WHAT HARGREAVES KNEW.

Hawera Star, Volume XLVI, 29 January 1927, Page 18

WHAT HARGREAVES KNEW.

(By Reginald Temple.)

CHAPTER T. AT BEGGAR’S END. In the gloomy mansion of Beggar’s End there was at least one room which bore every appearance of comfort; it was the library of Sir John Paidield baronet, the owner of the house and the domain which surrounded itOn a certain afternoon in November the old baronet sat writing a letter Occasionally he would pause and allow his eyes to wander to the library window, through which, in the fading light, he could see the roiling park-land, dotted here and there with deer, which had been the heritage of many generations of the Fairfield family. Having finished the letter, he gummed it—not by means of his tongue, but delicately, with a little sponge reposing in a small glass tray on his writing-desk. So much being done, ho drew towards him a gold sealing-wax set, and applied a small quantity of the crimson wax to the back, after which he carefully impressed it with a signet ring bearing the arms of the Fairfields. ; For a few minutes Sir John sat in thought, and then he pressed the bell twice to summon his under-butler. A moment or two later the door opened, to admit Hargreaves. Hargreaves, undcr-butler at Beggar’s End for many years, was a man of medium height and spare of frame. His face was just as an under-butler’s face should be —slightly cadaverous and obsequious to a degree. ‘His somewhat bushy eyebrows surmounted eyes which many might have called shifty; his parchment-coloured jaws -were shaved to the bone in the manner of those of a

groom. Just as there is always a diffi--8 culty in judging the age of a “horsey” face, so was it not easy to say how long the world had harboured Hargreaves. In certain lights—and in certain of his moods —he might have been fifty; at others, one might have taken him to have still been in the thirties. HaTgreaves bowed slightly as he entered the room, and stood before his employer, awaiting instructions. ‘Hargreaves, I have asked my nephew to come and stay here for a few days,” said Sir John.

“Very good, sir,” murmured Hargreaves! ‘ ‘ But might I—begging your pardon, Sir John —ask which nephew? Fou mean Mr Reuben Gales, perhaps?” “No, not Mr Reuben Gales,” answered Sir John. “I refer to my nephew, James Fairfield. ”

Hargreaves’s eyes lifted slightly at the mention of James Fairfield’s name. “Yes, Sir John,” he said, “I trust his stay will be a pleasant one. It is not often Beggar’s End has the pleasure of entertaining him. ’ * “Quite often enough,” snapped the

baronet. “I assure you it is no pleasure of mine to entertain him. I admire your reticence, but it must bo known to you that my nephew does not meet with my approval.” “Well, Sir John, I won’t go so far as to say that I have overlooked it,” replied Hargreaves diplomatically. “And I don’t think there will be any

danger of you overlooking it this time,” retorted Sir John. “Have you seen to-day’s Times? Of course you wouldn’t have done so—it i.s here on my desk. Please read the fourth item on this page. ’ ’

As he spoke, Sir John handed the newspaper to his butler. Hargreaves read the paragraph, and suppressed the smile which nearly came to his features. He had Jong since learnt that to smile at anything beyond a rare quip of Sir John’s was to court disaster. “J see, sir,” he said, returning the paper, “and I am very sorry; it is most unfortunate.” “It’s more than that,” retorted Sir John, “it’s catastrophic: it’s a blot on the name of the Fairfields. dome, come, man, don’t you appreciate what it means? There’s my nephew, heir to my title—but not, thank goodness, to my money-—found in a night club after hours, drinking. There’s a raid, and lie is charged at Bow Street next morning, and all you say is that it’s unfortunate! ” “I’m sorry not to have used a stronger word. Sir John,” said Hargreaves. “Certainly his name is plain enough in the newspaper.’’ “I should not care if it were only his name; but it happens to be my name loo.” “It’s an honourable name,” said Hargreaves. “You are quite right,” replied Sir John warmly, always susceptible 1o appreciation of his family’s good name. “There’s one thing about you Hargreaves, which I admire, anil that is your loyalty to the Fairfields. Your position hero should really bo that of head butler, but of course, Mr Bumpus has served the family for a much longer time than yon. He served my father, in fact, so he must remain.’-’ “No doubt. Providence, sir, will put that right ia due course,” suggested Hargreaves.

