The Last Hope

by Henry Seton Merriman

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  BAREBONE'S PRICE

  At Farlingford, forgotten of the world, events move slowly and men'sminds assimilate change without shock. Old people look for death longbefore it arrives, so that when at last the great change comes it iseffected quite calmly. There is no indecent haste, no scrambling to put asemblance of finish to the incomplete, as there is in the hurried deathof cities. Young faces grow softly mellow without those lines and anxiouscrow's-feet that mar the features of the middle-aged, who, to earn theirdaily bread or to kill the tedium of their lives, find it necessary todwell in streets.

  "Loo's home again," men told each other at "The Black Sailor"; and thewomen, who discussed the matter in the village street, had little to addto this bare piece of news. There was nothing unusual about it. Indeed,it was customary for Farlingford men to come home again. They alwaysreturned, at last, from wide wanderings, which a limited conversationalcapacity seemed to deprive of all interest. Those that stayed at homelearnt a few names, and that was all.

  "Where are ye now from, Willum?" the newly returned sailor would bekindly asked, with the sideward jerk of the head.

  "A'm now from Va'paraiso."

  And that was all that there was to be said about Valparaiso and theexperiences of this circumnavigator. Perhaps it was not considered goodform to inquire further into that which was, after all, his own business.If you ask an East Anglian questions he will tell you nothing; if you donot inquire he will tell you less.

  No one, therefore, asked Barebone any questions. More especially is itconsidered, in seafaring communities, impolite to make inquiry into yourneighbour's misfortune. If a man have the ill luck to lose his ship, hemay well go through the rest of his life without hearing the mention ofher name. It was understood in Farlingford that Loo Barebone had resignedhis post on "The Last Hope" in order to claim a heritage in France. Hehad returned home, and was living quietly at Maidens Grave Farm with Mrs.Clubbe. It was, therefore, to be presumed that he had failed in hisquest. This was hardly a matter for surprise to such as had inheritedfrom their forefathers a profound distrust in Frenchmen.

  The brief February days followed each other with that monotony, marked bysmall events, that quickly lays the years aside. Loo lingered on, with avague indecision in his mind which increased as the weeks passed by andthe spell of the wide marsh-lands closed round his soul. He took up againthose studies which the necessity of earning a living had interruptedyears before, and Septimus Marvin, who had never left off seeking, openednew historical gardens to him and bade him come in and dig.

  Nearly every morning Loo went to the rectory to look up an obscurereference or elucidate an uncertain period. Nearly every evening, afterthe rectory dinner, he returned the books he had borrowed, and lingereduntil past Sep's bedtime to discuss the day's reading. Septimus Marvin,with an enthusiasm which is the reward of the simple-hearted, led the waydown the paths of history while Loo and Miriam followed--the man with thequick perception of his race, the woman with that instinctive anduntiring search for the human motive which can put heart into a printedpage of history.

  Many a whole lifetime has slipped away in such occupations; for history,already inexhaustible, grows in bulk day by day. Marvin was happier thanhe had ever been, for a great absorption is one of Heaven's kindestgifts.

  For Barebone, France and his quest there, the Marquis de Gemosac, DormerColville, Juliette, lapsed into a sort of dream, while Farlingfordremained a quiet reality. Loo had not written to Dormer Colville. CaptainClubbe was trading between Alexandria and Bristol. "The Last Hope" wasnot to be expected in England before April. To communicate with Colvillewould be to turn that past dream, not wholly pleasant, into a grimreality. Loo therefore put off from day to day the evil moment. By natureand by training he was a man of action. He tried to persuade himself thathe was made for a scholar and would be happy to pass the rest of his daysin the study of that history which had occupied Septimus Marvin'sthoughts during a whole lifetime.

