AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ROBERT CLAYMAN, OF CLAYMAN.

Press, Volume LVIII, Issue 11000, 25 June 1901, Page 4

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF ROBERT CLAYMAN, OF CLAYMAN.

By Wilmam B. McHaro. "Tut, tut, Molly,- says I, "you'll flood the place wilh vpur tears." * Ilobort,"' says she—looking at tne thou-h her ftng'era, sly puss.—"you il. not Ci !iiisV"

* Do what?" says I. „ * ■ Hring these men into your house. 'Fore gad, I will, though," says I, 'and llun-'s an end on't." .. And I chut my wife in her room, and w(ui downstairs. ■ • A eood half hour of it there d been—she pnir" by the wiudow, I clumsymg about the room, tipping over a powder pot, and what not. Altogether a very pretty falling out. And for what, forsooth? Because, after three nights at the cards—l eight thousand pounds to the bad, at the least— I would not forego my revenge. "VS'here was I to get eight thousand pounds? Money is not so free in these colonies as at horns. A. pretty fortune in itself ; 'twould take half ;he estate to even the debt. Thcv were good enough men in the main, too; at the main, for that matter, though Td found it no joke—Colonel Simslee and young Hal Philips and Jack Wintsrson. There wwv some slight things agar** them at home. I've heard : I know lor myself their scores were not quite clear this side of the water. Hut in this world—'tis words from the pulpit—there's few pitchers that have no cracks.

And now, whan they were coming out from town to give mc a chance in my own house, 'You'll not have these men here?" says she. Wouldn't I, though? At tho foot of the stairs I found Matthew waiting mc. "Mr Robert?" says he.

I stopped on the* last stair to hear him. In the mirror across the hall I could see myself. I was somewhat flushed in the face, I'll not gainsay that; and with a hand not so steady as might be—that I had noticed befor* I was out of bed. But what

jvotild you, after such a night? I had not been the worst of the lot, I'll promise you. "Well. Matthew?" says I. "Mr Robert, you'll not be doing this?" "Doing what? says I, as I had said to my wife. For all expression, as I could see in the glass, my face was like the tavern sign at the King George. "Bringing this Colonel Simslee here, sir. You know what he is, sir. All the world knows."

"Matthew," says I, "you're forgetting yourself." "AH the world knows, sir. A toss-pot, a bully, a rook, a led captain, a deceiver of women." "'Od's blood, Matthew!" says I, "I'll back myself to ket*p my wife's love against all the Colonel Simsiees the devil ever cut an ace for!"

"Keep your wife's love, sir?" says he. "You're throwing it away with both hand.?." t "You're overstepping the limits, Matthew," says I. "You're out of all bounds." And then it canio to mc that I might as well have it out with the man now as any time. It had to come; he had grown insufferable.

"If you have anything to say to mc, Matthew," says I, "go into the library. I'll be there soon.

I hated the man; he was a bugbear to m» > A sort of upper servant, half servitor, half overseer—a legacy left with the estate. "And if at any time the said Robert Clayman shall endeavour to discharge or dismiss or otherwise cause to depart from his service tho said Matthew Noble"—gad! I can't remember the words of Uncle Henry's will, but Matthew went with the property. That was mot the. worst of it. I, was young; young blood will out.. Did I trip a little in the narrow way, here was long-faoed Matthew filled with words of wisdom. Did matters go wrong with the estate, here was Matthew again with a finger in the pie. On every side, at every chance, was this same Matthew. 'Fore gad! You might have thought he was the master ; it was unbearable; and now he had taken my wife's side, and tried to close my house against myself, or, what was as much against my friends! I took another swallow or so of brandy at the sideboard to right my head, and went into, the library.. Zouada! I slipped.on the smooth floor, and had like to have fallen on my back, but Matthew catches mc under the arm, and sets mc in a chair. One sip of brandy too much, it might be, though a man ought not to let himself cool too fast. "Always on hand, Matthew," says I. "Al- j ways where you are needed."* "I try to be, Mr Robert," says he. He stood before mc decently enough; the man knew how to be a good servant when he wanted to. After a bit, when I had got my nerves together, I spoke to him. j "Well, Matthew," says I, "you had a | word for mc."

He fumbled .Mrith his fingers, shifted his feet, and seemed to seek for speech. "Only this, sir," says he at last, dodging the question he had started, "all's not so well as it might be with the property, sir."

a "Wen," saya I, "I know it." : * "Tiß going quite wrong, sir." "I .know it,'" says I again. He hesitated. "You want td say," says L "that I'm the Cause of it. I know that, too."

I waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. . "Thingn are come to a pretty pass," says I, "if a man can't do what he wants with his own."

