XIITHE FIND
Inthe luxurious private sitting-room of a well-known family hotel not far from Piccadilly, a broad-shouldered elderly man stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out of the window with an expression of profound boredom. It was a hopelessly wet afternoon and there was not much to see—a taxi discharging two ladies at the hotel entrance, a clumsy mail-van thundering by, and a newspaper boy screaming “All the winners!”
In one respect the individual in the window represented “a winner”; thirty years in Canada had brought him great possessions—whatever he touched seemed to turn into gold. Probably he was the wealthiest guest in the hotel, and yet the most supremely discontented. In spite of his fifty years, his figure was spare and erect, his hair powdered with white was thick and curly; his features were well cut, his face clean-shaven, and he wore a blue serge lounge suit with the air of a man accustomed to employing a first-class tailor.
Such was Leonard Harling, one of the most important and influential residents in his province. Mrs. Harling, a clever looking but faded little matron, was seated on the edge of a Chesterfield, knitting a silk sock. She was a woman who never lounged, was indifferent to outlay and luxury, preferred a bus to a taxi, and wore, when possible, ready-made gowns. On the other hand, her charities ran into amazing figures.
Now and then she raised her eyes, and gazed sympathetically at her companion.
“Poor Lenny,” she said to herself, “he is wishing himself back at home, in great big spacious Canada—where life and everything is free, and on a large scale.”
Apparently dress offered no snare to this little lady; her green costume was plain and tasteless, she wore no dainty finishing touches, no string of pearls, and her rather ugly hands merely displayed a plain wedding-ring. Mrs. Harling had no flair for spending money on personal adornment, she had been brought up under a strictly economical rule; her husband, on the contrary, was reared in the lap of luxury. Here is his history.
His grandfather, Sir Peregrine Harling, whose tastes were boundlessly selfish and extravagant, had lived for years on family prestige, credit, and pretensions. He maintained and educated the orphan sons of his heir—Humphrey and Leonard. The former, who was brilliantly clever, distinguished himself at Oxford; the latter, who was dull, but shone in games, was still at Harrow, when the sword fell. Sir Peregrine died in a fit of apoplexy—caused, it was said, by an unpleasant letter—and after an imposing funeral, and when he had been laid to rest on his shelf in the great family vault, it was discovered that Sir Peregrine’s affairs were in a hopeless condition; the Hall and estates were mortgaged to the chimneys, debts poured in, and creditors—long terrorised by this arrogant magnate—now clamoured for immediate payment.
There was a great and prolonged sale, the contents of the family place, the library, pictures, and plate were scattered over three counties, and a millionaire coal king bought the home of the submerged Harlings. To the widowed Lady Harling there remained an insignificant annuity, and a few small spars from the fatal wreckage. She never rallied from the shockoccasioned by this sudden descent from riches to poverty, but lived long enough to make arrangements for the future of her two grandsons. For clever Humphrey, her favourite, she found an opening on the staff of a Colonial Governor, and gave him the price of her jewels in solid cash. As for good-looking, stupid Leonard, he was packed off to Canada with two hundred pounds, and a letter of introduction in his pocket. To save expense, his passage was taken second-class, in a cheap liner; this proved in the long run to have been a most unwise economy. Leonard Harling, his own master at twenty, king of his company, with a well-lined pocket, and the world as he believed before him, lost his head, and so to speak his senses! He talked loquaciously of his affairs—his outfit, and guns, and money—to hard-headed insidious ruffians who posed as his counsellors and sympathetic friends.
He learnt to play poker and to lose money like a gentleman. Here he was cautious, and did not exceed twenty pounds. At Montreal his companions introduced him to a small evil-smelling hotel in a low quarter, and after a night’s wild conviviality he woke to find himself, not like Byron, “famous,” but robbed of his all! Money, guns, portmanteau had vanished; what to him remained was one five-pound note, and a kit-bag. Even his letter of introduction was gone, and he could not remember the name and address of the man who was to have given him “a lift.” The thieves were never traced, and indeed some supposed that Leonard’s story was a clumsy invention; if hewouldput up at a low tavern, and drink rye whisky and gamble, he got what he deserved!
