The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga

by Mary E. Pearce

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s no doubt about that.’

  ‘If you know something that I don’t know, I would rather you told me at once.’

  ‘I know nothing concrete but according to what I’ve heard, your father was in the town all morning trying to raise a substantial loan.’

  ‘Did he succeed?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I think it very unlikely.’

  ‘Of course it’s unlikely!’ Dick exclaimed. ‘With the banks still as nervous as they are ‒ he must be insane to expect such a thing!’

  ‘Not insane. But desperate, yes.’

  ‘Martin, what am I to do?’

  ‘As it is a question of money, there is nothing you can possibly do. And in all probability there’s nothing I can do, either, since your father feels as he does towards me. Still, I intend to try all the same … Perhaps, if he is desperate enough, he will accept my help this time.’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t have come to you. If I had an ounce of pride in me ‒’

  ‘Some things are more important than pride. And one of them is friendship.’

  ‘I came for my mother’s sake, not his. If it weren’t for her ‒’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘When are you going to see him?’

  ‘I’m going at once,’ Martin said. ‘You can come with me in the trap and I’ll set you down at the foot of the Burr.’

  ‘No. I’m on my way to Chacelands now, to see Aunt Ginny and Uncle George. It’s Anthony’s birthday party tomorrow, remember, and I want to tell them not to mention the Warde business in front of Mama. Uncle George is sure to have seen the newspapers and ‒ well, I know we can’t keep it secret forever, but if you are able to help somehow ‒’

  ‘Then your mother may never need to know at all. But whatever happens when I see your father, ‒ whether good news or bad ‒ I will tell you of it at Chacelands tomorrow, when we meet there for Anthony’s birthday. Meanwhile, try not to worry. We must hope for the best ‒ and pray for it.’

  When Martin arrived at Hainault and called at the office, he was informed that the master was out; that no one knew where he was, nor what time he would be back.

  ‘In that case I will wait for him.’

  He declined a seat in the office and chose to wait outside. For a while he walked on the river-bank; then he returned to the mill yard and passed another half-hour walking slowly to and fro, watching two packers at work, and looking in at some of the buildings. The mill clock had struck eight and Martin was checking his watch by it when Yuart at last rode into the yard. He was making his way towards the stables when he saw Martin and came to a halt.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I want to talk to you on a business matter. Will you step aside, where we can be private?’

  Yuart dismounted, and a man came and took his horse. Martin stood waiting for an answer, during which time Yuart looked at him long and hard.

  ‘Very well. If you insist.’

  They left the mill yard together and walked out into the open. Once away from the noise of the mill, they came to a halt and faced each other.

  ‘Whatever your business,’ Yuart said, ‘I shall be glad if you make it brief.’

  ‘I’m here because I’ve heard the news about Francus Warde. I know you must be hard hit by it because you have been trying to raise a loan. If you’ve succeeded, I will take my leave. But if, as I fear, you have not ‒’

  ‘You may take your leave, either way, and the sooner the better,’ Yuart said. His handsome face was slightly flushed and his breath confirmed that he had been drinking. Still, he was well in command of himself, his speech just as precise as ever, even when conveying anger. ‘Do you think I would borrow from you? You, who have taken so much from me? ‒ Stood in my way so many times? ‒ Come between me and my son ‒’

  ‘I have taken nothing from you except what you’ve lost through your own folly. But since it cannot be denied that we have changed places, you and I, and that your losses have been my gain, surely the present situation is one where your grievances might be redressed.’

  ‘I am not deceived by you, Mr Cox, as my wife and her sister have always been, and my children are now. I recognize you for what you are. You come to me with offers of help because it gives you a sense of importance. You think, when you try to patronize me, that it makes us equals. And you risk nothing! Not a penny piece! For you already know I will not accept it.’

  ‘If I could convince you that my offer is perfectly genuine ‒’

  ‘My answer would still be exactly the same.’

