Works of grant allen, p.613
Works of Grant Allen, page 613
“I might also have accepted your offer to go to South Africa, where I could soon have cleared out, having embezzled thousands. But, then, I should have been in a position of trust and responsibility — and I am not quite rogue enough to rob you under those conditions.
“Whatever else I am, however, I am not a hypocrite. I do not pretend to be anything more than a common swindler. If I return you your papers intact, it is only on the same principle as that of the Australian bushranger, who made a lady a present of her own watch because she had sung to him and reminded him of England. In other words, he did not take it from her. In like manner, when I found you had behaved, for once, like a gentleman, contrary to my expectation, I declined to go on with the trick I then meditated. Which does not mean to say I may not hereafter play you some other. That will depend upon your future good behaviour.
“Why, then, did I get White Heather to purloin your dispatch-box, with intent to return it? Out of pure lightness of heart? Not so; but in order to let you see I really meant it. If I had gone off with no swag, and then written you this letter, you would not have believed me. You would have thought it was merely another of my failures. But when I have actually got all your papers into my hands, and give them up again of my own free will, you must see that I mean it.
“I will end, as I began, seriously. My trade has not quite crushed out of me all germs or relics of better feeling; and when I see a millionaire behave like a man, I feel ashamed to take advantage of that gleam of manliness.
“Yours, with a tinge of penitence, but still a rogue, CUTHBERT CLAY.”
The first thing Charles did on receiving this strange communication was to bolt downstairs and inquire for the dispatch-box. It had just arrived by Eagle Express Company. Charles rushed up to our rooms again, opened it feverishly, and counted his documents. When he found them all safe, he turned to me with a hard smile. “This letter,” he said, with quivering lips, “I consider still more insulting than all his previous ones.”
But, for myself, I really thought there was a ring of truth about it. Colonel Clay was a rogue, no doubt — a most unblushing rogue; but even a rogue, I believe, has his better moments.
And the phrase about the “position of trust and responsibility” touched Charles to the quick, I suppose, in re the Slump in Cloetedorp Golcondas. Though, to be sure, it was a hit at me as well, over the ten per cent commission.
THE EPISODE OF THE GAME OF POKER
“Seymour,” my brother-in-law said, with a deep-drawn sigh, as we left Lake George next day by the Rennselaer and Saratoga Railroad, “no more Peter Porter for me, if you please! I’m sick of disguises. Now that we know Colonel Clay is here in America, they serve no good purpose; so I may as well receive the social consideration and proper respect to which my rank and position naturally entitle me.”
“And which they secure for the most part (except from hotel clerks), even in this republican land,” I answered briskly.
For in my humble opinion, for sound copper-bottomed snobbery, registered A1 at Lloyd’s, give me the free-born American citizen.
We travelled through the States, accordingly, for the next four months, from Maine to California, and from Oregon to Florida, under our own true names, “Confirming the churches,” as Charles facetiously put it — or in other words, looking into the management and control of railways, syndicates, mines, and cattle-ranches. We inquired about everything. And the result of our investigations appeared to be, as Charles further remarked, that the Sabeans who so troubled the sons of Job seemed to have migrated in a body to Kansas and Nebraska, and that several thousand head of cattle seemed mysteriously to vanish, à la Colonel Clay, into the pure air of the prairies just before each branding.
However, we were fortunate in avoiding the incursions of the Colonel himself, who must have migrated meanwhile on some enchanted carpet to other happy hunting-grounds.
It was chill October before we found ourselves safe back in New York, en route for England. So long a term of freedom from the Colonel’s depredations (as Charles fondly imagined — but I will not anticipate) had done my brother-in-law’s health and spirits a world of good; he was so lively and cheerful that he began to fancy his tormentor must have succumbed to yellow fever, then raging in New Orleans, or eaten himself ill, as we nearly did ourselves, on a generous mixture of clam-chowder, terrapin, soft-shelled crabs, Jersey peaches, canvas-backed ducks, Catawba wine, winter cherries, brandy cocktails, strawberry-shortcake, ice-creams, corn-dodger, and a judicious brew commonly known as a Colorado corpse-reviver. However that may be, Charles returned to New York in excellent trim; and, dreading in that great city the wiles of his antagonist, he cheerfully accepted the invitation of his brother millionaire, Senator Wrengold of Nevada, to spend a few days before sailing in the Senator’s magnificent and newly-finished palace at the upper end of Fifth Avenue.
“There, at least, I shall be safe, Sey,” he said to me plaintively, with a weary smile. “Wrengold, at any rate, won’t try to take me in — except, of course, in the regular way of business.”
Boss-Nugget Hall (as it is popularly christened) is perhaps the handsomest brown stone mansion in the Richardsonian style on all Fifth Avenue. We spent a delightful week there. The lines had fallen to us in pleasant places. On the night we arrived Wrengold gave a small bachelor party in our honour. He knew Sir Charles was travelling without Lady Vandrift, and rightly judged he would prefer on his first night an informal party, with cards and cigars, instead of being bothered with the charming, but still somewhat hampering addition of female society.
