Part 14

“He will pay me back. I saw it in his face. Within four weeks I’ll have no home, for where am I to get five hundred pounds?” and she cast her eyes round the room, which was not large, but lofty, well-proportioned, and furnished with a few chairs, a decrepit sideboard, and black horsehair sofa.

“I stripped the house soon after we came here six years ago. I sold every mortal thing I could sell, to a dealer, I was so hard-set for ready money. The mahogany doors in the hall, dining-room, and upstairs, the two beautiful marble chimney-pieces in the drawing-room, the door-plates, and the French mirrors let into the walls between the windows; the whole place was terribly hacked and knocked about. Now there is nothing left; I’ve come to the end of everything, my dear boy. You know our circumstances just as well as I do myself--how my husband’s grandfather lived like a king, and got his wine and his furniture from France, and drove four horses. He was an attaché in Paris as a young man, and spoke French like a native. The next Doyne fell on worse times, and his mother Madame lived here in shameless extravagance and debt. After she died, the furniture was sold and the house let, till the north side went down, and this, and many another fine mansion, were left to rats and ruin.”

“Yes, that’s true, and more’s the pity.”

“When I was a bride at Castle Doyne I had my carriage, and a houseful of servants, but we found debts, and mortgages, and heavy jointures, small rents, and bad times; it was all we could do to educate Bridget’s father, and get him into the Army. He went to India, and then he married a girl without a penny, and they died and left me the child--and here I am, an old blind pauper.”

“For goodness’ sake stop your eternal needle,” said the young man suddenly. “Do give your poor eyes a rest. I can’t bear to see you sewing so hard, and always sewing.”

“There will soon be an end,” she replied, spreading out the embroidered border. “This is my last piece; and here is what I’m coming to, and why I want to talk to you privately. You told me you had a good chance of a post, as cashier in an Indian bank; they would pay your passage out, and give a much better salary?”

He nodded.

“Well, Denis, you must accept, and marry Bridget, and take her away with you. She’s a clever manager, and will make one rupee go as far as two. You are both young, and have, I hope, many happy years before you.”

“And what about you?”

The old lady suddenly laid down her work, and, leaning over the table, whispered:

“Don’t be horrified--I shall go into the North Dublin Union.”

“Never! never! never!” he rejoined, with emphasis.

“Hush--yes, I shall! What does it matter? Who will know? If old Peg was alive it would be different. I dared not have taken her there--she’d feel it. Now _my_ feelings are dead. I’m old; my race is run. I’ve outlived my contemporaries, and the only thing I really and truly care for is Bridget’s future--and yours.”

“You don’t suppose we should be happy out in India, knowing we had deserted you, and left you in a poor-house! Come, now--do you?”

“I won’t be a clog----”

Whatever she was about to add was interrupted by the sound of a muffled kick on the door. D’Arcy sprang to open it, and admitted Bridget looking rather flushed, and carrying the tea-things on a battered black tray.

“Oh, such a job to make the kettle boil!” she announced, setting it down. “What have you two been plotting?” and she looked from one to the other.

“Your Granny’s plans,” replied the young man mendaciously. “If she is turned out from here, there are two rooms to let in my diggings in Lower Gardiner Street--cheap, too, and a fine old wreck of a house, next a pawnbroker’s--if you won’t mind that?”

“Not at all--it would be mighty convenient,” rejoined the old lady, with a shrill laugh. “But rooms cost money. Here I’ve been rent free; so have my tenants upstairs; they tell me they cannot pay anything, and are just keeping soul and body together like ourselves--and I have not the heart to evict them.”

“Who are they? They seem a pretty big crowd.”

“Well, there’s a car-driver in the drawing-rooms; he has six children; above that, there’s a charwoman and her paralysed daughter. In the back rooms there’s an old sweep.--Eale will make a grand clearance.”

“I’m not sure that he can move either you or them,” said D’Arcy; “the mortgage must be looked into. I have a friend, a clever young solicitor, and he will examine the whole business; if the worst happens, you come to my diggings. The old woman is a good sort, and will make you comfortable; we will scrape along somehow.”

