Copyright Story. His Last Card.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVI, Issue I, 5 January 1901, Page 31

Copyright Story. His Last Card.

By

CECIL MEDLICOTT.

(Author of “Irene von Leyden,” etc.)

“Then I am to understand, father, that your decision is final?” “Absolutely final.” “And that there is to be no appeal?” “None.” “Neither in this world nor in that which is to come, Amen.” “Do not be profane.” The young man gave a careless laugh and glanced at his father's set, stern face. “1 don’t think it much matters what I am—now,” said he. Lord Allaford rose from the armchair from which he had passed judgment on the delinquent, and moved away to the window. “No one shall say I am not going cheerfully to my husks,” said the young man. with another laugh. “I suppose you will say ‘good-bye’ even though 1 am. as you have justly observed, a disgrace to my family—to my exceedingly respectable and vastly aristocratic family. Never you mind, father. 1 am not the eldest son, nor the second, no. nor even the third. Surely you will admit that the devil has shown great consideration in having left you three credits and staves and comforts for your declining years, and that kind of thing, since he has only taken a very unimportant younger son, whom no one cares for, whom no one will miss, and whose very existence will soon he forgotten history. Console yourself, my dear pater, the disgrace is not indelible —it can’t be, when its factor is no longer remembered.” The reckless tone here changed suddenly to one that was almost wistful, as the young fellow let his eyes rest on his father’s averted figure. “I—l should have liked you to have seen my little boy. . . . He has done no harm, and I should like him to have had his grandfather’s blessing.” Lord Allaford made no sign beyond a slight movement, unnoticed by his son.

“I named him Richard, after you, and Gerald, after mother and myself. We shall call him Dick. Had you rather I took a different surname?” “No!” said Lord Allaford. “I could, you know—easily.” “You are not a criminal,” said the old man sharply. “No?” returned Gerald. lightly; "How do you know that?” Lord Allaford turned, and looked with his keen, grey eyes full at his son. “You are not a criminal.” he repeated. with still more decision. “Heaven help us—you are your mother’s son!” “And therefore not a man who could commit a crime. All right, father, I am glad you have some opinion left of me. Perhaps 1 deserve it, perhaps I don't. . . . Will you shake hands with me? You need not be afraid I should take it as a sign of forgiveness; you have explained your views too dearly for me to mistake them. . . . You won’t? . . . All right. It was only a fancy 1 had.” Gerald shrugged his shoulders and turned away, without seeing that his father’s hesitation had only been momentary, and that his hand had not been withheld from the prodigal. “You will tell the rest of the family that I have disappeared altogether from the scene.” observed the young man. standing at the door and throwing back a glance at his father. “My reputation—such as it is—is in your hands. You can do what you choose with it. Only ... if the child

should ever come to the old home . . in future years . . . don’t let him think too ill of me.” “Gerald!” “After all, he is not to blame, and it would be unjust to visit my sins upon him.”

“Gerald!” repeated Lord Allaford, in faltering tones. “Oh, Gerald!” But in opening the door, his son had let in a sound of carriage wheels, of barking dogs and of loud voices, and the old man’s cry—a cry which had perhaps escaped him involuntarily—was drowned by the noise. Gerald hesitated for a

moment, but in the confusion attendant on the arrival of guests contrived, unobserved, to possess himself of his hat and stick, slip down a narrow passage and, having gained a side door, to pass through it into an unfrequented ]>art of the garden. A rush of memories did something to check the feeling of resentment and injury caused by the knowledge, that his interview with his father, a last attempt to bridge over the chasm he had himself made, had been vain. Familiar though the house of course was, it had somehow appeared cold, formal and unnatural to-day. yet here every bush and path, every lawn and tree brought him reminders of the time that had been. There was the old hornbeam, with its hollow trunk and spreading branches. where he and his brothers and sisters had played, and talked and dreamt. Here was the yew hedge where the wren had built her nest year after year, and where the urchin used to hide himself. This piece of grass had been their cricket field before he and his next brother had been promoted to the knickerbockers of boyhood. Along that path the little sister, whose life had been one of suffering, had been wheeled, lying prone on her poor twisted back, always ready with her patient smile and gentle interest when she was called upon to observe or admire what might be shown or told her by the others. The forma.! garden with its gay box edged flower beds, smooth lawns, and straight terraces, its fountains and statues, lay on the further side of the house. The part down which Gerald was now wending his slow memory haunted way, had always been set aside for the youthful members of the family; and now that the little feet had wandered into the great world—some, indeed, into a far country where suffering had no place—now that brothers and sisters were no longer children, but grown men and women, silence had fallen where merry voices had once filled the air, and it seemed to Gear Id that it was a hopeless silence, as of death itself.

