The Giant's Robe Part 62

Mabel made some a.s.sent--she always felt more or less paralysed in the presence of this terrible relative--and he drew out a folded slip, put on his spectacles, and proceeded to read:--

'"To the Editor.--Sir--I write you for the purpose of putting you right with respect to a point on which you seem to have got hold of an unaccurate version of a matter which I may say I have some slight connection with. In your issue of the ----th inst., I note that your London letter prints the following paragraph:

'"_Society here is eagerly antic.i.p.ating the coming performance, at one of the most recherche mansions in Belgravia, of a dramatic version of Mrs. Ashburn (nee Ernstone's) celebrated romance of 'Illusion.' I have been favoured with an opportunity of a.s.sisting at some of the rehearsals, and am in a position to state that the representation cannot fail to satisfy even the most ardent of the many admirers of the book. The guests will include all the leaders of every phase of the beau monde, and a repet.i.tion of the play will probably be found necessary. By the way, it is a somewhat romantic circ.u.mstance, that the talent displayed by the young auth.o.r.ess has already been the means of procuring her a brilliant parti, which will remove all necessity for any reliance upon her pen for a subsistence in the future._

'"Now, sir, allow me to correct two glaring errors in the above. To start with, the author of "Illusion" is not an auth.o.r.ess at all--his real name being Mark Ashburn, as I ought to know, considering I happen to occupy the position of being his uncle. Next, it is quite true that my nephew has contracted a matrimonial alliance, which some might call brilliant; but I was not aware till the present that the party brought him enough to allow him to live independent for the rest of his life, being under the impression that there would have been no match of any sort if it had not been for a near relative (who shall be nameless here) on the author's side coming forward and offering to make things comfortable for the young couple.

But he will have to rely on his pen for all that, as he is quite aware that he is not expected to lay on his oars, without doing anything more to repay the sacrifices that have been wasted on him. Kindly correct, and oblige yours,

'"SOLOMON LIGHTOWLER (the author's uncle)."'

'You know,' he observed when he came to the end, 'it doesn't do to let these sort o' stories go flying about without contradicting them--but I put it very quietly and delicately, you see.'

Mabel bit her lip. Was it possible that this dreadful old man knew nothing--how was she ever to break it to him?

Mr. Humpage had listened to the letter with a grim appreciation. 'You don't write a bad letter, Lightowler, I must say,' he remarked, with an irrepressible chuckle, 'but you are a little behind the day with your facts, ain't you?'

'What d'ye mean by behind the day?' demanded Uncle Solomon.

'Oh, Uncle Antony,' cried Mabel, '_you_ tell him--I can't!'

It is much to be feared that Mr. Humpage was by no means sorry to be entrusted with such a charge. But if he was not naturally kinder hearted, he was more acquainted with the amenities of ordinary society than Mr. Lightowler, and some consideration for Mabel restrained him then from using his triumph as he might have done. He explained briefly the arrangement between Vincent and Mark as he understood it, and the manner in which it had lately been made known. When he had finished, Uncle Solomon stared stupidly from one to the other, and then, with a voice that had grown strangely thick, he said, 'I'll trouble you to say that all over again slowly, if you've no objection.

My head began buzzing, and I couldn't follow it all.'

Mr. Humpage complied, and when he finished for the second time, his hearer's face was purple and distorted, and Mabel pitied him from her own experience.

'Dear Mr. Lightowler,' she said, 'you mustn't blame Mark; he had no choice, he had _promised_.'

'Promised!' Uncle Solomon almost howled; 'what business had he got to make a promise like that? See what a fool he's made o' _me_--with that letter of mine in all the London papers! I heard those Manor House girls gigglin' and laughin' when they drove by the other day, and thought it was just because they were idjits.... I wish to G.o.d I'd let him starve as a City clerk all his days before I let him bring me to this. I've lived all this time and never been ridiclous till now, and he's done it. Ah! and that's not the only thing he's done either--he's swindled me, done me out o' my money as I've earned. I could 'ave him up at the Old Bailey for it--and I've a good mind to say I will, too. I'll----'

'Stop,' said Mabel, 'you have gone quite far enough. I know this is a great disappointment to you, but I am his wife--you have no right to say such things to me.'

