A Strange Will.
CHAPTER I.
MAKING A WILL.
"THE blind lower, Sparks!"
"Yes, sir."
"Bring my watch to this table. Mind you don't take it away again. Extraordinary that you never can remember! I can't see the clock, lying here. My writing-case has gone too. Put it beside me. Mr. Harvey promised to come, you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Was that a ring at the front door? Go down and see. Let me know who it is—sharp! and don't dawdle."
Sparks vanished with his air of wooden composure, which might or might not have meant patience; and Mr. Detroit lay under luxurious wraps on a wide couch at the foot of the bed, breathing sonorously.
He looked very ill, oppressed, sunken, and pallid. Once upon a time, Mr. Detroit had been a fine and well-built man, but old age had bowed and shrunken his frame, and the iron grip of sickness had laid him low.
Neither old age nor suffering had been softening in their effects. There were lines of weakness, but none of tenderness, around the cold lips; and no gleams of changeful light were visible in the stern eyes.
Mr. Detroit stood singularly alone in the world. He was without kith or kin, unless of the most distant description. He had made, in his lifetime, few needless acquaintances, and fewer friends. His relations with those who worked under and for him were purely business relations. They did so much for him, and he paid them so much for the doing. That was all. He took no interest in them personally; neither did he expect them to take any personal interest in him.
Except from a business point of view, it mattered little to any human being that he was ill. Nobody loved him; nobody had any cause to think of his name with affection or gratitude. The "joy of doing kindnesses" was a joy unknown to Gilbert Detroit. Not a man, woman, or child was consciously the better for his seventy years' residence on this earth. He had lived for himself, pleased himself and enriched himself exclusively. Now life seemed to be drawing to a close, and a new anxiety came upon him.
It was an anxiety which had not troubled him hitherto. Like most old men in good health, while knowing himself old, he had reckoned on an indefinite term of life. He had gone on carefully amassing wealth, adding pound to pound, never worried by the question, What was the use? For he had no child, no brother or sister, no nephew or niece, to inherit the whole. That had not mattered while he was well. The mere delight of money-getting had been sufficient in itself. To some natures there is a keen delight in it, hardly to be understood by natures of a different mould; and the higher cravings which exist originally in every man may be so withered by long neglect, that at last they actually die out, the lower and meaner satisfaction becoming all sufficient—just for the time! Things were so with Gilbert Detroit.
But health failed, and death threatened; and then the question arose, Whose should all this money be, which he had laboriously gathered together?
The thought troubled him a good deal. It kept him awake at night, and haunted him by day. No man likes to feel that his life's toil has been thrown away. The object of Mr. Detroit's toil, through a goodly part of seventy years, had been wealth, more and more wealth. Now he had the wealth, and he might not stay to enjoy it. Then, whose should it be? Who should enjoy the fruits of his labour? Relatives—he had none! Friends—he had none! Servants and employés—well, he had, but he did not care for them. The poor, the sick, the needy—Bah! Gilbert Detroit had never given of his riches "in charity" during life; why should he so give after death? He did not approve of people, poor or sick or needy. It was their own fault, commonly: or if not, it ought to have been; and in any case he had nothing to do with the matter.
At length he decided to send for his solicitor, Edmund Harvey, an honourable and high-principled man, not wealthy and still young, but doing well in his profession. Mr. Harvey was "sensible," the old man told himself; and Mr. Harvey might see a road out of the perplexity.
This step taken, neither Sparks nor any other member of the household knew five minutes' peace until Harvey arrived.
The room in which Mr. Detroit lay was large, airy, and replete with comforts. Nothing which money could purchase had been spared, except the touch of womanly fingers. Mr. Detroit trusted to Sparks, and scorned the idea of a nurse. Sparks had not done badly for the sick man, on the whole: but his arrangements were apt to be, like himself, somewhat stiff and angular.
"Mr. Harvey, sir."
Sparks ushered in the expected visitor, and stolidly awaited orders.
"Mr. Harvey! How do you do?" the old man said, with no relaxation of the rigid lines round his mouth. It might be that from long disuse of the exercise, he had forgotten how to smile. "Excuse my getting up. I am ill. Pray sit down. A chair, Sparks—no, not there. This side. How stupid you are! Yes; now you may go; and mind you shut the door."
The new-comer, a slightly-made and not tall man, perhaps between thirty-five and forty in age, in colouring pale, in manner frank and gentleman-like, took the offered seat.
"Sparks told me of your indisposition," he said. "I am sorry to hear it. A chill, I believe."
"A chill originally, perhaps. One theory is as good as another to account for an illness."
"Are you feeling somewhat better?"
"Not better at all. Not likely to be so," was the tart response.
After a pause, Mr. Detroit continued—"I have seen a doctor, to please my man. Quite useless, for I knew that nothing could be done. My father died in the same manner, and I have no faith in physicking at my age. But Sparks was urgent, and I consented to call in Sir William Mann, just for an opinion. I told him plainly I didn't require any medicine—didn't believe in medicine—and he told me quite as plainly that in that case he could do nothing for me, and his coming again would be useless. I like outspokenness, and I liked the man. We shook hands over it, and I shall try something that he recommended, but it will make no difference. I don't mean to say that there is immediate danger, only it is the beginning of the end."
He spoke with a hard and chilly indifference still, as he might have alluded to a necessary business journey.
"Life may be lengthened, even where full recovery is perhaps impossible; and painful symptoms may be lessened," suggested Harvey. "You are wise at least to try what can be done."
Mr. Detroit shook his head impatiently.
"Enough on that subject," he said. "I am too old to be argued out of my way, and I require your help in another quarter. I wish to make my will."
He fixed his leaden eyes upon the younger man. Harvey signified assent.
"You shall have the needful papers. Most of them are in yonder bureau. If it is not troubling you too much, perhaps you would unlock the upper half with this key. Thanks. There is a roll of papers in the right-hand drawer—yes—those—if you will be so good as to bring them. You will find all the information needed, as to investments, and so forth. The entire amount at my disposal amounts to close upon £50,000. Not bad for one who began life without sixpence in his pocket—eh?"
Mr. Detroit spoke complacently, and Harvey answered, "No, indeed!" with a touch of surprise. He knew Mr. Detroit to be a man successful in business, and successful too, of late, in certain speculations, but he had not quite expected this.
"And you propose to leave the bulk of it to—"
"That is the question!" said Mr. Detroit. "I have nobody belonging to me. I am at a loss what to do with the money."
CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE DIFFICULTY.
HARVEY'S wonder grew as Mr. Detroit explained his difficulty. The state of things seemed unusual.
"Your nearest relatives?" he suggested.