With a strange reluctance he passed througn the familiar wicket gate, the weakness of whose hinges had not strengthened during the. years that had elapsed since he had last proved them, and so out into the lane by which the tradesmen found their way to King’s Staley. At a corner, fifty paces nearer the main road, was a short, abrupt ascent, and from the summit of this miniature mountain the picturesque rambling Tudor mansion could be seen to the best advantage.

Here Gerald lingered and gazed till, to his surprise and very much to his annoyance, he felt a something rising in his throat that might have been a sob, had he not suffocated it at its birth. Then, turning impatiently on his heel, he hurried away without one backward glance or one further thought, of the home he had left for ever. The future, indeed, supplied him with ample food for reflection. What would life have for him now,and —what would his wife say to his lack of success in dealing with his father?

For a considerable time- the interview had been thought of and discussed in all its bearings. What lie should say to bis father and his father’s probable replies. How’ much of the past had better be concealed, how much excused, how much embellished. “If he asks what your father is,” Gerald had once said, “what the deuce am I to say?” His wife had looked at him in a peculiar way. “What do you think of telling him the facts?” she bad made answer. “My dear Victoria!’' he had said, with a short, disagreeable laugh, “My dear Victoria! Even the original prodigal would have been denied forgiveness had he had the indiscretion to have admitted with whom he had been in the habit of

asscciattng. I am not less worldly wise than b« was.” “Thank you," his wife had said slowly. “1 understand what you mean- in spite of my faulty education —ami I shall not forget your comparison” Gerald thought of this little |>assage of arms as he went back to his London lodgings, and rather regretted his share in it. It was ungentleni.ini Ike to have twitted his wife about her father’s position in life, a position for which she was in no way responsible. Should an opportunity offer itself he might perhaps express bis regrets—perhaps, but he was not sure. His failure in making peace with Lord Allaford was undoubtedly as much of a blow to his wife's prospects as to his ow n, and the common misfortune ought to draw them together, tt was besides desirable to be on friendly terms with her. She was the mother < f his boy. and she had it in her power to make Gerald's life a burden to him. This latter consideration weighed almost more with him than any other. When he had slowly ascended the stairs leading to his rooms, he paused for some moments on the landing, then, throwing off every appearance of hesitation, briskly opened the door and entered the sitting-room. \ ictoria was, as usual, seated in a rocking-chair, with a novel in her hand. She glanced up at her hitsband for a second, but her eves were bent on her book when she spoke “Well?” said she. Gerald looked at her with a frown. “I tell you what.” said he, anger leaping at once into his voice, “I tell you what—if your father had been run tn and got penal servitude, you would not expect to he met with a careless “Well?"” “2 b \”. said his “then you've • Swearing never undid the past, so you needn't waste your breath.”

Gerald flung himself into a chair plunged his hands into his pockets and glared at the ground. Victoria laughed. “Stage business.” said she, going back to ber book. “ you—ex pec t —me—to—believe ” said Gerald, speaking between closed teeth, “do—you really—expect -me— Jo— believe that you are indifferent to the result of my interview with mv father?” "Indifferent? Oh, dear no. But you show pretty plain what hapiiened broadly speaking, ami details are a nuisance.” “ rhen what do you consider to have happened—broadly speaking, as you say ?”

