The Usurper E-Book

William J. Locke

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The Usurper is an affair with two heroes and two heroines. The double plot of love and ambition, in which fate. four intersect each other. The romance of the poet who dies young, loved by all men and women, is very cute. moving. But a greater interest in the book is to find out the life and character of Jasper Wellacot: a millionaire who is so amazingly flabbergasted in his wealth, a philanthropist who is almost ashamed of his good deeds.

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER I

It was at the opening by Royalty of the new General Hospital which his munificence had provided for the suburb of North Ham that they first met.

Jasper Vellacot’s eye caught her slender figure and kind, serene face as soon as she drove up with the Member for the borough and his wife, and he wondered who she was. In his character of host, he stood at the top of the flight of steps down which ran the conventional strip of red baize, and received his guests. Over the shoulders of the preceding arrivals he watched her approach, curiously interested. He shook hands with the Member and his wife, and was introduced to their companion. He did not catch her name, and before he could say anything intelligible, the Mayor, gorgeous in robe and chain, mounted the steps, and she passed on. After that the Royalties arrived, and henceforward he was in close attendance upon them; but at intervals his glance wandered over the well-dressed crowd and rested upon the woman, and the sight of her gave him a queer sense of relief. Once or twice he met her eyes, and fancied he read in them a reciprocal look of interest, half grave, half humorous. He began to chafe under the constraint, to wish that he could escape from the gracious compliments of the Personages and the circumambient odour of flattery, and talk quietly with her. She seemed to hold out a promise of restfulness.

Up to now he had been keenly interested in the hospital. It was to be the most perfect institution of its kind that modern science could devise. The densely populated, grimy suburb with its thousands of workmen’s dwellings, its works and gas factories, had to send its maimed and its sick whom the inadequate local infirmary could not accommodate to one of the great London hospitals, miles away. His gift, therefore, was of incalculable value. He had taken an almost childish delight in watching it grow up, brick by brick, from the great concrete-filled excavation in the midst of a ragged piece of waste ground to a noble block of buildings in a pleasant garden. He had familiarised himself with its infinite details,–the ingenious intricacies of plan; the complicated ventilation system, worked by fans in subterranean regions; the electrical installation; the shoots for soiled linen; the laundries; the operating theatres with the latest inventions in glazed-tiled walls and in antiseptic appliances; the countless new devices for saving labour or securing hygienic conditions. He had come there that day full of pride in his hospital, in the enthusiastic group of physicians and surgeons who welcomed him, in the staff of nurses in their snowy caps and aprons. He had even surmounted his repugnance to the glaring publicity of the opening ceremony. But now he felt a too familiar sense of weariness. He seemed to be moving in a world of importunate shadows, to be himself almost an unreality. It grew hateful to stand there and play the part of Philanthropist and Public Benefactor. The suave tones of Erskine, the eminent architect, explaining arrangements, as he conducted the royal party over the building, began to strike painfully on his nerves. Instinctively he looked around for the woman, saw her at the further end of the ward, and felt foolishly comforted. He speculated on her age. A little over thirty, he thought. Who was she? Sir Samuel Dykes, the Member, happened to be by his side. He put the question, and learned that she was Lady Alicia Harden, daughter of the Earl of Illingham.

The proceedings drew to a close. There were a few speeches. The title-deeds were formally handed over to the Mayor and Corporation. The hospital was declared open, and the Royalties, after graciously drinking tea, drove away with great bouquets of flowers, through the lines of humbler spectators who cheered them as they passed.

Guests and officials crowded round the donor of the hospital, offering congratulations. He spoke little; his attitude was deprecatory, and he had not the manner of one accustomed to large social gatherings. He did not seem to concern himself as to the impression he made on others. His pale blue eyes, hidden deep behind overhanging brows, looked on every newcomer with a queer timorousness, as if he were uncertain whether the hand outstretched would greet or smite him. The superficial went away saying that Jasper Vellacot was a limp creature, with no individuality. But his mouth, long and flexible and firmly pursed, and his long sensitive chin gave evidence of character, and the rugged lines on forehead and cheeks spoke of cares and past struggles. He was still a young man, scarcely forty, but he looked older. He wore the conventional frock coat and silk hat, but his clothes had an unfashionable cut. He had a Sundayfied appearance, seemed constrained in unfamiliar garments. In figure he was tall and spare, and he had a slight stoop in his shoulders. No one would have suspected him of being a man of boundless wealth and the originator of vast philanthropic schemes.