No, his new acquaintances were neither friendly nor helpful, and he dared not write home and announce his loss; for well he knew he would get nohelp from his austere old grandmother, who would say:
“Just what I expected from stupid Leonard!”
Penniless and a stranger, stupid Leonard was obliged to exert all his energies in order to earn his daily bread. First he had a job on the railway, then he drove a traction plough on a farm, finally he was engaged as an assistant to a blacksmith. He contrived to keep his head above water, and so five years passed.
Leonard Harling was active, honest, and hard-working, but he had no initiative, push, or self-assertion, and he had never risen beyond the grade of manual labour, until he came across Lizzie Aitken. Within twenty miles of where he worked, a flourishing town was holding a week’s festivities. There were to be dances, cricket, and sports, and for this Leonard and two young men, his mates, took a whole holiday. As an accomplished athlete, the handsome, well-knit young Englishman carried off the most coveted prizes—the one-mile race, hurdle race, and high jump—all fell to Leonard Harling! He wore his school colours, and made an attractive figure in his jersey, shorts, and shoes—relics of old Harrow days, which he had clung to, whatever his difficulties. This graceful, dark-eyed stranger was watched with unusual interest by all the young women present.
Among these was Lizzie Aitken—the beauty and heiress of Tolputt. Her father, the son of a Scotch shepherd, had come out to Canada, a canny hard-bitten laddie, and steadily worked his way up rung by rung; he was now rich, and the mayor of the town, and his only child Lizzie, a pretty red-haired lassie, was the apple of his eye. She had received a fair education, could dance, embroider, play the piano, and cook; and it was his intention that, with her fine dowry, Lizzie should make a really splendidmatch—aye, and keep her carriage and servants, and live in style.
Lizzie became acquainted with young Harling at a ball. He wore, beside his recent laurels, an air of distinction—a romantic glamour surrounded this good-looking English visitor.
In comparison to the local swains, he had an assured ease, a charming manner—he might be a prince in disguise. Lizzie invited him to her home, where, appearances being in his favour, he was well received by her parent, and a week passed like a summer day. The love affair blazed up between the young people, but was ruthlessly quenched by old Aitken when he discovered that “the Prince,” as he was nicknamed, was only the hired help of Job Mackay, the blacksmith over by Lomax.
In spite of enormous difficulties, the couple corresponded, met, and finally eloped. They went out West, and for the first year their lines were laid in thorny places; but by dint of courage and industry they managed to hold out and make a living.
Lizzie, who was practical, clever, and energetic, remembered words of wisdom which had fallen from her father’s lips, respecting their retreat.
“A great future awaits Saint Largo in a few years time, though it’s a miserable holenow. It will be a golden city; it has a lake, and wonderful possibilities for trade; when it gets the railway it ismade!”
With this prophecy ever in her mind, Lizzie Harling took hold. She started a sort of cheap restaurant in her rough and draughty shack, and as she was a born cook, and a thrifty manager, the “hotel” paid. Besides the hotel, she undertook the post-office, and the business of newsagent to the community. Everyone agreed that “Missis Harling” was “real smart,” and Leonard, her husband, realised that if he had no fortune with his Lizzie, she represented a pricelesstreasure. For his part he set up a smithy, and kept a good team of horses, which he hired out for freight and farm work—and presently the Harlings began to prosper. The one cloud on their happiness was the loss of two small children—an empty cradle represented their tragedy.
As time advanced, all the hard-earned numerous dollars were invested in land in and around Saint Largo, and when at last the railway came, it brought them fortune. The Harlings no longer occupied a shack; Leonard had built his wife a fine solid brick house; the furniture hailed from Toronto, and included a piano and cheval glass. He urged her to spend money, to buy smart clothes and jewellery, and enjoy life “like other women.” But she laughed, and protested at his extravagance, and said:
“I’ve got out of the way of shopping. The greatest pleasure I really enjoy is sitting hand-idle in my rocker, listening to the hired girl washing up the dishes and saucepans, which was my own job for twelve years.”