“Oh. yon went to your governor, hat in hand, and licked his boots, and he -kicked you out.” “Terse, if not exactly elegant " said he. 1 hat’s what did happen, didn’t it?” said she. Gerald rose to his feet and moved to the window before uttering a gruff “About that.” "And that's your lust card.” said his wife reflectively. replied Gerald, “my very last.” “And—what next?” "The devil may know.” said he, “1 don't.” No more do I.” was her quick rejoinder. “I suppose you mean that, your father is pumped drv too.” ‘I es; so far as we are concerned.’’ “Well.” said he, stretching himself and yawning. “I can see nothing for it but to skin. England is about played out; we must try a less arid and a less suspicious country.” “You may go. if you like,” said she. with decision, “but. as T have told von time and again, the child and I don't leave these shores.” “Where I go. my* boy’ goes.’’ was Gerald’s equally’ decided response. Victoria sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing with anger, but after a hurried step forward, she paused, and resumed her seat. Her husband heard the movement and half turned his head, without, however looking at her. “We will leave the child out of the question for the present,” said she. breathing quickly; “what are your plans?’ “I just told you thnt I didn’t know —that I had none.” “That’s rubbish. Yon made up your mind on your wav back from King’s Staley.” “You may say so if it pleases you, but, as a matter of fact, I didn’t,”

“You expect me to believe that?** cried Victoria. “Bah!” “You mean that I told a lie.” said Gerak! angrily. “Oh. you may put it that way if you choose.** “Look here, Victoria, what’s the use of quarrelling. We are both in the same boat, and shall have to sink or float together.” He spoke |>ersuasively. facing her hn he did so. “Whose fault is it that there is a question of sinking?*’ she replied. “Well,” said he, with a slow smile, “if it comes to that ” “It does come to that. And I never should have thought that a man catling himself a gentleman should have received a lady like you have done me!” cried Victoria, ruthlessly murdering her royal namesake’s English.

“Ami if I could have looked forward to this, and if I could have known that yon really titrant to ban : sh me ami my poor innocent chi'id ” “Come. come. Victoria, don’t talk nonsense. The chi hl is mine as much as yours, and it is absurd to use the term of •banishment.’ You have been extravagant, and so have T. You have had bad lurk, and so have I—confounded bad luck. We can’t go on like this. Neither of our families will help us. and I don’t know a tradesman who is fool enough to give us a day’s credit. Unfortunately, we can’t live on air. so we must go somewhere and do something, to gain our own maintenance.”

“I won’t, and 1 can’t!” cried Victoria, passionately. “I wasn’t brought up to it, and I’m niot going to do menial work, or any work. No. I won’t—l won’t —T won’t!’’ and she burst into tears. Gerald strode up to her and took hold of her shoulder. “Don’t make such a noise.” said he. sternly. “We shall have the lodgers rushing in again. . . . Be quiet, Victoria. Do you hear me?” “Oh! oh! You hurt me!” cried she. “Take your hands off or I’ll scream.” Gerald’s fingers tightened as her voice, high-pitched to begin with, ended in a shriek. “Victoria! Confound it! You’re a disgrace to yourself and to me Can’t you control yourself. T say? Be quiet this moment.’’ But his wife’s tears had grown hysteifical, and at each of his words, emphasised as they were by a tighter grip of his strong fingers and an occasional shake, her sobs and cries becalm* louder and more violent, until at the very climax the door burst open and a young man came hurriedly in.

“There!” exclaimed Gerald, in a tone of vexation. “What did I tell you?”

“Is anything the—er—matter?” said the new-comer, looking from Gerald's frowning face to Victoria’s bowed and quivering figure. “Excutf? the—er—intrusion, but the—er—the cries of feminine—er—distress ” “Confound it. sir. who are you?” said Gerald angrily.

“Indeed, sir. I assure you—er- —no one in —er —particular.” faltered the stranger, retiring a step. “Then. sir. be good eniough to respect the privacy of my house,” said Gerald, pointing to the door. “Oh. certainly.” replied the stranger, taking another step back, “but the — er—lady?”

