Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/beyonddreamsofavOObesarich BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE HOVELS BY SIR WALTER BESANT AND JAMES RICE. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 31. f}d. each ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, ai. each ; cloth limp, zr. dd. each. READY-MONEY MORTIBOY. MY LITTLE GIRL. WITH HARP AND CROWN. THIS SON OF VULCAN. THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. THE MONKS OF THELEMA. BY CELIA'S ARBOUR. THE CHAPLAIN OF THE FLEET THE SEAMY SIDE. THE CASE OF MR. LUCRAFT, &c. 'TWAS IN TRAFALGAR'S BAY, &c. THE TEN YEARS' TENANT, &c. •«» There is also a LIBRARY EDITION of the above Twelve Volumes, handsomely set in new type on a large crown 8vo. page, and bound in cloth extra, 6s. each ; and a POPULAR EDITION of THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY, medium Bvo. 6rf. ; cloth, if.-NEW EDITIONS, printed in large type on crown Bvo. laid paper, bound in figured cloth, 3J. td. each, are al^o in course of publication. NOVELS BY SIR AVALTER BESANT. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3^. td. each ; post 8vo. illustrated boards, -zs. each ; cloth limp, -iS. 6d. each. ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN. With 12 Illustrations by Fred. Barnard. THE CAPTAINS' ROOM, &c. With a Frontispiece by E. J. Whefler. ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR. With 6 Illustrations by Harry Furniss. DOROTHY FORSTER. With a Frontispiece by Charles GsaEN. UNCLE JACK, and other Stories. CHILDREN OF GIBEON. THE WORLD WENT VERY WELL THEN. With 12 Illustrations by A. FORESTIER. HERR PAULUS : His Rise, his Greatness, and his Fall. THE BELL OF ST. PAUL'S. FOR FAITH AND FREEDOM. With Illustrations by A. Fokestier and F. Waddy, TO CALL HER MINE, &c. With 9 Illustrations by A. Forestier. THE HOLY ROSE, &c. With a Frontispiece by F. Barnard. ARMOREL OF LYONESSE : a Romance of To-day. With 12 Illustra- tions by F. Barnard. ST. KATHERINE'S BY THE TOWER. With 12 Illustrations by VERBENA CAMELLIA STEPHANOTIS, &c With a Frontispiece by Gordon Browne. THE IVORY GATE. THE REBEL QUEEN^ BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE. Library Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, Ss. IN DEACON'S ORDERS, &c With a Frontispiece by A. Forestier. Crown Bvo. cloth, 6^. THE MASTER CRAFTSMAN. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 10^. net. [May. FIFTY YEARS AGO. With 144 Plates and Woodcuts, Crown 8vo. cloth extra, sj. THE EULOGY OF RICHARD JEFFERIES. With Portrait. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 6^. LONDON. With 125 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. cloth extra, -js. td. WESTMINSTER. With Etched Frontispiece by F. S. Walker, R.P.E., and 130 Illustrations by William Patten and others. Demy 8vo. cloth, iPf. SIR RICHARD WHITTINGTON. With Frontispiece, Crown Bvo. art linen, y. 6d. GASPARD DE COLIGNY. With a Portrait. Crown 8vo. art linen, 35. td. AS WE ARE : AS WE MAY BE : Social Essays. Crown 8vo, linen, 6s. [Shortly. London : CHATTO & WINDUS, Piccadilly. Frontispiece. ' Yott all have the same face. BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE BY SIR WALTER BESANT AUTHOR OF *all sorts an'd conditions of men* 'children of gibeom* 'all in a garden fair' etc A NEW EDITION WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W. H. HYDE LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1896 Pi. IN TED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET S^UAKE LONDON CONTENTS CHAPTE31 TAOS I. A Surprise and an Injtjnction • • • • . 1 n. A Packet of Papers ..•••••. 7 in. ' The Child is Dead ' 13 IV. An Inquest of Office 18 V. The Fortune and the House • • • • • 25 VI. The Nursery • • 31 VII. The Prodigal Son 89 VIII. The Portraits 4a IX. The Press upon Windfalls .••••• 54 X. Are we Cousins? • • • 65 XI. A Variety Entertainment , • • • • .77 XII. The Same Name 90 XIII. The Vision of the Mothees 101 XIV. Unlooked-for Delays . • 112 XV. Hundreds of Claiiiants • . 123 XVI. The Missing Link , 129 XVII. The Beginning ••••••«. 185 XVm. A Search and a Find . • . • • . . 142 XIX. A Household Book. ••••••. 147 XX. A Commentary •••••••». 159 XXL The Other Lucinda ••••••• 162 \ 028 VI BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPxICE CHAPTER PA<5S XXII. The LoNa-Losr Family 173 XXIII. The First Patient 184 XXIV. The Curate's Choicb , . . . ... 194 XXV. Who is he ? 201 XXVI. A Shaky Partnership 206 XXVII. The Genealogist . • 219 XXVIII. The Miracle 232 XXIX. ' Confess ye your Sins ' 233 XXX. Impossible to be found out ...... 244 XXXI. The Shame of it I 252 XXXII. A Drea&i and a Discovery 25 G XXXIII. The Condolence of the Motheus .... 267 XXXIV. Farewell! . « . 278 XXXV. Ella's Adyice . ; # 290 XXXVI. A Family Council . ; ; . . ... 292 XXXVII. What the Press said I ;. ... 303 XXXVm. Eabthqijakes and Showers or Fire , • . . 313 LIST OF ILLUSTEATIONS •You ALL HAVE THE SAME FACE* • • • • . Frontispiece * Best, fathee,' said the son, touchino the sick man's FT7LSE • . • • ' The housekeeper took us up to the first floob ' • He stands before you 1' Margaret ran in with a light heart She took her purse, and poup^d out the contents In the old Cathedral • kobodt laughed at all when be sang. He had a DISCOVERY TO REVEAL • I HAVE COME TO CARRY YOU AWAY ' ... Ella took her hand and kissed it . • . i A strange, weird picture she uade • • • To face p. 3 „ 28 „ 65 „ 101 „ 113 „ 138 „ 207 „ 220 » 237 „ 254 - 275 W. FARNEY5 50. AMWELL STPF!:-!, CliABBMONT SQUAKB. PENTONYILLE. E.G. BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE CHAPTER I A SUPvPEISE AND AN INJUNCTION * LuciAN 1 ' The sick man was propped up by pillows. His hands lay folded outside the coverings. All that could be seen of a face covered with an iron-grey beard was pale. His deep-set eyes were bright. His square, strong brow, under a mass of black hair touched with grey, was pale. * Lucian, I Bay.* His voice was strong and firm, although the patient repose of his head and hands showed that movement was either difficult or impossible. * Lucian, it is no use trying to deceive me.' * I do not try to deceive you. There is always hope.* * I have none. Sit down now and let us talk quietly. It is the last chance, very likely, and I have a good deal to say. Sit down, my son — there — so that I may see you.' The son obeyed. He placed a chair by the bedside and sat down. He was a young man about seven-and-twenty years of age. He had the same square forehead as his father, and the same deep- set bright black eyes ; the same straight black eyebrows. His face was beardless ; the features were strong and clearly cut ; it was a face of resolution : not what girls call a handsome face, but a face of intellectual power : a responsible face : a masterful face : his broad shoulders and tall, strong figure increased the sense of personal force which accompanied the presence of Lucian Calvert. B 2 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE 'The weakest point about human knowledge,' said the sick man, philosophising from habit, * is that we never seem to make any real advance in keeping the machinery in order, or in setting it right when it gets wrong.' He was a mechanical engineer by calling, and of no mean reputation. * When the machinery goes wrong, the works stop. Then we have to throw away the engine. She can't be repaired. Y7hy don't you learn how to tinker it up, you doctors ? ' The son, who was a physician, shook his head. * We do our best,' he said. ' But we are only beginning.* * Why don't you learn how to set the thing going again ? Let the machine run down, and then take it to pieces and mend it. Get up steam again, and then run her for another spell. That's what you ought to do, Lucian.' * You are talking like yourself again, father.' * I suppose,' he went on, * that if men had by their own wit themselves invented this machine of the body, if they had built it up, bit by bit, as we fellows have done with our engines, they would understand the thing better. As it is, we must pay for ignorance. A man finds he has got to die at fifty-five because the doctors know nothing but symptoms. Fifty-five I In the very middle of one's work 1 It's disgusting. Just beginning, so to speak, and all his knowledge wasted — gone— dissipated — unless somehow there's the conservation of intellectual energy.' * Perhaps there is,' said his son. * As you say, we under- stand little more than symptoms, which is the reason why there is always hope.' But he spoke without assurance. * Never mind myself,' the father replied. * About you, Lucian.' * Don't think about me : I shall do very well.