CHAPTER VIII.

MR. SWANLAND STIRS HIS TEA.

At a few minutes before six next morning, as Messrs. Lang and Hankins were coming up the road, still sleepy after the long rest afforded by the previous day, they saw Rupert Halling advancing to meet them.

It was a miserable morning, raining a fine drizzling rain with a cold wind blowing at the same time, but Rupert, careless as usual of the state of the weather, walked along under the trees, his cap a little on one side, his shooting-jacket flying open, whistling a low soft melody confidentially to himself.

"Good morning," he said to the men. "No one could call this a fine one. Lang, give the keys to Hankins and walk with me a little way; I want to speak to you."

In a few words Mr. Halling explained his difficulty, and asked Lang to help him out of it.

"I can manage that easily enough," was the answer. "Luckily I did not make up my books on Saturday as I generally do. Now, sir, remember you know nothing except that you understood I was short twenty-five pounds for the wages. Leave all the rest to me."

"You are sure, Lang, you do not mind interfering in this."

Mr. Lang laughed a short laugh, more like a snort than an evidence of merriment.

"Mind!" he echoed, "have I not been through the fire myself? but then I knew what was coming and arranged accordingly. Otherwise me and my wife and the children would not have had a bed to lie on. Mind! If the governor or you had only told me things were coming to this pass, we might have had a snug business at work some place else by this time, and snapped our fingers at them all. By Heavens, to think of it!" added Mr. Lang, stopping to look at Homewood. "I wish it had been bankruptcy though, if it must be anything, and then we should have had some chance of speaking out our minds about that rubbish from the General Chemical Company."

"I did not know you had ever been bankrupt," said Rupert.

"Yes, sir; I had to fail; after the old gentleman's death," with a jerk of his head he indicated that he meant Mr. Mortomley, senior. "I must needs go as working partner into a firm who promised to do wonders for me. When they had picked my skull clean, they wanted to pitch me over, and they did pitch me over, thinking to have all the road to themselves, but that was not good enough for me, not at all," added Mr. Lang sarcastically. "I had a little money and I got a place and I set to work, and I could have done well only there was not an article I dealt in they did not offer at a lower price.

"Seeing their game I lowered my prices, then they cut theirs still lower, and so we went on till at last what we charged did not pay men's wages, let alone material and rent and all the rest of it.

"I being a practical man, and able to work myself, had a little the advantage of them; and besides I knew what must come, sooner or later, and so managed matters that when the brokers came in at last--and I was sick to death of expecting them before they did come--there was not enough in my house to pay the expenses of levying.

"At the works of course everything remained as usual, for there was not an article in them ever likely to be of use to me again.

"My old partners and me smashed up about the same time, and they have never done any good since. I met one of them only the other day and he says,

"'Lang,' he says, 'I wish we could have agreed and stayed together,' he says, 'we might all have been independent by this time.'

"'I wish,' I says, 'you could have acted honourable by me. It might have been better for you in the long run. For myself, I'm pretty comfortable, thank you. I have a good berth at Mortomley's, and needn't lie awake half my nights thinking about the wages for Saturday.'

"And then I asked him if he would take a glass of sherry; and though he was once a high and mighty sort of gentleman, he thanked me and did take it. That's the fruits of competition, sir, which some people think is so good for trade."

Turning the corner of the road sharply at this juncture, they came upon a man who stood leaning over the close fence which on that side enclosed the kitchen gardens at Homewood.

It was early to meet a stranger in such a neighbourhood, more especially a stranger who not being a working man had evidently no better employment than to stand out in damp weather surveying local landmarks.

He did not take any notice of either Rupert or his companion, continuing to lounge against the fence and contemplate vegetable-marrows, cabbages, and parsley.

Rupert, however, turned twice or thrice and took a long steady survey on each occasion.

"Who is that man, Lang?" he inquired.

"Never saw him before. He looks up to no good," answered Mr. Lang.

Rupert and the manager walked a few steps further, and then began to retrace their steps.

As they did so, they beheld the stranger lounging slowly before them, stopping at intervals to inspect the appearance of Homewood from different points of view, and giving the two an opportunity to pass him again.

"Beg pardon," he said, when they were close upon him, "but can you oblige me with a light?"

He addressed Lang, but Rupert answered him by producing a box of matches.

