Volume One—Chapter One.

A Queer Legacy.

“To my valued friend, Arthur Claverton, I bequeath the sum of nine thousand pounds.”

He to whom this announcement was made could not repress a start of surprise. The only other occupant of the room paused and laid down the document from which he had been reading. The room was a solicitor’s office.

“You hardly expected to be remembered, then?” said the latter.

“No. At least I won’t say that, exactly; but nothing like to such an extent. I thought poor Spalding might have left me some trifle to remember him by—his pet breechloader, or something of the kind; but, candidly, I never expected anything like this!”

“Yet you saved his life, once.”

“Pooh! Nothing at all. The weather was hot, and the swim did me good. If I hadn’t gone in, the nearest Jack Tar would have, and have thought nothing of it; nor do I. Poor Spalding!”

The speaker is a man of about thirty to all appearance. His face, which is a handsome and a refined one, wears a look of firmness, not unmixed with recklessness. It is the countenance of one who has seen a good deal of the world, and knows thoroughly well how to take care of himself. The other man is more than twice his age, and looks what he is—every inch the comfortable, well-preserved family solicitor.

“I don’t know about that, Mr Claverton,” answered the latter. “The story our poor friend told me was something very different. The vessel was going at thirteen knots, the night being pitch dark, and a heavy sea running. And no one saw him fall overboard but yourself.”

The other laughed in a would-be careless way. “Oh, well, I think you are making too much of it. But the job was a risky one, I admit, and at one time I did think we should never be picked up. And now, Mr Smythe, I’m going to ask you a question that you may think queer. First of all, you knew my poor friend intimately for a good many years?”

“I did. When first I made his acquaintance, Herbert Spalding was a little chap in Eton jackets. I’ve known him tolerably intimately ever since.”

“Well, then, didn’t it strike you that latterly he had something on his mind?”

“Yes, it did. And I happen to know he had. The old story. He was jilted; and being one of those sensitive men with a high-strung nervous organisation, he took it to heart too much. I believe it shortened his life. Poor fellow.”

“Well, whoever did it, has something to answer for, or would have had, at least; for, between ourselves, that time he went overboard he went of his own free will.”

“I had suspected as much,” said the lawyer, quietly. “That was on the voyage out, wasn’t it?”

“It was. We first became acquainted on board ship, you know. He hardly spoke to any one on board till, all of a sudden, he took a violent fancy to me. We occupied the same cabin. In fact, I soon began to suspect there was a petticoat in the case, the poor chap was so down on his luck; but he didn’t tell me in so many words, and it wasn’t for me to pry into another fellow’s private affairs. One evening I came into the cabin, and found him loading a revolver. There was nothing very astonishing in that, you know, because fellows often go in for revolver practice at sea—shooting bottles from the yard-arm, and all that sort of thing; but it was the way in which it was done. He hid the thing, too, when he saw me, and that looked fishy. However, I managed to get hold of it, unknown to him, and stuck it right away, and made up my mind to keep an eye on him. That very night, or rather morning, for it was in the small hours, I was awoke by something moving in the cabin. I sung out, but got no answer. Then I went over to Spalding’s bunk, and, by Jove, it was empty. When a fellow has been kicked about the world as much as I have, he don’t take long to think; consequently I was on deck in about a second, with precious little on but my nightshirt, and luckily so as it happened. It was pitch dark, and blowing half a gale. I didn’t want to sing out if I could help it—wanted to avoid a fuss, you understand; so I peered about for Spalding. At last I made out a dark figure standing behind the wheel, looking astern. They don’t use the rudder wheel, you know—steer from the bridge. I was just going to sing out quietly, when the figure disappeared, and I heard a splash that there was no mistaking. Then, you bet, I gave a war-whoop loud enough to wake the dead, as I went

over the side after it. Fortunately for Spalding—for it was him all right—fortunately for us both, the quarter-master had his wits about him, and pitched over one of those fire-buoys that are kept handy for these occasions; but there was a heavy, lamping sea on that nearly knocked the breath out of one. I wasn’t long reaching Spalding; but he could hardly swim a stroke at the best of times, and at that time was simply helpless. But I can tell you I had my work cut out for me. By the time the ship was brought round to us again, and we were picked up, we had been nearer half an hour in the water than twenty minutes, and not many seconds more would have done for us. I was all right again next day, and, by way of explanation, I gave out that Spalding was given to somnambulism. The idea took; and no one suspected anything, or, if they did, never said so, and the affair created a deuce of a sensation on board.”