“Oh, Denis, my dear boy, do you think I’d live on you?”

“If only I was not so suspiciously shabby,” broke in Bridget, “I’d get a situation as governess. Where I am is all right, as my poor old man is stone-blind. If I had even three or four pounds I’d invest it in a sort of personal advertisement, but Granny and I are owed what, to us, is quite a lot of money, and we dare not dun for fear of losing our customers. There’s a shop in London that owes me money since last June--I suppose they imagine we work for pleasure?”

“Pleasure!” repeated D’Arcy, and he rose, and, with gentle decision, took the piece of linen out of the old lady’s hand.

“Yes, to see your Granny you would think so; she won’t leave it--even to have a cup of tea.”

“Well, Denis, as you are behind the scenes, I may tell you that I’ve only three and sixpence in the wide world. I’ve sold the teaspoons, and my mother-in-law’s miniature--she was a beauty, I’ll say that for her!--I got three pounds for it in Frederick Street.”

“And no doubt it was worth fifty.”

“My dear boy, buying is one thing, selling another. The dealer said miniatures were out of fashion, and a glut in the market--but he took it to oblige me. He was the same fellow who bought the white marble mantlepieces--they came from Florence, and had beautifully sculptured figures--he gave me ten pounds for the pair.”

“My blind old gentleman takes a surprising interest in this house,” said Bridget; “he remembers hearing of old Madame Doyne, and her extravagance, burning wax candles, even in the kitchen, and keeping three men-servants, and her china and silver a wonder; also her _debts_.”

“Which she staved off with sales of the Doyne heirlooms,” said her daughter-in-law, “though she was always more for buying than selling. She put the finishing stroke to the ruin of the family--for she was a gambler, and loved cards.”

A cup of tea and buttered toast had revived the old lady, and when Bridget carried out the tray she whispered to D’Arcy that she would put _that_--meaning the union--at the back of her mind for a week or two, till she saw how things were shaping; something might turn up.

For the next few days there were further anxious conferences between D’Arcy and his _fiancée_; the mortgage had been examined, and, unfortunately, proved to be in order. This was the news he brought to Bridget, as they stood together in the flagged passage after he had taken leave of her grandmother.

“When I think of the hundreds of pounds’ worth that have been sold out of this house for a mere song, I feel nearly crazy. I was telling Lynch of those fine marble chimney-pieces; he wishes he had seen them. He knows a good deal about such things, and is mad after old furniture.”

“There’s nothing left but the house itself,” said Bridget, “only the bare walls.”

“And what thickness!” said D’Arcy, striking the papered passage with his open hand; “as solid as the rock of Cashel! By Jove--no! the wall is hollow. I say, Biddy!”

“What do you say?”

“That I believe there’s a door or something here,” passing his fingers up and down, “Just feel!”

“There can’t be a door,” she objected, “for there is no room at the other side.”

“Well, there is something. I’ll scrape off a bit of the paper and see,” and, as he spoke, he produced a pen-knife, and began to make an incision.

“Wood!” he exclaimed. “Bridgie, there’s more in this than meets the eye,” and he looked at her eagerly; “a door papered up.”

“But that’s nothing--it’s a common thing.”

“Maybe so, but I have an idea. I cannot do anything now, it’s too late, and the light is bad, but I’ll be here to-morrow at eight, and I’ll strip this door, if you don’t mind?”

“Mind!” she repeated, “as if we did not _sell_ doors! But I’m awfully afraid you will have your trouble for nothing. However, I’ll make you a cup of tea, and be here to help you.”

“Not a word to Granny--yet.”

“Oh no, she never gets up till ten o’clock. She can work in bed as well as anywhere--and it saves a fire. Oh, if I could only put an end to her stitch, stitch, stitch; but she _will_ do it, and, in spite of her old eyes, her work is exquisite; mine is nothing like so fine--or so saleable!”

By eight o’clock the next morning D’Arcy was hard at work. Bridget damped the paper, which was gradually peeled off, and revealed a door--a locked door.

D’Arcy shook it gently, then violently; the result was a rattling and jingling within, and he exclaimed:

“A cupboard--not a door. I’ll run out and borrow a bunch of old keys.”