About this time, old Aitken, who had forgiven the successful couple, died, and left his only child a large and well-invested fortune, and the Harlings were the richest and most influential people in a bustling, prosperous place that now called itself a city. After considerable hesitation they decided on a trip to the Old Country, where Leonard endeavoured to trace his brother—of whom he had lost sight for years.
Humphrey remained in Australia, and wrote from there at long intervals, and then all letters had ceased. The family lawyer whom Leonard interviewed informed him that his brother had married in Melbourne, and not very long afterwards he died. What had happened to the widow or children—if any—he could not say.
Subsequently Leonard took his wife to visit whathad been the home of his ancestors; and the result of this excursion (as is sometimes the case) was disappointing. Twenty years had effaced many old friends, memories, and landmarks; the ancient family was forgotten.
Now, after a lapse of another ten years, the Harlings were once more in London, and had spent three months in this hotel, pretending to one another that they were having the time of their lives. They did a round of theatres, operas, pictures, dinners at restaurants, and stiff dinners with business people who desired to be civil to the Canadian millionaire. They themselves entertained various Canadian acquaintances and fellow-passengers, but they had no relatives or intimates, and all the time felt themselves to be strangers in a strange land.
Presently Leonard Harling turned away from the window, picked up a paper and sat down. His wife watched him surreptitiously; he was reading the advertisements—anything to pass the time! He did not belong to a club, he did not play bridge, he did not enjoy idleness. When his companion heaved an involuntary sigh he looked up and said:
“Say, Lizzie, I believe we made a bad shot coming over this time. We seem a bit out of the picture—and everything is so confoundedly slow.”
“Yes, one misses the whirl at home—the Committee Meetings, and the big house and gardens, and neighbours—and the dogs.”
“We have no special deep-down-rooted interests—that’s what ails us.”
“Well anyhow, you have your grand collection, Len, your silver,” and Mrs. Harling waved a knitting-needle at a row of priceless tankards, that shone on a cabinet between the windows.
“Silver, yes—it’s just a hobby; but there’s nothing to it; it amuses me, and circulates the coin. What I miss is a live, human interest.”
“I know,” and she nodded, “such as a son or a daughter. Yes, I’d be thankful to go back to dish-washing, cooking, and slavery, for that.”
“Now would you, Lizzie? Well, I must confess I could not help envying the party last night at the next table—father, mother, two pretty daughters, son in the Guards, and friend—what a cheery lot they were; so gay and genial and happy.”
“It’s a pity we could never trace your brother’s widow.”
“I expect she’s out in Australia. I wrote to Humphrey after we were married, and he sent me a lecture as a wedding-present. He was no longer at Government House; but he did not mention his job. I say, you know we dine early, and have stalls at the Haymarket, so you’d better go and dress, and I’ll run down and look at the tape.”
Leonard Harling was a well-known collector and authority on old silver; his name was frequently quoted in articles, he was a personage of importance in sale rooms, and catalogues pursued him wherever he went. What he enjoyed and delighted in was to poke about among dingy little antiquary shops or pawn-offices. A window full of what looked like rubbish invariably held his attention, and more than once he had picked up a prize.
One afternoon he and his wife were staring into a mixed collection in a pawnbroker’s in Soho. Here were strings of coral, scraps of old lace, bits of china, spotted prints, and a few battered watches, and teapots.
“Do you see that sugar-bowl?” said Mrs. Harling. “Black—possibly pewter—but a nice old shape.”
“Yes, how sharp you are, Liz. You mean the onefull of glass beads. I’ll just go in and have a look at it.”
The shop was squalid and common, and evidently traded with the really poor; clothes and boots were piled up within, and there was also an assortment of cheap clocks and umbrellas. The assistant, a young Hebrew with glossy hair, wore many rings, and from the private premises came an appetising smell of fried fish.