* * I must think about you, my dear boy, because it is im- possible to think about myself. Last night I had a dream. I was floating in dark space, with nothing to think about. And it was maddening. I don't suppose that death means that. Well, I shall learn what it means in a day or two. There's A SURPBISE AND AN INJUNCTION -? ^ the money question. I never tried to save money. I was set dead against saving quite early in life. Had good reason to hate and loathe saving. But I believe that Tom Nicholson has got something of mine — something that rolled in— and there's your mother's money. You won't starve. And you've got your profession.* * I shall do, sir.' *I think you will. I've always thought you would. You've got it written on your face. If you keep your eyes in the right direction — in the direction of work — you'll do very well. You will either go up steadily or you will go dovvTi swiftly. It is the gutter or the topmost round for you.' He paused. The exertion of talking was too great for his strength. * Rest, father,' said the son, touching the sick man's pulse. *Ilest, and talk again to-morrow.' * Who will talk with me to-morrow ? Wait a moment, Lucian. Lift my head. So. That's better. I breathe again. Now — as soon as I am buried, you must communicate the news of my death — to my father.' * To whom ? ' Lucian started. He thought his father v^-as off his head. * To my father, Lucian. I have never told you that I have a father still living.' Imagine, dear reader. This young man had lived seven- and-tv^enty years in the world, and always in the belief that his father was an only child, and that his grandfather was dead, and that there were no cousins, or if any, then perhaps cousins not desirable. Then you will understand the amaze- ment of this young man. He sprang to his feet and bent ever the sick man. No ; his eyes were steady. There was no outward sign of wandering. * My father, Lucian,' he repeated. * I am not delirious, I assure you.' * Your father ? Why ? Where is he ? What is he ? Is he — perhaps — poor ? ' * He is a very old man ; he is over ninety years of age. b2 k 4 BEYOND TIIE BUEAMS OF AVARICf! ^ And he is not poor at all. His poverty is not the reason why you have never heard of him.* * Oh I Then, why ' * Patience, my son. He is neither poor nor ohscure. He is famous, in fact, so famous that I resolved to begin the world for myself without his reputation on my back. A parent's greatness may hamper a young man at the outset. Bo I left him.' * His reputation ? We are, then, connected with a man of reputation.' But Lucian spoke dubiously. * You are, as you will shortly, perhaps, discover. I sup- pose he no longer follows his profession, being now so old.' * What profession ? ' * Destruction and Euin,' replied the old man, shortly. ' Oh r His son asked no further questions. Perhaps he felt that to learn more would make him no happier. A strange profession, however, * Destruction and Ruin.* * I changed my name when I left the family home. So that you have no ancestors, fortunately, except myself. You are like Seth, the son of Adam.' * No ancestors ? But we must have ancestors.' *If you want to learn all about them, you can. Tom Nicholson knows. Tom Nicholson, the lawyer — he knows. He has got some papers of mine, that I drew up a long time ago. It might be better for you to go on in ignorance. On the other hand — well, choose for yourself. Read the papers, if you like, and find out what manner of people your ancestors were. Nicholson will give you your grandfather's address. Tell him, without revealing yourself or the name that I have borne — or your own relation to me — tell him simply that I am dead.' * Very well, sir. I will do what you desire.* * One thing more. It is my earnest wish — I do not com- mand : no man, not even a father, has the right to command another — but it is my wish and hope that you may never be invited or tempted to resume the name that I abandoned, to ^ A SURPRISE AND AN INJUNCTION 5 claim kin with any of the family which I have renounced, or to take one single farthing of the fortune which your ancestors have amassed. Our money has been the curse of us for two hundred years. You may learn, if you please, from Tom Nicholson the history of the family. From father to son — from father to son. It was got by dishonour ; it has been increased and multiplied by dishonour ; it has been attended with dishonour, fraud and crime, madness, selfishness, hard- ness of heart — pitiless hardness of heart has gone with it. Lucian, when you have learned the history of your ancestors, you will understand why I left the house full of wretched memories and renounced them all. And if I judge you aright, you will be ready to renounce them, too.* * I shall remember your wish, sir,' said his son, gravely. * But I do not understand how the question of money can arise, since your father is in ignorance of my very existence.' * Best so. Best so,' said the sick man. * Then you cannot be tempted.' For one so weak this long conversation was a great effort. He closed his eyes and spoke no more. The young man sat down again and watched. But he was strangely agitated. What did his father mean ? What kind of profession was that which could be described as Destruction and Ruin ? Nothing more was said upon the subject at all, for the machinery proved so much out of gear that the engine suddenly stopped. And as no one could possibly set it going again, there was nothing left but to put away the engine in the place w^here people put away all the broken engines. When the funeral was over, the two principal mourners, Lucian Calvert and a certain Mr. Nicholson, old friend and legal adviser of his father, above referred to as Tom, drove away together. They went back to the house. * Now,' said Lucian, * tell me things. All I know is that my name is not Calvert, and that my grandfather is still living.* * That is all you know, is it ? Well, Lucian, in my opinio© 6 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAHICE you know too much for your own happiness already. I advised your father to keep you in ignorance. I saw that you would get on, as he had done, without the help of money or the hindrance of connections. But he thought you ought to have the opportunity of knowing everything if you choose.' * Certainly, I do choose.' * Well, then, your father was my oldest friend. We were boys together, at Westminster School. He was unhappy at home, for reasons which you may learn if you like. At tho age of seventeen or so he ran away from home and fought his way up through the engineering shops. His name was not John Calvert, but John Calvert Burley.' * Burley ? My name is Burley. Go on.* * Your grandfather lives in Great College Street, West- minster. Your father never had any communication with him after he left the house.