Miss Cayley's Adventures

by Grant Allen

  VI

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN

  When Elsie's holidays--I beg pardon, vacation--came to an end, sheproposed to return to her High School in London. Zeal for the highermathematics devoured her. But she still looked so frail, and coughed sooften--a perfect _Campo Santo_ of a cough--in spite of her summer ofopen-air exercise, that I positively worried her into consulting adoctor--not one of the Fortescue-Langley order. The report he gave wasmildly unfavourable. He spoke disrespectfully of the apex of her rightlung. It was not exactly tubercular, he remarked, but he 'fearedtuberculosis'--excuse the long words; the phrase was his, not mine; Irepeat _verbatim_. He vetoed her exposing herself to a winter in Londonin her present unstable condition. Davos? Well, no. _Not_ Davos: withdeliberative thumb and finger on close-shaven chin. He judged her toodelicate for such drastic remedies. Those high mountain stations suitedbest the robust invalid, who had dropped by accident into casualphthisis. For Miss Petheridge's case--looking wise--he would notrecommend the Riviera, either: too stimulating, too exciting. What thisyoung lady needed most was rest: rest in some agreeable southern town,some city of the soul--say Rome or Florence--where she might find muchto interest her, and might forget the apex of her right lung in the newworld of art that opened around her.

  'Very well,' I said, promptly; 'that's settled, Elsie. The apex and youshall winter in Florence.'

  'But, Brownie, can we afford it?'

  'Afford it?' I echoed. 'Goodness gracious, my dear child, what abourgeois sentiment! Your medical attendant says to you, "Go toFlorence": and to Florence you must go; there's no getting out of it.Why, even the swallows fly south when their medical attendant tells themEngland is turning a trifle too cold for them.'

  'But what will Miss Latimer say? She depends upon me to come back at thebeginning of term. She _must_ have _somebody_ to undertake the highermathematics.'

  'And she will get somebody, dear,' I answered, calmly. 'Don't troubleyour sweet little head about that. An eminent statistician hascalculated that five hundred and thirty duly qualified young women arenow standing four-square in a solid phalanx in the streets of London,all agog to teach the higher mathematics to anyone who wants them at amoment's notice. Let Miss Latimer take her pick of the five hundred andthirty. I'll wire to her at once: "Elsie Petheridge unable through illhealth to resume her duties. Ordered to Florence. Resigns post. Engagesubstitute." _That's_ the way to do it.'

  Elsie clasped her small white hands in the despair of the woman whoconsiders herself indispensable--as if we were any of us indispensable!'But, dearest, the girls! They'll be _so_ disappointed!'

  'They'll get over it,' I answered, grimly. 'There are worsedisappointments in store for them in life-- Which is a fine old crustedplatitude worthy of Aunt Susan. Anyhow, I've decided. Look here, Elsie:I stand to you _in loco parentis_.' I have already remarked, I think,that she was three years my senior; but I was so pleased with thisphrase that I repeated it lovingly. 'I stand to you, dear, _in locoparentis_. Now, I can't let you endanger your precious health byreturning to town and Miss Latimer this winter. Let us be categorical. Igo to Florence; you go with me.'

  'What shall we live upon?' Elsie suggested, piteously.

  'Our fellow-creatures, as usual,' I answered, with prompt callousness.'I object to these base utilitarian considerations being imported intothe discussion of a serious question. Florence is the city of art; as awoman of culture, it behoves you to revel in it. Your medical attendantsends you there; as a patient and an invalid, you can revel with a clearconscience. Money? Well, money is a secondary matter. All philosophiesand all religions agree that money is mere dross, filthy lucre. Risesuperior to it. We have a fair sum in hand to the credit of the firm; wecan pick up some more, I suppose, in Florence.'

  'How?'

  I reflected. 'Elsie,' I said, 'you are deficient in Faith--which is oneof the leading Christian graces. My mission in life is to correct thatwant in your spiritual nature. Now, observe how beautifully all theseevents work in together! The winter comes, when no man can bicycle,especially in Switzerland. Therefore, what is the use of my stopping onhere after October? Again, in pursuance of my general plan of goinground the world, I must get forward to Italy. Your medical attendantconsiderately orders you at the same time to Florence. In Florence weshall still have chances of selling Manitous, though possibly, I admit,in diminished numbers. I confess at once that people come to Switzerlandto tour, and are therefore liable to need our machines; while they go toFlorence to look at pictures, and a bicycle would doubtless proveinconvenient in the Uffizi or the Pitti. Still, we _may_ sell a few. ButI descry another opening. You write shorthand, don't you?'

  'A little, dear; only ninety words a minute.'