"I have no relatives—none at least that I care to acknowledge as such. There are, perhaps, a few who might wish to put in a claim to distant cousinship. Ridiculously distant. We are all cousins, I suppose, in Adam. I am nothing to them, and they are nothing to me. Practically I stand alone. Surely you were aware of this."
Harvey might have heard the fact before, but he had not grasped it. He intimated as much.
"Well, it is true. I have never had brother or sister, uncle or aunt, cousin or nephew or niece. My wife, who died three months after our wedding, was in much the same position, and I have never married again—why should I?"
"It is a remarkable case," the solicitor said.
"No doubt. The question now is—what to do with the money? Somebody must have it."
"If you have no relatives to claim a share, what of your friends?"
"I have none," the old man curtly replied.
"None?"
"No."
"But you have had friends in the course of your life. Are there no young people left in whom you are interested—the sons or daughters of old friends? No young married couples, for instance, to whom a legacy of a thousand pounds would be invaluable."
"Young people have no business to marry. I did not marry till I was past thirty; and you are not married yet. That is sensible; but rushing into married life without proper provision is not sensible. Besides, I object to leave my money in mere driblets—a thousand here or a thousand there. I will leave the whole in a lump, where I do leave it. As for friends, I have never troubled myself to make intimacies. What is the use? I do not believe in that sort of thing. Immense amount of humbug is so-called 'friendship,' as you know well enough."
"There are exceptions, I hope. Was not Mr. Plunkett an exception?"
"Nathaniel Plunkett? Well—perhaps—yes. Good fellow—true as steel. Yes, we liked one another; and he didn't try to get anything out of me. One of your clients, was he not? You are aware that I was present when he met his end."
"By drowning—"
"Ay; drowned within sight of land. Most unfortunate event. I was one of the spectators. No help could reach him soon enough. That was—how long ago? Dear me, time flies; why, it is over six years ago. But Plunkett was a good fellow—well meaning, and so on."
"It must have been a great shock to you."
"It was a warning. A man past sixty has no business to get out of his depth when bathing. Absurd! Yes, he went after a girl, I believe, and lost his own life without saving hers. He should have left that sort of thing to younger men."
"Mr. Plunkett left no children, I suppose?"
"Plunkett never married, and I have nothing to say to his brothers."
Difficulties seemed to thicken.
Harvey sat patiently, pencil in hand, waiting for something to note down.
"Your servants," he suggested. "I believe most of them have been long in your house. Probably you would wish to leave them legacies."
"Well—yes—I have no particular objection. Not much sense among them, but they do tolerably well. Ten pounds apiece."
Harvey had expected to hear of one hundred pounds apiece, perhaps more for Sparks.
"Your manager?" he proposed next, referring to Mr. Detroit's house of business in the City. "He has served you faithfully, and work has told upon his health. I have seldom come across a more worthy man than Mr. Marson. You will, of course, wish to leave him some substantial token of your regard."
"Well—yes," said Mr. Detroit.
"And the clerks. They have worked well for you. I know two or three promising young fellows among them whose families are in straitened circumstances."
"Well—well—yes," said Mr. Detroit peevishly.
"Would you like me to get a list of their names, and call again?"
"If you choose. Just as you choose," said Mr. Detroit. "You may put them all down at ten pounds apiece."
"But Mr. Marson?"
"Put him down for one hundred pounds," with evident reluctance.
Then a pause came. The two or three hundred pounds thus bestowed would make small inroads into the fifty thousand.
"I really don't see that you can do better than to leave the bulk of your money to some charitable institution," Harvey said at length, a further attempt in favour of Mr. Marson having failed. "The building and endowing of a hospital, for instance—or of an asylum. Or, what should you say to a church in some needy part of the East End?"
Mr. Detroit was not fascinated by the proposal. Plainly it was distasteful. Through about seventy years of life he had existed purely for self, had thought only of self, had ignored the claims of the poor and suffering; and through the latter half of those seventy years, he had not cared to darken the church doors on his own behalf. To such a man, the bestowal of fifty thousand pounds—the fruits of his life-work—upon hospitals, asylums, or church-building would naturally seem only one degree removed from tossing the same into a gutter.
"I'll tell you what!" he said suddenly, with an air of relief. "I shall leave it all to 'you,' and you may do what you think best with the money. That will be my wisest plan. Why didn't I think of it before, and save myself all this bother? Yes, yes—you shall have the whole."
Harvey stood up.
"I beg your pardon," he said gravely. "You are very good to form such a plan, and I am far from ungrateful. But I could not accept so serious an offer at a moment's notice. I must have time for consideration. Will you let me say goodbye now, and call again to-morrow?"
"Certainly! Certainly! Good-bye. But my mind is made up," said Mr. Detroit.
Edmund Harvey lingered one moment, looking down with pity upon the old man in his wealth and dire poverty.
"Would you not like to see a clergyman?" he asked.
"A clergyman? What for?"
"It might be a comfort. You are ill, you know, and perhaps—"
"I shall be better now that weight is off my mind. Yes, I'll leave the money to you, Harvey. It couldn't be put to a better use. Good-bye; be sure you come again to-morrow. A clergyman!—no, thanks."
CHAPTER III.
"MISS HARVEY."
EDMUND HARVEY left the house of Mr. Detroit in a state of considerable preoccupation. It is not often that fortunes of £50,000 go begging in this style; or that a young solicitor has such an offer made him by a client.
That Harvey should neither have hastily accepted nor hastily refused the offer spoke well for him. He would not undertake such a trust without weighing the matter well beforehand: yet a refusal might be wrong. Somebody would have and use the money. Why should it not be in his hands a power for good?
"Hallo!" a voice said, breaking into his reverie as he went along the busy street, threading his way in the neat mechanical style of an experienced Londoner.
Harvey came to a standstill, with nod and smile of greeting.
"Fine day!" he said.
"I was under the delusion that it had begun to drizzle, but of course you know best," the other responded, with a comical glance at the murky surroundings. He was five or six years Harvey's junior, tall and blithe, with confident bearing and line outline of face—a man to be liked and trusted at first sight.
A laugh answered him.
"I had not noticed the drizzle."
"Wits gone wool-gathering?"
"I had a knotty point to unravel. I say, Campion, come home with me to dinner. My sister arrived yesterday."
"Thanks. I think I will. No engagement this evening, happily, and it is an age since I saw your sister. Let me see—she lives at Portminster. Yes, of course."
Harvey nodded.
He seemed still to be in a state of semi-abstraction, at which Campion would have wondered less had he known the cause.
"I wish I could persuade my mother to make her home in London, but nothing will induce her to leave the old neighbourhood."
Mr. Detroit was a tea-merchant. His gains had been not only through the tea-business, however. He had also been a successful speculator, in a small way, on the Stock Exchange; and much of his success in that direction was due to the keen foresight and the prudence of his "broker."