'No right!' he stormed, 'that's all you know about it. No right, haven't I? Let me tell you that ever since I was made to think that feller was a credit to me at last, I've bin allowing him at the rate of four hundred a year; d'ye think I'd 'a done that for kindly lending his name to another feller's book? D'ye think he didn't know that well enough when he took the money? Trust him for takin' all he could get hold of! But I'll 'ave it back; I'll post him as a swindler, I'll shame him! Look 'ere; d'ye see this?' and he took out some folded sheets of blue foolscap from his inner pocket. 'I was goin' to take this to Ferret on my way home--and it's the codicil to my will, this is. I was goin' to take it to get it altered, for I've not been feelin' very well lately, I've not been feelin' very well. This was made when I thought Mark was a nephew to be proud of--d----n him--and I can tell yer I left him a pretty tidy plum under it. Now see what I do with it. No fire, isn't there? Well, it doesn't make any odds.

There ... and there ... and there;' and he tore the papers pa.s.sionately across and across several times. 'There's an end of _your_ husband's chances with me. And that don't make me intest.i.t neither; there's the will left, and Mark and none of his will ever get a penny piece under it; he can make his mind easy over that, tell him.'

His coa.r.s.e violence had something almost appalling in it, and at first Mabel had blanched under its force, but her own anger rose now.

'I am glad to think we shall owe nothing to you in future,' she said.

'If Mark has really taken your money, it was because--because he had this secret to keep; but he will give it all back. Now leave the house, please. Uncle Antony, will you get him to go away.'

Uncle Solomon, white and shaking, almost shrunken after his outburst of pa.s.sion, was standing in the midst of a thick litter of torn paper, looking like a tree which has shed its last leaves in a sudden gust.

'Don't you touch me, 'Umpage, now,' he said hoa.r.s.ely; 'I'm quite capable of going by myself. I--I dessay I let my temper get the better o' me just now,' he said to Mabel, rather feebly. 'I don't blame you for taking your husband's part, though he is a--ah, I shall go off my 'ead if I speak any more about it. I'll go--where's your door got to?

Let me alone; I'll find my way. I shall get rid of this dizziness out in the air;' and he stumbled out of the room, a truly pitiable sight, with the fondest ambition of his later life mortally wounded.

'Dear Uncle Antony,' cried Mabel, who felt almost sorry for him, 'go after him, do. Oh, I know you're not friends, but never mind that now--he ought not to go home alone.'

'Hot-headed old a.s.s!' growled Mr. Humpage; 'but there, there, my dear, I'll go. I'll keep him in sight at the stations, and see he comes to no harm.'

Mark had to hear of this when he came home that evening.

'And you really did take his money?' cried Mabel, after hearing his account. 'Oh, Mark, what made you do that?'

Mark hardly knew himself; he certainly would not have done it if he had ever imagined the truth would be known; perhaps his ideas of right and wrong had become rather mixed, or perhaps he persuaded himself that if he did not exactly deserve the money yet, he would not be long in doing so.

'Well, darling,' he replied, 'he would have been bitterly offended if I hadn't, you know, and I didn't know then that it was all done on account of "Illusion." But, after all, I've only had one year's allowance, and I'll give him back that to-morrow. He shan't say I swindled him.'

'I think you ought to do that, dear,' said Mabel. But in her heart she felt a heavy wonder that he should ever have consented to take the money at all.

Mark had received a fairly large sum for his second book, out of which he was well able to refund the allowance, and the next day he went down to Woodbine Villa, where, instead of the violent scene of recrimination he had prepared himself to go through, a very different, if not less painful, experience awaited him. Uncle Solomon had reached his house safely the day before, but, in relating what he had heard to his sister, had given way to a second burst of pa.s.sion, which had ended in a seizure of some kind.