  '_That's_ not business. Advertise yourself, _a la_ Cyrus Hitchcock! Sayboldly, "I write shorthand." Leave the world to ask, "How fast?" It willask it quick enough without your suggesting it. Well, my idea is this.Florence is a town teeming with English tourists of the cultivatedclasses--men of letters, painters, antiquaries, art-critics. I supposeeven art-critics may be classed as cultivated. Such people are sure toneed literary aid. We exist, to supply it. We will set up the FlorentineSchool of Stenography and Typewriting. We'll buy a couple oftypewriters.'

  'How can we pay for them, Brownie?'

  THERE'S ENTERPRISE FOR YOU!]

  I gazed at her in despair. 'Elsie,' I cried, clapping my hand to myhead, 'you are not practical. Did I ever suggest we should pay for them?I said merely, buy them. Base is the slave that pays. That'sShakespeare. And we all know Shakespeare is the mirror of nature. Argal,it would be unnatural to pay for a typewriter. We will hire a room inFlorence (on tick, of course), and begin operations. Clients will flockin; and we tide over the winter. _There's_ enterprise for you!' And Istruck an attitude.

  Elsie's face looked her doubts. I walked across to Mrs. Evelegh's desk,and began writing a letter. It occurred to me that Mr. Hitchcock, whowas a man of business, might be able to help a woman of business in thisdelicate matter. I put the point to him fairly and squarely, withoutcircumlocution; we were going to start an English typewriting office inFlorence; what was the ordinary way for people to become possessed of atypewriting machine, without the odious and mercenary preliminary ofpaying for it? The answer came back with commendable promptitude.

  DEAR MISS,--Your spirit of enterprise is really remarkable! I have forwarded your letter to my friends of the Spread Eagle Typewriting and Phonograph Company, Limited, of New York City, informing them of your desire to open an agency for the sale of their machines in Florence, Italy, and giving them my estimate of your business capacities. I have advised their London house to present you with two complimentary machines for your own use and your partner's, and also to supply a number of others for disposal in the city of Florence. If you would further like to undertake an agency for the development of the trade in salt codfish (large quantities of which are, of course, consumed in Catholic Europe), I could put you into communication with my respected friends, Messrs. Abel Woodward and Co., exporters of preserved provisions, St John, Newfoundland. But, perhaps in this suggestion I am not sufficiently high-toned.--Respectfully, CYRUS W. HITCHCOCK.

  The moment had arrived for Elsie to be firm. 'I have no prejudiceagainst trade, Brownie,' she observed emphatically; 'but I do draw theline at salt fish.'

  'So do I, dear,' I answered.

  She sighed her relief. I really believe she half expected to find metrotting about Florence with miscellaneous samples of Messrs. AbelWoodward's esteemed productions protruding from my pocket.

  So to Florence we went. My first idea was to travel by the Brenner routethrough the Tyrol; but a queer little episode which met us at the outseton the Austrian frontier put a check to this plan. We cycled to theborder, sending our trunks on by rail. When we went to claim them at theAustrian Custom-house, we were told they were detained 'for politicalreasons.'

  'Political reasons?' I exclaim
ed, nonplussed.

  'Even so, Fraeulein. Your boxes contain revolutionary literature.'

  'Some mistake!' I cried, warmly. I am but a drawing-room Socialist.

  'Not at all; look here.' And he drew a small book out of Elsie'sportmanteau.

  What? Elsie a conspirator? Elsie in league with Nihilists? So mild andso meek! I could never have believed it. I took the book in my hands andread the title, 'Revolution of the Heavenly Bodies.'

  'But this is astronomy,' I burst out. 'Don't you see? Sun-and-starcircling. The revolution of the planets.'

  'It matters not, Fraeulein. Our instructions are strict. We have ordersto intercept _all_ revolutionary literature without distinction.'

  'Come, Elsie,' I said, firmly, 'this is _too_ ridiculous. Let us givethem a clear berth, these Kaiserly-Kingly blockheads!' So we registeredour luggage right back to Lucerne, and cycled over the Gotthard.

  PAINTING THE SIGN-BOARD.]

  When at last, by leisurely stages, we arrived at Florence, I felt therewas no use in doing things by halves. If you are going to start theFlorentine School of Stenography and Typewriting, you may as well startit on a proper basis. So I took sunny rooms at a nice hotel for myselfand Elsie, and hired a ground floor in a convenient house, close underthe shadow of the great marble Campanile. (Considerations of spacecompel me to curtail the usual gush about Arnolfo and Giotto.) This wasour office. When I had got a Tuscan painter to plant our flag in theshape of a sign-board, I sailed forth into the street and inspected itfrom outside with a swelling heart. It is true, the Tuscan painter'sunaccountable predilection for the rare spellings 'Scool' without an _h_and 'Stenografy' with an _f_, somewhat damped my exuberant pride for themoment; but I made him take the board back and correct his ItalianateEnglish. As soon as all was fitted up with desk and tables we reposedupon our laurels, and waited only for customers in shoals to pour inupon us. _I_ called them 'customers'; Elsie maintained that we oughtrather to say 'clients.' Being by temperament averse to sectarianism, Idid not dispute the point with her.