Arthur Campion was his broker. Rather singularly a personal friendship existed, and had for some time existed, between Mr. Detroit's solicitor and Mr. Detroit's broker.
Mr. Detroit's West End house being at a goodly distance from Harvey's, the latter hailed a hansom, and the two friends were speedily set down before a lofty and narrow dwelling, chocolate-tinted, in a highly respectable quarter, having about it a generally well-to-do air.
Harvey opened the front door with his latchkey, and led the way upstairs into a three-windowed drawing-room.
Campion had seen Harvey's sister before. He remembered her well: a busy active woman, somewhere in those hazy middle-aged regions which are supposed to follow directly after thirty, but which often wait a good deal longer; the very embodiment of common-sense, with a round-about little figure, plump face, and no particular features; also with powers of talk to any extent on every imaginable subject. Campion never counted Miss Harvey equal to her brother; still on the whole, he liked her, when she did not quite overpower him with her excellent theories. One may weary even of excellence, when it takes too obtrusive a form; and no man over thoroughly admires a woman who is not at least as good a listener as talker. But nobody expected Miss Harvey to condescend to the position of a listener. Life was not long enough for all she had to say.
So Campion entered the drawing-room, picturing to himself a homely figure seated primly on the sofa, knitting perpetual stockings, and ready to welcome with enthusiasm a new listener. He had actually shaped his lips into the "How do you do, Miss Harvey? Any more reclaimed vagabonds to the fore?"
But Campion never uttered those words. For the slender girl-figure, tall and reed-like, springing from a lowly position on the rug, was by no means that of the Miss Harvey whom he had known; neither were the soft grey eyes and cherry lips those of thirty or forty years.
"Harvey's sister! Why, she can't be over twenty! A quarter of a century between them," thought Campion, with perhaps excusable exaggeration, for he was much surprised.
"I have brought a friend home to dinner, Gabrielle," Harvey was saying. "Mr. Campion—my sister Gabrielle."
Gabrielle had evidently been playing with the kitten on the hearthrug, for a small fluffy creature clung still to one shoulder, with its claws in her fair hair.
Edmund Harvey, unlike many men, was a patroniser of cats. She put up one little hand to disentangle the creature, laughing, blushing, and bowing in response to the introduction.
"Had a very lonely day?" asked Harvey, depositing himself in an armchair.
"O no, not at all. Mrs. Wiseman took me in the morning for a shopping expedition, as you know, and this afternoon Mrs. Taylor drove me through the Park. I enjoyed that, of course. If only the good people there did not look so terribly bored, one might think they liked it too."
"They are taking their pleasure in their own way—English fashion," said Campion.
"It seemed to me a sad fashion. I could almost have counted the smiling faces on my fingers."
"This is Gabrielle's first visit to town," explained Harvey.
"Indeed! Then you have still to be initiated into the fashionable boredom of London life."
"But I never was bored, and I mean never to be," she retorted merrily. "Yes, I am only a country cousin; this is my first sight of London. They all said I ought to come, and Ted—Edmund, I mean—would not let me off. I like it all immensely, of course; everything is so new to me. And the Park was perfectly delightful—for a variety. I think I should soon get tired of the monotony, if it came every day."
"Monotony is commonly supposed to be the exclusive privilege of country folks."
"But I am sure I had a glimpse of it to-day, for the first time in my life."
Gabrielle presently vanished to dress for dinner, and Campion exclaimed—"This is another sister, not the one I have seen."
"She is my half-sister, a good deal younger than Mary and myself. Did you not know there was a second marriage?"
"I didn't take in the fact of a daughter, somehow, or at least that she was like—"
Campion came to a pause.
"Like this? She is a pretty creature, certainly. I have hardly begun to realise that she is leaving childhood behind. My stepmother is never content to have Gabrielle out of her sight. Otherwise, she would often have been here. My dear fellow, you must have heard her name a hundred and one times!"
Campion was not sure.
"Well, yes—her name, certainly, now I think of it," he said. "I had a sort of idea of a little school-girl—"
"Which she was until six months ago."
"A niece, or adopted child, or something of that sort?"
"Is a step-sister 'something of that sort?' Anyhow, she is a particularly nice girl. Perhaps one ought not to mention school in connection with Gabrielle. Mary has been responsible for her education."
Campion could have groaned aloud in pity for the pupil. Yet he only knew one side of the matter; and Gabrielle had been better off than he in his ignorance supposed. Mary Harvey, letting off a volley of theories for the enlightenment of a masculine hearer, and Mary Harvey in the quiet round of daily home duties, were two very different people.
CHAPTER IV.
"A COUNTER-PROPOSAL."
HARVEY had not so much to say as usual during dinner, which, by-the-by, was well served, with all the particularity of a bachelor household. His thoughts were much occupied still with Mr. Detroit.
But Gabrielle and Campion allowed few conversational gaps, and his occasional abstraction was hardly noticed.
Gabrielle was a well-read and well-informed girl, quite able to hold her own in touch with another's mind; and the graceful union of girlish freshness with womanly thought fascinated Campion. He had never come across anybody like her before.
Somewhat later in the evening Harvey's absence of mind became more marked. They had returned to the drawing-room, and Campion jested him on a prolonged fit of silence, demanding the cause.
"I was speculating at that moment," Harvey answered, "as to what you or I would do if fifty thousand pounds came suddenly into our hands."
"Shouldn't have the slightest objection," Campion said lightly.
Gabrielle's face took a serious set.
"Would you be puzzled what to do with the money, Ted?"
"I might be. The case I am supposing is of money left to one in trust, to be used wisely for others."
"H'm, that alters the case materially."
"I know what 'I' would do," Gabrielle said, with her pretty girlish decisiveness. "I would build a hospital for Portminster. It is needed so terribly. I do think that ought to come first in our charities. Able-bodied men may know what it is to be poor and have trouble, but they can work; they are not helpless. It is when illness comes that want is most dreadful; and I don't see how one can expect to do good to them—to their minds and hearts—unless one does good to their bodies first. Isn't that the Christ-like way? I would build and endow a hospital, and would give free admission to anybody or everybody in real need—not, of course, to stingy well-to-do people, who just want to save their shillings for their own pleasures."
"Why, Gabrielle, you are eloquent," her brother remarked, smiling.
"I think I could supplement Miss Harvey's hospital with something not less needed," Campion said, falling into Gabrielle's line of thought. "I should like to start a country or seaside home, to lessen the number of the hospital patients. No, not a convalescent home, but a place where one might send the worn-out city poor at little or no cost—the deserving poor, I mean. Hardworking fathers and toiling mothers, for instance, just to give them the change they need before they break down."
"I like that idea," murmured Gabrielle.