After much humouring and buttering--oil not being obtainable--a key yielded, and a door, which had been closed for eighty years, opened with a reluctant creak.

The first discovery was a thin layer of grey dust, the next a vast collection of silver, glass, and china; the shelves were crowded. Bridget gave a stifled scream, and Denis recognised that they had come upon a wonderful treasure-trove.

“Why, it must be Madame’s green Sèvres, that Granny talks about--Louis the Sixteenth gave it to great grandfather Doyne, when he was in Paris; it’s worth thousands.” And Bridget took Denis by the arm and shook him. “Think of it--_thousands_!”

“Easy, easy, Bridge, or I’ll drop a thousand! There seems to be no end of stuff here; that crafty old Madame hid all these valuables before her death, and left no sign.”

“Not as far as we know. Now I’ll fetch the tray, and we will carry everything into the parlour, and set them out, and then call Granny; she won’t believe her poor dear old eyes!”

It took a considerable time to empty the precious cupboard, but at last the whole of its contents were arranged on the round table, the sideboard, and the lesser objects in imposing rows along the floor.

When Mrs. Doyne caught sight of this surpassing display, she stood for some moments stunned and speechless.

“Well, this splendid find of yours, Denis, has come in the nick of time; instead of beggars, we shall all be well-to-do--if not rich!”

“And you shall never take a needle in your hand again, Gran,” said the girl, seizing her round the waist, “and shall have a sable coat, and a motor-car.”

“Let us see what there is, before you talk of motorcars,” she said, peering about among the silver and china. “Yes--this is the green Sèvres set; that alone will support us; and here is the old Nankin china, very rare, and a lot of square-marked Worcester,” turning it over. There were also half a dozen fine Jacobean wine-glasses, with appropriate mottoes, a quantity of Queen Anne and Georgian silver, a Charles I. goblet, and other articles too numerous to specify--in short, the heirlooms of the Doynes.

For more than an hour the happy trio could do nothing but exclaim, handle, wonder, and admire; several of the treasures had a history which had reached their present owner, and on these she expatiated with eloquence and gesture.

“Now let us be practical,” said D’Arcy at last; “I must go to the bank--I’m hours late as it is. I’ll get hold of Lynch, and bring him up this afternoon, for I’ll ask for a day off; he will tell us what to do, find a valuer, and put most of these valuables on the London market. Meanwhile, leave them just as they are, and let no one see them, or put a foot in this room!”

Capable Mr. Lynch soon put matters in train, and proved an invaluable adviser; he was a long-headed man of business, with a critical and cultivated taste. Ultimately, the contents of the wonderful cupboard brought in a substantial fortune; the Doyne heirlooms were sold, and scattered far afield. Most of the chief prizes, including the Sèvres service, followed the mahogany doors across the Atlantic; the mortgage on the old house was promptly settled; it has been altered into a mansion of flats, for Mrs. Doyne and her family have deserted the north side, and live in a pretty country place, within easy reach of Dublin.

XII

THE FIND

In the luxurious private sitting-room of a well-known family hotel not far from Piccadilly, a broad-shouldered elderly man stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out of the window with an expression of profound boredom. It was a hopelessly wet afternoon and there was not much to see--a taxi discharging two ladies at the hotel entrance, a clumsy mail-van thundering by, and a newspaper boy screaming “All the winners!”

In one respect the individual in the window represented “a winner”; thirty years in Canada had brought him great possessions--whatever he touched seemed to turn into gold. Probably he was the wealthiest guest in the hotel, and yet the most supremely discontented. In spite of his fifty years, his figure was spare and erect, his hair powdered with white was thick and curly; his features were well cut, his face clean-shaven, and he wore a blue serge lounge suit with the air of a man accustomed to employing a first-class tailor.

Such was Leonard Harling, one of the most important and influential residents in his province. Mrs. Harling, a clever looking but faded little matron, was seated on the edge of a Chesterfield, knitting a silk sock. She was a woman who never lounged, was indifferent to outlay and luxury, preferred a bus to a taxi, and wore, when possible, ready-made gowns. On the other hand, her charities ran into amazing figures.

