by Grant Allen
“I am not,” Tyrrel answered, quietly; “but I gave you my card, and you can see from it who I am — Walter Tyrrel of Penmorgan Manor. I’m a landed proprietor, with a good estate in Cornwall. And I’m prepared to risk — well, a large part of my property in the business I propose to you, without any corresponding risk on your part. In plain words, I’m prepared to pay you money down, if you will accede to my wish, on a pure matter of sentiment.”
“Sentiment?” Mr. Walker replied, bringing his jaw down like a rat-trap, and gazing across at him, dubiously. “I don’t deal in sentiment.”
“No; probably not,” Tyrrel answered. “But I said sentiment, Mr. Walker, and I’m willing to pay for it. I know very well it’s an article at a discount in the City. Still, to me, it means money’s worth, and I’m prepared to give money down to a good tune to humor it. Let me explain the situation. I’ll do so as briefly and as simply as I can, if only you’ll listen to me. A friend of mine, as I said, one Eustace Le Neve, who has been constructing engineer of the Rosario and Santa Fe, in the Argentine Confederacy, has made a design for the Wharfedale Viaduct. It’s a very good design, and a practical design; and Sir Edward Jones, who has seen it, entirely approves of it.”
“Jones is a good man,” Mr. Walker murmured, nodding his head in acquiescence. “No dashed nonsense about Jones. Head screwed on the right way. Jones is a good man and knows what he’s talking about.” “Well, Jones says it’s a good design,” Tyrrel went on, breathing freer as he gauged his man more completely. “And the facts are just these: My friend’s engaged to a young lady up in town here, in whom I take a deep interest—” Mr. Walker whistled low to himself, but didn’t interrupt him— “a deep FRIENDLY interest,” Tyrrel corrected, growing hot in the face at the man’s evident insolent misconstruction of his motives; “and the long and the short of it is, his chance of marrying her depends very much upon whether or not he can get this design of his accepted by the directors.”
“He can’t,” Mr. Walker said, promptly, “unless he buys me out. That’s pat and flat. He can’t, for mine’s in; and mine’s sure to be taken.”
“So I understand,” Tyrrel went on. “Your name, I’m told, carries everything before it. But what I want to suggest now is simply this — How much will you take, money down on the nail, this minute, to withdraw your own design from the informal competition?”
Erasmus Walker gasped hard, drew a long breath, and stared at him. “How much will I take,” he repeated, slowly; “how — much — will — I — take — to withdraw my design? Well, that IS remarkable!”
“I mean it,” Tyrrel repeated, with a very serious face. “This is to me, I will confess, a matter of life and death. I want to see my friend Le Neve in a good position in the world, such as his talents entitle him to. I don’t care how much I spend in order to insure it. So what I want to know is just this and nothing else — how much will you take to withdraw from the competition?”
Erasmus Walker laid his two hands on his fat knees, with his legs wide open, and stared long and hard at his incomprehensible visitor. So strange a request stunned for a moment even that sound business head. A minute or two he paused. Then, with a violent effort, he pulled himself together. “Come, come,” he said, “Mr. Tyrrel; let’s be practical and above-board. I don’t want to rob you. I don’t want to plunder you. I see you mean business. But how do you know, suppose even you buy me out, this young fellow’s design has any chance of being accepted? What reason have you to think the Great North Midland people are likely to give such a job to an unknown beginner?”
“Sir Edward Jones says it’s admirable,” Tyrrel ventured, dubiously.
“Sir Edward Jones says it’s admirable! Well, that’s good, as far as it goes. Jones knows what he’s talking about. Head’s screwed on the right way. But has your friend any interest with the directors — that’s the question? Have you reason to think, if he sends it in, and I hold back mine, his is the plan they’d be likely to pitch upon?”
“I go upon its merits,” Walter Tyrrel said, quietly.
“The very worst thing on earth any man can ever possibly go upon,” the man of business retorted, with cynical confidence. “If that’s all you’ve got to say, my dear sir, it wouldn’t be fair of me to make money terms with you. I won’t discuss my price in the matter till I’ve some reason to believe this idea of yours is workable.”