He moved, with a small knot of men with whom he was talking, from the vestibule into the Board Room, where a polite crowd scrambled for tea. And there, near the entrance, stood Lady Alicia Harden. In her eyes, as they met his, was the same half grave, half humorous look of interest. He felt irresistibly drawn to her. Overcoming a natural shyness, he turned aside from his companions.

“I hope you have had some tea?” he said enquiringly.

“Oh yes, thanks, one of your nice blue and white china nurses has been attending to me,” said the lady, with a smile. There was a noticeable pause. Then, as he remained standing in front of her pathetically helpless, the smile on her lips mounted very pleasantly to her eyes, and she continued,–

“I have been wanting to meet you for a long time, Mr. Vellacot. I am sure you did not catch my name when Sir Samuel introduced us. I am Lady Alicia Harden.”

“I didn’t hear,” said he, “but I enquired and learned afterwards.”

“I scarcely know whether you have heard of me before,” said the lady, “but my desire to meet you is quite a year old. I have never had the chance of even seeing you till now.”

He thought she had the kindest hazel eyes and the tenderest voice in the world. Her light brown hair fell in soft waves over a high forehead, thus modifying by a subtle touch her appearance of a woman of the world. For a moment the crowd vanished, the hum of talk and the clatter of china died away, and he was conscious of nothing but the sweet smiling face before him. Words formulated themselves somewhere in the back of his brain.

“She is the one woman on the earth for me,” they ran, and they repeated themselves quickly and foolishly. His eyes lost their timorousness and grew bright.

“I am a happier man than I had realised,” said he.

“Why?” she laughed. “Because you have escaped me for a year?”

“Because of your interest in me,” he rejoined quickly. “I hope you won’t lose it now that I have had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“A man in your position must have many people anxious to meet him,–people with beautiful axes they want him to help them grind. How do you know I am not one of those, Mr. Vellacot?”

He smiled, and Lady Alicia was almost startled at the change that came over the man’s face. It was like a wave of sunshine passing over a rugged bit of rock.

“I can see the axes hidden under their jackets afar off,” said he. “Every kind of animal is gifted with an instinct that warns him of the approach of his natural enemy. In your case I have been wanting to talk to you all the afternoon. I really have,” he added, with a quick return to simple earnestness.

“While you were basking in the smiles of Royalty?”

“I am not used to this sort of thing,” he replied with a vague gesture, “and I feel as if I were enjoying the smiles under false pretences. I can’t explain. I should greatly have preferred to open the hospital myself quietly,–to have come down alone and received the first patients transferred from the infirmary.”

“You can’t expect to escape from the vulgarities of the age,” said Lady Alicia. “All we can do is to try to render them less vulgar. You hate advertisement, and so do I; but we have to endure it. The whole world clamours for it, and we can’t withstand the world, can we? I see Lady Dykes signalling to me that she is going. I am so sorry. I wonder if I dare ask you to come and see me? My desire to meet you is my excuse.”

“I should be delighted,” said he.

“I will send you a card then. Where shall I address it to?”

“I live in Gower Street,” said he.

“Gower Street?” exclaimed Lady Alicia, involuntarily; then she bit her lip and flushed, realising her little breach of good manners. But it was an astounding address for the possessor of many millions.

He smiled one of his rare smiles. “I am not in lodgings there,” he said. “I do have the whole house; in fact, I have two knocked into one. It suits me. I am fond of that part of London. My friend Erskine, the architect here, once said that there was a Greek feeling all over Bloomsbury; I suppose he meant that it was restful. Besides, Gower Street is near the Underground and the omnibus routes, so it’s very convenient. Perhaps I oughtn’t to live in Gower Street, but I can’t help it.”

“You must forgive my rudeness,” said she, holding out her hand, “and come and see me in proof of pardon.”

Sir Samuel and Lady Dykes having passed out into the vestibule, the two followed them slowly. Jasper felt prouder, as he walked by her side, than he had done all day. She was more royal than any of the Personages. She had a stately way of holding her head. He noticed that her ears were very small and delicate. She had also a frank way of looking at the world.

She glanced round the spacious vestibule. Through an open door was seen one of the sunlit wards with its long vista of white beds.

“Noble work like this must make you very happy,” she said.

He regarded her wistfully.

“It’s good for a man to do what he considers to be his duty. But happiness–”

He broke off, not knowing what to say, scarcely aware of what he wanted to express. He could not tell her that these few moments had been delicious. Nor could he explain the burden of his wealth. It would have been easy to quote King Solomon, but he was far from the phase of existence in which all things are vanity.

“It is happiness to hear you praise my hospital,” he said after a pause.