  We reposed on our laurels--in vain. Neither customers nor clients seemedin any particular hurry to disturb our leisure.

  I confess I took this ill. It was a rude awakening. I had begun toregard myself as the special favourite of a fairy godmother; itsurprised me to find that any undertaking of mine did not succeedimmediately. However, reflecting that my fairy godmother's name wasreally Enterprise, I recalled Mr. Cyrus W. Hitchcock's advice, andadvertised.

  'There's one good thing about Florence, Elsie,' I said, just to keep upher courage. 'When the customers _do_ come, they'll be interestingpeople, and it will be interesting work. Artistic work, don't youknow--Fra Angelico, and Della Robbia, and all that sort of thing; orelse fresh light on Dante and Petrarch!'

  'When they _do_ come, no doubt,' Elsie answered, dubiously. 'But do youknow, Brownie, it strikes me there isn't quite that literary stir andferment one might expect in Florence. Dante and Petrarch appear to bedead. The distinguished authors fail to stream in upon us as oneimagined with manuscripts to copy.'

  I affected an air of confidence--for I had sunk capital in the concern(that's business-like--sunk capital!). 'Oh, we're a new firm,' Iassented, carelessly. 'Our enterprise is yet young. When cultivatedFlorence learns we're here, cultivated Florence will invade us in itsthousands.'

  But we sat in our office and bit our thumbs all day; the thousandsstopped at home. We had ample opportunities for making studies of thedecorative detail on the Campanile, till we knew every square inch of itbetter than Mr. Ruskin. Elsie's notebook contains, I believe, elevenhundred separate sketches of the Campanile, from the right end, the leftend, and the middle of our window, with eight hundred and five distinctdistortions of the individual statues that adorn its niches on the sideturned towards us.

  At last, after we had sat, and bitten our thumbs, and sketched the FourGreater Prophets for a fortnight on end, an immense excitement occurred.An old gentleman was distinctly seen to approach and to look up at thesign-board which decorated our office.

  I instantly slipped in a sheet of foolscap, and began to type-write withalarming speed--click, click, click; while Elsie, rising to theoccasion, set to work to transcribe imaginary shorthand as if her lifedepended upon it.

  The old gentleman, after a moment's hesitation, lifted the latch of thedoor somewhat nervously. I affected to take no notice of him, sobreathless was the haste with which our immense business connectioncompelled me to finger the keyboard: but, looking up at him under myeyelashes, I could just make out he was a peculiarly bland and urbaneold person, dressed with the greatest care, and some attention tofashion. His face was smooth; it tended towards portliness.

  He made up his mind, and entered the office. I continued to click till Ihad reached the close of a sentence--'Or to take arms against a sea oftroubles, and by opposing, end them.' Then I looked up sharply. 'Can Ido anything for you?' I inquired, in the smartest tone of business. (Iobserve that politeness is not professional.)

  THE URBANE OLD GENTLEMAN.]

  The Urbane Old Gentleman came forward with his hat in his hand. Helooked as if he had just landed from the Eighteenth Century. His figurewas that of Mr. Edward Gibbon. 'Yes, madam,' he said, in a markedlydeferential tone, fussing about with the rim of his hat as he spoke, andadjusting his _pince-nez_. 'I was recommended to your--ur--yourestablishment for shorthand and typewriting. I have some work which Iwish done, if it falls within your province. But I am _rather_particular. I require a quick worker. Excuse my asking it, but how manywords can you do a minute?'

  'Shorthand?' I asked, sharply, for I wished to imitate official habits.

  The Urbane Old Gentleman bowed. 'Yes, shorthand. Certainly.'

  I waved my hand with careless grace towards Elsie--as if these thingshappened to us daily. 'Miss Petheridge undertakes the shorthanddepartment,' I said, with decision. 'I am the typewriting fromdictation. Miss Petheridge, forward!'

  Elsie rose to it like an angel. 'A hundred,' she answered, confrontinghim.

  The old gentleman bowed again. 'And your terms?' he inquired, in ahoney-tongued voice. 'If I may venture to ask them.'

  We handed him our printed tariff. He seemed satisfied.

  'Could you spare me an hour this morning?' he asked, still fingering hishat nervously with his puffy hand. 'But perhaps you are engaged. I fearI intrude upon you.'

  'Not at all,' I answered, consulting an imaginary engagement list. 'Thiswork can wait. Let me see: 11.30. Elsie, I think you have nothing to dobefore one, that cannot be put off? Quite so!--very well, then; yes, weare both at your service.'

  The Urbane Old Gentleman looked about him for a seat. I pushed him ourone easy chair. He withdrew his gloves with great deliberation, and satdown in it with an apologetic glance. I could gather from his dress andhis diamond pin that he was wealthy. Indeed, I half guessed who he wasalready. There was a fussiness about his manner which seemed strangelyfamiliar to me.