The guests that evening were no more than seven, all told, ourselves included — making up, Wrengold said, that perfect number, an octave. He was a nouveau riche himself — the newest of the new — commonly known in exclusive old-fashioned New York society as the Gilded Squatter; for he “struck his reef” no more than ten years ago; and he was therefore doubly anxious, after the American style, to be “just dizzy with culture.” In his capacity of Mæcenas, he had invited amongst others the latest of English literary arrivals in New York — Mr. Algernon Coleyard, the famous poet, and leader of the Briar-rose school of West-country fiction.
“You know him in London, of course?” he observed to Charles, with a smile, as we waited dinner for our guests.
“No,” Charles answered stolidly. “I have not had that honour. We move, you see, in different circles.”
I observed by a curious shade which passed over Senator Wrengold’s face that he quite misapprehended my brother-in-law’s meaning. Charles wished to convey, of course, that Mr. Coleyard belonged to a mere literary and Bohemian set in London, while he himself moved on a more exalted plane of peers and politicians. But the Senator, better accustomed to the new-rich point of view, understood Charles to mean that he had not the entrée of that distinguished coterie in which Mr. Coleyard posed as a shining luminary. Which naturally made him rate even higher than before his literary acquisition.
At two minutes past the hour the poet entered. Even if we had not been already familiar with his portrait at all ages in The Strand Magazine, we should have recognised him at once for a genuine bard by his impassioned eyes, his delicate mouth, the artistic twirl of one gray lock upon his expansive brow, the grizzled moustache that gave point and force to the genial smile, and the two white rows of perfect teeth behind it. Most of our fellow-guests had met Coleyard before at a reception given by the Lotus Club that afternoon, for the bard had reached New York but the previous evening; so Charles and I were the only visitors who remained to be introduced to him. The lion of the hour was attired in ordinary evening dress, with no foppery of any kind, but he wore in his buttonhole a dainty blue flower whose name I do not know; and as he bowed distantly to Charles, whom he surveyed through his eyeglass, the gleam of a big diamond in the middle of his shirt-front betrayed the fact that the Briar-rose school, as it was called (from his famous epic), had at least succeeded in making money out of poetry. He explained to us a little later, in fact, that he was over in New York to look after his royalties. “The beggars,” he said, “only gave me eight hundred pounds on my last volume. I couldn’t stand that, you know; for a modern bard, moving with the age, can only sing when duly wound up; so I’ve run across to investigate. Put a penny in the slot, don’t you see, and the poet will pipe for you.”
“Exactly like myself,” Charles said, finding a point in common. “I’m interested in mines; and I, too, have come over to look after my royalties.”
The poet placed his eyeglass in his eye once more, and surveyed Charles deliberately from head to foot. “Oh,” he murmured slowly. He said not a word more; but somehow, everybody felt that Charles was demolished. I saw that Wrengold, when we went in to dinner, hastily altered the cards that marked their places. He had evidently put Charles at first to sit next the poet; he varied that arrangement now, setting Algernon Coleyard between a railway king and a magazine editor. I have seldom seen my respected brother-in-law so completely silenced.
The poet’s conduct during dinner was most peculiar. He kept quoting poetry at inopportune moments.
“Roast lamb or boiled turkey, sir?” said the footman.
“Mary had a little lamb,” said the poet. “I shall imitate Mary.”
Charles and the Senator thought the remark undignified.
After dinner, however, under the mellowing influence of some excellent Roederer, Charles began to expand again, and grew lively and anecdotal. The poet had made us all laugh not a little with various capital stories of London literary society — at least two of them, I think, new ones; and Charles was moved by generous emulation to contribute his own share to the amusement of the company. He was in excellent cue. He is not often brilliant; but when he chooses, he has a certain dry vein of caustic humour which is decidedly funny, though not perhaps strictly without being vulgar. On this particular night, then, warmed with the admirable Wrengold champagne — the best made in America — he launched out into a full and embroidered description of the various ways in which Colonel Clay had deceived him. I will not say that he narrated them in full with the same frankness and accuracy that I have shown in these pages; he suppressed not a few of the most amusing details — on no other ground, apparently, than because they happened to tell against himself; and he enlarged a good deal on the surprising cleverness with which several times he had nearly secured his man; but still, making all allowances for native vanity in concealment and addition, he was distinctly funny — he represented the matter for once in its ludicrous rather than in its disastrous aspect. He observed also, looking around the table, that after all he had lost less by Colonel Clay in four years of persecution than he often lost by one injudicious move in a single day on the London Stock Exchange; while he seemed to imply to the solid men of New York, that he would cheerfully sacrifice such a fleabite as that, in return for the amusement and excitement of the chase which the Colonel had afforded him.
The poet was pleased. “You are a man of spirit, Sir Charles,” he said. “I love to see this fine old English admiration of pluck and adventure! The fellow must really have some good in him, after all. I should like to take notes of a few of those stories; they would supply nice material for basing a romance upon.”
“I hardly know whether I’m exactly the man to make the hero of a novel,” Charles murmured, with complacence. And he certainly didn’t look it.
“I was thinking rather of Colonel Clay as the hero,” the poet responded coldly.