“I do praise it very much,” she remarked decisively. “And now that I am going let me remind you that you have never asked why I wanted so to meet you.”

“I never thought of it.”

“Nor why I asked you on ten minutes’ acquaintance to come and see me?”

“No,” said he, simply.

“It was to claim cousinship with you,” said Lady Alicia.

“Cousinship!” he echoed, coming to a halt. The lady smiled and nodded her head.

“My mother’s name was Vellacot,–not a common name,–and her brother, my uncle, was called Jasper, which also is not a common name. He went out young to Australia, led a wild life, and disappeared. Now, your name is Jasper Vellacot, and you come from Australia. You are too young to be my uncle, but it seems absurd that a Jasper Vellacot from Australia should not be his son. Therefore I fancy you must be my cousin.”

He stared at her for a moment, and his face grew pale.

“I never knew who my father and mother were,” said he. “I was a foundling. I got the impression, from the rough people who brought me up, that my name was Jasper Vellacot. But they died when I was quite a child, and I fell into other hands. I have used the name as my own–I can’t be your cousin–it is impossible.”

“But you must be. The foundling part of the story proves it. Besides, the romantic is always true. I see no shadow of doubt,” smiled the lady, moving again with him towards the door.

He cleared his throat, and moistened his lips with his tongue. “It can’t be,” he said in a low voice.

“You mustn’t be distressed,” she remarked. “I should make quite a desirable cousin.”

“You are the daughter of the Earl of Illingham,” said he.

“Father is entirely respectable,” she laughed. “We’ll thresh it all out when we meet again.”

He accompanied her to the carriage, where Sir Samuel and Lady Dykes awaited her. Mechanically he muttered a few commonplaces of farewell. The carriage drove off. He ascended the red-baize-covered steps like a sleep-walker. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and his lean nervous hand clenched the handkerchief into a tight ball.

“My God, it’s horrible!” said he to himself.

A little man with closely cropped head and a face like a battered bird’s, having on it no hair save two wisps of grizzly moustache, darted from a corner of the vestibule, and regarded him with concern through a gold-rimmed eyeglass.

“Jasper, what’s the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“The shadow of the inevitable, Tom.” He put up his hand as an expression of alarm came into the other man’s face. “No, not that. I have only found my relations!” and he laughed mirthlessly.

“I never knew you had any.”

“There are other Vellacots in the world besides me. One has just claimed cousinship.”

“Well? What of it?” The little man looked up at him, his head on one side, bird-fashion. “Pull yourself together, my dear Jasper,” he continued. “Do you remember what Lady Macbeth says to her husband?–”Things without all remedy should be without regard.’ And you’re not a Macbeth, Jasper.”

“My ghosts may come and sit at my table any day, Tom,” said the millionaire.

“If they do, I’ll eat them with oil and vinegar. They’ll be of no more importance than a salad. Now don’t worry your head any more about them. Go and shine among the luminaries who have come to do you honour.”

He patted the millionaire affectionately on the shoulder and pushed him away. Jasper went off with a laugh, and Tom Cudby watched his retreating figure until it was hidden among the people pouring out of the tea-room. He turned to a nurse who was leaning against the wall near by, and surveying the scene.

“If anybody asks you whether you have ever seen the reincarnation of St. Francis of Assisi, say, “Yes,’ ” he remarked, nodding in the direction of Vellacot; “ "observe him with all care and love.’ You’ll never look upon his like again.”

“I hear his charities are enormous,” said the nurse, interested in this small creature whom she had seen treat the great man so familiarly. “You seem to know Mr. Vellacot very well.”

“I am his secretary, and my name’s Cudby. Doubtless I’ve had the pleasure of corresponding with you. I would not change my position for that of a Secretary of State. Not only because I know I should make an awful mess of the State–I’m afraid I hash up Jasper Vellacot’s affairs pretty often–I’m not at all clever, you know–but–have you ever served an angel with wings hidden under a Jaeger undervest?”

The little man’s head comically jerked to one side made the nurse laugh. Then suddenly, being a young woman to whom life had brought certain disillusions, she grew serious.

“I would give a great deal to have your enthusiasms,” said she, with a sigh.

“Give yourself the trouble of calling on Mr. Vellacot when you are unhappy and you’ll have ‘em,” replied Cudby.

