The Orange Girl Part 26

'Now, Ramage,' I said, 'it would be well for you to hear what he has to say. Go into the kitchen and wait with the door ajar--go. Alice, my dear, stay here with me.'

'Remember, Will,' she said, 'it was your father's last command. To sell it would be to sell your father's forgiveness--a dreadful thing.'

The man stood at the open door. Ramage was right. He looked truly dreadful. Anxiety was proclaimed in his face, with eagerness and courage: he reminded me of a weasel, which for murderous resolution is said to surpa.s.s the whole of the animal creation. He came in blinking after the light and offered me his hand, but I refused it.

'Fie!' he said. 'Fie, Mr. Will! This is ill done. You confuse the attorney's zeal for his clients with an act of hostility to yourself.

Put that out of your thoughts, I pray.'

'Why do you come here, Mr. Probus?'

'I said to myself: It is not easy to catch a man of Mr. William's reputation at home, his society being eagerly sought after. I will therefore visit him on Sunday. Not in the morning, when he will be lifting the hymn in Church: but in the afternoon. I came here straight from St. George's, Borough, where I sometimes repair for morning service. A holy discourse, Mr. William, moving and convincing.' His eyes kept s.h.i.+fting to and fro as he spoke.

'Very likely. But we will not talk about sermons. Look ye, Mr. Probus, your presence here is not desired. Say what you have to say, and begone.'

'Hot youth! Ah! I envy that fine heat of the blood. Once I was just the same myself.'

He must have been a good deal changed, then, since that time.

He went on. 'I will not stay long. I am once more a peacemaker. It is a happy office. It is an office that can be discharged on the Sabbath.

Sweetly the river flows beneath your feet. Ah! A peacemaker. I come from your cousin again.'

'To make another offer?'

'Yes, that is my object. I am again prepared to offer you terms which, I believe, no one else in the world would propose to you. Mr. William, I will give you the sum of four thousand pounds down--equivalent to an annual income of two hundred pounds a year if you will sell your reversion.'

'No.'

'Mr. Matthew can use the money to advantage: while it lies locked up it is of no use to anyone.'

'No.'

'Such obstinacy was never known before, I believe. Why, Sir, I offer you an annual income of two hundred pounds a year--two hundred pounds a year. You can leave this wretched little cottage overhanging a marsh: you can move into a fas.h.i.+onable quarter, and live like a person of Quality: you can abandon your present mode of life, which I take to be repellent to every person of virtue--that of musician to the Dog and Duck or some other resort of the profligate. Oh, we know where you are and what you do! Instead of servant you will be master. You, Madam, will no longer be a household drudge: you will have your cook, your maids, your page to carry your Prayer-Book to church.'

'No.'

He hesitated a little, the sham benevolence dying out of his face, and the angry look of baffled cunning taking its place. Mr. Probus was a bad actor.

He took out a parchment. 'Sign it, Mr. William--here.' He unrolled it and indicated the place. 'Let us have no more s.h.i.+lly shally, w.i.l.l.y nilly talk. It is for your good and for my client's.'

'And yours, too, Mr. Probus.'

'My dear,' said Alice, 'do not exchange words any longer. You have said No already. It is my husband's last word, Sir.'

There I should have stopped. It is always foolish to reveal to an enemy what one has discovered. I think that up to that moment Mr. Probus was only anxious: that is to say, he was crazy with anxiety, but he could not believe that his money was all gone, because he had no knowledge or suspicion in what way it had gone. Things that appear impossible cannot be believed. I think that he would have a.s.sured himself of the fact in some other way before proceeding to the wickedness which he actually had in his mind. He would have waited: and I could have eluded him some way or other. As it was, the mere statement of Matthew drunk drove him half mad with fear: but there was still the chance that Matthew sober would have spoken differently.

'No,' according to Alice, was my last word.

'Not quite the last word,' I said. 'Hark ye, Mr. Probus. The sum waiting for me when Matthew dies, is one hundred thousand pounds with acc.u.mulations of interest, is it not? If he were to die to-morrow--to be sure it is not likely--but he may be murdered, or he may put himself within the power of the Law and so be executed----' Mr. Probus turned ghastly white and shook all over. 'Then I should come in for the whole of that money, which is much better than four thousand pounds, whereas if I were to die to-morrow--either by the operation of the law or by some other manner, Matthew would have the whole and you would get back the twenty-five thousand pounds you have lent my cousin with a n.o.ble addition. If you do get it, that is--Mr. Probus, I think that you will not get it. I think you will never get any more of your money back at all.'

'I don't know, Sir, what you mean: or what you know,' he stammered.

'I know more than you think. I know where your money has gone.'

'He jumped up. 'Where? Where? Where? Tell me.'

'It has gone into the bottomless gulf that they call the gaming table, Mr. Probus. It has been gambled away: the s.h.i.+ps of my father's fleet: the cargoes: the acc.u.mulated treasures: the credit of the business: the private fortune of my cousin: your own money lent to Matthew: it has all gone: irrecoverably gone----'

'The gaming table!' he groaned. 'The gaming table! I never thought of that. Sir, do you know what you mean--the gaming table?'

No one but a money-lender knows all that may be meant by the gaming table.

'I know what I say. Matthew told you the truth. Everything has gone: ruin stares him in the face----Your money is gone with the rest.'

'The gaming table. And I never suspected it.... The gaming table!' He fell into a kind of trance or fit, with open mouth, white cheeks, and fixed eyes. This lasted only for a few moments.

'Mr. Probus,' I went on, 'I cannot say that I am sorry for your misfortunes; but I hope we shall never meet again.'

He got up, slowly. His face was full of despair. I confess that I pitied him. For he gave way altogether to a madness of grief.

'Gone?' he cried. 'No--no--no--not gone--it can't be gone.' He threw himself into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He sobbed: he moaned: when he lifted his head again his features were distorted. 'It is my all,' he cried. 'Oh! you don't know what it is to lose your all. I can never get any more--I am old: I have few clients left--I get no new ones: the old cannot get new clients: my character is not what it was: they cry out after me in the street: they say I lend money at cent. per cent.--why not? They call me old cent. per cent. If I lose this money I am indeed lost.'

'We cannot help you, Mr. Probus.'

'Oh! yes, do what I ask you. Sell your chance. You will never outlive your cousin. You will save my life. Think of saving a man's life. As for your cousin, let him go his own way. I hate him. It is you, you, Mr.

William, I have always loved.'

'No.'

He turned to Alice and fell on his knees.

'Persuade him, Madam. You are all goodness. Oh! persuade him--think of your child. You can make him rich with a stroke of a pen--think of that.

Oh! think of that!' The tears ran down his cheeks.

'Sir, I think only of my husband's father. And of his wishes, which are commands.'

'Enough said'--there was too much said already--'your money is gone, Mr.

Probus.'

'Gone?' he repeated, but no longer in terms of entreaty. He was now fallen into the other extreme; he was blind and mad with rage and despair. 'No--no--it's not gone. I will get it out of you. Those who threw you into prison can do worse--worse. You have brought it on yourself. It is your ruin or mine. Once more----' With trembling fingers he held out the paper for me to sign.

'No.'

He stayed no longer: he threw out his arms again: it was as if his breath refused to come: and he turned away. He looked like a broken-down man, crawling, bent, with hanging head, along the road.

As soon as he was gone, Ramage opened the door and came out cautiously.

'Mr. Will,' he cried. 'For Heaven's sake, sir. For your dear lady's sake: for the child's sake: get out of the way. Nothing else will serve.

He is desperate; and he is as cunning as the Devil himself. To get back his money he will shrink from nothing.'