"Hospitals and convalescent homes are well enough, but they come after the breakdown," pursued Campion, warmed by her sympathy. "I would try in some cases to forestall the need for either. There are poor fellows whom I know at this moment, going on hard and fast for a crash. They can't get away, can't afford journeys or lodgings. A fortnight in the country might set them up for months, and they can't have it. Just the old story, you know—the bread-winner failing, everything depending on him, and nothing to be done."
Harvey sat in thought as the others talked. A new idea had dawned upon him.
Next day, he found his way once more to the bedroom of Mr. Detroit, and was greeted with the abrupt observation—
"My mind is still made up. I hope you have no objection to offer."
Harvey shook hands, asked after the old man's health, sat down, and presently said:—
"I am going to make a counter-proposal. Will you leave the money to Campion and me jointly, to be used in such a manner as may seem best to us both? I should prefer this to the sole responsibility."
"Campion! Campion! Why Campion particularly? But I don't know that I have anything to urge against the plan, if you wish it. Campion will do well enough, jointly with yourself. Yes—if you like."
The matter was arranged thus. The will was in due time drawn up—not, of course, by Harvey himself—signed, and witnessed. With the exception of a few small legacies, the whole sum which lay at Mr. Detroit's disposal was left between Edmund Harvey and Arthur Campion, to be employed by them as their united wisdom should dictate. "For charitable purposes" was rather implied than stated, and rather by Harvey's wish than by Mr. Detroit's.
But after all these preliminaries, Mr. Detroit did not die.
Whether from the removal of a weight from his mind, whether from the medicine he had consented to "try," or whether from his native force of constitution, instead of getting worse, he began to improve.
At first he refused to believe in the possibility of a change for the better. Having doggedly made up his mind that death was inevitable, he hardly cared to be disturbed in the belief. It upset his plans, so to speak. Nevertheless, as days went on, there could be no denial of the fact. He was stronger, he suffered less, he had a better appetite. By-and-by he could leave his room; then he was able to drive out. And at length, he might once more be seen in his counting-house, or hovering about the regions of the Stock Exchange.
He was not, of course, sorry to come back to life. Few men are, even when they have treasure in another world; and Mr. Detroit had no treasure there. Had he gone, he would have left behind him all that he cared for. Perhaps this fact dawned upon him faintly; at all events, as he became stronger, his love of life returned.
Mr. Marson, his head-manager, a thin, worn, gentle-mannered man, was glad to see his employer back, though Mr. Detroit bestowed upon him no kind words or looks. Long experience had taught him to expect none. Yet his face showed pleasure when he congratulated the old man on recovery. The clerks ventured upon no such congratulations. In Mr. Detroit's eyes, they were merely a set of human scribbling machines. He would have been very much astonished at any show of feeling on their part.
CHAPTER V.
THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS.
IT became evident that Mr. Detroit was a good deal changed by his illness. His hair was whiter, and the furrows on his face had deepened. Moreover, he walked with a somewhat trembling gait, and seemed altogether unstrung—not so entirely master of himself as he wished always to appear.
In another respect also there was a marked alteration. He grew more chatty, more garrulous, more disposed to let slip whatever happened to be in his mind.
Mr. Marson was the first to remark upon the new phase of affairs. A quiet man, given to few needless words, scrupulously exact and honourable in all his dealings, Marson was just one of those toiling and worn-out fathers who might be benefited by such a scheme as the one Campion had suggested to Gabrielle. He had an invalid wife, one daughter, and numerous boys.
During many years he had not been out of the City, except for a day. How should he? Prolonged and hopeless ill-health in his wife was a ceaseless drag upon his resources, and the needs of his young growing family seemed never to be satisfied. Although Marson's position under Mr. Detroit was a responsible one, involving heavy work, the salary he received was by no means large. Mr. Detroit habitually ground down his subordinates to the lowest possible terms.
"What did they want with more?" he sometimes asked.
And though of late, when seemingly about to quit this world, Mr. Detroit had found a difficulty in settling what to do with his wealth, yet now that he had come back to a measure of strength, he showed himself as keen as ever in business, as eager to amass more money, as resolutely bent upon saving. "The ruling passion" would be strong even in death with him.
"I had a curious talk with Mr. Detroit this afternoon," Mr. Marson observed one evening to his daughter. They were together in the shabby small drawing-room of a small house.
The younger boys were in bed; the elder boys were learning their lessons elsewhere. Mrs. Marson could seldom come downstairs. All the cares of housekeeping and of nursing devolved upon the shoulders of this slim pale girl with large wistful eyes—grey eyes, not unlike those of Gabrielle in colour and size, but how different in expression! Ella was only seventeen, a whole year younger than the fair and light-hearted Gabrielle. She might have been ten years older, if one judged by her prematurely burdened and serious look.
"With Mr. Detroit?" she repeated, looking up from the child's sock over which her fingers were busy.
"He kept me quite a long while, chatting about his own affairs. Mr. Detroit never used to be so communicative."
"What was it all about?" Ella asked, and then she flushed up for a moment, the bright colour fading quickly. "If he thought rather more about your affairs, father, it wouldn't be so very surprising, after all these years."
She could be resentful for others under the long pressure of daily life, and she had not attained to her father's enduring patience.
"My dear, Mr. Detroit counts me amply repaid for all my services. He has said as much to me. But it was curious," Mr. Marson continued, unheeding a slight exclamation from Ella, "very curious. He spoke of his illness, and of the extreme perplexity he had felt as to the disposal of his money. The matter seems really to have weighed upon him. After a good deal of hesitation, he decided to leave the whole to Mr. Harvey and Mr. Campion, with the exception of a few small legacies. You see he has no near relatives—no relatives at all, some say—and has made his own fortune. He is, of course, perfectly free. But the decision struck me as—well, rather singular."
"I know who has made a great deal of his fortune for him!"
"I have tried to do my duty, Ella; that is all."
"And he has not done his; so that ought not to be all!"
"It is well that we are alone," Matson observed. "But you would not say this to another. Mr. Detroit has kept strictly to the original agreement. I have no just cause for complaint. Some in his place, prospering as he has prospered, might perhaps—but I see no use in suppositions. If I were a younger man, I should press for an increase of salary. As things are now, I hardly dare to venture. Many an unencumbered man would gladly step into my place on my present terms; and if I lost the work, it might be hard to find another opening equally good. I am not the man that I was."
"If not, it is work for Mr. Detroit that has worn you out, father."
"Come—I shall be sorry that I have told you so much. I did not mean to excite you. My dear, this must not go any further. Mr. Detroit made no mention of secrecy: still it ought not to become known through us."