“ "For his bounty

There was no winter in’t; an autumn ‘twas

That grew the more by reaping,’

as Cleopatra says of Antony. I was a dead-beat in Australia, when Mr. Vellacot met me. He took me in and fed me and tended me when I was sick, and clothed me when my sole asset in this world was a battered sixpenny Dick’s edition of Shakespeare, which by the grace of God I’ve got to this day–and then he was nearly as poor as I. For his farm was just black dust on which nothing would grow. And he watered it with his tears, and I with profuse perspiration. And one day up rides a man who happened to be a mining engineer. Vellacot bemoaned his luck as usual. Nothing would grow. The man bent down and examined the soil in the palm of his hand. “What the devil do you want to grow?’ he asked. “I’m a modest man,’ says Vellacot; “a blade of grass peeping up there would send me crazy with joy.’ “Blade of grass be d–d,’ says the man. “You silly fool, don’t you know what this is? It’s tin. You are the absolute owner of a tin mine. You are worth millions.’ And so he was. And he’s just the same man with his millions as when he had as many pence. Enthusiasms! I should think I did have them. He has kept me by his side all through–as useless a beggar as ever lived. I could tell you stories about him for a month on end. He’s a “miracle of men.’ ”

He screwed his gold-rimmed glass more firmly into his eye, nodded in a friendly way to the nurse, and went in search of his patron.

Meanwhile Jasper, as soon as he had re-entered the tea-room, had been drawn aside by a military-looking man, whom he recognised as Major Sparling, the chairman of the local Conservative Committee.

“Can I have a few words in private with you, Mr. Vellacot?”

Jasper assented, led the way into the Secretary’s office close by, and motioned the other to a chair. He himself sat on the corner of the central desk, with one leg dangling, prepared to listen to some request for a subscription to party-funds. Those who solicited always began with that air of mystery. At the moment he took but a languid interest in the politician. Things that mattered more to him were filling his mind. However, with a polite gesture of the hand, he invited his interlocutor to speak.

“I must ask you to be kind enough to regard what I have to say as confidential and unofficial,” said Sparling.

“Quite so,” replied Jasper.

“And I only want an expression of your views. The point is this. The seat for this division will be vacant at the end of the session. Sir Samuel told me definitely this afternoon that he intended to apply for the Chilterns. Of course I have known for some time that things were tending that way. Ill health and so on. Anyhow we are face to face with a by-election before next session. We must find a strong man. He must have local influence or he’s no good. The radicals are infernally strong down here, and not even the Diamond Jubilee and its imperialism will carry the ordinary Tory through. In the event of our Committee inviting you–mind you, I only say in the event–would you care to stand for North Ham in the conservative interest?”

Jasper Vellacot rose to his feet, and looked at Sparling long and steadily beneath his heavy brows; then turned abruptly and paced up and down the room. It was part of his scheme of philanthropic ambition to enter Parliament. He knew that even in the House of Commons human nature was such that a man with the power of his great wealth would obtain respectful hearing, and he had many things to say and to do. An hour ago his reply would have been an instant affirmative. But now–He stopped, stared out of the window. For a few seconds the world had grown dim, and he seemed to see Lady Alicia with dainty uplifted palm barring his way. Suddenly he turned, almost fiercely, as if he were thrusting the vision aside.

“You honour me greatly, Major Sparling,” said he. “With certain reservations I should accept with pleasure.”

“Might I know the general nature of these reservations?”

“I am a Conservative,” said Jasper, “because at the present hour I can’t be a Liberal. I have lived my life in the Colonies, and necessarily I am an Imperialist to the backbone. The time has come when it isn’t England, but the race that has to assert its supremacy over the other races. I believe therefore in expansion and cohesion. There I am Tory. I am Tory in my dislike of such measures as Local Option. The Liberalism of the present day is a misnomer. It is restriction. It is the converse of Freedom which its name connotes. In my love of Freedom I pass beyond modern Liberalism and come round the circle to Conservatism. But I approach it on a different side from you. Please notice that. There are many things on your programme I will not accept. I know nothing of Church matters, for instance. My only training in religion was from an old Wesleyan parson, who for seven years fed me and gave me what education I possess. I have no views at all on the question of disestablishment, and should never express any. At heart I am a democrat. I believe in the ultimate triumph of the people. God in his inscrutability of purpose has given me a gift of wealth, and I am devoting that and my life to the service of the people. To give them the means to procure better food, better homes, better pleasures, better hopes; to provide for the sick and the weary; to save children from slavery; to guard women from Dante’s gate; I have soberly and irrevocably given up my life to this work. I take no credit for it. My Maker and myself know my reasons. Should any constituency select me to represent them in Parliament, what I consider to be for the welfare of the people must come first, and the claims of the Conservative party must come second. That is the nature of my reservations.”