“I have the designs here all ready,” Walter Tyrrel replied, holding them out. “Plans, elevations, specifications, estimates, sections, figures, everything. Will you do me the favor to look at them? Then, perhaps, you’ll be able to see whether or not the offer’s genuine.”
The great engineer took the roll with a smile. He opened it hastily, in a most skeptical humor. Walter Tyrrel leant over him, and tried just at first to put in a word or two of explanation, such as Le Neve had made to himself; but an occasionally testy “Yes, yes; I see,” was all the thanks he got for his pains and trouble. After a minute or two he found out it was better to let the engineer alone. That practiced eye picked out in a moment the strong and weak points of the whole conception. Gradually, however, as Walker went on, Walter Tyrrel could see he paid more and more attention to every tiny detail. His whole manner altered. The skeptical smile faded away, little by little, from those thick, sensuous lips, and a look of keen interest took its place by degrees on the man’s eager features. “That’s good!” he murmured more than once, as he examined more closely some section or enlargement. “That’s good! very good! knows what he’s about, this Eustace Le Neve man!” Now and again he turned back, to re-examine some special point. “Clever dodge!” he murmured, half to himself. “Clever dodge, undoubtedly. Make an engineer in time — no doubt at all about that — if only they’ll give him his head, and not try to thwart him.”
Tyrrel waited till he’d finished. Then he leant forward once more. “Well, what do you think of it now?” he asked, flushing hot. “Is this business — or otherwise?”
“Oh, business, business,” the great engineer murmured, musically, regarding the papers before him with a certain professional affection. “It’s a devilish clever plan — I won’t deny that — and it’s devilish well carried out in every detail.”
Tyrrel seized his opportunity. “And if you were to withdraw your own design,” he asked, somewhat nervously, hardly knowing how best to frame his delicate question, “do you think … the directors … would be likely to accept this one?”
Erasmus Walker hummed and hawed. He twirled his fat thumbs round one another in doubt. Then he answered oracularly, “They might, of course; and yet, again, they mightn’t.”
“Upon whom would the decision rest?” Tyrrel inquired, looking hard at him.
“Upon me, almost entirely,” the great engineer responded at once, with cheerful frankness. “To say the plain truth, they’ve no minds of their own, these men. They’d ask my advice, and accept it implicitly.”
“So Jones told me,” Tyrrel answered.
“So Jones told you — quite right,” the engineer echoed, with a complacent nod. “They’ve no minds of their own, you see. They’ll do just as I tell them.”
“And you think this design of Le Neve’s a good one, both mechanically and financially, and also exceptionally safe as regards the lives and limbs of passengers and employees?” Tyrrel inquired once more, with anxious particularity. His tender conscience made him afraid to do anything in the matter unless he was quite sure in his own mind he was doing no wrong in any way either to shareholders, competitors, or the public generally.
“My dear sir,” Mr. Walker replied, fingering the papers lovingly, “it’s an admirable design — sound, cheap, and practical. It’s as good as it can be. To tell you the truth, I admire it immensely.”
“Well, then,” Tyrrel said at last, all his scruples removed— “let’s come to business. I put it plainly. How much will you take to withdraw your own design, and to throw your weight into the scale in favor of my friend’s here?”
E
rasmus Walker closed one eye, and rewarded his visitor fixedly out of the other for a minute or two in silence, as if taking his bearings. It was a trick he had acquired from frequent use of a theodolite. Then he answered at last, after a long, deep pause, “It’s YOUR deal, Mr. Tyrrel. Make me an offer, won’t you?”
“Five thousand pounds?” tremblingly suggested Walter Tyrrel.
Erasmus Walker opened his eye slowly, and never allowed his surprise to be visible on his face. Why, to him, a job like that, entailing loss of time in personal supervision, was hardly worth three. The plans were perfunctory, and as far as there was anything in them, could be used again elsewhere. He could employ his precious days meanwhile to better purpose in some more showy and profitable work than this half-hatched viaduct. But this was an upset price. “Not enough,” he murmured, slowly, shaking his bullet head. “It’s a fortune to the young man. You must make a better offer.”
