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There was silence for some time. It was broken by young Stanniford.
“I cannot blame you, Perceval. You have spared my mother a shock, whichwould certainly have broken her heart. What is that paper?”
“It is what your father was writing, sir. Shall I read it to you?”
“Do so.”
“‘I have taken the poison, and I feel it working in my veins. It isstrange, but not painful. When these words are read I shall, if mywishes have been faithfully carried out, have been dead many years.Surely no one who has lost money through me will still bear meanimosity. And you, Felix, you will forgive me this family scandal. MayGod find rest for a sorely wearied spirit!’”
“Amen!” we cried, all three.
THE BRAZILIAN CAT
It is hard luck on a young fellow to have expensive tastes, greatexpectations, aristocratic connections, but no actual money in hispocket, and no profession by which he may earn any. The fact was that myfather, a good, sanguine, easy-going man, had such confidence in thewealth and benevolence of his bachelor elder brother, Lord Southerton,that he took it for granted that I, his only son, would never be calledupon to earn a living for myself. He imagined that if there were not avacancy for me on the great Southerton Estates, at least there would befound some post in that diplomatic service which still remains thespecial preserve of our privileged classes. He died too early to realizehow false his calculations had been. Neither my uncle nor the State tookthe slightest notice of me, or showed any interest in my career. Anoccasional brace of pheasants, or basket of hares, was all that everreached me to remind me that I was heir to Otwell House and one of therichest estates in the country. In the meantime, I found myself abachelor and man about town, living in a suite of apartments inGrosvenor Mansions, with no occupation save that of pigeon-shooting andpolo-playing at Hurlingham. Month by month I realized that it was moreand more difficult to get the brokers to renew my bills, or to cash anyfurther post-obits upon an unentailed property. Ruin lay right across mypath, and every day I saw it clearer, nearer, and more absolutelyunavoidable.
What made me feel my own poverty the more was that, apart from the greatwealth of Lord Southerton, all my other relations were fairlywell-to-do. The nearest of these was Everard King, my father’s nephewand my own first cousin, who had spent an adventurous life in Brazil,and had now returned to this country to settle down on his fortune. Wenever knew how he made his money, but he appeared to have plenty of it,for he bought the estate of Greylands, near Clipton-on-the-Marsh, inSuffolk. For the first year of his residence in England he took no morenotice of me than my miserly uncle; but at last one summer morning, tomy very great relief and joy, I received a letter asking me to come downthat very day and spend a short visit at Greylands Court. I wasexpecting a rather long visit to Bankruptcy Court at the time, and thisinterruption seemed almost providential. If I could only get on termswith this unknown relative of mine, I might pull through yet. For thefamily credit he could not let me go entirely to the wall. I ordered myvalet to pack my valise, and I set off the same evening forClipton-on-the-Marsh.
After changing at Ipswich, a little local train deposited me at a small,deserted station lying amidst a rolling grassy country, with a sluggishand winding river curving in and out amidst the valleys, between high,silted banks, which showed that we were within reach of the tide. Nocarriage was awaiting me (I found afterwards that my telegram had beendelayed), so I hired a dog-cart at the local inn. The driver, anexcellent fellow, was full of my relative’s praises, and I learned fromhim that Mr. Everard King was already a name to conjure with in thatpart of the country. He had entertained the school-children, he hadthrown his grounds open to visitors, he had subscribed to charities—inshort, his benevolence had been so universal that my driver could onlyaccount for it on the supposition that he had Parliamentary ambitions.
My attention was drawn away from my driver’s panegyric by the appearanceof a very beautiful bird which settled on a telegraph-post beside theroad. At first I thought that it was a jay, but it was larger, with abrighter plumage. The driver accounted for its presence at once bysaying that it belonged to the very man whom we were about to visit. Itseems that the acclimatization of foreign creatures was one of hishobbies, and that he had brought with him from Brazil a number of birdsand beasts which he was endeavouring to rear in England. When once wehad passed the gates of Greylands Park we had ample evidence of thistaste of his. Some small spotted deer, a curious wild pig known, Ibelieve, as a peccary, a gorgeously feathered oriole, some sort ofarmadillo, and a singular lumbering intoed beast like a very fat badger,were among the creatures which I observed as we drove along the windingavenue.