  He sat down by slow degrees, edging himself about till he was thoroughlycomfortable. I could see he was of the kind that will have comfort. Hetook out his notes and a packet of letters, which he sorted slowly. Thenhe looked hard at me and at Elsie. He seemed to be making his choicebetween us. After a time he spoke. 'I _think_,' he said, in a mostleisurely voice, 'I will not trouble your friend to write shorthand forme, after all. Or should I say your assistant? Excuse my change of plan.I will content myself with dictation. You can follow on the machine?'

  'As fast as you choose to dictate to me.'

  He glanced at his notes and began a letter. It was a curiouscommunication. It seemed to be all about buying Bertha and sellingClara--a cold-blooded proceeding which almost suggested slave-dealing. Igathered he was giving instructions to his agent: could he have businessrelations with Cuba, I wondered. But there were also hints of mysteriousmiddies--brave British tars to the rescue, possibly! Perhaps mybewilderment showed itself upon my face, for at last he looked queerlyat me. 'You don't quite like this, I'm afraid,' he said, b
reaking offshort.

  I was the soul of business. 'Not at all,' I answered. 'I am anautomaton--nothing more. It is a typewriter's function to transcribe thewords a client dictates as if they were absolutely meaningless to her.'

  'Quite right,' he answered, approvingly. 'Quite right. I see youunderstand. A very proper spirit!'

  Then the Woman within me got the better of the Typewriter. 'Though Iconfess,' I continued, 'I _do_ feel it is a little unkind tosell Clara at once for whatever she will fetch. It seems tome--well--unchivalrous.'

  He smiled, but held his peace.

  'Still--the middies,' I went on: 'they will perhaps take care that thesepoor girls are not ill-treated.'

  He leaned back, clasped his hands, and regarded me fixedly. 'Bertha,' hesaid, after a pause, 'is Brighton A's--to be strictly correct, London,Brighton, and South Coast First Preference Debentures. Clara is Glasgowand South-Western Deferred Stock. Middies are Midland Ordinary. But Irespect your feeling. You are a young lady of principle.' And hefidgeted more than ever.

  HE WENT ON DICTATING FOR JUST AN HOUR.]

  He went on dictating for just an hour. His subject-matter bewildered me.It was all about India Bills, and telegraphic transfers, and sellingcotton short, and holding tight to Egyptian Unified. Markets, it seemed,were glutted. Hungarians were only to be dealt in if theyhardened--hardened sinners I know, but what are hardened Hungarians? Andfears were not unnaturally expressed that Turks might be 'irregular,'Consols, it appeared, were certain to give way for political reasons;but the downward tendency of Australians, I was relieved to learn, forthe honour of so great a group of colonies, could only be temporary.Greeks were growing decidedly worse, though I had always understoodGreeks were bad enough already; and Argentine Central were likely to beweak; but Provincials must soon become commendably firm, and if Uruguayswent flat, something good ought to be made out of them. Scotch railsmight shortly be quiet-- I always understood they were based uponsleepers; but if South-Eastern stiffened, advantage should certainly betaken of their stiffening. He would telegraph particulars on Mondaymorning. And so on till my brain reeled. Oh, artistic Florence! was_this_ the Filippo Lippi, the Michael Angelo I dreamed of?

  At the end of the hour, the Urbane Old Gentleman rose urbanely. He drewon his gloves again with the greatest deliberation, and hunted for hisstick as if his life depended upon it. 'Let me see; I had a pencil; oh,thanks; yes, that is it. This cover protects the point. My hat? Ah,certainly. And my notes; much obliged; notes _always_ get mislaid.People are so careless. Then I will come again to-morrow; the same hour,if you will kindly keep yourself disengaged. Though, excuse me, you hadbetter make an entry of it at once upon your agenda.'

  'I shall remember it,' I answered, smiling.

  'No; will you? But you haven't my name.'

  'I know it,' I answered. 'At least, I think so. You are Mr. MarmadukeAshurst. Lady Georgina Fawley sent you here.'

  He laid down his hat and gloves again, so as to regard me moreundistracted. 'You are a most remarkable young lady,' he said, in a veryslow voice. 'I impressed upon Georgina that she must not mention to youthat I was coming. How on earth did you recognise me?'

  'Intuition, most likely.'

  He stared at me with a sort of suspicion. '_Please_ don't tell me youthink me like my sister,' he went on. 'For though, of course, everyright-minded man feels--ur--a natural respect and affection for themembers his family--bows, if I may so say, to the inscrutable decrees ofProvidence--which has mysteriously burdened him with them--still, there_are_ points about Lady Georgina which I cannot conscientiously assert Iapprove of.'

  I remembered 'Marmy's a fool,' and held my tongue judiciously.