Ella promised silence, and kept her word. The thing did become known, however—not through the Marsons, but through Mr. Detroit's own new-born talkativeness. He went about telling everybody of his will-making, his difficulty and its solution, his lack of relatives and his chosen heirs, till the story became a leading topic of conversation among his acquaintances. Certain needy individuals of the "sharper" class, whose tie of consanguinity with Mr. Detroit existed probably in Japhet, began thereupon to prick up their ears.
Many months had slipped by since Mr. Detroit's illness, and it happened that for about a quarter of a year Harvey had held no intercourse with the old gentleman. He had been very busy; time had gone fast; and he had no especial call in that direction.
One murky February afternoon, as he passed rapidly along the crowded pavement of Cornhill, and turned down a side street, blocked with huge vans and patient dray-horses, Harvey narrowly escaped "colliding" with his friend Campion. Each exclaimed "Hallo!" and each recoiled.
"The very person I wanted to see!" burst simultaneously from two mouths.
"You first," Harvey said, smiling. "Mine is not business—merely about—But go on."
Campion wore a disturbed look.
"Merely about—? Yes. Pray tell me. I hope—I hope your sister is well."
"Mary? Oh, perfectly well. I'll tell her you kindly made enquiries. What had you to say?"
Campion seemed for a moment to have forgotten. "Do you know that Matson is ill?" he asked, after a pause.
"No; poor fellow."
"I don't know what is the matter. Over-work and under-feeding, I suspect. And how on earth they are to get on, I don't know either. Mrs. Marson has been worse lately—suffers terribly. And that poor girl—it's enough to kill her."
"I'll look in and see them. Something ought to be done. I have a great respect for Marson."
"There's something else. Mr. Detroit has broken down again."
"Seriously?"
"Hopelessly, I am told. Not many weeks to live."
Harvey was pursuing his way along the quieter side street, Campion having turned to accompany him.
"When did you hear?" asked the former.
"Two days since. Met the old housekeeper. The breakdown seems to have been unexpected, but from her account, he evidently hasn't been himself for a month or so. Sparks is turned off, and a new man installed. The old woman is very indignant, of course."
"H'm!" said Harvey.
Campion lowered his voice.
"If I were you, I would look up the poor old fellow. I hear from another source that a set of harpies are after his money, getting him to make a new will. Nephews and cousins innumerable have suddenly turned up, and he believes it all. A regular organised attack. He won't see a doctor, so there's nobody to interfere—except you."
"He has no nephews, and no cousins within four or five degrees."
"There may be cousins of the fiftieth degree. They are laying claim to some sort of connection—so I am told. You had better test the truth of the report, and see that the poor old chap isn't swindled out of everything he has. They would find him a tough enough customer in health, but things are different now. I have no more to tell you. What had you to say?"
"Nothing much. My sister is coming again."
"Your sister—ah!—the eldest, of course?"
"No; Gabrielle."
"O indeed!" and Campion endeavoured not to seem too delighted.
"Mary is your favourite, no doubt—that stands to reason. She is such a good deserving creature. I like her to be appreciated; and Gabrielle is a mere chicken. My dear fellow, don't look so furious. You are coming out of your way, I'm afraid. Don't take another step. I'll tell you all about Gabrielle another day. You must come to meet her—though she isn't Mary!—and meantime Mary shall be sure to hear of your kind inquiries. I'll write to fix an evening. Good-bye."
Harvey walked laughingly off in one direction, and Campion strolled dreamily in the other. Business, noise, crowds, murky sky—all were forgotten. He walked through light and trod upon air the rest of the day.
CHAPTER VI.
NATHANAEL PLUNKETT.
"MR. DETROIT! Yes, sir—certainly, sir. He is seeing friends, though not able to leave his room. Pray step in, sir."
Harvey stood at the front door of Mr. Detroit's house. The servant who opened the door to him was young and sharp-eyed, manifestly a new importation. Was this Sparks' successor? Sparks had not been wont commonly to answer the door-bell.
"Will you please, sir, to wait your turn in the dining-room?"
The man moved in that direction.
"Wait my turn! What for? Stop!" Harvey said. "I don't understand."
For a moment he wondered whether he could have come absently to the wrong house-to a dentist's, for example—but the surroundings were too familiar.
The man gave him a keen glance.
"Then you're not another of Mr. Detroit's relations, sir?"
Harvey saw through the tangle at once.
"No relation at all, but an old friend. You were not here when I called last?"
"No, sir; there's been a lot of changes, and there's like to be a lot more. Everybody's new except the housekeeper, and she's only staying on because she can't be got to go. I've been three weeks, and I'm going at the month's end. And the butler's new too, and 'he's' going. I'm just answering of the door for him now while he's out."
Harvey stood considering. He could not quite read the man's expression.
"Mr. Detroit has had callers lately, you say—relatives."
"Cousins and nevvys by the dozen, sir. Never knew an old gentleman who'd got such a lot of kind relations, all a-wanting to ask about his health. And he won't have one refused. He sees 'em all in turn, up in his room. The housekeeper says it's killing of him, but he won't stop. I thought at first you was maybe another nevvy, sir."
The man's tone, though not rude, was free.
"You were mistaken," Harvey answered gravely, and he subsided.
"Anyways, I've got to obey orders," he said, with more meekness. "Would you please to wait here?" and he opened the dining-room door.
Harvey had not made up his mind what to do. He stepped forward, and took a good look round.
Several individuals were present; some belonging apparently to the "shabby-genteel" class, the shabbiness predominating over the gentility; some more flashy in appearance. One gentleman in checked trousers sat upon the table, taking pains to display a diamond ring upon the little finger of his left hand. Others lounged about in easy chairs or on couches. Wine and spirits stood on a side table, and half-emptied cups of tea were about. A certain amount of talking and laughing went on. Harvey knew instantly that a good many of these gentry were not strangers to one another. His first thought was, "Is this an organised conspiracy?" his second, "Have I misjudged that man's look?"
Then his resolution was taken.
"Ah! I am afraid I cannot wait so long to-day," he said aloud quietly, and drawing back, he shut the door.
"Now," he said, in a low voice, "I am a busy man, with no time to waste, and I wish for a few words with Mr. Detroit. Is he alone?"
"Bless you! No, air. There's a pack of 'em with him now—always is."
"That can't be helped. If you will manage to take me upstairs at once, I will make it worth your while."
The man rubbed his cheek dubiously. "Well, sir, it's against orders, and strict orders too, for Mr. Detroit is a very particular sort of a gentleman, and no mistake. But I don't know as it matters to me if he is put out. I'm leaving in a week."
"He will not be 'put out.' I am an old friend of Mr. Detroit's."
"I shouldn't wonder if he'd ought to see you," the man said. "There's something that isn't as it should be; and the old gentleman's in a state to be easy imposed on. That's what I say. If he's got any friends, they 'd ought to see him—if 't isn't too late, that's to say. For he's been and gone and done it now—signed the new will this very morning. And I suppose his cousins and nevvys is all come to thank him, and to make sure as nobody meddles."