He had spoken warmly, with some excitement, and in the rough Australian accent that was absent from his ordinary speech. Major Sparling looked at him somewhat puzzled. He was quite different from the shy, reserved man he had reckoned him to be,–one that would have voted placidly at the bidding of the party whips and have poured unheeded gold into the party coffers. And Vellacot spoke like a man conscious of his power and inflexible in his designs regarding its application. It was clear that the constituency would have to go Vellacot’s way, not Vellacot that of the constituency. Sparling tugged at his moustache in silence, wondering whether the subordination of the wirepullers would matter so long as the gold was poured into the coffers aforesaid.

“Am I too uncompromising for you?” asked Jasper, at length, with a smile.

Sparling slapped his thigh and sprang to his feet.

“You are a man, anyhow, Mr. Vellacot,” said he, “and that’s what we want here. Pledge yourself to support the integrity of the Empire, and the House of Lords, and that sort of thing, and, as far as I’m concerned, you can do what you like as regards popular measures. I have your permission, therefore, to bring your name before the committee? You may imagine it will not be a novel suggestion to them.”

They parted. Half an hour afterwards, Jasper and Cudby were travelling back to London by the District Railway.

“Tired, Jasper?” the little man asked after a long silence.

“Thoroughly,” replied Jasper. “Don’t talk to me, there’s a good fellow. I have several things to size up in my mind.”

Cudby nodded and pulled from his breast-pocket a little edition of “Timon of Athens” with text heavily scored and annotated, and appeared to immerse himself in it with great satisfaction. But every now and then he would steal an anxious glance at his friend who sat with wrinkled brows staring in front of him at invisible things. At last he could stand it no longer. He bent forward and touched him on the knee with the book.

“Jasper,” he said. “Damn the ghosts!” Jasper started.

“I was wondering how many votes they control. I am standing for Parliament in the autumn.”

Cudby thrust his “Timon of Athens” into his pocket and his eyeglass into his eye.

“The devil you are!” said he. “Tell me all about it.”

CHAPTER II

It was half-past nine, a few days afterwards, and Jasper and Cudby sat at opposite sides of the library table dealing with the morning’s correspondence. Letters lay in long stacks before them, and the table was covered with baskets into which the letters were sorted. Between them sat a young woman typist, with pencil and note-book, taking down short-hand replies. Envelopes strewed the ground. The post was immense. Circulars of every trade and industry under heaven; prospectuses of every bubble company; unsolicited press-cuttings from every agency in London; begging letters from all over the empire, some genuine, telling piteous stories of want, some obviously impudent frauds, the majority doubtful; letters in scented envelopes addressed in feminine handwriting which turned out to be invitations to subscribe to bazaars and charity concerts; bills; receipts; business-letters from architects, solicitors, bankers, stock brokers, secretaries of companies, financiers; invitations to public dinners and functions; a few invitations to private parties; and fewer still, pathetically so, the private notes from friends.

His affairs required a large staff of clerks and agents. He had taken one of the adjoining houses in Gower Street, for office accommodation and thrown it practically into one with his residence. And here, in the centre of things he sat, controlling everything, working from morning to night, giving his personal attention to the smallest detail. From here he directed the vast mining enterprise in Australia and the petty charities of every day. The begging letters were so numerous, it is true, that he had been forced to organise an enquiry department to report upon the various cases; but he considered these reports himself, and delegated to no one his authority. Then there were hours of close thought over financial operations of great responsibility. He could deal in large figures, and his individual buying or selling of shares affected the stock-market and thereby the fortunes of unknown thousands. He had far-reaching philanthropic schemes of which he alone held the threads. His interviews took up two or three hours of his day, and if he were disengaged he denied no man access, however poor. And this life of strenuous and incessant toil was the life of a man worth many millions.

During one of the intervals between the going and coming of a typist, a clerk entered the room with a telegram. It was a cypher cable from his broker in New York. It ran: “Rock oil new springs found. This morning 120. Acting on instructions, sold.” Jasper tossed it over to Cudby.

“Will this avalanche never stop increasing–will it go on infinitely?” he said wearily.

“This means that you’re worth a million of dollars more than you were yesterday. I wouldn’t be sad about it, you know. After all, vous l’avez voulu, George Dandin. You told Odgers peremptorily to sell when the shares reached 120. I wrote the cable myself.”

“That was when they were at 75, and he was worrying me to sell. I bought them at 40. I named a fantastic figure. Told him practically to sell on the Day of Judgment. I know these things. A boom to-day. To-morrow they would have fallen. Next week they would have been at the same steady price. My sale will “bear’ the whole thing down. You’ll see. This gain of mine is others’ loss. Oh, Tommy, I hate it!”