  Perhaps he was right. He might have been happy enough to pass his daysthus if life were unchanging; if Septimus Marvin should never age andnever die; if Miriam should be always there, with her light touch on thedeeper thoughts, her half-French way of understanding the unspoken, withher steady friendship which might change, some day, into something else.This was, of course, inconsistent. Love itself is the most inconsistentof all human dreams; for it would have some things change and othersremain ever as they are. Whereas nothing stays unchanged for a singleday: love, least of all. For it must go forward or back.

  "See!" cried Septimus Marvin, one evening, laying his hand on the openbook before him. "See how strong are racial things. Here are the Bourbonsfor ever shutting their eyes to the obvious, for ever putting off theevil moment, for ever temporising--from father to son, father to son;generation after generation. Finally we come to Louis XVI. Read hisletters to the Comte d'Artois. They are the letters of a man who knowsthe truth in his own heart and will not admit it even to himself."

  "Yes," admitted Loo. "Yes--you are right. It is racial, one mustsuppose."

  And he glanced at Miriam, who did not meet his eyes but looked at theopen page, with a smile on her lips half sad, wholly tolerant.

  Next morning, Loo thought, he would write to Dormer Colville. But thefollowing evening came, and he had not done so. He went, as usual, to therectory, where the same kind welcome awaited him. Miriam knew that he hadnot written. Like him, she knew that an end of some sort must soon come.And the end came an hour later.

  Some day, Barebone knew, Dormer Colville would arrive. Every morning hehalf looked for him on the sea-wall, between "The Black Sailor" and therectory garden. Any evening, he was well aware, the smiling face mightgreet him in the lamp-lit drawing-room.

  Sep had gone to bed earlier that night. The rector was reading aloud anendless collection of letters, from which the careful student couldscarcely fail to gather side-lights on history. Both Miriam and Loo heardthe clang of the iron gate on the sea-wall.

  A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously in the backpremises, barked, and presently the servant announced that a gentlemanwas desirous of speaking to the rector. There were not many gentlemenwithin a day's walk of the rectory. Some one must have put up at "TheBlack Sailor." Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of hisparishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingfordnever sought his help.

  "A gentleman," said Marvin, vaguely; "well, let him come in, Sarah."

  Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man whoappeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner.

  He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook hands with him witha little nod of the head, which somehow indicated that they had businesstogether.

  He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and warmed his hands atthe fire, in no hurry, it would appear, to state the reason for thisunceremonious call. After all, Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriamhis ward. Between old friends, explanations are often better omitted.

  "It is many years," he said, at length, "since I heard their talk. Theyspeak with their tongues and their teeth, but not their lips."

  "And their throats," put in Marvin, eagerly. "That is because they are ofTeuton descent. So different from the French, eh, Turner?"

  Turner nodded a placid acquiescence. Then he turned, as far, it wouldappear, as the thickness of his neck allowed, toward Barebone.

  "Saw in a French paper," he said, "that the 'Petite Jeanne' had put in toLowestoft, to replace a dinghy lost at sea. So I put two and twotogether. It is my business putting two and two together, and making fiveof them when I can, but they generally make four. I thought I should findyou here."

  Loo made no answer. He had only seen John Turner once in his life--for ashort hour, in a room full of people, at Royan. The banker staredstraight in front of him for a few moments. Then he raised his sleepylittle eyes directly to Miriam's face. He heaved a sigh, and fell tostudying the burning l
ogs again. And the colour slowly rose to Miriam'scheeks. The banker, it seemed, was about his business again, in one ofthose simple addition sums, which he sometimes solved correctly.

  "To you," he said, after a moment's pause, with a glance in Loo'sdirection, "to you, it must appear that I am interfering in what is notmy own business. You are wrong there."

  He had clasped his hands across his abnormal waistcoat, and he halfclosed his eyes as he blinked at the fire.

  "I am a sort of intermediary angel," he went on, "between private personsin France and their friends in England. Nothing to do with state affairs,you understand, at least, very little. Many persons in England haverelations or property in France. French persons fall in love with peopleon this side of the Channel, and vice versa. And, sooner or later, allthese persons, who are in trouble with their property or theiraffections, come to me, because money is invariably at the bottom of thetrouble. Money is invariably at the bottom of all trouble. And Irepresent money."

