by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XIII.
_After Long Years._
A tall, strongly built man, aged about forty-five, but looking older, byreason of his grizzled hair and a face seamed with hardship--a man whoseprominent eyes imparted an air of alert intelligence to an otherwiseheavy and brutal countenance, disfigured by a broken nose, stood on thenorth side of the Mile End Road and looked fixedly across the street ata fine building which dwarfed the mean houses on either hand.
He had no need to ask what it was. Carved in stone over the handsomearch which led to an interior covered court was its title--"The MaryAnson Home for Destitute Boys." A date followed, a date ten years old.
The observer was puzzled. He gazed up and down the wide thoroughfarewith the manner of one who asked himself:
"Now, why was that built there?"
A policeman strolled leisurely along the pavement, but to him the manaddressed no question. Apparently unconscious of the constable'sobservant glance, he still continued to scrutinize the great pile ofbrick and stone which thrust its splendid campanile into the warmsunshine of an April day.
Beneath the name was an inscription:
"These are they which passed through great tribulation."
A queer smile did not improve the man's expression as he read the text.
"Tribulation! That's it," he continued. "I've had ten years of it. Andit started somewhere about the end of that fine entrance, too. I wonderwhere Sailor is, and that boy. He's a man now, mebbe twenty-six or so,if he's alive. Oh, I hope he's alive! I hope he's rich and healthy andengaged or married to a nice, young woman. If I've managed to live inhell for ten long years, a youngster like him should be able to pullthrough with youth and strength and a bag full of diamonds."
Without turning his head, he became aware that the policeman had haltedat some little distance.
"Of course, I've got the mark on me," said the man, savagely, tohimself. "He's spotted me, all right. Well, I'll let him see I don'tcare for him or any of his breed. I never did care, and it's too late tobegin now."
He crossed the road, passed between two fine, iron gates standinghospitably open, and paused at the door of the porter's lodge, where astalwart commissionaire met him.
"Have you called to see one of the boys?" said the official, cheerfully.
"No. I'm a stranger. It's a good many years since I was in these partsbefore. In those days there used to be a mews here, and some warehousesat the back, with a few old shops----"
"Oh, I expect so, but that is long before my time. The Mary Anson Homewas founded ten years ago, and it took two years to build. It's one ofthe finest charities in London. Would you like to look round?"
"Is that allowed?"
"Certainly. Everybody is welcome. If you go in by that side door, there,you'll find an old man who has nothing else to do but take visitors tothe chief departments. Bless your heart, we lose half our boarders thatway. People come here, see the excellences of the training we give, andoffer situations to boys who are old enough."
The man appeared to be surprised by the commissionaire's affability. Hedid not know that civility and kindness were essential there if anyemployee would retain an excellent post.
He passed on, measuring the tessellated court with a backward sweep ofthe eye. In the sunlit street beyond the arch stood the policeman. Thevisitor grinned again, an unamiable and sulky grin, and vanished.
The policeman crossed over.
"What is that chap after?" he inquired.
"Nothing special," was the answer. "Last time he was here the place wasa mews, he said."
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, he has a ticket in his pocket."
"You don't say! Do you know him?"
"No. I'll look him up in the album in the station when I go off duty."
"Well, he can't do any harm here. O'Brien takes visitors over a regularround, and, in any case, the man seemed to be honest enough in hiscuriosity."
"You never can tell. They're up to all sorts of dodges."
"Thanks very much. I'll ring for O'Brien's relief and tell him to keepan eye on them, as the old man is blind as a bat."
Meanwhile the stranger was being conducted up a wide staircase by asomewhat tottering guide, who wore on the breast of his uniform theCrimean and Indian Mutiny medals.
As he hobbled in front, he told, with a strong, Irish brogue, thefamiliar story of the Mary Anson Home--how it fed, lodged and clothedsix hundred boys of British parentage born in the Whitechapel district;how it taught them trades and followed their careers with fosteringcare; how it never refused a meal or a warm sleeping place to any boy,no matter where he came from or what his nationality, provided hesatisfied the superintendent that he was really destitute or needed hissmall capital for trading purposes next day.
