whether I thought that a lawyer's clerk was a fit aspi- rant for the hand of her sister. Not always just the kindest things. But I thought we were all on tlie most afiectionate terms, and that everything had been sponged out. Has she- been saying more kind, sisterly, things about me ? What have I done now 1 Isn't the money dithculty solved ? ' * I will tell you some other time -not now what she said. At the present moment I want to ask you a question. If you have reasons for not answering, say so, and I shall be quite satisfied ; but answer me if you can. Tliis is the question. Hilda says that Athelstan is secretly in London, and that you know it, and that you have been seen with him. Is tliat true V - ' Well — Elsie — the only reason for not telling you that Athelstan is here is that he himself made me promise not to tell you. Athelstan is in London. I see him often. I shall see hira this evening after leaving you. He is in London, walking about openly. Why not ? I know no reason for any concealment. But he cannot go to see his mother, or enter his mother's hous( , until this charge against him has been acknowledged to be baseless. As for you, he will be the first person to visit you — and will be your most frequent visitor — when we are married. He is always talking about you. He tP'AS HE IN RAGSf 183 Isaid. you [uite Ition. that that Ithat )t to ihall ^don, any kilter (been 1 first lor — He is longing for the time when he can see you openly. But nothing will persuade him to come here. He is still bitter against his mother and against Hilda.* Elsie sighed. ' It is very terrible — and now But go on.' ' I have answered your question, Elsie.' * Oh, no. I have only just begun. You say that Athel- stan is in London ; but you do not tell me what he is doing and how he fares.' * He fares very well, and he is prosperous.' ' Hilda says that he has been living in some wretched quarter of London all these years ; that he has been frequent- ing low company ; and that he has been, until the last few weeks, in rags and penniless.' George laughed aloud. 'Where on earth did Hilda get this precious information ? Athelstan in a low quarter ? Athelstan a Prodigal ? Athelstan in rags ? My dearest Elsie, if Lady Dering were not your sister, I should say that she had gone mad with venomous hatred of the brother whom she made so much haste to believe guilty.' ' Oh ! Tell me quick, George. Don't say anything against Hilda, please. I am already Tell me quick the whole truth.' ' Well, dear, the whole truth is this. Athelstan is doing very well. I suf.»pose you might call him prosperous. When he went away, he had ten pounds to begin with. People kindly credited him with the nic^ little sum of 720/. obtained by a forgery. W^ now know that this money has been lying in the safe all thv^ time — how it got there, the Lord knows — perhaps Checkley could tell. He went to America by the cheapest way possible. He had many adventures and many ups and downs, all of which he will tell you before long. Once he had great good fortune on a silver mine or something : he made thousands of pounds over it. Then he lost all his money — dropped it down a sink or into an open drain — you know, in America, these traps are plentiful, and started again on his ten pounds. He was a journalist all the time, and he is a journalist still. He is now over here as the London corre- spondent of a great paper of San Francisco. That, my dear Elsie, is, briefly, the record of your brother since he went away.' *0h ! But are you quite sure, George? — quite — quite sure % Because, if this can be proved ' \ 184 THh IVORY GATE / 'Nothing? is more easy to prove. He brous;ht letters to a London Bank introducing him as the corros))<>ii(K'iit, and em- powering him to draw certain nu)ney.s,' ' How long hns Athelstan l)een at hoiiic! 1 ' She remembered the dates of the recent forgeries, and the alleged fact that all were in the same handwriting. ' You are so persistent, Elsie, that I am certain you have got something serious on your mind — won't you tell me ?' ' No, George — not to-night. But — how long has Athelstan been in England ? ' ' I will tell you exactly iiow and when I met him. Do you remember three weeks ago, that Sunday evening when we were so happy and so miserable — resolved on braving everything — going to live on love and a crust for the rest of our lives ? — you poor, dear, brave girl ! ' He touched her fingt^rs. ' I shall always be thankful for that prospect of poverty, because it revealed my mistress to me in all her loveliness of love and trust and courage.' ' Oh, George — you spoil me. But then I know myself better.' ' Well - on that evening we went to Church together ; and after Church, as I was not allowed in the house, we walked round and round the Square until the rain came on, and we bed to go home. Well, you did not take any notice ; but as you stood on the steps waiting for the door to be opened, a man was standing on the kerb