  'I do not resemble her, I hope,' he persisted, with a look which I couldalmost describe as wistful.

  'A family likeness, perhaps,' I put in. 'Family likenesses exist, youknow--often with complete divergence of tastes and character.'

  He looked relieved. 'That is true. Oh, how true! But the likeness in mycase, I must admit, escapes me.'

  I temporised. 'Strangers see these things most,' I said, airing thestock platitudes. 'It may be superficial. And, of course, one knows thatprofound differences of intellect and moral feeling often occur withinthe limits of a single family.'

  'You are quite right,' he said, with decision. 'Georgina's principlesare not mine. Excuse my remarking it, but you seem to be a young lady ofunusual penetration.'

  I saw he took my remark as a compliment. What I really meant to say wasthat a commonplace man might easily be brother to so clever a woman asLady Georgina.

  HE BOWED TO US EACH SEPARATELY.]

  He gathered up his hat, his stick, his gloves, his notes, and histypewritten letters, one by one, and backed out politely. He was apunctilious millionaire. He had risen by urbanity to his brotherdirectors, like a model guinea-pig. He bowed to us each separately as ifwe had been duchesses.

  As soon as he was gone, Elsie turned to me. 'Brownie, how on earth didyou guess it? They're so awfully different!'

  'Not at all,' I answered. 'A few surface unlikenesses only just mask anunderlying identity. Their features are the same; but his are plump;hers, shrunken. Lady Georgina's expression is sharp and worldly; Mr.Ashurst's is smooth, and bland, and financial. And then their manner!Both are fussy; but Lady Georgina's is honest, open, ill-temperedfussiness; Mr. Ashurst's is concealed under an artificial mask ofobsequious politeness. One's cantankerous; the other's only pernicketty.It's one tune, after all, in two different keys.'

  From that day forth, the Urbane Old Gentleman was a daily visitor. Hetook an hour at a time at first; but after a few days, the hourlengthened out (apologetically) to an entire morning. He 'presumed toask' my Christian name the second day, and remembered my father--'a manof excellent principles.' But he didn't care for Elsie to work for him.Fortunately for her, other work dropped in, once we had found a client,or else, poor girl, she would have felt sadly slighted. I was glad shehad something to do; the sense of dependence weighed heavily upon her.

  The Urbane Old Gentleman did not confine himself entirely, after thefirst few days, to Stock Exchange literature. He was engaged on aWork--he spoke of it always with bated breath, and a capital letter wasimplied in his intonation; the Work was one on the Interpretation ofProphecy. Unlike Lady Georgina, who was tart and crisp, Mr. MarmadukeAshurst was devout and decorous; where she said 'pack of fools,' hetalked with unction of 'the mental deficiencies of our poorer brethren.'But his religious opinions and his stockbroking had got strangely mixedup at the wash somehow. He was convinced that the British nationrepresented the Lost Ten Tribes of Israel--and in particular Ephraim--amatter on which, as a mere lay-woman, I would not presume either toagree with him or to differ from him. 'That being so, Miss Cayley, wecan easily understand that the existing commercial prosperity of Englanddepends upon the promises made to Abraham.'

  I assented, without committing myself. 'It would seem to follow.'

  Mr. Ashurst, encouraged by so much assent, went on to unfold his Systemof Interpretation, which was of a strictly commercial orcompany-promoting character. It ran like a prospectus. 'We haveinherited the gold of Australia and the diamonds of the Cape,' he said,growing didactic, and lifting one fat forefinger; 'we are now inheritingKlondike and the Rand, for it is morally certain that we shall annex theTransvaal. Again, "the chief things of the ancient mountains, and theprecious things of the everlasting hills." What does that mean? Theancient mountains are clearly the Rockies; can the everlasting hills beanything but the Himalayas? "For they shall suck of the abundance of theseas"--that refers, of course, to our world-wide commerce, due mainly toimports--"and of the treasures hid in the sand." Which sand?Undoubtedly, I say, the desert of Mount Sinai. What then is our obviousdestiny? A lady of your intelligence must gather at once that itis----?' He paused and gazed at me.

  'To drive the Sultan out of Syria,' I suggested tentatively, 'and toannex Palestine to our practical province of Egypt?'

  He leaned back in his chair and f
olded his fat hands in undisguisedsatisfaction. 'Now, you are a thinker of exceptional penetration,' hebroke out. 'Do you know, Miss Cayley, I have tried to make that pointclear to the War Office, and the Prime Minister, and many leadingfinanciers in the City of London, and I _can't_ get them to see it. Theyhave no heads, those people. But _you_ catch at it at a glance. Why, Iendeavoured to interest Rothschild and induce him to join me in myPalestine Development Syndicate, and, will you believe it, the manrefused point blank. Though if he had only looked at Nahum iii. 17----'

  'Mere financiers,' I said, smiling, 'will not consider these questionsfrom a historical and prophetic point of view. They see nothing abovepercentages.'

