Bunch Grass Part 52

"Please, don't," pleaded the Rev. Tudor.

"He'll be good for a hundred sovs.," continued d.i.c.k. "You can do the thing handsomely for half that."

"For G.o.d's sake, shut up."

"Pooh! why shouldn't you have your fee? That hundred would start us nicely in the saloon business, and----"

He was walking up and down the dusty, dirty floor. Now he stopped, and his eyes brightened; but Crisp noted that his hands trembled.

"Give me that whisky," he muttered. "I want it now."

The 'Bishop' handed him his gla.s.s. d.i.c.k drained it, and laughed.

"Don't," said the 'Bishop' for the third time. d.i.c.k laughed again, and slapped him on the shoulder. Then the smile froze on his lips, and he spoke grimly.

"What does the apostle say--hey? We must die to live. A straight tip!

Well--! I shall obey the apostolic injunction gladly. I'm going to die to-night. Don't jump like that, you old a.s.s; let me finish. I'm going to die to-night, but you and I are going into the saloon business all the same. Yes, my boy, and we'll tend bar ourselves, and keep our eyes on the till, and have our own bottle of the best, and be perfect gentlemen. Come on, let's drink to my resurrection. Here's to the man who was, and is, and is to be."

"You're a wonder," replied the 'Bishop' fervently. "I understand. You mean to be your own undertaker."

"I do, my lord. Now give me the baccy, some ink and paper, and an hour's peace."

But the hour pa.s.sed and found d.i.c.k still composing. The 'Bishop'

watched his friend with spaniel-like patience. At last the scribe flung down his pen, and read aloud, as follows--

"The Rectory, San Lorenzo,

"_September 1,_

"To the Rev. George Carteret.

"Dear Sir,--I beg to advise you, with sincere regret on my part, of the sudden demise of your son, Richard Beaumont Carteret, who died at my house just three days ago of heart failure, quite painlessly. You will find enclosed the doctor's certificate, the coroner's report, and the undertaker's bill _paid and receipted_.

"I had a very honest friendship for your son, although I deplored a misspent youth. But I rejoice to say that poor d.i.c.k lived long enough to heartily repent him of his sins, which after all were sins against himself. He often talked of home and you, alluding feelingly to the sacrifices you had made on his behalf--sacrifices that he confessed were far greater than his deserts.

"I am a poor man, but I felt impelled to give your son the funeral of a gentleman. The bills I have paid, as you will observe, in full, including the purchase in perpetuity of a lot in the cemetery. Should you see fit to refund me these amounts, I shall not refuse the money; if, on the other hand, you repudiate the claim, I shall let the matter drop. I could not permit my friend to be buried as a pauper.

"It is possible that you may wish a stone placed at the head of the grave. A suitable cross of plain white marble would cost about two hundred dollars. If you care to entrust me with the sad commission, I will give it my earnest attention.

"I refer you to my aunt, Miss Janetta Crisp, of Montpelier Road, Brighton, and also to the Clergy List.

"Very truly yours,

"Tudor Crisp (The Rev.)."

"There," exclaimed Mr. Carteret, "that will do the trick. The bills and other doc.u.ments we'll forge at our leisure to-morrow."

"I don't quite like the use of my name," protested the Rev. Tudor Crisp.

d.i.c.k explained that his reverence would be ent.i.tled to half the plunder, and that discovery was almost impossible. Still, despite d.i.c.k's eloquence, the 'Bishop' submitted that such a cruel fraud was "tough" on the old gentleman.

"On the contrary," retorted the other. "He will a.s.sume that I died in the odour of sanct.i.ty, in the atmosphere of a rectory, in the arms of a parson. He'll worry no more, poor old chap, about my past or my future. This is the turning-point of our fortunes. Don't look so glum, man. Here--hit the demijohn again."

But the 'Bishop' declined this invitation, and betook himself to his blankets, muttering inarticulate nothings. d.i.c.k relighted his pipe, and refilled his gla.s.s. Then he walked to the mantelshelf and gazed long and critically at three framed photographs of his father and two sisters. These were almost the only property he possessed. It is significant from an ethical point of view that d.i.c.k kept these pictures where he could see them. The 'Bishop' had photos also, but they lay snug at the bottom of an old portmanteau. His reverence was sensible that he was not worthy to keep company with even the pictures of honourable and respectable persons. No such qualms affected d.i.c.k.

He regarded these photos as credentials. His father had a charming face--one of those human doc.u.ments whereon are inscribed honour, culture, benevolence, and the wisdom that is not of this world. The sisters, too, had comely features; and strangers introduced to the family group always felt more kindly disposed to the prodigal so far from such nice people. d.i.c.k had impetrated more than one loan, using these portraits as collateral security. Did his heart soften as he bade them farewell? Who can tell?

Within six weeks the Rev. Tudor Crisp received a cheque from distant Dorset, and the proceeds were duly invested in a saloon in San Clemente, a town some twenty miles from San Lorenzo. Moreover, the business prospered from the start. The partners, Crisp and Cartwright (d.i.c.k deemed it wise to alter his name), kept no a.s.sistants, so there was no leakage from the till. They understood that this liquor traffic was a shameful trade, but they p.r.o.nounced themselves unable to follow any other. Curiously enough the work proved a tonic to the 'Bishop.'