The great central hall where the six hundred regular inmates ate theirmeals, the dormitories, the playgrounds, the drill shed and gymnasium,the workshops, the library, the theater, were all pointed out, but thebig man with the staring eyes was not interested one jot in any of thesethings.
"Who was Mary Anson?" he asked, when the well-worn tale was ended, "andhow did she come to build such a fine place here?"
"Ah, ye may well ax that," said old O'Brien. "Sure, she didn't build itat all at all. She was a poor widdy livin' alone-st wid one son, Mr.Philip that is now. She was a born lady, but she kem down in the worruldand died, forlorn an' forgotten, in a little shanty in Johnson's Mews,as it was called in those days."
"I remember it well."
"Ye do, eh? Mebbe ye know my ould shop, the marine store near theentrance to the court?"
"Yes."
"Arrah, ye don't tell me so. Me eyes are gettin' wake, an' I can't makeout yer face. What's yer name?"
"Oh, I'm afraid we didn't know one another. I can't recall your name,though I recollect the shop well enough. But, if Mrs. Anson died sopoor, how was her son able to set this great house on its legs? It musthave cost a mint of money."
"Faix, ye're right. Quarter of a million wint afore there was a boyunder its roof. And they say it costs fifty thousand pounds a year tokeep it goin'. But Mr. Philip would find that and more to delight thesowl of the mother that's dead. Sure it's aisy for him, in a way. Isn'the the Diamond King!"
"The Diamond King! Why is he called that?"
"D'ye mane to say you nivver----Man alive, what part of creation did yelive in that ye didn't hear tell of Mr. Philip Anson, the boy whodiscovered an extra spishul diamond mine of his own, no one knows where.Sure, now, what's wrong wid ye?"
For the visitor was softly using words which to O'Brien's dull earssounded very like a string of curses.
"I'm sorry," growled the other, with an effort. "I've been to Africa,an' I get such a spasm now an' then in my liver that I can hardlystand."
"That's no way to cure yourself--profanin' the name of th' Almighty,"cried O'Brien.
"No. I'm sorry, I tell you. But about this boy----"
"There's no more to see now, if ye plaze. That's the way out."
O'Brien was deeply offended by the language used beneath a roof hallowedby the name of Mary Anson. The sightseer had to go, and quickly.Another commissionaire, who was observing them from a distance, came upand asked O'Brien what the stranger was talking about.
"Ye nivver heard sich a blaggard," said the old man, indignantly. "I wasin the middle of tellin' him about Mr. Philip, when he began to curselike Ould Nick himself."
In the Mile End Road the rawboned person who betrayed such excitementfound the policeman awaiting him. He sprang onto a 'bus, and purposelyglared at the officer in a manner to attract his attention. When at asafe distance he put his fingers to his nose. The constable smiled.
"I knew I was right," he said. "I don't need to look twice at that sortof customer."
And he entered the Mary Anson Home again to ask the porter what hadtaken place.
It was an easy matter for Jocky Mason, released from Portland Prison onticket-of-leave, after serving the major portion of a sentence offourteen
years' penal servitude--the man he assaulted had died, and theex-convict narrowly escaped being hanged--to ascertain the salient factsof Philip Anson's later career.
It was known to most men. He was biographed briefly in _Who's Who_ andhad often supplied material for a column of gossip in the newspapers.Every free library held books containing references to him.
It was quite impossible that the source of his great wealth shouldremain hidden for all time. In one way and another it leaked out, and hebecame identified with the ragged youth who created a sensation in thedock of the Clerkenwell Police Station.
But this was years later, and the clever manipulation of Mr. Abingdon,as his estate agent, and of Mr. Isaacstein, as his representative in thediamond trade, completely frustrated all attempts to measure the trueextent of the meteor's value.