  'That's it,' he replied, lighting up. 'They have no higher feelings.Though, mind you, there will be dividends too; mark my words, there willbe dividends. This syndicate, besides fulfilling the prophecies, willpay forty per cent on every penny embarked in it.'

  'Only forty per cent for Ephraim!' I murmured, half below my breath.'Why, Judah is said to batten upon sixty.'

  He caught at it eagerly, without perceiving my gentle sarcasm.

  'In that case, we might even expect seventy,' he put in with a gasp ofanticipation. 'Though I approached Rothschild first with my scheme onpurpose, so that Israel and Judah might once more unite in sharing thepromises.'

  'Your combined generosity and commercial instinct does you credit,' Ianswered. 'It is rare to find so much love for an abstract study side byside with such conspicuous financial ability.'

  His guilelessness was beyond words. He swallowed it like an infant. 'SoI think,' he answered. 'I am glad to observe that you understand mycharacter. Mere City men don't. They have no soul above shekels. Though,as I show them, there are shekels in it, too. Dividends, dividends,di-vidends. But _you_ are a lady of understanding and comprehension. Youhave been to Girton, haven't you? Perhaps you read Greek, then?'

  'Enough to get on with.'

  'Could you look things up in Herodotus?'

  'Certainly?'

  'In the original?'

  'Oh, dear, yes.'

  He regarded me once more with the same astonished glance. His ownclassics, I soon learnt, were limited to the amount which a publicschool succeeds in dinning, during the intervals of cricket and footballinto an English gentleman. Then he informed me that he wished me to huntup certain facts in Herodotus "and elsewhere" confirmatory of his viewthat the English were the descendants of the Ten Tribes. I promised todo so, swallowing even that comprehensive "elsewhere." It was none of mybusiness to believe or disbelieve: I was paid to get up a case, and Igot one up to the best of my ability. I imagine it was at least as goodas most other cases in similar matters: at any rate, it pleased the oldgentleman vastly.

  By dint of listening, I began to like him. But Elsie couldn't bear him.She hated the fat crease at the back of his neck, she told me.

  After a week or two devoted to the Interpretation of Prophecy on astrictly commercial basis of Founders' Shares, with interludes of miningengineers' reports upon the rubies of Mount Sinai and the supposedauriferous quartzites of Palestine, the Urbane Old Gentleman trotteddown to the office one day, carrying a packet of notes of mostvoluminous magnitude. "Can we work in a room alone this morning, MissCayley?" he asked, with mystery in his voice: he was always mysterious."I want to intrust you with a piece of work of an exceptionally privateand confidential character. It concerns Property. In point of fact," hedropped his voice to a whisper. "I want you to draw up my will for me."

  "Certainly," I said, opening the door into the back office. But Itrembled in my shoes. Could this mean that he was going to draw up awill, disinheriting Harold Tillington?

  And, suppose he did, what then? My heart was in a tumult. If Harold wererich--well and good, I could never marry him. But, if Harold were poor--I must keep my promise. Could I wish him to be rich? Could I wish him tobe poor? My heart stood divided two ways within me.

  The Urbane Old Gentleman began with immense deliberation, as befits aman of principle when Property is at stake. 'You will kindly take downnotes from my dictation,' he said, fussing with his papers; 'andafterwards, I will ask you to be so good as to copy it all out fair onyour typewriter for signature.'

  'Is a typewritten form legal?' I ventured to inquire.

  'A most perspicacious young lady!' he interjected, well pleased. 'I haveinvestigated that point, and find it perfectly regular. Only, if I mayventure to say so, there should be no erasures.'

  'There shall be none,' I answered.

  The Urbane Old Gentleman leant back in his easy chair, and begandictating from his notes with tantalising deliberateness. This was thelast will and testament of him, Marmaduke Courtney Ashurst. Its verbiagewearied me. I was eager for him to come to the point about Harold.Instead of that, he did what it seems is usual in such cases--set outwith a number of unimportant legacies to old family servants and otherhangers-on among 'our poorer brethren.' I fumed and fretted inwardly.Next came a series of quaint bequests of a quite novel character. 'Igive and bequeath to James Walsh and Sons, of 720 High Holborn, London,the sum of Five Hundred Pounds, in consideration of the benefit theyhave conferred upon humanity by the invention of a sugar-spoon or silversugar-sifter, by means of which it is possible to dust sugar upon atart or pudding without letting the whole or the greater part of thematerial run through the apertures uselessly in transit. You must haveobserved, Miss Cayley--with your usual perspicacity--that mostsugar-sifters allow the sugar to fall through them on to the tableprematurely.'

  'I have noticed it,' I answered, trembling with anxiety.