  He pursed up his lips and gazed somnolently at the fire.

  "Ask anybody," he went on, dreamily, after a pause, "if that is not thebare truth. Ask Colville, ask Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, ask MiriamListon, sitting here beside us, if I exaggerate the importance of--ofmyself."

  "Every one," admitted Barebone, cheerfully, "knows that you occupy agreat position in Paris."

  Turner glanced at him and gave a thick chuckle in his throat.

  "Thank you," he said. "Very decent of you. And that point beingestablished, I will explain further, that I am not here of my own freewill. I am only an agent. No man in his senses would come to Farlingfordin mid-winter unless--" he broke off, with a sharp sigh, and glanced downat Miriam's slipper resting on the fender, "unless he was much youngerthan I am. I came because I was paid to do it. Came to make you aproposition."

  "To make me a proposition?" inquired Loo, as the identity of Turner'shearers had become involved.

  "Yes. And I should recommend you to give it your gravest consideration.It is one of the most foolish propositions, from the proposer's point ofview, that I have ever had to make. I should blush to make it, if it wereany use blushing, but no one sees blushes on my cheeks now. Do not decidein a hurry--sleep on it. I always sleep on a question."

  He closed his eyes, and seemed about to compose himself to slumber thenand there.

  "I am no longer young," he admitted, after a pause, "and thereforepropose to take one of the few alleviations allowed to advancing yearsand an increasing avoirdupois. I am going to give you some advice. Thereis only one thing worth having in this life, and that is happiness. Eventhe possibility of it is worth all other possibilities put together. If aman have a chance of grasping happiness--I mean a home and the wife hewants.... and all that--he is wise to throw all other chances to thewind. Such, for instance, as the chance of greatness, of fame or wealth,of gratified vanity or satisfied ambition."

  He had spoken slowly, and at last he ceased speaking, as if overcome by agrowing drowsiness. A queer silence followed this singular man's words.Barebone had not resumed his seat. He was standing by the mantelpiece, ashe often did, being quick and eager when interested, and not content tosit still and express himself calmly in words, but must needs emphasisehis meaning by gestures and a hundred quick movements of the head.

  "Go on," he said. "Let us have the proposition."

  "And no more advice?"

  Loo glanced at Miriam. He could see all three faces where he stood, butonly by the light of the fire. Miriam was nearest to the hearth. He couldsee that her eyes were aglow--possibly with anger.

  Barebone shrugged his shoulders.

  "You are not an agent--you are an advocate," he said.

  Turner raised his eyes with the patience of a slumbering animal that hasbeen prodded.

  "Yes," he said--"your advocate. There is one more chance I should adviseany man to shun--to cast to the four winds, and hold on only to thattangible possibility of happiness in the present--it is the chance ofenjoying, in some dim and distant future, the satisfaction of having, ina half-forgotten past, done one's duty. One's first duty is to secure, byall legitimate means, one's own happiness."

  "What is the proposition?" interrupted Barebone, quickly; and Turner,beneath his heavy lids, had caught in the passing the glance fromMiriam's eyes, for which possibly both he and Loo Barebone had beenwaiting.

  "Fifty thousand pounds," replied the banker, bluntly, "in first-classEnglish securities, in return for a written undertaking on your part torelinquish all claim to any heritage to which you may think yourselfentitled in France. You will need to give your word of honour never toset foot on French soil--and that is all."

  "I never, until this moment," replied Barebone, "knew the value of my ownpretensions."

  "Yes," said Turner, quietly; "that is the obvious retort. And havingmade it, you can now give a few minutes' calm reflection to myproposition--say five minutes, until that clock strikes half-pastnine--and then I am ready to answer any questions you may wish to ask."

  Barebone laughed good-humouredly, and so far fell in with the suggestionthat he leant his elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece, and looked atthe clock.