  ‘You may dislike me as much as you wish ‒ it is nothing to me ‒ but can’t you for once set that aside and do what is best for your family? I am offering you a loan ‒’

  ‘Without even knowing how much I need?’

  ‘Well, we should need to go into the matter, of course.’

  ‘And there would, no doubt, be conditions attached, giving you power to interfere in my affairs.’

  ‘I have no desire to take your business away from you. Quite the reverse, for as well as a loan to settle your debts, I am willing to advance further sums so that you can buy this mill outright and continue to run it.’

  There was a pause. Yuart, it seemed, was taken by surprise. Martin, encouraged, went on.

  ‘But I should certainly wish for some arrangement that would safeguard your business from the kind of trading that brought you to ruin six years ago and seems about to do so again. And before you dismiss that stipulation, let me remind you, Mr Yuart, that if you come into the bankruptcy court you will, with your past history, find yourself under restrictions far more severe than any I should impose on you. That is, if you’re allowed to continue trading at all. You could find yourself awarded with a dead certificate.’

  Once again Yuart was silent, though what he was thinking could not be guessed, for his face had now a withdrawn look, as though he had turned in on himself.

  ‘Yes, well,’ he said at last. ‘You have stated your business and I’ve heard you out. Now, Mr Cox, I will bid you good night.’

  ‘You mean you refuse?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  For a moment longer they looked at each other, Martin seeking even now to penetrate Yuart’s stubborn reserve. He wanted to ask about Thomas Maynard and the state of the Loxe Mill partnership but knew that his question would go unanswered. Suddenly Yuart turned away and Martin was obliged to follow him. They returned to the mill yard, and Martin, angry, climbed into the trap. Still, with the reins held loose in his hands, he made one final attempt.

  ‘If you should change your mind, ‒ and I hope to God you will ‒ you have only to send for me.’

  Receiving no answer, he drove out of the yard and on to the road. His mission had been utterly fruitless. Yuart, he knew, would not change his mind. And this was the news he would have to impart when he met Dick at Chacelands the following afternoon for Anthony’s birthday celebrations.

  Early the following morning, even as the first mill-hands arrived for work, Charles, after a few hours sleep in the little apartment adjoining his office, was already up and about, watching them from the window, where he stood drinking a cup of coffee. By the time the mill came alive and the clack-clack of the looms was heard, he had washed and shaved and was fully dressed, in clean linen and neck-cloth, his outer clothes most carefully brushed.

  Briskly he strode into his office and sat down at his desk. The first few remarks he addressed to his clerk had all been prepared beforehand and conveyed the impression of a man who, though burdened with serious problems, had the solutions well in hand. He read through the first delivery of post as though each letter were of vital importance; looked through the order-books, making notes; and spent a good twenty minutes examining some samples of wool which the sorter had sent in to him. The clerk, Preston, meanwhile, went about his own routine tasks and, taking his cue from Charles, tried to behave as if yesterday’s news had receded to the back of his mind.

&n
bsp; Shortly after half past nine a messenger came, bringing a second note from Maynard, demanding Yuart’s presence at Loxe Mill without any further delay. And this time Charles went.

  As soon as he entered the Loxe Mill office, George Anstey rose and withdrew, leaving the partners alone together. Maynard, grim-faced, sat at his desk. He motioned Charles to sit opposite.

  ‘You know, of course, what I have to say. It stems from this Francus Warde affair.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have, myself, done business with Warde, and yesterday, when the news broke, I received a request to call at my bank as soon as I could. Mr Hollis was anxious to speak to me about certain acceptances, drawn on Warde, which the bank had discounted for me. Luckily, they are of small value, though the loss of some four hundred pounds is quite bad enough, God knows. But there was another matter that Hollis wished to discuss with me ‒ a bill drawn on Warde in your name, which you had endorsed in my favour, and which I, it seems, re-endorsed, authorizing a draft to you of nine thousand, five hundred pounds.’

  Here Maynard consulted some notes which lay before him on the desk.