“I should rather imagine it did,” said the lawyer, who had been vividly interested in the other’s narrative. “But you were with him when he died, weren’t you—I mean at the moment?”

“Yes and no. After the affair I’ve been telling you about we became greater chums than ever. He seemed to pick up in health and spirits, and I began to think the poor chap was going to forget all about his troubles. We stayed in Sydney a little while, and then went up country, where we spent three or four months, knocking about from station to station, for Spalding had no end of letters of introduction. At last, as ill luck would have it, the mail—that curse of existence—overtook us even away up in the bush. I don’t know what news he got; but poor Spalding became worse than ever. Nothing would satisfy him but we must return home to England immediately. I say ‘we,’ because I’ll be hanged if I could make him see that I, at any rate, hadn’t come to Australia for fun, but to try and find a means of livelihood. No; I must go back with him. He had influence and abundant means, and could get me a much better berth in England than I should ever find out there, he argued. He wanted my company on the voyage home, and was determined to have it; I shouldn’t be out of pocket by it, and so on. We nearly had a tremendous row over it; but at last I yielded, partly to sentiment, for we were great chums and the poor fellow seemed utterly cut up at the prospect of my leaving him to go back alone, partly to carelessness, for, I reasoned, I should be no worse off than when I left England, and could always pick up some sort of a living anywhere. So we sailed by the first vessel we could catch, and a precious slow old tub she was. Before we had been a week at sea, Spalding got a notion into his head that he would never see England again, and all I could say or do to cheer him was of no use. Well, to cut the matter short, one evening about half an hour before sundown, we

were sitting aft smoking our weeds. I left him, wanting to do a constitutional before dinner. I hadn’t been gone five minutes when the quarter-master came to say that my chum didn’t seem well. Back I went like a shot. There was Spalding sitting in his deck-chair just as I left him with his book in front of him. But his head hung forward queerly. I had only to take one look at him to know what was up. The poor chap was stone dead.”

“Dear me—dear me!” said the lawyer.

Claverton paused a little—moved by the recollection. He had never told the story so circumstantially before.

“We carried him to the cabin, and the doctor made an official examination and all that sort of thing. Then the captain sealed up his effects, and the next evening our poor friend was buried. It was in the tropical seas, you know, where they don’t delay funerals longer than they can help. And, curiously enough, it could not have been far from the spot where the poor fellow made his nocturnal plunge on the voyage out. Yes; whoever she is, she’ll have something to answer for. The doctor called it heart disease; but heart-break would have been nearer the mark, I believe.”

There was silence for a few moments. It was at length broken by the lawyer.

“And you actually knew nothing of that codicil?”

“Nothing whatever. Hadn’t the faintest suspicion of anything of the kind. It’s all right, I suppose; can’t be disputed or upset—eh?”

“No. It’s perfectly in order—adequately witnessed and everything. If Spalding had been a solicitor in busy practice, he couldn’t have added that codicil more correctly. And he did it at sea, too!”

“What did he die worth?”

“It’s hard to say at present. Most of his property was landed—very extensive, but all entailed. He has bequeathed to yourself nearly all that it was in his power to bequeath to anybody; but—”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” interrupted the other impatiently, and somewhat annoyed. “I merely asked out of curiosity. And, as I told you before, I never expected anything at all.”

“But, I was going to say, there’s a queer stipulation attached to your bequest. I don’t quite know what you’ll think of it,” went on Mr Smythe, with a dry smile. “You only profit by the bequest—which is funded—provided you remain single until the age of thirty-five. Should you marry before then you forfeit the whole, which, in that case, would pass to a distant relative. But I should think you will not have very long to wait. Three or four years, perhaps?” and he looked inquiringly at the other. “Of course you draw the interest from now,” he added.