"No doubt they will be the gainers by this new will."
"No doubt, sir. And if they 'was' his near relations—if so, be that's all true—why there's nothink to be said agin it."
"Certainly not. Thanks for your information."
Harvey had an impression that the man was straightforward, though by no means averse to making capital out of the said information.
"You're welcome, sir. Fact is, I don't like to see a poor old gentleman put upon, and nobody to help him through. No, I don't like it, and that's a fact. They do say as his last will was a queer 'un, but I shouldn't wonder if this was a queerer."
"Will you tell someone to answer the door in your absence. I should rather wish you to be present as a witness during the interview. What is your name?—ah, Blake. I think I may trust you, Blake. You mean well by my old friend."
His penetrating glance was met frankly. "I hope as I do, sir," Blake answered. "Yes, I'll give orders, and I'll stay. One moment, please." He was speedily back, adding, "This way."
Harvey followed him up the broad staircase to the first floor. "A set of harpies!" he muttered. "Nephews and cousins, indeed."
Mr. Detroit lay once more on the couch, in the guise of a complete invalid. He was much changed, his features having a sunken and dark look; and his voice was weak and piping, as if all strength were gone.
The housekeeper stood in the background, with a face of grim disapproval; while three individuals—gentlemen in dress and by courtesy—were grouped around the couch. One stood upright; one leant on the footboard of the big bedstead; one sat in a dégagé attitude astride a chair, facing its back, as he joked his invalid "uncle."
Harvey bowed slightly. He knew these people by sight, and was acquainted with their character. Covert glances exchanged among the three showed that they also know him.
The alteration in the old man really grieved Harvey. The hand of coming Death had already drawn legible strokes on that poor withered face. But Mr. Detroit did not seem to be depressed. He was laughing when Harvey approached—a weak continuous laugh.
"How do you do?" Harvey said kindly. "Not so well lately, I am afraid."
Mr. Detroit showed no surprise at his unexpected visitor. He glanced vaguely once or twice in his direction, then beckoned him nearer.
"I say,—" he beckoned again, till Harvey bent over the couch; "I say," and the old face assumed a childish cunning, while he spoke in a mysterious undertone; "I say, I've seen Nathanael Plunkett."
"Indeed!" Harvey answered.
"Yes, I've seen Nathanael Plunkett. Came yesterday."
A silence had fallen on the others. Harvey held the old man's attention.
"You saw him—how?"
"I say," beckoning again and laughing feebly, "I saw Nathanael Plunkett yesterday. You know! Plunkett himself. He came in and stood just there—where you are. I've seen him!" Mr. Detroit nodded two or three times in confirmation of his own words.
Harvey stood up and glanced round significantly.
"Gentlemen, you will please to note this. You may not be aware that Mr. Plunkett died nearly seven years ago, and that our friend Mr. Detroit witnessed his death by drowning. Mr. Detroit now declares positively that he saw yesterday, in this room, a man whom he knows to have been seven years dead."
The faces grew longer, and there was no response.
Mr. Detroit, after muttering again, "Nathanael Plunkett—yes, I saw him—came in here," turned aside and seemed disinclined for further talk.
Harvey took his leave, not forgetting to reward Blake as he went.
CHAPTER VII.
BROKEN ICE.
ONCE more Gabrielle Harvey had come to her brother's house.
Somebody besides Harvey was more than glad to see again that fair young face. Campion had lived upon recollections of it month after month. Time had deepened rather than lessened the impression made on him. He could have no manner of doubt now about the state of his own feelings towards her, and indeed nobody else could have any doubt about them either. But Gabrielle's state of mind towards him remained still an unknown quantity in calculations as to future events.
She had come earlier this year than last, and a late frost held London in its grip. Two days after her arrival, the brother and sister sallied forth to watch the crowds of skaters in the park. A low grey sky contrasted with the white ground, but despite the greyness, people were full of merriment—much more gay, Gabrielle thought, than when performing the stately carriage circuit on balmier afternoons.
Her own face, sparkling with enjoyment, won a good deal of attention. She was rather shy of skating in so large a concourse, though quite capable of it. Looking on was perhaps the more amusing to her unaccustomed eyes.
As she clung to her brother's arm, chatting, she presently noted three little boys in well-patched knickerbockers sliding in a retired corner, while a tall girl stood watching them—a girl of any age, Gabrielle thought, she had so young and yet so old a face. It was a pretty outline of feature, seen sideways from Gabrielle's position, with long lashes drooping over sorrowful grey eyes, and a patient curve of the full lips. The girl's dress was very plain, yet neatly and gracefully worn. She had no furs like Gabrielle; only an old cloth jacket, and a knotted silk scarf, and a small brown bonnet of unknown age.
"But what a sweet look!" Gabrielle burst out softly, as the finale of her cogitations.
"That young lady? Yes, I know her—the daughter of Mr. Detroit's manager." Gabrielle noticed an unusual interest in Harvey's tone. "Marson is an excellent fellow—I have the greatest esteem for him."
"She is too young to look so very serious. I should like to see her smile."
"Poor girl! I am afraid there is cause enough. Small means and large family. The mother incurably ill, and the father just broken down."
"Ted! And you can tell me so quietly! Why isn't something done? Why don't you help them?"
"How?"
"I don't know. Give them what they need."
"My dear child, it is not so easy. One gentleman can't walk in upon another, and present him with a cheque for two or three hundred pounds—even if he had it to spare. Marson is a thorough gentleman by birth and breeding—well connected, I believe."
"She is very lady-like—one can see that at a glance. And such pretty eyes—if only they were not so sad. Why don't you speak to her?"
"We are mere acquaintances. I have spoken to Miss Marson twice or three times. If she would glance this way—"
"She won't. I believe she doesn't choose. Or perhaps she has forgotten who you are. You must get me to know the Marsons—do, Ted."
As she spoke, Campion stood before her. He and she had met the day before, but for a few minutes only.
Campion had dragged since through interminable hours of alternate hope and despair. Hope struggled uppermost, as he met her sunny glance.
For the moment she lost sight of the Marsons and their troubles.
"Don't you skate, Miss Harvey?"
"Yes, in the country—but not here. I'm not used to such a crowd; and it is such fun seeing all the people. Don't let us keep you off the ice."
Campion had not the least desire to skate that day, and he said so. Gabrielle was kind enough to seem unconscious of the skates dangling from his left hand.
"By-the-by, have you heard the news?" he inquired suddenly of Harvey.
"No. What news?"
"Mr. Detroit's death."
"No!"
"Quite sudden, this morning. Nobody expected it so soon. I heard by accident."