“The sugar-bowl?” he repeated, reaching for it. “Yes; oh, it’s silver all right,” and he polished it with a cloth. “See, it’s Georgian, but not for sale, I think. A fine piece—the young fellow might be tempted—I fancy he’s hard up,” and he handed it over, and Leonard Harling assumed his pince-nez. First he examined the marks—all right; then the crest. His hand shook a little when he recognised his own!—the torch and crown—and, like a flash, he seemed to remember this very sugar-bowl in the blue-veined hand of his grandmother.
“Who does it belong to?” he enquired.
“We cannot give names of our clients,” was the pompous reply.
“Not if it is in their interest—and—er—yours?” and Harling touched his pocket with significance. The salesman hesitated, relaxed his attitude and said:
“I’ll go and look up the book,” and he left them.
“Lizzie, I’ve a clue—this sugar-bowl you spotted! It’s got the family crest, and I believe it came from Humphrey. We’ll find out who pawned it—of course it’s an off-chance.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve the address,” said the assistant, returning: “‘P. Harling, 5, Russell Buildings, W.C.’—workmen’s flats. The article is pawned for one pound—it’s worth twenty. I see you know something of its quality.”
“Do you think you could manage for me to interview the owner. What is he like?”
“Oh, a young chap—gentlemanly—shabby. I only saw him after dark.”
“Can you, as a great favour, ask him to meet me here, or elsewhere?”
“I’ll see what I can do; it’s a bit unusual, you know.”
“And you’ll do your best. Here is my card, and telephone to the hotel. Write to-night; be as slick as you can—you’ll find it will be worth your while.”
“I think we may be on the trail, Liz,” he said, as they walked away. “No harm in seeing P. Harling. If he looks a dissipated ruffian—so much the worse; but if he’s my relative I’ll give him a leg up. We may know by to-morrow night.”
At seven o’clock the next evening, the landing waiter informed Mr. Harling that a young man had called to see him, but did not give his name.
“Where is he?”
“Oh, in the hall, sir; I think he’s a clerk from some place of business.”
“Show him up here.”
The instant Harling’s eyes fell on the well-set-up but shabby stranger, he was struck by the amazing likeness to his brother. Undoubtedly this stranger was his nephew! Nevertheless he began his enquiries with caution, as he motioned him to a seat, and said:
“I’ve an idea that you may be able to tell me something of a relative who died in Melbourne. His name was Humphrey Harling.”
“It was my father’s name,” calmly responded the visitor. Then by degrees—for Humphrey’s son was inclined to be stiff and reserved—Harling extracted all the information he required. His brother, who had inherited the family failing, got into seriousmoney difficulties; he married a fashionable dressmaker, who supported him. They had two children—twins, boy and girl. He was killed in a street accident, and his widow brought the twins to England, partly for education, and partly in the hope of finding her husband’s people. She too fell on evil days, but made at her trade sufficient to educate her children and keep a roof over her head. Now she was gone the twins lived together; he was a clerk to a stock-broker, and she a typist in a bank. Just at present Lily was ill, recovering from diphtheria, and they had been obliged to pawn one or two things.
This young man, who had the nose and voice and self-possession of his race, was astounded when this inquisitive elderly gentleman came forward with outstretched hand, and claimed him as his nephew! He had been under the impression that he wished to buy the sugar-bowl. What an extraordinary change this bit of old silver had made in his life, and Lily’s! She was immediately moving to a nursing home, and he to quarters in this grand hotel. He was fitted out by a fashionable tailor, and slipped into his new part with surprising ease; but all the same, remained a quiet, unassuming youth, anxious to adapt himself to his new relatives. He was devoted to his sister, had a practical turn of mind, and, unless “stupid Leonard” was mistaken, Peregrine the younger (in reality Sir Peregrine) had brains!
Leonard Harling and Lizzie his wife were delighted with their “find”; the girl was so pretty and sweet-tempered, the boy a really fine young fellow; and when they returned to their home (of late years near Hamilton) they carried with them, besides stores of ancient silver, a wonderful source of new interests, new hopes, and present happiness—all imported into their lives by an old crested sugar-bowl.