Mark was allowed to see him, on his own earnest entreaty, and was struck with remorse when he saw the lamentable state to which his own conduct had had no small share in reducing the old man. Were the consequences of that one act of folly and meanness _never_ to cease?

he wondered, wretchedly, as he stood there. His uncle allowed his hand to be shaken; he even took Mark's cheque with his stiff hand, and made a sign that his sister was to take charge of it. He could speak, but his brain had lost all command over his tongue, and what he said had a ghastly inappropriateness to the occasion. He saw this dully himself, and gave up the attempt at last, and began to cry piteously at his inability to convey his meaning; whether he wished for a reconciliation then or nursed his rage to the last, Mark never knew.

He went down on several other occasions during his uncle's lingering illness, but always with the same result. Mr. Lightowler suffered all the tortures of perfect consciousness, combined with the powerlessness to express any but the most simple wish: if he desired to undo the past in any way, no one divined his intention or helped him to carry it out; and when the end came suddenly, it was found that he had not died intestate, and the will, after giving a certain annuity to the sister who had lived with him, left the bulk of his estate to go in founding Lightowler scholarships in the School for Commercial Travellers' Orphans. The Ashburn family were given trifling legacies; Mark, however, 'having seen fit to go his own way in life, and render useless all the expense to which I have been put for his advancement,'

was expressly excepted from taking any benefit under the will.

But Mark had expected nothing else, and long before his antic.i.p.ations were verified he had found it necessary to consider seriously how he was to support himself for the future. Literature, as has been said, was now out of the question; in fact, its fascination for him had faded. Mabel had a fair income settled upon her, but in ordinary self-respect he could not live upon that, and so he sought about for some opening. At first he had firmly resolved never to go back to his old school life, after having done so much to escape from it; but as he began to see that any profession that required capital was closed to him, and business being equally impossible, he was forced to think of again becoming a schoolmaster. And then he heard by accident that old Mr. Shelford was about to resign his post at St. Peter's, and it occurred to him that it might be worth his while to go and see him, and find out if the vacancy was unfilled, and if there was any chance for himself. It was not a pleasant thing to do, for he had not seen the old gentleman lately, and dreaded equally innocent congratulations and brusque irony, according to the state of his information. He went up to St. Peter's, timing his arrival after school, when the boys would all have left, except the cla.s.ses which remained an hour longer for extra subjects. Mr. Shelford always lingered for some time, and he would be very certain to find him. Mark went along the dark corridors, rather shrinking as he did so from the idea of being recognised by a pa.s.sing member of the staff, till he came to the door he knew.

Mr. Shelford was still in cap and gown, dictating the week's marks to his monitor, who was entering them, with a long-suffering expression on his face, into a sort of ledger. 'Now we come to Robinson,' the old gentleman was saying; 'you're sure you've got the right place, eh? Go on, then. _Latin repet.i.tion_, thirty-eight; Latin prose, thirty-six--if you don't take care, Master Maxwell, Robinson'll be carrying off the prize this term, he's creeping up to you, sir, creeping up; Roman History'--and here he saw Mark, and dismissed the monitor unceremoniously enough.

He evidently knew the whole story of 'Illusion,' for his first words after they were alone together were, 'And so you've been a sort of warming-pan all this time, eh?'

'That's all,' said Mark, gloomily.

'Well, well,' the old gentleman continued, not unkindly, 'you made a rash promise and kept it like a man, even when it must have been uncommonly disagreeable. I like you for that, Ashburn. And what are you thinking of turning to now?'

Mark explained his errand not very fluently, and Mr. Shelford heard him out with his mouth working impatiently, and his eyes wrinkled till Mark thought how much he had aged lately.