under the lamp close by. When the door was shut behind you, I turned and walked away. This man followed me and clapped me on the shoulder. It was Athelstan.' ' And T saw him and did not know him ! ' 'He has grown a big beard now, and wore a felt hat. He is a picturesque object, to look at. Ought to have been one of Drake's men. I daresay he was in a foi mer existence. He had then been in England exactly a week, and every day he had prowled about the place in the hope of seeing you — not speaking to you — he trusted that you would not know him again.' * Oh, poor Athelstan ! That is nearly three weeks ago. He has been in England four weeks — a month — and three — four — five months ago — where was he ? * * I told you. In California.' •Oh! then he could not— possibly — not possibly — and it ^ IVAS HE IN RAGSf 185 can be proved — and oh ! George — George — I am so glad — I am so glad.' She showed her joy by a light shower of tears. ' Why, my dear,' he said, soothing her, * why are you so troubled and yet so glad ? * * You don't quite understand, G eorge. You don't know the things that are said. All these forgeries are in the same handwriting.' ' Certainly.' * One man has written all these letters and cheques and things — both that of eight years ago and those of last March ?* ' That is perfectly certain.' ' Then, don't you seo 1 Athelstan was out of England when these newly-discovered forgeries were done. Therefore, he had no hand in them. Therefore, again, he could have had no hand in the earlier one. Why — you establish his innocence perfectly. Now you see one of the reasons why I was so glad.' The other reason — that this fact destroyed at one blow the whole of the splendid edifice constructed upon the alleged stay of Athelsta^i in London— Elsie concealed. Her heart, it must be acknowledged, was lightened. You may have the most complete belief in the innocence of a person, but it is well to have the belief strengthened by facts. ' As for me,' said George, * I have been so long accustomed t(j regard him as one of the worst used of men, tl at I never thought of that conclusion. Of course, if the handwriting is the same, and it certainly seems the same — a very good imita- tion of Mr. Bering's hand — there is nothing now to be said. Athelstan was in California in the spring. That settles it. And the notes were in the safe. Two clinchers. But to some minds a suspicion is a charge, and a charge is a fact.' ' George, you must take me to Athelstan. Give me his address.' ' He is in lodgings in Half Moon Street. I will ask him if he will meet you.' * No — no ; let me go to him. It is more fitting. You w All see him presently. Will you tell him that I will call upon him to-morrow morning at eleven ? And tell him, George, that something has happened - something that makes it im- possible for me to remain at home — even for the short time before our wedding.' 186 THE IVORY GATE % ' Elsie ! this is very seriouu/ ♦ Yes, it is very serious. Tell him that I shall ask him to receive nie until the wedding, or until certain things have happened. — But in any case— oh ! they must bippon so -they nrmst- it is too ahsurd.' • Elsie, my dear, you grow interjectional.' 'Yes — yes. I mean, Geor^o, that if things turn out as T hope they may, I will go homo again. If not, we will be married from Athelstan's lodginj^s.' • And you will not tell me what this terrible business is ? * ' Not to-night, George,' she repeated. * It is very serious, and it makes me very unhappy that my mother and sister ' ' It is something to do with me, Elsie, clearly. Never mind. You will tell me when you please. Whatever you do is sure to be right. I will see him this evening.' ' Thank you, George. I think that what I propose is the wisest thing to do. Besides, I want to be with you and Athelstan. Tell him that as he left the house eight years ago I leave it now.' ' You ? Why, my dear child, what forgeries have you been committing ? ' 'None. And yet Well, George, that is enough about me and my troubles. Tell me now about your search into this business. How have you got on ? ' * There is nothing new to report. I told you that I left a note on Edmund Gray's table. No answer has come to that. The Bank has written to tell him that his letter of introduc- tion was a forgery. No answer. The dividends are accumu- lating : he draws no cheques : he makes no sign. In a word, though this money is lying to his credit, and the shares are transferred to his name, and the letters give his address, there is nothing whatever to convict the man. himself. We could not prove his signature, and he !ias taken none of the money. He might call any day and say that he knew nothing about it. I wonder he hasn't done it. When he does, we shall just have to put everything straight again. As for poor old Checkley, I really believe that he is going mad. If I meet him he glares ; if he is in his master's room, his eyes follow me about under his shaggy eyebrows with