“More likely eight years.”

“You don’t say so. I declare you look much older!”

“The conditions are queer, certainly,” said the legatee, with a smile. “I think I can see through it, though. Poor Spalding was played the mischief with so severely by a woman, that he thought the best kindness he could do me was to offer a counter inducement to me against making a fool of myself in that line. And, look, thirty-five is the age stipulated—his own age at the time of his death.”

“It’s singular, certainly,” said Smythe; “but there seems to be method in it. Probably he thought that he, not having arrived at years of discretion at that time of life, neither would you. As if a man ever does arrive at years of discretion where the sex is concerned! But I congratulate you heartily—at least, I suppose I must; for you look heart-whole enough at present, anyhow. But you are young—you are young.”

“Not too young to know the value of nine thousand pounds and its yearly interest, I can tell you, Mr Smythe,” said the other, with a laugh. And then he took his leave.

Volume One—Chapter Two.

The Legatee.

If there is one quality in this world which its fortunate possessor is to be envied the enjoyment of, it is that of absolute insouciance. I don’t mean the spurious article known as “putting a bold face on things,” though this is a gift by no means to be despised; but that downright, thorough, devil-may-care way of taking the vicissitudes of life, in such wise as these interfere neither with the appetite, sleep, nor temper, which is well-nigh as rare—at any rate among us Englishmen—as the Little Bustard.

When Claverton entered Mr Smythe’s office, he owned barely enough sovereigns in the world to make a creditable jingle in his breeches pocket; when he left the lawyer he walked out into the street a man of independent means. Yet the change, welcome and wholly unexpected as it was, in no wise disturbed his mental equilibrium. He was conscious of an increased feeling of complacency as he contemplated the world at large by the light of his own improved prospects; but he would permit himself no elation. While going through the hardest times he had known—and he had known some very hard ones indeed—he had cultivated the severest philosophy; and now it had become second nature to him. “Bad luck—no use growling, won’t last; good luck—no use crowing, may not last,” was his self-invented and favourite maxim.

At the time when we first make his acquaintance, Arthur Claverton stood absolutely alone in the world. I don’t mean to say that he had no relatives, but they cold-shouldered him. A few of them were near relatives, others very distant; but the nearer they were, the more they cold-shouldered him. He was an only child and an orphan; his mother having died at his birth, and his father being killed in a railway accident sortie four years later, leaving him to the care of a guardian, one of the near relatives aforesaid. Near, too, in another sense of the word; for, though very comfortably off, and indeed wealthy, this conscientious and benevolent guardian impounded the scanty substance left for the orphan’s start in life, on the ground that his family was a large one, and he could not afford the addition of his dead brother’s child.

His family certainly was a large one, which is to say that it was a supremely disagreeable and discordant one. The boys, rough and unruly, worried the girls and their father. The girls, underhand and spiteful, tormented the boys and their mother. Wrangling and mischief-making was the order of the day. After this it will not be surprising to learn that it was a pious family, which is to say, that much attention was given to morning and evening prayers; and that Sunday, jocosely termed the day of rest, was to be employed getting up epistles and gospels by heart, with a slice of catechism or so thrown in, what time the whole master was not pent up in a square box undergoing edification at the lips of a prolix and Geneva-clad Boanerges, who seldom said “And now to” within an hour and a quarter from the enunciation of his text. By an odd coincidence, the day on which this exemplary piety had its full scope—notably in the tabooing of all secular literature or any approach to levity of demeanour—the reign of strife, squabble, and jar seemed to reach its acme.

Such was the amiable family circle among which young Arthur’s earlier lot was cast. But somehow he never assimilated. He was a species of Ishmael when “at home,” which, by the way, was not often, for he spent most of his holidays at school. All things considered, a good thing for him? No. For it was not a nice school where his educational lines were cast. It was a very cheap and a very nasty school; one in which he learnt nothing but the art of getting into serious scrapes, and—perhaps the only useful thing he did learn—the art of getting out of them. A bringing up of this kind would have been the ruin of most boys; but it was not so with Arthur. He came of a splendid stock, and the wretched associations of his boyhood and youth, instead of destroying his character, had the effect of forming it. They hardened him. True, they rendered him cynical at an age when one looks for impulsiveness and generosity, and if they had inspired him with a disgust for religion, his mind was absolutely clear of cant. They had taught him utterly to despise sentiment, while leaving him capabilities of generosity and even geniality. And if any one showed him a kindness, he never forgot it.

