THE SON OF A MILLIONAIRE.

New Zealand Mail, 22 January 1902, Page 7

THE SON OF A MILLIONAIRE.

(By Annie 0. Tibbits)

It was scarcely five years since the death of Richard Hutton, the triple millionaire, and yet Duncan, his only son, was on the- verge of bankruptcy. It was only a matter of days now beforo he would be turned out of the estate his father had been so proud of, and perhaps only a matter of weeks after that before he would be penniless except for the small income his mother had left him. He had travelled the wrong road with a vengeance.

His solicitor sat in his office in Gray’s Inn staring at the mortgage papers befoi’o him with a clouded face. Opposite him was a man as old as himself, with grey hair and beard and a weatherbeaten face. “I wish it could have been different,” the solicitor was saying. “He is young —scarcely twenty-six even now—and ho has had a hitter experience. It’s all very well to have money, Air Alarsham, but money is no good without friends, and young Duncan Hutton has no friends. He has a crowd of sharpers who call themselves his friends, hut they are no good to him. I don’t know ono honest man amongst them.” He paused. His client opposite him curled his lips. His face looked scornful and ugly in the hard bright daylight, and there was something in it that seemed to mark him out as a man who would make a dangerous enemy. “He deserves it,” he cried sharply. “I tell you he’s his father’s son, and he deserves it every bit, and I’ll havo no mercy, Air Wright. Let him pay the mortgage or out he goes. His father had no mercy on mo and mine. I’ll not spare him. His father ruined mo and broke my wife’s heart. Ho had no pity. Do you think I don’t know what it is to be turned out of house and home? Aye, on to the very street itself—mo and my wife and my little child—and that child now ”

His voico broke suddenly. He dropped back hopelessly into his seat. “I had joined his last swindling company, like hundreds of others. It failed, as you know. Thousands of pounds were sucked from the hands of poor people into his own—to swell his income, to give him more luxuries; and what did it matter to him that a few hundred

people broke their hearts about ifefl Nothing, I tell you—nothing? Ho was a thief! “He ruined me, and we were turned out. into the streets, as I said, penniless, with a bahv just a year old. I hadn’t a friend in the world to whom I could go, and the only thing between us and starvation was a berth as caretakers. I had applied for it, and on the very morning the brokers had been put in I got a letter engaging us provided we had no children! Refusal seemed the only thing, but when we were turned out an idea came to me. I tell you it was the only thing between us and the workhouse* and God knows how hard it was!, There was an Orphan Home close to us, and I thought if I could get the child in there she would be safe and cared for and happy until—until we could get a homo together again! I had seen the children about—little bright tilings! I wanted my child to be bright too!” Ho stopped and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. His hand was shaking. His face had grown suddenly grey and haggard.

“It was folly to act as we did,” he went on heavily, “I know that now bitterly enough, but desperate men will commit desperate follies, Air Wright, and I committed mine when I took the baby to the Orphan Home. We were acting wrongly to try to get her in, for sho was not an orphan, but I cared nothing for that then. Things were too bad. Life was too hopeless to hesitate. I wrote a note saying that her parents had been ruined and killed through tho Hutton swindles. It was a lie—perhaps a wicked lie; but I’d have done worse then for the cliild’s sake. I pinned tho note to her frock—l said she had no relations to claim her—and I took her and left her on the doorstep of th® house!”

He stopped again with a kind of groan. Air Wright watched him curiously. A few minutes ago he had hated this man who was turning young Hutton out of house and home. Now a sudden feel-, ing of pity crept over him. After all, how little one knows of the tragedies of our fellow human beings] He fingered nervously the heavy bits of parchment before him and waited. Alarsham lifted his head. “I took her towards the end of the afternoon,” he said. “It was getting dusk, and of course I didn’t want to bo seen, so I waited until nobody was about, and rang the bell. As I did so I heard footsteps behind the door coming across tho paved courtyard inside, and not daring to stay I ran hastily across the road, waiting to watch under tho shadow of the doorway.

“I saw a young man come out. I saw him examine the bundle on the doorstep and pick it up and carry it in. After that I was satisfied. Tho child was safe? I could let my mind rest for a bit. Sho would he well fed —she would he happy for a few weeks until wo could get her back again.

“For somo time we did nob dare to mako any inquiries. Wc got tho berth and wero so far all right, but as tho weeks passed wo were anxious to getnews of the child. So I invented an excuse. and called, pretending that tho child's father had been a friend of mine, and asking if she were well.

“I shall never forget. They had seen no such child—they knew of no such child 1 No baby girl had been admitted thero for the last six months!