Now and then she raised her eyes, and gazed sympathetically at her companion.

“Poor Lenny,” she said to herself, “he is wishing himself back at home, in great big spacious Canada--where life and everything is free, and on a large scale.”

Apparently dress offered no snare to this little lady; her green costume was plain and tasteless, she wore no dainty finishing touches, no string of pearls, and her rather ugly hands merely displayed a plain wedding-ring. Mrs. Harling had no flair for spending money on personal adornment, she had been brought up under a strictly economical rule; her husband, on the contrary, was reared in the lap of luxury. Here is his history.

His grandfather, Sir Peregrine Harling, whose tastes were boundlessly selfish and extravagant, had lived for years on family prestige, credit, and pretensions. He maintained and educated the orphan sons of his heir--Humphrey and Leonard. The former, who was brilliantly clever, distinguished himself at Oxford; the latter, who was dull, but shone in games, was still at Harrow, when the sword fell. Sir Peregrine died in a fit of apoplexy--caused, it was said, by an unpleasant letter--and after an imposing funeral, and when he had been laid to rest on his shelf in the great family vault, it was discovered that Sir Peregrine’s affairs were in a hopeless condition; the Hall and estates were mortgaged to the chimneys, debts poured in, and creditors--long terrorised by this arrogant magnate--now clamoured for immediate payment.

There was a great and prolonged sale, the contents of the family place, the library, pictures, and plate were scattered over three counties, and a millionaire coal king bought the home of the submerged Harlings. To the widowed Lady Harling there remained an insignificant annuity, and a few small spars from the fatal wreckage. She never rallied from the shock occasioned by this sudden descent from riches to poverty, but lived long enough to make arrangements for the future of her two grandsons. For clever Humphrey, her favourite, she found an opening on the staff of a Colonial Governor, and gave him the price of her jewels in solid cash. As for good-looking, stupid Leonard, he was packed off to Canada with two hundred pounds, and a letter of introduction in his pocket. To save expense, his passage was taken second-class, in a cheap liner; this proved in the long run to have been a most unwise economy. Leonard Harling, his own master at twenty, king of his company, with a well-lined pocket, and the world as he believed before him, lost his head, and so to speak his senses! He talked loquaciously of his affairs--his outfit, and guns, and money--to hard-headed insidious ruffians who posed as his counsellors and sympathetic friends.

He learnt to play poker and to lose money like a gentleman. Here he was cautious, and did not exceed twenty pounds. At Montreal his companions introduced him to a small evil-smelling hotel in a low quarter, and after a night’s wild conviviality he woke to find himself, not like Byron, “famous,” but robbed of his all! Money, guns, portmanteau had vanished; what to him remained was one five-pound note, and a kit-bag. Even his letter of introduction was gone, and he could not remember the name and address of the man who was to have given him “a lift.” The thieves were never traced, and indeed some supposed that Leonard’s story was a clumsy invention; if he _would_ put up at a low tavern, and drink rye whisky and gamble, he got what he deserved!

No, his new acquaintances were neither friendly nor helpful, and he dared not write home and announce his loss; for well he knew he would get no help from his austere old grandmother, who would say:

“Just what I expected from stupid Leonard!”

Penniless and a stranger, stupid Leonard was obliged to exert all his energies in order to earn his daily bread. First he had a job on the railway, then he drove a traction plough on a farm, finally he was engaged as an assistant to a blacksmith. He contrived to keep his head above water, and so five years passed.

Leonard Harling was active, honest, and hard-working, but he had no initiative, push, or self-assertion, and he had never risen beyond the grade of manual labour, until he came across Lizzie Aitken. Within twenty miles of where he worked, a flourishing town was holding a week’s festivities. There were to be dances, cricket, and sports, and for this Leonard and two young men, his mates, took a whole holiday. As an accomplished athlete, the handsome, well-knit young Englishman carried off the most coveted prizes--the one-mile race, hurdle race, and high jump--all fell to Leonard Harling! He wore his school colours, and made an attractive figure in his jersey, shorts, and shoes--relics of old Harrow days, which he had clung to, whatever his difficulties. This graceful, dark-eyed stranger was watched with unusual interest by all the young women present.