“Well, my dear old chap, you can’t say to it like Flaminius in “Timon of Athens,’ “Fly, damned baseness, to him that worships thee.’ ”

“For once in my life I can cap one of your infernal quotations. You were reading me the passage the other night, after the North Ham affair. He goes on to say, “Let molten coin be thy damnation.’ By Heaven, it has been mine. There was a heathen king,–I forget his name,–he had the gift of turning everything he touched to gold. It was a curse on him for his impiety. And the flowers he plucked turned to gold, and the hands of friends he shook, and the food he ate, and the wine he drank turned to solid gold, and he starved–I read it as a boy–and the curse is on me for my wrongdoing and I’m starving.”

“Rot,” said Cudby. “The royal gentleman’s name was Midas, and he had ass’s ears. You haven’t. That makes all the difference. As for the million dollars you can easily find use for it. Here’s a letter from Blaine at Rio. Two dead-beats shipped per homeward steamer, consigned to Jasper Vellacot, Esq.,–this side up with care,–lest all the whisky should run out of them before they arrive. You can divide the dollars between them, and send them away to play Trinculo and Stephano in this little island. They’ll find a Caliban to show them round at the first street corner.”

He turned the matter into a jest, glancing in his anxious bird-like way at his patron, eager to see a smile dispel the gloom on his face. It was his constant preoccupation to present to Vellacot the lighter aspect of things. In this instance he was successful.

“You are talking drivel and wasting time, Tommy,” said Jasper, with a laugh. “Note the names and details and let me see the men when they come. Now ring the bell and let us get on.”

This “Agency for the Propagation of Wasters,” as Cudby irreverently termed it, was one of Jasper’s pet schemes, which he had been able only lately to bring into complete working order.

“We have been wasters ourselves, Tommy,” he used to say deprecatingly, “with no one to stretch us out a helping hand. We’ve been there and know what it is.”

For want of a better name, he had called it a Repatriation Agency. He had appointed agents in many of the great parts of the world, Sydney, Rio Janeiro, Hong Kong, Cape Town, San Francisco, from whom dead-beats, men who had mistaken their vocation in choosing a colonial or adventurous career, and were evident forlorn failures, could obtain a free passage home, a little ready money, and an introduction to himself. They had to be British subjects and obvious incapables. When they arrived in London, he helped them and found work for them, and put them under the kindly eye of his little enquiry department. Cudby, in a teasing mood, would sometimes rail against this importation of congenital drunkards, criminals, and idiots, and prophesy horrible catastrophes.

“I myself am a case in point. You could get a smart young fellow, trained in business, to do my work infinitely better for £120 a year. How do you know what latent criminal instincts I may have just waiting for occasion to develop them? You are too confiding, Jasper. You think that there’s a good solid stratum of the angelic in every ruffian you meet, and that kindness is the way to get at it. You are sitting on the highest mound of the Hill of Illusion, and one of these days it will burst like an egg-shell, and down you’ll come flop and hurt your spine awfully.”

At which Jasper would smile indulgently, and with the wistful look in his eyes would thank God for the illusions left to him.

The morning’s work proceeded. Jasper opened a letter from Major Sparling. He had sounded the committee. They were unanimous in their desire that Mr. Vellacot should stand for North Ham when the vacancy occurred; would give him freedom of action in dealing with the proletariat, consistent, of course, with constitutional methods. He handed the letter to Cudby, who glanced through it, nodded, murmured an inaudible quotation from the Third Part of “King Henry VI.,” and threw the letter into the “private” basket. Then he continued the reply he was dictating to the typist. Jasper, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head, went off into a daydream. He saw himself standing amid the green benches passionately declaiming, working the House up to rapt enthusiasm, sitting down amid a storm of applause and cries of “Divide! Divide!” Then suddenly he leaned forward again, rubbed his eyes, and broke into a laugh.

“You are wrong. I’ve got the ears,” he said across the table.

Cudby looked up for a moment perplexed. Then his quick perception and instinctive knowledge of Jasper came to his aid.

“Visions about?” he asked.

Jasper nodded. Cudby pointed to the mass of correspondence still unread.

“ "Stay we no longer dreaming of renown,

But sound the trumpets, and about our task,’ ”

he quoted.

“If I hear any more Shakespeare this morning, I’ll call in a policeman,” said Jasper, in a lighter mood. And as the typist, having got her complement of notes, retired, he rose and stretched himself and walked about the room.