For now Philip owned a real diamond mine in South Africa; he had a fineestate in Sussex, a house in Park Lane, a superb sea-going yacht, acolliery in Yorkshire, and vast sums invested in land and railways. Thelatent value of his gems had been converted into money-earning capital.
Mr. Abingdon proved himself to be a very able business man. When theadministration of Philip's revenue became too heavy a task for hisunaided shoulders, he organized a capital estate office, withwell-trained lawyers, engineers and accountants to conduct its variousdepartments, while he kept up an active supervision of the whole untilPhilip quitted his university, and was old enough to begin to bear someportion of the burden.
They agreed to differ on this important question. Philip was fond oftravel and adventure. With great difficulty his "guardian" kept him outof the army, but compromised the matter by allowing the youngmillionaire to roam about the odd corners of the world in his yacht foreight months of the year, provided he spent four months of the season inLondon and Sussex attending to affairs.
In this month of April he was living in his town house. In July he wouldgo to Fairfax Hall, in August to Scotland, and a month later wouldjoyfully fly to the Forth, where the _Sea Maiden_ awaited him.
This lady, whose waist measured eighteen feet across and whose lengthwas seventy feet, with a fine spread of canvas and auxiliary steam, wasthe only siren able to charm him.
He was tall now, and strongly built, with something of the naval officerin his handsome, resolute face and well set-up figure. As a hobby, hehad taken out a master mariner's certificate, and he could navigate hisown ship in the teeth of an Atlantic gale. He loved to surround himselfwith friends, mostly Oxford men of his year, but he seldom entertainedladies, either on board the _Sea Maiden_ or in either of his two finemansions.
He avoided society in its general acceptance, refused all overtures tomix in politics, took a keen delight in using his great wealth toalleviate distress anonymously, and earned a deserved reputation as a"bear" among the few match-making mammas who managed to make hisacquaintance.
In other respects, as the boy was so was the man--the same downrightcharacter, the same steadfast devotion to his mother's memory, the samerelentless adherence to a course already decided on, and the samewhole-hearted reciprocity of friendship.
As he stood in his drawing room before dinner on the evening of the dayJocky Mason re-visited the locality, if not the surroundings, of hiscapture, Philip's strong face wore an unwonted expression of annoyance.He walked to and fro from end to end of the beautiful room, pausing eachtime he reached the window to gaze out over the park.
A servant, who entered for the purpose of turning on the electric lightsand lowering the blinds, was bidden, almost impatiently, to wait untilPhilip and his guests were at dinner.
A telegram came. Anson opened it and read:
"Was dressing to come to your place when Grainger telegraphed for me to act as substitute Lincoln Quarter Sessions. Must go down at once.
"FOX."
"No answer," he said, adding, to himself:
"That's better. Fox's caustic humor would have worried me to-night. Iwish Abingdon would come. I am eager to tell him what has happened."
Now, punctuality was one of Mr. Abingdon's many virtues. At half-pastseven to the tick his brougham deposited him at the door.
The two met with a cordial greeting that showed the close ties of mutualgood fellowship and respect which bound them together.
"Fox won't be here," said Philip. "Grainger has broken down--ill health,I suppose--and wired for him to go to Lincoln."
"Ah, that's a lift for Fox. He is a clever fellow, and if he manages totell the jury a joke or two he will influence a verdict as unfairly asany man I know."
"Does it not seem to you to be rather an anomaly that justice, which inthe abstract is impeccable, too often depends on other issues which haveno possible bearing on the merits of the dispute itself?"
"My dear boy, that defect will continue until the crack of doom. Pascallaid it bare in an epigram--'_Plaisante justice! qu'une riviere ou unemontaigne borne! Verite au deca du Pyrenees, erreur au dela!_' It alldepends on which side the Pyrenees Fox happens to be."