* Mr. Nicholson lugged out of his coat pocket a little roll of papers. * Here is a bundle of papers which have long been in my keeping. They contain an account of the Burley family, drawn up by your father for you. There are also some letters and memorials of his mother and others, taken from her desk after she died. And that is all.' * You have told me nothing at all about the Burley people.' * No. Read the papers which your father prepared for you, and you will learn all you want to learn, and perhaps more.' He took his hat. * And, Lucian, if you choose to resume your true name and to join your own people, I will look through the papers for you and communicate with your grand- father. But I rather think, my dear boy, that you will prefer to remam Lucian Calvert. Don't change your name. Far better to be the son of John Calvert, civil engineer, than the grandson of John Calvert Burley. Toss the papers in the fire when you have read them, and think no more about the matter.' Lucian, left with the packet of papers, handled them suspiciously, looked at the fireplace in which there was no A SURPEISE AND AN INJUNCTION 7 fire, began to untie, but desisted. Finally he put the roll into his pocket and sallied forth. He was engaged— not an unusual thing for a young man — and what is the good of being engaged if you cannot put a disagreeable task upon your CHAPTEE II A PACKET OF PAPErcS The girl, Margaret by name, sat with her hands folded in her lap, looking up at her lover as he stood over her. It has never yet been decided whether those marriages are the happier when the couple are alike or when they are unlike in what we call essentials. For my own part, I think that the latter marriage presents the greater chance of happiness if only for the infinite possibilities of unexpected- ness : also for the reproduction of the father in the daughter and the mother in the son. These two were going to try love in unlikeness. The girl was fair in complexion, with blue eyes which could easily become dreamy and were always luminous : there was at the moment the sweet seriousness in them that so well becomes a beautiful woman : she was a tall girl, as is demanded by the fashion of the time, dressed as one who respects her own beauty and would become, in her lover's eyes, as attractive as she could : a strong and healthy girl ; able to hold her own yet, as one might conclude from her attitude in the presence of her lover ; one who, when she promised to give herself, meant to give everything, and already had no thought but for him. As she sat under him ; as he stood over her ; every one could understand here was man masterful, the Lord of Creation ; and here was woman obedient to the man she loved ; that here was man creative and here was woman receptive ; that out of her submission would spring up her authority. What more can the world desire ? What more did Nature intend ? 8 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAIIICE • * Now that everything is over,' he said, ' it is time for U3 to talk and think about ourselves.' * Already, Lucian ? ' * Already. The dead are dead ; we are the living. Hia memory will live awhile — longer than most men's memories, because he did good work. With us his memory will last all our Hves. Now, Marjorie, I have got something wonderful to tell you. Listen with both ears.' He took a chair and sat down, and held one of her hands. *Both ears I want. Two or three days before he died, my father told me a thing which greatly amazed me. I said nothing to you about it, but waited.' * What was it, Lucian ? ' * After the funeral, this morning, I came away with Mr. Nicholson, my father's old friend and his lawyer. He drove home with me and we had a talk.' Lucian told his tale and produced the packet of papers. ' I confess,' he said, * that I shrink from reading these documents. If I were superstitious, I should think that the reading of the documents would bring disaster. That's absurd, of course. But it is certain that there must be something disagreeable about them — perhaps, something shameful— why, else, did my father run away from home ? Why did he, as he said, renounce his ancestors ? Why did he speak of a fortune created by dishonour ? Why did he say that my grandfather's profession was "Destruction and Ruin " ? * * " Destruction and Ruin I " Did he say that ? Destruc- tion and Ruin ? What did he mean ? What kind of profes- sion is that ? ' * I don't know. Now, Madge, this is the position. I have never had any cousins at all, or any ancestors on my father's side. His people don't know of my existence, even. But there is in this packet the revelation of the family to which I belong — to which you will belong. They may be disgraceful people —probably they are.' * Since they do not know of your existence, it ig evident you »ee^ not tell them who you are,' w A PACKET OF PAPEKS 9 ' Tliey must be in somo way disreputable. " Destruction and Ruin I " That was my grandfather's profession. Do you think he is Napoleon the Great, not dead after all, but sur- vivor of all his generation ? '' Destruction and Ruin," ' he laughed. 'It would make an attractive advertisement, a handbill for distribution on the kerb outside the shop door — "Desteuction and Ruin!" There's your heading in big letters. " By John Calvert Burley ! " There's your second line. " Destruction and Ruin" — this is where your circular begins — " Destruction and Ruin in all their branches under- taken and performed with the utmost certainty, secrecy, and despatch — and on reasonable terms. The Nobility and Gentry waited on personally. Everybody destroyed com- pletely. Ruin effected in the most thorough manner. De- struction superintended from the office. Recovery hopeless. Ruin moral, material, physical and mental, guaranteed and executed as per order. Strictest confidence. Customers may depend on being satisfied with same." They always say " same," you know. " No connection with any other house. Tackle of the newest and most destructive kind to be had on the Three Years' Hire System. Painless Self Destruction taught in six lessons. Terms — strictly cash." * * Hush, hush, Lucian ! Not to make a jest of it.' But she laughed gently. ' We need not cry over it. Hang it I What can it be : *' Destruction and Ruin " ? ' * Do you think — do you think — he makes a quack medicine that will cure everything ? ' * Perhaps. " The Perfect, Pleasant, and Peremptory Pill. Children cry for it. The baby won't be happy till he gets it." Very likely. Or he may be a Socialist.' *Ye — yes— or— do you think he is a solicitor? Your father always hated lawyers.' * I don't know — or the proprietor of a paper on the other side ? He was a great Liberal.' * Perhaps— or a jerry builder ? He hated bad workmen of all kinds,' lO BEYOND THE DKEAMS OF AVARICE ♦ * Perhaps— or a turncoat politician ? Or a critic ? Or a cheap sausage maker ? Or the advertiser of soap ? Or * When one is still young it is easy to turn everything into material for smiles, if not laughter. These two guessed at many things for a profession which could he fitly described by these two words. But the real thing did not occur to them. •It was a fat profession,' the young man continued, * because my father was so anxious that I should never be tempted to take part in the fortune. Since my existence is nnknov/n, it is not likely that the temptation will arise. I wonder what it was.' ' You wish to know the contents of those papers ? ' * Very much.' *You will never rest till you do know them. Well, Lucian, let me read them for you. Perhaps you need not inquire any further. Perhaps your curiosity v/ill be satisfied with a single broad fact. It ' — * It ' meant the profession — * it could not have been so very disgraceful, for your father was a Westminster scholar, and has been a life -long friend of Mr. Nicholson, a most respectable person.' Lucian gave her the papers. * Take them, Madge. Read them, and tell mo this evening as much as you please about them.' In the evening he called again. Margaret received him with a responsible face and a manner as of one who has a difiicult duty to perform. * Well, Madge ? You have read the papers ? * *They are written by your father. Your grandfather's address is 77 Great College Street, Westminster, and his name is John Calvert Burley.' * Yes — so much I knew before. And the wonderful pro- fession ? ' * Lucian, it is really disagreeable. Can't you let the matter just rest where it is ? ' * Not now. I must know as well as you. What ? You are to be burdened with disagreeable discoveries and I am not p A PACKET OF PAPERS II to know ? Call this the Equality of Love ? What about that profession ? What about Destruction and Euin ? * * My dear Lucian, your father began a new family. You may be contented with him.' ' So long as you carry it on with me,' said her lover, with a lover-like illustration of the sentiment, * I shall be quite contented. We will renounce our ancestors and all their works and ways — their fortunes and their misfortunes. But who they were, and who they are, I must know. Tell me, then, first, what is that profession called Destruction and Euin ? * * Well, Lucian, your grandfather had several professions, and all of them disgraceful. First of all — he must now be a very old man — he began by keeping a gambling-house— a most notorious gambling place.