"I wonder who that man can be," remarked Rupert once they were out of earshot.

"He _is_ up to no good," said Mr. Lang emphatically.

"I don't think he is," agreed Rupert uneasily, but neither he nor Lang could have defined the precise form of evil they believed the stranger had set himself to compass.

Had any one at Homewood kept a diary, however, which no one did with the exception of Lang, who prided himself not a little on the neatness and accuracy of his day-book, there would have been little in the events of the next eight-and-forty hours worth chronicling.

The clerks arrived as arranged, and before they had finished their work Mr. Benning appeared to see how they were getting on and have a look round the place, and ask a few questions of Rupert and Mrs. Mortomley, and a great many when he got the chance of wandering about the works unaccompanied, of Lang, Hankins, and even the rank and file of the working men.

He came, though Rupert was unaware of the fact, to try and find out something, but whatever that something might be he failed to make any discovery, excepting that the extent of Mr. Mortomley's trade had not been exaggerated, and that about the serious and possibly dangerous nature of his illness no rational doubt could be entertained.

Having satisfied his mind on these points, he and the clerks returned to town, taking as accurate a list of the liabilities as could be prepared in the time with them.

The same night Esther returned from Great Dassell, eloquent in praise of Miss Gerace, who had sadly wanted her to remain at all events till the following morning, and from whom she brought a very kind little note, saying she would gladly take charge of Lenore until Mr. Mortomley was better, and their difficulties of whatever nature they might be, overcome.

Next day Mr. Benning reappeared, accompanied by a Commissioner, to take Mr. Mortomley's affidavit that to the best of his belief the accounts furnished were accurate.

This ceremony occupied about half a minute, but under the circumstances it did prove an exhilarating performance, and to any one superstitious about such matters, the steady downfall of rain which had commenced on the previous Saturday, and never really left off since it began, was suggestive of a considerable amount of bad weather in the business journey Mortomley had been compelled to undertake.

Late in the afternoon Miss Halling and her brother took their departure. The young lady's luggage had all been despatched earlier in the day, and Rupert's seemed to consist merely of a black leather bag. Nevertheless, when Dolly went into his room she found it stripped of every article belonging to him, even to the sketch of Lenore at five years of age which always hung over the mantel-piece.

The young man had made sure of the safety of his own possessions, and Mrs. Mortomley had sense enough to commend his wisdom.

Nevertheless there is a wisdom which hurts, and Rupert's hurt her.

"I was right," she thought, "they are rats and the ship is sinking." And from that hour she braced up her courage to meet whatever fate might be coming, bravely--as she certainly would have done had she in fact stood on the deck of a vessel foundering in the midst of a wild and cruel sea.

Towards evening there arrived at Homewood a respectable looking sort of individual, who announcing that he was the bearer of a note from Mr. Swanland to Mrs. Mortomley, was asked without delay into the library.

Mrs. Mortomley looked at him and felt relieved. Here was a middle-aged confidential clerk, not at all like a man in possession, and she greeted him with civility, not to say cordiality.

"Pray sit down," she said, and Mr. Meadows seated himself with an apparent show of deference, all the time he understood quite as well as Mr. Bailey, there was not a chair in Homewood which did not already belong of right, not exactly perhaps to him, but his employer.

Then Mrs. Mortomley opened the note and read--

"Dear Madam,

"The bearer, Mr. Meadows, will inform you that everything is going on satisfactorily. He may be able, I trust, to relieve you from all anxiety and responsibility, and I have directed him to make his presence as little irksome as possible. To-morrow, if possible, I hope to call at Homewood, in order to make arrangements for the future. In the meantime, dear madam,

"I have the honour to remain, "Yours faithfully, "V. S. SWANLAND.

"To Mrs. Mortomley, "Homewood, "Whip's Cross."

Mrs. Mortomley read this epistle over three times. If she had not been enlightened on the point, it would never have occurred to her that Mr. Meadows was to be located at Homewood.

Having been enlightened, however, she asked,

"Do I understand you are to remain here?"

"It will be necessary for me to do so, madam," he answered, "until the preliminaries are settled. In fact, it is quite possible I may have to stay here until after the meeting of creditors."

