A BREACH OF PROMISE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1680, 11 May 1904, Page 11

A BREACH OF PROMISE

(By H. A. Hinkson, in “M.A.P.”)

I had only been a short time called to the Bar, and, as yet, briefs were like angels’ visits. One afternoon, about three weeks’ before Christmas, I wa9 seated in chambers reading the “Life of Lord Eldon,” when my clerk announced Mr Stephen Burchell. I threw the book aside and sprang up to greet my old chum, for Stephen and I had been at Oxford together, and, although our -paths had lain somewhat apart—the schools suiting the poor man as the clubs suited the rich—we had always been fast friends.

“My dear Stephen, I’m delighted to see you,” I exclaimed, seizing his hand and drawing him into the room. “The sight of you is as good as a day by the sea. It was only to-day that I was envying you the rich man’s privilege to do what he pleased.” “Don’t old man,” he said in a tone as if I had hurt him, and threw himself listlessly into a chair. I looked at him curiously. Stephen Burchell was as fine a specimen of manhood as one could see, hut no one could truthfully call him intellectual. But his face —handsome and ruddy with the wind from tho sea and tho Norfolk broads —had lost its appearance of placid well,beir'g, and was now full of trouble. “My dear old chap,” I exclaimed, drawing my chair nearer' to him, ‘‘avhat is the matter?”

He took out his cigar-case and handed it to me; then he took a cigar himself, cut and lighted it in silence.

Stephen’s movements were always deliberate. Ho puffed for a few moments Until he had assured himself that his cigar was well alight, whilst I waited eagerly for his answer. “Tom,” lie said at length; “Milly has jilted me.” “Milly Hardwieke!” I exclv.med, remembering the prettiest girl and most daring horsewoman in the county: “why. it’s only six months ago since >iu told me you were engaged to her.” “Yes,” he answered gloomily, “but six months were long enough for her to grow tired of me.”

He put his hand in liis pocket and dreav out a small silver-mounted case, which he opened. A trinket glittered and flashed in the gas-light. “I was to have given her this at Christmas,” lie went on moodily; “but, though she said she should love a diamond tiara above all things, now she won’t take anything from me, and has sent me back ali the presents I gave her.” “The little fool!” I muttered under my breath.

“She behaved most handsomely, of course, about it all.” “Of course,” I ropeated smiling, “women always do.” “She has, at any rate, Tom,” replied Stephen gravely. “She was awfully grieved and sorry, but she said she had made a mistake in thinking that she loved me.”

“Well, do you know any reason why she should come to the conclusion that she djdn’t love you, and—” I was going to add—“fifteen thousand a year and one of the finest seats in Lancashire?” “Yes; she told me that she loved another man.” “Money ?” “No, and that’s to lien credit—she doesn’t care about money.” Stephen returned. “He’s a man named Ridway, Lady Morton thinks a lot of him.” “I always thought Lady Morton a fool, I answered. “He’s very musical and sings splendidly. ThaFs what took Milly’s fancy, I believe.”

“A gentleman? ■ . “No; that’s the worst of it. I think him a ead, and so do the others—except the Mortons, of course. You know Lady Morton prides herself on being smart and up-to-date.” . , , “What is the brute like?” I asked. <'Oh, he’s good-looking in the Italian waiter style—pale face, regular features, and curly black hair, and with manners of the most ill-bred ease. I don’t know what Milly sees in him, but he can’t ride for nuts.’*