* * Kind of Crockford's, I suppose ? ' * Burley's in Piccadilly. It was open all night long, and the keeper was always present looking after the tables, lending money to the gamesters, and encouraging them to play Thousands w^ere ruined over his tables. He provided supper and wine and everything. Well, that is the first part of it.* * A very noble beginning. Pray go on.' *Then he was the proprietor of a place where people — detestable people — danced and drank all night long. It ap- pears to have been a most horrible place.* * Oh ! Do we get much lower ? ' * I don't know. In addition to all these things he was the most fashionable money-lender in London — and that 8.ppears to have been, of late years, the profession by which he was best known. And because he w^as such a by-word, your father could not bear to remain at home and ran away, changing his name. And that, Lucian, is all that you need to know about your people. There is a lot about his fore- fathers and his brothers. There is a great deal of wickedness and of misfortune. The story is all told in these papers.* She offered them, but he refused them. * Keep them, Margaret. I think I have heard all I want 12 BEYOND THE DEEAMS OF AVAEICE to know, at least, for the present. I will write to the old man. I should like to gaze upon him, but that is out of the question, I suppose.' *He lives in the house that has been the family house since the first Burley of whom anything is known built it.* * I'll go and see the outside of the house. Don't be afraid, my child. I will not reveal my existence. I will not try to see this gentleman of so many good and pious memories. But he is over ninety, surely he must have outlived his old fame * * His infamy, you mean,' she corrected him severely. * Fame or infamy — it matters little after all these years. If you were to talk about Burley's gambling-house of sixty or seventy years ago, who would remember it ? Old history. Old history. It is forty years and more since my father left him. I suppose that, forty years ago, there might have been some prejudice — but now ? ' * Some prejudice ? Only some, Lucian ? ' She spoke with reproach. She expected much more moral indignation. * The world quickly forgets the origin of wealth. My father, had he pleased, might have defied the opinion of the w^orld. Still, he was doubtless right. Well, Maggie, I am glad to know the truth. It might have been worse.* ' What could be worse ? ' ' You yourself suggested quack medicines. But we need not make comparisons. Burley's Gambling Hell : Burley's Dancing Crib : Burley's Money-lending Business. He must have been a man of great powers. Wickedness on an exten- sive scale requires genius. There are retail dealers in wicked- ness by the thousand ; but the wholesale merchant in the wicked line — the man who lives on the vices of his fellows — all the vices he can encourage and manipulate — he is rare. Looking at John Burley from the outside and not as a pre- judiced descendant, I can see that he must have been a very Btrong man. Now I will tell him that his sou is dead.* CHAPTER III • THE CHILD IS DEAD ' In his back parlour — since the building of the house in 1721 the house had always contained a front parlour, a back par- lour, and a best parlour — the owner and tenant of the house eat in his arm-chair beside the fire. It was quite a warm day in early summer, yet there was a fire : outside, a leafy branch of a vine swept windows which had not been cleaned for a longer time than, to most housewives, seems desirable : the same vine — a large and generous vine — climbed over half the back of the house and the whole of a side wall in the little garden ; there was also a mulberry tree in the garden, and there were bumps, lumps, and anfractuosities of the ground covered with a weedy, seedy grass, which marked the site of former flower- beds in the little inclosure. The man in the arm-chair sat doubled up and limp — he had once been a tall man. Pillows w^ere placed in the chair beside and behind him, so that he was propped and comforted on every side ; his feet rested on a footstool. His wrinkled hands lay folded in his lap ; his head was protected by a black silk skull cap ; his face as he lay back was covered with multitudinous wrinkles — an old, old face — the face of a very ancient man. The house was very quiet. To begin with, you cannot find anywhere in London a quieter place than Great College Street, Westminster. Then there were but two occu- pants of this house — the old man in the chair, and an old woman, his housekeeper, in the kitchen below — and they were both asleep, for it was four o'clock in the afternoon. On the table, beside this aged man, stood a decanter containing the generous wine that kept him alive. There were also pens, paper, and account-books, one of them lying open, his spec- tacles on the page. Literature to this man meant account-books — his own 14 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE account-books — the record of hig own investments. He read nothing else, not the newspaper, not any printed books : all his world was in the account-books. Of men and women he took no thought : he was as dead to humanity as a Cistercian monk ; he was, perhaps, the only living man who had com- pletely achieved what he desired and lived to enjoy the fruit of his labours : to sit rejoicing in his harvest. How many of us enjoy our harvest? The rich man generally dies before he has made enough ; the poet dies before his fame is established ; but this man, who had all his life desired nothing but money, had made so much that he desired no more : his soul was satisfied. Perhaps in extreme old age desire itself had died away. But he was satisfied. No one knew except himself how much he had accumulated ; he sat all day long in his old age reading, adding, counting, enjoying his wealth, watching it grow, and spread, and bear golden fruits. For this man was Burley of the gambling hell ; Burley of the dancing cribs ; Burley the money-lender ; in his extreme old age, in his last days. The house was always quiet : no one knocked at the door except his manager, the man who was the head of the great house filled with clerks — some of them passed solicitors — where his affairs were conducted, his rents collected, and his vast income invested as it came in day by day. Otherwise the house was perfectly quiet. No letters came ; no telegrams ; the occupant v/as forgotten by the world ; nobody knew that he w^as still living. The old money-lender sat at home, by himself, and counted money which he lent no more : most of those with whom he had formerly done business were dead — they could curse him no more ; all those who had thrown away their money at his gaming table were dead — they could curse him no more. As for the nightly orgies, the dancing cribs, the all-night finishes, if their memory survives, that of their proprietor had long since been forgotten. And the dancers themselves — merry, joyous, laughing, singing — but their voices were hoarse ; careless, yet their eyes were restless — the happy company of nymphs and swains of sixty 'THE CHILD IS DEAD' 1 5 years ago — not one was left to curse him for the madness of the pace or to weep over the memory of a ruined youth. He had outlived, as his grandson suggested, his infamy. Nohody outside talked about him. In his ovm den he had quite forgotten — wholly forgotten — that at any time there had been any persons whom he had injured. He was serenely forgetful ; he was in a haven of rest, where no curses could reach him, and where no tempests could be raised by memories of the past. Those who study manners and customs of the nineteenth century have read of Burley's Hell. It was a kind of club to which every one who had money and wore the dress and as- sumed the manners of society was freely admitted. The scandalous memoirs of the time talk of Burley's chef and his wines, and the table at which he was always present all night long, always the same, calm, grave, unmoved ; whatever the fortunes of the night, always ready to lend anybody — that is, anybody he knew — any sum of money he wanted on his note of hand. Great fortunes were lost at Burley's. Men walked out of Burley's with despair in their hearts and self-murder in their minds. Yet — old history ! old history ! as Lucian Calvert said. Again : only those who are students of