"It ain't only that, sir." "No?" says I. Then out it comes.with a jerk. "If you'd leave the cards and the wine alone, now, sir—-not to speak of other things. You're breaking your wife's heart, that's what you're doing, sir—she that loves you more than yoa deserve. She's alone here night after might. She says nothing, but all tho world can see. And you're spoiling as pretty a property as there is in all the colonies."

"Go on, Matthew," says I. "Your uncle Henry, sir, he thought the world of this property. It was the apple of his eye, sir—nothing less. Everything he had he put into it—half his life, and all his strength and money.' He made it all himself. He came to a new lamd to do for himself, sir, and he found it good enough to live in. He was just like the rest, a trader, a planter, sir, till he'd got what he. wanted. Then he made it into an estate like they have at home. And now where's it going"?" "Go on, Matthew," says I. "Where is it going?" "Into the pockets and bellies of bullies like Colonel Simslee, sir. -Rooks : and sharpers they are, and you're the pigeon. They're plucking you among them. L'hey laugh at you when "your back ia turned. I've heard the colonel _ay 'tis as good as London." V

I felt myself growing red in the face. "You're making trouble for yourself, Matthew," says I "Damn the will, I say, in a cose Tike this 1 'Tis not to be borne."

He was in for it now. and he went on.

"There it is sir. Think of your wife and the estate. Your uncle Henry thought the world of th*ra both. sir. It was because of her that the estate came to you." "Damn Uncle Henry, too," says I, "for the old aqneezepenny that he was. An old clrpcoin! I'll go my own way, and I'll go my own gait. Listen here, Matthew. Not you, nor my wife, nor Uncle Henry himself, if he were to rise up out of his grave— poor old Ufacle Henry that put half his life and all his strength and money into the property, and more fool he, to lay up treasures where rust doth corrupt—there's one (or you, Matthew ; you didn't know that I knew those words—not all of you, I say, san turn mc opt cf it. Do you understand, aid Marbleffcce Qo-with-the-property? I'll spend it all on Colonel Simslee if I wish. Go to the dogs? 11l fatten all the dogs. There's eight thou of it gone already. Where would eight thou—eight thousand pounds, mind you, Matthew—come from tomorrow? "Kb not to be got." "We might raise it, sir," says he, "Not here; but we might raise it. "ft would be a strain. If youd stop at that, sir, you understand."

I lay back in my chair and laughed. He stood in the shadow, but the light from the south window waa on his head, and his rueful face would have made a gargoyle cackle.

"We might raise it, «r, through your Uncle Henry's connections. He made a great many friends in trad*. Your Uncle Henry—-?' _. , ,

J. "Rat my Unci* Henry!" says 1.. At this The paused, •_Kd yoii ever see'your Uncle Henry, , sir?" save he after a time. -• "Not I," J»ys I. "Nor wanted to. He's bad enough in paint." I looked up at the. portrait—a dark, flabby-faced, thin-nbeed man; it stands like a sentinel on the wall, above tbe fireplace. "It ain't 'apretty aaya Matthew. "He was maybe * little better than that in looka But an odd man, - sir—all people called .him that; though not so black as he was called. I served him for many years. He didn/t die here, you know; down Virginia wav it was, though what for he went to Virginia nobody knows. His body w%'n't found; but- they got his clothes. That proved him dead— that and a man that saw him go into the water; for where .would be be without clothes, except dead? Eh, sir?" I looked at him in surprise—the man's manner was such as he said this. Without heeding ma, he went on: "A most queer man, sir, every one said. He'd been all things—-almost all things, that is. He could talk like any kind of man that talks, and he could dress himsell up so that you'd think he was a Spaniard, or a Dutchman, or anything else. He learned that—well, no matter where he learned that. But in_the end it comes to him that the one thing for a man to do was to get an estate and found a family. That's why he came here, sir. He got the estate right enough, or the start for it; but his wife died, you know, sir, and there want i any children. So where was his family then? He lived alone after that—a queer man always. But he's dead now—dead as a herring, dead as dead,, your uncle Henry.''

With that, the man runs his fingers round his forehead and takes off his Wig, and he sets himself right under the portrait above the fireplace "Matthew, you old fool/ says I—"you old fool, Matthew "

And there I stops. The man seemed to grow bigger, his white brows came down over his eyes, his very features seemed to change. Zounds, he was the living image of the picture over his head! There he stood and grinned and grinned. Then suddenly he seized a chair and seated himself before mc. "Now," says he, "we'll talk." Will you believe it? Not yei could I get it through my head. "Come," says he, "talk, Robert, talk." I put up my hand and loosened the stock at my neck. I could feel the veins in my forehead swelling; it seemed that I could hardly breathe. "Rat Uncle Henry, says you, * Robert. Say it again." He wrinkled up his flabby eyes and laughed at mc. "Ie it Uncle Henry?" says I at last. "None other," says he. Then there was a long pause. "By gad!" says I, in the end, "you're proved dead. I believe the law would hold you dead." "You may have a chance to try it," says he. "I'm dead, am I? Hoi I'm dead? No; I was dead. This is the Resurrection Day, Robert. Listen to the trump, Robert."