The sad-faced girl, watching her little brothers, happened at this moment to be within earshot. She turned sharply, with a blank and startled look, as if to listen.
"I had no idea—I wish I had called again," Harvey said in a troubled manner. "Poor old man!"
"You have been so busy," Gabrielle observed.
She drew his attention to Ella Marson's scared face, and his hat was immediately lifted. But Ella Marson did not seem to notice the gesture, or to recognise him. Her wide-open grey eyes were gazing into vacancy, as if in piteous appeal against some threatened ill. Gabrielle's own eyes grew moist.
"How unhappy she looks!—So terribly distressed. What can it mean?" whispered Gabrielle.
And Campion asked, "Who is that?"
"Marson's daughter. I am afraid Mr. Detroit's death may be a serious matter to the Marsons. If the business passes into fresh hands, a younger man is likely to be preferred in Marson's place."
Harvey spoke low.
"He is very dependable. It is not impossible that he may be kept on," said Campion.
A shriek arose—shrill, sudden, and echoed by many voices.
While Ella Matson had been absorbed in attention to what was said, and then had been lost in her own thoughts, one of her little brothers, Jemmie, had taken the opportunity to slide past a certain warning-post, which told of danger beyond.
For three seconds he enjoyed the forbidden delight. Then the ice yielded beneath him, and with a piercing cry, he went down out of sight.
CHAPTER VIII.
A RESCUE.
NO sound escaped Ella's lips as she rushed over the slippery surface towards that perilous neighbourhood. But another was quicker. As she sped along, Campion dashed ahead, and Harvey's hand came upon her arm with a firm grasp.
"No use for two to go. Wait—" as she struggled wildly to escape—"wait, Miss Marson—"
"No! No!—I must," panted Ella. "I ought to have been looking! O, how could I forget? O Jemmie, Jemmie—"
"They are bringing ropes and planks," Harvey said, encouragingly. "See, Campion is getting near, and you could not do more. The weight of a second would only break through, and make matters worse."
She gave him one mute glance of agony, which stirred him as Harvey was not often stirred, and then allowed herself to be led to his sister's side.
"Keep Miss Marson here, Gabrielle," he said briefly. "I must see if I can help."
The girls stood side by side, not speaking, only Gabrielle's little hand stole into Ella Marson's, and the two hands remained locked together. Until that moment utter strangers, they seemed suddenly to have become one in fear and hope. But they did not even exchange glances. Both pairs of grey eyes were strained towards the black water.
Campion, lying flat, worked his way over the bending ice till close to the hole. A little dark head could be seen there, floating on the surface, and Campion's outstretched hand grasped it. There was a shout from the on-lookers, suddenly stilled. For the ice upon which Campion lay shivered beneath him into fragments. Instantaneously both he and the child went down.
One long scream rang out in a woman's voice—not Ella's voice, for Ella made no sound. Those around knew that the cry came from the lips of Gabrielle Harvey. She did not hear it herself. She looked like a frozen statue, rigid and white.
Help was close at hand: if it might be in time. Neither Campion nor Jemmie could be seen.
Planks were pushed over the ice, and men were at work with ropes and axes, above all with willing hands. The ice had to be broken away, cautiously, yet fast. Harvey had gone to offer his services. He came back presently to the two girls, standing still side by side with locked hands where he had left them. Gabrielle's clutch was like that of a vice.
Ella could not free herself, could not get away. She looked very white, but was not shedding tears. And even in that moment of suspense, she could notice pityingly the wordless horror of her companion. Long training in early life had taught her self-command and self-neglect.
Harvey would not soon forget this which he saw in Ella Marson. Self-absorption would have been more likely at such a time in any other girl of his acquaintance.
When he came up, she said steadily, "I think you ought to see to your sister. She is—" and then huskily, "O, tell me! Are they saved?"
"They were under the ice. They are taken out," Harvey said hurriedly. "You must come away, both of you. Come with me. Take my arm, Miss Marson—and you, Gabrielle: can you walk? Yes; this way—make haste. I hope all will be right."
He hardly knew yet what to say, what to expect, only he was bent upon not letting them see the two unconscious death-like forms.
"Everything will be done at once that ought to be done. A doctor is there. This direction, Miss Marson."
"Why may I not stay with Jemmie? O, let me stay!" implored Ella.
But he urged her on. "No, not yet—presently. They are being brou—they are coming to. Quick, if you please."
Gabrielle obeyed like one in a dream, not speaking. It was as if some wild creature were clutching at her throat, preventing utterance. The overwhelming distress which she felt, startled herself.
"No one must see—no one must guess," a voice in her heart kept, saying. "I must be calm—I must keep calm," and she thought herself successful. But if so, it was only because Harvey was, for once, too much absorbed in another to give her needful attention.
A house was reached, Gabrielle had no idea where. She only knew that somebody took her in, somebody held water to her lips, somebody bade her wait there quietly, somebody tried to keep Ella also, and failed. Ella had the right to go, and Gabrielle had no right. What cause had she to grieve if Campion died, more than over the loss of a casual acquaintance? But he was more to her than a casual acquaintance, and she knew it now.
She had to wait, as bidden, for she might not go to ask how matters stood. Rather it was needful that she should school herself to merely the expression of a kind and gentle anxiety. Campion's sudden death would be indeed a grievous thing in the eyes of anybody, and Gabrielle had to take it outwardly just as "anybody" might.
Standing up, she walked to the fireplace, and there her glance met the reflection of a wax-like face, absolutely devoid of colour, the blue eyes fixed in wretchedness.
Then the door opened, and somebody again came in. Gabrielle dared not glance up—dared not let her eyes be seen. She only turned slowly, listening, expecting the worst.
"My dear Gabrielle!" Harvey exclaimed, appalled by the change in her look.
Gabrielle's lips moved with a voiceless question.
"I ought to have seen—I did not understand that you were feeling so acutely. Miss Marson said something, but—cheer up, Gabrielle. It will all be well now, I trust, thank God. We were very much afraid for a time that all was up with the child, but he has come to himself. Miss Marson has behaved nobly—she might be a woman of thirty, so composed and ready. My dear girl, you really are too sensitive!" This was for the benefit of another auditor just entering. "Come, try to give me a smile, and be natural again."
Gabrielle could not hear, could not understand what he said. She listened in vain for Campion's name. Would Edmund never go on—never say another word? What could this dreadful pause mean—except—the worst? The pause lasted two seconds only, but to Gabrielle it seemed endless. She was strung up to the highest pitch of endurance.
"Miss Harvey! Gabrielle! You are ill!" another voice exclaimed, in a tone of deep concern.
Gabrielle could not help herself. She turned towards Campion, held out both hands with one low cry of relief, and then burst into a passion of weeping.