life in London, when the Corinthian and his friends were enjoying it, still talk about the Finish — Burley's crib — where the noble army of the godless assembled night after night, young men and old men, and ladies remarkable for their sprightliness as well as their beauty, and danced and laughed and had supper and drank pink champagne — too sweet — in long glasses. There was generally some kind of fight or a row ; there was always some kind of a gamble in some little room upstairs. But — old history ! old history I Those who read it never thought of Burley at all. Who cares, after fifty years, to inquire about a man who once ran an all-night dancing crib ? Mr. Burley had outlived his infamy. And always, till past eighty years of age, the prince of money-lenders. Everybody went to Burley. He found money for everybody. His terms were hard, and you bad to keep l6 BEYOND THE DUEAMS OF AVAPJCE your agreement. But the money was there if the security was forthcoming. No tears, no entreaties, no prayers, no distress would induce him to depart from his bond. It is, indeed, impossible to carry on such a business successfully without an adamantine heart. But it was nearly fifteen years since he retired from practice, and the world spoke of him no more. He had outlived his infamy. He was startled out of his sleep by the postman's knock. He sat up, looked about him, recovered his wandering wits, and drank a little port, which strengthened him so that he was able to understand that his housekeeper was bringing him a letter. * Give it to me,* he said, surprised, because letters came no more to that house. He put on his spectacles and read the address, 'John Calvert Burley.' *It is for me,' he said. He then laid the letter on the table and looked at his house- Jceeper. She knew what he meant and retired. The old man at his time of life was not going to begin doing business in the presence of a servant. When she was gone he took it up again and opened it slowly. It was short, and written in the third person. * The writer begs to inform Mr. Burley that his son, John Calvert Burley, died five days ago, on the IGth of May, of rheumatic fever, and was buried yesterday. At the request of the deceased this information is conveyed to Mr. Burley.' There was no date, and there was no address. But, the old man thought, there could be no reason to doubt the fact. Why should it be invented ? His memory, strong enough about the far-distant past when he was young, was weak as regards matters that occurred only forty or fifty years ago. It cost him an effort to recall — - it was a subject of which he never liked to think — how hi3 son had left him after protesting against what he called the infamy of the money-lending business. * Infamy I ' he said. Infamy 1 Of a respectable and lucrative business 1 Infamy I when the mcome was splendid I *An undutiful son 1 ' murmured bis father. * A disrespect* 'THE CHILD IS DEAD' 1 7 ful son ! * lie read the letter again. * So : he is dead.' He threw the letter and the envelope on the fire. * I have left off thinking about hira. Why should I begin again ? I won't. I will forget him. Dead, is he? I used to think that perhaps he would come back and make submission for the sake of the money. And even then I wouldn't have left him any. I remember. That was when I made up my mind what should be done with it. Ho ! ho 1 I thought how dis- appointed he would be. Dead, is he? Then he won't be disappointed. It's a pity. Now there's nobody left, nobody left at all.' This reflection seemed to please him, for he laughed a little and rubbed his hands. At the age of ninety- four, or there- abouts, it is dangerous to give way to any but the simplest and most gentle emotions. It is quite wonderful what a little thing may stop the pulse at ninety-four, and still the heart. Even such a little thing as the announcement of the death of a son one has not seen for nearly forty years, and the revival of an old, angry, and revengeful spirit, may do it. When the housekeeper brought in the tea at five o'clock, she found that, to use the old man's last words, ' There was nobody left at all.' *Look, Marjorie.' Lucian showed her a newspaper. * The old man, my grandfather, is dead. " On the 21st, suddenly, at his residence. Great College Street, Westminster, John Calvert Burley, aged ninety- four years." ' * On the 21st ? Two days ago ! That was when he received your letter.' * If he did receive it. Perhaps he died before it reached the house. Here is a paragraph about him. He did not quite outlive his infamy.' The paragraph ran as follows : — * The death, this day announced, of Mr. John Calvert Burley, carries us back sixty years and more, to the time when gambling-hells were openly kept, and when there were all-night saloons ; to the days when the pace of the young prodigal was far faster than in this degenerate generation. 1 8 BEYOND THE DBEAMS OF AVARICE Mr. Burley was the firm friend of the young prodigal. He gave him a gambling-table with free drinks ; he gave him dancing cribs; he lent him money; he encouraged him to keep the ball a-roUing. Sixty years ago Mr. Burley's name was well known to all followers of Comus. For many years he has Hved retired in his house at Westminster. The present generation knows nothing of him. But it will be a surprise to old men, if any survive, of the twenties or the thirties, that John Burley lived to the age of ninety-four and only died yesterday. He must have outlived all those who drank his champagne and lost their money at his tables ; he must have outlived most of the young prodigals for whom he ran his dancing- saloon and to whom he lent money at 50 per cent.' Margaret read it aloud. ' Yes,' she said, ' some prejudices linger, don't they, Lucian ? Better to be a Calvert without any other ancestors than an honourable father, than a Burley with this man behind you.* * Perhaps,' said Lucian thoughtfully. ' But a man can no more get rid of his ancestors than he can get rid of his face and his hereditary tendencies. Well, my dear, the name may go. And as for the money — I suppose there was a good deal of money — that has been left to someone, and I hope he will enjoy it. As for us, we have nothing to do vnth it.' CHAPTEB IV AN INQUEST OF OFFICE The door of the house in Great College Street stood wide open — a policeman was stationed on the door- step. Some- thing of a public character was therefore going on : at private family functions — as a wedding, a christening, a funeral — there is no policeman. But there was no crowd or any public curiosity — in fact, you could not raise a crowd in Great College Street on any pretext whatever. Once a horse fell down in AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 1 9 order to try. He had to get up, unnoticed. From time to time a man stepped briskly up the street, spoke to the police- man, and went in. Presently there came along the street a young man — Mr. Lucian Calvert, in fact — who walked more slowly, and looked about him. He had come to see the outside of a certain house. He arrived at the house, read the number, and saw the open door and the policeman on the steps. * What is going on ? ' he asked. * Coroner's inquest.' 'An inquest? Is not this the house of the late Mr. Burley ? ' * Yes, sir. That was the party's name. He's left no will, and there's an inquest. You can go in, if you like. It's in the ground-floor back.