  ‘Yes, sir! Nine thousand, five hundred pounds! I still can’t believe it even now.’ He drew a deep, painful breath, and looked directly at Charles again. ‘I don’t need to tell you that I know nothing about such a bill. It never even passed through my hands. But the details were there, in the bank’s ledgers. I saw them with my own two eyes and Hollis’s clerk wrote them down for me.’

  Maynard waved the paper aloft; then slapped it down again on the desk.

  ‘I sent for Anstey to join me at the bank, but he could throw no light on the matter. On perusing Hollis’s ledger, however, he uncovered a second mystery. This time something that should have been there but was not. ‒ To wit, a prom note of yours, payable on the fourth of June, for wool from Pirrie’s, which Anstey put out for me to endorse on that date and which you should have paid into the bank. When we got back here, we looked it up in our own ledger. That note was worth almost nine hundred pounds. So, altogether, it appears you have swindled me out of a total of some ten thousand, four hundred pounds. Unless, that is, there are further sums that have not yet come to light.’

  ‘There are no further sums,’ Charles said, ‘and I had no intention of swindling you.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to explain yourself, then, though I have to warn you, here and now, that there can be no explanation that is likely to win my sympathy.’

  ‘It was when this banking crisis began. Samms, the money-lender, called in his loan. I paid it, of course, immediately, and as a result got a balance against me at Coulson’s. They insisted I clear it at once but refused to take up the Warde acceptance. I was desperate. You must see that. I would never have done it otherwise. And if Francus Warde hadn’t defaulted, you would have had your money back without knowing it had ever been borrowed.’

  ‘And what about the prom note for wool, which you purloined from this desk? That’s got nothing to do with Warde but it still hasn’t been paid all the same. And quite frankly, I can’t help feeling that the longer its loss remained undiscovered, the less likely it was to be paid.’

  ‘That is not so,’ Charles said. He reached into his breast pocket and took out his notecase. From it he removed two papers: the Warde acceptance and his own promissory note for wool. He laid them down in front of Maynard. ‘As you see, I have kept them both very carefully. I would scarcely have done that if I had not meant to pay you back. Also, the total sum is such that its loss could not possibly have gone undetected forever, and I’m not such a fool ‒ or such a scoundrel ‒ as to think it would.’

  ‘So you say! So you say! But whether you would have repaid me or not, the inescapable fact is that now you are quite unable to.’

  ‘At present, yes. But given time I can and will. And you do have two thousand pounds of mine invested in this mill.’

  ‘That still leaves almost eight and a half thousand owing to me. And no doubt by now you have other debts besides.’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘To what amount?’

  ‘I cannot say precisely ‒ not to the nearest penny.’

  ‘H’mph!’ Maynard said, scornfully. ‘I doubt very much if you could say, even to the nearest thousand pounds! You are ruined, man, and must face the fact. You have done as you did six years ago ‒ taken risks with other men’s money and thrown it away down the drain. When you first came to me and offered yourself as my partner, you told me you had learnt your lesson, and I was fool enough to believe you. Then, two years ago, you asked to withdraw ten thousand pounds from your investment, and again I was foolish enough to say yes. I trusted you, Mr Yuart, and you have betrayed me at every turn.’

  Maynard was breathing heavily; his face was darkly congested; but when Charles expressed concern, it was dismissed with angry impatience. After a while, as his breathing improved, Maynard reached out and picked up the Warde acceptance. He read what was written on the face of it; then turned it over and read the reverse, with its three endorsements, one apparently in his hand and carrying his signature. Although he already knew what he would find there, the sight of it affected him deeply. He laid the acceptance down again and placed the prom note on top of it.

  ‘So,’ he said, meeting Yuart’s gaze. ‘Forgery. Theft. Embezzlement. I know little about the law, Mr Yuart, but I would say that conviction for these three things together would carry a heavy penalty.’

  ‘Is that what you want? To see me indicted as a criminal?’

  ‘It is more a question of what you deserve.’