"Unfortunately, I am straddling the water shed at this moment. I havemade a very unpleasant discovery, Abingdon, and I am glad we are aloneto-night--we can speak freely. Some people named Sharpe & Smith wrote tome yesterday."
"I know them--an old-established firm of solicitors."
"Well, they urged me to give them an appointment on a private matter,and I did so. They began by trying to cross-examine me, but that was anabject failure. Seeing that whatever they had to say must stand on itsown legs, they told me an extraordinary story. It appears that at aplace called The Hall, Beltham, Devon, lives an elderly baronet, namedSir Philip Morland."
"Morland! Philip Morland!"
"Ah, you remember the name! It was given to a young derelict who oncefigured in the dock before you on a charge of being in unlawfulpossession----"
"The matter is not serious, then?"
"It is very serious. The real Philip Morland is my uncle."
"Do you mean to say that you learned this fact for the first time to-dayfrom Sharpe & Smith?"
Philip laughed. By this time they were seated at the table, and theirtalk depended to a certain extent on the comings and goings of servants.At a dinner _en famille_, the presence of a ponderous butler and solemnlackeys was dispensed with.
"Oh, you lawyers!" he cried. "That's a nice sort of leading question.But, marvelous as it may seem to you, I must answer 'Yes.' My mother'smaiden name was Morland. Her brother was much older than she, and itappears the dear woman married to please herself, thereby mortallyoffending the baronet."
"Why the 'offense'?"
"Because my father's social position was not equal to that of thearistocratic Morlands. Moreover, her brother had an accident in hisyouth which rendered him irritable and morose. From being a pleasantsort of man; which, indeed, he must have been did he share aught of mymother's nature--he grew into a misanthrope, and gave his life to theclassification of Exmoor beetles. He treated my mother very badly, sovilely that even she, dear soul, during her married life held no furthercommunication with him, and never mentioned him to me by name. Now, oneday on Exmoor he found a lady who also was devoted to beetles. At least,she knew all that the Encyclopaedia Britannica could teach her. She was apoor but handsome widow."
"Ah!"
"It is delightful to talk with you, Abingdon. Your monosyllables helpthe narrative along. Sir Philip married the widow. She brought him ason, aged five. There were no children born of my uncle's marriage."
"Oh!"
"When poverty overtook my dear one, she so far obliterated a cruelmemory as to appeal, not once, but many times, to the human coleopterusof Exmoor, but she was invariably frozen off either by Lady LouisaMorland or by Messrs. Sharpe & Smith."
"Did they admit this?"
"By no means. I am telling you the facts. I am still on top of thePyrenees."
"Then how did you ascertain the facts?"
"I have in my possession ever since my mother's death the letters theywrote to her. They we
re fresh in my memory when you and I first met inthe Clerkenwell Police Court. That is why the name of Philip Morlandwas glib on my tongue."
"So I have only heard historical events, events prior to the last tenyears?"
"Exactly. My uncle is now sixty years of age. Lady Louisa Morland's sonis twenty-four. Her ladyship's whole aim in life has been to secure himas the baronet's heir. The title, of course, he cannot obtain. But, mostunfortunately, he has no penchant for beetles. Indeed, Lady Louisa'sresearches have long since diminished in ardor. Her son's interests aredivided between the Sports Club and the coryphees of the latest musicalcomedy--moths are more in his line, apparently. My uncle, who ispreparing a monograph on the fleas which patronize Exmoor wild ponies,came to town last week to visit the British Museum. Unhappily, he heardsomething about his stepson which disturbed his researches. There was arow."
"Why do you say 'unhappily'?"
"Because I am dragged into the wretched business on account of it. Aftera lapse of more than twenty-five years, he remembered his sister, wentto his solicitors, made a fearful hubbub when he heard of lettersreceived from her and answered without his knowledge, and ascertainedthat she was dead, and had a son living. At any cost, they must findthat son. They have guessed at my identity for some time. Now they wantto make sure of it."
"And what did you say?"
"I told them I would think over the situation and communicate with themfurther."