“Do you know, Tom,” said he, coming to a halt, and putting his hands in his pockets, “if things were different I could be as light-hearted a fellow as ever lived. I’ve longed all my life to be light-hearted. In old days, save with the dear old parson, poverty made it heavy; now wealth does–and other things.”

He went to the window and looked out into the street. The golden July sunshine flooded the pavements, and the strip of sky above the roofs of the houses opposite gleamed gloriously blue. A great craving for happiness welled up within him, a desire to escape from the formalism of humanity, from the constraining streets and the restricting laws of conduct, a nostalgia of wide rolling distances, and the smell of the eucalyptus, and the peace of a soul at rest. By nature a visionary, by will a man of action, he seemed to be maintained stationary by the continuous and equal impulse of the two opposing forces, like a ball in the jet of a fountain. That was why the superficial judged him to be a man of no individuality. But when one or other of the forces slightly preponderated, the man’s personality leaped forth. He acted quickly, definitely, masterfully. Or he showed himself to be a dreamer of dreams, an inarticulate poet brooding tenderwise over the world’s misery that he could not relieve, or yearning after its loveliness that he dared not clasp.

He gazed at the golden sunshine and the radiant strip of blue, and he longed for the wide rolling distances and the smell of the eucalyptus. He turned away with a sigh.

“Do you know what I should like to do this afternoon?” he said meditatively. “I should like to go down to Kew Gardens on a penny steamboat.”

“You can reasonably afford it,” replied Cudby.

“Perhaps, if I get through the letters, I may go after lunch,” replied Jasper, resuming his seat. “Are there any more that I need see?”

“I’ve put them in your basket while you have been street-gazing,” said Cudby, rising and taking up the basket containing the letters with which he was to deal in his own office. “I’ll see all the cranks who come, so that you can get off on your treat this afternoon.”

Jasper acquiesced. He would be inaccessible to everybody save the two dead-beats from Rio Janeiro. It was to be clearly understood that he made a point of interviewing all the dead-beats. Cudby winged an ironical remark Parthian-wise and retired. His master turned to his correspondence. After an hour’s work he came upon a card in his basket he had not previously noticed. It bore the announcement that Lady Alicia Harden would be At Home on Friday evening a week hence. His name was written in the left-hand top corner. The letters R. S. V. P. were below. The writing was dainty, feminine, characterful. It gave an odd air of strength to the name “Jasper.” It evoked the woman in whose presence he had found the heart-rest he had craved for many years. She stood before him and looked at him with her kind eyes, and her eyes stabbed.

He took a sheet of note paper, wrote thereon that Mr. Jasper Vellacot very much regretted that a previous engagement did not allow him to accept Lady Alicia Harden’s kind invitation. He addressed an envelope, closed it, and threw it aside for post. Then he resumed his work. A clerk came in, collected such letters as were ready, and disappeared. A short while afterwards the clock struck twelve, and he knew that, by the rule of the house, his note to Lady Alicia had been posted at the pillar-box outside in time for the midday collection.

The thing was done. He was glad. He would not see this woman again. Intimacy with her was doubly dangerous. His life had already been too much the sport of the irony of circumstance for him not to recognise the preliminaries of the game. Besides, what had he to do with high-born women? What, for the matter of that, had he to do with women at all? The love of them and the sound of children’s feet in his house were things within that Paradise whose gates he himself had barred and locked; and he had thrown the key irrevocably into the abyss. He stood outside for ever. Yes; he was glad. Had he not been expecting, with some irritation, during the past few days, to have to make this decision? Now it was over and done with, and could be relegated to the limbo of other resisted temptations.

Still, when he walked to the window again, the sunshine did not seem quite so golden nor the sky quite so blue. And later, at luncheon, he told Cudby that he thought his desire to go to Kew Gardens on a penny steamboat was rather childish, and that he proposed to attend to some business in the city.

CHAPTER III

In coming to his irrevocable decision to see no more of Lady Alicia, Jasper Vellacot had not reckoned with rheumatic gout. That so prosaic a malady should be a factor in his romantic destiny (save that perhaps eventual crippledom might place him beyond the pale of romance altogether) never entered into his calculations. But when a man sets up to be a law unto himself, and disregards trivial things,–de minimis non curat,–the trivial things are apt to assert themselves.

The rheumatic gout was slight. He had been troubled with it before and had freed himself from symptoms. But this year it had returned. His doctor prescribed baths, and mentioned Aix-les-Bains. Jasper suggested Harrogate. It would be nearer to London. He could run up when his affairs needed his presence; could transact his business so easily. The doctor ordained an absolute holiday. Jasper still stuck to Harrogate, the doctor to Aix. Cudby supported the doctor, quoted the inefficacy of the waters of Abana and Pharpar, scolded, implored, cajoled, and at last prevailed. One August morning he saw his patron off at Charing Cross, and returned to Gower Street to have a peaceful time with his Shakespearean commentators.