“I explained everything and all I had seen. It was no good. The matron had heard nothing of it. No one had heard anything. “I camo away at last, dazed and horrorstruck, and went to my employer and told him everything. He was a good friend. He did all he could, but he could do little. It was six weeks since I left her on the doorstep, and a lostchild in London is like a needle in a haystack. And the young man—no one knew him. No one remembered anything. AA'e made all inquiries. There was no such young man belonging to the house—never had been any such young man—and I could give no description of him except that ho had looked a gentleman, and that he had turned back into the courtyard with the child. I had not stopped to see any more—l could not. for. as I said, it was getting dusk, and I thought I had seen enough at the time. Now. God knows, I was punished for my folly! The baby must have been kidnapped. It did nor seem likely that a young man wonkl kidnap an unknown child, and vet apparently ho had done so.

“ For weeks I think my wife and I were mad with grief. We did all we could. \To left no stone unturned—to no purpose. Then my employer offered me a berth in Australia where I could have a good chance of getting on. We refused at first—we could not bear to go away. Then suddenly my wife died. There was no hope of finding the child, and London was hateful to me. and I went. "There is no need to tell you how I made my fortune—l made it in these last five years, and it has been won fairly and honestly, and I have come back now intent on one thing—to ruin the son of the man who ruined me! It is the only revenge left to me—the only retaliation I can make for the years of suffering his father gave me and mine—for the murder of my child!"’ He lifted his head, and his face was hard and cruel once more. Mr Wright puthed his papers sharply away. "You're not fair—not fair." he cried. “I grant you that old Hutton was a swindler, but his son—it's not just- to hunt down his sons for his sins. And besides, you cannot blame the dead man for the loss of your daughter—you cannot blame him for the action you took." The eyes of the two men met. The savageness of the one did not relax. I can and do." he cried with set teeth.. "He died a week before me were turned out to starve, but it makes no difference. Hi- fraudulent schemes paved the way. He stole money from my nocket and put it into his as surely as if he had been a pickpocket, and he grew rich and waxed fat through the lies lie put into his prospectuses, and my wife died broken-hearted, and my child—God only can tell where my child is now. bur Hutton will have to answer for her before God. and Hutton's «on shall pay here on earth to the bitter end!"’

A week later it was a bright hot dav at Kndelcourt on Thames. The great hou-o. with its wide grounds and big trees, had never looked so loved v.

Duncan Hutton stood on the terrace and stared down at the long sweep of grass, at the great green trees and all tno stretching hill and valley bevond.

He was a young man. but he looked old and worn this morning. His handsome face was spoilt and dissipated, and his eyes were heavv.

He looked round, and then up at t!i grey house.

"Bankrupt!" ho muttered. ' Gone to the dogs, have I? That’s what thovTi say. ' Ho laughed bitterly. "Gone under

He put his hands in Ins pockets and walked slowly towards the edge of the terrace, his eyes dark, his lips twitching. all the bitterness in his face uppermost.

At- tear moment a, childish soimal of laughter --rar;led him. and in an instant no had changed. He turned quickly and then waved his hand to a little girl who came running along the terrace‘towards him.

I knew you couldn t got away from me. she remarked a.s she came up. "They said you mustn't be ’sturbed. but I know it was stories, and anyhow it. wouldn’t matter if I wanted to come to you, would it?”

Ho sat down, on the top of the steps flnei she clambered over bim. “No: I don’t think it would, girlie” he saul heavily “not if I could help it—-not it I ” 1

He broke off. looking into her little face with an odd expression on his. “What would you do. Dollie. if I went away?”

'Oh. say it isn’t true. Dicky!” she breathed. "It mustn’t be true—it isn’ttrue !”

He could not reply, and she gradually loosened her grasp and looked into his face again.

“I fought, they was all stories.” she cried. “They’ve said all sorts of finys. and I didn’t fink anyfink. And now—oh. Dicky, it- can’t- ho true!” “I’m afraid. Doll, it will have to he true,” he said, “and it’s my fault. If I’d been a good man, Doll, and done things I ought- to liavo done I—l shouldn’t, be in the mess I’m in now. But I've lost all my money, Doll, and

a man lias bought my house every stick and stone, and in a week or two out we go—you and I. and Miss Foster to take care of you. my girlie. You'll never want for a thing. And she's going to live with you and look after you. and sometimes, perhaps. I shall come and see you. A ou'll have a lawyer of your own—think how grand that will be. Doll ! And—and some day you'll find out- what a miserable fool I am! I ”