a malignity which I have never seen painted. As for being described, words couldn't do it. I suppose he sees that the end is inevitable. Really, Elsie, the man would murder me if be dared.' ^VAS HE IN RAGSt 187 r * The man is dnngorous, George, as well as malignant. But I think he will do you no harm in the long run. Have you told Athelstan what is going on V * Certainly. He follows the business with the greatest interest. He agrees with me that the thing is done out of the office with the help of some one in it. Now, the point is, that the man in the office must h;ive the control of the poet. All the letters must pass through his hands. Who is that man ? No one but Checkley. Everything turns on that. Now, here is a lucky accident. An old friend of Athelstan's, a man who coaches, has Chambers on the same stairs and on the same floor. He knows this Mr. Edmund (Jray. We have been to his rooms to question him.* * Is it to see this old friend that Athelstan visits No. 22 ? * *Yes. His name is Carstone — commonly called Freddy Carstone — a pleasing man, with a little weakness, which seems to endear him to his friends.' * Th?.a is the way in which things get distorted in a malig- nant mind ! Well. W^hat did this gentleman tell you about this mysterious Edmund Gray ? ' ' Nothing definite. That ho is some kind of Socialist we knew before : tha j he has occupied the Chambers for ten years or so we knew before. Also, that he is an elderly gen- tleman of benevolent aspect. And that he is irregular in his visits to his Chambers. We seem to get no further. We see Checkley coming out of the house. That connects him, to be sure. But that is not much. There is no connection esta- blished between Edmund Gray and the forgeries in his name. Nor between Checkley and the forgeries. One feels that if one could lay hold of this mysterious elderly gentleman, a real step in advance would be taken.' * You talked at first of arresting him on the charge.' * Well — there is no evidence. His name has been used — that is all. On that evidence no magistrate would issue a warrant. Sometimes one's head goes round with the bewil- derment of it. I've managed to learn something about Check- ley in the course of these inquiries. He is quitiO a great man, Elsie ; a tavern oracle in the evening ; a landlord and house- holder and collector of his own rents at odd hours ; a capital- ist and a miser. But he is not, as thought at first — Edmund Gray.' They had by this time got round to the house again. *■ Go, 188 THE IVORY GATR wk' Pi I ,iow, Goorgo,* said Elsie. ' See Athelstan this evening. Tell him that 1 must go to him. I will toll him why to-morrow.' ' i i ho is itot at his olub I will go to hin lodgings. If he ii not(lu»m I will wait cill ho comos home. And beforo I go homo I will drop a note for you. — Good-night, swoethoart— gotnl-night.' CHAPTER XVin TIIR PliODIGAL AT IIUMB In the morning, Elsie rose at aoven and put together such things as sln^ should want for tho throo wooks hofore her marriage, if she was to spend that interval under her brotlmr's care. At "ight oelook she received her hitters including one in a Immiwriting she did not know. She opened it. * Dear Elsie,' it said, ' come to me at once. Come early. Dome to breakfast at nine. I will wait for you till ten, or Come any time. * Your affectionate Brother, ' Atiielstan.* * Oh ! * she murmured. * And I did not know his writing. And t<> think that 1 am twenty-one, and he is thirty-one ; and that 1 have never had a letter from him before ! ' Her Iwxes were packed She put on her jacket and hat and descended into the breakfast- room, where her mother was aliv.tdy opening her letters and waiting breakfast. ' You are going out, Elsie ? ' she asked coldly. ' Yes. Hilda told you, I suppose, what she came here for yesterday. In fact, you sent me a message.' ' I hope she delivered it correctly.' ' 8he said that you would not sanction my wedding while this charge, or suspicion, was hanging over George's head. And that you would not see him until it was withdrawn or cleared away.' * Certainly. In such a case it would be worse than hypm*risy to receive him with friendliness.* ^ Then, like Hilda, you accept the conclusion.' ' i am unable to do anything else. The conclusion seems THE PRO DIG AL AT HOME i«9 to me inovituhlc. Tf not,, lot him oxphiin. T hope th.":*- no iiuio will l»? IohI. in hrin^'in^ th« fortiml charge. It in foolish kin(lIH^s,^ rcnl «'rm'H.y to /ill ronciirnnfl to kcfop Huoh ti thin<^ hun^iii^ o\(!r out- liratlH. I H.-iy miv IwtndH, not yours ofkly, Kisio, bocauHO you know your hrotlmr i.s iniplicatftd— • porhapH tho nvil contrivor— of tho (liDudfuI Hfrlicino.' ' Would you l)(!liovo mo it' J woro to toll you that AtholHtaa could not 1)0 iinpli<'at(!d V * My d«ar — b(fIiovo you 1 Of course, I would Ixjliove if I ooul*]. Unfortunately, tho evirlenco is too strong.' ElHi(! Hi^hod. ' Vory well ; I will say nothing more. You have driven out my lover, as you