Here Victoria, who had regained her self-control, exhibited a desire to take part in the discussion. “You are very kind indeed.” she began, throwing a. curious glance at him out of her dark-fringed eyes, “excessively kind to ” “Sir!” cried Gerald, stepping between his wife and the intruder, and looking fiercely at. him. “you will, if you please, relieve me of your company at once—unless you wish to be forcibly ejected. . . . There, Victoria.” as the young man hurriedly withdrew. “I hope you are satisfied.” “Satisfied?” said she, with a quick, side-long glance: “satisfied? What with?” Gerald gave a hopeless and impatient sigh. “What with, indeed?” said he bitterly. “Oh. how degrading and miserable it all is! Who was it that cursed the day on which he was born? I’m sure I do the same hourly.” “It’s as bad for me—every bit,” said Victoria. moodily. “No!” cried he. “no! A thousand times no.’’ “I tell you I was brought up ” “In the atmosphere of a gamblinghell—yes!” interposed Gerald. “I,” he added, in a different tone, “I was brought up at King’s Staley.”

“Well,” was Victoria’s sharp retort; “well, for all your swell family, my people have done more for us than yours have. Handsome is as handsome does, say I.** Gerald looked at his wife, and then spoke very deliberately. “There are times, Victoria, when I think I almost hate you.” “There are lots of times when I am certain that I quite hate you, if it comes to that,” said she. “If it weren’t for little Dick,” said Gerald, turning towards the door. “Where are you going?” said she, quickly. “To see him. of course.” “No, don't!” cried Victoria, springing forward. “You would wake him. He is not sleeping soundly—he never dors, so early —and he—his teeth have been troublesome again. Wait till a little later, or at any rate till I have been in.” “I could Im* as quiet as you.” “You might think so. but you wouldn't. Your boots creak—no! Don't go! You have waited all this while, and you may as well wait a few moments longer. I will come back and tell you directly I can l>e sure you wouldn’t rouse him. I promise ! I vow 1 will. Gerald! Do you hear? Sit down and read the paper —you* must be tired. I shan't be long. You won't come till I fetch you. Gerald!” “You needn't get so excited about it.” said he. “There—l'll wait if you wish it so much. Only don’t keep me too long.” ' “No. no—l won’t.” Gerald looked at the small, loudticking American clock on the chimney piece. “Ten minutes.” said he. “I won't give you more, and shall expect you back in half the time.”

“A quarter of an hour.” said she anxiously, pausing at the door.

••Very well: but not a second more.” Gerald seated himself on the solitary arm-chair. trying, with small success, to avoid the many broken springs. The newspaper, thrust into his bands by his wife, was not a high class one. and was moreover of yesterday's date. He opened it nevertheless. and glanced through the list of contents. A ease of forgery was the first thing that caught his eye. and though he looked up at the clock once or twice, he read it all with great attention. The forger’s writing had been found out in a curious and uncommon way, and the culprit had ln*en a considerable time successful before the law had come down upon him. The paper dealt with the case in a highly sensational manner, and Gerald grew interested and forgot to think of the hour. Below the forger's trial was one in the Bankruptcy Court, and then the detailed account of a murder that had recently taken place in the neighbourhood. Gerald's taste was not what it had been, or hr would neither have read nor have become so much engrossed by such subjects. As it was. however, he devoured paragraph after paragraph till, with a start of recollection, he looked at the clock, and rose to his feet.

The time appointed had nearly doubled itself. Why had not Victoria come back? Could anything be wrong with the child? Gerald left the room hastily, and without renieinlM*ring to move quietly, crossed the landing and entered the bedroom shared by the boy with his parents. It was empty, as he saw at a glance. Not only empty, but surprisingly bare and tidv.

Victoria's virtues did not include a love of order, and her garments were wont to be flung promiscuously about, as were also little Dick’s. This evening there was nothing out of place, nothing in disorder. For some moments Gerald stood quite still, too much astonished even to notice that the crib had evidently not been slept in. Where on earth was his wife, and what had she done with his lx>y? Half an hour since she had left him. to see if the babe's light sin inliers had settled into deep sleep—only half an hour. What had happened, what con hl have happened in that short half hour? Gerald slowly crossed the room, locking from side to side as he did so. as though expecting the missing ones to rise from the floor. On the dressiug-table in the window lav a bundle of papers. a pawn ticket and a. letter addressed to himself in Victoria's illiterate writing. What freak was this of hers? But before all, where was the child? He opened

the letter hastily anil read as follows

“I ean’t stand this any longer. Look where I may there is no chance of things improving now that, your swells have thrown us over. I won't leave England. I have said so a hundred times. You can—if you want to. But a man without a copper will get on just as well by himself, though I daresay you would make a fuss about husbands and wives not separating, or some such rubbish. I tell you I’ve had alioiit enough. I found out long ago that you took me for a bad debt.