  Charles sat silent a while. He badly wanted to light a cigarette but this was forbidden in Maynard’s presence because the smoke made him cough. Instead he took out his snuff-box and inhaled a pinch at each nostril. He closed the box and held it tight-clenched in his hand.

  ‘Supposing I could repay what I owe … immediately, in a matter of days … what would you say to me then?’

  ‘What possible chance can you have of doing that?’

  ‘A definite chance ‒ by means of a loan.’

  ‘Surely you cannot be serious. Even if you have found some Isaac willing to accommodate you ‒’

  ‘The loan would come from a private source.’

  ‘A friend, do you mean?’

  ‘No, I would not call him a friend. Nor do I wish to divulge his name. Suffice it to say that he is a man who knows of my present difficulties and has offered to lend me what money I need.’

  ‘Well, all I can say is that this mysterious benefactor is an even greater fool than I myself have been. If indeed he exists at all.’

  ‘He exists. I swear to that.’

  ‘And yet there is no friendship between you.’

  ‘No. None.’

  ‘Then why should he make such a generous offer?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Yuart, I don’t understand you. Are you telling me that you have accepted a loan from a man who, to judge by your look and your tone, is someone you dislike exceedingly?’

  ‘No, I have not accepted it,’ Charles replied angrily. ‘I have no wish to accept it and I made that plain to him last night. But if, as it now appears, there is no other way of saving my honour, then I am forced to think again. I’m forced to consider accepting his offer, however distasteful it may be.’

  ‘Whether you accept it or not, your honour will not be saved, Mr Yuart. ‒ Only the outward appearance of it. Which raises another important question concerning this nameless benefactor. You say he knows of your difficulties but does he also know, I wonder, that you have been guilty of theft, forgery, and embezzlement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, obviously he would have to be told. Any man lending so large a sum of money would need to know the risks involved. And I should feel it my bounden duty to make sure that he did know.’

  ‘Even though it might mean losing your chance of full reparation?’

  ‘No decent man would wish reparation if it meant ano
ther man’s loss, Mr Yuart, and by suggesting such a thing to me, you reveal yourself yet again as an unprincipled scoundrel.’

  Charles, white-faced, made no reply. Maynard, now merciless, went sternly on.

  ‘Perhaps it’s as well that you do so reveal yourself, for it helps me to see matters clearly, and hardens me in my decision. I asked you to come here so that you might have a fair hearing, but nothing you have said inspires any hope that you will ever change your spots. I must tell you, therefore, that I do not feel inclined to be lenient. Your misdemeanours have been too grave and they must be made public. Men must know once and for all, Mr Yuart, that you are not safe to have dealings with.’

  ‘Is that your final word?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I don’t ask for mercy on my own behalf ‒ I can see it would be useless ‒ but have you thought how it will be for my wife and family when all this is known?’

  ‘I know precisely how it will be for them and it grieves me deeply. They have already suffered in the past and now they are to suffer again. But still I cannot be party to any attempt at concealing your dishonesty. It is of too serious a nature. I feel, therefore, that I have no choice but to see Alec Stevenson and put the whole matter before him. As he is your solicitor as well as mine, that will mean complications, but he will soon tell me if I’m to seek advice elsewhere. No doubt the legal dissolution of our partnership will involve certain formalities, but as far as I am concerned, it is terminated here and now. The same applies to your position as manager. You will please hand over your keys. I have no more to say to you, Mr Yuart, except to bid you good day.’

  Charles took the Loxe Mill keys from his pocket, unfastened them from his fob-strap, and laid them down on the desk. He got up and went to the door. There he paused and looked back. ‘I will not ask you to reconsider your decision ‒’

  ‘It would be useless if you did.’

  ‘‒ but I would ask you to believe that I never intended to cheat you.’

  ‘But you have cheated me,’ Maynard said, and his sharp upward gaze showed that for him the matter was perfectly simple. ‘You have cheated me grossly. And others, too.’