Mrs. Mortomley paused and reflected. She did not know he was letting her down easily, and there was a feasibility about his statements which to her mind stamped them with a certain authenticity.

"Should you like tea or supper?" she asked after that mental conference--unconscious still, poor Dolly! that there sat the representative of the legal owner of Homewood and all it contained. "Either can be sent to you here immediately."

"If you have no objection ma'am," he answered, "I will go into the kitchen out of the way--and I can take share of what is going--"

"You are very thoughtful," said Mrs. Mortomley, "but I could not really think of allowing such a thing. You can have your own rooms here and--"

"I would rather go into the kitchen, ma'am," he persisted. "In these cases I like to be out of the way and give no trouble."

"That's extremely kind of you," said Mrs. Mortomley, and he failed, for a reason, to hear the ring of sarcasm in her tone. "You shall be made comfortable wherever you are, for I suppose now you are come--the men in possession will go out."

"Not to-night," he answered; "I have no instructions in the matter. To-morrow, Mr. Swanland purposes to be here, and then no doubt, everything will be gone into and arranged."

So on Tuesday evening a third man joined the kitchen family circle at Homewood, and added the smoke of his pipe to the smoke of those already in possession. Wednesday came, the morning and the noon and the afternoon passed without incident.

Dolly had been much with her husband. Mr. Meadows took occasion to wander into the works, and was treated at first with much respect. Really anywhere Mr. Meadows might have passed--to those who did not know he elected to live in the kitchen--for a small manufacturer--for a master reduced to take a clerk's place.

And Mr. Meadows had once occupied a very different position to that of an accountant's bailiff, and how he ever chanced to occupy himself in Mr. Swanland's service astonished all the people employed about Homewood.

He had a good, not to say superior, address. He spoke very fair English, he wrote a capital hand, and possessed a considerable amount of education. The routine of business was evidently familiar to him, though he was of course utterly ignorant of every detail of the colour trade. Still he asked a sufficient number of pertinent questions, to convince Lang he felt determined to acquire such a smattering of knowledge as might enable him to talk glibly on the subject hereafter to people who did understand about the matter.

At the end of two days Mr. Lang had taken the "new man's" measure, but still he was puzzled to imagine what he could have been originally, and how he ever came to adopt so low a calling.

With Hankins the first question of interest was, whether the chemicals were still to be had from St. Vedast Wharf.

"You had better ask Mr. Swanland about that," was the answer. "He will be here this evening."

"What does he know about chemicals or colours either?" inquired Hankins.

"Well, he is obliged to know something about everything," replied Mr. Meadows. "He is an uncommonly clever gentleman."

"One of those who can learn without being taught, I suppose," suggested Hankins.

"You have hit it pretty nearly," answered the other, in a tone which checked any further inquiries at that moment on the part of Mr. Hankins.

In the evening Mr. Swanland accompanied by Mr. Benning arrived, to make, in his double capacity of trustee and manager, arrangements for carrying on a business of which he knew almost as much as Mrs. Mortomley did of algebra.

Lang and Hankins and a subordinate foreman had been instructed to wait his coming, and perhaps to this trial of patience the remark of the latter, that "Swanland was the greatest swell for a man in possession he had ever seen," might be ascribed.

And indeed in one way his observation was strictly true, for whereas the individuals sent from time to time by descendants of all the twelve sons of Jacob, to keep watch and ward over the Mortomley goods and chattels, only came in for a slice of the estate, Mr. Swanland came for all.

At one swoop he had everything in his hand; without inventory or formality of any kind, save announcing himself as manager and trustee, he took a comprehensive grasp of Homewood and all it contained. The horses in the stables, the chemicals and colours in the works, the bed the sick man lay upon, the flowers in the garden, the exotics in the greenhouse, the cat curled up before the hall fire, the dogs raving at the length of their chains at the intruder, the pigeons in the dovecote, and the monarch of the dunghill, all belonged to Mr. Swanland. On the Saturday morning previously he had scarcely been aware that such a man as Mortomley was in existence. If he had accidentally heard his name, no memory of it remained; whilst as for Homewood, the place might have been a station in Australia for aught he knew about it.

And now he was master. Nominally the servant of the creditors, and ostensibly acting for the bankrupt, he was as truly the lord of Mortomley, the controller of his temporal destiny, as any southern planter ever proved of that of his slaves.