* The young man hesitated. Then he accepted the invita- tion and stepped in. He had come to see the outside of his grandfather's house. Chance gave him an opportunity for seeing the inside as well. Other men walked up the street and spoke to the policeman and stepped in. Then there drove up to the door a cab with two men. One had the unmis- takable look of a man in office ; the other the equally un- mistakable look of a middle-aged clerk. After a certain time of life we all appear to be what we are. This is as it should be : in early life we can make-up. I have known a young duke look like a carpenter, and a young compositor like a belted earl. When these two had entered, the policeman left the door and followed the others into the ground-floor back — more poetically, the back parlour. The twelve men gathered there were the twelve good men and true who had been summoned to form a jury. They represented, after the manner of their forefathers, the wisdom of the nation. The man of office represented the ancient and honourable post of coroner. The policeman represented the authority of the Court. A reporter, together with the young gentleman who had been invited to assist, represented the publicity of the Court— no Star Chamber business there, if c2 20 BEYOND THE BIIEAMS OF AYAEICE you please. All above-board and open. There were one or two others — an elderly gentleman, well dressed, with the look of ability and the air of business experience — this was Mr. Burley's manager ; an old woman in black, who held a hand- kerchief in her hand and patted her eyes with it at intervals with a perfunctory moan — these were witnesses. There was also a young man who might have been something in the City. He was in reality a shorthand clerk employed at the office where the Burley Estate was managed, and he came with the manager to take down the proceedings. And stand- ing in a corner Lucian observed, to his astonishment, Mr. Nicholson, his father's friend and solicitor. * You here, Lucian ? Who told you ? ' * I am here by accident. What does it mean ? * * It means that they can't find any will. Good Lord I What a windfall it will be for somebody I ' He remembered that Lucian was the grandson. * That is, for anybody w^ho would proclaim his relationship to such a man.' Lucian looked about the room. It was wainscoted and the panels were painted drab ; a good, useful colour, which can absorb a good deal of dirt without showing it, and lasts a long time. It was formerly a favourite colour for this if for no other reason, all through the last century. In the panels were hanging coloured prints, their frames once gilt, now almost black. The low window looked out upon a small garden, in which stood a mulberry tree, while on the wall grew an immense vine. Curtains which had long lost their virginal colour hung from a mahogany curtain-pole. On the mantel-shelf was a tobacco-jar with two broken pipes, and two wax candles in silver candlesticks. The floor was covered with a worn carpet faded like the curtains : in front of the fire it had gone into holes — there was no hearthrug. As for the furniture, it consisted of a ponderous mahogany table black with age, a mahogany sideboard of ancient fashion, wdth a large punch-bowl upon it and a copper coal-scuttle below it ; a tall book-case filled with books, all in the leather and sheepr skin binding of the last century ; three or four chairs of tl^e AN INQUEST OF OFFICII 21 straight-backed kind and a modern wooden arm-chair stood against the wall. The fireplace was of the eighteenth century pattern, with an open chimney and a hob : on the hob was a copper kettle. The brass fender was one of the old-fashioned high things, to match the grate and to keep as much heat aa possible out of the room. Two benches had been placed in the room for the accommodation of the jury. The coroner bustled into the room, and took his seat at the head of the table in the arm-chair. His clerk placed papers before him and stood in readiness, the New Testament in his hand. The reporter and the shorthand clerk took chairs at the lower end of the table — the poHceman closed the door and stood besi^ it on guard — the jury took their seats on the wooden benches, the old lady renewed her sobs, the manager took a chair behind the reporter, and the public, represented by Mr. Nicholson and Lucian, shrank deeper into the comer. ' Gentlemen,* said the coroner, rising and looking slowly round the room with importance, * I am about to open the Court — this Court,' he repeated, 'for this inquest.* The jury murmured and cleared their throats. * Gentlemen,' said tho coroner, ' you will first be sworn.' This was done by the coroner's clerk, who handed round the New Testament with the customary form of words. * And now, gentlemen,* the coroner began, absently, * we will proceed to view the cor I mean, of course, we will proceed to the business before us. This, gentlemen, as you have heard, is not an ordinary inquest ; it is not, for once, an inquiry into the cause of death of any person for which I invite your intelligent assistance this morning. It is a more formal duty that lies before us. Equally important — even, in this case perhaps, more important. It is what lawyers call an " Inquest of Office." ' He repeated these words with greater solemnity, and every man of the jury sat upright and cleared his throat again. * An Inquest of Office I * Not an ordinary inquest, you see. This was an Inquest of Office. * Gentlemen,' the coroner continued, after a pause, to allow these words time to settle in the collective mind, * the 22 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVAPJCE facts are these. The owner and tenant of this house, who died and was buried a month ago, was one John Calvert Burley.' * Known to all of us,' one of the jury interrupted. * John Calvert Burley,' the magistrate repeated, with a judicial frown, * upon whose estate — not hia body — we now hold this inquiry. He has died, so far as has been discovered, intestate. An announcement of his death has appeared in the papers ; paragraphs concerning him have also gone the round of the papers — for the deceased was, as most of us know, a person formerly of considerable — of unenviable — notoriety. But, so far, oddly enough, no heirs have appeared. This is the more extraordinary as it is reported that the deceased possessed very great wealth. In fact ' — the coroner assumed a confidential manner — * the estate is reported to be enormous — enormous I ' — he spread out his hands in order to assist the jury to give play to their imaginations — he sat upright in his chair in order to lift up the grovelling — *we must rise to loftier levels. However,' he sank back again, * the magnitude of the estate does not concern us. This Court has to do with an estate, large or small. And now, gentlemen, I shall offer you such evidence as we have to show that there is no will, and that there has been, so far, no claimant. I call Rachel Drage.* The old lady in black answered to her name, wiped her eyes, and stood up to give evidence. She said that she had been housekeeper to Mr. John Calvert Burley for forty years. Asked if he was a married man, she said that she had always understood that he was a widower ; but he had never spoken to her about his family. She could not say what caused her to believe that he was a widower. Asked if there were any children supposing there had been a marriage, she said that there was a nursery which had a child's crib and a chest of drawers with children's clothing in it, but she knew nothing more. Her master never spoke of his family affairs. Asked if there were any relations, said that she never heard of any. If there were any, and if AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 2 o they ever called on the deceased gentleman, it must have been at the oiBSce, not the house ; not a single visitor had ever called at the house or been admitted to this room — Mr. Burley's living room — during the forty years of her residence. He had no friends, he never went out in the evenings ; he never went to church or chapel ; he lived quite alone. * Gentlemen,* said the president of the Court, * the im- portant part of this evidence is the fact that for forty years no one ever called upon the deceased — neither son, nor grand- son, nor cousin, nor nephew. Yet his wealth was notorious. Eich men, as most of you, I hope, know very well, are generally surrounded by their relations.' One of the jury asked a question which led to others. They bore upon the deceased's way of living, and had nothing to do with the business before the Court. But since we are all curious as to the manners and customs of that interesting people— the rich — the coroner allowed these questions. When the jury had learned all about the conduct of an extremely parsimonious household, and when the old lady had explained that her master, though near as to his expenditure, was a good man, who was surely in Abraham's bosom if ever any one was, she was permitted to retire, though unwilling, into the obscurity of a back seat. The manager gave his evidence. He had been employed by the deceased for thirty years. He was now the chief manager of