  'James Walsh and Sons, acting on a hint from me, have succeeded ininventing a form of spoon which does not possess that regrettabledrawback. "Run through the apertures uselessly in transit," I think Isaid last. Yes, thank you. Very good. We will now continue. And I giveand bequeath the like sum of Five Hundred Pounds--did I say, free oflegacy duty? No? Then please add it to James Walsh's clause. FiveHundred Pounds, free of legacy duty, to Thomas Webster Jones, of WheelerStreet, Soho, for his admirable invention of a pair of braces which willnot slip down on the wearer's shoulders after half an hour's use. Mostbraces, you must have observed, Miss Cayley----'

  'My acquaintance with braces is limited, not to say abstract,' Iinterposed, smiling.

  He gazed at me, and twirled his fat thumbs.

  '_Of_ course,' he murmured. '_Of_ course. But most braces, you may notbe aware, slip down unpleasantly on the shoulder-blade, and so lead toan awkward habit of hitching them up by the sleeve-hole of the waistcoatat frequent intervals. Such a habit must be felt to be ungraceful.Thomas Webster Jones, to whom I pointed out this error of manufacture,has invented a brace the two halves of which diverge at a higher anglethan usual, and fasten further towards the centre of the body infront--pardon these details--so as to obviate that difficulty. He hasgiven me satisfaction, and he deserves to be rewarded.'

  I heard through it all the voice of Lady Georgina observing, tartly,'Why the idiots can't make braces to fit one at first passes _my_comprehension. But, there, my dear; the people who manufacture them area set of born fools, and what can you expect from an imbecile?' Mr.Ashurst was Lady Georgina, veneered with a thin layer of ingratiatingurbanity. Lady Georgina was clever, and therefore acrimonious. Mr.Ashurst was astute, and therefore obsequious.

  He went on with legacies to the inventor of a sauce-bottle which did notlet the last drop dribble down so as to spot the table-cloth; of ashoe-horn the handle of which did not come undone; and of a pair ofsleeve-links which you could put off and on without injury to thetemper. 'A real benefactor, Miss Cayley; a real benefactor to thelink-wearing classes; for he has sensibly diminished the average annualoutput of profane swearing.'

  When he left Five Hundred Pounds to his faithful servant FredericHigginson, courier, I was tempted to interpose; but I refrained in time,and I was glad of it afterwards.

  At last, after many divagations, my Urbane Old Gentleman arrived at thecentral point--'and I give and bequeath to my ne
phew, Harold AshurstTillington, Younger of Gledcliffe, Dumfriesshire, attache to HerMajesty's Embassy at Rome----'

  I WAITED BREATHLESS.]

  I waited, breathless.

  He was annoyingly dilatory. 'My house and estate of Ashurst Court, inthe County of Gloucester, and my town house at 24 Park Lane North, inLondon, together with the residue of all my estate, real orpersonal----' and so forth.

  I breathed again. At least, I had not been called upon to disinheritHarold.

  'Provided always----' he went on, in the same voice.

  I wondered what was coming.

  'Provided always that the said Harold Ashurst Tillington does notmarry----leave a blank there, Miss Cayley. I will find out the name ofthe young person I desire to exclude, and fill it in afterward. I don'trecollect it at this moment, but Higginson, no doubt, will be able tosupply the deficiency. In fact, I don't think I ever heard it; thoughHigginson has told me all about the woman.'

  'Higginson?' I inquired. 'Is he here?'

  'Oh, dear, yes. You heard of him, I suppose, from Georgina. Georgina isprejudiced. He has come back to me, I am glad to say. An excellentservant, Higginson, though a trifle too omniscient. All men are equal inthe eyes of their Maker, of course; but we must have due subordination.A courier ought not to be better informed than his master--or ought atleast to conceal the fact dexterously. Well, Higginson knows this youngperson's name; my sister wrote to me about her disgraceful conduct whenshe first went to Schlangenbad. An adventuress, it seems; anadventuress; quite a shocking creature. Foisted herself upon LadyGeorgina in Kensington Gardens--unintroduced, if you can believe such athing--with the most astonishing effrontery; and Georgina, who willforgive anything on earth, for the sake of what she callsoriginality--another name for impudence, as I am sure you mustknow--took the young woman with her as her maid to Germany. There, thisminx tried to set her cap at my nephew Harold, who can be caught at onceby a pretty face; and Harold was bowled over--almost got engaged to her.Georgina took a fancy to the girl later, having a taste for dubiouspeople (I cannot say I approve of Georgina's friends), and wrote againto say her first suspicions were unfounded: the young woman was inreality a paragon of virtue. But _I_ know better than that. Georgina hasno judgment. I regret to be obliged to confess it, but cleverness, Ifear, is the only thing in the world my excellent sister cares for. Thehussy, it seems, was certainly clever. Higginson has told me about her.He says her bare appearance would suffice to condemn her--a bold, fast,shameless, brazen-faced creature. But you will forgive me, I am sure, mydear young lady: I ought not to discuss such painted Jezebels beforeyou. We will leave this person's name blank. I will not sully yourpen--I mean, your typewriter--by asking you to transcribe it.'