He put his closed hand before his lips, making a sound like a horn. "How did it happen?" says I. "What was it? What made you do it?"

"I want wanted, Robert," says he, "There want king's officers looking for mc."

He rubbed his hands on his knees and wrinkled up his eyes. "I died," says he, "but not very dead. Just dead enoughr—just dead enougn to be able to watch you. You'll stand watching, Robert—you, with your Colonel Simslee* and Jack Wintersone—you'll stand it." "Playing the spy, was you?" says I. "Yes, Robert—watching what was my own. Oh, the fun of it! Working as a servant in my own house, watching how the silver was cared for and where the victuals went. I've learned much, Robert —more than you can guess. Why, I could live on half the money I used to spend." I was getting back my courage again, beginning, to feel ground under mc once more. If he was going to take back the property, I'd fight nim at the law. "Well, what now?" says L "Yes," Bay» he, "what now?" He leaned forward and touched mc on the knee. "

"Rat, Uncle Henry, says you, Robert. Damn him for the old equeezepenny he was. Eh Robert?"

I said nothing. 'Tve been thinking of this for some time, Robert—what we'd dq,._, But rat Uncle Henry, says you." "I meant "nothing by that," says L "You meant nothing by it—eh, Robert? It's something to know as much about what's going on as I know. Why, there ain't a calf, there ain't a colt, there ain't a pig, that's born here that I don't know all about. There ain't a bit of planting done that I don't see that 'tis done right. There ain't a man that I don't know if he's shirking or if he's doing his work. That's something, Robert—that's more than I could ever know when I was master of it all. You can't well spare mc, Robert." "Hey?' says I. "You can't well spare mc, not if things are to go right." "What do you mean?" says I. • "You can't afford to—to rat Uncle Henry," says he. "No," says I, "I can't." "Now you talk sense, Robert. Do you suppose you can manage the estate like it ought to be managed?—with mc to help you, mind you; with mc watching the servants and looking out that you ain't cheated and seeing \vhere the money goes." "You mean you're not going to take it back?' says I. "I mean nothing. I'm asking you a question." . - "Yes; I could do it," says I.

"I've been thinking of it for sometime," Rtys he. "Mc watching out for things and (telling you. and you behaving yourself. We can raise that eight thousand pounds, Robert—you can raise it, mc telling you how. We'll pay off your colonels and captains, and let them go." • "Do you mean," says I, "things are to go on just like they were before?"

"No, hardly that, Robert. No more cards, not much wine, you know. A little wine at dinner, a taste or two of brandy now and then, like a gentleman. No night* at taverns, no red faces, no shaky hands." "And you?" says 1. "Just as before—watching out, seeing where things go; but now coming. and telling you. *'"■'.."

"Oh!" says I. "And the property?" "Yours, itobert, so long as you do right. Yours, everybody will think." "What if I say no?" asks I. "Resurrection Day. Robert. Gabriel's trump—no; Uncle Henry's trump." He-made the sound of » horn again. "By gad!" says 1, "I'll do it." "Right for you, Robert," says he. "Now send for William." "What?" says I.

"You call William," says he. "Tell him to take the brown mare—she ain't been out since Tuesday; she's the only one. Ho, ho, Robert, you didn't, know that! There's the gray and the brown and the black, thinks yon. But Thomas rides the grey last night and the black the night before, thinking no one will know. You'll have to get rid of Thomas."

"But what about William?" says I. "You write a note to Colonel Simslee; tell 'em not to come; tell him you'll pay the money in town. Eight thousand pounds —good Ix>rd, how many years it took mc to save that! Write to "him, Robert; write to him." I hesitated. , "Listen to the trump, Robert," say* he. . 'Til do it," says I. "That you, Molly?" says I. "Yei, Bobert." She had come to make up. •"I w« wrong, Robert," says she, ,"to refuse to entertain your friends." "Perhaps you was, mv girl," says I. "But if yon don't want them, they shan't come, rm not one to go counter to my wifei"

"Oh, you must have them!" says she, **You've asked them."

'Til' unask them, then," says I. "Let it go, let'it go! They shan't come." ..; At 4hat she begins'to cry again. ♦Tut, tut," says I. "Not before Matthew."

- Then standing up. so as to get tbe floor under my feet and feel tbe better courage— . "Urn, urn," says 1, clearing my throat. "Ma*thew, you may go now. . Aad oat £• went.