It wasn’t a pleasant discovery to make, 1 can tell you. And now you may as well know why 'I took you. I thought I should be a swell and have plenty of money. I was a fool. My people thought best to disappear last night, so even if they knew anything about me. yon won’t find them. Yon won’t find the boy either. 1 haven't got him. I disposed of that encumbrance this morning. It don’t matter to you where I am going—you won't find me. It was finally settled under your very nose this evening. "You are very kind,' meant a good deal more than you thought it did. Good-bye for ever. I am going to some one who will give me all I want. I had to pawn your best clothes, but leave the ticket—also the packet of unpaid bills. The landlord won't wait beyond Saturday for the rent. The l>oy will do well enough where he is: it will be of no use for you to advertise, as the woman who has him doesn't know his real name nor mine. I aiu going to Itegin again, and you had best do the same. P.S.—I have made an appointment for you this evening, so as you mayn't feel lonelv bv yourself."

Gerald read this three times over before he could persuade himself to believe it. Was the child—gone? Was he never again to see him? Never to feel the pressure of soft clinging arms around his neck? Never to hear the toddling, uncertain steps, the baby voice, the merry laugh? Gone? Without the least preparation, the smallest notice? His boy—the one creature in the world whom he loved and who loved him? It was impossible, incredible. And Victoria had called him an "encumbrance.” The tide of hia feelings turned towards and against his wife, and he clenched his fist and drew a long breath.

"1> her!” said he. Then his eyes fell on the babe’s little bed, on the pillow where thu golden head had lain so often, and he flung himself down on his knees by it and buried his face in the coverlet.

The lodger overhead was running through his part in a score. It was an insignificant part, and he marked the bars and half bars in which he took no share by beating with his foot on the carpetless floor. Gerald’s keen and fastidious ear had found a constant source of annoyance in the thirdrate violinist’s performancessince they had been fellow lodgers, but this evening he was deaf to all sound. His child was gone —his little Dick. He should never see him again—never. Or if in future years fate should bring about such a meeting his boy would be a stranger to him and he would not know him. The whole of the child’s short life seemed at this moment to lie unrolled before him—from the first throb of pride of which he had been conscious on hearing that he was a father, through the months of his baby’s helpless infancy, the earliest dawning of intelligence, the days when the dimpled arms were first held out to him, when the lips stammered out their first “Dada.” and the little feet came stumbling for the first time to him. And now! Oblivious to the musician overhead Gerald was equally unconscious of the sound of men’s footsteps on the stairs, or of the short, low consultation on the landing outside. The first thing that roused him was an imperious knock, followed by the immediate o|x>uing of the door and a loud: “By your leave, sir.” Gerald istaggered to his feet bewildered.

"Yes?” said he. "What’s up?” Then, seized by a sudden panic lest some harm had befallen his child, “anything wrong?” "You've got to come with me,” replied the intruder. “That’s wrong enough for to-day.” Gerald looked at the man and at his uniform. “Oh,” he said with sudden comprehension, “so that’s it is it?”

“Aye,” replied the policeman, “that’s

Gerald threw a quick glance round the room, and in a moment the official's hand was on his shoulder. "None of your tricks,” said he sharply, as though Gerald were meditating some plan of escape. “You comq quietly. It’ll tell in your favour.” "Favour? What's the good of that?” replied Gerald in bitter tones. The policeman made no answer, but produced a pair of handcuffs and in an instant had slipped them on tha prisoner’s wrists. "Sharp practice,” said Gerald, “What is it all about?” “Two or three little matters to-day,” was the reply. Victoria’s letter was lying on tha empty crib, creased - and blotted as with tears. "1 should like to take that,” said he. “The papers on that table I don’t want, and I don’t think there is likely to be anything else in the room.” He moved as he s|>oke and picked up th« pawn ticket, which he shoved, together with the letter, into his pocket. “These bracelets make one awkward,” he observed, adding. “I am ready.” “Your hat is lying in the sittingroom.” said the policeman. “Roberts, this party’s hat. Now, sir.”