“Then give him a mount and take him out hunting, and with the blessing of God, he’ll break his neck,” I answered. Stephen smiled gloomily. “It’9 no use old man. I tried it, but the piano stool suits him better than the saddle, as he confessed. Of . course, I didn’t want to break his neck, but I thought that Milly, if she saw the fellow couldn’t ride, would despise him, but he was too clever for that. I shouldn’t mind so much if I thought he really loved Milly, but I am sure he doesn’t.” “Has Milly any money ?” I asked quietly. “No; that is to say, nothing to speak of,” he answered with a rich man’s indifference. “llow much?” “Oil, about five or six thousand, I believe. You don’t suppose- ■?” “I don’t suppose anything. Wliat are you doing to-night?’’ “Well, I was going to ask you to dine with pie at the Carlton, if you’re not engaged.” , “All right, old man; I’ll be there about eight.” He looked at me with the wistful eyes of a dog. “Do you think, Tom,” lie asked rather sheepishly, ‘‘that anything can be done to delay this thing?” “I’ll think about it and tell you after dinner.” I went with him to the door; lie turned and gripped my hand in silence. “At the Carlton at eight.” he whispered with more emotion than I had ever known him to show. I returned to my room but I did not read any more of Lord Eldon’s life tlm/ evening. When I met Stephen Burch ell at the Carlton he looked at me with a wistful eagerness. “Have you thought of anything,” he asked anxiously. “Yes. I have thought of many tilings,” I answered >l* my most iud’cial manner; “but at present I want- only to ask yon one or two ouestions. Where does rt Biidway live?” “At 12, Highway Mansions, Kensington.” “What is his means of livel'hood?” “I don’t cmite know, but I believe he’s some sort of a professional singer.. lias that to do with it?” he said impatiently. * “Is lie still in Norfolk?” I went on, ignoring liis impatience. “No, ho isn’t; at least, I don’t tlvn'he is. T believe he left two days ago, but he’s go : ng back to spend Christmas' with the Mortons. They’re having game kind of a musical partv and he’s to he the master of ceremonies, or the conductor. whatever they call it.” “Have you got anv letters from Milly written while she was engaged?” “Yes, hundreds; but what have they got to do with it ?” . “A. good deal,” I answered quietly. “Did you ever bear of damages for breach of promise of marriage?” He glared at me as if he thought I had taken leave of my senses. “Good Heavens!’ he cried; “damages—you don’t for a moment suppose ” “I suppose nothing, only that you do not wish this Mr Kidway to mar.ry Miss Hardwieke.- I presume lam right in taht?” He nodded gloomily. “•You mustn’t forget old chap,” lie said, “that if ho isn’t a gentleman, I am, and won’t have any of your mean legal tricks. I’ll go straight, whatever happens.” “They do you very well here,” I replied, applying myself to the soup. On the next day I went down to the firm of Jacob Isaacson and Sons, solicitors, in Lincoln Inns Fields. Young Jacob had been at O'xford with me. His firm had the reputation of knowing everything about everybody, and in twenty-four hours I was in possession of certain facts about Mr Ridway. He was a musical artist, I ascertained extravagant and licentious. There were many judgment summonses against him, and he was in danger of committal. When I had obtained all the information which the firm could give concerning Mr Ridway I called a hansom, and. jumping in, bade the driver to take me to 12, Highbury Mansions, Kensington. It took me more than half an hour to find the place, and when I did find it. :; was as depressing a place as one could see. By the dim, evil-smelling lamp I found the name of Mr Arthur Ridway. T' was some little time before my summons was answered, and I was about to knock again when the door was thrown open, and I caught sight of a pink morning gown flitting rapidly across the passage. “Mr Ridway?” I asked. “Yes, lam Mr Ridway. Will you please come in?” He closed the door, and I followed him into a small room, lighted by a tawdry lamp. The walls were covered with photographs of noted actors and actresses and a few sporting pictures. A bottle of champagne, half empty, was on the table with two glassies. My host motioned me to a saddle-bag chair by the fire. “Have a drink ?” said he. taking a glass from the little sideboard, “and then we’ll talk business, for by the cut of you I know that you’re not here for pleasure, and if you have got your eye on that piano,” jerking his hand towards a handsome “grand” at the end of the room, “it’s no go old chap. You’re not the first that was deceived by it. Excellent instrument on the hire system, old man. ’ I was somewhat staggered by his mistaking me for a dun, but lie had given me an important confirmation of my friehd’s (Isaacson) report. He wasn’t a bad-looking fellow eitlnit, with pale, cleanshaven face and dark, big eyes. lie stretched out a long, thin hand to the bottle.

“Do have a drink,” he said; “they always do, and it makes things easier somehow.” “They—l repeated. “Yes. of course. Come now, don’t pretend. I’m too used to that sort of game.” “What do you take me for?” I blurted out..

“Oh, now, drop that,” he said quite amicably; “have you the writ?” .