So Jasper, accepting the inevitable, went to Aix-les-Bains to cure himself of his rheumatic gout. He put himself under the care of a specialist, began his prescribed course of douches, and for a time enjoyed the change exceedingly. The little town, all hotels and gardens, nestling by the side of its fairy lake in an amphitheatre of mountains, full of sunshine and idleness, gay with laughter and colour, seemed to knead the weariness from his heart just as his shampooer at the Établissement des Bains kneaded out the rheumatism from his limbs. Always modest in his personal expenditure, and somewhat morbidly shrinking from luxuriousness of life, he put up at one of the less expensive hotels, made friends with his American neighbours at the dinner-table, and enjoyed the pleasures of simple companionship.

Now at Aix-les-Bains the whole of its afternoon and evening life is concentrated in its two casinos, the Grand Cercle and the Villa des Fleurs. Each stands in its own pretty grounds, and the grounds adjoin. When you sit and sip your coffee on the terrace of the Cercle, you can watch the fireworks in the gardens of the Villa. When you have won money at the baccarat tables of the Villa, you can run round in two minutes and lose it at the Cercle; which is most convenient. Or when you are tired of the indoor afternoon concert at the Cercle, you can stroll across to the Villa and find a crowd of women in cool dresses and men in flannels, talking and reading under the shade of the great lime-trees, while waiters move about with glasses in which ice tinkles deliciously and straws stand invitingly, and while an orchestra in the kiosque at the further end discourses lively music. With characteristic twinges of self-reproach for leading this existence of frivolous peace, Jasper surrendered himself, as we have said, to the inevitable. He went on excursions in the little old paddle steamers about the lake. He dozed in the Villa grounds. He took three English children and their grandmother for drives about the country, while their mother went off to gamble. He found unexpected entertainment in fireworks. He wandered amusedly around the baccarat tables, and grew as fascinated as a child with the eternally gyrating little horses in the outer hall of the Cercle. For a week things went happily.

On the eighth evening he stood in the gaming-room of the Villa watching some high play at one of the four tables. The heat was great, the air charged with over-scented femininity. A discreet murmur of talk filled the room, and above it rose the monotonous cries of the croupiers. Each table had its crowd, but the throng around the table where Jasper stood was three or four deep. The spectacle half amused, half saddened him. This horrible greed of money moved his pity. Here were those who came to Aix mainly for the gambling,–well-known London money-lenders, keepers of gaming-hells in Belgium and Mexico, elderly women in cotton blouses and with untidy hair; there were many who had come for the treatment, looking as though they had rheumatism in their bodies and gout in their souls. There were American millionaires, cool, white-bearded, urbane; American women, elaborately costumed, tapping their hundred-franc plaques nervously with the sharp points of their pink, manicured nails. There was the ubiquitous cosmopolitan Hebrew of dark and devious finance, bald-headed, hook-beaked, with great moustache helped out by whisker, with hard, evil goggle-eyes, in irreproachable dinner-jacket, with a hothouse flower in his button-hole, a diamond in his shirt-front and diamonds on his hands. There were Parisian demi-mondaines stretching out over-jewelled fingers through the rows of players to receive the red louis counters handed up from the green cloth. There were fresh, laughing English girls in simple frocks taking their innocent fill of the excitement; there were clean-limbed Englishmen; pretty Frenchwomen grown for the moment hawk-eyed, as the chances of the game wavered.

“You don’t play, Monsieur?” said a girl in broken English to Vellacot.

“No,” he replied simply. “I am afraid.”

“Of what?” she laughed.

“Of winning.”

The girl raised her eyebrows, turned away, and reached hastily over the crowd in order to stake a louis on the hand.

“You are nothing if not original, Mr. Vellacot,” said a voice by his side.

He turned, with a great leap of his heart. There stood Lady Alicia, smiling serenely, a little teasing shadow hovering over her lips.

There was no help for it. The unreckoned rheumatic gout had its revenge. He must either pack up his things and escape from Aix at once, or he must put up with a course of Lady Alicia’s society. For Aix is really only one very big hotel where everybody meets everybody else a dozen times a day. Vaguely, dazedly, the alternatives passed through Jasper’s mind. All that he could do for the moment, however, was to apostrophise her by name in tones of astonishment.