'Well,' he said, pushing back his cap and leaning back in his chair, 'have you thought this out, Ashburn? You were rid of this life a short time back, and I was glad of it, for you never were fit for it. And now you're coming back again! I make no doubt they'll be very willing to have you here, and if a word from me to the Council--but is there really nothing else but this? Why, I'm counting the days to my own deliverance now, and it's odd to find some one asking me to recommend him for my oar and chain! No, no, a dashing young fellow like you, sir, can do better for himself than a junior mastership for his final goal. Take warning by me, as I used to tell you--do you want to come to this sort of thing? sitting from morning to noon in this stifling den, filled with a rabble of impident boys--d'ye think they'll have any respect for your old age and infirmities? not they--they'll call you "Old Ashes"--for they're a yumorous race, boys are, they'll call you "Old Ashes," or "Cinders" to your nose, as soon as they think you're old enough to stand it. Why, they don't put any more kittens in my desk now--they've found out I like cats. So they put blackbeetles--do you like blackbeetles, eh? Well, you'll come to beetles in time. It's a mistake, Ashburn, it's a mistake for impulsive, hot-tempered men like you to turn schoolmaster--leave it to cold, impa.s.sive fellows who don't care enough about the boys to be sensitive or partial--they're the men to stand the life!'

Here a demon voice shrilled, ''Ullo, Sh.e.l.lfish, Old Sh.e.l.ls, yah!'

through the keyhole, and his footsteps were heard down the flags outside running for dear life. The old gentleman, crimson with rage, bounded to the door: 'Stop that scoundrel, that impident boy, bring him back!' But the boy had gone, and he came back panting and coughing: 'That's a commentary on what I've been saying,' he said; 'I'm an old fool to show I care--but I can't help it, and they know it, confound 'em! Well, to come back to you, Ashburn, you're married now, I hear; you won't find a mastership much support as time goes on, unless you started a boarding-house--the idea of never escaping from these young ruffians, ugh! No, no, didn't you tell me once you were called to the Bar?'

'Not called,' corrected Mark, 'I have pa.s.sed the examination, though; there is only the ceremony to be gone through.'

'Why not go through it, and try your fortune as a barrister, then, you're just the man for a jury? We shall have you taking silk in ten years.'

Mark laughed bitterly. 'How am I to live till I get a practice?' he said; 'I've only a couple of hundred or so left in the world, and that would scarcely pay for my fees and chambers for more than a year.'

'Ah, is that so? I see,' said the old gentleman, 'yes, yes--but, see here, Ashburn, start all the same with what you've got, who knows how soon you may get work--can't your father-in-law do anything for you?

and while you're waiting, why not take some pupils under the rose, eh?

I was asked the other day to recommend a coach to two young rascals who want to be forked into the Civil Service. You could do that for them if you liked, and they'd bring you others. And--and I'm going to take a liberty very likely, but I've put by a little money in the course of my life, and I've no one to leave it to. I don't know how it is, but I feel an interest in you, Ashburn; perhaps I want somebody to be sorry for me when I'm gone, anyway, I--I wish you'd let me see you through any money difficulties till you're fairly started--it won't be long now, I'll wager, you can treat it as a loan if you prefer it. I want you to give yourself a chance at the Bar. Don't refuse me now, or I shall take it unkindly.'

Mark was deeply touched, he had not suspected Mr. Shelford of really caring about him, and the kindness and sympathy of this offer made him feel how little he deserved such friendship; and then the familiar cla.s.s-rooms, dusty and stuffy at the close of a summer day, had brought back all his old weariness of school routine. He had outlived his yearning for literary fame, but he still wished to make a figure somewhere, somehow--why might not he do so at the Bar, in that line where solid learning is less necessary than the fluent tongue and unfailing resource, which he felt he could reckon upon.

He shook the other's hand gratefully. 'I don't know how to thank you,'

he said, 'you've put some heart in me again. I will try my luck as you advise; perhaps with coaching and the money I have by me I need not take advantage of all your kindness, but there is no one I would come to for help like you when I can keep up no longer. I'll take my call at Michaelmas!'

And they walked out together, Mr. Shelford taking his arm affectionately through the streets. Mark, as has been said already, had a certain knack of attracting interest and liking without doing anything either to excite or deserve them in the slightest, and the old gentleman felt now almost as if he had gained a son.