"Come—come—come!" Harvey said, shaking one arm gently as if to rouse her. "My dear child, you are quite hysterical. What does it all mean? The shock, I suppose. Yes, I ought not to have left you so long alone. Did you fancy Campion was drowned? Come now, I must get you home as fast as possible."
But Campion had the two little hands in his grasp, and seemed by no means anxious to give them up. "Would you have cared very much if I 'had' been drowned?" he asked softly.
CHAPTER IX.
WASTE PAPER.
HARVEY saw his sister safely home, having rather hurried her away from Campion. It was very easy to see whither things were tending, but he did not particularly wish a dénouement to take place just then, during a time of general excitement. The drive was silent and not long. Gabrielle began already to feel ashamed of the feelings she had betrayed: only, side by side with the shame was a dawning of new happiness.
Harvey said nothing till they reached his house. He went indoors with Gabrielle, spoke a few kind bracing words, advised two hours' rest in her own room, and re-entered the hansom. Ten minutes brought him to the porch of a goodly West End mansion, inhabited by a friend of Harvey's—more strictly speaking, a friend of his father's—who was also an eminent judge.
Harvey alighted, dismissed his chariot, and made his way to the front door.
The eminent judge was at home, and very much engaged. Harvey's card, however, proved potent, and the dignified butler led him across the hall to a shut door, within which he speedily found admission.
There a huge fire blazed merrily, and piles of books and papers upon the writing-table almost hid from view the undersized slight man beyond. Harvey could see only the expansive forehead, overshadowing a pair of deep-set and critical eyes.
"Ha, my friend Harvey! How do you do? Quite well?" asked the judge, with his inviolable air of composure. "Yes, very busy, but I can spare you a few minutes."
"I will not take up much of your time," Harvey said apologetically. "There is a certain point on which I should be glad of your opinion."
"By all means," and he was motioned to a chair, the judge resuming his own seat.
Harvey thought for three seconds—not longer—how to open what he had to say. He had already decided to present the case in supposititious terms. When he began, it was without preamble.
"An old man, worth some fifty thousand pounds, falls into ill-health, and makes his will. He has no living relatives, and he leaves the whole between two of his friends,—two at least in whom he feels a kind interest. Nearly a year later, he again falls ill. He then makes a new will—no matter under whose influence—entirely subversive of the last. This will receives his signature; and on the same day a singular thing occurs. The old man has once known intimately a certain individual—John Smith, let us say—and several years earlier has with his own eyes witnessed the death of John Smith by drowning. Upon the day that the new will is signed, a friend calls to see him, and, in the presence of three other gentlemen and two servants, he seriously assures his friend that, the day before, this same John Smith has paid him a visit in that very room. The assertion is repeated, and insisted on."
Harvey paused, then asked, "Would the new will stand?"
The eminent judge put a few brief questions, receiving brief replies. When his opinion came, there was about it no tinge of hesitation. "Such a will would be worth no more than waste paper."
"If you were a legatee by the first will, you would contest the second?"
"Undoubtedly I should."
Harvey thanked his friend, apologised again for the interruption, and withdrew.
"As I expected!" he said to himself, passing down the stone steps. "But it has been touch and go. If I had not called exactly when I did, the machinations of that miserable crew would have succeeded. It was mere chance, as one talks of chance, that I met Campion there and then. I do not believe in chance, however. May it not be 'meant' that the money should go to some better purpose?"
Even then Harvey did not return home. He stepped into an omnibus, and went some distance before alighting, thereafter finding his way on foot to the Marsons' home.
It was only natural, he told himself, that he should call to see how they were getting on, and whether the parents were the worse for hearing of their little boy's peril. But it appeared that Ella, with a thoughtfulness beyond her age, had guarded them from any needless shock. They were only much moved and very thankful. Ella was suffering, he could see, she looked so pale and hollow-eyed, but she had no leisure to think of her own feelings, or to rest. When he spoke a word of sympathy, she nearly broke down, and begged him not to go on—yet somehow, he fancied that she liked it from him. She asked him to see her father, and Harvey came away from the interview, touched with the man's quiet endurance of trouble.
If this money should come to him and Campion, the first consideration would be the question of Mr. Marson's due. Harvey made up his mind on that point. As he had told Gabrielle, he could not walk in to present the Marsons with a cheque for their necessities, but it would be quite another matter if, in making use of Mr. Detroit's accumulated hoards, they were to weigh the just claims of those who had long worked under the old man for an inadequate return.
Harvey could not get Ella's young sad face out of his mind. It haunted him incessantly.
Campion came next day to dinner; not, however, to hear of the interview with the eminent judge. Harvey said nothing about it, and no recollections seemed to trouble Campion of the merchant dying in his wealthy old age, alone and friendless. Campion's mind was full of other matters.
He found Gabrielle quite restored to her usual girlish beauty, and to more than her usual girlish dignity. For, in dismay at her own lack of self-control the day before, she had sternly resolved to keep Mr. Campion now "quite at a distance." Nobody should ever say that Gabrielle was too easily won.
So a very uncomfortable evening was passed by the three; Gabrielle being cold and distant, Campion shy and miserable, Harvey perplexed what to make of them both.
The dénouement might have been postponed indefinitely. But at the very last moment, Gabrielle relaxed. "Good-bye," she said gently; "I hope—I hope you are not any the worse for your adventure." And the pretty lips, proudly set hitherto, trembled like those of a child.
Harvey was considerate enough to walk out of the room on some flimsy pretext, and Campion was prompt to use his opportunity.
Thus before nightfall Gabrielle and Arthur were engaged.
Days passed, and each will was put in claim. After many days, the opinion of the eminent judge proved to be correct.
The last will was found to be literally "worth no more than waste paper." That one feeble utterance of the old man about his quondam friend, Nathanael Plunkett, defeated all the false claims of his would-be legatees.
The large sum of fifty thousand pounds falling thus within the absolute power of Harvey and Campion might well have proved no small temptation to them. Had they spent at least part upon themselves, some observers would scarcely have been astonished. For they were not strictly bound to devote the whole to charitable purposes, although in a measure this was implied by the terms of the will.
But they rose superior to the temptation; and it speaks well for human nature—not human nature unaided—that they did.
The much-needed hospital for Portminster was built by Harvey; and some such scheme as Campion had devised for city toilers was carried out by Campion.
Before these greater matters received attention, however, the needs of the Marson family came up. Through the strenuous exertions of Harvey, Mr. Marson kept his situation, and not only kept it, but had his salary raised, under the new heads of the business. Moreover, he was persuaded to accept from "The Detroit Fund" a cheque in additional payment for his past services—not, indeed, very large, but yet enough to go far towards ending the bitter poverty from which he and his had suffered so severely in time past.