“Ah, that’s the way with you men of letters,” Charles answered, growing warm. “You always have a sneaking sympathy with the rascals.”
“That may be better,” Coleyard retorted, in an icy voice, “than sympathy with the worst forms of Stock Exchange speculation.”
The company smiled uneasily. The railway king wriggled. Wrengold tried to change the subject hastily. But Charles would not be put down.
“You must hear the end, though,” he said. “That’s not quite the worst. The meanest thing about the man is that he’s also a hypocrite. He wrote me such a letter at the end of his last trick — here, positively here, in America.” And he proceeded to give his own version of the Quackenboss incident, enlivened with sundry imaginative bursts of pure Vandrift fancy.
When Charles spoke of Mrs. Quackenboss the poet smiled. “The worst of married women,” he said, “is — that you can’t marry them; the worst of unmarried women is — that they want to marry you.” But when it came to the letter, the poet’s eye was upon my brother-in-law. Charles, I must fain admit, garbled the document sadly. Still, even so, some gleam of good feeling remained in its sentences. But Charles ended all by saying, “So, to crown his misdemeanours, the rascal shows himself a whining cur and a disgusting Pharisee.”
“Don’t you think,” the poet interposed, in his cultivated drawl, “he may have really meant it? Why should not some grain of compunction have stirred his soul still? — some remnant of conscience made him shrink from betraying a man who confided in him? I have an idea, myself, that even the worst of rogues have always some good in them. I notice they often succeed to the end in retaining the affection and fidelity of women.”
“Oh, I said so!” Charles sneered. “I told you you literary men have always an underhand regard for a scoundrel.”
“Perhaps so,” the poet answered. “For we are all of us human. Let him that is without sin among us cast the first stone.” And then he relapsed into moody silence.
We rose from table. Cigars went round. We adjourned to the smoking-room. It was a Moorish marvel, with Oriental hangings. There, Senator Wrengold and Charles exchanged reminiscences of bonanzas and ranches and other exciting post-prandial topics; while the magazine editor cut in now and again with a pertinent inquiry or a quaint and sarcastic parallel instance. It was clear he had an eye to future copy. Only Algernon Coleyard sat brooding and silent, with his chin on one hand, and his brow intent, musing and gazing at the embers in the fireplace. The hand, by the way, was remarkable for a curious, antique-looking ring, apparently of Egyptian or Etruscan workmanship, with a projecting gem of several large facets. Once only, in the midst of a game of whist, he broke out with a single comment.
“Hawkins was made an earl,” said Charles, speaking of some London acquaintance.
“What for?” asked the Senator.
“Successful adulteration,” said the poet tartly.
“Honours are easy,” the magazine editor put in.
“And two by tricks to Sir Charles,” the poet added.
Towards the close of the evening, however — the poet still remaining moody, not to say positively grumpy — Senator Wrengold proposed a friendly game of Swedish poker. It was the latest fashionable variant in Western society on the old gambling round, and few of us knew it, save the omniscient poet and the magazine editor. It turned out afterwards that Wrengold proposed that particular game because he had heard Coleyard observe at the Lotus Club the same afternoon that it was a favourite amusement of his. Now, however, for a while he objected to playing. He was a poor man, he said, and the rest were all rich; why should he throw away the value of a dozen golden sonnets just to add one more pinnacle to the gilded roofs of a millionaire’s palace? Besides, he was half-way through with an ode he was inditing to Republican simplicity. The pristine austerity of a democratic senatorial cottage had naturally inspired him with memories of Dentatus, the Fabii, Camillus. But Wrengold, dimly aware he was being made fun of somehow, insisted that the poet must take a hand with the financiers. “You can pass, you know,” he said, “as often as you like; and you can stake low, or go it blind, according as you’re inclined to. It’s a democratic game; every man decides for himself how high he will play, except the banker; and you needn’t take bank unless you want it.”
“Oh, if you insist upon it,” Coleyard drawled out, with languid reluctance, “I’ll play, of course. I won’t spoil your evening. But remember, I’m a poet; I have strange inspirations.”
The cards were “squeezers” — that is to say, had the suit and the number of pips in each printed small in the corner, as well as over the face, for ease of reference. We played low at first. The poet seldom staked; and when he did — a few pounds — he lost, with singular persistence. He wanted to play for doubloons or sequins, and could with difficulty be induced to condescend to dollars. Charles looked across at him at last; the stakes by that time were fast rising higher, and we played for ready money. Notes lay thick on the green cloth. “Well,” he murmured provokingly, “how about your inspiration? Has Apollo deserted you?”
It was an unwonted flight of classical allusion for Charles, and I confess it astonished me. (I discovered afterwards he had cribbed it from a review in that evening’s Critic.) But the poet smiled.
“No,” he answered calmly, “I am waiting for one now. When it comes, you may be sure you shall have the benefit of it.”
Next round, Charles dealing and banking, the poet staked on his card, unseen as usual. He staked like a gentleman. To our immense astonishment he pulled out a roll of notes, and remarked, in a quiet tone, “I have an inspiration now. Half-hearted will do. I go five thousand.” That was dollars, of course; but it amounted to a thousand pounds in English money — high play for an author.