Sir Jonh regarded his under-butler shrewdiy.f’or a few moments. He Was never quite sure of Hargreaves; at times he imagined him to be an honest man; at others, the reverse; but always he found him efficient, and, what perhaps pleased him more, thoroughly appreciative of his employer’s eccentricity. Sir John had fallen into the habit of making a confidante of Hargreaves. and the remarks which he had made concerning his nephew were such that he would not have confided in Mr Bumpus, who, at that moment, was in the cellar enjoying a surreptitious class of Madeira. Now, about my nephew,** continued Sir John. “He causes me much pain; but, of course, he’s the heir to the title, and I have to keep some sort of a hand upon him; but to have a nightclub frequenter as inv heir is—well, Hargreaves, it’s unbearable.’’ "I agree, sir,’’ responded Hargreaves. “One would think, sir, if I might be so bold as to suggest it, that the fact that ho is not the heir to your xnonev—ns you have been good enough to confide in me—would be sufficient to make him accede to your wishes.” ‘That’s the trouble,” exclaimed Sir! John. ‘He seems so independent—he’s 7v it i” 8 ’ 01 ’ P ailltin £b or .something of the kind, and of course, he’s got a trifle of his own as well, so that he doesn’t

seem to care. . . Of course, you’ll keep what I tell you to yourself.” “Certainly, Sir John,” said Hargreaves- “As a matter of fact, you mentioned it to me at the time when I witnessed your will. I think I understand your views about Mr James, sir.” “Ah, I remember telling you. Of course, you witnessed my will. ” Suddenly a puzzled expression passed over the baronet’s face, and he was silent for some moments. “That reminds mfi,” he said presently. “I must disclose the whereabouts of that will: if I died to-motrow, I figftr no one would find it.” “That is entirely for you to say, sir,” murmured Hargreaves. “You may trust me to be confidential with everything you tell me, sir.” “Very well, then,” said Sir John. “I wiirinform yon later of the whereabouts of the will. Meanwhile, - this visit of my nephew James is occupying my mind. Now, you must understand, Hargreaves—and this is quite between you and me, and must not go beyond the walls of this library—you must understand that Mr James comes to me under a cloud, and whilst of course I could not tolerate any impolite attitude towards him from my servants, I must insist that you treat him somewhat distantly. ’ ’ “Meaning what, sir?” inquired Hargreaves.

“I’m sorry to have to remind you,” replied Sir John, “but the last time he was here, which is nearly two years ago, I think, I overheard him addressing you as Slippery Sam. That, of course, is not the way in which you should be nddTessod. ”

“Certainly not, sir,” said Hargreaves. “To toll yon the truth, sir, I objected to the word at the time.” Here Hargreaves raised a somewhat plaintive face to tho library ceiling, the face of an injured man. At the same time, he feared that Sir John might detect in his expression that slight embarrassment caused by tho aptitude of Mr James’s adjective.

“I should be pleased if you did not try to mislead me,” said Sir John. “I heard nothing fjom you to indicate that you objected to being called Slippery Sam. However, we will let that pass. Now Bumpus must be told of this. If he calls you Slippery Sam, I shudder to think of what he might call Mr Bumpus. Again, on his previous visit he took tho liberty of asking friends hero when he thought I was in London for several days. You will recollect that I came upon a party when I returned unexpectedly. I traced the ef fects of it in the empty bin of Chateau Yqem in the cellar.” “Yes, sir, I remember the painful incident only too well,” murmured Har greaves, smiling inwardly at the thought that when Sir John took stock of his wine cellar his attentions were confined to tho finer wines, for he and Mr Bumpus frequently made excursions to the cellar other than in their master’s service. “There’s just another thing,” added Sir John. “I believe that Mr James was not unfriendly with the Romaines at Melton Grange, nearby?” “Y6u mean wdtli Miss Romaine, sir?” asked Hargreaves. “You needn’t labour the point,” answered Sir John; “the fact is, that I have no wish for any friendship to develop between my heir and that family, which, as you know, I detest. I shall expect you to tell me if you see any meeting between my nephew and any branch of that family.” As he spoke, Sir John handed the letter to his under-butler to post, and, bowing, Hargreaves left Sir John Fairfield to himself.