Walter Tyrrel’s lip quivered. “Six thousand,” he said, promptly.
The engineer judged from the promptitude of the reply that the Cornish landlord must still be well squeezable. He shook his head gain. “No, no; not enough,” he answered short. “Not enough — by a long way.”
“Eight,” Tyrrel suggested, drawing a deep breath of suspense. It was a big sum, indeed, for a modest estate like Penmorgan.
The engineer shook his head once more. That rush up two thousand at once was a very good feature. The man who could mount by two thousand at a time might surely be squeezed to the even figure.
“I’m afraid,” Walter said, quivering, after a brief mental calculation — mortgage at four per cent — and agricultural depression running down the current value of land in the market— “I couldn’t by any possibility go beyond ten thousand. But to save my friend — and to get the young lady married — I wouldn’t mind going as far as that to meet you.”
The engineer saw at once, with true business instinct, his man had reached the end of his tether. He struck while the iron was hot and clinched the bargain. “Well, — as there’s a lady in the case” — he said, gallantly,— “and to serve a young man of undoubted talent, who’ll do honor to the profession, I don’t mind closing with you. I’ll take ten thousand, money down, to back out of it myself, and I’ll say what I can — honestly — to the Midland Board in your friend’s favor.”
“Very good,” Tyrrel answered, drawing a deep breath of relief. “I ask no more than that. Say what you can honestly. The money shall be paid you before the end of a fortnight.”
“Only, mind,” Mr. Walker added in an impressive afterthought, “I can’t, of course, ENGAGE that the Great North Midland people will take my advice. You mustn’t come down upon me for restitution and all that if your friend don’t succeed and they take some other fellow. All I guarantee for certain is to withdraw my own plans — not to send in anything myself for the competition.”
“I fully understand,” Tyrrel answered. “And I’m content to risk it. But, mind, if any other design is submitted of superior excellence to Le Neve’s, I wouldn’t wish you on any account to — to do or say anything that goes against your conscience.”
Erasmus Walker stared at him. “What — after paying ten thousand pounds?” he said, “to secure the job?”
Tyrrel nodded a solemn nod. “Especially,” he added, “if you think it safer to life and limb. I should never forgive myself if an accident were to occur on Eustace Le Neve’s viaduct.”
CHAPTER XIII.
ANGEL AND DEVIL.
Tyrrel left Erasmus Walker’s house that morning in a turmoil of mingled exultation and fear. At least he had done his best to atone for the awful results of his boyish act of criminal thoughtlessness. He had tried to make it possible for Cleer to marry Eustace, and thereby to render the Trevennacks happier in their sonless old age; and what was more satisfactory still, he had crippled himself in doing it. There was comfort even in that. Expiation, reparation! He wouldn’t have cared for the sacrifice so much if it had cost him less. But it would cost him dear indeed. He must set to work at once now and raise the needful sum by mortgaging Penmorgan up to the hilt to do it.
After all, of course, the directors might choose some other design than Eustace’s. But he had done what he could. And he would hope for the best, at any rate. For Cleer’s sake, if the worst came, he would have risked and lost much. While if Cleer’s life was made happy, he would be happy in the thought of it.
He hailed another hansom, and drove off, still on fire, to his lawyer’s in Victoria Street. On the way, he had to go near Paddington Station. He didn’t observe, as he did so, a four-wheel cab that passed him with luggage on top, from Ivybridge to London. It was the Trevennacks, just returned from their holiday on Dartmoor. But Michael Trevennack had seen him; and his brow grew suddenly dark. He pinched his nails into his palm at sight of that hateful creature, though not a sound escaped him; for Cleer was in the carriage, and the man was Eustace’s friend. Trevennack accepted Eustace perforce, after that night on Michael’s Crag; for he knew it was politic; and indeed, he liked the young man himself well enough — there was nothing against him after all, beyond his friendship with Tyrrel; but had it not been for the need for avoiding scandal after the adventure on the rock, he would never have allowed Cleer to speak one word to any friend or acquaintance of her brother’s murderer.
As it was, however, he never alluded to Tyrrel in any way before Cleer. He had learnt to hold his tongue. Madman though he was, he knew when to be silent.