He stopped abruptly, rising to his feet and looking down sharply at an old man who had walked up the drive towards the terrace steps. He was standing looking up at the two—at Duncan with his face close to the child’s, and Doll with her arms round his neck. A curious look came into his eyes, and he hesitated for a moment. Duncan leant forward. “Good morning." lie said. “Do you want to see me?" Tim old man stared. "I wanted to see .Mr Hutton.” he said. "I'm Mr Hutton," returned Duncan. "I- it anything important?” The old man came slowly up the steps a.s if he were puzzled. "My name is Mar-ham.” he said, and Duncan took a quick step forward, with ins face suddenly dark. "Oh. indeed." he cried sharply. "Then I should be obliged if you would go back the way you came. You have no right here for another week, and your presence is an impertinence. I'll send for a groom to show you off the premises. Good morning!” Mar-ham’s face hardened. He had been impressed against his will by the solicitor's words, and anxious to see for himself what sort of a man Duncan was. had come down unexpectedly. Now a sudden fiu-li crept over his face. “No: I suppose I have no right yet.” he said, "but I had an idea that—but no matter

He stopped abruptly, looking at Doll, who was staring with all her eyes at him. She went a step nearer Duncan as she met his look.

"This is my Dick.” she said, “and you re a nasty old man I know, and you're going to turn us out. He’s told mo all about it. and I hate you, and you’re a boast to hurt my poor Dick.” She caught Duncan’s hand and held it tightly with her two little ones. The cld man stared again. For an instant ho was touched, and then suddenly all the rage he had nursed for years came floating back at the sight of this littls child and the memory of liis own lost one.

1 "I was a fool to come,” lie,, said angrily. “I might have waited another ! week for my revenge, but it’s five years to-day since your father died, and five ! years all but seven days since I and |my wife and baby wore turned out of house and home—ruined by him! It’s five years since I lost my baby! Slic’d bo a child like that now—nearly six—a - child like you!” L Ho half put out- his hand to touch | Boll's yellow head, and then drew back, j He went on scarcely knowing what he j was doing, speaking of the thing next ! his heart, and before ho had realised it - he had poured out in the same bitter ; words the story he had told to the solicitor at. Gray’s Inn,

j Duncan’s face changed as ho listened. An odd look came to his eyes—a flush to his cheeks as Marsham mentioned 1 his visit- tc the Orphan Home, and as he finished he threw out his hands. “I've been a fool and a cur in more ways than one.” ho cried, “but- Heaven knows I tried to do something different at first. Air Alar-ham. when my father died I meant to —to undo what he had done, and I did try. I began to hunt up everybody who had been ruined by his schemes. It was hard work. There were hundreds I could get no news of. but I helped some. My money hasn’t ail gone in dissipation, Air Alarsham. It was only when I found how hopeless it was. and how everybody cut- me that I fell back. I had no friends. I was alone. But before I gave up I found this child.”

| He put a shaking hand on her head and half drew lic-r to him. : "I'd heard of some people who had committed suicide and left thmr child at the Home you mentioned. I called thero to inquire and arrange for the child s keep, and when I was leaving— I met Doll accidentally. As you know, there is a small courtyard between the Home and the street. There is generally a porter at the outer door, but on that day lie was not there, and I was letting myself out. AATien I opened the door I saw a bundle. I looked at it and found a child—this child! I picked her up and turned to carry her indoors. They would, of course, know what to do with her. But as I went I caught : sight of a note pinned to her frock. I took it and read it out of curiosity. ; I've got- the note still. I’ll show it to you. It stated that the child’s parents had been killed and ruined by mv father. and it was that which arrested mv attention, and I made up mv mind ; suddenly what- to do. It was dusk. No one would see me. I decided that I j would take the child myself. I would give her all that my father had robbed her of! I would keep her—-take care of her myself!

j "It- was mad. I daresay, but I was sick with the horror of the things I had found out-, and I was more enthusiastic about making myself useful than lam now. So I tucked the child under j niy arm and brought, her here to mv old nurse, who has been taking care of her ever since. This is the cluld—this little Doll—my little girl! And the letter—lre always kept it, and now- ” ! x Ho P'tllod out a pocket hook, and - took from It- a piece of torn yellow paper and held it towards the old man. | Alarsham was staring with a grev <;et | face and odd eyes. Now ho seized’ the j scran of paper and crushed it in his fingers.

: Heavens, it is!” lie cried hoarselv. i Aly child! Thank God. my lost babv - !” ; He stretched out- his shaking hands : towards the child. Doll turned indignantly. a

| I isu t!” she cried. “I belong to ; Dicky and you’re a nasty old man!” i Marsham’s faeo twitched, and he nutj a hand to Duncan. - ’•Forgive me,” ho said. “IVo been ! b l tt ,? r . . an 'l cruel, and I never dreamt <or this! (.an you bo generous now and help her to bo friend? with me? Can you forgive me?” 1 Duncan seized his hand.

“If you’ll forgive my father.” he said softly.

Do you know who is master of Endeleourt- now? "Dicky” Hutton. And Doll, who is nearly twenty, and who lias had so many love affairs that she lias lost count- of them, cannot somehow forget her first. “Dicky” seems to have been always lic-r Dicky, and it looks as if she would never be able to do with, out him.