  I made up my mind at once. 'Mr. Ashurst,' I said, looking up from mykeyboard, '_I_ can give you this girl's name; and then you can insertthe proviso immediately.'

  '_You_ can? My dear young lady, what a wonderful person you are! Youseem to know everybody, and everything. But perhaps she was atSchlangenbad with Lady Georgina, and you were there also?'

  'She was,' I answered, deliberately. 'The name you want is--LoisCayley!'

  He let his notes drop in his astonishment.

  I went on with my typewriting, unmoved. 'Provided always that the saidHarold Ashurst Tillington does not marry Lois Cayley; in which case Iwill and desire that the said estate shall pass to----whom shall I putin, Mr. Ashurst?'

  He leant forward with his fat hands on his ample knees. 'It was really_you_?' he inquired, open-mouthed.

  I nodded. 'There is no use in denying the truth. Mr. Tillington did askme to be his wife, and I refused him.'

  'But, my dear Miss Cayley----'

  'The difference in station?' I said; 'the difference, still greater, inthis world's goods? Yes, I know. I admit all that. So I declined hisoffer. I did not wish to ruin his prospects.'

  The Urbane Old Gentleman eyed me with a sudden tenderness in his glance.'Young men are lucky,' he said, slowly, after a short pause; '--and--Higginson is an idiot. I say it deliberately--an idiot! How could onedream of trusting the judgment of a flunkey about a lady? My dear,excuse the familiarity from one who may consider himself in a certainsense a contingent uncle--suppose we amend the last clause by theomission of the word _not_. It strikes me as superfluous. "Providedalways the said Harold Ashurst Tillington consents to marry"-- I thinkthat sounds better!'

  He looked at me with such fatherly regard that it pricked my heart everto have poked fun at his Interpretation of Prophecy on Stock Exchangeprinciples. I think I flushed crimson. 'No, no,' I answered, firmly.'That will not do either, please. That's worse than the other way. Youmust not put it, Mr. Ashurst. I could not consent to be willed away toanybody.'

  He leant forward, with real earnestness. 'My dear,' he said, 'that's notthe point. Pardon my reminding you that you are here in your capacity asmy amanuensis. I am drawing up my will, and if you will allow me to sayso, I cannot admit that anyone has a claim to influence me in thedisposition of my Property.'

  '_Please!_' I cried, pleadingly.

  He looked at me and paused. 'Well,' he went on at last, after a longinterval; 'since _you_ insist upon it, I will leave the bequest to standwithout condition.'

  'Thank you,' I murmured, bending low over my machine.'

  'If I did as I like, though,' he went on, 'I should say, Unless hemarries Miss Lois Cayley (who is a deal too good for him) the estateshall revert to Kynaston's eldest son, a confounded jackass. I do notusually indulge in intemperate language; but I desire to assure you,with the utmost calmness, that Kynaston's eldest son, Lord Southminster,is a con-founded jackass.'

  I rose and took his hand in my own spontaneously. 'Mr. Ashurst,' I said,'you may interpret prophecy as long as ever you like, but you are a dearkind old gentleman. I am truly grateful to you for your good opinion.

  'And you will marry Harold?'

  'Never,' I answered; 'while he is rich. I have said as much to him.'

  'That's hard,' he went on, slowly. 'For ... I should like to be youruncle.'

  I trembled all over. Elsie saved the situation by bursting in abruptly.

  I will only add that when Mr. Ashurst left, I copied the will outneatly, without erasures. The rough original I threw (somewhatcarelessly) into the waste-paper basket.

  That afternoon, somebody called to fetch the fair copy for Mr. Ashurst.I went out into the front office to see him. To my surprise, it wasHigginson--in his guise as courier.

  WHAT, YOU HERE! HE CRIED.]

  He was as astonished as myself. 'What, _you_ here!' he cried. 'You dogme!'

  'I was thinking the same thing of you, M. le Comte,' I answered,curtsying.

  He made no attempt at an excuse. 'Well, I have been sent for the will,'he broke out, curtly.

  'And you were sent for the jewel-case,' I retorted. 'No, no, Dr.Fortescue-Langley; _I_ am in charge of the will, and I will take itmyself to Mr. Ashurst.'

  'I will be even with you yet,' he snapped out. 'I have gone back to myold trade, and am trying to lead an honest life; but _you_ won't letme.'

  'On the contrary,' I answered, smiling a polite smile. 'I rejoice tohear it. If you say nothing more against me to your employer, I will notdisclose to him what I know about you. But if you slander me, I will. Sonow we understand one another.'

  And I kept the will till I could give it myself into Mr Ashurst's ownhands in his rooms that evening.