Mr. Everard King, my unknown cousin, was standing in person upon thesteps of his house, for he had seen us in the distance, and guessed thatit was I. His appearance was very homely and benevolent, short andstout, forty-five years old perhaps, with a round, good-humoured face,burned brown with the tropical sun, and shot with a thousand wrinkles.He wore white linen clothes, in true planter style, with a cigar betweenhis lips, and a large Panama hat upon the back of his head. It was sucha figure as one associates with a verandahed bungalow, and it lookedcuriously out of place in front of this broad, stone English mansion,with its solid wings and its Palladio pillars before the doorway.
“My dear!” he cried, glancing over his shoulder; “my dear, here is ourguest! Welcome, welcome to Greylands! I am delighted to make youracquaintance, Cousin Marshall, and I take it as a great compliment thatyou should honour this sleepy little country place with your presence.”
Nothing could be more hearty than his manner, and he set me at my easein an instant. But it needed all his cordiality to atone for thefrigidity and even rudeness of his wife, a tall, haggard woman, who cameforward at his summons. She was, I believe, of Brazilian extraction,though she spoke excellent English, and I excused her manners on thescore of her ignorance of our customs. She did not attempt to conceal,however, either then or afterwards, that I was no very welcome visitorat Greylands Court. Her actual words were, as a rule, courteous, but shewas the possessor of a pair of particularly expressive dark eyes, and Iread in them very clearly from the first that she heartily wished meback in London once more.
However, my debts were too pressing and my designs upon my wealthyrelative were too vital for me to allow them to be upset by theill-temper of his wife, so I disregarded her coldness and reciprocatedthe extreme cordiality of his welcome. No pains had been spared by himto make me comfortable. My room was a charming one. He implored me totell him anything which could add to my happiness. It was on the tip ofmy tongue to inform him that a blank cheque would materially helptowards that end, but I felt that it might be premature in the presentstate of our acquaintance. The dinner was excellent, and as we sattogether afterwards over his Havanas and coffee, which latter he told mewas specially prepared upon his own plantation, it seemed to me that allmy driver’s eulogies were justified, and that I had never met a morelarge-hearted and hospitable man.
But, in spite of his cheery good nature, he was a man with a strong willand a fiery temper of his own. Of this I had an example upon thefollowing morning. The curious aversion which Mrs. Everard King hadconceived towards me was so strong, that her manner at breakfast wasalmost offensive. But her meaning became unmistakable when her husbandhad quitted the room.
“The best train in the day is at twelve fifteen,” said she.
“But I was not thinking of going to-day,” I answered, frankly—perhapseven defiantly, for I was determined not to be driven out by this woman.
“Oh, if it rests with you——” said she, and stopped, with a most insolentexpression in her eyes.
“I am sure,” I answered “that Mr. Everard King would tell me if I wereoutstaying my welcome.”
“What’s this? What’s this?” said a voice, and there he was in the room.He had overheard my last words, and a glance at our faces had told himthe rest. In an instant his chubby, cheery face set into an expressionof absolute ferocity.
“Might I trouble you to walk outside, Marshall,” said he. (I may mentionthat my own name is Marshall King.)
He closed the door behind me, and then, for an instant, I heard himtalking in a low voice of concentrated passion to his wife. This grossbreach of hospitality had evidently hit upon his tenderest point. I amno eavesdropper, so I walked out on to the lawn. Presently I heard ahurried step behind me, and there was the lady, her face pale withexcitement, and her eyes red with tears.
“My husband has asked me to apologize to you, Mr. Marshall King,” saidshe, standing with downcast eyes before me.
“Please do not say another word, Mrs. King.”
Her dark eyes suddenly blazed out at me.
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“You fool!” she hissed, with frantic vehemence, and turning on her heelswept back to the house.
The insult was so outrageous, so insufferable, that I could only standstaring after her in bewilderment. I was still there when my host joinedme. He was his cheery, chubby self once more.
“I hope that my wife has apologized for her foolish remarks,” said he.