That evening at home, Cleer had a visit from Eustace, who came round to tell her how Tyrrel had been to see the great engineer, Erasmus Walker; and how it was all a mistake that Walker was going to send in plans for the Wharfedale Viaduct — nay, how the big man had approved of his own design, and promised to give it all the support in his power. For Tyrrel was really an awfully kind friend, who had pushed things for him like a brick, and deserved the very best they could both of them say about him.
But of course Eustace hadn’t the faintest idea himself by what manner of persuasion Walter Tyrrel had commended his friend’s designs to Erasmus Walker. If he had, needless to say, he would never have accepted the strange arrangement.
“And now, Cleer,” Eustace cried, jubilant and radiant with the easy confidence of youth and love, “I do believe I shall carry the field at last, and spring at a bound into a first-rate position among engineers in England.”
“And then?” Cleer asked, nestling close to his side.
“And then,” Eustace went on, smiling tacitly at her native simplicity, “as it would mean permanent work in superintending and so forth, I see no reason why — we shouldn’t get married immediately.”
They were alone in the breakfast room, where Mrs. Trevennack had left them. They were alone, like lovers. But in the drawing-room hard by, Trevennack himself was saying to his wife with a face of suppressed excitement, “I saw him again to-day, Lucy. I saw him again, that devil — in a hansom near Paddington. If he stops in town, I’m sure I don’t know what I’m ever to do. I came back from Devonshire, having fought the devil hard, as I thought, and conquered him. I felt I’d got him under. I felt he was no match for me. But when I see that man’s face the devil springs up at me again in full force, and grapples with me. Is he Satan himself? I believe he must be. For I feel I must rush at him and trample him under foot, as I trampled him long ago on the summit of Niphates.”
In a tremor of alarm Mrs. Trevennack held his hand. Oh, what would she ever do if the outbreak came … before Cleer was married! She could see the constant strain of holding himself back was growing daily more and more difficult for her unhappy husband. Indeed, she couldn’t bear it herself much longer. If Cleer didn’t marry soon, Michael would break out openly — perhaps would try to murder that poor man Tyrrel — and then Eustace would be afraid, and all would be up with them.
By and by, Eustace came in to tell them the good news. He said nothing about Tyrrel, at least by name, lest he should hurt Trevennack; he merely men
tioned that a friend of his had seen Erasmus Walker that day, and that Walker had held out great hopes of success for him in this Wharfedale Viaduct business. Trevennack listened with a strange mixture of interest and contempt. He was glad the young man was likely to get on in his chosen profession — for Cleer’s sake, if it would enable them to marry. But, oh, what a fuss it seemed to him to make about such a trifle as a mere bit of a valley that one could fly across in a second — to him who could become
“… to his proper shape returned
A seraph winged: six wings he wore, to shade
His lineaments divine; the pair that clad
Each shoulder broad, came mantling o’er his breast
With regal ornament; the middle pair
Girt like a starry zone his waist, and round
Skirted his loins and thighs, the third his feet
Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail.”
And then they talked to HIM about the difficulties of building a few hundred yards of iron bridge across a miserable valley! Why, was it not he and his kind of whom it was written that they came
“Gliding through the even
On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star
In autumn thwarts the night?”
A viaduct indeed! a paltry human viaduct! What need, with such as him, to talk of bridges or viaducts?
As Eustace left that evening, Mrs. Trevennack followed him out, and beckoned him mysteriously into the dining-room at the side for a minute’s conversation. The young man followed her, much wondering what this strange move could mean. Mrs. Trevennack fell back, half faint, into a chair, and gazed at him with a frightened look very rare on that brave face of hers. “Oh, Eustace,” she said, hurriedly, “do you know what’s happened? Mr. Tyrrel’s in town. Michael saw him to-day. He was driving near Paddington. Now do you think… you could do anything to keep him out of Michael’s way? I dread their meeting. I don’t know whether you know it, but Michael has some grudge against him. For Cleer’s sake and for yours, do keep them apart, I beg of you. If they meet, I can’t answer for what harm may come of it.”