"Were they satisfied?"
"By no means. They are exceedingly anxious to placate the old man. Theyprobably control a good deal of his money."
"Um!"
"Of course! You see the delicacy of their position. After playing intothe hands of Lady Louisa for nearly a quarter of a century, theysuddenly find the whole situation changed by the baronet's belateddiscovery that he once had a sister."
"You have not told me all this without a purpose. Do you want myadvice?"
Philip's face was clouded, his eyes downcast.
"You understand," he said, after a long pause, "that some one, eitherthe man or the woman--the woman, I think--is morally responsible for mymother's death. She was poor--wretchedly, horribly poor--the poverty ofthin clothing and insufficient food. She was ill, confined to amiserable hovel for weary months, and was so utterly unprovided with thebarest necessaries that the parish doctor was on the point of compellingher to go to the workhouse infirmary when death came. Am I to be theinstrument of God's vengeance on this woman?"
Mr. Abingdon, who had risen to light a cigar, placed a kindly hand onthe young man's shoulder.
"Philip," he said, with some emotion, "I have never yet heard you uttera hasty judgment. You have prudence far beyond your years. It seems tome, speaking with all the reverence of man in face of the decrees ofProvidence, that God has already provided a terrible punishment for LadyLouisa Morland. What is the name of her son?"
"I do not know. I forgot to ask."
"I have a wide experience of the _jeunesse doree_ of London. Hardly aweek passed during many years of my life that one of his type did notappear before me in the dock. What is he--a _roue_, a gambler, probablya drunkard?"
"All these, I gathered from the solicitors."
"And if your mother were living, what would she say to Lady Morland?"
"She would pity her from the depths of her heart. Yes, Abingdon, you areright. My uncle's wife has chosen her own path. She must follow it, letit lead where it will. I will write to Messrs. Sharpe & Smith now. Butstep into my dressing room with me for a moment, will you?"
In a corner of the spacious apartment to which he led his guest stood alarge safe. Philip opened it. Within were a number of books anddocuments, but in a large compartment at the bottom stood a peculiarobject for such a repository--an ordinary, leather portmanteau. Helifted it onto a couch and took a key from a drawer in the safe.
"This is one of my treasures which you have never seen," he said, with asorrowful smile. "It has not been in the light for many years."
He revealed to his friend's wondering eyes the tattered suit, theslipshod boots, the ragged shirt and cap, the rusty doorkey, associatedwith that wonderful month of March of a decade earlier. He reverentlyunfolded some of his mother's garments, and his eyes were misty as hesurveyed them.
But from the pocket of the portmanteau he produced a packet of soiledletters. One by one he read them aloud, though he winced at theremembrance of the agony his mother must have endured as sheexperienced each rebuff from Lady Morland and her husband's solicitors.
Yet he persevered to the end.
"I wanted a model for a brief communication to Messrs. Sharpe & Smith,"he said, bitterly. "I think the general purport of their correspondencewill serve my needs admirably."
As he closed the Gladstone bag his stern mood vanished.
"Do you know," he said, "that this odd-looking portmanteau, alwayslocked and always reposing in a safe, has puzzled my valetsconsiderably? One man got it out and tried to open it. I caught him inthe act. I honestly believe both he and the others were under theimpression that I kept my diamonds in it."
"By the way, that reminds me of a request from Isaacstein. As all thesmaller diamonds have now been disposed of, and there remain only thelarge stones, he thinks that some of them might be cut into sections.They are unmarketable at present."
"Very well. Let us appoint a day next week and overhaul the entirecollection. I intend to keep the big ones to form the center ornamentsof a tiara, a necklace, and gewgaws of that sort."
"I am glad to hear it."
"My dear fellow, I suppose there will be a Mrs. Anson some day, but Ihave not found her yet."
"'Who'er she be, That not impossible she, That shall command my heart and me.'"
And a ripple of laughter chased away the last shadows from his face.