Among these was Lizzie Aitken--the beauty and heiress of Tolputt. Her father, the son of a Scotch shepherd, had come out to Canada, a canny hard-bitten laddie, and steadily worked his way up rung by rung; he was now rich, and the mayor of the town, and his only child Lizzie, a pretty red-haired lassie, was the apple of his eye. She had received a fair education, could dance, embroider, play the piano, and cook; and it was his intention that, with her fine dowry, Lizzie should make a really splendid match--aye, and keep her carriage and servants, and live in style.

Lizzie became acquainted with young Harling at a ball. He wore, beside his recent laurels, an air of distinction--a romantic glamour surrounded this good-looking English visitor.

In comparison to the local swains, he had an assured ease, a charming manner--he might be a prince in disguise. Lizzie invited him to her home, where, appearances being in his favour, he was well received by her parent, and a week passed like a summer day. The love affair blazed up between the young people, but was ruthlessly quenched by old Aitken when he discovered that “the Prince,” as he was nicknamed, was only the hired help of Job Mackay, the blacksmith over by Lomax.

In spite of enormous difficulties, the couple corresponded, met, and finally eloped. They went out West, and for the first year their lines were laid in thorny places; but by dint of courage and industry they managed to hold out and make a living.

Lizzie, who was practical, clever, and energetic, remembered words of wisdom which had fallen from her father’s lips, respecting their retreat.

“A great future awaits Saint Largo in a few years time, though it’s a miserable hole _now_. It will be a golden city; it has a lake, and wonderful possibilities for trade; when it gets the railway it is _made_!”

With this prophecy ever in her mind, Lizzie Harling took hold. She started a sort of cheap restaurant in her rough and draughty shack, and as she was a born cook, and a thrifty manager, the “hotel” paid. Besides the hotel, she undertook the post-office, and the business of newsagent to the community. Everyone agreed that “Missis Harling” was “real smart,” and Leonard, her husband, realised that if he had no fortune with his Lizzie, she represented a priceless treasure. For his part he set up a smithy, and kept a good team of horses, which he hired out for freight and farm work--and presently the Harlings began to prosper. The one cloud on their happiness was the loss of two small children--an empty cradle represented their tragedy.

As time advanced, all the hard-earned numerous dollars were invested in land in and around Saint Largo, and when at last the railway came, it brought them fortune. The Harlings no longer occupied a shack; Leonard had built his wife a fine solid brick house; the furniture hailed from Toronto, and included a piano and cheval glass. He urged her to spend money, to buy smart clothes and jewellery, and enjoy life “like other women.” But she laughed, and protested at his extravagance, and said:

“I’ve got out of the way of shopping. The greatest pleasure I really enjoy is sitting hand-idle in my rocker, listening to the hired girl washing up the dishes and saucepans, which was my own job for twelve years.”

About this time, old Aitken, who had forgiven the successful couple, died, and left his only child a large and well-invested fortune, and the Harlings were the richest and most influential people in a bustling, prosperous place that now called itself a city. After considerable hesitation they decided on a trip to the Old Country, where Leonard endeavoured to trace his brother--of whom he had lost sight for years.

Humphrey remained in Australia, and wrote from there at long intervals, and then all letters had ceased. The family lawyer whom Leonard interviewed informed him that his brother had married in Melbourne, and not very long afterwards he died. What had happened to the widow or children--if any--he could not say.

Subsequently Leonard took his wife to visit what had been the home of his ancestors; and the result of this excursion (as is sometimes the case) was disappointing. Twenty years had effaced many old friends, memories, and landmarks; the ancient family was forgotten.

Now, after a lapse of another ten years, the Harlings were once more in London, and had spent three months in this hotel, pretending to one another that they were having the time of their lives. They did a round of theatres, operas, pictures, dinners at restaurants, and stiff dinners with business people who desired to be civil to the Canadian millionaire. They themselves entertained various Canadian acquaintances and fellow-passengers, but they had no relatives or intimates, and all the time felt themselves to be strangers in a strange land.

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