I hurst out laughing. I. Thomas Fairfax, barrister-at-law, to be mistaken for a writ-server. It was too preposterous. “Well, what are you ?” Mr Ridway asked, rather abashed.. I handed him my card, which he examined carefully. “Well, if you haven’t got a writ, what on earth do you want with me?” lie exclaimed. “I shall tell you very quickly,” I answered. “To begin with. I am a friend of Mr Stephen Burchell, whom I think you know?” . He nodded uneasily. “Mr Burchell was engaged to be married to Miss Milly Hardwiclce,” I went on, “and I understand she has now promised to marry you?” He smiled at me with intolerable conceit. “Awfully sorry for him. of course,” he lisped, “but the ladies —you know what they are, and they must have their way.” ' “Miss Hardwick has a fortune of five thousand pounds,” I continued. “S’x—at least six,”, he corrected eagerly. “Thank you,” I said. “Mr Burchell will be glad to know accurately.” “Why, - what has he got to do with. Milly’s fortune ?” he broke out. “A little. You see he intends taking an action against her for damages for breach of promise of marriage.” His face fell. • “Damages!” he repeated. “I never thought of that, and ho with lots of money. I call it down right mean of him” “He has his legal remedy like everyone else.” I replied. “Bait what would he get out of the ” “Six thousand—that I can’t tell you, but the measure of the damage will be in proportion to the loss so that I don't think much of Miss Harclwiclce’s fortune will be enjoyed by her present intended husband.” “Ah.” he said, liis eyes turned quickly towards the closed door. “And, besides,” I went on, with a sudden flash of inspiration, “there is your present wife. What are you going to do about her?” His face grew deadly white and Mg hands trembled. “My present wife!” he ejaculated. “Yes,” I returned, “the lady whom I saw leave the room.” He came up close to me. his eyes starting out of his head. “You knew it all the while, and you ha.ve only been playing with me.” I laughed, not knowing what else to do. “Why did you pretend that you were unmarried?” I asked. He went to a drawer and took out a sheaf of papers. “That’s why,” he said. “They’re.- all judgment summonses. The game’s up. On "the announcement of my engagement I could have raised two thousand pounds. I never meant to go through with it, but I was hard pressed. If the sharks got wind that there was to be a breach of promise action I’d never get a cent.” He lifted the glass of wine to his lipa and drained it. “I don’t think you will get a cent in this Piatter,” I returned, “but what I think you will get is a term of imprisonment after I have placed the matter in the hands of the police,” and I took up my hat. . , “A oar'd never do that,” he cried stretching out his hands appealingly. “I was very hard pi-essed.” “I will certainly do it except on one condition—that yoai sit down and write a letter to Miss Hardwieke, telling her that as yoai are already married and have a wife living you cannot marry her.” He hesitated. “That w* 11 be nearly as had,” he protested. “Can’t Ido it any other way ?” I shook my head. He sighed in a beaten kind of way, and. taking a pen an d paper, he wrote as I dictated whilst I looked over his shoulder. Then he put the letter in an envelope and sealed it. “I have no stamp,” he muttered when I held out my baud for the letter. “Never mind,” I answered. “I will see that it is posted. Good day.” As I went out of the room and down, the stairs with the letter in my hand, I heard him muttering: “I was hard pressed, very hard pressed.” I drove to the nearest post office and registered the letter to Miss Hardwick. Then I returned to my chambers feeling triumphant, and not a little ashamed, at the part which I had played. For some months afterwards I heard nothing irom Stephen Burchell, but, at last, one morning I found a letter in hie familiar handavriting on my table. _ “My dear hoy,” it ran. “it's all right again between Milly and me. She hates that singing fellow’s name now so much that she can’t hear to hear it mentioned. I expect she found out at last what we all knew —that he wasn t a gentleman. We’re to be married kef o )'® the hunting season begins, and we both, want you to be best man.” . Of course, I couldn’t refuse, seeing that both of them desired it, and Milly Hardwicke was as pretty and gentle a bride as'anyone could wish to see. I could not doubt that the trial which she had gone through was of good omen for my friend Stephen’s happiness. . As I waited for my train at Thetford, I wondered what had become of Ridway. I turned to tl\e evening paper, and ilia first thing I read was the lines: James Ridway, alias Pedro Martinez, was today sentenced'to ten years’ penal servitude for forgery and embezzlement.