Whether the gentlemen, commercial and legal no doubt, who concocted the Bankruptcy Act of 1869, and the other gentlemen of the Upper and Lower Houses who made it law, ever contemplated that an utterly irresponsible person should be placed in a responsible position it is not for me to say, but I cannot think that any body of men out of Hanwell could have proposed to themselves that the whole future of a bankrupt's life should be made dependent on the choice of a trustee, since it is simple nonsense to suppose a committee selected virtually by him and the petitioning creditor have the slightest voice in the matter.

And if any man in business whose affairs are going at all wrong should happen to read these lines, which unhappily is not at all probable, since literature at such a time chiefly assumes the form of manuscript, let him remember liquidation means no appeal, no chance of ever having justice done him, nor even, remote contingency,--supposing the trustee a cool hand like Mr. Swanland,--of setting himself right with the business world.

He who goes into liquidation without first being sure of his trustee, his lawyer, and his committee passes into an earthly hell, over the portals of which are engraved the same words as those surmounting Dante's 'Inferno.'

He has left hope behind. God help him, for nothing save a miracle can ever enable him to retrace the path to the spot where she sits immortal.

At Homewood Mr. Swanland was in possession, and yet Dolly never suspected the fact. Her first uneasiness arose from a few words uttered by Mr. Benning.

"I suppose the business will be carried on," he remarked, sitting in the pleasant drawing-room with his feet stretched out towards the fire and his hands plunged in his pockets. Dolly could not avoid noticing that all these dreadful men did keep their hands in their pockets, as if they had no use for them anywhere else. "We must get a manager, I suppose."

Now was Dolly's opportunity.

"The business cannot be carried on except by some one who understands it thoroughly," she said.

"I do not suppose there will be any difficulty about that," he answered. "Competent people are always to be had if one knows how to look for them."

"Do you mean," she inquired, "that my husband will not have the management of his own business. Under Mr. Swanland I mean of course," she added.

"Mr. Mortomley's health seems quite broken up," said Mr. Benning. "It would be simple cruelty to ask him to attend to business. After the meeting of creditors the best thing he can do will be to go to some pretty seaside place in Devonshire or Cornwall, and live there comfortable upon your money."

For a minute the wretched woman sat silent facing her misery. Leave Homewood! leave the business of which her husband thought so much! Perhaps it was not true, perhaps she had not understood him.

"Do you really think we had better go away, away altogether," she gasped.

"Certainly," he answered.

At that moment, that critical moment, when she was about to ask if such a proposal were possible what the meaning of liquidation could be, Mr. Swanland, pale, bland, pleasant, courteous, Mr. Asherill's perfect gentleman the accountant cat, with his claws sheathed in velvet, folded in his muff, purring complacently, re-entered the room.

"Well, Mrs. Mortomley," he said, "everything seems most satisfactory. The trade appears good and the men employed respectable. Yes, thank you; I will take a cup of tea."

This was between the lines, and when Mrs. Mortomley handed him the tea she noticed how he stirred it, not at all as Mr. Asherill's perfect gentleman should have done, but holding the spoon upright.

"It is a shame for me to be so hypercritical," she thought. "I dare say he is a far honester man than this dreadful lawyer."

And so she inclined her ear to his pleasant words.

"Do not think, Mrs. Mortomley," he said, as he was leaving, with a sudden uplifting of his Albino eyes, "that because I am placed here in a disagreeable position I wish to make matters disagreeable to you. Pray let me hear from you when you want anything, and be quite sure it is my desire to act towards you as a friend in every way."

And he put out his hand.

Dolly took it, and thought she must by some accident have got hold of a frog.

Kleinwort was right. Mr. Asherill's partner had no digestion and no heart.

The more Mrs. Mortomley thought about Mr. Swanland the less she believed in him, spite of his plausible manner and his pleasant utterances, and when she crept into bed that night she caught herself wondering whether there could be any good in a person whose hand was like wet clay and who stirred his tea as the accountant stirred his.

Mr. Swanland left Homewood with an instinctive knowledge that the _quondam_ mistress of that place disliked him, which knowledge touched the trustee in no vulnerable point.

It made, however, some slight difference to Mrs. Mortomley in the future, that future which, lying awake in the darkness, she vainly tried to forecast.