Sir John was the eighth baronet of his line, and. the name of his family had figured in many movements, including the Royalist wars. Of this fact, the old man was rightly proud, and if he erred on the side of conceit, it had to be granted him as a privilege of old age, for when ho was younger he had contributed to the country’s service as a diplomat, and had only come to reside at Beggar’s End on the death of his own father, who had lived until the ago of ninety. Eccentricity had ever been the mark of the Fairfields; it had shown itself among the younger members of the family in the form of dare-devilry, which, as they grew older, was displaced by taciturnity, fastidiousness and autocracy. Sir John was no exception, and he followed his forbears in spending most of each year at Beggar’s End, a depressing mansion built by a Fairfield in the Elizabethan times, which only served to bring out all the hereditary traits of the family. Beggar’s End was situated in one of the Midland counties, and, prior to the advent of the motor-ear, had been regarded as one of the most remote mansions in that part of England. Remote mansions, however, having become a _ thing of the past, Beggar’s End might now have been as easy of access as almost any other family seat, had it not been for the eccentricities of Sir John, who had a passion for horses, and who flatly refused to adopt motor-ears, or, indeed, to allow them to enter his domain. Throughout the county this characteristic gave him a fame in which he silently revelled. His means of travel was entirely by horse, though, to use his own words, he did it as a gentleman should do it. His horses were of the best, and likewise his conveyances. His grooms wore masters in the art of horse tutorship, and the pair of bays which took Sir John for his occasional airing might, from their high stepping, have been circus-trained. .Sir John himself affected a lowcrowned hat which gave him and his equipage much renown. Y r ot these appearances seemed out of keeping with Beggar’s End, which was'never otherwise than a grim, forbidding pile. Sir John was a widower and without children, and his heir was the son of his deceased mother. There was, however, little money in the family, for the individual Fairfields had always played some part in their country’s history which had provided them with sufficient means to carry on the family establishment as heretofore. It had once been entailed, but the entail had been broken and the property bought by another branch of the family. Therefore, the only hereditary part,"was the title. The remainder was at the will of the reigning Fairfield. It followed, therefore, to-day as before. that a number of eager eyes were always cast on the Fairfield who had reached his declining years. The expectant legatees of the present Sir .John were four, though this was excluding any caprice on the part of Sir John, who might have left his money

to sortie institution or to some stranger unknown to the family. So far, however, no Fairfield had disappointed Ins expectant relatives, and it was not thought that Sir John would break away from the family rule. Nevertheless, to be an expectant legatee of Sir John Fairfield was not to possess peace, for Sir John counted reticence as one of his foremost qualities—he called it a quality —and he would rather have had liis tongue clipped by one of Ms mediaeval ancestors, than that he should have exposed his mind in so far as it concerned the disposition of his wealth.

The four parties which were chiefly supposed by the outside world to be concerned with his will were, firstly, his nephews, James Fairfield and Reuben Gales, who were reckoned Ms principal heirs; the other two were Martha, his half-sister, and Ellen, a favourite niece, who had married unfortunately, but was now a widow, and who, it was said, occupied a soft corner in Sir John’s heart. Thus, then, there were four people to whom Sir John’s death might be an advantage. No one expected that Sir John’s money would be equally divided among the four; not that anyone anticipated caprice in Sir John when it came to making his will, but because it was generally known that the heir to the title would faro worst, and that in all probability the more respectable Reuben Gales would inherit a share commensurate with his idea of Ms own righteousness.

Reuben Gales was a solicitor in the neighbouring town of Burwell. His proximity to Beggar’s End, therefore, had the advantage of allowing him to pay frequent calls upon his uncle. It would be difficult to describe Reuben Gales. Perhaps the best way of pre senting him would be to apply to Mm the phrase which an historian once applied to a Victorian statesman, whom ho called “A good man in the worst sense of tho word.” The letter which Sir John had written to James Fairfield, and which ho had given Hargreaves to post was not a pleasant one, although it expressed hospitality. “My dear James,” it ran, “I should be glad for you to come and stay with me at Beggar’s End for a few days, as I think there are several things we might discuss. It is now two years since you were here, and I hoped that such a long period

might have made you more sensitive to your responsibilities as heir to the baronetcy of the Fairfields. “From to-day’s newspaper I per ceive I have been wrong in such an assumption. However, whilst lam

quite willing to attribute this to the failure of age to appreciate youth, I nevertheless tMnk that it would be to our mutual advantage if you come up here for a short time—if only to avoid the notoriety, pleasant to you, perhaps, but odious to me, which your recent escapade has no doubt brought you. I am,

Your Uncle, John Fairfield.”

(To be continued.)