his estates. Everything connected with the estates was managed at the house, where soUcitors, architects, and other professional people were employed on salaries. He was famihar with the details of the estate; there were enormous masses of papers. He knew nothing of any will. Had a will passed through his hands he should certainly have remembered it. Naturally, he was curious to know what would be done with so great a property. He supposed that Mr. Burley had employed a solicitor outside his o"svn office for the purpose of drawing up a will. He had never spoken to Mr. Burley on the subject ; he knew nothing of Mr, Burley 'g family or connections ; he understood that Mr. Burley had 24 BEYOND THE BREAMS OP AVARICJi! once been married; he believed, but he did not know for certain, that there had been a child or children. He had himself sent the announcement of the death to the papers ; he had seen one or two paragraphs concerning the early life of the deceased, but could not say, from his own knowledge, whether they were true or false. He was asked by one of the jury whether the deceased was as rich as was reported. He replied that he could not tell until the report reached him. Other questions as to the extent and value of the estate he fenced with. There was, he said, a great deal of property, but he declined absolutely to commit himself to any estimate at all. So that the curiosity of the jury was baffled. They had learned, however, that the estate was so large and important that it had to be managed at a house specially used for the purpose, by a manager and a large staff of accountants and clerks. This was something — such an estate must be worth untold thousands. * Gentlemen,' said the coroner, * you have now heard all the evidence that we have to offer. Here is an estate. Where is the late owner's will ? There is none. Where are the heirs ? They do not appear. For forty years no member of the deceased's family has visited him. He might have had sons, grandsons, great-grandsons. None have turned up. But there must be, one would think, nephews — grand- nephews — cousins. If he had brothers, they must have had descendants ; if he had uncles, they must have had descend- ants. NoWj in the lower classes nothing is more common than for a man to change his place of residence so that his children grow up in absolute ignorance of their ancestry and cousins. But this man, whatever his origin, was at one time before the world, notorious, or famous, whatever you please : he was a public character ; he was owner of theatres, dancing places, gambling hells — he was a well-known money-lender. All the world knew the usurer, John Calvert Burley. He stood on a kind of pinnacle — unenviable, perhaps ; but still, on a pinnacle of publicity. His relations must have followed AN INQUEST OF OFFICE 25 his course with interest — who would not watch with interest the course of a childless cousin ? Yes, he is dead ; and where are the cousins and the nephews ? It is a very remarkable case. A poor man may have no one to claim kinship at his death ; but for a rich man, and a notorious man, it is indeed wonderful ! Gentlemen, you have only to declare the estate, in default of heirs, escheated and vested in the Crown. You all understand, however, that Her Majesty the Queen will not be enriched by this windfall. The Treasury, and not the Sovereign, receives all those estates for which an heir is wanting.' The jury thereupon returned their verdict : * That until, or unless, the lawful heirs, or heir, shall substantiate a claim to the estate of the late John Calvert Burley, the said estate shall be, and is, escheated and become vested in the Crown.' * Then, gentlemen,' said the coroner, ' nothing more remains except for you to affix your signatures to this verdict, and for me to thank you, one and all, for the intelligence and care which you have brought to bear upon this important case.' In this manner and with such formalities the estate of the deceased was transferred to the Treasury, to be by them held and administered in the name of the Crown unless the rightful claimant should be able to establish his right. * That's done,' said Mr. Nicholson. * Now let us look over the house. I haven't been here for forty years and more. Come and see where your father was born, Lucian.' CHAPTER V THE FOETUNE AND THE HOUSE * Maegaeet I ' She had never seen her lover so flushed and excited. Mostly he preserved, whatever happened, the philo- sophic calm that befits the scientific mind. ' Margaret ! I have had the most wonderful morning! I have made dis- coveries 1 I have heard revelations I ' 26 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE * What is it, Lucian ? * * It is about my grandfather, I told you I should go to SCO the house. Well, I had no time to go there till to-day. I have been there — I walked over there this morning. And I have been rewarded. A most remarkable coincidence I The very moment when I arrived, there was opened an inquest in the house itself. Not an ordinary inquest, you Imow — the poor old man has been buried a month — but w^hat they call an Inquest of Office. For since his death they have been searching for his will, and they haven't found it. And it really seems, my dear Margaret, as if the one thing most unlikely of all to happen has happened : that this rich man has actually died intestate, in which case I, even I myself, am the sole heir to everything I * ' Oh, Lucian 1 Is it possible ? ' 'It is almost certain. They have searched everywhere. There are piles of papers : they have all been examined. No will has been found. Now, if he had made a will, it is certain that I could not have come into it, unless through my father, and it is not probable that he would have had anything. But there is, apparently, no will, and the estates are handed over to the Treasury until — unless — they find the rightful heir — me — whom they cannot find.' * Oh, Lucian I It is Vv'onderful ! But, of course, you are not going to claim this terrible money — the profits of gambling saloons and wicked places and money lending ? ' * No, my dear, I am not. Yet ' — he laughed — * my dear child, it is a thousand pities, for the pile is enormous. Y'ou sit there as quiet as a nun : you don't understand what it means. Why, my dear Margaret, simple as you look, you should be when you marry me, if you had your rights, the richest woman in the country-^the richest woman, perhaps, in the world ! ' * Don't take away my breath ! Even to a nun such an announcement would be interesting.' * The richest woman in the world I That is all — wealth beyond the dreams of avarice— only that. And we give it up I THE FORTUNE ANB THE HOUSE 27 Now, I'll tell you — I can't sit down, I must walk about, because the thought of this most wonderful thing won't let me keep still. Very well, then. Now listen. Mr. Nicholson, my father's old friend, you know, was there. He had heard of the inquest from the manager. All the Burley estates are managed at a house in Westminster — it is a great house filled with clerks, accountants, solicitors, architects, builders, rent- collectors— everything, all under a manager, who is a friend of Mr. Nicholson. Nobody knows what the estate is worth, but when this old man's father, who was a miser, died, he left the son an income of €20,000 a year, which at 6 per cent, is €400,000. That was what he began with at five-and- twenty. There was no need for him to do any work at all. But he did all those things that we know.' * Yes ? ' — for Lucian paused. * He lived quite simply. The whole of that income must have accumulated at compound interest. Do you know what that means ? ' *No. But these figures are beginning to frighten me. What does it matter to us how much there is ? ' * Why, my dear, I am the heir — only in name, I know ; still — well, Marjorie, money at 5 per cent, doubles itself every thirteen years or so. That is to say, the sum of €100 in seventy years would become, at 5 per cent., €3,200, and the sum of €400,000 would become in the same period over twelve millions. I don't suppose the old man always got his 5 per cent., but it is certain that the original principal has grown and developed enormously — enormously 1 Without counting the money-lending business and the other enter- prises — there must be millions. Nicholson says there is no doubt that the estate is worth many millions. My father knew of this enormous wealth, but he kept silence.' ' Your father would not touch that dreadful and ill-gotten money, Lucian. Tell me no more — I cannot think in millions. I think in hundreds. So many hundreds — you have two or three, I believe — will keep our modest household. Do not let us talk or think about other people's milHona.' 