He allowed himself so many drinks a day, and observed faithfully other rules to his physical and financial betterment. He started a reading- room in connection with the bar, for he had had experience in such matters when a curate at home; and the ill.u.s.trated papers sent regularly by his maiden aunt were in great demand. Indeed, the mere reading about football matches and the like created an unquenchable thirst in cowboys and sheep-herders. Moreover the 'Bishop' enforced order and decorum, being a muscular Christian, and the boys learned to curb obscene tongues in his presence. d.i.c.k marvelled at the change in his partner, but he was shrewd enough to see that it brought grist to the gin-mill.

"Once a parson, always a parson," d.i.c.k would say; and the Rev. Tudor would blush and sigh. He never spoke of his clerical days, but once d.i.c.k caught him furtively examining a picture of himself in surplice and ca.s.sock. Each week a division of the profits was made. The 'Bishop's' share was deposited in the local bank, but where d.i.c.k's dollars went it would be indiscreet to tell. He had no stomach for economies, and observed no rules. When he apprehended the general drift of things he was content to let the 'Bishop' have his way and say in regard to the conduct of the business. His reverence bought the cigars and liquors. d.i.c.k could hardly be called a sleeping partner, for he took the night watch, but the 'Bishop' did most of the work, and kept the books. Before two years had pa.s.sed a capital restaurant was added to the reading-room, where the best of steaks and chops might be had, hot and hot, at all hours and at a reasonable price.

d.i.c.k never knew it, but the 'Bishop' wrote to Miss Janetta Crisp and begged her to send no more cheques. He told his kind auntie very modestly that he had a bank account of his own, and that he hoped one day to thank her in person for all she had done for him.

Towards the close of the third year the 'Bishop' told d.i.c.k that it would be well for them to leave their saloon, and to purchase a small hotel then offered for sale. d.i.c.k told his old friend to go ahead. His reverence supplied d.i.c.k's share of the purchase-money, and the saloon knew them no more. But the hotel, under the 'Bishop's' management, proved a tiny gold mine.

All this time, however, the memory of that dirty trick he had helped to play upon an honest gentleman, festered in his memory. He feared that Nemesis would overtake him, and time justified these fears; for in the spring of 1898 came a second letter to the Rev. Tudor Crisp, of The Rectory, San Lorenzo, a letter that the poor 'Bishop' read with quickening pulses, and then showed to d.i.c.k.

"My very dear Sir" (it began), "a curious change in my fortunes enables me to carry out a long-cherished plan. I purpose, D.V., to pay a pilgrimage to my poor son's grave, and shall start for California immediately. Perhaps you will be good enough to let me spend a couple of days at the rectory. It will be a mournful pleasure to me to meet one who was kind to my dear lad.

"I will write to you again from San Francisco.

"Very gratefully yours,

"George Carteret."

If the hotel, uninsured, had suddenly burst into flames, the 'Bishop'

would have manifested far less consternation. He raved incoherently for nearly ten minutes, while d.i.c.k sat silent and nervous beneath a storm of remorse.

"I'll meet your father in San Francisco," said the unhappy Crisp, "and make a clean breast of it." "That spells ruin," said d.i.c.k coldly. "The governor is a dear old gentleman, but he has the Carteret temper. He would make this place too hot for you and too hot for me. I've a voice in this matter, and for once," he added, with unnecessary sarcasm, "I propose to be heard."

"What do you mean to do?"

"If necessary I'll resurrect myself. I'll play the hand alone. You've no more tact than a hippopotamus. And I'll meet the governor. Don't stare. Do you think he'll know me? Not much! I left Dorset a smooth- faced boy; to-day I'm bearded like the pard. My voice, my figure, the colour of my hair, my complexion are quite unrecognisable. It may be necessary to show the governor my grave, but I shan't bring him down here. Now, I must commit murder as well as suicide."

"What?"

"I must kill you, you duffer! Do you think my father would return to England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad? And you would give the whole snap away. Yes; I'll call upon him as Cartwright, the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp's estate. If it were not for that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten minutes. Don't frown. I tell you, 'Bishop,' you're not half the fellow you were."

"Perhaps not," replied his reverence humbly.

But when d.i.c.k was alone he muttered to himself: "Now what the deuce did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?"

The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms at the Acropolis Hotel. The luxury of them was new to him, yet not unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty. It seemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches should have come to him--riches from a distant kinsman who, living, had hardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson. Five thousand pounds a year was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numbered as many hundreds. And--alas! his son was dead. Not that the parson loved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadet of an ancient family he had a Tory squire's prejudice in favour of a Salique Law. With the thousands went a charming grange in the north country and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to a male Carteret. If--futile thought--d.i.c.k had only been spared!

Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card. The parson placed his gla.s.ses upon a fine aquiline nose.