One day, when he was seventeen, the second master of his school, the clever son of an army Scripture reader, had the unwisdom to strike him. In about ten seconds that ill-advised pedagogue was picking himself up in a corner with a bleeding nose and otherwise in receipt of grievous bodily harm. Expulsion was imminent; but Arthur did not wait for it. He took the first train, went straight to his guardian and told him he wanted to emigrate.

His guardian looked acidly at the tall, handsome stripling before him, and began a severe lecture. He also looked uneasily; for it was evident that Arthur had somehow got to learn that his father had not left him absolutely penniless, which meant that no appeal on the grounds of gratitude would lie—for the expenses of the orphan’s bringing up and education, such as it was, had by no means exhausted the sum which the dead man had left. Of this Arthur had gained a very shrewd idea; but he merely asked for sufficient to pay his passage and a small sum towards a necessary outfit, for he intended to go to one of our colonies.

Then his guardian, unlocking a desk, handed Arthur the sum of thirty-five pounds, and told him—metaphorically, of course, good pious man that he was, yet very plainly—to go to the devil.

He did not go to the devil; he went to the Cape.

Some of my readers may think this a distinction without a difference. Well, that is a matter of opinion. He turned his hand first to one thing, then another; but nothing seemed to answer for long, possibly because he was young and restless. At last a small “coup” at the Diamond Fields set him up with a few hundreds. But fortune changed round again; and, in disgust, he resolved to return to England previous to trying his luck in some other colony.

He landed in his native country after several years of a hard, adventurous life; but there was not a soul to welcome him. Not long did he stay; but, by the time he had taken his passage to Australia, not much remained of the proceeds of his Diamond Fields’ enterprise. Then on that eventful voyage he fell in with Herbert Spalding, and the rest of his experiences we have heard from his own lips.

A few mornings after his interview with the lawyer, a card was brought up to Claverton as he sat in his rooms.

“Rev. George Wainwright,” reading the name. “Now, who the deuce is the Rev. George Wainwright? Certainly not one of my kinsfolk or acquaintance.”

There entered an elderly man with stiff, iron-grey hair, a very red face and fierce brown eyes, peering aggressively from beneath a pair of bushy brows. He wore clerical attire, and in his hand carried a tall hat like unto a stove-pipe. There was aggressiveness in his whole aspect, especially in the short, stiff bow with which he greeted Claverton. Farther, there was aggressiveness even in the knock and ring which had heralded his arrival.

“A country rector,” mused our friend, mentally reading off his visitor. “In earlier life of the sporting order, now gouty and addicted to port. Domineering in his parish, tyrant in domestic circle. I know the breed. What the deuce can he want with me?” Then, aloud: “Pray be seated. Cold morning, isn’t it?” and he drew a chair to the fire for his visitor.

“No doubt, Mr—er—Claverton, you will readily guess the object of my visit,” began the other, brusquely, leaning both, hands on the knob of his umbrella, and staring his interlocutor straight in the face.

“Excuse me, but I hardly do.”

“What! You don’t? Why, about this will—this will of Spalding’s?”

“Spalding’s will! My dear sir, I am afraid you have come to me by mistake. My poor friend’s solicitor is Smythe of Chancery Lane. I’ll give you his address in full.”

“No mistake at all—no mistake at all,” rejoined the other, abruptly. “I’ve just come from Smythe, it was he who referred me to you. I want to know about that preposi—er—that bequest—the bequest to you. Do you intend to avail yourself of it, may I ask?”

“Well, really, that is a most astonishing question—”

“You don’t. No—of course you don’t,” came the angry interruption. “No young man with any independence of spirit, could possibly take the money under such conditions. It would be preposterous if he did—preposterous.”

“But, Mr Wainwright, I do intend to take the money.”

“You do?”