2?^ BEYOND THE DHEAMS OF AVARICE * They are mine, Margaret, mine, if I choose to put out my hand. I only wish you to understand, dear, what it is— this trifle we are throwing away in ohedience to my father's wish.' * Do not let us think about this horrid money, Lucian, We should end by regretting that you did not claim it. Your fatlier renounced his name and his inheritance.* * Yes,' but he looked doubtful. * If that binds me ' ' Of course it binds us. It must bind us, Lucian. Besides, there is a curse — remember your father's words — a curse upon the money. Got with dishonour * * My dear child I A curse ! Do not, pray, let us talk mediaeval superstitions. The money may be given to any- body, for all I care. At the same time, to throw away such a chance makes one a little — eh ? — agitated. You must allow, pretty Puritan, for some natural weakness.' * l''es, Lucian. But you are a man of science, not a money- grubber. What would money do for you ? ' ' Let me tell you about the house.' * I do not want to hear about the house, or the occupants, or the money, or anything. I want to forget all about it. I am sorry we read those papers, since they have disturbed your mind.' ' Listen a moment only, and I will have done. The house- keeper took us up to the first floor — Nicholson and myself. It is a wonderful place. The furniture is at least a hundred years old. Neither the old man nor his father — who was a miser : quite a famous miser : they talk of him still — would ever buy anything new, or send away anything old.* * I should like to see that part of it.' * Of course you would. On the walls are portraits — my ancestors — although my grandfather ran dancing cribs, they have been a respectable stock for ever so long.' * They have been disreputable since the time of Queen Anne,' said Margaret. * I do not know what they were before that time.' * Very well. There they are, in Queen Anne wigs and fir " ); ; ir:/^'?/ / ' r '/. ;imf/MfrM}//mkS ' The housekeeper- took us up to the first floor. ' THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 29 George II. wigs, and hair tied behind. And, I say, Margaret, you know, whatever they were, it is pleasant to feel that one has forefathers, like other men. Perhaps they were not altogether stalwart Christians — but, yet * * One would like, at least, honourable ancestors.' 'We must take what is helped. We can't choose our ancestors for ourselves. This is their family house, in which they have lived all these years. It is a lovely old house. Three stories, and garrets in the red-tiled roof ; steps up to the door like a Dutch stoop ; the whole front covered with a thick hanging creeper, a green curtain ; the front window looking out upon the old grey wall of the Abbey garden ; at the back a little garden with a huge vine ' 'Your father must have played in it,' said Margaret, attracted against her will by the description. * Then he played under a mulberry and beside a splendid vine. The stairs are broad and low ; the whole house ia wainscoted. Marjorie mine ! ' He sat down, stopping suddenly, and took her hand. * What is it, Lucian ? ' Now these two young people were not only engaged to each other, but they were fully resolved to gather the roses while they might, and not to wait for the sere and yellow leaf. They would marry, as so many brave young people do now marry, in these days of tightness, on a small income, hopeful for the future. What that income was, you may guess from the first chapter of this history. * I have an idea. It is this. The house will suit u3 exactly. Let us take it and set up our tent there. Don't jump up, my dear. I renounce my ancestors as much as you like— their trades and callings — their httle iniquities — their works and their ways. Their enormous fortune I renounce. I go about with a name that does not belong to me, and I won't take my own true name. All the same, they are my ancestors. They are ; we cannot get clear of that fact.* * But why go and live in their house and be always re- minded of the fact ? * 30 BEYOND THE DREAMS OF AVARICE * Can one ever forget the fact of one's own ancestry ? They are an accident of the house ; they won't affect us. We shall go in as strangers. As for that curse of the money — which is an idle superstition — that cannot fall upon us, because we shall have nothing to do with the money ; and it is so quiet ; the street itself is like— well, it reminds one of those old-fashioned riverside docks— quiet old places which the noise of the river seems never to reach. Great College Street is a peaceful little dock running up out of the broad high river of the street for the repose of humans. And it is close to the Abbey, which you would like. And at the back is a Place — not a street — a Place which is more secluded than any Cathedral Close anywhere. You would think you were in a nunnery, and you would walk there, in the sunshine of a winter morning, and meditate after your own heart. It is as quiet as a nunnery and as peaceful. Now, child, let me say right out what is in my mind. I want a place — don't I ? — where I can put up my plate and make a bid for a practice — Lucian Calvert, M.D. Well, I looked about. The position is central : the street is quiet : there are lots of great people about. The members of ParHament would only have to step across Palace Yard : the Speaker can run over and speak to me about his symptoms : noble lords can drop in to consult me : the Dean and Canons of Westminster have only to open the garden gate in order to find me.' * Oh, Lucian ! I am so sorry that you have seen the house. Oh I I am so sorry that you ever heard anything about this great fortune.* * Of course, I mean that we should take the house with all that it contains.' *A11 your ancestors* portraits?' she laughed, scornfully. * Why, if you knew who and what they were ' *I do not expect virtue. Their private characters have nothing to do with us. We have cut ourselves off. Only, it will be pleasant to feel that they are there always with us. My dear, after all these years, say that it is pleasant to find that one has ancestors.' THE FORTUNE AND THE HOUSE 3 1 ' And you want to go and live with thorn I You have changed your name and refused your inheritance. Why, Lucian, if you live among them, it will be like a return to the family traditions — and — and — I don't know — misfortune and disaster following on an inheritance — you have not read the history of the family ; I have.' ' A family curse ! ' he repeated, with impatience. * Non- sense I The place is most suitable ; the house is most con- venient — and — besides — the house should be mine ; my own people have always lived in it ; I belong to the house. The portraits are mine, I ought to be with them. One would say that they call me.' CHAPTER VI THE NURSERY Lucian turned away and said no more that day. But the next day — and the next — and every day he returned to the subject. Sometimes openly, sometimes indirectly ; always by something that he said, showing that his mind was dwelling on his newly-recovered ancestors and on their house at West- minster. She knew that he walked across the Park every day to look at it. She perceived that his proposal to take the house, so far from being abandoned or forgotten, was growing in his mind and had taken root there. Her heart sank with forebodings — those forebodings which have no foundation, yet are warnings and prophecies. * You are thinking still,' she said, * of those portraits.' * There is reproach in your voice, my Marjorie,' he replied. ' Yes, I think of them still ; I have seen them again— several times. They are the portraits of my own people. A man cannot cut himself from his own psople, any more than he can cut himself off from his own posterity.' * If you will only read the history of your ancestors as your father set it down, you will no longer desire to belong t